Never and never, my girl riding far and near
In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled asleep,
Fear or believe that the wolf in a sheep white hood
Loping and bleating roughly and blithely leap,
My dear, my dear,
Out of a lair in the flocked leaves in the dew dipped year
To eat your heart in the house in the rosy wood.
(Dylan Thomas, In Country Sleep, The Poems of Dylan Thomas, Edited by John Goodby, Kindle Edition.)
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
July 31st 666, GE
A few minutes before Intergalactic Forum went live, the main studio of HTV Channel X was buzzing with technicians and reporters from across the Galaxy. Anchor Ralph Kontini, who had hosted the show for more than a decade, was still in his dressing room.
A knock startled him.
“Five minutes!” someone shouted.
“Damn…” he muttered.
He was nervous. Tonight could be the defining moment of his career. Hosting Volker Chang was no small achievement. If all went smoothly—if he handled it well—this could be the scoop of a lifetime. According to the latest projections, at least two out of ten citizens would tune in. Unprecedented numbers.
All he had to do was stay calm… and not be overwhelmed by the Chancellor’s presence.
Easier said than done.
What unsettled him most was that he couldn’t explain why. During rehearsals, His Excellency had been courteous, even gracious. And yet…
Volker Chang was a disturbing figure: tall, gaunt, with hollowed features. His anthracite-gray eyes were so piercing they sometimes appeared almost luminous.
That was something Kontini had never confessed to anyone.
Sometimes—just sometimes—the Chancellor’s pupils seemed to narrow into vertical slits.
Like a shark’s.
Another knock. The door opened a crack.
“Ready, Mr. Kontini?” his assistant asked.
“Yes. I’m coming.”
“May the wolf devour you, sir!”
Kontini blinked. “What?”
“It’s a figure of speech from RomaAeterna—my homeworld. It means ‘break a leg.’ Good luck.”
“Oh. I see.” He forced a smile. “I may need it.”
He stepped into the studio, rehearsing his opening lines. The hall was ablaze with light. Holo-cameras hummed; the theme music swelled.
Volker Chang was already seated, immaculate in a black three-piece suit. Ralph approached and offered his hand. The Chancellor barely brushed it.
The music faded. Before the red light even activated, the audience erupted in applause.
Kontini admired Chang’s mastery of image. Cold and distant in private, magnetic in public. His popularity was stratospheric.
At the director’s cue, Ralph leaned forward.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As announced, we are honored to welcome His Excellency Lord Volker Chang, Chancellor and Regent of the Empire.”
Applause thundered again.
“Thank you,” Kontini continued smoothly. “As is customary on Intergalactic Forum, our guest will be questioned by leading members of the specialized press. Tonight, correspondents from the major holo-networks and the Hypernet are with us.”
The cameras panned to the front rows of journalists.
“Each of you has thirty seconds for your question,” Kontini reminded them. “If time permits, we’ll proceed to a second round.”
He turned to Chang.
“Your Excellency, are you ready?”
“Of course, Mr. Kontini. I am always ready to satisfy the curiosity of my fellow citizens.”
“Very well. Let’s begin. Marius Varjak of Sirius Times.”
A lanky reporter in red spectacles stood.
“Your Excellency, crime has surged in several sectors of the Empire—particularly the recent wave of brutal murders on New Xanadu. What measures is your government taking to protect Galactic citizens?”
Chang smiled radiantly.
“Thank you, Mr. Varjak. I welcome this question. It allows me to outline proposals that will reach the Senate next Tuesday. First, I intend to advocate for the reinstatement of the death penalty.”
A murmur rippled through the studio.
“Three centuries ago, Emperor Jasper I abolished it. But times have changed. According to Interior Ministry data, murders rose twenty-five percent last year. A wave of violence—its victims human men, women, and children.”
He paused.
“And who is responsible? The mogamogas. The k’rell. The pang-gaw. The non-human races granted citizenship after the last war. Rather than embracing the superior achievements of human civilization, they repay us with crime and sabotage. We must protect ourselves—for our children, for the future of the Empire.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically.
“Thank you, Excellency,” Kontini interjected diplomatically. “If you could keep your answers concise, we’ll allow more colleagues to participate. And before we proceed—current figures show over one hundred billion New Xanadu citizens watching Channel X, with a sixty-six percent share. Across the Empire, projections estimate three hundred billion will view the replay.”
