Snillek fussed with the skirts of the putrid-yellow princess gown. "I can't get this farking thing straight around my tail."
"I was told you could retract your tail." Lord Kipcup sniffed in dismay. He did that a lot. Were there humans without annoying speech affectations?
"Yes, I can, but it's rotting uncomfortable to do for long, and I have to let it unretract some time."
"Very well, highness. You may certainly, ah, unretract in private." Kipcup rearranged the train of the dress to his satisfaction. "Horns, claws, wings, all retractable. I don't suppose you can do something about your head scales?"
"Sure. I can also retract my nose."
Lord Kipcup's eyes widened. "You can?"
"Great shells, of course not. What's wrong with my scales?"
He sniffed and cleared his throat. "Your new subjects may find them disturbing."
"So this isn't all about getting me into a dress properly." Snillek regarded him with narrowed eyes. "They know I'm not entirely human. Why should I hide so much of it?"
"Er." He looked away. "Forgive me, highness, but I must be blunt. Your mother, goddess rest her, guarded your privacy with as great a zeal as your father did. No one knew where you lived. No vids or still pics of you were ever shared beyond a certain age, not even with her closest advisors. Your subjects have no idea what you look like as an adult."
"Okay? So I can't shock them if they've never seen me."
"The mysterious Princess Siel—"
"Wait. Just… stop there a second." She turned sharply toward Kipcup, snagged her boot in the train, and cringed at the sound of ripping fabric. "I can't even keep my own name?"
He sighed and retrieved the torn bit from under her boot. "All royal personages have a personal name and an official, public name. Yours is Siel, and she—you, that is—has been a romanticized figure on Tarribotia all these years. Where you mother refused to impart information, the media invented details to fill the vacuum. The invented pictures of you, growing as they imagined you would, culminated in a more or less human-appearing woman with long red hair and draconic eyes. Dragonborn."
"That's really racist and offensive, Kipcup."
"I beg your pardon, highness. Most abject apologies." He bowed so low his forehead brushed the tassels of his gold-embroidered slippers. "But you will hear the like whispered, to be sure."
"Great. Still can't make my scales vanish."
"Oh, easily mended with a wig and long sleeves." He fussed a bit more with the dress and blanched when he caught sight of her expression. "If you would allow it, highness. It would help ease the people into your rule."
"So hiding who I am is going to help them accept me?" Sarcasm was apparently lost on Kipcup, who nodded enthusiastically. Snillek dropped the subject. Her inheritance was going to be a lot worse than she'd imagined, and she hoped her papa was busy planning her escape.
"Highness, may I ask…?"
"You can ask whatever you want." Snillek shrugged, and the stupid dress fell off one shoulder. "Might not like the answer."
"Were you…" Throat clear, sniff. "Hatched?"
"Oh, that. No. The egg would have to come from a Dzedek woman, and that didn't happen. A joint scientific team took my parents' DNA, did some combinations, and when they got a successful blastocyst, they transferred me to a uterine tank." She shot Kipcup a sharp-toothed smile. "Sounds romantic, doesn't it?"
"Ah, I couldn't speak to that, highness." He climbed onto a stepstool and took measurements of her head, probably for the aforementioned wig. "We can work with that. Uterine tanks are a familiar experience for Tarribotians."
"Hooray."
Again, Kipcup just nodded. That confirms it. Someone stole his sarcasm gland. Or maybe it's detrimental for a royal adviser, and he had it removed.
Royal advisers. She had to stop trying to run mentally from this. "I won't have any real power, will I? There are parliaments or councils that make laws? Ministers? Elected officials?"
"I beg your pardon again, highness, but the paucity of your knowledge of Tarribotian politics is rather shocking."
"Sorry. Hasn't been a priority for me before. I'm just a fighter who saves people in bad situations. Even when those are sometimes their own fault."
"Admirable calling, paladin. But not one for a princess. I would advise that you keep your previous calling in your past."
