Return to Ficlet Index
Possessing digits, which they had wisely never evolved into flippers, these unlikely amphibians had become their world's dominant species - once the simians had wiped themselves out.
In polite interspecies conversation this was rarely mentioned, though all Hynerians chuckled about it privately.
The younglings arrive in litters of as many as five. Tiny, pale replicas of their parents, they are covered in their early years with a down not unlike fur. Their Maters always declare they are handsome, or beautiful, and they bask in this elusion until the next mewling, downy litter arrives to displace them. Then they are banished to the nursery or their tutors.
It was hot and dry where the best Marjouls were harvested - which was inconvenient. The dryness did not suit the aquatic Hynerians well. Nor did the Marjouls like it overmuch. But the grasses there were rich in just the right nutrients, and the creatures thrived on them, provided that the irrigation ditches were maintained. This was no task for Hynerians, but fortunately there were plenty of subject races who could be shipped in and put to work.
Scions of the house of Rygel were plentiful, so much so that the loss of one or two would hardly be missed. And so the risk was considered acceptable in exchange for the education a princeling could receive while learning how this lucrative trade operated. Cirus and Bishan were despatched to the Marjoul fields in the high steppes in their sixteenth summer. But the threat, when it came, was not from the climate.
The princelings revelled in the chance to roam which inspection of the farms gave them. They were young, but growing fast. Their fluffy coats were going through the sleek, silken phase which precedes, in their race, the shedding of most body hair at the onset of maturity. They knew they were handsome creatures, they believed they were grown up, they felt they were invincible if not immortal. Tutors had followed them, even here, and many hours were devoted to study of the economics of the farming, and of Imperial economics in general. More hours were given over to study of the nature and management of the subject races whose work kept the Empire solvent. But on this afternoon, they were free. Free to wander, free to race their sleds across the paddies, free to play. Especially free, since they had shaken off their tiresome minders.
There was a deep canal feeding into the irrigation system. Cirus was first to reach it, and to launch himself straight from his sled into its cool depths. It was a new skill, jumping from the sled while still in motion, and knowing that the angles and forces were calculated exactly so that the sled would come to rest safely, and not in the canal.
Bishan followed half a microt later, landing square on Cirus's shoulders and taking them both in a boiling, roiling tumble to the bottom. There they wrestled, stirring up the bottom mud, tangling in weeds, holding their breaths as only born aquatics can. But at length Bishan had the ascendancy, and Cirus's struggles ceased. A last huge bubble escaped his tight-clamped lips, and his eyes closed.
Bishan held him a heart-beat longer then surged to the surface with a crow of triumph. He looked around him in increasing alarm as Cirus failed to follow. He called out. "Ciris? Cousin?" Nothing. He took a huge gulp of air, in preparation for a dive, and Cirus bobbed up cackling and laughing.
"You . . ." Bishan protested. "I thought . . ."
"You thought you'd drowned me. You farbot welnitz," Cirus laughed, trying out some of the insults his Mater frowned on.
It was fun being a Hynerian Princeling, on a half day off. Their skins soaked up the welcome wetness of the canal. Their growing limbs revelled in the exercise of swimming. Their bodies loved the buoyancy of the water, basking in the shallows while the sun crossed the sky.
Bishan was the first to clamber out, and shake himself dry. Putting on the minimum of clothing to preserve his regal dignity he wandered off in search of an immature Marjoul or two for an illicit supper.
Cirus emerged a good ten microts later. Bishan was out of sight, but he could guess where he had gone. Unconcerned he sun-dried himself, and began a leisurely dressing. The grasses rustled. It must be the evening breeze coming up, since he could see no-one near. As he pulled a shirt over his head his sensitive ears picked up another rustle - closer and not as natural. His earbrows went up - alert. Prince of the House of Rygel he might be - but he was far from the capital, and far from his tutors. He was still struggling free of the garment when the shadow of a much larger being came between him and the sun.
There was a whirring, a thud, and a cry. A heavy body fell very near to him. And there was Bishan, hovering over a creature three times his size.
"Close, cousin," he said, simply.
They looked at the ugly, sharpened mattock which the shabby creature had dropped.
"Assassin?" Cirus breathed. "After me?"
"After either of us it could find," Bishan guessed.
"I . . .Thank you . . . I - I owe you my life, Cousin Bishan," Cirus said.
"The tutors always said we should be careful of these sleds. They are correct. They are lethal," Bishan said.
"Thankfully." Cirus said.
