by Alma Boykin
He found the heavy-weapons male near the Teelarlan table, and reported, “The entrance has been compromised and will probably collapse unless reinforced. Fire above us, and probably electrical hazard as well. Recommend full evacuation, with salvage as possible.”
“Right. Start with the two bodies closest to the door, and as soon as we finish our sweep, we’ll join you.”
“Wilco.” Sheenaki returned to the door and whispered an apology to the first deceased. He used the carpenter’s wood marker that he always kept in his carry harness to draw an outline of the body on the floor. Then he grabbed the male’s carry harness, using it to drag the body over to the designated exit. He’d gotten the dead female almost to the door when the other males arrived.
“This will clear the room. Thanks be, only these two died,” the Incident Commander—as Sheenaki thought of him—announced. “We’ve moved everyone else out.” He pinched his nostrils shut, as did Sheenaki, as another whiff of the strange smell blew past. “What is that stench?”
The former explosives specialist rumpled his tail as he helped the others move the bodies out the door. “It’s heating gas. The older buildings use it in combustion blowers. I wonder if someone was testing the equipment before the heating season and messed up.”
“Should we leave the door open?” Sheenaki asked.
“Might as well. Prop it open and move everyone out of the direct line, in case someone lights a fire-stick so they can see where the switches are.” The others laughed at the cremation-ground humor.
Sheenaki looked around and found Zhikaree dictating patient assessments into a small recorder. He waited until she finished before asking, “How are you?”
She kept her light green eyes fixed on the road, as if watching for someone or something. “I’m fine right now. Delayed reaction and all that. I’m,” she licked her muzzle tip before whispering, “I’m not a real medic, just a basic family and junior medic.”
He patted her with his tail. “You’re the best we’ve got, and you’re here,” he pointed down with one forefoot. “That’s what your patients need now.”
Two emergency medical floats appeared from around the corner and he got out of the way, joining the other former soldiers where they’d gathered off to one side. The Incident Commander sneezed. “Blessed Ancestors, but this is not what I had in mind for my two sixts of leave.”
One of the others grunted, “Yeah, I hate it when I go to a demolition scene and a craft show breaks out.” The males wheezed laughs.
After she finished briefing the medics, Zhikaree walked over to Sheenaki. He draped his tail over her and she leaned against him, not caring who might see them. “We’ll leave as soon as we’ve given our reports,” he assured her.
The next day Sheenaki requested permission to ask Zhikaree to be his mate. Tek-Zhi and his family agreed, as did Zhikaree.
Four days later the news of the explosion at the palace museum reached the throneworld. The King-Emperor read Prince Kalaki’s report and wondered yet again if, in addition to Healing and endothermy, the long-dead scientists had tweaked the Azdhagi genes for increased chaos production. Kalaki claimed that the museum explosion appeared to have been an accident, but that the Imperials had loaned some explosives experts to the Peacekeepers, at the governor’s request. He suspected that members of the independence faction had planted bombs to make the Imperial security look incompetent.
Tahdak left his work desk and walked across the mosaic floor to the large window that faced the private garden. He idly traced the pattern with one talon as he stood, looking out into the snow-dusted scene. The white brought out the blacks and dark greens of the rocks and sleeping plants. Tahdak could just see the edge of the shadow pool from where he stood, and he wondered if he should have held Kalaki’s head under the black waters. He’d been tempted to, when he heard the rumors swirling around the death of Kalaki’s concubine. But he’d chosen to ignore the hisses and murmurs, hoping that they’d wither and fade away. And his brother had shown none of the flashes of madness that had led to their uncle and aunt’s “unfortunate accidents.” Until now.
I should have drowned him, but I didn’t. Now what do I do? He’s two lines of programming code from triggering “execute: civil war” and he’s typing like mad. Tahdak had enjoyed learning basic computer programming as a junior—computers only did what you told them to. Alas, Kalaki had not come with either reset or delete-purge buttons, and Tahdak rubbed the side of his muzzle, thinking. He had a simmering almost-war in the palace already, between Tartai and Dak-lee, and the last thing he wanted was a real war on Pokara.
