Random
Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
Comments, praise, questions, and criticism are more than welcome.
This story is part of a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt. The See Kirk-Brandt Chronology." lists all the stories, both in order of occurrence and order of creation.
NOTE: This story takes place about a two years after ST:TMP. It contains references to past missions, most of which have been undocumented until now. I've tried to summarize them sufficiently within the story so that it can stand alone.
Part 1
Brandt swore softly as she woke to the sound of the wall comm's whistle. She sat up, moaning against the ache of muscles called back into action too soon. She padded across the cold floor, following the blinking light to her destination. Shaking herself awake and clearing her throat with a harsh cough, she pressed her hand to the comm and said, "Brandt here."
"Lieutenant Radley, Captain, base communications. I'm patching in HQ. Stand by, please."
The sharp click told her she'd been put on hold. Slumping against the wall, she scratched herself through her underwear and gazed blearily at the chron. Nearly 0230. She'd arrived on Starbase 11 less than three hours ago. The end of an undercover assignment always left her somewhat disoriented and she'd learned that a good night's sleep and waking up in familiar surroundings was the most reliable formula for re-acclimating herself. Yawning, she looked around the sleeping compartment. Its stark military anonymity was definitely familiar, but three hours' sleep would hardly constitute a good--
She straightened in surprise as her CO's voice came on.
Aw, fuck, she mouthed as he continued.
"...and it requires someone with your particular qualifications."
The weariness in his tone came across quite clearly despite the light-years between the starbase and Earth. Putting her irritation aside, she replied, "Of course, sir. When do I leave?"
"Report to the base commander's office in ten minutes. He'll fill you in. Skorheim out."
The light on the comm went dark and she heaved a disgruntled sigh as she retrieved her uniform from the wall locker.
"Aye aye, sir. You betcha, sir. Sleep? Never heard of it, sir," she muttered as she pulled on her trousers, wondering which of her particular qualifications was about to be given a workout.
"Phillips, get us some fresh coffee," Commodore Mendez said to his aide as he ushered Brandt into his office.
"How do you take it, Captain?" Phillips asked.
"Strong and black, thank you."
Mendez sat on the edge of his desk and gestured toward the straight-backed chair opposite. Brandt sat down and, as the door shut behind Phillips, Mendez folded his hands across his knee and said, "I'll get right to the point, Captain. I have a hostage situation."
"Yes. In the VIP compound, to be exact."
"VIP," Brandt repeated softly.
"Are you familiar with the compound, Captain?"
"I've visited Starbase 11 several times as you know, sir, but I've been in the VIP compound only once, when it was under construction."
"That would have been nearly twenty years ago."
"Yes, sir." When Mendez said nothing, she continued, "I was visiting a friend here on base. He was with the Corps of Engineers and he--"
Phillips returned and set two mugs on the desk. A swirl of steam rose from each, generously disbursing the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. As Mendez dismissed Phillips, Brandt took one of the mugs and wrapped both hands around it. The first touch of heat smarted but it was soon followed by the welcome comfort of slow-penetrating warmth.
Alone once more with the commodore, Brandt said, "Who are the--"
"Drink your coffee," Mendez ordered gently. "I need you awake."
"Sir, I'm fully awake. Tell me what's going on."
Brandt rarely drank coffee off-duty, but it was one of the staples of her professional life and as she obediently took a sip, she realized that Mendez had been right to insist on it. That first taste carried the familiar bite of "duty calls." She looked at him over the edge of the mug and saw a shrewd understanding that told her he knew exactly what she was feeling.
"Just what I needed. Thank you, sir."
He nodded and said, "You're welcome. Now, to the matter at hand. At this moment, a lunatic with a phaser rifle is holding three hostages in the VIP compound."
"One lunatic? Beam in a tranquilizer bomb."
"It's the Frivathen royal family, Captain. If he singes one hair on their fuzzy pelts, there will be hell to pay. And besides, the compound has its own independent shielding which is controlled from within. We're having no success accessing any of those systems or cutting through the force field."
"Sounds like a very capable lunatic," Brandt observed as she raised her mug for another sip.
"He says his name is Black, but we believe he's a Starfleet officer."
"Actually, I think he's one of your lunatics. He said he'll only talk to a 'records officer' grade B12B or higher. I contacted Starfleet Command and learned that--"
"--just such a person was fast asleep in your officers' club."
"Yes. Black also said, 'When you get someone, tell them to think about the first lesson.'"
"I was hoping you'd know. What's the first lesson?"
Brandt set down her mug and pressed her fingertips together pensively. "Since he asked for a B12B or better, he's familiar with Special Ops grading. I think we can safely assume he knows about the training as well. The first lesson is look-but-don't-look."
"It's an observation technique. For instance, when you're in a restaurant and you see someone that you want to point out without being obvious, you say 'Look but don't look.'"
"And you needed training for that?"
"To do it really well, yes. Most people can't observe something without giving away what they're doing. By the way, it's probably not a good idea to leave your personal correspondence out in the open like that. Your wife certainly has a way with words, doesn't she?" She smiled wryly as he reddened and covered the exposed papers. "Detachment, diversion, compartmentalization--it's all part of abstract observation and directed memory."
Brandt sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, did you wake me up to handle the situation or to train you to do it?"
"Point noted, Captain. But what does all that have to do with our current problem?"
"I don't know. Maybe Black will tell me. Fill me in on what's gone on so far. How did he get in, how long has he been there, what's the physical setup?"
The commodore went around to the other side of his desk and said, "Computer, display the floor plans of the VIP compound." Indicating that Brandt should take the desk chair, he explained, "We don't know how he got in, but about two hours ago, he cleared the building with high-pitched sonics everywhere except in the quarters occupied by the three Frivathen. I first spoke to him an hour ago. He said he'll contact me again at 0400. I have a squad of marines surrounding the compound and six sharp-shooters on the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. The whole base is on alert."
"I didn't hear anything," she said, knowing that the whoop of the claxon would have roused her from the deepest sleep.
"Right now, it's a silent alert. I see no reason to advertise our dilemma. And I'm hoping you can wrap this up before word leaks out."
She went to the window and looked down at the quadrangle. Ordinarily, it was brightly lit at all hours, but now it was shrouded in an unnatural gray, eerily disassociated from day or night. She imagined the armed guards standing among the shadows, outwardly resolute and inwardly wondering if their late-night exercise was only a drill. Looking up, she saw a few indistinct blobs of light where the sky should have been peppered with stars.
Full force-field, she thought with approval. No one beaming in or out.
"Captain? HQ said this is your baby. If you want me to call off the marines..."
She turned to Mendez and saw a patient expectancy in his stance and expression. A commodore waiting for her orders because this was 'her baby.' She'd had little contact with him in the past, but she'd heard he was ran a tight base and was a bit of an authoritarian. It had to stick in his craw that he'd been given no opportunity to resolve the crisis on his own, yet here he was, subordinating himself to her without blinking an eyelash. She caught herself thinking 'Good man,' and was glad that the audacious comment hadn't reached her lips.
"No, leave the marines in place," she said. "Make sure they stay visible. The last thing I want is for Black to think that we're not taking him seriously."
Moving to the computer, she turned her mind to the mysterious Mr. Black and wondered just how he had acquired his knowledge of Special Ops.
"I'd like to hear the recording of your conversation with Black, if I may, sir."
An hour later, Brandt sat back and pressed her fingers to her eyes. When she looked at the computer screen again, the floor plan of the VIP compound swam slightly and then snapped back into focus. The ballroom was located deep within the main building and had only one entrance. She wondered how its notable guests felt walking through those long twisting hallways to get to a party. Maybe they beamed in, pleased to have their finery enhanced by the shimmer of the transporter effect.
The desk comm whistled just as the chron in the corner of the computer screen flashed 0400. Mendez turned away from his position at the window and said, "He's prompt."
Good officers always are, she thought as she pushed her chair back, allowing the commodore to step in and respond.
After a brief silence, a synthetic voice answered flatly, "Hello, Commodore. Black here. Any news for me?"
