The Dark Path

by Walter H Hunt

  Mighty Qu'u. I can sense your hsi, Mighty One. The cargo bay continued to be silent, but for her heartbeat and the voice that seemed to be all around her.

  "Who's there?"

  She looked around the bay. It was a huge place, at least in comparison to the rest of the ship: twenty meters floor-to-ceiling, suitable for carrying bulky cargoes. It was forty meters across, plenty of room to hide in. There was no sign of Ray or Karla.

  We have met before, Qu'u. Many times, and in many guises. We have both slept for a long time and each of our meetings brings us closer to wakefulness.

  She was sure now that the voice was in her head. She scanned the room, looking for a defensible place; she looked in each direction in turn, trying to see if there was anyone else there. A movement caught the corner of her eye and she looked up in time to see someone in the control room, fifteen meters above her head. The lights were cycled into the bright blue-white; she was unable to make out the figure's identity.

  What do you want? She said in her mind.

  She began to make her way toward the hatchway.

  Do you recall, Mighty One, when we first met? You were doing the service of the Crawler even then; my Master had seen you coming across His lands from afar, traveling the dark path. My Master commanded that I confront you with anGa'e'ren, the Creeping Darkness. Do you remember?

  She did: it was a passage in the legend. It was intended to show up the frailty and inexperience of the great hero. He had almost lost heart and fled the Plain of Despite because of it.

  I can see that you do, the voice continued after a moment. As the shroud is pulled aside, my Master grows ever more powerful, as do his tools—and his servants. We shall see, Mighty One, if you are equal to anGa'e'ren now.

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? she asked.

  There was no answer. Instead the ominous silence was interrupted by a sound even more frightening. The hydraulics strained aloud. As she turned suddenly to see it, the great clamshell doors of the cargo hatch began to pull open.

  She stared dumbfounded for several seconds. If the Fair Damsel had been in normal space, Jackie would have been dead almost instantly. She would have been flung out of the ship like the cork from a bottle, decompressed and flash-frozen before she had time to be horrified. It was a revelation to her that all of this was true and that she was aware of it. Explosive decompression wasn't happening as the clamshell doors opened wider and wider.

  Beyond them was darkness. Not the stormy dark of Cicero night nor the mere absence of light in a shipboard cabin. It was somehow the negation of light, its antithesis, a doom into which light could enter but from which it could never return. The filtering and polarizing screens aboard jump ships dampened this utter dark, made it palatable and encompassable: here, face-to-face with it, the sharp barrier between the cargo-deck illumination and the glassy, obsidian surface of this dark nothing seemed to have vanished. It slopped over onto the deck, as if it could not be restrained.

  Within it she could see figures—or were her eyes playing tricks? There were tentacles and pseudopods, dark and greedy staring eyes, faces twisted in fear . . . articulated wings with a phosphor glow, elongated arms reaching for her . . . reaching . . .

  Behind her, she heard noises, the scrabbling of claws on the deck, the thumping of many feet. Drawing her chya into her hand—it had almost leapt there of its own accord—and settling her wings into a posture of defiance, she turned her back on the creeping darkness to face her assailants.

  ***

  "That's Marcel, all right." Rafe leaned past the pillar and then back. They were standing at one end of an elevated walk way; their attention was on a street vendor at the other end, several hundred meters away. "Dr. Marcel Liang and two other sick-bay crew. The Negri's in port, just like Sean said."

  "And that's the first you've seen of crew from the Negri," Owen answered, taking a look.

  "Since the middle of last month. Before you showed up." Rafe looked again. "Are any of that lot aliens?"

  "I'm not sure."

  Owen put his hand on the pillar and concentrated. It was coming easier now: he needed only to think about the deaths of his comrades in Green Squadron and the emotion would well up within him. The hubbub of the street began to sound distant and remote; he cast his glance across the scene, looking for something out of place.

  "That one," he said, indicating the left one of a pair of Marines hanging close to Dr. Marcel and the two others. "He's a bug. He's the only one."

  "Do you think they know?" Rafe asked.

  "Oh, you can bet on it. Look at the way they act around him," Owen answered. Rafe looked where Owen pointed: Each of the others seemed to defer to the disguised alien who was—very subtly—leading them along the street. Even the other Marine seemed to be a bit scared.

  Rafe turned and gave a short chopping gesture to Sean Williams and Desi Rashid, two muscular Negri crew also stranded on Center. They began to walk forward along the street, seemingly paying no attention to Rafe or Owen or to the crew at the end of the walkway as they enjoyed the off-duty time. Rafe and Owen took off slowly in the same direction.

