“A favored form of torture and execution in antiquity, and particularly favored by the Roman Empire,” Data conveniently replied, as they continued toward the city. “Victims were hung from a constructed wooden framework by driving nails or spikes through their wrists and ankles, and left exposed to the elements until they expired from loss of blood, shock, or dehydration. It was the traditional punishment for escaped slaves. Such a death could take as long as a week, under the right circumstances.”
“Ghastly,” whispered Sawliru, paling at the description. Though such things were present in Vemla’s own past, they had been outlawed for centuries.
“Aye,” agreed the leader of the rebellion with a shudder. “I have had many a friend spend his last hours in agony on a cross. It’s not the death I’d choose, not a death for a free man. It’s one more reason I led this revolt.”
“You lead it, though you know it is going to be fruitless?” Data asked, helpfully.
“But it won’t be fruitless. Too long have the Romans warred on the helpless peoples of countless lands, bringing home in chains the sons and daughters of those who died to defend their homes and lands. The might of the Roman Empire was wrought with the toil and sweat of other nations. Even the Romans know this. When a slave is cheaper to buy than a kid and cheaper to own than a dog, then it is cheaper to farm with slaves than with freemen. A hundred slaves can raise enough to feed a thousand citizens of Rome, and then there is nought for them to do but wager, drink, and carouse. And watch other men sweat and die in the arenas,” he added, darkly. “Though many of us will die, many more will go on to another farm, and another, and soon, if every slave in Italy revolts, we will be too strong for the Romans, whose greatest force lies in distant lands. And perhaps,” he added philosophically, “the poets will sing of us for a while.”
“And even if you lose, many you will set free will return to their homes,” added Data. “Not all you do will be in vain.”
“Are there no true military men among you, Spartacus?” asked Sawliru. “I have had some small experience with troops and training, tactics and strategy . . .”
“You would cease your business and join a doomed slave rebellion?” asked the ex-gladiator, smiling crookedly. “Surely, the midday sun has addled your brains!”
Sawliru thought of his business, the hearing, his fleet. He had gotten caught up in the spirit of the moment, and forgotten the artificial nature of the man with whom he was speaking. “Ah, yes, my . . . business. My . . . employer would severely punish me if I strayed from my business.”
“You sound like a man enslaved, yourself,” the hologram said, confused. “You carry yourself with the manner of a legate or a centurion, yet you speak in cowed and revered tones for a man whom you do not respect. Your employer must be a giant to cast fear into you so. Or has he leverage in your life? A hostage, perhaps? Or an evil spell?”
Sawliru laughed at the thought of Alkirg as a giant, though an evil spell was an uncomfortably close analogy. She had friends in all places, high and low, and had his career at her mercy.
“No, my friend, it’s more complicated than that. My employer is a woman, no giant, no wizard.”
“A woman!” Spartacus exclaimed. “Better a giant or mage! Gods of sea and sky, man, are you crazed? You, a veteran of campaigns and battles, let a wisp of silk and fluff keep you from your desires?” He was incredulous. “Beat her, that’s what I say. Beat her, then get rid of her. A man isn’t truly a man unless he’s on his own.”
“Perhaps. Her . . . family might make trouble for me if I did.”
“Then run. Friend Sawliru, no man should be in bondage. Not to a slavelord, not to the state, not to the land, and definitely not to a woman. A man is free to himself, and he alone should decide his fate.”
“It’s not that simple,” Sawliru muttered. “There is the matter of my career to think of—”
“What career? You sit at the foot of another, like an obedient dog. You call that living?”
“Enough of this,” the Vemlan said, finally, turning to the android. “Commander, your creation need not stoop to slander, and your attempt to sway me from my duty has failed.”
“I did nothing of the sort, sir,” Data protested. “It is impossible for me to influence the holodeck computer after the initial specifications are chosen. The computer reacts to the comments and actions of the participants. If you are feeling threatened, it is because you, yourself, have directed the conversation in that direction.”
