It was a dark little room in an ancient, run-down neighborhood. The place was a cross between a coffee house and an opium den. The clientele consisted of idle rich from a dozen worlds, Starfleet officers on leave, hookers looking for a john.
A chubby, silver-skinned man with deep burgundy hair walked through the thick clouds of heady smoke toward a small stage in one corner. He carried an Indiian ontonte, a eight-stringed instrument looking something like an ancient Terran lute. Several of the customers turned to watch him stride through the room. There was a scattering of applause as he settled onto a stool on the stage.
He spoke quietly into a microphone on a stand next to him. “Thank you for the applause,” he said. “The rest of you have obviously never heard me play.” Some polite chuckles, a few puzzled frowns. “My name is Eontril Plad. I am a member of the Minstrel’s Guild, and this job will almost pay the back dues I owe “ He settled the ontonte in his lap and started tuning it. “Actually, the Guild hasn’t collected dues from hardly anyone in a long time, but they like to keep up the appearance of dues. Most of its members are too poor to pay.”
He cleared his throat and strummed a few chords. “Being poor is not fun, as most of you probably don’t know.” A few chuckles, not many. “It can be very depressing. But what’s more – no, don’t leave, I don’t sing social reform songs about being poor. I find music much more interesting than money. Which is why I’m here and you’re there.”
“Shut up and sing!” someone called.
Eontril smiled. “Kind of hard to do. Sorry, but I tend to babble when I’ve been smoking. Okay, here’s a song about -- well, hell, you figure it out.”
He started strumming earnestly, a five-beat in a minor key with a lot of gentle dissonances. Then he began to sing in a voice clear and strong, a rich, full baritone:
I’ve heard her songs. I know they’re in her,
But she won’t sing for me.
I’ve done all I could to win her,
But she won’t sing for me.
She knows how and where and when
To set my fire free
I’ve heard her sing for other men,
But she won’t sing for me.Sweet siren of the jaded wood,
The passion burns you so.
You still sing as you ever could,
But down where none can know.
Deep mists of fantasy enfold you
You’re where you want to be
My arms ache and yearn to hold you
But you won’t sing for me.I’ve heard her songs, I know they’re in her,
But she won’t sing for me.
Her knife’s bright edge is getting thinner,
But she won’t sing for me.
Her voice would mend my broken wings
With just a melody.
The chords she knows, and sometimes sings,
But she won’t sing for me.Is it always like this
With the others you’ve kissed?
Do you taunt and torture them, too?
Do they always want more
Than you’ve given before?
Do you keep them needing you?“You know what’s wrong,” she says sometimes,
“Devotion’s not enough;
The chords and melodies are fine,
But your touch is far too rough.”
Through shattered lands and empty streams
I search forevermore.
But we share only twisted dreams
A man might tell a whore
If she would only take my hands,
And guide me, soaring free!
She knows the way, and understands,
But she won’t sing for me!
Through the course of his song, a quiet disturbance had been slowly building in the back of the room. Once he had finished, an Indiian couple with very dark hair leapt to their feet, silver skins fairly glowing in anger. “Roshian disgrace to your father’s name!” the man bellowed. “How dare you sing something like that?!”
“I wrote it,” Eontril bellowed back, “and it’s damn good!”
The woman gasped in shock and the man said, “We don’t have to listen to language like that.”
“Aeman nobility,” Eontril explained to the audience, “have ears sensitive as all Court!”
The woman closed her eyes and shook with anger, and the man started clawing his way through the crowd and toward the stage, screaming something about Beggar’s Court.
A huge, burly Terran appeared out of nowhere, standing in the angry noble’s path. “Now just calm down!” he said, but the Indiian pushed him aside with a strength surprising for his soft-looking build. The Terran was momentarily surprised, but he recovered quickly and grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders.
“Look,” he said, “I’m the manager here and if you don’t sit down I’m going to ask you to leave.” He gave the Indiian a not-too-gentle shove back toward his seat, then spun around and pointed at Eontril. “And I want to see you right away, in my office.” Without looking back, he turned and stalked away.
