The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Seventy-Six

“Shepherd,” Shan Yu said, calmly. “What a remarkable coincidence!” The preacher snorted. “Hardly. I knew you would make your way back to your trove, one way or another. You would never leave your precious things behind. Quite predictable. From the state of your attire I’m assuming that your appearance here follows considerable bloodshed,” he said, sadly. He was sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, timeless symbol of affluence and comfort, and Shan Yu saw that he had a 9mm pistol in his hand. No surprise, really; the ship was full of guns. The fact that he hadn’t been shot in the back on sight gave him hope that Book was, somehow, not bent on revenge. But then again, it was hard to judge such a thing with a man like Book. Religious men were notoriously unpredictable in their motivations. He looked down at his once-pristine white coat. It was marred with splatters of blood and tissue from his brave Tigers. “Indeed,” admitted Shan Yu. “Though none of it your friends. Or not much, I should say. No, they have quite defeated me.” “I’m relieved,” Book said, quietly. “If you’re telling the truth, that is.” “Oh, I am,” assured the Warlord. “That young girl – River, they called her – she somehow knew the codes to activate their self-destruct mechanism. Like the one I demonstrated for you.” Book smiled in the gloom. “River. My angel. Yes, that’s just the sort of thing she’d do . . .” “Conjure the secret destruct codes for the security microcomputers in an elite military unit?” Shan Yu asked, surprised. She had not seemed that remarkable – apart from her fascination with Ophelia. Book shrugged. “Kids these days,” he said with a grin. “She quite handily deprived me of my forces. I cannot run this ship alone. Therefore I fled, and am in the process of escaping.” He gave Book a searching look. “Whether I continue or not seems largely in your hands.” “So it does,” Book said. “But we will deal with that issue after our chat.” “Chat?” Shan Yu asked, raising one bushy eyebrow. “Now what would you want to chat about?” “I’m a preacher,” Book reminded. “Talking is what I do.” He looked around. “You have any liquor in this museum?” “A drinking preacher? Really!” the Warlord said, feigning scandal. “For medicinal purposes,” assured Book. “I seem to have forgotten my pain meds. Besides, my order doesn’t proscribe alcohol. Our Lord, Himself, was said to have a nip or two on special occasions. I think,” the darkened face said through the gloom, “that this might just count.” Shan Yu did not for a moment conclude from his congenial manner that Book had given up on thoughts of revenge or retribution. If anything he was more on guard. He had a long career in civil service and politics, and he had encountered every kind of player and negotiator there was. He had met men like Book before, and knew full well that despite their hospitable rhetoric, they were men to wary of. Very wary.

“I do, actually, remember a bottle of exquisite brandy. Merovingian, if I recall, a Neu Alsace vintage. It was aged over forty years when the Merovingian ambassador gave it to me. I’m sure its utterly divine, now. I was saving it for a special occasion . . .” he said, trailing off while he stared at Book’s still, menacing form. “I think that this might just count.” With a nod Shan Yu went to a cabinet, taking care to move slowly and keep his hands in sight – no need for a hasty shooting when he might be able to talk his way out of this – and found the bottle. It was an artfully done hand-blown bottle with a red leather cover. He chose two snifters from the bar and inspected them. After he blew the dust away, he proceeded to pour. And he talked. “So what did you want to speak with me about, Reverend? I’ll tell you, I quite enjoyed our earlier conversation – under the circumstances. You have an interesting perspective for a man with such an intriguing background.” “What makes you think you know about my background?” Book asked. “Come now, Shepherd. I spent most of my life evaluating the character of men. Which means discovering their secrets, their true identities – no matter how desperately they seek to hide them. An experienced observer, if he knows what to look for, can draw many correct conclusions about a man just by the way he enters a room. In five minutes of talking about the weather he should be able to establish his character, and in an hour he should know his life story.” “That’s from ‘The Willow Tree Excursions”, if I recollect properly,” Book observed. Shan Yu raised an eyebrow. If Book was familiar with his work that made him all the more dangerous. For all of his observations, he did not have near the familiarity with his opponent that he had revealed in his books. “Correct. When I speak of sizing up Fei Shan Hu, when he came into my office that morning. You’ve read my works?” He tried to project a vein of foolish self-indulgence in his tone as he put a snifter just within Book’s reach, and retreated to the other chair with his own. He had been flattered