Paradise is a Wasteland

A cargo ship entered the atmosphere of Nimbus III.  Its captain, a surly Andorian who had spent several decades in exile from his people and naturally blamed all Vulcans for it, and not at all his poor decisions and worse former business associates, barked at his passenger, a human, sarcastically proclaiming that they had arrived at his destination, the so-called “Planet of Galactic Peace,” and would he kindly leave the ship at his earliest convenience?  The man was all too happy to oblige, although he remained apprehensive about his destination, his goal, and if truth be told, life in general.

     He was greeted, if that’s the correct word, by a crowd of wary faces.  As the cargo ship blasted off again, the man thought he could detect sadness in those faces, too.  He’d heard nothing good about Nimbus III, and now he imagined that these were people who very much wished they were leaving it aboard that rare visitor.  He wondered how long it would take for him to join them in that regard.  First, however, was the mission.

     He thought about asking for directions, but none of the faces looked friendly, and this was the kind of world that had only one city, one habitable quarter, one destination, a cruel mockery of the fact that no one had considered the whole world such a thing since its unlikely beginnings: Paradise City.  He walked on in silence.

     The closer he got the louder it became, and in that he was comforted, beginning for the first time to allow himself to believe he might get this over with quickly.  The loudest noises came from what looked like a saloon of some kind, a den of vice.  He had yet to see any Romulans, much less Klingons, just aliens of every variety.  Strangely, not as many humans as he would have expected.

     The man stepped into the establishment, cautiously, expecting ambushes from every corner.  Ambient music played in the background, and a feline woman danced along to it, suggestively, apparently employed there, a stripper perhaps.  Not that the man was interested.  He was here to see a saint.

     He walked over to the bar and ordered a drink.  Here they had the real stuff, as was clear enough.  There was a drunk seated next to him, slovenly dressed, with several days of scruff on his chin, and he was smoking, mumbling into a glass of something blue, probably his regrets for a wasted life.

     “I wouldn’t accept that,” the drunk muttered, not even bothering to look up as the man accepted his mug.

     “Why?  Is it poisoned?  Wouldn’t make for very good hospitality, or good business.”

     “It isn’t that,” the drunk said, slurring his words.  “It’s just not…very good.”

     “Thanks for the advice,” the man said, prepared to ignore it.

     “I’ve sampled everything our fine bartender has to offer,” the drunk continued, ignoring the man’s attempts to dismiss him.  “Believe me when I say, there is some of it so bad as to make your toes curl.  Not in a good way.”

     Inexplicably, the drunk proceeded to order the very thing he’d been warning the man against.  “Cheers,” he said, clinking their glasses together and downing it in a single gulp. 

     “Vile,” he once again concluded.  The man was completely mystified now, and he still hadn’t touched his own drink.

     “I’m St. John Talbot,” the drunk said, offering a grimy hand.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

     “Seth,” the man said, so completely at a loss that he took Talbot’s hand and shook it.  “My name is Seth.  Just Seth.  I’m here to find someone who calls himself Driver.  He’s my brother.  He’s come here to kill a Klingon named Korrd.  Revenge.”

     “Then we’re going to have a problem,” said Talbot.  “Korrd is part of the governing council here on Nimbus III.  He’s my colleague.  I’m afraid I can’t let your brother do that.”

     “Pardon me for saying so,” said Seth, “but you hardly look responsible enough to be an administrator.”

     “You should see Korrd,” said Talbot.

 

They walked out of the establishment together, Talbot leaning heavily on Seth for support.  The erstwhile saint had enjoyed several more beverages in the meantime.  Seth had sipped on his one drink, after finding it as terrible as Talbot had suggested.  He’d never had a taste for alcohol, and would never have come to a world like Nimbus III had there not been some compelling reason.  Until today he would have considered himself much more like how he had previously imagined Talbot, until he met the man.  At least Seth still had other heroes, like Zephram Cochrane, who couldn’t possibly let him down so thoroughly; Cochrane, the great man who had ushered humanity into the community of the stars, once so full of hope, until mankind had actually met some of these vaunted alien cultures so grandly suggested by the Vulcans.  Seth had never met a Vulcan.  After a century of close contact, very few humans had.  He knew vaguely of a Vulcan serving in Starfleet, someone whose name he felt he should have known.  A doctor, perhaps?

     The truth was, Seth cared very little for the affairs of others.  He preferred a solitary life.  His brother was exactly the opposite, and that was the short version of why he was here now, except for the matter of the Klingons.  Everyone knew about the Klingons.  They were constantly in the news.  Seth grew up learning more about Klingons in the classroom than Vulcans, as if history had become consumed with them, and the endless threat of war they seemed to provoke so effortlessly.  There hadn’t been a war on Earth in centuries, and the last attack on it had come from a species called the Xindi, but no one worried about the Xindi these days, only Klingons.  It was impossible to escape them.  Then one day, the day Seth had dreaded all his life, he found himself drawn into the affair.

    Seth’s mother served in Starfleet.  He saw her for a relative few weeks out of the year, and this was a pattern that had become so regular it seemed perfectly normal.  She served aboard a starship.  He couldn’t remember now which one.  As far as he was concerned, they were all the same, filled with nameless officers, except his mother.  She was a security officer, said to be the most dangerous position possible.  Seth had never believed it, because he believed his mother would live forever.  She would come home, her red tunic freshly pressed, and look so magnificent he could hardly breathe, he was so proud of her.  He didn’t care about the Klingons and their warrior tradition.  As far as he was concerned, nothing could threaten his mother, until the day the Starfleet serviceman came to their door, carrying with him the flag of the Federation, and his mother’s red tunic, both of them so neatly folded, so innocuous, he couldn’t believe what the serviceman was saying, even though his brother and his father began to cry immediately.  It was strange to see his father cry, but all the more to see Driver so vulnerable.  He was older than Seth, and usually conducted himself with as much strength as he could muster.  That day he looked shattered.

     “My brother is a dangerous man,” he told Talbot.  “He’ll stop at nothing to accomplish his goal.”

     “Weapons have been forbidden here in Paradise City,” Talbot assured him.  Seth had given him some medicine to counteract everything he had imbibed.  The effect was enough so that Talbot could walk nearly in a straight line, with or without support.  Seth preferred to hedge his bets.  “This is a place of peace.”

     “I’m sure it is,” Seth said.

     “I’m sure you’re aware of how it was established,” Talbot said, after they had been walking a bit.  The dry night air had a sobering effect, which Talbot had already bemoaned loudly.  He’d told Seth all about the wretched conditions of the planet, which terraformers had attempted to alter, to limited success.  It was enough to make Nimbus III habitable, but only just.  Very little thrived here, except despair.  “The vain hope of three cultures.  You can see for yourself what it has accomplished.  Everywhere, including here, the drumbeats of war sound still.  We have the advantage of cynicism.  Here we can agree to disagree with some civility, over poor drink and worse company, and agree on all of it.  I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I was contradicting myself just then.”

     “That’s okay,” Seth said.  “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

     “You understand nothing,” Talbot said.  “You haven’t met your first Romulan.  They have standards for this sort of thing.  So do the Klingons.  You can find both, if you know where to look.  I suppose I can serve as your guide.”

     “I don’t suppose you know where my brother is?”

     “Never heard of him, “said Talbot.  “Until now.  Sounds like trouble.  Lovely.”

     Seth couldn’t tell if they were headed anywhere in particular.  He was still surprised that this common drunk was the man who was supposed to lead him to his brother.  Everyone on Earth had heard of St. John Talbot, who was supposed to have done more than any human to advance the cause of peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, including the establishment of this very colony, achievements so incomprehensible to some that taken to lauding him with great honors, such as his canonization within a sect of religious belief Seth hadn’t heard of until he did the research.  To him, all it granted Talbot was a fancy title.  That was his impression now, anyway.  Slowly, he was losing his illusions.

     “I’m beginning to doubt there are any to find,” he said.

     “Who?” Talbot slurred.

     “Romulans,” Seth said.  “Klingons.”

     “They're here,” Talbot said.  “Believe me.  We’ve had trouble retaining a Romulan delegate.  They’re always being recalled back to the home world, and their replacements prove less and less experienced.  Soon I expect them to start sending mere initiates from their diplomatic corps.  They pretend to such austerity.  Did you know they’ve been negotiating peace with the Klingons longer than we have?  What has it gotten them?  Worse relations, bad investments, unequal exchanges in technology.  They never learn, and are perfectly content in their ignorance.  The only thing they took from their Vulcan ancestors was ego.  Say what you want about Korrd, but at least he brings a certain dignified history with him.”

     Talbot must have noticed the face Seth made, because he quickly backtracked.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.  You know, they teach his tactics at Starfleet Academy.”

     “I wouldn’t know,” Seth said.

     “You’re not going to last long here with such thin skin,” Talbot said.  “Or you’ll be cursed to rely on crutches, as I have.  Before here, believe it or not, I never drank.  I believed in abstinence, as much as anything else.”

