Infinite Day (63 page)

Twenty-four hours later, Merral judged that they were safe enough to risk surfacing. As they hung there amid the emptiness of space, with Sarata already only a pale white point of light astern, Abilana carried out her surgery, and Laura ran a survey of the outside of the hull in case any debris had struck and done damage. In both cases, the results were satisfactory.

They plunged back into Below-Space and onward to Farholme.

21

O
ver the next few days, Merral found himself very busy. Traversing Below-Space for only the second time with a strange ship and a relatively untrained crew posed many concerns. Not least was the issue of navigation. The
Sacrifice
was designed for use with a steersman on any journey out of the Sarata system, and they had to rely on the coordinates that Azeras had programmed into the ship's navigational system. It was agreed that as a check, it would be essential to surface at intervals to calibrate their progress from the star-field observations. Helga, the ship's weapons officer, continued the cautious work of understanding the offensive and defensive capabilities of the ship. Fortunately, the ship was designed to be used by a relatively unsophisticated crew, so there was much automation and a number of training programs, which, when translated into Communal, were very helpful.

Helena, who had now been promoted to head of the military team, asked Merral about continuing training. He considered the matter and decided that, as they were unlikely to face opposition on the way back, the rate of training could be reduced.
When we reach Farholme, we can decide who wants to continue on toward the Assembly. In the meantime, as long as we can keep our skills up, that will suffice.

One key task was dealing with the delegates. Together, they were brought up-to-date with events, and then they were individually debriefed, partly to help them and partly on the off chance that they had learned something of the Dominion that might be useful. Merral was careful to leave dealing with Isabella to others. He rationalized his decision on the grounds that it was in her best interest; but he did wonder whether he had, in fact, just given up on her. Yet despite his distancing, he couldn't help but be aware that she was not responding as well as the rest of the delegates to life aboard the
Sacrifice
. At one meeting, where soldiers recounted the battles at Farholme, he saw how she sat erect and stiff and distant from the others.
Does she believe what she's hearing? Or is she too proud to admit that she may have been wrong about me?

One area of progress came from Vero. The sentinel had merged the data he had acquired from the
Rahllman's Star
and the
Sacrifice
with that which he had brought from the Farholme Library. He referred to the new combined databank, which resided on his desk as a head-sized silver cube, as his Augmented Library. He spent every moment he could spare on the task of compiling and understanding the enormous amounts of information. On the second day in Below-Space, he sent a handwritten note to Merral:

At last! I have found the way to lock out an Allenix from accessing the ship's functions! See me to put it on your diary.

At lunch, Merral sat next to Laura and slipped the note to her. She read it and nodded. They left the canteen together, and she turned to Merral and remarked in a low tone, “Should we deploy that now?”

“No. But I'll have it installed for our use. It'll be ready when we need it.”

She nodded. “I feel safer already.”

Four days out, Merral caught up with Luke in his office. “And Isabella?” he asked.

Luke sighed and shook his head. “The iron has entered her soul.” He paused and seemed to consider what he had just said. “I'm getting as bad as Vero. I don't really know what that means.
Exactly
. But it seems to fit. It's hard to get through to her. She perceives everything as a form of manipulation. So any effort to help is seen as us trying to twist her. By all accounts, this was happening on the way out. It's a natural tendency, but Lezaroth played on it.”

A bitter look came on his face, and he struck his thigh with a clenched fist. “Merral, you have seen the Blade and what lies within. Do not make the mistake of thinking that this is the worst of the Dominion's evil. The most spectacular, perhaps, but hardly the worst. To twist an ordinary human being into bitterness is far worse than conjuring up any amount of demons.”

“And Anya?”

“You and your women, eh? She told me what happened when she saw the baziliarch. I sympathize with her.”

“She wants to be a hero, like her sister.”

“That's obvious.” He leaned back in his chair. “Merral, we talk of courage as if it always takes the same form. But it doesn't. Anya's sister was courageous; she chose the route that she knew would lead to her death. It was very brave. But Anya has been faced with different challenges; to face sudden monstrosities may require quite a different kind of courage. There are parallels elsewhere. Someone—say, a forester—breaks a leg in some accident. Does bearing that sudden and unexpected pain require the same courage as handling the news that you are going blind?”

“Probably not. They are very different things. But you're hopeful?”

There was a pause. “Yes. But I'd be happier still if I knew that the war was over instead of just beginning.”

Five days after the fiasco at the Blade, Lezaroth was summoned without explanation to Gharnadoul, the nearest of the Worlds of the Dead. He was flown alone by autoshuttle to a deserted landing station, where a robot took his gun and ordered him into a single-person transport. As the tiny cab sped through the air locks and accelerated out into the barren landscape, he stared impassively out the dirty window.

