The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [157]
The best thing would be a fast ship to rush Vao’sh back to the Ildiran Empire, where he could be with his people, safe in the thism. Any splinter colony would do, so long as Vao’sh was near his own people. Considering the current situation on Earth, Anton would have been perfectly happy to go away with him, too. Anything, just to help his friend.
But there were no ships to be had, and certainly none that were willing to fly off to the distant Ildiran Empire.
No matter how hard he tried, Anton could get no one to take his problem seriously. The Moon had been destroyed, and meteors had wiped out several cities. Flaming elementals had attacked the solar system. The plight of a lonely alien was an absolutely trivial concern for everyone on Earth.
Only Anton considered it important. He was desperate.
Already isolated from the thism, Vao’sh huddled inside the small apartment they shared. Anton urged him to go out among crowds, to be surrounded by people (although he quietly feared a lynch mob might form and attack him). The old rememberer refused, though. “I cannot get what I need from humans, no matter how large the crowd. It is the difference between seeing an image of food and eating a feast. There is no nourishment for me here.”
Anton felt torn apart, but refused to despair. He would think of something. He couldn’t lose Vao’sh. He did not give up.
Anton begged for coverage on the newsnets so that he could make others feel the pain of Vao’sh’s problem, but every broadcast was fixated with the destruction of the Moon, analyses of the faeros, condemnations of the Solar Navy invaders. Other stories covered the devastating impacts, the destroyed cities, and dire warnings about larger fragments even now hurtling toward Earth.
Finally Anton used up his last possibility. He could think of nothing else to do, no more favors to call in. With a leaden heart, he returned to the apartment, closed the door behind him, and stood frozen for a moment, afraid to admit his utter failure. He knew what it would do to Vao’sh. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and used every scrap of optimism he could summon to call out with false cheer, “Nothing yet, but I will think of something. I’m not giving up.”
The old rememberer had switched on all the lights, opened the blinds and curtains. Anton found him lying on the temporary bed, shivering and clammy. His facial lobes swirled with sickly colors. Anton knelt down to clasp his friend’s hand. “Be strong. I’m here! You have all my support, my strength.”
It took him several moments to realize that Vao’sh was suffering from far more than isolation. The rememberer spasmed, and his lips drew back to expose his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut, forcing painful tears between the lids. “I am glad you have come,” he managed to say. “I wanted you here.”
“I won’t give up!” Anton insisted.
“Nothing . . . to do. Accept it.”
“No!”
Anton noticed a sharp smell. He looked around and saw empty bottles of chemicals — caustic cleaning fluids from his bathroom and kitchenette, several old prescription bottles, all empty. “Vao’sh, what have you done?”
Though the old rememberer continued to shudder, he forced his eyes open. He spoke as if he were telling a tale. “Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h, seeing what was necessary for the Ildiran Empire, consumed poison so that the story could move on to its next chapter.” He coughed and then retched.
Anton held the old man’s bony shoulders, raising him from the bed. He felt as if the world had fallen out from beneath him. “Why did you give up on me? I was still trying! I am still here.”
The rememberer clasped Anton’s hand weakly, heaved a breath, and wheezed, “All stories cannot have a happy ending.”
“Don’t you dare do this to me!” Anton pulled away and stood up. His heart was racing, and he couldn’t find the air to draw a breath. He could barely hear anything but the clamor of his own thoughts. “I’ll call a hospital. They can do something.”
But no Earth physician understood the slightest bit about Ildiran physiology or toxicology. Without