It was late at night, far beyond my station's midnight. The
automatic systems had long since extinguished any lights illuminating the
fortress' miles of corridors and chambers—all but the few lamps that stood
around the chairs in which Raistlin Majere and I sat. Amalthea had long
since gone to bed, worn out both physically and emotionally by the strains
the long day had put on her. Given the trauma which the poor girl had
endured in the last forty-eight hours, neither Raistlin nor I had thought
it the wisest course to expose her to the refugees Hal had ported in from
her homeworld. There were fifteen thousand, all told, brutalized, beaten,
ripped untimely from their homes and thrust into a multiverse immeasurably
vaster and more unfeeling than the tiny orb which had birthed them.
We were overruled. When the woman who had been the Last Unicorn heard of the plight of the refugees, her first instinct was to rush to their aid. Neither the mage nor I had been able to dissuade her. She had not raised her voice, or argued. "I must go to them," was all she said. Neither Raistlin nor I had been able to stop her. Not for lack of will to do so. We simply found ourselves unable to protest. She had walked past us to the hatch leading out to the corridors of the fortress, and we could only follow.
I am forced to admit that her aid was invaluable to us, during that long, tortuous day. The refugees shrank from us—Raistlin and I—in fear, while they flocked to do her bidding, with a look of devotion on their faces that was not far from worship. I found this unsettling, during the few moments in which I had time to think. I did not dwell on this for long, however, being preoccupied with offering what aid I could to the wounded.
Gradually, the refugees warmed to the mage and I. Being associated with Amalthea helped. She would ask one or the other of us for help, from time to time. It was at those times that the frightened refugees learned that the two frightening men, the mage with the metallic skin and hourglass eyes and the armored warrior with the katana scabbarded at his waist, were not so dangerous after all. Maybe…just maybe, they might even be friends. Allies in this war, and guides to this strange new world, into which they had so suddenly been thrust, without warning, like newborn babes.
It was while we were attending to the wounded that we discovered Amalthea's powers. The fortress had a large sickbay, salvaged from the wreck of a Galaxy-class cruiser of the United Federation of Planets, destroyed by the alien empire known as the Dominion in the midst of one of the bloodiest battles between those two great powers. Many of the fortress' systems had been acquired in a similar manner, salvaged from derelicts, purchased ready made from commercial suppliers, or stolen outright from people who really shouldn't have been allowed to run around with such things in the first place. Even the battle steel walls of the fortress themselves had been taken in a lightning raid on the Kuat Drive Yards, the massive systemwide facility that churned out the Imperial Star Destroyers that had made the Empire a feared force throughout the galaxy.
Just then, the sickbay was filled to overflowing. The most grievously injured lay on diagnostic beds, the automated systems within the beds busy with stasis fields and waldo-mounted hyposprays, doing their best to keep their patients alive with the limited resources and processing power available to them. Not for the first time did I wish I'd been able to save the EMH from that damned Galaxy. I was a physicist by training, a warrior and explorer by profession. Advanced medicine was not among the skills I'd had reason or inclination to acquire. I made a mental note to myself to correct that deficiency once this madness was over.
At the door, two men carried an injured comrade in. Being occupied at the moment with programming a bed, I could spare them but a glance as I worked. Not that what I saw was good. Sucking chest wound. With no EMH to perform operations, the best we could do was to keep those with life- threatening injuries under stasis, till we were able to get someone with proper medical training to them. Furthermore…I looked around. Almost all the beds were occupied. Damn. Even with triage, we wouldn't be able to save everybody. Once more, I cursed my lack of medical knowledge, cursed myself for not foreseeing the need for it. Then I took a deep breath, got control over myself once more. Nothing I could do about my lack now. I would just have to make do.
I was just about to go over to the group by the door when Amalthea cut in front of me, heading for the same spot, a strange look upon her face. By all rights, the stress of the last few hours should have left her haggard and wan. To all of us, it merely seemed as if her beauty had been refined, made purer through contact with the horror and pain that raged around us.
Before the two healthy men could stop her, she put her hands on the wound of the dying man.
And the world went mad.
Raistlin brushed past me, as if to stop her. The one healer whom Hal had rescued had risen from where she was tending a woman with a gashed open arm, her mouth open to shout a warning. The two men supporting Chest Wound reached out with their free arms, attempting too late to ward the woman who had been the Last Unicorn off.
The mark on Amalthea's forehead flared, bathing the room with the light of a small star. From around the room, various people shrieked or cursed, depending on their respective personalities, as the light overloaded their optic nerves, blinding them. Then the light began to change colours. Even through my eyelids, I could see them shifting, running, dancing from one end of the spectrum to the other.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light was gone.
Amalthea stood before the injured man. The strange expression was gone, replaced by uncertainty, and not a little fear. His friends had released him as soon as the light had gone off. They now flanked him, staring shocked as he gingerly probed the smooth skin where his wound had once been.
Then, he looked up, and stared wide-eyed at the beautiful woman who'd saved his life. The next moment, he was on his knees before her, babbling his thanks and pledging undying loyalty to whatever cause she chose to point him at. With a flamboyant sweep, he drew his sword and offered it to her. After a slight pause, his friends did the same.
She looked at us, her face uncertain. Raistlin and I exchanged glances. Experienced adventurers both, it was even money that we were both thinking the same thing: We don't need them tripping us up. We were lone operators, the two of us. We fought our secret wars in the shadows, in the cracks between realities. Not for us the valiant stand against the forces of darkness on the field of battle. Our way was the dagger in the darkness, the hidden snare, the removal of the nail for want of which kingdoms were lost. For obvious reasons, the thought of these three loons—these three obviously highborn loons, steeped in glorious traditions of chivalry and romance and courtly love—attaching themselves to us was less than appealing to either of us.
Before Raistlin could speak, however, I strode forward. These were not normal times. We were fighting a war on a scale beyond human comprehension, far beyond any on which we had previously operated. Supernatural menaces, invaders from another universe—all small cheese, compared to what we were up against. Just like that, our whole paradigm had changed. The old ways, the ways of fighting in the darkness, were obsolete. It was time to step out, out into the light, where people could see you, out in the light where people could see you, knew where you were. Where people like us, those who stood between the ravening darkness and everything that was in the least bit good, could stand up beside us, joining strength to strength to thrust the darkness away.
The times had changed, and I'd be damned if I couldn't change along with them.
I put my hand on Amalthea's shoulder. "Say yes." The three men on the floor eyed me suspiciously.
"What—" began Raistlin.
"Later," I cut him off.
"You cannot be serious," he hissed. "We face destruction, evil on a scale never seen before—and you want these," an angry gesture to the three kneeling men, "as allies? They will die, Stalker, quickly and horribly. They are of no use to us."
I spread my arms, using my body as a barrier between the three enraged men and the black-robed mage. "Enough," I said, as they attempted to push past me. I took a step forward, forcing them back despite their combined efforts. The three men fell back, raising their swords to en garde positions.
I favoured them with a glare. "You know, I just pushed the three of you back. I don't know about you, but to me, it obviously means I'm a bit stronger than the three of you combined." I jerked a thumb back at Raistlin. "The guy back there is a Sorcerer Supreme. He sterilizes entire planets just by looking at them funny. Don't you think you ought to think a bit before trying to take either of us on?"