“Outrageous,” the Vemlan commander replied. “This man—excuse me, this image, is purposefully steering me away from my clear duty. This whole insidious conversation has been designed to turn me away from what is best for my homeworld.”
Spartacus was quiet as he watched the exchange between the two men, yet he appeared to take interest. “ ’Tis true, Sawliru, your companion had nought to do with what I have said. We have never met before. But . . . have you considered what is really best for you, Sawliru? I once thought that slavery was the natural and obvious place for prisoners and captives. Yet once I saw how damning it was to the nation, I decided to change it.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Sawliru spat angrily. “It was a fair try, Commander, but it failed. I congratulate you on your innovation.”
“It is almost time for the hearing to reconvene, anyway,” Data remarked. “Terminate sequence.”
The holodeck computer obligingly began shutting down the scenery. As Spartacus and his country faded from view, the ancient liberator made a final remark. “Luck be with you, Sawliru!” it called, then saluted as it faded into nonexistence. The stark walls of the chamber echoed with his last words, and the door to the room hissed open obligingly. Data motioned for Sawliru to proceed ahead of him, and the commander blinked as he left.
As the two of them proceeded back to the hearing room, the Vemlan struggled to readjust to the familiar sights and sounds of a spaceship. He was struggling with a few other things as well.
“Commander, what happened to Spartacus? Did he succeed with his rebellion?”
“Spartacus was captured, along with several hundred other escapees. All were crucified, the traditional punishment for escaped slaves.”
Sawliru tensed, remembering the description of a crucifixion. He had to agree with Spartacus; it was not the way for a free man to die.
But, still, there was the matter of duty and loyalty.
“It was, I admit, an admirable try on your part. Your presentation was impeccable. Your construct gave several very valid arguments. Yet he is, in the end, no more real than you are, Commander, and I respect his opinion no more than I respect yours. If anything, I am more hardened in my position than before. Machines have nearly ruined my world, and I will not have one machine get another to betray me when I have almost won.”
“What are you trying to win, sir?” Data asked. “It seems to have escaped me.”
“Freedom!” Sawliru almost snarled. “The same thing that construct back there said he was fighting for. The periods of war in history were barbaric and uncivilized, that’s true, but they allowed a man to be free unto himself. You and your kind have taken that freedom from us in exchange for security. Perhaps now that I have the means of exterminating androids, some semblance of freedom will return to my world. If the politicians and the diplomats don’t louse things up,” he added, caustically.
With that he strode into the hearing room, where an irate Alkirg was in the midst of a rant. Data remained in the corridor, where he contemplated Sawliru’s reaction to the holodeck sequence.
It had originally been his intention to introduce the Spartacus sequence, culled from the holodeck computer’s library, to Sawliru as a means of presenting the Vemlan androids’ situation to him in metaphorical terms. He had not anticipated the course the sequence took, however. He had told the truth (he could hardly do otherwise) when he told the man that he had nothing to do with the program. In fact, the computer had steered the sequence into a previously unanticipated direction.
>
“It was not supposed to do that,” Data remarked to himself. “But perhaps it was, indeed, worth the attempt.” With a feeling of resignation, he entered the hearing room to hear the decision of the panel.
* * *
Jared sipped the punch he was offered, but did not taste it. He felt the cold pressure of the glass on his index finger, and knew that it would be a simple matter of releasing the toxin. Just a little concentrated pressure in the right place would do it. It wouldn’t even be noticed, at first, until people started dying off. By then it would be too late. Garan, by now, had dozens of well-armed Alphas waiting to be transported over.
He honestly couldn’t tell how the hearing was going. Picard’s face was like a mask, and his position was unclear. Jared was used to such trials being mere formalities before the execution order was given. Kurta had convinced him that this might be different. He was unconvinced, however, at the hearing’s effectiveness—and was troubled by Data’s disappearance.
