Survivors - Jean Lorrah [62]
The two strangers were a man and a woman. The woman appeared human, with olive skin and thick straight black hair cut as short as Yar’s and tied with a kerchief about her forehead. She was neither pretty nor beautiful, but exuded power even seated, eating and talking with her companions. She wore a sleeveless shirt that displayed arms more muscular than most men’s-clearly another of Dare’s mercenary band.
If the woman was intriguing, the man was impelling. He was human or Trevan and quite old, with thick white hair, leathery skin, and clear hazel eyes. Yar did not know the aging patterns of Trevans, but for a human he would have to be well over eighty. Yet he sat straight, his eyes were alert, and the moment she approached he stood, all old-fashioned gallantry, as natural as Poet’s was contrived.
“You must be Natasha Yar,” he said. “I am Rikan. Welcome to Warrior’s Rest, Miss Yar.”
Her translator chose the term “Miss,” obsolete even in Starfleet now although it had survived there until last century, to represent whatever Trevan term he had used to address her. An extremely useful item, the universal translator even suggested the flavor of his language, apparently archaic even among Trevans.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” Yar replied, stopping short of the table and standing at attention, “but you greet me as if I were a guest. In actuality, I am your prisoner.”
“Nonsense,” the warlord replied. “You are my guest. Please sit down. The servants will bring you breakfast.”
Yar remained exactly where she was. “Where I come from, Lord Rikan, guests are not locked into their rooms.”
He smiled charmingly, revealing worn but well cared for teeth. “Then you will wish to eat so as to replenish your strength, in case you should decide to attempt escape.”
Yar looked into the wise old eyes and saw that he knew exactly what was going on in her mind. She gave up, and allowed Poet to seat her. The food smelled wonderful and tasted better-if she stayed on this planet long, Trevan cuisine just might spoil the line of her form-fitting uniform.
Rikan introduced the other woman at the table as Barbara. “That’s Barb,” she corrected. “Don’t nobody call me Barbara, and especially don’t nobody call me Babs!” This last with a glare at Poet.
“What’s in a name?” he replied. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Barb bared her teeth at him. “This rose has thorns!”
“Natasha-” Rikan began.
As long as they were getting names straight, “It’s Tasha,” Yar corrected. “It probably comes from Natasha, and that was put down in my early records, but all either my mother or the woman who raised me called me was Tasha.”
Barb said, “Ain’t no use tellin’ him, Tasha. Dunno why I bother, when it don’t do no good.”
Rikan ignored the interruption and continued, “My young friend Adrian-” There was a snort from Poet, who must know Dare disliked being called anything but his chosen nickname. Well, if Dare couldn’t pierce Rikan’s habit of formality no one could. “- did not believe you would visit me voluntarily, even if it had been possible for an invitation to reach you through Nalavia’s security.”
“He was wrong,” Yar said firmly. “If the alleged terrorist warlord had invited us, Data and I would certainly have made every effort to meet with you.”
“Data-the android?”
So Rikan understood what Data really was. Yar was sure Dare did, too; he was simply scornful of everything connected with Starfleet these days. “Yes, Data is an android, but that doesn’t make him any less a person.”
“Indeed? I should like to meet him.”
“If you keep me here long, you will certainly have the opportunity,” Yar replied confidently.
Another voice interrupted from behind Yar. “I’m sure your walking computer can work out where you are, but it will never get within ten kilometers of this place.”
Yar turned, and watched Dare enter and take his place opposite her as she said, “He will if he decides that is the best course to take.” She did not continue because her attention turned elsewhere. Dare had not come in alone; a woman walked beside him as if she belonged