by Peter David
And with that, Thul made his exit.
Picard watched the doors slide closed behind him. Then he raised his glass again and watched the way the light filtered through the wine. The stuff wouldn’t help him sleep better, he remarked inwardly. At that moment, he doubted anything would.
But he poured himself another glass, just in case.
After what seemed like an eternity of wrestling with his bonds, Jack Crusher arrived at the frustrating conclusion that they had been tied by the all-time expert.
“I’ve been at this forever,” he growled, half to himself.
“You have only been conscious for one hour, twelve minutes and seventeen seconds,” Tuvok corrected him. “And you have only spent seventy-six percent of that time attempting to free yourself.”
The commander opened his mouth to make a less-than-pleasant retort, when he heard scuffling sounds on the other side of the door. He glanced at Tuvok, who had obviously heard them too. They fell silent.
A moment later, they heard the grating sound of a bolt being lifted. Then the door was pushed open.
Crusher recognized the alien who stood in the doorway as a Thallonian, though he had never spoken to one before. The tall, red-skinned being surveyed them with bright eyes.
“My name is Mendan Abbis,” he said haughtily and incautiously. “I understand you’ve been sniffing around my steeds. Tell me, my friends—what do you really want with Bin Nedrach?”
“Ah,” said the commander, trying to act as if he weren’t in such a disadvantageous position. “So you’re the elusive rider we’ve been hearing about. I can’t say I much like the way you do business.”
The Thallonian didn’t smile at the jest. “I asked you a question,” he reminded the human.
“What would anyone want with him?” Crusher replied as nonchalantly as possible. “We want to hire him, of course. We’ve got a job for him—if he’s the best assassin around, as people say.”
Abbis’s gaze never left Crusher’s face. “That sounds plausible. If it’s true, it’ll be confirmed soon enough. Then perhaps we can do business.” He tossed a look over his shoulder. “Wyl!”
A tall, slender figure stepped into the room. His skin was dark, his hair white and tightly curled, and his deepset eyes glittered like silver. He seemed to look to the Thallonian for guidance.
“My friend Wyl here is an Indarrhi,” said Abbis. “Perhaps you’ve heard of what they can do.” A satisfied pause. “Rest assured, he’ll get the truth out of you.”
“Torture?” asked Crusher as calmly as if he were inquiring if the Thallonian took milk and sugar in his coffee.
Their captor chuckled. “You can resist torture, if your will is strong enough. Wyl has…other ways.”
He nodded in Tuvok’s direction and the Indarrhi approached him. Kneeling beside the ensign, he extended a hand and placed thick, ungainly fingers on Tuvok’s temple. The silver eyes closed in concentration.
Though his expression remained utterly neutral, it was clear to Crusher that the Vulcan didn’t like the idea. However, under the circumstances, he could hardly put up a fight.
“Now then,” Abbis told Tuvok, “I ask you again—and you’d better answer if you value your life—what do you want with Bin Nedrach?”
His voice flat and lifeless, the Vulcan replied: “We wished to hire him to perform an assassination.”
The Thallonian turned to his friend. “Wyl? Is he lying?”
The Indarrhi shook his curly, white locks. He looked confused, his dark brow creased. “I…I can’t tell!”
Abbis’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Wyl rocked back on his heels, looking at Tuvok with a look of mingled awe and annoyance on his face. “This one,” he said, “doesn’t seem to have any emotions. At least, I can’t sense any.”
Abbis frowned—rather petulantly, Crusher thought. “Curse him,” he said. “Try the other one, then.”
As the Indarrhi knelt beside him and stretched his fingers out to touch his face, the commander called on all the techniques for mental calm he’d ever known. He tried to think about something, anything, other than the true reason he and Tuvok had come…
A thick rare steak. A good beer. A hot fudge sundae with sprinkles. Kissing Beverly for the first time.
The pain in his bladder right now.
“Can you feel his emotions?” asked the Thallonian.
The Indarrhi nodded. “He’ll do.”
Abbis turned his attention to Crusher. “What do you want with Bin Nedrach?” he demanded.
