by Peter David
The combatants glowered at each other, their chests heaving and their faces flushed with emotion. But it seemed that, for the moment at least, the fight had gone out of them.
“You are right, Captain Picard,” said Sammis Tarv. There was blood on the front of his tunic—though the captain couldn’t tell whose it was. “This chamber is for discourse. It is not for combat.”
Then, before anyone could stop him or even guesss what he was about to do, the Cordracite darted forward and slashed the G’aha’s face with his hand. And as quickly as he had attacked, he stepped back.
“That is an informal declaration of hostility,” Tarv spat at the Melacron. “Rest assured that a formal declaration will be dispatched from my government in due time.”
“Cordracite excrement!” howled the G’aha, clapping his hand to his wound. His eyes were enormous with anger. “And to think I once believed that peace with your people would be a worthwhile goal. The Sakari area of space is ours—and if we have to take thousands of your worthless lives to claim it, then so be it!”
The Cordracite made a rasping sound in his throat. “You took the words out of my mouth,” he said.
Picard shook his head. His worst fear had come to pass. Despite his best efforts, it seemed, there would be war.
There was no more fighting after that. The two delegations simply turned away from each other and marched out of the hall. The other species represented in the council chamber muttered and exchanged glances, no doubt mulling their options.
Some seemed to stream after the Melacron. Others appeared to follow the Cordracites. Before long, none of the delegates remained.
Only a few lost souls still stood there in the mammoth chamber, looking shellshocked and perplexed: Picard, Ben Zoma, Gerrid Thul, Cabrid Culunnh, and a few of his Benniari attendants. The place seemed to ring with ghostly cries and threats even after those who had uttered them were gone.
“It will destroy us,” Culunnh said softly.
Picard didn’t have the wherewithal to argue with the Benniari, though he wished it were otherwise.
“At first,” the First Minister went on, “it will only be a conflict between the Melacron and the Cordracites. But one by one, the other species in the sector will choose sides.”
“Perhaps…” Jilokh began.
Culunnh held up a hand. “No…don’t hold out false hope, Jilokh.” He eyed the captain, Ben Zoma, and then Thul. “You have all seen the beginning of it today. Caught in the middle, as always, the Benniari will be the victims.” He shook his head. “We have failed. I am ashamed.”
“You did everything you could,” Picard assured him. “You kept both sides talking far longer than anyone had any right to expect. I would not consider that a failure.”
“It does not matter what went before,” said Culunnh. “The Cordracites and the Melacron have left with the heat of war in their hearts.”
“Which may yet cool,” the Thallonian put in.
The First Minister smiled wanly at him. “I did not know Thallonians were such optimists.”
“Not optimists, no,” Thul conceded. “But the first virtue among my people is courage, my friend. And that means more than how well you conduct yourself in a fight.”
“Once the first official attack begins,” said Culunnh, “courage will be needed by all of us. I pray that we find it.”
Picard sighed. He had hoped to make an optimistic report to Starfleet Command. He had hoped there would be some good news. It didn’t appear that that was a possibility anymore.
Commander Jack Crusher had once had a headache more painful than this one. But only once.
He was young back then, only twenty-two, attending a bachelor party for a fellow cadet. There were women and dancing and loud music, and some remarkably smooth Romulan ale that had been smuggled to Earth somehow.
Crusher had drunk too much and danced too much and his friends had tried to convince him that he had done other things as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t remember any of them. What he did remember, and would never forget, was the exquisite torture of a hangover that had all the force of a Klingon disruptor barrage behind it.
This headache was a close second.
He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, and it was only then that he realized his hands had been tied behind his back. He winced as pain awakened unexpectedly in his face.
His nose hurt worst of all. It felt flattened so badly he probably could have given Old Scowly a run for his money in the ugly department. Then again, he doubted it was anything Greyhorse couldn’t fix in his sickbay.
Unfortunately, the commander wasn’t in Greyhorse’s sickbay. He looked around the room he was in, trying to ignore the bruises and the dried blood and the stiffness in his limbs. The place was small, cold and dingy, he observed. There were no windows and only a single door.
A silhouette beside him, dark against the greater darkness, had to be Tuvok. His face was turned away, so Crusher couldn’t gauge the extent of the Vulcan’s injuries. But from what he could tell, Tuvok was breathing all right, and that was the most important thing.
Abruptly, the human heard a ripple of voices from outside, though he was unable to make out the words, and a harsh, quick burst of nasty laughter. It was probably at his expense, he told himself.
Crusher cursed softly. He supposed he deserved some abuse. Though it was too late to do anything about it, he remembered the strange look the Orion dancer had given him. He had flattered himself into thinking she was just appreciative of his boyish good looks. He realized now that it had been the woman’s way of warning him about the impending trap.
“You are awake,” came Tuvok’s voice, remarkably crisp despite the beating he had taken.
The commander glanced at the Vulcan, who had turned to face him. His features too were swollen and caked with dried blood, but the dark brown eyes were as implacable as ever.
“I wish I wasn’t,” Crusher told him. “And how did you wind up? No serious injuries, I trust?”
