ALEXANDER GALAXUS
Book I
Alexander of Terra
A novel by
Christopher L. Anderson
To my parents who instilled in me the desire to create new worlds
Prologue
“Come now child it’s time for bed,” Kvel Mavec told her daughter.
“But Momma, can’t I stay up and watch the Circus, please?”
“Etris, you know you’re too young to watch the Circus Pantrixnia broadcasts! They’re far too violent for one of your age. I’m none too pleased your Father allows you to watch football. Did Father let you watch the Circus?”
“No, I saw it at Tria’s house, Momma, at her sleep-over. They had one prisoner who was on his third day before he got eaten. Three days! Tria’s father says that’s almost a record!”
“Well, I’ll have a talk with Tria’s parents tomorrow. Now, that’s enough. On your knees child and say your prayers.”
“Yes, Momma,” the girl sighed, folding her sprightly silvery form at the side of her bed. She looked up through her bedroom window, through the clear climate controlled skies of the planet Kempec Primus, and crossed her arms over her breast. Her beautifully luminous pupil-less eyes closed and she recited the same litany repeated a trillion times every moment by trillions of galactic children.
“Bless my world my life to keep, bless my people as they sleep. Slumber sweet, yet slumber light, lest Alexander evade our sight. For the Conqueror shall never cease, on that day I’ll make my peace. Beneath Alexander’s throne, I pray, rather Death take me away. If I die before I wake, I pray my God my soul to take. Amen.”
“Amen, my sweet,” Mavec said, tucking the girl under the covers.
“Is Alexander coming tonight Momma?”
“Not tonight, dearest. I would have heard something.”
Etris smiled, as she always did with her mother’s reassuring answer. “But why does Alexander want to come here, Momma?”
“He’s a Terran, he’s a conqueror. That’s what Terran’s do my love.”
“But why?”
Mavec sighed, and said, “Because long ago, Alexander the Great united all of Terra under his banner—a banner of conquest. Terrans yearn for unity, and one day they will unite again under the heir of Alexander. When they do they’ll follow Alexander’s call to the stars, for though he is dead, his philosophy survives. It’s their religion; it’s their way of life.”
“Will he make me part of his harem?”
“Gracious what a thought!” Mavec started, and then she sighed, stroking her child’s head. “It’s alright Etris; I remember having the same thoughts as a girl of your age. We’d sit around the light of a lumen and talk about the terrible Terrans and what would happen to all of us when Alexander finally came—oh the morbid thoughts of school-age girls!”
“But why does Alexander want to hurt us?”
“I don’t know if it’s anything personal, dear. That’s how they are. Terrans have hurt and killed countless millions of their own people in this centum alone. We can expect no mercy from them. They are an adolescent race of uncivilized barbarians. Now, enough of that, Etris, if you really want to know, ask the school-computer about Terran history. The night is no time for such talk.”
“You’re a Senator, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” she asked again, clutching her covers around her. “Alexander’s not coming tonight is he, you promise?”
“No, the Terrans have not found the heir to Alexander; they are far too fractured after the last great war to unite. There is no cause to fear tonight or for many to follow!” Mavec kissed her daughter tenderly and turned off the light.
“Good night, Momma!”
“Good night, dearest!”
Chapter 1: the Pain
“I am Alexander! I am Alexander! I am Alexander!”
Desperately Alexander fought the alien probe trying to control his mind. Instinctively, he fought back in the most elemental way, repeating his name over and over. It was a basic form of identification, but the more he fought the more a rising tide of pain engulfed him. The pain started in the hollows of his temples. From there it spread along his nerves, tunneled through his skull, and rode the subterranean rivers of his blood until finally it spilled into his cortex and flooded his thalamus, permeating every fiber of his being. A malignant surging force pushed aside every shred of self awareness leaving Alexander blind, deaf and frozen in the agonizing moment. He wanted to writhe, to kick, to scream, but he couldn’t move. A weight crushed him, as if he was under water too deep for his muscles to overcome, too deep for him to force air though his throat and too deep for him to concentrate on any thought but the pain.
As a helpless observer he watched the ephemeral glow of the pain grow in his mind’s eye. His brain became a fiery thing. The pain transformed each neuron into a tiny inferno as it sped like a sentient torrent of fire through the hemispheres of his mind. It advanced in its merciless search, ratcheting along every neural path, deeper and deeper into his psyche until his mind swelled, throbbing with an acerbic, delirious ringing of titanic bells. The pain entered the core of his memory, rushing through the gates, clutching and ripping at the tendrils of his thought. There it gathered, as if the pain found what it sought—it surrounded the citadel of his past. The assault trebled. He fell into a sucking whirlpool of anguish. Alexander’s fury rose in a last desperate rebellion against the mind rape of the pain.
Revulsion churned within his spirit; revulsion against a crime so horrific to his identity that the debilitating power of the pain dwindled noticeably. He fought. Yet even as he grasped for a way to combat the pain a lock turned, a door opened, and something within his being was now naked, open for inspection.
