And Not To Yield

Part Two: Everest

2008-08-18T07:13:15Z

Part Two: Everest

“Because it is there.”--attributed to George Mallory, as his answer to the question: “Why do you want to climb Mount Everest?"

Mallory's disinclination to let the giant mountain stay unconquered was the end of him, of course—he vanished in 1924 during an attack on the summit, and it was not until 1999 that an expedition found his frozen remains and laid them to rest. The death of the great British mountaineer did not stop attempts to conquer the world's highest mountain, of course, and in 1953 Edmund Hillary of New Zealand and Tenzing Norgay of Nepal reached the summit. Since that day fifty-five years ago, thousands have made it to the top of Everest—and hundreds have died trying. Everest has been different things to different people, and in the world of athletics, most athletes have their own Everest to shoot for.

***

Sometimes, the mountain gets you.

Brendan Hansen waited uneasily in the starting blocks as he prepared for the 100 meter men's breaststroke final. The breaststroke is the most demanding of the strokes contested at the Olympics: its requirements have been repeatedly tightened up over the years (once to split the butterfly stroke off, once to prevent competitors from saving time by staying underwater most of the time)--and it was the last stroke that men managed to take under the 1 minute mark for 100 meters. Until two months ago, Hansen was the world record holder in both the 100 and 200 meter breaststroke. However, a familiar adversary started making a move on him: defending 100 and 200 meter Olympic men's breaststroke champion Kosuke Kitajima claimed the 200 meter breaststroke record in June, and was clearly headed into the Games under a full head of steam. Then disaster struck—Hansen failed to qualify for the 200 meter breaststroke in the US Olympic trials: he would have no opportunity to avenge his loss to Kitajima four years before and to reclaim his world record in the event. He had one individual race, and it was the event he still held the world record in—the 100 meter breaststroke. He qualified in fifth position in the semifinals, and thus was in lane 2 as the chime went off to start the race.

In spite of his recent problems, Hansen had grounds to be optimistic: Kitajima had not beaten him head to head since the 2004 Olympics, and no one had ever defended the 100 meter men's breaststroke gold medal. After the first fifty meters, Hansen was second, trailing Alexander Dale Oen of Norway by 0.12 seconds, with Kitajima 0.06 seconds behind him in third. At that point, the defending champion turned it up a notch and blew by Hansen, then Oen—the NBC video feed showed that Kitajima was ahead of world record pace by the 75 meter mark, and he stayed there—touching the wall first with a time of 58.91 seconds: shattering Hansen's world record of 59.13 seconds and making him the first human being to break the 59 second mark in the breaststroke. Hansen strove to keep up, but Oen held him off as he touched home second, and Hugues Duboscq of France slipped by him to take the bronze. In what was probably his final individual Olympic race, Hansen lost his world record, was shut out of the medals, and had to watch the coronation of Kitajima as the consensus greatest breaststroke swimmer of all time as the Japanese swimmer won the 200 breaststroke in Olympic record time on August 14th—repeating his 2004 sweep of the men's breaststroke medals.

It must have been tempting for Hansen to retreat from the scene of his failures, but he still had one more competition to deal with: the 4 x 100 men's medley relay—the event that would represent Michael Phelps' eighth gold medal should the US win it. While Hansen did not swim the fastest breaststroke leg in that final—that honor went to Mr. Kitajima yet again—he helped keep it close with a solid 59.27 leg before handing it off to Michael Phelps, who set up history with his own blistering butterfly leg of 50.1 seconds—the fastest 100 meter butterfly leg ever. Jason Lezak sealed the deal for the second time that week for the US men's swimming relay team by holding off Eamon Sullivan, and the gold medal was safely in US hands. The four Americans celebrated, and Phelps thanked his teammates for the great effort. As far as could be seen on NBC, Hansen never even looked at Kosuke Kitajima during the celebrations. That mountain had beaten him decisively—but he was enjoying being at the top of this mountain instead.

* * * *

Sometimes, the mountain takes notice as you approach the summit.

An athletic, serene-looking brunette in her mid-thirties watched quietly in the stands at the Water Cube in Beijing as the last preparations for the 800 meter women's freestyle were made. Her name was Janet Evans, and she had won this event in overwhelming fashion in 1988 and 1992: starting at the age of fifteen in 1987 and for most of the next decade, Evans had been the most dominant women's long-distance swimmer in history. She finished her career with four Olympic gold medals and a silver, and the world records in the 400, 800, and 1500 meter freestyle events—all set during the heyday of the East German cheating machine that gave Erich Honecker's monstrous regime dozens of undeserved gold medals and world records. East Germany vanished, but Evans' records endured into the twenty-first century with few signs of looking vulnerable. Many swimming records were shattered repeatedly at the 2000 and 2004 Olympics and at the World Championships in between, but Evans' records remained untouched.

In 2006, the adamantine began to show cracks. Laure Manaudou of France—who ended up having a rather poor Olympics after her personal life became a soap opera in the past year—claimed the first of the three records by finishing the 400 meter freestyle in a time of 4:03.03, shattering the mark that Evans had set in winning Olympic gold in Seoul: she had held the record for almost eighteen and a half years, as she had broken her own standing world record with her Olympic victory. The 1500 meter record—a distance not contested among women at the Olympics—fell next, as Kate Ziegler of the United States completed the distance in 15:42.54, breaking Evans' record by almost ten seconds. The mark had been set in March of 1988 and—as with the 400 meters—had involved Evans breaking her own world record in the event. Janet Evans had owned the 1500 meter freestyle record for one month short of twenty years, and now it was down to the 800 meters—her signature Olympic event. As the swimmers stepped up to their marks for the final, she had owned the record for almost nineteen and a half years—the next longest standing long course record for women's swimming had been set in 2000. Janet Evans had predicted that her final record would fall in Beijing, and the field that qualified was lightning-fast—seven of the eight qualifiers put up times that would have beaten Janet Evans' gold medal winning time in 1992—and had left the two American swimmers—Kate Ziegler and Katie Hoff—as frustrated observers. The field was fast, but all eyes were on Rebecca Adlington of Great Britain—who had put up the second fastest time ever in the 800 meters in qualifying after winning the 400 meter freestyle earlier in the week, though it was still fully two seconds slower than the legendary record that Evans had finalized in Tokyo in August of 1989.

Janet Evans watched quietly, ready to mark the splits as the race progressed. The crowd—still excited after Michael Phelps' astonishing razor-thin victory in the 100 meter butterfly-- hushed. The signal went off.

The NBC announcers were still excitedly talking about Phelps' win, but the view on the screen spoke for itself—Adlington was swimming far ahead of world record pace, as the green line following her more than two body lengths away indicated. About two-thirds of the way through, the view changed to a split screen for a moment—revealing that Janet Evans was watching the scoreboard with attentive eyes, marking down the split times that were supporting her pre-Olympic predictions for the race.

At about the 650 meter mark, Rowdy Gaines suggested that Adlington would be giving back a little of the distance to that moving line, as Evans was a remarkable back end swimmer—making her late race splits insanely difficult to beat. It never happened. Adlington kept her head down and swam hard for the finish in spite of having no one nearby to push her—a circumstance that Evans herself was all too familiar with in her career—and powered into the finish with a time of 8:14.10, beating the oldest record in the sport by 2.12 seconds and completing the 400M/800M Olympic double gold that Janet Evans herself had accomplished twenty years before in Seoul. The two golds were Great Britain's first women's swimming golds since 1960.

As Adlington celebrated, Janet Evans flashed a brilliant smile and applauded: The final footnote to her own legendary contributions to the sport had been written, and magnificently so. Celebration was definitely in order.

* * * *

Sometimes, that mountain doesn't turn out to be as difficult as you thought.

Janet Evans' last Olympics—where she failed to medal in any event, but had one of the most memorable moments in the Games when she handed the Olympic torch to Muhammad Ali—was in 1996. She retired after those Games, at the age of 25. Dara Torres was a three-time Olympian as of 1996 as well, but she did not participate in the Atlanta Games: she was at that time 29 years old and had been in retirement since the conclusion of the 1992 Olympics. She had a collection of Olympic medals won in relays, and had settled down to a new career as a sports commentator and a model, once gracing the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. In 1999, she decided to make a comeback, and she qualified in three individual events in the Sydney Olympics at the age of 33—winning bronze medals in all three for her first individual Olympic honors, along with two gold medals in the relays. There were some raised eyebrows, but Torres passed all her drug tests with flying colors, and Torres took her Sydney haul back into retirement, where she remained as the 2004 Olympics were held and she celebrated her 37th birthday.

Dara Torres gave birth to her daughter Tessa in April of 2006, and began swimming regularly again to get in shape. Still in excellent condition, she decided “why not?” and began training again for competitive swimming. What seemed ridiculous on the surface was suddenly no joke as in August of 2007—four months past her 40th birthday—she won the gold medal in the 100 meter freestyle in the US Nationals. She proved the win was no fluke at the Olympic trials in July the next year by winning both the 50 and the 100 meter women's freestyle events—setting a US record in the 50. She ended up dropping the 100 freestyle from her schedule as a concession to her age, but she still faced formidable obstacles: her times, while they were the best she had ever put up, were not as fast as the best times of several swimmers from other nations—she would be hard-pressed to do as well as she had in Sydney.

Torres' first event was the 4 x 100 meter freestyle relay, an event which US women have traditionally done well in, though Australia came into the Beijing Olympics as the defending champion in the event. Also looking dangerous was the team from the Netherlands, which had won bronze in the 100 free relay in Athens, and which had four solid 100 swimmers for the final. Natalie Coughlin—who would manage to receive a substantial amount of notice and praise in these Michael Phelps-dominated Olympics by medaling in six different events—led off for the US and gave a solid performance, putting the US in third behind Germany and Great Britain—neither a medal contender once their fast leadoff swimmers had finished—and ahead of Australia and the Netherlands. Lacey Nymeyer took over for the US and gained on the Germans as the British second leg swimmer fell out of contention, but Ranomi Kromowidjojo of the Netherlands slipped by her into second place as the third leg began. The German third leg swimmer was outmatched and quickly fell out of contention, and Femke Heemskerk of the Netherlands pulled away from Kara-Lynn Joyce of the United States, giving the Netherlands a 0.71 second lead as the anchor leg swimmers took over.

Marlene Veldhuis—who would later swim in the 100 meter freestyle final and finish seventh—took over for the Netherlands and Dara Torres was faced with two problems: the almost insurmountable lead that the Netherlands had, and Libby Trickett of Australia—who was left eight-tenths of a second behind Torres by her teammate's early problems, and was the world record holder in the women's 100 meter freestyle—coming up behind her. She settled down and swam her leg, and gradually closed distance with Veldhuis, as Trickett gained bit by bit against Torres.

The race ended with the first three finishers all swimming their 100 meter relay leg in less than 52.6 seconds. Velduis held back Torres, and Torres held back Trickett, leaving the order of finish: The Netherlands first, the United States second, Australia third. At age 41—the oldest person ever to swim in the Olympic Games--Dara Torres had managed to come within a tenth of a second of matching the time of a world record holder who had not yet been born when Torres won her first Olympic medal. It was an astonishing achievement, but more was yet to come.

The 50 meter women's freestyle was the first event held on August 17th—the final day of swimming competition in the Water Cube. Torres had already attracted attention for convincing officials to wait for a Swedish swimmer who had torn her suit just before the semifinals in the 50 free. The Swedish swimmer failed to make the final—Torres qualified fastest for the final, to the amazement of many.

The 50 meters is known as the “splash and dash”: there are no turns, and little time to breathe—just a dive into the pool and a mad swim for the other end. There is no room for error. Libby Trickett—still smarting from her defeat in the 100 meter freestyle—was an obvious threat as the world record holder in the event, as was Britta Steffen of Germany—who had been the one to defeat Trickett in that 100 meter final. Also waiting on the blocks was 16 year old Australian Cate Campbell—who had been only a few months old when Dara Torres was competing in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics.

The starting tone sounded, and eight women hit the water with a resounding splash, followed by enough whitewater to keep a hundred rafting daredevils happy. The replay would later show that Steffen had managed the fastest start, and at the end it ended up being the difference, as Torres took an early narrow lead, but wasn't quite able to hold it. As with the now-legendary finish in the men's 100 meter butterfly that gave Michael Phelps his seventh gold, it came down to a few centimeters at the finish, with Steffen out touching Torres 24.06 to 24.07 seconds. Cate Campbell came up right behind the older women to finish at 24.17—beating out fellow Australian Libby Trickett for the bronze. The good fortune that had blessed Phelps the night before wasn't there for Torres—but she had beaten her personal best in the event by two-tenths of a second: it would be hard to imagine anyone doing better.

There was no time for Torres to grumble over a lost opportunity—she was scheduled to swim the freestyle leg of the 4 x 100 medley relay after the men's 1500 meter freestyle and the medal ceremony where she would receive her silver medal for the 50 freestyle—a total rest of less than thirty minutes. After the thrilling 1500 meter race—in which Australian two-time defending gold medalist Grant Hackett narrowly failed to win the event for the third straight Olympics—the medal ceremony began: Torres was visibly fidgeting as she smiled—she wanted to get to the locker room to prep for the relay. Mercifully, she was released soon after the ceremony concluded, and she ran off, coming back out a few minutes later while still pulling her swimming cap on.

As with the 4 x 100 freestyle relay, Natalie Coughlin led off for the US—this time with her signature backstroke: she had won the gold medal in the 100 meter backstroke earlier that week by beating world-record holder Kirsty Coventry. Zimbabwe wasn't in this final, so it surprised few when Coughlin handed Rebecca Soni—winner of the 200 meter breaststroke earlier that week—a substantial lead going into the breaststroke leg. Unfortunately for Soni, Leisel Jones of Australia—who had finished second to Soni in the 200 breaststroke—had beaten Soni for the gold in the 100 breaststroke—and Jones' superior sprinting ability took its toll quickly: by the time the butterfly leg began, Jones had turned a 0.39 second deficit into a 0.98 second lead. Christine Magnuson of the United States managed to make up 0.12 seconds on Jessicah Schipper on the butterfly leg, but when the final leg began and Dara Torres hit the water, she found herself 0.87 seconds behind Libby Trickett of Australia, the world record holder in both the 50 and 100 meter freestyle. Jason Lezak had entered into Olympic legend earlier in the Games by overcoming a 0.59 second lead in a similar situation in the 4 x 100 freestyle relay—Torres' task looked hopeless.

It didn't stop her from trying, though. Torres tore through the water after Trickett, and the margin gradually lessened as the swimmers made the turn for the last fifty meters. The other swimmers were left far behind—as was the green world record line—as Trickett powered for home, with Torres doggedly hanging on behind her and closing the distance.

But it was not to be—Trickett touched first as Australia smashed the world record for the medley relay with a time of 3:52.69, while Torres touched second for the United States in an American record time of 3:53.30, going under the old world record in the process. China beat out the others in the distant field of pursuers for the bronze with a time of 3:56.11.

Dara Torres had won her third silver medal in Beijing, falling short of gold in her final effort thanks mostly to the brilliance of Leisel Jones in the breaststroke. She had more than done her job—in her desperate effort to catch Trickett, she had completed her 100 meter freestyle leg faster than any woman had done before—a breathtaking 52.27 seconds and a full quarter second faster than the world record holder from Australia had covered the distance. Astonishing.

She hasn't said for sure that this is it for her—how many athletes do retire right after putting up the best performances of their lives? But if I might presume to offer the remarkable Ms. Torres some advice—if you come back, do it right away in London in 2012 and don't wait for 2016. If you come back at age 49 and start winning gold medals in the pool, you're going to make some of those kids you're swimming with cry—and I'm not just talking about the women.

* * * *

Sometimes, you're lucky enough to have a friend join you at the summit.

The controversy about the ages of the gymnasts on the Chinese women's team was being discussed far and wide—as the Chinese and the IOC gracelessly sidestepped it—as the women's all-around competition began on the morning of August 15th. Two Chinese gymnasts—including Yang Yilin, whose date of birth had been shown in an official Chinese media article preserved by bloggers before it was scrubbed to be a full year later than the one on her passport—were in the running for the all-around women's championship, as were two Americans: Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson. They are very different: Liukin—the daughter of a Soviet Olympic champion—reminds one of the willowy grace of Nadia Comaneci, while Johnson has a compact, powerful build that is more like Mary Lou Retton—who was in the stands to cheer on her fellow Americans. Bela Karolyi—who had been at the head of those complaining loudly about Chinese age-related shenanigans—praised both Americans but gave Johnson the slight-edge to win the all-around.

