Richard Paul Russo - Rosetta Codex

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Richard Paul Russo
The Rosetta Codex
Ace Books by Richard Paul Russo
CARLUCCI
DESTROYING ANGEL
CARLUCCI’S EDGE
CARLUCCI’S HEART
SHIP OF FOOLS
ROSETTA CODEX
for Candace
A DF Books NERDs Release
PROLOGUE
Disguised as a freelance star freighter, the Exile Prince entered the Costamara System and made for
Conrad’s World, the system’s only habitable planet. Like any other freighter, it approached
Conrad’s World with loaded holds and formal trade contracts, but was also outfitted with weaponry
and defenses no freighter was ever authorized to carry, and passengers who would normally never travel
on such a ship.
Two days out from Conrad’s World, the Exile Prince transmitted its manifest—legitimate and
accurate, if incomplete—along with encrypted registrations and certifications from the Independent
Traders Collective. The orbital docking station returned a preliminary authorization.
One day out, Captain Jan Olveg had two long conversations with the station master. After the second
conversation, the station master transmitted final authorization codes to dock and unload the Exile
Prince’s cargo.
Four hours out from the station, three combat fighters emerged in battle vectors from the shadow of
Ambrose, Conrad’s larger moon, and attacked the Exile Prince.
Although they were still in zero gravity, Sidonie and Cale sat strapped into their acceleration couches, the
woman’s outstretched hand resting on Cale’s arm. Just five years old, Cale did not understand
what was happening, did not understand why they were strapped in, but he felt safe with Sidonie.
She’d been taking care of him since he could remember; sometimes he accidentally called her
“Mother,― and though she would gently correct him, she always smiled and didn’t seem to
mind. Now she softly squeezed his arm and smiled at him, but it wasn’t her normal smile and he
wondered what was wrong.
The couches jolted from an explosion, and Cale stared at her, eyes wide, but remained silent.
“It’s okay, Cale,― Sidonie said in a hushed and soothing voice. “We’ll be okay.―
The stateroom door slid open and Cale’s father moved into the cabin, bringing with him the sharp
tang of burning plastic and distant electric cracks of sound.
“Papa!― Cale cried. “What’s happening?―
His father was tall and stocky and his thick black hair was more than half gone to gray—a handsome
man with lined skin. His clothing was a rich indigo, undecorated except for the family crest of gold and
crimson just above his heart—a hooded falcon gripping a world in each set of talons against a
background of stars.
“Someone’s attacking the ship,― he said.
“Why?―
“I don’t know.― He turned to Sidonie and said, “Take Cale to the Kestrel. It’s too
dangerous here.― She nodded and immediately began unstrapping herself from the couch. “I’ll
have Captain Olveg launch decoys,― he muttered, more to himself than to her. “I’ll have him
do any damn thing I can think of.―
Sidonie pulled herself to Cale’s side, released the restraints, and helped him out of the couch.
“There’s only one real city on Conrad’s World,― Cale’s father said. “Morningstar.
The Kestrel is programmed with flight paths, evasive maneuvers, access codes. If anything happens to
the programming and you have to fly the Kestrel manually, head for Morningstar. Don’t land
anywhere else on Conrad’s World. The air space above Morningstar’s restricted and
aggressively protected.― He wrote something on a pocket slate and handed it to her. “Verbally
transmit these emergency access codes if necessary.―
Cale tried to move forward and tumbled through the air, limbs flailing until Sidonie caught and steadied
him; he still wasn’t used to zero gravity.
“Aren’t you coming with us, Papa?―
His father shook his head. “Later,― he told his son. “I have to stay with the ship and help.―
He looked into Cale’s wide, deep green eyes, then wrapped his arms around his son, pulling the boy
tightly to him. “I’ll follow as soon as I can,― he said. “You go with Sidonie, all right?―
Cale nodded, and his father looked back at Sidonie. “Once you get to Morningstar, find Adanka
Suttree. Remember that name. It’s important.―
“Adanka Suttree.―
“He’s my brother. That’s the name he’s using here. Find him, and stay with him.
