Alien Chronicles 1 - The Golden One (3 page)

He would lose money by selling her this early, but he wasn’t going to be greedy now. He wasn’t even going to risk the auction at premarket. He could no longer afford to take chances.

Poal knew of a dealer in the rare and costly, a Gorlican who specialized in supplying pets to affluent households. Like all his kind, the Gorlican possessed repellent manners and a visage so ugly he kept it hidden behind a mask, yet Gorlicans were a useful race, hardworking allies to the Viis empire. Most were merchants and shopkeepers, like his acquaintance, eager to partake of the buying and selling so repugnant to the middle and upper Viis classes. Poal decided to take a chance and go straight to the pet dealer. Tynmez would not hear about the golden Aaroun he had missed until it was too late to steal her.

Inflating his air sacs, Poal hissed to himself and gunned his transport even faster.

CHAPTER
•TWO

In the Chamber of Hatching, an ancient, rough-hewn place of stone and sand, antiquated torches blazed with unsteady radiance. Female Viis attendants, all blue-skinned and wearing identical saffron-colored robes, stood rowed around the perimeter of the sand, silently watching the imperial eggs.

Low drumbeats throbbed in a steady cadence that stirred primitive urges within Sahmrahd Kaa.

Sighing with anticipation, he closed his brilliant blue eyes and let his senses submerge into the raw, ancient sound. Other musical instruments from antiquity joined in . . . the symstera wailing low and urgent; the flyta piping in swift staccato counter-point. For a few bars, the music reprised the mating songs, then it descended into the simple, pounding drumbeats once again. All the collective anticipation, the waiting since dawn, filled the Kaa.

With his eyes still closed, the Kaa leaned forward on his throne. His will, his consciousness, surged toward the eggs.
Come forth, little ones
, he thought.
Come forth that we may rejoice over you
.

The drums stilled abruptly, leaving a silence heavy and profound. The Kaa gasped and opened his eyes. He peered over the railing and heard a distinctive crack before he saw the split appear in one of the eggs. The female attendants raised their arms and sang in unison, the melody one of rejoicing and encouragement.

Another egg rolled over. From the screened, secluded gallery above the Kaa’s throne, he heard a collective gasp followed by a few muted giggles coming from his favorite wives, those whose eggs he had fertilized this year. Their excitement and anticipation fell like a hot breath on the back of his neck.

The Chamber of Hatching vaulted high overhead, its intricately carved ceiling lost among the shadows. The imperial eggs—large, faintly iridescent orbs of life—lay atop warmed sand. Attendants in cerise-hued robes appeared. With blankets folded over their arms, they hovered expectantly near the eggs while the birthing song rose and echoed. Another egg opened, and another, spilling awkward occupants into the world.

Now there were several damp, struggling youngsters crawling amidst shell fragments, gawky in their first movements as they rubbed off their opaque membranes to reveal their resplendent skin colors. The warm air grew fragrant with the birthing scent, and the Kaa inhaled deeply, feeling his own hatching memories stir in the vaguest recesses of his mind.

Attendants swarmed about the hatchlings, blocking much of the Kaa’s view. He glimpsed wobbly heads, a tiny crimson rill as tender as a sigh, a flailing tail, miniature fingers and toes gripping the hands of the adults. Grinning to himself, the Kaa rose to his feet in an effort to see better.

The Master of the Imperial Hatchery moved slowly among the eggs, eyeing those not yet broken, now and then laying his hand gently atop a shell. Fifty-two imperial eggs this year. But how many hatchlings? The Kaa watched as the master frowned and gestured for two unhatched eggs to be lifted and taken away. The Kaa pretended not to see those failures. Reseating himself on his throne, he switched his tail from side to side and allowed himself no thought of the stillborn.

He was impatient to see the living.

“Sire.”

The Kaa half turned on his crimson cushion, allowing the Master of the Imperial Hatchery to approach him. This was a private moment for the Kaa, one of the few permitted to the Father of the Empire, the Supreme Warrior, the Guardian of the Golden Seals, the Lord of All Things. He ruled countless worlds. His word alone was law. He could take life with a single glance at the green-robed guards standing alert behind his throne.

He could give life as well.

The Kaa’s brilliant blue eyes widened and softened. He returned his gaze to his progeny crawling on the birthing sand.

