Dragon Space

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Jael drew a breath, and then she knew. She had been young then, too young to really understand; but this was the turning point, her father's business fortunes at their lowest ebb, the family-owned shipping firm teetering at the brink of collapse. It wasn't his fault, his mouth seemed to say. The registry had turned against him, and his own colleagues, and now he'd lost the passenger license, and there were incompetent riggers, as well, who had cost him two ships and plunged him into debt. And now he had to make a choice. A shipper on the edge could survive a lot more easily flying unregulated. Hang the registry. The quality of the riggers was a lot more uncertain, but how could it be worse than he'd seen already?

  Anger and pain hardened his face. Jael had no idea whether or not his anger was justified; there was so much she didn't know about how it all had happened. But the effect on him was clear, as his face metamorphosed in the dragon light. The anger was sealed up within him, and he closed himself up like a steel wall, hard with bitterness. Behind him, Jael's mother's face grew drawn and terrified. Finally she was gone, and as Jael watched she felt glad that her mother's pain had ended years ago. But her father's pain only grew, and like some tormented, twisting animal he lashed out at those closest to him.

  And the family name became a badge of shame. Jael did not even know, really, all that her father did to turn the shipping community against him. She did not want to know. She knew only that his suffering, like her mother's, had ended only with his death. But Jael's hadn't. Damn him, couldn't he at least have given something to her, some encouragement to her dream?

  Didn't he, Jael? Not ever? whispered Highwing.

  What? Jael saw another image beginning to form, and suddenly she knew what it was, it was the rigger school, and she erupted with rage. Stop it, damn you! No, he didn't—not ever—not except by dying and leaving us for good! She bent her head to the dragon's neck and wept. For her mother . . . for her brother . . . for herself. What could possibly make it right? Nothing, it seemed. Nothing at all. Get rid of him, Highwing, get rid of him! she whispered, rubbing away her tears.

  Shall I burn him? Highwing asked softly.

  She almost said yes, then sighed, straightening up. I guess not. What's the point? Maybe he suffered enough, I don't know. But it's over. She drew a painful breath. Let's just get the hell out of here.

  The aerie darkened, where her father had stood. Highwing glanced back at Jael, his eyes glowing. Then he spread his wings and leaped into the air. I had thought that you might—well—

  What? she asked darkly.

  Never mind. The dragon seemed thoughtful. But I understand now, a little, I think.

  Take me out of this place! Jael snapped, as fresh anger welled up inside her. The dragon vented smoke from his nostrils in sympathy. For some reason that enraged her still further, and she hammered on his hard, resilient scales with her fists. Take me out of this accursed valley and let me finish my journey in peace!

  A flurry of sparks escaped from Highwing's nostrils. Do you really mean that? he asked softly, his powerful voice trembling with dismay.

  Yes! Jael cried in a whisper, knowing that it was her pain speaking. Yes, I want to leave!

  You won't consider . . . you mean you don't intend to—

  Highwing! she cried in torment. Take me away!

  As you will, my friend, Jael, the dragon sighed. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, muttering unhappily. But with mighty wingstrokes he beat higher and faster into the night.

  Chapter 11

  Parting

  THE DRAGON circled, climbing. The mountain peaks surrounded them like dark towers in the night, sullen shadows against the moonlit clouds. When I take you out of these mountains, Highwing said sorrowfully, we will be near the place where I must leave you, but you will be closer to your destination than you were when we met. I had thought . . . well. Never mind. There is nothing to be done, I suppose—except to say good-bye.

  Jael recognized the sadness in the dragon's voice, but her mind burned with far too many images to respond. Anyway, what did it matter? It was the dragon's fault for bringing her to this place of magic, stirring up memories of pain and sorrow. It had seemed all right until the very end, when there'd been no escaping the pain, not even the satisfaction of seeing the offender's image burned by dragon fire. There was no such solution where her father was concerned. Why? Why? she whispered to herself, not meaning to speak it aloud.

  Highwing seemed to understand her thought. I did not know what we would see or how it would feel, he murmured. I only showed you what was in your mind.