He’ll protect you both. If I . . .― He stopped, released Cale, and straightened. “When this is
over, I’ll come for you and Cale. If I don’t come soon, Adanka will know what to do. Whatever
he tells you, treat his words as if they come from me.―
Sidonie nodded, then took Cale’s hand in hers. Cale’s father looked once more at him.
“Cale, you must remember something. It’s very important.― Cale nodded, his brow furrowing.
“Do not tell anyone your last name. Never mention the name ‘Alexandros,’ not until I see you
again. If someone asks you what your last name is, say you don’t know. Your last name’s
dangerous now. Do you understand, Cale?―
“Yes, Papa.― He paused and added, “My name’s Cale. Just Cale.―
“Good. Now go, quickly.―
“Bye, Papa.―
“Goodbye, Cale. I’ll see you soon, I promise.― Then, with a halting voice said to Sidonie,
“Take care of him.―
“I will.―
She gripped Cale’s hand tightly and led him out into the passage, and Cale looked back at the tense
and hard face of his father, afraid he would never see him again.
Gusting winds and turbulence buffeted the Kestrel; the wing-jet dipped and bucked, shimmied sideways.
They could see little more than dark gray. Thick storm clouds engulfed them. Sidonie turned to Cale.
“Don’t be afraid,― she said.
Cale shook his head, regarding her with complete confidence. “I’m not.―
But Sidonie seemed to be afraid. She turned back to the now nearly useless controls, pulled and twisted
at the stick, and punched light panels with her fingers. The roiling clouds continued to rush past them, and
she said quietly and tautly, “We’re dropping too fast.―
A break in the clouds opened to their right. Cale craned his neck around and glimpsed the towers of tall
buildings in the distance behind them: a big city, glass and metal reflections like flames in the rising sun.
Far, far away and getting farther every second. He thought they were trying to get to that city and all
those bright buildings. He thought his father was going to be there soon. But not his mother, she was
back at their home and he hadn’t seen her in a long time and he didn’t know when he would.
The clouds enveloped them again and they continued to hurtle farther from the city.
Suddenly they were beneath the clouds, and the land below them appeared. Mountains stretched
endlessly in all directions, broken by plains and valleys, large tracts of blue-green forests; a river snaked
through a jagged shadowed canyon then widened and meandered through golden flat grasslands; far
ahead and to the left sprawled a vast dark blue lake like a giant gas nebula. All of it coming up at them
much too swiftly.
Sidonie struggled with the controls, hissing out words that Cale couldn’t quite understand. The
wing-jet passed over a peak of black rock and continued to drop. There was no place to land. They
cleared another peak, this time with a far smaller margin, and a flat and barren mesa spread out below
them, networked by gullies and ravines, pocked with dry and spindly scrub. Steep rocky slopes rose to
one side, and the mesa dropped precipitously away on the others. Sidonie worked at the controls, and
the Kestrel dropped toward the earth. “I’m going to try to land us here,― she told Cale.
She twisted around and checked once more to confirm that Cale was securely strapped in, tugging at the
harness clasps. “Hold on tight,― she said, then returned her attention to the controls. Sand and
rock in striated reds and yellows rose up to meet them, mercifully flat and even. Mere seconds before
impact, the ground opened up and became a narrow and jagged ravine. The Kestrel bucked violently
twice and then dropped into it. Sidonie cursed and pulled at the controls. Cale’s stomach lurched as
a pocket downdraft hammered the wing-jet to the earth and they were both thrown forward against their
harnesses as the Kestrel tore along the bottom of the ravine. Cale cried out, metal squealed, objects
crashed and shattered, the straps cut into his skin, something crushed away his breath, and his vision
silvered. . . . The pilot’s chair broke free and tumbled past him, Sidonie screamed, the fingers of one
hand scraped Cale’s face as he spastically reached out for her. Everything slammed to a halt, silver
went dark, and he blacked out.