Would he have to use the bomb Garan had planted? A simple thought and it would be done. He would hate to leave his people like this—
“My husband, as usual, you are being antisocial,” a voice behind him remarked. He turned to stare at Kurta, who held a reproving expression on her face. “I’ve been talking to some of the Enterprise’s crew. They were quite impressed with your speech.”
“But was Picard?” Jared asked.
In answer, she pointed towards a corner of the room, where Alkirg was arguing with one of the Starfleet officers. “No doubt she is wondering the same.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Jared said, standing. He smiled down at his wife—and in the same instant, remembered the orders he had left with Garan, orders putting him in charge of the Freedom if he had to use the explosive device.
He would have to tell Kurta of those orders before the blast. If it came to that, of course.
Worf glanced at a chronometer as he entered his eightieth consecutive hour on duty on the bridge. He was just as awake and alert now as he had been at his tenth, perhaps more.
Many of his fellow crewmen had often wondered why he insisted upon regularly practicing archaic Klingon rituals, convinced that there were easier, less dangerous ways to encourage spiritual development. Worf did not deign to comment on their unasked questions; humans did not have a proper appreciation of tradition, in his opinion, and would not understand why he tested himself in the holodeck, the ship’s gymnasium, and upon every planet where he could.
The Klingon rituals may have been archaic, brutal, and illogical, but they had survived a few thousand years of development virtually unchanged. They revolved around the principal tenet of the Klingon system of beliefs: “That which does not kill us makes us strong.” It was not too many years in the past when that maxim had fueled an empire far greater than that which the holographic Spartacus had railed against. No, humans watched him exercise, test, and nearly torture himself, and shook their heads and sighed at the crazy Klingon.
He didn’t see any of them on the bridge for eighty hours.
Worf was shaken from his reverie by a lighthearted beep from the sensor panel in front of him. He had instructed it to alert him upon any change in disposition from either the Vemlan fleet or the nearby Freedom. As he checked the readings, his mind was already a-whir with possible responses to a threat. Any threat.
It was the Vemlan fleet that was maneuvering. The android’s vessel remained where it was, eclipsed from view of the hostile ships by the bulk of the Enterprise. He snapped open a communication channel with a stab of his finger, opening a hailing frequency to the flagship of the fleet.
“USS Enterprise to Vemlan navy flagship. This is Lieutenant Worf. Explain your change of position relative to this vessel. Please,” he added, knowing how the captain was about politeness. There was a momentary delay, as a ranking deck officer was summoned to answer his query.
“This is Commander Seris, Lieutenant. Do not be alarmed. We are rearranging our formation to easier facilitate a transfer of personnel and supplies from ship to ship. We have a shortage of rations on a few of our ships, and we are using this time of negotiations to transfer them. We don’t have transporters like you do.”
Worf stared at the sensor screen and noted that every ship was energizing its weapons systems. The outright lie was an insult to him, but it did show a certain elementary guile that he admired. He considered pointing out the fact to Commander Seris, but decided against it.
“Acknowledged,” he said in what he thought was his most innocent tone. “Keep us informed if we can be of any assistance. Enterprise out.” He quit the channel before Seris could respond, an obvious insult, if the Vemlan had the subtlety to see it. He doubted that he did.
He rechecked the formation that the ships were entering, and then checked the Freedom; he was not surprised to find the android ship, as well, preparing for battle. Once he was positive of their intent, he called the captain.
“Picard here. What’s the trouble, Worf?”
“Captain, the Vemlan fleet is maneuvering into battle formation, and hoping that we won’t notice it. There is also considerable activity on the android vessel. Sensors indicate that their weapons are charging or armed, and though they have yet to raise any sort of defensive shielding, I expect that they will do so soon. Instructions?”
He waited a moment while Picard decided. A Klingon commander, Worf thought, would have barked out an order instantly. Of course, he admitted, in all fairness, a Klingon captain’s orders were not always the most appropriate ones. There was something to be said for human deliberation.
