Martyr

by Peter David

  There was a deep crevice just ahead of them, and Burgoyne—disdaining to scamper the rest of the way—coiled and then leaped, clearing the distance of fifteen feet in one vault. Cautious of a possible booby trap, Burgoyne tentatively stuck hir head over the edge and peered down.

  Wedged in, far below, was a familiar dark-skinned form.

  “Kebron!” called Burgoyne. “Kebron, it’s me! Burgoyne one-seventy-two! Kebron!” A moment later, Janos appeared at Burgoyne’s side. “Kebron, can you hear me?”

  There seemed to be a slight appearance of movement on Kebron’s part. He tried to angle his head upward, but since his neck was virtually nonexistent, this was somewhat problematic for him. He had to try and tilt his entire torso back as best he could, and was only partly successful. His voice strained with the effort. “I.…hear you,” he said slowly.

  The crevice had to be at least twenty feet down. “Kebron, we’ll get you out of there!” called Burgoyne.

  “Can’t,” he told them, and he’d never sounded so tired. “Grav generator…out…can barely… move….”

  Immediately Burgoyne knew what had happened. Zak Kebron was so massive, that the only way he was able to move in a non-Brikar gravity field was with a small portable gravity generator that he wore in his belt. It was virtually impossible to break the generator through conventional means. Something had managed to short it out, however, and Kebron was clearly finding it impossible to do anything.

  Burgoyne tapped hir commbadge in an endeavor to raise the Excalibur. Hir reasoning was simple: Beam Kebron up out of the crevice. This intention, however, was quickly thwarted when all s/he could get over hir commbadge was static. And the idea of Burgoyne and Janos going down and trying to pull Kebron out was simply an impossibility. Even between the two of them, and the considerable strength that Janos possessed, there was just no way that they could possibly haul Kebron out from the crevice.

  “Kebron!” Burgoyne called down to him. “You’ll have to wait there until we find some way to get you out!”

  “Wait…fine…not planning on…going anywhere…”

  “What happened, Lieutenant?” Janos called down. “What did this to you? How many of them are there?”

  Kebron didn’t seem to hear at first. He appeared stunned, and Burgoyne realized that it was a condition beyond anything that the simple deprivation of the field generator could have caused. Kebron was in shock.

  “Hundreds of them…” Kebron said. “Thousands…couldn’t stop them…”

  Burgoyne and Janos looked at each other. “That sounds pleasant,” Janos observed.

  “Kebron, be strong,” Burgoyne urged him, although s/he wasn’t sure just exactly how much good that was going to do. “We’ll be back for you as soon as we can.”

  No reply came back.

  Quickly the two officers vaulted the crevice, sniffing the air, the dirt, anything they could. And this time it was Burgoyne who picked up the scent. S/he had been crouched on the ground, running the crumbling dirt under hir fingers, and s/he detected something that became stronger as s/he moved off to hir right. “Got it!” Burgoyne called. “Got the captain!”

  “Brilliant!” crowed Janos.

  “It seems as if—” S/he prowled the area, trying to confirm what s/he already suspected. “Yes. Whoever took the captain was likely carrying him, and then became tired and started dragging him. This way.”

  “I’m with you, Chief.”

  Quickly they set off across the terrain, moving with amazing speed. The scent grew stronger the farther along that Burgoyne went, and within moments s/he was no longer running in anything that vaguely approximated humanoid manner. S/he was sprinting on all fours, a satisfied growl low in hir throat, and there was no concern whatsoever about what s/he might run into. S/he was completely focused on the hunt.

  And it wasn’t just about finding the captain, either. S/he was eager to track down the person or persons who had abused Selar. S/he wanted to wrap hir fingers around their throats, s/he wanted to sink hir teeth deep into their flesh, to rend and tear…

  There was a faint buzzing in hir head that began to grow louder and louder, but s/he wasn’t fully aware of it. Instead s/he was completely wrapped up in the thoughts of what s/he was going to do to Selar’s assailants when s/he got hir hands on them. S/he could almost taste the sweetness of their blood pumping into hir, could savor the screams for mercy that they would utter. But there would be no mercy. There would only be slaughter, and blood, and Burgoyne’s laughter combined with a triumphant roar…

  S/he took another step, then another, and the buzzing was becoming louder still, and finally s/he became aware of it in a distant manner, wondering what it was…

  And suddenly s/he was on the Excalibur.

