He had gotten through—he could feel it in the sudden, trembling stillness of the other man’s body. He pursued the point. “You’re a young man, Troy. Your wife—she must be about Yoshi’s age, eh? You throw that bomb, you’ll be giving her an awfully long life without you... or with someone else.”
He hazarded a glance back over his shoulder. Yoshi was still there, her pretty face almost devoid of color, her eyes riveted on the explosive. Behind her, he could make out the gleam of light on jet black skin, the glitter of pastel eyes, bright ripples of cloth. He wondered how long the Tsong Zee had been there.
Troy let out a grunt of humorless laughter. “Looks like I’m dead, anyway. They’ll kill me the moment they get the chance.”
“What do you say, Brasn?” asked Rhys in Tsuru. “Troy wants to destroy your Shrine because he doesn’t want to leave Tson. He thinks you’re here to kill him.”
“No,” said Brasn quietly, shaking his head several times for emphasis. “We are here because we sensed your physical distress. We have no wish to kill Digger Troy. Yet, neither have we any wish to lose what we have waited so long to find. We have what I believe you call a ‘dilemma.’”
At that one word, uttered in perfectly coherent English, Troy’s body stiffened, beginning to quiver anew. “What’d he say? What’d he say?”
Rhys repeated Brasn’s words in English. The quivering increased.
“Well, there it is, Troy. They don’t want to have to stop you and I’m not sure I can. That leaves Yoshi. She’s not much of a warrior either, I’m afraid.” He glanced at Troy’s sweat-coated face then back at the girl standing behind him, her eyes on the explosive. “Look at her, Troy. She’s nineteen. That’s a marvelous thing, to be nineteen. You remember—the beginning of everything. The end of waiting for adulthood. That’s a powerfully great thing to put to an end. Do you want to do that to Yoshi? Do you want to bury that girl under a ton of rock? Will you be a hero if you do that, d’you think? Or will you be something else?”
Muscles relented, softened in Rhys’s grip. He kept his eyes on the other man’s, gradually loosing his hold on the sweat-soaked wrist. He felt the little metal sphere pressed gently into his palm.
“Oh, Lord,” mumbled the digger. “Oh, Lord, I’m ruined.”
Rhys took a deep breath. “No, I think we can all agree there were extenuating circumstances. Can’t we?” His glance brushed the others—Quozel, Yoshi, the Tsong Zee, now fully visible directly behind her. He got consenting gestures from all.
He handed the bomb past Troy to the technician. “Disarm that, please.”
“Yes, sir!” He fairly leapt at it.
Rhys wanted no more than to dissolve into a plaid puddle, but couldn’t afford to, yet. One of the diggers was missing, the lone escapee. He shook Troy’s shoulder lightly. “One of your men took off. Is he on Beneton’s payroll too?”
Troy glanced guiltily at the group of tense faces and nodded.
“Speaker Rhys,” said Javar from behind him, “there is nothing we can do now about that man. Whether he has found escape or ambush or ally, we are powerless. But there is still the Shrine. Won’t you come and see all that we have found?”
Rhys nodded. “I’d like that.” He studied Troy’s face. “Will you be all right?”
Quozel stood and moved to his friend’s shoulder. In the light of torch and light-disk, his face shone with a fine dew of sweat. “He’ll be fine,” he said, and put a steadying hand on the other man’s arm. “I’ll take care of him.”
They made their way back to the Shrine, emerging from the tunnel into what now, with braziers lit, looked like a cave of pale, shifting liquid. The Tsong Zee turned as one to face Rhys and Yoshi.
“Fear tastes the same on all tongues,” Javar told him. “Through you, we knew Digger Troy’s fear—smelled it, saw it, heard it through your ears, tasted it in your mouth. We had not believed a Human capable of such attachment to Tson.”
“Nor had we anticipated,” added Brasn, “that a Human would be willing to fight for our interests. Why have you done this? That man would not have harmed you, had you agreed to let him destroy our Shrine as he wished. And Humans would have benefited from its destruction.”
