Of Fire and Night

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “A place to stay, and a place to keep our family safe.”

  “And a place to live while we help guide the human race—far from the Chairman. That’s the best part, I think.”

  Celli bounded forward, dragging her big-shouldered green priest friend by the hand. Estarra saw with amazement that her wiry little sister not only was older, but also appeared much more mature. “Celli, look at you!”

  The younger girl couldn’t tear her eyes from Estarra’s belly. “And you, you’re so . . . so pregnant! Are you about to have the baby?”

  Estarra laughed. “Not for a little while yet.” She patted her stomach. “I’m at six and a half months—I don’t even want to imagine how much bigger I’m going to get.”

  Celli introduced herself to Peter as if she had just noticed him, then she did a double take when she realized who he was. “You—you’re the King!”

  “And you must be Estarra’s little sister.” Peter turned to Estarra. “Is she the one who kept pet condorflies?”

  “Oh, I was just a little kid then!” Estarra demanded introductions, much more interested in Solimar, who was apparently Celli’s boyfriend, than she was in condorflies.

  Peter craned his neck, staring up at the beautiful green canopy. “Are all the trees here so . . . tall?”

  Celli laughed. “You should have seen the verdani battleships!”

  “Oh, we did—a lot closer than I would have liked.”

  Wearing overly extravagant beetle-carapace headdresses, cocoon-weave garments, and shellacked chest pieces, Idriss and Alexa arrived, happy but perplexed. “We’re thrilled to have you home again, daughter,” Alexa said, “but please explain what’s happening. Nahton sent us sporadic messages from Earth, but he doesn’t have many details. Even if the hydrogues are defeated at Earth, they may keep coming back and—”

  “The hydrogues won’t be a problem any longer, Mother Alexa,” Solimar said, and all the nearby green priests nodded. “The verdani battleships are quite convinced of that. The war seems to be won. The enemy is destroyed.”

  Estarra said breathlessly, “And we escaped from the Chairman. He was trying to kill us. And the baby, too.” Nahton had already sent word of their danger.

  Alexa quickly understood the implications. “Are you in exile, then?”

  Peter’s voice was grim. “The Hansa is in a shambles and run by a corrupt madman. The Chairman taught me my skills and duties, but he himself has forgotten what it means to be a leader.”

  Idriss looked from side to side. “What about Sarein? Did she come with you? She should be here with the rest of her family.”

  Estarra frowned, feeling a pang. Sarein had given them invaluable assistance, but in the end she had chosen to remain with the Chairman. “No, she stayed on Earth.” The Queen hugged her parents, feeling a deep gratitude in her heart. “We had no place else to go.”

  Alexa had tears streaming down her face. “There is no question about it. You must both stay here.” She held up a gently scolding finger. “Forget all of your politics for now. I insist that you let our first grandchild be born here on Theroc.”

  138

  MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

  After ten thousand years of waiting and preparing for the inevitable, it was over. Now the Ildirans began to pick up the pieces.

  Standing outside under the multiple suns, Jora’h gazed at his damaged city. All sixty of the threatening warglobes lay smashed in the streets and on hills where they had fallen. Though Mijistra’s sky had been empty of enemies for days, the last cohorts of the Solar Navy maintained a diligent cordon around the planet.

  Nira stood next to the Mage-Imperator, silent and somber, her hand resting lovingly on their daughter’s shoulder. Armies of worker kithmen operated heavy machinery to excavate and drag away the wreckage of shattered warglobes. As they considered the devastation, she said, “It could have been worse, Jora’h. Much worse.”

  “It very nearly was.”

  Jora’h still didn’t know the extent of damage across his Empire. He had been overwhelmed by resounding echoes of mental anguish in the thism. As the dying warglobes had crashed into the city like a rain of diamond asteroids, a wave of shock and death had rolled over him, nearly overloading his ability to receive messages of pain. The Mage-Imperator was at the center of it all; the lives and deaths of so many people funneled into him.

