Chakotay turned to Tuvok, who had taken out his Starfleet tricorder. “Can you get any readings?”
“Give me a moment, please,” Tuvok said as he peered down at the instrument. “I’m afraid the tricorder’s response time is not what it was.”
Hudson smiled, but made no apologies. When Tuvok came on board, Mastroeni had confiscated the tricorder, and wouldn’t give it back to the Vulcan until after McAdams had literally taken it apart to look for bugs, transmitters, or anything else that could be used against the Maquis. It turned out to be clean, and McAdams—a moderately skilled tinkerer—had managed to put it back together, but apparently not at one hundred percent.
Sweat was now intermingled with the rainwater on Hudson’s brow. Amazingly, there was very little humidity in the air, given the recent precipitation, but the temperature had shot up. Where moments ago he had felt like he was in the tropics during monsoon season, now he felt like he was in the middle of the desert.
“I am not reading any Andorian life signs in the immediate vicinity.”
“Damn,” Chakotay muttered. “Did he move?”
“Unlikely. I am also not picking up any Starfleet combadges in the vicinity—however, there is other evidence to suggest that both Captain DeSoto and Tharia ch’Ren are present. I am receiving the emissions from the Malkus Artifact, as well as a low-level signal from a Starfleet transponder. Both are emanating from an area that has no life readings—or any other significant readings of any kind.” He looked up. “The logical deduction would be that Tharia is, as promised, using a forcefield. However, while the forcefield is able to keep out the relatively passive signals generated by bioreadings and combadges, it cannot deter the more active signals of the artifact or the transponder.”
Chakotay nodded. “DeSoto probably brought the transponder so his ship can keep in touch with him. Smart move.”
“Yeah.” Hudson turned to Tuvok. “How far are they?”
“Approximately half a kilometer northwest of here.”
“Let’s get to it, then, before the weather changes again,” Hudson said as he started to walk northwest.
That hope was in vain. Before they’d gone ten meters, the temperature plummeted and the skies clouded up. The sweat and rainwater cooled against Hudson’s skin. Within two more steps, the snow started.
“I suggest we take shelter until this passes,” Tuvok said.
Hudson started to say that they couldn’t afford to wait, but then the snow reached the intensity level of the rain—as did the wind. He also found that he couldn’t speak because his teeth were chattering. So instead he simply ran toward the closest structure: what looked like a residential building.
The front door slid open about halfway, then made a screeching noise.
“The metal has been warped,” Tuvok said.
“G-g-get ins-side,” Hudson said, squeezing between the door and its frame. Chakotay and Tuvok did likewise—both were smaller of build than Hudson, so they had an easier time of it—and then the door shut. The building’s lobby was a utilitarian affair: a square room with walls painted beige. The back wall was lined with a series of turbolifts; a few hideous paintings sat dolefully on the two side walls, broken only by a computer interface that no doubt allowed visitors to communicate with residents. A plush beige carpet took up the entire floor. Hudson decided it was the most boring room he’d ever been in.
“W-wish we’d beamed down a medikit,” Hudson said, trying to warm himself with his arms and failing miserably. His hair felt odd—no doubt the water there from the rain had frozen into ice—and his skin felt like one giant goose bump. “We’ll get pneumonia at this rate.”
Tuvok checked his tricorder. “It is a possibility—unfortunately, this is not a medical tricorder.”
Nodding, Hudson turned to Chakotay. “Have you given any thought to what we might have to do today?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied stoically, not looking at Hudson.
“Yes, you do.”
“All right, so maybe I do,” Chakotay snapped, turning toward Hudson, his jaw set. “If I have to, I’ll kill him, but I’d like to avoid it if I can.”
“I know that,” Hudson said, grateful that he was now warm enough that he could talk normally without forcing himself to enunciate without stuttering from the shivers. “But it’s never easy to take up arms against your comrades—or your friends.” He hesitated. “Last year, right after we started the Maquis, I had to face off against my oldest friend—my best friend. He was in a runabout, I was in the Liberator—and I realized that I might be put in a position where I’d have to kill my friend.”
“What happened?”
Chuckling, Hudson said, “Actually, it was never an issue. Ben won the fight. I was in bad shape, turning tail and running.” Hudson looked at Chakotay. “The funny thing is, Ben did have the opportunity to fire on me. He could’ve disabled me, destroyed me—but he let me go. He faced the test and couldn’t do it. Funny thing is, I wasn’t sure I would’ve done the same thing in his place.”
“There’s a big difference,” Chakotay said. “I assume that ‘Ben’ is Commander Sisko of Deep Space 9?”
Hudson nodded.
“He’s not a freedom fighter—he’s just a soldier. He was doing his job, nothing more. You were fighting for a cause.” He smiled. “Besides, Starfleet’s always been big on the lost cause. There’s no problem they can’t solve—so they let you live, because they think you can be ‘cured.’” Chakotay sighed. “I wish they were right, most of the time.”
Hudson found he had nothing to add to that, so he turned to the Vulcan. “You picking up any life signs in the building?”
“Negative.”