Maybe that was the solution? Send Tartai and Dak-lee to at once Pokara, forcing them to work together. The more the green-and-brown monarch considered the idea, the better he liked it. Dak-lee had the authority and rank to overrule Kalaki if necessary, and he could pull command of the Imperials if need be. Tartai knew how to handle common-born, could make sense of the outClan, and Kalaki would have to respect him because of Tartai being the Head of Tarkeela Lineage. “Yesssss,” Tahdak hissed aloud. And the two young males would be in position to deal with whatever might be coming from Mornic-loy, if it came to that.
Two hours later, Tahdak called Tartai and Dak-lee to his private reception chamber. “Read this,” he ordered, releasing Kalaki’s report to them. When they finished, he growled, “You are going to Pokara later today, and will arrive today.”
The younger males exchanged puzzled looks before the light dawned and Dak-lee’s neck spines rose a centimeter. “You’ve called in a timeship, honored sire.”
“That is correct. The reports suggest that this may be the first strike in a rebellion against our rule, and we will not tolerate that.” He held up a talon. “The data are inconclusive as of this moment, and we suspect that the explosion was, indeed, an accident, but we must assume the worst. You will arrive at the governor’s palace, in the plaza outside the main gate. Be ready to defend yourselves, and since you will be in a Trader scout ship, you need to take the minimum with you.”
Dak-lee’s eyes bulged, much to Tartai’s amusement. “A Trader scout? Can we trust them?”
“No.”
Well, that answers that, Tartai giggled in the back of his mind. Sometimes it’s safer to use a known cheat than a possible cheat.
The King-Emperor pointed to his heir. “You will meet with Prince Kalaki and the Imperials and Peacekeepers. You have my full authority to take whatever steps you find necessary, but be judicious in the use of force if you can.” Before the prince could reply, Tahdak fixed Tartai with a hard glare. “And you will talk to the commoners and Peacekeepers. See what Kalaki has missed, and find out just how serious this independence movement is. You two will work together.”
Both males ducked and bowed, murmuring, “Yes, Imperial Majesty.”
Just before the noon hour, a strange-looking lump of a vessel appeared on the farthest landing pad of the palace’s spaceport. Tartai tried to focus his eyes on the timeship’s bizarre, shifting exterior, but it made him feel queasy and he looked away. “Ugh,” Dak-lee hissed from beside him.
“Agreed.”
Part of the thing’s hull faded away, revealing a glimpse of pale-colored interior. The pilot stepped out and looked around, not moving away from the ship. The bipedal humanoid stood almost three li tall. Tartai assumed that the pilot was a male, since he didn’t see the prominent mammary glands sported by the humanoid females in the species-identification books. His dark-brown, gold-streaked cranial fur hung in a tail that touched his shoulder, and he had pale grey eyes. Huh. All the stuff I’ve read about Traders shows them with pale cranial fur. Maybe he paints it.
Dak-lee spoke a little Trader and he walked up to the pilot. “I am Prince Imperial Dak-lee. Tartai of Tarkeela and I need transport to Pokara. I have coordinates.”
The pilot bowed, replying in carefully enunciated Trader, “Very good, Imperial Highness. Your bags will go into the external cargo pods. The ship is small inside.”
/> He did not like giving his weapons to a stranger, but Tartai could see that he and Dak-lee would fill the scout vessel. He let the Trader take his two bags, then followed the mammal and Dak-lee into the ship. Or he tried to, then backed out as Dak-lee turned around. By the Black Swamp’s waters, but the thing had no room inside! Tartai shifted around and backed into the ship. He and Dak-lee could crouch or sit without touching, but it was tight. Yeah, but you’re not looking at the outside anymore, thanks be, Tartai reminded himself.
“How long will the journey take?” Dak-lee inquired as Tartai tried to identify the different pieces of equipment lining the interior of the timeship. He recognized a computer or two, and guessed that one section housed medical or emergency life-support equipment, but Tartai had no idea what the orangey thing floating in cream-colored liquid did. He rumpled his tail a little and turned his attention back to Dak-lee and the pilot.
