by Dayton Ward
“Lekkar is an opportunist,” Neera said, rising from the sofa and adjusting her robe. “No doubt he was attempting to curry favor with you. He’s always fancied himself as being more important than he really is.”
Ganz nodded. “I know how he feels.” The comment earned him a knowing, even approving smile from Neera. “He may be an opportunist, but he’s not a complete fool. If he confronted Reyes, then he must have seen or heard something that made him suspicious.” Grunting in irritation, he reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. “That insufferable human causes me grief in every manner imaginable. I should have killed him long before now.”
“That will come in due course, my lover,” Neera said. “For now, we still need him.”
Snorting in grudging agreement, Ganz nodded. “I know.” Allowing Reyes to seek sanctuary aboard the Omari-Ekon, after which he had assisted Ganz in negotiating with Starbase 47’s commanding officer, Admiral Nogura, for the ship to be able to dock at Vanguard once again, was an unexpected coup. Sheltered underneath the very large umbrella of protection afforded by the massive space station, Ganz was reasonably certain that his enemies—of which there were many—would not risk Starfleet’s wrath by attempting to attack him here. Both he and Neera also knew that Nogura wanted to keep Reyes close, even if Federation laws and Starfleet regulations prevented him from taking any direct action to retrieve him from the Orion ship. It was therefore an odd, symbiotic relationship enjoyed by all involved parties, each dancing around the other and unwilling to take any action that might upset the delicate balance they had established.
“Don’t think I haven’t considered alternatives to keeping him around,” Neera said as she crossed to the small bar set into the wall near the balcony at the back of the office.
Releasing a humorless chuckle, Ganz replied, “You mean like poisoning his food? Pushing him down a turbolift shaft? Having him suffer an unfortunate accident at the hands of one of my less-experienced yet overly eager security guards?” To him, the options for engineering Reyes’s demise seemed limitless; the problem was finding the one solution that would not arouse the suspicion—or the ire—of Admiral Nogura.
“Nothing so overt,” Neera said, reaching for a wine carafe sitting on the bar and pouring some of its contents into her goblet. “Besides, dead or severely injured, he’s of no use to us. There’s too much information in that head of his to simply kill him.”
Ganz scowled. “There are a multitude of ways in which useful knowledge can be extracted from him.”
“Again, too risky,” Neera countered. “Though, don’t think I haven’t considered it. I’ve even had a few of my best companions try to ply him with their various wares, all to no avail. He’s stubborn, even for a human. I never would have thought I’d meet the Earth man who could resist Trianna.”
His eyebrow rising in genuine curiosity, Ganz asked, “Trianna? That is impressive.” He had sampled for himself the many talents harbored by the enthusiastic young woman, though of course he had never confessed as much to Neera. That Reyes was able to withstand what must have been nothing less than an allout assault of seduction on Trianna’s part spoke very highly of the former Starfleet officer’s self-discipline.
Or, it doesn’t say much about yours.
“Well,” Ganz said, “I had something else in mind. Less subtle actions.”
“Nogura won’t do anything about Reyes that violates Federation law,” Neera replied as she headed back to the sofa, “at least, not so long as Reyes remains healthy.” Resuming her place on the plush cushions, she paused to drink from her goblet before returning her attention to Ganz. “However, I have no doubts—and neither should you—that the good admiral will tear this ship apart if he hears even the slightest hint of Reyes being mistreated at our hands.”
Once more, Ganz was forced to acknowledge his lover’s wisdom. The Federation’s various laws and regulations pertaining to the recognition of the sovereign territory of another government were as explicit as they were simple. The sanctity of an independent nation-state was inviolable, with very few exceptions, but one of the key exclusions from those directives was in the case of assault or the unlawful detention of Federation citizens. In the event of such an occurrence, appropriate action to retrieve such persons could be ordered, but only by someone in the highest echelons of the Federation. Ganz did not doubt that Heihachiro Nogura, operating as he was far from the hallowed halls of the Federation Council, had been entrusted with a great deal of autonomous decision-making powers. The admiral would waste no time utilizing them to retrieve Reyes, should Ganz or anyone else aboard the Omari-Ekon be so stupid as to provide just cause. For the moment, Diego Reyes would have to be treated as that which he appeared to be: a fugitive from Federation justice who had been granted asylum.
