“Exactly,” Richard replied. “How do you react to a man who turns up his nose to wealth and fame? It’s unnatural...”
“At least Lady Nasri is more... agreeable?”
“Yes, but they’re a package deal.”
“Are both really necessary?”
“What happens when we need to choose our next emperor?” Richard asked. “With six families, we could have a hung decision, three votes for and three against. The turmoil would be a disaster! With seven, a majority is guaranteed.”
“I suppose,” Lady Veber replied skeptically.
“Perhaps more importantly,” the prince added, “our society is built on each family’s prestige being directly tied to the captains of the colony ships. It’s our birthright.”
“Yes?”
“But if Captain — I mean Lord — Santos denies the inherent importance of being such a captain, it calls into question the status of the other Five Families, not to mention the lesser families who descended from the rest of the ships’ crews.”
Lady Veber considered this for a time.
“Indeed,” she said finally. “I see your point.”
“We need Santos on board,” Richard said, “or people will start questioning the foundations of our authority and the very fabric that holds the Imperium together.”
“I presume you’re here on the Emperor’s behalf to prevent that from happening?” she replied.
Prince Richard nodded with a sly smile.
By evening, Prince Richard had departed as he came, in a crackling of electrons disappearing into nothing. The air was still warm and gently brushed through Lady Veber’s hair as she returned inside to consider what the prince had said. However, her mind was preoccupied with other business far closer to her heart.
Passing through the estate’s long corridors, Lady Veber was scarcely aware of those she happened upon. She heard their voices and vaguely registered what they said before disregarding it as unimportant. Whatever they needed could wait.
She entered her son’s quarters but didn’t knock, knowing it was unnecessary. In the main room, a man in a white coat with buttons down the left side waited for her, but Lady Veber passed him silently and went into the bedroom. Her son Philip lay in the bed while one of Lady Veber’s handmaidens stood watch beside him.
Philip was nineteen, with brown, deep-set eyes. His hair was matted and damp from a cold compress on his forehead.
“How is he?” Lady Veber asked.
“His fever is the same, ma’am,” the handmaiden said, an older woman with a round face.
“Has he eaten today?”
“No, ma’am.”
Lady Veber, scowling angrily, returned to the outer room.
“They told me you were the best physician in the Imperium,” she said, trying not to shout, “yet my son keeps getting worse and worse!”
“His illness isn’t responding to treatment,” the doctor replied. “I can order another battery of tests...”
“More tests?” she scoffed. “You’ve scanned and pricked him a hundred times and you’re no closer to curing him!”
“So far, his condition has defied diagnosis. We simply don’t know what’s causing this.”
The handmaiden cried out, bringing Lady Veber and the doctor into the bedroom where they found Philip shaking violently.
“It’s another seizure!” the handmaiden yelled.
Lady Veber and the other woman held the boy down while the doctor injected a sedative. Within a few seconds, the boy’s convulsions subsided, allowing them to release their hold on him.
“Get out,” Lady Veber told the doctor.
The man, his face reddening, moved toward the door but stopped.
“Should I run the additional tests?” he murmured.
“Just get out!” Lady Veber shouted.
The doctor turned and left. Lady Veber rearranged several blond hairs that had come loose and hung haphazardly around her face.
“Ma’am,” the handmaiden said meekly.
“What is it?” Lady Veber said, mopping beads of sweat from her forehead.
“I know you’re convinced conventional medicine will help—”
“I’m not convinced of anything right now...”
“It’s just there’s something I want to show you.”
From around her neck, the handmaiden removed an amulet hanging on a long, black chain. The ornament was an octagram, an eight-pointed star, made from a strange, dark metal. A black pearl was set in the center.
Chapter Two
On Aldorus, sub-basement 31 was over three hundred feet below the Regalis starport. Magnus Black found this useful for two reasons. First, it was too deep for someone to transmat in or out, including transmatting Magnus without his permission. Second, it was too deep for orbital bombardment to reach, even if someone wasn’t timid about destroying the thirty floors above sub-basement 31 and whatever happened to be sitting on the starport surface.
It was also dimly lit. Magnus liked that most of all.
Positioned in the shadow of a rusted storage container, Magnus waited. His head and face were shaved to a mere stubble and he wore a dark leather coat. Inside the coat, a blaster pistol hung by a shoulder holster.
Farther down the line of containers, an elevator door opened with a cheerful ding and a man in uniform stepped out. His name was Colonel Hugo Grausman, a man Magnus knew very well.
In his fifties, the colonel wore a green uniform with black, spit-shined boots. His brown hair was cut high and tight, revealing a large scar running along the side of his head.
Colonel Grausman held up his hands and turned completely around, showing that the holster at his hip was empty and no other obvious weapons were visible. Magnus let him stand there for a full minute before saying anything.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Magnus said, “unless I was going to kill you.”
Following the assassin’s voice, the colonel took several steps in that direction before stopping.
“I get that a lot,” he said.
“I hope this isn’t just the Intelligence Service luring me into a trap,” Magnus said, emerging from the shadow.
“They’re still looking for you?”
“If I’m still breathing, they’re still looking for me.”
