Star Trek - Unification Part 12

His arm would heal. He would be a warrior once more, claiming honor on the battlefield and acclaim among his fellows. He would lift the bat'lelh in victory, its curved blade streaming blood, and taste the sweet mysteries of conquest and death.

And when, steaming and elated, he confronted K'kam, he would clasp her to him with two strong arms, holding her fury contained until, under his expert ministrations, she erupted in cataclysmic pleasure.

He almost wept with grat.i.tude to the android.

When Spock and Picard transported back to the Kruge, it was in silence. Their discussion in the caves had left Spock with much to ponder, and he a.s.sumed from Picard's quiet introspection that the same was true of the captain.

Nonetheless, he had been intrigued when Picard mentioned the android's attempt to penetrate the Romulan data banks. This was an audacious endeavor, and perhaps doomed to failure, but Spock knew that its success would probably answer his most deep-seated questions about the Romulan mission.

And so he was curious to see what progress Commander Data had made. When the doors opened to his and Picard's quarters, Spock was not focused on the surroundings, but when he entered, they demanded his attention.

He was astonished at the small, spare quarters. He had crossed the Neutral Zone in a Barolian freighter, and his accommodations were better than this. He cast a surprised glance at Picard, but the captain had clearly gotten beyond his environment sometime ago and now took it for granted.

"Have you had any success, Mr. Data?" Pieard queried.

"Negative, Captain. The Romulan information net employs a progressive encryption lock. I have been unable to penetrate their security measures."

"May I a.s.sist you, Commander?" asked Spock. "I've had some experience in these matters." Spock realized that he was looking forward to this technolog-ical challenge.

"By all means, Amba.s.sador," replied Data, and Spock moved to sit next to him. He was instantly absorbed in the problem.

"The Romulans have incorporated a forty-three- part cipher key into their entry sequence," said Spock, knowing that Data had covered this material.

"Yes, sir. The twenty-ninth is the only one I cannot bypa.s.s," Data responded.

Spock was vaguely aware that Picard was still in the room, and apparently feeling superfluous. "I think I'll take this opportunity to remove my ears," the Captain said, and exited.

Spock was glad he was gone. He remembered distantly that one frequently accomplished more when one's captain was out of the picture. And he had been looking forward to the opportunity to discuss Pieard with his second. "He intrigues me, this Picard," he said.

Data was instantly curious. "In what manner?" he asked.

"He is remarkably a.n.a.lytical and dispa.s.sionate for a human. I understand why my father would choose to mind meld with him. There's almost a Vulcan quality to the man."

"Interesting," responded Data. "I have never considered that. And Captain Picard has been a role model in my quest to be more human." This took Spock aback. "To be more human?" "Yes, Amba.s.sador."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating," he murmured. "You have an effqcient intellect, superior physical skills, and no emotional impediments. There are Vulcans who aspire all their lives to achieve what you were given by design."

Spock could see tb.e android processing this statement. He was silent for a moment, and then turned back to Spock. "You are half human."

"Yes."

"And yet you have chosen a Vulcan way of life."

"I have."

"In effect, you have abandoned what I have sought all my life."

This innocent remark struck a surprisingly strong chord in Spock. His choice, as a child, to follow the Vulcan ways and eschew emotions had not been lightly made. It had required a lifetime of discipline and meditation in order to repress the human side of him. He was not sure he wanted to consider an inquiry into what he might have lost by the process.

He took refuge in the monitor before him. "I believe I have isolated the twenty-ninth cipher access code. I'll attempt to access the proconsul's files." He skillfully worked the controls of the computer, looking for paths into the files.

"Amba.s.sador, may I ask a personal question?" Data's voice was infinitely polite. "Please."

"As you examine your life, do you find you have missed your humanity?"

The computer made a series of beeps and Spock took advantage of this activity to organize his thoughts. That the android had seemingly tapped into his thoughts was uncanny. He considered his answer carefully. Finally, casually, he said, "l have no regrets," and continued to work on accessing the files.

