The Dragons of Andromeda

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Not in money, son.”

  “What then?”

  The captain’s eyes bore down on the younger officer.

  “Blood.”

  Lady Veber’s room at the Regency Heights Sanatorium was private and sufficiently decorated that she could sit on the furniture without feeling dirty. Simple but dignified, the chaise lounge beneath her was covered in turquoise satin and reminded her of home. She allowed herself to doze until hearing someone unlock the door and come in.

  She recognized the cropped hair and purposeful expression of the man’s face. It also helped that he wore all black.

  “Magnus,” she said, greeting him with a smile.

  Magnus Black nodded and closed the door tightly behind him.

  “What did you do with the guard — I mean, orderly — down the hall?” she asked.

  “He’s taking a little nap,” he replied.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “No,” Magnus said, scowling. “I don’t always kill people.”

  “That’s a good quality to have...”

  “I brought news.”

  Veber’s brows rose in anticipation. “Yes?”

  “Lord Maycare sent his nephew a message,” Magnus said.

  “Which one?”

  “Commander Maycare on the Baron Lancaster.”

  “Robby? Oh, I remember when he was just a child. Such a handsome boy!”

  Magnus stared at her blankly.

  “Go on...” she said.

  “Lord Maycare asked his nephew for help with searching for another grimoire.”

  “And could he?”

  “I intercepted the reply this afternoon,” Magnus went on. “Apparently, the best place to get another book is in the Talion Republic. The captain of the Lancaster has a contact who can get Maycare over the border.”

  “Well, I hope he can do more than that,” Veber remarked.

  “The message said the contact knew Tals who could help, provided Maycare pays the right price.”

  “What kind of price?”

  “That part was a little unclear,” Magnus said. “It didn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

  “Never mind then. I’m sure Devlin will pay it, whatever it is...”

  “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Follow them, of course!” Veber said. “Hopefully they’ll lead you to my son.”

  “Do you still want me to go through with this?” Magnus asked.

  She grew somber, her eyes leveled at the floor.

  “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “It’s not going to be easy, even if I find him,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied, “but I have some ideas about that too...”

  In his workshop, the tiny room tucked away amid the nefarious chambers of Warlock Industries, Lars Hatcher drew a line on the wall with a piece of chalk.

  “You realize,” Dr. Sprouse said, standing behind him, “it was a hell of a lot of work finding you chalk nowadays. It’s not like people use chalkboards anymore.”

  Focusing on the white, flaky line he was etching, Lars didn’t look back. “I appreciate your efforts.”

  “You’re drawing a door, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You couldn’t use a marker or something like a normal person?” Dr. Sprouse asked.

  “The book says to use this,” Lars replied simply.

  The doctor crossed her arms and cocked her head to one side. “Does the book have to float like that?”

  The grimoire, hovering next to Lars’ shoulder, remained suspended by the power of his telekinesis. The book was cracked open to the page containing the incantation Lars was performing.

  “You’re the one who gave me these abilities,” Lars said. “You should be pleased they’re working.”

  “It’s a little creepy if I’m being honest.”

  “I can read your mind,” Lars said. “You have no choice but to be honest.”

  “That’s also creepy,” she remarked.

  Lars inscribed an arcing half-circle along the top of the doorway and came down the other side. With the frame complete, he started with the archaic lettering, sharp, angled strokes along the outer edges. Once finished, he took a step away from the wall, bringing him shoulder to shoulder with the doctor.

  “Do you still think this is a bad idea?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you want me to talk to Skarlander? Maybe convince him to drop it?”

  Lars glanced at her. “I know you don’t believe that would work.”

  Dr. Sprouse shrugged. “I’m just being polite.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to work,” she replied, heading for the only non-magical exit.

  “Always a pleasure.”

  With the door open and half her body already through, the doctor stopped.

  “Try not to be so creepy,” she suggested and left.

  Returning to his own work, Lars studied the book levitating above the ground. He said a few words and the space inside the chalk door disappeared, falling toward a point in the center like water dropping through a hole. He kept the portal open, attempting to sense anyone who might be on the other side, but there was nothing, as if his mind was staring into a void. Whatever could pass through the portal, thoughts did not appear to be one of them.

  Lars went back to his workbench and examined the notes on his datapad. He wasn’t sure what the doorway connected to. He would try sending a drone through and see if he could record video. It could be across the planet or another star system. He theorized whether it could cross dimensions, even time.

  While he was reviewing his annotations, Lars suddenly sensed he was no longer alone. He first turned toward where Dr. Sprouse had left, but the door was still closed. He turned the other way, toward the wall, and saw a man standing there staring back at him holding a long wooden staff with a skull on the end. A stranger, he was paler even than Lars himself. He was devoid of hair and had dark, sunken eyes. He wore an amulet in the shape of an octagram around his neck.

  “Hello,” he said, and at that moment Lars read his mind.

  He was Philip Veber.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Captain Ramus and his crew, along with Lieutenant Kinnari of the Imperial Navy, dropped out of hyperspace into the home system of the Magna Supremacy. Automatically, the transponder aboard the ship began broadcasting its identification using the Ougluk codes that were left by its previous, now deceased, crew.

