Chapter 4

Deilen noticed as the economist backed out of the room before the doors slid shut, but before he could say anything, a figure sauntered around a corner at the far end of the room from himself. He paused a moment, seeming to study the group, before stepping from the shadows into the light of the centeral part of the circular room. When Deilen blinked to make sure he saw what he thought he saw, the man who was clearly the one called the General by the manner in which stood, by the raw confidence in his eyes, was however a far cry from being every inch the General they had imagined they'd meet.

An older man he certainly was, but not old enough to be a General—Deilen had pictured a balding man, with a furrowed brow and wrinkly jaws, who peered out of squinting eyes, who kept his uniform in pristine condition and perhaps a tobacco pipe in his pocket. While the pipe part may have certainly been true the rest of Deilen's imagination had fallen far short of the man who stood before them—or perhaps had exceeded them. His fierce eyes radiated an uncontrollable energy bursting from somewhere deep within him. Deilen wasn't sure whether to cower and beg for mercy or to burst into laughter and slap him on the shoulder. Mostly, they just assumed command—without a word or even a gesture, the General's eyes found the inadequacies of all in the room, and Deilen was at once keenly aware of just how indecisive he was compared to those eyes.

The General's shoulders were certainly military shoulders, not very wide, but powerful—hinting at former combat service—held proudly aloft. However, they were not the shoulders of a tank, nor was the rest of his body. He had once been muscular, that much was obvious, but the lean raw strength that seemed taut within his limbs endured. But more than his frame, it was the clothes fitted to it that struck Deilen and the rest of the committee with a gasping sort of silence. The General stood before them without a common uniform like the rest of the members of the Imperial Armada wore—most notable perhaps, were the strapped sandals on his feet.

He wore long, ragged, almost Capri-length shorts, and a muted orange, flower-print Hawaiian tee shirt, which Deilen noted was missing a button. It hardly seemed an outfit befitting of a general of such a high rank, but nothing in his eyes or posture conveyed this wardrobe as an irregularity. But among all these eccentricities, the General's hair was perhaps the most distinctive: a thick tangle of dreadlocks fell behind him, dark like a midnight forest up front, but graying like a winter beach in the back. His hair spoke of pure conventional defiance in a world where order and standards reigned above all else. Deilen immediately wondered how such a man ever became an Imperial General in the first place; he never would have worked through the ranks as he was, yet nothing about the man told him that this was a new look for him.

But before he had any time to ponder the seeming incongruities of the man standing before him, the General spoke to Deilen and the party. “Well, now that the demon-ear has left, we can get to business.” He glanced at the group with what Deilen only imagined was heavy sarcasm or sheer boredom. When no one responded, he continued. “Have you people never seen a Varnu before? Come on; snap out of it, there's actually very little magic in him compared to other beings. I hope for your sakes you never meet a Wailer face to face.”

After this he waited, content with staring at the members of the Committee, until some minutes or seconds later the tension of the silence was unbearable and Deilen nervously took a hold of it with both hands and shattered it: “Our report concerning the recent outbreaks in the colony, sir, did you want to hear it?”

The General's face lost emotion, and Deilen teetered from one foot to another. A sort of disappointment seemed to fill the General's eyes and after a few moments he seemed to set his jaw in resolution. “I appreciate your attempt to navigate the conversation to the purpose of your visit, of my travel to this world in the first place, but before I answer your question, I want you to think about what you just asked me. I should hope that the fact that a fleet of the Imperial Armada landing in your back yard is sufficient proof that yes, I want to hear what you have to divulge. Because, after all, space travel isn't exactly as cheap as a bus ticket to the opera. And as far as hearing goes, your report might have been easily relayed through busy secretaries, deep space phase lights, and interns who would lose a sheet of it in the copier, and might have mostly made it to me in form enough for me to make a decision.”

Here he stopped and breathed deeply. Deilen thought he looked rather wolf-like, the way he stretched upwards with his whole neck and chest, nose pointed to the ceiling.

“However, you have been summoned here and here you are. It would be a shame if you all left without getting to the point and making my trip fruitless. Nevermind the bad press and frustrated taxpayer letters all those interns would have to read and respond vaguely to. And besides, if the enemy knows all the details of that report already, I had better get briefed before he gets too far ahead of me. So yes, I do want to hear it—but give your questions more thought in the future, Mr. Koru, and spare us the painfully obvious.”

Deilen got the feeling he was trying to be considerate, but his encouragement hit Deilen as blatantly insulting instead. As a flush of color spread across his cheeks, the artilleryman stepped forward and saluted. The General recognized the military in the man, saluted, and gave him permission to speak. When he began, Deilen clung to the first few phrases expectantly, but that was about all he gathered in the next few minutes. He knew that tone before, where he lapsed into military idiom and half of the words he used were acronyms for something. The General didn't seem to have much issue understanding him, apparently enjoying the coded language better than the “painfully obvious.”

