by Peter David
Burgoyne started forward with slow, measured tread, tapping into the ferocity that rampaged through hir. Ferocity that was born not only of hir own inner nature, but of carefully channeled sexual energy … energy that s/he wanted to expend with Selar, but instead focused with the intention of avenging the calamities that had been visited upon the Vulcan doctor.
The creature loomed over hir, and s/he was reminded of the truism that any science, sufficiently advanced, would appear as magic to races that didn’t understand it. S/he didn’t pretend to comprehend the nature of the being that faced hir. Whether it was biological, whether it was the creation of unseen machines, whatever—s/he didn’t care. All s/he knew was that s/he was in another place, another mental realm where nothing was going to stop hir, least of all some static-filled, snarling mass of electrons.
“Take your best shot!” shouted Burgoyne. S/he made no effort to dodge, didn’t try to run or maneuver around the energy creature. Instead s/he plunged straight into it, bellowing hir defiance. “I know what you’re doing! I know what your design is! We are born alone, and we die alone, all of us! And we spend a lifetime running from that fact! Taking solace in relationships, making children to follow in our footsteps, all to avoid any contemplation of the fact that we are always alone! Always separated by our very natures! But I’m not alone, creature! I’m not!”
S/he shoved hir way squarely into the beast, and was immediately buffeted by high energy emissions that threatened to flay the skin from hir body. But there was more than physical punishment. One had to be battered down mentally in order to succumb to the beast, that much s/he had already figured out. It was the classic divide-and-conquer strategy. Separate the intended victim from all that he or she holds dear: from friends, from loved ones, from self-esteem, from the belief that good ultimately triumphs, and that life has any purpose. Leave all that behind and discover that all you have remaining to you is emptiness and hopelessness, and no point whatsoever in trying to continue one’s existence. Flood the mind with that which is most frightening. Or overwhelming, like the Borg imagery for Shelby.
But that wasn’t working with Burgoyne, for Burgoyne had drawn into hirself the essence of Selar. S/he held it close to hir, nursed it, drew warmth and confidence from it. The creature roared in fury all around hir, and s/he felt it descending upon hir. It was like trying to walk step by slow step through a tornado, feeling it flailing at you and trying to rend you limb from limb. Burgoyne, however, would not be stopped, would not be slowed.
Shelby, Selar, Hecht, and Scannell, even the mighty Zak Kebron … they had all endeavored to enter this realm, and all had failed. All had somehow been battered into submission, had been made to feel small and alone in a hostile galaxy. Not Burgoyne. Burgoyne felt the closeness of the link with Selar, and not only that, but s/he felt the eternal company of hir own nature. Male and female, yin and yang, the two eternal parts kept close with one another. Not only was Burgoyne joined with Selar, but furthermore, Burgoyne was at one with hirself. And as such, s/he would not be stopped.
“Get out of my way!” s/he howled once more, as loudly as s/he could, and then s/he pushed completely through the creature and suddenly felt relief swelling through hir. Relief and a sense of dizzy lightheadedness. S/he spun and saw that the beast was raging behind hir, infuriated at hir ability to get past, and then it started to reach for hir.
With a snarl, Burgoyne kept going, no longer moving in anything vaguely resembling something humanoid. In hir four-legged, miles-consuming stride, s/he came across as something akin to one of the great cats of Earth. S/he charged up an incline, gravel rolling away beneath hir, hir nostrils flaring as the scent became stronger and stronger with every passing moment.
And so did hir killer instinct as well. S/he sensed that s/he was drawing close to the individual who was to be held accountable for the injuries to Selar. S/he knew now, beyond a doubt, that it was the energy creature that had been personally responsible for the state of Selar and the others, but something in turn was behind the creature, either having activated it or brought it to full life. Either way, Burgoyne was there to dispatch justice, no matter what it took.
And then, toward the top of the ridge, s/he saw him.
He was standing there with some sort of short spear, about a yard long. He was tapping the pointed end gently into the palm of his hand, as if he were tapping out a tune that only he could hear. He was shaking his head in apparent amazement of Burgoyne’s arrival.
