by Timothy Zahn
Royd crawled over to them, the effort of holding Three making him a little light-headed. Waverly was dead; Marwitz only unconscious. Retrieving the gun, Royd got to his feet and let his control relax, sending Three back to the amulet around Grail's neck.
He staggered to the door, but just as he reached it he heard footsteps in the hall. There was barely enough time for him to leap behind the door before it swung open. Svoda and four other guards strode into the room.
The first time, Royd discovered, was the hardest. The guards had barely time to recover from the sight in front of them and to reach for their weapons before Three was once again in the room. Royd repeated the tail-swinging technique, and within seconds the guards were sprawled across the room in various degrees of injury and unconsciousness.
The dragon vanished, and Royd drew a shuddering breath. For an instant a wave of nausea swept over him, both from the effort of controlling Three and from the destruction he had so easily unleashed. But there was no time to lose. Either Marwitz was up to something especially devious or deadly—"tonight of all nights," he had said—or, more unlikely, this was a test Grail had cooked up for him. In either case, however, his course was clear: he had to get out, and fast. And if Marwitz had really left the south service road clear... then it was time to strike.
Stuffing Waverly's pistol into his belt, Royd left the room, locking the door behind him. —
He found Phelan Hapspur in one of the Rosette Freedom Party's secret meeting places, and the two men greeted each other like long-lost cousins.
"Damn, but I thought we'd never see you again," Phelan grinned. "How'd you escape?"
"Never mind that now," Royd said. "I can get us into the palace if you can be ready in half an hour or so."
"What?" Phelan stared wide-eyed at Royd; for the first time he seemed to notice the latter's clothing and physical condition. He drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Just where were you being held, Varian?"
"That's not important—"
"Yes, it is. You haven't been tortured; you haven't even gone hungry. What do you think that looks like to us?"
Royd was suddenly aware that there was a ring of people around them. Many were armed and dressed in black nightsuits; not all looked friendly.
"Look," he said, keeping his voice calm, "I can get you inside the palace— inside, not out in the grounds where they can pick us off one by one. You going to pass up a chance like this?"
"How you gonna do that?" a voice from the crowd challenged.
"Director Marwitz was going to take me out for some unauthorized torture. He cleared all but one guard off the south service gate to avoid having unnecessary witnesses to my departure. I escaped and clobbered that guard on my way out. But he'll be found when the next shift goes on duty in an hour or so. I see you're set up for some kind of raid anyway—damn it, you'll never have this chance again."
There was a moment of silence. "All right," Phelan said slowly. "There's a lot here you're not telling us. But you're right; this is worth taking a chance on. But if you're lying—if it's a trap—you'll be the first to die."
"Understood. Now, we have to work fast. Give me some paper and I'll sketch our route. Oh, and there are some people we absolutely have to hit..."
—
Far away the sounds of sporadic gunfire could be heard as Royd sprinted down the deserted hallway toward Dragonmaster Grail's office suite. He'd left Phelan's squad minutes earlier to find Marwitz, to make sure the Director didn't escape. But Phelan had moved faster than Royd had expected, and the group had already entered Grail's office. He'd heard firing from that direction as he came up the stairs, but now there was only an ominous silence.
Running through the bullet-chipped outer doorway, between the crumpled bodies of the guards, he skidded to a halt in Grail's office.
The tableau before him was a potent mix of surrealism and deja vu, and for an instant Royd flashed back to his own invasion of this sanctum a short eternity ago. In the dim light and harsh shadows thrown by Grail's desk lamp, Phelan and his five men stood or crouched motionlessly, their automatic rifles half-lowered in a gesture of uselessness.
Facing them across the room, Grail stood by his desk, the black figure of Three between him and the rifles. Grail had been speaking; he broke off as Royd entered.
"So this is your doing, is it?" he said. "I should have known. You deserved death for trying to kill me, but instead I treated you humanely—and this is the thanks I get."
