by Peter David
“There are some who say that. Then again,” she pointed out, still moving around him, “there are those who say elves are quaint fairy tales. Or that Earth stories of elves were based upon early visits by your own people to that world.”
“A valid enough point, I suppose,” admitted Gleau, “but I don’t—”
“Believe it or not, Lieutenant Commander . . . to some degree, I embrace the notion that there was indeed some sort of guiding intelligence forming the universe.”
Gleau laughed, leaning back in the observation chair. “Do you. How very intriguing. And how very unscientific.”
“We haven’t disproved the notion, Lieutenant Commander, which makes it to my mind a possibility. After all, have we not encountered our share of nearomnipotent beings in our travels? With so many creatures who are godlike, one can only wonder if there in fact might not be a god for them to be like. I consider it to be . . . an interesting matter for speculation.”
He laughed again. “Very well, Lieutenant. Obviously I have not given the matter as much thought as you, and therefore I will defer to you. Perhaps there is indeed some sort of presence. Should there be, I can but hope that He will choose to make himself available for scientific observation and discourse at some point, because I certainly have a variety of questions I would like to pose.”
“As would I. Because if He exists, there are quite a few things He’s done that make no sense to me. However, He did do one thing that makes perfect sense: He gave us free will. And you,” and then she leaned in very close to Gleau, and he felt her warm breath, and heard the low growl in her voice like a predator about to leap upon its prey. “You . . . usurped mine. Whether you admit to it or not, whether you believe it or not . . . that is what you did. You flew against the intention of the being who had a hand in creating all this.”
“Should I fear His wrath?” he asked quietly.
“No. Fear mine.”
He paused, and then, maintaining his ready smile, he asked, “Is that a threat? Because threatening a superior officer . . . is a court-martial offense.”
She drew back at that point, said nothing at first. Then she told him, “I know that you’re endeavoring to ‘teach me a lesson’ because I made a stand for my rights. Perhaps others don’t understand that . . . but you know it’s true, and I know it’s true. And this is not over.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
“I hope not,” Gleau called after her. “Considering I am now laboring under an Oath of Chastity, I have to find my amusements where I can.”
ii.
Si Cwan walked through the empty halls of the palace on his homeworld of Thallon. He remembered how, in his youth, he would tear around the place, much to his father’s consternation. The palace, while large under even the best of circumstances, was positively cavernous to Si Cwan at that age. It just seemed to go on and on. The corridors seemed to stretch to the horizon; the curved ceilings appeared high enough to touch the sky. Sometimes—and this was the thing that would most drive his father to distraction—Si Cwan would throw back his head and let out a yell at the top of his lungs that would reverberate for what seemed hours. The paintings, the murals, the busts of famous Thallonians . . . the palace was rich with the heritage and greatness of the Thallonian Empire. The funny thing about the happiest times of one’s life, Si Cwan mused, was that one didn’t know that’s what they were while one was experiencing them.
The solitude that he was experiencing now brought back that feeling of vastness he experienced as a child. The place was simply too big for one person. But one person was all that was filling it now. When Si Cwan was inclined to do so, he could move with utter silence. He did not choose to do so now. Instead he allowed his heels to click-clack up and down the hallways, listening to the echo and pulling from his heart all his recollections of the times when the palace had been filled with life. So filled with life, in fact, that it seemed less a dwelling than a force of nature, as teeming with vitality and power as the mightiest waves rolling into the surf.
He heard footsteps behind him.
There was a ceremonial spear in a stand to his right. Without hesitation, he snagged the spear out of its place, whipped it around and stood, poised, and prepared to take on any unexpected opponent.
Robin Lefler let out a gasp, stumbled backward, and grabbed on to a bust for support. Unfortunately the bust was not affixed to the pedestal upon which it was standing. It came away in her arms as Robin tumbled to the floor and, a moment later, the bust crashed to the ground beside her, shattering into a hundred zigzag fragments.
Si Cwan surveyed the damage in silence. Then he said, “You may be interested to know that my great-uncle, Jarek Cwan, never once fell in battle . . . until now.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Robin, clambering to her feet. She made a halfhearted attempt to reassemble the pieces before she acknowledged to herself the hopelessness of the endeavor.
“Don’t concern yourself with it,” he said. “Had it been real . . . had any of this been real . . . I would be upset. As it is . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he smiled slightly as he looked at Robin with pieces of the statue gathered in her lap. He extended a hand to her. “Come, come. No point in sitting around clutching a pathetic excuse for a bust.”
She stood up and dusted herself off, allowing the pieces to fall to the ground. “Kalinda told me you’d be here. I’m starting to worry about you a little.”
“Are you?” His red brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because you’re spending an inordinate amount of time in holodecks. It’s making me wonder whether you just find everyone and everything else so deathly dull that we’re not worth your time anymore.”
“Hardly,” he said. He continued to wander, and Robin fell into step beside him. “However, I find myself facing moments in my life where I have to determine in what direction it will go. It helps, in such instances, to remind myself via the firsthand aid of the holodeck, where it’s been. The glory and majesty that was once Thallon lives only in my memory . . . and in the capabilities of this instrumentation to reproduce it.” He stopped and stared at her curiously. “Are you quite all right, Robin?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, you’re . . . you’re looking at me . . . rather oddly. Not in a negative way, but still . . .”
