by Peter David
One member of the Brethren remained behind. He oversaw the targeting mechanism of the ship’s onboard weaponry, prepared to rain down punishment on the Xenexians should any of them attempt to gain higher ground and take aim with their bows and arrows. He was under the explicit instructions, however, to intervene only in that particular instance. The Brethren were determined to take on the Xenexians hand-to-hand, because such a death would be as painful and prolonged as possible.
The Visionary watched, waiting for the Xenexians to follow through on their ululations and outright challenges to the Brethren. There, on the parched and sunblasted land below, there would be a massive battle that the sword-wielding Xenexians would surely lose, and the ground would become stained with their blood.
And even as the Visionary looked on, the Xenexians abruptly fell back. The area around them was a maze of rocks and canyons, and no one knew it better than the beings that lived there. Seconds later, the Brethren were standing in one large group, as if they were collectively waiting around for a transport to pick them up.
“Again they retreat?” the Visionary said as he peered out through the still open bay door. “How long do they think they can keep these sorts of tactics—?”
And suddenly Mackenzie Calhoun was leaping in through the door.
It was only at that moment that the Visionary realized how close the ship had gotten to one of the spires. That bastard! He was hiding in the upper reaches! But how did he—?
Even as the thought went through his head, the Visionary shouted for the bay door to be closed. Instantly the door irised shut, and had it done so even a second earlier, the fast-moving Calhoun would have lost a foot and probably been a great deal easier to manage.
As it was, the door snapped behind him like a bear trap just missing its target.
iii.
No one saw Mackenzie Calhoun unless he chose to be seen.
That had never been more the case than now, when Calhoun crouched against the shadow of the nearest spire and watched the Brethren vessel draw closer. His followers had told him that the Brethren exited the ship through a hatch in the side, and that’s what he was counting on for gaining entry. If the Brethren suddenly started employing transporter technology, he was in a good deal of trouble. That was one of the many aspects he wasn’t wild about in this cobbled-together plan, but there simply wasn’t any way around it. He couldn’t allow this constant hunting of his people to go on indefinitely, but they were far too loyal to him to even consider the notion of giving him up to the Brethren. And D’ndai’s dying wish, which Calhoun was obliged to honor, precluded his giving himself up.
So the only option left to him was to get the hell off the planet in a manner that would guarantee the Brethren knew he had left. Once he accomplished that, there would be no reason whatsoever for the Brethren to continue to harass the people of Xenex.
And this was the only way he could think of to do it.
The spire against which Calhoun was hiding was adjoined to a plateau that ended in a cliff. It was about thirty feet worth of fairly flat rock that Calhoun was sure he could cover in just a few seconds. And it was enough length to provide him a sort of crude runway for what he was planning to accomplish.
Now all he needed was for the ship to get close enough.
It had been a long, long time since Calhoun had any truck with the gods of Xenex. But he did so now, sending out a prayer that they bring the ship within proximity. “Let me spare those who honor you having to spill their blood on my behalf,” he said softly. “They worship me, they look up to me, and they count on me. But there is only so much that I can do, and now I need to do more than that. Please be with me. Please help me to be what they need me to be.”
The ship continued to descend and then slowed and stopped. It hovered at the same height that it had been when it first appeared on Xenex and discharged its soldiers during their initial raid… the raid that had resulted in the death of his brother. It was the altitude that Calhoun was hoping for, and why he had taken up this particular position at this particular height.
Unfortunately the ship was still a significant distance away. More than he thought he could reasonably jump.
A door irised open in the side of the ship and he watched as Brethren came dropping out of the ship like fleas from a newly bathed dog.
For all the difficulties that were part of this admittedly problematic plan, this was actually the most challenging: to see whether the Xenexians would do as he had instructed them.
They had not been thrilled about the prospect of running from a face-to-face battle. With the enemy right there, directly in front of them, the Xenexians wanted to turn from the strategy they’d been following of hit-and-run, guerrilla tactics and get into a straight-on mêlée. When Calhoun had told them that, no, he wanted them to hide one more time, they had initially balked at the notion. He’d had to use all of his considerable force of will to convince them that they were to obey his orders. But until he actually saw them do as he had instructed, he didn’t know for sure if they would.
None of it was going to matter, though, if he wasn’t able to get to the ship.
The entrance was right there, right in front of him, but by his quick calculations, it was a good twenty feet beyond the edge of the cliff. The ship didn’t look like it was going to draw closer, and the door could shut at any moment.
There was no time to wait for any other opportunites to present themselves.
Calhoun bolted from behind the spire and ran as fast as he could. His legs scissoring, his arms pumping, he dashed along the “runway,” building up as much speed as possible. He kicked up dust as he went, some of it blowing into his face, and he squinted against it. He was trying to calculate exactly when to jump and then realized that he was going to second-guess himself, hesitate at just the wrong moment and possibly send himself plummeting to his death far below.
Instead he turned himself entirely over to his instincts, trusting them to guide him as they always had.
