Star Trek

by John Jackson Miller

  “Come on! Was that the best you’ve got?”

  Georgiou grabbed the disruptor and looked up. Down the corridor leading to the command center, a sandy-haired human male in a red prison jumpsuit stood at a crossing, taunting someone down another passageway. Even amid the klaxons, his voice carried far. “Oh, look at the big bad guard of Red Sector,” he called out with a heavy Irish accent. “Bo Peep has lost his sheep!”

  “Shut up, you!” A burly Nausicaan in a guard uniform charged into the intersection. The prisoner stood his ground, assuming a boxing stance. The pair engaged. For several seconds, the human held his own—until the Nausicaan, who had weight and reach on his side, landed a haymaker that knocked him to the deck.

  But the human didn’t stay there. The prisoner rose, wiping blood on his sleeve. “That all you’ve got?”

  Enraged, his opponent lunged. The man hustled out of the way—and then leapt on the guard’s back, grabbing a handful of hair in each fist. “I’ve had my fill of running,” the once-captive declared. “Give me a ride!”

  The Nausicaan howled at the hair pull—and wrestled violently, trying to shed his rider. “Get off me!”

  “Not a chance!”

  Then the bloody-faced prisoner laughed, loudly and maniacally.

  Georgiou nearly lost her balance. “Blackjack!”

  The lumbering pair came too near a metal support beam, giving the human rider a chance to slam the guard’s head against it. One painful-sounding crack later, and the prisoner was on his backside on the deck, having fallen from the collapsed Nausicaan. The human bellowed with laughter, delighted by his spin. “Next time, I’ll bring me a saddle!”

  Georgiou gripped the disruptor tightly as she stepped slowly toward the entrance to the corridor, mesmerized. An Andorian prisoner entered the hallway and looked down at the unconscious guard. “Looks like you taught old Graff a lesson. He deserved it!”

  “He’s a good fellow, just doing his job,” the giggler said, getting up. “But I so enjoyed it.”

  “You’re wasting time,” the Andorian replied. “Too many guards downstairs. I’m going back to Blue Sector. I’ll take my chances in the dark.”

  “Well, go your way, then! I’ll be laughing when you try to escape aboard a garbage scow.”

  “It’ll beat being in a cell with you!” The Andorian headed off.

  “I think I’ve been insulted,” the human said to no one. Only then did he spy Georgiou. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

  She nearly took a step back as he approached. If he was the man she knew—or a version of him—who knew what crimes he might be in for? But he seemed amiable. He wiped the remaining blood from his face with his hand. “Green Sector, are you?”

  Georgiou looked down at her prison-issue uniform. “Obviously.”

  “Hmm. You’re not right in the head. Did they break you? Or did you have a screw loose when they brought you in?”

  Georgiou stared blankly. “You don’t recognize me.” What am I saying? “I mean—of course you don’t. You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, you poor confused soul.” He pointed at her. “You know, I don’t mind if you are a wee bit daft—we all are. But I do mind that bit of menace you’re holding there.”

  She looked down and realized she had trained the disruptor on him. She’d done it instinctively on hearing his laugh—and hadn’t moved it since. She lowered it. “I meant nothing.”

  “Of course.” He smiled and outstretched his arms to either side. “This silly place is all the excuse you need. I’d pick up a gun too—but I don’t like them much.”

  No, you never did. Too neat.

  “Are you lost?” he asked. “How about a name?”

  “Georgiou.”

  “That’s a fine one. Regal as can be.”

  “And you’re him.”

  “I am as me as I can be.” He’d just started chuckling when a sound from up the corridor startled him. “Looks like our hosts don’t like the redecorating that’s been going on. So if you don’t mind, I think I’d better be on the move.” He started toward one of the exits—only to look back. “If you’ll promise not to be shooting that, you can come along.”

  “Okay.”

  Almost numb with surprise, Georgiou followed. It was always good practice to keep a serial killer ahead of you.

