Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (24 page)

Outside his tent the dawn was no more than a feeble glow on the horizon, yet he could hear troops maneuvering. The huge chank guns with their multispread detonation capabilities rumbled by for repositioning. Impatience filled him. That was a useless activity. When the little zero ships flew over at first light, they would spot the chanks and it would be too late to move them again before the assaults began
.

How he longed to be young again and back in the simplistic times of the old Duoden Conflict. Then, the strategies of war were simple. Men slaughtered one another, grew sickened, and sued for peace. Now, there was no peace. Only terrible hatred and the obsessive desire to win at all costs. War had become a thing of remote control. Destroy these weapons over here. Retaliate against those weapons over there. There were no faces, only numbers
.

“Forgive me, leiil.”

It was his adjutant, striding into the tent’s shadows and saluting beside Asan’s bed. Nearby, a member of Asan’s personal cadre assigned to guard him during sleep when his rings were at their lowest ebb slid an alert hand across his weapon. Asan sat up with his blanket drawn over one shoulder like a cloak. He rubbed gritty eyes
.

“Speak.”

“Crisis point has been reached. Thy chosen lines are being loaded onto ships for evacuation. We estimate five houses will make it out.”

Asan frowned. “Only five?”

“The buffer point fell before we expected it. No one planned it to come this quickly.”

The adjutant sounded aggrieved as though he thought Asan were blaming him. Asan sighed. He had dreaded this moment of complete failure for so long, and now that it was finally upon him he was surprised to feel nothing, not fear or regret or sorrow, but only a great, overshadowing weariness
.

“Have the others been informed?”

“Yes, leiil. The preservation cases are prepared. Thy council of physicians has selected the M’thra process.”

“M’thra? Less comfortable.”

“But proven to function longer than any other. Noble Rim and Noble Vauzier have already arrived at the departure site. Dame Aural is en route.”

Guilt struck Asan. He was running away. Leaving his planet and his people and his empire to die while he froze himself for what might be an eternity until it was safe to come back. What honor was there in that?

He stood up, distaste sour in his mouth. “I—”

“Great leiil, there is one more chance for us.”

Asan tipped back his head. “Yes?”

“Thy army of Merdarai. Please, leiil, have mercy upon us and bring them back from the shadow land to fight. They were the greatest force in history. They could save us now.”

Ah, the Merdarai. Crack troops handpicked and trained under his own direction. What a brilliant force they had been those many years ago. They had won for him his empire and created the legend of his name. They were invincible in their day. Just to see them in their gleaming battle shielding standing row after row had filled his throat with aching pride. He missed them. He had been tempted more than once of late to bring them back
.

“No,” he said softly, aware that his stance on this question had turned much of his popularity away. He knew some called him a coward. Others said he had lived far too long, had lost his nerve and his abilities as a leader. And a few said he feared to admit he did not know how to recall the Merdarai
.

“Oh, my demons,” he whispered as the adjutant cracked from military discipline and began to sob. “To have you again would change nothing. It would only delay what has come upon us for a little while. It would not stop the ultimate destruction we have created.”

“Great leiil, we beg thee—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There is a greater purpose for us to accomplish now. I cannot sacrifice it for a temporary respite.” He paused to control his voice. “Tell the cintans to assemble.”

At first Asan thought the transport lid over him was the dome of his crystal case. He frowned, alarmed to find himself cognizant. There must be a malfunction; he wasn’t supposed to be able to awaken without a catalyst. And surely he would have felt the energy beam of a transference.

He lifted his fist and thumped on the lid. To his surprise it opened easily, swinging back. The stale odor of recycled air filled his nostrils. He sat up with a frown and glanced around, blinking as the puzzlement of disorientation fell away.

He’d been dreaming, that was all. He was still himself, BLZ, wearing a Tlar body. And this place was obviously a minuscule ship’s sickbay. The life-support capsule he was sitting in had done its work and was finished with him.

Gingerly he prodded his chest where the wound had been. There was a hint of soreness, nothing more. He wriggled his left shoulder blade. The same back there. The other hurts, a whole list of them ranging from knife cuts to half-mended bones to bruises to lacerations, all seemed taken care of as well.

