by J. E. Gurley
Oddly, there were no guards stationed at the airlock entrance. He and Ulrich bounded up the ramp expecting to hear a warning from port security. Instead, the airlock door swished open at their approach.
“Good day, sirs,” a voice greeted them through the intercom. The slightly sibilant and clipped Terran English sounded as if spoken by a translation device.
They cycled through the airlock and emerged into a large stateroom furnished with delicate Dastoran furniture and numerous couches and chairs more suited for Terrans and other races. Wooden panels of pale rosewood set with darker, wine red lattice columns lined the room. Soft, warm light that cast no shadows emanated from behind the lattice columns. The doors to the engine room and to the bridge were sealed, but Jazon tried them anyway. He and Ulrich were the cabin’s sole occupants. Where was the Dastoran Lord?
The same voice as earlier spoke, “Please be seated, sirs. We will lift off in one han.” The number did not translate into Terran, but Jazon knew that a Dastoran han was equal to about two and a half minutes. “We will dock with the Thrallimar shortly.”
Lift off. Dock. The ship in which they sat was simply a shuttle, yet its décor was as opulent as any Terran private yacht. Jazon felt almost no movement as the shuttle lifted. Its inertia dampers were far superior to any ship he had been on before. Surprisingly, he felt no sense of trepidation or fear, as they headed to whatever fate awaited them. So far, the Highborn Lord had been most generous. If they could get to Earth without dying or without selling their souls in the process, he would be grateful. On second thought, he was not entirely certain he wouldn’t be willing even to sell his soul, or at least rent it.
Jazon felt dry and licked his lips. The ship’s AI, sensing this motion with its hidden eyes, correctly interpreted Jazon’s body language and offered a tray of refreshments, rolling it out of a concealed wall panel. The tray contained several notable brands of bottled water and cool drinks, but the item that caught Jazon’s attention was in the rack beneath the table – liquors. He walked over and read the labels aloud.
“Ataxan Dewberry wine, Floxian Corvis, Dastoran Cloud Nectar and – what’s this?” He beamed as he held out a bottle for Ulrich’s close inspection. Amazingly, among the exotic liquors present was a rare bottle of Russian vodka. “Stoly’s!” He quickly threw a couple of ice cubes in a tumbler and splashed two fingers of clear vodka in it. The taste was smooth and elegant. He understood now why the other races considered vodka one of the few products from Earth worth importing. He smacked his lips and sighed, “Ah.”
He offered a glass to Ulrich, but Ulrich was already busy examining the ship’s computer. A holo-image floated in the air before him, and his fingers moved rapidly as he flashed through various images of planets and ships. Jazon’s first vodka went down so smoothly that he decided on a second. Ulrich peered through the hologram over the rims of his glasses, the image of a yellow-orange sun pasted across his face.
“You had better take it easy, Jazon,” he warned. “You don’t want to be drunk when we meet the Highborn Lord.”
“You don’t know what he wants of us, yet, my friend. It might be better if we are drunk.” He laughed, but realized Ulrich was probably correct – first impressions and all. He took a couple of sample sips from the second drink and reluctantly set it down. An automated butler scurried from its niche, deftly removed the glass, and deposited it in its innards. A few seconds later, it, or another identical glass emerged. The butler replaced it on the tray. Jazon, slightly more intoxicated on the unaccustomed vodka than he realized, giggled and pointed at the butler.
“You need one of those to keep your glasses clean.”
Ulrich, failing to see the humor in Jazon’s remark, retorted. “My glasses are perfectly clean.”
Less than ten minutes later, the AI announced they were docking with the Dastoran ship. “Sirs, please be seated until docking is completed,” it cautioned them pleasantly. Jazon wished he had thought to bring up a view of the Dastoran ship as they approached. He imagined it must be at least as sleek and beautiful as the shuttle. There was a slight shiver as the ship docked with the mother ship. “Locking secure. You make exit now, sirs.”
