The Dragons of Andromeda

by W. H. Mitchell

Covered in sticky, burning napalm, the golem waved his arms and stomped his feet. The bridge swayed and buckled beneath the shifting weight.

  “Uh oh,” Mel whispered.

  Flames climbed up the golem’s body, consuming patches of flesh as they rose. The strange, mystical lettering turned from blue to orange, and then to nothing as the skin burned to ash.

  “Run!” Silandra screamed, grabbing her daughter as they stumbled back down the bridge.

  The golem’s massive shape, now almost completely black, teetered like a thick tree about to fall, and then it did. With a deafening sound as loud as the rushing waters below, the creature landed face first, snapping the wood planks like kindling. The supports under the bridge splintered, sending the whole structure sideways.

  Squire felt himself floating in midair, the cavern swirling around him until air became liquid and he was submerged.

  When Mel woke, the first thing she noticed was the water pouring out her mouth as she lay on her side. The second thing, as her lungs emptied, was a bluish tinge coloring her hands and the mud around her. She thought in horror that the flesh golem had returned, but rolling over and looking up, she saw only Squire standing beside her and the dome of his displacement field protecting them both.

  “Where are we?” she asked, coughing out the last drops of water.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Squire replied, “but I should think we’re somewhere under the bridge.”

  Mel sat up. The ground was spongy and covered in shallow puddles. Although her satchel was missing, she still held the flashlight firmly in her tiny hands. She shined the beam on the wall of the displacement field but saw only darkness beyond it.

  “Are we underwater?” she asked.

  “Did I not mention that?” the robot said.

  “No!”

  “We fell into the water after the bridge collapsed,” Squire explained. “I switched on the displacement field, letting the liquid run out through the one-way membrane.”

  “Huh,” Mel said. “That was genius!”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” the robot said as if embarrassed by the compliment.

  “What about Silandra and Sisa?”

  “I’m afraid you were the only one near me. I don’t know where the others are at the moment.”

  Mel got to her feet.

  “The air in here won’t last long,” she said. “We should find the shore.”

  Mel and Squire started walking, the dome moving along with the robot. Mel nearly tripped over the bones of a ribcage sticking out of the river bottom. She wasn’t exactly sure if this was a river at all, but she could vaguely see water running across the surface of the displacement field. Whatever was covering the dome, it had a fast current. In time, the ground started slanting upward which she took as a good sign. When the top of the dome broke the surface of the water, Mel was no longer sure.

  The halo of torchlights shined on the other side of the field. Shapes moved back and forth. Many shapes.

  No longer underwater, Squire switched off the dome. Mel, her pink hair dangling damply around her shoulders, looked with wild eyes at the people she saw. Like Ghuls, their skin was discolored and even absent in some places, but they also wore armor fashioned from bones and carried hooked swords like the blades of a scythe. One was in brown vestments like a priest and held a curved staff with a skull on the end. Beside him, next to an altar-like stone table, Silandra was visible. Only then did Mel notice someone else, a girl lying on the table.

  She wasn’t moving.

  Death was not the end, Grand Necromancer Ghazul believed. For those with the power and knowledge, death was only the beginning of everlasting life. His people, the Necronea, were the embodiment of reanimation. As the Spring knows the Winter, they knew death as the dark before the light.

  Ghazul watched the Sylvan woman emerge from the subterranean river, both her and the daughter in her arms soaked to the bone. He reached into her mind and learned the woman’s name, Silandra, and felt the deep sorrow flowing from her heart. She did not understand what Ghazul already knew and he pitied her for that. She saw only death in her daughter’s face where the Grand Necromancer saw hope.

  Surrounded by the Necronea, she also felt fear, but Ghazul assured Silandra there was no danger, directing her to lay Sisa’s body onto the stone table. After doing so, she turned to him.

  “Why did you steal my daughter?” she asked aloud. “What possible good could come from this?”