"'No regrets.' That is a human expression," observed Data.

Spock was silent for a time. Then he said, "Fascinating."

Chapter Sixteen.

AMARIE PICKED AT a rough spot in her fingernail until it became a gouge. Then she picked at it with another hand. She was trying not to hear what Shem was saying to her.

They were sitting in Shern's tiny little cubicle of an office at the rear of the hideaway, where he had summoned her for this impromptu "conference." Amarie hated his office. It was decorated with Shern's usual tacky taste: lots of red, chains piled on the floor, nets over the windows. Shern was so predictable.

Now, as his voice droned on and on, she looked down at the afflicted fingernail, concentrating on it with fierce intensity, as though it were the most important thing in the galaxy at that moment.

I'll have to redo the polish before tonight, she thought, dimly aware that Shern's voice continued to rasp in her ears. She tried not to look at his smooth, bloodless face, or that unblinking eye.

If l have time I'll redo all four hands... if not 1 can do a patch job on the one... or maybe just trim it down...

These irrelevancies ran through her mind as Shern's voice filled the room, an endless sound. For someone who tortured the language, he sure loved to talk.

"Many times I this message to you have delivered," he was saying. "Possible it not is a musician having for reasons that described have been."

Amarie snuck a glance at him through lowered lids. The owner of Shern's Palace was agit, .ed, pacing back and forth as he talked and talked. He was such a disgusting-looking thing. Did it ever occur to him that maybe the reason no one came to his runey little bar was because they couldn't stand to look at this pale, waxy thing with an eye that never blinked? That maybe she was the only reason the place had any customers at all? That she was saving Shern from going under because she had talent and people came to hear her intricate four-handed music?

"... night one more having," Shern was saying. Then he stopped and looked at her with a certain finality, as though expecting a response, and she had to admit she hadn't been listening. "Sorry, Shern, go over that once more, will you?" Shern's sallow complexion went to a peculiar yellow shade; she had learned this was the onset of anger. "To be listening necessary is," he spat. "Not do I talk for listening pleasure myself."

Amarie sighed. Part of her said, what the rune, get this miserable creature out of your life forever; but the other part ordered her to do anything-anything-to please Shern so he wouldn't cast her out without a job. I can make him like me, flashed desperately across her mind; I can never like him followed soon after. Sometimes she thought honesty was one of her most troublesome traits.

"Shern," she said, "if you used the runey Universal Translator maybe I could figure out what you're trying to say, but since you don't, just butcher it one more time for me. All right?"

Shern's eye bored into her. "Clear making was, night one more having you are."

"Shem, maybe to you that's clear making, but to me it's confusing being. You telling me tonight's my last night?" "Simple it is," said Shern, shrugging disdainfully. "You mean to say that after all I've done for you, after I've built a clientele, a loyal following, people who come to the bar night after night just to hear me-you're going to get rid of me? The only attrac-tion you have to offer?"

And then Shem smiled. At least that's what she thought it was-on Shem it looked like a grimace. But he was clearly quite self-satisfied when he announced, "Amazing talent finding am I. Dancer she is-with many legs having." Shem looked at her smugly.

Amarie stared at him. Was he kidding? This was his big idea for building business? A four-armed musician hadn't put Shern's place on the map of the sector, so he thought a multi-legged dancer was the answer? Amarie found herself laughing, a big, throaty, gutsy laugh-a bray, actually-that clearly caught Shem by surprise.

"Why laughing are7" he asked nervously. Shern hated being left out of things, and a joke he didn't get was always upsetting to him. That thought only made Amarie laugh harder.

"You runey little rune," she said when she had finally caught her breath. "I am so runey glad to be getting out of your runey bar. I hope you and your runey dancer are miserable together."

