CHAPTER 20: Contention

Nazeera ushered Alexander into the small interrogation room for one last time. She informed him right off about his impending departure, but Alexander simply smiled at the information, and repeated the old adage of all good things coming to an end. Nazeera simply shook her head and pressed on ahead with business.

Their sessions could not truly be called interrogations, as Alexander was never asked to reveal information he wasn’t already willing to give. The two shared a mutual respect and after the ground rules were worked out they could even admit to enjoying each other’s company. There was a clear gulf between them created wholly by their particular duties and the conflicts therein, but it did not make them openly regret the opportunity before them. The conflict of their interests was an unpleasant reality to deal with, and it might have been made easier if not for a burgeoning electricity which slowly crossed all cultural, rational and practical divisions.

To make Nazeera’s job more difficult, or at least more uncomfortable, the Elder tasked her with certain questions to ask the prisoner. They were subjects which tread on the line Nazeera and Alexander had established, and on the level of trust in their rapport. Nazeera was proud, and quite conscious of the agreement she made with Alexander, but she could not persuade the Elder that an agreement with a prisoner was one which should be honored. Alexander was Nazeera’s charge in so much as the Elder was satisfied with her progress. Nazeera was more concerned with understanding Alexander and his people than discovering the nuts and bolts of their status. The Elder, however, had a more practical view of the situation. In truth, if Nazeera had disagreed strongly enough the Elder would probably have relented, but secretly the questions to be asked dogged her as well. It was a short and unsatisfactory debate within herself, but there was really nothing for it. Still, when Nazeera brought an image up on the hologram it was the special of Alexander she studied the night previously, and nothing particularly momentous.

Alexander was used to Nazeera producing tapes of his memories, mostly of past lives, and having him explain the circumstances, emotions and motivations behind what he saw and what he remembered. It was surprising how quickly he’d been able to adapt to the flow of all the new memories. In the first day he doubted he would ever get a handle on it, but by the second the new memory files were no longer haphazardly forcing themselves upon him at the slightest prompting. Now they took their place amongst his established memories, waiting until they might prove useful. What Nazeera showed him now was completely different, however. It was an interview, the only interview he’d done after announcing his retirement from the NFL. He thought it irrelevant, but even more he wondered just how Nazeera had gotten a hold of it.

Nazeera brushed off the question, saying instead, “Let’s talk about this, Alexander. We’ve discussed your career briefly, but now I would like to revisit it in more detail.”

“Very well, it is your dime. What do you want to know?”

“I’m intrigued by your transition from a gladiator to a military officer,” she told him, and as she spoke the metal interrogation room transformed. They were on a mountaintop. It was as if the Chem sheared off the last few meter of the peak to leave just enough room for their table and chairs.

Alexander glanced down from the dizzying height. He stomach tightened. He guessed that Nazeera’s medical equipment was registering his responses, and his focus.

“Such rewards must be rare on Terra,” she continued. “I would like to know how you managed it. Did you have a political sponsor?”

“No, I was never politically adept,” Alexander said, trying to ignore their nest in the clouds. “That failure in my character was the primary reason I eventually left the military.”

“We’ll get to that,” Nazeera said. The wind blew and it grew uncomfortably cold. She didn’t seem to notice. “I want your comment on this portion of the file. The interviewer prods you about what could have been a “Hall of Fame” career, and presses you as to whether you are frustrated that injuries prevented consideration for such an honor. You’re most combative.”

The hologram centered on a younger version of Alexander. His hair was longer and not yet streaked with gray. The eyes were the same shade of volcanic green, though, and this younger Alexander flashed them with clear impatience. His bassoon voice barked at the interviewer, leaving no room for argument, “Am I frustrated to have to leave the game?” he asked, and then he threw his brawny arms in the air. “I suppose I have a right to be, but I can’t really say that I am. I was an undersized nose tackle who lasted a good deal longer than anyone could have anticipated, but less than I could have hoped.” Alexander clenched his teeth, but the cold bit him with a sharp stabbing pain. He began to shiver. “I had a good run, even if it was only for five years. You can’t mention my name in the same breath as Page, Marshal or Eller; but I think my peers can appreciate my play one way or another. That lessens the impact a bit.”

