The Sky's The Limit Part 14

He set down his cup, half emptied, but his hand shook again, and it rolled from his grip onto the table. Quickly, he restored the table's sheen with the sleeve of his heavy brown tunic. It was the least conspicuous garment he could find after Commander Riker ordered him to get rid of his Romulan uniform. Staggering a little, he headed toward the bunk.

Why would you need a bunk like that? Romulans would have found the wide, cushioned bunk another reason to taunt him. Especially the female underofficers. He had been lonely there; he was even lonelier here among those who had once been his own.

DeSeve let himself fall onto the soft, smooth covers. The shakes subsided, and he lay still, listening to the "song" of the ship's engines and systems. For the first time in years, a ship's system was tuned to a pitch that did not set his teeth and nerves on edge. He knew that warbirds were deliberately pitched to stimulate production of the Romulans' a.n.a.log for adrenaline. He would keep the lights on, he decided, even if he did let the ship's song lull him all the way back to the Draken sector, even if only debriefing, trial, and disgrace awaited him.

He was locked in, safe. For a little while, he could forget.

The door signal thrust DeSeve back into consciousness. He thrust his hand under the pillow for the disruptor his shipmates had finally decided he was ent.i.tled to call his own. For a moment of pure panic, he had forgotten he had surrendered it at Research Station 25. He had never been given an Honor Blade.

Unarmed, then.

Rising, he raked his fingers through the Romulan military crop he had retained-why? As a mark of what he had been? "C-c-come," he said.

The door slid aside. Standing in it was Deanna Troi, restored to her rightful appearance. That meant nothing: Tal Shiar would have no compunctions about changing their appearance if it accomplished the destruction of Enterprise.

The woman was a head shorter than he and very pale. Her delicate ears were round now, not pointed, and her brow was smooth. Long dark ringlets cascaded halfway down her back over the blue dress she wore instead of a military crop, armored uniform, and spiked harness. Her clothing was almost a gown, with a low neck and soft panels that floated about her as she entered his cabin.

She fixed him with deep, deep dark eyes, then ran one hand over her forehead.

"Beverly calls it 'phantom ridge syndrome,' " she explained with a smile. "It feels good to look like myself again. To act like myself again. You must have found it very difficult to spend twenty years among Romulans."

He stood, feeling like a Krocton dweller hulking over one of the n.o.ble Born.

"Are you still afraid I am truly Major Rakal, not Deanna Troi?" she asked.

He had forgotten that the real Troi was half-Betazoid. An empath. In that case, even his silence would be futile. An officer of the Tal Shiar might deduce that, but what was the point of pretense when she, even unarmed as she seemed, held all the weapons? He shook his head, confused.

"Not as easy to believe me a Romulan agent now that we're face-to-face, is it?" she asked. "Imagine how I felt waking up on board a warbird and seeing myself in the mirror!" She smiled. "This may take some time. Meanwhile..."

DeSeve felt an awkward flush rise from the too-high collar of his tunic, drawing sweat from his face.

Painfully taught Romulan courtesies took over. He bowed and gestured her to the other chair. "What may I offer you?" he asked.

Aside from his soul on a plate and all the information on the empire that he could spill. False to one master, false to all, as the saying went. He foresaw he was going to become very tired of answering questions. Life imprisonment wasn't the worst thing he faced; it was being talked to death, urged to disclose what he felt.

Counselor Troi c.o.c.ked her head at the empty teacup and smiled. "Hot chocolate, please. Whipped cream. And chocolate shavings."

Her smile grew even wider as she contemplated the immense mug he handed her. "Romulan food..." She shuddered. "Especially the viinerine. Just one smell was more than enough."

She settled herself comfortably among the cushions and dipped her face toward the chocolate, inhaling with deep pleasure.

DeSeve found himself laughing helplessly. She had disarmed him. It was impossible to see in this small, curved woman curled up in a chair too big for her as she savored the aroma of hot chocolate the arrogant Tal Shiar officer who had been beamed, however hastily, onto Enterprise. She, or perhaps the chocolate, had finally convinced him. A mild intoxicant to Romulans, chocolate was a minor vice of aristocrats rich enough to smuggle it in. He remembered liking it before he had defected.

