SPOCK AND CHEKOV waited in a private gallery perched high over the round amphitheater of the Synod chamber, watching as the overlords prepared for the session about to be convened. The chamber contained seats and individual desks in four concentric levels, each one nearly a complete circle, with a small wedge sliced out from floor to ceiling directly opposite the observation gallery. There, a simple pulpit rose perhaps three meters above floor level. On both sides of the pulpit, Akkallan flags hung down from gray walls ringed with geometric wave patterns limned in blue. Arched windows above the top ring of seats allowed daylight to stream in from all sides of the chamber.
The eighty overlords, both male and female and of widely ranging ages, were variously at their desks dozing or skimming papers, circulating, or knotted into small, animated discussion groups. Amid the general chaos, one member picked his way through the rows and mounted the steps to the pulpit. He was tall, rail-thin, with flowing white hair and a surprisingly youthful face, and he arrived at the top platform with a flourish, wielding a gavel.
“Overlords, overlords,” he boomed, his voice resonating through the cavernous chamber without any electronic amplification, carrying in a cadence suggesting that his words had long since become traditional opening oratory. “This session of the Continental Synod is called to order to consider matters regarding maintenance of our lands blessed by Mother Sea. Come to order, come to order, I, Ddenazay Mmord presiding.”
The din of members ending conversations and moving to their places subsided quickly, and Mmord cleared his throat. “As you all know, my peers, we have a special session today. Publican Abben Ffaridor has seen fit to respond to our request by coming to speak directly to us this morning.” The white-haired man turned and looked back down the steps leading to his rostrum. “Peer Ffaridor, the members will receive you now.”
As Ffaridor climbed to the speaker’s platform, Brigadier Vvox entered the gallery. “Commander Spock, Lieutenant Chekov, the Publican will be introducing you to the Synod any moment now. Come with me. When he calls for you, you’ll go in and stand at the base of the pulpit.”
The starship officers followed her down a set of switchback ramps to ground level, then around a hundred and eighty degrees of the circle until they reached a foyer behind the rostrum and listened to the Publican’s extemporaneous speech.
“—understand your concern over the declaration of first-stage martial law. So I’ve come, on the one hand, to reassure you—but on the other, to warn you not to take this crisis lightly. Just a day or so ago, our forces captured a terrorist cadre on Shiluzeya, where they operated from several base camps, inciting war between Akkalla and Chorym and plotting to overthrow this government—including you, peers of the Synod—”
Keeping behind Vvox, Spock and Chekov edged forward to catch a glimpse of the Publican standing alone in the pulpit. He spoke easily, maintaining a calm sincerity of tone that gave added credibility to words that were nothing short of incendiary. “He has an effective rhetorical technique,” the Vulcan murmured.
“—also liberated a pair of captives for whom we’ve been searching without success ever since they disappeared on an ill-fated scientific mission. They are officers of the Federation starship Enterprise, and I offer them to you as an exhibit. Gentlemen?”
Brigadier Vvox waved them out onto the Synod floor, and Ffaridor beckoned them up to the rostrum. “This is Commander Spock and Lieutenant Chekov,” the Publican said when they’d reached his side. “Will you confirm your identities for the assembled overlords, please?”
Spock’s slitted eyes scanned the chamber. “The Publican has correctly identified us.”
“And you were sent here to work with the Federation science outpost in Tyvol?”
“Affirmative.”
“Thank you. That’ll be all. You can step down.”
Spock’s eyebrow elevated, betraying his surprise at the brevity of their appearance with Ffaridor. Chekov remained in place, waiting for a signal from his commander.
The white-haired man who’d opened the session strode out into the well of the chamber and squared his shoulders as he glared up at Publican Ffaridor. “By what right do you cut short debate?” he thundered. “We of the Synod have questions to ask these men.”
“By rights established in the Declaration of Convergence and Articles of the Continental Synod, I can present exhibits without entertaining debate or inquiry from the overlords. The Lord Magister knows this as well as I do.”
Chekov frowned, feeling insulted. “Exhibit!” he muttered. Only Spock heard.
Ddenazay Mmord crossed his arms in a belligerent stance. “The Lord Magister also knows the Publican has been abusing his declarant powers. In the interests of harmony between Synod and Tower, I … request that you relinquish the right of sole presentation and permit the peers to satisfy their own curiosity in these matters.”
“Satisfy their curiosity? My word should be enough to quash all rumor and doubt.”
“I’m afraid it’s not, Peer Ffaridor. Will you yield?” Mmord’s question carried the urgency of a demand.
“As I stand here, I am not simply one man who happens to be Publican of Akkalla. I have to protect the powers that all Publicans will need in the future—if we’re to have a future. Brigadier Vvox, take them.”
The Akkallan military leader beckoned Spock and Chekov down to the floor and hustled them out the back of the chamber. A dissonant tremor of voices rolled down from the overlords as they measured what they’d just witnessed, and Lord Magister Mmord seized the moment before reaction could rise like a tidal wave. He hammered his gavel on the nearest desk.