     “Thanks for the advice,” Seth said, not particularly sounding as if he meant it.  “Are we going to do anything besides talk, or am I wasting my time?”

     “The wise man never wastes his time,” Talbot said, clearing his throat. 

     “I’m not looking for wise men,” Seth said.  “I’m looking for my brother.”

     “So you said.  And you came looking for me to help you.”

     “Seeing you now,” Seth said, “I’m sure I was mistaken.”

     “Looks can be deceiving,” Talbot said.  “We have peace here on Nimbus III, nominally.  It hasn’t helped anyone, as you may have noticed.  Do you want to know what I think?”

     “Not particularly,” Seth said.

     “I think we were so busy admiring ourselves,” Talbot said, “basking in the glow of humanity’s hard-won peace, we forgot what it took to achieve it.  We forgot that we had made ourselves better.  In short, we’re not as evolved as we like to think.  You look at me and see a degenerate.  You can’t even see the man you heard so much about.  You can’t imagine how I was ever anything but what you see now.  What does that tell you?  What’s the lesson to be learned?”

     “That looks can be deceiving,” Seth said with not a little sarcasm in his voice.

     “Clever boy,” Talbot said.  Clearly he had sobered up by this point, and he was looking at Seth shrewdly.  They stood outside the gates of the city, the harshness of the landscape beyond its walls reminding them both how alone they really were in the universe.  “You see the Klingons exactly as you always have, as the enemy, as the vicious animals responsible for the death of your mother, as the ones responsible for spoiling the Federation’s bid for galactic harmony.  Forget all our other problems.  They’re the aliens who won’t stop getting in our way.  We explore worlds beyond imagination, and time and time again, the Klingons have already been there, or quickly show up behind us, offering the natives an alternative, a choice.  Who wants such complication?  We bring nothing but glad tidings, and the Klingons nothing but strife and conflict.  Tell me, do you know anything of Klingon culture?  Do you know what it sounds like when a warrior dies?  And while you’re mulling these delicate matters, ask yourself one more question: What does your brother know of any of it?”

     “You’re wasting my time,” Seth said.  He pushed past Talbot and began to reenter the city, but the older man stopped him.  “Get out of my way,” he warned.

     “Or what?” Talbot said.  “You’ll hit me?  My, have we firmly established our differences from the Klingons!”

     “What is it that you’re trying to accomplish?”

     “I could ask you the same thing,” Talbot said.  “You wanted me to help you find your brother.  That is something I am prepared to do.  I know where Korrd is.  He’s out there somewhere, testing himself.  Even as a shallow shell of himself, there is a semblance of himself that he tries to maintain.  That’s what we all do.  You wanted me as your guide?  I make myself available to you.  But I can’t help you if you’re determined to be so obstinate.”

     “I’m shaken, is all.  You’re not what I expected.”

     “I expected nothing, personally,” Talbot said.  “Where I’m concerned, that makes the scales balanced.  You said your brother is the opposite of you in temperament.  Because we have forbade weapons does not mean we don’t possess the implements to fashion them.  Until now, despite our poor conditions, I had not expected sufficient motivation.  Now it seems there is some.  Where you blunder ahead emotionally, I would therefore expect him to move about with more deliberation.  Where you fail to find Romulans, I’m certain he has succeeded.  Therefore, to find your brother, I will help you find Romulans.”

     “It would help if anyone here were predictable,” Seth said.

     “I believe the term you’re searching for is civilized,” Talbot said.  “You wouldn’t like where we hold our meetings, and at any rate that’s not where we’ll find them.”

     They set off in a new direction.  Seth was lost immediately.  He hadn’t studied the maps of Paradise City at all before arriving.  Before he knew it, they had come to a kind of public bath house.  Here at last were Romulans.  He’d never seen a Romulan before, either.  Because he knew Vulcans well enough, he could at least identify them.  It seemed odd to him that no one in the Federation would have been able to spot one less than a generation ago, even though it was Romulans, and not the Klingons, who had waged war against it a century earlier.  They were dressed stiffly, formally, as if the old notions of pomp and circumstance ruled their culture, and they stood just as stiffly, conversing, about what he couldn’t begin to say.  There were enough of them about.  He felt uncomfortable, and for the first time was grateful for Talbot’s presence.  The older man seemed unruffled.  He might simply have been fighting the effects of a hangover.

     Talbot walked up to one casually.  Seth supposed she was the council representative.  She had the same hairstyle as the men, but was alone in more elegant dress, almost provocative, if he could bring himself to describe her that way, the material clinging to her in ways the militaristic garb didn’t on her colleagues.  Talbot made his way back to him, and as if having eavesdropped on his thoughts, observed, “Fascinating creatures.  You know, their women have more freedom of fashion.  Some of them, a depressingly increasing amount, maintain the tradition Romulan styles, whereas others live a little.  It’s the degenerate human touch, they say, perhaps the only real influence our little playground here has managed to provoke.  Then again, I know little more than you do about such things.  Listen to me, prattling on. 

     “I’ve asked my friend if she knows about your brother,” Talbot said.  “She let slip a knowing smile.  They were probably sleeping together last night.  As it happens, he’s inside the bath house now.  You know, I’ve been meaning to visit one of these for a while.  It’s horrible for alcoholics, of course.  Must be how they stand their vaunted ale.  I never touch the stuff.  Well, almost never.”

     “Seems to be a contradiction,” Seth said, hoping to mask his nerves.  “A bath house on a desert world.”

     “Or it makes perfect sense,” Talbot said.  “Depends how you approach it.  Let’s go, then.”

     The Romulans parted around them.  Seth almost wanted to engage one in conversation.  Inside, he spotted his brother immediately.  Driver tried to slip something into his tunic, which was in the Romulan fashion for some reason, but he knew he’d been caught in the act.

     “Brother!” he roared as they embraced.

     “Sounds like a Klingon,” Talbot muttered to himself.  Neither brother noticed. 

     “You had me worried,” Seth said.

     “Takes very little to accomplish that, my brother,” Driver said.

     “Let’s take this elsewhere,” Talbot said.  “I hate to sweat more than I need to, and besides, we should leave the bath houses to the Romulans.”

     “I was just leaving anyway,” Driver said.

     “I’m sure you were,” Talbot said.  He left the rest of his observation to himself.  Seth seemed to have forgotten the urgency of his quest.

 

When they had left the Romulans behind them, Driver became animated again.  He couldn’t stop praising his brother for having traveled to Nimbus III.  Apparently it was the first time Seth had left Earth.  To see them together, Talbot didn’t see the tragedy that loomed over both their lives, but rather, two grown men who shared a deep affection for one another, whatever differences might exist between them apparently easily forgotten.

     That made it all the more shocking when Driver nailed his brother with a cheap shot, driving his fist into Seth’s face with lightning speed and letting loose a horrifying cackle.  The blow knocked Seth to the ground, and he sat in the dry land with a stunned look on his face, until Driver bent down and delivered more punches, a wild man inexplicably unleashed.  Talbot didn’t know what to do.  Finally, he reached out toward Driver, and laced his arms awkwardly over the flailing limbs, and dragged the larger man away.

     “You need to stop this,” he said, hoping it sounded less weak than he felt in that moment.  He had always been a man of peace.  There had been times when he had felt a coward.  He prayed that this wasn’t one of them.

     “It doesn’t matter!” Driver shouted.  “This doesn’t change anything!  I’m glad you came here to see this, brother, but I’m only doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

     Talbot didn’t know if he was talking about what he intended to do to Korrd, or what he had just done.  He didn’t intend to push his luck.  He released Driver from his tenuous grasp and backed away, toward the fallen Seth, reaching down to help him up.  Seth’s lip was bleeding, and he appeared ready to cry.  Neither had seen that coming.

     “You won’t stop me,” Driver reiterated, scowling.  “I’m ashamed of you.  Until this moment, I didn’t want to believe it would come to this.  I thought you would see reason.  I thought you would understand.  Instead, you come here and think you’re going to stop me?  I don’t think so.  But you were always weak.  You’re everything that’s wrong with the universe.  You’re just like the rest of them.  That’s why the Klingons have been able to run roughshod over us.  They take everything they want.  Well, not anymore.  It’s time someone shows them their place.  It starts right here.  When I’m done, the whole Klingon Empire will know my name, and they’ll come here looking for payback.  I won’t be alone.  I’ve just made a deal that will end this once and for all.  Too bad you won’t be a part of it.”

     With that, he stalked off, leaving Talbot to try and pick up the pieces.  Seth sat stunned, licking his wounds.  When he looked like he wanted to pursue his brother, Talbot cautioned him away from such a plan.  “Not now,” he said.  “It doesn’t make sense.  He must have misunderstood the Romulans.  They would never support such a rash course of action.  It’s suicide, and it would lead inevitably to war.  That’s not the Romulan way.”