“It galls me to think of the power he holds,” Ganz said, shaking his head, “even in his position as a virtual prisoner aboard my ship.”
Neera once again regarded him with a sly, knowing smile. “Whose ship?” Rather than answer the teasing question, Ganz crossed to the bar and poured himself a drink. “The point remains. For someone who’s supposed to be helpless, Diego Reyes seems to be doing quite well for himself.”
“You can’t take it so personally,” Neera replied. “It’s just business, Ganz. Remember that. Reyes is a pawn, and at some point when the game reaches a turning point, he will be sacrificed.”
“Fine,” Ganz said, mindful to keep his tone from sounding too much like a challenge to Neera, to her person or her authority, “but promise me that will happen the very microsecond he ceases to provide any value.”
The soft touch of Neera’s hand on his shoulder was enough by itself to chase some of the pent-up frustration from his body. “When the time comes,” she said, her fingers caressing the bare skin of his arm, “you will have free reign to do with him as you please, though I can’t promise I won’t want to exact my own manner of recompense before I let you have him.”
“Sometimes,” Ganz said, “I think you say such things merely to agitate me.”
Neera’s hand traced its way around his arm and across his broad, muscled chest. “Of course. It keeps you interested, and motivated.”
Turning to face her, Ganz smiled as he took in her mischievous expression. She said nothing more, but what her eyes communicated was unmistakable. He felt a familiar, welcome stirring and moved to take her in his arms, but stopped when Neera placed her hand against his chest.
“First things first, my dear,” she said, her voice recovering some of its forthright tone. “Tell your people about Reyes. For now, we need him. They’re not to confront him without permission. Start with Lekkar, once Tonzak brings that fool to you.”
Ganz considered her directives. “Sooner or later, somebody else is going to see an opening and make a move. They won’t all make the same mistakes Lekkar did.”
“Then use him as an example to the others,” Neera replied. “Leave no doubts as to what will happen if any harm should come to Reyes.”
Before he could say anything else, the office’s door chime sounded, a quartet of musical notes followed by the click of the intercom system installed in the bulkhead outside Ganz’s private chamber.
“Ganz,” said a deep male voice, “this is Tonzak. As you requested, I’ve brought Lekkar.”
Looking once more to Neera, Ganz stood silent as she offered one final, resolute nod. “No doubts.”
There could be no disagreeing with her, Ganz decided, even if that was what he desired. Her logic, though brutal, was indisputable. Despite his personal feelings for the human, Diego Reyes offered more value so long as he was alive. For now, the unlikely, uneasy alliance in which they all were locked would have to continue.
It was just business.
4
“Ow.”
Thomas Blair winced as he looked up at the gymnasium ceiling, his unobstructed view courtesy of the vantage point he currently enjoyed while lying on his back atop the exercise mats covering th
e floor. From this angle, Blair was able to discern that one of the overhead lighting fixtures was slightly dimmer than its companions.
“Captain, are you all right?” asked a deep voice, before a dark silhouette entered his field of vision and blocked his view. Dressed in red exercise attire, Commander Kamau Mbugua regarded Blair with an expression showing equal parts concern and amusement.
Nodding, Blair replied, “Yeah, I’m fine. Nice throw.” Why he had decided that today was a good day to accept his first officer’s invitation to practice some hand-to-hand drills was a question he would have to ponder at some point. Mbugua’s unarmed combat skills—which included mastery of at least half a dozen different styles of martial arts—were unmatched aboard the Defiant, and while Blair had not aspired to defeat his second-in-command, he had figured he might last longer than five seconds once the friendly sparring match got under way.
Nope.
