She smiled. “Enthusiastically.”
He nodded, absentmindedly. “Very well. Oh, I should tell you they have brought your ship to the courtyard as you asked.”
Spacebread nodded. “Thank you. We will be there shortly.”
The figlet turned to her as the door closed. “Who is your choice for regent?” He still buzzed with youthful curiosity no matter how many adventures he had had.
Spacebread spoke over her shoulder as she fitted on her orange beret. “What Ralphian do we know who is wise enough to be regent, yet who sees people as they are on the inside, not the outside?”
“Lucidan!” he squeaked.
She smiled and opened the door for him.
Pages accompanied them into the sunlit courtyard, and trumpeters blew a fanfare. The King, several of his court, including the Prince, and Lucidan waited under an embroidered canopy. Behind a wall, Thyfax’s diademed head craned like some huge tree. When Spacebread and the figlet appeared, the crowd’s murmur rose to a deafening shout. Cheers and whistles seemed to give wings to the hats and confetti thrown and the babies held aloft. Jubilantly, every voice chanted her name.
Her ship stood incongruously in the center of the courtyard. Eyeing it, her condition sobered a bit. She whispered to the King that she must visit it, that this would give the crowd time to calm down. He nodded, his old politician’s eyes twinkling at the sight of so many Ralphians.
Inside the ship, the crowd’s roar was muffled. The familiar instruments called to her, but she didn’t stop until she was sitting in the control pod.
“Votal?”
“Yes, mistress. It is good to have you back.”
“Thank you. I believe you have a message from …”
“I AM HERE.”
Spacebread sighed. “I have broken my word.”
“UNDERSTOOD.” The old synthesized voice warbled like an audio aurora. There was a period of silence before it spoke again, rare for such an entity.
“ALL OTHER POWERS WITH WHICH I AM IN CONTACT HAVE BEEN INFORMED.”
Spacebread sank a little.
“IT IS MY JUDGEMENT THAT YOU BE BANISHED FROM THE PLANET RALPH FOREVER AND FROM THE HOME WORLDS FOR A PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS.”
Spacebread blinked. She had expected worse. What she had done was one of the unspeakable crimes for a star rover.
“YOUR REASONS FOR THE OATHBREAKING EASED THE JUDGEMENT. AND I KNOW THE TRUTH, THROUGH THE PERSON LUCIDAN, WHO IS ONE OF MY EYES.”
Spacebread stared speechless at the machine. She had often wondered how Planetary Powers knew everything.
“I-I am very grateful for your leniency,” she mumbled.
“IT IS UNUSUAL. BUT WHAT YOU AHVE DONE IS ALSO UNUSUAL. YOU HAVE SAVED THIS POWER, TOO, FROM SLAVERY. THE MACHINES OF THE OLD WISS WOULD HAVE ROBBED ME OF CONCIOUSNESS, SINCE I WAS YET SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS AGO WHEN THEY RULED. YOUR SENTENCE WOULD BE EVEN LIGHTER BUT WE MUST NOT ENCOURAGE OATHBREAKING. GO NOW, BUT STAY OFF CIVILIZED PLANETS FOR A FOUR-YEAR.”
The powerful voice faded from her equipment, and she sat, stunned.
Once in the sun again, and with the people’s tumult barely abated, she became elated. The sentence could have been, and should have been, much worse. She climbed the steps and raised her hands for silence. After a bit, the throng quieted.
“People of Ralph,” she said in her strongest voice. “I came to your planet in search of stolen property and ended up deposing a false government. This is to our gain. But do not be so lax in the future. Listen to the voice of Lucidan. She will guide you. As for the gifts your king has so generously offered me, I will accept them with gratitude. But the greatest treasure I take with me is my belt buckle. It is all I came after. I must leave you, for the stars call me, and they are my only master. Farewell. Remember Sonto Ghram. And peace, always.”
She embraced the king, while a sad murmur wavered over the throng. While hugging Lucidan, she looked into her eyes, realizing for the first time that she was blind because an entire planet looked out of her eyes. Her eyes were holes into the Planetary Power, the Vortex.
“I see much for you,” Lucidan nodded, whispering like the song of clouds. “But I will hold my tongue and let you discover for yourself.”
