Shadows of Hyperion: Chapter 2

We continue, this time with a new point of view...

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Chapter 2.

Malvchait, Master of Forces, was in a black mood.

 

It was not merely the inexplicable, embarrassing defeat that the Molothos had suffered, although that was undeniably a part of it. Still, he had only followed the orders of his superior – Faction Leader Dajzail of the Molothos. The worst of the humiliation had landed squarely on his carapace, not Malvchait's.

 

At the same time, it was certainly the human undercreatures who were to blame for Malvchait's current slowly-boiling anger. Dajzail had chastised him – had placed him in the Hold of Correction and screamed at him – before the humans, for the sake of Dajzail's pledge to the undercreature Ariane Austin.

 

A pledge made under duress is worthless! He bit off a segment of pluri worm and ground it, but he didn't really taste it. Nonetheless, Leader Dajzail had Corrected him before their people and the humans' leader and champion. It was a bitter mouthful to swallow, straining one's grinder to the limits.

 

He could send to the Homeworld, point out Dajzail's failure, try to convince the Nests Assembled to recall him. But for that to work, Malvchait would need some leverage of his own. Undoubtedly Dajzail's own report had been sent and read. Unless Dajzail was a fool – and he most definitely was not – there would be no errors of fact in the report.

"He who arrives first, presents the truth," he murmured, quoting Ralsmaza's ancient and cynical proverb. It was always harder to change minds, especially ones that had made a difficult decision based on the information they had first received. Which the Nests Assembled obviously had, since Dajzail was still here. If they hadn't liked the report… no, chop that. They undoubtedly had not liked the report, no one would. Take it then that if they had not agreed that Dajzail was not to blame for the disaster, then there would have been a new Leader of the Faction of the Molothos. Since Dajzail remained Leader, they had been convinced the failure was not of his doing.

 

Trying to convince the Nests that they had made a mistake? He wobbled his claws in unconscious negation. No, definitely not. Not without something to give them, some angle that was not obvious to convince them to shift their ground.

 

Malvchait cast the pluri aside in annoyance. If I cannot taste it, it is worthless. The blood-dripping, cylindrical body bounced off the legs of a passing Milluk, but neither it nor any of the others strolling the Grand Arcade dared glance his way. The undercreatures all knew the Molothos, and of the entire Arena assembled, not one in a thousand would confront one of the True People over such a trivial action.

 

But the brief satisfaction he felt from that was childish, a barely-hatched child's pleasure at achieving a goal that any adult could reach without effort. It did nothing to relieve the real source of anger and pain, which was that despite the losses inflicted on the Molothos, Dajzail had made peace with the Faction of Humanity.

 

Not merely a cessation of hostilities. Not merely a pause. Peace.

 

It was… not entirely unprecedented, no, but on the other claw it was. The Molothos had made peace with others, very rarely, but those others were Great Factions. The Blessed, the Analytic, the Faith, and – after the first disastrous confrontation back in the dim, dim reaches of the Molothos' first emergence into the Arena – the Shadeweavers.

 

But to make peace with a Faction so new it had but one Sphere? Never. It was insulting. Malvchait gave a buzzsaw snarl that caused the others about him to retreat another meter, some crowding into store doorways or even behind the stalls of street vendors. It was inexplicable.

 

He knew Dajzail, or had thought he did. The Leader of the Faction for years now, Dajzail had a gentler touch to the claw than his predecessor, but that had never meant he was incapable of being hard as armor plate when necessary, and his youth had not limited his intellect or knowledge. He knew how to delegate, how to inspire, how to direct, how to act on his own. He was properly proud of his place and strong of will.

 

So how in the name of the Homeworld and the Nests had he come to this point of utter humiliation, perhaps even depravity, that he would lose a battle and make peace with a Faction whose first act had been to wipe out a Molothos scouting expedition?

 

He found himself standing before Halye's Burrow – an inn, a place with temporary rooms for those without a permanent place on Nexus Arena. Such locations acted somewhat like miniature Embassies; inside a rented room the user was close to sovereign, including the right to physically defend themselves, although the ameneties were often vastly inferior to even the newest Embassy. There were many of them, but Halye's was particularly good at catering to all, even Molothos.

And truth be told, he did not want to return to the Embassy tonight. He might say things that would have consequences he was unprepared for.

 

A brief exchange with the Tensari at the desk resulted in him receiving a key to a room tailored to Molothos needs. He settled into the resting cup, still brooding.

 

He was, he finally admitted to himself, being somewhat unfair to Dajzail. They had all been shown the summaries of that ill-fated battle, and the concatenation of absurdities was enough to daunt even the strongest will. And that last event…

 

He recalled the image of Zounin-Ginjou bursting from the exploding wreckage of Fireswarm, implacable, unstoppable, invincible. Yes, perhaps it was a temporary thing, a shield that would have failed in mere minutes more. But… "No," he grated reluctantly. "No, I would have been loath to take that bet."

 

Captain Ariane Austin, alien undercreature though she might be, had shown not the slightest sign of fear or doubt; she had delivered her ultimatum with the cold certainty of one who holds the absolute advantage.

 

Yes, perhaps Dajzail had been left with no choice but to yield… but to yield so much? He had barely argued with her. And then, he had insisted that his honor extended even to the agreement of peace. Peace with undercreatures barely out of their lowspace world.

 

It was unsupportable, intolerable… and yet he could see no way he could do anything but tolerate it. He would need a lever, an advantage… a personal victory, preferably over the Faction of Humanity, in a context that somehow did not violate the terms of the peace, or that forced them to violate the terms… and for the moment, he had not the faintest idea of how that could be achieved.

 

There was a knock at the door.

 

Malvchait tilted his head. Who could possibly be here? No one knew I was coming here; even I didn't know I was coming here! He unlimbered his sidearm. "Enter."

 

The only thing that kept him from firing was utter, disbelieving shock. He was frozen for a few seconds, as the tall, slender, human figure in white entered, nodded, and gestured to cause a chair, suited precisely to his measurements, to extend from the wall.

 

"Good afternoon, Master of Forces. So kind of you to invite me in."

 

The paralysis had allowed his mind to catch up with his reflexes; having inadvertently invited the creature in, the peace required he not blast the impertinent thing to ashes. "I cannot imagine I have anything to say to you. Leave."

 

The other laughed, and tilted back the hat – white also, with a single black band, revealing alien blue eyes and gold-colored hair. "Oh, you would be amazed at how much we have to talk about, Master Malvchait," he said. "But I am remiss; allow me to introduce myself." His eyes twinkled with completely unafraid humor.

 

"I am Doctor Alexander Fairchild."