His rill lifted above the jeweled collar supporting it, spreading in a magnificent deepening hue of crimson. His blood thrummed with excitement.

“Sire, your imperial hatchlings have been sorted.”

This time the Kaa did not look away from where the saffron-robed attendants were filing out, each one carrying a hatchling swathed and concealed in a blanket.

The Kaa frowned, feeling the pain of loss beneath his breastbone. Those offspring he would never know. He would never see their faces. He would never hear their happy voices, or laugh at their chatter. They were as lost to him as the eggs which had not hatched. Ugly, deformed, weak, or merely plain—they had been deemed unworthy of his notice. They would live their lives outside the palace, joining other Rejects, unaware of the heritage which had been denied them by fate.

While the saffron-robed attendants did their grim work, the cerise-robed attendants moved slowly about, cuddling the acceptable hatchlings in their arms, cooing to them and singing.

The Kaa finally turned his gaze upon the master still waiting at his side. “Master of the Birthing,” the Kaa said formally. “What news do you bring us? How many born?”

The master bowed deeply and cleared his throat. His rill lay limp about his neck. “Good news, sire. The hatching was a splendid and most bountiful one.”

From the corner of his eye, the Kaa saw another group of Rejects swathed in blankets and carried out. His pain grew, and from the gallery he heard a few hushed cries from his wives.

“How many?” the Kaa asked, although in his mind he was counting.

The master bowed again, careful to keep his gaze averted from the Kaa’s face. “Twenty-nine blessed hatchlings are born to the Father and his gracious wives.”

Twenty-nine acceptable hatchlings of the fifty born. Better than half. The Kaa blinked. Twenty-nine hatchlings and twenty-eight favorite wives. Tonight when the sunset marked the end of Festival, and the closing bells in the city’s spires were rung, songs of joy would fill the wives’ court in the palace. There were enough tiny, dewy-rilled hatchlings for every set of loving arms. And he would allow Myneith—First Wife, and still most favored—to have two. She would be pleased by the gesture, and perhaps she would forget that she was growing older, with less plumpness stored in her tail as her beauty became eclipsed by the newer wives.

“Congratulations to the Imperial Father,” the master said.

“We are pleased,” the Kaa replied.

The master released an audible sigh of relief and bowed with a smile.

The Kaa also smiled, and the drums began to roll with flourishes. Triumphant music soared in a rising series of fanfares. Now word would flash through the palace, and the waiting courtiers would be agog with the news.

Twenty-nine perfect, beautiful hatchlings . . . May the gods show mercy and let them all live, the Kaa prayed.

Satisfaction swelled within the Kaa. Rising from his throne, he bounced a little on his toes. At a time when fewer and fewer Viis offspring were born every year, at a time when beauty and perfection seemed harder to find, he at least need not fear that he was losing his powers or his virility. Yes, he was indeed the Father of the Empire.

But there remained one official question for him to ask.

He pinned the master with his gaze. “Do any of these newborns surpass the sri-Kaa in beauty?”

The master tucked his hands together and tilted his head. “One male is crimson, green, and gold. A most striking combination.”

“Indeed, yes,” the Kaa said, surprised. His thoughts flashed to Abiya, his newest wife from the southern continent. She was exotic and high-tempered. Perhaps she was the genetic mother of this son, not that it mattered.

“Still,” the master continued, “unusual coloring does not in and of itself surpass the sublime qualities of the sri-Kaa. She remains supreme among the Imperial Father’s progeny.”

Relieved, the Kaa uncurled his tongue within his mouth and gave the master a nod. “Then it is done. We shall gaze upon them tomorrow when it is certain they will live. Inform our wives of the happy news.”

The master bowed yet again, so deeply this time the folds of his rill shook free. “Yes, sire. It shall be done.”

The Kaa walked away. By the time he reached the tall double doors of bronze carved with the legends of the First Hatching, the guards had snapped to attention, and two of them swung the heavy doors open for him.

Trumpets blared, and small Kelth lits of matched fur color, with upright ears and narrow muzzles, ran ahead through the passageway like small alarms in their red imperial livery. “Heads up! Heads up!” they cried in shrill unison. “The Kaa is coming!”