She turned and waved at Thyfax, who bowed his head to her, and at the crowd. Some of them were crying out for her to stay. Suddenly she noticed a small form at her elbow.
“Klimmit. Where are you going?”
He nodded, his eye twinkling, at the spaceship.
She put her fist on her hip, but before she could protest, he pulled his slave papers from under his cloak and held a flame from his helmet rim to them. They vanished in a husk of soot.
“Do I not have the freedom to choose slavery, mistress?” he said wryly.
Spacebread just smiled, but broadly, and turning, continued up the rungs of the spaceship and into the port. He followed.
The port slid shut. The crowd moved back, beyond the courtyard wall, and the royal party retired into the palace. Vanes and sensors twitched on the outside of the ship. Invisible eyes calculated distances, angles, pressures. Then the ship rumbled, flame leaped from it, and it climbed on a ladder of smoke into the skies over Black-Black.
The people, clustered around on walls and spires and roofs, remained with their necks craning until the fire was only a dot. Some of them waved, though they knew she could not see. And some shed a quiet tear or two to see her go. But they soon dispersed, and Ralph began to lead its own quiet life once more.
The bright streak of the departing rocket dimmed until it could no longer be seen against the sky. Spacebread was off into the stars.
Turn the page for a preview of Oscar Steven Senn’s next Spacebread story
Born of Flame
A Spacebread Story
In order to save the life of her companion, the alien figlet, Spacebread the Wondercat must find the Flame-that-is-not-a-flame on the fabled planet Osghan.
[1]
The White Cat
KORLISS NIRAL was worried. He tugged his high collar even higher around his face and glanced once more over his shoulder. But the street was too crowded and he was too jostled to really be able to tell if they followed him. A brown cat slapped him on the back and screeched something joyfully in his ear ducts, causing further alarm. He stumbled into a doorway. The crowd of revelers streamed on.
Turning, Niral found himself in the quiet foyer of a large, dimly lit pavilion, mumbling with seated diners. For the hundredth time that day, he changed his mind about going to the authorities. It was cool and subdued inside. Perhaps he could think here.
He had gone only a few halting steps, wobbling a bit in the low gravity of Kiloo, when he realized a tiny voice was addressing him from atop a darkened pedestal.
“Yes, you, my good Margh! Could I please have a bowl of C-18 nutrient, please? Oh, and with a dash of nitrogen, if you don’t mind?”
Niral’s orange eyes widened, and he made a rattling sound. “You mistake me, sir! I am not a waiter. I do not cater beverages. I am Korliss Niral, of the sacred assembly … ssst!”
A small green creature blinked at him. In the dim light Niral had mistaken him for a decorative display. The Korliss had never seen an alien figlet. He had never been off Marghool before, and creatures wearing space helmets startled him.
“Oh, excuse me … forgive me, your Eminence! I am new to this world and very ignorant,” the figlet squeaked. “I mistook you for one of your drones, the ones with the straight tusks. It’s hard to tell you insect types apart. But, please, allow me to seat you at my pedestal and buy you refreshment. Here now, I insist! I am a party of one, Klimmit BarKloof by name, there is plenty of room. How lucky you are, for the rest of the pedestals are filled.” Klimmit BarKloof blushed bright green.
Nearby pedestals buzzed with talk at the mention of the assembly, the Korlann, the powerful and ancient congress of priests that Niral belonged to. Niral realized his injured pride had given him away and said a silent prayer-chant
of guilt. The excited figlet buzzed alarmingly through the air without benefit of wings, urging Niral into a seat atop the pedestal. He reluctantly agreed. Anything to still the rustle of recognition in the place.
“How lucky you are, I say again,” Klimmit chirped. “I see from your frequent glances toward the door that you are waiting for your party. Do not worry—they will arrive. The streets of Kindarh are crowded with people at Festival, no doubt they have been detained. There is room enough for all of them; a figlet is small … I say there, waiter! Could I have some C-18 nutrient? What will you have, Mr. Niral?”
Niral hesitantly asked for a cup of bland tawny.
“Done! Oh, and waiter … a dash of nitrogen in the nutrient, please?” the figlet added. When the drone had left, he turned back to his guest. “I see the difference now. Really, I’m sorry I mistook you for one of those. There don’t seem to be many of your sort here on Marghool’s moon. And I’m very eager to see the show. Easy to overlook details when you’re eager, even to overlook your long robes. Priestly, aren’t they?” The figlet hopped about with expectant energy.
