The Dragons of Andromeda Page 8

  “Some of the K’thonians landed in that field over there,” he said.

  The judicator lifted his horns, protruding in a loose spiral, and his fiery red eyes stared off toward the crops.

  “How many were killed here?” Gul asked.

  “The owner of the farm died before his wife could shoot the attacker.”

  “What of the corpse?”

  “The farmer was buried in accordance with our traditions,” Kerch replied.

  “No, I meant the K’thonian.”

  “Ah,” Kerch nodded, “that was sent to the capital for analysis.”

  “Pity,” Gul said, “I’d like to see one firsthand.”

  “I’m sure my government will give you full access to the body,” Kerch said. “As we always do...”

  A grin curled in the corner of the Magna’s mouth. “Indeed.”

  When the two reached the farmyard, a young Tal came running from the house to greet them. When the boy saw the stature of the Magna, he stopped abruptly, not taking his eyes off the visitor.

  “Don’t be rude!” his mother said, following her son out onto the dirt driveway.

  “May we come in?” the inquisitor asked.

  “Of course, of course,” she replied, ushering them into her home.

  The kitchen was much darker than the outside and it took Kerch a moment for his eyes to adjust. Gul was the last to enter, his muscular frame barely fitting through the narrow doorway. Taking a look around the kitchen, he noticed a jar filled with dark liquid sitting on one of the shelves.

  “What is that?” the Magna said.

  Kerch winced, knowing exactly what it was and that the judicator knew it as well.

  “Some of my neighbor’s livestock got loose,” the mother explained, “and trampled our fields. He couldn’t pay money so the local inquisitor awarded us a pint of his blood.”

  “An example of Blood Law, I presume,” Gul replied.

  “You presume correctly,” Kerch said with more anger than he intended. “It’s our tradition.”

  “Of course,” Gul said. “But why keep it? Why not just pour it out?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t do that,” the mother said. “That would be disrespectful of our neighbor’s restitution.”

  “But it has no value per se...” the Magna went on.

  “It’s a symbol,” Kerch said. “Perhaps you don’t understand...”

  “I understand,” Gul replied. “The humans have an expression: an eye for an eye, although I don’t think they keep the eye in a jar...”

  Kerch’s own eyes narrowed. “Indeed.”

  Lord Andre Santos swirled the wine in his glass while overlooking the gardens of his newly purchased estate. He hadn’t set foot in the gardens, but the robots were keeping them well- manicured as far as he could tell. Several bushes were carved into shapes that were not bushes, including a dog and a duck. Santos wasn’t clear why a bush couldn’t just be a bush, but he had largely given up asking questions at this point.

  Probably for the best, he thought.

  Drinking wine was becoming a hobby for him. The estate had come with an extensive cellar, stocked with vintages bottled on another planet. Santos imagined robots picking grapes and stomping them under metallic feet in wooden tubs. In Brazil, he had visited a few wineries but never got a taste for wine, preferring coffee. Now he drank it all the time, usually alone. The estate was large enough for a small village, but Santos lived there entirely by himself.

  Finishing his glass, the captain of the Merope went back inside from the terrace and sat in a cavernous living room on a couch bigger than a school bus.

  “Shall I turn on the holoscreen?” a disembodied voice, the estate’s AI, asked him.

  Without enthusiasm, Santos replied, “Certo.”

  On one side of the room, between two pillars, an image materialized like a partially translucent curtain. On the screen, an advertisement appeared:

  IDEA FURNITURE:

  WE BUILD THE PIECES;

  YOU DO THE REST!

  Suddenly, the ad vanished in a field of static, replaced by images of green jungles and native villages. Stone buildings, some of them destroyed, faded into view and then dissolved again, replaced by pictures of lizard-like people, some of them carrying bladed staffs.

  “What is this?” Santos asked, setting aside his empty glass.

  “I’m uncertain,” the AI said. “The external feed appears to be compromised.”

