The Dark Path

by Walter H Hunt

  He reached his hands up and grasped her arms, a trifle more tightly than she would have expected of a zor. She felt tension in his grip and saw it in his eyes, as if he were trying to restrain powerful emotions.

  For just a moment she felt a pang of irrational fear, wondering what sensitive spot she'd rubbed this time.

  "I did not expect to have my soul-mate's hsi stamped upon yours. I did not expect you to have to suffer so in order to restore you. If the need had not been so great, I would not have attempted such folly—I would not have even attempted the link. If your power, and the strength of your hsi, were not so great, your Remembrance might not have even been possible.

  "Once Th'an'ya had emerged it is not even clear that I would have been able to break the link at all, for to do so would have resulted in dismissing Th'an'ya . . . forever. Even given my soul-mate's scrupulous adherence to the morality of the situation, I am not sure she would have allowed me to do so."

  Jackie searched his gaze and replayed his words in her mind. "If I couldn't—If I hadn't been able to break through, where would that have left me?"

  Ch'k'te did not answer, but she saw—and somehow felt—a terrible sadness in him.

  "Answer me, damn it," she whispered.

  "I do not know, Jackie. Perhaps you would have remained thus."

  "You risked my—my hsi that way?"

  "At your request and order. But you could not have known; I do not think that such a warning would have deterred you. I can only offer you my sincerest, my humblest, my most heartfelt apology. If your honor is somehow stained, I am ready to transcend the Outer Peace at your request." He let go of her arms and stepped back a pace, then laid his gloved hand on the hilt of his chya.

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. When she realized their implications she felt as if a trapdoor had opened under her feet and that she was falling down into a bottomless pit. A moment before, she had been incensed, incredulous that someone she considered to be a friend and comrade had placed her in such danger, with no way of telling if she—if they—could have escaped it. Now, because of that outrage, Ch'k'te had reacted the only way he could: not with righteousness or apology, but with a simple statement of intent.

  "If your honor is somehow stained, I am ready to transcend the Outer Peace at your request."

  She wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him for offering such a crazy solution. Her honor, "stained"? It was something like that; what bothered her most was not having any control over the situation, being directed by things she didn't even understand.

  On the other hand, she wasn't ready to adjudicate between life and death for her executive officer and friend. There was no doubt he was serious about spilling his life out here in the middle of—

  In the middle of the Plain of Despite, a voice in her mind said.

  She must have started, for Ch'k'te looked directly at her.

  "se Jackie?" he asked.

  This is my command, she thought to herself, dismissing her surprise. Everything that happens is my responsibility.

  "You followed my orders, Ch'k'te," she said quietly. "You were aware that there was some risk, and you warned me in advance—or tried to. I understand you better and maybe myself as well. Your actions and your concerns were correct.

  "Your apologies are accepted. I only hope that . . . I have not dishonored you by suggesting anything to the contrary."

  "Not at all," he replied at once. "You understand me so well, I must continually remind myself that you are not ehnAr'u, a clan-sister."

  They embraced, with the wind blowing snow-devils. Jackie could almost feel the presence of ethereal wings enfolding them.

  ***

  For the rest of the night they did not break their journey. The strenuous exercise helped work out the muscle soreness resulting from prolonged inactivity; they made good time skiing, as if some burden had been lifted.

  Just as false dawn was brightening the sky, they saw a groundcar in the distance, heading across a flat part of the plain in the direction of Cicero Down. They stepped quickly out of their skis and covered them with snow, then headed on foot to intercept the car.

  Its bright headlights picked them out and slowed to a stop. The driver's-side hatch opened, and a uniformed figure leaned out.

  "Commodore!" he shouted. "Commander. What are you doing out here?"

  They approached warily on foot. Jackie kept her hand near her pistol; she could sense Ch'k'te's tension as his hand hovered near his chya.

  "We were on our way back from inspecting Coast Station," she answered. "Our groundcar broke down and we had to go on foot. The weather interfered with our radio. We'd like a lift if you have room."

