Starblazer- Through the Black Gate

by Reiter

  “Your scout ship will be launching in seventeen minutes, Master,” Satithe reported.

  “Well done, Satithe,” Dungias smiled. “Well done indeed!”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “To be on the safe side–”

  “The backstory for the Captain’s corrupt Maggot has already been uploaded to her brace-com,” Satithe advised.

  “Alert me when she’s actually read it,” Dungias added as he left the room. He had a quicker and lighter stride to his walk. His meditations would have to wait.

  ** b *** t *** o *** r **

  This morning promised to be different. How many times had the Princess Maradothia been summoned to the chambers of the Imperial Throne? She remembered the day she had decided to stop counting, and wondered if she would find her father in a similar state of mind as she had that day. Birthday or not, it was imperative that the Imperial Princess demonstrate character and collectiveness at all times. It simply would not do to have a child of the throne rip their skirts just so they could swing from the flags along the southern wall of the palace.

  “Came so close to breaking G’Dalior’s record too,” she recalled, rounding the last corner of her lengthy trek.

  “Thank you, Laydrun,” she said softly, nodding to the guard who had not only delivered the summons but had served as her escort. “And the best of skill in your examinations today.”

  “My lady is too gracious,” the young soldier bowed as the comely young lady entered the chamber.

  “That will be all, guard,” a slightly nasal and pinched voice called out. Though he stood with his back to the main entrance, the extravagant red, yellow and orange colors of Count Casdan Quazeki’s palace attire were hard to miss. He stood on the stairs halfway between the floor and the platform where the throne had been placed. “You were assigned a fetching task, after all.” Turning to face Maradothia, the Count took his normal and therefore more noted stance: his right forearm laid atop his left, the tips of the fingers on his left hand coming to an exact point with his right elbow. “This is not your Social Hour. Dismissed! Close and seal the chamber on your way from it!”

  “Good morning, Coun–” Maradothia was silenced by a sharp wave of Quazeki’s right hand as he closed his eyes at the same time, slightly puckering his lips to give a silent shushing suggestion. Only when the chamber door were closed and sealed did the man even exhale. His purple eyes slowly opened and shifted to look at the Princess. Combing his long black hair behind his ears, the young Count gave the Princess a false smile.

  “What we have to discuss is not for a simple guard to hear, my lady.”

  Already put off by being told to shut up, and more angry at herself for having followed the silent instruction, Maradothia found herself not wishing to fence with her father’s Minister of Affairs. “Forgive me, good Count, I was not aware we had anything to discuss. Perhaps you should make yourself clear.”

  “It has come to my attention that you are engaged in unauthorized surveillance measures,” the slender man said softly, staring intently at Maradothia.

  “Excuse me!” she exclaimed. “Who has made this claim against my name and station?!

  “Though I don’t think I have to go too far to find the culprit,” she thought, recalling her conversation with Ernestan. The two guards in front of her brother’s bedchamber doors were the only non-electronic eyes that could have reported her to Count Quazeki.

  “So instead of answering my question, you post your own inquiry to me,” the man bantered. “A most interesting reaction, usually engaged by those who have something to hide. The question here is whether that item is guilt or an unknown agenda.”

  “It has become painfully clear to me that your service to the Throne has taxed you beyond sound reason and good judgment, Count Quazeki!” Maradothia fired back. “But after such a distinguished career, it would be best to retire voluntarily and be rewarded with the gratitude of my father than risk being thrashed by his ire!”

  “Do you deny you are in counsel with the Star Gaper Ernestan Geelmus?!” Casdan snapped.

  The Princess was awestruck, but only for a very brief moment. Shock quickly turned to anger as she glared up at the man. “Perhaps it speaks to a different sort of prophecy, Count. For you to assume you have the mark and measure of one to whom I would report my relationship with so much as a hair follicle!”

  “Perhaps you need to be reminded of my station, Princess Maradothia.”

  “You are the Imperial Minister of Affairs,” Maradothia stated as she began to ascend the stairs.

