by Peter David
Atol’s mouth moved, but no word emerged. However, Si Cwan could still make out what Atol was saying, even without sound. A two-syllable name that he’d hoped not to hear ever again. “Zoran?” he said with dread.
Atol managed, just barely, to nod, and then his body began to tremble. “Go to your ancestors,” Si Cwan told him, and as if obeying a final order from his former liege, Atol’s head shook—although whether in compliance or from final spasms, it was impossible to tell. And then his eyes rolled up into the top of his head.
Kebron stood over the two fallen Thallonians, looking at his handiwork. His phaser was still snugly in its holster, untouched. “I was under the impression,” Si Cwan said, “that Starfleet security officers usually give people the option of surrendering.”
The Brikar appeared to consider that a moment as he nudged Skarm’s body with the toe of his boot. Then he replied, “Ugly rumors.” He paused, and then asked, “Who is Zoran?”
“A very unusual man. He’s someone who wants to kill me.”
Kebron looked at him and, with the famed Brikar deadpan, said, “I hope you don’t think that wanting to kill you makes him unusual.”
Si Cwan grunted in a tone that almost indicated morbid amusement, and then he stepped past Kebron. Cwan was a natural leader, and his tendency was to take the point, to be in the forefront, during any situation.
This time it almost cost him his life.
Kebron only noticed at the last second that a shadow was separating from other shadows farther down the hallway. The two had been accompanied by a third, and he’d come down and around while the first two were engaging them by the stairway. Zak only had a moment to react. With a sweep of his massive arm he knocked Si Cwan to the floor, yanking his phaser clear and firing . . .
. . . not in time. The assailant at the far end of the hallway saw the phaser being brought to bear on him, and he dodged under the beam even as he fired off a shot with the plasma blaster. The blaster struck Kebron in the upper right shoulder, and the Brikar let out a pained grunt, which was the most he would do to acknowledge pain. With any other species, the plasma would have torn off the shoulder right down to the bone. The Brikar’s hide was considerably tougher than that. Even so, the Brikar was clearly in pain, the plasma sizzling on his shoulder and the ghastly smell of burning flesh filling the air.
He dropped his phaser, and Si Cwan snatched it out of midair. He caught it, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion, and the phaser blasted the Thallonian assailant back. He smashed against the far wall, the plasma blaster spinning out of his hand, falling to his side. Clutching his chest, the Thallonian tried to lunge for the blaster, but then he saw that Si Cwan was targeting him again, and he leaped away in the other direction, disappearing down a cross corridor before Si Cwan could nail him with a phaser shot. Si Cwan charged after him, not even stopping to check on the condition of the fallen Brikar. His focus was entirely on catching up with this latest assailant and finding out whether or not Kalinda was anywhere on the ship. Even if he had to beat it out of him, he was going to find out.
He rounded the corner, not even stopping to pick up the plasma blaster, because he was in such a hurry to catch up with the Thallonian. There was no sign of him, and Si Cwan moved around another corner and started down another corridor.
He never even saw the iron bar that lashed out. But he felt it as it slammed into the arm that was holding the phaser. To his credit he held on to it and he tried to bring it up to bear on his attacker, but another swing of the bar crunched his fingers and knocked the phaser out of his hand.
“Afraid to face me man-to-man, O great lord?” taunted the Thallonian. The bar he was holding was about three feet long, and he was gripping it firmly at the base.
“I know you. Dackow, isn’t it,” Si Cwan said slowly. One of his hands was throbbing, but the other was functioning just fine, and his fingers curled around the floor grating beneath him. He felt a bit of give in the flooring, and realized that it wasn’t one solid piece, but instead fitted in sections, the edges of the crisscrossed metal fitting neatly into slots in the base of the hallway flooring.
Dackow paused, surprised. “I’m impressed that such a great man as yourself would remember a humble nothing such as me.”
