Of Fire and Night

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Screw this, by God. Cut off access to the bridge! Sergeant Briggs, grab the repair kits and start welding around that seam. We’ve got enough epoxy solder to hold the doors together.” He knotted his fingers together, glowering at fate. “And I was looking forward to retirement with a beer on a beach, but I guess we’re not going out for any moonlight strolls.”

  The security chief was already rummaging through an unsealed storage bin at an empty station. “Epoxy solder won’t last long, Admiral.”

  “Doesn’t have to last forever, Sergeant. Just long enough. It’s time to make these clanking bastards pay.” The Admiral looked at the viewscreen, saw his eleven overthrown Mantas hovering nearby, like hyenas waiting to close in on a carcass. “Those tin soldiers haven’t just defeated us. They stole our own battleships—and that makes me very angry!”

  Briggs was on his knees in front of the sealed bridge door, squeezing epoxy weld into all the cracks. He jumped back as compy hands began to batter the metal barrier until it bowed inward. The gap between the sliding doors widened enough for one compy to thrust fingers through. Briggs squirted the armor solder, filling in the seal and welding the compy’s hand into the gap.

  At the navigation station, a grim Eolus began to move the Eldorado, easing it toward the group of hijacked Mantas.

  Briggs looked up. “It’s holding, Admiral.” He had used up his tubes, slathering the fast-hardening substance all around the entrance. The survivors knew they would never get out. This bridge would be their tomb.

  One of the wall plates buckled. Unable to break open the welded door, the compies began to rip their way directly through the bulkheads. “Oh, for crying out loud!” Briggs blurted.

  “This is really messed up,” said the station officer, shaking her head. “Really messed up.”

  “How long did you say this barricade has to last, Admiral?” Briggs asked.

  Hunched over the command chair, Eolus gradually accelerated the Juggernaut. “Easy . . . easy . . . not enough to scare them. Nothing to worry about, little robots.” As the Eldorado approached the waiting Mantas, the compies would assume the flagship had been captured as well.

  Out-of-control robots continued to batter the walls, ripping away the plates, thrusting their metal hands through. A crack appeared in the fresh polymer weld, and the whole main bridge door began to shudder.

  “It’s not going to hold.” Briggs looked down at his empty tubes of epoxy.

  Rossia repeated the words to his treeling, sending out a continuous message. He felt detached from everything that was happening around him; it was the only way he could keep functioning. “It’s not going to hold.”

  “Now, worst part in a commander’s career.” Admiral Eolus looked at the three survivors with him. “You are not stupid. You all know what we have to do. We can’t let compies seize our battle group, and I don’t believe in a completely hopeless situation.”

  Eolus expected and received no argument from his comrades. He paced, ignoring the battering sounds of compies on the other side of the wall. “Mr. Rossia, inform the rest of the EDF what we plan to accomplish here. That way at least they’ll know.”

  After the green priest sent a last message through his treeling, he turned his cockeyed gaze up at the man. “Did you know I’m the only person in the history of Theroc to survive a wyvern attack? Everyone thought I was very lucky.” He paused, the silence broken only by the clamor of Soldier compies. “I’m not going to survive this one, though.”

  “No, Mr. Rossia. None of us are.”

  As the Eldorado eased in amongst the waiting Mantas, Eolus input the command string that every commanding officer knew and hoped never to use. The Juggernaut’s computers accepted the emergency verification, and the massive engines grew hotter and hotter, building to a swift overload. The swarthy man muted the countdown. “Damn thing’s too melodramatic.” He sat back in his command chair, thick arms crossed over his chest.

  With a coordinated surge, the Soldier compies broke through the doorwelds and ripped support bars out of the bulkhead wall, knocking aside plate sheeting. Now with nothing to stop them, the military robots streamed onto the bridge. Alarms began to sound at all stations, warning of imminent danger—as if any bridge crewmember could possibly be unaware that a truckload of crap had just hit a turbine-powered fan.