  Although the blazing eyes in his head could convey no emotion, Ghazul sympathized with the mother’s anger, knowing that she was ignorant of the great honor for which her daughter was intended. He did his best to explain.

  “I know this must be strange,” Ghazul said. “For you, life is a precious, finite thing, with a beginning and an end. Or perhaps you believe there’s life after death, but a place from which we cannot return.”

  “Yes,” Silandra replied, slowly nodding.

  “My people believe something quite different,” the necromancer went on. “From the teachings of the Old Ones, we learned that we can, indeed, return. That death is merely a state of matter that, like ice to water, can change if need be.”

  “Who are the Old Ones?”

  “They were the first to exist before existence began, even before the stars started burning. They lived in the infinite blackness where light was still just a dream.”

  “Get to the point!” Silandra shouted. “I don’t care about your religion!”

  “You must understand,” Ghazul replied calmly, “for everything there is a price. To keep the Old Ones sated, we must offer a sacrifice of purity. Your daughter Sisa was to be that sacrifice.”

  “She’s dead!”

  “It’s true that she’s no longer suitable as an offering, but I can assure you she isn’t lost. I am fully capable of restoring Sisa to you.”

  In the river, the dark water began changing color, brightening with a bluish glow. An orb of energy broke the river’s surface, slowly rising out of the water. When it was entirely on the shore, the ball of blue disappeared, leaving a small girl and a robot in its place.

  Although pleased to be on dry land, Squire was acutely aware that he and Mel had walked into a formidable situation. Even with upgrades to his systems, the robot knew that without Sir Golan, he was outmatched by the sheer number of armed Necronea present. Squire had no idea where his master was at the moment, but hoped he was not injured or worse. The thought of Sir Golan drowning or even being killed upset the robot’s programming.

  “Do you have any weapons?” he asked Mel.

  “No,” she replied. “I lost my bag in the river...”

  The Necronea quickly surrounded them, forcing both the Gnomi and the robot to join Silandra beside the stone altar. Sisa, her skin a pale blue, lay resting on the table. To Squire, she looked tiny, but her face appeared strangely calm, even beautiful.

  “What’s going on?” Mel asked.

  “This is Ghazul, a necromancer,” Silandra said. “He promises to bring Sisa back from the dead.”

  “How is that even possible?” Mel wondered.

  “By using Dark Psi...” Silandra replied.

  “She’ll be like we are,” Ghazul said proudly. “As Necronea, she will live forever and never know death again.”

  Mel frowned, her eyes turning serious.

  “I knew someone once,” she said. “He died, but they said they could bring him back by downloading his personality into a robot.”

  “Fascinating!” Squire said.

  “I loved him and I would’ve given anything to get him back, but whoever was inside that robot wasn’t the Randall that I knew anymore.”

  Silandra was silent, her brows furrowed in thought. After a few moments, she turned to the Grand Necromancer.

  “Sisa was my only daughter,” she told him. “When you took her away, you stole the most precious thing in my life. As Mel said, I would do anything to bring her back, but that’s not what you’re offering.”


  “No?” Ghazul said.

  “You were right about her purity,” she went on. “I can’t say I understand how Dark Psi works, but I know I don’t want you defiling her with it.”

  Now it was the necromancer’s turn to be silent.

  “As you wish,” he sighed. “You may take her in peace. We will not prevent you.”

  “Really?” Mel asked. “You’d just let us walk out of here?”

  “No,” he said. “Not you.”

  “What?”

  “We still require someone pure to sacrifice or the Old Ones will become angry.”

  “Why are you looking at me?” Mel asked, pointing at herself.

  “You are a virgin, correct?”

  Mel laughed uncomfortably.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “I’ve been with lots of guys...”

  “You’re obviously lying,” the necromancer replied.

  Squire leaned closer to the Gnomi, whispering in her ear. “It is pretty obvious.”

  “You’re not helping!” Mel shouted.

