Ghost Dance

by Christie Golden

  This time, she didn’t try to stop him.

  INTERLUDE

  THIS TIME IT WAS NOT A PLANET, BUT A SHIP THAT CALLED to the Entity. And this time, the Entity knew it knew those who crewed it.

  Kazon.

  They had once been slaves until they had overthrown their cruel masters, the Trabe. They had scattered the Trabe throughout the quadrant, but centuries of squabbling among themselves had prevented any chance of unification. They were small, angry sects, grabbing territory here and there, stealing technology, crushing the spirits of their females and drumming war and anger into the skulls of their young sons at too tender an age.

  Son. Yes, that was why it was here. A child was dying from the ravages of the dark matter in its system. And though the Entity knew that there was no reason for it to love the Kazon, it felt pity for an innocent child.

  It engulfed the ship, gently, so as not to draw attention to its presence. Now it was on the bridge of the vessel, and a violent argument was taking place.

  “You are growing soft, Maje!” one was crying. “Once, you had Voyager within your grasp. How we permitted you to remain maje of the Kazon-Nistrim, I do not know.”

  Names the Entity knew: Voyager, Nistrim. And it knew that the haggard-looking maje who slumped in the command chair was called Culluh.

  “You lost the burning in your heart when you lost Seska,” the underling continued. “For a woman, Culluh! A female and her suckling babe!”

  The maje seemed to stir, and a hint of anger sparkled in his eyes. “You were told never to mention her name. And as for our son—”

  “Seska!” said the underling in a singsong voice. “Seska, Seska, dead, dead, dead! Just like her brat will be in—”

  Culluh roared to life. He screamed his rage, leaped up from the chair, and flung himself at the insubordinate underling. The Entity recoiled from the fury, and for an instant wondered why there was no trace of dark matter, and why it did not sense the awful feeling of malevolence in Maje Culluh.

  Then it understood. The emotions pouring off Culluh were grief and … love. He had loved Seska, loved her strength of will and her cunning, even when she played him for a fool. The soft flow of hair, the ridge of hard bone on the brow—all of these things were committed to Culluh’s mind forever, superceding his previous passion, power. And the son—he loved this boy. And the boy was dying from the dark matter.

  With a thought, the Entity was in the maje’s private room. A small shape huddled on the bed. As the Entity watched, he moaned and writhed. It could see parts of him appearing and disappearing, and ached with compassion.

  It wanted to assume a form the boy would know and trust, but did not know how to do so. Perhaps later it would. It would apply itself to learning how. But for now, it simply settled on the boy like a soft draping of mist, and pulled all the wrong things into itself.

  The boy—half Cardassian, half Kazon, all innocence at this tender age—sighed. He relaxed. His body was stable and whole again, and his brain had not been damaged by the attack of the wrong things.

  One more thing to do here.

  It returned again to the bridge. The maje had triumphed for the moment. Gently the Entity passed through the maje and planted a soft suggestion in his brain: Go to your son.

  Culluh blinked, but the suggestion was too strong. He fairly raced through the ship, and the Entity could read his thoughts. He was certain his child was dying—his child, his only link to the treacherous, sensuous woman he had so adored.

  The boy was sitting up in bed. “I had an awful dream, Father,” he said. “I dreamed my legs were—”

  But Culluh, heedless of the softness the gesture revealed, had caught the boy up in a tight embrace. He whispered his son’s name over and over again, kissing his dark, furrowed brow. The boy hugged back, tightly.

  The Entity knew its task was to gather up the wrong things, but it could not resist. It settled itself on father and son, and so gently that it could not be noticed, planted a thought in the father’s brain.

  This is the way. This is ever the way. Nothing lasting and true can be bought by blood or hatred.

  It did not know if the maje would remember this moment, but it knew that, for this brief instant as he held his miraculously cured son, Maje Culluh agreed with the Entity.

  CHAPTER

  16

  THERE HAD BEEN NO SLEEP FOR EITHER JEKRI OR HER second-in-command that night of the attempted assassination. Jekri had called up a list of every person on the Tektral, and together she and Verrak had discussed them all: their loyalty, possible areas of blackmail, any incidents that might have seemed to be insignificant but might reveal something quite dark. Jekri had ordered that their doctor bring them stimulants, so that they might not lose their edge. Using stimulants was something she was not fond of doing; the practice had its own price to pay afterward, but right now it was imperative that they remain alert and awake.

  Even as they discussed, person by person, the crew of the ship, Jekri wondered if it was not an exercise in futility. Certainly Sharibor would have been regarded as a highly trustworthy individual, and look what she had been. Still, there was precious little else they could do at the moment.

  They were deep in conversation over a low-ranking crew member when Jekri’s console beeped. They both gasped, startled. For a long moment, Jekri stared at it. It beeped again.

  She rose and went to her desk. On the screen there was a message:

  Is she dead?

  “Sharibor’s master,” said Verrak, whispering, though there was no one to hear.

