ElyriasEcstasy (25 page)

But when the aide entered and hurried toward him, Aphael
felt a premonition (a Lux,
the
Lux, feeling a mage’s magical foreboding?
Hah!) of bad tidings. The Toplux was not occupying his raised ornate seat. A
group of plush chairs had been brought in, contrasting with the pink
marble-floored austerity of the space but providing comfortable and level
seating for all.

The aide crept around and whispered in Aphael Chav’s ear. He
had specified that only certain interruptions would be allowed during this
meeting. The visiting trio fell silent, apparently put out by this servant’s
intrusion. By the time the aide had finished imparting the news, Aphael had
nearly forgotten the others’ presence. Certainly he no longer cared anything
about their delicate sensibilities and inflated sense of status.

“You will have to excuse me,” the Toplux said, his voice a
dull murmur, disturbing in its utter lack of intonation.

He was vaguely aware of heads turning, glances exchanged.
The Lux members didn’t yet know what to make of this, it seemed. “Pardon, my
Toplux?” one of them asked.

His eyes came back from the middle distance to which they
had wandered. He gave his guests a piercing look. “You have to leave,” he said,
stating it more clearly, though with no more emotion than before. He felt an
awful stillness inside. A dangerous calm. It wasn’t going to last, he realized.

“Leave?” another said. A bolder one, growing more brazen
with outrage. “We most certainly will not
leave
.”

“My Toplux,” said the third, “these issues must be resolved
if we are to—”

Suddenly Aphael Chav found himself on his feet. “Get out!
Get
out of here
!” His voice rang down the long, stony chamber. He felt his eyes
blazing in his skull. His hands became fists at his sides, trembling with fury.

It was a sufficient display. The three members vacated their
chairs and scurried away toward the doors at the far end. That wouldn’t be the
end of it but at the moment Aphael didn’t give a damn.

The aide too had wisely vanished. The Toplux stood alone
with the news that the dramatic and costly operation to locate Virge Temple had
failed. He had ordered it personally. She was mixed up in Urna’s escape. He
knew it, as absolutely as he knew that the sun would rise over the Safe
tomorrow. The fugitive Weapon needed his drugs and would have needed to raid a
lab to get them. By now this must have occurred. Thus, all laboratories within
a thirty mile radius had been investigated.

It had yielded nothing but a few minor illegal recreational
narcotic rings.

Then had come word of two men in a repair truck assaulting a
Guard at a town’s border crossing. The truck was recovered ten miles outside
the town limits. The same town where Virge Temple lived. The Guard in question
described one assailant as having long hair, silver in color. Urna. Urna had
been there. Either Virge was covering up a theft of drugs from her lab or she
had abetted the Weapon directly. Aphael wanted her questioned. Seriously
questioned. He’d even ordered her lab destroyed just to drive the point grimly
home. He wanted the truth about Urna’s whereabouts. Virge Temple would supply
that information, enough for the Guard to track him at least.

But the Guard hadn’t even managed to find Virge herself!

“Damn you, child!” he shouted now, and again his words
reverberated furiously.

He’d had an entire town turned inside out but somehow she’d
eluded him. What made it all so much worse was the fact that he himself had
ordered her release just a few nights ago. He’d thought it better, at the time,
not to distract the Guard from their search for Urna. Well, that had certainly
come around to bite him on the ass.

Virge. Virge.

Something like sorrow took sudden and unexpected grip of
him. He had done so much for her, even though he was also responsible for her
sterilization, which he had ordered when she was still a teen. He hadn’t wanted
her to breed, didn’t wish the line to continue. He had seen what descendants of
powerful personages degenerated into in the form of the Lux themselves. He
didn’t want that to happen. But he had taken pains to see that Virge received
an exceptional education. Quite some finesse had been employed to steer her
into the field of chemistry. He had seen that her instructors at an early age
subtly encouraged her toward the sciences.

She was an intelligent person. Naturally she was.

It felt like…betrayal. Realizing this, Aphael was able to
bring himself under control at last. He drew a long breath. Virge Temple was a
fugitive now as well.

“Damn you, child,” he repeated, muttering it weakly this
time. He brooded for a few minutes, considering his next necessary step. He had
to have Urna back. And he wanted Virge found. Both individuals must be
receiving help—presuming the two weren’t traveling
together
by now. If
they had support, the Toplux would find the pair through these abettors.

