SEVENTEEN
THE MOOD IN the Star Chamber was somber and overshadowed by recent death. Less than twelve hours had passed since the attack and feelings ran high. Many were from the ranks of the Gardai. Their faces were grim and tight-lipped with anger. They muttered curses, and their eyes constantly searched the hall as though seeking a hidden enemy. Each man’s hand rested white-knuckled upon his sword.
Victor Mondragon faced them in calm silence. At this important hour his leadership must be unquestioned. Shock waves rippled throughout the empire, for no amount of security could contain the death of an Adept. Yet he believed he had maintained equilibrium and order.
His eyes strayed to the area designated for House Sid. It was empty save for the silent, brooding form of the Pat’Riark. No one questioned why he sat there, least of all Victor. There were far more important matters on hand.
The platform of the Lord Chronicler too was empty. Though he would miss the council of Kronus, the Tsarkin was too upset to be of any help. He would likely be more of a hindrance than anything else.
Of his House, only Victor sat as representative. Not one of his kin—not even his sister—had deigned to appear.
The Grimman-Seth had come, nervous and twittering like vultures on the scent of blood. The D’ia Mor were as silent and somber as ever. The Rudd had made no appearance as yet.
Victor rubbed his jaw, gauging the rising mood of disquiet. He could wait no longer. His opening statement would be short, yet far from sweet.
“For the first time since the inception of this union, we have sustained an unprovoked attack by an alien race. This attack has far-reaching implications due to what they stole. The elusive nature of these beings also presents a grave difficulty in planning a response. I will listen to any reasonable voice offering a course of action.”
He sat back to await the expected reply from the Grimman-Seth, which he knew would be both swift and meaningless. He was not disappointed. Vull stood at once, and the high, fluting sound of his growler was more irritating than ever.
“There is only one answer to such an attack! Instant retaliation!”
Victor’s response was a shade less than derisive. “In what realm would you advise we begin this retaliation, Lord Vull? In which sector? In which quadrant?”
Vull drew his cloak more tightly, and Victor noticed the growing bulge behind his shoulders. It had not been there a week before. So Daedalus has forsaken his demands and capitulated. How long before he discarded the cloak and revealed the genetically enhanced wings? Not long, he would bet. The tide of events was about to speed out of control in short order.
The Halcyon First Talon looked around, betraying his confusion. When no answer was forthcoming, he turned to stare at the D’ia Mor. The Trine of Enn remained motionless for a second longer before answering in a perfect blend of voices.
“We must meet force with force. Anything else will appear as a weakness.”
“I repeat,” Victor stated in exasperation, “how and where do we begin? Shall we continue with the same methods we have used for the past endless number of cycles? Spend our resources in a vain search for an invisible foe?”
“The death of our sword-brother, Jordane, proves they are no longer invisible, Your Grace,” Argus interjected with a trace of smugness. “And we now have an interesting lead on their whereabouts.”
There was a loud banging and clanging as the entry portal thrust open. Edwin Croll, Commander of the Home Fleet, marched in at the head of a score of myrmidon. In their midst was a man wearing the tattered vestiges of a dark green uniform. Blood spatters marred the cloth and the skin beneath the tears; some fresh and glinting wetly, others caked and dried brown. Two myrmidon dragged him since he was only semi-conscious. Behind them came Daedalus, looking more cadaverous than ever.
A fleeting look of chagrin crossed Victor’s face, quickly replaced by a frown. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Croll answered, casting a swift glance at Argus. “We captured a prisoner from one of the attacking fleet’s ships. Our defenses incapacitated the vessel and myrmidon boarded it. We found this sole occupant in what appeared to be their engine room. He was unconscious, lying beneath a pile of rubble. With the aid of Daedalus, we were able to glean some information from him.”
Victor relaxed in his seat, outwardly at ease. Inwardly, his mind seethed in turmoil. This might well be an even greater catastrophe than the death of Jordane. “I applaud your obvious skill, Commander, yet why did you not bring this important news to me earlier?”
“It was at my discretion, Your Grace,” Argus replied. “I was loath to inform you until we had something concrete to present.”
Victor glanced at Fortunatus, whose frown had deepened until his thick brows all but covered his eyes. “You have tortured this man,” he said, his tone accusing.
