Buck Rogers 1 - Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (15 page)

The walls of the Ballroom were themselves totally mirrored, and the floor was of a material so smooth and reflective and so perfectly finished and polished that it, too, reflected like a single giant mirror.

The effect of being in the room was thus one of being wholly surrounded by, bathed in, permeated and all but absorbed into a supernatural solution of pure light and tone.

Cascades of heraldic banners added slashes of unexpected pattern and tint to the room.

The oval floor drew one’s attention to a double-pointed ellipse; at one node of the ellipse stood a raised dais surmounted by a simple, scroll-shaped bench, while at the other stood a similar dais surmounted by the ornately regal throne of the Draconian Realm.

Now there echoed through the great mirrored ballroom the glissandoed cascading notes of heraldic trumpets tuned to a harmony octaves apart. This new Earth of the twenty-fifth century divided its attention, Janus-like, facing to the future and the past at once. Its space-fleets, its ultramodern, domed inner cities, its interstellar trading agreements and supercomputerized technology faced to the future. Its pomp, its heraldry, its ceremony, reminded one and an of the rich heritage of Earth’s historic past.

Behind the marching heralds advanced a row of colorfully garbed pages, each carrying a tall, polished standard from which there floated gauzy streamers in heraldic colors. Drummers marched at their flanks, sounding a stately, martial cadence.

Once the heralds, pages, and drummers had completed their ceremonial entry into the ballroom, the official party followed.

Dr. Huer entered first. For once he was not garbed in the informal laboratory tunic that he habitually wore in the performance of his scientific researches. Instead he had adopted a severe, dark-colored outfit of simple line and spartan cut. He ascended the steps of the dais to the plain, scroll-shaped bench.

Now entered Colonel Wilma Deering of the Intercept Squadron, Earth’s first and last fine of defense. Accompanied by an honor guard of her fellow officers, she had arrayed herself in the full formal dress uniform of a flight colonel of the Third Forces. The effect was breathtaking: at once efficient, military, almost as spartan as the plain dark tunic of Dr. Huer—and yet, through some subtle trick of the tailor’s art, through cut, color, fit, texture, and form, she managed to present an appearance dazzlingly feminine, graceful, soft, even in a subtle way erotic. She was the ultimate female warrior, wholly a warrior, yet at the same time wholly female.

A respectful murmur had circled the ballroom at the entrance of Dr. Huer; at that of Colonel Deering, a universal gasp which she chose to acknowledge in no way.

In the foyer of the Grand Ballroom, Buck Rogers stood carefully checking his own appearance before a full-length mirror. He too had arrayed himself in full-dress uniform of captain’s rank, but for Buck the pomp and ceremony of the Palace of Mirrors was something to be taken in stride, a mere incident in the progress of the ongoing drama of the Third Directorate of Earth, the Draconian Empire, and the menacing, enigmatic space pirates.

As Buck adjusted the accoutrements of his dress uniform he was observed admiringly by Twiki and Dr. Theopolis. The computer-brain glistened with his own flashing lights and brightly polished exterior. The little drone had been outfitted with a military tunic and stiff collar.

“You look magnificent, Buck,” Dr. Theopolis intoned. “But you seem dissatisfied. Is something troubling you?”

“Why did they invite me to this thing?” Buck grumbled. “Nobody believes me anyhow.”

“You saved Colonel Deering’s life today,” Theopolis said. “Not to mention single-handedly fighting off the pirate attack on Princess Ardala’s ship. The princess wants to thank you personally, Buck, aside from everything else.”

“Huh!” Buck snorted. “I’d like to have a word or two with the princess, myself.
Alone!”

“Too bad,” Theo’s syrupy voice sounded commiseratingly. “I’m afraid that won’t be permitted. After all, she’s a princess and you’re only a low-rated military officer. Even your captaincy is slightly questionable, Buck. What does a United States Air Force commission mean to the Third Force Intercept Squadron?”

Buck ignored Theopolis’ words, standing instead deep in thought, hardly even seeing his own image or those of Twiki and Theopolis in the tall mirror. Finally he said, irrelevantly, “Doc, what do you have for a headache. Anything to help?”

“A headache?” Theopolis echoed concernedly. “Are you ill, Buck?”

