by Peter David
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. He left the fleet once before…went freelance…did dirty work for whomever would pay him. The only reason he was brought back into the fleet was because he had well-placed supporters, but after this debacle, even they won’t back him. Believe me, we’re stronger without him.”
“And he certainly seems to have no love for Star-fleet…or even perhaps the Federation,” Thul said slowly.
“The Mackenzie Calhouns of this world love only themselves and care about their own skins, and that’s all. We were speaking of abuse of power before, General? He’s exactly the type that the prime directive was created to ride herd on. Good riddance to him, I say.” Jellico rubbed the side of his face. “Let him be someone else’s problem.”
“Excellent idea,” said General Thul. “A most excellent idea.”
Mackenzie Calhoun sat at curbside outside the great hall. From within, he could hear the music and voices building up to their previous levels.
He shook out his hand and squeezed it into a fist. It hurt. That was very annoying. His hand shouldn’t be hurting. And it seemed to him that Jellico had fallen much faster, and bounced much harder, when he’d struck him years earlier.
“I hope I’m not losing my punch,” be said to no one.
“I hope not, too,” came a sultry voice, indicating that he had not quite been speaking to no one as he had previously thought.
He turned and looked up.
She was, quite simply, the most beautiful Thallonian woman he had ever seen. She had absolutely no hair, except for two delicate eyebrows that were carefully sculpted. Her neck was long and elegant, her bosom in perfect proportion to her hips. Her legs seemed to go to somewhere up around her shoulders, and when she smiled it was incandescent.
Calhoun automatically rose to his feet.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi. I’m…” He thought for a moment, then recalled the information. “Mackenzie Calhoun.”
“I’m Vara Syndra,” she purred, displaying a remarkable facility for recalling her own name. “Gerrid Thul is interested in speaking with you.”
“Will you be there?”
“Yes.”
“Then so will I.”
IX.
“APOLOGIZE, ENSIGN. RIGHT NOW. You too, Burgoyne.”
They were in the conference lounge. It was Shelby who had just sternly addressed Burgoyne and Ensign Janos, while a somewhat chagrined-looking Robin Lefler looked on. Riker’s face was expressionless. Janos had changed to the Starfleet uniform that he usually wore, albeit uncomfortably, when he was on duty.
“My apologies, Commander,” Janos said sincerely. “When…exercising…my Hermat friend and I can get quite intense. We simply did not hear you call for the program to freeze. Then, when you attacked me, we thought you were joining us. Captain Calhoun does, on occasion.”
“My apologies as well,” Burgoyne put in.
“Well, then,” Riker said, smiling, “a simple mistake. No hard feelings.”
“Thank you, sir,” Janos said. “But…permission to speak freely?”
“Of course,” Riker said.
“I am aware that my appearance can be quite startling, even frightening, to those unprepared for it.”
“All right,” Riker suddenly spoke up. His face was still inscrutable. “I see where you’re going, and you’re right. I shouldn’t have made assumptions about you…even a ‘hologram’ of you, based solely on your physical appearance. We in Starfleet are supposed to be above the concept of making judgments based on surface impressions. Therefore, Janos…I apologize for jumping to the conclusion that you were a threat and not a Starfleet officer. Perhaps if you were wearing clothing…”
“I was, a white jumpsuit.”
“I didn’t notice. Again, my fault, I apologize.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Sir,” Robin Leffer put in at that moment, “I apologize for not taking firmer control of the situation. I could have done what Zak did. I should have been more take-charge, instead of allowing myself to be carried away by the avalanche.”
“Yes, you should have,” Riker said. “Just try to be a little more aggressive in the future.”
“Aggressive. Yes, sir.”
“Well, that wraps that up,” Riker said, smiling again. “Oh, one more thing. Burgoyne, I understand that you’re pregnant. Is exercise of this nature a good idea?”
“Wait, wait a minute,” Burgoyne said. “Where did you hear I was pregnant? I’m not pregnant.”
Lefler looked utterly confused. “But you are, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. I think I would know that.”
“But…you told McHenry…”
“What, in sickbay the other day? That was a joke! He knew I was joking.”
“Uh oh.”
Now both Riker and Burgoyne was stating at Lefler.
In unison, they said, “Uh oh?” Janos and Shelby looked at each other in confusion.
“Well…McHenry didn’t know,” said Lefler. “You weren’t there when he came to, after he passed out.”
“Yes, I know that. While he was unconscious, that’s when I was called down to engineering. Worked the eighteen straight hours, as I said. When I finally got back to my quarters, though, there was a message from him. We got together and I let him know it wasn’t true. That it was just intended to be a joke.”
“You told him that?”
“Yes. A few hours ago.”
“Uh oh.”
“Why does she keep saying ‘uh oh’?” Burgoyne asked Shelby. Shelby shook her head, not knowing the answer.
“Well…the thing is, you see…McHenry told me. And I sort of told, well…” She shifted in her seat, looking extremely uncomfortable.
“You just sort of told, well…who?”
Wincing as if she were preparing to duck back from a punch, she said, “Uh…everybody.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. How the hell was I supposed to know?” she said defensively.
“You mean everybody on the ship?”