  “Well, nobody’s shooting at us so far,” Ramus remarked, viewing the sensors in the cockpit.

  As before, Kinnari sat beside him.

  “Perhaps a reason for optimism after all,” she smirked.

  The ship had not traveled far before a Magna patrol vessel approached at high speed. Sweat was beading on the back of Ramus’ neck when a stern voice crackled over the communication channel. The captain didn’t understand what was said but he had a pretty good idea what it meant.

  “He’s asking our business here,” Kinnari said.

  “Yeah, I kind of figured,” Ramus replied. “Do you speak Magnaese?”

  “Not much reason to come along if I didn’t...” the lieutenant said while grabbing the thin microphone protruding from the control console. She said a few words and received a firm, but non-threatening response.

  Ramus thought that was a good sign, until the instruments said the Magna vessel was scanning them.

  “Don’t worry,” Kinnari said. “There’s nothing on board that’s incriminating.”

  “What about us?” Ramus asked.

  “You mean Dahls? I told him we were Sarkan. Our physiology is no different than theirs, at least not to a sensor scan like this one.”

  The scan complete, the Magna on the other ship gave a gruff retort over the comm and the vessel turned away, heading towards the next visitor appearing out of hyperspace.

  Ramus, against his better judgment, al
lowed himself to relax.

  “Setting a course for Diavol,” he said, working the controls. “Let’s hope our luck holds a little longer...”

  Diving deeper into the Magna home system, Ramus was careful not to stray from the navigational corridor leading from the outer planets to Diavol, which lay near the primary star of the triple-star system. Besides commercial traffic, warships of every size and shape traveled along the routes plotted in the system. Massive space stations, each riddled with heavy weaponry, dotted intervals along the way. Ramus felt like a mouse tiptoeing past sleeping lions in their den, any of them liable to wake up and eat him whole.

  When the ship was within range, Kinnari notified the control tower at the main starport, requesting permission to land on the surface. Permission granted, Ramus piloted the Ougluk vessel into the upper atmosphere.

  “A lot of ash in these clouds,” he remarked.

  “Our intelligence reports said Diavol has extensive volcanic activity,” Kinnari replied. “It’s likely they have earthquakes on a regular basis.”

  “What a hellhole,” the captain said.

  “I suppose it’s what they consider normal, although it might explain the Magna mentality.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” Kinnari said.

  Ramus gave her a sideways glance. “Okay,” he shrugged, not recognizing the reference.

  “I guess classical human literature isn’t your forte?” Kinnari asked.

  “Apparently not!”

  After the ship had settled into its assigned spot at the Diavol starport, both Ramus and Kinnari sat in the tight confines of the galley while Gen applied several layers of red makeup to their faces. When the robot was done, the two Dahl looked like their racial cousins, the Sarkan. While their clothing may not have been strictly authentic, Ramus and the Imperial lieutenant were satisfied most observers would mistake them for the real thing.

  “I hope you’re satisfied with my work,” Gen said. “I used the holovids the lieutenant provided as reference.”

  “You make a handsome Sarkan,” Kinnari said, nodding to Ramus, “although you should remove those earrings.”

  Grumbling, the captain pulled the gold rings from his pointed ears.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  Ignoring the question, Kinnari pulled a datapad from her bag and showed him a photo on the screen.

  “This is Ipak-Bog,” she said. “He’s a Magna slave trader and, according to the Sarkan prisoner we captured, he personally brought Sylvia Flax to Diavol.”

  Fugg, who had remained in the hallway because there wasn’t enough room in the galley, stuck his head in the doorway.

  “How are you going to find him?” he asked gruffly. “Look him up in the directory under slave trader?”

  Kinnari peered over her shoulder, her face now a bright hue of scarlet.

  “Actually,” she said, “trading slaves is a legitimate business here so that’s exactly how we’re going to find him.”

  “So,” Fugg replied, “we’re just going to walk into his office and ask for Flax back?”

  “Of course not,” the lieutenant replied. “First, we’ll make an appointment and bring him a slave we’re selling.”

  “A slave?” Fugg asked. “Where are you getting one of them?”

  This time, both Ramus and Kinnari looked at the Gordian. Neither said a word.

  “Well, shit,” Fugg said.

  Alone in his office overlooking the slave pens, Ipak-Bog reclined on a sofa while reviewing the cargo manifest of a recent shipment on his datapad. Several of the livestock had died during transit, reducing the number of slaves he could bring to market.

  Those idiotic Ougluks! he thought. When will they learn they can’t pack their cargo hold full without losing stock in transit?

  The door chime rang. Remembering a new supplier was coming by, Bog rose from the couch. Opening the door, he greeted the three figures standing in the passageway. Two were Sarkan, a male and a female, and the third, in hand restraints, was a Gordian.

  Good, Bog thought. Gordians are hard workers, even if their smell takes some getting used to.

  “Welcome,” Bog said. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” the woman replied, speaking in Magnaese.

  The male Sarkan gave the captive a shove from behind, pushing him into the room.

  “You all suck,” the Gordian grumbled in Imperial Standard.