“I guess I’m still not quite recovered from my long trip,” Buck replied, deliberately ambiguous as to which long trip he meant.

“Why didn’t you say something, Buck? Twiki will get you a relaxant. You know, most headaches originate with a tension of the neck muscles. But come, it’s time to enter the ballroom. We don’t want to keep Princess Ardala and her party waiting for us.”

Buck straightened his shoulders and marched into the ballroom, Twiki trailing at his heels, Theopolis hanging from the drone’s tunic-collared neck.

As Buck entered the Grand Ballroom, Wilma Deering reacted with a curt, silent, but approving nod. Buck bowed formally to her, his movement mirrored by the like-tunicked Twiki.

“That’s more like it, captain,” Wilma lipped softly. “Now you look like an officer—and a gentleman.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Buck replied, eyeing Wilma’s costume.

Upon the dais of the scroll-shaped couch, Dr. Huer stood, the focus of a coruscating array of flashing lights. His old-fashioned spectacles reflected the lights but he ignored the effect and held his hand up for silence. Then he began his formal pronouncements of the ceremony.

“Citizens of the Inner City.” He gazed around, the focus of all eyes. “At this profound moment in our history, we see hovering in the skies above us an alien vessel. A military spacecraft, a ship of war. As designated spokesman of the Earth Directorate, I have ordered our defenses lowered and our portals opened wide to welcome this awesome visitor, for this is
not
an invader of earth!

“This great war machine has come to us stripped of all weaponry. She is completely unarmed—a shining symbol of peace! Lasting peace—and great goodwill—between the peoples of Earth and of the Draconian Realm.”

He looked about him, his lean, drably garbed form suddenly invested with a majesty and strength no glittering uniform could have lent. “We welcome now the Draconian Trade Delegation under the leadership of the crown heir of the Draconian Realm, her royal highness, the Princess Ardala.”

Again the trumpet fanfares with their vibrating glissandoes and the stirring rolls of kettle and snare drums filled the air. From concealed receptacles behind glittering mirrors a shower of fragrant rose petals swirled down. There was a stir in the ornate entryway of the Grand Ballroom, and the assembled throng turned as one person to greet the entrance of the royal entourage.

Now Ardala, flanked by Kane and the ministers of her father’s realm, advanced into the ballroom. She was garbed in a stunning, barbarically splendid gown of brocade trimmed with the fur of lynx. She wore a crown of precious metals, trimmed with black glistening fur and encrusted with glittering precious gems of every color. The shape of the crown was that of the ancient Tartar Cap of Monokhash.

The anachronistic combination of barbarism and regal modernity gave her an air like that of a daughter of the great Genghis Khan mixed with that of the Empress Catherine the Great: equally imperious, exotic, breathtakingly beautiful, hot-blooded, passionate—and deadly! She was a smouldering beauty who might at any moment burst into flames of consuming passion!

She swept past aisles of dazzled admirers, climbed unaided to the glittering throne that surmounted the ellipse-node opposite that where Dr. Huer stood, and whirled regally to address the assemblage.

“I bring you greetings on this historic occasion,” her throaty, passionate voice rang out. “This occasion which sweeps aside all barriers and opens between us a glorious era of commerce and of peace.”

She paused and the assembled dignitaries applauded enthusiastically, silencing themselves only to hear her further comments.

“As proof of his dedication to this pact of commerce and demilitarization, my father the Emperor Draco has sent me to Earth with a glorious surprise for you!”

At the very moment that the Princess Ardala was addressing the assembled dignitaries in the Grand Ballroom of the Palace of Mirrors in earth’s Inner City, her immense Draconian flagship was hovering silently above the city’s glistening dome.

In the communications room of the
Draconia
the duty officer had been carefully monitoring the ceremony below, receiving every word spoken by means of a small transmitter carried by one of Ardala’s courtiers. At the prearranged signal he issued a command to his subordinates: “Stand by to transmit PersonImage—
Now
!”

A crew of technicians cut in a carefully coordinated set of switches and controls.

In the ballroom below, the Princess Ardala had paused. Now she resumed her speech: “Speaking to you across the immense distances which separate us—I present to you a direct, live PersonImage broadcast from my father, Draco the Conqueror of Space, Warlord of Astrium, Ruler of the Draconian Realm!”

