“There are only two more pockets of decoy riches in this nest,” the Drake, disturbing and pallid and naked in the darkness, rose from where she’d been sitting at the far side of the chamber and clinked towards Greyblade across the scattered treasure. She’d reassumed her human form, but had left her toga-cloth behind – or had let it burn to ash in the process of burrowing to this location and sealing her tunnels behind her. “I do not give this up easily.”
“This treasure pile is what you’re concerned about?” Greyblade looked around. Dragons. “I didn’t even think this was your sort of treasure.”
“It isn’t,” the Drake said. “To be honest, these items were not even favoured by your friend Thelion Bahere, which is why they were placed in this abandoned section of the Homestead. But my kind do not … enjoy having things taken from our nests. And this has been my nest for all of my life.”
“You know, it might be enough to satisfy them if I reveal this cache,” Greyblade said, but again it felt like a lie.
“No,” the Drake said. “They will require more. Something impressive. Something that shows your daunting abilities and reassures them of your respect for human sovereignty. They will accept nothing less than this betrayal,” she tilted her strange head. “You already know this.”
“I know it,” Greyblade said heavily. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t had my nervous system upgraded with tactics and war game scenarios as an infant.”
“Speaking of which,” the Drake said, “how does a Burning Knight of Brutan the Warrior take a Dragon into custody?”
“Ah, as to that,” Greyblade said, “I thought we could just let them wonder about it. Along with other mysteries like how you’ve survived down here for so long. It might help to enhance my standing and the reputation of the Burning Knights.”
“Perhaps,” the Drake said. “Or perhaps you do not have any ideas?”
“I guess we’ll never know,” Greyblade replied. “Will you be alright in human custody?”
“I do not think they will mistreat me,” the Drake said. “Although naturally, I would like you to complete your quest as quickly as possible so I will not have to enjoy their hospitality for long.”
Greyblade nodded. “And your caves under Adelbairn?”
“Quite safe,” the Drake said. “Gabriel will watch over them. Sister Bazinard will watch over them. Osrai will watch over them. And the I-Spy will, I think, continue to watch over us all,” she favoured Greyblade with another long-toothed, disturbing smile. “Just do your best to ensure that your long and strange roads are not too long.”
“I will,” Greyblade promised. “So Magna sent you that prophecy of hers, did she?” the Drake nodded, they stood looking at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds, then Greyblade glanced around without much hope. “I don’t suppose there are any clothes in here?”
“Why?” the Drake asked. “Do you need to change?”
THE GOOD ALIEN
Before too much longer, the Adelbairn alien quarter regulatory and security department arrived on the scene with an extraction team. In fact, considering they’d been called out to a breached Dragon nest, they were more like an extraction army.
The police seemed disappointed when Greyblade pulled the Drake up out of the still-cooling hole and led her to one of the armoured cars. There was a huge flat-bed lifting rig with carbon-composite bands as thick as Greyblade’s torso, and the drivers and crew on that monster seemed even more disappointed than the police. Greyblade was fairly sure even a young and possibly-unfit Dragon like the Drake would have been able to snap the bands like twigs, even if a quick microanalysis confirmed they probably couldn’t be melted by Dragonfire.
“That’s a Dragon?” he heard one of the humans mutter.
“Why’s it naked?”
“Why’s it look like it’s made of uncooked noodles?”
“I heard they were meant to be good at impersonating humans. Just proves how much of what we think is true really is, doesn’t it?”
Greyblade hoped the Drake’s hearing was less acute than his own, but the Drake didn’t seem to care either way.
“So,” the human in charge, an imposing woman whose powerful physique and drab uniform made her look like she’d been constructed from bricks like some sort of military-industrial-complex golem, approached Greyblade as he was closing the vehicle door. “You’re Greyblade, first name Sir?” she consulted a heavy interface that looked several generations older than the one Magna had possessed. “Passed the final Adelbairn checkpoint yesterday evening and was admitted to the alien quarter where you promptly disappeared in the vicinity of known extralegal establishments?”
“Is extralegal one word or two?” Greyblade asked. “It changes the tone of the whole question–”
“One,” the officer replied levelly. “And I would thank you to take this seriously.”
Greyblade wasn’t sure he believed this human capable of thanking anyone for anything. “It seems the Burning Knights have something of a reputation for debauchery,” he said. “I figured I might as well capitalise on that to allay suspicion and help build a connection with the dissident groups operating in Dumblertown. And I’m pretty sure you know that ‘Sir’ is a title,” for a soldier who has been granted a knighthood by the Firstmades themselves, he considered adding, but didn’t.
The officer grunted in unwilling acknowledgement, and consulted her device again. “And so in the course of a single night you ingratiated yourself with the alien quarter pervert community, discovered the location of a Dragon nest we’ve been trying to find for thirty years, and somehow subdued an actual Dragon, or a crude approximation thereof, that we didn’t even know existed?”
“That sounds about right, officer,” Greyblade said, “although I can’t say that summary was flattering to anyone involved.”