“It’s difficult to forget someone quite as sycophantic as you. As I recall, you preferred to hover around the fringes of the great court, laughing at the right times when the right people spoke, scowling when others fell out of favor. And when the tide turned against my family, you were one of the first to switch to the side of those who wanted us out. You bend with the wind, Dackow, and doubtlessly congratulate yourself over your foresight, when the fact is that you’re just a coward. A coward through and through.”
With a roar of fury, Dackow drew the bar back over his head and swung it down in a fierce arc. Had it landed, it would have caved in Si Cwan’s skull.
With a quick twist, Si Cwan ripped the metal flooring out from under himself and held it up as a shield. The bar crashed into the grating, the reverberation of the metal almost deafening. Dackow switched angles and tried to strike Si Cwan across the ribs. Again, no good. Si Cwan intercepted it, down on one knee. Again and again, fury building with every stroke, Dackow tried to slam his bar into the Thallonian prince. Left, right, up and down, and every time Si Cwan blocked it.
Dackow, with a roar of rage, reversed his grip on the bar and tried to drive it downward as if staking a vampire. Si Cwan backrolled, putting a short distance between himself and Dackow, and then he threw the flooring as if it were a discus. Dackow saw it coming, but there was no room in the narrow corridor to get out of the way. The grating lanced into him with tremendous force, the edges driving into his solar plexus. Dackow howled in pain and Si Cwan was on his feet, his powerful legs thrusting him forward, his hands outstretched. He caught the edges of the grating and shoved as hard as he could. The force of the lunge drove the edging of the grating right into Dackow, penetrating half a foot, and the charge lifted Dackow off his feet. His back crashed into the wall and there was an audible snap . . . the sound of his spine breaking, as if being impaled wasn’t enough.
Blood poured from his mouth as Si Cwan stepped back, releasing his grip on the grating and allowing Dackow to fall to the ground. “Where is Kalinda? Where is my sister?” demanded Si Cwan.
Dackow gathered some of the blood that was pouring from his mouth, and managed to transform it into a contemptuous spit which he hurled at Si Cwan. It was the last thing he would ever do.
There was a heavy step behind Si Cwan and he whirled, his arms in a defensive position, but it was only Kebron standing behind him. The Brikar was massaging his damaged shoulder as he said, “First question . . . then kill. More productive.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” shot back Si Cwan. He stood, feeling momentarily shaky. The wear and tear of the running fight was beginning to take its toll. “How many more do you think there are?”
“I have no idea,” replied Kebron. “That’s what bothers me.” He picked up the fallen phaser, returned it to its holster. He was cradling one of the plasma blasters and pointed out the other one, which had fallen. “Grab it and let’s go.”
Earlier, Si Cwan might have been annoyed at the commanding tone of Kebron’s voice. But now he simply nodded and picked up the fallen plasma blaster. “I don’t generally like weapons,” he commented. “They can malfunction or be taken from you.”
“Really. I’m the same way. Use them if I have to, though.” He pointed with authority. “That way.”
“Why that way?”
“Why not?”
Having no ready answer, Si Cwan shrugged and they headed off in the direction that Kebron had indicated. But then they heard a small, high-pitched sound from behind them. They stopped, turned . . .
. . . and realized that Dackow was beeping.
• • •
In the control center, Zoran was staring at Rojam in disbelief. “You can’t raise any of them?”
Rojam shook his head. “I’ve lost contact with all three of them. They’re not responding on the comm links at all.”
“Three armed Thallonian ravagers against a single Starfleet fool and an effete snob,” snarled Zoran. “How is it possible?”
And Rojam lost patience with Zoran, which was a very dangerous thing for him to do, but he no longer cared. “Because Starfleet is not composed of fools, Zoran, and because Si Cwan—for all that you dislike him, for all that any of us dislikes him—is anything but an effete snob. He’s as formidable a warrior as they come, and you’d do well to remember that.”
“I would do well to remember that? I would do well? And you would do well,” snarled Zoran, his hands flexing in fury, “would do well to remember—”
He didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence, however, because the comm panel beeped. Rojam punched the link-up, noting the identifier assigned to it, and said, “Dackow? Progress?”
