Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [112]
Baffled, Odette Khanty drew her brows together and peered at him as she remained there on her hands and knees, her black hat now missing and her stockings shredded by the brick.
“You came back for that?” she wondered. “For him?”
“Yes, for him.” Worf raised his hand.
One push. Barely enough to feel against his skin, and she would be gone. Gone, quickly and abruptly, with only a few moments of terror, a free-fall, and a quick death.
“And the other?”
“Your death will release the Rogues from their Oath of Sto-vok-or. They would be able to recover what honor is left to them, and perhaps gain more.”
“Wait,” she cried, “I release them, they are freed of their oath!”
“Thank you. Will you now restore my friend to life?”
“Don’t!” Khanty shouted as Worf reached for her.
He clasped her elbow as easily as plucking a flower, and dragged her away from the ledge.
Behind him, the conduit began burping policemen. One after another, they surged out onto the roof and formed a jagged half-circle around him and the woman. He knew they were there, but he did not look at them.
He looked only at her.
“Odette Khanty,” he said, “by authority of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets, I place you under arrest for murder, attempted murder, extortion, espionage, and treason. Be glad you are in my custody, and not the custody of those who ‘love’ you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
THE DIRT OF THE TOWN was littered with spent balls, spilled powder, bits of torn fabric, smears of blood, lost ramrods, and severed limbs. Most of the dead had been removed to a clearing area at the churchyard, and the wounded had been taken somewhere to be treated or to complete their dying.
With trembling hands, Picard patched Alexander’s shoulder and chest enough to let the bleeding clot, and thought more than once about stopping all this, but something in himself, and in the boy’s eyes, kept him from uttering those words. There were times when safety wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
He, Alexander, and Sandy Leonfeld were removed from the Justina and a dockside crew of grenadiers had been put on board to secure the ship and then guard it. Now Picard and his remaining crew were being escorted to the British field headquarters.
It was Jeremiah Coverman’s house.
The keeping room had been transformed into a military outpost. Amy Coverman was being forced to serve dinner to British officers, and at the trestle table sat an infantry captain with a heavy brown mustache and a thatch of graying hair. Picard stood before the man, with Sandy on one side of him and Alexander on the other.
The captain looked up at them and eyed the inappropriate, ill-fitting red coat on Picard. “Are you a lieutenant of the Justina?”
“Yes, sir. Picard, sir.”
“I’m Captain Holmes.”
“How do you do, sir.”
“Well. Mr. Picard, I have new orders for you. The captain has authorized me to reestablish Mr. Pennington’s status as senior officer of the Justina and confer upon him a field rank of captain. He and his crew are being released as we speak. Because the first and second lieutenants have been killed, you’re now his first lieutenant. It will be his and your responsibility to return the ship to fighting condition and take a blockading position in Delaware Bay. You’ll have the boatyard to use at your convenience.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Pennington has indicated that you’ve been conducting some espionage among the colonists, and are more familiar with the situation than he is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Then confirm something for me. Corporal.” Holmes looked at a guard who stood at the back entrance.
“Sir!” The guard opened the back door and waved.
Another guard came in, leading Jeremiah Coverman and Patrick O’Heyne. Behind them were two more guards.
“I believe these are the men who have been leading the colonialists, the minutemen, in Delaware Station. Can you confirm their role?”
Picard felt Sandy tense at his side. As British officers, they were expected to eagerly condemn the civilian rebel leaders, who were seen not as military equals, but as insurrectionists.