The Phaestoric Authority listened calmly, sympathized, and repeated their promises. Someday—not soon, but someday—a race of high-gravity Dragons would come back to Tharn, and then the laughter would cease forever. The dwarves would find that these darker, harder Dragons would not only survive the crushing pressure of Tharn, they would thrive on it. They would stay—and they would rule. The nasty little people would learn to fear again. The Dragons would feed well.
All this would surely happen, the Phaestor promised, but it could not happen soon. The process of creating a new species required time; time for design, time for experimentation, time for breeding, time for training and education. These matters did not succeed when rushed. This situation with the dwarves of Tharn had crucial implications; it needed an overwhelming demonstration of crushing, irresistible force, noting less. The Regency could not risk a failure here, not even the slightest hint of less than total control. No, they said. Not yet. We understand your rage, your fury. We deeply sympathize. But only when we feel the certainty of total success, will we act. For now, have patience.9
Thus, the Phaestoric promise remade, the Dragons retired; not quite mollified, never mollified—only the rape of Tharn would pay this debt—but they understood. Yes, the delays rankled badly, but they knew the Phaestor always kept their promises, especially promises of vengeance. Tharn would burn with unholy flames. The Dragons resumed their Imperial duties and dreamed of the terrors to come. No, they themselves would not return to Tharn, but their chimeric children would—and the children of the dwarves would die in seven days of blood and fire. And the new Dragons would grow fat.
But in the meantime, the dwarves still snickered.
Especially Gito.
He wore his Tharnish heritage like a badge, a cloak of rebelliousness that he wrapped zealously around himself. Its orange fury blazed for all to see. Gito had left his world for reasons he did not discuss. By doing so, he placed himself at the mercy of any Dragon who felt the need to revenge himself for insults suffered on Tharn. But also by doing so, he removed himself from the greater danger he left behind. The Dragons did not scare him. Not enough.
“Dragons?” he snorted, speaking to Robin, the Operations Manager of The Lady MacBeth, as they polished the pink brinewood paneling of the ship’s salon.10
“You want to know about Dragons? I’ll tell you about Dragons. Dragons have no brains. I saw this myself. On Tharn. A Dragon-Lord stepped in a lump of shit—he looked down and when he saw it do you know what he did? He panicked. He thought he had started to melt!”
Robin, an organic construct,11 allowed herself a smile. She appreciated the humor, but her personal training also allowed her to recognize the animal origins of the emotions behind the speech. Gito told stories like this constantly, always using either the Phaestor Vampires or the Moktar Dragons as the foils for his rough-edged humor. “Careful, my friend. The wrong ears would not appreciate that anecdote.”
“Hmp.” Gito snorted. “The wrong ears shouldn’t travel aboard this ship.”
“The Captain had no choice in that decision—”
“Pfah! Front office politics. It excuses nothing. The whole ship reeks of Vampires and Dragons—pfah!” Gito spat. “Darkness take the lot of ‘em. I can’t get their stink out of my nose.”
“My nose doesn’t like it any more than yours, but—”
“Ought to shove the whole lot of ‘em out an airlock. Let ‘em walk. Do the whole Cluster a favor. We left the better cargo on Burihatin. More profitable. Industrial grade, three-month, pfingle eggs—pfingle eggs! We could have made twenty times the share that this charter offers. Assuming Captain Campbell can get the noble Zillabar to pay. She will pay, won’t she?”
“Gito, please—?” Robin desperately wanted to find a way to end his stream of invective. “Let’s just finish preparing the salon. The sooner we clear customs, the sooner our guests will debark.”
“—and then we’ll have to decontaminate the entire ship. I know it. We’ll probably have to open her up to space just to boil out the pheromones.”
At that moment, Ota, the First Officer of The Lady MacBeth, stepped up into the softly-lit lounge from the passage below. It frowned as it caught the last reckless echo of Gito’s anger. They didn’t dare risk any more trouble.
“Gito, Robin,” Ota interrupted quietly. “May I gently suggest that you save these thoughts for a later time. Thoughts spoken in candor might annoy our passengers—or their retinue. I don’t think you want them accidentally overhearing.”