A red light flashed. Applause again.
Kontini dabbed his forehead discreetly.
“Hastah Khlij from Radio&Holo.”
A slender humanoid woman with four arms and a tailored white silk suit rose.
“Your Excellency, it is rumored that the k’rell were forced to emigrate after your government authorized Horitzò Inc.—of which you are a major shareholder—to colonize their system. Thousands of settlers now occupy lands inhabited for millennia. Would not restoring the k’rell homeland be preferable to deploying the Space Forces against unrest?”
“My dear lady,” Chang replied smoothly, “you are repeating opposition propaganda. We seized no nation—only unused and uncultivated territories. Most alien populations lacked technological civilization. We offered integration, education, opportunity. Instead of gratitude, we received hostility.”
Applause followed once more.
Kontini shifted in his seat.
“Your Excellency, I would now like to address a controversial issue. What is your response to the recent Hypernet messages signed ‘Blondie Mary’?”
“Ah. The ‘bad wolves’ story?” Chang’s grin widened.
Kontini felt a chill. Those teeth…
Surely it was imagination. Career anxiety. Nothing more.
“I consider it trash,” Chang continued. “Any rational human over six years old would agree.”
“But these messages allege a conspiracy of humans with supernatural powers—comparing members of your administration to shape-shifting creatures known in ancient Earth lore as werewolves.”
“Dear Ralph,” Chang said indulgently, “only cranks believe such nonsense. I know of no conspiracy. And as for ‘supernatural powers’—beyond physics? Really?”
Kontini forced a smile.
“Most media outlets view the accusation metaphorically. However, the theory gained traction following a statement from an unexpected source…”
He exchanged a glance with the control room.
The lights dimmed. A prerecorded segment began.
CUT TO: LIBRARY FOOTAGE — IMPERIAL RESIDENCE, NEW XANADU
Kontini (voice-over):
“This is Lionheart Tower, the imperial residence. Until recently, no holo crew had ever filmed inside—until Crown Princess Virginia granted Channel X an exclusive interview.”
Footage rolled: the Empress Himalia holding newborn Virginia; a young princess blowing out candles; inaugurating a hospital.
CUT TO: PRINCESS VIRGINIA IN HER APARTMENTS
She sat poised on a velvet sofa beneath a painting by Zelah Sircas.
Kontini:
“Your Highness, you will be crowned on October 12. How do you feel?”
Princess Virginia:
“Responsibility does not frighten me. I’ve prepared for this since birth… but I do worry.”
Kontini:
“In what way?”
Princess Virginia:
“I don’t know whom I can trust. Not even some of my closest collaborators.”
Kontini:
“Are you implying something specific?”
Princess Virginia:
“There is a conspiracy—at the highest levels—aimed at dismantling our democratic institutions. I believe my father suspected it. Perhaps that explains his tragic death… and my mother’s.”
The broadcast cut back to the studio.
Something was wrong.
Kontini tried to speak—but no sound came. He gasped, clutching his throat. Sweat poured down his face; his skin had gone ashen.
For several seconds, no one grasped the severity of it.
Then chaos erupted.
The producer cut to commercial. Half the audience screamed for a doctor; the rest surged forward, Datapads raised, desperate for footage.
Only Chancellor Chang remained perfectly still.
He did not move when Ralph Kontini collapsed at his feet.
Aboard the aircraft carrying him home, Volker Chang turned to the Minister of the Interior.
“Oh, I know,” he said calmly. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what, Lord Chang?” Bai replied carefully. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Oh, come now. Spare me the pretense.”
Bai exhaled.
“Very well, Your Excellency. Since you ask… the host was a fool. And an insufferable busybody. But eliminating him in front of several billion viewers may not have been… prudent.”
“Oh, please, Bai. I didn’t even touch the idiot. And he didn’t die. He’ll recover. More or less. He simply won’t be quite the same.”
The Chancellor’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, revealing a flash of teeth.
“Ralph Kontini was a minor inconvenience,” Bai insisted.
“Yes,” Chang agreed softly. “The princess is the real problem. I underestimated her. We assumed she was an airhead, concerned only with her own pleasures.”
“Her accusations were vague,” Bai ventured. “She mentioned no names.”
