Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

  Their past, Boaz had called it, killing the past. He looked about him; reckoned there was for this barren dying world . . . little else left.

  He shook his head, set his eyes on the city whose name he did not even know, and walked.

  * * *

  Pillars rose, spires of the same hue as the hills against which they stood, stood, such that they might have been made by nature . . . but they were baroque and identical, and there were others round about them in the distance, marching off toward the south; there was beyond that a jewel-gleam, a shining the eyes could not resolve.

  Ele’et.

  Duncan gazed on it in sometime view beyond the shoulders of kel’ein before him . . . he was lost among them, a head shorter than most when all his life among humans he had been tall; as for all his thinness now, he was still wider-boned than they, broader of hand, of foot, of shoulder: different, anomaly among them. And mingled with other thoughts was unease, the thought that they faced something more difficult still.

  “The People served the elee,” he said to Taz, who walked hard by him, with a burden slung to his shoulder. “Do you know what they look like?”

  “I have not seen one,” Taz said. And after a space more: “They are tsi’mri,” which dismissed interest in them.

  He said no more then, having enough to do only to walk, with the veils wrapped thickly about nose and mouth, and his joints remembering the pain of the long trek before. He had the dus by him, and through it, sometime sense of Niun, which comforted him.

  He was afraid; it came down to that.

  Why they were going to this place, what they hoped to have of the race which lived there, which—perhaps had resources uninvolved in the catastrophe, weapons . . . he had no clear imagination. To fight, Niun had said. He had given them the breath of a chance to do so that much; had killed the regul: that much.

  They rested—had done so several times during the day, for it was Kath’s pace which dictated their progress; and this time a ripple of orders went down the line: make camp.

  Kel’ein muttered surprise, gathered themselves up from the places where they had settled, to aid Kath. Duncan began to, and remembered orders, and sat still, by the dus, his arm across it Un-ease would not leave him. Dus-sense, the realization came on him; the beast itself was stirred. They were making camp as if all were well, and the dus-sense had the discomfort of a cliff’s edge, a dizziness, a profound sense of strangeness.

  Niun would know; would be aware of it. He rose up, ignored in the confusion of assembling canvas and the assembling of the tall poles, wended his way among them, his way blocked by a little child who looked up at him and blinked in shock, scrambled aside from him and the beast at once.

  He stared that way, distracted, disturbed, walked past this kel’en and the other in search of Niun, following dus-sense. There were others out there, shadows, following them, following them and him since the ship, all these days of walking, the young of his dus and Niun’s, ha-dusei, wild. They sought. They were scattered, the senses on which their own dusei drew, eyes and ears ranging wide of their own.

  His.

  And they were coming in.

  Niun was there, near the site of sen-tent, which was billowing in the pull of the ropes; kel’anthein were about him, and it was not a time for an unscarred to speak to him. Niun, he cast through the dus-sense, turned at the dark impulse of another mind.

  Ras. He reached out, touched her sleeve, met her veiled face and distracted stare, began to ask her to go to Niun.

  Ras. It was Ras. The dus-sense leaped through the touch. He stopped speaking and Ras looked away, following the direction that he himself sensed. “They are coming in,” he said. “Kel Ras—they are coming in.”

  “For days—” she answered hoarsely, “for days it has been there. It will not let be. Since the time I went back from the tribe—it has been there.”

  The storm feeling grew, acquired other direction, another essence, male. And another.

  Another still. Duncan looked, saw dusei on the sandy ridge nearest, coming down toward the camp.

  “Gods!” Ras muttered. Her voice trembled; she would have backed away; he felt the tremor in his own muscles.

  “It wants,” he said. “There is no stopping it.”

  “I will kill it!”

  “It has two brains, two hearts and there is a madness comes on them when they are rebuffed. Believe me, sometimes it touches the kel’en top. Shon’ai . . . let go. Let go, Ras. You are in its mind already. You have been.”

  “Drive it back.”