“You,” he called down, “are going to have to die.”
Burgoyne said nothing, but instead scrambled up the side of the hill. Just beyond the man waiting for hir was a cave, and she was positive that the captain was held within, presuming that the captain was still alive.
“I am Ramed,” he told her. “You arrive at a propitious moment. It is the third hour of the third day. It is time for the Savior to pass on. Have you come to bear witness?”
Some feet away, Burgoyne had come to a cautious halt. S/he had hir talons extended, and there was a dark and fearsome look in hir eyes. When s/he spoke it was in a low and guttural voice that was barely recognizable as hir own. “Did you … do it?’ s/he asked.
“Do what?” Ramed seemed only mildly interested.
“Did you hurt Selar?”
“Who is Selar?”
“The Vulcan. The Vulcan doctor.” Burgoyne was having trouble focusing on the words; all s/he really wanted to do was leap forward and tear his throat out. But s/he had to be sure.
“Ah, yes. The Vulcan. Not directly, you understand. It was not my hand that inflicted the injuries upon her. However, I did bring into existence the rather devastating creature that attempted to stop you earlier, and that laid waste to your previous rescue attempts. How did you get around that? I must know. Because your friends were so utterly unable to—”
Burgoyne had heard enough. S/he crouched and let out a bellow akin to the roar that a lion used when endeavoring to freeze prey in place in preparation for a charge. It shook Ramed to his core. To his credit, he tried not to let it show. “Most impressive,” he said. “A pity that you will not be saving the captain, however. That is impossible.”
“Why?” Burgoyne managed to get out.
“Because it is written that the captain will be saved by neither man nor woman. And what does that leave?” Ramed said reasonably.
Burgoyne took another step forward, hir fangs bared. “I am a Hermat. I am both man and woman. No individual, as your prediction might indicate, but rather a merging of both. So it would seem to me that I’m not covered by whatever it is that’s written.”
It took a moment for this to sink in for Ramed, and when it did, a slow burn of uncertainty began to spread through him. Again, however, he tried to cover it up as best he could. “That is mere semantics,” he replied. “Trickery. Word games.”
“Perhaps. But nonetheless, it’s true. Give me the captain.”
“No.” Ramed gripped his spear more forcefully.
“Give me the captain and perhaps I’ll let you live,” Burgoyne said. S/he had dropped to all fours once more. S/he padded toward him. It was a most disconcerting thing to see: S/he spoke with the barely controlled voice of a humanoid, but hir every move and gesture was evocative of a great cat.
“Don’t you understand? It’s not up to me! This isn’t even about me! What I’m doing, I’m doing on behalf of my world! He has to die! You wouldn’t understand, because you don’t believe! It is from where I draw my strength—the strength that enables me to stand up to you, and do what must be done!”
“I have my own beliefs,” Burgoyne told him. “My own religion, which means as much to me as yours does to you. It’s where I draw my strength from.” S/he had stopped hir approach and was starting to circle, trying to find the best angle from which to charge. “I believe in the sacred merging of male and female. Creatures such as yourself go through life as half one or half the other. You always remain separate. Always. I am complete. I am the embodiment
of the sexual union. All strength, all power derives from that union.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? No single act is more powerful. A merging of body, and of spirit. A sharing of all aspects of what you are. A uniting of purpose. The creation of new life, and the reaffirmation of one’s own. A letting down of shields and barriers in the pursuit of that one, pure, undiluted moment of ecstasy. The most powerful symbol in nature, and my people are a living embodiment of that symbol. Great power is drawn from that. A strength that you, with your enslavement to the scribblings of others, cannot possibly stand up to. Ultimately your faith will fail you.”
“My faith is complete unto itself,” Ramed said, his anger building. He swept the spear back and forth in an arc, and it whistled through the air. Burgoyne approached cautiously, aware that Ramed seemed rather adept with the weapon. Clearly, he’d been practicing with it. “Don’t think to challenge me on the strength of faith, because you will surely lose.”