“And you believe that was accidental?” Chang’s eyes narrowed. “The girl isn’t a fool. She knows she cannot accuse me without incontrovertible proof. It would destroy her credibility. Even now, our allies in the media are spinning the story—claiming the heiress seeks to discredit the government to favor a rival faction. One far more pliable. One eager to expand her already generous privileges.”
Bai shifted uneasily.
“But those messages… Who is Blondie Mary?”
“That,” Chang replied icily, “is your responsibility, Minister.”
Bai swallowed.
“Excellency… our analysts confirm that the Hypernet has been breached repeatedly over the past weeks. Professional work.”
Chang clicked his tongue.
“Those messages are dangerous. They plant seeds. Until now, the public dismissed the legends of the Night People as folklore.”
“You forget the Holroyd Society.”
“How could I? That is precisely why we eliminated their spies. They remain under control, do they not?”
“Yes, Excellency. I received the weekly report from our infiltrator just today.”
“Good. Inform them to prepare. A shuttle has already departed to retrieve the synth.”
Bai hesitated.
“Excellency… I fear that may not be possible.”
Chang’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.
“Explain yourself.”
“I assure you, I bear no fault,” Bai stammered. “By the time I was informed, events were already in motion.”
“The synth was to remain secured on Gliese,” Chang hissed.
“She was, Excellency. I personally oversaw it. But the Society authorized an expedition—to Tr’lang.”
“Tr’lang?”
Bai rushed to clarify.
“Our infiltrator was instructed to steer the Holroyd Society toward Tr’lang—to retrieve the Helobios before it fell into hostile hands. They had to proceed cautiously to preserve his cover. According to his report, the mission gained momentum unexpectedly. A certain Skunks volunteered to lead it.”
“Skunks?”
“An alien female, Excellency. She insisted on bringing the synth. Forcibly preventing it would have compromised our agent. They chose instead to wait for their return.”
“That is unacceptable,” Chang growled. “The princess grows bolder by the day. I warned you, Bai. No more mistakes.”
“My lord, I could not have foreseen—”
“You will travel to Tr’lang yourself,” Chang interrupted coldly. “And you will not return without the synth.”
“You have fairy blood in you,”
said she, looking hard at me.
“How do you know that?”
“You could not have got so far into this wood it it were not so;
and I’m trying to find out some trace of it in your countenance. I think I see it.”
“What do you see?”
“Oh, never mind: I may be mistaken in that.”
“But how then do you come to live here?”
“Because I too have fairy blood in me.”
(George MacDonald, Phantastes, Kindle Edition.)
On the fifteenth evening of their journey, Twiglet and the others sat in the Aranui’s galley, eating supper while watching a holo-vid. When a Hudlarian whisky commercial interrupted the Chancellor’s interview, Twiglet lowered the volume.
“I bet the broadcast won’t resume.”
“Of course noth!” Uful’lan spat out an enormous Rigel mutant chicken bone. “Konthini iss in a coma ath New Xanadu Memorial. Brain hemorrhage.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“It’ss old newss by now… That was last week.”
“Oh. Right.” Twiglet rubbed her temples. “I’m losing track of time.”
She had spent the past few days immersed in Tr’lang’s maps and topographical data. The news had seemed irrelevant.
“Do you think Chang had something to do with it?” Kyle asked, pouring himself more tea.
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Twiglet replied quietly. “With werewolves, anything is possible. One thing is certain, though: after those accusations, the princess is in greater danger than ever.”
But the gravest danger to Princess Virginia was sitting only a few feet away.
“I know,” Shirl said softly. “The Galaxy is on the brink of collapse simply because I exist. Perhaps I should make a patriotic gesture and kill myself… though I admit I’m not enthusiastic about the idea.”
“Nonsense!” Twiglet snapped. “It’s Chang and his Apostles who should step aside.”
Shirl shook her head faintly.
“You’re kind, Twiglet. I doubt many would agree with you.”
She rose abruptly. Wolfram, who had been dozing on her lap, protested with an indignant meow.
“Excuse me,” Shirl added. “I’m not feeling well.”
She left the galley. Silence followed.
Kyle glanced toward the corridor several times as he finished his tea.
“I’m going to check the hyperstring actuators,” he said at last.
“Of course,” Twiglet murmured. “Let me know how she’s doing.”
Beside her, Uful’lan swallowed a massive handful of salted peanuts.
Kyle knocked on Shirl’s door.
