Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [98]
“I will not be appeased,” Picard said sharply. “You hardened me, Madred, during those days of torture. After you, the Borg got a hold on me. Compared to them, you’re what we call a burlesque show.”
“Mmm, so I’ve heard. You’re not the first, you know,” Madred told him, rocking back in his chair. “Others have thought to take vengeance on me. I’ve felt the wrath of the ‘hardened.’ Do your worst.”
“Oh, I will.”
Not a hollow promise, Madred was certain. He had not believed Jean-Luc Picard would do petulant harm upon another living being, but then again … much of this man remained an unknown quantity. And people could change.
“You know, this is interesting, Picard. I watched your eyes just now while you called out those names. You know what? I’m still torturing you. You’re so drowned in your own hauteur that you don’t know I’m still in control. What I say now, if I tell you I have them, or tell you I don’t, you’re still at my whim. Isn’t that curious? Even with you in charge, the great stonelike Picard, I’m still getting information.”
“You may be getting tidbits,” Picard agreed, “but your method is overall flawed. You try to get to your victim’s soul by going through his body. That’s the crack in your plan. You have nothing but flesh to feed on. If you can’t get through to your victim’s soul, then even if he dies, you’ve failed. You’re just another bully. A pathetic little badger who thinks he can inflict the death of the soul with a bunch of little bites. And keep your hands up on this desk!”
“Yes … all right … well, then, what do you intend to do? I wish you would do it.”
“I started out on this mission to negotiate with you for the release of our nationals, but by the time I got here I was all done negotiating. I discovered the negotiation was not with you, but with myself. Negotiation implies that each side has a choice, but you’re not going to get one. I intend to start from your point of failure, Madred. I’m bypassing your body and going straight to your soul. Today we’re going to have a standoff that involves far more than pain and lights.”
Picard strode with annoying confidence to the door—which he didn’t have to do, because the door could be operated from the desktop panels.
Madred understood there was a show going on and the curtain was about to rise. He forced himself not to smile, but felt his eyes glitter. The whole process rather fascinated—
“Jil Orra!”
His young daughter came into the room, flanked on one side by a massive Klingon. Madred burst to his feet, both hands upon the desk before him as if he might leap right over.
A Klingon! Picard had brought a Klingon into the heart of Cardassia! Why would he do that?
“Sit down,” Picard ordered, pointing at Madred. “Don’t take a single step.”
Madred took no steps, but did not sit. He stared at the scene before him, at the two people who held his daughter by either arm, and his insides crumpled.
Jil Orra’s gray face had gone clay-white with determination. Her slim hands were clenched. She wore brightly colored clothing that was distinctly non-Cardassian in style, and that worried him.
“Father …” she began, her voice cold.
In her determined eyes Madred saw the ghastly reflection of himself. His daughter knew firsthand what he did to others. Picard was correct—Madred had never shielded Jil Orra from the horrors of his job. He had let her see, and tried to make her understand that there were enemies, and enemies had to be treated firmly, even viciously.
Today, though, Madred saw in his daughter’s eyes the full measure of knowledge about what her father did and the complete contempt in which she held him.
All that was in her eyes.
And for the first time Madred began to realize he may indeed have finally