“Contact the other ships and get a status report,” said Mazja.
The crew tried for several minutes to hail the other ships, but the vidcoms showed only static.
“Is there something wrong with our comlink?” asked Mazja.
The crew silently exchanged looks.
“No, Commander,” said Chaluxi. “They either didn’t make it, or the link has been severed.”
Mazja checked the link herself. “Look for trail signatures from other vessels.”
“Nothing, Commander,” answered Yeoman Fryhi.
“How many passengers made it onboard?” she asked, changing the subject.
Chaluxi pounded his fist on the armrest of his chair when he read the number. “Only four hundred and twenty-seven!”
“Then we have room for at least another fifteen hundred,” said Mazja. “Contact Lun and organize extraction coordinates for—”
“Begging your pardon, Commander,” said Chaluxi. “There is no Lun.”
Unstrapping herself from the command chair, Mazja walked to the view port and watched the circular blast pattern emanating from Lun. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she turned and faced the crew.
“We will proceed with the plans to find a new home,” she said. “This is what we trained for. If we are all that is left of our species, then we must survive. Navigator, what are our options?”
Kevak brought up a schematic of the planetary systems that the Vambir had already explored. “As you are aware, Commander, none of these will do. Although several of them have atmospheres that could be converted into breathable air for the Isla, this would serve no purpose, as hemo-crops must be grown outside. I’ve uploaded a program into the long-range telescopes that will only target planets of similar size to Vambiri. Once such a planet is detected, a spectrum test to measure light absorption will determine the atmospheric conditions. If it’s a match, then its coordinates will be transmitted to the navigation system, and a course change will be implemented.”
“Where do we start?” asked Mazja.
“We’ll head to the outer rim,” answered Kevak. “Once we are beyond the range of mapped space, the telescopes will begin their search.”
“How long will we be in stasis?” asked Chaluxi.
Kevak paused. “Thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands.”
The crew fell silent. The longest stasis journey to date had been 466 years. Even though the months of evacuation training had prepared them to expect an extraordinarily long stasis period, the magnitude of it only hit them once it had become a reality.
“In theory, we could survive indefinitely in stasis mode,” said Chaluxi, remembering what he had been told in training.
“True,” noted Kevak. “The main concern is the drain on power due to pulses required for course corrections, but there’s no way to avoid that. Lights, oxygen, and gravity won’t be necessary. Navigation, thrusters, and pod support systems are essential. All other systems should be powered down.”
“What if the ship is hit by a meteor storm or gamma ray burst?” asked Mazja.
“All approaching threats will be detected by the navigation system, Commander, and the thrusters will steer us clear,” Kevak assured her. “No other systems will need to be powered up.”
“Then it all depends on the computers,” said Mazja. “I want every hydrogen cell on this ship inspected before departure.”
“I’d like to take a few hours to run more simulations,” said Kevak.
Mazja took a hemo-wafer from her console and handed it to Kevak.
“Commander, I can’t take your ration.”
“That’s an order, Navigator,” she said. “The fate of our species depends on those simulations.”
Her face softened. “And you look tired.”
Once Kevak had finished his work, he entered the access code for Vrin’s pod into his computer. The status read “FUNCTIONAL,” and the bio-scanner indicated it held an adult female and infant male.
In the panic of departure, there had been no time for the crew to exchange final displays of affection and tender words of parting with their families. Their duties concluded, they gathered at the view port for a final look of Vambiri. The solar shielding made it possible to see the planet in all its daytime glory. Between the white swirling clouds, they could see pockets of blue oceans and brown, scorched land that had once been dotted with crimson hemo-fields. The circular blast zone was now a formless mass covering the Southern Hemisphere, serving as a grim reminder that it was impossible to return to the surface.
