STAR TREK: NEW FRONTIER: THE QUIET PLACE

by Peter David

  “And you are not a member of the ruling council?”

  “No. I am the entirety of the ruling council.”

  “Can we go home now?” Kebron said under his breath. The question was addressed to Soleta, who had sharp enough ears to hear the muttered sentiment. Naturally she maintained her reserve and didn't even acknowledge the comment.

  “May I ask where the rest of the council is?”

  “Yes,” the person who had introduced himself as Fr'Col said. And then he sat there and twirled his triangular stone around as if it were the most incredibly fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

  Si Cwan felt himself losing his patience. It was an impulse that he fought against. It had taken him many months of concentration and self-discipline to tone down the imperious attitude that many, including most frequently Kebron, had told him he possessed. Although Cwan still felt as if they had overstated the matter, nevertheless he had endeavored to act a bit less like displaced royalty, simply out of interest in helping life go more smoothly. It was one thing to be imperious when you were in an environment where people scuttled about at your slightest whim and lived for the opportunity to perform one, just one, task on your behalf. You did not encounter that sort of attitude on a starship, however, where even after all this time, Si Cwan still couldn't help but feel that there were many aboard the Excalibur who regarded him simply as a guest. Certainly there was precious little kowtowing aboard the starship, and the crew's attitude didn't seem likely to adjust itself in the near future. Since there was only one of him and a thousand or so of them, it seemed to make sense that he should be the one to try and make some changes in expectations. It had not been easy. And he had certainly not been particularly humble. He still deported himself with an air of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. This was a problem since no one on the ship was really particularly obliged to obey him. But he had worked to adjust and, to some degree, so had others aboard the ship (except, naturally, for Kebron, who seemed perfectly sanguine about the notion of just taking Si Cwan and stuffing him down a photon torpedo shaft at the earliest opportunity).

  The bottom line was that Cwan tried to be a bit more tolerant of lesser mortals, of which there was a staggering overabundance. And so, with that forced patience that came as naturally to him as light came to a black hole, Si Cwan said, “All right. Where... is the rest. . . of the council?”

  “Not here.”

  “Not here. I see. Would it be possible to bring them here?”

  Fr'Col considered that a moment. “Yesss,” he said slowly, nodding and scratching his chin with the triangle. “Yes, it would. But you wouldn't want to do that.”

  “I wouldn't.”

  “No”

  “Why wouldn't I?”

  “Well!” Fr'Col said as if the notion was appalling to him. He seemed incredulous that Si Cwan would even have suggested such an idea. “They'd stink the place up something terrible.”

  Si Cwan felt as if he was losing his mind, but it was Soleta who spoke up and said, “They are dead, are they not.”

  “Of course,” Fr'Col replied.

  “The rest of the ruling council are dead.” Si Cwan said it slowly as if he needed to explain it to himself. Fr'Col's head bobbed in confirmation. He placed the triangular stone on the small desk next to him, then picked it up again for no discernable reason. “May I ask how that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  There was another pause, and Si Cwan had to fight the impulse to step forward and rip out Fr'Col's throat with his teeth. “How did it happen?”

  “They got old. I object!” he suddenly switched tone and slammed the triangular stone on the desk.

  “You?—” He looked at his companions. Kebron's face was inscrutable as always, and it wasn't as if the Vulcan Soleta had a remarkably expressive mien either. He looked back at Fr'Col. “You object... to what?”

  “Things,” Fr'Col said ominously.

  Dead silence then.

  Si Cwan felt his patience slipping away, and with visible effort he forced himself to maintain his equanimity.

  “May I ask what... things?”

  “Yes.”

  More dead silence.

  “I'm going to kill him,” rumbled Kebron, not making an effort anymore to keep his voice down. Fr'Col, however, did not seem to notice.

  Si Cwan, however, did. And like tissue paper in water, his forbearance suddenly dissolved. He suddenly seemed to grow about a foot in height, and the air in the chamber appeared to darken with his anger. “Listen to me carefully, old man. Perhaps you didn't hear me before. In case you have forgotten during this interminable conversation, I am Lord Si Cwan, once a Thai-Ionian noble, and there was a time that I wouldn't give this pissant world of yours a second thought, or even a first thought. But times have changed. The worlds of Thallonian space, out of a sense of mutual protection, can and must draw together. That means every world, even small worlds such as yours. There are formidable forces out there who would just as soon step on you as look at you. The Redeemers, for instance. Those religious zealots are presently spreading their reign of fanatacism in the M'Gewn star sector, and the starship Excalibur is embroiled in a conflict with them there. But we had been asked by the ruling council of this world—we had thought—to come here. Did you or didn't you?”

  Fr'Col scratched his chin thoughtfully. With a moment of apparent lucidity, he said, “I seem to recall something about that. Gothil did that, I believe. Before he passed away last week, that is.”

  “Wonderful. Well, the fact is that you are here, now. If you are all that is left of the ruling council, and you need assistance, then spearhead a movement among your people to elect new members. If you are fit to lead yourself, then do so. Either way, make a decision and let us proceed together to follow the lead of the United Federation of Planets and create an alliance and unity among the worlds of what was formerly Thallonian space. The might of the Thallonians no longer exists to protect small worlds such as yourself, and now is the time to forge new alliances that will see you through to the next century and beyond. Do you understand what I am saying, Fr'Col?”

