Martyr

by Peter David

  They were representations of the great god, Xant. He Who Had Gone On. He Who Would Return. And the Overlord awaited His return, as had all the Overlords before him, and all those who would likely come after him.

  Prime One entered the Overlord’s sanctuary and found him much as he always found him: seated in his Great Chair, his fingers steepled, apparently lost in thought. The Overlord’s deepest thoughts were generally something that none of the Redeemers, no matter how high up in the Hierarchy, wanted to dwell on for very long.

  The Overlord was the tallest of the Redeemers, and half again as wide. His skin was hardened and black, almost obsidian, and his eyes were deeply set and a soft, glowing red. Other races generally tried not to look directly into the face of a Redeemer; it was like experiencing a little foreshadowing of death. His clothing was as black as his skin, with a tunic that hung down to knees and black leggings tucked into his high boots. He wore a large black cape which draped around him, giving him, when he was in a contemplative, forward-leaning mood, a distinct resemblance to a crouching bird of prey.

  Prime One said nothing, merely standing there and waiting for the Overlord to acknowledge his presence. This was not necessarily an immediate or swift event; once he had remained exactly where he was for the better part of a day as the Overlord said nothing. Prime One had never been entirely sure whether the Overlord knew he was there and merely elected to let him stand around as some sort of test, or if the Overlord was truly so lost in thought or meditation that he didn’t register Prime One’s presence. In the end, it didn’t really matter: Prime One had waited until the Overlord chose to acknowledge him.

  On this occasion, Prime One was fortunate. He waited a mere hour before the Overlord’s attention finally focused on him. “Yes?” said the Overlord.

  “There is important news, Overlord.” Prime One was so excited about it that he actually took a step forward. Any sort of approach to the Overlord was a breach of protocol and potentially punishable, but Prime One had always served the Overlord well and so he was inclined to let it pass for the moment. “I thought you should know as soon as possible.”

  Prime One remained the Overlord’s main point of information. It was a large and annoyingly busy galaxy, and if the Overlord endeavored to keep up with all of the events and happenstances within it, he would never have time for the contemplation that was his first and greatest duty. Indeed, when it came down to it, there was little occurring in Thallonian space that required his firsthand knowledge. He had his meditation, he had the solid hold of the Redeemers upon their own section of space, and that was all that required his immediate attention. Prime One would come to him with news of another Redeemer conversion, or of some particular concern that the Thallonians might have in their ongoing dealings.

  A wary truce had existed between the Thallonians and the Redeemers for some time. It was an understanding that went back many, many years, and one which no Overlord had been particularly inclined to disrupt since, truly, there seemed no point in doing so. Why disrupt matters when they were going so smoothly? The Redeemers attempted no conversions of those worlds that were of particular importance to the Thallonians, and the Thallonians in turn made no attempt to press their interests on those worlds which had undergone conversion. Nonetheless, the Overlord had a suspicion that the situation would not last. The Redeemers could afford to be patient, for in the end, Xant would eventually return, and then it didn’t matter where the relations with the Thallonians stood. Xant would arrive with His great flaming sword and sweep all away beneath it. In the face of that inevitability … what, truly, did the Thallonians matter to the Redeemers?

  When the Overlord spoke, it was with a voice that was a deep and forbidding rumble that seemed to originate from somewhere beneath his boots. “What would you have me know, Prime One?”

  “The Thallonians … are gone, Overlord.”

  The Overlord’s glowing eyes fixed on Prime One with clear curiosity. “Gone, you say?”

  “Yes. We had heard rumors, news from other sources, but we waited until we could verify it firsthand before we informed you, Overlord.”

  “Gone where? Have they abandoned their world?”

  “Their world is likewise gone, Overlord.”

  This fully captured the Overlord’s attention. “The world itself? How is that possible? Was it“—for the briefest of moments, there actually seemed to be a moment of concern upon his face—”was it the Black Mass?”

  “No.” Prime One shook his head quickly to dispel any concerns on that score. “No, not from without, but from within was the planet lost.”

  Prime One then, very quickly and in as broad strokes as possible, outlined what had happened. As opposed to the exaggerations that were racing through the other populated worlds, the Redeemers’ information was fairly accurate. Prime One spoke of the great bird, of the Excalibur and Captain Calhoun, of the destruction of the Thallonian homeworld, and of the survival of Si Cwan of the royal house. All of this was absorbed by the Overlord, his face inscrutable except for occasional flickers of greater interest visible in his glowing eyes. When Prime One finished, the Overlord seemed to mull over the significance of it all.

  “We live in cold,” he said after a time.

  Prime One nodded. This much was, of course, evident simply by looking around outside. “And we have lived in cold since the departure of Xant. We are darkness, Xant is light.”

  “We are darkness, Xant is light,” repeated Prime One.

  “We are cold, Xant is heat,” the Overlord continued, and Prime One—as he had so often in his life as a Redeemer—repeated the prayer. There were ninety-seven of them, each of them describing what Xant was as opposed to what the Redeemers were. It was their most sacred belief that all that they were had to be the opposite of all that Xant was. Only then could Xant truly turn their lives around upon his return. He was their beginning and end, their means to salvation.

