“How do they deliver the eggs if everything is internal?”
“Through the cloaca.”
“Primitive.”
“The sentient ones clean the eggs, are careful to hide them in sunshine, then line the nest with just enough straw so that they won’t get too hot or too cold. The wild ones just scratch anything that’s handy over the egg, like they were burying turds.”
“A reverence for asepticism or for the young is interesting, but not conclusive.”
“Nothing’s conclusive, but there’s more.”
“What else,” Calla said, looking keenly interested. She sat down again and put her chin in her hands.
“Well, you read about the builders. Sylvan Amber is the best example of planned housing that I’ve found on the planet, though there are others that are less elaborate and of different building materials, by the way. But the most interesting thing that I’ve been able to verify is that seasonal migration occurs only among the intelligent danae. In late fall, just before the first big storm, every resident in Sylvan Amber takes wing and flies south to the temperate zone. The wild danae take wing, too, but they don’t flock and they’re just as likely to fly north as south. They stay on the move all winter; in hard winters not many who didn’t happen to go south survive.”
“Could be that they used to navigate along the magnetic lines of force,” Calla said thoughtfully. “Mutare’s poles are in the middle of a reversal; any migrating species would have difficulty.”
“Unless they remembered the way so that you didn’t have to rely on their instincts.”
“Long memory,” Calla said dryly, “or the ability to communicate the information to others in the community, and if they leave to the last danae including young stupid ones like Tonto, that means they must be able to be pretty convincing in their reasons for not staying. They have no sound-sensing organs, so they don’t talk in the ordinary sense of the word. How do they communicate?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen the slightest hint of sign language, though Old Blue-eyes may be getting the hang of what that is from me. They touch a lot, maybe there’s something in that, though I haven’t been able to find a pattern that isn’t unique to an individual. That leaves smell, and that’s a real possibility with all the esters in their system and the huge olfactory organ they have. There’s also some evidence for psi or some kind of telepathy. Wouldn’t happen to have a sensitive among your crew, would you?”
“Unlikely, but I’ll check,” Calla said. She lowered her head a second, the coppery curls almost filling the flatscreen. When she looked up, Jason saw that she was frowning.
“Something’s wrong?”
“I just wish there was some way to protect the danae until this question of their being sentient was all sorted out.”
“Calla, even if I could prove it tomorrow and slap the bans on this planet, do you really think the Decemvirate would recall us and remove the civilians to end the killing? There are people who would murder their best friends for half of what one crystal would bring them back in the Hub, and now the danae are caught up in a war, too.
Calla smiled wryly. “There was a time when you would have wished for justice for the danae right now.”
“That was the same time you would have demanded it, but I guess we’ve both outgrown our ideals,” he said, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.
“Not I,” she said, her voice sharp. “I’m more practical in applying them now, but I have not changed.”
Jason shrugged. “If you say so, but . . .” He stopped because her eyes suddenly looked moist and he realized she thought he was mocking her physical appearance, which obviously had changed. Before he could think of anything to say, he heard Calla’s abrupt, “Goodnight.”
“Oh, damn,” he muttered to the blank screen. “You never cared what you looked like ten years ago. You knew you weren’t a beauty, so why go thin-skinned on me now? Dammit, Calla, you’ve got golden worlds on your shoulders and that hasn’t offended me any worse than I expected. Your wrinkles don’t either. Can’t we at least be friends?”
“You’re not connected, Ranger-Governor D’Estelle. Shall I forward your last comments to Commander Calla?”
“No,” Jason said shaking his head. He threw off the cerecloth and paced across the room and back. The bed made itself and the jelly beans in every apparatus in the room dimmed to almost invisibility, and still he paced.
Chapter 5
Ramnen Mahdi Swayman, Imperator General of all Legions for the Council of Worlds, was seated on the dais facing the empty chairs in the gymnasium on his flagship, Night Messenger. On the podium before him was a vial of yellow liquid, which he had placed there only seconds ago. The diaphragm on the far bulkhead opened silently to admit a dark-haired woman wearing legion khaki and a night black navigator’s cape neatly held in place at her shoulders by silver broaches.
“Marcia Roma Maclorin,” the nomenclator in Mahdi’s ear whispered, “General, Navigator of the Fleet . . .”
Mahdi clamped his teeth to cut off further description. He knew the navigator of his personal fleet. Roma bowed instead of saluting, as if he were already emperor, and Mahdi smiled.
“Did you give my message to Larz Frennz Marechal?”
“In person, sir. And I bring his personal assurance that the Decemvirate’s recommendation will not be presented to the Council of Worlds until six months from now. He puts his life on it.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he,” Mahdi said with a chuckle. He reached for the vial and began stroking the smooth container between his forefinger and thumb. “Who would have thought that a decemvir could be bought with his own elixir?”
“Marechal’s is an unusual case. He came to the Hub because his genes were perfect, but by the time he came to the council’s attention, he was already an old man. His station entitles him to a sustaining dosage, but not enough to reverse the aging process.”
