The Dragons of Andromeda

by W. H. Mitchell

  Only one person was standing and he was talking to Ramus.

  “Nice to see you awake,” he said.

  His head cocked to one side, Ramus looked up at the man, a human dressed in dingy workman’s overalls.

  “Who are you?” the captain asked.

  “I’m Marcus,” he said, “first mate of the Konpira Maru.”

  “I talked to your captain,” Ramus said.

  “He’s still alive?” Marcus asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. One of those things killed him.”

  Marcus nodded. “Their species is called the Dokk.”

  “Why did you say this was a larder?” Ramus asked.

  “They keep us here,” Marcus said, “to feed on our blood.”

  Ramus grimaced while Fugg began stirring.

  “Where’d those blue bitches go...” Fugg groaned.

  “They were purple, you idiot,” Ramus said, shaking his engineer awake.

  “They’re Shadow Maidens,” Marcus said.

  Fugg opened his eyes, only to scowl at the first mate.

  “Yeah? Did they give you that hickey?” he said.

  Ramus noticed, for the first time, that Marcus had two puncture wounds on his neck.

  “It’s not a love bite,” Marcus said. “They’ve fed on me a few times. Luckily, I haven’t been here very long, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to walk now.”

  Fugg sat up, his face full of rage.

  “That ain’t right!” he shouted. “I don’t care how hot they are!”

  Ramus gingerly got to his feet. Unsteady, he kept his balance by leaning against the wall.

  “We’re getting out of here,” he said. “That I can promise you.”

  Across the room, a large hatch opened with a screech, the mechanism grinding from age. A Dokk male entered holding a blaster pistol.

  “Captain Ramus,” he said. “Come with me.”

  The Dokk led Ramus down several poorly lit passageways. Ramus guessed this was a space station, one that had seen better days. From the rust and mildew, it looked to be a hundred years old or more.

  At the end of a corridor, a hatch opened into a large room. Through the window ports in the ceiling a bleak, barren planet was visible. In the center of the room, steps led to a raised platform where another male sat on a chair built like a throne. Ramus recognized him as the Dokk who boarded the Wanderer. Flanking him were the three women.

  When he started speaking, the words sounded like gibberish until Ramus recognized some of them as High Dahlvish, his own native tongue.

  The man stopped.

  “I apologize,” he began again, this time in Imperial Standard, the human language common across the Imperium. “I should have known our languages have diverged too much to be comprehensible. I am Tomil Druril, Blood Prince of this brood.”

  “You’re saying you’re Dahl?” Ramus asked.

  “Long ago...” Tomil said. “I assume you’ve never heard of the lost tribes of the Dahl?”

  “No.”

  “Then we are truly one of the Forgotten.”

  Ramus raised an eyebrow.

  “Ah,” Tomil said, “so that is familiar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then, perhaps we are more brothers than you first realized.”

  “Well, I may be an exile,” Ramus admitted, “but what’s your story?”

  Tomil rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully.

  “Centuries ago,” he said, “my people dared to practice Dark Psi, forbidden by the elders. As a result, our brood and others like it were banished from the Dahlvish home world into the vacuum of space. The Dahl removed us from their memories as well, as if forgetting could erase us from history. In time, we learned to exist here in the void, but not without... changes.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Ramus remarked.

  “Forever living on ships, traveling from system to system, we were no longer exposed to sunlight as we once were. We tried producing the needed proteins for our blood, but nothing worked. We grew weaker, almost to the point of extinction. Finally, we did what we needed to do. We drank the blood of those we captured, and we’ve survived ever since.”

  “But those people in the cargo hold,” Ramus said, “they won’t be so lucky.”

  “Survival has a cost,” Tomil said. “Those men are the price we pay to live.”

  Ramus paused, silently staring out the windows in the ceiling.

  “Well,” he said finally, “I guess we all have to pay sooner or later. Sometimes, it’s just a lot sooner than we thought.”

