The Don was late. It was very uncharacteristic behavior.
He had called a meeting of nine particular nobles for a specific reason. They were mostly young, and the only titled men in the Rigellian system who held any real importance. On Rigel, power, rewards, and riches were all controlled by the DelMondes. Loyalty to the ruling house came before family or Empire, and these nine were all personally loyal to Noel DelMonde.
Which is their only redeeming feature, Courtland mused disdainfully. The Don intended to brief these men on the state of his system with respect to the Empire. Only these nine had any knowledge that Rigel was more than it seemed, though no one of them knew it all. Courtland had been given the task of seeing to the Council’s comfort, one he didn’t enjoy. And the longer they waited, the louder and more rude their private comments became. Courtland listened, heard, and ignored as much as he could while making sure that any information the Don might need would be immediately available to him. The most common complaint seemed to be that their time was valuable.
What else have you to do? Courtland answered them silently. You exist to wait on the Don’s pleasure. In Courtland’s opinion, whining did not become allegedly responsible nobles. He caught the last words of Caporegime Mulhouse:
“I’m sure the Don intended no insult, Capo.”
“Intended or not, we’re still here with his alien while he attends to a Vulcan...” Dylan Paine insisted haughtily.
“His shipyards, Capo, and Courtland is Consigliore, not ‘his alien.’”
“He’s still an Equian.”
“Paine, Courtland has earned the Don’s respect...”
“Maybe that only means the Don shouldn’t have ours.”
Very wise of you to walk away from him, Caporegime Mulhouse, Courtland thought. Paine was very sure of being appointed Terlord in Hasim’s place, which he thought made him too important to deal with an Equian. Or to respect his Don’s wishes? He took a deep, calming breath, forcing the dark anger back. It’s what I’m here for, he told himself, to hear the things Del’s people say when he isn’t present. Don’t take it personally - for now.
The computer readout on current operative status began, and Courtland studied it carefully. His concentration was broken by Paine’s contemptuous voice.
“Courtland!”
Courtland stopped the irritation, but didn’t look up from his work. “Yes, Capo?” he said. He could feel Paine’s silent expectancy.
“I’m talking to you,” Paine stated impatiently.
“Yes, sir,” Courtland replied dryly. “I can hear you.”
“Well, come here!” Paine ordered.
Courtland used all his control and strength of will, but his answer came out through clenched teeth. “I’m afraid I must see to this information at the moment, sir. I can, however, answer your questions.”
Paine stepped up to him, and the Capo’s voice was honeyed, filled with scorn and insolence. “Weren’t you trained to stand before your betters when they’re talking to you, Equian?”
The fury and bitterness was welling in Courtland’s body, a cold, hard anger and a contempt for this impudent Human. Memories of Hasim’s insults fed the rage, but he still kept his voice steady, though he was glad Paine couldn’t see his face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “That’s impossible at the moment.”
Paine bristled audibly. “Insubordinate...” He stopped the word, then went on with acid tolerance. “...but then your kind only has manners befitting the animals you are.” Courtland felt his control slipping, but said nothing. After a short silence, he heard Paine’s disgusted sigh. “If I had a riding crop, I could at least get proper attention. Where’s your stable-master, Equian?” the Human demanded imperially.
The voice drove straight to Courtland’s heart, releasing the hold on his temper. Blind instinct and a lethal ferocity took his senses. His eyes saw only dim shapes in a scarlet storm. His head lowered, and in the second it would have taken Paine to react to the deadly display, Courtland turned and lunged, his horn piercing Paine’s throat with swift, violent vengeance.
The Capo only had time for a sharp gasp, quickly cut off by the blood that gagged him. Courtland’s head jerked up, ripping through Paine’s lower jaw, jerking his body up and tossing it aside. All conversation in the room stopped with the attack. The Caporegimes stared in shock and sudden terror, not one of them daring to move. His fury released, Courtland surveyed the nobles with menace and cold warning, his golden, spiraled horn covered with gore that slowly dripped down into his forelock and mane.
