Dragon Space

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  She'd never heard of a pallisp before this trip—but it was illegal on one of the most important worlds in the known galaxy. And what about the rest of this? Mogurn had been brought up on all of these charges. Or had he? Squinting at the bottom of the sheet, she saw a date and time: his scheduled hearing. Beside the date was scrawled a single exclamation: Hah! Trembling, she turned to look back at Mogurn, twitching and pawing himself: the man whose ship she was flying; the man who had framed his own certificate of indictment, apparently as a badge of honor. Had he escaped from that world before he could be brought to trial? It certainly helped explain his unregistered status at Gaston's Landing—not that anyone there was likely to notice, or care about, an outstanding warrant.

  It could also explain Mogurn's reluctance to discuss his cargo. She'd let the question pass because he had the right to confidentiality. But now she wondered, what hadn't he wanted her to know?

  Heart pounding, she crept out of the cabin. Mogurn was still inert, his head rolled to one side, his eyes closed. Leaning against the wall outside, panting, she let the door turn opaque behind her. Then she staggered into the commons room and sat and listened to the thundering of her heart and prayed, Dear God—if there is a God—tell me what I've done!

  All she heard was the rushing and pounding of blood in her veins.

  After a time, she rose and went out into the hall and stood by the ladder that led down to the engineering decks. Would it also take her to the cargo holds? She might be able to see for herself what the ship was carrying—if she had the nerve.

  She stood by the open hatch, staring down into the gloom. At last she sighed painfully and turned away. She went to her cabin and locked the door, and there she brooded, huddling on her bunk in near darkness. And after a long rime, she felt her eyelids growing heavy, and eventually she curled into a tight ball and slept a sleep of exhaustion.

  * * *

  She confronted Mogurn at breakfast, though not immediately. She pushed some pieces of cut-up griddle cake around on her plate for a while, then said, "What is our cargo, anyway?" After waiting a moment for an answer, she realized that she had spoken too softly to be heard. Mogurn was scratching his beard, muttering to himself as he pored over a datapad at his elbow. Jael had no idea what he was studying. She chewed a syrup-dampened bite. She started to repeat her question, then hesitated, and instead blurted, "I saw the certificate on your wall." She looked down again and stabbed another square of griddle-cake.

  When she raised her eyes, Mogurn was gazing at her. She realized that he was squinting in puzzlement. She cleared her throat and started to say, "The . . . court thing—"

  "What did you say?" he asked, cutting her off. "Something about my wall?"

  Jael's face burned, her stomach knotted. "Your certificate," she said. "I saw it."

  "My what?"

  "Your—" Her throat constricted and she tried one more time, taking a deep breath. "You were indicted. You were in trouble for smuggling. And for—" Her throat tightened again, but she saw the sudden flash of understanding, and the glint of amusement in his eyes, and she was suddenly determined to speak her mind. For the pallisp, she thought. For the damn pallisp. "For possession of stolen goods," she said.

  Mogurn cocked his head.

  "And illegal goods. Including . . ."

  "Yes?" he said in an exaggerated tone. "Including what?"

  "Including . . . the pallisp."

  "I see. And does that bother you?"

  "Yes, it—"

  "You're enjoying the pallisp, aren't you?" he interrupted. "Do you think that just because something is illegal on one world, it is therefore wrong, somehow?"

  "You were . . . stealing," Jael stammered. "You were smuggling." Mogurn shrugged, making no effort to deny the charge. And, she noticed, he didn't seem to object to her having seen it. Perhaps he'd even posted it in the expectation that whatever rigger was serving him would see it.

  "Actually," Mogurn said finally, turning off his datapad, "all you know is that I was charged with those things. You don't know that I was guilty of any of them." He smiled placidly and stroked his beard, as though tempting her to respond.

  "I don't hear you denying it," Jael said hotly.

  "True," he admitted. He raised his dark eyebrows. "Would you like me to deny it?"