  “Compromised? You mean hacked?”

  “It seems to be a direct transmission, but I cannot determine its origin.”

  From the speakers built around the couch, a man’s voice narrated the scenes.

  “These are pictures the Emperor doesn’t want you to see,” he said. “The Imperium came to Marakata as colonialists, but stayed as occupiers. The Draconian people have suffered ever since.”

  Reptilian figures crossed the screen running, fire and smoke in the background. The echo of screaming reverberated against the walls of Santos’ living room. The din of explosions shook the couch. Santos jumped to his feet.

  The scene faded to black, superimposed with the words Free Marakata written as if by spray paint across the dark screen.

  “The transmission has ended,” the AI said. “Would you like to hear some music?”

  “No, thank you,” Santos said, eyeing the empty glass.

  “Would you like some more wine?”

  “I’ve had enough,” he replied and then, after a long pause, “I want to know more about Marakata. Tell me everything...”

  In Lab 22, in the depths of Warlock Headquarters, Lars Hatcher sat in a medical chair with a tube running from his arm to a bag of green fluid hanging from a rack. Dr. Sprouse, wearing her white lab coat, stood beside him, moving a scanning device over his body.

  “What is this?” Lars asked, his chin pointing to the bag.

  “My latest cocktail,” the doctor replied. “I’ve made some tweaks to my last formula. This should clear up those headaches you were having.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her red lips parted into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “What happened to Agent Skarlander’s last metamind?”

  Dr. Sprouse switched the scanning device off and placed it on a metal tray beside the chair.

  “He died,” she said.

  “Was it Agent Skarlander’s fault?”

  Her eyebrows drew upward into a peak. She shrugged.

  “You realize I can read your mind,” Lars said.

  “Then why bother asking questions?” she replied.

  Lars thought for a moment, his enormous head throbbing slightly. “To be polite, I suppose.”

  Dr. Sprouse smiled again and patted him on the chest. “Good boy!”

  The doctor went to a refrigerated cabinet, took out another bag of green fluid, and returned to the chair to replace the bag that was now almost empty. Pulling the tube from the old bag, she attached it to the new one and made sure the flow was dripping properly.

  “He’s a clone, isn’t he?” Lars asked, again being polite.

  “Of course.”

  “I thought human cloning was illegal in the Imperium.”

  “You could say the same about genetic manipulation,” Dr. Sprouse said. “Not all laws are for all people.”

  “Warlock Industries is exempt, I take it?”

  “It’s a powerful corporation. We have many friends in government and the military. It’s just the way of things...”

  The doctor retrieved the scanner and began waving it over her patient.

  “You were lovers?” Lars asked suddenly.

  Dr. Sprouse paused, the scanner shaking slightly, before starting again.

  “I meant with Mr. Skarlander,” Lars clarified.

  “I see you’ve stopped being polite.”

  “It was obvious, the way he looked at you... the way he let you speak to him.”

  “As I said,” the doctor replied, “it’s the way of things. Besides, it�
�s over now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course!”

  “I wonder if he feels the same way.”

  Dr. Sprouse shook her head. “I don’t think he feels... anything at all.”

  Lars watched the green cocktail, as she had put it, twist its way down the tube and into his arm. The veins beneath his pale skin were dark and winding like a road through a snowy countryside.

  “Clone or not,” he said, “he’s still human.”

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  “And what am I?” Lars asked.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes, a lighter shade of green than her new formula, fixed on his, which were simple black orbs.

  “Whatever you want to be,” she said. “I’ve made sure of that.”

  Built to her specifications, Lady Nasri’s estate was like an Ottoman palace with arabesque calligraphy featured predominantly along halls lined with marble columns capped with gold leaf. Persian rugs were spread across expansive floors and large, luxurious couches were covered in decorative pillows. The estate’s AI, which Nasri had named Abida meaning one who worships, was dedicated to making her mistress’s life as comfortable as possible.

