by Diane Carey
“Yes . . . all right . . . well, then, what do you intend to do? I wish you would do it.”
“I started out on this mission to negotiate with you for the release of our nationals, but by the time I got here I was all done negotiating. I discovered the negotiation was not with you, but with myself. Negotiation implies that each side has a choice, but you’re not going to get one. I intend to start from your point of failure, Madred. I’m bypassing your body and going straight to your soul. Today we’re going to have a standoff that involves far more than pain and lights.”
Picard strode with annoying confidence to the door—which he didn’t have to do, because the door could be operated from the desktop panels.
Madred understood there was a show going on and the curtain was about to rise. He forced himself not to smile, but felt his eyes glitter. The whole process rather fascinated—
“Jil Orra!”
His young daughter came into the room, flanked on one side by a massive Klingon. Madred burst to his feet, both hands upon the desk before him as if he might leap right over.
A Klingon! Picard had brought a Klingon into the heart of Cardassia! Why would he do that?
“Sit down,” Picard ordered, pointing at Madred. “Don’t take a single step.”
Madred took no steps, but did not sit. He stared at the scene before him, at the two people who held his daughter by either arm, and his insides crumpled.
Jil Orra’s gray face had gone clay-white with determination. Her slim hands were clenched. She wore brightly colored clothing that was distinctly non-Cardassian in style, and that worried him.
“Father . . .” she began, her voice cold.
In her determined eyes Madred saw the ghastly reflection of himself. His daughter knew firsthand what he did to others. Picard was correct—Madred had never shielded Jil Orra from the horrors of his job. He had let her see, and tried to make her understand that there were enemies, and enemies had to be treated firmly, even viciously.
Today, though, Madred saw in his daughter’s eyes the full measure of knowledge about what her father did and the complete contempt in which she held him.
All that was in her eyes.
And for the first time Madred began to realize he may indeed have finally pushed someone too far.
“You couldn’t break me,” Picard said, as if reading Madred’s thoughts. “You have no idea of my limits, but I know yours. Jil Orra is your limit. She’s your breaking point, Madred.”
“Oh—” Madred shook his head suddenly. “Now you’ve given yourself away. I know you better. This is a masterful bluff, but still a bluff. Your Lordship Jean-Luc Picard, I know you. You will not torture a child.”
The captain’s dark eyes hardened. “I won’t have to.”
“You’ll have to show me what you mean.”
The standoff reached a new peak. Not the summit, but a very important notch.
His own words drumming in his ears, Madred stood as still as he could manage on his shivering legs and demanded of himself that he give away nothing, at least physically.
Picard studied him for many seconds, searching for weakness or pretense, seemed frustrated not to find any, and turned to the Klingon. “Show him.”
The Klingon reached into a small utility bag and took out a gleaming metal device with a glowing red panel.
“All right, Picard,” Madred said. “What is that? I know you’re hungering to tell me.”
“Yes, I am.” Picard took the device from the Klingon and held it up. The glowing red panel was counting down the numbers from 100. 99. 98.
“This is a K’luth device. Klingon warriors use it as a test of bravery. When the number counts down to zero, it sends a wave of neural disruption in a fifty-foot radius. It is a most unpleasant way to die.”
“And your point, Picard?” The device in Picard’s hand continued to count down. 90. 89. 88.
“A simple one. Only I can stop the countdown before detonation, and that I will not do unless you reveal the location of the captured Federation citizens, and the others as well.”
“And you’ve brought my daughter to your little party because . . . ?”
“Because your own death would mean too little to you as long as Jil Orra lived to continue your line. Her life is something you care about. Your weakness.”
“Father,” Jil Orra began, her voice cold. Madred interrupted her.
“Do not fear, Jil Orra,” he said confidently. “This noble Starfleet officer would never kill an innocent child, even to save dozens of other innocent lives. That is how humans are weak. It is why they will, in the end, be overrun.”
“Father,” Jil Orra insisted, “he is not killing me. I am here of my own free will, because of what you have done. If you will not release your prisoners and stop your butchery, I do not wish to be your daughter any longer. There is only one way I can escape that shame.”
“Picard,” Madred began, “you have . . .”
“I’ve done nothing,” Picard said. “What she says is true. She is here at her own request.” The device in his hands had reached 55, and were the numbers falling faster now? Madred couldn’t tell. He had to think, but there was no time! Would Picard let his daughter die a horrible death? Madred had spent his life figuring the odds, but in his time, at his leisure.
And there was something about Picard, something harder. Had the loss of his ship changed him? “Your ship,” Madred began, searching for data.
“Very perceptive,” Picard said. “My ship. Sometimes you don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it. I know now that ships are more than vehicles. They’re an amalgam of everything we’ve taught ourselves to do over the ages. A ship is the echo of civilization itself, all in one package.
“We rose from the muck, taught ourselves carpentry, metallurgy, chemistry, navigation, architecture, art. . . . We discovered how to handle and use the elements of nature, right down to warping space itself . . . . We learned compassion and conquest and how to use each. Everything that mankind has learned over the eons can be found somewhere on a starship, and every kind of person as well—from a maverick who does what he likes to”—Picard paused and smiled—“those of us who see the value in consensus.
