by Peter David
“Of course she’s real,” said Keesala as if capable of reading his mind. “What possible purpose would there be in continuing the charade?”
Mueller wanted nothing so much as to pummel him with a blunt object, or perhaps run him through with a sword. If Keesala was able to tell that was what was going through her mind, he didn’t let on. Instead he simply said wearily, “May I go now?”
“You can’t be serious,” Xyon snapped at him. “After everything you’ve done? After—”
But Kalinda reached up and put a finger to his lips, stilling him. “I want it over,” she whispered. “Let it be over.”
Xyon looked over to Mueller, whose decision it was. She gave Keesala a long, hard look, and then tapped her combadge and said, “Trident. This is Mueller. Beam us up.”
Moments later the entire landing party had shimmered away, leaving Keesala standing there, with dead bodies as far as the eye could see, and a future that he neither understood nor desired.
He stayed where he was and prayed for guidance.
And he stayed there and prayed and prayed and prayed until he completely lost track of time…
And that was when the two huge masses of burning, lifeless flesh fell from high above and smashed him to a pulp, answering his prayers and solving his problem in one fell swoop.
U.S.S. Excalibur
i.
Calhoun practically exploded into the shuttlebay, stepping onto the observation deck above so that he could look down at his two “guests.” His fury was directed entirely at Termic as Pontalimus—still separated from his longtime foe by a forcefield—looked on in a very placid manner.
“You bastard!” he shouted. “We had a deal!”
“A deal forced upon us by you,” Termic said calmly, a stark contrast to Calhoun’s outrage.
“But you agreed to it nevertheless! I gave you the cure for it!”
“And saved yourself in the process.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you gave your word, and your people went back on it!” He hesitated, and then said, “Pontalimus…I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but…”
“They destroyed the ship. My people. The remainder of my people.” Pontalimus spoke in a hollow, disconnected tone. He oozed backward so that he was up against the shuttlebay doors. “I dared to dream of greater things from the Bolgar than that. It was my fault, Captain. You merely tried to bring peace. I am far older than you, and should have known better than to hope.”
“And you should have known better than to think that my people would willingly overlook the history of your barbarism,” replied Termic. “Now your people are dead. All dead, with any luck. And mine is the dominant species in our sphere. The so-called Teuthis sphere. And if I never have the opportunity to return there, as appears to be the case…well, my life and fate are insignificant things. Only the welfare of my people truly matters.”
“My mate was aboard the vessel that your people destroyed, Termic. I sensed her violent passing before the captain even came down to inform us. I owe you for that, Termic. I owe you for that…and for a great many things.”
“Don’t whine to me, Pontalimus. Your people were attempting to take over this sphere. Your motivations and your plans are no better than mine.”
“That, Termic,” Calhoun said angrily, “is not the point…”
“No, Captain,” Pontalimus rumbled. “Perhaps…it is the point, at that. Perhaps Termic and I…deserve each other. That is certainly my belief in the matter. I would hope…that it is yours as well…”
And with absolutely no warning, the shuttlebay doors opened.
It should have been impossible for it to happen. But Pontalimus’s strength was clearly beyond anything that the Excalibur had been designed to prepare for. Calhoun would never know whether it was that his tentacles had somehow seeped into the supposedly airtight joints of the door mechanism, or whether he had simply “suctioned” his tentacles to the doors and applied brute strength. Either way, the result was the same: The bay doors were shoved apart before the exterior forcefield could be brought online. The result was that Pontalimus, the last of the Teuthis, was pulled out tumbling into the vacuum of space.
The air rushed out of the shuttlebay. Termic was hauled forward by the rush of air at the outer edges of the forcefield that had separated him from Pontalimus, but then slammed into the field before he could be dragged any farther. Termic screamed as the field crackled around him, and he howled for Calhoun to do something, to shut the far doors.
And looking down at the struggling form of the Bolgar, Calhoun’s face became as animated as a corpse.
“I’ve decided Pontalimus is right.”
He slammed the base of his palm down on a panel control, and the forcefield disappeared.
Termic had a split second to realize his jeopardy and then he was gone, writhing and twisting as he went, sailing into the depths of space behind his foe.
“You deserve each other,” said Mackenzie Calhoun.
ii.
Termic flails about, certain that this is some sort of terrible, terrible joke. That Calhoun would never deliberately do such a thing, just…condemn him to death.
There is no air for him to breathe. There is nothing but cold, cold all around…
And something suddenly grabs him. For half a heartbeat (not that he has all that many heartbeats remaining) he believes it is some sort of grabbing beam that has come to his rescue.
Then he realizes that it is, in fact, the tentacles of Pontalimus. They are wrapping around him, getting a firm grip.
He fights back as best he can.
The two enemies begin to plummet, struggling furiously. By the time they reach the outer atmosphere of Priatia, they are all but dead.
By the time their massive bodies begin to burn upon reentry, they are completely dead.
As a result, they’re not remotely aware of it when they come crashing down upon the praying Keesala, although they have managed to make yet another argument on behalf of a long-dead Earth philosopher named Voltaire who maintained that God was a comedian playing to an audience afraid to laugh.
iii.
