Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy

by Christopher L. Anderson

  “I believe there is something else,” the second replied. “The computer has run its correlation scan against recorded Terran history and has found matches.”

  “So the Terran has been noteworthy in their history on more than a singular instance. I admit it is unusual, but,”

  “You do not understand,” the second thought, interrupting his superior—a highly unusual act for a Scythian. “The significance is in the consistency of this Terran’s affect on Terran history. These are not insignificant life events. The Terran is linked in all of its life memories to Terrans identified in their own recorded history. In other words this Terran made a significant impact upon his world in every lifetime.”

  “All of them?” the first Scythian thought, stiffening perceptibly.

  “All of them,” the second Scythian replied firmly.

  “We have seen this before. Certain Terrans, as did Alexander the Great, make their presence felt in each life experience. Is this one of those Terrans? What do his current life memories tell us? How do they compare with our current observation of Terra?”

  “There is nothing which correlates this Terran with records of present history outside of his performance in the gladiatorial games. That facet of his life is insignificant and can be discounted. Gladiators of this world are lauded and admired, but never remembered. However,” the second Scythian thought, but there was a lapse, and an incomplete thought.

  “Well?” the first pressed.

  “There are many images of what they call dreams,” the Scythian replied. “The empathic charts also show extraordinarily high readings of frustration. Apparently, the subject is agitated over his lack of signature success. Although there is evidence of significant accomplishment associated with the gladiatorial games the Terran appears to views these glories as irrelevant. There are also images of events that have not occurred. There is a great deal of mental energy expended on these pseudo-memories. There is one other thing I feel I must point out.”

  “Proceed.”

  “You mentioned with great accuracy that such a being as this could not succeed in times without conflict. He is ambitious, aggressive, intelligent, and a leader. I’ve run a comparator protocol. The subject does compare quite favorably with the personality profile of the Alexander of two millennia past; that is, Alexander the Great.”

  “Comparisons are one thing, however intriguing; association to past personalities is another. There was no indication in the memory scan that this being even had an ancestral personality in Alexander’s time.”

  “That is not unusual,” the second said. “We ran only a surface scan to the oldest coherent fragment. If there were a memory pattern dating to Alexander’s time it would undoubtedly need to be rebuilt. That could be done with an in depth catalogue of the core. Of course, such a scan would take time.”

  “Yes, we would undoubtedly spend more than the allotted time on this individual,” the first thought uncomfortably. “Without further proof of identity I cannot justify the deviation.”

  “Yet his first cognitive thought trigger was an identification of self. It was identification not of Alexander Thorsson, but simply of Alexander!” the second thought, uncharacteristically and earnestly pressing its point. “Meaning that even if this is not a continuation of the personality of Alexander the Great it could very well be a being who at least sees himself as the next Alexander. It is a lengthy supposition, but one with merit.”

  “Shall I set the scanners for a prolonged study then?”

  The first Scythian hesitated. It turned, and in a very unusual display of physical agitation—for a Scythian—it paced. Round and round the laboratory it went. Finally, it stopped, and thought, “Set the scanners for a fragment search. Often old psyches can be identified from a fragment of a pattern; a single visual cue momentous for a particular life cycle will identify the general time frame of the psyche. We might investigate a dozen such visualizations in the time it would take the scanners to catalogue a single memory pattern. Proceed.”

  The second Scythian did as he was told. They ran through several images, each of some import to its owner, but none enlightening. Then a silhouette of the man appeared on their screens. He looked over a darkening landscape from the vantage of a high mountain pass. Beyond the stars shone fitfully over a slumbering world.

  The Scythians stiffened bolt upright as if hit by an electric shock, but any further inspection was interrupted. Their screens went suddenly blank and flashed on again. When they brightened the image of one of their own people appeared. Its thought-expression instantly demanded their attention. A telepathic carrier wave addressed them.

