Dragons in the Stars

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "Mind if I shower?"

  "Take your time. I'll be back." The woman turned away and the door opaqued.

  Jael trudged into the little lavatory. She peered into the mirror. She thought that the eyes that stared back at her looked tired, and not just tired—older. She ran a hand futilely through her hair, and with a shrug, stepped out of her clothes and into the shower.

  The woman was waiting for her when she emerged, dressed.

  Jael accompanied her down the hall, and down to ground level. "Where are we going?" she wondered aloud. She also wondered what the woman's name was, but she'd probably been told once already, and she didn't want to ask.

  "I told you. To eat."

  "Yes, but where?"

  The woman glanced at her in surprise. "You're a rigger, aren't you? We're going to the rigger dining room."

  Jael blinked but didn't answer right away. "As a guest, or as a prisoner?" she asked finally, as they trotted down a flight of stairs to the basement level. There seemed to be nothing but hallways here, no big lobby, as on Gaston's Landing.

  "What?"

  "Am I a guest or a prisoner?"

  The officer shrugged. "Hard to say, I guess. In here." She directed Jael into a small cafeteria, which was nearly deserted, and said, "Just get what you want and give them this chit." She handed Jael a small piece of plastic.

  "Aren't you eating?"

  "I'll be right here by the door. Only riggers eat here. Take your time."

  Jael raised her eyebrows. "Okay," she murmured.

  * * *

  As she ate her breakfast—real eggs and real bread, a hearty stuff with texture and grain nuggets that, thank heaven, she could see and taste and chew—she eyed a rigger sitting in the far corner of the room. She'd noticed him because he had watched her enter, and watched her sit down, and then not looked her way again for several minutes. It took her a little while to realize that he was not entirely human.

  What, exactly, he was, took her longer to decide.

  His skin had a bluish silver tint to it, and his face was unusually angular—wide at the top, narrower at the bottom—not exactly wedged-shaped, but that was the closest description that came to mind. His eyes seemed odd, but she was too far away to tell why. She wondered, as she chewed her knobby bread, if he might be a Clendornan rigger, from the far side of the known galaxy. He seemed to fit the description, and Clendornan were known as skilled riggers; but of course, there were riggers of all sorts in the starports—human and otherwise—and she would probably be seeing far stranger-looking people before she was through.

  When she glanced back at her escort, she saw the woman checking her wristwatch impatiently. She was tempted to prolong her breakfast just to irritate the officer, but better sense prevailed. Finishing quickly, she disposed of her tray and went to rejoin her guard. "Ready."

  The woman led her off down the hallway, and eventually back to the police office. Jael didn't ask what the hurry was. Maybe this was just how they operated here. Maybe they hadn't had this much excitement in a while.

  The senior officer who had interviewed her yesterday ushered them both into his office. Today he seemed friendlier. "Did you have breakfast?" he inquired, motioning her to a chair. Jael nodded without speaking; she didn't trust anyone whose demeanor changed so easily from suspicious to solicitous. "Good," the officer said, taking a seat behind his desk. He scowled at something on his desktop, then looked up at Jael. He had a freckled and lined face, and thinning, flyaway hair. Commander Gordache, that was his name.

  Jael returned a steady gaze. A part of her was afraid that they would lock her up for twenty years; another part of her didn't care. She'd done nothing wrong. She believed that, even if no one else did.

  Gordache cleared his throat. "Miss LeBrae, I'm sure you're anxious for this to be over. As we are. First, I should tell you that we've examined the ship's records and found nothing to contradict what you gave us yesterday. Besides the indictments against Captain Mogurn, we found records indicating that several previous riggers left the ship under unfavorable circumstances. One, at least, took a psych-med discharge." Jael's breath caught; she swallowed, and nodded. "Now, the so-called pallisp that you described has been examined, and found to be a patently illegal psych-med tool. Dangerous as hell. And pretty rare. It took our fellows a while to identify it." He frowned, tapping the desktop with one finger. "Also, a hand weapon was found in the cargo hold near the hatch, which would seem to corroborate your account of an assault against you."

  Jael blinked, momentarily baffled. Weapon? Then she remembered—when she'd hit Mogurn with the wrench, something had dropped out of his hand as he'd gone down. She nodded, biting her lip. "I see. Yes."

  Commander Gordache looked back at his notes. "It was a narcotic gun, actually, loaded with a rather nasty coercive. You're lucky to have avoided it, I'd say."

  Jael's vision darkened as she remembered the struggle. She felt her hands, her fingertips twitching as they began to re-fight the battle with Mogurn. A coercive. To make me docile for the rape? Damn him forever . . .

  Gordache looked at her oddly. "However, there is something else here, based on our interview yesterday. There is a notation from the mind-probe operator—you knew you were under mind-probe, didn't you?—to the effect that you appeared to be concealing something in the matter of your disagreement with Captain Mogurn over the navigational decisions,"

  Jael exhaled slowly, fearfully.