“Any evidence that the doses we’ve given him have reversed the process?”
Roma shook her head. “None, but I think it would take twenty-five years before you’d begin to notice anything. He’s determined to be patient.” Roma was watching the vial in Mahdi’s fingers anxiously.
Mahdi sat back in the chair and began drumming the podium with the vial. Twenty-five years was too long to wait to find out if it would work. Oh, he’d be done with Marechal long before then in any case, for he had only sixteen years to go before his term with the Decemvirate ended, and in truth, Mahdi probably would not need him after six months from now. He wondered if he should consider continuing his gifts to Marechal even so. Twenty-five years was not so long when measured against even hundreds, or forever. Mahdi had stopped his own body’s aging when it was forty-nine, and he was strong and virile. But how might it feel to be twenty-five again or seventeen? Could he make love more than once in a night if he were even younger? But no one knew what happened to the body if the dose were increased. A proper dose arrested any aging; what would an overdose do? He shook his head.
“Sir?” Roma said.
“Nothing.” He looked at the vial between his fingers, stopped drumming with it. Roma noticed and seemed to breathe easier. She knew it was hers. He tapped the podium again, pretending to be lost in thought. “Set course for Mutare just as soon as we’ve passed detection range.”
“Mutare?” Roma said, surprised. “That’s a three-month trip, sir.”
“That’s why I needed Marechal to assure me six months. Wouldn’t do to have the revolution start without its leader, now would it?”
“Of course not, sir, but . . . Mutare? I’m not even sure there’s a ranger station there.”
“There is, and a new elixir garden, as well. Decemvirate thinks it has financed a cosmic radiation research center expansion. In reality, they are processing something that’s fairly well researched. Elixir. I want to be certain it’s producing before the revolution starts. All the other production facilities are on old worlds, you know.”
> Roma nodded. “You fear the Cassells Fleet might destroy them and want a reserve supply.”
“They won’t be destroyed. No one would harm any of the facilities because if they did, they’d harm themselves as well. No, they’ll be fine. But supplies might be cut off from time to time, especially if we cannot take all the worlds in one fell swoop. The war would go on in some places for years. We won’t have enough for our own people if that happens. Mutare’s facility will alleviate that problem.” He leaned forward and handed over the vial to Roma. Her fingers were cold in his hand as he encircled them with his own. “You won’t have to worry about where your next dose is coming from. You’ll stay your thirty-five, no gray in your pretty black hair.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, eyes downcast. Mahdi knew she would spit in his eye if the delicate vial were not between their pressed fingers, but it amused him to make her behave like a common thirty-five year old woman. Pity that the younger ones weren’t vulnerable. They had to find that first gray hair, or notice that their skin was no longer supple before they really believed that old age would come to them. Men were no different, but he had no taste for young men.
Mahdi released Roma’s hand and sat back in the dais chair. “Do you like to hunt, Roma?”
“That depends on the quarry,” she said, wary now.
“Elusive, fleet, and valuable. Danae, they’re called. An avian species indigenous to Mutare. They are the source of crystallofragrantia. You know what that is?”
Roma shook her head.
“It’s a crystal that smells like perfume. The crystal can be cut into semiprecious gems that are very attractive in themselves, and when the stone is treated, it’s an everlasting source of fragrance. The diamond exchange in the Hub is paying diamond-mass value. In its uncut natural state, it’s a gall on the danae’s excretory organ. I hope to acquire one while I’m on Mutare, have it cut and set into rings and such. The hunt will be a pleasant diversion before returning to face the revolution.”
“It sounds fascinating, sir.”
“How about a manhunt,” Mahdi said. “Does that intrigue you, too?”
“Sir?”
Mahdi nodded absently. “A detail inspection and a hunt should provide enough time for us to engage in a manhunt, too. We must identify one person on Mutare who would give anything for a supply of elixir. This person must be of sufficient rank to supply us with any inside information we may need.”
“I don’t understand, sir. Is this installation on Mutare yours, or isn’t it?”
Mahdi shrugged and looked at his fingernails. “For the time being, the Decemvirate controls elixir facilities. I was able to cause this one to be created, and specify its location, but I didn’t staff it. The Decemvirate did.”
Roma’s fist tightened around the vial. “Do we have personnel records for the Mutare staff?”
Mahdi frowned and shook his head. “We’ll have to identify this person when we get on site. I want you to plan an inspection schedule that will provide all the access we need to both people and records.”
“I understand.”
“I was certain you would.” He smiled benevolently. “Just don’t fail to leave sufficient time for the danae hunt.”
“I won’t forget. I’m looking forward to that myself.”
“I’ll keep you in mind,” Mahdi said absently, “and if I want companionship during the hunt, I’ll let you know. You may go now.”
“Yes, sir.” Again her fist tightened around the vial. Her knuckles were white and Mahdi suspected her tongue was clenched between her teeth. But Roma would say nothing for the next three months though she’d wonder what kind of companionship he meant. She would never find out. He had no intention of asking for her company. Not this time.
