Survivors - Jean Lorrah [61]
The bath had no cabinet; a wooden shelf held comb, hairbrush, toothbrush, dentifrice, soap, towels, and a tube of shampoo. She recognized the last item: Dare’s personal preference, made with herbs from Rigel Seven. It was part of his individual scent even now, she recognized as she sniffed it, a wave of nostalgia washing over her.
But she could not allow herself to be overwhelmed by yesterday. Darryl Adin was a traitor and a murderer, and now, by his own admission, a mercenary. He was no more to be trusted than President Nalavia-and Yar feared that she and Data had been thrust into one of those gray situations in which neither side was in the right.
Since there was nothing to do until morning, though, she put all that out of her mind, and slept.
Starfleet officers-star travelers in general-did not allow their bodies to settle into a fixed circadian rhythm, as each planet they visited had different days and nights, and they might beam down to noon or midnight, winter or summer. Yar slept for five hours, got up and exercised, showered and dressed, and waited for someone to come for her.
It wasn’t long before Poet appeared, all playful gallantry, to escort her to breakfast. He was not in camouflage this morning, but boasted a soft yellow tunic over black trousers, a wide black belt defining his waist. He did not appear to be armed-now that she thought of it, she had seen no evidence of weapons on any of the men last night. She had seen lots of loose clothing, though. Starfleet uniforms made concealing weapons virtually impossible; the loose tunics, shirts, and jackets she saw here might conceal any variety of phasers, blasters, knives, slings-Starfleet Security training had rendered Dare, like herself, expert in virtually every weapon known, and she had little doubt his chosen henchmen were equally versatile.
Should she make a break for freedom? She already knew Poet was stronger and more skilled than he looked, and she did not know her way around this … place. What was it-a castle? She decided to ask Poet.
“That’s right,” he told her. “Rikan’s castle, the center of the resistance movement against Nalavia. Someone will show you around later.” He paused, making her automatically stop as well, and turn toward him. Light glinted off the lenses of his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. She wondered if that was why he wore them. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” he asked suspiciously.
“The … one?”
“The woman in the case. The reason he chats up little fine-boned blondes, an’ then either leaves ‘em frustrated or comes back the next day frustrated as hell himself. A Starfleet Officer! Always did say Dare was a glutton fer punishment.”
At her look of astonishment, he added, “Oh, yeah, we all know Dare was Starfleet-and how they screwed him. How you-” His eyes raked over her in obvious distaste. “Womankind more joy discovers/Making fools, than keeping lovers.”
So Dare still blames me.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Breakfast was served in one of the most beautiful rooms Yar had ever seen. It was one of several that ran along the outside of the building, windows on the outer wall overlooking a deep chasm filled with bright-colored trees, solid walls with fireplaces and hangings on the inner wall. The dining room table would seat at least twenty people, completely set, although just three were currently eating. Yar knew only one of them: Sdan.
Tapestries, damask furnishings, old and beautifully polished wood for the table, porcelain and gold place settings-the splendor took Yar’s breath away, vying for her attention with the magnificent view through the windows. Imagine living here, amid the beauty of nature blended so perfectly with the finest work of artists and artisans. For a moment she could do nothing but let the effect sweep over her. Then she deliberately pulled the cloak of Starfleet efficiency about her, and approached