The airlock hissed open to reveal two Dastoran servants, one short and fragile like the one who had come to his room bearing packages; the other, almost as tall as Jazon but pale and hairless, his facial features less unrefined but still able to convey an impression of disdain.
The tall one spoke, his eyes boring into Jazon, a scowl turning down the corners of his small, thin mouth.
“I am Metak et Hri, your server. Please follow me to your rooms.” Metak swirled fluidly and began to glide down a long, elegantly finished corridor, his red robe trailing behind him on the floor. Jazon followed. Something in Metak’s eyes bothered him. Such cold, penetrating eyes did not belong on such a benign face. They were the eyes of a hawk in a dove’s head. Jazon was willing to bet the man was more than a mere servant. He would be someone that would bear close scrutiny.
Jazon’s thoughts quickly turned to his surroundings. The corridor was as resplendent as the finest hotels. Paintings and holo-images from a dozen worlds lined the walls, and the floor was an intricate pattern of exotic wood inlays in a flowing spiral pattern reminding him of the vine design on the shuttle. Numerous niches in the wall contained crystal vases, small statues, and other objets de arte that would have graced any museum’s display. The servants stopped at a delicately carved wooden panel, which slid aside exposing a lift. The lift boasted ornate decorations as rich and as visually stunning as the corridor. An inviting plush bench upholstered in soft, gold-hued damask ran along one wall, but the two Dastorans ignored it. Jazon chose to stand as well. Ulrich, however, pushed past Jazon to sit.
Metak rapidly spoke several Dastoran words, and the lift ascended several levels, slowed, and then shot horizontally down the length of the ship, Jazon realized it was more than simple lift. It was a complex transport system threading the bowels of the ship.
The transport raced at a speed that almost pinned Jazon to the wall. The Dastorans seemed unaffected. Must be tougher than they look. The transport slowed gradually until it came to a complete stop at its destination. Jazon noticed the slight grin on Metak’s lips and wanted very much to slap it off. The transport door opened, revealing two doors on opposite sides of a short corridor. Metak stopped before the door on the right.
“This is your room, Mr. Lightsinger.” He waved his hand and the door slid open with a soft hiss. He then turned to Ulrich and crossed the corridor. “This is your room, Count Stumphman.” He repeated the procedure for Ulrich’s door.
Jazon was stunned, unable to believe his ears. “Count Stumphman? What’s he talking about, Ulrich?” he asked, a broad grin splitting his face.
Ulrich’s face turned bright red. “I’ll tell you later,” he whispered. “It’s not important.”
“The hell it’s not,” Jazon insisted. “We’ve known each other for two years and you never once mentioned you were of noble birth.”
Ulrich reached up and brushed his forehead with one hand, and then shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand, Jazon. I’m not noble. My father was, but my mother was a servant.” He paused. “I’m a bastard.” His eyes brimmed with tears at his confession. He quickly turned his head away and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Jazon pulled back, afraid he had hit a truly sore spot with his friend. Then he slapped Ulrich on the back. “I always said you were a bastard.” He laughed, trying to make a joke of it. “Now I know I was right.”
Ulrich’s smile was weak and forced, as if his mind was trying to grasp a matter thought long closed and only now resurfacing. “That’s true,” he said distantly.
“Gentleman,” Metak said, interrupting them. “If you would go to your rooms, you will find more, ah, comfortable shipboard clothing and refreshments.” He eyed their clothes as if finding them garish and distasteful. “I will call for you when his Lordship is ready.”
Jazon smiled and pointed to his shirt. “What? You don’t like my new outfit. Your boss bought it. I thought maybe you picked it out.”
