Out of This World
Page 32
There were many sessions.
He was questioned about Zeta Leo III, about Psi Cassiopeia II, about Shadow’s realm, about Earth, and he answered as well as he could.
Between interviews Pel was given a brief tour of parts of Base One, including an observation chamber where thick windows looked out onto the surface of the asteroid and gave a view of a gigantic complex of equipment—copper busbars at least ten feet in diameter supported a ring of intricate crystal and metal gadgetry.
“That’s the warp generator,” his guide explained. “The gateway to your home universe.”
Pel took more of an interest once he had heard that; he looked out at the huge tangle of machinery.
Soon, when they found Rachel and brought her safely back here, he would be going through that thing, back to the safety and sanity of his own world, his own home, his suburban quarter-acre twenty miles from Washington.
As soon as they found Rachel.
It was three days later when he was brought into the interview room again. This time, though, instead of his usual questioner in the standard purple uniform, he found himself facing an older officer in more ornate garb, with gold braid and a row of medals.
“Mr. Brown,” the man said, folding his hands on the table in front of him, “this time, instead of asking you to tell us things, we’ll be telling you what we’ve found out.”
Pel took his usual seat and said nothing.
“You were captured by pirates and sold into slavery on Zeta Leo III,” the officer said. “While it’s true that pirates and slavers are a recurring problem on the fringes of the Galactic Empire, they are a minor problem, and the odds of the particular ship that Captain Cahn had commandeered being attacked—well, let’s just say that it was unlikely enough that we were very suspicious indeed.”
Pel listened without much interest. The attack had happened; he didn’t really care why.
“With that in mind, once we had taken control of Zeta Leo III, we began a thorough investigation of pirate activities based there, and of the attack on Emerald Princess in particular. We took a dozen telepaths with us to aid in the investigation—an unheard-of measure. I don’t suppose you realize just how extreme a measure that is, unfamiliar as you are with our society, but let me assure, it’s extreme. Never before have we allowed more than eight telepaths to gather in a single place, other than at military transfer points or this base.” He raised a hand to make a gesture at the ceiling.
Pel sat, listening. He blinked occasionally.
“We found what we’d expected,” the officer said. “Several people died inexplicably under interrogation, not from anything we did, but eventually we found what we were after. Agents of the extra- universal thing known as Shadow had secretly controlled the government of not just Zeta Leo III, but an entire network of rebel worlds—the others are being reduced even as I tell you this. It was already expanding its sphere of influence from its own universe into ours, and it was this thing, this Shadow, that ordered the attack on Emerald Princess.”
That was scarcely a surprise, really, Pel thought. They had guessed at it, without any evidence at all, aboard the pirate ship.
“That means that it was Shadow that was responsible for the death of your wife.”
Pel blinked. He really hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true—Nancy hadn’t just died. Someone had killed her. Some person had deliberately killed her.
He sat up a little straighter.
“And I’m afraid that I have some very bad news.”
Pel knew, with a cold, crawling certainty, what was coming. His lips formed the word, “No.”
“I’m afraid we found your daughter, Rachel. And... well, we’ll be bringing the remains here to Base One, so you can make your goodbyes.”
“No,” Pel said, quietly.
“That’s another death that this Shadow is responsible for, indirectly,” the officer said. “More directly, of course, someone else was, and while I can understand it if you find this a disappointment, if you’d have preferred a more personal vengeance, I’m afraid that the procedures of military justice have already taken care of him. A man named Lemuel Burgess has been hanged for your daughter’s murder. If you wish, transcripts of the tribunal and other evidence can be provided to satisfy you that we found the right man.” He cleared his throat. “Your wife’s killers were never specifically identified, but the entire crew of the ship Reaper has been apprehended and executed for piracy, slave-trading, and other high crimes, so she, too, is avenged—in part.”
Pel stared at him.
The Empire did things with despatch, certainly, if this man was telling the truth—and why would he lie?
They were all dead—Nancy and Rachel and the men who had killed them, all dead.
“Thank you,” Pel whispered, unsure why he said it.
The officer hesitated. “There’s a little more,” he said.
Pel sat motionless, watching him.
“As I said,” the man continued, “this Shadow is responsible for the deaths of your wife and daughter. And it’s waging a sort of secret war against the Empire, as well. We can’t just march in and bring Shadow, whatever it is, to trial; we can’t hang it or shoot it, much as we’d like to. In plain truth, we don’t know much about it. We do know, though, that it’s evil, that it’s criminal, that it’s responsible for the deaths, not just of your family, but of hundreds of innocents.” He paused dramatically.
Pel watched.