Croll shrugged. “Your Grace, this ‘man’ and his accomplices were responsible—however indirectly—for the death of Jordane. We felt justified in using any and every means necessary to extract the information we required.”
Victor deliberated. “Very well, you may continue.”
Daedalus strode forward. Reaching down, he clutched a handful of the prisoner’s hair and jerked his head up as though it were a distasteful chore. He bent low to examine the now unconscious man as if he were a lab specimen.
Victor watched him through hooded lids, feeling his disgust rise like bile in his throat.
“This being is human in every way—a closer genetic match than the Jossians. The answer is simple enough, taken directly from the images we extracted via the autolect. They call themselves the Senach—the wanderers. They are the same nomads who have plagued us over the centuries. Yet their true origin is Earth. They are descendants of the Old Ones, the Space Fleet of Pre-Cloister who fled the coming of the Norn. I can assure you of this without the slightest doubt, for I remember those times better than anyone.”
The engineer paused to peer up at Victor. “We can explain the reasoning behind their continued seclusion later if you so wish, Your Grace. Now I will endeavor to expound upon the knowledge we have gained regarding their scientific achievements.”
Daedalus’ eyes now had the excited look of a predator about to pounce on his prey as he continued in a rush of words. “This specimen appears to be a low-level technik, a member of the rank and file of what they call ‘meks’. He possesses few design schematics, yet there was enough data to give us a general idea of their advancement.
“Their long-range travel is primitive compared to Zurd, being an updated version of the old warp-drive once used by both the Rudd and Grimman-Seth. Yet they have mastered the art of short-range matter transmission—what they refer to as the ‘Span’. This appears to be equally effective, whether within or without a planetary gravitational system. As I’m sure Your Grace can see, this would explain their ability to vanish and appear at will, even unto bypassing our screens.”
Daedalus paused again and stroked his chin. The movement rendered him even more like a living cadaver. “There is a confusing reference to an entity known as the ‘Mother’. She is somehow entwined in this methodology. So far, we cannot fathom its meaning. Perhaps theirs is now a matriarchal society. We can provide a more detailed knowledge of their entire system after a more intensive interrogation by our techniks.
“We know this Span requires vast amounts of power. Their smaller vessels—similar to the one captured—can manage only a few intense bursts. There is an appreciable delay after each. This weakness is the reason units of the Home Fleet under Commander Croll locked onto one of their vessels and disabled it. We found this specimen lying unconscious beneath a pile of rubble near their engine room. They must have overlooked him in their retreat. The engine-room is an even larger pile of rubble and cannot provide us with any insight regarding their systems.”
“Have you been able to discover their whereabouts? Any secret rendezvous points?” Victor asked carefully. “Or how they knew of the Serum’s location? Even why they have waited so long to try for it?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t know their base of operations,” Daedalus replied, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Only the leaders of their military structure are privy to this information. By recording our captive’s memories, we may piece together a pattern. Like the wandering tribes of old, they no doubt have a traditional path of migration. As far as the Serum,” Daedalus shrugged, “they may have planted spies here for untold cycles.”
“Yes,” Victor nodded. “Secrets have a way of revealing themselves after a time.”
Daedalus jerked up his head, but Victor’s eyes were downcast, and he took no notice. Yet the Genetic Engineer was not done.
“There was a further interesting development,” he continued, casting a furtive glance at the Grimman-Seth, and then at the Rudd cubicle. “This specimen has extensive knowledge of the Rudd dating back a millennium. At some point, they were connected—if not outright allies.”
Once again, there was an immediate uproar from the Grimman-Seth, yet strangely, it was Argus who spoke.
“Your Grace, we have often questioned the motives of the D’ia Mor, even maligned their very nature in open council.” Argus cast a meaningful glance at the Pat’Riark, who remained silent as though he were not part of the council’s deliberations. “From this recent information, it would now seem we have done them a grave wrong. Perhaps we should look in a different direction; cast our nets in a different place.”
Victor almost groaned at the theatrical implication the Rudd were the true enemy, yet his face remained expressionless.
“Despite everything implied, the facts remain indisputable,” Argus continued. “The D’ia Mor gave us the first sword and shields. They have continued to teach the secret ways of the Metals from the beginning. I suggest we take another look within our camp. Let us re-assess where our true allegiance lies.”
