The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [80]
Khazara had destroyed the Korvallan freighter that had been supposed to receive M’ret and his aides. She hadn’t forgotten those eighteen lives. Probably, she would never forget. After all, she was an empath. She might even regret him. Those deep, forgiving eyes…
He couldn’t stand it.
“What’s the point?” he snapped. “We all know the price of treason. In some ways, the Federation’s tougher than the Romulans. The Federation doesn’t execute traitors, so I get to spend the rest of my life in New Zealand talking about my feelings and listening to lectures on rehab.”
She shook her head, giving him priority over the chocolate. “You have knowledge that could be very valuable to Starfleet intelligence.”
“As it was to Romulus.”
She inclined her head. “You are in an awkward situation,” she agreed, then shook her head at her own understatement. “But even Commander Riker agrees you helped save the ship when Khazara was cloaked and stalking us. And the Vice-Proconsul is deeply grateful. I was in sickbay with him, and I believe he never forgets those who help him. So you have a possibility of clemency. And even if you didn’t, you still have an obligation to yourself to grow and change. To achieve true rehabilitation.”
“I almost think I’d rather be ejected from an airlock,” he heard himself admit. He felt the unfamiliar stretch of muscles around his mouth in a wry grin.
“From what I understand, you had some close escapes. We should talk further. I shall set up a schedule of appointments and—”
“Picard to Ensign DeSeve. Please be ready in five minutes to be escorted to my ready room,” Picard’s voice interrupted from a speaker hidden in the bulkhead, rather than from DeSeve’s workstation. Ensign. He would have a right to that title until he was dishonorably discharged.
Setting aside her chocolate, Counselor Troi rose and smiled as if the captain could see her. “No need for the guards, Captain. I’ll bring him up with me.”
Once again, DeSeve found himself smiling as he stood aside for her to precede him out the door.
In Captain Picard’s ready room, twin rows of light glowed above the textured russet bulkheads. Starlight, refracted into streaks of rainbow fire, shone through the ports. The captain sat at his desk, with Lieutenant Worf standing at his back at full attention and full glare.
“Mister DeSeve,” said Picard, “my other guests wanted the opportunity to meet you.”
Other guests? The captain was acting as if DeSeve was not under arrest.
Seated by Picard’s desk was a tall Romulan, whose sharp, distinguished features were familiar to any subject of the empire. DeSeve had last seen him lying on Enterprise’s bridge in stasis. Behind him, half hidden in the shadows, stood two younger men. All wore quasi-military gray suits seamed in darker fabrics that looked like black velvet.
As Counselor Troi entered the room, DeSeve at her heels, Vice-Proconsul M’ret rose. He favored her with a sharp, admiring smile and an inclination of the head. Then he stepped forward, his shrewd, well-informed gaze on DeSeve himself. For an instant, DeSeve saw the desolation in his eyes, a mirror of the losses he himself felt. Of a home. An allegiance. His honor. All for reasons he had thought good. All gone.
DeSeve straightened to attention. Just in time, he stopped himself from bringing his fist up in salute. Instead, he bowed. Less deeply than appropriate, but who here besides the Romulans would know to rebuke him? A deeper bow might antagonize Captain Picard and definitely would annoy the Klingon. The courtesies of a culture he had abandoned were simply not worth the risk.
To DeSeve’s shock, the aristocrat gave him a nod of approval before reaching out to shake his hand in the human style.
“Noble Born,” DeSeve murmured.
If you believed some rumors, M’ret was of the Imperial line. If you believed others, he was part Vulcan.
“Just M’ret,” the Romulan corrected him.
A tilt of his head summoned his aides forward.