CHAPTER 11: Haunted by Himself

 

Alexander eyed the open door with suspicion.

He got up and walked over to it. Peering inside he saw a small chamber. There was a plain cube about eighteen inches to a side in one corner. In the back was a small area with a lip on the floor and what appeared to be a drain. He stepped inside.

A small waterfall flowed from a slot in the wall into the area with the drain. It was a shower. Alexander moved over to the cube and the top lifted off to reveal a seat with a large hole in it—a toilet. Alexander took immediate advantage of the discovery. When he finished showering under the waterfall he simply stepped out of the area and a rush of air dried him off.

Alexander stepped out of the bathroom, still naked and hungry, but feeling somewhat refreshed.

“Now what?” he asked aloud. “I assume you’re watching me. Well, Nazeera, I’m ready for the next round.” There was no answer. “Probably testing my patience,” he grumbled. Truth be told, that was a problem. After winning his inner battle Alexander was ready to get on with whatever the Chem had in mind, so long as it wasn’t immediate execution.

His statements to the Assemblage were at worst exaggerations of his personal views, so he wasn’t worried about his story. His personal survival was a moot point, as quite frankly Alexander was too far from any kind of rescue to make longevity a concern. It was a grim point of reality, but once he unloaded this emotional baggage, it gave him a remarkable feeling of freedom. His concern was now that of putting the best possible face on Humankind as a species, and not with individual survival. He was ready; he wanted to get going.

He decided that if the Chem weren’t going to play along then he’d at least keep up appearances. As his racing mind spun through the last hours Alexander began a choreographed routine used in martial arts. The slow movements focused his concentration, eating away at his self doubt, and leaving him calm with strong willed resolution. After fifteen minutes he got the desired response.

“Terran, I desire your attention,” announced a strong female voice. It was Nazeera.

Alexander continued his routine. When she repeated her demand, he answered, “You can call me by my name, Nazeera. You know it well enough, unless the Chem have excessively short memories or no tape recorders.”

There was a lengthy pause, then she said, “Very well, Alexander of Terra, I will let you have this small victory. I do not wish your subjugation, only your attention.”

Alexander stopped. “You have my attention.”

Another door slid open in the curved wall. “Enter; it will bring you to a chamber where we can discuss your situation in greater comfort. If you are obstinate, Alexander, let me assure you that I have several unpleasant ways of forcing you to do my bidding.”

“That will be unnecessary,” Alexander told her. He went through the opening and into a short hall of the same gray metal. After ten paces he entered a small Spartan chamber. There was a chair placed before a large plain metal desk, and behind that desk stood Nazeera of Chem. As soon as he saw her he was suddenly, and uncomfortably, self conscious of his nakedness.

“Interesting,” she said, her brow rising. “Modesty? Why? You showed no such reaction in the Assemblage, and you seem to be well made. I do not see anything to complain of.”

“I thank you for your kind observation,” he said sarcastically, “but I had other things on my mind during my trial. Being alone with you is somewhat different. Besides it is not the custom of my people to go without clothing.”

“Nor mine. Here, this is fitting—from one carnivore to another.” She threw him the purla pelt.

Alexander caught it, trying to mask his surprise with a grimace. The pelt was still warm, and his hands were red with blood. “We usually tan our pelts on Terra,” he said. “Is there some hidden message in this? Am I to dress like a caveman because my intellect and manners are so primitive?”

Nazeera laughed, and to Alexander it almost sounded like she was sincere. “A warlord with a sense of humor—you surprise me, Alexander.” She snapped her fingers. A black sphere the size of a basketball appeared from within a niche in the wall. It had various appendages, several rows of winking lights, and a large red eye-like lens.

It flew over to Alexander, hovered for a moment, and then said, “Excuse me, please!” and snatched the pelt from his hands.

“Stand still!” it ordered, and a swath of blue light scanned him up and down and all around.

Alexander shuddered involuntarily.

Nazeera’s eyes narrowed. “Does the automaton cause you discomfort?”

“No, it simply reminds me of something the Scythians did,” Alexander admitted. “Their presence, even their memory, makes me patently uncomfortable.”

“I know what you mean,” Nazeera said.

“You’re huge, how am I supposed to tailor proper clothing for someone this size?” the automaton asked. “There’s not enough material to fit him into the current style.”

“Do the best you can,” Nazeera said.

“The things you people force me to do,” the automaton whined. “Promise me he won’t go out in public—I won’t have my work ridiculed!”