  S/he looked around in confusion, not entirely sure how the devil s/he’d gotten back there. The corridors were empty. S/he began to run, calling out names of various crewmembers, trying to find someone. S/he didn’t even think to hit the commbadge on hir chest. S/he just yelled, becoming angrier as hir cries were ignored.

  S/he ran into engineering, and everyone was there. Everyone. Everyone s/he’d ever known, everyone s/he’d ever encountered. Hir parents were there, and others from Hermat—not friends, certainly, for s/he’d had no real friends on Hermat—and the engineering crew, and the command crew. There was Calhoun standing there, arms folded, shaking his head in clear disdain, and Shelby’s face twisted in contempt, and the others were all pointing, shouting at hir.

  “Freak!” they called out. Over and over came the word, “Freak, freak!” spoken with derision, cried out in a hundred different voices that combined as one.

  A freak to hir own people, for the outgoing and sexually joyful Burgoyne had never truly fit in with other Hermats, who tended to prefer their own kind. Freak to the people of the Excalibur, who had never known a Hermat before and didn’t at all know what to make of hir. All the suspicious glances, the scornful looks, all aimed at hir. S/he tried to back out of engineering, but the door had closed behind hir and refused to open.

  “Get away from me!” shouted Burgoyne. “Get away!”

  Instead, they advanced, and there was McHenry in the forefront, shaking his head and saying, “You were just an experiment! An exercise in weirdness! I never found you attractive, never!” and there was Selar, as burned and battered as when s/he’d last seen her, and Selar was sneering, “Even on my deathbed I’d never want you! You vile, bizarre thing! You sickening, perverted monster!”

  Burgoyne roared in fury. The hackles on the back of hir neck rose, hir eyes went completely dark, and hir claws were fully extended. All of the playfulness, all of the confidence, everything that made hir what s/he was, had vanished. All s/he knew were those who feared hir, hated hir, despised hir either behind her back or to hir face.

  “I’ll kill you!” s/he howled, and with uncontrolled frenzy s/he leaped forward…

  And crashed squarely into Ensign Janos.

  Janos, who was surrounded by mugatos, his own kind with whom he had as much in common as he had with an amoeba. Mugatos jumping around, snarling at him, picking at him and poking at him in the midst of the jungle on Tyree’s World to which mugatos were native. Janos had never set foot, paw, or anything else upon Tyree’s World, but he had known it just the same. They prodded at him with their horns, they tore at him with their poisonous fangs, which were not toxic to him, but could rip him up and injure him just the same. He cried out as they came at him from all directions, and then the carefully cultivated personality that he’d worked so long to develop evaporated, and Janos bellowed, a truly frightening sound of a mugato in full rage. A mugato seeking an enemy to rend limb from limb.

  It was in this state of mind that Burgoyne and Janos slammed into each other.

  And nearby, something formed of coalescing energy took shape and started to advance upon them.

  XVII

  THE LONG RANGE SENSORS gave the Excalibur her first warning that there was danger imminent.


  Boyajian, the tactical officer filling in for Kebron due to the security chief’s absence, called out to Soleta, who was in the command chair. “We have an incoming vessel, Lieutenant. And it’s big.”

  “Put it on screen,” Soleta said calmly.

  “Not yet possible, sir. Hasn’t emerged from warp space yet.” He paused and then said, “Orders, sir?”

  Soleta considered the situation a moment. Unknown territory, an unknown vessel coming toward them, intentions unknown. She didn’t like to take an immediate defensive posture with a new encounter, since it could make them look as if they were combative or spoiling for a fight. Nonetheless, not doing anything would be tempting fate, particularly if the other vessel dropped out of warp space with all weapons blazing.