I spread my hands, now trying to appear reasonable. "Look, I don't mean you or any of your people harm. Neither does my friend back there. The only reason you or any of your people are here is because you got pulled into this whole mess by a bunch of nihilistic, absolutely anti-moral assholes who had no business even being in your neck of reality. But the fact remains that you and everybody else are here, in the middle of a war totally beyond anything you've ever seen before. Normally, I wouldn't be doing this, but I don't have the time to find you and your people a new home world. What's more, I really don't think any place I dumped you on would be truly safe. Like it or not, all of reality's a combat zone. And you people are simply unequipped to face anything that's likely to come at you."
Advancing on the trio, I began listing the various deficiencies of the culture now residing in my fortress. "No mages beyond power level Gamma. That's our fancy way of saying that your magic-users aren't really all that powerful—if they're still alive, that is. Next, the genetic potential necessary for super-humanity to develop won't manifest among you for another five hundred years. That's all very well and good then, but pretty much useless now. Finally, your technology is barely beyond the very early Gunpowder Age. When Type IV Space Age civilizations find themselves powerless against the types of threats we're facing here, I don't think you're going to be able to do much, are you?"
They looked at me blankly. One of them—the one on the right, licked his lips and adjusted his grip on his sword. I looked at them and sighed. My last few sentences had sailed directly over their heads. I shook my head and tried again.
"Listen. Just take it on my word that you have become embroiled in a conflict against forces far beyond your comprehension. Your people have no way to fight back. I can't leave you in a safe place, because such a place does not exist. All I can do is give you the tools to fight this thing—because, I assure you, you will have to fight, sooner or later. So…swear your allegiance to the lady, if that is what you wish. She and I are allies. I give you my word that I will provide you and your people with a place to live. I will train any young men who are willing and able to fight this war the way I, and my associates fight it. And when all this is over, I will find you and your people a new world to call your own."
I extended my hand. "Deal?"
The one in the middle eyed me suspiciously. "I think not, sirrah." His voice was steady, although his tone betrayed his underlying nervousness. "Your aspect is not that of one whom we would fain trust with our lives. I know not what hold you have over this fair lady—suffice it to say that if you intend to use it to control us, we will fight you to release her from it."
"Stop." Amalthea's voice had not risen a decibel over its normal volume. Nevertheless, its pure tones dissipated the fog of testosterone clouding the minds of the group of three confronting me, and, I am sorry to say, mine as well. She came over and stood between us. "Stalker is a good man, for all that he looks fell." There was a pause. Then, to my surprise, I felt a small hand slip into my own, gloved fist. I looked down to where our hands were joined.
Amalthea spoke again. "Please, you have to trust him. He only means well for you and your people. What he says is the truth. There is something out there—something you can't fight, not as you are. He can help you, give you weapons, if only you can just trust him." Slowly, she raised our joined hands into the light. The Three Stooges (as I had begun to think of them—I'd even assigned names to each of them) goggled at the sight of her hand in mine. I found myself doing the same thing. Where had that come from?
The Unicorn Lady looked full into the eyes of each of the three men before her. One by one, they failed to meet her gaze. Finally, she spoke. One last argument, one final impassioned plea to those whose fear would undo all that we would create before we had even begun to fight. "Stalker is my friend. I trust him. With my life." Her voice was soft, imploring. "Will you trust him? Will you trust me?"
The one in the middle—Moe, I had designated him as—hung his head. His sword slid back into its scabbard. The others followed suit.
"Aye, milady," he said, "We trust you." He turned to me. "Sir, I owe you an apology." He extended his hand. I felt sorry for him. I could see him flinch as I extended my own hand for him to shake. Was I so terrifying a figure that grown men were afraid of me? Were willing to die rather than trust me? I didn't want to think about that.
"Thank you," I said to him, and held his gaze for a few minutes. A nervous tic developed in his left cheek. What was it that was scaring these people?
"Right," I said finally. "There's still a large number wounded and dying out there. Now we know Amalthea can heal them, I believe we'll be able to save everybody, provided we can get her to them in time. At any rate, it takes a lot of the strain off our medical facilities," and I nodded at the still open door to the sickbay.
"You three are obviously leaders of some sort. Like I said, you'll need to organize your people in order to fight what's going on out there. You three are obviously leaders'' — I indicated their expensive and well- made tack and clothing, and the obviously fine steel of their swords --- "I think you would be the best ones for the job—unless you can think of someone better. While Amalthea's healing them, talk to those of them who're soldiers. Explain to them what we're trying to do here, and sign up anybody who's willing to join." I gave them directions to my quarters. "Meet me there tomorrow morning—there'll probably be a whole mess of things to hammer out before we're truly ready to go. Oh," and I called after them as they turned to go, "if any civilians, including women, offer to join, accept!"
One of Moe's two sidekicks made as if to protest. His leader pulled him back. He bowed slightly, from the waist. "It shall be as you say, sir." He set off down the corridor.
I turned to Amalthea. "Thank you," I said. I meant it, too. Without her help—I wasn't sure what I would have done.
She looked me full in the face. There was fear in her expression—fear and a tightly-held anger that burned all the more fiercely for all that. "You will fight them, won't you?" she asked. "Don't let them escape after killing my people, Stalker, don't!" She hung her head. A single tear escaped from between her tightly closed lids. "I'm all alone now," she moaned.
Damn. The poor girl was still pining for her lost people. There was every possibility that her grief could incapacitate her. I looked around for Raistlin. Gone. The bastard had left me holding the ball. I looked around helplessly for a few minutes, looking for inspiration. Then, I did the first thing that came into my mind.
I hugged her. Tight.
"Listen to me, Amalthea," I rasped into her hair as she sobbed into my chest. "You are not alone. I won't let you be. Raistlin won't let you be." I was putting words into the mage's mouth. I was pretty certain though, that he'd agree with me. "There are fifteen thousand men, women and children on this station who absolutely, with all their might and will, will not allow you to stand alone." I pulled apart from her so I could look into her face. "Hard as it may be for you to accept at first, Hal Jordan transformed you for a reason. A damned good one. I can tell you that he wouldn't have done so if he didn't think it absolutely necessary. I don't exactly know why he did it, but what I've been thinking is that he did it so you wouldn't be the only one of your kind left in the world—that you wouldn't have to be alone like the last time." I took her hands in mine. "We won't let that happen. I promise. You just asked those three to trust me. I'll have to you ask you to trust me. And Raistlin. And everybody else on this station. Can you do that?" I asked her, looking straight into her eyes.
Her "yes" was so soft it was barely audible. A moment later, she said it again, louder and surer than before.
"That's good," I said. I indicated the Stooges, standing a few yards down the corridor, watching us curiously. "They're waiting for you out there, Amalthea. They need you. Don't disappoint them."
She stared at me for a long while, then nodded, and set forth in the wake of the Three Stooges. I allowed myself the luxury of a sigh of relief and turned to go back into the infirmary.
There, leaning against the wall, where he had not been but five seconds before, was Raistlin. He was smirking. Evilly.
"And so the brave knight, having rescued the beautiful Unicorn Princess from the clutches of the evil Chaos Marines, returned her to his castle to rule over their people, whereupon they fell in love…" he declaimed, as if reciting from a badly written romantic epic. "How sad. You seem incapable of escaping a cliché. I would feel for you, if I could."