  “This is the Scythian High Council with an urgent update for all Scythian citizens, especially those outside the home territories of Scythia. After lengthy negotiations with the Chem, we regret to inform you that the Chem have thus far refused our calls to open their borders. As you know Chem is the only civilization completely outside our sphere of influence. Our only protection from this thalamic race is through self imposed Chem isolation, which has lasted since the termination of their wars of expansion thirteen millennia past. There is increasing doubt as to Chem reaction. At this point in time, there is any number of possible Chem reactions, including punitive action. However, our calculations view this possibility as remote.

  “Heretofore, our approach with the Chem has embraced the logic of our proposals as the central reasoning behind acquiescence. The ineffectiveness of this direction of negotiation can be blamed on the Chem weakness of linking emotion and reason in policy. The over-emphasized sense of honor the Chem hold as their primary dogma makes them jealous of incursion and has been particularly difficult to overcome. We therefore conclude that we must invigorate our approach with an emotional argument.

  “Our ambassadors are approaching the Chem with the intention of using the Terran stratagem. As you well know we used this technique of negotiation on the Golkos, who are our closest approximation to the Chem. We experienced markedly successful results following an initial negative reaction. The Chem are expected to react with extreme emotion to the threat of Terran mercenaries being used against their empire. We predict such a reaction will be short-lived with no serious repercussions.

  “Despite this assurance all Scythians are to be on the alert for aggressive Chem activity, especially along the Scythia-Chem frontier.”

  The message went on, but the first Scythian commanded the ship’s computer to send the tapes to the Homeworlds. “We must inform the Council of our findings. This particular Terran, if his records are manipulated correctly, could be used against the Chem . . .”

  #

  The two beings turned away from him, watching another of their kind on the view screen. Alexander saw his chance. He felt ill with exhaustion, but he had no choice. Carefully, he slid off the table. His legs were rubbery and it took a concentrated effort to stand, but the aliens were still engrossed in their communication. He took an uncertain step, then another, creeping up behind them. Alexander was going to take their two melon heads and smash them together. He doubted if he had the strength to kill them, which was just as well—he might need them alive.

  He reached for their heads.

  A hammer blow shook the ship, jarring Alexander painfully. He reeled across the metal deck, careening into the instruments and sending them crashing onto the floor. Alexander tried desperately to extricate himself before the aliens saw him; he needn’t have worried.

  The shock sent the aliens skidding across the deck as well, crashing violently against instruments and bulkheads. Their little round mouths warbled hideously, as if they were terrified animals not sentient beings.

  Alexander found the irony momentarily intriguing.

  He didn’t have time for further reflection; something was happening to the ship, and he had to at the very least maintain his freedom. Alexander scrambled up through the tangle of metal, screens and cables and headed for the aliens.

  One of the aliens saw him. It howled in
a high keening way, eerily in synch with the ringing hull. It reached for something in its belt and aimed it at Alexander.

  Another blow hit the ship, and the alien’s blue beam sailed wide. The gun flew out of the alien’s slight hand, and instinctively Alexander snatched it out of mid air.

  Alexander reached the alien and backhanded it across the face. Despite Alexander’s weakened condition the alien cart wheeled across the deck. It crashed into a wall of screens, and Alexander froze.

  The images on the screens were unimaginable. They were all of him, or so it seemed. It was as if he was watching movies of himself in different times. He saw his football days; he saw himself as Viking warrior; he was a general; he was a king; and in the center plate he saw himself looking over a broad valley from a high pass—lights twinkled in the distance.

  “Have mercy, oh Alexander!” said a high sing-song voice, breaking his reverie. He looked down to see the one alien helping the other to its knees. It prostrated itself before him.

  Before Alexander could say or do anything a loud hissing noise began behind him. The aliens covered their faces.

  He looked back to see a red light force its way around the rim of the chamber’s hatch. A bright flash erupted, blinding Alexander, and a shot split the air as the clamps gave way. The hatch spun off its mounts and whirled across the short space, crushing one of the Scythians’ against the wall. A dark pool of sluggish blood spread from underneath the twisted metal.

  A menacing figure stepped into the chamber. Though almost as tall as Alexander the being was markedly slighter in build.