for years by those who sought his favor and was not likely to fall for such a common ploy – but if Book believed otherwise, he might eventually let down his guard. Right now Shan Yu needed every advantage he could muster. “A few,” Book admitted. “You are a gifted writer . . . among other things. I can’t help but wonder how the ‘verse would be different if you had become a professional poet.” “The thought had occurred to me,” Shan Yu admitted unexpectedly. “There were plenty of times when I would have given all of it up, the palaces, the power, the glory – to retire by some pond in the woods and write. A life of quiet contemplation has its merits. But we were discussing what I learned of you, during our last conversation.” “So we were. You’re right: this is exquisite,” he said, nodding appreciatively over the brandy. “I learned that you once were a military man – or paramilitary. Police, perhaps, or spy. Space forces? Marines? Perhaps more than one. A man of action, in any case. You are familiar with firearms, combat, and interrogation. You have had experience in covert operations. I learned that you have killed before. Murdered, perhaps, but you have definitely killed a man. Likely more than a few.” “Go on,” Book said, evenly. “I learned that you have been many things in your life, worn many hats, I believe the expression is. Merchant. Spacer. Businessman. Diplomat? Perhaps you worked . . . undercover?” Shan Yu found no hint of reaction from the Shepherd. “You left whatever organization you served voluntarily, but did not leave without prejudice. I feel that you were perhaps betrayed by someone close to you. Perhaps even someone you loved.” “Now you are starting to sound like a space port fortune teller,” admonished Book. “Forgive me. I feel that you have never wed, though perhaps at one time you were close. Long before you took holy orders. You have no children . . . that you are aware of. I learned that you were born or raised outside of the Core, perhaps on one of the frontier worlds. Boros, perhaps, or Verbena. Someplace semi-civilized. The accent . . .” “Boros and Verbena are quite civilized by now,” Book interjected with a chuckle. “Hardly rough and tumble frontier worlds anymore.” “I forget the passage of time. You spent your early childhood in a rural environment – Anglic, but with a strong Sinic cast. Christianity was your native religion – you didn’t convert. You were not brought up in poverty, but were not wealthy, either. Your adolescence was spent in a more urban environment. You were well-educated. Not just cortex courses and datawells – you attended a traditional university. Perhaps even a boarding school. “You are a lover of books, and of games. You have an orderly mind, despite its predilection for theological fancies. You admire logic and reason, while also knowing that they are no substitute for religious faith. You have a talent for mathematics, though it does not extend towards the theoretical. You had at least one sibling, or half-sibling. You were not raised by your natural father. You are fond of pets but have not had one since you were a child. You are likely partial to gardening and simple horticulture.” “I do enjoy keeping bees, and getting my hands in the soil,” Book admitted. “You are a highly moral man, with a deep-seated belief in lofty ideals. Yet you are no stranger to the brutal reality of life. You are honest, within reason, respectful of social order, passionate about your beliefs and plainly compassionate. You despise suffering of any sort. Yet you are willing to endure great suffering for the furtherance of a noble cause.” “Let’s move away from the suffering issue for the moment, shall we?” Book warned. He didn’t use the pistol to emphasize his words, as a less skilled player would have. It never varied from Shan Yu’s forehead. “Despite your faith you have studied several Sinic philosophies,” the Warlord continued. “I’d say your order is not a Catholic, Coptic, or Orthodox one, likely a Second Reformation Protestant sect, with heavy monastic influence, one that eschews the Gnostic texts as canon. Nor is it one of those dreadful Christo-Buddhist fusions. “You practice Tai Ch’i Chuan, have studied kung fu and karate, and are familiar with the rhythms of ch’i. You have studied Hatha Yoga in the past, but have not practiced it for years. You have spent considerable time in a reclusive environment and have just . . . emerged after a long period spent in reflective contemplation. Before that you spent time on many worlds, several in the Core. You came to religion as a vocation late in life. You are sincere in your ministry. You are strong in your faith but have severe doubts about it every day. Nonetheless, you persist in your belief.” “I’m a Shepherd. It’s what we do.” “Quite. You adhere sharply to your moral code, which is resolute. But you have violated that code upon occasion.” Shan Yu closed his eyes before beginning the telling part. “I know that you committed . . . a crime. Perhaps not in the eyes of the law, but within your own profoundly moral frame of