Dusk (15 page)

“Wait a second,” Tanner interrupted, “Xander
is what you call him, right? With an ‘X’? He’s X. Kalem, the author
of the book on the links between Zoroastrianism and the Rig
Vedas?”

“The very same.”

“That’s where I’ve heard the name. Wait, is
his name Alexander or Xander?”

“Well, Uncle Xander is what Darius called him
since he learned to talk. Guess it’s hard to say ‘Alex’ with no
front teeth.” Cyrus paused for a moment, looking at the wall as if
he could see something on the other side of it. “Funny, Xander and
I hated each other when we first met. But I think it was more
because we could see our own shortcomings in the other and that
mirror was not kind. Over time, we found that even though we were
very different people, there was something that we shared that was
as indefinable as it was deep. I could honestly say I would not
have made it out of the Arcology if it wasn’t for him.”

“Surprised he wasn’t picked to be on this
journey.”

“Well, he’s one of those people that Winberg
says gets paid to talk. Besides, he is coming on the Damocles and
bringing Darius and Feralynn with him.”

“That will be an interesting family reunion.
One I don’t want to miss.”

“Yeah, I...” Cyrus paused awkwardly, as if
the words he had intended to say had fallen back down his throat.
“I just hope the time gives us time to miss each other I
guess—Feralynn and I. It just bothers me that even after this long,
she’s the one I miss the least.”

“I guess if you miss her at all there is some
hope.”

“You know, my time on this ship has reminded
me of a lot of things I had forgotten on Earth. And it’s taught me
some I don’t think I ever really knew. But one thing that has
unfortunately eluded the grand, enlightening lesson plan is
hope.”

“For your sake, and the sake of your soul, I
pray that rubric surfaces before all your piss and vinegar runs
out,” Tanner’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were staid.

“Well then, I believe it has some time,
because my reservoir of piss and vinegar ain’t drying up by damn
sight.”

• • • • •

—
Dari, what’s wrong?

—
Nothing.

—
Come on Dari. If you don’t want to talk about
it, say ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Don’t tell me ‘nothing’
when I can see clearly something has you upset.

—
Sorry Dada.

—
No need for apologies. Did something happen at
school today?

—
Yeah, kind of. Well, not really. Not yet
anyways. I’m just… a little worried.

—
Worried about what?

—
Terry Gallager.

—
What did he do now?

—
He says if I don’t bring him ten creds tomorrow,
he’s gonna beat me up and make me lick the lav seat.

—
Hmm. He sounds pretty creative for a lab
monkey.

—
I guess.

—
Tell me, what is so scary about this Terry kid
anyways? I’ve seen him. He’s no juggernaut.

—
Maybe not to you cuz you’re so big, but to me,
he’s so mean and strong.

—
You look here. I don’t care how big he is or how
strong he’s supposed to be. He can’t make you do anything you don’t
want to do. And if he tries to force your hand, you warn him. If he
doesn’t pay your warning any mind, and he puts his hands on you,
you hit him in his throat. Guaranteed he won’t bother you
again.

—
But Miss Hasabe will get upset. She’ll send me
to the Disciplinarian.

—
If this thing does go down tomorrow, and you get
sent to the Disciplinarian, you have them comm-sat me immediately.
I’ll come down there and ask Miss Hasabe why you have to do her job
for her.

—
But Dada, I’m scared.

—
Fear is what bullies like that Gallager kid feed
off of. It’s all they have to go on. It’s okay to be afraid, but
don’t let him see it.

—
But what if he makes me lick the nasty lav
seat?

—
Like I said Dari, no man can make you do
anything you don’t choose to do.

—
What if he has a stick or a blade or
something?

—
Dari, even if a man puts a gunto your head, you
remember, you can always choose the bullet.

• • • • •

“So what are we doing today that’s so special?”
Cyrus asked, too exhausted to manage a full smile. Torvald and
Milliken mumbled and nodded in support of both the question and the
fatigue, while Davidson looked dejectedly at his shoes. Toutopolus
let his stringy, earth-toned brown bangs hang over his boyish, but
now fatigued features, the balding patch of scalp glinting in the
light of the training room as nervous perspiration formed
there.

“Your all-night Conquest of the Ages tryst
doesn’t seem like such a good idea right now, does it?” Tanner
chided as he puffed up his chest, sensing the thin fog of misery
visible on the eyelids of the friends and colleagues who in this
room, as they passed through the door with an open left hand over
closed right fist, became his loyal students.