     “Whatever else it is,” Seth said, “Driver believes what he’s saying.  Even if he has only one Romulan on his side, you can bet he’s convinced others to rally to his side.  He’s right.  I should have seen this coming.  I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”

     “You’re probably right about his allies,” Talbot said.  “But you’re wrong about the rest of it.  You’re no fool.  An idealist always faces impossible odds.  I would know.  I’ve had to live with the consequences of my dreams here on Nimbus III.  As you’ve discovered, there’s no escape.  They call this paradise.  In my experience, paradise is a wasteland.  It doesn’t exist.  It’s an illusion, a mirage, projected by a collective flight of fancy on this desert world.  The moment I came here, and see what we’d built, I knew I’d made a mistake.  I was the fool, Seth, not you.  The only colonists we’ve attracted here are the scum of the universe.  There’s no peace here.”

     Seth walked around a little, to help clear his head, holding a handkerchief against his lip.  “The Romulans gave him one thing for sure,” he said.  “You said there were no weapons here.  Driver now has what he needs to make them.  I never really gave Romulans much thought.  Now I don’t think I like them.”

     “They’re harmless,” Talbot said.  “They’re all talk.  After the war, they realized humans, who at that point had less experience and worse technology, could beat them.  Somehow we’re always finding new ways to win these fights.  First it was gunpowder, then it was the atomic bomb, and now it’s photon torpedoes.  What’s next?  Give one of us the tools to create a simple phaser, and we’re talking war all over again.  I tell you, Seth, I’m rapidly losing faith in humanity.  We say we’ve embraced the better parts of our nature, and where has it brought us?  Face to face with our enemy.  There is always another enemy.  What does that tell you?”

     “Right now,” Seth said, “it tells me we have to pay another visit to the bath houses.  My brother has a weapon.  We need one, too.”

     “The cycle continues,” Talbot said.  “It never ends.  I need a drink.”

     “Not right now,” Seth said.  “We have an opportunity.  You know where Korrd is.  I’d like to believe my brother doesn’t.  That gives us an advantage.”

     “What can it possibly matter?”

     “Listen,” Seth said.  “I don’t know why you were made a saint, but somehow you earned it.  That makes you a better man than me.  No one will ever look at my family now and think we’re holy men.  I see that now.  I have it within me to fight dirty, just like my brother.  Maybe that’s what this is about, not why we fight, but because when we have to, we will.  The difference is motivation.  Maybe my brother isn’t being such a good human right now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to dictate what it means to be human, any more than if I pick up a weapon to confront him, that all humans are irredeemable.  I mean, we’re not Klingons.”

     “Listen to yourself,” Talbot said.  “The arrogance.  What makes us any different?  You’ve never met a Klingon.  What do you even know about them?”

     “Does it matter?”

     “Of course it does,” Talbot said.  “I introduced them to Shakespeare.  I’ve read their translation of Hamlet.  They take great pride in it now, you know.  No human has embraced Klingon culture like that.  In a hundred years of contact, no less.  I think that’s sad.  I can tell you what Romulan ale tastes like.  I’ve made an art of drinking the stuff.  But I’ve never tasted blood wine.  They say it’s too potent for humans.  I remember hearing about a Starfleet captain who stood trial in a Klingon court.  He returned with the kind of talk of madmen.  He was considered a great man, a founder of the Federation, and yet no one listened to what he had to say about Klingons.  He said they weren’t all warriors.  Even now you would be hard-pressed to find a human who believes otherwise.  We talk about exploring ‘strange new worlds,’ all of that.  But it’s just talk.  Science fiction.  We’re the same as we always were.”

     Seth threw up his hands.  Talking with St. John Talbot was exhausting.  “Okay,” he said.  “Fine.  I don’t know the first thing about Klingons.  You can bet my brother doesn’t either.  That’s the point about all of this, isn’t it?”

     “Driver is more like a Klingon than he could possibly realize,” Talbot said.  “I’d wager that he knows it, too, and more, that he’s studied them a great deal more than you have.  He might be able to find Korrd all on his own.  We’re wasting valuable time philosophizing.”

     “No,” Seth said.  “It’s helping.  I’ve never thought about any of this so much.  I’m truly humbled.  It used to be so simple, so black and white.”

     “Nothing is so simple as ignorance,” Talbot said. 

     “Let’s go see the Romulans,” Seth suggested.  Talbot offered no further protest.  They found the scene at the bath houses exactly as it had been their last visit.  Once again Talbot approached his colleague privately, and Seth stood aside, consumed by thought.  He didn’t notice when Talbot received a small package and snuck it into his robes.  The longer they lingered, the more frustrated he became, especially as he saw a steady stream of humans walking past in the distance.  He didn’t think he could see his brother, but he couldn’t be sure.  He could hear the soft purring of Tribbles in the vicinity.  When he was a boy, he’d badly wanted one as a pet, but his mother refused, insisting he’d understand why in the future.  When he learned what made them so disagreeable, he made a point to send her a message of thanks.  He wondered now if the little beasts weren’t a little like humans.  He’d never had such a thought before.  He pushed it aside.  He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

     Talbot walked back up to him, and produced the package from his robes.  “It would be best not to show this in public,” he warned.

     “What makes the Romulans so special?” Seth asked.

     “How do you mean?”

     “If you know that they have the materials for such things,” Seth said, “why let them hold onto it?”

     “Everyone has their hobbies,” Talbot said.  “We’re not tyrants here.  Besides, you can’t maintain order without a few compromises.  There is such a thing as necessary evil.  I believe that summarizes the Romulans perfectly.  You just saw how useful they can be.”

     “Like a scorpion,” Seth said.

     “What was that?”

     “Nothing,” Seth said. 

     “You mentioned scorpions,” Talbot said.  “I’m a hopeless alcoholic, I’m not deaf.  I’m familiar with the fable.  They are inherently unpredictable.  All things being equal, that means that most of the time, they are in fact entirely predictable.  As you’ve so delicately pointed out, there are worse things to fear.”

     “They’ll arm both sides,” Seth said.  “I thought that was a Klingon trick.”

     “And a Starfleet one,” Talbot said.  “We live in interesting times.”

     “Isn’t that an old Chinese curse?”

     “I believe so,” Talbot said.  “You say you’re benefiting from our conversations.  I believe I’m beginning to as well.  You’re an interesting man, Seth.  I’m glad we’ve met, despite the circumstances.  Let’s be on our way.”

     “Where to next?”

     “To Korrd,” Talbot said.  “If I’m right, your brother will be able to discern his location as well.  He’s had enough time now.  He also has a numerical advantage, as I’m sure you noticed.  There may yet be time for another drink.”

     “I don’t think so,” Seth said.

     “It was worth a try,” Talbot said.  “It’s just as well.  I always like to be sober when I’m shot at.  It sharpens the senses.”

 

They had crossed a considerable expanse of dry land.  At one point they were threatened by a bald man, although he was too feeble to cause any real alarm.  He seemed to be farming the dust, for what neither of them had a clue.  Seth felt sorry for him.  Like everyone, he was no doubt looking for something to believe in.  Perhaps one day he’d find it.  If he wasn’t so lucky, it’d find him first. 

     In the distance, they saw Driver and a mass of humanity.  Only Seth’s brother was armed with a real weapon, but most of the others brandished staffs and torches, like a real mob.  In front of them stood Korrd, who like Talbot had been when Seth found him, was hopelessly drunk.  There were remnants of a ritual of some kind strewn about, but Seth couldn’t even begin to interpret what it might have been.  Another thing Talbot had been right about.

     Talbot was the first to speak.  “Stop right there,” he shouted toward the crowd.  He was unarmed, but had found his courage at last.

     “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Driver replied.

     “And miss all of the fun?” Seth said, pointing the phaser rifle he had cobbled together at his brother, who returned the gesture.  Neither flinched for so much as an instant.  Korrd blinked with no real comprehension for what was developing around him.

     “Tell your men to leave,” Talbot said.  “There’s no reason for this to escalate.  You’ve found your prey.  You don’t need them.  Your enemy won’t be intimidated.”

     Korrd seemed to swell at the words, as if he could sober himself with a conscious thought.  Driver’s men looked toward him and then their leader, but never at Seth or Talbot.  They knew where the real danger lay.

     Driver considered his options.  “You won’t shoot me,” he said.  “How could you?”

     “Don’t test me,” Seth said.

     Driver fired his rifle, aimed at a Klingon trinket that instantly exploded.  Seth returned this gesture by disintegrating the staff of the man standing closest to his brother.  Driver turned in utter astonishment.

     “What else needs to happen?” Talbot said.  “Tell them to leave.  This doesn’t concern them.”

     “The Klingon stays,” Driver says.”

     “That stands to reason,” Talbot said.

     Driver hesitated for another moment, and then told his men to stand down.  When he saw that Talbot didn’t think that was good enough, he told them to disperse.  They did so reluctantly, but in a few minutes, it was just Talbot, Korrd, and the two brothers, once again aiming their rifles at each other.  All around them, the harsh landscape of Nimbus III loomed, and the growing darkness shone a thousand stars over the whole scene.  Klingons lamps provided minimal illumination.  Korrd began to pace.

     “You haven’t proven anything,” Driver said.  “I didn’t need an audience.”

     “Of course not,” Talbot said.