Brandt leaned forward, straining to discern any nuance in his speech although she was certain he was modulating his voice through some artificial means, probably the universal translator. Mendez had told her that they'd run a voice analysis on the earlier conversation and even after filtering out the distortions, they'd come up empty-handed on identification. She had agreed with his conclusion that Black was running his words through several translations before rendering them back into Standard. It was an old but effective method of preserving the original message but delivering it in the colorless voice of a machine. But most people would have found it almost impossible to program the translator to randomly flip through the different modulations with enough rapidity to significantly hinder analysis.
"Yes, Mr. Black," the commodore said. "I have someone here who fits the profile you requested. Captain Suzanne Brandt."
"Brandt, is it?" the voice buzzed softly.
Brandt tensed. Proper names were the same in any language, and for one brief moment, she heard something other than a machine. There was something about the way he drew out the 'a' in her name...
Mendez stepped aside and she moved forward to speak into the comm.
"Yes, Mr. Black, I'm Captain Suzanne Brandt."
"That was quick. How are you?"
"Alive and well, thank you for asking."
"Then how do I know they're alive and well?"
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then she leaned in to the comm and asked abruptly, "Mr. Black, have we met?"
She glanced over at Mendez, noting that the furrows on his brow had deepened. She gestured noncommittally--'worth a try'--and turned back to the comm.
"Propose an exchange." He chuckled. "You've really got this down, don't you? If I let the hostages go, you'll take their place, right? Frankly, that's not a very tempting offer. No deal."
"If there's someone else you'd rather speak to--"
"No, I don't have a lot of time and you're here."
"All right. What would you like to tell me?"
His quick response told her that he was no longer filtering his speech through the translations. The distortion program was obviously still running, but it failed to diminish the sudden sharp bite of his words.
"Oh, Brandt, throw down the fucking script, will you? We both know where this is going. I tell you my demands, you say you're not agreeing to anything until you see the furry bluebloods safe and sound, we go back and forth on that--and I swear to god, if you get my mother on the line, I'll shoot the heir apparent just to punish you for lack of originality--but eventually, you're going to ask to join us. So why don't we skip all that and you can just waltz your ass in here for a little face time?"
"Is that what you want, Mr. Black?"
"Because you're my friend, right?"
"No, I'm not your friend. But I'm the only one here who can help you."
Her terse explanation of her role was answered by a crackling rat-tat-tat of laughter.
"God, I love working with a professional! Nice touch, that disarming honesty to prove that you're not a bullshitter. I'm not falling for it, but I appreciate the effort. All right. You know the drill. You come alone and unarmed. We're in the main ballroom. I'm assuming you've studied the floor plan so you know where that is. Take the most direct route from the main entrance and keep your hands visible at all times. I'll be watching."
There was a soft click followed by the flat hiss of dead air. She rested her hands on the desk, drumming her fingers against the cool surface. Glancing up at Mendez, she considered asking him exactly which personnel records had been scanned in the voice comparison. Or more to the point, which had not. But she was A14B and a person with that kind of rating knew better than to plant the seeds of speculation if she couldn't count on a good harvest.
"Brandt, did you recognize him? Do you know who that was?"
She stood and walked away, her pace slow and pensive. "No. I was just fishing."
She looked back at him and smiled ruefully. "Not yet."
His frown darkened and she responded with a cool gaze, already presenting the mask of unflappability that she hoped would serve her well in the challenge ahead.
"All right, Captain," he capitulated unwillingly. "As I said, it's your baby. If you're ready to go to the compound, there's a flitter waiting for us."
"Then there's no point in prolonging the suspense."
After a journey through empty corridors that seemed much longer than it actually was, she rounded the final corner and stopped in front of a set of double doors that stood nearly three stories tall. They were unadorned and she remembered Adam Cheswell, her friend from the Corps of Engineers, explaining the controversy over what was intended to be the showplace of the otherwise stark VIP compound. The designer's philosophy had been, 'Regardless of the beauty within, the entrance to a room that celebrates music should be in harmony with the rest of the building,' and it was his vision that had won out in the end. So, except for their size, the doors to the ballroom were no different from the many others she had passed on the way. Their surface was flat and untinted, unapologetic about its synthesteel origins. The ceiling of the vestibule in which she stood was rounded, arcing from the top of the doorway to the floor behind her. As she approached the doors, the sound of her footfalls rolled along the curve of the ceiling and fell to the floor in back of her so that the echo of her approach sneaked up from behind like a ghost.
Steeling herself before the enormous portals, she pulled her tunic straight and opened her mouth to announce herself, but before she could do so, the doors began parting. She felt the usual puff of air, but instead of the customary hsst, she heard a sound like a light breeze through soft branches, not at all what she would have expected from the movement of the two immense panels. A strange half-light poured through the opening, growing in intensity as the doors slowly glided apart. She waited until they were fully open and then stepped into the room, blinking into a light that was now nearly blinding.
The words boomed out of nowhere and everywhere and reverberated all around her.
Walking slowly but without hesitation, she looked around, searching for a hole in the blanket of white, a wrinkle of color, anything.
"All right," she called. "I'm here. And I'm not impressed by this little show. So why don't you--"
"I AM OZ, THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE."
The pronouncement stopped her dead in her tracks and when she found her voice, she replied sadly, "No, you're not. You're--"
Suddenly the illumination dropped to a more standard level. It took her a moment to refocus and then she could see the sconces glowingly softly, their gentle light shimmering on the polished surfaces of the ballroom. There were no windows and she remembered Cheswell describing the murals and backgrounds that were being developed for the ballroom. However, none of the holographic programming that had won galaxy-wide renown were on display at the moment. The walls, floor, and ceiling blended seamlessly, the smooth blue-black of Nuskian granite giving no hint of the images that could be summoned to its surface.
"Had you going, didn't I?" The sardonic drawl came from behind her.
She turned and saw a man step out from a darkened niche on one side of the entrance. A phaser rifle was slung from his shoulder and he carried an object in each hand. He moved toward her, his carriage casual and unthreatening despite the presence of a weapon, and she told herself that she didn't recognize his gait. But when he stood before her, she barely heard his words over the pounding of her heart.
"Manhattan straight up, right?"
His hand brushed hers as he handed her an elegant glass filled with amber liquid. His fingertips were cool to the touch.
From the shaker, the ice in the cocktail shaker, she argued, not allowing herself to imagine that the chill went deeper than that.
"Cheers," he said, raising the glass he had kept for himself. When she didn't respond, he said, "Oh, I forgot. No drinking on duty. Well, you'll excuse me, won't you?"
He up-ended his glass and drained it in one long swallow. Then he looked at her and the soul-deep sadness in his familiar brown eyes dredged up memories that had gone unvisited for longer than she cared to think about.
"Hello, Captain," he said softly as he took the glass from her hand, which trembled at the touch of a dead man.
Part 2
Feeling joy and terror and unwilling to give in to either, she blinked back the tears she'd refused to shed at his funeral, because she'd known, dammit, they'd lied to her and she'd known it and she'd also known it was one of those lies that you didn't question unless you wanted to appear irretrievably naive.
She started to speak but he silenced her with a gesture.
"Don't say anything you don't want the three bears to hear," he whispered conspiratorially as he nodded toward the area behind her.
She spun around and saw the royal family of Frivathen looking very much like the three bears. Papa, Mama, and Baby Bear, wrapped in heavy nightrobes, were clutching each other's furry hands as they huddled close together on appropriately sized chairs.
"Go on, Goldilocks, say hello."
Over her shoulder, she shot an angry look at the man who had set this scene. Unmoved, he sipped at her drink and nudged her in the back with the rifle.
She went to the family and said in a voice that she hoped communicated more calm than she felt, "Your Majesties, I'm Captain Suzanne Brandt of Starfleet Special Ops. I'm here to help you."
The largest of the bears--dammit, she had to quit thinking of them that way--the largest of the Frivathen nodded. She saw a quiet intelligence in his face and she silently congratulated him on quelling his fear and confusion. She saw both in the body language of his wife and son.
"Have any of you been harmed in any way?" she asked.
"No," the king said, clipping the word to something more like 'Nuh.'
"Has he said anything to you? Told you why he's holding you?"
"No. In fact, when I asked him which of my enemies had hired him, he seemed surprised. 'You have enemies?' he said."
"All right. I'm going to talk to him--"
"You cannot reason with him, Captain. He told me he is a madman and I believe him."