“Will you yield?” he repeated with a force that silenced everyone else.
Ffaridor leaned on the podium, jaw jutting in defiance. “No. And I’m not finished with my statement. I presented these men to you as proof that the starship was sent to help the so-called Federation science outpost undermine our government, to work with our own misguided scientists to upset the balance that has given Akkalla a rebirth and brought us progress never even dreamed of!”
The chamber erupted into a clamor of arguing voices. Quite pleased with himself, Ffaridor came down from the pulpit, and Mmord rushed over to confront him. “We had a right and responsibility to ask questions of your starship officers and you. You’re not above the law, Abben.”
“I am the law, Ddenazay.”
“You leave us no choice but to bring a contempt action against you. You risk recall and trial.”
All too aware that Mmord towered over him, the Publican drew himself up to full height and puffed out his chest like a fighting cock strutting its most menacing plumage. “Bring it to the floor, if you dare. See how easily your resolution goes down to defeat. See what happens to your influence when the other overlords see you trying to tie the hands of a Publican in time of war and civil strife.” With imperial disdain, Ffaridor swept past Mmord and out of the chamber.
Mmord turned to see chaos, overlords on their feet and waving their hands, turning the house of government into a churning cauldron of anarchy. He saddled his own fury and climbed back up to the pulpit to face the daunting task of restoring order.
The dark facade of the Citadel loomed over a shadowed courtyard like a stern and glowering face. With none of the grace of the Cloistered Tower, it displayed no pretense to being anything other than a brutish garrison with bulging ramparts. As Vvox and a half-dozen Grolian Guards escorted Chekov and Spock toward the fortress, the Russian curled a disapproving lip. “I don’t like the looks of this hotel, Mr. Spock,” he murmured.
One of the guardsmen pulled open the armored door, using all his weight to swing it out on creaky hinges. Inside, the entry hall was dim and drafty, with a damp mustiness pervading the air. Brigadier Vvox suddenly halted and spun on the starship officers. “You’ll go with these guards,” she said, her tone even but commanding.
“I thought we were free to go,” Chekov said.
“After completion of debriefing, Lieutenant Chekov. I’ll be meeting with you shortly.” She strode up a broad stone staircase and through a door, out of sight.
“If you’ll come with us, please,” said the chief of the escort squad.
Chekov tried to lock gazes with the guard, but the Akkallan’s eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of his helmet visor, so, too, the other guards.
“I suspect we have little choice for the moment,” Spock said.
The faceless guardsmen ringed them, as if to confirm Spock’s statement, and led them through a windowless corridor, then down a narrow flight of steps to a stout metal door standing open. “In here, please,” the squad leader said.
Chekov hesistated, considering a stroll in another direction, when he noticed the guards’ fingers moving inconspicuously toward the triggers of their weapons. Suicide was not the most useful alternative, so he meekly followed Spock into a room that turned out to have a grate-screened window, some threadbare parlor furniture, and no other way out. The guards retreated, and the door swung closed with a disconcerting but distinct clattering of a lock engaging. Stark shafts of light filtered through the small window, falling across the wood-plank floor.
Chekov sighed. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Hhayd and Vvox faced each other across the combat pool, brightly lit in a stone-walled room in the Citadel. They each wore a gossamer gray suit covering their bodies from neck to toe, outlining every contour and curve and muscle like an impossibly taut skin. Each held a weapon shaped like a dagger, except that a translucent tube replaced the blade. They bowed toward each other, then activated small power packs worn on their belts. When switched on, the packs sent surges of energy along nearly invisible filaments woven into the tight garments, causing them to glow blue-white, with the exception of strategic portions of the body—chest and abdomen, groin, biceps, and thighs. Those sections had no filaments, just the stretch material of the suit itself.
Vvox twisted the handle of her weapon, and it too pulsed with a blue-white energy field. Then she touched it lightly to the glowing area of her suit, each contact sparking a strobelike flash. “Ready, Rrelin?” she called across the pool, slipping on a headband to hold her hair.
He nodded, and they both dove feet-first into the water, deep enough to be well over their heads. They maneuvered around each other in balletic slow motion, probing for weakness. After a few feints, they began using their hand weapons to thrust and parry in a weightless, three-dimensional match of wits and physical prowess, always aiming to hit those critical body parts unprotected by the energized filaments. Using feet and arms and buttocks to bounce off the walls and floor of the tank, they twisted and pirouetted through their mock battle, with Hhayd scoring the first touch, on her unshielded left upper arm. The magnetic jolt stung, but not enough to make her lose control. As she swam away, she kicked him playfully in the gut with a powerful stroke of her legs. But before she could marshal a counter-attack, he dove down from the surface, faking a blow to her chest, then going for her thigh—a hit! This time, a solid strike. She almost opened her mouth and gave up precious stored oxygen. The stun effect made her leg twitch uselessly—she couldn’t escape. He poised for a lethal contact, his probe aimed right for her chest.
