by Peter David
“I didn’t shame him,” Crusher responded, stepping into his trousers and belting them. “I just called his bluff. We talked business.”
“On the contrary,” Tuvok said, “it is my belief that we have made a powerful enemy in Pudris Barrh.”
The commander frowned. “Look, I’m only doing what needs to be done. These people play rough.”
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “That is precisely my concern.”
Crusher began to pull on his boots. “Trust me, Tuvok—I know what I’m doing. Barrh and his colleagues treat each other like yesterday’s garbage.” He jerked a thumb at the door that led to the bath. “Look at how they refer to their employees. They call them steeds—as if they’re fit for nothing more than getting them where they want to go.”
“The reference did not escape me,” said Tuvok.
“If we don’t act as tough and dangerous as they are,” the commander went on, “they won’t show us any respect. If you want to worry about something, worry about that.”
The Vulcan disagreed. He said so—to Crusher’s surprise and chagrin, apparently. “You have put us in unnecessary danger,” Tuvok observed. “When this assignment is completed, I will make note of that in my report. And I will add that you are motivated, at least in part, by the pleasure you take in acting out your role.”
The human stared at him. “You think I enjoy this?”
“I do,” the ensign replied honestly.
Crusher turned an angry shade of red. “That’s fine,” he said, glancing at the doors to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them. “You can think what you want. You can even report what you want. Just remember that while this mission is in progress, you follow my orders—no matter how many years you’ve got on me. Is that understood?”
Tuvok was inclined to retort, but he refrained from doing so. After all, the human was correct in his assessment of the Vulcan’s responsibilities. Tuvok had voiced his objection—he could do no more.
“I will do as you say,” he agreed at last.
That seemed to take the edge off Crusher’s anger. Taking a breath, the human continued getting dressed. But now and then, he threw a searching look in the Vulcan’s direction.
Crusher wished to be his friend, Tuvok noted. He had recognized that from the moment they met. The Vulcan had even acknowledged that he and the commander had something in common—families they cared for a great deal, though they were far away.
However, every move Crusher had made on this planet had irritated and alarmed Tuvok—and placed their mission in jeopardy. Mentally, the ensign began drafting his report.
He only hoped that he would live long enough to record it.
Chapter Eleven
MENDAN ABBIS WAS A HAPPY MAN.
The Thallonian ale in his goblet was surprisingly good today. It had even been served at room temperature to bring out the tartness in it. Even his Indarrhi friend Wyl was in a pleasant mood, having had his fill of Mephylite pleasure pods.
But most importantly, thought Abbis, Melacronai and Cordracites were dying in obscene numbers, and no one had the slightest idea why. Everything was going just as he had planned.
Abbis had even learned to like Debennius VI, the irreplaceable “Last Stop to Nowhere.” For the rest of his long and exceedingly powerful life, he would look upon these days and this place with great fondness.
Even The Den had its good points, he reflected as he looked around. It was almost always dark and crowded, and people left one alone. It smelled a bit, of course, but what was that but a minor inconvenience?
“He’s here,” said Wyl in his high, nasal voice.
Abbis straightened a bit. The Indarrhi’s empathic abilities might be rudimentary, but the Thallonian trusted him to be able to pick out a single Cordracite in a crowd. Wyl’s silver eyes were fixed on the door, and by concentrating Abbis could make out the pale, insectoid form half-hidden by bodies and smoke.
Smothering a grin, the Thallonian waved down a waiter with a tray full of empty ceramic drinking vessels. “Another goblet!” he demanded.
A chipped specimen was plunked down on the dirty table in front of him. With great anticipation, Abbis uncorked a new bottle of Thallonian ale and poured to the goblet’s brim. Then he poured some more for himself as well, spilling a little.
He chuckled at his clumsiness. No doubt, his reflexes were dulled a bit by the liquor and—
“You’re an easy man to find,” came the rasping voice of the Cordracite, his faceted eyes blinking at him.