Chastened, Robin nodded and lowered her eyes. She understood too well. Even if she hadn’t voiced the anger, she still shared the crime by listening to it. If caught, the penalty for sedition would apply equally to both of them: death by prolonged torture.12 Gito hung his head and growled something unintelligible, perhaps a half-hearted promise to watch himself in the future. He hadn’t meant to endanger Robin. He liked Robin.
Tall and burly, Ota looked deceptively gentle. Its genetic stew contained genes modelled on those of the lesser panda. It had the features and coloring of a giant raccoon-like bear with some of the sharper features of a fox. Most humans tended to regard Ota as a female, viewing the huge soft-looking bioform as a kind of living embodiment of the fabled Earth-Mother. Ota neither accepted nor rejected such perceptions, regarding them as occurrences beyond the scope of its own nature.
Ota moved through the salon with surprising grace; its sharp eyes glanced quickly around the room. “It looks good,” Ota acknowledged. “Please finish quickly. The Moktar will take their stations soon.” Ota stepped out through the aft door and exited.
“Moktar!” Gito shuddered in distaste.
Robin shook her head. “That resolution didn’t last long.”
Gito grunted, the closest he ever came to apologizing. And then he added, “Someday the Angel of Death will arrive, and Ota will ask him if he wants some tea.”
“And why not?” Robin wiped vigorously at a brinewood panel. The soft pink wood shone with pearlescent beauty. “Remember, Gito, what you once said? Most LIX class bioforms don’t care about much except their next meal.”
“Hmp. You could say the same thing about Dragons and Vampires.”
Manners
Ota came back, glanced around, sniffed the air, frowned and allowed itself to feel annoyed and uneasy. No further effort could make a difference here. Lacking any suitable alternative, it resigned itself to the situation and pronounced the salon appropriately disinfected for a Vampire’s delicate sensibilities. Gito grunted and excused himself to the engine room. Robin smoothed her white tunic and began putting away the last of the cleaning items. She looked to Ota, “I assume the Dragons will inspect it now?”
“Don’t they always?”
Abruptly, the forward door of the salon slid open and the room darkened like a shadow. The Moktar Dragons entered, six of them, gleaming like the cold night. Ota and Robin stepped quickly out of their way. The Dragons didn’t simply enter—they invaded the room, a brutal squad of hardened flesh. The Dragons moved in glistening synchrony; they flowed like liquid terror.
Huge and menacing and much too large for a vessel of this size, the Dragons overpowered the space; each one three meters tall and massing 300 kilos of self-contained brooding savagery. They reeked of power and smoldering madness.
Deliberately constructed on the model of the ancient velociraptor, they had the sleek forms of armored nightmares, with bulging musculature cut so deep and hard they looked like polished stone. They carried their tails high for balance. Their rank hot breaths turned the air around them brackish; but even in their cruel demeanor, each one also had a sinewy beauty. All black and silver, all ablaze with coiled power, they loomed magnificently—like burnished demons. Ebony skins shone like silken liquid; corded arms and brutal thighs reflected metal highlights. They all glittered.
Like well-oiled machinery, the Dragons took up their positions. They glanced around the suddenly too-small room with undisguised contempt.13
Normally they would have stayed in their makeshift quarters in the forward cargo bay—much roomier than the salon, but still too cramped for them—but whenever the Lady Zillabar went anywhere, even from one room to another, her Guards first checked it for security. The Lady hadn’t lived this long by tolerating carelessness. She’d seen too many Vampires die at the hands of fanatics and assassins.
Two of the Dragons took up positions by the forward door, two waited at the aft entrance to the salon. The remaining two stood stolidly in the center of the lounge, the bony crests of their skulls almost touching the bright ceiling panels. One of them turned slowly, his nostrils flaring, his tongue flicking the air, tasting the faint perfumed essence of the lounge. His expression remained unchanged, but he spoke softly into a wrist communicator. “We have smelled the air in the salon. It will not offend.”
Watching from the corner of the room, Robin could barely hide her discomfort. She glanced sideways to Ota, but the bioform’s expression remained carefully blank. If Ota felt uneasy, it didn’t show. The two waited in quiet, respectful postures.
One of the Dragons glanced speculatively at Ota and grinned, showing a mouth full of long white knives. The better to eat you with, my dear. . . . The grin became a nasty leer as the Dragon’s tongue flickered out; it glistened with a slick pale sheen, licking the air for the faintest taste of Ota. Its eyes took on a deadly glaze.
