Star Trek - Unification Part 10

At this her head snapped up and her round moon face took on a furious look. "Amarie," she snapped. "His fat, stupid, worthless, lazy, uncouth ex-wife."

Amarie sucked a salt stick with one hand as she played the keyboard with the other three. She'd been swearing she'd give them up for months, and once she'd gone as long as four days without one. But the cravings became so intense that she found herself holding a stick with trembling fingers, licking it desperately, without remembering any conscious decision to do so.

After that, she gave up. What the rune, anyway? So she lived a few months less. The way her life was going she wouldn't miss those months, and maybe be glad to check out sooner rather than later.

Amarie sighed and put down the salt stick, joined her fourth hand to the keyboard. This was what the customers at Shern's Palace came to hear: all four hands blazing away on the keys and Amarie's ample girth jiggling to the beat of her music. Although, as she looked around, she realized not many were coming anymore. The bar was nearly empty; only a few jaded regulars sat at tables and mostly they ignored her music.

Who could blame them? They'd heard it all before. There were no new customers; the only ones who came here any more were those with nowhere else to go. Shern's Palace, indeed. Some palace. It was a tacky, overblown hideaway that had already seen its glory days. The decor was pure Zakdorn, even though Shern was a Filimase: lots of red panels, with ropes and nets and chains and-did anyone still do those? -stone shriva birds at the entrance.

Amarie had long since found she could do an evening's set at the keys without her mind ever being engaged in the music. It was rote to her by now, her repertoire so extensive that she could segue from piece to piece without having to direct her conscious mind to the process. Unfortunately, that gave her a lot of time to think. Thinking wasn't something she enjoyed much these days; too much in her life was disappointing. All the wrong turns and bad choices kept recycling in her mind like a feedback loop. Mostly those choices involved men, rune them. Frank, Nard, Melcor, Renninum... losers every one. What was it about her that kept attracting this s.p.a.ce flotsam? Weren't there any good men left in the galaxy?

She glanced over toward a wall panel where she knew she could catch her reflection, and grabbed a few licks of salt as she did. She looked good enough, she thought. Maybe she was a little heavier than when she was young, but roundness was not necessarily a draw-back; lots of men liked a little bounce in a woman, and Amarie could bounce with the best. Her hair was always neatly done, its black ringlets upswept, and her makeup artfully applied-quickly, too, because her four arms came in handy for more than keyboard playing (and more than a few men would agree with her). Her nose rings were elaborate and artfully inserted; her gown was one of her best-a rose color (quite flattering to her), with just a bit of a sheen to it.

"Amarie, my pumply..." The dreaded voice of Shern, the owner of the hideaway, knifed into her reverie. She glanced up at him with a bored expression. "What, Shem?"

"The patrons they are asleep failing. May we not more music lively be having?"

Shern drove her crazy. In this age of the Universal Translator, there was simply no reason not to use one. Why Shem had to murder the language in his pathetic attempts to be native was beyond her. She hated his thin, scaly face and his unblinking, beady eye. But mostly she loathed him because he held her livelihood in his control, and lately it seemed she could not please him, no matter what. Well, rune him.

"I do my kind of music, Shern. You liked it when you hired me."

"But the sameness again and again occurs. Is not there some variety possible beingT'

Variety. She could play maybe four thousand sepa-rate melodies, enough to run continuously for several days, and he accused her of not having variety. Annoyed, she grabbed at her salt stick and stuck it in her mouth. "You tell me what you want, Shem, I'll give it to you. Better than anybody else you could get to do this job for what you're paying." The words were a little m.u.f.fled behind the salt, but she knew he'd get the idea.

"If no there is customers more, job will be continuing not," he hissed, and, glowering at her portentous-ly, moved off.

Amarie's second-greatest fear was that she would spend out her days in this runey little hovel, sucking salt and making music, without ever knowing the love of a good man or the fulfillment of children.

Her greatest fear was that she would not spend out her days here, would in fact not spend any more of them here, and be cast out jobless to make her way on Qualor in whatever fashion she could work out. And that would be next to impossible, because she and the weird little runes known as Zakdorn did not get along at all.

She'd never have chosen this place to live; it was light-years from her home planet in more ways than distance. Talemstra, where she'd been born, was inhabited by a peace-loving, creative species, all of whom had four arms and who used them in the pursuit of the arts. Music, sculpture, dance-her people delighted in these activities, and Amarie would give anything if she could get back to them. She'd been abandoned on Zakdorn by her third husband, Nard, a handsome adventurer who had his own starship, but who unfortunately also had a roving eye. He'd left her for a Siblite beauty who was too young for him, and far too thin, and she figured they hadn't lasted long at all. But in the meantime, she was stuck on Zakdorn.