Finally his decision was made. He saw the great risk he
would be taking. This might end in catastrophe. But he was the most powerful
individual in the Safe. It was time to demonstrate just what that meant.

* * * * *

Virge Temple had freedom of movement—within the town’s
limits at least, despite that the midnight curfew had come. There was a great
deal of hubbub and bustle as various Guard units withdrew.

It was once again strange to see the town at night, though
this time she felt assured—or close to assured, anyway—that no one would hassle
her, that no patrolling Guard would arrest her for curfew violation. She was
one of them and passed unseen. The uniform that Yola Skott’s friend had provided
was perfectly convincing, it seemed. That friend lived in the same rambling
building as she. He was also active in the local theater scene, which was much
more extensive than Virge had ever suspected. In fact, a kind of
guerrilla
theater existed in the town, secret subversive productions enacted at private
venues. Usually somebody’s basement, Yola had explained. Often these shows were
farcical in nature, making brutal fun of the Lux and the Guard and anybody else
in authority. Costumes were called for. Yola’s friend clandestinely
manufactured authentic Guard uniforms for just such occasions. He, like Yola,
took great pride in his work.

Virge passed the tavern not far from her house. The dark
little place was still doing business. Or “business”. Not one of the Guard
members stopping off there would be paying for a single drink. She hoped Raz
didn’t go bankrupt tonight with all the extra freeloaders.

She made for the edge of town, thinking that she might cross
the border on foot. She didn’t have much of a plan. Yola had done everything
she could, altering her face to match the official identity card Virge was
carrying, though she’d not yet been asked to produce it. Neither Vika nor any
of Bongo’s other associates had turned up to advise her on a course of action.
Maybe they’d gotten rounded up for some reason. Whatever, Virge figured she was
on her own now.

Would the ID actually work? What about the real Cawd Delfel?
Had she discovered it missing yet? Were the Guard on the alert for anyone
posing as the Guard woman? Virge controlled these thoughts with effort, not
permitting them to grow into panic.

The night’s chill felt acute on her scalp, which now bore
only a fuzz of brownish-blond hair. She had barely been able to look at herself
in the mirror after Yola had done her quick, neat work. Virge had transferred
the meager goods she’d taken from her house to the deep pockets of her new
black coat. She’d left her bag in Yola’s room.

A few blocks before she reached the border she came upon
several bulky Guard transports. Black-garbed members were shuffling on board.
Others were milling around. Someone waved Virge curtly toward one of the
vehicles. She was too near to just turn away. So far she’d called no attention
to herself. She didn’t want to start now.

She found herself standing in a queue. Around her, Guard
members grumbled and griped. Apparently this search had been a great
inconvenience for everyone involved. She was surprised to hear how many times
the Guard referred vulgarly to various officers and even to the Toplux himself.
Hearing a Guard member call Aphael Chav a “shit-eating imbecile” practically
took Virge’s breath away. She herself remained silent, merely stepping forward
with everyone else, knowing that disaster might befall her at any moment.

The Guard immediately ahead of her said, “I’m going on
furlough,” to the bored-looking junior officer standing at the hatchway into
one of the big vehicles. When it was Virge’s turn she saluted and said the same
thing and brandished her ID, just like the man before her had done.

The junior officer studied the laminated card. Virge’s mouth
was dry, her tongue a dull lump. Her heart beat loud enough in her ears that
she thought surely everyone within a ten-foot radius could hear it too.

But she held her altered features in a careful neutral cast.
And waited.

The Guard junior officer nodded. “Enjoy that furlough,” he
said.

Virge climbed aboard the transport, still not entirely
allowing herself to believe that this was working. What if Cawd Delfel was
supposed to be somewhere else right now? What if Cawd Delfel—the real one—were
on this vehicle too?

But again Virge kept down the panic. She took a seat and
turned her gaze out the window. Less than ten minutes later the hatch closed
and the transport’s engine came alive. Guard were already dozing around her,
some snoring. Virge huddled in on herself as they swung out into the street.

She watched the last of her town slide by her window. She
was leaving. So many years she’d lived here, creating a life for herself. Now all
that was gone. She would have to make something new.

