No Limits

by Peter David

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a scalpel. He began to speak, “Oh, Xant, sanctify this blade, for as you used a blade to redeem the heathens and unbelievers, I, too will use a blade to redeem myself and our people. We rejoice in you, O Xant.”

  “No—no!” I shouted even before I fully realized what it was that he was doing. As I ran toward him—it felt as if I were moving in slow motion—I saw him take the blade and draw it across his own throat. The blood was flowing down his clothing before I could even reach him, and I watched him crumple before me.

  “I was too late for him,” I cried to Xant.

  “You have always been too late for him,” said the god. “And sadly, you were also too late for them.”

  He bade me look at Revoo’s body again. It had already begun to decay, and the grass over which the blood had spilled had begun to wilt. Down below I heard one of the workers in the fields begin to cough. Then another. And another. And still another.

  Xant spoke again. “It was Revoo who created what is known as the Redeemer virus.”

  I looked down at the farmers. “You mean that all those people…?”

  “Yes. They’ll all be dead within hours. There was no saving them.” Already I could see that one frail youngster had fallen to her knees, her body racked with horrible coughing. “The only ones who survived belonged to an obscure religious sect that had hermetically sealed itself off from the outside world. Revoo belonged to this same sect, and he knew that its members would have taken the precautions necessary to isolate themselves from the virus during its active period, praying for salvation all the time.”

  Suddenly we were in the fields. I walked closer to the young one who had fallen. She had already stopped breathing. Xant continued to speak, heedless of the agony all around him. “When Revoo’s sect emerged from its self-imposed cloister, they beheld the purged world they now had all to themselves, conveniently free of all secular unbelievers. They eventually discovered the body of the dear old doctor, who had left detailed notes and instructions describing what he had done. And they felt it was an honor and a duty to take his knowledge, replicate it, and apply it to themselves.”

  The enormity of what Xant was saying struck me like a slap in the face, and I turned on him, grabbing his tunic and pulling him roughly toward me. “You! Why did you let this happen to these people? How could you let this happen?”

  “What made you think I didn’t want it to happen?”

  “But why would you have wanted random deaths and murders to have been committed, or this young girl”—and I gestured at the body which lay at our feet—“to have suffered in your name?” I began to shake him. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

  “How could I have?”

  “How could you?” My hands were at his throat. “You are a god! You said you were divine! You are! You must be! You—” I stopped. If this was a true god of power, how could I hold him in my hands like this? My hands slackened. “If you are not a god, then what are you?”

  Xant looked unruffled at this affront to his—personage? divinity? “I? I was alive once, a very long time ago; now I am little more than dust and ideas.” He smiled at me sadly. “Perhaps that is all one really needs to become a god, Eben. Maybe we should make you into a god.”

  “I do not want to be a god! I want to stay as I am!”

  “Are you sure? You were so adamant, so certain that I could have—should have—prevented all of the pain and suffering we have witnessed in our journey together; doesn’t that mean that you believe you would have made better decisions?”

  Please, no. I began to panic. “But for me to become a god, wouldn’t I have to—die?”

  “Yes,” said Xant. “You would.” And suddenly my body became weak, and I felt the terrible cough come upon me, and my flesh began to burn with fever. I fell hard upon the ground at the god’s feet.

  “I do not want to die, Xant!”

  “Everything does. Even gods. You will too, sooner or later. Why not get it over with now, and let your death lead to something great?”

  “Because…” My body was racked with spasms and chills and coughs, but I went on. “Because there is still much I must do in life! I do not want to die!”

  “No? All right then—I suppose we’ll make do with turning you into a prophet or some such thing…of course, we’ll have to make sure that you’re up to the job.”

  A test! So all of this had been a test of some sort…. I would have been more overjoyed at knowing I’d been right, had I not already been feeling a strong urge to vomit up my last meal. A mocking tone entered Xant’s voice, as he continued.

  “Yes, yes, call it a test if you like. And now you must try and give me the answers. Tell me, O exalted Eben, what was the great enemy that Revoo was fighting, really? And what is the great enemy that the Redeemers fight to this very day?”

  My head swam with all that I had seen, but the darkness of illness had begun to overpower me. Even Xant, whom I knew to be standing right in front of me, was fading into a haze. His voice grew harsher, sharper; the sound turned like a knife in my misery.

  “Tell me, boy! Why do these people who stride forth in my name do the things that they do?”

  I choked on my swollen tongue, but managed to reply. “Because they are afraid?”

  “Ahh. And what are they afraid of?”

  “They are afraid of…you.”

  “Closer, Eben, you’ve almost go it….”

  “They—they are afraid of ideas! They fear any idea that might change their understanding of you!” New strength flowed back into my limbs as I spoke.

  “Go on!”

  As my vision began to clear, my voice grew firmer. “The Redeemers fear that they are not worthy of your ideals. In order to prove to you how worthy they truly are, they have taken it upon themselves to systematically impose your…their…will on entire worlds, whether or not the inhabitants even possess the ability to understand what it is that the Redeemers want.”

