Planet X - Michael Jan Friedman [6]
Why that span of years? Amon had no idea. But it was the only common thread that seemed to exist, tantalizing him with the hope that he might understand what was going on if he just tried hard enough.
A voice filled the room, startling him out of his meditation. “Chancellor? It’s the security minister.”
Amon nodded. “Send him in.”
A moment later, Minister Tollit entered Amon’s office, his white garb marked by the black ribbon of the security corps. Taller and broader than Amon, he inclined his silver-tufted head and spoke in a deep voice.
“Good to see you, Chancellor—though I wish more pleasant circumstances had brought us together.”
“So do I, Tollit,” said the chancellor. He tilted his head in the direction of his desk. “You’ve seen the lastest reports?”
The minister nodded soberly. “I have indeed. They’re … disturbing, to say the least.”
“Yes,” Amon agreed. “But the repercussions may be even more so.”
Tollit looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The public feels endangered,” said the chancellor. “Our people are frightened. And perhaps they are right to feel that way.”
The security minister shrugged. “I have yet to hear of these strange twenty-two year-olds using their abilities to hurt anyone.”
“But it will happen eventually,” Amon insisted. He eyed his colleague. “Mind you, the youth in question may only be acting in self-defense, or perhaps what he perceives to be self-defense. But he will lash out at someone and there will be a tragedy. And when that happens, the news will spread like wind-driven fire.”
Tollit considered the possibility. “Then we must prevent the spark … and thereby the fire.”
“Agreed,” the chancellor replied.
He turned to the oval window behind his desk, where the cloudless sky was mellowing to a dusky orange. He could still make out the dark smudge of the Obrig Mountains on the distant horizon, with the lights of the area’s only city clustered at their base.
“Verdeen,” he said.
The security minister regarded him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Verdeen,” Amon repeated. “There’s a fortress there left over from the Seven Years War.”
“An ancient fortress,” Tollit reminded him.
“But still, our best option. I want you and your people to round up those who’ve been … transformed … and bring them to Verdeen. For their own safety, as well as everyone else’s.”
The minister frowned. “We can’t keep them there forever, Chancellor. We haven’t the right.”
Amon sighed deeply. “I’m afraid this goes far beyond the issue of anyone’s rights, Tollit. Though, as you must know, I don’t like that idea any better than you do.”
The minister nodded. “Yes, Chancellor. I know.”
“That will be all,” Amon told him. “At least for now.”
Tollit inclined his head again and left the room. In his wake, there was a silence the chancellor could only describe as oppressive.
Xhaldian society had been built on the privileges and responsibilities of the individual. It pained Amon to take a barbaric step backward in that regard, to imprison people when they hadn’t done anything wrong. But the transformed represented a new kind of danger, unlike anything any Xhaldian had encountered before.
And, as someone had once said, desperate times called for desperate measures.
As Commander Worf got up from the center chair of the Defiant, he glanced at each of the men and women operating the ship’s key bridge stations. Finally, he settled his gaze on Chief O’Brien.
The engineer smiled at him. “Say hi to all our old friends for me, won’t you?”
The Klingon no longer believed in showing a lot of emotion in public—especially when he was in command of the Defiant. Many emotions were undignified, after all.
Naturally, Jadzia believed otherwise. But then, Worf and his new mate differed on a great many subjects. It was hardly a shock that they would differ on that one as well.
“I look forward to it,” the Klingon said simply.
Of course, O’Brien had known Worf a long time—longer than anyone