"That's better, isn't it? Now that you have decided that I am not Major Rakal. The dissidents killed her and made me take her place." Her dark eyes turned somber. "You may feel that the empire can do with fewer Tal Shiar operatives, but the loss of life..."

Khazara had destroyed the Korvallan freighter that had been supposed to receive M'ret and his aides. She hadn't forgotten those eighteen lives. Probably, she would never forget. After all, she was an empath. She might even regret him. Those deep, forgiving eyes...

He couldn't stand it.

"What's the point?" he snapped. "We all know the price of treason. In some ways, the Federation's tougher than the Romulans. The Federation doesn't execute traitors, so I get to spend the rest of my life in New Zealand talking about my feelings and listening to lectures on rehab."

She shook her head, giving him priority over the chocolate. "You have knowledge that could be very valuable to Starfleet intelligence."

"As it was to Romulus."

She inclined her head. "You are in an awkward situation," she agreed, then shook her head at her own understatement. "But even Commander Riker agrees you helped save the ship when Khazara was cloaked and stalking us. And the Vice-Proconsul is deeply grateful. I was in sickbay with him, and I believe he never forgets those who help him. So you have a possibility of clemency. And even if you didn't, you still have an obligation to yourself to grow and change. To achieve true rehabilitation."

"I almost think I'd rather be ejected from an airlock," he heard himself admit. He felt the unfamiliar stretch of muscles around his mouth in a wry grin.

"From what I understand, you had some close escapes. We should talk further. I shall set up a schedule of appointments and-"

"Picard to Ensign DeSeve. Please be ready in five minutes to be escorted to my ready room," Picard's voice interrupted from a speaker hidden in the bulkhead, rather than from DeSeve's workstation. Ensign. He would have a right to that t.i.tle until he was dishonorably discharged.

Setting aside her chocolate, Counselor Troi rose and smiled as if the captain could see her. "No need for the guards, Captain. I'll bring him up with me."

Once again, DeSeve found himself smiling as he stood aside for her to precede him out the door.

In Captain Picard's ready room, twin rows of light glowed above the textured russet bulkheads. Starlight, refracted into streaks of rainbow fire, shone through the ports. The captain sat at his desk, with Lieutenant Worf standing at his back at full attention and full glare.

"Mister DeSeve," said Picard, "my other guests wanted the opportunity to meet you."

Other guests? The captain was acting as if DeSeve was not under arrest.

Seated by Picard's desk was a tall Romulan, whose sharp, distinguished features were familiar to any subject of the empire. DeSeve had last seen him lying on Enterprise's bridge in stasis. Behind him, half hidden in the shadows, stood two younger men. All wore quasi-military gray suits seamed in darker fabrics that looked like black velvet.

As Counselor Troi entered the room, DeSeve at her heels, Vice-Proconsul M'ret rose. He favored her with a sharp, admiring smile and an inclination of the head. Then he stepped forward, his shrewd, well-informed gaze on DeSeve himself. For an instant, DeSeve saw the desolation in his eyes, a mirror of the losses he himself felt. Of a home. An allegiance. His honor. All for reasons he had thought good. All gone.

DeSeve straightened to attention. Just in time, he stopped himself from bringing his fist up in salute. Instead, he bowed. Less deeply than appropriate, but who here besides the Romulans would know to rebuke him? A deeper bow might antagonize Captain Picard and definitely would annoy the Klingon. The courtesies of a culture he had abandoned were simply not worth the risk.

To DeSeve's shock, the aristocrat gave him a nod of approval before reaching out to shake his hand in the human style.

"n.o.ble Born," DeSeve murmured.

If you believed some rumors, M'ret was of the Imperial line. If you believed others, he was part Vulcan.

"Just M'ret," the Romulan corrected him.

A tilt of his head summoned his aides forward. They bowed in disciplined unison, masking the loss they shared with their chief. None of the three wore body armor under their costly suits. They had left that behind, with-he noticed-the Honor Blades they would not dishonor by taking into exile.