“That won’t be a problem,” Nazeera smiled.

The ball went to work. It let go of the pelt, which floated in the air under the scrutiny of a reddish-orange beam of light. Alexander smelled roasting flesh.

“Sphere’s with personalities, a gay tailor by the sound of it, fantastic,” Alexander said.

“You don’t have automatons on Terra, I assume?” Nazeera asked.

“We prefer to work with our hands.”

“And this makes the tailor gay?”

Alexander smirked, and said, “Not necessarily.”

“How strange, that a warrior race such a Terra should allow for a tailor,” Nazeera mused, making a note on a small rectangular pad.

Alexander realized he was letting his wit get the better of him, this was business. He recovered, saying, “Who else would make the armor? You can’t just let anyone forge it.”

“Of course.”

The worker finished tanning the pelt and proceeded to cut it with amazing speed. Every once in a while it stopped working to fly over to Alexander, measure him again, mumble to itself, and then go back to work.

“How long is this going to take,” he asked.

“First you mock me, and then you ask me when I’m going to be done! Miracles take time!” the automaton said.

Alexander sighed and turned away from Nazeera.

“I have had plenty of time to see your nakedness, Alexander. It does not shock me, nor do I find Terrans as strange or ugly in the flesh as I would have thought.”

“I’m glad I’m not revolting to you on that account.”

“You are beyond my likes and dislikes, Alexander of Terra,” Nazeera told him. “Personal matters are beyond my purpose here.”

“And what is your purpose?” he asked, turning toward her and crossing his arms over his breast.

“Simply put, to find as much about yourself and Terrans as I can.”

“There are better ways of doing that then sentencing me to death,” he told her. “History on Terra teaches us that incarceration and intimidation are the least effective ways for people to communicate. Different races, different species, even men and women have found more practical methods of understanding one another.”

“Do you insinuate sexual activity? I can’t see that as appropriate or desirable in this situation. Certainly a Chem male wouldn’t think so. Is this a particular obsession with Terran males?”

“It is an obsession, certainly, but that was not my meaning,” he replied with a genuine laugh. “I meant something more innocent such as a sporting event, a concert or dinner—something more representative of normal life than imprisonment. I’d have to be clothed in proper attire, of course.”

The automaton flew around to him, saying, “Well, this is as proper as it’s going to get, time and materials permitting. Go ahead, put it on!”

Alexander shrugged the pelt on. It was cut as a tunic that reached to just above his knees, but the automaton fashioned a collar, sleeves and even a belt. It fit to perfection and allowed him absolute freedom of movement.

“There is a short cape, just in case it gets cold or you have to go formal—please don’t use it for that, my reputation is at stake.”

“It’s amazing,” Alexander said, and he meant it. “You made this out of a fresh pelt in only five minutes? Amazing!”

“Well then, that’s quite kind of you,” the automaton said, and it whirred away apparently quite pleased with the compliment.

“So what do you say, Nazeera?” Alexander said, turning back to the Chem woman. She looked on with what might be termed interest, he couldn’t tell. “I’m now properly clothed. Would you like to take a walk in the park, or better yet how about dinner? I’m starving, and I promise to be talkative while I eat.”

“Circumstances prevent us from enjoying recreation at the present time, Alexander.”

“Why is that?”

“Can you be so ignorant, or are you just being obstinate?” “I am ignorant, Nazeera,” he told her forcefully, but calmly. “I am ignorant of you, of where I am, and why I am here. I am ignorant of everything about this entire ridiculous situation.”

“You were read the charges by the Elder,” she reminded him. “Terra, whom you represent—”

“I cannot claim to represent my world without the consent of the population—”

“Nonsense, Alexander of Terra, it is the right and duty of every being to represent their race wherever they may be and under any circumstances. You are here, alone of your race, therefore, you are the de facto representative of Terra. You will be treated as such.”

Alexander sighed with resignation.

“We accuse Terra of complicity with the Scythians in planned acts of aggression against the Empire of Chem. What do you have to say to these charges?”

“Exactly what I said before the Assemblage: nothing. I know absolutely nothing of the charges, and until I met your Assemblage I had never heard of the Chem, or any other extra-terrestrial race. At this point in time the accepted view on Terra is that there is a possibility of intelligent life elsewhere, but that is all. We have no evidence that even suggests that the Chem exist, and that alone should rule out an act of complicity in aggression.”

