“Breeding pens,” he said. “This is where you harvested your product.”
“Yes.” Kriz spared a brief glance for the drakes below. “I assume you must have something similar.”
“Yeah, not so clean though.”
They came to a halt as Krizelle paused up ahead, her gaze drawn to something directly beneath the walkway. Clay moved closer to view the object of her interest. The glass roof of the room below was smeared with something dark, making it hard to discern the exact shape of what lay behind it. However, he could see that it was far larger than the others, its long tail coiled around a slumped, inert body.
“What is that?” Clay asked Kriz.
She continued to stare at the shape beneath the smeared glass. “For now, just another failed experiment.”
“Krizelle!”
They turned to watch Krizelle approaching a place where the various walkways converged to form a wide central platform. Zembi was waiting alongside Veros Harzeh. The intervening years had affected both men differently. Zembi’s hair had become noticeably thinner, as had his frame. Also his features now exhibited the gaunt, hollow-eyed look of a man who slept little. By contrast Veros Harzeh had become an even more substantial human being, his frame several inches wider and a large, grey-flecked beard covering his chin.
“So good to see you again,” Harzeh told Krizelle with a broad smile.
“Speaker,” Krizelle greeted him with a respectful nod. Clay noted that she exchanged no greeting with Zembi.
“Not for much longer,” the stocky man replied.
“Veros Harzeh comes with news,” Zembi told Krizelle. “Unwelcome if not unexpected.”
“Devos Zarhi won the plebiscite,” Krizelle said with a heavy sigh.
“I’m afraid so,” Harzeh said. “I’m sorry. But you know what this means . . .”
“It means our society has surrendered itself to fear, ignorance and superstition,” Zembi cut in. “A surrender I am not prepared to accept.”
“Zarhi will take over as Speaker within the year,” Harzeh said. “When she does . . .”
“The Philos Enclave will fall. Everything we have worked for will be destroyed. Decades of progress lost.” Zembi’s gaunt features spasmed in barely controlled fury before he mastered himself. “Fortunately, the Philos Caste has long anticipated this moment and we have not been idle.” He took an apple-sized crystal from his pocket and held it out to Krizelle. “Show him.”
Krizelle took out a vial and drank before reaching out with Black to pluck the crystal from Zembi’s hand. The ticking sound rose again as she began to transform it, first flattening it into a wide disc. A few seconds later the facets began to form themselves into a miniature landscape; rivers, valleys, mountains appearing in concentric circles. It reminded Clay of a shooting target, a flat outer ring, followed by an indentation that bespoke a body of water which in turn gave way to a mountainous region in the centre.
“What is this?” Harzeh asked, peering at the crystal model as Kriz finished crafting the last mountain.
“A new enclave,” Zembi said. “A whole world in microcosm. Self-contained and far removed from the petty superstitions that would impede us.”
“You want to build this?”
Clay saw Zembi exchange a glance with Krizelle. “We already have,” he said.
Harzeh voiced a loud, incredulous laugh then sobered when he saw the sincerity on Zembi’s face. “How?” he demanded. “Where?”
“You recall the southern polar expedition five years ago?” Zembi asked. “Its purpose went far beyond mere exploration.”
Harzeh laughed again, a soft gasp of bitter realisation. “So you lied to me, and to the Assembly.”
“Yes,” Zembi said, a fierce note of conviction colouring his voice. “And I’d tell a thousand more lies to achieve our goals. We are so close, old friend. You know how vital this is.” He moved closer to Harzeh, voice lowered to an intent murmur. “I intended to complete the transfer over the course of the next two years, but with the Assembly in the hands of that delusional woman time is no longer a luxury we enjoy. We need your assistance. The sun crystals still need to be transported, as do the children. Just three aerostats. That’s all I ask.”
Harzeh ran a meaty hand over his greying beard, frowning at the model. “Why so elaborate?” he asked.
“Drakes don’t flourish in captivity,” Krizelle said. “We lose more than half of every generation hatched here, and those that survive infancy tend to live only a few years. Father believes we have corrupted the blood lines. A fresh start is needed if we are to breed stock with sufficiently potent blood. A sealed environment simulating their natural habitat will achieve that.”
“Think of it, Harzeh,” Zembi said as the Speaker continued to ponder the model. “Within a few generations we will finally achieve convergence. Is that not a prize to risk everything for?”
Harzeh closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “We live in an age so wondrous it would have made our ancestors weep to see it,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if the Zarhis of the world don’t have the right of it. Should we not be content with the Benefactors’ gifts?”
“You may call it contentment,” Zembi said with hard certainty, “I call it blind indolence. You remember why we started this, old friend. Humanity once came within a whisker of extinction because we were too mired in ignorance to develop the means to deal with so great a calamity. Convergence will ensure that never happens again.”
Harzeh opened his eyes, gave the crystal model a final glance before nodding to Krizelle. “Thank you, child,” he said, turning and starting along the walkway towards the exit. “The aerostats will be here within the week,” he added without turning. “It will be my last act as Speaker before Zarhi calls for my exile. Be sure to use the time well.”
The memory broke up as the stocky man walked away, the dome swirling into mist then re-forming into a familiar landscape. It was the cliff-face from their trek through the mountains, but now partially covered with some kind of wooden scaffolding. A glance at the sky revealed the three crystal suns shining bright above it all.