Obsidian Alliances

by Peter David

  “You had a choice in your subsequent actions.” The knife didn’t waver from Muck’s throat. “You had a choice as to whether to risk your son’s life or not. Don’t you care if he lives or dies?”

  Gr’zy appeared to consider the question, as if it had never occurred to him before. When the answer came, as harsh as it sounded, it was one that Muck was already more than prepared for.

  “No,” he said.

  Slowly the Praetor lowered his knife. In wonderment, he said, “And I thought my father was a cold-hearted bastard. You and he would have gotten on well.”

  “Why should I care about the boy?” demanded Gr’zy. “He humiliated me!”

  In spite of himself, the charge caught Hiren’s interest. “In agreeing to come with me?”

  “No,” Gr’zy said impatiently as if the Praetor was a cosmic fool. “Several years ago. When D’ndai first launched his rebellion against the Danteri.” He shifted slightly on his knees. “The Danteri came. They arrested me. They demanded to know where he was. I told them I didn’t know. They tied me to a stake, started to beat me. They would have beaten me to death. They would have made a martyr of me. And then,” and his hate-filled gaze shifted from the Praetor to his son, “this little fool stepped in.”

  “You mean he saved you?”

  “I mean he ran from the crowd, ran up to the Danteri, and begged them to spare me. Begged them. A son of mine…” His voice trailed off in anger and incredulity. “On his knees, he wept. Blubbered for the entire populace to see. Told them I didn’t know anything. Told them that D’ndai was acting entirely on his own. Told them killing me would solve nothing except to leave him an orphan. He…” His voice became so choked with fury that he couldn’t even speak.

  The Praetor looked toward Muck. “Does he speak true?” he said. “Did it happen as he says?”

  Muck simply nodded.

  “And they spared him?”

  Muck nodded again.

  “Yes…spared me,” Gr’zy grunted. “They claimed they were convinced. The boy convinced them I was no threat.”

  “I didn’t…” Muck had spoken, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just…didn’t want them to kill you. I was trying to help—”

  “Help!” bellowed Gr’zy. “I would have had a death that meant something! Instead, thanks to you, I had a life that meant nothing! You useless coward! You sack of—”

  The Praetor lashed out again, this time kicking Gr’zy in the head. The chieftain was knocked over, landing heavily on his side. This time no sound escaped his lips.

  Muck said nothing, did nothing. He just watched, his eyes wide. The Praetor looked from Gr’zy to the boy and back, and then said, “Muck. Do you understand that this man does not care whether you live or die?”

  Muck began to nod, but then somehow sensed that the moment called for more than a mere gesture. “Yes, Praetor. I understand.”

  “In fact, he went ahead with his actions, knowing that they would very likely lead to your death. You understand that as well.”

  “Yes, Praetor. I understand.”

  The Praetor walked slowly around the chieftain and continued, “In his thoughts and in his actions, this man has abandoned you. He has abandoned all paternal feelings for you, and as such, you should in turn have no fealty to him. He has betrayed your loyalty. He is not worthy of it. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?”

  “Yes, Praetor.”

  Gr’zy made a contemptuous snarl. “The boy is weak-minded. Always has been. He’ll say whatever you want him to, do whatever you want him to.”

  “Really. Funny you should say that. I’m interested in putting that to the test.” He was still holding his dagger, and now handed it to Muck. Muck took it automatically in his hand, but now that he was holding it, he stared at it in confusion. “Muck,” continued the Praetor, “you owe this man nothing. But you owe it to yourself to solidify your status with me. Your father does not respect weakness. Neither do I. He thinks you are weak. I…am willing to remain open-minded on that score. And since your fate is now in my hands, it would behoove you to do whatever you could to earn my respect.”

  “You want me to kill him.”

  The Praetor had to admit to himself that the boy certainly grasped situations with impressive speed. “Yes. That is exactly right.”