“Sorry about that, Skipper,” Mbugua said, holding out his large right hand in a gesture of assistance. “That was more instinct than anything else.”
Blair waved away the apology. “My fault, Kamau. That’s what I get for trying a straight-on attack right off the bat.” He thought he might catch the commander off guard by launching an immediate strike right at the start of the match, but Mbugua had seen and reacted to his captain’s movements almost before Blair started moving. His defense was ready even as Blair committed to the tactic, and by the time the captain realized his mistake, he was already being flipped over Mbugua’s hip on his way down to the mat.
Seeing the first officer’s hand, Blair shook his head. “I’m okay. I think I’m just going to lie here a minute, and collect my thoughts.”
“Did somebody call a doctor?” a female voice called out. Mbugua’s response was to release a hearty laugh that echoed off the gymnasium walls as Blair raised his head from the mat to see Jane Hamilton, the Defiant’s chief medical officer, standing at the room’s entrance. Arms crossed, she was leaning against the door frame and eyeing him with no small amount of glee. Rather than a standard duty uniform, the doctor was dressed in gray sweatpants and matching shirt, across the front of which was emblazoned the Defiant insignia. Her shoulder-length red hair was dark with perspiration, and there were damp spots on her shirt.
“Good morning, Jane,” Blair said, reaching up to scratch the top of his head where his sweat-matted gray hair was at its thinnest. “You’re just in time to pronounce me legally dead.”
Her gaze shifting to Mbugua, Hamilton asked, “That bad?”
“I’ve gone up against punching bags that put up a tougher fight,” the first officer replied, making no effort to hide his wide grin.
From where he still lay on the mat, Blair asked, “Do they still let ship captains keelhaul people?” Eyeing Hamilton, he added, “This is all your fault, you know.” For weeks the doctor had been after him to increase and vary his exercise routine. Though the captain made routine use of the ship’s gym and other recreational areas, his duties often prevented him from taking advantage of the facilities as often as he liked. As a result, his last physical had yielded a slight weight gain, in and of itself a recurring problem of Blair’s for the past few years. Though lack of time occasionally was at fault, so far as keeping to a regular exercise schedule, he had admitted to Hamilton that he was becoming bored with the routine of his workouts. With his fifty-first birthday approaching later this year, the doctor had suggested trying some new sports or pursuits, and engaging other members of the crew while working toward that goal. Blair had always preferred to exercise in solitude, often while listening to or reviewing the reports and communiqués that always seemed to accumulate on his desk, or which were intended solely for his attention. He received no sympathy from Hamilton, who had provided a good-natured scolding with respect to his solitary habits.
“I suggested you try something new,” the doctor said. “I don’t recall saying you should let yourself get thrown around the gym.”
Blair chuckled. “Captain’s prerogative, I suppose. Every crew should see their commanding officer getting his or her butt handed to them once in a while. Keeps things in perspective.”
“If the crew sees you exercising,” Hamilton countered, “even with everything you’ve got on your plate, then they might just think they have no excuse, and they’ll get out there and work up a little sweat themselves.” She gestured in his direction. “Now, get up and continue to perspire in an orderly, proficient, captainly manner, and lose those four kilos before I have to change your diet card again.”
Any retort Blair might have given was cut off by the whistle of the ship’s intercom system. “Bridge to Captain Blair,” said the voice of Ensign Ravishankar Sabapathy, one of the Defiant’s communications officers.
“Saved by the bell,” Blair said as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to a wall-mounted comm panel and thumbed its activation switch. “Blair here.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain,” Sabapathy said, “but we’re picking up a faint broadcast message that appears to be a distress signal.”
Frowning at the report, Blair asked, “Any idea who it is?”
“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied. “According to its signature, the signal’s source is Tholian. The translator says it’s a ship, and that they’ve been attacked.”
Blair glanced to his left as Mbugua moved to stand beside him. “Do they know who attacked them?” the first officer asked.
