Star Trek Page 17

“Nonsense.” He separated from Georgiou and stepped over to take the shorter woman’s hand. “If seeing my estate didn’t tell you as much, I’m sure your captain would have: I’m a fanatic when it comes to the old ways. Not just of my own people, but others’—though I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about the Trills. But the Olympics were one of ancient Earth’s greatest inventions.”

  He kissed her hand, prompting Dax to shoot an astonished look to Georgiou.

  Behind them, the third member of Georgiou’s party clambered out of the fountain, barefoot and dripping. “And I’m Lieutenant Sean Finnegan,” he said, waddling over.

  “Uh-huh,” Quintilian replied. He immediately redirected his gaze to Georgiou and Dax. “My apologies for my late arrival,” he said, starting to walk about, favoring his right leg very slightly. “We were on a trading mission when I got your message. I don’t normally go with the traders anymore, but the harvest is always a big haul. It’s paid for half of what you see around here—and the land it’s on.”

  “Your home is beautiful,” Dax said.

  “I agree,” said Georgiou, and she did.

  “So glad you like it,” Quintilian replied. “Not that I’m surprised—a lot of the ideas I put into Tallacoe came from our talks. You have an unerring taste.” He waved to the west. “There’s a whole grotto down below there that’s loosely based on the pictures you sent me of the shrines of Vulcan.”

  Georgiou nodded, feeling a bit of discomfort as she did. Maybe I should have studied their correspondences more closely.

  “My etiquette’s terrible,” he said, as if sensing some unease. “You don’t need a tour after your travels. There’ll be time for that. You’ll stay here, of course.”

  Donning his shoes, Finnegan brightened. “That’s good, because those walking celery stalks stole our shuttlecraft.”

  Quintilian acknowledged that he’d already heard. “I have my people checking into that. And speaking of my people…” Trailing off, he clapped his hands and looked past Georgiou to the villa. “Gnaeus! See if our guests need help with anything!”

  “That’s the thing. We don’t really have any—” Dax said, starting to turn. She stopped in midsentence when she saw the lumbering hulk emerging from the doorway to the villa.

  Gnaeus—which Quintilian had pronounced with the first letter sounded—was a brown mass of muscle two meters tall. A leathery two-armed torso any human bodybuilder would be proud of trundled about not on legs, but what Georgiou could only consider to be organic tank treads. Muscular wave motions within the creature’s abdominal base propelled it about like a gastropod—but more speedily than any snail ever moved.

  “A Dromax,” Georgiou said.

  “Of the Dromax, from the Dromax system,” Quintilian responded, seemingly unsurprised she knew the name.

  Georgiou did know it, because the Dromax had been the most vicious fighters she’d faced in Troika space. Somewhere underneath the recessed carapace that served as a head was a mind for violence—which suited them nicely, as a living tank interested in song and oratory would have been a waste of evolution’s craft. In fact, she had never heard one speak at all, having gotten the species name years earlier from S’satah—the friendly S’satah, her S’satah.

  So she was surprised when Gnaeus addressed her. “Greetings, honored guests of the master,” he said, a male human voice emanating from a red box mounted around its midsection.

  “Gnaeus is the true master,” Quintilian said, “master of the estate when I’m away. Dromax never sleep. He’s the only one of his kind up here on the Pinnacle, so he likes receiving guests. As do I.”

  Finnegan stared, mouth open, at the creature, his second strange alien of the day. He pointed to a discoloration on the Dromax’s gut—a pair of large, blackened crescents tattooed below the voice box. “He’s got moons on his belly!”

  Dax glared. “Don’t be rude, Sean!”

  “It’s not a problem. It’s an identifier in their culture,” Quintilian said. He stepped over and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the creature. “It’s why I named him Gnaeus. It’s a praenomen—a given name—meaning ‘birthmark.’ ”

  “I am that I am,” Gnaeus responded in a voice that was both booming and sedate. “I am not offended.”

  Georgiou thought that was good for Finnegan, as she’d seen video of Dromax tearing Terran foot soldiers limb from limb. That had convinced her to enslave the species upon their defeat.

