CHAPTER 21

Golkos was a rusty world of rock and cloud. Vegetation clung with desperation to the pitted stone, forever stung by the teething sandstorms. Oceans and rivers were largely unknown to this inhospitable world, but for the short Spring which followed a long dry Winter. The warming of the planet melted the world’s glacial sheets and created annual deluges and floods. The greening of Golkos was a temporary reprieve from the hardships of life, but it was only a facade. The Golkos were a people shaped by their world; spare and harsh of mind. Even weather control did little to alter the planetscape or the people. The Golkos simply made the planets habits predictable, they did not bother to alter or even soften them. Such was the world around which Thor entered orbit with five hundred Terran warships at her heel. There were some who argued that the Iowa should be salvaged and that she should witness the surrender of Golkos to Terra; ending the Galactic War of the Thirteenth Kicellia. Alexander could not agree. He wished the Iowa left as she was, like the “Arizona” at Pearl Harbor, as an immortal memorial to the titanic sacrifices that saved Terra. The concept struck a chord within the psyche of every Terran, and so it came to be. After several weeks of effort the space in Terran orbits was cleansed of the debris of battle but for the memorial. One hundred and thirty-seven kilometers above what was once St. Louis, the very spot in space where they died, the Iowa and the two main sections of the Nived Sheur floated. They were kept on station by automatic thrusters, but were otherwise unchanged. On a unique frequency the bridge tape of the Chem probe recounted the battle, ending with the monologue of Alexander. It was set to play endlessly.

None of the dreadnoughts were repairable without months in space dock, and with all else that needed to be done Alexander decided that the rebuilding of the Seventh Fleet would be postponed. It was not unexpected that he chose Thor as his flagship, and with his culminating mission being the surrender of the Golkos it was appropriate. Yet he did bring a representative of the Seventh Fleet to Golkos. The Gagarin followed Thor as the Overlord’s personal escort with none other than Admiral Konstantinov in command.

The entirety of the panoply was shown on the Galactic ethernet, and it was watched by no more intent an audience than Crandal and his cronies on Terra. An entire wall of their hazy room became the portal though which the balance of the Terran Fleets entered orbit around the Golkos Homeworld. A grave announcer reported every moment of the occasion as Alexander and Thor, with the Gagarin on her heel, lead one hundred warships in a slow descent to the capital. The foreboding sight of the flotilla must have filled every Golkos with a mixture of dread, awe and shame, but they came forth to the city square by the hundreds of thousands. The Capital stood atop a plateau, high above the now dry inland sea of Shea-Ops. During the rainy season great cataracts would plunge two miles over the Tanya cliffs, the highest waterfalls in the known galaxy, to become a vaporous shower upon the dry plains. The August City of Marcos sprawled to the edge of these cliffs, and the seat of government overlooked the gulf. Low and broad, built of immaculately squared stones with hard angles, the government chambers were inspiring in their simplicity. As was all the architecture of the city the buildings hunkered rather than climbed, and there was a rakish flavor to the design; lean, almost spidery. Little color other than native ochre freshened the city, yet it was meticulous in its geometry, and somehow each structure added with the next to the overall grandeur of the place. The new government drew itself up in yellow robes upon the steps of their chambers. Thousands upon thousands of citizens lined the square. A space was left before them, and upon this space a long red carpet was laid upon the instruction of Terran diplomats.

Over this scene Thor floated tranquilly, with the Gagarin overhead and the flotilla arrayed behind her. She sent no signal, nor made any move for some time. She simply floated there, allowing the Golkos and all the galaxy to have a look at her. After the wait became palpable two Destroyers detached themselves from the formation and descended upon either side of Thor. They hovered only a few feet above the pavement. Gangways swung down the sides and from each long lines of heavily armed Terran troops trotted. In single file down either side of the red carpet they advanced in perfect unison. The microphones picked up their boots as they hammered in step on the smooth stone of the pavers. A single sharp order brought the Terrans to a staccato halt. Another order saw them deploying small shield generators along their ranks. With a momentary hum the shields sprang up, transparent to the crowds, impervious to all else.

Finally, Alexander’s launch rose out of the forward smokestack, and flew down to the square. It landed abeam the slash of the red carpet.

“I am happy to see he took precautions,” Crandal murmured. “We wouldn’t want the Golkos to murder him now. There’s too much to do without having to deal with the desolation of Golkos in response! That would put a damper on things.”

“But can our transmitter penetrate that shielding?” Edgar asked.

“Our Galactic friends assured me that etherlinks penetrate shields,” Crandal replied, and then as if to assure himself he added, “How else would our ships communicate with each other during battle?”

“Oh!” grunted the heavy man. The glances of his companions made it clear that further interruptions were unwelcome. All eyes turned back to the screen.

The door of the launch slid open, and every Golkos, and Galactic, craned their neck to see the Overlord of the Terran Empire. There he was, Alexander himself, a powerful figure in purple, black and gold wearing the Chem cuirass and the clashing Banthror sash. The Sergeant at Arms met the Overlord at the launch and saluted.

“Hail Alexander!” echoed over the Golkos square.

Without hesitation Alexander strode out onto the surface of Golkos. There was no fanfare, indeed there was no sound. Each of the multitude could hear the ringing of Alexander’s boots on their pavement. The sound was hollow, foreboding. A small company followed the Overlord: Nazeera represented the Galactics, Admiral Augesburcke the Fleet and various other officials of the Terran Federation.

“Excellent,” breathed Crandal, “all three together. I could not have hoped that Nazeera of Chem would make that trip!”

“But if the Chem should discover this! I wasn’t privy to a plot against the Chem. We’re after Alexander!” Frank protested.

