"You are dismissed," I tell the centurion on guard duty at the brig.
She looks at me doubtfully. "Standard procedure is that prisoners should not be left unattended -"
"I am attending. You are dismissed."
She looks even more doubtful, but the habit of obedience is strong, even in the Republic fleet. She stands, salutes, and leaves. I square my shoulders and enter the brig. Then I turn, to lock down the doorway with my command code.
The brig is not large, but there is space enough to separate prisoners if need be. The crewmen from the shuttle are being held in cells near the doorway. I walk down the narrow passage between them, turn a corner, and stand before the only other occupied cell.
He is there. He is sitting on the bed, and he looks up as I approach. I see the light of recognition in his eyes.
"Centurion T'Laihhae," says Vorkov.
I stop before the force-field entrance to the cell. Now that the moment has come, I find it hard to think what to say to him. The knife in the wrist sheath feels immensely heavy.
"Should I address you as General, or Minister?" I temporize.
"Whichever you feel appropriate," he replies. There is no emotion, not even a trace of apprehension, on his long, saturnine face.
I have imagined a moment like this many times. In that imagination, I have cursed him, or lectured him, or simply killed him, each one a hundred times over. "Minister Vorkov, then. It is your current effective rank, after all."
"Quite so, Centurion," says Vorkov.
He is trying to needle me, I must not let him.... Then, a realization. He is trying to needle me because he needs to. He needs to feel he is asserting some sort of power over me... because the reality is - quite otherwise.
"I am disappointed in you, Minister," I say. "You have not sufficiently assimilated and understood the maxims and principles of Bresar. Procedures adapt to the realities of the situation, do they not? And the reality of this situation is... that my old Imperial rank is no longer relevant."
He raises one eyebrow. "You require me to address you as a purported Vice Admiral of the so-called Republic."
"I do not require it - Minister. For all your purported and so-called, you are a prisoner aboard a Republic warship that answers to my commands. Facts, Minister. You are surrounded by force fields and armoured metal and armed guards, and there is nothing purported about any of it."
He nods. "I accept that. So. It seems you have come a long way since our last meeting, Vice Admiral. Perhaps you should thank me for that."
"Oh," I say, "I have considered very deeply, Minister, what I owe you."
He grows agitated, at last. He stands up. "Am I, at least, to be permitted the Right of Statement before -"
"You may talk." I remind myself: that is all he can do.
"You hate me because I killed your friend -"
"Incorrect," I say, "or at least incomplete. You made me complicit in my friend's death, and that is why I hate you. And myself."
Vorkov's shoulders slump, a little, at that. "Then you... recognize your own role in what happened."
"Of course. And I have condemned myself for it - many times. But I do not let that cripple me... one's self is the one enemy with whom it is always necessary to come to terms."
"Necessary." He snarls. Somehow, I have cracked the façade. "What I did was necessary - disaffection was growing under my command, an example had to be made! The consequences of disloyalty had to be demonstrated -"
"Ah, yes," I say. "Another reason to be disappointed in you. You spoke to me so memorably of loyalty, and yet, here you are, a defector from the Tal Shiar to the Hegemony."
"Loyalty," Vorkov spits, "is a virtue only in subordinates."
"And you have never seen yourself as a subordinate?"
"Never. Valikra offered opportunities for advancement - and T'Nir offered opportunities to dispose of Valikra. T'Nir's death cult around the katra would have self-destructed in due course. And then - there could have been a ruler of a unified Vulcan and Romulan state. Not a fanatic, not an academic idealist, not a ghost from the dead past. I could have ruled."
"I fear you underestimate your opposition - or overestimate yourself. And you are wrong, in any case, about loyalty. If we are not trustworthy for those we command - then we have no right to command them."
"Moralistic nonsense."
"Not at all. Simple pragmatism. Sooner or later, they will realise that." I frown. There is a sound in the air, a dim rhythmic banging. "I think I hear my subordinates now, in fact. Working at the door to the brig. I should commend them, but they leave me with very little time -"
I twist my wrist, and the knife pops into my hand. I hold it up. "I killed your lackey Plectan with this," I say. "An assassin's weapon, with a poison reservoir in the hilt. I have not had time to replace the Dimorus rodent toxin I used on Plectan... but I did have the opportunity, during the journey from Andoria to Vulcan, to prepare a liquid suspension of Pasicide-7. It would be interesting, academically, to see what it does...."
My gaze meets his and holds it for what seems like a year.
Then I slip the knife back into its sheath. "I can live with an unsatisfied academic curiosity," I say.
Vorkov finds his voice. "I am... gratified," he says.
"You should not be. I intend to do the right thing, Minister, by the law and by treaty. You are wanted in the Federation for a heinous crime, and the evidence against you is more than sufficient. Do you know what they will do to you, in the Federation? They take rehabilitation very seriously." I find I am almost crooning the words. "They will work with you, Vorkov, over years and decades. Counsellors and therapists, psychologists and telepaths... they will bring you to an understanding of your crimes, and a genuine desire for atonement. You will resist, but it is for your good, so they will never give up. They will cure you, Vorkov. They will cure you of the disease of being you."
He does not reply. His face is stricken.
"There is hope, yet, though," I say sweetly. "I might leave you to the Federation, but the Tal Shiar are not inclined to be lenient with defectors. They may well send operatives to... cure that disease by a more radical excision. Should that happen, rest assured that I will shed no tears."
I hear the door of the brig burst open, hear the clattering of running feet on the deck. I turn as they come around the corner.
It is not the ones who know me best - my old comrades from Virinat and Crateris. Aitra is there, his face freshly lined with new worries, and his partner Retar... Dellis, her big homely face apprehensive... Zdanruvruk, determination in his eyes... and Commander Yousest, out of place as always in Starfleet uniform, his vestigial gills fluttering. It is not the ones who know me best... it is, perhaps, the ones who care about me the most....
"Sir -" Aitra begins, and stops. Zdanruvruk has a medical scanner in his hands: he points it at Vorkov. "He's... uninjured," he says, in a tone of blank amazement.
"Of course he is." I remember something, and add, with a brief smile, "Our equipment should not be tainted with the blood of a traitor."
And I turn and walk away. Behind me, I hear a single thump and crackle - Vorkov's fist, striking uselessly at the force field. I pay him no more mind. For the first time in a long while, I feel I can pay him no more mind.
"Sir." Dellis is at my elbow. "We were - we worried that -"
"That my history with Vorkov might lead me to take private vengeance. I can understand that."
Dellis shakes her head and looks sullen. "None of us knows what that - history - is," she says.
"Perhaps you should take the opportunity to ask Vorkov. In any case - it is over now." My heart is, curiously, light. "I have taken all the vengeance that I needed to take. Whatever was between Vorkov and me... is ended, now, and I have won." I smile, and the smile remains on my face. "And I am relieved to discover - I can live with that."
No comments:
Post a Comment