Renaissance: A Novel of Azdhag Survival

by Alma Boykin

  He took his time with the third coat, working slowly but steadily. He’d added a touch more powdered bloodwood to the final batch of varnish, and he had to apply it by forefoot because the powder would clog the paint sprayer. Already the finish appeared far deeper and richer than it had before, and Sheenaki grunted with approval. He also made a mental note to add a pinch of pyrite to the black for the tabletop.

  As the benches and table legs dried, Sheenaki prepared the next container of paint. He also checked his messages. Well, that’s new prey to track. I wonder what’s going on? There would be a display, and possibly a sale, of used fancy furnishings at the Pokara City memory lodge. The images attached to the announcement showed Imperial pieces, and Sheenaki decided that he’d go on the study day. The inlays and paint didn’t interest him too much, but some of the overall designs caught his eye, especially the tracery work. It’s my family’s tax money on display, anyway. Well, no, he forced himself to admit, it could be from the royal holdings, which at least were paid for by the sales of goods from the Imperial Lineage’s private lands.

  Unlike some of the radicals he’d read about, Sheenaki prided himself on moderation. He disliked the rule by fiat in place on Pokara and the other colony worlds, but did not want to tear down the government completely. Most of the Lineage lords had worked very hard to save as many people as they could. And the King-Emperor’s talons rested much more lightly on the colonies than they could have. We don’t need to turn the world on its back, just return to precedent and carve out a little space is all. And get our rights in writing, first and foremost. No Azdhagi should be another reptile’s property, unless it is by choice. Sheenaki wanted choice, nothing more.

  He triple checked the surface of the table and then spread the black, taking pains to keep the edges crisp and sharp. It would dry very quickly, and he stayed by the paint enclosure, watching for signs of a bad finish. One spot needed a little attention and he sanded it and repainted. The second coat went well, and Sheenaki decided to risk an experiment. He added pyrite to the crackle coat.

  A very tired furniture maker slouched up to his den later that night, tired but satisfied. It looked as if his gamble had worked. He’d need to see it in sunlight to be certain, but the glaze seemed to be doing what he’d hoped it would. Sheenaki ate something and flopped onto his sleeping platform, asleep in an instant. Working with finishes always drained him—so much could go wrong and so little control rested in his talons.

  The next morning, with some trepidation, he opened the sun screens on his shop and let the clear, soft morning light pour in. “Yessssss,” he hissed, well pleased. The red and black glowed. The finish looked deep, with a faint sheen despite the lack of polish. He decided not to buff the pieces, but to leave them as they were. Simple and rich, the table and benches reminded him of a truly great cut of torboar from Sidara. The hunt had been long and hard, and the torboar had fought back with a fury, making the eating even better. He, Breekhar, and two other soldiers had savored the meal and the hunt. Sheenaki took pictures of the pieces, posted the images on his catalogue, and moved them off to the side so he could start the next piece.

  Three days later, Prince Kalaki studied the images that Leesarae had sent to his queue. He rotated the picture, studying the colors and lines of the table and benches. “Yes. These are exactly what I have in mind. Dark, simple, and they have elegant lines as well as looking sturdy.” The suggested prices made his tail tip twitch, but Leesarae’s attached message warned that the crafts-master did everything by talon. Well, Kalaki sighed, talon-cut goods always cost more, but you also get what you pay for. He replied to Leesarae, telling her to place an order for the three pieces. He’d pay for them through a blind account, since he had not been authorized to use government funds to replace the furnishings in the public areas, just for his personal quarters. Helping support traditional workers made Kalaki feel better about some of the firm decisions he’d been forced to make.

  Soarsa tapped on the door knocker. “Come in,” Kalaki ordered. The solid-grey reptile, originally from Mountains’ Edge, entered and bowed. “Yes?”

  “Your Highness, the good news is that interest in the display of historic furnishings is quite high and the idea seems popular. Several public and a few private news feeds are praising your wisdom and Pack-mindedness.”

  “Good, I’m pleased to hear that. And the bad news?”

