Alexander struck away from the twitching corpse, the need for air again ringing in his head. After what seemed an eternity he broke the surface to find a completely different world than he had seen only seconds before. Every light in the MacDonald’s Hudson Bay resort was on, and half a dozen boats were already putting out. It was the matter of only a moment before the first of them reached the waving Alexander, streaming blood from his head and face. A forest of helping hands pulled the Overlord to safety and Alexander gratefully exchanged the chill waters of Pend Oreille for the cool air of Idaho. Alexander daubed at the slashes on his head with a towel as the boat sped back to the float house, which was now an anthill of activity. A small army of generals, aides, guards and the like, both Chem and Terran, met him at the dock. Alexander, holding the bloody towel to his head, waved off all offers of aide, stomping from the boat and giving orders at once.
“Admiral Augesburcke! Send some of our people back to fish the bodies out. I think we shall find them disturbingly Terran!” He growled, irritated more with the fact that the assassination attempt had been, apparently at least, Terran in origin. Alexander’s mind was whirling with the implications of what just occurred. The Alliance, he assumed, could be expected, even forgiven, for such attempts. Such was the Galactic’s paranoia over Alexander. Yet what reason would Terrans have to assassinate Alexander, especially in the present crisis? He could think of only one thing, and the thought angered him: political power.
Augesburcke shouted for a tree by tree search in and around the lake for any additional accomplices, his bassoon voice bellowing at the height of fury. He was answered by a cascading series of orders, the roar of boat engines, and the whirl of choppers as a frenzied search effort got under way. To add to the confusion a flurry of press somehow gained entry onto the dock. Flashbulbs were popping off in the night, and frantic questions were being hurled at Alexander, Augesburcke and anyone else who looked like they might have been responsible for preventing such an occurrence. The press, the guards and the Admiralty were all vying for space around Alexander, and on the crowded quay with the tenseness of the situation, tempers started to flare. The press was, obviously, an uninvited presence, and one of the soldiers apparently had enough of their irritating demand for Alexander’s attentions. One of the pushing and pleading newsman finally met his match. A soldier silenced his pleading soliloquy by thrusting her rifle butt into his chest. He cartwheeled off the dock like a stick figure, arms and legs sprouting straight from his body. There was a splash of white foam on black water, and then a long moment of rippling emptiness. Finally, the newsman appeared to a chorus of nervous laughter and genuine anger.
“Enough! Enough! Silence, all of you!” Alexander roared, and suddenly the throng about him grew quiet. One reporter, seeing this as a moment of opportunity began to call out a question. “I said silence!” Alexander roared, his temper obviously getting the better of him. The newsman ignored the warning and began his question again. Alexander’s blade flashed out, inches from the pallid white face. “Someone get him out of here! Take his press pass and ensure he is not issued one again!”
The members of the press, eyes now white with surprise and fascination actually shrank away from the Overlord, and Alexander replied with a steady glare. “That goes for any photographer who wants to shove a camera in my face, or that of any other dignitary. There’ll be no “Paparazzi,” or whatever they’re called, around me. Understood? Manners, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to rediscover them. If you don’t you are out. Simple as that. Now, any one of you want to press me on that?” There was an uneasy silence. At length a reporter experimentally raised her hand. Alexander glared at her, hands on hips, naked blade glaring emphatically under the lights, blood still oozing from his slashed face. His barbarous appearance and temper failed to coy her. She merely raised a Vulcan inspired brow and kept her hand up. Alexander growled, and daubed his face with the bloody towel. “Very well, what is it?”
“Mr. Overlord, could you possibly give us a brief description of what just happened?”
“An intelligent question, at least,” Alexander admitted, but before he answered Admiral Augesburcke stepped up to his side and urged him to forego a press conference and get his “Overlordship’s ass” into the float house so the surgeon could see to his wounds. Alexander glanced at Augesburcke with a sour expression. “I look that bad?”
Augesburcke simply raised both brows.
Alexander relented, telling the assembled press, “I’ll explain it later, suffice to say it’s just a flesh wound. Now I really must get to it, and by the way, has anyone seen my wife?”
For once the press was patently useful. As one they pointed immediately behind Alexander. He turned to find Nazeera, drenched, in the midst of her uneasy Chem guard.
“Hello, my dear, sorry to have left you in the lurch there,” he told her, a wry grin appearing on his bloody face. When he reached Nazeera, whose eyes lost some of their greenish tinge of concern, he wrapped his free arm about her waist. “Came in after me did you? That lake is cold, my dear and not at all like your tropical lakes on Chem. Are you certain you are alright?”
Nazeera smiled, putting her arms about him, and examining his wounds. “Oh pah! It is only water, my husband! It was hot enough with my desire to find you! Unfortunately, I am no fish, and my entourage would not suffer me to search for you for long. They feared for my life as I feared for yours.”
“My thanks to the noble Chem for that,” Alexander nodded to her retinue.
“Yes, but we must get you within where the surgeon may attend you,” Nazeera told him, leaving no more room for argument.