  I swallowed hard, and continued. “Even when they meet with little opposition, even in the face of their overwhelming victory, the Redeemers are unable to tolerate the idea that not everyone believes as they do. They insure that the terms of any debate are as one-sided as possible, and they are appalled when they encounter dissent. They have the power to sentence a planet to death, yet they feel they must shut out questions, silence any and all opposing voices. They fear that these things pose a very real danger to persons less able then they to withstand such blasphemy.”

  Xant nodded. “And what else do they fear, Eben? What is the one fear they dare not face?”

  The thoughts were coming faster now, as my body rejuvenated.

  “They fear that they might be wrong! The Redeemers cannot bear to think that they might be misguided in their actions. If they ever did come to think so, the guilt stemming from what they have done would be too much for them to bear.”

  And finally, I understood.

  “They do not see because they choose not to see. They have surrounded themselves with the darkness of blind faith, and because they live in the dark, they fear the light—the light of truth! They say it themselves! ‘We are darkness, Xant is light!’ ”

  “Then what is it that they really want, Eben?”

  “They want…they want…” I hesitated, because it just didn’t seem possible, and yet it had to be true. “They want redemption, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “And here we are again.”

  The darkness parted in front of me, and I saw that we had been returned to the stream where we’d first met. The nibor and the pygram were still there, still arguing about how they would get across the body of water, neither one trusting each other any more than they had when we’d left them.

  “I have shown you many things this day, Eben. And now, I want you to show me—have you learned anything?”

  I looked across at the nibor and the pygram, quarreling as ever. And then I looked at Xant.

  Without a word, I re
ached down and picked up a long stick. Then I turned and waded into the stream, using the stick to keep my balance in the water. I heard Xant speaking softly behind me, but I could not understand what he was saying. When I reached the other side, I grasped the stick with both hands and raised it above my head. And, with a silent prayer, I smashed the stick down hard on the head of the pygram.

  The pygram was wounded and stunned but it shook off its injury and leaped, hissing, to attack me, stingers exposed and glistening with its fatal poison. I swung my staff at the pygram and hit it into the water with a resounding crack, and it was swiftly carried away by the current.

  I turned then to the nibor, which looked up at me with fear in his eyes, unsure whether or not to flee. I spoke gently to him, saying, “Do not be afraid, little one. I bear joyful tidings.”

  “Are you going to slay me as well?” asked the nibor.

  “No. I mean you no harm.”

  “Then have you come here to bring me the word of Xant?” the nibor said.

  I hesitated. From the other side of the stream I saw Xant watching me.

  “No,” I said at last. “I am not here to bring you the word of Xant—that is something you must find for yourself. I am here to protect you, and to shepherd you and all others who are weak from those who are treacherous, coercive, and tyrannical. I speak truly when I tell you that the righteous are plagued on all sides by the inequities of the selfish, nibor. In the name of charity and goodwill, I am my brothers’ keeper. And I will strike out at those who would attempt to poison and destroy those that I protect.”

  “Blessed are those who protect the weak from the coercive, and the traitorous, and the tyrants,” said Xant. He gestured. “Come back to me, Eben.”

  I turned back to the nibor. “Would you like to come across with me?”

  “Thank you, good sir.” I held out my hand, and the nibor hopped into my open palm. I placed him onto my shoulder, then strode to the shore and set foot upon the stream—and discovered that my foot would not enter. I walked across the water’s surface to the far side, and the nibor, with a final word of thanks, leaped from my shoulder and scurried off into the marsh.

  Xant gripped me by the shoulders and smiled, as if truly seeing me for the first time. “Well done. If you must persist in thinking of our time together as a test, it would appear that you have passed. Not only have you unlearned the lessons taught by the actions of the Redeemers, but your actions have shown that you have taken a new lesson to heart: You now understand that you cannot change the essential nature of a weed, Eben; you can only learn to identify one as it comes up in your garden, and tear it out as it grows, lest it multiply and spread.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “No, thank you, Eben. You are the first person in far too long to speak to me as a friend, rather than call up to me as one above all. And that is a precious gift indeed.” Xant sighed. “You have faced many trials, and you may be sure that there are more still to come. Your path is murky, but rest assured that your cause is a good one for you have been called to help people help themselves. You will build, but not control. Strive, and not yield. And when you do these things, you will be victorious over all your enemies. They will not be able to wage war against you, nor will they be able to resist you, nor will they be able to get in your way. But listen: If any do, they are to be despised as deniers of truth. They will speak to you, Eben, cajoling you and enticing you, not because they are afraid of you, but because they are afraid of those who dwell within you, namely, the guardians of the divinity and the teaching.”

  “I understand, Xant. I will not be swayed.”

  “Then it is time for your greatest trial, Eben. It is the last trial you must face before you achieve true illumination.”

  “What is that, Xant?”

