The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [181]
Relief flooded Valdore’s body, followed immediately by a sharp rush of anger; the long months he’d languished in the dungeons beneath the Hall of State had given him a keener appreciation than most for the Praetorate’s “benevolent protection.” Despite his roiling emotions, he continued to listen attentively to the madman.
“They will continue to enjoy my largesse for the duration of the Haakonan campaign, Admiral,” the praetor said. “And they will be released to you—but only if the next engagement of Haakona goes significantly better than the first one did. I hope we understand each other clearly now. And that you can forgive my earlier negligence in tending satisfactorily to these troublesome matters of motivation.
“Jolan’tru, Admiral,” D’deridex said just before dipping his head as though taking a nap right on the throne. Then he vanished.
“Well,” T’Luadh said. “That’s certainly not something one sees every day, is it?”
Valdore ignored her. A protracted silence settled over the room. Whatever misgivings might have lingered in Valdore’s mind regarding the plot he and First Consul T’Leikha were in the midst of so carefully hatching—engineering the replacement of D’deridex as praetor with the far more reasonable and tractable Senator Karzan—had just been swept away.
“Will you save the Empire, or your family?” T’Luadh asked.
Valdore now knew with the certainty of gravity that he had to move against D’deridex—and that doing so would require him to take a good deal of care, both in planning and in acting.
What he didn’t know was whether either he or the Empire still had enough time to plan or act with care.
“T’Luadh,” he said. “I’m going to need your help.”
FIFTY-SIX
Aeihk’aeleir Shipyard
“ALL RIGHT,“ TRIP SAID, gesturing broadly at the complex confluence of control panels and power conduits into which the thermal charges had just been deployed. “Let’s shut these down until we can fix whatever’s gone wrong with the shuttle’s transporter.”
“No,” Ych’a said in that aggravating, too-calm tone. “The countdown cannot be rescinded once begun.”
“It’s a safety mechanism,” Tevik said.
“Safety?” Trip said.
“To ensure that nothing disrupts the attainment of the mission goal,” Tevik said. “Regardless of what might happen to any of us.”
“You ought to pay closer attention to the briefing materials, Mister Sodok,” Ych’a said, using the vaguely chiding “remedial lecturer” voice that he had come to dislike so intensely during their long months of association. He was now fairly certain that she was the one who must have gifted T’Pol with that particular annoying tic.
“Beautiful,” Trip said as he gathered his jangled thoughts. “All right, since I didn’t sign on to a suicide mission, I have to assume we can still get out of here before the clock runs out. The reactor core must be interfering with the shuttle’s transporter lock. Let’s put some distance between us and the reactor, and then beam out—say, from the place where we first materialized. We know the transporter was working there.”
“Logical,” said Ych’a.
Moving as one, the three began retracing their steps as swiftly as possible back through the labyrinth of concealed accessways. Exiting was proving much faster than entering, since they were unencumbered by their toolkit once they’d found an inconspicuous place to hide it.
Just under five minutes into the countdown, Trip stood between his two colleagues in the same observation chamber into which the shuttle’s transporter had placed them. Ych’a activated the transmitter on her wrist and waited several seconds. Then her brow crumpled.
“Please don’t tell me,” Trip said.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Very well. I won’t. Nor will I mention the fact that I cannot determine whether the shuttle is even receiving my signal.”
Trip scowled and reached for her wrist. “Let me see that thing, Ych’a. Maybe it got damaged in