  “Of course, I understand; you don't have to shout.”

  Si Cwan was about to tell him that he hadn't been shouting, and then he realized that, in fact, he had been. His voice had become progressively louder as his frustration level had risen. He cleared his throat loudly and then said, “My pardon, Fr'Col.”

  “I don't want your pardon,” Fr'Col said with surprising fire. “I'm not even entirely sure I want you. We don't have all that much need for alliances or guidance here on Montos, Ambassador. We've had some dealings with other races. We've done some trade here and there, although we've never really come out with much in the bargain. We've traded valuable minerals and gotten useless junk in return. Objects that former members of the council thought was going to be of use, but never really served much purpose here. Historically, we've kept more or less to ourselves and been left alone.”

  “Because of Thallonian influence.”

  “So you say. But you could stand on the highest mountain in these parts every morning and wave your arms, and the sun would come up. You could then turn around and claim that Thallonian influence caused the sun to rise, but the claim doesn't make it so. You see what I'm saying?”

  It was all Si Cwan could do to suppress a smile of amusement. Apparently, the old man did have some spirit to him after all. “Yes. I do.” Then his demeanor grew serious. “But claims shouldn't automatically be dismissed out of hand. Danger doesn't have a habit of dispensing copious warnings; it simply presents itself, and if you are not prepared for it, it can go rather badly for you.”

  Fr'Col appeared to consider that, stroking his wispy beard once more. Then, abruptly, he slammed the stone down like a gavel. “It shall be considered!” he announced. “I shall need to consult with my people, however.”

  “Of course. Perhaps we can have the opportunity to address the—”

  But Fr'Col wasn't listenin
g to him. Instead he had slid off his chair and proceeded to amble to the door. Moments later he had left the room.

  “That went well,” Si Cwan said after a time.

  “In what reality did that go well?” Kebron demanded.

  “You have no experience with small worlds such as this, Kebron,” Si Cwan informed him haughtily. “We are dealing with basic physics here. Objects at rest tend to stay at rest—”

  “Unless acted upon by an outside force,” Soleta finished promptly.

  “Precisely. On a world such as this, the tendency is to keep doing things the way they were done yesterday, and the day before, and so on. Complacency sets in, as does resistance to change. Occasionally it takes a while just to get the attention of those in power. But once you have, then—”

  The doors swung inward, and Fr'Col entered. He muttered to himself as he walked to his chair, eased himself into it, then rapped authoritatively with the triangular stone as he called out, “Meeting come to order! This meeting of the ruling council of Montos is now called to order.” Then he lay the stone down, interlaced his fingers and stared at Si Cwan. Cwan waited for his pronouncement or decision.

  Fr'Col stared at Si Cwan, his entire face a dark scowl, and then he said, “And . . . you are?”

  “I'm going to go wait in the ship,” said Zak Kebron.

  VI.

  THE HOUSE LOOKED UNASSUMING, which naturally prompted Xyon to assume the worst. It stood on the edge of a dirt road with walls made of some sort of bricklike material.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. That alone would have been more than enough to alert him, for he generally tended to trust his hunches. But standing around outside with concerns and raised hairs wasn't going to accomplish a damned thing. He considered the possibility of sneaking around the back, climbing up through a window, rooting about. All of those were possibilities. On the other hand, he wasn't sure just how necessary any of that would be. It would have been one thing if he were trying to infiltrate a fort or some sort of outpost, but this was simply a house, a house where there was definitely someone in residence, for he had caught fleeting glimpses of her through the windows. It was an older woman, a pale-skinned sample of the type on this world. She definitely had something on her mind. Xyon could discern that even from the furtive glances he'd caught of her, particularly because she kept glancing toward the second story of the house. On the second story, there was a room with shuttered windows. There was only one room like that, and Xyon had the feeling that whatever was causing the older woman concern, it was in that room.

  In all likelihood, it was the mysterious Riella.

  Montos was not a particularly populous world: There were a couple of outlying tribes that were somewhat nomadic in nature, and the rest of the small populace resided within the proximity of the central city. It had taken Xyon no time at all to check out the more remote areas before determining that Riella wasn't to be found there; instead he turned his attention to the more populated regions.

  During his search, he had been guided naturally by what people he questioned told him, but also by his gut instinct. He had a knack for detecting duplicity, and lying to him was generally something of a waste of time. Nevertheless, despite his natural gifts, he had anticipated it being an extremely arduous, time-consuming, and even boring process. He could not have been more wrong; it didn't take long at all. Apparently, the girl had something of a reputation, both in her manner and in her preference for seclusion. Of course, Xyon was no fool. He knew the male mentality well enough to know that all manner of attitudes could be ascribed to a young woman who, quite simply, didn't provide the local males with the kind of entertainment they'd prefer. The fault might very well lie with them rather than her.

