by Peter David
“Give me a countdown, McHenry. Bridge to engineering, ready on deflector dish.”
Sweat was pouring down the faces of everyone on the bridge, except for Soleta, who handled the heat better than most. The sun was now completely filling the screen, which had automatically dimmed to spare viewers the intensity of the light.
“Thirty … twenty-nine … twenty-eight … twenty-seven…”
Shelby seemed to be counting down with him, making rapid-fire calculations in her head, her lips moving soundlessly as if she were talking to herself. The bridge crew gripped their seats, bracing themselves, wondering what in the world they were about to die for.
“Redeemer ship?”
“Two hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”
“Maybe they want to be able to kiss us good-bye,” Lefler guessed.
“Twenty-one … twenty … nineteen … eighteen…”
The star was everywhere. The heat was overwhelming.
And as if shot from a cannon, Shelby leaped to her feet and shouted, “Engineering! Full magnetic burst, on my mark, five seconds’ duration! McHenry, same mark minus five, forty five degree down angle, full reverse thrust! Mark—now!”
The deflector dish flared to life, driving a full bore magnetic burst straight into the corona of the Zondarian sun. It struck the corona, disrupting the magnetic lines of the star’s turbulent surface. Like a vast giant being stung by a hornet, the star slapped back at the irritation …
In the form of a gigantic solar flare.
The Excalibur screamed into reverse, the ship’s structure howling in protest over the abrupt change in direction, pulling against the gravity of the sun that was already starting to take hold of them. For a moment that stretched into infinity, it looked as if they would not be able to break free, and then the starship tore loose of the star’s magnetic field and slammed backward and down, away from the sun.
The Redeemer ship was not quite as fortunate.
Unable to turn or handle as deftly as the Excalibur, the Redeemers couldn’t get out of the way in time. The last thing they saw was the solar flare belching up at them from the sun’s surface, and then the spectacularly erupting discharge, leaping five hundred thousand kilometers from the star and pumping heat approximately twice as hot as the surface of the sun, enveloped the Redeemer vessel. Even the formidable shielding of the Redeemer vessel was unable to stand up to an all-encompassing flare in excess of twenty thousand degrees Fahrenheit. The Redeemer ship was immediately obliterated as the Excalibur frantically put as much distance between herself and the momentarily angered star as it could. The flare continued, as if pursuing them, as the starship hurtled backward, but the flare topped out at sixty hundred and fifty thousand kilometers. It continued to erupt for another fifteen minutes, but by that point the starship was safely out of range.
Shelby was on her feet, her fists above her head in triumph. “Hah!” she crowed. “Spectacular! Engineering, great job! You too, McHenry! Excellent all around! Oh! Look!” She pointed to midair.
“Look at what, sir?”
“The colors!” Shelby called out excitedly—and then she pitched forward, Si Cwan just barely catching her before she hit the floor.
XX
BURGOYNE STOOD THERE, chest bared, eyes closed, a look of serene peace on hir face, as Ramed lunged forward with his spear at hir unprotected breast.
The point slammed toward hir—and stopped two inches from impact.
It did not do so at Ramed’s behest. He’d been ready to plunge it through hir. It was because Burgoyne had caught the point, hir hand moving so quickly that Ramed had never even seen it coming. Ramed’s full strength from both arms was pitted against Burgoyne’s single hand, and still he couldn’t make any headway.
“You … said you wouldn’t defend … against me,” grunted Ramed.
“What do you think, I’m stupid?” snorted Burgoyne.
Ramed redoubled his efforts, and Burgoyne grabbed the spear with both hands, putting hir full weight against his. They shoved against each other, Burgoyne snarling deep in hir throat. To hir surprise, Ramed displayed greater strength than s/he’d given him credit for.
And then something caught Burgoyne’s eye.
It was a Zondarian, an older one, and he was materializing like a ghost. He was looking at hir with unfeigned surprise.
It startled Burgoyne. Not much. Just enough, however, for Ramed to shove hir back. S/he stumbled and suddenly realized that s/he was treading air.