Her final thought as they passed through the checkpoint and
rolled across the border, heading outward, away from the Safe’s center, was,
oddly enough, for her mother. Cynovar had been a very beautiful woman, imposing
in personality. But a sadness had always touched her, Virge remembered. The two
of them had lived here in this same town for the first part of Virge’s life.
Her mother had died when Virge was barely an adolescent, shortly before the orders
came for her sterilizing. Cynovar had never told her daughter anything about
her father. Not one word, not ever.

Chapter Thirteen

The Weapon had a new mission, and instincts instilled by
military tutelage came to bear. Focus. Suppression of fear. Determination to
succeed. He had fulfilled every assignment he’d ever taken on. He had served
the Lux’s interests. But no more. His priorities had changed.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

They were on their way, he and Bongo. Riding the rails
toward the Safe’s border, where they would contact the group that was going on
a raid into the Unsafe. Kath had said that word would be relayed ahead,
presumably via some sort of illegal radio setup. Bongo would escort Urna there.
All the Weapon had to do was fulfill the mission the Maji woman had charged him
with—protect the salvage crew from Passengers. He had done this in an official
capacity previously, he and Rune accompanying licensed gangs heading off to
plunder the Unsafe for useful resources.

But Kath’s crew was after more than mere salvage.

“Do I?” Urna finally asked, turning toward Bongo, next to
him on the open transport’s seat. The vehicles ran on batteries that needed
recharging periodically. Since the underground wasn’t wired for power, the Maji
members had to steal their electricity from above, in small increments, tapping
secretly into the Lux grid.

“Yeah,” said Bongo. “You’ve got that I-just-got-laid look
about you.” The self-described mage grinned. “Then again maybe you always look
like that.”

For no good reason Urna felt a flush of embarrassment. Was
it because Kath was a female and women had always been served up to him like
meals? Or did he expect Bongo to respond with some primitive jealousy reflex?

Urna regarded the man intently for a moment before responding,
and then only to say, fumblingly, “Kath and I…we—what I mean is—”

Bongo laughed, loud enough to echo over the rush of wind the
transport created as it glided through the tunnel. They had a new driver, a
woman with a leather patch over one eye who seemed content merely to work the
speedy cart’s controls.

“I can guess what you mean, kiddo,” Bongo said. He drew a
flask of cobalt-blue glass from his coat, lifted it in some gesture Urna didn’t
quite recognize, downed a swallow, offered it to his seatmate.

Urna shook his head. After puzzling a moment, he found he
had to ask, “
Kiddo
?”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I called you that.” Green eyes
narrowed in curiosity, a small crease appearing between Bongo’s finely sculpted
eyebrows. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean you don’t remember? You can’t be older than
twenty-three, twenty-four. Around my age. But I swear,” Bongo paused, briefly
bit his lower lip, “it’s like I’ve been hearing about you my whole life. Urna
the Weapon. Only that’s impossible.”

Urna eyed the flask still in Bongo’s hand. Alcohol, no
doubt. Something he had picked up back at that hub of underground railway lines
where they had paused, and where Kath had supposedly cast a spell on him,
something to stir his memories.

“Urna the traitor,” the Weapon said abruptly. He used the
word the driver of their first cart had assigned him, finding it less
objectionable when spoken in his own voice.

“Traitor?” Bongo asked, in that same perplexed tone Urna had
just used when he’d questioned the term
kiddo
. Again he offered the blue
flask. “Sure you don’t want some?”

Urna fell silent. Despite the speed at which they were
traveling, this journey would take a while. He slouched back, once again lulled
by the motion, by the hum of the engine. Like Bongo, he didn’t know why he’d
used that word. He let his eyes slip shut. He didn’t know if Bongo had been
briefed about the upcoming salvage raid. It might be he knew nothing about it,
having only been charged with escorting Urna on this leg of the journey.

The Order of Maji were organized. They were spreading their
doctrine of resistance slowly. But this raid was something else, a categorical
step forward in the planned future rebellion against the Lux and their minions.

Kath had told him that ancient maps had been obtained,
pieced together, doggedly studied. They showed a valuable objective a reachable
distance inside the Unsafe. An old arsenal, supposedly brimming with pre-Black
Ship Elyrian weaponry. Guns. When the uprising came the Maji would need to be
armed. Kath had said their Order wasn’t made up of pacifists. This scheme to
plunder the ancient armory had convinced Urna of that.

