F. Wilson - The Tery

As he hefted it in his hand he realized the egg was the key to assuring Tlad’s help.

Jon made his way out of the cul-de-sac and back down the passage toward the doorway to the observation corridor, toward safety.

When he neared his destination, Jon halted and searched the softly glowing dirt and rock that lined the walls on either side. He located a loose stone at eye level and pried it out. After scraping out a small hollow, he placed the bomb within and pressed the stone back over it, then stepped back and surveyed his work. Satisfied with the job of concealment, he turned and ran the rest of the way back to Tlad.

"He made it!" Dalt shouted to the empty corridor when he saw Jon's familiar form break from a pile of stony rubble and race toward him.

He jumped back from the window and dashed into the lock. Grabbing the wheel, he spun it until the locking bars slid free of the door, then pulled it open. Jon leaped through and helped him close it after him.

"Thank the Core you're all right," he said.

It was all he could do to keep from hugging this big, bearish youth. All the while Jon had been gone Dalt had imagined a thousand gruesome deaths and had sworn never to forgive himself if anything happened to him in there.

But now it was over and the tery didn't look any worse for the wear — no, wait a minute — blood on his face, neck, and back…

"You're hurt?"

"Just scratches," Jon said in his growly voice. He was breathing easily, evenly as he stood there. "Only hurt a little."

"Did you find the cache?"

Dalt sensed an odd tension in Jon. "Yes. Found it. Found the bombs — many of them."

"Well…where is it?"

An instant of hesitation. "Out there."

"You dropped it?"

"I hid it."

Dalt was baffled. "Explain, Jon."

The tery quickly recounted what and whom he had seen in the air shaft. He concluded by telling Dalt what he now desired most in life.

"Captain Ghentren must die."

"Oh, he'll die all right," Dalt assured him. "Everyone up there — Mekk, the priests, the troopers — they'll all go when that one bomb sets off the others."

"No. You do not understand. He must not die without knowing. He must realize that his death restores a balance that he upset when he came to my home and killed my parents. He must know that before he dies."

"It's called vengeance, Jon," Dalt said slowly. "And you've certainly got some coming — generations' worth. But the bombs will provide that with interest."

"No," the tery repeated. "You do not understand. That captain must —"

"He must squirm and plead and beg before you kill him? Is that what you mean? Is that what you want? You want to sink to the level of his tactics, is that it?"

Struck by the vehemence of Dalt's voice, Jon stiffened but made no reply.

"You're better than that, Jon. Rab told me how you killed Dennel and Kitru, but that was different — that was when you were trapped in the middle of hostile territory."

"Yes. And because of men like the captain, the whole world is hostile territory to my kind."

"That may be, but what you're talking about now is not like you. It's cold-blooded and not worthy of you." His voice softened. "You may not know it, Jon, but there's something noble and good and decent about you. People sense it. That's why they like you. This Captain Ghentren is scum, no better and no worse than the others up there who do Mekk's bidding. Don't dirty your hands on him."

"But the balance —"

"Blast the balance! The bombs will take care of that!"

"No." The note of irrevocable finality in the tery's voice brought Dalt's arguments to an abrupt halt. "The bomb will not be replaced in the cache until I have seen the parent-slayer's blood on my hands."

"And now blackmail," Dalt said in a low whisper. "You learn fast, don't you?"

He ached inside as he faced Jon. The poor fellow had been through so much in such a short time. His home, his security, his very identity had been shattered. His world had begun to spin wildly out of control when Ghentren's men spilled his parents' blood, and something within him clung desperately to the belief that all would be set on an even keel again by the captain’s death.

"What do you want me to do?" Dalt said, watching innocence crumble before him.

"Find Ghentren," the tery rasped. "There is still daylight left and you can go above in the fortress and find out where he sleeps."

"And then what?"

"I will visit him tonight and restore the balance."

"You can't even get into the fortress, let alone kill an officer."

"I can. And I will. Then I will return and replace the death egg after you have done what you must do to it."

Dalt considered his options and found he had none. He was bound by the Cultural Survey Service regulations to work within the technological stratum of the society under observation, but that wasn't holding him back now. It was the Hole. It stood between him and the solution to this mess. He stared though the window at the unending nightmare. If he thought he had the slightest chance of surviving in there he'd go himself. But only a full Defense Force combat rig would get him through the Hole alive, and he hadn't brought one along.

He could abort the entire mission. But that was tantamount to handing all those weapons directly over to Mekk, for sooner or later the Overlord would find a way to get to them. And that would be the end of the Talents and anything else that dared to deviate from what the True Shape sect declared the norm on this world.

Damn the Fed and damn the CS Service. Why couldn't they establish a protectorate?

He was getting tired of asking himself that question and receiving no answers… no answers he liked.

"Since you leave me no choice, and since the future well-being of our friends, the Talents, depends on placing that bomb" — he glared at the tery but Jon remained unmoved — "I'll do what I can. But I'll need your help to get to the surface."

Jon stood quiet, waiting for Dalt to get started.

Feeling at once saddened and exhausted, Dalt spun the wheel, locking the door into the Hole, and turned away. The diagrams in his transcript of Shaper history had shown one or two air shafts leading up from the observation corridor, as they did from the Hole. These, however, were equipped with ladders. They found one farther down the passage. Dalt climbed the imbedded rungs and peered through the grate set like a window in the wall of the shaft.

The opening appeared to be situated in the side wall of a two-meter pipe, part of the original city's drainage system. A lever on his right unlatched the grate and it swung open. With Jon close behind, he eased himself through and scuttled around the puddles to where a faint shaft of sunlight cut the gloom at a sharp angle.

Another grate, this one in the roof of the pipe. He clung to its underside and saw that it opened into the floor of an alley. He sensed no one about and all seemed quiet amid the lengthening shadows. Moving his hand along the edge of the grate he found a lever, rusty with disuse. After applying most of his weight to it, there came a creak of metal on metal and the lever moved, releasing the grate.

Moving that was another matter, however. The full force of his muscles was not enough to budge the heavy iron structure. The combination of ponderous weight and rusty hinges was proof against his strongest efforts.

But not against Jon's. The tery glided up beside him and threw his shoulder against the grate. With an agonized whine of protest, it swung upward until there was enough of an opening for Dalt to squeeze through. The tery eased it shut as soon as he was clear.

A quick glance around showed Dalt that his initial assessment had been correct: a deserted alley. He peered down though the grate and saw Jon's face hovering in the darkness on the other side.