With the hydrogen cell checks at an end, it was time for the crew to submit to stasis. Logic dictated that once all precautions had been taken, it was pointless to dwell on what could go wrong. But logic did not govern emotions, and a myriad of catastrophic scenarios played out in the minds of the younger crew members. Mazja, Kevak, and Chaluxi maintained a calm demeanor as they assisted those who had never experienced stasis. Some were visibly shaking as they entered their assigned pods but took courage from the fact that their superiors were unfazed by the situation.
As Mazja completed her final log entry, she turned to Kevak and Chaluxi. “I have recorded your heroic actions. It has been an honor to serve with you.”
“The honor was ours, Commander,” said Kevak.
Chaluxi silently gave the Vambir salute of a closed fist placed on the chin.
Once Kevak was inside his pod, he kept his thoughts focused on Vrin and J’Vor as he awaited the long sleep.
TRIBUTE
Transylvania, 1459
Prince Vlad the Third of Wallachia sat calmly on his throne in the reception hall as he awaited the envoys of Mehmed the Conqueror. He had seen to it that his wife, Elzbieta, and her ladies were not present. The reception hall had hosted many events, but what would soon take place was not fitting for female eyes.
His father, Vlad the Second, had been inducted into the Royal Order of the Dragon, and referred to himself thereafter as Dracul: the Romanian word for ‘Dragon.’ It was the custom to add an ‘a’ after a name to denote ‘son of,’ and this was how the Dragon’s heir came to be known to history as Dracula.
As the son of the Dragon, Vlad Dracula was expected to become a warrior before he reached manhood. Not only had he and his brothers been schooled in swordsmanship, but they had also been taught how to shoot an arrow while riding bareback. His mother, the devout Princess Cneajna, had seen to her sons’ Catholic upbringing by appointing tutors from the nearby monastery.
Violence had been Dracula’s constant companion. At the time of his birth in 1431, Transylvania was all that separated Hungary from the Ottoman Empire. The Dragon was its royal governor, and when he was ousted by Hungarian factions, he regained his throne with Ottoman support from Sultan Murad the Second.
This support came at the cost of an annual tax, called a ‘tribute’ by the Sultan, of ten thousand gold ducats and the handing over of his two sons, Dracula and Radu, as hostages.
Dracula’s confinement began when he was thirteen, and he was often whipped for being insubordinate. Radu fared better during those tumultuous years, becoming a close friend of the Sultan’s son, Mehmed. Despite his warrior’s training, Radu was meek and effete and pointedly avoided Dracula’s company. Unlike his insolent older brother, Radu showed respect to his captors and fully embraced the laws and customs of the Ottoman Empire.
Dracula’s worst treatment was meted out when European Christians under the command of Jonas Hunyadi, known as the White Knight, attempted another crusade against the Ottomans. The Dragon, in violation of his agreement with Murad, commissioned four thousand cavalrymen for the White Knight under the leadership of Dracula’s older brother, Mircea.
Since the Dragon had refused to personally bear arms against Murad, he was hopeful that this would be enough to protect Dracula and Radu. Those hopes were unfounded. Murad ordered both boys locked in a dungeon, with Dracula receiving the harsher treatment, enduring daily floggings and long periods of starvation.
But those forms of execution were merciful in comparison with the agony of impalement. Dracula had lost count of the times he had seen the sharpened poles pierce a body length-wise with the victim left to die atop. Victims were struck through the rectum, and a skilled executioner could maneuver the pole through the body and out the mouth without piercing the heart, prolonging their time to ‘dance a jig’ as they hemorrhaged to death.
After witnessing these daily horrors, Dracula’s mind had briefly descended into madness as a defense against the knowledge that he could meet the same fate at any time.
His fortunes changed when Murad’s forces defeated the White Knight’s army. In an abominable act of treachery, the White Knight laid siege to the Dragon’s palace in Wallachia. Forced to run into the hills, Dracula’s family were hunted down and slaughtered. His brother Mircea suffered the most: after his eyes were gouged out with hot iron stakes, he was buried alive.
At the age of seventeen, Dracula was released from prison by Murad and was offered a command position in the cavalry. Although Dracula had proven to be unyielding during his years of confinement, Murad grudgingly admired his fortitude.