But while feigning a listening ear and musing on the Varnu which had spoken with them earlier, Deilen heard his name mentioned along with the CLP2 strain. This startled him back into focus. Everyone seemed to be looking to him for an answer. He figured this was his part of the research to present so he found the General's hawklike eyes and tried to gaze confidently back.

“It's quite unique, the CLP2 we've managed to isolate and identify in the first few victims; have you heard of leprosy? It's rather akin to that in function and in its value as a contagin, but it mostly certainly doesn't target the skin. Or at least, hasn't. In fact that seems to be the mystery behind it. All of the patients who have tested positive for CLP2 haven't all had the same symptoms—which you expect a little variation. I mean, the common cold for instance: runny nose, cough, sore throat, you're as likely to have all the symptoms as only one of them. But the wonders of this disease—it's remarkable, really, unless you come down with it—should give the medical community great hope for the future.”

At this last statement every eye turned to him, some in shock, others in bewilderment, a few in anger. Here he was treading new water; he had been careful to keep this opinion to himself for several weeks now. But now that he was upon it, his nervousness fled him and a deep calm filled the very center of his soul.

“Listen, we know this disease attacks all sorts of facets of the human being. Not just physical, but psychological and emotional levels. There is something very multi-leveled about this disease. However, if the basic operating principle of this disease can be discovered and mastered, we can develop new cures that attempt to heal several infections or problems or what have you, all at once! This is the great wonder of medicine: we've come across a new evil in the medical world, but with that comes the opportunity to put that evil to a better use.”

A couple of his colleagues mulled this over, some shaking their heads and frowning, others considering the idea with a sort of surprised admiration. Someone from the far side of the group interrupted, “It's a disease, something to be eradicated, not a toy to be played with.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the General bellowing, forcing a hush over the group, “you are not here to discuss the scientific merit of the disease, nor to advise the actions that will be taken against it. I have received the brief and your full report, so the details are neither important to be repeated. What I want is for each of you to describe for me the specific impact this disease has made on your respective departments. Once I have heard your report, you will be free to go. Now Mrs. Sloar, if you please, how has this outbreak affected the education offered in the colonies?”

A rather timid-looking woman in her mid forties shuffled to the front, head bowed. “Well, sir, none of the teaching staff seem to have taken ill yet, but a number of the children have been kept home,” she answered.

“And what of the education about the disease? Have we any rumors to quell or have you noticed any particular points about the disease that ought to determine how we talk about it?” the General asked, in a much softer tone.

“I have heard some uses of the CLP2 strain as a pun, calling the infirm 'klepto's.' One can see the problems which could arise, a sort of identity reinforcement within the patient and a bias of those using the term. I'm not sure how crime-rates have or will respond if such a slang term becomes commonplace.”

“Very good; thank you, Mrs. Sloar, for enlightening me. Quite perceptive.” The General nodded to the public securities adviser, and asked, “Have you noticed any such trends? And what can you do to deter any drifts towards a mindset of thievery—of physical property or of anything else?”

Deilen wondered if indeed he had already given his opinion and were, in the General's words, “free to go.” After a quick risk-reward evaluation, he figured he'd rather stick around, since disease was centered squarely in his area of expertise: medicine.

And so he watched the General navigate from one committee member to another, linking the conversation from one person's knowledge base to another. He was rather impressed with the General's questions; each seemed fashioned for a direct purpose, with very little flare or room for misinterpretation. But an eloquence danced in his words that struck Deilen, that hinted at a sharp intellect beneath the ragged exterior. So one by one the committee members answered his questions, on perhaps a level he had never before seen. It was almost as if the General alone were capable of pulling such precise answers from them—perhaps his questions were easy to answer. Deilen found himself entranced with a man who could make conversation seem at once disarmingly simple and yet plumb the depths of it's complexities; he wondered whether the outward appearance of the man were more or less purposeful.

If it were more, he could see why a man of such intelligence would aim to conceal such a fact in dressing like a semi-homeless beach wanderer—such humility of choice, of deference to those who would claim their station or class by dress and social convention was such an admirable trait to Deilen—he hoped it was true of the General. He wanted the man to be one who knew his qualities and abilities and operated within their bounds without concern or thought of outside opinion, not brashly but with a quiet confidence.

If it were less purposeful, however, Deilen didn't know what to make of the man. If he had no reason for dressing like he did, perhaps only because it suited his taste, if he were simply a wild arrow flying for no more reason than to complete his flight, then the General would be a complete enigma, an unsolvable riddle. If a man of such intellect had decided his life whimsical and purposeless, each move he made, he question he asked was a jab at humanity, a perpetual joke at which he and no other laughed, if that. The General's sense of sarcasm hadn't been lost on Deilen, and he figured that if the General were such a man, he would avoid another meeting with him at all costs.