“Would they?” Rhys shook his head. “No, Brasn. I don’t believe that for a moment. It would be to our detriment, ultimately, to treat another race so shoddily. This place is sacred. It may not be a Shrine of my ancestors, but that doesn’t make it any less a sacred place.” He let his eyes wander over the curving vault of ceiling, the muraled walls with their treasure trove of ancient Tsong Zee knowledge. “My blood did not rise from the streams of this world, Brasn, but we are both men. We can connect. We can empathize. Your rights as a man are no less important than are mine. Your love for your homeworld is no less strong. I could not call myself Human if I was not willing to fight for those rights—not willing for you to receive justice. The same justice I desire for my own people.”
“Justice,” repeated Brasn, nodding. “A very important concept to Tsong Zee. I perceive, now, that it is also important to Humans.” The Gondayan Speaker raised his golden eyes to the stone dais with its row of five seats. “Let us complete this pilgrimage. Let us take our places in the seats of our ancestors.”
“But one seat will be empty,” objected Parsa. “Among the Traditions of the Tsadrat it is related that the Five Tribes of Tson must sit down together within the White Shrine. Surely, the Walker’s seat must not be left unfilled.” Her eyes were on Rhys.
Keere moved restively. “He is not Tsong Zee.”
“He is a man,” said Brasn.
“His people are Walkers,” said Javar. “They walk the heavens in ships.”
“He is the Key Master,” said Parsa in a tone that told all she considered the matter settled. “The Key Master must sit with the Key Holders.”
“It is recorded,” added Brasn. He looked to Keere.
Keere’s mouth puckered oddly. Then he sighed, canted, then nodded. “It is recorded.” He met Rhys’s eyes and pointed toward the dais. “That is your seat, Key Master Rhys.”
His heart rabbiting in his chest, Rhys responded with a courtly bow. “I am honored.”
“So we perceive,” said Brasn and led the way up to the dais. Once there, he gestured each Speaker to a seat.
Rhys, following the Gondayan’s cue, stood before the stone chair to the left of his own central one. Facing out into the cavern, he noted that Gedde Kuskov was recording the ritual. That was appropriate, he thought. Let history record that the Tsong Zee reclaimed their world—that they deserved to reclaim it.
Glancing to his right, he saw Brasn inspecting the broad arm of his chair. In a moment, the Tsong Zee Speaker had removed the top of the arm and produced from the hollow interior, a sense-globe of shimmering purples and blues. He replaced the top of the arm, turned and sat, the globe cradled reverently in his hands.
Rhys and the other Speakers followed his lead, seating themselves in the stone chairs. The action was greeted by a nearly blinding burst of light as the ancient chamber came to sudden life. A chorus of startled gasps melted to awe-struck murmurs as the lights, concealed behind stalactites and stone screens, struck minute chips of diamanté glitter from every tiny crystal in the chamber. It was as if the entire place had been swathed in a robe of sudden, brilliant snow.
Oz, thought Rhys, wasn’t an emerald city after all.
“It appears,” murmured Javar, “that we have been expected.”
“Did you ever doubt it?” Brasn held up the sense-globe and began exploring it with reverent fingers. After a moment of study, he began to chant aloud, his warm, flute-voice weaving his words into an exotic melody. “Tribes of Tson, welcome here, for you have come home. You have overcome loss. You have weathered exile. You have transcended prejudice. You have achieved unity. You have reclaimed your birthright. Five Tribes are united here: Gondayan—Seers of the Soul; Gondavar—Searchers of the Earth and Sky; Gondamela—Traders of Goods; Gondarau—Tillers of the
Soil; Gondatrura—Walkers of the Heavens...!” He paused for a moment, hands moving rapidly over the face of the artifact, then concluded, “Be united here. Tson is yours to share... It is recorded.” He lowered the globe.
“Walkers of the Heavens?” repeated Keere and Javar leaned forward in his seat.
“It says that?” he asked.
Brasn held out the globe to him. He took it, searching it with eyes and fingertips.
“Indeed,” he mused, “it says exactly that. The ships are clear to see.”
“Perhaps,” offered Keere, “it is our own ships that are recorded. It could be said that the moment the Gondatrura left the face of Tson they became Walkers of the Heavens.”
“It could be said,” agreed Brasn, then twitched his shoulders in the Tsong Zee version of a shrug. “We will probably never know. But we are here. And the Shrine has accepted our presence. We have been told what we must do, have we not?”