“Your argument has merit, Lord Marshal, but I believe we are in danger of opening old wounds,” Victor cautioned. “Though they have long since healed, the scar tissue remains. Need I remind you of how my father and brother died?” Victor waited, staring straight at Argus and then at Vull until both looked away.
“I will not malign an absent ally,” he answered in a voice cool and measured, “any more than I would the Grimman-Seth, the D’ia Mor, or the Jossians. Yet there are questions here that need answering. I will not speak of treachery. The word is too harsh to apply to a race as old and trusted as the Rudd. There may have been deceit…”
“Why have you not listened to us?” Vull raged, unable to constrain himself any longer. “We have told you repeatedly the stinking water-breathers are the true enemy. They and the beadsman! They work hand in glove…”
“Enough!” Victor rose from his seat and glared at the warlord until he subsided. “This council will not deteriorate into an exchange of insults. This matter is too important…too vital…”
From the corner of his eye, he saw the slight rippling of the Rudd cubicle. The three Rudd suddenly appeared out of thin air, as though they were in command of the Senach technology. His surprise compounded as they walked through the screen. It warbled like a smear of gelatin and then reassembled. Not a single drop of water passed through the barrier.
He recognized them at first glance. They were members of the Rudd High Council, known as the Zuma. Marlon was the most familiar, the leader of the Ruderai, the warrior caste. Beside him stood Frayle of the caste of teachers. There were many castes in the Rudd hierarchy, yet none more important than the imparting of knowledge. That Frayle had come was unusual, stressing the importance the Rudd had allocated to this council.
The third was a female: even more unusual, though there was no sexual discrimination in the Rudd social structure. It was only the second time Victor had seen her, yet he knew she stood high in the Rudd Zuma: Myr, Keeper of the Lineage. This was arguably the most sacred appointment of all. The Rudd esteemed their ancestors with religious fervor and could trace their roots back to their origins.
War, wisdom, and tradition, Victor thought. A strange combination.
Myr, like many Rudd females, was taller than either of her companions. The long, billowing length of her hair was identical to all the Rudd—lustrous platinum shot with subtle hints of aquamarine, so soft and wispy it floated away with the slightest motion of her head. Her form was one of slender yet well-defined curves, accentuated by the Sleef—the protective suit each wore. This too was remarkable. The Rudd normally preferred to remain in the protective watery environ of the cubicle. None wore a growler, and this disconcerted Victor. Few of the Rudd spoke the Common tongue, and they spoke it badly.
At that very moment, Fortunatus rose from his seat and addressed the three in fluent Rudd. Victor groaned inwardly. This would incense the Grimman-Seth further, yet it was beyond helping now.
“The three members of the Zuma bid the council greeting,” the Pat’Riark intoned in a voice devoid of inflection. “They wish to express their regrets over the action taken by the Senach, and to assure the council they had no prior knowledge.”
“Stinking water-breathers!” Vull almost choked on his anger and disgust. “Why should we believe anything they say when they have withheld knowledge for so long?”
Fortunatus spoke again with the Rudd. Their answer was short and concise.
“The knowledge was always available. You never asked the questions.”
“A cunning excuse,” Vull mocked.
Victor held up his arm for silence, waiting until quiet once more reigned. “Perhaps the honored members of the Zuma would care to explain their knowledge of these Senach now?”
Once again, Fortunatus translated. And again, it was Frayle who spoke. “They came to us a millennium ago. Their need was great and we offered them succor. They stayed with us for fifty cycles.
“During that time we imparted enough of our knowledge to aid them in their search for a new homeworld. We offered several choices, but they insisted upon one lying in the dominion of the Grimman-Seth. We advised against it. We had long since described the warlike history of the bird race, yet their decision was firm.
“Even then they showed remarkable independence and amazing adaptability, expounding on the knowledge we had given them. They were also secretive. They rarely allowed us aboard their vessels. You who understand our character would know this did not bother us.
“The world they had chosen was Telluria. This was before the Great War and the formation of the Pentarchy, and we warned them of the consequences. It was an earth-class planet with abundant water. It was beautiful, richly endowed, and uninhabited by any form of intelligent life beyond the level of your primates. It ideally suited their needs.