They came over the ragged rise, boots scraping rock and scrub as they shuffled their feet. They
numbered seven—five bearded men and two women—and the sky above them was a bright pale blue
with blossoming white clouds. The hot and gold sun beat down on them, baked the earth beneath them.
The lead man saw the wreckage, stumbled, then halted, holding up a hand. Charred and smoking metal
lay scattered along the ravine, with the largest section wedged between a cracked boulder and an
uprooted tree. He worked his way carefully down the unstable slope, and the others followed.
Cale watched them approach, standing shaky and nauseated and stunned amid shattered steelglass and
crumpled flooring, no memory of getting out of his seat. Blood ran from two gashes in his forehead and
he blinked at the men and women; he opened his mouth, but closed it again without making a sound.
Sidonie was only semiconscious behind him. She was covered in blood streaked with viscous black
fluids, and she moaned, eyelids fluttering like the wings of a dying insect.
The men carefully pulled him out of the wreckage, freeing him from a tangle of blue fabric bands that
clung to his skin and clothes, and gave him into the care of the two women. Then they cut the fabric
bands from Sidonie and dragged her carelessly across jagged metal, ignoring her cries as they scraped
fresh wounds across her side and legs. They laid her out on the ground beside the torn and twisted
wreck.
Discussion ensued over what to do with the wreckage. Cale listened intently, as if their decision was
important. One of the men suggested they tie ropes to the main section of the wreckage and drag it back
to the village. The others looked at him, spat, and laughed. Another suggested they torch it. The leader
finally decided—they would shuttle back and forth over the coming weeks, routing by on their
scavenging runs, and take whatever was useful back to the village a little bit at a time.
As Cale watched from between the two women, who held him in place, the men gathered around
Sidonie. They dragged her down the scraggy ravine until they came to a flatter section of earth sparsely
covered with grasses. For a minute or so they stood wordlessly over her, looking down at her motionless
form, then they stripped off her clothes, tossing them into the dirt as if she would never have use for them
again.
The men then lay atop Sidonie, humped and thrashed against her, one after another. One of the women
dug her fingers deeper into Cale’s shoulder, holding him back. At first Sidonie’s semiconscious
cries intensified, and her hands and arms flailed weakly, uselessly. But it wasn’t long before she
stopped moving; soon after that, a final wheezing gasp broke weakly from between her lips; then the only
sounds were the grunts and coughing sounds made by the men.
When they were done, and the last had fastened his belt tight around his waist, the leader, who had gone
first, kicked Sidonie in the side of the head. He found a large, flat stone nearby, and with the help of two
of the others picked it up and carried it over toward Sidonie. They held it over her head and Cale cried
out, some awful and wordless sound. The men looked at him, then casually released their grip and
dropped the stone onto her face.
The five men turned and, without a glance back at Sidonie’s body, made their way toward Cale and
the women. Cale’s harsh cry had subsided, but his mouth remained open. He felt paralyzed, unable
to move his feet. The leader of the men smacked Cale’s ear and barked something. The men
climbed out of the ravine and the women followed, dragging Cale between them.
BOOK ONE
ONE
They came across the water at night. There was no moon, but the sky was cold and clear and the stars
were bright slivers of shining ice. The strangers came in four boats, six to each, and they rowed as quietly
as possible; oars dipped gently into the cold black water, pulled deep and through, then carefully rose
and swung forward, water dripping invisibly, almost silently from the dull wide blades.
Shivering, the boy watched from the shelter of rocks. He wanted to warn them, but he was afraid of what
Petros and the others would do to him. They had beaten him regularly over the years—because he had
no father to do it, they said, no mother to scold him or slap his face. He worked hard for them, did
whatever he was told, but it never seemed to be enough.
