Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy

by Christopher L. Anderson

  CHAPTER 10: Bureel

  In his personal office high in the central spire of the Assemblage Bureel pushed away from his desk, growling. “Damn them! I’d like to hear the interrogation of that accursed Terran.”

  “Unwise, my lord,” Gurthur, Bureel’s lieutenant, told his master. “The security screens would pick up the bug.”

  “True enough,” Bureel frowned in an unpleasant way and moved over to the window. It commanded a sweeping view of Cherumaz, the capital of the Empire. The city was as much jungle as it was structure, and even then the buildings were of shades of jade, purple and ochre according to the colors of the Chem landscape. The beauty was lost on Bureel. His conniving mind was scheming.

  “The Terran’s trials on Pantrixnia will give us a wonderfully humiliating death to watch, though unfortunately too quick. I would that he could die slowly, preferably in the company of my brother-in-law! That grace! Bait me will he? Well, I am a patient Chem. There is always opportunity awaiting those who look for it.”

  “Have a care though, my lord,” Gurthur cautioned. “Do not wear your intentions in public lest they undo you. Nazeera has powerful allies who love her as much for herself as for her father’s memory. The people love Nazar as well. He is a young lion who recalls the memory of his noble father.”

  “That noble father paid his debts to my own with this hellish marriage!” Bureel reminded his companion angrily, but then he thought better of it complaint. “Still, I have wealth, a title, and a seat on the council; none of which my lesser father could have left me. Miserable favor though it is I shall work it to my likes in the end.”

  “Then have patience,” Gurthur advised him. “Wear a mask of long suffering and noble silence in public while we work your future plans in private.”

  “An intelligent approach, certainly,” Bureel replied. He returned to his chair and leaned back, popping a live beruba into his mouth. The beruba was a frowned upon worm-like delicacy with subtle hallucinogenic powers. The drug enhanced Bureel’s daydreams as he ticked off the possible scenarios that might result in his continuing fortune and increased power.

  He laughed.

  “You know, Gurthur, this Terran may have more use for us than I originally anticipated. Certainly he will play his part cooperatively and die swiftly on Pantrixnia. That should settle the doubts of the Council and encourage them to push on with the plans to make war on the Terrans and Scythia. Now if the Terrans prove to be stubborn enough to put up some semblance of a fight, well, the safety of my wife and brother-in-law would concern me greatly. Nazar, unfortunately, cannot be dissuaded from rushing headlong in search of glory in battle. There are many strange fortunes in war not the least of which is a knife in the back.”

  He chuckled greedily, slurping up another of the worms which chirped in distress as it slid through his lips.

  “My noble Nazeera is of similar mind. I shall curtail her adventurous nature, though, until she produces me an heir. I must press that suit quick and hard. Once we settle that issue I shall have no right to keep her from her destiny. She is a reckless one, if only she was more domesticated! It would be unthinkable if I should become an aggrieved widower due to her insatiable quest for glory. Alas, it’s unthinkable that I should be left alone with my heir, her lands, her wealth and her title to carry on as best I can.”

  “Unthinkable, my lord, absolutely unthinkable,” Gurthur smiled evilly, knowing his master’s mind as completely as his own. “Might I suggest, as an initial step, that we inform the networks of the coming spectacle on Pantrixnia? I’m certain that they could ensure a live broadcast of the Terran’s adventures, with some help from your influence, of course.”

  “A subtly ingenious idea, Gurthur,” Bureel agreed. “We can have the most positive effect on the Council if we pre-empt their policy and sway the people’s desire to war and expansion over these upstarts. A live broadcast should keep everyone on the edge of their seats, for a limited time. Meanwhile we shall loudly proclaim a strategy of renewed expansion, first Terra and the Scythian Empire, and then those interloping cultures who sought to shield them!”

  “And as the author of this policy the laurels will fall upon your shoulders, my lord,” Gurthur reminded him.