But were he a man of keen decision, Deilen felt the General's time on the planet would be all too quick for his tastes, and he found himself wishing the General would invite him to dinner, or request a private interview later. His curiosity began to burn as the third to last person, a marketing researcher, had just suggested an advertisement campaign encouraging the infected to visit the apothecary stations around the colonies so that a cure could be developed, the outbreak culled, and peace of mind restored.

Then the General asked the other man next to him, an architect, if he remembered correctly, about drawing up plans for a new, central hospital, about anticipated costs, location, contractors, and suppliers. The architect answered each question knowledgeably, citing specific sources and other similar projects, rates, and completion times. The General thanked him and dismissed him, turning once again to Deilen, but his eyes suddenly lacked the fire which had been there, burning with intrigue as he listened to each person of the committee.

“Why are you still here?” he asked Deilen. He opened his mouth to respond, but found the question difficult. For the first time in nearly an hour the General looked away. He took a breathy sigh and tapped his sandaled foot on the floor while pursing his lips—he waited for Deilen. Panic was about all Deilen did, but dropped all the responses floating around in his head for an easy exit.

“I don't know; I'm sorry,” he managed and turned to exit.

“Yes. Yes, you do know. And I'm sorry you can't tell me. But if you have to leave...” Here the General paused and glanced upwards. “I suppose you ought to. My time is quite valuable, you know. But if you'll tell me, I'd like to listen.”

Deilen's eyebrows were as surprised at this as he was—unfortunately he noticed this fact too late to adjust to a poker face. The General had caught him like a mouse, and was trying to figure out what to do with him. Deilen figured his chances couldn't be hurt by honesty, so as he swung by his tail in the General's fingertips, he replied, “I was wondering why you dress like you do, General.”

His question met only a blank stare—the first hesitation he had experienced from the General. And intrigue lit within Deilen; he lost all caution and pressed his question. “Why do you so blatantly break convention?” He could tell the General was struggling on a fence, trying to decide to which side he would jump. He feared he had already pushed to hard and that the General would close up again and remain a forever unsolvable mystery. After a healthy silence, the General found Deilen's eyes with his own and the softness had gone, a very matter-of-fact chivalry remained, and Deilen knew he was not going to receive the answer he wanted.

“Matters of military dress code are no concern of a civilian medical researcher. Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I have another appointment to attend. Again, thank you, Doctor Koru for your insights. They have been most helpful to the Imperial Armada. I trust we shall together be able to cleanse this outbreak and set the colony again on the path to success and healthy production. You will hear from me soon,” he finished and turned to exit, but paused and turned back. “You can find your way out?”

“Yes, sir,” Deilen nodded, taking a bowed step backward.

“Good. Take care.”

“Likewise,” Deilen called after the figure who vanish into the shadows of a hallway. As he himself turned back towards the exit, he wondered about his own reaction to the General. He couldn't figure out why the man had left such an impression on him. The man's self-confidence was astounding, but not overpowering—his manner friendly but not inviting. He seemed a perfect balance of opposites, as if he himself were cables holding wildly running ideals. For instance his pride pulled in perfect unity against his humility—he was neither fully one nor the other, but the susbstance between them, tying them together. He was both artist and critic, both pessimist and optimist. He found the possibilities of the world exciting, and made them exciting to another, but also knew exactly what it would take to accomplish such ends, and also what would not at all work in favor of it. He was a man who should be wildly conflicted by trying to hold such opposing forces in check within himself, but rather spun like a dancer, letting each force fly at it's will in beautiful blazing arcs. Instead of madness, his idealistic motion seemed to settle him into a balanced peace that was palpable and breathtaking and completely captivating.

When he stepped outside of The Breath of Dawn, he wondered when he'd next see the General and if he'd at all get some time to chat with him. He had so many questions he wanted to ask him—but even if he could simply sit and listen, that would be enough. In fact, he was so engrossed with the idea of the General that he didn't notice how high up he was when he stepped onto the elevator. He forgot the time and therefore didn't worry about how long it took him to remember where he had parked.

By the time he walked into the left door of an underground duplex unit, the sun was dipping quickly towards the southern mountains—it wouldn't be long before it would skim their peaks, casting long evening shadows for a few hours, and then begin to rise again. And so he hustled into his apartment to get some sleep before he reported to the Triroads in the morning for another exciting day with data and blood samples.

He set some water to the stove for some tea and cleaned up the dishes he had used that morning for breakfast. When the tea was steeping, he check his flashes for any news updates—he wondered if the arrival of the Armada had made the evening flashcast or not. He guessed it had; usually the media ate up military coverage like a dessert buffet. But in the few minutes he spent searching, he couldn't find anything about it. Apparently some political sex scandal took priority.

And so he finished off his tea, washed his cup, and flipped the lights on in his bedroom. He shuffled to the bathroom, rinsed his hands and face, brushed his teeth; he ambled to the closet, changed into his pajamas—blue checkered flannel bottoms—ditched his socks and his shirt, and sauntered to his bed. But before he could climb into his sheets, a light female voice called out, “Excuse me; are you Doctor Koru?”