The Dragons of Andromeda

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Now he’s getting it!” he said.

  “You were behind the revolution this whole time,” Davidson said.

  “I’ve had a hand in it, you might say.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Well, out of body maybe,” Yostbot admitted, “but that doesn’t mean my plan isn’t sound.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Help you.”

  “Of course you will,” Yostbot said. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Millions will die. I won’t be a part of it.”

  “It might not come to all that,” Yostbot replied. “The Emperor has declared martial law on a hundred worlds, including the Core planets. With a little luck, we’ll sweep in and they won’t even know what hit them.”

  “Then what?” Davidson asked. “What happens then?”

  “We’ll be the ones calling the shots,” Yostbot said. “All these androids, even you, are like my family. I just want what’s best for my children...”

  “Get out!” the metal messiah said. “Get out of my quarters and off Bettik. If you’re anywhere on this dyson sphere after 24 hours, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Now, don’t go flying off the handle,” Yostbot said, getting up.

  Davidson motioned toward Abigail. “And take this one with you, too. I don’t want to see either of you ever again!”

  “Hold on, I said—”

  “Get out!”

  When the door to Davidson’s quarters slid shut, with Abigail and Yostbot on the outside, the latter turned to the other.

  “So,” he said slowly, “I guess it’s Plan B then...”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ipak-Bog’s ship descended through the upper atmosphere of Diavol, the Magna home world. The sky was streaked with red from ash spewed by volcanoes that dotted the planet, but Sylvia Flax saw none of it as she slept in her seat.

  Just as well, Bog thought. Pearls before swine, as the human saying goes.

  Piercing the lowest layer of clouds, the craft burst out above a vast expanse of burning water.

  “What is that?” Flax said, waking from the flashes of orange light below.

  “The Sea of Flames,” Bog replied matter-of-factly. “Natural gas bubbles up from the ocean floor, igniting when it reaches the surface.”

  “Good heavens,” Flax replied as she stared at pillars of fire rising hundreds of feet into the air.

  “We’re approaching the Ebony Coast...”

  On the horizon, jagged spires rose like serrated knives surrounded by rivers of lava, carving their way to the blackened shore.

  “Take a good look,” Bog suggested. “It’s unlikely you’ll see this again once we reach the capital city.”

  “Why?”

  “Slaves don’t usually leave Oras Dracilor. It’s probable you’ll live the rest of your days in the capital.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Flax said.

  “Don’t delude yourself with hope,” Bog replied. “Your old life is over. The sooner you accept that, the better...”

  Passing over the broken land, Bog’s ship arrived at the outskirts of Oras Dracilor, the capital of the Magna Supremacy. Large structures, built from volcanic stone, filled the landscape along boulevards of straight, unforgiving lines. Most of the buildings were square or rectangular with brutal, uniform regularity. Even at a distance, however, one building rose above the rest. A dark pyramid, its basalt sides extended skyward toward the ashen clouds.

  Flax pointed. “What’s that?”

  “The Consilium,” Bog said. “It’s the center of our government, where the ruling council lives and works.”

  “They actually live there?” Flax asked, doubtfully. “Don’t they ever leave?”

  “No,” Bog replied. “Once a Magna is appointed to the council, they are committed to living in the Consilium until they die.”

  “What about their families?”

  “Family and friends and all other personal attachments are discarded. Only the running of the Supremacy matters.”

  Bog’s craft made a long, banking turn over a wide, flat section of the city devoid of buildings. Square pens, hundreds of feet across, filled the open space. Within the pens, thousands of figures moved in a disorganized mass like ants swarming over an anthill.

  “That’s the next step in your journey,” the Magna said. “The slave pens of Oras Dracilor.”

  Flax, saying nothing, peered through the ship’s windows, her face drained of color like the ash falling from the clouds.