There were none who cared to meet those icy blue eyes.
The tour had taken longer than Del had intended, but he continued to show only courteous interest at the long-winded, over-simplified explanations of Chief Engineer Hart. As he finally managed to convey his wish to return to the engineer’s office, he reflected that Jock Thompson, may he work in peace, had never been garrulous. Thompson had never taken up one minute more of the Don’s time than had been necessary. Hart was a good engineer. Not great, but the Empire didn’t need great engineers, simply competent technicians. Which is why my ships will someday be running rings around theirs. Del smiled at the thought. Hart noticed immediately.
“You’re pleased with our progress since the accident, Don?” he commented.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Mr. Hart,” Del complimented. The man glowed with the praise. “I’m sorry I can’t spend any more time with you, but I have a meeting I must attend. I’m already late.” Hart seemed disappointed at that, so Del added, “Of course, you should feel free to contact me at any time if you have a problem.” Hart smiled with this sign of the Don’s personal favor. Before he could begin a speech of warm gratitude, Del said, “One more thing, Mr. Hart, and I must be going. You have a Vulcan engineer, Sumer. I would personally like to point out to him that his absence during an emergency was hardly appreciated.”
A malicious grin replaced Hart’s obsequiousness. “I’d be grateful for your attention to this, Don. These Vulcans,” he snorted derisively, “can be difficult to work with.”
“So I hear,” Del returned sympathetically. “I’ll talk to him in private, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hart.”
With a chuckle, Hart went back to the shipyards to fetch Sumer, and DelMonde relaxed, the bored look of a noble leaving his eyes. He was fairly sure Sumer had good news - bad news wouldn’t have waited for a summons - but he wanted to be certain.
He stood as the Vulcan walked in. There were no preliminaries. “Yes, Don?” Sumer said.
“Vulcan approves?” Del asked.
“Discreetly, Don, we are in agreement,” Sumer replied. “And Sarek wishes regards sent to his son.”
“Thank you, Sumer,” Del said, and inclined his head in deference. He caught the acknowledgment of his respect for Vulcan in Sumer’s eyes. "And, of course," he added, "I've reprimanded you for your inconvenient absence."
The Vulcan's eyebrow rose, a hint of a smile crossing his features. "Of course, Don, my apologies," he said, then turned and silently left the office.
Del used his private transporter to return to his office. He told Gates to take the normal shuttle to the palazzo and wait for the meeting to break up. He didn’t need a bodyguard within his own estate, but the appearance would be necessary for Imperial eyes.
The transfer took only seconds, and Del was ready for a profitable, easy briefing. As the golden shimmer coalesced into thought and sight and hearing, the calm peace in his mind fled. He only needed to look at the glacial fury in Jerel’s eyes to know something was very wrong. The blood streaking the Consigliore’s horn confirmed what the eyes contained: Jerel was on the edge, his emotions precarious, his control uncertain. Then the cold blue focused on Del, and Del nodded slowly, re-confirming his unaltered trust in his Consigliore, reaffirming his unswerving loyalty to his friend. The rage subsided a little, restraint returning, and only then did Del survey the room.
He was immediately assailed by eight indignant voices, all crying his name and demanding that something be done. There were not a few cries of “see what that damned Equian has done!” Caporegime Paine lay lifeless, blood still streaming from the gaping gash in his neck. Del looked up again, directly into Jerel’s eyes. Ignoring the cacophony, he said, simply, “What happened?”
Courtland’s gaze didn’t waver. “I killed him,” he stated.
“With reason?”
“I was insulted. Repeatedly. I lost my temper.”
“Sufficient, Consigliore?”
“Yes, Don.”
Del nodded and stepped to his intercom. “Palmer,” he said into it, “there’s a casualty here. See to it.”
“Yes, Don,” a voice answered. Del turned back to Jerel.
“Clean up and come back. I’ll need you.”
