The Prisoners

Chanthrows frowned with bitter satisfaction. So there it was. They intended to kill him after all. "Yes," he hissed, "truth!" Though even as he said it he realized it was a vague request. He meant truth of their intentions toward him... but what did the creature mean by truth?

"Then I will tell you a story," said the reptile. "Of an ancient people, who loved knowledge, who loved the stars... but most of all, loved peace."

In his mind's eye Chanthrows instinctively conjured images of his people's distant past, before they had met--he glared at the creature--them.

"And of another race. A brilliant, intelligent race--but a race that loved conquest. They called it manifest destiny and did not see it as evil, but as a way to bring the benefits of their civilization to the savages and primitives of the galaxy. They were a noble people... in their own minds. And the first race became aware of the second, became aware of what they were like and what they could do. And they foresaw a galaxy soaked in blood spilled by this noble race of altruistic conquerors. And the wise men of the first race asked, 'what can be done? Do we fight them? If we did, could we even win against their might? And even if we did win, would not just as much blood be spilled?' For remember, they loved peace, and desired not even the blood of those who would be their enemies. But how could they stop this race from laying siege to a galaxy? How could they stop their fleets from blocking out the suns of a hundred innocent worlds?

"And then it was asked: are they not noble... in their own way? Are they not convinced of their righteousness? Do they not dream of being saviors of the galaxy? Perhaps they cannot be stopped... but merely redirected. The first race debated this for many years--for they loved the stars so, and the freedom to roam among them. But they were honor bound to love peace more. And so at last a plan commenced. And so this first race set about to create an enemy. They found a derelict ship of the second race, a ship destroyed by a meteor, and made it look as though they had attacked it instead. With their telepathy they planted fantasies of atrocities in the minds of this noble, conquering race, convincing them that they--the first race--were in fact the bloodthirstiest of conquerors. They went to war--not to win, but simply to establish a foundation for hatred, fuelled, again, by occasional telepathic suggestions on the influential, the policymakers. Until this second race, this would-be conquering race, became convinced that the noblest action in all the universe would be to protect other worlds from this evil planet, and they did--after all--see themselves as the most noblest of races. And they then devoted all their might and their space technology, not to invading other worlds, to other campaigns, but to making sure the evil ones never again left their planet."

Chanthrows felt something spasm in his chest, though otherwise he felt fine. Then he coughed, and his spit was made of blood, not saliva. The creature looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," it projected. "We attempted to keep you calm, to make you comfortable, but as the end nears, even our illusions must break down."

Uncomprehending, Chanthrows looked down at himself. His flight suit was no longer immaculate, but was blackened and torn. His arms were not draped lazily over his belly, but were flung about him at awkward angles. He could not see one of his legs. He had been dying all along, he realized, the crash having been too severe. The creature had used its telepathy to make his final minutes more peaceful, less painful. He did not understand this compassion from the evil ones. He tilted his head to look at the reptile, who returned his gaze with infinite sadness. There was a blackness bordering his vision, slowly closing in like a contracting iris.

"Whu-why?" he asked, as he felt himself slip into the sleep from which there was no awaking. "We gave up the stars to keep the galaxy safe from you."

The creature touched him gently, and nodded. "As did we."