by Peter David
The last time that the emperor had gotten the idea into his head that his son was weak…Si Cwan grit his teeth, remembering what he didn’t really want to remember. That last time had meant a trip to—well, be honest, Si Cwan told himself, call it what it really is, not the Place of Gentle Correction but the royal torture chamber.
Difficult to forget that dark underground realm, richly hung with velvet draperies and elegantly carved with images of avenging spirits. A somber, beautiful, hideous place. As if what happened there was theater, not torture—or maybe, considering what he’d already seen of this court, the two weren’t so far apart at that.
There, Si Cwan had reluctantly watched political prisoners questioned. There, he had been forced by his father to wield the implements, knowing all the while it was as good as his life to resist…. He’d gotten through the ordeal only by shutting down his mind completely and refusing to accept what he was doing—no, what he was being made to do. Even so, he’d dreamed of the experience for nights on end—the worst of it being that in a royal court, even his nightmares were spied upon, discussed and reported to his father. He kept seeing the victim’s eyes staring up at him, in them not so much anguish as the simple question Why?
Why, indeed?
And now—bah! Never mind what had happened then. Here and now, it was bad enough that his father was in one of his “Si Cwan is a weakling” moods. It was worse that a gaggle of courtiers was standing at the usual politic distance behind the emperor, watching every move of this parental drama with hungry eyes. They’d be gossiping about this encounter for days. Si Cwan felt his muscles tense at the sight of all those jewels and feathers. Overdressed idiots, all of them eager for the sight of someone in trouble. As long, of course, as that “someone” had nothing to do with them. Hungry, the lot of them, to see pain. And maybe even death.
Not. Mine.
“Rather than have you waste your time in childish games,” the emperor continued, “you shall train properly!”
“As my father wills it,” Si Cwan said, keeping his voice absolutely without expression.
His father signaled over his shoulder. Imperial guards came forward—no, not just guards. They were dragging a man with them. At first Si Cwan thought that this must be another of the guards, someone who had slipped up somehow and was going to pay for it by being humiliated in a fight with a boy.
A boy? Humiliated? Now I’m starting to think like Father.
But now that he could see the man clearly, Si Cwan knew that this bedraggled, bruised figure could never have been one of the guard. A prisoner taken out of the royal dungeon? His ragged tunic was of plain, rough weave, dingy gray against the reddish brown skin of a commoner. He was built like a warrior, though, muscular and sturdy, with badly healed scars crisscrossing his body.
Some of those scars, Si Cwan noticed, looked pretty fresh. The man hadn’t exactly been in gentle hands recently.
“An Enemy of the State,” the emperor said coldly.
Well, that explained the recent scars. Enemy of the State. There was a good catchall phrase. In his father’s court, Si Cwan knew, that term could mean anything from “here is an out-and-out traitor” to “someone who spoke out too openly against the administration.” Si Cwan waited warily, not sure where this was going. His father had already turned him into a torturer. Surely he wasn’t now going to be expected to play executioner as well?
Instead, his father added, almost as though bored with the subject:
“Fight him.”
Looking at the muscular warrior, Si Cwan thought with a youth’s certainty, I can take him.
But then his father gave an almost absent wave—and to Si Cwan’s shock, he saw two of the guards stab their captive. Not fatally, he realized after that first horrified moment, no, that would have been too merciful. They’d wounded the prisoner enough to just weaken him. Give him a handicap.
Curse you, Father, you don’t even think I’m good enough to face a warrior who isn’t hurt! Where’s the honor in that?
A part of Si Cwan’s mind noted, It’s worse for the warrior.
Well, yes. There was certainly a darker fate in store for the man. An Enemy of the State, whatever he’d done (or maybe not done), had definitely been condemned to a one-way trip to the Place of Gentle Correction.
With a stop en route, it seemed, for a little fight.
And oh, look, they’d been…kind enough to bring a second man, even more badly damaged, for Zoran to fight.