  “The others may leave,” Ghazul told Mel, “but you must pass through the doorway.”

  “What doorway?” Mel asked.

  The Grand Necromancer waved his staff at the ornate drawing of a doorway carved into the side of a stone wall. Along the outside of the drawing was lettering similar to those on the flesh golem. These letters also began glowing. At the same time, the center of the doorway faded away, its edges falling inward like a waterfall from above.

  One of the Necronea grabbed Mel by the arm and forced her toward the portal. She punched and kicked him, but Mel’s small size kept her from landing a solid blow.

  “Stop!” a voice shouted.

  Much to Squire’s relief, Sir Golan appeared and immediately sent Rippana through the nearest Necronea. The sword pierced the bone armor, sticking out the other side. Unfazed with the blade dangling from his chest, the undead fighter struck the knight squarely across the face, launching him backward several feet.

  “Knight in shining armor, my butt,” Mel remarked.

  “Stop this nonsense!” Ghazul shouted. “You cannot harm us and we cannot die! The girl must go through the portal or the Old Ones will enact their vengeance on all living things. What we do here is for your benefit, not ours! We protect you from the terrible power of the Void!”

  “You’re saying if I don’t go through, terrible things will happen?” Mel asked doubtfully.

  “The end of all things,” Ghazul said. “You must do this. It is the only way.”

  Mel stared into the doorway.

  “Don’t do it!” Silandra yelled.

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “Since Randall died, things haven’t been exactly great.”

  “That doesn’t mean—” Silandra started.

  “People have been making sacrifices right and left,” Mel stopped her. “Maybe it’s finally my turn.”

  The Necronea holding Mel released his grip. Standing on her own, she took one last look at the others and smiled.

  Then she disappeared through the doorway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Baron Lancaster dropped out of hyperspace. On the bridge, Captain Redgrave studied the expanse of nothingness on the main monitor. The star charts listed this system as uninhabited, without planets or other redeeming qualities that would attract a permanent settlement. Decades ago, mining companies had arrived and promptly stripped the larger asteroids of precious metals and anything else of value. When there was nothing left, the companies moved on. According to Golub, the Celadon the captain had interrogated, the Ougluks found one of the abandoned mines intact, a hollowed-out asteroid they turned into their base.

  “Set a course for the mining colony,” the captain said.

  “Aye, Captain,” the helmsman replied.

  The asteroid was hidden amid a belt of loose rocks and small planetoids like specks of dust collecting in the corners of a room. Far from the inner star, the Ougluk base appeared cold and forgotten.

  “No energy signatures or residual heat,” the science officer said.

  “Do a deep scan,” Redgrave replied.

  After a long pause, the officer said, “It appears to be shielded, but there’s definitely life signs.”

  So, Golub was telling the truth after all, the captain thought.

  “Target the surface and fire a salvo,” he ordered.

  Like outstretched fingers, streams of plasma lanced from the Baron Lancaster, erupting in plumes of gray powder and molten rock on the asteroid. With their position obviously compromised, the Ougluks energized a force field around the base, covering the rock in a hazy, blue cocoon.

  “Missiles inbound!” another bridge officer shouted.

  “Activate shields and bring point-defenses online,” Redgrave said calmly.

  Rapid-fire lasers traced in the direction of the incoming missiles until three explosions, each an intercepted missile, flashed on the main view screen.

  “Another salvo,” the captain said.

  Blaster cannons, each larger than a house, spewed another barrage at the slaver base.

  “Keep firing!” Redgrave barked. “They can’t withstand that much damage for long.”

  The captain touched the device in his ear.

  “Be ready, commander,” he said. “Their shields will be down momentarily.”

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Maycare’s voice came through the earpiece.

  In his quarters, Bortok balanced a palette on his thumb while standing in front of a partially completed canvas. On the other side of the easel, another Ougluk rested his hand on the sculpture of a man’s head, bearded with a receding hairline, sitting on a table. The Ougluk wore a loose robe with a heavy gold chain across his chest. He stared contemplatively at the bust.