I'm not so sure of that, Brandt thought.
"Nevertheless, I have to try," she said. "Please don't interfere. Just sit tight and stay calm. Believe me, I am going to secure your release."
With a respectful nod, she turned and started back toward the middle of the ballroom.
"You will have to kill him," the king's voice rumbled.
She didn't pause in her stride, but she felt his words settle on her like an unexpectedly heavy burden.
How the hell can I do that when he's already dead? she asked herself.
Black had dragged two chairs to the middle of the room and positioned them facing each other. He was standing near one and she went to the other, her eyes moving back and forth between Black and the neatly folded pile of dark blue fabric on the seat of her chair.
"Don't sit down," he said. "I don't suppose you're carrying anything, but I can't take that chance. Someone once told me never to overlook the obvious. So strip, Captain."
When her hands remained at her side, he swung the rifle in the direction of the Frivathen.
"Captain, do I need to take someone out to get you to cooperate?"
Swallowing a reluctance that had more to do with loss of authority than loss of clothing, she began undressing, remembering the last time a terrorist had decided to induce her cooperation. Twenty-two deaths, a pageant of executions to convince the Teslaran government that its enemies were a threat to be taken seriously.
That has nothing to do with this, she told herself as she dropped her tunic to the floor. He can't know about Teslara. It was pure chance that he used those words.
Pushing aside the gruesome memory, she began using her movements as a cover for a study of her surroundings. The hostages were at one end of the room and the doorway was at the other, with the two chairs centered between them. He'd left less than three feet between the chairs, not as much maneuvering room as she would have liked. Perhaps if she could get him moving...
"Nice," he murmured appreciatively and she realized she had removed the last of her clothing without thinking about it. He clicked his tongue regretfully. "I'd love to conduct this negotiation 'au naturel,' but I'm afraid you'd be a little too distracting. I might do something foolish."
He smiled at her and she knew they were both thinking of the day when she'd warned a young communications officer about being foolishly distracted.
"That's for you," he said gesturing toward the fabric folded on her chair. "I won't do a cavity search. I'm pretty sure I can shoot you before you manage to whip a phaser out of your ass."
She picked up the fabric and shook it out. The one-piece worksuit had no markings, no insignia, nothing except its size to differentiate it from the one he wore. And even though smaller than his, it was too large for her. Had he done that deliberately, to make her look smaller, more helpless? She pulled it on, sealed the front, rolled up the sleeves and cuffs, and pulled the belt tight in an attempt to negate the "little girl" effect.
"May I put my boots back on?" she asked.
"Of course not. God only knows what you're capable of with those. Step away from your clothes."
He never looked away from her as he picked up her discarded uniform and rummaged through it with his free hand. When he found her communicator, he jerked it off her belt and tossed it to her, saying, "You need to check in, don't you?"
She flipped it open and its hiccuping trill was answered almost instantly.
"Commodore, this is Captain Brandt. I'm in the ballroom with Mr. Black and the royal family. They're unharmed. We'll begin our negotiations shortly. I'll check in again--"
She gave Black a questioning look and he shrugged amiably.
"--when I have something further to report. Brandt out."
He held out his hand and she gave him the communicator. He snapped it shut and said, "Come with me."
Side by side, they approached the entrance and she saw that the interior of the doors matched the walls so perfectly that they were almost undetectable when closed. They passed near enough to activate the access sensors, but she wasn't surprised when the doors didn't open. She caught him watching her for a reaction, which she was careful not to display.
He gave an amused snort and said, "Not impressed with my program modifications? Well, the night is young." He looked around, frowning. "Now where is it? Ah! Over here." He led her to a spot several feet to the right of the entrance and said, "Cycler."
A panel in the wall slid away, revealing an open chute. He tossed in her uniform and communicator and, as they tumbled out of view, there was a short flash of light. She had expected to see the communicator destroyed, but the loss of her uniform was dismaying. The fiber "bug" woven into her collar was a recent innovation and she'd hoped his knowledge of Special Ops' devices was out of date by at least a few months. As they returned to the chairs, she wondered how he had managed to keep so well informed.
"Have a seat," he said as he set one foot on the chair opposite her. "Sorry about the cheap dramatics, but I didn't have a lot of time. When I asked for a B12B, I thought it would take them at least a day or two to get someone in here. But here you are, johnny on the spot. However I can provide a bit of a show, although it's not my own creation. Watch. Night sky one."
The room brightened suddenly with new illumination.
"Sconces off," he ordered and the room was plunged into a blackness that was broken only by the pinpoints of light in the domed ceiling.
She looked up and saw a familiar sight.
"San Francisco, summer night," he said as he sank into his chair. "It's nice that they have that one, isn't it? I didn't have time to do much programming. If I had, I might've added a breeze, a good sharp one off the bay. Oh, well. Night sky two!"
The lights shifted and the illusion of the galaxy tilting steeply was so convincing that she grabbed her chair to keep from falling. She heard the Frivathen cry out in alarm. Glancing over at them, she saw that the king looked only slightly shaken. He issued a short command in his own tongue. With a visible effort, the queen calmed herself and hushed the child. Grimly aware that hysteria could drive them to actions that would impede her efforts, Brandt prayed that the king would be able to maintain control over his family.
"Winter arrived rather suddenly, didn't it?" Black chortled. "Night sky two off, three on!"
Another quick blackout obliterated the pattern overhead, which was replaced almost immediately by another arrangement, one that was densely packed with brilliant starfire, almost more light than dark.
"Kyros," he said but she'd already recognized the constellations of her home world. "Rather a strange choice, I think. It's such a backwater. But lots of pretty stars, don't you agree?"
Then he moved swiftly through Rigel, Vulcan, Andor, Numaui, Wrigley's--She began to feel dizzy from the constant change. She heard fearful whimpering that seemed to come from very far away. She tore her eyes away from the clustered stars over Arcanis and saw the smallest Frivathen had crawled onto his mother's lap and was sobbing into her shoulder.
"There's no need to frighten them," she snapped.
"No, there isn't. And it would take more than this little exhibition to shake you up, wouldn't it? There's just one more I want to show you." He turned to the Frivathen and shouted, "Just one more? One more, all right? Any objections?" Met with icy silence, he smiled. "There's always a certain classiness about the snobbery of royals. Fade in night sky ten! Gradual to full!"
The stars of Arcanis slowly retreated as a new pattern took their place. A chill moved up Brandt's spine as she realized that this new configuration wasn't confining itself to the ceiling. It crept down the walls and across the floor, closing in on them from all sides until only a small patch of black circled the two chairs. She thought the scrap of darkness would continue to shrink gradually but the last few stars swept across it as if gently thrown by an unseen hand.
"Do you recognize this one?" he asked.
She scanned the room, twisting in her chair to examine the glimmering lights around her. There were no planets, no moons, no clouds of gas, no nebulae, no meteors, no recognizable constellations. Nothing at all by which she could fix a position.
"That's because it's random," he explained. "Chances are that somewhere in the universe, this pattern has existed, does exist, or will exist, but it's not one we've discovered yet. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
His awestruck tone drew her attention back to him and for a moment, she thought perhaps he was hypnotized by the exotic starscape he'd conjured.
She was halfway to her feet when the floor fell away beneath her.
Her knees buckled and as she fell back into her chair, she realized that the floor was still quite solid, despite the fact that her eyes were conveying a very different message. The sea of stars was spiraling downward at an impossible speed. Dumbstruck by the falling stars darting away from her, she stared after the short-lived trails of light that traced their paths. Finally, each spark settled into place and the dizzying retreat ended. Refusing to be further shaken by the fathomless depth of the display, she reminded herself that such imagery, no matter how realistic, was merely the latest innovation in smoke and mirrors. But the illusion of being suspended within a sphere of anonymous stars was inescapable.
"It's hard to feel important in the middle of all this randomness, isn't it?" he asked.
"What do you want?" she asked, speaking a little sharply, determined not to let her voice quiver.
"Possess your soul in patience, Captain. We need one more thing."
She heard it faintly at first, the ping of a delicate hammer striking fine crystal. Then another and another and another, each peal timed precisely, sounding just before the previous one faded, renewing the tone before it could die. The sound grew, gathering strength and substance, and as the ringing continued, its unstoppable regularity was almost maddening.
