The Dragons of Andromeda Page 20

  With a howl, the brawler let go, dropping the commander to the ground. Maycare looked up in time to see the Ougluk’s skull disappear in a crimson cloud of blaster fire. The pit fighter, minus everything above the neck, landed on his back in the dirt.

  Maycare stood and went looking for his helmet.

  Walter Ruggles remembered the first piece of IDEA furniture his family brought home when he was a little boy, a Gilly bookcase. Like all IDEA furniture, it came unassembled and Ruggles’ father, swearing the entire time, had to put the bookcase together himself. His parents bought most of their furniture from IDEA, exposing the young Ruggles to a life of wood veneer and strangely shaped wrenches.

  Across from his cell on the slaver asteroid, Ruggles easily recognized the IDEA stool the guard was sitting on. It had a round seat with a birch veneer and was entirely too small for the oversized Ougluk. The guard kept adjusting himself, never fully getting comfortable. Ruggles almost felt sorry for him, but only just.

  They were in a room, although he couldn’t tell how big, with rows of cells like his own. Orange light strips ran along the pens, only giving enough illumination to see a dozen feet in any direction. The only bright spot was a heavy door at one end of the room.

  “Excuse me,” Ruggles asked the guard, “could I use the bucket again?”

  The guard grunted. “Go in the corner.”

  “I’d rather not—”

  An explosion interrupted him as a large portion of the heavy door disintegrated, hurling pieces of burning metal into the room. Instinctively, Ruggles curled into a fetal position, covering his head as best as he could. The sound of blaster fire filled the air for several seconds before everything went quiet except for some quiet whimpering. Ruggles realized the whimpering was coming from him.

  He peered out from behind his hands. The guard was lying on the ground with a smoking hole in his chest, but the IDEA stool seemed unharmed.

  “Is everyone alright?” someone in military armor was asking. He was moving from cell to cell, freeing the captives as he went.

  “Thank goodness!” Ruggles said, anxious for the soldier to free him as well.

  “Is Sylvia Flax here?” the soldier asked. “I’m looking for Sylvia Flax...”

  “I know her!” Ruggles replied, standing up.

  The armored soldier came to the cell. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “There was a Magna named Bog or something. He took her away.”

  “We haven’t found a Magna yet,” the soldier said, opening the cell door.

  “Well, there was also a Red Dahl with him — I didn’t catch his name. If you find him, I’m sure he’ll know where they went.”

  The soldier nodded and saluted with two fingers against the side of his helmet. Ruggles noticed the helmet was dented.

  “Wait,” Ruggles said, seeing the soldier start to walk away.

  The man in the armor stopped. “Yes?”

  “What about me?”

  “Go out the door,” he replied. “If you hear shooting, walk the other way.”

  Not waiting for a response, the soldier turned on his heel and headed out through the smoldering hole in the door.

  “Thank you?” Ruggles said weakly.

  Looking anxiously around, he noticed the IDEA stool beside the dead guard. Without another word, Ruggles snatched it under his arm and shuffled off, along with the other passengers, as they made their way toward freedom.

  In the command center, Cirion watched the feed from a security camera showing a soldier in combat armor leaving the slave pens. The Sarkan pressed his fingers against the screen, zooming in. On the collar piece of the soldier’s armor, he noticed a silver oakleaf insignia.

  A naval commander, he thought. What I wouldn’t give to kill one of those...

  Bortok stuck his large, green head through the doorway.

  “Unless you’ve got something better to do,” he snapped, “get your ass out here!”

  Cirion sighed through his nostrils. “Yes, sir!”

  The corridor outside the command center was filled with containers acting as a barricade. Ougluks, including Bortok himself, were firing over the barricade at Imperial marines farther down the hallway. Portions of the metal containers had melted from blaster hits while bits of the walls and ceiling were missing chunks of rock and darkened with burn marks.

