The former two will be left to the vagaries of fate, but the latter is entirely up to you.”
“Is it?” “Shelby” did not seem especially concerned over the prospect. “Just out of curiosity, what precisely could I do to forestall or, even better, lessen the severity of the promised beating?”
The harsh sun continued to beat down upon Calhoun. He was annoyed with himself because he was starting to feel the intensity of it, and that had never happened before. He had been away from his home world for too long and had become accustomed to the relatively cushy existence on board starships. You’ve lost your edge, Calhoun, he thought, and then immediately cursed himself for second-guessing. That was not the sort of attitude that was going to benefit anyone, least of all himself.
He realized that he was allowing the silence to extend, and he had to pay attention to what was going on. “You can put an end to this,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because whether you cooperate or not, it is going to end. My crew is going to realize what you’ve done. They’re going to come back for me, and once they have, we will find you—”
“And the beating will commence? Allow me,” said the creature posing as Shelby, raising a finger as if she were testing the direction of the nonexistent wind, “to offer an alternative, and far more likely, scenario. Number one: Your ship doesn’t ever discover what’s happened. Number two: They do indeed figure it out—unlikely but, for the sake of argument, I’ll allow it—except they accomplish this far too late to be of any use to you because the Brethren will have disposed of you. And you need to understand that this is the only aspect of the situation that you can have any influence on. Your dying is an inevitability. The only question at issue is, how many of your fellow Xenexians are you going to take with you?”
Calhoun gave no outward indication of the rage seething within him. “Any one of those brave souls is worth a thousand of you.”
“I won’t argue your mathematics,” said “Shelby.” “Instead I will simply acknowledge that the Xenexians are fiercely devoted to you and will lay down their lives for you without hesitation. That prompts the question, though, as to what you are willing to do for them. In my opinion, you are unfairly taking advantage of that devotion, leading them on a futile crusade against an enemy they simply cannot hope to defeat. The difference between this occasion and the last time, when you were their beloved warlord, is that the only stake they have in this matter is you. Once you’re dead, the Brethren withdraw and leave the Xenexians to this,” and she looked around distastefully, “wasteland that they call home. There’s no territorial battle, no grand clash of faiths. You die; they leave. So how many of them are going to be slaughtered before your inevitable demise? For that matter, what sort of man subjects his friends and followers to such catastrophic punishment?”
His face as unreadable as ever, Calhoun said, “The sort who is going to beat the hell out of you.”
“Shelby” actually chuckled at that. She didn’t have the real Shelby’s laugh, and Calhoun took some cold comfort in that. Then, when she recovered herself, she said, “You’re a circular man, Calhoun. You always wind up right back where you started. I’m not sure whether to admire it or pity it. I’ll probably settle on some combination of the two.”
Slowly she started to fade out. “End it, Calhoun,” she advised. “Either take your own life or throw yourself into battle with the Brethren in such a way that you cannot possibly win. Accept the destiny that you are facing, and spare countless innocent lives. It’s your choice. I’m done talking to you for now.”
With that pronouncement, the image of Shelby vanished from sight.
During the entire encounter, Calhoun had managed to restrain himself. Now, even after the D’myurj had disappeared, Calhoun remained where he was. Only the mild trembling of his clenched fists gave the slightest hint of what was seething within him.
And when he was sure she was gone—when he was absolutely, positively sure—Mackenzie Calhoun let out an earsplitting, gut-wrenching roar, torn from deep within him that was a combination of fury and humiliation and a frightful admission that, deep down, he knew that the bastard D’myurj was right. And even if (when,