Ramed’s momentary look of triumph quickly faded, however, as Burgoyne’s legs scissored around his middle. The two of them plummeted down the side of the incline, hitting the side once or twice. Burgoyne, nude from the waist up, was the more vulnerable, as hir torso was lacerated by the dirt and rocks as they rolled down, down, tumbling one over the other.
They hit the ground at the bottom, separated from one another, and miraculously Ramed had still managed to hold on to the spear. He leaped, trying to drive the point straight through hir, but Burgoyne was too quick, hir rage too towering. S/he dodged to one side, brought hir foot up and smashed him squarely in the stomach. He tried to get to his feet and then s/he swung hir talons, slicing through his upper arm, drawing blood. S/he tried to get closer, to go for his throat, but he warded hir off with the spear point, catching hir just under the ribs and drawing a thin line of blood.
They parried, thrusted, bobbed, and weaved, each jockeying for position, and Ramed fell back, back …
Burgoyne covered the distance between them in one jump, twisting in midair and avoiding the point of the spear. S/he gripped the spear firmly, and there was murder in hir eyes, and this time Ramed knew that s/he wasn’t going to let go until one of them was dead. He steeled himself.
Suddenly they both felt the energy enveloping them.
The creature, the being of energy, the being of magic, of science—whatever it was—they had drawn within range of it, and now it enveloped them.
Burgoyne was ready for it. S/he still had the peace, the joining of Selar deep within hir. The creature insinuated itself through them, seeking weakness, trying to determine whom it could hurt.
It cascaded through Ramed, enveloping him, searching out all his weaknesses, and Ramed cried out in fear, for it was everywhere, the creature was everywhere, giving him no peace, giving him nowhere to hide.
And he knew his life for the sham that it was. Knew that he was supposed to be someone in a position of power, someone who was wise and knowledgeable and a leader. But everyone had found out, everyone had discovered the truth, that he was just one scared little man who had no true feelings of his own save what he’d been told, no real belief in himself, no confidence. He was alone, all alone, and there was Talila coming toward him, and Rab, and all of the Eenza were crying out that he had betrayed them, and all of the Unglza knew that he was a fool and that they would eventually triumph.
The knowledge tore at him, emotionally eviscerated him, and the creature flailed at him, feasting on his weakness.
And Burgoyne sensed it, sensed all of it, and suddenly, despite hir ferocity, despite hir anger, despite hir eagerness to complete hir blood quest, all s/he felt was pity for this poor, pathetic lost soul who was clutching the spear as if his life were wrapped up in it.
“Let go!” shouted Burgoyne over the howling of the energy being.
Cuts, slices began to appear on Ramed, his clothing becoming torn. He began to sob wildly, calling out names like “Talila” and “Rab,” names that meant nothing to Burgoyne. “Let’s get out of here!” Burgoyne shouted, and began to drag Ramed, not releasing hir hold on the spear but instead using it as a means of hauling Ramed away from the creature’s influence. S/he felt it trying to get in at hir as well, but s/he steeled hirself with hir own security, and with the image of Selar that s/he held dear to hir, and s/he resisted its power.
“I can’t!” Ramed howled. And suddenly Ramed began to wrestle with the spear with renewed effort.
Burgoyne br
aced hirself. “Let go! Let it go! It doesn’t mean anything!”
“It’s everything I am! It’s the only thing I am!” Ramed cried out, and with all his weight, all his desperation, all his loneliness, all his hatred of himself and what he had become, he yanked on the spear. He did so with such force and fury that he actually tore it from Burgoyne’s grasp.
He was unprepared for the sudden shift in weight. He stumbled forward, and the spear punched through his chest and out his back.
Ramed looked up at Burgoyne with what appeared to be confusion. He reached out a hand to Burgoyne, his fingers flexing on nothing, and then he slid to his knees, running down the length of the spear and coming to a halt as the handle bumped up against his chest.