There is no room for error in the all-around. Each woman in the final performs one routine on each of the four individual events of women's gymnastics—highest total score wins. With the recent changes in scoring, each event has different potential scores (they're supposed to be working on this to equalize the events more—it'll definitely cause problems in the long run if they don't).

Johnson, Liukin, and Yang all began on the vault—Johnson had the highest level of difficulty and therefore the initial edge, and while Liukin and Yang both performed solidly, Johnson took the early lead with a score of 15.875—giving her a 0.650 edge over Yang and 0.850 over Liukin. Jiang Yuyuan of China—also considered a contender up to this point—landed on her posterior on her vault and only managed a 14.825, taking her out of the medal hunt.

The leaders moved on to the uneven parallel bars, which is one of Liukin's specialties. However, Yang Yilin performed a routine of equal difficulty, and when the judges had evaluated both Yang outscored Liukin 16.725 to 16.650, producing some grumbling about the judging from various quarters. Johnson's routine was substantially less difficult than that of her rivals, and she only could manage a 15.275 in spite of near-flawless execution of the routine. Yang led, with Liukin trailing by about two tenths of a point and Johnson about three quarters of a point behind Yang.

The balance beam—a notoriously unforgiving event—was next, and Liukin rose to the occasion, putting up a near flawless, very difficult routine that was scored at 16.125 (with the score only being released after Nelli Kim—now the president of the organization that created the new scoring system—came out of the stands to nudge them along). Johnson also produced a superb routine that was scored at 16.050. Yang—perhaps feeling the pressure—had several small bobbles and only managed a 15.750.
After three rounds, Liukin had taken the lead over Yang by 0.150 points, with Johnson 0.600 off the lead. It would come down to the floor exercise.

Yang went first, and matched her lifetime best on the floor exercise with a 15.000 as the partisan Chinese crowd roared in approval. Liukin went next, and—as Bela Karolyi shouted with glee back in the studio sitting next to Bob Costas—she executed an almost flawless routine for a 15.525, her highest score ever on the floor exercise and allowing her to pass Yang into the top spot. It was up to Shawn Johnson—the gold was out of reach, and it would take a nearly perfect routine to pass Yang for the silver. She stepped onto the floor without hesitation—and put up a 15.525, matching Liukin's score and allowing her to pass Yang by a mere 0.075 for the silver medal.

The two friends embraced—they had pushed themselves hard over the months, hoping for this result with the only difference in agenda being who would be standing on the top of the podium. For the first time ever, women from the United States finished 1-2 in the all-around competition. Somewhere out there, little girls are watching this—probably on tape, given the hour NBC ended up broadcasting it—and dreaming of future moments of glory.

* * * *

Heck, sometimes you become the mountain.

Every Olympics has a thousand stories, many of which would be compelling in their own right even if one avoids the often maudlin excesses that NBC goes to in order to lure in female non-sports fans to Olympic coverage. It is perhaps unfortunate that the stories above—along with many others—will be largely forgotten due to the overwhelming publicity that Michael Phelps inexorable journey to an unprecedented eight gold medals in a single Olympics has generated. It would be more unfortunate if he didn't deserve every bit of the attention. While Phelps is one of the most talented swimmers ever, his will to win is what has served as the capstone of his legend. Along with the races that he won with ease, he won in spite of adversity—malfunctioning goggles left him virtually blind during the last third of the 200 meter butterfly, which he ended up winning in world record time—and dangerous opposition—he had lost the 100 meter butterfly until the very last instant, when a wrong decision by Milorad Cavic and a questionable one by Phelps himself left him in what happened to be the only situation in which he could pull off a win by the narrowest possible margin.

He needed help with a few of those medals, of course. The role of Jason Lezak in getting Phelps his second gold medal—along with his solid performance to lock down the eighth and final one—has exponentially increased the respect for his not inconsiderable skills. He will be remembered for a long time because of this, while Gary Hall Jr.--who was heard to denigrate Lezak as a “professional relay swimmer” before these Games—will be best remembered as a world-class jackass rather than as a gold medal winner in his own right. Who says life isn't fair?

Phelps is the new Everest in Olympic swimming, of course. Eight gold medals will be a devilishly difficult standard to reach again, and trying for nine will add an order of magnitude to the difficulty, at the very least. If it is done, it will be by a remarkably versatile and talented swimmer who is getting help from the schedulers. One can hope that if it is done, Phelps will be there to congratulate the winner as Spitz has been available with praise and encouragement for Phelps. One unquestionable advantage of sports over mountaineering is that one's opponents are human—whether they congratulate you, or sneer at you, or their families stop by to share their memories with you, the obstacle that you have overcome is now ready for someone else to take a shot at. Overcoming natural obstacles is an important part of the human condition, but overcoming the challenges that our fellow human beings throw our way is ultimately the path to reach the pinnacle of human achievement. It is this that makes sports great—and which will allow them to remain important as the human race completes overcoming the hazards posed by the natural world we live in and seeks out challenges beyond this fragile globe.

Next up: track and field—the heart of the Olympic Games.

Part One: The Human Drama

2008-08-11T09:45:53Z

I'm dedicating this series of Olympic diaries to three people:

--Jim Murray, who showed me how a professional sports columnist is supposed to do his job with his incomparable column in the LA Times;

--Jim McKay, who left us this year after gracing many Olympic Games with his knowledge, professionalism, and love of sports in general;

--and my father, who helped to kindle a lifelong love of sports by putting up with the seven year old who kept asking, "Was that a home run, Dad?" every time a batter fouled a ball over our seats in the blue deck behind home plate at Dodger Stadium. Thanks, Dad--I finally figured it out.

Technical note: I'm not going to hyperlink all of the events referenced here--the NBC Olympics site is here if anyone wants more specifics on the events I mention (or the ones I don't).

If I'd had a vote, I'd have sent the 2008 Summer Olympics somewhere else--maybe almost anywhere else that could have plausibly staged the Games without suffering a financial disaster of the kind that Montreal went through. I've still got issues with the Chinese government: big ones. If the balloon ever goes up in a war between China and Taiwan, I know whose side I'll be on, and it won't be Beijing's. On the other hand, I've got nothing against the Chinese people as a whole, and--speaking strictly from the Olympic angle--I have warm feelings towards the Chinese Olympic movement for helping to thwart the Soviet boycott of the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles: an act that broke the string of failed Olympics that had started with the Munich Games in 1972 and which re-kindled the fire of the Olympic movement that has burned strong to this day. I'm less thrilled that the Chinese resorted to hiring unemployed East German coaches for their swimming program in the early 1990's to squeeze out some dubious medals at the Olympics and World Championships, but eh, bygones. The bottom line? Boycotts of the Olympics don't accomplish anything but harming athletes--like communism, one would think that people would get a clue after repeated, catastrophic failure. Ultimately, the Olympics will end, and the fact that several thousand athletes will perform before billions on TV won't keep critics of Chinese human rights policies from continuing to perform their good works. The Chinese government will find--as the Nazis ultimately did--that putting on a magnificent Olympic Games will not make any difference in the long run if they undertake courses of action that belie the beauty of their efforts during the Olympics.

OK, enough with the politics for the moment--on with the show.

The opening ceremonies were every bit the fantastic show most expected them to be--the Chinese outdid themselves in the now-traditional practice of the host nation telling the story of its history with performances and displays from its talented artists. After it was done, the athletes began to file into the stadium, and I settled down to watch. I almost titled this article "Pictogram Soup," because of the seemingly random order of the opening parade of nations (except for Greece in the traditional first position and China coming last as the host nation) produced by organizing them by the number of strokes used in the Chinese pictograms for each nation. The Chinese chose NBA star Yao Ming to carry their flag at the head of the huge Chinese Olympic team, and walking with him was a remarkable young man with a story that probably had even some of the most grizzled "get on with the sports" curmudgeons straightening up and listening.

When the athletes were all gathered in the infield of the stadium, the final part of the torch run began, and the progression was more or less normal (a procession of Chinese sports legends from the past and present) until the torch was passed to the final bearer--the legendary Chinese gymnast Li Ning. He was standing on a platform that was nowhere near any obvious lighting point or staircase, and I found myself wondering, "OK--what next?" The answer came quickly, as Li Ning took to the air on wires and began a journey around the upper rim of the stadium toward a huge torch that had--according to the NBC crew--not been there but half an hour before. Li Ning is almost 45 years old, and he was having to exert some considerable physical effort to stay upright and to not drop the torch as he zipped along--the man is obviously in great shape. Also, if word had leaked out to individuals who wanted to make some sort of point by disrupting the ceremony, he was pretty much a sitting duck to anyone who wanted to take a potshot at him and managed to get in position to do so. A brave man, and one who has my respect.

With the torch lit, the Games were opened--and the US woke up Saturday morning to terrible news from Beijing. It is sad to realize that if Todd Bachman and his wife had chosen to show no interest in the country that was hosting the Games--staying in the hotel when the actual events he was there to see weren't going on--he'd be alive and well today. With the death of the murderer by his own hand, we may never know what motives--if any coherent ones existed--were involved. It is important to realize that the Chinese certainly didn't want this to happen, and that Athens wasn't immune the actions of random lunatics either, as the attack on Brazilian marathon runner Vanderlei de Lima when he was in the lead late in the race proved. The Chinese--and Todd Bachman--were less lucky, and we should not dishonor the Bachman's choice to explore their host's nation by excessive criticism of the Chinese for the tragedy.

While some events--such as team sports--extend from the beginning of the Games to their end, the most notable division in the Summer Olymics is the staging of virtually all the swimming events in the first half of the competition, while the track and field events are staged in the second half, with the middle weekend serving as the transition between the two. While the swimming preliminaries moved along on Saturday, the early events in other sports began to play out--the US swept the women's saber event for its first three medals of the Games, and the cycling events began with a gold medal for Germany.

Sunday dawned, and the swimming finals--scheduled in the morning to accommodate US TV to the dismay of Janet Evans, among others--began with the first rung in Michael Phelps' quest for eight gold medals at these Games, the 400m individual medley. This was widely considered to be Phelps most challenging individual race, as his teammate Ryan Lochte had pressed him hard in the Olympic trials before finishing second, and Lochte was considered to be markedly superior to Phelps in the breaststroke--one of the four swimming disciplines required to complete the medley. This proved to be a mistaken assumption, as Phelps actually *gained* time on Lochte during the breaststroke leg as he powered on to a world record, with Laszlo Cseh of Hungary sneaking past Lochte for the silver medal. Later that morning, Park Tae-Hwan of South Korea gave his countrymen a moment of pride as he won the 400 meter freestyle to give South Korea its first swimming gold medal, Dara Torres continued her remarkable story by winning a silver medal in the 4 x 100 meter freestyle relay at age 41, and Katie Hoff's effort to emulate Michael Phelps' versatility on the women's side of the competition got off to a solid start with a bronze medal in the 400m individual medley, finishing behind Stephanie Rice of traditional swimming powerhouse Australia and Kirsty Coventry of Zimbabwe (whose citizens could probably use a bit of good news right now). Finally, on Sunday night the Chinese faced up against the US in men's basketball and fought valiantly for the first two quarters before being overwhelmed 101-70 in what was almost certainly the most widely watched basketball game in history.

By the time Monday dawned in Beijing, the US was leading in the total medal count, but China--as is traditional for host nations--was outperforming its already formidable standard performance by scoring golds in sports they haven't been traditionally strong in along with their now-legendary dominance in the diving events. The swimming finals continued, with two being particularly memorable (not to slight Japan's Kosuke Kitajima, who became the first man to win the 100 meter breaststroke in consecutive Olympics--in world record time). The first of these was the women's 400 meter freestyle, which featured three swimmers who had beaten the existing Olympic record in the event set by Janet Evans in 1988 during the prelims. One of those swimmers was Katie Hoff, competing in her second individual event and going for her first gold. She was leading in the last moments of the race, but a last effort by Rebecca Adlington of the United Kingdom forced her to settle for the silver, with Joanne Jackson adding the bronze to the daily medal count for the Brits. The finish was close enough that the announcers thought Hoff had won the race until the electronic sensors confirmed the result--and the replay showed Adlington just edging out Hoff at the very last instant. It was a hint of what was to come later in the morning.

The signature event of the day was to be the men's 4 x 100 meter freestyle race--which had been traditionally dominated by the United States until the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney--when a powerful Australian team beat the US soundly, and an upstart South African team repeated the feat in 2004 in Athens. The expert view seemed to be that the US would taste defeat yet again this year: the French team contained three of the world's greatest 100 meter freestylers, and one of the members of the French team was indiscreet enough to say they would "smash" the Americans in the relay. Big mistake, pal.

Michael Phelps--who would need a gold in this event to keep his chances of eight golds in these Olympics alive--swam the first leg for the US, and while he broke the US record for the 100 meter freestyle with a time of 47.51 (only opening legs of a relay are eligible for unit distance records), he was well behind Eamon Sullivan of Australia--who shattered the 100 meter world record with a time of 47.24 seconds--when he handed off the swimming duties to Garrett Weber-Gale for the second leg. Weber-Gale gained considerable ground, passing the slower second leg swimmer for Australia by the end of his 100 meters to hand third leg US swimmer Cullen Jones a narrow lead.

Unfortunately for Jones, the faster French swimmers were in the back two legs, and in spite of Jones' valiant efforts the French were in the lead by almost a full body length when Alain Bernard--the man who had held the world record in the 100 meters only two minutes before and who had been the one foolish enough to brag about smashing the Americans--was freed to start the final leg of the relay, with veteran US swimmer Jason Lezak given the grim task of trying to take him down from behind.

The task looked hopeless, and Rowdy Gaines--doing color commentary for NBC--made it clear that he viewed it as such, as Lezak moved up against the lane marker and tried to keep up with Bernard as he churned along in the next lane. For the first fifty meters, the distance remained much the same. . .but after the turn--as the swimmers continued to leave the moving green "world record line" far behind them--Lezak gradually began to gain ground. Gaines noticed it about thirty meters from the finish and began shouting in excitement as the swimmers blazed along at world record pace. As the finish line appeared on the screen, Lezak was visibly pulling up beside Bernard. As with the women's 400 meter race, there was an instant of doubt at the moment the two swimmers touched the wall--both fully four seconds ahead of the existing world record in the event. The screen lit up: USA 1st, France 2nd. . .and after a moment, Australia 3rd. Gaines and his partner in the NBC booth erupted in shouts of joy, and even the most nitpicky professional broadcaster might have had trouble finding fault with them for it at that moment. Jason Lezak--faced with chasing down the world's greatest 100 meter swimmer with a full body length to make up--had completed his 100 meter swim in 46.06 seconds, the fastest 100 meter relay leg in history. Michael Phelps' quest for eight golds was alive and well, and the 4 x 100 meter freestyle gold had come home to the United States after eight years in exile.

The scary thing to realize is that for Michael Phelps, the hard part is over: the remaining events are ones in which he is a clear favorite as an individual, or which the US is expected to win with reasonable ease in the relays. Things can still go wrong, but if someone offers you even money to bet that Phelps pulls off the eight golds, it ain't a sucker bet. If he pulls it off, these will be remembered as his Olympics, but Jason Lezak will go down in history with Bullet Bob Hayes as someone who took over a relay with his team losing, and pulled off a miraculous individual performance to drag his team to victory--people will be watching the footage of that relay finish a century from now, if civilization persists.

Next time: swimming continues, along with gymnastics.

"A Prayer For Chen" (originally posted on Tacitus.org)

2008-06-24T02:07:31Z

A Prayer For Chen

By M Scott Eiland, Section M. Scott Eiland
Posted on Sat Jun 5th, 2004 at 05:56:27 PM PDT

“They’ve sent in the tanks.”

I was sitting on a bus, waiting to reach my stop at the local movie theater, when I heard the woman’s voice. I was an old hand at bus travel by then, and my first instinct was to ignore her—I was a few days away from taking my LSATs, and the movie I was heading for was designed to take my mind off the stress of a test that would help determine a good deal of my future. The sheer outrage and horror in her voice was what dissuaded me from my first reaction—I knew that something terrible had happened. I listened, and my worst fears as to what it could be were quickly realized: on June 4, 1989, the government of the People’s Republic of China lost patience with the massive, peaceful pro-democracy demonstrations in historic Tiananmen Square and sent countless soldiers and tanks in to crush it. Many hundreds of the demonstrators—mostly college students—were slaughtered by troops firing indiscriminately as a horrified world looked on. The PRC had slain far more of its own citizens in atrocities of the past, but never before had it so openly and unapologetically shown its most brutal side to the world. As the words and pictures passed in front of my eyes over the next few days, I found myself thinking often of a young man at whose side I had walked across that very square five years before.

