I was vaguely expecting the apartment within to be dark, but quite the opposite: it's painfully bright, an expanse of arctic walls and a high ceiling pierced with downlights, all that brilliance bouncing off polished chrome and spotless white leather furniture. The floor is of some highly polished wood that's too pale even for pine.
There's a desk, of course, of the same wood as the floor, but it's at the rear of the room, and the chair behind it is unoccupied. Its polished surface is empty, as is every surface I can see. It's a room that is as unrevealing as a mirror, for a mirror shows nothing of what it conceals behind it.
The man I've waited so long to meet is seated in a luxuriously padded easy chair that's placed just in front of the desk. Another of exactly the same design is placed at a careful forty-five degree angle perhaps a metre away from it – close enough to allow relaxed conversation, but far enough to give enough notice of any suddenly unfriendly intent.
Two chairs.
Em's quick on the uptake. Without waiting for a word from me, she steps aside and takes up station beside the door. She can watch, and at this distance she can certainly hear, but she won't be close enough to intervene.
My pulse judders as I walk up the room. Unbidden, I stop at the precisely correct distance from him and adopt the regulation 'at ease' posture. After all, he's technically my superior officer.
We're both in uniform. I took particular care over mine, in view of the occasion, but I still don't measure up to the perfection of his. Its crisp lines would have a Savile Row tailor prostrate with admiration.
There's a little silence, while we look each other over.
He's a few years younger than me, but bigger built. The immaculate uniform doesn't do anything to hide the breadth of his shoulders, and when he's standing he'll be taller than I am by a few inches. He's handsome too, in a strong-jawed sort of way, with short, cropped dark hair and a firm, modelled mouth. His eyes, however, are hidden behind a reflective visor. Only the angle of his head tells me he's studying me carefully.
As the senior officer, it's up to him to speak first. However, instead of speaking he rises from the chair and walks, very soft-footed, to the back of the desk. One of the drawers responds to what's undoubtedly a contact-pad and slides silently open. He takes a PADD from it and walks back to the chair, where he sits and studies it for a moment. Then he leans forward and proffers it, freeing me to move.
The information is fairly comprehensive, but not complete. Still, it's enough to show me why he felt the need to arrange this little rendezvous; there's sufficient there to make even this formidable man aware that there's more to me than meets the eye.
A lesser enemy would have used this silence as a weapon, intimidating me with it. I'm quite sure that this is not the case here, however. His silence is that of confidence. When he has something to say, he'll speak. Until then, he'll learn more by listening, and not just to whatever I say. His whole attitude is one of concentrated attention, like a cat at a mouse-hole.
"The information appears to be relatively accurate, sir." I'm pleased by how calm my voice sounds. And it's perfectly true: what's there is mostly accurate. It's not complete, but what there is, is accurate. So accurate that I make a note to instigate an investigation on my return (assuming I do return) into exactly how that much high-level information became available to him.
(Note to self: 1. Summon Phlox. 2. Make it clear he doesn't have anything more important to do. 3. Arrange for an accident to befall any transport he tries to use to get out of the system. 4. Remind him that lack of co-operation with me is counter-indicative to a long and healthy life. 5. Arrange for him to spend a few minutes in the Booth to reinforce the idea.)
"I've been keeping an eye on you, Mister Reed," he says at last, his voice no more than thoughtful. It doesn't surprise me that he's American, but his voice is well modulated, his accent nowhere near as irksome as that redneck Tucker's. "You seem to have discovered a certain … talent … for attracting support."
There's hardly any point in denying it, so I don't bother. I simply wait, my expression one of respectful enquiry.
"Your loyalty to the Empire, is, of course, beyond question," he pursues. "Her Imperial Highness the Empress Sato has assured me of that fact."
An interesting thought. I wonder if I believe it. Hoshi must have been in an exceptionally good mood during that particular conversation, or else she was being sarcastic. Probably the latter, actually. During our … well, shall we call it 'initial acquaintance', before she attracted the attention of Captain Forrest, I interrogated her on several occasions. Horizontally of course. And I suppose I don't recall asking her if she minded. Not that she seemed to – quite the contrary. The shape of things to come, you might say…
I drag my mind from the recollection of Ensign Hoshi Sato's perfect naked body (which threatens to become a distraction I can ill afford), and reply with the smoothness of pouring cream that I'm honoured Her Highness has such a high opinion of me. That wasn't quite what she conveyed on the one occasion she visited me in Sickbay after I regained consciousness; I got the distinct feeling that she found my misfortune positively hilarious, but I'm prepared to let bygones be bygones.
For the moment, at least.
He leans back in his chair. Possibly his eyes narrow, but I can't see them if they do.