  In any event, the young men to whom he spoke had no trouble at all steering Xyon to the woman he sought. They had initially regarded him with some suspicion, for he was clearly of alien origin and Montos was not accustomed to having many visitors. Xyon had managed to allay their concerns somewhat adroitly, however, by the simple expedient of giving them their first taste of Romulan ale (several bottles of which he kept securely tucked away on his ship). He hadn't wanted the boys talking about his presence to the wrong people until he had time to accomplish what he needed to. That wasn't going to be a problem, considering that they were sitting around in a large circle, sporting rather goofy grins and giggling incessantly at one another under the impression that they were actually having a conversation. By the time they sobered up, with any luck, Xyon would be long gone.

  With Riella? Xyon still wasn't sure. To a certain degree, he was improvising. His disgustingly annoying streak of sentimentalism was prompting him to take a hand in the matter, but he wasn't entirely certain as to how strong a hand he should take.

  There were two things that were certain, however. The first was that nothing was going to be accomplished by skulking around outside the house. And the second was that the passage of time was only going to bring the Dogs of War closer, not place them farther away.

  Opting to go for the direct approach, Xyon walked up to the front door and knocked on it with authority. He figured he had nothing to lose. If the woman inside (the mother, he suspected) proved intransigent, he could always gain entry to the structure via other means.

  There was a stirring from within, and Xyon thought he detected two sets of footsteps. Then the door creaked open and a woman's face appeared. It was the same woman he had spied through the windows earlier. Her face was careworn, and when she looked at Xyon her eyes went wide in surprise. Very likely she was no more accustomed to seeing offworlders than anyone else on this backwater planet was.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. Straight, to the point, suspicious. He could appreciate that attitude. It was probably the same way that he'd react.

  “My name is Xyon,” he said. “I admit, you don't know me and have no reason to trust me. But I'm here to tell you that you and Riella are in danger.”

  “How do you know Riella?” she said.

  That, of course, was precisely the reply he'd been hoping for. He'd figured that if he'd asked whether Riella resided there, he might be met with obfuscation. By presenting it as a given, he'd gotten her to admit that Riella was there.

  “It's enough that I know,” he told her. “May I come in and—”

  She cast a glance over her shoulder. Someone was standing there, probably Riella. “I would rather you didn't.” And she started to close the door in his face.

  Xyon put a firm hand against the door and stopped it from shutting. “I don't think you quite understand me, Madam. I said there is danger coming. I trust that word is not unclear to you.”

  Her voice cold, she said, “You are a stranger, sir. I do not know you, and yet you come here and spout about danger, talking about my daughter. The only danger that has presented itself in recent days is you. Good day to you.” She pushed again, this time obviously applying all her strength.

  Xyon, however, didn't budge. His arm was strong and straight and didn't bend in the slightest, despite the effort she was putting into closing the door. Her inability to move him at all registered as clear surprise on her face. Nor did his voice, calm and assured, display any indication of strain. “You are quite right. I am a stranger. I could have left you and your daughter to your fate and not had it impede my life in any way. I chose not to do so, however. Now you can show some appreciation for that and help me to help you save your life. Or you can fight me, wasting time and further jeopardizing yourself. Let me come in and we can work out—”

  The door was suddenly yanked open and Xyon took a step back in surprise, for the person he was staring at was most definitely not a young female named Riella.

  He was tall and powerfully built, and he had fiery red skin. Xyon instantly recognized him as a Thallonian.

  “You have been told to leave,” said the Thallonian. “I suggest you do so.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone who is welcome here. That make
s one of us. Now be on your way.”

  “You don't care about danger either?”

  “I assure you, child, there is nothing you know that I do not.” The Thallonian dripped scorn. “Now be off with you.”

  “Perhaps you might want to let me speak to Riella about that,” Xyon said. “After all, she is the one who is in danger, red man. Not you. Why don't I—”

  Xyon had never seen anyone move quite as quickly as the Thallonian. Before he knew what was happening, he was on the ground, a pain in his chest from where the Thallonian had punched him. He was gasping, but he was determined not to rub his chest where the pain was. He didn't want to give the Thallonian the satisfaction.

  The Thallonian, for his part, had barely seemed to move. Clearly he was a warrior of some sort. Xyon chided himself mentally; he had been horrifically overconfident. If the Thallonian had had a blade concealed in his hand, Xyon would be dead instead of just sitting in a rather undignified position with a sore rump.

  Obviously, the Thallonian knew that as well, for he said, “You were lucky just now, boy. Do not push your luck. Understood?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door closed and this time Xyon made no effort to stop it.

  “Idiots,” he muttered. Then he rose, dusted himself off, and studied the house carefully to see what would be the best means of sneaking in.

  That was when his sharp ears heard something hit the ground from behind the house. Immediately he knew from the way in which it landed that it was heavy enough to be a body. Indeed, it probably was a body. Could it actually be that the Thallonian and the woman had tossed Riella's body out the back window? Were they vaguely under the impression that no one would notice? How stupid could they possibly be?

  Then he heard a low moan. Perhaps the body was not dead after all, but instead only on the brink of death. That would reduce the Thallonian and “mother” to the rank of “attempted killers” rather than murderers. Cold comfort, that.