Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
The human remained defiant. But underneath the defiance, Barnak detected something else at work. He was no expert in non-Romulan body language and responses, but he would have sworn he saw something behind the human’s eyes. The only word that came to mind was … intelligence.
The human may very well have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. The administrator could see that.
Nonetheless, when the human spoke, it was with the same active disdain he had displayed since Barnak entered the room.
“My mother didnae raise any fools, Romulan. Yell nae more let me go than I’ll grow wings and fly out of here.”
The administrator eyed the man. “I am an officer of the Romulan Empire. My word is my word.”
The prisoner was unimpressed. “Yer word means nothing to me, ye pointy-eared barbarian. Yer Empire is a lying, thieving band of bullies, and I’ll nae kneel before ye.”
Feeling his own anger rise within him, Barnak allowed some of it to seep into his voice. “All we are asking is simple cooperation,” he insisted. “Our governments are not at war—yet you invade us and dare to insult the Empire. You will answer my questions, or you will answer the proconsul’s—and his are not likely to be so polite.”
In response, the human did something that completely surprised the administrator. He laughed.
“Are ye threatening me?” he asked. “Are ye playing Good Romulan, Bad Romulan?” the human railed.
Barnak was silent for a moment. He was growing impatient with this exercise.
Forcing down his anger, he sat at the table in front of the Starfleet officer. His guards remained standing beside him.
Looking up at the human, he said, “Please, have a seat.”
To his further surprise, the prisoner sat down immediately. For the moment, he wore a calm expression, except for a maddening twitch in one eye.
“I would like to begin again,” Barnak told him. “Perhaps you will explain to me how it is that you are the only crew member aboard a century-old starship, and how you are wearing a uniform at least as old?”
The human mirrored the administrator’s reasonable tone. “I have come from the past,” he whispered, “to defend the Federation against the blight on the galaxy that is the Romulan Empire.”
Barnak grunted softly. “Yet it is you who attack us.”
The human waved his hand dismissively. “I know yer plans,” he breathed in an almost conspiratorial way. “And I’ll nae let ye take the Federation without a fight.”
Watching the man’s eyes closely, Barnak could see that same flash of something. Intelligence? Recognition? He once again had the feeling that the prisoner was somehow toying with them.
But to what end? He would surely know that anything hidden on his vessel would be found, and any secrets would be revealed in a formal interrogation.
What would be the purpose of a charade that merely postponed the inevitable? Unless … the key was in the postponing.
The administrator frowned, disappointed. This had not worked out the way he had planned. Still, there was no harm done. The prisoner was undamaged, as ripe as ever for Eragian’s plucking.
“I am afraid,” Barnak announced, “you leave me no choice but to end this interview.”
The human’s mouth twisted. “Romulan bastard,” he spat.
The administrator didn’t understand the reference. But he understood from the man’s tone that it was meant as an insult.
Resolving not to be baited, Barnak began to stand. But before he was out of his chair, the human’s hand shot out and grabbed the Romulan’s uniform at the throat.
Pulling himself close, the prisoner regarded Barnak with his now familiar sneer. “Yer mother’s a Klingon,” he snarled.
Reacting more to the insult than to the pitiful display of aggression, the administrator shook free of the human’s hand and stood—drawing his sidearm in the process.
With the disruptor aimed directly at the prisoner’s head, the Romulan reached for the trigger with his firing finger. But in the fraction of a second before he could fire, he was reminded of Eragian