In the— "Hold on. You're saying that no one on Tarribotia knows I'm a paladin."
Sniff. Nod. "It was deemed better to suppress that information in the press—your paladin calling. In the event of your inheriting the throne, there would have been question of divided priorities and divided loyalties."
"And no one knows I don't really look human."
Sniff. Slower nod.
"Except you, and I'm supposed to keep these things secret from a whole rot-cursed planet?"
"To begin with, it would be prudent. Once you are established and have people loyal to you, there will be more latitude for, ah, differences."
Snillek clawed the dress off over her head to the accompaniment of Kipcup's scandalized gasp. Eh, he'll get over it. I'm wearing a kilt. "So how do you know so much about me when no one else on my mother's planet does?"
"I've been the remote liaison to your father for ten years, highness." Sniff. "He never shared everything about you, but enough."
"Perfect." Snillek sighed. It was another sort of duty, and one she'd obviously been bound to without her knowledge, but it would be dishonorable to go back on her parents' promises. "Thanks ever so much, Papa."
Kipcup took her ignorance of the Tarribotian political system to heart and dedicated the next day entirely to remedying it. Why they couldn't simply have a planetary council like a sensible society, Snillek couldn't begin to guess.
"Is it…" She turned the quick diagram he'd drawn her upside down, then back again when it hadn't improved. "A pyramid sort of structure? Princess at the top, then court with ministers, and parliamentary representatives sprinkled underneath?"
He gave her a hard side-eye at the notion of sprinkled parliament. "Not entirely, highness." Sniff. "The princess is the arbiter of the law and provides the final signature to approve or change laws. She can propose laws, but they must pass a majority vote in parliament." Sniff. "Of course, certain budgetary items are not directly under the rule of law."
Snillek drummed the table they'd commandeered in one of the ship's viewing lounges. "What do you mean, of course? Why would something be outside the law? That sounds suspicious and possibly like princesses wanting too much power."
He acknowledged that with a tip of his head. How does all his hair stay in place? All the time? "Your defense of the rule of law does you credit, highness. But there are, indeed, laws already in place to oversee these budgetary issues."
"I think I'll need a concrete example here, Kipcup."
He drew tiny, perfect flowers on the page while he thought. Snillek was certain he wasn't aware of it. "Roads, highness. The Minister of Technology and Infrastructure has responsibility for, among other things…" Sniff. "… the maintenance and construction of roads. Your highness would approve new construction, for example, without parliamentary approval."
"All right. Sure. Silly to stop for politicians to vote every time a hole needs to be fixed. But new roads? You can't just build them wherever you want."
Another flower joined the flock on the paper as Kipcup's brows drew together. "It's a complicated process, highness." Sniff. "Are you certain you would like to spend the afternoon on the minutia of road construction?"
"Ah, no. Sorry. You're right. Let's stay high-level for now." She tapped the middle of the diagram. "Tell me about ministers. In small words a paladin can understand."
That won her the tiniest hint of a smile. "Your most senior minister is the Minister of Agriculture, Lord Snavelpy." Sniff.
"Most senior doesn't mean has more influence, does it?"
"An excellent question, highness." Sniff. "A minister's influence is determined more by their influence with the crown and their allies in parliament. In this case, most senior simply means he is the eldest."
"Good. He nearly put my father to sleep at the funeral."
"Perhaps not the most politic thing to say in Lord Snavelpy's hearing, highness." Kipcup's forehead had developed actual ridges.
"Joking. I do that sometimes."
"I will make a mental note, highness." Sniff.
Kipcup decided it was time to pull up visual aids, producing stills and vids as he named each minister. Lords and ladies in all shapes and ages, though Snillek did find some of the titles to be puzzling combinations. Lord Brightmitt—a neat little fellow, relatively young—was Minister of Technology and Infrastructure. That wasn't a huge leap. But Lady Higgenblot—matronly, always smiling—was Minister of Functions and Foreign Affairs. Snillek wasn't about to interrupt and ask what Functions entailed. Lady Pottnetts was Minister of Arts—except literature, which apparently was under parliament's domain.
