by Peter David
Ramed’s comment about “talking to himself” had immediately struck Calhoun as odd. Ramed had apparently been oblivious to Calhoun’s visitor from moments before. Calhoun decided to keep that information to himself. He wasn’t sure if that was going to be of any use, but when one is in a hostile situation, any knowledge one possesses that is not shared by one’s opponent is inherently some sort of advantage, even if the details of that advantage are not readily apparent. “So, what did you do to me?” asked Calhoun. “To get me here. To knock me out?”
“A simple drug in your food.”
“But I ate and drank the same as everyone else. You couldn’t have singled mine out.”
“I did not have to. I put it into everyone’s drink. However, a drug that can reduce your bodily functions to simulate death can also be completely harmless to Zondarians.”
So much for my vaunted sixth sense, Calhoun mused. He rationalized to himself that perhaps he hadn’t realized specifically where the danger was coming from because, to so many people in the room, it presented no danger at all. Or, more likely, he just wasn’t perfect. That was something he definitely hated to admit.
“And then I simply brought you here after your body was taken to the sacred place of preparation. I am somewhat stronger than I may appear to you, oh Great One. I admit, you did become a bit heavy the last mile or so, but it was nothing I could not handle. I have, after all, the strength of my convictions.”
“Would you mind telling me what the hell we’re doing here? I take it that this isn’t something being sanctioned by your peers.”
Ramed shook his head. “No. No, not at all. At the moment, in fact, there is great consternation among my people. You made quite the impression upon them in a fairly short time. Although admittedly, you did have help. We told the people of your coming, we told them that you were the fulfillment of prophecy. Naturally they could not help but love you. See you as a symbol of something truly great.”
“And you, for some reason, feel the need to undo all that?”
Slowly, Ramed sank down to the ground near him, as if he were commiserating somehow. “I have no choice,” he said simply. “My part in these matters is as predestined as your arrival was. As your death is.”
“You are so certain, then, that I am going to die.”
From the folds of his clothes, Ramed pulled out a wooden handle. He pushed on it and a long and sharpened point snapped out. “Neither man nor woman will save you,” Ramed said.
The words immediately struck a cord within Calhoun. It had been the exact words of his ghostly visitor from earlier. But Ramed had made quite clear that he had not heard the exchange; unless, for some reason, Ramed was endeavoring to completely confuse him. But that didn’t seem likely. Ramed might be deluded, even demented, and certainly bent on Calhoun’s destruction, but remarkably subtle he most definitely was not.
They stared at each other for a time. Then Ramed said, “Are you not going to beg for your life?”
“Am I supposed to?” Calhoun asked sarcastically. “You seem to be rather cognizant of what’s to come. You tell me.”
“I do not claim to know every detail,” Ramed replied.
“Ah. Well, thank you for clearing that up.” Calhoun’s eyes narrowed. He struggled to bring himself up to a fully sitting position and managed by dint of pulling his back up against the wall. “Why do you think I’m going to beg for my life?”
“Well, that is a natural action for one who is destined to die.”
“We’re all destined to die, Ramed. Beg for my life? I’ve been prepared to die since age fifteen. I never expected to live to see twenty. Every day beyond that, I’ve considered to be something of a gift. So if you’re expecting to see me grovel and crawl now, if that’s what this is about—”
“No, that’s not what this is about. This is about saving my world.”
“I thought that’s what my presence here was doing.”
“You have no say in the matter either, oh Great One. You are as caught up in all this as I am.”
“Caught up in all what?” Calhoun said slowly, as if addressing a child. “You have yet to tell me what the hell this is all about.”
“You truly desire to know?”
“No, Ramed, it’s always been my goal to die in ignorance. Yes, of course I want to know.”
Ramed rose, walking away from him and disappearing into the inner recesses of the cave. This, to Calhoun, did not seem the most straightforward manner of answering a question. Moments later, however, Ramed returned with a scroll. It was carefully preserved within a tube, and Ramed removed it from the cylinder with extreme delicacy. He began to read from it, and Calhoun could tell from the way that Ramed wasn’t even truly looking at it that either he was making it up as he went, or else he had read it so many times that he more or less had it memorized.