reference. You . . . violated your own ethical code, and you have sought atonement ever since. Some dark episode in your past. You have witnessed great evil, and mayhap even participated.” There was a long silence as Book regarded Shan Yu over his drink. “Interesting,” he said at last. “Was I correct?” “On several accounts,” Book said. “Although perhaps not in the places you would suspect. I’d say you were at least seventy percent on the mark.” “Ah, but which seventy?” Shan Yu asked, taking a drink of his own. “That is the question. Remarkable. So do your astute observations extend to normal social situations, or are they limited to your torture victims?” “I take it you are somewhat . . . upset by our last conversation?” Shan Yu asked warily. “That could be said,” admitted Book, grimly. “As a matter of fact, I’m profoundly disturbed. It has led to a crisis of faith, and I’m afraid I need your help to resolve the matter.” Despite his words, his tone indicated that his ‘crisis of faith’ involved no small degree of anger and rage, held back by a flimsy wall of moral conscience.. “Which is why I’m not dead on the floor already,” concluded the old man. “It had bearing on the issue, yes. You see, I have been struggling with . . . certain matters from my past, trying to rectify or atone for . . . things that were done. I had a moment of clarity, at one point, an epiphany. It told me that what I was doing was not what I was meant to do. It lead me first to the Bible, which led to seminary, which led to taking holy orders, which led to a life of quiet contemplation. The Order was a refuge from the World, and for many years I was able to reflect and meditate on my sins. But after a time I realized that as helpful as that reclusive period was for me, ultimately I served the Lord best when I was serving my fellow man. I needed to re-engage with the world, not hide from it. Or from my sins. “So I decided to leave the Abbey and walk in the World awhile, see what the Lord led me to. I’ve often doubted His direction, in truth, but I’ve never lost faith in His plan. So when He put me on a Firefly transport – a small freighter, just like one I once sailed on – and threw me in with a pack of good-hearted rogues, I had to wonder: Why?” Book took another sip of the brandy. “I could not figure it out. None of the crew had much desire for religion – though I couldn’t argue against their need for it – and yet the Lord kept me there through all manner of capers. Some I even participated in. But I could not come to a solid reason. I lacked purpose. I was confounded. Until now.” He took a large swallow of his drink and sighed, satisfactory. “Until He led me to you.” “You think you were led to undertake the journey because of . . . me?” “I undertook the journey for myself. But you appear to figure prominently in my own personal story. So when I at last came face to face with the infamous Shan Yu, and got to stare the Devil in the face, I came to the conclusion that the Lord was testing me. He was making a determination about how well I followed His teachings. His holy word of love. I believe I mentioned it in our previous conversation.” “Between the screams, yes, I do recall a little of that. You said you loved me. The man who was making you suffer. For a man who professes to love his enemies, holding a 9mm pistol pointed at me presents the appearance of hypocrisy.” “Just a thing,” Book shrugged. “Oh, I’ll use it, if I’ve a call to. Don’t doubt that. I’m a man of God, but I’m still a man, and if I have to pray and atone over your premature death, then I’m willing to do that if there’s a need. Know this, old man, I’ll end you quick if you step out of line.” The tone in Book’s voice allowed for no misunderstanding. It was menace – and nonchalance. Shan Yu realized for the first time that Book was not committed to murdering him. But the preacher continued while Shan Yu tried to assimilate this new piece of data into his threat-response matrix. “I said I loved you, Shan Yu, and I do. As much as I love every man born of woman. But I came to an important conclusion while the Doc was binding my wounds. ‘Love thy enemies’, while true, is only a partial maxim.” “I am eagerly anticipating the addition, which, I hope, does not directly lead to my untimely end.” “The whole adage should be, ‘Love thy enemies, for they are the instruments of thy fate.’ You, sir, have directed that fate for decades, now, though you don’t know it. As much as I hate you – and I do,” he added, finally using the muzzle for emphasis. It moved maybe a millimeter, “I cannot slay you out of hand. That would be vengeance and retribution, and the Lord reserves those rights for Himself, alone. No, I cannot slay you for that.” “But I take it you have found another compelling reason? Or will you let me leave peaceably, in the spirit of Christian forgiveness?” “Shan Yu, if I let you leave, you will just start trouble all over again,” Book said with a sigh, shaking his head. “More people will die. More suffering will occur. And I will be the blame for it. I have the opportunity to end your madness, here, now. My personal feelings aside, you have been a force for evil in the World, and evil I cannot abide. Even when I do it,” he added menacingly. “I . . . see. So you can’t kill me out of revenge, but you can do it as a preventative measure. Forgive me if I find your logic cloudy. For me, the results are the same.” “Ah, but they needn’t be. Do you remember the old story of the young Emperor? Ming dynasty, I believe. The one who, upon finding his city sacked by the barbarians and his palace under siege, went to his most trusted advisor?” “I don’t like where you’re going with this,” Shan Yu said, sourly. He was familiar with the story. “You are presenting me with a box, are you?” “The same as the advisor provided,” nodded Book. “Within this metaphorical box you will find a pair of scissors, a robe, and an alms bowl. I offer you a life of monastic seclusion, in which you will reflect, for the rest of your life, upon your sins. You will have to forever abandon all of this,” he said, glancing around the room at the priceless treasures. “No more a dictator, no more an emperor, no more a man of war and death. No more riches. Just you, a cell, a book, and quiet contemplation.” “Your friends would never agree. They would kill me on sight!” “I vow to you my protection,” Book assured. “If you take my metaphorical box, then I will escort you to the abbey of your choice. Taoist, Buddhist, Christian, it makes no difference. But there you will stay until you die. I love you, Shan Yu. You have been my enemy and done me wrong like few men have and lived to say it. When our Lord sacrificed Himself to save us all, He did it to save us all, you included. I have the sword of vengeance by my side,” he said, moving the pistol another millimeter. “But I offer the hand of peace. Come with me and leave all of this ostentation, this aggrandizement, these false idols of pride and greed and craven desire to the misty past, and live a new life.” “You would have me become a Christian?” Shan Yu asked with a bitter chuckle. “It’s not a faith that well-suits my temperament.” “Makes no difference what path you walk. I certainly would prefer it if you would bathe in the blood of the lamb and accept Jesus Christ as your savior. Can’t help but think of the notoriety I’d have in the afterlife for making such a conversion. But if you prefer to walk in the Way, or if you prefer to take Refuge with the Buddha, that is up to you and your soul. Become a Sufi or a Shinto priest, for all I care. I am not here to push you into salvation, I merely light the way out of the forest of your sins.” “I have always had a grudging respect for Christianity,” admitted Shan Yu. “A religion of peace, founded on a horrifying human sacrifice. The Passion is a powerful emotional experience. The religious iconography is magnificent: the pain of the lashing, the torment of the stations of the cross – the crown of thorns was pure genius! Pontius Pilot washing his hands, the treachery of Judas, the betrayal of the Pharisees, the denial of the disciples, the release of Barabbas, the vicious stab in the side with the spear, and then the exquisite agony of the Crucifixion itself . . .” he said, shaking his head in admiration. “The Passion, Shepherd, shows much of what I try to relay in my books. I studied the process in depth, even had it re-enacted a few times. By taking someone to physical extremes and pushing them to their emotional horizons, we reveal the true, the naked face of God in man.” “Perhaps you should consider Buddhism,” Book said, after solemn consideration. “I believe the point of our Lord’s suffering has escaped you.” “But has it?” Shan Yu pointed out. “Man’s inhumanity to man – is that not what Jesus preached against? And was that not for what he suffered and died? He knew it would be impossible to convince the world to live so humane a life. Man is inherently brutal to his fellow man, when he can get away with it. I have watched mothers condemn their children to painful deaths to save their own lives. I have watched loving husbands see their new brides put to rough work in the barracks to spare themselves the trauma of torture. I have seen brother and sister fight to the death over a scrap of food. He preached a sermon of peace and forgiveness, and for his trouble he was condemned to an unjust, cruel death. Such brutality is Man’s natural state. I have seen this a thousand times,” he pronounced. “And I have seen ten thousand acts of selfless sacrifice,” Book countered, forcefully. “Confucius himself insisted that people are inherently good: the story of the baby in the well, which two armies in the midst of battle ceased their struggles and joined to rescue. The parable of the Samaritan. Throughout human history, man has laid down his life for his fellow man. You speak of the inhumanity of Man, but I say that there lives in the hearts of men the kernel of goodness, the seed of hope. And Christ Jesus through the sacrament of baptism can wash away the stain and water that seed.” “Kernel of goodness?” scoffed Shan