I don't want to know how that happened.
"Who's the Minister of War?"
That stopped Kipcup in mid-sniff. His eyes didn't widen, but there was a bit of horror lodged there all the same. "Highness. We have never gone to war."
"Defense, then. Home guard? There has to be something." Snillek mirrored his horror, since they might not have any planetary defense. She was sure she'd seen soldiers.
Kipcup nodded, completely recovered from his horror at her martial suggestion. "Yes, highness. Lady Seppleheff is the Minister of DAOIAN."
"The what now?"
"Defense and Offense If Absolutely Necessary." His expression remained so bland she thought he must be kidding. But no, he pulled up vids of Lady Seppleheff, and there was her title, right there, on the screen as she spoke at some public thing or other.
The rest weren't nearly as entertaining. Lady Norelca—Economics and Treasury. Lord Terrapinch—Education and Health. Lord Krakentarp—Science, though apparently not a scientist. Not sure what happened there. Maybe no one else would take that one. And why it was separate from technology, she had no idea.
There were other, non-minister nobles, too, but they all merged into a sea of faces after a few minutes. "Break, Kipcup. I'm getting a headache and should probably go shoot something." When he sat frozen, blinking at her, she took pity. "Shooting range. Targets. Do you have a favorite weapon? You could join me."
"Thank you, highness. I must decline." His pale complexion had gone a little green. "I have no, ah, aptitude with firearms."
"Pity."
She nearly offered to teach him but decided she'd probably shocked him enough for one day. This man was supposed to be her guide, her right hand at court, her extra eyes and ears. She'd be better off trying to understand him instead of poking at him to see when he twitched.
The next day, Kipcup began lessons in etiquette and comportment in the hope that more physical lesson days to break up discussion days would help Snillek concentrate longer. It was a good idea. Mostly. The worst part was she was back in the farking princess dress.
"Highness, could you attempt more of a glide and less of a stride?" Kipcup suggested during the portion of the day when Snillek practiced walking. Walking, of all things, as if she hadn't been doing that since she'd been six months old.
"I don't even know what that means."
He demonstrated, spine straight, hand held daintily at his side as if he held the skirt of a dress, and yes, he glided across the floor, elegant and graceful.
Snillek tried to emulate him while keeping her tail in.
"Head up, highness. That's, ah, tiptoeing, highness. We're not sneaking about. Don't hunch your shoulders so. Oh, goodness. That's a lurch."
Every instruction only made her more and more self-conscious until she finally clenched her fists, threw her head back, and roared. Kipcup stood patient and proper with his hands clasped in front of him until she was finished.
"I would suggest perhaps not roaring at your court, highness."
"Noted." She rubbed a hand over her face. "It's a lot, Kipcup, I won't lie. I keep feeling like the dress is falling off my shoulders, and my hip joints aren't the same as yours. My legs don't move the same way."
His forehead crinkled, and she was starting to recognize different crinkles. This one was consternation. "Apologies, highness. A well-tailored dress does not slip. I will see to alterations."
"Do they come in something besides yellow, maybe?"
"Yellow and green are the colors of the Tarribotian royal house."
Snillek smoothed her sleeves down with a grimace. "Green might not be quite as bad."
Kipcup didn't quite sigh, but he looked like he wanted to. "I'll do what I can, highness." He recovered himself and went back to instructor mode as he got up on a stepstool to pin the shoulders of her dress with expert precision. "Shall we try again? Perhaps gliding is not the right approach for you. Think of yourself as… on parade and the dress as your armor."
Weird advice, maybe, but Snillek stopped trying so hard to keep herself contained and concentrated on marching tall and proud.