Alexander’s voice lowered to a growl, his head tilted down, and his brows knit together. “As far as the Scythians are concerned, Nazeera, all I know is that I’ve been a subject for their experiments on three occasions. I’m not in league with them—rather the opposite! There’s certainly no dialogue between us, and if there were I doubt very much whether it would be amicable!” Alexander shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories of Scythian experimentation.

He sighed, running his hands through his hair, and admitted. “My personal experience tells me nothing beyond that. We Terrans have fictional stories of such things, but there’s nothing factual. That’s pretty much it.”

“An interesting story,” Nazeera said, sitting down behind the desk and motioning for Alexander to do the same. “Unfortunately, there is little to base my trust in you, especially when the stakes for Chem are so high. You have in the past, Alexander, proved to be vicious and untrustworthy. What has caused you to change?”

“What have I done in my past that gives you that indication?”

“Really, can you be so bold as to seduce me into your ignorance?” She inquired, her brows knitting and her eye’s increasing in brightness. “I have the data records from the Scythians. It’s obvious to me that you were important to them. They themselves admit as much. They singled you out for attention. Why is that?”

“Maybe they like football. I have no earthly idea.”

“Really,” Nazeera smiled, at least Alexander took it as a smile but it was feral, threatening and enticing, like a tigress slowly stalking him. She punched a switch in the desk. A small screen flipped up from the surface. She touched the surface of the screen, apparently punching in commands, and said, “This may help loosen you tongue.”

Alexander jumped up.

He wasn’t in the metal room anymore. He stood in the mud on a stone bridge under a cold misty sun. He could feel the chill of the moist British air. Britain, how did he know that? He looked himself over. He was wearing a chain mail hauberk, carried a round shield painted with a purple wolf on a golden field. In his right hand was a long handled axe. He gazed at a line of Saxon soldiers through the Viking goggles of his conical helm. Alexander took an involuntary step backward, but Nazeera’s voice stopped him. She stood next to him, smiling.

“The Scythians compiled memories from your past lives, Alexander. This is one of my favorites. You called yourself a “Viking,” and you spent your life pillaging the civilized world. You amassed quite a fortune before you finally fell on this bridge, holding an army at bay.”

Alexander felt a chill rush through his body. The tramp of booted feet engaged his attention. The Saxons advanced on the bridge, a solid wall of spears and iron five men abreast. Alexander glanced behind, there stood King Harold Hardratti, and two faces he recognized—his sons. Like the rest of the army they were without their armor, caught by surprise by King Harold the Saxon’s unexpected advance—they were doomed.

“See to the King, go now!” he heard himself yell in the Norse tongue. “Tell your mother I’ll see her in Thor’s hall at Bilskirnir!”

Without thinking, Alexander the Viking threw himself at the Saxons and his axe reaped heads and limbs as wheat on that bloody morning.

It was like a movie, except every movement, every breath, every sensation was too familiar. He couldn’t explain or comprehend it.

“I daresay your namesake, Thor, would be proud, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it Alexander?”

He glanced at her between strokes, a twisted grimace on his blood spattered face, having no idea what she meant.

Nazeera snapped her fingers and the afternoon at Stamford Bridge disappeared.

Alexander found himself standing on the battlements of a lonely castle. He wore a long purple cloak and a crowned helm. The helm dug into the flesh of his brow, as if it belonged to someone else. Below in the glooms he watched an army advance on his walls. They carried the hewed branches of trees so he couldn’t tell their numbers—it was as if the forest itself moved. He laughed grimly, again as if this were scripted and not because he found anything amusing about it.

“You had a taste of riches and power,” Nazeera told him, putting her hand on his shoulder as if she was the narrator for his past lives. “You wanted more. So in your next life you murdered your kinsman the king and took his crown. Your conscience and your enemies caught up to you eventually, though, and again you died nobly in battle. It’s ironic that during the next life you are the pinnacle of honesty and honor.”

“What do you mean, these were my lives?”

Nazeera snapped her fingers.

The castle disappeared, and Alexander found himself kneeling on a small platform next to a dirty brown river. Around him was an ancient city. The place smelled of turbid water, weeds and sewage. Alexander craned his neck to see a small circle of people looking down on him.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Some one behind him pushed his shoulders forward, forcing his head onto a stained block. He turned his head to the side; his cheek against the sticky wood. A large man swathed in black took his place next to him. He held a great axe.

Alexander struggled, but his hands were bound behind his back and a pair of hands held him down.

