"I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy."
--John Adams
It was late in the evening when the car pulled into the driveway of the modest but well-kept house, nestled in one of the area's older neighborhoods. The engine died, and a few seconds later so did the lights. From the car stepped an older man, heavy-set, mid-sixties perhaps, his hair an iron-gray in color. He looked tired, as if he'd just finished a very long, very hard day. For some reason, however, he paused to look up at the darkening, star-sprinkled sky, and a slight smile came to his lined face for a moment before he headed up the walk.
He was halfway between the car and his front door when a large, dark shape separated itself from the shadows. "Doctor Clarke," it rumbled.
Clarke jumped slightly at the voice, then turned and peered through the darkness. "Ah; I thought it was you."
Clarke's visitor gave him a small, tired smile, nodded slightly. "Yes, sir. Sorry to have disturbed you again."
He snorted, made a small waving motion with one hand as he once again glanced up at the sky. "Quite all right. How's my patient doing?"
The visitor smiled again, curiously a bit sadly this time. "Very well, sir. Thank you."
"Good, good." Clarke nodded, then paused expectantly. "I think that I can assume that this is not a social call?" he stated at last, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.
The visitor's own smile grew a little broader, the dark shadows under his eyes lightening a bit. "No, sir, it isn't. I have been informed that you will be retiring from your position at the university, soon."
The doctor blinked at that. "How did you-- Ahh, silly question; never mind. Yes, that is correct. Why do you ask?"
The big man hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the ground before looking back up into Clarke's face. "I was hoping that we might offer you a job."
Clarke looked at him for a moment. "As-- As a physician? For your--"
"A little bit at first, yes, sir. But mostly, as a teacher."
"A . . . teacher."
"Yes, sir." the man plowed on hurriedly. "We lost the last of our, um, the last of our medical people . . . a very long time ago. Since then, it's either you recover on your own, or you don't recover at all. I-- we want to change that."
"A teacher," Clarke said once more. Slowly he began to smile again, his eyes coming alight. "You want me to train doctors for your people."
"Yes, sir; but we don't call them doctors. We call them Lifeweavers."
. . . .And now, in despair, we die--
I stood there for the longest time, silently staring at that final line. I studied its symbols, so hurriedly scratched into the column, as I pondered the rightness of what I was about to do.
But the record had run for eons; it would be sacrilegious not to continue it. And if I did not, then who?
I lifted a talon, sent a thought to the sphere held within my jaws. Guide me. The sphere flared slightly, my talon descended to the stone, and new words began to appear.
It looked like the Friday night party was getting into full-swing. I shivered slightly, hunched my shoulders as I looked out the brew pub window at the people seated out in the sheltered alleyway next to the pub in spite the chilly evening air. The dark spirit in the back of my head hissed a wry spring fever to me before settling back into the muck. I chuckled a quiet agreement, took another quaff from my mug, then leaned back in my seat and let my thoughts drift as my eyes continued to roam.
After a bit of quiet encouragement Ahnkar had ceased the last of his meddling, and Lady Dithra was once again in firm control of her Council; a control reinforced when I declared that from now on she would speak with my voice, and any challenge to her would be a challenge to me. Last I checked she was leveraging that advantage to the hilt, ramming-through her agenda far more quickly than she might have dared otherwise. Already her propaganda campaign was being put into motion, and some of her people had recently shown me a few of their projects: novels, plushy toys, cartoons for the kiddies, perhaps even a movie or two where the dragons were not the Bad Guys for once. I wryly called the whole thing her Hearts and Minds campaign, and once I explained to her the old Marine joke, Dithra was so amused by it she adopted the label.
Let me win your hearts and minds, or I'll burn your damned huts down.
I felt a warm smile work its way across my face as I recalled just how hard she had laughed; Ancestors, how young she had looked at that moment. . . .
The smile faded as I remembered another moment, the moment I learned what Lord Trassahn had meant, and why Tin'na'tak had looked so distressed, when Trassahn had said that he was tired. Not long after my little junta, once he was sure Ksstha's war wasn't going to come clawing its way back out of the grave I'd flung it into, he named Tin'na'tak as his successor, and then . . . stopped. Just . . . stopped.
