Dominion (47 page)

He pushed the thought away. He knew that he was frightened, and was looking for a way out. He felt sure that he would die near Illyr.

Syl said nothing. She was wondering what she would find. She was thinking about her father.

And Ani.

T
he shuttle carrying Ani back to Erebos barely made it through the wormhole intact, and was forced to make an emergency landing on the outskirts of the Palace grounds. Ani was profoundly, painfully sick as soon as they emerged. She had cut her forehead deeply and it would require stitches, while Sessily had fractured her right arm.

“The wormhole is losing its integrity,” said Jolia, one of the Illyri technicians who came to the aid of the Archmage. “It's unsafe for further boosts.”

“Secure it with a warning beacon,” said Ani.

She was sorry to be losing the Sisterhood's private wormhole, but grateful that she would never have to use it again. They had been away for two days in total. The delay had been necessary for Ani to receive her new guests.

From the rear of the shuttle, five figures emerged. They were dressed in what looked like Nairene robes, but Jolia recognized none of them. As far as she was aware, only Sessily and Lista had been on board the shuttle when it left with Aron. Jolia had already been mildly surprised to find the Archmage on the damaged shuttle instead of Lista—the Sisterhood had been informed that the Archmage was “meditating” in her chambers—but she knew enough of Ani's powers of deception not to be too shocked. An additional five Sisters, all new to her, was another matter entirely.

As they drew closer, the five strange Sisters drew veils over their heads and faces, but not before Jolia caught a glimpse of damaged skin on the neck of one. Visible in the wound was not flesh or blood, but cables and circuits.

Ani took Jolia's chin in her right hand, turning the technician's face toward her.

“What do you know of organic circuitry?” Ani asked.

“A little,” said Jolia. “Actually, more than a little.”

“Good,” said Ani, “because I have a special job for you . . .”

T
he shifting red mass of E748 bloomed before the
Nomad
, its edges rippling as they faced it head-on. It was like looking into the open end of a ghostly trumpet, but it wavered and shimmered, and bulges randomly appeared in its surface as if clumsy fingers were prodding against its interior. Something in its left side began to swell like a massive bubble under a layer of skin, tight and angry and seeming ready to pop. Beyond was the suggestion of distant nebula, but nothing more.

The three passengers on the
Nomad
stared into the mouth of the wormhole, and tried to hide their fear. For once, none of them seemed to have anything to say.

Paul made the first move, and his voice and manner were efficient. He was back in charge.

“Right, crew,” he said, “this is the big one, the last boost. Status, Thula?”

Thula didn't even need to look at his system readings.

“More unstable than previously thought,” he said, “as I'm sure you've noticed.”

“Is it safe, Sergeant?” There was an edge to Paul's voice.

“No, Lieutenant, it is not safe.”

“But is it safe
enough
?”

“I couldn't say. All I can tell you is that the
Nomad's
readings caution against entering, or even approaching it, for that matter.”

“As does my stomach,” whispered Syl from her seat—Rizzo's old seat—beside the guns.

“So we can't use it?” said Paul. He might have been angry, but equally he might have been relieved—it was hard to say.

“With respect, sir, you have not let the
Nomad
's readings stop us before. Or my advice, for that matter.”

Paul almost smiled.

“I guess I haven't. Okay, so what do we think? Syl?”

“Is there another way?”

“No, not without retracing our steps and entering through a major wormhole, which would leave us open to being captured by a Corps ship, and imprisoned.”

“Or worse,” said Thula.

“I didn't want to say it, but yes, probably worse.”

“It's just semantics anyway,” said Thula. “It's not like we have much choice.”

“Well,” said Paul, “it's not going to get any more stable with us just stalling here, looking at it. Let's do it. Secure the ship for boosting. Syl, when you're done, you keep the weapons seat. I'll copilot. Strap yourselves in tightly. And let's put on helmets this time, to be safe. Oh, and make sure you have a working oxygen supply too, just in case. We'll worry about everything else when we make it to the other side.”