  “Or my unknown ally,” said Jekri. “ ‘She’ could refer to either of us.” Messages were almost always verbal and visual in this day and age, but there was a keyboard for instances when the chairman of the Tal Shiar wished to receive and send messages without revealing her identity. Sometimes a sender felt the same way. She had made use of this nonrevealing technology, though under better circumstances. Jekri took a deep breath and typed in an answer:

  Yes.

  For a long, tense moment, there was no reply. Jekri was ashamed that her hands trembled. She punched a few buttons so that the conversation would be recorded. There might be a chance they could trace the message if the conversation failed to reveal the sender’s identity.

  That was foolish.

  Jekri swore.

  You cannot trace me. It is safer that way.

  Safer for whom? Jekri tapped in furiously.

  For both of us.

  “And who is that?” Jekri muttered under her breath. This was the deadliest game she had yet played, conducted on a computer with primitive keys to type in words. It was ironic. What to ask without revealing herself?

  So, what is next? she typed.

  That is entirely up to you.

  A long pause.

  Little Dagger.

  The person at the other end obviously knew who she was, but Jekri was no more enlightened than before. She searched her mind for questions, but then a beep alerted her that the signal had been terminated. She slammed a fist down on the desk and swore.

  “It could have been anyone!” she cried in frustration. “And now whoever it is knows I survived.”

  “Everyone will know that in the morning,” Verrak said logically, “even the one who sent that message. Sharibor was not operating alone, in all likelihood.”

  Jekri turned to gaze at the corpse on the floor. Verrak was right. And now the word was out. Every bounty hunter in the Empire would be after her now. How many were on this ship alone? Her victory over Sharibor proved that she had not lost her edge, but how many could she evade before simple probabilities won out?

  “I know you have a particular fondness for the Empress,” said Verrak haltingly. “And a particular dislike for Lhiau. But you must consider all possibilities, Chairman. Could the Empress have sent this?”

  Jekri shook her dark head. “It is not her way. I could believe that she would want me dead, but she would execute me in a very public manner. She
would wish to shame me before she killed me if she wanted me to die.”

  “The Praetor? The Proconsul?”

  Jekri thought back to the recent conversations she had had with the Praetor. “He tried to warn me on two different occasions,” she said, “but that could have been a false face, to lull me into trusting him. After Sharibor—after the assassination attempt, I do not know who to trust anymore.”

  “I am honored that you trust me,” said Verrak softly.

  She smiled faintly at him. “We have been alone in this room for hours, Verrak. You have had ample chances to murder your chairman. That you did not take them shows that I may trust you.”

  She hurt him with the words and she knew it, but they were true. His lack of action, not his apparent love for her, was what she trusted. Love could be faked. She knew—she’d done it herself before. Missing a good chance to kill for money and career advancement could not.

  “With this order, I have become a glorious target. I am safe nowhere. Such an extravagant decree speaks of someone who does not respect the secrecy of the Family of the Blade. Any high-ranking Romulan would send out one or two assassins, not this overblown order that would send any greedy would-be killer after the chairman of the Tal Shiar. This is all Lhiau’s doing.”

  “But Lhiau could not issue such a decree without the overt or at least tacit approval of either the Praetor or the Empress.”

  Jekri nodded. She had already determined that. He would not have had access to the technology required without clearance. Her mind went back to the tense, unpleasant gathering of several weeks ago. The Empress had been a flighty, twittery girl, not the magnificent ruler she had always been. She had yielded utterly to Lhiau. She had approved the madness of an attack on the Federation without the support of Voyager. She had permitted her chairman of the Tal Shiar—her chairman, not Lhiau’s—to be publicly humiliated.

  This was not the behavior of a woman whose mind was her own. Jekri knew that Lhiau could penetrate her mind, could read thoughts. Could he also place them? Was he mentally manipulating the Empress into dancing to the tune he piped?

  “What will you do?” Verrak asked.

  So, what is next?

  That is entirely up to you. Little Dagger.

  There was only one thing she could do, one course of action she could pursue. She had to clear her name, or else the rest of her life—which would doubtless be brief, as Jekri had every respect for the skills of the Family of the Blade—would be spent looking over her shoulder.

  She alone seemed to recognize the threat Lhiau posed to her people, although as yet she did not know the true nature of that threat. But no one would listen to her now, not while she wore the stigma of traitor.

  There was only one thing to do. She would clear her name.

  * * *

  It was, as many things are, easier said than done, and before she could even begin to set so complex a plan in motion, Jekri needed to deal with more immediate problems.

  Verrak forged a message that requested Sharibor’s immediate presence back on Romulus, due to a family emergency. He also beamed the body out into space as disparate particles and erased the transport from the computer’s automatic log. Jekri arranged for the Krel family to quietly disappear. She did not issue an order to kill Sharibor’s husband and two sons. They would get what information they could first. She knew it was likely that Sharibor’s family would die innocent of any wrongdoing. The Family of the Blade fooled nearly everyone, including close family members, but Jekri was not about to let the opportunity slip through her fingers.

  Next, she assigned four of her most trustworthy agents to follow the Empress, the Praetor, the Proconsul, and Lhiau. These were considered high-risk assignments, and her agents were compensated accordingly. She had not wanted to employ them yet, as she knew that they would in all likelihood be discovered unless they were very good, very careful and, most important, very lucky, but the death order from Lhiau had forced her hand.

