Eternavix

By Alex Kaine

The year is 2347. Bio-engineered dragons and devils fly the skies. Most of the earth is ruled by the Universal Imperium, a global empire of empires governed by a neo-nobility. Humanoid creatures are bred to serve as super-soldiers and slaves. Atop the socio-political pyramid is an ultra-elite known as the Human Immortals. And the most powerful man on earth is a genetic engineering genius turned tyrant.

All of this came about because of the miracle drug Eternavix. Made from rare DNA found mostly in Asian women with blue eyes, Eternavix halts aging, rejuvenates the body, and allows the privileged to stay young maybe forever – as long as they have a prescription authorized by the Imperium.

Eighteen-year-old Mara is of Eurasian parentage. She has vivid blue eyes and warm tan skin. She is gorgeous, gutsy, and an orphan all alone. Born in Australia, raised in the Dirty Lands of the American east, Mara comes to the Chicago Republic, a city-state independent of the Universal Imperium, to start a new life. But she arrives on the very day the city comes under attack by an imperial dragon – a victarian, the meanest kind of dragon – sent by the Imperium to harass the city and feed upon its citizens.

When she saves the life of a woman named Bev, who befriends her, Mara is unwittingly drawn into a luxrious world, a world of intrigue and deceit, funded by the lucrative trade in Eternavix illegally obtained. She is in far greater danger than she realizes, for her blue eyes and Asian complexion are a giveaway that she most likely has the perfect genes not only for producing the E drug, but for making monsters

Yet when love turns a hideous enemy into a powerful ally, there just might be a way to bring the Imperium to its knees.

Written under a pen name by a writer whose work in a different category has sold in the millions of copies worldwide, Eternavix is a futuristic action thriller with elements of fantasy, horror, and suspense, offering a fresh twist on the classics Paradise Lost and Frankenstein.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Kaine
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301199921

Alex Kaine

Alex Kaine is the pen name of a writer and author whose books in a different category have sold in the tens of millions worldwide. He is an eclectic reader and a lover of all writing well written no matter the genre. He has been an independent, self-supporting, paying-the-bills, full-time author for ... well, let's just say for many years. ETERNAVIX is his first sci-fi thriller.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mara:

The day I arrived, a dragon flew over Chicago. I was on West Adams Street, looked up, and there it was, gliding on dark wings in a perfect blue sky.

I had just gotten off the train twenty minutes before and I was scared enough as it was. I felt the looks of men on me, their eyes tracking a teenage girl alone. Kept my face down, avoided eye contact.

Hey, cutie! one of them said, putting himself in front of me. Got the time? How about it?

I ignored him. Stepped around. Walked faster. Behind, he called me another c-word and it wasn't cutie.

I kept going. Between throngs of men, boys. Dirty clothes, bearded faces, young, old. Girls on corners, some younger than me, some older looking worn out and mean. Didn't know where I was going, but I didn't stop.

Finally I felt safe enough to slow up and look around. I was in the middle of downtown Chicago and it was a wasteland. Vacant buildings, some blackened by fire, others just abandoned. Entire blocks reduced to piles of rubble – bricks and broken concrete, twisted metal, shattered glass, and weeds. Shacks and tents amidst the wreckage. Most haunting were the ruins of skyscrapers. What had once been magnificent spires, tall and proud, were now mostly just derelict shells. Broken windows. Rusty steel girders towering and exposed. No lights shining.

Not what I was expecting. I was eighteen and on my own. Hopeful of making some kind of life for myself somewhere. I had heard these fantastic stories about Chicago making a comeback. That it was a city of opportunity. And it was still free. Politically that is. A city beyond the frontiers of the Universal Imperium.

But this? What was I doing here? And the train had arrived late – almost a week late. I had used up a lot of my money just to buy food and something to drink – at insane prices – while they fixed the engine, while we sat on a siding for fourteen hours with no explanation, while a local ganglord demanded that passengers pay the tax for the train to cross a bridge, while we crept along at a pace not much faster than walking, everyone happy that at least we were moving.

Now here I was. Everything I owned was in the duffel bag slung on my shoulder. The sun would set in a few hours. I needed a place to stay and I had no idea where. I quickened my pace again.

Other people were walking too. Some of them looked like working people. Which meant they had jobs, which was what I needed. And the jobs, I reasoned, must be somewhere beyond these piles of rubble and high-rise ruins. I began following the people who were better dressed and more prosperous in their appearance. Wherever they were going was probably where I wanted to be.

