The Returned, Part II

by Peter David

  Instead the wand bounced off the force field and fell to the ground.

  “What the hell?” muttered Meyer, who had just gotten back to his feet.

  “It must only function if someone is in possession of it,” said Calhoun. “It’s keyed to work for an individual. It won’t function on its own.”

  “Fantastic. Now what?” said Kebron.

  “Now I go in and try to shut down the field,” said Calhoun.

  “By yourself?” Kebron was clearly not pleased with that plan.

  “I don’t see any other alternative.” In point of fact, he did. He could just have walked out while holding it, handed it off to Kebron, and let him handle the entry to the castle. But he was determined not to send Kebron into the situation without knowing exactly what it was that they were facing. “Keep an eye on the field. As soon as it’s down, come on through.” He paused and then said grimly, “If I don’t come back within thirty minutes, beam back to the Excalibur and get the hell out of here.”

  Kebron didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me, Zak?”

  “I heard you,” said Kebron. “I simply cannot guarantee that I will obey. So I suggest that you don’t put me in that position.”

  “Understood,” said Calhoun, and he sprinted off toward the castle.

  Thallon

  FA CWAN HAS been a magnificent ruler.

  He sits on the throne in his empty throne room. There is no one else around because the day has long ended. His wife is sound asleep, snoring peacefully in their large bed. The people that he has aided this day are snug and safe in their homes, likely dreaming about the wonderful decisions that their leader has made on their behalf.

  It is astounding to him. He looks back upon the life that he has led, and it is almost impossible for him to imagine the course that it took.

  He thinks back to years ago, how he was standing on the precipice of suicide, convinced that he would never be able to accomplish anything of worth. Then, out of nowhere, the Awesome had come to him and transformed him, and he had destroyed his predecessor . . .

  His predecessor.

  What was his name?

  Fa Cwan sits and thinks for some time and realizes that he cannot remember the name of the ruler he slew in order to become the ruler of Thallon.

  This is extremely disturbing to him.

  It concerns him because he knows that aging brings certain difficulties with it. Life, and no one gets out of it alive. But it makes him wonder just how much of an impact such memory losses could have on his ability to rule. Has he been having them regularly? Are his people starting to notice?

  Well . . . even if they are . . . that isn’t necessarily calamitous, is it? It is certainly no secret that he has been aging. You just have to look at him to see it. Standing is not easy, walking is horrifically slow. His body is slowly giving out on him, so it makes sense that his mind would be following.

  That isn’t necessarily such a terrible thing, though. His people obviously do not think that he is immortal. It will not cause them to think the less of him, will it?

  Perhaps . . .

  Perhaps it is time to move on.

  There is no Thallonian law that says he must rule until his death. He has the option of stepping aside whenever he wishes to in favor of his heir, yes?

  He could put his son, Te, in charge. Te Cwan could be named as the new ruler of Thallon. Yes, that would be splendid. They could have a coronation, a true changing of power. His son could take over, and Fa Cwan and his wife could retire to some peaceful place, away from the continued press of Thallonian politics.

  The thing is, would that really satisfy him? He has spent so much of his time in the thick of working for the benefit of his people. Would he truly be able to walk away from that? Or would he find himself, day in and day out, missing the life that he had once led? Would he find any joy in sitting around every day, waiting for death to claim him? What possible sort of life would that be?

  He finds it interesting how he has gone through his existence: moving from a point where he was ready to end his life to now, when he cannot contemplate simply waiting for its natural end.

  Furthermore, he is not entirely sure that Te is truly ready to take over for him. He is a decent enough young man. But there is a rawness to his attitude. He does not share his father’s fundamental philanthropy, his love for the people. He acts as if they are somehow lower than him. Is that truly the right mindset for the people’s ruler? It is certainly Fa Cwan’s hope that Te will grow out of this attitude, although it seems doubtful, given his age. He has spoken with his son on enough occasions, trying to convince him to find intrinsic goodness in others instead of seeing only the negative. Yet it seems that Te’s mind remains obstinate when it comes to caring about others.

  Perhaps they can take a long weekend or even an extended tour. Travel the entirety of Thallon, meet the people, talk to them, learn their stories. Certainly that would serve to reorient Te’s thinking.

  But what if it does not? What if Te is unable to change his way of thinking? What if he is not, in the eyes of his father, fit to take over as ruler of Thallon?

  Is there someone who can take his place?

  There are certainly people who would desire to. Fa Cwan knows that much of a certainty. People who, at least on the surface, seem to share Cwan’s priorities. On occasion they have even opposed him, but they have done so respectfully and always aware of his position versus their own.

  How would Te take it when he finds that power is not going to be passed on to him? Fa Cwan imagines that his son will not be happy with him. It would be up to Fa to get his son to understand that his priority is the welfare of the people. If he feels his son does not have the necessary personality to serve the interests of the people, then it is incumbent upon him to decide what serves them best, not the long-term priorities of the Cwan family.

  So many things. So many concerns.

  Why does ruling have to be like this? It doesn’t seem fair. It seems almost too much responsibility to foist upon one individual.