Mackenzie Calhoun sat in his ready room, feeling as if he’d just run a marathon. Elizabeth Shelby was behind him, rubbing his shoulders, pressing her fingers in deep to loosen the tension.
The Excalibur was on its way back to Space Station Bravo. The Trident, meantime, was taking Kalinda and Robin Lefler back to New Thallon, to try and sort out the political mess that had enveloped that world.
“You’ve got so much tension in there,” Shelby told him. “You feel like you’re carrying the world’s weight on your shoulders.”
“What else is new?” He paused, then asked, “What do you think’s going to happen to you? You did technically hijack a starship, you know.”
“I don’t know,” Shelby admitted. “I’m figuring, worst-case scenario…they bust me down to ensign, and I get assigned to a starship to work my way back up.”
“As it so happens, I have a few ensign slots available.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
He sighed. “Damn. When I think of poor Si Cwan…Kebron was a wreck when he got the news, you know.”
“Kebron? I thought he couldn’t stand Si Cwan.”
“That was the old Kebron. This is the new, more sensitive Kebron. And Robin…my God, how is she holding up?”
“Surprisingly well,” said Shelby. “I’m not sure she entirely—”
The chime to the ready room sounded. “Come,” said Calhoun.
The door slid open and Moke was standing there. Calhoun gestured for him to enter and Moke did so tentatively. “What can I do for you, Moke?” he asked.
“I want to know…” He paused, as if struggling for the words.
“Moke…?”
“I want to know why you didn’t tell me about the disease being a fake.”
Calhoun looked thunderstruck. “How did you—?”
“Xy told me. Don’
t be mad at him; I didn’t give him much choice. I was yelling at him, telling him he should never have done something that could have made you die. And he blurted out the truth. At least he told me the truth…”
“Mac, what is he talking about?” asked Shelby.
Calhoun rolled his eyes, acting like a young boy who had been caught out with his hand in the cookie jar. “I was trying a desperation ploy to get the Bolgar and the Teuthis leaders to play nice. I approached Xy about creating an illness that would be contracted by the Bolgar, the Teuthis, and me. The concept was that, with all our lives on the line, they’d be forced to come to terms with each other. Xy worked on it for a time, and then came to me and said that he could not, in good conscience, go through with it. That it was against his ethical code of conduct.”
“First, do no harm,” said Shelby.
“Exactly. So we came up with a backup plan. By this point we have holographic projectors in just about every major area of the ship, so that Morgan can get around. That includes the shuttlebay. We used them to project a deteriorating disease on me and our ‘guests.’ ”
“You mean on your skin?”
“Yes. Then I acted as sick as I could because, naturally, the outer symptoms were the only ones that existed. But I was depending entirely on the power of suggestion in the case of the other two, and I was concerned that might not be enough.” He looked sadly at Moke. “So I enlisted my son, Xyon, to help me out…”
“By having him get me in there so I could beg you to live,” said Moke coldly. “And the only way I could sound like I meant it…”
“Is if you really did mean it. If it’s of any consolation, Moke,” he said, getting up from behind his desk, “you really sold it. I mean, yes, the so-called truce fell apart, but Teuthis would never have cooperated, we’d never have managed to get back here to—”
“Why didn’t you tell me later?”
“I…well,” he said, “I didn’t really see the point. I thought—correctly, as it turns out—that you might be upset. Feel like I used you. And—”
“I am upset,” Moke interrupted him. He stepped closer toward Calhoun, and it could have been Calhoun’s imagination, but he felt as if the air had suddenly become colder, a stiff wind blowing through (which was impossible), and it even seemed darker suddenly. “And you did use me. And if you ever treat me in such a disrespectful manner again…you’re really, really going to regret it.”
Moke turned on his heel and walked out, and Calhoun and Shelby stared at each other.
“Am I crazy,” said Calhoun, “or did it suddenly feel like there was going to be a thunderstorm in here?”
“Can’t it be both?” Shelby asked.
New Thallon
Kalinda stands upon a vast plain, and there is a loving smile upon her face. The wind moves around her gently, as if caressing her.
“You would have been proud of her,” she says. “She took command on my behalf…she was so decisive…in many ways, she’s become like her husband. We all have, I think.
“Oh, and you’ll appreciate this. Soleta and her associate have formed an alliance with New Thallon. They said that as long as Robin and I are working here…working for change, working to pull together the New Thallonian Protectorate…they will devote their services, and the services of their ship, to our behalf. They can be very useful.
“I am…” She hesitates. It is not easy to speak about this. She does not know completely what to say. “You are…bigger than life. So much bigger…I just…I never thought it could ever happen to you. I thought you would live forever. And I…” She took a deep breath and let it out all in a rush, as if hoping that speaking the words quickly would garner his assent. “I want to join you. To be with you. I don’t want to be here anymore. My fiancé is dead, and my brother is dead, and everyone is looking to me to rule now, and even though Robin is going to help she would actually do much better instead of me, and I’m not afraid, gods know I’m not afraid, because it would just be a step into something new rather than an ending of everything, I know that, and so if it would be okay with you…”
He stands before her, smiling gently, understanding, and shaking his head. He points down toward the ground, indicating that she is to stay where she is. That she still has work to do.
