by Peter David
Even so, it was enough to cause Soleta’s eyebrows to rise so high that they practically touched the top of her scalp.
She leaned back in the chair, thinking about what he’d told her. He knew what she was musing over: Whether, with her far more advanced skill, she could somehow make contact with McHenry—reach whatever personality was left and … do what? Accomplish what? Free him? Take over the vessel somehow? For what purpose? Soleta said nothing of what she was pondering aloud, though. She was every bit as savvy as Muck and was equally capable of displaying caution over possible eavesdroppers.
“We should tell my father,” she said at last, which was the least inflammatory thing she could think of to say.
He nodded and the two of them left Muck’s quarters to head for Rojan’s. But when they got there, there was no sign of him. They exchanged confused looks. Uncertain of where to go or whom to ask, Soleta went to a wall communications device and tapped it tentatively.
“Yes,” came a brusque voice. Muck recognized it instantly. It was the Brikar. She must have connected to the bridge automatically.
“This is Soleta. I’m looking for my father….”
“Meeting with the Danteri.”
Soleta and Muck exchanged startled looks. “We’ve arrived at Danter?”
There was a pause on the other end, as if Zak Kebron were contemplating the blinding stupidity of the question, or even savoring it. Finally he simply said “Yes” in a tone dripping with contempt.
“Please inform him I’m coming up….”
“Not allowed.”
“But I—”
“Not. Allowed.” The communication clicked off without any further comment.
Muck saw the obvious worry reflected in Soleta’s face. He fully understood why it was there. She was concerned that her father was in over his head … and Muck couldn’t say that she was wrong.
16
Rojan entered the conference room that was adjacent to the ship’s bridge—or what Si Cwan referred to as the Nerve Center—and saw that Lord Cwan and a member of the Danteri race were already waiting for him. “Falkar, this is Rojan, a representative of your allies,” said Cwan. “Rojan, Falkar.”
Falkar inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of Rojan’s presence, and Rojan did the same. They sat down opposite each other, Si Cwan in the middle. “How is the Praetor?” Falkar asked politely. “It has been some time since I’ve seen him.”
“He is well,” lied Rojan, feeling that discretion was going to be more advisable than honestly stating he thought the Praetor was out of his mind with fear and seeing enemies everywhere.
“That is good to hear. Good to hear. May I ask why he did not come for this visit himself?”
“He has many concerns on his mind. He sends his regrets.”
Falkar nodded as if that satisfied him, although Rojan suspected it did not. He drummed his knuckles on the table for a moment and then said, “So. May I ask what all this is about? Your arrival here was unannounced, and your reason for showing up remains murky.”
“Truthfully, I am uncertain as well,” Rojan admitted, seeing no reason to cover up on the Praetor’s behalf. “The Praetor has explained the full details of our mission here to Lord Cwan. I am merely an observer to the proceedings. I believe the Praetor wanted me here in order to have an impartial point of view…. Am I right, Lord Cwan?”
“Something like that,” said Cwan. He leaned forward, squaring his shoulders. “Honorable Falkar, it is the Praetor’s belief that the Danteri are creating metaweapons, and that these weapons are designed to be employed against the Romulan Empire, or in some other way pose a threat to Romulan interests and other Romulan allies.”
“Metaweapons … ?” Falkar looked completely blank. “What … ?” He stared uncomprehendingly at Rojan, who shrugged. Falkar paused and then forced a smile, as if the very suggestion was too absurd to contemplate. “Lord Cwan … honorable Rojan … I give you my personal assurance, on behalf of my people … we have no such programs in place. We have no reason to. Our alliance with the Romulans has satisfied whatever needs we have for defensive capabilities.”
“I wish I could say that the Praetor believes you,” replied Cwan. “But he has information—highly reliable information, I should add—that indicates your researchers have been obtaining certain materials from unsavory sources.”
“What sort of materials?”
“The dangerous sort. The sort that can be utilized to create matter/antimatter bombs of far greater potency than any that currently exist.”
“Really.” Falkar seemed more amused than anything else. “At the risk of sounding repetitive, what type of potency are we talking about?”
“A dozen of these devices could lay waste to an entire planet’s surface.”
At that, Falkar threw back his head and laughed loudly. It took him a few moments to compose himself. Rojan saw that Si Cwan’s face remained unchanged. Apparently he did not see the humor of it.
“Lord Cwan,” Falkar finally said when he had managed to stop laughing, “I am afraid that someone has been having some fun at your expense. We do not have any such weapons. We do not have either reason or need to create them. Even if, for some insane reason, we did create them, there is no planet we find so offensive in its existence that we would feel the need to drop a dozen or so bombs upon them to annihilate them. This entire business is an exercise in futility.”
Si Cwan steepled his fingers and spoke sadly, as if he very much regretted the next words he was to speak. “Tragically, Falkar, the Praetor was concerned that you might adopt this line of denial.”
“Line of d—?”