  Briggs threw himself bodily against the compies, but the robots swept over him like a tidal wave overwhelming a bit of dandelion fluff. The compies were covered with blood.

  Admiral Eolus swiveled his chair. The countdown on his panel reached the last few seconds. “Here’s something special for you, you wind-up bastards,” he said. “Bend over and smile.”

  Self-destruct routines turned the Eldorado into a small-scale supernova, and the shockwave swept outward to engulf all eleven captured Mantas.

  42

  NIRA

  The flight to the Dobro settlement was torture. Designate Udru’h would never have gone to such great lengths unless he had some dark plan in mind.

  Wrapped in her own misery, Nira wasn’t fooled when the Ildiran noble attempted to show concern. Once more she noted that his features reminded her of Jora’h. “I am Designate-in-waiting Daro’h,” he finally said. “I will soon assume the administration duties of Dobro and replace the current Designate.”

  Nira’s eyes flashed. Udru’h was going to step down!

  Daro’h pressed. “I still do not understand why you fled. We are taking you back to the splinter colony, back to your home.”

  “It is not my home! It was never my home. And it’s not the home of those human descendants you keep caged there, either.”

  Clearly discomfited, Daro’h fell silent. They rode the rest of the way without speaking another word.

  When the guards dragged her out of the hatch, Nira felt a discordant wash of joy, a flood of giddy relief, a foreign outburst that sang through her thoughts. It was a symphony of love, relief, and longing. Confusingly, the nonverbal images seemed to be reflections of her own memories.

  She stumbled, and her eyes focused on a young girl, older than she remembered, but still more familiar than any other person: a part of her and a part of Jora’h. Her daughter, her princess! Osira’h ran forward to embrace her.

  As soon as she made contact with her daughter’s skin, Nira expected a wash of new memories, an exchange. She remembered the sudden bursting of gates within their minds during the last—and only—time mother and daughter had been in contact. She had been so desperate then, crying out with her thoughts.

  Now, however, Nira was afraid to push too much. This time, the contact was not the same as she had previously shared with her daughter. Only silence rang inside her head.

  Osira’h, too, seemed to be holding back. “You don’t need to know everything yet, Mother. You can’t know everything.”

  Nira just held her more tightly. “I don’t need it all at once. I just need to know that I’m back here with you.”

  She felt a sudden chill and looked up. Hard-faced Designate Udru’h walked forward, flanked by two guard kithmen just like the ones that had beaten her nearly to death. Cool and aloof, he said, “The Mage-Imperator asked me to find you. By trying to escape, you made it more difficult for all of us, including yourself.” When he looked at Nira, she recalled again the pain this man had caused her, all the hatred she still felt for him. Nira held her daughter protectively; Osira’h hugged back, offering her mother strength and confidence.

  Dismissively, Udru’h turned toward the Designate-in-waiting. “Good work, Daro’h. I will soon be ready to relinquish my duties to you.”

  43

  ANTON COLICOS

  Anton looked up from his scrutiny of dusty diamondfilm sheets in the vaults beneath the Prism Palace. “These stories are so vague! I wouldn’t put much credence in old folktales.”

  Vao’sh would not be swayed. “The Mage-Imperator gave me an assignment to find any information about the ancient war with the hydrogues, especially tales of a suppo
sed alliance between Ildirans and faeros. This is where we must look.” The expressive lobes on his face flushed with color. “There will be more in the stockpile of ancient records on Hyrillka. I hope they were not damaged in the recent revolt—I wish you could go with me.”

  “Me too, but nobody will let me out of Mijistra.” He still didn’t have any explanations.

  Flanked by her Isix cats, Yazra’h approached the two storytellers deep in the subterranean tunnels. Recently, she’d been childishly entertained by Anton’s traditional Earth stories, though she often asked odd questions. “If Little Red Riding Hood was going through dark and dangerous woods, why did she not carry a weapon in her basket?” Or, “If Goldilocks knew she was trespassing in the home of the three bears, should she not have remained more alert when she chose to sleep in their beds? Should she not have set a guard to watch over her?” When Yazra’h complained about so many weak female children, Anton finally delighted her with stories of Amazon warrior women, Queen Boudicca, and even the historical comic book character Wonder Woman.