Get on it with it, she thought impatiently, not sure if she was addressing the music or the man who had summoned it.
Finally, a new voice sounded, filling the spaces unclaimed by the ringing crystal. She recognized the long, drawn-out bowing of the lyada, largest of the Vulcan stringed instruments. The impossibly low note stretched across the starry expanse, a solemn hymn to its own power.
"I've always thought that was the voice of God," he said, his words filled with wonder and heartbreak.
The note held, smooth and unbroken, and above it, the song of the crystals soared, but now there was harmony and movement to its brightness. The expanding melody ran and leaped, dancing high above the sonorous bass below.
She nodded. "T'Surr's 'Out of the Void.'"
"Yes. Listen a minute and then we can talk."
As the music slowly revealed itself, she studied the man across from her. His free hand waved softly to the rhythm and he appeared to be completely absorbed in the symphony. But she knew better than to trust appearances and she grimly noted that the hand that held the rifle was quite still and very near the trigger.
Look but don't look. Maybe others would fall for his apparent preoccupation...
She glanced over at the Frivathen and saw the king frowning an imperious 'Do something!' She shook her head quickly and when she turned back to her opponent, she saw his lips curved in a sly acknowledgement of her silent exchange with the king.
A gong summoned the participation of the horns, and as the bright fanfare rang out in celebration of its own beauty, she finally allowed herself to examine the impossibility that had first presented itself when Mendez' comm unit had whispered, "Brandt, is it?"
Lieutenant Commander Nels Jorgensen.
She tried to remember the first time she'd met him. It was at least twelve years ago. He would have been an ensign then, probably one of several junior officers beaming aboard the Constellation. She imagined she had greeted them on behalf of Commodore Decker, told them their gear would be stowed in their new quarters, and directed them to their respective department heads. She couldn't be sure that was the way it happened--as second-in-command, she'd greeted so many new crewmen--but she did remember a subsequent discussion with the commodore. They'd been in Matt's quarters reviewing the service records of some newly berthed officers when Jorgensen's area of specialization caught her eye.
"Matt, why did you request another communications officer? That department is almost overstaffed as it is."
Decker leaned back in his chair and launched into one of the fatherly lectures that marked his command style.
"When a standout like Jorgensen becomes available, I make it a policy to snap him up whether I have an immediate need or not. I got a very good weapons officer that way a few years ago. Seems to me I didn't need her right away, either."
Brandt smiled at the compliment, remembering her gratitude when Decker had responded to her not very subtle hints about being under-utilized on a science vessel that only fired its phasers to make sure they were still working.
"What makes Ensign Jorgensen so remarkable?" she asked.
"For starters, he decrypted the communications from a computer that was randomly cycling through the frequencies. It was a simulator challenge, but in its way, it's as revealing as the Kobayashi Maru or a live crisis situation."
"Impressive. So what do we do with him now?"
Decker smiled. "That's your job, First Officer. Between you and Commander Wopak, I'm sure you can keep him occupied. I don't want that kid requesting a transfer because he's bored, understood?"
She examined Jorgensen now, looking for some evidence of 'that kid' and finding only a cold, dangerous stranger. The open warmth that had been as much a part of his likeness as a crooked nose and curly hair was nowhere to be seen. A bitter austerity now blanketed the comfortable features she had always read so easily.
Suddenly, she remembered quite clearly the moment she had first seen him. Standing in the transporter room before five new additions to the crew, she'd read off their names. When he answered to "Ensign Nels Jorgensen," she'd tried to hide her surprise, but apparently he was used to getting a reaction.
"Yes, sir," he'd said sheepishly, "the name is a little misleading."
Mixing among Terrans of all colors was no longer unusual, but even so, one would expect a person with a Swedish name to display a few Nordic features. But the grandfather for whom Nels was named had passed on none of his physical characteristics, and traits such as blue eyes and blond hair had been drowned in the overwhelming browns of the rest of the family. She remembered his gentle teasing every time the 'fairskins' like herself had blacked their hands and faces for night maneuvers.
"Oooo, I shudder when I think of what your showers are going to look like in the morning."
That had been after she'd recruited him to join her in Special Ops, something that had resulted in another lecture from Commodore Decker. She'd been in Special Ops only a few months and knew how the regular Fleet officers regarded her request for a transfer to the 'spooks.' Giving up command of a ship? Unbelievable. Especially when she'd been promoted ahead of older officers hungry for that position. And to turn around and steal Decker's best comm officer when Matt had given her the opportunities that had led to her promotion... Her actions had been unforgivable. But she'd participated in only one mission when Skorheim told her to put together a squad. She was determined to make good, but she knew she needed the best and really didn't care who she pissed off. She remembered her barely contained glee when she'd learned that Admiral Nogura had tried to have her banned from the Academy after she convinced Shelley k'Vor to turn down command school in favor of Special Ops. It was the first time a top graduate had done that. She already had Jack Wallis--he'd been her exec on the Wozniak and had jumped ship right after she did. And as for Jorgensen--she needed a communications officer. It was that simple. Still, an end-run around her former CO had been pretty shameful and she couldn't blame Matt for his reaction.
Upon completing their very first assignment, she and her crew had beamed aboard the Constellation, still high from their success. But that elation had been quickly deflated when she saw how unwelcome she and Jorgensen were among their former shipmates. When a curt page over the intercom had ordered her to the captain's quarters, she'd suspected that a friendly drink and reminiscences about old times were not in the offing.
"Brandt," he said before she could even greet him, "the Constellation has been ordered to transport you and your people, and she'll fulfill that assignment. But if you so much as smile at a member of my crew, you'll find that the only accommodation for you will be a hammock in the torpedo bay. Do we understand each other, Captain?"
Smarting from the loss of Decker's friendship and approval, she'd left his quarters, knowing that an explanation or an apology would be unwelcome. However, after a few hours' brooding, she'd put the meeting out of her mind until a few months later, when Decker and all those crewmen she hadn't dared smile at were dead, killed with a soulless efficiency that only a machine could manage.
After that, things had gotten complicated with Jorgensen and--
She barely heard him over the music that was now screaming all around them, mad with the joy of creation. Voices and instruments were blending in the strange harmony so jarring to non-Vulcan ears. She'd heard somewhere that it was based on a sixteen-note scale and she wasn't sure what that meant, anymore than she had understood a long-ago music appreciation lesson in which the teacher had pondered aloud the Vulcans' surprising preference for the 'restlessness of constantly changing meters.' But now, feeling each erratic downbeat chafing against her own sense of order, she understood his puzzlement and wished she could remember if he had drawn any helpful conclusions.
Jorgensen jumped to his feet, snapping her back to the present. Bristling with self-annoyance, she sat up straight, resolving that it would take more than lack of sleep, some jangling music, and an unexpected resurrection of the dead to distract her from her mission.
"Wild, isn't it?" he shouted over the onslaught of sound. "Makes a simple four-four sound absolutely cowardly. The Vulcans don't have much use for it, you know."
After quickly pacing around his chair, he pulled it closer to hers and sat down. They were nearly knee-to-knee and she could hear him easily.
"The music will cover our voices," he said. "Unless we scream at each other, the bears won't hear a word, and you're too intelligent to give this game away, aren't you? I've disabled all the other monitors in the room so there won't be any recording of our conversation. No filtering out the music or getting lip-readers to translate what we say to each other. The bears will describe only what they see so let's sit very still and not give them much to report, all right?"
"Why should I go along with that?"
"For old time's sake? No? Well, just hear me out, Captain. After that, if you want to broadcast everything I tell you, I won't stop you. But why commit to a course of action before you've been fully briefed on the situation?"
Part 3
His expression softened as he said, "It's really me, you know. I'm not an impostor or a ghost."
"When did you know? 'The Wizard of Oz' bit?"
"That's when I was sure, but I suspected earlier."
He tensed. "Did you say anything to Mendez? Or anyone?" Before she could offer an answer, he supplied his own. "What am I saying? Of course you didn't. You never tip your hand early."
"I didn't really have a hand to tip."
"You could have told them to run the voice analysis against the records of dead personnel. And don't tell me you didn't think of it. When you asked if we had met, I knew you'd tagged me. But saying something to Mendez would have brought up some interesting questions about how Special Ops 'takes care of its own' and you don't have all the answers to that, do you?"