She hated it here. They were such dull, officious little runes; they had no appreciation for a creative soul. And she was incapable of doing any of the jobs they offered her-she couldn't deal with columns of numbers and lists of files. Music was all she knew, and if she lost this job she'd be in real trouble. She'd die homeless and friendless on this awful planet, with no one to mourn her pa.s.sing.

Amarie crunched the last of her salt stick in her mouth and winced as the bitter granules went down her throat. She took one hand to wash it down with Trastor ale, then attacked the keyboard with all four hands. She'd make Shern eat his words. Variety? She'd show him variety.

She was working the quartet of arms into a lather when she saw the man walk in, and her heart suddenly pounded. He was tall and breathtakingly handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was dressed in a well-tailored red outfit-a uniform?- and he had eyes the color of the seas on Hoalot.

There was a woman with him, and she was thin- planklike actually. Amarie knew that kind of skin-and-bones could never bounce a man like this. The woman's hair was dark and neatly tied, her face looked drab without makeup, and she wore the same outfit as the man, only it was a brownish color.

Amarie intensified the beat of the music and swayed on her stool. She'd get that man up here and they'd make real music together. For the first time that night, Amarie smiled.

Riker's eyes swept the murky interior of the hideaway. There were few patrons; those that were there tended to hover in the shadows toward the rear. What were clearly prost.i.tutes lounged in a bored fashion along the bar, but there were no takers.

He was aware of Gretchen at his side, studying the room as intently as he; he wondered if he'd been wise in bringing her. She'd been determined to come, of course, and Worf had backed her up' the Klingon lieutenant liked to know that one of his trained people was along on any away mission.

Nonetheless, this sordid little den was not, in Riker's mind, the place for a young woman from Indiana. He knew Gretchen would be furious if she knew he was thinking that, and he would never voice it aloud; but call him old-fashioned, this was no place for a lady.

He'd spotted Amarie the moment they came in; she was notable because of her four arms, but even without those he'd have recognized her. She was blowsy and plump, with frizzy dyed black hair and too much makeup; cheap-looking artificial jewelry adorned her fingers, her hair, and her nose. Her pink sequined gown was loose and flowing, but it did not conceal her ample girth. "Take a seat here, I'll be back in a while." Riker gestured toward a small table and saw Gretchen's predictable reaction-her eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in resistance.

"I think I should stay with you, Commander," she said quietly. "After all, I am a.s.signed to you as security."

He smiled easily. "Understood, Ensign. But I-have sized up the situation and examined the objective. And I promise you this is one case where I will function better on my own."

Her eyes blinked and he pulled out a chair for her. "I'd suggest you stick to the Trastor ale. It's tasty, and it won't put you on your ear like some other drinks they probably serve here." There was a brief moment, and then Gretchen sat, though reluctantly.

"All right, Commander," she said. "But I'll be watching."

"I hope so. That's your job." And he smiled down at her.

He felt, rather than heard, the music take a jump in energy, and glanced up toward the spotlighted center of the room where Amarie sat at the keyboard. Briefly touching Gretchen on the shoulder, he moved toward the light.

The woman was sucking on a salt stick as she played, seemingly oblivious to his approach, though Riker's instincts told him she was very aware. He sat at one of the unoccupied stools that surrounded the keyboard instrument. Amarie gave him a quick, noncommittal glance. "A new face," she drawled in a husky voice.

"Same one I've always had," countered Riker, and was pleased to see a ready grin spread her lips. He liked people with humor; it made everything so much easier.

"What would you like to hear?" she asked, fingers roaming the keys. Riker was fascinated by the rippling counterpoints she could produce with her four hands.

"Know the blues?" he asked.

Another grin on her generous mouth. "Look at me, mister. What do you think?"

Riker decided he liked this woman. She was garish, but at the core she was earthy and honest. "Seven different shades of them," she continued. "How about some low-down Andorian blues?"

Two hands shifted into a bluesy riff, another worked the salt stick, and the fourth offered him one from a nearby bowl. "Suck salt?" she queried.

"Never cared for it," replied Riker. He thought it a disgusting habit, and wondered if the people who were caught up in it realized what it did to their mouths. He'd dated a woman once who loved her salt sticks, and every time he kissed her he felt his own mouth pucker and dry; it was like kissing a desert floor.