  Gnaeus retrieved Quintilian’s walking stick and offered it to him. Georgiou took note again of the older man’s slight limp.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, noting her gaze. “Touch of inflammation from an old injury. Flares up a little when I’m going from planet to planet.”

  As Dax explained that she’d been part of a project studying exactly that, Gnaeus moved to address Georgiou. “You will please follow,” the Dromax said, turning for the house. Quintilian gestured to the door.

  Finnegan stepped forward quickly and walked beside the magnate. “The captain tells me you’re fond of wine.”

  “Oh, yes,” Quintilian said, suddenly seeing something of interest in him. “Some of our recent vintages here have been truly remarkable. Are you an oenophile?”

  “I like a taste now and again.” He shot a wink back at Georgiou and put his hand on Quintilian’s shoulder. “Tell me, do you have anything for broken ribs?”

  The two men entered, chatting away, while Georgiou’s progress inside was halted by Dax, who pulled at her sleeve and took her aside. The Trill seemed dazzled. She whispered, “Who is this guy?”

  “He’s my boyfriend. Didn’t you read the briefing?”

  23

  Domus Quintiliana

  CASMARRA

  “More wine?” Quintilian asked, eyes glistening in the candlelight.

  “More of everything,” Georgiou said, offering her glass.

  Reclining on the dining couch beside hers, he gestured for a servant to open another bottle. “More for the lady of Tallacoe.”

  “I’m surprised there is no one by that title already,” she said, not minding the appellation. She’d seen humans and Orions working in the villa: all young and fit, if wearing significantly more than those she employed in her nightclub on Qo’noS. But the couch by her host’s side had been placed there specifically for the dinner. “All this is too much to enjoy alone,” she said.

  “Well, you know me,” her host said, taking the bottle. “Married to the business.” He poured for her. “Say when.”

  “Always.” She smiled, glad to be wearing something besides her stuffy Starfleet uniform. His servants had found wardrobes in the villa for all of them, and hers right away; she found the black evening gown fit perfectly. It was good to be in her element again—or, at least, in an adjacent box on the periodic table.

  Dinner had been a nine-course meal, so far, served to them as they reclined in the manner of ancient Roman nobles. It was, by a long stretch, the most sumptuous repast she’d enjoyed since being transported off I.S.S. Charon. The emperor knew from Quintilian’s correspondences with Captain Georgiou that he admired in equal measure the ascetics of the past and the great leaders who liked a flourish of excess. Both found expression in his home: the simple furnishings of his dining room, accented by the truly magnificent fare upon it.

  “What’s this dish?” Dax asked, already halfway through it as she asked.

  “Sautéed grellion stalks, straight from the fields of Oast,” he said. “You can’t get it any fresher—we just brought it in today.”

  “Oast?” Georgiou asked.

  “Third part of the Troika.” He grinned. “I know, I’ve probably never mentioned that name before. It’s kind of a reflex. Think the other species here are reclusive? They’re galactic travelers compared to the Oastlings.”

  She nodded. She’d never known the proper name of the place; just that her scouts had recommended bombing the hell out of it. And she had.

  Gnaeus, standing at attention with arms cro
ssed near the eastern entrance, abruptly turned and exited through it. Quintilian saw that and looked down the hallway on the opposite side of the room. “I should amend what I just said. There are two Oastlings who’ve ventured far, alone among their people. And here they are!”

  Georgiou and her companions looked to the western hallway. Previously darkened, it now contained a flickering, like torchlight. What emerged from the corridor, however, were no bearers carrying flame. Rather, two spindly beings entered, each with two arms and five legs. And in place of heads, bulbous light-giving ellipsoids sat atop their necks like squashed bubbles.

  “Step forward, Pyramis,” Quintilian said. “You, too, Thisbe. Let my guests look at you.”

  Georgiou did indeed look. She’d only seen Oastlings imaged from orbit; the sight had been enough for her to conclude such grotesques had nothing to offer to Terrans. In person, they were uglier still. As the nearer one approached, she saw its head was a transparent membrane inside which bioelectricity appeared to crackle within a dark cloud of gas. Georgiou squinted but could see no other structures inside.

