by Peter David
The victory in Zevon’s voice and the emotion in his expression cut Stiles to the core. He pressed Zevon’s arm in approval, knowing what that meant to him.
“I knew we had to control energy to survive,” Zevon went on. “I have an energy division, a school of physics, a school of mechanical science, defense division, deflection-grid network all over the continent….”
“Why a defense system?” Spock asked. “Have you had problems with the Bal Quonott?”
“Not yet. And they’ve had no interest in us. Yet. We have no spaceborne fleet with which to defend ourselves. I knew I could never develop conventional weapons sitting trapped on a planet. Instead I’ve used tricks I learned while trying to read or deflect the Constrictor waves. Using the mass of the planet as an anchor for—”
“The composite beam that almost killed us, I bet.”
“Killed you…?”
“Well, how do y’think we got here? Magic? We came in a ship that got sucked into that damned thing!”
“Oh—” Zevon moaned as if he’d just remembered, just realized. A sheet of pallor drained across his face. “I never imagined you might come yourself….”
Now that he’d gotten his pound of flesh, Stiles gave him a light punch in the chest. “That’s okay, we got out of it. Come on, let’s get moving. We’ve got work to do.”
He pulled Zevon to his feet, while at their side Mr. Spock also stood up and scanned the horizon for trouble.
The trouble, though, was right here.
“Eric, I want to go back to my lab,” Zevon announced. “I don’t want to go with you.”
Stiles huffed out his disbelief. “I’m serious, Zevon. Don’t kid around. Lives are at stake. The stability of a hundred star systems are at stake, the Romulan Empire’s—”
Zevon squared off before him. “I want to go back to my life. This is where I belong now, where I do good work. I refuse to go.”
“Sure, refuse. I’ll just stun you again and carry you the rest of the way if I have to.”
“Commander,” Spock began, “perhaps we should—”
Stiles waved his stun-set phaser demostrably. “Sir, I’m sorry, but there’s no time. I want my ship away from this planet. We can talk while we move. That’s the direction. Go on, Zevon, unless you want another dose.”
“Eric, this is not at all like you.”
“Too bad. Ambassador, which way?”
Hesitating only a moment, Spock said, “Follow me, please.”
The traipse through the root swamp was messy, tedious, and most of all uneasy. Stiles didn’t like holding a phaser on Zevon, but he never let it waver. Whenever Zevon looked at him, he brandished the phaser and made sure his thumb was on the fire pad. How many times did he look at the weapon himself, making good and sure it was set on stun and nothing worse. It had been years upon years since he’d been in a position to use a hand weapon against another person. The idea of making a mistake absolutely petrified him to the bone.
Before him, Zevon’s moss-green cardigan flickered in the rays of the lowering sun through the huge twisted roots overhead and around them. He endured delirious joy that Zevon was still alive and here with him, tempered by the obvious tension of Zevon’s resistance. He’d been brainwashed or something. He’d given up on being rescued and, surviving any way he could, had conditioned himself to live here, convinced himself it was right.
I’ll talk him out of it. Now that I’m back, everything can go ahead and change. I’ll walk him through it. He’ll like it in a week.
“Eric, I don’t wish to go,” Zevon attempted again after a half mile. “How can you force me?”
“You’re a Romulan, you understand force, right?”
“Orsova will do everything he can to keep us from leaving the planet. If you let me go, I can convince him to allow you to leave Red Sector. He wants no outside—”
“What’s wrong with you?” Stiles blazed, pulling up almost to Zevon’s side so they could look at each other between steps. “Don’t you understand? Of course he doesn’t want outside interference! I saw the looks in those soldiers’ faces. The Pojjana see Orsova as if they wouldn’t survive without him, like he’s holding up the planet all by himself. If you or the Federation or anybody manages to stop the Constrictor, suddenly he wouldn’t be the great savior anymore. That’s why he stuck Mr. Spock and me in a cell and wouldn’t deal. He doesn’t want anybody to stop it!”
“I have to stay here, Eric, I have to be here every day. We have succeeded in reducing the effect of the waves, but my system requires almost daily adjustment and no one else can do that. I have no one thoroughly trained enough yet to take my place. Every day I breathe, I extend to the Pojjana the chance of someday outdoing my expertise. That has been my goal. I have arranged for Orsova to sponsor engineering and science colleges, apprenticeships and clinics so that some day the Pojjana can go on without me. That day has not come.”
“You’re taking this self-blame too far, Zevon.” Stiles tripped on a cracked root and almost fired the phaser by accident. Ahead of them, Spock glanced back while Stiles recovered, then moved on.
Why didn’t he come back here and lay some logic on Zevon? Why didn’t he talk about the numbers? The rational analysis of what a collapsing Romulan Empire would do to everything around it? Why didn’t he talk about the political and military and trade black hole that would suddenly suck the life out of everything that had been so carefully balanced for so long? What good was a genius hero Vulcan monument if he didn’t come back here and lay down a case nobody could resist?