"A bit militaristic." Kipcup nodded. "But it does suit you better. Now perhaps with a smile, highness?"
Reasonable. As she turned to head back across the room to him, she brought out her best, brightest smile.
"Oh dear. Goodness. So many sharp… teeth," Kipcup whispered, probably not aware that Snillek could hear every word. He raised his voice to say, "Forgive me, your highness. I was mistaken. I would strongly advise against smiling."
"Got it. No looking like I'm going to eat the puny, blunt-toothed humans."
Kipcup offered his blandest expression. "Joke, highness?"
"Yes. I'm not much of a meat eater." Snillek patted him on the shoulder. "Sorry. Again. Don't mind me."
"Very good, highness."
Fussy, precise, averse to violence—Kipcup was all these things. But the longer Snillek spent with him, the more she understood how valuable he had been to her mother. He had a mind sharp enough to cut glass and remembered everything he read or heard. Within two days, he was reminding Snillek of her station schedule: when she had promised to have lunch with her father, when she normally took time for weapons practice, and so on.
When she started getting a handle on her Tarribotian civics and geography lessons, he started to introduce actual Tarribotian politics. All her life, Snillek had avoided everyone's politics as much as possible, though she appreciated she would have to—somehow—form her own opinions on issues rather than relying on Kipcup to supply them.
Tempting though that was.
"I got the impression from the funeral that everyone loved my mom. Sure. Funerals can be like that." Snillek leaned back in her chair to regard Kipcup steadily. "And you're not coming out and saying it yet, but I'm thinking there were some things people didn't agree with."
He tipped his head to one side, then the other. "Certain elements in the court and in the government resisted some of her policies, yes. There are always people averse to change and those who believe an open planet means dilution of power for those in residence."
"That's a really long way to say she had enemies."
"Political dissenters are not always enemies, highness." Kipcup dropped his gaze to the table when he said it, his eyes suddenly weary. "And enemies do not always voice dissent."
"This is why I never did politics. A monster trying to eat me is a monster trying to eat me. Nice and simple." It actually hurt to see him… discouraged. Something had been happening at court he wasn't talking about yet. "I'd say it was nice and clean, but that would be a lie. It gets really messy sometimes."
He gave her a bit of a smile for that. Good. We're getting better at this.
"So tell me about who's been the political dissent, at least." Snillek threw her booted feet up on the table and immediately took them back down when she got the raised eyebrow of disapproval. "Wait. Let me guess. Lord Snavelpie, I bet."
"Snavelpy, highness. I must beg you to take this seriously." Kipcup brought the holo images of the ministers up with their names and titles underneath. "Though an excellent guess. Yes, Lord Snavelpy is, as you've surmised, one of those not enamored of change." Sniff. "He and your mother often had a difficult working relationship, since he remembered her as a child and perhaps still thought of her as one."
"That makes sense. The old guard tends to get entrenched no matter what planet. Who else?"
"Lady Seppleheff has been vehemently opposed to Princess Retilla's proposals to open citizenship pathways for nonnatives."
Snillek nodded. "Planetary security's her thing, so it's not a shock. Xenophobia doesn't keep anyone safe, but yeah. I can see it."
"Please keep in mind that political dissent is not the same as an enemy at court. Your highness will often agree with these ministers as well, depending on the issue."
"Fair enough. Who else?"
Kipcup shifted in his seat, clearly hesitant. "Lord Brightmitt has been extremely vocal in his opposition to changes in immigration and trade laws."
"Really? He's one of the younger ones. Wouldn't have guessed that one."
"There are issues concerning local technology industries surviving an influx of imported ones." Kipcup turned both palms up in a helpless gesture. "I don't necessarily agree…" Sniff.
You don't agree. Interesting. "But he has his reasons. And tech's his baby. Understood."
"Which brings me to the subject of tariffs and taxes, highness…"
Shells. Things were just getting interesting. Snillek leaned in to see the numbers better, trying her level best to keep her eyes from glazing over.
