by Peter David
Kebron’s fist went straight into the lead guard, striking a fatal blow. Then he raised the still-twitching corpse over his head and hurled it into the crowd of guards, knocking several of them back. He ripped the masks off two of them, and then slammed the door once again. The guards, Herz in the lead, bolted down the corridor, not even waiting to hear the clang of the door as it slammed closed once more.
It wasn’t the Thallonians’ fault. They had not known that one of the only things more dangerous than a wounded Brikar is a wounded Brikar whom one has tried to gas into unconsciousness. Since Brikar can hold their breath for twenty minutes at a stretch, that was a useless maneuver. Unfortunately, they had found out the hard way.
• • •
Yoz turned to D’ndai and said, “I don’t understand. If Kebron was such a formidable fighting machine, why didn’t he do that on your ship? You said you had weapons leveled at him, and he simply raised his hands and didn’t fight.”
“It should be fairly obvious,” said D’ndai. “He wanted to find out who was behind all of this. He wanted to get to the source of the situation. And now that he’s accomplished that, he’s making his stand, and waiting for my brother to come get him. And he will, make no mistake. M’k’n’zy and his people will show up. They won’t believe that either Cwan or Kebron is dead unless they have corpses to prove it. And they will trace them here.”
“Gentlemen,” Yoz said slowly, “I am open to suggestions here.”
“Who gives a damn about the Brikar?” said Zoran angrily. “Don’t fiddle with gas to knock them out. Use poison gas. Even if it doesn’t affect Kebron, it will be more than enough to obliterate Si Cwan. That’s all that matters! We have to kill him!”
“And is that your opinion, as well?” D’ndai asked Yoz.
Yoz saw something in D’ndai’s eyes. Something cool and calculating. “You feel that’s not the case?”
D’ndai started to pace. “Yoz . . . my world fought a long war for freedom, against rather formidable odds. Every so often, the Danteri would foolishly . . . no offense,” he interrupted himself as he addressed Ryjaan.
“None taken,” said Ryjaan calmly.
“Every so often, the Danteri would capture a high-profile individual connected to our rebellion. They would make an example of him. They would execute him, usually in the most grisly fashion they could invent. Indeed, they’d try to outdo themselves every time. And all that happened was that they created martyr after martyr.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, Yoz, that Si Cwan could be more dangerous to you dead than alive. You and your associates have thrown out the royal family, but you haven’t consolidated your power. Chaos and rebellion are rife throughout what’s left of the empire. Those who supported the rebellion may be starting to think that they were sold a dream, and the reality does not match the dream. If they see Si Cwan . . . if they see him die well, honorably, bravely . . . that could set forces into motion that you are not prepared for.”
“So I was right,” Zoran said sharply. “I should have killed him when he was out on the science station. For that matter, you should have killed him, D’ndai! You had the opportunity!”
“I’m not your hired assassin, Zoran. You were mine. If you bungle the job, it’s not my responsibility to clean up after you.”
“That’s what you say,” Zoran said in an accusatory tone. “Or perhaps you simply didn’t have the stomach for it.”
D’ndai smiled evenly. He bore a passing resemblance to his brother, even though the years had not worn well on him. “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”
“What would you suggest, D’ndai?” said Yoz. “That we let him go?”
“No!” thundered Zoran, looking angry enough to leap across the room and rip out Yoz’s throat with his teeth for even suggesting such a thing.
“No, I’m not suggesting that,” said D’ndai. “I am suggesting he be tried, in an open court.”
Yoz appeared to consider that, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It has its advantages.”
“Advantages!” Zoran clearly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What advantages?”
“It puts us across as rational, compassionate beings,” said Yoz. “If we beat him into submission and he agrees to whatever crimes we accuse him of, people are not stupid. It will reflect poorly on us. We do not want to appear simply as the greater bullies, the more merciless.”
“But what crimes can we accuse him of?” asked Zoran. “There is no concrete proof of anything that he directly had his hand in.”
