The Red King - Michael A. Martin [133]
Frane took the bracelet and slipped it back onto his arm, then turned and began picking his pathway across the sprawling graveyard.
Akaar quickly caught up with him, but said nothing. They walked on in silence as the winter shadows lengthened farther.
“What will you do now that you are no longer aboard Titan?” Frane asked eventually.
“Oh, I was never formally assigned to Titan,” Akaar said. “In fact, I have not had a permanent shipboard posting for many, many years. I sometimes think the fact that I am unwelcome on my homeworld keeps me from putting down roots of any sort elsewhere. Even on a starship.”
“I gather that there were…complications regarding your actions on Oghen?” Frane asked. He wasn’t certain how—or if—he should even bring up the subject.
Akaar stopped and looked skyward, into the gathering night. Frane also paused to look up, and saw that a smattering of unfamiliar stars, constellations he knew only from ancient drawings and photographs, was becoming steadily more visible. The gentle wind had intensified enough to send the fog into retreat, though enough of the haze remained to smear the lights of the city into a colorful wash across the southeastern sky.
“ ‘Complications’ would be putting it mildly,” Akaar said at length. “But I shall weather whatever storms may come. I have been doing this for far too long to do otherwise.”
The admiral looked back over to Frane. “And what of you, Frane? What are you going to do next? You are considered something of a hero among the Oghen survivors now.”
“When Starfleet secures a permanent home for my people, I may settle there,” Frane said.
“That could take months. Perhaps years. What of the meantime?”
Frane sighed, and his tail switched back and forth in a classic Neyel expression of indecision. “I don’t know.”
Akaar’s mien grew serious. “If I were you, I would not stay away from the Vanguard habitat for too long.”
That piqued Frane’s curiosity. “Why?”
“Because you could wield considerable influence over the people there. If you wanted to, that is.”
“The people aboard Vanguard are safe from the Sleeper,” Frane said, shaking his head. “That’s the only influence I wish to wield over them.”
“Is it? Once you wished divine retribution upon them.”
Frane lowered his gaze to the carpet of greenery that blanketed the cemetery. He absently picked at it with the fingers of his right foot.
“Much has changed since then.”
“Yes. And things will go on changing, whether you wish to pay attention to them or not. Whether you want it to happen or not.”
Frane was quickly growing uncomfortable with the subject at hand. “What are you trying to tell me, sir?”
“Only that you have earned a certain degree of celebrity among your countrymen. You could use it to lead your people.”
Frane began to laugh then, and found it difficult to stop. “I am no leader. Just a seeker who has failed at just about everything he has ever tried.”
Akaar shrugged. “Maybe you are. It does not matter. Your people perceive you as a savior right now, and that is all that matters.”
“Leadership is something my father was good at, Admiral. But it is not a talent I share. I am no drech’tor. Perhaps such gifts skip a generation.”
“Whether you understand it or not, you have already led your people this far. But I caution you: fame is a fickle mistress.”
Frane shook his head, confused. “I do not understand.”
“You have a narrow window of opportunity, Frane. If you miss it, I guarantee that others will not. And some of those might grasp the mantle of leadership with far less altruism and probity than you have demonstrated.”
A queasy sensation settled deep in the pit of Frane’s stomach. “You speak of Subaltern Harn.”
“He is no longer a mere junior military officer, Frane. He was as visible as you during the evacuation of Oghen. Your people will listen to what he has to say.