"You set me up, mage," I growled. "Have you nothing better to do than to put people in embarrassing situations and then making fun of them?"
He raised his hands calmly, as if to ward me off. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he said.
I briefly considered strangling the man, then thought better of it. What was the point? I stomped off down the corridor, muttering to myself.
"Why couldn't I have had someone friendlier? Like Harry Potter? Yeah, he'd be a lot easier to work with…"
I followed Amalthea as she went around, laying her hands on the wounds of those in need. Far from draining her, she seemed to gain yet more energy each time she drew another victim back from the brink of death. To our immense satisfaction, a goodly proportion was not only willing but eager to join the army we were putting together. They were sworn in by Moe (whose real name, I now found out, was Lew, Prince of the kingdom of Haggard). All told, we had two thousand able and ready warriors, willing to take the battle to the demons who had so viciously torn them from their world, their home, and, in many cases, their families.
Raistlin and I, now considering ourselves under truce for the time being—most likely due to the calming influence of Amalthea—took measures to provide for the clothing, feeding and lodging of thirteen thousand civilians and two thousand assorted military personnel. I had a feeling that a good deal more of our unwitting passengers would wind up serving in our fledgling armed forces—in one capacity or another.
I made several trips to and from food markets across the multiverse, buying up as much food of any kind that I could find. Raistlin found himself busily conjuring up food, piling it up in one of the empty storage bays till it reached to the ceiling.
Late in the day, I began the onerous task of packing away the numerous artifacts I had accumulated over the years. More than anything else, my fortress was a museum. Within its labyrinthine halls I had preserved, under stasis fields, artifacts representing over ten thousand years of human culture. An immense library held every text written by human hands that I'd been able to find. Thousands of music and video recordings were stored in the giant mainframe at the fortress' heart, in a chamber right next to the quantum singularity that powered the fortress' mighty hypertime engines.
As I worked, I found myself overcome by the feeling that my past was irrevocably slipping away from me. I stopped and stared at the relics surrounding me, old pieces that, like all the rest on display in the fortress, were all I had to remind me of the world that I'd once walked upon as a man. A true human I'd been then, neither more nor less than my fellow men. Now….
I raised my gloved fist. A minor act of will, and the quantum armor encasing that fist retracted, revealing pink, well formed flesh. I'd lost that hand in the field, fighting back my country's enemies as they sought to overwhelm my beleaguered comrades. We'd fought a delaying action against overwhelming armored forces. One by one, our vehicles were destroyed, their crews blown apart as tank shell after tank shell found it's mark. Finally, a stray shell had landed not three yards from where we'd dug in, behind the crest of a hill. I'd woken up in the field hospital. Reinforcements had arrived in time to halt the enemy's advance, though not to save my comrades. Years later, after I'd traveled the dimensions for nigh on a century, the hand had grown back.
No. Whatever I was now, the word 'human' most certainly did not describe it. I could form energy-constructs out of sub-atomic particles, fly faster than light, and travel between universes. My punches could crack the crust of a planet. After nearly two centuries navigating the labyrinthine pathways of the Bleed, my grasp of the tortuous mechanics of multiversal space was as instinctive as walking. Mentally as well as physically, I had transcended the limitations of mere humanity and had ascended to superhumanity.
Yet, in the recesses of my heart, in which dwell that which is the true measure of a being, I was a man still. May that always be so.
I shook myself back to the concrete reality that was now the thing I had to confront. My planet was gone, now, destroyed by malicious multiversal beings not long after my ascension. In my other life, I'd been a student of human culture, the unconquerable imperatives that drove a sentient being to put pen to paper, brush to canvas, chisel to stone, in order to shape a thing with those crude tools that would thenceforth be called beautiful by others whose minds had also been shaped by those same imperatives. Standing alone in the ruins of great civilizations, I'd found myself overcome with rage at the thought of thousands of vibrant cultures wiped out, all the things of beauty that now would never see the light of day, because their would-be creators had not lived to see their visions through; all the things of beauty that already existed, now consigned to molder in oblivion, with no one to note the genius of their creators, or the powerful spirit of the species that could produce such things. The museum had been my way of ensuring that no matter what happened, my people, my planet, did not go silently into the dark of night—that somewhere in the cold multiverse, there would still be one place that bore their mark, one place in which they were remembered.
That, in a nutshell, was the reason I was feeling this way. Packing the artifacts away would be like burying what I had left of my past. An illogical feeling, that, but, humanity has ever been an illogical species. I took comfort in that last thought. In my heart of hearts, I was still human.
I finished crating a stack of paintings and stood up. No matter the fate of my collection, my past was my own, and would always remain mine. My feelings notwithstanding, no amount of packing away or even discarding would ever change that. Good.
After crating the contents of a small complex of twisting corridors and quiet rooms, I went to find Raistlin. My thoughts during the packing, and my observations of Amalthea while we were providing aid to the refugees, had brought to my mind two things that I would have to tell him about.
Which was why, long after Amalthea had healed every wounded soul aboard the fortress, long after the last of the fifteen thousand refugees had been settled into temporary quarters, pending the assignment of permanent living space, Raistlin and I sat facing each other in the two easy chairs in my quarters, drinks in our hands and each eying the other suspiciously. Neither of us felt entirely certain of the other at that point of time. Having caught the sharp end of Raistlin's tongue more than once already, I was understandably not eager to face it again, should he choose to unloose it. Raistlin, on the other hand, having felt the effects of the zone of accord that seemed to follow Amalthea around like a cloud of fine perfume, was probably unsure in his mind as to how to respond to my presence. I could not but smile at this. I could understand his confusion.
"I suppose you're wondering why I've asked for this meeting. I understand that any one who's been on the receiving end of your tongue would want to avoid you altogether. I don't mean any offense here; I'm just trying to be frank." I took a sip of my whiskey, then continued before he took the opportunity to say something. "I don't have that option here. We've both been put into positions of responsibility, and because of those responsibilities, we're honor-bound to work together in order to put a stop to the Cancer. That means that for the time being, I'll have to put up with you. Of course, that also means you'll have to put up with me. Can you do that?"
"It seems I have little choice in the matter," he said, with a nonchalant shrug. "I still do not entirely trust you, however. I have found distrust to be a wise policy in the past—I do not intend to change now."
"I swear I will not betray you. Our enterprise can not succeed if each of us is too busy looking over his shoulder for the other one about to stab him in the back."
"So you say," he replied. His eyes bored into mine, like those of a snake about to strike. "Yet too little is known about you. As I said before, you are an enigma. Only Hal Jordan and Jackson King can claim any knowledge about you as a person—Jordan is still not fully trusted after his last attempt to rewrite history, and King is suspect as well. Thus, you have no one to vouch for you. As to whence you came, and what you are doing, all we have are rumors, vague sightings from afar on the field of battle. What do I know of your motives, your actions throughout the years? Nothing. My logic is simple: I do not know I can trust you, because it is impossible for me to know."
I struggled to keep a lid on my temper. For two hundred years I had fought a war without end against dark gods, sinister conquerors from beyond time, twisted, hate-maddened creatures whose only pleasure was to destroy. I had saved countless lives in my time, seen innumerable sights. Did this man presume to question my good intentions, I, who had done these things? "I would think the fact that I haven't tried to conquer any universes would speak for any intentions I might have," I managed to say, in an approximately normal tone of voice that was a considerable effort to maintain.
