Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (29 page)

CHAPTER 54

S
yl stayed in the infirmary for several more days, her door locked, her medication administered by a silent nursing drone, clicking around on silver wheels. A taciturn doctor dressed in Sisterly red saw to Syl’s hand and prodded her head, and her food came mashed on a tray. She had a small collection of bland books—mainly sycophantic volumes covering the history of the Sisterhood, so she had little trouble guessing who had chosen them for her—and no other distractions. The only visitor she received was Oriel. The Grandmage would sit beside her bed for hours at a time, watching her, probing at her mind, and Syl would concentrate on irrelevant things, summoning gentle memories from her days of innocence. She allowed Oriel into her head far enough to witness her tamest thoughts—the sweet faces of daffodils, a castle cat stalking a teasing robin, a kilt blowing up and revealing neon underwear, she and Ani hanging out of the castle windows watching an enormous red moon rise over Scotland—and still she felt Oriel picking and digging. She could no longer pretend to Oriel that she had no abilities at all, but she could conceal the true extent of them. There was a great difference between the kind of learned mental discipline that Syl was exhibiting—the capacity to block out pain, to create images of walls and barriers in one’s mind to prevent others from divining one’s thoughts—and the reality of her powers and of what she was capable of doing with them: clouding, compelling.

Killing.

She let Oriel see Paul, for the Sisterhood knew of her affection for him, and so she taunted the old witch with rosy, lingering recollections of a shared kiss, of tongues slipping pink over each other, and Paul’s skinny,
muscled body, lean and pale as he dived like an eager seal through the freezing waters of the loch. She could feel the revulsion spilling out of Oriel like mud, and it seemed to distract the Nairene, to make her recoil. Encouraged, Syl thought about humans, so many humans, humans stuffing their faces with cake, laughing with their mouths open so it spilled down their chests. She thought of them burping and farting and copulating. She thought about their eyes, about the lids that creased oddly to cover them, and their stocky, compact bodies, until Oriel’s repulsion became like a hard tumor in Syl’s head. The Grandmage probed no further.

Yet still, her stark surroundings ground Syl down. The relentless brightness of her small ward—a sterile cell with no windows, and a small toilet cubicle—was divided into time periods only by the arrival of her meals. In between she slept heavily, exhausted by her mental jousting with Oriel. Often she considered the task that she’d set herself, and she despaired. Sometimes it felt that just surrendering to the allure of the Sisterhood was the only real option, the only way that she’d ever know peace again . . .

Until Syl awoke from a nap to find three different red-clad females waiting silently beside her bed. The two at the back bowed their heads in respect as the third stepped forward regally, her eyes never leaving Syl’s. She was younger than Oriel, and strangely beautiful, her face laced with filigree tattoos, her scarlet lips plump to the point of bursting, like overripe fruit.

“Syrene,” said Syl.

Syrene studied Syl, her features bland, and Syl stared back, part horrified but also mesmerized. The tension grew too great and the young Illyri looked away.

“Is it just Syrene? The Grandmage Oriel warned me that, even when hurt, you remain insolent,” said Syrene. “How are your injuries, Syl Hellais? I brought you flowers.”

She lifted a bouquet of tangled blooms above Syl’s bed, and thick, wet pollen drooled from their outsized stamens onto her sheets. The smell filled the room: avatis blossoms, the very flowers Syl had first seen in Syrene’s rooms on Earth before she’d been sent away. Syrene was toying with her.

Smiling, Syrene reached out to touch Syl’s head and Syl flinched, shifting away, for the Archmage’s fingers had burned her before, searing pathways into her mind, yet this time those inquisitive fingers stopped short, and the hand was gracefully withdrawn. Syrene observed Syl haughtily, and the twin eyes tattooed on her cheeks seemed to glare too, so that momentarily Syrene resembled a bug, a spider with multiple eyes. Then, with a dismissive flick, the Archmage dropped the blossoms onto Syl’s exposed neck. As they made contact the heads of each flower closed and a cloud of foul-smelling gas huffed into Syl’s face: the flower’s defense mechanism. She coughed while Syrene looked on disdainfully.

