The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [79]
He was locked in, safe. For a little while, he could forget.
The door signal thrust DeSeve back into consciousness. He thrust his hand under the pillow for the disruptor his shipmates had finally decided he was entitled to call his own. For a moment of pure panic, he had forgotten he had surrendered it at Research Station 25. He had never been given an Honor Blade.
Unarmed, then.
Rising, he raked his fingers through the Romulan military crop he had retained—why? As a mark of what he had been? “C-c-come,” he said.
The door slid aside. Standing in it was Deanna Troi, restored to her rightful appearance. That meant nothing: Tal Shiar would have no compunctions about changing their appearance if it accomplished the destruction of Enterprise.
The woman was a head shorter than he and very pale. Her delicate ears were round now, not pointed, and her brow was smooth. Long dark ringlets cascaded halfway down her back over the blue dress she wore instead of a military crop, armored uniform, and spiked harness. Her clothing was almost a gown, with a low neck and soft panels that floated about her as she entered his cabin.
She fixed him with deep, deep dark eyes, then ran one hand over her forehead.
“Beverly calls it ‘phantom ridge syndrome,’ ” she explained with a smile. “It feels good to look like myself again. To act like myself again. You must have found it very difficult to spend twenty years among Romulans.”
He stood, feeling like a Krocton dweller hulking over one of the Noble Born.
“Are you still afraid I am truly Major Rakal, not Deanna Troi?” she asked.
He had forgotten that the real Troi was half-Betazoid. An empath. In that case, even his silence would be futile. An officer of the Tal Shiar might deduce that, but what was the point of pretense when she, even unarmed as she seemed, held all the weapons? He shook his head, confused.
“Not as easy to believe me a Romulan agent now that we’re face-to-face, is it?” she asked. “Imagine how I felt waking up on board a warbird and seeing myself in the mirror!” She smiled. “This may take some time. Meanwhile…”
DeSeve felt an awkward flush rise from the too-high collar of his tunic, drawing sweat from his face.
Painfully taught Romulan courtesies took over. He bowed and gestured her to the other chair. “What may I offer you?” he asked.
Aside from his soul on a plate and all the information on the empire that he could spill. False to one master, false to all, as the saying went. He foresaw he was going to become very tired of answering questions. Life imprisonment wasn’t the worst thing he faced; it was being talked to death, urged to disclose what he felt.
Counselor Troi cocked her head at the empty teacup and smiled. “Hot chocolate, please. Whipped cream. And chocolate shavings.”
Her smile grew even wider as she contemplated the immense mug he handed her. “Romulan food…” She shuddered. “Especially the viinerine. Just one smell was more than enough.”
She settled herself comfortably among the cushions and dipped her face toward the chocolate, inhaling with deep pleasure.
DeSeve found himself laughing helplessly. She had disarmed him. It was impossible to see in this small, curved woman curled up in a chair too big for her as she savored the aroma of hot chocolate the arrogant Tal Shiar officer who had been beamed, however hastily, onto Enterprise. She, or perhaps the chocolate, had finally convinced him. A mild intoxicant to Romulans, chocolate was a minor vice of aristocrats rich enough to smuggle it in. He remembered liking it before he had defected.
“That’s better, isn’t it? Now that you have decided that I am not Major Rakal. The dissidents killed her and made