  Fa Cwan sags in his chair, his head swimming. What is he worrying about, again? So many thoughts are floating through his brain that he finds it difficult to focus and remember. Te Cwan. He was thinking about his son, but he cannot remember what it was about him that he was pondering.

  He closes his eyes, trying to remember. His thoughts drift. Why is he having such difficulty focusing?

  He hears footsteps approaching softly and looks up. He smiles. It is his son, Te Cwan. Te Cwan is quite the impressive young man. Tall and well built, and there seems to be an openness to his face.

  Seems to be . . .

  Because when Fa Cwan gazes into his son’s eyes, he sees other things going on in them. Distant thoughts, perhaps even sinister thoughts that Te Cwan would not dare to say aloud.

  Fa Cwan endeavors to shake such feelings off. He should not be dwelling on such things. He should be giving his son more consideration and the benefit of the doubt.

  “What are you doing here at this hour, my son?” asks Fa Cwan.

  “What are you doing here, Father?” replies his son. “Have you forgotten? The doctors have said that you should not get out of bed. That the mere act of walking around can cause your heart to rebel against you.”

  Fa Cwan frowns. Now that Te mentions it, he seems to indeed recall his doctors warning him of such a possibility. He had forgotten about it. That is not surprising, though. What is Fa Cwan supposed to do? Rule from his bed? The thought is absurd.

  “The fact of the matter, Father,” says Te Cwan, “is that you should not even be alive right now. You should really have died years ago. Yet you have continued to remain with us. That is truly an inconvenient situation.”

  “Inconvenient?” Fa Cwan does not quite understand what Te is talking about. “Inconvenient to whom?”

  “Well, to people such as me,” says Te Cwan. “The fact of the matter is that I am ready to take your place as the ruler of Thallo
n. To continue the legacy of the Cwan line. I would have thought that you would willingly have stepped aside by now.”

  “I am sorry to ‘inconvenience’ you,” Fa Cwan says. He is unsure how to feel at the moment. Should he be genuinely sorry that he has not stepped aside? Or should he be angry at his son’s presumptuousness? He wishes that someone could tell him. “But the fact remains that I am the ruler of Thallon. There is really not much to be done about that.”

  “That’s not quite true,” says Te Cwan.

  Fa Cwan does not understand what his son is talking about until Te Cwan is actually upon him. Te’s hands are quite large, and one of them clamps down upon Fa Cwan’s face. His fingers pinch Fa Cwan’s nostrils together so that he cannot inhale, and Te’s palm is covering his mouth so that he cannot breathe or, even more to the point, call for help.

  Fa Cwan cannot process what is happening to him. The notion that his son is killing him is completely incomprehensible. He tries desperately to fight back. He fleetingly remembers the battle that had placed him in charge of Thallon, the one where he had been invulnerable, unbeatable. That power had, of course, vanished once the Awesome had taken His leave, but he had never had need of it again. The mere threat of it had been enough to keep everyone in line.

  He struggles desperately against his son’s grip. He cannot even begin to break it. He looks up into his son’s eyes, and he sees nothing in there. No mercy, no caring. Nothing but dark and sinister motives, serving only himself and no one else.

  He was right. Te Cwan should not be the next ruler of Thallon. He must be certain to tell his wife.

  Fa Cwan imagines everything that will happen once he lets the world know that his son will not be succeeding him as the new Thallonian ruler. Te will undoubtedly be furious. But he will have to learn to live with it.

  His thoughts about his son’s frustration over not ruling are the last ones that pass through Fa Cwan’s head. He does not even realize that he is dying until it is too late.

  Te Cwan maintains his hold on his father’s face for long moments to make certain that he is really dead. Then he steps back, releasing his grasp. His father slumps to one side. His eyes are still open, and Te Cwan imagines that there is surprise still reflected in them. Te Cwan reaches over and passes his hand over his father’s eyelids, closing them.

  “Rest well,” he says in a low voice. “You have earned it.”

  D’myurj Homeworld

  i.

  CALHOUN MADE IT up the main road with no problem. He had his phaser gripped tightly in his hand and yet couldn’t help but wish that he had his sword with him at that moment. Whenever going into a combat situation, he always preferred to have the blade even though there was no reason for him to feel that way. A blade was only worthwhile in close combat, and considering the sort of individuals that he was probably going to encounter, it didn’t seem that close combat would be a real likelihood. The chances were that Calhoun would have to do everything he could to keep one step ahead of the Brethren firing their pulser blasts at him.

  He reached the outside of the towering castle, still having no clue why in the world the D’myurj had such primitive architecture as what seemed a centerpiece to their endeavors. Cautiously he tapped his combadge and said in a low voice, “Calhoun to Excalibur.”

  “Burgoyne here, Captain.”

  “Are you monitoring the force field that’s surrounding this place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to be bringing it down. The moment it collapses, I want you to beam out everyone with a human reading.”

  “Will do, sir. Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “You almost never are,” Burgoyne commented.

  Calhoun found that amusing, and also completely true. “Calhoun out,” he said, and then made his way forward.