  “Awakening.” Xant placed his hand to my brow, and the world began to spin and grow light. It was as if a door had begun to open in my mind, and I was being forced through it by a power that screamed, At last you see! At last you understand! And as I felt my spirit fold in on itself to enter the brilliance on the other side of the doorway, I could hear Xant laughing, saying, “They always start off so strong and pure…”

  I opened my eyes.

  My mouth was dry as ash. I was in my own town, lying against a building. Bodies lay everywhere about me on the street. They were all dead, and rapidly turning to dust.

  I had seen this before. This was the work of Revoo’s plague.

  My limbs proved weak and shaky as I struggled to get up. It was as if I hadn’t used them for days. I braced myself against the wall, and finally managed to stand upright. My body felt great pangs of hunger, but I had things I knew I must see before I attended to the needs of my flesh.

  I walked to the center of town, to Xant’s Great Temple. The pews inside were filled with dead people who had obviously used their last breaths to pray to the god to forestall this judgment upon them, to save them from their suffering.

  It would seem that I wasn’t the only one who thought Xant was supposed to prevent things like this from happening, I thought, slightly hysterically.

  I wandered into the High Priest’s private quarters, already knowing in my heart what I would find there, yet still needing to see it with my own eyes.

  The High Priest lay in the washtub at an unnatural angle. He had fallen and broken his neck, and he had died. And because of his untimely death, the Redeemer virus had been unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

  My world.

  There had been no blasphemy or heresy uttered, no assault on the body of the High Priest, no rhyme nor reason for his death. Millions of people and countless other living things had died because this Redeemer had been unable to keep his balance on a wet surface. Everyone on my planet was dead.

  Everyone but me.

  I picked up the staff of the High Priest and walked back out into the main sanctuary. I climbed the stairs to the main pulpit and spoke. “Xant, if it is within your power, guide these people to a place of peace. They have—they were innocent of wrongdoing. They did not deserve this punishment because of one who lacked grace. Grant them some measure of justice, and help them find peace.”

  There was no answer. But that was all right.

  With that out of the way, my thoughts turned to more immediate concerns. First, of course, I must eat. I could not stay on this planet for long—there would be no meat or dairy soon enough. I would have to figure out how to operate a spacecraft and leave, before any Redeemers came to witness the poisoned fruits of their labors.

  And then—then I would have to see to redeeming the Redeemers. I would search to the ends of the galaxy to find them and free them from their own blindness, and free the people they dominated from their terror and tyranny.

  I will do this in memory of Xant….

  “So I thought I would tell you of it, and say: Buy it in the presence of those sitting here, and in the presence of the elders of my people. If you will redeem it, redeem it; but if you will not, tell me, so that I may know; for there is no one prior to you to redeem it, and I come after you.” So he said, “I will redeem it.”

  —Ruth 4:4

  SOLETA

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Susan Shwartz

  After taking a leave of absence from Starfleet, Soleta travelled the galaxy on a personal mission of scientific inquiry. One such trip, a decade prior to her assignment to the Excalibur, took her to the Thallonian Empire’s homeworld, where she had to be rescued from a Thallonian prison by Ambassador Spock, who was on Thallon for his own reasons—with the surprising aid of Si Cwan. “Out of the Frying Pan” takes place immediately following Spock and Soleta’s departure from the dungeons of Thallon.

  Susan Shwartz

  Susan Shwartz’s most recent books are Second Chances, a retelling of Lord Jim; a collection of short fiction called Suppose They Gave a Peace and Other Stories; the novels Shards of Empire and Cross and Crescent, set in the Byzantine Empire; the Star Trek novels (wr
itten with Josepha Sherman) Vulcan’s Forge and Vulcan’s Heart; the novel The Grail of Hearts, a revisionist retelling of Wagner’s Parsifal; and over seventy pieces of short fiction. Her next novels will be Hostile Takeovers (which draws on over twenty years of writing science fiction and almost twenty years of working in various Wall Street firms, combining enemy aliens, mergers and acquisitions, insider trading, and the asteroid belt) and the Star Trek trilogy Vulcan’s Soul (also with Sherman). She has been nominated for the Hugo twice, the Nebula five times, and the Edgar and World Fantasy Award once, and has won the HOMer, an award for science fiction given by CompuServe. Some time back, you may have seen her on TV selling Borg dolls for IBM, a gig for which she actually got paid. She lives in Forest Hills, New York.

  To turn around as if one expected to be pursued was to invite pursuit, Soleta scolded herself. She had all she could do to keep pace with Ambassador Spock’s long, determined strides as he headed toward his rendezvous with the freighter captain who represented their escape offworld. By the time Spock finally paused, Thal, the capital city of the Thallonian Empire, was only a distant haze of buildings, smoke, and low-hanging clouds in which the last brilliance of sunset was fading. From deep within his robes, he pulled out a battered scanner on which a blinking light flashed.

  Soleta edged closer, raising an eyebrow to request permission to lean over Spock’s shoulder and study the tiny scanner.

  “Akachin left orbit when we came within sensor range. I estimate landing within three-point-two minutes,” said Spock. “Given your experience with this planet’s geological anomalies, I suggest we be ready to take off as quickly as possible.”