He shrugged. "There are other means to power, as one as obviously intelligent as you should now."
I gave a bitter laugh. "You think I'm motivated by power? Is that it?" I laughed again, louder this time. "Nothing could be further from the truth. If I have at all involved myself in the affairs of others, it was always to ensure that they remain safe from what they can not fight."
"Perhaps," he replied. "Yet my colleague, Doctor Strange, has also spoken of a man who makes the same claim. You may have heard of him.
"His name is Doom"
I couldn't help it. I began laughing out loud. Doom! This man was comparing me to Doom! Of all people, Doom! Doom the megalomaniac, Doom the supervillain, Doom the wannabe god! My fingers closed reflexively on the upholstered armrests of my chair. There was a ripping sound as the upholstery shredded in my hands.
That brought me to my senses. I'd learned long ago to keep a short leash on my stronger emotions. Rage, extreme mirth, hysteria; these could cause a man to lose control over his own actions. In the very first days after I'd acquired my powers, I'd walked the multiverse, seeking out men of power. Superman. The High. Divis Mal. Men whose fists could shatter mountains, whose muscles could shift moons from their orbits. Observing these mighty men, one thing had struck me. These men projected calm, a sort of emotional serenity that not even a nuclear explosion would disturb. They moved as if aware of the dire consequences the slightest false move on their part could have. Perhaps that was part of their allure, the strange charisma that enabled them to enchant millions: the adoring fans, the comrades who admired and respected them as the greatest of their number—even the cults which sprang like mushrooms about them.
Whatever effect it may have had on those around them, this calm arose from the awareness of these men of the power each of them held. Hence, they cultivated their minds in order to minimize the impact of intense emotions. Even enwrapped in the flames of rage, the joys of orgasm, their control over their powers was absolute.
I had made every attempt to organize my own mental landscape on the model offered me by these great men, once it became clear that my abilities would approach theirs in magnitude. So far, in the main I had succeeded. Yet the events of the past few days—the lack of rest, the destruction of a world that I had held dear and the transformation of an old and dear friend into a form totally unfamiliar to her—had eroded my control till it was paper thin in places. So, now I was hysterical. Not a good thing, that.
"You cannot be serious," I choked, still trying to force down the mindless burble that threatened to work its way up my windpipe from my lungs. "I'm sorry," I continued, getting myself under control again. "It's just that—comparing me to Doom…" I let loose one last laugh, a short, sharp bark that held little mirth. "I'm sorry. I'm hysterical. Heh. Look, I don't know how I can convince you of my good intentions." A crazy thought came to me, shining in the darkness of my tired mind like the first glimmerings of dawn. Or maybe it was the ominous glow of a melted down nuclear reactor. "Hey, maybe if I told you why I'm doing all this, where I come from, how I got my powers and all that, you'll trust me a bit more. It's only fair. After all, I know a great deal more about you than you do about me."
He leaned forward, an avid expression on his face. "Ah." That sound seemed, on several levels, to convey an immense satisfaction. "Tell me, then. What was it? What made you what you are today? What story brought you here, out to the void between the worlds? Does it resonate in the minds of children of all ages, in universes as far removed from yours as yours is for mine?" The corners of his mouth turned upwards, exposing his teeth in a grin. "Oh, don't be surprised. I know all about fame, and what can happen when you acquire it. Was I one of your childhood heroes then, back when you were but a grub, a drone amongst other drones, struggling to break free of your drudgery, to become more than what you were?" Without waiting for an answer he stood and crossed to the bookshelves lining the far side of the room. I got up and followed him, wondering how I'd allowed myself to get sucked onto this strange side-track, and how I might get our conversation back on the lines on which I'd intended it to run.
Quickly, the mage scanned the shelves. Hundreds of books stood, arrayed like the ranks of an army upon those metal planes. "Yes," he said, pulling out a copy of Dragons of Autumn Twilight.
"Now," he said, holding the book, "tell."
"Hold on, pal." I held up a hand to forestall him. "I've got some things to say first—at least, I would have said them if you hadn't hijacked the conv--"
There was a noise from the door to the sleeping quarters. Amalthea was standing there, looking wide-eyed at the two of us.
Even as she was, clad in one of my spare robes that was much too large for her, she was beautiful—and vulnerable. Her snowy skin shone in the darkened room like a beacon in the night, lighting the way for the weary traveler as he struggles toward safety, like—I shook my head, trying to clear it. This was not the time to let my mind become even more befogged than it already was.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, as Raistlin took her by the arm and led her to a chair. "I'm sorry." Her voice was but a whisper, barely audible from where I was standing. She looked at me. Even had she not had the…special advantage that I was beginning to suspect she had…the look on her face might well have melted my heart even so. "It's not working. I can't stop thinking about those people out there. You're wrong. They're…they're nothing like me!" This last came out as a despairing wail. "I can feel them! All they want to do is adore me! That's all!"
Raistlin knelt beside her. "Little one, what exactly do you mean?"
"She's an empath. A projective empath, to be precise."
Raistlin stiffened in shock. His eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. "Yes," he said. "Yes. This explains everything." He turned back to Amalthea. "You can feel what they feel, can't you, little one? Their joy…their fear…everything. Their emotions are your emotions."
She nodded.
"And you can project emotions into other people's minds," he went on. "This is very dangerous, little one. Do you know what you're playing with?"
"I don't think she knows she's doing it. Her projective empathy seems to be on all the time. I sure you've noticed the effects. Everyone reacts positively towards her. Negative emotions just…disappear. That's what happened to the two of us, that time. And to Prince Lew and his two friends. She just doesn't have control. At least, not yet."
Very slowly, Raistlin sat in the other chair. He eyed the Unicorn Lady warily. "Dangerous indeed," he muttered. "What do we do, now?"
"She'll have to be trained I suppose. You don't happen to have any experience with psionics, do you?"
He shook his head
"As it happens, I do know of a person who might be able to train her—or at the very least, contain her." Following Raistlin's example a few minutes earlier, I knelt before the chair. "I'm sorry, Amalthea. As Raistlin says, your powers are dangerous. Maybe even too dangerous for us to ever be able to let you keep them at all. If worst comes to worst, we may even have to have someone take control of you." That last sentence was the hardest thing I'd ever said in my life. It was almost impossible to stand there, look that beautiful woman in the face, and tell her that because of what she could do, we would be forced to take away one of the most wondrous things she possessed—maybe even her free will.
She just stared at me, her eyes brimming with her heart's pain. "I don't want to hurt anybody," she whispered. "Please, do what you must." It broke my heart to see her like that. Or was it just her empathy?
I'd think a lot less of myself if it was, indeed, the latter.
"We'll see," was all I said.
I stood up and face the mage. "Actually, I think this covers what I was going to say, before we were interrupted." I took a deep breath, then let it out, noisily. "I suppose the only thing we can do now is carry on. Amalthea is not a monster, though her abilities may make her seem that way to others—even more so than you or I. I'm all for the three of us getting some rest now. It's been a long day, and we've all got work to do tomorrow."