In the streets, horses. They, too, were making a comeback. And mules. But mostly bicycles and motorcycles. Trucks. A few taxis. Yet personal cars as well, more than I had ever seen in my life. My father had once told me that back in the American Age there had been millions upon millions of cars – most of them actually owned by individuals, if you can believe that – zooming everywhere. That of course was before the Great Decline, the Asian Domination, and the Baby Wars after which ... well, as you know, everything stagnated and went into reverse, resulting in the current condition from which we have yet to emerge.

So I was on West Adams Street, admiring the traffic. A woman was coming the other way. She was all big city, going at a fast clip, eyes straight ahead. Then, just as we were about to pass each other, she looked up, and her face showed alarm.

"Oh shit. No!" she said.

I spun around, looked where she was looking, and there it was: the dragon.

My first thought was that it was an airplane, one of those black military types my father used to fly. Then the wings flapped, and the monster's head moved side to side. No airplane was this.

I watched, utterly transfixed, as the dragon flew amongst the ruined skyscrapers. It circled the tallest one, seemingly in no hurry, gliding. Strangely, I did not feel threatened, not at first. I had heard stories, but I'd never seen a dragon before. I almost couldn't believe it was real.

Hey! called a voice.

I turned. The big-city woman who had spotted the dragon was frantically motioning for me to get off the street. She herself had ducked behind a pile of rubble and was crouching down. I glanced around and realized that the sidewalks, well populated just moments before, were now empty. Except for me standing there in the open gawking.

Get down! the woman urged. Hide!

I side-stepped toward her while keeping one eye on the dragon. When I got next to her, she planted a forceful hand on my shoulder and yanked me down next to her behind a heap of bricks.

I didn't mean you had to come to me! she hissed.

Sorry, I said.

Did you just get out of stupid school or what?

Just off the train actually.

She looked at me. She was attractive, white, and older than I was, though it was hard to tell by how many years. She had a flawless, glamorous face made all the more perfect by cosmetics. But there was something ... I don't know, strange about it.

Listen, she informed me, you don't see victarians very often, but when you do, they're hungry.

Victarian? I thought it was a dragon.

Victarian is the type of dragon it is. And it's the worst kind. In case you don't know, its favorite food is us.

Us?

People. Humans. Whatever.

I couldn't resist raising my head to have a look. I'm like that. Contrary to what she'd said, I'm not stupid, but I do stupid things sometimes. I looked at the sky where the victarian had been and I couldn't see it any more. So I stood up. And then I did see it – much closer to the ground now, and turning toward us. Its outstretched wings tip to tip seemed as wide as a football field. I could even see the color of its eyes – scarlet red where our eyes would be white, with gold irises and empty black pupils. And I realized with a jolt of fear it was staring straight at me.

Get down!

The woman gave me another yank. Down I went, hunkering next to her. I glanced at her and I saw, behind the anger over my stupidity, the terror in her eyes.

Then it went dark. The victarian was directly above us, blocking out the sun. I felt a cold wind from its beating wings. The woman pushed me away, almost as if she was offering me to the dragon in order to save herself.

For a split second, the victarian hovered. And then it dropped, swooped down – but not on the two of us. There were maybe a dozen people a stone's throw away trying to hide against the wall of a burned-out building. I saw the bony arms of the victarian, which had been tucked in close to its body during flight, now lash out, and the monster grabbed two or three victims in a single swipe of one of its huge, scaly hands.

What happened next was horrible. Fast forward if you have a weak stomach.

The victarian held down the captives, put its weight on them, pressed them to the ground, crushing them, and plucked the heads from the bodies with the claws on the fingers of its other hand. Then it ate the heads like so many grapes. The bodies were ignored for the moment while the victarian grabbed another three or four victims – and did the same thing with these people.

The woman next to me shoved me out of the way and took off running. I followed. We scurried around the pile of rubble that had been minimal protection. I followed her up Adams. But her big-city legs were better than mine, or maybe she was more terrorized, and she was quickly in the lead. I looked over my shoulder. If it was coming, I was the hindmost, the one it would grab. And then I went down.

I had tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and had fallen hard. The palms of my hands were scraped by the concrete. I got up in a panic, looking for the victarian across the field of rubble, and there it was, feeding on the bodies now. My left knee was bleeding and it hurt like crazy. I tried to run and couldn't; the searing pain was too much.