  When the three Isix cats glided forward to sniff Anton’s fingers, he absently scratched the head of the nearest cat, and the other two came forward for their share of attention. Yazra’h was always astonished by her deadly pets’ behavior around him, though Anton wasn’t. “A cat is a scholar’s best friend. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent translating epics with a cat curled on my lap. It helps concentration, you know.”

  Yazra’h frowned at her Isix cats as if disappointed in them. The animals blinked up at her, but did not move away from Anton’s scratching fingers. “It seems they approve of you. We should spend more time together.”

  Anton suddenly felt intimidated by Yazra’h’s lithe beauty, her strength, her confidence. “Uh, normally I only talk with shy academics.”

  She flexed her arms. “You have shown me your stories. I invite you now to exercise with me on a combat field.” She cocked her eyebrows. “It is my way of returning the favor.”

  He laughed. “I prefer enjoying great battles vicariously. I already did my heroic deed on Maratha. That’s quite enough for a simple historian.”

  “As you wish,” she said. “Then you can come and watch me.”

  As she led him through the training grounds, the clamor was deafening. Anton stuck close beside the bronzed woman, who seemed anything but threatened by the howling, bone-jarring crashes. Instead, Yazra’h reveled in the sights, the sweat, the excitement. Her cats prowled along beside them, ranging afield, sniffing at the muscular fighters, but always coming back to her.

  “I love to watch combat.” Her voice was warm with approval. “Each soldier has the same training but slightly different skills. Thus, each match is unpredictable.”

  Two heavily armored guards clashed crystal katanas against each other. They moved in a choreographed dance, parrying edges with edges, straining, grunting. Blood splattered from a thousand shallow cuts and injuries, but the fighters hardly seemed to notice.

  Anton winced. “And you . . . spend your free time training here?”

  “I have defeated many of these men myself, though only half of my blood comes from the soldier kith.”

  “I hope you don’t ever want to fight with me! I’ve got nothing to prove. You’d defeat me—and that’s an understatement.”

  She smiled down at him with genuine amusement. “That would be a most unfair match, Rememberer Anton. If we should encounter great peril, I would use my strength to defend you.” Her lips quirked upward. “Afterward, you could use your talents to tell tales of my prowess. That would please me.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Out in the open field, Ildirans hurled themselves against each other with great gusto. They let out bestial howls as they fought with sheer fury, hammering at each other with heavy clubs and slender, mirrored blades.

  Anton wondered why the Ildiran military spent so much time preparing for ground combat. A standing army? Were these soldiers anticipating a fight that Anton didn’t know about? Against whom? Even these armored warriors could not possibly stand against hydrogues. Who else might they be pitted against? Klikiss robots? He hoped they’d go after some payback, considering what the black monstrosities had done to his companions on Maratha.

  In a packed-clay arena, movable mirrors were set up against the low walls. Riders in polished armor sat astride lizardlike creatures, carrying laser lances that they fired at their opponents’ half-reflective shields.

  “One day I will take you to an Ildiran jousting match,” Yazra’h said. “It is our greatest sport. You will enjoy it.”

  Anton watched the sluggish beasts, saw the riders jabbing their lances in a confusing play of mirrors and shields. “I’ve never been much of a sports fan.”

  “Nevertheless, you will enjoy Ildiran jousting.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re giving me any choice in the matter.”

  “I am not.”

  As the two of them walked among the combatants, he wondered if Yazra’h was walking with him because she enjoyed his company, or if she had been ordered to keep an eye on him. The Ildirans still pretended he was a welcome guest in the Prism Palace, but the atmosphere was much different from when he had first arrived to study the Saga. Now he held plenty of suspicions that something unpleasant was going on, something they did not want him to know.

  On impulse he looked at Yazra’h’s exotic face as she led him from the jousting arena. “Would you like to hear a story?”