  * * *

  In her own universe, Blackjack barely knew Georgiou’s name—or anyone else’s. He’d been a terror in his younger life: a skilled pilot and engineer with an insatiable taste for cruelty and homicide. Those weren’t drawbacks in her world, but they had made him the target of a couple of cadets who’d sought revenge. They’d left him for dead: beaten, broken, and bloodied—yet still somehow smiling.

  She’d found him then. She had no recollection of what his name had been—only that she’d seen a possible asset. Her people had reassembled him, omitting a few damaged and needless bits of brain associated with morality and self-preservation. Training and conditioning had made Blackjack the perfect instrument of brutality, a wild animal that killed on command. Terran records officially listed him as deceased; he had later brought that condition to many of her rivals.

  The corridor reached an end, and this Blackjack contemplated two sealed doorways on either side. He stepped to the one on the right. “Main tower access. Ah, you’re the one.”

  She remembered the map she’d seen—and spoke up. “That’s the wrong way. We need to escape.”

  “I already have escaped,” he said, starting to fiddle with the door’s electronic lock. “I figure it’s about an hour before the goons take over again. Enough time for me to find the warden’s larder. I don’t know what you call her species, but word is she likes a good Irish whiskey.”

  “You drink?”

  “I know what you’re going to say. It’s an old stereotype. Far from it. What I love is fun—chemistry and nationality be damned.”

  “Wait,” Georgiou said, stepping beside the door to speak to him as he worked. It was as close as she’d gotten to him, and she didn’t know how he’d respond. “The way on the left goes to a landing bay with a shuttle that’ll get me out of here. Both of us, if we work together.”

  “You learned that at the control center, did you?” He smirked. “That’s all fine for you, but I’m staying.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I don’t mind getting out and running around right now. I love a good tumble and it’s some new scenery. But I’m not leaving Thionoga. I’m guilty. I’m serving my time.”

  Little surprised Georgiou; this did. She gawked at him. “Look, I have to get out of here, and I can’t do it alone.”

  “I’m sure you’re very nice, Georgia—”

  “Georgiou.”

  “—and when they’ve got you sane, you’ll be right as rain. I’ll be glad to know you. But there’s a bottle of single pot still here and it’s calling my name.” He hit on the right combination of controls, and the door opened.

  She frowned. “Blackjack!”

  “I’d say ‘bingo,’ but whatever word you prefer.” Halfway through the portal, he paused to look back at her. “You could share a sip with me, you know. Cracked or not, you are a comely thing.”

  Without thinking, she struck him hard in the face, causing his head to smack against the side of the hatchway. She tensed up immediately: the Blackjack she knew would never have said such a thing, but neither would he have tolerated the blow. This man hadn’t been conditioned to respect her authority.

  Instead, he just blinked. “Whoa,” he said, blood flowing anew from his mouth as he said it. He wiggled one of his lower front teeth, which gave way.

  She watched as he flicked it to the deck. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry yourself. I get ’em knocked out all the time—just not here yet. I’d always assumed it’d be a sentry that’d do the trick.” Then his eyes darted to the ceiling, as if figuring. “Ten minutes. This is the earliest I’ve ever been smacked by a woman.”

  �
�Don’t be an ass.” She tugged at his collar and pulled him back into the corridor. Section 31 and Thionoga’s guards wouldn’t be at bay forever; it was time to take another tack. “Listen. If you don’t help me get to that shuttle, they’ll kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “The people who run this place!”

  “You are daft. There’s no capital punishment here. It’s why Thionoga exists.”

  “It exists for governments to do away with troublesome people,” Georgiou said. “And mine doesn’t want me around.”

  “Hmph.” He crossed his arms. Then he eyed her. “What are you in for, again?”

  “Nothing.”

  He scratched his chin. “Chivalry and justice. There are days I could go for that. But I’m still not sure—”

  “In the process you’ll get to pummel a significant percentage of Thionoga’s sentry corps.”

  “Oh, you’re singing my song.”

  “And those who stand with me will become my servants in the afterlife.”

  He snorted—and smiled. “Georgie, you are my kind of barmy. All right, then.” He put up a finger. “But I’ll only help you board. Then you’re off.”

