Watching the-priest?-passing among the dead, Gretchen became peripherally aware of a golden tinge tainting her sight. Tentatively, her fingers moved, drifting to touch the bronze block. They stopped short, encountering an aura of heat, almost hot enough to scald.
“We had best move on-if we are to stay,” she said, forcing herself to focus on the Prince. “If you intend to carry through with your purpose…”
“I do,” Xochitl said, his face pinched and pale.
He’s removed his mask again. Only a frightened man remains in Huitzilopochtli’s place.
“Sahane- tzin, what do you say to this?” Xochitl asked.
The living Hjo’s face greatly resembled that of the long-dead priest walking in Gretchen’s golden vision, a ghastly mask of suppressed horror. His limpid gray-black eyes fixed on Gretchen for the first time. “ You know what this place is… how can this be? How can a toy know what I-one of the Guided Race-do not!”
“There are legends,” she replied carefully, “and fragments out of the past that still endure. Not all fantastical tales are false… but all that I know is that this whole enormous structure”-she extended her arms, taking in the entirety of the Chimalacatl and the singularity-“is the work of your people. Are you not pleased to look upon their greatness?”
“I despair,” Sahane croaked, voice thick with emotion, “to find myself amid this ruin and find the greatness of my people is ash!”
Xochitl seemed confounded. His face went blank. Gretchen caught a fragment of his helplessness, but made no move to enlighten him.
Sahane favored them both with a contemptuous stare. “Apes! Such skills as tore suns from their orbits and compressed matter into ultimate annihilation, such skills as made this… this mausoleum… are lost to us. This place, it might as well have been made by the gods themselves! By the Living Flame which Guides! We are so petty now…” His voice trailed away into a disgusted, lamenting mumble.
A flicker of emotion lighted Xochitl’s face. He scrutinized Gretchen warily. “Team one, to me.” The Prince ordered half of his men forward. “Team two, secure the ship. Doctor Anderssen, you help the Esteemed Sahane here find a command structure!”
With the heavy black assault rifles of the marines at her back, Gretchen reached up to place a gentle hand on the young Hjogadim’s armored wrist. “Lord Sahane, let us go further on. Is this not a cathedral of your caste? Has not the place of it been lost to your line? Have a care here. So many lie untended.”
She led the Hjo onward, picking their way out of the disposal chamber through a triangular doorway. As they passed through, Gretchen caught sight of a faint radiance shining in the metal. After all this time there are still glimmers within the material. What marvelous alloy could this be? Or are there bioluminescent organisms trapped within?
“Ah!” The pale gleaming strengthened rapidly, becoming a floodlight of gold. Glyphs inscribed beside the entrance swam and cavorted in her sight, a vision now drenched in brassy light. On the floor, on the walls, as high as their hand lights could reach, meanings leaped out, indicating direction and time and purpose in an ever-dancing overlay to the solid world. Murals began to emerge from the plain-seeming walls, showing the edifice of a great civilization-towers piercing cloud-streaked skies; endless multitudes moving below, in enormous cities. Thousands of races were represented and not one of them seemed to be placed above the others, though the massive Hjogadim were well represented.
Oh boy, Anderssen thought. Is this how the structure functions? Or did the ancient Hjo see the world this way all the time?
“Keep moving,” Xochitl gritted. They stepped out into a leviathan hallway, stretching off far beyond the reach of their lights in either direction. Only a few meters from the doorway, a row of diamond-shaped compartments was visible at floor level. The Prince, curious, advanced to the closest one-his marines pacing him ahead and behind. As their lights moved, Gretchen bit her lip, seeing another row of compartments above the first, and then another, and then another…
Xochitl rapped on the closest door, then shone his light inside. “It’s like glassite. Sealed, but empty.” He stepped away from the dark, silent chamber and swung with the beam of his lamp off into the distance, following the wall.
“They go way up, too,” the marine behind Gretchen added. “Way up.”
