REALITY
My son takes my hand and squeezes it tightly. I hear him saying many things with his grasp. This is new. This is exciting. I am afraid. When he doesn’t let go I have to consider that he doesn’t realize that the sight of a man and a half-grown boy walking the street hand-and-hand may be looked at askance by a few. He continues walking quickly with me taking in surroundings he has never seen before with his eyes and telling me about them through the pressure of his hand.
My son is eleven, almost twelve, as he would say. He has lived all of his life on a very small moon orbiting minute planet circling an undersized star in a lesser galaxy in a distant corner of the universe. I have tried to teach him about the universe, its strengths and problems, through the works of philosophers, artists, musicians, poets, scientists and teachers. Still, I fear, he is ill equipped for what has been so casually deemed "Reality".
A small boy runs up to us, stops and stares. He looks up at me as if asking for coin and then looks at my son and smiles tauntingly. Dressed in rags he possesses the regality of those who rule the streets. He reaches out and grabs for the projections coming from my son’s wrist and twists them when he makes contact. I know that hurts. Someday these bone blades can be used for fighting weapons, but in a pre-adolescent boy they are sensitive to the touch.
My son swears a curse I don’t remember having taught him, and then despite everything I have tried to instill in him, he lets out a cry of pain. I look down to see one of the blades had been wrenched out of alignment. I look at the boy menacingly and he runs off.
"Why? Why can’t I have them removed like yours were? Why do I have to have these damn things that make me look different and hurt so bad?"
He should have learned that he is different and the reason for these appendages. I don’t want to discuss it again here and now. It is a long explanation that I have discussed with him many, many times; and yet he conveniently decides to forget or ignore. How they are a genetic symbol of his race, a form of protection genetically designed by . . . the story goes on and on, but the sum of substance of it is that he is a Nietzschean – and not just any Nietzschean. He is Tamburlaine Anasazi out of Freya by Tyr. He someday will take his rightful place as the head of all Nietzschean prides, he is the genetic reincarnation of Drago Museveni, and he is, above all, my son.
But right now this genetically superior individual is crying. Partly out of pain, partly out of fear. I feel it best to ignore it. It is not an emotion I wish to reward. There is much the boy needs to know. We walk silently along a street where even I am impressed by the architecture.
* * * *
"Excuse me, but I believe this boy is in need of medical attention." A middle-aged woman walking past us cannot mind her own business. Of course the boy is all right. I look down and notice that there is blood at the base of the blade. Either the young boy was much stronger than I believed, or he had a knife, or my son has been trying to bend the blade back and injured himself more.
"I suggest you consider minding your own business." I growl at her. I do not need strangers intruding in my business . . . and that of my son.
"On this planet, children’s welfare is everyone’s business. If you don’t head for a medical facility immediately, I will have no choice but to report you to the police."
"It’s just a scratch."
"It’s bleeding . . . and it looks like more than a scratch."
I have not dealt with people in a long time. I am afraid I will get confrontational, but have no desire to go to a medical facility. Yet the idea of police is even less inviting.
"We’re on our way to our hotel. I will tend to his wound when I get there."
"I’m going to report you. I need your name."
"And why would I tell you?" I want to hit her, knock her to the ground. Then I realize that this is a woman thinking of my son’s well-being and I am letting paranoia get the best of me. I am as much a stranger to her as she is to me.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere a tall older man approaches. He gently takes her by the shoulder and turns her to him, talking in a language I do not understand, but in a tone that I realize means that things will be taken care of. He pats her on the shoulder and she walks away, not looking back at us. He begins to walk away, too.
"It would be rude if I didn’t thank you. I am a visitor on your planet and so far our welcome has been less than warm. I do not wish that tone to continue." My son looks up at me and I wonder if he considers my actions soft and unmanly.
The man turns and looks me in the eye. He is almost my height, quite slender, with long straight white hair. Piercing blue eyes appear to closely scrutinize me from within a deeply lined face. He seems to have found a glint of recognition in my face.
"Tyr?" It is a voice I have not heard for almost ten years. "Tyr Anasazi out of Victoria by Barbarossa." As if I would be mixed up with some other bladeless Nietzschean also named Tyr.
"It’s me, Dylan." I try to avoid externalizing the gasp. I know I have changed. My long dread-locked hair is gone, it is now just a short fluff that surrounds my face; but the face is the same. His has changed greatly. It is full of deep lines around his eyes and mouth although they frame the same smile.
"Dylan." I grab his arm in the warrior’s handshake he loved to use. It always struck me as strange as such a handshake would have been terribly inappropriate with Nietzscheans. The handshake was not sufficient for him; he pulls me to his body with a full hug. I am embarrassed. Then I realize that he is the first man I have touched with my body since I left the Andromeda.
