Star Trek - NF - 005 - Martyr

  Star Trek - NF - 005 - Martyr.htm var isIE4 = ( navigator.appName == "Microsoft Internet Explorer" & parseInt( navigator.appVersion ) = 4 ); var cssCompatible = isIE4; TABLE.main TR.row TD.cell DIV.block DIV.paragraph .font0 font12.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font1 font15.5pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font2 font16.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font3 font16.5pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font4 font17.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font5 font18.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font6 font18.5pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font7 font19.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font8 font19.5pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font9 font23.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font10 font24.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font11 font24.5pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font12 font28.0pt "Arial", sans-serif; .font13 font8.0pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font14 font9.0pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font15 font10.5pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font16 font11.0pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font17 font11.5pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font18 font12.0pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font19 font12.5pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font20 font18.5pt "Times New Roman", serif; .font21 font28.0pt "Times New Roman", serif; if( !cssCompatible ) document.write(" Star Trek

 

 

 

  New

 

  Frontier

 

  Martyr

 

  By Peter David

 

 

 

  FIVE HUNDRED YEARS

 

  EARLIER...

 

  ") else document.write(" Star Trek

 

 

 

  New

 

  Frontier

 

  Martyr

 

  By Peter David

 

 

 

  FIVE HUNDRED YEARS

 

  EARLIER...

 

  ") if( !cssCompatible ) document.write(" ONTEAR COULD TELL which way the wind was blowing.

 

  Even so, it seemed that everything and nothing was clear to him as he looked at the Zondar horizon. The smoke that hovered over the cityscape far in the distance was drifting off to the north. It was not his favorite direction, for the stench from the charnel pit was wafting in as well.

 

  How many of his people had died, he wondered, during the bloody civil war that had enveloped the planet? One million? Two? He'd lost count. For that matter, he'd even lost interest, which was both ironic and unfortunate, considering that the war had been fought in his name.

 

  Ontear felt old . . . older than he had felt in quite some time. He had been sitting at the entrance to his cave, but now he rose to his feet, stretching his cramped legs. He was bald . . . indeed, completely devoid of body hair, as were all his people. His skin was leathery and shiny, with a sheen that made it look as if the Zondarians were perpetually wet or glisten-

 

 

 

  ") else document.write(" ONTEAR COULD TELL which way the wind was blowing.

 

  Even so, it seemed that everything and nothing was clear to him as he looked at the Zondar horizon. The smoke that hovered over the cityscape far in the distance was drifting off to the north. It was not his favorite direction, for the stench from the charnel pit was wafting in as well.

 

  How many of his people had died, he wondered, during the bloody civil war that had enveloped the planet? One million? Two? He'd lost count. For that matter, he'd even lost interest, which was both ironic and unfortunate, considering that the war had been fought in his name.

 

  Ontear felt old . . . older than he had felt in quite some time. He had been sitting at the entrance to his cave, but now he rose to his feet, stretching his cramped legs. He was bald . . . indeed, completely devoid of body hair, as were all his people. His skin was leathery and shiny, with a sheen that made it look as if the Zondarians were perpetually wet or glisten-

 

 

 

  ") if( !cssCompatible ) document.write("

 

  ing. His eyes were set wide apart, and when he blinked, it was with eyelids that were clear and made a soft clicking sound. His nostrils flared visibly as the charnel stench moved toward him and then past. He wondered how many bodies burning there were people he knew. People he had blessed, or at whose birth he had officiated, or weddings he had performed. For that matter, how many of them had come to him for guidance, had sought out the wisdom of the prophet Ontear? Ontear, the prophet who had seen a great and glorious destiny for Zondar. Ontear, who knew all that was to come. Ontear, who could not help but feel that he was single-handedly responsible for the chaos that had erupted all around him.

 

  He had long felt that he was in direct communion with the gods. But today, of all days, he believed that the gods were going to communicate with him directly, and with a vengeance. Today, Ontear felt, was going to be his judgment day.

 

  He heard scambling below him, heard grunts and arguments and words of indecision. He was being approached by acolytes. They were not exactly being subtle about their advent, and whatever it was that was on their minds, clearly it was accompanied by a certain degree of volume. This was not of tremendous consequence to Ontear, because truthfully there was very little any acolytes could say that would come as a surprise to him. This was an inevitable state of affairs, after all, when one is a prophet.

 

  There were three of them, approaching Ontear with bedraggled and exhausted mien. It was not the easiest of climbs, for Ontear's cave was set upon the upper ridges of a small mountain. There were paths that led to the plateau where Ontear was seated at that moment, but they were not forgiving for the clumsy of foot. There was a thick layer of pebbles along several lengthy patches, and those wishing to come and visit

 

 

 

  Ontear oftentimes felt the ground slipping beneath them and they would skid several yards back down the steep path before regaining their footing and slogging forward once more.

