by R. M. Meluch
The general nodded. It sounded in keeping with the Bel’s sometimes split character. The Bel’s words, thoughts, and actions were not always outwardly in synch. The curse of the Bel’s preeminent position was that he was seldom free to speak his mind or heart.
Issurish was afraid that Shad Iliya was right. Issurish would bear the brunt of this debacle. The Bel would be furious if he reported Shad Iliya dead, more furious if he brought him home.
But in time, the Bel would forgive and reward those who made hard and ugly decisions for him and saved him from public grief.
Yes, Shad Iliya knew the Bel very well.
Issurish hadn’t actually been asking for help from his prisoner. He was informing him of his status. For the rest, Issurish had been thinking aloud to someone he knew could appreciate his predicament, talking calmly of deadly concerns, as if they were strolling in one’s ornamental garden admiring the blooms and bragging about their children. It was the patrician way—artificial and comical to most, but it was a way Alihahd was bred to, knew, and was at home with—civilized to the last.
“Morning too early for you?” Issurish asked.
He meant the firing squad.
“Fine,” Alihahd said and rose.
Issurish stood also and paged his orderly. In a sudden surge of bottled-up disappointment, he said, “You never struck me as the venal type, Shad Iliya.”
“I was not bought,” Alihahd said.
“I was hard put to think so,” Issurish said. “The Bel loved you.”
A pang of sadness struck through Alihahd’s veil of apathy. It had been a long time since he let himself think about whom he caused pain when first he ran away. “I love the Bel.”
“Present tense, sir?”
“Present tense.”
Issurish paused. “Shall I tell him?”
“You may.”
He hadn’t meant it as a message. It was a statement of fact.
Issurish’s orderly appeared and was given orders to take the prisoner to his quarters.
Alihahd was to spend the night aboard the flagship. The sergeant escorted him to secure quarters inconvenient to any exit. He waved the key, and the doorway’s opaque energy barrier disappeared.
The orderly was a reluctant sort, like the medic, unhappy in his present duty of serving an archcriminal of the Empire. But he wasn’t above talking to him.
“How long have you been on this steamy rock?” He referred to the planet Iry.
“Best part of a year,” Alihahd said, preceding his escort into the cabin.
“Oh. Then you weren’t in it.” The orderly turned on the light. “Guess you were real happy, though. When we lost Jerusalem again.”
Alihahd’s limping step hitched midstride. “What?”
The orderly grew uneasy. He licked his lips. “Just how isolated is it out here?”
“Exceedingly,” Alihahd growled, turning. “What are you saying?” He stalked back toward the sergeant with demanding steps.
The sergeant drew his weapon. “Don’t. Just stay right there,” he said, poking the air with his weapon for emphasis. “I meant just what I said. We lost Jerusalem. You didn’t know? Now you know. We lost a lot of good Na′id, too. Makes you happy?”
“No,” Alihahd said. “I am not happy.”
The orderly snarled, “Then what the hell do you want?” He backed out the doorway and reactivated the barrier, cursing.
Alihahd stood motionless in the middle of the cabin, lost in shock.
Jerusalem was free again. What did it mean? What did any of it mean? The historic battle—all the lives—it had been for nothing.
Why did we fight? Why did we fight? Jerusalem stands.
He gazed at the ceiling, chiding himself for trying to make sense of a senseless battle. All human battles were senseless and gainless, given time. It was one of the reasons—one of the good ones—why he couldn’t do it anymore.
He broke from his marbled pose in weariness and sat on the cot.
The quarters were spartan, but luxurious next to the Aerie. It was odd to have all the conveniences again. He could easily become soft in conditions such as these, and he realized why he’d almost died on first coming to the mountain.
He was to spend his last hours in comfort. Here was controlled air temperature, pressure, and humidity, a soft bed, a pillow, water on tap, and even the extravagance of a bath and hot water.
And a vial of poison on the nightstand. Very thoughtful.
