The Dark Path

by Walter H Hunt

  Go to the Center, Mighty Hero.

  "The Center," she said. "How . . . How do I get there?"

  "Past that bulkhead," he answered, gesturing. "Next side corridor on your left. Take the moving walkway and get off when it ends. They'll know what to do with ya." He began to make a comment about what he'd like to do with her but stopped a few words along, looked at Ch'k'te again, shrugged his shoulders and began to take out his tools.

  ***

  It was a blur of scenes that Owen Garrett only remembered imperfectly afterward. At the hangar deck Abbas played his part: he refused to answer questions from Marines on the deck as he emerged with Liang and the others; none of the crew were aliens, and as soon as Rafe and the others came off the shuttle it was clear that something was up.

  With some of the hangar-deck crew in tow they made their way to Engineering Section. Owen hadn't wanted to split them up, and from Engineering they could power down the whole ship if necessary. It was there they met—and killed—their first alien. That was surreal as well: An alien had replaced Cam Enslin, the Negri's chief engineer, and there were thirty crew members who knew it. The Enslin alien was dead before he hit the deck, without the need for Owen to focus his attention.

  Then they reached the bridge, and things took the strangest turn of all.

  ***

  It was no surprise that Damien Abbas—or something that looked like him—was sitting in the pilot's seat. He turned it to face the lift doors as they opened; two other aliens disguised as humans—Owen could tell that right away—took up positions behind him. Everyone else on the bridge was still and rigid, locked on whatever position they'd been in last.

  "Garrett," the Abbas-alien said. "At last we meet. And I see you've brought along my twin." Abbas looked at the alien sit ting in his seat and surged forward; Owen held him back.

  "I'm glad I have a reputation to uphold," Owen answered.

  "Oh, you do, you do. And when the Negri reaches home you'll be quite a specimen to study."

  "I wasn't planning on that."

  "I'm sure you were not. I must say you've impressed me, though: I wouldn't have expected you to reach the bridge of the Negri Sembilan even with whatever k'th's's power you've developed. The Great Queen will enjoy studying you . . . and then consuming you."

  There were a dozen Negri crew on the bridge now, arranged behind Owen and the real Captain Abbas. Others were making their way up the access ladders, but only so many had been able to get into the lift. Without turning his head, Owen could tell that none of them were moving now—no one but him.

  "I'm not scared of you," he said. Anger coursed through him; he had the urge to wipe the smirk off the Abbas-alien's face, but he knew he couldn't take out the other two as well.

  "You should be, Garrett. This charade is almost at the end. You and your k'th's's power will be taken to First Hive and digested."

  Pressure began to form in his mind, and his anger rose to meet it. Around him the others were crumpling to the deck, one after another; the Abbas-alien—and perhaps his companions—were focusing on Owen alone, as if none of the others mattered at all.

  Then, suddenly, the deck lights on the bridge went out.

  Owen heard snatches of conversation or thought—he couldn't tell which: meat-creatures—k'th's's—Ór will tell.

  Then there was a flash of rainbow-colored light streaking through the bridge compartment. The sudden darkness, followed by the sudden brilliant light, blinded everyone; in the commotion Owen felt himself being thrown to the deck. Where his hand touched, he felt an incredible smoothness as if the deck had been sanded flat.

  The event had broken whatever control the aliens were exerting. Shots rang out in the darkness; people were diving for cover. The pressure on Owen's head had stopped abruptly—the eerie quiet that had prevailed just moments before, had erupted into shouts, cries of pain and noises no human voice could make.

  The lights came back on. All three aliens were sprawled where their human images had been; comps showed evidence of energy-weapon hits; two or three crewmembers were lying on the deck injured. Dr. Liang moved first, checking the wounded.

  Owen looked around, slowly getting to his feet. Everyone was accounted for but one person. The real Damien Abbas was gone.