“That much is true. But the activities of the others in his family, and in the generations preceding him, are public knowledge. Guilt by association.”
“And there is . . . something else,” D’ndai said slowly. “Something that I myself was witness to. I have been,” and he looked around uncomfortably, “I have been reluctant to say anything until now, for I have no desire to disrupt the alliance between the Thallonians and the Danteri. Such a disruption could only cause difficulties for my people.”
“Disruption?” Ryjaan seemed utterly confused. Nor did Yoz or Zoran comprehend either, as their blank looks indicated.
“There were,” and D’ndai cleared his throat. “There were certain ’private’ arrangements made. Certain allies that we Xenexians acquired when we were fighting for our freedom.”
“What allies?” asked Ryjaan, and then slowly the significant look that D’ndai gave Yoz was enough to focus him on the Thallonian. “You?” he demanded. “The Thallonians allied with Xenex against us? You!”
Yoz threw up his hands defensively. “I knew nothing of it! You speak of matters twenty years ago! I was not even chancellor then!”
“Aye,” agreed D’ndai. “Yoz speaks truly. He was not involved personally . . . not to my knowledge. But Si Cwan was.”
“Si Cwan?” Ryjaan looked stunned. “But he was barely out of his teens at that time!”
“The same might be said of my brother,” replied D’ndai. “And look at all that he accomplished.”
“Zoran, did you know of this?” Ryjaan demanded.
Ryjaan looked to D’ndai, and for a long moment he was silent, wheels turning silently in his head.
“Well?” insisted Ryjaan. “At the time, you and Si Cwan were best friends. Did he mention anything of this to you?”
“No,” said Zoran, sounding far more restrained than he usually did. “But there were any number of times that he left Thallon for lengthy periods. When he returned, he would never tell me where he’d been. He was rather fond of his secrets, Si Cwan was.”
“So it’s possible.”
“Oh, yes. Eminently possible.”
“Very well,” said Ryjaan, and he turned back to D’ndai. “I appreciate your informing me of this situation.”
“It’s more than just a situation that I’m informing you of,” replied D’ndai. “You see . . . I happen to know that Si Cwan, in his endeavors to undercut the authority of Danter, committed a variety of brutal acts. One, in particular, will be of interest to you.”
“And that one is . . . ?”
He folded his arms and said, “He killed your father.”
Ryjaan visibly staggered upon hearing this. “Wh—what?” he managed to stammer out.
“You heard me,” said D’ndai with supernatural calm. “A high-ranking Danteri soldier named Falkar. Your father, I believe.”
Numbly, Ryjaan nodded.
“You understand, I did not make the association immediately,” D’ndai continued in that same, unperturbed voice. “But you and I have had continued meetings, and since our alliance was becoming more and more pronounced, I felt it helpful to—please pardon my intrusiveness—explore your background. I violated no secrets, I assure you. It was all information easily obtained through public records. But when I learned that Falkar was your father, well . . . please forgive me that it took me this long to tell you.”
Slowly Ryjaan sank into a chair. “
I was a child when he left,” he said calmly. “When he said that he was going to Xenex to quell a rebellion, he made it sound as if there was no question that he’d return. And he never did. His body was eventually recovered. He’d been run through, and his sword was never found. The sword of our family, gone. And all this time, I thought it was in the hands of some . . . some heathen . . . no offense,” he said to D’ndai, with no trace of irony.
“None taken,” he replied.
“You have no idea, D’ndai, how this unclosed chapter in my life has hampered my ability to deal with the Xenexians. I do so because it is what my government requires of me. But after all this time, to be able to resolve the hurt that I’ve always carried . . . the unanswered call for justice.” He squeezed D’ndai’s shoulder firmly. “Thank you . . . you, whom I, for the first time, truly call ’friend.’ And when judgment is passed upon Si Cwan—when he is found guilty and is to be executed for his crimes—my hand will be the one that strikes him down.”
And Yoz nodded approvingly. “We would have it no other way,” he said. Then he considered a moment. “What of Kebron? The Brikar? He slaughtered a number of our guards. Are we to simply release him?”