Metak said nothing. He made a sharp gesture to the other servant with one hand. The smaller servant immediately ran around the room, turning down the bed covers and adjusting the lighting. He lowered his head as he passed Metak. Jazon couldn’t help noticing the look of condescension on Metak’s face, and the look of fear on the servant as he left. The two Dastorans entered Ulrich’s room. Jazon watched as Ulrich closed his door. He would have to have a long discussion with his companion later. If the Highborn Lord considered him a Count, then he must truly be one. Perhaps there was a castle in Eastern Europe waiting for him, if indeed, that was where he was from. Ulrich claimed to have been born in the Carpathians, but that could have been another ruse to hide his identity. In spite of the two years in which they had wandered the four corners of Ataxa together, Jazon realized knew surprisingly little about his traveling companion. Perhaps that was because Ulrich was a listener, and Jazon was a talker. It had seemed like a good combination until Ulrich’s interest in the Three Principles had surfaced. What more did he not know about his companion? Jazon promptly forgot about Ulrich as he examined his room.
The large suite contained an adjoining bath and, to Jazon’s immense delight, a closet full of clothes, all his size – business suits, lounge wear, exercise clothing, and shipboard outfits. A ship’s blue jumpsuit lay on the massive bed, not as impressive as the other clothing but designed for shipboard living with soft boots and many deep pockets.
The room’s décor matched its size with statuary, tapestries, and artwork from many worlds, which included two Terran Renaissance paintings, a large golden Buddha sitting atop a three-legged Chinese table, and two large alabaster Third Dynasty canopic jars, probably looted from some Egyptian tomb. Scenes of a planet he assumed to be Dastora covered one entire wall. A second wall contained a vid screen almost three meters across, currently displaying changing views of the ship’s interior. Jazon watched in awe as scene after scene gave him some idea of the ship’s enormous size. He judged it half a kilometer in length, three hundred meters in width, and ten deck levels high. One room in the heart of the ship, the grand hall, was at least two hundred meters across. The ship was not only Lord Hromhada’s battle flagship; it was his traveling palace, filled with servants, retainers, government staff, and Highborn courtesans. It was large enough to hold thousands of people.
By experimentation, using the unfamiliar holo-control, Jazon pulled up an outside view on the screen. The Highborn’s ship was an expanded version of the shuttle, with Skip-engine pods on each of the four aft razor fins and dozens of weapons pods bristling around the sleek hull. Closer inspection showed that the docked shuttle was the needlepoint of the ship with what appeared to be smaller shuttles recessed into niches along the main hull.
Though smaller than a Thistleship, the Highborn Lord’s ship appeared to be every bit as powerful and yet looked as delicate as a water-carved icicle. He marveled at the Dastoran ability to meld art with technology. Perhaps it was part of their heritage. Five thousand years of space faring was a long time to get it right.
A chime announced a visitor. “Open,” he said aloud.
The door opened to admit Amissa, this time dressed in an iridescent silver jumpsuit looking as if painted on her lithe body. Each curve, each fold of flesh was as visible as if she were nude, more so, since the jumpsuit’s thin fabric accentuated certain body parts.
Jazon realized he was staring but couldn’t stop himself. He had never hidden the fact that he was lecherous and somewhat of a voyeur. He appreciated the nude female body, both in the flesh and as an art form. Amissa resembled a finely chiseled marble sculpture, or a Holo Master’s 3D creation. It became amply evident as he admired her, that the Dastorans were more like human-like than any of the other races if they could produce art as fine as her. True, other races, including Terrans, had developed bio-engineered clones, but they were mere clumsy lumps of clay compared to Amissa’s exquisite female form.
She bowed as she entered. “My Lord Hromhada will dine with you shortly. I came to speak with you before he calls. May I sit?”
Jazon broke his stare long enough to show her to a deeply cushioned settee. He sat beside her, inhaling the fragrance she exuded. Today, it was an earthy aroma, like freshly tilled loam or a forest floor. He wondered idly if she changed fragrances each day. The couch was soft and comfortable, yielding to his body as he sank into it. His leg touched hers, and he immediately felt a spark pass between them, and judging by her startled expression, so had Amissa. He looked into eyes. No longer covered by silver lenses, they revealed their true shade, deep azure, the color of the sky above the Pacific Ocean. Their eyes locked for long moments; then she glanced away.
“My Lord Hromhada begs me to inform you to refrain from asking questions about his Enclave. Privacy is most important to Dastorans. Any of the servants you may feel free to speak with or to question at will. They will answer any question that does not compromise Enclave privacy.”
