Cascade Point and Other Stories Part 23

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?"

"d.a.m.n you!" Phelan's temper was very near the breaking point. "Your d.a.m.n dragons and your d.a.m.n 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, d.a.m.n 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 Pa.s.s 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 n.o.bility 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 const.i.tutional 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 antic.i.p.ation, he bounded up the outside steps of the KDS building, bade farewell to the suns.h.i.+ne, 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 course 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, d.a.m.n 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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."

Charley stared at the floor for a moment, then sighed and got to his feet.

"Yeah, you're right. I guess I'd better. I'll check back with you later."

"Yes, please do." Whitney came around from behind his desk and gave Charley a warm handshake. "Good luck."

The world seemed darker when Charley emerged onto the sidewalk. He paused for a moment, feeling a mild disorientation that seemed part of the numbness in his brain, and then turned east and began walking. He still couldn't believe this was really happening to him, that a lifetime of conscientious work could be threatened by something as meaningless as a burp in a bubble-memory somewhere.

Walking in a private fog, he almost pa.s.sed right by the Baltimore branch of the National Employment Office, a modern building he'd seen often from the commuter but never entered. Steeling himself, he joined the stream of people at one of the revolving doors and made his way inside.

It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, and for a moment he stood rooted in place, taking it all in. The entire first floor seemed devoted to rows and rows of computer terminals. Each machine had a line of people waiting in front of it; around these relatively stable promontories swirled a sea of people traveling to or from other terminals or the huge display boards that lined the walls. In the center of the floor ran a pair of escalators; through their openings he could see that the second floor seemed laid out like the first, and was just as crowded. To his right, on the wall by the entrance, was a building directory, and Charley worked his way across the stream of people until he was close enough to read it. COMPLAINT DEPT. was listed as Room 702. Spotting a bank of elevators, he pushed his way into the crowd. Minutes later, he was on the seventh floor.

Room 702 had nothing of the wide-open s.p.a.ces of the ground floor, consisting instead of eight boxed-off cubicles with strategically placed upright panels directing the flow of traffic. There were about sixty people ahead of him, so Charley chose one of the shorter lines and settled down to wait. Surprisingly enough, the lines moved quickly, and within a half hour of his arrival he was sitting down across from a tired-looking middle-aged man with frown lines stamped across his face. "Good day, Mr. Ryon-" Charley began, glancing at the desk nameplate.

"Name, number, and previous job category?" the other snapped, fingers resting on his terminal keyboard.

Charley gave them. "What happened, you see, was that I was fired accidentally-"

"Just a minute," Ryon interrupted peevishly. "Your file's not on yet."

Charley subsided. He should have expected a delay; after being at the same job for so long, his records were probably on one of the "low-use" tapes in Was.h.i.+ngton's master files, and an operator would have to be sent to get it. The way things were going, of course, his file would probably be moved to a more accessible tape on the next adjustment run.

"Says here you were terminated as of Friday, 8 May 2009, from Key Data Services, Baltimore," Ryon said at last. "That true?"

"Yes, but it was an accident-computer malfunction or human error or something."

"Should've corrected it last Sat.u.r.day. Way too late now. Next!"

"Hold on! That's not fair-no one goes into work on weekends. We should be allowed one business day."

Ryon's frown lines deepened a bit. "The book says 'twenty-four hours.' If your boss is too lazy to pull a ten-minute computer overview on weekends, it's not our fault. Next!"

Charley didn't budge. "I want to see your superior."

"Forget it. I said you haven't got a case." His finger hovered over a b.u.t.ton.

"You gonna leave quietly or do we do this the hard way?"

Swallowing, Charley took the easy way.

He got off the elevator on the second floor which, as he'd surmised, was laid out like the first. For a long moment he hesitated, distaste and apprehension holding him back. But Whitney had been right; it only made sense to sign up.

Picking a line at random, Charley took his place at the end.

Again, the line moved quickly. Watching the men and women at the keyboard, Charley could tell they were all familiar with this routine. Not only were they fast, but they all invariably skipped past the pages of instructions. Fidgeting uncomfortably, Charley tried to remember everything he'd ever read about the lottery.

Finally, it was his turn. Stepping up to the console, he pushed the "start"

b.u.t.ton.

TYPE YOUR NAME, NUMBER, AND PREVIOUS JOB CATEGORY, the machine instructed him.

Charley complied, CATEGORY/REGION? it asked.

COMPUTER PROGRAMMER/BALTIMORE, Charley typed carefully.