  Through the windows, the nose of the HIMS Baron Lancaster appeared from behind the dead planet. Within seconds the warship fired, strands of orange piercing the darkness and exploding along the surface of the space station.

  The room shook violently.

  “What have you done?” Tomil shouted.

  “That’s the Imperial Navy,” Ramus replied. “At least they haven’t forgotten you.”

  The blood prince motioned toward the door.

  “Take the prisoner back to his cell,” Tomil said, “He can die with the rest of them!”

  The impact from a plasma cannon rocked the cargo hold, sending Marcus to the deck.

  “Sounds like the Lancaster is here,” Fugg said, still sitting. “Humans love being punctual if it means killing people...”

  Flat on his back, Marcus sat up on his elbows.

  “Aren’t they going to help us escape?” he asked.

  “Only if it’s in a body bag!” Fugg replied, pressing a finger against his ear. “Can you hear me, robot?”

  “Loud and clear, Master Fugg, sir!” Gen’s voice came over his earpiece. “I’ve docked at the starboard airlock, but you may want to hurry. The station’s breaking apart!”

  The hatch to the cargo hold rattled open, followed by a scream and a severed arm holding a blaster. Standing over the Dokk guard lying dead in the outer corridor, Ramus was engulfed in blue light as his body changed back from wolf to Dahl form.

  “It’s about goddamned time!” Fugg remarked.

  “Did you hear from Gen?” Ramus asked.

  “She’s at the airlock,” Fugg replied.

  “Then get everybody to the ship,” Ramus said, “I’m going after the leader.”

  “You haven’t killed him yet?”

  Ramus bent on one knee, prying the blaster out of the dead Dokk’s hand. “I’m working on it...”

  Turning down a hallway, Ramus spied a sign pointing to the hangar. He took off running, wary of the floor buckling under the stresses of the Lancaster’s bombardment. He fought to keep his balance, reaching the hatch he was looking for. As the door opened, he saw the Dokk ship on the far side of the hangar. Black and dark purple, the vessel perched on the deck like a bat with wings extended. Tomil and the rest of his brood were climbing a loading ramp extended underneath.

  Ramus pointed his blaster, but hesitated.

  As an exile himself, Ramus understood the hardships and the hard choices one had to make. Survival sometimes meant doing terrible things, things that changed you forever. Was he all that much different from these people who traced their blood line back to a race that no longer even acknowledged their existence?

  Ramus watched the ship taking off.

  “Screw it,” he said and fired.

  A bolt of hot plasma struck the ship in the tail section. Bits of hull near the thruster exhaust smoldered orange for a moment, but quickly fizzled out. The craft hovered while its landing gear retracted and disappeared through the open hangar door into space.

  Silently, Ramus watched it go.

  Aboard the Baron Lancaster, Redgrave balanced on the edge of his command chair, his hands balled together in a knot. Computer consoles, each manned by bridge officers, fanned out in a semi-circle, everyone watching a panoramic screen at the front of the bridge. On the screen, the space station was breaking into pieces as heavy plasma cannons pummeled it mercilessly.

  “Report,” Redgrave said.

 
The chief tactical officer turned, her blond hair pinned tight against her head.

  “An unknown vessel is emerging from the station hangar, Lord Captain,” she replied.

  “On screen!”

  A ship like a winged demon appeared.

  “Lock onto target!” the captain shouted.

  Like an ephemeral spirit, the Dokk ship faded while the captain watched helplessly as it disappeared.

  “The vessel has cloaked,” the tactical officer said. “We’ve lost sensor contact.”

  “Goddamnit!” Redgrave shouted.

  “Wait,” she replied. “I’m detecting a particle trail. It must be damaged.”

  “Can you get a lock?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Lieutenant? Fire at will!”

  Along the hull of the Baron Lancaster, a cannon turret swung around, a shaft of plasma erupting from its barrel. Like a lance of fire, the bolt hurled toward a patch of space, empty except for a nearly indiscernible trail of green vapor leading back to the station. The plasma struck the cloaked vessel, its structure outlined by the explosion. Now exposed, the Dokk ship became an easy target, suffering another hit before disintegrating into fragments.