Tanner forced a shrill whistle through his
teeth. The Shipmate marched in on command carrying a large
footlocker in his arms and what appeared to be an elongated golf
bag slung over his back. After the android set down the chest and
the golf bag, Tanner thanked him and excused him to his usual
duties. Tanner’s five charges unsuccessfully tried to stand at
attention, their stances faltering under the weight of curiosity,
apprehension, and a long night of siege battles.

Tanner flipped open the clasps on the chest
and unzipped the bag with deliberate melodrama, milking the tension
in the makeshift dojo. His students’ adolescent nighttime exploit
had created an environment with excellent opportunity for martial
insight.

Tanner left the bag and chest unopened and
turned to face his five students lined shoulder-to-shoulder, arm’s
length apart. He smiled to himself as he caught Dr. Chamberlain who
was trying to hide his fidgeting. Tanner’s consternation returned
quickly as he clasped his hands behind his back and addressed them
with as much pomp and authority as he could muster.

“Today, you will each make a choice and you
will stick to that choice.” His voice resonated off the walls as
each of the students’ stances stiffened.

Cyrus could take the anxiety no longer,
“Sifu, what are we choosing?”

Dr. Tanner turned and knelt. He flipped open
the bag and lifted the lid of the chest. Still kneeling, he turned
to his students and revealed a giddy, yet somehow sinister, grin as
he spoke, “Weapons.”

• • • • •

Cyrus shambled to the dinner table favoring
his left leg with an exaggerated limp, trying with difficulty not
to drag the quarterstaff he carried. He shuffled over to his usual
seat, and before he sat, he paused, surveying the area around his
seat as if he were looking for something. The seven who were
already seated at the table looked on in silent bewilderment—except
Dr. Tanner who seemed not to notice. Cyrus leaned the staff against
the wall behind his chair, carefully positioning it out of the
sweep of Tanner’s chair. Cyrus eased himself into his chair slowly,
wincing a little as a tender spot in his right leg brushed against
the table. Just as Dr. Murphy opened his mouth to question Cyrus,
Torvald entered the room using the wall as support. Something
wooden and black was attached impossibly to his shoulder as he
pushed away from the wall and steadied himself with a chair near
the head of the table. He shifted his weight and the shadows across
his body gave way and revealed an impressive swell developing over
his left eye and something silver hiding in a fold of his
disheveled jumpsuit.

“May I ask what that is on your shoulder? And
what happened to you face?” Dr. Murphy asked, his bewilderment even
more evident now.

“These,” Dr. Torvald grabbed the wood with
his left hand and set two wooden bars linked with a silver chain on
the table, “are nunchakus.” After setting the curious implement on
the table, he paused to nurse his seemingly useless right hand and
pointed to the inflammation over his right eye with the better
hand. “This,” he paused as he heaved out a long, exhausted breath,
“is what happens when you don’t know how to use them.”

“So you’re saying you did all this to
yourself?” Dr. Tsuchiya marveled.

“No, I’m saying I hit myself in the eye with
my own nunchakus. Sifu Tanner whacked me in the hand with a stick I
can’t remember the name of, and my gimp-like stature can be
attributed to the generous Dr. Chamberlain here, who in a gesture
of good will, assisted my decision to retire by introducing the end
of his staff to my testicles.”

“I don’t know if I approve of…” before the
sentence could fully escape the lips of Dr. Fordham, which were
still parted in disbelief, the door again slid open and a sound
resembling the death knell of some diseased farm animal ushered in
from the hall. As everyone turned to the source of the moan, Dr.
Milliken collapsed into the room in a sprawl of flailing limbs with
some unidentifiable wooden object. Another bovine moan escaped his
mouth, as did most of the air in his lungs. Dr. Villichez and Dr.
Fordham hurried to help the man into a chair. His body heaved as he
gasped and coughed, and even though he weighed less than either of
the two older men, the assistance proved difficult. He sat in the
chair and leaned what could now be seen as a wooden Chinese
broadsword against the back of his chair.

“I was wrong,” Dr. Fordham continued, moving
back to his chair, “I definitely do not approve of this.”

“They will be just fine,” Dr. Tanner said,
sipping from his cup as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” Dr. Milliken wheezed
out then coughed again, momentarily stiffening from a twinge of
pain that shot from his malformed lower lip as he attempted to
cover his mouth.

“Mother of all things great and small! What
has happened here? And why are these barbaric implements of mayhem
at the dinner table?” Dr. Villichez, practically shivering with
dismay, pointed at the nunchakus and Cyrus’s staff.