Sahane stared morbidly into the sealed spaces as he passed by. The gleam of the helmet lights was swallowed up by the enormous spaces surrounding them. After walking fifteen minutes without seeing any end in sight, Xochitl ordered a halt.
“Koris-take two men back and get us a grav-sled from the freighter.”
***
Once aboard the sled, they made excellent time, zipping along the massive passageway. After nearly an hour of travel, they reached an intersection.
“I think, this way,” Gretchen urged, seeing the glyphs flowing and dancing in the air congregate around the right-hand avenue. “Yes, definitely.”
Sahane peered into the darkness, staring at the patterned sigils cut into the walls of the intersection, and then shuffled over to stand beside Anderssen at the cargo rail. She scrutinized what she could see of his face within the helmet. He’s interested. Not as tired. Not as fearful.
The Jaguar Knight turned the sled, sending them down another long vaulted hallway. More rows of compartments appeared, yet like the others they were spotless and empty.
The Kader
Approaching the pinhole
“Pilot, acceleration up a point,” Hadeishi announced, preternaturally calm. The light cruiser moved forward, picking up speed as the realspace drives burned mass. In his earbug he could hear a sudden rise in chatter from the Khaiden battleship. Someone is paying attention-but the shuttle is far more interesting than we are. Before him on his plot, a faint, faint trail gleamed.
“Pilot, course one-quarter point to starboard. And not one meter more.”
Warning! the navigation officer on the Sokamak barked in alarm. You’re too close to the…
“All hands, brace for impact!” Hadeishi snapped into his shipside comm.
The Kader ’s starboard wing, a long pylon holding missile racks, bomb-pods, and an array of other weapons, sheared directly into a Thread and neatly separated with a squeal of metal Mitsuharu could hear in Command, and then spun away from the light cruiser. Secondary explosions cauterized the shattered pylon almost immediately. Damage control parties rushed down suddenly vented corridors to patch the ruptures. Mitsuharu felt the whole ship tremble. He punched new course settings into the plot. “Full speed, Thai-i.”
A stabbing azure flare burst from the engines and the Kader leaped forward like a scalded cat, racing away from both Thread and the Sokamak at maximum acceleration. An instant later, the Mexica officer at the Kader ’s comm station punched up a prerecorded distress call-translated to Khadesh-on all frequencies, interspersed with pleas for “a clear path, give us a clear path!”
Hadeishi’s attention stayed on the plot as the battleship receded in the viewing screen. The shuttle carrying the “Imperial scientist” was only seconds from entering the assigned docking bay. Mitsuharu nodded to Lovelace, who was poised with a preprogrammed transmission burst ready to send. “Comm, go.”
The shuttle floated delicately into the open boat-bay of the Sokamak and set down in a rush of maneuvering jets. As soon as the landing pads had touched the deck, the entire boat blew neatly apart into six sections. Four Khaiden penetrator pods deployed out of the debris cloud. Their on-board comps recognized the environment, sorted out targeting in a nanosecond, and burst away from the broken shuttle.
The Khaiden sub-officer in the boat-bay shrieked “Penetrators aboard! Incoming! Incoming!” into his comm an instant before being obliterated by an energy flare. The penetrators raced away down loading corridors and access ways, their plasma cutters shearing through locks and bulkheads.
Mitsuharu considered the likely effects within the Sokamak with satisfaction. It is a poor Khaiden commander who has
not prepared for the day when he must put the knife to his superior.
As the severed wing spun away behind the Kader, the on-board weapons systems woke up and spewed a cloud of free-seeking missiles, bomb-pods, and chaff. The other two Hayalet -class battleships reacted to the sudden appearance of live munitions on their plot by lighting off their own engines and swerving away from both the invisible Barrier and the “weapons accident.” The attendant destroyers and support ships followed, while their commanders were tremendously amused to see a brace of sprint missiles from the “accident” flare across the prow of the proud Sokamak.
Their ’cast chatter was quick and violent, but now Hadeishi was beginning to pick out sentences and phrases:
“See, Begh-Adag covers himself with glory again!”
“Fireworks to celebrate his demotion.”
