by Peter David
“I have two questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“First…have you ever heard of another dancer…an Orion girl…named Vandelia?”
“Not that I can recall,” she said with a smile that seemed rather mischievous. “Why? Wasn’t I enough dancer for you?”
“Oh, yes, you were superb. The second question is, Would you do me the honor of accompanying me for the rest of the evening.”
She sized him up once more, but before she could respond, another voice said, “She’s mine.”
Zolon Darg turned and looked up…and up. Darg was certainly no slouch in the height department with his massive build, but the individual confronting him was, incredibly, a head taller and also wider. He had one eye, having apparently lost the other in a fight…or, for all Darg knew, in a card game. His head was shaven, his nose crunched in so stylistically that it was difficult for Darg to tell whether he was an alien who normally sported a nose of that style, or whether an opponent had simply crushed it. His lips drew back in a sneer to reveal a neatly pointed double row of sharp teeth. This was not an individual who appeared likely to back down.
Then again, neither was Darg.
“Calm down, Cho,” Kat’leen said to the behemoth, and then looked apologetically at Darg. “I’m sorry. Cho is a regular…customer. And he gets a bit possessive sometimes.”
“I understand,” Darg said calmly.
“So you also understand,” Cho growled, “that you better back off.”
“I will on one condition.”
Cho was clearly puzzled. “Condition?”
“Yes. Condition. A simple enough word. I’m sure it’s even in your vocabulary.”
“What…condition.”
“I will back off,” Darg said calmly, “if you would be good enough to take a step or two back, bend over, and shove your own head up your own nether bodily orifice.”
Kat’leen rubbed the bridge of her nose in obvious pain and took several steps back as if to try and get as clear of the area as possible. It was rather evident she didn’t anticipate matters going particularly well in the next few minutes.
Cho digested Darg’s requested stipulation for a few moments before fully grasping just what it was that Darg had said to him. Then, with an infuriated roar and no other warning, he came straight at Darg. He wielded no weapon. Apparently he didn’t feel that he needed one.
Darg, on the other hand, was quite prepared. He extended the fingers of his right hand, and vicious-looking blades snapped out of the tips. Each of them wasn’t more than an inch long, but it was not their length that was the main problem for Cho. Rather, it was the fact that Darg’s hand moved so quickly that the word “blur” wouldn’t even have begun to cover it. One moment his hand was at this side, the next it was across Cho’s throat.
Reflexively, Cho grabbed at his throat, and seemed quite surprised when a thick red liquid began to seep from between his fingers, pumped through the gaping wound in his neck that Darg had just put there. Kat’leen looked from Cho to Darg and back again in confusion. She had blinked when the strike was made and had literally missed it because of that. So she didn’t fully grasp what was happening at first. But when Cho sank to his knees, his hand still at his throat and an expression of total bewilderment spreading across his face, that was when Kat’leen understood.
“I believe you’re now free for the evening,” Darg told her calmly. The blades were still in evidence on his fingers, but they were tinted with red.
Kat’leen let out a shriek, and that was when Darg came to the realization that Cho might have been many things, but what he was most definitely not was friendless.
They started coming in from all sides, bruisers big and small, advancing on Darg. Darg, slightly impaired both by drink and by the headiness of a blood strike, wasn’t quite sure where to look first.
Cho burbled something incomprehensible and then fell forward like a great tree, hitting the floor with such impact that the entire establishment shook. That was all that was needed for the attackers to converge on Darg at full bore. Darg readied himself for the attack, and couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, he might have gotten himself into a bit more trouble than he could reasonably handle this time.
Suddenly the man was next to him.
It was no one that Darg knew, no one that he had ever seen. It wasn’t one of Darg’s entourage, certainly. He’d made a point of leaving them behind for the evening, saying that he wanted some time alone. They had obediently given it to him, and it had seemed for a few moments there that the decision was going to cost him dearly. Not that he wasn’t sure that he could have ultimately handled all comers.
The question was rapidly becoming moot, however, thanks to the newcomer. He appeared to be a human, but he wasn’t particularly tall, not even all that impressive looking. But he seemed to exude a confidence, display a sort of pure magnetism and force of personality that could not be ignored. He had a neatly trimmed gray beard, and a head of silver hair that was smoothly combed back. His brow jutted forward a bit, and it was his eyes that were the most interesting to Darg. They seemed cold and pitiless. They were the eyes of a man who could easily kill you as soon as look at you. He was dressed mostly in black, and was sporting a long coat that seemed to whip around him like a cape whenever he moved.
In either hand, he was holding a disruptor. In a rather flamboyant gesture, he crisscrossed his arms in front of himself, putting the disruptors at odd angles to one another, and then he started shooting. He did so with such precision that Darg couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
The instinct when a mob is bearing down upon one from all sides is to fire blindly into the midst of the crowd and try to take out as many as possible.
But that wasn’t the case with the newcomer. Instead he was targeting one person after another, blasting out precision strikes that were taking opponents in the shoulder or upper arm or thigh. They weren’t even being knocked unconscious. They were simply being incapacitated.