“What a strange way to thank me for my exquisite gift. And still you do not even have the courtesy to greet me properly,” she said.

“I greet you, Your Eminence. I thank you.”

“That’s better. And do you not also welcome me back to my home? I have been gone a long time, and you are my guest at the Marque, are you not?”

“I welcome you home, Archmage,” Syl sighed.

“I trust you have been treated well by my Sisters. I stressed that they were to look after you as if you were my own daughter.”

Behind Syrene the two younger Sisters looked up, sniggering audibly. They seemed familiar, and Syrene followed the direction of Syl’s eyes as she took them in, frowning.

“You remember my handmaiden, Cocile, I presume? And my scribe, Layne. You met on Earth, of course, although then they were dressed in the yellow robes of Novices.”

Syrene was enjoying Syl’s confusion. How could Novices have progressed to the full rank of the Sisterhood so quickly?

“Obviously they are anything but Novices,” said Syrene. “The seemingly lowly status denoted by the robes of the Novitiate works in our favor. Donning yellow gowns when appropriate means that my best and brightest Sisters are frequently underestimated. Is that not so, Cocile?”

“Indeed, Your Eminence,” said Cocile.

Now Syl remembered these two, but it was little comfort that last
time she’d seen them had been back in Edinburgh, when Meia had knocked them both unconscious to gain access to Syrene’s quarters in order to rescue Syl. There was no Meia here to protect her now, and Syl watched Syrene unhappily. The pollen on her chest was itching dreadfully and the smell in her nostrils was of putrefying flesh, but she was loath to push the flowers aside and let Syrene know of her discomfort.

“Now we are returned to the Marque, however briefly,” continued Syrene, “and they can once again be who they truly are. Although we did become very familiar with your home on Earth, Syl Hellais. Very familiar indeed. Your father sends his greetings.”

“My father? How is he?”

“He is well. So accommodating. I believe he would do anything for me. Anything at all.”

Syl grabbed the flowers and sat up, placing them on the sheets on her lap. Noticing the red hives that had already swollen across Syl’s neck, Syrene smiled properly for the first time, but she said nothing. This was all just a game to her.

“What have you done to my father?” said Syl.

“What could you possibly mean? He is better than I’ve ever seen him. So . . . happy. Yes, wouldn’t you say he’s happy, Cocile?”

“Ecstatic, Your Eminence.”

“Ecstatic—an excellent choice of words. I think perhaps being relieved of the burden of a disruptive, disobedient teenage daughter may have given him a new zest for life. He is a changed figure. And so very warm and loving. So . . . sensuous.”

Syl pretended to study the flowers on her lap while rage swelled like a toxic balloon in her chest.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Your Eminence,” she finally managed, lifting her eyes and trying to read the Archmage’s face. For a second she considered probing her mind too, or at least attempting to, but that would be foolhardy: the Red Witch was a skilled psychic, a veteran of the craft, and it had been all Syl could do to hide her own growing talents from the Nairene Sisterhood. She must bide her time, keeping her gifts a secret for when they could be best used.

“Perhaps I have said too much. Suffice to say, Andrus—Lord Andrus—has become a valued companion,” said Syrene. “Anyway, it is my belief that you will soon see your father once more. Does that please you?”

“When will I see him, Your Eminence?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can come up with something. Just make sure you understand that we’re on the same side, Syl Hellais—that is, if you are on the same side as your esteemed father?”

“My father? The same father who sired me? Of course I am. I’ll always be on his side.”

If Syrene noticed the subtlety of her message, she didn’t show it.

“Good. You need to get well soon, for there is much to be done. The sooner you leave the infirmary, the better.”

Syl looked at her own bandaged hand.

“I think I am probably well enough to leave now, Your Eminence.”

Syrene clapped her hands as if nothing pleased her more.

“Wonderful,” she said, “for we have a ball to prepare for: the Genesis Ball. And you are to attend, Syl Hellais. Nothing will please me more than knowing the daughter of Lord Andrus will dance at the Genesis Ball.”