  ***

  It was all too perfect. They had walked all around the outside of the station but had neglected the administrative section at the hub. It was connected to the torus of Crossover Port by six corridors so long they had moving walkways to keep the pedestrian from having to make a half-hour journey. As they stepped onto the walkway it began to move: Shortly they were traveling at close to thirty klicks through a long, dimly lit tunnel. Ch'k'te had his claws extended and was making no secret of his discomfort with the situation; Jackie was on edge, feeling as if she was finally moving toward resolution. She remembered the Valley of Lost Souls as she'd seen it in the mind-link and wondered what she'd find at the Center.

  The walkway took them there quicker than she'd have thought. It slowed to a stop near a reception area. To her surprise it seemed abandoned: no one was there to greet them or ask them their business. The ambient light was even dimmer than in the tube and was tinged slightly red—more comfortable for a zor, more difficult for a human. Comps were online but there was no one there to look at them.

  "Where are the Hssa?" Ch'k'te asked no one in particular. In one sinuous motion he unsheathed his chya.

  She didn't answer, but instead let her senses try to absorb the scene.

  Hearing: It was quiet except for life-support systems and the occasional acknowledgment from a comp. Whatever noises were normally associated with a smooth-running admin office were conspicuous by their absence.

  Sight: The dim light showed a shut-down office. Actually, it was more like a crude caricature of an office, like a 3-V stage from which the actors and the stagehands had walked away; they had turned down the lights and left the furniture in place. Everything seemed like a prop—not real, but standing in for the real thing. It chilled her even more to think of it this way; it made her feel like a chess-piece, moved to its final position on the board, awaiting capture.

  Smell: Instead of the antiseptic, sanitized air of a space-station, there was a stench of decay that sent a shiver down her spine. In a sudden flash, she remembered where she'd smelled it before—in the garden of the residence building on Cicero, where . . .

  "Come now, Mighty Qu'u," a mocking voice said: Damien Abbas' voice. "I'm growing quite impatient."

  Jackie and Ch'k'te exchanged glances. The voice had seemed to come from all around them. They now noticed an office door slightly ajar; the light from within was somewhat brighter, but still red-tinged.

  Ch'k'te stepped past her and toward the door. She thought to hold him back but his wing-posture did not brook disagreement. She wished she had a pistol in her hand, but she realized that it wouldn't do any good against an opponent capable of taking control of her mind.

  A step at a time they approached the room. Its contents came into view: a crowded office with furniture, documents and equipment distributed in equal proportions. Damien Abbas sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair. He beckoned them to seats.

  "I'll stand, thanks," Jackie said, and Ch'k'te, his chya held out in front of him, took up a spot to her right, slightly farther into the room, and a bit closer to Abbas.

  "As you wish, se Qu'u," Abbas added, turning his attention to Ch'k'te.

  Ch'k'te didn't answer but looked instead at Jackie. It was clear to her that Abbas had been addressing Ch'k'te when he said the name "Qu'u"—and not her! Ch'k'te apparently hadn't realized this yet and was waiting for her to say or do something.

  "It has been a long chase," Abbas continued. "Our effort to direct you here has almost exceeded our resources. The futility of this quest is something we could have foretold from the beginning, but it still surprises me that the High Nest chose one so weak to fulfill a role so important."

  Ch'k'te's claws extended around t
he hilt of his chya, which snarled angrily at Abbas. Not knowing exactly why, Jackie caught Abbas' attention and looked into his eyes. They were full of anger and burned with an alien light.

  She remembered the garden and the smell of death.

  "Noyes," she whispered.

  Abbas' image melted and flowed, re-forming after a moment as Bryan Noyes. "If you prefer. It's all the same to me, these misshapen meat-creature images. If this one pleases you better, so be it. I am sure it matters very little to the hero." The last word was propelled by contempt, aimed directly at Ch'k'te.

  "I did not kill you before," the zor replied softly. "I will not fail to do so now."

  "Such melodrama becomes you well, Mighty Qu'u. But I as sure you, cloaking yourself in the trappings of a great hero does not cause you to become one. You are not here to kill me or even to redeem your worthless honor: You are here because you have been led here, trapped in the spirals of your own primitive legend.

  "We have the sword. We threw away the old man; the coming of the hero has been foretold. We did not know your name or Nest, but we knew that you would come. You even bear the soul of the spirit-guide—not that it truly matters anymore.

