“If that is true, then it would appear I died for nothing.”
“Regrettable.”
Spock decided he had been deferential long enough. “Not regrettable. Unacceptable.”
The Vulcan healer did not respond to Spock’s challenge directly. Instead, she asked, “What new action do you propose to take?”
Spock was puzzled by the question. Because it had only one answer. “Identify the other group intent on manipulating Romulan politics.”
“That could be dangerous,” T’Vrel said evenly.
For just a moment, Spock wondered if this was how McCoy felt in their ongoing debates. “Explain,” he said again.
“We have just now, seven standard days after your staged assassination, deduced the existence of the other group that has thwarted our plans from the beginning.”
Spock understood at once. “Then it is likely that they already know of our existence.”
T’Vrel nodded. “And since their goals are antithetical to our own, logic dictates they will attempt to stop our efforts.”
Spock drew on his own Kolinahr training as the full meaning of T’Vrel’s conclusion became apparent to him. In the normal course of events, there would be many ways to stop a rival political organization. But in this case, given his own apparent death, the next, most obvious way the other group would move to stop him would be to ensure his actual death—a crime for which there could be no punishment.
“How much time do you estimate we have before the unknowns move against us?”
T’Vrel didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The caverns of Soltoth echoed with a sudden explosion.
The emerald facets failed as their broadcast power source was interrupted, bringing on impenetrable darkness.
Time had run out.
4
RISA, STARDATE 57473.1
What the hell? Picard thought. It’s not as if she can fire me. So he gave his honest opinion. “With all due consideration, Admiral, I decline your invitation.”
But the response Kathryn Janeway gave was not any of the ones Picard had expected. No expression of disappointment or determination, just a flash of a smile through the mesh of her face screen.
Rather than argue or accept his last statement, the admiral simply slashed her epee to the side in salute, said, “On guard,” and took up the classic position.
It’s going to be like that? Picard thought. So be it, then.
Returning her salute and her smile, he matched her pose, right arm extended with his epee raised to parry her expected thrust. And in that same moment, all the details of their surroundings left him.
The rush and crash of surf on the beachside of their arena faded from his awareness, taking with it the cacophony of the Risan parrots’ odes to dawn.
The early heat of morning vanished, as did the cool shade of the jungleside’s lush foliage, which artfully shielded their exertions from the sprawling resort complex.
Picard even erased the idea that he, merely a Starfleet captain, was about to attempt to inflict grievous bodily harm—or, at least, a simulated version of it—on a Starfleet admiral.
All that mattered was that two fencers faced each other on a long and narrow piste, and that in five points, there would only be one.
Picard’s honor demanded only one outcome, all considerations of rank and career advancement be damned.
“I thought Spock was a friend of yours,” Janeway said, serious, as if intending to continue their conversation instead of commencing their match. But then, as if her words had been a deliberate attempt to distract, she sprang forward with a lunge to her opponent’s chest, forcing Picard to retreat as he parried in the tierce position.
“I know the ambassador,” Picard responded, countering with an expert riposte that defeated Janeway’s quinte parry and found her left shoulder. Unfortunately, the instant the hit registered on the scorecard projected on his helmet screen, a matching tone and sharp pressure registered her hit on his own left shoulder.
The match had begun. Picard kept mental score: Tied one all.
“Or should I say, I knew him,” he added as he and the admiral returned to the en garde lines glowing on the two-meter-wide and fourteen-meter-long mat that was their battlefield. “And I mourn his death.” He took up the first position, his epee held in presentation. “En garde.”
“Don’t you want to see his murderers brought to justice?”
The tips of their weapons circled each other as each sought an opening.
In epee competition—a favored form of fencing at Starfleet Academy—the formal attack/counterattack order of combat by foil was dispensed with. Both fencers could go on the offensive and score at any time. Thus initiative was rewarded.
“To obtain justice on Romulus under current conditions—” Picard moved forward with a firm patinado, let Janeway parry, then thrust again, and again, to complete the phrase of action with a lunge, scoring a decisive hit in her solar plexus. He caught his breath, stepped back. “—would require a better man than I.” Two-one for the captain.
Janeway smiled sweetly as they returned to their starting positions. “Is that how you regard Jim Kirk? A better man? I always thought there was a bit of a competition between the two of you.”
Picard declined to take the proffered bait. “Since you said this will be a civilian operation, it makes sense for Jim to go to Romulus. He’s retired, and he and Spock were like brothers. So—”
“On guard!” Janeway said, and again sprang forward in a lunge that became a surprisingly powerful parry to Picard’s offensive coupe.
Her epee scraped his from foible to forte, at last reaching the bell-shaped coquille that protected his hand, at which she added an expert twist that forced Picard’s weapon from his glove.
She smiled again and went to retrieve it. There was no honor in scoring a point against a defenseless opponent.
Picard raised his mask to let the dawn breeze dry his sweat-covered face.
It was early, and given that Risa was known for its nightlife, the resort’s fresh-air gym was almost deserted. The few beings who either had risen early, had not yet slept, or came from worlds with a completely different circadian rhythm were paying more attention to a banth match now under way in the low-gravity boxing ring closer to the beach.
Picard had long been an admirer of banth, but given that it required four hands to keep the spinning pins in motion, no human need apply. That restriction apparently didn’t deter two Vulcans near a group of boisterous Bolians from following the contest, raptly. A lone human in a glaringly bright shirt with oversize tropical flowers printed in harsh, clashing colors seemed equally engaged, though he stood apart from the others. The pale legs revealed by the man’s baggy shorts suggested he had not been on Risa long. His floppy sunhat was that of a typical tourist from Sector Zero-Zero-One.
Janeway returned Picard’s weapon to him and again they took up their positions.
And again the admiral led her charge with verbal needling.
“Even with you aboard, Jim would still do the legwork. On guard.”
This time, Picard was ready for Janeway’s sudden lunge.
So of course the admiral feinted and drew him into a septime parry, driving his weapon down so she could tap his facemask with the button of her weapon, unopposed.
Picard frowned, annoyed both by the unexpected shock of the impact and the buzz from his helmet speaker. Not to mention the fact that the bout was now tied: two-two.
“Are you all right?” Janeway asked.
Picard tugged on the padded bib of his fencing helmet to settle it securely around his neck and upper chest. “Fine,” he said.