  A shaft of energy struck one of the Ougluks, a burst of flame erupting from his chest. Taking a step back, he collapsed into a ball, dead and still smoking.

  Bortok stopped firing his rifle long enough to lament his fallen comrade.

  “No!” he roared. “He was my best model!”

  “I think we’re past that,” Cirion said.

  “You know nothing about art!” Bortok replied bitterly.

  More blaster volleys streaked down the hallway, passing just over their heads. The air smelled heavily of ozone.

  “Those idiots!” Bortok scoffed. “They got the slaves already. Why don’t they just pulverize us from space?”

  “They’re obviously still looking for something,” Cirion said.

  “Yeah, like what?”

  Amongst the din, Cirion heard an electrical crackling behind him. Turning, he noticed a cylinder on the ground. A foot long and several inches wide, it was nondescript except for Imperial markings along the side. The Sarkan only took a moment to realize what it was.

  “Bomb!” he shouted.

  Cirion lifted his hands, crossing his arms together at the wrists. While Bortok was still looking around, a blue translucent shell covered Cirion’s forearms, creating a psionic shield between him and the device. When the bomb exploded a half second later, the Red Dahl was thrown backwards through the doorway into the command center before everything went black.

  When Cirion regained consciousness, he was lying on his back with a human standing over him. It was the same soldier with the silver oakleaf.

  “Where is she?” the human was saying, his voice muffled as if far away. Cirion realized his eardrums had probably burst.

  “Who?” he replied.

  “Sylvia Flax.”

  Cirion coughed, his lungs filled with dust from the explosion. Looking past the commander’s legs, he could make out the remains of Bortok’s corpse scattered around the room and the corridor beyond.

  The commander nudged the Sarkan with the barrel of his blaster rifle.

  “Talk to me,” the human said.

  “You’re too late,” Cirion said. “The slave trader took her away.”

  “Is his name Bog?”

  Cirion nodded weakly, his body aching all over. “Ipak-Bog.”

  “Where did he take her?”

  “The Magna home world, of course.”

  “How long ago?”

  “They’re probably to the border by now. I told you it was too late.”

  The commander pointed his rifle between Cirion’s eyes.

  “You better hope not,” he said.

  An enormous hand the color of emerald reached into the pit where Ruggles and the Ougluk brawler had been fighting. Sylvia Flax took it and felt herself hoisted up, landing on her feet next to the towering Magna.

  “Thanks,” she said as someone began pulling Walter Ruggles out as well. He crawled over the lip of the hole on all fours before struggling to his feet.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” Ruggles said weakly.

  Ipak-Bog was silent, but his Sarkan associate smiled, his teeth white against his bright red skin.

  “We’re so glad you weren’t injured,” he said, speaking to Flax while ignoring Ruggles entirely.

  Flax’s eyes went from the Red Dahl upward to the Magna standing beside him. Bog met her gaze, his head bent downward.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Cirion and this is Ipak-Bog of the Magna Supremacy.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure,” she replied.

  “The pleasure is all ours,” Cirion said. “Of course, w
e recognized you immediately. It’s a shame Bortok doesn’t watch the news.”

  The Ougluk, only a few feet away, scowled and left, grumbling something Flax couldn’t make out.

  “It’s nice to be recognized,” Flax said.

  “Fortunately,” Cirion went on, “our host’s short-sightedness didn’t lead to anyone getting hurt.”

  “I’m a little roughed up,” Ruggles said, raising his finger.

  “It’s time for us to go,” Bog spoke finally, his voice sounding like a mountain crumbling.

  Cirion nodded rapidly, ushering Flax to follow them. When Ruggles took a step in their direction, the Red Dahl gave him a glare, stopping him in his tracks.

  Flax accompanied Cirion and the Magna to the hangar where a small starship was berthed. On the outside, the ship appeared no different than a hundred different vessels Flax had seen, but once inside, she was surprised by the lavishness of the decor. Instead of the usual metal and plastic, the interior cabin was adorned with woodwork and furniture covered in luxurious fabrics. Everything was trimmed with intricate metal inlays of gold and platinum.

