Obsidian Alliances

by Peter David

  Just as he’d gotten a meter past the corpses, he heard more footfalls coming from ahead. Doubling back, he jumped over the corpses and lay on the ground behind them.

  The footfalls came to a stop, but Chakotay didn’t dare look—at first.

  “This is Katok,” a voice said, presumably into a communicator. “Tirod and Kamless are dead. One of the prisoners is loose on this level.”

  A tinny voice sounded over the Klingons’ communicators: “We still can’t get the khest’n turbolifts to work, the access tubes have all been flooded with gas, and half the security personnel aren’t reporting. I’ll transport someone down there as soon as I can.”

  Chakotay smiled at that, once again grateful that Harry Kim was on his side.

  “Oh, and Katok? The supervisor doesn’t need them alive.”

  Katok snarled. “She was never going to get them that way. Out.”

  That was the magic word for Chakotay. As soon as Katok cut off communication, he jumped up and fired both rifles at Katok and his comrade.

  Or, rather, where he hoped they were. He nailed one of them in the chest, but the other shot went far wide of its target and the Klingon was able to fire back.

  Pain sliced through Chakotay’s torso as he fired again, this time hitting the Klingon dead-on.

  Wincing in agony, Chakotay looked down to see a terrible black burn in his flesh right above the left hip. He was going to need that treated, and soon.

  But first things first. Kate’s got to be here somewhere, and I don’t care how many Klingons I have to go through first. As long as Kate remained alive and in Alliance custody, the rebellion was in serious jeopardy. O’Brien would never even get the chance to build that warship of his.

  Trying and not always succeeding to ignore the white-hot agony that seared through his left side every time he moved, he padded forward. Stepping over the four Klingon corpses was even more painful, and sweat was pouring down his face, his bare wrist doing an inadequate job of wiping it out of his eyes.

  Turning the corner Katok and his friend had come around, he saw a very long corridor. At the end stood a Klingon guarding a door.

  If Kate’s an important enough spy, she may warrant a guard. Chakotay quickly fired a rifle shot at the guard.

  How much of Chakotay’s blurred eyesight was due to the sweat in his eyes and how much to the blinding agony he was in wasn’t clear, but either way, his condition combined with the great distance to ruin his aim. His disruptor fire went clear over the Klingon’s head. Luckily for Chakotay, the Klingon’s own disruptor was holstered, so he was barely able to duck out of the way before he could take it out and fire. The beam hit Chakotay’s right hand, forcing him to drop his weapon.

  Undaunted—he still had two more, including the one strapped to his back—Chakotay tried the same trick again, pointing the rifle in his left hand around the corner and firing at the Klingon, who was now running down the long corridor toward him.

  Unfortunately, that trick didn’t work a second time. Chakotay unstrapped the other rifle with his right hand, unable to completely ignore the shooting pains that caused. Then he leapt out into the field of fire, rolling and intending to come up firing.

  That, he realized, would have been a much more efficacious plan without a large, painful hole in his side, so instead of rolling, he cried out in pain and collapsed on the floor.

  Laughing between breaths, the Klingon arrived at this end of the long corridor and said, “You’re a fool, Terran.”

  Chakotay shot him in the face.

  As the Klingon fell dead to the floor, Chakotay tried to figure out how to get up.

  Come on, it’s just crippling agony, it’s nothing to keep you down. He’d faced far greater pain and exhaustion in the mines on Drema IV, and he’d survived that, he could damn well survive this.

  He just had to make his legs work.

  Gathering up every inch, every muscle, every iota of strength, using the stock of one of the disruptor rifles to brace himself, he managed to get to his feet. That effort left his breathing labored, his muscles feeling like they were made of wet noodles, and the throbbing in his left side now matching that of a pounding drumbeat.

  Bracing himself against the wall—as that was the only way he could in any way guarantee not falling down again—he worked his way to the doorway the Klingon had been guarding.

  The door opened before he got in front of it. Kate Janeway walked out, disruptor pistol in hand. At the sight of Chakotay, her eyes widened, and she raised her arm to fire.

