Alexander jumped up.
He wasn’t in the metal room anymore. He stood in the mud on a stone bridge under a cold misty sun. He could feel the chill of the moist British air. Britain, how did he know that? He looked himself over. He was wearing a chain mail hauberk, carried a round shield painted with a purple wolf on a golden field. In his right hand was a long handled axe. He gazed at a line of Saxon soldiers through the Viking goggles of his conical helm. Alexander took an involuntary step backward, but Nazeera’s voice stopped him. She stood next to him, smiling.
“The Scythians compiled memories from your past lives, Alexander. This is one of my favorites. You called yourself a “Viking,” and you spent your life pillaging the civilized world. You amassed quite a fortune before you finally fell on this bridge, holding an army at bay.”
Alexander felt a chill rush through his body. The tramp of booted feet engaged his attention. The Saxons advanced on the bridge, a solid wall of spears and iron five men abreast. Alexander glanced behind, there stood King Harold Hardratti, and two faces he recognized—his sons. Like the rest of the army they were without their armor, caught by surprise by King Harold the Saxon’s unexpected advance—they were doomed.
“See to the King, go now!” he heard himself yell in the Norse tongue. “Tell your mother I’ll see her in Thor’s hall at Bilskirnir!”
Without thinking, Alexander the Viking threw himself at the Saxons and his axe reaped heads and limbs as wheat on that bloody morning.
It was like a movie, except every movement, every breath, every sensation was too familiar. He couldn’t explain or comprehend it.
“I daresay your namesake, Thor, would be proud, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it Alexander?”
He glanced at her between strokes, a twisted grimace on his blood spattered face, having no idea what she meant.
Nazeera snapped her fingers and the afternoon at Stamford Bridge disappeared.
Alexander found himself standing on the battlements of a lonely castle. He wore a long purple cloak and a crowned helm. The helm dug into the flesh of his brow, as if it belonged to someone else. Below in the glooms he watched an army advance on his walls. They carried the hewed branches of trees so he couldn’t tell their numbers—it was as if the forest itself moved. He laughed grimly, again as if this were scripted and not because he found anything amusing about it.
“You had a taste of riches and power,” Nazeera told him, putting her hand on his shoulder as if she was the narrator for his past lives. “You wanted more. So in your next life you murdered your kinsman the king and took his crown. Your conscience and your enemies caught up to you eventually, though, and again you died nobly in battle. It’s ironic that during the next life you are the pinnacle of honesty and honor.”
“What do you mean, these were my lives?”
Nazeera snapped her fingers.
The castle disappeared, and Alexander found himself kneeling on a small platform next to a dirty brown river. Around him was an ancient city. The place smelled of turbid water, weeds and sewage. Alexander craned his neck to see a small circle of people looking down on him.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Some one behind him pushed his shoulders forward, forcing his head onto a stained block. He turned his head to the side; his cheek against the sticky wood. A large man swathed in black took his place next to him. He held a great axe.
Alexander struggled, but his hands were bound behind his back and a pair of hands held him down.
“Show some decorum, Gov’nor, you’ll ruin my stroke and that won’t go easy for you!”
There was a whistle in the air, and the executioner grunted. Something cold hit him in the back of the neck. There was a dull painful crunch as his vertebrae crushed his windpipe. His vision grew hazy, and the world twisted and turned. For a moment, his eyes focused and he saw the circle of people looking at him. To his horror Alexander realized the executioner was holding his severed head aloft.
Nazeera’s face appeared in the crowd, and she asked, “What’s next, Alexander?”
The vibrant heat of the Caribbean replaced the gloomy quays of London. Alexander was whole again and dressed in a burgundy frock coat with a pair of pistols in his belt and a cutlass in his hand. He stood on the swaying deck of a sailing ship, his free hand grasping the rigging. The smell of burnt powder and salt was heavy in the moist air. The sound of guns and shouts of men roiled around him. Through the smoke he saw another ship barely a yard away.
Alexander walked steadfastly along the deck, ignoring the whizzing shot and the splintering wood. He squinted through the smoke and calmly dictated the order of the battle.