Alihahd bathed and dressed. He was loath to get into his soiled clothes again, but did so out of defiance. He’d already turned down the offer of a change and didn’t want to reverse his word now. Not that there was anyone to see.
Then he had a visitor.
Alihahd didn’t look at the young officer when he came in and wouldn’t have recognized him on sight anyway, for he was now a captain and twice as old as he had been at Jerusalem. Neither did Alihahd know the voice since it had dropped and become a man’s. Alihahd only knew that the visitor was one of his own from the question: “Why, sir?”
The captain could tell that his former general heard him, though Alihahd didn’t acknowledge. Alihahd wasn’t quite ignoring him. He was simply elsewhere.
“It wasn’t that woman-in-the-boat business, was it?” He hadn’t taken the miracle seriously at the time. He worried now that Shad Iliya had.
“No, it was not that,” Alihahd said. Even he wasn’t certain that the incident had really happened now for all the time between. After a very long pause, he said, “Sinikarrabannashi.”
“Yes, sir,” said his former orderly.
“You were at Jerusalem,” Alihahd said like an answer.
“Was that it?” Sinikar said.
There was silence. A sigh. “Dead Arabs,” Alihahd said.
Sinikar’s eyes flickered left and right, searching for a connection—something to make the words make sense. His general was as bewildering as he had been on that last day. “Sir?”
Alihahd turned, his face graven, his stare frightening. “Dead Arabs,” he said. Sinikar backed to the door and fled.
The land outside would still be in sunlight. Time yet was left before nightfall. And before sunrise. Alihahd lay lightly drowsing on the bed, dreaming.
He dreamed that he wakened. It was fifteen years ago. He was in bed aboard his own flagship. His slave, Pony, had drawn his bath for him and stood next to the bed, white tail swishing, brown doe eyes gazing attentively down to him.
Soft voice said, “It is 0600, sir.” And Pony recited the day’s itinerary and asked if he wanted coffee or tea.
He ordered coffee, rose from the bed, thanked Pony, and stepped into the bath. He didn’t feel water.
At that point, he realized that he was actually still in bed dreaming.
He also realized that someone really was in his compartment.
He opened his eyes. It was Pony.
The little slave sat on a stool, agitated, blushing, near tears, his hands clasped between his knees, bright eyes fastened on his old master.
It was to be expected, but it had never occurred to Alihahd that Pony would still be attached to the 27th Army.
Alihahd sat up. His muscles had stiffened and shortened during his brief sleep, and he ached all over. He knew he was awake this time, and Pony was truly here.
Pony looked older in the texture of his skin. Fine lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. But his form, face, and musculature were still boyish. His eyes were still innocent—but that was because he was a stupid animal, thought Alihahd. A slavishly devoted slave, Pony had always adored him. But Alihahd was not prepared to find Pony devoted still. Sweet alto said, “I was sent to see if there was anything you require.”
Alihahd shook his head. Muscles at the base of his neck knotted and pulled. “No, Pony. Nothing.”
Pony was disappointe
d—devastated. He stood to go. As Pony turned away, Alihahd caught sight of a heavy white scar on the left side of Pony’s slender golden neck. His throat had been cut.
Alihahd jumped up, seized Pony’s narrow wrist before he could reach the door, and pulled Pony around to face him. “What happened?”
Pony shrank, frightened by his demanding tone and rough hands.
Alihahd pushed Pony’s head aside to the right, brushed away the long snowy hairs of his crested mane, and inspected the deep knife-edge scar.
The first thing that came to mind was that sometimes slaves were killed as grave gifts to their masters. But Alihahd had seen his own funeral, and no slaves’ throats had been cut at his cenotaph. And if Pony had been intended as a gift, Pony would be dead. Nobody botched a public sacrifice.
Alihahd took Pony’s face in one hand, thumb and fingers on his cheekbones, and brought the enormous eyes around to face him straight. “Who did that to you?” he said.
Small hesitant voice sounded muffled into his big palm, “When I thought you died . . . .” He faltered.