“I am invited to the Genesis Ball, Archmage?” Syl was sure it must be a joke.

“Indeed—the invitation is mine to give. As the only daughter of my respected comrade and beloved friend Lord Andrus, I shall expect you to attend in honor of your father, and as a symbol of the growing closeness between our families. I insist on it.”

It was exactly what Syl had wanted, but coming from the Archmage, weighted as it was with innuendo and hints of impropriety, the notion now galled her.

“Is that where I shall see my father?” she said tightly.

“Oh no, indeed you shall not. The great Military leader Lord Andrus would not return to Illyr for something as inconsequential as a debutantes’ ball. What does he care for the making of suitable matches among the Sisterhood? Oriel is quite capable of overseeing that matter alone. I shall be returning to Earth, for there is work to be done. When you see our dear Lord Andrus again, it will be for something of far
greater import than that, something much more wonderful entirely. You can be sure of that much, at least.”

“Really? What?”

Syrene gave Syl a pointed look, and Syl felt a cracking pain under her skull, as if she’d been struck sharply with a hammer. She put her fingers to her head, and Syrene nodded slightly. It had been a warning.

“May I ask the nature of the occasion that will allow me to see my father, Your Eminence?” said Syl instead.

Syrene let out a high, tinkling laugh, and her voice splintered around the room like breaking glass.

“That, my child, is still a secret, for his proposal is not yet public knowledge. Oops, I have let it slip, have I not? How silly. But, as his only progeny, I imagine it is safe to entrust our wonderful news to you. In due course, Lord Andrus and I shall be wed.”

“What?” Syl felt like she’d been punched.

“You
are
happy for us?”

Even while Syrene smiled, there was a chill in her voice and a blatant threat in her eyes. Syl swallowed down her rage, and her tears, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her father, her beloved father, was to marry this creature?

“Excellent,” said Syrene. “And naturally, it will be an occasion of great joy, and you will be expected to celebrate with us. But for now we must prepare for the Genesis Ball, for other alliances need to be assured too. So come, for it is time for you to stop lounging around in bed like a spoiled princess. Rise, my . . . stepdaughter.”

She swept out of the room without another word.

Seconds later the doctor hurried in, a medic at her heels. With no formalities, she instructed Syl to clear out, and clicked her fingers at the medic, who immediately yanked the young Illyri from the bed. Syl stood semiclad and pale, holding her bandaged limb gingerly, for the sudden movement had left it throbbing.

“Is my hand mended?”

“Your hand is fine,” said the doctor, and she narrowed her eyes spitefully.

“It doesn’t feel fine.”

“Take the bandage off,” the doctor instructed. Nervously, the medic stepped forward and unwrapped Syl’s hand. The skin was puckered from being covered up, but otherwise it was smooth and undamaged, the fingers straight and strong.

“But it still hurts.”

“Wiggle your fingers,” said the medic. Syl did as she was told, carefully, and felt her eyes water as the unused joints cracked and ground.

“It was dislocated,” continued the doctor. “We fixed the injury. We left the pain.”

“Why would you do that?”

The medic was looking at her feet, but the doctor grinned.

“To teach you a lesson, Syl Hellais, Earthborn, daughter of the Lady Orianne. Now go, before I teach you another one.”

CHAPTER 55

T
hula offered to help Alis with the conversion of the mine. He was strong, and had hands that didn’t shake, although Alis was a Mech, and weakness and trembling weren’t concerns for her. Still, the mine was large and heavy, and fitting a timer to it required the removal of panels and the deactivation of its proximity sensors, which involved holding back wires and replacing circuits. Alis was grateful for Thula’s assistance, and the work was completed in about two hours.

While Alis and Thula worked, Paul and Steven made a number of passes over the reactor, scanning it from various angles in order to build up a more detailed three-dimensional picture of it. The model was now rotating in the air before them. Peris stroked his chin and peered at it from every possible perspective. Rizzo simply poked it with her finger and said, “Bang.”

