Dragons in the Stars

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Together they left the bridge. Instead of going to the commons to eat, Mogurn ushered her toward his cabin. He told her to sit, to bend her head forward.

  Jael obeyed gratefully. And in the instant that the cool sphere touched the base of her head, she knew that she had indeed been trapped; she was already enslaved to this device.

  But then the warm glow of the pallisp spread through her, and she no longer cared at all.

  Chapter 7: Betrayed

  WHEN SHE came out of the glow this time, she felt a wave of dizziness. It took her head a few moments to clear, and when it did, she saw puffs of smoke and realized that Mogurn was sitting with his pipe, watching her. She felt a sudden rush of anger toward him, but instead of letting it show, she just smiled thinly.

  The memory of the pallisp lingered in her mind, but she recalled even more vividly her last thought before the instrument had robbed her of consciousness: the thought that she had, in that moment, given up her freedom to the pallisp. And Mogurn was the master of the pallisp. She gazed at him, her stomach knotted, and she wondered if she ought to hate him for it.

  "Are you feeling better now, Jael?" Mogurn inquired.

  She took a breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. She was careful to keep her feelings hidden. "I think I would like to sleep now," she said. Her voice was ragged.

  "Indeed. And you may. But first let me explain something to you." Mogurn puffed his pipe, and the smoke rose in a living cloud that curled toward her, stinging her nostrils. "I have just shown you compassion because I know that you acted out of . . . let us say, ignorance . . . when you rigged without my permission. You did it because you missed your pallisp, and you did not know how to act without it."

  Jael started to nod and caught herself. Admit nothing, she thought.

  "But you must know this: I will not tolerate disobedience. If it happens again, you must forfeit the pallisp—not just for one time, but perhaps altogether." He puffed his pipe, his rheumy eyes not leaving her. She tried not to flinch. "I take this sort of thing very seriously. Very seriously indeed. I trust you will, too." Puff. Puff. "If we understand one another, perhaps we can forge a working arrangement that will last." Puff.

  She remained motionless. When she finally couldn't stand his stare anymore, she nodded slowly.

  His heavy-lidded eyes closed and opened. "I'm pleased you understand. And now Jael . . . if you would help me . . ." He coughed suddenly on a lungful of smoke. He laid his pipe aside, frowned, and sat back. He lifted his headset over his grey-streaked hair.

  Frightened, Jael rose. "But weren't you just under this a little while ago?"

  "Don't question my orders!" he snapped. She stepped backward, alarmed by his tone, but he smiled woodenly and beckoned her forward again. "And now, Jael, please do me the honors. One hour will be sufficient." He closed his eyes.

  She knelt and made the adjustments. Sighing, she rose and looked down at his inert form, at his fingers twitching—and she felt a rush of loathing. She also felt an appalling weariness and confusion. Mogurn had, after all, given her the chance to fly which everyone else had denied her. And the pallisp—whatever it was or did—brought her a pleasure she had never known before. Was that so bad?

  She was hardly sure any longer. She was hardly sure of anything except that this flight was turning into something far different from what she had dreamed.

  Mogurn was sighing and murmuring to himself, his eyes seeing nothing. Jael walked toward the door, intending to leave him to his peace, if that was what his present condition could be called. But instead of leaving, she found herself peering around Mogurn's compartment, which she had not really looked at closely since the first time she'd come in. Then she'd been so taken with the crystal tapestry, and absorbed in her own anxieties, that she'd not noticed much else. But now she peered about, surreptitiously and a little guiltily, feeling like a trespasser.

  The cabin was decorated with some expensive-looking oddments of art, mostly sculpture, and in his half-open wardrobe she noted the sheen of silken, satiny cloth. She turned toward the door again, and was startled to realize that the wall to the left of the door was a full-sized holo-screen, with controls on a panel in the corner. With a hasty glance back at Mogurn's unmoving figure, she thumbed through the holo-selection. She stopped, flushing, when she realized that at least half the titles sounded like pornography. Serves you right for prying, she thought. But as she turned once more to leave, she noticed two other items framed on the wall. She stepped over for a closer look. One was a series of holo-prints: a young dark-skinned woman with a haunted gaze, a humanoid Denedrite with intense red eyes and a pointed nose, and an incredibly pale young man with an expression as desperate and defeated-looking as that of the woman's. Jael sensed at once that all three were riggers. What else could they be? Mogurn's former riggers? What had become of them? she wondered with a shiver. She looked at the other item. It was a legal document, bearing the seal of the planetary government of Eridani Prime—a long-settled and powerful world. She scanned the text.

  And suddenly had trouble breathing.

  The paper was a certificate of indictment against one Deuteronomous Mogurn, in federal planetary court of Eridani Prime. The indictment listed six counts of smuggling, three counts of receipt of stolen property, and two counts of possession of illegal goods. The specifics were listed, and at the bottom of the list, under the heading of illegal goods, one word caught her eye: pallisp.

  She blinked, staring at that word, a feeling of despair rising in her. "Damn you . . ." she whispered.

