Cluster (21 page)

“She's the spitting image of the original Elizabeth of England, you know,” the Ambassador remarked. “She uses the caked makeup deliberately, because that's the way the original did it; underneath she's actually a somewhat younger woman. Like Elizabeth, Bess is tough and smart. No coincidence, of course; she's studied history. Don't forget that for an instant. Wish her happy birthday, but don't mention her age.”

Small chance; Flint didn't
know
her age, and the Ambassador had warned him about this before. But Bess was obviously older than the average Outworld tribeswoman.

“Planet Outworld bids you an enjoyable birthday, gracious Queen.”

“The whole planet!” she exclaimed, chuckling mannishly. “We welcome the emissary of the Dragon.”

“Now back off,” the ambassador said. “There are others to be introduced, but you're home free. Queen Bess has accepted you.”

Flint backed off. So far so good; if this were the worst of it, he would have an easy evening. The smell of the feast was already circulating through the room, and he saw barrels of liquor being set up in a corner. He was hungry and thirsty, and he might even get a chance to go out and look at the stars at greater leisure. That was one thing about having a party at night: the stars were out.

He bumped into someone. A young man was standing in his way, a man who hadn't been there a moment ago. He wore brown tights with a padded codpiece, a brilliant red cape, and a supercilious sneer. “I beg your pardon,” the youth said loudly. “I was not aware of your optical infirmity. Stupid of me not to realize than anyone as green as you could not be in the best of health.”

“He's baiting you,” the Ambassador advised. “Ignore him. The court's full of young dandies on the prowl for trouble.”

“Green is my natural color,” Flint said mildly. “It has to do with the radiation of my star and the atmosphere of my planet, as most people know. My vision is satisfactory, but the eyes of my head were on the Queen, and I do not possess eyes elsewhere.”

“Are you suggesting that I
do
?” the dandy demanded, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He seemed more than willing to be insulted. “I, Lord Boromo of the Chariot?”

“Ignore him,” the voice in the skull repeated. “I recognize the name. He's a notorious troublemaker, but an expert swordsman, as these things go. He's killed several innocent men, but if he draws in the presence of the Queen, he insults her, and his head will roll. And don't
you
draw!”

Flint turned away from the young man, though he would rather have bashed him. But Boromo would not let it drop. “Only a complete barbarian stumbles into his betters and lacks the wit to apologize.”

“Agreed,” Flint said, moving on. There was a ripple of laughter through the hall. There had been more than casual interest in the encounter.

“Boromo may be jealous of you,” the Ambassador said. “He was trying to provoke you into a duel, so he could kill you, or at least humiliate you, and win favor for himself. Politics is like that, here. You handled it well, reversing the insult. But I had not anticipated this. Perhaps you'd better excuse yourself and return to the embassy.”

“When the party's just beginning?” Flint demanded.
And let the young punk have the satisfaction of putting me to flight?
he added mentally. “I'm enjoying myself.” He drifted toward the liquor.

From behind a drape an orchestra started playing. The fancy courtiers began to dance with the hoopskirted girls. The movements were measured and stately, stylized like the courtship ritual of certain animals. The barreled skirts began to sway, then swing like great bells, in time to the music, while hinting at enticingly shapely derrières beneath them. There was, Flint realized, some point in this complicated clothing; proper suggestion had a refined sex appeal that could build to a higher peak than mere exposure. Honeybloom, back on Outworld, was lovely in her nakedness, but she lacked the artful challenge of these boxed beauties.

Delle glided up. “Do you care to ask me to dance, handsome envoy of the Dragon?” she inquired pertly.

Flint had no notion how to do the dance, suspecting he would make a fool of himself if he tried it. But he thought it inexpedient to advertise this. “I prefer to watch,” he said.

She made a moue. “Sir, you humiliate me.”

Another dandy came up, as brightly and tastelessly clad as the first. “Do you have the audacity to insult a lady?” he demanded.

“That depends on the lady,” Flint replied.

The dandy swelled up. “This insolence cannot be tolerated!”