  “Whatever.” She turned back to face the portal on the left. “Looks like the same mechanism.”

  “Allow me,” he said, stepping past her toward the controls before she could object. “We’ll just say the other door was practice for—”

  Before he touched the panel, the automatic door slid open, revealing Frietas, Georgiou’s interrogator from before. The Denobulan appeared to have traversed a war zone. His clothing was a shambles, and his fist clutched the baton he’d used to waylay Georgiou earlier. He was clearly not expecting to see her again, or here. “You!”

  He lifted the baton to defend himself, but it was too late. Georgiou delivered a high kick to Frietas’s chin. He crashed backward to the deck, losing his weapon; she caught it in middescent.

  It was her companion’s turn to gawk. “You’re sure you need my help?”

  “I’m sure. Here,” she said, shoving the baton into his hand. “You don’t like guns. I’m betting this is more your speed.”

  As she stepped over the fallen guard, he contemplated the weapon. “Huh.”

  She looked back, fascinated at the spell the thing had over him. Maybe this universe isn’t so different, after all. But time was wasting. “Are you coming or not?” He was still spellbound. “Jack!”

  “Sorry,” he said, snapping out of it. “And it’s Sean.” He cracked a bloody-mouthed smile. “Most people call me Finnegan.”

  8

  Executive Tower

  THIONOGA DETENTION CENTER

  One of the stranger commercial concepts in ancient Terran history was the life insurance policy. It didn’t provide for an elder’s estate after death; rather, it protected parents against the significantly more dire prospect that their offspring might fail to achieve power. Little was worse than realizing one’s progeny had no ambition or ability; in such a dark moment, it was good to know one could be compensated for investing so many years in useless sacks of flesh.

  As with most concepts, “life insurance” had once meant something different in Starfleet’s universe, and Georgiou believed she had acquired her own policy in Finnegan. Thirty minutes into their traverse of Thionoga, he’d quickly found his way into the bodyguard role his counterpart served, running ahead as her blocker. She was perfectly able to take care of herself, of course, but why waste effort? Finnegan had bowled over so many along the way that she hadn’t even needed to shoot anyone. He wasn’t a behemoth—or a big man at all—but he seemed suffused with energy that was ever directed outward. Every bit Blackjack’s equal as a brawler, Finnegan took to it with abandon and glee.

  He might not be everyone’s nightmare, but she was pretty sure he was someone’s. He’s a chaos demon.

  And maybe he was trainable. “The truncheon,” she said as they went. “You’re armed. Act like it!”

  “Right,” he said, swinging the baton. He’d used it more to disarm than anything. That was fine for the black-clad Section 31 agents they’d met, who seemed intent only on her capture, but the humiliated and harassed Thionoga guards were riled, brandishing fewer electroshock staffs and more disruptors.

  Finnegan’s approach made her wonder how many murders he was imprisoned for, and how he had perpetrated them. The man clearly wasn’t the sadist she knew; not once did he attempt to drive his baton through the eye sockets of any of the sentries he bowled over. He was formidable and useful, but she did not fear him.

  But he did make her uncomfortable, especially in one area.

  “We’re almost there,” Finnegan said, leading her down the hallway she’d located on the map. “Parting will be such sweet sorrow,” he said, glancing back to give her a wink. “Maybe I’ll see you off with a kiss.”

  Georgiou shuddered. In the less frenetic moments, Finnegan had made similar quips that he probably considered flirtatious—pedestrian come-ons that she’d otherwise have disdained. Instead, they made her skin crawl. Georgiou had as open a mind about physical relations as any Terran—more so, in fact. But if the Blackjack of her universe had urges, only homicide could satisfy them. Sean Finnegan was young and not unattractive, but she still reacted to him as if he were Blackjack’s double.

  At the end of the corridor, three guards pounced on Finnegan. She had to engage, this time, knocking out the one who got past him while he dealt with the other two.

  He looked back. “Don’t tell me I let one get through.”

  “You’re slipping. Winded?”

