Born of Flame Read online

  Books by author Oscar Steven Senn

  Spacebread

  The Double Disappearance of Walter Fozbek

  Ralph Fozbek and the Amazing Black Hole Patrol

  Loonie Louie Meets the Space Fungus

  The Sand Witch

  BORN of FLAME

  A Spacebread Story

  by Oscar Steven Senn

  5th Corner Publishing, LLC

  5TH CORNER PUBLISHING, LLC

  5569-4 Bowden Road

  Jacksonville, FL 32216

  Copyright © 1982 by Steve Senn

  All Rights Reserved.

  No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  Illustrations by Steve Senn

  Printing History

  Atheneum / 1982

  5th Corner Publishing e-book/ July 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-938178-44-3 (Kindle)

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  To Spacebread, Wherever She Roams

  Contents

  The White Cat

  Of Risk and Rockets

  The Lost Probe

  Battle in the Betweeness

  Homecoming

  To Be A Warrior

  A Distant Dirge

  The Quest

  Three Wishes

  A Thief in the Night

  The Blue Fountain

  Into the Shadowmaze

  The Guardian's Voice

  Behind the Veil

  The Last Accounting

  To Share the Stars

  [1]

  The White Cat

  KORLISS NIRAL was worried. He tugged his high collar even higher around his face and glanced once more over his shoulder. But the street was too crowded and he was too jostled to really be able to tell if they followed him. A brown cat slapped him on the back and screeched something joyfully in his ear ducts, causing further alarm. He stumbled into a doorway. The crowd of revelers streamed on.

  Turning, Niral found himself in the quiet foyer of a large, dimly lit pavilion, mumbling with seated diners. For the hundredth time that day, he changed his mind about going to the authorities. It was cool and subdued inside. Perhaps he could think here.

  He had gone only a few halting steps, wobbling a bit in the low gravity of Kiloo, when he realized a tiny voice was addressing him from atop a darkened pedestal.

  “Yes, you, my good Margh! Could I please have a bowl of C-18 nutrient, please? Oh, and with a dash of nitrogen, if you don’t mind?”

  Niral’s orange eyes widened, and he made a rattling sound. “You mistake me, sir! I am not a waiter. I do not cater beverages. I am Korliss Niral, of the sacred assembly … ssst!”

  A small green creature blinked at him. In the dim light Niral had mistaken him for a decorative display. The Korliss had never seen an alien figlet. He had never been off Marghool before, and creatures wearing space helmets startled him.

  “Oh, excuse me … forgive me, your Eminence! I am new to this world and very ignorant,” the figlet squeaked. “I mistook you for one of your drones, the ones with the straight tusks. It’s hard to tell you insect types apart. But, please, allow me to seat you at my pedestal and buy you refreshment. Here now, I insist! I am a party of one, Klimmit BarKloof by name, there is plenty of room. How lucky you are, for the rest of the pedestals are filled.” Klimmit BarKloof blushed bright green.

  Nearby pedestals buzzed with talk at the mention of the assembly, the Korlann, the powerful and ancient congress of priests that Niral belonged to. Niral realized his injured pride had given him away and said a silent prayer chant of guilt. The excited figlet buzzed alarmingly through the air without benefit of wings, urging Niral into a seat atop the pedestal. He reluctantly agreed. Anything to still the rustle of recognition in the place.

  “How lucky you are, I say again,” Klimmit chirped. “I see from your frequent glances toward the door that you are waiting for your party. Do not worry—they will arrive. The streets of Kindarh are crowded with people at Festival, no doubt they have been detained. There is room enough for all of them; a figlet is small … I say there, waiter! Could I have some C-18 nutrient? What will you have, Mr. Niral?”

  Niral hesitantly asked for a cup of bland tawny.

  “Done! Oh, and waiter … a dash of nitrogen in the nutrient, please?” the figlet added. When the drone had left, he turned back to his guest. “I see the difference now. Really, I’m sorry I mistook you for one of those. There don’t seem to be many of your sort here on Marghool’s moon. And I’m very eager to see the show. Easy to overlook details when you’re eager, even to overlook your long robes. Priestly, aren’t they?” The figlet hopped about with expectant energy.