His air of complacency was clearly intended to bait her, but she refused to be lured into such an obvious trap. The time would come when she could participate more fully in the conversation, but not now, not when she didn't yet know enough to direct its outcome. Adopting an air of complacency of her own, she waited for him to make the next move.
"I'm really pleased you remember Oz." His voice was suddenly warm with unfeigned appreciation. "All those long conversations while we waited for orders or signals or sunup or sundown, and you remember me talking about my grandmother and that story."
A wide, impetuous smile creased his face and, for a moment, she saw the young officer who had followed her down so many dangerous roads. Feeling her detachment slip just a little, but she told herself it was better to acknowledge their past and get it out of the way than to pretend it didn't exist.
"Your codename was Toto on that mission," she said. "You took a lot of teasing about it."
He fell silent and she waited stilly, wishing the music hadn't suddenly turned playful. After a mocking blast from a bass horn, he spoke again, his expression cooler and more remote.
"Yes. Many people. Your wife, your family--"
"Julie's had the baby by now, hasn't she? We were expecting a girl."
"I saw them in the park a few months ago," she said, remembering Julie's insistence that she hold the lively baby and her subsequent difficulty evading the little hands grabbing at her nose and mouth. "She's beautiful. She has your eyes."
She started, surprised he had used her first name.
"We were going to name her Suzanne," he explained. "After Julie's mother."
"Julie called her Susa when I saw them. I didn't realize it was a nickname."
"She's grieving, but she's coming along. She still misses you, Nels."
His mouth tightened as he stared at a point somewhere over her shoulder. Then his eyes narrowed on her in accusation.
"And how did it feel, talking to a woman who was mourning a man you knew wasn't dead?"
"I didn't know that until I walked in here."
"Oh, come on! You know the procedures. You had to realize they were lying--"
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
"All right, I knew we weren't told the truth," she said, "but I thought they were lying about how you died, not the fact itself."
"Well, surprise! Your superiors lied to you, Captain, and in more ways than you know. What did they say it was--a transporter accident?"
"No. Someone tripped a plasma wire. You and three others died instantly."
"Close. The other three died, but there was no plasma wire. It was a madman with a phaser rifle. Just like this one."
He tossed it lazily from hand to hand, smiling cryptically.
Searching his face, she saw a smugness there, an ugly certainty of what her response would be. A crushing dread wrapped itself around her, and in the cadence of heavy drums, she recognized the inevitability of the words to which she gave reluctant voice.
"You killed them, didn't you?"
"I don't know. I'm a lunatic, remember?"
Resting the butt of the rifle on the floor, he leaned his cheek against its neck and said, "I'll let you decide. And, by the way, let me compliment you on what a good job you're doing of 'keeping me talking.' I know I'm not making it particularly difficult but still--good work, Captain. So why don't you ask me where I've been for the past year and a half?"
"All right. Where have you been?"
He wagged his eyebrows in melodramatic exaggeration.
"No, it's not. It's a very large, very pleasant facility for a select group of agents--the ones who crack under the pressure. We get the best of care--food, medicine, clothes, exercise, entertainment--but no treatment. Starfleet can't afford to let us talk to anyone except each other. That's how I knew about the bug in your uniform. A new arrival told the rest of us. After all, we're in for the duration, what's the harm in a little professional gossip? I thought I knew some nasty secrets when I got there, but the stories I've heard since then... And they're all true. If our stories weren't true, we wouldn't be there."
She pushed her hair back and grasped a handful of curls, a pensive gesture that she realized too late would be recognized as uncertainty. Damn him, he knew her too well, and worse than that, what he was telling her had an ugly ring of truth to it. Forcing her hand to unclench, she asked, "What happened, Nels?"
"Do you remember when you recruited me for Special Ops?"
"Commodore Decker was furious with you."
"Why did you do it? It's considered bad form to poach from your former captain."
"I needed a communications officer. I knew you were smart and quick and I'd seen you rewire a comm board under fire without breaking a sweat. You were the best."
"No, I wasn't. Nyota Uhura was the best. She probably still is. Why didn't you try for her?"
"Wrong answer. You knew you could get me. Even back then, the loyalty of Kirk's crew was almost legendary. But you knew I'd leave Commodore Decker given the right opportunity. We're alike in that way."
The music dropped in volume and he hissed a quick "ssh." As a reed instrument began a beguiling song, she looked over at the Frivathen. They appeared confused, but no more alarmed than when she'd last spoken to them. To her chagrin, they looked no more optimistic, either.
The reed crooned the final notes of its solo, and after the rest of the orchestra picked up the theme, Jorgensen resumed the conversation as if there had been no break.
"And I was the one who got you back to the ship when the Luartians tried to incinerate you from the inside out. Were you thinking of that when you recruited me?"
"I didn't think so. In fact, you probably shoved it to the back of your mind. You're good at that, Captain. It's one of the keys to your success, isn't it? Just keep moving forward. Don't re-examine, don't second-guess yourself. Look but don't look, remember?"
"Why did you cut me loose, Captain?"
The simple question, heavy with a hurt that should have healed long ago, hung in the air between them.
"All right. You developed an interest in me that was inappropriate to a working relationship. We talked about it right before the Misthaven assignment. You said you would get it under control. You didn't."
"I saved your life on that mission."
"And endangered others. You disobeyed orders. You shouldn't have been anywhere near me."
"Nels, we went through all that at the time--"
"Yes, why should I waste my breath on those old arguments? You listened very patiently once, I can't expect you to put up with it again. But--Jesus! All the times you made sure every one of us got out safely--is that a command prerogative, one of those privileges of rank? Is that the way of it? Because god help the poor soul who tries to do the same for you. It might shatter that aura of indestructibility. That was my crime, wasn't it? I looked at you and saw something other than my commanding officer, I--"
"Look, Nels, if you're carrying some sort of torch--"
His laughter grated harshly against the buoyant serenity of the music.
"God, what an ego! You probably think I staged this whole thing just to see you again! Let me clue you in on a few things, Captain. Your presence here is pure luck. Random, like these stars. I asked for a B12B because I wanted someone who might understand what I'm going to say. But because it's you--there are other things I want to talk about first. Maybe fate has finally given me a break, sending you here like this. There's a small chance that you might understand this better than anyone."
He slammed the butt of the rifle into the floor and she flinched inwardly at the sound, having forgotten there was even a floor there. He leaned forward, gripping the weapon tightly.
"I had a crush on you, Captain. Do you understand that? A crush. You were beautiful and strong and smart and a few months after I joined you, everyone on the Constellation died. Up until then, I was too in awe of you to feel anything except respect and admiration. I was still congratulating myself on being one of your officers. But I couldn't help noticing how you kept yourself a little apart from the rest of us. When we'd sit around talking--like the bull session when I told about my grandmother and the Oz stories--your anecdotes weren't as personal as ours. You were so good at revealing just enough to bring us all together as a team without actually telling us anything about the real you. I used to wonder how you knew where that line was. But it broke down a little when we heard about the Constellation."
She willed herself not to break eye contact. It's information, she told herself. You know this story, there are no surprises here and there may be something you can use.
"I remember the night on Deneb IV when we heard about it," he said, his words aching with unconcealed fragility. "You and I found a quiet bar--no small feat in that rowdy place--and after we drank a toast to the Constellation, you set your glass down and stared into it. I realized I was alive to mourn my former shipmates because of you. And as I was thinking about that and wanting to say something to you, you looked up and I saw a teardrop dangling from your eyelashes and refusing to fall. That's when it began."
Her throat closed around the hard lump of remembered pain. It all came back to her--the clouded amber of the liquor, the wavy flaw in the lip of her glass, the table that continued to wobble despite the napkins they'd stuffed under one of its legs. And Jorgensen sitting across from her, just as he was now. But he had been silent then and she'd thought that, like her, he'd been struggling with the incomprehensible finality of the news. Yet here he was, telling her that his thoughts had been with her that night.
"I didn't say anything because I knew you wouldn't want me to," he continued, "but I was glad to be alive in a different way than I'd been a moment earlier. Glad to be there with you, seeing something that I didn't think anyone else ever had. You finally brushed the tear away and ordered another round. I never looked at you the same after that. I knew it was wrong, but I fell in love with the person I saw that night."