“Hm.” He walked over to the computer interface, his clothes and hair dripping water onto the carpet. He touched the black surface, and it lit up.
“Computer, was this building evacuated?”
“Please identify yourself.”
“Calvin Hudson. I’m a visitor to Slaybis IV.”
There was a pause while that information was processed. “The municipality of Slaybis Central is in a state of emergency. All citizens have been evacuated. Your presence in this building is unauthorized. Please depart immediately or this unit will alert Law Enforcement.”
Tuvok looked up. “The temperature is once again rising, and the snow has stopped. I would suggest that we follow the computer’s directive.”
“Yeah.” As Hudson moved toward the door, he pointed at Chakotay’s phaser. “Let’s hope you won’t need to use that—or make that choice.”
The door to the building didn’t open any further than it had before, but they managed to get through. At least now they knew why the capital city—Slaybis Central? What bureaucrat thought that was a good name for a town? he wondered—seemed like a ghost town: it was.
Again, the heat of the sun bore down on the city streets, melting the snow that had already started to accumulate. Now, however, the humidity had not died down. “This,” Hudson said, “is getting tiresome.”
“Isn’t there an old joke about how if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes?” Chakotay said with a small smile.
“The quote is often attributed to a human author named Samuel Clemens, who wrote under the name Mark Twain,” Tuvok said without hesitating. “It was an attempt to humorously convey the inconsistent weather patterns of San Francisco—illogical, as that city has an unusually even climate for an Earth city.”
“Twain was big on illogic,” Hudson said with a grin. “C’mon, let’s move.”
Why are you talking? You must destroy!
“Get out of my head,” Tharia muttered.
“Excuse me?” the Starfleet captain said, a frown on his face.
“Nothing,” Tharia said quickly. “There is nothing to say.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Not—never mind.”
Tharia started pacing across the room. The device continued to whisper in his mind. But he w
as having doubts.
It had all seemed so sensible at first. The Cardassians had to die, he knew that now —knew it, with a clarity he’d never had regarding anything in his life.
From there, he knew that all the traitors had to die: Chakotay and his stupid limitations, Elois Phifer—whose corpse he had been sure to identify—for betraying them, the people of Slaybis IV—
Why did they have to die?
Everyone must die. They must all pay for letting your mates die.
Tharia had been sure of that. At first.
No, more than sure. Certain. He had no regrets about what he did on Nramia.
…bodies broken, lying in the street…
(Don’t think about it.)
Nor did he regret what he did to Chakotay and the others. They deserved it for trying to stop him. Chakotay upbraiding him—Seska actually criticizing him for killing Cardassians! And her a Bajoran, how could she do that?
But the people of Slaybis IV. Not to mention those farmers on Slaybis II, where he planned to go next. What of them?
What of them? Just think about revenge. That’s all that matters.
“Yes. Revenge—it’s all that matters.”
“Revenge against who, Mr. ch’Ren?”
Tharia looked up suddenly. He had actually forgotten about the Earther captain. What was his name? Whoever he was, he had come and asked to talk—the alternative was for them to fire on him and kill him and destroy his gift.
They can’t destroy me. Every method was attempted to destroy me. They failed. I am indestructible. Nothing can stop me.
“The Cardassians,” Tharia said, trying to ignore the voice. “They killed my mates—took our land, betrayed us at every turn. They have to be stopped, Captain. All of them must pay for what they’ve done.”
“I can understand your feelings, Mr. ch’Ren, but—there aren’t any Cardassians here.”
“No, no, there was something worse than a Cardassian here—there was a traitor. Phifer claimed to be one of us, but he betrayed our cause. He needed to be stopped, don’t you understand? It’s because of traitors like him that the Cardassians felt free to destroy our home! Athmin, Ushra, Shers—they’re all dead because of them!”
“I understand your anger,” the captain said in a maddeningly calm voice—as calm as Chakotay had been when he dared to criticize Tharia on the Geronimo.“But there are thousands on this planet who did not betray you. They’re civilians. They’re not a part of this.”
He’s lying. Don’t listen to him. He must die with the others.
“No—no, you don’t deserve to die, Captain.”
The captain half-smiled. “I’m relieved to hear that. Especially since I’m the only way you can get off this world.”
Tharia frowned. “Don’t be insane. I’ve a ship.”
“Not anymore you don’t.” The Earther gave him a quizzical look. “It was destroyed. Don’t you remember?”
“We landed without incident, Captain. I will tolerate no more lies from you!”
“I haven’t lied,” the Earther said quickly. “Check for yourself—the shuttle you came down on was wrecked.”
He is lying. Kill him.
Ignoring the voice, Tharia went to the computer from which he had contacted the Earther’s ship earlier. He ordered the sensors to train in on the area where his shuttle had landed.
His antennae stood up straight on his head. A building had collapsed nearby—no doubt the victim of Tharia’s own doings with the gift as he had used it to wreak havoc on this world as he had on Nramia—and horribly damaged the shuttle some time after he had taken over this building.