The commander tried to feel irritation. “How many times do we have to say it? We want to hire him!”
The Thallonian tilted his head to one side, still wary. “Tell me who you want killed,” he said.
Fear thrust up a white wall in Crusher’s mind. Then he asked, “Why should I tell you anything before we’ve struck a deal? When you find out who it is, you might jack up the price.”
Abbis’s lip curled. “What is your relationship to this other man?” he inquired, indicating Tuvok with a flick of his wrist.
Damn it, thought the commander, he was merciless.
“He’s my bodyguard. Can’t be too careful in my profession.” Crusher forced a laugh; it sounded false, even to him. “I can see you have an appreciation for such things.”
“He’s lying,” said the Indarrhi firmly. “He and his friend are most definitely not here in search of a steed.”
Abbis approached the commander and towered over him. “If you’re not here to hire Bin Nedrach…why are you here?”
Crusher didn’t utter a word in response. He simply met the Thallonian glare for glare.
Abbis sighed. “Under the circumstances,” he said, sounding reluctant, “I’m afraid I’m just going to have to kill you both. Though I confess to a great deal of curiosity about your true mission, I can’t afford to indulge it. It would be too risky.”
Casually, he reached for a directed energy weapon at his belt. With a quick flick of his fingers, he had it in his hand—its business end pointed at a spot between the commander’s eyes.
I love you, Beverly.
“Wait.” It was Tuvok. “There is no need for bloodshed. I will freely tell you what you wish to know.”
Abbis hesitated for a second. Then he lowered his weapon.
Crusher glanced at the Vulcan, trying to keep his expression neutral. He wondered what kind of elaborate fantasy Tuvok was about to weave to throw their enemies off the trail.
“My name is Ensign Tuvok,” he said. “This is Lieutenant Jack Crusher. We are officers in Starfleet, operating under the aegis of the United Federation of Planets.”
Surprise and anger flared in the commander. What the hell did Tuvok think he was doing?
“We are attempting to find Bin Nedrach,” the Vulcan went on, “because we believe him to be responsible for the assassination of the Melacronai G’aha of Laws and Enforcements.”
The commander couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wanted to cry out, to tell Tuvok to shut his mouth, but that would only confirm the truth of the Vulcan’s statements.
Tuvok continued gamely with his confession. “We are operating in a clandestine mode under orders from our captain. Our mission is to identify and stop those who are behind the incidents of violence on Melacron Five and Cordra Three—incidents which are propelling the Cordracites and the Melacron toward war.”
“In other words,” Abbis concluded, “you’re trying to keep this war from taking place?”
“That is correct,” said the ensign.
Hurt and anger flooded Crusher. He wished Tuvok had never returned to Starfleet. Clearly, he didn’t belong there.
“This is the truth?” asked Abbis.
“The truth,” Tuvok agreed. “If you do not believe me, you are free to have your Indarrhi friend examine Commander Crusher again. He will confirm what I have said, whether he wishes to or not.”
The commander could only stare in dismay. He wasn’t looking forward to dy
ing, of course, but he would have embraced death if it meant carrying out their mission. After all, this wasn’t just a walk in the park. Millions of innocents in the Kellasian sector would die if the Melacron and the Cordracites went to war.
Earlier, Tuvok had said he was torn between family and Starfleet. Clearly, the traitorous bastard had chosen the former. His life for millions of lives—damned poor logic, in Crusher’s opinion.
The commander was so full of righteous anger, he almost didn’t hear what Tuvok said next. And even when he did, he didn’t have the slightest idea what the Vulcan was talking about.
“Your father is playing you for a fool,” Tuvok told Abbis.
The Thallonian looked at him. “What did you say?”
“Your father is playing you for a fool,” the Vulcan repeated evenly.
Clearly, the words had hit home. Abbis’s face was even ruddier than usual, his eyes screwed up small and tight.
“Explain yourself,” he told Tuvok, “before I punch a hole in your skull and let you watch your brains spill out.”
“We know all about him,” the Vulcan said calmly.
Crusher listened as intently as the Thallonian. What do we know? he wondered. And how the devil do we know it?
