CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
October 31, 1947, 10:15 p.m.
Copper Summit, Arizona
Both Amar and Malik went flying, landing on the floor in a heap as a deafening noise rocked the basement room. When Malik looked up from his position on the floor, he saw Amar staring fixedly at the atmospheric chamber: The side of the chamber sported a gaping hole, with pieces of the material the chamber was built from littering the floor and the air in all directions.
"What the hell was that?" Malik whispered.
"Sudden decompression," Amar whispered back.
Small flakes drifted down, landing on them, landing on everything. Amar held one up for examination. "This doesn't look like a piece of the chamber wall."
"It isn't," Malik said heavily. "The chamber wasn't the only thing that suddenly decompressed."
Amar's eyes widened in horror as he frantically tried to brush the flakes off himself. "You mean.....you mean this is.....these are......he's in pieces?"
Malik nodded, feeling slightly ill himself as fragments of what used to be The Leader floated down all around them. "It's the low pressure here that kills Argilians. They'd adapt to the lower levels of oxygen, but when their cells are exposed to this air pressure, they—"
"I know that," Amar interrupted irritably. "Did you really think I was working on a shell for them without knowing why? I just had no idea that exposure was so.....dramatic. But I bet Brivari did," he added darkly, staring at the ruined chamber. "And you thought I was being cruel?"
"You were going to make him die slowly," Malik argued. "This way he died instantly."
"Either way, he died," Amar said, brushing more flakes off himself with undisguised disgust. "Didn't I tell you he was as good as dead?"
"You also told me he'd be dead in less than a minute, and he wasn't," Malik retorted, wondering privately why Brivari had lingered so long inside the chamber.
"Great," Amar said sourly. "So Brivari took his time and blew him up, and that was preferable to—"
"Quiet!" Malik hissed. "He's coming out!"
Amar scrambled back into their initial hiding place behind the generator, pulling Malik with him. Malik, who had been about to point out that Amar's own willingness to kill The Leader himself only minutes before put him in a precarious position to judge Brivari's actions, fell silent as the airlock door slid open and Brivari, wearing his native form this time, stepped into the room once again. I'm not ready, Malik thought sadly. He was not ready to either plead their case or die. His ears still ringing from the explosion, Malik slumped against the generator and tried to think, tried to come up with something, anything that would stay Brivari's hand.
But Brivari didn't come in search of them or anything else. Instead, he headed for the door; perhaps he didn't know they were in there, and had sealed the door only as a precaution? In that case, they still had a chance; after Brivari's departure, they could crawl up through the ventilation tube that fed—or rather, had previously fed—the atmospheric chamber. No need to worry about harming The Leader anymore.
A glance at Amar told him that Amar had reached the same conclusion. Malik risked a peek around the corner of the generator. Brivari was almost to the door....ten feet....seven feet.....four feet.
A piercing sound suddenly filled the air, stopping Brivari in his tracks. Malik's heart sank as he saw that the communicator Amar had been using in an attempt to contact home was still sitting squarely in the middle of the workbench where it had not been before. Even if Brivari hadn't known before that they were in there, he would now.
Brivari had paused, staring at the communicator with interest. Then he raised his hand, holding it over the communicator palm down as the symbol on top flared to life.
"What's he doing?" Amar demanded in a fierce whisper. "Doesn't he know that will identify him to whoever's calling?"
"Of course he does," Malik whispered. "That's precisely why he's doing it."
A minute ticked by, then two. Eventually Brivari pulled his hand away and just stood there, waiting, as Malik tried to imagine the havoc this was causing on Antar as word spread that none other than the King's Warder was calling home on an allegedly secure channel. More heads than their own would roll over this, he was sure.
Suddenly the symbol on the communicator flared again, shooting a beam of light toward the ceiling. Slowly, a figure coalesced inside the beam.
"Holy shit!" Amar breathed, momentarily forgetting his supposed disdain for human expressions.