     “I’m surprised at you,” Korrd said, addressing Talbot.  “I thought you had more honor than this.”

     “And I thought you were put out to pasture,” Talbot replied.  “No longer any use to the Empire.  This was a humiliating assignment for you, wasn’t it?”

     “Stop that,” Driver said.  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

     “Do you now,” Talbot said. 

     “I am going to shoot him,” Driver said.  “He is going to die.”

     “Yes,” Talbot said.  “You will have your revenge, and you will have provoked a war, and finally, humans will be free of Klingons.  What about the Romulans?  The Cardassians?  The Breen?  Or all the other evil little alien civilizations out there you have not even had the privilege to have despised yet?”

     “You think you’re so clever,” Driver said.

     “No, I think I’m a fool,” Talbot said.  “But I’m not the one pointing a weapon at a defenseless man.”

     “Watch your language,” Korrd said, “you spineless pa’Tach.”

     “And now we know what everyone really feels about each other,” Talbot said.  “Really, Korrd, I’m wounded.  I thought we worked together so well.  I thought we were friends.”

     “Let me tell you something about your friend,” Korrd said.  “Let me tell you, rather, a story.  It begins simply enough.  A young boy loses his parent.  He vows a blood oath.  He becomes a warrior.”

     “You know nothing about me,” Driver said.

     “I’m not talking about you,” Korrd said.  He spat on the ground for emphasis.  “Long ago, I believed in the Empire.  I rose all the way to the rank of general.  Songs were sung about me in the Great Hall.  I won many victories in glorious battle.  Do you know what happened next?  I fell in love.  I admit, I never saw it coming.  She captured my heart as swiftly I had territory in countless campaigns.  I had never met anyone like her.  I had not had an easy life.  I had never expected good things to happen to me.  I had a hardened heart, forged in the hottest flames.  I had closed myself off from love.  And yet none of that mattered, from the moment I met her.  She changed me completely, or so I believed.  I was happy, truly happy for the first time in my life.  We wed, and we started making a new life together.  But I made a mistake.  I didn’t resign my commission.  I kept my rank, and my duties, in the grand army of the Empire.  I was a soldier; what else would I have done?  I started going on campaigns again, and slowly, things began to change.  This time, it was not for the better.  It was not that she grew bitter, or resentful.  She knew what it meant to be a Klingon just as well as I did.  The problem was in me.  Battle did not feel the same now.  Now I had something to lose.  I remembered what it was to be that young boy again.  In time, I realized I could no longer be the man she had married.  In shame, I left her.  And in time, she left me, too.  The great love of my life was over.  I was still a warrior, but I had fallen into disgrace.  My services were no longer wanted.  I was sent here.  And I can no longer go back.  How do you like my story?”

     “What is this?” Driver said.  “Are you trying to trick me?”

     “He’s talking to you, I think,” Korrd said, still addressing Talbot.

     “No, you stupid animal, I’m talking to you,” Driver said, addressing Korrd.

     “Watch your tongue, human,” Korrd said.  His poise had continued to shift.  Seth had no doubt he was as deadly unarmed as anyone holding a rifle, especially among present company, no matter how fat and out of shape as he appeared to be.  He maintained his grip on the weapon, but he found that he was beginning to pity his brother.

     “You’re trying to confuse me,” Driver said, “make me question myself.”

     “I don’t care a wit about you,” Korrd said.  “It’s my colleague who concerns me.  You told him where I was?”

     “The stench carried far into the city,” Talbot said.  “You should bathe more often.”

     “You’ve seen the bath houses,” Korrd said.  “Inhospitable.  Bad company.”

     “That’s what got us into this mess,” Talbot said. 

     “Romulans and their obsessive hygiene,” Korrd said.  “No wonder they lost the war with you.  Too busy preening themselves.”

     “I’m warning you,” Driver said. 

     “You’re in no position to threaten me,” Korrd said.

     “You have no idea what you’re even talking about,” Driver said.  “You’re not even smart enough to know when your life is in danger.  And we’re supposed to fear you?”

     “You know,” Korrd said, “most of the time we use intimidation from sheer numbers.  You had the right idea when you came here, I think.  I warn you now to stop insulting me.  What’s most insulting is that you’re not even being particularly creative about it.”

     “I don’t know why I’m even listening to you,” Driver said.  Clearly the situation had begun to get to him. His voice betrayed signs of stress.  Seth may not have known everything his brother had been up to in the last few years, but he doubted Driver had become cold-blooded, much less a killer.  He could remember more innocent times quite clearly.  He wished he could talk to that version of his brother.  He wondered now if there would ever be such an opportunity again.  He couldn’t believe now that he’d forgotten what his brother was really like, despite everything.  Hot-headed, yes, but they weren’t really that different after all.  This is what allowed him to continue pointing the rifle.  It shook in his hands now, he hoped imperceptibly.  He wanted this situation to end, but he couldn’t bring himself to address Driver.  He didn’t trust himself. 

     Talbot continued to speak for him.  “This is your opportunity to walk away,” he said.  “No one needs to get hurt.  You’ve proven your point already.  I’m sure Korrd is impressed by you.  Aren’t you, Korrd?”

     The Klingon only grunted, which could be interpreted any number of ways.  Driver didn’t do so favorably, which increased the tension.  He raised the rifle so that it pointed directly at Korrd’s heart, or at least, where he obviously assumed it was, where it was in a human, anyway. 

     “You slaughtered my mother,” Driver said.  Seth knew his brother well enough so that he could detect the cracks appear in his voice.  As he had been earlier, Seth thought his brother was about to cry.

     “Just to be clear,” Korrd said, “are you saying I killed her directly, or as a matter of a leader’s responsibility?”

     It was the wrong thing to say.  Driver fired his rifle a second time, but he must have been nervous, because the shot went wild, striking into the rocky soil harmlessly, but it provoked Korrd to action.  Faster than he had any right to move, and because Driver had foolishly been standing too close to his target, he grabbed the rifle, and within a heartbeat, another shot had blazed in the cool night air.  Driver’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground.  Seth screamed aloud, and then found himself falling, too.

     He looked up with bleary eyes to see Talbot kneeling down toward him, casually picking the rifle from his clutched hands and tossing it aside.  “We won’t be needing that anymore,” he said, as kindly as he could.  Seth searched for the Klingon, but he was nowhere to be seen.  They were alone once again.

 

The funeral was a quiet affair.  Notably, a few Romulans attended, out of respect or guilt Seth couldn’t say.  Talbot himself presided.  Seth hadn’t been to one since he was a child.  He felt awkward during it, like he somehow didn’t have the right to be there.  He hadn’t told his father yet, but he doubt the old man would have wanted to travel to Nimbus III anyway.  No one did, unless they were desperate enough.  That was the whole point, wasn’t it, the first lesson to be learned from the sorry affair?  Korrd stood somewhere in the back, or so Talbot reported afterward, because Seth couldn’t bring himself to look at the Klingon again, not because he hated him, or felt sorry for him, but because he wouldn’t have known what to say to him.

     “I trust you now know what it is to be a resident of Paradise City,” Talbot said to him at the small reception that followed.  They were once again in the establishment where Seth had first met Talbot.  Neither of them were in a drinking mood.

     “I think I understand only too well,” Seth said.  He watched as the feline woman danced.  She was pretty good, as long as you didn’t stomp her tail.  The customers here were depressingly slow to catch on to such civilities. 

     “Where will you go now?”

     “I hadn’t thought about it,” Seth said.  “The possibilities have either grown, or they’ve shrank.  I can’t decide.”

     They sat in silence.  A Romulan entered, wearing a hood.  As Seth realized now, nearly everyone here wore hoods, as if they were all attempting to hide in plain sight, ashamed of themselves, perhaps, or their surroundings.  Maybe both.  He watched as the Romulan pulled off his hood, revealing blond hair.  Seth had no idea how that might have happened.  As far as he knew, all Romulans, like Vulcans, had jet black hair. 

     “I couldn’t do it,” he said.  “I couldn’t shoot my own brother.  I wasn’t strong enough to save him.”

     “We’re all cowards here on Nimbus III,” Talbot said.  “That’s why we’re here.  No shot at redemption.  We’re the dregs of the galaxy.”

     “Don’t talk like that,” Seth said.  “You’ve done a great thing here.  I’m sorry I didn’t notice before.  Sometimes it just takes time for anyone to notice.  I remember some of the old legends, one particularly about the phoenix.  It was a great bird.  Burst into flames, died spectacularly.  But then it was reborn from its own ashes.  They say it has magical properties besides, can heal anything with its tears, or something like that.  My problem is that I read too much, know too much trivial nonsense like that.  The real world didn’t really exist for me, before.”

     “This isn’t the real world,” Talbot said, gesturing around him.  “This is fantasy.”

     “Maybe,” Seth said.  “But it’s your home.  If anyone can make this work, it’s you.  You know, I can’t bring myself to hate him.”

     “Korrd,” Talbot guessed.

