Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [2]
The operative deliberately set aside unpleasant thoughts of the underworld of ancient Romulan mythology. Those old stories hadn’t sufficiently described the noisome smells that were wafting up around him from the figurative—and literal—bowels of Ki Baratan. Erebus, indeed.
Guided through the stygian gloom by his wrist light, the operative was relieved to note that the venerable maze of aekhhwi’rhoi—the stone-lined sewer tunnels that ran below Ki Baratan—corresponded precisely to the maps the defector M’ret had provided to Starfleet Intelligence. Carefully stepping over and past countless scuttling, multilegged, sewer-dwelling nhaidh, he made his way to the appointed place. Once there, he pulled hard at a rust-covered, meter-wide wheel, laboriously opening up a narrow access hatchway that looked to be older than Surak and T’Karik combined. The corroded steel aperture groaned in protest, moving only fractionally as the muscles in his back strained. After perhaps a minute of hard coaxing, the wheel gave way and the hatch opened with a clang that reverberated loudly throughout the catacombs.
Releasing the wheel, he pulled a small disruptor pistol from beneath his cassock, then squeezed through the narrow opening without making any further pretense of stealth; by now whoever else might be down here, whether friend or foe, was surely aware of his presence.
He passed into the darkened chamber beyond the hatch, where air that reeked of stagnation, moldy old bones, and damp earth assailed his nostrils. Stepping forward, he heard a quiet yet stern male voice.
“Halt! Drop your weapon.” Something cool and un-yielding pressed forcefully into the small of his back.
The operative released his grip on the weapon, allowing it to clatter to the rough stone floor. A bright light suddenly shone before him, momentarily triggering his nictitating inner eyelids. He caught a glimpse of several humanoid silhouettes standing before him, several meters farther inside the cavern’s depths.
“State your name,” said the voice behind him. It sounded young, almost adolescent. Or perhaps merely frightened? “And state your business here.”
The operative knew that this was the moment of truth, and very possibly the last moment of his life. He faced that prospect with a Vulcan’s ingrained equanimity.
“While on Romulus, I am known as Rukath.”
“Of Leinarrh, in far-off Rarathik,” someone else said, in a stern female voice. “By way of Starfleet Intelligence. Yes, we knew you were coming.”
The operative nodded. “Then you already know my business here. I expected no less.”
He felt the weapon at his back quiver slightly, and he calculated his odds of disarming the man behind him. They weren’t at all good. Nevertheless, the time had come to end the standoff, regardless of the outcome.
“I also bring greetings from Federation starship Alliance. Captain Saavik sends her best regards to the movement. And to the ambassador, of course.”
As the operative had hoped, the mention of the ambassador’s wife prompted one of the silhouettes before him to detach itself from the others and step forward. The tall, lean form spoke in a graveled yet resonant voice that he recognized instantly, even though more than eight decades had passed since he had last heard it.
“Lower your weapon, D’Tan. Rukath is among friends.”
“But how can we be certain this Rukath is a friend? If that’s even his name.”
The figure stepped forward another several paces, and waved an arm in what was obviously a prearranged signal. In response, the light levels diminished, allowing the operative to see the approaching man’s face clearly, as well as the coterie of a half-dozen armed Romulan civilians, an even mix of men and women, who stood vigilantly all around him.
Ambassador Spock.
The tall, conspicuously unarmed figure came to a stop only a meter away, his hands folded in front of his simple hooded pilgrim’s robe as he studied the operative’s