Suddenly it was all too much to bear. With a roar of pure fury at his father, at himself, at this entire stupid, cruel, pointless situation, Si Cwan flung himself into battle.
The warrior turned grimly to meet him. Wounded or not, the man was still a fine fighter. He caught Si Cwan and, in one smooth turn that made use of Si Cwan’s own forward momentum, hurled him aside. Furious at having been caught like that, Si Cwan lunged up, head down, and sent the man crashing back into a wall. That forced a cry of pain from the man, and Si Cwan, to his great astonishment, felt a stab of guilt.
He’s a traitor, you idiot, an Enemy of the State!
But the man’s sides were slick with blood, and his eyes…dammit. His eyes were filled with the same empty questioning that had been in the torture victim’s eyes.
Oh, don’t do this to me.
But he couldn’t help it. Even though he was doing this to show his father he was no weakling, Si Cwan knew that now he was going to be fighting out of pity. This “enemy,” whatever his crime, wasn’t a monster, just a man. An ordinary nobody who now had no future.
Si Cwan and he exchanged a quick, significant glance. Very subtly, Si Cwan nodded, and saw relief flood the man’s face. And that hurt, too.
That’s right. You won’t face torture. Not if I can save you.
They grappled again, but this time Si Cwan let the man throw him into the watching guards. His face contorted with feigned fury, like someone too angry to think, Si Cwan grabbed the guard’s dagger. Glad of his training, he stabbed up and across in a quick, fatal blow.
This time, the man’s eyes were…grateful.
As the warrior crumpled, dead before he finished falling, Si Cwan, panting and trying not to shake, saw Zoran kill his own opponent—
No, this can’t be!
What blazed in Zoran’s eyes in that moment of killing wasn’t pity or even triumph. It was cruel pleasure.
He’s my friend, he wouldn’t…
“This wastes my time.” As though he’d utterly lost interest in the proceedings, the emperor turned to leave, robes swirling dramatically about him. He paused merely to add over his shoulder, “Clean up that garbage,” and left. The gaggle of courtiers followed after him in a storm of whisperings.
Si Cwan stood in rigid silence as the guards removed the bodies and servants mopped up all traces of blood. He stood silent as the servants bowed and retreated, leaving the rooftop garden almost alarmingly just as it had been a short while ago. Pristine. Lovely. And over everything that clear blue sky, those bright red wari-birds soaring by and sweet breezes stirring the air, just as though two men had not just suddenly died.
“Zoran…”
His friend grinned. “Now that was more like it, eh? I mean, we don’t often get a chance to really fight.”
“They were wounded, Zoran.”
“Well, yes, that was kind of insulting. As if we couldn’t handle them otherwise.”
“That’s not what I mean. They had no chance of surviving, no matter what happened.”
“What’s your point? They were criminals.”
“Yes, but…”
Zoran frowned. “Si Cwan? Hello? It wasn’t as if they were highborn, after all.”
Si Cwan said nothing. He wasn’t even sure what he might have wanted to say. Of course the two dead men had been commoners, but…well…they’d still been living beings. That look the man he’d slain had given him, that undeniable gratitude—thanking him for killing him because the alternative facing him was worse…
That night, Si Cwan lay awake, unable to sleep, his mind racing. He couldn’t sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, he found himself replaying the events of the day…the man he’d killed and that stare so filled with relief.
A commoner. Remember that. Just a common criminal.
But there had been nothing in that grateful stare to separate commoner from noble.
And then there’d been the man Zoran had killed…had killed with such pleasure…
Dammit. They were common-born, we’re not, and that’s the way it is. The way it’s always been. Even Kalinda’s nursemaid—
The nursemaid whose name he didn’t know. The woman took care of Kalinda, his lovely little sister, and he had never even bothered to ask her name.
Yes, but she was a commoner!
If she’s good enough to take care of Kalinda, surely that means she has to have some worth.