******************************************************
Excellent, Brivari thought as Khivar's form took shape within the energy beam emanating from the communicator. He had wondered who would answer, but had never dreamed that the usurper himself would, as the humans would say, get the phone.
"Khivar," Brivari said pleasantly, "to what do I owe the honor of this audience? Do I still have the ear of the most powerful on Antar, or do you expect me to believe that the castaways here regularly merit your personal attention?"
Khivar, for his part, was positively goggling, as though he couldn't believe that Antar's most wanted man was standing right there unmolested. "I thought you were captive," he whispered.
"You can add that to the ever-growing list of things you were wrong about."
"What have done with my scientist?" Khivar demanded.
"What do you think?" Brivari asked. "Spare me your bleating," he added, as Khivar began to object. "He betrayed you every bit as cheerfully as he betrayed Zan. He was no loss." Except on a personal level, Brivari thought. Privately, he had found the scientist's independence and refusal to be swayed by the ever-changing winds of politics refreshing. Even admirable. Unfortunately, the very independence he admired so much rendered the scientist too risky to leave alive.
"You're too late, you know," Khivar said. "He was close to our goal, close enough that we can finish without him."
"So he told me," Brivari said casually, as Khivar's eyes widened. "Oh, he was most informative, and voluntarily so. I understand I have several years at least before you and I can enjoy the pleasure of each other's company Earthside."
"You will not be able to hide from us!" Khivar exclaimed, his long fingers beginning to twitch at this sides. "When we come, we will—"
"Oh, please," Brivari said in a bored tone. "Someday you may actually figure out that in order for a threat to be effective, you have to have the means to back it up. Now, that is, not at some nebulous time in the future."
Khivar responded with a torrent of angry invective about how close his threat was to fruition, but Brivari wasn't listening. He was noticing how haggard Khivar looked, how gaunt. His gray skin hung on his frame, his large black eyes were sunken as though from serious lack of sleep. Antar's new ruler looked none too healthy.
"You're looking peaked," Brivari remarked, ignoring Khivar's tantrum. "Doesn't power agree with you? Isn't tyranny everything you thought it would be? Or perhaps...."—Brivari paused, staring at the scowling holographic image thoughtfully—"....perhaps it has finally dawned on you that ruling is not as easy as you thought it would be. Maybe you should keep that in mind the next time you decide to steal a throne."
"I stole nothing! My father laid claim to Antar's throne years ago, and—"
"Lost," Brivari finished firmly. "Your father lost. He played the game and he lost."
"That was my father," Khivar answered, "not me. I played the game and won."
"Have you, now? For someone who thinks they've 'won', you don't appear very happy. Shall I hazard a guess or two at what's happening there right now?"
"You haven't been here in months," Khivar replied angrily. "You have no idea what's happening—"
"Don't insult me," Brivari interrupted sharply. "I have guarded kings longer than you have lived. I don't need to be there to know that the people blame you for the loss of their treasured peace, for the piles of bodies you left behind as you trampled over everyone and everything on your way to the throne........."
"That was necessary to prove I meant business," Khivar broke in.
".....and that no one truly accepts your claim to the crown because you have been unable to prove Zan is dead, which is the most important rule of that game you just mentioned. A rule so important that if you flout it, you will never win."
Khivar's face darkened. "There is another rule which you seem to be forgetting. The one about turning over the body of a dead king to the victor in order to avoid just this sort of dispute. You flouted that rule, Brivari. The blame for the uncertainty which clouds Antar can be laid squarely at your feet."
"Perhaps," Brivari replied thoughtfully, "if Zan were dead. But Zan is not dead."
Brivari paused, waiting for yet another stream of protest. Instead, Khivar's eyes widened in surprise. He drew back from whatever communication device he was using at the other end, alternately staring at Brivari, then off into space. Finally he leaned in closer, his head nearly obscuring his body in the narrow holographic beam.
"Does she live?" he whispered.
"Who?"
"You know very well who! Does she live?"