  “It is difficult to find Lineage heads in the towns and cities, Your Highness. I have located all but two of the rural Lineage heads or their representatives, but the others either claim that they are not, in fact, heads, or they disclaim even having a Lineage.”

  Kalaki allowed his tail tip to wave back and forth a few centimeters. “They disclaim any Lineage affiliation,” he repeated.

  Soarsa gestured with one forefoot. “Yes, Your Highness. In three cases, that is correct: the individuals came from the Dead Clan.”

  “Those are excused then, at least for the moment.” Kalaki did not agree with his sire’s decision to continue allowing the few survivors to go without a Lineage, but it was the law. “And the others?”

  “Some are Shu but will not admit it, Your Highness. A few are descended from outcasts, or were sent here as orphans and do not know their Lineages. The others . . .” he let his words trail off and rumpled his tail a little. Kalaki would not be pleased.

  And Kalaki was not pleased, and he wondered just how he was supposed to govern with such a lack of cooperation. If these people will not take responsibility for their Lineages, what makes them think they will do any better selecting leaders and choosing planetary policy? Kalaki made a note to that effect to add to his arsenal of arguments against the vote-chasers. “And the staff question?”

  “The list of employees, their Lineages, dates of employment or appointment, and their records are on a file that should be in your queue, Your Highness. I took the liberty of flagging the especially good and notably bad individuals, as well as two that are special veteran appointments.” It would require a delicate touch if the prince decided to remove those two from their positions, and Soarsa had no desire to be the one to have to deal with them.

  “Very good, Soarsa. Thank you.” Kalaki had a thought. “Soarsa, what is your impression of Leesarae, the chatelaine?”

  Very attractive and probably fertile, Soarsa thought. Aloud he replied, “Your Highness, she seems most professional, is very well organized, and knows her business. I have some questions about her private life, but as chatelaine she seems more than adequate for the job.”

  Kalaki grunted. “And her private life?”

  Soarsa walked up to the edge of the worktable. He lowered his voice, “Your Highness, she is unmated. I have not looked to see if she is a carrier or if there is another difficulty, but her lack of a mate raises questions.”

  Kalaki thought for a moment. “I will keep that in mind, Soarsa. Thank you, and you are dismissed.” His chief-of-staff bowed and left the room. Kalaki finished reviewing his decisions about the scientists’ latest requests, then sealed and sent the responses. The sun should be well above the palace walls by now, he mused. He logged out, secured the computer system, and went out to go bask for an hour or two.

  A message alert chimed on the other side of the planet, and Tardeet reached over without looking up from his task, patting around until his talon tip hit the mute button. The scientist continued his work, using a tiny fiber tool to pollinate three kurstem plants. He needed to do at least five more, and Tardeet worked steadily, concentration locked on the microscope and pollination tools. You would think that wind-pollinated plants would be easier to cross, but no, he moaned yet again. It took another half hour, but he finished the entire flat. He covered the small plants to keep any more pollen out.

  “Tardeet?” someone asked.

  He turned his head to see who it was. “Ow!” His neck and shoulders cramped. The mottled brown male straightened his neck out with great care, then began stretching, loosening the muscles before backin
g up a little and turning completely around to face the grow-shed door.

  Kar-Peitak walked into the shed, closing the door behind her. She could have been his sister, dark where he was pale, her coloring much like that of her detested sire. “You need to move more,” she scolded, rising onto her hind feet and resting her forefeet on his shoulder. He closed his eyes as the joint grew warm and the cramp faded.

  “Thank you, oh guardian of my health as well as of my virtue.” He heard a derisive snort. “What news, thou most—” She spatted the side of his head with the pad of her forefoot before he could finish.

  “First, you need to move more. Those neck vertebrae truly will freeze like that if you don’t keep them relaxed, and Reesh hates it when we have to surgically remove a botanist from a piece of equipment.” She half-joked. “And Reesh called a meeting for, oh, ten minutes ago.”

  “So we have five minutes before we are late,” Tardeet reminded her. They secured the growth-shed and strolled through the misty, warm, pre-dawn twilight. “So, tell me, is Reesh really nocturnal?”