  "Plenty of room." They approached close enough to see features on the driver: it was Lieutenant John Maisel, one of the tower watch officers.

  They stepped inside the cab. The car was empty but for Maisel; Jackie took the other front seat, while Ch'k'te climbed in behind the young officer.

  "I hadn't realized that you were off-base, Commodore," Maisel said as the car picked up speed, heading toward Cicero Down.

  "It was a high-security mission."

  "But—following your own directives, ma'am, it should've been on the day roster." He looked her up and down as he drove and his expression became puzzled. "Besides, it's more than four hours to Coast Station by groundcar, and I just reported to you when I came on watch at midnight—"

  The road turned sharply and Maisel had to give his attention to driving the car. When he looked back Jackie had her pistol drawn, aimed at his chest.

  "What the . . . ?"

  "It would be wise for you to make no sudden moves, Lieutenant," Ch'k'te said from the rear seat. Maisel turned a few centimeters, enough to see the tip of a very sharp talon held near his right carotid artery.

  Maisel looked very deliberately from his commanding officer to the zor and back. He didn't move his head more than a millimeter in either direction.

  "Lieutenant, I have not been on base for nearly a week. Neither has Commander Ch'k'te. The commodore you have been reporting to is an impostor."

  "Huh?" Maisel looked forward, concentrating on piloting the groundcar for a few moments. "An impostor?"

  "An alien impostor," Jackie added. "Aliens have seized Cicero Down, taking the place of myself and other key personnel."

  "Alien impostors?" He didn't say anything for several moments but his eyes were surprised, scared, confused. "But—"

  Ch'k'te's talon moved quickly and drew a spot of blood on his neck. Maisel pulled away and then remembered the zor's warning. He froze.

  "I don't believe this is happening," Maisel said, concentrating on the driving once more, trying not to move his head.

  "I wish it was not. We are who we seem to be, Lieutenant," Jackie said, exchanging a look with her exec. "The aliens who have taken our place have mental powers far surpassing the capabilities of human or zor Sensitives." She shivered momentarily, thinking again of the tentacled monster that had invaded their mind-link and sent her crashing into the Icewall.

  "How do I know you're not the impostors?"

  He felt Ch'k'te tense in the rear seat and tried to remain even more immobile.

  "You don't," she said.

  "This is ludicrous." He drove silently, aware of the sharp talon at his neck and the gun pointed at his chest. "Somebody's the impostor, and someone's not telling the truth—either you or the . . . you back at Cicero Down. You claim that you and Commander Ch'k'te have been replaced by aliens with Sensitive powers. How come no one else has noticed?"

  "I don't know. Ch'k'te and I had to bug out of Cicero Op and never reached the squadron."

  "The escape pod," Maisel said. "You—she—said that it had been launched by accident."

  Jackie exchanged glances with Ch'k'te. "It's possible the squadron has been taken over, as well. If that's the case, none of this may do any good. Even if we rescue se Sergei, we won't be able to get away from Cicero."

  Maisel l
ooked at Jackie with a curious expression. "The old man representing the zor High Lord?"

  "The Gyaryu'har," said Ch'k'te from the back.

  "He's dead."

  "Dead? When did he die?" Oh shit, Jackie thought to herself, wondering if they'd brought it on.

  "Almost a week ago, ma'am," Maisel replied. "He arrived at Down under medical supervision and died about eight hours later."

  "Did anyone see the body?" Ch'k'te asked, as Jackie relaxed slightly.

  "I didn't see it personally. But I have no reason to doubt—"

  "se Sergei is being held prisoner by the aliens. He is very valuable to them."

  "The old man?"

  "He's more than he seems, and he had his own reasons for coming here." She could see the lights of the landing-field in the distance; the road led directly to an arched gate. "We intend to rescue him from captivity and find a way offworld if we can. We can use your help, John. I can use your help."

  "You should be aware, however, that the price of duplicity will be very high," Ch'k'te said to him quietly. With another lightning-swift motion, Ch'k'te drew his talon along Maisel's neck, leaving a thin slit in its wake. Blood formed along it and Maisel winced, though he still did not move.

