by Dave Stern
“Now who lies?” Goridian said. “How could anyone look at what you have done to my people, and not call it war?”
“Give myself and Doctor Natir five minutes with this man, Captain,” Ambassador Valay said. “We will get you your answers.”
“That’s not how we do things around here,” Archer said. “Mister Goridian, I answered a distress signal in a good faith effort to save lives. Instead, one of my crew is dead, and I can’t help but suspect that what happened down at the outpost had something to do with it.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Captain. But I did not kill your crewman,” Goridian said. And then he did something very strange.
He looked past Archer, and right at Reed.
“I am sure you will discover who did,” Goridian said.
And as their eyes met for the first time, Reed felt his whole body tense up in anger.
Goridian was lying. The man knew exactly what had happened to Alana.
But how was that possible? Goridian had been unconscious—in a coma—when Hart had died. There was no way he could know what had taken place.
The prisoner’s gaze left him, and found Roan, standing next to Reed.
“Captain Roan. I had heard they put you out to pasture.”
“Commodore now, I’m afraid, Goridian.”
“All these titles. I prefer the one my people know you by best. Butcher.”
“Strange words coming from one with your record.”
“I have a long way to go to catch up with you.”
“If you hope to make me lose my temper, I’m afraid you’re doomed to fail. If you want to make me feel guilty about Dar Shalaan, there is no need.”
“Your pretensions to a conscience are too little, too late, Commodore. History has already sat in judgment on your deeds.”
“And what will history have to say about yours, Goridian?”
“All right, Commodore,” Archer said. “Let’s stop trading accusations, please.”
He turned to Goridian then.
“Now. Let’s have your story.”
They questioned the prisoner at length, Valay first, and then the captain. In the middle of the interrogation, Goridian asked for something to drink. Phlox handed him a thermos full of a greenish, foamy liquid.
“This contains all the necessary nutrients for your species in easily digestible form. I suspect it will quench your thirst as well.”
Goridian had just finished admitting—no, admitting was the wrong term, boasting was what he’d done—of intentionally destroying the Sarkassian outpost.
“And then I waited,” he said to Valay. “Waited for your ships to come, to rescue your scientists. I waited, and I hid. I expected to be found. I expected to die—and I wanted to take as many of you with me as I could.”
He took another sip of the liquid, and swirled it around his mouth. Reed watched him, and marveled. The man talked about murder the same way Reed talked about taking a shower. Reed found it chilling.
He wondered what the two races—Sarkassians and Ta’alaat—had done to each other over the years to inspire such hatred. He wondered what Roan had done at Dar Shalaan, and why Goridian had called him “Butcher.”
And most of all, he wondered what had really happened down at the outpost.
Because Goridian’s powers of observation had failed him when it came to describing what had happened to Ensign Hart.
“There was an explosion,” he had said. “And I woke up aboard your ship.”
Archer had pressed him. But Goridian had offered nothing else.
“I must say,” the captain pointed out, “I find parts of your story less than believable.”
“You see, Captain,” Valay said. “You will never get truth from this man.”
The captain was silent a long time before speaking.
“I’m beginning to agree with you, Ambassador. Mister Goridian, perhaps I should turn you over to the Sarkassians,” Archer said. “Their methods of interrogation might jog your memory a little bit more effectively than mine seem to.”
“I can assure you of that,” Ambassador Valay said.
“Then ...” Archer shrugged. “I believe that’s what I’ll do.”
“Sir, I must protest,” Phlox said. “You are aware that they mean to use torture on this man?”
“Doctor, please,” Archer said. “I think I know what I’m doing.”
Reed thought he knew as well. The captain was forcing Goridian’s hand. Of course, if Goridian knew what kind of man the captain was, he would know Archers was an empty threat. But the alien didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that. Only Archer’s crew could know him that way.
Reed looked over at the prisoner, expecting to see emotions such as fear or surprise, perhaps even anger on Goridian’s face.
But Goridian stood in front of his bunk, looking unfazed by the captain’s threat.
Reed was confused. Either Goridian was a very cool customer, or ...
“Well, Mister Goridian?” the captain asked. “Are you prepared to tell us the truth about what happened? Or would you prefer to talk to the ambassador? And Doctor Natir?”
Archer and the prisoner locked eyes.
In that moment, Reed sensed that Goridian was not going to reveal anything more than he already had. It made no sense.
“I have told you what I know, Captain.” He shrugged. “I can do no more.”
Ambassador Valay was smiling.
“You are making the correct decision, Captain. And I can assure you, whatever information we do obtain from this man we will share with you.”
“I appreciate that.” Archer stared at Goridian. Reed knew the captain was going to have to go back on his word, and tell the ambassador that Goridian would have to remain aboard Enterprise.
But the prisoner spoke first.
“Ambassador Valay, perhaps we should talk.”