The words of the Dragonmaster were bitter, but, strangely, the tone was not. Royd frowned, searching Grail's face for clues to his feelings.
"Varian, did you get Marwitz?" Phelan asked, his eyes still on Grail.
"No. Someone beat me to him."
"Damn! According to Grail here most of the soldiers we've been killing were Marwitz's men, in the middle of their own coup attempt. But maybe it's not too late to join forces. Whip over to the communications section—north side, third floor— and tell McDodd to call for a parley."
"Join forces with Marwitz's butchers? Are you crazy? They'd stab us in the back first chance they got."
"I didn't ask your opinion," Phelan snapped. "Get moving. We can use their help."
Grail laughed, a short bark that sounded almost like a cough. "Such shortsighted naivete—and you really believe you can govern Rosette? You're a fool."
"The people will govern Rosette," Phelan corrected.
"The people aren't ready," Grail said flatly. "Democracy isn't something you learn overnight. And even if it were, even if you had every man in Rosette behind you, you couldn't keep the Easterlings from immediately pulling the whole thing out from under you. Only the dragons—and their master—have enough power to protect Rosette. Or haven't you been listening?"
"Damn you!" Phelan's temper was very near the breaking point. "Your damn dragons and your damn dragon pax don't mean a single thing to me. You're no different from anyone else, and if you can control those animals, then so can I."
"As I said, a fool." Grail's voice fairly dripped with contempt. Reaching up, he pulled the amulet from around his neck and tossed it to Phelan, who automatically reached out and caught it. "There—that's the key to controlling my dragons. Go ahead. See what good it does you."
Phelan stared at Grail, opened his mouth and closed it again, and then peered down at the amulet in his hand. For a minute he squinted hard at it. Finally, he looked up.
"You see?" Grail said. "You have no more chance of controlling my pets than you have of swimming around Troas. Any of the rest of you want to try it? Go ahead, try it. The sooner you're convinced Rosette's survival depends on me, the sooner you'll surrender and we can put an end to this nonsense."
"Don't listen to him," Phelan said grimly. "He's bluffing."
"Yeah, maybe," someone muttered. "But what if he's not?"
"Shut up!"
"And you would have controlled my dragons," Grail scoffed. "You can't even control your own men. Look, even Varian ignores you."
Phelan glanced over in surprise. "Varian? I gave you an order, damn it. Get moving."
"No." Royd took a deep breath. "I can command the dragon."
All eyes turned to him. "What?" Phelan asked.
"You heard me." Royd's eyes were locked onto Grail's. "I learned while I was a prisoner here. The... dragons... took a liking to me. All of them will obey me."
Grail's face was unreadable. "Prove it," he said flatly.
Royd nodded slowly. He began to concentrate... and he had contact. But there was something else there, a presence he'd not felt the last time: Grail's own control, undoubtedly. He set his teeth—and suddenly, with absurd ease, the presence fell away. The dragon was his.
Royd held out his hand and tried an order. Without hesitation, Three walked forward.
There was a gasp from Phelan's group. Royd glanced at them. They still held their guns, but, curiously, seemed to have forgotten them. It was up to Royd then; and the long-forgotten debt was finally going
to be paid. He turned his attention back to the dictator and ordered Three to turn and prepare to jump... And hesitated.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Grail.
The realization was a shock that even the incident at Louys Pass hadn't prepared him for, and it hit him like a hot needle in the gut. It wasn't just that he couldn't kill Grail dishonorably—he simply couldn't kill the dictator at all. The old reasons for his hatred still existed; but in the past few weeks he'd found the reasons were not always justified.
But even that was almost irrelevant, for all intellectual arguments paled before Royd's emotional response. He suddenly realized he liked Grail; liked him and sympathized with his attempts to handle the job he hadn't really wanted. And with new clarity he saw that, in many ways, he had come to consider the Dragonmaster his friend.
