Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [79]
“It’s Governor Tharrus, Admiral.” His mouth twisted as if he’d caught a whiff of something distasteful. “He wishes to speak with you.”
McCoy muffled a curse. “Then what are we waiting for, Lieutenant?” He got to his feet—a little quickly perhaps, because he then had to grab an armrest to steady himself. “Give me a blasted visual and step back. I’ll show you how a professional reels in a fish.”
He saw the Klingon sigh. “As you wish, sir.” Worf pressed the appropriate padds on his control panel.
A fraction of a second later, the image of Governor Tharrus leapt to the screen. To the admiral’s eye, he looked different somehow. More confident, maybe. But that didn’t really matter, as long as he took the bait.
Full of his own brand of confidence, McCoy took a step toward the viewscreen. Turning on the Southern charm he’d inherited from his father, he smiled.
“Governor Tharrus,” he said. “Time’s a wastin’, sir. If we’re going to work together, we’d better get our show on the road—if y’know what I mean.”
The governor gave a thin-lipped smile. “I would have liked to respond sooner,” he replied. “However, it was necessary for me to consider certain … ramifications of your proposal, Admiral.”
“And now that you’ve had some time to think about it?” McCoy returned. “Is there any other course of action that makes sense?”
Tharrus shrugged. “Actually, there is. Particularly the one wherein I maintain possession of the Vulcan.”
McCoy’s jaw dropped at the reference. He tried to recover, to find words that would cover his reaction. But there weren’t any.
“I see you remember your old friend Spock,” said the Romulan. “Once I, too, had the opportunity to think about it, I realized there had to be a reason they would send an aged admiral out here—more than likely the same reason you were pressing so hard for the return of the rebels. And what could that reason be?”
Tharrus’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he felt he had the situation well in control as he answered his own question.
“Because you served with Spock on the Enterprise. Because you were comrades. And because he is one of the unificationists I hold in my jail.”
McCoy’s face drained of color, making him feel even older than he really was. He didn’t know what to say.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he sputtered, trying to salvage something out of this appalling mess. He took another step forward and pointed at the viewscreen. “The proposition that was offered to you is still a good one. It still makes sense.”
The Romulan laughed. “It does? Which do you think would enhance my position more? To spare the homeworld a minor embarrassment … or to show the Empire that I have captured the great Spock?” He shook his head derisively. “Really, Admiral. Do you think you’re dealing with a child?”
“Damn you,” rasped McCoy. “We’re talking about people’s lives here. Not just Spock’s, but a lot of others’. They shouldn’t have to die for speaking their minds.”
“Perhaps not where you come from,” Tharrus told him. “In the Empire, it happens every day. Not that I have any intention of killing your friend, Admiral McCoy. At least, not yet. For the time being, I simply intend to make him … a trifle less comfortable.”
Again, the governor laughed—a hard, cruel laugh. And before it had finished echoing on the bridge, his image vanished from the viewscreen, replaced by a splash of stars.
“My God,” croaked the admiral, his eyes fixing on infinity. “What have I done?”
What indeed, he thought. Glancing about, he saw that everyone was looking at him. Pitying him for his ineptitude—for his failure.
What’s more, he couldn’t help but agree with them. Without a word, he negotiated a course past the command center and the tactical station and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the turbolift.
Once inside, he slumped against the wall. He was worse than a broken man. He was a broken man who’d just signed his friend’s death sentence.
Picard regarded Troi. “You know,” he began, “the last time I felt this way was when the Ferengi disabled the Stargazer at Maxia Zeta. I—”
He was interrupted by an