Return to Dragon Planet: Book one of the Dragon Planet Trilogy

by S A Robertson

  “We’re never going to get a permit to Vargah, Skreet,” Blake replied wearily, trying his best to lean on the goblin’s shoulder. It wasn’t easy either seeing as the creature was barely four and a half feet tall. “It’s just not going to happen.”

  “But why not?” Skreet complained. “We’ve been in business a good long while now. We haven’t caused no trouble to the Ranger Patrol. And Vargah is one of them protected wildernesses, right? Big money. Big opportunities out there.”

  “It’s protected for a reason, Skreet. There’s still a whole lot of things they don’t understand about that place. Besides, you know with my record they’d turn us down flat. That’s why we’ve had to use Grubs to get the permits we have.”

  “But thems for Terevell.”

  “Exactly. And we don’t have any for Vargah. Or likely to get any, no matter how clean our noses are.”

  “You have a clean nose?” Skreet jabbed a finger up a nostril and plucked out something wobbly and black. He flicked it onto a spiny fruit stall when the owner’s back was turned. “My nose is always so crusty.”

  “It’s an expression, Skreet.”

  “Oh. An Earth expression. No matter how long I know you, Blake, I learn new ones every day.”

  They turned down another alleyway.

  “So, ye really want to keep taking tours of Syrese then?” Skreet went on. “I mean, the customers are getting thinner and thinner on the ground every year. When were the last time we saw a leviathan, eh? Or a sea serpent? That’s what people pay for. To see things, eh?”

  “I know. But it’s not as if we have a choice, right? Vargah is off limits, there’s restrictions on Mardhuhl, and I have no idea how long the permits we have for Terevell are going to last. Syrese is still the mainstay of our business.”

  “Maybe so. Except the ship needs repairs, Blake. It could do with a whole new shock drive. And then there’s the bills. Some we can put off, but others…like the ones you have with Grubs Daily… well, them’s more pressing.”

  Grubs Daily. Of all the bad deals Blake had entered into over the last few years, his arrangements with Grubs had cost him the most. He had been in debt to that greasy little homunculus for years now, principally for securing his first set of permits from the Wilderness Protection League. It hadn’t been easy to get the League to turn a blind eye to Blake’s record, and at first, he had been eternally grateful. Now, though, his relationship with Grubs had soured. Not least because business was dropping off. It was a vicious circle. Every month the bottle-born experiment demanded more, and every month Blake had less to give. That was part of the drink-addled reason he had entered the fight with the ogre to begin with. A big credit payment would have kept Grubs off his back for another few weeks. At least, until he could figure out what he was going to do with his ailing business. As it was, he had not only left Otto’s bar empty-handed, but with a few cracked ribs and one hell of a headache.

  “Look, we’ll figure it out, alright?” Blake told Skreet as they slowly took some steps down into a small, dimly lit square. All the other operators had long-since closed their shutters. “Something will turn up, you’ll see.”

  “I hope you’re right. There ain’t much work for goblin pilots on Miria this time o’ year. And there ain’t nothing back for me on Morgh.”

  “I know, Skreet, I know.”

  4

  They entered the hanger by means of a small, shuttered side door. Over the last few years, Blake had had to give up his apartment over on the East Side of Yangtze Street and used the hanger as his home instead. Skreet lived here too, nestled up in the rafters overlooking the Clipper, which was the first thing they saw as they threw down the shutters behind them. It only served to depress Blake even further.

  It wasn’t so much the Clipper was a bad craft. When he had bought it from a second-hand dealer on one of the rigs on Syrese, it had been quite a state-of-the-art ship, perfect for low-level tours of the ocean planet, and useful for mountain expeditions on Mardhuhl. But now it had seen better days. Fifteen years of corroding salt water and wear and tear had not been kind to its infrastructure. The truth was it was looking a little out of date. Even some of the other struggling operators in the very same square had newer crafts. And when customers came to choose their tour, they generally opted for whatever wasn’t going to crash into leviathan-infested waters.

  “You know, maybe your old friend Hollis Deveraux might have a shock drive we could buy for cheap,” Skreet suggested, as he switched on the lights. Long, sharp shadows dropped across the floor and brought into sharp relief all the makeshift repairs Skreet had been forced to do on the Clipper. “We could break up one of the hover bikes, sell him the parts and maybe give out some free tours to his relatives.”

  “Hollis doesn’t have any relatives,” Blake said. “At least, not since both his wives left him. And he won’t buy hover bike parts from us.”

  “But you said he owed you a favour. From back in the day.”

  Blake sighed. “That was a long time ago, Skreet. When I was a different man. And people aren’t quite so eager to honour a favour when they know you’re on the ropes.”

  “On the ropes?”

  “Another Earth expression.”

  “On the ropes…” Skreet mused. “What does it mean?”

  “I’ll tell you another time, okay?”

  “Fine. But I’m just making it clear, the drive needs changing as soon as possible otherwise it’ll give out on us when we least expect it. Just a little bad turbulence could set it off.”