“No, everybody in the quadrant,” she shot back. “Yes, on the ship. And not really everybody. Just…a lot of people.”
“Perfect. That’s just perfect,” moaned Burgoyne. “One casual remark, and suddenly…”
At that moment, the doors hissed open and Si Cwan entered. “Excellent,” said the Thallonian noble. “I’m glad you’re all here.”
“Ambassador, could this possibly wait…?” asked Shelby.
“Narobi II.”
Shelby and Riker exchanged looks. “Pardon?” asked Riker.
“I’ve received word from one of my sources that the Romulans are going to be attacking Narobi II. He’s reasonably sure that it’s the same pack that you’re talking about. The Renegades we’d hoped they return to Romulus to help rebuild after the Dominion War.”
Instantly everyone at the table was alert. “How does he know this?” Riker asked.
“He’s the type of individual who makes it his business to know such things. In this instance, someone with whom he was connected apparently aided in repairs on one of the vessels that the Independence engaged in battle. And this individual happened to hear about one of the next intended targets.”
“I’m not sure I like this. It’s too pat,” said Shelby.
“I agree,” Riker said.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Si Cwan. “When you deal with a large operation…and this apparently seems to fit that description…there’s large numbers of people who let things slip. In any event, Captain, you wanted me to try and bring you information, If you’re going to dismiss it out of hand, then why am I bothering?”
Slowly Riker nodded. It was, he thought, a valid enough point. “Narobi II. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a rather unique world in Thallonian space. It’s populated entirely by a race who has converted itself into beings of a sort of living metal. They created ul-tra-durable bodies for themse
lves that last for hundreds of years. In essence, they’ve made themselves immortal. They are utterly peaceful, but fully capable of protecting themselves should they be under attack. I’m not entirely certain why the Romulans would choose to target them.”
“Neither am I. But we can’t afford to let the possibility go. Commander…set course for Narobi II.”
“Aye, sir.”
As they got up from the conference table, Si Cwan suddenly turned to Burgoyne and, to hir surprise, placed a hand on either side of hir face. “What are you—?” s/he began to say.
Si Cwan proceeded to utter a lengthy chant, the performance of which stopped everyone in their tracks. Cwan had a surprisingly melodious voice which floated up and down the register. It was so lovely that no one dared to interrupt as Cwan continued that way for about forty-five seconds, murmuring, chanting, and swaying back and forth slightly as he did so. Then he lowered his hands and smiled.
“What was that all about?” demanded Burgoyne.
“That,” Si Cwan said in a booming voice, “was the ancient Thallonian prayer for a smooth and uncomplicated pregnancy, which can only be delivered by one of the Noble house upon an expectant mother. Congratulations, Burgoyne. May you have a child which brings glory to your name.”
“I’m not pregnant,” Burgoyne said testily, and s/he walked out of the conference room.
There was silence for a moment and then, nonplussed, Si Cwan decided, “Well…it’s probably for the best. It’s been a while, and I was out of practice. Instead of the pregnancy chant, I may have accidentally prayed for hir not to contract root rot.”
“Smashing. So the odds of it being effective just went way up,” said Janos cheerily.
I’ve got to get off this ship, thought Riker.
X.
ZOLON DARG WAS RATHER PLEASED with the turnout.
The place that he had chosen for the rendezvous on Argelius was somewhat out of the way, well off the beaten track of most of the places of entertainment and merriment which drew in most of the tourists. Darg, for the get-together that he had been busily arranging, had selected a rather disreputable place which was in violation of at least three Argelian health codes.
He was also drawn by the name of the place: “Kara’s,” in commemoration of some hideous event which had occurred on Argelius nearly a century ago during which a number of women were slaughtered…rather nastily, at that.
Kwint was looking around with open curiosity. They had been out drinking much of the night, but Kwint didn’t seem particularly daunted by the amount of alcohol they had been putting away. Zolon Darg was impressed by that. As a Thallonian, he was more than capable of imbibing considerable amounts of alcohol without displaying, or even feeling, the ill effects. Kwint was obviously just a human, yet he didn’t seem to be displaying any ill effects at all. Darg wondered if one of Kwint’s limbs wasn’t actually hollow, enabling him to store vast quantities within.
There was a permanent layer of dirt on the walls of Kara’s. Many of the chairs seemed rickety, and the tables weren’t much better. There was a large mirror behind the bar. It was cracked. There were also signs that there had been a fight in the bar not too long ago. Darg wondered absently what had started it, who had won…and if anyone had actually survived. Behind the bar, a surly Tellarite bartender named Gwix poured out drinks. Gwix wasn’t the type of bartender one poured their heart out too…at least, not unless one was a masochist. Gwix had little patience for anything except serving the drinks, getting the money, and closing up for the night. Nonetheless, even Gwix was aware when Darg came in, and tilted his pig-like head in acknowledgment.
“Nice place,” Kwint said at length. “Come here often?”
“Often enough.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come here.” He moved around one of the tables and indicated that Kwint should sit. Kwint did so. Darg, however, continued to stand, and as he leaned on the back of one of the chairs, it was quickly evident why. Just leaning on it would have been enough to break it.