The interviewer leaned forward, saying, “Certainly playing for a smaller market team like the Vikings didn’t help your notoriety, Alexander, but I think it only fair to remind you, and our viewers, that in five short seasons you accomplished a great deal. It was enough to earn you the title, “Alexander the Great.” That’s not a moniker lightly bestowed. Let me run down a list: five straight Pro Bowls; Rookie of the Year honors; led the Vikings in sacks and tackles behind the line of scrimmage five straight years; and most sacks in a five year period in NFL history. Some of the words that your adversaries used to describe you: “ferocious,” “relentless,” “the perfect predator,” and “the most terrifying presence since Butkus.” Not too bad. Doesn’t that accomplishment count for something?”

Nazeera smiled and asked, “Why do you refute your accolades, Alexander? From where in that ambitious breast does your humility spring?”

“There’s always someone bigger, faster and stronger,” he said gruffly, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“That’s a strange answer coming from Alexander’s heir,” Nazeera replied, and touched her wrist. The mountaintop scene changed to them sitting on a wide plain. It was night. Lightning flashed all around them.

Alexander relaxed. Lightning didn’t bother him; even when, as now, it hit scant feet from him.

“Before you answer, Alexander, let’s watch your file,” Nazeera said, her eyes on the screen at her wrist.

A purple garbed Alexander battled through the snow, the mud and the rain. The record was brutal, even for those accustomed to the sport, and Alexander watched Nazeera unconsciously wince at each concussion. The effect of the programming was so calculated, and in that manner both the interviewer and Nazeera hit their mark. Alexander pummeled his opponents. He threw them aside like rag dolls or simply ran over them, treading on their chests with his cleated feet. Then he crushed his enemies mercilessly. They were images of primitive destruction, and Alexander dominated the scene, his grim visage setting fire to the torn field before him, inviting the carnage.

Still, it appeared that Nazeera wasn’t seeing what she wanted in him. From a lightning storm the scene shifted underwater; Alexander sat in chains on a sandy bottom. The surface was tantalizingly close—only ten feet away. Shafts of sunlight glinted on him and Nazeera, and the water was pleasantly warm, but it was water and Alexander instinctively held his breath.

“So Alexander, you were the dominant male in your sport,” Nazeera said in a normal voice. “Is a military commission the common reward for such accomplishments, or was there something else behind this?”

Alexander fought the urge to breath. Logic told him this was a hologram, Nazeera was breathing and he needn’t worry. But instinct was a powerful controller, and he couldn’t make himself ignore the water.

“Well Alexander?”

Alexander’s lungs burned. He was blacking out. With every ounce of willpower he had he opened his mouth and breathed. Heavy, warm, viscous water flowed into his lungs. He immediately coughed and choked, but with each cough he inhaled more water. The feeling was dreadful, painful and frightening, but his mind cleared as Oxygen once again flowed to his brain. The choking subsided, and he growled, “There was nothing of the sort, Nazeera. There is no such tie between the games and the military.”

He settled down, slowly getting used to the sensation. The panic stricken fear of drowning dissipated. Then he saw the sharks behind Nazeera, dozens of them.

They were small four and five footers—reef sharks. Alone they weren’t anything to be afraid of, but in a pack they were as deadly as a Great White. They ignored Nazeera and swam around him, bumping, nipping and rubbing.

It irritated him. “The game’s not working Nazeera.”

“Let’s try a different sort of stimulus then, shall we?” she smiled.

Alexander was in a cabin, sitting on a fur rug in front of a fire. Nazeera approached him, a glass of wine in each hand, wearing nothing but a purple silk teddy. She bent over to hand him his wine. Her breasts strained at the teddy. Only her erect nipples kept them from bobbing out.

Alexander took the glass dumbly, knowing that the instruments the Chem had monitoring him were going wild. She curled up next to him.

“Let’s watch your TV, shall we?” she asked, sipping her wine.

The screen above the mantle went on, and the Terran interviewer said, “I don’t believe I can name anyone since Butkus who instilled such respect or fear amongst his peers. There wasn’t much question as to why your nickname became “Alexander the Great” was there? You played the game with a certain ferocious élan, uncompromising to the ideal of the game. You were so infatuated with what was right, and how the game should be played, that you threatened to leave if the roof to the Metrodome wasn’t torn off and the field be returned to grass. You were prepared to sacrifice your career in Minnesota for the betterment of the game. There was more, though. You were the real leader of the team, and the elected Captain in four of your five years. That’s not a position that falls to someone in the trenches all that often. To me that says a great deal about the player and the man.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” the younger Alexander said, “but it stops there. I gave it a go, and maybe a few quarterbacks will breathe a little easier, but really that’s all there is. Next year someone else will be stronger and faster, with better media presence. By the end of next season no one will remember the name Alexander.”