With a desperate swipe, her free hand jarred his attack arm and his weapon drifted free, sinking toward the bottom. Caught off guard, he hesitated—his fatal error. Her back to the pool wall, Vvox tucked her knees and pushed with all her muscle power, darting straight for him. Hhayd started a contortion of escape. Too late. Her probe jabbed him hard in the chest, channeling its full magnetic force through the gap in his deflective suit, and his mouth and eyes opened wide in pain and amazement. As air rushed out of his lungs, he paddled limply to the surface, his head bursting through, gulping and roaring in agony in the same instant.
Muscles straining, he flopped out onto the deck, chest heaving as he lay on his side. Vvox bobbed up from the bottom and floated on her back, catching her own breath.
“I—had you on—the run,” he panted. “You—can’t hold your breath the way you used to … getting old.”
“But I still won.”
She got out of the pool and spread a fluffy towel, beckoning Hhayd to join her. Bodies nested together, they lay back and rested.
“What happened this morning in the Synod?” he asked.
Vvox rolled her eyes in disgust. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him do it. I knew the overlords wouldn’t take kindly to having their noses rubbed in their own impotence.”
“What’s happened since then? Are they going after him?”
“Oh, yes indeed, my love. He may be the first Publican ever thrown in prison during his term of office. My agents tell me Mmord was spitting fire after Ffaridor stomped out of there. And Mmord isn’t one for idle threats.”
“But how many overlords have the nerve to take on the Publican?”
“Until today, not too many. If Fearless Ffaridor hadn’t gone into their place and personally offended the entire Synod, we probably could’ve gone on like this indefinitely.”
“And now—?”
“Now—?” she repeated. “Time is running out.”
“That means our time is running out.”
“Very perceptive, Rrelin.”
“Is that the best you can do? This isn’t the time for witty rejoinders. We’ve got to do something. You’re obviously losing control of him.”
“I am not,” she bristled.
“What do you call it?”
No longer feeling amorous, Jjenna Vvox wrapped herself in a towel and sat hunched and cross-legged. “This bickering isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Neither is all your careful planning.”
“Okay, you’re so brilliant, Rrelin. What great ideas would you care to share?”
“Get rid of him,” Hhayd said icily.
“What do you mean?”
“Assassination.”
“Why—will you miss crawling into bed and servicing the most powerful leader on the planet?” he mocked.
Her hand lashed out and she slapped him across the cheek with a stinging smack.
“That’s no answer to our problem, Jjenna. Give me a good reason not to kill him.”
“We still need him to give this government legitimacy before we take it over.”
“That’s what you call what he did this morning? Giving the government legitimacy—?”
“Even as a figurehead, we need him as a distraction. He and the Synod keep each other occupied while we make things happen.”
“What happens when the Synod votes to recall him?”
“They won’t have the chance.”
Hhayd’s eyes squinted in suspicion. “Why not?”
“Because we’re going to arrest the overlords and put them in prison until we can take over.”
He continued glaring out from under half-closed lids. Then he started to chuckle, a low, mirthless sound coming from his throat. “Arrest them?”
“Mm-hmm. Skip right to third-stage martial law. Brilliant?”
“Let me think about that for a bit. Will you get his authorization?”
“Of course. He is the planetary leader, after all. And with his signature, it’ll all be perfectly legal, according to the Articles of the Synod.”
“Are you sure he’ll agree? How’re you going to convince him? It’s a big leap to go from yelling at Mmord to throwing the entire bunch into prison.”
“When Mmord threatened to start a contempt action against him, the Synod became a danger to him. I really think he never believed they’d go through with it. But when I tell him they are—”
“—and he always believes you—”
“Yes,” Vvox purred, “he does. When he hears it from me, he’ll be willing to do almost anything to protect himself. I don’t think this’ll be any problem.”
“Don’t forget—anything that threatens his power threatens ours.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “I don’t need you to tell me the obvious—” She unfolded herself as if to stand, but he gripped her shoulder and pushed her roughly onto her back.
“But you do need me,” he stated.
She struggled briefly, trying to get up, then relented with a seductive smile. “Of course I need you, love. Why would you even ask such a silly question.”
“Oh, you misunderstand. It wasn’t a question.”
“I see,” she said, with a short, hollow laugh.
“Good.” They kissed. For the moment, their lust for power was subordinated to another kind of lust, one with more immediate rewards.
Lord Magister Ddenazay Mmord leaned wearily on his podium, peering down at the Synod Chamber floor where a woman overlord droned on about the Publican’s trespasses against decency and good government. She stopped for a breath and Mmord quickly gaveled the members to attention. “Thank you, Peer Llutri. We’ve worked long and hard today, without even a mid-noon meal. I propose that we adjourn until fifty-four. It’s so late already, this can be our dinner. Then we can debate into the evening—and, I devoutly hope, we can also vote on the resolution. Immediate action is imperative. If we wait, we may not be able to counteract the consequences. Objections? No objections,” he said rapidly, not waiting for a dissenting voice. The gavel came down with an echoing crack. “Adjourned till fifty-four,” he mumbled, wiping his brow in relief. He settled on his stool, unable to summon the energy to go down the staircase without falling. The other overlords gathered their papers and filed out, some by exits on each seating level, others passing the base of the pulpit and leaving via the foyer behind the Lord Magister’s rostrum.