“Nothing life-threatening,” Tuvok reported disdainfully.
“Me either,” said the commander, though he was well aware that the Vulcan hadn’t asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve used your remarkable powers of observation to find a way out of here?”
“There is no way out except through the door,” Tuvok informed him coolly and efficiently. “It is undoubtedly locked and there appear to be two guards. Escape will be difficult if not impossible…unless, of course, an opportunity presents itself.”
He didn’t sound hopeful that it would.
Crusher flexed his fingers. They were all but numb and the attempt at movement set sharp pains rushing through their joints. Despite them, he tried to twist his wrists and loosen his bonds, but the knots held.
“We’d better start working on that unexpected opportunity,” he said.
His companion cast him a withering look. “There would be no need to depend on the unexpected if you had taken my advice to heart.”
The commander didn’t like the tone of Tuvok’s voice. “I’d say that’s water under the bridge, wouldn’t you?”
“You humans have a saying,” the ensign noted. “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
Crusher felt a surge of resentment. “In other words,” he said, “you’d rather look back than ahead.”
Tuvok’s eyes narrowed. “In other words,” he responded coldly, “one cannot look ahead with confidence until he has gained an understanding of what came before. In the current instance, for example, I warned you that you were taking unnecessary risks. However, you chose to ignore me. You decided to intimidate Pudris Barrh in his home territory.”
The human frowned. He had to admit that it wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had—but only to himself.
“Had you exercised restraint,” the Vulcan went on, “he would not have arranged to have us beaten and bound.” He sighed. “You are careless, Commander Crusher—careless with your life, with your m
ission and with the subordinate officer under your command, not to mention the requirements of your wife and your young child…”
The mention of Beverly and Wesley caught Crusher off guard. “My wife and child…?” he echoed.
“When you exchanged vows with your mate,” Tuvok explained, “you made a commitment. When you impregnated her, you made a commitment to your son. By pursuing an illogical, reckless course of behavior, you have violated both of those commitments.”
The commander made a face. “Now wait just a—”
But the Vulcan forged on, undeterred. “If you die here,” he said, “your spouse will no doubt grieve your loss. However, she is a mature adult; she will recover from the experience. Your child, on the other hand, may not. Humanoid offspring require input from both parents to achieve their full potential. Your actions here have all but ensured that your son will be deprived of your input.”
Crusher was getting more annoyed by the minute. “We’re not dead yet,” he reminded Tuvok. “And don’t accuse me of not caring about my wife and son, all right? They’re the most important people in the universe to me.”
“One would not know it from your actions,” the Vulcan insisted.
The commander’s jaw clenched. “Listen to me, dammit. I’m a Starfleet officer. So’s my wife. And for that matter, so are you.”
He glanced at the door. He had to be mindful of the guards outside it, despite the wave of emotion he could feel crashing over him.
“When we accepted our commissions,” Crusher went on, “we accepted everything that goes along with them—the bad as well as the good. As a Starfleet captain said a long time ago, risk is our business.”
There was a flicker of recognition in Tuvok’s eyes. Obviously, he too had heard the reference.
“Now,” said the commander, forcing himself to put the matter in perspective, “I’m not saying you don’t have a point…”
The ensign raised an eyebrow.
“In this particular instance, I mean,” Crusher added quickly. “I maintain that my overall strategy was a good one. After all, it worked on the bartender at The Den, didn’t it? It just didn’t work on Pudris Barrh.”
Tuvok frowned.
“All right,” said the human, “it backfired horribly when I tried it on Pudris Barrh. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop taking chances if I think they’re reasonable. And it doesn’t mean—”
He stopped abruptly and gazed at the Vulcan. Suddenly, he realized what was going on. The revelation chased the heat of indignation out of him and left only compassion in its wake.
“Oh, man,” said Crusher. “I’m sorry. I understand now.”
“Understand what?” asked Tuvok.
“You’re a Starfleet officer,” the commander explained. “You feel that responsibility as intensely as anyone. But you’re also a family man, with a wife and children—and you don’t think you’re going to make it home to them. You think that you’ve somehow let them down.”
The Vulcan didn’t confirm Crusher’s observation. On the other hand, he didn’t deny it.
“And since it’s not appropriate for one of your people to feel guilt, you’re projecting that feeling—that conflict—onto me,” the commander concluded. “You’re accusing me of abandoning my family because you can’t contemplate the idea of accusing yourself.”
Still, Tuvok said nothing. He just stared.
“But there’s no need to beat yourself up about it,” Crusher insisted. “You did what you had to do—just as I did. And we’re both going to have to hope our loved ones understand that.”
For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, the Vulcan looked away. The commander saw that Tuvok needed some time to think. He gave it to him.
Finally, the Vulcan turned back to him and spoke again. “I was…as you humans put it…out of line.”
Crusher didn’t reply right away. He sensed there was something more Tuvok wanted to say.
“It is unsettling indeed,” the ensign continued, “to consider that your interpretation of my actions may be correct in some respects. I cannot deny that there is a conflict within me between my duty to Starfleet and my duty to my family, and it is certainly possible that this conflict has colored my view of the situation.”