“If we make it to the other side,” muttered Thula, but if Paul heard, he chose to ignore him.

“One more thing,” said Paul, and he marched over to Syl, took her face in his hands, and kissed her on the lips. It was meant to be a firm, quick peck, but Syl clearly had different ideas, and Paul was happy to go along with it.

“Oh, come on,” said Thula as the kiss went on and on, and if he could he would have revved the engine in annoyance.

Paul pulled away, and his face was pink.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I'm not,” said Syl, and she was smiling as she buckled herself into her seat. “That was lovely. Ready when you are, Thula.”

•  •  •

Thula tried to hold a steady course, but the pressure inside E748 was tight and constricting, and Syl felt the squeeze worse than ever before, the sensation of being stretched like an elastic band twanged to breaking point. Light split and warped beyond the window as it was distorted against the inner walls of the wormhole, separating into a spectrum, and then another spectrum, and then, as a massive thud smacked the
Nomad
from the side, an entirely new array of colors seemed to burst like fireworks beside her, sparking images she'd never seen before, and would probably never see again.

The vibration grew in intensity until they were being shaken wildly. Syl's head was tossed about on her shoulders, her body straining and bruising as it was thrown against its supports. The
Nomad
let out a deep moan, and she thought fleetingly of whale song as, almost in slow motion, metal buckled in toward her. For an instant it seemed like a trick of the mind, but she knew that it was very real as a panel collapsed painfully on top of her leg, a great weight that held her in place and would not be lifted.

And still they were buffeted, a mere paper ship on a sea of madness. A rivet popped from the floor below Syl and shot upward, embedding itself in the roof panel. Another followed, fast and direct as a well-aimed dart. She heard herself shout a warning as more rivets turned into projectiles, and she looked toward Paul and saw that he was twisted in his seat, turned toward her desperately, as powerless as she was. He was wearing his oxygen mask, and she grabbed hers while Paul tried to secure Thula's as the Zulu battled to control the ship, the muscles in his neck thick with effort, the veins in his temples popping. He shouted something incomprehensible as lights sparkled and played on the cockpit windows before collapsing and floating away in swirls of broken hues. There was an earsplitting screech, and every indicator on the dashboard burst into life at once before forming columns of illumination that stretched like iridescent worms.

And as Syl watched, the hull of the
Nomad
crumpled in upon itself, and Paul was struck by a thick lump of metal. They were sent spinning through space as Thula lost all remaining control of the ship. Paul—ominously silent, and limp as a rag doll—was ripped from his seat, his buckle compromised, his straps flapping uselessly, and his body slammed helplessly into Thula. The controls snapped in Thula's hands as he was thrown away from the panel, his seat wrenched from its moorings, big, strong Thula rendered as fragile as driftwood in a storm of chaos, spinning until he crashed into the far wall, still strapped tightly into his broken seat. A starburst of red exploded onto the shining chrome as his leg made contact, and splintered glass rained down on his head.

But that wasn't the worst of it, for the
Nomad
itself seemed to be breaking up around them, howling and roaring like an animal in great pain. Syl could see the sky where it shouldn't be seen. She felt cold, so very cold . . .

They had finally run out of luck.

The last thing Syl saw was Paul's sweet, sweet face, his eyes already closed. The last thing she heard was her own anguished scream.

And still, the faraway stars shone calmly at the end of E748, glimpsed as if through the wrong end of a telescope, eyes blinking but not seeing.

. . . perhaps she was dead. There was a very bright light, just like in the movies, but surely, surely death couldn't hurt this much . . .

 . . . perhaps she was in heaven. Everything was white, and there was music, but surely, surely heaven would not hold such pain . . .

 . . . perhaps she was in hell. There was red, so much red, and she felt so very hot, as if she were burning up, but she was completely numb too, and surely, without a doubt, hell would be riddled with pain . . .