“I just . . .” She cleared her throat and grinned. “I just . . . like to listen to you talk sometimes. You have a very musical voice. Even when you’re speaking normally, it seems like you’re singing sometimes, accompanied by an orchestra that only you can hear.”
“Why, thank you, Robin.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. It was so small in comparison that it seemed to disappear into his. Her smile widened. He took her other hand in his as well. “I so wish you could have seen this palace when it was real, rather than this . . . this construct. The pure majesty of our empire and heritage could only stir pride in the heart of any observer, no matter who they were.”
“Unless they happened to be locked in a dungeon,” Robin said, and then instantly looked as if she’d regretted saying it.
But Si Cwan took the comment in stride. “You mean as Soleta was, for a time. I will not deny, Robin, that there were darker aspects to our society. No matter how brightly any sun may shine, that upon which it sheds its light will always cast a shadow. Nevertheless, I regret that our empire did not have the time to learn and grow more than it did. It was my goal to eliminate such unfortunate sides of our world. To aspire only to greatness.” He shrugged. “But we shall never know what I might have accomplished in that earlier circumstance. Still . . . that does not preclude performing great deeds in the future.”
Robin was smiling when she heard that, and continued to do so until she fully digested just what it was that Si Cwan was saying. Then the smile began to fade. “Wait, you’re . . .” She seemed at a loss for words.
“I’m what?” he prompted.
“You’re not . . . seriously considering taking up the Danteri on their o
ffer.” She sounded thunderstruck, as if Si Cwan had suddenly announced that he was, in fact, a Hermat.
“I am very seriously considering it, yes.”
“But . . . but you can’t!” she stammered.
“Why ever not?”
Once more words did not appear to ally themselves with her. Then she found her voice. “First of all, you can’t trust the Danteri . . .”
“Oh, I don’t,” Si Cwan said matter-of-factly. “I don’t trust them at all. However, there are different degrees of lack of trust.”
“I’m not following.”
Except she was following: She was following Si Cwan into the main hall. He looked to the far end, to the great chair of judgment in which his father routinely sat when hearing matters of dispute between various races. Si Cwan had always wondered what it would be like for him to assume that mantle, to be the sole ruler of the sprawling Thallonian Empire. In some ways, he felt as if he had let down the memories of those who had come before him. Granted, he knew he shouldn’t have taken that failure personally. It wasn’t as if, due to lack of attention on his part, planets had risen up in rebellion and he’d lost control. Instead he’d stood there and watched his planet be rent asunder by a gigantic flaming bird, effectively sounding the death knell of the Thallonian Empire. How could anyone, short of a god, prepare for an eventuality such as that?
He brought his attention away from his free-floating thoughts, from the proud columns that lined the majestic hall, from the memories of what were, and focused instead on not only his conversation with Robin, but on the possibilities of what were to come. “I believe that the Danteri are motivated entirely by self-interest,” he said. “On the one hand, they have admitted as much. On the other hand, it is entirely possible they are withholding other elements of the current circumstances that will play even more to their favor . . . elements that I have not even begun to consider. I do not trust that they have been entirely forthcoming. Nor do I trust that they will not endeavor to toss Kalinda and I aside, once we have served our purpose to them.”
“Well, then—?”
Slowly Si Cwan walked up the steps to the chair of his father, turned, and sat carefully in it. He wondered if doing so would instantly cause all his faculties of judgment to snap into the crystal clarity that his father always seemed to possess. It didn’t happen. He had known that it wouldn’t. That was, after all, the province of the child: to believe that adulthood would bring with it instant comprehension of the world and the ability to make the right choice in any given situation. Instead adulthood brought with it only the crushing realization that one spent one’s childhood utterly misinformed, shattering forever the childlike aspect of one’s psyche. The rest of one’s life more or less amounted to damage control.
“On the other hand . . . Kalinda and I are not stupid,” he told Robin. “Nor are we novices when it comes to playing political games. We have been in situations that entail and require the acquisition and maintaining of power. I believe that the Danteri are sincere in their desire to see the Thallonian Empire rise again. It suits their purposes. I have verified their accounts of their recent difficulties with ship’s records and historical documents. All of it is true. The region around Danteri has become a hotbed of unrest, and in those areas into which they attempted to expand their influence, they succeeded instead in destroying what little stability there already was. They need help. To be specific,” and he chuckled at the thought, “they need my help. Our help, mine and Kalinda’s.”
“And you’re actually thinking of giving it to them.” She stared at him in amazement. “Si Cwan, in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve thought you to be many things. But never, for one moment, have I thought that you were . . . were . . .”
“Stupid?” He arched a shaved brow.
“I was going to say ‘naïve,’ but ‘stupid’ works just as well.”
“And would be an acceptable term if I chose to pass up this offer.”