The pilot’s shoulders rose and fell. “Ten minutes in external time. Internal time between points is variable within certain given parameters, so it could be between one and two of your hours.”
Tartai’s mind boggled, and he struggled to keep his jaw from sagging with surprise. Two hours to cover ten light-years—scattered scales, even the best Imperial fast transport required at least a sixt! A glance at Dak-lee’s twitching tail tip and quivering spines told Tartai that the dark-green noble shared his sentiments. By the time Tartai recovered his wits enough to ask his own question, the pilot had entered a sort of trance, his attention completely locked on two screens. His forefeet seemed to move of their own will, entering data via a keyboard, or so Tartai supposed. The symbols and images on the screen meant nothing to him.
Dak-lee sighed quietly. “It would be good if we could have our own timeships, but from what I’ve read neither True-dragons nor Azdhagi have any shred of temporal sensitivity.”
Tartai rumpled his tail as much as the confined space allowed. “Your Highness, what can you tell me about Governor Kalaki? How willing would he be to listen to ideas that come from commoners?”
Dak-lee tipped his blocky head to the side. “Not very. Or, more precisely, he will listen, pay attention, and be as polite as the situation requires, but he will not give the ideas serious consideration unless it is a technical matter and the speaker is an acknowledged expert. If you mean commoners’ ideas about government? He’ll listen and then present all the reasons against such a thing.”
“Ah. Thank you, Your Highness.” Well, that’s good and bad. Good, because he might give us his reasons and then we can muster our counter arguments, but I wager he argues in circles. And of course he’s predisposed to take the worst view of any common-born’s proposals. Tartai resisted the urge to make a rude forefoot gesture at the governor’s stubbornness, and at Dak-lee’s tone of voice.
“My uncle displeases you?”
An element of poison flowed through Dak-lee’s languid half-question. Tartai chose his words with care, in part to keep from responding with his heart instead of his head. “Let me say, rather, that his approach to the matter displeases me, Your Highness. It has been my observation that people who are formulating their opposition while the other person is still talking do not hear all of what is said and suggested.”
Dak-lee tipped his head the other direction. “You think Kalaki isn’t listening.”
“I suspect he may not be hearing, even though he is listening, Your Highness. Based on what we read, and on your description, he reminds me of an agronomist in Schree’s Rest who can manage four or five things in his specialty well, but who is unable to adapt to a few new ideas and to new information.” Tartai attempted to be diplomatic. “Governor Kalaki sounds like a fine, experienced administrator, but he’s trying to process a few too many novelties on top of his customary duties of governance and defense.” That should be an indirect enough trail to be safe, Tartai thought.
“And you think the commoners have ideas worth hearing.” Dak-lee’s neck spines quivered with anger.
Tartai shifted away from the crown prince as much as he dared, given the cramped space. “Yes, I do. Times and situations change, Your Highness, and a haunch in the mouth is much, much better than watching an entire gantak flee over the hill.” He took a deep breath. “For example, in this case, what about all the outClan living on Pokara? If any of them, or their ancestors, were driven out of their Lineages, like Shu-the-Furbearer did, why would they want to go back into a Lineage? And what does the Pack gain from trying to force them into a Lineage, if they still support the Pack through taxation, reproduction, and service?”
“But everyone belongs to a Lineage,” Dak-lee protested.
Tartai kept his muzzle shut and looked at the crown prince, waiting.
Dak-lee blinked. “Alright. Some reptiles no longer claim a Lineage or vice versa,” he allowed. “But how do you organize people without Lineage Lords’ guidance and oversight? We need steady, wise leadership, and only the Lineage Lords . . .” Tartai kept staring at him, making Dak-lee wonder what he was missing. And just how good a Lineage Lord was Shu-the-Unmissed? A little voice in his mind asked. And how have NightLast, Zhangki City, and Schree’s Rest been governed for the last three generations and more? “Right. Most Lineage Lords. But how do you keep parasites like the hide-nippers at Zhangki City from taking over?”