“Failed … failed … all my fault…” he sobbed, but Burgoyne could not hear his last words over the howling of the creature.
And then, slowly, Burgoyne became aware that the noise was abating. All around them, the creature seemed to be dissipating. S/he couldn’t tell whether it was from the creature’s own volition, or if some outside force was acting upon it. All s/he knew was that, within moments, it had stopped. The creature was gone as if it had never been there.
Burgoyne crouched over the fallen form of Ramed.
Ramed looked up at hir, the life light flickering out of his eyes. His body spasmed, and he gripped Burgoyne’s arm with the last of his strength. “Save … my world … ask the Savior … somehow … save my…”
“This … this didn’t have to be,” Burgoyne said, unable to contain hir frustration. “What a foolish, foolish waste.”
And Ramed smiled.
“Better … this way…” he whispered. “Better to be … a mere fool … than a damned fool.”
And as the phantom shade called Ontear looked on from a point hundreds of years in the past, Ramed passed into a history that was yet to be.
XXI
“AND THAT IS HOW I know that I am not your Savior.”
Mackenzie Calhoun was circling the large table, as the most holy men of Zondar looked in astonishment at the parchment that he had given them. The parchment, unmistakably in the hand of the holy Suti, that detailed all that had happened. “Ramed,” he continued, “was your promised Savior.”
Near Calhoun stood Zak Kebron, his arms folded, his gaze baleful, and Ensign Janos, who was eyeing the assemblage with no less suspicion than Kebron. And to the side stood Si Cwan, watching the proceedings.
As voices of protest began to rise, Calhoun raised his voice to silence them. “Read it for yourself!” he said. “Everything that is in those scrolls fits Ramed as well as it does me. And the final proof: Ramed is dead. Slain by the ancient and sacred spear that he and his clan, in their sacred duty, had maintained for just that purpose. In his name, for his sake, in the name of the sacrifices that he made, now is the time to set aside the differences that have wracked this planet with strife for centuries.”
“Your people want it, and you want it,” said Si Cwan. “When the golden age of peace beckoned you, you could taste it, couldn’t you? All of you could. Like honey on your lips, like the sweetest wine filled with the promise of intoxicating peace. It was yours to take. Ramed sacrificed himself to show you the way. You must follow his sacrifice.”
“You’re suggesting we kill ourselves?” asked Killick in disbelief.
“You’ve been killing each other long enough, it’s almost appropriate,” Maro commented drily.
“True enough, but no, that’s not what is being suggested,” said Calhoun. “It is our recommendation that the Unglza immediately surrender to the Eenza.”
This, as Calhoun anticipated, brought a chorus of protest from the Unglza side of the table. “Why should we?” demanded Quinzix.
“Because the Eenza will then promptly surrender to you,” replied Si Cwan.
This brought another broadside of objections, but Calhoun steamrolled over them. “You don’t understand!” he said angrily. “This is not a request! This is not a plea! I’m telling you that this is what’s going to happen! I’m telling you that Ramed lay down his life to show you the way, and you will follow that way! He died for your sins! He died for his people! He martyred himself because he believed that self-sacrifice was the only way that there would ever be peace on this planet, and so help me God, you will follow that lead or you will spiral into the pit and I will make sure that I’m there to give you the swift kick that helps you along!”
There was shaking of heads, there was disbelief, there were loud arguments and objections, there was fury, there was hostility, there were threats and more threats, there was a fistfight, there were sobs, there were pleadings, there was blustering and anger and vituperation …
… and ultimately …
… there was acceptance.
The crowds were massed outside the burial site, but for the moment, Talila was the only one allowed in. She stood at the gravesite of her husband, staring at the dirt, as if she could somehow will him back to life.
She became aware of a presence next to her, and she looked around to see a rather odd-looking individual in a Starfleet uniform.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Burgoyne one-seventy-two. Chief engineer. I … knew your husband,” s/he said. “I was there when he died.”
“Did you kill him?” she asked, her voice surprisingly even.