  "Commodore . . ." he began, never looking away from the road, perhaps gauging how much time he had before he reached the gate.

  Maisel was only in his mid-twenties, with no real combat experience, despite being stationed at the edge of the Empire. Other than the occasional colonial revolt or pirate skirmish, there had been little opportunity for such experience.

  The proximity of death had probably never been so great. The likelihood of suffering it at the talons of a violent, totally unpredictable alien, brought forth a fear John Maisel had never felt before. He knew all about being a good officer, operating by the book—but this was something new.

  "Choose," Ch'k'te said levelly from the backseat.

  Maisel's face reflected the overhead lamps that lit the approach to the gate. He looked from the gate to the somewhat bedraggled figure of his commanding officer. Her pistol remained aimed at him and her eyes were cold and emotionless.

  "If you're the commodore," he reasoned, "I do my duty by helping you. If you're an impostor, I'm a traitor." His shoulders sagged. "All right. I can only die once. What are your orders, ma'am?"

  Jackie looked at Ch'k'te, who nodded. He withdrew his talon; Maisel sighed with relief.

  "I need to reach my office," Jackie said. "We're likely to meet resistance along the way. There may be no avoiding it. I need you to help get us on base, since the . . . aliens will be expecting the two of us, alone, on foot." She holstered her gun and took a small pressure-bandage Ch'k'te handed her, applying it to Maisel's neck to cover the damage the talon had caused.

  Maisel lowered the driver's-side window and reached for his gate-pass. "You're going to trust me. Just like that." It was a statement rather than a question, as if the young officer had lost all energy for further questions.

  "We only have one other alternative." She settled back into her seat, her hand remaining close to her holstered weapon. "By the time this is over, there'll be enough blood spilled. There's no need to get any more on our own hands."

  ***

  The sky was still mostly dark when the groundcar pulled up in front of the post headquarters. Maisel had shown his pass and come on base with his two superior officers crouching, hidden, in the rear seat; it was still quiet at midwatch with much of the base asleep.

  The three officers entered the building, exchanging cursory salutes with on-duty Marines and going directly to the lift. Even though everything seemed normal, Jackie was on edge, as if every wall had eyes in it.

  Or tentacles, she told herself with a shiver.

  The lift rose quickly and deposited them on the top floor at one end of a dimly lit hallway. Through the glass panels at the far end of the hall, the horizon was painted with the faintest touches of morning.

  Jackie gestured to the door, her pistol in her hand. The door slid aside at once, revealing the familiar office. It was tidy . . . and empty. She beckoned to her junior officers, who began to methodically search the office for hidden transmitters or listening devices. She walked to the wall containing a holo of Sol System.

  For just a moment, she paused and looked above and to the left where her Academy diploma hung. After all that had happened during the past few days, it (like all of the trappings of this office) seemed to be slightly out of line with her memories, as if they belonged to a previous life . . . or to another person. There it was, big as life: jacqueline therese laperriere. There she was.

  Or was she?

  She reached out to the holo with her right thumb and touched Earth's Moon at approximately the latitude of Moonbase. A voice said, "Print identification positive."

  "Voiceprint record on," she said. "Commodore Jacqueline Therese Laperriere."

  "Voiceprint positive."

  Ch'k'te and Maisel had concluded their search and stood watching this process. If Jackie had turned to look, she would have seen surprise and curiosity in her exec's eyes.

  "Retinal scan on."

  She took a step to her right and stood opposite the holo image of Mars, which hung at approximately eye level for Jackie. A beam of pale greenish light sprung from the orb and struck her right eye for a few seconds, then flickered and disappeared.

  "Retinal scan positive. Awaiting your orders, Commodore."

  "Transmission, closed channels, Priority Alpha One One Null. To the commanders of all vessels on station in Cicero Military District, from Commodore Laperriere. Relay to Adrianople Naval Base and Admiralty Headquarters, Sol System. Voiceprint confirmation attach.

  "Begin message.