  Somehow, Chakotay was just a little bit faster, and he managed to shoot her in the leg. It wasn’t an ideal place to shoot her, but he lacked the strength to lift his arm any higher.

  With a most satisfying scream, Kate collapsed to the floor, gripping her right knee.

  Chakotay hobbled past her. She somehow had the wherewithal to grab for his ankle, and he responded by kicking her.

  That action, sadly, took most of his remaining strength. He managed to gather enough energy to direct his fall, but fall he did, onto Kate’s couch.

  Aiming both his weapons at her, he said, “Toss the disruptor, Kate.”

  She did as instructed, tears pouring down her proud cheekbones, but she wasn’t crying out in pain anymore. “You’ve looked better, Chuckles,” she said snidely.

  “It’s just a flesh wound.” He tried to sound nonchalant, and could tell he wasn’t really succeeding.

  “I was referring to your state of undress. But then, seeing you naked always made me gag.”

  Chakotay shook his head, which had the unfortunate effect of making it swim, and he forced himself to hold the disruptors steady. In a ragged voice, he said, “So all the time, you were working for them.”

  “Not for them, for her. B’Elanna’s been my patron all my life. She’s given me a better existence than any I could ever have among the Terrans.”

  “You’re good,” Chakotay said with a bitter chuckle. “I never suspected. I just figured you were bitter because of what the Alliance did to you.”

  “The Alliance saved me! They gave me a home! What will you give the people, Chakotay, when your precious rebellion takes over? More tyranny? Because let me tell you, as bad as you think the Alliance is, it’s nothing compared to what our people do when they’re put in charge. Terrans are the filth of the galaxy, Chuckles, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure they never get the chance to rule again.”

  As Kate spoke, her grip on her right knee grew tighter, and more tears streamed down her cheeks. She was doing everything she could to avoid showing how much pain she was in. Under other circumstances, Chakotay might have admired her attempt at stoicism. But now he realized that whatever doubts he might have had about killing Kate—and only now did he admit to himself that the doubts were there, as he only had Harry’s word that Kate had turned—they were now eliminated. Kate wasn’t just a spy, she was a fanatic, and she obviously really believed the nonsense she was spouting.

  Then, suddenly, she dove for her disruptor. Chakotay shot at the disruptor, but hit her hand instead. Again, she cried out in pain as the beam cut into her hand, her flesh sizzling.

  Anger and outrage lent strength to Chakotay’s weakening limbs and he got to his feet as Kate writhed in agony on the floor of … whatever this room was. He assumed it was her quarters, but he was focused entirely on her right now and couldn’t afford to look around the room. Haltingly, he stumbled over to where she lay. “You betrayed us, Kate. We can’t afford to let you live.”

  “Typical.” Somehow, Kate managed to sneer the word, something Chakotay hadn’t thought possible. “The Terran solution to everything: kill it.”

  “Not everything,” Chakotay said as he sank to his knees so his face was close to hers—as it had been so many times in the past months in what Chakotay had thought to be argumentative affection—and he imagined he could smell her tears. “Just those who endanger our cause.”

  He fired one disruptor. The beam struck Kate’s p
retty face, slicing through it. Bits of blood spurted before the beam could cauterize the wound it caused, and Kate fell backward, dead in an instant.

  Chakotay let out a moan of anguish. Fatigue drained what energy was left in his limbs to the point where he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. The disruptors fell to the floor. The darkness he’d been staving off ever since he got shot at last consumed him. He wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn’t.

  His last thoughts were both regret at how it had ended between him and Kate and relief that he had saved the rebellion.

  12

  B’Elanna had been in the middle of flogging her favorite when the alarm sounded. Hastily throwing some clothes on, she led him to the turbolift.

  It opened at her approach, but when she said, “Level one,” nothing happened.

  After three more tries, she activated an intercom. “Security, this is Supervisor B’Elanna, why aren’t the turbolifts working?”

  Kohlar’s voice came back: “The prisoners have escaped, Supervisor, and they have done—something to the turbolifts. They will not accept any voice commands. They have also flooded the crawlways with gas.”

