CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Little Emperor
We took great care to orchestrate the hatching of new prototype dragons at Build-A-Dragon. They heated the hatching room in advance to make sure maintained the optimal temperature. A synthetic nest and a team of well-trained handlers ensure that nothing disturbs the dragon before it’s ready to hatch.
Having smuggled an egg out of the building illegally, I didn’t have such luxuries. By the time I got the egg home, the dragonet had punched through the shell with his snout. I swept aside the dirty dishes on my kitchen table and set the egg in the middle. Then I ran to the closet and dug out my old-school incandescent desk lamp. The thing hogged energy like nobody’s business—I kept it mainly to run up the energy bill for my jerk of a former landlord—but its sixty-watt bulb produced a little heat. I switched it on and tilted it toward the egg.
The snout, which had been poking out of the hole it made in the shell, quickly disappeared inside of it. I must have scared him.
“It’s all right, little buddy,” I whispered.
The egg trembled. A single claw poked through the hole the snout had made.
“Yeah, that’s it.” I wondered if I should help him break the shell. What had Johnson done? I couldn’t remember him assisting the hatching process itself. He’d been kind of hands-off until the dragons got free.
The claw shot downward, slicing through the eggshell like a Boy Scout unzipping a tent. The reddish-brown egg split apart at the seam. The two halves clattered to the table in a puddle of amniotic goo, revealing a curled-up little reptile the color of desert sand.
He was so tiny, so comically small, that I laughed out loud. “Well, look at you!”
He uncurled his neck and looked at me with bright little emerald eyes. My breath caught. I could see the intelligence there, the cleverness. It was like he knew me and what I’d done and how he’d come to be. Ten seconds out of the egg. I mean, he knew.
“Ho-ly crap,” I whispered.
He blinked and flicked out his tongue, as if sampling the sound of my voice.
Shit, the imprinting exercise. I’d almost forgotten.
I ran to the microfridge and yanked it open. “Come on, let there be some raw meat.”
I shoved aside the takeout containers and spotted a plastic-wrapped package behind them. Sliced pork shoulder, which I’d planned to grill out on the balcony. “Yes!”
Meanwhile, the dragonet had stood on shaky legs, teetered back and forth, and then tottered closer to the desk lamp.
I ripped the plastic off the package and dumped the meat on the cutting board. Found my steak knife in the sink, and started slicing the steaks into long, jagged pieces. The dragon’s little head pivoted in my direction.
“Cutting as fast as I can,” I said.
He flicked his pink tongue in and out.
I grabbed a fistful of the meat and walked back to the table. “Here you go, little dude.” I took one piece and dangled it before him.
He unfolded wings from his back. Lamplight shone through their paper-thin webbing. I leaned closer so he wouldn’t have as much ground to cover. Imprinting was fine and good, but if he hurt himself, it’s not like I could run to the vet with my unlicensed prototype dragon.
He lowered his wings and spread them out to either side, like a gymnast on a balance beam. He crept toward me, his nails clicking faintly on the wood. Catlike eyes fixed on the meat, as it swung back and forth between my fingers. Six inches away, he paused.
Crap.
“It’s all right,” I whispered.
He held still, his eyes flickering back and forth between me and the meat.
Well, if he didn’t want to make this easy, neither would I. “All right, forget it.” I shrugged and turned around.
I made it two steps when I felt the draft of cold air against my neck. Leathery wings wrapped around my face. Tiny claws dug furrows into my bare arms.
“Son of a bitch!” Survival instincts kicked in; I dropped the meat and fled into the living room.
The dragonet released me and fluttered down to the floor to claim his prize.
I shook my head. “You little punk.”
He cocked his head at me, then started eating. Or tried to, at least. I’d cut the pieces the way Johnson had, for a decent-sized Rover hatchling. This little guy didn’t have the jaws or the teeth for it. I let him tug away for a couple of minutes—mostly out of pettiness, for the scratches he gave me—and then cut one of the pork chops into half-inch cubes.
“Here.” I tossed one to him in a gentle, rainbow arc.
He scrabbled aside and let it plop to the floor, leaving little oily splotches where it bounced. He looked at it, then back at me.
“Go on. It’s all right.”
He approached the cube warily, like a panther stalking its prey. He tested the meat with his tongue, then snapped it up in a single gulp.
“See? It’s good.”
He lifted his snout and made a high trill, like a gargling songbird.
I laughed. “Is that your way of asking for more?”
I tossed him another cube. This time, he snatched it out of midair and swallowed it in a single gulp. I fed him another five or six pieces in similar fashion. “That’s probably enough for now, eh?”
He trilled again.
“All right, one more.”
I washed up while he wandered around the kitchen. Now that he’d stuffed himself with pork, he seemed to move less like an agile reptile, and more like a bowling ball with legs. His stomach bulged out. I hoped he wasn’t going to start throwing up. I sat on my couch, suddenly exhausted. The whole cloak-and-dagger thing took a bigger toll than I’d have guessed. The dragonet sidled up and stared up at the couch-cushion, as if sizing it up.
“I don’t think you should—” I started.
He leaped up, flapping his wings like a crazed turkey, and scrabbling for purchase on the front of the cushion. He cleared the edge and tumbled over, ending up in a little heap against the back of it. I resisted the urge to help him. Touching him this soon, when he felt vulnerable, might scare him. Not to mention the dignity factor. Intelligence and pride were linked in most animals, and I’d given this one more intelligence than any dragon we’d ever printed.
So I looked away and pretended not to notice while he found his footing.
He propped himself up in the center of the cushion. Not necessarily close to me, but not as far as way as he could have been, either. He folded his wings to his back and perched like a statue. Regal as a king on the throne.
No, an emperor on the throne.
“I think we should give you a name,” I said. “Would you like that?”
He trilled an affirmative.
I pulled up a list of famous emperors on my phone and try them out. “How about Julius?”
He flicked his tongue out and shook his head, like a dog coming in from the rain.
Guess that’s a no-go. “All right. Augustus?”
Another headshake.
“How about Nero?” A small part of me hoped he’d agree. It not only sounded cool but reminded me of one of my favorite old school sci-fi movies.
He shook his head again, but less vigorously.
We’re getting warmer. I tried a few more Romans, with no luck. Maybe I should try some East Asian emperors. Just before I pulled those up, I saw another name from Ancient Rome. Something about it felt fitting. “What about Octavius?”
He didn’t react at first. I swear, I could see the wheels spinning in his tiny, clever head. Then he put his snout up in the air and crooned a high, happy note.
I laughed. “All right, all right. Octavius it is.”
He flopped around on the couch a bit more, but eventually settled in and dozed off. It was kind of cute to watch. I watched his little chest rise and fall and wondered, what am I going to do with you tomorrow?