  "Good old Ch'k'te. Not human enough to fit into human society, too far from his zor companions to retain his own identity: only suitable to be a pet for his commander."

  Noyes stood up and walked slowly toward Jackie. Ch'k'te, obviously angry and disturbed at the alien's words, started to interpose himself, but he froze in midstride. Noyes didn't even miss a step.

  "And Commodore Laperriere. 'The Iron Maiden,' isn't that what they call you behind your back? You've gotten yourself involved in something you don't understand. This is far beyond inspections and parades, and hasn't a thing to do with regulations. And this second-rate hero"—he gestured toward Ch'k'te, still frozen, stepping forward—"thought you could play Hyos to his Qu'u. So like a zor."

  From Jackie's perspective, Noyes seemed to be walking to ward her in slow motion. His mouth didn't move in sync with his words.

  "When you were Dominated before, Commodore—all we wanted was information on the disposition of the fleet." The room was narrowing as he spoke, though she couldn't break away from his gaze.

  "I complimented you—do you remember? I told you that had you been of our species, you might be considered a worthy mate. It cannot be, of course, but for a Sensitive of sufficient skill, any effective illusion is functionally equivalent to reality. For the subject, at least."

  His hands/tentacles reached toward her from out of the gloom. She could not move; she could not turn away. The depths of his eyes grew to drown and encompass her, as they had before . . .

  "You?" A curious expression crossed his face. "You are—"

  The alien writhed in sudden pain as Ch'k'te's chya drove into him. Energy flashed up and down the blade as it seemed to cry out in delight and triumph. Ch'k'te, somehow freed for a moment from the alien's casual Domination, thrust it farther and farther into the alien's midsection until it began to emerge from the front. Blood welled up and gushed out as he grabbed hold of it, his face transformed in surprise and horror.

  Jackie found that she could act. She snapped a kick directly below where the blade protruded. Noyes staggered back, dragging Ch'k'te with him. Noyes' features began to melt and his body began to assume its true shape.

  He looked at Jackie for a moment and then turned his wavering attention to Ch'k'te, who held on to the sword with both clawed hands. It was clear the alien had suffered grievous damage—perhaps enough to kill him, perhaps not.

  What he hoped to gain with his next action, Jackie would never understand.

  "Die," he said to Ch'k'te.

  John Maisel had been completely helpless against such an at tack, but Ch'k'te by comparison was a trained Sensitive. He had expended almost all of his will in the attack he had just made; still, he had enough strength to reach out and grasp Noyes' neck. He dug his claws into the transforming body and pulled, drawing out a huge chunk of something that was not even close to human skin.

  As Jackie watched, the light left Ch'k'te's eyes and he collapsed to the deck. Before she could even move to check on him, the alien, now mostly transformed to its insectoid form, fell be side him still clutching its midsection. There was a sharp report as the chya snapped beneath his weight. Then all was silent.

  Now. Quickly. Th'an'ya's voice, cool and dispassionate in her mind.

  "Ch'k'te—" she cried out, but she heard Th'an'ya repeat herself. There is no time, se Jackie. My mate has transcended the Outer Peace. The esGa'uYe has killed him.

  "No! He can't have—" But she knew that he had.

  He can. He has. His honor is returned to him, se Jackie. You must understand that and let him be. There is danger if you do not act at once.

  The voice sounded strained and far away. The alien has transcended the Outer Peace as well, but he has left behind knowledge of the location of the gyaryu and the means by which you can reach it. I obtained this information from the alien's mind as he returned to the Plain of Despite.

  "Information," Jackie said numbly. The hair on the back of her neck began to stand up, as if something was happening nearby. The smell rose to meet her: the terrible odor of decay, of death . . .

  The gyaryu is here. A star map marked with alien script appeared in her mind's eye. The green-white star with many notations was Crossover; nearby was another star, also well annotated. The sense of the map indicated that the alien had intended to take her and Ch'k'te there for some purpose.