"Oh, no," said the mage. "I believe you still owe me a story…"
"You're not going to let that go are you?" I sighed. The last of the adrenaline jolt to my brain upon Amalthea's entrance was fading. "Well, I suppose that if I lose control while I'm talking, you'll be able to get a close look at my psyche." I gestured at one of the chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Amalthea? Would you like to stay?"
She nodded
"Right, then." I crossed to the bar, poured myself another whiskey, the better to wet my lips, and began to tell them of my origin.
We were overruled. When the woman who had been the Last Unicorn heard of the plight of the refugees, her first instinct was to rush to their aid. Neither the mage nor I had been able to dissuade her. She had not raised her voice, or argued. "I must go to them," was all she said. Neither Raistlin nor I had been able to stop her. Not for lack of will to do so. We simply found ourselves unable to protest. She had walked past us to the hatch leading out to the corridors of the fortress, and we could only follow.
I am forced to admit that her aid was invaluable to us, during that long, tortuous day. The refugees shrank from us—Raistlin and I—in fear, while they flocked to do her bidding, with a look of devotion on their faces that was not far from worship. I found this unsettling, during the few moments in which I had time to think. I did not dwell on this for long, however, being preoccupied with offering what aid I could to the wounded.
Gradually, the refugees warmed to the mage and I. Being associated with Amalthea helped. She would ask one or the other of us for help, from time to time. It was at those times that the frightened refugees learned that the two frightening men, the mage with the metallic skin and hourglass eyes and the armored warrior with the katana scabbarded at his waist, were not so dangerous after all. Maybe…just maybe, they might even be friends. Allies in this war, and guides to this strange new world, into which they had so suddenly been thrust, without warning, like newborn babes.
It was while we were attending to the wounded that we discovered Amalthea's powers. The fortress had a large sickbay, salvaged from the wreck of a Galaxy-class cruiser of the United Federation of Planets, destroyed by the alien empire known as the Dominion in the midst of one of the bloodiest battles between those two great powers. Many of the fortress' systems had been acquired in a similar manner, salvaged from derelicts, purchased ready made from commercial suppliers, or stolen outright from people who really shouldn't have been allowed to run around with such things in the first place. Even the battle steel walls of the fortress themselves had been taken in a lightning raid on the Kuat Drive Yards, the massive systemwide facility that churned out the Imperial Star Destroyers that had made the Empire a feared force throughout the galaxy.
Just then, the sickbay was filled to overflowing. The most grievously injured lay on diagnostic beds, the automated systems within the beds busy with stasis fields and waldo-mounted hyposprays, doing their best to keep their patients alive with the limited resources and processing power available to them. Not for the first time did I wish I'd been able to save the EMH from that damned Galaxy. I was a physicist by training, a warrior and explorer by profession. Advanced medicine was not among the skills I'd had reason or inclination to acquire. I made a mental note to myself to correct that deficiency once this madness was over.
At the door, two men carried an injured comrade in. Being occupied at the moment with programming a bed, I could spare them but a glance as I worked. Not that what I saw was good. Sucking chest wound. With no EMH to perform operations, the best we could do was to keep those with life- threatening injuries under stasis, till we were able to get someone with proper medical training to them. Furthermore…I looked around. Almost all the beds were occupied. Damn. Even with triage, we wouldn't be able to save everybody. Once more, I cursed my lack of medical knowledge, cursed myself for not foreseeing the need for it. Then I took a deep breath, got control over myself once more. Nothing I could do about my lack now. I would just have to make do.
I was just about to go over to the group by the door when Amalthea cut in front of me, heading for the same spot, a strange look upon her face. By all rights, the stress of the last few hours should have left her haggard and wan. To all of us, it merely seemed as if her beauty had been refined, made purer through contact with the horror and pain that raged around us.
Before the two healthy men could stop her, she put her hands on the wound of the dying man.
And the world went mad.
Raistlin brushed past me, as if to stop her. The one healer whom Hal had rescued had risen from where she was tending a woman with a gashed open arm, her mouth open to shout a warning. The two men supporting Chest Wound reached out with their free arms, attempting too late to ward the woman who had been the Last Unicorn off.
The mark on Amalthea's forehead flared, bathing the room with the light of a small star. From around the room, various people shrieked or cursed, depending on their respective personalities, as the light overloaded their optic nerves, blinding them. Then the light began to change colours. Even through my eyelids, I could see them shifting, running, dancing from one end of the spectrum to the other.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light was gone.
Amalthea stood before the injured man. The strange expression was gone, replaced by uncertainty, and not a little fear. His friends had released him as soon as the light had gone off. They now flanked him, staring shocked as he gingerly probed the smooth skin where his wound had once been.
Then, he looked up, and stared wide-eyed at the beautiful woman who'd saved his life. The next moment, he was on his knees before her, babbling his thanks and pledging undying loyalty to whatever cause she chose to point him at. With a flamboyant sweep, he drew his sword and offered it to her. After a slight pause, his friends did the same.
She looked at us, her face uncertain. Raistlin and I exchanged glances. Experienced adventurers both, it was even money that we were both thinking the same thing: We don't need them tripping us up. We were lone operators, the two of us. We fought our secret wars in the shadows, in the cracks between realities. Not for us the valiant stand against the forces of darkness on the field of battle. Our way was the dagger in the darkness, the hidden snare, the removal of the nail for want of which kingdoms were lost. For obvious reasons, the thought of these three loons—these three obviously highborn loons, steeped in glorious traditions of chivalry and romance and courtly love—attaching themselves to us was less than appealing to either of us.
Before Raistlin could speak, however, I strode forward. These were not normal times. We were fighting a war on a scale beyond human comprehension, far beyond any on which we had previously operated. Supernatural menaces, invaders from another universe—all small cheese, compared to what we were up against. Just like that, our whole paradigm had changed. The old ways, the ways of fighting in the darkness, were obsolete. It was time to step out, out into the light, where people could see you, out in the light where people could see you, knew where you were. Where people like us, those who stood between the ravening darkness and everything that was in the least bit good, could stand up beside us, joining strength to strength to thrust the darkness away.
The times had changed, and I'd be damned if I couldn't change along with them.
I put my hand on Amalthea's shoulder. "Say yes." The three men on the floor eyed me suspiciously.
"What—" began Raistlin.
"Later," I cut him off.
"You cannot be serious," he hissed. "We face destruction, evil on a scale never seen before—and you want these," an angry gesture to the three kneeling men, "as allies? They will die, Stalker, quickly and horribly. They are of no use to us."
I spread my arms, using my body as a barrier between the three enraged men and the black-robed mage. "Enough," I said, as they attempted to push past me. I took a step forward, forcing them back despite their combined efforts. The three men fell back, raising their swords to en garde positions.
I favoured them with a glare. "You know, I just pushed the three of you back. I don't know about you, but to me, it obviously means I'm a bit stronger than the three of you combined." I jerked a thumb back at Raistlin. "The guy back there is a Sorcerer Supreme. He sterilizes entire planets just by looking at them funny. Don't you think you ought to think a bit before trying to take either of us on?"
I spread my hands, now trying to appear reasonable. "Look, I don't mean you or any of your people harm. Neither does my friend back there. The only reason you or any of your people are here is because you got pulled into this whole mess by a bunch of nihilistic, absolutely anti-moral assholes who had no business even being in your neck of reality. But the fact remains that you and everybody else are here, in the middle of a war totally beyond anything you've ever seen before. Normally, I wouldn't be doing this, but I don't have the time to find you and your people a new home world. What's more, I really don't think any place I dumped you on would be truly safe. Like it or not, all of reality's a combat zone. And you people are simply unequipped to face anything that's likely to come at you."
