203
T'Kir swallowed hard as she passed the ticket booth of the Coliseum. Of all her masquerades since arriving on Magna Roma, this seemed the most dangerous. Still clad in her military courier garb, T'Kir joined the milling throng inside the Coliseum's massive walls. Built earlier in the century, the Nova Roman Coliseum would have encompassed twenty of the original Roman arenas. It was designed for grand spectacle for the naked eye as well as the television lens.
Remote cameras studded every surface. Any single point on the arena floor could be filmed from dozens of viewpoints. The studio complex controlling this system was a massive underground labyrinth dwarfed only by the gladiator pens. It was also about to be proven to be the complex's weakest point.
The Crusaders' plans were simple. They placed gunmen at every level of the seats. Several Crusader moles in both the studio and arena control rooms would grant access for Crusader action teams. These teams would secure the various control rooms and deactivate the cameras and security measures. The teams in the crowd would control the riotous spectators. T'Kir and a select volunteer would join Macen and the prisoners and lead them to safety. A dozen aircars would be waiting for the escapees and their liberators.
T'Kir felt trepidatious. She hadn't been this nervous since her earliest days in the Maquis. The crowd also affected her. It was difficult to shut off all the psychic "chatter" generated by all the minds around her. Some days it sucked to be a telepath.
She nestled in to her assigned seat. Brutus had arranged for her placement so it was as close to the arena floor as possible. She wondered if the Senator were tipping his hand and then waived her concerns away. If Livia's plan succeeded, then the Empire would be toppled within the course of a day or two.
It would have been easier to wait for Livia's plan to succeed or fail. This option was not acceptable to T'Kir. There was too great of a chance that Macen and the others would be executed during the confusion of a revolt. She also foresaw Macen as having the best chance to overcome the Omicron contingent operating out of the Imperial Palace.
Of course, T'Kir still had to convince Macen to lead the assault on the Palace but she didn't see the difficulty in this. After all the mistreatment he'd endured, Macen would undoubtedly relish a chance to strike back at his captors. T'Kir certainly would and she and Macen were far more alike than either generally cared to admit. It had made them a potently effective pairing during the Maquis rebellion and could undoubtedly lead to a far more interesting union now.
Stop thinking that way dammit! T'Kir chided herself. She had the mission to think about, the task at hand, one of a hundred things to concern herself with that didn't involve her frustrated love life. Ah hell, who'm I kidding? she mentally sighed, My love life's why I'm here.
Try as she might, and she'd thrown everything she had into it over the last few months, she couldn't separate herself from thoughts like this. Thanks to the mental link she shared with Macen, discovered while trying to unravel one of the numerous Andergani pirate cartels, she knew he struggled with the same emotions. Lisea Danan's message to her admitting Macen's long-standing attraction to T'Kir hadn't helped either. Now she knew how both she and Macen felt but not how either was going to respond to those same feelings.
T'Kir hated feeling helpless. She was undergoing the same gut wrenching spiral of destruction that overcame her when her telepathy overwhelmed her. The similarities were disconcerting at best. At their worst, they led to the same maddeningly destructive behaviours and self-destructive impulses.
She craved closure, a certainty one way or the other as to where this emotional miasma was headed. Did he truly love her? If so, was he willing to make a go of a relationship? Could he forget or forgive incidents in their mutual past and ever completely trust her? Was the ghost of Lisea Danan finally put to rest?
T'Kir had hated employing Danan as the instrument of her message to Macen. Combining Macen and Danan's complicated past with the pretence of sex practically unnerved T'Kir. Had they pretended to copulate or had they thrown caution to the wind during a moment of stress and opted for as much realism as possible? Combined with the rest of her uncertainties, these additional concerns threatened to drive her mad.
One resolution T'Kir had made was that her friendship with Macen was her primary concern. His friendship through the years had often been the bedrock of her sanity. No matter what decision was reached concerning a potential romance, the friendship came first and foremost. She'd lost a lot during her life; this was the one thing she would cling to no matter what happened. She'd kill anyone that interfered with her relationship with Macen if need be.
