Ship of Ghosts by David Bischoff

Author:David Bischoff
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765385345
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

CHAPTER 12

“Pilot!”

“Yes, Rygel?”

“Pilot, would you please present a request to Moya for me?”

“Of course, Rygel.”

“Would you tell her to do something about these ridiculous DRDs?”

Rygel XVI, the great and glorious, eternal object of adoration, highest and most venerable power of innumerable realms, etc., etc., lay upon the cold floor.

Near him hovered his ThroneSled, looking more than a little wobbly and uncertain.

His acolytes were clustered around him, clambering over him. They had his robes engaged in their gears, and when he tried to pull away from them, they were heavier and more resistant than they looked. Their exploring eyestalks tickled, their little wheels gouged. They seemed totally out of control and, what was worse, they simply would not let Rygel up.

“Moya does not give orders to the DRDs, Rygel.”

“Look, I don’t care if it’s the Grand Vizier of Rumley Nimkin Major who gives the orders—they’re going crazy, and I want them to stop!”

One of the DRDs started to bump him in the side. Others started to push at him with a little back-and-forth scouring motion.

“I am not familiar with Rumley Nimkin Major, Rygel. It appears the DRDs are attending to you.”

A DRD started nuzzling his foot.

“Stop that!” cried Rygel. “That’s…”

He kicked at the DRD, but it clung to him and its nuzzling motion was making him feel ticklish.

“Yoooooooohoooooheeeeeeehaaaaa!” cried Rygel. “No, no, please! Pilot! Moya! Stop it … please … oh my … oh dear … Stop this thing!” He tried to twist away from the DRDs, but they had him surrounded, and kicking and flailing didn’t discourage them in the slightest. Their shiny yellow carapaces shone in the light as they swarmed around him. “Stop it now!” cried Rygel, almost out of breath.

“Rygel?” said Pilot. “Are you all right?”

“Please … no … noooooooo!” Another DRD had fastened itself to Rygel’s other foot and was proceeding to work on it, applying some sort of maddeningly ticklish electrical current to it. Even as he writhed, a whole slew of DRDs whirred and chittered through the door to aid their fellows in this important operation.

Pilot cleared his voice. “Rygel? They have determined that there is maintenance necessary to your neurostructure, and so they are performing stimulus-node massage to encourage energy flow,” he reported.

“My neurostructure is fine! Why won’t they stop when I tell them? Oooooh … Ah … Oooooh! Eeeeee!”

“They will only take orders from the mental communications networks you have established,” said Pilot, looking down at the console that constituted his interface with Moya. “Your voice no longer has authority clearance.”

“My voice … ahhhhhhhhhh … they won’t obey my voice?” cried Rygel. “It’s … ooooooh … a voice that has commanded billions! If I can’t use my voice, I can’t use the furze!”

Pilot looked quizzical. “I do not understand that term, Rygel.”

“The furze, the furze … that’s the device that stimulates the rudimentary glandpod at the base of the herpian suplex in the sphirochetia lobe of my brain! Oooooooooh … stop … oh … That’s why I can talk to them…” Rygel shook with painful laughter.

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