“It was as much at my hand as his,” Burgoyne admitted. “He was trying to kill me and I defended myself. But ultimately I don’t think his heart was in it. I think he was searching for a way out—and found it.”
“Found it in the comfort of the grave,” she said hollowly. She shook her head. “Pointless. Pointless and foolish.”
“That is what I thought, at first. He … he spoke your name at the end. Yours and, I believe, your son’s.”
“How kind of him,” she said icily, “to think of us at the end. To think of those he was leaving behind. The wife with no one to love her, the child with no father to raise him.”
“He was trying to save your world,” Burgoyne told her.
And her hand snapped around, as s/he knew it would, and caught Burgoyne across the cheek. Burgoyne took the slap and didn’t even reach up to rub the redness.
“Then the world can burn,” said Talila. “And so can you.” And she walked away, leaving Burgoyne at the gravesite of the martyr of Zondar.
“Si Cwan?”
Once again, Lefler felt as if she were talking to thin air as Si Cwan stared out his window. This time, however, rather than looking into space, he was gazing upon the planet Zondar, turning below them.
She was about to start lecturing him again on how the time she was spending as his liaison was somewhat limited. Then again, part of her didn’t mind just sitting and staring at him, admiring the rippling muscles, sleek build and remarkably strong chin. But as she wrestled with her priorities, he broke the silence. “I don’t know if they’re going to make it,” he said.
“The Zondarians?”
He nodded. “There are many who want peace, who are so hungry for it that they readily accept Calhoun’s interpretation of events. But there are others who are calling Ramed the false Savior. There are others still who, having read Ontear’s unexpurgated predictions, not only believe that Calhoun should have died but, in failing to do so, has doomed the entire world. At a time when they should be uniting, we’re seeing factions. I just do not know if we’re going to be able to pull this off.”
“If anyone can, you can,” said Lefler.
He turned and smiled at her. “You truly believe that?”
And Lefler, who had just been mentally kicking herself and demanding of herself, My God, did you just say that? You sound like a love-struck nitwit, immediately swtiched gears and said, “Absolutely.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
Then his computer beeped at him and he glanced at it. “Another incoming message,” he said. He looked at it more closely. “Well, now this is interesting.
”
“Who’s it from?”
“The Momidiums, over in the Gamma Hydrinae system. They have someone they wish to turn over to us.”
“Turn over?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “A human being, apparently. Female. She was on some sort of exploratory mission there. The Momidiums felt she was a spy, but they’re very reverential of life, so they didn’t execute her. Nor did they turn her over to us because they felt that we would execute her.”
“Would you have?” asked Lefler.
He looked at her evenly. “Do you truly wish to know the answer to that, Robin?” When she didn’t reply, he took that as her response. “In any event, they simply locked her away. They’ve kept her there for approximately four years now. However, they wish to embark on solid relations with the Federation since the Excalibur is now in the area, so they’re interested in turning her over to us in exchange for certain guarantees.”
“What sort of guarantees?”
“Look for yourself.” He turned the computer screen around so that she could read it. The various conditions were spelled out on the screen, lined up next to a photograph of the human woman.
Si Cwan frowned. “Robin, are you all right?”
Lefler had gone dead white. Her jaw was hanging down to somewhere around the floor.
“Robin?” he asked again.
And she looked up at him and whispered, “That’s … that’s my mother.”
“What?” He swung the screen around, as if he would actually recognize a total stranger. The woman had long black hair, a long face, and eyes that seemed to blaze with quiet intelligence. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Lefler nodded wordlessly.
“This is … this is incredibly fortunate for you, then!” said Si Cwan. “The Momidiums claim this is a recent photo of her, so apparently she is in in good health.”
“Remarkably good health,” said Lefler, her voice sounding very distant. “Considering that she died ten years ago.”
Burgoyne returned to hir quarters, feeling heavy-hearted and despairing. S/he sank into hir overstuffed couch. The computer was beeping at hir, indicating a message was being held for hir.