Eontril took a deep breath and spoke softly into the microphone. “Looks like this set is over,” he said, and followed the manager out.
The office consisted of a tiny room nearly filled by a desk and shards of broken glassware and crockery. He didn’t ask Eontril to sit.
“I don’t pretend to understand what happened out there,” he began, “but this isn’t the first time you’ve managed to offend Indiian guests to the point of violence. What is it with you people, anyway?”
“They are not my people,” Eontril answered softly.
“You’re Indiian too, damnit!”
Eontril sighed. For the thousandth time -- “Yes, but I am Roshian... forget it.”
“Roshian? What is that, the Indiian word for riot-inciter? I don’t care what you are or what they are. They’ve got money and you’re convincing them to spend it elsewhere. I’m going to register a complaint with the Guild about you!”
Eontril grinned. “Go ahead, Harry. It won’t matter much, I’ve already got a long string of black marks. Why do you think I wound up here?”
Harry glared at him. “Look, Plad, I’ve had it with your smugness and your crass manners. You got no tact and you got no class. You seem to delight in causing trouble and you’re stoned half the time, and I don’t need you that bad.”
“You’re angry, aren’t you?”
“Damn right!” Harry bellowed, then he closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Get your ass out of here before I have it kicked out. Your limited engagement just ended.”
“You just made my mind up for me, Harry,” Eontril said as he opened the door. “Things were getting pretty boring around here, anyway.”
“And use the back door! I don’t want you starting an interstellar war on your way out!”
Eontril congratulated himself on keeping so calm. Of course, the calm was artificially produced, but that made it no less noteworthy. He paused long enough to put his ontonte back in its case, then stepped out into the night air.
It was only a short walk from there to his rooming house. He let himself in, lit another joint, and checked the building computer for messages.
Rhonda had. tried to get in touch with him again. She wanted a firm answer. Eontril shrugged. He had no idea what Rhonda was doing, but it had to be better than this. Normally, he wouldn’t have even considered such a thing -- no pay, not even a contract, no idea of where he would be going or why. Rhonda had promised to give him all the answers as soon as he agreed to go, but that could hardly be reassuring.
But why not? All expenses paid, excitement, no Aemans. What could be more?
He rang up the spaceport and started making arrangements to travel to Sol.
Meanwhile, the older Indiian couple received assurances from Harry that the offensive singer would no longer be employed at the club. The gentleman then apologized for his conduct and excused himself to go place a call to an old friend of the family, Admiral Brezshnova, to tell her that everything had gone quite well. He added also that Plad had been even more offensive than the Admiral had said, and that he had not had to compromise his principals at all in arranging for him to lose his job. Rhonda thanked Ambassador Costain for the favor and promised again to explain it to him some day.
Saran had never been so near to Terra before. And after spending a few hours on Mars, he decided that he didn’t particularly want to go to Terra at all. The Martian air felt uncomfortably cold and thick and far too humid, making him feel clammy all over. Mars had, of course, been the first world on which Terrans had attempted ecosynthesis, and they were quite proud of it, but Saran had trouble convincing himself that it could have been any worse before they’d started.
On top of the atmosphere -- or perhaps below it -- the gravity of Mars was less than half Earth normal, which made it only a fraction of what he was used to on Vulcan. This gave Saran a very uncomfortable feeling which Terrans euphemistically referred to as “low gee euphoria”, and forced him to hop around with a strange gait that was anything but dignified.
All this rather put a damper on Saran’s enthusiasm. Which was just as well, he chided himself. It only served to prove yet again the wisdom of Surak and the uselessness of such emotions as enthusiasm.
A robot air shuttle met him at a pre-arranged location just outside of the spaceport, and took him to a small office building perhaps sixty kilometers away. The building was part of a large office / industrial complex situated next to a lake made out of a moderately-sized meteor crater. Admiral Brezshnova had rented a suite on the top floor of the building, and her office overlooked the lake.
He was led to the Admiral’s office by a pair of the building’s security guards who let him in, announced him, and left.