  "There is no indication of falsehood in your testimony, just that there's something you weren't saying." Gordache's eyebrow went up. "Would you like to tell me what that was?"

  Jael closed her eyes, feeling her heart thump. How could she tell him? Would this policeman believe that she'd been befriended by a dragon in the Flux? It would sound preposterous. On the other hand, the legends of dragons were no secret, even if no one believed in them. "It's . . . hard to explain," she muttered.

  "Why is that, Ms. LeBrae?"

  She took a deep breath, and expelled it forcefully. "Dragons," she said, raising her eyes to meet Gordache's. "We argued over dragons along the route."

  The policeman scratched behind one ear. "Dragons?"

  "You know the stories, don't you? Everyone does. You know, talk of dragons along the mountain route in that direction, and of riggers dueling with them and all."

  "I've heard the stories, yes."

  "Well—" Jael took another breath "—the mountain route seemed better to me, as I was rigging, and so I went that way, and . . ."

  "And what?"

  She glanced for an instant at the female officer, who seemed to be listening with the blankest expression possible. "And, well . . . we encountered dragons."

  Gordache's expression narrowed. "You mean that you encountered manifestations in the Flux which seemed, to you, to be images of dragons?"

  Jael hesitated. Was it worth arguing to the police that the dragons were real, that they were living creatures? Would the police believe her? Would they care? Did it matter? They weren't riggers. She sighed and nodded slowly. Let him call them manifestations. It was simpler that way.

  "I see." Gordache frowned. "And was there dueling?"

  Jael shrugged noncommittally.

  "Well, did these dragon images endanger your ship, or the safety of your passage?"

  "For a time, there was some . . . uncertainty."

  "And then?"

  Jael cleared her throat. "In the end, no. There was no danger to the ship."

  "So you dealt with the images without mishap," Gordache said. Jael nodded. "But what was Captain Mogurn's reaction to this?"

  "He was angry. Very angry." Her face grew hot. "And that's when he tried to force me—to take the—pallisp."

  "Yes. Your statement on that is clear enough." Gordache's eyebrows formed a furrow in his forehead. He looked at the woman officer for a moment, then sighed. "Well, there's nothing more we need to ask you right now, I guess. Do you understand what the situation is?"

  Jael hesitat
ed. "Not really. Will I be allowed to leave? Will my contract be settled?"

  Gordache shook his head. "Not quite yet, I'm afraid. You'll have to stay here at the port until the investigation is complete. But it does look as though you ought to be cleared of charges. Your contract might take a little longer to settle."

  Jael nodded slowly, keeping her face impassive.

  "You don't seem especially overjoyed."

  She sighed. "It's . . . been a hard trip. I was sort of hoping that it would all be over."

  "Of course. Understandably so." Gordache looked back down at his report. "Well, I think we can let you move over to the riggers' halls. But you must remain within the port area, and keep yourself available for questioning. Fair enough?"

  Jael drew herself up straighter in her chair. "What about collecting my pay? I can't very well get it from . . . Captain Mogurn, now. I guess."

  "That would be difficult," Gordache agreed. "Actually, you have put your finger on a particular difficulty."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just that the disposition of the ship and its cargo could take some time. We have to determine the ownership of the vessel. Eventually, the legal portion of the cargo could be sold, and you—along with the tow company—would be compensated from the proceeds. But until then, I'm afraid there's just no way for you to be paid—even assuming that your contract is ruled valid."

  "Ruled valid?" Jael looked from one officer to the other in panic. "What's to be ruled? We had a contract. Even if he went crazy and tried to—" Her voice choked off. "Even if he went crazy," she said carefully, "we still had a contract."

  "Of course. From your point of view. But there are legal problems in executing an interrupted contract. Even when the cause of the breach is the death of one party, or—" he shrugged "—alleged felony. It will take time."

  "Time? Time? And what am I supposed to do? I don't have any money!"

  He gestured helplessly. "I understand your difficulty. Unfortunately, the law is the law. But it might be that we can make some arrangement for credit to be extended to you at the rigger quarters. Annie, can you look into that for her?"

  The woman officer nodded.

  "That's it?" Jael asked in disbelief. "That's all you're going to do?"

  Gordache rose. "That's all we can do. I'm sorry. Annie, if you could take her now and assist in the arrangements . . ."

  * * *

  In her new quarters, in the cheapest private room available in the local rigger hall, Jael lay on her bunk in a state of nervous exhaustion and called to Highwing. Friend of Highwing! I am a friend of Highwing! In her thoughts, she cried out again and again. But there was no answer, and of course there could be none. Highwing's realm was light-years from here, and who knew when, if ever, she would fly that way again.

  Nevertheless, I am a friend of Highwing, she thought, closing her eyes. Perhaps he can't reach me; perhaps he can't help. But if there were a way, he would. I know that. I must remember that.

  I must believe it.

