Oblivion - Michael Jan Friedman [20]
But at least for a little while, her life had a purpose again, and that in itself was something to be thankful for.
Chapter Six
AT THAT PARTICULAR MOMENT, as Admiral Arlen McAteer sat there in the third row of the San Francisco Bay Theater, he didn’t have much confidence in Mister William Shakespeare.
He had decided to attend this production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth only because he had heard good things about it back at headquarters. But the show was almost over, and he hadn’t found a great deal to admire about it.
McAteer didn’t like what he had heard from the three witches. He appreciated even less the sentiments of Shakespeare’s long parade of ghosts. And as the actors playing Prince Malcolm and his noble allies rushed onto the corpse-littered stage, McAteer had a feeling he wasn’t going to love what they had to say either.
All anybody seemed to want to talk about were the mistakes Macbeth had made. But to the admiral’s way of thinking, they weren’t mistakes at all.
So the guy was ambitious. Since when was that a bad thing? Ambition was what had gotten McAteer his admiral’s stripes, and ambition was what would propel him to the top spot in all of Starfleet before long.
The admiral knew his history. The situation hadn’t been all that different in Shakespeare’s time. People didn’t get ahead unless they pushed a little. So what was Shakespeare so ticked off about?
Probably somebody had beaten the guy out of a job. Somebody named Macbeth, maybe. And from then on, he had it in for people with initiative.
That was it, McAteer concluded on a note of satisfaction. Shakespeare was just jealous.
Meanwhile, on the stage, Prince Malcolm was looking worried as he stared off into some imagined distance. “I would,” he said, “the friends we miss were safe arrived.”
Siward, an old fellow with a thick, gray beard, had his eyes on the bodies lying about the stage. “Some must go off,” he said soberly. “And yet, by these I see, so great a day as this is cheaply bought.”
Malcolm looked back at Siward. “Macduff is missing,” he said. “And your noble son.”
Siward’s jaw fell. Obviously, thought McAteer, in light of what he had just heard, the old guy was reconsidering how cheaply the day had been bought.
Ross, another of Malcolm’s pals, put his hand on Siward’s shoulder. “Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt. He only lived but till he was a man, the which no sooner had his prowess confirmed in the unshrinking station where he fought, but like a man he died.”
Not too many characters got out of these Elizabethan tragedies alive. McAteer had learned that much, at least.
“Then he is dead?” asked Siward.
“Aye,” said Ross with a sigh, “and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.”
“Had he his hurts before?” asked Siward.
“Aye,” said Ross, “on the front.”
McAteer saw where their conversation was going. And for once, he found himself approving of it.
“Well, then,” said Siward, “God’s soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death. And so his knell is knolled.”
“He’s worth more sorrow,” said Malcolm, “and that I’ll spend for him.”
“He’s worth no more,” Siward insisted. “They say he parted well and paid his score. And so God be with him!”
Maybe I was wrong, McAteer allowed. Maybe Shakespeare’s going to surprise me and give Macbeth the nod after all.
Suddenly, Siward looked across the stage. “Here comes newer comfort,” he said.
It was then that Macduff came out, carrying a pole in his hand. And what should be perched on the top of it…but Macbeth’s bloody, staring head?
The admiral made a sound of exasperation and saw several pairs of eyes turn in his direction. Scowling, he sat back in his seat and tried to keep his frustration to himself.
Crossing the stage, MacDuff presented Malcom with his trophy and said, “Hail, King, for so thou art!”
McAteer rolled his eyes. The guy who deserved to be king was looking down at them from the top of Macduff’s pole. Malcolm was a little wimp by comparison.