For two—sometimes aggravating—exhausting months, Snillek did her best to absorb the things Kipcup taught: Tarribotian history, politics and culture, economics and geography, etiquette and expectations. She learned, more or less, to pass as human, though Kipcup conceded defeat in trying to teach her to walk and dance like a human princess. Her joints just didn't move that way.
With her wig and wardrobe ready, they had a final dress rehearsal.
"How ridiculous do I look?" Snillek tugged at the sleeves of her newest princess gown, one of the deep-green ones Kipcup had ordered specially made for her. Among other adjustments, they fastened in front so she could get out of the rotted thing herself. She suspected he'd made many of the alterations himself, since he never called anyone else in for fittings.
"Very regal, highness, if perhaps a bit stern." Sniff. "I might suggest somewhat less of a scowl?"
She touched a curl of hair on her shoulder. Again. "You're sure this thing will stay on?"
Sniff. "It will not slip, highness. My personal guarantee."
The wig was custom, too, a deep red that matched her now-covered head scales. The fusspot knew what he was doing, she had to admit, with organizational magic at his fingertips. Because of him, she had the tools, the knowledge, and the camouflage to pass as mostly human. The fake eyelashes are still really weird. Kipcup lamented that they couldn't do anything about her nictitating eyelid, but he assured her the glue-on lashes would help.
"All right. I guess I'm ready."
The last night before her flight, she packed a few remaining belongings while snacking on sweetened river cree, feeling sorry for herself that she'd miss the Winterfest celebrations. The gatherings, the feasts, the haurak stick betting, the stalls of hot, candied zef flower balls—they didn't have any of that on Tarribotia. They didn't even have real winter in the capital, so no Winterfest. Not that it even would be anywhere near winter in that hemisphere when they landed.
Honor. Duty. Sacrifice. She had to approach this like another mission. Even if she couldn't wear it, her armor would go with her as a reminder. Her quest was to keep a planetary government from self-imploding. Fine. Princess of Tarribotia wasn't an autocratic position. She wouldn't rule exactly, but as she understood it, she would be the fulcrum that kept things balanced.
People were counting on her to show up and do the traditional things, at least until someone more qualified could be found. Maybe no one was qualified for this sort of thing. More willing, then. Had to be people who liked being princesses, or there wouldn't be any.
"Is there anything you need?" Her father leaned in the doorway, head ridges drawn down in an anxious frown.
"I'm not sure I'm speaking to you, Papa."
He blew out a breath laced with tiny flames. "I'm so sorry. I know that's cold comfort. But it never occurred to me that she wouldn't have time to secure the succession. That there wouldn't be family clamoring for the title. She was working toward having more children. If she hadn't died…"
"Doesn't really help me now, Papa." Snillek wrapped the last knife and closed her travel trunk. "I'm not exactly a people person. This'll be a whole shatter clutch."
"Listen more than you speak." Papa wrapped her in his huge arms. "Don't say whatever pops into your head without thinking about it. And keep the snark to a minimum."
"Like hatchling classes all over again."
"I'm afraid so." He set her back and gave her an uncertain smile. "You got through that, didn't you?"
"I wasn't ruling a planet." She held up both hands at her father's frown. "Fine. Yes. I'll manage."
He booped her nose with a fore claw like he had always done when she was little. "I believe in you. I'm only a call away if you need me."
An hour later, Snillek sat in the cushy passenger lounge of a Tarribotian liner with Lord Kipcup, waiting for the ship to uncouple from the Wildfire. She'd hit the control to close the portals. Watching the Wildfire fade into the distance would just be too melancholy and lonely.
"Kipcup?"
The little human looked up from his reader. "Highness?"
"Why aren't there more royal kids? Or cousins? Or something?"