He hit the edge of the cliff and catapulted himself through the air, his body outstretched as if he were performing a racing dive into a pool. He had promised himself he wouldn’t look down and yet he couldn’t help himself. He glanced downward for half a heartbeat and was pleased to see the Xenexians scattering like leaves before a stiff breeze. Then he looked up and time seemed to be slowing to a crawl as the door in front of him started to iris closed. From within he had a quick glimpse of a D’myurj that he suspected was the self-proclaimed Visionary, and though it was hard to tell, he thought there was a look of surprise on the Visionary’s face.
And then Calhoun was hurtling through the entryway, pulling his legs in to get them clear of the door. It slid noiselessly shut behind him, and he hit the deck and rolled, coming up with his phaser drawn.
The D’myurj was running.
That was a good sign. It meant that he was physically there.
Which further meant that Calhoun could kill him.
No. Don’t kill him. You might be able to make use of him. He could provide you information. Whatever you do, don’t kill him.
He took a split second to thumb the energy output on the phaser from “kill” to “stun” and leveled the weapon.
During that split second, the D’myurj, in a crackle of energy, vanished.
“Grozit!” snarled Calhoun. He realized that the Visionary must have had some sort of emergency transport device on himself, and it had required a few moments to fully power up. That brief time it took to reset his phaser had allowed the D’myurj to escape to some unknown location.
You should have killed him.
There was no time for recriminations. Calhoun charged out of the landing bay section, completely unfamiliar with the layout of the vessel, but moving as quickly as he could through it in hopes of getting the drop on anyone else who might be left behind.
Without slowing, he charged through a hatchway into what seemed, to him, like the command center. And suddenly the deep-se
ated sense that always warned him of danger kicked in and, without even thinking about it, he ducked.
It wasn’t fast enough. A Brethren soldier was standing off to the left, and he swung a gloved hand that caught Calhoun on the side of the head. Calhoun rolled with it but lost his grip on the phaser. It clattered away, skidding across the floor.
Calhoun came up and tried to dart toward it, but the Brethren was in his path. He feinted to the left and right, trying to get the soldier to commit to a move, but it didn’t work; the Brethren just stood there, as if it had all the time in the world…
He glanced at the command center and was flummoxed; he saw what appeared to be a tactical station, but there didn’t seem to be anything having to do with navigation.
Sending out one more fast prayer to the Xenexian gods, who seemed to be in a generous mood this day, Calhoun made a guess as to how the ship operated and shouted, “Hard to stern, forty-five degrees down angle!”
Obediently the ship tilted. He was right. It was voice responsive, and the speaker didn’t seem to matter.
The move caught the Brethren completely off guard. The Brethren started to call out what sounded like it was going to be “Ignore that!” But he didn’t quite get the order out and then, with his arms waving wildly, he tumbled off to one side, skidding across the length of the deck.
An instant before the ship tilted, Calhoun left his feet. He leaped past the falling Brethren and tried to intercept the skidding phaser. It slid just out of his reach, and Calhoun let the momentum of the ship carry him after the weapon.
The phaser skipped away as if it had a life of its own, and Calhoun twisted around while on his back, just in time to see the Brethren soldier leaping toward him. Energy was crackling in the palms of his gloves, and then pulse blasts erupted from them. Calhoun’s head snapped to one side and the other, barely managing to avoid them, and then the Brethren landed heavily atop him.
The only thing that stopped him from searing the flesh off Calhoun’s bones was that Calhoun had drawn up his legs at the last second, bringing his feet between himself and the soldier. The bottoms of his booted feet were pressed against the soldier’s chest, and he tried to shove the Brethren away from him, but the bastard was just too heavy. He felt the heat starting to burn through the soles of his boots even as he fought to keep the soldier’s hands away from his body.
The soldier grabbed Calhoun’s legs, and he smelled cloth starting to burn. He knew that his flesh would follow seconds later. Worse, the gloves were starting to charge up again.
“Forty five degrees up angle!” Calhoun shouted, and the ship tilted back, straightening out.
The phaser slid across the floor and into Calhoun’s grasping hand. Just as the Brethren’s glove reached full power, he swung the phaser up, jammed it into the vent in the side of the Brethren’s helmet, and squeezed the trigger.
The Brethren shuddered violently and instantly became dead weight. With a grunt, Calhoun shoved him off. Then he clambered to his feet and ran to the tactical station.
He figured out the workings of it very quickly. Whatever strengths the Brethren had in terms of their armor and their combat skills, they had made their technology exceedingly simple. That made sense to Calhoun: Why overcomplicate matters?
Within seconds he had the Brethren targeted on the tactical screens. They were milling about and looking up, because their vessel had been tilting one way and then the other, and they were wondering what was going on up there. From the Brethren point of view, this operation was intended to go briskly and by the numbers: they would jump down, destroy the Xenexians, and then their ship would presumably land and they would climb back aboard and head off to wherever the hell they came from.
“New plan,” growled Calhoun.
iv.
The Brethren were just starting to discuss with each other what they should do when their ship’s weaponry cut loose.