He could not resist glancing over at Worf, who looked predictably outraged. Almost, but not quite, he growled. M'ret, who had been watching a tank of gleaming fish with some wistfulness, favored the Klingon with another sharp, quick smile, finding such consolation as he could in Worf's discomfort.

"Captain," came Commander Riker's voice from the bridge. "Incoming message from Draken IV. Admiral William Ross."

"Put him through, please, Number One." Picard rose punctiliously.

DeSeve started to back away. Surely three sought-after Romulan defectors had to be of more importance to an admiral than one aging Starfleet traitor. He blinked, forcing his eyes back into focus. Surrept.i.tiously, he touched a bulkhead. Something about the vibrations in bulkhead and deck troubled him. He dismissed it as nerves, of a piece with his stammer. Twenty years of fear and only disgrace to look forward to could do that to a man. He forced himself not to flinch.

But the way the ship was tuned had started to sound wrong.

Worf growled. Odd that the Klingon sensed what Romulans with their Vulcanoid hearing apparently did not. But Worf knew this ship. He heard it too. M'ret's two aides, hearing only Klingon anger, bristled.

"Gentlemen," M'ret murmured. They subsided without looking at Worf, awaiting further orders.

The blue seal of the Federation formed on Picard's desktop monitor, angled now so that the captain and all his guests could see it, and bright enough to make DeSeve's eyes water. By the time they cleared, Admiral Ross's image had replaced it.

"Captain"-he acknowledged Picard, gesturing for him to seat himself once again-"I understand you had some difficulty making pickup."

"We encountered d'Deridex-cla.s.s imperial warbird Khazara, Toreth commanding, sir. You should be in receipt of Counselor Troi's report by now."

The admiral nodded. Even from his limited field of vision, he surveyed the ready room. The tired, pained look on his face at the sight of DeSeve only intensified his resemblance to the man from whom DeSeve flinched every day in the mirror, from burly height to graying hair to the jowls of early middle age. If only DeSeve's loyalty had matched his waywardness of mind, he might have been someone like Ross.

"My thanks, Counselor. And my regrets for your kidnapping. An investigation is in progress to prevent additional such incidents."

"Thank you, sir."

Picard returned to business. "Admiral, may I present our guests?"

"I think I am fairly well acquainted with them, by reputation at least," Ross answered. Now, that was an answer that could cut several ways.

Intelligence, DeSeve thought. This admiral had to have deep connections with it, or Starfleet would not have selected him to receive M'ret.

"Mister Vice-Proconsul. Gentlemen." Ross inclined his head.

A formal nod from M'ret. Stiffer bows, accompanied by old-fashioned heel clicks, from his aides.

"I am somewhat premature in welcoming you and your aides to Federation s.p.a.ce, but there has been a change in plans."

Picard paused as if listening to something. Then he stiffened, clearly prepared to take Enterprise to Red Alert.

"Nothing like that, Captain. We sent out patrol ships and enabled our tachyon detection grids the instant your first transmission arrived. Vice-Proconsul, we had planned for you and your aides..."

"N'veran and Revaik." M'ret supplied their names crisply, as if Admiral Ross had been courteous enough to ask. They were of old families; they deserved the dignity of an introduction, even to an admiral. After all, who knew what Ross's parentage might be?

Stop thinking Romulan, DeSeve rebuked himself. Birth doesn't matter, only integrity.

"...to be debriefed here. In fact, that's why I came out to take charge of this operation. However, Vulcan has convinced us of the logic"-Ross almost concealed his grimace-"of debriefing Romulans on Vulcan."

Some things didn't change. Vulcan was at least as politically obsessed as Romulus. Spock, although officially under his homeworld's censure, retained a number of highly efficient and influential contacts there.

"In fact, Vulcan is most insistent that we make early contact. They even sent out a legate who insists that if you do not make all deliberate speed, he will take his own ship out to meet you."

DeSeve could see Picard brace himself for a display of logic that would be called arrogant from any lesser being than a Vulcan.

"A legate?" Picard mused. "Not an amba.s.sador?"

The admiral rose, gesturing to someone offscreen to take his place.

"I requested this mission." The man who faced them now was deeper voiced and taller than the admiral. He seemed energetic by nature, restrained only by his heavy robes of office.