“What other captain could guide his ship to such renown, eh Hunt-lord Zah’ar?”
“Are you volunteering for something, Geh’zir?”
“No!”
“God of a Thousand Eyes forefend! The Sokamak!”
The battleship was still quite clear on Mitsuharu’s v-display. The massive hull convulsed, ripped by four fusion blasts deep within its core. Then it shattered as jets of plasma erupted from gaps in the outer hull, tearing apart in a rapidly expanding cloud of superheated radioactive debris.
Hadeishi smiled, nodding to himself. At Kuretako Shrine, Musashi slew sixteen adversaries with only a wooden bokuto when they ambushed him at prayer. Not one of them believed he was truly in danger.
The Kader cut her main drives, lighting off a hard deceleration burn as soon as the ship had rotated aspect. Inudo laid the light cruiser into the shadow of the Tlemitl as they slowed. Hadeishi watched him handle the old Spear -class cruiser with great appreciation. The helmsman was exceeding himself today, despite wrestling with an archaic control system. The Nisei officer was gladdened by his men’s undaunted spirit.
“All boat-bay doors open, recovery teams stand by,” Mitsuharu ordered. Then he tapped open a broadcast channel to the cloud of Imperial evac capsules hiding in the shelter of the stricken flagship. “All Imperial survivors, stand by for identity confirmation.”
Aboard the Moulins
In the Garbage Chute
Green Hummingbird found himself in the tiny mess area of the freighter, two seats down from the kaffe dispenser, his hands secured with a pair of zipcuffs. The Fleet marines remaining aboard had sorted themselves out-three were on the bridge, one was keeping an eye on the nauallis and the shipcore, while the remaining man was downdeck in engineering. All of them had armored up while the first team deployed into the landing chamber, but the men inside the ship had slung their helmets over their shoulders on a lanyard.
No one, the old Nahuatl observed, likes breathing their own recycled waste.
For his part, Hummingbird was sitting quietly, being as unobtrusive as possible, while the marines and the crew went about their business. Captain Locke and his men, particularly Piet the navigator, had acquired a still, waiting quality over the last hour. The marines were all listening to the chatter of the Prince and his party banging around amongst the dead corridors of the artifact. The expedition had been dropping repeaters at every junction as they moved. The Europeans-Hummingbird had made careful note that all of the freighter crew were of a distinct genotype-were listening as well, but for something else.
The old Nahuatl could do nothing at the moment-guarded and bound as he was-but Hummingbird could let himself become aware of the tenor of men’s voices, the speed and direction of their movements, even their smell if they passed by close enough. What he absorbed from all of this was troubling. The very character of the Moulin ’s crew had gradually transformed from the ne’er-do-well collection of roustabouts he and Anderssen had first encountered, to a far more focused team with a well-defined air of something he could only describe as fierce intent.
They, too, have a mission here. One unknown to the Prince, or he would have warned his men.
The great unknown in the nauallis’ mind was-were they Maltese, or some other as-yet-unknown faction who had decided to step into the great game? The Knights he believed he understood and could manage, if they kept their tempers, but if it were some other organization? There is no path to take, yet, while they-ah, now, how interesting!
From his vantage in the mess, Hummingbird could pick out the respiration of the navigator and Captain Locke on the bridge, as well as two crewmen climbing up from downdeck. And in this very moment, each of the four men was breathing quietly and deeply in unison.
Now, a path is opening. Hummingbird tensed without open movement, preparing for violence.
“Captain, want a kaffe?”
Through the hatch opening onto the bridge, the nauallis saw the gray-eyed Pilot stand up, his motions easy and assured. Captain Locke looked over from his console, shaking his head. “No, not right now. But-”
Without the slightest hesitation, Piet slapped a gel-tab against the neck of the marine watching the main boards. The man stiffened, paralyzed before he could shout a warning. The Imperial toppled backward into Captain Locke’s waiting arms. Hummingbird, watching with interest, noted that both civilians moved with an admirable and soundless efficiency.
