by Peter David
She got down on her hands and knees and slowly made her way across the floor. At one point her knee caught on the trailing end of her nightdress and she almost fell flat on her face. This miscue was, in and of itself, nearly enough to send her into fits of giggles, but she managed to contain herself. She pulled the offending cloth out from under her knee and kept going.
She settled upon an angle of observation that did not permit her to see everything, but she was able to spy on their legs. They were sitting opposite each other, and she could make out their calves, shoes, and an occasional hand gesture. The man was wearing black gloves, which she thought was a bit curious, particularly considering how temperate the weather was.
Then her blood froze as she heard the topic of discussion.
“I’m telling you, I think the dreams have stopped. She tells me everything. If she were still having the dreams, I’d be the one to hear about it.”
The man replied softly, ever so softly, with what seemed to Riella to be great control. She had to strain to hear him. “That,” he seemed to say, “would be most unfortunate.”
“Why unfortunate? Maybe she’s not the one .. ”
“No. She is the one,” said the man. Riella could see his gloved fist clenching. “I know it. I simply refuse to believe we’ve wasted all this time on her. Once the dreams start, they don’t stop. Not in all the history of our people.”
“But maybe this time …”
“No. Far more likely that she has simply fooled you.”
“Why would she be trying to fool me?” demanded her mother. There was clear irritation in her voice. “What would be the point?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t trust you. Perhaps she has figured it out …”
“No. She hasn’t.” Her mother was speaking with a tone she had never heard before. In all her life, she had never heard her mother talk with anything other than love, affection, and concern. Now she sounded angry, impatient. Even a bit cynical. “She has not figured it out. She trusts me implicitly.”
“If she did, then she would tell you about the dreams.”
“That’s a circular argument, Zoran.”
The name struck Riella with such force that it was almost like a physical blow. She recoiled from it, and it was all she could do not to let out a gasp of shock. That name, Zoran—that was the name. The name from the dreams. She was sure of it. She had had a vague sense of it in her nighttime imaginings, but now that she heard it articulated, she was positive that was it. But what could it mean? Who was he? And why in the world was he having any sort of dealings with her mother?
“Do you have any explanation, then?” Zoran was asking her.
“Maybe …” Her mother steepled her fingers, apparently giving the matter some thought. “Maybe she simply doesn’t want to worry me. That could be it, you know. Sometimes the best explanations are the easiest.”
“You may be right. Then again, you may be wrong. We cannot afford to take the chance. I want you to start talking to her about them again.”
“She’ll be suspicious.”
“You cannot have it both ways, Malia. Either she trusts you implicitly, in which event she will not attribute your inquiries to anything other than a mother’s concern. Or else she already suspects you, in which case no damage will be done because she is aware that all is not as it seems.”
Riella felt as if her world was spinning around her. All of what wasn’t as it seemed? It didn’t make any sense to her. Perhaps …
Perhaps she was still dreaming. Yes. Yes, that made as much sense as anything. Maybe more. The entire scene had an almost dreamlike quality about it.
“Matters may be coming to a head, in any event. We may not have much time,” Zoran was saying.
“Why not?” Malia sounded worried. “What’s happened?”
“The Dogs of War have been sniffing around. They captured one of my people while the fool was ‘enjoying’ himself at some backwater tavern. It’s possible that he managed to withstand their questioning—likely, in fact—but it’s also possible that he didn’t. If that’s the case, then sooner or later the trail is going to lead the Dogs of War here, straight to your so-called daughter.”
So-called? Yes … yes, it had to be a dream.
“Am I going to have to …?”
The question trailed off. Riella was befuddled, having no idea what the rest of the query could possibly be.
“Kill her?” Zoran grunted. “That would be unfortunate. But if the Quiet Place represents the source of power that legends say it does, she cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”
Riella clapped a hand over her mouth to contain the shriek that was building in her. This was beyond a dream. This was a nightmare.
Then she heard a creak of a cushion and the one called Zoran leaned forward. She had the briefest glimpse of his face.