  A large door blocked his path. It was made of some sort of solid wood, situated on hinges. He pushed and then pulled on the door, but it didn’t seem to budge. There was obviously a lock keeping it secured. He considered shooting the lock, but worried he might somehow fuse the door shut instead. He could just disintegrate the door, but was concerned that the sound of the phaser blast might alert anyone who was inside.

  Then he glanced at the hinges and smiled.

  Raising his phaser, he took careful aim and then fired off very quick blasts at them. The hinges shattered under the impact of the phaser, but the shots were so brief that he hoped they wouldn’t tip off anyone to his presence.

  He shoved his fingers into the side of the door, finding a small amount of space to reach in. Then he slowly began to pull.

  At first the door did nothing. But then, very slowly, it started to come free. Calhoun kept pulling and seconds later the door began to topple toward him. He pushed back against it to prevent it from collapsing on him and then stepped to the side, shoving it up against the outside wall. He stared inside and saw a narrow corridor running in front of him. He concluded that this was not the main entrance, since he expected that there would be a large entranceway at that point. It suited him just fine, since Calhoun suspected that it would be rather populated.

  Slowly, he made his way into the corridor. He tread down it carefully, one step at a time, keeping his phaser leveled while looking for trouble. He was aware of the time ticking away. With only an hour to spend on this rescue, he didn’t have the time for any errors. If he made so much as one mistake, screwed up in any way, then the entire thing was going to fall apart. His men would return to the ship and try to get the hell away while the Dayan proceeded to kill everything on the planet. Calhoun suspected that even this force field wouldn’t be able to withstand incessant blasts from the Dayan.

  Then he heard footsteps, heavy and clanking. He knew immediately what it was: the approach of Brethren.

  He looked right and left for someplace to hide. There was a door to his right, and Calhoun didn’t hesitate. Granted, he didn’t know who or what, if anything, was going to be on the other side of the door. But he reasoned that whatever it was, it was going to have to be better than being dragged into yet another fight with the Brethren.

  He shoved open the door, stepped through, and froze.

  It was a D’myurj. He was floating in the air, clearly in the midst of some manner of contemplation. The room was devoid of any furniture; clearly it was just for him to meditate. When Calhoun banged the door open, however, it snapped the D’myurj out of his contemplative state. The eyes in his glowing face opened, and he stared at Mac.

  “Calhoun!”

  Calhoun instantly recognized his voice. It was the D’myurj who had described himself as the Visionary. It was the D’myurj who was responsible for the death of Calhoun’s race.

  Right there. Right in front of him. This was no hologram. This was no insubstantial image of the being that he hated more than any other living creature. This was the Visionary, his for the taking.

  “Guards!” the Visionary shrieked, but it was too late. Calhoun was across the room, and he grabbed the Visionary by the throat. Up until he actually touched him, Calhoun didn’t trust his belief that this was the genuine article. The moment that he felt the creature’s warm throat beneath his hands, however, a trill of joy screamed through him.

  It was everything Calhoun could do not to beat the Visionary to death right then and there. He was aware, though, that the D’myurj would be of far more use to him alive. He lessened his grip slightly so that he could swing the Visionary around in front of him. He placed the D’myurj between him and the door and waited.

  Sure enough, two Brethren appeared at the door. Instantly they raised their gloves, ready to unleash their blasts upon Calhoun.

  “Have them lower their weapons,” he said tightly to the D’myurj, “or you’ll die with me.”

  The D’myurj was only too happy to cooperate. “Lower your weapons! Don’t fire! Do not fire!”

  Slowly the Brethren lowered their gauntlets. They did not, however, move out of the way.r />
  Calhoun pressed the muzzle of his phaser against the Visionary’s head. “I want to shut down the force field. You’re going to tell me how to do it.”

  “No, I . . . I . . . I can’t,” the Visionary stammered. “We’ll be destroyed by the blasts from overhead . . .”

  “You’re going to be blasted in your head if you don’t take me to where I can shut the field down.”

  The Visionary gulped visibly.

  “What’s the matter?” said Calhoun, making no attempt to keep the smugness out of his voice. “I seem to recall that you were somewhat more arrogant in your tone when we last met. That, of course, was before you killed my people.”

  “You don’t un—”

  Calhoun shoved the muzzle even harder against the Visionary’s skull, causing him to cry out in pain. “I swear, if you are about to tell me that I don’t understand, I will pull this trigger and blow your brains out. I won’t care in the least whether the Brethren cut me down or not. Is that clear?” When the Visionary didn’t reply immediately, he snarled, “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, yes! It’s clear! It is completely clear!”

  There had never been a moment in Calhoun’s life where he felt better about threatening a helpless individual. “Do you know where to go?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Take me there. And keep in mind that no matter how fast the Brethren may think they are when it comes to launching an attack, I can assure you that I will be even faster.”

  The Visionary managed a nod. He made it obvious that he got what Calhoun was saying.

  Slowly and deliberately, Calhoun started moving forward, keeping an iron grip on the D’myurj. The Visionary’s legs were shaking. Calhoun took pleasure in that. Anything he could do to terrorize this murdering bastard was okay with him.

  At first the Brethren did not move, but the Visionary gestured for them to step to either side and they did so. Calhoun walked with him out into the hallway. “Which way?”