Their armor was such that it protected them somewhat even from their own pulse blasts, but it didn’t insulate them from the concussive effects that the blasts were packing. Those who were directly hit by the beams went down, their armor severely dented, onboard systems screaming that extreme damage had been sustained. Those who were simply within range of the blasts went flying in all directions as the pulse cannons ripped into them, carried through the air by waves of concussive force.
In no time the air was thick with dust and debris and confused Brethren staggering about, trying to determine what in the hell had just happened. The onboard sensory devices that enabled them to see were filled with confusing and conflicting information, and for the briefest of periods, the Brethren were effectively blind.
It was all the time that the Xenexians needed.
There were no screams or battle cries this time. Silent as night shadows came the Xenexians, moving in with quick, effortless efficiency. Their long knives and swords flashed. They wore coverings over their eyes to shield them from the dirt that hung in the air, and they targeted the Brethren with the sort of glee that only a warrior race in the throes of slaughter can know. The moment the Xenexians joined the battle, the blasts from on high immediately ceased. The field was clear for them to do whatever was necessary to take down their opponents.
They approached their task with gusto.
The Brethren fought back as best they could, and they did indeed manage to take some of the Xenexians with them, mostly through pure luck from the random placement of blasts that occasionally found targets. For the most part, though, that one damned vent in their armor undid them as swords and daggers plunged in with merciless efficiency.
Long minutes later, it was all over but the shouting, and the shouting came from triumphant Xenexians in full-throated roars of celebration. And the shout was the same name, over and over again: Not the name “M’k’n’zy,” but instead, “Calhoun! Calhoun!” In this way were they singing not only the praises of the man who had led them, but the territory on Xenex that had birthed them and succored them and given them a sense of national pride.
The doors that had previously discharged the Brethren army irised open and there was a brief pause in the cheers, one of apprehension since they had no idea whether even more Brethren were about to come pouring out. Instead the doors revealed their savior, their god of gods, Mackenzie Calhoun, framed in the entranceway. This brought the cheers up even louder. Indeed, one man among them started bleeding out his ears because the roars were so deafening.
Calhoun allowed them their huzzahs for some time, waiting for the enthusiasm to spend itself. When it didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon, he spread his arms as a signal that they should quiet down and, in short order, they did so, waiting for his next words.
“My good friends,” he said, “whether we wish to acknowledge it as truth or not, the fact is that my presence has brought hardship down upon you. Your loyalty has never been questioned, nor your bravery or determination. Now, however, is the time for me to take my leave of you.”
This immediately prompted some shouts of protest, and Calhoun could not help but smile at that. The Xenexians were born warriors, and he was starting to realize that their determination to protect him had been prompted by more than just loyalty. For some of them—hell, maybe for all of them—he had been a means to an end, and the end was that they really, truly loved a good battle and they hadn’t had one in quite some time.
But he could not continue to serve as an excuse for war. The stakes were far higher than any of his people realized.
He managed to silence them again and continued: “The fact is, my brothers in war, that my presence here continues to endanger all Xenex. I know, I know,” he went on before they could mount challenging battle cries, defying the entirety of the known universe to show up and attack them, “you are undeterred by that truth. Nevertheless, it would be irresponsible to the world that I know, and the people that I love, to remain here any longer than necessary. With me gone, the invaders will have no reason to continue their attacks. It is t
he best way to proceed, and all of us know that, whether we wish to admit it or not.”
“Take us with you!” came one shout, and then another, “Let us continue to battle at your side!” Soon they were all making similar declarations of devotion and determination, and it took Calhoun quite some time to bring down the volume yet again.
“What awaits me in the depths of space,” Calhoun said, “is my battle, not yours. Your place is here, not out there. Tend to yourselves, tend to your families. Elect yourselves a new leader—one who will, ideally, fulfill your needs even half as well as my beloved brother did. And when the wars I must now face are finished, I will return here and we will gather and I will tell you of what I encountered and the great battles that I fought, and we will celebrate our collective triumph over our enemies!”
He did not stay any longer to listen to the continued cheers, turning away as the doors shut behind him. Quickly he set a course toward deep space. He could not help but consider the notion that departing into the heavens was about as obvious a means of drawing a direct connection between himself and the gods as was possible.
D’ndai would have found it extremely amusing.
U.S.S. Excalibur
i.
Burgoyne strode into the captain’s ready room, feeling as out of place there as s/he ever did, and then s/he spoke, doing everything s/he could to keep hir voice steady. “Morgan,” s/he called out. “Morgan, we need to talk.”
She simply appeared behind hir. “Time for talking is past, Burgy. I’m sorry about that.”
“You’re sorry.” S/he couldn’t believe what s/he was hearing. “You’re sorry? You slaughtered innocent people.”
“They attacked Robin and tried to take my grandson from her. None of them is innocent. That’s close enough,” she said quickly as Burgoyne started toward her.
Burgoyne froze where s/he was, although s/he felt some small measure of grim pride that there was something even the mighty Morgan Primus feared. “I cut you up before. That must have been extremely disturbing.”
