Lost Era 06_ Catalyst of Sorrows - Margaret Wander Bonanno [45]
Even as she wove her way down the unfamiliar corridors, past well-wishers from a dozen worlds gesturing, touching her arm, murmuring their gratitude in as many languages, sliding past in a blur of good thoughts and feelings, she was remembering how primitive Klingon facilities tended to be. There had been a single cubicle on Kruge’s bird-of-prey, which once upon a time had brought them back to Earth in search of whales, containing little more than a hole in the floor. She couldn’t imagine, Khitomer having been chosen as the site for the interplanetary conference, that the same would be the case here. She hoped.
And of course she couldn’t remember the Klingon word for “rest room,” either, she thought ruefully, approaching an exceptionally serious young Klingon security officer, who saw her puzzlement and offered his assistance. She mimed something which he somehow understood, and pointed her toward the proper door.
Behind which, mercifully, someone had seen to the provision of facilities to accommodate females of all species present at the conference. In fact, the appurtenances proved to be quite luxurious-marble basins, polished brass fixtures, real wood paneling, even a shower and sauna. She sighed with pleasure, her heart rate finally returning to normal.
She didn’t dare look at herself in the room-wide mirror above the basins until after she had washed her face and hands and straightened her uniform. She was choosing a comb from the dispenser when a muffled sound from one of the booths told her she was not alone.
At first she was annoyed, mostly with herself. She’d assumed she wasn’t the only one in need of a fresher, and had cased the joint, looking for telltale feet under the doors of the booths as soon as she entered. But all the doors were at least partway open, and she’d heard no sounds and seen no feet, so she’d assumed the place was empty.
Now she pretended to work on her hair while she used the mirror to scan underneath the doors behind her once more. Nothing. But she definitely heard breathing. Whoever was in there was deliberately hiding, waiting to do-what?
Her nerves still jangling from recent events, Uhura had her phaser out before she realized it.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, whirling around, activating her translator and trying to keep her voice steady.
The response was silence, as of someone holding their breath hoping not to be discovered.
Too late for that now, Uhura thought. Whoever you are, I’ve got you!
“Come out of there,” she ordered quietly. “I’m armed. I won’t harm you if you show yourself, but you’ve got to come out now.”
Still nothing. Phaser at the ready, she moved quickly, pushing doors open randomly, her eye on the second-to-last booth. By now she could hear labored breathing, as if whoever was in there was no longer attempting to hide, but rather was coiled, ready to spring. Pushing the final door open with her phaser hand, Uhura made a grab at a bundle of quilted fabric, found a limb underneath, wrapped her hand around flesh and bone and yanked, hard.
She swung her captive around, out of the booth, and against the wall, casually frisking her for concealed weapons, finding only a small honor blade, which she palmed and slipped into her uniform belt before really taking stock of what she had on her hands.
It was a very young Romulan female, wearing the livery of the diplomatic corps. She was ashen, and not only from the effects of having a phaser pointed at her throat. Her face was smudged with tearstains, and fresh tears started in her luminous brown eyes.
“A-are you going to kill me?” she stammered.
She was just a child, Uhura realized. Probably some diplomat’s daughter, frightened by all the shooting, needing to empty her bladder and wash the tears off her face before she disgraced herself. And here was a Starfleet officer scaring her all over again. So much for diplomacy! Chagrined, not for the first time that day, Uhura put her phaser away.
“I’m