There's a long pause, after which he gestures me to sit. A second gesture points Em to the sideboard, where on the shelf inside there is an ice cooler with a bottle of wine in it, and two glasses.
Her composure is admirable. She pours the wine deftly, without spilling a drop, and brings the two glasses over to us on the antique silver tray.
To wait – properly deferential – until he's taken his first would be to signal far too clearly that I acknowledge my inferior status. Just as his fingers close around the delicate stem, my fingers swoop in (smooth, not snatching) and take mine. My timing's exceptional, if I say it myself.
The reflective visor notes the movement. His face is perfectly impassive.
Em returns the tray to the sideboard and takes up station again at the door. Her face is still, but her eyes are wary. If I die, so will she.
We both sip our wine. It's not a drink I favour all that much, but even I can tell the quality of it. It probably costs more a bottle than the Empress's hairstylist earns in a year.
"So." He's completely relaxed. "You're probably wondering why I've invited you here."
"I have one or two theories." The Army of the Dispossessed. If I were capable of feeling horror, it would have horrified me how many they were, when I started my quiet investigation. As it was, they came to my hand one by one; wary, curious, dangerous, looking for answers. I drew them in, soft and wooing, the meat of the knowledge they wanted dripping red on my outstretched fingers.
My outrage became their outrage. All of us, used, stripped of our humanity and our will. And someone was to blame.
I haven't found him yet. (Or it may even be a her; I've no illusions about little girls being made of sugar and spice. Every little girl I've ever shagged was made of spite and ambition and sex, usually in that order.) But I will. I'm close. Once or twice I've almost smelled him. And one of these days his luck will run out.
Mine host sips the wine again, reflectively. "I've decided to offer you a deal."
It takes some self-control for me not to blink; I hadn't expected him to be quite this upfront about it. There again, this may just be a gambit, played to see how I react. If so, he's in for a disappointment. I can front a poker-face with the best of them.
"I've heard it said that everyone has their price." Lucifer knows that's the maxim the Empire was built on. Buy up the big boys and you can have all the little ones for nothing.
His eyebrows lift just a fraction in polite acknowledgement. There's the hint of a courteous, crystalline smile. Then his free hand drops to the padding at the side of the chair, where presumably he presses a button, because one of the arctic walls suddenly develops a door. As this hisses sideways into the wall, two MACO minions push a gurney into the room, and park it with military precision in front of us before turning and marching out again.
The chap strapped to it doesn't seem particularly in need of medical treatment. Oldish, short-cropped greying hair, lined face, but he seems reasonably intact, though he's either asleep (unlikely) or unconscious. His coat's leather and expensive. His shoes are black too, hardly worn.
"Should I know him?" I enquire, after this short survey. Seems like a harmless enough bloke to me. The sort who sits in a plush office arranging corrupt deals for a middling-important government department while his wife fucks the ski instructor in St Moritz.
The edge of a smile reveals even teeth. "You know of him."
I'm not normally slow on the uptake, but this one definitely takes a second to register. This easy … it can't be this easy.
Nevertheless, I have to put the glass down a little hurriedly on the polished wooden floor. It's old, thin and exquisitely beautiful, and it would be rather a shame if the pressure of my fingers were to break it.
"His name's Harris," the calm voice goes on. "I believe you've been rather anxious to make his acquaintance."
I'm on my feet before I know I'm moving. I don't touch, I just bend over the gurney and look closely. I can feel saliva gathering in my mouth, and my heart is pounding. There's no movement in the other chair, but the visor watches attentively.
I've decided to offer you a deal. So, this is what's on the table, literally and metaphorically. If it is who I think it is, who I want it to be – and I'll need much more than a sight of an unconscious man on a gurney before I shake hands on anything.
There's no haste about the second press of the button. The MACOs are evidently waiting for the summons, because they march in again and wheel the gurney away. The doorway vanishes, leaving the wall as smooth as before.
"The taste spoils if it gets warm."
I respond to the mild remark; it won't do to waste a wine this expensive. I take my seat again and relax. I'm pleased to note that my hand is perfectly steady. There isn't a ripple on the surface as I raise the glass to my lips again.
When I speak, it's to that glass-smooth surface that reflects the brilliance of the downlights overhead. "If he's for sale, tell me the price."
The visor turns to me, but he doesn't answer immediately. "You don't care for wine."
"Not something I've ever acquired a taste for, no." No offence intended would be too conciliatory. When I was in the lab they gave me water in a bowl. Some days the class clown pissed in it.
The offending organ had been sewn inside his mouth when I kicked him to death a couple of years later.
The slightest shift of light in the mirroring tells me the invisible eyes behind it have lifted from the contemplation of his glass to contemplate me instead. "So tell me your favourite tipple."
I answer without a second's hesitation. "Revenge."
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