  “Quite correct, milady.”

  “And as such you are the chief liaison between the Throne and the citizenry of the Empire.” Maradothia’s eyes never wavered from Casdan’s, nor did she stumble as she continued to climb the steep steps. “And by that I refer to the common citizenry.”

  “Of which her majesty is a member,” Quazeki quickly added.

  “Oh, that is where your seer is sorely mistaken,” Maradothia said as she climbed to stand taller than the Count. “Allow me to repeat these words: ‘she holds the blood, and the spirit, and the promise of my Throne, standing as one of its brightest gems and its most able servants’.”

  “What exactly are you talking about?” Casdan asked, blinking his eyes in confusion

  “She recites the words of our Master and Emperor,” a soft but strong voice answered the inquiry. The Count and the Princess looked up to see a male figure walking around the observation floor as he approached the stairs. The lights of the upper floor and ceiling kept him from being easily identified. Casdan lifted his hand to shade his eyes.

  “Who dares to eavesdrop in this chamber?!” the Imperial Minister shouted and Maradothia looked questioningly upon the Count, quickly recalling the events of how this conversation had been initiated. While she was not sure of ‘the who’, she knew all too well ‘the what’!

  “The Imperial Throne Chamber was locked and the Emperor is not in attendance,” the figure stated, reaching the slender stairway which led down to the main floor. The man walked with hardly any bounce to his body; his left hand thumb was tucked into the top of his girdle, and his right hand held the edge of his cape, keeping it clear of his feet. He walked into the light where his eyes sparkled signaling his connection with MannA. “Surely you would expect one of the Imperial Elite to investigate.”

  “Dreadnaught Ironsyde,” Maradothia smiled, nodding toward the tall and muscular frame of the man. “It is good to see you again.”

  “It is an unexpected grace to find you here, Your Majesty,” Nyrvann Ironsyde said as he reached the main floor and bowed deeply to the young girl. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Casdan said, waving the man off.

  Nyrvann gave a snort as he smirked and made his approach toward the center of the chamber. “The aid I wish to give is to you, Imperial Minister. Note that even after you have given me a directive, I have not moved to follow it. To heed to your commands, I would have to abandon my position.”

  “Maradothia is neither the Emperor, the Empress, or the Regalion!” Casdan stated as fact.

  “The words she recited were the words her father spoke on her Day of Marking,” the Dreadnaught explained. “As his Imperial voice is law, she was made an Agent of the Throne the moment she received his mark. So I will not be waved off, Count. I will defend the Throne unto my last!”

  “And it is my hope that the best of my warriors need not be deployed against a member of my own Ministry,” the Emperor spoke softly as he materialized in front of the throne. The other three occupants of the chamber were quick to initiate their salutation.

  “Father,” Maradothia spoke softly as she descended to her knee.

  “My Emperor!” Casdan stated emphatically, falling to both knees.

  “Master of us all,” Nyrvann added, placing the palm-side of his left fist against his forehead before lowering it to the center of his chest. From there, as he lowered himself to
one knee, his fist made a wide arc outward, slowly lowering his fist down to his lifted and extended right palm. Nyrvann closed his eyes and bowed his head. TrenGal Primuson waited a moment before speaking again.

  “Champion, please escort the Imperial Minister of Affairs to his offices. He is errant and must return to his desk at once in order to draft the writ of apology he will deliver to my daughter… before the day’s end!”

  “If the one whose eyes give the Stars their lead to shine will hear my words...” Maradothia started.

  “My child will always have my ear, daughter. Speak!”

  “The Imperial Minister is surely one of the most dedicated Agents of the Throne,” Maradothia said clearly. “He need not apologize for his eagerness, my father. I would simply hope he gives further consideration to his ambitions before giving them action or voice in the future.”

  TrenGal put his hand to his chin, savoring the view and the moment. “You possess your father’s wintery passion and your mother’s spring-kissed graces. Rise, my dauntless summer child, and dismiss our agents as you would have them retire. Your father wishes to hear more of your voice in his crafting chambers.”