“Why not?” Flint asked.

The first dandy, Boromo, approached. “The animal lacks the wit to take umbrage.”

“A prick of the sword could be the cure of that,” the other said. A glance of understanding passed between them.

Delle faced Flint angrily. “Are you going to let them talk about you like that?”

Flint affected surprise. “I thought they were addressing each other.”

There was another ripple of laughter in the hall. Both dandies glowered, their hands going to the hilts of their swords in an obviously well-rehearsed gesture.

“Ho! What's this?” the Queen demanded, sailing forward majestically.

“Uh-oh,” the Ambassador said. “Bess is in on it too, and the maid. They must know what you are, Kirlian and all.”

Flint agreed. It did look like trouble. There had been too many little episodes. Suppose these people, anti-science as they were, opposed the formation of the galactic coalition? They could strike a real blow for their dubious cause by eliminating him. But still they dared not do it openly, lest a twenty-fourth-century battleship be dispatched from the nearest Imperial space armory. One barrage from such a ship could put this planet back into the Dark Ages, literally. So they had to be at least somewhat subtle.

He had walked into a nest of vipers. Still he had certain assets. One was the putative battleship; another was the Ambassador in his skull; then there was his own ingenuity. A bit of bold initiative might work. It really wasn't worse than being a transferee in an alien Sphere.

“This oaf insults Your Majesty,” Lord Boromo said.

Flint made a little bow to the Queen. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding, Queen Bess. I proffered no insult.”

“And now he calls me a liar!” the dandy exclaimed theatrically. “I call these assembled to witness!”

And the other would back the dandy up, of course, completing the frame-up. They were only waiting to see which way the Queen wanted it.

“I'm sending an Imperial Guard to get you out of there!” he Ambassador said. “But it will take a few minutes. Stall them if you can. Whatever you do,
don't draw!
Then we'd have no case at all.”

The Queen faced Flint, and he saw the calculating glint in her eyes. She had not quite decided what she could risk. “I had not supposed the Dragon would send a minion to disrupt our party,” she said.

Flint had had enough of this mousetrapping. “Even the Dragon can at last become annoyed at the yapping of curs.”

Queen Bess's mouth dropped open. Both dandies drew their swords partway from their belts. “
Lese majesty
!” they cried together. “Give us permission!”

The Queen nodded almost imperceptibly. The swords moved up almost together to clear the belts. Flint acted.

He backhanded Lord Boromo across the face, his knuckles making contact with the bone of the jaw. The man went down as if clubbed. Well he might have been, for the barbarian fist, augmented by Sphere Sol karate training, was like a club, capable of breaking bones. Then Flint caught hold of the emerging sword of the second dandy. Because the weapon had no edge, he suffered no cut on his fingers. He brought it up, twisted it easily from the man's grip, put both hands on the metal, and flexed his muscles in one violent spasm. The sword snapped in half. Flint then kneed the man in the bulging codpiece and let him fall. He threw away the two parts of the sword.

The action had taken only a moment. Flint was not even disheveled. He bowed again to the Queen. “The Dragon apologizes for allowing the curs to annoy the gracious Queen, and begs forgiveness.”

“He didn't even draw!” someone murmured in the throng.

“The two best duelists in the realm!”

The Queen smiled as graciously as she could manage. She could not admit complicity in the plot to embarrass Imperial Earth, and did not care to subject herself to public embarrassment. Had Flint threatened her, she could have had her guards mob him. But Flint had put himself on her side, an ally, and that was distinctly awkward.

“The Dragon shows more mettle in apology than others in victory,” she observed. “It is fitting that the Dragon determine the appropriate mode of disposition of these ruffians.”

“They failed in their assassin's assignment,” the voice in his skull explained. “Death is the penalty, not only for failure, but to ensure their silence. Don't protest it.”

But Flint didn't like it. He could kill in the heat of battle, but not cold-bloodedly. He realized that Queen Bess was still testing him. A true friend of hers would not hesitate to do her bidding.