“But . . .” She approached him. He wondered if she was going to genuflect, as was the custom for those approaching the great seat of judgment, but she remained standing. He supposed that was all right; even if she had known the custom, chances were she wouldn’t have attended to it. “But . . . why? Why would you be stupid? Why . . . ?”
He reached forward and this time took both her hands into one of his, placing his other hand atop hers. Si Cwan smiled indulgently, and he might have been imagining it, but it almost seemed as if she was melting at his touch. How charming, he thought. Despite the emptiness of this place, she still feels a bit caught up in the grandeur that was the Thallonian Empire. I suppose it would be enough to make any woman weak-kneed.
“Robin,” he said patiently, patting the top of her hands as he did so, “you seem to be forgetting how it is that I first came aboard the Excalibur. How it is that our paths first crossed.”
When she spoke, it was with an obvious effort to keep her voice steady. “I . . . haven’t forgotten anything. You stowed away.”
“Yes. I stowed away, aboard the Excalibur. You have no idea,” and he looked down, “no idea at all how difficult that was for me.”
“I’d imagine so. Climbing into the cargo container, managing to remain that way for—”
He shook his head. “I’m not speaking logistically, or of the physical demands. I mean emotionally. Robin . . . I was a prince of Thallon. I had servants, courtiers . . . people who responded to my every desire. To lower myself to a thief of services, to hide like the lowliest beggar . . . my actions revolted me even as I undertook them. But I did so, willingly, for two reasons, to accomplish two goals. The first was to find Kalinda, my sister. The second was to use the resources of the Excalibur to try and pull together the shattered remnants of my once-great empire. As a noble—even a noble with no homeworld—I could do no less.”
Robin pulled away from him, then, her face clouding. “So what are you saying? That the Excalibur has served its purpose? That you don’t need us anymore?”
He sighed heavily. “It has less to do with need, Robin, than it does with proper distribution of resources. Robin, don’t you understand? When I’m aboard the Excalibur . . .” He ran his hand across the top of his bald pate, as if trying to stimulate the correct ideas to present themselves. “On the Excalibur, I am surrounded by people who go about their jobs, do their duties, in order to benefit the galaxy around them, and their vessel, and their fleet. While I . . . I have been selfish . . .”
Robin appeared surprised, as if he’d slapped her across the face. “No . . . you’re being too hard on yourself . . .”
“No, I am being honest. The Excalibur began as a means to an end for me. And although I have grown to respect and admire its crew and its mission—although I’ve never exactly warmed to Zak Kebron,” he observed ruefully, “I have never really, truly moved beyond that essential self-interest. I am, at core, a selfish bastard.”
“Si Cwan—”
“If one does not know oneself, Robin, then one knows nothing at all.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in a manner that was evocative of his father. “I have never, and would never, act in a manner contrary to the interests of the Excalibur. But my priority remains, first and foremost, myself. And when I see you, and most everyone else on the vessel, acting so unselfishly . . . caring about how and where you can provide aid purely in the interest of helping others . . . it drives home for me my own shortcomings.”
“I think, Si Cwan . . . that you are being much too hard on yourself.”
He shrugged slightly. “I do appreciate your vote of confidence. I do not necessarily share in the opinion . . . but that is neither here nor there. The point is that the Excalibur has a wider mission of not only altruism but also exploration, discovery . . . things that I have little to no use for. The Danteri, on the other hand, are quite focused. They don’t care about seeking out new life and new civilizations . . . boldly going where no one has gone before. They care about power. So do I. In that sense,
our goals are mutual and beneficial to one another. It is . . .” He paused, figuring the best way to say it. “. . . it is a better fit . . . than the one that currently exists. On the Excalibur I am, and will continue to be—what is the phrase you use . . . ?”
“A square peg in a round hole,” she suggested tonelessly.
“Yes! Yes, that is it. That is it exactly,” he told her. “But on Danter, I will be a square peg in a square hole.” He stood and spread wide his arms, his eyes glistening with anticipation. “Don’t you see, Robin? The majesty of the Thallonian Empire need not be limited to a nostalgic, hollow re-creation of the past. It can, instead, be the future. My future.”
“By making it your future, you’re essentially living in your past,” pointed out Robin. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. She looked extremely defensive, which Si Cwan found rather sad. If only she could be made to understand. “Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
“No,” he said promptly. “Because I cannot escape my past, Robin. When I walk out of this holodeck, all this will still remain with me, in here,” and he tapped his chest. “The impetus to build up the Thallonian Empire, to be great . . . it is a part of me, embedded within me by generations of those who have proceeded me.”
“You don’t need an empire to be great, Si Cwan,” said Robin with surprising urgency. “That greatness is also in you, empire or not. And I just don’t see how you can not realize that.”
“I realize you believe it, Robin, and I thank you for it. And I will always consider you a great friend because of it. But I know what I have to do . . . and I strongly suspect the Danteri will enable me to do it far more efficiently than the Excalibur. It simply comes down to best use of resources, as I said.”
Robin didn’t appear to have heard the latter part of what he’d said. Instead she had a fixed smile on her face as she repeated, “ ‘A great friend.’ Well, that’s . . . that’s good, Si Cwan. You have no idea how much that means to me.”