  Medical kithmen scurried to rescue the injured, pulling bodies from the wreckage. Handlers counted and prepared the dead. Jora’h had felt them all cry out, felt the threads of thism snapping with exquisitely sharp pain. But oh, how much more terrible it would have been had the hydrogues vaporized the entire city—and then the whole Ildiran Empire.

  Nira sensed his distress. “Your gamble paid off.”

  “It was not my gamble alone. It was for all of us. And I could not have done it without you or Osira’h.” Turning Adar Zan’nh’s warliners against the hydrogues might have sealed the fate of all Ildirans, but Jora’h had made his decision to follow the bright soul-threads, to see the Lightsource and a path of honor. “I thought I was going to spend my last moments with you, Nira.”

  She smiled up at him. “Maybe you will. But not for a long time yet.”

  He folded his arms around her and his daughter, gathering them close. A small family, a microcosm of the Ildiran Empire. The Mage-Imperator was father to all his people, yet no leader in memory had ever had a family such as this.

  From high above, one more warliner descended through the clear sky. Unlike the other Solar Navy ships patrolling Ildira, this warliner was scarred, its gaudy hull plates blackened and damaged, solar fins and streamers dangling loosely. But it could fly, and it had returned.

  “Adar Zan’nh has come home.” Jora’h flashed a small grin. “I have news that will make him very happy.”

  Later, when the Adar faced his father at the entrance to the Prism Palace, his uniform looked impeccable, even after what his ships had been through. Despite his haunted eyes, Zan’nh bowed and pressed his fist against his chest in a salute to the Mage-Imperator. Eschewing formality, Jora’h hugged his oldest son. “You accomplished the impossible! I am proud of you and my entire Solar Navy.”

  The Adar did not look pleased. “I lost two cohorts of warliners, Liege. The Empire’s defenses are greatly weakened.”

  Jora’h’s optimism would not be shaken. “The hydrogues are defeated, and we can endure. That was the threat for which the Solar Navy was constructed ten millennia ago. Who are our enemies now?”

  “Even so, Liege, we dare not remain defenseless. We must start immediately to rebuild our Solar Navy.”

  “Certainly, and for that reason I am forced to modify your duties. When I lost Thor’h, I asked you to serve as my next Prime Designate. Because you are loyal and faithful, you agreed. But that was never your calling.”

  Zan’nh bowed. “My calling is to serve you, Mage-Imperator, in whatever fashion you command.”

  It was the answer Jora’h had expected to hear. “I hereby release you from your duties as Prime Designate, Adar Zan’nh. You may now command the Solar Navy without other distractions, if that is your desire.”

  “Yes, Liege! But who will become Prime Designate?”

  Jora’h glanced at Osira’h who stood serenely beside him and her mother. “Daro’h is next in line for such work. He is now my oldest noble-born son. I will bring him back to the Prism Palace to become Prime Designate in your place.” The feeling in his heart was bittersweet. “Now the Empire needs him more than Dobro does. I have already sent a summons. The breeding program is ended, and our splinter colony can be made open again.”

  Though Jora’h suggested that he and his soldiers rest, Zan’nh would not hear of it. The Adar hurried away from the Prism Palace, to set in motion his plans for rebuilding the Solar Navy. Smiling, the Mage-Imperator let him do as he wished.

  Next, Jora’h summoned Sullivan Gold and Tabitha Huck. It was time for complete truthfulness. Keeping secrets to protect the Empire see
med intrinsic to his bloodline, but at Nira’s urging he was determined to change things.

  He looked at the two humans, who still appeared shaken from all the destruction. Jora’h said, “When you agreed to help us, Adar Zan’nh gave his word that once we defeated the hydrogues, you and your comrades would be allowed to go home. The human race may distrust us. Your people and mine will have great obstacles to overcome before we can recover from our past treachery.”

  “I’m not a diplomat, and I can’t speak for anyone but myself,” Sullivan said, “but maybe I can put in a good word or two. After we get home.”

  “Seems to me that without your hundreds of remote-controlled warliners, Earth would be a smoking ruin right now,” Tabitha pointed out. “Maybe—just maybe—people will cut you a little slack for that.”

  Nira smiled at the skyminers. “As a green priest, I would be happy to facilitate sending messages to your loved ones.”