He turned away to stare at the closed portals, tapping his stylus on the arm of his chair, lips pursed, before he turned back to her. "Your royal mother had no siblings. She was the only surviving child of an only child. You have very distant cousins from your great-great-grandmother's siblings. Minor nobility too far from the direct line. If she had held any lasting confidence in any of them, she might have named an heir among those distant relations. She shared with me that she planned to have more children, knowing all too well how precarious a single heir can be. But she struggled to find a human like your father among the noble houses. Honorable, responsible, altruistic, brave."
"She knew a human heir would be better."
Kipcup nodded slowly, keeping a close watch on her face. "No disrespect to you in any way, highness, but yes. She knew a human princess raised in the court would be a better match for Tarribotia. Finding a father, though…" He shook his head, a rare show of frustration. "The marriage was a political one, but she admired your father enormously. Both your parents had fully intended to allow you to live your life as you pleased if you had no interest in the throne."
"So I hear. But she could've found someone to make a kid with, right?"
"There were many candidates over the years, highness. One of the issues was that none of them was willing to sign a contract similar to your father's. Approached by a princess, they wanted power. They all wanted a part, smaller or larger, in ruling Tarribotia. Recently, your mother finally had a handful of more promising candidates engaged in negotiations. I believe she would have finalized contracts with one or two."
"And then she died young in a freak accident." Snillek leaned forward, hands clasped between her knees. "Kipcup, look me in the eye and tell me it was an accident."
His voice, and his sniff, grew softer. "It appeared so."
"But you're not convinced."
"I don't wish to alarm you, highness, but you are correct. I'm not at all convinced."
She patted his arm. "All right. Maybe you do need a fighter right now instead of a real princess. Just until all this gets figured out."
"Thank you, highness."
Snillek wasn't good at paranoia, but at least she could handle herself if there were assassination attempts. Fun times ahead.
"So, you mean ribosomes and ribozymes aren't the same?" the student in the second row blurted out.
"I was reading them as the same word," the student next to him said.
Dora managed not to cringe, though her lecturer's smile felt painted on. "They do describe different things. As we discussed last week, ribosomes are the parts of the cell that produce proteins. And we know that proteins are…?"
Her prompt fell with a splat onto a sea of uncomprehending faces, some of them doing frantic searches in their holo texts.
"A macromolecule?" Someone from the back called hesitantly.
"Yes! One of the building blocks of life!" Dora punched the air, probably more enthusiastic than she should've been for a piece of information they should've learned weeks ago. The gesture brought her gaze to the clock floating near the ceiling, and she bit off a sigh. So much for getting to short-interference RNA and microRNA that lesson. "That's it for today, everyone. Please reread chapter three before you try to tackle chapter eight."
"Will chapter eight be on the final, Dora?"
"Everything in your reading's fair game for the final," she said with an extra-bright smile as she packed up her electronics.
With a collective groan, the freed herd of students stampeded for the door, and Dora sagged inwardly. Only a few more lectures before the final. She had to stand her ground about not teaching the biology overview course next term. The scheduling professor never assigned them to any other post-doc lecturer and they should be going to the graduate students. It wasn't even as if she could pull any research assistants from the lowest level courses, since the serious biology students always tested into higher-level classes.
Economics students trying to fulfill their science credits. I shouldn't have to do this anymore.
Maybe she could bring it up at the staff meeting. No. Bad idea. It would look like she was trying to make Dr. Brigheight look bad. Though if Dora didn't hurry, she'd be late to the staff meeting, and she would look like she didn't care.
"I'd like to discuss my proposal," she muttered as she hurried along. "Yes, I have new business. I'd like to discuss my revised proposal. No. Not definite enough. Yes, I have new business. My revised proposal."
The meeting room was still half empty when she arrived. Good. She snagged a seat halfway down the table, not too close to where the department chair usually sat and not too close to the plant biology cluster. Department politics. So much fun.