  She nodded, grunting. She didn't know why she felt angry with him, really, but she did.

  Did I do wrong, Jael? If so, I am sorry.

  She shook her head and silently clung to him as he beat his wings, carrying them toward the highest reaches of the mountains. Memories continued to flash through her mind: her brother gathering his dignity, unable to share his hurt even with his sister, who loved him; Dap and the other riggers struggling with their own loneliness and fear, and the competition for jobs in which they were all victims; a rigger named Mariel who had once treated her kindly, and Toni Gilen who had innocently come to her with a message from the steward, from Mogurn; and Mogurn himself, in the deathlike oblivion of his synaptic augmentor. And worst of all, memories of a father who in the end had loved no one, least of all himself.

  She clung to Highwing because she was trembling so hard, shaking as the feelings followed the images faster than she could respond to them. Memories of pain and anger and loneliness and frustration; they were spawning a cyclone in her soul, a storm that would probably have swept her away in the Flux if Highwing had not been here to protect her. She scarcely saw the mountain peaks passing by on either side, dark and grim in the night, or the clouds that muffled them and then opened to the sky, or the stars that gleamed like diamonds and then stretched peculiarly into spidery lines . . . in response to the sensation of speed . . . to her growing fatigue in the rigger-net.

  In the rushing wind, she finally raised her head and hiked herself up on the dragon's neck, realizing with a shock that she was exhausted, that she had been flying in the net for too many hours. Where are we going? she whispered, finding herself incapable of speaking any louder.

  On the way to where you wanted to go, said the dragon.

  If I went away—to sleep—could you stay with my ship until I returned? Even as she spoke, she sensed the net sparkling with distorted colors. She was losing her ability to control her own presence here; she had to get out. She felt an inexplicable jab of pain, of loneliness, at the thought. She didn't quite want to leave Highwing.

  I will be here.

  Sighing, Jael gathered her senses with an effort of will and altered the image slightly, materialized an image of her ship as it was bound to her through the net—just its ghostly nose protruding out of nothingness into the Flux. She set the stabilizers astride Highwing. This should help keep us together. I'll see you in a while, then.

  A plume of smoke. Yes.

  Jael withdrew. Her senses darkened, accompanied by a wave of dizziness—and rekindled back in her own body. She climbed out of the rigger-cell and stood, trembling with exhaustion, in the gloom of the starship's bridge. She stretched and felt her joints popping; she had been in the rigger-station, motionless, for a very long time—longer than she would have thought possible. Was that Highwing's work? Or had the pallisp increased her abilities and stamina in the net? She shrugged wearily. What did it matter?

  She was ravenously hungry, even hungrier than she was tired. She stole into the galley and quietly wolfed a dinner of tasteless fish and vegetables and bread. At any moment, she expected an angry Mogurn to burst in upon her. But when he had not appeared by the time she was finished, she began to wonder. He had been awfully anxious to see her, to vent his anger. Was it possible that the virtual-Mogurn's death in the net had . . . no, don't be ridiculous. Perhaps she should just go to sleep and worry about it later. But she could not so easily igno
re Mogurn's absence, and he had told her to come see him. With a lump of fear in her throat, she disposed of her dishes and tiptoed into the hallway.

  She crept to Mogurn's door and, after a long hesitation, pressed the signal. There was no answer. She paled the door, which was unlocked, and peered in. Mogurn was unconscious under his synaptic augmentor, his eyes rolled up into his head, a grimace stretching his mouth. He was so still that for a moment she thought he might indeed be dead; but no, his chest was rising and falling slowly. He hadn't been able to wait for her help, apparently; he was too addicted to his augmentor. Or he'd been too angry.

  Jael frowned, thinking involuntarily of the pallisp. She realized that she didn't really need or want it just now. She could live without it while she slept. Good, she thought. Very good. Returning to the commons, she left a brief note for Mogurn, staring that the ship was out of danger. Then she went to her own cabin and fell almost instantly into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  She blinked as her dreams fled, visions of snarling mythical creatures disappearing in plumes of golden radiance. Her eyes focused on the ceiling of her cabin, plain pale green. She tried to focus her thoughts . . .