The boats were headed for the short, narrow strip of sandy beach. The boy crouched out on a spit of
land that jutted into the lake, a clutter of rocks and driftwood and dead grasses. The boats would have to
pass by on their approach to the beach. He could hear the creak of wood, the faintest splash of water,
and he could see shards of starlight reflecting from metal and shining eyes.
The boy was tall for his age—thirteen or fourteen, no one knew for sure—and lanky. He crouched
lower behind a large rock. The first boat slid past, so close he could have jumped into it. He counted the
people—two rowing and facing backward, four staring fixedly forward—and looked for weapons, but
the floor of the boat was too dark. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be enough for what they were
about to encounter.
The second and third boats passed, then the fourth. So quiet. Tiny splashes and flashes in the black of the
water. Their stealth was futile.
The first boat slowed as it neared the beach and the rowers pulled in their oars as wood hulls scraped
against sand and gravel. Moments later the beach lit up with a burst of flames.
Petros and the others had ignited a string of fires just back from the water’s edge, wood coated with
oils and resins. Orange and scarlet flames roared and cracked and spit into the night sky like some great
malevolent beast. Unable to stop in time, the second and third boats landed on the beach beside the first
as a volley of flaming arrows shot between the fires, across the open sand and into the midst of the
attackers. Some of the arrows missed their targets completely or deflected away and fell into the water
with loud hissing, but others dug deeply into the wood or clattered still aflame inside the boats.
One arrow plunged into the back of an oarsman. He lurched forward in stupefied amazement, then
jerked back with a harsh cry, the arrow tail lodging in the boat as he fell, the head driving up and through
him until the shaft broke apart as he rolled onto his side and dropped from view.
The boy remained motionless on the point, huddled in a coarse blanket, watching, listening to the screams
that tore the night. More arrows flew, now accompanied by shouts and burning spears and flaming,
oil-filled glass vessels that burst on impact and spread thin sheets of blue and orange flames, engulfing the
boats.
The fourth boat had managed to stop just before beaching, and now moved slowly in reverse, the rowers
frantically and awkwardly shifting direction, pushing the oars instead of pulling, struggling against the
resistance met by the flat stern. Go, the boy thought at them. Go!
The people in the first boats scrambled for weapons, for clubs and blades, long staffs and bolas,
stumbling into each other, unbalanced, panicked and confused. Leaping and howling, Petros and the
other men rushed through the gaps between the fires and attacked with spears and knives and cudgels.
Blades bit deep into flesh; knotted wood cut the air and crushed bones. The beach became an inferno of
smoke and screams and flames and blood, the bitter stench of burning flesh, and cries of victory; rising
above it, strings of burning embers climbed toward the sky like the dying swarms of lantern bugs in the
late summer nights. Sickened, the boy turned away.
But he watched the one boat that might still escape. A small fire burned in it, but was quickly
extinguished. When they were several boat lengths away from the beach, the oarsmen, now composed
and synchronized, dug in on one side, turning the boat around, then began pulling desperately with the
oars. Several more flaming arrows launched toward them, but only one made contact, and it bounced
harmlessly off the side of the boat and into the water.
The boy’s decision was almost unconscious. As the boat neared the spit of land, he stood upright,
shrugged off the blanket, clambered onto the rock, and dove into the lake. The cold stunned him for a
moment, and he slid through the water like a slowly sinking statue. He opened his eyes, but was as good
as blind. For several long moments he did nothing, nearly accepting the bottom of the lake as his final
destination. He had no will, no desire, no sense of loss. Then some spark of life returned and he
recovered; he pulled with his arms and kicked with his legs, and swam awkwardly for the surface.
His boots filled with water. One at a time he kicked them from his feet. Finally he began to rise through
the cold and dark. A driving ache in his chest, strange inner glistenings of silver in his vision. His arms and
legs felt dead and useless, but he managed movement, upward progress until at last he broke the surface.
Water came with his first breath, choking him. For a moment he couldn’t see the boat, and he was
afraid it had already passed him by. Then he heard a splash, turned his head, and saw it no more than
fifteen feet away; but it was moving quickly now. He swam toward a point ahead of it, and in ten strokes
he was within reach.
