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silth-managed technology, and that Edzeka had developed into her personal
technical Community-was no more. A gutted ruin, the surrounding snows littered
with the corpses and machines and airships of those who had brought it low.
Edzeka had been overconfident of her fortress, it seemed. But as she had
promised, the warlock had paid a high price for his vengeance.
He had survived the quirky engine she had created in hopes of controlling him.
Had outlived it and had prospered. As Bagnel had reported.
Bagnel's pessimistic reports were not pessimistic enough. Exploring the rogue
areas, she found them stronger and more numerous than he had suspected. They
had installations everywhere. But, she was pleased to note, not all were
protected by suppressor systems.
She found no trace of Grauel, Bagnel, or the missing bath. That did not
surprise or dismay her. She had not expected to find them easily.
She pinpointed the rogue installations upon a mental map, then went on to
explore everything the meth had in orbit. She was quite surprised to discover
that no weapons had been orbited since the defeat of the Serke. Perhaps silth
disunity was of some value after all. Maybe they had not been able to agree on
the best ways to shut her out.
She sent stealthy ghosts out to cripple what few systems did exist in tiny
sabotages that would not become apparent till the weapons were actually used.
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She sent more down to the world to do the same to the rogues' suppressor
systems. She pursued her quiet, undetected guerrilla campaign till she neared
collapse from exhaustion. Then she rested. And when she could do so, she went
on.
She was not discovered during her preparations. It was what she wanted, and
yet she was not entirely pleased. What she could do so could the pawful of
Serke exiles hidden with Starstalker.
It was time to begin the scourging, the scouring, the cleansing. Time to let
the fire fall, though it was no wind she sent down upon the world of her birth
and hatred.
She did what no other silth had ever imagined or tried. She summoned the
system's great black and sent it down against her enemies.
The death screams of rogue minds reached her there in the void, so numerous
were they and so terrible were their deaths. So great was the horror that it
reached that deeply hidden place where her compassion lay. She called out her
hatred, hardened the shell around it, and continued the killing till she had
cleansed every installation she had been able to locate.
At the desert base of the brethren, after their destruction of Maksche, her
rage had led her to a slaughter of thousands. A slaughter so great it had
shaken the world almost as much as the bombing of TelleRai. Against this kill
that was but a fleck in the eye of a murdered beast.
The rogue world went mad. The airwaves went insane with confused messages,
frequently cut short. And because Skiljansrode was dead and there was no one
else to intercept their messages, the silth remained ignorant of the terror
that had been loosed.
Black and terrible as the killing was, rogues survived. Marika released the
great black, rested, allowed the remaining rogues to absorb her message.
Recovered, she searched again, and found many more installations, every one
defended by active suppressors.
Panic fogged the New Continent. It was so powerful she could not see how the
silth could not sense it.
She summoned the great black, sent it down again, and delivered a new message.
Only the most powerful batteries of suppressors could withstand its grand,
dark fury.
Again she released it. And still there were rogues. She nurtured her hatred,
lest it bleed away before the task she had set herself was done. No half
measures this time. No getting distracted and going away before the job was
finished. No matter the cost to herself or the homeworld.
She reached with the far touch, probed those installations that had withstood
the great black. Kublin. Littermate. I have come home. You have roused me this
time. This time there is only one way you can survive. Return me my meth. She
gave nothing away by admitting her presence. By now they would know their
enemy down there. Who else had the dark-sider strength to do such slaughter?
The rogues responded just as she had expected. They tried to destroy her. But
it took them hours to locate her, hours she used to recover her spent
strength. Then they discovered that most of their weapons had been
incapacitated. Their beamers did nothing. Their missiles exploded in their
silos. And when they had failed in their counterattack the far touch came down
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again.
I am here, Kublin. Littermate. Warlock. And you are dead unless I receive my
meth. Think of sleeping with the worms, coward. Think of this whole world
sleeping with the worms. It will, if that is what it takes.
By now the Communities were aware that something terrible was happening. Their
best fartouchers found her there in orbit and recognized her. Panic spread
with the speed of lightning. It exceeded that of the rogues, who remained
armed with the illusion that they could fight back.
Voidships rose from the surface. Marika sent one harsh, intransigent warning.
Most of the voidships turned back. The few that did not perished in the grasp
of the great black.
Marika searched for and found Bel-Keneke and prodded her with the far touch.
Gather the most seniors of the Communities. There will be a convention. She
closed herself to any response.
She reached elsewhere. Kublin. Littermate. Deliver Grauel, Bagnel, and the
bath named Silba to the Reugge cloister at Ruhaack. You have one day. Then you
die. And all who stand by you die with you.
She continued launching periodic attacks upon rogue centers where she had been
unable to detect the presence of her comrades. With practice she found that
the great black could be pushed through the shielding of even the most
powerful battery of suppressors.
She rested yet again while her senior bath managed the wooden voidship, then
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