  . . . and suddenly remembered Highwing.

  She drew a sharp breath as the memories streamed back into her mind. Highwing! Had that all been a dream? For a moment, she was confused by doubts about the reality of what she remembered—or thought she remembered. Dragons in the Flux? Living creatures who spoke with humans and looked into their souls . . . and called them "friend"? It was surely impossible; it flew in the face of what she knew as reality. And yet, her memory sang with the reality of Highwing.

  Mogurn's voice startled her: "Are you being paid to sleep?" The anger in his voice was sharp. Too sharp.

  With a shock, she turned her head to look at him standing in her doorway. She saw his drawn-looking eyes glaring at her, and she despised him. She imagined him cremated by dragon fire.

  "Make yourself ready and come see me in the galley," he ordered, his voice trembling. Then he vanished.

  Scowling, she forced herself to rise. Mogurn's tone worried her. He sounded unwell, perhaps unstable. She wondered if he might have suffered a synaptic overdose on the augmentor; she had not been there to set the level for him, and she had no idea what too high a level might do. She'd have to be careful—best to get back into the net quickly. And besides, Highwing was waiting for her. (Wasn't he? He was . . . if he was real. . . .) A queer ache settled in her chest as she thought of the dragon; it reminded her of the longing she had once felt for the pallisp. But the pallisp held no attraction for her now. She wanted only to be with Highwing.

  Dizzy with confused emotions, she showered and changed and crossed the hallway to the commons. Mogurn was already eating. Under his baleful gaze she punched breakfast for herself. She slipped silently into her place across the table from him. She felt the powerful presence of his stare as she lifted a piece of toast to her mouth, but she didn't meet his eyes. She struggled to keep her head steady; she struggled not to show her fear, or to show how badly she wanted to return to the net.

  Mogurn spoke as she took her first bite. "Twice now, you've disobeyed and entered the net without permission. And you've put us in danger from . . . dragons." He drew a raspy breath, and his voice shook a little, betraying his own fear. "I take it from your message that we are clear of dragons now?"

  Jael swallowed her toast. Highwing, burn him! she thought desperately, wishing that the dragon could be here to obey her, to protect her. She closed her eyes and chose her words with care. "Not entirely. We could still have trouble." She opened her eyes, meeting his glare at last. "But we are nearing the final current to Lexis. It should not be too much longer." She nodded to herself and carefully spread some three-berry preserves over the rest of her toast, "I should return to the net at once," she added, taking a large bite.

  The tic had returned to Mogurn's face; the corner of his left eye had a life of its own, twitching and jittering nervously. He squinted, trying unsuccessfully to control it. "You don't like me much, do you, Jael?" he said tightly. He didn't wait for an answer. "You never did. Did you? But you like your pallisp well enough, don't you? Don't you, Jael! Well, there is no one else who can wield the pallisp for you on this ship, Jael—or off the ship, either!"

  Jael held her gaze rigid, avoiding his eyes. I do not need a pallisp, she thought. Not any longer. Nevertheless, she trembled under Mogurn's stare. "There will be no more mistakes, Jael. No more disobedience. And no pallisp! Not until you have removed this ship completely from danger." Mogurn smiled queerly, triumphantly, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  What a pathetic man, Jael thought—however powerful he might be, however cruel. What weapon did he hold over her now? She might fear him physically, yes, but—"I do not need your pallisp," she said aloud. And her throat constricted as she said it, as she wondered if it really was true. Before he could respond, she hurried to say, "And now I should return to—"

  "You stay until I command you to leave!" Mogurn shouted furiously. Jael froze, scarcely breathing.

  An alarm from the bridge trilled, signalling changes in the Flux. Mogurn started, his expression changing to fear. He was terrified of what was happening in the net. He jerked his head around. "Go!" he said bitterly.

  * * *

  Jael hurried. If Highwing had left her . . . or if it had all been a dream . . .