Shouts filtered into the chamber from the rear foyer and several overlords stumbled back inside, falling over others trying to make their way out for overdue meals. Mmord roused himself enough to lean down for a closer look, just as armed Paladins in gray-blue combat uniforms and helmets marched in. He heard panicky shuffling of feet across the chamber, too, and saw overlords being forced back by troopers on all four levels. Other than the punctuation of footsteps, the place was filled with an unaccustomed quiet, with no voices rising in parliamentary speech. Almost out of reflex, Mmord fumbled for his gavel, slammed it once on his podium, and heard his own voice demanding, “What is going on here?”
All motion stopped; all eyes turned his way. One trooper ambled down to the chamber well, tipped his helmet back, and squinted up at the Lord Magister. “By order of the Publican, third-stage martial law is hereby declared. You and all your colleagues are under arrest.”
Ddenazay Mmord blinked in disbelief. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
The last rays of cloud-shrouded afternoon light banked steeply through the window grating of the cell, and Spock sat in straight-backed composure while Chekov paced.
“I do not believe this,” the Russian grumbled. “They keep us in here all day, they never come to question us—not for even ten seconds!—they don’t tell us a thing—I just do not believe this. Sometimes I think we were better off in the cave.” He stopped suddenly, reconsidering. “Forget I said that.”
“Mr. Chekov, your pacing is accomplishing nothing.”
“Maybe, but I just can’t sit there and meditate like you, sir.”
“But rather than dissipating nervous tension, your activity seems to have the opposite effect—that of maintaining your anger or even increasing it.”
“I wish to be angry, Mr. Spock. I wish to be very angry at these Cossacks! Keeping us locked up like common criminals.”
A key turned in the lock. “Stand back,” called a voice, and the cell door swung in. A guard stepped in, weapon up, located Spock and Chekov, then motioned another guard to bring in a new prisoner—a tall white-haired man with a lean build and stooped shoulders. He seemed disoriented, head twitching like a nervous bird. The guards left, and the door slammed shut.
Chekov looked at the newcomer. “You are the Lord Magister from the Synod!”
The man took a deep breath, weaving as if about to faint. “Yes, yes, I am.”
Spock stood. “We are the officers from the starship Enterprise.”
The man nodded. “I know.” He steadied himself, regaining some of the presence he’d exhibited from his speaker’s pulpit. “It seems we’ve been trapped in the same net.”
“Why are you here?” Spock asked.
“Just let me sit down here, gentlemen.” He eased himself onto the worn cushions of a battered armchair. “Our esteemed Publican has declared a full third-stage martial alert.”
“What does that mean?” said Chekov.
“It means he’s declared himself sovereign military ruler of Akkalla. He’s disbanded the Synod. And he’s had all the overlords arrested. Since I’m the Lord Magister, I’ve got privileged accommodations along with you. The rest are in considerably less stylish quarters down in the bowels of this Citadel, lacking amenities like cushions and windows.”
Chekov swallowed. “Mr. Spock, I think we’re in a lot more trouble than we thought.”
The tall man extended his hand, palm up. “I’m Ddenazay Mmord, once and perhaps future Lord Magister of the Continental Synod.”
“I am Lieutenant Pavel Chekov.” He offered a tentative hand, unsure of proper protocol. Mmord took Chekov’s hand and placed it palm down on top of his own.
“And I am Spock—first officer and science officer of the Enterprise.” The Vulcan did not offer to participate in the greeting ritual.
“Sounds like you’re an important man.” He waved a hand around. “We’re all important men. We’re in the best cell.”
“Why would the Publican place you all under arrest?” asked Spock.
“Because we were a threat to his power. Idiots that we are, we warned him before we did anything to stop him. That gave him the time he needed to protect himself. Although this bears the mark of Brigadier Vvox. Ffaridor never wielded power quite so—forcefully?—before getting involved with that one.”
Spock pulled a chair over and sat close to Mmord. “To what sort of involvement do you refer?”
“Everything under the clouds. She’s become the only adviser he listens to, she controls who he sees, what he hears … and from all the rumors drifting about, it’s pretty certain they’re also lovers. He may be the Publican, but Brigadier Vvox seems to be running the planet.”
“It wasn’t always that way?” Chekov asked.
“Oh, no, no, no. When we made Ffaridor Publican—”
Chekov frowned. “When who made him Publican? I thought your leaders were elected democratically.”
“We are. Then the leader of the majority party becomes Publican. We chose Ffaridor for that as sort of a compromise. Our previous leader stepped down after a period of serious fighting within the party, so we looked for someone who had no enemies. That was Abben Ffaridor, mild-mannered, inoffensive, and moderately ineffectual. Frankly, we picked him because we thought he could be controlled.” He snorted a bitter laugh. “We were right about that—and wrong about who’d be doing the controlling.”