The office was comfortably furnished. Rhonda Brezshnova was sitting behind a very large desk, littered with scraps of paper and tapes. A number of chairs of various sizes stood about the room, some well-cushioned and others looking bare and severe. A rather small, almost pudgy man sat in a particularly comfortable-looking chair. Saran could tell he was Indiian from the burgundy hair and silver skin.
The Admiral and the Indiian both stood as Saran entered the room. Once the security men were gone, the Admiral spoke.
“I’m very pleased that you’ve decided to join this expedition,” she said. “As you’ve probably gathered, I’m Admiral Rhonda Brezshnova.” Saran nodded. “This,” she went on, “is Eontril Plad, a member of the Minstrel’s Guild. Eontril, this is Saran.”
The Indiian held out his hand. “Live long and prosper, Saran,” he said.
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. Obviously, Eontril Plad was attempting to make a traditional Vulcan greeting, although that would involve the raised hand, not a Terran handshake. There was, of course, the traditional response of Peace and long life. However, if Eontril Plad could go out of his way to be polite by attempting to greet Saran in a Vulcan fashion, Saran could reciprocate in an Indiian style.
Saran therefore clasped Eontril’s hand and said, “And the stars are eternal.”
But Eontril pulled his hand back quickly, a look of anger rapidly flashing across his face. Then he smiled, but he still managed to look pained. “I am not of the Night Children,” he said, as if in explanation.
Saran scowled. “I don’t understand.”
Eontril gave a huge sigh and sank into his chair. “I’m tired of explaining things. Rhonda, help me.”
The Admiral motioned for Saran to be seated. He picked out a plain wooden chair as she said, “I don’t know how much you know of Indiian culture – “
“You’re all impossible!” Eontril broke in. “Everybody tries to be polite and greet me in what they think is a traditional, kind, Indiian manner. And they always assume...”
“Eontril, please. Saran, you see there are two major religions on Indi. Somehow, it seems that the Aemans” -- Eontril cleared his throat, rather loudly – “hold most outsystem positions, such as ambassordorships and Starfleet commissions. So most everyone off Indi thinks all Indiians are Aemans.”
“If you use that name once more,” Eontril tried to interrupt, but Rhonda hurried on.
“But, this just isn’t true, although the.. .Night Children, as Eontril would say, are in the majority, and seem far more vocal on religious matters.”
“They’re just a bunch of fanatics.”
Saran studied him. “You seem rather fanatical about it yourself.”
“What would you know about religion? You’re an athiest!”
“That would hardly imply that I am unaware -- “
“Please,” the Admiral broke in, “you can continue your discussion later. I’m a little rushed right now. And since you’ve both agreed to go on this expedition, I’d appreciate It if you didn’t kill each other just yet.”
“Is there any provision for second thoughts?” Eontril asked.
“None whatsoever.”
“The Admiral could hardly afford to allow you to back out now. You have far too much information already,” Saran said.
“Too much? I think she may have been about to tell me something before you came in to insult me, but I still don’t know where we’re going, or why, or who else is along...”
“You do know, however,” Saran broke in, “that the Admiral is involved in an operation that is extremely secretive and possibly illegal. That alone is far too much.”
Eontril scowled. “Illegal? I thought this was something Starfleet was doing.”
“As did I, until I arrived here. The building security guards are not Fleet. Indeed, the only member of Fleet I have seen here is the Admiral herself. And she keeps her notes on paper rather than in a more efficient computerized data base. The paper can be more easily and permanently destroyed, and is easier to limit -- it is here, and the number of copies can be controlled. No, this is obviously a project she had taken on herself. And now, she has implicated us. Admiral, I am outraged and offended.”
She smiled at him. “Emotionally? Or intellectually?” Saran tried to think of a response, but the Admiral continued. “There are quite good reasons for my secrecy, as you will soon find out. In the meantime, I want to assure you that this mission is no more dangerous for its questionable legality. And also, what you have been told so far concerning the purpose of this mission is entirely true.”
“What purpose?” Eontril asked. “You still haven’t told me, yet.” He was almost pouting.
“How do I know we can trust you?” Saran said to the Admiral. “You have just admitted everything of which I accused you.”
