by Various
“I—I suppose.” She looked up. “But I don’t like it.”
“In truth, none of us do,” Tuvok said gently. “But if your training goes as planned, then you will be in a position to right that wrong.”
Kes looked up at Tuvok. Her jaw was set and her eyes showed a deep determination. “In that case, Tuvok, I’d like to start that training as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry, Neelix.”
The Talaxian was sure that Seska meant the words she said, but it was inadequate. “How could this have happened?” he asked, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“I honestly don’t know. Tuvok couldn’t even explain it, and he can explain anything. And unlike the rest of us, he was there. But it seems that Kes—I don’t know, transcended the flesh, maybe.”
Neelix shook his head. “It’s that Zimmerman person. He did…did something to her. He caused this.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if his experiments had something to do with it,” Seska said with an agreeing nod. “But he probably died when Stratos was destroyed.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I missed that.”
Seska grinned. “Harry made a recording.”
“Good.” Neelix wanted to see that hateful place crash to the ground in a fiery conflagration, if for no other reason than to see if the reality matched the dream of it happening that he’d been having since he was first imprisoned there.
They were sitting now in the mess hall of the rebellion base in the Badlands. They had stitched up Neelix’s wound, and now he was eating some kind of soup. Seska wasn’t eating, but sipping some kind of yellow drink.
“Where is Tuvok, anyhow?” Neelix asked. “I wanted to thank him for rescuing us.”
“He’s away from the base for a bit—some kind of meditative retreat. He does this every once in a while, some kind of Vulcan thing.” She shook her head. “I’ve known plenty of Vulcans over the years, and I’ve never seen one who obsessed over their old traditions the way Tuvok does. I suppose it’s his way of clinging to the way things used to be.”
“Understandable.” Neelix sipped his soup and wondered how much of that he would be doing in the future.
“So what’s next for you?” Seska asked.
Remembering the last confrontation Seska and Chakotay had before they arrived at Ardana, Neelix smiled. “That was going to be my question for you.”
“I was going to abandon the rebellion, but with Chakotay dead, I’m not sure a problem exists. I saw how far O’Brien’s gotten with that warship of his, and I’m starting to think this rebellion might stand a decent chance of making some headway.” She sighed. “Besides, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Neither do I. If you’ll have me, I’ll willingly be part of your rebellion.”
“You sure? Most of the people here are fighting oppression. Me, I’m trying to restore Cardassia to what it was before the Klingons subverted it. But this isn’t your fight, Neelix. Don’t you want to try to get home?”
“It is very much my fight,” Neelix said in a quiet voice. “It was the moment they imprisoned me and tortured the woman I love into something that took her away from me.” He set down his spoon. “It has been many years since I encountered a cause that was worth fighting for, Seska. I believe, in this rebellion, I’ve found one. The Alliance stole the creature I’ve loved more than anything in the universe, and I won’t rest until they pay for that. As for home—” He hesitated. “The Haakonians took my home from me. I was cast adrift, wandering the stars. I believe this rebellion can put me back on course.”
Seska smiled. “Then welcome aboard, Mister Neelix. There’s a lot of work ahead of us, and we’ll need all the help we can get.”
With a grim determination he hadn’t felt since his family was killed, Neelix said, “You can count on me, Seska.”
Cutting Ties
Peter David
Historian’s Note
This story unfolds concurrent with the events chronicled over the course of the first four New Frontier novels, concluding during the period between Fire on High and Martyr, and roughly around the end of Deep Space Nine’s fourth season.
1
T he sun hung heavily in the blistering Xenexian sky on the day that Gr’zy of Calhoun reluctantly said farewell to one of his sons and gratefully bid good-bye to the other.
