The Dragons of Andromeda

by W. H. Mitchell

  She climbed aboard one of the stools and Bragor brought her a sudsy mug of beer as an advertisement filled the monitor:

  DRINK GENUINE GORDIAN FUNGUS BEER!

  NOW WITH MORE SMOOTH FUNGUS FLAVOR!

  Sisa Oakhollow sat in her room carving a figure out of yew wood. She hadn’t decided what the figure would look like, but in her mind, it was a young Sylvan girl like herself. Like her mother, Sisa had bright, green eyes and high, sharp cheek bones, but both her hair and complexion were darker like dull copper.

  Sisa heard a noise from the front of the house. Setting her carving aside, she rose and ran to the door, expecting to see just her mother coming home. Instead, she found her in the front room with two strangers, one of them a robot.

  “Don’t just stand there, Sisa,” her mother said. “Help me with Mr. Squire.”

  “Oh, just Squire is sufficient,” the robot said.

  Sisa grabbed one of his arms, putting some of the weight onto her shoulders. The other stranger carried the other arm, burdened as he was with his helmet and armor. She noticed he also had a sword slung on his belt.

  The two of them lugged Squire to a chair made from gnarled beech and leather.

  “I’m most grateful to you,” the stranger said in a formal tone.

  Sisa snickered, not sure why he was talking that way.

  “No problem,” she said, smiling.

  “This is Sir Golan,” Silandra said. “He’s some kind of knight, apparently.”

  “Really?” Sisa asked.

  “At your service,” Golan replied with a low bow.

  Sisa gave a sideways glance to her mother who simply shrugged.

  “Perhaps Sir Golan is thirsty,” Silandra suggested.

  Sisa nodded and ran to the kitchen to pour some water into a clay mug. When she returned, Golan had also taken a seat, his helmet and sword placed close by his side. Sisa noticed his armor was carved in the same intricate design as the robot’s chest and head.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Katak,” Silandra said.

  “These frogmen,” Golan began, “do they cause trouble often?”

  “No!” Silandra said. “Not usually, but lately they’ve been acting strangely.”

  “How so?”

  “Something has them riled up,” Sisa’s mother replied. “I’ve no idea why.”

  Squire raised the finger of his good hand. “Might I inquire about my repairs?”

  “Of course!” Silanda said, slapping her forehead. “Sisa, go to your father’s and see if that Gnomi tinker is still there.”

  “It’s getting late...” Sisa replied doubtfully.

  “Just go!”

  The young Sylvan rolled her eyes and, grabbing a wool cloak, hurried out the door.

  Mel was downing her third beer when a young Sylvan came charging through the door into Bragor’s Tavern. While smaller than the adults, she was still a few inches taller than Mel herself. This might have bothered her after the first beer, but now Mel’s view of the universe had grown more agreeable. She was even enjoying the gravbike races, although only for the crashes.

  The girl ran to Bragor behind the bar and pointed in Mel’s direction. After a short conversation, the two of them approached the tinker.

  “Excuse me,” Bragor said, “my daughter Sisa was wondering if you could fix a robot at her mother’s house.”

  “But I haven’t finished fixing your generator...” Mel started.

  “It can wait until morning,” he replied.

  “What kind of robot?” she asked. “It’s not gravitronic, is it?”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Sisa said.

  “Nothing but trouble...” Mel replied.

  Sisa took Mel’s arm and helped her off the stool. Unsteady at first, the Gnomi found her legs and even took a step without the girl.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Bragor said.

  “I’m fine!” Mel said and fell face first on the floor.

  When Mel regained her senses, she was laying on a couch made from beech wood and straps of leather. His back to her, a robot sat in a nearby chair while a woman appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray full of coffee mugs.

  “Where’s the little girl?” Mel asked.

  “I sent her to bed,” the woman replied. “I’m Silandra, by the way.”

  “You’re Bragor’s wife?”

  “Oh, we’re not married.”

  Feeling suddenly awkward, Mel pointed a thumb at the robot. “Is this the patient?”

  The robot rotated his head completely around until it faced her.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  “Don’t do that!” Mel shouted.

  “Fair enough!” the robot said cheerfully, turning his head back to the front.

  “His name is Squire,” Silandra said. “He’s pretty beaten up.”

  “Did Sisa bring my tools?”

  “Yes, by the door.”

  Mel hopped off the couch and, a little wobbly, retrieved the satchel beside the front door. She dropped it again at the robot’s chair and pulled her sonic spanner from the bag.

  “This is going to hurt,” she said.

  “Really?” Squire asked.

  “No, you’re a robot.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right.”

  “Definitely not gravitronic,” Mel muttered quietly under her breath.

  Into the night, Mel tinkered with Squire’s frame, repairing the damage and tuning his systems. She quickly realized that his software was woefully outdated.

  After a few hours, she straightened her aching back and took a long stretch, her arms reaching for the ceiling. While a software update was downloading from the local nodesphere into Squire’s brain, Mel decided to stretch her legs by taking a quick tour of the house.