 

  Based on the difficulty of approach, no one was quite sure just how Ontear managed to survive there. There was no food to speak of, although water might be available through a mountain stream (not that anyone could really be sure). Perhaps Ontear had hidden resources. Perhaps he had unknown allies. Perhaps, as some speculated, he was actually dead, and merely a very animated and lively corpse.

 

  The trio continued to approach, and Ontear recognized the closest of them as Suti-Lon-sondon, one of his oldest and most dedicated students. He remembered the first time that Suti had come to him, scared and confused, daunted by the task that had been put to him to approach the prophet and learn at his feet. That had seemed an eternity ago.

 

  It had not been difficult to convince Suti of his veracity as a prophet. Indeed, it was no more difficult than it had been to prove it to anyone else. Unlike other prophets, false prophets, who had contented themselves with speaking in broad and unspecific predictions (the more precious of them choosing to quote their vagueness in rhyme, as if that added some aura of respectability), Ontear had been amazingly specific in his prognostications. He had predicted the great earthquake of Kartoof. He had predicted the rise in power of Quinzar the Wicked and Krusea the Black, and the defeat of Krusea's son, Otton the Unready.

 

  Oh, there were the skeptics who believed that Ontear's predictions were so specific that they became self-fulfilling prophecies. For instance, his predic
tion that a conqueror named Muton would be born in the eastern territories and dominate half the region had

 

  ") else document.write("

 

  ing. His eyes were set wide apart, and when he blinked, it was with eyelids that were clear and made a soft clicking sound. His nostrils flared visibly as the charnel stench moved toward him and then past. He wondered how many bodies burning there were people he knew. People he had blessed, or at whose birth he had officiated, or weddings he had performed. For that matter, how many of them had come to him for guidance, had sought out the wisdom of the prophet Ontear? Ontear, the prophet who had seen a great and glorious destiny for Zondar. Ontear, who knew all that was to come. Ontear, who could not help but feel that he was single-handedly responsible for the chaos that had erupted all around him.

 

  He had long felt that he was in direct communion with the gods. But today, of all days, he believed that the gods were going to communicate with him directly, and with a vengeance. Today, Ontear felt, was going to be his judgment day.

 

  He heard scambling below him, heard grunts and arguments and words of indecision. He was being approached by acolytes. They were not exactly being subtle about their advent, and whatever it was that was on their minds, clearly it was accompanied by a certain degree of volume. This was not of tremendous consequence to Ontear, because truthfully there was very little any acolytes could say that would come as a surprise to him. This was an inevitable state of affairs, after all, when one is a prophet.

 

  There were three of them, approaching Ontear with bedraggled and exhausted mien. It was not the easiest of climbs, for Ontear's cave was set upon the upper ridges of a small mountain. There were paths that led to the plateau where Ontear was seated at that moment, but they were not forgiving for the clumsy of foot. There was a thick layer of pebbles along several lengthy patches, and those wishing to come and visit

 

 

 

  Ontear oftentimes felt the ground slipping beneath them and they would skid several yards back down the steep path before regaining their footing and slogging forward once more.

 

  Based on the difficulty of approach, no one was quite sure just how Ontear managed to survive there. There was no food to speak of, although water might be available through a mountain stream (not that anyone could really be sure). Perhaps Ontear had hidden resources. Perhaps he had unknown allies. Perhaps, as some speculated, he was actually dead, and merely a very animated and lively corpse.

 

  The trio continued to approach, and Ontear recognized the closest of them as Suti-Lon-sondon, one of his oldest and most dedicated students. He remembered the first time that Suti had come to him, scared and confused, daunted by the task that had been put to him to approach the prophet and learn at his feet. That had seemed an eternity ago.

 

  It had not been difficult to convince Suti of his veracity as a prophet. Indeed, it was no more difficult than it had been to prove it to anyone else. Unlike other prophets, false prophets, who had contented themselves with speaking in broad and unspecific predictions (the more precious of them choosing to quote their vagueness in rhyme, as if that added some aura of respectability), Ontear had been amazingly specific in his prognostications. He had predicted the great earthquake of Kartoof. He had predicted the rise in power of Quinzar the Wicked and Krusea the Black, and the defeat of Krusea's son, Otton the Unready.

 

  Oh, there were the skeptics who believed that Ontear's predictions were so specific that they became self-fulfilling prophecies. For instance, his prediction that a conqueror named Muton would be born in the eastern territories and dominate half the region had

 

  ") if( !cssCompatible ) document.write("

 

  resulted in no fewer than two thousand eastern territory newborns in the last year being given the name "Muton." The confusion this created in schools alone was nothing short of calamitous.

 

  But the debates over Ontear meant nothing to Suti, for he believed in the man and his powers. There was a serenity about Ontear, a confidence that seemed to lift him above all that surrounded him.