She tries to keep her chin from trembling and doesn’t succeed. “Do I…do I have to stay? I swear, I’ll find a way that isn’t too painful. Please…”
Again he shakes his head, this time more firmly.
“All right,” she sighs in acquiescence, and she reaches out toward Si Cwan, and through him. She feels an odd sensation that is a combination of both warm and cold, and then he steps toward her and envelops her, a misty shroud that she finds comfort in…if not forever, then for a little while.
Robin Lefler sat in her quarters, her head resting upon her hands. She stared off into space, wondering what she was going to do next and not having the faintest idea. She knew there was so much to be attended to, but she couldn’t decide which thing was more important than any other. She was stuck in neutral, unsure of how to shift herself over into forward.
She glanced out her window and saw Kalinda standing some distance away. She frowned as she watched the young Thallonian lady—the last in her royal line—stand there with her hands out to either side, her head tilted back. A gentle breeze seemed to be swirling around her, rustling the folds of her cloak, and Robin could have sworn that Kalinda was talking to someone. But there was no one there…
“Robin…”
The soft female voice called to her. She looked up in confusion in the direction of the holosuite that Si Cwan had once built for her…the room which had miraculously survived the bombing inflicted upon the mansion. She rose and headed toward it.
“Robin,” the voice called again, and even though it was muffled, she realized who it was. She touched the release and the door slid open.
Her mother was standing there, pain and sympathy in her face.
She put out her arms to her.
“Mother,” said Robin, “what are you doing h—” And then, before she even realized it was happening, tears were pouring down her face as if they had a will of their own. She tried to complete the sentence, but she had no speaking voice. Instead all that emerged was a deep, agonized moan, and a sob of misery. She took one step forward, then another, and then practically fell into her mother’s arms. She cried piteously, as if someone had cut out her heart, and Morgan held her tightly and kept swearing to her that she would never, ever let her go.
Somewhere…
The father and son sit on a dock at the edge of a vast cosmic river that exists through many realms of time and space. Once, millennia ago, this river overran its borders, carving a moment of cosmic memory so deep that it’s the reason every known civilization—even those on desert worlds—has a flood story buried in its mythology.
“Worlds within worlds, my boy,” the father says archly to the son. “That’s what it’s all about.” He dangles his fishing line in the river, trying to pull something in. “Worlds within worlds.”
“What do you mean, Father?” asks the boy.
“What do I mean?” The father makes a face of disgust. “Now, what sort of omniscient being are you going to grow up to become if you have to ask questions such as those.”
“Then how am I going to learn?”
“By observing,” he says with his trademark petulance. “If I were just going to answer questions, we could have both stayed in the Continuum.”
“All right,” the boy says cautiously. “Then…what do you want me to observe?”
“Well…let’s see.” He studies the water thoughtfully, then points. “See that jellyfish over there?” “
Yes.”
“I’m going to dangle my line toward it. And you reach out and sense the thoughts inside.”
“The thoughts of the jellyfish?”
“No, son. The thoughts of what’s inside the jellyfish.”
Without fully u
nderstanding the instruction, the boy does as he is told. He probes a few moments with no results, and he is about to admit his frustration when suddenly he perceives it.
There is a race there. An entire race…no, an entire universe. Or a subsection of a universe. The race calls itself the Bolgar. It lives in its sphere in triumph. It believes itself to be the ultimate power in its universe. Perhaps in the multiverse. It has recently triumphed over its greatest enemy. It is confident in its manifest destiny. In fact, when the time is right, it intends to return to another universe it has just left and endeavor to conquer it. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can deter it. They are conquerors. They are supreme. They are like unto gods.
“You sense it?” his father asks.
“Yes.”
“Is not its arrogance monumental?”
“It’s certainly deserving of punishment.” The boy smiles.
“I couldn’t agree more. It’s never a good idea,” says his father, “to become too full of yourself.”
His hook snags the jellyfish and he reels it in. And within the universe inside the jellyfish, the world of the Bolgar is ripped apart. The entire race screams as one, its arrogance replaced by terror and supplication and complete lack of comprehension as to what is happening. It doesn’t even have words to frame what is transpiring.
The jellyfish is yanked out of the water, or at least what passes for water in the universal miasma. The moment it hits the air it begins to shrivel and fall apart. The father allows it to land splat on the pier next to it. All the toxins that the jellyfish contain that render it so lethal to sea life mean absolutely nothing on dry land. There, in the heat of day, under the punishing light of the sun, the jellyfish and the universe contained within it crumble and die.
“Look upon my works, O ye mighty, and despair,” intones the father, smiling down at the remains of the masters of their sphere. Then Q casts his line back out into the water and says, “Let’s see who else could stand to learn a lesson or two…”