The Chrysanthemum Palace

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GITA ASKED ME TO DINNER at the Benedict Canyon pied-à-terre — as she wryly referred to all 17,000 square feet of it — on the night “Prodigal Son” was televised. She had taped it off an East Coast feed so we could fast-forward through commercials. Because of the deaths, the network had publicly brooded over whether to postpone, but in this, the time of love and media, a decision was made that to air was humane. Besides, the morbid hoopla had already been diluted by endless radio and TV talk-show dissections, now harmlessly joining the piss-stream of global atrocities and local horrors-of-the-week.

As I watched, I resolved to contractually extricate myself from the Demeter and its far-flung frontiers — I didn’t think heart or ego could survive another tour. It was easier to watch Clea than I thought it’d be, her features subsumed in the latex cubism that was the Vorbalidian hallmark. The comically ghoulish effect took the edge off my sorrow. Watching with Mom was a comfort too (Perry was in New York). She was spare and solicitous, speaking only when spoken to. Not once did she acknowledge the silly sacrilege of this showcase for the dead. We’d grown closer through the ordeal, and that was the greatest comfort of all.

Ensign Rattweil dutifully defeated his twin. (At the moment it happened, I suppressed an unexpectedly gruesome image born of my recent trip to the Playa.) At hour’s end, his crew safely aboard the starship, Captain Laughton plotted a course for Darius 9.

Dr. Chaldorer informed that if anyone needed him, he’d be in his quarters.

“A little primping and preening, X-Ray?” asked the captain.

“I’d be remiss,” said the medic, “if I didn’t look my best for those Darian showgirls.”

“You might just find yourself a pair of platform shoes. Remember, they’re seven feet tall. You wouldn’t want to be stuck at… chest level.”

“You know,” he said lecherously. “I did order a pair. But they never came in!”

He whooshed out. Laughton asked Cabott what activities he planned to indulge in upon shore leave. The android said he was anxious to visit the famous Darian library of antiquities, rumored to contain a billion paperbound volumes. I innuendoed at what he’d be missing and was about to be admonished when Shazuki grew serious, asking the captain what it had been like to walk among Vorbalids.

He grew pensive, adopting that patented pose of brooding, poetic self-reflection honed over the seasons (just now as I write, the haunting “e le morte stagioni” comes back to me), usually reserved as a summing-up of lessons learned during whichever episode’s excellent adventure.

“What was it like? A world of contrasts and extremes… of great savagery and unexpected kindness… of Machiavellian intrigue and humble, deeply human gestures. You ask me what it was like, Shazuki? Majestic and impoverished, ennobling and depressing — in short, a little bit of heaven and a little bit of hell. Under the Great Dome resides a place where man is forced to face himself, and learn unpleasant—vital—truths. A universal experience, so it seems.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, in simple gratitude.

Laughton began dictating his log.

“Star Date 41-17-7. We are now back on course, heading toward Darian 9 after an unprecedented diversion to the Vorbalidian System. Unwitting players in a political power struggle, myself and my crew were held prisoner, ultimately becoming spectators at a gladiatorial battle between Prince Morloch and his twin: our own Ensign Rattweil. The despotic pretender suffered death at his brother’s hands — this, the happiest of outcomes. As we returned to the city, its streets lined with the joyous populace, it became clear that—”

“Receiving images, Captain!” interjected Shazuki.

X-Ray made a timely reappearance to the bridge as the crew gathered before the staticky starscreen. After a few moments, Thad appeared, flanked by Clea and the revivified Queen Mother. He wore a bejeweled crown, clutching a tall scepter. The three waved at their subjects. Thad turned to look directly at the Demeter, mouthing something which couldn’t be understood.

“What’s he saying?” said the frustrated captain.

The lieutenant commander furiously worked her controls. “I don’t have audio…”

Laughton relaxed, drinking in the starscreen triumvirate.

“It isn’t important,” he said.

“The king isn’t there…” noted X-Ray curiously.

“The king is dead,” said the captain, with resolute benevolence. “Long live the king! Having defeated Morloch, our humble ensign has assumed the throne.”

“Without a doubt,” said the droid. “The emblem on his tunic denotes rulership of their world.”

“Which emblem?” said the captain, straining to look.

“Above his heart, sir,” I offered. “The ‘chrysanthemum,’ if you will.”

Shazuki did her best to read the royal lips.

“He’s thanking us, sir — both in English and his native tongue.”

“Looks like Rattweil and the ambassador finally hooked up,” I karped, back to horny, flyboy form. “Soon she’ll be queen.”

“Send a message,” said the captain, all business. “From the crew of the USS Starship Demeter. Tell him that… as his shipmates, we were most honored to have served with him. That we shall always think of him, and forever hold him in our hearts. Wish the monarch and his people well. And tell him…”

He paused, searching for the proper words. His eyes grew moist.

“Tell him he is every inch a king.”

Lights on the bridge lowered as camera dollied toward starscreen. The frame tightened until only an ebullient Thad and Clea could be seen, arm in arm, as at the moment rice is thrown at a wedding. I threw grains with all my might, across light-years of time and constellatory space.