  “No, just angry. Or so I gather. Or a clan of talon-toes got into his office and shredded his papers.” The little mammals, no bigger than the thumb-talon of a small Azdhag, could chew through anything.

  “Ugh. I hope he’s just mad, then.” Tardeet hated talon-toes.

  Tardeet got a flask of bardbill tisane, added a little powdered blue bark, and found a bench in the meeting room. Reesh had called everyone in, judging by the grumbling, yawning, pack that was already spilling off the benches and along the walls.

  The thick-tailed, yellowy manager lumbered up to the speaker’s platform. “I’ll track direct to the prey, if everyone can hear me?” A rumble of assent filled the room. “Good. Governor Kalaki has rejected the last three hybridization requests and placed an administrative stop on all further gen-mod work, except for purely defensive measures undertaken by the Imperial military medical department.”

  “What?”

  “How dare he?”

  “What does he think he knows? He’s just an administrator!”

  Bellows of anger and wails of protest battered Reesh, but he held his ground, letting the complaints and denials fade of their own accord.

  “I’ll let you read the response to the goldenstem improvement plan.” Reesh’s assistant projected the document onto the screen at the side of the platform.

  Tardeet squinted a little and read. He says we can’t add the protein gene into the goldenstem, even though the thick-stemmed version is a naturalized mutation that we found? We’re permitted to run the cross, but then only to cross back and hope that the protein level increases and that the stems remain thick? That will take so much time and labor. Tardeet made a negation. Several others did the same, and about a third of the males had trouble keeping their neck spines down, or so it appeared.

  “The governor’s reply to the others is almost identical, except to add that we cannot even check genetic modification viability in the labs. No,” and he raised his tail to forestall the next question, “Not even if we destroy the resulting cultures and samples.”

  “That’s the stupidest rule I’ve heard yet,” someone near Tardeet grumbled. “Even on the throneworld we can do pure lab checks.”

  Someone waved their tail, and Reesh got onto his hindlegs to see who it was. “Yes?”

  “Can we appeal?”

  “We will, but only after we compile a complete safety record and a list of anything that might have escaped, along with how we followed up on it, and review our protocols, so we do not have to stalk the same prey twice.”

  A new voice bellowed, “Why do we have to put up with such a blind hunter? Why can’t we just keep working, be careful, and show the results once we have them and prove that they’re safe?”

  “Because Governor Prince Kalaki commands the military.” Reesh’s quiet words stilled the room. “I asked around the research pack, Neesl. Kalaki is part of the anti-genetics faction and has the King-Emperor’s ear because of doing a little science work on his own. His cadet specialty was bio-warfare. Do you want him dropping a burn bomb on the research fields?” Reesh looked around. “Remember too that most Azdahagi, even here on Pokara, don’t trust anything more than cross breeding. Do you want to face mobs at the gate if someone spreads the word that we’ve been working against orders?”

  The threat silenced any further protests, and a shiver went through the pack.

  Reesh concluded, “Document everything, update your safety protocols if you haven’t done it recently, and we’ll stalk a parallel trail to our prey. Thank you for coming out so early. I wanted everyone to get the same scent at the same time. You’re dismissed.”

  Tardeet understood the precautions, but groaned with the rest of the scientists and lab techs. More documentation meant less research time. Well, we do need to review the protocols for the grow-sheds, for access and escape prevention both. Tardeet loved working with plants as much as he loathed forms, administrative documents, and bureaucracy. Once more he cursed the scientists who had ruined biology for every Azdhagi since the Great Relocation.

  Well, he mused on his way back to the grow-shed, it’s still better than being stuck in a lab on the throneworld. With that thought he went to check on the progress of the new goldenstem strain.

  When he’d received the command, Prince Imperial Dak-lee had wondered if he’d heard his honored sire correctly. “Ah, I am to summon Tartai of Tarkeela Lineage to court and force him to take up his duties,” he’d repeated back.

  Tahdak had gestured in the affirmative. “Yes.”