Abbis glanced up at him. “I have no reason to hide…”What was the name? he asked silently.
He is called Shabik, Wyl supplied just as silently.
“No reason at all, my good friend Shabik. Sit down and join me in a celebratory cup!” Abbis demanded.
He tried to push the overfilled goblet of ale in the Cordracite’s direction without spilling it. It wasn’t a very successful maneuver. Oh, well, he thought. I can afford another bottle or three.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” said the Cordracite. He didn’t make any move to sit down, either. He just stood there, blinking. “I’ll take my money now, if it pleases you.”
“It would please me if you would do me the honor of sitting at my table,” said Abbis, his voice rising.
The Cordracite frowned at the remark. Still, he sat down on the crude bench opposite his employer.
“There,” the Thallonian said approvingly, “that’s better.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a pouch full of the agreed-upon sum in slips of latinum. “Your work was excellent, incidentally.”
“Of course,” said Shabik.
His tone was supercilious; it grated on Abbis’s nerves. He watched as the Cordracite opened the pouch and counted the slips of latinum. Then he looked up at his employer.
“Will there be additional jobs?” he asked.
Abbis took a sip of his Thallonian ale. “Not at the moment,” he said. Recalling something he’d just learned, he couldn’t help chuckling. “Actually, you may be out of business soon.”
Shabik blinked again. “What do you mean?”
Abbis shrugged. “I guess you haven’t heard. The water supply of the capital city on Cordra Three was poisoned by a fanatic—and for free!” He laughed again, this time with greater vigor. “If this keeps up, it may be I won’t have to part with latinum anymore!”
Shabik didn’t look amused. His antennae bent forward, as rigid as lances. Leaving his ale untouched, he got up from his seat. “If you change your mind, let me know. If not, we’ve never met.”
And he left without another word. For a moment, Mendan Abbis watched the assassin make his way through the crowd. Then he grunted, drained his goblet, and reached for the one the Cordracite hadn’t bothered to taste.
“It is remarkable,” he told his companion. “Now even the victims have victims. Truly, war can’t be far away.”
Wyl narrowed his eyes as he smiled. “I am pleased for you,” he remarked. “I hope you are pleased with yourself.”
The Indarrhi had a habit of spouting cryptic phrases that meant nothing to Abbis. Was he pleased with himself? He sprawled in the chair, the alcohol warming him, and thought about it.
Yes, he decided, he was very pleased. He was pleased with Bin Nedrach, he was pleased with Shabik, and he was pleased with all the other professionals busily executing his orders.
He was doing the job he had set out to do. He had chosen his henchmen well. His timing had turned out to be impeccable. So what was there not to be pleased about?
Abbis drained the goblet that had been scorned by Shabik and filled his own again. His world was growing warmer and fuzzier around the edges when a big, ungainly-looking alien brushed against his table and knocked over one of his ale bottles.
An empty one, the Thallonian noted. But it didn’t keep a spurt of anger from filling his throat. He was on his feet and his sword was in his hand even before he realized he’d drawn it.
“Oaf!” Abbis bellowed at
the alien. “In your clumsiness, you knocked over an entire bottle of Thallonian ale!”
Though large, the alien clearly wasn’t the belligerent sort. He shrank away from Abbis, lifting appendages that were not quite paws and not quite hands in front of his mottled, nearly shapeless face.
“Humblest apologies!” he wheezed. “The room is crowded, you see. I was jostled and I—”
The Thallonian felt his whole body thrumming with excitement. It had been too long since he’d had the pleasure of an all-out fight. Brandishing his blade like the expert he was, he rose and closed the distance between himself and the alien.
Abbis could smell his victim’s terror. It was a heady perfume, and his drunkenness only seemed to magnify it.
“I did not see your table, I swear it!” the alien moaned. “Please, sir, allow me to repay you for your—”
“I’ll say you’re going to pay!” cried the Thallonian. In an instant, the naked tip of his sword was at the alien’s soft, fleshy throat.