There was a loud exclamation of disbelief, dismay, and anger from the nobles. Del’s eyes were cold as he faced them.
“Who insults my Consigliore insults me,” he said, his tone calm and deadly. “Shall we get on with our business, gentlemen?”
After a moment of stunned silence, one noble cleared his throat and spoke. “Don, begging your pardon, but - a man was just murdered here, and you’re taking the Equian’s word without even...”
“My Consigliore doesn’t lie, Capo,” Del replied evenly. “Perhaps, if you doubt him, you would do better to resign from this council. If you don’t trust my judgment, there’s nothing I can do to persuade you.” Del’s dark, wintry gaze was riveted on the Capo, yet it seemed as though he was looking through rather than at him, as if the man did not exist. As if Don DelMonde no longer saw him.
The Capo’s face went deathly pale, and he trembled. “I meant no offense, Don,” he stammered.
Del turned away without an acknowledgment. The Capo stared wildly around him. The glances he met were those of fear, the look of men who had seen the dead. They all knew that one did not simply ‘resign’ from this particular council, and that the very suggestion from DelMonde was tantamount to a death warrant. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until the Don spoke.
“My apologies for being late, gentlemen. I won’t take up any more of your time than I have to.” He gestured graciously toward the chairs around the large table. “Please, be seated. We can begin as soon as Mr. Courtland returns.”
Del noticed that the Capos crossed the room hesitantly, and no one wanted the chair next to Caporegime Grant. Who wants to sit with a dead man? Del thought wryly. Not that Grant was, irrevocably - yet. But the worry would teach the man who was and who was not expendable.
Del took his seat as Jerel reappeared and took the chair to the Don’s left. Del sat back and waited for him to present the first item of business. He almost felt sorry for these men. He wasn’t exactly the kind of Don his father had been. He was forcing real work out of men who had been raised to think they should be minding nothing but the size of their harems. A fleeting smile crossed his lips. If you knew what I was really doing, you wouldn’t understand it, he thought at the men before him. Making us dependent on each other doesn’t make Imperial sense. It makes me vulnerable, as vulnerable as you all are, but hopefully you won’t see it for a while yet. When you do, I’ll have had enough time to prepare, and you’ll have seen how good this unusual arrangement is for all of us. After all, I’m in as much danger as you, and I have more to lose. But I’ve learned that if I don’t gamble, I won’t even have a chance of winning. I’ll lose then as my father did, and his father, and back to the first Don of Rigel.
He focused his attention back to the council. He had, of course, heard Jerel’s every word about the change in Governor Hasim’s status and the requirements for a replacement. He had planned on presenting Paine to the Emperor as Hasim’s successor, but Paine was obviously the wrong choice if he was tactless enough to provoke Jerel’s temper - even if he had been alive to accept the nomination. It was better that Del had found that out before making such a potentially fatal error.
Jerel finished his presentation, and turned his gaze to DelMonde. “Recommendations, Consigliore?” Del asked him.
He watched Jerel’s eyes sweeping around the table, resting a fraction of a second longer on Capo Mulhouse, before he answered. “Any of your council could perform the Terlord’s duties quite capably, Don.”
Del nodded almost imperceptibly, pleased that Courtland had regained his composure so quickly. Then he, too, scanned the faces of his nobles. Mulhouse met his eyes, and he smiled. Yes, Jerel. This one.
“How soon can your house prepare for relocation, Terlord Mulhouse?” he asked.
“As soon as you require, Don, thank you,” Mulhouse replied with a proper mixture of pride, confidence and excitement. There was no possibility that the Emperor might reject him as a candidate. The Don took care of his own. And the Empire catered to its best defensive satellite. Generations of Rigel’s Dons had spent their lives and resources protecting the sanctity of Terra. Generations of Rigellians were spent protecting a world most of them would never see, and who looked upon them as important, yes, but provincial at best. DelMonde occasionally wondered how his father and grandfather could have allowed it, but he knew the answer. They hadn’t thought about it. They hadn’t had to. They had never run into a sixteen year old conscience.