Robin noticed. She couldn’t help but think, it only wants permission. But she kept her face impassive.
Ota merely met the Dragon’s cruel study with its own impassive gaze, an extraordinary act of courage for an animal the Dragons considered only prey; but as the Executive Officer of the starship, Ota couldn’t allow itself to betray the slightest sign of weakness. It had to maintain absolute composure.
A moment more and another Dragon stepped heavily in, Captain Naye-Ninneya, the Captain of the Lady’s Dragons, the largest and most brutal of the squad. Lady Zillabar followed him, sweeping imperiously into the center of the salon. She wore a cloud of seaspray blue and a cape of ghostly mist, all outlined in bright sunshine fluorescence that enhanced her ethereal beauty like a pale dawn. Nevertheless, it failed to hide the hardness in her eyes. She looked dispassionate as ever. She glanced about the salon, only casually noting Ota’s and Robin’s presence; she would not otherwise acknowledge their existence. She turned to the Captain of her Dragons. “And the Star-Captain?”
Naye-Ninneya stiffened at attention. “I have no knowledge.”
Lady Zillabar raised her eyebrow. She studied the Dragon coldly. “I see. . . .” She glanced away, as if it made no difference, though everyone present knew it did. The Phaestor had no word for failure; the closest concept in the Phaestor tongue implied betrayal, unworthiness, and incontinence.
“Excuse me—” Ota stepped forward, looking calmly up into the eyes of the hungrier Dragon. “I have the honor to inform the noble presence that the Star-Captain will attend the needs of the Lady and her Guard at her earliest convenience. As soon as we complete the docking, she will present herself.” Having finished her recitation, Ota stepped crisply back into position. She omitted the bow; the Dragon might have interpreted the bow as presumptuous. Humans bowed; prey didn’t.
The Dragon—the metal badge across its chest identified it as Kask-54—turned to its Captain to repeat the information in sharp guttural barks. Naye-Ninneya accepted the report and turned back to Lady Zillabar. “The Star-Captain will attend shortly—”
The Lady gestured in annoyed dismissal. Excuses bored her. She parted her mouth slightly as she tasted the air; her expression became blank. She did not like the taste of this vessel. She did not like the manner in which this Captain operated her ship. She did not like the disrespectful treatment. She did not appreciate the underwhelming quality of the service. But neither did she like expressing her annoyance publicly.
Even if she could have succeeded in making this trip in secret, she would not have enjoyed the passage. This starship stank. That she had endured this unpleasant journey all in vain only added to the annoyance that she felt—and now had to conceal. She would not sink to the level of her ill-mannered hosts. She would not say what she felt. Not here. Not now.
The Lady would repay the insults, yes, but in her own way. The Lady MacBeth would suffer unexplainable mishaps for many years to come—until the Lady Zillabar grew bored with the game.14
Star-Captain Neena Linn-Campbell entered then. She wore her crisp black jumpsuit emblazoned with her Star-Captain’s brilliant gold insignia over the heart. She inclined her head in the curtest of bows. She intended to get this ritual over with quickly. “Lady Zillabar. We have docked with StarPort.”
Lady Zillabar folded her hands and waited coldly.
Captain Campbell gritted her teeth, swallowed her pride, and continued, “You have honored my ship. I thank you for the privilege of service.”
Lady Zillabar studied Captain Campbell with pale gray eyes. The perfunctoriness of this woman’s gratitude annoyed her. Didn’t she recognize the authority confronting her? Didn’t she realize the danger of impudence? Not that it mattered, of course. Zillabar had already decided how she would express her displeasure. Nonetheless, the woman’s insubordination rankled. She glanced sideways to Naye-Ninneya, the Captain of her Guards. He looked to Kask-54. Kask stepped to Ota and rumbled, “The Star-Captain may present her gift now.”
Ota did not move to relay the message to Captain Campbell. Instead Captain Campbell said, “The corporation that owns this vessel does not practice the custom of gifts, my Lady. I hope this will not discomfit you.” Captain Campbell did not add that she herself held the majority of shares in the corporation.
