The Dragon Who Didn't Fly Read online

  Sekhmet looked ready to talon the old cat, but Bast shoved her. “Forgive us, Elder. We’ve had a long journey, and rest will restore our manners. Since you’ve mentioned the prophecy, I’d be honored to hear what you know of it.”

  Misha raised her head with dignity. “I’ll tell you the story, as long as you don’t say I’m an ignorant alley cat for getting it all wrong.”

  Bast flicked her tail at Sekhmet. “We’ll listen to your words with respect.”

  “All right. My ancestors, who chose to travel with the first humans who came here, taught that when cats are as low down on their haunches as they can be, a kitten will be born of the royal line—and that’s me and Emerald, whether you believe it or not—who’ll teach them to be proud of themselves. Depending on how things go, she’ll either teach the humans to respect us or have them wiped out.”

  “We lean towards the first solution,” Sekhmet said, “but we’re flexible.”

  She padded toward Misha and touched noses with her. “I regret that we started off on the wrong paw. Let’s begin again. We, too, are of the ancient royal line. Bast, my sister, and I, Sekhmet, are the Seekers. With Orion, our brother, we’ve been traveling for weeks, looking for the one who will give birth to the Chosen. Orion’s role in the Prophecy should be obvious.”

  “I’m not just the stud,” he growled.

  Misha looked back and forth between him and Emerald. “Am I hearing this right? Are you saying that Emerald is part of the plan?

  Sekhmet nodded. “According to Not-Just-the-Stud, she’s the one we’ve been seeking.”

  * * *

  They all stared at Emerald. She lifted her dragging butt and hissed at them. “Is this your idea of a joke? Is this like the human saying, ‘Nice kitty,’ and then starting a torture trip? Because if you’re telling me that an alley cat who’s never been more than two blocks from this warehouse is part of some damn Prophecy, you’re seriously messed up.”

  Orion turned the full strength of his gaze on her, and she was ready to take back everything she’d said. The sight of him took her over the top, transforming raw desire into a hunger she’d never known. She wanted to rub her cheek against his gleaming, striped fur. She longed for his teeth to bite into the nape of her neck and to feel his lean, muscular weight pinning her down.

  If he were part of the story she’d stay tuned in a little longer.

  “You never told her?” Bast asked Misha.

  “We have to get along with our neighbors,” she said. “A cat who sets herself above the rest doesn’t get along too well. A mother will tell her kittens when they’re grown, so that they’ll be prepared if the Prophecy unfolds within their lifetimes. I was close to telling Emerald. I should have. She never would have let Senti near her.”

  “But you were ready to fight to save her,” Orion said. “That shows breeding.”

  She hissed at him. “That’s what anycat would do to save the life of one too young for kittens. I’ll fight you, too, royal or not.”

  “No need,” Sekhmet said. “We all want to see Emerald in better health before she has kittens.”

  Bast interrupted her. “Speaking of health, I’m getting a little hungry, so let’s wrap up this story. Misha, I don’t know how many details of the Prophecy came to this place with your ancestors, but it arrived in stages. First Ra the Dreamer received the vision that cats would restore all creatures to their connection with the Golden-eyed One. Bast, my namesake, envisioned the crisis and chaos that would precede this reunion.”

  Emerald yawned, hoping that the white cat would soon finish climbing down the family tree.

  “Heket predicted that our line would produce the father of the Chosen. Heket’s descendant, our own mother, Hathor, dreamt that Orion would be that one. Though we don’t often like to tell him so, his attributes are the finest of any male of his generation.”

  Don’t have to tell me about attributes, Emerald thought in that small fragment of her mind that wasn’t screaming with wanting him. She would have let Senti have her, not because he was the sharpest talon on the paw, but because he was there and she was desperate.

  But this one would make strong, healthy kittens. His fur would be soft and silky to the touch. Emerald shivered.

  “And the Green, what about the Green?” Misha demanded. “Did you hear that, Emerald? Thought I was out of my head, didn’t you?”