Del brushed reminiscences from his mind, and went back to the business of replacing Capo Paine, and Terlord Mulhouse.
“Three weeks, and the scars have healed so nicely, haven’t they, Janice? It was so sweet of Sulu to give you all this - rest. That is all it is, isn’t it? Rest? After all, he couldn’t possibly be getting tired of you.” Chapel paused, than added sweetly, “Could he?”
Rand was squirming. The First Officer’s woman was delighting in the game now that she was on top of it. Uhura glanced at Rand. The flush in her cheeks was effectively denying the attempt at cool disinterest in the blue eyes. Chapel was hitting right where it hurt and there wasn’t anything Rand could do about it.
The past three weeks had been quiet ones. After leaving Caros, the Enterprise had been sent back to their patrol route, collecting the Empire’s tributes. It was profitable; tribute included special compensation for the starship crews who were, after all, a good deal closer than Londinium, but it was also a bit boring. And in those three weeks, Sulu had spent perhaps three nights each week with his woman, and one of those usually ended up with her being given to Paget. Uhura knew this because dear Janice had been spending a lot of time with her, time Uhura had taken full advantage of. Rand was thoroughly convinced that, if it were not for the sensible fear of the Chief of Security’s wrath, the other four nights each week would be spent in Uhura’s cabin, in Uhura’s bed. She had let the flirtation go as far as she dared; light kisses in which she swept the tip of her tongue over Rand’s pink mouth, lingering touches on hand and arm, ‘accidental’ brushes against breast and thigh, all with her smoldering gaze and whispered promises, full of regret and frustration. It kept Rand’s insecurity from overwhelming her and turned her fear into anger and resentment, just as Uhura wanted.
She had been agitating among the crew all she could without becoming obvious. A lot of people were becoming quite aware of the odd status quo that existed between the Captain, the First Officer, and the Chief of Security. And where there was awareness, there would soon be plots and schemes and ways to use it. She planned to keep track of all of them, and to use what was workable. McCoy thought that nothing could be done, but he was more than willing to help if she found a way. She didn’t have to worry about anyone’s wrath in using her body to keep him in line. He had been the one to point out that the Captain’s ‘pets’ were someone else’s entirely. That Kirk put up with it was useful. That Spock seemed to be totally disinterested in them - if one could judge by Chapel’s endless cheer - was useful. That Sulu lavished such attention on them was useful.
And the most useful thing of all was Paget. Janice bitched endlessly to him, and he had tried to defend his boss - by revealing terribly interesting insights. Which Janice dutifully allowed to be coaxed out of her with Uhura’s warm breath and tantalizing fingertips. It made Uhura laugh. Sulu’s loyal bodyguard was the lock, with sweet Janice the key to everything. Sulu was planning a confrontation with Kirk, forcing Spock to choose sides. Sulu thought the Senator’s daughters were his guarantee of Spock’s choice. But he was wrong, and with any luck at all, he would soon be dead wrong. Uhura considered dropping a few hints to Kirk, showing her willingness to defend the Captain’s interests without making any open offers. Cautious, but not too cautious...
She came out of her reverie as Chapel got up from the messhall table, moving toward the replicator for another cup of coffee.
“Shut her up, Uhura,” Rand hissed.
Nothing I can do, sugar, Uhura thought, but she shrugged sympathetically at her, letting her hand rest momentarily on Rand’s thigh. Janice sighed, then bit her lip and looked away. Then her gaze hardened. Uhura glanced in the same direction and saw the reason for Rand’s increased annoyance. Costain and Valley had just come into the messhall.
“Damn it,” Chapel said petulantly. “That’s thing’s broken again.” She was shaking her head as she went to the wall intercom, calling Maintenance. “Inefficient... Spock will have someone’s head for this - “
Her voice stopped as she, too, spied Costain and Valley sitting down at a table not too far away. “Well, well, if it isn’t Sulu’s little vegetables,” she commented with soft relish.