How long do you wish to live, my lord?
Until I become tired, and then no more. I sighed, shook my head. I did not have the chance to truly know Lord Trassahn, but from what little I did know, I had a feeling I was going to forever regret not having had that chance. Tin'na'tak was doing well as the new head of clan Sstahn; Trassahn had evidently trained him long and well as his replacement, so perhaps at least this death could not be laid at my door.
I gave my head another shake, more sharply this time, as I forced myself to think of other things. Two women at a nearby table glanced at me several times, perhaps wondering at my thoughts. Putting little Anna back where she belonged had gone smoothly; Stefan and I had plucked the ailing changeling out of its crib and replaced it with Anna without disturbing anyone else in the household. The changeling was a marvel; so much like the real thing that I had felt a stab of guilt when I destroyed it. My estimate of the dragons, who in spite of living in an era of computers and police states still managed to remain concealed, went up a few notches. I felt a sudden surge of grief as I remembered carefully pulling the blankets up to cover Anna's sleeping form, then pausing to run my fingers though her pale hair as I recalled my own, now-lost children.
Someday, maybe, if there really was any such thing as Justice in this uncaring universe, perhaps I would be permitted to beg their forgiveness.
I sighed again, shifted in my chair as I continued to gaze at the people in the alleyway, recalling some of the places I'd been in this world where no-one would have dared to congregate like that, for fear of attracting the tender mercies of a mortar crew or a dead-eyed suicide bomber. Such a naive, sheltered people, these Americans; I almost laughed when I felt a pang of envy.
Pasqual. Poor, sad Pasqual. After all this, after all the dust had settled, she had ended up with nothing; not even her children. There are people like her in every war; innocent, undeserving of the hell that befalls them, bearing the brunt for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She drifted away, perhaps to find Kaa'saht, but not before Lady Dithra had extracted a promise from her. I would see her again, someday, and perhaps there would be more of the children that our species so desperately needs. But there would be no joy in it, and certainly no love. So many things had been sacrificed to stop Ksstha's damnable war; men, dragons, dreams. . . .
The meal was done, the last of the booze was gone. There were puzzles that still remained . . . bequeath to thee stewardship . . . but they would either be answered in the fullness of time, or they would not. I was just a little too tired to care. For a long moment I pondered the possibility of a refill, but then tossed my money on the table and headed out into the night. I was out of the loop now, if I wished; I could go back to being the proverbial steel fist inside Dithra's velvet glove, and after having neutralized all serious opposition, I could perhaps hope to never again come out of that glove. My squad could also look forward to a long, comfortable, Dithra-financed pension, if they so chose, but I doubted they'd go for it. People like Lucifer, Fields, Deebs, Grease, and the Wolfman weren't the types to willingly stroll to the lyre, and I was certain they would soon find other windmills to tilt against.
. . . .What was the line from that book? Oh, yeah; "It was never for the money."
I even had my job back, incredibly enough. According to a rather mystified Steve, shortly before the last of my vacation time had run out the General had received a registered letter from somewhere deep within the DoD, and had promptly placed me on Military Leave until I came back. No questions asked, no answers offered. I thought of Stefan, and felt a chill as I wondered just how deeply Stasi had penetrated Washington's inner circles before that grim organization's time had finally run out.
Out on the street, I turned the collar of my old flight jacket up against the wind, which was still raw despite carrying all the scents of Spring. I really should go on home now, to my little bungalow next to the railroad tracks, where I could spend the rest of my days mowing the lawn and fussing with the roses, interrupted only rarely by the need to crack a few skulls together.
Those nut cases in the alley were still at it; looked like the pub staff had rolled out some space heaters to keep those crazy carousers from freezing solid. I felt a wry smile on my lips as I shook my head and turned away. Yeah; I really should go home now, home to a quiet, civilian life, where the biggest worries were ants sneaking into the pantry and leaky water-heaters.
