The Dark Path

by Walter H Hunt

  All right, Jackie said to herself, I'll solve the problem. It's probably some more damn pirates, just like it was six years ago. They'd find the base and storm it, seize their ships and confiscate their stores. The pirates would get a taste of the emperor's justice, and everyone would get a medal.

  There was doubt somewhere at the back of her mind. She knew the Gustav Adolf II and Negri Sembilan were too well armed to be prey for a pirate—they were Exploration Service vessels, but they had Marine complements and well-trained crews. Something big enough and clever enough to take on a survey vessel, though . . . She strode off purposefully, finding a new source of energy to overcome her fatigue.

  ***

  Ch'k'te woke slowly to the sound of a breeze gently rustling the chimes in his front hallway. As he stretched his legs to unkink them, he spread his wings wide in the posture of esLi-Na'yar, Greeting to the Day, and offered up a brief invocation to esLi.

  He sometimes regretted having been posted to Cicero. Though the honor of serving at the largest naval base did not escape his notice, the gravity of the world was a burden, taking away the opportunity for him to fly except in simulators . . . and he tried not to think about the cold.

  He stepped into the 'fresher and slipped protective lenses into his eyes, correcting the harsh light of Cicero's primary to a more acceptable chromatic level. Then he walked to the front room and found his youngest cousin and alHyu, N'kareu, waiting for him.

  "Greetings to you, noble Cousin," N'kareu said, inclining his head. "Eight thousand pardons for disturbing your meditation."

  "It was time I greeted the morning." Ch'k'te walked to the picture window and drew back the blind, letting bright sunlight stream through. "What can I do for you, se Cousin?"

  "The commander begs the courtesy of your presence, se Ch'k'te."

  "At this hour?" Ch'k'te consulted his chronometer and noticed the time: 0630.

  "She met me in the corridor near the officers' mess, se Cousin, and bid me come and wake you. She asks that you meet her in her ready-room after the morning meal."

  Ch'k'te watched while a flight of aircraft took to the air.

  "Is she there now?" he asked without turning.

  "I . . . believe so, Cousin."

  "Very good. Lay out my uniform, se N'kareu, while I think for a moment." The young zor bowed slightly and entered the sleep-chamber.

  Ch'k'te laid his extended talons on the windowsill and began to clear his mind. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the Circle of esLi, the Inner and Outer Peace. Slowly the flickering of the light on his inner eyelids and the small noises made by his alHyu faded away, and his mind reached out.

  Over the past few years, he had used this morning exercise to familiarize himself with the patterns of the human minds that surrounded him here at Cicero. He had particularly familiarized himself with the hsi of his superior, Commodore Laperriere, and it was that pattern he looked for first.

  He felt her almost at once: a strong and extremely alien personality, her mind moving rapidly to outdistance fatigue. As always, when his mind-touch was clear and direct, he could almost see her look away from the report she was reading and speak his name, half aloud and half in her mind.

  "Ch'k'te?"

  It was accompanied by a wash of emotion. The mind-touch, natural to Ch'k'te as a Sensitive, was a new experience for the commodore. She had approached the idea with some concern, but had become accustomed to the feeling over time; the possibility that it could be used for emergency communication had motivated the experiment in the first place. Ch'k'te, for his part, welcomed the opportunity to further his understanding of the always-confusing human ally.

  The afterechoes of the spoken name suddenly rang hollow, as though from the bottom of a deep well. He felt a pressure nibbling at the edges of his consciousness, as if someone had noticed his mind for the first time and was poking at it to see what it was made of.

  Ch'k'te?

  Dark forms moved through the void. He felt a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Through it all a tide of rapidly rising fear began to wash over him. It was coming from Jackie.

  He tried to say her name and found himself strangely mute, as if the effort were too much.

  She wasn't a Sensitive and could not form the illusory thought-shapes and constructs to define and constrain assaults of mental energies. Whatever had suddenly touched their tenuous mind-link was assaulting her with raw energies, and she was redoubling their effect through fear.