He stood and took a few steps toward the doorway as the lush music filled the room. Then he strode back to her, his eyes flashing with anger.
"But it was a crush, Captain! I would have gotten over it! I did get over it!"
She leapt to her feet and shot back, "Yes, you did, after I transferred you!"
She felt her anger bracing her and she held onto it, drawing renewed strength from its stubbornness.
"Sit down, Captain, please," he said, taking his seat with irritating equanimity. "You wouldn't want to give the bears anything to talk about, would you?"
After a long breath that dissipated only a fragment of her indignation, she sat down. Above them, two voices rang out in a high, wild harmony, accompanied by an occasional thud on a toneless drum. Despite the too-nasal sound of Vulcan voices, it was an engaging melody, and she felt it calming her, reinstating with the more understated authority that had been the most hard-won of her command abilities.
"Nels," she said quietly. "You met Julie, fell in love, and got married. And that might never have happened if I'd let you stay on."
She had no immediate response to his bitterness, aware that his story had not ended with the 'happily ever after' she'd tried to invoke. Nevertheless, she pressed on, feeling an uncomfortable burden of debt. She owed him this, knowing now that his life had turned on a momentary dropping of her mask.
"Nels, do you know what happened on Teslara? Did you hear about it?" She spoke in the low, even voice of a sympathetic counselor, hoping to comfort him while keeping her own painful memories at a safe distance. "I led a rescue team but it was a setup. K'vor died, along with Pahk and Goldsmith and Duncan and eighteen other people. You would have died, too, if you'd been with us."
"Yes, I know." His eyes glittered with a calculating hardness as he nodded in agreement. "And I know what happened afterwards. And the only reason you and I are having this little reunion here instead of over tea in the green ward is because you've got an admiral in love with you. And when he said, 'Captain Brandt spent the night in her office' and hustled you off-planet, no one dared to question him."
Instinctively raising her inner shields, she stiffened as he persisted with his questioning.
"What did you really do that night, Captain? You still had your weapon, didn't you? I heard there was a lot of broken glass. Did you take a couple of practice shots? Did you put the phaser to your forehead? Did you get that far? What stopped you?"
When she didn't respond, he continued his harangue, bluntly hewing at the layers of memory.
"It wasn't Admiral Kirk. He ended it, but he didn't stop you. You never even came close to cashing in, did you? You were in there for hours before he showed up and all you did was break some glass."
"How do you know all this?" she whispered, feeling a cold tremor of fear.
"When Admiral Kirk took you to Kyros, Commander Wallis was afraid you weren't coming back. He wanted to talk about it and everyone else who'd served with you was dead. So what stopped you, Captain? When Commodore Decker lost his crew, he didn't stick around to tell the story. Why are you here?"
"Are you saying I should have killed myself--that I owed it to the people who died?" she asked sharply.
"No, not at all. But I'm sure that thought crossed your mind. So why didn't you act on it?"
She held her silence for a long time, letting his question recede to a safer distance, and then spoke with brittle calm.
"I don't know. I'm not sure I ever intended to act on it. I think... I just wanted to think about it for a while."
"Why do you keep saying that?" she demanded.
"It was the first thing you taught me. How to watch someone without looking like it, remember? It's the beginning of directed memory. What a trick that is. To remember everything clearly, but without judgment or after-the-fact rationalizations. It's almost Vulcan, isn't it? You're alive because you're so good at it. Even after Teslara, during the darkest night of your soul, you didn't really look, did you? You 'don't-looked.' Don't feel bad, Captain. I know how it is. I've been there. I escaped from the green ward nearly two weeks ago and when I got out, the only thing I wanted to do was kill myself. So I got myself a room in a cheap hotel and ran a nice, hot bath. I got in the tub and thought about the things I'd done when I was in my right mind and the things I'd done when I wasn't. And I couldn't really see a difference. Then I thought, 'Yeah, this is it. It's time now. I can do it.' So I broke the drinking glass and held the edge to my wrist. And then I made my big mistake--I 'don't-looked.' It's what I'd been trained to do, and I was trained by the best. Or maybe it was just simple self-preservation. But whatever the reason, I wasn't that detached, guiltless killer anymore. I was just Nels and I couldn't do it. So I sat there feeling lost and helpless, because I knew I was stuck inside my head with the memories of all that I've seen and done." He drew his eyebrows together thoughtfully. "Funny, isn't it? Neither one of us got any further than a little bit of broken glass."
The music ended with a sudden shout of triumph. For a long time, the room was shot through with its ringing reverberations, and when the echoes had finally died away, he continued in an easy, conversational tone.
"I met T'Surr once. A friend of mine manages a concert hall on Vulcan and he got me into a reception when T'Surr was conducting. I spoke to her for just a few minutes, mostly gushing about 'Out of the Void.' I told her how much I loved it, I remember saying something about 'Ode to Joy' and the 'New World Symphony' seeming naive compared to it. She thanked me and then she told me that she wrote a companion piece to 'Out of the Void.' It's called 'And Back Again.' Have you heard it?"
She stared at him as she scrabbled after the meaning in his words.
"Have you heard it, Captain?" he repeated gently.
Part 4
The new piece began with an ominous rattle that gradually slowed to a sharp clack! clack! clack! and was then joined by high-pitched cries that sounded very much like the war whoops that had punctuated her childhood games. Jorgensen's voice, smooth as ice, cut through the rapping and shrieking.
"They assigned me to Captain Levay's squad after you transferred me."
"Do you know what Levay's specialty is? Assassinations. You've never done those, have you?"
"No. People don't understand Special Ops, do they? They think everything we do is dirty, but it's not. Most of it is just...different."
She nodded in regretful agreement, mindful that almost everyone in Special Ops felt some degree of aggravation at being tarred with a brush that actually applied to only a few.
"You used to say that we were doing the things the regular Fleet couldn't," he continued pleasantly. "Our teams were smaller, faster, more maneuverable, and more willing to break the rules. Inserting and retrieving moles, running informants, hacking and bugging, rescuing hostages, tracking down arms smugglers--all very neat and clean compared to the way Levay deals with people who are in the way of galactic peace. Oh, you've killed, but you've never executed anyone, have you? Never planned a death, rehearsed each move, imagined it over and over so it will seem old-hat when you do it. Do you know why they give you medals, Captain? Because they can." He chortled. "An old joke, I know, but in this case, it's true. Every now and then, you do something that can be publicly acknowledged. Levay doesn't have a single decoration, not even a good conduct medal."
The percussion had retreated into the background and the wind instruments had taken over, running up and down the scales, sounding almost silly in their simplistic harmonizing.
"Do you remember Nabiel?" he asked suddenly.
It had been one of their earliest assignments. A team of six agents--including the three who would become the core she would grow to rely on--had gone undercover to incite the Nabielans to rebel against their government. Commander Wallis had led the unit that worked the capital while she, Jorgensen, and k'Vor had traveled among the surrounding towns, cultivating the seeds of insurrection.
"It was fun, wasn't it?" he said, his boyish pleasure seeming to summon the other instruments to join the naive winds, unheeding of the occasional clatter from the drums. "Spreading those exaggerated stories about oppression and imprisonment. I remember the first time I told about my 'brother' who'd been taken away by one of President Chuflit's hit squads. It was in a town called Celeth, in a pub full of people who'd stopped in for a drink on their way home from work. You and k'Vor stayed near the back of the crowd until I'd finished. I told the story well and I could tell that they were moved. I'd never felt anything like that. I'd never realized how powerful words could be. I wished I had ten phony brothers who had been tortured and killed for freedom. And just when the silence was about to break--I could feel it, someone was going to order a drink or say something, just to make a sound--you stood up and called me a liar." He laughed softly. "You were booed down and thrown out into the street with a black eye, I lost count of how many drinks they bought me, and Shelley set up the first link in a chain to the rebels in the capital. It was quite a night."
"Do you? Do you remember how beautiful Nabiel was?"
"Tell me. Tell me what you remember," he coaxed.
She cast her mind back almost ten years and her first thought was that the exhilaration he'd just described had mirrored her own. She'd felt a fulfillment that now seemed almost foreign to her, but then--the welcoming lushness of Nabiel had seemed to embrace them, cloaking their actions with its own beauty.