It was red. The red face from her dreams. The face that had hung in the air and laughed and sneered at her, and seemed to be in control of her life.
She skittered backwards, crablike, and banged into the wall with her shoulder.
Instantly the atmosphere seemed to change in the adjacent room. “What was that?” she heard Zoran demand.
“What was what? I didn’t hear anything.”
“I thought I did. Some sort of thud.”
“Possibly some animals outside, rooting around in the garbage. They do that sometimes.”
Riella wasn’t waiting to hear the rest of the conversation. She virtually flew across the floor, making no sound, and she slithered back into her room, not even daring to breathe. She clambered into her bed, readjusted her sheets and then performed one of the greatest accomplishments of her young life: She managed to feign something approaching normal breathing while her true desire was to scream and keep screaming until someone showed up to awaken her from the living nightmare in which she was trapped.
There was a sound at her door and it took all her will not to jump at the sound. She remained instead absolutely immobile. She didn’t know if her mother (mother?) or Zoran or both were peering in at her. What she did know was that she dare not give the slightest indication that she had overheard anything.
“She sweats a good deal,” she heard Zoran whisper.
“Perhaps she’s in the midst of a dream right now.”
“Perhaps. Question her in the morning. Learn what you can. I will remain in the vicinity. Report to me what she tells you, and we will determine her future from that point.”
“All right, Zoran.”
“And Malia …”
“Yes?”
There was a significant pause, and then he said, “Do not make a muddle of this. Two corpses are as easy to arrange as one, and on a nowhere world like this, I assure you there will be very few inquiries. Do we understand each other?”
“Threats are not necessary, Zoran.”
“No. Not necessary. Just one of the perks. Good evening to you, Malia.”
Riella listened to the departing sound of his footsteps, heard the front door close, listened as the sound of his feet receded into the night. During that time, her “mother” didn’t move from the spot. Then she heard Malia slowly approach her, and it was all she could do not to scream as the woman’s fingers brushed against her cheek and delicately rearranged a few strands of hair, as lovingly and solicitously as any mother might. Then her mother walked out of the room, leaving Riella with her mind awhirl.
She had no intention of sleeping that night. In point of fact, her intention was to bolt from the house at the earliest opportunity, to get as far away as possible. But the night held its own terrors now as she envisioned Zoran waiting somewhere for her. Perhaps he was watching the house specifically to see if she’d run away. Or maybe, somehow, he would just know, and come after her in the dark, and …
“Riella. Come on … wake up, sleepyhead.”
Riella blinked against the light pouring in through her window. Her night clothes were so soaked through that they made a peeling noise
as she sat up. She looked around and there was her mother, as cheerful and pleasant as ever. She riffled Riella’s hair and said, “I can’t remember the last time you slept this late. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you earlier, because you were sleeping so soundly. You must be feeling very relaxed.”
“Very,” Riella said gamely. In the harsh honesty of daylight, she was beginning to wonder whether the entire unreal experience from the previous night had been just that, unreal. It was possible that she had imagined the entire thing. It certainly made more sense than thinking that somehow her mother was in a bizarre conspiracy with a red-skinned man who had haunted her dreams.
“Well, I made you a nice lunch; you slept straight through breakfast. Why don’t you get yourself washed up and come into the kitchen.”
“All right, mother.” Already the shreds of the night’s recollections were falling away, the fantasy replaced by the reality. Obviously her dreams were becoming more and more sinister, presenting themselves convincingly as realistic scenarios rather than surreal exploits through an illusionary planet’s surface. Everything was, in fact, unchanged. She could see that now. She had cooked up the conversations of the previous night from her fevered imaginings, but none of it was based in reality.
Her mother was heading for the door of the room, but she stopped in the door frame, turned and said, “If you’re sleeping that soundly, then those dreams you were having must have really gone away.” Then she paused and added, “Have they?”
Riella’s breath caught in her throat and once again she was faced with the temptation to scream. “Yes,” she said hollowly.
“Because if they hadn’t gone away … you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would, Mother. Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason,” her mother said gamely. “No reason at all. Is there?”