  “I shall see myself to your side immediately, Father,” Maradothia said as her father faded from sight. The Princess stood up along with Casdan and Nyrvann. She could not keep all of the smile from breaking across her face, and Nyrvann winked at her before stepping forward to address Casdan.

  “Count Quazeki,” he said softly, “if you will come with me.”

  “I am in your debt, my Princess,” Casdan bitterly admitted.

  “Yes, good Count. You most certainly are!”

  If there is one realm in which it is essential to be sublime, it is in wickedness. You can spit on a petty thief, but you can’t deny a kind of respect for the great criminal.

  Denis Diderot

  (Rims Time: XII-4112.16)

  “I know what you’re thinking: why is it I was born with all of the dispensable wealth when this man has grace, charm, and the kind of aim that could make a Shootist cringe?” The blade was released just after he spoke. It arched over the table, ricocheted off the mounting for the lamp in the chandelier, and flew down to the center of the tray being carried by the waitress as she walked past the table. She screamed as the tip of the dagger pierced through the tray and into the palm of her hand. “Whoops!” he said, wincing and cringing. “That’s gotta sting.” The waitress only looked at him for a moment and ran to the back of the establishment.

  “He missed!” Hurjukk, a Bralkian, hissed in jubilation. Several of the persons standing around him began to cheer as well. Nulaki was taking a long draw on his cigar when he heard the claim and choked. He coughed and brushed back his long, black hair as he made a slow approach to Hurjukk.

  “They must be putting something in the food here,” Nulaki coughed as he tapped the green and gold Bralkian on the rear right shoulder. “Did you say I missed?”

  “Your translator frazzed, mixer?” Hurjukk laughed. “Yes, I said you missed… because you did!”

  “My translator’s just fine, my Bralkian friend,” Nulaki quickly answered, waving his hands in front of the Bralkian’s face. “What I am questioning is your eyesight.”

  “You off-worlders,” Hurjukk grunted. “You come to our planet, convinced the Bralkian are a backward people, and you think you can have your way with us. The rules of the game are simple, mixer,” Hurjukk said softly, leaning over Nulaki who did not seem at all intimidated by the Bralkian’s excessive height over his own six-foot frame. “And since you have brought my eyes into question, let me tell you what I do see. I see the rules right over there on that wall.”

  “As do I,” Nulaki agreed as he folded his arms.

  “You name the bet and you name the feat,” Hurjukk stated. “If you can do the feat, everyone who bet against you pays. Pretty simple, eh?”

  “Even a mixer could understand it,” Nulaki added, showing his disgust for the term often used to describe someone of mixed breeding. His green contact lenses did little to hide his sharp, non-human features. He might have been raised by a Terran, and had some of their blood in him, but he did not look like them. He took a moment to catch a glimpse of his wrist-com.

  “I’m a little ahead of schedule,” he thought.

  “Then what is the problem?!” Hurjukk shouted. “You named a bull’s eye off a ricochet! Your blade hit the chandelier… and then it hit the tray!”

  “Oh, tavern master!” Nulaki called out.

  “You know damn well I don’t take sides,” the large, round Bralkian quickly replied from behind the bar. He did not especially like Hurjukk, but he was not about to risk any of his steady business taking the side of an off-worlder.

  “All the more reason why you’re needed,” Nulaki quickly explained. “Would you be so kind as to define a bull’s eye for my friend here?”

  The tavern master looked around. The argument had drawn the interest of many of his patrons, but not in a violent way. Bralkian curiosity was a precious commodity as it was hardly ever demonstrated. But the off-worlder had put together nine feats, with the ricochet shot being the tenth. Had he struck the bull’s eye he would have collected on no less than fifteen bets. “It’s the center of a target,” he answered as he looked intently at the Fazbred Terran.

  “Usually denoted by a red dot or similar marking, yes?” Nulaki pressed.

  “Usually.”