For a long moment he stood amidst the turmoil of truth crumbling in self- delusion. And then, suddenly, it was too late; for even as Royd's internal battle raged, he felt control of Three being wrenched from him.
Once more the chance to kill the dictator had come and gone—and looking into Grail's eyes, he finally realized that this was the trap the Dragonmaster had been patiently planning all these weeks.
He had tricked Royd into exposing the Rosette Freedom Party's hierarchy in this futile attack, secure in the knowledge that Royd himself could not throw his full loyalty to his old friends. Even the exquisite timing—pitting the underground against Marwitz's attempted coup—had probably been part of the plan. Grail had been toying with them, and now the game was over... and they Were all about to die.
From its crouch, the dragon leaped—
And Grail screamed as it slammed into him.
The competing presence vanished; automatically, Royd took control of Three once more, his own mind a maelstrom of stunned disbelief. What had just happened was completely incomprehensible. He stared at the torn figure that had been Grail, half-expecting it to get up again. Nausea rose into his throat, blistering it, and for a moment he thought he would faint.
Someone had moved to his side. Phelan. "Good job, Royd," he said huskily. "I guess this is yours now." He held out the amulet to Royd, who numbly took it. "Uh, we'd better get going—we've still got to clear out the rest of the palace. Are you and him"—he nodded carefully toward Three—"going to help us?"
Royd automatically started to nod... and suddenly realized it had been a question, not an order. He looked at Phelan with some surprise, and slowly the realities of the situation began to penetrate his numbed mind. He, Royd, was Dragonmaster of Troas now. Whatever else happened today, whether Phelan or someone else came out on top, Royd was ultimately the pivotal figure of Rosette's ruling structure. He had the final say here... and the final responsibility.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, I'll come along. Instruct the men to kill only soldiers who are shooting at them; all civilians and surrendering guards should be taken alive. There's no need for a bloodbath; a lot of them will be willing to work with us, and the rest can be taken care of later. Understood?"
Phelan threw one last glance at the dragon. "Understood," he growled.
—
It was nearly one in the morning, but the lights in Grail's old study were still blazing. Hunched over the desk, a pot of ch'a by his elbow, Royd felt like he could sleep for a week. But, tired or not, there was work here that only the Dragonmaster could do. Leaning back in his chair, Royd reflected half-bitterly that Grail had chosen his successor well—Royd's own sense of responsibility held him to his desk as effectively as chains.
Someday, he hoped, he'd be able to tell the people of Rosette—or maybe the people of a united Troas—the other side of their former tyrant: the Grail who had worked quietly and thanklessly in their behalf. Even now, six months after Grail's death, Royd felt hot shame at the ways he had often misjudged Grail, right up to the Dragonmaster's final, cold-blooded sacrifice.
It hadn't made any sense at the time; but now, Royd could see how the swift transfer of power and reputation had effectively short-circuited any possibility of a civil war. Grail's ruthless type of nobility had run deeper in the man than even Royd had realized; and although the people were not yet ready to accept that, Royd knew there was still one way he could build a proper and lasting monument to the late dictators efforts.
Gazing down, he frowned at the papers on his desk. Even his first, tentative steps toward a constitutional monarchy had caused uneasiness among some of his more powerful supporters, and these new proposals would have to be carefully worded if he was to avoid more grumbling. Still, if it came to a political fight, Royd had the power to force the changes, and everyone knew it. Dragon pax, he was learning, had many aspects.
Taking a sip of ch'a, Royd got back to work.
Afterword
How does a hard-SF-oriented writer work dragons— traditionally fantasy denizens—into a story? Now you know.
For many of you "Dragon Pax" will be a new story... which in a way is sort of a pity. The story was originally published in Rigel magazine, a quarterly edited by Eric Vinicoff which lasted two
years before folding. I was consistently impressed by the quality of
the stories Eric printed, and I've often wished more people had been
able to find Rigel while it was around. Each loss of an SF magazine
means one less market for short fiction; and if you like short fiction,
as I do, these losses eventually start to hurt. So get out there and
support your local SF magazine!
