As The Lady MacBeth closed with the orbiting StarPort, EDNA, the starship’s synthesized personality, reached across the distance and opened a wide-band, multi-channel interface with the Registry Control personality. She identified herself by sending three different messages encrypted with her private security codes. By the simple act of decoding the messages with the public half of the encryption key, the StarPort persona could verify The Lady MacBeth’s identity immediately. The process usually took only a few seconds. This time, however, the StarPort persona balked and requested an additional set of Regency clearance codes.
EDNA considered the request with something approaching puzzlement. Speaking in the clear, she replied, “We have no instructions regarding additional codes. (Please advise on docking procedures.)”
StarPort responded curtly, “The Regency Administrators have activated new regulations. A fleet of Marauder-Class Fighters stands ready to vigorously enforce these rules. Even as we speak, the interception occurs. You have six minutes to re-identify yourself using the new Regency codes. If you choose not to, you may break orbit immediately. (Please watch out for the debris of the last vessel to ignore these rules. Coordinates follow.)”
EDNA began scanning instantly for the approaching Marauders. She found them just coming over the dayside horizon line, six silvery darts. They must have come from a mother ship parked in high orbit. Automatically, EDNA began defensive targeting; if they attacked, she would show them a few surprises of her own. She also noted that the starport’s extrapolation of their interception time lacked precision; the Marauders would intercept in seven, not six minutes. EDNA considered for an additional two milliseconds, then decided—quite correctly—that this matter needed the attention of a superior officer. She paged the Captain. . . .
Star-Captain Neena Linn-Campbell, earned her rank the old-fashioned way.3 She lied, cheated, conned, manipulated and clawed her way to power. Like other all ambitious souls, she left a long trail of bodies behind her; only hers remained identifiable by their expressions of astonishment. Notorious for her skills; clever, resourceful, inventive and brutal; Star-Captain Campbell operated by a single overriding principle: “Profit with honor, profit without honor—but profit nevertheless.”
Her Registry papers identified her as female, both genetically and physically. Psychologically, however, Neena Linn-Campbell had the soul of a bulldozer, and her gender-identity remained the subject of numerous bawdy StarPort jokes and speculations. Of primarily Negro-Asian descent (with some minor Palethetic mutations and tailored genes thrown in for evolutionary confusion), she possessed a remarkable intelligence and a quick sensitivity to circumstance.
A petite woman, wiry and caustic, she affected the waspish cynicism of one born to sin; she spoke with the gruff manners of an outworld dockworker and routinely rebuked all attempts at friendliness. “I already have the best friends money can buy,” she would explain. “I don’t need any more.” Quick to anger, slow to forgive, Star-Captain Campbell had established a well-respected reputation for ruthlessness in the pursuit of monetary gain; a reputation that shamed shipmasters two or three times her age.
Under different circumstances Star-Captain Campbell could have become an exquisite courtesan. Both her form and features had a classic proportion, and once upon a time, she had dressed to show herself to maximum advantage. Rumor had it that lucrative offers of employment in several major corporate harems had occurred on more than one occasion, but that Neena Linn-Campbell had deferred because she found insufficient profit in the exercise. Apparently, however, it forced her to realize that she needed to present herself as something other than a sexual plaything—the men she dealt with seemed to have no other way to see her. Subsequently, her standard garment became a severe black jumpsuit, the single most utilitarian garment she could design. The costume demonstrated a simple and direct statement: Do not touch. This individual requires respect.