“Does it matter where we set the mine?” asked Steven.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” said Paul. “I’ve never blown up anything bigger than a truck. Those reactor walls are four feet of concrete and steel. I don’t just want to damage them a little. I want the explosion to make Chernobyl look like a mild case of wind.”

Alis appeared on the other side of the model, Thula behind her.

“I think I can guarantee that as long as the mine is set beside, or even near, the containment structure, then you will not want to be anywhere near it when it blows,” said Alis.

“Is there a safe distance?” asked Rizzo.

“Far away,” said Alis.

“Right,” said Rizzo.

“And even then, I’d prefer to be farther yet.”

“I didn’t know you were programmed to be funny,” said Rizzo.

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll set it for thirty minutes,” said Paul. “That’ll give us time to clear the atmosphere and watch the fireworks from orbit.”

“I have more good news for you,” said Alis. “Councillor Tiray was right: those secondary reactors are linked to the primary facility. When the big one goes, there’s a good chance that it’ll cause a system breakdown in the others. At the very least, they’ll cease to function, but I would anticipate a series of ancillary blasts.”

At that moment, a beeping came from the main cockpit, and the display produced an image of the Archaeon wormhole. A ship was emerging from it.

“A cargo transporter returning?” asked Paul.

Steven moved to the console and enlarged the image of the ship.

“No, and it’s not a known fleet craft. It’s not giving out a signal.”

“Hell,” said Paul. “They’ve found us.”

•  •  •

They worked fast. It would take the new arrival a while to reach Archaeon and breach its atmosphere, but its long-range scanners would reveal the presence of the
Nomad
before it even entered the planet’s orbit. They could try to hide from it by staying on the opposite side, allowing the planet to shield them, but they could only do that for so long before they would be forced to expose themselves in order to attempt an escape. The craft was much larger than the
Nomad
, and its firepower was undoubtedly greater. Taking into account all of those factors, Paul instructed Steven to land their craft close to the reactor’s containment dome in the hope that their smaller ship might be camouflaged by the machinery and buildings of the facility. In the event that they were discovered, their proximity to the reactor might also buy them some bargaining power: any attempt to destroy the
Nomad
from above risked damaging the reactor and irradiating Archaeon. Negotiation would be the only way to secure the
Nomad
’s surrender, although that gave Paul little consolation. He had no doubt that once surrender
was achieved and the
Nomad
secured, everyone on board the ship, with the possible exception of Tiray, would be killed.

Of course, it was possible that the unknown voyager had been scheduled to arrive at Archaeon in any case, and knew nothing of the
Nomad
’s presence, but Paul doubted it. Here was another ship cloaked to make it appear like little more than a flying scrapheap, but scrapheaps did not emerge unscathed from wormholes. No, the craft was here because it had either followed their trail, or guessed their destination. Tiray was its target, and if their pursuers were aware that the wormhole map was in his possession, it wouldn’t have taken massive powers of deduction to conclude that he might eventually make his way to the secluded Archaeon system.

Paul watched the big ship approach the planet. He was frightened. He had been frightened almost from the moment that he had been forced to join the Brigades, just as he had lived in a state of near-constant fear during his time with the Resistance: fear of discovery, of betrayal, of torture; fear that something terrible might befall his mother, or his brother, or his friends because of a mistake that he had made. Paul was old beyond his years. He had fought and killed. He had suffered injury and privation. If he hadn’t been born to lead, then the very act of surviving had molded him that way.

Yet the young lieutenant still felt himself to be a fraud because he was afraid, and there was no one to whom he could admit his weakness, not even his brother. Lives depended on him; not just the lives of those on board the
Nomad
, but perhaps the fate of every living thing on his home planet, and he did not believe himself worthy or capable of accepting that burden. But Paul Kerr, now nearly eighteen, had not yet come to understand the truth about fear: that bravery and courage did not depend upon the absence of fear, but the control of it.

And so he silently prayed, although he did not know for what, exactly. It was enough to recite the words of childhood prayers like a mantra in the hope that, somewhere beyond, his god—any god—might be listening.