His eyes swept the faces of the other Tsong Zee, drawing from each of them a cant of agreement. He turned to Rhys then.
“Speaker Rhys, Key Master of the Gondatrura, we perceive that your Tribe also has a claim upon Tson. Will you be content to share this world with these others?”
Rhys was sure his smile would split his face apart. He wondered fleetingly what the Tsong Zee made of it. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m sure most would be willing to try.”
o0o
Rhys glanced up at the low ceiling of the passage and patted his chest, savoring the comforting lump of Pa-Lili’s fetish bag. It carried Kuskov’s visual record of the Shrine—a coin-sized disk of faux-ceramic—tucked reverently in atop the precious lock of Pa-Lili’s hair that had been the Pa-Kai Shaman’s gift to him upon his leaving. “For memories,” she had said.
He would have rich memories of this place, he mused as he picked his way down the corridor behind Javar. Memories he hoped to be able to share with her.
Javar dropped back, peering at him through half-lidded eyes. “Your loved one is not of the same race as yourself,” he noted baldly. “Pardon if my observation is discourteous, but your impressions of her are extraordinary.”
Rhys overcame a moment of confusion, then realized the EEG array was still functioning. “My loved one... yes. She is rather extraordinary. And no, I don’t find your observation discourteous.”
“What manner of relationship can you have? Surely, it is not possible to procreate?”
Rhys laughed. He had often thought of Pa-Lili as soul-mate, if not as mate. They were alike enough in mind and spirit—merely too dissimilar in body. “No, Javar, we cannot procreate. Nor can we bond sexually. Nor do we wish to.”
“What then?” asked the Gondavar Speaker.
Rhys became suddenly aware of the mental scrutiny of the other Tsong Zee. Boldly, perhaps, he reached out and took Javar’s four-fingered hand. “Friendship,” he said. “We are friends. We are... kindred spirits.”
He thought again of Pa-Lili’s beloved, camelid features, forging past them to the things that made her at once unique and akin, and felt answering, if elusive, impressions from the Tsong Zee. Javar returned the pressure of his hand and nodded.
A heartbeat later, an explosion rocked the cavern, throwing them both to the gritty floor and spewing a maelstrom of dust and debris at them from somewhere ahead. Someone, Human or Tsong Zee—Rhys couldn’t tell which—shrieked; the sound was drowned in the low rumble of rockfall from the outer chamber.
Rhys clung to the cave floor, praying the sound would stop, hoping it would not be followed by a second explosion. Beneath him, the cavern shivered, wriggled like an over-adored kitten, and his mind raced. Had to be Beneton—no, Beneton’s men. Could anybody really do this? Could anybody really bring down a mountain on an innocent group of people? They had paid Troy to do it and he had wanted to—had thought he wanted to. But Troy had been face to face with the people he would have killed. They were anonymous now—buried, already, out of sight. It seemed these people could kill anonymously.
Ahead of them, the rumble died to a sigh of cascading dust, sounding like rain. Rhys got to his knees, gritting against the bite of pebbles pressed into bare skin. Kilts, he thought irrelevantly, are not the most practical of spelunking gear.
He tried to call out, sucked dust into his lungs and wheezed, then remembered the EEG array. Fingers of sense groped the dusky passage, probing where blurred eyes could not. He found Javar, very close to him, Keere and Brasn rising from the floor behind them, Parsa and Malin ahead of them, closer to the point of explosion. Parsa was groggy and in a little pain. He remembered that Yoshi had been with her and knew a moment of cold, stark panic before Malin let him know that she was all right.
He heard her a moment later, trying to cough and call to him simultaneously. Then the passage was full of sound—the scrape and scramble of people pulling themselves upright, coughing, exclamations of concern and fear, questions. The dust fall was clearing, and light disks turned the dusk to smoky twilight.
Rising, Rhys peered forward—saw Parsa, Malin, Yoshi, and Gedde; backward—made out the other archaeologists and diggers. Javar stood an arm’s length away.
Connected by sight, all stood for a moment as if by mutual consent, unspeaking, listening, waiting. Dust dripped from overhead. A crack in the wall at Yoshi’s back expelled a chunk of rock, making her squeak. Then silence—complete, except for their breathing.
“What now?” Quozel’s voice was wispy, trembling.