I graduated from Glendale High School in mid-June 1984—six weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. A good portion of the graduating class were heading on a trip to Hawaii, but I had made other plans, thanks to the generosity of my maternal grandparents, and to a relatively recent promotion their son had received. My Uncle Clarke works in advertising, and his firm had offered him a job not long before that had required him to relocate to Hong Kong. He quickly found that he loved the place, and what had been possibly a short-term assignment became an indefinite one. My grandmother had decided to visit him in late June 1984, and my grandfather had generously offered to pay my airfare for the trip—which was to include side-trips to Macau and the PRC, at a time when the United Kingdom and the PRC had recently concluded negotiations to return Hong Kong to the Chinese when the Brits’ 99-year lease on the colony was set to expire in June of 1997. It promised to be an interesting time to visit that part of the world, and I was looking forward to it immensely.

We arrived without incident, and Hong Kong proved to be a fascinating place to explore, as did Macau. My passport went missing the morning we were scheduled to depart for the PRC, but my uncle proved quite adept at pulling strings with both the US consulate and the Hong Kong customs authorities (though he made me pay for it with some epic glares), and I managed to make the flight on time with my grandmother. After a bumpy flight, we landed on the mainland and were greeted by two Chinese men—a short, squat man in his early fifties who was quite friendly but clearly spoke little or no English, and a man about my height (6’2”) and in his early twenties, who spoke English more fluently than a good portion of my high school class. He introduced himself as Chen, and explained that he was to be our guide, and that the other man (whose name has been lost to me over the years) would be our driver.

We all got into a tiny car, and spent the next couple of days driving up to Beijing, stopping at various sites along the way and staying in medium sized towns. Over that time, my grandmother and I got to know this young man rather well. He was a recent college graduate, and had been recently been assigned as a tour guide by the government. My grandmother expressed surprise that someone who spoke English as well as Chen would be assigned as a tour guide, rather than as an English teacher—particularly since the Chinese government was at that time conducting a massive campaign to teach many of their people the English language. Chen did not take offense, but he replied proudly that the state had chosen his career for him and that it was his duty to perform it well. Nonetheless, I noted what I believed to be a wistful look on his face, and I got the impression he would have been rather more happy if the government had decided as my grandmother would have had them do.

Chen and I talked less than he did with my grandmother—the new sights were often rather overwhelming to me, and it has long been a survival instinct of mine to simply be quiet and listen when I’m in such a state. However, sports soon proved to be an excellent communications medium for us—a Chinese high jumper had recently set the world record, which was a topic of special interest to me given that my maternal grandfather had been a prime candidate for the 1940 US Olympic team in that event before those Games were cancelled due to WWII--and the 1984 Summer Olympics were to start in Los Angeles approximately one month later. We spoke of that, and of the Soviet-led boycott of those Games—which gave him an opening to remind me that they and the Soviets were not exactly on best terms any more.

After five days, we exchanged farewells and my grandmother and I flew back to Hong Kong, where we spent a few more days before heading back to the States. It had been a memorable trip, and I had enjoyed myself quite a bit. My grandmother kept in touch with Chen for the next few years, but though I responded politely when my grandmother told me what she had heard from him, I’m fairly certain I almost never thought of him otherwise. He had been a nice man who had done a good job showing us around his country, and that had been all. I was pleased to hear that he was apparently doing well, but other than that he was off my radar screen.

That changed, as I watched the occasional news clips and read the magazine articles with the horrific pictures accompanying them. The teenagers who had bravely held up their signs and built the mock Statue of Liberty in the ancient square were abstractions—Chen was someone I had known, however briefly, and he was somewhere within the borders of the PRC. I had no idea what might have happened to him.

The piece of film which captured the act of the slender and probably young Chinese man as he walked in front of a column of tanks and forced it to stop until friends coaxed him away remains one of the most stunning memories of the last twenty years: breathtaking in terms of courage, heartbreaking in terms of the futility it represented, as the tanks rolled on once the young man was gone. The film was, of course, taken from a long distance—as far as could be told at the time, the brave soul could have been any of a hundred million young Chinese men. I knew that it almost certainly wasn’t Chen, but the thought that it possibly could have been him haunted me somewhat. Also troubling me was that he also could have been one of those who viewed the protestors as trouble-makers who needed to be dealt with: a few days of interaction five years before was simply not enough to go on to decide whether he had been on the side of the angels in this matter or not.

The protestors fought back somewhat before being crushed—I remember feeling a moment of dark joy when I heard reports of soldiers being dragged out of tanks by enraged protestors and torn to pieces, and the memory shames me now—most of those soldiers were as much captives of the state which ordered them to annihilate the protestors as were the protestors themselves. My anger quickly focused with totality on the government of the People’s Republic of China, and I waited for an indication that my government would do the right thing and make them pay for what they had done. I was quickly disappointed.

I had voted for George H.W. Bush reluctantly in 1988—he seemed a poor successor for Ronald Reagan, and I had doubts about his dedication to certain elements of the Republican agenda that I approved of (the economic ones). However, the thought of Michael Dukakis as President put a chill down my spine, and I didn’t cop out when early news made it clear that Bush wouldn’t need California to win—I cast my vote for him with my teeth gritted, but with a hope that he’d do a good job.

The Chinese had a substantial number of students in the United States in 1989—many of whom had been openly supportive of the demonstrations as they were going on. It was obvious to anyone with a functioning brain that those students would be at risk if they chose to return, and it would have been poetic justice indeed if a good portion of the best and brightest youth of the People’s Republic of China had decided to pursue other options for their future in response to a speech from the President of the United States offering them asylum. The nation—in a bipartisan rage over the images from Beijing—would have supported him overwhelmingly.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bush was self-admittedly not a man of vision, and his Administration quickly made it clear that no such offer was forthcoming. I knew at the time that even if such an offer was made, many would not have accepted it—the thugs in Beijing could always use the hostages the students had left behind in their family homes to exert pressure to force their return. Nonetheless—the offer should have been made, and this country would have been far the richer for receiving the ones who accepted.

I—among many others—seethed at this idiocy, and when Brent Scowcroft made a high level visit to Beijing mere months after the last of the blood was washed from the square, I had had enough. I approved of many of the individual actions of Mr. Bush after 1989—his judicial appointments, his handling of the Gulf War (until he abandoned the Shiites to their fate after the cease-fire)—but thereafter I held the man himself in utter contempt. I briefly considered voting for Ross Perot—until he revealed himself as being a few hearts short of a flush—and was heartened by the strong anti-Chinese rhetoric of Mr. Clinton. I decided that while I could not bring myself to vote for him, it probably would not be so bad if he was elected. I cast a blank ballot for President that year (after rejecting a whimsical impulse to write in Barry Goldwater—who had appropriate contempt for the Chinese government). Unfortunately--as with many of his other promises--Clinton’s rhetoric about the Chinese proved false, and he quickly resumed his predecessor’s practice of kissing their posteriors.

Fifteen years have passed since I heard that woman on the bus, and much has changed. The Chinese took over Hong Kong in 1997 without incident, and have largely let it remain the cash cow it has always been, with only subtle signs they are tightening up the freedoms that have made it a financial dynamo. Time will tell whether this is newfound wisdom from the Butchers of Beijing and their successors, or simply the experience of the frog who fails to note the water he is sitting in has slowly been heated to boiling until it is too late. My uncle—who still resides in Hong Kong--met a wonderful woman from South Korea a few years after I visited him, and they now have two sons on the verge of adolescence. My grandmother has retired and remains sharp-witted and charming in her mid-eighties, aside from an inexplicable affection for one William Jefferson Clinton. My grandfather passed on in 1993, after a long and fascinating life. As for me—I’m older and wiser than I was when I heard the tragic news in 1989, and I’ve learned to ponder matters more deeply before making important decisions in a moment of righteous outrage. Sometimes, though, when I see a rare shot of smiling faces in Iraq amidst the negative coverage, or I see a story about the upcoming Olympics, or just for no reason I can discern--I stop and think of a sea of smiling faces in an ancient square, remember an earnest conversation about the finer points of high jumping. . .and I whisper a prayer for Chen.

AS HE HOLDS HER (Holding: Tara's Remix) (BtVS)

2007-07-22T20:27:58Z

Written for the 2007 Gen Remix.

Title: As He Holds Her (Holding: Tara's Remix)

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Title and URL of Original Story: “Holding”:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/925451/1/Holding

Author and Website of Original Author: Izhilzha: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/161888/

Summary: In the aftermath of “Grave,” Xander is watched by a loved one as he watches over Willow.

Time Frame: Just after “Grave,” with spoilers for the first six seasons of BtVS. Also contains story elements relating to my story "We Wait," which can be found under my author name at fanfiction.net.

Disclaimer: They're all Mr. Whedon's--I'm just having a quiet moment with some of them.

Rating: PG-13, for themes and language.

My thanks to Izhilzha for providing a lovely story for me to remix. :-)

AS HE HOLDS HER

He doesn't know I'm here. Which is not a big shock, really. I mean, hello—invisible and incorporeal here. But the way I really know that he's clueless about my presence is that I can see the pain on his face. If he knew that I was here, or if Willow was awake, he'd never let either of us see it. That's my girl's best friend—it takes something like a troll intentionally breaking his wrist to get him to scream, and even then it took a conspiracy between me, Willow, and Anya to get him to actually take a few days to deal with that brutal injury. Glory broke my hand before she scrambled my marbles—I know how much pain he was in. He thinks he's alone, so he's letting his guard down.

I look at him and wince as I watch him cradling Willow gently as he twitches in pain. He's bruised in several places—he took some shots even before he confronted Willow, and never even paused. Willow's assault on him was a relatively feeble one from the beginning—she could have vaporized him on the spot if she really had wanted to—but I can see the scorch marks on his clothing and see the dark stains that suggest some painful if not life-threatening burns lie beneath. Even dead, I can still read an aura with the best of them, and that ability is telling me that Xander needs several days of bed rest at least—preferably at a hospital. Mind you, I know it probably won't happen—knowing Xander, even if everyone else is alive and well, he'll insist on watching over Willow instead of dealing with little things like keeping from going into lethal shock. Damn it, there are times I wish that I had been the one dating him all these years, so I could have the best opportunity to kick his ass for pulling stupid stuff like this. All right, so it saved the world this time. Again. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

Willow shifts slightly in Xander's arms. Her face looks almost peaceful—a startling contrast from the sight that had met my newly incorporeal gaze after I had fallen lifeless to the floor in the master bedroom of the Summers house. In the instant of my death, I heard a quiet voice saying, “Tara—your time as a living human being has finished its span. You may go on to the reward that your deeds have earned you—or you may linger, so as to bear witness to what is to come and to possibly aid when the circumstances permit. Choose wisely.”

It was an easy choice, and made more so by the confirmation of what Buffy had told us—there was something better waiting for us on the other side. I could see how knowing that might make someone stop caring about what happened on this earth after they died. . .but it just made me want to try harder before I had to leave for good. I called out my answer, and my vision cleared to a horrible sight: Willow holding my body with eyes that had gone black with dark magic and rage.

I had two companions—a dear friend and mentor, and the lost love of another friend and mentor—and we watched helplessly as Willow rampaged. By unspoken agreement, we split up, though we ended up coming back together as the subjects of our observation converged on the Magic Box. The feeling of helplessness grew as Willow overwhelmed the others, and I feared all was lost when Giles' unexpected entrance shocked everyone in the shop—living and dead. I could see Jenny's relief when Giles bound Willow—but I knew it couldn't last, and being unable to warn them was rather inconvenient when Willow mesmerized Anya. As the situation dissolved into chaos, we were divided again—leaving me to make the horrified realization of what the white magic that Willow drew out of Giles had done to Willow's mental balance in her dark magic addled state. Willow left Giles mortally wounded and diverted Buffy's attention with a trivial exercise of her powers. No one was left to stop her, and I despaired.

“Xander's a sweetie.” I told Willow that once, when I was still hiding what I believed to be my dark secret from everyone, and Willow wondered if Xander had said something to offend me. It's true—except for his occasional blowups with Buffy, he's probably the gentlest man I've ever known. It isn't a soft nice, though—if he thinks something is wrong he'll keep after you until you give it up. Even with Buffy. . .I think that the main reason he reacted so badly to the news she had been sleeping with Spike was guilt on his part that he had missed the signs. Looking back on it, it should have been obvious that Xander was going to be the one to save the day here. Willow wasn't hiding her intentions, and Xander knew where to find her. Willow had more raw magic than any being on this Earth, and Xander had nothing but his raw determination, tolerance for pain, and his love for a girl he had known since they were babies. She never had a chance, and—as she slumbers after having succumbed to absolute exhaustion from extreme magic use and bitter sobbing—she's never been safer than she is in his arms right now.

I hear a satisfied sigh next to me, and turn to see Joyce watching Xander and Willow with an expression fitting for the substitute mother she had been for both of them. She walks up next to me and reports, “The dirt monsters—I really wish that sounded more bizarre than it does—that were attacking Buffy and Dawn went poof when Willow gave up. Dawn managed to do a thing or two with a sword that had Buffy impressed. Another of my daughters keeping secrets from me—somehow, I just can't seem to get mad about it.”

A dark-haired beauty drifts into view, and Joyce and I unconsciously draw breaths that we don't need any more as Jenny comments: “Rupert will be fine—he wasn't hurt badly and the plan was for Willow to consume that light magic all along. . .nearly apocalyptic consequences notwithstanding. Anya is taking good care of him.” Her gaze falls on Xander and Willow, and she shakes her head in mild amazement as she whispers, “You always had a way of coming through when we needed it, Xander.” She moves over and crouches down next to the slumbering woman as she whispers, “You have a hard path in front of you—thank the Powers that you have some good people looking out for you.”

I see the affection on her face and mourn for a life cut all too short before practical matters urge me to pipe up: “Uh, it looks like the world isn't going to be incinerated right now—what comes next?”

“We wait for the others to find them.” Joyce looks out at the eastern horizon, where the sun is peeking out and casting golden rays on Willow's hair. I feel a pang for what I have lost as Joyce looks down at Xander's pained expression and adds, “Until then, I don't feel right leaving them alone. We have plenty of time to go over everything else later.” Jenny nods in agreement, and Joyce concludes, “We never know when we might be able to do something that helps—for right now waiting is the best thing for us to do.”

I see tears appear in Xander's eyes—they glitter in the sunlight as they splash into Willow's hair. I look at the others and nod as I reply to Joyce:

“The very best.”

--end--

Closing note: Aside from the original story, I borrowed some themes from “We Wait,” a story I wrote back in 2002:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/768834/1/We_Wait

I've always been fond of “Xander waits until he's alone to unload emotionally” stories, but this particular situation—along with my remembering “We Wait”--suggested to me that looking at the situation from a slightly different perspective might work.

Fresh Out Of The Package (Hot Bunk: The Captain's Remix) [Gen Remix]

2007-07-09T05:55:47Z

Title: Fresh Out Of The Package (Hot Bunk: The Captain's Remix)

Fandom: Firefly

Title and URL of Original Story: “Hot Bunk”:
http://firefly.populli.org/archive/7/hotbunk.shtml

Author and Website of Original Author: Hossgal:
http://hossgal.livejournal.com/90245.html

Summary: Mal notices something about the new guy and decides to take
advantage of it.

Time Frame: Just following the first meeting between Jayne, Mal, and
Zoe as portrayed in “Out of Gas.” (possible spoilers for all of that
episode)

Disclaimer: These folks belong to Joss too—I've just never played with
them before.

My thanks to Hossgal for providing a lovely story for me to remix. :-)

FRESH OUT OF THE PACKAGE

Mal watched as his new tracker and hired gun applied his weight to the dorm hatch,
overcoming its resistance. He grimaced as the lights flickered a couple of seconds
after Jayne went down the ladder, and he turned quickly, smacking the wall unit as
he called out: “Still a few--” [SMACK] “--bugs in the system. But not to worry.
I'll get our engineer up and he'll set it to rights.” To his relief, the lights
came on and stayed on as he finished speaking.