Nazeera stopped the tape, her voice deep with gravity. “An interesting statement, don’t you think? No one will remember the name Alexander!” There is the crux of your desires, Alexander.”

“What?”

“Alexander are you paying attention?”

“Alright, you win; you’ve discovered how to break my focus Nazeera. Can you blame me? You look enchanting in that negligee!” He reached for her.

They were back in the interrogation room. It felt especially cold and bleak now.

“Damn!” Alexander cursed. “That’s bloody low, Nazeera!”

“Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as such,” Alexander growled, but he grinned wolfishly. “Whatever you do to me you can’t take away the image of you by the fireside—I’ll keep that one locked away!”

Nazeera shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “Back to your desires, Alexander; you’ve exposed yourself. Modesty does not become Alexander the Great, past or present, and yet you downplayed yourself as the warrior. Why? What was your real reason for leaving the games Alexander? From all indications you were having an extraordinary career, but that wasn’t enough was it? It was not enough for you to be a star in the spectacle, and you were too rare a prize to leave lying on the shelf. You left, or were pulled from the games for a career in the military. I can only conclude the decision was dictated by others, but what others? Someone very important must have had their eye on you Alexander.”

“You’re reading far too much into this, Nazeera. I was on my third knee operation in two years, my fourth overall. It was time to leave. I didn’t want to end up a cripple. I barely passed my flight physical as it was. In the end all I got out of it was some money, some fond memories and an artificial knee.”

“Really, Alexander, I’m not naive. This interview is intriguing, and telling. I’ve used the same methods myself. Nothing is as newsworthy as the thought of a leader turning down the laurels of victory. Caesar of Roma Terra did it. I expect you, as did he, got exactly what you were looking for at the time: increased responsibility, and your name in the hall of heroes.”

“Caesar, if I remember correctly, did not live to reap the rewards of his ambition,” Alexander chimed in. “Remember also, Nazeera, that when I went into the military I was only a lieutenant. I advanced only to Captain. That’s not very successful in the grand scheme of things, especially when you’re trying to work out an intergalactic conspiracy. Even if the opportunity existed, Nazeera, I was entirely too inconsequential to take advantage of it. Face it. As difficult as it is for me to admit, I was no-one.”

“That is the crux of my argument, Alexander,” she smiled. “I can see and understand your frustration, Alexander. Your transition into the military is predictable and transparent, Alexander, especially in as the Terran system, as we understand it, is designed to find and develop leaders. A warrior-caste society has no room for individual concerns. You were identified as a potential leader, but of course you entered a military system as just one of many such officers. Still, there was something about you which set you apart. You were marked for great things.”

“That’s not how it turned out,” Alexander said, and he was immediately sorry he did so. Nazeera was ahead of him now—she was dictating the interview. The fireplace seduction was genius; he’d lost track of his necessity.

“The Scythians followed your career very closely, and you advanced initially as expected, but when you should have made the leap into the upper echelons of the command caste something happened. What happened to your patronage? Can you illuminate me?”

“Again you’re reading too much into my career, and into the Terran political system.” Alexander was in a difficult spot. He either marginalized himself to the point of being inconsequential, or he entered a lie. He couldn’t do either. Growling, he said, “I had no sponsor; I played no political games. That’s your answer; I wasn’t willing to be an ass kisser. The next step was inevitable. That’s all there is to it.”

“Is it? I cannot quite believe that you are as insignificant as you claim to be, Alexander.”

Nazeera pressed the screen at her sleeve, and Alexander tensed, ready for another change. It came, and it was absolutely contrary to the fireside with Nazeera.

The first thing that hit Alexander was the smell: sickly sweet blood, rank unwashed leather, rotting fish and slimy stone. He knew exactly where and when he was—bound to the block awaiting the headsman.

He opened his eyes. Nazeera stood over him dressed in black holding a huge axe. Behind her was a retinue of men in sober robes.

“Your retirement interview was an obvious stage, Alexander, but it tells me about the political strength behind you at that time.”

“I liked you in the negligee better.”

Nazeera ignored his remark, and knelt next to him. Her face was almost touching his. It was a strange mixture of emotion, the visceral horror of impending death and the growing desire for this woman.

“I understand your politics and their intrigues perhaps better than you can imagine,” Nazeera said, unaware of the conflict within Alexander—intent only on emotionally prying out the information she needed. “Though you may not know it-or would not admit it-Terran politics grew from the roots of the Galactics Rome. The Galactics, with very little Chem input, founded your own Rome, providing Terrans with the Galactic model of government, law and society.”

