Nomun stepped to the water’s edge. The passengers had discarded their privacy masks; some of the faces seemed familiar. Nomun studied them for a moment, then took an involuntary step backward. Three of the passengers wore his face. They saw his consternation and laughed. One dressed in the same manner as Jade Nomun, but in garments cut from finer fabric, called out. “Yes, we’re brothers, Nomuns. But we did not steal the
Beside Nomun, Jade Nomun snarled and brought forth a chunk of crystal he had hidden inside his shirt. He threw it at the grinning faces, and it flew true until it struck the barrier. The warning tone rang out and the crystal burst with a flat ear-hurting crack, became a cloud of drifting sparks.
Young Nomun had come up behind them. “Tell us, what were your plans?” he asked. “Had you not wasted your weapon on the spectators?”
Jade Nomun walked down the beach toward the next node without replying. Nomun noticed that False Nomun was already gone. He looked toward the shelter, realized why False Nomun had left.
“Come,” he said to Young Nomun. “Who knows how the mech will react, when it finds the corpse. I would prefer to be in the jungle.”
Young Nomun nodded, distractedly. He seemed to be fascinated by the men in the breathboats. “Is this such a famous event then? That our brothers gather from the stars to watch us?”
Nomun did not reply. He walked quickly down the beach, so that Young Nomun had to trot to catch him before he reached the blue glow of the jungle.
“Wait Empty. Do we have the same arrangement?” He made to touch Nomun’s shoulder, but Nomun slid away from his outstretched hand. Young Nomun seemed surprised, then angry. “You mocked me for sparing the mad one. Do you criticize me now for not saving the brute?”
Nomun looked at him. “No, no. Who am I to judge you? Our agreement stands. I’ll go first tonight” He turned and stepped under the canopy.
The Blood Moon rose swiftly, a blot of crimson, and almost as soon as the crystal pulsed with hot light the storm began.
...AND NOMUN’S SHIP dropped, engines silent, through the thick clouds of Hell.
To settle himself into the proper emotional mode for the task ahead, he viewed a recording of FareLord Gegando, First Voice of that race in the Manichaean Reach.
Gegando addressed the Human Assembly: “... the natural condition of humanity is slavery.” The FareLord’s silver face was narrow, humanoid except for the eyes–protruding red balls set too far apart. “This truth is self-evident. Even were we to withdraw from those worlds where indentured humans perform the necessary work of the Holdings, their ‘freedom’ would rapidly prove to be illusory. Occasionally, we are driven from our Holdings by agitators and mercenaries. What happens? Almost instantly, the humans select a new slavemaster. We have seen this over and over.” Nomun clicked off the recording, smiled wryly.
Nomun inserted another wafer. His smile faded as he watched. He saw the melt mines, where humans trawled the magma in bottlecars, and died in fiery white implosions. He saw the pens in the highlands where millions lived behind the wire. He saw the deep catacombs full of mindless breeders. He saw the graceful spires of the FareLord palaces, high atop the most stable peaks.
Nomun pulled the ship out of freefall when he had dropped below the highest ridges of the Moving Mountains, where for a time, he might be safe from FareLord detectors. He landed in a narrow canyon, just below the mouth of a cave from which a boiling river poured.
A welcome party awaited him; three figures muffled in coolsuits. He let them wait, while his ship scanned the landscape for any evidence of treachery. Eventually he shut the ship’s systems down and gathered his gear.
He stepped out onto the surface of Hell; his clients indicated with urgent gestures that he was to follow them. They led him up a precarious trail to the lip of the cave.
Just before he went down into Hell’s heart, he turned for one last glimpse of his ship. Workers were already covering the hull with concealing pumice.
THEY CONDUCTED HIM to a coolroom under the mountain, where ancient machinery wheezed and strained to keep the temperature bearable. Inside, the welcoming committee stripped off their coolsuits.
The spokesman was a tall cadaverous man with the spiraling tattoos of a firediver. He stepped forward, offered his hand to Nomun. “Welcome, Emancipator. I’m Kronerq; these are my adjutants, Maril and Wumorin.” A long uncomfortable moment passed before Nomun touched the hand briefly.