The other two marines on the bridge were out of sight, but Piet and Locke both produced slender, matte-black pistols from their jackets-sighted-and there was an almost unnoticed pfft. A series of clunking sounds followed, which drew the attention of the marine Heicho sitting across the mess from Hummingbird. The corporal rose, shipgun in his hand, eyes swinging to check the nauallis, then darting back to the two crewmen coming up the gangway-they were chattering about a zenball scandal on Langkasuka colony-and in that moment of inattention, Piet was behind him. Another gel-tab downed the Imperial, and the two crewmen were across the mess deck at a run to secure the fallen marine.
Locke emerged from the bridge, exchanged a series of complex hand motions with the other three-patterns which, to Hummingbird’s great interest, were neither Fleet nor Army battlesign-and then remained behind while Piet and one of the other men disappeared down the gangway.
Ignoring the old Nahuatl, Locke and the remaining crewman dragged the three marines from the bridge and lined up all four men in the middle of the mess area. When the captain removed a breakerbox from his jacket, Hummingbird decided that he was impressed by Locke’s resources and expertise. These men can only be Knights out of New Malta, and see-he is being so very careful not to violate the compact between the Grand Master and the Emperor.
To that end, Locke shorted out the combat armor on all three marines before tucking the tool away.
“Deft,” Hummingbird said quietly, watching the Maltese with intense interest. “Am I still a captive?”
Locke nodded as he removed the comm crystals from the marines’ headsets and pocketed them. When he did look up, his greenish eyes were cold. “The Old One said you would be carrying the tablet, but you’re not. Regardless, the Saints smile upon us. Better by far for her to be his messenger than one of your kind.”
Hummingbird’s eyebrows rose and he shifted slightly, testing the zipcuffs. Patience! he reminded himself. The Templar raised the slim little weapon. One pfft and Hummingbird felt a chill wash over him. Then… darkness.
Deep within the sunflower
The very long hallway ended in a sloping wall of dark metal pierced by a triangular door. This particular portal seemed to have become jammed, for at the top of the triangle they could see a portion of the valve itself. The edges of the massive frame were also mottled and streaked with carbon scoring and sections of the metal had melted before cooling into odd shapes. Beyond the door, illuminated by the hard white radiance of their helmet and hand lights, stood a nonagonal chamber of moderate size-only thirty or forty meters across.
“Nine walls.” The Prince’s voice was filled with irritation. “Three was sacred to them, then? And a dead end, Doctor.”
“I think, Lord
Prince, that they are doors,” Gretchen amended. “All alike save this one, which has been damaged.”
“Massive.” Xochitl did not spit on the floor, but his impatience was very clear.
“They fought hard here.” Cuauhhuehueh Koris traced his light across the signs of ancient battle-huge discolorations from plasma discharges covered the walls, there were melted panels here and there, and the inlaid floor was scored with deep gouges. The Jaguar Knight dug at the wall with his monofilament combat knife, but left no mark. “Huh!”
Sahane offered no comment, standing amid them with his shoulders tucked in, radiating unease.
The glyphs and signs ghosting across Anderssen’s vision pointed her to the right, collecting like ephemeral birds over a collection of interlocking triangles scribed into the floor.
“Which way?” the Prince snarled, nervously swinging his assault rifle from side to side. “Is this a transit nexus? Swede, all we need is-what are you doing?”
Gretchen had nudged Sahane down onto the floor, just where he could step onto the triangles illuminated by her hand light. At the touch of the Hjogadim’s boot, there was an almost imperceptible tremor. Eight of the walls shuddered, spilling faint clouds of dust into the air. Behind them, the triangular door slid down with unexpected violence, grinding along hidden tracks with a squeal. The party turned in alarm, their lights sending a cluster of gleaming circles dancing across the battered walls. The door failed partway down, momentarily revealing the hallway beyond dropping away with dizzying speed. This brief visual cue was the only indication they were in motion. Then the door closed as firmly as its eight counterparts, vanishing into the larger expanse of the wall without leaving a visible join.
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