  She'd never heard of a pallisp before this trip—but it was illegal on one of the most important worlds in the known galaxy. And what about the rest of this? Mogurn had been brought up on all of these charges. Or had he? Squinting at the bottom of the sheet, she saw a date and time: his scheduled hearing. Beside the date was scrawled a single exclamation: Hah! Trembling, she turned to look back at Mogurn, twitching and pawing himself: the man whose ship she was flying; the man who had framed his own certificate of indictment, apparently as a badge of honor. Had he escaped from that world before he could be brought to trial? It certainly helped explain his unregistered status at Gaston's Landing—not that anyone there was likely to notice, or care about, an outstanding warrant.

  It could also explain Mogurn's reluctance to discuss his cargo. She'd let the question pass because he had the right to confidentiality. But now she wondered, what hadn't he wanted her to know?

  Heart pounding, she crept out of the cabin. Mogurn was still inert, his head rolled to one side, his eyes closed. Leaning against the wall outside, panting, she let the door turn opaque behind her. Then she staggered into the commons room and sat and listened to the thundering of her heart and prayed, Dear God—if there is a God—tell me what I've done!

  All she heard was the rushing and pounding of blood in her veins.

  After a time, she rose and went out into the hall and stood by the ladder that led down to the engineering decks. Would it also take her to the cargo holds? She might be able to see for herself what the ship was carrying—if she had the nerve.

  She stood by the open hatch, staring down into the gloom. At last she sighed painfully and turned away. She went to her cabin and locked the door, and there she brooded, huddling on her bunk in near darkness. And after a long rime, she felt her eyelids growing heavy, and eventually she curled into a tight ball and slept a sleep of exhaustion.

  * * *

  She confronted Mogurn at breakfast, though not immediately. She pushed some pieces of cut-up griddle cake around on her plate for a while, then said, "What is our cargo, anyway?" After waiting a moment for an answer, she realized that she had spoken too softly to be heard. Mogurn was scratching his beard, muttering to himself as he pored over a datapad at his elbow. Jael had no idea what he was studying. She chewed a syrup-dampened bite. She started to repeat her question, then hesitated, and instead blurted, "I saw the certificate on your wall." She looked down again and stabbed another squar
e of griddle-cake.

  When she raised her eyes, Mogurn was gazing at her. She realized that he was squinting in puzzlement. She cleared her throat and started to say, "The . . . court thing—"

  "What did you say?" he asked, cutting her off. "Something about my wall?"

  Jael's face burned, her stomach knotted. "Your certificate," she said. "I saw it."

  "My what?"

  "Your—" Her throat constricted and she tried one more time, taking a deep breath. "You were indicted. You were in trouble for smuggling. And for—" Her throat tightened again, but she saw the sudden flash of understanding, and the glint of amusement in his eyes, and she was suddenly determined to speak her mind. For the pallisp, she thought. For the damn pallisp. "For possession of stolen goods," she said.

  Mogurn cocked his head.

  "And illegal goods. Including . . ."

  "Yes?" he said in an exaggerated tone. "Including what?"

  "Including . . . the pallisp."

  "I see. And does that bother you?"

  "Yes, it—"

  "You're enjoying the pallisp, aren't you?" he interrupted. "Do you think that just because something is illegal on one world, it is therefore wrong, somehow?"

  "You were . . . stealing," Jael stammered. "You were smuggling." Mogurn shrugged, making no effort to deny the charge. And, she noticed, he didn't seem to object to her having seen it. Perhaps he'd even posted it in the expectation that whatever rigger was serving him would see it.

  "Actually," Mogurn said finally, turning off his datapad, "all you know is that I was charged with those things. You don't know that I was guilty of any of them." He smiled placidly and stroked his beard, as though tempting her to respond.

  "I don't hear you denying it," Jael said hotly.

  "True," he admitted. He raised his dark eyebrows. "Would you like me to deny it?"

  Jael tried to control her anger. What happened to your last rigger? she wanted to ask, but couldn't voice the words. She wanted to rage at him; she was so tightly coiled, so angry that she didn't know how to answer. "I would like to know," she said coldly, giving each word measured emphasis, "where you got the pallisp. And what it is doing to me."

  Mogurn smoothed down the front of his navy blue satin shirt and pulled together the front of the violet-trimmed vesta that hung loosely around his shoulders. His eyes came to a focus, and he pressed his palms together in front of his lips to hide a frown. "Of course. What shall I tell you? That it is a medical instrument? That it is utterly safe when used with knowledge and care?" As he gazed at her, his eyes seemed to be intently gauging her response.

  "Medical instrument?" she muttered, trusting him less than ever.

  "Yes, of course." Mogurn tipped his head to one side. "Well, psych-med, actually. It is said to have certain uses in the treatment of, for example, severe depression."

  Then why are you using it on me? she wanted to shout.

  "I find, however, that many people enjoy its use." Mogurn steepled his forefingers, interlocking his hands in front of his face. "It must be used with caution, of course. There are those who would tell you it is . . . addictive, who are terrified by that thought, and I . . . well, I do not accept such claims. It is simply a question of using it correctly."

  "Addictive?" she whispered, so softly he could not have heard.