There was a pause, and then a familiar voice said, “Dackow isn’t making much progress at the moment.” They could hear a soft chuckle, and then: “Hello, Zoran.”
Low and angry, Zoran snarled, “Si Cwan.”
“It has been a long time, hasn’t it.”
“I’ll kill you for this.”
“For this and for every other imagined insult.” He’d sounded amused, but then he became deadly serious. “Where is Kalinda, Zoran? She has done nothing to you. And you are nothing but a sadistic pig.” His tone became mocking. “I would have thought you’d release her so that this could be between us, Zoran. Between men, without the threat of a girl’s welfare overshadowing it. You always held yourself up to such a ’high’ standard. Always thought yourself so much better than I. And this is how low you have fallen, consumed by your jealousy and anger. Posturing and presenting yourself as some superior individual, when you don’t have the courage to—”
“She’s dead you idiot!”
Rojam turned and looked in shocked disbelief at Zoran, and for once Zoran couldn’t blame him. The phantom of Kalinda had been an upper hand that they would have been able to wield against Si Cwan. Perhaps force him into some situation where he couldn’t possibly get away. But he had now tossed that aside.
Zoran turned away and Rojam suspended the transmission, crossing quickly over to Zoran. “Why did you do that? Why?” he demanded.
Zoran whirled to face him and hissed, “Because I want to hurt him. I want him to die inside first. You heard him! Heard his insults, his smugness—”
“He was baiting you and you fell for it! We had an advantage! We could have made demands on him! Instead you’ve removed that!”
“We have an advantage! We’re armed! There’s more of us! There’s—”
But now Juif stepped forward and pointed out, “They’re likely armed, too. We have to assume they took weapons off the others. They’re roaming the ship, and they’re very much in a position to hurt us.”
Zoran, with apparent effort, focused on Juif. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we cut our losses, abandon the vessel, and blow it up from a safe distance.”
“And let him get away?”
“We were never supposed to capture him! He was never part of the plan!” Juif said. “You’ve lost sight of that! You’ve lost sight of everything because Si Cwan wandered into the middle of all this, and suddenly your priorities changed! Well, my priorities are to get out of this insanity in one piece! And if that isn’t yours, then there’s something wrong with you.”
“Wrong with me?”
“Yes!”
A calm seemed to descend upon Zoran, and truthfully the calm was more frightening than the anger. “Ten minutes,” he said.
Rojam and Juif looked at each other. “What?” asked Rojam.
“Ten minutes. I want ten minutes to hunt the bastard down. If I don’t have his head in ten minutes, we do as you suggest. How say you?”
The truth was that neither of them was especially enthused with the plan. But they saw the cold look in his eyes and realized that this was the best they were going to get. Slowly, and reluctantly, they nodded in agreement.
“Rojam,” said Zoran, sounding almost supernaturally calm, “set a bomb for fifteen minutes. That will allow me the ten minutes to which we’ve agreed, and another five to get to our vessel and clear the area. More than enough.”
More than enough for someone with a death wish . . . Rojam thought, but he didn’t dare say it aloud. He had the feeling that he’d already gotten away with saying more than he would have thought possible.
• • •
“She’s dead, you idiot!”
The words lanced through Si Cwan’s heart, chilled his soul. He didn’t even realize that he was wavering slightly until he felt Kebron’s hand on his arm, steadying him. His red face became dark crimson, as it was wont to do when he was truly upset. He was gripping the comm unit they’d lifted off the fallen Thallonian, gripping it so tightly that he was on the verge of breaking it.
“Si Cwan . . . calm down,” Kebron said forcefully. “I need you calm. They’re trying to make you angry. Anger will put you at risk. At the very least, it will make you less useful to me.”
It was impossible to tell whether Si Cwan heard him or not. He snarled into the comm unit, “You’re lying! You’re lying!”
There was no response and he shook the communit furiously until Kebron forcibly pried it out of his hands, even as he said, “You’re wasting your time. He’s not responding.”