“She is telling the truth,” Eontril assured him. “I can tell.”
“I really don’t have the time right now. I promise, you’ll both be told everything, very soon.” She stood. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to a couple of rooms I’ve prepared for your stay on Mars.”
Saran had to admit that his curiosity about this project was now more acute than ever. There was so much about it that he still didn’t know.
“Alright,” Eontril sighed. “Just so I don’t have to room with him. Just once, I try to start a greeting on someone else’s terms, and he still insists on being more polite than any reasonable person should be. Trust a Vulcan. Ca!”
A robot courier ship came for M’rray. That was puzzling -- it wasn’t often that Caitians used robot ships, much preferring to be in control themselves. But what was even more puzzling was the short, cryptic message left for him in the courier’s computer.
The message was from the Dommale of the Office of Colonial Management. It said that he was being sent on a mission of indefinite duration. In addition to the duties that would be explained to him later, he would be expected to observe and report on any worlds that would seem suitable for future colonization, and that this particular responsibility was to be kept secret from the other members of the mission team. And finally, there were a few pieces of special equipment, including a portable but very powerful transceiver, which the OCM was providing to him.
A time lock on the transceiver prevented him from using it to contact his superiors, and the ship’s computer refused to give him any more information. So he spent the time taping a lengthy report on the status of the colony he was just leaving, and suggesting techniques for handling any other large carnivores they might find.
After a few days, the computer finally came to life again and informed him that they were approaching the Sol/Jupiter system, and that he would be landing at Chryse on the planet Mars in a matter of hours.
M’rray snarled a little at that. He didn’t like being around Terrans very much, and the strangeness of this whole thing made him feel uncomfortable.
He was in a very foul mood by the time the courier ship let him out at Chryse Spaceport.
Everything was, of course, going much too smoothly. Eontril, Saran, and Mok had arrived without incident, although the first two might require a little more convincing. The Zehara had given assurance that a keheil was on her way, and the Caitian Office of Colonial Management had also agreed to send someone -- no doubt, for reasons of their own. Even the last member of the crew, Charles Donne, had sent confirmation. He had been such an perfect choice, and the easiest to come up with a way to convince...
Of course, they were all perfectly suited. Eontril Plad had a gift for expression, and the priceless talents of his race to feel and understand the emotions of others. Saran was a brilliant young scientist, with impressive powers of comparison and the ability to see patterns which others might miss. Mok was a skillful trader and salesman, capable of handling himself well in nearly any situation. Many were the times he had kept planetary authorities arguing with each other over his fate, while he had quietly made a valiant exit. And Mok had come with an added bonus: the Klingon girl, Kila. She would certainly add a unique viewpoint to the team’s findings. The Admiral had also felt uncomfortable about sending only one female on the expedition -- the Antari -- and Kila helped there, too.
None of the crew had had any real medical training. That was one of the reasons for asking the Zehara to recommend an Antari keheil. The empathic healing powers of the keheils were legendary -- not to mention their other telepathic abilities. Admiral Brezshnova didn’t know anything specific about Rian ani Rina, but she did know that anyone the Zehara would recommend would be strong and capable and talented.
And as for the Caitian -- M’rray of the clan Garesse had his race’s almost incredible physical prowess and strength -- more even than a Vulcan. And M’rray himself had a reputation with the OCM for being able to survive any climate, any wilderness, the most resourceful colonial counselor they had, his youth notwithstanding.
There were many other races from which she would have liked to include a representative -- the Gorns, and Andorians, and Tellarites, and Orions, to name a few -- but there was only limited time, and some would have been downright impractical. Besides, the crew had to be restricted in size, for reasons of security and supply, not to mention just general logistics.