  Could any being have a gaseous brain?

  “Pyramis and Thisbe are only the second and third Oastlings who’ve ever left the fold, to my knowledge,” Quintilian said. “They’re more than just my connection to a very private people. They help keep me organized.”

  Thisbe nodded to Quintilian—and inside her head, visible to all, clouds whirled and swirled. Slowly, glowing straight lines took shape, gaining texture and, finally, color. Finnegan gaped at the three-dimensional image. “That’s our shuttle!”

  “That’s right. I asked for an update,” Quintilian said. Spying a data slate in Thisbe’s clutches, he gestured for her to approach. He took it and read. “That’s where I thought it was.”

  Finnegan’s ears perked up. “Where is it?”

  “It’s gone to impound in Vertex 22.” He looked up. “That’s what they call the cities that sit between the geometric regions. I’ve tried to get them to adopt something more creative, but the Casmarrans do things their own way.”

  “Can you help us get it back?” Dax asked.

  “Maybe, but not for a while. They’re going over it, inspecting it for antigens. You may have noticed they’re a touch antsy about outsiders.”

  “They let you live here,” Finnegan said.

  “All the outsiders are limited to this sector—and Dromax aren’t allowed off Tallacoe’s grounds.”

  “What of those two?” Georgiou asked, nodding to the Oastlings.

  “They’re not welcome at all—but I paid for this space. I do what I want. They never leave the building, so it isn’t a problem.” He handed back the data slate. “Thank you, Thisbe. You too, Pyramis. You may go.”

  As they shimmered off, Georgiou asked, “I take it you named them, too?”

  He smiled. “Many Oastlings don’t have names, as you and I would understand them; they mostly communicate through those pictograms. Theirs is a culture I’d love to know more about, but I get the impression they don’t think any of us are ready for it.”

  “Thisbe and Pyramis. Another European legend?”

  “Babylonian. Though the best-known account comes to us from Ovid, a Roman.”

  “Lovers, I take it?”

  Quintilian looked at her and smiled. “They snuck each other notes through a wall.”

  She laughed at that.

  “I figured you’d get the joke. I’d considered Heloise and Abelard, but they don’t really fit my motif.”

  Finnegan’s glass having been drained yet again, he placed it upon a servant’s tray with a clink and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You know quite a bit about quite a bit, Mister Sextillion. Don’t you ever get ribbed by the other merchants?”

  “These days, most of them work for me, so I have a lot of time to read and learn—and most of what I get comes from outside.” He nodded to Georgiou. “Your captain has sent me some wonderful texts over the years. With a few exceptions, the Troika species tend not to have much in the way of narrative history; they’re constantly reinventing their worlds, every day a new one. But for everyone else, I think the whole galaxy would be better served by a more robust understanding of the lessons of the past.”

  He stood from his couch and walked along the edge of the room, gesturing to the paintings on the wall. All depicted historical scenes from various planets. He stopped before one, an icon depicting a scowling Klingon. “For example,” he said, gesturing, “from what I’ve been able to gather from the news that’s filtered in, the entire Klingon War seems to come from a fundamental misunderstanding of the stories of Kahless.”

  Georgiou raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “T’Kuvma set his whole doctrine on the idea that the Federation threatened Klingon identity—that its very existence might cause their empire to come apart. But the true Kahless knew otherwise. His first precept of the qeS’a’, in fact, drew upon the story of the feuding warriors of Kopf’s Cliff, who ultimately needed one another when the fires came. I can see a day when the Empire might need to rally to the Federation’s aid, or vice versa.”

  “Preposterous!” the emperor said, in a manner more hers than Captain Georgiou’s.

  “I’m sorry—I forgot. I’d heard you were imprisoned.” He walked back over to her and knelt, placing his glass on the floor and his hand on her wrist. “I’m sure that must have been a difficult time for you.”

  “You’re forgiven,” she said, more relieved that he hadn’t caught her break in character. As delightful as dinner had been, a shot at Whipsaw was the reason she had gone this far.