The various microbiology and biochemistry disciplines formed a pack at the far end. Computational and developmental biology formed a smaller one nearby. Marine biology, with its own office on the coast, rarely attended. Toward the center around Dora, the conservationists and behaviorists flocked. Creatures of habit, all of them.
Dr. Tearbit finally arrived, deeply engrossed in reading something on his tablet. It might have been the latest episode of a popular net comic, for all anyone knew, but he wove his way unerringly to his seat, still reading for a full two minutes before he finally looked up.
Just because we're all waiting on him. Just because he can.
Tearbit sighed. Almost every meeting started with a sigh. "Maintenance informs me that the chemical leak in Bunsup Lab has been contained. Repairs will take several days. Therefore, those of you holding lab finals will be sharing space with Chemistry. Please schedule accordingly with their department secretary."
A lot of grumbling and muttering about lack of equipment and proper workspaces followed. Not a good start.
"We could ask Agricultural Sciences," Dora suggested. "They probably—"
Egon Glasshyde interrupted, "I'm not doing another ten o'clock lab final. Bad enough—"
"You may take that up with scheduling, Professor Glasshyde," Dr. Tearbit cut him off in turn.
The grousing continued from there as if Dora had never spoken. It's going to be an invisible day, I see.
"Well, I think we need to hit up Agricultural Sciences. They have the space," Gars Mimihammer spoke overtop everyone.
"Excellent thought, Professor Mimihammer. Well done." Dr. Tearbit pointed a finger his way. "Do that."
But that was my suggestion. Dora fought against yelling that across the table. It would just make her look unhinged. Fine. Today wasn't the day for bringing up her research proposal during the meeting. She'd grab Dr. Tearbit after.
The meeting, like most department meetings, was interminable. Squabbling about office space. Squabbling about class sections for next term. Squabbling about shared equipment. Nothing science related at all.
Not all meetings were so terrible, but this one became unproductive to the point that Dr. Tearbit apparently had endured enough and adjourned without asking for new business. Dora grabbed her satchel and hurried after him.
"Dr. Tearbit!" She did her best to walk instead of jog, trying to keep pace with his longer legs.
"Dora. How can I help you?"
Always her first name. Never professor, as he addressed her male colleagues of the same level. "Did you have a chance to look over my revised field-research proposal? I've pared it down considerably for budgetary considerations."
"Yes. It did come across my desk." He stopped and turned to her, regarding her over the top of his reading glasses. "Didn't I send the rejection?"
"No." Don't give up. Don't back down. Not now. "Dr. Tearbit, I've cut the expedition down to two hovercraft and four people. That should be more than enough, and it's less than half the cost of a new long-range drone."
"The long-range drone is meant to give you more data, my dear."
"Sir, the drones frighten off every dragon species. Everything we have is speculation. Observations in flight. We can get close on foot. Make comparative measurements. Start understanding life cycles. I've laid out routes. Contingency plans. Everything's in the proposal."
Two of the tenured behaviorists laughed to each other as they went past, and Dora's ears heated at the words overeager youngster.
"Dora." Dr. Tearbit's smile was his kindest. Also, his most condescending. "It's far too dangerous and, ultimately, too expensive. We'd need to hire a specialized security team to keep the expedition safe from predators. Then, once you enter the badlands, you're out of satellite-net range entirely. You know that. If you ran into trouble, if someone were to fall ill or to be injured, there's no way to call for help."
"But the botanists—"
"Have an experienced field team, and Dr. Zelquash is an expert marksman. Entirely different. You have an entire archive of drone footage on dragon species, my dear. You need to utilize the resources you have."
He had the gall to pat her shoulder before he walked away. Dora took a deep breath to dispel the nauseating lump in her throat. No one took her seriously, even though the survival of native species could be on the line. Absolutely no one wanted to hear about the possibility that certain dragon species weren't extinct. There would be no university expedition, and a big part of her had known that going in.
That wasn't a reason to accept defeat. It just meant she was going to need to be much more creative.