  Flax almost didn’t notice that she was now alone with the Magna.

  “Ah, what happened to the Sarkan?” she asked.

  Taking the pilot’s seat at the front of the cabin, Bog closed the hatch to the outside with a flip of a switch.

  “Cirion won’t be joining us,” he said.

  “Hmmm,” Flax mumbled.

  “Please be seated,” Bog said. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

  A flutter in her chest, Flax took one of five chairs, each molded from cherry wood, facing the front where Bog was sitting. The Magna didn’t turn or otherwise acknowledge her as he completed his pre-flight checks. Flax took the time to run her fingers along the plush material beneath her. She wondered if she could get this for her apartment back on Regalis before realizing she might never see her apartment again.

  The ship rose from the hangar deck, skimming along until the gray, rocky walls of the asteroid fell away, replaced by the empty blackness of open space. The unpleasant feeling in Flax’s belly intensified.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, keeping her voice as calm as possible.

  “To my home world,” Bog replied.

  Her heart sank. “Diavol?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, you’re just going to waltz over the demilitarized zone?”

  The Magna laughed, though Flax sensed no mirth from it.

  “You might be surprised by how porous your DMZ actually is,” Bog replied, still with his back to her. “We could walk slaves across if needed...”

  “Is that what you are,” she asked, “a slave trader?”

  “Indeed. A most honorable profession where I come from.”

  “Well, where I’m from,” Flax said, “that’s not the case.”

  He laughed again, this time with enough force that Flax shrank back.

  “Humans have a long history of enslavement, do they not?” he asked.

  “A long time ago,” she said. “Robots do all the work now...”

  Bog seemed to consider this for a moment.

  “Perhaps we could use robots for such things,” he said, “but then where would be the fun in that?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The transparent view screen, projected into thin air, reached from the floor to the opulent ceiling of the Imperial palace. Images of people throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at lines of police flickered across it. The emperor, sitting on the couch in his private quarters, grimaced as a fireball exploded among the officers.

  “It’s not just the outer planets,” Prince Richard said, standing beside the sofa. “Several core worlds are rioting as well.”

  “Nothing good ever comes from chaos,” Emperor Augustus replied. “This is troubling.”

  “Well, of course it is!” Richard said, raising his voice. “The heads of three royal houses have died in less than a week!”

  “Calm down.”

  “It’s a disaster...”

  “Every disaster can be managed,” Augustus assured his son. “It’s a matter of damage control.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “For one thing, tell VOX News to stop reporting about unrest in the inner worlds. People are used to seeing riots from the outer rim, but this business closer to home will only spread panic. Where’s that Sylvia Flax woman? She’s always a calming voice...”

  “She’s been kidnapped,” Richard replied.

  “By whom?”

  “Pirates, apparently.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” the emperor said. “Make sure she’s freed, no matter the cost.”

  “They’re working on that, I believe.”

  “In the meantime, release a statement about Lord Santos’ death. Make clear he died of suicide, not murder. He couldn’t handle the stress of his newfound fame, that kind of thing.”

  “People are calling him a martyr.”

  “Not the people who matter,” Augustus replied. “We need to focus on the middle class, not the poor. When the middle class turns on us, then we’re in trouble.”

  “You’re not worried about the nobles?” Richard asked.

  “They can take care of themselves.”

  “What do we do about Lady Veber?”

  The emperor sagged, his eyes looking downhearted. “Yes, that’s a good question...”

  “She killed two heads of the royal households,” Richard said. “She single-handedly erased one house and left the other leaderless. We can’t just throw her in prison, and exile is out of the question.”

  “Her son’s illness drove her mad,” Augustus replied after a long pause. “We can work with that.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll place her in a mental institution temporarily. When the time is right, we’ll see she’s released.”

