The Red King - Michael A. Martin [37]
“So you need my help, Commander,” Tchev said. He sat across the table from Donatra, where the faint lighting did little to obscure his snaggly brown teeth. “And rather desperately, too, I gather. Delightful.” His voice dripped with a liberal mixture of sarcasm and smugness.
Donatra wanted to get out of her chair and kick those vile teeth straight down his throat. Instead, she contented herself with silently grinding her own molars. Why did I permit Venora to persuade me to grant these Klingon animals the dignity of guest quarters? They deserve nothing more than to be penned like the beasts they are.
Of course, each of those guest quarters was being guarded very carefully by the Valdore’s vigilant security officers. And Donatra had made no effort to conceal that fact from the Klingons, who would doubtless have tried to move against the Valdore’s crew had their confinement depended upon the ship’s currently de-powered security forcefields. Further, granting them the status of untrustworthy guests, rather than prisoners, at least kept them from attempting ritual suicide, as their sense of honor demanded.
Leaning forward across the table, she said. “You would appear to have little choice other than to cooperate with us, Captain Tchev. Otherwise, both the Dugh and the Valdore will slowly spiral into the center of the spatial rift. My staff is all but certain this would destroy both our vessels.” Or what’s left of them, she amended in silence.
He grinned as he leaned back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in his ornate metal baldric. “And that frightens you.” It was not a question.
Of course it frightens me, she thought, wondering yet again how such pathological people had been able to build and maintain their civilization, such as it was, for so many centuries. Akhh, who but an imbecilic dha’rudh would not fear and seek to avoid an entirely unnecessary and completely avoidable death?
“The strain of rescuing your vessel in our current damaged state has cost us most of our power couplings and virtually all of an already-depleted coolant supply, Captain.”
He made a single “tsk” sound and glowered from beneath his heavy brow. “A shame.”
Donatra mustered every iota of determination she possessed to keep her tone calm and even. “We cannot hope to safely maintain our singularity drive without additional coolant supplies. And our scans show that your ship still has large quantities of the materials we need in order to get under way.”
Tchev leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. His unfriendly grin broadened further. “So why tell me? Why not simply board the Dugh and take what you need?”
Donatra felt her anger nearing its boiling point. “Because I wouldn’t know in advance where all the booby traps are, Captain.”
He looked impressed, though his insufferable grin remained. “You surprise me, Commander. Not that I didn’t expect you to beg for my assistance. However, I had assumed you would insist on discovering our antipersonnel countermeasures the hard way.”
She stood. “That’s still an option, Captain. If both gentle persuasion and our mind-scanning equipment prove ineffective, that is. But in that event, I think I would have to insist that you and your people walk the rest of the way home from here.”
Tchev’s grin collapsed into a more appropriately businesslike expression. After all, there had to be some rational limits to the innate Klingon propensity for empty bluster.
“Very well, Commander Donatra,” said Tchev, a gratifying growl thrumming beneath his words. “Only a fool fights in a burning house. And only an idiotic Duy’ would meekly allow that house to burn down around his head.”
Frane was relieved to discover that the almost lightless cabin to which the guards had escorted him contained all four of his fellow Seekers After Penance. Though each of them