Jayne did not reply, and Mal took a moment to look down at Jayne from an angle that
would be difficult to spot him from below. The mercenary seemed to be carefully
studying his new quarters—his eyes fell on the single bunk frame resting against
the forward wall and stayed there for a long moment—but it was a glance at the rear
wall that had Mal ducking back quickly as Jayne looked up at the hatch and called
out, “Hey!”

Mal thought about making him wait a moment, but decided against it—in any event he
was curious as to what had attracted the mercenary's attention. He leaned through
the hatch and replied noncommittally, “Yes?”

Jayne gestured at the back wall, clearly indicating the markings that made it clear
that the room had once held two bunks, and asked in a mildly anxious tone: “All
this is mine, right? I ain't got to share this with anyone—that was the deal, like
you said.”

Mal allowed his amusement at the question to briefly and intermittently reach his
expression. Interesting development—now let's set this up right. He nodded, the
amusement still flickering across his face, and replied, “Yeah, that was the deal.
What's the matter—something not to your liking?” He let his features drop into a
mask of cold menace and continued in a tone that was equally icy as his hand
drifted slowly in the direction of his sidearm: “'Cause we can always renegotiate.”

Mal gave Jayne points for nerve—Mal had position on him and could easily shoot him
down where he stood, but the big man only sounded mildly nervous as he moved
carefully away from the ladder and called out, “Just hold up, no need to start
changing things already. I was just looking around.” He started pacing off the
room, getting its dimensions and studying its features.

Mal watched for a few moments, noting the surprised expression on the mercenary's
face and the thoughtful set of his jaw as he bent over slightly—apparently
measuring the area where the bunk would be. He was about to call down when he
heard a familiar step behind him. He turned and headed back to where Zoe was
waiting with a grim expression. He nodded to her and asked, “Everything ready
for departure?”

“Wash says she's ready to fly. Bester says. . .well, a lot of things that amount
to saying she's ready to fly.” Mal snorted—the choice of Bester as their
mechanic had not been a felicitous one, but they were stuck with him for the
foreseeable future. Zoe nodded, then inclined her head at the open hatchway
and added simply, “I don't trust him, sir.”

Mal chuckled. “Zoe, he was holding a gun on us waiting for an excuse to kill us
three hours ago. If you did trust him I'd be inclined to boot you off this
ship at next planetfall.” Zoe quirked a very slight smile at him to acknowledge
the point, and Mal added, “You know, the last time you felt the need to tell me
you didn't feel right about someone joining this crew, he ended up in your bed
not long after. . .maybe I should warn Wash--” Zoe's expression didn't change an
iota, but Mal saw an indefinable something flicker in her eyes, and he decided
that even ironclad loyalty had its limits and smoothly changed gears: “--or not.
I was just watching him look at his quarters—he's acting like a kid with a new
toy: he can't believe it's all his.”

“Folks who hire mercenaries aren't exactly inclined to pay extra to give them
comfort they didn't contract to be having.” Zoe looked over at the hatch herself,
and her tone was contemplative as she continued, “That dorm probably looks like
a palace to him—but he turned on his last boss when we offered him a better deal.
He might do the same thing tomorrow if someone offers him enough.”

“He might at that,” Mal allowed, frowning as he considered the situation. “Man's
used to going from job to job. . .no loyalty, no home. If that's all he really
wanted, a bigger room wouldn't have him all bothered. If we could give him--”
Mal paused, then looked towards a nearby stack of crates that contained supplies
that they had picked up only hours before Jayne's former employers had captured
them. He popped open a crate and pulled out a bundle. Zoe's eyes widened in
recognition and she was opening her mouth to ask a question when Mal put a finger
to his mouth in a shushing motion and walked over to the hatch, dropping the
bundle down the opening.

A startled grunt came from below, and Mal looked down to see that Jayne had
apparently been about to climb the ladder when the bundle struck him.
He assumed an apologetic expression and called down, “Oh, sorry about that—didn't
see you standing there.”

Jayne looked annoyed, but he sounded perplexed: “I wasn't.” He gestured at the
bundle and asked, “What's this?”

Mal looked at him with an expression that suggested that Jayne had just asked him
to explain how to use a doorknob. “Bedpad, for the bunk.”

Jayne looked down at the bedpad, and his expression twisted with confusion tinged
with frustration: “This is brand new—you think I'm made of money? I can't afford
this—you ain't even paid me yet.”

Mal turned back to Zoe and smirked briefly before turning back and replying in a
hard voice: “Bedpad comes with the bunk. With the linens, too. Got no cleaning
staff—you'll need to take care of that yourself along with your laundry. We're
not running a hospital ship here, but I expect my crew to keep things
tidy—and washed.” Zoe called from behind him, and he turned to acknowledge her.
"All right, tell them I'm on my way. Jayne -" He turned back and saw Jayne
look up from studying the faded store tag on the bed pad in response to his
comment. Mal smiled inwardly and concluded, "You just take your time, get
settled in. We'll be stopping to re-supply in a day or two, you can get anything
you're missing then. Holler if you need anything." Mal held Jayne's gaze long
enough to see the mercenary nod in acknowledgment before he withdrew from the
hatch and walked back to Zoe.

They walked back to the cargo hold in silence, with Mal silently indicating that
questions should wait every time that Zoe began to open her mouth. When they
reached their destination Zoe turned and burst out, “You bought that bedpad
for yourself—the one you have is falling apart.”

“Mmhm—had it for five years now. It's seen better days.” Mal replied quietly,
leaning back against a bulkhead. “But I can survive until next planetfall before
I get another new one—we ended up doing well this trip. I'll get better use out
of that bedpad giving it to Jayne than I would have using it for the next few days.”

“So why not just tell him that you're giving him your bedpad if you're trying to
sweeten the pot?” Zoe asked, leaning back against a stack of crates as she
frowned in mild confusion. “He thinks that everyone here gets this treatment
now.”

Mal nodded. “Exactly.” Zoe blinked, and Mal elaborated, “I don't want him
thinking we're soft, or that things are going to be easy—we're not soft, and
he's going to learn that things won't be easy right quick if things go like
they have been. I want him thinking that this is an operation where he can
count on us being straight with him. . .and maybe he'll think twice if someone
makes him an offer better than the one we made him today.”

“That's a lot to expect from a bedpad and some straight talk, sir.” Zoe sounded
skeptical.

Mal nodded absently, his mind already going to the final list of preparations
needed before next planetfall. His eyes turned to the hallway they had just
left, and in the direction of the man who was busily moving into his new home,
and he turned back to his second in command and shrugged.

“It's a start.”

-end-

-As always, comments are welcomed and desired.

Perspectives (The Watcher's Remix) (Written for the Gen Remix)

2007-06-22T05:51:57Z

This is my contribution to the Gen Remix, and—given a large number of potential POVs to play with—I decided to pick one who clearly had some major choices on his mind by this point in the canon 'verse. . .

Title: Perspectives (The Watcher's Remix)

Author: M. Scott Eiland

Fandom: Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Story URL: http://eilandesq.livejournal.com/3878.html#cutid1

Name and URL of Story That Was Remixed: “Perspectives”:

http://www.mistralamara.net/Fanfiction/perspectives.html

Author of Remixed Story: Mistral Amara

Rating: T, for language and themes.

Summary: Giles ponders the future as his charges discuss Dawn, Spike, and related issues. Post “The Gift”

Disclaimer: They belong to Joss—I'm just playing with them.

My thanks to Mistral Amara for providing a lovely story for me to remix.

They had gathered at The Magic Box to talk about a party. Given the difficulty and cost of making sure that the guest of honor—along with the rest of the world—survived long enough to enjoy the event, the amount of discussion that was going into every detail was surprising to no one, including the tweed-clad former Watcher who leaned quietly against a wall and watched his young charges discuss cake and ice cream flavors, decorations, and music. Giles was startled by the quiet question voiced by Tara about half an hour into the planning:

“Shouldn't we invite Spike to Dawn's birthday party? You know they're really close.”

Giles hid a smile. Only Tara would ask that question so casually—and without wincing in anticipation at the inevitable reaction from Xander--

“You've got to be kidding! He's a vampire, we shouldn't be encouraging Dawn to hang out with him; we should be putting our foot down. All our feet. Preferably on his neck.” Giles noted that Xander wasn't really glaring at Tara—he's always been very gentle with her, even more so than with Willow—but he was visibly appalled at the suggestion.

“Or other, more painful parts. If you want to make a point.” Anya piped up,causing Giles to wince slightly. Book of Anya, Chapter One, first rule: “There's no problem that can't be solved by castrating some man. . . but it can't be Xander.”

“But he was so helpful in the fight against Glory; and he really seems to care for Dawn.” Tara wasn't giving up, Giles noted with interest. She's not intimidated by Xander, and she's learned to tune out Anya's ranting.

“Tara's got a point, Xander.” Willow commented quietly, her tone level and confident in a way that still surprised Giles after all of the years he had known the shy redhead. With Buffy gone, she's becoming the natural leader of the group. She listens to the others, then she makes a decision and sticks to it.

While he was pleased—if a bit uneasy for reasons he wasn't quite sure of—at Willow's newfound confidence, Giles decided that Xander's sensible concerns deserved a bit of backup, and he coughed once before saying, “It's true that he's been very helpful,and we can appreciate that. But we must never lose sight of what he is.”

Willow raised an eyebrow, visibly unimpressed by her mentor's interjection, and shot back, “And that would be?”

Giles was taken aback by Willow's aggressive reply, and he was inwardly relieved when Xander intervened with a blunt reply: “Hello? He's an evil Vampire!!! You do remember those, Will? I know it's been a while since we've dealt with anything so mundane, but still. ..”

Willow blinked at her best friend's bluntness, and her response—to Giles' further relief—was more subdued than before: “I know, it's just that he hasn't done anything totally evil in awhile.”

“Just because he wanted to get into Buffy's pants.” Xander scowled at the memory, and Giles—who was not being observed by the others at that moment—allowed his own expression to twist somewhat. Buffy—there are times I wish you hadn't convinced me to let him survive. Even now.

“So that's a bad thing?” Giles shook his head slightly at the former demon's comment. Book of Anya, Chapter One, Rule Two: There's absolutely no downside to sex—particularly if you can talk about it and make your friends squirm.

Willow was far too engaged in the discussion to be distracted by sex talk. “Xander, you saw how badly Glory beat him up! She nearly killed him. It's kind of hard to get into somebody's pants when you're dead.” Giles' eyebrow twitched slightly at the remark. Point.

“Or when they are. He's still protecting Dawn--what's that going to get him?” Tara was standing at Willow's shoulder, glancing over at Giles' reaction.

Giles inclined his head at Tara. And another point—which leads back to the center of the matter. They work well together,those two. Still—there are other concerns here. He folded his arms and assumed a thoughtful expression as he murmured: “Who can solve the labyrinthine motives of Spike's twisted vampire psyche? But Xander is right for once; it isn't prudent to let Dawn become dependent on Spike.”

Giles watched as Xander opened his mouth to protest the “for once” crack, then smiled slightly as the younger man decided to let well enough alone: “Listen to the Watcher. He knows! A demon is not a good role model for young impressionable minds.”

“Fine. I'll just go home and pack my things. My influence on you is dangerous enough; who knows what might happen if we had children?” Giles winced again as Anya—sounding hurt—butted in again. My boy, you are a braver man than I for daring to run that particular gauntlet.

Giles wasn't surprised when Xander brushed aside the complaint. “Huh? An, you're an ex-demon. Spike's a now-demon.”

Anya wasn't willing to be mollified. “Well, you all make it very hard to be human sometimes, with your goody-goodier-than-thou attitudes. I don't know how you expect Spike to not be evil when you never treat him like anything else.”

Giles blinked in surprise. For Anya, that's practically a philosophical treatise. He looked over at the former demon with concern and said, “Anya, I had no idea you felt like this.”

Anya snorted. “You never asked. I mean, if on some days whenyou put the basilisk gall stones in the jar for the anti-flatulence enchanted gumballs I wish your head would spin around and explode, does that make me irredeemably evil?”

Seventy-five percent profit margin. Seventy-five percent profit margin. At times like this, Giles had learned it was best to stay quiet and ponder the rather substantial benefits of employing the very disturbing, not really young woman in front of him.

Willow looked over at Giles and noted his lips were moving as she spoke up again: “Maybe Spike has changed. Giles, couldn't he change if he wanted to? What about the redeeming power of love? “

Giles blinked and ceased the silent mantra as he responded, “Oh,Willow, it sounds very nice, but that almost never happens, even with humans. There is no recorded case of it happening to a vampire.”

“But Spike hasn't killed anybody for a couple of years now; and we know he loved Buffy--in a twisted vampire way, but still. That's what started Angel doing good, why not Spike?” Willow sounded confident again, and a note of hope had entered her voice.

Giles was about to speak again when Xander broke in: “Because of the chip! Spike hasn't killed anybody because of the chip. He's like a serial killer in prison. Angel has a soul.”

“So Angel is like a serial killer who what--got religion? What if he backslides?” Tara's tone was earnest, and she frowned in mild confusion as Willow snickered nervously and the men in the room winced. Giles looked over at Tara and frowned. We need to make sure she's been fully briefed on Angel's experiences. . .it could be important someday.

Giles heard Xander sigh and saw the resigned expression on his face as he spoke: “We're losing, aren't we, Giles?”

Giles hesitated for a moment before nodding reluctantly and replying, “I'm afraid so. Spike can come to the party. I suppose he can't influence Dawn too badly during an hour or two in a room with all the rest of us.” He saw a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye and from long practice he was able to fix his vision on the source without turning his head or otherwise displaying a reaction. He kept his expression neutral and went silent.

Xander waited for a moment, then changed the subject when he realized that Giles wasfinished. “So where is the Dawnster?”

“I haven't seen her.” Tara piped up, looking a little downcast. She had been a close friend of the younger girl for almost a year now, and Giles knew that she was probably closer to Dawn than anyone in the group except Willow.

Willow directed a sympathetic smile at her girlfriend, then replied, “This is Tuesday; Anya's day.”

“Well, An?” Xander's tone was casual, but he clearly wanted an answer.

“She's fine. She, uh, went to the circus with a friend.” Anya sounded uncharacteristically uneasy as she replied.

Giles raised an eyebrow, both at the response and at the news it implied. “There's a circus in town?”

Anya shook her head and replied: “No, it's over in Redmonton. I said she could spend the night. So, you won't have to have her tomorrow; they won't be back until late.”

“You let her go somewhere overnight without telling us? Anya, what if she needs protecting? She's still the key!” Willow was audibly upset, and Tara reached out and squeezed her arm comfortingly.

Anya flushed slightly and mumbled something under her breath, and Xander walked over to her and asked, “What?”

“She has protection. She went with Spike. He has friends working in the side show.” Anya spoke quickly, her eyes shifting nervously as the expressions of the other people in the room changed for the worse. “She should be plenty safe; those Barbura demons are big.”

“It's a demon circus?” Giles had to restrain himself from laughing aloud at the blonde witch's question—Tara seemed almost imperturbable at times, but when she reached her limits she could sound as appalled as any of them.

“They almost all are. It's the perfect lifestyle for them.” The relatively mundane question allowed Anya to compose herself, and her response was almost matter-of-fact.

“Clowns are evil. I knew it!” Giles shook his head slightly at Xander's outburst. Leave it to Xander to derive an obscure triumph out of this news-- Anya's expression darkened like a thundercloud. --and to stumble into a serious mess at the same time.

“Back to the demons are evil line again, I see.” Anya sounded more sad than angry, and Xander went pale as he turned back to her. Anya shook her head and turned to Giles as she added, “Giles, I'm taking off early. I have to move out of Xander's apartment tonight.” She turned on her heel and stormed out the front door of the shop without another word.

“Anya,wait!” Xander followed her out the door without hesitation—he had this maneuver down pat by now. Tara and Willow looked at each other in wry amusement for a moment, then waved to Giles before heading out the door.

Giles shook his head again and murmured,“Oh, dear.” He heard a slight sound of movement behind him and called out, “You can come out now, Dawn.”

Giles heard a gasp of surprise, then turned to see Dawn emerging from the workout room. He favored her with a stern look and commented, “I suppose I should lecture you about eavesdropping, but you've punished yourself by spoiling the surprise, so I'll satisfy my supervisory requirements with a reproving look and a question: why aren't you with Spike in Redmonton?”