“No. None.”
“Well,” Malia rubbed her hands together. “We can speak more of that later. Because, you know, I worry so much.”
“I’m sure you do, Mother,” said Riella, as visions of the previous night flashed through her mind. “Believe me … I’ll bet it’s not half as much as I worry.”
V
SI CWAN HAD NOT BEEN exactly sure of what to expect when informed that he would be meeting with the ruling council of Montos City, for Montos was very much off the beaten path for the Thallonian Empire, and he had never actually had the opportunity to go there. Montos had kept very much to itself, and since it was not a particularly advanced world (beyond minimal capability for space travel and the like) and not especially inclined to challenge Thallonian rule, Si Cwan’s people had not given it overmuch attention.
But these were different times. The worlds of Thallonian space were on their own, and even the smallest planets had new priority. Particularly when threats appeared on the horizon that had not been there before.
So Si Cwan had mounted this diplomatic visit to Montos at a time when things were still relatively peaceful, but they could heat up more quickly than anyone on Montos might anticipate. Accompanying him were Zak Kebron, the massively built Brikar who was chief of security, and Lieutenant Soleta, the Vulcan science officer of the Excalibur who was the only one besides Si Cwan to have any sort of extensive experience with Thallonian space. Even Soleta had not been to Montos. Naturally, that meant that the planet presented some scientific curiosity to her. During the voyage to Montos, Si Cwan had wondered whether or not it might have been a good idea to have brought Robin Lefler with him as well. Ultimately, though, it probably hadn’t been necessary. Besides, he reasoned, she spent an inordinate amount of time attending to his needs and requests, and she doubtlessly enjoyed the break from having to deal with him.
Upon arriving on Montos, they were escorted to the council chamber. They had been greeted respectfully by their escort, who even seemed just a bit intimidated by the sight and presence of Si Cwan and quite daunted by the glowering and formidable presence of Kebron. Once they had arrived at the council chamber, however, they had been left to stand there—with no chairs or even the slightest amenities—to face a raised podium surrounded by half a dozen chairs, three on each side. No one seemed to be showing up to sit in any of the chairs, however, or even to give them a few moments of their time. At least half an hour had passed since they had first set foot upon Montos, and Kebron, for one, was beginning to lose any semblance of patience.
Normally Kebron was one of the more temperate of individuals. He could afford to be. Anyone who bore a marked resemblance to a walking land mass could afford to view the world with a certain degree of equanimity. But Zak Kebron also did not suffer fools gladly, nor did he particularly enjoy having his time wasted.
“We should leave,” he said finally.
“Don’t be absurd, Kebron,” Si Cwan told him. “We’ve not come all this way simply to turn around and leave again.”
“True. But if we have to, we will.”
“They will be along directly.”
“We do not know that,” Kebron said reasonably. “We may be targets.”
Soleta, who had been occupying herself by running analyses of the atmosphere with her tricorder, glanced over at Kebron with an eyebrow cocked. “Targets?” She seemed neither worried nor dismissive of the notion. “Why do you say that?”
“We are in one place. There is no one else around. One avoids being a target by moving.”
“You’re being paranoid, Kebron,” Si Cwan told him.
Kebron, who had no neck to speak of, swiveled his entire torso to face Si Cwan. “Yes. Your point being—?”
“That there’s no point in being paranoid all the time.”
“Who told you to say that?”
Si Cwan rolled his eyes. “I’m sure someone will be along—”
“I am not. Your problem, Cwan—one of many—is that your imperious attitude precludes your being able to accept that someone might be setting you up. You do not believe you could be outmaneuvered or manipulated in that way.”
“And do you know what your problem is, Kebron?”
“Yes. My problem is you.”
Before Si Cwan could respond, there was the sound of the chamber door scraping open. Si Cwan couldn’t help but notice that Kebron subtly—at least, as subtly as he was capable of doing anything—interposed his bulk between Si Cwan and the door. For some reason, this amused Si Cwan greatly. For all the antipathy that Kebron had developed towards him, nevertheless his sense of duty compelled him to protect Si Cwan from any potential attack. He was further amused to see that Soleta instinctively drifted behind Kebron as well. It made sense; Kebron’s first line of defense was, naturally, his considerable bulk coupled with his fairly impervious hide. Most assaults had little chance of getting through.
