Part 12 (2/2)

TASHA YAR WAS Starfleet Security trained. Once she was certain that no one was going to attack her in the night, and that the door was indeed barred, not locked in some way that could be picked or jimmied, she prowled the bare but adequate room that Darryl Adin had her locked into, only long enough to ascertain that there was no escape.

The building was stone, with hand-laid parquet floors of the kind made only in times when manual labor is cheap. Without a tricorder, she could not be sure there were no hidden sensors, but she could not imagine where they would be installed unless parts of the wall were false. The stone felt real, and gave back a solid thump when she struck it. The wooden door frames had the patina of genuine age, and she could detect no tampering with them.

There were no windows, and the only doors were the one to the hall and one leading into a primitive but functional bath. The only mirror, small but clear, was in there, hung above the basin, but it was not positioned to take in the bedroom, making it an unlikely candidate for spy device.

The bed consisted of a thick pad on a wooden frame, covered with soft blue linens. Yar took it all apart, felt every bit of the mattress, and then remade the bed. There was nothing, and no devices on its underside.

What would they expect to find out by spying on her anyway? Dare had her combadge. She couldn't communicate with Data. Dare would expect her to do exactly what she was doing, and then, when it became obvious that she could not get out, rest so that she could face whatever happened in the morning.

There was no closet, only a peg rail. A soft blue robe hung on it, with a pair of soft slippers on the floor beneath. Yar decided to accept the invitation; her dress uniform had been through enough this evening without being slept in.

The bath had no cabinet; a wooden shelf held comb, hairbrush, toothbrush, dentifrice, soap, towels, and a tube of shampoo. She recognized the last item: Dare's personal preference, made with herbs from Rigel Seven. It was part of his individual scent even now, she recognized as she sniffed it, a wave of nostalgia was.h.i.+ng over her.

But she could not allow herself to be overwhelmed by yesterday. Darryl Adin was a traitor and a murderer, and now, by his own admission, a mercenary. He was no more to be trusted than President Nalavia-and Yar feared that she and Data had been thrust into one of those gray situations in which neither side was in the right.

Since there was nothing to do until morning, though, she put all that out of her mind, and slept.

Starfleet officers-star travelers in general-did not allow their bodies to settle into a fixed circadian rhythm, as each planet they visited had different days and nights, and they might beam down to noon or midnight, winter or summer. Yar slept for five hours, got up and exercised, showered and dressed, and waited for someone to come for her.

It wasn't long before Poet appeared, all playful gallantry, to escort her to breakfast. He was not in camouflage this morning, but boasted a soft yellow tunic over black trousers, a wide black belt defining his waist. He did not appear to be armed-now that she thought of it, she had seen no evidence of weapons on any of the men last night. She had seen lots of loose clothing, though. Starfleet uniforms made concealing weapons virtually impossible; the loose tunics, s.h.i.+rts, and jackets she saw here might conceal any variety of phasers, blasters, knives, slings-Starfleet Security training had rendered Dare, like herself, expert in virtually every weapon known, and she had little doubt his chosen henchmen were equally versatile.

Should she make a break for freedom? She already knew Poet was stronger and more skilled than he looked, and she did not know her way around this ... place. What was it-a castle? She decided to ask Poet.

”That's right,” he told her. ”Rikan's castle, the center of the resistance movement against Nalavia. Someone will show you around later.” He paused, making her automatically stop as well, and turn toward him. Light glinted off the lenses of his gla.s.ses, making his eyes unreadable. She wondered if that was why he wore them. ”You're the one, aren't you?” he asked suspiciously.

”The ... one?”

”The woman in the case. The reason he chats up little fine-boned blondes, an' then either leaves 'em frustrated or comes back the next day frustrated as h.e.l.l himself. A Starfleet Officer! Always did say Dare was a glutton fer punishment.”

At her look of astonishment, he added, ”Oh, yeah, we all know Dare was Starfleet-and how they screwed him. How you-” His eyes raked over her in obvious distaste. ”Womankind more joy discovers/Making fools, than keeping lovers.”

So Dare still blames me.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Breakfast was served in one of the most beautiful rooms Yar had ever seen. It was one of several that ran along the outside of the building, windows on the outer wall overlooking a deep chasm filled with bright-colored trees, solid walls with fireplaces and hangings on the inner wall. The dining room table would seat at least twenty people, completely set, although just three were currently eating. Yar knew only one of them: Sdan.

Tapestries, damask furnis.h.i.+ngs, old and beautifully polished wood for the table, porcelain and gold place settings-the splendor took Yar's breath away, vying for her attention with the magnificent view through the windows. Imagine living here, amid the beauty of nature blended so perfectly with the finest work of artists and artisans. For a moment she could do nothing but let the effect sweep over her. Then she deliberately pulled the cloak of Starfleet efficiency about her, and approached the table.