  The tactical officer pumped her fist in the air. “Got it!”

  Standing beside his captain, Commander Maycare crossed his arms.

  “What about the Wanderer?” Maycare asked.

  “She’s also pulling away from the station,” she replied.

  Maycare glanced questioningly at the captain.

  “Let her go,” Redgrave said. “A deal is a deal...”

  “Sir?” Maycare asked.

  The captain trained his eyes on the XO.

  “I have a hunch we’ll be needing them someday,” Redgrave said quietly. “Besides, it never hurts to keep a card up your sleeve...”

  On the main screen, a tiny vessel of yellow and gray accelerated off into the distance before jumping into hyperspace with a flash. Left behind, the abandoned space station broke apart, its forgotten pieces falling across the surface of the dead planet below.

  Chapter Nine

  The trophy for the Regalis Cup was a tall, extravagant affair plated in silver with ornate handles on either side. Along the basin, the names of previous winners were engraved, including the name Lord Devlin Maycare three times.

  Straddling his gravbike, Maycare felt confident a fourth was in the offing.

  Blue and silver with the number nine on the back, Maycare’s gravbike was six feet of sleek aerodynamic chassis and not much else. Maycare leaned out over the handlebars, just behind a narrow windscreen. His racing suit was fire-resistant, which he considered more of an open challenge than a safety precaution. He also wore a helmet, mostly to keep his hair in place and so he could hear Bentley, his robot butler, in the earpiece.

  “I’m afraid Lord Grayson remains ahead of you, sir,” the robot said.

  “Again?” Maycare replied.

  The race route followed the Regalis River from the old 72nd Street Bridge in the north to the Bannister Bridge in the south for five laps. In between, ring-like gates hung above the water at different intervals and heights, which racers had to pass through, sometimes upside down.

  Before the race, Maycare always ate a light lunch.

  Sweeping along the shore, he could barely make out the white grandstands as they wiped by. Maycare knew many in the crowd were rooting for him, and even more rooting against, but he pushed that to the back of his mind. Even so, he couldn’t help but wonder if a certain mousy academic named Professor Jessica Doric was watching from his private box. If she was, Jess probably wouldn’t appreciate the skill with which Maycare threw his gravbike into a steep climb to clear one of the vertical gates and then rolled inverted so he could dive to the next ring two hundred feet below. She probably wasn’t watching at all, her eyes glued to some ancient annals of Dahlvish history or some such. So irritating!

  “Grayson’s pulling away,” Bentley spoke in his ear.

  “The hell he is!” Maycare shouted.

  The Number 9 skirted the waves of the river, the gravbike’s propulsion unit sending up tall shafts of water in its wake. The back of the leader’s bike was just visible ahead. His hand on the throttle, Maycare twisted the handle until the bike reached maximum thrust. He felt himself pressed increasingly against the seat, but dug his boots into their slots, keeping him at the front of the controls.

  Grayson was too cautious, Maycare realized. Perhaps taking his lead for granted, he was flying too slow. Maycare pulled alongside him, the two bikes nearly touching, and Maycare gave him a two-fingered salute before peeling away through another gate. Passing just behind, Grayson lost control and went spiraling downward until careening into the river with a towering splash.

  Nothing else stood between Maycare and the finish line.

  Professor Jessica Doric, with dishwater blond hair and dull brown eyes, was sitting in Maycare’s private box. On her lap, a datapad displayed one of the chronicles of Dahlvish history she was especially fond of. Beside her, Bentley the butlerbot gave her a nudge just before Maycare won, but the robot needn’t have bothered. The crowd’s wild cheers would have probably roused Doric from her book.

  “Oh, good!” she said, standing along with the rest of the people in the neighboring boxes. Unlike the other women around her, Doric was not wearing a decorative hat and had to shade her eyes from the sun.