  "I'll handle the other Marine. You get the bug," Rafe said quietly. "The doc and his boys will go along; they know who I am."

  Owen didn't answer. He was walking forward toward the alien who was disguised as an Imperial Marine. Without even summoning the feeling, his anger came forward as a palpable thing, bringing the scene into sharp focus.

  At a hundred meters, the false Marine's back was turned to him but his hands were clenched, as if he felt some of Owen's anger flowing toward him.

  At fifty meters, the false Marine had turned partway around, taking his attention from Dr. Marcel and the med crew, who had seen Rafe and were looking away from the scene. Williams and Rashid were closing in from the other side.

  At twenty-five meters Owen was face-to-face with the object of his anger.

  "Take a hike," the alien said, and Owen heard in his mind: Take a hike. It wanted him to walk away, to turn aside, to be anywhere but where he was going.

  "Why don't you call for help?" Owen asked in a normal voice from fifteen meters away. He knew that the alien could hear him somehow—that there was no one on the crowded street but the two of them. "Come on, get your pals together and let's have a nice rumble right here."

  He was ten meters away when Williams and Rashid came on either side of the false Marine. Owen, Rafe and the other two were unarmed; the alien had a regulation pistol holstered at its waist but had apparently never thought to draw it.

  "We're taking a walk," Owen said. He heard confusion in his mind: How could you—How did you—But he ignored it. They stepped off the walkway into a maze of lifts and stepped accessways; it was a part of the city being redesigned and rebuilt. "Under the stairs," he said.

  He shoved the alien in that direction with the help of the others. A translucent block in a nearby building caught the sunlight and broke it up into rainbow fragments spread across the scene.

  "I don't know what you want," the alien said. "But you're out of your league."

  "Didn't have any trouble with you, did I?" Owen answered. "Tell me again."

  He took the Marine by the lapels of the jacket. "I know what you are," he whispered. He could feel the anger flowing through him; even Rafe took a step back. "I know what your kind has already done. It's enough. It's over. We're going to get you, every one of you, and—"

  "And what, meat-creature?" the alien answered, looking right into Owen's eyes. You will release me, it said in his mind. Or I will end your life this instant.

  Owen felt a pressure in his head like a vise squeezing it. Release me now, meat-creature, it repeated.

  The pain began to peak; his anger was out of control. The two things collided without a sound. Owen felt as if his head was going to explode; he grabbed the false Marine and dragged him to the edge of the railing.

  "No," he managed to say, and pushed the alien over the edge. The two other Negr
i crew looked over and saw the creature fall twenty, fifty, a hundred meters to a platform far below where it lay sprawled, transforming into its native shape, twisted and dead.

  Owen had dropped to his knees and was holding his head.

  "You all right, pal?" Rafe asked him. "We better make our selves scarce."

  "No," Owen answered, slowly getting to his feet. "No. Things are happening so fast, I—Wait. It didn't call for help." He grabbed Rafe's arm. "It tried to kill me itself, with its mind. It couldn't, for some reason, so I was able to kill it."

  "Well, yeah."

  "They can be killed. Don't you see? There's a way. Where's the doc? He must've come down from the ship in a gig. That's our ride to the Negri."

  "They'll be waiting for us."

  "No they won't. They don't know—it didn't try to call out. They won't know until it's too late."

  "If you're wrong, we're dead."

  "Look," Owen said. He let go of Rafe's arm and rubbed his temple; the pain was starting to recede. "We've got one chance to do this. We have two pistols, and we've got me. We're going to do it now."

  He could feel the eerie calm, the rightness of the thing, the whole world coming into focus.

  "I'll get some people together," Rafe said. "I wonder how many people we can get aboard a gig?"

  Chapter 20

  THE LEGEND OF QU'U (continued)

  SOMEWHERE FAR OFF, QU'U HEARD THE TOLLING OF

  A BELL CALLING THE CUSTODIANS OF THE SHRINES OF

  ESLI TO PRAYER, BUT HE KNEW THAT THEY WERE NOT

  LISTENING. [Honor to esLi]

  IT WAS NOT REBELLION OR BLASPHEMY THAT CAUSED

  THEM TO BEHAVE THUS, BUT RATHER INDIFFERENCE

  BORN OF DESPAIR. THE BEAUTIFUL AND SACRED

  SHRINES TO THE LORD OF [Despair of the Hssa]

  THE GOLDEN CIRCLE BECAME UNKEMPT AND FELL

  INTO DISREPAIR, UNTIL THEY CRUMBLED AT LAST INTO

  RUBBLE. FROM UNDER THE EARTH THERE WAS LAUGH-

  TER THAT CASCADED UPWARD THROUGH THE AIR.