For some reason, though, I lingered on that sidewalk, the wind swirling around me, my eyes slowly drawn back to those partiers. For long seconds I watched them chatter amongst themselves, eat their food, drink their beer. Then abruptly the whole scene seemed to blur before my eyes, and for a brief moment I could have sworn I saw other, larger beings coiled comfortably amidst the party-goers, conversing, laughing with them, lifting barrel-sized mugs of the pub's best to their massive jaws. Then I blinked, and the vision was gone.
For long minutes I stood there, waiting for something else to happen, something else to show itself to me, but there was nothing more. Finally, reluctantly, I turned away. It had been nothing but a moment's hallucination, nothing but a fanciful dream.
Many times, a dragon's visions have meaning.
I hesitated, then looked back at the alley. I was out of the loop. Dithra and her people still had a long, rocky road ahead of them, but I myself could, at long last, retire.
. . . . "It was never for the money." . . . .
. . . . Or the glory, what precious little there ever was of it. Yeah; I could retire, put the whole bloody mess behind me, mow my lawn, maybe even someday actually sit in a pub without first finding a seat with its back to the wall.
Or . . . .
. . . .
. . . .Well, I never was any damned good at that strolling-to-the-lyre crap, myself.
A strange emotion slid through me then, riding the wind, half grief, half joy. I shook my head at the perversity of both men and dragons, then looked up into the starry night sky, and thanked the cold, uncaring universe for its largesse. Jamming my hands into my pockets, shoulder turned against the cutting wind, I then turned and headed up through the alley, past the revelers, my strides long as I walked on, making sure my tail that I spotted at the pub was still able to follow me
Agent Mendez gave a quiet sigh of annoyance when his assignment decided to go up the alley, and he had to step smartly across the street in order to follow. The narrow, cobblestoned alley eventually let out onto a dimly-lit cross-street, and for a moment Mendez thought he'd lost his quarry. Then he heard a shoe scuffing a patch of gravel and he quickly turned left to follow the sound. Up ahead he caught glimpses of the man's dark form from time to time as he passed beneath the occasional street lamp.
The trail continued for several blocks, then the quarry abruptly turned left again, back downhill. Mendez frowned; there was nothing that way but the river. The agent rounded the same corner less than a minute later, but to his surprise the street before him was empty; his assignment had vanished. Mendez hesitated, then silently cursed. Damn it! Did he spot me? He hurried on down the hill and soon reached the river. A concrete railing protected a thirty-foot drop to the chill waters below. Nearby, the road ended in a stack of safety barriers and a high chain-link fence, the bridge beyond partially demolished to make way for its replacement. Could he have climbed-- No; I would have heard the fencing rattle. Where the hell did he--?
"Mendez. I thought you were a dream."
Mendez crouched and spun, his heart in his throat, his hand darting beneath his coat as his eyes sought the source of that strangely resonant whisper. At the same time, that word, dream, set off a cascade of images in his mind. Images of combat, of fighting a hopeless battle in suffocating darkness. He shook his head, heard quiet laughter in response.
"Until we meet again, soldier. . . ."
Silence, but for the wind and the water. Slowly Agent Mendez straightened, his eyes still scanning for his quarry but finding nothing. He sighed, pulled his hand out of his coat, then shook his head. Lost him. Great; the boss was going to give him hell for letting the assignment shake him off so--
Movement! Mendez's gaze snapped upward, then his eyes widened in disbelief at what he saw for just an instant, silhouetted against the stars. He blinked, shook his head and looked again, but whatever he'd seen, whatever he thought he'd seen, had vanished.
No, that was just. . . . No. No way. Just to be sure, though, he continued to scan the sky for a few moments more, but only the blank, cold light of the stars met his gaze. Finally he dropped his head and rubbed at his eyes as he turned to trudge back up the hill, silently vowing to get more sleep on his nights off. And as to what he'd seen? He gave a mental shrug: it had been nothing but a moment's hallucination, nothing but a fanciful dream. . . .
My massive form flew into the night, broad chest working my wings as my mane jangle slightly in the cold wind as I headed toward an uncertain future. I really hand no destination in mind, but I was sure it would find me, just as the dreams usually did.
THE END