Yu. “Where, then, is my ‘kernel of goodness’, Shepherd? I have an ocean of blood on my hands.” “And some of it is my own,” agreed Book. “If Man was truly as brutal as you claim, then I would not be here, forgiving you for your sins against me.” “You do have a gun,” Shan Yu pointed out once again. “I’m a forgiving man, Tyrant,” Book conceded. “I ain’t stupid.” “That remains to be seen. You have your enemy in your sights,” Shan Yu said, in a penetrating voice. “The man who hurt you, the man who tortured you. A man you know for a fact has done such things a thousand times for pure edification. You have him here, hale and hearty, at your mercy while countless others begged for it in vain. The gun is in your hand. The safety is off. The chamber is loaded. A little more pressure on the trigger, Shepherd, and your wrath will be complete. You will have been avenged. Tell me that isn’t tempting,” Shan Yu taunted. Predictably, the old preacher did not rise to the bait as a younger or less spiritually disciplined man might. “If I were you, I’d be a mite less reckless with your speech. I’m not perfect. I’ve sought forgiveness for the blood on my hands. Adding a little more might be a price I’m willing to pay.” “Go on, do it!” Shan Yu snarled. “You are just as weak as the others. You talk of forgiveness and redemption, but when put to the test, the ultimate test, you would fail just as miserably as the others. Your faith would fail you, in the end, and you would beg for the favor of my mercy, then. When put to extremes, the result is always the same.” “The people of whom you speak – you put them in those hopeless positions. You. You are the author of their brutality. You and men like you . . . those who toy with human lives for their own amusement . . . each death hangs over you like a stinking cloud of sin. I offer you what you did not offer your victims: hope. Yes, the Son of Man suffered at the hands of his brothers, suffered and died. Had the story ended there, you may well be correct. But it didn’t: the tomb was empty! Christ defeated Death and Pain and the inhumanity of Man. He paved the way for men like you and me to rise above the sea of blood and the chorus of screams and despair and accept His help. Yes, even we, Shan Yu. The killers. The savages. Two old men who see the specter of the final mystery looming every morning when we wake. God has provided hope even for us, in our dark pits of self-loathing.” “My only gods are Power, Death and Pain,” Shan Yu said, shaking his head, “for that is the only principle the ‘verse recognizes. Death and Power. If you have the latter, you may avoid the former.” “For a time,” conceded Book. “But Death will always come for you in the end. And your path is headed straight for it. Chose the box, Shan Yu,” Book pleaded. “Chose life. It will be a quiet, simple life, but an honest one. It will be an impotent life, but it will be free of your foes and your worries. It will be a life lived in anticipation of death’s final arrival, but it will be life. A life of Peace.” “A miserable life like yours? When I have reigned over entire worlds, you would condemn me to the hell of monastic seclusion? A boring life of prayer and dusty old books and mindless services . . . that is what you would condemn me to? It is gracious of you, I admit – if our circumstances were reversed, you would be long dead, now. But why? What’s in it for you?” Book fixed him with a steely stare. “I have gone to the base of the cross and stared up at our Savior and begged him for guidance, and He has commanded me to love my neighbor . . . all my neighbors . . . even you. For all of your pretensions, Shan Yu, you are still a child of God. And God’s grace washes away all the stink and stain of sin. If you accept it. And accept it in your heart. I cannot promise that the pain will ever go completely away, not until you look God in the eyes and are cleansed by His eternal glory, but this life I offer is the scab for your wounds.” “And if I choose not to take the box? You will slay me?” “No,” Book said, quietly. “I didn’t come here to murder you, Shan Yu. Oh, I might get jumpy and shoot you if you try anything, but I’d likely not hit anything vital. I did not come here for vengeance. Tempted? Of course. But, ‘lead me not into temptation.’ This,” he said, nodding to the gun, “is mostly to keep your attention riveted to me. A captive audience – every preacher’s dream.” “Happy I could oblige,” the old dictator said unenthusiastically. “So am I,” Book grinned softly. “You have two choices here: you can accept my mercy, give up your pride, and become a monk until you die a much more peaceful death than you deserve. Or you can continue on your present course, which leads to a nasty conclusion. The wages of sin are death, Shan Yu, and it’s about payday.” “You make a persuasive argument,” the old man said. He looked tired, as tired as Book. “I have been running and fighting and scheming for so long that I don’t think I know any other way,” he admitted. “Come with me, choose the box, and find a way,” Book pleaded. “To give up