  They all were psycho, and Emerald wished they’d leave the warehouse to continue their ranting so she could get it on with this hunk of cat. She yowled faintly to remind him why he was here.

  Though his eyes burned with longing, he shook his head. “My sisters and your grandmother are right. The Chosen must have a healthy, well-fed mother. We need to get to the Green first.”

  “And there’s a lot of Green in the world,” Sekhmet said. “We need to find the right piece of it.” She closed her golden eyes.

  After a long silence, she said. “We continue west, at least a day’s journey by paw. We seek a place beyond great fields of wheat and other plants, a forest with streams and ferns and small, delicious creatures who quiver at the thought of our talons.”

  The white cat sniffed at a bag of grain. “Sekhmet, smell this.”

  She padded over and nosed it. “Yes, the smell matches my vision: Green and wheat, well-fed country mice. Where did this bag come from, Elder?”

  “A truck,” Misha said. “Every day the trucks come, and humans unload the bags.”

  “Have they come yet today?” Bast asked.

  “Not yet.”

  The black and white cats looked at each other and started to purr. “Who says there are no free rides?” Sekhmet said. “We’ve hitchhiked hundreds of human miles in their vehicles. Once the truck that comes here is unloaded, we’ll hop in when they’re not looking and go out to these fields.”

  Go penetrated the thick haze that spiderwebbed Emerald’s brain. This wasn’t some sick, heat-induced dream. If she agreed, she’d be heading off into the unknown with a trio of crazy cats who thought they were hot shit and she was some deluxe breeding machine.

  She looked around the warehouse. The black bitch was right; it was a dump. She would never have a better chance to leave, and who was she kidding? She’d follow Orion’s striped haunches anywhere. But what about Misha? Who would catch mice for her; who would groom her?

  And who, to get down to the unsheathed claws of the matter, would love Emerald? Not this pack of strangers.

  “Misha comes with me,” she said.

  Sekhmet sniffed. “She’s old; she’ll slow us down. And the Prophecy says nothing about her.”

  “Then screw the Prophecy.” Emerald moved next to Misha and leaned against her trembling body. “You honor her as a cat of great faith and royalty. She gives you the clue about where to go next. You want to dump her? Forget it.”

  Orion raised a paw. “Misha comes with us. Remember? We’re flexible.”

  *

  A few hours later, they all jounced about in an empty truck, an experience that made Emerald forget about even the faintest pulse of desire.

  “If we all crouch together in the corner, we’ll be jolted less,” Bast said. So Emerald found herself between the white cat and Sekhmet, both of whom, she was forced to admit, smelled very clean and made her nose sting with her own stench.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s unpleasant, but you can’t help it,” Bast said. “Wait until you’re running through fields of grass and sleeping on soft pine needles and eating good food.”

  “Really?” she murmured and closed her eyes.

  Emerald didn’t fall asleep, though, and she heard the two talk about her.

  “Anything in the Prophecy about a crude little guttersnipe?” Sekhmet, of course.

  “Like you said, we had no reason to expect a princess, and this female is tough, strong, and, despite her circumstances, proud. She’s also loyal and compassionate. She’ll make a magnificent mother,” Bast said.

  “Y
ou’re right, but I hope we can knock some manners into her.”

  No chance, Emerald thought before she fell asleep.

  Chapter 3

  Phileas Ar’ran braced himself for one of the most odious tasks required of the Guardian of Oasis: sex.

  The young woman lying beneath him might have been dead for all the interest she showed in his attempts to arouse her. Probably she’d taken one of the drugs the young used to dull emotions. Perhaps the atmosphere of the Conception Chamber, a room in the House of Healing with all the charm of a morgue, had an equally numbing effect. With a carefully stifled sigh, he began the business of the moment.

  Overall, he preferred indifference to the fear some young women displayed at being in the presence of the Guardian, the greatest man in the country. Even fear was better than the calculating attitude of those who thought seductiveness might earn them more than a brief stint in his bed. Foolish girls, didn’t they realize he read their thoughts and feelings as easily as others read a printed page or computer screen?