"It was fertile and prosperous." Her voice sounded strange to her ears, as smooth and detached as the narration on a documentary. "It had gardens and parks, schools and libraries. We worked all the towns along the river--the Ulien--it flowed right into the capital. Every town had a central square full of statues and fountains. There was a park in Celeth where the songbirds hid in the highest branches of the trees. Their feathers changed color with the light and you could never pick them out. The ale in that bar was very strong, and it was reddish-brown, the same color as the fields the farmers had just finished plowing."
"Yes, it was beautiful," he agreed. "And we were making it even better, weren't we? When we met up with Commander Wallis, we were so pleased with ourselves. We just needed one final spark to set everything in motion. So we destroyed the central news server, broadcast a false report that the government had shut down the university to quell the student protests--of which there were almost none--and left. Well done, people. Good work."
She tensed, remembering how she had praised her crew with those exact words, and at that moment, the music took on a martial cadence. Apparently, T'Surr had found a use for a basic four-four and it added an ominous underscoring to Jorgensen's words.
"Why did we do all that, Captain?" His voice had lost its agreeable quality and its sudden brusqueness was another weapon in the musical offensive. "Yes, Chuflit led a corrupt government. Yes, he imposed order at the expense of liberty. Yes, his enemies had been quietly disappearing. But that's not why we were there. Nabiel wasn't a Federation world and we had no business interfering there. But Chuflit didn't like the Federation, and Jezra, the opposition leader, did. A pro-Federation government on Nabiel was the key to stabilizing the entire sector. So Chuflit had to go. Simple enough, but our shining, noble Federation couldn't interfere in planetary affairs. Not openly. Enter Captain Brandt and her little band of do-gooders."
The drums withdrew and the beautiful crystals whose voices had opened the first piece sounded once more, shimmering like glass and falling away. They were met again by the lyada but this time, it was the voice of an angry god, snarling and rumbling.
"Those people weren't stupid, Captain. Some of them figured it out. They knew we were from the Federation, and they thought our presence meant that we'd support them in their fight. But we didn't. We lit the fire and walked away as it burned. And because the Federation did nothing to help them, Chuflit won the war." He spread his hands and grinned magnanimously. "But hey, that's all right. Everything worked out. Because when he'd finally put down the rebellion, Chuflit had a change of heart. He's the Federation's fair-haired boy now. He loves us and he makes sure that all the other worlds in the sector are friendly to us, too. So when he started having problems with that pesky Jezra again--when her supporters became an actual threat to him--when trade was disrupted and Federation worlds weren't getting their supply of Nabielan citrus and veridian fibers--well, it's only natural that we would want to help our friends, isn't it? So I got a second trip to Nabiel, this time with Captain Levay and three others who were good at 'look-but-don't-look.' That has a slightly different meaning among assassins. It means look just closely enough to do your job and then go home and forget about it."
The lyada was growling savagely now and the other instruments had barged in to smother the foolish chimes. Crying piteously, the frivolous song was beaten down, bleating out its last notes under the assault from its stronger companions.
"Have you ever been back to Nabiel? It's not so pretty anymore. Chuflit left the rebel towns in ruins as an example. We passed through Celeth on our way to the capital. That square in the middle of town? It's gone. All the statues and fountains were blasted into the ground during the fighting. There's nothing left of the Ulien but slow-moving sludge. A few charred tree trunks stand in what used to be the park with all the songbirds. The school and the library are more or less intact but the generators and power conduits are inoperative. The bar where I told that first story is still there and it's still packed, alcohol being the only pain-killer readily available. The people who drink there are crippled and maimed and burned beyond recognition. We moved through Celeth fast and I was terrified that someone would recognize me, but I kept my head down and no one did. We made it to the capital and split up. That night, I couldn't stop thinking about how proud we'd been of ourselves. We thought we were leading those people toward something better, but in the final analysis, we 'don't-looked.'"
"Nels--" She heard an unfamiliar pleading quality in her voice and cut herself off before he did.
"Don't interrupt, Captain. It's impolite. Now where was I? Oh, yes, Nabiel, round two. I should explain to you that assassins are good at visualization. Before a hit, you run it in your head over and over until you know exactly what you're going to do every second and you're ready for every contingency. And then--you stop thinking about it. You think about something else while all those plans lie dormant inside you. The next morning, I'd run all my visualizations and I was working my way towards the site where Jezra was scheduled to speak. I was thinking about Julie and the baby and wondering if we could afford a larger apartment. I saw a shawl in a shop window. I didn't stop--had to keep to the schedule--but I kept thinking about it. It was tan and white, and it looked just like one I'd bought Julie before we were married. I started wondering what it would be like to be able to bring her a present from Nabiel. 'Here, honey, a souvenir from my latest execution.' Just when I was telling myself how dangerous it was to think things like that, a woman came up to me and said, 'You're Napp Jaffree, aren't you?'"
Brandt couldn't stop a sharp intake of air as she recognized the name he had used when they'd worked the towns along the Ulien.
"She had only one arm and she was carrying a parcel. She had a boy with her. I started to tell her she'd mistaken me for someone else, but she said, 'Don't worry, I won't give you away.' And then she just kept talking. She and her husband had heard me speak all those years ago. She thought it was wonderful that I had come through the fighting unscathed. Her husband had been captured by Chuflit's troops and she didn't know if he was alive or dead. But she was so glad to see me. She took my hand--she had to give the parcel to the boy to do it--and then she introduced me to her son. She told me she'd been pregnant with him when she'd heard me tell my story in Celeth. He was 'a true son of the revolution,' she said, and she promised he would never forget having met a man as brave and good as myself. She wanted me to stand with her during Jezra's speech but I told her I was meeting some friends. Then she said, 'May god keep you safe,' and they left. I just stood there, watching them and feeling numb. And then they stopped at the corner, and the boy--the boy--"
His hands clutched the rifle and she saw the tendons standing out tautly as he shook with a force that looked as if it could shatter him.
His head snapped up and he stared at her, breathing raggedly. She saw the conscious effort behind each act as he brought his trembling under control, loosened his grip on the rifle, and flexed one stiff hand and then the other. When he spoke, she had to lean in to hear his flat, emotionless words.
"The boy got something out of the parcel and helped her with it. It was a shawl. Like the one I--"
He stopped abruptly and pressed his lips into a hard line. Brandt sat in stunned silence, her gut tightening with horror at the cruelty of coincidence. She understood at last why Nels had demanded a B12B. Only someone who had walked the tightrope of compartmentalization would understand what it meant to fall from it. And it was almost always something small that shook the wire. A butterfly, a horseshoe nail, a shawl. It took less than a second for the tyranny of minutiae to assert itself and shatter the separation between the worlds of love and duty, look and don't-look.
"I made it to the meeting place and Levay was annoyed that I was late," he said when he had recovered his control. "Saipan, Bega, and I were dressed in the colors of Jezra's supporters and we were supposed to mingle with the crowd. Levay and Flores were going to stay behind and take out Jezra and her chief deputy with phaser rifles. We were to misdirect the crowd when it happened. But it didn't happen. Because while we were all still together, I snapped. Just like that." He twisted one hand in the air and made a cracking sound out of the side of his mouth. "I grabbed one of the phaser rifles and took out Flores, Saipan, and Bega. I spun around to get the captain but he'd gotten behind me and he knocked me a good one."
She saw that the rifle lay across his lap, unguarded, and she heard an abstract part of herself urging her to move, take advantage of his distraction, she could disarm him easily. She lifted her hand, not sure if she intended capture or comfort. Then he put his hand on the rifle and patted it like a well-loved pet, and she stayed her hand. He looked at her, his eyes entreating her with almost unbearable innocence.
"Captain, when you were on Nabiel, you thought you were doing something important, didn't you? I did. I thought things depended on us and what we did. But that's just an illusion. Nothing depends on anything. It's all random, it's a joke, and we've been suckered by it. You have to see that. Because if you don't--If you--"
He gestured wildly, searching for the words. The music raged around them but its agitation seemed shallow and artificial compared to the torment driving his confession.
