by Peter David
Shelby was prepared to console Calhoun in whatever way she could. To tell him that he had acted correctly. That in displaying mercy, he had shown strength, not weakness. That anyone else on the bridge would have done the exact same thing. That she was not ashamed of him, but proud of him.
She didn't have time to say any of it, because the moment that the screen blinked out, Calhoun turned to face his crew, wearing a look of grim amusement.
" 'Gracious in defeat' my ass. I'm going to kick the crap out of them."
THALLON
II.
THALLON WAS A DYING WORLD . . . of this, the leader was certain.
The leader was in his study when the ground rocked beneath his feet. This time around, nothing was thrown from the shelves, no artwork hurled off the walls. It wasn't that the quake was any gentler than the previous ones; it was just that the leader, having learned his lessons from previous difficulties, had had everything bolted in place.
Still, that wasn't enough to prevent structural damage. The quake seemed to go for an eternity before finally subsiding, and while he was clutching the floor, the leader noticed a thin crack that started around the middle of the room and went all the way to one of the corners. His own, red-skinned reflection grimaced back at him from the highly polished surface.
He drew himself up to a sitting position, but remained on the floor long after the trembling had stopped. This place, this "palace" once belonging to the imperial family . . . it was his now. His and his allies'.
It was what he had wanted, what they had all wanted. What they had deserved. The royal family had ruled, had dictated, had hoarded, had been moved by self-interest for more generations than anyone could count. It was high time that the people took back that which was rightfully theirs. And if it benefited the leader, so much the better.
In a way, the royal family had led a collectively charmed life. Their ascension to power had its roots in the earliest parts of the planet's history, when they had been among the first to devise the Great Machines which had tapped into the energy-rich ground of Thallon. The machines' power had been theirs, and as the world had thrived . . . and later the empire had expanded . . . so had the influence and strength of the royal family spread as well. Indeed, the early stories of both Thallon's origins and the origins of the royal family were so steeped in legend and oral tradition that the world itself seemed to smack of mythology. It was as if there was something bigger-than-life about the homeworld of the Thai-Ionian Empire.
But in recent years, as everyone on Thallon knew, the Great Machines were finding less and less energy to draw for the purpose of supplying Thallon's energy needs. Like an oil well drying out, Thallon was becoming an energy-depleted world. There had been cutbacks, blackouts, entire cities gone dark for days, weeks at a time. The legend had acquired a coat of tarnish, and that general feeling of dissatisfaction had grown and grown until it had spiraled completely out of control.
When wealth and power were plentiful, it seemed that there was enough for all. When such things were reduced to a premium, then did the remaining mongrels fight over the scraps. And the royal family had been torn asunder in the battle.
Many had already abandoned Thallon, the stars calling to them, offering them safer haven. There were, after all, other worlds within the once-empire that could sustain them. In addition there were places outside the empire to which they could go.
But there were others who refused to run. The symbol of their achievements was right here on Thai-Ion. Indeed, many of them firmly clutched on to the idea that somehow, by dint of the royal family being dismantled, matters would turn around—that Thai-Ion would be entering a new era thanks to the ejection of the royals—and there were many who did not want to take the chance of missing out.
And, unfortunately, there were a few—a precious few—who wanted the royal family back.
"You look preoccupied." The leader glanced over and saw Zoran standing in the doorway. The tall, powerfully built Thai-Ionian seemed to occupy the entire space as he stood there, staring in mild confusion and amusement. "Do you find it particularly comfortable on the floor?"
"In case you didn't notice, we just had another quake."
"Yes, I noticed. Nothing that any true Thallonian should be overly concerned about, though."
"You think not? Your confidence is most reassuring," muttered the leader, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. He rose to his feet and dusted himself off. "I am concerned that these quakes are going to continue to occur until . . ."
"Until what? The planet explodes?" Zoran made a dismissive noise. "Such things are the province of fantasy, not reality. This world is solid, and this world will thrive again. And you stand there and act as if it's going to crack open like a giant egg. You need to have a little more confidence."
"And you need to have a little less," said the leader. He began to pace, his hands draped behind his back. "I expected to hear from you via subspace radio. The lengthy silence was not anticipated."
"I felt it would be better to run silent," Zoran replied. "Transmissions can always be intercepted."
"Fine, fine," the leader said. "How did it go? Was the ambush successful? Was M'k'n'zy lured to the science station, as we anticipated?"
Zoran was mildly puzzled at the leader's attitude. He would have anticipated some degree of urgency in the questions, but instead the leader seemed barely interested. "No. The signal was sent out, as planned, and the Excalibur did receive it, but they did not show up."
The leader looked mildly surprised. "Odd. Ryjaan was positive that they would, as was D'ndai."
"Really." Zoran did not even try to suppress his smug grin. "And did either Ryjaan, the Danteri fool, or D'ndai, the idiot brother of M'k'n'zy Calhoun,tell you that Si Cwan was aboard the ship?"
The leader's face went a deeper shade of red as he stared in astonishment at Zoran. "Lord Si Cwan? He lives?" He seemed to gasp, his surprise apparently overwhelming.