  "SE QU'U."

  HE WINCED AT THE SPEAKING OF HIS OWN NAME,

  FEELING THAT IT SOMEHOW OFFENDED THE LORD ESLI

  TO HEAR IT. THE TOLLING BELL AND LAUGHTER CON-

  TINUED UNABATED. [Condemnation to Life]

  "SE QU'U. YOU MUST AWAKEN: WE MUST SEEK SHELTER

  FROM THE BATTLE."

  "IT DOES NOT MATTER," HE SAID AT LAST, DEEP WITHIN

  THE SPIRALS OF HIS DREAM. [Cloak of Defense]

  "SE QU'U, WE MUST SEEK SHELTER. THE SERVANTS OF

  THE DECEIVER WILL FIND US."

  IT WAS HYOS' VOICE: HE RECOGNIZED IT. THE TOLLING

  OF THE BELL BECAME RESOLVED TO BECOME THE

  SOUND OF SHELLS EXPLODING, AND THE LAUGHTER

  THE INSISTENT HUM AND RUMBLE OF WEAPONS

  ENGAGING EACH OTHER. HE OPENED HIS OUTER EYE-

  LIDS AND THEN THE INNER ONES [The Drawn Chya]

  AND SAW HYOS STANDING OVER HIM, CHYA HELD READY.

  TO QU'U'S SURPRISE, THE SIGHT OF A DRAWN CHYA

  DID NOT STRIKE FEAR INTO HIM, AND ITS GLOW AND

  CRY SEEMED A STATEMENT OF DEFIANCE AGAINST THE

  WAR THAT RAGED ALL AROUND THEM. THE WAR WAS

  OF A VIOLENCE AND INTENSITY THEY HAD NEVER

  SEEN, THOUGH CONFLICT BETWEEN THE CLANS HAD

  RAGED FOR DECADES. [Posture of Defiance]

  ARTILLERY SHELLS EXPLODED OVERHEAD, VICTIMS

  WAILED IN PAIN IN THE DISTANCE; THE SKY—A NIGHT-

  TIME SKY, BUT WITH NO VISIBLE STARS—GLOWED

  WEIRDLY FROM LIGHT REFLECTING ON THE UNDER-

  SIDES OF LOW-HANGING CLOUDS. [Crossing the Plain]

  "THE QUEST, SE QU'U."

  "THE SERVANT OF THE DECEIVER HAS THWARTED OUR

  QUEST, MY COMPANION. I TURNED AWAY—I FLED—" [Stance of Comradeship]

  "IT DOES NOT MATTER," HYOS REPLIED. "THERE IS

  NOTHING TO BE DONE ABOUT THE DISHONOR. THE

  E'CHAYA-BEARER TURNED YOU AWAY AND NOW SEEKS TO

  USE THAT TURNING TO DESTROY YOU. YET THE LORD

  ESLI HAS NOT ABANDONED YOU. LOOK." HE GESTURED

  BEYOND THE ROCKY OUTCROPPING THAT SHELTERED

  THEM, TOWARD THE DISTANT, FROZEN MOUNTAINS.

  SLOWLY QU'U RAISED HIS HEAD AND LOOKED WHERE

  HIS FRIEND HAD POINTED. HE COULD SEE A CASTLE [The Perilous Stair]

  THERE, SEEMINGLY GROWING FROM THE SHEER ROCK

  WALL, ACCESSIBLE ONLY BY A CURVING, TREACHEROUS

  STAIR. LIGHTNINGS CASCADED AROUND AND DOWN

  UPON THE CASTLE, ILLUMINATING IT WEIRDLY.

  BEYOND IT HE COULD SEE THE GHASTLY WHITE-BLUE

  OF THE ICEWALL.

  "ON THE PLAIN OF DESPITE, WARRIORS TRAVEL WITH

  THEIR GAZE DIRECTED TOWARD THE GROUND," HYOS

  SAID, "ONLY HEROES CAN [Stance of the Warrior]

  CAST THEIR EYES UPWARD, AND THUS SEE THE SIGNS

  AND PORTENTS OF THEIR QUEST."

  QU'U REACHED FOR THE COMFORTING PRESENCE OF

  HIS OWN CHYA AND FOUND IT [The Drawn Chya]

  STILL THERE AND READY FOR USE. ANGA'E'REN HAD

  TAKEN HIS COURAGE AND PERHAPS HIS HONOR:

  BUT AS HIS SENSIBLE FRIEND HAD SUGGESTED, IT HAD NOT

  DEPRIVED HIM OF THE BURDEN OF HIS QUEST.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE FORTRESS OF DESPITE WAS THE

  OBJECT OF THAT QUEST. [Posture of Resolution]

  SOMEHOW, HE AND HYOS WOULD HAVE TO OBTAIN IT.