His frown deepened. He must have been in this capsule a long time. But on whose ship was he? And where was it going?

For a moment he wondered if Martok had sold him, but that didn’t really make sense. He remembered a dim dream about Udge, but that didn’t make sense either.

It was time to find some answers. He lifted himself out of the capsule and tried out his legs. They felt a little stiff from inactivity, but a couple of circles around the sickbay loosened them up. He was also ravenous.

Finding a few ration bars, he gulped them down, then searched for clothes. All he could find was a pair of standard-issue coveralls that were clean but soft from much wear. They were also too small. He frowned at the legs that hit him just below the knees and the top that would not close across his chest. He had no choice but to wear the thing, bare, bulging pectorals and all; there was nothing else, not even footgear.

Cautiously he prowled through the ship’s corridors, finding them half-lit as though this were the nighttime watch. They were too cramped for his liking. There were corrosion spots on the exposed bulkhead ribs and other signs of minimum maintenance. The ship was an old ion-drive model built for use, not looks. She was in hyperspace and her speed was fast, but she yawed slightly as she went. He frowned, wondering why no one had bothered to adjust the computer-driven stabilizer controls. Steering her had to be
flin
.

He encountered no one in the corridors or on the ladder he climbed down. He found himself in a hold crammed full of smelly zine bales. Alarm went through him. This was a smuggler’s ship. What in Lea’s name was he doing on it?

Hastily he climbed out and took several deep breaths to clear his nostrils of the drug’s unpleasant odor. When he found the ladder leading up to what must be the flight deck, he paused a moment, spreading his rings warily to check what he might run into. There was no one on station. The ship was running on automatic.

He climbed up the ladder, his bare feet making no sound on the rungs, and emerged from the turnaround. The flight deck was but quarter-length and cramped. All stations except one hummed. He stepped up to the helm and rested one hand upon the back of its chair. The cloth was worn through in places. His fingers brushed the gummy stuffing and withdrew in distaste.

After a moment’s study of the controls, he identified the navigation boards and began to flip switches, calling up visual on the viewscreen and frowning intently at the star pattern before him. He could not orient himself and had to refer to the astrogation computer. Then he checked helm for the flight coordinates.

The ship was not heading for Ruantl.

With an exclamation under his breath, he sat down in the chair that did not fit his contours and began relogging the flight, setting new coordinates and running estimates on fuel levels. The old ship was faster than he thought, but she burned an extraordinary amount of fuel. He frowned over the boards, impatient with his own rustiness in making calculations.

A soft footstep warned him he was not alone.

“All right,” said a gruff, very angry voice behind him. “Just what do you think you’re doing with my ship?”

Cursing himself for growing careless, Asan turned and saw a short man so fat he was almost square. The man’s hair was dyed blue, and he wore banded leggings and a tunic that strained at the seams. His eyes were black, beady, and very close-set. His lips were discolored from a lifelong habit of lifting zine. He held a strifer pointed at Asan.

“There’s a penalty for hijacking a man’s ship. Space law, pure and simple.” He thumbed the strifer to full charge. “Death, my friend. Say your prayers.”

Hastily Asan dug through the fuzz of memories and came up with a name. “Lu’ke.”

The fat man didn’t even blink. He extended his arm until the strifer was aimed right at the center of Asan’s chest.

Asan sought his rings and found them sluggish. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped flat on his stomach. Death missed him by less than a centimeter. He cringed, grunting as he hit the deck hard. The stench of burned ozone filled the air.

Lu’ke roared in rage, and Asan scooted on his belly into the narrow space between the helm and navigation consoles. His only hope was to keep valuable equipment between him and Lu’ke. This time the strifer bolt slammed into the base of the chair next to his hand. Upholstery caught on fire, throwing smoke into his face. Asan choked and drew back. Again he reached for his rings, trying to form them for an attack of his own. They were as shaky as a newborn child’s.

A sixth sense warned him. He rolled clear of the consoles, and again the strifer missed him by a scant margin.