 

  Suti was surprised to see Ontear seated in front of his cave. Ontear rarely left the confines of his rocky home. He had a particular spot that he simply sat upon, apparently day and night, for Suti never saw him move from it. Yet here was Ontear, outside, apparently taking a tremendous interest in the skies which were darkening overhead. Suti gestured for the others who had accompanied him to hang back, desiring to address Ontear on his own first. Slowly he drew near to the prophet, and Ontear acknowledged his approach with a slight nod of his head. Suti began to speak, but Ontear put out a raised hand and Suti promptly lapsed into a respectful silence.

 

  "Can you smell it, Suti?" asked Ontear after a short time. "There is a storm coming. A storm of great significance. I have foreseen it."

 

  This, to Suti, did not exactly seem to be the stuff of prophecy. One did not have to be a seer to tell that a storm was on its way. One merely had to look at the growing blackness. Of far greater concern to Suti, however, was the smoke on the horizon. The smoke that was a lingering and mute testimony to the war that had enveloped Zondar. A war that had begun in the western regions but had spread to consume the whole of the planet.

 

  "I do not dispute that, Ontear," Suti said, "but we have other matters to consider at the moment." Suti's skin had the same characteristic sheen that Ontear's

 

 

 

  possessed, but his eyes were darker and the contrasting youthfulness in his face was quite evident.

 

  "Other matters?" asked Ontear.

 

  Suti drew close and knelt nearby Ontear. "The war, Ontear. The great war."

 

  "Wars are never great, Suti," Ontear said softly, thoughtfully. "There can be great acts of heroism. There can be great causes. But the wars themselves are always terrible, terrible things."

 

  "The Unglza, Ontear. The Unglza refuse to surrender."

 

  "Do they?"

 

  Suti was beginning to feel frustrated. It was as if he was having an impossible time just managing to capture and hold Ontear's attention. "They refuse to surrender," he repeated, trying to give added significance to the statement through weight in his voice.

 

  "Yes, so you have said."

 

  "But you said they would!"

 

  "Yes, so I did."

 

  Suti could hear mutterings from his companions nearby, and he did not like the sound of it. He began to pace furiously, the incoming wind whipping the hem of his acolyte gown. "Ontear . . . this . . . this war is because of you!"

 

  "Is it?" Ontear still seemed to be only partly paying attention to what was being said.

 

  "For years, Ontear . . . for years, the Unglza and the Eenza have desired the extermination of each other. They are two peoples who have racial and border disputes going back centuries! Every time there has been a move toward peace, the talks have broken down and new bouts of attempted genocide on the parts of both peoples broke out once more! But it's never been a full-blown civil war before! Never spilled over into . . . into an unyielding bloodbath! That's what it is, Ontear! A bloodbath!"

 

  ") else document.write("

 

  resulted in no fewer than two thousand eastern territory newborns in the last year being given the name "Muton." The confusion this created in schools alone was nothing short of calamitous.

 

  But the d
ebates over Ontear meant nothing to Suti, for he believed in the man and his powers. There was a serenity about Ontear, a confidence that seemed to lift him above all that surrounded him.

 

  Suti was surprised to see Ontear seated in front of his cave. Ontear rarely left the confines of his rocky home. He had a particular spot that he simply sat upon, apparently day and night, for Suti never saw him move from it. Yet here was Ontear, outside, apparently taking a tremendous interest in the skies which were darkening overhead. Suti gestured for the others who had accompanied him to hang back, desiring to address Ontear on his own first. Slowly he drew near to the prophet, and Ontear acknowledged his approach with a slight nod of his head. Suti began to speak, but Ontear put out a raised hand and Suti promptly lapsed into a respectful silence.

 

  "Can you smell it, Suti?" asked Ontear after a short time. "There is a storm coming. A storm of great significance. I have foreseen it."

 

  This, to Suti, did not exactly seem to be the stuff of prophecy. One did not have to be a seer to tell that a storm was on its way. One merely had to look at the growing blackness. Of far greater concern to Suti, however, was the smoke on the horizon. The smoke that was a lingering and mute testimony to the war that had enveloped Zondar. A war that had begun in the western regions but had spread to consume the whole of the planet.

 

  "I do not dispute that, Ontear," Suti said, "but we have other matters to consider at the moment." Suti's skin had the same characteristic sheen that Ontear's

 

 

 

  possessed, but his eyes were darker and the contrasting youthfulness in his face was quite evident.

 

  "Other matters?" asked Ontear.

 

  Suti drew close and knelt nearby Ontear. "The war, Ontear. The great war."

 

  "Wars are never great, Suti," Ontear said softly, thoughtfully. "There can be great acts of heroism. There can be great causes. But the wars themselves are always terrible, terrible things."

 

  "The Unglza, Ontear. The Unglza refuse to surrender."

 

  "Do they?"

 

  Suti was beginning to feel frustrated. It was as if he was having an impossible time just managing to capture and hold Ontear's attention. "They refuse to surrender," he repeated, trying to give added significance to the statement through weight in his voice.