  He felt his heart laboring as it would with his own in distress, human pulse and mri and dus dragged into synch. His and Ras’s and Niun’s; whose else there was no knowing.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked of Ras. There was nothing that might sting more.

  She walked from him, through anxious, silent kel’ein, for the whole company had gone still and turned eyes toward the beasts. He walked after, heart still pounding, watched from the edge of camp as Ras went out among them, as one of the four made for her, personal nightmare: kill it she could not; it would be a knife against her own flesh.

  Not hate: he understood that, which he had sensed already . . . that the signature of Raps was something else again, a stone-steadiness, a stubbornness—devotion. The stranger-dus reared up, towering above her, came down with a puff of dust and a warding-impulse which shivered through his own beast.

  Then another thing, that sent dizziness through him, as dus and kel’e’en touched, as she knelt down and put her arms about the dus’s neck. Power, dus-mind and mri, a thing dangerous and disciplined. Mri scattered as other dusei came in; children fled for Kath. Other bonds were forged, and he knew as his own dus had touched these minds before . . . . Hlil; the boy Taz, who was at desire so deep it shuddered through the camp; and Rhian, who feared, and stopped fearing.

  “Yai!” Duncan exclaimed, dropped to his knees and hugged the beast by him, trying to shut it off, mri minds, and dusei. It would not go, not for long, slow moments. He hung still against the beast, aware finally of it nosing at him, gentle pushes that were not, to a man, gentle. He choked down nausea, free finally, of what still lodged in memory of knowing too much, and too well, and all the veils being down.

  Niun was there, as dazed as he—mri, and stable. Duncan rose to his feet, walked, aching from the convulsion of his muscles, and the dus went beside him. There was a silence everywhere, kel’ein and all the others staring at him, at them, who were also there, who assembled with Niun at center. Rhian was there, a mind he had felt all too long as hunter; Hlil, Ras; and unscarred Taz, dazed and frightened to be dragged into commonality with kel’anthein.

  They met, met eyes. Duncan felt his heartbeat even yet tending from his own normal pace, struck at his dus and stopped it. Heat rose to his face, consciousness that he knew strangers as he knew Niun, was known by them.

  “I am sorry,” Taz murmured, as if it were his fault a dus had chosen him.

  “No one answers where dusei are concerned,” Niun said. “They choose. They find something alike in us—gods know what.”

  “They sense the strangers,” Duncan said thickly. “They are here—to protect. There is another one still wild, still out here. Why . . . I do not sense. Their own business, it maybe.”

  “We are going into the city,” Niun said. “Kath and all but a few hands of sen’ein stay in camp, with a guard. They have taken service.”

  Duncan looked from him, to the white figure of Melein among the Sen, and beyond, to the pillar-sentinels of the elee.

  Attack. He realized that of a sudden.

  Alignments made sense suddenly, mri and tsi’mri, to draw the line and set all enemies across it. Mri had no allies.

  “Did you not understand?” Niun asked. “We take this place.”

  The dusei had realized it . . . had come to take sides, as they had chosen on Kesrith.

  With mri. With several in particular, who had something in common.

  M
adness, perhaps; Duncan reckoned so.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The ships were indeed retreating. Suth studied the screens, smiled, keyed a signal to his own crew.

  Shirug began to move, a slow withdrawal from the world, keeping Santiago and Saber constantly in scan.

  And on screen, bai Degas waited. “We have begun,” Suth advised the human bai. “As agreed we will keep to pattern with each other. And our communications will remain linked to yours, reverend bai Degas.”

  “I am instantly available in emergency.”

  “Favor, bai.” Suth gaped a grin; he liked this human, after a fashion. There was a pleasantness about him in sharp contrast to the others, a sense of solidity in his reactions.

  And for that reason he was to be feared: not dull, this bai Del Degas-si, not at all dull-witted. He retained things very well for a human.

  “I shall turn contact over to a youngling now,” Suth said. “Our profound gratitude for this cooperation.”