  “I get it, alright?” Blake closed his eyes. His headache hadn’t eased during their walk from the bar, and he was starting to feel faint. “Let’s leave it alone until tomorrow, okay? I need a rest and a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  Blake opened his eyes. “What are you, my mother?” he snapped.

  Skreet looked hurt. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good.” Blake pushed away from the wall and headed toward his office.

  Throwing open the door, he stepped inside and considered the blankets scrunched up on the couch and the dirty plates on a tray by the aquarium. There was also a large empty bottle of Mirian whisky on its side by his desk, and another one—this one half full—by a chair. He passed a tongue over his dry lips and slowly stalked to the desk lamp which stuttered on as it sensed his presence.

  “Good evening, Mr McCord,” intoned a friendly voice as Blake bent down to pick the bottle up. On the desk, a small red light in a metal cube beamed across the room.

  “Evening, Phyllis.” Blake uncorked the bottle and looked around for a glass. “How’s tricks?”

  “Tricks are very good, thank you, Mr McCord. Work hours, though, are over. Would you like me to check your appointments for the following day?”

  “I can save you the bother. We haven’t any.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And none for the next day either.”

  “Right again. However, I did take a message today from a caller who was most eager to speak with you earlier. She wanted to know whether you might be available this evening.”

  “She?” Blake found a glass and took it, along with the bottle, to the couch. He moved the blankets and eased himself down like an old man.

  “I’m afraid she didn’t leave a name.”

  “Did she leave a means to contact her?”

  “No. She said she would try to speak with you again at another time.”

  “About what?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  Skreet then poked his head into the room. “Customer?”

  Blake made a sour face. “Those big ears of yours miss nothing, do they?”

  “For a goblin, I have quite small ears.”

  Blake glanced back to the red beam of light. “Okay, Phyllis, thanks for the info.”

  “No problem. Will that be all, Mr McCord?”

  “For now.”

  The red light dwindled and disappeared.

  “Yo
u want me to get you some prayer leaves?” Skreet asked then, as Blake poured himself a generous slug of whisky. “For pain relief, I mean.”

  “I have some right here.”

  “That stuff won’t be so good for your head, ye know.”

  “It couldn’t be any worse.”

  Skreet grunted, and while he continued to observe Blake taking his first sip of the pale yellow drink, he obviously realised he didn’t have much traction left in the conversation so said, “Well, I’m going to try and fix the hinges on the airlock. If the shock drive gives out, we want to make sure the Clipper is watertight at least.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” Blake put his head back and closed his eyes. “Just try not to make too much noise, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.” And with another critical look at Blake, the goblin eventually turned and headed back into the hanger.

  5

  Blake breathed out the fumes from his whisky and took another gulp. Skreet was probably right. It wouldn’t help his head, not after the battering he had taken. That said, even a few small mouthfuls of the alcohol had stopped his stomach turning and the faint tremble in his fingers seemed to be easing off too. He let his eyes slide across to a frame by the couch where there was a smiling image of Kaylen, her dark hair moving slightly in the breeze. Rolling green hills spread out behind her in the distance. He had no idea why he kept such a specific memory of his wife so close at hand. It wasn’t the reminder exactly that made him so uncomfortable, but rather the place slightly out of focus behind her. Those green hills were as painful to look at as she was. Which was why, after staring into Kaylen’s soft, grey eyes for only a few moments more, he reached out and turned the frame facedown. It was better this way, he reasoned. What use was there in torturing himself? He took another drink.

  It was the first of two glasses more. After the rigours and drama of the evening, even Skreet’s clattering about in the hanger wasn’t enough to prevent Blake from drifting toward sleep.

  He might have succumbed, too. His head drooped and the glass in his hand tipped dangerously toward his lap, when a soft knock on the office door brought Blake abruptly to his senses again. He growled out in pain when he sat up too sharply.

  TWO

  1

  At first, he thought it was Skreet. Blake was even ready to let out a string of oaths and admonishments. Except, when he saw the tall, striking woman standing on the brink of the room, he snapped his mouth closed like a trap.

  “My apologies,” she said, in a faint musical accent. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Blake blinked. In the dim light of the office, it was as if an apparition had silently drifted into the room. Draped in a long, grey coat and hood, the stranger’s features were slightly obscured by shadow. But Blake knew well enough from those few, tentative words exactly what had appeared before him. And he hadn’t heard that accent in years. Which was why his innards clenched. The sound of that voice was worse than staring at the picture of Kaylen again. Much worse.

  “Mr McCord?” the woman continued, taking a small step into the light. And that was when Blake was able to see her perfectly sculpted, bronzed features beyond the shadow of the hood. Irises the colour of jade considered Blake with a mixture of curiosity and slight uncertainty. It was as if she had stumbled upon an exotic beast.

  Blake was aware of his stomach turning over again.

  “How did you get in here?” he demanded. His tone was flat. Colourless. It was as if the woman had suddenly sucked all the air out of the room.

  She glanced back into the hanger. “The shutters. They were open.”

  “My partner didn’t hear you?” But as soon as he said it, Blake knew that was a dumb question. Her kind moved with all the stealth of a phantom cat. Even Skreet with his goblin ears would not have detected her intrusion.