Ardala had delivered her address while standing beside the ornate Draconian throne that had been set up at the node of the ellipse. Now, as the air crackled electrically, a holographic image of Draco the Conqueror appeared on the throne itself. The imperial warlord was being seen for the first time by the dignitaries and functionaries of the Third Directorate of Earth. He was a great, fat, barbaric tyrant in the grand manner of Henry the Eighth or Genghis Khan. His voice was deep and rough textured despite all of the electronic filtering to which it was subjected.

The assembly was taken aback for a moment, then politely applauded not the gross and menacing figure that had appeared before them, but the power and the authority that it represented.

“Greetings,” Draco intoned sententiously. “I now address you in person, to show you the importance, people of Earth, that I, great Draco, place upon our interplanetary pact.”

Draco went on, making grandiose claims and condescendingly generous offers to the people of earth. While the PersonImage spoke to the assembled audience, Kane whispered softly in the ear of the Princess Ardala. “There are two things your father enjoys most,” Kane whispered, “spellbinding a crowd and conquering new worlds. This is a rare opportunity for him—to do both at once!”

Ardala’s eyes flashed covertly at Kane. “Not Draco,” she whispered back, “but
I, Ardala,
shall conquer Earth!”

“With your father’s help,” Kane grinned wolfishly. “And with mine!” He glanced around the room at the spellbound assemblage. “I wonder what these poor souls would say if they knew the overstuffed ogre in front of them is a recording and that your father is actually halfway here with his great attack armada!”

While Kane and Ardala carried on their whispered conversation, the PersonImage of the Emperor Draco continued to harangue the attentive crowd. “Here at home in my realm,” Draco intoned, “I can only imagine the outpouring of good will from the people of earth to the citizens of the Draconian Empire. Our differences are all behind us now. Before us lies a vista of unending commerce, mutually beneficial trade, cultural exchange and counter-enrichment . . . and eternal peace!”

The fleshy, bejewelled hand seemed to reach into thin air as the living Draco had reached off-camera to receive a document from a bystanding courtier. The hand of the PersonImage reappeared holding an ornately beribboned scroll. “I will now proclaim my royal edict.” Draco said. He unrolled the document, held it before him and read portentously from it.

“By my royal command the unarmed spacecraft carrier
Draconia
will descend to the lower atmosphere above the central district of the Inner City. A display of the most sophisticated Draconian technology will be opened to all citizens of Earth’s Inner City, and will be known henceforth as the Museum of Interstellar Culture. I do hereby give as my personal gift, to the peaceful peoples of the planet Earth, this undying symbol of peace.

“Thus signed and sealed,” the emperor looked up from the document, “by my own hand. Draco, Imperator. Until we meet, then, I bid you farewell.”

His jowly face broke into a beaming grin. He waved and nodded at the crowd as if he were actually present and seeing them as they saw him. The crowd cheered in return as trumpet calls and drum rolls resounded.

When the uproar had quieted enough for him to be heard, the dark-tunicked Dr. Huer replied to Princess Ardala as representative of her father the emperor. “On behalf of the Directorate, we accept with pleasure this great gift from your father the emperor.” The old man bowed low to the smiling princess while the audience again resumed its applause and cheers.

“Let the celebration begin!” Dr. Huer proclaimed loudly.

And now the crowd separated itself into strictly dictated court formations as the music of trumpets and drums was replaced by stately, formal orchestral harmonies. The court formation was that of the formal ceremonial dances of the twenty-fifth century. It was a mixture, like the rest of Earth’s culture in this era, of the forward-looking and the nostalgic, the futuristic and the antique. It contained mixtures of the minuet and the quadrille, the formal ballet and the free-form expressive dance.

The partners met, bowed, curtsied, circled, separated and reassembled in stately formality. A new touch was the passing of delicately lighted globes of the most fragile glass from hand to hand among the dancers. Within each swayed a delicate candle, and when the great chandeliers were dimmed at the climax of the dance, the Grand Ballroom was transformed into a fairyland where multicolored fireflies floated on graceful, rhythmic breezes that wafted invisibly through midnight glades.

At the apex of the parade of the fairylamps the Princess Ardala stood, a figure of breathtaking barbaric beauty, a new Titania receiving the chaste, formal kisses of fealty from the dignitaries who moved in stately rhythm past the throne of Draconia.