The sun was a malevolent yellow disk peering through angry, twisting clouds. In the sulfurous light he could make out the landscape on either side of the roadway: a vast, torn terrain smashed into high, jagged cliffs and deep, bottomless gulfs. Lezaroth had never visited either of the Worlds of the Dead—few men had—but even in ordinary times they were never spoken of by choice. And now, with the lord-emperor in a murderous mood, he knew both were deadly places.

As Lezaroth stared at the road ahead, he knew he expected to die.
How many men has my lord killed since the
Sacrifice
escaped? The rumor is that at least fifty were consigned to the depths of the Blade in order to appease the powers there. And another fifty or so are still being tortured.
He had read the transcript of the last moments of the
Twisted Spear,
and he sensed that his encouragements to KD had borne a bitter fruit.
He will kill me
.

The road crossed a chasm, and he peered down, seeing the broken remains of an older track littering the slope like a torn snake. He saw no other vehicles.
I am alone on a World of the Dead and heading to death.

Soon he cut through a long, gloomy tunnel, and then he was out on an immense sandy plain with the wind whipping up great spirals of yellow dirt. Suddenly the dusty haze parted, and he glimpsed amid the desolation the towering, faceless, gray walls of the first of the great mausoleums.

Here Lezaroth's resolve made a comeback.
No, I will not yield to death yet. Not even here, where death is supreme. After all, if the lord-emperor had wanted to kill me, he had the chance over the last few days. I am a soldier; I will fight for life
. The tiny cab raced on over the desolate plain, winding past gigantic pyramids, soaring obelisks, and gargantuan, multistoried towers. He saw that some were ruined.
Even the Worlds of the Dead are not immune to decay
.

Finally the cab drew toward a massive lead-colored dome adorned with spires. A doorway opened for the vehicle, and at a deserted station, a robotic voice ordered Lezaroth out and into a lift. He plummeted down for what seemed minutes before the lift stopped and the doors opened. Ahead was a gloomy and irregularly lit space with a high curving roof; it was so enormous that he could not see the far side. He swung his eyes around urgently, looking and listening for threats. Inside the huge area were massive plinths of ink black stone on which lay half-cylindrical caskets of gleaming glass. Inside he could make out long forms, as brown and brittle as husks of wood.

The dead.

The room appeared to be utterly deserted apart from some multilegged service machines. Lezaroth saw and heard nothing that threatened him. It was bitterly cold—he could see his breath—but he resisted the temptation to put his hands in the pockets of his new dress uniform.
Doubtless, I am watched.

Glowing arrows on the floor led him between the massive platforms. As he walked on, his feet echoing in the vastness, he saw that some of the plinths were empty. Others bore carved inscriptions beneath the glass containers. Still other plinths were hung with dusty and faded emblems. At the base of all these structures could be seen tubes, and Lezaroth could hear the low hissing of fluids and the click of valves. A strange medical smell hung in the air, like that of a morgue after a battle.
Here, decay and disinfectant battle it out.

He realized that the chamber must stretch for many kilometers.
How many dead are here? For how many thousands of years have the leaders of the noble houses been preserved here?
Then for a brief moment, something of the old rebellious Lezaroth returned.
And to what end?

In an instant he saw a dark-clad figure standing before a particularly grand plinth.

Is it the lord-emperor?
He looked harder. The light here had some strange quality that seemed to blur things, and even with his collimated eyesight he found distinguishing details hard. He realized, with surprise, that it was a woman. She was tall and stiff-backed, and her head was uncovered so that her long dark hair flowed down over the shoulders of a long black dress.

A woman? Here?

As Lezaroth approached, the figure turned to him and he glimpsed, beneath neatly parted hair a pale oval face with blue eyes. The effect was of such delicate beauty that he was stunned.
Like some of the Assembly women. Has D'Avanos somehow infiltrated here, too?

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked, hearing confusion in his words.

She laughed, not as soldiers laugh, but gently and musically. “Guess . . . ,” she said in a high tone that seemed to Lezaroth sweeter than anything that he had ever heard.

Then she put an elegant finger to her mouth to urge silence and turned to look at the plinth.

Who is she? Is this a trap?

He saw her reach out and begin tracing words on the side of the plinth with a long white finger. He was going to say something when a shudder passed through her. The finger shortened and seemed to contract.

Great Zahlman-Hoth, protect me!

Her long hair rapidly shrank away, looking for all the worlds as if it had been reeled back into her head. The remaining tresses turned light brown, and chunks of skin peeled away. The figure that now stood before him was male, dark-suited, of medium height, and wearing black gloves.