The boy kicked hard, rising slightly out of the water, and grabbed the side of the boat with one hand. The
boat’s momentum continued, dragging him through the water, straining his arm and shoulder. He
pulled himself up enough to get a grip with the other hand and cried out. “Help me!―
The help he received was an oar cracked across his hands, then again across his skull. He fought the
instinct to let go, his vision shifting slightly.
“Help me!― he cried again.
The oar came down hard on his left hand and he released its grip, but held on with his right. His face
smashed against the wet dark wood, the fingers of his left hand scrabbled for purchase somewhere,
anywhere.
“Wait!― a voice whispered forcefully from inside the boat. “He’s just a boy!―
The boy couldn’t see anything but darkness; he craned his head around, tried to look above him,
saw something like moving shadows.
“I don’t care what he is.― A deep, scared voice of a man. “He’s one of them and
they’re slaughtering us back there.―
You would have slaughtered them first if you’d had the chance, the boy thought. “No,―
he choked out, “I’m not one of them.―
The boat had slowed, and now there was almost no forward movement; it rocked slightly with the shifting
of people and water.
“Pull him in or bash his skull,― a third voice said. “I don’t care. But do it quick, whatever
you do. We have to get the hell out of here.―
“Please,― the boy cried desperately. “Take me with you.―
“He’s just a boy,― the first voice repeated.
He didn’t know which way it would go. His fingers were numb and started to slip.
Then the boy felt a large hand grip his forearm, and he was pulled up and out of the water, the boat
tipping as he was dragged in over the side. He scrambled the rest of the way into the boat and sprawled
face up in the bottom, his breath ragged. The cold bright stars in the sky and the face of a woman looked
down at him. He began to shiver violently. The oars creaked and dipped into the water, pulling, and the
boat slowly picked up speed.
No one spoke for a long time. The sounds of the slaughter receded until he heard nothing but harsh
grunts, muttered curses, the steady splash of water. Still on the bottom of the boat, unable to move, he
sensed they were safe.
“What’s your name?― the woman asked.
His mind tried to work through the cold and the shivering. Petros and the others had given him a name,
and they had called him other things; but he had always kept his own name deep inside his heart. Now it
was there for him to take on again, and he brought it forth.
“Cale.―
The woman nodded. “That’s a good name.― She laid a blanket over him, tucked it in tight.
“A strong name.―
He didn’t feel strong. He felt very weak. But he was escaping, and he had his name back. The stars
seemed even brighter now above him, shimmering in the black sky. Eyes of the night, someone had once
told him. Cale closed his own eyes, and soon he was dreaming.
TWO
Rain had been falling for days and the village roads ran with rust-colored mud. Cale sat at the window of
his room watching the downpour in the gray afternoon light; mud and water flowed and swirled through
ruts and sinkholes, over river rock and crushed gravel, streaming toward the lower end of the village. He
was grateful for the respite from work that the storms provided. It had been almost three years since the
night he dove into the water and convinced the fleeing attackers to take him with them, and six months
since he’d arrived at this village. He no longer suffered the beatings and abuse that Petros and the
others had inflicted, but the villagers worked him hard, and until the rain had come he had been
perpetually exhausted. Scraping, sanding, and painting boat hulls; cleaning crustaceans and shellfish by
the hundreds; digging pits for new latrines; hauling rocks from the dry riverbed an hour away and then
working them into the roadways. Blisters, scrapes, and cuts; sore muscles, aching spine, and burning
eyes.
He looked across the road and up several huts, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aglaia. Pale yellow
candlelight flickered in her bedroom window, then steadied. Shadows moved, and a dark shape filled the
window for a moment, then she put her head out into the rain and looked at him. Before, he would have
pulled back, but now he didn’t move and they stared openly and frankly at one another. She was
older than he was, but that no longer intimidated him. Her hair was long and dark, almost black; her eyes
were large, and as dark as her hair. Cale thought she was beautiful. Although they had been watching
each other for weeks, exchanging furtive glances, or more rarely the long mutual appraisals such as this,
they had never spoken—the villagers kept him away from the older girls, the younger women.