Brivari shook his head, chuckling. "You don't expect me to believe you actually cared for her, do you? You won't lay eyes on Vilandra for a long time to come. I'm afraid you'll have to find another way to legitimize your so called 'claim'. If you can, that is."
"This isn't about my claim," Khivar answered, his expression now haunted. "This is about whether or not I'll ever see her again."
"Well, of course it is," Brivari agreed. "Humiliating the dead is nowhere near as satisfying as humiliating the living. And it would be difficult to hide behind the skirts of Zan's sister unless she were alive to wear them. Which she isn't, courtesy of you."
"I never meant for her to die!" Khivar insisted. "I never meant for any of them to die, least of all........" He stopped, turning his back to Brivari, his voice threatening to break. Brivari watched him with narrowed eyes for a moment before speaking again.
"So," he said slowly, "you wooed her to use her.....and then actually fell in love with her. I would imagine you hadn't planned on that little snag, did you?"
Khivar said nothing, his back still turned. "And what did you think she would do," Brivari continued, "after you slaughtered the rest of her family? Vilandra could be vain and foolish, but even she would not be able to miss—or forgive—her own brother's bloody body."
"I never meant for them to die," Khivar repeated dully, his back still turned. "I would have let them live, for her sake. I still haven't managed to figure out how that happened."
"Then it is you who are the fool," Brivari said quietly. "Apparently there are those who knew of your intentions, who knew you could never be king while Zan lived. That holds whether it is you who let him live, or I who resurrect him. Take some advice from one who knows—get your own house in order before you do anything else. No ruler can afford the presence of those who would murder in his name without his consent. I speak from an experience you will never have."
Khivar whirled around, the old defiance flaring in his eyes. "You're giving me advice, Brivari? Does this mean you accept my claim to the throne?"
"It means I see a real chance of you decimating our world with your gross incompetence while it awaits the return of its rightful ruler," Brivari answered coldly. "If I can prevent that, I will. I consider the safeguarding of my Ward's domain as part of my duty."
"We've been over this," Khivar said angrily, all traces of his former grief gone. "I have followed our time-honored tradition and vanquished the former king. I played the game by the rules, and I won. I am Antar's rightful ruler, whether you accept that or not."
Brivari sighed and shook his head sadly. "No, Khivar, you have lost....in more ways than even I imagined. You've lost your lover. You've lost the confidence of your own people, who clearly felt threatened by your feelings for Vilandra. You've lost control of your operatives, who assassinated without your approval. And you've lost the throne........because Zan lives. Even now he lives, bearing the mark which will identify him as the rightful king. And as long as Zan lives, as long as he walks this world or any other, you lose."
Before Khivar could answer, Brivari raised his hand; the communicator began to glow, the glow building until the brilliance was blinding before bursting into a spectacular shower of sparks, leaving behind nothing but a smoking shell.
******************************************************
Malik ducked as the communicator exploded, mentally shifting his ear canals to close them off and minimize the damage from this latest blast. When he looked up again, what he saw made him freeze.
Brivari was standing beside the door and staring straight at them, or rather at the generator behind which they were hiding. He had resumed his human form, but that made him no less intimidating. Or deadly.
"Did you really think you could hide from me?" Brivari asked in a puzzled tone, as though he genuinely wanted an answer to this vexing question.
Still behind the generator, Malik sank back against it, defeated. Beside him Amar was wide-eyed, frozen with terror. I'm not prepared, Malik thought, but there was nothing for that now. He started to rise, only to be pulled back down by Amar.
"What are you doing?" Amar hissed. "He'll kill us!"
"He's going to kill us anyway," Malik pointed out. "This is our only chance."
"He might be faking," Amar pointed out. "Trying to see if we're actually stupid enough to answer him."
Malik sighed in exasperation. "You're forgetting the communicator. It wasn't on the workbench when he went into the chamber, but it was when he came out. What'd it do? Sprout legs and walk over there by itself?" Taking advantage of Amar's subsequent stunned silence, Malik stood abruptly and turned to face Brivari, who was still standing casually by the door, his unfamiliar human form emanating no less menace than his native form had only moments before when he had crossed verbal swords with Khivar. Malik had learned a great deal by overhearing that exchange. It was a pity he'd never have time to process it since he was likely only minutes from death.