“Have you known Publican Ffaridor long?” Spock asked.
“Oh, yes. We were elected to the Synod at the same time. I took it very seriously all these years, and he was more a gentleman politician, almost as if he were dabbling until something more interesting came along.”
“How did Brigadier Vvox manage to exert such strong influence over him?”
Mmord shrugged. “Proximity. And I guess she was shrewd enough to recognize an opportunity—and ruthless enough to grab it.”
Chekov rested his elbows on the back of Spock’s chair. “What are you going to do about this?”
“My opportunities appear to be limited at the moment. It’s strange. I saw all this coming, saw the changes in Ffaridor. It didn’t happen overnight, but I knew him well enough to see what was happening, to see him molded by her.”
“Yet you did nothing?” Spock said.
Mmord rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “My mistake. You see other people make them, and think you never will. Then it turns out you’re not immune. And there’s a good chance this one will take me to my grave.”
Abben Ffaridor stood at the window of the reception lounge, watching the setting sun stain the cloud bottoms with broad strokes of red and gold, trying to commit to memory the contours of the clouds and the casual way nature cross-stroked them with fleeting brilliance. At the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor, he turned to see Ddenazay Mmord escorted in by two Grolian Guards in formal Tower uniforms.
“Wait outside,” he said to the guards. Then he motioned toward a pair of chairs, and he and the prisoner sat. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Dden.”
“No, you’re not. Not unless Vvox told you to be.”
“Is that how it looks to you? That I’ve become Vvox’s puppet?”
“That’s exactly how it looks.”
Ffaridor shook his head sadly. “Can’t you believe that she and I simply share the same visions of what this planet can be?”
“Her vision is a military dictatorship, with her in charge. Is that yours, too?”
“No, no. You’re mistaken about that.”
“Do you remember the motto of the Declaration of Convergence?”
“Of course I do. ‘What good is order without freedom, freedom without truth?’ Every Akkallan child has to memorize it.”
“Memorizing and understanding are two different things, Abben.”
“Can you understand this?” the Publican implored. “What good is freedom or truth without order, my friend? Order must come first. How can we have a world without a solid structure for society? Can’t you see that’s crumbling now? We’re under assault from the Chorymi, from our own scientists, and now from the Federation itself.”
Before Mmord could respond, the sharp clicks of military boots echoed through the hallway, and Brigadier Vvox strode in. “I’m sorry I was delayed, sir.”
“Quite all right, quite all right. Ddenazay and I needed a few minutes alone. Now, what were you going to say, my friend?”
“Does it matter?” Mmord’s eyes remained fixed on Vvox, who glared coolly back at him.
“Yes, yes, of course it matters! I want to resolve this and release the overlords as quickly as possible.”
Mmord turned back to his old colleague. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Isn’t that our intention, Jjenna?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Well, if it isn’t, you’re risking violent revolution, Abben. You may control the official news media, but there are other information channels, and you can’t control every single one of them.”
“Don’t underestimate us,” Vvox said tightly.
“Jjenna,” Ffaridor scolded. “Ddenazay, I need the Synod out and functioning. We’re a small world. We need everyone working together, especially now.”
“Then why did you pull that high-handed stunt with the starship officers today? Why didn’t you let us question them?”
“I—I didn’t see the need.”
“Well, then you didn’t have your eyes open. If you want us to believe your accusation against the Federation and its science outpost, prove it. Have those officers make a public confession before the entire Synod, let us question them, and I can almost guarantee you our support.”
“That demand is out of line,” Vvox said.
“That’s not yours to decide,” Mmord flared. “He’s the Publican, not you—brigadier.”
“I’m his adviser.”
“You’re his devil. You’re the most dangerous thing that ever happened to him or this government. And this planet’s only hope is for him to recognize that before it’s too late!” Mmord snarled, rising out of his chair.
“How dare you challenge the Publican’s mandate!”
“How dare you arrest the entire Synod! As soon as we reconvene, you’ll both be charged with high treason!”
Shouting voices brought the guards hustling back in, but they skidded to a halt as the Publican raised his hand. The verbal jousting continued.
“What makes you think you’ll be reconvening any time soon, Lord Magister?”
Ffaridor stepped between them. “That’s enough! This isn’t solving anything!”
“There’s nothing to be solved,” Mmord said, suddenly hushed.
“I was hoping you’d feel differently,” said Ffaridor in sorrow. “Guards, take him back to the Citadel. Jjenna, leave. I want to be alone now.”
“Yes, sir.” She followed the guards and the prisoner out into the hall. “Put him in the lower cells with the other overlords,” she told the guards in a low voice.
They shoved Mmord toward the Tower’s front doors, and he went along without struggle. Vvox watched them go. “We’ll see who’s tried for treason,” she muttered.
The cell door creaked in, and Brigadier Vvox stood in the opening. “Commander Spock, Lieutenant Chekov. I just wanted to see if you were comfortable.”
“We’d be more comfortable,” said Chekov, “aboard the Enterprise.”