power . . . or dreams of power, that is foreign to my nature,” he sighed. “Hitler could have been a painter. Chou could have been an engineer. Napoleon could have become a toymaker,” Book shrugged. “You have time yet for one more destiny. But you must decide soon, or it will be out of my hands.” “It’s . . . it’s a big commitment,” Shan Yu said. He slowly rose from his seat. Book’s pistol barrel never left from aiming at his head. “Here I am, poised to explore a new world – and I will be honest, I figured I’d conquer a fair part of it,” he admitted. “I figured as much,” agreed Book. “And now you are asking me to throw it all away, all of my dreams. All of what makes me Shan Yu, the Great. You are asking me to turn my back on my life, my work, and all of history.” “I think you will find that history has treated you . . . poorly, in this age. No less than you deserve, of course, but there are no statues of you. No temples in your honor. Your rule of Yuan is seen as one of the weak points of history since the Exodus.” “And you would have me abandon the chance to right that wrong?” “It’s not a wrong, Shan Yu. Look, a tiny few know you are alive. It would be easy to persuade them that you are not. A new life, free from the burdens of power and struggle . . . free from the stain of sin . . . tell me that is not tempting.” The old man paced slowly through his study, looking at his fine, priceless treasures. His collection. His horde. A symbol of all he would lose, all the power and glory. To shave his pate and beg for his supper, to contemplate the wisdom of men dead five thousand years before. All of it, he would have to eschew. He rounded the desk, stroking his beard in thought. As he did so, the lights suddenly came on, and he acted. While Book was blinking from the sudden exposure, Shan Yu moved quickly, snatching up the ancient Confederate pistol from its display case, thumbing the hammer back and turning it on Book. Book recovered in time to refocus his aim, but the damage was done: it was a standoff. “You expect me to believe that antique still works?” Book asked with amusement. “It did when I set it here. Fully loaded. Black powder – such a simple, elegant technology. It should still work just fine. Shall we test that theory?” he asked menacingly. “This changes nothing,” Book said, shaking his head sadly. “This changes everything!” countered Shan Yu, triumphantly. “My offer still stands,” Book said, also rising. His gun was steady, though the rest of him shook a bit. “Keep it! I can kick over your silly box, now, Shepherd. No alms bowl and simple garments for Shan Yu! No, I shall take my chances on my own. I am the only one I can rely upon. Where was your God when I needed Him, Book? When I stared at a tent full of children who I had been ordered to slaughter? I was a young lieutenant at the time, my first post in the warzone on Xiao. I was in charge of handing surplus refugees when rations got short – and they were children, Shepherd. Simple, innocent children. Where was He, and His divine mercy? All of this could have been avoided, you know – I could have been content to live out my days as a mediocre poet, or a petty bureaucrat – but your God had other plans. He put me there, staring at hopeless, hungry faces with an order in my hands.” “You followed the order, Shan Yu. God didn’t make you.” “Who, then? Your Devil? He’s about the only interesting one in your entire pathetic pantheon – your ‘monotheism’ is a farce. Did Old Scratch whisper in my ear that day and tell me how to kill them all?” he asked, scornfully. “Face it: God allowed that to happen. Omniscient, omnipotent Jehovah made certain to put that impossible task in front of me.” “I don’t answer for God, Shan Yu,” Book said, evenly. “If you have issues, then I encourage you to seek answers in prayer. But don’t blame God for your own failings. We have Free Will, Shan Yu. You could have found another way. It may have ruined your career, even ended your life, but you would have died with a clean conscience.” “And then the order would have been carried out by my replacement – and they would have been just as dead!” he said intently. “God’s Will was done that day . . . just as it is being done today! You think He would have left this pistol intact, if He hadn’t intended for me to use it?” he asked, his voice rising to the level of a shriek. “This, Book, this gun is my salvation. Not your gorram Bible, or your gorram mercy. This gun and that escape pod. And if you think our short acquaintance is enough to make me leave you behind me, alive, you are mistaken, preacher.” “I don’t fear death,” Book said. “I’ve walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I fear no evil,” he quoted. “God, if I hear that bloody psalm one more ruttin’ time,” Shan Yu said, rolling his eyes, exasperated. “You know how many times I’ve heard it? As the noose approached? As the hammer came down on a foot? As the flame descended? That, and the Lord’s Prayer, and the bloody John 3:15 – it’s nothing but bad poetry!” “It is truth,” Book corrected, sternly. “For