  Niral nodded. “I am a Korliss, a member of the Korlann.” But the statement seemed to cause him as much pain as pride.

  Niral attempted to make small talk while keeping one armored eye on the door. But try as he might, glancing at Klimmit, he could think of only one opening to address to a pear shaped legless vegetable who talked. Finally, he asked, “I pray you take no insult. I am as inexperienced at identifying aliens as you are at distinguishing drones. What are you?”

  Klimmit howled with good natured laughter. “Well, we’re rare enough. My folk seldom travel the stars. I am of the fig family, the intelligent sort, from Kesterole. I am Sanguakkoid, which means I am of the Warrior clans. I fly by means of ion propulsion.”

  “But, your helmet …”

  “Oh, it just filters out some of the coarser elements in alien atmospheres that are harmful to us figlets. I could probably have filters installed in my nose, but I’ve gotten used to this arrangement. It reminds me of how far I am from home.”

  Niral turned nervously when a dark figure came too near the pedestal, but it was only a cat. “There are felines on every street corner tonight,” the Korliss commented. “I did not know so many lived on Kiloo.”

  The figlet giggled. “It’s the Festival! But surely you know that? Cats from all over the galaxy are gathered for the events this week. Oh, how stupid of me, your trip up from Marghool must be for another reason. I am so excited I think everyone must be in town for the Dance.”

  Niral forgave with a wave of his top pair of arms. “I know little of events outside the Korlann of Marghool. The Dance?”

  Klimmit’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, the glorious Dance. It’s a tradition, held here every four years to commemorate Bastu’s last dance. It is a great competition and a great honor to be chosen to compete.”

  Niral tried to appear interested, but found himself scanning the darkness behind him. He was therefore startled when a face appeared at the top of their pedestal. It was a spotted feline face, and it addressed the figlet.

  “Forgive me, sir. But I heard a rumor that a certain white cat was companioning a person of your tribe. Is that so?”

  Klimmit grinned. “She is my mistress and former owner. Have you heard of her?”

  “Who has not? I met her once years ago. Tell me, is it true that she is to dance the Dance tonight?”

  “True. She follows Raznell and a fellow named Dundee in the schedule.”

  “Marvelous!” The cat grinned. “I win the wager—a fellow at my pedestal swore that she was killed on Fomalhaut 6. Thank you. I will trouble you no further.”

  The spotted cat was replaced by their waiter, a young collared drone. Cautiously Niral sipped his tawny and watched the drone leave, but it seemed to be an ordinary waiter. Klimmit nestled into his warm bowl of nutrient.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said. “Haven’t had comfort like this in quite a while. My mistress and I have b
een gone a long time from civilization. I’m quite grateful to have you to talk to.”

  “Your mistress,” Niral ventured idly, wondering how to excuse himself. “You said she was your former owner?”

  Klimmit smiled. “Yes. I was kidnapped as a youngster by Scarvian harpies. Filthy bird creatures. My mistress bought me and set me free. We’ve been traveling together ever since.” He lowered his voice. “But for the past four years we have been banished, all alone with our rocket, for a silly adventure we had on the planet Ralph.”

  Niral stopped eyeing the door. His pupils narrowed. “A rocket, you say?”

  “Yes,” Klimmit replied. “It’s sort of old now that the Vegan Class 4’s are out, but it answers helm finely and has a first rate defense system.”

  “Defense,” Niral repeated, gazing into his tawny. He tried to still the pounding of his hearts. Could it be that his prayer chants were beginning to work? He ceased wondering how to get away from this silly, excited figlet.

  Niral was about to ask the profession of Klimmit’s mistress when a sudden roll of music cut him off. The figlet hopped to attention. A fanfare sounded, and the overhead lights lifted even higher into the Kiloon night. Niral became aware with a start that the amphitheater sloped into open air. Where a stage should have been, there yawned the great canyon that divided Kindarh into two halves.