“The Dragon does not deign to kill curs,” he said. “Let them redeem themselves by serving loyally as attendants to the Queen's chariot dragon.” A probable sentence of death, as Old Scorch would not take kindly to such types, especially if the Good Queen wanted them dead. But it shifted the responsibility back to her. “If they fail to perform well, their bodies shall be exposed to scavengers of the wilderness, and when the bones are clean they shall be buried under the floors of their living quarters. In this manner their ghosts shall continue to serve their Queen.”

There was silence. Flint had prescribed the honorable tribal burial ritual of Outworld, but he was sure it would seem otherwise to these more civilized people. And he had dodged the actual sentence of death. How would the Queen react?

“My man is almost there,” the Ambassador said.

“Get lost, Imp,” Flint muttered subvocally.

“Your sword, Dragon,” the Queen said, holding out her blue hand.

Somehow he had miscalculated. Whom did she plan to dispatch—him or them?

Flint put his fingers on the upper blade and drew out the sword, placing the hilt in her hand. As it touched her, something like an electric current traveled along it to his hand. It was the channelized impulse of a strong Kirlian aura.

“Kneel,” she said firmly.

Well, he had done his best. The penalty for failure might be death, but he was not going to beg for his life. If he had misjudged her, it was his own fault. He kneeled.

Queen Bess raised the sword, then brought it down. The tip tapped one of his shoulders, then the other. “I knight thee Lord of Valor,” she intoned. “Rise, Sir Dragon.”

Flint stood, amazed, as she handed back his sword.

The Queen winked. “I suspected you had a strong aura when you tamed Old Scorch,” she murmured so that only he could hear. “He is a very special beast, my own pet. Tonight, after the party, you shall have opportunity again to prove your valor. Come to my chambers.”

The last was said loudly enough for others to overhear. There was a murmur of surprise and awe.

“She means it,” the Ambassador in his skull said, sounding awed himself. “She hasn't taken a lover in months. You'll have to go, unfortunately. We'll try to slip you an aphrodisiac so you can perform–”

Flint poked his tongue up under the radio unit, dislodging it from the roof of his mouth. He swallowed it. Now the voice was gone. “May the union of the Imperial Empire be as strong as that we shall embrace tonight,” he said with a flourish.

“So you ditched the radio,” she murmured.

She had known! She probably had a constant monitor on it. The culture of this planet might be pre-Machine Age, but there would be ways to obtain samples of higher technology, and a smart ruler would see to it. There was no law against it, after all; Earth wanted the colonies to progress. No wonder she was right on top of the situation, and no wonder she had been provoked by him. He must have seemed like a very active spy, with his constant advice from the Sol embassy.

“The Imp insulted me—and you,” he said. “I don't need civilized snooping. It takes a man to know a real woman—though she be a queen.”

“You may be surprised at how young a queen can be when she washes off her makeup.”

“Not beneath the age of consent, I trust,” Flint said, raising an eyebrow.

“There is an age of consent in your culture?”

“Of course not. It's a civilized concept.”

She smiled, glancing down at the fallen dandies, and she looked younger already. He had supposed the makeup was intended to make her look younger than she was, but the opposite could be true. “So you
are
from Outworld,” she said.

“Yes. But I do work for Earth, in what capacity you surely know.”

She smiled. “I confess we have had our doubts about Imperial policy in the past. But I doubt very much there will be any difficulties in the future. The Empire sends impressive envoys.” She turned away and floated back to her throne area.

The music started, and the dance resumed. Delle smiled.

Flint knew it would be days or weeks before the Queen chose to dispense with his services. She
was
a real woman, with strength and intelligence and nerve. And a Kirlian aura that gave her more sex appeal than any of the palace beauties possessed.

These humans were in many ways odder than the alien creatures of other Spheres, but Flint fully expected to enjoy his stay in System Capella.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7:

Tail of the Small Bear

 

 

*notice subject kirlian transfer to sphere polaris
 
agent remains unavailable*

–polaris is the most advanced sphere of that region!
 
Ready another agent necessary to eliminate subject immediately–