Holding the towel to his face he assured her. “I’m alright, actually my lungs hurt more than these scratches. I’m not so used to holding my breath. I think the excitement of the evening is over though. Let’s go inside and get me stitched up.”
Nazeera walked with her husband, her own arm around him. The shock of the encounter did not trouble her as nearly as Alexander’s Terrans. She was Chem, and moreover this was not the first time she’d witnessed Alexander in danger. The throng parted for the two, a nervous buzz of conversation but no questions surrounding them. With the buzz of the press still in their ears Alexander disappeared inside with Nazeera, the Admiralty and the Chem.
#
The enormous yet graceful bulk of the Wisconsin floated threateningly over the capital of Altamira, a city called Deltir. Directly below “Big Whiskey” and her protective guns, was the shuttle of Captain Palmero. The Captain himself was within the capital, convening with the Governor of Altamira. Palmero was forceful though carefully courteous. He told the Quotterim, “Governor, we each have our jobs to do, yours is the safety and welfare of this planet, mine is the protection of the Terran Empire from Alliance aggression.”
“It seems to me that these are Terran ships in orbit around a Quotterim world, Admiral, not Quotterim ships in orbit around a Terran world,” the Governor answered placidly. The Quotterim were a smallish, slight race which could not be described as particularly humanoid. They were less than a meter tall and weighed perhaps thirty pounds. Though bipedal the Quotterim had extra appendages almost like tentacles but with more rigid articulation under their two arms. The Quotterim’s eyes were large and expressive, and at this moment seemed faintly amused at the Admiral.
“Then would you care to explain the four thousand Alliance warships massed on our borders,” he demanded. When the Quotterim shrank back from his manner, Palmero bit back his Spanish anger, and waved a hand to calm the Governor. In a more diplomatic tone, he said, “We are each justly assured in our own correctness, Governor, but it is not my intention to debate politics with you at this time—I’m not a politician. I seek merely to come to a mutual understanding and to gain your cooperation.”
“You seem to be in control, Admiral, what is it you wish of us?”
“I want you to give me a reason for not bombarding your planet back into the Stone Age, Governor,” Palmero
smiled.
The Governor and those Quotterim gathered about the table looked at each other with a sudden nervous tension in their eyes. The Governor remained almost, but not quite as impassive as before. “Really Captain, I think if you’d meant to destroy Altamira you’d have already done so without so many words wasted upon us.”
“That is true, Governor,” Palmero told the Quotterim, “but it was not my intention to destroy your planet in the first place. We are not here by choice, but by necessity. The reasoning is irrelevant. We are here. I advise you to accept that fact. My problem now is that you know I am here. I need you to give me a reason why I should not jeopardize my mission by eliminating that problem.”
“You would not destroy over thirty million beings,” the Governor exclaimed, adding, “Even Terrans could not be so barbaric.”
Palmero stroked his mustache, saying stonily, “Governor, last century alone dictators on Terra executed somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred million people. That was Terran executing Terran. Do you honestly think we’ll agonize over your people more than our own?”
The Governor hesitated in his answer, and one of his aides took the opportunity to whisper a warning in his ear. “It is just as the Scythians told us, Governor! Do not push them into a show of strength! They may destroy an entire city simply to assure us of their deadly sincerity!”
Reluctantly the Governor nodded, acknowledging the Terran’s advantage. Palmero paced to a window, and stood for a moment surveying the rocky seascape. It reminded him of his home on the Mediterranean coast. The sea was the wrong shade of blue, but it was warm with a salty bite in the air, there was even what looked to be groves of olive trees. In a more amicable tone the Captain told the Quotterim, “Terrans can be quite barbaric, Governor, but we do not have to be. Eventually we would like a working relationship with the Quotterim as a whole, but for the moment I will be satisfied with your cooperation.”
“What exactly do you mean by “working relationship” Captain?” The Governor asked. “Quotterim working in Terran mines does not strike me as a future worth treason.”
“Terrans no longer palate slavery, Governor,” the Captain said briskly. “When I say working relationship I mean just that, as equals. I would hazard to say that Alexander would seek a relationship similar to that we have with the Scythians.”
“In which we would lose a great deal of our empire through Terran migration and then political absorption,” the Governor noted.
Palmero shook his head impatiently. “That is something you will have to work out with Alexander. I did not come to Altamira to bring about a political settlement to the war. That is beyond my authority.”
“In other words Alexander will dictate terms to us under threat of annihilation, just as you are,” the Governor replied, his aides becoming noticeably nervous at the Governor’s tone.
Palmero was about to issue a burning retort, but the sight of the fearful Quotterim surrounding their Governor, who sat proudly behind his desk as if discussing a routine state visit, not the survival of his world. The Captain had a sudden admiration for the Quotterim politician, and a sudden understanding of how Alexander dealt so successfully with aliens. The word alien was actually a misnomer in Alexander’s vocabulary. Each and every person, despite their origin, was a being and Alexander dealt with them accordingly. Now for the first time Captain Palmero saw the Governor as something other than an alien Quotterim. He could relate to how the governor felt, and he responded accordingly.