“I’m sure you would, but we just can’t accommodate you quite yet. Would you care to take a walk with me?”
“Do we have a choice?”
“No, Mr. Chekov, you don’t.” She turned, and they got up to follow.
“No guards to accompany us?” Spock mused.
“Not needed. This is a rather heavily fortified place. Even if you got rid of me, you wouldn’t get very far.”
The hallway was barely wide enough for two to walk shoulder to shoulder, with stone-block walls that angled in as they reached the ceiling. There was little doubt the Citadel was quite old, but plenty of bright lighting made this section seem somewhat less dungeonlike. Vvox led the way down a short flight of steps to a vaulted room with museum-piece torture racks and shackles around the perimeter. But the dominant features were a pair of clear, modern tanks, three meters high by two across and filled with water. Each one had a winch over the open top, and Chekov’s jaw dropped in horror when he realized that one of the tanks was occupied by a naked man, hanging upside down from the winch, flailing and writhing, trying vainly to right himself and rise to the top. Every time he seemed about to succeed, the guard operating the winch would yank the prisoner up, dangle him by his feet in the air for a second, then dunk him back into the water.
The corners of Spock’s mouth tightened, and Chekov noticed. It was as close as he’d ever seen the Vulcan come to betraying anger. “I had been led to believe that Akkallans were too civilized to resort to torture, brigadier.”
“Oh, this isn’t torture, commander. It’s just an interrogation enhancement technique, useful for softening resistance.”
“That’s what he said,” Chekov sneered. “Torture.”
She ignored the comment. “Every air-breathing being has a fear of drowning. The tank stimulates that fear, without actually damaging the subject. It’s quite effective, and it’s never fatal—unless we want it to be.”
Spock crossed his arms, deliberately shifting away from the torture tank. “Presumably, you have a purpose in demonstrating this.”
“Yes, I do,” Vvox said. “We would like you and the lieutenant to appear on our broadcast to confess your collusion with the Federation science team and the Cape Alliance.”
“Indeed. Could you endeavor to be more specific?”
“Mr. Spock!” Chekov blurted.
The Vulcan silenced him with a look.
“Well, you would be asked to tell how the Federation scientists had collaborated with the Alliance to spread false information and disrupt the long-standing harvest treaty with Chorym, leading to war and the overthrow of the Akkallan government.”
“And when would you like us to do this?”
Chekov stared dumbfounded at Spock.
“Tomorrow would be perfect,” Vvox said. “We could work on your exact text tonight, do the broadcast first thing in the morning, and probably have you freed by midnoon. Your confession would also help the Publican convince the members of the Synod and settle that dispute, too. You’d be doing Akkalla a great service, uniting us behind the Publican and his leadership.”
At the brigadier’s words, Chekov could no longer contain himself. “Sir, how can you think of—”
“Mr. Chekov, allow me to respond. Brigadier Vvox, you are asking us to lie. That, quite simply, is impossible. We will not cooperate.”
Vvox shook her head. “But reasonable cooperation is so much more pleasant for both of us than the tank.”
“Vulcans have the ability to place the body in a sort of trance or stasis, during which respiration is reduced to almost imperceptible levels. We require no intake of additional oxygen for a period of some days. Should deprivation by immersion exceed that, I would die, and that would certainly preclude the confession you seek.”
“Then there’s always Lieutenant Chekov.”
The younger officer’s lip curled scornfully. “Russians have the same ability as Vulcans. You won’t get anything out of me.”
“That may be true, but I will have to try. I’ll give you some time to think about the proposition in your cell.”
At the sound of the door buzzer, Kirk looked up from his desktop computer. “Come.” The door slid aside, and Lieutenant Maybri and Ensign Greenberger entered, arms laden with printouts, computer data cassettes, and hard copies of photographs, maps, and charts. Kirk couldn’t help chuckling as he waved them over to an empty table.
“It’s all here, sir,” Maybri said, flexing her elbows after she and Greenberger had dumped their loads.
Greenberger puffed a breath past her nose, aimed at clearing away the blond locks fallen across her cheek. “We’ve organized everything so you’ll have no trouble getting the Akkallans to understand. You’ve got data on the shuttle, where it went down, the path it took—”
“—and,” Maybri chimed in, “everything on the new life form, enough evidence to warrant further investigation and to prove the science outpost was doing legitimate research.”
Kirk suppressed a smile. “Good work, Maybri, Greenberger. You two should be running the science department on some starship one of these days.”
“Thank you, sir,” they both said at once. They turned and left Kirk’s cabin.
With a grin, Kirk sifted through the material they’d brought him. The two young science officers certainly were thorough. They might indeed be ready to give Spock a fight for that bridge science console. For the moment, it made Kirk feel a bit better to know he had two young officers he could rely on.
He pressed the intercom button. “Kirk to bridge. Communications—get me a channel to Publican Ffaridor or Brigadier Vvox.”
“Lieutenant Lin here, sir.” The face of a young Chinese officer appeared on Kirk’s viewer. Lin’s straight black hair fell across his forehead as he touched the transceiver in his ear. “I’ll get right on it and pipe it down to you, sir.”
