by Peter David
Admittedly . . . it wearies him occasionally. He sees their raw need, their hunger for his attention and love, and he begins to feel his ageless age.
But . . . on the other hand . . .
... he is not dead.
And that is what it all comes down to, really. He still lives and breathes. His heart pumps blood through his system, air is still drawn into his lungs. He knows what it is like to be dead, for he has walked the byways of death, and is certain that such places are not for him.
For the High King, it is not enough that his legend will never die. He must never die as well. Never.
It’s just that . . . every so often . . .
... he forgets why not.
ONCE IN A while, when Arthur closed his eyes, he could still recall the sensations of sitting in his great hall in Camelot and holding court. The brisk winds that would blast through the castle in the winter, the remarkable heat that would hang heavily in the summer. The rustling of pennants upon the wall, the clanking as armored feet would march in upon official business, or the soft padding of leather or barely held together cloth serving as footwear for the peasants. From the highest born to the lowest, the richest to the poorest, they all came before Arthur with their problems, their arguments, their life-and-death situations. He would always sort through them and endeavor to produce some sort of compassionate and reasoned decision, much of the time feeling like a total fraud who might be caught out at any time because he was just guessing. But people would nod their heads and smile and the wisdom of King Arthur would be hailed by all. And his beloved queen would beam at his side, and Merlin would make some cutting remarks, but always afterward and always in private, and that was the way of things.
He sorely missed those days . . . and the insanity that presently represented his life made him all the more nostalgic.
The great hall of Gilgamesh was in some ways evocative of the long-gone Camelot. It was, however, decorated far more ostentatiously, particularly considering that it was replete with statues and busts that were clearly all supposed to be representative of Gilgamesh himself. The hall itself was packed with island residents, all of that same uniform, glowing health so abundant that it was starting to get on Arthur’s nerves.
Nor were they simply there to watch. They were there to worship. That was the most disconcerting thing of all. Arthur may have been king, there may have been those who foolishly believed that the hand of God had reached down, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “You there, with the confused expression and the slightly irregular features . . . you’re in charge now. That’s all right then, isn’t it?” But for the most part, everyone coming to Camelot knew that they were coming to witness the judgments of a simple, mortal man. Divinely inspired, perhaps. Wise . . . well, that was subject to debate. A man, though, in the final analysis.
Here, though, reigned a being who was—by his own incessant proclaiming—two-thirds god and one-third man. They had come to bask in his presence. They had come to bow down to him and adore him. That bothered the hell out of Arthur. He disliked the notion of something being worshiped while it was walking the earth.
Percival, Nellie, Ron, and Gwen had arranged themselves around Arthur, forming a sort of protective semicircle, which he had to admit he found somewhat sweet. The people of the island were back to swaying and chanting, and during all of that, Arthur was relieved to see a very annoyed-looking Merlin push his way through and approach Arthur, shaking his head in irritation. “May we all be saved from fanatics,” Merlin muttered when he drew within range, and Arthur could not have agreed more.
A roar went up, which was more than enough to alert Arthur that Gilgamesh had made his entrance. He came in from the side, and the people threw themselves upon the ground.
“Look at them,” Nellie muttered, “prostating themselves.”
“Prostrating,” corrected Ron.
“What?”
“Prostrating. It’s prostrating, not prostating. Prostrate is to throw yourself flat in supplication. The prostate’s a gland in men that enables us to ejaculate. When we’re in our late forties, we have to start getting it checked via a rectal exam.”
Nellie stared at him and then informed him, “You’ve no idea how happy I would have been not to learn that.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Arthur suppressed a smile. He finally understood why Ron and Nellie were along: comic relief.
Gilgamesh was followed by Miss Basil, looking tall and cool and serenely elegant in a flowing green gown. And behind her was Arnim Sandoval. Arthur hadn’t known what to expect of a man who had just been regurgitated by a giant snake after spending eight months residing within. All things considered, he’d actually cleaned up fairly well. He had bathed, and he was wearing simple white slacks and a shirt, although Arthur couldn’t guess where Gilgamesh might have acquired something that relatively contemporary. His hair was clean and combed, his beard neatly trimmed, and there was no longer any delirious confusion in his eyes. Instead there was just glowering hatred, and he leveled his gaze upon Arthur with such intensity that it might well have plowed straight out the back of Arthur’s skull if given half a chance.
There was a movement at Arthur’s side, and then Gwen’s hand had slid into his own, her fingers intertwining. He turned and looked at her with a questioning eyebrow.
“I think it was a damned fool thing to do,” she said softly, but there was no anger in her eyes. “But you’ve lived your life doing what you thought was right, and I don’t see how I can fault you for doing that now, however much I might disagree with it. So . . . we’re good. You and me, I mean. There’s, you know . . . no resentment or anything on my part.”
“Oh, good,” said Arthur, smiling.
“And thank you for going to all this trouble in the hope of reviving me.”
“Not a problem.”