“He killed fools,” Zoran said with no sympathy. “Are we to publicly admit that a single, unarmed Federation representative obliterated squads of our armed guards? Rumors and legends of the might of the Federation are already rife throughout Thallon and the neighboring planets. Why provide them with even more fodder for discussion?”
“You’re suggesting a cover-up then,” said Yoz.
“I am suggesting mercy for the Brikar. After all, we have Si Cwan. We can afford to be . . .” and Zoran smiled, “ . . . generous.”
And as the others nodded around him, he exchanged looks with D’ndai. A look that spoke volumes. A look that said, All right. I’ve covered for you. And you’d best not let me down . . . or there will be hell to pay.
SELAR
VII.
SELAR STOOD ON THE CREST of Mount Tulleah, feeling the hot air of Vulcan sweeping over her. It steadied her, gave her a feeling of comfort. The sky was a deep and dusky red, and the sands of the Gondi desert stretched out into infinity. Selar had come to Mount Tulleah any number of times in her youth, finding it a source of peace and contemplation. Now, when her world seem to be spiraling out of control, she was pleased (inwardly, of course) to discover that Tulleah still offered her that same, steadying feeling.
She heard feet trudging up behind her and she turned to see the person she knew she would. “Thank you for coming, Soleta.”
Soleta grunted in response. “You couldn’t have been at the bottom of the hill?” she asked.
“One does not find spiritual comfort at the bottom of Mount Tulleah.”
“No, but one does not run out of breath down there, either.” She shook her head. “I have forgotten how arid the air is. I’ve rarely been to Vulcan.”
“You do not know what you have missed.”
“Actually,” and she indicated the vista before them, “I suppose I do.”
Selar shook her head. “This is an excellent reproduction, I don’t dispute that. But in my heart, I know it is only that.”
“In your heart. What an un-Vulcan-like way to put it.”
“To court grammatical disaster . . . I have been feeling rather un-Vulcan-like lately.”
“Selar,” said Soleta, “you are in the early throes of Pon fan. If anything, you are a bit too Vulcan-like.”
Selar stared out at the arid Vulcan plains for a time, and then she said, “I need to know what to do. I need to know what to do with these . . . these . . .”
“Feelings?”
“Yes, that is the word. Thank you. Feelings. I cannot,” and she put her fingers to her temple, “I cannot get Burgoyne out of my mind. I do not know why. I do not know if the feelings are genuine or not, and it . . . it angers me. Angers me, and frightens me.”
“Do you want to fight it, or do you want to give in to it?”
“Fight it,” Selar said firmly. “I should be able to. I entered Pon farr two years ago. This is . . . this feeling I have now, I do not believe it to be genuine.”
“Selar . . .”
“I know what you said to me. I know your assessment. But I do not think that what I am feeling is really Pon farr. Perhaps it is a . . . a delayed reaction to the death of Voltak. . . .”
“Delayed two years?” Soleta asked skeptically.
“Soleta . . . I profess to be an expert in many things. But emotions are not among them.”
“Well,” Soleta said thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s possible. You were somewhat traumatized when you lost your husband. Perhaps, deep down, you desired to have that sort of connection once more.”
“I resolved to divest myself of it,” Selar said firmly.
“That may very well be the problem.”
Selar stared out at the plains of Vulcan. “Burgoyne says s/he feels a connection between us. Says I am interested in hir. Perhaps s/he is right. Or perhaps my thoughts dwell on hir because s/he is the first individual who has ever shown that sort of interest in me. I do not know anymore. I do not know anything about anything.”
“Admitting one’s ignorance is the first step toward gaining knowledge.”
“Thank you, Soleta. That still does not tell me what to do.”
“I can’t tell you that. No one can, except yourself.”
Selar shook her head with as close an outward display of sadness as she ever came. “I have never felt any need to depend upon anyone except myself in my entire life. Perhaps . . . that has been part of the difficulty. I have been alone for much of my life . . . but until now, I have felt . . . lonely.”