Where could I hide? No place. I watched as the dragon gorged, stripping the clothing off its fresh kills with its sharp talons, like it was peeling bananas, then devouring the naked flesh and crunchy bone. I limped backwards, watching in horror – and again fell. Into the street this time.

The blare of a car horn. Screeching tires. A car swerved, missed me, and kept going. Incredibly, there was still traffic – people fleeing or people ignorant of what was happening accidentally driving into mayhem. I got up. Now, thanks to the car horn, the victarian was looking in my direction, and it saw me. It was coming. Bounding over the rubble. I was next.

At my feet, a storm sewer. I didn't want to do go down there, down amongst the garbage, but it was the only place to go. I dropped flat. The opening between the pavement and the sidewalk looked just wide enough. I might be able to squeeze through. But I was wrong. I could only get halfway in.

I heard a motorbike engine as I struggled vainly to squeeze through. Darkness came; the shadow of the dragon fell over me. I looked to the center of the street just at the moment the rider of the motorbike was whisked off of it. The victarian had gone for him instead of me. The bike rolled on a bit, teetered, then fell over. That was my only chance.

I sprang up and went for the bike in a sort of limping run, ignoring the burning pain in my knee. The bike was lying on its side. I knew how to ride one; my boyfriend had taught me. I got it upright, swung a leg over, and got my foot on the kick-starter – even while looking over my shoulder at the dragon fastidiously stripping the headless biker's body, while the bare legs of a previous kill dangled from its jaws. The motor came to life on the second try. Wonderful sound. I twisted the throttle – too much; popped a wheelie unintentionally and almost lost it. But I took off. Felt the wind in my hair as I went through the gears.

Glanced in the rearview mirror. The monster was coming. And gaining on me. I took a hard left, just as a swipe of its huge hand came swooshing just behind. Another glance; it was still after me. Saw another swipe coming – but it hooked a talon on a lamppost, which came crashing down in front of the beast, tripping it and giving me just enough of a delay to get a lead and round the next corner.

And there she was. Big-city woman in the middle of the street. She was doubled over from exhaustion and couldn't run any farther. The victarian was still coming. Stop for her or pass her by? If I passed her by, she would be dead in just a few moments. Which might let me escape when the dragon was distracted by her. But she had, I supposed, saved my life. It was a split-second decision. I stopped.

Get on! I yelled.

She did. Just as the victarian came into view.

Go, go, go! she told me.

We sped away, but the voracious monster was still following, possibly encouraged by the prospect of two bodies rather than just one.

Make a right! the woman yelled into my ear.

We leaned into the corner.

Make a left!

And so we zig-zagged block by block.

Go in there! she yelled, pointing to a parking garage.

We whipped through the cavernous entrance.

The stairwell!

There was a door in the cinder-block wall at the far end of the garage with the stenciled word, Stairs. We zoomed to it. I dropped the bike. We flung ourselves through the door and pulled it shut, went up a few flights just for good measure. And that was where we hid.

•

The victarian roared, perhaps in frustration that we had eluded it or perhaps just to roar. Then it got quiet. Nothing happened. We stayed hidden all the same.

The light in the stairwell was dim, but I got a good look at my new-found friend. She was not tall, not short, was very trim and thin. Nice figure. Slender legs. Blond hair, probably colored, worn in what was I'm sure an expensive cut. Brown eyes. Maroon lipstick. Perfect, polished nails. Then I noticed the ugly scar on the side of her neck. She had tried to conceal it with makeup, but it was there. Suggested a rough life. Again, it was hard to tell her age. Twenties? Thirties? Older?

For a long time, we stood next to each other in silence, listening. Waiting. After a while we began to breathe easier. My banged-up knee stopped throbbing.

So, what's your name? the woman asked me.

Mara, I said. You?

I'm Bev.

Pleased to meet you.

We shook hands, which somehow felt awkward.

Thanks for stopping for me, she said.

You're welcome.

Where are you from?

Back east. Well, a lot of places. Virginia was the last.

You don't sound like you're from the South. Your accent. You don't even sound American. You sound ... English.

My father was English, but I was born in India.

How'd you get here? she asked.

Long story. I'd rather not tell it.

Okay, said Bev.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Sorry, I said vaguely.

She looked closely at me then.

If you don't mind my asking ...

Go ahead, I said.

What are you?

Annoyed, I stared at her.

Your race, nationality? she asked. What are you?

Strangers, if I talked to them, asked this question quite a bit. Which was in some part why it was so annoying.

I mean, you're very good looking, Bev said.

Thanks.

But blue eyes and brown skin ... ?