“‘Look to the stars, for from there will come the Messiah,’” Ramed said. “‘The bird of flame will signal his coming. He will bear a scar, and he will be a great leader. He will come from air and return to air. And he will be slain by the appointed one. The appointed one, who will be privy to great knowledge. The appointed one, a great spiritual and religious leader, one to whom many will look for guidance, who will hear these words and know, within his heart, that he is the one who is chosen to slay the Savior. He and no other. There will be a great festival to celebrate the Savior, from which the Savior will disappear. And he will then live for three days and three hours exactly after that disappearance. There will come a great confrontation within the place that was once my home. The Savior will be saved by neither man nor woman, and he will die, impaled on the great spear passed down by my descendants. And in that slaying, the Messiah’s death will unite our planet. And…’” Ramed’s voice trailed off.
“Oh, don’t stop now,” Calhoun said drily. “This was just getting interesting.”
“‘And if he does not die in the appointed way, then the final war will destroy all? All. All!” he added for emphasis.
“That was truly riveting,” Calhoun told him. “And what am I supposed to learn from that?”
“You are supposed to understand,” Ramed said in genuine confusion. He waved the spear around for emphasis. “This is prophecy. These are the words of Ontear himself. Most of it has not been made known to the good people of Zondar. Only that the Savior would one day come. That is all they know. But it was the wish of Ontear—a wish carried out by his greatest acolyte, Suti—that only the innermost circle know of the true, full details of what was to happen. After all, who would willingly wish to become known as the Savior of the Zondarian people if he knew that his destiny was to die in order to obtain that unity?”
“I can see where that would be a problem.”
“Suti kept the sacred knowledge within his own family, and that knowledge was handed down, from one generation to the next. The secret scroll, passed down, the information waiting for the time that was to come.”
“And you’re certain that I am the Savior,” Calhoun said. “You’re so certain of that. And that you are the appointed one who is supposed to kill me.”
“Of course,” Ramed said in clear confusion. “How can you possibly dispute it? The prophecy is clear—”
“Is it? How do you know?”
“It could not be more clear!”
“T’hanchips. I think you’re looking for an excuse,” Calhoun told him. “I think you’re just a deluded, would-be murdering bastard who’s looking for any excuse—”
Ramed was literally trembling with rage. “How can you say that? You know nothing of me! You know nothing!” He drew closer to Calhoun. “I have a wife! A son! I am a good man, a decent man, who has never harmed a soul in my entire life! Do you think I wanted this task? Do you? I lived in dread of being the appointed one! As did my father, and his father before him! You have no idea what it was like, Calhoun! No idea of the burden my family has carried! Every day, for generations, Zondarians have hoped and prayed that the Savior would c
ome! And every day, for generations, my clan has dreaded that moment, for we knew that the knowledge we possessed ensured our damnation! If I lived my entire life and never set eye on the Savior, I would have died in peace—no! I lie, for I would have had to pass the knowledge on to my son, thereby condemning him to a life of apprehension! I have spared him that, at least. For that, I suppose, I should be grateful. I must do this thing, Calhoun. I have no choice, no free will. My people, the fate of my very world, depends on my next actions! I must do that which I find personally repugnant in order to ensure that my planet is united! For if I do not, if my will is weak, if I fail in the endeavor, then there will come a great war which will destroy everything! How can I condemn my people, my world, to that?”
“Your destiny is no more and no less than what you make of it,” Calhoun said. “Letting your every move be dictated by vague prophecy…”
“There is nothing vague about it!”
“There sure as hell is.”
“It speaks of your coming from the stars, with the flame bird as your avatar!”
“The flame bird merely speaks of the timing of it. Even if you judge that this is the time, that doesn’t mean I’m necessarily the one you’re expecting. All our worlds orbit stars, or suns. We owe our lives, our existence to them. We all come from the stars, Ramed. All of us. Singling me out simply because I come from a starship is folly.”