 . . . perhaps she was alive. There were voices, and her head throbbed, and a cool cloth covered her aching eyes. But she found she could remember too—bits, at least, as she recalled Paul in the blood-splattered
Nomad
, his eyes closed, his body flopping like a doll's, lifeless and broken, and now she wished more than anything that she was dead.

Syl started to scream.

W
hen Syl woke up, she wasn't in heaven and she wasn't in hell. She didn't know where she was. She was lying on her back in a small, white space with curved walls, a closed door, and a circular window in the ceiling opening up into a star-filled black sky. She winced against the whiteness around her, forcing her pupils to close, and then she focused more slowly, taking in her environment. Tubes ran in and out of her body. Her head itched, but when she tried to lift her hand to scratch it, she found her arms were strapped to the bed beneath her, loosely enough to move a little, but tightly enough that she couldn't reach anything.

“Hey!” she cried as she pulled against the bonds, but her voice was hoarse and weak. “Untie me!”

She heard a babble of muffled voices, drawing nearer, and she yelled again, louder now, just as the door flew open, and in swept two females, both wearing the distinctive red robes of the Nairene Sisterhood.

“What is it?” said one, looking around as if expecting an invasion. She was tall and well rounded, and her plump, pale face was tattooed with shapes that might well have spelled words in an unknown alphabet, although without the translation they looked like random doodles. “Why are you shouting?”

“Where am I?” said Syl, still struggling against her stays. “Am I a prisoner?”

“Well, you're not exactly going anywhere, if that's what you mean,” said the other female. She was somewhat older, but not nearly as old as her snow-white hair might have suggested. She kept it short, so it sprouted from her head like the bristles on a broom, and she wore an expression of restrained amusement.

“Where am I?” said Syl.

“The Palace of Erebos, in our medical suites.”

“But you're Nairenes.”

“Obviously. We control this facility.”

“How did I get here?”—and then Syl remembered, and she nearly choked on the next words as they spluttered, panicked, from her mouth: “Where's Paul?”

“Paul?” said the white-haired Sister.

“She means one of the humans, I think, Velarit,” said the other.

“Yes, the human men! What happened to them?”

“They're alive, which is about the best that can be said for them,” said the Sister called Velarit. “And please stop shouting. We thought there was a problem.”

“Of course there's a problem!” cried Syl. “I'm tied to a bed, and I don't know what the hell is going on. I need some answers.”

Velarit ignored this.

“Syl Hellais,” she said, “I shall inform the Archmage that you have awoken. She is anxious to see you.”

“The Archmage?” The horror echoed loudly in Syl's voice.

“Naturally,” said Velarit. “Who else? She has taken a deep personal interest in your progress. As soon as she knows you're awake, I imagine she'll be here promptly.”

“No!” shouted Syl.

“And please,” said the second Sister, “be more polite to Her Eminence than you are being to us. It is because of her that your life has been saved.”

“Only so she can watch me die again, more slowly,” said Syl, and she was furious to find that tears of fear and self-pity had filled her eyes, and were flowing down her cheeks. Her nose started running too, but there was nothing she could do to stop it, and no way to wipe it. She sniffed loudly. “Please, please just untie me.”

But the Nairenes departed without another word. Syl sank back against her bed. What had she expected? How could she have been so foolish? She was on Erebos, far from the Marque, and back in the hands of the Archmage.

•  •  •

Minutes later the door opened again and through it glided a figure in deep red flowing robes, veiled in familiar fine lace, straight and poised, moving with the elegance of a creature fully at ease in its skin. She was alone, and pointedly shut the door before turning back to face the bed, slipping the veil onto her shoulders as she did so.

“Ani?” said Syl. She'd have recognized that silver hair anywhere, but this Ani was markedly taller, distinctly older, fully grown and fully beautiful. But that wasn't all that was different about her: her cheeks were now adorned with intricate tattoos of spiraling tiny-leafed vines, and from them watched the tattooed eyes of the Nairene Sisterhood.