Neena Linn-Campbell knew of the rumors; she neither denied or confirmed them. She never discussed her past, and her crew had learned not to speculate—although over a period of years, she had demonstrated her ability to maneuver gracefully throughout a variety of circumstances, including elegant grand balls, official state dinners, gaming tables, bargaining offices, bureaucratic chambers, the High Mass of the Purple Revelation, the Low Mass of the People’s Dionysetic Revolution, various flavors of diplomatic receptions, behind-the-scene negotiating sessions, war zones, machine shops, frontier cantinas, barnyards, high-pressure mines, heavyside dockyards, red light districts, and the occasional barroom brawl; thereby spawning a flurry of fascinating but untrue rumors about her life before her assumption of command of The Lady MacBeth.4
One fact, however, remained evident to all who encountered her. Star-Captain Campbell bore a violent opposition to slavery in any form. She refused to carry slaves, made no deals with slavers, and whenever the opportunity presented itself for anonymous action, dispatched slave-traders and their vessels without qualm. Those who had taken serious losses as a result of Captain Campbell’s unconditional actions occasionally offered sizable bounties for either her death or her capture; but no tracker had yet accepted the warrant.5
When she received EDNA’s page, Star-Captain Campbell swiveled in her chair and faced the viewer against the forward bulkhead. “What?” she demanded.
No image appeared in the holomorphic field, only EDNA’s ID insignia. “StarPort requests additional security clearances. Six Marauders approach from dayside. I have placed the ship on full alert.”
“Right. Tell StarPort to stand by. Get Zillabar.”
Almost immediately, EDNA’s badge faded and the Lady Zillabar appeared in its place. “You want something?” she asked disdainfully.
“StarPort wants a security code.”
“So?”
“Excuse me. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. If we don’t supply the appropriate clearances, they intend to destroy us. I assume you have the proper codes—or failing that, the personal authority to override the necessity?”
Zillabar’s expression hardened. “Do you remember why I engaged this vessel in particular? I wanted to keep my arrival here covert. If I identify myself to the StarPort authority, or if I supply you with an Imperial Code, I will abnegate my own secrecy.”
“And if you do not, you will abnegate your own existence.” Not to mention all of the rest of us, as well. But Neena Linn-Campbell had too much sense to speak the second part of the thought aloud.
“Oh, very well,” Zillabar sniffed. “Obviously, I expected more from you than I should have. Thank the goddess this journey ends soon. Never mind. I have several override codes with me, any one of which should work. I’ll make them available to your persona. When do you need them?”
“Immediately,” said Captain Campbell. “—if not sooner.”
“Yes. I see.” Zillabar turned to something off-camera. “EDNA—?” Her image winked out.
EDNA’s ID flashed in its place. “I will relay the Imperial Codes to StarPort. I expect immediate confirmation.”
“Do you need me on the bridge?”
“Probably,” said EDNA. “The situation promises to get stickier.”
Zillabar
The Lady Zillabar Dane-Sysnikov stood silently in her stateroom, quietly annoyed. She studied her image in the holomorphic field with a growing unease, a discontent reflected in her troubled expression.
Her business on Burihatin had not gone as she had planned. Despite the assurances of the aspiring aristocrats on the ringed world, failure and confusion had tainted the entire exercise—the late aspiring aristocrats. Had she allowed them to publicize her presence on that world, she would have borne the same stench of ineffectiveness. The secrecy of her mission had protected her reputation among her own—so far. She had intended to cover her absence by explaining she had taken a long dreamtime. If her security had remained uncompromised, no one would have ever suspected that she had journied offworld. Unfortunately, this business with the securit
y codes—
Abruptly, she noticed a frown on the holomorphic image and irritatedly composed herself; she performed the task deliberately. She spoke the little poem of peace that reminded her of the dreamtime, and allowed her face to settle back into its usual mask-like serenity. One must never allow one’s face to betray one’s thoughts. Now, refreshed, she began rotating the holomorphic view in thoughtful appraisal. Front, back, both sides—from every angle, she appeared elegant and alluring. Tall and pale, like all the Phaestor, she projected an ethereal, almost supernatural presence. Her appearance did not displease her. She wore a gown of peach and maroon, outlined with a delicate blue fluorescence, and a cape of ebony silk. Her snow-white hair fell in dazzling cascades to her shoulders. Her eyes glowed amber, barely revealing the scarlet coals within. Her skin had the crisp waxy shine of one who has risen again from the dead. Yes, she would strike sparks in the hearts of men. The thought thrilled her coldly.6
Lady Zillabar worked diligently to keep herself cloaked in the somber unearthliness of the Phaestor. She regarded it as a solemn, almost holy, responsibility to accurately represent the superior nature, the dignity, and the allure of her species in her every thought, deed, and expression; so it annoyed her grievously not to have all of the underlings around her acting in concert, unconditionally supporting her higher commitment. Obviously, they did not understand what the Phaestoric mystics saw in their visions. The cattle operated on the emotional level of unaugmented chimpanzees, thinking with their hormones and interpreting the processes of others through the same narrow filters. They might as well choose to operate their lives under the influence of hallucinatory drugs—much the same process, but at least far more controllable. The recognition of the human hormonal dilemma truly rankled the Lady’s sense of balance—on those occasions when she allowed herself to consider it at all, or worse, when the clumsy actions of some underling demonstrated the ugly fact again in her presence.