“They’re the Captain’s,” Rand put in acidly.
“Are they?” Chapel returned with cool insinuation.
“Sulu does his job extremely well,” Rand said tightly.
“And enjoys it just as well,” Chapel replied. “Like he used to with you, Janice. Or were all those affection marks really something else?”
“I’m Sulu’s woman...” Rand began fiercely.
“Until he says otherwise,” Chapel taunted.
“He hasn’t said so, Christine,” Uhura said calmly. Chapel glared at her. “He’ll get tired of them, just like Spock did.”
The words instantly soothed Chapel, and Uhura smiled as she accepted Rand’s grateful gaze.
Ruth and Jilla entered the messhall, ignoring the presence of both Uhura and Chapel, as well as the titular Chief of Security’s woman. Sulu had said nothing about Uhura, but Chapel was to be disregarded unless she spoke directly to them, and Rand... They knew how much Janice Rand meant to him. The past weeks had been paradise. Sulu spent nearly every night with one or the other of them, or both, in his cabin or in theirs. Kirk had played his games with Ruth, who had proven herself to him and to Sulu over and over by playing back perfectly. Spock had been discreet about his attentions to Jilla, something she could not fathom at first since it was at odds with the Vulcan’s intense scrutiny. But Sulu had said not to concern herself, that it was him Spock was really studying. Sulu wanted them to trust him, to be themselves, to show him how much they were really capable of doing. Ruth had held back at first, remembering that they were supposed to be concealing their Federation knowledge, but Jilla had apparently forgotten all about that. The Indiian was humbly accepting of Sulu’s delight in her technical skills, and revealed it all to him with shy humility. Seeing how happy it made Sulu, Ruth ignored her mind’s arguments and showed him the extent of her abilities in every area of scientific application. He was especially pleased with her knowledge of computers. He had arranged for them to have a laboratory in which to work, and neither Spock nor Mr. Scott made any protest about losing their presences in their respective sections. He had also insured with his consummate devotion that reality would not leave Ruth, nor the darkness envelop Jilla merely at his absence, but only at his command.
They had put in a good day’s work, and were looking forward to showing Sulu their ideas. They had decided to have a quick dinner, then return to their cabin to await Sulu’s desires for the night, when Chapel’s complaint reached them.
Jilla glanced at the replicator. “Should I fix it?” she asked Ruth.
Ruth shook her head. “You’re not supposed to,” she replied.
Jilla sighed. “I know.”
They took seats, waiting patiently. They had gotten very good at waiting. They took no notice of the conversation still going on, until Uhura’s assertion of ‘he’ll get tired of them.’ Ruth almost laughed, quickly swallowing it, her eyes sparkling at Jilla. The Indiian’s face was glowing slightly with the shared amusement.
“I don’t think so,” Ruth whispered. Jilla nodded her head in agreement.
The door to the messhall opened and Ruth and Jilla both looked up, a sudden shiver running through them both. A small, listless woman in coveralls was heading for the replicator. They exchanged glances, puzzled, confused, but undeniably frightened, neither knowing why. Then Ruth caught the malicious smile lighting up Rand’s face. She saw that Jilla had noticed it too, then watched it fade as the woman moved soundlessly past the table at which Rand, Chapel and Uhura sat.
“Jaris,” Rand snapped.
The women stopped, and Ruth gasped silently. Her heart was pounding, and from the sudden paling of Jilla’s skin, she knew the Indiian felt the same dread. Yet it was for reasons neither of them understood.
Rand’s voice was ugly and taunting. “Look at me when I speak to you, Diane.”
The woman’s answer was lifeless. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I expect acknowledgment from you, bitch. I am the Chief of Security’s woman.”
This time, the answer held a hint of a sob. “Yes, ma’am.”
“He’s let you live, Jaris. I've let you live. I suggest you remember that.”
Jaris’ voice was a toneless whisper. “Yes, ma’am. Excuse me, ma’am.”