“He heard something about some trouble going down there, and wouldn't take me. He dropped me off a half hour ago.” Dawn sounded subdued, and she looked at Giles with a grateful expression and added, “Giles. . .I know you really don't want him there, but thanks for not fighting it. . .it means a lot to me.”

“I know.” Giles replied, and he was turning away when he felt Dawn giving him a firm hug. His thoughts had turned often to the idea of leaving his increasingly competent charges behind to go back to England, but—for the moment—he carefully put those thoughts aside and hugged Dawn firmly in response.

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.

sweeps dust away, checks the mail, sits down

2007-04-21T04:54:17Z

Posted in this long-dormant locale by request of the ever-persuasive sroni.

Comment to this post and I will …

1. Tell you why I friended you.
2. Associate you with something (a fandom, a song, a color, a photo, etc.)
3.Tell you something I like about you.
4. Tell you a memory I have of you.
5. Associate you with a character/pairing.
6. Ask something I’ve always wanted to know about you.
7. Tell you my favorite user pic of yours.

In return, you must post this in your LJ.

Spotted this and couldn't resist. . .:-)

2003-12-03T10:38:48Z

Rec meme snatched from a lot of people
Rec-Go-Round: Rec me one story you've written that you're proud of, any genre, here in my LJ. Then go forth and ask the same in yours.

"Fellowship"

2003-09-07T05:48:42Z

Summary: Magneto dreams, and is visited by an old friend offering counsel.

Disclaimer: All of these characters remain the property of their owners/creators. . .I'm just borrowing them for a spell. . .

Rating: PG-13, for themes.

Time Frame: About two years before the events in the first X-Men movie.

Archiving: Be my guest, but e-mail me (eilandesq@hotmail.com) to let me know. . .I like to know where stuff I write ends up and I might want to see what else you've got.

Dedication: To Sir Ian, for his masterful portrayals of an epic hero and an idealistic monster.

Author's Note: Reference is made to events described in "The Silmarillion"--some of this will be unfamiliar to those who haven't read it.

FELLOWSHIP

Magneto shifted restlessly in his bed. It had been a long day--Mystique had reported back to him that one of his favored candidates for recruitment had reacted negatively to first contact, and that it was her opinion that he would not see reason. He had regretfully given Mystique orders to recruit the young man or terminate him within forty-eight hours, and spent the rest of the day deciding how the decision would alter his plans. His mind raced, considering possibilities and contingencies--but at last his fatigue overcame his preoccupation, and he drifted off into sleep.

"eric."

Magneto sat up and looked around. He was still in bed, and he saw no one. Had someone spoken to him, or was he just imagining it? He frowned, and rested his head back on his pillow.

"Eric, I would speak to you, if you would grant me an audience."

Magneto blinked--the voice was clearly audible now, and the wording was. . .odd. He sat up again, and stared in disbelief. He saw an old man in snowy white robes topped by a peaked hat, holding a gnarled staff in his right hand, and wearing a ring with a fiery red stone on his left. His eyes were dark, and they pierced Magneto like daggers as he asked gently, "Do you know who I am, Eric?"

* Of course * was Magneto's first reaction, but he restrained himself before the words crossed his lips. One of his few possessions in the camps had been a battered copy of "The Hobbit," which he had read repeatedly when he had time to himself: after the war, he learned that Professor Tolkien had written a continuation of the story, and he read "The Lord Of The Rings" with barely restrained enthusiasm. He had loved all of the characters, but it had been Gandalf he had always admired and identified with--and now that imposing being appeared to be standing in his bedroom. * I need to keep my composure--this could be a trick, rather than simply a dream or--heaven help me--exactly what it appears to be * He locked eyes with the image of legend and said simply, "You appear to be Gandalf the White--but appearances can be deceiving."

The figure waved his left hand, and suddenly Magneto found himself sitting on a balcony overlooking a waterfall--it was daylight, and Magneto could see wildlife below that was not native to North America, or anywhere else he was aware of. He turned to his visitor and commented, "Very impressive--but you could be exercising some kind of mental powers on me to make me think I'm seeing this. I need more."

The man nodded. "You have perfected techniques of blocking outside mental influences--use them now. Even if I represent a power too great to block, there should be a discernible effect that will alert you to any deception on my part."

Magneto frowned and nodded--the plan was a good one, and he saw no flaws in the man's reasoning. The Master of Magnetism concentrated, forming an aura of magnetic disruption that would scramble any incoming brain waves that could influence his perceptions or actions. When he had formed the aura, he opened his eyes. Gandalf sat across from him, smiling. Magneto stared again, and whispered, "I am surely dreaming, or mad, or--"

"Or things are as they seem." Gandalf's voice was calm as he poured Magneto a glass of water from a pitcher in front of him and handed it to him. Magneto accepted the drink, and noticed that he was fully dressed in street clothes, though his helmet was not present. Gandalf smiled and added, "If you are mad, your friends will undoubtedly come to your aid. If you are dreaming, why not enjoy it? If it is real. . .can you not spare a few moments to listen to an old friend?"

Magneto looked at Gandalf and shook his head in bewilderment. * He's right--regardless of what the reality of this situation is, it can't hurt to listen. * He grinned at the wizard and stated simply, "You have my complete attention, sir. If I may ask--how are things in Valinor?"

"Life has been good in recent years. Fingolfin and his sons have been released from Mandos--only Feanor and his sons remain under sentence for their crimes in the War of The Great Jewels. The Eldar are happy, and content to perfect their skills of art and craftsmanship. The Valar remain steadfast in their role as guardians of Ea. Bilbo is still writing some rather well received poetry." Gandalf spoke calmly, and laughed as he finished the last sentence. Magneto laughed as well--things were apparently much as he expected them to be. * As you would expect, if this is a dream * Magneto pushed the annoying thought away and listened as Gandalf continued, "As you might suspect, I have little to do in the way of offering counsel in this day and age--those of Valinor have not the need, and my days of meddling in the affairs of Middle Earth are over. It was this. . .lack in my life as it stands now that has caused me to seek others out, including you, Eric. It was obvious from an early age that you were an extraordinary individual, and I observed you with interest, hoping that in a moment of need I could offer you a perspective that you had not considered, or had rejected. I believe that time has come, Eric, and thus I have come to you, hoping you would be willing to listen."

"It would be ungrateful and foolish of me not to at least hear your words, Gandalf. Please tell me what is of concern to you." Magneto spoke softly, genuinely moved by the interest that the noble being in front of him had shown regarding his life, though he suspected that he might not like what he was about to hear.

Gandalf inclined his head, and replied, "Eric, I am aware of your struggles to make life better for people who, like you, are different by way of the changes that your world's environment has wrought in your basic structures. You have used peaceful methods, and have been rewarded with death and betrayal. You are ready to give up such moderate means, and move on to more dangerous and deadly methods. I come here to ask you to reconsider this path."

Magneto sighed. * I expected this * He took another sip of water, steeled himself, and stated quietly, "I understand your dismay that I would follow such a course, Gandalf, but I have weighed the options and find that I have no viable alternatives. If I believed it were possible to co-exist peacefully with mankind, without being hunted down to be killed or enslaved, I would continue to fight for that day; after all, I forsee that I will lose many friends and allies in this fight, and find myself opposed to others who I have called friend." He shook his head sadly. "Perhaps you should seek out my old acquaintance Charles Xavier--he is an idealist, and I have no doubt he will oppose me in what is to come."

"Your friend Charles is beyond my reach, I fear--he favors Sir Thomas Malory over Tolkien. . .not to mention the exploits of someone by the name of Dixon Hill. No accounting for taste, I suppose." Gandalf snorted, and studied Magneto--he could see the strain on the man's face, and searched for the words to move him. "Eric, you propose to stand against the entire human race--"

"And why shouldn't I?" cried Magneto, standing and staring at Gandalf with a frustrated expression on his face. "They're murdering my brothers and sisters--destroying any hope we have for a future! Would you have counseled Aragorn and Theoden to parley with the minions of Sauron?" Gandalf was silent, and Magneto set his jaw and turned away as he continued, "No, you would not have. They are savage, unprincipled, butchering children, Gandalf--if I exact a high enough price from them perhaps they will see reason."

"Eric--some of those children liberated the camps and set you free." Gandalf spoke softly, but the words made Magneto blink and look back at the wizard. Gandalf nodded, and continued: "Eric, you have been gifted with great power, and have proven capable and wise in its use--so far. But from among the humans you propose to make war on have come truly great things, which you have appreciated and admired over the years. . .including that which has given us the connection which has allowed me to come here and speak with you." Gandalf leaned forward, and there was a note of pleading in his voice as he added, "Would you destroy all that along with the ones who have tormented you?"

Magneto blinked, and Gandalf could see the pain in his eyes, though his voice remained firm as he replied, "Only if I have to, Gandalf. I wish for peace, but I forsee that it will not come without war, any more than Sauron or Hitler would have given up without a fight. Aragorn allowed the Men who had fought for the Dark Lord to live when they surrendered--I hope to be able to do the same for those who convince me they have abandoned the desire to destroy my people." He met Gandalf's gaze firmly and concluded, "I fear that is all I can promise you, old friend."

Gandalf looked downcast, but he did not turn away. "Perhaps there is one more thing, Eric. You have given orders to your lieutenant regarding a young man you have been trying to recruit--to either win him over or slay him. I ask, in the name of whatever I have meant to you, to spare his life unless and until he opposes you directly. Don't destroy an innocent life in the name of ideological purity."

Magneto felt a burst of anger, then calmed as he realized that Gandalf was willing to give him sound advice even in the face of failure. He sighed, and was silent for a moment before replying, "Very well, Gandalf. There is something to be said for showing good will--perhaps when the boy has a few more years to learn of the cruelty of humans towards mutants, he will join me then and be all the more loyal for it. I will call Mystique in the morning and rescind my order." He took another sip from his water and asked, "Do you have time to stay longer? You clearly are not going to join my cause, and I'd rather spend whatever time you have left speaking of more pleasant matters."

Gandalf shook his head sadly. "I cannot stay, alas. Perhaps on another occasion, if the One is merciful and the opportunity arises." He raised his hand and added, "I need to send you back, so that you may get a good night's sleep, and reflect on what we have discussed."

Gandalf started to gesture, but paused when Magneto called out, "Wait!" Gandalf frowned and raised a bushy eyebrow, and Magneto asked, "Could I just ask you one question?" Gandalf nodded, and Magneto asked, "Why didn't you just send Frodo to Mount Doom on one of the Eagles and destroy the Ring that way?"

Gandalf snorted and gestured, and Magneto saw the world fade away. Before he faded completely, he could have sworn he heard Gandalf mutter, "They always ask me that."

Magneto sat up in bed, looking around himself in confusion. He was in his bedclothes again, and there was no visible sign that he had left his bedroom. * A dream after all, then. It seemed so real * Magneto shook his head in self-deprecation. * Figures from heroic fantasy do not make house calls, not even to you, Magnus * He frowned. * Still, dream or not-- * He reached for the telephone and hit a speeddial button. After a moment, he had reached his party: "Mystique? Sorry to wake you--I've decided to let the boy live. Contact him again and give him the number for one of the untraceable cellphones in case he decides to reconsider. I suspect that he may have a change of heart, if he watches another year or so of news broadcasts." He listened to Mystique for a moment, then added, "You've done well on this assignment--we'll discuss future operations when you get back. Good night." He replaced the receiver, and fell asleep almost instantly.

* * * * *

Gandalf sat on the balcony, looking out over the falls. While he knew he had not failed completely, the knowledge of what had become of a bright young boy who dreamed of growing up to be a great hero pained him. Distracted, he failed to hear the soft footsteps behind him.

"Mithrandir."

The voice was musical, and concerned. Gandalf turned, and as always in the presence of the Lady Galadriel, he understood the emotion that had overtaken Melian when she beheld Thingol for the first time, and which had so transformed the history of Beleriand. He saw the subtle smile on her face, and knew that as always she had perceived the fleeting thought and accepted it as a compliment before dismissing it as irrelevant to both of them. He bowed. "Galadriel--it is good to see you."

Galadriel smiled, and walked past him to look off the balcony. "Did your meeting with your young acquaintance go well? You seem troubled."

Gandalf sighed and walked next to her, trying to take comfort from the company and the beauty of the landscape. "He is determined to pursue the course he has chosen, but he seems willing--even glad--to moderate some of his methods. There is hope, but I worry about him, and his world."

Galadriel reached out and squeezed her old friend's arm. "Time will tell, and you have done all you can." Gandalf turned and nodded slowly, and Galadriel smiled mischievously and changed the subject. "I came to invite you to Bilbo's latest poetry reading. Varda was most insistent that you attend."

Gandalf involuntarily straightened. Refusing an invitation issued by the Lady of The Stars was simply not done. "Then I shall attend--what is Bilbo's latest effort about?"

Galadriel sobered slightly, though there was still a twinkle in her eye. "The fall of Fingolfin."

Gandalf snorted involuntarily. While the return of Fingolfin from Mandos had lessened the grief associated with his death, the subject of his duel with Morgoth had never been the subject of song or poetry by the Elves--Bilbo was trodding on unknown ground. He had a thought: "Will Fingolfin be there?"

Galadriel grinned wickedly. "Of course. Varda insisted." She offered Gandalf her arm. "Shall we go?"

Gandalf winced inwardly at the thought of Bilbo's expression when he saw the High King of the Noldor attending the reading of the account of his own demise, but he took Galadriel's arm and allowed her to lead him out.

The poem was up to Bilbo's usual standards of excellence, and when he had concluded all present applauded him, though one passage had Gandalf thinking of Eric and the fate that might await him:

"The armies had fallen, Ard-Galen burned;
The King wept, and knew despair;
Fury filled his heart, and a dread purpose ruled his soul;
Alone he visited the armory, donning mail and helm;
Girded Ringil to his side, and bade his people farewell;
He rode alone through the flames, his eyes burning like stars;
At the Black Gates he stopped, and called forth his Doom"

Gandalf bowed his head. "Eru help him." He dismissed the situation from his mind, and went forward to congratulate Bilbo.

AUTHOR'S CLOSING NOTES:

1) I'm not a poet, and I'm certainly not up to writing one that scans in both English and Quenya--apologies for the clunkiness of the wording. The full story of Fingolfin's confrontation with Morgoth can be found in "The Silmarillion", and a Google Images search using the two names is recommended--there are some nifty pictures of the epic confrontation floating around.

2) I couldn't resist the temptation to have a little fun by making Professor X a fan of Malory and the nonexistent Dixon Hill stories. Patrick Stewart, of course, played Guinevere's father in "Excalibur," and it was Jean-Luc Picard who was a rather big fan of the Dixon Hill stories. . .

3) Magneto's snarky question about why Gandalf didn't use the Eagles to destroy the Ring is an old chestnut at this point--I recommend that anyone interested in the discussion of what has become a famous plot hole conduct a Google search on the subject--it should prove quite amusing.

As always, comments are welcomed and desired

"Last Rites"

2003-07-19T07:56:44Z

Posted here because FF.net is being wonky

Summary: Lex is present at two funerals.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters portrayed here, they
remain the property of their respective owners/creators.

Rating: PG-13, for themes.

Time Frame: Somewhat over three years after the first season
of "Smallville."

Archiving: Be my guest, but e-mail me (eilandesq@.hotmail.com) and
let me know. . .I like to know where stuff I write ends up and I
might want to see what else you've got.

Dedication: To Skye, whose recent stories have inspired me to
continue to improve my own.

LAST RITES

Part I

It was a hot July afternoon when they gathered to bury Clark
Kent. Fortunately, the service itself was held inside the Smallville
Community Center, which was at least air conditioned. The Kents had
intended to hold the service in a smaller venue, but the news of
their son's death had produced an outpouring of grief that had their
phone ringing almost constantly in the two days following the public
announcement, and Lex had predictably stepped in and rented the
center. One by one, the mourners filed in: former classmates,
teachers, and other inhabitants of the town who had come to know and
love the shy, handsome young man who had been struck down in such a
senseless way. Those closest to him were gathered in the front row,
visibly taking comfort in each other's company. The exception to
this was Lex, who sat quietly in the rear of the seating area: no
one chose to deprive him of his obvious need for privacy.