“You’ve been brainwashed,” Stiles said with contempt. “It happens. Prisoners go through it all the time. Sympathizing with their captors’ causes, forgetting where they came from, forgetting their native language—”
Zevon grasped a network of root filaments and ripped them from up to down. “I do not wish to leave, Eric! Not for the sake of the royal family or the empire or the Federation. I also do not wish to be exposed. Orsova provides me with cover and lets me work. Every day I can make up a little of what I have done. Do you know I am virtually the only alien this planet trusts?”
Stiles paused as his uniform shirt caught on a thorn and he twisted to disengage it. “Just because you were part of what started all this, you don’t owe them your whole life. They can do a few things on their own, can’t they? You’ve become way too custodial about these people. You even dress like a Pojjana!”
Zevon whirled and stopped dead in front of him, enraged and insulted. “I am Pojjana!”
They stood in a sluice of muck. Up ahead, Spock stopped and waited, his expression grim, curious.
“And elephants have four knees,” Stiles chided. “So what?”
A flurry of anger rose in Zevon’s face. “You should know better than anyone! Your own people would never have come for you if not for that elderly physician with so many tricks. Have you forgotten? Since coming here my eyes have been opened. I was stifled in the imperial system. Here, unfettered, unrestricted, with Orsova to field the—”
“I know, I know, you’ve proven yourself brilliant,” Stiles confirmed. “You’ve kept a lot of people alive. I always knew you could. Even the Federation doesn’t have that beam you put on us. If you could be that brilliant and save that many lives and you still have to hide behind Orsova because these idiots are so xenophobic that they won’t accept help from an alien, then to hell with ’em. You’ve done enough. Somebody else needs you more now.”
“The royal family? All these years I knew you were not the one who failed. I knew they had simply decided not to bother getting me out. Did you think I had no comprehension of my own blood ties? I have worse than apathy for the Romulans, and their way, and their crown. I have hatred for them. Some day, either the Federation or the Bal Quonott or the Romulans will come and overrun the Pojjana, and when that happens I am determined that my people, these people, will be able to defend themselves, hold their own, and even prevail. I have no prime directive. I am free to help anyon
e I want to help.”
Fired by the depth of Zevon’s conviction, Stiles raised the utility phaser. “I won’t leave you here a second time. Just turn around and walk. I swear to God I’ll stun you.”
Zevon did move forward after the ambassador, but continued his point with ferocity. “Even without space infrastructure, we have learned to build and operate survival equipment and refined the barometer so that we not only have warning, but can also predict to some degree the intensity of the waves. My equipment requires almost constant attention. If I leave and intensity is misread, millions could die. Does that mean nothing to you? Have you changed so much?”
“Keep walking. I don’t want to hear any more.”
He kept it that way. With his manner and his expression he cut off any further discussion, as they made way through the swamp and finally broke out into the open valley beyond. Now they couldn’t see the city at all, nor hear the alarms anymore, only hear the occasional drone of a distant search plane. So far, so good.
When Stiles broke out of the ferns and growth, freeing his leg from the last of the grasping roots, Zevon and Spock were already standing on the open meadow, looking out over the elongated expanse of Cuffo Lake. The eternally yellow-green water, rich with biology and nutrients that reflected the sunlight with a nearly neon intensity, was enhanced that much more by the sunset. The sun, resting now on the tips of the faraway mountains, illuminated the valley and showed them unequivocably that the valley was empty. Three hills, a rocky ridge, the meadow flats, and Cuffo Lake. Not so much as a tree more than that.
The ambassador strode a few yards out into the meadow and swept his gaze in all directions. “The CST should be here…I’m certain of the coordinates…. The directional signal definitely indicates this location, but I see no sign of them.”
Zevon turned to Stiles. “You have to let me go now, Eric. Your ship is not here.”
“Yes, it is. Ambassador, can you hail them with that implant?”
Spock touched the pressure point behind his ear where the microcom was either situated or had its subcutaneous controls. “Spock to Saskatoon. We are at the rendezvous point. What is your location?”
The soft buzz of the tiny mechanism was hard to understand, but good to hear. “This is Perraton. Is Commander Stiles with you?”
“Yes, he is.”
Stiles said, “Tell him ‘Lightfoot confirms.’”
“Mr. Perraton, ‘Lightfoot confirms.’”
“Acknowledged. Here we come.”
“This is bewildering.” Spock frowned and looked at Stiles. “These are the coordinates. The ship should be virtually on this spot. From where are they broadcasting?”
Stiles didn’t bother answering. He didn’t need to. The answer shimmered on the lake’s surface. The still water began to froth, then to erupt as if it were suddenly the center of a resting volcano. Zevon and Spock both looked up into the darkening sky to see if the power were coming from a descending ship, but the sky was still clear.
They looked now at Stiles and saw him watching the lake’s surface. They too turned in time to see sharp nonreflective metal formations break the surface and sheet free of the clinging water and the biorich glaze living there. The disruption got bigger and bigger, destroying the beautiful flat lake water with a violent commotion. In the rattle and swoosh of water and engines, the Saskatoon’s industrial nose surged furiously out of the water, and the rest of the ship broke free of the suction.
The ship emerged enormously from the water, like a blue whale breaching and not bothering to dive back in. It hovered over the lake while the last of the water drained from its nacelles and spiraled back into the lake, creating a sheen of droplets that sparkled in the setting sun.