  Every morning at precisely 9 AM, Nasri woke to the cries of peacocks played over speakers concealed in her bedroom. After a long bath, she dressed in a silk robe and went to breakfast where a bowl filled with chickpeas mixed with yogurt and garlic waited for her, placed by an unseen robot from the kitchen.

  Once finished, she returned to her bedroom where a walk-in closet contained an assortment of clothes. Casual wear hung to the right, while formal wear and gowns took up most of the left. In the center, flanked by cushioned benches, an island of jewelry drawers was filled with the baubles Nasri had purchased with her newfound wealth.

  “Abida,” Nasri said, “do I have any appointments today?”

  “No, My Lady,” the AI replied. “However, I’ve saved a snippet from the news you may be interested in.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “It involves Lord Santos.”

  “Shit.”

  After changing from her robe into a sleeveless, black dress, Nasri positioned herself on a deep couch. Propping cushions against her back, she faced an archway twelve feet across and nearly twice as high, through which a courtyard was visible with a few small trees and a fountain in the center.

  “Play it,” she said.

  The space inside the archway turned solid, displaying Sylvia Flax reading the news.

  “A demonstration was held in the capital today,” she said, “protesting the occupation of Marakata.”

  Video of people holding signs and chanting slogans appeared on the screen. Most of the placards were variations of the theme to free Marakata and stop oppressing the Draconian people. Although Nasri had seen other news reports about the topic, she was confident the government knew what they were doing. Whoever these Draconians were, they were no business of hers.

  Then a familiar face showed himself, larger than life, in the archway.

  Standing on a crude stage, surrounded by demonstrators, Lord Santos thrust his fist into the air, shouting loudly.

  “What we’re doing on Marakata is wrong!” he yelled to the approving crowd. “I came from poverty and I recognize the repression of the Draconians, because I’ve lived through it myself! They are our brothers and sisters, and no matter their race or their background, we must stand with them in their struggle. I say this to the Emperor: Stop the occupation now!”

  Flax reappeared.

  “Asked for comment,” she said, “the Palace declined to do so at this time.”

  The screen dissolved away, replaced by the courtyard in the distance.

  “That idiot!” Nasri shouted, digging her fists into the couch. She threw one of the pillows across the room where a small robot collected it and scurried away.

  “You have a new message, My Lady,” Abida said.

  “I don’t care!”

  “It’s from Prince Richard.”

  “What does he want?” Nasri asked while exhaling sharply.

  “He’s requesting your presence at a sporting event tomorrow,” the AI went on. “He suggests such a public meeting could be useful under the current circumstances.”

  Nasri tapped her long nails against her chin.

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “What kind of sporting event?”

  “It appears to be a gravbike race, my lady. The Regalis Cup.”

  “What does one wear to a gravbike race?” Nasri asked.

  “As always,” the AI replied, “I’m happy to help...”

  The grandstands, garnished with red and gold bunting, ran along the shore of the Regalis River. Riders on gravbikes maneuvered through hoops, ten feet in diameter, levitating high above the water. In a pair of boxed seats, Lord Winsor Woodwick and Lord Radford Groen were drinking and watching the race.

  Woodwick, a middle-aged man with rounded features and a walrus mustache, brought a gin and tonic to his lips. From English aristocracy, he could tell the difference between top-shelf gin and whatever rubbing alcohol his glass was filled with.

  “I say, Radford,” Woodwick said, swishing his mustache. “I think that bartenderbot is trying to kill me!”

  Reviewing a betting sheet, Radford muttered without looking up, “Wouldn’t be the first.”

  A few years younger than his companion, Groen was losing his hair faster than his money, but didn’t seem to notice either. He fumbled for a glass of whiskey on the tray beside him, his eyes fixed on the datapad in his lap.

  “Maycare’s in the next race,” he noted aloud.