“And he wishes for me to convey to you the following,” Si Cwan continued as if Falkar hadn’t even tried to speak. “You must promise to disarm immediately. You must turn over all your—”
“Disarm!?”
“Turn over all your weapons and the various substances and sources you are using in the production of them, or the Praetor will be forced to use our resources to disarm you himself.”
Now there wasn’t the slightest hint in Falkar’s bearing that he thought any of this was remotely amusing. He considered Cwan’s words for a moment, and then slowly turned his attention to Rojan as if Si Cwan were not even in the room. “You realize this is madness, do you not?”
“I am merely the impartial observer.”
Falkar shook his head. “No. You are part of some sort of carefully orchestrated nonsense. Either you are here to add a veneer of respectability, or you are simply another victim in whatever the mad purpose of this scheme might be. Either way, unless you can provide me with a single good reason to do so, I am not going to remain here and endure these insinuations and calumnies one moment longer.” He rose, turned back to Si Cwan, and said, “Lord Cwan, I am officially requesting that you return me to my government. I will convey your concerns to them, but in point of fact, there is absolutely no way that they will see this as anything other than groundless accusations. Unless you have anything else with which to approach us, this discussion is at an end.”
The disruptor was in Si Cwan’s hand so quickly that Falkar didn’t even have time to register that Cwan was holding it. Si Cwan fired off a quick blast, and Falkar’s chest exploded. He fell back, dead before he hit the chair, his eyes wide in confusion that quickly faded along with the life light in his eyes.
Rojan jumped back in his chair, startled. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he demanded just before he saw the barrel of the weapon swing in his direction.
That was when he understood.
He’d known that he was in trouble no matter which way he approached the situation presented him by the Praetor. It had seemed to him there was no way out.
He now realized, beyond any question, that he’d been right in that assessment.
At that moment he focused every fiber of his being into one single word:
Vengeance.
It was the last thought that ever entered his mind.
Seconds later his mind was decorating the wall.
17
Soleta had remained in Muck’s room, venting her frustration over the situation that they had found themselves in. Finally she stood up, bristling with determination, and said, “Enough of this. I’m going to find my father and, if necessary, force my way into the meeting. I need to know if you’re going to support me on that.”
“Will I have to hurt someone?”
“Very likely.”
“Let’s go.”
She started to head for the door, and suddenly she stumbled back. Soleta would have fallen if Muck hadn’t caught her. Her face had gone slack with shock, and all the green had gone out of her skin. Her eyes widened and she moaned low in her throat. “Soleta!” he cried out, concerned that she had had some sort of stroke. “Soleta, what’s wrong?”
“My father,” she whispered.
He knew, with a terrible certainty, what had happened. “He’s dead,” Muck said.
She wasn’t even able to nod. All she could manage to do was turn and look at him, and there was mute confirmation and sorrow in her eyes. But the sorrow didn’t remain there for long. It gave way to seething fury. Muck saw it in her and recognized it and welcomed it. Even though they had been lovers—if “lover” was a word that could be applied to such as they—this was actually the first time he truly felt close to her. For in some small measure, she had become more like him.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said tightly. “I don’t know. We have to find him. We have to—”
“We have to survive,” Muck cut her off. “That’s what he would want.”
“I know what he would want,” she replied. “He would want all the bastards killed.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Muck. “But we’re not going to be able to do it from here.”
They headed for the doors. They slid open.
Two security guards were, at that very moment, moving toward the doors, their weapons drawn.
Burgoyne, with a detachment of several other guards, showed up seconds later to discover the advance guards down and their weapons gone. The Hermat snarled in rage, cursing hirself for not having been down there for the arrest. Instead s/he had remained on duty just outside the conference room until Lord Cwan had been able to confirm that both Falkar and Rojan were dead. S/he hadn’t wanted to take any chances that either or both of them somehow might have, against all odds, managed to smuggle aboard some sort of weapon and thus posed a threat.
Now, though, it was clearly the daughter and her servant who posed the threat. And Burgoyne wasn’t about to let that threat go unattended to.
At that moment, Si Cwan’s voice came through the ship’s loudspeaker.
“My friends,” he said, “I have distressing news to tell you.” Indeed, he certainly sounded as if he were reluctant to pass it on lest there be full-on rending of garments and mourning. “Falkar of the Danteri, when confronted with the evidence of Danteri duplicity, attempted to kill both myself and the noble representative of the Romulans, the honorable Rojan. Why he embarked on such a foolish—nay, suicidal—course, I could not begin to tell you. I can assure you, though, that I am safe. My reflexes and facility with weapons enabled me to cut Falkar down before he could accomplish the entirety of his deadly intent. However, tragically, I was unable to intercede before he murdered the honorable Rojan. Yes, my crew…Rojan, the affable, well-spoken ambassador from Romulus was killed. Murdered in a manner most dishonorable and foul. He was, truly, the most noble Romulan of them all. I know the Praetor will want to give him a hero’s funeral once he is returned home from what was, in the end, his final mission.
