"Garrett," MacEwan said in a whisper.
"Two minutes to jump," Santos said.
Jackie swallowed, feeling an emptiness in the pit of her stomach from what she had just witnessed. A wing of aerospace fighters, expertly trained—among the best in the fleet—had been lured into a trap like flies caught in a spider's web. Then they had been . . . taken over . . . and made to fight one another, perhaps to provide entertainment for their masters.
And they had destroyed each other, all but Green Five. Lieutenant Owen Garrett, aerospace pilot, had been taken by the aliens.
"One minute."
The alien fleet was turning away now—as if they were finished with their sport and unwilling to exert themselves to follow the escaping humans. Cicero was theirs now, what was left of it. She had done the best she could to hold them off, and it wasn't sufficient—it wasn't even marginally effective.
"Turnin' tail and runnin' doesn't sit well with me," Barbara had said—and they couldn't do it forever.
"Thirty seconds to jump."
Would they run from Adrianople?
Would they run from Dieron?
"Fifteen seconds."
And what would happen when they could run no more? She shuddered to think about it, knowing that there was only one answer.
And the voice in her mind said, There is another answer, and you already know it.
"Jump."
And the Imperial Fleet vanished, the pattern of stars swirling into milky gray and then vanishing into the inky night of jumpspace.
seGa'Mrha'u
Descent to the Plain
part two
Interlude
That the High Lord dreamed and that his dreams were the prescient gift of esLi was not in question among the noble Persons of the great Nests. The gift of foretelling was integral to the hsi of the one who led the People; how else would he know the right Path from the Deception?
And yet for all that, there was a certain uneasiness about the prescient gifts of hi Ke'erl HeYen, the High Lord of the People, and the way in which he used them. He had given over much of the day-to-day operation of government to his High Chamberlain; he had stopped attending meetings of the Council of Eleven to discuss policy. He spent most of his time dreaming in the Chamber of Solitude, sometimes emerging after half a sun to wander the eyries and halls of the High Nest still wrapped in a stupor. Other times he would bring alHyu and warriors running with a shrieking and howling, only to dismiss them all and close himself off from the world to dream once more.
He is mad, they said. He is unfit to be High Lord, said others—but never loudly, and never to hi Ke'erl. Perhaps he would have agreed.
He felt the madness growing within him as his world withdrew from The World That Is, closing more and more upon the world of dreams. He could not help but receive what esLi bestowed upon him: insights into the coming embrace of esGa'u. While it repelled and angered him, it made him yet more frightened to know with an awful clarity that only a High Lord could perceive that it was the truth.
He could not communicate this perception to his subjects or his advisors. Each day that the madness gripped him more closely, they granted him progressively less credence. As they spoke to him of fleet deployments and the political posturings of the Imperial Senate, he replied by speaking of the calamity that lurked beyond the edge of the Empire and by telling them of his own coming death and the destruction of the High Nest save that which the gyaryu itself could protect.
Calamity, they said. Can we not fight it?
They humored him by asking this, only half believing what he told them.
And he replied, The People are warriors; the naZora'i have learned to be warriors, despite their rejection of esHu'ur. But there is no weapon we can use against this thing. It works so well against it for . . . it can be us. It will take our place and make it its own.
And they inclined their wings and said, We do not understand.
And he placed his wings in a posture of supplication to esLi and said, Indeed, neither do I.
Chapter 13
The First Lord had arrived during low watch while Jackie was lost in haunted dreams. Word of his arrival reached her officially by dispatch while a steward brought her breakfast.
She had read the message with some amusement: Rumors traveled faster and with greater accuracy than official channels, at least on a naval facility. The news itself was sobering, recalling the situation even more acutely.
While she ate her breakfast she caught a glance of herself in the cup of dark, swirling liquid that passed for coffee here at Adrianople Starbase. The reflection was dim and muddy but still it showed a haggard and almost gaunt face. So many things had changed in the past few weeks; so many idols had been smashed and so many illusions shattered. Since she had arrived, she had walked through the gently curving halls of Adrianople Starbase like some sort of ghost, a survivor of mankind's first grim encounter with the inimical alien vuhls; most of the regular personnel had kept at a respectful distance. Perhaps they didn't want to overhear something.
It was easier to utter an expletive to no one in particular and go on eating one's breakfast than to think about it. She didn't truly give a damn about the timid staff officers of Adrianople. She also didn't really give a damn about being beached, since it had happened before, years ago. At the moment her posting was to Rear Admiral Hsien's staff, good enough for her (and Ch'k'te) to avoid half-pay while without a regular assignment, and good enough to get fresh baked bread and real orange marmalade.
Not good enough to get real coffee, she thought to herself, idly playing with the cup and watching the brown liquid roll around inside it.
And whenever the surface was placid, the same haggard face gazed back at her, a grim old veteran.
If there had been any doubt before, that face would remind her that it had all really happened. Cicero was no longer hers: it belonged to the vuhls.
She shuddered. Fear began to prey at her—fear of the unknown power of the aliens that confronted humanity. It was too difficult to put down.
Before it had advanced very far, though, the door-chime sounded. She composed herself and said, "Identify."