It was such an odd request that Jazon wondered if the rumors were true. The Dastorans had recently lost six planets to the Trilock in a so-called ‘misunderstanding’, along with a considerable number of the planets’ populations. Earth would have declared war for such an action, accident or not, but the Dastorans seemed to take it in stride in their attempt to hold the loosely bound Alliance together.
One question had bothered Jazon since his dreams began. He decided to ask her. “How did you know about Ulrich and me?”
“My Lord Hromhada was made aware of your presence on Ataxa by others and sought you out. You have special qualifications he requires.”
Jazon glared at her. “What qualifications?”
She lowered her head to avoid his stony gaze. “This, I do not know. He will, I am certain, inform you when he is ready.”
Jazon thought of the dreams that had plagued him for over a week. “Is Lord Hromhada a telepath? Why didn’t he simply inform me of what he wanted? He might have saved a lot of time and expense.”
Amissa raised her head and looked at him, a soft glow of admiration in her eyes. “Lord Hromhada, like most Highborn Lords, has a limited degree of telepathy though it is through others more adept that he sought you out.” She paused. “Perhaps he wishes to discuss this matter face-to-face,” she suggested.
“Telepaths,” Jazon moaned and shivered. “I don’t trust them.”
Telepaths had always made him a little uneasy. He had seen them in action during the war, and it was not a pretty sight, something akin to mind rape. If Lord Hromhada was a telepath, Jazon realized that he would have to try to hide his thoughts, if he could.
He knew a few mantras that were supposed to stymie psychic police probes, but he didn’t know how developed the Highborn Lord was, or for that matter, the skill level of his telepaths. Obviously, they were powerful enough to reach his mind six days journey from Ithira.
“How did you know about Ulrich? Telepaths again?”
Amissa smiled. “No. We knew that he was your traveling companion and traced his movements backwards for several years. His people were most eager for us to contact him. In much the same way, we learned of your origins on Earth. Your father was a Diné Medicine Man, was he not, a hataalii?”
Hataalii. Jazon hadn’t heard that word in a long time. He laughed. “My father was a medicine man, a singer.” He shrugged. “Some called him a hataalii. I left the reservation when I was sixteen to join the Alliance Marines to fight the Cha’aita, over his loud protestations, I might add. We haven’t spoken since.” He didn’t want to dwell on the memories the word hataalii had dredged up. They tasted bitter on his mind’s tongue and burned like acid. Did Ulrich feel this way about his past, too? “Let’s change the subject.”
She nodded her assent. “Very well. You question my origins, do you not?”
“Did you read my mind?” he asked, startled.<
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She leaned closer to him, her leg pressing against his. He wondered if the room’s temperature had suddenly increased. “No. It is written on your face for even one as unworthy as myself to see.”
He pulled away slightly, breaking physical contact. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He supposed he had been staring at her so intensely that she had thought he was examining her.
“I am, as you have probably guessed, a clone. My ancestor was born on Earth in the Thirteenth Century Siam, now Thailand of the Central Asian Autocracy. She died at the age of 35. The Dastorans obtained a sample of her DNA from her tomb and produced the first Amissa clone, my Prime.
“She was a Lady of great wisdom. That was over 600 years ago. I am the sixth incarnation of Lady Amissa Prime and perhaps the least worthy of all. My Lord has endowed me with superb physical attributes and a youthful longevity beyond born humans, but alas, the wisdom of my uterine-born predecessor eludes me. Still, I serve the Lord Hromhada to the best of my limited abilities.”
“Are you …?” He started to ask about her relationship with Lord Hromhada, but stopped short.
A smile flicked briefly on her soft lips. “Do you fear to ask if my Lord Hromhada uses me for sexual purposes?”
“Ah, to the point, I see. I thought it none of my business,” he replied, slightly embarrassed by his question. He noticed the fragrance in the air had changed from an earthy aroma to a deeper, musky odor and was startled to realize that she could change scents at will, a genetic enhancement, something of the Dastoran in her.
