Dragon Space

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Okay, Ar murmured. He pressed his mouth into a straight line, staring without moving. Finally she touched him on the arm to make sure he was still conscious. His mouth slowly formed a zigzag.

  Jael tickled the parrot's bright green throat and rubbed his beak with her knuckles. Ed made a gurgling sound. Someday we can talk to your heart's content. But just now, can we do some flying?

  Ar's eyes sparkled a luminous purple. With a decisive nod, he took up his half of the net again, and matched Jael's efforts move for move—and together they reached out for the current that wound, silvery and long, before them.

  Dedication for Dragons in the Stars

  For Chuck—

  one of the good dragons

  and

  For Crystal—

  a true dream rigger

  *****

  Acknowledgments for Dragons in the Stars

  I'd like to thank the people whose assistance and encouragement helped me down the long road that this novel has taken. It began as a novelette, "Though All the Mountains Lie Between," written for the anthology Dragons of Darkness, edited by Orson Scott Card. I must thank Jane Yolen for nudging me into writing the story in the first place, and Scott for his enthusiastic reception of it—as well as the editors of The Science Fiction Times for showing it first print.

  Once published, the story wouldn't let me go. It tugged at me, whispering that it was not yet finished; it was a novel that demanded to be written. Meanwhile, I was preoccupied with another very long novel that took five and a half years to write, followed by several other books. But my editor, Jim Frenkel, had read my dragon story, too—and when I presented him with an outline for a novel, he seized upon it at once. And so began a journey of writing and rewriting (woven chronologically around the writing of several other novels), editing and rewriting, and further polishing, that took five more years before the book was finished. But now you have it in your hands, and much gratitude is due Jim Frenkel for his endless probing of the foundations of the story and offering of suggestions. My agent Richard Curtis had his doubts, but he trusted me when I said it had to be done, and for that I thank him.

  I also thank the cover artist, Jael (no relation to the protagonist), who, through a chance meeting at a convention, came to produce the painting that graces the front of this book. I offer, as well, a grateful tip of the hat to Janny Wurts, the illustrator of the original story.

  As always, thanks are due to the writing group: Mary Aldridge, Victoria Bolles, Richard Bowker, and Craig Gardner, for encouragement and countless helpful criticisms. And finally, to my wife Allysen, best reader and best friend, who always believed I could do it, even when my own confidence failed. I love you guys, and I couldn't have done it without you.

  —JAC

  MAPS OF THE REALM

  The Dragon Realm (entire)

  Dragon Realm (western detail)

  Dragon Realm (eastern detail)

  Full size map online at

  starrigger.net/dragon-map.htm

  The Dragon Realm (entire)

  The Dragon Realm (western detail)

  The Dragon Realm (eastern detail)

  DRAGON RIGGER

  *

  Jeffrey A. Carver

  *****

  PART ONE

  THE DRAGONS

  Prologue

  "NOW YOU all know—" the lanky ex-rigger paused to gulp from his ale—ahhhh! "—just how dangerous star travel can be." He peered out across the spaceport bar, studying the faces looking back at him—mostly young star-riggers who thought they knew a lot more than they did. "You all know that much, right?" he asked rhetorically. "Well, I'm tellin' you, it's a lot more dangerous than you ever imagined. Swear t'God!"

  He burped and made a sweeping gesture with his mug. He reeled a little from the movement. His unkempt hair fell across his eyes, and he swept it back in annoyance. He had a story to tell, and the audience was volatile. Mustn't keep them waiting. "Y'see—"

  "Just tell us the frickin' story, will you?" a fat man complained, from across the room.

  "I am tellin' ya, dammit!" he said with a glare. He ticked off on his fingers the events that had occurred seven years ago this month. "One! We flew into the mountain region, cocky as all hell, thinking—there ain't nothing that can hurt us. We're two topflight, cream-of-the-crop, stay-out-of-our way, kick-ass riggers! Right? Besides, everyone knows there are no dragons really there." He snorted at his own words. He glanced up, and twitched as a rigger in the back of the bar, not a human but some kind of horse-headed Swert, inhaled something from a chrome cylinder and blew an enormous, billowing neon bubble into the air above the barroom patrons.