So, the seventh and last member of the crew would be a Terran. That had been inevitable anyway -- not because of any species chauvinism on the Admiral’s part, but because of the unique blend of talents and abilities that defined Terrans. They were not as intelligent as a Vulcan, nor as talented empathically as a keheil, nor as sensitive as an Indiian. They did not possess the strength or speed of a Caitian, nor the verbal skills and cunning of a Haven, nor the ruthlessness of a Klingon. But -- whereas most of the races of the Federation with excelled in one or two traits, Terrans seemed to have an even mixture of them all. Only Vulcans were more intelligent, a Terran with martial arts training was nearly as deadly as a Caitian, Terrans had latent psychic powers perhaps approaching those of the more capable races, and on and on. In short, Terrans were far more flexible.
And besides, no one in the crew had any formal military or weapons training. It would be only natural to fill this gap with a Terran. And the most natural Terran for her to choose was Charles.
In his last message, he’d said he could reach Mars at the time she’d said she needed him. It was a shame they’d have no more than a few hours -- Rian and M’rray would be arriving late the next afternoon, and she wanted to send them off as quickly as possible after that. There’d be nothing else for them to wait for. Charles was bringing most of the supplies and weaponry, the ship and the rest of the crew were ready, and it wasn’t safe to wait any longer than they had to.
Still, she almost wished it could be put off. Eighteen years had been a long time to wait....
The Potemkin had put in at Port Lockheed for refurbishing and minor repairs, scheduled to last almost three months. The Potemkin’s young first officer, Lt. Commander Rhonda Brezshnova, had thirty-six days of accumulated leave coming, and this had seemed like an excellent time to take it
She’d met Charles Donne at a party given by a government friend last time she’d been on Terra. It had been a fascinating -- and exciting -- first meeting, but much too short, for they both had had pressing schedules. So they’d promised to get together again sometime, and had kept in touch through their mutual friend on Terra.
That had been a little over two years before. Now, Rhonda found out that Charles happened to be relaxing on Lorelei at the same time that the Potemkin was in drydock. It was only a two-day jaunt on a regularly-scheduled commercial shuttle from Port Lockheed to Lorelei, but those two days seemed to last much longer than any other two days Rhonda could recall.
Charles met her at the space port. He stood well over two meters tall, eyes and hair black as space. He was wearing a form-fitting sleeveless tunic stretched tightly across his chest, and blue pants that hugged his hips and thighs before flaring into wide bells. He spread his arms to her, and she took a deep breath and pressed herself against him.
**********
They spent almost five weeks together on Lorelei. In stark contrast to their first meeting, this time they were relaxed and unrushed. The towns and resorts of Lorelei were designed for well-to-do tourists and Fleet personnel on leave with a lot of money to spend on unwinding. They explored the bars and senseshows of Port Delilah. They ate in the most expensive restaurants and slept at the best hotels. Charles seemed to have an endless supply of cash and insisted on paying for everything. Rhonda had the time of her life.
It wasn’t until nearly three weeks into her leave, with Charles’ money showing no signs of running out, that Rhonda realized that there was a lot about Charles she still didn’t know.
They were lounging about their hotel room one evening, trying to decide whether to go out again or to go to bed early, when Rhonda decided to bring up the subject. She asked him, as subtly as she could, if he would run out of cash during their stay.
He smiled and shook his head. “Not a chance. I’m filthy rich,” he said. His voice was deep and sensuous, and seemed to rumble out of his massive chest. “Why do you ask?”
Rhonda shrugged. “You’ve just never told me anything about your background -- your family, your profession. If you’ve got either.”
He was lying in the bed, propped up on one elbow, while she’d been doing things with her hair, which was still dark in those days. She wore it long because she liked the feel of it on her face and shoulders. But it always got fiercely tangled during lovemaking and she had to brush it out. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, either,” Charles said. “How long have you been in Fleet?”
She smiled back. “Forever. I entered the Academy when I was seventeen. And that was -- well, longer ago than I care to remember.”
“Alright, but you’re still one of the youngest First Officers in Starfleet.”
That was true. In fact, at thirty-five she probably was the youngest. She just shrugged.
“And what did you do before that?” Charles went on. “What got you interested in Fleet?”
“I guess I’ve always been a spacebrat. My folks were both born at the Terran colony on Vesta. I built myself a – ” She paused, then went on, “ -- a needle, when I was twelve.”
Charles grinned widely in disbelief. “You raced a needle?”