  “You’re not going to bet against him again, are you, old chap?” Woodwick asked, peering over Groen’s shoulder.

  “His luck can’t hold forever.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it!”

  “I already did,” Groen replied.

  Woodwick rolled his baggy eyes. “Well, you’re buggered then. You haven’t a chance.”

  “I always have a chance.”

  With a shake of his head, Woodwick took another sip from his glass and instantly regretted it. “Awful!”

  He set the drink aside but nearly missed the tray as something in the grandstand caught his eye.

  “Good lord!” he said, elbowing Groen’s arm. “Isn’t that Lady Nasri?”

  Across the heads and hats of a few dozen onlookers, a woman was making her way up the stairs to the Emperor’s box. Prince Richard stood to greet her.

  “And the Prince no less,” Woodwick went on. “You don’t usually see him at a sporting event. Not his cup of tea, I’d say.”

  “So?” Groen replied.

  “Try to keep up, Radford! Such a public display? Something’s afoot...”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’s about Lord Santos, I’d wager,” Woodwick said, pulling the tip of his mustache. “Did you see him on the news last night? He’s really stepped in it with this whole Marakata business. Quite a kerfuffle if you ask me.”

  “Nobody’s asking you,” Groen said bluntly. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

  “Humph!” Woodwick replied, crossing his portly arms. Then, in a low tone, he murmured, “It’ll all end in tears...”

  Prince Richard waited for Lady Nasri to arrive. She was late, which was not unexpected. When he finally saw her making her way up the grandstand stairs, she was wearing a white dress, contrasting well with her olive skin, and a floppy sun hat. She had adjusted well to her new status, the prince thought. Perhaps a bit too well.

  The prince stood and greeted Nasri with a smile and a shake of his hand — Richard was not a hugger — and the two sat in the Emperor’s box while the gravbike race proceeded over the Regalis River. A servantbot brought a tray of drinks, each with a spiral of orange peel draped over the side. Richard didn’t drink, but he took one anyway just to be polite.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Lady Nasri said, the wide brim of her hat keeping her fac
e in shadow.

  “Of course, the pleasure is mine,” the prince replied graciously.

  Nasri took a taste and smiled, setting the glass down again. Richard raised his glass to her in a salute, then gave it back to the robot who took it away.

  “Is this your first gravbike race?” the prince asked.

  “I suppose it must be,” she replied. “There wasn’t a lot of sports on the Sterope.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “But this is certainly an interesting spectacle.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, “they hold the Regalis Cup once a year. Everyone who’s anyone comes to see and be seen...”

  “Is that why you asked me here?” Nasri asked.

  “I was planning on it anyway, but I think the timing is fortunate.”

  Nasri raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips following suit. “How so?”

  “The Emperor has some concerns...”

  “Really? What kind of concerns?”

  “Your relationship with Lord Tagus, for one,” the prince replied, “but perhaps more pressingly, the behavior of Lord Santos.”

  Nasri shook her head, dipping her hat so her eyes were hidden for a moment.

  “As for Lord Tagus,” she said, “I have nothing but respect and admiration for him and his family, but that is all. I’m quite aware of his past history with Emperor Augustus—”

  “Tagus’ son tried to overthrow my father...”

  “—but I want no part of that,” she went on. “I’m merely finding my way for now and part of that is talking with the other families.”

  “And so you should,” the prince said. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  A gravbike, twirling through a floating hoop over the river, lost control and fell into the water with a towering splash.

  “As for Lord Santos,” Nasri said, ignoring the crash, “I’m not sure what my fellow captain is up to these days.”

  “His behavior of late is troubling,” Richard said, leaning closer. “The Emperor is not amused.”

  “Nor should he be...”

  “It’s important that the Five — sorry, make that Seven — Families remain a united front when it comes to Imperial business, our own petty squabbling notwithstanding.”

  “I understand,” Nasri said. “I hope Lord Santos can be made to see reason.”