The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [78]
DeSeve sank onto the nearest of his cabin’s chairs and shook with silent, incongruous laughter. After that spasm subsided, he finally gave in to the shakes, but still managed to choke back the dry sobs that security scanners could pick up. He wouldn’t give this ship’s crew the satisfaction any more than he’d provided it for the Romulans.
Romulans, as he had told Captain Picard, were a moral people with an admirable clarity of purpose. He simply hadn’t counted on living every moment of his life among them in a state of abject fear.
No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t simple at all. He had grown tired of the kind of clarity of purpose that had turned a moral people into predators under the lash and mind games of the Tal Shiar.
Romulus had left him with few illusions, least of all the pleasant fantasy that aiding Ambassador Spock in his “cowboy diplomacy” (whatever that meant, it had extracted a bleak smile from the captain) would spare him a court-martial for treason. He had earned the dishonorable discharge and, probably, life imprisonment that were the only possible verdicts. More ruthless than the empire, the Federation did not execute traitors.
At least, for now, he could make use of the luxury of a replicator that could produce more than field rations.
“Romulan ale,” he ordered.
Was he imagining it, or did the computer, as it requested he provide the formula for a drink banned in the Federation, sound disgusted? He shrugged. If his hands didn’t shake so badly, he could probably make the replicator produce Romulan ale. Assuming security didn’t just shoot him because it decided he was trying to destroy the ship.
Trading what he knew of Federation engineering for Romulan training, DeSeve had been competent enough to win himself service as an aging subcenturion in engineering on board various warbirds of no particular reputation. Once the political officers had mined him for what intelligence he could provide, he quickly learned that engineers were as closely watched on board as aristocrats with a political agenda. Romulans might accept a defector, might let him learn some of their technology, but they trusted him even less than they trusted the other—the real—engineers who monitored the quantum singularities that powered their ships and spent their watches under armed guard.
No, DeSeve would not tamper with the replicator. But he was cold and thirsty. Cups had been passed around on the bridge, even to him. But that had been some time ago.
“T-t-tea. Earl Grey. Hot,” DeSeve ordered, imitating Captain Picard. The replicator instantly produced a steaming cup. After all these years away, he found it savory, even invigorating. If only Picard’s drink could give him Picard’s valor, integrity, and professionalism. Ambassador Spock respected Picard. DeSeve was merely a weapon to his hand.
Confined now to quarters, DeSeve found it hard to believe he had actually sat on the bridge at the captain’s side in the very chair that his ship’s counselor had occupied. He had given advice that Picard actually listened to. For a while, he had even succumbed to the cherishable illusion that it was all real, all his to keep. But it was an expedient. DeSeve knew all about expedients. The instant Enterprise fled the Kaleb sector, his use was over, and he was back under arrest.
He set down his cup, half emptied, but his hand shook again, and it rolled from his grip onto the table. Quickly, he restored the table’s sheen with the sleeve of his heavy brown tunic. It was the least conspicuous garment he could find after Commander Riker ordered him to get rid of his Romulan uniform. Staggering a little, he headed toward the bunk.
Why would you need a bunk like that? Romulans would have found the wide, cushioned bunk another reason to taunt him. Especially the female underofficers. He had been lonely there; he was even lonelier here among those who had once been his own.
DeSeve let himself fall onto the soft, smooth covers. The shakes subsided, and he lay still, listening to the “song” of the ship’s engines and systems.