Lady Zillabar remained impassive while she considered her next words. “We would not have you violate your charter,” she said graciously. “The quality of your service demonstrates sufficient gratitude. It has not gone unnoticed. However, if you—acting only as an individual—wish to present a gift of your own free will, outside of any constraints of your corporate charter, we would not refuse. On the contrary, we would consider it a generous personal exhibition of loyalty to the Phaestoric Ruling Authority. Such an act would prove sufficient to ensure many years of gratitude and good will.” She opened her hands to Captain Campbell.
For some reason, Captain Campbell thought about brinewood. She spread her own hands emptily before her and said, “You humble me with your benevolence, Lady Zillabar. Unfortunately, this ship carries nothing of sufficient value to offer as a gift, nothing worthy of your station. I would not presume to insult you by offering a token of less than noble rank.”
“The value of the gift has no relevance,” the Lady insisted. “The thought maintains.” She glanced casually around the room. “Any token will do. . . . “Her eye lit upon the bioform, Ota. “Even a lowly servant, perhaps—”
“That servant? Oh, no, my Lady. I could not. That servant suffers from laziness and incompetence. It rarely bathes, and the reek of its unwashed fur, the acrid smell of its sweat, the stink of its shit—” Captain Campbell allowed herself a delicious shudder. “—my Lady, please. I would not sleep well at nights thinking of the terrible deed I had done. You would get no useful work from this poor specimen. Look at the clumsiness of it, the slackness of its posture, the slovenliness of its general appearance, the ungraceful attitude with which it moves. It shambles like a hirsute pig. I insist you reconsider. This creature has no manners. It would so certainly affront your gracious sensibilities that even to burden you with its ownership would constitute the gravest of insults. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.”
“Still . . .” the Lady Zillabar mused, “. . . I would not have it said that the master of this vessel lacks the grace to offer even the smallest of gifts to the nobility.” She appeared to consider the question further. “You speak honestly when you say the bioform would provide me with no pleasure; but I could give it to my Dragons as a plaything. They would not mind at all. They might even look forward to it
as a minor sport. What say you?”
Ota hung her head in shame and mumbled something. Both Lady Zillabar and Captain Campbell looked at it, surprised at the interruption. Ota repeated itself. “Perhaps I should go. I would not want rancor on my behalf.”
“Keep quiet, Ota!” Captain Campbell snapped at the bioform with genuine annoyance. “If I want you to have an opinion, I’ll give you one.”
“You see,” said Zillabar, pleasantly. “Even the bioform agrees. It wants to come with me.”
“Still, I must refuse.” Captain Campbell’s voice stayed firm, despite the apparent eagerness of her demeanor. “My employers will ask me, ‘What have you done with the disreputable beast, the LIX class bioform?’ I’d have to tell them, ‘I gave it to the Lady Zillabar—as a plaything for her Dragons, of course.’ They would immediately relieve me of my command for insulting you and bringing shame upon this vessel. No, I can’t.”
Zillabar’s expression darkened. “I would have the beast,” she said quietly. “I’ll pay you for it.” Her tone became deadly.
Captain Campbell held her posture rigid. The moment had turned suddenly tense. She stared directly into Zillabar’s cold gray eyes. “I will not sell the beast to you,” she said. The watching Dragons bristled and stiffened. One of them even went so far as to bare its teeth. Campbell knew that she had put herself in great danger by her refusal; she needed to ameliorate it quickly. “Don’t take it personally, Lady. I won’t sell the beast to anyone.” She shrugged apologetically. “I confess a fondness for it. I would not feel . . . right, allowing the beast to go. I have this fear that someone might forget its sentience and make the grave mistake of using it as food.”
“That will not happen.”
Captain Campbell shook her head. “Would you guarantee that?” And then she boldly met the Lady’s eyes again.
The Lady stiffened in anger—
The Regency Charter expressly forbade the use of sentients as food—except under certain well-defined conditions.15 Without a license, no Vampire, no Dragon would dare to disobey Article One—certainly not in any way that might come under public scrutiny. Doing so could trigger ferocious mass uprisings, and no one in authority wanted to risk a repeat of the wasteful Obalon Carnages. Unsubstantiated stories still abounded, however—enough to trouble the sleep of more than one Vampire aristocrat. Those who knew the truth had reason to worry about the rumors.
Under the Eye of God Page 5