“Not the most elegant of weapons,” said the newcomer in what seemed an almost conversational tone. “Very restricted settings. There’s ‘kill’ and ‘kill some more.’ One has to be precise if one doesn’t feel like killing. Hold on, please.” He fired again and another attacker went down.
The floor was now covered with moaning, groaning individuals who were clutching assorted parts of their bodies. Darg nodded, impressed with the marksmanship. Still, he felt the need to ask, “Why not just kill them all?”
“And leave a big mess for the owners to have to clean up? I’m a regular customer here. I don’t need to get the owners mad at me. All right, let’s go.”
There were still some individuals on their feet, but they were slow to approach. It was hard to blame them, considering the substantial number of people who were scattered about, crying out in agony. No one seemed particularly interested in shoving their faces into the buzzsaw. In fact, a few were even looking down at Cho’s unmoving body with what appeared to be grim assessment, as if trying to determine whether or not he was worth their risking their necks for.
One apparently decided that it was, and he tried to pull a weapon. But the silver-haired man moved so quickly that Darg didn’t even see it. All he knew was that suddenly there was a man clutching his hand and screaming profanity, while his weapon lay on the floor. He made as if to move for the weapon with his other hand, but the silver-haired terror simply said, “I wouldn’t.” The wounded man froze.
“As I was saying: Let’s go.”
Darg glanced around. Kat’leen was nowhere in sight, apparently having ducked out when the trouble started. There didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by remaining. “I couldn’t agree more,” Darg said readily. They moved out back-to-back, the silver-haired man covering their rear while Darg watched in front of them. Moments later they were out the door and halfway down the street, the silver-haired man holstering his disruptors with
a brisk and slightly flashy twirl.
They put a couple more blocks between them and the place before they slowed down to a casual stroll. Around them were the sounds of music and laughter, people sauntering about and having a good time. Over just inside an alleyway, a couple was engaging in the galaxy’s oldest pastime with lusty abandon. The silver-haired man modestly averted his eyes; Darg watched with unabashed glee for a few moments before turning his attention back to his unexpected companion.
He stopped walking and said, “What’s your name?”
“Kwint,” came the reply.
“Kwint. Do I know you?”
“Not to my knowledge. Well…good evening to you.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Wait!” Darg looked at him with open skepticism. “Why did you help me just now? Because I could have handled them myself.”
“I have no doubt that you could have.”
“Then why?”
Kwint shrugged. “I didn’t like the odds. One of you against all of them. Didn’t seem right.”
“What are you, some sort of hero?”
“No,” laughed Kwint. “Just looking to enjoy myself. Get some relaxation.”
“And you do that by getting into fights.”
“Sometimes, if the mood takes me.”
“And it doesn’t matter to you what the fight was about?”
Kwint appeared genuinely puzzled. “Should it?”
“Shouldn’t it?”
“I don’t see why,” Kwint said reasonably. “A fight is always between two sides, both of whom think they’re right. Usually, they both are…from their point of view. So it really doesn’t matter which side you take, because it’s never really about who’s right. It’s about who wins.”
“Yes. Yes it is.” He paused. “You didn’t ask my name.”
“You didn’t offer, I didn’t ask. A man introduces himself or doesn’t. Makes no difference to me.”
“The name’s Darg. Zolon Darg.” He waited to see some flicker of recognition…and got it. “You’ve heard of me.”
“Yes. I have. Weapons runner, correct?”
“Correct.”
Kwint studied him skeptically. “I’d heard you were dead. That your operation crashed and burned some years back, and you went with it.”
“Obviously not. Whereabout did you hear my name mentioned?”
“I worked with a fellow named Gazillo. Secondary distributor. Bought a shipment of Tolasian night slicers off you about five years back.”
“Yesss…yes, Gazillo.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I heard Gazillo died ugly.”
“He did. Because of me.”
“You killed him?”
“No,” sighed Kwint. “But he wanted to deal with some people who I knew were going to doublecross him. I tried to convince him of it. But he wouldn’t listen to me, no matter what I said. He smelled money and lots of it. When he refused to pay attention to what I was telling him, I walked out on him. Within two days, his body turned up…or at least, what was still identifiable as his body. If I’d stuck with him, tried harder…hell, if I’d just shot and wounded him, prevented him from going to the rendezvous…” He closed his eyes for a moment as if reliving it, and then visibly shrugged it off. “Can’t change the past. Well…good evening to you, Darg.”
Once more he started to walk away, and Darg said, “You seem to be in quite a hurry to leave.”
“You served my purpose,” Kwint said matter-of-factly. “I saw an opportunity to even some odds…the opportunity is done…and I’m out to enjoy the rest of the evening. Unless, of course,” he said, apparently struck by a sudden thought, “you intend to get into some more uneven fights. Then I suppose I could just follow you around, save myself some time. Not have to start from scratch every time.”