When all had arrived, and when the doors had been closed,
Jonathan Kent rose from his seat and addressed the gathering. He
spoke of his son with a quiet, deep pride that was obvious to
everyone listening, telling of how Clark had freely given of himself
to those around him, and how he had planned to continue to do so in
the years following his graduation from Smallville High. Then the
accident, and all of that promise was gone. Jonathan Kent paused for
a moment, swallowed hard, and concluded, "From what I've heard the
last few days, Clark touched all of your lives in some way important
to you. If any of you would like to speak, we would be eternally
grateful to know how it was that he made your life better, even as we
regret that he cannot be here to hear it for himself."

Jonathan sat down, and Chloe stood up, walking to the podium
and staring silently at the open casket and Clark's composed, waxy-
looking face before turning back to the audience and
beginning: "I've known Clark Kent for ten years. Without a doubt,
he is the most fundamentally decent, caring, and frustrating human
being I have ever met. He is the kind of person who would
unhesitatingly put his life at risk for a stranger, then refuse to
admit to his friends that it was a big deal. He was painfully shy
at times, and I really think he didn't have a clue about just how
attractive he was." She took a deep breath, then continued, "I've
been away at Metropolis University for the past year, and the worst
part of it was only being able to talk to Clark occasionally on the
phone and whenever I visited back home. I always told myself that I
would just have to be patient, that he would be there next year and
that there would be time for that then. . .time enough for
everything. I never expected that time would run out so soon."

Chloe blinked rapidly, then left the podium. One by one,
others followed. Lana, who had been in Los Angeles looking for an
apartment for her freshman year at UCLA when the news about Clark
came: the paleness which came from several nights without sleep and
little to eat was a stark contrast to the black dress she wore and
the redness of her eyes. She spoke quietly of Clark's generosity and
the quiet, implacable way that he had managed to win her heart over a
period of years. She omitted her continued confusion and regret
about how he had abruptly broken up with her two months before,
politely but firmly, and how she had in anger refused to speak with
him after that moment. When she stopped, her eyes were dry and her
expression was blank, but her bearing as she walked quietly back to
her seat was one of someone with a weight on her back.

Pete walked up onto the stage: even at eighteen, he still
looked like a freshman, but the events of the last few days had taken
their toll. He cleared his throat, then began to speak, but made the
mistake of looking at the poster sized picture of Clark, which showed
him with a cheerful half-smile and an amused look in his eyes. Pete
broke down, sobbing quietly, and stood there until Whitney-who had
just finished his sophomore year at Michigan State and had been in
town to introduce his fiancée to his mother-quietly walked up and led
Pete back to his seat, where his parents were waiting with helpless
expressions.

For two hours, people walked up to the podium and talked
about Clark. A liquor store owner remembered how Clark had been
nearby when the freak earthquake from two years before had wrecked a
good deal of his store, and how Clark had helped him salvage what he
could from the mess, in addition to cleaning up. Principal Kwan
spoke fondly of a young man who-while not completely immune to the
temptation to misbehave occasionally-was a worthy example to those
around him. Whether it was pulling them out of the flaming wreckage
of a truck, or simply a kind word at a moment when it was really
needed, they remembered him, and most left the podium smiling through
their tears. As time went on, more and more people started glancing
back to where Lex Luthor sat: he seemed to be carved from stone.
When the last person had left the stage, Jonathan Kent, visibly moved
by the warmth displayed by the mourners, walked back up on the stage
and looked out to where Lex was sitting. After a moment, Lex
blinked, then met Jonathan's eyes and shook his head slowly.
Jonathan nodded, then called out, "Thank you all for your attendance
and your thoughts. The graveside service will be in an hour: anyone
who wishes to come is welcome."

Most of the crowd filed out, leaving Clark's parents and
friends to attend to final matters, including arranging the
transportation of the coffin to the cemetery. Lex got up from his
seat and walked in silence to the coffin, reaching into a pocket and
pulling out a small object, pinning it to Clark's collar. Martha
Kent quietly walked over to look at it: it was a loop of gold
trailing off to a slightly open bottom, with a bar passing
perpendicularly through the narrow part of the loop, and a single
large diamond resting at the point where the bar crossed the loop.
She smiled and rested her hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension
there, before asking quietly, "What is it, Lex? I've seen that
somewhere before, I think."

"It's called an ankh." Lex spoke quietly, and Chloe and Lana
drifted closer, sensing that Lex was speaking of something of great
importance to him. Lex looked down at Clark's still form, and
continued, "In ancient Egypt, it was the symbol of life, both in this
world and in the next. My mother told me about it when I was seven,
and it stuck in my head, I guess: the symbol of life for a
civilization that flourished for four thousand years before time and
events finally brought it down. It was a magnificent concept, and I
saw it as a challenge, to do and create things that would endure as
it did." He bowed his head, and whispered, "I thought Clark would be
there, to see them, and to create greatness of his own." He closed
his eyes, then turned away, walking off as the others watched him go
with compassion in their eyes.

* * * * *

The coffin slowly sank into the grave, as the mourners
silently watched. The tombstone was of white marble, and the
engraving on it was succinct:

CLARK KENT

1986-2005

BELOVED SON AND FRIEND

The friends stood, and in turn they each sent one shovel full
of dirt into the grave, watching as it tumbled downward and struck
the polished wood of the coffin. After they had finished, the
service ended and the mourners gathered to pay their respects to the
Kents. Lana saw that Lex was slipping away at the edges of the
crowd, and her mouth set in a thin line as she walked after him and
called out softly, "Lex, are you coming back to the Kents' house with
us?"

Lex turned, and Lana saw that the cold smile that was so
often visible on his face was absent: Lex looked tired, and old. He
blinked, and Lana watched as he visibly composed himself, and he
managed a genuine smile as he replied, "They never wanted me there
when he was alive, Lana: it's only fair that I respect their wishes
now that he's gone." Lana opened her mouth to protest, but Lex shook
his head sadly and concluded, "Let it go, Lana. Go with them, and
remember him. He deserves that." He turned away and walked off,
leaving Lana to shake her head in sadness and frustration.

Lex reached his car, and was about to open the door when he
straightened and sighed, calling out, "Not like you to attend a
funeral you had no part in causing."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Lex turned, and
Lionel Luthor was standing ten feet away, his limo visible some
distance behind him. The last three years had put a little more gray
in the beard and wrinkles on the face, but the eyes were as intense
as they had always been, and the older man carefully studied his son
before adding quietly, "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Lex.
Even these days, word can be slow to get to Antarctica."

"I'm not sure why you bothered. It's not like you ever asked
to meet Clark, or showed any curiosity about him, for that matter."
Lex's tone was harsh, and the glare he directed at his father was
quite worthy of the elder Luthor as he added, "Unless you include the
private detectives you sent to investigate him and his family, of
course. I'll give you this: at least they were subtle this time."

"Experience has its dividends." Lionel shrugged, and walked
next to Lex. They stood silently for a moment, then Lionel
added, "He was an extraordinary young man, particularly for someone
growing up in a place like this. He was a worthy choice for a right
hand man for you, son. . .he would have been a great asset to the
company."

Lex leaned forward, placing his hands on the car door and
swallowing hard before turning back to his father and
snarling, "Don't you dare! If you think I would have ever put Clark
in a position where you'd ultimately have control over his destiny,
you're deluded-or senile." His expression tightened, and he
concluded contemptuously, "Don't you have any competitor's daughters
to seduce?"

Lionel scowled, then turned away, signaling to his driver as
he stalked back to his car. Lex watched the limo drive off in a
cloud of dust, then shook his head and got into his car, not looking
back at the workers filling in the grave.

* * * * *

Lex's eyes snapped open, and he looked around for a moment,
trying to identify what had awakened him. His eyes fell on a small
blue light next to a doorway: it was flashing slowly and a low hum
was coming from the speaker underneath it. He felt a cold rage fill
him as he quickly dressed and walked over to the door, entering an
access code in the panel next to it. The door lock clicked open, and
Lex walked into a small room containing various items of electronic
equipment. He threw a few switches, and a small screen lit up. Lex
watched intently: the screen remained on, but blank, for five
minutes, and he was beginning to wonder if a gopher had managed to
awaken him from a sound sleep when a bright dot appeared on the
screen. Lex's jaw tightened, and he pressed a few more switches, one
of which triggered a tight-beam radio message to a satellite resting
in geosynchronous orbit. Lex stared at the screen for a moment, then
stood up and went back to bed. The equipment would do its job now,
and when he woke up in the morning, he would know what would have to
be done, and where to do it.

* * * * *

Lex sped along the road, in shock at what he had just
discovered. When he had examined the readings from the equipment, he
had checked the results twice, then driven to a now-familiar location
to confirm a suspicion. What had started as a wild hope now was a
cold certainty, and he was aware that the anger he had felt was still
quite present, though thoroughly entangled with rather different
emotions.

Lex screeched to a stop and got out of his car, walking
quickly towards the front door of the house. The screen door opened,
and Martha Kent stared at the intruder as she called out, "Lex? What
in the world--?"

"Hello, Mrs. Kent? Mind if I come in?" Lex barged past the
stunned woman, his eyes sweeping the room. Nothing seemed to be out
of the ordinary, but he knew better. He heard the footsteps behind
him, and he turned, grinning and calling out, "Mr. Kent. Long time
no see."

Jonathan Kent took a deep breath: whatever issues he had
with Lex, he knew the young man was not at his best right now. He
met Lex's calm stare and suggested, "Lex, why don't we go out to the
barn? There are some things of Clark's there that I know he'd have
wanted you to have."

"Really? And how exactly do you know that, Mr. Kent?" The
Kents both blinked as Lex asked the question in a cheerful,
irreverent voice. Lex frowned and added, "It doesn't seem right,
giving a guy's stuff away without consulting him. . .so why don't you
have him come out here and tell me himself?"

Martha paled, and Jonathan reddened momentarily before
calming himself again and replying in a low, grim tone, "Lex, I know
you're hurting, but this is not acceptable behavior. Clark's dead:
you're just going to have to deal with it like the rest of us."

"I noticed there wasn't an autopsy, Jonathan." Lex's tone
was matter of fact: he paced absently as the Kents watched him with
increasingly upset expressions. He looked back at Jonathan and
added, "Which is not surprising: everyone in Smallville knows that
it's more likely that the Earth would stop rotating than that you'd
do anything to hurt Clark." He smiled coldly, then concluded, "That
being said, I can make two phone calls, and Clark will be exhumed and
an autopsy will be conducted faster than you can say 'Zachary
Taylor.' Now, I repeat: where's Clark?"

"You miserable son of a--!" Jonathan Kent strode forward,
drawing his hand back to punch the intruder in the jaw, while Lex
stood there, preparing to block the punch without hurting Clark's
father-

"Stop it."

Both men froze: Jonathan slumped in defeat, while Lex tensed
with the effort it took to remain composed as he turned and saw
Clark, very much alive and watching him with a look of profound
sadness on his face. He smiled and called out, "Can't wait to hear
you explain this one."

Clark inclined his head, and motioned for Lex to follow him
upstairs. Jonathan stood in silence, while Martha watched the two
friends head up to Clark's room and muttered, "I wouldn't mind
hearing that, either."

Part II

Clark opened the door to his bedroom, and motioned for Lex to
follow him in. Lex did so and blinked as he took in the appearance
of the room. He had visited Clark here more than once, both alone
and in the company of Clark's friends, and he had always seen it as
an extension of his friend's personality: free of extraneous
clutter, but with plenty of untidiness that suggested an active life
and mind at work. Now, the place was pin neat, with all surfaces
clear of loose objects and everything precisely located to make it
seem pristine. It looked like a museum exhibit-or a tomb. Clark
noticed the unsettled look on Lex's face, and commented quietly, "I'm
not sure who should go first here: you wanting to know what's going
on, or me wanting to know how you figured it out."

Lex shrugged with a casualness he didn't really feel and
glanced at Clark, noticing a bulge in his front shirt pocket. He
reached out in a negligent manner and pulled the gold ankh out of
Clark's pocket, then handed it to him. Clark took it, puzzled, and
Lex took a moment to enjoy having turned the tables on Clark before
explaining, "Your parents let me handle the arrangements for the
gravestone and the coffin, even though they wouldn't let me near the
other elements of the ceremony." Clark looked apologetic, but Lex
waved him off as he continued: "The coffin was rigged with vibration
sensors that automatically began operating three hours after it was
buried. The gravestone contained a low-powered transmitter which had
the sole function of preventing the transponder in the ankh from
functioning. The transmitter only had about a twenty foot range, so
when the ankh left the area of the grave, the transponder showed up
rather quickly. When I got up the next morning, the signal was
coming straight from this room. I didn't believe it at first, and I
went to the cemetery. The ground looked completely undisturbed,
Clark: someone tampering with the grave wouldn't have been able to
pull that off. Which doesn't explain how you managed it, of course."

Clark nodded, then commented, "Considering the hi-tech
scenario you just described, I would have guessed that you were
expecting me to rise from the grave. Or did you have another reason
for hiding a tracer on my 'corpse'?"

Lex blinked, and turned away slightly. Clark had seen many
expressions on Lex's face over the years, but this was the first time
he could ever remember seeing the older man look embarrassed. Clark
waited, and after a few moments Lex replied quietly, "A lot of people
around here knew that we were-are-friends, including people that
might have some ideas of robbing the dead for fun and profit. I had
an unpleasant feeling that you might not be allowed to rest easy, so
I simply decided to make sure that anyone who tampered with your
final repose wouldn't live long enough to enjoy their profits. I
know certain people, Clark: that ankh would have been a death
warrant within twenty-four hours to any other being on Earth who
possessed it, and anyone else who assisted them."

Clark stared at Lex, paling slightly, then replied in a shaky
tone, "Uh, thanks, I think." He took a deep breath, then added, "I
guess it's my turn now." He turned away and whispered, "The main
question is where to start, I guess."

"Well, for starters, you can explain where you got that
convincing looking fake corpse, and why you risked blowing the whole
thing to get that ankh, Clark." Lex wasn't bothering to hide his
confusion. "I mean, if it was important enough to make people think
you were dead, why take a risk like that?"

Lex watched Clark as his expression became visibly
conflicted; clearly, he was having serious doubts about how to
answer. After a moment, the younger man sighed and responded, "Lex,
I don't know how to tell you this, but that was really me who was
buried. Me with enough makeup to make me look like an embalmed
corpse, but me nonetheless."

Lex shook his head in disbelief and replied, "Impossible.
You weren't breathing, and I brushed your throat when I was pinning
the ankh on you: you didn't have a pulse."

Clark grinned and explained, "Biocontrol, Lex. A little bit
of meditation, and some other tricks, and I was able to breathe
shallowly and slow my pulse enough to fool anything short of a real
autopsy, which my parents were able to prevent. Simple."

Lex stared at Clark skeptically and replied, "Fine, but that
still leaves you six feet under and in a closed coffin. I'm as much
of a 'Buffy' fan as the next guy, but people don't dig their way out
of graves, at least not without leaving a lot bigger mess than you
did, and you would have been running a hell of a risk-" Lex paused
in mid-sentence, then looked at Clark and grinned, asking: "A
tunnel, right? You heard about some old tunnels beneath the cemetery
and you arranged to be buried right next to one."

Clark paused again, this time for a longer interval, and Lex
was about to ask what he was thinking about when Clark shook his head
and replied, "There were no tunnels, Lex: at least there weren't any
when I got down there."

Four years of life in Smallville, with all of the weirdness
that it involved, allowed Lex to quickly realize what Clark was
implying, and his reaction was one of disbelief rather than
confusion: "You're not saying--?"

"I broke through the side of the coffin, then started digging
a tunnel to a point I had picked out last week: an open area inside
a section of thick brush. I waited for a time when no one was
around, then came back here, where I've been ever since." Clark's
tone was matter of fact, and he smiled slightly at the completely
disbelieving expression on Lex's face, adding, "It takes a long time
to get the dirt out from under your fingernails after that, believe
me."

Lex shook his head, and a four year old question came back to
the front of his mind: "Clark: that day on the bridge--?"

"You hit me square on at sixty miles an hour, and I dove in,
peeled the top open like a beer can, and pulled you out." Clark
spoke quietly, watching for Lex's reaction. The older man was
silent, and Clark began to become uneasy. He waited a few more
moments, then verbally nudged him: "Uh, Lex. . .are you going to say
anything?"