  For the next day or two, she behaved normally, though her senses were heightened and she seemed to see assassins in every shadow. There was no further attempt on her life, which, oddly, did nothing to reassure her.

  One thing had been worrying her: her conversation with Sharibor about the encrypted message. There had been thirty-five people on duty in that section at that time, and no one had seemed surprised at the conversation Jekri and her chief of encryption had conducted. Had Jekri’s unknown ally forced Sharibor’s hand by not only alerting Jekri about the message, but making it general knowledge? Had Sharibor’s team actually been trying to crack the code for several hours? Jekri saw it in her mind’s eye—the late assassin, sweat on her brow, pretending to try to crack a code while all the while doing everything she could to prevent its being deciphered. It was a picture that gave her tremendous pleasure to imagine.

  One thing she had learned was that, according to Sharibor’s team, their chief had not been able to decipher the code. She had gone, apparently unhappily, to report her failure to Jekri that evening.

  Jekri had told them to cease their attempts and ordered the message completely wiped from the system. There were a few raised eyebrows at the order, but they complied. She checked a few hours later to make sure her order had been obeyed.

  The message was gone, but the mysteries lingered.

  Jekri had no family, so she did not have to worry about their being abducted or killed. There was the possibility that Lhiau’s spies had traced her activities with the pro-Vulcan group, but if so, why had they not flaunted their knowledge and dragged her forward as a traitor? She would have made it extremely convenient for them to accuse her.

  And finally, most perplexing of all: Who was her unknown ally?

  The imperial demand came as a shock.

  Jekri was in her quarters, three different weapons within easy reach, when the door sounded.

  She tensed, as she always did now. The fingers of her right hand closed on the disruptor. “Come,” she called.

  It was one of her centurions, who saluted briskly. “Honored Chairman!” he barked. “I have a message for you. It is marked for your eyes only.”

  Jekri tensed, but feigned nonchalance. “Put it on the table,” she said, pretending to return to reading a report.

  He saluted again—he was obviously one of the new recruits, young and full of a devotion to etiquette—and placed it down. Turning smartly, he left. The door hissed shut behind him.

  Jekri licked her lips. She did not want to read this message. It wasn’t logical, and no doubt young Tarya would frown in disapproval at her response, but somehow she knew this missive contained bad news.

  Steeling herself for the worst, she picked it up and read.

  Jekri Kaleh, nominally chairman of the Tal Shiar, is commanded to appear before the Empress tomorrow morning at dawn to answer charges of treason. The Romulan Right of Statement will be observed at this time.

  The missive bore the electronic seal of the Empire. That meant the Empress herself had authorized it.

  “No,” Jekri whispered. “No, Empress, you cannot possibly …” Her voice trailed off.

  Her worst fear had been realized. Lhiau had managed to convince the Empress and the Praetor of Jekri’s guilt. What kind of evidence had he falsified, or had he even needed to do so? Had he not simply stepped into the Empress’s lively mind and raped it, twisted it to his own ends?

  She ordered Verrak to come to her quarters. When he entered, she thrust the missive at him. The healthy green bled from his face. His dark eyes met her silver ones over the missive.

  “You must act quickly,” he said.

  She shook her head. “There is no time. And I am still chairman of the Tal Shiar, and a loyal Romulan. No, Verrak. I must go before the Empress. Perhaps she will listen to me.”

  The words sounded hollow in her own ears, and she saw their emptiness reflected on Verrak’s stricken face.

  * * *

  It was not everyone, Jekri mused wryly, who had th
e opportunity to choose how they would face their own death. She wore her most formal uniform and placed every commendation she had ever been awarded on her left breast. No cosmetics for her. This was life-and-death business, regardless of the formality of the situation. Let them see the wrinkles just starting to appear around silver eyes that saw everything; let them observe the pallor and circles under those eyes, mute testimony to sleepless nights spent in service to the Empire.

  Verrak had spent half the night pleading with her to plan an escape if things did not turn out well. Jekri had not listened. Such things were for cowards. She had been ordered to appear before the Senate and its Proconsul, the Praetor, and the Empress in her office as chairman of the Tal Shiar. She would not disgrace the position she had done so much to earn.

  So it was that when they came for her, three strange, inscrutable centurions whose names she never learned, she stood ready and awaiting them. They roughly seized her arms. With an ease that clearly surprised them, she broke their grip.

  “There is no need for such actions,” she said mildly. “I will not resist.” She had meditated for three hours before they were due to come for her, and she felt calm and refreshed. She even felt a little hopeful. Perhaps her words would finally do some good.

  The centurions ignored her, and grabbed her again. She resigned herself to their rough handling.

  No one, not even Verrak, came to see her off.

  * * *

  It was as familiar as her own quarters aboard the Tektral, this hall down which she now entered as a captive of the Romulan Empire. She marched, head held high and silver eyes gleaming, at the center of a group of centurions. Their booted feet made a martial music as they strode down the smooth stone floor of the Romulan Senate chambers.

  They had bound her hands. The ropes chafed, and green blood was starting to appear on the rough surface.