A sound broke through the pouring rain, a kind of sucking and splashing. Cale turned to see a man
straddling the back of an enormous four-legged animal, riding steadily up the muddy road and into the
village. The man was clean-shaven and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long, shiny black greatcoat that
repelled the rain so intensely that it seemed to leap away from him. Several bulging leather satchels hung
across the animal both behind and in front of the saddle. Surefooted despite the slick and uneven ground,
the great beast marched with its maned head held high, as if proud of both itself and its rider. As the man
rode past, he turned and looked at Cale, raised his hat in greeting—revealing a large, glistening shaved
head—and rode on.
Aglaia was no longer in sight, the candle extinguished, the window dark and empty. Man and beast rode
steadily through the village, then pulled up just before they reached the last of the dwellings. The man
glanced to the left, turned the animal, and they disappeared between two huts. Cale remained at the
window a long time, but the rider did not reappear.
Storms pounded them nonstop for three more days. No one mentioned the man until Cale asked. Marta,
the woman who provided his room and meals, said only that the man’s name was Blackburn and that
he was staying with Dextram, the village headman. Marta’s brother, a bitter and unhealthy man called
Walker, whose hair periodically fell in patches from his scalp, scowled at her and said, “Not another
damn word.―
On the fourth day after the man arrived, the rain let up and there was regular work again. Cale spent the
morning down at the lakeshore, cleaning, scraping, and sorting split blade-clam shells in a light drizzle.
Faint vibrations in the ground beneath him. Regular beats. Cale looked up to see the man approaching
atop the great maned beast. He still wore the wide-brimmed hat, the black greatcoat that reached his
calves. The animal’s massive, metal-shod hooves kicked up mud with each step, and its head shook
and whipped the reins, which Blackburn held loosely in his hand.
He kicked loose a stirrup extension and dismounted; he seemed small next to the animal, the top of his
hat only reaching midneck. He looped the reins around the branch of a dead, fire-scarred log and came
forward. Cale rocked back on his haunches, bloody hands resting on his knees, and looked up at the
man.
“Rough work,― the man said.
Cale shrugged, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Now that the man was on foot and away from
the huge animal, Cale could see that he was tall, though his build was obscured within the folds of the
coat, and his skin was weathered. The man sat on a tree stump; water dripped from the brim of his hat.
Cale thought he smelled tobacco smoke.
“You weren’t here the last time I came through,― the man said. “They tell me you’ve
been here less than half a year.― When Cale did not respond, the man said, “They tell me your
name is Cale.―
“What’s yours?― Although he knew.
“Blackburn. Is your name Cale?―
Cale hesitated, then reluctantly nodded.
“What’s your surname?― Blackburn asked.
Cale shook his head.
“Can’t remember, or don’t have one?― Or won’t tell me? was the question unsaid
but understood by both of them.
“Don’t know,― Cale said. The drizzle had washed away most of the blood, but he still felt a
sting in the thin slices across his fingers and palms. Walker, Marta’s brother, stood on the crest of a
low dune back from the water’s edge, wet stringy hair whipped by the wind; he stared at Cale with
his permanent scowl. “I need to get back to work,― Cale said.
Blackburn turned and looked at Walker. “It’s all right. No one will object if you’re talking to
me.―
“Until you’re gone, maybe.―
“No, not even then. Because they know I’ll be back.― He returned his attention to Cale. “I
understand your people live on the other side of the lake. That you left them a few years ago.―
“They weren’t my people.―
“No?―
“No.― Cale stopped, but Blackburn gazed intently at him, waiting to hear an explanation. There
was something about the man, the way he listened and watched, that invoked in Cale the desire to tell
him anything he wanted to know. Cale fought against that urge, determined to reveal as little as possible.
