But what will happen to my Oliat if I leave now?
It had been drilled into him for centuries: Centers cannot die Complete without Dissolving; Observing Priests cannot die Complete without Observing their personal truths to transmit them to others; Seniors cannot die Complete without forsaking Completion; and the Complete cannot die Complete without initiating the cycle.
He had never understood it before, but he knew now that no stage could be skipped. There was no easy way, no single feat, to earn Completion.
Gathering himself from the ends of the universe, he shrouded himself in the soothing energies of Dushaun. How can I leave this? Clinging to the precious feeling of home, he nevertheless forged his way back to the center of Phanphihy and struck upward toward his Oliat, like a diver surfacing from the depths of the ocean into sparkling sunshine.
Whiteness spewed upward around him into a fountain that erupted skyward and sent him tumbling, falling, falling faster and faster, until he landed back in his body with a shock that forced a grunt from his lungs.
He sat up.
He was among his Oliat. Morning sunshine spilled over the nearby roofs to warm his toes while his head was still in the shadow of the Aliom Temple. The greensward around them was churned into raw muck. Some of the young trees had been pulled over despite their mooring lines, and young piols were swarming over them curiously.
All the warriors were gone j and so were most of the Dushau. Black smoke rose from several buildings where fires were being put out. Underlying that was the Oliat's global awareness of the immediate surroundings dominated by the brilliant plume of the re-ignited worldcircle within the Temple.
But that plume of white energy was different. There were definite overtones of Dushaun among the distinctive patterns of Phanphihy. This time it wasn't just a fading tinge but strong pulses that formed the character of the circle.
Alarmed that the new circle might attract the Natives again, Jindigar drew the Oliat attention outward, searching for the hive-dwellers.
They were digging a circular trench around the spaceships. Already a circular mound of dirt guarded the ground they claimed as their own. Unlike animal hives where specialization reigned, the Natives had turned out all hands to erect their defense line. Warriors labored beside the intellectual rustlemen while the tall, white-skinned species that were the craftsmen and heralds directed the efforts. The tiny, exoskeletal hive-binders were grouped in the middle of the array of ships telepathically weaving the shattered remnants of then– hive-mind back into a cohesive whole. Already that hive-mind was able to send waves of psychotic horror at the colony.
As the Oliat's attention swept the hive some Natives glanced south, toward the Aliom Temple, shrinking from the pluming energies and the impulses it evoked, determined not to make the same mistake again. The hive-mind was fighting a last-ditch battle for survival, confused that the huge hive-dome they had found was not openly welcoming.
Jindigar was astonished that the dome illusion had held.
The hive, however, seemed to consider it just another part of this alien place where they'd had to claim ground. The hive had scoured their new home clean of all invaders—the lab technicians in one of the ships had been slaughtered, leaving equipment running—and the hive would not—could not– flee again. Too many had died. The rest were wounded or too exhausted to go any farther. And still the colonists grouped around the symbolic bulwark of the hive's trench. The fields were littered with dead Natives, killed by the openly hostile colonists.
Why hasn't the hive unleashed its psychic weapon?
Sluggishly the Oliat responded to the Center's curiosity, following the connections to the plain above the cliff where a few scattered Natives lay dying, and a few of the badly wounded still dragged themselves toward the cliff edge, knowing they could never make it down.
Ignoring the wounded Natives, the hive-bleeders that had driven the Natives across the plain were now bunched for an all-out assault on the Gifter hive. The Gifters were so small, the hive-bleeders did not just suck them dry—they ate them whole. The Gifter hive, however, had not yet been breached.
A troop of Holot in scarred Imperial body armor advanced against the flank of the hive-bleeders. All the able-bodied Gifters were in the air, diving at the hive-bleeders, harassing them and occasionally killing one. But they were losing against the voracious predators who could swipe one of the winged creatures out of the air, crush it, and eat it before other Gifters could rally to its defense.
As the Oliat watched, the armored Holot opened fire with flamers—probably the last of the weapons still functional. The stench of scorched hive-bleeder flesh rose to mingle with the wood smoke from the Dushau compound, and the thready screams of the hive-bleeders came to the Oliat's ears.
Fatigued, the Oliat only shuddered, recoiling from the scene, too weary for the suffering to penetrate. But the Native hive-mind, aware through its dying members up on the plain, glowed with satisfaction, feeling safer by the moment—not because .hive-bleeders were dying, but because their new neighbors could vanquish such a deadly threat and were willing to do so for neighboring hives.
Only let one colonist's hand be lifted against the Natives, the Oliat knew, and the hive would lash out with their final weapon. The ex-Imperials would go mad.
Jindigar groped for his Outreach, needing to tell the colony how precarious the truce was.
Krinata's eyes showed him the outer court of the compound and the Outrider barracks. In the yard they'd set up a rough field hospital consisting of upended crates for tables and blankets spread on the ground for beds.
On one pallet a Dushau lay with his forearm across his chest, bleeding darkly where rough bone ends jutted through the flesh. Storm was stripping a crate down to make splints while two other Dushau prepared a litter. Beyond them, a Cassrian was bandaging a human's ankle. Two Lehiroh women were tending each other's burned hands while a Holot Jindigar recognized as the new herbalist was laying a fire on the stone hearth that formed the center of the yard, preparing to brew up some remedies in quantity.
Krinata sat cross-legged on one of the blankets near Storm. Cyrus blotted a cut over her eye. She stared into the distance, oblivious to his ministrations. The moment the link opened, she gazed around, amazed. Cyrus sat back on his heels, a look of exquisite relief on his face.
//Krinata, are you all right?// asked Jindigar, having no idea how much of the pain the Oliat had suffered had gotten through to her, or what such pain might to do a human mind.
//Jindigar?//
//Yes, of course. Can you speak for us?//
She blinked, and the scene before her penetrated, the Oliat's global awareness carrying a sense of urgency. //I—I guess so. Jindigar—I hit him, but I lost it.//
//What?// he asked, not following her thought.
//The whule.//
He felt tears sting her eyes and trace dirty streaks down her
face. She caught back her breath and stifled the reaction. Jin-
digar remembered seeing her take off after the warrior. Krinata
\hit that warrior? The Oliat hadn't even felt it through all the
test. If they had– //Krinata, you mustn't ever do anything like that again.// If she was ever Dushau, there's certainly little trace of it left! Those warriors are at least three times her size!
//I won't. I promise. It was awful. And he got Lelwatha's whule!//
// No time for that now. We must report.//
She took a deep breath and placed herself at his disposal, "//Cy, we have a message for Terab.//"
"Storm!" called Cyrus. "The Oliat! It's not Dissolved! She's not in Dissolution shock after all!"