“I just hope it doesn’t get us all killed.”
“Same here.”
There was a loud, reverberating, rhythmic thumping, and Arthur quickly realized that Enkidu was standing to one side, holding a long and powerful-looking wooden staff. He thudded it repeatedly on the floor, the sounds catching everyone’s attention and letting them know that all attention was to be paid to Gilgamesh. The chanting, the praying and swaying, all of it promptly tapered off. People were ringing the outer edge of the court, while Arthur and the others stood toward the center of the room, about ten paces away from the High King. As for Gilgamesh, he stood next to his throne. The kilt he wore was elaborately decorated with gold trim that seemed to be made of genuine gold. A fur-lined cape was draped over his shoulders. He was not wearing his horned helmet, and his hair was hanging in interwoven strands that ran down to his shoulders. He was the most naturally regal-looking individual that Arthur had ever seen, and considering the number of kings and assorted rulers that Arthur had encountered in his time, that was saying quite a lot.
Slowly he lowered himself into his chair. Gwen had once told Arthur she always imagined the effect a well-placed whoopie cushion would have on the solemnity of such moments. The recollection gave him a small smile, and he reflexively squeezed Gwen’s hand a bit more tightly as if to affirm to himself that she was genuinely there.
“Very affectionate,” Merlin said in a low voice. His face was carefully neutral. “I’m touched.”
“In the head, I’d wager,” shot back Arthur in the same subdued tone. “There’s a good deal of things to be said between us, Merlin, but right now the only pertinent one would be an inquiry as to just how much power you have at your command.”
“Remember when I dropped the pillar on Miss Basil?”
“Yes.”
“That was it.”
Arthur looked at him askance. “All right,” he said slowly. “It’s not much, but . . . dropping pillars on people could be effective if used correctly . . . this could still be a plus . . .”
“You don’t understand, Arthur,” Merlin corrected him. “When I say ‘That was it,’ I mean, t
hat was it.”
“What . . . you mean . . . it?”
“Have you become hearing impaired in my absence?” Merlin asked testily, his voice raising slightly before he brought it back down again. “I’ve been out of commission for quite some time. Managing to sustain myself in that . . . imprisonment . . . took a great deal out of me. The fact that I was able to accomplish anything against Basil was nothing short of miraculous. But it’s going to be a time before my empowerment is back up to its previous levels.”
“All right. Fine,” said Arthur. “That will just make it all the more interesting.”
Gilgamesh surveyed the waiting throng. “Well,” he said finally. “It seems we have some situations here that must be dealt with. Let us attend first to the individual who was truly responsible for the events that have led to this matter. Sandoval, I believe your name is?”
Sandoval glowered at Gilgamesh. And to Arthur’s utter surprise, Miss Basil cuffed him on the side of the head as if he were a recalcitrant child. Sandoval glanced at her once, and then genuflected, going to one knee in front of the High King. As he did so, he reached up to just below his jawline and scratched rather vigorously. Arthur’s eyes narrowed. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw a few flecks of green skin there.
“Respectful. Good to see,” said Gilgamesh. “Stand. Good. Now speak to me. Did you attempt to have this man murdered and, as a consequence, cause his mate grievous bodily harm?”
“No,” said Sandoval flatly.
“Of course he says no,” said Arthur. “Of course he would deny it.”
“I deny what is untrue. You overestimate your importance in the world, Penn. Had I wanted you dead, you would have been dead. I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to kill her.”
Every muscle in Arthur’s body clenched. Gwen’s hand rested gently on his forearm, which was the only thing restraining him from launching himself across the room. In his mind’s eye he could already see Excalibur sweeping through the air and reducing Sandoval’s height by a head. So seized with rage was he that he could not even get a word out.
Gilgamesh, for his part, was quite serene. “And why did you do that?”
“Because he killed my wife. And my children.”
“That’s a damnable lie!” Arthur shouted.
Sandoval’s voice was flat and oddly absent of the anger one would have expected in such a situation, although contempt seeped out of every syllable. “No. It’s not. And it wasn’t even in my country. It was during one of your ‘measured responses’ in the Middle East, dropping bombs on so-called military targets. And you missed. Oh, at first you pretended you didn’t. First you claimed that a block of apartments was actually a terrorist training ground. And finally you apologized. How nice for you. How nice for my wife, who was visiting her sister, and my children playing with their cousins.” Slowly he advanced on Arthur, his body beginning to tremble with suppressed rage. “Tell me, Mr. President . . . do you think they had any idea before the bomb hit that they were about to die? Eh? Was the high-pitched whistling of the falling missile a warning? Or were they so busy singing childish songs and playing childish games that they had no clue whatsoever? I keep telling myself that’s the case, so I don’t have to put myself into their heads and imagine their last moments as being filled with terror.”