Lex blinked again, then looked back at Clark calmly and
asked, "Clark, if I hauled off and slugged you in the jaw right now
I'd probably break my hand, right?" Clark nodded, and Lex sighed and
continued, "All right, then I'll settle for giving you a dirty look
and asking for an explanation. How, Clark? Is it the meteor rocks:
did they give you these abilities?"

"Not exactly: I seem to have arrived WITH the meteor
rocks." Lex's eyes widened at the explanation, and Clark nodded and
added, "So I won't be running for President against you, Lex: not a
native born citizen."

"Not to mention legally dead," Lex pointed out. He had
absorbed the initial shock of the revelation, and the expression on
his face was openly curious. He locked eyes with Clark and
asked, "All right, I've got a handle on the how, but I'm still not
getting the why, Clark. You've been hiding these abilities for years
now, and you even managed to give me the slip when I was spending a
hell of a lot of money to prove you had them. What's changed?"

Lex had noted that-in spite of the intensity of the
conversation-Clark had seemed to be getting more relaxed as they had
talked, visibly enjoying the exchanges with his old friend. Now,
Clark's face seemed to close down a little as he sat down on his
bed. Lex sat next to him, concerned, as Clark replied, "It's been
getting harder to hide it, Lex. Things keep happening here, because
of the meteor rocks and. . .other reasons, and I've almost been
caught doing something inexplicable several times in the past year.
It's been hard enough to keep my secret here, living on a farm and in
a place where weird things happen almost daily: it's been uncovered
several times, with only fatal accidents or comas keeping it from
going public. I was scheduled to go to Metropolis University this
fall, Lex: sooner or later, something was going to give."

Lex nodded, but still looked puzzled. Clark frowned, then
continued, "That's not all, Lex. I've had time now to get used to my
abilities, and I've decided that I want to use them to help people
all over the world, not just here in Smallville, or even just in
Metropolis. If I do that, I can do a lot of good, but I'm also going
to attract a lot of unwanted attention from people who want to use me
or get even with me. Sam Phelan found out, and you remember how that
ended up." Lex's face contorted with anger, remembering how he
leaned over the dying ex-cop, trying to find out Clark's secret and
only getting a whispered curse before the man expired. Clark nodded,
and continued: "With Clark Kent dead, I'll be able to operate more
freely, without easily identifiable targets that can suffer for what
I do."

Lex was appalled, and he didn't bother to hide it as he
responded angrily, "Damn it, Clark! Those people aren't 'targets,'
they're your friends, and you've caused them a great deal of pain by
doing what you've done. I understand your concerns, and your
intentions are good, but why couldn't you have come to me, Clark? I
would have understood: we could have figured out a way to protect
your identity, or at worst I would have been glad to provide any
protection your other friends and family needed. You had to know
that, Clark." He stood up, and grasped Clark's shoulders as he
whispered urgently, "It's not too late, Clark. We can come up with
some story about witness protection, or some meteor related
weirdness, that explains why you had to fake your death. I'll pay
whatever it takes to fake the evidence: you could be at
your 'Welcome Back' party tomorrow, and go on from there. You don't
have to be dead to save the world, Clark."

Clark twisted slightly, freeing himself from Lex's grasp as
he stood and walked to his window, looking out onto the farm and
toward the horizon. After a few moments, he sighed and replied
without turning around, "I know you could do it, Lex. You could
explain it away, protect me and everyone around me from everyone else
on Earth who wanted them harmed, or at least you'd do it better than
anyone else I could think of." Lex felt warmth towards his younger
friend, and he was about to continue coaxing him when Clark turned
back to him with a look of accusation in his eyes and concluded
softly, "But who's going to protect me from you, Lex?"

Lex reacted as if he had been slapped, and stared at his
friend as he answered uncomprehendingly, "Clark, what are you talking
about? I'd never-"

"Never finance Dr. Hamilton's experiments with the meteor
rocks that led to the Nicodemus plant killing that man and nearly
getting my Dad, Lana, and Pete in the bargain?" Clark's voice was
cold, and the tone shocked Lex almost as much as the words. Noting
the reaction, Clark continued, "Oh, and continuing to fund him at
that private lab in Metropolis, leading to several deaths and
threatening countless lives?" He mentioned three other, more recent
incidents, and Lex was stunned at the details that Clark was aware
of: that information should only be available in-- He flushed
angrily, and Clark paused in his recitation and asked quietly, "You
wanted to say something, Lex?"

"You've been reading my personal files, Clark." The coldness
of Lex's tone matched Clark's now, and his expression was of outraged
betrayal. He stalked up to Clark, and shouted from two feet
away, "How long have you been invading my privacy?"

"Not for all that long, Lex." Clark's tone had gone quiet
again, and Lex blinked and took a step back as Clark continued, "I
knew your codes: you've been kidnapped several times since I've
known you, and it occurred to me a long time ago that if you were in
a really bad spot, there might not be anyone on Earth you trusted
enough to get into those files. I obtained the codes for that
reason, with the hope I'd never have to use them. I never did-until
the day after the Prometheus Project incident."

Lex had thought he was immune to further shock from this
conversation, but the mention of the Prometheus Project caused him to
take another step back, then to sink into a convenient chair as he
absorbed Clark's revelation. The Prometheus Project had been Lex's
most ambitious goal yet: a new approach to controlled hydrogen
fusion that-if successful-would have made every other source of
energy in the world obsolete. The promise had blinded Lex to the
potential risks, and he had ignored the warnings of a physicist on
the project that the design had an unacceptable risk of running away
and causing a multi-megaton nuclear explosion. The project had gone
online two months before, without notifying any civilian or military
authorities, and had quickly run out of control. Lex had been in the
control room, listening to the grim reports of the scientists and
wondering how history would view him, when the video monitors in the
reactor room had all gone dead. By the time they had gone back on,
radiation levels had returned to normal, and the entire reactor was
gone, apparently ripped from the floor like a stray weed. A hole in
the roof of the building was apparently its departure point, but an
intense-if covert-investigation had revealed precisely nothing as to
its fate. Clark had been elsewhere in the complex, doing a story for
the school paper on one of Luthor Corp's hiring projects, and had
said nothing to him at the time about knowing what had happened. Lex
stared at Clark, and began, "Clark, I-"

Clark held up his hand, and Lex stopped in mid-sentence.
Clark shook his head in anger as he explained, "I got rid of the
reactor-tossed it out into space-but I couldn't believe that you had
taken such a risk with the lives of innocent people, Lex. If that
reactor had detonated, it would have taken Smallville, the
surrounding towns, and half of Metropolis with it. I had to convince
myself that it was just a moment of bad judgment, an aberration, so I
went through your files, Lex: all of them." He looked down and
swallowed hard, continuing, "You've been taking bigger and bigger
chances over the years, Lex, trying to outmaneuver your father,
gaining personal power, recruiting new allies. The amazing thing is,
you've done relatively little direct harm to other people so far, but
it can't last, Lex. Sooner or later, you're going to do something
that kills or harms a lot of people, and I can't let that happen. As
long as you stay on this path, Lex, we are going to be at cross-
purposes, and I know how you deal with people who get in your way."

Lex--still trying to comprehend Clark's casual explanation of
how he disposed of a multi-ton active reactor-struggled to deal with
Clark's grim explanation for his change of outlook, and for several
moments neither man spoke. Lex looked back at Clark, then stated
softly, "Clark. . .I've tried to tell you over the years that
sometimes things in life aren't cut and dried, that sometimes one has
to do things that seem wrong on the surface-"

Clark shook his head, and replied, "No, Lex. That might
justify some things, but not what I've found. You're after power,
Lex, and I don't think you care too much who you have to go through
to get it. You've helped a lot of people in this town, Lex, but it
all would have vanished in one flash of light if I hadn't stepped in,
and you don't seem particularly remorseful about it." Clark blinked,
then concluded bluntly, "I can't do what I need to do and be your
friend, Lex. Clark Kent is your friend: he has to die."

Lex watched Clark quietly for a moment, then responded
quietly, "Clark, I had no idea you were thinking this way, no idea
what my actions were doing to you." He looked away for a moment,
then asked, "Clark, is there anything I can do to make you change
your mind?"

Clark's eyes narrowed, and he watched Lex's face carefully as
he asked, "Could you give it up, Lex? The pursuit of power for its
own sake? The willingness to sacrifice lives to meet your goals?
Could you live simply as a man of great ability who seeks to do great
things, without having to violate the rules or otherwise cut
corners? Is that ability in you, Lex?"

Lex began to open his mouth, to tell Clark that of course he
could do it, or any other damned thing he had to do to get him to
stay. He found that he couldn't: the damnable truth was that giving
that all up would feel like selling his soul, and he couldn't do
that, not even for Clark, even though there was a rather substantial
part of himself that wanted to say yes, and mean it. He looked back
into Clark's eyes, and knew that he couldn't lie to him, not about
this. He closed his mouth, and shook his head slightly as he
whispered, "I'm sorry, Clark."

Clark nodded, and replied in a voice that only trembled
slightly: "I'm sorry too, Lex." As the epitaph of a four-year
friendship, it wasn't much, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. Lex
stood silently, and turned to leave when Clark called out, "Lex?"

Lex turned, and Clark locked eyes with him and spoke in a
tone that implied that he was dealing with an evasive debtor: "Lex,
I've revealed my secret to you because once you knew I wasn't dead,
there was nothing that would keep you from pursuing it and dragging
me back out of the grave except the truth. Doing so means that you
know of people who still mean something to me, and gives you a
potential means of manipulating me. On the other hand, I know things
about you that-although I don't have any legally admissible proof of
them-could do you great harm if I released them publicly. I am
willing to bury what I know now forever, to never reveal it, in
exchange for your solemn word that you will never in any way harm or
manipulate the people I have known in this place for the purposes of
gaining leverage or revenge on me. If you ever do, I will release
the information, and quite probably come and kill you. Do we
understand each other?"

Lex Luthor straightened slightly, nodded once, and left the
bedroom, walking down the stairs and heading for the door. Jonathan
Kent heard the footsteps and turned to see Lex coming down. He
despised him for what he had driven his son to, and he stood to lash
into the younger man for what he had done. The desolate look on
Lex's face and in his eyes stopped him; for the first time since he
met Lex, he felt genuine pity for him. He stood aside as Lex went
out the kitchen door without acknowledging Martha, and the sound of a
sports car engine roaring to life announced his departure moments
later.

Jonathan and Martha exchanged worried looks, then headed
upstairs, finding Clark staring out the window at the horizon again.
Martha stepped forward, then called out softly, "Clark? Are you--?"

"I'm fine." Clark's voice was calm, but unconvincing, and
Martha was about to press the issue when he added, "I'm a little
tired: I think I'm going to take a nap. Could you bring me dinner
in about three hours? I'll have to finish packing a few more things
after I eat."

Martha nodded and replied, "Of course, Clark," and she
slipped out of the room as Jonathan pulled the door shut. They
walked downstairs, then sat on the sofa, both looking up at their
son's soon to be permanently vacant room with helpless expressions on
their faces.

EPILOGUE

Five Years Later

The door was six inches thick, made of titanium and
reinforced with neo-plastic struts that would have sufficed to
protect against a near miss by a thermonuclear warhead. It survived
the first impact, though a huge dent appeared in its precise center.
The second one tore the door off of its hinges and sent it skittering
back into the room, allowing the icy cold and the sound of howling
winds to penetrate the sanctuary.

Superman strode into the room, scanning with his super-vision
to seek any spots that had escaped his attention when he had examined
it from outside. He had discovered this place two days before, when
he had noticed that the network of satellites that the United States,
Russia, and other spacefaring nations had erected over the years had
a glaring blind spot that happened to coincide with this otherwise
rather nondescript mountain peak in Antarctica. After dealing with
several other crises of the moment, he had flown to the area and
discovered evidence that the place had been built by Luthor. Kicking
the door in wasn't exactly by the book, with no innocent lives
apparently at stake, but Superman knew that Luthor didn't have any
legal claim to the mountain, and wouldn't raise a fuss.

It had been over four years now since Superman had revealed
himself to the world, and the attention paid to everything he did in
public view was obsessive, if predictable. He had filled out some
since his high school days: heavy muscle rippled under the skintight
costume. He found it amusing at times: his face was by now the most
famous on Earth, yet none of his former friends seemed to have
noticed that there was a bit of a resemblance between the new
superhero and a now long deceased Smallville resident.

Those friends were all doing well, more or less, though he
rarely had time to check on them these days. He had only been
formally introduced to one of them: Intergang had attacked a
regional journalism conference the prior year, intending to
intimidate some of the attendees from pursuing certain news stories.
Superman had arrived and incapacitated the criminals, and had turned
them over to the police and was preparing to depart when Lois Lane
walked over with a smile on her face, calling out, "Superman, while
I've got you here, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

He had turned, and had come within a hair of flinching as he
recognized the stunning woman by Lois' side. Oblivious to his
reaction, Lois had continued: "Superman, meet-"

"Chloe Sullivan." He had interrupted Lois, then extended his
hand, and Chloe took it, shaking it firmly with a surprised
expression on her face. Superman had smiled and explained, "I've
read your work, Ms. Sullivan-I'm very impressed with it."

She had smiled broadly and replied, "Thank you." He looked
for signs of recognition on her face, but only saw simple respect and
gratitude there. He had sighed inwardly and made his apologies
before departing: there was a flood in Tanzania to dispose of.

Superman was relieved to find no traps or active sensors in
the room. Since Luthor had discovered that he was vulnerable to the
meteor fragments-now known as kryptonite-his life had been more
interesting, in the ancient Chinese curse's sense of the word. There
had been a couple of close calls, and the last one had caused him to
design a new costume woven from late generation ballistic cloth, and
with a titanium plate sewn in over his heart. No good against head
shots, of course, but one couldn't have everything.

The place seemed to be abandoned. Superman could see a few
stray fingerprints belonging to Luthor here and there, which
indicated to him that Luthor didn't expect him to find anything
incriminating-Luthor wasn't usually that careless.

The only remaining object in the room of interest was a small
desk. Superman could see a thin manila envelope resting inside: its
inside was apparently lined with lead foil. He tensed slightly, then
walked over and reached in, retrieving the envelope. He carefully
felt the envelope, and failed to detect any evident uneven areas that
would indicate kryptonite nuggets, or a letter bomb. Cautiously, he
opened the envelope and pulled out the lead foil. A color photo
slipped out from between the folds and fell to the floor. Superman
reached out to pick it up and froze: the picture was of an object he
was intimately familiar with, and only his very discerning gaze could
spot the signs of the digital alterations to the original that left
the appearance slightly different. The tombstone read:

CLARK KENT

1986-2005

BELOVED SON AND FRIEND

MURDERED BY HIS BEST FRIEND'S AMBITION

Antarctica remained one of the most hostile places on Earth,
even in that time, and there was no other living being for fifty
miles. So it was that no one was present to perceive the quiet
sobbing that could be heard over the howling sub-zero winds, as the
Man of Tomorrow mourned the life and the friendship that had died
five years before in a farmhouse in Kansas, leaving an embittered man
and a wounded hero behind to continue with the knowledge of what
might have been.

As before, comments are welcome and desired.

Death Of A Champion

2003-06-11T02:48:58Z

Spectacular Bid died yesterday, after a magnificent racing career and (alas) a rather undistinguished two decades at stud. My father was always a horse racing fan, and I had been fascinated by Affirmed's three great wins over Alydar the previous year, so I was watching with interest as Spectacular Bid won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, only to fall short in the Belmont--victimized by a wounded hoof and an inexperienced jockey. It was 1979, and three horses in the previous six years had won Triple Crowns (Secretariat, Seattle Slew, and Affirmed). Some thought that, of the legendary thoroughbreds of that era, Spectacular Bid would be the greatest of all (in point of fact, some still do think that). No one would have dreamed that Spectacular Bid would be the first in a long line of disappointments as far as the Triple Crown went (though he was far from a disappointment in the rest of his racing career), or that he would die after a long life just after the latest challenger to the jinx fell short. It is hard to say whether Spectacular Bid's death would have seemed even more timely if Funny Cide had pulled off the hat trick and landed his Cinderella-like owners that $5 million bonus, ending a quarter-century of famine that began so soon after the racing world had known feasts--and legends. In an era where athletes all too often disappoint us with their foibles, there is a special joy to be had in watching a great thoroughbred run. Whether they run to immortal glory or ignominious defeat, they are giving us their best--and we won't have to put up with the complaining afterwards on ESPN Classic or in the latest sports memoir.