  The alien hadn't meant to kill them—not even Ch'k'te. Poor Ch'k'te, lying broken on the station deck, the snapped haft of his chya still clutched in his hand . . .

  The alien had a scout vessel at his disposal. It is berthed at a private dock on the deck below this one. These are the access codes; it is of Imperial issue. Th'an'ya communicated a set of standard-sounding codes. You must go now.

  Jackie wanted to run from the place and back to the Fair Damsel—but she knew the Perilous Stair was ahead of her, not behind. She bent down and retrieved the broken hilt of the chya, sliding it from between Ch'k'te's claws. "Forgive me, old friend," she heard herself say from some distance.

  She tucked it into her belt and stepped away from the body. "esLiHeYar," she added almost as an afterthought.

  ***

  The alien queen was not happy with the report. The death of a drone, especially one so skilled and experienced, was a poor sign; but the information indicated that the winged meat-creature was dead as well. That, at least, would satisfy the Ór that the threat of this unknown hero was ended. Perhaps the meat-creatures would try again to obtain their prize, perhaps not; but they would certainly be disheartened at the bad end of their foolish quest.

  But the Or told her: =The hero Qu'u has been shown the base of the Perilous Stair and climbs it even now.=

  =I am told that the winged one was killed—against my orders, but he has decidedly been killed. How can the hero approach?=

  =Your servant has aided the quest, not thwarted it. Some thing is not what it seems to be.=

  And on that subject, that was all that the Ór would say.

  ***

  With slow and painful strokes of his nearly transparent wings, S'reth made his way toward the highest perches of the Chamber of Contemplation where the High Chamberlain, T'te'e HeYen, waited patiently for him. It was a tremendous effort for him—more flying than he'd really done in years. Still, to concede that he was unable to reach the perch he now approached was to admit that he was no more than an artha, a wingless one, and no longer a warrior of the People. He had not actually worn his chya for years; it had sat in an ornamental stand next to his favorite perch. Still, it was an obligatory part of the costume even though its weight dragged against him as he slowly ascended.

  He wondered what thoughts were going through the High Chamberlain's mind as he flew upward. Pity perhaps, or concern, as this pavane was played out: The ancient sage struggling with the restrai
nts of his worn-out frame, while the dignified envoy of the High Nest feigned indifference. He and T'te'e had been friends for a long time, but S'reth remembered other High Chamberlains from generations past, now gathered within the shining Circle of esLi.

  S'reth turned his attention away from the effort of flight and considered what he felt at that recollection. T'te'e—ha T'te'e, he reminded himself—had been High Chamberlain for many turns, long enough to remember the last few sorrowful years of High Lord hi Ke'erl's father's administration. As a young Councillor, ha T'te'e had had to observe the Flight of the People without the guiding talon of esLi. It was a difficult prospect even for a Sensitive of exceptional talents. Then, as now, he had had to settle his wings in a posture of contemplation and wait for events to come to him without conveying the void he no doubt felt.

  Of course T'te'e did not remember the time before esHu'ur, when at least the direction was clear if misguided.

  He was now just a few meters below T'te'e's perch. He saw the concern in the younger one's eyes as he raised himself level and slowly executed the Posture of Deference to the Servant of esLi—no easy feat in midair at his age!—and settled himself onto a wide perch a few feet away from the High Chamberlain. His ritual duty done, he reached for an ornate flagon and with trembling hands poured himself a cup of egeneh. He dipped a talon into the liquid and drew a figure of obeisance in the air.

  "esLiHeYar," he half whispered and sipped at the liquor, looking over the cup at the High Chamberlain.

  "I am gratified you could come, Elder Brother," T'te'e said formally, arranging his wings in the Stance of Courteous Deference.

  "I am always at the disposal of the High Nest," S'reth replied. His wings settled into a configuration that had no name, but was meant to convey delicate irony. "Though it would gratify me, Younger Brother, if you would give me enough warning next time that I might be able to enter a physical training program before I pay my respects."

  T'te'e snorted amusement. "Eight thousand pardons, old friend. I have my reasons for inviting you formally, rather than simply visiting your eyrie on Cle'eru."