  “Just the ravings of a man with too much time on his hands,” Quintilian said. “It’s a shame there isn’t a true descendant of Kahless around to set them straight.” He took up his glass again and drained it.

  Dax looked to Georgiou—and then spoke. “Mister Quintilian, there’s another reason we’re here.”

  “Oh?” He turned to face her.

  “When the two of you met years ago, there was a freighter in distress: Jadama Rohn. What happened to it?”

  Quintilian set down his glass and scratched his beard. “Why would you want to know about that?”

  Georgiou quickly interrupted. “What she means is—she was wondering if the captain had been provided for.” She shot Dax a look that said “Patience.”

  “Vercer?” He looked down and chuckled lightly. “Good old Vercer. I haven’t thought about him in years.”

  Georgiou nodded. “Your early messages talked about how he’d been your mentor. I’d mentioned it all to Dax,” she said, “and how he’d died. You know, transporting drugs so dangerous they killed his entire crew.” She glared at the Trill. “Dax was wondering whether his family had been provided for.”

  “Indeed?” He looked to the young woman. “What’s your interest?”

  “Well,” Dax said, quickly improvising, “I work with an agency that provides relief to the families of victims of war—and also the families of those who’ve lost their lives to the drug trade.”

  “In this galaxy,” he said, “there’s often no distinction.”

  “Right. When the captain told me what had happened, I just thought to ask. Because he was your friend, and it sounded so bad.”

  Georgiou watched Quintilian. Dax had scrambled—but it appeared to have worked. “That’s very benevolent of you, thank you.” He shook his head. “That was twenty-five years ago, now. His children are grown—not in my employ, if they stayed in Troika space at all.”

  So there were children, Georgiou noted. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out at this point.”

  “I can’t imagine.” He thought for a moment. “The only person in my circle that ever gets down there is Phylla.”

  The pilot. She’d fished for a bit more, and caught something. She decided to quickly change the subject—

  —but Finnegan beat her to it by standing and attempting to offer a toast to Quintilian. It was only an att
empt, because in the process, his glass leapt from his hand, sailing end over end. He reached over for it and lost his balance, falling backward over his couch. Two seconds later the floor had two new occupants: a shattered glass on one side of the furnishing, and Finnegan on the other.

  Already standing, Quintilian rushed to his side. As other servers approached, the blitzed Finnegan muttered, “A very fine vintage.”

  “Have Gnaeus call for the doctor,” Quintilian ordered. “He just fixed your ribs a couple of hours ago, Lieutenant. I think you overdid it too soon.”

  Finnegan stared blearily at his benefactor. “I… don’t want you to think… I drink to excess because I’m Irish.”

  “Of course not. That kind of thinking went out centuries ago.”

  “I drink to excess… because I haven’t accomplished what I want. And because… I’m going to be forty.”

  Dax gawked. “In a dozen years!”

  “A responsible officer… plans ahead.” Finnegan looked back over his shoulder as Quintilian’s servants moved him down the hall.

  Their master began to follow. “I’d better see that he makes it to his room,” Quintilian said. He looked to Georgiou. “Nightcap later?”

  “Of course,” Georgiou said. As soon as the room had emptied, she hopped up and walked over to Dax, who had just risen. “What was that?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “What was what?”

  “Asking about Jadama Rohn!”

  The Trill was baffled. “It’s why we’re here, remember? We need to find out whether how those people died was connected to the cloud on Farragut. Why can’t I just ask him?”

  “Keep your voice down!” She pulled Dax aside to the corner. There wasn’t any obvious sign of surveillance equipment, but she didn’t think there would be in a place designed for artistic appeal. “We both read Lieutenant Georgiou’s after-action report—the one she revised after she’d diagnosed the deaths. There’s no drug known, illicit or otherwise, that consumes red blood cells.”

  “Then, or now. Right.”

  “So either one exists in this region, and he was telling the truth—or something else happened to the ship, and he didn’t want me—I mean, her—knowing about it. Which means we’ve got to tread carefully. If he didn’t want us knowing then—”