  Lefler and McHenry were both looking at her expectantly, as were the other members of the bridge crew. Soleta began to feel, once again, the gnawing doubt of someone who believed that she was in way over her head. But there was absolutely no way that she was going to share that sentiment or concern with the rest of the crew.

  “Yellow alert,” Soleta said after a moment. “Raise shields. Bring weapons and targeting systems on line, but do not energize weapons.”

  “Do not—” repeated Boyajian.

  “No. The chances are that their scans won’t be able to detect that we’ve got them targeted, but would be able to determine that we’re running weapons hot.”

  “So we’re hedging our bets,” commented Lefler.

  “Precisely, Lieutenant. Our bets are significantly hedged. Continue sensor sweeps for the captain.”

  “Lieutenant,” and McHenry leaned back in his chair to address Soleta. There was a trace of worry in his voice. “We haven’t heard from Burgoyne or Janos.”

  “I didn’t expect to, Mister McHenry,” replied Soleta. “The area that they are exploring is in the heart of the interference zone. That’s the territory that we’re having difficulty scanning or getting any communications from. The likelihood that they would be able to keep us apprised of their progress is fairly slim. It is my assumption that if we do hear from them before the end of the twelve-hour period I’ve given them—of which eight hours, fourteen minutes remains—it will be because they have accomplished their task and emerged from the zone.” She hesitated and then added, in as close to an understanding voice as she could muster, “I’m sure Burgoyne is fine, Lieutenant. S/he is a rather resourceful individual.”

  “Believe me, I know,” McHenry said. Boyajian suddenly looked up from tactical. “Lieutenant, she’s coming out of warp.”

  “All departments report confirmation of yellow alert status,” Lefler confirmed.

  “Ship coming in at nine-hundred-thousand kilometers, bearing two-eleven mark three.”

  “Bring us about, Mister McHenry. Let’s keep some distance between us,” Soleta said.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Bridge to Ambassador Si Cwan,” she added after a moment’s consideration.

  “Si Cwan here,” came the brisk reply.

  “Ambassador, your presence on the bridge would be most appreciated. We seem to have visitors.”

  “On my way.”

  The Excalibur angled out of orbit and came around to face the newcomer. The vessel’s warp drive bubble evaporated as the ship entered normal space and came to a halt approximately 850,000 kilometers from the starship. The ship was pyramidal, powerful-looking, and half again as large as the Excalibur.

  “Hail on all frequencies, Mister Boyajian,” Soleta said, drumming her fingers gently on the armrest. “Let them know we’re not out to start a fight.”

  “I am hailing them, sir, but they’re not responding.”

  “That could be unfortunate.” She leaned forward, studying the ship’s configuration. Soleta was not entirely unfamiliar with Sector 221-G; she had spent some time exploring the once-Thallonian Empire at a time when outsiders were not only unwelcome, but more often than not, put to death. She had acquired some knowledge in her travels, and she had the suspicion that she recognized the ship’s configuration. If she was correct, then the situation with which they were faced was a fairly incendiary one.

  The turbolift doors hissed open and Si Cwan strode onto the bridge. Immediately his gaze went to the front screen, and he slowed to a halt. Then he spat out a word that Soleta immediately recognized as a rather extreme Thallonian profanity. “I take your reaction,” she said slowly, “to be an indicator that our new arrivals are, in fact, who I think they are.”

  “The Redeemers,” Si Cwan nodded. “Just what we needed.”

  “I take it that’s not good,” Lefler surmised.

  “Not in the least. Boyajian, sensor scan?”

  “They are heavily armed, Lieutenant. They have not as of yet activated their weapons array. Their shields are likewise in place.”

  “In other words, we’re both suspicious, but neither of us wants to provoke the other.”

  “An accurate assessment, Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant, these are Redeemers we’re talking about,” Si Cwan told her. “They are missionary zealots, and if you do not accept their particular deity—Xant—then they will have no use for you.”

  “Meaning they’ll leave us alone?” McHenry suggested optimistically.

  “Meaning they will endeavor to blow us out of space,” replied Soleta.

  “Oh. Well, that’s not quite as good.”