Chapter 6
Calla walked to Round House in the late afternoon, but stopped off at the terrace garden to see if the danae were there. She topped the limestone hogback and paused, shielding her eyes from the sun. A danae clung to the trunk of a stunted tree not ten meters from her, wings coiled into translucent cylinders along its back. The compound eye between the wings blinked and seemed to focus on her, but the avian did not move. This was as close as she’d gotten to one in these last two weeks though she’d visited nearly every day. Moving slowly, Calla sat on a boulder to rest her leg while she studied the danae. It was neither Old Blue-eyes nor Tonto, but she believed she’d seen this one a few days ago or one that had similar yellow mottles along the spine. It had fled that day when she tried to approach it, so today she decided simply to wait and watch. After a few minutes, the compound eye swiveled in its socket, coming to rest its gaze on Calla no more frequently than any other feature in the garden, and the danae returned its primary attention to whatever it was doing to the tree trunk.
The danae’s body was better than a meter long, divided almost evenly between a thorax on top and an abdomen below. It had no true head but it’s brain was well protected by a special network of hollow bones, floating ribs really, located under the powerful wing muscles. Shiny brown scales covered the body with the yellow mottled circles along the back and dusting out onto the wings. When it moved, the slender body looked almost snakelike, it was so flexible, but it stepped using two short arms and grasshopper-like legs to keep it against the tree trunk. She got a glimpse of its brown belly around a face with green eyes and from this new angle she could see its purple tongue flick out to the trunk, perhaps to snare an insect, and from time to time one of the arms would dart out to grab something from the air and press it between the O-ring lips that covered the gullet.
Without warning, the danae unfurled its wings and half flew, half leaped through the branches to the uppermost perch where the long hind legs straightened, suction pad toes wrapped around mere twigs while the wings beat the air to hold it erect. It was tall now, two meters with the legs extended, the short forearms pressed under blurred wings that made the air hum. From the direction of Round House, Calla saw Jason walking toward her along the top of the hogback. He was holding his arm high above his head, a sprig of berries between his fingers.
“Stay still,” Jason said when he was close enough for her to hear, “and I’ll see if I can get her to come closer.” He continued walking until he was next to Calla. “It’s Builder. She doesn’t come here often, but she’s usually friendly when she does.”
“You think she’ll take the berries from you?”
Jason nodded. “They like fresh fruit and they can’t get it this early in the spring around here, except from our freezer.”
“She . . . why she? Never mind; she’s a nest-builder and you’re an old romantic. She seems interested.”
“Oh, she’s interested all right. Hasn’t had anything but bugs and buds since she flew up from the south last month. And she’s curious, too. She spent the afternoon watching my people cut steps down there, tried to lift a jack-light, but it was too heavy.”
Calla looked over her shoulder down the hogback toward Round House. There were fresh white scars on the buttress of rock she’d been scaling each day, and the trail had been cleared of rubble and the high spots knocked down almost to the place where she’d turned off to come up here. “You’d do better to put those rock cutters on finishing the tunnel between Red Rocks and Round House so we could come to dinner without these stellerators,” Calla said.
Jason shook his head. “It will be a while before we can get back to the tunnel. The engineers are working on the . . . look! Here she comes.”
The danae had let loose of the twigs and was moving through the air, still in the upright position. Jason brought his other arm up over his eyes when Builder got close, for the wings were stirring a great deal of dust. The long legs touched his shoulder and the wings furled. Knobby knees bent legs as thin as sticks until the berries were in reach of the little fingers at the end of the arms. It popped the berries into its mouth one at a time, the lips working furiously as it swallowed. The green eyes were on Calla, and this close she could see the olfactory
buds she’d read about ringing the face.
When the berries were gone, Builder handed the empty sprig back to Jason and crouched down on his shoulder. Jason smiled and ran his hand over a collar of danae, which then snaked under his arm and reached over to Calla, startling her with its touch. She felt the little fingers on her hair and when the creature withdrew to Jason’s shoulder again, it took along a few hairs. It looked at Calla for a moment, almost mischievously she thought, then it crouched and sprang, wings unfurling to catch itself in mid-air and gain some altitude before it soared down along the hogback to the forest below. It caught a powerful upcurrent along the mesa, and soon was only a speck in the sky. Now she felt Jason’s hand on her hair.
“Did she hurt you?”
“No, a few hairs.” She shook her head and he took his hand away. “I can spare them.”
“I think she was curious because of the color.” He crossed his arms over his chest and for the first time Calla noticed a livid scar on his forearm. She didn’t ask about it. It was fresh, but it would be gone just as soon as he found time to spend a few hours in the clinic. “Headed for Round House?” he asked finally.
“Yes, early dinner and to talk to you about what you want to do for D’Omaha’s arrival.” She stood up. “He’ll be coming down from Belden Traveler the day after tomorrow.”
“I don’t know,” he said, ambling with her back toward the trail below. “I’ve never been host to a Praetor before. I suppose the VIP treatment is in order, tour of the facilities, nice dinner. How long is he good for?”
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