  Ch'k'te? he heard her say again.

  The emotions were growing stronger now, the dark forms drawing nearer. He could almost make them out now: huge behemoths, the worst nightmarish forms that esGa'u might send to frighten small nestlings. His conscious mind struggled with the idea that his imagination had produced all of this, and he tried to break the link. He found he could not. He could feel his heartbeat race as he turned to meet the apparitions that slowly closed in.

  The nearest of the forms reached out to touch him—

  ***

  "Ch'k'te?"

  Among the People, the reflexes of the soldier are perhaps the most deeply ingrained; he must depend on them for his very life. At the first touch, Ch'k'te grasped the tentacle that reached for him and raised his hands, preparing to hurl it away with en-Ga'e'Li, the Strength of Madness.

  Slowly he opened his eyes to see what he had grasped . . . and found himself holding a very frightened N'kareu above his head.

  Ch'k'te forced his heartbeat to slow to normal as he lowered his cousin to the floor. He straightened the feathers on his wings and allowed his talons to retract.

  "It is most unwise," he said quietly, "to disturb a warrior in his meditations."

  "Eight thousand pardons, Cousin," N'kareu said, not looking upward. "But you . . . looked to be in danger."

  "How so?" asked Ch'k'te.

  N'kareu did not answer but instead gestured to the sill, where eight deep holes were scored in the plastic, one for each of Ch'k'te's talons.

  ***

  Sergei watched as the globe of Cicero Prime grew in the holo above his sitting-room table. He had no particular inclination to watch the approach from the bridge, where Admiral Tolliver now stood; he was content to remain in his quarters.

  The bridge of a starship was an alien place to him now, even though he had spent a good part of his adult life commanding from one.

  Circumstances had not really changed him. Even standing by as the Solar Empire disassociated itself from Admiral Marais (a lifetime ago, it seemed) had not really affected him that much. Time had had its effect though: It had made him old, taking away the use of his legs and making his arms weak and his breathing careful and measured. Time had taken away his wife, Alyne, and his closest friend, Marc Hudson, after the three of them had followed Admiral Marais into exile.

  And of course it had taken Marais himself. He had written a book a few years after the war, but he had never been vindicated in the eyes of humanity. Marais died a villain to the human race. To them, he was a monster who had unleashed the terrible violence necessary to end the conflict between man and zor forever.

  It was a conflict that Sergei had not even understood at first. What was more, the Admiral had never admitted remorse or shame for his acts, though the Solar Empire, in an exercise of twisted wisdom, had been more than willing to accept the fruits of Marais' victory.

  Marais had gone into an exile from which he would never return. By human standards, the zor should have hated him for the blood-price they had paid, but instead they accepted the Admiral as the synergy of the avenging Dark Wing and the life-giving Bright Wing and had given him the gyaryu, the High Nest's sword of state. The act had made no sense to the humans who had exiled them; even decades later they didn't seem to understand it.

  hi'i Sse'e had continued as High Lord after the war—poor, blind Sse'e. Chris Boyd, the current envoy's grandfather, experienced a shared dream with the old High Lord in which the Admiral's mysterious aide, Captain Stone, appe
ared as a cross between zor and human and told hi'i Sse'e that he would dream no more.

  It was a true prediction. Less than two years after the end of the war, hi'i Sse'e killed himself by stopping his own heart. Sergei might be the last living person of either race to remember firsthand the sight of the old zor's broken body lying in a bloody heap on the floor of the former meditation chamber.

  hi'i Sse'e's son, hi'i Dra'a, had been "touched by the Eight Winds" as well and had died in his garden a year after that. He had also been unable to call forth the dreams of guidance. None of this made much sense within the Solar Empire: They weren't waiting for the insights of the High Lord's dreams in any case.

  After hi'i Dra'a, the balance of the High Lordship had seemingly been restored by the return of prescient dreams to the High Lord. It had returned confidence to the new bond of friendship between the People and humanity. It had been peaceful for more than eighty years, as each race learned from the other . . .