“The bottom of the lake,” Spock marveled. “Of course. A scan-proof shelter.”
“Just thinking ahead.” Stiles grinned proudly and eyed him. “You spent too much time on starships.”
“Apparently.”
“This is Perraton. We’ll set down on the plain directly to your right, on the other side of that ridge.”
“What’s wrong with the transporters?” Stiles asked.
“Is there something wrong with the transporter?”
“Yup. You broke ’em when you beamed through that reflector envelope. They’re under repair.”
Politely Spock asked, “Permission to grant them permission to land?”
“Permission granted to grant permission,” Stiles responded.
The ambassador seemed impressed, maybe a little embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of this, and cued his microlink. “You have permission to set down, Mr. Perraton. We shall stand by.”
“Let’s go over the ridge,” Stiles ordered, “and be there when they maneuver down. It’ll take us a few minutes to climb over the ridge.”
“I don’t want to go, Eric.”
“My finger’s on the button, Zevon.”
The ridge was the only rupture on the otherwise pristine meadow landscape, created over a hundred years ago by ambitious roots from the swamp moving below the surface till they hit rock and tried to find the surface again. The roots had grown and grown beneath the crust, fattening and searching and hitting stone, until the stone began to surge upward eight or ten meters. Sometime along the way, the roots had died off, leaving the rocky ridge as the only scar on the meadowlands.
The ridge wasn’t very high, only a couple of stories at most, but footing was treacherous and picky. They could hear the hum of the CST as it maneuvered on the other side of the ridge, but could see nothing but the abutments of stone and hard dirt.
Stiles glanced into the sky behind them, fearful that the CST might be picked up on scanners now that it was out of the protective cover of the deep lake. They were only minutes from safety now. Once inside the Saskatoon they could buzz away from this forsaken planet and get out there and do some real good. Then he could talk some sense into Zevon. Once Zevon got back into space, saw how wide the galaxy really was, remembered things that Stiles had also forgotten during his incarceration here—everything would be good again. It would be.
Stiles took the rear, holding the phaser where it would do some good as he picked and climbed his way up the rocky slope behind the ambassador and Zevon. He was watching the rocks, nursing out footholds and hand-holds and avoiding the dangerous sharp edge of the mica-like slabs, when a hard force caught him across the jawbone.
The mighty blow drove him backward and spun him sideways. He skidded onto his side on a sheet of pebbles. As his head rang, he managed to put out an arm and stop himself from sliding all the way down.
“Stand still or die!”
Stiles blinked up through a wave of dizziness.
There above them, taking an attack stance between them and freedom, stood two armed Pojjana assault troopers and an even more heavily armed woman. A Romulan woman!
“Drop your weapon!” The woman aimed her own rifle ferociously at Stiles’s head. “Or I will kill you now!”
Chapter Twenty-three
“SYKORA, DON’T KILL HIM!”
Zevon rushed to Stiles’s side and put himself between Stiles and the woman’s rifle. Spock, luckily, stood aside and let events play out as he watched with attentive interest. He put his hands up, though, so the guards wouldn’t arbitrarily open up on him either. A Romulan woman! Or was she Vulcan? Either way, she shouldn’t be here at all.
“How can she be here?” Stiles demanded.
From higher on the rocks, Spock agreed. “This is Red Sector. Did the Romulans violate that without the Federation’s—”
“The empire has nothing to do with me. I came on my own to protect Zevon,” the woman snarled with a toss of her long braids. She was absolutely fierce in her intent. “Anyone who threatens him, I will mutilate!”
As she brandished her weapon at Stiles, Zevon held up a hand to back the woman off. “Sykora, please. This is Eric.”
“Eric—” Her tone changed instantly. Her eyes narrowed. “Eric Stiles?”
>
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?” Stiles asked as Zevon pulled him to his feet.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Drop your weapon!” Sykora demanded.
“No,” Spock interrupted. “Dropping a phaser could be deadly. If the trooper would simply take it—”
Sykora snapped her fingers at one of the guards, who snatched the utility phaser out of Stiles’s hand. That quickly were the tables turned.
Frustrated, Stiles griped, “How’d she find us out here?”
“He is my husband,” Sykora said for herself. “I look after him.”
“Husband? Since when!”
Zevon nodded. “Sykora is the reason I knew you got the message through to my family. And why I knew they were never planning to come for me.”
“I am a subcommander,” Sykora interrupted, “in the Imperial Solar Guard. I could never stomach the royal family’s abandonment of their prince. I want nothing to do with those disloyal monsters. I confiscated a three-man ship and came to rescue him myself.”
“My own defense systems destroyed her ship,” Zevon admitted with some sheepishness. “Her two crewmen fought and were killed by the Pojjana planetary guard, but Sykora succeeded in finding me.”
“And I will kill any who threaten him,” the determined woman said.
“Even Orsova fears and respects me.”
Even deprived of his weapon and his moment of success, Stiles leered at Zevon in private admiration. “She’s pretty tough.”
“Yes…she is.”
“How’d she find us?”
“I actually don’t know.” Zevon looked at his wife. “How did you?”