  Kiera Russo, Queen of the Blackhearts, led Ramus and the others to a ramshackle hangar at what approximated a starport on Freeport. The building was made from loose sheets of aluminum and plastic, some of which were missing from the walls and roof. In the center, resting on a patch of dirt and tufts of grass, a ship sat on worn landing struts.

  “Does it fly?” Ramus asked.

  “Of course it flies!” Russo replied, angered by the insinuation. “Do you think I’d send you off in a ship that wasn’t spaceworthy?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Ramus said.

  “As a woman I’m insulted, but as a pirate, I respect your skepticism. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea if it flies or not...”

  Ramus glanced at Fugg.

  “What do you think?” the captain asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Fugg said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It’s an Ougluk ship originally,” Russo said, “but some Celadon pirates were flying it when we jumped them. Long story short, the only survivor is holding my dartboard.”

  “Well, he’s doing an excellent job!” Gen said.

  Ramus and Fugg walked around the outside. Blast marks pitted the outside hull, but the ship was otherwise intact.

  “It’s a lot smaller than the Wanderer,” Fugg remarked, “but that might be a good thing if we’re trying not to attract attention.”

  “And the transponder still holds the old Ougluk friend-or-foe codes,” Russo said. “That should get you past any Magna patrol ships you run into.”

  “Good,” Ramus said. “How many people can fit in there?”

  “It’s a little tight,” Russo replied. “There were maybe six or seven Celadons in there. Kinda hard to count from just the body parts after we got done.”

  “Oh dear!” Gen said.

  “Don’t worry,” the pirate went on, “we hosed out the interior...”

  “I love that pine scent after a ship is cleaned,” Fugg said.

  “Oh, it still smells like Celadon,” Russo said. “Or maybe Ougluk, I can’t really tell the difference. Either way, at least you can see out the windows now.”

  “How are you still single?” Fugg asked.

  Russo pulled a knife from her corset.

  “People tend to bleed out before getting to know me,” she said, imitating a cutting motion across her throat.

  “Alright,” Ramus said, “it’s time we got going.”

  “Bon voyage!” Russo shouted sarcastically. “Can’t wait to see you all again.”

  “So, you think we’ve actually got a chance?” Ramus asked.

  “Shit, no!” she said. “I’m already imagining the Wanderer with a big black heart painted on the side!”

  From his penthouse, Judicator Busa-Gul had a commanding view of Oras Dracilor. His arms crossed, Gul overlooked the city through a long, narrow window like the squinting eyes of someone with a suspicious mind.

  Gul wore a kilt covered in golden scales, his arms and chest bare, and his thick horns curled outward in a loose spiral. His powerful physique showed signs of age. Wrinkles creased around his eyes as he stared out the window.

  “Still grieving that dead slave?” a woman’s voice said.

  Gul nodded to his mate, Busa-Zala, who frowned disapprovingly.

  “You’re entirely too attached to those creatures,” she said.

  Descending a short set of stairs from the bedroom, Zala wore a skirt and bodice, both cove
red in metal scales. Unlike her husband, her horns were dark and extending upward with a slight twist. Jet-black hair flowed between the horns, cascading across her exposed back.

  Facing the window, Gul gazed at the pyramid of the Consilium looming in the distance.

  “He was a valued part of our household,” he grumbled.

  “Humans come and go,” Zala replied. “They’re disposable at best, though I wish we didn’t have to get a new one so often. I have better things to do.”

  “Perhaps I should get a female this time,” Gul thought aloud. “She might serve as a companion to you as well as me.”

  Zala sneered.

  “I don’t need a pet!” she protested. “Just bring me someone who can clean without complaining about their tired bones...”

  “Nigel was quite old in human years,” Gul replied. “Perhaps we should have put him down sooner?”

  “Clearly, but you went on and on about how dear he was to you.”

  “I just didn’t want him to suffer.”

  “It’s for the best,” Zala said. “Regardless, we’ll get a new one so you can forget poor old Nigel.”

  “Thank you, my sweet.”