Even though Dracula despised Murad, he hated the White Knight more, and made a proposition to Murad: if he would give him the troops to defeat the White Knight, then he would reinstate the Dragon’s annual tribute once he, Dracula, became ruler of Wallachia. Murad readily agreed.
A faithful servant of the Dragon had recovered his master's prize sword and presented it to Dracula when he came to power. The blade was ornately engraved with the figure of a dragon, and Dracula christened it with the blood of the royal families who had sided with the White Knight.
Dracula’s first act as prince of Wallachia had been to arrest all the traitors at an Easter Sunday feast. The elders were impaled, while the rest were marched fifty miles to the town of Poenari, where they were forced to build a fortress on ruins overlooking the Arges River. Many died in the process; the fortress became known as Castle Dracula. He filled the vacancies in the nobility with persons of questionable background who would be loyal to him alone.
A true Machiavellian, Dracula made an alliance with the son of the White Knight when the pope called for a new crusade against the Ottomans and stopped all tribute payments to Mehmed, who had succeeded his father Murad, because it would have been viewed as a public acceptance of Wallachia as part of the Ottoman Empire.
Eventually, Mehmed sent his envoys to Dracula to enquire about the tribute, and in a few moments they would meet face to face.
Dracula’s smile masked his contempt for all things Turkish as he watched them slowly file into the reception hall. Smug and aloof, their long, flowing robes only served to emphasize their corpulence, and their voluminous white turbans were an ostentatious symbol of their high rank. Dracula’s hand tightened around the handle of the Dragon’s sword.
Even Radu could have taken on all of them.
Accompanying the envoys were ten Nubian warriors, whose muscular bodies were scantily clad. In contrast to the envoys, their heads were covered by modest black turbans. Dracula stifled a laugh as he compared their physiques to those of the puffed-up envoys.
There had been an argument with the palace guards when the envoys refused to follow the protocol of disarming their warriors. A compromise had been reached allowing the Nubians to retain their ceremonial spears while surrendering their swords.
When they were assembled before him, Dracula warmly greeted the envoys in their native tongue. Ekrem, the chief envoy, complimented Dracula on his mastery of the Turkish language.
“I was able to pick up bits and pieces in between floggings,” replied Dracula.
The second envoy, Hassan, nervously smiled at Dracula and then looked at Ekrem.
“Word has reached me that my brother is now called ‘Radu the Handsome,’ while others refer to him as ‘Radu the Beautiful.’ I think the latter is more appropriate,” sneered Dracula.
“Your brother has converted to Islam, Prince Vlad,” said Hassan.
“Now there’s a bit of news,” observed Dracula. “I had thought it was impossible for Radu and Mehmed to be closer than they already were.”
Ekrem cleared his throat, deciding to broach the subject of the delayed tribute.
“Sire,” he began, “the sultan has sent us to enquire as to why he has not received your tribute, which is long overdue.”
Ekrem’s question was followed by an exasperating lapse of silence. Finally, Dracula spoke in a low voice.
“What manner of soldiers are they?” he asked, referring to the Nubians.
“Slaves,” said Ekrem with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Part of the infamous Kapikulu?” asked Dracula. “Does the entire slave army consist of Nubians such as these?”
“No, Sire,” answered Ekrem awkwardly, not wanting to reveal logistical information.
“Then these warriors before me must be part of an elite group,” Dracula correctly surmised.
Rising from his throne, he walked past Ekrem and addressed the one he assessed to be their leader. “What is your name, Nubian?”
The Nubian looked at Ekrem for approval to speak before replying.
“Ibrahiem, Sire,” answered the warrior.
Dracula smiled. “What is the name your father gave you?”
“Iroto,” he replied.
Ekrem’s face registered contempt.
“So,” said Dracula softly to Iroto, “razing your village and slaughtering helpless babies and old women apparently wasn’t enough; they have even robbed you of your name. Tell me, Iroto, why do you fight for them?”
