"Your Majesty, there is one last person who asks an audience with you."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud!" There was almost equal amusement and wrath in the Empress's voice as she flung herself flat among the luxurious cushions of embroidered silk on the sofa. "I've spent the whole day granting audiences. I've smiled till my teeth ache. I can't be bothered to see anyone else. Tell them to come back tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever."
The quality of the silence which greeted that order got through to her after a moment. She opened half an eye and directed it at her sole companion. He was standing by the door, his arms folded. He really did look handsome in that new uniform. It fit his broad shoulders really well, and the tawny fabric suited his dark complexion.
At this moment, however, she wasn't paying attention to his strikingly good looks as much as to his expression. "I didn't hear you say 'Yes, your Majesty,'" she remarked.
She still didn't hear it.
She opened the other half of the eye.
Her personal bodyguard-cum-adviser was returning her gaze steadily. He wouldn't presume to contradict her, but his silence was loud. She'd encountered this scenario before; if she repeated her order he'd bow, retreat and carry it out, but his failure to do so immediately meant there was some reason why she just might want to reconsider.
"Spit it out, Travis," she said resignedly. In public they were careful never to use the slightest informality, let alone use each other's given names, but considering the fact that they shared a bed on a regular basis it seemed somewhat absurd to maintain strict formality when they were alone together – at least on her part. He, for his, never forgot for a moment – even in the heat of passion – who she was, and what she was due.
"With the greatest respect, your Majesty –" his tone was suitably deferential – "you might wish to receive this particular visitor."
She shut the eye again. "You do know the penalty if you're wrong."
"I can imagine, your Majesty."
"No. You don't have that much imagination. Nobody has that much imagination." She sat up and opened both eyes, though achieving an expression of enthusiasm was quite beyond her. "At least let me have a drink first."
Silently he moved to the cooler where ice had brought her favorite rice wine to the temperature she preferred to drink it, and poured a tiny amount into a small cup for himself. He ran a scanner over it, and only when the results came up negative did he drink it. After a couple of minutes had passed without ill effects, he poured wine into a crystal goblet, and brought it to the Empress, who sipped at the contents thoughtfully as she studied her reflection in the full-length mirror on one wall.
No-one would have thought she'd been up since well before dawn, or that she'd endured one of the most wearisome days of her life, she thought, looking without conceit at what she saw. Her slender figure was sheathed in a robe of amber-colored Triaxian silk, delicately embroidered with cherry blossoms in tribute to her ancestry. Her shining hair was piled high on her head, secured with jeweled pins. Her face was immaculate, her make-up still perfect, her poise now restored for as long as this next, and last, audience should require.
"To the Defiant," said Travis behind her, raising his cup. It was uncanny, sometimes, the way he could read her thoughts. It was one of the things that made him so valuable. And dangerous, but she liked that about him. He wasn't just attractive because of his body – she could have a score of beautiful bodies made available to her with one crook of her little finger; he knew her secrets, he'd helped her to where she now was, and he intended to make the most of the benefits he'd earned. That was an attitude she understood. She was even prepared to accommodate him. Within reason, of course, but he was quite intelligent enough to know where the line was drawn, and to stay just one step on the safe side of it. He would know, of course, that she'd put measures in place to ensure that should their relative places mysteriously change, he wouldn't live long enough to enjoy his stolen power.
She smiled in response. "To the Defiant," she echoed. The ship that had put her in the position of ultimate power in the Empire. The previous occupant of her throne had known when to quit, on promise of his life. She even meant to honor that promise. Well… for a while, at least. Say a couple of days.
The wine was delicious and refreshing. She sipped it while she remembered the bad old days, when men could give her orders. And one man in particular, who'd mistakenly thought he had her measure.
She hadn't quite made up her mind what to do with her previous lover. He was under close guard and still heavily sedated, sealed inside a high-security unit and cut off from all outside contact. Now and again she made it her business to take a look at him via a com-link, but there was never anything much to see, except that sometimes he moaned and twitched as if trying even now to throw off the drugs, sweat beading his forehead. He was a handsome man, Archer, but he'd gotten carried away; he had forgotten the single most important rule of survival in the Terran Empire.
Trust nobody.
He'd thought that she would be content with a subservient position as his consort! Her mouth twitched scornfully. Spend the rest of her life pandering to his wants in bed, and slathering flattery and reassurance on that itching ego of his? Standing by while he took other women to bed – as he would – until he found one who might plant the seed in that egomaniacal brain that he deserved a more suitable consort than a mere ex-lieutenant?
