The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [87]
Picard’s face went completely expressionless as he prepared to watch one of his most trusted officers go to certain death. A Romulan officer wouldn’t have thought twice, DeSeve thought. Then he saw the expression on the Vice-Proconsul’s face.
But La Forge admitted to only limited experience with Romulan technology. The Romulans, whose physiology might allow them to endure hard radiation for longer, hadn’t the training. And Picard would not trust them, assuming the Klingon did not physically restrain him. He had already violated a direct order once.
That left only him. He was a traitor, yes, but he was a traitor who had traded Federation engineering technology for twenty years of experience in the Romulan Fleet.
The ruthless morality that had first attracted and then alienated DeSeve on Romulus suddenly fused with the ethics he had failed to learn in Starfleet. “Sir, he can barely walk, and he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. I do.”
Somewhere during the emergency, he realized, he had lost his stammer.
Picard was listening as he always listened, not dismissing any expedient that might help his ship.
“You…,” growled the Klingon. “I will not allow you to destroy this ship.”
“If I wanted to, all I’d have to do is stand here and wait for the warp core to blow,” DeSeve said quietly. “I know as much about these systems as anyone on board. Besides,” he said, “if they blow, we all die. If it doesn’t, you all have futures I’m sure you’d rather keep on working toward.”
What is the best I can expect? Life imprisonment with counselors talking at me? Clemency, maybe even a pardon? A life spent with my back turned to whispers? Not a chance.
A spray hit DeSeve’s arm as Doctor Crusher made the rounds, reinjecting everyone in engineering against the growing levels of radiation.
DeSeve kept his eyes fixed on Picard. Better than anyone else, the captain knew how quickly time was running out. It would take DeSeve five minutes to reach where the grenade was. If he didn’t start out now, they might as well abandon ship and hope for the best.
Khazara might not be out there. But Picard would not bet so many lives on it.
“We would offer to return to the empire if it would save you,” Proconsul M’ret said. “But it won’t. Send someone with him, if you must. But let him try.”
“I will assist him,” Worf announced.
If only the Klingon could. Klingon physiology could take more damage than the relatively frail human model. DeSeve fought against an incongruous laugh.
“I’m coming too!” La Forge declared. He straightened from the console and nearly keeled over. He was going nowhere.
“Let the man make good on his crimes,” M’ret urged Picard. “He is a tool to your hand. And he will serve.”
How had the Vice-Proconsul known that, more than anything in his life, DeSeve wanted to finish the mission with which Spock had entrusted him, the mission that had brought him back home. He wanted to give these decent people and this magnificent ship a chance at life. And he had spent enough time in the empire to know that there truly was only one punishment for treason.
Maybe that was all M’ret knew. Maybe he was simply allowing a man for whom he had—in some strange way—assumed a debt of gratitude a chance at Final Honor. It was more than any other Romulan had ever granted him.
DeSeve saw when Picard’s face changed that M’ret had gained his point, and he, his last wish.
Doctor Crusher injected him again. This time it burned. “It may give you a fighting chance,” she said.
Keep morale up. Yes, Doctor.
He made himself smile at her. It probably would not suffice to save him from fatal radiation burns, but it would give him time.
Maybe even enough.
“Salute!” ordered M’ret, and his aides brought their fists to their chests. So did he.
Last of all, Picard faced him. What was he going to say? Good luck? Godspeed?
The captain’s face was ashen. “Thank you.” He reached out to clasp DeSeve’s hand and did not flinch from the sweat and tremors that gripped it.
That was more