     “I didn’t hate him before, either,” Seth said.  “I could never understand my brother in that regard.  Sometimes tragedy changes us.  I look at Korrd and I don’t see a beaten man.  I know we all heard his story.  He wasn’t looking for pity, but clearly he thinks he’s broken, worthless.  I don’t see him that way.  In a strange sort of way, I’m proud of him.  He was responsible for the death of our mother, but it wasn’t personal.  We aren’t at war.  We never were.  She died in a trap set by the natives of a planet that didn’t belong to the Federation or the Klingons.  We didn’t even know the Klingons would be there.  That’s the sad truth.  I don’t know if the natives set the trap because of the Klingons, or if it just happened to be there.  We went there at all because we were afraid the Klingons would get there first.  I don’t blame us, either.  I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are plenty of humans who are just as quick to blame ourselves as the Klingons.  It’s just so senseless.  The way I hear it, her starship had been looking for Korrd for weeks.  She did her duty. She died in the line of duty.”

     Talbot ordered a bottle of blood wine.  The bartender seemed surprised, but he promptly brought one to their table, along with two glasses.  It was thick and red.  As Talbot poured it, Seth wondered if it really was blood.

     “No,” Talbot said.  “I will be here for a long, long time.  It’s best that I get used to it.  You have your life ahead of you.  Don’t worry about me.”

     “It’s not you I’m worried about,” Seth said, eying his glass.  “Klingon Shakespeare, you say?  Whatever made you think of that?”

     “Everyone dies in Shakespeare,” Talbot said.  “It seemed appropriate.”

     “To death,” Seth said, raising his glass.

     “To life,” Talbot said, raising his.

     “The continuing mission,” Seth added.  “May you live in interesting times.”

     “The curse again,” Talbot said.

     “I’ve come to think of it as more of a blessing,” Seth said.  He downed his glass as quickly as he could.  It scorched his throat considerably.  Talbot finished soon after.  He looked right at home.  Seth got up and patted Talbot on the back.  There was nothing left to say.  There was a transport humming in the atmosphere, perhaps the Andorian returning.  His arrival seemed like such a long time ago now, a lifetime.  He wondered if Talbot really would be okay.  He was more worried about him than Korrd.  For Seth, this had been a watershed experience.  For Talbot? 

     It’s never easy being a saint.

Just Another Crucifixion at the Messiah Ward

You're probably going to shrug off the events of yesterday.  I mean, you have every reason to: we crucified another Messiah.

I know!  I don't understand why they keep popping up, either.  It's the definition of insanity, of a whole insane race.  They stubbornly persist in their belief that some day a Messiah will come, and that when they do, their people will be vindicated.  Well, let me tell you some truth: these "Messiahs" will keep appearing, and we will keep crucifying them.  What else are we going to do, right?

I wish I could say that there was some way to differentiate them.  I know their believers certainly believe there is, but damned if I have any way to tell.  But what do I know?  I'm "just" a Roman.  I'm "just" a soldier carrying out another execution.  One in a very, very long line.  You'd think they'd learn.  You'd think they'd care enough about their own lives.  But executions are cheap business.  Line them up all day every day all week long, I say.  It's just a job.  You might consider me a monster, but I say I'm just doing what I'm told.  And what difference does it make, anyway?  They just keep coming, and I just keep crucifying them.

Have you ever seen a crucifixion?  It's grim work, let me tell you.  Not for me.  I've grown desensitized to it.  But to those being crucified?  It isn't pleasant.  It's designed to be unpleasant.  In every sense possible.  It's a long, slow death, and the whole time, you know exactly how it ends.  There are no exceptions.  Ever.  You don't step down from a cross.

Yet they just keep coming.  True, crucifixions can be ordered for any number of offenses.  Insurgency is a good way to earn them.  Rebellion.  The Empire will endure any number of fools.  That's what empires do, after all.  They're designed to withstand chaos.  And the Roman Empire is the greatest agent of order ever conceived.  Before us there was no civilization.  But the best way to earn such a death?  Declare yourself Messiah.

I just don't get it.  I don't even understand the concept.  I admit that.  Supposedly the Messiah was supposed to be a great king.  I haven't seen a great king among those people, ever.  Puppet kings can still be great.  Greatness does not preclude taking direction.  True greatness comes from taking direction, if you ask me.  There was never someone so perfect that they could achieve greatness all on their own. 

Take the latest "Messiah."  He had twelve followers closely associated with him.  Well, eleven.  I'm told one of them betrayed him.  There were scores of others who believed his claims, too, but it was one of his closest followers who turned him in.  Then he was handed over to us, and as I said, there was really only one answer to claims like that.  Messiahs mean insurrection.  Messiahs mean someone truly believes they can supplant the Empire.  Such hubris.  The Empire will endure for a thousand years.  And then another thousand.  And so on.  What could possibly replace it? 

These followers all fled when he was taken, by the way.  Every one of them.  Not a soul of their kind was found at the tribunal.  How's that for support?  These Messiahs all claim the same thing, though, that they don't need help, that they can do it on their own.  That their fate is in their hands.  Funny, I never saw anyone crucify themselves.  I would know.

As I've said: many, many other "Messiahs" have been crucified, and many more will be in the days and years and centuries to come.  It's inevitable.  It would be funny if it weren't so sad.  How does a Messiah die?  Well, let me tell you.  This latest one seemed to endure all of it in silence.  Once or twice he muttered a few things, true.  He seemed anguished one minute, betrayed (well, of course) and then positively exultant the next.  He actually said he forgave us for executing him.  He claimed we had no idea what we were doing.  Yeah, right.

Well, that much made his death unique.  Very few Messiahs are so congenial in their crucifixions.  On a whim, I looked into his life a little.  Seems he made a lot of wild claims, and some of them were actually taken seriously.  So seriously that they asked for volunteers to watch the tomb some rich fool gave him to lie in.  Claimed he was going to be resurrected.  Would you believe that tonight is supposed to be the last night he lies in there dead?

Yeah.

But I took the assignment eagerly, just so I could boast further.  I mean, I've certainly sounded smug about the whole affair already, haven't I?  I'm certainly no believer.  No Roman could be.  This was a provincial matter, a tiny speck in the eye of the universe, if even that.  Barely registered in the grand scheme of things. 

There was some commotion, concerning the moment he died.  Apparently there was some kind of eclipse.  I have to admit that had never happened before during one of these.  And an earthquake.  There was damage to land and property everywhere.  Some of us (I won't name names) freaked out a little, betrayed everything we stand for and started believing.  Ha!  Such nonsense!

As I said, you've seen one dead Messiah, you've seen them all.  This one was whipped like all the rest of them.  Like so many others.  You don't need to be a Messiah to be whipped.  Or to be crucified, as I've said.

There was nothing special about this man.  Let me be clear about that.  He died quickly.  So what?  He babbled to one of the men crucified alongside him something about seeing him again in the afterlife.  Ha!  Romans don't really believe the stuff they say about the afterlife, about the gods.  It's just a good way to maintain order in society, to give it some predictability.  The only thing these guys were going to see after their death was a big black void.  Nothing.  You die, the end.

I found comfort in volunteering to watch the tomb.  It was hotly rumored that some of his followers would attempt to steal the body, to fake the "resurrection."  You don't need a formal execution order on people like that.  They've signed their own death warrant.  They show up and they die at the point of the sword.  Easy as that.

Sure.  You've fallen asleep.  Leaves me alone.  Leaves me to experience...nothing.  Just another night.  Watching the tomb of a "Messiah."  Just another dead body.  Nothing to see here anyway.  They all ran away.  They're not coming back.  They never really believed, either.  Just a way to pass the time, following him around.  Gave meaning to meaningless lives.  Insignificant lives.  They gave themselves temporary significance, is all.

Long night.

And hey, maybe they weren't such cowards after all.  A woman has come.  Rumor has it she's a whore.  If I weren't on duty...Business before pleasure.  Let her be.  All she's going to see is a sealed-off cave.

What?

What?

I didn't hear anything.  That's impossible.

What?

That's impossible.

That's impossible.

It's empty.  It's empty.  I was here the whole time.  It's empty.  How is that possible?

Search the whole...It's empty.  There's no body in there.  No body.  Just burial clothes...folded neatly.  They rolled back the rock, stole the body...folded the burial clothes neatly?  This all sounds insane.  I sound insane...I didn't fall asleep.

I didn't fall asleep!

I'm a dead man.  They're going to assume I fell asleep.  The woman's gone.  I have to get out of here.  I did fall asleep.  I did.  That's the only explanation...They came here after I fell asleep, rolled back the rock, stole the body...folded the burial clothes neatly...

It sounds insane.  I didn't fall asleep.  I know I didn't.  I can account for the whole night.  And there you are, still asleep...

Wake up!  You fool!  You foolish fool!  Idiot!  You've condemned us both!  How can I possibly explain this?  I can't.  I can't.

The body is gone.  Gone.  I have no explanation.

His death was different.  Forget everything else.  Nothing else matters.  I was there.  I've been there for countless crucifixions of Messiahs...whole fields of Messiahs.  So many they contradicted each other.  No one ever even believed any of them.  But someone came back for this one...They believed. 