  Prince Richard took a walk around the sofa where his father was sitting. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back.

  “But that still leaves the Veber house and the Tagus family without a head,” the prince remarked.

  “We could bring Rupert the Third back from exile...” the emperor offered.

  “Are you joking?”

  “Let’s keep our options open anyway.”

  “And the Veber family?”

  “Where’s Becca’s son, Philip?” the emperor asked.

  “After he killed the housemaid and, by all accounts, reanimated her, Philip disappeared. Nobody’s seen him since.”

  Augustus pondered for a while. “Keep an eye out for him at least. He might turn up.”

  Prince Richard let out a long sigh. “Certainly.”

  “This will pass, Richard,” the emperor said. “Nobody likes anarchy except those without power. Keep a semblance of order and the status quo will survive.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” his son replied.

  When they came for her, Lady Veber didn’t resist. In the back of her mind, she had expected them. She knew the emperor well enough to see what chess pieces he would play, whether he wanted to or not. What they would do with her, however, she could not fully foresee.

  Riots raged on many planets of the Imperium but on Lokeren the air remained warm, cooled by inviting breezes off the calm oceans surrounding the Veber island estate. Far from the turmoil elsewhere, Lady Veber could not have felt more detached from everything else. She knew what was transpiring on other worlds, and her own culpability, but these were like memories of a half-forgotten movie she saw long ago. Nothing was real.

  In the hours after discovering her son had vanished, Lady Veber wandered the estate looking for him. Like the Grand Necromancer of the Necronea, Philip disappeared without any evidence of how he left. No vehicles were missing and all starships were accounted for in orbit. Did he drown? Was his body somewhere in the deep, suffering the same fate as his father? Not knowing was the hardest part. Lady Veber could feel her mind slipping, the emptiness like a hunger with no way to q
uench it.

  And then there was the business of Annis the handmaiden.

  Like the animals kept in Philip’s room, Annis was neither alive nor dead. She responded to sounds and touch, but she no longer knew her own name or showed recognition of individuals she once knew. She was cold to the touch and didn’t eat or sleep. She was, Veber assumed, a Necronea like Philip, but somehow a lesser form.

  On Lady Veber’s orders, her staff tried shooting the handmaiden, but this proved surprisingly ineffective. Chopping her head off was equally useless. Even separated, the head still moved its eyes and mouth and the body continued to pace, albeit awkwardly, about the estate grounds.

  Finally, they dug a hole and, pushing the body parts in, set the whole thing ablaze. Once the tattoos on Annis’ skin burned away, her body quit moving, which everyone decided was a success. They threw the cages, and the animals with them, into the pit as well.

  When in doubt, Lady Veber thought, kill them with fire.

  When a warship arrived above Lokeren and Prince Richard, accompanied by a detachment of marines, transmatted to the surface, Lady Veber didn’t resist. Without her son or anyone who gave half a damn, she walked calmly to the transmat pad and waited for whatever would come next.

  In the hills outside of Regalis, the grounds of the Regency Heights Sanatorium stretched over thirty acres of wooded, gently sloping land. The facilities, consisting of several buildings, were red brick structures with white masonry along the edges and slate roofs. Inside, medical staff worked with patients under controlled conditions, including secured wings for those with more unpredictable temperaments. Outside, however, the real beauty of the landscape shined with winding walkways, manicured gardens, and slowly trickling creeks.

  Lord Maycare arrived by gravcar, landing in the courtyard. With Jessica Doric and Henry Riff accompanying him, Maycare met with three representatives of the staff, a doctor and two muscular gentlemen holding shock batons. Maycare shook hands with the doctor while Henry took a step behind Doric.

  The doctor, a woman in her late forties with gray hair and white stockings beneath her matching lab coat, smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Maycare.”

  “Thank you so much,” Maycare replied graciously. “How’s the patient doing?”