  “I apologize,” the female continued. “I’m afraid he hasn’t learned his proper place yet.”

  “I understand,” Bog said. “Gordians are a willful race to be sure. Does he have any skills?”

  “He was a ship’s engineer.”

  “Splendid,” Bog replied. “Obviously we can’t use him on one of our own ships, but perhaps I can sell him back to an Ougluk captain I know. He’s always looking for someone to replace whoever he’s killed that week.”

  A mild tremor rippled through the floor, rattling the windows. Outside, some of the slaves in the pens stirred anxiously.

  “Never mind that,” Bog assured his guests. “Those happen all the time.”

  “I’m sure,” the female said.

  Bog motioned toward the male Sarkan.

  “Does your friend speak?” he said.

  “He doesn’t understand your language.”

  “Should I talk in Imperial?” Bog asked.

  “Only if you care to,” the female replied.

  Speaking in Imperial Standard, Bog addressed the other Sarkan. “Greetings,” he said. “How do you like my planet?”

  The Red Dahl glanced at the female, then looked back at the Magna just as another rumble reverberated through the building.

  “Kinda shaky,” the male answered.

  Bog grinned like a crocodile. “Indeed.”

  Walking to a cart near the sofa, Bog opened the top, revealing a selection of liquor bottles inside.

  “Care for a drink?” he asked.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” the female said.

  “That’s an interesting accent you have,” Bog said. “I can’t place it.”

  “Really? How strange.”

  “Most Sarkan speak with such an antagonistic tone, but your accent is almost... lyrical, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s my understanding that Sarkan and Dahl speak the same language — High Dahlvish as I recall — is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strange how they can speak the same tongue and yet sound so different.”

  Bog reached under the cart and pulled out a blaster pistol, pointing it at his guests.

  “I told you this wasn’t going to work,” the Gordian said. “Me, a slave? Come on...”

  “Who are you?” the slave trader asked angrily.

  Before anyone could answer, a jolt knocked everyone, including the Magna, off their feet. Bog struggled to one knee, trying to stand, but the floor bowed and rippled like waves on an ocean. A crack appeared in the ceiling, widening into a crevasse from which portions of the roof came crashing down. The room filled with thick, choking dust.

  When the shaking was over, Bog stood up, still holding his blaster. From the cloud of dust, like a creature emerging from the deep, a dark shape like an enormous wolf came at the slave trader. Bog fired, but the plasma bolt disappeared into the gray veil hanging in the air.

  Hairy with long teeth and ripping claws, the wolfman tore into Bog’s flesh. Black blood poured from his mouth. The pistol fell, dropping silently into the rubble now littering the floor.

  Before the darkness closed around him, Bog saw the strange, glowing lettering that covered the creature’s arms.

  Judicator Busa-Gul was gone less than two days before his wife Zala erected a life-sized statue of him in the penthouse. His statue, holding a law book in one arm and pointing to the horizon with the other, was made from Obsidian glass, polished to a f
ine sheen.

  Sylvia Flax was the one who polished it.

  Zala sat alone in the living room, drinking a salty concoction Flax had nicknamed brine wine. Flax had tried a sip and nearly gagged on what tasted like fermented broth. When she wasn’t drinking, Zala flew into rages at the state of the penthouse. The walls were grimy, the decorations dusty, and the food tasted like sand. Nothing was good enough and Sylvia Flax was always at fault.

  While Gul was there, Flax could at least depend on him to keep her alive, but with him gone, all bets were off. Escape was out of the question. Even if she could make it to the starport, she didn’t know how to fly a ship and if she fled the city, the toxic atmosphere would kill her in a week. It was hopeless, but Flax was nothing if not stubborn. She would find a way to survive, even if it killed her.

  The following day, Zala again sat in the living room, not far from the statue of her husband. Flax, after pouring a glass of wine, brought it on a tray. At that moment, a seismic tremor shook the penthouse. Flax, losing her balance, dropped the tray. With a crash, the wine splattered across the carpet.

  Zala rose from her seat like a gathering storm, her eyes compressed into slits of anger.

  “You imbecile!” she screamed.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Flax shouted in return.

  “How dare you talk back to me! You’re nothing, do you understand? An insect!”

  “You have no right to talk to me like that!”

  “I have every right, you miserable beast! Gul was wrong to bring you into our home. You’ve been nothing but bad fortune since you came here!”

  Another quake rumbled through the room, knocking a painting by Magna artist Zhug-Doja off the wall. Seeing the half-torn canvas, Zala flew into a rage, throwing herself at the much smaller human. Flax rolled across the carpet, a shard of glass stabbing into her side. Zala reached out and caught Flax’s foot, dragging her back.

  Zala snarled, gripping Flax by the throat and lifting her off the ground.

  Flax kicked, but days of beatings had tired her body. Her vision darkened around the edges, with Zala’s face and crazed eyes at the center.

  The floor buckled and pitched and suddenly Flax found herself on the floor again. She tried crawling away, but it felt like she was on a bed of ball bearings. Portions of the roof started falling around her, basalt fragments crashing everywhere. Dust filled her lungs.