Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

Weredragons of Mars

Written by Carl Frederick

Illustrated by Dan Skinner

In a small, out-of-the-way cabin of the generational ship Trans Global Hope, three students sat around a table planning mayhem. Their clothing, stereotypical of upper-class, fifteenth-century England, included weapons; Jeffrey and Rolf wore broadswords while Claire's attire embraced a rapier. The three weapons had the generic feel of almost anything produced by the Everything Factory. But then again, they only had to last a year.

"I've had it," said Jeffrey. "Weredragons of Mars! That's the last straw." A jerkin, arrayed seemingly by accident, obscured the cabin comfort-camera and, from a boomvid player, a classic neo-VisiGoth music vid blared loud, the speaker pointing conveniently toward the comfort-cam's microphone.

"The CAD," said Jeffrey, softly under the music. "He's the real authority on the ship." He put both palms flat on the table and leaned in toward Claire. "I say we kidnap him."

"I'm with Jeffery," said Rolf, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Claire glowered at him, then turned to Jeffrey. "I think we should kidnap the sheriff. Going after the CAD is a stupid idea." Jeffrey raised his head and looked down his nose at her. "Fine," she said after a moment of silence. "It's a stupid idea, my lord." She shook her head. "Will you ever grow up? You get your title in a lottery and then act like you were born to royalty."

"That," said Jeffrey, pointing a finger, "is the point. We're required to act as they tell us. They decide a trope every year, make the rules, and we have to follow them." He rubbed a hand along his thigh to smooth out a wrinkle in his tights.

Rolf scowled. "And we can't even do that," he said. "The trope's already a week old and the handbook isn't even out yet."

"It's all phony," said Claire, her voice raised. She stared down at the hilt of her rapier. "Fiction! Where's the realism? We're all titled. Where are the serfs?"

"If you want serfs," said Rolf, nodding toward the boomvid, "just keep shouting into the comfort-cam until we all get arrested." He partially withdrew his sword, then slammed it back into its scabbard. "I doubt if the brig, um . . . the dungeon, is any fun at all. But it'll probably be serfy."

Jeffrey made "down" motions with his hands. "We mustn't lose our focus," he said almost at whisper. "When this ship arrives at Earth Prime— "

"In another gazillion years, maybe," said Rolf.

"They say it'll be soon," said Jeffrey.

"Yeah, sure."

"The shipquake last month," said Claire. "They said it means we're almost there."

"Look." Jeffrey hit the table softly with his fist. "When we get to Earth Prime, I don't want to be one of the . . . one of Claire's serfs."

"If the terraforming ship didn't succeed," said Rolf with a grim smile, "it won't matter. We'll all just die."

"You're always so cheerful," said Claire.

"Come on, guys. Cool it." Jeffrey stood and turned to Claire. "Are you in or out?"

Claire sighed. "In."

"You know," said Rolf, thoughtfully, "maybe this is wrong. Maybe we should try to find the Oracle and plead our cause to him."

Jeffrey cocked his head; this was a new aspect of Rolf's personality. "You believe in the Oracle," he said. "Don't you?"

"Yeah," said Rolf. "Do you a have a problem with that?"

"Well, maybe I do."

"I wonder," said Claire, "if there are both Phobos weredragons as well as Deimos weredragons."

Rolf turned on her. "What?"

"Were-things change during the full moon. And on Mars there are two moons."

Jeffrey looked on with admiration. Yet again, Claire had defused a potential quarrel.

Just then, the door flew open and three men with drawn swords surged into the cabin. Then a fourth sauntered in. He was paunchy, past middle-age, and his sword remained in its scabbard.

Jeffrey jumped to his feet and started to draw his weapon. But when the intruders made menacing motions with their own cutlery, he changed his mind and extended a hand instead.

"I'm, ur, Baron Von Jeffrey." He smiled at the middle-aged man. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"I am the sheriff." The man ignored Jeffrey's proffered hand and pointed at the boomvid player. "And turn off that damned noise."

As Claire switched off the player, the sheriff turned to one of his compatriots, a man looking to be in his mid twenties. "Last year," said the sheriff, "I was the sheriff. What am I called now?"

"You still are the sheriff, sir . . . I mean sire."