  “Fine. Transporter room, this is the supervisor—two to beam to the security office immediately.”

  “Yes, Supervisor.”

  Moments later, B’Elanna was standing over Kohlar, her favorite behind her. “How did this happen?”

  “One of the prisoners did something to his surveillance. We flooded his cell with gas, but no gas could be seen on the monitor. The Terran Janeway—”

  “Katie? Is she all right?” B’Elanna asked, concerned, as Katie was B’Elanna’s primary source of intelligence on the rebellion.

  Kohlar nodded quickly. “She is well. She led a team to investigate the prisoners—she was the only one to leave alive.”

  “Which prisoner altered his surveillance?”

  “The palest of the three.”

  B’Elanna cursed. “Dear old Harry. I should have killed him as soon as I saw him in that damned ship. That also explains the turbolifts. Where’s Katie now?”

  “Under guard in her quarters.”

  “Good.” B’Elanna nodded. “Do a scan for Terrans and Vulcans, and—”

  “I’ve done that,” Kohlar said snappishly. “Unfortunately, every security force I send after them stops reporting.”

  “Supervisor, this is Doctor Zimmerman.”

  “Not now, Doctor,” B’Elanna said angrily. “I’m busy.”

  “I’m sure you are, but this is rather important. Something’s wrong with the alien girl, and your security people have all been called away.”

  B’Elanna didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s complicated. But you should get down here right now.”

  “Very well.” B’Elanna turned to Kohlar. “Find those rebels and kill them. They have no value to me alive anymore. The aliens and Katie are all that matter. Gas the whole base if you have to, and we can sort it out later.”

  “Yes, Supervisor.”

  Activating the intercom, she said, “Transporter room, two to beam to Laboratory 3.”

  “Yes, Supervisor.”

  When they materialized in the lab in question, Zimmerman nearly jumped out of his skin, which gave B’Elanna no small amusement. She noted that a Klingon was on the floor, his corpse looking a bit mangled in the face, and that there were no other soldiers around, as Zimmerman had indicated. The two aliens were both sedated on biobeds with force-field restraints activated.

  “My goodness!” Zimmerman said.

  “I’m sorry,” B’Elanna lied, “but the turbolifts are down. Now what has happened?”

  Zimmerman whipped out a disruptor. “Nothing much, Supervisor, I simply needed you as a hostage.”

  At that, B’Elanna laughed. “Really? To get you where, exactly? That civilian freighter that you’ve been communicating with for the past day? I’m afraid they’re space dust alongside Evek’s ship.”

  The look on Zimmerman’s face—eyes widening, mouth open in a rectangle—was priceless. “You’re lying.”

  “She isn’t,” said a voice from behind her.

  Whirling around, B’Elanna saw her favorite standing with a familiar-looking disruptor. Looking quickly down at her hips, she realized that it was hers.

  “You betrayed me?” B’Elanna asked with a fury that she hadn’t felt since Miral survived her poisoning.

  “With a disruptor in my hand and a song in my heart,” the Terran said with a grin. “What, you thought I liked being your boy toy?”

  “This is all well and good,” Zimmerman said testily, “but what about Volnak’s ship?”

  “It’s not like Volnak was on it,” her former favorite said with a roll of his blue eyes. “It was just a courier. There’s a perfectly good ship in Bay 5.”

  “What?”

  Sighing, the Terran said, “The rebel ship.”

  Zimmerman nodded. “Ah, of course. We can steal that and deliver these two to Volnak.”

  “At which point, we get enough money to live somewhere far away from Klingons and Cardassians.”

  B’Elanna snorted. “I hate to interrupt your grandiose plans, but you’ll never get near Bay 5, and even if you do, there’s no place in the galaxy far enough for you to hide from me.”

  “We’ll make it fine with you as a hostage,” her ex-plaything said with an insincere smile.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Zimmerman said archly. “That one was willing to murder our telepathic girl, and was unimpressed when I told him the supervisor wouldn’t like it. ‘Do you really think I care a whit what that halfbreed petaQ thinks?’ were his exact words.”

