63 (BS) - Dragons' Wrath

T H E N E W

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A D V E N T U R E S

DRAGONS’ WRATH

Justin Richards

NA

First published in Great Britain in 1997 by

Virgin Publishing Ltd

332 Ladbroke Grove

London W10 5AH

The right of Justin Richards to be identified as the Author of

this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Bernice Summerfield originally created by Paul Cornell

Cover illustration by Fred Gambino

ISBN 0 426 20508 1

Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Mackays of Chatham PLC

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall

not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired

out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior

written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser. Says I.

Scanned by The Camel

Contents

... ................................................................... 6

DEATH IN THE NIGHT ................................ 8

MEETING PEOPLE ...................................... 14

ENTER THE DRAGON ................................ 20

THE CASTLE OF ICE AND FIRE ................ 25

DEAD OF NIGHT .......................................... 33

THE GRAVE ROBBERS .............................. 39

FIGHTING IN THE TRENCHES ................... 45

DEPARTURES ............................................. 51

NUSEK’S GAMBIT ....................................... 56

MODEL BEHAVIOUR ................................... 62

KNIGHT VISITOR ......................................... 67

DEATH IN THE NIGHT ................................ 73

BREAKING GLASS ...................................... 78

THE HISTORIAN’S TALE ............................. 85

AN INDEPENDENT INQUIRY ...................... 88

KNIGHT MOVES .......................................... 100

TEETERING ON THE BRINK ...................... 105

THE DRAGON AND HIS WRATH ................ 114

For Alison and Julian, as ever, with love.

Thanks for the Time and Space.

-

Extract from Nicholas Clyde’s doctoral thesis:

Ambitions of Empire, the rise and rise of Hugo Gamaliel

It is impossible today to think of Gamaliel without thinking of the Dragon. Like a latter-day St

George, he is remembered for this rather than his actual accomplishments. The fact that one can

apply to see the Gamalian Dragon on display in the Castle of Ice and Fire on Tharn only bolsters

this association (though few would be brave enough to apply to its current owner for a viewing

and fewer still would be granted it).

We have already examined Gamaliel’s accomplishments. We have tried to distinguish between

the myth of the all-conquering hero and champion of the people and the somewhat less successful

campaigns that he actually prosecuted. In fact, when separating the legend from historical reality,

only the Gamalian Dragon and the Battle of Bocaro seem to live up to the legend.

It is not the purpose of this paper to examine the Knights of Jeneve. But no study of Hugo

Gamaliel would be complete without a mention of the Order. In fact, it is a simple matter to

recount what is known about the Knights, since there is so little. The bulk of extant information

comes from studying the legends surrounding Bocaro and Gamaliel’s capture of the Dragon of

Jeneve – usually referred to, of course, as the Gamalian Dragon. What information we do have

seems to be in complete accord with the myths and legends, and we can assume therefore that

there is at least some truth in these.

The loss of most of the documentation of Gamaliel’s reign during the wars in which his suc-

cessors rapidly lost all the territory he had gained has robbed us of validated source materials. But

the surviving secondary sources of the day seem for once to be accurate. While Brahmyn’s holovid

and the romances of Anton Phelps paint an overzealous picture of Gamaliel, the same cannot be

said of the Knights of Jeneve. And we know from the local newscasts of the time that Gamaliel’s

victory at Bocaro was as brilliant and unexpected as the subsequent mythology suggests. The so-

called ‘Gamalian Gambit’ is referred to within days of the battle.

The rest of this paper will demonstrate how Gamaliel’s expansionist ambitions were accom-

plished with renewed vigour following his victory at Bocaro. We have seen that the Gamalian

Dragon was a symbol that galvanized his armies and brought terror to his enemies, evoking the

memory of his tremendous victory against the Knights of Jeneve. But first, let us recap briefly on

what actually happened.

The legend tells how the Knights of Jeneve (sometimes spelt Geneve) were founded to protect

a great secret. With typical vagueness, it does not relate what this secret was, and so we must

doubt that in fact there ever was one. The Knights of Jeneve guarded a beautiful jewelled

statuette in the form of a rearing Dragon breathing fire. It was their emblem and their standard.

The stories tell how the Knights fought in its shadow, and the Dragon watched over everything

they did and kept the Knights ‘to the ways of justice and chivalry’ (Phelps, op cit).