“I am sure we will.” Valay smiled. “At some length, in fact.”
“I mean now,” Goridian said. “Alone.”
Reed and Archer exchanged surprised expressions.
Valay laughed. “What could you possibly have to say to me that you could not say in front of all these people?”
“A message from our leadership to you.”
Valay, for the first time since Reed had met her, fell silent for a moment.
“And you wait till now to tell me?”
Goridian nodded. “You’ll see why—once you dismiss these others.”
Reed looked from one of them to the other. He saw nothing but anger in Valay’s eyes. In Goridian’s eyes, though ...
Where he would have expected to see fear, he saw the cold light of calculation.
Don’t trust him, a little voice in his head said.
“If you are wasting my time ...” Valay said.
“I promise you,” the prisoner said. “You will want to hear this.”
“Just a minute,” Captain Archer said. “I don’t like this idea.”
“I fail to see how it concerns you,” Goridian said.
“For once, I agree.” Valay turned toward the captain, hands clasped behind her back.
At that moment, Hoshi stepped forward and spoke quietly into the captain’s ear. He nodded as she talked.
“All right,” Archer said when she’d finished. “I still don’t like it. But if the ambassador agrees ...”
“It will probably be a wasted five minutes, but ...” She shrugged. “I will listen.”
“Good.” Goridian looked from the captain to Hoshi. “I hope you are not planning to listen as well, Captain. With some kind of listening device.”
“No,” Archer said. “We don’t do that sort of thing.”
“Very well. If you will excuse us then ...”
Archer turned without another word and left the cabin. Hoshi and Phlox followed him out. Roan and Natir went next.
Which left Reed alone with Valay and Goridian.
“Lieutenant?” the ambassador said. “Do you have something you wish
to add?”
“Yes,” Reed said, looking at Goridian. The man’s actions, his whole manner—the cat who ate the canary—troubled him. “Be careful, Ambassador.”
With that, Reed left the cabin.
Outside, Captain Archer stood several feet away from the cell entrance, talking with Hoshi, who had her head bowed.
“Sir,” Reed said, crossing to the two of them. “I have to think that Goridian—”
Archer held up a hand. “Wait.” He turned back to Hoshi. “Anything yet?”
“No, sir,” she replied. Reed saw now she had her padd out in front of her and was studying it intently.
For a second. Reed thought the captain had gone back on his word and was actually spying on what was happening inside the cell.
Archer must have seen the look on his face.
“What Valay and Goridian were saying before the translator started working—it’s in there,” the captain said quietly. “Hoshi’s trying to find and translate it. That may give us a little more information. Some kind of clue as to what Goridian’s up to.”
Hoshi grunted in frustration.
“What’s the matter?”
“I downloaded the entire Hajjlaran language database into this unit right after they started talking. The index is all—messed up. It’ll take a few minutes to find that conversation.”
“Fast as you can,” Archer said. “I want to know what they said.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Captain,” Reed said. “Do you want me to go back in there?”
“No. That’s not necessary. I just ...” He shook his head, and stared at the closed cabin door. “I just don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”
“Neither do I,” Reed said. His hand went unconsciously to his side, where he would normally wear a phase pistol, and he had the sudden, irrational thought that he should go to the armory, fast as he could, get one out of the weapons locker, and hurry back here, to the cell.
Which was silly. No reason for him to need a phase pistol here and now.
And yet ...
His fingers twitched, searching for the grip. Thoughts of the weapon wouldn’t leave his head.
Six
ARMORY
1/04/2151 0818 HOURS
THE PHASE PISTOL LAY on the main firing console before him, fully charged, its barrel shining, looking sleek, ready—almost eager—for use.
Reed felt like apologizing to it.
Sorry, my friend. No action for you today.
He brought the armory lights back up and used the remote control to switch off the holographic targeting device.
Hart was almost twenty minutes late now. Late—why gild the lily?
It was clear she wasn’t coming at all.
He couldn’t believe it. He really thought he was getting through to her last night—leaving aside their unfinished discussion about the Achilles and Dinai Station, he thought the two of them had reached an understanding, had agreed that she needed to take steps toward becoming more involved with life aboard Enterprise.
Part of him also thought they’d made a more personal connection as well—the start of a real friendship, having found some common ground in the Corbett volume and their separate histories.
It hurt to think he’d been wrong.
Reed turned toward the com then, intending to locate her and have her report to his quarters, get the situation straightened out.
Which was exactly when the armory door slid open, and Hart strode quickly inside.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “I overslept. It’s never happened to me before, and I promise it won’t again.”
Reed looked at her and frowned. Overslept? he wanted to say. Hart looked to him, in fact, as if she hadn’t slept at all. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair, rather than being pulled into a tight regulation bun, was tied back in a simple ponytail. Her coverall was rumpled as well—she looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Perhaps there’s another time we can do this,” Reed said. “You were on late last night, so—”
“Oh, no, it’s not that, sir. I just had trouble falling asleep.”