If he'd had the gift of being able to make people respect him, he might have been more dangerous to her. As it was, he'd been feared, mostly on account of his vindictiveness and, later, his bursts of irrationality, but not respected.
She shrugged. The problem of what to do with Archer would wait for another day. In the meantime, the sooner she received this last visitor – for whatever reason she might be interested in what he had to say – the sooner she could relax. Then Travis could spend an hour or so oiling her body and massaging it before satisfying whatever other needs his ministrations might have aroused.
Moving with a feline grace that utterly disguised her weariness, Hoshi Sato strolled towards the throne-like chair, draped with fabulous furs and fabrics, which she used for giving private audience. She settled herself in it with care. Appearances had to be kept up. She was humoring Travis's evident desire to 'surprise' her – for he still hadn't told her who it was – but that didn't mean whoever it was should come into the presence of anything less than the Empress. Even in these gorgeous surroundings she was to be the focal point for all eyes.
As soon as she nodded that she was ready, he stepped to the door. A few soft words to the guards outside it, and he stepped back, taking up a position to the side where he was perfectly placed to observe and, if necessary, intervene. His right hand rested casually close to his sidearm, as it always did when anyone else was in the room with them.
The man who stepped through the door and immediately made obeisance to her was familiar – and not pleasantly so. Her years aboardEnterprise had given her ample insight into the Denobulan's character, and it was not attractive.
"Doctor Phlox!" Her face concealed her thoughts, but she couldn't make her voice sound particularly thrilled. "I didn't know you were here today."
He coughed. His blue eyes were uneasy, sneaking looks at her from under those heavy brow ridges.
"Empress. My congratulations – my warmest congratulations – on your accession."
"Thank you." She glanced sideways at Travis. You thought I'd be pleased to see this pool of slime?
"I believe that the doctor has something to show you," said her lover smoothly. "A little surprise, by way of a gift to celebrate your coronation yesterday."
A slight frown marred the porcelain perfection of her brow. She wasn't at all sure that she wanted any gift that Phlox was likely to present to her.
"It's … in the room outside. If you … if you wouldn't mind, your Majesty…" The doctor made little anxious movements with his hands, evidently scared witless of being thought guilty of committing lèse-majesté by suggesting the Empress might actually get up and walk into the next room.
Her eyebrows rose. She looked again at Travis, who was wearing his blandest expression. This had better be worth it.
It seemed there was nothing for it. She just hoped it wasn't some ghastly work of art, or a piece of live theater, or something else equally tasteless and unwelcome. Whatever it was, she'd look at it and render judgment, and then Phlox could return to oblivion – where he could remain for the rest of his existence, as far as she was concerned.
Suppressing a sigh, she stood up. The Denobulan backed out of the room, too plainly unsure what the protocols were as regards turning one's back on an Empress … either that, or he suspected that somebody was likely to plant a knife in it if he wasn't careful enough. Travis came forward to take up position at her shoulder, just close enough to give her a sense of support. She wondered briefly why he felt that she might need it.
The anteroom was large, and lit only by an assortment of side lamps and scented candles. Their light played softly over a small group of MACOs standing in the center of the room, and seeing them Sato came to a halt, taken aback, and suddenly rather grateful for Travis's presence.
"I apologize, your Majesty," said Phlox hastily. "I took the precaution of bringing an escort. The … prisoner … was uncooperative."
Even as the nearest trooper bowed himself aside, bent almost double in the presence of one so far above him in the social order, she already knew whom she would see in the midst of them.
Reed.
He was half-naked and in chains; pale with long suffering, and scarred over half his face and body from the burns he'd taken in the explosion aboard Defiant. But he was still alive, and his eyes on her told her exactly how well his memory functioned. And what treatment he knew he could expect, in a world where he'd backed the wrong horse and had the extremely poor judgment not to die before an accounting could be demanded.
Not that he'd had much choice about that. She remembered her last visit to Defiant's Sickbay.
The major had been unconscious, swathed in bandages, dependent on Phlox's 'care' for his injuries; his survival hung on the Denobulan's whims and more importantly, on her say so.
Word had obviously gotten around about who was the new power on board ship. The Denobulan had been fawning, nervous, uncertain on which side his bread was buttered, or even whether it might be rammed down his gullet till he choked on it. His own activities in the recent mutiny hadn't gone unnoticed, but he was too useful to be imprisoned and too cowardly to require execution; several hours in the Agony Booth had eventually been deemed sufficient to remind his sense of self-preservation of the consequences of rebellion, and she was certain that one taste would be the most he'd ever need.