But apparently, the Knights ‘fell into evil and knew not the proper ways’. Quite what Phelps

means by this arcane expression is far from obvious. Brahmyn is even less helpful. The opening

narrative of Dreams of Empire says only in effect that the Knights were evil and Gamaliel was

‘chosen’ to end their power. It is implied within the main drama that they somehow fell from grace

and neglected their duties. But what these duties are is unclear. The holovid makes great play of

their Dragon emblem somehow seeing the Order fall into disrepute and calling to Gamaliel to

rescue it from their clutches. The famous opening voice-over continues in the melodramatic way

that sets the tone for the rest of the piece:

Gamaliel, ruler of all known space, heard the Dragon’s

wrath. He answered the call and exposed the Knights

of Jeneve for what they were. And he hunted them

through space, guided by the call of the Dragon.

This does rather ignore the fact that, until he defeated the Knights at Bocaro, Gamaliel had

very little territory or support from outside his own system. He was certainly not ‘ruler of all

known space’.

But for whatever reasons, Gamaliel engaged the far larger forces of the Knights of Jeneve at

the communications station world of Bocaro (sometime Bosarno). By means of the Gamalian

Gambit he completely defeated and routed the superior forces of the Knights, and captured their

Dragon emblem. He then adopted the Dragon as his own motif and standard, using it as a rallying

call to the increasing number of worlds and peoples dissatisfied with Earth’s remote and, as they

saw it, unfair rule.

According to legend, the Dragon kept watch over Gamaliel’s works. Certainly, it was after

Bocaro that Gamaliel’s crusade really began.

Extract from Examiner’s Comments on Clyde’s Paper

. . . This curious lack of balance is most apparent in the short description of the Battle of Bocaro, the Knights of Jeneve, and the

Gamalian Dragon. Given the detail with which you go through the data for the subsequent period

(

even if you do, as I have noted already,

tend to agree with current interpretations rather than challenge or expand them

)

, this seems rather unbalanced. I expected more, frankly.

The work is good as it stands, but to excel you would need to expand on this section in particular, and relate your arguments to the

present day. You make much play of how the Gamalian Dragon became a rallying point for the unease and dissatisfaction with Earth’s

continued rule, for example. But you do not comment on the similarities of the current situation or how the political landscape has changed

post

–

Gamaliel. Could any of the power brokers in the area today assume ascendency over the others, for example? Of course, the answer

to this is not difficult. But if Gamaliel had never lived, if there was no legacy to pass on, how would the answer be different?

Unless and until you learn to consider these sorts of things, and address questions such as the continued potency of the Gamalian Dragon

as a popular symbol, you will not make a truly great historian.

D

EATH IN THE

N

IGHT

‘A copy, of course. But I pride myself that it is now worth more than the original.’ Newark Rappare

was surprised his voice was so steady. ‘May I?’ He reached out for the fragile vase, intending to lift

it delicately from Mastrov’s grasp and replace it on its plinth.

Mastrov let go of the vase just as Rappare’s fingers grazed its deliberately crazed surface, and

he had to scrabble to grab it as it fell. His breath was ragged and chipped and he stumbled

towards the plinth. With trembling hands he positioned the vase somewhat off centre.

Mastrov watched from the shadows, face concealed in the near-darkness. ‘You know why I’m

here.’

‘Of course. But I wish you wouldn’t just let yourself in. If I hadn’t realized who you were, I

could have killed you.’

Mastrov smiled through the gloom. ‘I doubt that.’

Rappare was indignant, still embarrassed and annoyed. And scared. ‘There’s a lot of valuable

art in here, you know.’

‘Craft, maybe.’

‘How did you get in, anyway? I was assured the studio systems were intruder-proof.’

‘Tricks of the trade. And talking of trade . . .’ Mastrov’s voice faded.

A small metal case gleamed in the darkness as it slid across the tiled floor towards Rappare. He

grabbed at it, lifting it up to eye level as he sat down. It fitted snugly into the palm of his hand.

Mastrov waited while he checked the contents.

‘Yes, yes. Well, that seems to be in order.’ Rappare smiled, and stuffed the plastic card back

into the padded case. ‘I’ll just get your, er, merchandise.’ He took the case with him into the next

room. A few moments later he returned, carrying another, larger case. He passed it to Mastrov.

‘Light.’