“It’s Commander,” she corrected him lazily, “and we’ll have to delay signing off on your story until we actually see our suspect in Dragon-form. And make sure you haven’t cut through any valuable subterranean infrastructure. And see what sort of monetary value our little find here has, and whether it offsets the cost incurred by this whole circus,” she turned to nod at the team that was lining up and preparing to descend into the hole on ropes. “Right now, all we can confirm is that you knowingly violated the terms of your visitor’s permit and went illegally digging for treasure using a stolen subharmonic heat agitator, culminating in the abduction of a local recluse with an evident genetic disorder. Plus whatever mental problem led to her being naked. Assuming for a second you didn’t just drag her out here from whichever freak-brothel you found her in. That’s a thing, you know, Mister Greyblade. Freak-brothels.”
“Understood,” Greyblade said, silently swearing that he would never address this incompetent, venal little moron as Commander. “I couldn’t say how much this hoard is worth, but there might be some items of value in there. And considering that I cut my way down to the nest – without intersecting any public or corporate constructs in the process, and using a borrowed cutter – and could not find another access point … I think it’s safe to assume she dug her way in there and sealed it up behind–”
He was interrupted by a burst of chatter from around the hole and the crew there pulled back, drawing one of their number up by his rope and letting him flail on the sand and shed his steaming armour. The officer in charge turned accusingly to Greyblade.
“It’s almost three hundred degrees down there!”
“Yes,” Greyblade said calmly. “Couldn’t you tell that from the hot air venting out of the hole? It might cool down faster if you cut some more holes, otherwise I estimate it will be another day or so before it’s cool enough for your troops to go down there. Be careful of the valuable subterranean infrastructure, though.”
“We’ll have to hold you until–”
“Yes, I understand,” Greyblade sighed. “Whatever you need. I was trying to help, you know. The sovereignty of human governance on Earth, in accordance with the T
reaty of Mumbai, is of paramount importance to the Burning Knights.”
“Uh huh,” the officer said. “That reminds me, we’re also going to have a heap of forms and declarations and agreements for you to sign.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Oh, you’ll be waiting,” she nodded curtly towards another armoured car. “In the meantime … until we can confirm that you’re one of those mythical ‘good’ aliens I’ve heard so much about, you’ll have plenty to keep yourself busy. Well, I say ‘plenty’ … you should probably expect to be bored.”
“Beats the alternative,” he shrugged.
“Give us all the information and permissions we’re entitled to, and we’ll ship you to Axis Mundi without leaving a censure on your visitor’s record,” the officer told him. “Your cooperation will be noted, and rewarded with preferential return-visit privileges,” she scowled. “Well, I say ‘preferential’,” she went on, “and ‘privileges’…”
“And ‘rewarded’,” Greyblade added helpfully. The human narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll help you close the file on your fugitive Dragon,” he said, “and leave peacefully without making a fuss. And you won’t put a black mark on my record.”
“Now you’re getting it,” the officer said, and jerked her head again. “Get in the car, Mister Greyblade.”
TEN SISTERS
Unexpectedly, Gabriel appeared to see him off.
“What are you doing here?” Greyblade said, rising to his feet.
Gabriel shuffled into the small but adequately comfortable ‘secure guest quarters’ that Greyblade had been provided at the Adelbairn Department of Four Realms Security. It wasn’t a cell, and it wasn’t an apartment, but it managed to combine several negative elements of both in a way that would probably have been unpleasant for a ‘guest’ more dependent on the environment outside his suit of armour.
It was also, as far as his sensors had been able to establish, free of surveillance and recording equipment. His privacy, at least when not taking part in interviews and as long as he didn’t set foot outside his door, was reasonably assured. Which was probably why Gabriel had managed an appearance at all.
“What is this?” the Archangel asked, poking a long finger at a plate of different-coloured food blobs on a nearby table. “You taken up painting?”
“I ate the Scorched Ochre and had some of the Vaulting Blue for dessert,” Greyblade said. “They were quite nice, and I had been feeling low on phosphates recently. Now, what are you doing here? This is a government building. Secular as they come.”
“It’s also two in the morning,” Gabriel said, “which I’m sure you knew … but most government employees, if they think about Angels at all, seem to think unsanctified ground basically repels us, all the time. It wasn’t particularly difficult to get in here,” he poked a finger into the red blob, then licked it.
“I think that’s meant to be hot sauce,” Greyblade said as the Archangel made a face.
“It failed on at least two levels.”
“Is there any news I might not have heard?” Greyblade asked. “I’m told they confirmed my nest find, and the Drake did reveal herself to actually be a Dragon and not a nudist sex-mutant or whatever their working theory was.”
“Not much about it on the open networks,” Gabriel confirmed, “although I think most of the treasure turned out to be worthless so they’re going to convert the nest into a museum. They tried to figure out where the collapsed tunnels were based on thermal mapping, but the Drake has been doing this for a while. There’s some resentment in Dumblertown about how you sold the Drake out, but we can get out in front of that and make sure anyone who matters knows it was unavoidable – and was the Drake’s idea. Sister Bazinard and the others are alright. The Drake the club will keep running and there was no legal connection to the Drake the Dragon.”