Iroto chose his words carefully. “My wife, Soueti.”
“Ah,” said Dracula, “Soueti lives as long as you fight. And I assume it is the same for every conscript of the Kapikulu? I also assume that Soueti and her fellow hostages are held nearby, and if you show any signs of cowardice on the battlefield then her life is forfeit, yes?”
Iroto remained silent.
“Prince Vlad,” interrupted Ekrem, “we digress from the matter at hand.”
Dracula returned to his throne and sat down. Ignoring Ekrem, he continued to speak to Iroto. “You and I have much in common. I was held captive for five years while my father was forced to pay Ottoman tributes in order to keep me alive. Do you know what happened to my father?”
“He was betrayed by the White Knight,” answered Hassan, “opening the way for you to become ruler of these lands with no outside interference, as long as you honor the tribute your father, the Dragon, agreed to.”
“My father gasped his final breaths through nostrils filled with the muck of the Hungarian marshes,” he said, still addressing Iroto, “and the eyes of my older brother were gouged out just before he was buried alive.”
“Sire,” said Ekrem nervously. “We must return to the sultan with your reply.”
“And so you shall,” said Dracula.
He nodded to the head of the palace guard, Teodor, who opened a side door to the reception hall and admitted fifty armed soldiers. The Nubian guards behind Iroto crouched and lifted their spears in an attack stance, but Iroto stopped them with a silent shake of his head, since they were hopelessly outnumbered.
Ekrem’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“You addressed me as ‘Prince Vlad,’” said Dracula, “yet you have not shown me the respect of my rank. Tip your hat to me, and all will be well.”
Hassan tapped Ekrem on the shoulder but was quickly rebuffed by the elder statesman. The matter was not open to discussion.
“We only remove our turbans in the presence of Allah!” exclaimed Ekrem.
Recognizing that Ekrem’s strict adherence to Islamic law was playing straight into Dracula’s murderous intenti
ons, Hassan appealed to the assembled soldiers.
“There is an entire battalion encamped nearby!” he shouted to them. “If we do not return unharmed within the hour, Mehmed will attack with an army that vastly outnumbers you, and you will swim in a sea of blood!”
The soldiers were unmoved.
“Ibrahiem, tell them it is so!” Hassan ordered Iroto.
“Silence!” Ekrem shouted to Hassan. “We are official ambassadors, and slaves have no part in these negotiations!”
“Yet,” noted Dracula, “you still refuse to observe the most basic diplomatic courtesy of raising your hats to me.”
Ekrem stood silently, calling Dracula’s bluff, while Hassan’s eyes darted from soldier to soldier, trying to detect if his threats regarding Mehmed’s army had had any effect.
“Your devotion to Allah is noted,” said Dracula. “I admire devotion and will ensure that your hats never leave your heads again.”
Dracula commanded his guards to nail the envoy’s turbans to their heads and watched with delight as the gruesome deed was carried out. The Nubians did not interfere. As the gasping envoys breathed their last, Iroto took his spear and broke it across his thigh. Stepping over the bodies of Ekrem and Hassan, he knelt before Dracula.
“You wish to plead for your life, Iroto?” asked Dracula.
“I wish to plead for an honorable death,” he answered, “and not the one merited by these dogs. Take my life with the sacred sword of the Dragon.”
Dracula stood and unsheathed the sword, but instead of raising it to strike, he displayed the blade for Iroto to inspect.
“Behold, Iroto,” he said, showing him the engraved dragon. “You shall not die today.”
“I am dead already, Sire,” he said. “Hassan was right. When he and Ekrem do not return, the Kapikulu will exact revenge for what took place here. In killing the envoys, you have sealed the fate of my beloved wife. You have…freed me, Prince.”
“Freed you?” asked Dracula.
“Without Soueti, I am now free to tell any slave master to go to hell,” he said, raising his eyes to meet those of Dracula.
The Nosferatu Chronicles: Origins Page 2