“’He will come from air and return to air!’ You materialized out of the air itself!”
“You’re a spiritual individual, Ramed. Don’t you believe in the ephemeral nature of the spirit? We are plucked from nothingness, and to nothingness we return.”
Ramed shook his head and pointed accusingly at Calhoun, coming to within a foot of him. “This is absurd,” he said. “In most cultures, prophecies are vague, and those with something to gain try to find the specifics that will serve them. Here the prophecies could not be more specific, and you seek to dilute them.”
“I’m simply pointing out that maybe they’re not as precise as you thought. You could just as easily be the savior as me. You’re a great leader, after all.”
“Oh really?” Ramed smiled patronizingly. “‘He will bear a scar.’ What of that? I have no scar.”
That was when Calhoun lunged forward.
He’d slowly been positioning himself, maintaining what seemed a casual sitting position. The moment that Ramed was close enough, however, Calhoun made his move.
His intention was to slam into Ramed with such force that he would knock him cold. He would then grab the sharpened pike and use it to cut through the ropes that were binding him. For a spur of the moment plan, it wasn’t bad.
Unfortunately the ground betrayed him.
There was a thin layer of gravel. Had his feet been free so that he could properly maneuver, he would have easily been able to vault it or maneuver around it. But with his feet tied up, it was impossible for him to move with his usual agility.
Consequently his bound feet went out from under him, and he collided with Ramed in a totally off-balance fashion. Ramed staggered back, spinning away, and his face smashed into the cave wall. He slid to the ground, momentarily dropping his spear, and Calhoun tried to angle around to get it. But Ramed was too quick, snatching it up and holding it between them, point directly aimed at Calhoun’s chest. Calhoun lay on the ground, his purple eyes focused pitilessly on Ramed.
“What did you think you were doing?” Ramed gasped out. Blood was pouring down the side of his face from where he’d slammed it against the wall.
“Trying to make my own destiny, you pathetic idiot,” Calhoun snapped at him. “Just as I’ve been doing all my life. You—you’re a slave to yours. But I’ll shape my own. By the way, congratulations. That’s going to leave a rather impressive scar.”
Ramed was trying to staunch the bleeding. He tore off a portion of his sleeve and used it to put pressure on the wound. “Very amusing, Great One,” he said, with as heavy sarcasm as he could muster. “Very, very amusing. You’re trying to confuse matters. To confuse me. But it’s not going to work, do you understand?”
“I understand perfectly. You’re obviously the one who doesn’t understa—”
He didn’t have the opportunity to complete the sentence, because a chime began to sound from within the cave. Calhoun looked around. “What’s that?” he asked. “An alarm clock to tell you that now’s when you’re supposed to butcher me?”
“No. It’s a proximity alarm,” Ramed told him. He pulled the cloth away and saw that it was soaked with blood, but also could see that the flow had slowed down appreciably.
“An alarm? We’re in a cave in the middle of nowhere. What kind of alarms and technology do you have in a place like this?”
Ramed stared at him. “You’d be amazed,” he said.
“If someone’s coming,” Calhoun told him, “particularly if it’s my people, I assure you, they’ll get past whatever it is you’ve got prepared.”
“Your confidence in your crew is most heartening, even though it indicates an unwillingness to accept the hopelessness of your situation. This area has been prepared, you see. Prepared for centuries by my ancestors, who have known that this would be the place where the Savior would be taken to meet His destiny. There is technology here that is undreamt of, even by your standards. It’s one of our other great secrets. Anything that your people might have prepared has already been considered and guarded against.”
“I was unaware that you were that technologically advanced a race.”
“We’re not,” Ramed smiled ruefully. “That is both our blessing and our curse. Your people have already made a foray to find you. They were rebuffed.”
“Rebuffed?” This caught Calhoun’s attention. He started to sit up, but Ramed held the spear out in a vaguely threatening fashion and Calhoun stopped moving. “What do you mean, rebuffed? What did you do to my people?”