“Sifu Tanner says that these are extensions
of our own bodies and that they are more important on this ship,
than our own penises.” Cyrus explained.

“I find it hard to believe that Dr. Tanner
would utter such a thing and condone this… this… debacle.” Dr.
Villichez huffed.

“Well, believe it. He demonstrated exactly
what he meant by parrying one of my attacks and extending his kali
stick…”

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called!” Torvald
interrupted then returned his drinking glass to his eye.

“…into the side of my knee,” Cyrus continued,
unfazed by the outburst. “Honestly, I would rather the weapon had
been his penis—would have hurt much less. And it’s a good thing all
these weapons are made of wood, or they would have implemented more
mayhem. Make no mistake, despite all his pious reverence and
understated demeanor, Sifu Tanner here is a world class
butcher.”

“Yeah, but he knows what he’s doing,” coughed
out Dr. Milliken, finally regaining his composure. We would have
been a lot better off if we hadn’t been up all night playing
hologames.

Suddenly, icy looks shot from Cyrus, Torvald,
and Dr. Qin and focused on Milliken.

“Oops,” he muttered and exaggerated another
cough. Cyrus shook his head in legitimate disbelief.

Dr. Villichez looked to the ceiling of the
dining hall in an overstated appeal to a higher power. “Children! I
have been put in charge of past-due children!” He turned his
attention back to the grown men still staring at Dr. Milliken in
accusation and disdain. Villichez let his gaze settle a little
longer on the battered and bruised ones, especially Dr. Milliken
who now stared shamefully into his glass. “And beating each other
with sticks! This errant vessel has fast become an asylum!” Cyrus
relaxed his stare and allowed a laugh to escape despite the pain it
afforded his battered sternum. “What, pray-tell, do you find so
amusing about this circus?” Dr. Villichez bellowed, incensed.

“We are on a hollow metal tube with no
windows, traveling faster than any manmade device has ever
traveled, speeding toward a place that we have calculated is a
planet-wide wasteland. We left our families, our friends, our
countries, and our world behind, and you seem surprised by the fact
that we exhibit tell-tale signs of insanity.” Cyrus, wiped a strand
of spittle from his mouth as, with the cut that was now throbbing
on the inside of his lower lip, it was hard to talk so long and
keep saliva in his mouth. “No disrespect intended, but you must
forgive me if I find this whole scene amusing.”

Dr. Villichez threw his hands in the air,
sending a fork that had rested near the edge of the table toward
Dr. Tsuchiya. As the fork came clattering to a rest in the center
of the table, Dr. Villichez stood up abruptly. “I cannot take any
more of this fiasco. I am retiring to my room to read. And perhaps
I can regain my own sanity. Good night!” He stormed out the door
almost before it could open.

“He didn’t have to throw his fork at me,” Dr.
Tsuchiya said after he was gone, “What did I do?” Coughs and
laughter echoed through the bulkhead, and as Dr. Villichez moved to
the living quarters, he himself could not help smile, if only for a
moment.

• • • • •

“I have something that’s been bugging me
recently. But I don’t want you to get offended if I bring it
up.”

“Well, Tanner, a statement like that is most
always a prelude to something offensive. But if the source is
genuine...” Cyrus looked up from the floor of the fitness chamber,
his knees tucked to his chest, Kantistyka paddle at his feet.

“I’m not so much worried about the offense;
that would just mean I’d have to pole whip you the next time we
sparred. That you’d get over. I’m just worried about you retreating
until you catch the beating that brings you back to your senses.
It’s like questions about what’s really going on inside that thick
skull of yours is the
only
thing you ever retreat from,” Dr.
Tanner stretched his legs out in front of him and let out a long,
contemplative sigh. “Let me see if I can get ahold of what I’m
trying to say. Around the eighth and ninth century, a set of
Scandinavian societies believed that their god Odin could bestow
great strength on warriors through the spirit of the bear, which
was the strongest, most vicious animal they could think of. Being a
warlike society, this belief both colored, and was colored by,
their everyday lives. There were even warriors that donned the
trappings of bear hide as armor or dressings over their torso.
These warriors, when possessed by the spirit of the bear, were
fierce adversaries—biting their own shields, frothing at the mouth,
amassing unheard body counts because their own lives were
insignificant next to their thirst for victory. They were called
‘The Wearers of the Bear Shirt’ or in their language,
behr
sarkr
. That’s where we get the term ‘berserk’ from...” Dr.
Tanner paused and looked at the floor as if the remaining words in
his treatise had slipped from his fingers and spilled across the
treated clay at his feet.