Gr’zy didn’t acknowledge the intensity of the heat, and probably wasn’t even aware of it. Part of that stemmed from the fact that the huge, grizzled warrior had become inured to the most daunting aspects of his homeworld’s inhospitable climate. He had used to complain about it in his youth until his father had beaten his whining out of him. Gr’zy had resented the hell out of his old man for it at the time, but as an adult he’d come to appreciate his father’s actions. It had toughened him, and made it possible for him to endure not only the harshness of his world, but the tragedies that were thrust upon him by his world’s enemies.
Those enemies were surrounding him now.
The rebellion had failed.
His greatest son, the foremost leader of the rebels, now lay before him. More precisely, his remains lay before him, and they were not going to be around for much longer.
Gr’zy wanted to avert his eyes, but he forced himself to keep watching as the body of his mighty son lay upon its funeral pyre. Flames licked the body hungrily, and the air was filled with the smell of burning meat. The aroma itself, and the knowledge of what was causing it, made him want to retch. But what sort of message would that have sent to his fellow tribesmen, if they’d seen their leader down on his knees and vomiting like a pregnant woman? So he contained himself behind a stoic mask and watched his son’s remains crackle, burn, and flake away, spiraling skyward amid the twisting smoke.
Other Xenexians were grouped around in a loose configuration, murmuring prayers or rocking back and forth in mute sorrow. There had been more Xenexians mere months ago, far more of them. But they had died in pitched battle with their oppressors and conquerors, the Danteri. With their conquerors…and their conquerors’ allies, damn them. Gr’zy kept telling himself that, had it been only the Xenexians against the Danteri, the people of Xenex might have stood a chance. They might have managed to make their battle for freedom succeed, despite the overwhelming odds they had faced. But when the Danteri’s allies had made their presence known, the Xenexians had no prayer.
He had said as much to his son, but his son had refused to believe it. Now his son’s body was finishing its journey from flesh and blood to ash, and Gr’zy felt his hardened heart cracking in his chest.
There was a soft footfall near him. He didn’t bother to turn and see who it was. He knew.
“It didn’t have to be this way, Gr’zy of Calhoun,” the soft voice of Falkar of Danter purred to him. That was Falkar’s way. He always spoke very, very quietly, forcing listeners to have to strain to hear him. It was obviously a game he liked to play, to exert control over those to whom he was speaking. They had to come to him. Gr’zy didn’t even glance at him. If he had, he would have seen an assortment of Falkar’s personal guards nearby, as well as Danteri mixed in with the mourners. They were there to put across the message that the Xenexians would never again remain unobserved or on their own. Plus, Gr’zy thought privately, they probably wanted to make sure that Gr’zy’s son was truly dead. Considering the number of Danteri his son had killed single-handedly, they would want to see for themselves that their greatest enemy was never again going to be a threat.
“Had you reined in your son…had you heeded our warnings…none of this would have been necessary,” Falkar continued. “He would never have been in opposition to my forces, and my soldiers would never have had to defeat him.”
“Defeat him,” Gr’zy echoed hollowly, his voice rumbling. “You call what you did ‘defeating’ him?” Now he turned to face Falkar, and the air crackled with something other than flame. “There was no honor in your triumph. There was no opposition by the best man who triumphed over him. Your people m
anaged to target him and drop a bomb on him from thousands of feet in the air. How do you take any pride in killing an enemy that way?”
“That may well be the difference between you and me,” replied Falkar, appearing to take no offense at the anger and challenge in Gr’zy’s voice. “I don’t take pride in killing any enemy. It’s simply a part of war. Your son’s death was necessary, as were the deaths of any of the Xenexians who stood against us. If I was able to accomplish those necessary deaths with minimal risk to my own people, and with maximum efficiency, then so be it.”
Gr’zy did not reply. He merely made a disdainful snorting sound and turned back to his son’s pyre.
Falkar took a step closer to him and continued, “This business isn’t quite over, you know.”
“Isn’t it?” demanded Gr’zy.
“No, it isn’t. You cooperated with the criminals who rebelled against us, Gr’zy. Your son’s punishment is due to the vagaries of war. But all you’ve done is extend a formal surrender. What of your punishment?”