Advancing on the trio, I began listing the various deficiencies of the culture now residing in my fortress. "No mages beyond power level Gamma. That's our fancy way of saying that your magic-users aren't really all that powerful—if they're still alive, that is. Next, the genetic potential necessary for super-humanity to develop won't manifest among you for another five hundred years. That's all very well and good then, but pretty much useless now. Finally, your technology is barely beyond the very early Gunpowder Age. When Type IV Space Age civilizations find themselves powerless against the types of threats we're facing here, I don't think you're going to be able to do much, are you?"
They looked at me blankly. One of them—the one on the right, licked his lips and adjusted his grip on his sword. I looked at them and sighed. My last few sentences had sailed directly over their heads. I shook my head and tried again.
"Listen. Just take it on my word that you have become embroiled in a conflict against forces far beyond your comprehension. Your people have no way to fight back. I can't leave you in a safe place, because such a place does not exist. All I can do is give you the tools to fight this thing—because, I assure you, you will have to fight, sooner or later. So…swear your allegiance to the lady, if that is what you wish. She and I are allies. I give you my word that I will provide you and your people with a place to live. I will train any young men who are willing and able to fight this war the way I, and my associates fight it. And when all this is over, I will find you and your people a new world to call your own."
I extended my hand. "Deal?"
The one in the middle eyed me suspiciously. "I think not, sirrah." His voice was steady, although his tone betrayed his underlying nervousness. "Your aspect is not that of one whom we would fain trust with our lives. I know not what hold you have over this fair lady—suffice it to say that if you intend to use it to control us, we will fight you to release her from it."
"Stop." Amalthea's voice had not risen a decibel over its normal volume. Nevertheless, its pure tones dissipated the fog of testosterone clouding the minds of the group of three confronting me, and, I am sorry to say, mine as well. She came over and stood between us. "Stalker is a good man, for all that he looks fell." There was a pause. Then, to my surprise, I felt a small hand slip into my own, gloved fist. I looked down to where our hands were joined.
Amalthea spoke again. "Please, you have to trust him. He only means well for you and your people. What he says is the truth. There is something out there—something you can't fight, not as you are. He can help you, give you weapons, if only you can just trust him." Slowly, she raised our joined hands into the light. The Three Stooges (as I had begun to think of them—I'd even assigned names to each of them) goggled at the sight of her hand in mine. I found myself doing the same thing. Where had that come from?
The Unicorn Lady looked full into the eyes of each of the three men before her. One by one, they failed to meet her gaze. Finally, she spoke. One last argument, one final impassioned plea to those whose fear would undo all that we would create before we had even begun to fight. "Stalker is my friend. I trust him. With my life." Her voice was soft, imploring. "Will you trust him? Will you trust me?"
The one in the middle—Moe, I had designated him as—hung his head. His sword slid back into its scabbard. The others followed suit.
"Aye, milady," he said, "We trust you." He turned to me. "Sir, I owe you an apology." He extended his hand. I felt sorry for him. I could see him flinch as I extended my own hand for him to shake. Was I so terrifying a figure that grown men were afraid of me? Were willing to die rather than trust me? I didn't want to think about that.
"Thank you," I said to him, and held his gaze for a few minutes. A nervous tic developed in his left cheek. What was it that was scaring these people?
"Right," I said finally. "There's still a large number wounded and dying out there. Now we know Amalthea can heal them, I believe we'll be able to save everybody, provided we can get her to them in time. At any rate, it takes a lot of the strain off our medical facilities," and I nodded at the still open door to the sickbay.
"You three are obviously leaders of some sort. Like I said, you'll need to organize your people in order to fight what's going on out there. You three are obviously leaders'' — I indicated their expensive and well- made tack and clothing, and the obviously fine steel of their swords --- "I think you would be the best ones for the job—unless you can think of someone better. While Amalthea's healing them, talk to those of them who're soldiers. Explain to them what we're trying to do here, and sign up anybody who's willing to join." I gave them directions to my quarters. "Meet me there tomorrow morning—there'll probably be a whole mess of things to hammer out before we're truly ready to go. Oh," and I called after them as they turned to go, "if any civilians, including women, offer to join, accept!"
One of Moe's two sidekicks made as if to protest. His leader pulled him back. He bowed slightly, from the waist. "It shall be as you say, sir." He set off down the corridor.
I turned to Amalthea. "Thank you," I said. I meant it, too. Without her help—I wasn't sure what I would have done.
She looked me full in the face. There was fear in her expression—fear and a tightly-held anger that burned all the more fiercely for all that. "You will fight them, won't you?" she asked. "Don't let them escape after killing my people, Stalker, don't!" She hung her head. A single tear escaped from between her tightly closed lids. "I'm all alone now," she moaned.
Damn. The poor girl was still pining for her lost people. There was every possibility that her grief could incapacitate her. I looked around for Raistlin. Gone. The bastard had left me holding the ball. I looked around helplessly for a few minutes, looking for inspiration. Then, I did the first thing that came into my mind.
I hugged her. Tight.
"Listen to me, Amalthea," I rasped into her hair as she sobbed into my chest. "You are not alone. I won't let you be. Raistlin won't let you be." I was putting words into the mage's mouth. I was pretty certain though, that he'd agree with me. "There are fifteen thousand men, women and children on this station who absolutely, with all their might and will, will not allow you to stand alone." I pulled apart from her so I could look into her face. "Hard as it may be for you to accept at first, Hal Jordan transformed you for a reason. A damned good one. I can tell you that he wouldn't have done so if he didn't think it absolutely necessary. I don't exactly know why he did it, but what I've been thinking is that he did it so you wouldn't be the only one of your kind left in the world—that you wouldn't have to be alone like the last time." I took her hands in mine. "We won't let that happen. I promise. You just asked those three to trust me. I'll have to you ask you to trust me. And Raistlin. And everybody else on this station. Can you do that?" I asked her, looking straight into her eyes.
Her "yes" was so soft it was barely audible. A moment later, she said it again, louder and surer than before.
"That's good," I said. I indicated the Stooges, standing a few yards down the corridor, watching us curiously. "They're waiting for you out there, Amalthea. They need you. Don't disappoint them."
She stared at me for a long while, then nodded, and set forth in the wake of the Three Stooges. I allowed myself the luxury of a sigh of relief and turned to go back into the infirmary.
There, leaning against the wall, where he had not been but five seconds before, was Raistlin. He was smirking. Evilly.
"And so the brave knight, having rescued the beautiful Unicorn Princess from the clutches of the evil Chaos Marines, returned her to his castle to rule over their people, whereupon they fell in love…" he declaimed, as if reciting from a badly written romantic epic. "How sad. You seem incapable of escaping a cliché. I would feel for you, if I could."
"You set me up, mage," I growled. "Have you nothing better to do than to put people in embarrassing situations and then making fun of them?"
He raised his hands calmly, as if to ward me off. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he said.
I briefly considered strangling the man, then thought better of it. What was the point? I stomped off down the corridor, muttering to myself.