  “Favor reverence,” the human replied in lisping approximation of that courtesy. Suth grinned dutifully, shut off the contact for his own screen and leaned back in his sled.

  Behind him the other sleds moved, entering his field of vision.

  Nagn, Tiag Morkhug.

  There was no elation, no exultation. It was not a time for such.

  “Keep in close contact with this office,” Suth said. “When you sleep, do so in the presence of one of us four being awake. All channels are to be strictly monitored by some one of us.”

  “This dismantling of mri sites,” said Nagn, “is said to be progressing. Human information is not always accurate.”

  “Lie, Nagn. The word is lie. Humans deceive in false statements as well as actions; but we work with this particular action . . . indeed, we work with it.”

  Morkhug puffed her nostrils uneasily. “I still dislike it. One threat gone: the mri sites; and I do not see the human advantage in this.”

  “Unless they lie,” Nagn said.

  “Impoverished mri,” said Tiag, “must take service with someone. Or die, of starvation.”

  “Question,” said Nagn. “Do humans assume they will take service with them?”

  Suth hissed. It was insanity, that regul adults sat here contemplating trues and maybe-trues regarding human minds. They learned. They all began to think in mad terms of shifting realities. He gathered a stylus from the board before him, held it between his palms and rolled it. “Observe, mates-of-mine, the flat face of the stylus. Where does it exist? Has it a place as it spins?”

  “In fractional instants,” Nagn said.

  “Analogy,” said Suth. “A model for imagination. I have found one. The place faces all directions for an instant, a blur of motion. Human minds are and are not so many faces that they seem ready to move in any direction. They are composite realities. They apparently face all directions simultaneously. This is human motive.” He laid the stylus down. “They are facing us and the mri simultaneously.”

  “But action,” said Tiag. “They cannot act in all directions forever.”

  “They act for themselves. What is of value to them?”

  “Survival,” said Nagn.

  “Knowledge,” Suth said. “They state that they are destroying the sites.”

  Nostrils flared and shut in rapid alternation.

  “I accept no data from humans,” Suth continued, feeling the palpitation of his hearts. “Mates-of-mine, among forgetful species, this is the only sanity. Among species which imagine, this is the only alternative. I have set a sane course. I made appropriate motions by human request, to avoid unprofitable developments. Humans state that they are destroying the sites: potentially true. They omit to state that they are gathering knowledge. We know that they are using the elders of Flower as additional personnel. They have stated so, and if this is a lie, I do not find motive in it.”

  “We are letting them destroy armaments we had counted useful to us,” Morkhug objected.

  “No,” said Suth. “We do not do that. Our base . . . will not do that.”

  * * *

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Luiz leaned against the side of the cushion to the right of Brown and shook his head sorrowfully. Brown’s eyes stared back at him with a bruised look . . . the man had not left this bridge, not he nor any of the rest of the military crew—had rather bedded down here near controls; the night shift was sleeping on pallets over against the storage lockers, and everyone kept movements quiet for their sakes. They had a full crew, with everyone awake; half on turn and turn about; and the men had given more than duty, monitoring scan, helping science staff with the rapid filing of data, the breakdown of delicate instruments and equipment, frantic storing of whatever might be damaged in a violent lift. There was no panic aboard; fear . . . that was an abiding guest.

  They were alone, for the first time truly alone, save for—intermittently, a shuttle closer to Kutath than the big warships dared be; and Galey’s mission, down with them.

  They hoped, at least. There was no contact with Galey. Harris’s mission could find them—if they were following the agreed sequence of sites; and the next thing they could look for was either holocaust or a progress report.

  That they would delay to bring Boaz back . . . that, if it rested with her, they would not. Luiz scanned the master chart which plastered the pinup board . . . lingered on second site, where at best reckoning, she was. Eleven major targets. Even the young men had to come in for relief, somewhere in that world-spanning chain of targets; and then she would. He hoped so.

  If nothing went wrong before then.