  Muck was holding the dagger straight out, but he was staring at the blade as if he had never seen such a weapon before. “You…you want me to…” He made a forward stabbing motion with the blade.

  “Correct. If you do that, then your future with the Romulan Empire will be assured…and it will be a most impressive one at that.”

  Gr’zy gave a contemptuous laugh. It was clear what he thought his son would do, or not do.

  “And…if I don’t?” asked Muck.

  Considering the man’s attitude toward his son, and expecting some degree of reciprocation from Muck, the Praetor was surprised he even had to ask. “Then it will not go well for you.”

  “You’ll kill me?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “He won’t do it,” Gr’zy informed the Praetor. “Even with his own life at stake. He won’t have the nerve, will you, boy.”

  The Praetor watched, not the boy’s face, but the knife. Sure enough, the blade was trembling slightly. The boy’s hand was shaking.

  “This should be an easy decision for you to make, boy. The easiest of your life,” said the Praetor.

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “He’s my father. How can I kill my own father?”

  “You have the knife,” the Praetor said bluntly. “He’s helpless. To the chest or just under his throat, either way. All effective.”

  “I…I mean…”

  “Do you see?” demanded Gr’zy. “Do you see what I am up against?”

  “Kill him,” the Praetor challenged Muck, “or I’ll do it myself, just to shut him up.”

  “Come on, boy,” Gr’zy said. “Come on, weakling. I dare you to do it. They’ll kill me anyway. You’d just be saving me some time and them the satisfaction of taking my life. Go on. Kill me.”

  Muck’s face seemed a study in conflict. He was trying his best, and the Praetor could even see him make a few half-hearted endeavors to thrust forward with the knife. It was soon clear, though, that half-hearted was as far as he was going to get.

  “I…I…” he stammered.

  Suddenly Gr’zy was on his feet. How he had had the upper body strength to pull himself to his feet, bound as he was, the Praetor would never know. Gr’zy lunged forward as hard and as fast as he could.

  He didn’t have to travel far. The sharpened knife in Muck’s hand slid into his chest, easy as anything, and pierced his heart.

  Muck let out a cry like the damned, and Gr’zy tumbled over. “At least,” he grunted, “I don’t have to listen…to the boy’s excuses…anymore…” His body trembled, shuddered once, and then a deep breath rattled from his throat in a manner the Praetor knew all too well.

  Ashen, the boy stared at the blood on the knife and then dropped it as if it were going to contaminate him.

  “That,” the Praetor told Muck, “was the most pathetic display I have ever witnessed.” His hand swung around quickly, catching Muck in the side of the face. Muck went down, landing atop his father’s corpse. The boy let out a loud, mewling cry that was exactly the type that must have driven his father to distraction. The Praetor had little regard for the creature that had called itself Gr’zy, but at least he could understand somewhat what had been going through the man’s mind.

  “Mourn his passing as you see fit,” said the Praetor, and he turned and walked out of the transporter room, leaving Muck to sob piteously into the stilled chest of the man who hadn’t given a damn about him.

  Muck continued to sob all the way back to Romulus, and in his room for several more days. The Praetor had wanted to show patience, had thought that the boy presented some promise. But the boy’s incessant caterwauling played havo
c with the Praetor’s dwindling patience, and finally he had had enough. He consigned the boy to the mines of Remus on the assumption that they would kill him, and gave Muck no more thought. It would be hard to blame him for that. He had a great many things on his mind, and certainly had no time to waste dwelling upon some sobbing, worthless orphan savage who didn’t even have the nerve to dispatch a father who hated him.

  No. No sympathy for Muck at all.

  5

  Labec of the House of Ta couldn’t take his eyes off the comely Romulan lass.

  She had invited him to her home for the stated intention of “getting to know him.” She had encountered him at a social function that had been staggeringly dull, sidled up to him, and said softly, “My understanding is that your House has formed an alliance with that of my father. I must say, I find that…excellent news. I have always considered you a rather handsome specimen of Romulan manhood, and would not mind taking some time to become better acquainted.”