“It’s back to your old ways,” Nazeera said, dressed in the outlandish gear of a buccaneer. “As a pirate you become infamous in the persecution of a king that wronged you. I could go on. Suffice it to say, Alexander, that you have a telling and appropriate name. Can it be by chance that you bear the name of Alexander the Great, the mightiest of Terra’s warrior-kings? A warrior race such as your own does not bestow laurels without reason. Why were you named for Alexander the Great, whose name reaches the council chambers of every galactic culture, even the Chem?”
Alexander didn’t answer, he couldn’t and he was still trying to come to grips with what Nazeera was showing him. Were these really snippets of his past lives or were they nefariously manufactured films meant to cause a response? He couldn’t tell, but they seemed horribly real, and his instincts told him these events actually happened to him.
“Do you still claim ignorance?”
Alexander was silent.
“You’ve been a pirate, a general, a king, and maybe more—we haven’t delved as deeply as we might. What remains? You are thus far devoid of the accomplishments of your former manifestations. By the Scythian data tapes you yearn for something more, don’t you?”
Alexander glowered at her, and ordered a broadside of grape. The guns thundered one after another. Screams and howls cut the air. He could hear the shot ping through the Spaniard's steel cuirasses, thump into the wood and give a horrible succulent plop as they penetrated flesh.
“I don’t need your answer; I see it in your eyes. What is it? What can quell your spirit? What accomplishment in this life will gain you satisfaction? You are the representative for your race at this moment in time, Alexander, but will that be enough? Or, do you aspire to greater pinnacles? For two millennia dominant Terrans have vied for the honor of Alexander’s mantle. Even I, alien to your race and culture know their names: Caesar, William the Conqueror, Genghis Khan, Attila, Napoleon, Lincoln, Hitler. Do you wish to add your name to this list of warlords? Are you intent on being the next Alexander?”
Nazeera walked behind Alexander. Laying a sharp nailed hand on each shoulder she spoke in his ear. The feeling of her breath upon his neck caused him to shudder, but not with concern or revulsion. He caught himself enjoying the touch of her hands on his body evening the midst of the melee—even against the shock of his reincarnation.
“Is there reason for Chem to fear you? Did the Scythians discover your ambition? They’ve wanted passage through our space for a millennium, but we do not bow to their jangling of coins. They hate that, and us. You would be a perfect opportunity for them. You have all the skills they need: brutality, a lust for power, intelligence, even charm. Tell me truthfully Alexander, if the Scythians offered you the means to make the stars your kingdom would you refuse them?”
“I’m not interested in galactic conquest,” he told her, trying to catch up with the realities of his past lives, his responsibility to Terra, and the reality of this beautiful alien woman.
Nazeera let him go but stalked around his mountainous form to put her face inches from his own. “Not interested in conquest?” she said sharply, her eyes turning dangerous lavender. “Look all around you! You base your entire existence upon conquest! Were everything you’ve said here to be the truth I should still condemn you for your past as a danger to the futur
e of the Chem!”
Nazeera stalked to the opposite end of the ship and whirled on him. There was a gun in her hand. It was unlike anything Alexander had ever seen, but there was no mistaking its purpose, or her intention. She pointed it at his breast, and said, “There is nothing in your history that tells me that you can either change or be swayed to alter your opinion or your goals, Alexander. Well, what have you to say?”
CHAPTER 12: An Invitation to Dinner
Alexander growled like a cornered wolf. His own lives overwhelmed him. He knew too much, too suddenly. It was more than any Terran was prepared to learn about themselves. But he knew himself, and he trusted himself. He thought of himself as an honorable man, not the madman Nazeera saw. He drew a pistol and climbed onto the rail.