"It would be most unfortunate if Major Reed were to die of his injuries," she'd said mildly.
Phlox had blinked apprehensively, and in some understandable surprise. As one of Archer's supporters, Reed hadn't ranked as someone whose welfare would be of interest to the new regime. Quite the opposite, in fact: if the major somehow escaped assassination by one of his many previous victims while he lay unable to defend himself, it would have been expected that the length of his survival thereafter would be measured by the time it took the authorities to decide which precise reason was to be given out for his being executed.
"Empress, I … the major sustained quite serious…"
"Most unfortunate," she purred. "So extremely unfortunate, that anyone attending him could easily be accused of neglect."
"Which is a very serious charge indeed, where an imperial prisoner is concerned," Travis had said thoughtfully, in case the doctor hadn't realized just how serious it would be in this particular case.
"Oh, I … well, yes, I understand that of course … I …" The Denobulan actually shivered, for some reason. "Not that I anticipate any … the patient being as strong as he was... is, I mean, of course…"
They'd left him to babble. Even before the door had hissed shut behind them, there had been the sounds of medical staff being summoned to bring every care to bear on the previously despised patient. It would appear that Major Reed's survival chances had suddenly taken a dramatic turn for the better, though it would be a long haul even if he lived through the fever that had already set in, lending a flush to his usually pale skin.
He'd still been hanging on to life with his characteristic determination when they'd reached Earth, but events had taken over, and his fate had been just one of those details that must step into the background until a fitter time. Even with the Defiant in her possession, it hadn't been easy to fulfill her ambition of stepping to the pinnacle of power. A certain amount of 'firm handling' of certain individuals had been necessary in order to bring them to a proper appreciation of the new situation; one or two had required such very firm handling indeed that Travis had had to deputize for her at the funerals, where he made a somber and convincing mourner. But at last everyone – everyone who mattered and was still alive, which was what counted – had come around to the point of view that Hoshi Sato was the only appropriate candidate for the suddenly vacant Imperial throne, and today had seen the culmination of all those weeks of rather unpleasant but necessary events.
"Major Reed. I'm delighted to see you." She gave him her sweetest smile. It appeared to trigger reactions in everyone but the person addressed; Dr. Phlox relaxed with a visible shudder, and the MACOs seemed to wake up to the realization that it was entirely inappropriate for a prisoner to be standing on his own two feet in front of the Empress. Before Reed could even draw breath to answer – if indeed he intended to do so – they seized him and forced him to a more appropriate position. This involved kicking the back of his knees several times to make them bend, treatment which he endured in silence, though her super-sensitive hearing picked up the ragged breaths that silence cost him. Possibly this was almost as much due to the hard hands pressing down on the new, pink skin where his blisters had been. Her peripheral vision picked up the nervous flutter of Phlox's fingers; she realized with amusement that the doctor was caught between anxiety that the guards' brutal handling of the prisoner might undo much of his hard work, and reluctance to protest at it for fear of seeming to condone Reed's apparent lack of respect.
She strolled closer. The prisoner watched her warily, his mouth tightly closed. A guard's brutal fingers twisted in his unkempt hair held his face up, just in case he might fail to give her the proper attention, or have any desire to hide his injuries from her inspection.
"Yes." She came to a halt perhaps a meter in front of him. "You and I share such special memories, don't we, Major?"
Being held prisoner on his bunk, with his hands gripping her wrists and holding them behind her. Powerless and half-naked, just as he was now.
Revenge is a dish best served cold…
Tucker was now her chief technical adviser. He was busy reverse-engineering Defiant, with a view to spreading that technology through the rest of the Fleet. It might make him very happy to think that his old nemesis was enjoying the Empress's singular sense of justice; and it always made sense to keep your important members of staff happy, at least as long as they remained alive and serviceable. And it was quite ironic that Reed, who had so often amused himself by jibing at Tucker's scarred face, was now the worse-marked of the two.
They were always on the look-out for workers at Rura Penthe. That was one of the ideas she'd toyed with. There were others. It was evident that he would have had time to consider them for himself. Over the past couple of weeks she'd become closely acquainted with the manifestations of fear, and she knew that however hard he was holding himself together, this man was afraid.
That said, in his situation, only a fool wouldn't have been – and whatever his other failings, Reed had never been a fool.
"Don't you have anything to say to your Empress?" she asked mockingly. "No promises of eternal loyalty in return for clemency? You were always strong on loyalty, I seem to remember."