  Spotlights blossomed, and Niral further realized that the pavilion was poised a mere meter away from rank after rank of climbing vines. Blue, like giant beanstalks rearing in Kiloo’s low gravity, they climbed out of sight toward the stars. Lights from the farther canyon rim winked beyond.

  Another spotlight pinpointed a gray cat dressed in elaborate finery, who mounted a podium and bowed profoundly. He began drolly explaining about the competition, the legend of Bastu, and the Festival. Klimmit squealed in excitement.

  For a moment Niral wavered, unsure of whether to stay and pursue this slim hope or to move on. A ship, with defenses … The gray cat ended his spiel and announced the first contestant to jubilant applause. Niral lingered.

  The music rolled, tinkled, jingled, and a violet cat bounded across the pavilion into the light. With the first flourish of his theme music, he leaped gracefully onto a towering blue stalk and began swirling from vine to vine to the beat. The low gravity of Marghool’s moon seemed to give him wings. The lights always followed as he danced along the climbing plants from stalk to stalk. Leaves sprang with his leaps, sending him twisting twice as far to other leaves, higher and higher, then plunging like a bullet to lower growth. Niral had never seen anything like it. (Marghool is a heavy planet, and its people are not given to fancy.) The cat seemed to ride on the spotlights, pivoting and cavorting to the music.

  Niral became so fascinated, in fact, that he quit watching the door and so failed to see what he had been dreading. A tall drone, uncollared, stood in the doorway searching until it fixed on Niral’s silhouette. Its nasal slits quivered until it was certain of identity, then it slipped away like a shadow.

  Each cat danced only a few minutes, to its own choice of music, the briefness seeming to add strength to its performance. Not a movement was unnecessary nor unsure, and each contestant seemed as graceful as the last. Each was introduced by the caller and followed by enthusiastic applause.

  “Our next dancer is one well known in these parts. He is the rogue Dundee. Welcome Dundee Dulowe!” The gray cat bowed, grinning.

  Klimmit leaned toward Niral. “Rogue is right. He’s been bothering my mistress,” he pouted. “Making proposals and propositions. He’s out to take advantage of her, if you ask me.”

  The applause and cheering ended, and a huge calico cat appeared in the light. His short fur was mottled and swirled in blacks and browns like the map of an alien world. The music crashed, and Dundee somersaulted into the night. From that moment there was no rest for his legs, the orchestra, or the eyes of his audience. His specialties were speed and strength. He danced in a wider area than the rest, all across the chasm, dazzling in his surefootedness. The music raced to its climax as Dundee executed an especially brilliant series of spinning leaps from stalks that seemed too widely separated for success. Tumultuous clapping greeted his exit. All knew the calico was the cat to beat.

  “She’s next!” Klimmit shrieked.

  Dundee’s music faded as the caller announced, “My feline friends need no introduction to our next dancer. She is the singular, audacious Spacebread, of whom you have heard so much!”

  The figlet nearly tumbled from his seat with cheering, and the crowd emitted a surprised gasp. The music rolled in a new melody, a modem version of a nursery song all recognized with fair memories, and Klimmit recalled his mistress humming it much lately. The spotlight lit a lone figure, so white it hurt the eyes.

  Niral leaned forward. So this was the owner of the well defended rocket. But she was so beautiful, so elegant. Doubt bubbled within him.

  Spacebread raised her arms, embodying poetry itself. In a second she was airborne, spinning, sailing, pausing, diving, like a spark in a chimney. The song wound down to a slower beat, and the white cat slowed also in a gently sad way, in mid-leap. Now atop a swaying stem, her movement became a fervent whisper that held the breath of every viewer captive. Cymbals clashed!

  The tender mood shattered, Spacebread hurtled off the frond backward, flying through loops in two plants to alight like a feather in a pose of grace atop a third. Then, to top it off, after a long string of plain but mighty leaps that rivaled Dundee’s, she kicked out unexpectedly on the final frond and plunged like a rock off its edge. It was the longest dive of the evening and brought alarmed cries from the crowd. She stopped her fall into the abyss only by glancing off a leaf at great speed and diving through a spiral tendril, which slowed her into a corkscrew spin. She landed upright, with arms wide, very near the pavilion’s rim. The crowd erupted. The figlet exploded. For a moment Korliss Niral was quite alarmed and glanced again at the door, fearing a riot. But the blazing white figure only bowed lower to the cheers. Finally, being the last dancer, she found her way to the roped off area where the rest of the contestants relaxed.