Darg seemed to be assessing Kwint for a long moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Finally he said, “You have a lot on the ball, Kwint. I’ve seen that tonight. First with the way that we met. Then we went to that gambling place, and you immediately nailed the guy who was trying to cheat us. Then we went to the brothel, and you immediately nailed—”
“What are you saying, Darg?” Kwint asked, cutting him off.
“I’m saying that I think you have potential in my organization. An organization that’s only going to let larger.” He glanced over Kwint’s shoulder. “Ah. I see some of our guests have arrived.”
They were filing in, one at a time, regarding each other with obvious distrust. Then again, that wasn’t all that surprising. The dozen or so beings who had shown up at Kara’s were not accustomed to trusting anyone or working together, for they were all from races who were outside of the Federation. Races who, for whatever reason, considered the alliance of the UFP to be suffocating to their own interests. There was an Orion…a Kreel…a Tan’gredi, all ooze and nictating membranes…a Capitano, growling deep in its chest, its eyeless face gazing around with its internal radar taking in the parameters of the room…an assortment of others.
“Thank you all for coming,” Darg said once everyone was settled. He was all too aware of the suspicion that focused on him from every direction. That was perfectly fine. He could handle that. “Since this is a matter of some delicacy, I know that I can count on all of you for your discretion.”
“We’re not interested in your compliments or your kudos to our discretion, gun runner,” said the Kreel. “We all have other matters to attend to. Say what you have to say.”
Darg didn’t reply immediately. He’d learned that some extended silence could often be more useful than simply leaping straight into discourse. So he allowed the quiet to hang there a short time before he said, “All of you have grudges and difficulties with the Federation. They, and the races that they represent, have stifled you, interfered with you, operated in manners that are contradictory to your interests. And I’m not speaking of you as individuals, of course—although that much is certainly true—but also for the races that you represent.”
There was that slightly nauseating “slurping” sound that always preceded a Tan’gredi before it spoke. “Races do not operate as whole, Darg. There are always different factions. Some of my people—the rad-icals—speak of joining the Federation at some point.”
“True enough,” Darg said smoothly. “But let us say that I have contacted you—singled you out as indi-viduals—because I thought that you would be most amenable to the cause I represent.”
“What cause is that?” The Orion was idly stabbing the table top at which he was seated with his curved dagger.
“The cause that involves…a new time to come. A new era that we think of as the post-Federation era.”
“Who is ‘we’?” The Kreel, as quick-tempered as most of his type, clearly wasn’t interested in vagueness. “And what exactly will make this era of yours ‘post’? The Dominion war is over; the Federation is not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“I…choose at this point not to focus on the specifics.”
There was a skeptical groan.
“What I am here to tell you,” continued Darg as if they had not made a sound, “is that there will come a time—soon—when the Federation will not be a consideration. At that point, it’s going to be a whole new galaxy…and whoever has the greatest technology, the most formidable weapons, and the strongest al-lies…will come out on top. What we—those I represent—are seeking are those who are interested in buying into our vision.”
“ ‘Buying in.’ Here it comes,” said the Kreel, sneering. “And what exactly does that entail?”
“One hundred thousand bars of gold-pressed latin-um from each of you…on behalf of the races that you represent.”
>
There was a roar of mixed laughter, disbelief, and outright contempt. Through it all, Darg simply stood there, taking it in, his face immobile, his manner patient. He acted as if he had all the time in the world.
“And if we don’t buy in?” asked the Capitano in that remarkable voice that seemed to originate from somewhere in the ground beneath his feet.
“Then you will die.”
It was not Darg who had spoken, however. It was Kwint. The attention promptly switched to him, and even Darg was clearly surprised to hear the relative newcomer speak so boldly.
“Is that a threat?” asked the Kreel quietly.
Kwint half-smiled and walked in a slow circle around the gathering. “If someone offered you safe haven from a supernova…and you displayed lack of interest…and that someone informed you that you were going to die…is that a threat? Or is that simply a prediction?”
“Does this human speak for you, Darg?” inquired the Orion. He had stopped sticking the knife into the table, his interest caught by the shift in the atmosphere.
Darg sized Kwint up for a long moment. In point of fact, he had told Kwint absolutely nothing about the plan. Kwint was speaking entirely from conjecture, bluff…and attitude. It was, however, an attitude that Darg found most intriguing. “He speaks for himself,” Darg said slowly, “but I choose not to contradict him. Make of that what you will.”
Apparently feeling that he’d been given a tacit endorsement to continue, Kwint promptly did so. “Yes…I am human, as you noted. And there have been any number of times in human history where people were offered an opportunity by those who had vision…and the will, drive and resources to bring that vision to life. At the time that these visionaries presented their views of things, there were always those who were skeptical or derisive. Who would gladly turn their back and walk away, not realizing that they were leaving greatness behind. Zolon Darg is connected to that vision. He has seen the dream. He sees a place where there is a galaxy that is unstifled by the rules of the Federation, striving ceaselessly to create a perfect reality that exists only in the minds of those who have an interest in maintaining the status quo. You deserve to come into your own…and Zolon Darg, and those he represents, are the ones who bring you there.”
