tempting. It offered a way to break away from the limits of Denaari-worlds. To choose their own planets. The Denaari had preferred dry, cool low gravity worlds, with thin air. Some of those on which they’d left extensive traces of settlement were too bleak for serious human colonization. Earth herself had almost certainly been a hardship post with a bare minimum of staff, possibly just there to study the natives. The Stardogs were far more common around the dry, bleak worlds than the occasional Earth-visiting Stardog had been. Still, it was to the worlds the Denaari once populated, and those worlds only, that the Stardogs would go to.
Jan-Pieter stopped musing and took off the headphones. Well. Perhaps it would be a pity to kill off young Johannes, but it couldn’t be helped. Unlike his second-cousin Mariet, who sat on the league throne at the moment, Jan-Pieter had no desire to keep the League for the Wienan-bloodline. His own line ended with himself. All Jan-Pieter wanted was power. The idea of his own mortality had never crossed his mind.
He stood up, not without difficulty, and walked from his office slowly across to his chamber. There would be no one in his bed. Jan-Pieter had no real interest in sex, taking his pleasure from his power.
The window was open. Across the predawn silence someone in the rider-compound below started to sing. The sound drifted upwards, full of sadness. The haunting words were full of deep emotions, sung in the loud, tuneless fashion of the deaf. Or, in this case, of the deafened. With irritation Jan-Pieter snapped the tower window shut. If there was one group of people that he totally despised it was those spineless riders. Useless dummies. Well, if the clone-project succeeded they could dispense with them.
He had to admit that at the moment they were a problem. Less good candidates every year, it seemed. Yet the population of the Empire was increasing. You’d think there’d be more soppy dummies. There seemed to be a pattern now of fewer coming from the central worlds, and more from remote frontier worlds and backwaters. These had never been good recruiting grounds in the past. Pioneer families tended to take care of their offspring. He wondered, not for the first time, if sterilizing riders had been a good idea. Had the resource been mined dry? Were they systematically stripping the human population of Stardog rider genes, when they ought to breed the revolting little creatures? But it had been tried in the past. The riders simply refused to co-operate. They would rather die than give up their young to the League. It had caused the death of two Stardogs, too precious to be wasted, as well as the League guards and the Riders and their offspring. If the riders realized the League intent they refused to even allow a chance of conception.
And there were disquieting signs that, despite the League’s efforts, some form of organization or at least communication must exist between the riders. Yet a spy, one who was capable of emotional bonding with a Stardog, had yet to be found.
Artificially breeding riders seemed to be the answer. But, as the Stardog cloning-project had revealed, the supply of competent bio-techs was limited. Between the Empire and the League, the sciences at Universities had been quietly strangled, especially in the fields that could pose a threat to either. The League had the best they could recruit for the avenues they wanted pursued, but still it seemed that research was not very successful as a unidirectional thing. There was a need for supporting disciplines.
Back in his apartment Johannes Wienan stirred uneasily in his sleep. The girl had slipped quietly back into the bed. In less than a week he would be riding the shuttle up to the space-station. Then on, across the open spaces between the stars. He would be carrying the deadly silicon life form nerve-toxin, attached to a heart-monitor. A dead-man switch that had never been needed in the last five hundred
Jan-Pieter stopped musing and took off the headphones. Well. Perhaps it would be a pity to kill off young Johannes, but it couldn’t be helped. Unlike his second-cousin Mariet, who sat on the league throne at the moment, Jan-Pieter had no desire to keep the League for the Wienan-bloodline. His own line ended with himself. All Jan-Pieter wanted was power. The idea of his own mortality had never crossed his mind.
He stood up, not without difficulty, and walked from his office slowly across to his chamber. There would be no one in his bed. Jan-Pieter had no real interest in sex, taking his pleasure from his power.
The window was open. Across the predawn silence someone in the rider-compound below started to sing. The sound drifted upwards, full of sadness. The haunting words were full of deep emotions, sung in the loud, tuneless fashion of the deaf. Or, in this case, of the deafened. With irritation Jan-Pieter snapped the tower window shut. If there was one group of people that he totally despised it was those spineless riders. Useless dummies. Well, if the clone-project succeeded they could dispense with them.
He had to admit that at the moment they were a problem. Less good candidates every year, it seemed. Yet the population of the Empire was increasing. You’d think there’d be more soppy dummies. There seemed to be a pattern now of fewer coming from the central worlds, and more from remote frontier worlds and backwaters. These had never been good recruiting grounds in the past. Pioneer families tended to take care of their offspring. He wondered, not for the first time, if sterilizing riders had been a good idea. Had the resource been mined dry? Were they systematically stripping the human population of Stardog rider genes, when they ought to breed the revolting little creatures? But it had been tried in the past. The riders simply refused to co-operate. They would rather die than give up their young to the League. It had caused the death of two Stardogs, too precious to be wasted, as well as the League guards and the Riders and their offspring. If the riders realized the League intent they refused to even allow a chance of conception.
And there were disquieting signs that, despite the League’s efforts, some form of organization or at least communication must exist between the riders. Yet a spy, one who was capable of emotional bonding with a Stardog, had yet to be found.
Artificially breeding riders seemed to be the answer. But, as the Stardog cloning-project had revealed, the supply of competent bio-techs was limited. Between the Empire and the League, the sciences at Universities had been quietly strangled, especially in the fields that could pose a threat to either. The League had the best they could recruit for the avenues they wanted pursued, but still it seemed that research was not very successful as a unidirectional thing. There was a need for supporting disciplines.
Back in his apartment Johannes Wienan stirred uneasily in his sleep. The girl had slipped quietly back into the bed. In less than a week he would be riding the shuttle up to the space-station. Then on, across the open spaces between the stars. He would be carrying the deadly silicon life form nerve-toxin, attached to a heart-monitor. A dead-man switch that had never been needed in the last five hundred
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