“Maybe I can help you with that...”
“Is that why you’re here?” Magnus asked. “To do me a favor?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m hurt,” Magnus replied.
“There’s been a terrorist attack on Marakata,” the colonel said.
Magnus shrugged. “That’s a daily occurrence...”
“A suicide bomber got into the green zone and blew himself up, taking out half the officers’ quarters,” the colonel went on.
“The Draconians aren’t going to stop until the Imperials leave their planet.”
“I know that!” the colonel said angrily. “I’ve been fighting them for twenty years.”
“So, why’s this attack different?”
“Because my wife and kids are dead! They died in the explosion!”
Magnus arched his eyebrow, but said nothing.
“We killed off the terrorist cell responsible,” the colonel continued after collecting himself, “but the leader’s still at large.”
“Who is it?”
“Do you still remember General Ekavir?”
Magnus glared. “You know damn well I do.”
“Then you won’t mind going after him for me.”
“He’s not my problem anymore,” Magnus replied.
“A lot has changed since you were there,” the colonel said. “Ekavir’s lost most of his people from reprisal raids. The rest don’t want to be anywhere near him. They say he’s lost his honor.”
“I guess killing kids will do that for a person.”
“The two of you have unfinished business. This is your opportunity to finish him off once and for all.”
“Are you sure he’s still o
n Marakata?” Magnus asked.
“The planet’s been under blockade since the attack,” Colonel Grausman replied. “I haven’t allowed anyone off the planet except myself to come here. He’s got to be in the jungle somewhere. It’s just a matter of finding him.”
“On a world covered in jungle. That shouldn’t be hard...”
“Some of your old contacts are still alive. I’ve made sure of that.”
“What about payment?”
“Five hundred thousand credits,” the colonel replied.
Magnus shook his head slowly. “Not enough.”
“Like I said, I can get the IS to stop looking for you.”
“Now, how would you do that?”
“I’ve made new friends,” the colonel said. “They might do me a favor if I ask nicely.”
“The IS was pretty pissed when I quit,” Magnus replied. “It didn’t help that I killed their agent on my way out the door...”
“Is that a yes?”
Magnus considered for a long minute but finally nodded. “Okay.”
When the expansion of the Imperium reached the Draconian home world Marakata, the humans found a race of fierce warriors who, even without advanced technology, resisted all attempts to subdue them. Taller than humans, these large reptiles were covered in thick green scales with wide, bone-like protrusions around the crown of their skulls. Although they had claws on both hands and feet, they were masters of bladed weapons including what the natives called the Draconian Battlestaff. At the end of a long pole, the head of the battlestaff combined a pointed side for stabbing and an axe side for slashing.
The Draconians did a lot of both.
Two hundred years and several revolts later, Marakata was a police state with Colonel Hugo Grausman as the military governor. Even with Imperial soldiers manning checkpoints throughout the main city of Sucikhata, attacks by Draconian separatists occurred so frequently that most governing offices, both civil and military, were located in an area of relative safety called the Green Zone.
Although the inhabitants of the city enjoyed all the modern amenities one would expect, the architecture of Sucikhata gave it an ancient appearance. Instead of concrete and plasteel, the buildings were constructed of stone blocks carefully fitted together without mortar or cement. Since most buildings were only a few stories tall, the city grew outward, forming a sprawling labyrinth of narrow alleys paved with large, flattened stones. Like everywhere else on the planet, vines and vegetation were prevalent throughout the city as the jungle attempted to take back what was rightfully its own.
Magnus checked into a hotel where he found his equipment waiting for him, courtesy of Colonel Grausman. Magnus lifted the blinds and stared at the jungle visible just outside the city. In the haze of the afternoon, a volcano rose from the leafy sea of green.
As a new recruit, barely in his twenties, Magnus learned all about Agniparvata, the name of the Draconians’ revered volcano. According to their legends, a two-headed dragon named Bonamalum lived inside the mountain. One of the heads, Bona, was good while his brother, Malum, was evil. One day, a hero climbed the mountain and challenged Malum to combat. The evil side agreed, attacking the hero, but after a battle lasting seven days and seven nights, Malum’s head lay severed on the ground. As the hero rejoiced in his victory, he noticed that Bona was bleeding to death from the wound that killed his evil brother. Powerless to help, the hero could do nothing as the good dragon collapsed and died.
Over the last two decades, most of the soldiers Magnus served with had either died or been transferred off-world. He hadn’t made many friends among the locals, because he was killing them most of the time. The few native contacts Magnus did make were usually uncovered by resistance groups and executed as traitors. Even so, there was one Draconian he was confident still lived. A quick search of the business registry confirmed it.
Despite the tropical heat, Magnus pulled on his leather overcoat and made his way down the streets of Sucikhata. Military checkpoints blocked most major arteries, but Magnus avoided them, preferring the narrow side streets. A group of Draconian children playing with a ball stopped, their jaws hanging open, as the strange human passed by. Most non-Dracs were too afraid of the dangers that dwelled in the alleyways. Besides regular gangs, thieves, and misfits, these were the passageways where true believers in Draconian freedom were found. For them, spilling human blood was a rite of passage.
