Dominion by John Connolly Page A

“And my people have done nothing wrong, or nothing that merits their abandonment on this world.”
    He held Steyr’s gaze. Danis knew what was coming, and Steyr realized that he knew.
    â€œCertain individuals were named as ‘essential’ to the new Illyri presence on Earth, and were not to be permitted to leave,” said Steyr. “The list included your name, and those of a number of your immediate associates and family members.”
    â€œAt whose command?”
    â€œThe Archmage Syrene,” said Steyr. But . . .” He paused. “I don’t take orders from the Sisterhood. Anyway, in the midst of such a chaotic situation as we have here, errors can be made.”
    Steyr consulted briefly with one of his aides while Danis waited, his life and the lives of those for whom he cared most hanging in the balance.
    â€œOne ship,” said Steyr. “Those on board will join me on the Oxion , but they will officially be prisoners. Do you understand? There’s no other way.”
    â€œThank you,” said Danis.
    Steyr nodded, and killed the link.
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    In the morning, the reduced castle staff—or the Illyri staff, at least—were informed of the impending evacuation, and told that a ship would be ready to take them off-world. They would be permitted to bring with them only what they could carry. By noon, Althea and Fian had not returned. At one o’clock precisely, as a precaution, the castle entrance was sealed, for there was limited space available on board the waiting craft. Only those inside could be saved.
    Still, Danis did not give up hope, muttering to himself as he circled the courtyard near the gate, repeatedly urging the remaining guards—who were themselves itching to leave—to keep a lookout for the missing Illyri females, and particularly Fian.
    â€œStill no sign of them,” said one guard. “But a mob has formed outside. Humans are demanding to get in. They’ve seen the Corps ships leaving, and want to know what’s happening.”
    â€œKeep them at bay,” ordered Danis, “but don’t fire unless absolutely necessary.”
    By twenty past the hour, news reports started to trickle in, quickly becoming a deluge, faster and faster from all over the world. Large, unmanned craft had entered Earth’s atmosphere, massive silver cargo transporters the likes of which had not been seen before. They were unmarked and apparently automatically piloted, for all attempts at communication were ignored, and refusal of landing permission under threat of Military defensive strikes proved no deterrent to their progress. As soon as they reached their optimum altitude, the silver ships’ plump underbellies merely opened and clouds of red-tinged dust—the harvested alien spores—were released onto the world below. Those beneath the craft, Illyri and human alike, rushed to escape the strange mist, and many were killed in the ensuing stampedes, although none would be alive to count the victims, for what panicked feet had started the spores would go on to complete. Those who inhaled the spores instantly began to choke and convulse, falling atop the crushed remains of the trampled, their bodies swelling as the spores did their work, turning their victims into gestation chambers for the Others.
    This was the first wave.
    As word spread, the living fled; cars jammed highways, and boats took to the water with scant supplies, their human cargo looking back appalled at their infected lands, and at those leaping desperately into the sea, swimming after the retreating boats, until sinking exhausted beneath the water, and still the clouds spread. Galateans tore into their Illyri masters and the Illyri responded by mowing them down in their thousands. Those Agrons that hadn’t yet died of disease took off into the side streets to escape, frenzied with fear, but as they fled and their panic abated,