A muscle in his cheek moved, but he said nothing.
"Or perhaps you'd like to know how your former Captain is getting on," she pursued, moving to a monitor on a side table. "I just know you're curious." She entered the codes and moved to the appropriate transmission. "Here you are. Live feed."
His stare tried to tear the truth from her before switching hungrily to the monitor. On the screen Archer moved slightly in his drugged sleep and licked dry lips before lapsing once more into oblivion.
"They told me he was dead." Reed's voice was rusty from long disuse. "They said you'd poisoned him."
"It was convenient for people to believe that." A chuckle. "Nobody stages a rescue of someone who's dead." That said, the chances of a rebellion on Archer's behalf had been fairly remote; nevertheless, it paid not to take unnecessary chances. There could conceivably be a time when a man with his talents could be useful, and it was for that reason alone that the glass she'd handed him hadn't contained poison, but a stupefying drug. He'd been fully conscious on the floor beside the bed when she'd pulled Mayweather into it, and unable to do a goddamn thing except lie there and listen to everything.
"So." She leaned against the table, careful not to impede his view. "Does this change anything?"
Across the room, Travis watched her imperturbably. He didn't know the exact details of the grudge, but he knew her enjoyment of a little cat-and-mouse game; and aboard Enterprise, Reed had derived enormous pleasure from being the 'cat' on many occasions. It would be rather poetic justice for him to endure a little clawing.
"What do you intend to do with him?" asked the major, as though the words were dragged out of him against his will.
Sato smiled. "That depends. I haven't quite made my mind up yet. After all, he might be useful to me one day." Her smile grew quite beatific. "And I do like to avoid wasting men of ability."
No reply. His mouth snapped shut. But his eyes lingered on the video feed.
"You know, I've always wondered why you followed him," she went on softly. "I wonder if you were ever lovers…?"
The muscle in his cheek twitched again. The eyes flicked to her face and away again, hard with loathing.
No. It wasn't likely. At least not on Archer's part; he'd been too much of a bigot and not enough of a hypocrite.
Sato pouted. "You're not making this easy for me, Major. I've mentioned that I prefer not to waste ability, but I do prefer to ensure that the ability is accompanied by a certain sense of … self-preservation." She straightened up and strolled back across the room, her feet soundless on the luxurious carpeting. "And so far, that is one thing of which you are not showing any compelling evidence."
He stared back at her, doggedly silent. At a guess he recognized the script: offer the intended victim false hope, drag them along for just long enough to convince them, and then pull the lever and let them drop. He'd used it often enough himself.
Well, there was no hurry. He didn't appear strong enough yet to survive a fortnight on Rura Penthe, let alone a year; and she had no intention of his eventual fate being other than lingering. And it was entirely possible that he could provide entertainment some evening when she needed diversion from the cares of rule. Maybe more than once, if he proved amusing enough.
"I'm sorry you're so intransigent, Major Reed," she sighed, coming to a halt in front of him. "I did hope you might be more reasonable, seeing that I've even extended mercy towards Commander Archer. I'll just have to return you to Doctor Phlox's care for a while."
"No!" His sudden panicked cry startled her; his face was contorted with fear. "Not back there – put me in prison, anything – please – not there!"
She was so taken-aback by this sudden total collapse that she didn't even move as he lunged forward and grasped pleadingly at her sandaled foot. "You don't know what he is – what he –"
The guards had been just as startled as she had. They jumped forward in a body, grabbing for him.
Except that one didn't grab for Reed. He grabbed for the Empress. The candlelight glanced along something slender that now protruded for a couple of centimeters from the underside of his wrist.
Scanners would have picked up anything made of metal. The needle that had shot from the subdermal implant under his wrist was probably some highly specialized fiber that allowed scanner waves to pass through it. As soon as the needle-sharp point broke in flesh, the contents would be released, almost certainly under pressure.
The point ran in and snapped off. Somebody shrieked, and Travis's phase pistol fired. The guard's head disappeared, along with that of someone behind him, who just happened to be collateral damage – unfortunate, but that was the way things happened in the Empire.
Reed slipped slowly down the Empress's body, his eyes already glazing. A trickle of blood ran from the open wound beside his shoulder blade.
"No antidote," he whispered as she knelt beside him. "…designed it myself."
"Why?" she demanded, pushing her clenched fists together to stop herself from crashing them into his face – for more than one reason. She'd just escaped assassination by a hair's breadth – or, more accurately, by the width of his body intervening to accept death instead. She knew he'd planned it.