"Captain, they tell you how important you are, how so much depends on your actions. They say it over and over until you believe it and then they say 'good work' and put a commendation in your record to make you feel good about it. But don't fall for it. It's a lie. If you believe that the universe turns on your decisions, you're lost. You're in so deep that the green ward is the only way out. Because the universe turns you and there's no decision about it. No planning, no consciousness, no all-knowing being with a divine plan. Do you understand, Captain? It's random, like Julie's shawl or that thing that killed the Constellation. Big or small, it's all random."
He closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair and for a moment, she thought he had collapsed from exhaustion.
"I came to in the green ward," he said wearily, and she wondered how many times he had replayed this history before resigning himself to it. "One of the other inmates clued me in, so I knew that I was officially dead and could plan on spending the rest of my life at leisure with all the other nuts. Which wouldn't be at all bad if I was nuts, too. Can I give you a little advice? If you ever go round the bend, stay there. The nuts in the green ward have it easy. They build some happy little world for themselves and they never leave it. It's people like me who have it tough. You see, I'm only half-crazy. And the sane half keeps breaking through and remembering all the ugliness and knowing I killed my friends but not really understanding why. But it doesn't have the courage to end it all. And the crazy half sees no reason to. Hell of a catch-22, isn't it?"
He gave a little sigh, as if he were surprised to have finished telling his story. Aching at her inability to dispel the demons that tormented him, she bent forward to catch his attention, hoping that small contact would count for something. Their eyes met and, as if a curtain had been drawn aside, she saw the trust she'd always been so proud to hold.
"And that's where you come in, Captain," he said. "I want you to help me."
The horns brayed in a wild flourish that seemed to announce the imminent arrival of something she didn't want to think about. A cold bead of sweat slithered down the back of her neck and she exhaled a shocked "No..."
"Please hear me out, Captain. I've planned everything. I've made it as easy for you as I possibly can. I'm going to act like I'm going to kill the Frivathen. You'll try to stop me. We'll fight for the rifle and you'll win. You'll move the bears toward the door, fast, keep them panicky, and I'll rush you. You'll have no choice, you'll have to fire. I've jammed the setting so you won't have time to downgrade to stun. Just fire. Please, Captain. Just fire."
A ferocious pounding hammered against her heart, thundering like a fast-approaching storm.
"No, Nels--" She put her hands up and recoiled against the back of her chair.
"Captain, listen." His words poured out in a fevered rush. "I've thought it all through. You can do this, no risk, no repercussions. When you're debriefed, tell them you'd never seen me before, you listened to me rave--nothing that made any sense--and you finally had to take me out when I threatened the hostages. The bears will corroborate your story. They've seen nothing to contradict it. Please, Captain! I'm begging you. I don't blame you for anything that happened, but I've got all this in my head and I can't stop it. Nothing can stop it, no one else can help me, please, please, please."
She saw the tears filling his eyes and felt his anguished plea consuming her as the bellowing music tore at itself.
"It will be fast, I promise. You won't have to think. Just react. One clean shot."
Brandt's hands were fists now and her fear railed against the imprisonment of her silence. She felt a cry of "No" taking shape and rushing forward, she knew her voice would be firm and resolute as it shut down his hideous fantasy. But he spoke again, distilling all his arguments into a petition of almost childlike simplicity.
"Look but don't look, all right?"
The first lesson. She'd trained him, she'd been his commanding officer--
She remembered another lesson, an earlier one, something about not ordering someone to do anything you wouldn't do yourself. There was another side to that coin, wasn't there? Did he have the right to ask this of her? Because--
She choked on her refusal as the clamoring song of destruction summoned a dark truth from deep within herself.
And in that instant, she knew something had happened, some essential part of her had either died or sprung to life. Then Jorgensen smiled gently and she didn't know what he had heard in her silence, but he whispered, "Thank you, Captain."
He stood, hoisted the rifle, and turned abruptly toward the Frivathen.
"All right, I've had it!" he shouted. "The captain here is full of shit so she's just bought someone a death sentence. YOU!"
He pointed the rifle at the queen and the king threw himself in front of her. Brandt could barely hear their screaming over the unrelenting music.
"No!" she cried and ran towards them, taking her role in a play that was hurtling toward its conclusion.
Somehow outside of herself, she watched as they struggled for the weapon while the music marched forward in heavy waves. She was vaguely aware of the Frivathen howling and scrambling to take cover behind their chairs. Jorgensen fought expertly and she knew that he was doing more than putting on a good show, he was forcing her to give her all, throwing her into the tide of adrenaline that would sweep her into her final actions. Wresting the rifle from his grasp, she spun and butted him in the stomach with the blunt end.
Feeling the weapon in her hands, she realized that she could choose another course of action, but she felt very far away from the part of her that made decisions. She found her grip and braced the rifle against her side, knowing she wouldn't need to use the sight at such close range.
She heard an angry bellow and turned, expecting to be met by Jorgensen taking the first step in a desperate charge. But instead, she saw him crumple to the floor as the king, clutching his chair in both hands, completed the arc of a powerful swing.
Frozen with shock, she watched as the king returned to his wife and son, who were on their feet sobbing. He looked bemused as he reset the chair in its original position, and then he drew the queen into his arms and shot an accusing glance at Brandt over his wife's heaving shoulders.
Pushing the rifle onto her back, Brandt went to Jorgensen and knelt beside him. She put her fingers to his neck and held until she was absolutely sure that the beat she felt was his pulse and not an echo of the throbbing behind her eyes.
The king was standing over her now and she felt his disapproval bouncing off the numbness that had enveloped her. She looked up at him, knowing that the time for explanations would come very soon and realizing the incongruity of her expectation of receiving one.
"We go now, yes?" the king asked loudly.
She took one last look at Jorgensen, silently placing him among her other losses. And when the memories of her failure on Teslara threatened to blur this fresh portrait of defeat, she banished her other ghosts and gave herself to the pain of the one still alive. Then she rose slowly and pitched her voice to carry over the death cries of the music.
The queen and the prince, who were still hanging back by their chairs, rushed to join the king. But once reunited, they stood frozen as their eyes widened with a new fear.
"The doors! Where are the doors?" the queen cried.
Brandt looked across the two chairs where she and Jorgensen had sat and, although she could see no break in the opaque blackness behind the stars, she knew the doors were at the other end of the room. Dredging up an authority she didn't feel, she forced herself to finish the assignment that had gone so horribly wrong.
"This way. This way. Come on!"
She hustled them toward the other side of the room, unable to control her urgency. They stumbled along before her, half-running, half-falling, obviously terrified at walking across a void to reach an exit they weren't sure was there.
Brandt felt little sympathy. The king had shown a courage she should have admired, yet, given half a chance, she was afraid she'd turn the phaser on him herself. All she wanted now was to turn them over to Mendez and--then what? She pulled up short at the thought, momentarily depriving the Frivathen of her surly guidance.
"Where? Where are the doors? We can't find them--"
"There! They're right there!" Brandt barked. "To your left--"
She heard a scream behind her and for a moment she thought it was another assault from the music, but then the Frivathen started screaming, too. She turned and saw Jorgensen rushing towards her, propelled by an insane anger and roaring louder than the crashing dissonance of the music. And as he leaped toward her, she saw the pleading in his eyes.
It seemed to last forever, the moment when she began screaming and swung the rifle in his direction, her cry of "NOOOOOO!" mingling with his wordless howl. She aimed, squeezed the trigger, felt the weapon kick against her ribs, and closed her eyes. She didn't see what she knew happened next--the sudden fall as the blast hit him in the chest, the glow that briefly outlined his body before it winked out of existence, the after-shimmer as the energy dissipated. But she heard the music explode dully with a final, lifeless thud, a sound not rich enough to produce an echo.
She opened her eyes and stumbled to the spot where she knew he had fallen. Dropping to her knees, she let go of the rifle and clutched at the air, her hands opening and closing as she searched the emptiness. Finally, choking on hoarse sobs, she fell forward and her hands met something solid. After a moment of bewilderment, she slid her splayed fingers across the smooth, hard surface of Nuskian granite. Then she sat back on her haunches and turned her face skyward, knowing there was no floor, no walls, no ceiling, no doors. Just bitter tears streaming down her face and the nameless stars--cold, remote, and maddeningly random--shining all around her.
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