I knew why she was puzzled. I look Asian, and I am, but I have blue eyes and the facial features of a European. The brown skin and the blue eyes, that's what throws them. I've been told not to include any photos with this recording. So all right, I'll just tell you what I look like ... I have long hair with a slight wave. Very dark, almost black, but with some auburn hues. And tan-brown skin, coppery, not that dark, not that it matters, not that it should. Whatever! The thing is I'm self-conscious about my looks, and I always have to explain.

I guess you'd say I'm Eurasian, I said, a practiced answer. My mother was from India. My father was born in London, but emigrated to India. I suppose that's where the blue eyes come from – his were blue. And my mother was a Bollywood movie star, and they met, she and my dad, and fell in love, and then came me ...

I might have gone on, but I saw that Bev had had her answer and now she was getting bored. So I shut up.

Yeah, well, you're ... you know, different. Very pretty, but different, she said. And that bod of yours. I bet you've had a lot of boyfriends.

Just one, I said, feeling embarrassment.

This was getting way too personal, and I decided to try to switch the subject over to her.

What about you? I asked. Have you been in Chicago long?

Yeah, like ... well, a while.

What do you do? For a living I mean.

I tend bar at a restaurant near the old Union Station. You said you came in on the train. That's probably where you came in.

Oh, yeah. Right.

Anyway, that's where I was headed when we, you know, ran into each other.

And where do you live?

Not far from here, she said. You need a place to stay?

Yes, I said hopefully. As a matter of fact I do.

I can put you up for a few days.

"Thank you! Thank you very, very much! I really appreciate it," I said.

Yeah, well, if you hadn't stopped, I'd have been ... she said.

Dessert for the dragon, I ventured.

Yes. Dessert. Or maybe just another appetizer.

We both kind of shuddered, and then we both smiled.

•

Time passed. Then Bev finally said, Let's see if it's safe to move around.

Indeed the dragon was gone. Had flown away across Lake Michigan. The exact number of dead was unknown, but estimated to be in the several hundreds. We learned these things once we were outside the stairwell and close enough to the street where Bev's phone could get signal.

My own phone was in the pocket of my jeans. When I took it out, I was instantly heartbroken to see it was busted, smashed when I tripped and fell. My phone had been useless in terms of communication. I had no money to pay for service. But on it were pictures of my mom and my dad. My boyfriend before he was executed. As well as my music, which was – is – so vital to sanity, and books, and lots of other personal things. I felt so crushed I was staggering around.

Bev was impatient.

I'm sorry, she said, but I have to get to work.

I stifled my feelings. Got on the bike.

Wait, I said, realizing something. My bag.

Your what?

My duffel bag. It's got all my things in it. I lost it when the dragon was after me.

Look, if I don't get to work soon, I could be fired.

Can't we please go back and look? Just for a few minutes.

All right, all right, but be quick!

I kick-started the motorbike and we retraced our route back to where I tripped and fell. But the duffel was nowhere to be found. Someone probably snatched it. I gave up.

So I now had only the clothes I was wearing and a smashed, broken phone.

Could have been worse. Lying on the street was the helmet that had belonged to the bike's owner, and thinking I might as well have the helmet as well as his bike, I reached for it and froze. Still inside the helmet was the poor guy's head.

Let's get out of here, said Bev.

I gave her a ride to the restaurant, and she offered to let me sit at the bar until she got off work, which would be after midnight. Better than hanging around outside, so I accepted. Nobody cared that I was a teenager. So I sat there sipping fizzy soft drinks while leering men who were two or three times my age hit on me.

Then my luck changed slightly for the better. One of the cooks had failed to show – indeed was later determined to have been one of the victarian's victims – and the manager asked if I had any kitchen experience. In fact, I did. So he put me to work and at the end of the night, the chef grudgingly said I would do. Not only did I now have a place to stay, I had a job.

The bartender for the late night shift arrived at midnight. Bev counted her tips. The kitchen had closed hours before, and so I was hanging out at the bar, waiting. We left on the bike, Bev navigating us through dark streets where who knew what might be lurking. Streetlights that worked were few. But somehow I felt safe knowing Bev was behind me. I had watched her deal with a couple of heavy-duty customers at the bar, one of whom was harassing me. She was one tough lady.

Her apartment ... well, it was nothing less than spectacular. It was on the twelfth floor of one of the still functioning high-rises, and had a view of both Lake Michigan and the Chicago River. Lots of mirrors on the walls – as well as on the master bedroom ceiling. Plush carpets. Furniture upholstered in white leather.