“I? I did nothing. They did it to themselves, just as these newcomers will. And once they are disposed of, well, the third hour of the third day beckons, oh Great One. That which will be your last hour.”
“Or yours,” Calhoun replied.
Ramed looked at him sadly. “Poor, sad Savior. Still hoping to be rescued. Still refusing to believe that neither man nor woman will save you.”
And Calhoun smiled. “Believe me, Ramed, with my crew, that isn’t necessarily as much of an obstacle as you might think.”
XVI
IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT on Zondar as Burgoyne stood on the rocky outcropping, hir nostrils flaring, feeling more alive than s/he had in ages. The moons of Zondar were full, providing a healthy dose of light. Nearby Ensign Janos—looking cramped, as always, in his Starfleet uniform—cracked his knuckles with a sound that seemed like a cannon shot.
The area around them did not seem particularly inviting. It was fairly mountainous, with a myriad of caves. Burgoyne realized that there was any number of hiding places where the captain and his captor could be. S/he held up a medical tricorder, packing the same information that Selar’s had held, as a means of tracking down the captain. But a quick readout of the immediate area revealed a problem. “We’re getting some sort of interference,” Burgoyne said. S/he tried adjusting the tricorder but had no success with it.”
“Which would lead us to assume,” Ensign Janos observed, “that someone is actively trying to discourage us from locating the captain.”
“Obviously. This must be one of the things that caused the other away team to run into problems. So,” and Burgoyne snapped the tricorder closed, “we’re just going to have to go about this the old-fashioned away. How’s your sense of smell, Janos?”
“My olfactory abilities are exceptional, as befits my race, if not necessarily my breeding.”
“All right, then. Start sniffing around. You take east, I’ll take west.”
No words were exchanged for some minutes after that. Burgoyne prowled the area, paying little attention to Janos at that point. All of hir senses were ex
tended, trying to pick up some physical trace of the captain. S/he sniffed the air, s/he scented around rock and rocky trails, trying to detect some sort of lead, some vague hint as to where the captain might have gone to.
“Chief!” called Janos. Janos was approximately a hundred yards away, but Burgoyne crossed the distance quickly and efficiently, moving with a grace and ease that would have startled any onlooker with the possible exception of McHenry. Janos was down on the ground, sniffing around one particular section, and he grunted, “I think I’ve got something.”
“The captain?”
“No. I think it’s Kebron.”
Burgoyne quickly dropped to the ground next to Janos. It would have been a strange sight, had anyone been around: two Starfleet officers, crawling about on the ground, sniffing. Fortunately enough for decorum and the image of the fleet, no one was around at that particular moment.
“I think you’re right,” Burgoyne said after a moment. “Let’s go.”
They stayed low to the ground, on the scent. Bur-goyne quickly took the lead, moving on all fours across the rough terrain, hir arms and legs bending at joints usually covered by hir uniform. S/he hit an incline at one point, and hir hardened nails dug into the rocky ground with efficiency. There was no unnecessary chatter between the two of them; they were moving entirely on instinct, and Burgoyne came to the reluctant realization that Soleta had known what she was about when she insisted on pairing Burgoyne with Janos.
And as s/he moved across the terrain, as all of hir tracking senses came to the fore, subtle changes came over Burgoyne. Hir lips drew back to reveal hir canines, but it was not in the teasing or slightly threatening manner in which s/he usually displayed them. Rather, it was as if s/he was prepared to use them—indeed, couldn’t wait to do so. Hir normally dark eyes had clouded over completely as s/he tapped deeply into hirself, into an essence that was hir natural state but one that s/he normally did everything s/he could to keep hidden away. Hir claws—for that was, indeed, the best way to describe them, since “nails” somehow didn’t do them justice—clicked against the rocky surface as s/he made hir way across it. S/he sensed rather than saw that Janos was directly behind hir, smelled his thick fur and distinctive scent.