Tharia was no engineer. He could operate a computer with the best of them, make it do whatever he wanted it to, but he had no skill with actually putting the pieces together. That was B’Elanna’s job.
But B’Elanna was probably dead now, destroyed with the Geronimo.
He was trapped here.
No. You can go anywhere you want, be anything you want. I can help you achieve your goal.
“It seems you’re right, Captain. What do you propose?”
No! Do not negotiate! Kill him now! You can take his ship!
The Earther said, “If you turn yourself and the artifact over to us, I’ll make sure that you get a fair trial.”
“I can’t do that. The Cardassians must—must be—be destroyed.”Yes, they must be destroyed.“I can’t allow you to take my gift from me.”Together, we will achieve your goals.
“But there aren’t any Cardassians!” the Earther said. “And you have no way of getting off this world.”
“Yes, I do, Captain.” Of course. It all made sense again. This Earther had to die so Tharia could take over his ship. It was simple. Why didn’t he see it before?
Together, we will triumph.
Tharia unholstered his phaser.
“Drop it, Tharia.”
Whirling around, Tharia saw Chakotay, along with two others, an Earther and a Vulcan, whom he did not recognize. In fact, he barely recognized Chakotay—his clothes were in disarray, his hair was wet and sticking out in all directions, and he had mud smudged on his face. He was also pointing a phaser at Tharia, as was the other Earther. The Vulcan only had a tricorder.
“You’re dead,” Tharia said. “You can’t be real, I killed you.”
“Not quite.”
The Earther captain stepped forward. “Who are you?”
“My name is Chakotay, Captain DeSoto. Tharia’s my problem, not yours. Your best bet is to stay out of this.”
Smiling, the Earther said, “It became my problem the minute your friend started killing people. I can’t just walk away from that.”
“Shut up, all of you!” Tharia cried. He pointed his phaser at Chakotay. “Why aren’t you dead?”
The other Earther said, “I saved him.”
“Now we want to save you,” Chakotay said. “The artifact changed you, Tharia. Turned you into something you aren’t. I know you—you’d never kill indiscriminately like that. You’d certainly never leave your comrades for dead.” He stepped forward. “You have to let that thing go.”
Don’t listen to him. He just wants me for himself.
“Shut up! You’re not real!” Tharia himself was not sure to whom he directed the comment—the gift or the shade of Chakotay.
If shade it truly was. It was possible that the Geronimo was rescued. Yes, of course it was.
No! Kill him! Kill him now, before it’s too late!
Thunder rumbled, shaking the building. The room they were in had no windows, but Tharia could hear the rain now pounding against the transparent aluminum of the windows in the outer rooms.
Tharia mentally instructed the gift to lighten up the rainstorm. He needed to think, and this noise wasn’t helping.
The rain did not let up. In fact, it grew louder. The next wave of thunder was intense enough to knock all five people in the room to the floor.
“Stop it!” Tharia cried. “I command you to stop!”
“You don’t give me orders, Tharia,” Chakotay said.
“Not you!”
The Earther captain’s face fell. “He’s lost control of it.”
If you will not do what needs to be done, I will do it instead.
Tharia screamed. “No! You will obey me! You’re mine to command!”
“Chakotay,” the other Earther said in a tone that sounded like a warning.
“Dammit, Tharia, stop doing this,” Chakotay said.
“I’m not doing anything,” Tharia said, running to the back of the room. He threw open a cabinet that was lodged under the computer console to reveal the gift. It still glowed green. “You have to stop doing this!”
…
“Why won’t you obey me?”
…
It took Tharia a moment to realize the truth—the gift had gone silent. Whether he had lost control or not didn’t matter. It had been taken away from him.
Just as Athmin, Ushra, and Shers were taken away
from him.
Just as his life was taken away from him.
“Step away from it, Tharia.”
The building shook again, but this time it wasn’t just from thunder outside—it was from lightning inside. A bolt smashed through the ceiling and struck the floor not two meters from where Tharia stood.
The noise from the accompanying thunder was deafening. Tharia could feel the increase in EM activity in his antennae. The noise from both filled his very being.
He looked over at the Earther captain, who had stumbled to the floor.
Then he looked over at the other three—the ones with Chakotay were fellow Maquis, probably. One of them—the Earther he didn’t know—was on the ground, a wound in his head. The Vulcan had maintained his footing.
Chakotay was struggling to get up.
Rain started to pour in through the hole the lightning had made in the ceiling.
Tharia stared at Chakotay. His captain. His friend. His comrade.
His recruiter. The one who had convinced him to join his cell.
The one who told him he could get his revenge on the Cardassians by joining the Maquis.
If it hadn’t been for the Maquis, this would never have happened.
The Cardassians attacked Beaulieu’s World because of the growing threat from the Maquis.
Athmin, Ushra, and Shers died because of the Maquis.
Tharia found the artifact because of the Maquis.
Because of Chakotay.
“Because of you!” he cried, and fired his phaser at his erstwhile captain.
He fired again. And screamed again. And fired again. And kept firing and screaming. He had no idea if he hit anything or anyone, he just kept firing.
The Brave and the Bold Book Two Page 10