I looked around and wondered, how can she afford this? She made good tips at the bar, but the rent for a place like this would have been astronomical. Something didn't add up. But I didn't ask questions.

There was a spare bedroom. Bev said good night. I undressed and got between crisp clean sheets. I was asleep in seconds.

Chapter 2

I woke with questions racing through my head. Questions about the victarian, questions about the city, questions about Bev.

I got up and parted the drapes of my bedroom window. Way down there was a world very different from the one I had lucked into. I saw homeless people wandering through alleys and back streets, two gangs setting up for a brawl, and the flashing blue lights of police cars. The sky was hazy, but I could see quite a distance. The landscape was like a crazy quilt of desolation and prosperity. Here would be a section of the city that had been obliterated, while next to it would be a neighborhood being rebuilt, and next to that a district that was prosperous where everything looked fine.

The bedroom had an attached bathroom. Marble tiles and gold fixtures and fluffy yellow towels. And hot water. What a luxury for someone on the move like me. I got into the shower and relished every moment. Every drop. The train had had a restroom used by everyone else in the car, dozens of people, and no hot water. So it had been days since I had been able to do more than wash my face and hands. Just to have clean hair ...

I got dressed and went to the living room.

Someone was sitting at a glass-topped table drinking a martini. Someone with blond hair. I thought it was Bev.

Good morning, I said.

A man turned to me, stem of the martini glass in hand.

Well hello,' the man said with a deep voice.

I flinched in shock. He smiled and stood up in greeting, and bowed from the waist to me.

He was the most strange and unusual man I had ever laid eyes upon. And maybe the most handsome. His skin was creamy golden, and he had fine bright blond hair that was long and shoulder-length in back, but trimmed short in front, revealing ears that were pointed like the ears of an elf. And he was wearing blood-red ruby stud earrings. He appeared to be muscular, but was not especially tall. He had strong hands with long fingers. His cheekbones were high and the cheeks rather hollow. His eyes were deep green, and he had a prominent brow. No facial hair except for his cinnamon eyebrows. Long straight nose. Full lips. A long jawline leading to a strong chin.

You must be Mara, he said.

Yes, I am.

Bev told me about you. My name is Harzak.

I took in the way he was dressed. He was wearing a black suit, but without the jacket, which was hung on the back of a chair. Waistcoat with brass buttons. White silk shirt with a high collar. No tie, but a rose gold chain on his neck. Pearl cufflinks. Well-tailored black pants and calf-length black leather boots.

Having no other clothes to wear, I of course was wearing dirty jeans and a smelly sweatshirt stained with food from the kitchen where I'd worked the night before. I felt embarrassed at my appearance, but Harzak seemed not to notice.

Come and sit down, he said and, holding up the martini, asked, Would you like one of these?

No thank you, I said quickly.

Bev is still sleeping. I got in quite late, later even than the two of you.

I sat at the table opposite him. We studied each other silently for a moment. I wanted to ask him the same rude question Bev had asked me the day before.

You'd like to know what I am, wouldn't you, he said, as if reading my mind.

Sorry, I said. I'm just curious.

I am not entirely human; I am humanoid. I am what's known as a manamourean.

What is that? An elf?

Because of the ears, you're thinking. Well, no, but you're slightly correct. Some of my physique was inspired in part by the mythical images of elves. But manamoureans are created – bio designed – to be the passion toys of the ultra-wealthy.

What do you mean?

Putting it bluntly, I'm a sex object. Or was, said Harzak. When I came of age, I was acquired by an extremely wealthy woman, a member of the super-rich, and my role was to cater to her desires.

You were a slave?

They didn't put it like that. But yes, he said. Of course that was ages ago. I'm free now. And I've done rather well for myself over the years. Not in the sex trade, but in other, more lucrative pursuits. I am an entrepreneur these days. A businessman.

Harzak sipped his martini.

So, he said, switching subjects, you arrived on the day of the latest dragon attack. Not very good planning on your part.

I smiled. I was feeling a peculiar attraction to him.

No, not very good planning, I admitted. But I didn't even know dragons really existed.

Well, people call them dragons. But actually they're just terror technology bio-engineered during the wars.

This comment brought me back to all the questions that I'd had when I first woke up.

Do you know much about the dragons? I asked.

Never had conversation with one, he said, but what would you like to know?

How often do they attack?