This chain of thought led inexorably on. Surely that warrior he’d killed had had some worth, too…a commoner, but of worth…and maybe this meant…well, all commoners had some worth, surely. To themselves, anyhow. Still, maybe he should…no, what could he do?
Look into how the commoners really were treated. See that justice was, well, just.
Si Cwan rolled over onto his side. It was far too much to consider in one night, particularly if he ever did mean to get some sleep.
Tomorrow, though, first thing in the morning, he was damned well going to ask that nursemaid her name!
Si Cwan woke with a start, blinking and yawning. Morning…sort of, anyhow. Gray light…sun wasn’t up yet, was it? Had to be pretty early…ugh, yes, far earlier than he usually woke. And he really hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.
But like it or not, he was awake.
All right, you made yourself a promise. Now’s a good time to keep it before anyone gets in your way.
Shivering in the dawn chill, Si Cwan hastily dressed and grabbed a bite to eat, waving away puzzled servants, then started down the maze of palace corridors. He’d get this over with before his father could catch him being…what? Sentimental? Subversive?
The sudden sound of shouting turned Si Cwan’s walk into a dead run. Oh no, no, that uproar was coming from the nursery!
Kalinda!
A kidnapper—an assassin—
But what Si Cwan saw didn’t look like either. A sturdy middle-aged courtier had caught a bedraggled, scrawny young girl in a plain gray tunic roughly by the arm, and she was fighting frantically to free herself, kicking and clawing.
“What is going on here?” Si Cwan shouted.
The startled noble whirled, dragging the struggling girl about with him, her bare feet swinging free of the floor. Not surprisingly, the noise had attracted the palace guards, too, who were rushing into the nursery, ringing them round. With the guards was—Zoran? What was he doing up at this hour? And what was he doing with the guards?
“I repeat,” Si Cwan said. “What is going on here?”
The girl said nothing, head down.
“This scum,” the noble began, giving his prisoner a shake, “this common little scum actually dared try to play with Princess Kalinda!”
“So what? No one got hurt. She’s just a kid. Let her go.”
“You can’t mean to just—”
“I gave you an order!”
“Your pardon, Prince Si Cwan, but you are still a minor. I must take my orders from your royal father.”
The girl took advantage of his momentary lack of attention to sink her teeth into the man’s arm. He yelped and slapped her so hard she cried out in pain.
That was too much for Si Cwan. That, and the slap to his pride. He swung a fist up, connecting squarely with the man’s chin. The noble stumbled back into the ring of guards.
Si Cwan caught the girl before she could try to run. “Don’t be stupid,” he said under his breath. “You can’t get through all those guards.”
“Could,” she muttered sullenly. “Got in, di’n’t I?”
“I usually look at who I’m talking to.”
She looked defiantly up at that, a scared kid not wanting to admit she was scared. Her eyes were deeply shadowed and red, as though she’d been crying all night.
Her face…was eerily familiar.
Oh.
Oh damn.
The warrior he’d slain yesterday. This had to be his daughter.
I never thought that he might have a kid.
And she was, what, maybe ten at the most. Hardly dangerous. Brave, though, getting this far, or just plain desperate. With no father…
Well, her father should have thought about that before he let himself get into trouble.
Maybe so, but that didn’t help the kid here and now. She would be in real trouble if this got out of hand. The thought of a kid being condemned to the Place of Gentle Correction—no!
Suddenly inspired, Si Cwan palmed one of his jeweled bracelets. The jewels weren’t so big or valuable they’d be notable. They’d be easy to sell. He slyly slid it into the girl’s hand and saw her eyes widen ever so slightly.
“Go on, get out of here,” Si Cwan snapped, and gave the girl a rough shove. “No!” he snarled at the guards. “Let her go. And you are dismissed!”
They, at least, had the grace to pretend they were obeying his orders, and left. But Si Cwan caught Zoran watching him suspiciously.