  He continued quickly, before anyone could get distracted. "Two! It wasn't more'n ten minutes before a whole flight of dragons appeared—and I don't mean some kinda cute lizards. I mean dragons. Huge things! We tried to make contact with them. Friendly contact." He barked out a bitter laugh, which seemed to have an odd effect on his audience. Some looked cynical, others looked puzzled. At least he was getting through to somebody.

  A sword-wielding knight sprang up from the top of someone's head about three tables back and stabbed a few times with its blade, before winking out. The ex-rigger glared at the kid with the holo, a scrawny-looking, red-haired misfit who didn't even look old enough to be at a bar. The kid snickered nervously.

  "Three!" the rigger roared, trying to overcome the interruption. "The bastards set on us like a pack of Alsepian blood wolves!"

  "A real dogfight, eh?" someone called helpfully.

  "It was a dogfight!" the rigger snapped. "Just like in prespace times. Except there was just the two of us in our ship, and at least four of them, flyin' around like crazy, blowing fire and smoke and tryin' to knock us out of the sky! You wouldn't've known we were in space, it looked so much like real mountains and sky. Never seen anything so real in the Flux. We couldn't do a thing to change the image, except turn our ship into a fighter-flyer and pray for the best." He shook his head, lost in his own story. "But our best wasn't much. There we were, twistin' and turnin' in the air, tryin' to scoot away from 'em. But—" and his voice caught as the fear rolled back up his spine, as though it had happened yesterday.

  "They beat you, is that what you're trying to say?" snickered the red-haired kid.

  The rigger leveled a drunken gaze at his taunter, so cocky and naive. Another holo erupted from the kid's head—a cartoonish figure of a man reeling and spinning before falling over with a sword hilt sticking out of his stomach. That evoked a few sardonic titters, which was clearly the reaction the kid wanted. The older rigger shook his head. He hated whiny, false bravado.

  "Yeah, they beat us, you little punk. Four dragons, each one the size of this room, beat us in combat. Can you imagine that? We musta been weaklings."

  He was answered with a restless stirring, and he continued at once. "They didn't kill us right off, though. They boxed us in and forced us down on a plateau. Full-stop landing." He paused for emphasis. The Flux never stopped moving in its endless course among the stars; everyone knew that. Only this time it had.

  "They started lookin' us over," he said more softly. "Four fire-breathin' dragons, about to flame us to cinders right there in the net—and two scared-as-piss riggers, I don't mind admittin' it." He paused and gulped his ale. "I didn't think I'd ever see home again. And I wouldn't've, either, if it hadn't been for the iffit, I mean if'ing . . ." He struggled with the memory, teetering, even with one elbow propped on the wooden bartop to support himself. "If that thing hadn't've showed up and told the dragons—" A belch erupted without warning from his throat, interrupting him.

  "Let me guess! A prophecy?" someone shouted.

  He stared in the general direction of the shout. He had at least some of them listening, even if they didn't want to admit it. "Well, you're getting a little ahead of the story, but yes, it told them the proph—buurp!—ecy." He put his fist over his mouth in embarrassment.

  "Which of course you're going to tell us!"
called a whip-bodied humanoid, who maybe didn't know human rules of etiquette, or maybe couldn't help speaking in such a sneering tone of voice.

  "Unless you don't remember it!" called a shrill-voiced woman. Derisive laughter echoed after her.

  "I remember it!" he said hotly. "Better than you remember your own name! Just give me a second to collect myself." He was trying not to become angry.

  "Canteen, we've given you too much time already!" yelled a man just down the stand-up bar from him. "Tell us another one, will you? Of course—" and the drinker guffawed "—we won't believe that one, either. We don't even believe you when you're sober!"