  In truth, it was becoming harder now to summon, at will, the memory of the dragon, harder to bring his image clearly to mind. The experience was already losing some of its immediacy; it seemed worlds away, like a vivid dream, receding and fading against the curtain of passing time. Had she erred in not telling the police more about Highwing? It seemed clear that she would not have been taken seriously. Even she, before this flight, would not have believed it. And yet . . . it was a story that she needed to tell someone—to share the truth, the reality, the vision—if only to make it clearer and more tangible to herself. I won't lose you, Highwing! she vowed.

  Reaching into her pocket, she drew out the chain that Dap had given her on the day of her departure. She'd found it in her duffel, where she'd dropped it when she'd packed and then forgotten about it. She held it up to the light and peered at the pastel rays diffusing through the stone pendant. She wondered at Dap's thought in giving it to her, wondered where Dap was now. Flying, perhaps. Or was he still on Gaston's Landing, trying to conquer his own fears, trying to bolster his inner confidence and resolve to match his outward display? Dap, I'm sorry . . . that I didn't know. That I didn't accept your apology. That you're almost as frightened as I am. She coiled the chain around her finger, and let it unwind to dangle again. There was no way to tell him, no way to make it up to him, unless he happened this way, or they met again in some other rigger port. But what were the chances of that?

  She had to face the fact that she was alone now, more alone than ever before. If she was to have any companionship here, she would have to find it herself.

  You must seek friends in your own world, Highwing had said.

  But what did Highwing know of human society, of rigger society?

  What do I know of it?

  * * *

  She awoke with a scream caught in her throat, unable to get air. There had been hands around her throat, trying to squeeze the life from her, hands that were torn from her by a light that her eyes could not see, a light that could not exist.

  She gasped, trying to push the memory away. She rose up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes, reassured by the dull yellowish glow of the room light; reassured by the solidity of the bunk. She sank back, trembling. How much longer? she thought with despair. How much longer would she keep reliving the horror?

  Finally she rose and went into the shower—a real water shower, not a swirl-mist—and she stood with steaming water pouring onto her head and running down her neck and shoulders, and she finally felt her tension release enough to let her tears flow and mix with the shower water, until the fear was washed away at last.

  Chapter 15: Environment Alpha

  IN THE morning Jael was surprised to discover that she had slept through the night without awakening again. She stood in the center of her room, stretching and bending until she felt limber; then she dressed in her last clean change of clothes and ventured out.

  The rigger halls were situated at the edge of the spaceport complex. They were divided into sections for male and female humans, couples, and nonhumans, but the sections all joined in the basement level where the dining and entertainment facilities were located. The dining hall was uncrowded. She overheard, standing in line for breakfast, that traffic in the port was slow this time of year, due to seasonal fluctuations in agricultural exports. She was a little dismayed to learn that, as she'd thought of Lexis as a busy trading port compared to the backwater of Gaston's Landing. It was discouraging to think that work might be scarce here, as well. Of course, she was here to stay until the police were through with her, anyway. And she wasn't sure how ready she was to take to the Flux with the memory of Mogurn so vivid in her mind.

  Eating among the other riggers, she felt self-conscious, wondering if anyone had yet heard of the circumstances of her arrival . . . wondering if people were talking behind her back. If so, they were doing it discreetly. She tried not to imagine what they might be saying.

  Breakfast was a sort of fried bread made from the folded leaves of a native plant, with a side dish of hili, a local fruit. A sign was posted warning of possible allergic reactions to the fruit. Great, she thought. She eyed a small orangish red segment and broke its skin carefully with one tine of her fork. Frowning, she brought the fork to her mouth and took a single drop of juice onto her tongue. It had a faintly limy, sour-sweet taste. A moment later, the roof of her mouth began to itch. Cursing, she drank some tea. That only made the itching worse. She sucked and scratched at the roof of her mouth with her tongue; then her eyes began to tear up. As she got up in hopes of finding a glass of water to drink, the itching suddenly stopped.

  Sighing, she sat again and dabbed her eyes dry, glancing around self-consciously to see if anyone else was having the same trouble. Apparently, no one was. She pushed the fruit away, wiped her fork, and cautiously finished her bread dish, which was filling, if a bit greasy. She drained her cup of tea, dumped her tray, and went out for a walk.

  There were a couple of lounges and a l
ibrary in the basement level, all depressingly similar to their counterparts on Gaston's Landing. Somehow she'd hoped for something more exotic. She walked upstairs to the first floor and ventured outside—into an icy blast of wind. She jumped back inside, shivering and hugging herself. The air outside had been shirtsleeve temperature yesterday!

  Shaking off the chill, she found a first-floor sitting room with windows that overlooked the spaceport. She paced from window to window, peering out at the snow-covered mountains and wondering why it was so cold here, near the Lexis equator. It seemed a strange climate; she wondered if there were unusual atmospheric patterns or ocean currents on this world. She thought of how much there was to learn of all the individual worlds she might visit in a lifetime of rigging. She wondered if she would have time to get to know this world at all—or if she would ever get to leave it.