“By the end of their fifty-cycle sojourn with us, they had mastered the warp-drive. They journeyed to the planet with relative ease and began the process of colonization. After only two cycles, they had firmly established themselves on the planet’s surface. Although they maintained their ships in orbit, they were gradually reducing the crews of each vessel by a carefully planned number.
“The Grimman-Seth attacked in the middle of the third cycle. Why did they wait so long to respond to this invasion of their territory? Perhaps they thought this just another primitive race not worthy of notice. They were wrong. The Earth voyagers had taken our warning seriously. Though they suffered losses, they repelled the attackers. Not only had the Grimman-Seth vastly underestimated their power, they had not reckoned on the ferocity of their resistance.
“Still, the Senach were not fools. They realized they had been discovered, and their only chance was to flee. Though one of their motherships sustained damage in the original attack, they escaped with their entire fleet intact. Yet many of the colonists died before they could escape the planet’s surface.
“That was the true origin of the Senach. Never again did they attempt to construct a permanent settlement, even though we advised them the situation was different after the war. They did not listen to us the first time, nor did they listen the second.
“They have maintained a loose contact over the cycles, though each meeting has always been at a time and place of their choosing. We don’t know their whereabouts, for they move continuously. We have no certain method of contacting them.”
Victor directed a question at the Grimman-Seth, who had remained uncharacteristically mute since their last outburst. “Why have you never mentioned this battle of Telluria?”
Vull was slow to answer and offered an uncharacteristic shrug. “I have no recollection of it. As the water-breather said, it took place long ago. It would have been a minor skirmish in a backwater area, hardly worthy of notice to the keepers of our codex or our songmasters.”
Victor nodded, appearing satisfied with the answer. He turned once more to the Rudd. “You say you have no certain method of contact with the Senach. Yet would they not answer a request through the holos?”
“Perhaps.”
“Will you do this?”
“We will not.”
Victor waited until Vull’s mutterings ceased. He then asked why the Rudd would not assist after such an obvious violation, one leading to the death of an Adept. This time Myr answered.
“Our race is far older than yours; older even than the Grimman-Seth or the D’ia Mor. Yet there is a race of beings who attained their zenith long before us. They were the antithesis of water—beings of fire. It was from them we first learned of the Master of Forces and his archenemy, the One-without-light. Heed our warning, Victor Mondragon, as those of your kind before you did not. You wage war upon the wrong enemy. Beware lest the very fabric of this Pentarchy you more than any other have wrought should crumble as though it were a castle made of sand.”
They left as suddenly as they had appeared. The echo of the warning left a hollow emptiness inside Victor as great as the one in their cubicle. He listened as Vull cackled. The growler-distorted sound was obscene.
“Bah! Let them leave. The stinking water-breathers have nothing but lies to tell us!”
Victor appeared to deliberate. When he lifted his eyes again, Fortunatus like the Rudd had gone. He knows the treacherous act I must now condone.
A feeling of isolation overwhelmed him as he looked at the prisoner. He showed no sign of returning to consciousness. “Take him to the holding cells of the Judicata. Have a medico tend his wounds. When he is stronger, we will question him further.” His eyes speared Croll. “I will hold you responsible, Commander. Make certain no harm comes to him.”
He turned to Argus. “If we cannot find them, we must bring them to us. We will make an offer via the holo-net, simple yet precise: a full partnership in the Pentarchy for the detailed knowledge of their matter transmission device. Make it plain we know their Earth origin, which is the reason for this offer. Yet also advise them we have a prisoner. Find out his name and add enough descriptive details so they will have no trouble believing us. Offer him as part of the exchange. Arkadies Venn will be the go-between. As Jain of the Guild, he has sufficient authority and impartiality.”
“You can’t be serious!” Vull stormed. “You would reward those who have stolen the most valuable treasure of the Pentarchy and caused the death of an Adept of the Gardai?”
Victor smiled grimly and his reply was mocking. “No, Lord Vull. Surely the keen senses of the Grimman-Seth can recognize a trap being baited?”
He waited until he saw acceptance, even in Argus’ eyes. Waited until he was certain of the thoughts behind them. ‘These scum deserve no mercy. The pledge of honor should not apply to them.’
He left the chamber then, hoping he had hidden his overwhelming disgust.