Her comp projected a holo of corridor outside her quarters. Before the door stood a familiar figure.
"Come."
The door slid wide and Ch'k'te entered the room, a small package cradled in his arm. He hesitated near the entrance to the alcove where she sat.
"Have you eaten?" she asked, beckoning him to a seat. "There's plenty."
He gestured at the other chair, which molded itself into a perch. He took his position, placing the package on the table beside him.
He picked up a slice of bread. "Rank certainly has its privileges," he said, carefully spreading the marmalade on it. "My accommodations were . . . a bit more spartan."
"You should have let me know." She managed a smile, though she hardly felt like smiling. "We won't be on old Hsien's staff forever. We might as well enjoy it."
Ch'k'te did not reply as he ate. Jackie played with her coffee cup, trying to think of something to say.
"I received a message just after I awoke," Ch'k'te said at last, carefully wiping his hands with a napkin. "The High Chamberlain na T'te'e HeYen has arrived on-station. He has . . . requested my presence."
"Really? What about?"
"There is an ancient tradition, se Jackie, that any new discovery—especially in the area of Sensitive phenomena—is to be immediately brought to the attention of the High Lord. In ages past, the High Lord would command the individual to attend him in the High Nest, where a mind-link would take place. As this is impractical in this case, the High Chamberlain has brought the High Nest here to Adrianople.
"The mind-link is called the Dsen'yen'ch'a, 'the Ordeal of Experience.' The High Chamberlain will investigate what took place at Cicero."
"And he intends to . . ." She let the sentence hang, trying to imagine what the ritual was like and what it meant to Ch'k'te.
&nbs
p; "I really have little choice regardless of his intentions, se Jackie," Ch'k'te replied. "It is my duty."
Jackie put a hand on his arm. "Are you afraid of this ordeal?"
"Of the ordeal itself? No. Certainly not. se T'te'e is a skilled Sensitive. It should be neither painful nor unpleasant. But I cannot and will not conceal what the High Chamberlain will learn.
"I have been dominated by the mind of an alien being—laid open as if I were a helpless artha." Ch'k'te's talons inter twined as he laid his hands on the table. They were clenched; Jackie could see the muscles ripple along his arm inside the uniform jacket. "They took it all from me. Everything I know. Everything."
"They were stronger than you are."
"I am an officer in the Imperial Navy."
"They took over your mind, for God's sake!"
"I am also a Sensitive, se Jackie." He looked at her, anguish in his eyes. "There is always one option available to a Sensitive."
It hung in the air for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Jackie grasped both of Ch'k'te's forearms. "There is no way I would ever order a person under my command to commit suicide." As he started to protest, she rushed on.
"By extension, I would never expect you to undertake some thing on your own I would not order you to do. This is a very frightening time, not just for you and me, but for all of the people of both our races. If they don't know it, they will soon.
"You know what they did to you. They did it to me, too, without the benefit of Sensitive skill. How do you think I feel? Your mind-touch is alien, but gentle. Theirs was—" Her hands trembled. "There are no words to describe it. Even if I wanted to remember."
"We are hardly in the same position."
"You're damn right. I outrank you. It falls within my authority to give you orders . . .
"Now hear this: You will not—I repeat, not—feel anything short of the profoundest sense of well-being for the responsible fulfillment of your duty toward His Imperial Highness' Navy and toward me. Is that clear?"
"se Jackie, I—"
"I believe that was an order, Commander." She squeezed his arms.
"Yes ma'am." He returned the grasp, retracting his claws into their sheaths.
"That didn't really do a damn bit of good, did it?"
"It does not really solve the problem," he replied. "But it does make me feel better about the favor I am about to ask of you."
"Ask it."
"If there were a clan-brother or clan-sister present I could lawfully call upon them to stand by me during Dsen'yen'ch'a. However, there are none here." He reached for the package he had been carrying and handed it to Jackie. "But perhaps in lieu of such a person I could call upon you to accompany me."
Jackie carefully removed the paper concealing the contents of the package and uncovered a folded crimson cloth. As she uncovered it she recognized it at once: the special robe Ch'k'te's mate had made for him.
She sat silently, fingering the garment in her hands. Zor society was so filled with subtleties it was hard to tell what commitment she might be making by agreeing, or what Ch'k'te's reaction might be if she refused.
Was this just a point of honor with him? Would the Chamberlain really wish to accuse him of treason, because a horrible alien gutted his mind against his will?
And what would happen in this ritual, assuming the Chamberlain indeed permitted her to "stand by" Ch'k'te? She wasn't a Sensitive; she certainly didn't fully understand the zor. What did Ch'k'te expect of her? When she was just his commanding officer, or just his friend, their relationship had been simple. What was she to him now? Some sort of replacement for Th'an'ya?
"Ch'k'te, I . . . don't know exactly what to say. I'm honored, of course, that you place such faith in me as a friend. But I am not one of the People, and don't know if I can take the role of one."
"You are a friend. That is enough, se Jackie. We have shared life and death, and we have opened our minds to each other. What closer trust could I give to someone?"