“We have discovered that your father, Governor Gerrid Thul, is the one behind the assassinations and the other terrorist incidents,” Tuvok continued. “He is acting through you, his illegitimate son.”
Abbis looked shocked—but he didn’t seem able to deny it. Therefore, the commander figured, it was true.
“We also know his goal,” said the Vulcan. “He wishes to set himself up as Emperor of a new empire, made up of the systems situated between the Thallonian worlds and the Federation.”
The Thallonian exchanged glances with the Indarrhi. The one named Wyl shrugged his shoulders.
“Such a goal,” Tuvok noted, “will be far easier for Thul to accomplish if most sentient life in the sector is eliminated. Hence, a war between the Melacron and the Cordracites, instigated by your father and attributed to terrorist groups on both sides.”
Abbis’s expression was one of respect. “I’m impressed,” he said.
So was Crusher.
“It is an ideal plan,” Tuvok observed, “nearly flawless in its logic. The Kellasian sector will destroy itself, each species thinking the other one responsible, and the Thallonian Emperor will have no idea that it is all your father’s doing.”
Abbis nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It is an ideal plan. And I’m proud to be part of it.”
“However…” the Vulcan added, letting his voice trail off as if he had thought better of revealing something.
“However what?” the Thallonian spat.
“What you do not know,” Tuvok continued unperturbed, “is that Thul is only using you. Once you have done what he wishes you to do, you will no longer be a necessary component of his plan. Indeed, you will be a hindrance—which is why he plans to kill you.”
Abbis’s brow creased in disbelief. “You’re insane,” he breathed.
“Thul is nothing if not logical—and logic clearly indicates that you will be a danger to him,” the Vulcan maintained. “After all, you know too much. You could betray him to the Thallonian Emperor.” He shrugged. “Why would he let someone like that continue to live?”
“Because I’m his son,” Abbis told him, trying to affect an air of confidence, even disdain. “I’m his flesh and blood, damn it.” But the tremor in his voice gave him away.
“In addition,” said Tuvok, “your father has dreams of founding a new imperial line. He does not want a bastard for his heir. He craves a son of pure and noble blood. Surely that is why he asked for the hand of the Emperor’s sister in marriage.”
For the briefest of moments, Crusher found himself feeling sorry for the young Thallonian. He had a mercurial face, and it was difficult for him to conceal his emotions.
Then he remembered the weapon in Abbis’s hand, and how he had planned to kill the commander with no more remorse than he might feel squashing a bug. Abruptly, Crusher’s pity evaporated.
“You asked for the truth,” the Vulcan told the Thallonian. “I have given it to you.”
Abbis’s mouth twisted with anger, and for a wild moment Crusher feared the youth might use his weapon after all. But instead, he turned his back on his captives and went to the far wall.
Leaning against it, he took long, slow, deep breaths. He looked as if he was trying to calm himself, trying to come to terms with the devastating impact of what Tuvok had revealed to him.
His Indarrhi friend joined him and put a hand on the Thallonian’s shoulder. But with a snarl, Abbis batted it away. Shrugging, Wyl withdrew to the center of the room.
Just then, a slight rustling sound caught Crusher’s attention. He glanced at the Vulcan and realized what it meant—that Tuvok had freed himself from his bonds. But the Thallonian seemed to have heard it too, because he turned back to them with widened eyes.
What happened next took only a fraction of a second, but it seemed to the commander that it occurred in slow motion.
As Abbis raised his hand weapon and took aim, the Vulcan launched himself across the room and grabbed the shocked Indarrhi. Then he spun Wyl around and used him as a shield against the blue bolt of energy the Thallonian unleashed at him.
The bolt struck Wyl in the chest and the Indarrhi spasmed horribly under its influence—then slumped in Tuvok’s arms. There was no question in Crusher’s mind that Wyl was dead.
“Wyl!” Abbis cried out, horror etched into his every feature.
The hurt in his voice made Crusher’s chest ache in sympathy. He suspected, if even part of what Tuvok had said was true, that the Thallonian had just murdered the only being who ever really liked him.