What a pity, she thought, that she could not apply some of her celebrated culinary skills to this situation. She allowed herself a delicious shudder of distaste. Then again, considering the inferior quality of the materials at hand, the resultant meal might not provide as much pleasure in the consumption as it did simply in the planning.
These mordant thoughts did not arise casually in Zillabar. The Lady would have preferred to have made this tedious journey lying in a state of pleasant dormancy, lapsed into a delicious scarlet reverie; but unfortunately, she could not entirely trust the Captain of this vessel to protect either her life or her interests while she lay asleep in impenetrable dreamtime; so she stayed awake and brooded. She knew the deprivation of soul-flight made her irritable. Ultimately, the imposition more than exasperated her—it unhinged her thinking. The Phaestor needed their access to the blood-vision to stay centered. Without it, well—Zillabar recognized the keening derangement even as it occurred and she despised herself for it. That she could not allow herself to express her wild despondency openly in front of all these malodorous underbeings only infuriated her further.
Usually, the Lady prided herself on her exquisite manners and grace—but not now, not here, and certainly not when dealing with unkempt and untrained creatures like these. . . .
Yes, they bothered her. She didn’t mind admitting it. The cattle simply didn’t know their place anymore. More and more these days, she smelled a dangerous blend of ferment and disdain in the populace—she saw it in their smirking expressions, their careless attitudes, their irresponsible behavior, even in the slovenly way they went through the motions of respect. She heard it in their whispers as she passed; they didn’t know how acutely she could hear; she heard it in the pounding of their hearts and the rushing of the blood through their veins. She smelled the resentment in their bodies; it saturated their sweat; it gave them a gamy metallic aftertaste. As an immortal, she recognized the signs; she’d seen it many times before. This surface lack of manners betrayed a deeper sickness, a festering boil of restless, unfocused hostility that would soon need lancing. Perhaps she should turn the Dragons loose again; for a while, anyway. Let them run freely and feed at will. That would return the paralyzing dread to the hearts of the cattle. A pleasant thought, that. . . .
Even in the best of times, the Lady regarded any dealings with the underclasses as a degrading task, and one better left to servants specifically trained for the duty. That she had had no choice but to manage the details of this filthy situation herself left her feeling soiled and uneasy—and the release she craved she couldn’t have. Not yet, but soon. Her tongue flicked through her slightly parted lips, then delicately across the sharp surfaces of her teeth. Soon, she promised herself. Soon.
She sniffed in annoyance, then realized that she had lost her composure again; the damned disconnection! The realization only increased her annoyance. All her rituals and charms had lost their effectiveness. Zillabar knew what she really needed—nothing less than the full release of her own boiling rage, a wild plunge into madness, a screaming leap to glory, an all-consuming killing frenzy—yes! She planned to dance with death, submerging herself in the splendid ecstasies again, as soon as she returned to her private compound. When she had once again satiated herself, when she once again had the hot blood of the kill surging rich in her veins, only then could she recover the fullness of spirit that shone at the center of her soul.