"Identify," Brivari demanded.
Malik shifted to his native form, and a small smile crossed Brivari's face.
"Malik. Of course. Although it is odd that Amar is still cowering, given that he stood in native form on the porch of a human house only hours ago, looking for me. He didn't seem to mind showing himself then."
What? Malik looked down in disbelief as Amar stared at the floor. That was how Brivari had located them? Through another of Amar's pranks? Much as he would have loved to pummel Amar right then and there, Malik pushed the anger back. If this conversation did not go well, it wouldn't matter anyway.
"Do you have any last words before I execute the pair of you as traitors to the crown and go on about my business?" Brivari asked calmly, as though he did this all the time.
Down on the floor, Amar tensed. Malik swallowed hard. Should he say anything about the message he'd asked the girl to deliver, the message which warned the Warders of their presence and proclaimed his own loyalty? He had no idea if that message had been delivered or whether it would make any difference, and delivering it now could be problematic, especially if they managed to live. But the chances of them living through this were small, so he had little to lose.
<Did you get my message?> Malik asked in private telepathic speech directed only to Brivari.
<Which message would that be?> Brivari asked, also privately. <Perhaps you could be so kind as to repeat it.>
Malik swallowed again. <I left a message with the child that you were all in danger here, and you needed to hide. And that.....and that I was still loyal.>
Malik closed his eyes as he spoke that last part, well aware of how hollow it sounded as they stood in a secret bastion of Argilian science. Below him Amar had looked up, puzzled by the silence. Antarians usually spoke to one another using telepathic speech, which could be broadcast widely or directed privately to a single individual. He and Amar had been speaking privately ever since Brivari arrived to make certain Brivari didn't overhear them. But Brivari had just spoken openly, and the ensuing silence would look odd. And if Brivari said anything openly now, anything Amar could hear.......suddenly, death didn't appear quite as bad of an option as it had only minutes before.
<Please don't say anything to Amar,> Malik pleaded, somewhat irrationally, as he wasn't likely to be living much longer anyway. <He doesn't know how I feel. None of them know. And that could work in your favor,> Malik went on, practically babbling now. <I could let you know what they're up to, could pass along information.>
<Of what use is that to me?> Brivari said coldly. <You betrayed the King, and now you're offering to betray your new master, yet you expect me to trust you as an informant?> His hand rose, revealing the handprint lock. <You had your chance to demonstrate your 'loyalty', and we both know what happened.>
"Wait!" Malik called desperately, switching to non-private speech because Amar was looking downright suspicious now. "There are things about Zan and his father that you don't know. When he took the throne, Riall made promises to our people in exchange for our support....promises that he didn't keep."
Brivari chuckled softly, the handprint still shining on the wall. "The traitor now wishes to make claims he mystifyingly thinks I will believe. I'm disappointed in you, Malik. I would expect such nonsense from Amar, but not from you."
"This isn't 'nonsense'!" Malik objected. "Riall promised that our people would no longer be forced into the laboratories, but that's exactly what he and Zan did! That's what they were about to do to us. That's why we left!"
"I see," Brivari said blandly. "And I, of course, knew nothing about this, despite the fact that I warded both kings?"
"Of course you didn't!" Malik said impatiently. "You walked palace halls the rest of us never saw! You weren't treated the way others were, so you're in no position—"
"To be lectured by a rogue," Brivari interrupted in a deadly voice. "Five years ago, you led me to believe you died. Tonight that deception becomes truth. And if the sages are right and there is an afterlife in which we meet again, hopefully you will have learned to think twice about crossing me."
Brivari pressed his hand to the handprint. The door rumbled open, then closed behind him as he exited. Silence fell over the room.
"Is he gone?" Amar whispered.
"Yeah," Malik said heavily. "He's gone."