  There were other religions which endeavored to follow the specific teachings of their gods or messiahs, but to the Redeemers, that seemed preposterous. How could any mortal being hope to have an insight into the workings of as holy a mind as Xant’s? When Xant had departed, there seemed only one reasonable course of action all those centuries ago. Rather than try to comprehend and obey His teachings in an imperfect manner, it was decided to operate in as far removed a manner from all that Xant was as they possibly could. Only in this way would Xant then be able to return and show them the right, true, and proper way to live.

  And they knew that there would be signs signaling Xant’s return. They had no idea what those signs might be, but they would come, of that the Redeemers had no doubt.

  “The creature is flame to our cold,” the Overlord said thoughtfully. “It is light to our darkness. It is great, and we are small.”

  “Could it be, Overlord?” Prime One seemed almost afraid to frame the question. “Could it … could it possibly be?”

  “All things are possible, Prime One. The question is: Are they likely?”

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Prime One waited for him to voice an opinion. But when none seemed forthcoming, Prime One forgot himself. He blurted out, “Well?” and was immediately mortified, looking for all the world as if he wanted to snatch the word back from the air. Trying to urge the Overlord to speak on a matter! It was presumptuous beyond imagining. The punishment for it would be—

  Prime One lost control of his legs as they began to tremble. The Overlord stared at him for such a long time that Prime One felt as if he could actually sense death having entered the room, hovering over him and waiting for the slightest push in its direction.

  And then the Overlord … smiled.

  Oh, it was not much. It was rather small as smiles go, and rather unimpressive. It wasn’t as if the Overlord had a good deal of practice at it, so it was understandable. Prime One couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. At first he thought he was imagining it, but it didn’t waver and slowly, ever so slowly, the trem
bling stopped.

  “It’s a sign,” the Overlord said.

  Prime One began to ask, Are you sure?, but wisely managed to hold his tongue before uttering the words.

  “If you wonder why there will be no discipline at this time for your transgression,” continued the Overlord, “it is because I would be loath to soil this day with punishment or bloodshed.” The Overlord rose from his chair, standing half a head over Prime One, and he clapped a hand on Prime One’s shoulder. “Yes, Prime One. A sign, most definitely. We cannot allow our frozen surroundings to chill our imaginations and perceptions as well. Nor should we permit our lengthy wait for some sort of sign to delude us into thinking that there never will be a sign. But this cannot be ignored or explained away, Prime One. If these stories are true—and I assume you would not waste my time with them were that not the case—then it presents a clear and concise signal to us, telling us that Xant is preparing to make His return.”

  Prime One began to tremble once more, but this time it was with excitement rather than fear. “To think, Overlord … after all this time, all this waiting … Xant is to return, and we are the fortunates who are alive to see it.”

  “Indeed, Prime One. Come,” and he clapped Prime One on the back in a manner that bordered on the jovial. “Come, let us inform the brethren. Let us begin the preparations. Our prayers must not cease, that is to be understood, of course.” Prime One nodded in brisk understanding. “Nor must we be lax in continuing to spread the word.” The Overlord held up a cautionary finger. “It is, after all, rather tempting to simply sit back and say, ‘Ah, well, with Xant on His way back to us, our job is finished. We need not spread His word, for He is come to take up the task Himself. No, Prime One,” and Prime One just as quickly shook his head, changing cranial direction so sharply that it caused a slight cramp in his neck muscles. “No, we cannot slacken.”

  “Not slacken, no, Overlord.”

  “We cannot let up.”

  “Never let up, Overlord.”

  “And after Xant has returned,” the Overlord continued, “after the new Golden Age of the Redeemers has been put before us, after we have taken our true and rightful place in the hierarchy of the universe …”

  “Yes, Overlord, yes!” Prime One was exploding with enthusiasm that was bordering on the orgasmic.

  “Then, and only then …” The build up was staggering.

  “Then what, Overlord?!” Prime One asked in exultation.

  “Then … you will be disciplined for your transgressions.”

  It brought Prime One screeching to a halt, both physically as he’d been matching the Overlord’s strides, and emotionally as he felt himself brought to the brink of theological ecstasy only to be shoved off into an abyss. “My … my transgressions?” It took him a minute to recalibrate himself. “You mean for … before? When I…?”

  The Overlord nodded. “Of course,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “But … but you said—”

  “I said, ‘at this time.’ That does not indicate forgiveness, Prime One. Merely leniency. But it will not be for some time yet, so be of cheer! Celebrate!” He nodded approvingly and then, in one of his rare forays from his sanctum (which, in and of itself, was enough to alert the others immediately to the significance of the moment) he strode out with his hands draped behind his back.

  And Prime One was left behind, to sink down onto the floor and murmur, “Hurrah,” which was about all the enthusiasm for celebration he could muster at that particular moment in time.

  IV

  “SI CWAN?”