"Good for you. Nasty habit." She took a few more licks and then put the stick down. Without looking at him, she said, "Who are you looking for?"

Caught a little off-guard, Riker felt his reply was b.u.mbling. "Who says I'm looking for anybody?" "Your face. Your uniform. In a place like this." "Okay. I'm looking for you."

"You just made my day." Amarie's delivery was dry, but Riker felt there was a truth in the words that she would never admit to. "I have to ask you about your husband." Amarie cast him a glance and her music took on a different tone-a little busier, more urgent. "Well, it was nice while it lasted," she said with studied nonchalance. "Which husband?" "The dead one, I'm afraid."

She kept playing, never missing a beat. But that faintly frantic element was still in the music. "You must be from the Enterprise," she said laconically. "You destroyed his ship."

Riker was relieved that she wasn't a game player. This whole endeavor could have been protracted interminably, but Amarie was not a guileful woman. He wondered what feelings she might still have for the dead man who piloted the smuggler's ship, so he trod carefully. With a touch of regret in his voice, he said, "He fired first."

"He always did." Riker gave her a sharp glance, looking for any hidden meaning, but her face was neutral.

"He was involved in some pretty bad business," he continued. "And he took the evidence with him."

"His one endearing quality-he always cleaned up after himself." Now Riker thought he saw a twinkle in her eye. "What do you want from me?" she asked.

"I was hoping you might know his business part-ners."

Amarie sighed faintly and looked down at her hands, moving idly over the keys. "Why should I help you?" she asked softly.

"To be honest, I can't think of a good reason." He smiled at her, and hoped honesty appealed to an honest woman.

"Well, you did kill my ex-husband. That's not a bad start." He shook his head, grinning at her; the more he sat here, the more he liked her. "Why don't you drop a few coins in the jar," she suggested. "I'11 see what I remember."

"I don't carry money," he said truthfully. She gave him an appraising glance, and then sighed again.

"You don't offer much, do you?"

Riker considered this. It was true. He was asking for information-a commodity of great value to him. And he had nothing to offer in return. There was something unfair about it. What might this used-up woman want, he wondered, except a man to treat her decently and take her away from all this? Then it occurred to him what it might be. "Slide over," he ordered. She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

Riker got up and sat next to her at the piano, catching a whiff of her salty breath. He reached toward the keys.

"Just what I need-another set of hands," she commented.

"You know this one?" He began to play the way he had in the re-creation of Stumpy's place on the holodeck. "Early twentieth century, from a place on Earth called Memphis." He played for a moment and could tell from her reaction that she was responding. "Maybe," he suggested, "I could teach you a lick or tWO."

"You already have," she acknowledged, watching his hands carefully, absorbing the riffs, studying the way his fingers drifted over the keys. She was genuinely impressed, loving the music, moved by its heartfelt origins.

He played for a few moments, and then ventured idly, "So, what do you say?"

She shrugged, looked up at him, gave him that ready grin. "Gonna be around a few days?" "I can be."

"Sooner or later, a man named Omag will come by for a song. Always wants to hear the same thing- 'Melor Famagal.' He's an arms trader. A fat Ferengi."

Riker stared at her. This was it, the connection he'd been looking for. The sensation of victory welled up in him and he laid into the keys, pulling the music up from some place deep within. At some point he realized Amarie's four hands had joined his, and they continued to make sweet six-handed blues for a long time.

Chapter Fourteen.

SPOCK SAT WITH Pardek in the outer chamber of Proconsul Neral's suite of offices. They had climbed through the grandiose chambers of the nearly kilometer-high governmental edifice, the Irnilt, and Spock had noted the statelines of the architecture, the clean elegance of the design. The rooms were vaulted and s.p.a.cious, and conveyed an impression of urbanitY and power. The grandeur of the building was in marked contrast to the rough streets of the city, the fetid pa.s.sageways where people lived in abject desola-tion. The contrast was fascinating.

He had become aware, as they made their way through the building, that Pardek was a man whose time of power was waning. Pardek smiled and called out to everyone they met, and the replies were always gracious. But he was certain that Pardek was the needy part of the equation; those who possessed power did not need to seek so blatantly the recogni-tion of others. That did not concern Spock. Pardek's value was to initiate the meeting for which they had climbed the imposing black marble stairs of the Irnilt.

Now, waiting in the outer chamber for Neral to receive them, Spock observed Pardek chatting amiably with a woman who had introduced herself as an a.s.sociate to Neral. She was, Spock noted, an unusual-looking Romulan, in that her hair was blond. Pardek was avuncular and friendly to her, but Spock sensed that even she kept herself at a remove from him, and was talking out of courtesy rather than choice.