A traitor would help arm an enemy against his own kind. But
Urna no longer belonged to the Lux’s military. He didn’t have a kind anymore.
He was alone. Even Rune was gone.

Urna’s eyes remained closed.

After some indefinite time an image came to him, seeping
into his mind. A child. A boy. With intensely dark hair tumbling about his
thinly molded features. He had a serious expression on his face, an oddly adult
look for somebody so young. Urna wanted him to laugh. He was making an effort
to get the boy to at least smile. That would be an accomplishment. Urna felt a
profound affection for the child with the blue-black hair.

A dream? But Urna, sprawled on his seat, was still aware of
the cart’s movement, of the drone of its motor. Even so, these impressions of
his immediate reality were distant, almost ethereal, as if they were the dream
instead.

The dark-haired boy was speaking, trying to impart something
crucial to him. Urna couldn’t make out what it was. It seemed he’d already
decided it was unimportant, continuing his attempts to get the other boy to
laugh.

Other?
Yes. Urna too was a child in this vision.

He was making faces at his more serious-minded companion,
reaching out to try to tickle him under his spindly arms. Urna was more
physically formidable than this other. But the boy with the dark hair had
talents of his own, ones that intrigued Urna, that even—sometimes—filled him
with a blistering envy.

Where was all this information coming from, all this
background detail? The image in his mind was unchanged, just the face of the
child against a hazy setting. No context. Where were they?

And what did Urna’s friend want to tell him?

A slowing, a halting. The rush of air ceased. It all served
to jerk Urna out of his light doze—maybe not even that, maybe only a reverie,
his imagination giving him a problem to mull. Who was that other boy? As Urna
softly ground a knuckle into a corner of his eye, he felt certain the answer
was near at hand. He only needed a minute to think about it.

“Let’s go, kiddo.”

Again
kiddo
. Had the word touched off that dream?
Well, hardly a full dream. It must’ve taken up all of a minute. After all, Urna
had just closed his eyes. And why exactly were they stopping?

Bongo was climbing out of the cart even as Urna’s hand
slipped into his coat, touching the butt of his pistol.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly expecting trouble,
surprised to find that his mouth felt gluey.

Bongo stood on a rough-looking ledge next to the halted
transport. He said, “Can’t sleep your life away.” He’d unpacked his lantern
once again and now lit it. “Let’s get going.”

Urna looked to the driver, but she was busy checking her
controls. “Wait. Why’re we stopping here? I thought—”

The green eyes narrowed again, then understanding came to
Bongo’s handsome features. “You were asleep for over two hours. It’s the end of
the line for us. Tracks don’t go any closer to where we’re going. Come on.
We’re almost there. We’ll reach the border a little after dark.”

* * * * *

A valet hovered, tugged at a lapel, picked invisible lint
from a shoulder, frowned, made a soft
hrrumph
, until Aphael Chav finally
waved him away. His raiment was tasteful, even debonair. Not the overblown
frippery he might have worn at an Order of Lux conclave, rather the attire that
the general populace of the Safe would expect to see their leader wearing.

The studio lights were hot. But he wouldn’t be underneath
them long enough to break out in a sweat. Around him, technicians were
scurrying, a fast, organized bustle. Normally this broadcast center, located
inside the Citadel grounds, aired the reports on Weapon/Shadowflash forays into
the Unsafe. Here those teams gave their reports for the cameras, footage that
was incorporated into the broadcasts. Such programs were designed for maximum
excitement. There were graphics, music cues, commentators trading rapid-fire
observations among themselves. It all culminated in the announcement of the
kill numbers. How many Passengers slaughtered. It was what people really cared
about, something to engage the less sophisticated minds of the masses.

Aphael stood before the cameras. This special broadcast had
been promoted over the course of the day throughout the Safe. Citizens had been
advised to assemble before their local broadcast screens. The Toplux had an
important message for his people. And he was going to deliver it—personally!

There was no precedent for this. During all his long reign Aphael
Chav had not so directly addressed the population all at once. Always he had
exercised his power at a remove. He had preferred to remain an abstract to the
common people. A remote, indomitable figure. The mysterious and powerful being
who inhabited the Citadel, whose fearful munificence allowed the Safe to exist.