“Fine. Kirk out.” He shut the intercom off, and the screen blanked out.
Bending low, he opened a cabinet under the computer and pulled out a slim leather briefcase, holding it up against the pile of paper and cassettes left by Maybri and Greenberger. “All of that is not going to fit in this.”
“Lin to Admiral Kirk.”
Kirk turned to find the swing-shift comm officer on the viewer, looking perplexed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t reach the Publican or Vvox.”
Kirk’s face flushed. “Couldn’t—reach—them?” he sputtered through clenched teeth.
“I got one of the guards … said they were both too busy and couldn’t be disturbed. Should I try again la—”
“No,” he snapped. “Kirk out.” He pounded the button with his fist, then stuffed as much as he could into the briefcase, fastened it, and headed for the door. As it snapped open, he ran directly into McCoy. The doctor staggered to the opposite wall.
“Sorry, Bones.” Kirk steadied him, then strode off. “No time to chat.”
“What’s your hurry, and where’re you going?” McCoy rushed to catch up.
“The hurry is, I’ve had it with Vvox and Ffaridor avoiding me—”
“They’re both doing it now?”
“Yep. And where I’m going is the Cloistered Tower to give them a piece of my mind and a lot of data from our computer.”
“Well, I didn’t have anything exciting planned for the evening,” McCoy said.
“I didn’t ask you to come along.”
McCoy clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the great thing about old friends, Jim. They can read your mind.”
They materialized on the steps of the Publican’s residence, with floodlights casting pools of white on the plaza and tall beams up the front of the building. Kirk opened the glass doors and found the lobby empty. No guards in sight.
“Strange.”
“Do we go in? Or is this a trap—they convict us of trespassing on the spot and toss us off the cliffs.”
“Let’s go,” Kirk decided.
“Fine—go where? How do we find anybody?”
“I don’t know. Let’s try this way. At least it’s familiar.” He pointed down the hallway that led to the reception area where they’d met the Akkallan leaders before. With a fatalistic shrug, McCoy fell into step behind him.
The Akkallan sky was black now, with just the faintest tendrils of orange fire fading at the horizon. Still in the reception hall, Ffaridor stood at the windows, transfixed by the view. He’d wanted his meeting with Mmord to be conciliatory, not a continuation of the battle. Never mind the liberties he’d taken with the truth in trying to pass off the Starfleet prisoners as dangerous conspirators. Small lies were sometimes necessary when the risks ran high. In the end, if he saved Akkalla from the Chorymi threat, who would care? Who would even know? He felt a pang of guilt over his willingness to sacrifice these two offworlders on the altar of desperation, but this was war. People died in wars. Ffaridor felt events getting away from him, sifting through his fingers like grains of sand. The more he tried to staunch the flow, the more fell from his grasp.
In the window, he saw a reflection of movement behind him, and he turned to find a figure emerging from shadows, a figure dressed in unmarked gray fatigues, with a hood over its head and a mask across its mouth. Only the eyes were visible—light, deep-set eyes, eyes quietly burning with a deadly fire. The hands were gloved in black leather, and a dagger gleamed in one, held carefully by determined fingers. The figure moved quickly, noiselessly, crossing the space in the center of the room in effortless sliding strides.
Ffaridor froze. He did not run—or could not. He felt dampness under his arms and down his back. His mouth turned dry and gluey. “What are you doing here?” he croaked.
The only answer was the flash of a dagger’s blade.
“Are you sure it’s this way?” McCoy whispered.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Kirk tiptoed around a corner. A clash of ceramic on stone screamed down the corridor, and they skidded to a stop. Then a second crash and the shrill scraping of heavy furniture being dragged in a panic made them sprint toward the location of the scuffle—the reception parlor. The doors were ajar, and Kirk burst through.
The Publican was scrabbling along the floor like a crab, trying to escape from a masked assailant. The attacker’s dagger flashed down once, twice, three times, with Ffaridor fending off the blows with a shredded seat cushion. Blood streaked the crumpled rug and the floor, chairs and tables were upended, and the Akkallan leader shrieked as the blade found its mark. But the blow wasn’t a fatal one, and he skittered behind a broken lamp table, shoving it into the assassin’s path. The hooded figure tripped over it, tumbled, and slid face-first on the bare floor.
Kirk pulled his small hand phaser from his belt and dove over a couch, just as the attacker scrambled to get away. His raised knee caught Kirk in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. But the missed tackle still sent the hooded man tumbling, and Kirk rolled, raised his phaser, and aimed.
The assassin’s foot lashed out, and the phaser went flying. He lunged after it, and Kirk managed to grab his ankle, sending the man sprawling. McCoy, tending to the dazed Publican, sprang from his crouch, scooped up the phaser, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion, dropping the would-be assassin two paces away. The surgeon maintained a combat stance, weapon pointed at the unconscious figure, as Kirk sat up and hobbled to his feet.
“Thanks, Bones.”
“I told you you needed me to come along.”