“They’re not following the same approach path that we did,” said Steven. “They’re ignoring the guidance.”

Paul watched the display. Instead of coming in on a route that would bring them almost directly over the reactor, the ship had turned northeast in its approach. Time; they had just been given a little more of it, and a little might be all that they needed. His fear vanished so quickly that he did not even recognize its passing, and it was replaced by the desire to act.

“Alis!” Paul shouted. “Status!”

“We’re primed,” said Thula, from the open bay in which Alis was making the final adjustments to the mine. “She just needs a timing, and then we’re ready to go.”

Paul returned his attention to Steven.

“I want a calculation,” he said. “Based upon that ship’s trajectory, calculate the point at which it will be here”—he indicated an area on the planet’s surface roughly corresponding to its north pole—“and the time it will take them to reach the reactor, allowing for their acceleration once they spot us. I don’t expect it to be exact, but I do need a ballpark, and I need it fast. Alis?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Your assessment of ‘far away’ as a safe distance from the blast is a little inexact. Give me something better.”

“At full acceleration, I believe we will need to be at least fifty miles from the site when the initial explosion occurs.”

“Thank you. Did you hear that, Steven?”

“Yes. Got it. I’ve made a rough estimate on the other ship, given that I don’t have any idea of its engine capacity, and can only base it on our own. If they were to find out where we were at that point, it would take between eight and twelve minutes for them to reach us, but I’m kind of pulling that figure from my backside.”

Paul glanced behind him. Tiray was slumped in a chair, his arms folded, a scowl on his face. He looked like a sulky child. Rizzo was seated at a secondary console, and had activated the weapons systems. If they were forced to make a quick exit, Steven would need all of his concentration to pilot the
Nomad
, and Rizzo was a fine gunner. Peris was standing only a few feet from Paul, and watching him closely. Already he knew what the young officer was thinking.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You will only have a small window of opportunity, and your brother’s calculations are, by his own curiously phrased admission, far from precise.”

“Do you know what one of our instructors told us during Brigade training? He said that, in any military situation, a bad decision is better than no decision at all.”

“That was
my
class. I told you that.”

“So is it true?”

“Yes, although the right decision is always preferable.”

“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“If I had a better idea, I’d tell you.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

“Hey,” said Steven. “Any chance you could share the big idea with the rest of us?”

“I will, just as soon as I’ve given Thula the timing for the mine. That okay with you, Rizzo?”

Rizzo shrugged.

“We’re still going to blow up something, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then that’s all I need to know,” she replied, and returned to checking the heavy cannon and torpedoes.

Peris stepped closer to Paul.

“She’s an interesting young woman,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“When I say ‘interesting,’ I mean ‘terrifying.’”

“I know. Aren’t you glad she’s on our side?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. And she’s only on ‘our’ side for now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, deep down, she is not on my side, or Tiray’s. In the end, Rizzo, Thula, and your brother, they are all on
your
side. Alis I cannot speak for, but I suspect that her loyalties, beyond those to her own kind, now also lie with you.”

“Because seventy-five percent of them are human?”

“Yes, there’s that, but also because they trust you.”

“And you? Where do you stand?”

“As I said, I trust you too, at least until the time comes when you have to choose between your loyalty to your own kind and your loyalty to the Brigades.”

“I have no loyalty to the Brigades beyond keeping alive those under my command. You know that.”

Peris nodded.

“At least you are honest. You always have been. Should I summon Alis and Thula?”

“Please.”

Peris prepared to turn away, but Paul called his name. He spoke his next words softly, so that only he and Peris could hear them.

“I will not kill you unless you force me to,” he said.

“And I make the same promise to you,” Peris replied. “You are already a fine soldier, Paul. May we both live long enough to see you become an even better one.”

Paul watched him go. Once again, he was disturbed by his affection for the Illyri warrior. Shaking off the feeling, he moved deeper into the main cockpit and enlarged the planetary display.

“Steven,” he said, “prime the engines. On my mark, I want you to follow this course, and I want you to stay low . . .”