“The ship, Madred, the ship is why you could never break me and why if I face death today, so be it. I’ve faced death a hundred times. You’ve never faced it at all. Because I served on a ship, I will always have the advantage over such as you.”
Picard’s words rang in the room, then hung there, almost visible before Madred’s eyes. Picard had changed, or perhaps Madred had misread him at the beginning. It was time for a strategic retreat. All strategy aside, Madred has to admit that his daughter’s life, and her respect, were worth more than his prisoners. Picard had indeed found the crack in Madred’s armor.
Madred forced himself to meet the supreme glare of Jean-Luc Picard. “All right, Picard,” Madred said, “I’ll tell you where your people are. The galaxy is full of people. I can always get more.” It sounded hollow even to Madred’s own ears. His days as master manipulator were over. Quickly, he fed a set of coordinates to the Klingon’s tricorder.
“Verified,” the Klingon said. “The ship reports multiple human life signs at that location.”
“Thank you, Gul Madred,” Picard said formally. “As for your acquiring more people, we’ll see about that.” The device in his hand went to 10, then 9, then 8.
“Picard,” Madred shouted, “stop that damned thing! You have what you want.”
“Do I?” Picard said. The device showed the number 7. Picard glanced at the ceiling. “Tell me, how many lights are up there? Four or five?”
Madred felt the blood in his body run cold. The tables had been turned against him. To his surprise, his daughter’s life meant more to him than even his pride.
“Four or five, whichever you prefer!” Madred shouted. “Now stop that thing!”
The device moved from 4 to 3 to 2 to 1 to zero. Madred threw himself between his daugh
ter and the device, to shield her with his body.
Jil Orra stepped back, and Madred found himself on his knees in front of Picard. The device emitted a buzzing sound, then stopped. Nothing else happened. The counter on the device reset to 100 and started counting down again.
“So,” Madred said from the floor, “you didn’t have the courage for it after all. The courage to die. The courage to kill.”
“With all due respect to Mr. Worf here,” Picard said, “neither killing nor dying takes courage. You thought you were teaching me pain and fear, Gul Madred, but instead you taught me that it is living that takes courage, finding a way to go on despite pain and loss. As I’m sure you will find a way to go on despite this little setback. But for now, I have business to attend to. Captain Atherton. Captain Fernando, and their crews.”
Madred got to his feet and offered a congratulatory nod. “Yes,” he said, “this way.”
Chapter 21
“Ow . . .”
Somebody groaned.
Dark in here. Blurry. The smell of lubricant. New ship.
“Will, wake up. Wake up. Come out of it.”
Captain Picard?
Same kind of voice—theatrical, resonant . . .
Suddenly the wallowing snapped off and Riker was rushing upward as he lay on a platform, as if he were being hoisted up out of his own grave, toward the rectangular light at the surface.
The groaning came again . . . his own. This time he felt the rumble in his throat. His head throbbed.
“Wake up.”
“Captain . . . where are we?”
“They stuck us in an ASRV. You, me, and Scotty.”
Lifepod. Not much in here for fighting back. Riker struggled to sit up, blinking as his eyes focused on the unconscious form of Mr. Scott, lying against the other bulkhead of the very small lifepod, and actually snoring as if he were taking a nap.
“Where’s the crew?”
Bateson pulled Riker to a sitting position. “He got in the personnel files. He separated the crews and put all my men from the Bozeman on his wrecked ship and set it adrift. Evidently we got in a few good shots before he whipped the tar out of me.”
“Where’s everybody else?”
“Locked somewhere below, or in other pods. In the main section, I think. Probably a shuttle hangar, where they’d have trouble getting out. It’s Kozara’s way of insulting us by not letting us die in battle.”
“How do you know all this if you were unconscious too?”
“Kozara wanted the pleasure of telling me. I guess he gave me a stimulant, because I woke up just as he and his baboons were shoving us in here. He made a point of hauling Data past me like some kind of big marionette with the strings cut. How did they do that to him?”
“It must have been a positronic neutralizer of some kind,” Riker said, as if every hardware store sold one of those. “That tells me they knew the personnel roster of this ship. They knew an android would be aboard and that they’d have to take him out first.
“Kozara’s really indulging himself,” Bateson said. “He called me some names that even I don’t know.”
“That’s saying something . . .” Stumbling to his feet, Riker wobbled and almost fell. Bracing against the wall on one side and Bateson on the other, he drew five or six long breaths before staggering to the airlock hatch. His shoulders and thighs pulsed with aches left over from the stun grenade. Even before reaching the hatch control panel, he could see through the dimness that the panel was shattered.
“They took a disruptor to it,” Bateson said. “Guess they’re not planning to visit us anytime soon.”
“And there’s no access conduit in or out of here. Too bad we don’t have an air duct.” Since the panel was toast, Riker took a second to squeeze his head between both hands.
Didn’t help. Only made his hands throb.
“We’ll have to notify Starfleet somehow that the ship’s been taken and inform them of Kozara’s intent to attack Cardassian holdings.”