“You’ve already lost,” retorted Burgoyne. “I have faith that I will win. Faith drawn from my unity and holy purpose, my quest that I know I will fulfill. You … you have no faith at all. I can tell. I can smell it on you. I can smell the fear radiating off you, oozing through every pore. The fear, the uncertainty. You don’t believe in what you’re doing. You act out of some misbegotten sense of obligation. But you don’t have the stomach to kill. To do what must be done.”
“You know nothing! I am a good man! A decent man! And I can kill if I have to!”
And Burgoyne laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. S/he tossed back hir head and a contemptuous snicker erupted from hir throat. “You idiot,” s/he told him. “You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me.”
“I can kill him! I can do what needs to be done!”
“Oh, can you?”
And slowly Burgoyne stood. It took effort, for hir instinct was still to pounce. S/he stood there for a moment, and then gestured. “Come on. Do it. You have that pointed stick of yours. Test yourself out on me. Kill me.”
Ramed stood there, the spear wavering uncertainly. “This is—what do you think you’re—”
“One of us here isn’t afraid, and I guarantee you that it’s not you. Take a shot. Go ahead. I won’t stop you. Stab me. Stab me to the heart. Here. I’ll make it easy for you.” Burgoyne tapped the area directly between hir small breasts. “Right here. That’s all you have to do. Strike right here. I’ll offer no defense.” S/he closed hir eyes, hir arms comfortably at hir sides. “Go ahead. Practice on me. Am I not an easy enough target for you?”
“Why … why are you doing this?” demanded Ramed.
“Because I have faith that I will win. That my gods will help me. That you do not have what it takes to be a stone cold murderer. That you lack the conviction of your beliefs. Well? Make your move, Ramed. I haven’t got all night. Do what you need to do … presuming you can do it.”
S/he said nothing more, merely stood there, hir eyes serenely closed, hir entire body posture relaxed. Clearly s/he did not believe for a moment that he would try to kill hir.
He gripped the spear with both hands, holding it as tightly as he could. This was his whole life, he realized. His entire existence, boiling down to this moment. He had to do something about hir. If he simply tried to turn and run back into the cave, s/he would surely pounce on him and bring him down. His only chance was to fight. And why shouldn’t he? Was he such a coward that he could only kill a helpless victim, tied up?
What had he become? In the final analysis, what had he become? A coward? A murderer, but one unable to commit a simple murder?
In his mind’s eye, he saw his wife and child. He saw the faces of Zondarians everywhere, depending upon him to do what had to be done, and he felt his faith beginning to waver. Here, at the final hour, at the moment for which he had prepared his entire life—a moment that his ancestors had prepared for—his nerve was starting to fail him. All thanks to this … this creature who stood before him, so contemptuous, so convinced that he did not have the necessary inner strength to do what had to be done.
He would show them. He would show them all.
In the name of eternal peace on Zondar, in the name of the Savior, who had to become a martyr if there was going to be an end to warfare, Ramed would find the inner strength. He would cling to the rightness of his actions. He would do the job that needed doing.
And gripping the spear—the spear of justice—he charged forward, driving the point straight toward Burgoyne’s breast.
XIX
THE Excalibur barreled toward the Redeemer vessel, shields on maximum, all weapons fully targeting the ship.
Si Cwan had just finished, in as expeditious a manner as he could, describing for Shelby exactly who the Redeemers were and what their problem was with the Excalibur. Shelby nodded repeatedly, seeming to take it all in, and then she ordered, “Lay down a phaser barrage. Let’s see what their shields have.”
The phasers of the Excalibur lashed out, pounding the Redeemer ship. The opposing vessel twisted away, backing off as the starship drove toward it, firing relentlessly.
Shelby pounded the arm of her chair. “Yes! Yes!” she crowed, drawing looks from everyone on the bridge. “Damage report! Did we hurt them?”
“Not to any measurable degree,” reported Boyajian. “Their shields seem unimpaired. Commander, they’re firing.”