She shook her head at the last. Although true, it sounded a tad extreme. She'd have to keep that one to herself. She might tell Hannah though, what was the point of having a best friend if you kept secrets from her?
T'Kir endured the opening death matches with a minimal amount of muttering to herself. The increased psychic pressure was wearing on her. She still had several days to go before she needed take her medications again. Drugs weren't the problem, stress combined with enormity of the crowd was.
She'd been afraid of this. Ever since Macen had deduced the nature of her disorder, T'Kir had dreaded learning the repercussions of her disability. It seemed her ability to efficiently operate inside large crowds had been compromised. Still, it was an improvement over her previous state of uncontrolled outbursts and actions.
Her place on the team was secure though. It wasn't as if Macen himself didn't have a disorder himself. T'Kir had decided he had the worst case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder she'd ever seen, and it had been common amongst the Maquis. Between the assimilation of his homeworld by the Borg, the Border Wars with Cardassia, the Maquis rebellion and the Dominion War, Macen was a veritable timebomb of dysfunction. .
Not that he'd admitted it. Macen's position often precluded any doubts regarding his sanity. The team was built around Macen. He held together the fractured pieces of the team… and there were a lot of them.
The entire team, if one was honest enough to admit it, was a collection of lost and bruised souls. Daggit was wracked with guilt over his actions in war and otherwise. The ultimate killer cursed with a fragile conscience. Dracas was twisted and bitter from a lifetime of hiding his true nature. Radil… Radil was the opposite of Daggit. A soldier bred to war and willing to fight for the highest bidder. Kort, the heartbroken exile, who dreamed of glory on the battlefield rather than in sickbay. Finally came Grace, the repentant spy. Who knew how many surprises she still possessed?
As the first preliminary match concluded, T'Kir took and released a deep breath. There were three bouts scheduled before Macen and the boys appeared. Tonight was a special crowd pleaser; three native gladiatorial champions on the cusp of freedom had been arrayed to face the "vile" aliens. It was the ultimate elimination match with the last man or woman standing claiming his or her freedom.
Only it wouldn't end that way. Macen, Daggit and Dracas would refuse to fight each other. This would "force" the arena officials to execute them. The Praetorian Guard's concerns would finally be addressed in a way that satisfied Roman ethics and sensibilities.
"Not if I can help it." T'Kir growled low in her throat, "And you'd better damn well better believe I can."
"Status Mr. Lucarno?" Riker asked as he shifted his weight in the Eclipse's command chair.
"Five by five." Lucarno replied crisply.
"What the hell does that mean?" Radil asked from Tactical II.
"It means everything's okay." Lucarno explained.
"No, its not!" Radil snapped, "I know a lot of Federation Standard, and I've never heard that expression. I'm wearing a damned universal translator and its gagging on it as well."
Riker hid his grin behind his hand as she continued to rant; "If you want to report that everything is fine, then frinxing well say so!"
"Such language!" Riker scolded, "I'm shocked."
"Don't you start with me." Radil warned, "I've got a few salvos here with your name on them too."
"Try me." Riker prompted.
Radil shrugged, "All right, what the hell were you thinking back at Iotia?"
Riker looked nonplussed, "Thinking about what?"
"You were sleeping with the commander of the task force we're leading." Radil clarified, "What was that about? Ever heard of not mixing business with pleasure? Or should I rephrase and urge you to stop thinking with your…"
"That's enough." Riker cut her off, "What I did on my own time is strictly my business."
"Macen wouldn't have done it." Radil's teeth ground, "He would've restrained…"
"I'm not Macen." Riker cut in icily, "I don't know if you've realised this or not."
"It's been made obvious." Radil replied disdainfully.
"Can you perform your duties?" Riker asked, "If you can't, I'll happily relieve you and you can ponder my sex life in your quarters."
"I'm fine, sir!" Radil barked
"Good." Riker nodded, "Carry on then."