“Hey… are you in there? May I come in?”
The answer came after a moment.
“The ship is yours.”
She lay on the lower bunk, staring into space. Her hair was disheveled, and her oversized clothes hung loosely from her slender frame.
“Can I sit?”
“Please,” she said, gesturing toward the only chair.
“What’s wrong?” Kyle asked, straddling it.
“Nothing,” she replied, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing at all.”
He felt an almost irresistible urge to kiss her… to hold her… to make love to her until the end of time.
“Right. You look thrilled.”
“Are you going to play shrink?” She turned to face him. “Fine. Do you have any idea what it means to be a synth? You see yourself just like everyone else… until you discover you’re worth less than—than—”
“And that makes you angry? That’s pointless,” Kyle said bluntly. “Synth or not, it makes no difference. The world doesn’t care about me, you, or anyone else. Do you think it matters if you suffer? If you starve? If you die? You can sacrifice yourself for a cause, but in the end, if you wind up in a gutter, people will step on you just to keep their shoes clean.”
Shirl stared at him.
“What?” he snapped.
“If that’s how you feel… why are we going to Tr’lang?”
“Well…” He hesitated. “For starters, I needed the money. And then… those two fools—how would they survive in that hellhole without someone to curb their enthusiasm? Or someone who knows how to use a blaster?”
They fell silent.
“It’s not just that,” Shirl said at last.
“What, then?” Kyle sighed.
“I’ve never told anyone, but… I’ve been having strange dreams. Something terrible is about to happen. And I feel as if there’s something I must do—something important—but I can’t remember what it is. I didn’t think much of it at first… until those scientists at the Holroyd Society looked at me as if I were a monster. They said I belong to the werewolves.”
Kyle said nothing.
“It sounds insane, I know. But… what if there’s something evil inside me?”
“That’s not so insane. I feel that way most of the time.”
Shirl bolted upright—only to bang her head against the upper bunk.
“Oh—ow! You have bad dreams too?”
Kyle grinned faintly. Calling his nightmares “bad dreams” was a generous understatement.
“Yeah… sort of. I’ve had them since I was a kid. Seven or eight, maybe. Amaranta almost lost her mind the first few times.”
“Amaranta?” Shirl interrupted. “Your girlfriend?”
Kyle laughed softly.
“No. My mom. Foster mom, actually. She’s a belehk from Dschubba VIII. I never met my biological mother.”
He paused, remembering Shirl had been grown in a nutritive vat.
“As for my dad… who knows? But I never missed them. Amaranta is a great mother. Despite her… profession.”
“It can’t be worse than cyber-fighting for Felix Nagatomo.”
“It’s not worse—just different. She manages a brothel. About fifty people work there. At least twenty different species.”
“Oh…” Shirl said awkwardly. “And… what happens in your dreams?”
“Most of the time, I don’t remember,” Kyle lied. “They’re unpleasant. I wake up drenched in sweat. Anyone who’s shared a bed with me says I scream and thrash around.”
“When I was younger, I used to sleepwalk. Once, Amaranta found me on the far side of the island—naked, covered in scratches. My feet were so torn up I couldn’t wear shoes for a month. So she gave me this…”
He pulled a necklace from beneath his shirt. A small medal hung from it.
“It’s sterling silver from Pollux IV. Must have cost her a fortune.”
“What an odd shape,” Shirl murmured.
“It’s a pentacle—a five-pointed star. Supposed to ward off evil, or something. Belehk superstition. But I do know this: since I started wearing it, I haven’t sleepwalked again. The nightmares, though… they stayed.”
“May I?” she asked.
She reached out to touch the pentacle, brushing his skin in the process. A sharp pang shot through his chest.
Why was he telling her all this? He had kept these secrets buried for years—so deeply he barely acknowledged them himself. Now it was as if he had opened a valve he couldn’t shut.
“I lost it once,” he continued. “Back when I was still in the Space Forces. I tried to stay awake for two days straight. Then I collapsed. Now that I think about it… that’s when I started using Xetor. I needed to—”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“What the hell—”
“Someone knocked,” Shirl said.
The knocking came again, more urgently.
“Maybe it’s an emergency.”
“I doubt it. The Aranui would’ve alerted me.”
“Captain! Are you in there?” Twiglet called.
“Thhere’ss ssomethhing you sshould ssee!” Uful’lan added.
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