One quick push, he thought—ah, so easy—and The Den’s manager would have a very large and bloody body to haul away. The alien closed his eyes and whimpered softly, no doubt seeing the same end for himself.
But before he could make his thrust, Abbis felt his anger begin to cool. And cool some more. There was no challenge for him here, he realized, nothing to be gained. Not even a little fun.
The alien’s toppling of the bottle had obviously been an accident. And even if it weren’t, the Thallonian told himself, the thing was empty. So what was the point of taking offense?
Abbis thought of his last conversation with his father, and what Thul had said about true valor. He thought of all the assassins who answered to him. He thought of war, only another incident or two away.
He had accomplished a great deal during his short stay on Debennius VI. There was no need for him to prove his manhood by taking the life of a fat, defenseless fool.
The Thallonian stuffed his sword back into his belt and looked down his nose at the alien. “Yes,” he repeated, “you’ll pay. Another bottle of The Den’s best and we’ll call it even.”
The alien opened his eyes, saw that he was not going to die and exhaled a huge, trembling sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, of course,” he breathed. “Thallonian ale, was it? Happy to do so, sir, happy, yes, happy!”
Abbis withdrew and lowered himself onto his bench again. The silence that had descended when he first unsheathed his sword began to fill in with sound. The buzz of conversation and the clicking of ceramic goblets resumed. Little by little, the erstwhile customers and staff of The Den turned their worthy attention elsewhere.
Wyl, however, was staring at him. It bothered Abbis.
“What are you looking at?” he asked his friend.
“You,” came the reply.
The Thallonian snorted. “I might have guessed that. But why?”
“You have never walked away from a fight in all the years that I’ve known you,” the Indarrhi observed.
Abbis scowled. “Is that a problem?”
Wyl smiled. “Quite the contrary, I would say. I see a bright future ahead of you, Mendan Abbis. After all, the only thing that ever really stood in your way was yourself.”
Just then, the waitress came over with another bottle of ale. Without a word, she plunked it down on the table and left. The Thallonian looked around. Finally, he caught the eye of the big alien. Pointing to the bottle, he nodded. The alien seemed happy, yes, happy.
“A bright future indeed,” said the Indarrhi.
The Thallonian shot him a look of disdain. “You’re telling fortunes now? Stick to what you do best.”
But Abbis’s words belied the pride he felt. And his companion being what he was, he would know that.
Wyl leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes,” he said, “predicting the future is not all that difficult.”
Picard was sitting on the Council Chamber’s podium in his usual spot, watching a Melacronai diplomat address the afternoon session, when Jetaal Jilokh entered the room with a look of anxiety on his furry, round face. The Benniari’s ears were pressed flat against his head and his violet eyes were enormous.
By that, the captain of the Stargazer knew that the news was bad. Of course, he had no idea how bad.
Culunnh’s aide trundled down the central aisle and ascended the podium. Then he approached the First Minister, who was seated against the wall opposite Picard, and whispered something into his tufted ear.
As he listened to the message, Culunnh’s mouth opened and he seemed to shrink in size. He muttered something in return, but the captain couldn’t make it out.
From his seat next to Picard, Ben Zoma leaned over and whispered a grim “This is not a good thing.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” the captain sighed.
The First Minister waited until the Melacron had finished, then took his spot at the lectern. “I have some distressing news from Cordra Three,” he said, his voice solemn and hushed.
The chamber fell silent.
“I have just been informed that…” Culunnh swallowed. “…that more than two thousand Cordracites in the capital city of Mailoc have been poisoned by a contaminated water supply. Four hundred have already died. The city council suspects…” He winced. “…tampering.”
Picard was already on his feet when the silence was shattered by long wails of grief and fury. Before it could get any worse, he joined the First Minister at the lectern.