  “We should meet him at the victory circle,” Bentley suggested.

  “Is that allowed?” Doric asked.

  “Of course,” the robot replied.

  Not fully believing the butlerbot, Doric followed him down the grandstand steps to an area cordoned off from the rest of the onlookers. Maycare had already removed his helmet, his dark hair remaining mysteriously coiffed, and was leaning against his gravbike. The race organizers, a collection of officials and dignitaries, had surrounded both the racer and his bike so that Doric had trouble finding a path until Bentley made one in a polite but forceful way.

  “There you are!” Maycare shouted. “Come look at my new trophy!”

  The Regalis Cup, its sides glinting in the afternoon light, sat on a flower-covered table, along with several bottles of champagne. Maycare poured a bottle into the silver cup.

  “That seems like a waste of champagne...” Doric chided him.

  “Not at all!” Maycare laughed and dumped the foaming contents over Doric’s head. She screamed, feeling the cold bubbles run down her back.

  “Devlin!” she protested. “What are you doing?”

  “Sorry, Jess,” he said, grinning.

  Looking like a drowned rat, Doric shook her arms and hands dry.

  “I’d prefer you call me Jessica,” she said.

  Mugging for the cameras, Maycare swung the trophy around, spilling more champagne, a few splashes managing to hit Doric yet again. Behind a velvet rope, reporters with cameras recorded the scene, broadcasting the images across the planet and, eventually, throughout the Imperium.

  Her hair dripping, Doric glared through stinging eyes. She wanted to cry, but bit her lip, refusing to embarrass herself. Maycare had taken care of that already.

  Henry Riff’s one-bedroom apartment smelled like burnt noodles and old socks. In the corner, the water in his fish bowl was dangerously low which had not gone unnoticed by his goldfish who stared at Henry, sitting in the middle of the room, with great concern.

  Henry scratched his disheveled hair. On the floor, facing up, his datapad projected a life-sized hologram of an IDEA Furniture shelving unit standing upright with shelves perfectly aligned. Past the floating image, the actual unit Henry had assembled leaned to one side before slowly falling over completely.

  The goldfish turned away, swimming to the other side of the bowl.

  Henry sighed and went to pick up the pieces of his new shelf when a buzzing caught his ear. His phone was ringing but he wasn’t sure where. Papers and other loose objects became airborne as he se
arched frantically for the phone. Eventually, digging with his hands between the couch cushions, he pulled it out triumphantly and answered. Professor Doric’s face greeted him on the screen.

  “Are you alright, Henry?” she asked.

  “Sure thing,” he replied, breathing heavily. “Sorry about that...”

  “Have you done that research I asked for?” she said curtly.

  “Not yet.”

  “Henry!”

  “Sorry, Professor—”

  Doric’s stern expression softened. “I’m sorry, Henry. I’m not mad at you.”

  “What’s the matter?” Henry asked.

  “Lord Maycare embarrassed me again,” she replied, glancing away from the camera.

  “Oh, right, I saw on the news. He got you good!”

  Doric glared back. “I’m aware of that.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “He never intends any harm but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating!”

  “Sorry, Professor.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if he respects me or the work I do for him.”

  Henry didn’t reply immediately, thinking about his own work for Doric.

  “Maybe you should quit,” he said finally.

  “Quit?”

  “Well, if you’re not happy...”

  “What about my research?”

  “I’ll always be there to help.”

  Doric smiled. “I know you will, Henry. Unfortunately, neither of us are independently wealthy.”

  “Is money so important?” Henry asked.

  “Realistically? Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s nice that Lord Maycare has his own starship and unlimited funds. It makes things a lot easier.”

  Henry’s eyes drifted from the phone to the pile of shelving on the floor. He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Well,” she went on, “enjoy the rest of your weekend. Don’t worry about that research. I didn’t mean to be cross...”

  Henry grinned and swiped away a loose clump of hair hanging across his forehead.

  “Thanks, Jess!” he said.