And to Spectacular Bid--thanks for the memories.

Historical Illiteracy

2003-02-16T03:50:21Z

Ford has a commercial out that uses historical tax cuts as background for talking about their deals on car financing. Unfortunately, the first line of the commercial hit me like the sound of fingernails scratching down a blackboard, amplified to the volume of an air raid siren: "In 1921, Calvin Coolidge signed a tax cut--"

STOP. RIGHT. NOW!

Two different men served as President of the United States during 1921. Woodrow Wilson finished off his second term in 1921: he was an invalid due to a stroke he suffered in late 1919. On March 4th, Warren Harding was sworn into office, where he remained until dying suddenly on August 2, 1923 from a stroke--his Vice President, Calvin Coolidge, assumed the Presidency at that time and was re-elected in 1924 in his own right.

Now, I know it would be nice to pretend Warren Harding never existed: he was probably the worst president in history, with only a few other candidates for the position (Grant, Nixon, and one or two others depending on your political sensibilities). Republicans would certainly like to forget he ever existed, and Democrats probably would just as soon downplay the fact that their 1920 ticket (James Cox/FDR) got trounced by such a non-entity. However, facts are facts. Harding was President in 1921, Coolidge was Vice-President and didn't sign a damned thing except maybe an occasional check at lunch. Someone had to approve this commercial--dozens of people must have heard the text of it before it went on the air. Didn't *one* of them learn enough in U.S. History in high school to pause and go "Hmmm. That doesn't sound quite right." Doesn't Ford employ people to, you know, make sure the facts they use in putting a commercial together are actually. . .FACTS?

This may seem like a silly, trivial thing to go on a rant about, but I see it as a symptom. Listening to the rhetoric of those from the antiwar movement has led me to believe that most of them used their history textbooks to even out the weight distribution for the controlled substances they were carrying around in their backpacks and smoking during recess. If people don't know or understand history, of course they're not going to have a clue about what's going on in the world. Most of the people living in South Korea now weren't alive when the North Korean Army came pouring over the 38th Parallel like an evil tide, and the youngsters are thinking maybe that goofy looking guy in the military uniform really doesn't want to loot their nation and drag them into the hellish existence that is life north of the DMZ. It would be really nice if some of them would bother to listen to their parents and grandparents about just how bad things were fifty years ago, and why their very lives depend on treating those crazy bastards to the north with the appropriate levels of attention and righteous anger.

Santayana warned us that those of us who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. From what I'm seeing, that's a big problem in the world today, and I sure as hell don't want a repeat performance of the history that people seem to be most blissfully ignorant of lately.

Oh well, back to writing.

More Writing. . .Dare I Hope For Momentum?

2003-02-15T02:47:31Z

Finished and posted a Buffyverse story last night: "More Than Words," a Buffy/Xander conversation piece. Onward! :-)

Plugging Away

2003-02-10T07:48:03Z

Finished a short Smallville story tonight--"Sealed," It's a Chloe/Pete conversation piece from Chloe's POV. I suppose I was just trading one cliche for another here, but I liked the way it turned out.

Take *that*, evil writer's block! :-)

What Would Edith Want?

2003-02-07T07:32:14Z

Powell's presentation before the UNSC yesterday made plenty of waves: it's been gratifying to see a substantial number of people (some openly, and others more reluctantly) moving towards the idea that, no, we really haven't been making a big fuss over nothing and no, it isn't that we just want to grab that big puddle of oil under Saddam's fat ass. Some, of course, remain unconvinced, and would apparently remain so if Saddam lobbed a Sarin cannister onto the White House lawn. Countless arguments have already gone by the boards on this matter, and I certain don't expect to change any minds with my thoughts on the matter. However, while reading the umpteenth claim that this is all a scam by Dubya and his administration to do any number of nefarious things, I thought of a connection I made long ago when I first started writing fanfiction.

I'm a Buffy fan, as most people reading these words know all too well. It's hard to believe that it's coming up on five years since "Becoming Part 2," the last episode of the second season and the most commonly cited as the best of the series, though in recent years others occasionally finish higher in votes. I've watched the last fifteen minutes of that episode probably fifty to sixty times, but it never fails to mesmerize me: Buffy faced with that awful, awful duty, then having to go on with that knowledge in her head, alone. When I saw it for the first time, I knew it had a certain air of familiarity to it, and eventually I figured out what it was--sending Angel to Hell was Buffy's Edith Keeler moment.

For those who don't remember the name, or who don't watch Star Trek in any of its incarnations, the reference is to the episode which is, more or less, the equivalent of "Becoming Part 2" to fans of the original Star Trek series: "City On The Edge of Forever." An accident and a bizarre series of events sends Dr. McCoy back in time to Earth's past, where he takes actions that change Earth's history in a way that destroys the future that the Enterprise calls home. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, protected from the change by the influence of the time portal, go back to prevent the catastrophic change. While looking for McCoy, Kirk and Spock meet Edith Keeler, a beautiful woman who is an idealist--she sees a future without poverty, without hate, one where mankind reaches the stars and beyond. Before long, Kirk has fallen in love with her. Spock has managed to use his tricorder to discover what the change was that destroyed the future, and both men are shocked to find that the crucial factor was Edith Keeler--she was meant to die in a street accident in the very year they arrived in. McCoy saved her life, and she went on to found an influential peace movement that delayed the entry of the United States into WWII long enough for the Nazis to develop the atomic bomb first and win the war. The world tore itself apart in the aftermath of the Nazi takeover--it was the end of everything.. Edith Keeler has to die. Kirk is aghast, and confesses to Spock that he loves her, but when the moment comes, and Kirk sees McCoy about to throw Edith out of the way of the truck bearing down on her, it is Kirk who grabs McCoy and stops him, with his eyes squeezed tight against the horror of what is about to happen. After it is done, McCoy turns to his best friend in horror and says to him, "You deliberately stopped me! I could have saved her! Do you know what you just did?" Kirk is silent in shock and grief, and it is left to Spock to reply to McCoy in with words that prove his claim not to understand human emotions is a lie: "He knows, Doctor. He knows."

Both Buffy and Jim Kirk were faced with decisions that were going to rip their hearts out, moments that would destroy many if not most who faced them. Yet there was no other real option for either of them: the consequences of not doing what they did would be even worse. The interesting question is to ask what they were able to draw on beyond a simple call to duty in order to summon the strength to do what needed to be done, and to emerge with some measure of sanity. In both cases, I have seen it suggested that both Buffy and Jim Kirk were able to ask themselves deep down: "What would Angel/Edith want?" Looking at it from a surface viewpoint, it's pretty obvious that Angel wouldn't want to get stabbed with a sword and sent to Hell for centuries of torture, and Edith didn't want to be killed by a truck. The question goes deeper than that: if Angel/Edith knew everything that Buffy/Kirk knows, what would they want her/him to do?" Angel wouldn't want the world sucked into hell, particularly if he was going to be sucked there anyway, so Buffy had a pretty easy call there--the main horror of the situation was having to do the deed herself. As for Edith, the situation is a bit more complicated. Edith's death would mean that the peace movement she would have led would be diminished or obliterated altogether (though even in the actual history there was certainly a powerful isolationist movement in the United States), and that would be disturbing to her. She would know what the future was to bring, however, and would almost certainly decide that the short term frustration of her goals was a fair price to pay for the future she had dreamed of, even if she would never see it. Given the necessary horror of the years that followed, her death was probably a blessing for her.

Edith Keeler was an enormously sympathetic character, and watching her die is genuinely wrenching, even though the rational viewer knows that if she lives, the world is doomed. Edith loves peace, and that is an admirable quality. More importantly, she has no way of knowing what the consequences of her actions will be. As Kirk and Spock observed, peace was the way. . .just not at that time in history. However, imagine an Edith who somehow was able to see what the fifty years after her death were like, including the events leading up to WWII and their aftermath, then return to her own time. If Edith, with the certain knowledge of what the consequences of pursuing peace at all costs would be, went right back to urging peace without regard to what the consequences would be, would she remain a sympathetic character? Not to me, and I suspect not to a lot of other people. We can forgive much that is done in genuine ignorance and with good intentions, but when the consequences are due to reckless indifference or malice, we become far less understanding, even in this era of the convenient excuse for escaping personal accountability.

WWII was a fifty million corpse message to the human race that the appeasement of expansionist dictators leads to disaster. Peace is a worthy goal, but it cannot be the trump card that overrides all other concerns--if it becomes that, then humanity will be at the mercy of the first miscreant who chooses to exploit that vulnerability. Saddam Hussein is not Adolf Hitler, even in miniature, but he lives in an era where a handful of weapons of mass destruction can have more military influence than half a million troops, and he sits on the pulse point of the economy of the world. It is largely a matter of good fortune that he is not already in a position to exert his will over the entire Middle East: only the vilified heroism of the Israeli Air Force and his own greed in trying to seize Kuwait too soon have prevented him from amassing a nuclear arsenal far more formidable than the one that North Korea is attempting to acquire before the eyes of an appalled world. He is ruthless, stubborn, and has a huge grudge against the United States and many of his own neighbors. We do not have the excuse of ignorance that an Edith Keeler did--we know the consequences of inaction, and the futility of actions that have been repeated without success. We owe it to those who live today, and those who will follow us, not to hesitate as the leaders of 1936 did in their ignorance of what would follow--we know better. We can ask ourselves what Edith would want, but in the end we must ask ourselves what we must do--as Buffy and Jim Kirk found out the hard way, the less terrible choice is still often quite terrible, but that in no way makes it less necessary.

Portrait of A Gray Lady In Her Declining Years

2003-02-06T10:29:18Z

The New York Times. under the now-infamous guidance of executive editor Howell Raines, is quickly becoming a caricature of the most nasty portrayals of it as a left wing rag. General Powell's presentation to the UN Security Council has a lot of people who were extremely skeptical about the prospect of war in Iraq admitting that there might well have been a point to all of this. Richard Cohen (someone I rarely agree with, but who is honest and bright) and Mary McGrory (who, sad to say, has never impressed me with either her intellect or her honesty) both have columns in this morning's Washington Post lauding Powell's speech and admitting that there is a case for the U.S. to act, alone if need be. On the other hand, the NYT's lead editorial reads like the answer to the question: "If you put an infinite number of cheese-eating surrender monkeys in a room with typewriters, what editorial would they write?":

The Case Against Iraq

Secretary of State Colin Powell presented the United Nations and a global television audience yesterday with the most powerful case to date that Saddam Hussein stands in defiance of Security Council resolutions and has no intention of revealing or surrendering whatever unconventional weapons he may have. In doing so, with the help of spy satellite photos and communications intercepts, Mr. Powell placed squarely before the Security Council the fateful question of how it should respond. As American military forces in the region build toward full strength, President Bush should continue to let diplomacy work. The manner in which the United States wields its great power, and the regard it gives to the views of other nations, are vital matters as a showdown with Iraq draws near. The character of America is at issue as much as its military might.

Mr. Powell's most convincing evidence was of efforts by Iraq to shield chemical or biological weapons programs from United Nations inspectors. The intercepted conversations of Republican Guard officers that he played, in which they urgently seek to hide equipment or to destroy communications in advance of inspections, offered stark evidence that Mr. Hussein has not only failed to cooperate with the inspectors, as Resolution 1441 requires him to, but has actively sought to thwart them. Mr. Powell also offered new evidence that Al Qaeda terrorists have found safe harbor in Iraq, but the links between Baghdad and the terror network seemed more tenuous than his other charges.

Mr. Powell's presentation was all the more convincing because he dispensed with apocalyptic invocations of a struggle of good and evil and focused on shaping a sober, factual case against Mr. Hussein's regime. It may not have produced a "smoking gun," but it left little question that Mr. Hussein had tried hard to conceal one.

In response to Mr. Powell's presentation, the foreign ministers of France, Germany, China and Russia called for extending and strengthening the inspection program in Iraq. The French minister, Dominique de Villepin, proposed expanding the number of inspectors and increasing the pressure on Iraq to comply. With the senior inspectors due to make their next report to the Security Council next week, Iraq still has a chance to change course.

President Bush's decision to dispatch Mr. Powell to present the administration's case before the Security Council showed a wise concern for international opinion. Since Mr. Bush's own address to the U.N. last September, he has kept faith with his commitment to work through the Security Council. As the crisis builds, he should make every possible effort to let the council take the lead.

The Security Council, the American people and the rest of the world have an obligation to study Mr. Powell's presentation very closely and very seriously. Because the consequences of war are so terrible, and the cost of rebuilding Iraq so great, the United States cannot afford to confront Iraq without broad international support.

We have more than enough support right now, Mr. Raines, and--as you admit in between cringes--we have more than enough evidence. Get with the program, or get the hell out of the way.

And On A Less Uplifting Note. . .

2003-02-05T08:45:19Z

As those who have conversed with me recently know, I'm more than a little ticked off at the craven behavior of the French regarding the impending action in Iraq. I replied to a post on the subject (again at tacitus.org), and began my response with the following line:

"To put it bluntly, the only thing worth consulting France about these days is the location of the nearest Jerry Lewis film festival."

*Then* I got insulting. :-)

Think I've got a future in the diplomatic corps? ;-)

To Boldly Go. . .

2003-02-05T06:41:39Z

With the Columbia disaster on everyone's mind, a lot of people have been talking about the future of space travel. I posted this to a thread on the subject at the Tacitus site:

The history of manned spaceflight in the post-Apollo years is, in a sense, a tragedy, without denigrating the accomplishments that have been achieved at the price of the lives of fourteen astronauts and the tireless efforts of many thousands of people. In many ways, we have regressed--it would take us years to merely get back to where we were in 1973; namely, with the ability to send astronauts to the moon safely and bring them back alive. The space program, in essence, was punished for success, and for the less than optimal course that it chose for reaching the moon as quickly as possible, at the cost of abandoning technology that could have easily given us the spaceplane technology that is now looked on as the next big step in aeronautics over twenty years ago. We had good reasons for doing so, but the cost cannot be denied. To go one, we must backtrack, then move forward with a plan that will take us back to the moon, this time to stay, then on to Mars. We must design spacecraft that can safely transport men and women tens of millions of miles, keep them safe for months or years at a time while completely isolated from the familiar support systems of Earth, and hopefully allow them to establish a foothold on a world that, while familiar to us in certain ways, is terribly remote in distance and more hostile to life than almost any spot on the face of the Earth. All of this will be terribly expensive, and will undoubtedly cost human beings great hardship and probably--in some cases--their very lives. But when the first colony on Mars is complete, and a man and a woman stare silently at the blue-green spark in the night sky, knowing that for now their destiny is in their own hands, we will know that it was worth the cost to redeem the promise of Apollo, even as we know that it is only the beginning.

Not particularly original, but I mean every word.

It's getting to be that time of year again. . .

2003-02-04T06:26:01Z

It's getting close to baseball season again, though ESPN.com still isn't spending much time on it, except for a few tidbits. The Yankees have a $164 million payroll? Good grief. If I understand the new luxury tax, they're going to get hammered.

For those who don't know it, I'm a Dodger fan, born and raised. They won the World Series in 1988, and their play since then has suggested that Tommy Lasorda might have sold his soul to pull it off. On the bright side, they've been making some moves in the off-season. The one that caught my attention was when they let Eric Karros go in a trade and picked up Fred "Crime Dog" McGriff as a free agent. Karros was popular in LA and a decent hitter, but great hitters are a dime a dozen these days--Karros was basically a below average first baseman, though he was healthy and talented enough not to be the liability the post Garvey occupants of the position were until he came along. McGriff is older than Karros and generally considered to be in steep decline, but IMO he's actually a better hitter than Karros even now, and the Dodgers didn't give anything up to get him. I like the move, and it bodes well for their chances this year.

The Giants fell just short in the Series last year, and with Jeff Kent heading off to Houston you have to think they ain't gonna get close this year, which leaves Bonds as the major attraction for 2003 in San Francisco. He won't get that World Series ring unless something changes, but he might well have another huge season. Players in their late thirties just aren't supposed to keep getting better, but as last season reached its climax it became clear that almost no one had any idea how to pitch to the guy, and they didn't care to try. If he ever does lose it, will anyone ever notice?

Two months, more or less. I can't wait. :-)

Well, Let's Give This A Try

2003-02-02T07:17:40Z

All right, I'm here and the challenge is not to utterly bore anyone who wanders in here.

Might be tough.