She lifted her chin proudly. “Artemis,” she said. “One of the best. But you’re evading the subject. We were talking about you.”
“Actually, we were talking about going out to Phineas. I was there just a few days before you arrived, and they’ve changed a little --
“Don’t you like talking about yourself?”
“I’d much rather talk about you.”
“Fine, but I already know about me.”
“Then let’s talk about Phineas.”
“Let’s talk about you.”
She put the hair brush down on the little dressing table, pulled the silk robe closed again, and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. “So tell me,” she said, “what do you do with your time when you’re not on Lorelei?”
“You’re a persistent little bitch, aren’t you?”
She pretended to be offended. “That is not the proper form of address for a Starfleet lieutenant commander.”
He laughed.
“And you’re still not going to get away without telling me, mister.” She let the robe slip down a little from one shoulder.
“All right,” he said, still laughing. “Ma’am.”
“That’s better.”
He reached over to the bed table to get a joint of Rigellian. “I am a -- consultant. An advisor for political and military affairs. I work for a number of governments, and most of the work I do is considered sensitive and I can’t talk about it. So, rather than pique your curiosity and let it go there, I’d rather say nothing at all.”
Rhonda leaned over to take the joint from him and let her robe fall open. “So wouldn’t it be easier just to invent a cover story? Wouldn’t that be less suspicious than saying nothing at all?”
He grinned again. “Maybe I did just invent one.”
She pushed him playfully and stood up. She walked away, drawing on the joint. “Okay, bastard. So tell me about Phineas.”
“Now, look, this is just what I was trying to avoid. You ask too many questions, and you just end up being frustrated.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him. “You could take care of my -- frustration,” she said in her best Mae West voice. He laughed again. “And,” she went on, walking away, “since you didn't avoid it, you might as well go all the way now.”
Charles sighed. “Alright. What do you want to know?”
She faced him, her robe hanging open from her collarbone to her knees. “What kind of consultant are you? What do you do?”
“I’m a mercenary, a weapons and tactics expert. I’m very good at my profession, and very highly paid, and no government will ever admit having hired me. I’ve been involved in the border wars with Klingons and skirmishes with the Orions and most recently in the -- disagreements brewing between the Federation and the Havens. Plus a number of conflicts the Federation has never even heard of. Satisfied?”
She took a deep breath, and her eyes went wide. She pulled her robe tight again. “A mercenary? I didn’t know there were any in this day and age.”
Charles stood up and spread his arms. “You’re looking at one.”
Rhonda was shocked. She hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not this.
Still -- did it make any real difference? Charles had a dangerous profession, but so did she. It fit him, somehow. Yes, she could imagine the man as a professional solider. He had the body of a warrior, the strong, assured manner of one used to command and used to risking his life.
In a way, it made him even more exciting. She smiled, slipped off her robe, and stood with her hands on her hips. “So,” she said, “tell me. What should I wear to Phineas?”
Charles raised an eyebrow and looked her over approvingly. “Hell with Phineas,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind. Get back in bed.”
She did.
**********
The subject didn’t come up again, although it was always somewhere in the back of Rhonda’s mind. And the last week and a half of her leave was, if anything, more exciting than the first three weeks.
But the weeks did pass, and finally Charles saw her back to the spaceport. “When can we get together again?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Who knows? You could get killed on your next routine landing party.”
“You’re gruesome. You could get killed, too.”
“Not a chance. I’m too highly paid.”
“I’m going to find out more about you.”
“I don’t doubt you’ll try. Your curiosity is insatiable.” He gave her a long, passionate kiss.
“You're insatiable,” she said.
They said their goodbyes, and Rhonda got on the shuttle back to Port Lockheed.
**********
Nothing, of course, works perfectly. Even the most advanced, carefully planned technology or medicine fails now and then. Occasionally, for no good reason.
The methods of birth control Fleet employed, for instance, were at least 99.997% effective. But even they failed, occasionally.
Just before the Potemkin left drydock, Rhonda discovered she was pregnant.