“Weren’t privy? You cowardly fool! We’ve already involved her once, and this is far more subtle!” Crandal spat at him like a snake, the stress of the coming moments swelling the vessels in his forehead to the breaking point. “Besides, who else but Augesburcke or Nazeera would have the intelligence and the desire to figure out this little plot? The rest of the Admiralty will be too busy fighting for Augesburcke’s job to care. Nazar of Chem will be too irate wishing to take his revenge on the Scythians, finishing what started this whole ordeal. We’ll become his bosom buddies by allowing him free passage in our space to hunt down the Scythians. No, this will do nicely. Now shut up and let Alexander do our work for us!”

When they returned their attention to the screen Alexander was already up the steps to the fore of the official Golkos party. In a predetermined exchange the consummate act of surrender was accomplished in front of a Galactic audience with immediacy and ceremony.

“I, Alexander, Overlord of the Terran Empire come here as conqueror. Who meets me in the name of the Golkos?”

“I, Surreptor Primax, Servitor of the August Body meet with you, Alexander, Overlord of the Terran Empire, Conqueror of Golkos the Aggressor.”

“I am Conqueror of Golkos the Aggressor. Who speaks for that state?”

“No one speaks for that state, Alexander Overlord; that state no longer exists. Golkos has prosecuted those who aggressed against the Terran Empire. Those who would speak for Golkos the Aggressor are dead or in Alexander’s care. We claim them no more. We recognize that state no more. Golkos the Aggressor is no more. Golkos of the Galactics speaks now for Golkos. I, Surreptor Primax, speak for the new Golkos. I welcome Alexander Overlord to Golkos as a Head of State, if such is befitting. Alexander the Conqueror will find no quarrel with us.”

“Do you renounce the crimes of your past and submit to Alexander’s judgment?”

“We all do.”

“Give me the standard and the badge of Golkos the Aggressor.”

A steward and a guardsman approached Alexander. One bore the Golkos banner in black and gold, the other a badge. The steward kneeled before the Overlord and handed Alexander the badge. Alexander added the glittering symbol to the twelve already upon his breast. The guardsmen gave Alexander the standard. Alexander took it and raised it high so that the gold caught the ruddy Sun. All Golkos eyes followed their ancient banner.

“Behold the banner of Golkos,” Alexander roared. “It is forged in the blood and courage of a doughty people. It has seen victory and defeat in alien space, but in battle it was never tarnished by cowardice or base treachery. The insult of Golkos to Terra was forged with those who spoke for Golkos the Aggressor and not those who fought for them. Take back that which will always be yours. It cannot replace the lives you have lost, nor can it blot out the stain of dishonor for the lives of innocent Terrans lost in transgression; but it can remind you of the honor of their bones!” Alexander thrust the standard back into the hands of the guardsmen, who bowed his head in acceptance. The steward and the guardsman backed away, standard dipped, returning to their stations behind the council.

“Is Alexander Overlord then satisfied with Golkos?” Surreptor Primax asked.

“Is Golkos satisfied with the terms of the Terran proposal, and the tenets of the Galactic Federation?”

“Golkos is satisfied.”

“And does Golkos accept these terms?”

“Golkos accepts all tenets and terms of the Galactic Federation. Golkos supreme sovereignty is limited to the worlds of Golkos proper; all other territories of the Golkos Empire are forthwith governed by Golkos under the tenets of the Galactic Federation and the Interstellar Code of Free Worlds.”

“Golkos has freely submitted itself to inspection, and by your word, and the word of Golkos, swears that any and all detainees, prisoners of war, and records thereof of persons of any race have been released; under penalty of resumption of hostilities?

“So does Golkos swear.”

“Alexander is satisfied. Terra is satisfied.” Alexander finished, and he turned on his heel. Purposefully he strode towards his launch.

The Galactic commentator began his expected litany on the ending of the Galactic War of the Thirteenth Kicellia, or the “Conquests of Alexander,” as they became known. Little of this was noted by Crandal and his companions, however, as the man opened the briefcase. Nine pairs of eyes turned to the simple mechanism within. It was a grey box with a single red switch. Crandal glanced about the room with eyes like a fox.

“Gentlemen, I give you the galaxy!”

He punched the switch. All eyes went to the screen and the image of Alexander, expecting some result. What they got was extraordinarily confounding for the single moment they held the image. Alexander wavered in their eyes as if a curtain of water suddenly separated them, but they could still see well enough to know that he walked upright, unaffected by anything. The realization hit them in the form of throbbing temples and a burning sensation within their craniums. Crandal was the first to note the disastrous implications. Viciously, but with seemingly little motor guidance, he stabbed at the switch. He missed. He couldn’t focus on it through the tides of red pain that suddenly engulfed the reservoir of his skull. His hearing turned to a dull roar shot through by high pitched wails and screams. As his shaking knees buckled that last vestige of courageous youth cursed at the squeamishness of his comrades. Then he realized the screams were his own. He was on the floor now, writhing uncontrollably, boiling from within. Finally the dam burst and a flood of warmth covered his eyes and swept away his thoughts. One final thing came to his sentient, quivering form: it was a sound borne from the outside world. For some reason it pervaded the ravaged parts of his dying brain and lodged in the last mortal kernel of his psyche. The sound was the voice of the Galactic announcer, and the words formed Crandal’s final sentient thoughts.

“Alexander is entering his shuttle now, and returning to his flagship. He leaves behind a whole Golkos, and seemingly a whole and sovereign galaxy. Yet the galaxy we have known this age has passed away, and though Alexander returns as Overlord of the Terran Empire it is we, the Galactics, who understand the true extent of his power. Alexander has seen fit to leave us our civilizations, our governments, our history and our culture; but let there be no mistaking reality: as legends foretold, he is nothing less than Alexander Galaxus, Overlord of the Galaxy.”