  “I don’t expect word,” Brown murmured, evidently reckoning he was obliged to say something. “Takes a while, to get there, to lay plans, a lot of things, sir. Could be quite a while.”

  It was, he reckoned, a kindly attempt at comfort; he felt none.

  * * *

  Beyond the pillars of carved stone, the city Ele’et sat, a fantastical combination of glass and stone, aglow in the fading light. Kel’ein murmured with wonder; and Niun gazed on it thinking on his youth, on evenings spent in the hills above a regul city, looking on lights in the twilight, and dreaming dreams of ships and voyages and war, and Honors to win.

  He looked on Melein, who walked among the Sen who had come with them, for all his wishing otherwise. She had no words, none, but she had simply set out with them, and what she would, she did. The Holy reposed in safety; she and her sen’ein, fifteen including Sathas himself, walked in the blackness of more than a thousand kel’ein, and said nothing of how they should take this place.

  He had not far to reach for companions: they were near as the dusei, moving here and there throughout the column; he summoned, and they came, those not by him already, even to Taz, who was devastated by his fortunes. “Stay close,” he bade them all, and at Duncan especially he looked. “You have the other gun, sov-kela; and I would you stay nearer the she’pan. These are tsi’mri.”

  “Aye,” Duncan murmured. The incongruity did not draw a flicker from him. They were two, Niun thought, who had known the old war, on different sides as they were; who knew the Kesrithi law—distance-weapons for those who would use them: the mercenary Kel had lost its compunction in such matters.

  “They must know we are here,” said Hlil.

  “Doubtless,” Niun said.

  Nearness made the rocks of the hills take on strange form in the sunset, twisted shapes, joined by aisles of stone and glass; shapes shaped by hands, he realized of a sudden, the whole face of the hills hewn into abstract geometries, as the pillars had been hewn, with glass facing the intervals: hills, whole domes of rock the size of edunei . . . carved in elaborations the north side of which the sand-laden winds had eroded, and the size—the size of it . . . only a tenth part was alight.

  “Gods,” he murmured, for suddenly their number seemed very small, and the sky leaden and full of enemies.

  Ward-impulse prickled in the air; something started in the sand before them, an
d another. Soon a whole cloud of burrowers fled in distress, and the sands rippled beyond that. It was as if the very sands hereabouts lived, writhing like the mutilated stones.

  Water. Outspill from the city.

  And dus-sense grew more and more disturbed. “Do not loose it,” he bade those about him. “You understand me. The beasts are not to be loosed.”

  There was murmured agreement.

  “Nor the Kel,” said Melein, startling them. “Take me this city. Do not destroy it. Do not kill until you must.”

  “Go to the center,” he wished Melein. “You must have care.”

  To his amazement she did so, without demur. He drew breath, surveyed the place before them, which balked them with a maze of walls and no streets, nothing of accesses, nothing of pattern.

  He led them straight on as the wind would blow, with contempt for their barriers and their building and the logic of their structures. He led them to a great face of glass, which showed within a hallway, and carven stones, and great carven boulders rising out of the very floor, prisoned and changed in this tsi’mri place.

  He drew his gun, unfired in years, and with wide contempt, burned an access. That fell ponderously, that shattered with a crash that woke the echoes and scattered glass among the carven stones. Warmth came out at them, and moisture-bearing air.

  They walked within, glass ground under their boots, the dusei snorting at the prick of slivers which let blood. His own let out a hunting moan that echoed eerily through the vast halls, and found direction, guiding them all. He kept his gun in hand, and with a wave of his arm sent a flood of kel’ein the width of the hall, to find out all sides, all recesses of the carved monuments. They were beyond the glass now, and the floor echoed to their tread, itself patterned in mad designs.

  And figures stood at the end of the hall, glittering with color, gods, the colors! As one they stopped, staring at hues of green and deep blue and bright colors which had no name, none that he knew—the robes of mri-like folk who had no color, paler even than Duncan’s pallor, whose manes were white and long and shamelessly naked, the whole of their whiteness bejeweled and patterned.