“Show some decorum, Gov’nor, you’ll ruin my stroke and that won’t go easy for you!”

There was a whistle in the air, and the executioner grunted. Something cold hit him in the back of the neck. There was a dull painful crunch as his vertebrae crushed his windpipe. His vision grew hazy, and the world twisted and turned. For a moment, his eyes focused and he saw the circle of people looking at him. To his horror Alexander realized the executioner was holding his severed head aloft.

Nazeera’s face appeared in the crowd, and she asked, “What’s next, Alexander?”

The vibrant heat of the Caribbean replaced the gloomy quays of London. Alexander was whole again and dressed in a burgundy frock coat with a pair of pistols in his belt and a cutlass in his hand. He stood on the swaying deck of a sailing ship, his free hand grasping the rigging. The smell of burnt powder and salt was heavy in the moist air. The sound of guns and shouts of men roiled around him. Through the smoke he saw another ship barely a yard away.

Alexander walked steadfastly along the deck, ignoring the whizzing shot and the splintering wood. He squinted through the smoke and calmly dictated the order of the battle.

“It’s back to your old ways,” Nazeera said, dressed in the outlandish gear of a buccaneer. “As a pirate you become infamous in the persecution of a king that wronged you. I could go on. Suffice it to say, Alexander, that you have a telling and appropriate name. Can it be by chance that you bear the name of Alexander the Great, the mightiest of Terra’s warrior-kings? A warrior race such as your own does not bestow laurels without reason. Why were you named for Alexander the Great, whose name reaches the council chambers of every galactic culture, even the Chem?”

Alexander didn’t answer, he couldn’t and he was still trying to come to grips with what Nazeera was showing him. Were these really snippets of his past lives or were they nefariously manufactured films meant to cause a response? He couldn’t tell, but they seemed horribly real, and his instincts told him these events actually happened to him.

“Do you still claim ignorance?”

Alexander was silent.

“You’ve been a pirate, a general, a king, and maybe more—we haven’t delved as deeply as we might. What remains? You are thus far devoid of the accomplishments of your former manifestations. By the Scythian data tapes you yearn for something more, don’t you?”

Alexander glowered at her, and ordered a broadside of grape. The guns thundered one after another. Screams and howls cut the air. He could hear the shot ping through the Spaniard's steel cuirasses, thump into the wood and give a horrible succulent plop as they penetrated flesh.

“I don’t need your answer; I see it in your eyes. What is it? What can quell your spirit? What accomplishment in this life will gain you satisfaction? You are the representative for your race at this moment in time, Alexander, but will that be enough? Or, do you aspire to greater pinnacles? For two millennia dominant Terrans have vied for the honor of Alexander’s mantle. Even I, alien to your race and culture know their names: Caesar, William the Conqueror, Genghis Khan, Attila, Napoleon, Lincoln, Hitler. Do you wish to add your name to this list of warlords? Are you intent on being the next Alexander?”

Nazeera walked behind Alexander. Laying a sharp nailed hand on each shoulder she spoke in his ear. The feeling of her breath upon his neck caused him to shudder, but not with concern or revulsion. He caught himself enjoying the touch of her hands on his body evening the midst of the melee—even against the shock of his reincarnation.

“Is there reason for Chem to fear you? Did the Scythians discover your ambition? They’ve wanted passage through our space for a millennium, but we do not bow to their jangling of coins. They hate that, and us. You would be a perfect opportunity for them. You have all the skills they need: brutality, a lust for power, intelligence, even charm. Tell me truthfully Alexander, if the Scythians offered you the means to make the stars your kingdom would you refuse them?”

“I’m not interested in galactic conquest,” he told her, trying to catch up with the realities of his past lives, his responsibility to Terra, and the reality of this beautiful alien woman.

Nazeera let him go but stalked around his mountainous form to put her face inches from his own. “Not interested in conquest?” she said sharply, her eyes turning dangerous lavender. “Look all around you! You base your entire existence upon conquest! Were everything you’ve said here to be the truth I should still condemn you for your past as a danger to the future of the Chem!”

Nazeera stalked to the opposite end of the ship and whirled on him. There was a gun in her hand. It was unlike anything Alexander had ever seen, but there was no mistaking its purpose, or her intention. She pointed it at his breast, and said, “There is nothing in your history that tells me that you can either change or be swayed to alter your opinion or your goals, Alexander. Well, what have you to say?”