A grin softened the hard mouth. "Tradition."
She looked up at Travis, hoping he might understand what the heck was going on. Tradition? What the heck did tradition have to do with this?
Reed coughed, and swallowed hard. "Save the Emperor's life… ask for anything."
It was obviously difficult for him to move. His lower limbs were already starting to go into seizures. But he still managed to turn his head towards the monitor and get one word out with utter clarity: "Mercy."
Mercy for Archer. At the cost of his own life. At a guess, the MACO would have believed that Reed was providing a distraction while he himself made the suicidal strike at the Empress; that was certainly the story the major would have fed him, and at the time it would have been the truth. He'd hardly have been likely to guess that the sight of Archer still alive would have changed everything, so that it was now a double suicide Reed was planning – the MACO's expression of stunned disbelief as the needle sank into the scarred bare back that rose so suddenly and unexpectedly between him and his intended target had been unfeigned, at least for the split second before the energy blast wiped him out of existence.
Reed must have been thinking furiously in those last moments, weighing up the odds like the tactical officer he was. He could let the assassination go ahead, but there was Travis and the MACOs; he'd never live to tell the tale. Killing Sato would only put Travis on the throne, and Mayweather had no reason to extend mercy to Commander Archer. Potential usefulness wouldn't be enough in this case. He'd probably arrange a particularly picturesque end for the man he'd once served as his personal bodyguard, with at least one star witness to enjoy it as punishment before enduring something along the same lines himself. The event might even be televised live, as a deterrent to anyone else who might harbor unwise ambitions about changing the status quo. It was certainly what she'd have done, in Travis's place.
All these thoughts flew through her mind as she stared down at the dying man.
"Reed, you bastard." For a moment she was back on Defiant, a lieutenant facing a major who'd outsmarted her.
The smirk was familiar, if brief. "…ition," he muttered, and then the seizures took over. Travis pulled her backwards quickly, so that she was out of range of the mess.
It was over quite quickly. At her gesture, Phlox made a rather cursory inspection, though it was unnecessary. The carpet would have to be replaced altogether, which was really inconvenient.
She heard Travis giving the remaining MACOs orders. They retrieved the bodies of their two comrades and maintained their military bearing as they left; they knew they were all dead men walking for having allowed the prisoner to get so close to the Empress, but they'd face it stoically.
Tradition. Damn tradition! She hated having her hand forced. But he'd been right; he'd saved her life, and thereby put her in his debt. The fact that he'd planned her assassination in the first place admittedly negated the debt somewhat, but the fact that it was his body sprawled graceless on the ruined carpet instead of hers still had to count for something – however little. And he hadn't done it for himself; though doubtless the thought that however ugly his death would be, it would still be relatively quick had not escaped him, that had not been his reason. Accepting death for that purpose would have been cowardice and despair, and whatever his many and horrible faults he'd been a brave man who didn't give up hope. No; for possibly the first time in his entire existence, Major Malcolm Reed had acted with absolute selflessness, surrendering his life for the sake of a commanding officer to whom – for whatever utterly mysterious reason – he was still loyal.
Waving Phlox away, she walked to the monitor. "You aren't worth his spit," she told the man on it furiously, as though he could hear her.
It would have hurt less if the recipient of that sacrifice had been likely to appreciate it. She knew he wouldn't. He'd listen to the story and shrug, thanking Reed for a fool, and never give the matter another thought as long as he lived. Though he'd better be goddamn careful from now on, because at the first infraction…
Behind her, she heard Travis summoning underlings and giving the appropriate orders. They cleared the mess away, and did the best they could with the carpet. She supposed Phlox had done the best he could too, so he could be allowed to live, but she'd make sure she never set eyes on him again.
When everything was quiet, Mayweather went into the private apartments, and soon she heard the noise of the shower. He knew she was fastidious about cleanliness. As soon as he'd finished he'd get into bed, waiting for her to join him there, and after a while he'd wonder why she lingered; but he wouldn't come out to ask. He never, for a moment, forgot what was due to her.
Memories. That afternoon on Defiant, and the snatched interlude during the interrogation. Passion flaring, and Reed's hard, toned body on hers. And, afterwards, as he hesitated in the doorway, that odd moment when somehow, she'd felt some far deeper but even more fleeting connection between the two of them: some mutual realization that if only…
She leaned on the table, keeping her eyes shut tightly till the tears had passed. Because only a fool wept for 'maybes' and 'might have beens'.
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