“It’s entirely possible.” Darg had to admit it to himself: he liked this Kwint fellow. There was a remarkable devil-may-care attitude about him. In some ways, he very much mirrored Darg’s own philosophies, but in others, he was clearly his own man. For one thing, Darg wouldn’t have given a second thought to Gazillo’s fate. If the man was fool enough to ignore sound advice, then he deserved what he got. But Kwint still regretted Gazillo’s loss…while at the same time, showing an admirable lack of interest in such niceties as the righteous high ground. He was a cheerful combination of morality and immorality. In short, he was someone that Darg could very likely use.
Suddenly the loss of Shunabo seemed less unfortunate and more an instance of good timing.
He clapped a hand on Kwint’s shoulder and said, “You know, Kwint. There’s more to life than fights. Let us not forget that which Argelius is most renowned for. Why,” and he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I know a place around here…where the women are sooo…”
He didn’t have to finish. Kwint promptly nodded eagerly and said, “I know the place.”
And they headed off into the night.
VI.
“HELLO, MAC. Ready to have the fate of the entire Federation in your hands?”
Calhoun shrugged indifferently as he sat down opposite Nechayev in her office. From the corner of his eye, through the large viewing window in Nechayev’s office, he caught a glimpse of the Excalibur just before she leaped into warp space and vanished. Calhoun had made a practice of being self-sufficient. When one witnessed as much death and destruction as he had, it seemed the best way to go about keeping one’s head screwed on. And yet, as his ship hurtled away into warp, he had the feeling of someone cut off from their family.
Family. Is that what they had become to him? How very, very odd. It was not something he had remotely anticipated, for some reason.
“ A shrug? I ask you a question like that, and a shrug is all I get?” There was an element of teasing in her voice, but there was an undercurrent to her tone that was deadly serious.
“My apologies, Admiral. It’s just that…this came out of nowhere. I simply never expected to be back in this situation before.”
“I know, Mac,” she said earnestly, “and I wish I didn’t have to put you in it. But I think you’ll see that, when it comes down to options, you’re our best shot.”
“I suppose I should be flattered.”
“Don’t be. You may very well be sorry by the time this is done.” She paused and then said, “You look well. Command has agreed with you.”
“Well, command and I have had a few arguments along the way. But I think we’ve got mutual wrestling holds on each other by this point. So,” and he leaned forward, attentive, “let’s not dance around. What’s happened. What’s going on.”
“Down to business. Good. You haven’t changed. All right…we’ve received the findings from the Away team that the late Independence left behind at Daystrom Institute. It appears that whoever our friends are that attacked the place made off with the Omega 9.”
“No!”
“You’ve heard of it, then.”
“No.”
She winced slightly. “Walked into that one, I suppose.” She folded her hands on the desk. “The Omega 9 could easily be considered the next major breakthrough in computerization: A computer that enables its user to interface with its data base through pure thought alone.”
“Thought? You mean like telepathy?”
“The brain sends out electrical impulses, Captain, just like any other machine. The only difference between the brain and a computer is that the brain is generally smaller, but the computer is faster and has more capacity. The Omega 9 is more than simply a computer. It’s a gateway, if you will, that simplifies the communication of mind-to-computer. For all the sophistication that we’ve brought to computers throughout the centuries, one barrier has never been truly broken down. We still have to talk to the damned things, and the information that we draw out of it is only as good as the questions we put into it.”
“And with the Omega 9, that’s no longer necessary?”
“Correct” she nodded. She held up her palm. “Th
e Omega 9 bypasses conventional speech. Instead the user simply puts his or her palm against an interface padd. Sensors, combined with Nannite technology, form a temporary bond between user and data base so that the user is able to extract information literally with the speed of thought, and can also supply instructions to the computer in the same way. It’s taken a long time to perfect the technology. In the initial stages, there was a tendency for the computer to flood its user with so much information that the human brain would simply collapse. Poor devils, those test subjects. They could barely think coherently at all after their exposure to the Omega 9. Eventually, we—”
“Made them into admirals?” suggested Calhoun.
Her eyes narrowed in her best “we are not amused” expression. As if he had not spoken, she said, “Eventually, we were able to help them recover their normal thinking process. But it was a near thing.”
“And now the computer is gone.”
“Yes. It’s not as if the work is irretrievable. Daystrom has duplicate material at its main headquarters. But building another one would take time, and besides, that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
“You see, the Daystrom raid was not an isolated incident. There have been a number of thefts in recent weeks, raids on various labs and such belonging to assorted members of the Federation. The common thread is that most of them have to do with some aspect of research on AI…”
“Artificial Intelligence, Calhoun said. Slowly his demeanor changed. He seemed harder-edged. There was something in his eyes that no one who had an affinity for breathing would want to see aimed at them. “All right. Go ahead,” he said.
“So…there seems to be an excessive interest in artificial intelligence research, of which the Omega 9 might well be the most advanced. There has been one individual who has been spotted at the scene of several of them, however. An old friend of yours: Zolon Darg.
“Darg. You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” She punched in a code on her computer and Darg’s picture appeared on it. It was clearly a picture taken by a hidden security camera somewhere. Apparently it was the last shot that particular camera had taken, because in the picture Darg was turning and pointing straight into the shot. No doubt a few seconds later, the observation camera had been blown to bits.