"Then....why are we still here? What's he doing?"
"I don't know."
Cautiously, Amar climbed to his feet. "Why would he just leave us here like this? Even if he sealed the door, we could easily climb out through the air vents now that your lofty moral objections have been—"
Amar's words were cut off by a sucking noise and a blast of rushing air so strong it knocked him forward onto the generator. "What the hell is that?" he yelled over the howl of the wind, as Malik clung to the other side to keep from being blown across the room. "Does he think he's going to blow us to death?"
Malik tried to reply, tried to shout back....but he couldn't catch his breath. Seconds later the horrible realization hit him—he's sucking the oxygen out of the room. Covari were extremely adaptable, but they required oxygen to live. The vent was still open, but too far away, and too small to replace the oxygen fast enough to make a difference. This was the slow death by suffocation Amar had proposed for The Leader, the death Brivari had spared him by opting for decompression instead. There would be no such mercy for them.
Amar's eyes had widened in recognition as he, too, figured out what was happening. He reached over and grabbed Malik by the arm, pulling him away....and they both tumbled on the floor, one on top of the other as darkness fell like a curtain and Malik lost consciousness.
******************************************************
November 1, 1947, 12:15 a.m.
Proctor residence
Emily Proctor froze, the dish she was washing motionless in her hand as the scratching noise floated in from the window over the kitchen sink. A moment later, she relaxed in embarrassment as she realized the source—the bush just outside the window was blowing in the wind, its branches rubbing against the house. Here we go again, Emily sighed. Back to the days when the sound of the doorbell stopped her in her tracks, when a ringing telephone made her hesitate. She'd been so grateful when David had come back from the war and she didn't have to be afraid anymore. The aliens' arrival had changed that, bringing periods of fear alternating with periods of quiet. After two glorious months of quiet, they were probably due for another upheaval, but she had to admit that the more quiet she had, the more she resented it when it was ripped away from her yet again.
The rest of Halloween had been mercifully uneventful. The party had been a huge success; Emily was quite certain that every Halloween party from now on would sport a haunted house, so popular had theirs been tonight. David and Mac had both roamed the neighborhood while everyone trick-or-treated, keeping watchful eyes out for anything unusual, but nothing had happened. She had no idea if Mac was still carrying his gun, and perhaps that was best, judging by David's reaction to the subject earlier. Emily had smiled through literally dozens of exclamations about the startling "show" they'd put on, and deflected similar numbers of questions about exactly how they'd managed it. Anthony's mother had been overheard fretting that next year, when it was her turn to host the party as the newest neighbor on the block, there was no way she'd ever be able to top this year's main attraction.
All the hubbub, from the party to passing out candy to dealing with a short princess on sugar overload, had a welcome side effect—it kept Emily from really reflecting on any of it. So when Dee had finally fallen into bed, and David had headed to Mac's house to take advantage of the first opportunity he'd had to explain what had really happened, Emily found herself nearly alone in a dark, messy house, every stray noise making her jump. Normally they would have left the mess for tomorrow, but under the circumstances, she needed something to do. So she'd started the clean-up herself even though she was bone tired, knowing that it would be a long time before she ever got to sleep that night.
Dee had had no such problems. "Brivari got'im, Mama," she'd said, with an absolute confidence her mother didn't share. "I know he did." I don't, Emily had thought to herself as she tucked her in and headed back downstairs. Knowing that her daughter was being targeted, that the alien had come here specifically to find Dee was unnerving; knowing that the people they were dealing with could make themselves look like anything was even worse. She'd seem them look like carpets, tile, kitchen counters, and walls. David had seen them melt into car upholstery. Even that bush outside might not really be a bush. Not being able to trust your own eyes was paralyzing.
Emily set the freshly washed bowl down in the drainer. Most of the dishes were washed, and she was still a nervous wreck. Might as well tackle the haunted house with all that energy. If the rest of the house was a mess, the dining room was even worse, what with jello all over the floor and all those squished eggs. Thank goodness it wasn't carpeted. She turned around, glancing in the direction of the messy dining room, and clapped a soapy hand to her chest, her heart beating so hard she would have sworn it was audible.