"Damn." The sheriff let out a breath. "What's holding up that handbook?" Returning his attention to Jeffrey, he said, "These gentlemen are my duly authorized deputies."

"Constables," said the younger man.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. "I must inform you that you are all under arrest." He spoke in a tired voice. "Please come with us."

"Arrested on what charges?" said Claire.

"Crimes against the ship. Undermining the ship of state." He took a parchment held out to him by a constable. "In particular," said the sheriff, his eyes on the document, "Vandalism. Willful destruction of a comfort-cam."

"So the surveillance cameras found us," said Jeffrey.

"The comfort-cams?" said the sheriff "You know better than that. You went to school."

Jeffrey folded his arms over his chest. "You don't really expect us to believe that nonsense they teach us in school?"

"Nonsense?" The sheriff shook his head. "What's wrong with kids these days?"

"Is it a crime to want lives with meaning?" said Jeffrey, talking not so much to the sheriff as to the constables. "How can there be meaning when nothing's real? Nothing's solid. Nothing's important." He made eye contact with the nearest constable. "Our education is useless. All we have are these stupid yearly tropes." He returned his gaze to the sheriff. "And this one's more stupid than most."

The sheriff scowled. "This education of yours." He gave a grunt of disdain. "Didn't they teach you how important it is to keep Earth's culture —our culture—alive?"

"Culture?" said Claire, her eyes bright with revolutionary zeal. "You call Weredragons of Mars, culture?"

"Horror, fantasy, science fiction. We get it all out of the way in just a single year." The sheriff shrugged. "Then we can get back to real literature."

"What?" Jeffrey turned on the man. "I like science fiction. I was looking forward to a year of it. But this isn't SF. This is junk!"

"SF would have been great," said Rolf, "especially after last year. Forbidden Love in the Saddle."

" 'The Old West,' if you don't mind," said the sheriff, "But before that, we had Caesar's Rome, the Russian Revolution, the Year of the Pharaohs, the Wizard of Oz. Good stuff."

"But all phony!" Jeffrey shouted.

"Tell it to the judge." The sheriff glanced over to his closest constable. "Are judges still called judges?"

"I don't know, sir— sire."

"Thank you." The sheriff pointed toward the door. "Okay, let's go." He threw a glance to a constable. "Victor. You take the lead." He gestured at the students. "And you three next. We'll bring up the rear."

The constables lowered their swords out of the way as Jeffrey, Rolf, and Claire moved to the door. "God, but swords are awkward in confined spaces," said a constable.

"Give me six-shooters any time," said another.

Just as they'd all passed through the cabin door, an announcement rang through the corridors. "Red weredragon alert." The voice was loud and crisp. "Weredragon alert status, red." Then a siren sounded.

"What the hell does that mean?" a constable bellowed over the noise.

"Run," shouted Jeffrey, seizing the opportunity. He sprinted down the corridor. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Claire and Rolf running close behind. And farther back, he saw the constables running clumsily with swords brandished.

They ran down corridors where the walls and ceilings, holo-active displays, showed the reds of the Martian desert landscape. Scattered on occasional rocky promontories, medieval castles stood replete with turrets, ramparts with crenulations, and drawbridges over waterless moats. In the deepening twilight, Phobos and Deimos blazed full near one horizon, while at the other, the small disk of the sun sank to its setting.

"Very convenient," Rolf called out between heavy breaths, "this sudden weredragon alert."

Jeffrey took a few more steps, then stopped, his fists clenched, his mood dark and defiant.

"What?" said Rolf, almost running into him.

"Too convenient," said Jeffrey. "They're playing with us. I don't like being manipulated." He turned to watch as the constables closed on them. "Anyway, it's a long time to the end of the trope-year. We can't hide out that long."

When the sheriff had sidled up, Jeffrey said, "Go ahead. Lock us up." He held his hands together, pretending to be handcuffed like a movie bad-guy. Then, conscious that his gesture was out of trope, quickly separated them. Not that it mattered; in the transition period, he couldn't be fined for a maltropism.

"Drop the melodrama," said the sheriff. "Just hand over your swords— slowly, please."

"At least," said Jeffrey, as he presented his sword, hilt first, "we'll get good coverage in the Herald."

"The what?" said the sheriff.

"The former Dodge City Gazette," said a constable.

"I wouldn't count on it," said the sheriff with a malevolent smile. "The CAD wants to see the three of you."