“We do not know for certain that it was an act of terrorism!” The captain had to bellow to be heard above the din. “We need to learn the results of the investigation first!”
He glanced down at Culunnh. The little Benniari looked broken. In his soft violet eyes Picard read the truth: the city council of Mailoc was not ready to officially announce that the reservoir had been deliberately poisoned, but everyone involved knew that was the case.
Suddenly Gerrid Thul was by the human’s side, his towering presence a reassurance. “Captain Picard has the right of it,” the Thallonian thundered. “Let us give the city council a chance to do their jobs.”
There were cries of protest from the Cordracites and their allies. And to Picard’s consternation, they were just as loud as before.
He conceded that the Cordracites had reason to be angry. Indeed, he would have been furious if he were in their place. But he couldn’t allow that anger to sabotage the proceedings.
“We cannot act without reliable information,” the captain said.
“Let us resume our talks tomorrow,” Thul advised. “By then, we should have a better understanding of what took place.”
“We have come so far,” Picard told the delegates, appealing to their reason with a voice that rang through the chamber like a bell. “We have made so much progress here in the last few sessions. We must not let something like this undo the work we have done!”
For a long, tense second or two, he had a feeling that their pleas to wait, to be rational, would be ignored by the assemblage. The captain would not have been shocked if the delegates rose, picked up their chairs, and hurled them at the podium with murderous intent.
But they didn’t.
To Picard’s surprise, the congress of diplomats—for that was what they surely were, in that moment—began nodding in agreement. Slowly but surely, the sentiment spread from one end of the chamber to the other.
Then Sammis Tarv rose to speak for the Cordracite delegation. “We will postpone any radical action until we have a better understanding of the tragedy,” he announced gravely.
“Thank you,” the captain said earnestly.
“A wise decision from a wise delegation,” the Thallonian added with a hint of relief in his voice.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t take more than a day for the official report to come in from Cordra III. The captain didn’t want to think about what would happen then.
He turned to face Thul. “Time is running out,” he observed in a low voice, with unavoidable solemnity.<
br />
The governor didn’t disagree.
Chapter Twelve
AS CRUSHER AND TUVOK APPROACHED the entrance to the dance hall, the commander was feeling pretty good about their chances of success.
It seemed to him they were a hair’s breadth from locating Bin Nedrach. And once they did that, they would be able to get some idea as to who was behind the terrorist incidents.
Of course, Tuvok’s criticisms back in the dressing room still rankled a little—not to mention his threat of filing a report. It was too bad, Crusher thought. At the outset, he had liked the Vulcan and valued his opinions. But now he saw that Tuvok was more of a hindrance than a help.
After all, what did someone of the Vulcan’s background know about bluff and bluster, or what motivated scum like Barrh? When had one of Tuvok’s people ever won a hand of five-card draw?
Crusher glanced at the Vulcan, but Tuvok didn’t glance back. He seemed to be in a world of his own.
Now that the commander thought about it, it had probably been a mistake to have the Vulcan accompany him in the first place. In fact, any of the Stargazer’s command officers would have been better suited than Tuvok to achieving their objective—even if the ensign did have some experience in this star system.
Like The Den and The House of Comfort, the dance hall looked slovenly and run down from the outside. Even the wooden sign by the door was so weathered as to be illegible.
With all the money that seemed to be floating around Debennius VI, the commander wondered that the owners of these establishments were so willing to let their places look dilapidated. Then again, for all he knew, it might be a sign of status, some kind of peculiar Benniar ranking system. Perhaps the more wealth you had, the worse you let your place appear—an indication that you didn’t have to go to the trouble of courting any new customers.
Or maybe the people who owned these places just didn’t give a damn. That was a possibility as well.
Before Crusher or Tuvok could open the door to the dance hall, it opened for them and a gangly Shaidanian pushed his way out. All four of his eyes looked bleary and red-rimmed with too much alcohol, including the two on the long, slender stalks protruding from his forehead.