“How can a man fight himself, Nazeera?” he asked, and he leapt over the gulf and onto the deck of the Spanish ship. He shot the closest man to him and then lay about with his cutlass. The heavy blade beat the slight rapiers of the Spanish Officers easily aside, and he cut them or pistol whipped them into submission. “If I am who you say I am, the next Alexander, and an intractable, ruthless conqueror then you may have every reason to shoot me,” he shouted over the din of battle, the glee of bloodlust twisted his face with a wicked wolfish grin. “If all you’ve shown me is true I’ll be back in a hundred years, two hundred years, when Terrans are more capable and then complete my conquest of the Chem, and whoever else stands in my way.”
Alexander fought his way to the afterdeck, tossing aside the pitiful Spanish sailors who barred his way. The Captain waited for him. Alexander charged him. He parried the Captain’s cut, and clubbed him in the face with the hilts of his sword.
The Captain fell to the deck, staring up at Alexander with sweat running in rivulets down his red face and fear in his eyes.
Alexander pulled his other pistol and held it over the Captain’s breast.
“Yield to me; lower your flag and I’ll spare your lives!”
The Captain dropped his sword and yielded.
A cheer went over the ship, but as the pirates celebrated Alexander turned. Nazeera stood behind him, still holding the gun on him. He shook his head and walked up to her so that the muzzle rested on his breast. “We Terrans don’t recall our past lives Nazeera. Until you showed me this I couldn’t tell you whether I ever had a previous existence or not.
“You ask me if I’m the next Alexander. I’d like to be, but not by conquering other worlds. Oh, we Terrans dream of glory and battle, but when I look into the darkness of space I don’t see worlds to conquer—I see worlds to explore.
“Does that sound enlightening? Sorry. Terrans aren’t that simple. We’re a paradox; we’re magnificently benevolent one moment, and cruel the next.” As if to punctuate the point the pirate crew picked up a Spanish sailor, and much to his distress, they heaved him overboard. They went to another Spaniard who held up his hand in fear.
“Don’t worry mate,” one said. “Your partner was done for—we did ‘im a favor. What you’ve got is naught but a scratch. Do as we say and the Cap’n will let you live.”
They helped him up, took him to the center of the deck and gave him water.
Alexander laughed, and said, “You may well fear us, Nazeera but I tell you, Terrans are just as likely to risk their own lives to save yours, without knowing you, as they are to attack you.”
Alexander went back to the rail and looked out over the impossible blue sea that was the Caribbean. “After this your concern may grow. But let me add this to what I’ve said, it is another quality which defines us: we take a back seat to no one. We will not subordinate ourselves to the wishes of others. We don’t desire superiority, but we demand equality. That’s where your Scythian conspiracy falls through. As a planet Terrans would never accept such a yoke. We are proud, sometimes too proud, and we do not play the part of the pawn well. We like to think we control our own destinies.”
“You are eloquent, Alexander of Terra,” Nazeera said. “Despite the evidence of your own lives you speak well, but I fear you, and I fear Terrans. For the sake of the Chem I fear you now more than ever.”
“You have nothing to fear of me, Nazeera,” he told her. “I am an insignificant man of a planet bound people. The Chem have no cause to fear us, for the Chem have in no way wronged us. Were it in my power the only race that need fear retribution would be the Scythians.”
“You are vindictive, and ambitious,” Nazeera told him. “Your lack of notoriety in this life frustrates you no end. You are vengeful for the wrongs you believe the Scythians have inflicted upon you.”
“I will admit to all. Would you feel differently?” Alexander said, pacing the deck. He ignored the ongoing business of plunder that began all around him, engrossed in a search to allay Nazeera’s fears. Every word that came from his lips sounded artificial. A sense of defeat encompassed him. He climbed back onto his ship and headed aft. He passed a door and walked down a short, dark, cramped corridor to his cabin. He opened the door and stepped inside.
It was like coming home. He knew everything there. Alexander couldn’t help walking around the cabin and gazing at all of his old things. Then he realized with an absolute assurance that this was his memory. This was once his world.
“I’m all that Nazeera. I plead guilty to wanting to make a difference in the life of my planet, hopefully for the better. I’m guilty for wanting to lead my people from this,” he gestured to the horrific scene in the cabin windows. The dead and nearly dead were bobbing in the water. The sharks were already upon them. A single boat filled with the living prisoners bumped through the grisly obstacles.