Claire gasped.

****

Through e-snooping, Jeffrey had long ago discovered the address of the CAD's Council. But he'd never been inside that unmarked cabin. He knew of no one who had. Now, he and his two friends stood facing a table in that very place. Sitting, were three middle-aged men, one of whom wore something resembling a hearing aid. They were flanked by two younger men who were standing— obviously guards since they carried, not swords, but nasty-looking Z-bec stunners. The cabin, barely large enough to hold everyone, was typically nondescript and, like all cabins Jeffrey knew of, had a ceiling-mounted comfort-cam.

Jeffrey gazed at the cam; it didn't seem logical that there'd be a cam here, at the seat of the metagovernment. Could it be that the comfort-cams really were automatic and just documenting the trip?

The man seated in the middle, the one wearing the hearing aid, leaned back, put his hands behind his neck, and stared at Jeffrey with a wry smile. "You, Jeffrey," he said, "are beginning to be more of a problem than a solution."

"Who are you, please?"

"Ah." The man moved his hands to lie flat on the table. "I am Sebastian."

"The CAD," said Jeffrey, standing proud and erect. "I'm honored." He'd been caught, but he wouldn't let them think he was cowed.

Sebastian chuckled. "The CAD. Yes. Boffin to the faithful. But my title is simply coordinating secretary. Boring, isn't it?" He indicated the man on his right. "Wolfgang, chief of Ship Engineering" —and then the man on the left— "and Neville, our tropemaster."

"In other words," said Jeffrey, "the secret power ruling the ship."

"Secret?" said Sebastian. "My dear boy, secretary by no means implies secret."

"Well, maybe not secret," said Jeffrey. "But certainly the power."

"Do you know what CAD stands for?" said Sebastian.

Jeffrey shook his head.

"It stands for cruise activity director." He gave a self-effacing smile. "A whimsical, but perhaps accurate description of what I do." He leaned forward. "We're the bureaucracy. The nominal government changes every year, but we keep soldiering on— keeping the ship running smoothly."

"And doing a good job of it, if I may say," said the engineer. "There's only one blight on our existence."

Jeffrey, feeling smug, glanced at his companions. "He means us."

"No!" The engineer slammed a fist on the table. "I mean boredom— oppressive, mind-numbing boredom."

"You are far from a blight," said Sebastian. "You're program."

"We're what?"

"But now," said the Tropemaster, "your actions have crossed the line." He sounded calm and reasonable, but Jeffrey could see anger in his eyes.

"It seems that there's been a rise in youth vandalism lately," said the engineer.

"You mean smashing some comfort-cams?" said Rolf, with a grin.

The tropemaster sprang to his feet. "Look," he said to Sebastian, "he's proud of it."

"My team has to repair those cams," said the engineer in a low, deliberate voice. He turned his head in Sebastion's direction. "A public flogging on Gallery Deck might be interesting, don't you think?"

Jeffrey stiffened.

Sebastian's lips stretched in a tight smile. "Is that in the criminal code this year?"

The tropemaster sat down and faced the engineer, eye-to-eye. "I'm not sure if you're serious," he said. "But I think a flogging very appropriate for the ringleader. And it would be very memorable program."

Claire, who had been watching silently, scrunched up her nose. "I don't understand this," she said. "What do you mean, program?"

"With three thousand people," said Sebastian, "and with machines doing almost everything for us, we have to keep things interesting so we don't all simply turn into vegetables." He nodded. "So yes, program. Your little mutiny is program. Elections are program. The yearly tropes are program— the most successful program." He shot a finger at Jeffrey. "And your beloved university is program."

"Excuse me?"

"The university is the perfect program," said Sebastian. "Young people fill their time learning a narrow specialty, spend more time getting a doctorate in it, then fill up more time teaching it so others can fill up their time." He clapped a hand to the table. "So yes," he said. "You're doing the ship's business."

"Does this mean," said Rolf, "that you're not going to punish us?"

"Punish you?" Sebastian paused, steepling his fingers and gazing up toward the comfort-cam. "For providing program, no." He leaned forward. "But vandalism," he said, his brow furrowed and grim, "is not considered program."

He glanced over at the engineer. "I like your idea of a public flogging. But perhaps we can reserve it for any future acts of vandalism."