  When her senses sparked outward into the net, she found herself astride a tremendous dragon, flying in clear bright winds over low mountains. She cried out with relief. Two setting suns, pink and orange, shone in the sky before her. The sky overhead was a sea of liquid crystal, and she knew at once that she was bound upward for that sea. Greetings, small one, sighed the dragon, snorting fire into the air.

  Jael hugged his neck, wanting to cry. Her anger toward him had evaporated. Now she wanted only to stay with him. Highwing, she asked softly, did you call me?

  The dragon pumped his wings slowly. I wanted you to return, he said. I don't know if I called you or not.

  I knew it was time to come. Jael fell silent, waiting for the lump to disappear from her throat. It didn't. Are we—almost at the end?

  Of my range, yes, Jael. Dragons do not go beyond these foothills. I am zigzagging to go more slowly, but yes—we are almost at the end. Do you wish me to fly straight?

  She shuddered at the thought of the dragon leaving her, leaving when she had only just begun to know him. To believe in him. To believe in his world, his reality. No . . . please. Oh, Highwing, can't you come farther with me? Or can't we go back? Even as she spoke, she knew that it was impossible. She had a ship to bring in, and even Mogurn was her responsibility. The currents of the Flux were inexorable; dragons could fly against them, perhaps, but Jael and her ship could not.

  Highwing turned his head and regarded her. I wish it were so, Jael. I had hoped—hoped that you would—and his voice broke off sorrowfully.

  What, Highwing?

  The dragon sighed. It doesn't matter.

  That I would . . . stay? she asked, her eyes stinging.

  Yes.

  Her heart nearly broke. I wish . . . but I cannot, she whispered.

  Highwing's throat rumbled. No . . . no, I see that you must continue, that you have duties to perform. He turned straight ahead and flew slowly, ponderously.

  Before, when I wanted to leave, Jael said, half to herself, you were only trying to help me, just as you said you were. I didn't believe you then. She felt a rush of shame, and tears came to wet her cheeks. Highwing, there's so much I don't understand! So much about your world—and you! Isn't there something I can do to help you, as you helped me? I don't want to part like this, Highwing. What will I do?

  Sometimes friends must part, the dragon said softly. But as for helping me, I think perhaps you already have.

  Jael stroked his scales sadly, in puzzlement. How, Highwing?

  The dragon flew in thoughtful silence. Our worlds are not the
same, he said at last, not answering her question directly. Each has its own troubles. But you have been my friend. And now you must seek friends in your own world. That is the way of it, I suppose.

  Jael could not speak, could not think how to answer.

  But I will still be here, thinking of you. Never has any dragon met such a rigger. And as Highwing said that, his powerful voice seemed to catch and hesitate. It will be a memory for me to treasure, he added finally.

  Jael wept, and only after a long time did her tears dry. She still had no answer to the terrible question deep in her heart: How could she dispel the awful loneliness that was already closing in around her? The pallisp drifted into her mind, and she pushed it away. No, the price for that comfort was too high. The wisdom that Highwing had shown her was greater than the wisdom of the pallisp. Greater than Mogurn's wisdom, or shelled-in emptiness.

  Things will be different for me now, she murmured hopefully, as though to the wind.

  Highwing heard her and answered, It will be different for me, as well, Jael. He spoke in a voice that sounded glad, and yet troubled, in a way that she did not understand. Never again could I duel a rigger without thinking of you. You, who have my name—and I yours.

  Will you . . . duel other riggers?

  I think not, Jael. I think not. I . . . do not know what will become of me and . . . riggers.

  They flew on in silence. He had never told her just what the other dragons would think of his befriending her. And now, somehow, she was afraid to ask. She found herself repeating his full name to herself, in her inner voice: Windrush-Wingtouch-Highwing—Terror-of-the-Last-Peak . . . a name to be remembered and treasured.

  The lowest of the mountains drew near. Highwing, if I fly this way again, will I find you?

  The dragon's breath caught, and he suddenly breathed fire. Of the other dragons, beware. But believe that I shall be looking for you. Cry, "Friend of Highwing!" and I will hear you, though all the mountains lie between us.