  Jael tried to control her anger. What happened to your last rigger? she wanted to ask, but couldn't voice the words. She wanted to rage at him; she was so tightly coiled, so angry that she didn't know how to answer. "I would like to know," she said coldly, giving each word measured emphasis, "where you got the pallisp. And what it is doing to me."

  Mogurn smoothed down the front of his navy blue satin shirt and pulled together the front of the violet-trimmed vesta that hung loosely around his shoulders. His eyes came to a focus, and he pressed his palms together in front of his lips to hide a frown. "Of course. What shall I tell you? That it is a medical instrument? That it is utterly safe when used with knowledge and care?" As he gazed at her, his eyes seemed to be intently gauging her response.

  "Medical instrument?" she muttered, trusting him less than ever.

  "Yes, of course." Mogurn tipped his head to one side. "Well, psych-med, actually. It is said to have certain uses in the treatment of, for example, severe depression."

  Then why are you using it on me? she wanted to shout.

  "I find, however, that many people enjoy its use." Mogurn steepled his forefingers, interlocking his hands in front of his face. "It must be used with caution, of course. There are those who would tell you it is . . . addictive, who are terrified by that thought, and I . . . well, I do not accept such claims. It is simply a question of using it correctly."

  "Addictive?" she whispered, so softly he could not have heard.

  "There is no reason to fear it. After all, the pallisp brings pleasure, does it not?" Mogurn's voice softened. "Don't we all enjoy the sensation of pleasure? Pure pleasure, unadulterated by the complications that muddy our lives, the petty jealousies and guilt that rob us of whatever grim joys fate brings into our lives?" His gruff voice became almost delicate. "Isn't that something that all people should have the right to enjoy? Even riggers? Shouldn't riggers have that right, too, Jael?"

  Jael swallowed; she had no idea how to answer anymore. Perhaps there was some truth in his words, but she was speechless with anger at the way she'd been manipulated. Speechless with fear. And with, even now, an almost overwhelming desire to go under the pallisp again. To feel the warm caress of its presence within her mind, and the tickling suggestion of love and companionship against her soul. To feel the golden light of that inner sun—

  "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Jael?"

  Startled, she tried to think. Yes! What about the theft, the smuggling . . . ? None of the words made it to her lips.

  Mogurn had risen to his feet. "We do, after all, have flying to do. A ship to bring into port." His brusque hurry-up tone had returned. "If you've finished with your breakfast . . ." He gestured impatiently as he turned to leave the commons.

  Despite the knot in her stomach, Jael swallowed a large piece of syrup-drenched griddlecake and drained her cup of coffee. Sliding her dishes into the disposal unit, she glumly followed Mogurn to the bridge.

  * * *

  "Why don't you want me here while you fly?" Mogurn turned from his instruments and peered at her darkly. In the gloom of the cockpit, his eyes looked angry and threatening.

  "It's that—" Jael bit her lip "—it's that it makes me nervous sometimes. It makes it hard for me to keep the flow stable, to keep the impressions clean, and clear." She drew a breath. "I can rig better when I know I'm not being watched. When I can feel alone, and safe."

  "Safe?" Mogurn said in a tone of surprise. "Safe? Have I ever threatened you, Jael?"

  Jael shook her head. "No, but I . . . well . . . that's all I can tell you. I feel safer, and I feel better, when I'm alone here." She pressed her lips together and forced herself to stare back at Mo
gurn. She had very few strengths to command against the ship's owner, but this was one of them: she could make any reasonable request that bore on the safety of the ship or her ability to rig, and expect it to be granted. Without her flying skills, Mogurn would never see planetfall again.

  Arms folded across his heavy chest, Mogurn studied her with his dark, stem gaze, keeping her frozen as she stared back at him. At last he released her from his gaze. "Very well," he said. He glanced at the instruments one more time, then indicated the rigger-station with a tilt of his head. "Go ahead and take the net. Don't tire yourself." With that, he turned, his silken robe spinning in folds, and strode from the bridge. The door darkened to opacity behind him, leaving Jael alone in the gloomy compartment.