“Mine?” Gr’zy looked back at him, and there was deep sorrow in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the quiet fury in his voice. “My son is dead. What punishments do you think you can dole out that would begin to match that?”
“Not very much, admittedly. Still,” and he appeared to think, although Gr’zy was certain that that was merely a ruse and that Falkar had already determined exactly what he was going to say. “Still, that was truly something that your son brought upon himself. It was not inflicted upon you, nor administered by—”
“What is your point?” Gr’zy cut him off.
Falkar’s calm demeanor never wavered. Why should it? He had all the advantages. “My point is, even though you have surrendered…even though you acknowledge our supremacy as rulers of this world…how do we know it will last?” He nodded in the direction of Gr’zy’s burning son. “A martyr can be a very powerful cause around which to rally support. Now you may be in mourning. But sooner or later, the veil of mourning will flutter away, uncovering deep anger and a thirst for vengeance. We could be looking at yet another revolt.”
“What will you, then?” demanded Gr’zy. He stared unflinchingly into Falkar’s eyes. “Do you wish to strike me down? Is my life forfeit to help secure your dominance, is that what you’re saying? If you think I’m going to beg for mercy…if you think I have any care for living after this…then you are sadly mistaken. Kill me, don’t kill me. It makes no difference to me.”
To Gr’zy’s annoyance, Falkar actually laughed as if he were sharing a joke with an old, beloved friend. “Oh, that would most certainly be about the worst thing we could do, old chief. Not only would we provide your people with a second martyr, but we would also deprive them of your leadership. And as long as that leadership doesn’t bring Xenex into further conflict with our soldiers, I would just as soon leave you in charge. They are going to need your wisdom and skill in the months and years to come. No, no…you think far too much in extremes. I was merely trying to decide how best to secure your…future cooperation. To secure, if not your loyalty, at least your bond that there will be no further mischief.”
“What would you have of me?”
“A hostage.”
Gr’zy looked at him sidelong. “Hostage? What sort of hostage?”
“Any highly placed Xenexian, other than yourself, will do. Someone of sufficient rank, and sufficient meaning, to ensure your goodwill. The hostage will be removed from this world and kept in a secure location. As long as you cooperate, as long as there is no uprising, he or she will live, unharmed. If, on the other hand, Xenex should once again rise in revolt,” and Falkar allowed to slip, ever so slightly, the veneer of courtesy, “then the very first Xenexian blood to be spilled will be that of the hostage. Do we understand each other?”
Gr’zy nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, we do.”
“I will give you time to decide who—”
“No need. I’ve already decided.”
A look of surprise passed over Falkar’s face. It was the first genuine emotion he had displayed in the entire encounter. “Have you now.”
“Yes. My eldest son gave in to the forces that made him become a leader of a rebellion. Gave in to the pressures of expectation. I would make certain that my other son—my younger offspring—does not succumb to the same temptations.”
Falkar nodded slowly. “That is very wise, Gr’zy. I see our faith in your decision-making was not misplaced. Perhaps, in a strange sort of way, this turn of events will benefit everyone.”
Gr’zy turned and scanned the crowd of onlookers. His gaze caught that of a boy, not quite thirteen summers old. He made a curt gesture for the boy to advance. The stupid youngster turned and looked over his shoulder to see to whom his father was gesturing, then turned back and touched himself quizzically on the chest, his eyes widened in obvious surprise. Gr’zy, trying not to let his impatience show, repeated the gesture in an even more commanding manner. The boy separated from the crowd and approached his father. The boy’s hair was a mop of unruly black hair and his eyes were colored a deep purple.
The boy stopped respectfully several feet away and bowed his head.
Without preamble, Gr’zy pointed in Falkar’s direction and said to the boy, “You are to go with him.”