  "There is no reason to fear it. After all, the pallisp brings pleasure, does it not?" Mogurn's voice softened. "Don't we all enjoy the sensation of pleasure? Pure pleasure, unadulterated by the complications that muddy our lives, the petty jealousies and guilt that rob us of whatever grim joys fate brings into our lives?" His gruff voice became almost delicate. "Isn't that something that all people should have the right to enjoy? Even riggers? Shouldn't riggers have that right, too, Jael?"

  Jael swallowed; she had no idea how to answer anymore. Perhaps there was some truth in his words, but she was speechless with anger at the way she'd been manipulated. Speechless with fear. And with, even now, an almost overwhelming desire to go under the pallisp again. To feel the warm caress of its presence within her mind, and the tickling suggestion of love and companionship against her soul. To feel the golden light of that inner sun—

  "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Jael?"

  Startled, she tried to think. Yes! What about the theft, the smuggling . . . ? None of the words made it to her lips.

  Mogurn had risen to his feet. "We do, after all, have flying to do. A ship to bring into port." His brusque hurry-up tone had returned. "If you've finished with your breakfast . . ." He gestured impatiently as he turned to leave the commons.

  Despite the knot in her stomach, Jael swallowed a large piece of syrup-drenched griddlecake and drained her cup of coffee. Sliding her dishes into the disposal unit, she glumly followed Mogurn to the bridge.

  * * *

  "Why don't you want me here while you fly?" Mogurn turned from his instruments and peered at her darkly. In the gloom of the cockpit, his eyes looked angry and threatening.

  "It's that—" Jael bit her lip "—it's that it makes me nervous sometimes. It makes it hard for me to keep the flow stable, to keep the impressions clean, and clear." She drew a breath. "I can rig better when I know I'm not being watched. When I can feel alone, and safe."

  "Safe?" Mogurn said in a tone of surprise. "Safe? Have I ever threatened you, Jael?"

  Jael shook her head. "No, but I . . . well . . . that's all I can tell you. I feel safer, and I feel better, when I'm alone here." She pressed her lips together and forced herself to stare back at Mogurn. She had very few strengths to command against the ship's owner, but this was one of them: she could make any reasonable request that bore on the safety of the ship or her ability to rig, and expect it to be granted. Without her flying skills, Mogurn would never see planetfall again.

  Arms folded across his heavy chest, Mogurn studied her with his dark, stem gaze, keeping her frozen as she stared back at him. At last he released her from his gaze. "Very well," he said. He glanced at the instruments one more time, then indicated the rigger-station with a tilt of his head. "Go ahead and take the net. Don't tire yourself." With that, he turned, his silken robe spinning in folds, and strode from the bridge. The door darkened to opacity behind him, leaving Jael alone in the gloomy compartment.

  Does he distrust me now? Jael thought, staring after him. Do I care? She turned and repeated the inspection of the instruments that Mogurn had just made, and then she climbed into the rigger-station. She stretched out and gazed up at the monitors, and closed her eyes and tried to relax, to forget about Mogurn and the pallisp, to think only of the ship, and the Flux.

  Her senses darkened and sprang outward, into the net.

  Chapter 8: The Mountain Route

  SHE FLEW through a vast and clear, purplish sky. She floated like a seed high over a strangely glowing blue- and green-mottled landscape. The net glittered faintly around her, binding her to the invisible ghost of the spaceship. She spread her arms, and in the net they billowed outward as great sail-like wings, filled with a rising updraft of wind. Jael rose, soaring.

  The landscape beneath her was an odd matrix of color, reflecting her mood, her uncertainty. It was a phantasmagorical land, bubbling with distant flame red volcanoes, and glinting rivers of silver threading through cyan valleys and shadowy plains. This was not a landscape in which she could imagine anyone living, certainly no one human. It took her a while to calm down from her confrontation with Mogurn; but eventually her feelings quieted, if they did not disappear altogether, and she flew silently through empty skies, lost in the sort of daydream in which no thought lasted for more than a moment or two, and few images lingered.

  She felt a sort of wistful melancholy. She did not pursue any of the concerns that had so recently preoccupied her. Whatever worries she had about Mogurn and the pallisp did not need to reach her here, in this haven from all worries. At least that was her hope. She flew slowly on the wind, not bothering to seek out faster currents. Whether they reached the
ir destination sooner, or later, did not matter to her. Hours went by, and she remained content to float, to drift.

  Occasionally, despite her efforts at detachment, the landscape below shimmered and flared in response to tremors that surfaced within her own heart, aches that she was determined to leave unnamed. They were longings and fears that she wanted desperately to leave behind, that she was determined not to allow expression. But she was not always the master of those feelings. Whether she willed it or not, they sometimes erupted into the landscape—sometimes with unfocused phosphorescent fire among the hills, sometimes with tiny billowing bloody plumes, sometimes in the form of shadows dancing over the land like the dark ghosts of aerial acrobats. Those aches were always present within her, and when they found their way out, the landscape always responded.

  She began to wish she could change the image and leave this heartache landscape behind. But it was a tenacious image, with a powerful hold on her. However her abilities were growing, whether it was through experience, or through exposure to the pallisp, her imaginative powers remained many-sided. She was not immune to darker visions.