She had always been told that the zor face was inscrutable and alien, and that it was improper—and occasionally dangerous—to anthropomorphize, to attribute human meaning to something a human might read in it. "They do not express pain or anger or sorrow the way we do," her exoculture professor back at the Academy used to say. "Theirs is an alien mental state."
But as she sat there with the ceremonial robe in her lap, the so-familiar face opposite hers seemed to convey nothing but the sincerest affection and respect. Perhaps those authorities who could not recognize familiar features in the zor face simply hadn't looked closely enough.
"All right," she said at last. "Tell me what you want me to do."
***
Jackie felt uncomfortable in the dress uniform, supposedly cut to fit her specifications some hours ago at the base's haberdashery. Her own custom uniforms had been left behind on Cicero; the new one was stiff and didn't seem to fit properly. She waited outside the door for the bailiff to return from reporting her arrival to the board.
When at last the door opened she walked slowly into the room to face three men seated behind a long table. There was a smaller table and straight-backed chair facing it. The bailiff beckoned her there and then returned to the doorway.
She placed her portfolio on the table and saluted. "Commodore Laperriere reporting as ordered, sirs."
She drew off the white dress gloves, placing them on top of the portfolio. She extended her right hand, palm down and then up, and then raised it beside her. It was a tradition descended from the old Earth one; convicts were branded on the right hand so as to distinguish them.
The officer chairing the board was advanced in years; his clean-shaven face was cavernous and pock-marked like the chipping façade of an old building. It was a familiar face, from dozens of official circular dispatches: the First Lord of the Admiralty, His Grace William Clane Alvarez, Duke of Burlington. She had never seen him in person; he had never chosen to visit Cicero, and even Adrianople was a long way to come since the outcome could simply be transmitted to him by some subordinate to peruse at his leisure. It was an indication of the importance of the inquiry to the Admiralty.
"This board of inquiry," he began, "is convened to investigate recent events that have transpired at Cicero. You are called be fore this board to explain your actions. Do you understand the reasons and scope of this inquiry?"
"Yes, Your Grace," she replied. "And I recognize its authority."
"Very well. Bailiff, you will administer the oath to Commodore Laperriere."
"Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the bailiff intoned.
"I do."
"Please be seated," said Alvarez. He beckoned her to the chair, in which she sat carefully. "Commodore," he began, "I will commence these proceedings by reviewing this matter. For the record, the board acknowledges its appreciation of your promptness in attending our summons.
"It is our understanding that by your orders, the personnel and vessels under your command were evacuated from Cicero Military District. According to your report . . ." Alvarez peered at a comp in front of him, then back at Jackie. "You indicated that your reasons for doing this was the alleged presence of hitherto unknown hostile aliens." In clipped, succinct and efficient sentences, he set out the reasons for the inquiry: the departure of the Cicero squadron from its assigned base, the evacuation of personnel and equipment, and the rest. Though it was exactly what she'd expected to happen, hearing it described by the highest ranking naval official in His Imperial Majesty's Government gave it a chilling aspect, as it was devoid of emotion.
She listened patiently but uneasily. Her report was brought forward and presented, then entered by reference into the record.
The First Lord concluded softly, "This board is empanelled to examine the circumstances surrounding the loss of His Majesty's fleet base at Cicero. In and of itself, it is not empowered to conduct a court-martial of the officers involved, but—" He raised his right inde
x finger and tapped it against the table several times. "But it can, and may, make specific recommendations to the Judge-Advocate General regarding disciplinary measures for those culpable."
Neither of the other two line officers spoke. They seemed to be deliberately avoiding Jackie's eyes. She did not like the tone of the inquiry thus far, but she did not reply, simply returning the First Lord's glance measure for measure.
"This board has considered your official report, Commodore. We found it very informative and complete."
"Thank you, Your Grace," she said.
"I must point out to you, however, that there are many questions still remaining unanswered. It is my intent to see that they are answered in a fashion that will satisfy His Highness the emperor. Do you understand?"
"Completely, sir."
"The abandonment of a naval facility is an extremely precipitous decision, Commodore." He gazed at her with a hawklike stare—passive yet clearly hostile. "The emperor does not willingly surrender sovereign territory of the Solar Empire. Are you aware of that?"
"The decision was not made precipitously, Your Grace. Nor was it made without due consideration of the consequences of such an act."
"And what did you perceive those consequences to be?"
"At the very least a board of inquiry, sir. At the worst, I would imagine, court-martial and possibly even . . . criminal prosecution. But any of that—all of it, I daresay—would be preferable to remaining behind."
"And why would that be?"
"I did not wish to . . . subject myself to Domination once more."
Alvarez folded his hands on the table in front of him. "Commodore, your report was liberally sprinkled with this term. As I understand it, you claim to have been, er, mentally contacted by these alien creatures. Yet a thorough review of your personal record—" He touched his comp. Her Service record appeared in the air above the table; he peered at it over the top of his nose. "—indicates that you have no previous record of Sensitive talent. Your E3G test in May 2384 indicates that you might have some Sensitive abilities, but you are completely untrained in this capacity."
The Dark Path Page 17