Anton Colicos

Knowing it was only a matter of time before Vao’sh succumbed to his utter isolation, Anton frantically tried to save him, praying that with his warmth and comfort he could help Vao’sh to hold on for just a little while longer. The old rememberer needed him, and Anton did not want to leave his side, wishing he could spend all day just clutching his hand,willing Vao’sh to be strong.

But he had to do something to help. He had to try everything. Everything! Anton personally called in favors, made calls, grabbed lapels and begged for assistance. He made lists of possibilities, then doggedly pursued every alternative, crossing off each failure, jotting down any new idea.

He barged into the office of the Dean of the Department of Ildiran Studies, but the man immediately washed his hands of the matter, ducking from a groundswell of anti-Ildiran sentiment since the Solar Navy had led the faeros to the Moon (never mind that the Mage-Imperator and a whole Ildiran crew were being held hostage there). Next, Anton went to the chancellor of the university, but the man was practically catatonic after the annihilation of several major cities, sure that the Palace District could be next. The campus itself had degenerated into near anarchy, and all classes were canceled.

Anton dispatched fourteen increasingly urgent messages to Chairman Wenceslas, implying that he had vital new information, but his calls were all ignored. Apparently, the leader had no further interest in the Ildiran rememberer. Rumor had it that the Chairman had taken refuge somewhere deep underground; he hadn’t been seen for days, though King Rory remained in public view, raising his hands and promising — not convincingly — that everything would be all right.

Anton knew for certain that Vao’sh wasn’t going to be all right, unless he could get some help. He would die without his fellow Ildirans, without thethism. That was the one thing Anton could not give him, no matter how much he wanted to.

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 thethism. 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 thethism, 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 a thorough analysis, there was no telling which of the chemicals Vao’sh had consumed were poisonous to his biochemistry, and there was no way to develop a reliable antidote in time.

Anton slammed a door on those thoughts and refused to consider them.

Vao’sh reached for his hand, forced him to come closer. “Ah, my friend, the loneliness I endured after fleeing Maratha gave me a taste of what I experience now — and it will only get horribly worse. I know that, and so do you. This way, it is my choice. This way,I have control, and I die much more peacefully than if I allowed the madness to overcome me.” He sounded absolutely calm.

“No!” Anton felt the sobs and anger building inside him. He refused to accept that he couldn’tdo anything, that he had let Vao’sh down.

“Promise me. promise that you will tell my story. Write my ending for theSaga of Seven Suns.” Though his eyes were glazed and unfocused, Vao’sh added, “I found a poem that I like very much. It was written by a human named Thomas Babington Macaulay, from a work called ‘Lays of Ancient Rome.’”