Macen, Daggit and Dracas strode out of the gate into the arena proper. Daggit knelt, as he always had since their first bout, and scooped up some dirt into his hands. After spreading a fine layer of dust across his palms, he dropped the rest of the dirt on the floor. He'd repetitively urged his companions to do the same, claiming it granted one a better grip on their weapons. Today was no exception.
"I'm telling you, this got me through the Tarsus Wars." Daggit cajoled, "I never once dropped my weapon due to sweaty hands."
"I'd just end up with mud." Dracas balked.
"I've been sword fighting half my life." Macen reminded, "I'm used to the feel of a blade."
"Why did you drop your weapon if wasn't due to sweaty hands?" Dracas inquired.
Daggit scowled.
"Hey, it's just a question."
"Look at today's bruisers." Macen interrupted, pointing at the three fighters emerging from the opposing gladiatorial pit.
"I've got the woman!" Dracas chimed.
Macen and Daggit stared at him and he shrugged, "I don't mean to sound sexist, but I think I'd stand a better chance against her than either of those thugs."
Macen and Daggit shifted their gaze towards the advancing fighters then to each other. Daggit shook his head; "She'll be fast."
Macen shrugged, "It's your funeral."
"Not today." Dracas crowed.
The sounding trumpets alerted the combatants to the commencement of the event. The announcer revealed the stakes and rules of the competition to the gladiators and crowd alike. With that over with, a second chorus of trumpets announced the initiation of combat. The fighters paired themselves off, as if by instinct, and the match began in earnest.
Dracas advanced on the woman and was surprised the viciousness of her answering onslaught. Armed with a short sword and a dagger, she came at Dracas with both weapons flying. Armed with a matching set of weapons, Dracas did his best to stave of the venous harpy seeking his death. He'd underestimated her, forgetting that female gladiators had to be twice as good as their male counterparts in order to offset their greater size and bulk.
Daggit fought a giant armed with a mace and a sheathed sword. Daggit himself was armed with an axe and a dagger. Daggit quickly stepped into his opponent's inner ring of defence and disarmed him. The gladiator leapt back and drew his sword.
Macen faced a man armed with a weapon reminiscent of a Vulcan lirpa. The Roman variant, however, had blades at both ends of the staff. Macen wielded a short sword and a shield. It required the use of both to fend of the whirring attacks of the bladed staff. Macen found himself pressed to the limit of his ability with the sword.
Daggit threw his axe at his opponent. Amazingly, the Roman swung his sword up in time and deflected it. Not waiting for the Roman to recover, Daggit charged towards him, drawing his dagger. Daggit locked a visegrip on his opponent's sword arm while trying to stab the man with the dagger. The gladiator threw Daggit back but Daggit performed a backspin with his knife arm outstretched and caught the Roman across the throat. Daggit lifted his enemy's sword and hurried to assist Dracas.
Dracas was backpeddling as fast as possible. His opponent had scored several flesh wounds that were beginning to slow him down. On top of that, he was tiring rapidly. I'm getting too old for this… Dracas thought before being interrupted by the sight of a blade protruding out of his opponent's leather chest armour. A grinning Daggit pulled the sword free as the woman's body slowly fell to the ground.
"Where would you be without me?"
"In a box." Dracas wheezed.
"You need to get in better shape, old man." Daggit pronounced, "You should spend a little less time in Engineering and more time in the gym with me."
"Not all of us have those engineered reflexes and responses of yours." Dracas reminded him, "I could spend all day in there and it wouldn't make a difference."
"What about him?" Daggit nodded towards Macen's struggling form.
"Him?" Dracas asked, "He's proud, let him be. If he wants help, he knows where to find us."
Many in the crowd began to boo and jeer at Daggit's assistance of Dracas. The fact that the two men did not begin to fight riled the throng even further. T'Kir cringed as a lone voice, then many others, demanded that the arena officials intervene. It was almost time.
Macen repelled a strike above his head with the sword then countered a counter-strike aimed at his knees. His opponent's swiftness and dexterity with his double-edged weapon was frightening. Macen took a step back and re-examined his options. The true danger here was that damned double bladed pike. If he could eliminate that, it would even the odds enough for Macen to prevail.