  “Alexander save us!” cried the remaining alien.

  “Who the hell are you?” Alexander demanded.

  The new alien stood scarcely three yards away. He drew what looked to be a pistol and shot Alexander.

  Alexander twisted away at the last second, but the shot hit him on the right side of the chest anyway. It whirled him around, burning his chest and shoulder with a sharp electric sizzle. His head swam, and his eyes lost their focus, but as he fought the urge to fall into unconsciousness. Going on pure instinct, Alexander bull rushed the new alien. He struck the lighter alien with his shoulder, knocking him easily aside. Alexander headed for the glimmer of light that must be the hatch; he had to get out of there.

  His vision started to come back, at least enough to see that there were two other tall dark figures entering the hatch as he was trying to leave it. He plowed through the bodies as he used to do with the behemoths of the NFL. There was no resisting him. He burst through, staggering down a bright green corridor, bouncing off the walls like a pinball.

  Alexander’s vision began to clear. There were hatches on either side of him. He passed by several closed hatches, then he stopped. A hatch on the right was open. Within, on a huge screen, was the unmistakable horizon of the Earth. He ducked in and found a long curved panel littered with panels and lights tucked beneath the screen. It had to be the bridge.

  First things first, he muscled the hatch closed. He didn’t know how to operate the automatic mechanism so he forced it closed, spun the latch, and locked it. Then he turned to the control board.

  “Alexander, if you can’t figure out the door how are you going to fly the ship?”

  He’d just started to scan the displays when a familiar hissing sound turned him around. He leapt out of the line of the door as the hatch came free. It crashed into the control board. Alexander rushed the figures beyond the open hatch, but three bright blue beams hit him in mid stride. Everything instantly went black.

  #

  The Chem warrior stepped onto the bridge and stood over Alexander. He wore a mottled suit of metal-like armor and a close fitting helm. Luminous blue eyes stared down at Alexander with satisfaction.

  “So this is a Terran in the flesh,” he said, rubbing his jaw where the Terran struck him. “Impressive. Signal Lady Nazeera. We’ve accomplished our mission. Bring him and let us go!”

  Chapter 3: The Legacy of Alexander

  Sixty-seven parsecs away Ambassador Kvel Mavec of the Kempec Empire entered the marble halls of the Galactic Senate on the neutral planet Roma. Mavec, as she always did when first arriving in the Senate, toured the upper galleries before descending into the pit of the Senate chamber. There, looking down from niches in the gallery, were the marble statues of figures renowned throughout the known galaxy. They were the builders of Roma; beings of nobility, destiny, peace, war, and even betrayal. Not all the beings were glorious in their lives, and some recalled the darkest failures of a civilized galaxy, but they earned a place on the gallery overlooking the Senate, nonetheless. Their unseeing eyes gazed down upon the rulers of the galaxy so that the lessons they taught in history might never be forgotten.

  Mavec could recite the particulars for each of the statues in the gallery, and she stopped for some time beneath the noble artifice of Novus Novek, the Conciliator, of her Homeworld, Kempec. She was tall and spare, as were most of her people, being of the same galactic family as the Chem and the Golkos, but the marble did not reveal the dusky glisten to her flesh or the luminous eyes. Still, Mavec was impressed with the likeness, and reveled in the honor of having one of her people in the gallery.

  Novek’s inclusion with the famous of history was no mistake. She mediated the final peace between the Golkos and the Chem, ending the millennium of brutality known as the Chem Wars of Expansion. That was thirteen millennia past, and since then peace reigned in the civilized galaxy beneath Novek’s gaze. Next to the Kempec was the likeness of Terumaz of Chem herself, the great lady with whom Novek brokered the lasting peace. It was a triumph of memory that warmed the heart of Mavec.

  Yet even as she enjoyed the flush of satisfaction she felt a burning gaze on her temple. Involuntarily she cast her glance across the gallery to the most infamous of the Roma’s builders.