  He didn’t blame any of them: the indifferent, the fearful, or the schemers. Why expect passion from them when he felt none?

  Phileas completed the tedious act, hoping, as he always did, that the right combination of genes would produce his heir so that he could be done with these charades.

  As she’d been instructed, the girl lay quietly for five minutes to keep the seed from spilling (no hardship, since she’d been lying quietly the whole time). She glanced at the clock. “Can I go?”

  “You may.”

  Failing to notice the grammatical correction, she flung on her indigo tunic and trousers. Not even a shower first, Phileas thought with distaste. Once the blood of Zena and Nathan, the Etrenzians who had founded Oasis, had run true. Either the caliber of their female descendants had fallen sharply in recent years, or the selection committee was ignoring the need to provide candidates with sensing abilities. This one didn’t even recognize her odor.

  “Is this the last time?” the slattern asked.

  “Yes. Tomorrow, a Healer will test to see whether you’ve conceived.” The odds were against that. Though Phileas’s sperm had been declared in fighting condition, they avoided collision with eggs—and wisely so, when you considered the quality of mothers he was offered. No children had been born of these lackluster unions.

  The girl pinned her hair into a sloppy knot. “Well, then . . .”

  “We will hope for good news.”

  “Yeah.”

  She exited through the door without a backward glance.

  Phileas reflected that she certainly had sufficient emotional control.

  He stepped into the shower to wash off both the residue of sex and the film of gathering despair. Every brain cell must be sparking so that he could deal with the batch of morons and malcontents who made up the National Council.

  In the past, Janzi Nor’azzi had helped him keep order, but during the last week she’d succumbed to some unknown sickness. What better indication of a nation in decline than a mysteriously ill Chief Healer?

  Who happened to be his mother.

  Phileas toweled off, gave his close-cropped graying hair an impatient swipe, and put on his dark purple robe. Before he left the room, he reminded himself to be calm and patient—at least for the first five minutes. If he could manage serenity for any longer, it would be a miracle, for today’s council meeting was the quarterly State of Society discussion, and the state of society could hardly be worse.

  The membership of the tree-hugging Earther cult continued to grow. Their opposition, the self-flagellating Godlies, persisted in warning anyone who’d listen (and many who didn’t) that all sins of the flesh would result in an eternal afterlife of fleeing the fire-breathing dragon. The rest of the Oasan population teetered between confusion and apathy. What had extinguished the spirit of a once-vibrant nation devoted to the power of mind over body? Phileas knew he wouldn’t find the answer to that key question at the Council meeting.

  The Council met in a modern, solar-powered building with a pyramid on its top. The pyramid was intended to draw down pure mind. Unfortunately, Phileas couldn’t remember a meeting where it had worked.

  Three Councilors were missing: The Chief Healer, the Councilor for Education, and the Councilor for the Arts. The latter two were Tamarans, and each had requested a leave of absence from Council meetings, claiming that their duties left no time for attendance.

  Phileas was certain that the top educator, a well-known lecher, was busy attending high school and university assemblies that featured performances by nubile young girls. As for the arts, countless opportunities existed to avoid boring Council meetings: the need, for example, to determine whether a movie was too pornographic for public viewing.

  Tamarans were uncommonly clever at cloaking their desire for sensual pleasures in the guise of official business. Since these members contributed little to serious discussions, Phileas intended to ignore their absences unless the Tamaran community made noises about being unrepresented.

  Kermit Strand, State Treasurer, gave the first report. In comparison to the Tamaran Council members, he was a paragon of mental control. If he had any emotions, they’d long since withered from neglect. His worst crime was the delivery of mind-numbing financial reports.

  “The people are resisting our traditional and sacred austerity. They demand material comforts; they teeter on the verge of demanding satisfaction of their sensual urges. I attribute this rise in unrest to the increase in visits to Tamaras, which in the last quarter have doubled.”