  With his face so mangled, B’Elanna didn’t recognize the soldier in question—not that she necessarily would have even if his face wasn’t half boiled away—but she couldn’t bring herself to be surprised at the disloyalty, either. Her Terran blood meant all too many Klingons would view her with disgust, no matter her position or her mother.

  Her former favorite shrugged. “Kohlar’s loyal to her, and he’s the only one that matters.”

  Shaking her head, B’Elanna said, “You had everything. You were treated better than any Terran on this station. I gave you more love than any other creature in this galaxy! And this—this is how you repay me?”

  The Terran smirked. “Life’s a bitch, Supervisor.”

  B’Elanna smirked right back. During her speech, she had slowly moved her right hand to the hilt of her d’k tahg.

  “So am I.”

  With one fluid motion, she whipped the dagger out and flung it at her former favorite.

  The d’k tahg now protruding from the Terran’s left eye, he fell to the floor, disruptor fire flying into the ceiling as his finger spasmed. Death was instantaneous—he hadn’t even had time to let out one of those joyously erotic screams of his.

  “I should thank you for that,” Zimmerman said calmly. “It just means I don’t have to split Volnak’s reward. And I can assure you, that trick won’t work on me, especially since your only other weapon is currently lodged in young Thomas’s cranium.”

  B’Elanna regarded the Terran doctor. “It seems we have a standoff, then. Because I will not allow you to take me as a hostage. And I don’t think you have the stomach for a fight.”

  “I don’t need the stomach, Supervisor, when I have this.” With the hand not holding the pistol, he held up a hypo. “This contains the compound I used on that one over there. It brings the blood to a boil almost instantly. I promise you, it’s a much messier death than the one you recently visited on young Thomas.”

  “You’d have to touch me to inject me, Terran, and that, I promise, you’ll never do.”

  Suddenly, Zimmerman’s eyes widened, and he looked past B’Elanna and said, “Who are you?”

  Rolling her eyes, B’Elanna said, “Really, Doctor, if you expect me to fall for that old—”

  A hand clamped down on B’Elanna’s shoulder,
and then the world went dark.

  During his years as T’Kar’s thrall, Tuvok had learned the fine art of moving without being noticed. It was an art that was crucial for servants to know.

  Admittedly, it was one thing not to be noticed on an estate where you were the primary caretaker of the house and therefore expected to be present, if not noticeable, and quite another to attempt such a trick of pseudo-invisibility when you were running naked through an Alliance base full of personnel with instructions to kill you.

  Moving silently through the wide corridors of Monor Base, Tuvok eventually found his way to a computer terminal. His years under T’Kar served him well, as the Obsidian Order agent had little skill with machines—an oddity in an intelligence agent who relied on them to do his work, but the Klingon Tuvok had served possessed many eccentricities. It was through the exploitation of them that Tuvok had been able to make his escape and insinuate himself into the Terran Rebellion—and also work his way through the Monor Base system and determine his current whereabouts, the location of Kes, and the fastest route between the two. He also determined the location of Geronimo, and mentally filed that away for future use, assuming he was able to effect the rescue.

  En route he encountered only two Klingon patrols. The first he was able to avoid, the second he disabled with the nerve pinch. In both cases, random chance favored him, something on which Tuvok knew he could not depend.

  When he finally arrived at the laboratory, he saw a tableau he had not been expecting. Supervisor B’Elanna—whom he recognized from the files on Ardana that Seska had managed to obtain—was being held at disruptor point by two Terrans, neither of whom Tuvok recognized.

  He did, however, recognize the two aliens on the biobeds: one was Neelix, and the other Tuvok recognized from Neelix’s descriptions as Kes.

  B’Elanna managed to throw her d’k tahg into the head of one of the Terrans before he could do anything, but that still left the other one for the supervisor to deal with.

  Remembering an old cliché that he’d heard a few times during the days of the Terran Empire—“the enemy of my enemy is my friend”—Tuvok decided that he would do well to ally himself with the surviving Terran.