He moved forward, thrusting at his opponent. His blow was blocked but it gave Macen the opportunity to spin around backwards and catch his opponent in the face with his shield. The Roman reeled and Macen pressed his momentary advantage. His next attack was a slashing blow with his sword.
As hoped for, the Roman used the pike's shaft to block the strike. The shaft splintered and broke, but Macen's blow was spent. He received a kick to the ribs before he could block it with his shield. Macen staggered back and recaptured the air forced out of his lungs. The Roman now pressed the advantage and came at him with a single half of the pike wielded like a sword.
Several minutes passed undergoing a constant cycle of thrusts, dodges, and parries. Macen's shield barely offset the Roman's advantage in speed and dexterity. He'd finally been paired with a better swordsman and it was costing him. His only hope was to outwit his opponent for he was no match for the other's skills.
Macen confused his opponent by flinging his shield at him. Although the gladiator clearly expected Macen's follow-up, he hadn't anticipated on the savagery of the attack. Macen rained blows upon his enemy. His entire being was now focused on this single moment. The few nicks he received from the other man's weapon only drove him on further.
The deciding moment came when the Roman, backing away from Macen's frenzied assault, tripped on the other half of his broken weapon. Macen lunged upon him, impaling him through the heart with the sword. Crouched on one knee, it took Macen a moment to rise He'd first learned he was capable of such desperate savagery during the Maquis rebellion and his actions came as no surprise to him. What surprised him, then and now, was the lack of remorse he felt.
Although he cognitively knew that it was a kill or be killed situation, he still felt it should have bothered him more. The El-Aurians had been avowed pacifists. This had contributed to their helplessness before the Borg. During the survivor's frantic odyssey voyage to the Alpha Quadrant, Macen had vowed to never again let circumstances or people threaten him again.
He'd first tested his resolve when assigned to the Cardassian border during the Border Wars. His intelligence gathering efforts were often undertaken under fire. He'd learned to kill during these skirmishes and he'd learned to live with it. Once a life was taken, one either accepted the consequences of one's actions or went insane. Macen chose his own form of sanity and it proved reliable during both his time with the Maquis and amidst the Dominion War.
What he was beginning to appreciate was the cost of his sanity. It was a high cost to bear but one that was necessary. Macen was a self-appointed crusader determined to right whatever wrongs were in his power to affect. The fact Starfleet supported him in this role only made it easier for him to continue on, content in the justifications he and Command collaborated in creating
Macen knew enough about psychology to admit that his behaviour and mentality wasn't considered the norm. Macen now felt constrained by the norms of Federation society. He fought to defend the Federation and its way of life but no longer felt truly accepted or comfortable there. His long-standing acceptance and attraction to T'Kir was proof enough of that.
Macen and accepted and supported T'Kir because he saw much of himself in her attitudes and actions. Many had supposed Macen had taken her under his wing out of pity. The plain truth was that he'd done it because he'd found a counterpart in her. This was the realisation that had driven Macen and Danan apart. Once Danan understood this elemental truth, she knew she'd never be able to compete with T'Kir for Macen's affections.
As Macen stood, he felt weary. Weary down to the very core of his being. Ever since the assimilation of his homeworld and the loss of all his loved ones, Macen had maintained a barrier between himself and others. Truth be told, Macen didn't completely trust others.
It was a strange contradiction. Macen engendered the trust of his subordinates and teammates owing to his intense loyalty towards them, but he never fully trusted them. He always waited for them disappear or betray him. He was tired. Too much paranoia and anxiety over the past eighty decades had worn at him. He wanted to love again… and who better than a telepath?
Macen knew if he committed to a relationship with T'Kir, he'd have to give all or nothing. There could be no holding back, not if he wanted it to work. This had been the factor that had previously held him back. He'd been a prisoner… no, a slave, to his fears long enough. It was time to act, to take the risk, no matter the cost or consequences. As he stood before the expectant crowd, he made his resolution. As soon as he saw T'Kir, he'd confess his true feelings to her.