And suddenly the cold truth hit, hit with the force of a blow. That moment of oddness when they’d been play-fighting, when Zoran’s eyes had gone cold; the way Zoran had tried to pick out Si Cwan’s feelings about commoners; yes, and now, turning up here and now when Zoran never got up before the sun and almost never visited the nursery:
Zoran was now spying for the emperor. Spying on his friend.
His former friend.
No matter, Si Cwan tried to convince himself, although a cold weight seemed to have settled in his stomach. No matter. Someday, I will rule. And then the empire will become a finer, better place for everyone. I swear it.
He turned to the nursemaid, who had dared steal out again from hiding, Kalinda in her arms, now that it was safe. Si Cwan smiled at her. One had to begin somewhere, after all.
He asked the nursemaid, “And your name is…?”
SELAR
“Q”uandary
Terri Osborne
Prior to joining the crew of the Excalibur as chief medical officer, Dr. Selar served a distinguished tenure as assistant chief medical officer on the U.S.S. Enterprise for eight years. “ ‘Q’uandary” takes place during that tenure, primarily (but not entirely) simultaneous with the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “Tapestry.”
Terri Osborne
Terri Osborne always knew she wanted to write, and can’t remember a time when she wasn’t watching and scribbling story ideas about some form of filmed science fiction, including Star Trek. Almost thirty years after she wrote her first story, something was finally published: “Three Sides to Every Story” in the 2003 Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Prophecy and Change anthology, which chronicled the lives and friendship of Jake Sisko and Tora Ziyal during the difficult months of the Dominion’s occupation of Deep Space 9. Terri is reachable on the Internet at http://terriosborne.com, and is currently hard at work on her first full-length novel. She lives in New York City with Keith R.A. DeCandido and two of the silliest cats ever born, and as close to her beloved New York Yankees as she can possibly get. (Sorry, Bob.)
2364
“Biospectral analysis inconclusive.”
Dr. Selar raised one dark eyebrow as the computer informed her of the results. She’d run every analysis she could think of on Admiral Mark Jameson’s blood sample. The admiral was aging at an illogical pace, and nothing Dr. Crusher could find made sense. Finally, the task had been turned over to Selar’s Vulcan sensibilities.
She thought she’d isolated the compound that was responsible hours
ago, but breaking it down even further was proving to be one of the more interesting challenges that the Vulcan had encountered since leaving Starfleet Medical.
A white flash appeared in the corner of the lab, preceding the arrival of a humanoid cowering from something. The being was wearing what looked to be a Starfleet uniform, though a black jumpsuit with the division color across the shoulders over a gray turtleneck was a design of uniform that Selar had never seen before, even at the Academy.
Still, only one creature in the known universe made such an arrival.
“Q,” Selar said.
Q pulled its hands away from its face, apparently protecting itself from something. Selar wasn’t sure she wanted to know what an omnipotent being would need to shield itself from.
Raising itself back up to its full height, Q looked around sickbay. “I missed again. Your centuries go by so quickly.” In a flash, the uniform became a standard-issue, command-track, Starfleet red.
Selar briefly thought the other design looked far more comfortable.
Before Q could say another word, the floor beneath Selar’s feet shook.
“Computer,” Selar said, grabbing the table for balance, “what is happening?”
“The Enterprise has collided with the shock wave from a supernova.”
“A supernova? Computer, how long have we been observing this event?”
The ship slowly stopped shaking. “The Enterprise was not observing the phenomenon at the time of explosion.”
“This must have something to do with you,” she said, eyeing the strange being that had begun wandering around her sickbay.
“You’re Vulcan, aren’t you?”
“I fail to see how that is relevant to—”
Q smiled. “We’ll meet again, Vulcan.”
With a snap of its fingers, Q vanished.
Selar’s lips pursed. The Enterprise had encountered the Q on only two occasions since departing Farpoint Station, but Selar had never met the being before that moment.
This was why the fact that there was something strangely familiar about the form this Q had taken nagged at her like a strand of hair brushing across the tip of her nose.