* * * *
Despite the fact that we had already secured lodging in a hotel, he insisted that we spend our time in his home. It is as comfortable and stylish as you would expect for the man who singularly restored the commonwealth. In the middle of a row of similarly large houses, probably the residences of generals, senators, and perhaps ambassadors, it is furnished with fine wood furniture and decorated with a great deal of artwork from around the universe.
Tammy is excited and has to fill Dylan in on the details he knows about the artists who created his prize artwork. I am sure Dylan is impressed by both my son’s knowledge and enthusiasm.
The injury to his arm was as a suspected, superficial. Dylan seemed somewhat shocked and slightly embarrassed when as he cleaned the blood from the blades, Tammy went to great lengths to explain how touching these appendages made his penis grow. I have talked to my son about sex, both as his duty as a Nietzschean male and as a source of pleasure, and I have taught him that he can discuss anything with me without hesitation. I had forgot to warn him that this same freedom did not extend to others outside our small family. I hope the old goat does not get any ideas about my son.
* * * *
We shared a fine dinner with the food of my childhood, the true Nietzschean food Dylan had always delighted in serving for me. He explained that the humans here had incorporated much of our organic production techniques into their agriculture and our food into their diets. I was particularly impressed by the wide variety of fresh bitter greens served with a vinegar and oil dressing flavored with dried plums. Fresh foods on our world were limited and I had always selected those vegetables I cultivated for their ease of production and nutrition. Variety was an indulgence I chose not to foster.
Tammy ate heartily and bombarded Dylan with questions. He had definitely taken a liking to this human man. Dylan on the other hand watched the boy intently and commented several times about how much of me he saw in his face and mannerisms. The two seemed to bond at a level neither of them recognized.
When Tammy had been finally sent to bed, after much protestation, a bottle of Dylan’s favorite Vedran scotch appeared. There was much to discuss after a ten-year separation, but we seemed to avoid any of it, filling the time with banal conversation and comments of the quality of the scotch and my son.
"You’ve done a wonderful job. At what age do you think it will be time to share your secret with the rest of . . ?"
"I’m not sure . . . there isn’t a messianic timetable for me to follow." I enjoy looking him directly in the eye and smiling at him. There was a time when he may have considered such actions either a form of verbal sparring or a sexual come-on. I do not know what he is thinking now.
"The human’s of Earth who practiced Christianity had a story about their messiah going to Jerusalem with his parents and sitting in the temple talking with the elders. This is fairly analogous to what your son capable of doing, Tyr. I don’t believe it is a co-incidence."
"He has spent some time tonight conversing with an elder." I purse my lips slightly to indicate that I do not want to talk about such weighty subjects. I believe Dylan understands.
"I have aged a bit, but after all I am 357 years old."
"Give or take a few months."
Then I realize. The non-verbal cues at which Nietzscheans are so adept at sending have been received. Dylan is aware of my innermost thoughts. Thoughts that I believed no longer resided in my heart, mind or even my soul. Thoughts I dismissed as not being part of either my Nietzschean genetic makeup or heritage. They are here now, in me, and I think Dylan knows it.
I sit silently and play with the remaining scotch in my glass. I wait for him to make the first move, telling myself that I will have been overwhelmed . . . shit by what. I am an Alpha Kodiak still in peak physical condition. He is a wizened human. It cannot be by strength. It cannot be by physical beauty. I doubt if one could even attribute it on three glasses of scotch. The truth is that I have been overwhelmed by the feelings I have for this man that have never gone away. The past is alive and well and making itself known in my groin.
"I’ve been alone . . . with only my son and his nanny for all these years." I am not sure why I said this.
"And I had pictured you with several wives and a flock of children."
"To accomplish that I would have had to let them in on my secret. It was not part of my scheme of protection."
"I would have thought with the elimination of the Dragan home world . . . "
"It is not that simple. There are others to fear. The universe is a dangerous place."
"Even for the father of a god."
I don’t like that comment. First, it is getting back to that serious plain where I do not want to spend the night. Second, I think of my son as a leader, not as a god. In actuality I have even become uncomfortable with the concept of messiah.
"I am not one to take unnecessary chances. His genetic superiority will do him little good if he is not properly educated and trained. I have taught him well, but he needs to learn to interact with others. That is why I brought him here. I would like him to enroll in the High Guard academy."
I can tell Dylan is shocked. He must know that I know that he is the headmaster at this academy and that I am offering my son to him to mold as he wishes.
"We can discuss that in the morning, Tyr, right now I want to talk about you and your . . . loneliness." He’s finally got it.