He’d done it himself, Alihahd realized in amazement.
The little fool didn’t realize he’d been gashing the wrong place. The human jugular vein was on the left. Pony’s was up the back. He’d tried to kill himself.
Alihahd beheld his inhuman slave, mystified. You did that for me, Pony?
Alihahd loosed his hold from Pony’s face. Reddened prints rose on gold cheeks where his fingers had pressed.
Naturally, Pony had not been allowed to take his own life simply because he wished it. He was too valuable a property for that privilege.
Alihahd then noticed for the first time that the pretty eyes were sick to death of life. It had gone overlooked initially, briefly outshone by Pony’s excitement at meeting his beloved master again.
Velvet-soft lower lip quivered. “Sir, will they make you die again?” Pony asked, and his eyes flooded tears.
Alihahd’s impulse to comfort him was checked by an old awkwardness. Alihahd couldn’t bring himself to take the weeping creature in his arms. He would feel odd and clumsy.
So he gave a command. “Help me to bed, Pony.”
Pony’s tears stopped at the reassuring sound of order and normality. Pony wanted nothing more than to be allowed to do his job and forget that tomorrow must come. He laid out nightclothes for his master and helped him undress.
And Alihahd wondered, Was I always fussed over like this? He guessed he had been, because Pony was unchanged.
Pony even remembered to bring him a shot of whiskey. Alihahd hesitated—as if Mr. Hall would appear out of vacant air and hit him. Then he swallowed it, felt it warm him, and he gave the glass back to Pony. Pony dimmed the lights and withdrew.
Alone in the almost-dark, Alihahd lay back on the bed. He turned his head on the pillow and looked over to the poison on the nightstand.
• • •
General Issurish came to the prisoner’s quarters in the morning.
Alihahd lay stretched out on the bed, the covers thrown off, his arm draped loosely over the pillow.
He was alive.
Blue eyes opened.
“I’m disappointed,” Issurish said.
“So am I, actually,” Alihahd said.
He could not do it. Never could. If he could, it would never have come to this. There would’ve been a body for Shad Iliya’s funeral.
The supreme commander’s jaw tightened. “Well, then. Come on.” He left and sent Shad Iliya’s slave in.
Pony laid out Shad Iliya’s dress uniform and all his decorations. Alihahd knew what it meant.
“O gods, are we to go through all that?”
This was ugly business. He should have taken the poison.
Pony placed all the ribbons and medals and braids in order—Alihahd didn’t remember where all the damn things went—and Pony combed his wayward blond hair.
“I should trim it,” Pony said, trying to make the wisps lie down.
“No, you shouldn’t,” Alihahd said. “Just put on the hat and have done with this.”
Shad Iliya always wore his hat dead square regulation, no matter which way the winds of unofficial military fashion blew: slouched, pushed back, or cocked to either side. Pony centered the hat just so, and stepped back. “You look grand, sir.”
Alihahd checked in the mirror. He cut a trim figure, appearing not so gaunt as imposingly tall. The uniform could make anyone look good, and it felt right, after all this time, a dark cobalt blue with epaulets on his wide, angular shoulders, and clean-fitted lines down to knee-high black boots.
Pony, can you not guess what I am in for because of this?
Pony did not guess, and Alihahd didn’t tell him, not to see his bright admiration fade.
The guards came to fetch him.
“Time, sir.”
Shad Iliya was marched out, his hands unbound, in front of the entire assembly of Na′id personnel and the captive rebels as well. It was a long walk, but he didn’t limp. The uniform, the moment, his name constrained dignity. He saw his destination—a dead tree that had been trimmed down to a tall, neat post. Alihahd wondered if the proceedings were being recorded.
At the post, he turned smartly to face the multitude. The guards dropped back, and Issurish stepped up, being the only person of sufficient rank to perform this duty. His face wasn’t that of the genial host on the flagship, but of a severe and efficient officer of the Empire, angry at having to do this. He stripped Shad Iliya of his rank, medals, and all the Na′id insignia with which he had just been decorated. It seemed ludicrous. But it hurt. Alihahd was surprised how much it hurt.