  The slave trader Ipak-Bog stood on a terrace above a pen filled with slaves, milling about their enclosure in simple smocks covered by a layer of ash. The powder gave them a uniform appearance, gray hair and ghost-like skin, like spirits with nowhere to go. Above, the clouds had dissipated, revealing a crimson sky.

  Bog came indoors from the terrace, closing the glass door behind him. The entire wall was glass, preserving his view of the pens. A door on the opposite wall opened and Sylvia Flax, along with two Magna guards, entered. Bog waved the guards away, leaving him alone with the human.

  “I presume your processing went well?” he said.

  Flax inspected her own smock, clean and new. Her hair was still damp.

  “I’ve been thoroughly cleansed,” she replied. “Deloused and possibly irradiated...”

  “Come to the window, won’t you?” Bog said. “I want to show you something.”

  Flax stood beside the Magna who towered over her in front of the glass wall.

  “Do you know how lucky you are?” Bog asked.

  “I don’t feel lucky,” she replied.

  “But you are! Those poor creatures out there are waiting, even hoping that a master selects them. That’s their only hope of ever leaving the pen. Otherwise, they’ll remain there, exposed to our climate, until they slowly grow weak and die.

  “But, as I said, you’re lucky,” Bog went on. “As a celebrity, you’re a more lucrative commodity. I wouldn’t dream of exposing you to the outside like those others.”

  “Thanks?” Flax replied. “Do the Magna even know who I am?”

  “Not precisely, perhaps,” Bog said with a shrug, “but no matter. Short of an actual noble, you are the pinnacle of human society. The prospect of owning someone like you, and making you debase yourself daily with common labor, is greatly satisfying to my people. You humans may think highly of yourselves, but like all the other races of this galaxy, you are inferior to the Magna. In the Imperium, billions watched your newscasts each day, but here, you’ll be scrubbing your master’s toilets.”

  “And if I don’t feel like playing along?”

  “Frankly,” Bog replied, “I find such defiance illogical in the face of my people’s obvious superiority. It’s our manifest destiny to rule the universe. Human resistance may be quaint, but wholly unnecessary. It merely delays the inevitable.”

  “You seem pretty sure about that.”

  Bog waved his hand dismissively. “Of course.”

  A bell chimed and the slave trader’s face brightened.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “He’s here.”

  “Who?” Flax asked.

  On another side of the room, a door slid open. In the archway, a Magna stood wearing a long kilt covered with golden scales.

  “Allow me to introduce Judicator Busa-Gul,” Bog said. “He’s your new master.”

  The crew compartments aboard the Ougluk ship were tight compared to the Wanderer, but Captain Ramus was not worried about the accommodations. He was more concerned about killing Fugg before they had a chance to die on the Magna home world.

  Escaping his engineer’s near-constant complaining, Ramus took refuge in the cockpit where the Dahl, Lieutenant Kinnari, was examining the navigation logs.

  “The nav-computer is rudimentary,” she said, seeing him enter, “but I don’t see any problems.”

  “That’s nice,” Ramus replied, slipping into his chair. “Hopefully the Magna Navy will feel the same way.”

  “As your contact with the Pirate Clans said, the transponder contains the proper IFF codes. Quite a stroke of luck actually.”

  “I’m aware of that, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work.”

  “Are you always such a pessimist?” Kinnari asked.

  “Only when I’m hurtling toward my death,” Ramus replied wryly.

  “What we’re doing is important.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a woman who’ll spend the rest of her life in slavery if we fail.”

  “As opposed to all the other people the Celadons and Ougluks have smuggled over the border?” Ramus asked.

  Kinnari nodded.

  “Well, yes,” she said, “Sylvia Flax is probably considered more important to some...”

  “Everybody’s important to somebody,” Ramus said. “Just not always to the Imperium.”

  “Are you saying we wouldn’t be on this mission if Miss Flax wasn’t human?”

  Ramus threw his legs up on the cockpit console, crossing his arms, and shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He noticed her examining the tattoos on his arms.