“I didn’t know that,” Alexander told her, testing the bonds on his wrists and finding them just as tight as they were five centuries earlier.

“Maybe not,” Nazeera smiled, “I wouldn’t to expect you to admit it if you did. Terrans have, of course, altered the Galactic model to accomplish the realization of Alexander’s dream. The Galactics abandoned their attempts to control Roma Terra long ago, but what remains is still recognizable. I can read it, Alexander, and despite the gaps and your own vague references your career is something I can read as well.”

“Then maybe you can explain it to me,” Alexander told her with a wry grin.

Nazeera laid a hand on his shoulder, and he trebled at her touch. “I’ve seen your kind before, Alexander. The brevity of your career is not so strange. The Scythians were right to recognize you as Alexander’s heir. I saw it in your trial. You are strong willed, aggressive, and intelligent. That was undoubtedly what your superiors noted in your gladiatorial career. It is no surprise to me that they drafted you into the military for the purpose of developing you for their regime. That is the common way of political ascension, Alexander. I’ve recruited many of my supporters in a similar manner. Like your superiors, though, I would have eventually realized that I had recruited not a supporter, but a usurper. You’re dangerous, Alexander, too dangerous and too ambitious to be trusted as an underling. There was nothing else to be done. You couldn’t be controlled, so you were surreptitiously cut loose before you could be a threat to your sponsor.”

“Nazeera, you are again reading too much into this.”

Nazeera grabbed Alexander’s long locks, pulled his head up, and said, “Then there is the Scythian connection.”

“You’ve lost me, Nazeera,” he said, grimacing at the discomfort of the position.

“Why were the Scythians still interested in you if your career was over?” She tightened her grip.

“Ask the Scythians.”

“Perhaps your career was not as dead as you would have me believe.” Nazeera set down the axe and took out a pair of long iron shears. She sliced his hair off at the nape of his neck and let his head fall to the block.

“It was dead, Nazeera. You can abandon that train of thought,” Alexander insisted, turning his head to the left so that he could see her.

Nazeera picked up the axe again.

“The Scythians offered you a way to bypass the Terran political hierarchy.” She laid the edge of the axe on the bare skin of his neck. It felt cold, and to his disgust it felt dull, as if it hadn’t been sharpened in countless strokes—just like the last time. His gut twisted into knots. It took all of Alexander’s self control not to lose his composure at that moment.

“They knew your aspirations, Alexander, and I understand them. You desire something more, some higher pinnacle to achieve. I agree with you. You are meant for more than a gladiator, or a minor officer. When denied by the jealousy of your superiors, the Scythians offered you their throne.”

She withdrew the axe, allowing the edge to grate against his flesh, just as before, and bent down to whisper at last word in his ear. “Scythian control would be temporary, of course, and you’d soon have your dreams of ultimate command realized. You would then, in truth, be able to bear the name of your predecessor, Alexander the Great.”

“That scenario does not even bear comment, Nazeera.”

“Why were you in the company of the Scythians when our raiders boarded the scout ship?” Her voice was insistent. Her eyes reddened.

Alexander was silent.

“You were found with the Scythians prostrated before you, begging for your mercy and protection, Alexander! Obviously you were communing with the Scythian Council, but apparently their offer was not satisfactory to you. You broke the telepathic connection and assumed control of their ship. I can only conjecture that Scythian control of you was very brief indeed.”

“I did not negotiate with the Scythians! I have nothing but contempt for them. I would get my revenge if I could, but as it seems I will not have that opportunity. My only comfort is that the wrath of Chem will fall upon them, if the revenge of Alexander does not.”

“There you speak as Alexander of Terra!” she said triumphantly. She stood tall and placed the dull, cold, hard edge of the axe against his neck. “Once and for all, are you the Alexander of legend?”

Alexander glowered at her—he couldn’t refuse without groveling and he couldn’t say yes without admitting the complicity of Terra. He clenched his teeth, and said, “Do what you have to do Nazeera.”

“Very well, Alexander of Terra!” She raised the axe. Her mouth opened wide, showing her sharp gleaming platinum teeth as she started the heavy blade on its fatal plunge. Alexander heard her cry of effort as if from a great distance, but the whoosh of the blade sounded as if it were inside his head it was so close.

He tensed. The edge of the blade filled his sight. The metal creased his skin.