Kirk held his palm out for the phaser, and McCoy started to pass it over, then withdrew it. “On second thought, maybe I should hold on to this.”
Kirk wiggled his fingers impatiently, and McCoy surrendered it. Then they moved to help the Publican, who was crumpled against the fireplace. McCoy kneeled for a quick examination. Ffaridor was conscious, and as they propped him in a more comfortable position, his breathing eased. Blood oozed through a gash on his right arm.
“Well?” Kirk hovered over his medical officer’s shoulder.
“The wound appears superficial. If I had my medical kit—”
“Why don’t you have your medical kit?”
“I didn’t think I’d need it. I thought this was a diplomatic visit.”
Ffaridor licked his lips. “Call for help,” he whispered, looking up at the wall behind him, toward a flush-mounted intercom panel with a black button and a red one. “The red one, Admiral.”
Kirk pressed it, setting off a whooping alarm siren. Within seconds, Grolian Guards charged in from both ends of the room, a half-dozen in all, sidearms drawn, cocked, and pointed at Kirk and McCoy.
“Not them,” Ffaridor said, trying to stand.
“You rest right where you are,” McCoy snapped.
Hands spread in a nonthreatening pose, Kirk stepped over to the hooded figure. “Here’s your man.”
“What’s going on here?” It was Brigadier Vvox, swaggering into the reception chamber, eyes darting across the room.
Her arrogant facade slipped for an instant as she saw the blood on Ffaridor and gasped. McCoy was already ripping the Publican’s sleeve with a red-handled pocket knife and fashioning a tourniquet. “Someone tried to kill your Publican.”
“What are you two doing here?” she demanded.
“As it turned out, saving his life,” Kirk said. “At least you could thank us.”
She stamped her foot. “You break into the Tower illegally—”
“We interrupt a murder in progress,” Kirk cut in, “risk our lives, and catch the assassin—”
“This man needs medical assistance,” McCoy said, helping the Publican to a chair. “I’d be glad to—”
“Our doctors can take care of him.” She jerked her thumb toward the door and addressed one of the guards. “Get the Publican’s doctor—now.” The guard saluted and trotted out. Hands on hips, Vvox turned back to the trespassers. “You’ve committed a serious offense, Admiral—”
“Forget it, Jjenna.” Ffaridor said. “And thank you both.”
Vvox wheeled to face the guards standing over the assailant’s body. “Get him out of here.”
“Wait,” Ffaridor said. “I want to see his face first. He got in without tripping any alarms or attracting the attention of the guards.”
“There were no guards,” Kirk said. “Not in front anyway. That’s how we got in.”
Ffaridor’s eyes widened. “He must be an insider, then. Unmask him.”
Uncharacteristically flustered, Vvox blanched, frozen in place. Ffaridor nodded to one of the guards, who rolled the attacker over and tugged off the hood and mask—revealing the face of Commandant Rrelin Hhayd.
“Well, I’ll be a sonofagun,” McCoy murmured.
Vvox bent to one knee next to him. “Is—is he dead?”
“No, just stunned,” said Kirk. “He’ll be coming around in an hour or so.”
“Then that’s when he’ll be executed,” Vvox growled, straightening.
“He has to be questioned first,” Ffaridor said. “This had to be a conspiracy.”
“It may not have been,” Vvox said. “He is the commandant of the Grolian Guard. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to arrange for the guards to be called away from the front on some false order.”
“I want him questioned,” Ffaridor repeated. “You do it, Jjenna.”
A breath caught in her throat. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it. And I’ll find out the truth. Take him to the Citadel.”
A pair of guards grabbed Hhayd’s limp form by the arms and hauled him out. Vvox faced another pair. “Escort the Publican to his quarters.”
“No, no, Jjenna, I can wait here for the doctor.”
She held his uninjured arm and gently coaxed him toward the door. “You’re hurt, you’re in shock, you need to get off your feet, and you need to be kept warm. Isn’t that right, Dr. McCoy?”
McCoy knew she was trying to rush Ffaridor out and away from Kirk, but his medical ethics compelled him to be honest. “Yes, he should be—”
“Thank you for your help, Dr. McCoy,” she interrupted, making certain Ffaridor left without another word to the starship officers. When he was gone, her concerned expression hardened. “If I had my choice, you’d be prosecuted for coming down here without authorization. But the Publican has generously waived the law in this case. But let this be a warning to you, Kirk. This building will be sealed. No one will be allowed in without my permission. Now, it’s true, I can’t keep you from using your transporter to breach our security shield. But if I find you or any of your officers here again, you’ll be imprisoned without a hearing. Go back to your ship—now.”
Briefcase clutched under one arm, Kirk flipped open his communicator and spoke through clenched teeth. “Kirk to Enterprise. Two to beam up. Lock in and energize.”
The shimmering began, and he and McCoy faded and dissolved.
Her face taut, Vvox turned to the remaining guardsmen. “If anyone from the starship transports back here, grab them. If they resist, do whatever has to be done to place them in custody. If you have to, kill them.”