  ***

  The years seemed to weigh on Sergei as he sat quietly in his quarters on the Cincinnatus, looking at the holo that showed the habitable planet in the Cicero system. Suddenly a wisp of smoke began to rise from the image of the planet and formed it self into a hand, reaching out toward Sergei. He felt fear course through him like a live thing, as a tide of raw emotion welled up from somewhere beyond him.

  He found the gyaryu in his hands, snarling. He extended his wings to protect himself—

  The intercom sounded. "We'll be making planetfall in less than an hour, sir. It's about 0630 local time at the base. Is there anything you require?"

  Sergei lowered his arms slowly. He noted that he had assumed the wing position of enSha'e'esLi, the Enfolding Protection of esLi. He set the sword carefully across his lap. A shiver went through him and the wings disappeared.

  "Mr. Torrijos?" the intercom repeated, a hint of urgency in the speaker's voice.

  "Yes, damn it," Sergei managed after another moment. "Can't get any peace and quiet around here. No, I don't need anything special."

  He looked at his shoulders for an instant longer, almost seeing the wings there again. Must've drifted off, you old fool, he thought to himself. Between sendings from the Plain of Despite and images of wings growing from your shoulders, you can't tell sleeping from waking now.

  He looked at the holo and saw the sphere of Cicero, larger now, but looking like a normal planet.

  This is how it begins, he thought to himself. Who had cried out in fear . . . and what had reached out to touch him?

  An alarm sounded over the ship's intercom, but Sergei was lost again in thought.

  Chapter 2

  A stiff wind blew across the landing-field, snapping the flags back and forth on their poles and tearing through the dress uniforms of the troops that stood at rigid attention waiting for the shuttle to come to a halt. It was a fine, bright, cold morning, uncomfortable enough to make it more than appropriate for an inspection.

  Jackie Laperriere waited with her staff; she felt the cold despite her heavy overcloak. She could have delegated the matter to a subordinate, but it gave her a peculiar pleasure to be out on the tarmac rather than inside the control tower. It also gave her an opportunity to meet the admiral and the other members of the delegation personally—especially the enigmatic Gyaryu'har, the famous Sergei Torrijos, the last legacy of the wars with mankind's greatest alien ally. They'd have to stand out here and exchange the salutes on her turf.

  Ch'k'te had expressed mixed feelings about the upcoming visit, not least because of the unnerving experience earlier that morning. He was a Sensitive, and he had realized there was more substance than shadow to the event.

  ***

  When Ch'k'te had arrived at her office, close to 0700, she had been upset. She had taken her seat at the conference table; Ch'k'te had remained standing at attention until she directly ordered him to be at ease. He'd taken up his usual position opposite her desk.

  "If you could explain to me what happened, I would be much obliged."

  "I am humbly sorry, se Commodore, for not—"

  "An explanation, Commander Ch'k'te," she had interrupted. "I did not ask for an apology."

  Ch'k'te's anger rose for a split second but he brought it under control even before his talons could slip a centimeter from their sheaths. Still, the tensing had been enough for Jackie to notice.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "This has been a difficult few days. I felt your mind-touch, but then the images . . . were very sharp. Forgive my impatience. What happened?"

  "Something entered our mind-touch from the outside: some thing inimical and alien."

  "Alien? Which race?"

  "None I know. It was not human, rashk or otran. It was clearly not one of the People, but it was quite powerful, se Commodore. Our mind-links are nonverbal things even between trained Sensitives. This mind was something much more powerful. It was in total control of the link."

  "Was it . . . what we saw?"

  "A Sensitive will sometimes construct a thought-shape to describe a given kind of emotion. Fear was the emotion in this case. My hsi built an image based on my own imagination. So . . . I would say, se Commodore, that the owner of the mind may look nothing like what we experienced."

  "What do you plan to do about this contact?"

  " 'Contact' is perhaps too strong a word to describe it, se Commodore. But I will do as you order."