“I don’t think so, Commander,” said Sabapathy. “The signal looks to be automated, repeating at regular intervals. It’s encrypted, but using an algorithm we’ve managed to break. Still, it’s taking a bit of work to translate the whole thing, and from what we can tell, it’s intended for other Tholian ships that might be in the vicinity.”
“Are sensors picking up signs of other Tholian ship traffic?” Blair asked.
The communications officer replied, “Negative, Captain. So far as we can tell, we’re all alone out here.”
Remembering that gamma shift was still on duty, Blair said, “Have Commander Shull take us to Yellow Alert, and change course to intercept the ship. We’ll see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
There was a break before Lieutenant Commander Terry Shull, the gamma shift duty officer, answered, “I’ve already had the helm computing an intercept course, Captain. If we accelerate to warp six, we can be there inside of sixteen hours.”
Blair nodded in approval. Of course she would be anticipating his orders. The Defiant’s crew did such an exceptional job of anticipating and reacting to his instructions that he often wondered how long they might carry on with their duties before noticing that he had slipped away in the dead of night, bound for a vacation on Argelius or some other fanciful destination. “Do it, and keep me apprised of any new developments.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Shull replied.
Terminating the connection, Blair turned away from the companel to regard Mbugua and Hamilton. “Well,” he said, “what do you make of that?”
“Out here?” Mbugua asked. “There’s no telling. Could be Klingons, could be pirates, could be somebody else we don’t know about yet.”
Hamilton said, “We’re fairly close to the Tholian border, aren’t we?”
“Depending on whom you ask,” Blair replied, “and what day of the week it is, and the mood of the captain of whichever Tholian ship you happen to run across on that day.” The Tholians, despite being strict and even extreme isolationists, often engaged in the contradictory practice of extending and redefining their territorial boundaries as though fueled by whimsy. The lone exception to this odd policy was in how the Tholians treated the Taurus Reach, which they steadfastly refused to include in their expansion or annexing efforts. Indeed, their only excursions into the region were usually in response to actions by other parties they deemed threatening to their territorial security. Looking to Mbugua, Blair asked, “What about the Klingons?”
The dark-skinned first officer reached u
p with a towel to wipe perspiration from his bald head before replying, “They’ve laid claim to a few planets along the Tholian border, but nothing in this immediate area. At least, that’s so far as we know from the latest survey and intelligence reports.” Klingon activity in this part of the Taurus Reach had been on the rise in recent months, which was but one of the reasons that ships such as the Defiant had been re-tasked to the region and placed under the overall command of Starbase 47. The rationale was simple: Despite the fact that all-out war with the Klingons had been avoided, tensions remained elevated between the Empire and the Federation, and one of the potential flashpoints for any hostilities that might break out was the Taurus Reach. Therefore, in addition to conducting security patrols, the Defiant and other Starfleet vessels also were charged with visiting and offering expanded protection for the numerous colonies established in the Taurus Reach since the Federation had taken an interest in the area five years earlier. For the most part, all the parties in the area seemed to be keeping to themselves, but that did not rule out the occasional skirmish.
Thomas Blair’s gut was telling him this might be something else.
“Let’s revisit those reports,” Blair said, “and prep a report for transmission back to Vanguard. Admiral Nogura’s going to want to know about this.”
5
Cervantes Quinn turned from the bar in time to see the fist coming right at his face. In his mind’s eye he visualized his opponent’s stance in an instant, determining from the arc of the swing and the way he carried his body that the other man was an experienced bar fighter, but woefully lacking in any sort of refined unarmed combat skills. Countering his attack would be child’s play.
It was a good theory, Quinn decided. His instincts were sharp—no mean feat considering his present condition. On the other hand, his reflexes were deplorable. In attempting to step into the other man’s attack, Quinn instead succeeded only in moving his face into a position better suited to receiving the full force of the punch. He took the strike along the left side of his jaw, the impact of bone against bone snapping his head back. Stars danced before his eyes as he stumbled, his back slamming into the bar behind him.