Appearing oblivious, Magnus strolled undeterred except for the heavy sweat running down his face and neck.
Turning a corner, three young Draconians barred his way. Each carried a machete-sized blade.
“Lost?” one of them asked.
“You must have a death wish,” said another.
Magnus opened his coat, revealing a blaster rifle hanging from a shoulder harness.
“Go home,” he said.
“We’re not afraid of you!” the first youth replied defiantly.
“If you knew how many Dracs said that to me and ended up dead,” the assassin replied, “you’d already be gone.”
The Draconians traded nervous glances, but Magnus already knew what the consensus would be. Courage was no substitute for experience, and fear trumped them both.
Reluctantly, but still with an element of haste, the three stepped back and turned, making their way down a side alley and out of sight. Magnus closed his coat and continued on his way.
The Dragon’s Teeth was a shop far enough off the beaten path that only people who already knew it existed ever went there. The shop’s name, by law, was written in the human language, called Imperial Standard, while below in smaller script was the translation in Draconian cuneiform.
Magnus pushed the front door open and went in. If the hit man thought the air was hot on the outside, he was unpleasantly surprised to find it like a furnace on the inside.
At least it was a dry heat, he thought. Like sticking your head in a convection oven.
A bell over the door alerted the owner someone had entered. A tattered curtain covering an archway parted and a Draconian, hobbling on a peg leg, shuffled in. Seeing Magnus, the old Draconian swore something in the local language. Magnus could guess what it meant.
“Hello, Daaruk,” Magnus said. “How’s business?”
Daaruk swung his head toward the racks of swords hanging on the walls, a blanket of dust covering them.
“About as well as my leg,” he replied wryly. “The one you shot off as I recall.”
“That’s a shame,” Magnus replied. “You’re the best weaponsmith on Marakata.”
Daaruk chuckled. “Only because your people keep killing my competition.”
Magnus shrugged. “I guess it’s good to be the last one standing.”
The Draconian pivoted on his wooden leg and went back through the archway. Magnus followed.
In the next room, a forge filled the center, a well-worn anvil standing to one side. Daaruk took a pair of tongs and grabbed a piece of glowing-red metal from the burning forge. With a hammer, the Draconian struck the metal over the anvil a few times before shoving it back into the fire.
“So, you took my leg,” Daaruk said. “Did you come back to finish the job?”
“No,” Magnus replied. “I have a different job in mind.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Unless he’s a customer, I don’t know him.”
“The Jade General?” Magnus asked.
Daaruk pulled the rod from the forge again, but instead of laying it across the anvil, he swung it around toward Magnus’ head. Anticipating the move, Magnus thrust his hand through the pocket of his coat, firing his blaster rifle through the lining. Daaruk’s peg leg disintegrated into ashes, leaving him off-balance. He fell heavily on his chest, the smoldering metal bar sliding across the floor.
Magnus removed the rifle from his coat and pointed it at the back of Daaruk’s head as the Draconian lay there gasping for breath.
“Wa
s it something I said?” the assassin asked.
The weaponsmith rolled over, rubbing his shoulder where he had hit the floor.
“Barbarian,” he said.
“That’s funny,” Magnus replied. “That’s what Colonel Grausman calls you.”
“Humans think we’re primitive because we don’t use blasters,” Daaruk said, “but humans are the real barbarians because you have no honor.”
“Honor never stopped a man from dying,” Magnus said.
“Will you help me up?”
“No, I like you where you are just fine.”
“Are you really looking for Ekavir, the Jade General?”
“I am.”
“He is also without honor,” Daaruk said.
“That’s what I hear,” Magnus replied. “Why is that, by the way?”
“Do you know the story of the Dragon’s Tears?”
“It’s about the dragon, Bonamalum,” Magnus said, “or at least Bona, the good one. When his evil brother Malum was killed, Bona wept and where his tears fell, Draconian warriors sprang to life.”
Daaruk nodded. “They’re called Dragon Soldiers. They pledged to always serve their people, no matter the enemy.”
“What’s that got to do with Ekavir?” Magnus asked.
“He forgot about the pledge. He only cares about revenge against the human invaders, even when it means Draconians die in the process.”
“So, you abandoned him?”
“No, no. He abandoned us for his own selfish ambitions.”
“Alright,” Magnus said. “Where do I find him?”
“In the jungle...”
A blast of hot plasma leapt from the rifle, blowing a hole in the floor beside Daaruk’s head.
“I’m going to need specifics,” Magnus said.
Daaruk eyed the tiny crater, silently smoking, in the floor.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.
The Draconian camp was well hidden inside the jungle, the huts huddled below the tree canopy hundreds of feet above. Cold blooded, the separatists might have needed a fire somewhere else, but not on Marakata where the air was heavy with a stifling, oppressive heat. Even if they had wanted to, the Draconians knew the Imperials used satellites to search for camp fires, always on the lookout for bivouacs like this one. There were stories of whole villages wiped out by orbital bombardment, simply because they looked suspicious.
The Dragons of Andromeda Page 2