  Does he distrust me now? Jael thought, staring after him. Do I care? She turned and repeated the inspection of the instruments that Mogurn had just made, and then she climbed into the rigger-station. She stretched out and gazed up at the monitors, and closed her eyes and tried to relax, to forget about Mogurn and the pallisp, to think only of the ship, and the Flux.

  Her senses darkened and sprang outward, into the net.

  Chapter 8

  The Mountain Route

  SHE FLEW through a vast and clear, purplish sky. She floated like a seed high over a strangely glowing blue- and green-mottled landscape. The net glittered faintly around her, binding her to the invisible ghost of the spaceship. She spread her arms, and in the net they billowed outward as great sail-like wings, filled with a rising updraft of wind. Jael rose, soaring.

  The landscape beneath her was an odd matrix of color, reflecting her mood, her uncertainty. It was a phantasmagorical land, bubbling with distant flame red volcanoes, and glinting rivers of silver threading through cyan valleys and shadowy plains. This was not a landscape in which she could imagine anyone living, certainly no one human. It took her a while to calm down from her confrontation with Mogurn; but eventually her feelings quieted, if they did not disappear altogether, and she flew silently through empty skies, lost in the sort of daydream in which no thought lasted for more than a moment or two, and few images lingered.

  She felt a sort of wistful melancholy. She did not pursue any of the concerns that had so recently preoccupied her. Whatever worries she had about Mogurn and the pallisp did not need to reach her here, in this haven from all worries. At least that was her hope. She flew slowly on the wind, not bothering to seek out faster currents. Whether they reached their destination sooner, or later, did not matter to her. Hours went by, and she remained content to float, to drift.

  Occasionally, despite her efforts at detachment, the landscape below shimmered and flared in response to tremors that surfaced within her own heart, aches that she was determined to leave unnamed. They were longings and fears that she wanted desperately to leave behind, that she was determined not to allow expression. But she was not always the master of those feelings. Whether she willed it or not, they sometimes erupted into the landscape—sometimes with unfocused phosphorescent fire among the hills, sometimes with tiny billowing bloody plumes, sometimes in the form of shadows dancing over the land like the dark ghosts of aerial acrobats. Those aches were always present within her, and when they found their way out, the landscape always responded.

  She began to wish she could change the image and leave this heartache landscape behind. But it was a tenacious image, with a powerful hold on her. However her abilities were growing, whether it was through experience, or through exposure to the pallisp, her imaginative powers remained many-sided. She was not immune to darker visions.

  The com-signal chimed in her consciousness, and Mogurn's voice broke into her solitude. Jael, what's wrong? The feedback oat here looks poor. It looks unstable.

  The landscape turned to brimstone and filled the sky with a rising, burning haze. She tried to control it, to subdue the sudden eruption of anger at the sound of Mogurn's voice. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine, she answered curtly.

  Are you sure? Mogurn's voice was a growl in one corner of her mind. She envisioned him on the bridge, squinting anxiously down into the rigger-station, leering at her still form. His voice was bodiless here in the net, but she was sure that physically he must be very near. She had to work hard not to lose her equilibrium. She countered an instinctive urge to avoid him by retreating to the extremities of the net; that wouldn't help.

  I'm fine, she insisted. The image was showing signs of disintegration. The outer edges of the landscape looked unfocused, almost frayed. Mogurn's interference was creating a potentially hazardous situation. The ship was beginning to shake in the turbulence. Mogurn might not have been able to feel it inside, but here in the net there was no mistaking it. Jael drew more energy from the flux-pile, trying to stabilize the image.

  I'm depending on you, said Mogurn.

  I know. Now please leave me alone to do my job!

  Very well. I'll be back to check later.

  Jael didn't respond. She thought hard, searching her imagination for something that would help her to stabilize this situation. She focused on the angry horizon, aware that her focusing power was indeed stronger. Had the pallisp really aided her? The colors at the horizon bled, and a crimson sunset swelled over the mountains off to what she envisioned as the northwest.