“Maybe they can notify Captain Picard,” Bateson suggested. “He’s in Cardassian space.”
Riker looked up. “How do you know that?”
“Admiral Farrow assured me when he gave me command of this ship that Captain Picard had his own concerns and was going on a mission to Cardassia Prime on behalf of Federation nationals being held there.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but why would Admiral Farrow inform you of Captain Picard’s mission?”
“Well, for one thing, the mission’s not classified. For the other thing, I was reluctant to take command unless Captain Picard had other choices.”
“You were?”
“Of course . . . what?—did you think I pulled strings to usurp you and him?” Sourly Bateson coiled his arms around his chest and sighed. “Well, the general opinion of Morgan Bateson around here certainly seems to be dragging in the muck . . . and unless you know Morse code and can knock real loud, there’s no way to contact anybody from in this box. Kozara shut down the emergency evac system. Everything’s cold.”
Before Riker had a chance to do much more than react with his expression, another groan heaved across the deck and Captain Scott rolled over.
Riker knelt at his side. “Wake up, Scotty. We need you.”
“Agh . . . stun bombs . . . I hate those . . . thought they were illegal . . .”
“The Klingons haven’t read Starfleet Rules of Engagement,” Bateson gnashed.
“Bet they have,” Riker tossed the comment out as he helped Scott to his feet.
The senior engineer glanced around and fought for focus. “Where the devil are we?”
“ASRV. The hatch controls are blown. Airlock’s jammed.”
“Are we in the main section?”
“We don’t know.”
“Well, let’s get out.”
“Get out?” Riker repeated. “I just told you. They blew the hatch control panel.”
“Panel, pfft.” Scott pressed past him and crossed the small space, completely ignoring the hatch controls and stepping instead past the lockers where the foldout seats were stored. There, a small door was imprinted with the words AUTONOMOUS SURVIVAL AND RECOVERY VEHICLE EXTRAVEHICULAR GARMENTS (LOW PRESSURE) THREE (3).
Scott tapped in a code, and beside him an environmental locker popped open. He pulled out a survival suit. The thing fell out on him like laundry falling off a line. He instantly shuffled for the breastplate gas exchange and humidity/thermal controls. He did something to the panel which Riker couldn’t see in the dimness, then turned back to the hatch, slammed the breastplate up against the airlock hatch, and punched in a few more bleeps and a buzz.
The airlock rolled open. Just like that. It almost sat up and begged.
“Out,” Scott invited.
“How’d you do that?” Riker gasped as he followed Scott out into the dim corridor.
“Oh, you’d have to take my course in alternative signals at the academy. New term starts in September.”
“Scotty, you’re a miracle worker.”
“No, lad, I’m an engineer.”
“Then you can tell me this—is there a way to communicate with Starfleet?”
“Sure,” Scott said. “If Kozara and his playmates haven’t figured out the auxiliary broadcast cutoff, I can send a limited coded subspace message from one of the Jefferies tubes. Right down around this bend is one.”
They shuffled down the dim corridor, red emergency floor lights casting weird shapes on their legs and faces. Riker got to the tube access first, and opened it for Scott. Scott’s snowy hair was pink in the emergency lights as he fingered the bulkhead control panel for the tube’s hatch release. The elderly man would have some trouble climbing up into that constricted space, but he was the only one who knew how to send a message from in there, and the process would slow down if they tried to relay.
As he assisted Scott in climbing into the tube’s maw, Riker was already thinking ahead. He glanced over his shoulder at Bateson. “Sir, I suggest w
e run a guerrilla operation from down here. Make the ship unworkable for them. Capture or isolate as many of Kozara’s crew as possible. He’s got us trapped down here, but we’ve got the ship’s major engineering at our fingertips. We can do this.”
“Whatever battens your hatch,” Bateson grumbled, lagging back.
Still supporting one of Scott’s boots in his palm, Riker turned. “Captain? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Oh, permission to gloat, Mr. Riker. Will you get it over with?”
“Gloat, sir? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean this. The galaxy is a more complicated place than when . . . when I was a real captain.”
“Now, captain . . .”
“Look, Will, I blew it. At least rub it in a little, so I don’t feel so pathetic.”
“You had a one-dimensional distrust of Klingons because that’s what you needed to survive in your time,” Riker replied. “I never said I didn’t understand. You just found out that Kozara’s not one-dimensional anymore. In your time, there weren’t many older Klingons fighting. Since then, they’ve learned the value of their older warriors’ experience. Cultures change, Captain.”
“I didn’t know they’d changed so much.”
“They had to change. They had to get smarter, or we’d have put a stop to them long ago. Peace can do funny things. They’ve learned a lot about us, we’ve learned about them. Our cultures aren’t so mysterious anymore.”
“He still wouldn’t have taken the ship if I’d withdrawn when you recommended it.”
“Sir, he wouldn’t have taken this ship either way without a saboteur on board, and you couldn’t have known there was one here.”
“Yes . . . I wonder who it was. Which of our crew—”
“Let’s not get into that,” Riker warned. “The damage is done. We’ll smoke the saboteur out.”
“How?”
“It’ll be whoever is up on the bridge with Kozara when we get up there.”