The gate to his memories burst, and a deluge of repressed events shrieked through his consciousness, exposed for all to see. They distracted his effort, and involuntarily he witnessed the images of his own existence.
There, along a lonely stretch of road, he watched himself, the victim of a kidnapping by strange frail beings with shark’s eyes. The eyes latched upon him; they were black as pits and devoid of feeling. The beings put him in a coffin-like prison. The interior glowed with a sickly hue. It was bare metal, comfortless, cold, with skeletal ribs dripping with condensation. There was no sound, no movement, no sensation of touch; his only companion was the pain. The coffin opened, and under a battery of bright lights he saw the operating table. He was looking up at the lights. The table was like a slab of ice. He couldn’t move. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw instruments, probes and equipment standing out in brutal relief. The frail beings bent silently over his naked form. Then there was the pain.
He was back on earth amidst the mind numbing normalcy of existence. Time marched on—years it seemed. Then events repeated themselves: a kidnapping, another coffin and the pain. They returned him again and normalcy settled in until the cycle began all over again: a kidnapping, and now—in the present—the ever-present pain.
Alexander reeled, screaming, “Oh God, not again!”
Anger replaced helplessness, and he focused on a single motor activity. With a battery of thoughts roused by fury, each more resolute, more insistent than the last, he attempted to open his eyes. His first try earned no result, but he felt the sensation of pain fade. A glimmer of gray light tingled his optic nerve. He redoubled his effort, feeling as if he lifted massive steel doors with his will, not the insignificant hoods of flesh that hid his sight. The gray turned green with areas of fuzzy light and dark patches. Two of the dark patches moved and grew. They were small and thin. Were they peopl
e; the captors of his memories? He concentrated on one of them, but his sight was inexplicably dim. Try as he might he could not resolve the shapes. Frustrated, he sent a command to his arm. A buzz of sensation ran through the limb. Ah! His nervous system was reacting to his commands! He reached for the shape.
It moved away suddenly, and the pain returned tenfold, overwhelming, incontestable. He cringed, expecting to collapse under the onslaught. His mind almost gave up, but his body automatically resisted the pain, tensing to weather the storm. The wave of pain passed and he remained conscious—though drained to the point of death.
Through narrowed eyes he watched two strange beings at work on him; at the moment he was unable to do anything about it.
Chapter 2: Experiments
In the narrow confines of the ship’s laboratory Alexander convulsed and went limp. The two slight figures standing alongside exchanged meaningful, but silent glances.
“Extraordinary,” the Scythian, a telepath, thought to its companion. “I cannot recall ever seeing one cognizant of the probe at such a high level. Was that level five as anticipated?”
“It was,” the other replied. It scanned a series of screens, shifting the patterns with thought keys. At length it thought, “We have nine millennia worth of data on this species, but I have no record of any cognitive activity for Terran subjects above level four, however, this is the Terran male’s third capture. It’s possible the male is developing resistance to the probe.”
“Impossible,” replied the first. “Many Terrans are captured dozens of times without any increased resistance to the probe. Still, it is unusual, and this is one of our profile cases, not a random subject, is it not?”
The second Scythian watched a series of lights wink in response to his mental commands, and the screens displayed a new set of data. “Yes, the Terran caught the attention of the profile protocols. Prior to the initial capture the subject was a gladiator in one of the more violent entertainment spectacles.” The Scythian pointed to a screen with a long thin finger. The screen showed Alexander in purple and white armor, with horns on his helmet, battling with other gladiators in silver and white. Alexander stood in the snow over his fallen foe, bloody, muddy, with his breath smoking from beneath his helmet. He raised his arms to the adulation of thousands.
The Scythian keyed the computer, and the scene shifted to a series of warplanes. “After a short period in the games it became an officer in the atmospheric arm of one of the nation states. That is where the protocol made the first identification.” The Scythian turned to another screen that displayed personality categories and their scores. “As you know the protocols routinely scan the Terran’s battery of intelligence and personality tests. The information is primitive, but still useful in tagging those individual Terrans which, under the right conditions, could cause significant upheaval on a planetary scale.”
The Scythian left the displays and returned to the prone body of Alexander. “This subject fits many of the alarm categories. Strangely enough it is considered highly intelligent, even by galactic standards. Although its education is understandably primitive, the subject held advanced degrees in the sciences including physics, mathematics and astronomy. The subject’s unusually high level of aggressiveness, demonstrated leadership skills and its high intelligence flagged the subject. From the protocol’s point of view there was great potential in this individual.”
“Where does the Terran’s career stand at this time?”
A mental note of surprise emanated from the second Scythian. “It is in transition. The Terran is no longer in the military, but there seems to be no particular reason for its departure in the Terran records. Records indicate a swift rise in positions of responsibility—as our observers expected. The Terran had considerable expertise and command experience, as noted by its superiors, but in the end he failed to advance to the upper echelons of command.” The Scythian stepped away from the screen, his thin arms spread wide. “I cannot interpret this data.”
