The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [77]
Live and learn. In a manner of speaking.
“You will come with me,” declared the huge security officer who wore his barbaric Klingon metal sash over his Starfleet uniform. At least, Worf was an adversary DeSeve could understand. Far more frightening was the enemy whom the Enterprise’s bridge crew had seen on board the Romulan ship and recognized as their Betazoid ship’s counselor. Even Captain Picard’s austere features had lit.
That was the face of the enemy DeSeve feared.
Only DeSeve’s stammer, a consequence of spending half his life protecting himself in the Romulan Star Empire, stopped him before he cried out in alarm.
Quiet, he commanded himself, harsh as any centurion.
He was already a traitor. Did he want to look like a bigger fool than he already was? That hardly seemed possible, given the charges against him. He stiffened his knees to hold himself upright. At least, he could try to manage not to humiliate himself before that Klingon.
If the woman were really Tal Shiar and not this Deanna Troi, once she got into sickbay she would make certain the three Romulan defectors would die before they emerged from stasis. Then, how would she move against Enterprise?
DeSeve didn’t know. But he feared it.
The most terrifying thing about the Tal Shiar was that you never knew what they could do or where. You might assume the worst, but then you always learned how much more terrible their “worst” could be. Many loyal Romulans had disappeared from the fleet DeSeve had thought he knew, the work of Tal Shiar political officers. Even after twenty years of service, DeSeve knew they had him under constant scrutiny. That, even more than the empire’s discipline, kept him in constant fear.
It had been worth returning to the Federation to face treason charges to rid himself of that fear, but now he had failed at that too, it seemed.
DeSeve balled his big, ineffectual fists together behind his back. The game was over. He had lost twice.
Compared with that, Lieutenant Worf’s too obvious restraint in not turning his broad back on a traitor made DeSeve stifle a laugh. Bad idea even to smile. Worf would probably shove him into the turbolift and, safely out of Captain Picard’s sight, smash his face against the paneling, then sling him over his shoulder and haul him into sickbay, claiming he had tried to escape. If that scenario played out, DeSeve might be just in time to see Major Rakal snap this ship’s medical officer’s spine.
But Doctor Crusher had been kind to him. If he could try to help her, it was worth getting his face bashed into the turbolift.
“What if the woman you beamed on board really is Major Rakal, not your ship’s counselor?” At least, he could try to warn the Klingon.
“The words of a traitor hold no truth. You will be silent.” Lieutenant Worf’s bass voice practically made the gleaming bulkheads rattle.
Like most Klingons, Worf had no love for Romulans. But was he aware that in escorting DeSeve to his quarters, he was trying to protect Vice-Proconsul M’ret and his aides against a human traitor while a deadlier enemy might rove free? The irony would have been ridiculous if it weren’t so terrifying. Hysteria threatened again, but the control that Starfleet and Grand Fleet military discipline had taught him kept DeSeve from disgracing himself even more—assuming he could.
“His” door slid aside. Worf jerked his chin at him to enter and be quick about it. The cabin they had assigned to him would have been considered luxurious for a warbird’s commander. Harmonious tones on paneling, flooring, and chairs. Separate areas for work and sleeping.
DeSeve heard the locks engage and Worf’s deep voice instruct the guards posted outside to take every precaution to prevent “the traitor” from sneaking out to assassinate valuable Romulan defectors. As if an aging traitor