And, still chuckling, she stood and walked out of his office. She knew Shern was staring after her, duInb-founded by her reaction-and that was a liberating thought. I'll redo all my nails before tonight, she thought, and give myself a facial and maybe try that new raetaphasic eye shadow. If this is my last night, it going to be one rune of a performance.

It was not until she got home to her tiny closet room that she burst into tears, and cried without stopping for an hour. Then she had to spend hours over a steam quill trying to reduce the swelling in her eyes; that took so much time she never did get around to repairing her fingernail.

Gretchen Naylor's green eyes flashed as she looked at Riker, and he had to fight feelings that he had somehow betrayed her. They were in the captain's ready room, where Riker had quickly led them after Naylor had come onto the bridge and requested a conference. That in itself was unusual; her att.i.tude once they were secluded was nothing short of astonis.h.i.+ng to him.

"I've been on this investigation from the beginning, Commander," she was saying now, "and I think I deserve to be included now."

"You've been extremely helpful. I know the contributions you've made, and I'm grateful. I'm just not sure it's wise for you to be seen at Shern's Palace."

"And that's because-?"

"You've been there once with me. You go again, you'll be noticed. I'm not going until Lieutenant Worf lets me know that an overweight Ferengi who likes 'Melor Famagal' has arrived."

"But when you go-if you go-I should be with you." "I think I can handle the situation, Ensign."

The tone in Riker's voice got her attention. She fixed those eyes on him. "Am I overstepping the boundaries, Commander?" "You're coming very close."

From the look on her face, he realized this statement frightened her-on some profound, visceral level. It was a brief flash of vulnerability, and then she became extremely composed.

"Sir, if I've seemed pushy, I apologize. I take my work seriously. It's important for me to do my best. I want the chance to prove myself, and it's hard for me to have those chances taken away."

Riker stared at her. He had a vision of a serious, dedicated little girl, studying obsessively at her desk while the warm, fragrant breezes of Indiana wafted through her room. Somewhere outside, in the lush gardens, her family worked and laughed together, bonding in their shared commitment to give this gifted child a chance to grasp a dream-Starfleet Academy.

The family had each other; they had a goal that held them together. Gretchen was alone, bearing the responsibility of fulfilling the vision for which her parents and her siblings gave so much. She had not only survived a journey that claimed many casualties -she had excelled. She was admitted to the Academy, graduated with honors, and then was posted to Starfleet's flags.h.i.+p. Gretchen Naylor was in rarefied company, the upper minuscule percentile of those millions in the quadrant who longed to be exactly where she was. But did it bring her joy? And what had it cost her? "Ensign Naylot, you've been invaluable in this investigation. I've valued your insights. I can honestly say we wouldn't be where we are if it hadn't been for you."

He had the sense that she drank these words as a dying man gulped water in the desert. Yet her expression remained impa.s.sive. "Thank you, sir. I hope my performance has been acceptable."

"More than acceptable. Exemplary."

She nodded briefly. A moment pa.s.sed. "But my presence won't be required on Qualor?"

"I don't think it's wise."

"Very well."

She turned away and started to leave; he felt an overwhelming flood of protectiveness toward this driven woman, wanted to salve her feelings somehow. "Gretchen?"

She turned back to him. "Maybe we could have dinner some night. I'd like to know you better."

She stared at him, a proud tilt to her head. "Commander-please don't patronize me," she said. Then she walked out.

Arnarie's puffy eyes had subsided by the time she went to work, and the metaphasic eye shadow, which changed color and design constantly, concealed any residual swelling. She had that awful snuffiy feeling she always got when she had been crying for a long time, but all things considered, she thought she was looking pretty good. The room, as usual, was nearly empty. The prost.i.tutes (thank the rune she hadn't had to sink that far-yet) sat gossiping in the rear, enjoying the moments before the men began to drift in and demand companions.h.i.+p. Amarie walked through the field of untilled tables and toward the spotlight that centered on her keyboard. A new man was seated there.