Rappare switched on the nearest spotlight. ‘Sorry.’ Rappare glanced nervously towards the

shuttered windows, hoping that the light was not seeping out and betraying his presence into the

night outside. He watched Mastrov open the case. Inside, the two items were held firmly and

safely in place, resting neatly in the cavities Rappare had cut from the extruded foam packing.

‘You’ll see that I have labelled the pieces, just so you don’t get them confused.’

Mastrov snapped the case shut. The sound was a gunshot echoing off the bare walls of the stu-

dio. ‘Good. Splendid.’

‘You don’t want to check it more carefully?’

‘I don’t think so. I know your reputation. And anyway, if there’s a problem I can always call

back.’

Rappare gulped, and his voice wavered as he said quickly, ‘No, no problem. I assure you.’

Mastrov nodded slowly, then smiled and made for the door, but stopped and turned before

reaching it. ‘There was one other thing. Your contract stipulated that you should keep the mould.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Rappare slapped his sweaty forehead with the palm of his hand, as if remem-

bering. ‘I have it right here.’ He reached behind the plinth where the Ming vase stood askance and

lifted out a white cylinder. He held it more carefully than he had cradled the vase, and pulled it

apart into two halves so that Mastrov could see the hollow shape inside. ‘The only way to get the

definition and line accurate enough for a job like this is to use a plasticrete compound. The lasers

cut through the composite, but it re-forms when the laser has passed through. Only the form in

the centre remains free and can be removed by cutting open the surrounding material – what we

call the mould, and of course it could be used as such. It’s very fragile.’

Mastrov took the two halves of the mould from Rappare, lifting them with care from his slightly

trembling hands.

Rappare actually jumped. Not so much at the sound, but in sheer disbelief and horror. The

noise was deafening, an explosion ricocheting round the walls and glancing off the paintings and

artefacts. He barely noticed Mastrov leave, hardly registered the click of the door closing. He

stood, mouth open, hands sweating and clenching, as he stared at the white starburst of powder

and fragments spread across the dark floor.

It took Rappare several minutes and several stiff drinks to recover from the shock. But after a

while he decided that things could be worse. He had never expected to see the mould again

anyway, although the destruction of any art was against his instinct and inclination. But the job

was completed, collected and paid for. In full. He had expected some push-back, some last-minute

refusal to pay the full price. He had no illusions about who Mastrov was, or about who was really

paying for the work. Yes, all in all it had gone rather well. And he still had one more move of his

own to make. He placed the call.

The videomail system cut in on the second tone and Rappare cursed.

‘The party you were calling,’ the glossy female voice of the system announced, ‘is not available.

Please leave a message.’

Rappare hesitated, then left a short message. A pity, it had all been going so well.

Too well, perhaps. It was time to leave, Rappare decided. Time to cash in and move on. He

looked round the dimly lit room, and raised his glass to the Mona Lisa. Then he swung her aside,

and peered into the retina-scanner mounted in the frame of the safe set into the wall behind.

The door clicked open and a figure emerged from the gloom within. For a moment he was silhou-

etted against the opening, caught in mid-turn as he pulled the door shut. Tableau. Targeting

information – distance, size, estimated body weight – were fed across the bottom of the image.

The man was slight of build, bulked out by the heavy cloak pulled tight around his neck. A

wide-brimmed hat was pulled down low over the eyes, which glistened faintly as they caught the

gleam of a distant street light. His warm breath appeared in rhythmic misty clouds in the cold

night air. The cloak swirled as the figure turned, opening slightly to reveal that the man was car-

rying a battered Gladstone bag. His boots clipped on the paved pathway as he started furtively

away from the door. The sound became more rhythmic, more confident, as he went.

A shadow detached itself from the blackness nearby, and set off silently after Newark Rappare.

The heat signature registered strongly on the retinal display; details blurred into red and orange

as Rappare moved. The shadowy figure stayed well behind, watching and following. For the

moment. They were still in the residential areas, and the slightest sound might attract attention,

might be noted and remembered afterwards. Artificially enhanced hearing registered every foot-

step as a richly textured burst of aural input.

Rappare was moving more quickly now, his exact speed and energy output flitting across the

display surgically implanted between eyes and brain. They were out of the residences and into

Kalba Square. A hideous sculpted assortment of scaffolding and plastic slabs loomed over Rap-

pare’s hurrying figure.

Rappare reached the far side of the square and started clumsily up the steps towards the alley-

way. The strategy program had marked the area in green on the map the neural implants pro-

jected into the cerebral cortex. The pursuer’s pace quickened as they entered the killing ground.