Niral nodded. “I am a Korliss, a member of the Korlann.” But the statement seemed to cause him as much pain as pride.
Niral attempted to make small-talk while keeping one armored eye on the door. But try as he might, glancing at Klimmit, he could think of only one opening to address to a pear-shaped legless vegetable who talked. Finally, he asked, “I pray you take no insult. I am as inexperienced at identifying aliens as you are at distinguishing drones. What are you?”
Klimmit howled with good-natured laughter. “Well, we’re rare enough. My folk seldom travel the stars. I am of the fig family, the intelligent sort, from Kesterole. I am Sanguakkoid, which means I am of the Warrior clans. I fly by means of ion propulsion.”
“But, your helmet …”
“Oh, it just filters out some of the coarser elements in alien atmospheres that are harmful to us figlets. I could probably have filters installed in my nose, but I’ve gotten used to this arrangement. It reminds me of how far I am from home.”
Niral turned nervously when a dark figure came too near the pedestal, but it was only a cat. “There are felines on every street corner tonight,” the Korliss commented. “I did not know so many lived on Kiloo.”
The figlet giggled. “It’s the Festival! But surely you know that? Cats from all over the galaxy are gathered for the events this week. Oh, how stupid of me, your trip up from Marghool must be for another reason. I am so excited I think everyone must be in town for the Dance.”
Niral forgave with a wave of his top pair of arms. “I know little of events outside the Korlann of Mar-ghool. The Dance?”
Klimmit’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, the glorious Dance. It’s a tradition, held here every four years to commemorate Bastu’s last dance. It is a great competition and a great honor to be chosen to compete.”
Niral tried to appear interested, but found himself scanning the darkness behind him. He was therefore startled when a face appeared at the top of their pedestal. It was a spotted feline face, and it addressed the figlet.
“Forgive me, sir. But I heard a rumor that a certain white cat was companioning a person of your tribe. Is that so?”
Klimmit grinned. “She is my mistress and former owner. Have you heard of her?”
“Who has not? I met her once years ago. Tell me, is it true that she is to dance the Dance tonight?”
“True. She follows Raznell and a fellow named Dundee in the schedule.”
“Marvelous!” The cat grinned. “I win the wager —a fellow at my pedestal swore that she was killed on Fomalhaut 6. Thank you. I will trouble you no further.”
The spotted cat was replaced by their waiter, a young collared drone. Cautiously Niral sipped his tawny and watched the drone leave, but it seemed to be an ordinary waiter. Klimmit nestled into his warm bowl of nutrient.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said. “Haven’t had comfort like this in quite a while. My mistress and I have been gone a long time from civilization. I’m quite grateful to have you to talk to.”
“Your mistress,” Niral ventured idly, wondering how to excuse himself. “You said she was your former owner?”
Klimmit smiled. “Yes. I was kidnapped as a youngster by Scarvian harpies. Filthy bird-creatures. My mistress bought me and set me free. We’ve been traveling together ever since.” He lowered his voice. “But for the past four years we have been banished, all alone with our rocket, for a silly adventure we had on the planet Ralph.”
Niral stopped eyeing the door. His pupils narrowed. “A rocket, you say?”
“Yes,” Klimmit replied. “It’s sort of old now that the Vegan Class 4’s are out, but it answers helm finely and has a first rate defense system.”
“Defense,” Niral repeated, gazing into his tawny. He tried to still the pounding of his hearts. Could it be that his prayer-chants were beginning to work? He ceased wondering how to get away from this silly, excited figlet.
Niral was about to ask the profession of Klimmit’s mistress when a sudden roll of music cut him off. The figlet hopped to attention. A fanfare sounded, and the overhead lights lifted even higher into the Kiloon night. Niral became aware with a start that the amphitheater sloped into open air. Where a stage should have been, there yawned the great canyon that divided Kindarh into two halves.
Spotlights blossomed, and Niral further realized that the pavilion was poised a mere meter away from rank after rank of climbing vines. Blue, like giant beanstalks rearing in Kiloo’s low gravity, they climbed out of sight toward the stars. Lights from the farther canyon rim winked beyond.