She knew he was from the Enterprise, for he wore a similar uniform; he had been sent by Will Riker according to their plan. But she was unprepared for his powerful virility, and her heart thudded a bit as she looked at him. His bony ridge marked him as a Klingon; Amarie thought he was the most devastat-ingly attractive man she had ever seen.

She asked if there was anything special he wanted to hear. "Do you know any Klingon opera?" he demanded. Amarie thrilled to the a.s.sertiveness of his command. She wished she had studied more opera. Maybe she could improvise "I don't get a lot of requests for it," she admitted~ hoping this manly being would not think her unso-phisticated for not knowing his music.

"Surely you must know at least one theme from Aktuh and Maylota," said the Klingon.

Somewhere in the dim regions of her memory Amarie touched on one aria from the opera, a bari-tone's lament. It had been popular when her mother was young, and she had seen holographic recordings of it. Maybe she could retrieve enough of it to please this exciting man.

Her four hands trailed gracefully over the keys, finding the melody and gradually filling in accompani-ment. "I may be a little rusty," she said, but surprisingly it was all coming back to her, and she began to play with increasing sureness. And then, unbidden, she began to sing, her throat opening to the achingly beautiful sentiments of the doomed love affair.

To her delight, a pleased expression appeared on the Klingon's face, and he nodded emphatically. Then he seemed to sink into a euphoric rapture, and from his throat a softly growling sound emerged as he began to hum. This aroused Amarie incredibly. Her mind began to hunt feverishly for other Klingon operas she might have heard.

"MayIota, Maaaay-lot-aaaaa," the Klingon bellowed. He had lost all sense of the place and had thrown back his head, pouring out the sorrows of an unrequited love in his rich ba.s.so voice. Amarie s.h.i.+vered. She wanted all time to stop, and to spend eternity in this moment, playing a love theme while her Klingon warrior sang at her side.

"What is that dreadful noise?" The harsh nasal voice knifed through the fetid air of the room like a laser. "It sounds like a Bardakian p.r.o.nghorn moose."

The Klingon stopped singing and turned to see who it was who had interrupted his aria. Amarie knew only too well.

Omag the Ferengi was a regular at the bar, coming in every few nights. Why he came there she never understood, because Omag was so rich and powerful he could have bought the place and had it delivered to his dwelling.

He was also the fattest man she had ever encountered. He waddled toward a table, his rotund body stuffed, sausage-like, into an outfit so large it could have held four normal-size Ferengi. On either arm, as usual, were two striking women in skimpy, disgusting-ly revealing dresses. One had no back to it, the other almost no front, and the bottoms of the woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and all of her skinny stomach were open to the wind. Amarie sniffed slightly as she glanced at the two. They were cheap runey slatterns, as far as she was concerned, and far too thin. Those women could never bounce like Amarie.

Omag looked at her and gave her a nod. "You know what I want to hear," he announced, and took a seat. He couldn't draw his chair up close to the table because of his stomach, so he snapped his fingers and one of the women handed him a basket of palag crackers, which he immediately began stuffing into his mouth.

Amarie turned to the Klingon and gave him a slight nod, then began to drift into the familiar strains of Omag's favorite song, "Melor Famagal." She saw the officer casually touch the insignia he wore on his uniform, and softly say, "Worf to Enterprise. "No one except her could have heard him.

"Go ahead," came back a voice, and Amarie recognized Riker's quiet tones.

"A fat Ferengi has just entered the establishment," said the Klingon.

"Is that 'Melor Famagal' I hear?" asked Riker.

At Amarie's nod, the lieutenant answered, "It is."

"I'm on my way."

Amarie looked over to see Omag ordering food and drink-lots of it, if pattern held. Occasionally he glanced at her and smiled, nodding his ridiculous head, encouraging her to keep playing the runey song.

And Amarie did. She'd rather be playing love themes from operas and hearing the manly voice of the handsome officer near her, but Omag was always good for a big tip at the end of the evening. And if this was to be her last night of work, she'd need it.