  “Never.” But his hair was mussed.

  “There’s the ladder.”

  Earlier, Georgiou had located a dome atop one of Thionoga station’s upper spurs. From the lower levels, she could tell that it served as a receiving area for VIPs, presenting visitors—and, she imagined, auditors from participating governments—a picture of the station that was not only sanitized, but elegant.

  It also had something else, according to the central computer: the warden’s yacht.

  Stepping off the top rung of the ladder, she saw the vessel. It sat across a wide expanse of landing bay, complete with large ports looking out into space. The place seemed uninhabited as she entered the chamber; unsurprising, given the chaos elsewhere.

  “The station has disruptor turrets,” Georgiou said. “But they’ll never fire on the warden’s ship.”

  “Aye,” Finnegan responded. “On a day like today, she might be fleeing in it.”

  “I don’t think they’d shoot at it in any event. The ship’s too valuable,” she said, admiring its lines and elegant design. It would be a nice ship to explore a new universe in. She pointed to the right. “I’m betting the spacedoor controls are in that cubicle.”

  “I’m on it.” He paused and turned to her. “It’s been a joy. Should we say our good-byes now?” He smiled, new gap in his teeth fully evident. “We could always drink a toast. I could go back and get that bottle.”

  “Do and I’ll break it over your skull.” Georgiou was already moving toward the yacht. “The spacedoors.”

  “Right!”

  Georgiou had only gotten partway to her destination when a human figure stepped out of the yacht. Bald and square jawed, he looked coolly down on her. “Agent.”

  “Leland.” She approached the bottom of the yacht’s landing ramp, disruptor still in hand. “What a pleasure to hear your voice again.”

  He looked past her. “Looks like you’ve made a friend.”

  “He’s come in handy,” she said, eyes and weapon fixed on the spymaster. “Get off my ride.”

  Leland gestured and called out, “Hey! What’s your name, pal?”

  “What’s it to you?” Finnegan replied—and in that instant, Georgiou saw that he had turned back from the cubicle and was approaching. He waved his truncheon threateningly. “You leave her alone!”

  Georgiou nearly spat. “I told you to open the doors!”

&nb
sp; “After you’re safely aboard.” Finnegan glared at Leland. “She says her people put her here to kill her.”

  Leland seemed amused. “Did she?”

  “Are you one of them?” Finnegan asked. “You look like the sort of snake who’d jail a poor woman for nothing. Now, let her pass!”

  “I was already going to,” Leland said, strolling casually down. He regarded Finnegan. “We’ve been able to get enough surveillance running to see your act. You’re quite the slugger. Academy trained?”

  “Champ five years in a row.”

  “That many? I guess graduating’s hard for a future prisoner.”

  “What can I say? I loved being an upperclassman.”

  Already atop the ramp, Georgiou turned, intending to close the hatch. Instead, she saw Leland raise his fists. “I won a bout or two myself, champ. Care to give it a try?”

  Finnegan laughed heartily and threw his baton to the deck. “I’ll have you seeing stars without looking out the window.” He and Leland squared off. “Two falls out of three?”

  “You idiot!” Georgiou shouted at Finnegan. “Can’t you see he’s trying to delay you? Go open the spacedoors, before I shoot the both of—”

  Dozens of meters away, the doors to a turbolift opened, discharging a half dozen black-clad Section 31 security operatives. Leland unclenched his fists and backed off from Finnegan. “Sorry, I don’t really fight. I’ve got people for that.”

  Enough! Disgusted, Georgiou stepped backward, reaching inside for the control to seal the yacht—

  —only to feel her muscles go limp. Darkness enveloped her and she pitched forward, tumbling down the ramp.

  For her entire time as emperor, she had guarded against a blade in the back. She had never thought to expect a pinch to the neck.

  * * *

  Georgiou felt as if she had only been out for a few minutes when she opened her eyes. An enormous female Vulcan in Section 31 security garb loomed above her. “Philippa,” Leland called out, “I don’t think you’ve met Sydia, my chief of security.”