  “Possibly, though it would be a mantle of popularity that would need a pulpit. As a Fifth Level Member of the Assemblage my voice would be too silent, considering the import of my words.”

  “Should an unlooked for vacancy at a more powerful level occur, however, what option would the Elder have but to appoint you even if it were to the First Level itself?”

  Bureel paced in mock agitation, “The Triumvirate! For instance, if my beloved wife were to fall in battle what better tribute to her could I make than to continue her work in her seat?”

  “A noble sacrifice, my lord,” Gurthur said. “Although you would of course initially wish to retire to private life . . .”

  “. . . In my grief at such a sudden, but not unforeseen tragedy.”

  “It would be a short retirement, as you could not ignore your call to duty from the people, and the legacy of your wife’s unfinished work.”

  “Just so, my selfless devotion to my duty would break my grief. The avenging Chem, I would continue our conquests to their logical completion, as a tribute to her. Should I succeed then there would be nothing in the Empire outside my reach.”

  Satanic glee clouded Bureel’s face. He laid a nailed hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “Let us begin. Go to the networks and advise them of the coming attraction. I will publish my position on galactic expansion. With luck I shall beat the Terran into the evening broadcasts, but either way I shall certainly outlast him!”

  CHAPTER 11: Haunted by Himself

  Alexander eyed the open door with suspicion.

  He got up and walked over to it. Peering inside he saw a small chamber. There was a plain cube about eighteen inches to a side in one corner. In the back was a small area with a lip on the floor and what appeared to be a drain. He stepped inside.

  A small waterfall flowed from a slot in the wall into the area with the drain. It was a shower. Alexander moved over to the cube and the top lifted off to reveal a seat with a large hole in it—a toilet. Alexander took immediate advantage of the discovery. When he finished showering under the waterfall he simply stepped out of the area and a rush of air dried him off.

  Alexander stepped out of the bathroom, still naked and hungry, but feeling somewhat refreshed.

  “Now what?” he asked aloud. “I assume you’re watching me. Well, Nazeera, I’m ready for the next round.” There was no answer. “Probably testing my patience,” he grumbled. Truth be told, that was a problem. After winning his inner battle Alexander was ready to get on with whatever the Chem had in mind, so long as it wasn’t immediate execution.

  His statements to the Assemblage were at worst exaggerations of his personal views, so he wasn’t worried about his story. His personal survival was a moot point, as quite frankly Alexander was too far from any kind of rescue to make longevity a concern. It was a grim point of reality, but once he unloaded this emotional baggage, it gave him a remarkable feeling of freedom. His concern was now that of putting the best possible face on Humankind as a species, and not with individual survival. He was ready; he wanted to get going.

  He decided that if the Chem weren’t going to play along then he’d at least keep up appearances. As his racing mind spun through the last hours Alexander began a choreographed routine used in martial arts. The slow movements focused his concentration, eating away at his self doubt, and leaving him calm with strong willed resolution. After fifteen minutes he got the desired response.

  “Terran, I desire your attention,” announced a strong female voice. It was Nazeera.

  Alexander continued his routine. When she repeated her demand, he answered, “You can call me by my name, Nazeera. You know it well enough, unless the Chem have excessively short memories or no tape recorders.”

  There was a lengthy pause,
then she said, “Very well, Alexander of Terra, I will let you have this small victory. I do not wish your subjugation, only your attention.”

  Alexander stopped. “You have my attention.”

  Another door slid open in the curved wall. “Enter; it will bring you to a chamber where we can discuss your situation in greater comfort. If you are obstinate, Alexander, let me assure you that I have several unpleasant ways of forcing you to do my bidding.”

  “That will be unnecessary,” Alexander told her. He went through the opening and into a short hall of the same gray metal. After ten paces he entered a small Spartan chamber. There was a chair placed before a large plain metal desk, and behind that desk stood Nazeera of Chem. As soon as he saw her he was suddenly, and uncomfortably, self conscious of his nakedness.