What to believe?  How do I reconcile this?  I know how the Empire will.  No formal acknowledgment.  Under any circumstances.  To do otherwise would be impossible.  Incomprehensible.  And those who gave up this man will do the same.  For the same reasons.  They will cling to their faith just as Romans cling to theirs.  Empires depend on it.

This is a contradiction, a paradox.  Completely unprecedented.  What do I do?

What else?  What else can I do?  But...believe?  I saw it.  I was there.  I...

I believe.  I believe.

I believe.

One Size Fits All

The nessa are on the prowl.  If you’ve never encountered these beasts yourself, be glad.  They’re nasty little creatures, to say the least.  I’ve heard stories of them swallowing humanoids whole.  They could just be stories, but you never know.  Anyway, it’s best to avoid them, except here such a thing is impossible.  You learn to make peace with this quickly, or you meet a bad end.  It’s just that simple.  Which again, because you’re here, such a fate is around every corner.  Still, better to be forewarned, right?

     “Here” is the city of Zulu Kendi, where young Emma Haskell has lived for the past few months.  She’s hated every minute of it, but then she doesn’t have much say in the matter.  She’s seven years old.  Her parents decided to emigrate here because of the turmoil on Earth, still struggling to make sense of life in an intergalactic community.  Emma’s parents chose a strange world to move to, however, because it’s Danab, home of the Danab, most famous on Earth as the enemy in the Danab War.  You see where I’m going with this; the operative term is “enemy.”  Still, hard times make strange bedfellows.

     Emma is braving the nessa because her older brother has gone missing.  She adores her brother, idolizes him even, and has just proven that she will do anything for him.  He’s twelve years old, which for some siblings would be a lifetime’s difference, but as I’ve said, Emma has chosen to view things differently.  Elmer (were she a different sort, Emma would probably spend most of her time making fun of her brother’s name) is such a good student that even when they relocated to Zulu Kendi, where most of the students are typically high-achieving Danab, he still managed to excel, inserting himself effortlessly into the lifeblood of the student body.  Elmer fancies himself a writer, and as such immediately signed up to be a journalist for the school paper.  That’s actually where the trouble began, believe it or not.

     Elmer vehemently disagreed with their parents’ decision to relocate to Danab.  He believed it was essential to remain on Earth and take part in the rebuilding process.  When they talked about it, he told Emma he thought it was probably because their dad was an unrepentant idealist, who argued throughout the war for peace, and who no doubt thought bringing his family to Danab would be a gesture of reconciliation between their two peoples.  It’s not that Elmer is racist (Danab are in fact human, taken by the Tikanni in ancient times into space on some wild scheme no one yet comprehends), but that he’s kind of an Earth-first proponent.  Secretly Emma still thinks that makes him racist, but she never felt like arguing the point.  At any rate, their family was hardly alone.  In Zulu Kendi, which like every city on Danab looks like a large cluster of military barracks, there’s a growing population of humans, all of them struggling to adapt to their new life, in the hopes of sharing in the general prosperity of the Danab, a generally far superior culture, at least as most people describe it.  Emma has never been sure about that.  She sees a lot of value in the books she borrows from her brother’s library.

     The problem is, Elmer took his position at the paper to mean something different than what the editorial staff might have expected of it.  They had tasked him with representing the human perspective in an opinion column, but instead he took a more investigative tack.  He became more and more secretive as the weeks went by, until Emma had to beg him for even a hint of what he was up to.  “Ghosts,” he would tell her with a mischievous grin.  “Ghosts and goblins.”  She wasn’t sure if that was a symptom of his personality, or that he might be cracking under the pressure of life in his unwanted new home, but she had already resolved to stand by him, right up until the moment he disappeared.  That had been days ago.

     Officials had come by the Haskell residence, a cramped flat in a tall building like everyone else’s, telling Emma’s parents something she couldn’t quite overhear.  She’d been told to wait in her room.  After the officials left, she’d been told not to worry, that everything would be fine.  Her father always looked on the bright side, and her mother supported him; it was that simple.  Emma didn’t for a minute rest that easy.  She disagreed with her brother about how to accept their situation, certainly.  Even at her age she already understood calm resignation, whereas Elmer frequently exhibited flashes of a temper that was always threatening to get out of control.  Still, she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

     That was why she snuck out one night and went in search of the one friend she’d managed to make since they came here, a funny little boy named Fax.  Fax was a Puck, a species generally considered spineless, less interested in exerting themselves and more in assimilating whatever cultures they happened to come across, so obsessively they seemed to lose their own identity in the process.  Puck had bug-eyes and pale skin, which to humans could appear disconcerting, giving them an almost pleading, wounded puppy look.  The Haskell family used to have a dog, but dogs weren’t allowed on Danab, something about environmental contamination.  (As far as Emma could tell, the Danab themselves had no pets.) 

     As usual, she finds him loitering in the exercise field, watching as Danab athletes (which describes all of them) practice various physical-contact sports, with a few enterprising humans in the mix.  Fax never plays; he’s too frail for something like that.  As usual, he has a book with him, a personality quirk that had first led Emma to introduce herself to him, a common interest that allowed her to indulge her curiosity.  On Earth, in her small Maine hometown, there were few enough aliens running about, and none Emma had ever met personally, certainly not at school.  “Welcome to Voodoo Kendi,” he’d said at the time, a pathetic grin plastered across his face.  “I’m sorry,” she’d replied, “I thought it was Zulu Kendi?”  “Oh it is,” he’d said, “but some of the locals like to call it Voodoo Kendi.  The humans, anyway.  My name’s Fax.  I’m a Puck.”  They’d become fast friends.

     The book Fax has with him this time is one of the mysteries he loves so much, a Florian Linden, something Emma had introduced to him, obscure enough on Earth that even the Puck wouldn’t have heard of it, no matter how much scouring they’d done of human culture.  She doesn’t have much time for it, but her mother had enjoyed the books, and always has them around.  The one Fax has now isn’t one of theirs, but rather something he must have found on his own.  It’s exactly this trait that Emma now hopes to exploit.

     “My brother’s in trouble,” she says without preamble.  Puck tend to be impatient, so it’s something Fax will understand.

     “The ghost story,” Fax says knowingly.

     “Don’t call it that,” Emma says.  “This is serious.  He could be in real trouble.”

     “We’re all in trouble here in Voodoo Kendi,” says Fax.  He’s learned to grin with more authenticity.  Puck don’t usually grin.  It’s something he’s taken up to try and impress Emma.

     “Stop calling it that!” Emma nearly yelps.  She finds him endearingly exasperating.  Many of the things they say to each other are somewhat ritualistic, as with any friendship.  She doesn’t really mean to scold him, and she hopes he understands.  Thanks to him, she feels much older than seven.  She’s spent a lot of time trying to decide if he’s seven, too, or just looks it.  “You need to put your helmet back on, Fax.”

     At this point it should be noted that the Danab, and everyone who comes here to live, wear battle helmets all day long.  Even the children are required to wear them.  Emma thinks they’re horrifying; the tops of them have what someone being generous might call a crown, but she’s always considered horns.  They cover the entire head, and when she wears it, outside of her home, she feels like a monster.  Fax calls her “the Princess of Voodoo Kendi,” which is one of the many endearing things he does, and it at least makes her feel better about it.  However, he always slips his off, even knowing the regulations aren’t above going one step above reprimanding him for doing so.  They’ve speculated what “one step above” means, whether it means prison, or worse.  Fax always insists the Danab would go easy on immigrants, but Emma isn’t so sure.  If anything, she fears they’ll be worse, which is her brother speaking, and she knows it.

     “It itches,” he says, unconvincingly, for the hundredth time.

     “Put it on,” she insists, for the hundredth time.

     “Sure thing, your majesty,” he says, for the hundredth time.  Emma only just notices that he’d been sitting on his helmet.  With all those spikes, she can only imagine how.  She wonders, not for the first time, how horrible she looks in hers. 

     “Ready to play football!” he laughs as he slips it on, which is another thing frequently uttered between them.  The Puck have no concept of football, and would never be able to play it even if they did.  The old human game’s too gentle a sport for the Danab, so he’s not likely to see it played in Zulu Kendi, either. 

     “Okay, down to business,” Emma says.  “Tell me what you really think.  No more joking around.  Should I really be worrying?”

     They both take a moment to witness a vicious takedown between two Danab players.  Neither has a clue what’s actually getting played.  Neither player’s helmet falls off, at any rate.  Emma reflects for the hundredth time that she’ll never get used to these Danab helmets, no matter how ubiquitous they are.  She wonders if she would even be able to identify her brother if she saw him, which she supposes is half the point.  She adjusts hers again.  She can barely see out of it.

     “You worry about everything,” Fax says.  “That’s one of the things I like about you!  Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re very human that way.”

     The only response she can think to make to that is a curtsy.  She imagines that she looks stupid, or very grave, like any Danab. 

     “It’s not uncommon for this sort of thing to happen,” Fax continues.  “I’ve been here longer, remember?  I know these things.”