  Mountains. She was startled by the realization. The mountains she and Mogurn had talked about: the ones that he wanted her to skirt. She'd felt their presence from afar; it had just been a question of when she would reach them and what form they would take—and how, or whether, she would skirt them. The route through the mountains was the more direct one to their destination, Lexis, and just now she was feeling inclined to bring this flight to an end as quickly as possible. But there were reports, and not just Mogurn's warnings, that the mountain route was more dangerous, with tricky currents. And, of course, dragons.

  Jael smiled at the thought. That, of course, was what Mogurn was worried about: the legends in the rigging community—and that's all they were, legends—which held that dragons lived in these mountain routes along the fringes of Aeregian space. They were real dragons, according to the legends, fire-breathing dragons that lived in the Flux as humans lived and breathed in air. There had been some discussion of the subject back in rigger school, where it had been treated about as seriously as the legends of the "ghost rigger ships," the lost "Flying Dutchman" ships of interstellar space. No instructor could swear that the dragons did not exist, objectively speaking, but one knew well enough what they thought. Dragons made for vivid and wonderful stories, but not one teacher or rigger in a hundred believed that they were real.

  Still, the rumors persisted as rumors do: riggers in the starports boasting, telling tales of dueling with dragons. And not just dueling, but conversing. Still, Jael gave even less credence to the boasts of riggers than she did to the carefully disclaimed references in school. So far as she knew, there was no real evidence for believing that anything actually lived in the mountains—or, for that matter, anywhere else in the Flux. But according to the library hypnos, there did seem to be a special quality to the Flux in this corridor that almost demanded mountain imagery in the minds of passing riggers; and sometimes it evoked dragons, as well, or images of dragons. Maybe some riggers believed the dragons to be actual living inhabitants of the Flux, but Jael had never met anyone with firsthand knowledge. The library nav-hypnos described them simply as unusually compelling images. Of course, that didn't mean they were harmless. Even imaginary dragons could threaten a ship, if they were vivid enough in a rigger's mind. Either way, it sounded dangerous to pass that way. It sounded glorious.

  And that was why Mogurn had warned her away, she was sure. Still, he had not absolutely forbidden her to fly in the mountains—and after all, she was the rigger, wasn't she? It was she, not Mogurn, who chose the images and the streams of the Flux to ride. He could suggest a route, but the ultimate choice was hers. And what did her senses tell her now?

  Stretching the focus of her vision, she tried t
o spy out the distant range. There was still turbulence from her confused emotions; she could distinguish only the general rise and fall of the mountain peaks. She would have to move in closer to see anything useful. And that might not be such a bad thing to do, despite Mogurn's fears. The greater demands of close-in flying would help her to focus, help her to discipline her imagination.

  She banked slightly to angle in that direction. The net sparkled around her as she grew excited—at the thought of quickening the flight, at the thought of danger. Perhaps she shouldn't really do this, not if the danger had become an attraction for her. But there were times when one simply had to take charge, to do things for one's own sake. Mogurn's fears be damned, she thought.

  Abruptly she transformed herself into a mountain eagle, and she caught a new current and soared northwest, pulse racing, net glittering like jewels in the Flux.

  * * *

  Ahead was twilight, emerging from sunset. Mountains stood jagged and black against a wine red sky that deepened into evening. The mountains were much closer now, more fully revealed to her awareness. She scanned ahead with just the slightest feeling of unease, using the edges of her mind to explore the approaching shadows. Would there be dragons? She doubted it; still, there was no way to know absolutely. And she had not yet decided whether she would actually violate Mogurn's request.

  A sense of quiet anticipation settled in as she flew on eagle wings ever closer to the range of peaks. A part of her almost hoped that dragons would appear—if for no other reason than to ease her loneliness.

  The com-signal chimed again, chilling her.

  Isn't it time you came out? asked a bodiless Mogurn.

  A sudden crosswind made her shiver. Is it? she asked, stalling.

  You've been in there for hours, Jael. Too long.

  Really? It doesn't seem that long.