Ghost of a Chance - Mark Garland [59]
Tuvok needed only a moment to appraise the situation. The Televek's repairs, apparently intended to restore main power, had indeed been helpful, but much work remained to be done. He wasted no time in getting to it.
CHAPTER 11
Gantel sat quietly in his vast suite--vast for a battle cruiser, certainly--gazing wistfully at the baubles that filled every shelf, every corner, and much of the wall space. Even the chairs and tables were the finest available; the dining set was the prize among them, an antique older than some stars, or nearly so.
His wardrobe was the match of any director's, tenth level on up, with the possible exception of Shaale herself.
But his life had many such amenities. He dined on the finest cuisine, foods prepared by a chef he had personally abducted from a Torthesian resort nearly nine years ago, and worth the effort, make no mistake.
His collection of music--a passion considered curious by many Televek, but one he indulged nonetheless--was unequaled anywhere, so far as he knew, and would surpass even that high mark once he acquired the music libraries of the Federation starship Voyager.
Still, as his eyes came to rest on the set of exotically crafted, painstakingly hand-painted Pollian vases, neatly arranged from small to large, his mind sought to digress into a pool of swirling, self-indulgent doubt. For a moment, but for just a moment, he did not resist.
It was the goal of any civilized creature to obtain position, power, and wealth, and he had done so by doing what few Televek dared: he had taken some big risks; he had taken the important chances, despite what that tended to do to his stomach, and only when he had thought the time was right. It was a question of both want and need, as far as Gantel was concerned. When you wanted something badly enough, you needed to find a way to acquire it. And he had.
His success had cost him, though--three mates, so far, some gastrointestinal therapy, and a short list of enemies he had spent some years keeping an eye on. But all that was to be expected. And it had been worth the risk. Hadn't it...?
An old friend had once told him that there came a time in every director's life, and even in every associate's, when absolutely ridiculous questions would arise to plunder the sanity of the mind.
Questions like "What is the meaning of life?"
All this, Gantel thought as he looked past the priceless vases to the jeweled Awakening Day ceremonial chalice, something from his own world, then on to more of his belongings. But the temptation was to imagine there might be another meaning. A deeper, more spiritual one.
He had always laughed at such idiocy. Failings could be traced to mistakes, successes to adroitness. And enough successes piled one on top of the other constituted fulfillment. But then what?
...
Gantel blinked. One needed to be drunk, or at least getting there, in order to ponder such topics, and he simply couldn't indulge himself to that extent right now. Not with so much going on at once, so many variables, so many ways for something to go wrong and leave a blight the size of Drenar Four itself on his otherwise splendid career.
His instincts told him to make a deal with himself, sell himself a purely adequate bill of tried philosophical goods, just as every other Televek did, the same package his own parents had promoted. And the truth was, Gantel had very good instincts. No one could deny that.
He stood up and slowly crossed the room, where he paused to examine the contents of a case filled with hand weapons, ancient sharp-edged instruments he could only imagine trying actually to use in hand-to-hand combat. The idea was incredible, in fact.
He could only imagine what the wounds would look like, what a death like that might be like. He thought of it often, in fact.
At the far wall a curved shard of burned metal rested on a shelf, kept in place by three transparent pins. The piece, a meter long and roughly twice as wide as Gantel's own head, was jagged