“I don’t want this as the future of my planet. I plead guilty to the desire to redress my grievances on the Scythians, but beyond that I’ve never meant to expand our strife to the stars. Unfortunately, the Scythians destroyed the same thing for me as the Spaniards did back then—something very special for my people and me.”
“What is that Alexander?” Nazeera asked with new interest.
“They destroyed a dream. They destroyed an innocent adventure. Just as the sea was then, Space is our final frontier.” He fell into a high backed leather chair, exhausted. “We dreamed of exploring its vastness even before we took our first tentative steps beyond our atmosphere. But the Scythians, by their slander, have turned space into a life and death struggle. It no longer beckons us. It threatens us.
“I’ve dreamed of the possibility of meeting someone from beyond Terra, and now here I am. I’m in the company of an extraordinary being, and a lovely woman. I feel as if I should be asking you to dinner, but instead I’m attempting to disprove slanderous accusations which may spell the end of my civilization. This moment should not have happened like this. We weren’t meant to meet this way, but somehow the Scythians got a hold of history and twisted it out of whack. That is what I blame them for.”
Nazeera’s expression seemed to lose the inquisitorial harshness. “You speak of dinner as a ritual. Does the consumption of nourishment have some social significance on Terra?”
Alexander smiled, and some of the energy returned to his limbs. He stood up and went over to his personal cabinet. Using a small key he found still in his pocket he unlocked the door. Alexander knew what he was looking for, and there it was—a bottle of French wine. He opened it and poured two glasses. “On Terra when a man and a woman meet for the first time, and there is an interest on each side, the first social event they share is often to have dinner together.” He handed her a glass.
“Why should you desire this of me?” Nazeera asked, taking the glass in one hand but still holding the gun on him with the other. “Alexander, I’m responsible for sentencing you to Pantrixnia. Why don’t you hold the same level of anger against me, as you do the Scythians?”
“I can’t hold you responsible for how they’ve twisted history,” he said, tapping her glass. “To our health and to Terra and Chem!” he toasted, sipping the wine. The taste caused him to break out in a joyful smile, and ex
claim, “Still excellent after all this time! Even if it’s only a memory it’s worth it. Go on, have a sip. It’s called a toast, and I doubt the memory of my wine can poison you!”
Nazeera tried the wine. “It’s excellent.”
“This “Legend of Alexander” does indeed have its base in reality. Terrans have, I am afraid, given you ample reason to believe the Scythians. Still, it’s the Scythians, and not Terrans, who manipulated the Chem. It is unfortunate, because, as I told you, it was not supposed to be this way.”
“That’s an irrelevant statement,” she told him. “From what I’ve seen of your past, you are proud and vindictive. You should hate me by now. You’re plotting something. I’ll not end up like your kinsman the king, Alexander. Despite your charm, your words do not change my mind about sending you to Pantrixnia.”
“The answer would be apparent, Nazeera, if you understood Terrans,” he told her, leaving the cabin and climbing back on deck. He laughed grimly as his crew heartily waved goodbye to the marooned sailors, and began stowing away the plunder. “This is not our best moment,” he said, “but it was reality. The Scythians, on the other hand, dealt with us in a devious and underhanded way. Treating us as inferior beings fit only for study. That grates against every sense of honor and honesty I have. You, on the other hand, have been open with me. I appreciate your candor.”
Nazeera cradled her wine, sipping it again before shaking her head, and saying, “Alexander, I’m sending you to Pantrixnia and you will undoubtedly die a violent death. That is the reality of this life. Do you still feel no malice toward me?”
“Disappointment, yes, malice, no,” he told her. “We both know why you are sending me there. It is not because of some personal animosity of yours.”
“No Alexander. It is not that.”
He leaned against the rail, almost losing himself in the moment of this previous life. “You need to know what you’re up against, and this is your best way of accomplishing that. It’s not how I would have wanted my first journey into space to end up, but there it is. You have your responsibility, and I have mine.”
Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy Page 10