  Before going to bed, Silandra had dimmed the lights in most of the rooms, but Mel was able to find her way. The Gnomi had excellent night vision, their ancestors having lived mostly underground.

  Down the hall from the living room and kitchen, Mel softly cracked open the door to Silandra’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly in a single bed.

  Bragor must spend his nights somewhere else, Mel thought.

  Sisa’s room, next door to her mother’s, was smaller but decorated more extravagantly with paintings and carvings. Mel wondered if the girl had made them all herself.

  When Mel reached the final door in the hallway, she noticed a light coming from underneath. Hearing nothing, she tried the doorknob and walked in on a strange man with dark green skin. Bare from the waist up, he sat with his legs crossed and holding a sword in his outstretched hands. Before him, a pair of burning incense sticks were displayed on a small, wooden altar. Mel was about to apologize when she realized the man was ignoring her, unaware she was there. She closed the door again and returned to the living room.

  Mel checked that the download was complete and reinitialized the robot’s operating system. When Squire came back online, Mel was eager to ask him a few questions.

  “Who the hell is that green guy?” she said.

  “Sir Golan?” the robot replied.

  “I guess.”

  “He’s my master.”

  “I just saw him,” Mel went on. “It’s like he was in a trance.”

  Taking a moment to process, Squire replied, “Oh, I suspect he was meditating. Sir Golan is quite dedicated to thinking deeply about things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well, he’s Cruxian, you know. They live a life of introspection, reflecting on their actions, both past and present.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Mel confessed.

  “Few have, actually,” Squire said. “I suppose because they’re nearly extinct.”

  “Are they dying out or something?”

  “By their own hand, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Many centuries ago,” the robot explained, “the Cruxians were a wealthy, enterpr
ising race. As Sir Golan would tell you himself, they wanted everything and believed they could achieve anything they set their minds to. However, due to their greed and hubris, there was a great war and most of their race, nearly all life on their planet really, was destroyed. Those who survived dedicated their lives to redeeming themselves and, metaphorically, their species. They scattered to the four winds, looking for ways to reclaim their honor.”

  “Like how?” Mel asked.

  “Wandering from place to place, mostly,” Squire replied, “helping people when they could...”

  Mel closed the lid on Squire’s chest which was filled with the repairs she had spent the last several hours completing.

  “How’s that working out for you?” she said.

  When Golan was a boy, he remembered training with his master in a temple overlooking the Cruxian capital. When the sun set, the glow of the horizon would mix with the lights of the city, the colors like paint spilled across a canvas. When the bombs began falling, the only color Golan remembered was the orange of fire and the blackness as the lights went out.

  Deep in meditation, he almost didn’t hear the crash as Katak warriors broke through the window and spilled into the bedroom. Once aware of what was happening, the Cruxian knight was instantly on his feet, his sword at the ready. Two of the froglings held spears while the other two carried spiked clubs. The room was small, giving Golan the advantage by preventing the Katak from attacking all at once.

  Golan remembered the day his master gave him his sword. It was a single-edge blade with writing down the side, a prayer of forgiveness and fortitude. As a young man, he didn’t fully understand why a weapon of death would be engraved with a prayer. His master called the sword Rippana.

  Golan sliced through the spear, breaking it in half, before whirling around to cut the Katak warrior across the chest. The second frogling died when Rippana carved him down the center of his head, between two bulging eyes. The third warrior raised a spiked club high above until both his arms were separated from his body. The final opponent met his end exiting through the window, his last view of the world a glistening blade of steel protruding from his chest, the letters of an unknown language etched across the metal.

  Before the bombs fell on the Cruxian capital, Golan’s master finally explained the reason for the prayer on the young knight’s sword. During battle, an honorable knight must remain strong, but never feel hate or malice toward those he fights. Most of all, he must absolve them of their sin so that they can travel to the next life cleansed of whatever led them to leave this one.

  In the hallway, Golan rushed toward the sound of fighting. Squire and a tiny woman were struggling with a pair of Katak. The female was kicking a frogling in the leg while Squire was using a chair to hold off the other. Golan made quick work of both enemies, cutting them down with quick motions, severing their spines. Golan, Squire, and the small woman stared blankly at each other until a scream drove them back down the hallway. Silandra stood at the door to her daughter’s room. The knight thrust himself past her, but the room was empty except for broken furniture and a shattered window.

  “They’ve taken Sisa!” Silandra shouted.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Jewel of Amann cruised slowly across a backdrop of stars. A starliner that had seen better days, the Jewel was small compared to the interstellar liners monopolizing most of the leisure travel industry. Her route never left the same system, flying from one planet to another just below the speed of light. Mostly, her bookings were people on pensions who couldn’t afford the more expensive cruises between systems. In that respect, the Jewel wasn’t a starliner at all, but the brochures didn’t mention that.

  In what barely passed as a first-class cabin, Sylvia Flax lay on the bed reviewing notes on her datapad. The bedsheets were still made, but she had pulled the pillow out and propped it behind her back against the headboard. The cabin displayed a rustic charm that the newer liners ignored for the sake of expediency. The furniture was mostly real wood with a desk in one corner and a bureau with a mirror in the other. The bathroom wasn’t much to brag about, but Flax had seen worse in her time as a field reporter. Those days, like the Jewel’s heyday, were long gone, but it felt nice to be out on assignment again.