Reed thought he understood.
“Nervous about doing this?”
“Well—a little, I suppose.”
“That’s only natural. We still have a little time—as long as you don’t mind rushing through breakfast.”
“Not at all,” Hart said.
“All right. Then let’s get started.”
Hart was somewhat familiar with the phase pistol already—she knew how to load it and check the charge, both of which were part of her armory duties. It was easy enough to show her how to change between the weapon’s two settings (stun and kill), and how to modify it so that it acted as more of a targeting laser. Which they needed to do for the drills Reed had in mind.
“So,” he said, taking the pistol from her and holding it in his hand. “To fire this—the most important thing to remember is that it’s not like any of the particle weapons you’re used to. No need to compensate for drift. No falloff of the beam’s intensity over any distance you’re likely to fire. It’s as true as a laser—even more so, in fact. You just point,” he aimed the phaser at an imaginary target on the far wall, “and fire.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward,” Hart said.
“It is. Ready for a little target practice?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” He handed the pistol back to her, and picked up the remote control for the targeting device again. He lowered the room lights, and powered on the target.
Twenty feet above them, toward the rear of the armory, an octagonal yellow target about the size of a softball suddenly appeared—or rather, seemed to appear. It was actually a holographic image, projected into the room by the device fastened to the wall behind it.
Hart picked up the phaser, and sighted along it.
“Let’s try a ten-second firing window first,” Reed said, punching up the settings for that drill.
The device began jetting about the room.
Hart sighted along the pistol, and fired. Once, twice, a third time.
All misses.
She fired again, and again, and again.
“Time,” Reed called.
The device came to a sudden stop, hovering expectantly.
Reed looked down at the display on the remote. “One hit, twenty-one misses.”
Hart shook her head in disgust. “God, I’m out of practice,” she said, almost as if she couldn’t believe it herself.
Reed nodded. Her motions were stiff and unnatural. She was thinking, trying to anticipate the targets movements in her mind, rather than reacting to them instinctively.
“Can’t expect miracles, Ensign. Not right away at least. Let’s try again.”
They did. Her reflexes started to come back. She began to move more like the expert marksman her records showed she’d been—her motions fluid and compact, no wasted motion, the pistol moving from side to side, her shoulders relaxed, her right foot slightly forward, knees barely bent, left arm relaxed at her side. Textbook firing position. A smile crossed his face. She was a pleasure to watch.
Hart stepped back, and wiped her brow. “How was that, sir?”
Reed suddenly realized he’d been paying a lot more attention to her than the scores coming through on the remote.
“Better,” he said quickly. “About fifty-fifty hit-to-miss ratio.”
“I can do better.”
Reed nodded and reset the device. But a dozen trials in, Hart seemed to be stuck at the same percentage. He could see she was starting to get frustrated, too—he didn’t want that. This exercise was supposed to build her confidence back up, not tear it down.
He walked behind her, and sighted along the target as she did. He saw what the problem was immediately. She was still compensating for particle drift—shooting as if the pistol wouldn’t fire entirely true. It was probably completely unconscious on her part—more like a muscl
e memory than anything else.
He powered down the targeting projector.
“Sir?”
“Here,” he said, walking back toward her. “Let me show you something.”
Hoshi had this same problem with the drift—worse, in fact, and in the end, to help her qualify on the pistol, he’d had to physically correct the ever-so-slight tendency she had to compensate: take her hand in his, and stop the errant motion as she started to fire. That’s what he’d decided to do with Hart.
Except that as he came up alongside her, all of a sudden he was nervous. About touching her.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. This isn’t a date.
“Let’s forget about this exercise a moment—see the monitor, at the top of the stairs there?”
He nodded toward the auxiliary workstation on the upper level at the rear of the armory.
“Yes.”
“The corner of the display—upper-right corner, let’s say—that’s our target.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re still compensating for particle drift,” he explained. “I want to try and make you aware of it. Ill target the phase pistol, then you fire.”
“How does that work?” Hart asked.
“Like this,” Reed said. “Here.”
He took Hart’s right hand in his, and raised it along with the pistol.
He was very aware of her face, scant inches away, and his hand, wrapped tightly around hers.
He shifted position to get the monitor in his sight, and their hips brushed.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
Concentrate, Reed told himself, and sighted up the barrel.
“Fire,” he said.
Hart squeezed the trigger, and the beam hit the monitor square in the center.
“My fault,” he said. “One more time.”
He focused on the target again.
“Fi—”
“One second,” Hart said, and raised her left hand to brush away a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her face. “Damn. Sorry. Hold on a minute.”
She stepped back, and pulled her hair entirely out of the ponytail. It cascaded down her shoulders.
“Rat’s nest,” she said, pulling it back again. “Ought to get it all cut off.”