The pricelings had no more days off. They were hurried back to the capital while punitive measures were taken against the workers in the paddies. It was their first, forceful, lesson that not every member of the Empire was happy to be indentured to work for their Hynerian masters.
"We were foolish," Cirus said. "Never again." He was a quick learner.
The cousins returned to find the palace echoing with the heavy tread of PeaceKeepers. "Mater?" Cirus enquired. "Why are these soldiers here?"
"They are here to negotiate an alliance."
"Why?" he protested.
Her earbrows raised and came together in a frown.
"Your pardon, Mater. Would it please you to instruct me? I would like to understand."
The Dominara, pleased with this inquisitive son, explained how the PeaceKeepers specialised in bringing peace to those who hired them, and how the outlying worlds were showing disquieting signs of rebellion. The Hynerian way had long been to hire others to do their work, their soldiering, and, when necessary, their killing.
"And what do they get from this?"
"We pay them."
"Can we afford to do so?" Cirus asked. "Are not such alliances dangerous?"
His mother clammed up, and he recognised that this was a question too far. One did not question the Dominara's decisions. Even the ineffectual, almost-cipher, Dominar Rygel V had learned that.
Cirus went about his studies, seeking out the tutors for diplomacy and statecraft with growing eagerness. Diplomacy, he discovered, fascinated him. And he began to excel at it. His tutors reported back to his proud parents that he would make a fine statesman and strategist in good time.
The rebellions were quelled. The PeaceKeepers withdrew, leaving only a diplomatic mission on the Hynerian homeworld, and a scatter of garrisons on the outer worlds. Cirus continued to wonder at the wisdom of employing such rapacious mercenaries, but he forbore from challenging the Mater. If allies are strong with powers to protect - might they not protect one out of all one held?
Older brothers, who fretted and argued about the PeaceKeeper presence, or challenged the parental rule in other ways, gradually found themselves posted to far-flung parts of the Hynerian Empire as governors general and viceroys.
In a couple of cycles, as their coming-of-age approached, Cirus found that Bishan, his cousin and friend, was almost his only blood companion in the imperial academy. About this time he was called into the presence of both his parents. They were seated in full state, with their closest courtiers around them.
"Ahem?" the Dominara coughed - prompting his father, Rygel V.
"Ahem," the Dominar coughed importantly. "Cirus-Rygel, son of our body. You have pleased us greatly. Your tutors report well of all your studies. You have proved a loyal and dutiful son. In the fullness of time you will make a fine Dominar, caring for our lands and our peoples, and our proud heritage. Er -um . ."
"Go on, dearest," The empress prompted impatiently.
"We - I -" he corrected. "I have decided that, of all our progeny, you will make our fittest heir. As you come of age, and assume your proper adult name, we have elected to confer on you our own ancient name."
Cirus drew himself up tall as the full import of this sank in. His brothers sent to far-off worlds - his mother smiling on him with favour and approval - "My handsome son," she said to him now.
"Cirus, deserving son of our ancient house, I confer on you the sacred name, handed down by illustrious forefathers, Rygel. Bear it well."
And so Cirus dropped his boyhood name and assumed the name of Rygel, becoming Domina-heir-apparent of the Empire of Hyneria, and one of the loneliest people on the planet.
"So, little one – it's you and me against the galaxy.
Have you noticed how not one of them has asked how I feel about this? Let me tell you, I'm terrified. Nothing prepared me for this. There is no manual, no training. I know less than nothing about being a parent.
Face it, with my record, my parentage, I was the last one they were going to permit to procreate. You are something of a miracle – fated maybe," she said as her mind drifted off down a side track, wondering.
She shook her head – no use thinking that way. "Yet I'm going to be all you have. You'll be safe, I can promise you that; as safe as it is in my power to make you. I'm a soldier, a warrior, and I'm good at that. They trained me well – I'll watch your back, trust me for that. But as to the rest - - -
Well, I know that the way I was raised is not good. We won't do it that way. I am totally unprepared for the practicalities of this. I was hoping that Crichton, John, would help with teaching you, caring for you. But he is so hurt right now, so fatigued, so space weary – I can't reach him. And my priorities – he has to see my priorities have changed.
"You will have to use your charms on him when you arrive – there's a very good chance that he is your father – in which case . . . Of course, if you turn out to look like a little Pilot . . ." she frowned at the mental image. "Only time will tell." Aeryn patted her still taut stomach. "Stick with me, little one – I'll do my very best for you. . . ."
Aeryn stretched out on her bed, and puzzled once more over the problem of finding a sympathetic Sebacean surgeon. First things first.