“But it cannot end there, my friends. Oh, no. No, not at all. If for no other reason than for the attempt on my life, the Danteri must be made to pay. And they will be made to pay. I have sent a message to the Praetor informing him of this most terrible turn of events. It is my firm belief that he will ask us to wreak a horrible vengeance upon the Danteri. They took the life of a Romulan. Is not one Romulan worth a thousand, a hundred thousand—nay, a hundred million Danteri? Rojan’s soul, only a little way parted from us now, can still be heard demanding justice for his untimely demise. Justice. And as soon as we hear back from the Praetor as to exactly how he wants that justice administered, then by all the gods of the house of Cwan, we will administer it.”
A cheer arose from everywhere in the ship. Or, at least, almost everywhere.
From deep within the service tunnels that Muck had recently explored, there was no cheering. Instead there was only a growl of disgust that came from the throat of Soleta as if she were a boar. Si Cwan’s words had echoed distantly through the ducts, and Soleta’s acute hearing had ensured that not one single lying word had been missed.
Muck said nothing. He felt no need to. This was not the time for words; that time had ended when Rojan’s life had likewise ended. This was the time for action, and he knew precisely where to go and what to do. More accurately, he knew where to go and what to do, but without the slightest idea of whether he’d be able to go there and accomplish his intentions.
It was at that point he realized that he had no choice. If he didn’t manage to do what he was setting out to do, then he and Soleta were as good as dead, and Rojan would have died for nothing.
For Muck, this was simply unacceptable.
18
Elizabeth Shelby and Robin Lefler, after engaging in their dead-end and depressing duties of general scullery work and various degrading tasks for another day, returned to their grubby “homes” as exhausted as any other day. But on this particular day, Elizabeth’s mind was racing with concern over what was going to happen to Muck. She didn’t especially give a damn about either Romulan. If they’d been blown out the airlock, it would have been no problem for Elizabeth. Muck, however, fascinated her and worried her. She felt as if he had tremendous potential—so much so, in fact, that he was blind to his own leadership skills. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him.
“Maybe we should help them,” she said.
Robin appeared confused. That was understandable: Elizabeth had been contemplating the situation and had only spoken at the tail end of her thoughts. “Help who? About what?”
“Muck and the Romulan woman.”
“Help them with what?” Robin repeated, having come no closer to comprehension.
Elizabeth shook her head, amazed that she had to spell it out. “Burgoyne and hir people are going to come after Muck and the Romulan next. It’s obvious.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The Danteri shot the Romulan ambassador. How are—?”
“Don’t be naïve! Cwan shot them both.”
“What?”
“You know Burgoyne. You know what s/he’s capable of. Do you seriously think s/he allows some visitor to the ship to smuggle in a weapon of any kind and present a danger to Cwan? Of course not!” she continued, not waiting for Robin to reply. “Cwan shot the Danteri, and he shot the Romulan man.”
“But why?”
“Who knows? Who cares? The moment he did that, Muck and the woman—”
“Soleta. Her name’s Soleta.”
“The moment he did that, Muck and Soleta had targets on their backs.”
“Then they could be dead already.”
Elizabeth shook her head fiercely. “No. I don’t believe that. Because if I could figure it out, so could those two. They probably fled into hiding the moment they heard.”
“Maybe they didn’t have the time.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’d bet everything that they did.”
“Easy for you to say. We don’t have anything.”
“Face it, Robin: Burgoyne’s people and Burgoyne hirself are out looking for Muck and Soleta right now. They can last for a while, but it’s a spaceship, for God’s sake. There’s only so many places they can go.”
Robin was aware that there was something being left unsaid hanging in the air.
“So?”
“What if they came to us?” she muttered to Robin.
“If Burgoyne comes to us, we just say we haven’t seen them since the night of the dinner. S/he can’t prove—”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I mean, what if Muck and—”
“No.”
“Robin—”
“Uh uh.”
“Robin!”
“Are you insane?” Robin demanded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you are.” She was raising her voice and she caught herself, concerned that somehow what she was saying would echo and carry to unsympathetic ears. “Look, it was one thing when it was bending rules, sneaking around in the ducts, showing him McHenry. Even then we came damned near to getting into serious trouble. If you’re right about what you’re saying, then they’re fugitives. We help fugitives, we get blown out the airlock, presuming that Burgoyne lets us live that long.”
“But we have to do something—”
“No. We don’t.”
And then, to Robin’s utter shock, Elizabeth grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her forward so that they were almost nose to nose.
“I am so sick of your whining. Of your defeatism. Of your saying that you dream of a better place, of a better life, where Terrans have rights and freedom, but you don’t do a damn thing to make it come about.”
“I dream of one place. I have to live in this one.”
“What about making it better? What about us making it better?”
“We’re just two people, for God’s sake!”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes!”
She released Robin then, albeit with a slight shove so that she fell back onto her buttocks. They sat there, a distance between them that was far greater than the few feet of floor that separated them.