“They found me,― Cale said. “When I was young.―
Blackburn smiled. “You’re young now.―
“Very young,― Cale replied.
“Found you where?―
Cale shrugged. “Lost. Up on Glass Mesa.―
“What were you doing up on Glass Mesa?―
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was hurt.― He almost said he had been in a crash of
some kind, but he managed to hold back.
Blackburn glanced at Cale’s forehead. “I saw the scars. I assumed they were more recent.―
“The only recent scars are on my back,― Cale said without thinking.
“Do they beat you?― Blackburn asked. “Flog you?―
“No, not here.― He wished he hadn’t said anything. “Where I was before.―
“Ahh, that’s why you fled.― Blackburn sighed heavily. “They may not beat you, but you
aren’t treated much better here.―
Cale didn’t reply. What could he say?
“You are little more than a slave.―
Cale vaguely understood the word, though he wasn’t sure why, or where he had heard it before.
“That’s all you’ll ever be if you stay,― Blackburn added.
That was probably true, Cale thought. But he did not see that there was anything he could do about it.
He leaned forward and reached into the sack of shells he had already scraped clean, then withdrew a
handful. He sorted through them, checking for size and shape, tossing a few into the crate on his left, the
others into the one on his right.
Blackburn got to his feet, shaking the water from his coat and hat. He looked out over the lake and up
into the low gray clouds overhead, then returned to the large animal and unlooped the reins. He led the
beast a few steps closer to Cale, who scrambled to his feet as the two approached; the animal towered
over him and seemed to grow with each stride. Blackburn pulled up a few paces away, but even so, Cale
could feel the steam from the animal’s breath.
“Don’t be afraid,― Blackburn said. “She won’t hurt you.― He grinned. “Not
unless I give her the command. Then she would tear you to pieces. She could stamp you to death, then
rip out your throat just for pleasure.―
“That’s supposed to reassure me?―
Blackburn chuckled. “She’s a wonderful animal. Have you ever seen a drayver before?―
Cale shook his head.
“Ever seen an Earth horse? A picture of one, I mean.―
Again Cale shook his head.
“A drayver is larger and meaner, but it’s about half horse. They used the genetic sequence of
Earth horses and combined it with a wild animal that’s native to this world, and this is what they
ended up with. A magnificent creature. Mostly what you see here on Conrad’s World are those
small, scrawny creatures they call ponies, but they’re really only half-assed horses. Failed
experiments, I think, but far more numerous. Drayvers are twice their size, and a lot better adapted to
this planet than the damn ponies.― Cale knew what the ponies were—traders often rode them or
used them to pull their wagons—but other than that he had no idea what Blackburn was talking about.
Blackburn ran his hand firmly along the drayver’s neck, tugging at its long coarse mane. The drayver
bowed her head and nuzzled Blackburn’s face, breath steaming; when she pulled back, his cheek
was shiny with saliva, which he gently wiped away. “Her name is Morrigan,― Blackburn said.
“Come closer, she likes to meet new people.―
Cale hesitated, then took a couple of steps. He was still frightened, but he did not want Blackburn to
know. “Morrigan?― he said.
Blackburn nodded. “It’s an old Earth name. Means something like ‘Queen of the
Demons.’ Which she surely is when she gets angry. Rub her neck, she likes that.―
Cale reached out tentatively; he had to stretch his arm to run his hand along her neck. The thick coat was
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RichardPaulRussoTheRosettaCodexAceBooksbyRichardPaulRussoCARLUCCIDESTROYINGANGELCARLUCCI’SEDGECARLUCCI’SHEARTSHIPOFFOOLSROSETTACODEXforCandaceADFBooksNERDsReleasePROLOGUEDisguisedasafreelancestarfreighter,theExilePrinceenteredtheCostamaraSystemandmadeforConrad’sWorld,thesystem’sonlyhabitable...

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