Before he could fire again, Tuvok was on him like a panther. A quick contraction of the Vulcan’s fingers on a nerve in his adversary’s neck and Abbis crumpled without a sound.
Tuvok recovered the Thallonian’s weapon and tucked it into his belt. Then he listened for an intrusion from outside. When none materialized, he came around behind Crusher and began loosening his bonds.
“An unexpected opportunity,” he remarked casually.
Crusher thought he saw a glint of humor in the dark brown eyes. “Is that a joke, Ensign?”
Tuvok looked at him, as inscrutable as ever. “Vulcans do not joke,” he pointed out.
At last, Tuvok crossed the room again and placed his pointed ear to the door. “Abbis must have dismissed the guards for the moment,” he noted. “I still do not hear anyone out there.”
As Crusher got up and rubbed his wrists, restoring circulation to them, he said, “Can you tell me what the hell just happened? For a second I thought you were turning traitor or something.”
“A necessary ploy,” Tuvok noted.
“And that business about Abbis’s father…” the commander asked. “Where did you get all that?”
“The Indarrhi’s empathic connection worked both ways,” the ensign explained—though it seemed that only half his attention was focused on the explanation. “When he attempted to sense my emotions, our minds were linked. It was not difficult to examine his thoughts and extract something useful from them. And the rest—” He hesitated.
“The rest…?” Crusher prodded.
Again, Tuvok’s dark eyes seemed to glimmer with the faintest hint of mischief. “The rest,” said the Vulcan, “I made up.”
Crusher grinned at him. “Tuvok, you son of a mugato. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
The ensign’s brow wrinkled ever so slightly. “There is much you do not know about me, Commander. Perhaps we will have the chance to rectify that at a later time. For the moment, however, I suggest we address ourselves to the question of regaining our freedom.”
He had barely gotten the words out when a series of loud grunts and other noises beyond the door alerted them to the guards’ return. Thinking quickly, Crusher whispered an idea to Tuvok.<
br />
The Vulcan nodded his approval, changed the setting on the Thallonian’s hand weapon, and turned it over to his companion. Then they returned to the chairs to which they had been tied, sat down and placed their hands behind their backs.
Here goes nothing, thought the commander. “They killed each other!” he cried out at the top of his lungs. “Somebody help us! Oh, God, the blood—get them out of here!”
At once the door was flung open and Old Scowly’s twin—the one whose mammoth fist had pounded Crusher’s face—rushed into the room. He was brandishing a weapon that seemed puny in his hand.
Behind him, glaring at the prisoners with his single eye, was the Banyanan. He, too, was armed.
“There!” the commander yelled, his voice high and—he dearly hoped—filled with convincing terror. “The two of them killed each other right in front of our eyes!”
Crusher watched as Old Scowly’s twin knelt beside the bodies. Then he exchanged glances with Tuvok. There was a brief instant when both alien guards took their eyes off the prisoners in their desire to see what had become of Abbis and his friend.
“The Indarrhi’s dead,” snorted the Banyanan. “But the Thallonian doesn’t even look injured.”
A tribute to Tuvok’s skill, the commander thought.
Then he whipped his weapon out and fired it at the Banyanan. At the same time, the Vulcan sprang for Old Scowly’s twin.
Struck squarely in the chest, the Banyanan went flying backward and hit the wall behind him. He was unconscious before he slumped to the floor. Old Scowly’s lookalike took a bit more attention, but in the end Tuvok was able to disable him as well.
Crusher and the Vulcan looked at each other, gratified that their plan had borne fruit. All their differences, it seemed, had been put behind them.
As Tuvok stripped his adversary of his weapon, the commander dropped down at the side of the Banyanan and did the same.
“Two down, a few dozen more to go,” he said.
“Indeed,” was the Vulcan’s only reply.
A few moments later, armed with three directed energy pistols and a couple of sharp, wicked-looking daggers, the Starfleet officers were ready to pursue their escape. Cautiously, Crusher advanced to the door, twisted its archaic-looking metal knob, and pushed it open a crack. Then he craned his neck and peered out of the room…