The boy looked up, clearly startled, and Falkar immediately said, “Actually, no, Gr’zy. My apologies: I didn’t make that quite clear. He will not be going with me. I’ve no need of a Xenexian youth running around in my court. Plus there is sufficient anti-Xenexian feeling among my people thanks to the long years of fighting that I fear I could not guarantee the boy’s safety. No, he’ll be residing with someone of far greater importance than I.” Without waiting for Gr’zy to inquire who was being referred to, Falkar raised his wrist and spoke into a communications device. “All is ready,” he said. Then he lowered his arm and smiled at Gr’zy. There was nothing remotely pleasant in the smile.
There was a pause. Gr’zy felt as if he was waiting for something to happen, but couldn’t figure out what it might be. Suddenly the air was filled with a loud hum, then slowly a figure began to materialize out of thin air.
Gr’zy knew exactly what it was, of course. He wasn’t ignorant, nor were his fellow Xenexians. All of them knew very well of matter transportation technology—one of the many small miracles that were so much a part of everyday life in the great, vast galaxy beyond the land borders of Xenex. Nevertheless, they rarely saw displays of such things, and so the many Xenexians who were watching the proceedings gasped as one. Many stepped back, even though they were nowhere near the figure that was coming into existence. A number even looked away, as if fearful that staring straight at it would cause their eyes to be burned right out of their sockets.
Slowly the air coalesced into a most impressive-looking individual who was neither Xenexian nor Danteri.
He was dressed in glittering armor, with a helmet that had been fashioned to resemble the head of a fierce, predatory bird. Slowly he reached up and removed the helmet. There was much muttering upon seeing the elegant, pointed ears that made clear to what race he belonged.
“Gr’zy,” Falkar said with that unctuous graciousness that Gr’zy had quickly grown to despise, “may I present his high lordship, Hiren, the Praetor of our esteemed allies, the Romulan Empire. Hiren, this is Gr’zy, High Chieftain of Calhoun, the oldest and largest settlement in all of Xenex.”
“And the most belligerent, from what I’ve heard,” said Hiren.
Decades earlier, following the fall of the Terran Empire and the short-lived republic that had supplanted it, most of the worlds under the Terran yoke were absorbed by the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance. Faced with an enormous and dangerously aggressive rival on their doorstep, the Romulans had sought to deter the Alliance from further expansion by seeking allies of its own. The Danteri had proven useful in restoring balance to the scales of galactic power.
Although it had been widely known that the Danteri were allied with
the Romulans, the Romulans had not had much of a presence on Xenex itself. Instead they had supplied weapons and ships that had helped pound the Xenexians into submission. They had not dirtied their hands with ground fighting.
Hiren’s arms were draped behind his back, covered by a fluttering cape. He strode toward Gr’zy, his pointed chin outthrust as if he were daring someone to take a swing at him. It was a dare that Gr’zy would happily have accepted, but that would hardly have accomplished anything except perhaps getting Gr’zy—and gods knew how many others of his people—killed.
“The chieftain,” Falkar continued as if he were serving as host at a convivial party, “has agreed to turn his son over as a hostage in exchange for his good offices.”
“For how long?” Gr’zy added, almost as if it were an afterthought.
The Praetor fixed a level gaze on him and said, “Until we decide we are satisfied. There’s no timetable here.”
The boy looked from one to the other. “I…I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
“You’re going with him,” Gr’zy said brusquely, and he pointed at the Praetor.
“But…” The boy’s chin began to tremble, and his round eyes started watering. “But I don’t want to—”
It was everything Gr’zy could do not to cuff the boy. If his enemies had not been standing there, he would have hit the boy so hard it would have spun his head around. “Stop it. Stop sniveling,” he ordered, and the boy did the best he could. He steadied his chin, but his eyes were still large in his head. “No one asked you if you wanted to. This is what’s to be done. It’s the price to be paid for,” and he looked briefly in the direction of the now-smoldering remains of his eldest son’s corpse, “for your brother’s failure. You’ll do what you’re told, and you won’t complain about it. Is that clear?”