"Why couldn't I have had someone friendlier? Like Harry Potter? Yeah, he'd be a lot easier to work with…"
I followed Amalthea as she went around, laying her hands on the wounds of those in need. Far from draining her, she seemed to gain yet more energy each time she drew another victim back from the brink of death. To our immense satisfaction, a goodly proportion was not only willing but eager to join the army we were putting together. They were sworn in by Moe (whose real name, I now found out, was Lew, Prince of the kingdom of Haggard). All told, we had two thousand able and ready warriors, willing to take the battle to the demons who had so viciously torn them from their world, their home, and, in many cases, their families.
Raistlin and I, now considering ourselves under truce for the time being—most likely due to the calming influence of Amalthea—took measures to provide for the clothing, feeding and lodging of thirteen thousand civilians and two thousand assorted military personnel. I had a feeling that a good deal more of our unwitting passengers would wind up serving in our fledgling armed forces—in one capacity or another.
I made several trips to and from food markets across the multiverse, buying up as much food of any kind that I could find. Raistlin found himself busily conjuring up food, piling it up in one of the empty storage bays till it reached to the ceiling.
Late in the day, I began the onerous task of packing away the numerous artifacts I had accumulated over the years. More than anything else, my fortress was a museum. Within its labyrinthine halls I had preserved, under stasis fields, artifacts representing over ten thousand years of human culture. An immense library held every text written by human hands that I'd been able to find. Thousands of music and video recordings were stored in the giant mainframe at the fortress' heart, in a chamber right next to the quantum singularity that powered the fortress' mighty hypertime engines.
As I worked, I found myself overcome by the feeling that my past was irrevocably slipping away from me. I stopped and stared at the relics surrounding me, old pieces that, like all the rest on display in the fortress, were all I had to remind me of the world that I'd once walked upon as a man. A true human I'd been then, neither more nor less than my fellow men. Now….
I raised my gloved fist. A minor act of will, and the quantum armor encasing that fist retracted, revealing pink, well formed flesh. I'd lost that hand in the field, fighting back my country's enemies as they sought to overwhelm my beleaguered comrades. We'd fought a delaying action against overwhelming armored forces. One by one, our vehicles were destroyed, their crews blown apart as tank shell after tank shell found it's mark. Finally, a stray shell had landed not three yards from where we'd dug in, behind the crest of a hill. I'd woken up in the field hospital. Reinforcements had arrived in time to halt the enemy's advance, though not to save my comrades. Years later, after I'd traveled the dimensions for nigh on a century, the hand had grown back.
No. Whatever I was now, the word 'human' most certainly did not describe it. I could form energy-constructs out of sub-atomic particles, fly faster than light, and travel between universes. My punches could crack the crust of a planet. After nearly two centuries navigating the labyrinthine pathways of the Bleed, my grasp of the tortuous mechanics of multiversal space was as instinctive as walking. Mentally as well as physically, I had transcended the limitations of mere humanity and had ascended to superhumanity.
Yet, in the recesses of my heart, in which dwell that which is the true measure of a being, I was a man still. May that always be so.
I shook myself back to the concrete reality that was now the thing I had to confront. My planet was gone, now, destroyed by malicious multiversal beings not long after my ascension. In my other life, I'd been a student of human culture, the unconquerable imperatives that drove a sentient being to put pen to paper, brush to canvas, chisel to stone, in order to shape a thing with those crude tools that would thenceforth be called beautiful by others whose minds had also been shaped by those same imperatives. Standing alone in the ruins of great civilizations, I'd found myself overcome with rage at the thought of thousands of vibrant cultures wiped out, all the things of beauty that now would never see the light of day, because their would-be creators had not lived to see their visions through; all the things of beauty that already existed, now consigned to molder in oblivion, with no one to note the genius of their creators, or the powerful spirit of the species that could produce such things. The museum had been my way of ensuring that no matter what happened, my people, my planet, did not go silently into the dark of night—that somewhere in the cold multiverse, there would still be one place that bore their mark, one place in which they were remembered.
That, in a nutshell, was the reason I was feeling this way. Packing the artifacts away would be like burying what I had left of my past. An illogical feeling, that, but, humanity has ever been an illogical species. I took comfort in that last thought. In my heart of hearts, I was still human.
I finished crating a stack of paintings and stood up. No matter the fate of my collection, my past was my own, and would always remain mine. My feelings notwithstanding, no amount of packing away or even discarding would ever change that. Good.
After crating the contents of a small complex of twisting corridors and quiet rooms, I went to find Raistlin. My thoughts during the packing, and my observations of Amalthea while we were providing aid to the refugees, had brought to my mind two things that I would have to tell him about.
Which was why, long after Amalthea had healed every wounded soul aboard the fortress, long after the last of the fifteen thousand refugees had been settled into temporary quarters, pending the assignment of permanent living space, Raistlin and I sat facing each other in the two easy chairs in my quarters, drinks in our hands and each eying the other suspiciously. Neither of us felt entirely certain of the other at that point of time. Having caught the sharp end of Raistlin's tongue more than once already, I was understandably not eager to face it again, should he choose to unloose it. Raistlin, on the other hand, having felt the effects of the zone of accord that seemed to follow Amalthea around like a cloud of fine perfume, was probably unsure in his mind as to how to respond to my presence. I could not but smile at this. I could understand his confusion.
"I suppose you're wondering why I've asked for this meeting. I understand that any one who's been on the receiving end of your tongue would want to avoid you altogether. I don't mean any offense here; I'm just trying to be frank." I took a sip of my whiskey, then continued before he took the opportunity to say something. "I don't have that option here. We've both been put into positions of responsibility, and because of those responsibilities, we're honor-bound to work together in order to put a stop to the Cancer. That means that for the time being, I'll have to put up with you. Of course, that also means you'll have to put up with me. Can you do that?"
"It seems I have little choice in the matter," he said, with a nonchalant shrug. "I still do not entirely trust you, however. I have found distrust to be a wise policy in the past—I do not intend to change now."
"I swear I will not betray you. Our enterprise can not succeed if each of us is too busy looking over his shoulder for the other one about to stab him in the back."
"So you say," he replied. His eyes bored into mine, like those of a snake about to strike. "Yet too little is known about you. As I said before, you are an enigma. Only Hal Jordan and Jackson King can claim any knowledge about you as a person—Jordan is still not fully trusted after his last attempt to rewrite history, and King is suspect as well. Thus, you have no one to vouch for you. As to whence you came, and what you are doing, all we have are rumors, vague sightings from afar on the field of battle. What do I know of your motives, your actions throughout the years? Nothing. My logic is simple: I do not know I can trust you, because it is impossible for me to know."
I struggled to keep a lid on my temper. For two hundred years I had fought a war without end against dark gods, sinister conquerors from beyond time, twisted, hate-maddened creatures whose only pleasure was to destroy. I had saved countless lives in my time, seen innumerable sights. Did this man presume to question my good intentions, I, who had done these things? "I would think the fact that I haven't tried to conquer any universes would speak for any intentions I might have," I managed to say, in an approximately normal tone of voice that was a considerable effort to maintain.
He shrugged. "There are other means to power, as one as obviously intelligent as you should now."
I gave a bitter laugh. "You think I'm motivated by power? Is that it?" I laughed again, louder this time. "Nothing could be further from the truth. If I have at all involved myself in the affairs of others, it was always to ensure that they remain safe from what they can not fight."