Surrounded by his guards, the Kaa strode along an ancient passageway of worn stone lit by old-fashioned torches that flickered and smoked with great inefficiency. House-keeping went to great lengths to keep the soot scrubbed away, grumbling at the extra work involved. But the touches of antiquity pleased the Kaa, for he was an admirer of history and its relics. Many times his courtiers had urged him to build a new Chamber of Hatching, one with modern seats, one with windows, one with a spectators’ gallery so that the whole court might attend. They said the imperial Chamber of Hatching was crude and too old, little better than a cave, and far too small.

The Kaa had no intention of changing this most venerable and sacred part of the palace. While he lived, there would never be room for spectators. To witness the emergence of the imperial hatchlings was the sole privilege of himself and his favored wives, and so it would remain.

Ahead the Kaa could see a handful of intrepid courtiers crowding into the passageway where it linked to the main section of the palace. Guards held these fawning sycophants back, however, allowing none of them near the Kaa’s imperial person.

One courtier ignored protocol and called out his congratulations, but the Kaa pretended not to hear. His servants opened the private door leading into his apartments, and the Kaa allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

Although the last day of Festival was always the best because of the hatchings, he still regretted seeing the week of pleasure and informality end.

Gaveid, chancellor of state and the Kaa’s chief adviser, stood waiting inside the sunlit rooms. Heavy with much stored fat, his jaw rills sagging from dissipation that had not yet completely marred his good looks, Gaveid was leaning on his staff of office and yawning. He straightened hastily, however, at the Kaa’s entrance and bowed deeply with an old-fashioned flourish both pleasing and graceful to the eye.

“Congratulations, sire,” he said in his cool, unhurried voice.

“Thank you, chancellor,” the Kaa replied.

The captain of the guard snapped a salute, and the Kaa flicked him a glance of dismissal. All the guards saluted and filed out, leaving the Kaa and his chancellor alone. Slaves moved unobtrusively about, one pouring cups of imported meccan wine while others laid out brushes, oil jars, and additional preparations for the Kaa’s bath. The Kaa accepted wine and offered some to Gaveid, who respectfully gestured refusal.

Gaveid was the only Viis in the empire with the privilege to come and go as he pleased in the Kaa’s quarters. He also possessed the privileges of being able to sit in the Kaa’s presence and to speak his opinions as bluntly as he wished. Nearly as tall as the Kaa and very old, the chancellor was descended from one of the Twelve original lineages. Although in the past century Gaveid’s family had been decimated by the Dancing Death, the noble bloodline had not yet been completely lost. Gaveid’s golden, cynical eyes had seen everything. As the saying went, he had lived twice. Rarely did anything surprise him.

From the tall open windows of the rooms came the crashing sound of gun salutes being fired, one salvo for every accepted imperial hatchling. A distant crowd cheered in the city streets beyond the palace walls. The Kaa paid little attention, but the chancellor winced slightly and turned his back to the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

“Were you out gambling all night?” the Kaa asked him in amusement.

The chancellor puffed out the air sacs in his throat. Even as a lun-adult—well past his fertile years—he preferred to gamble and drink wine with the zest of a much younger male. No one at court had his stamina or his hardheaded ability to function and reason early in the day following a night of debauchery.

“Gambling?” he repeated. “Yes, sire. It is, after all, Festival, and I am not otal yet.”

“You will lose your fortune someday,” the Kaa said, and drained his cup with a feeling of intense satisfaction. Father of twenty-nine new hatchlings. He restrained the urge to laugh aloud, and instead let the feeling bubble inside him like the effects of a superb dinner wine.

“Risk gives life its zest,” Gaveid said.

The Kaa felt generous enough to tease the old one. “Gaveid, you will come to us one day a ruined male, lamenting and wearing the ashes of remorse on your head. Great Father, you will say, why did you not prevail on me to use more reason?”

The chancellor snorted. “I do not gamble my own money,” he said. “I only risk the fortunes of others.”

While the Kaa was laughing, a melodic chime sounded outside his dressing room. The Kaa’s good mood vanished like a burst bubble. “Permit no entry,” he said sharply to the slave who hurried to the door. “We will keep our privacy yet a while longer.”

The slave bowed nervously. “It is Lord Telvrahd, sire.”