Rappare was just starting along the alleyway, a short cut, when he heard the faintest of sounds

from behind. He paused, and turned. Somewhere on the edge of conscious vision a shadow

deepened, seemed to shy away from his gaze. Rappare watched for a moment longer, then con-

tinued along the alley, the night air cold and clammy against his face. He was nearly at the back

entrance to Cordelia’s – if there was someone behind him he could duck inside for a quick drink,

and let them pass. He turned again, rapidly, hoping to catch a glimpse of his potential follower.

Again, nothing but a deepening of blackness.

But it was enough. Rappare ran.

His cloak was blown out behind him as he raced down the alleyway. The bag was a weight

which slowed his progress just as the blood pumping in his head was a distraction and the echo of

his boots on the pavement was the footsteps of his pursuer. He could see the door to Cordelia’s

ahead, and this gave him more energy. A ragged holograph of a female dancer flickered in and out

of focus as she twisted and turned above the doorway. Then, with an electric buzz, she flicked out

of existence, and the lights inside the door also went out. A high-pitched sigh of panic forced its

way through Rappare’s lips as it occurred to him that it was well past closing time.

But even as he watched, even as he realized that the footsteps behind were neither echoes nor

imagination, the door opened. He lunged forward, the weight of the cloak pulling at him.

A figure emerged from the opening, suddenly, as if pushed through. And the door slammed

shut behind it. Rappare heard the security systems engage in the same instant as he cannoned

into the figure now standing in the alleyway outside Cordelia’s. They both collapsed in a tangle of

limbs and cloak. The bag skidded across the pavement.

Rappare pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the woman’s curses and insults. There was no pre-

tence now. He could see a figure running up the alleyway towards him, could see the assassin’s

smile in the night. He looked towards the bag, lying the other side of the woman, back down the

alley towards the approaching killer. Rappare hesitated just long enough to solve the equation

which opposed the contents of the bag against his life. Then, with a renewed strength born of

panic, he raced away down the alley.

Bernice Summerfield watched the strange man as he fled into the darkness. She glanced down

the alley in the other direction, but whatever the man had seen or been running from was gone

now. If it had ever existed. It was bad enough, she reflected as she pulled herself to her feet,

being thrown out of the bar simply because it was closed. But being knocked down by a terrified

clown in fancy dress running from his own shadow was enough to drive you back to drink. She

shook her head and started down the alleyway in the opposite direction to that taken by the man,

towards her apartment.

She had taken just three steps when her foot connected with something in the darkness.

Whatever it was skidded slightly on the ground. Benny reached down and fumbled for it. It

seemed to be a bag. A heavy bag. She lifted the battered black shape into the half-light, and

pulled at the catch. Perhaps inside there would be some clue to the address of the owner.

But there was only one thing inside. She tilted the bag to try to let more light in, then pulled

out the thing inside, staring at it in disbelief. The bag dropped to the floor.

Somewhere, a door slammed. The sound brought Benny back to reality, and she looked round

quickly and guiltily. Not that she needed to feel guilty. Whoever the strange man was, he would be

certain to report it missing. And even the vaguest description would establish the owner’s creden-

tials.

Benny stuffed the strange item back into the bag, and set off for home.

Rappare was gasping by the time he reached the building. He allowed himself a moment’s rest

outside the main door, bent over, hands on knees as he struggled to draw the cold air into his

lungs. He staggered towards the glass doors. The department’s symbol, a stylized mask of a

human face, was etched across them. One side of the face was happy, the mouth curled into a

smile. The other half was sad, a teardrop falling from the eye and trailing down the cheek. The

doors remained closed, even when Rappare leant his forehead against them and peered through

the glass.

The inside of the building was in darkness. But this was just what Rappare needed. If he could

find the right office, he could wait for the man he wanted to see to arrive in the morning. He

looked round, but there was no sight or sound of pursuit. He doubted his pursuer had given up,

but it seemed that he had thrown the assassin off his trail for the moment.

The card-reader glowed as he swiped the plastic through it. There was a pause, and Rappare

pushed tentatively on the door. Come on! What was the delay? A tiny light flashed red on the top

of the badge-reader, and Rappare swiped the card again. The same result. He held the card up to

check he was holding it the right way up, though he knew the reader should be able to detect the

on-board chip whichever way.

It was the wrong card.

63 (BS) - Dragons' Wrath

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