The Redeemers’ phaser weapons blasted at the Excalibur, targeting the engineering and saucer sections. The ship trembled under the pounding as, throughout the vessel, crewmen who weren’t belted in to their stations tumbled to the floor.
“Shields at seventy percent and holding!” said Boyajian. “Whatever they’ve got, it packs more wallop than our phasers do! They’re not as maneuverable as we are, but with that kind of shielding and weaponry, they don’t have to be.”
“Damage reports coming in from all over the ship,” Lefler informed her. “Life support Systems out on Deck fourteen. Rerouting power now to restore systems.”
“Fire photon torpedo spread and phaser barrage. Double-barrel,” Shelby said grimly.
The Redeemer ship didn’t budge, didn’t even engage in any sort of evasive action, as the starship fired upon them. Their shields sparked under the assault, but otherwise held firm.
“We’re not getting through their shields, Commander,” Boyajian said. “Still no appreciable damage.”
“They’re firing again!”
“Evasive maneuvers!”
McHenry tried his best, but the Excalibur was slowed by the damage she’d sustained. He avoided two blasts, but a third struck at the upper right nacelle.
“Shields at forty percent and falling!” Boyajian warned. “We cannot sustain another direct hit!”
“Mister McHenry, bring us around at one-four-two mark three. Concentrate all remaining shield power to the rear deflectors. Get us out of here. Full impulse.”
“We’re running, sir?” McHenry asked.
“Simply changing strategy.” She rose and said, “Engineering. I want a full-power magnetic burst channeled through the deflector array, on my order. Then prepare to give me warp power, and we’re going to need it fast.”
“Acknowledged,” came Torelli’s voice from engineering, although clearly he didn’t understand the reason for the order.
Nor did McHenry. However, he was aware of another situation, which he felt was necessary to bring to Shelby’s immediate attention. “Commander,” he said. “The course you’ve ordered … it has us on a collision course with the Zondarian sun in just under two minutes.”
“I’m fully aware of that.”
This pronouncement brought concerned looks from everyone on the bridge, and someone would have said something to Shelby had they not received an incoming hail from the Redeemer ship. “Federation vessel,” came the voice of Prime One. “Stand down and surrender. Throwing your vessel into a star will accomplish nothing.”
.“We’ll be just fine, thanks,” Shelby s
hot back, her voice rising, “because the great god Calhoun will protect us! And Calhoun can wipe up the floor with your god any day of the week! Catch us if you can, you posturing fool! Excalibur out!”
A stunned Boyajian cut off the signal as Soleta and Si Cwan stepped forward. “Commander,” Soleta said slowly, “is it possible that you released yourself from sickbay too early?”
“This is erratic behavior, at best—” began Si Cwan.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Ambassador. If you’ve nothing to contribute of substance, then get the hell off my bridge. Lieutenant, are you challenging my authority?”
Soleta looked long and hard into Shelby’s eyes. She felt as if the entire crew were looking to her, waiting on her judgment. She tried to see some indication of whether Shelby was operating in some sort of diminished capacity, or whether she truly had a plan.
She saw craft and cunning and even a sort of demented anticipation in Shelby’s eyes. And there seemed to be nothing of unsteadiness about her.
“No, sir,” said Soleta.
“One minute, thirty seconds to Zondarian sun, commander,” McHenry said. He was trying to put his worries aside as he saw the star dead ahead, apparently waiting for them.
The ship trembled once more under a blast from the Redeemer ship, but it was a glancing blow, and with all power to their rear shields, they were able to sustain it with minimum problems. The Excalibur did not slow down as it tore through space, heading straight on what appeared to be a suicidal course.
“One minute to sun,” McHenry told her. The ship, shields down in the front, was beginning to feel the heat. “The Redeemer vessel is still in pursuit.”
“Of course they are. It’s a matter of pride now. They have to show that their god will protect them as well as ours will. When dealing with fanatics, count on their fanaticism,” Shelby said.
“Fifty seconds to sun … forty, Commander.” McHenry, to his credit, didn’t sound nervous. He seemed resigned, even interested in what it would feel like to plunge into a star.