“We want it stopped,” the officer continued. “It’s a murderous, monstrous thing, intruding where it has no business, and we want it stopped as quickly as possible. What’s more, we think that you can help us stop it. We want to send you into Shadow’s world, as part of a team effort to track down and destroy it. This is the thing that gave the orders for your wife and daughter to die that we’re asking you to fight; it’s a chance for revenge. Will you take it?” He looked down at Pel, awaiting a reply.
Pel looked back. He stared up into the bright, brown eyes of this man from another universe, this officer in the military of a Galactic Empire, this figure from some pulp space opera, offering him a chance at lurid vengeance against the killer of his wife and child.
It was all like a scene from a novel or a movie, more than ever—he was James Bond being offered his assignment, Mr. Phelps listening to the tape, he was a man being offered a chance to be a hero. He was supposed to say yes, whereupon the officer would shake his hand, and the camera would cut away, and the next scene would be the determined little war party preparing for the assault upon the enemy’s fortress.
It was all laid out in the books. This was where the hero differentiated himself from the lesser characters.
James Bond wouldn’t hesitate in taking his assignment, no matter how risky. Horatio Hornblower would never turn down a command, no matter how outgunned he would be. Indiana Jones would go after the artifact, no matter how many booby traps there might be, no matter how many enemies might try to stop him. Any real hero would answer instantly.
But in the books the officer’s breath didn’t smell of the onions he’d eaten at lunch, and there wasn’t an incipient pimple on the side of his neck; the table didn’t have someone’s initials scratched in it; the hero’s stomach wasn’t wrenched out of shape by the thought of his daughter’s death, there weren’t tears itching at the corners of his eyes, he didn’t feel as if he was about to faint or vomit or, worst of all, burst out in hysterical laughter. In the books the world was all smooth and simple, not hard and solid and arbitrary; there were good guys and bad guys, right and wrong, and right always won out in the end.
Was the Galactic Empire right? Maybe it was better than the alternative, but it was no bastion of purity. Since leaving Earth he had not seen a single black person, or any Oriental except Susan Nguyen—where were they all? What had the Empire done with them? He had heard the Imperials openly voice hatred for “mutants,” he had seen a society that to every appearance was racist and sexist and imperialis
t and saw nothing wrong with any of it. They had hanged every man aboard the pirate ship, had hanged or imprisoned most of the population of Zeta Leo III—mercy was not one of the Empire’s strong suits. Were these the good guys?
And in truth, all he knew about Shadow he had heard from its enemies. True, it had attacked him, but it might be acting in its own defense.
Was he one of the good guys, really?
The bad guys offered their people these choices, too—the agents Bond sent to gruesome deaths, the assassins assigned to kill the hero, they had these offers and they accepted them. Was the Empire in the right?
And if it was, so what?
This was no story. This was real life. There was no author making sure justice was done. Right hadn’t won against Shadow before; why should it now? And how did he even know whether anything this man had said was true?
Rachel might still be alive; he had only the officer’s word that she was not.
He didn’t know what was true. He didn’t know what was right.
The officer was still waiting for his answer.
This was his chance to be the hero, he knew that. All he had to do was say yes. Be brave and strong and true, and despite tragedy, the hero would win out, the evil would be destroyed, the survivors would live happily ever after.
All the stories said so.
Raven would say yes in an instant, he was certain. Raven had all the makings of a traditional hero. He believed in honor and courage and duty, in right and wrong, good and evil.
And look what it had gotten him; the doctors were still working on his back, and his traitor brother was still lord of Stormcrack Keep.
All Pel had to do was say yes.
James Bond would say yes, Indiana Jones, Horatio Hornblower, they’d say yes in an instant.
But Bond was a spy, Hornblower a sea captain, Jones an archeologist—those were their jobs. Pel Brown was a marketing consultant; his job was telling small businesses why their ads didn’t work.
All he had to do was say yes to be a hero, instead of just a marketing consultant.
All he had to do was say yes.
All he had to do was say yes.
“I don’t know,” Pel said.
About the Author
Lawrence Watt-Evans is the author of more than two dozen novels, more than a hundred short stories, and assorted other works. Further information can be found on his webpage at http://www.watt-evans.com/.
Also by Lawrence Watt-Evans
The Lords of Dûs
The Lure of the Basilisk
The Seven Altars of Dûsarra
The Sword of Bheleu
The Book of Silence
Legends of Ethshar
Night of Madness
The Misenchanted Sword
With A Single Spell
The Unwilling Warlord
Taking Flight
The Blood of A Dragon
The Spell of the Black Dagger
Ithanalin’s Restoration
The Spriggan Mirror
The Unwelcome Warlock
The Obsidian Chronicles
Dragon Weather
The Dragon Society
Dragon Venom
Other Works
Touched by the Gods
Nightside City
The Rebirth of Wonder
Crosstime Traffic
Celestial Debris
Split Heirs (with Esther M. Friesner)
The Nightmare People