Issurish finished by ripping the twin symbols of Galactic Dominion/Human Supremacy from Shad Iliya’s hat and tossing the hat to the ground as trash. The insignia he placed grudgingly in his own breast pocket, a deep frown fissuring his jowls. He spun and marched away.
Left bareheaded, Alihahd felt the pleasant morning air on his scalp. The sun was rising to a clear sky. The day would be brilliant.
No longer called sir, but you, Alihahd was backed up to the post and chained there. A firing squad of twenty-one filed into position. The first markswoman asked him ritually if he forgave his executioners.
“Yes,” he said.
The butcher waited nearby with a skinning knife with which to carve up the remains into pieces that the ships’ food preparers were programmed to handle. The man looked like the kind who enjoyed his work. Alihahd hoped he was not one of those who kept souvenirs—not that Alihahd would know who did what with which part of his carcass, but it bothered him to think that the fleshy MP might come into possession of one of his blue eyes, or whatever else he might want to step on.
The row of marksmen dropped to one knee so as not to obstruct the view of the legion.
Alihahd could look into faces, and he saw more awe than hatred. None of them had a blood score with him. Alihahd had never taken a Na′id life.
Their strained stillness transcended mere military attention. It was an awareness that they witnessed more than a death. The legend had only begun.
A breeze stirred on the plain with the warming air.
Ah. Eaninala.
He smelled charcoal and yellow grasses.
He was offered a blindfold; refused it. He felt the sun on his face. He looked up at the bright sky. I want to live very much. He thought of all that was beautiful as the marksmen took aim.
The sun and Amerika.
21. Nemo
THE ORDER TO FIRE hung unspoken, gnawing at the silence like the final resolving note of a melody, which was natural and expected, that didn’t come. Alihahd waited for it, became impatient, then alarmed. He lowered his gaze from the sky. The sea of faces before him had all blanched—even those of the firing squad—and all eyes stared past Alihahd, gaping at some horrible visio
n beyond him, threatening to break ranks. Someone cried, “Marauder!”
Alihahd cranked his head around his post to see what they saw.
The ghostly image of a sailing ship. The derelict brigantine coalesced from shimmering air. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he shivered in the heat. Something elemental in the rag sails and rotting timbers never lost power to affect him.
And suddenly all the spaceships imploded—all of them—with a resounding crack and thunder roll as the great engines consumed themselves. Astounded, Alihahd’s thoughts flashed like lightning, his heart leaped, and he roared, “Hall!”
Na′id troops cried out and scattered everywhere, trying to stop what had already happened.
And the rebel captives all bolted.
The melee that ensued covered the plateau, spread into the forest as rebels fled or mobbed their guards and seized their weapons. Shots were fired. The unarmed fought with their hands, with rocks, with anything within reach.
Alihahd was in the midst of it, tied to the stake, ignored. He wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t even duck.
The fighting moved away into the jungle. It wasn’t a battle. It was a brawl. The Na′id were torn between chasing their stampeding prisoners and fighting the fires around their ruined ships. The ships won the most attention, though there was nothing left to save.
Properly rigged, a Na′id ship could destruct with extreme efficiency.
This was a Na′id nightmare—to be stranded on an uncharted alien world. Alihahd felt a pang of compassion for the panicked troops. He knew their terror.
He heard cries in the jungle, “Get the Marauder! The Marauder has a ship!”
The Marauder does not. It is on the bottom of the ocean, thought Alihahd.
All that was left of the Marauder’s ship Nemo was “just a gadget”—and a few implosion detonators, it would seem. The fearful specter still loomed over the plain.
Alone and neglected, chained to the stake, Alihahd watched the grass fires switch with the fickle winds, and he wondered vaguely if the flames would come to him.
The fighting moved farther and farther away, until the soldiers were only voices to Alihahd. He still heard their distant shouts among the trees.