The individual who came through the door, however, didn’t seem to present all that much of a threat. He was pale skinned, as Montosians usually were, and his antennae were slightly droopy. He was clearly rather elderly, with graying whiskers sticking out at odd angles from his pointed chin, and when he walked it was with an odd bit of a bow-legged shuffle.
He carried a triangular stone in one hand. The triangular shape had obviously not been its natural state; it had been carefully honed and polished into that condition. What was most odd about him was that he appeared to be talking to himself. He waved the stone around, muttering in a soft, rapid-fire voice, as if he were holding an animated chat with people that only he himself could see. Clearly he represented no threat, but it was difficult to determine just what it was he did represent. Si Cwan and the others looked at each other with openly quizzical gazes, for none of them knew just quite what to make of the newcomer.
He sauntered across the room to the chair that was on the raised platform, eased himself into it, and continued to talk to himself for a few more moments. Then he looked over at Si Cwan, his attention finally focusing on the ambassador and his associates.
“Meeting come to order!” he called out authoritatively as if addressing a cons
iderable assemblage, and he rapped the flat bottom of the triangle on his desk. “This meeting of the ruling council of Montos is now called to order.” He squinted at Si Cwan. “And you are?”
Si Cwan was never one to allow himself to be thrown by anything. He drew himself up quickly and said with his customary self-possession, “Lord Si Cwan, late of the royal house of Thallon. And these are Lieutenants Soleta and Zak Kebron of the starship Excalibur, representing the interests of the UFP. Do I have the honor of addressing one of the members of the ruling council?”
“No.”
The brisk negative response confused the hell out of Si Cwan. “Did you say no?”
The old man looked around, apparently under the impression that perhaps someone else had spoken and he simply hadn’t spotted him. When he satisfied himself that no one else had spoken on Cwan’s behalf, he nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, I believe so.”
“Then, sir, who are you?”
“I am Fr’Col.” He said it with a faint air of surprise, as if he couldn’t imagine why in the world Si Cwan would even need to ask. Wasn’t it, after all, self-evident.
“And you are not a member of the ruling council?”
“No. I am the entirety of the ruling council.”
“Can we go home now?” Kebron said under his breath. The question was addressed to Soleta, who had sharp enough ears to hear the muttered sentiment. Naturally she maintained her reserve and didn’t even acknowledge the comment.
“May I ask where the rest of the council is?”
“Yes,” the person who had introduced himself as Fr’Col said. And then he sat there and twirled his triangular stone around as if it were the most incredibly fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Si Cwan felt himself losing his patience. It was an impulse that he fought against. It had taken him many months of concentration and self-discipline to tone down the imperious attitude that many, including most frequently Kebron, had told him he possessed. Although Cwan still felt as if they had overstated the matter, nevertheless he had endeavored to act a bit less like displaced royalty, simply out of interest in helping life go more smoothly. It was one thing to be imperious when you were in an environment where people scuttled about at your slightest whim and lived for the opportunity to perform one, just one, task on your behalf. You did not encounter that sort of attitude on a starship, however, where even after all this time, Si Cwan still couldn’t help but feel that there were many aboard the Excalibur who regarded him simply as a guest. Certainly there was precious little kowtowing aboard the starship, and the crew’s attitude didn’t seem likely to adjust itself in the near future. Since there was only one of him and a thousand or so of them, it seemed to make sense that he should be the one to try and make some changes in expectations. It had not been easy. And he had certainly not been particularly humble. He still deported himself with an air of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. This was a problem since no one on the ship was really particularly obliged to obey him. But he had worked to adjust and, to some degree, so had others aboard the ship (except, naturally, for Kebron, who seemed perfectly sanguine about the notion of just taking Si Cwan and stuffing him down a photon torpedo shaft at the earliest opportunity).