  “Interesting,” she said, her brow rising. “Modesty? Why? You showed no such reaction in the Assemblage, and you seem to be well made. I do not see anything to complain of.”

  “I thank you for your kind observation,” he said sarcastically, “but I had other things on my mind during my trial. Being alone with you is somewhat different. Besides it is not the custom of my people to go without clothing.”

  “Nor mine. Here, this is fitting—from one carnivore to another.” She threw him the purla pelt.

  Alexander caught it, trying to mask his surprise with a grimace. The pelt was still warm, and his hands were red with blood. “We usually tan our pelts on Terra,” he said. “Is there some hidden message in this? Am I to dress like a caveman because my intellect and manners are so primitive?”

  Nazeera laughed, and to Alexander it almost sounded like she was sincere. “A warlord with a sense of humor—you surprise me, Alexander.” She snapped her fingers. A black sphere the size of a basketball appeared from within a niche in the wall. It had various appendages, several rows of winking lights, and a large red eye-like lens.

  It flew over to Alexander, hovered for a moment, and then said, “Excuse me, please!” and snatched the pelt from his hands.

  “Stand still!” it ordered, and a swath of blue light scanned him up and down and all around.

  Alexander shuddered involuntarily.

  Nazeera’s eyes narrowed. “Does the automaton cause you discomfort?”

  “No, it simply reminds me of something the Scythians did,” Alexander admitted. “Their presence, even their memory, makes me patently uncomfortable.”

  “I know what you mean,” Nazeera said.

  “You’re huge, how am I supposed to tailor proper clothing for someone this size?” the automaton asked. “There’s not enough material to fit him into the current style.”

  “Do the best you can,” Nazeera said.

  “The things you people force me to do,” the automaton whined. “Promise me he won’t go out in public—I won’t have my work ridiculed!”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Nazeera smiled.

  The ball went to work. It let go of the pelt, which floated in the air under the scrutiny of a reddish-orange beam of light. Alexander smelled roasting flesh.

  “Sphere’s with personalities, a gay tailor by the sound of it, fantastic,” Alexander said.

  “You don’t have automatons on Terra, I assume?” Nazeera asked.

  “We prefer to work with our hands.”

  “And this makes the tailor gay?”

  Alexander smirked, and said, “Not necessarily.”

  “How strange, that a warrior race such a Terra should allow for a tailor,” Nazeera mused, making a note on a small rectangular pad.

  Alexander realized he was letting his wit get the better of him, this was business. He recovered, saying, “Who else would make the armor? You can’t just let anyone forge it.”

  “Of course.”

  The worker finished tanning the pelt and proceeded to cut it with amazing speed. Every once in a while it stopped working to fly over to Alexander, measure him again, mumble to itself, and then go back to work.

  “How long is this going to take,” he asked.

  “First you mock me, and then you ask me when I’m going to be done! Miracles take time!” the automaton said.

  Alexander sighed and turned away from Nazeera.

  “I have had plenty of time to see your nakedness, Alexander. It does not shock me, nor do I find Terrans as strange or ugly in the flesh as I would have thought.”

  “I’m glad I’m not revolting to you on that account.”

  “You are beyond my likes and dislikes, Alexander of Terra,” Nazeera told him. “Personal matters are beyond my purpose here.”

  “And what is your purpose?” he asked, turning toward her and crossing his arms over his breast.

  “Simply put, to find as much about yourself and Terrans as I can.”

  “There are better ways of doing that then sentencing me to death,” he told her. “History on Terra teaches us that incarceration and intimidation are the least effective ways for people to communicate. Different races, different species, even men and women have found more practical methods of understanding one another.”

  “Do you insinuate sexual activity? I can’t see that as appropriate or desirable in this situation. Certainly a Chem male wouldn’t think so. Is this a particular obsession with Terran males?”