The engineer nodded. "Fine by me."

"If you ask me," said the tropemaster. "I think we should make an immediate example of these rabble rousers."

The engineer shushed him and pointed to Sebastian.

Holding a hand over the ear with the hearing aid, Sebastian gazed distractedly at the ceiling.

"The Oracle?" said the tropemaster, in an awed whisper.

Sebastian stood. "Excuse me." He strode toward the door.

When he'd gone, the engineer leaned toward the tropemaster. "What do you think's wrong?" he said in a nervous voice. "The Oracle doesn't usually interrupt meetings."

"I don't know." The tropemaster looked worried.

"Excuse me," said Jeffrey. "Are you saying the Oracle's real?"

The tropemaster shifted his gaze from the cabin door to Jeffrey. "Of course it's real, you moron."

Jeffrey didn't have to look; he could almost feel Rolf smirking beside him.

"I've got to say," the tropemaster went on, "I'm quickly running out of patience with you."

"Why?" said Jeffrey. "Because we think your Weredragons of Mars theme stinks? Because we think you stink?"

"How dare you—"

"We were due for a science fiction year," said Jeffrey. "And you give us this drivel."

The engineer waved him quiet, then turned to the tropemaster. "Let's hold it until Sebastian comes back."

For the next few minutes, Jeffrey and the tropemaster glared at each other in silence.

Abruptly, accompanied by the sound of groaning metal, the ship shook, violently. To keep from falling, Jeffrey had to steady himself against the table.

"Damn it." The engineer half rose to his feet then settled back in his chair. "Not again."

"What's your problem?" said the tropemaster. "The Oracle says it means we're nearing Earth Prime."

"The ship's old. I don't know if it can take much more of this."

"Trust the Oracle!"

"I think," said the engineer, glancing over at Jeffrey and his friends, "that we should continue this little disciplinary matter later." He turned back to the tropemaster. "We can have them picked up at any time."

The tropemaster nodded.

"Okay," said the engineer. He made shooing motions toward the students. "You may go now."

Jeffrey moved a hand toward the pommel of his sword, then remembered his weapon had been impounded. He gave a hint of a bow. "As you wish, sire."

The three started for the door, Claire in the lead.

"Boredom and infantilism," said the engineer, under his breath. "Our two eternal problems. One seems to engender the other."

As Claire neared the door, it swung open. She jumped back to avoid being hit by it. Sebastian walked in and, pointedly, closed the door behind him, keeping Jeffrey and friends inside. His expression was somber.

"What's wrong?" said the tropemaster. "Is the ship all right?"

"The Oracle wants Jeffrey," Sebastian whispered.

"Now?" asked the engineer softly.

Sebastian nodded then looked to Jeffrey. "Your two friends will have to leave."

"We're not leaving," said Rolf.

Sebastian kept his eyes on Jeffrey as he said, "This is not a request, I'm afraid."

The guards raised their stunners.

"You'd better go," said Jeffrey.

Claire looked hard at Jeffrey for a moment, then nudged Rolf toward the door. "Okay," she said in a cheerful voice, clearly forced. "We'll catch you later." She threw an angry glance at Sebastian before leaving with Rolf.

"I'm sorry," said Sebastian, quietly, after the two had closed the door behind them.

"Sorry for what?" Jeffrey didn't like Sebastian's sudden niceness. Something was seriously wrong. "Is it something to do with the shipquake?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Please sit down, son." A guard moved a chair up to the table. Jeffrey sat.

Sebastian took his seat, then looked over at the tropemaster. "I owe it to Jeffrey to have a talk with him. I should have it in private."

"Alone with this troublemaker? I'm not sure— "

Sebastian waved him quiet. "I'll be fine. If Jeffrey weren't a good and righteous person, the Oracle wouldn't have called him home." He gestured at his colleagues and the guards. "Please, all of you—leave us."

Jeffrey, baffled and a little scared, watched as they left. He wished he were going with them.

"Tell me," said Sebastian in a friendly voice. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen. Why?"

"So young." Sebastian sighed.

"So young for what, please?"

"Why did you think you needed to vandalize the ship? What do you want?"

"Want?" Here, the CAD himself was asking him what he wanted, but Jeffrey found he was too filled with trepidation to think coherently. "We think privilege is wrong