“Damn you! Keep still and die like a man!”

Asan bit back a retort and crouched, ready to dodge the next shot. He was beginning to realize that Lu’ke wasn’t very skilled with a weapon. But this hunter and quarry game made him angry.

What was the matter with his rings?
Frowning, Asan reached deep into himself, seeking reserves. After such a long period of recuperation, he should have more than enough strength to spare.

Something was missing.

With a sense of shock he defined it. He no longer had a link to Anthi.

Underneath the shock, fear came boiling up, and with it anger. What had Aural done to Anthi? Worse, what had the Institute done to Anthi? Destroyed her?

Shaking, he forgot the threat of Lu’ke and flung his rings of life wide. He could not survive without Anthi. She, just as the many support computers before her, amplified his natural powers and enhanced his strength. Even on standby, she provided an essential link to the source of all Tlar power.

Anthi!
His anguished call flew out.
Anthi!

“Asan! Beware!” The cry came from Zaula, who appeared breathlessly on the flight deck. He had a glimpse of her, standing there with her hair tumbled from sleep, her dark eyes wide with fright. “Captain Lu’ke, you must not shoot him!”

“Stay out of this,” growled Lu’ke. He maneuvered his bulk around the central consoles and gained a clear aim at Asan. “Now I’ve got you—”

Anthi!
Asan stood up straight, forgetting Lu’ke entirely. Panic filled him. He felt alone, cut off. He had never been this alone, not since he stopped being human. He couldn’t go back to that awful isolation.
Anthi!

“Lu’ke!” shouted Udge, emerging from the turnaround. “Demos, man, don’t shoot—”

Lu’ke lowered the strifer only a fraction. His beady eyes glared at Udge. “A favor, you said. A favor! What the hell kind of favor is hijacking my ship, eh, friend?”

“No one is—”

“Shut up! I caught him red-handed. I ought to jettison the whole lot of you. This was to be my last run before I retired. I was going to end my days
comfortable
. Now I got you trying to steal my ship and cargo. And I’ll be wanted the rest of my life by Martok for helping you.”

“Now, hold on there,” said Udge warily. His cheek bulged but he didn’t spit. “I explained to you that Martok don’t have to know about this. You’ll let us off at—”

“He changed course!” shouted Lu’ke, waving the strifer at Asan.

“That right, Tobei?”

Asan turned his head slowly to stare at Udge. His throat felt clamped; he could barely breathe. “We must return to Ruantl,” he said hoarsely.

“Hell,” said Udge.

“You see? You see?” shouted Lu’ke. “I can’t trust any of you. That’s it, Enster. Forget the whole deal.”

As he spoke he aimed the strifer at Asan who had lost awareness of him.

“No!”
cried Zaula, throwing herself forward only to be caught by Udge. “Asan!”

Somewhere across the void, his call met Anthi’s. There was the stunning shock of disbelief, then rapid checks and crosschecks.

Asan?

Anthi!

Identify
.

I am Asan, First of the Great, Arm of Anthi. Read my patterns
.

Patterns accepted. The purpose has been lost
.

Anthi, return to the purpose
.

By the will of Asan
.

His rings snapped back to him with a physical jolt as the link was reestablished. Power ran through him as though on a current. He lifted his arms, his voice shrill with the force of it. Blue fire engulfed his body, consumed it, and shot from his eyes and hands across the flight deck.

In that moment Asan was not a physical being at all, but both more and less, caught up in the larger entity that was the black hole. He felt the eddies of raw plasma, the weight, the massive forces exploding and contracting, the bombardment of the radiant particles, the pain of looking upon something that was blacker than existence. And he felt the network of other black holes across the galaxy, the infinite power that made him less than a speck of dust, and the folds of time itself.

Of course
, he thought.
Vectors. Altian and the rest of the continent had to be griddled on vectors for navigation purposes. I was wrong to call Ggolen and the rest of the council ignorant
.

Then the brutal force faded as it came under control, filtered by Anthi to acceptable levels. The energy shooting about the flight deck faded and vanished altogether. Asan sagged to his knees, stunned and scorched and awed.