  "As I order? What shall I order?"

  He had not received an answer for that question.

  There were few Sensitives stationed at Cicero. There was little need; the Imperial Grand Survey had charted solar systems thirty to forty parsecs beyond Cicero and had found nothing remotely resembling intelligent life. The region of space near Albireo, by comparison, was a hotbed of Sensitive activity following the first contact with the otran at a system then designated only as 79 Vulpeculae. But there was nothing new out beyond Cicero—human settlements outside the Empire, but no sentient aliens . . . and certainly nothing like what they'd seen in the link.

  Nothing at all.

  ***

  The admiral and his staff had settled into visiting officers' quarters in the main complex. For the zor dignitaries, Jackie had arranged ground-level lodging adjoining the extensive hot house garden in the center of the buildings; the front windows of the suite overlooked a tropical scene, immune to the storms that raged above the permaplast dome that protected it. From what little she'd learned about the Gyaryu'har, she thought he'd like it. From what she heard when he'd settled in, she was right.

  By the first daywatch after their arrival, they were ready for an inspection tour. There was a lot to see, but it was mostly the same: Cicero Prime had been inhabited for just two decades, and it was only tolerable near the equator (where it was merely bitterly cold); at the poles the permanent ice caps and vicious winds made settlement impractical. Low axial tilt meant little variation in seasons and thus little relief from the cold.

  To no one's surprise, the party remained almost exclusively indoors, reviewing personnel and facilities. Admiral Tolliver seemed most interested in cleanliness and efficiency and found little about which to comment—or complain. On the other hand, the High Lord's representative was very inquisitive about all sorts of things, from people's moods to the cycles of the weather.

  "He's amazing," Jackie said quietly to Ch'k'te as they crossed through a large shuttle hangar.

  "He is the Gyaryu'har," Ch'k'te answered, as if that explained everything.

  "That doesn't explain it."

  Ch'k'te's wings moved to another position; it could have been anything from deference to amusement. "The Gyaryu'har had great wisdom and power."

  "As a Sensitive?"

  "Not truly." Ch'k'te's wings moved again. "He holds the gyaryu and has the power to wield it against the esGa'uYal—the Servants of the Deceiver."

  "But not much nowadays, I'd guess."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, he's confined to a power chair, isn't
he?"

  "Eight thousand pardons, se Jackie, but I do not understand how that is relevant."

  "You said that he wields—"

  "Yes." Ch'k'te's wings changed position a third time. "He wields the sword against the esGa'uYal," he repeated. "Confinement to the chair"—he gestured toward the old man, who was patiently listening to a description of the hangar's weather-seal mechanism—"does not present a barrier to his capabilities. The Servants of the Deceiver are—"

  "All around us?"

  Ch'k'te could not change his facial expression, but his eyes conveyed surprise.

  "It would explain his presence here."

  "I thought he was here as part of the admiral's entourage. An observer for the High Nest."

  "se Jackie, the Gyaryu'har is not a part of any entourage. If he is here, it is because the gyaryu is needed here."

  "What you saw . . . what we saw—"

  "I fear so," Ch'k'te said, answering her unasked question.

  ***

  Jackie arranged a meal for her visitors in the officers' mess, which was cordial on the surface but filled with tension. For her part, Jackie was nervous about the presence of a zor envoy—particularly given Ch'k'te's belief. The Gyaryu'har was here for a reason, one possibly as important as the admiral's.

  After the meal, the dignitaries assembled in her ready-room around a large polished wood table. It had been brought out to Cicero by Jackie's predecessor, a nobleman wealthy enough to pay the freight to get it there and leave it behind when he was transferred.

  Jackie took her own seat at the head of the table. Admiral Tolliver and his staff took a place at the opposite end; the other members of the group—the Gyaryu'har and two adjutants—settled in between. Ch'k'te sat to her right.

  "Commodore," Admiral Tolliver began. "We have all traveled a great distance to be here. Perhaps you would do us the courtesy of reviewing your report."