Lawrence Watt-Evans: Out of This World

It was all laid out in the books. This was where the hero differentiated himself from the lesser characters.

James Bond wouldn’t hesitate in taking his assignment, no matter how risky. Horatio Hornblower would never turn down a command, no matter how outgunned he would be. Indiana Jones would go after the artifact, no matter how many booby traps there might be, no matter how many enemies might try to stop him. Any real hero would answer instantly.

But in the books the officer’s breath didn’t smell of the onions he’d eaten at lunch, and there wasn’t an incipient pimple on the side of his neck; the table didn’t have someone’s initials scratched in it; the hero’s stomach wasn’t wrenched out of shape by the thought of his daughter’s death, there weren’t tears itching at the corners of his eyes, he didn’t feel as if he was about to faint or vomit or, worst of all, burst out in hysterical laughter. In the books the world was all smooth and simple, not hard and solid and arbitrary; there were good guys and bad guys, right and wrong, and right always won out in the end.

Was the Galactic Empire right? Maybe it was better than the alternative, but it was no bastion of purity. Since leaving Earth he had not seen a single black person, or any Oriental except Susan Nguyen-where were they all? What had the Empire done with them? He had heard the Imperials openly voice hatred for “mutants,” he had seen a society that to every appearance was racist and sexist and imperialist and saw nothing wrong with any of it. They had hanged every man aboard the pirate ship, had hanged or imprisoned most of the population of Zeta Leo III-mercy was not one of the Empire’s strong suits. Were these the good guys?

And in truth, all he knew about Shadow he had heard from its enemies. True, it had attacked him, but it might be acting in its own defense.

Was he one of the good guys, really?

The bad guys offered their people these choices, too-the agents Bond sent to gruesome deaths, the assassins assigned to kill the hero, they had these offers and they accepted them. Was the Empire in the right?

And if it was, so what?

This was no story. This was real life. There was no author making sure justice was done. Right hadn’t won against Shadow before; why should it now? And how did he even know whether anything this man had said was true?

Rachel might still be alive; he had only the officer’s word that she was not.

He didn’t know what was true. He didn’t know what was right.

The officer was still waiting for his answer.

This was his chance to be the hero, he knew that. All he had to do was say yes. Be brave and strong and true, and despite tragedy, the hero would win out, the evil would be destroyed, the survivors would live happily ever after.

All the stories said so.

Raven would say yes in an instant, he was certain. Raven had all the makings of a traditional hero. He believed in honor and courage and duty, in right and wrong, good and evil.

And look what it had gotten him; the doctors were still working on his back, and his traitor brother was still lord of Stormcrack Keep.

All Pel had to do was say yes.

James Bond would say yes, Indiana Jones, Horatio Hornblower, they’d say yes in an instant.

But Bond was a spy, Hornblower a sea captain, Jones an archeologist-those were their jobs . Pel Brown was a marketing consultant; his job was telling small businesses why their ads didn’t work.

All he had to do was say yes to be a hero, instead of just a marketing consultant.

All he had to do was say yes.

All he had to do was say yes.

“I don’t know,” Pel said.