“Are we sealed in?” asked one of the archaeologists. She began to creep forward along the corridor.
“Air!” said Yoshi, and Parsa echoed her in Tson. “I feel air. The passage is still open.”
“The question is,” said Javar, “how long will it be open? Do we attempt to get out or do we wait?”
Rhys batted debris from his hair and sloughed dust from his kilt. “Yoshi, can you raise Danetta?”
She fumbled with the comlink for a moment. “Sorry, sir. Either we’re still too deep or... or it’s gotten damaged. I think I might have fallen on it.”
A small piece of something fell from the little machine, glittering indistinctly in the disk-light before it hit the cave floor with a muffled ping.
“Oh,” Yoshi said. “Sorry, sir.”
“Not your fault, Yoshi. Well. We seem to have a dilemma. Someone obviously wants to seal our fate. If we try to walk out of here...”
“Ambush,” said Malin in English, peering up the corridor. “A catch-22.”
Gedde Kuskov made a noise that might have been surprise or laughter. “Precisely, friend.” He glanced back at Rhys. “I’d like to suggest that I go out. They’re less likely to shoot me.”
Over Yoshi’s murmured translation, Rhys heard Malin say, “I understood what Searcher Gedde said.” He put his hand on the scientist’s dusty shoulder, peered into his face and said in clear English, “A big chance, friend. Too big.”
“I’ll go,” said Troy from the back of the group.
All eyes focused on him. He shifted and a rain of pebbles fell from his clothes. “They know me. I’ll go out and see if I can’t stall them. Talk them out of...” He made an uneasy gesture.
Rhys hesitated, unsure if he should trust the other man’s conversion. Really, what choice did they have? He glanced at Javar, sensed consent and nodded. “All right. We’ll wait here. You call to us; we’ll come out.”
Troy nodded, set his shoulders and started toward the cave entrance, stepping carefully over debris. At the turn that would take him out of sight, he hesitated. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he disappeared around the bend. They heard him begin to run.
“We could go back to the Shrine,” suggested Gedde. “It might be safer... just in case.”
Just in case. Just in case Troy was more firmly in Beneton’s grasp than they’d thought. Rhys hesitated over the decision. In a moment, it was taken out of his hands. The whine of laser weapons echoed down the corridor and the ground shook beneath their feet and trembled ab
ove their heads. There was a shout, the sound of rock falling; someone scrambled madly down from the entrance.
A second later, Troy appeared, his face frozen in abject terror, a blossom of blood over one eye. “They’re firing!” he shrieked. “They’ll kill us if we go out!”
Beneath Pa-Lili’s fetish bag, Rhys’s heart spasmed. “Back, everybody! Back to the Shrine!”
There was no hesitation. None. In seconds, they had cleared the nether mouth of the tunnel, broken into the glorious chamber, and scurried to take cover behind anything that offered it.
And none too soon. Rhys could see the advance of light down the tunnel walls, marked its slow crawl along the uneven floor. He crouched behind an alabaster seat, holding his breath, biting his lip and crossing his fingers. His mind struggled against scenarios of destruction, fought the idea that this wonderful place would disappear in minutes, torn apart by greed and fear.
Light washed out of the tunnel and was absorbed by the blaze from the Shrine. Shadows followed, becoming solid shapes—becoming, at last, men. They advanced into the soaring vault, their feet stage-whispering on the floors, their weapons gleaming as they fanned out beneath the crystalline lights. They lifted their faces to the alabaster thrones and the walls overflowing with knowledge, and Rhys nearly wept.
The leader of them opened his mouth on a long sigh. “Jesus-Buddha-Moses,” said Admiral Sanchez. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”
o0o
Danetta stared at the output from Rhys’s EEG array and wished she could decipher the riot of messages. Nothing had come from the mountain since Admiral Sanchez’s hair-raising, “Damn! They’re blasting the cave! We’re going in!”
Dusk was coming hard, and Danetta was amazed at how inimical the increasing darkness seemed. What was it your parents always told you—it’s just the same as it was in daylight? At least, she told herself, the streets were quiet now. A terse message had accomplished that—a message played in and over every medium at Joseph Bekwe’s disposal: We are not under attack. Return to your homes. We are not under attack.
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