  The ovation lasted until the caller entered the spotlight and had called for silence three times. Finally he found quiet enough to say, “Felines and guests! By acclamation of the judges … need I say it? Spacebread, the wanderer, the wonder cat, is the winner of the Branch of Bastu and the title Queen of the Festival!”

  Delighted, the crowd roared. The beautiful white cat made her way to the spotlight, where he handed her the golden branch. But when she turned the award back to him in refusal, the cries were of shock. The caller tried to return the prize, but Spacebread bowed very deeply and then held up her arm for silence. The crowd finally regained composure and listened.

  “My good friends,” she said in a clear and musical voice, panting, smiling, “you do me a great honor! The honor is great even to dance for you in the name of Bastu. I would disown that honor if I deceived you now and accepted further praise I do not deserve. I cannot do that. I must be disqualified, for that last maneuver that looked so grand was not what it appeared. It was an act of desperation. I tripped! It was not planned at all.”

  Niral leaned farther forward as the crowd cried their disapproval loudly. There was more to this cat than strength and beauty. The caller offered her the Branch yet a third time, at the crowd’s insistence, but she refused with embarrassed laughter.

  “I am here for relaxation and play, not for glory,” she insisted. “How could I accept the Branch because I stumbled?”

  In a moment she was gone from the spotlight. The caller still seemed shocked, but finally a courier trotted up with a note from the judges. He grinned widely and announced that the prize went to Dundee Dulowe, the calico adventurer.

  Klimmit applauded wildly, and Niral looked at him in surprise. He beamed and said, ‘That’s my mistress! Everyone knows she’s the winner anyway!”

  Niral turned to see the biggest and whitest and most beaut
iful cat he had ever seen climb onto their pedestal. She had a brilliant fluffy ruff around her delicate face and wide golden eyes. But there was no softness in her looks. Her fur was not delicate, but well seasoned, with a rough sheen. And she bore herself with that pride and royal ease so common to felines throughout the galaxy. She settled in and ordered a drink, eyeing Niral curiously as the other cat accepted the Branch. Then professional dancers entered the spotlight for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.

  Klimmit babbled out how the Korliss came to be sitting on her pedestal, and how she had been magnificent, and how everyone admired her dance. She buckled on a wide belt and a flowing scarlet cape with straps. Niral had not noticed them before, though they had rested beside the figlet.

  She laughed, a shoulder shaking, joyful laugh, and drained her drink at one tilt. “Ah, yes, dear Klimmit. It was great fun. More than we have had in ages, eh? I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since before Ralph. How good it was to dance!”

  Niral nodded. “But even more impressive than the Dance was your sacrifice. As a priest, I am deeply affected by your display of integrity. That is very rare. Would it be too forward of me to ask of what belief system you are? Where lies your faith?”

  Spacebread smiled and let an attentive waiter fill her cup. “My faith lies in myself. I have never found an obstacle so large I could not overcome it, with time and thought. That is why I have nothing to prove by winning contests. I know my strength.

  “But right now I am famished, and my strength fails me. Will you stay and have supper with us?”

  Niral nodded gratefully, but not because he was hungry. He no longer thought of the door. He thought, in wonder, of how it must feel to own that much confidence. Something in the white cat’s manner reminded him of the old teachings of his faith.

  Admirers thronged around Spacebread’s pedestal to pay their respects, but she gracefully brushed them off with a word or a smile or a glance. She was clearly uninterested in their praise. Klimmit overflowed with pride, and whispered to Niral little snippets of Spacebread’s reputation as she engaged each visitor. He was happy to see that Niral had become enthralled with his mistress. The Margh’s hooded eyes narrowed with each whispered tale of Spacebread’s bravery or cunning.