Far off in the distance, a flock of birds sailed through the sky on leathery wings. “I hope I have been of some help,” said Soleta.
“Some. I still do not know precisely what action I will take. But at least I feel as if I am moving in some sort of a direction.”
“That’s all any of us can ask. I will be on the bridge if you need me.”
Selar turned to her and said, “Thank you . . . my friend.”
“You are most welcome.”
Soleta turned and proceeded to climb down the mountain. Selar continued to look out over the Vulcan plains, but with half an ear she listened to Soleta’s quiet litany of grunts, huffs, and muttered annoyance over the inconvenience of clambering up and down mountains. Within a few minutes, however, Soleta was gone, and Selar was struck by the fact that she missed her already.
She had so intensely desired to be alone, and yet she had to admit that she might have been craving a most unnatural state. Perhaps, even for Vulcans, loneliness was not a condition to which one should aspire. Perhaps there was more to life than isolating oneself, both intellectually and physically.
She found herself wishing that Vulcans truly were as many outsiders perceived them to be: emotionless. To have no emotions would be to simplify life tremendously. The problem was that Vulcans did indeed have emotions, but they had to be suppressed. Controlled. And perhaps she had gone too far in her effort to control all aspects of her life.
It was not surprising, she mused. After all, in addition to being a Vulcan, she had chosen medicine as her vocation. She was a doctor, and there was no breed who had to stay more in control, both of situations and themselves, than doctors. And so she never had any opportunity, nor any inclination, to relax and be herself with anyone. She always, first and foremost, had to be steering a situation. She could never give herself over to the natural movement of the event. In all likelihood, her aborted and awful experience with Voltak had soured her on that notion forever. After all, she had done that very thing, there in the joining place with Voltak. She had let herself be carried along by the currents of their emotionality, and the two of them had paid a terrible price for it.
And she had sworn that day never to let down her guard again, with anyone, for anything, under any circumstance.
But now it
was finally beginning to dawn on Selar that there was a world of difference between being emotionally repressed and emotionally crippled.
Her natural inclination, as a healer, was to help those who were crippled, in any way she could. Now, looking to her own needs, she found herself reminded of an admonition from the Earth bible which one of the teachers had once mentioned to her. A saying that was particularly appropriate at this time:
Physician, heal thyself.
“Computer, end program.”
The plains of Vulcan vanished, to be replaced by the glowing yellow grids of the holodeck wall.
“Physician, heal thyself,” she said, and then left the holodeck, although just for a moment she had the oddest feeling that she felt a faint wisp of a Vulcan wind on the back of her neck.
• • •
“Thallon, dead ahead, sir,” announced McHenry. “Looks like they have some company.”
That did indeed appear to be the case. There were several vessels already in orbit around Thallon. But only one of them immediately seized Calhoun’s attention as he rose from his chair. “Son of a bitch,” murmured Calhoun.
Shelby looked up in surprise. “Problem, Captain?”
“That ship there . . .” and he walked over to the screen and actually tapped on it. “Lefler, full magnification.”
The ship promptly filled the entire screen. It was green and triangular in shape, with powerful warp engines mounted on the back.
Stepping away from her science station, Soleta observed, “That is a Xenexian ship, is it not, Captain?”
He nodded slowly. “It goes to show how quickly things change. When I lived there, we had no star-bound ships. Our experiments with space travel were rudimentary at best. We weren’t a starfaring race. Once we broke free from the Danteri, however, we began to take quantum leaps forward in our development. Sometimes I think it was the worst thing that ever happened to my people.”
“The worst thing? Why?” asked Shelby.
He turned to face her. “Because I knew that we were getting help, and I never knew from where. It was a . . . rather sore point on the rare occasions when I came home. One of the main reasons I stopped coming home, as a matter of fact. But that’s not just any Xenexian ship,” and he turned back to the screen. “I recognize the markings on her. That’s my brother’s ship.”