“I can interpret this for you,” the first Scythian thought as he looked over the data. “I have seen this before. This particular Terran meets the classic personality profiles for times of conflict. In its career no conflicts of significant scale occurred. Often Terran military institutions quietly discourage aggressive strong willed officers during such times. Apparently, the more politically oriented Terrans are threatened by this aggressive type of Terran. This Terran, which thrived in Terra’s gladiatorial games, only aggravated its situation. Events have already quelled what potential it had, without our intervention. What else is pertinent in the Terran?”
The second Scythian changed the data displays, and thought, “The Terran is consistent with its personality profile. Records indicate it is an expert in physical warfare, as well as with assorted weapons. It is highly intelligent, as mentioned, possessing degrees in advanced science. Interestingly enough, its work focused primarily on space travel. The subject is well above the average in size and as expected it is physically quite powerful. There is, however, a noticeable decline in physical capability primarily due to age and various injuries. If you will address the medical scan we’ve highlighted the major areas of difficulty.”
The second Scythian moved over to the table where Alexander lay. A blue swath of light enveloped his body and he rose about a foot off the table. Portions of Alexander’s structure became transparent down to the level of the damage. Symbols floated in the blue air next to the injury explaining the extent and nature of the problem. Slowly, as if on an invisible spit, Alexander’s body rotated while the second Scythian studied it.
“There is major connective tissue damage to nearly every joint. There is evidence of primitive replacement surgery on the right knee. The artificial joint is a metal alloy, heavy and crudely manufactured, but apparently serviceable. The Terran has multiple injuries to the spinal column. There is a significant amount of scar tissue in the extremities. Incredible! A Scythian would terminate its life cycle rather than endure such physical difficulty.”
“The injuries undoubtedly originate from the Terran’s career in the games. Perhaps that is why there was a change in careers. That is enough on this subject; do we have access to the Terran’s memory patterns? Good. What do the previous core scans reveal?”
“This is interesting,” the second Scythian thought, moving in a short clipped motion as if unused to unsettling events. “Normally we gain access to the memory core of the brain on the initial study. It is noted, however, that the Terran’s resistance to the probe on the previous two studies was significant enough to bypass the memory scan routine. This is then our first memory scan for this individual.”
“Really, that is quite unusual,” the first admitted.
Images came through on the screens. The pictures were incoherent at first, but after some telepathic adjustment the Scythian announced success. “I have accessed the portion of the memory with previous personalities.”
“Find the oldest coherent fragment,” the first ordered.
“Identified, and stimulated,” replied the second. Screens previously dark sprang to life within the room. The two beings glanced at images of mountains and the sea. There was a woman with hair of gold, and lovemaking. Multiple scenes of primitive war followed, all in different locales. The Scythians witnessed dozens of towns burned, towers stormed and the great crush of steel clad men savagely hacking away with blood drenched blades. There were gray skies and mountains. There was the sea. There was the woman and his children.
The second Scythian said, “It is an older persona, by Terran standards. But there is nothing extraordinary in the observations: the particular mate, mating and offspring are constant themes amongst the Terrans.”
“That is a failing with the two sex species. I see no relevance to these images,” the first replied with repugnance.
The images shifted to the woman again, as if the memory was taking a long last look at her. A cold fog enshrouded morning replaced the woman. A growing battle sce
ne erupted out of the glooms, this time in greater clarity and detail than ever before. It swiftly formed into an image of the man, his beard red with blood and his armor rent. He stood alone on a bridge while a horde of enemies tried to cross it. His notched ax rose and fell amongst the ranks of his foes leaving a mound of tangled dead.
“This must be the death memory,” the second noted.
“Shocking, make a note of it for the Bureau of Information. I can think of no better example of Terran ferocity.”
“As you wish,” the second said. The image went on, giving an interminable sense of time, until finally another warrior stabbed him from underneath the bridge. The image faded, but before it went completely dark there was a dim picture of two women dressed in glowing metal scales. They came to the fallen man. Beyond them a huge red bearded Terran waited. The image disappeared.
“What was that last portion?” the second Scythian asked.
The first answered, “Possibly a primitive ritualistic belief. Often the Terrans attempt to explain the unknown with a set of beliefs based on identification—I believe they term the concept religion. It is prevalent in all of the thalamic driven races of the galaxy. Catalogue it and move on to the next.”
The Scythians continued with the memory scans. The life memories of Alexander varied, and they grew sharper and more complex as they climbed into recent Terran history. The exercise took some time, and by the end of it the first Scythian was disinterested.
“Catalogue what we have, then prepare the male for return.”
The Scythians’ colleague, however, appeared agitated, thinking, “I believe there is something noteworthy in this Terran.”
“What do you mean?” asked the first, its thoughts perturbed. “The memories were not so different from the thousands of others we have catalogued.”
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