  Flax should have known something was up when the editor-in-chief had called her into his office and closed the door. A bald man with a bad stomach, the Chief began speaking before Flax could even sit down.

  “What do you know about IDEA Furniture?” he growled, holding the center of his chest.

  “You should do something about that heartburn,” Flax said. “They have pills now. It’s called medical science...”

  “Whatever!” he replied. “I’ve got a guy who says IDEA is putting grunka meat in their meatballs.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I don’t know, do you want grunka meat in your meatballs?”

  “That depends,” Flax said, “I don’t know what a grunka is...”

  “Well, it ain’t good, I can tell you that. It causes intestinal upset and ballistic diarrhea.”

  “Ballistic diarrhea? That’s not real.”

  “It’s a thing. I’m telling you!”

  “Okay, so this guy has proof?” Flax asked.

  “Yeah, and he wants the famous Sylvia Flax to get the scoop.”

  “So, what’s the problem? I’ll interview him down here at the station.”

  “The problem,” the Chief said, “is that he thinks IDEA is trying to kill him and he won’t do an interview unless you meet him.”

  “Where?”

  “On a ship.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Jewel of Amann.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I got you a ticket,” the Chief said. “It’s probably on your datapad already.”

  “I’m going by myself?” Flax asked.

  “He’s a harmless little guy. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Walter Ruggles.”

  Walter Ruggles’ stateroom was a box, ten feet by ten feet, with a communal bathroom down the hall. While luxurious compared to third-class standards, this second-class cabin was only slightly larger than a typical prison cell.

  At least I have a window, he thought.

  Ruggles was in his late fifties, bald on top with dark hair around the sides and just a hint of a mustache. His suit, which had been fashionable around the same time the Jewel of Amann was newly christened, was now threadbare in places and stained in others. He also wore a checkered bow tie and a pair of glasses with dark, round frames.

  Although he knew Sylvia Flax was coming to his cabin, Ruggles still jumped when she knocked. Having only seen her on holovids, he was equally unprepared for her beauty in person. The sconce in the corridor lit her hair like an eruption of brilliant blue as her eyes glared back at him with irritation.

  “Are you Ruggles?” she asked.

  “Shush!” he replied, grabbing Flax by the wrist and pulling her into his room. He stuck his head into the hallway, peering both left and right.

  When the cabin door slid shut, the reporter was standing with hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruggles said. “I can’t be too careful.”

  “Why?”

  “IDEA agents are everywhere...”

  “The furniture store?” she replied doubtfully.

  Ruggles smiled, realizing he knew far more about the topic than she did.

  “Furniture is just the tip of the iceberg,” he explained. “They sell textiles, rugs, even small appliances.”

  “I’ve seen the commercials—”

  “But it’s the food,” Ruggles interrupted. “That’s the real scandal.”

  Flax sighed and glanced around the room. She took the only chair and sat in it, crossing her legs as she pulled a datapad from her bag.

  “Yeah, my editor seems to think this could be big,” she said.

  �
�Oh, it is!” Ruggles replied. “It could ruin the company. That’s why they’d do anything to keep me quiet.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Pulling a briefcase out from under his single bunk, Ruggles opened it and removed a stack of disheveled printouts. He scanned the pages for a moment before holding them out like playing cards during a magic trick.

  “You don’t have soft copies?” Flax wondered.

  “No, those could be hacked.”

  “Right,” she said. “So, maybe you could just tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s the meat,” Ruggles said. “They’re putting strange meats in their meatballs.”

  “It’s a big galaxy, Mr. Ruggles,” Flax said. “There’s lots of strange meats out there. That doesn’t make it a crime to put it in food.”

  “You don’t understand! IDEA prides itself on their meatballs. It’s the flagship of their restaurant. They sell billions of pounds of them but nobody knows what’s actually in it!”

  “So, basically you’re saying it’s a public health issue?”

  “Well... yes!”

  “Okay, fine,” Flax said. “I can work with that...”

  The captain of the Jewel of Amann was an older man, in his sixties and close to retirement. In the twilight of his career, he took command of the Jewel as a relaxing way to live out his final years before calling it quits. Sitting in the captain’s chair and puffing on a pipe, he watched the view screen at the front of the bridge with mild interest, his thoughts drifting in and out of memories until his first mate chirped about something on the sensors.

  “Several contacts on an intercept course, Skipper,” the second-in-command said.

  The captain inhaled abruptly, coughing on the smoke.

  “What?” he wheezed.

  “Sir, there’s multiple ships inbound,” the first mate replied.

  “What for?”

  “Uh... I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, scan the blasted things!”

  The captain chewed on the stem of his pipe, unsure why anyone would bother with an old tub like the Jewel.

  “Their transponders are off,” the first mate said after completing his scan, “but the craft appear to be Celadon.”