Si Cwan spun to face the Brikar, and there was murder in his eyes. Kebron had felt mostly disdain for Si Cwan since they’d met. Disdain, annoyance, anger. Never, however, had he felt the least bit intimidated. The Brikar, with their massive build and the confidence that came from having as sturdy hide as they did, tended to make them rather hard to scare. When Kebron looked into Si Cwan’s eyes at that moment, however, he was not exactly scared. But he knew beyond any question that he would most definitely not want to be this Zoran individual.
“We’re going to find him,” Si Cwan said tightly. “We’re going to find him and when I kill him, Kebron, understand: I cannot use this,” and he indicated the plasma blaster. “He must die with my hands on his throat. No other means will be acceptable.”
“There are alternatives to killing him,” Kebron told him.
The temperature in the corridor dropped about twenty degrees from the chill of Cwan’s voice alone. “No. There are not.”
And suddenly the comm unit beeped. Kebron tapped it and they heard Zoran’s voice say, “Hello, Si Cwan. I assume you can hear me.”
Si Cwan was about to snap out a harsh response, but Kebron put a finger to his lips. At first Cwan was confused, but then he realized the wisdom in this course. Conversation with Zoran would only cause Si Cwan to become angrier, more inclined to lose his temper, and that would simply give Zoran even more confidence. Cwan had to forcibly bite down on his lower lip, and several drops of blackish blood dripped out.
“Si Cwan,” Zoran was saying slowly, “you were so easy to fool. All I had to do was reprogram the computer to synthesize her voice. Only took thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to get your hopes up.” His voice dropped. It sounded like an obscene purr. “She died crying your name, Si Cwan. Over and over, she called for you. I won’t tell you how she died. I won’t tell you what was done to her, or how long it took, or any details at all. Do you know why? Because you’ll envision every worst-case possibility. I wouldn’t want to take the chance of the truth being less severe than whatever you might conjure up in your imagination.”
Si Cwan was visibly trembling. It was all he could do to contain himself.
“I’m looking for you, Si Cwan,” came Zoran’s taunting voice. “Come and find me . . . if you can.” And he shut off the comm link.
“Si Cwan . . . Get a grip.” Kebron saw that Si Cwan was inarticulate with fury, and he gripped him firmly by the shoulders.
His voice was a strangled whisper. “I’l
l kill him . . .”
“If I were you, I would, too. No question. But right now, in your state of mind, he’ll kill you first. Again, no question. You’re giving him exactly what he wants: a target who’s out of control.” But Si Cwan wasn’t hearing him. He was completely internalized, muttering to himself, not at all relating to their environment. His head was filled with the imagined dying screams of his sister. Kebron shook him and said, “Cwan, I know how you feel.”
With effort, Si Cwan focused on him. “No, you don’t . . . you can’t . . .”
“Oh yes I can,” Kebron shot back. “My parents, on a mining colony . . . killed by Orion pirates who stripped the colony, looking for anything they could steal. They worked to send me to the Academy, and while I was there, their dedication was repaid with murder. And when I heard, I took leave from the Academy and tracked the pirates down. And you know what? I almost got killed. When Starfleet reps caught up with me, I was near death. I was in the hospital for two months while they put me back together. I never caught up again with the ones who destroyed my family, and I was lucky to survive the encounter, all because I was blinded by rage, just like you are now. Now snap out of it.”
It was the longest speech Si Cwan could ever recall Kebron making. For that matter, it was the longest speech Kebron himself could recall making. And he had to keep on speaking quickly, while he had Si Cwan’s attention. “This Zoran . . . tell me all about him. Tell me what to expect.”
“Zoran . . .” Si Cwan took a deep breath. “Zoran . . . he’ll probably have company, besides the ones we already disposed of. One named Rojam, the other named Juif. They’re a trio.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Si Cwan said coldly, “we used to be a quartet.” He paused a heartbeat. “Have you ever had to kill your best friend? Is that in our mutually shared experience as well?”
“No,” admitted Kebron.
“Well . . . good,” and Si Cwan gripped Zak Kebron by the elbow. “Come along, then. I’ll show you how it’s done.”