The Last Days of Krypton - Kevin J. Anderson [12]
Veinrock stairs crusted with crystal dust led from one seating level to another like stone waterfalls. Prominent, private boxes were reserved for special viewers. The eleven members of the Kryptonian Council sat in the middle tiers with the best view. Below, the tan gravel of the track had been raked smooth for the beasts to run on when they emerged.
Commissioner Dru-Zod found the event both uncomfortable and uninteresting. The ruddy afternoon sunlight was too bright, too hot. Though ventilation systems dispersed cool air into his viewing stand, Zod still felt sweaty. Outside, the environment was too difficult to control, and he didn’t like things out of his control. The stands were overcrowded, and he could smell the teeming populace even from his private box.
Nevertheless, the Commissioner pretended to be enjoying himself. Leadership was all about appearances. The great hrakka races were a cultural event, a circus thrill for people who had nothing important to accomplish. Zod had plenty of more important things to do, but he couldn’t accomplish them unless he played to the expectations of the people. Everyone in the capital city gathered for this monthly spectacle. It kept them happy. It kept them calm. It kept them under control.
Zod’s designated box was located in a dustier tier, two levels below the elaborate private boxes of the Council members, where the view wasn’t as good, but Zod didn’t care a whit for the spectacle. Since he supervised the Commission for Technology Acceptance, the eleven-member Council considered his position to be subordinate to their own. They thought that Zod happily did their bidding. They were fools. The smile on his face was perfect; neatly barbered dark hair and a trim beard and mustache gave him a distinguished appearance.
For the day’s event, he was joined by Vor-On, the younger son of a noble family with no prospects whatsoever. “Will your charioteer win today, Commissioner Zod? Shall I place another wager?” He smelled of too much perfume masking too much sweat. Vor-On was little more than a sycophant, embarrassingly glad to have Zod’s attention.
After many years of practice, Zod kept his voice carefully controlled. “I expect Nam-Ek will win, but such things cannot be guaranteed.”
Vor-On squirmed, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. His rusty hair was cut with straight bangs and a square back; the style, which was very popular this year, had so little finesse it looked like an inexpensive wig. “You’re planning something, aren’t you? You’ve got the victory in your pocket. What’s the surprise, Zod? Tell me.”
“If I tell you, then it will not be a surprise.” Zod did not bet, and he was not in this event for profit. He was certain, however, that his man Nam-Ek would meet or exceed expectations; in that, the muscular mute was quite predictable.
Zod leaned forward, bored. Misters sprayed cooling moisture into the air. Food vendors tried to sell cold drinks. Clownish performers in gaudy clothes carried streamers and ribbons, dancing along the packed track far below, overseeing the final preparations while doing pratfalls to amuse the audience. The anticipation built moment by moment.
In the midst of all the tedious hubbub, Zod spied something interesting. Over in the gaudy stadium box of the noble family of Ka, the guests wore extravagantly ornate and absolutely impractical costumes dictated by fashion and not by common sense. The men and women sat with high collars, spiky sleeves, cinched waists, and crinkled fabric studded with so many jewels that they couldn’t possibly bend over to duck, should an assassin hurl a dagger at them. He found it both amusing and disgusting.
But what caught Zod’s attention was a lovely young woman who didn’t seem to belong there at all. Her raggedly cropped dark hair was mussed instead of coiffed. She wore no jewelry. Her eyes were like black pools, her features all the more bewitching because they did not pander to Kryptonian