  "Oh, no?" The rigger drew himself up in an effort to maintain some dignity. "Well, this partic'lar story happens to be true, you half-witted imbecile. And my name is Kan-Kon, if you don't mind." He ignored the answering cackles and continued, heedless of the momentum that was clearly building against him. "So you don't think I'm tellin' the truth? Let me tell you something—I was out there flyin' the stars before most of you was in potty training, much less rigger training! I'm telling you the dragons are out there, and they killed my shipmate and they damn near killed me! You're all so smug here, you don't—"

  "The prophecy, Canton!"

  "Tell us and be done with it!"

  Kan-Kon took another gulp, slopping ale on his sleeve. His fingers brushed uselessly at the spill. "Gah! Don't you know that stories—true stories—have to be savored like—"

  "Kan-coon," shouted one of the veteran riggers, "either tell the damn story or shut up about it! We can't even have a conversation over here, with everyone laughing at you!"

  "All right, Whitie," Kan-Kon said good-naturedly. "You've paid your dues. You've earned the right to nudge me a little, mebbe. As for the rest of you—ahhhhh." He snorted and upended his mug, draining the last of the ale. Gasping, he cried, "All right, then! Here's what they told me—after they killed my partner, and before they threw me and my spaceship back into civilized space." He slammed the mug onto the bar with a crash that brought near silence to the barroom. "Listen to the words!"

  The only sound now was the whir of the drinks dispensers. He gazed over the crowd and cleared his throat. "From beyond life will come one! From beyond . . . ahh, hope . . . will come one . . ." He hesitated. "Let's see, now—"

  Someone slid a fresh mug of ale in front of him.

  He nodded, frowning, then raised his voice again. "Without friend will come one. And the realm . . . and the realm . . ." And suddenly the words would not come. The words that were practically branded on his heart.

  "Come on, you can do it! 'And the realm'—?"

  Kan-Kon sweated, trying to dispel the fog that was clouding his brain. "And the realm shall tremble!" he shouted.

  The murmur from the crowd was not entirely sympathetic.

  "Great! Is that it?" his encourager asked.

  "No, there's more. I have it right on the tip o' my tongue. Speaking her name will come one—hey!" Someone was jostling his arm.

  "Hey, Rangoon!"

  He turned.

  "Come on, Can-can!"

  Someone or something tripped him, and his legs went out from under him like rubber. He crashed to the floor in a gush of ale. The other riggers shouted and jumped out of the way. "Jeez, I hope his dragons hold their ale better than he does!" one of them cried. "Hey, Ashcan," complained the whiny red-haired kid. "I think one of your dragons just peed on me! Can't you keep 'em on a leash?" Brightly colored holos danced in the air as someone helped Kan-Kon to his feet.

  "Sorry, there. Just lost my—lost my—ah hell!" Kan-Kon moaned, peering with chagrin into his now-empty mug.

  "I think you've had a little too much to drink, old man," said the one who was supporting him. "You tell enough of those stories, and sooner or later you're going to start believing them."

  Kan-Kon grunted, wounded. "Yeah, I guess so. Hey, wait a minute! Hey, what do you think you're doin'?"

  The hand supporting him wasn't just holding him up; it was propelling him toward the exit. A rising tide of hoots seemed to add impetus to the movement, and before he could fight back, he felt more hands pushing him toward the back door.

  "Hey! Listen, you miserable—" he squawked, struggling to dig in his heels. But there was no stopping the movement now. The crowd surged and flowed like the currents of the Flux, making room for his passage.

  "Good night, Tin Can!" someone yelled as the door opened before him. He felt a final shove at his back, and he stumbled out the door and fell to his hands and knees in the alleyway.

  He raised his head and looked back indignantly. The door slammed shut, muffling the sounds of laughter. He hadn't exactly played the crowd tonight, had he? The stupid drunken sots. Didn't they know he was telling them the truth, and it was important? Were they too blind to see?

  He sighed and lowered his head again, praying that the spinning would stop. Maybe he'd had a little too much to drink. But so what? He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, and the rest of the words rose suddenly, unbidden, in his throat, and he croaked them into the empty alleyway:

  "From that one

  comes a beginning!

  From that one

  comes an ending!"