Chapel and Uhura stifled laughter. “Poor thing,” Chapel said with mock sympathy.
“Lucky thing,” Rand retorted.
“Why is she still alive?”
“Is she?” Uhura returned, and the three laughed again. Ruth said nothing. Jilla said nothing. They only stared at the table, unable to look at anything, even each other. They remained silent as the woman worked, and each winced at the startlingly dull voice that came automatically from her as she moved away from the replicator, acknowledging the Chief of Security’s woman, as ordered.
“Miss Rand, ma’am.”
They felt it when she saw them, felt her answer to some call they hadn’t been aware of giving. She approached them in hesitant steps, a pale shadow in drab coveralls, and they looked up, unwilling but somehow compelled to do so. The woman’s brown eyes held only ghosts of despair and desolation, and a desperation far beyond hopelessness. When she spoke, her voice was subdued and empty.
“You - you’re his,” was all she said.
Ruth glanced at Jilla, her face as colorless as the Indiian’s. Jilla was staring at Jaris, absorbing the dullness almost visibly. Ruth shuddered and tried to look away, but found she was drawn to the aching despondency. The woman looked at her, and a hint of anxious desire came into the barren eyes.
“You’re good to him,” she murmured. “He still loves you.” The eyes lost their brief animation and her gaze went to the floor. “Wasn’t worthy,” she whispered. “Couldn’t make him happy.” She glanced up again, this time at Jilla. “But you do, you can. He loves... he loves...” Her voice broke and she withdrew into some private hell that sent desolation to reign from ruined eyes.
Ruth looked at Jilla, saw the terror she felt reflected there. There was no need to ask who had done this to Jaris, nor how. But why, and the fear that they were staring at their own futures, filled their minds with doubt and dread.
“Love him,” the woman rasped. “Tell him, please. Sorry. Wasn’t enough. Please, tell him...” The words trailed off and she turned, trembling, heading back the way she had come. The door to the messhall hissed open and she stopped dead. Ruth and Jilla glanced toward the doorway.
Sulu.
His gaze swept the room once. Then he looked through Jaris, not seeing her, and flashed a smile at them. Their rush of pleasure froze as Jaris whimpered and nearly ran to get out of his way. Then he turned and said hello to Chapel and Uhura.
“Goddess!” Ruth whispered.
Jilla only murmured an Indiian prayer.
Rand smiled as Sulu crooked a finger at her. Chapel rose to get the coffee she had wanted. But Uhura’s eyes followed Jaris as the woman slipped hurriedly out of the messhall. There was more there than a replaced woman’s degradation. What had Sulu done to her?
The answer came immediately with a flood of unpleasant memory. She didn’t have to know exactly what he did, she knew too well what he could do.
She remembered clearly what had happened. It had been over a year ago, just before he’d replaced Jaris with Rand. He’d been courting her favor, as usual, but a bit colder, more subtly insistent. There was more of a sense of danger, but more promise too. To be his woman wasn’t a step she had wanted, but, at the time, it wasn’t one she would’ve turned down. She had encouraged his efforts for precisely that reason, and had invited him to her cabin. He’d begun with all the skill rumors gave him, and she had started thinking that it wasn’t a bad step after all. Until he started beating her. Not the savage, mauling of a brute, but careful, precise, almost jovial, telling her that she had taken one chance too many. And the son-of-a-bitch had made her enjoy it. He hadn’t satisfied her, and he’d left her hurting and bleeding and still wanting him. McCoy had had quite a job patching her up. And it had taken her weeks and a single-minded effort to banish Sulu’s touch from her fantasies.
No wonder Jaris avoids him, she thought. She’d had one night. Jaris had kept him for close to nine months. No wonder the poor bitch is such a wreck. And if the peacock would take the time to think about it, he might realize why it’s no wonder that I’ll have his balls. But he doesn’t think a woman can hurt him, does he? You go right on thinking that, sugar. You took one chance too many.