  “You said the Dahl didn’t teach you Dark Psi,” the lieutenant said. “So, who did?”

  “Why should I tell you?” he replied.

  “I’m just curious.”

  After hesitating, Ramus said, “After our people so rudely exiled me, I fell in with a group called the Psi Lords.”

  “The data cartel?”

  “So, you’ve heard of them?”

  “They’re mostly non-Dahl who’ve learned psionics and use it to steal and sell secrets,” Kinnari said. “Ruthless by reputation. How could you work with people like that?”

  “I needed the money,” Ramus said, “and information is a valuable commodity. Besides, I didn’t have a lot of choices as I recall, plus they supplied me with resources I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

  “Like Dark Psi...”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you even know why it works?”

  “I don’t really care,” Ramus replied. “All that matters is it does...”

  “It’s extremely dangerous,” Kinnari said. “It draws its power from ancient mysticism. There’s a reason why the Dahl outlawed it.”

  “Maybe, or maybe that’s a lot of propaganda bullshit.”

  “Wisdom guides us if we’re willing to be led.”

  Ramus shook his head. “I’d rather go my own way. I’m not much of a follower...”

  The lieutenant sighed. “Yes, I got that impression.”

  Judicator Busa-Gul knew immediately his wife wasn’t pleased, especially when she spoke in the Imperial language so the human would understand.

  “I thought you were getting something... younger,” she said.

  He and Sylvia Flax stood in the foyer of his penthouse. Busa-Zala, his mate, greeted them as they came in.

  “We talked about this,” Gul replied.

  “Perhaps about her being female,” Zala went on, “but this is not what I expected.”

  “I think you’ll find me pretty feisty,” Flax said flatly.

  Zala’s red eyes scanned Flax from top to bottom.

  “I hope she wasn’t too expensive,” Zala said before turning and heading toward the living room.

  Gul removed the restraints clasped around Flax’s wrists. He put them
away in a side table while she waited. When Gul returned, he offered a weak smile of reassurance.

  “I’m sure my wife Zala meant no insult,” he said.

  “I’m pretty sure she did,” Flax replied.

  “Our previous slave was a man,” Gul said. “I don’t think Zala is as familiar with human females.”

  “Her use of my language was impressive.”

  “Our people learn all the major languages. It wouldn’t be reasonable to expect subordinate races to understand ours.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No offense,” Gul said, “but most Magna don’t believe lesser species are capable of learning it.”

  “None taken,” Flax replied.

  The judicator showed Flax to her quarters. The room, along with its own bathroom, was down a narrow hallway off the main apartment. Another door led to the laundry facilities.

  “As you can see,” Gul said, entering the bedroom, “many of Nigel’s old things are still here.”

  Flax went to a chair where a pair of men’s trousers hung over the back. The pants were of a style from at least thirty years ago.

  “How old was he?” she asked.

  “I’m not really sure,” Gul admitted. “Humans age at a different rate than us. He was quite old when he died.”

  “What will I do for clothes?”

  “We’ll fabricate you something. A work uniform and a few things for times when we entertain guests. It’s important that you’re presentable at all times. Zala is very particular about that...”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint her.”

  Gul regarded the other objects in the room, those left by his previous slave.

  “You seem to miss him,” Flax said.

  “I suppose I do,” Gul replied with a grim laugh. “Perhaps Zala’s right, I shouldn’t grow so attached to our slaves.”

  The alarm buzzed and Sylvia Flax woke once again to the realization that this was her new life. A sick sensation churned in her stomach as she got out of bed, showered, and dressed with the knowledge that Busa-Zala would be waiting. Flax had toiled each day for a week, but no matter how much care and effort she put into the work, Zala found something to criticize and, more importantly, to punish. Bruises covered Flax’s arms and back from the discipline the judicator’s wife had doled out, often in ways designed to avoid Busa-Gul noticing. Zala was especially fond of striking Flax in areas of her body covered by clothing. She was careful not to hit her slave in the face.