Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
“Both of you have demonstrated great loyalty,” he told the other two. “I am grateful. But I cannot allow you to make this sacrifice.”
“This is highly illogical,” the first Spock noted. “It will only delay the inevitable.”
“My thoughts exactly,” the second one replied. “Desist now and save yourselves. There is no point in all of us being destroyed.”
The third one spoke to Tharrus directly. “Forgive them. I am the one you seek. You must believe that.”
A fourth figure came forward. “I can no longer stand here and watch my friends defend my anonymity. I am Spock.”
“No,” said a fifth man. “It is I.”
“I am Spock,” said two more, emerging from the crowd at the same time.
“No, me.”
“Me.”
Before the governor knew it, a dozen of the unificationists had identified themselves as the Vulcan—and if he let this go on, he was sure that others would have joined them. He could feel the anger rising in him worse than before, threatening to choke him.
“Enough!” he roared, his voice echoing back on itself.
Abruptly, every self-styled Spock in the cell fell silent. They all looked at him expectantly, some with their heads slightly tilted to one side. None of them seemed the least bit afraid of what he might do next.
“I had hoped to be merciful,” Tharrus snarled. “But you’ve made that impossible.” He glanced at Skrasis. “Stand with these rebels, traitor, if you wish. But rest assured, you will share their fate when the time comes.”
Then turning his back on the unificationists, the governor strode out of the warren. “Spock be damned,” he muttered.
He could hear the footfalls of his guards as they tried to catch up with him. What blasted power did the Vulcan have that enabled him to bind people to his cause?
Even people like Skrasis, who had started out squarely opposed to it?
No matter. When they faced the moment of their execution, they would crack. They would give up their Vulcan savior. And then Tharrus would get what was coming to him.
Guinan wasn’t surprised when she saw the admiral deposit himself at the end of her bar. Truth to tell, she had expected to see him there at some point. The only surprise was that it had taken him this long to show up.
McCoy scowled and mumbled something to himself. It was pretty clear he didn’t expect anyone to actually hear his complaint.
But of course, someone had. “K’jarju?” she echoed.
The admiral looked up. His eyes narrowed as they focused on her, emphasizing the webwork of wrinkles around them. “K’jarju,” he confirmed. “Means idiot in—”
“In Tautanese,” she interjected. “Yes. I know. It wasn’t the terminology I was asking about. Just the application.”
McCoy grunted. “I was just getting started. Y’see, I’d just decided I was twelve kinds of an idiot, and I was trying to name them all.”
Guinan smiled. “Twelve kinds, eh? That’s a lot of self-deprecation for a man in your position.”
The admiral harrumphed. “In my position,” he repeated, putting a bitter spin on the phrase, “you would think I’d know better. After all those years, all those missions, you would think I’d have a little perspective.”
“Perspective on what?” she prodded. “And by the way, what’s a k’jarju likely to be drinking these days?”
McCoy shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’d have any Saurian brandy?” he ventured half-jokingly.
Guinan tilted her head to one side. “Now, Admiral, you should know we only serve synthehol here, and nothing but synthehol. Starfleet regulations and all that.”
McCoy sighed. “Yes, I know.”
“On the other hand,” said Guinan, “we do occasionally bend the rules a bit. But only when we have a very special visitor.”
Reaching beneath the bar, she took out a very old, very dusty bottle full of a green liquid. Then she produced a clean glass to go with it.
The admiral gazed at the stuff hesitantly. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s green,” she replied. “What more do you need to know?”
McCoy chuckled despite himself. “Good point,” he told her.
Unstoppering the bottle, he poured himself two fingers’ worth.