Ahem. Enough from the soapbox, already. And now, in the words of Monty Python, for something completely different....
Job Inaction
The Monday-morning commuter into Baltimore was exactly on time for a change, and with an unexpected half hour on his hands Charley Addison decided to walk the six blocks to his office instead of fighting the crowds for one of the golf cart—sized electric cars lined up in the station's lot. It would save his blood pressure and the shine on his shoes, and the medicomputer at the clinic had been nagging him to get more exercise, anyway.
It was a beautiful spring day, but Charley hardly noticed as he concentrated instead on plotting out his mornings work. Checking over the programming on the new chip for CM should come first, but his subordinates were good at their jobs and he didn't expect this final check to turn up any major problems. After that he'd take another shot at the submic processor that he'd been fighting with last Thursday afternoon. It was one of the toughest jobs he'd seen in his thirty-five years at Key Data Services, but it would crack eventually—they all did. Grinning in anticipation, he bounded up the outside steps of the KDS building, bade farewell to the sunshine, and went inside.
And then the universe crashed in on him.
His first indication came when he tried to call up the morning's mail on his desk terminal. Instead of the usual sender headings, the screen lit up with a terse, red-bordered message:
ACCESS DENIED
CHARLES DOUGLAS ADDISON
8497-46-6604
IS NO LONGER EMPLOYED BY KDS.
Charley stared at the screen in disbelief for several seconds, then tried again. The same message came back. Turning the terminal off and on, he tried in succession for his last work file, the weekly cafeteria menu, and the interoffice memo file. Nothing worked. Frowning, he flipped the machine off again and headed for his boss's office.
Will Whitney, president of KDS, was on the phone when Charley walked in, a respectable frown creasing his own forehead. "Look, this may be a minor aberration to you, but it's at the catastrophe level for us," Whitney was saying as he waved Charley to a chair. "Isn't there something...? I know, I know, but... Yeah, well, thanks."
Dropping the phone into its cradle, Whitney looked over at Charley. "I know why you're here, Charley. I just found out about it myself thirty minutes ago—and it doesn't look like there's anything I can do."
"Why not? Isn't this just some sort of computer glitch?"
"Of cou
rse it is—"
"Well, then, get it fixed and let me get back to work."
"—but the problem is that the report's already been transmitted to the National Employment Office. As far as they're concerned you've been legitimately fired."
Charley thought about that. "That's crazy, but even so I don't see the problem. Just hire me back."
Whitney gave him an odd look. "You haven't paid much attention to the country's employment policies lately, have you?"
"Well..." Charley wasn't all that ignorant. "I know how the unemployment systems been turned over to the private sector and all. But there's supposed to be a grace period after someone's fired before that goes into effect—something like ten days."
"It used to be ten days," Whitney nodded heavily. "But as the system's been improved and errors like this have become less and less frequent the grace period's been shortened—it's down to twenty-four hours now. Apparently this order went through over the weekend and... well, it's too late to rescind it."
A cold feeling was working its way into Charley's stomach. "Are you telling me I really am fired? You can't let this happen, damn it!"
Whitney spread his hands helplessly. "There's nothing I can do. I've talked to our lawyer and to the Employment Office people here in town—there just aren't any loopholes I can squeeze you through. If I let you on the payroll without going through the job lottery it'd be worth a felony-two fine."
Charley rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Yeah, I know. I sure wouldn't want you to wreck KDS over this—you know that. I'm just—it's not something I was expecting."
"Sure." Whitney's voice was sympathetic. "Look, we're not licked yet— maybe someone in Washington will listen to me. But... in case I can't get anywhere, maybe you'd better go sign up with the lottery." Charley made a face. "I don't want to work anywhere else."
"You think I want you to?" was the dry response. "Aside from the fact that you know far too much about our stuff, you're just too good a man to lose. But I have to be honest about your chances here... and you can't live off your savings forever."