It was true, in its way. He did have power. More power than
anyone. There was a literal component to that truth as well. Power came from
the sun and the sun only shone over the Safe, and the Lux controlled the power
taken from the sun’s light. And he was mightiest among the Lux.

“We will broadcast in fifteen seconds, my Toplux,” said the
studio’s manager, a harried-looking but efficient woman who didn’t appear as
awed by Aphael’s presence as he would’ve liked. Oh well. Not everyone fell to
their knees and quaked when he walked into a room. So long as she did her job,
and his image and words went out to every corner of the Safe this evening, he
would be satisfied.

Aphael waited, his heavy jaw set, his piercing eyes fixed on
the camera standing a few feet away. Something that would have been anxiety in
a lesser person tickled briefly in his stomach then vanished.

Red lights switched to green inside the booths arrayed
around the small, clear space he occupied. An announcer, half hidden behind a
curtain, read a short but appropriately fawning introduction. Then the
technician behind the camera steadied the lens squarely on the Toplux’s face
and the studio manager gave him an emphatic go-ahead gesture.

“My people,” Aphael Chav began, in a tone both rich and
stern, the voice of the judgmental father, “people of the Safe, we are faced
with an emergency…”

* * * * *

As the hulking vehicle was off-loading, Virge Temple felt a
finger tap her shoulder. She turned on the exit step, fear tightening her
innards. Had they figured out she wasn’t who she was pretending to be? If so
the consequences would be dire. Maybe even unimaginable. Problem was, she had
been imagining them anyway, all during this long haul outward from the Safe’s
center.

“Did I hear you say you had furlough?” asked the Guard
behind her. He had a chunky head, rather blunt features.

“Yes,” Virge said, realizing belatedly that the question was
casual, even friendly.

“Me too.” He gave her a grin. “I’m going all the way to the
border. How about you?”

This, then, was the Guard who’d immediately preceded her
onto this big transport.

“Come on, up there!” someone behind yelled. “I want off this
fucking crate!”

Virge stepped quickly off. The friendly Guard clomped along
behind her. They’d traveled some distance. This was a transfer point of some
sort, a town she didn’t recognize. Then again, why would she?

“I knew I’d heard you say before you were on furlough,” said
the Guard, a stocky male. He seemed eager to keep up the conversation, such as
it was. “Then I saw you’d checked your piece, so I figured…” He gestured
vaguely.

Piece?
Virge pondered that for an instant. Her
firearm! Of course. Though this Guard uniform was utterly convincing, there
hadn’t been anything Yola Skott’s costume-making pal could do about furnishing
her with an authentic Guard weapon.

“Yeah,” she said, “I checked it.” She could see now he
carried no pistol on his belt.

He grinned again.

The other Guard members were dispersing over the grounds of
the depot where the transport had halted. Other smaller vehicles lay about.
Officers and clerks were on hand. Baggage and equipment was being loaded and
unloaded. All it would take was for someone to ask her a question she couldn’t
answer, demand the proper countersign to a code she didn’t know—and she’d be
finished
.

The fear of that continued to eat at her. This crazy scheme
had worked so far but she had to get out of this place. There were too many
Guard around.

“My name’s Tuck Palarch.”

“V-Very nice to meet you.” Virge gave herself a furious
mental kick for her nearly fatal slip, then supplied her borrowed name. “I’m
Cawd Delfel.”

“Nice meeting you too. Want to get some tea?”

“Uh—”

“Mess is right over there.” Tuck pointed to a building.
“Come on. My treat.” He seemed to think this sophisticatedly humorous, laughing
at his own joke.

Well, looked like she had another Guard buddy. Might as well
make the most of it. He could be useful, the same as Nick Daphral had been.

Virge walked with the stocky man into the mess. She had to
consciously restrain herself from running her hand over the stubble on her
skull, which was all that remained of her onetime mass of hair.

The mess was a clean, orderly place despite the raised,
boisterous voices of the diners. Virge was still struck by how bizarre it was
to see Guard members behaving in such a lax, undisciplined,
human
manner. This could be a group of raucous mechanics on a meal break.