Another spotlight pinpointed a gray cat dressed in elaborate finery, who mounted a podium and bowed profoundly. He began drolly explaining about the competition, the legend of Bastu, and the Festival. Klimmit squealed in excitement.
For a moment Niral wavered, unsure of whether to stay and pursue this slim hope or to move on. A ship, with defenses … The gray cat ended his spiel and announced the first contestant to jubilant applause. Niral lingered.
The music rolled, tinkled, jingled, and a violet cat bounded across the pavilion into the light. With the first flourish of his theme music, he leaped gracefully onto a towering blue stalk and began swirling from vine to vine to the beat. The low gravity of Marghool’s moon seemed to give him wings. The lights always followed as he danced along the climbing plants from stalk to stalk. Leaves sprang with his leaps, sending him twisting twice as far to other leaves, higher and higher, then plunging like a bullet to lower growth. Niral had never seen anything like it. (Marghool is a heavy planet, and its people are not given to fancy.) The cat seemed to ride on the spotlights, pivoting and cavorting to the music.
Niral became so fascinated, in fact, that he quit watching the door and so failed to see what he had been dreading. A tall drone, uncollared, stood in the doorway searching until it fixed on Niral’s silhouette. Its nasal slits quivered until it was certain of identity, then it slipped away like a shadow.
Each cat danced only a few minutes, to its own choice of music, the briefness seeming to add strength to its performance. Not a movement was unnecessary nor unsure, and each contestant seemed as graceful as the last. Each was introduced by the caller and followed by enthusiastic applause.
“Our next dancer is one well known in these parts. He is the rogue Dundee. Welcome Dundee Dulowe!” The gray cat bowed, grinning.
Klimmit leaned toward Niral. “Rogue is right. He’s been bothering my mistress,” he pouted. “Making proposals and propositions. He’s out to take advantage of her, if you ask me.”
The applause and cheering ended, and a huge calico cat appeared in the light. His short fur was mottled and swirled in blacks and browns like the map of an alien world. The music crashed, and Dundee somersaulted into the night. From that moment there was no rest for his legs, the orchestra, or the eyes of his audience. His specialties were speed and strength. He danced in a wider area than the rest,
all across the chasm, dazzling in his surefootedness. The music raced to its climax as Dundee executed an especially brilliant series of spinning leaps from stalks that seemed too widely separated for success. Tumultuous clapping greeted his exit. All knew the calico was the cat to beat.
“She’s next!” Klimmit shrieked.
Dundee’s music faded as the caller announced, “My feline friends need no introduction to our next dancer. She is the singular, audacious Spacebread, of whom you have heard so much!”
The figlet nearly tumbled from his seat with cheering, and the crowd emitted a surprised gasp. The music rolled in a new melody, a modem version of a nursery song all recognized with fair memories, and Klimmit recalled his mistress humming it much lately. The spotlight lit a lone figure, so white it hurt the eyes.
Niral leaned forward. So this was the owner of the well-defended rocket. But she was so beautiful, so elegant. Doubt bubbled within him.
Spacebread raised her arms, embodying poetry itself. In a second she was airborne, spinning, sailing, pausing, diving, like a spark in a chimney. The song wound down to a slower beat, and the white cat slowed also in a gently sad way, in mid-leap. Now atop a swaying stem, her movement became a fervent whisper that held the breath of every viewer captive. Cymbals clashed!
The tender mood shattered, Spacebread hurtled off the frond backward, flying through loops in two plants to alight like a feather in a pose of grace atop a third. Then, to top it off, after a long string of plain but mighty leaps that rivaled Dundee’s, she kicked out unexpectedly on the final frond and plunged like a rock off its edge. It was the longest dive of the evening and brought alarmed cries from the crowd. She stopped her fall into the abyss only by glancing off a leaf at great speed and diving through a spiral tendril, which slowed her into a corkscrew spin. She landed upright, with arms wide, very near the pavilion’s rim. The crowd erupted. The figlet exploded. For a moment Korliss Niral was quite alarmed and glanced again at the door, fearing a riot. But the blazing white figure only bowed lower to the cheers. Finally, being the last dancer, she found her way to the roped-off area where the rest of the contestants relaxed.
Spacebread Page 15