Until then . . . well, she would perform her part in this cruel gavotte. She switched off the holomorphic field; the image vanished in a twinkle, leaving only an empty space in the room. Slowly, she brought her thoughts back to the present.
This business of the security codes ought to disturb her, but it didn’t. It only amused. Obviously, somebody did not want her returning to Thoska-Roole undetected—somebody with power; that narrowed the list of suspects to only a few. She admired the cleverness of the ploy; a truly elegant way to force her to reveal her presence aboard any arriving vessel. Imperial ships wouldn’t need the codes; licensed cruisers would have received them when filing their flight plans; but any private ship attempting passage would find the entrance barred. Yes—a nice maneuver, and one that would not go unrewarded when she identified the perpetrator. Already she had her suspicions. Someone wanted people speculating about her absence, measuring it against events on other worlds, eventually connecting it with the incident on Burihatin, thus bringing the corpse home to the table.
She’d have her revenge upon the perpetrator of this embarrassment. The game might even provide some pleasant diversion, but more likely not. The whole affair had already taken on a tiresome quality.
The Lady Zillabar had already survived more than her share of Imperial intrigues. In fact, as the author of more than a few of her own, the Lady considered herself one of the foremost experts at manipulation and conspiracy in the Cluster. She doubted that her anonymous opponent in this particular chess match had the same resources at his disposal as she had at hers.7
And if her larger plan succeeded, well then—no one would ever have as much power as she did; not ever again. . . .
Pink Brinewood
Gito did not like Vampires.
That, in itself, did not constitute a crime.
Speaking one’s dislike, however—that bordered on sedition.
But Gito came from a world where popular resentment lay close to the surface and people spoke their feelings aloud. They felt safe to do so; no Vampires ever came downside, no Vampire could survive the world of Tharn. The crushing gravity, the pounding pressure of the atmosphere, the whole toxic recipe of the acidic ecology, any one of those things would have killed a Vampire quickly. Taken all together, they became an uncrossable barrier.
The high-gravity dwarves who lived on Tharn had few illusions. Their freedom took its own toll in shortened lives, painful high-pressure ailments, and cracking bone diseases. Occasionally, the Moktar Dragons8 patrolled the larger and brighter settlements, but they did it more out of duty to their distant Vampire masters than out of any zeal for Regency authority.<
br />
The Dragons clearly felt oppressed and overpowered by the terrible conditions here at ground level; they could not stay long and concentrated more on each new breath than on the security of their surroundings. Their inspections occurred quickly, their manner became only a perfunctory and indifferent imitation of their bloodier purposes. They did not have the strength to kill here, nor to feed, nor to frenzy. Tharn did not love them, the planet did not assist them; it did not love the dwarves either, but its great bulk protected them.
Genetically tailored for this planet, the dwarves survived. Genetically tailored only for strength and endurance, the Moktar Dragons could not. If they stayed, they suffered and died slowly. If they left, they did so with the dwarves laughing at their discomfort. The dwarves turned out for every Imperial departure. They smirked and waved red silk handkerchiefs. They laughed and called out lively insults to the noble representatives of their Imperial masters, bidding them a swift journey home. Sometimes they held up banners: “Don’t let the door bang you in the ass on your way out!” The Dragons pretended to ignore the catcalls and fled in shame.
The Moktar Dragons felt dishonored and helpless. They could endure the atrocious physical abuse of the planet with honor; they could not say the same for the disgrace of the dwarves’ ridicule. Amongst themselves, they howled and moaned. They suffered terribly, but not in silence, and especially not after they lifted themselves out of the appalling, god-cursed, deep gravity well of Tharn. After each retreat from the hell-planet, the Dragon-Lords complained vigorously to their masters, bemoaning the disrespectful behavior of the abominable little people and the shameful seditions they committed. They raged and roared and demanded satisfaction.
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