many, those words are symbols of our salvation.” “Well stuff them! This is the symbol of my salvation!” he said, gesturing with the ancient revolver. “I’m going to leave, now, and the only reason you live is because I want to avoid a firefight that might hinder my efforts. I’m fair certain you plan to shoot me in the back when I go, so forgive me if I’m over cautious.” “You have nothing to fear from me, Shan Yu,” Book said with a sigh. “I’ve given you a fair offer. If you choose to walk away from it, then that is your choice. My role was merely to make the offer. I won’t shoot you in the back.” “Isn’t lying a sin?” Shan Yu said with a sneer, glancing at the holodisplay, where the indicators were all green. “I put this weapon down, I’m dead.” “You will die regardless,” Book said. “And I make the offer one last time. The power is on now, Shan Yu. This ship is saved from destruction. How long before the internal sensors are operational? Hours? Minutes? They will come for you, and I can only help you if you agree. You must decide: take the box and live, or make your own path and die.” He set his pistol on the table in front of him and opened his hands. “I wash my hands of it.” Shan Yu was surprised, but he smiled and aimed the pistol square at Book’s chest. “And what makes you think I won’t kill you where you stand?” “I don’t rightly know,” conceded Book. “But this is where God has put me. If it is His will that I die today, by your hand, so be it. But you will not die by mine. I have done my part, and I am at peace.” “You really don’t fear to be unarmed in the same room with your torturer?” the old Tyrant asked, confused. “Then you are a fool, Shepherd!” “Mayhap,” agreed Book. “But I am the Lord’s fool, and with that, I am content.” He glanced up at the lights. “Tempus fugit. Make your choice, Shan Yu.” “Then I choose to forge my own destiny, as I always have” he spat. “I don’t need your God, your mercy or your salvation. What do I need to be saved from? My conscience? Let me tell you, from experience, that power drowns out the voices of the slain. When you rule entire worlds you cannot hear the screams of the innocent over the chants of your loyal followers. And rule, I shall! Your foolishness has allowed me to escape this ship. This pod is my salvation. I shall ride it down and land on a new world, a world yet unconquered! You shall see, Shepherd, within a year, I shall be King of Hecate!” he said with a note of triumph. “Shan Yu,” Book said, a slow smile coming to his lips. “I prophesy that you will, indeed, be King of Hecate. From the moment you land, you will be the most powerful man on the moon. But you will find naught but death there. I so prophesy,” he said with emphasis. “Last chance, Shan Yu.” “Damn your last chances!” he said viciously, as he activated the hatch door. “Damn them, and you, and your gorram book! I have written better! Damn the Empire! I shall build a bigger one! Damn your God! I will be a better lord. Damn the entire ‘verse, for all I care! For I shall be lord of all I survey, and your God cannot stop me!” “I’m warning you, you’re making a mistake, Shan Yu,” Book said quietly. “Yonder lies death.” Covering Book with the pistol, he backed into the escape capsule. “We are well acquainted. But, you, Book, I choose to leave you alive; and in recompense for your mercy I grant you a unique opportunity: there on yonder table lie my last two works. Read them, and publish them. See that they are exposed to all the worlds of the ‘verse. That way the worlds of your Alliance will know what they have in store when I come for them.” “Good bye, Shan Yu,” Book said, making the sign of the cross after him. “God Bless. Remember: Jesus loves you. God loves you. And He always has.” The hatch shut with a hiss, and was soon covered by a blast door. A hiss and a bang and the Tyrant was gone. Book sat there a long while, then got up just long enough to pour himself a drink. “One for the road,” he mused, reflecting on the fine brandy. He tucked the pistol into his waistband. The room looked less oppressive, now that full power was restored. Less like a mausoleum and more like a museum. The Shepherd walked slowly around, appreciating the treasures for what they were – pretty manifestations of the World, but ultimately unimportant. He lingered a moment by the display case, where the Confederate revolver had sat. He picked up Shan Yu’s books, shook his head and tucked them under his arm. Then he finished his brandy, and with a satisfied sigh he started to leave. He stopped himself before he had taken two steps, then returned to the empty display case. There he dropped six ancient pieces of lead, bullets fashioned for a war so far in the past most folks didn’t even know its name, and he smiled. It was time for the long, painful walk back to a lift station. Hopefully he could find his way back to Serenity, now that he had completed his divine mission. He glanced back at the bullets he had removed from the ancient revolver when he first arrived. He did the Lord’s work, and trusted in Him. But he wasn’t stupid.