  Bortok grunted.

  “No, no,” he complained. “You don’t look philosophical enough...”

  The other Ougluk snarled.

  “Oh, never mind,” the Enslaver sighed, dabbing his brush at some paint on the palette.

  Holding the brush up to the canvas, his hand lurched as the floor suddenly shook. Dust from the ceiling rained down, filling the room with a cloud of fine powder. Bortok dropped the brush, seeing the long, haphazard line he had just made across the painting.

  “Goddammit!”

  “Did we hit something?” the artist’s model asked.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Dropping his brush and palette, Bortok ran into the hallway just as another quake rattled the asteroid. Over an intercom speaker, Cirion’s voice crackled.

  “Bortok, come to the command center immediately!” he said.

  Bortok made this way through the base, narrowly avoiding a cave-in after another blast. Covered in chalky residue, he burst into the command center yelling, “Don’t you people care about art?”

  Cirion, standing beside a computer console, gazed incredulously at the Enslaver and pointed to the main video monitor. A heavy cruiser filled the screen.

  “It’s the Imperial Navy,” the Red Dahl said.

  “How did they find us?” Bortok replied. “I bet it was one of those Celadon pirates. Those sniveling twerps!”

  “Most likely,” Cirion replied. “However, the fact remains there’s an Imperial warship firing on us.”

  “Well, put up the shields!”

  “I already did. We’re also returning fire for all the good that’ll do.”

  “Is it just the one ship?” Bortok asked.

  “Yes, but we’re no match against a heavy cruiser. Our force field will fail before long...”

  “That’s a defeatist attitude!”

  “It’s science,” Cirion replied.

  Bortok made a fist. “This is the only science I believe in!”

  Being tied to an anthill. Spiders crawling all over you. People described the sensation of being transmatted in different ways, but Commander Maycare never minded it much.

  What he really didn’t like were the people
shooting at him when he arrived.

  Materializing on the asteroid, Maycare hit the ground, his combat armor absorbing the impact of a blaster bolt. Rays of energy laced the air where he had just been standing. The marines accompanying him returned fire.

  The commander gathered himself and tried to assess the situation.

  Ougluk slavers were shooting from down the corridor twenty yards from where Maycare and his marines had appeared. The deep penetration scans had shown this was the main artery leading from the hangar deck. Captain Redgrave had wanted them to cut the Ougluks off from their ships, preventing them from escaping, especially with any captives.

  From the view inside his helmet, Maycare could see three infrared signatures ahead. He snapped off a few shots from his blaster rifle, mostly to keep the slavers’ heads down while his marines took up better positions.

  “Flash grenades,” he said into his helmet microphone.

  Two marines loaded canisters into tubes slung beneath their rifles and, with a popping sound, launched them down the corridor. Two loud bangs, accompanied by blinding flashes, lit up the end of the hallway. Before the glare had died down, Maycare was already on his feet and running. When he got to the three Ougluks, they were holding their hands over their eyes and ears. The commander killed two of them point-blank while a marine finished off the other one.

  “Spread out,” Maycare said, pointing around the large room.

  “What’s that?” one of the marines asked.

  In the center of the room was a large hole.

  Before he could answer, Maycare felt something crash into him, sending them both into the pit. The commander rolled as he landed, but when he stood, he was struck under the chin, sending his helmet flying off. Blinking, Maycare saw a heavily scarred Ougluk rushing toward him.

  “Whoa there, fella!” the commander said, but the Ougluk wrapped two giant arms around him, lifting Maycare’s feet off the ground.

  “Could somebody shoot this guy?” the commander grunted.

  “Can’t get a clear shot, sir!” he heard one of the marines say.

  The Ougluk roared, the stench of poor dental hygiene blowing in Maycare’s face.

  Enough of this, the commander thought and drove his forehead into the Ougluk’s nose.