Now Tartai looked away. “Damned if I know. I’d start by not letting them get established. Somewhere I read that a group of merchants sponsored the original settlement at Zhangki Mouth, and they came up with the idea of requiring a certain minimum amount of property before residents could participate in government. And as the city prospered, they and their descendants kept raising the amount required. That’s one thing to avoid.”
Dak-lee grunted in agreement. “You’re a real pain-in-the-tail, you know that?”
“Been talking to my mate, have you, Your Highness?” After a bit, Tartai decided to speak his mind. “The feeling is mutual, Your Highness.”
“What?”
“You’re stubborn, arrogant, and track-bound, Your Highness. You’ve been listening to the Great Lords and their supporters for so long that you assume their ideas are what all the rest of us are like, us common-born.”
Dak-lee wanted to swat the storm-catch for insolence. Instead he grated, “And what are you like, assuming that you still think of yourself as common-born?”
“We support the Pack, for one. For another, we’re not all fools or stupid, and we have the right to decide what we want. At some point, the rights of individuals have to have some standing, especially against those who like to argue that ‘the Pack needs’ or ‘the Pack demands’ when they want or they demand.”
Tartai paused for a moment. “And as far as not knowing our own good, some of us just lack the time needed to read and hear everything about policies and councilors to be able to make a good choice. Most of us remember the self-governing cities on Sseekhala, including Sea Gate.” Both males made warding off gestures at the name. “Yes, some people are swayed by promises of goods, and some people want to get into government so they can be just as power-hungry as the nobles can be,” Tartai allowed. “But we’re not blind or stupid, and we know very well when someone’s trying to lead us down a false trail, or is patting us with his tail as if we were first-growth juniors.”
Dak-lee made himself listen to Tartai’s words and give them the consideration they warranted. Not because he agreed with them, necessarily, but he had a hunch that enough people on Pokara did that he’d better be armed with more than just his uncle’s arguments.
Meanwhile, as Dak-lee mulled over Tartai’s ideas—and Tartai speculated about the efficacy of writing things down on a sheet of paper, resting the page on Dak-lee’s head, and beating the page with a large rock to see if any sense might possibly penetrate the Crown prince’s skull—on Pokara Prince-Governor Kalaki growled, “They are what?”
Lt. Beekhar repeated, “A crowd has formed in the plaza and is demanding the release of the two protesters we arre
sted earlier. Roughly a hundred adults, and they want to speak with you. They want you to officially deny that royalist supporters set off bombs at the museum.”
The governor replied in a moderate, even tone. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please inform the crowd that I have received their request and will consider it. You may go.”
The officer saluted and departed. Kalaki waited until he’d closed the door before slamming his fisted forefoot against one of the cushions on the bench beside him. A rough edge on the gauntlet caught and tore the upholstery, and bits of stuffing squirted into the air after the second blow. Kalaki pounded the bench twice more, then considered his options.
He could not deny that royalists had set off bombs, because that pronouncement might influence the on-going investigation. Neither could he deny that it had been an accident, or that independence supporters had detonated explosives, for the same reason. And the Peacekeepers had arrested the protesters for trespassing and obstructing traffic. Kalaki snorted. The plaza is a vehicle access route, not a market square. People cannot plop down on their haunches and wave signs or chant slogans when and wherever they feel the urge.
And then there were rumors that the researchers at the Royal Agricultural Center had ignored his wishes and had tinkered with goldenstem and kurstem despite his explicit orders. He’d already sent word to the Imperials stationed there to look into the question, and to destroy any and all modified crops if the rumors proved true.
Everywhere people defied him! Kalaki just could not understand how so many Azdhagi could go so wrong without anyone having noticed it before. If he didn’t know better, he’d have wondered if some element in the planet’s air or water caused a form of madness. If it did, it might explain why the last two governors failed to notice anything—they’d been here too long and the pathogen contaminated them too, he grumbled. Tahdak should have sent him here years earlier.