“And no physical connection, I hope.”
“Right. Like I said, she closed all the tunnels, and once we get at least one surface access open again I’ll go down there and look after things until…”
“Until I get back and we can bust the Drake out and save the world,” Greyblade concluded.
“Exactly. That.”
“It’s been almost twelve hours since I last had to fill out a form or provide my biometric identity signature,” Greyblade said. “Would it be wildly optimistic to assume they might ship me out by morning?”
“Maybe not wildly,” Gabriel said. “Inappropriately, perhaps…” he squinted at Greyblade. “I don’t know how you do it,” he went on. “Full helmet and visor, and I can still tell you’re scowling about something.”
“I’m a Burning Knight of Brutan the Warrior,” Greyblade remarked. “I’m always scowling.”
“Come on, Kisser.”
Greyblade sighed. “What I’m trying to figure out is,” he replied, “how much of this did I really already know so Magna could make a subconscious-future prophecy out of it, and how much did I only start thinking about seriously because of the prophecy? She said she was just telling me stuff I already knew, with all the intermediate steps taken out and going straight to deductions. But telling me the deductions made me take the steps.”
“Chicken and egg,” Gabriel said. “I wouldn’t burn out a capacitor trying to figure it out. Self-fulfilment has always been a big element in prophecies. But I take it from this metaphysical quandary that you at least have some idea what to look for?”
“I know exactly what to look for,” Greyblade said in annoyance. “I haven’t the first clue where to look.”
“Is that right,” Gabriel said wearily. “Look, Kisser. The TrollCagers know what they’re meant to be doing, whether or not you’ve told them everything and whether or not they can succeed with partial information. If you take too long, we’ll start without you. There’s a lot to do before this crazy plan of yours works.”
“At least you’re calling it a plan now,” Greyblade said. Gabriel didn’t smile. “I’m not sure what you mean about partial information, though.”
“Before you leave,” Gabriel said, lowering himself into one of the antiseptic-smelling little armchairs and resting his knuckles on the thin carpet, “you need to tell me the truth.”
“I haven’t lied,” Greyblade protested.
“Then tell me all of it.”
Greyblade shook his head. “I suspected there was something,” he said. “I told you. Not just what I learned at the Thalaar Institute … I’d been led to believe, from the way the Disciples and Jalah turned from Earth – yes, it was the war, but it was more than that. So I came to find out what it was.”
“Based on some hunch, and a set of data extrapolated from Stormburg’s Theorem that would have to smarten itself up to even qualify as bullplop?” Gabriel demanded.
Greyblade sighed again, and sat down in the second armchair. The last time he’d sat in it had been almost twelve hours before, as he’d said – for an acutely embarrassing interview with a department-assigned ‘wellbeing psychologer’. The most embarrassing part had been when the man had tried to explain the difference between a psychologist and a psychologer without admitting that a psychologer was not actually a licensed medical professional of any kind and the certification took twenty minutes, eighteen of which was matching feelings to colours in a book of swatches.
“There was more,” he admitted.
“Oh yeah?”
Greyblade sat for a few seconds, mulling over his options. He still had no intention of lying … but it was becoming increasingly clear that his decision to keep some information to himself had been a tactically sound one, to which he should adhere as much as possible.
“I had a dream,” he said eventually.
“You came all this way because of a dream?” Gabriel exclaimed. “I didn’t think you slept, let alone…”
“We sleep,” Greyblade said, “sort of. And Burning Knight dreams and visions and prophecies are even drier and more scientific than the TrollCage insighteds’, let alone the wild raptures o
f the Áea-folk of old. The dream that started me on this path was fractal-recursive downtime analysis of the data I collected at the Thalaar Institute. It’s more a computer process than an organic function.”
“Sounds riveting,” Gabriel said. “Can you tell me about it, or is it just ‘zero zero one zero one zero zero, yea, verily, zero one one zero’?” Greyblade aimed his visor steadily at the Archangel, who had the decency to shrug.
“It was an actual dream,” Greyblade said, “allowing for a certain amount of translational leeway.”
“Let’s hear it.”
GREYBLADE’S DREAM
Four great waves of people were fleeing from an indeterminate region before me. They fled past me and away up a long, steep ridge behind my viewpoint. As in all of my dreams, in this one I was a disembodied perspective – in this case floating somewhere in the air at the base of the ridge. The ridge was like a long standing wave of pale sand extending in both directions. A dune, perhaps. It was spotted with low, arid-adapted vegetation.
The first wave of fleeing people were nurses, medics, doctors, scientists.
The second wave was larger, and it was composed of civilians. They caught up with the first wave as they were struggling up the slope of the ridge. People were trampled and tossed aside.
The third wave was soldiers. They fled up the ridge, caught up with the first and second waves, and joined in the trampling and the throwing. Since they were armed, they also began shooting their way through.
The fourth wave was the monsters. Murderers and torturers and predators and serial killers, Imago and Demons. They fled up the ridge and caught up with the first three waves as they struggled and fought their way towards the top of the ridge. The violence increased.
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