  Sullivan beamed. “Oh, that would be marvelous. A letter to my Lydia is long overdue. She’ll be glad to know I’m not dead after all.”

  139

  KOLKER

  Even after restoring his connection to the worldforest, Kolker remained reticent. He had never felt so confused and unsure of himself.

  Ever since he’d lost his treeling, his all-consuming desire had been to touch telink again. But now that Nira had made it possible, he still felt lost, as if his life’s central goal had fallen away like a trapdoor beneath his feet. He had not been able to discuss it with his close friend Yarrod, or anyone else. He seemed farther away from them than even interstellar distances could account for. He had achieved what he’d wanted for so long. What was missing?

  Though he could touch the treeling whenever he wished—especially now, with the hydrogues defeated—Kolker had avoided doing so. He wanted to understand this emptiness before he fell back on the crutch of the worldtrees. Not sure where else to turn, he decided to seek out Tery’l. Perhaps the old lens kithman could offer a different perspective. He always seemed so confident in his faith.

  Though he searched in his usual meditation places, Kolker could not find the ancient man. Growing increasingly worried, the green priest asked other Ildirans until he was finally directed into the damaged part of Mijistra, where a hastily erected infirmary held many of those who had been wounded in the explosions and collapsed buildings.

  In the makeshift hospital, Kolker wandered among the cots where the injured were being tended by doctors. Young and determined lens kithmen hovered over those closest to death, helping them to see the soul-threads that would guide them as they passed to a plane of infinite light. Kolker expected to find Tery’l with his comrades caring for the wounded.

  But his old friend lay by himself, on a cot, among the severely injured. Tery’l had sent the other lens kithmen away, instructing them to devote their attentions to those in greatest need. “I am content,” he had told them. “I know everything you could possibly say to me. I have nothing to fear.”

  Kolker hurried forward to the battered old man. Teryl’s chest and head were bandaged and bloody, and his milky eyes stared into a bright, cloudless sky. Though Teryl’s eyesight was too weak to recognize the green priest, he seemed to know Kolker by instinct. “Ah, my human friend! I am glad you came to speak with me.” His papery lips curled in a faint smile. “But if you need more enlightenment, you had best listen quickly.” The ancient lens kithman could barely manage a laugh, and it came out as only a rattling breath.

  Kolker knelt. “What happened to you? Where were you?”

  “I was among the fountains where the prisms intensify the light. It was bright and warm and glorious.” Tery’l smiled. “The people evacuated, but I could not run swiftly enough. When the warglobes crashed, I was struck by falling debris. Now only frayed ends of my soul-threads are left.”

  Kolker touched his friend’s forehead. “You’ll be fine. The hydrogues are defeated, and the doctors are taking care of you. There’s no reason you can’t get better.”

  “Time is the reason. This body has simply lived too long. Ildirans have a greater life span than humans, but our bodies still have limits.” He stared upward again. “I have done many good things in my life. As a lens kithman, I helped my people. I hope that our discussions have been at least interesting, if not thought-provoking.”

  “Yes, they have.” In a rush, Kolker explained how he had finally been reunited through telink, how he’d let his mind sail through the connected trees. “I wanted it so badly, but once I achieved it . . . even telink didn’t seem adequate anymore.”

  “What happens to green priests when they die?” the lens kithman asked.

  “When we know our time is at an end, we allow ourselves to be absorbed into the worldforest mind. We connect to a tree through telink, and then our body falls among the trees.” Kolker shook his head, and his voice became rough. “If I had died here without my treeling, I would have been lost forever—a meaningless death.

  “At one time I pitied humans who weren’t green priests. I knew that their verbal and written communications could not match my perfect sharing of thoughts through the trees. But now I see that even my blessed telink is exclusive. It doesn’t unite humanity—only a handful of chosen green priests. That’s not good enough.”

  “Perhaps it is all you have,” Tery’l said.

  “It doesn’t need to be that way! If humans were linked to each other like Ildirans are through thism, then we could understand, cooperate, and grow stronger. We’d never have factions and enemies and civil wars.”

