Macao Station

Chapter Twenty-One

The man worked hard, as was expected of him. The dragon had never claimed that his work as its emissary would be easy. In fact, it had warned him that sometimes he might find his tasks difficult, even unsavoury to carry out. And hadn’t that been the case already? It would be worth it in the end, though, he knew. Good medicine always tasted bad, right? He mentally shrugged and released one of his rock pins, holding the cutter by one handle behind his back, out of the way. He moved the pin to a new position, moved the other one, then fired up the cutter again.

‘You are doing well,’ said the dragon suddenly. This was the first time it had spoken to him for some hours now. Oddly, despite the noise of the cutter, he didn’t have any trouble hearing it. In fact, he thought its voice was a little louder than it had been before. He supposed that now that there was less material between him and it. He might have been imagining it — maybe it was just wishful thinking — but he certainly thought it was louder. And that must mean that he was making progress.

‘Thank you,’ replied the man quietly, concentrating on inscribing a cone shape with the plasma beam. It occurred to him how easy it would be to have an accident with the thing, an accident that could be as tragic as Sal’s accident had been. Yeah, a little voice in his head told him, but that wasn’t exactly an accident, was it? He ignored the voice — after all, you were crazy if you listened to voices in your head, right? — and applied himself anew to the task at hand.

‘I know you are unsure about the prisoner, Emissary,’ said the dragon.

The man paused, releasing the trigger of the cutter, head cocked. How does the dragon know these things? he wondered in amazement. He was awed by the depth of its empathy. It really seemed to be the only one who understood him these days. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose he just seems so. . .’ He trailed off, knowing the dragon understood.

‘I know,’ it said sagely. He could feel it breathing all around him, filling the cold, rocky womb-space with its warming life-essence. He longed to see it — touch it — marvel at its beauty in the flesh. He wondered, not for the first time, what it looked like. ‘He is something of an unlikeable character,’ confessed the dragon. ‘But he has his uses. He is required to work here while you fulfil other duties for me on the station. I could hardly have him do those other tasks, could I? It is you who are my emissary.’

The man felt his frozen face flush with pride. He involuntarily took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. ‘Well, I, I. . .’ he blustered, overcome by the flattery. The shadows loomed large around him, layers of living velvet that crowded round like eavesdroppers.

‘Do you trust me?’ asked the dragon, a sharp edge concealed within its voice.

It was testing him again — it tested him often, probing him for any doubts. But if it knew his mind so well, why was the testing necessary? The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. It may understand him, but he was starting to think he would never understand it.

‘Well, of course,’ said the man. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Good,’ said the dragon. ‘Because you know I want to help. My methods may seem strange at times, but you must retain your trust in me. You are my emissary, and you must believe that I have your best interests at heart, although some of your tasks may be difficult at times. The man, Carver, is a violent and savage oaf, but he has a purpose. His purpose is to dig. Your purpose is to oversee him, to be in charge of my — our — operations here. That means that when he has rested, he will dig again, and you will have another task.’

‘Task?’ asked the man, re-positioning the cutter against the rock-face. He flexed his fingers on the handle of the machine — they were beginning to seize up in the cold.

‘Yes,’ said the dragon. ‘There is something else that needs to be addressed back at the station. You must not be missed there yet. Not yet.’

‘Addressed,’ parroted the man. He felt strangely detached, fuzzy-headed, as happened when the dragon spoke to him. ‘Not be missed. . .’

‘That’s right,’ said the dragon encouragingly, as if to a child who had understood a tricky maths problem. ‘When he awakes, the prisoner will dig. And you will return to the station.’

‘Return to the station,’ repeated the man.

‘Where you will do something for me.’

‘Will this be another. . . difficult task?’

The dragon sighed sadly. The man felt the weight of its emotion, pushing down on him. He wished he could help it more, somehow. The dragon had a very great burden to shoulder. ‘I fear it may be,’ said the dragon. ‘I fear it may be.’