It was a truly remarkable admission for a Vulcan. Tuvok might as well have admitted a yen for cotton candy…or the Romulan ale that Crusher had run afoul of as a cadet.
“However, we should be concentrating our efforts on escape,” the ensign pointed out, no doubt hoping to change the subject. “After all, we do have a mission to complete.”
The commander smiled, though it hurt him to do so. “All right,” he said. “What about that unexpected opportunity you mentioned?”
Chapter Fourteen
Captain’s log, supplemental. Despite the efforts of myself, Commander Ben Zoma, and others, including First Minister Culunnh and Governor Thul of the Thallonian Empire, we have failed to hold the peace talks together. The congress on Debennius Six has disbanded, perhaps for good. Also, we are no closer to discerning who is behind the terrorist assaults than we were before. All we know is that they are cold-blooded murderers, acting with a purpose and a plan—as evidenced by the fact that each incident is more brutal than the last. First a political assassination, then the bombing of a commuter vehicle, then the poisoning of a reservoir…and now the destruction of an entire colony, damn their—
PICARD PAUSED. His anger at the atrocities was beginning to color his log. Taking a deep breath, he deleted the last two words.
As he was about to resume his report, the door to his room chimed softly. Looking up, the captain wondered what new bit of bad news Ben Zoma might be bringing him.
“Come,” he called.
Then he remembered that he wasn’t in his quarters back on the Stargazer. He was in a suite First Minister Culunnh had obtained for him on Debennius II so the Benniari could reach him at a moment’s notice, and the door mechanism wouldn’t respond to his voice.
Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and touched a pad built into the wall beside the door. A moment later, the panel moved aside with an exhalation of air, revealing his visitor.
It wasn’t Ben Zoma, either. “Governor Thul,” said Picard.
The governor smiled. “Captain…may I come in?”
“By all means,” Picard responded, moving to one side so the Thallonian could enter the room.
“I’ve become persona non grata among both the Cordracites and the Melacron,” Thul observed as he came inside.
“As have I,” the captain noted, as the door hissed closed again. “Which makes it rather difficult to talk sense into them.”
The Thallonian took the seat against the wall, opposite the one where Picard had been sitting. “I’m afraid that peace-mongers are not much appreciated at the moment.”
Picard grunted. “So it would appear.” He indicated a transparent decanter full of bright yellow liquid sitting on a wooden endtable. “Would you care for some wine, Governor?”
“Wine?” Thul replied wonderingly. “I thought tea was your beverage of choice, Captain.”
Picard smiled without humor. “Cabrid Culunnh had this sent up here a couple of hours ago. He said he hoped it might give me some consolation.”
“And has it?” asked the Thallonian.
The captain shrugged. “I’ve barely touched it.”
“Then let us rectify that oversight,” said Thul.
Picard nodded and poured two glasses of the stuff. Then he gave one of them to his visitor.
“To peace,” the Thallonian noted. As he raised his glass, it sparkled in the light.
“To peace,” the captain agreed, raising his glass as well. “May it be more than the empty illusion it seems at the moment.”
Together, they sipped the dry, tart beverage in silence. The wine wasn’t to Picard’s taste, exactly, but it wasn’t awful either. His father’s vineyards back on Earth had occasionally produced wors
e.
Staring into the depths of his wine, Thul spoke. “I cannot get it out of my head, Captain. There will be war soon. So many millions of innocents…what a waste of life.”
Picard didn’t answer. His mind’s eye was filled with images of the soft-spoken, wise Benniari. Because of their presence in the disputed territories, they would no doubt be among the first to perish—just as the First Minister had predicted.
“I’m tempted to intervene,” said the governor. “To stop it, somehow. And not just on behalf of Culunnh’s people. After all, there are Thallonians in danger as well—those who serve the Emperor in various ways outside the borders of the Empire.”
“I envy you that liberty,” the captain answered sincerely. “Unfortunately, my hands are tied.”
Thul looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“You spoke of the first virtue among your people,” Picard said. “We of the United Federation of Planets have a central tenet as well. We have vowed not to intervene in conflicts among other civilizations, unless we are asked to do so by one of the combatants—and clearly, neither the Cordracites nor the Melacron have asked for our aid.”
“The Benniari have,” the Thallonian pointed out.
“Yes,” the captain agreed, “and we will protect them if they are attacked. But beyond that…” He shrugged again.
“That must be terribly frustrating,” said Thul.
Picard smiled wryly. “You have no idea. But those are my orders and I will obey them.”
The governor finished his wine, then got to his feet and stretched. “I thought we might come up with something…an idea. But I find I’m too tired to do much thinking. Maybe I should just call it a night.”
“As you wish,” said the captain.
“Thank you for the wine,” Thul tossed back over his shoulder as he crossed the room.
“Anytime,” Picard told him. “May it help you sleep better.”
The Thallonian stopped at the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, “assuming the council chamber is still standing then.”
“Tomorrow,” the captain replied.