Brivari was standing in the doorway, calm and composed as always, betraying no hint of the fact that he'd just wrestled an enemy alien off their front porch. "They are dead," he announced without preamble. "They will not trouble you further."
Emily stared at him, speechless, her hand dripping water onto the floor. Dead. Game over. Case closed. No longer any reason to fear answering the door, to jump at every little noise thinking it had come back for her daughter. No need to worry about a repeat performance which would be harder to explain away. They could sleep soundly tonight, safe from all but their own species.
"Both of them?" she whispered.
"Both of them," Brivari confirmed. "I discovered their base of operations and destroyed it. Were there any repercussions? Were enforcers notified?"
"Uh....no," Emily answered. "I mean, lots of people called the Sheriff, but David managed to head him off at the pass. That means no enforcers," she clarified, as Brivari looked confused. "Everyone thought it was just a Halloween prank, albeit a very realistic one." She turned back to the sink. plunging her hands into the warm, soapy water again. "Was it really necessary to kill them?"
She could almost feel Brivari's eyebrows rising the way they always did whenever she questioned his judgment. "What would you have had me do?"
"Well.....I don't know," Emily said, flustered. "Couldn't you have turned them over to the authorities?"
"The only 'authority' in existence on my planet is an illegitimate one," Brivari noted, "by whom the culprits were employed. The authority whom they betrayed will not be present to pass judgment for many years. And there is the small matter of transportation."
His voice held a faint note of amusement, as though he found her objection humorous. Emily had realized almost before the words had finished leaving her mouth that she sounded foolish—his world was in a uproar, his king wouldn't be back for a couple of decades—but she wasn't in the mood to be laughed at. Not even a little bit. Not after what had happened tonight.
"Then what about our authorities?" she asked somewhat peevishly. "The Army hasn't done anything too awful to Jaddo. You could have avoided killing them by turning them over to our military."
"Jaddo remains largely unmolested because he is unique," Brivari said. "He is the only alien they have, so they cannot afford to harm him. Should they suddenly find themselves with two or three specimens on which to experiment, they would be a position to try things they haven't dared try in the past." He paused. "Would you like to be the one who decides which is disposable?"
Emily set the plate she'd been washing down with a bang. "No," she said tightly. "I just....." She stopped, staring out the window at the lights in Mac's house. "I'm just tired of killing," she said quietly to the window.
"Your neighbor brandished a weapon tonight," Brivari said. "Would you have objected if he had used it?"
Emily closed her eyes. No. "Yes. Yes, of course I would have objected. I object to anyone dying. I'm tired of death, tired of being afraid of death, tired of feeling like it's hovering over me all the time no matter how much I try to push it back."
"You are ordinary people," Brivari said. "I would not expect you to understand."
"Oh, you wouldn't, would you?" Emily retorted, her hackles rising as she turned to face him. "I'm 'ordinary', so I don't 'understand' about death? Let me tell you something, buster—for two years, I woke up every morning wondering if I would be a widow before I went to bed that night. For two years, I was afraid to answer the door because it might be a telegram saying David was dead, afraid to even get the mail out of the mailbox because sometimes the Army sent word by mail. For two years, I kept a smile on my face for my daughter's sake while other women's husbands dropped like flies. Two years, I did that! Don't you dare presume to lecture me about understanding death!"
Emily paused for breath, really looking at him for the first time. His eyebrows had indeed risen, but he said nothing, made no effort to apologize. It wouldn't have helped anyway. All the tension, the anger, the fear that she'd kept safely bottled up all evening came rushing out, heading straight for an alien target.