Arthur’s jaw twitched for a moment as Sandoval halted several feet away. There was deathly silence in the hall. “If what you say is true . . . it is regrettable. And I sympathize with your loss. But it does not excuse your retaliation. I remember that Middle East strike, and it was in turn retaliatory because one of our embassies had been blown up. Your anger should have been directed at those responsible for our assault—”
“A fine way to dismiss your culpability,” sneered Sandoval.
“And furthermore,” Arthur said, raising his voice, “accidental deaths are not remotely comparable to the painstaking and carefully planned attempted assassination of an innocent woman—”
And the anger which Sandoval had been containing until that time finally kicked over the edge. “There are no innocent women! No innocent men! No innocent American people! The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll comprehend the world you’re faced with!”
“Of all the—”
Gilgamesh raised a finger. “Let him speak.”
Arthur did not want to let him speak. Arthur wanted to carve him into kibble. This business of allowing Gilgamesh to run things was rapidly wearing thin upon him, but still he restrained himself. The weight of Excalibur upon his back was of great comfort to him.
Sandoval’s arms were relaxed at his sides as he stared at Arthur and the others, but the tension in his voice belied the ease of his posture. “There are no innocent Americans . . . because to be an American means that you are part of the problem. It means you support the government that believes it can do whatever it wants, wherever and whenever it wants. A government that pretends to operate on behalf of the American people but is actually wholly catering to the interests of the same major corporations that are trying to worm their way into every part of the globe. A government so hypocritical that it pretends there is a separation of church and state, but is the only government to put declarations of religious fealty on its money. Do you have any concept of the sanctimony involved to put ‘In God We Trust’ on your currency . . . as if that automatically makes you morally superior to every other civilized nation?”
“Civilized nations,” growled Percival, “do not oppress their citizens.”
“No,” shot back Sandoval, “they just slaughter the indigenous people and take their land. They import people from a foreign land and sell them into slavery. They imprison thousands of their citizens on racial grounds after one of their harbors is bombed.” He shook his head. “Don’t you comprehend that that’s why so many countries hate you? Because you live and breathe hypocrisy? Because in your arrogance you strut around as if the American way is the way, and every other inferior race on the planet is either with you or against you. You are hated because your citizens expect everyone else to speak English, or expect to find fast food franchises in any country they visit. You are hated because your brands and business interests are slowly cleansing nations of their individuality, exerting influence over every aspect of day to day life. You are hated because poor people see the fat, rich American way of life flaunted in your movies and television programs and it sickens them because you continue to want more and more and more, and are never satisfied, while they have nothing and are expected to endure. You are hated because you sit in judgment of other countries as if you yourself don’t have racism, or executions, or poverty. You are hated because you are no better than the least country in the world . . . but act as if you are the greatest. And as long as that incredible arrogance seeps from every pore of the skin of every American, you will be hated and targeted and destroyed.”
The words rang out and then hung there for a long moment.
And then, very slowly, Arthur smiled. “You forgot one.”
Gilgamesh, who had seemed fascinated by Sandoval’s words, looked to Arthur in surprise. “One what?”
“One more reason America is so hated. That’s all right, though . . . he’s not the only one. Two hundred years ago, it was such a given, such a taken for granted thing, that they clean forgot to put it into the U.S. Constitution until it was pointed out that there might be others who don’t take it for granted. So they put it in as an amendment, although they made it the first one out of deference to its importance.
“You forgot, Sandoval, how much America is hated for the very thing that you just did: the right to talk about all the things you hate about America. In America, you can talk about such things in newspapers, or in pamphlets, or on street corners, or on television, or shout it from the highest rooftops. And you can do so with impunity. You don’t have to worry that the government is going to fine you or imprison you or cut your tongue out and execute you.
“Beca
use when people are able to speak out without fear of repression, that’s where ideas come from and change comes from. Yes, the indigenous people were slaughtered . . . but not anymore. Yes, people were enslaved . . . but not anymore. Yes, Asian citizens were imprisoned . . . but not anymore. Practices and actions taken by the government and the people it represents are constantly changing, developing, growing as new thoughts and new ideas are presented. Sometimes they change in positive ways, sometimes negative, but they change. And change is good. Except it’s not good to repressive governments. They fear change because change potentially means loss of control, and if they cannot control their people, then they fear the people will turn against them. So they hate and fear the United States because we represent the notion that change and free thought are positives, and they teach their people to hate and fear the United States because God forbid the people should get it into their heads that they should be able to think for themselves. Because if they did, they might start thinking about how their governments could be working to better the people instead of keeping them buried in fear and vicious traditions going back centuries.
“They hate and fear the United States because the United States was built upon ideas and a desire for freedom, and those are anathema to repressive societies. But ideas are not so easily extinguished. The people will find them and root them out, and to such governments, they believe they have to destroy the United States of America because they know they’re on the clock. They know the longer our country exists, the greater the likelihood that their people will demand the right to determine their own destinies. And that’s what they fear most of all.”
In a low voice, Ron said, “Could you say all that again, but slower? I’d like to write some of it down for the President’s next speech.” Arthur suppressed a smile.