“Governor, I empathize with the difficulty of your position, and I understand your obligations and loyalty to your government. You are an astute individual, so I am certain you also understand my obligations and loyalties. Let me add one more thing, however, concerning Terrans. Although it is true that I will go to extreme measures to ensure the success of my mission I can tell you honestly I will do so only with great reluctance. I gain no honor from the destruction of helpless beings, and I can say with equal certainty that Alexander would be most distressed with such an outcome. You see Alexander believes that eventually there will be a normalization of relations between Terra and all the current member states of the Alliance. A catastrophic event, such as the destruction of Altamira, could only hurt the short term prospects for such normalization. I say this to gain your cooperation, Governor, but it is true nonetheless. If your well being were not part of my mission we would not be speaking.”
“I understand your point, Captain,” the Governor replied, “but you must understand this: treason is treason, and it cannot be bought.”
“I do not seek your treason, Governor, or even your acceptance,” the Captain told him. “I merely seek your cooperation under duress with quarantine of this system. No ships shall be allowed to leave it, and none shall be allowed in. There are, obviously, to be no transmissions made to or from the system.”
The Governor wrung his tiny hands, and his extra appendages drummed on his ribs as a Terran would drum their fingers on a desk. “You may jam our communications, of course, as you already are, and you can ground our ships but I doubt you can prevent scheduled and unscheduled shipping from approaching the Altamira system. That, Captain, is unfortunately out of my control. I will cooperate under duress for the best interests of the citizens under my care, but I will not help you in any way.”
“That is all I came looking for, Governor,” the Captain replied.
“Captain, may I ask, what will you do with those ships entering our system?”
Palmero’s face turned stony. “They will have to be destroyed, of course.”
“That will lead to a great loss of life, Captain,” the Governor observed.
“I am open to any options, Governor, so long as they do not violate my objectives,” Palmero said.
The Governor hesitated, but then told him, “You mentioned the concept of quarantine. It is not an altogether unique occurrence for a system to declare a decand or decant long quarantine for a variety of reasons. For instance, there are five systems currently under quarantine in the Quotterim Empire for unpredicted solar activity. Our worlds are tamed, Captain, but often the galaxy is not. It would be possible for us to issue such a warning by your order and thereby avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.”
“Give me a recording of the message and the procedures for its issuance,” the Captain told the Governor. “If it meets with our approval we will issue it.” It took only a few moments for the Quotterim Governor to supply Palmero with the message and instructions that it should be broadcast ten times every Galactic decurn on several frequencies. When the Captain had the assurances he wanted he nodded and said, “Thank you for your time, Governor. I think this arrangement, strained though it is, will work out to both our advantage.” The Captain turned to leave, but a thought prompted him to stop at the door and address the Governor again. “Governor, I am a soldier and war is my business, but I’d like you to know I am sorry we had to meet this way. You are the first of the Quotterim I have met, and I sincerely wish that it occurred under more peaceful circumstances.”
“The Quotterim, and myself, would have wished that as well,” the Governor replied, obviously surprised at the remark.
The Captain nodded. “Good luck, Governor!” He said and returned to his shuttle. When he was strapped in for the short return flight to the Gangout Captain Palmero shook his head and told his aide, “You know I think I could really get to like that guy. I wonder what they’d think of Spanish wine?”
CHAPTER 15
The surgeon struggled to finish attending to Alexander, who did not help matters any by trying to relate his story to Augesburcke and Nazeera. The surgeon used a medical phaser introduced to Alexander’s staff by Nazeera’s personal surgeon to suture the wounds. It did not take long, but it demanded that Alexander keep his facial muscles still, impossible with him talking. Finally, the surgeon demanded his silence with no less force than Alexander used on the press. Alexander succumbed.
When the phasing was complete and Alexander was
set to finish his tale they were interrupted by a page from Augesburcke’s communicator. It was Admiral Sampson. In short order Alexander, Nazeera, the Scythian Ambassador “Football,” and the Admiralty adjourned to the conference room. There the Scythian established its telepathic link with its Scythian counterpart on Sampson’s flagship, the battleship Wisconsin. The Admiral related the chain of events stemming from the Gangout’s problems, finishing by saying, “We wanted to have our friends the Chem check the message for us, if they are willing, just to ensure we’re not missing anything. My Scythian ambassador informs me that it is a standard Galactic quarantine message, and not all that unusual; however, considering the sensitivity of the situation I would like a second opinion.”
Nazeera nodded her agreement, and Sampson played the massage. Nazeera’s aide recorded it on his compad. In a few moments he’d broken the message down into its base signals and run a series of cryptographic tests. Satisfied he pronounced the message to be exactly what the Quotterim claimed. Nazeera concurred.
“It would be very unlike the Quotterim to take such a daring risk as to attempt to highlight their plight. Even if the signal was a distress your ships would have ample time to lay waste to their planet before help could arrive. They are very cognizant of their lives, Admiral, and though they will have little pleasure for your presence they will do what they have to ensure they are alive when you leave them.”
Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy Page 66