“Initiate plan Alpha, Worf. I have a feeling that some of our guests will not like the decisions we will arrive at. They might respond . . . hastily. Take whatever precautions you see fit, but do not alter the original plan.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Picard out.”
“Worf out.” He severed the connection and examined the sensor screen one last time. Yes, that was definitely an attack formation, though it was sloppy and inefficient.
“Prepare forward phasers for operation,” he said to the computer. And smiled. It had been his plan, after all.
Chapter Twelve
SAWLIRU PAUSED before joining Alkirg to check with his command. The fleet should be in position by now. His subordinates, despite Alkirg’s irate admonishments to the contrary, were highly competent, and should not have had any problems.
“Commander Seris, what is the status of the fleet?” he said into the hushed mouthpiece of his comm unit.
“All ships report condition green, Admiral. The security officer on the Enterprise asked what was going on, but we told him that we had a cargo run to make between ships. He bought it.” Sawliru wondered silently if he did. If Commander Data was any indication, then Picard had a demonically talented crew.
“Acknowledge, Commander. Initiate on my signal.”
“But, sir! Aren’t you going to be back on board for the . . . uh, operation?”
“Possibly not. Mission Commander Alkirg may need my services elsewhere. If you men are as good as I’ve trained you to be, you shouldn’t need me there.”
“But, sir! The men are all looking to you. Things are getting rough over here,” he admitted. “I’ve already had to break up two fights in the bays. I’m not sure the men will attack without you to lead them.”
“You have my orders, Seris. This comes from the top,” he said, tiredly.
Seris didn’t say anything. He wasn’t any happier with the arrangement than Sawliru was. The Vemlan felt sorry for the man. “Seris, this matter will come out fine. Just follow orders and I’ll make it work. You have my word.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Seris out.”
Sawliru closed the unit with a snap and reholstered it. The brush with the imaginary gladiator had shaken him momentarily, but now he was back in his element, treading the decks of a spaceship, doing what he knew how. He glanced over to where Alkirg was fussing at one of the Starfl
eet ensigns over seating arrangements again. He decided to take pity on the poor boy and rescue him.
“Mission Commander Alkirg, the preparations have been made,” he said, in a low voice. He glanced briefly at the ensign, dismissing him. The boy retreated gratefully.
“Where have you been?” she said quietly, clearly furious. “I heard that that white-faced, misdesigned Starfleet android wandered off with you. What were you doing with him, anyway?”
“He wanted to cut a deal. I listened to him, then I told him no. We had a drink,” he admitted.
“Despicable behavior, really.” She frowned. “I would have a word about that android with Captain Picard after this is all over, except—” Alkirg waved a hand dismissively. “When this is all over, Captain Picard will no longer be in a position to do anything about it.”
With that she spun on her heel and headed back into the hearing room. Sawliru followed her reluctantly.
Picard glanced at Crusher and Riker before he went into the hearing room. Beverly looked worn, but ready, and Will was behaving as if he admitted new races into the Federation every day.
“They’re not going to like this,” Beverly said, warningly.
“It’s our—my—final decision. They may take it or leave it,” Picard said, testily. “I am growing tired of this endless debate.”
“All rise,” the computer said, helpfully. The assembled crowd stood in a gesture of respect as the panel members took their seats upon the dais. Picard motioned for the participants to sit, then looked around. It was almost over, he knew, one way or another.
“Before we begin, I’d like to make an announcement. I have been informed by my engineering staff that we have a power buildup in the forward phaser capacitor.” Sawliru looked wary, while Alkirg and the androids looked alarmed. “Please, there is no danger, nothing to worry about,” Picard soothed. “The hearing will continue uninterrupted. However, we need to drain this capacitor, and will therefore need to fire our forward phasers to prevent a further buildup. We have chosen a nearby asteroid as our target. The blast will be relatively minor, and nowhere near full capacity, but considering the heightened tensions in the area, I felt it best if all parties were advised. I apologize for the inconvenience. Commanders, if you wish to inform your respective ships of the action . . .”
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