His eyes never leave mine as he rises from his chair and walks to my side. He reaches down and takes my face in his hands and carefully lifts me to stand next to him. Then he lowers his head and slowly . . . it has been so long since I have been kissed like that . . . only in my dreams and fantasies. He may be older but he is not any less skilled. I am getting hard for him and hope he is getting the same for me.
* * * *
His bedroom is two flights of stairs removed from the one where my son is so peacefully sleeping. His bed is huge and sheeted in black silk. He had not been expecting me, so he must sleep in such luxury every night. I wonder if it is alone. I stretch out on the bed, with my arms above my head, and watch him get undressed.
He still removes his clothing carefully, placing them a hanger and then hanging it on a peg outside the closet to allow air circulation. I remember his grooming peculiarities. His body is pale, less muscular, and he appears to have a few new scars. Are they the result of adventures or surgery? I cannot ascertain. Yet, the excitement is still there. It has been a long time, but I know he will not have lost any of his skills when it comes to the pleasures I never though existed until I met him.
"I’m going to use a condom for your protection. I am healthy, but I am not sure that I haven’t been exposed to something for which your immune system does not have anti-bodies." That’s Dylan. He could have just told me he got a charge out of the flavor and color of the electric blue latex he had now slipped over his large penis. At least that solved the somewhat tricky question of who would do what to whom.
"I was hoping for a little more foreplay." I looked up at him and smiled seductively.
"And I was hoping that you would be naked."
"That can be arranged." My clothes come off easily and are dropped on the floor by the bed.
"Still going without underwear I see . . ."
"Not really necessary . . . and too confining."
"Leather was having a difficult time confining you tonight," he chuckled.
Despite his promise he does not waste time with my face, forearms, or chest. His mouth is directly over my cock, and I know that it will only be a matter of time until I am face down on the bed. His sheets will look like those on my son’s bed have looked recently. Sperm shows even more on black.
Slowly, even these thoughts dissolve . . . . . . . . .
* * * *
"Is this the welcome all fathers of perspective students get at the High Guard Academy, Captain Hunt?" I ask. I reach down and pull the burgundy condom off my spent cock, and toss it on the floor next to my clothes.
He turns toward me and raises himself on one elbow. "It’s Admiral Hunt now, don’t you know."
"Do you fucking want me to salute?"
We both start too laugh way too hard. He runs his hands over my hair and shakes his head.
"I miss it."
"Not nearly as much as I do. I had sworn as a child never to cut it, but there comes a time when oaths . . ."
"Will Tamburlaine grow his like that?" My son’s hair is short like mine.
"Is that in compliance with Academy regulations?"
"We have special exceptions for . . ."
"No, I want him treated like any other cadet. In fact, I want him enrolled on a false name, no one will know who he is."
"I was going to say, special exceptions for those who are extraordinarily attractive . . . and it was supposed to be a joke. We can discuss details in the morning, Tyr."
"You never answered my question about the other fathers."
"There are no other fathers . . . like you . . . however there was this one mother . . . her daughter was totally unqualified . . . but I somehow . . ." The man was back at it again. Snuggling up to me, stroking, teasing . . . I could never tell when he was serious, but wouldn’t put it past him . . . to try to convince some mother that her daughter might have a chance if she . . . except now I don’t want to think . . .
* * * * *
Other than the fact that I awoke in his bed, there was no sign in his actions that anything other than polite conversation and social drinking had occurred between us. I was alone, wearing a pair of his pajamas and ready for breakfast. I had slept much later than I had for . . . I couldn’t remember a time, but then I had been safe and relaxed . . . very relaxed.
Dylan was in the kitchen wearing a silly apron and cooking scrambled eggs with spinach, tomatoes, pine nuts and feta cheese. It sounded as delicious as it smelled. Tammy was sitting at the table with his face buried in a book.
"Good morning, Tamburlaine ."
He looked up and beamed the way a boy looks at his father, when his father has taken him someplace wonderful. I am glad the initial unpleasantness of the visit had been short-lived. I have not yet told him that he will be staying here with this . . . beautiful . . . man.
"Mr. Hunt has a huge library. Filled with real books. He says I can read any of them I want."
"You need to call him Admiral Hunt, son."
"No he doesn’t, not now, not until he starts school." Dylan does not realize I have not told my son of my intentions.
"School . . . oh Father . . . am I really going to get to go to school?"
"Yes, you are, Admiral Hunt runs a special school for special young men and women . . . like you . . . You will be matriculating this next term."
"That’s wonderful. That’s more than wonderful. It is my fondest dream."
"Fondest dreams will have to wait for scrabbled eggs. My culinary creations wait for no men."
McJude
May 27, 2003