  Labec knew that the lass had something of a reputation as “enjoying the company of men.” Particularly men who were doing business with her father. It would have been unfair to say that her well-known preferences were a factor in deciding whether or not to do business with her father, but, Labec thought as he smiled lasciviously, it certainly was not a disincentive.

  Now she leaned forward on the couch, her eyes so focused upon him that he felt as if he were drowning in her gaze. Labec wasn’t an especially handsome Romulan, but he had power and prestige and consequently had no difficulty in finding female companionship. But there was something different about this one. She seemed far more hot-blooded than any Romulan woman he’d ever met. Not just that: Her stare was so penetrating that he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. In contrast to the intensity of her bearing, her breathing was slow and relaxed. “It is difficult to believe, Labec, that no woman has managed to claim you as her own.”

  “Well, I…I prefer to keep my options open,” he said casually. “I’m very…judicious…in whom I ally myself with in all areas.”

  “I can appreciate that. You appear tense, though.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her, but nevertheless she moved her fingers to his temples and began to knead them gently. He gasped and relaxed. Apparently she’d been right. Labec hadn’t thought he was tense, but clearly he’d been wrong. He started to drift, losing track of time. Then the world coalesced around him and he refocused. She was still staring at him with that same probing gaze, and he reached over and started to slide his hand under her tunic.

  “Apparently my timing could not be worse.”

  In his confused haze, Labec thought for an insane moment that the rough male voice had emerged from the woman’s mouth. Then he abruptly realized that it was, in fact, her father, standing in the doorway with his hands firmly on his hips and a look of dark amusement on his face.

  Labec was on his feet immediately, and he coughed slightly as he tried to pull himself together. “Rojan!” he said, his voice going up an octave. He felt ridiculous, as if he were some adolescent caught out while making his first explorations of a woman’s anatomy, rather than an experienced captain of Romulan industry. “I…was under the impression you were…”

  “Away on business? My business concluded,” he said with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Apparently, however, your business was just beginning.”

  “I…I…”

  Rojan waved it off as if it were of no consequence. “My daughter is a grown Romulan female, Labec, and keeps her own counsel on who interests her. Who am I to gainsay her? If you wish, Soleta, I can depart…” and he gestured toward the door.

  Soleta had gotten to her feet and was demurely smoothing down her tunic. “That will not be necessary, Father. The, eh…” and she glanced in mild embarrassment at Labec, “…mood…has been somewhat disturbed. No one is to be blamed. These things happen.”

  “Yes, well…yes,” Labec said, striving to collect his thoughts. He harrumphed deeply, as if that gave him some gravitas, and then announced as if declaiming to an audience in the upper balcony, “It has been a lovely evening, Soleta.”

  She extended two fingers and very quickly he touched them with his own. Then, bobbing his head in acknowledgment of Rojan, said, “I look forward to a long and healthy business association, Rojan,” and exited as quickly as he could.

  Rojan and Soleta stared at each other in silence for a long moment, until both were satisfied that Labec was gone. “Well?” Rojan asked finally.

  “He does not intend to betray you at this time,” Soleta said briskly. Her tone and attitude were light-years from the almost seductive manner she had adopted earlier. “He has genuine interest in business dealings with you. His greatest weakness is in his holdings in the Remus mines. Their value has taken something of a dip in the past few months, due to a downturn in worker productivity. He is intending to present his holdings as being far stronger than they are to encourage you to buy in with him, in order to minimize his exposure. Oh,” she added almost as an afterthought, “he does know of one man, Prenan, who feels you are ripe for conquest through assassination.”

  “A man wants me dead and you thought to make that the last thing you told me?”

  “You need not concern yourself,” Soleta told him easily. “Labec is very concerned about Prenan’s intentions toward Labec himself, and is arranging to have him disposed of even as we speak.”

  “I see. And Labec’s concerns first occurred to him…?”