"Not anymore. He and a Starfleet officer—a Brikar—flew out to the station on their own, in a runabout. Supposedly they were to provide temporary aid until the Excalibur could join them later, but what really caught Si Cwan's attention was that we listed his sister among the passengers."
"Why did you do that?"
"We thought that listing a member of the former royal family would be an additional lure and incentive for the Excalibur. We didn't want to take any chances of failing to catch their attention. Kalinda was the only one who is officially still listed as missing." He smirked. "One might consider it 'divine inspiration,' I suppose. I plucked her name out of the ether, and as a consequence, got the brother."
"You mean Lord Si Cwan is dead."
"That is correct."
"I see." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "And it never occurred to you that if we disposed of him in a more public forum . . . say, here on Thallon . . . that it might better serve our interests."
"My interest was in seeing him dead. Period." Zoran was beginning to bristle a bit. "I would have expected a bit of gratitude from you. Some thanks. I tell you I wiped out Si Cwan, the man whom you hated more than any, and all you can do is stand there and make snide comments."
"No. That is not all I can do." And then, with a move so quick that Zoran didn't even see it coming, the leader's fist swept around and caught Zoran on the point of his chin. Zoran, caught off guard, went down. He sat there for a moment, stunned, the world whirling about him. From above him the leader said mockingly, "Do you find it particularly comfortable on the floor?"
Zoran's anger, barely controlled even at the best of times, began to boil up within him. "Why . . . why did you . . ."
"He's not dead."
"Yes, he is," Zoran said forcefully as he staggered to his feet. "I blew him up! Blew up the station! Ask Rojam if you don't believe me! Ask Juif! They were there!"
"Yes, I know they were. And so was D'ndai."
Zoran gaped. He could barely get any words out, and the one word he was able to manage
was "What?"
"You heard me."
"He wasn't! He was nowhere around!"
"He showed up just as you departed. He wanted to check on your progress, to see if the Excalibur had fallen for the bait. He had intended to leave as quickly as he had arrived, but when he saw your hurried departure and no sign of the starship anywhere, he scanned the science station and discovered that there were two individuals aboard . . . and an energy buildup that indicated a bomb set for detonation. Since you had clearly deviated from the plan, he opted to take no chances and beamed them aboard his own vessel."
"They're safe?!" Zoran was trembling so violently one would have thought another quake had begun. "They're safe! I left them for dead, Si Cwan and the Brikar both! They're safe?!"
"No, they're merely alive. 'Safe' is a very subjective term. D'ndai has both of them in lockup on his vessel. He's bringing them here."
"Here! Why here?"
"Because," said the leader, and his voice became deep and harsh, "we're going to hold a proper execution. His will not be a fine and private death. All of Thallon will see the execution of Si Cwan. They will see him writhe, and cry out, and soil himself. There are some, you see, who still hold him in esteem. Still have an image of him as being a protector of the people, someone who cares about them. But I know him, you see, as do you. Know him to be as arrogant and insufferable as any of his brethren. And when the people see him wallowing in his own misery, then finally—once and for all—they will put aside all thoughts of their previous leadership." He clapped a hand on the shoulder of Zoran and smiled. "It will be glorious."
"Do you think that it will work out so easily?" asked Zoran. "Are people truly that easily manipulated?"
"The masses will believe what we want them to believe," replied the leader. "You would be amazed how easily people can be persuaded to accept whatever it is you want, particularly when you appeal to any of their four most basic motivations: Greed. Fear. A contempt for weakness. And self-preservation. When those are brought to the forefront of people's minds, governments topple, and the citizens congratulate each other and call themselves patriots."
LAHEERA
III.
THREE HOURS BEFORE she was confronted by a bloodthirsty mob, Laheera first learned that she had a serious problems on her hands.
She was in her office in the main government building. As military head and right arm to Governor Celter, she was naturally entitled to rather impressive quarters . . . not only in the main wing, but also in the subterranean shelter from which she was capable of conducting subspace negotiations with relative assurance of her own safety. It had been barely two hours since the communique with the Excalibur wherein she had signed off by congratulating Calhoun on being a gracious loser. She was busy trying to calculate how best to profit through acquiring the technology that would provide near-instantaneous matter transmission, when Celter had come running into her office. He slammed open the doors with his shoulder, barely slowing down, and his gold skin had gone completely ashen. "Have you heard what they're doing? What those bastards are doing? Have you seen? Have you heard?"
She looked up at him in confusion. "What are you talking about? What—"
"It's all over the comms! All over everything! Everywhere! Everyone's heard about it! You've killed us, Laheera! You've killed us all!"
He was becoming hysterical, words tumbling over each other, becoming impossible to understand. She rose from behind her desk angrily, crossed the room, and stood before him, arms folded impatiently. What she really wanted to do was slap him but, aside from slitting the occasional throat or blowing an opponent out of space, Laheera tried to avoid violence whenever possible. "Would you calm down and tell me what you're talking about?"
For answer, Celter pulled a remote off his belt, aimed it at her viewscreen, and thumbed it to life. The screen snapped on . . .