"As the most logical choice of envoy and host." His voice became more solemn. "I name thee guest friends." The words sounded like something out of the most solemn of Romulan observances, the ones where redbloods, to use a term that was in official disfavor but wide use, were permitted to listen only in the back rows, if at all.

The legate raised his hand, his fingers parted. "I am Ruanek, legate of Vulcan. I come to serve." Then, astonishingly, he grinned.

"You!" M'ret seemed to unbend. "So you wound up on Vulcan after all! Spock never told me. Nor did she."

"Plausible deniability," said the legate-who-was-no-Vulcan. "How is your lady?"

"Disappointed at my choices. But she will survive. That is her great genius. To combine survival with honor." M'ret turned to Picard. "I have known Amba.s.sador Spock since I was an eaglet. He doesn't make mistakes, not that I know of, but he is highly adept at compelling others to make them."

Ruanek and Picard shook their heads, almost identical gestures. Picard narrowed his eyes, as if concentrating on the same vibrations that made DeSeve swallow with increasing dizziness.

"Well, Captain?" the legate asked. "Shall I rendezvous with the Enterprise? We have not traveled together since 2344. But I am disappointed. I was given to understand that you visited the homeworld, but it seems you still have not received the medal you won in our last encounter." His eyes glinted with mischief.

"I prefer peace and quiet to ceremony." Picard smiled. Then his face changed. "It is indeed agreeable to see you."

Ruanek bowed. His face twisted with an emotion DeSeve identified as sorrow before he got it under control "I had heard that you had helped Amba.s.sador Sarek complete his last mission. So the rumors were true after all," he murmured.

Picard nodded once. "The need was sufficient." For an instant, his voice resumed that ceremonial tone. "I see no logic...there is no reason for you to take a small craft out into what could be disputed s.p.a.ce. We should reach you in twenty-three hours forty-five minutes..."

The "legate" laughed. "Captain, it would very much please me if you would honor my house with your presence along with my other guest friends," he said. "I have a case of Chateau Picard 2360 Burgundy in what I believe to be appropriate storage, a thing that is difficult to achieve on Vulcan. I am reliably informed that it is just becoming drinkable. I would be honored to return hospitality I thought never to be able to repay."

Again, Picard's face went almost Vulcan. "A life for a life. It is I who can never repay you."

M'ret raised an eyebrow. Deanna Troi's eyes grew moist. They were the only ones who seemed to understand.

"Legate, if your people have finished your highly illogical and highly cla.s.sified reminiscences," Ross cut in, "I have a station on alert to run. Captain, if you will..."

His words ended in a shriek as Enterprise lurched, then lurched again, trying to reach equilibrium. High warp caught the ship and seemed to make it twist. Now the vibrations of its song howled upward until the three Romulans winced as it reached pitches only they could hear.

Beyond the windows, the starfield flared, spun, and flickered back into the normal rainbows of warp speed. Admiral Ross's image re-formed, grainy, then blacked out again. The screen flickered from black to a kind of fluorescent purple, kindling to a white that hurt the eyes.

DeSeve fell forward, one hand catching the table. He thought he could see his bones. He looked away and for an instant saw what seemed to be a room full of skeletons.

"Red Alert!" Picard shouted. "Number One, come about!"

Again, Enterprise lurched, struggling to obey the helm.

"Engineering," Picard spoke more quietly. "Report."

Commander Riker answered first, shouting from the bridge. "We've dropped out of warp. Impulse engines and structural integrity are intact, Captain. Life support operational. Ship's systems are on emergency power. Radiation levels are rising, though."

Worf, struggling with the impossibility of both guarding his captain in the ready room and returning to his duty station on the bridge, strode away to check his tactical console after a sharp nod from Picard. His voice boomed over the comm. "Khazara's disruptor beam had almost no power."

"It was linked to the transporter," came Data's lighter tones, also from the bridge. "We know very little about Romulan technology."

"We should not instantly a.s.sume we are under attack," Picard said. "Do you detect any ships?"

"None, sir," replied Riker. "No imbalances, and no signs from the gravitic sensors. Data, get down to engineering to tune the tachyon detection grid."