  It was the fourth time that Robin Lefler had said Si Cwan’s name without getting any sort of response. She was beginning to get just a little concerned. She sat on the other side of his desk in his quarters and saw him staring off vacantly, as if he’d forgotten that she was there. The quarters remained relatively simple in terms of decoration at this point. By Si Cwan’s standards, it was even less than simple. It was rudimentary. Then again, one had to understand that Si Cwan’s bed from his time as a Thallonian royal would likely have taken up the entire quarters just by itself. But he’d forced himself to make do, and was actually rather pleased with himself when it came to his ability to adapt. Still, he was much more pleased with himself than anyone else was with him.

  She moved her hand flutteringly in front of his face and then said with more force, “Si Cwan!”

  It snapped the Thallonian back to attention as he blinked at her with surprise. “I am sorry … what did you say, Robin?” He leaned forward, his fingers interlaced, trying to refocus his attention.

  Robin stroked her chin thoughtfully, trying to find a way to phrase it without seeming combative, argumentative, or difficult. “Si Cwan,” she said slowly, “I’m supposed to be serving you as your official liaison, correct?”

  “Yes, Robin,” he replied, looking mildly surprised that she felt a need to state the obvious.

  “You’ve already gone through two other liaisons, in rather short order. There’s an old Earth saying about ‘three strikes, you’re out.’ Do you know what that refers to?”

  He paused a moment, his red brow furrowing, and then took a stab at it. “Repeated labor disputes can result in the loss of your business?”

  She began to laugh it off, but then reconsidered. “Okay, we can go with that,” she decided. “And I wouldn’t want you to be out of business when it comes to having a liaison. Someone to represent your interests to the captain, and at the same time to serve as an events coordinator for you.”

  “I should hope not,” Si Cwan said reasonably. “We have been barraged with contacts from dozens of worlds, each with their own interests and agendas. There is a goodly deal of administrative work to be done, and I am an ambassador, not an administrator.”

  She held up a scolding finger. “Technically, you’re not an ambassador either. You’re forgetting you represent no government. But the captain has made it clear that he has no objection to your using that title, as long as you provide our vessel with guidance and aid in the exploration of Thallonian space.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” He was making no attempt to hide his mounting irritation.

  “The first two people he assigned to this post got tired of your high-handedness in no time flat and made it clear they did not wish to remain in direct contact with you. The captain was prepared, at that point, to simply close up the position. But I volunteered, Si Cwan,” and she leaned forward, tapping herself on the chest. “Me. I actually volunteered. Work an hour a day as your liaison, make myself available to you as emergencies require, and still maintain my bridge duties at Ops. I can do all that because I’m organized, which is the sort of person you need.”

  “I’m most appreciative, Robin. Can we get on with matters now?”

  “Not quite,” she said patiently. “What I’m trying to say is that my time is limited. I don’t have oodles and oodles to play with in the course of any given day. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I sure don’t have time to sit here and watch you nod off and stare into space.”

  “I was staring into space?” he asked, sounding confused. He started to turn in his chair to glance out the viewing port behind his back.

  “No, I meant …” and she waved her hands in the direction of the area in front of his desk. He nodded in understanding. “All I’m saying is that something’s distracting you, and it’s not the most efficient way to manage the time.” Then her voice softened. “It’s … It’s Kallinda, isn’t it?”

  Slowly he nodded, and this time he genuinely did stare off into space, into the great void that glittered at him so frustratingly. “I truly do not know which is worse,” he murmured. “To think that she is definitely dead and lost to me, or that she is alive somewhere out there, undergoing who-knows-what form of difficulty.”

  “Zoran could have been lying,” Lefler pointed out.

  He nodded. “That is true,” he admitted. “Zoran Si Verdin is my oldest, most vicious and unforgiving foe. He would say or
do anything to hurt me. It is entirely possible that he created the spectre of my sister’s survival in order to gnaw at me. To haunt my days and evenings. And do you know what, Robin?”

  “It worked?”

  He nodded sullenly. But then he seemed to shake it off with physical effort as he said, “Dwelling on it will serve no purpose, save that which Zoran may have desired to attempt. And it is wasting your time. I have feelers out in a variety of directions, to try and bring me news of Kallinda. Those who are still loyal to me, who are still friends of the old regime, are operating to further my concerns. In the meantime, there is no need to delay you any more than necessary simply because of my inability to focus on important matters.”

  She put a hand out to lay it on his forearm. She wanted to say something that would comfort him, wanted to establish some sort of “human” connection to the Thallonian. Her hand hovered over his forearm for the merest fraction of an instant, and she allowed it to settle as lightly as possible on the arm. She was surprised by the extreme coolness of his skin. If she were given to flights of fancy, she would have imagined that it was a reflection of the distance he forced himself to keep from the world around him. The distance that was part of the baggage he carried with him, what with being royalty (albeit fallen royalty), an ambassador, and a brother seeking the only member of his family who might still be alive.

  He stared at her coolly, appraisingly, and she waited to hear what he would say next. The acknowledgment of her effort, the realization that it was possible to allow others to be close to him. To be his friend, to be … whatever.