  "Mayday. Cicero Down is presently under the control of alien beings whose capabilities include, but are not limited to, the ability to assume alternate forms and to control human and zor minds using Sensitive techniques. Aliens have seized Cicero facilities and are responsible for the death of Admiral Horace Tolliver. They are also probable culprits for the disappearance or destruction of several Imperial vessels.

  "End message. Read that back."

  As she turned from the holo to face her companions, her own voice began to repeat the words. She was sure she'd quavered as she gave the message, but it sounded clear and firm.

  Suddenly there was a noise in the hall—the soft whoosh of the lift. "Belay readback," she said, and the voice cut off. Maisel flattened against the wall; Ch'k'te took refuge behind a filing cabinet. Jackie crouched beside her desk, pistol in hand.

  Footsteps came down the hall toward the office and stopped outside. The door slid slowly open and a hand reached within and touched the phosphor beside the door, clearing away the shadows and illuminating the room.

  A sudden rush of nausea came into Jackie's stomach as she crouched behind the desk and saw the figure standing in the doorway. It was the image of Commodore Jacqueline Laperriere.

  Chapter 10

  The image of Cicero's commanding officer looked around the room, replicating Jackie's mannerisms perfectly. She wouldn't have seen a better image of herself if she looked in a mirror.

  "I sense you here, Commodore," the alien said in Jackie's voice. "You were a fool to return, and a bigger fool to expect that you could pass unnoticed.

  "There is no escape," the voice went on, as the door closed. "They"—a casual wave of the hand—"will believe whatever I make them see. They will see you as alien monsters." A flicker of a smile mixed with a sneer came across "her" face. "They will shoot you like animals."

  Jackie stood up from her crouch, pistol in hand. She could hardly contain the fear rising from deep in her chest.

  "Ah, Commodore. At last we meet," the other figure replied. "Although I feel that I know you already all too well."

  "You've got a lot of guts, making jokes while I've got a gun pointed at you."

  "Should I be afraid?"

  Anger mixed with fear now: anger at this
thing taking her form, taking her command. "Maybe I should blow your god damned head off."

  "If you can."

  "All I've got to do is squeeze this trigger."

  "If you can," the alien replied, in the same maddeningly calm tone of voice.

  "For the moment let's assume I can." Jackie wasn't sure she was ready for cold-blooded murder just yet. "Suppose you answer a few questions."

  "Nothing I tell you could possibly change matters. Very well."

  "Who are you? What are you?"

  "I am . . ." The creature smiled. "R'ta. In your tongue, I would be titled 'drone.' The best approximation of my race's name is Vuhleissicha'a'*n*o'ulu'*eeei." At three points within the word, the alien made a sound almost irreproducible by a human throat: a sort of gargling click voiced almost in the windpipe.

  " 'Vuhl.' "

  "As you wish."

  "What happened to the ships we sent to Sargasso?"

  "We destroyed them," R'ta said almost offhandedly. "A few specimens were retained for the . . . Great Queen's consideration."

  Jackie shivered slightly; she didn't like the sound of that. She was aware that her gun arm wavered a bit. The alien seemed to notice as well and the smirk became more pronounced. Jackie made a mental note to never smirk again; she didn't like how it made her look.

  "What do you control in Cicero System?"

  "Cicero Down and Cicero Op," the alien replied. "The squadron is being held in quarantine . . . at least until our reinforcements arrive."

  "And they are not aware that anything is amiss?"

  "No." R'ta took a step forward. "Their minds were easily manipulated, just like yours."

  "Don't come any closer," Jackie said, trying to hold her pistol steady. "I'll—"

  "What will you do?" asked the alien, stepping forward again.

  "I—"

  "You have already lost."

  "I . . ." Jackie's gun arm began to come down and fear transfixed her. She felt numb, as if she had no control over her own movements.

  At the edges of her perception, her sight began to go dim and R'ta became the center of her vision. The alien seemed to grow larger and brighter with each step it took, tendrils of vaporous light extending toward her. With the narrowing of sight she could feel an undercurrent of fear: chilling, unreasoning fear that she couldn't dismiss.