  “Very recently. Within the last few minutes, in fact,” Soleta said.

  He touched his hand to her chin. “Why dirty your own paw…”

  “…when you can use another animal’s paw,” Soleta finished, knowing the credo quite well.

  “You are a wonder, Soleta,” said her father. “Whatever fluke of genetics endowed you with your telepathic talents has served our family well, and will take us far.”

  “Provided that we continue to keep my abilities our little secret,” she reminded him. Thanks to the paranoia and shortsightedness of the long-dead and accursed Terran Empire, true telepaths were an exceedingly rare commodity these days. Soleta wondered at times if her mother, a Vulcan Rojan had “acquired” in his youth, had shared those talents. Rojan claimed otherwise. But still Soleta imagined that the woman who had died giving birth to her, and whose true identity Rojan had kept hidden from other Romulans, must have known something that would explain Soleta’s seemingly miraculous and exceedingly useful powers.

  Rojan glanced automatically in the direction that Labec had gone. “You do not think he suspects, do you?”

  The edges of her mouth turned upward. “You always do this, Father. After I obtain information for you in my usual method, you always start to worry that my subject might figure out what has transpired, that he might realize he’d been the subject of a mind-probe. It has never happened. It never will. No one suspects that I am a telepath, nor that I am not of pure Romulan blood. No one is going to. I will continue to be your secret weapon, and our small but powerful family will build power and prestige beyond anyone short of the Praetor himself.”

  “Why stop there?” asked Rojan.

  Soleta hesitated slightly, and then her smile broadened. She had such a lovely smile, particularly when she bared the lower part of her teeth in wolfish anticipation.

  “Why indeed?” she said.

  6

  Soleta had never been anywhere so oppressively hot in her life. If she’d given a damn about the poor wretches who worked in the mines of Remus, she would have wondered how they managed to tolerate it for whatever brief periods of time they managed to survive there.

  She and her father were looking down at the miners like angels regarding damned souls from the safety of paradise. Labec was with them, dabbing sweat from his forehead with studied intensity. He kept casting glances in Soleta’s direction, which she considered amusing, although she displayed no sign of her amusement.
/>   The ramps were designed in such a way that there were passages for overseers and visitors, and passages that were for the use of workers. The two were separate so as to avoid any “ugliness,” as Labec put it. There were guards posted at all the entrances to the overseer ramps. Any worker who approached them was shot on sight.

  Soleta watched the workers trudging along the rampways. There seemed to be nothing going on behind their eyes. It was as if they had already died inwardly and were only going through the motions of existence. The fact didn’t touch her emotionally—nothing really did—but she found it intriguing from the point of view of a student of the mind.

  In the vast mining pit that yawned beneath them, she could see the slaves—or miners; “miners” was a far more polite word—clambering around on ropes affixed to the walls through a series of hooks. They would climb to a particular point and proceed to dig the dilithium out of the walls with various cutting tools. She even noticed that the miners walking around on the suspended catwalks nearby were carrying the ropes and grappling hooks over their shoulders or around their chests. She nodded in their direction and asked, “Why such primitive equipment? Would not gravity boots be far more efficient in enabling them to scale the walls?”

  “Efficient, yes, but also usable in escape attempts,” Labec replied. “We’ve found it’s inadvisable to provide our workers with too much mobility.”

  “Ah.”

  “As you can see,” Labec continued, speaking with authority, “the mine is a highly organized endeavor. Designed for maximum output in exchange for minimal expenditure.”

  “Most impressive,” said Rojan. He looked to Soleta, who nodded her agreement. “And how much dilithium does this particular mine turn out?”

  “We meet our quotas,” Labec said. Rojan didn’t need Soleta’s intuition to sense that Labec was being slightly defensive. But he didn’t feel the need to press it. Soleta had already told him exactly how the mine was doing; he was just curious to see whether or not Labec was willing to own up to it or not. If Labec wanted to be coy, well, that was fine.