  “Your blade didn’t even reach the target!” Hurjukk yelled.

  “And I submit…” Nulaki kicked down for the floor and the tray the waitress had dropped flipped up to his hand. His throwing dagger was still lodged in the center. Smiling up at Hurjukk, Nulaki flipped the circular serving tray over, revealing his blade in the center of a red spot of blood. “… that it did!

  “Did I designate which target I would hit, or simply that I’d hit the bull’s eye?” Hurjukk drew back his fist, but locked as he felt a sharp point in the area of his genitalia. “And if I can kick a tray up to my hand, think of what else I can do with such a talented foot… especially when it’s armed.

  “If you really want to settle this with fisticuffs, let us show respect for the good tavern master’s place of business. You name just how many I have to make bleed, and we adjourn to the back alley, where I will deal with you in very short order!

  “I would also ask that those who bet against the ten feats leave their wagers with my newly acquired acquaintance,” Nulaki added, motioning to the tavern master. “As this is a trial by combat, should I lose, then I will agree that I missed the tenth feat. But when Hurjukk and company are moaning and groaning their fate, I will return to this establishment to collect my winnings.

  “After you,” Nulaki said, gesturing toward the back door. Hurjukk looked Nulaki up and down, but he could find nothing on the form of the mixed breed that was intimidating.

  “No blades, no guns,” the Bralkian said, remembering how they had come to disagreement in the first place. He had not seen the man shoot, but anyone with the hand-eye coordination necessary to do what had been done with throwing knives was not the sort of person you wanted to chance using a gun.

  “You’re not worthy of either,” Nulaki replied. Hurjukk hissed as his yellow eyes flared and then motioned for his friends to follow him. Three stood up from their coiling pillows while five more came away from the wall.

  It was always a sight to see: the Bralkian arms and legs coming away from their bodies. The Bralkian looked like giant snakes ranging from three to nine meters in length and as wide as your average skinny Terran. Their arms and legs – they possess a forward and rear pair of each -- fit ever so neatly into the sides of the body. To be such slender limbs, they were surprisingly strong, with elbow and shoulder joints that were hyper flexible. Bralkians could either walk or slither, but only in the later mode could they hope to keep up with a running human form.

  “All of you are coming?” Nulaki asked after swallowing hard.

  “You did say to n
ame how many I wanted you to make bleed, didn’t you?” Hurjukk asked as two of the eight took up positions behind Nulaki. “Once again, you have named the feat. There are no tricks that will get you out of this one, mixer!”

  Nulaki looked at the tavern master who was shaking his head in sympathy. Nulaki frowned at the unspoken commentary. “I don’t think I’m all that bad off!”

  “Then I need to drink what you’ve been having!” the tavern man replied, smiling as other patrons laughed.

  “Just hold on to my wagers, if you please,” Nulaki pressed. “I will be back to settle accounts shortly.” As Nulaki exited the premises, one of the patrons, on his way to leaving the premises, adjusted the hood of his gray robe to keep his face out of sight, and left a small stack of credits on the bar.

  “You really think he’s going to win?!” the tavern master asked.

  “No, but from the look of things, his Healer bill might run pretty high,” he answered, and many of the patrons started laughing as the man left through the front door.

  “What a kind thought,” another patron remarked, also leaving his wager with the tavern master.

  “A funeral would be cheaper!” called out another as the laughter rose to a level where normal conversation was either suspended or simply not heard.

  In the time it took for the laughter to die down, the back door opened and Nulaki walked back inside the tavern, dusting himself off, though there was little dust on him. Open mouths and stunned eyes gazed upon him as he made his way to the bar.

  “Oh, that can’t be all, is it?” Nulaki asked and several patrons quickly made their way to the tavern, handing in their lost wagers. Nulaki smiled and nodded. The waitress with the wounded hand quickly made her way to the back door and opened it. She gasped at the sight of so many unconscious bodies in the alley.

  “They’re out,” she said at just above a whisper.

  “What?” the tavern master shouted. “What do you see?!”