  At the time Dak-lee had wondered if his sire had begun to show the family mad streak or if he had a death wish. Now, a moon and two sixts later, Dak-lee believed that although sane, his sire possessed an exceedingly warped sense of humor.

  First he’d had to track down and locate Tartai. It was one thing to say “He’s at Schree’s Rest,” and another to establish communications with someone who preferred to burrow as far below the surface as Tartai had. If I had a new junior and enemies I’d be in seclusion too, Dak-lee reminded himself. Tartai and Seelah had welcomed Tarlah, a healthy male, to their Lineage. Thanks be, that means all of Tarkeela’s get have had clean offspring for two generations. Dak-lee had forwarded the information to the archivist to pass along to the health officials and mate Registrars for future reference.

  As his transport cut through the winter skies, Dak-lee wondered if Tartai suffered from other problems. No one refused Lineage duties, especially not if they were the sole male heir. Granted, Tartai had been very young at the time of Tarkeela’s assassination, but still, his dam and guardians should have trained him properly. And from what little Dak-lee could find in the records, Tartai possessed leadership skills, even though he refused to lead. The more Dak-lee learned, the angrier he became. Tartai would be a great asset to the Pack and a benefit to all Azdhagi if only he would step forward and do his duty. Instead, his refusal forced Dak-lee to take matters into both forefeet.

  When Tartai refused to respond to the initial call, Dak-lee had tracked him through Tarlek industries and Moyteek Ltd. Teekah, Tartai’s elder half-sister, had passed on her brother’s information reluctantly, forcing Dak-lee to threaten Moyteek’s contract with the Imperials for the special fabric used in spacesuit production. “Your Imperial Highness, not to be disrespectful or to question your knowledge, but you are aware that Lord Tarkeela wished to end his line with himself?” Teekah’s question had sent Dak-lee to the archives to confirm that Tarleeka was not a Dead Clan. No, although indeed, Lord Tarkeela of that Lineage had demanded that the Lineage cease with his death, a wish that King-Emperor Seetoh had reluctantly agreed to. Honored sire’s sire, what were you thinking? Dak-lee wondered again as he studied the passing landscape. And what reptile in their right mind wants to live in an icy waste like this?

  Seemingly endless white spread out below the crown prince’s transport. Trees added some variety and dark colors, but the scene reminded Da
k-lee of the second level of hell, the cold one. I’d go mad if I had to look at this for half the year, Dak-lee snorted, then caught himself. Maybe that was Tartai’s problem: he had something that made this the only place he felt comfortable, like that strange True-dragon in House Moytu near Mountains’ Edge. Perhaps a mad streak ran through Tarkeela much like the one in the Imperial lineage, and Tartai refused his duties on that account. Lord Kirlin had said that he recalled his sire stating that Tarkeela had been insane, but now Kirlin could not recall if that meant “exceedingly odd” or truly mad. Dak-lee made a note to have one of the archivists look farther into Tarkeela Lineage’s history.

  The transport circled around a good-sized settlement cut out of the forest and landed at the commercial facility at the town’s edge. A large ground vehicle with the fattest tires Dak-lee had ever seen waited at the edge of the safety field, just outside the blast clearance radius. The aircraft door opened and Dak-lee stepped out into cold that took his breath away, stinging his nostrils and making his lungs ache. This really is the second level of hell! The crown prince, followed by two guards, picked his way around several commercial and military aircraft, jumping over bits of old snow and ice as he went. Four Azdhagi bounded out of the transport and bowed.

  “Welcome to Schree’s Rest,” a big male, almost as large as Dak-lee himself, announced, his breath steaming in the cold.

  “Thank you. You are?”

  “I’m Beeltal, boss of the timber company and mayor of Schree’s Rest. Lt. Deelzee sends his apologies, Your Highness, but he’s laid up with a broken hind leg and tail and snowburn. The healer won’t let him off the sleeping platform for at least another sixt. Says she’ll skin him and turn him into a bench cushion if he ignores her orders again.”

  The cheerful, informal, recitation took Dak-lee aback. “Ah, I see. I have been sent to speak with Tartai of Tarkeela Lineage.”