"And I understand even more than that," she went on, wanting dearly to wipe that arch look off his face. "You asked me why I didn't like looking at my dead brother-in-law's picture? I can't stand to see that because a year after both he and David came back, actually made it home when so many others didn't, James put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. You've seen our weapons. Do you have any idea what kind of a mess that makes? I don't like seeing his face because the last time I saw him, he didn't have a face! He didn't have much of a head either; his brains had splattered over three different rooms. If I hadn't recognized the clothes he was wearing, I wouldn't have been able to tell it was him."
Emily stopped, pressing a wet hand to her mouth as the contents of her stomach threatened to reappear the way they always did whenever she thought about this. They'd known James was dead from the smell that had wafted out when the apartment manager had unlocked his door, but she'd never expected what she'd found in there, never realized what the gray flecks on the back of the door meant until she'd walked into the bedroom. She'd never told anyone what she'd found in that apartment. The coroner knew, of course, but a whispered conversation with George Wilcox had kept the grisliest of the grisly details quiet. The body had been quickly cremated, there not being much left to view in any case, and the rest of the family, including her heartbroken mother-in-law, were spared the knowledge of exactly where James had aimed that gun. Dee had simply accepted the explanation that her uncle was so sad that he had taken his own life without asking for the details, and David….she'd left David at the door when she'd gone in. He hadn't objected. She hadn't wanted his final memories of his brother to be of whatever lay inside, and her intuition had been proven right in spades. David had had enough to deal with. She would handle this one herself.
"But we got through that," Emily continued, her hand pressed to her mutinous stomach. "I'd almost forgotten. And then you and yours showed up, and suddenly my daughter was seeing people shot, and drawing horribly realistic pictures of people being shot, and the Army might be after us, and some of your people were after you, and........" She paused, closing her eyes. "And then we were right back where I never wanted to be again. Scared to answer the door. Afraid of what might happen tomorrow. It all came back," she whispered. "I just can't seem to get away from it no matter what I do."
Brivari was still watching her steadily, still silent. Emily leaned against the counter, spent. "So don't you ever tell me I don't 'understand' death. I may not be 'extraordinary', as you seem to think you are, but I 'understand' a lot more than you think I do. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of people being killed, or killing themselves, or killing because they think they have a right to like you did. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime, and I will object to it with my dying breath, if need be. Somebody has to."
Emily turned back to the sink, her hands in the water but the dishes forgotten. She'd already been exhausted, and that outburst had just made things worse. So much for venting making you feel better.
"What I meant," Brivari said slowly, his voice drifting over her shoulder, "was that you have not been in a position to govern a world or guard one who does. Therefore, I cannot expect you to realize the necessity of dealing with traitors as quickly as possible. Traitors operate in a similar way to the disease your people refer to as 'cancer', where even one small cell can multiply many times more than it should and compromise the health of the entire body. I pass no judgment on your experiences with death, Emily Proctor."
Of course, Emily thought bitterly. Here she'd gone and popped her cork, and he hadn't even meant what she'd thought he meant. Fortunately, she didn't have enough energy to spend on embarrassment.
"I will leave, if you wish," Brivari continued, "but I'm afraid my departure would not exorcise the worst of your demons. It wouldn't placate your anger toward your mate's brother for taking his own life after being fortunate enough to return home. And it would not silence your fear that whatever drove him to his death will one day find your mate, an understandable fear, if unfounded. David Proctor came through the fire intact. He would not leave you and your child to fend for yourselves."
"Let me guess," Emily said, trying to steady a voice gone shaky by the realization that once again, Brivari had put his finger right on the problem. "You're going to try to tell me again that you don't read minds."
"So-called 'mind reading' is overrated. I am merely observant, a requirement in my line of work." He paused. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No," Emily sighed, abandoning all pretence of washing dishes and reaching for a towel. "I don't. I just want my life back."
"As do I," Brivari said soberly. "Somehow, I think you will have better luck retrieving yours than I will retrieving mine."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll post Chapter 58 next Sunday.
), so what we saw Max wearing is pretty much what Jaddo's been wearing. Now he's in the standard male 40's-50's attire, cotton work pants (not denim) and a button down shirt, probably short-sleeved due to the climate.