  “I think he’s working on your ship. He may have been too preoccupied.”

  Blake leaned over and put his glass down on the table next to the couch, unable to hide the faint crease of pain in his face. When he leaned back again, the woman was slowly pulling down her hood, and it was just as he had suspected.

  “You’re an elf,” he said, in that same lifeless tone, his eyes flicking briefly to her delicate pointed ears.

  “I am,” the elf-woman agreed. “How very observant of you, Mr McCord.”

  Blake snorted. That arrogant inflection too. He had almost forgotten how it sounded. Then his eyes drifted to the elegant short-bladed sabre strapped to her thigh, briefly glimpsed as her coat parted slightly. While Blake had never seen a physical example before, he was sure it was a rare sword known as a Spirit Blade. Such a weapon was doubtless worth a small fortune. The ivory handle alone was worth more than his ship. So, she wasn’t just an elf. She was also High-Born elf too.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, unduly,” the elf continued. “I did call earlier to make an appointment but as the matter was somewhat urgent, I thought it necessary to forgo the formalities.”

  “That was you?” Blake made no move to get to his feet. “Before?”

  “I left a message with your assistant.”

  “Well, that’s because office hours are over.”

  “I expect they are. It’s very late. But, as I say, this is a most urgent matter. Perhaps you might have a moment to speak with me now?”

  Blake glanced to the door. What he wanted to do was tell her to get out. It was almost on his lips too—some stinging retort, full of self-justified bile. It would go some way to making him feel better after the day he had had. But in the end, he hesitated; not least because part of him was intrigued to know what an elf was doing so far from home. There were so few of them outside of their homeland after all. So few—beyond diplomatic or trade missions—who mixed with other races. And then there was the presence of an elf on a moon such as Miria, especially where so many dwarf miners came to enjoy their leave. It could be dangerous for her. Probably why she wore the hood.

  “Who are you?” Blake asked, deciding there was no harm in digging out a few basic facts.

  “My name is Nyara Nithirian of Ilmaris. I have travelled here this evening in the hope I might persuade you to offer me your unique services, Mr McCord.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I hate to disappoint you, Miss…?”

  “Nithirian.”

  “But my services aren’t exactly special. I run a two-bit tour operation, out of a two-bit Clipper pad, run by a two-bit tour guide. I do low-level excursions to the western chasms of Mhardhul, and the northwest, restricted territories of Terevell. But mainly to Syrese, where you can pay to spot leviathan and sea serpents, and schools of sirens off the Potaqueck Bay if you’re lucky. Truth is, there’s about a half a dozen operators in this square alone who would offer you a much better deal. Maybe not cheaper, but you look like the kind of woman who can afford a little luxury.”

  The corner of the elf-woman’s mouth creased into a half smile. “You’re not exactly selling yourself very well, Mr McCord.”

  “Aren’t I? I suppose there’s one part of me that doesn’t like to waste people’s time. I wouldn’t want a customer to be disappointed with my services farther down the line. And then there’s the other part of me that would rather you go somewhere else anyway.”

  Nyara’s half-smile dropped. “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because you’re a High-Born elf sneaking around in the wrong part of town. A town that doesn’t tolerate your kind that much. At least, during most parts of the year. You spell trouble, Miss Nithirian. And I’ve got enough of my own kind of trouble to get myself mixed up with anyone else’s.”

  “I see. And are you the sort of person who is also intolerant of my kind, Mr McCord?” Those jade eyes seemed to sparkle in the half-light of the room. “If that’s not too indelicate a question.”

  Blake met her gaze. “I have a little history, let’s say, with elves. I guess you could call that prejudice. I’m honest enough to admit it. So, there’s no sense, as far as I can see,
for either of us to suffer each other’s company if we don’t have to. If you get my meaning.”

  “Oh. No. That’s perfectly clear.”

  “I’m sorry then.”

  “I’m sure you are, Mr McCord. Except, fortunately, I’m not here to procure your services as a tour guide. My interest in you is quite separate to your more recently acquired profession.”

  Blake frowned at that. He’d just felt rather good about his dismissive response. He knew these High-Borns hated being talked back to, and he had been pithy and direct and ill-mannered enough in the hope of seeing those razor-blade cheekbones of hers flush a little under the lights. But while the crisp, breezy air she had affected had turned to a more business-like attitude now, it didn’t appear like she was moving anywhere.

  “Look, what’s this about?” Blake asked as a faint disquiet began to creep into the back of his mind. “What do you mean, ‘My more recently acquired profession’?”

  Nyara swept her eyes around the room, although she didn’t seem to exhibit any judgement as to the unkempt surroundings. Instead, she gestured to one of the chairs positioned in front of Blake’s desk and said, “May I sit?”

  Blake hesitated before offering a small shrug. “Alright. If you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  With lithe grace, the elf crossed to the chair. She turned it slightly toward the couch and sank into it as if she were lowering onto a throne. She carefully pulled her coat together, once more to hide the sword blade strapped to her thigh, before folding her long, delicate hands into her lap.

  “I understand you spent some time on Ilmaris, Mr McCord,” she began. “As a settler in the last wave of the Pioneer Programs.