"Perhaps," he replied. "Yet my colleague, Doctor Strange, has also spoken of a man who makes the same claim. You may have heard of him.
"His name is Doom"
I couldn't help it. I began laughing out loud. Doom! This man was comparing me to Doom! Of all people, Doom! Doom the megalomaniac, Doom the supervillain, Doom the wannabe god! My fingers closed reflexively on the upholstered armrests of my chair. There was a ripping sound as the upholstery shredded in my hands.
That brought me to my senses. I'd learned long ago to keep a short leash on my stronger emotions. Rage, extreme mirth, hysteria; these could cause a man to lose control over his own actions. In the very first days after I'd acquired my powers, I'd walked the multiverse, seeking out men of power. Superman. The High. Divis Mal. Men whose fists could shatter mountains, whose muscles could shift moons from their orbits. Observing these mighty men, one thing had struck me. These men projected calm, a sort of emotional serenity that not even a nuclear explosion would disturb. They moved as if aware of the dire consequences the slightest false move on their part could have. Perhaps that was part of their allure, the strange charisma that enabled them to enchant millions: the adoring fans, the comrades who admired and respected them as the greatest of their number—even the cults which sprang like mushrooms about them.
Whatever effect it may have had on those around them, this calm arose from the awareness of these men of the power each of them held. Hence, they cultivated their minds in order to minimize the impact of intense emotions. Even enwrapped in the flames of rage, the joys of orgasm, their control over their powers was absolute.
I had made every attempt to organize my own mental landscape on the model offered me by these great men, once it became clear that my abilities would approach theirs in magnitude. So far, in the main I had succeeded. Yet the events of the past few days—the lack of rest, the destruction of a world that I had held dear and the transformation of an old and dear friend into a form totally unfamiliar to her—had eroded my control till it was paper thin in places. So, now I was hysterical. Not a good thing, that.
"You cannot be serious," I choked, still trying to force down the mindless burble that threatened to work its way up my windpipe from my lungs. "I'm sorry," I continued, getting myself under control again. "It's just that—comparing me to Doom…" I let loose one last laugh, a short, sharp bark that held little mirth. "I'm sorry. I'm hysterical. Heh. Look, I don't know how I can convince you of my good intentions." A crazy thought came to me, shining in the darkness of my tired mind like the first glimmerings of dawn. Or maybe it was the ominous glow of a melted down nuclear reactor. "Hey, maybe if I told you why I'm doing all this, where I come from, how I got my powers and all that, you'll trust me a bit more. It's only fair. After all, I know a great deal more about you than you do about me."
He leaned forward, an avid expression on his face. "Ah." That sound seemed, on several levels, to convey an immense satisfaction. "Tell me, then. What was it? What made you what you are today? What story brought you here, out to the void between the worlds? Does it resonate in the minds of children of all ages, in universes as far removed from yours as yours is for mine?" The corners of his mouth turned upwards, exposing his teeth in a grin. "Oh, don't be surprised. I know all about fame, and what can happen when you acquire it. Was I one of your childhood heroes then, back when you were but a grub, a drone amongst other drones, struggling to break free of your drudgery, to become more than what you were?" Without waiting for an answer he stood and crossed to the bookshelves lining the far side of the room. I got up and followed him, wondering how I'd allowed myself to get sucked onto this strange side-track, and how I might get our conversation back on the lines on which I'd intended it to run.
Quickly, the mage scanned the shelves. Hundreds of books stood, arrayed like the ranks of an army upon those metal planes. "Yes," he said, pulling out a copy of Dragons of Autumn Twilight.
"Now," he said, holding the book, "tell."
"Hold on, pal." I held up a hand to forestall him. "I've got some things to say first—at least, I would have said them if you hadn't hijacked the conv--"
There was a noise from the door to the sleeping quarters. Amalthea was standing there, looking wide-eyed at the two of us.
Even as she was, clad in one of my spare robes that was much too large for her, she was beautiful—and vulnerable. Her snowy skin shone in the darkened room like a beacon in the night, lighting the way for the weary traveler as he struggles toward safety, like—I shook my head, trying to clear it. This was not the time to let my mind become even more befogged than it already was.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, as Raistlin took her by the arm and led her to a chair. "I'm sorry." Her voice was but a whisper, barely audible from where I was standing. She looked at me. Even had she not had the…special advantage that I was beginning to suspect she had…the look on her face might well have melted my heart even so. "It's not working. I can't stop thinking about those people out there. You're wrong. They're…they're nothing like me!" This last came out as a despairing wail. "I can feel them! All they want to do is adore me! That's all!"
Raistlin knelt beside her. "Little one, what exactly do you mean?"
"She's an empath. A projective empath, to be precise."
Raistlin stiffened in shock. His eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. "Yes," he said. "Yes. This explains everything." He turned back to Amalthea. "You can feel what they feel, can't you, little one? Their joy…their fear…everything. Their emotions are your emotions."
She nodded.
"And you can project emotions into other people's minds," he went on. "This is very dangerous, little one. Do you know what you're playing with?"
"I don't think she knows she's doing it. Her projective empathy seems to be on all the time. I sure you've noticed the effects. Everyone reacts positively towards her. Negative emotions just…disappear. That's what happened to the two of us, that time. And to Prince Lew and his two friends. She just doesn't have control. At least, not yet."
Very slowly, Raistlin sat in the other chair. He eyed the Unicorn Lady warily. "Dangerous indeed," he muttered. "What do we do, now?"
"She'll have to be trained I suppose. You don't happen to have any experience with psionics, do you?"
He shook his head
"As it happens, I do know of a person who might be able to train her—or at the very least, contain her." Following Raistlin's example a few minutes earlier, I knelt before the chair. "I'm sorry, Amalthea. As Raistlin says, your powers are dangerous. Maybe even too dangerous for us to ever be able to let you keep them at all. If worst comes to worst, we may even have to have someone take control of you." That last sentence was the hardest thing I'd ever said in my life. It was almost impossible to stand there, look that beautiful woman in the face, and tell her that because of what she could do, we would be forced to take away one of the most wondrous things she possessed—maybe even her free will.
She just stared at me, her eyes brimming with her heart's pain. "I don't want to hurt anybody," she whispered. "Please, do what you must." It broke my heart to see her like that. Or was it just her empathy?
I'd think a lot less of myself if it was, indeed, the latter.
"We'll see," was all I said.
I stood up and face the mage. "Actually, I think this covers what I was going to say, before we were interrupted." I took a deep breath, then let it out, noisily. "I suppose the only thing we can do now is carry on. Amalthea is not a monster, though her abilities may make her seem that way to others—even more so than you or I. I'm all for the three of us getting some rest now. It's been a long day, and we've all got work to do tomorrow."
"Oh, no," said the mage. "I believe you still owe me a story…"
"You're not going to let that go are you?" I sighed. The last of the adrenaline jolt to my brain upon Amalthea's entrance was fading. "Well, I suppose that if I lose control while I'm talking, you'll be able to get a close look at my psyche." I gestured at one of the chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Amalthea? Would you like to stay?"
She nodded
"Right, then." I crossed to the bar, poured myself another whiskey, the better to wet my lips, and began to tell them of my origin.