  He raised his voice to a shout.

  "And you can bet your ass the realm will tremble!"

  Sighing in bitter triumph, he pushed himself back onto his feet and staggered away into the night.

  Chapter 1

  Dragons in the Realm

  LIGHTNING FLASHED in the sky like a demon's breath, splitting the night air with great jagged thrusts, hammering the vale with thunder. It was unnatural, WingTouch thought—that lightning, driven by a power no dragon could comprehend. All the dragons had felt its sting. Those who confronted it directly were burned from the sky. Those who lacked the courage, or perhaps the foolhardiness to stay in the battle, had already fled.

  WingTouch fought to remain airborne in the tossing winds. Even here at the edge of the skirmish, the very air had become an adversary, turned against them by the devilish power of the Enemy. How could he fight a storm like this? All he could do was tumble through the maelstrom of wind, ignoring all else but the need to destroy the creatures who were attacking the valley.

  Something blacker than the night passed before him, and he instinctively flexed his wings in pursuit. Gaining on the shadowy thing, he exhaled a lance of flame. His aim was perfect. The fire struck the fleeing creature, and he heard its wail of pain. WingTouch roared in triumph, but his victory was fleeting. The blackness rippled and veered and fled into the night. He had hurt it, but it was still alive and now he had lost it.

  So it had gone for half the night, since WingTouch's patrol had responded to a cry for help from the guardians of this grove. WingTouch had watched strong and faithful dragons being driven back from the flashing storm clouds, back from these undragon drahls of the Enemy that filled the sky with their trills of laughter. Dragon in shape, but not in substance, the drahls were the Enemy's most hated warriors, the leaders of his army of destruction, delusion, and fear.

  But the drahls were not the only sorcery in the skies tonight. The Enemy had turned the very elements of nature against them. Amidst the lightning, it was hard even to see his fellow dragons. There were many in the sky, but fewer than at the start of battle. How many had died? How many had fled? WingTouch had felt death all around him, and dragons passing to the Final Dream Mountain, but mostly he had felt terror reigning in the sky. The valley below, with its precious lumenis groves, was being pummeled by lightning; and the dragons themselves by withering attacks of freezing fire from the drahls. So far, the dragons had held the defense in the air, and the guardian spells had held below. But for how much longer?

  As if in answer to his thought, an explosion of lightning and thunder rocked the air. WingTouch shuddered, and felt something change in the air below. He glimpsed a pair of drahls flickering like shadows low across the basin. How had they gotten so low? Had the guardian spells failed? He
thought he heard a roar of anger from the spell-wielding dragons on the ground.

  Bucking the winds, Windrush dove to give chase. He passed harmlessly through the layer where he should have encountered a challenging spell-barrier. He felt nothing; the spells of protection had failed. He bellowed his rage; he gathered fire in his throat. But before he could catch the drahls he saw cold flames ripple across the ground ahead of him, pouring from the speeding creatures. His heart cried out—and he cried out to his fellow dragons for help, but his cry was lost on the wind. The others were occupied in battle high overhead. From the ground, he heard the wail of dying guardian dragons.

  Speeding low over the valley, too far behind the drahls to stop them, WingTouch saw their freezing bursts of fire exploding in a long line, where the lumenis and the garden of power were being blasted into ruin. Within moments, one more living garden was gone, one more source of strength against the darkness. WingTouch beat his wings with impotent fury as he climbed back toward the others. There was nothing left to fight for here.

  "DRAGONS, GATHER!" he thundered. His voice was nearly lost in the crashing of the storm. But some of the dragons heard, and they repeated his words in trumpeting cries. Three dragons fell in beside him. The rest gathered slowly, giving up the battle. When he was satisfied that all who still lived had joined him, WingTouch bellowed, "DRAGONS, AWAY!" and they banked away from the wind and fled eastward into the night.

  As they crossed the Scarred Mount Ridge, WingTouch wondered what he could say to Windrush and to the others back at the camp. With another lumenis grove lost to the Enemy, the outlook for the realm was bleaker than ever.