  There, set aside from his peers in a solitary niche at the end of the gallery was the most disquieting being in the galactic company. It was not that the figure was malevolent in form or composure, quite the opposite. The statue initially recalled glory in its most basic form. Heavy musculature characterized the being as a Terran warrior, but from the gilded cuirass to the flowing shock of marble hair the being was still beautiful and awe inspiring. Such was its peril; for the genius of the artisan revealed the true character of the man. He was a conqueror.

  The blank stare of the far seeing eyes looked up to the heavens, caring not for policy, advancement or benevolent prosperity, only conquest. Mavec walked over to the statue, even as she had every time since, as a young woman, she entered these hallowed halls. She stood beneath the powerful being; her breath caught in her lungs.

  “Alexander the Great,” announced a silken voice behind her, startling even the composed Kempec. The announcement came from the Hrang ambassador, a tail-less saurian of stout frame, whose people were remarkably adept at galactic intrigue. Mavec knew the Hrang over many periums, and though she respected her peer, there was always a level of suspicion to be dealt with. The Hrang were master spies, using dermal implants to amplify their native chameleon-like attributes, and they normally knew quite a bit more than was good for them.

  Ambassador She-Rok bowed stiffly in apology, and told her, “This has always been one of my favorite places. I suppose I am fascinated by the dreadful. I can never ignore Alexander when I come here. Almost as a punishment I peruse his words and imagine their ultimate effect on our civilization.”

  He pressed a switch at the base of the statue. A golden glow enveloped the effigy, and suddenly the marble took on the olive tone of flesh, and the harsh gleam of bronze beneath ruddy gold. The eyes took on life and looked out to a darkening landscape from the vantage of a high mountain pass. Beyond the stars shone fitfully over a slumbering world. A strong magical voice cried out to them.

  “How may I look to the horizon and be satisfied with past victories? The conquests of the past matter not; it is the striving forward which feeds our restless hearts. So it is that we must mov
e onward, never ceasing, lest we stagnate and grow rank in spirit. To that end shall I seek that which lies beyond, and verily shall I have it, then on to the next. Behold the vistas of the universe! In it there is enough to sate even my yearning spirit, aye, even to the spirits of my descendants. From this pinnacle I look afar and I see countless worlds to conquer, even to the everlasting and innumerable stars.”

  The monologue ended, and the statue’s newfound life returned to cold distant marble. The Hrang smiled nervously. “No words ever spoken in this galaxy of ours have ever borne so much weight, or ever entailed so much dread. Is it not strange that Roma should play host to a being who could not imagine its existence? Certainly even Alexander could not have foreseen how far his words would carry, or how many empires would tremble at his name. Yet it is always the same, no matter the number of times I listen. I cannot rid myself of the oppression which hangs over me, or the thrill which courses my limbs when faced with the semblance of Alexander. The terrible and yet awe inspiring Alexander! Is the sensation similar for you, Mavec, or do the Kempec have a lesser opinion of Terra’s God-king?”

  “Why ask when you know the answer?” Mavec replied. “Who of the Galactics may ignore Alexander’s boast, or the burden which it delivers? Not the Kempec, at least. Not the prideful Golkos. Not even the vaunted Chem. Alexander affects us all, even to the ideal of this city, this world, and the Galactic seat of government.”

  Mavec turned away from Alexander and walked to the gallery rail. Below was the pit of the Senate where the twelve civilized cultures of the known galaxy labored at the mechanization of coexistence. It had worked for thirteen millennia, but ever since the rise of the Terran God-king there was a pall cast over the gleaming marble city. Mavec addressed that very thought and wondered aloud whether Roma of the Galactics would ever bear the same fate as its progeny: the Eternal City on Terra, Rome.

  Mavec shook her head, and said, “Two millennia past, shortly after the death of Alexander, we covertly founded the city of Rome. The city prospered; growing upon a political model we formulated to encourage coexistence as the overpowering goal. Secretly we molded the philosophy of the city, stressing service over ambition, citizenship over discrimination, prosperity over luxurious sloth.”