SUBJECT: Room on top?
Dear Servalan,
Hope you are quite well. Or, to be
absolutely consistent, quite mad, bad and dangerous to know as ever you were.
Sorry to have missed you on down there on the planet Malodar, a world that
lived up to its name by stinking to high heaven. And yes, I got your scent,
right enough, amidst the stench of deceit, regret, frustrated eroticism and
Deep Heat. That evil genius Egrorian had certainly pressed against somebody who
wears ‘Suspiria’ perfume, and in these circumstances at least, it wasn’t his
ex-boyfriend Pinder (it was him with the Deep Heat). I wouldn’t have thought
Professor E. was your type, but I can hardly talk, having taken myself and my
colleagues to Malodar and the brink of destruction on nothing more than the
promise of his giant weapon.
So yes, I got away, and more than that, I
know it was you who tried to kill me, and more than that, I know that you know
that I know, in fact: you know that I know that you knew that I know that you
knew that I know that you knew, and so ad infinitum. I don’t think there’s
anything we don’t know about each other. Never was the chance of a mate allowed
to grow so stale.
For a long time we’ve been in the same
orbit, you and I, going around and around. To an observer, it might look as if
you were in pursuit; to a political theorist, it might seem that I’ve been deliberately
giving you the runaround. Only an astrophysicist would know the truth: we’re
both swinging in circles because that’s how the universe holds together. But
whose orbit is holding us, Servalan, and if he’s not around anymore – are we
free to go our own way?
To be frank, I’m writing to see if you’ve
got any jobs going free at the Federation, or wherever it is you work at the
moment. If you can get away with an assumed name, not even growing your hair
out, I’m pretty sure I could slip into some secret niche. No, it’s not a trap.
What would be the point?
Once upon a time, I’d have scorned to ask
such a question. You were the enemy, pure and simple – well, not at first.
Servalan, you were a target. You made yourself our opposition, pursuing and
antagonising us and generally looming large. You and Travis put a face on the
forces that Blake and Jenna were set against. We all came to obsess over that
face, one way or another.
Nowadays, I’ve no idea what you stand for
or what you want. You’re hardly in power any more, and all your schemes generally
come to naught since my leather-trousered arse is still sitting safe and sound
on board the Scorpio as I write this. You’re no opposition and certainly no
target. If you want to get anywhere, you’re going to need better allies than
Pinder and Egrorian.
More to the point, and speaking off the
record, I’m not entirely sure what my place in the universe is any more. I
don’t need money or glory. The woman I loved, as you know, is dead. My old
friends sell me out, my new friends make me sick. Somewhere in the middle is
Vila. I’ve never quite been able to make up my mind about Vila, but last Monday
evening in the heat of the moment, everything to play for… to my surprise, I
found my mind was made up. Oh, we laughed about it afterward, but since then,
it’s given me pause. I’ve caught myself staring into space with even more
gravity and melodrama than usual.
I can’t keep flying around in circles,
Serv. Something has to give. You know what I’m talking about: you nearly made
it out, left for dead twice, and you clambered back onto the horse and where
did it get you? Pressing yourself against Egrorian, hatching another pointless
scheme. I know you know what I’m talking about. You know I know, and I know
that you know that I know.
Sooner or later there has to be a decisive
move on someone’s part. I could send along my CV but I suspect you have all the
salient details.
See you next Monday,
K.A.
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