. . . and Laheera was seeing the bridge of the Excalibur. The angle was from over Calhoun's shoulder as he was facing the viewscreen . . .
. . . and she was on the screen. She was sitting there, conversing with Calhoun, and she was wearing an insufferably smug expression, and Calhoun was saying with a deadpan expression, "You're gambling half a million lives, including yours, on your sense of smell."
"Mine?" Laheera was smirking. "No. No, I'm broadcasting from a deep enough shelter that I'll be safe. As for the rest, well . . . as I said, I'm positive you're bluffing. I'll stake their lives on my instincts any day."
"If you care about your people, reconsider."
"No."
Laheera watched, feeling the blood drain from her face until her tint matched Celter's. Her mouth moved, but no words emerged, as the entire scene played itself out. Then the screen wavered slightly and the entire scene began again.
"Do you have any idea how this makes us look!" Celter was nearly shrieking. "There's the noble captain of the Excalibur, trying to save the hostages that we're holding . . . and yet valuing Nelkarite lives so highly that he preserves the lives of our citizens while we ourselves are willing to throw them away!"
"They were never in danger," Laheera tried to stammer out.
"Well, they don't see it that way!"
"Shut the picture off," she said, and when Celter didn't respond quickly enough, she grabbed the remote out of his hand and did it herself. She whirled to face him. "It's originating from the Excalibur, isn't it?"
"Of course it is! Where else?!"
"Jam it," she said tightly. "Jam the transmission!" "We tried! They kept overriding it!"
"Shut it down, then! Shut down the entire comm system! Take it off the air!"
"We did that, too!" said Celter in exasperation. "We went dark over an hour ago! It took them no more than ten minutes to wire it back to life!"
"From orbit? What are they, magicians?!"
"They're devils! Devils incarnate!" Celter was wringing his hands. "There's uprising everywhere! The people are going berserk! They're furious! They say we don't care about them! That we used them, just as we're using the hostages!"
"We were trying to act in their best interests. . . ."
"I know that! You know that!" He pointed out in the general direction of the city. "But they don't know that! They don't care about it! They say we've betrayed them, and they're out for blood!"
"All right," said Laheera after a moment's thought. "Get to your personal broadcast studio. Get out onto the comm. Tell the people that this is all a trick. That the Federation is playing them for fools."
"They won't believe it," and he gripped her upper arm so hard that she felt as if he were going to dislocate it. "You haven't heard the things they've been saying. The rioting, the fury . . . I can't even get their attention. . . ."
"Yes, you can," she said confidently. Delicately she disengaged his grip on her, "That's always been your strength. Speak to them. Get out over the comm and tell them . . ."
"Tell them what?"
For a moment her patience wavered and she said, "Something!" Then she reined herself in and said more calmly, "Something. Anything. Just do it. And stop nodding like that!" Whenever Celter was particularly anxious, his head tended to bob in an accelerated manner. "You look like your head's about to fall off!" Celter grimaced and immediately gained control of himself.
Then he patted her on the shoulders, as if he were drawing strength from her, and said, "Bless you, Laheera. I don't know what I'd do without you to help steady me." And then he hurried out of her office to prepare what he was determined would be the speech of his life. But he stopped just before he left and turned to Laheera, pointing a trembling finger. "And you . . . you get in touch with these Excalibur people. With this Captain Calhoun. We've tried to hail him; he ignores us. Perhaps he'll respond to you. You tell him we'll obliterate the hostages, every one of them, immediately!"
"I have that very thought in mind." She raised her voice slightly and said, "Okur!"
Okur was the name of one of the two guards who stood directly outside her office at all
times. Okur was half again as tall as any Nelkarite that Laheera had ever met, and twice as wide. He was also her lover on the side; a nice way, she felt, of commanding loyalty. He took a step into the door, moving aside as Celter bustled out. He nodded slightly and said, "Yes?"
"Ready my safe room. And bring me Meggan. No others: just Meggan. I don't need any of the men attempting heroics. This time I'll cut her from sternum to crotch while Calhoun watches."
There had been no excess chatter on the bridge of the Excalibur for some time. Calhoun merely sat there in his command chair, fingers steepled, gazing intently at the planet below. "Lefler," he would say every so often, "how is it going?"
And she would say the same thing: "Broadcast continuing as ordered, sir."
He would nod, looking mildly distracted, and then go back to studying Nelkar, as if he were capable of actually seeing what was happening on the surface.
Speaking in a low voice so that only he could hear, Shelby leaned forward and said, "Mac . . . are you sure about this?"
He looked at her without answering, his purple eyes appearing distracted for a moment before focusing on her. Then he gave an ever so slight shake of his head before smiling widely. "I guess we'll find out together if this is a good idea."
Boyajian looked up and said, "Incoming hail, sir."
"Still from Celter?"
"No, sir. This is from Laheera."
"Ah." He rose from his chair, as if he felt some degree of comfort or even confidence by speaking to her on his feet. "Finally the power behind the power speaks to me again." He tapped his comm badge. "Burgoyne. Speak to me."