  With a voice that seemed hardly her own, she croaked, "Hyos."

  "Ch'k'te," a familiar voice answered through the darkness. "Ch'k'te, I am." She felt a taloned hand on her own.

  She fought her eyes open. Instead of seeing the horrible battle on the Plain of Despite, she saw a dimly lit sick bay. Thermal blankets were wrapped around her but she still felt chilled. Liquid dripped from an IV through the blanket membrane into her right arm. "anGa'e'ren," she said. "I—He—"

  "You are weakened," Ch'k'te said. "There was . . . much concern."

  "I'm cold." She pulled the blankets tighter but to no avail. "The darkness . . ." She thought about it for a moment and found her mind still somewhat muddled. She realized she had no way to end the sentence.

  "Jay."

  She looked for the voice that spoke her name and located someone near the door. It was Dan McReynolds; the expression on his face seemed to mix fear and concern in about equal proportions.

  "The cargo doors. Someone opened the cargo doors."

  "We got 'em closed," he said. "If I get my hands on whoever opened them, I'll flush the bastard out into jump. Did you get a look at him?"

  "No. Had the lights turned way up. He—spoke to me."

  "Did you recognize the voice?"

  "It was Shrnu'u HeGa'u." The lights in the sick bay dimmed suddenly; Dan looked around, as if expecting to see someone mischievously playing with the controls. Ch'k'te's sword-hand went to his chya. Jackie shivered again and dug herself deeper under the covers.

  Dan gestured to Ch'k'te, drawing him away from the bed. Quietly he asked: "Who the hell is—"

  "The one mentioned is a—a demon," Ch'k'te answered. "He is a legendary servant of esGa'u the Deceiver, an enemy of esLi and therefore of Qu'u. He . . ." Ch'k'te let the sentence trail off.

  "A demon?" Dan turned away from the zor and ran a hand through his hair. "Someone tried to vent one of my crew, and you're telling me it was an imaginary being?"

  " 'He of the Dancing Blade' is not imaginary, se Captain. se Jackie has already met him once, during the Ordeal of Experience."

  "She's met a demon?"

  "In mental combat."

  "A dream."

  "You may use whatever terminology you wish, se Captain. The fact is that a servant of esGa'u attempted to kill her. That means—"

  "The fact is," Dan interrupted, "some real live flesh-and-bones being aboard this ship tried to kill her. We're in jump, so there's no one but crew aboard; so one o
f my own crew tried to get rid of her. Pyotr Ngo thinks that the hull breach might've even destroyed the ship."

  "The Deceiver would have willingly sacrificed one of his servants to destroy Qu'u."

  "But she's not Qu'u!" He gestured toward Jackie, huddled in the hospital bed. "This is a conflict between Jay and—"

  "And who?"

  "How the hell should I know? I'm just doing S'reth a favor. I didn't agree to risk my ship for her. Now someone opens the cargo doors in jump, for Christ's sake, and I find her on the cargo deck, gone so far over the horizon so I have to sedate her. Small wonder, with the doors opened out on—"

  "On anGa'e'ren," Jackie said.

  "On jumpspace," Dan continued, annoyed. He walked back toward the bed. "This has gone far enough for me, Jay. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on, free of all this mystical shit. I want to know now, who's really after you, who opened the doors."

  "The darkness," Jackie said, turning away from him, her eyes grown wide with horror. He reached for her shoulder, intending to turn her back to face him—

  —And found himself being thrown back and away from the bed, toward the far wall. He regained his balance and lunged forward—

  But Ch'k'te had interposed himself between him and the bed. The zor held his chya before him, which glowed with a radiance that did not come from the sick-bay lights.

  "I can vent you into the vacuum for touching me," McReynolds said quietly. "Get out of my way."

  "I recognize your rights, se Captain," Ch'k'te said quietly, unmoving. "I respectfully decline to allow you to proceed with your interrogation. You will not pursue this course any further."

  "Why, you—" McReynolds took a step forward, but heard a snarl . . . not from Ch'k'te, but rather from the chya. Startled, he froze and looked from Ch'k'te to the blade and back.

  "I will not allow you closer, se Captain. If I must remain in this position until the ship leaves jump, I will do so, following which I will escort se Jackie from your vessel. If you choose violence, however, I will use my chya and you will die."

  The finality with which he spoke those words, his voice level, sent a chill through Dan McReynolds.