  “Is it a dramatic one with brave heroes and many fallen enemies?”

  “No. It’s one about ambition and consequences, the cautionary tale of a man named Faust.” He described, as best he remembered, Goethe’s epic tale of a man’s downfall, how Faust had agreed to sacrifice his soul to the devil in exchange for perfect happiness, and even then had spent his life searching for what he desired. Faust had gotten exactly what he wanted, only to discover that his wants had changed. The price of his bargain had nearly destroyed him.

  Yazra’h appeared troubled. “I did not care for that story. The man Faust made a poor choice and then complained about the terms he had accepted. He was without honor.”

  “Sometimes the bargain itself is without honor,” Anton pointed out. “Faust was damned from the moment he was offered the choice. From that point on, given who he was, he had no option.”

  “He should never have asked for the choice to begin with.” For Yazra’h, every decision was clear-cut, black and white. She turned her attention to a particularly furious battle between two huge soldiers. Like giant fighting machines, they pounded each other, barely bothering to parry or dodge, each simply trying to overwhelm his opponent with brute strength and persistence.

  “Yazra’h,” Anton finally asked, “all those hydrogue warglobes that came to Ildira. They left without firing a single shot. What’s going on?” She fixed her gaze on the two dueling soldiers, no longer the least bit flirtatious. “Are you just going to give me the silent treatment? If I’m stuck here, don’t I have the right to know?”

  “The Mage-Imperator decides what we should know. It is not for me to say.” Then, as the interminable clash continued, she tried to discuss the nuances of fighting technique, as if she thought he could be distracted so easily. She never answered his question, which in itself was enough of an answer.

  44

  MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

  When Yazra’h found him on the high, glittering rooftop of the Prism Palace, Jora’h thought his daughter intended to scold him for standing in the open unguarded. But he was confident the hydrogues wouldn’t come back to destroy him—not yet. The deep-core aliens had far more insidious plans.

  He gestured her forward as he stared at the sweeping geometric skyline of his grand city. “I came up here to be by myself because I am troubled.”

  He glanced over the edge to the drop far, far below to the spot where the potted treeling had shattered on the interlocked paving stones. Scurrying servant kithmen had scoured away every l
ast speck so no one could see the mark, but for Jora’h the stain was still there. It would always be there. The very thought of what he had done filled Jora’h with revulsion. He knew what Nira would think, if he ever did manage to bring her back to the Prism Palace. The things I have done . . . and the things I may still have to do.

  Yazra’h came to stand beside him. When he saw her expression, he knew that she had different concerns. “Father—Liege—I must speak with you. I need to make a request.” He could not remember when she had ever asked anything of him. “I do not question the wisdom of keeping certain information from the human government, but neither can I forget that their skyminers helped so many Ildirans. I was there. I was proud of them.”

  Jora’h nodded. “Sullivan Gold and his companions do not deserve what we have done to them. We should be allies. We should trust them.” A stern frown crossed his face. “However, we cannot. They have seen things the rest of humanity cannot know.” He thought of the Dobro breeding program and the long-imprisoned descendants of the Burton. “And there are other secrets that would make the humans turn their military might against us.”

  She stiffened, automatically on guard and full of bravado. “We could still defeat them, Liege.”

  “I do not wish to fight them at all!”

  “Then what are we to do with the humans you keep here? Blindfold them and lock them up? Kill them?”

  “No!”

  Her eyes were golden and intense, her face strong with determination. “Or tell them the truth?”

  He lowered his voice, though no one else was near them. “If my experts do not find a way to fight the hydrogues, I may have no choice but to betray the humans, Yazra’h. Do I explain that to them and still hope they understand?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Father, if you let the humans help you, they may improve our chances of winning against the hydrogues.”

  He had not considered that. She continued in a rush. “For instance, the human rememberer Anton Colicos came here as a scholar. He is only interested in the Saga of Seven Suns. I have never seen a man so oblivious to politics. Yet even he suspects something bad is going to happen here. He has asked me troubling questions.”