  “You can attribute anything bad to Tamaras,” Daria Turley, Nathan’s feeble-minded descendant, muttered. “Oasis exists because Zena and Nathan had the wisdom and courage to rise up against the rotten nature of Tamaras, sin central.”

  “According to the surveys run by my department,” Kermit said, “forty percent of the people don’t even want to admit they’re descended from slaves of the Tamaran overlords. They say their ancestors came later. Now that the vast wealth from Tamaran mining industry is more equitably distributed, their average family income is 17,000 tams, nearly double the equivalent in nats.”

  “But do they have subsidized housing and grain, free food and free medical care, and the best schools in the known world?” Daria shouted.

  “They have disposable income. They eat fatty meat. They drink grain alcohol. They have theatres that show the worst kind of filth. Tam Town alone has twenty-three theatres, and attendance has risen thirty-four percent in the last year. Five recording companies spew out acoustic drivel to the tune of hundreds of millions of copies.”

  “And what do our people want?” Phileas asked.

  “Twenty-five percent increase in income. That’s an average, calculated with the following elements factored in—”

  “A summary will do.”

  Kermit dropped his papers. “More money, release of trade and travel restrictions, abandonment of censorship.”

  “Surely not all Oasans?”

  “A growing number, enough to cause unrest, and the rise is statistically greater among youth. In an anonymous survey, fifty percent of the respondents said they’ve considered emigration—to Tamaras, of course. Few showed any interest in the frozen peaks of Dolocairn or the Etrenzian desert. They seek the flesh pots.”

  “We have failed,” Daria said.

  Phileas knew what she really meant. He had failed. The founders’ pristine dream of a people no longer enslaved by the addictive demands of the body, no longer drowned in the tidal pool of emotions, free to create a peaceful and just society by using the possibilities of pure mind, had eroded under his leadership.

  And Snurf Noswan, the Dolocairner Godly who had somehow prayed his way onto the Board, was about to tell him why.

  “With all due respect, Guardian, your relaxation of sexual restrictions has only made the people more dissatisfied. As Zena so rightly said, lust is an addiction that can never be satisfied.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,�
� Phileas said. “The same might be said of gluttony, but does that mean we should ban eating? By providing free, tasteless nutrition, we restore eating to its rightful role as a physical function. We encourage the same attitude towards sex. Old Tamaras had more rules against sex than Oasis has ever had. Depravity flourished in an underground and illicit atmosphere. Repression from above pushed perversion below.”

  “Filthy Tamarans,” Daria said.

  She might not have said it if the Tamaran Council members had been present, but her opinions could get back to them. Phileas moved quickly to avoid a later crisis. “Remember Nathan said our greatest strength came from the blending of the races to create a new culture.”

  “Except that we’re not doing much blending,” Wendly Icinger said. “In my capacity as Director of Agriculture, I get countless complaints from Dolocairners that they’re automatically assigned to the fields. Is it any wonder they become Earthers?”

  And what about you, Wendly? Phileas wondered. Do you, too, fall on your knees at the name of the Earth Mother and beg forgiveness for your crimes against twigs and weeds? He didn’t read that kind of devotion in the man, but Wendly’s being shouted sympathy. And why not? He was a Dolocairner.

  “Don’t forget the ones who become Godlies,” said Snurf.

  They were both right, but every attempt Phileas had proposed for the elevation of the Dolocairn race had been stifled by his fellow Etrenzians, who produced studies showing that Dolocairners lacked the ability to make fine mental distinctions. Now the country had two dissident Dolocairn-led movements, one based on wild and irrational Earth worship and the other on the fierce eradication of all emotions but penitence, suffering, and stifling self-righteousness.

  Kermit shuffled papers. “Back to business. We were talking about sex.”

  Phileas nodded with relief. “It’s incorrect to say that deviance goes unpunished. Those who persist in it fail to advance in our society for the simple reason that they’ve demonstrated a lack of control over their physical urges. We levy the same penalties on those who are emotionally uncontrolled. The man who can’t refrain from showing public affection to his wife—”

  “Or the depraved teenagers who practically have sex in the street,” Daria said.