The two strangers were a man and a woman. The woman appeared human, with olive skin and thick straight black hair cut as short as Yar's and tied with a kerchief about her forehead. She was neither pretty nor beautiful, but exuded power even seated, eating and talking with her companions. She wore a sleeveless s.h.i.+rt that displayed arms more muscular than most men's-clearly another of Dare's mercenary band.

If the woman was intriguing, the man was impelling. He was human or Trevan and quite old, with thick white hair, leathery skin, and clear hazel eyes. Yar did not know the aging patterns of Trevans, but for a human he would have to be well over eighty. Yet he sat straight, his eyes were alert, and the moment she approached he stood, all old-fas.h.i.+oned gallantry, as natural as Poet's was contrived.

”You must be Natasha Yar,” he said. ”I am Rikan. Welcome to Warrior's Rest, Miss Yar.”

Her translator chose the term ”Miss,” obsolete even in Starfleet now although it had survived there until last century, to represent whatever Trevan term he had used to address her. An extremely useful item, the universal translator even suggested the flavor of his language, apparently archaic even among Trevans.

”I am glad to meet you, sir,” Yar replied, stopping short of the table and standing at attention, ”but you greet me as if I were a guest. In actuality, I am your prisoner.”

”Nonsense,” the warlord replied. ”You are my guest. Please sit down. The servants will bring you breakfast.”

Yar remained exactly where she was. ”Where I come from, Lord Rikan, guests are not locked into their rooms.”

He smiled charmingly, revealing worn but well cared for teeth. ”Then you will wish to eat so as to replenish your strength, in case you should decide to attempt escape.”

Yar looked into the wise old eyes and saw that he knew exactly what was going on in her mind. She gave up, and allowed Poet to seat her. The food smelled wonderful and tasted better-if she stayed on this planet long, Trevan cuisine just might spoil the line of her form-fitting uniform.

Rikan introduced the other woman at the table as Barbara. ”That's Barb,” she corrected. ”Don't n.o.body call me Barbara, and especially don't n.o.body call me Babs!” This last with a glare at Poet.

”What's in a name?” he replied. ”A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Barb bared her teeth at him. ”This rose has thorns!”

”Natasha-” Rikan began.

As long as they were getting names straight, ”It's Tasha,” Yar corrected. ”It probably comes from Natasha, and that was put down in my early records, but all either my mother or the woman who raised me called me was Tasha.”

Barb said, ”Ain't no use tellin' him, Tasha. Dunno why I bother, when it don't do no good.”

Rikan ignored the interruption and continued, ”My young friend Adrian-” There was a snort from Poet, who must know Dare disliked being called anything but his chosen nickname. Well, if Dare couldn't pierce Rikan's habit of formality no one could. ”- did not believe you would visit me voluntarily, even if it had been possible for an invitation to reach you through Nalavia's security.”

”He was wrong,” Yar said firmly. ”If the alleged terrorist warlord had invited us, Data and I would certainly have made every effort to meet with you.”

”Data-the android?”

So Rikan understood what Data really was. Yar was sure Dare did, too; he was simply scornful of everything connected with Starfleet these days. ”Yes, Data is an android, but that doesn't make him any less a person.”

”Indeed? I should like to meet him.”

”If you keep me here long, you will certainly have the opportunity,” Yar replied confidently.

Another voice interrupted from behind Yar. ”I'm sure your walking computer can work out where you are, but it will never get within ten kilometers of this place.”

Yar turned, and watched Dare enter and take his place opposite her as she said, ”He will if he decides that is the best course to take.” She did not continue because her attention turned elsewhere. Dare had not come in alone; a woman walked beside him as if she belonged there, and Dare seated her beside him as if he agreed.

”Aurora,” he addressed the woman, ”may I present Lieutenant Tasha Yar. Tasha, my tactical advisor, Aurora.”

Aurora was a stunning woman who appeared to be only slightly older than Yar but made the Security officer feel awkward and childish in comparison with the other woman's easy confidence. On second glance, she was not beautiful, hardly even pretty, but she had the regal att.i.tude of born n.o.bility.

Her hair was dark brown, with red highlights brought out by the same exposure to sun that had sprinkled freckles across her fair complexion. Her eyes were a warm brown, almost Vulcan in their depth. Otherwise, taken piece by piece she was quite ordinary: cheeks a little too round, jaw a little too square, figure not at all fat but neither slender enough to be called willowy nor buxom enough to be called voluptuous. Yet exquisitely dressed in a cherry-red jacket over a white satin blouse and black full trousers, she made Yar feel ... she could imagine Data finding the word ”tacky” in his memory banks ... even in her dress uniform. Especially in her dress uniform, which was totally inappropriate at breakfast.

Aurora gave Yar an appraising look, saying, ”I'm pleased to meet you, Tasha. Dare tells me you are highly skilled at combat. I hope you will be persuaded to help us.”

That was the last comment Yar was expecting. She frowned, looked at Dare, then Rikan. ”Help you?”

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