  “It is an obsession, certainly, but that was not my meaning,” he replied with a genuine laugh. “I meant something more innocent such as a sporting event, a concert or dinner—something more representative of normal life than imprisonment. I’d have to be clothed in proper attire, of course.”

  The automaton flew around to him, saying, “Well, this is as proper as it’s going to get, time and materials permitting. Go ahead, put it on!”

  Alexander shrugged the pelt on. It was cut as a tunic that reached to just above his knees, but the automaton fashioned a collar, sleeves and even a belt. It fit to perfection and allowed him absolute freedom of movement.

  “There is a short cape, just in case it gets cold or you have to go formal—please don’t use it for that, my reputation is at stake.”

  “It’s amazing,” Alexander said, and he meant it. “You made this out of a fresh pelt in only five minutes? Amazing!”

  “Well then, that’s quite kind of you,” the automaton said, and it whirred away apparently quite pleased with the compliment.

  “So what do you say, Nazeera?” Alexander said, turning back to the Chem woman. She looked on with what might be termed interest, he couldn’t tell. “I’m now properly clothed. Would you like to take a walk in the park, or better yet how about dinner? I’m starving, and I promise to be talkative while I eat.”

  “Circumstances prevent us from enjoying recreation at the present time, Alexander.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Can you be so ignorant, or are you just being obstinate?” “I am ignorant, Nazeera,” he told her forcefully, but calmly. “I am ignorant of you, of where I am, and why I am here. I am ignorant of everything about this entire ridiculous situation.”

  “You were read the charges by the Elder,” she reminded him. “Terra, whom you represent—”

  “I cannot claim to represent my world without the consent of the population—”

  “Nonsense, Alexander of Terra, it is the right and duty of every being to represent their race wherever they may be and under any circumstances. You are here, alone of your race, therefore, you are the de facto representative of Terra. You will be treated as such.”

  Alexander sighed with resignation.

  “We accuse Terra of complicity with the Scythians in planned acts of aggression against the Empire of Chem. What do you have to say to these charges?”

  “Exactly what I said before the Assemblage: nothing. I know absolutely nothing of the charges, and until I met your Assemblage I had never heard of the Chem, or any other extra-terrestrial race. At this point in time the accepted view on Terra is that there is a possibility of intelligent life elsewhere, but that is all. We have no evidence that even suggests that the C
hem exist, and that alone should rule out an act of complicity in aggression.”

  Alexander’s voice lowered to a growl, his head tilted down, and his brows knit together. “As far as the Scythians are concerned, Nazeera, all I know is that I’ve been a subject for their experiments on three occasions. I’m not in league with them—rather the opposite! There’s certainly no dialogue between us, and if there were I doubt very much whether it would be amicable!” Alexander shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories of Scythian experimentation.

  He sighed, running his hands through his hair, and admitted. “My personal experience tells me nothing beyond that. We Terrans have fictional stories of such things, but there’s nothing factual. That’s pretty much it.”

  “An interesting story,” Nazeera said, sitting down behind the desk and motioning for Alexander to do the same. “Unfortunately, there is little to base my trust in you, especially when the stakes for Chem are so high. You have in the past, Alexander, proved to be vicious and untrustworthy. What has caused you to change?”

  “What have I done in my past that gives you that indication?”

  “Really, can you be so bold as to seduce me into your ignorance?” She inquired, her brows knitting and her eye’s increasing in brightness. “I have the data records from the Scythians. It’s obvious to me that you were important to them. They themselves admit as much. They singled you out for attention. Why is that?”

  “Maybe they like football. I have no earthly idea.”

  “Really,” Nazeera smiled, at least Alexander took it as a smile but it was feral, threatening and enticing, like a tigress slowly stalking him. She punched a switch in the desk. A small screen flipped up from the surface. She touched the surface of the screen, apparently punching in commands, and said, “This may help loosen you tongue.”