It was not a good sign that they were being kept waiting. If this meeting were in fact the priority that Pardek insisted it was, they would not be kept on this hard bench in the lobby to make conversation with functionaries. For a brief moment the echo of Sarek's -Picard's?-skepticism resonated in his mind.

Spock was relieved when a young man came scurry-ing from Neral's office and announced that the proconsul would now see them. Pardek broke off his conversation with the a.s.sistant and hurried over to Spock, his round, friendly face beaming with happi-ness.

"Shall we?" he asked, and Spock rose to follow him inside the inner chamber.

The man who greeted them was younger than Spock had imagined. He had heard the proconsul described as a youthful, dynamic leader, but this man seemed almost boyish. His eyes were dark and flashing, and his smile was immediate. He moved across the room toward them, his step buoyant. "Proconsul." Pardek's voice was a bit ingratiating.

"Yes... Pardek ... come in," said Neral. But his eyes were on Spock. "Amba.s.sador Spock of Vulcan," said Pardek unnecessarily.

"Proconsul," said Spock evenly. He held Neral's look.

"Please," said Neral, waving the appellation away. "I've never liked t.i.tles since I was a lowly Uhlan in the Romulan guard. I am Neral." He lifted his hand, looked at it in comic uncertainty. "Now, how is it again? Pardek's tried to show me..."

He finally managed to arrange his fingers in the Vulcan greeting. Spock returned it. "I am honored," he said.

"Good," replied Neral. The two men held a look once again.

Pardek smiled nervously and Spock knew he felt like the outsider here in his own country's seat of power. "Permit me to withdraw," he said, and Spoek caught the touch of obsequiousness in his voice.

Neral turned to Pardek with practiced diplomacy. "Will we see you and your wife tomorrow at the state dinner?"

Pardek beamed with pleasure. "We're looking forward to it," he said, and bowed his head slightly. Itc turned and exited.

Neral turned back to Spock; the inflection of his voice implied that they shared some commonalty as he said, "It's been years since old Pardek was invited to an official function. He's far too attached to the common man for most people's comfort."

"That is their loss," replied Spock. He would not be disloyal to Pardek now, after all these years. 'Tve always found Pardek to have a unique insight into many issues." Neral didn't respond, but waved him into a corn-fortable chair covered in some kind of softly tooled hide. "Let me tell you something, Spock," he said without preamble. "We're going to start something here, you and I, that will redraw the face of the quadrant."

Spock was startled. He had been prepared to speak eloquently about his cause, had hoped to persuade- but had not expected to hear Neral already committed. Perhaps he was reading more into the proconsul's statement than was intended. "You are prepared to support reunification?" he asked, wanting clarifica-tion.

"I believe it must eventually come. Our two worlds need each other."

"Forgive me. But I did not expect to hear a Rornulan proconsul speak like a member of the underground."

Neral smiled comfortably. "I want you to know exactly where I stand."

Spock pondered this unusual turn for a long mo-ment. It was an unexpected gift that Neral seemed predisposed to unification. But then, he was part of a young, liberal generation of leaders; if he in fact represented the future, there was reason for hope. On the other hand, the proconsul's views were not necessarily those of the rest of the leadership. "Do you believe you can gain the support of the full Senate?" asked Spock.

Neral leaned in to him, speaking not conspiratorial-ly, but with a quiet confidence. "Things are not what they once were in the Senate. The old leaders have lost the respect of the people." He stood and began to pace. "Involvement in the Klingon civil war... endless confrontations with the Federation... The people are tired of it all. Times are changing. Leaders who refuse to change with them-will no longer be leaders."

He turned back to Spock, enthusiasm apparent in every aspect. "Spock, I am prepared to publicly endorse the opening of talks between our peoples." He smiled at Spock's obvious astonishment. "How do you think the Vulcan people will respond to that?"

Spock did not hasten to reply. Things were moving quickly; he preferred to keep his own measured pace. He had found over a lifetime that haste was rarely an ally. Finally he said, "They will be cautious. There are generations of distrust to overcome."

Neral was obviously perplexed by his cautious reply. "But surely," he began, "with a man of your influence leading the way-"

Then a disembodied voice on the Romulan corem system interrupted. "Proconsul," announced the a.s.sociate from her outer chamber, "the Senate has been recalled into session."

Neral frowned briefly, then replied, "Very well." He turned to Spock. "Can we meet again tomorrow?"

"As you wish," offered Spock phlegmatically.