     “That’s not very reassuring, though,” Emma says.  They watch as the Danab who was crushed into the ground gets back up, without a helping hand from his opponent.  No one else is paying them the slightest attention.  “I’m just so lost, Fax,” she finally admits.  For once she’s grateful to have the helmet.  It hides her tears very well.  “I don’t know what to do.”

     “Do what I do,” Fax says.

     “That is literally the least helpful thing I’ve ever heard,” she says.

     “I bet your brother says that all the time,” Fax says. 

     What might otherwise have come off as an insensitive comment actually helps relieve the tension they’re both feeling.  They’re seven, after all, one of those ideal ages.  All things are possible, in ways that might never happen again.

     “Prowl the streets, Emma,” Fax says.  “That’s what I do.  That’s what all Puck do.  We’re constantly absorbing information.  Most of the time it seems pretty useless, I know.  But sometimes you learn things.”

     “What about the nessa?” 

     “Oh, right!”

 

Somehow they still go through with Fax’s idea.  They can hear the snarls all around them, and Emma has to stop herself from snatching Fax’s hand, fearing that if she did she might crush it.  She has to be brave.  Her brother is no doubt depending on her.  They’re headed in the direction of the Zulu Kendi security checkpoint.  The Danab take security very seriously.  There’s a reason why the war never reached here.  As always, it gets hot under the helmet.  Since neither of them has ever needed, or wanted, to go to the security checkpoint, they don’t really know where it is.  Emma’s mind begins to wander.  What if the Danab consider the nessa to be pets?  What would that say about them?  She’s never seen a nessa, only heard the stories about them.  Danab schoolbooks surprisingly talk very little about wildlife.  Most of this world seems to have been developed into the kind of city that leaves very little of nature left to it.  Certainly there are no parks.  The exercise field doesn’t have grass.  Emma hasn’t seen grass, or a single tree, since she’s gotten here.  Strangely, there are flowers sprouting in odd locations.  Her mother used to be a botanist.  She still keeps a vase on the dining room table, which if their home were inspected would probably be considered a violation. 

     “Tell me a story,” Emma says, her nerves starting to get the best of her.  Howls echo through the air. 

     “I couldn’t do that,” Fax says.  “I’m not any good at storytelling.”

     “What’s the point of collecting cultures if you can’t tell stories about them?” Emma says.

     “I didn’t say no Puck at all could tell stories,” Fax says.  “Just me.  That’s not the way my brain works, I think.”

     “It would have been helpful,” Emma says, after a moment.  Every street looks exactly the same.  The Danab don’t value architecture, or at least the art of it.  Everything is made to follow a single aesthetic: to be imposing.  Emma definitely feels imposed.  Then she sees her first nessa. 

     She could feel their presence all around them the whole time they’ve been walking (slinking around like cowards, she’d call it), but it’s one thing to know they’re there, and another to finally see one.  They’re deceptively small.  They even look completely harmless.  The nessa are hairless, it turns out.  They look not unlike cats.  Then she sees it open its mouth, and two jagged rows of fangs reveal themselves.  If it were a cat, there were only be a few fangs, but this is a mouth full of fangs, no doubt about it.  Then she realizes another key difference between nessa and cats: Emma has just looked at the paws, and saw that the claws are longer and sharper, too, and they are no doubt permanently extended.  So: a nightmare after all!  These can’t possibly be pets, not even for the Danab!

     She slowly slinks away, realizing that she’s inching behind Fax, and all at once Emma feels miserably guilty.  Little human girl that she is, she’s still more capable of defending them than a frail Puck boy, who might as well be made of wind right now.  She screws up her courage, slips off the helmet, and then lets loose a mighty scream.  It’s the only action that comes to mind, but incredibly, it works.  The nessa stalks away, licking its chops suggestively. 

     A hand immediately clamps itself down on her shoulder, and Emma jumps.  She slowly turns around and sees the imposing figure of a Danab security officer.  The hand digs into her, and she becomes aware that the officer would like her, and Fax, to follow him.  After a short, almost embarrassingly short walk, they’ve arrived at the security checkpoint.

     For several silent moments, after the officer has let go of her, Emma and Fox are made to stand (not sit!) nervously as they await whatever verdict for their unauthorized activities they’re about to get.  Finally, the officer turns back to them, and hands Emma’s helmet back to her.  “One size fits all, young lady,” he says, his tone mirthless.  “Try not to lose it.”

     She hadn’t even realized that she’d lost it.  Everything happened in an instant.  Emma blinks back her confusion.  “I was looking for my brother,” she stammers.  “Elmer Haskell.  Twelve-year-old human male.  Was looking for ghosts,” she adds, stupidly. 

     “We know all about Elmer Haskell,” the officer says, his tone remaining neutral, dull, somehow threatening (but that could just be her imagination).  “We found him, too, wandering the streets.  He’d been bitten.  He wasn’t as lucky, or resourceful, as you.  Lost quite a bit of blood, according to the medical reports.  He’s fine.  He’ll be returned home shortly.”

     “You could’ve just told us!” she finds herself shouting.  “You don’t have to be so cruel!”

     “Cruel?” the officer says.  “Sorry, allow me to introduce myself: Truant Officer Antenor.  We find a lot more strays these days,” he adds to no one in particular.  “I wonder if you even asked your parents about your brother’s whereabouts?  Sometimes the answers we seek aren’t so mysterious, young lady.”

     “Told you,” Fax whispers in her ear.

     “You did no such thing!” Emma says, shouting again, for reasons that are now beyond her, possibly for consistency’s sake.

     “Run along,” Truant Officer Antenor says.  “Try to be careful.  Try to convince your brother that we aren’t the enemy, when he returns.  And tell him ghosts aren’t real, on this or any other world.”

     Emma and Fox are already trotting out the door when the Puck, again whispering, says, “That’s not true.  I can think of a dozen worlds off the top of my head!”

     “Good for you,” Emma says.  She’s crying again, but it’s okay, since she’s also slipped her helmet back on in the meantime.  “Do you think that man was right?  Was my brother wrong?”

     “War isn’t the only thing that makes enemies,” Fax says.  “We can do it in peacetime, too.  How do you think wars happen?”

     “It was totally unprovoked,” Emma says, almost in a whisper.

     “Maybe,” Fax says.  It’s the most thoughtful she’s ever seen him.  She takes little comfort in it.

     When they reach the exercise field again, Fax begs off, claiming there was a game he wanted to watch, but Emma knows he’s hopeless with sports even as a spectator.  It’s just not something he understands.  She doesn’t protest.  Instead she finishes the walk as she began it, alone, and spends the rest of it lost in thought.  Such things don’t normally come easy to seven-year-olds, you understand.  The world is supposed to be uncomplicated, for the last time, at that age; innocent.  Right? 

     Later, when her brother at last shows up, Emma throws her arms around him in the warmest hug she’s ever given.  Things are changing.  They changed years ago, but she’s only now starting to catch up.  Suddenly it doesn’t matter what Elmer believes, but she’ll still love him anyway.  In the distance, she hears nessas, but for the first time she doesn’t even flinch.

My Favorite Thing, Part 2

For several years, but what seemed like many more, the girl, who had once been a princess, in another lifetime, existed on the frozen planet that as far as she knew never even had an official designation.  It was at the farthest reach of the galaxy, and so she'd taken to calling it Galaxy's End.  Astrid's only companion in all that time was an android, Etienne, who seemed to have lost his mind.  Constantly, he babbled.  She thought he was stuck in some nervous condition.  He always seemed to be trying to process some unknown algorithm in the circuits that made up his brain. 

Once, they stumbled upon an old man named Ledger, whom Astrid immediately recognized as the mentor of her arch-nemesis, Mogor, whose pursuit of her had led Astrid to the bleak landscape of Galaxy's End.  Etienne claimed not to know him, but the old man's behavior betrayed otherwise.  Ledger explained that he had been banished there for practicing the dark arts, and Astrid knew that he was telling the truth, at least to a certain extent.  The truth was that he and Mogor had had a falling out.  She considered them within the same breath, and as soon as possible, she left his makeshift workshop, and journeyed with Etienne back to her crashed ship.

Ledger's workshop, it should be noted, had been modified from the remains of another ship, probably his own.  Astrid had not failed to observe this.  She had also noticed the prototype androids tucked away in dark corners.  She began to suspect the truth of Etienne's existence, even if the android himself remained oblivious, chattering away about utter nonsense.  Most people would have found him very difficult to take seriously.  Astrid was in a unique position.  He was her only company, and in the beginning, that had been enough.

There was no way Ledger could know who she was, how she had run afoul of Mogor's dictatorial grip on Brinier, a world that had once been a vibrant utopia, or at least as her contemporaries now viewed it, in comparison.  This was where Ledger had learned his arts, presumably at the behest of Mogor, who was otherwise powerless, dependent on the large retinue of experts who surrounded him.  If Ledger had agreed to cooperate with Mogor, that would surely have been the end of them all. 