She decided to keep the child. It could have gotten in the way of her career, but she made sure it didn’t. She took a short maternity leave after she got too pregnant to function efficiently, and went back on active duty as soon as she was able. She’d come from a large family, and there was never any problem with leaving the child with relatives. And in a few years, she’d been promoted very rapidly to Commodore and took a desk job at Starfleet HQ.
Charles had disappeared almost immediately on an extremely secret contract, and Rhonda wasn’t able to get in touch with him again for many years. When he did finally re-surface, it hardly seemed appropriate to tell him that he had a half-grown daughter.
Rhonda did continue to keep track of him, though, through their mutual friend on Terra -- in a general way, anyhow. Enough so that, eighteen years later, Admiral Rhonda Brezshnova was able to send a message to Charles to ask him to be a part of the special exploratory task force she was assembling. His expertise would be invaluable, and he had sources for military and other equipment outside of the more traceable channels.
The coded response had come back very quickly. He was between contracts. He gladly accepted.
The desk intercom buzzed. Rhonda touched the answer button, and the flat voice of the automated security system told her that she had a visitor. He had identified himself as Charles Donne, and had produced comp-ID cards to confirm. He had arrived with a large amount of luggage, which was being sent up to her floor on the freight lift.
Rhonda acknowledged receipt of the message and broke the connections. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and tried to calm her heart, which had begun to beat almost painfully against her breastbone.
She stood and walked around her desk and began nervously pacing. This is absurd, she told herself. You’re not a schoolgirl. This isn’t a blind date.
On an impulse, she turned to face her desk and pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it out of the neat bun to float freely about her shoulders. It wasn’t as dark as it had been on Lorelei, eighteen years ago, but it was nearly as long...
The door swung open behind her, and she whirled to face it.
A small, thin man stood there, dangling a phaser rifle from one shoulder. He was dressed in leather-and-metal body armor. His skin was a light blue, his hair snowy white. A pair of graceful antennae protruded from the sides of his head and curved upward. He was an Andorian.
Rhonda sat back on the edge of her desk in surprise. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where is Charles?”
“My name is Tharas Baadell. Captain Donne couldn’t make it. But he knew that this mission was important to you and that you may not have time to find anyone else. So he sent me.”
The Admiral started inching her hand toward the security con. “How did you get past the building guards?”
He reached into a vest pocket and brought forth a small plastic card, which he flipped onto the desk. It was a standard type computer ID card, with the name Charles Donne printed on it, along with a signature and an encoded strip and a holograph. Of the Andorian.
“Didn’t anyone think it odd,” Rhonda asked, “for an Andorian to be named ‘Charles Donne’?”
Tharas Baadell shrugged. “I only ran into automated security systems. What do they know?”
“What happened to Ch-- to Captain Donne?”
“Something came up.”
Rhonda harrumphed. “You may have easily fooled the automated security system, but can you convince me that you’re telling the truth?”
“The Captain said he’d call you, if he could. From Lorelei.”
Good, but not good enough. “Did he say anything else?”
“Yeah. He said for you to say ‘hi.’ to your kid.”
He knew! All those years, and he knew! Rhonda slammed her hands down on the desk. “That bastard!” she shrieked. “That bloody goddamm bastard!” She stood and looked around for something to throw and saw that Tharas had his rifle aimed at her.
“You’re really not gonna try to attack me in your fit of rage, are you?” he asked calmly.
“What?” She calmed down a little, then started laughing. “No, Tharas. Relax.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said, and lowered the rifle.
The Admiral walked back to her desk and sat down. “I thought things were going too well,” she said. “Did Captain Donne say anything to you about remuneration?”
“I assumed he’d already been paid. He gave me a thick wad of credits and sent me off with enough weapons and miscellaneous equipment for about a dozen people. Some of the equipment in some mighty strange sizes, I might add.”
Well, okay. She had her weapons expert. And an Andorian. But that still left a hole where the unique traits of a Human should go.
She needed to find someone else. Quickly. Someone she could con into this thing on the spur of the moment.
“Let’s get you settled,” she said. “I’ve got an errand to run.”
And sometime, a score to settle with dear Charles.