  “Then you have truly learned from us, my friend. For millennia, Ildirans had almost no internal struggle, except for the recent Hyrillka uprising—and that was due to flawed thism.”

  “I wish I could be part of what you have, Tery’l.” Kolker felt desperation in his heart. “I am so intrigued by your thism. I wish I could open myself to it . . .”

  The lens kithman grasped Kolker’s hand, squeezing with the power of a vise. “You already understand more than you know. I am comforted that you are here, but comforted more that all my people are with me, all Ildirans together, sharing, thinking, supporting each other.”

  “Right now you should be thinking of yourself—just be strong.”

  “I am strong. And we all think for all of us. How else could I have survived and remained happy, even as my eyesight failed? It is the thism.” With his other hand, Tery’l reached for the shining, lens-etched medallion he always wore at his throat. As he picked it up, the prismatic disk caught the light and reflected rainbows. “This . . . this may give you more to ponder.”

  Not understanding, Kolker took the gift. “What is it?”

  “A symbol.”

  The facets seemed full of light being sucked down into a gravity well, reflecting, sparkling with possibilities. “So it doesn’t do anything?”

  “Symbols do many things. That depends on you.”

  Kolker had seen the old lens kithman touch the medallion, claiming that it helped him to link to the Lightsource. “Don’t you need it yourself, Tery’l?”

  As if knowing he was finished with life, willing himself to end, the ancient lens kithman simply died without releasing Kolker’s hand.

  The green priest remained at the old man’s side for a long time. He passed through his grief thinking of everything Tery’l had said, clinging to a strand of hope and mystery. He looked down at the sparkling etched facets in the gift medallion, following lines of shattered light. What had the old lens kithman seen inside there? Had he used it to follow paths through the thism? Even in death, Tery’l had been comforted by his endless connections to his people.

  Finally, Kolker climbed to his feet again and walked in a daze back toward the Prism Palace, toward Sullivan Gold, Tabitha Huck, and the other Hansa skyminers.

  He had a mission now. Though he didn’t know where he would begin, Kolker prepared for his new work.

  140

  PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

  In the space
yacht he had “borrowed” from his grandmother, Patrick stopped off long enough at a distant Hansa outpost to purchase hull paints, which he used to remove the prominent markings. He changed the registration numbers and automatic ID signal. Thinking of dark-haired Zhett, he renamed his yacht the Gypsy.

  He was alone and far from anything else happening in the Spiral Arm. Patrick did not expect the Roamers to be easy to find, but he had a few obvious starting places.

  It took him several lonely days to fly to Osquivel. He didn’t expect to find anything useful at the ringed gas giant, however. Certainly not a secret message from Zhett. He’d already read the report of the EDF investigation team. Military engineers had combed through the rubble, finding useless debris, ejected machinery, and wrecked habitats. EDF investigators had collected every usable piece of equipment they could find, piecing together the Kellum operation. Patrick found it ironic. Now who are the scavengers?

  As he flew through the rubble rings now, he experienced a wash of fearful memories. The battle of Osquivel had been the most terrifying experience in his life—countless warglobes, EDF ships blasted into scrap metal, ships fleeing in panic and leaving damaged vessels and lifepods . . . including his own.

  Strangely enough, Osquivel’s cloud bands seemed different now, changed, as if lit from within. Brighter and less ominous. He couldn’t imagine what might have happened to change a whole planet. It was as if the stain of the hydrogues themselves had disappeared.

  He drifted among the rings, searching and thinking. Zhett had taken him out in a small grappler pod to tour the smelters and rubble prospectors, the small greenhouse domes, the recycling facilities, and the habitation complexes. Everything was silent and empty now. On one of the storage rocks he had tricked Zhett, strung her along. She had believed he was falling in love with her.

  He couldn’t imagine what she thought of him now. Zhett Kellum was a fiery young woman who had powerful feelings. He suspected she did not take humiliation well. How she must have cursed his name!

  He had to be insane to steal a ship, escape from his powerful grandmother, and go AWOL from the Earth Defense Forces, just to find Zhett. And if he ever succeeded, how could he expect anything other than contempt from her? She would probably spit in his face—or worse.