In a way, Astrid's defiance had been much the same.  She was the last of the royal family that had preceded Mogor's reign of terror.  She had known Ledger in earlier days.  He had served in her mother's court, until the day his son died, a youth named Aldan.  After that he completely fell apart, and turned his interests in new and perilous directions, in the hopes of resurrecting him.

Here on Galaxy's End, he seemed to have succeeded.  He had no doubt been here before.  Etienne remembered, the one lucid thought he continuously returned to, Ledger's second landing, which her own had so vividly echoed in his addled mind.  He had always claimed to remember a time when his circuits processed things more clearly, but never well enough to identify his own origins.  Clearly that had been a deliberate move.  In the end, Ledger couldn't bring himself to confront what had happened after all, much less meet his son all over again. 

Somewhere in Etienne's circuits were the memories of Ledger's son, Aldan.  Astrid's arrival had forced their resurfacing, and then a short circuit.

She'd puzzled out all of this over time.  Time was all she had, after all.  Etienne helped her survive, not the least because of the company he provided, but because he helped repair her ship, as much as possible, over time.  The problem that loomed over them all was the prospect of Mogor discovering they all still existed, here on Galaxy's End. 

Astrid decided that this was a possibility entirely out of her control.  She instead chose to reunite father and son.  Returning to Ledger's workshop was the most difficult thing she ever did, no doubt because of certain charms he'd put in place, as it didn't appear to be in the same place she and Etienne had originally found it.  With Etienne's help, naturally, they succeeded. 

Ledger was livid.  This time he offered no pretense of ignorance, and instantly Astrid knew she'd been right.  "How dare you," he shouted, not at her, as she might have expected, but Etienne.  He had come to blame his son after all.  It was a simple coping mechanism.  Or he'd simply gone crazy after all these years.

Astrid refused to give up.  "He deserves better than that and you know it," she said.

Ledger stared at them for an interminable amount of time.  Etienne remained oblivious.  "Excuse me," he said, "but I believe we have come quite a considerable distance.  It would only be fair to treat us better than that, as a host."

Completely clueless, as always.  "What my friend means to say is," Astrid found herself interjecting, "we just want to say how much we appreciate what you've been doing."

"Excuse me?" Ledger replied, incredulous.

"The charms," Astrid said.  "I just realized it isn't just your workshop you've been shielding, but this entire planet.  Whatever else you may be thinking, we appreciate that.  All of us."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ledger said.

"The man I knew would have been dead decades ago," Astrid continued, ignoring the old man's protests.  "You were already old when I last saw you.  Frail.  You know who I am.  Let's just put everything on the table.  I'm not asking for anything more.  I'm not asking you to forgive anyone, least of all yourself.  You know what you've done, what you could've done.  All of it.  You owe Etienne better than you've given him, and you know it."

For a moment, after silence once again consumed the workshop, Astrid thought she had pushed things too far.  Then Ledger pushed her aside, and grabbed Etienne in an embrace.  He began to cry.  "My favorite thing," he muttered.  "My very favorite thing."

Then he seemed to have pressed a button, because Etienne jerked a little, and then went limp.  Ledger had turned the android off.

"It's for the best," the old man said.  Astrid thought for a moment, and then she decided she agreed.  "I'll try again," Ledger continued.  "Some day.  Not tomorrow."

The android collapsed into a heap.  Astrid thought she'd be horrified, seeing Etienne like that, but it actually came as a kind of relief.  Somehow she knew it would end like this.  Some day, he would be switched back on, but his mind would be different.  In another body, probably.  But he would be the same, wouldn't he? 

That's what she chose to believe, as she made her way back across the frost, to her ship, the one Etienne had repaired long ago, made it flightworthy again, and blasted off, gone from Galaxy's End at last. 

Ledger's charm wouldn't be broken that easily.  She was free to go anywhere.  Mogor's reign would end, and maybe she would play a part in that.  All things seemed possible.

The Many Lives of Oliver Row (Monster/Frankenstein) Chapter 3

The one consistent element of the books that somehow changed their content every time he read them, Henry realized in the dead of night, when he had been struggling to find sleep, tossing for hours (it seemed to little avail), was the presence of the name Oliver Row.  This was impossible, or at the least highly improbable, because Henry happened to know a man named Oliver Row, and as a quick Google search confirmed, Oliver Row is not a common name now, and so to have found another man called that, two hundred years ago, at the time Victor Frankenstein was writing these elusive journals...

He poured over the books again, at random, just to be sure, so that it couldn't be dismissed as the trick of an overly tired mind.  And yet there he was, in a thousand references, sometimes in a kind of conspiratorial role, sometimes offhand, sometimes as the main thrust of whole paragraphs, as if he'd stolen the focus of someone else's narrative.  He was always there, and his presence alone wasn't the sole continuing element, but how it was represented, again and again, shifting from book to book, to be sure, so that passages were the same but found in different places.  It was deeply unsettling, to say the least.  Everything else changed, even the general thrust of what Frankenstein was trying to say, to accomplish, the experiments he wished to perform.

He was forced to consider something truly outrageous, that the man he knew was the same man his ancestor wrote about, and if he was going to get to the bottom of this, Oliver Row was going to have to tell him personally.  Henry couldn't bring himself to breach the topic with Sabin, whom he rarely saw these days, occupying the same spectral aspect his employer had occupied in the days before they finally met.

Of course, there was a problem with this conclusion as well: Henry hadn't actually seen Oliver in more than a decade.  In fact, he couldn't even be sure they were still friends.  Oliver was the kind of man who lost and gained friends easily, as if it were a sport.  When Henry first met him, Oliver complained about losing his previous circle of friends, feeling incredibly isolated, and yet the one thing Henry knew best about him was that Oliver was so desperate that he made it incredibly easy to alienate those around him, a classic vicious circle if there ever was one.  In these days of social media, it would be easier than ever before to reconnect with Oliver, but the trick of social media is that it makes friendships more superficial than ever.  Even if he were successful, it would be incredibly unlikely for Oliver to be particularly forthcoming about anything, much less dark secrets of the past.

Still, Henry made the effort.  He was what he still considered a relatively young man, in his thirties, an age when people are still capable, or so he hoped, of establishing themselves with the prospect of many productive years ahead.  He was innocent and naïve, obviously.  He waited around for minutes and then hours and then days, and finally Oliver replied with a flippant response, something designed to evoke their past relationship but brook no further conversation, nothing meaningful, at least.  So Henry became desperate.  He went to Sabin and told him what he'd discovered.

At first, the large man, whose features seemed to have been borrowed from someone else's body, only frowned at Henry.  Then he let loose a belly laugh, the first time Henry had seen any form of merriment from him.  It reminded Henry that everyone called Sabin the Monster.  Everyone seemed to have a different reason.  Henry's was beginning to be that Sabin never took the human element into account, which is to say he lacked any visible form of empathy, which is common enough among people, but not to the extent Henry had observed in Sabin. 

"You have no idea, even now," Sabin finally said, after regaining control of himself.  "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into.  You still haven't guessed.  Very well.  Oliver Row is not a single person but many persons.  There have been many people who answered to the name over the years.  The reasons are no longer important.  The man you call your friend is no doubt the current incarnation, assuming he hasn't already been replaced.  It's a dangerous occupation, being Oliver Row."

This didn't really clarify anything for Henry.  He said as much.  Sabin scoffed at him, and then said, "You poor miserable idiot.  Finish your genealogy.  Then try mine."

With that, he walked away, not even bothering to exchange pleasantries, which for him was perfectly normal.  Henry wondered if there would be an end to this. 

At this point, you'll no doubt have guessed that in this strange world where Victor Frankenstein was a real person and not a fictional character, where a man named Henry Grenoville was his descendant and still had no idea what the doctor had accomplished two hundred years earlier...Sabin was the Monster.  Pop culture has forgotten, because of the classic horror movies, that the Monster was not only intelligent, but exceptionally so.  His unnatural life put him in a curious position, which he chose to exploit near the fringes of society, in the most mundane way possible: at a university, where he gained tenure long outside the memories, as I've said, of the current faculty. 

What Henry doesn't know is that Sabin is about to lose his tenure, because his department is being eliminated.  What he's about to find out is that his friend Oliver Row, who has indeed been replaced since he last saw him, who in fact is Olivia Row now, has been hunting the Monster for two hundred years, at the behest of Victor Frankenstein himself.  How they put the charm on Frankenstein's books is a story for another time. 

When Henry returned to his research, trying to find something he'd overlooked, Olivia became alerted to his work.  The irony about Olivia Row is that she's dying, a tumor choking the life out of her brain a little bit at a time.  To know her is to have experienced her seizures, at which time she is totally incapacitated, but otherwise she's perfectly formidable, thank you.  Her wits work perfectly well, while they still exist, while she still exists.

Henry believes no one knows what he's been doing, but that isn't the case.  He thinks he shouldn't be paranoid, but he should.  Olivia is about to set a trap for him: the honey trap.  It's the best con in history, the one that caught Victor Frankenstein, too (history is always repeating itself).  Olivia should know.  She was there, after a fashion, right?