It varies. Sometimes we'll get two or three attacks in a year, but sometimes years will pass with no attacks. The last attack was nine or ten months ago. By singakins that time.

Singakins?

They're different from the victarians – the kind of dragon that attacked yesterday. Singakins don't fly. They sort of slither along on stubby legs. Imagine if you cross-bred a snake with a crocodile. That's what they look like, only ten times larger. They're huge and scaly. And they usually travel in pairs.

How many types of dragons are there? I asked.

Four or five. I'm really not sure. Some of them are only found in Asia and South America.

Well, here's my big question, I said. Dragons are alive, right? That means they can be killed. So why doesn't somebody slay them?

You think nobody has had that idea yet?

From what I could see yesterday, the whole city was defenseless! I mean, where were the police?

A bitter grin came to Harzak's face and he shook his head.

"There are police in Chicago, right? I asked. There have to be. I saw some this morning when I looked out the window."

Yes, we have law and order here. There are indeed police in Chicago, Harzak said, although it helps to have some cash to sway them into action – or inaction as the case may be.

Well, where were they yesterday? Or couldn't anybody come up with the bribe?

It's not as simple as you think, he said. For one thing, monsters like the victarian are hard to kill. I've seen brave citizens try to fight them with handguns and rifles. A dragons's scales are its armor. Bullets bounce off. And where they have skin it's so thick that small caliber bullets can't penetrate. You would have to have a missile with a serious warhead or a cannon to do any damage. If you don't kill one outright, if you just wound the monster, the wound will heal quickly, sometimes within hours. But the major reason we can't fight them is that it's against the law.

Against the law? Why?

Because they're protected, said Harzak.

Protected by whom?

By writ of the Creator. By the Universal Imperium. The Imperium gives its dragons and certain other 'creatures' – monsters – writs of protection. To kill one would be an act of war. A war that Chicago could never win. We're just a little city-state republic. We wouldn't stand a chance. The entire city would be obliterated. So our puny, spineless government does nothing. The dragons come every so often, eat a few hundred unlucky people, and then they move on. A few hundred deaths is better than a few million deaths. Therefore, the police stay out of the way. In fact, I've seen the police arrest people – shoot them sometimes – for trying to be dragon-slayer heroes.

I shook my head in disbelief and asked, But why? Why would the Imperium allow such a thing?

To keep us in line. Show us who's boss. Every independent city and territory on the planet – and there aren't all that many left – faces the same dilemma.

Where do the dragons come from? I asked. Where do they go?

Where do they go? Wherever they please! said Harzak. As for where they come from, some say they have lairs or nests in the Western Dominion, in the Rocky Mountains, and they just come east for feeding. Others say they feed continuously going from city to city. Either or both of those could be true.

You'd think someone would try to find out.

"Chicago doesn't have those kinds of resources. Nor, I suspect, does the Universal Imperium these days. Technology has gone to hell – as Heaven, so-called, has risen. Nothing like what it used to be. I mean, we're going back to where we were centuries ago! The infrastructure barely functions and the Imperium won't allow capital to be invested to build anything new for common people, the proletarians. I swear, the intention of the Imperium is to turn back the clock to the Nineteenth Century. Er ... excuse me, that's wrong. I meant the Eighteenth Century! Pre-industrial."

I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd read a lot growing up. But my education, especially with respect to history and politics, was not extensive.

You know, he went on, there used to be these objects in outer space called 'satellites' that would orbit the Earth and take pictures. With those you could keep an eye on your enemies or the weather or track the dragons or what have you. But the satellites were destroyed during the Baby Wars. The Imperium controls the few that have been replaced and they don't share their intelligence with the rest of us. And anyway, nothing works the way it used to, not even in the Imperium. I do know that from my travels. By the way, the dragons never attack imperial cities or provinces of the Imperium proper. They feed here, on us, on the weak.

Do you travel a lot? I asked.

That one question seemed to shock Harzak and caused the whole conversation to stumble.

Yes, I do, he said coldly.

The curtness of his reply suggested to me that I should not inquire further. Harzak, again switching the subject back to me, leaned forward and peered at my face with intense curiosity.

Your eyes are remarkable, he commented, as is your skin tone. Not a common combination, and quite striking.

Thank you, I said – though somehow I felt as if he did not say these things as a compliment, but rather as an assessment.

He finished his martini, left the glass on the table, stood up and donned his suit jacket.

Have to go. Matters to attend to, he said. Make yourself at home. If you're hungry, there's the kitchen. And ...

Harzak reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took