  “Let me try to talk to them. We’ve dealt with them before. The royal family has always managed to avoid Holy Wars with the Redeemers; perhaps I can continue our run of good luck.”

  “Be my guest, Ambassador,” said Soleta.

  “Put me on a hailing frequency,” Si Cwan said to Boyajian, and when the latter nodded confirmation that he was on, Si Cwan said, “Attention, Redeemer vessel. This is the Starship Excalibur. This is Ambassador Si Cwan speaking. Perhaps you remember me; you’ve had dealings with both myself, and my ancestors, for many years. We have always managed to have mutual respect for each other’s concerns, and I see no reason that that has to change now. Please inform us of your concerns, and we will endeavor to answer them.” He stopped and turned back to Boyajian. “Did they get that? Did they hear me?”

  “I broadcast it, Ambassador,” said Boyajian. “Whether they actually listened, I couldn’t tell y—” Then he paused, checking the readings on his board. “Lieutenant, we’re getting an incoming hail.”

  “It would seem they indeed heard you, Ambassador,” Soleta said. “Well done.”

  “Let us save the congratulations until we see whether they are saying anything we wish to hear.”

  “A valid point. Put them on, Mister Boyajian.”

  The screen rippled and, a moment later, the ebony face of a Redeemer appeared on the screen. He gazed at them with eyes that seemed to glow a deep and frightening red.

  Lefler immediately felt a chill at the base of her spine. Her impulse was to look away, but she didn’t want to appear weak or faint of heart. She glanced over at McHenry and took a small measure of comfort in seeing that he appeared to have the same reaction. It appeared as if McHenry would rather be looking anywhere else than directly at the viewscreen. But he couldn’t take his eyes away from it: Not just out of a sense of duty, as was the case with Lefler, but also out of a deep fascination. He found the Redeemer just too compelling, in a negative away, to look away from him.

  Soleta, for her part, remained impassive. As for Si Cwan, he had seen enough Redeemers in his life not to be put off or intimidated by their frankly frightening air.

  “I am Prime One,” said the Redeemer. His voice was an odd combination of deep but brittle. “I am second only to the Overlord in the Redeemer hierarchy.”

  “Greetings, Prime One,” said Si Cwan. He made a small hand gesture that Soleta surmised to be some sort of ritual greeting. “We have not met, but I know of you. I am Si Cwan.”

  “I know of you, Thallonian. I have heard many positive things about you. Also”—and his eyes seemed to g
low more brightly—“some rather negative things.”

  “That is the way of all things, is it not, Prime One? Even in the light of Xant, there must be darkness.”

  Prime One inclined his head slightly to indicate that Si Cwan had a point. He glanced around the bridge from his vantage point. “We desire to speak to the captain.”

  “The captain is not available,” Soleta said, rising from her chair. “I am Lieutenant Soleta. You may address me in any matters pertaining to this vessel.”

  “Where is your captain? Where is the one called Calhoun? Is he on your vessel?”

  “The captain,” Soleta repeated guardedly, “is not available. If you have business, it can be discussed with me.”

  “Our business is not with you,” Prime One said. “It is with Calhoun. The one whom those on the world below call ‘Savior.’ The one whose name and reputation spreads from one world to the next, like a plague.”

  “I’m not quite following,” admitted Soleta.

  Prime One let out an irritated sigh, as if he felt he was speaking to someone who wasn’t worth the effort. “We have been preparing the worlds under our sphere of influence, plus other worlds that may be worth our while, to prepare for the return of Xant. Xant, the one true god. Xant, the one true Savior of all worlds.”

  “I see,” said Soleta. “And why would this be pertinent to us?”

  “Do not be coy with me, Vulcan. It ill befits you or your eminently logical kind. We both know that various planets—including, most conspicuously, the one directly below us—are espousing the opinion that Calhoun’s arrival is tantamount to, and even more important than, the return of Xant. Calhoun is working to supplant Xant’s rightful place in the galaxy.”

  “Captain Calhoun is doing no such thing,” replied Soleta.

  “We have information to the contrary,” began Prime One.