Star Trek Page 21

  Dax, meanwhile, was fit to be tied, having kept Quintilian busy all day, talking first with the schoolchildren and then going with him on a tour of the estate’s artwork. Through whispers over another exquisitely indulgent dinner, the Trill had learned a little of Georgiou and Finnegan’s adventures—and the emperor discovered that Dax had been forced into some evasion tactics of her own.

  “I’m just glad you showed up,” Dax had said. “The longer the day went, the more he flirted with me.”

  Georgiou had been more impressed than offended. “He certainly is ambitious. He must be twice your age.”

  “That’s what he thinks,” Dax muttered.

  Georgiou chortled. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, fumble-mouthing a little. “It’s just when you’re famous, you get a lot of experience deflecting unwanted attention.”

  What Dax had not wanted, Georgiou certainly desired—and not just because she refused to be supplanted in the mogul’s imagination. If S’satah was to be believed, Quintilian had evidently been in a relationship during much of the time he was corresponding with Captain Georgiou—and he was apparently keeping his romantic options open now as well. She imagined that either of those things might have been off-putting to her counterpart, but neither offended her in the least. Knowing there was a libertine behind that polished exterior made the emperor feel more akin to him, not less.

  And so, having many more questions that needed answers, Georgiou made sure her evening walk with Quintilian ended not at the observatory, but rather the highest place on the estate: his bedchambers on the villa’s top floor. As a Casmarran moon rose outside in the cloudless sky, its light washed across a bed strewn with mangled sheets, but empty of occupants. The couple sat on the floor, leaning against the bed as they took a rest and watched the moonrise.

  “I’m so glad this finally happened,” Quintilian said, reaching backward to retrieve his champagne glass from the table. “It was worth the wait.”

  “Twenty-five years?” She chuckled. “I suppose that’s praise.” She clinked her glass to his. “I was surprised last night didn’t end here.”

  “Well,” he said after taking a sip, “I remembered the last time you were here. You were more reserved. You’re almost a different person.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. But I was worried that I’d offended you then.”

  Georgiou seized the opening. “How do you remember that visit?”

  “I remember being surprised when you asked to see me, after twenty years. I remember a lot of walks with you, while Michael was touring around. And then I remember the day when she came back and whisked you out for the afternoon.”

  Georgiou feigned recollection as she took another drink.

  “You packed up your shuttle pretty quickly after that. You’d said Starfleet had summoned you back, but my people never detected any transmissions.”

  Then you were looking for them. “In my position,” she said cautiously, “there are things I can’t always share.” She needed a subject change. “You’ve never spoken much about where you came from.”

  “There isn’t much to say. My parents were prospectors. I was born in one of those little colonies the Federation warned people about starting—too far from Starfleet’s protection, but close enough that we assumed we’d get it anyway.”

  “Which colony?”

  “It no longer exists. You know those little brushfire wars that would happen between the Federation and the Klingons, like Donatu V? We got invaded—wasn’t even by the Klingons, but one of their slave-species proxies. That’s what happened to my knee—got crushed under debris.”

  “It doesn’t seem to have stopped you.”

  “Still flares up a little—we didn’t exactly have access to good care at the time.” He looked out the open balcony doors to the moon. “My parents put me on a freighter to safety while they stayed to fight.” He cast his eyes downward. “I was eight.”

  She didn’t bother asking what had happened to them.

  “I kicked around on merchant ships for a while—that’s how I met Vercer. He’d heard there were shipping contracts to be had between the Troika species, safe from the outside world. You know the rest.”

  “Not all,” she said. “There’s S’satah’s part in your story. Or, should I say, Zee’s.”

  She didn’t explain—and it turned out she didn’t need to. He stared at the glass, nodding. “How’d you find out?”

  “I’m perceptive like that.”

  “Well, I guess she wasn’t very welcoming when you showed up five years ago. She certainly didn’t like me sending her and P’rou immediately on assignment. I was just trying to avoid a collision.”

  “And it was after that when you fired P’rou—and S’satah left.” She stared at him. “Did I have anything to do with that?”

  “Which part?”

  “Pick one.”

  “Zee and I kept company out of convenience. In the beginning it wasn’t something I thought was worth mentioning to you. As the years went on, I figured it was too late. At the same time, she was acting like P’rou should become my heir—and that I should put up with whatever antics he had in mind. She was Agrippina to my Claudius.”

  “And P’rou was Nero.”

  He grinned. “I’ve always loved that you can relate on these things. You definitely saw there was a problem five years ago, but I liked that you never told me to get rid of him. You just talked about Starfleet, and how ships could and should be run. It made me want to raise the bar.” He straightened. “And yes, drumming him out meant she went too.”

  You don’t sound too disappointed.

  “You, on the other hand,” he said, “would make a fine master trader.”

  “That’s one I’ve never heard before.”

  “I’m serious.” He gripped her hand. His grasp again felt cooler than she’d expected, but it soon warmed up. “You’ve told me all about your work—not just your adventures, but how you handle problems. And how you cultivate those you think are talented, like Burnham. So when you’re ready to retire, I’m sure I can find a place for you.”

  Georgiou pulled her hand back. Innuendo, she appreciated—but the offer was meant for someone else.

  He watched her stand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She fished through the sheets for a wrap. “After the last few months I’ve had, this place has been marvelous. The food, the… accoutrements—have been just what I needed. I could stay for years.”

  He stood up. “I thought that was what I was offering.”

  She donned her kimono. “Shall I be frank?”

  “Surely.”

  She stepped to the open balcony doors. It was a warmer night than the one before. “It’s not a growth proposition. You’re doing okay—but the prospects in this region are limited.”

  Quintilian looked about the lavish room. “I’m doing pretty well!”

  Georgiou disagreed. “You’re at the mercy of your client states. Any of them can pull your trading franchise on a whim. And you’re only allowed to trade your own manufactures outside Troika space. Your growth is permanently stunted.”

  Seeing she was serious, he found a robe and put it on. “The idea is to keep them safe, preserving what already exists here.” He joined her on the balcony. “And they get a say, you know. I’m not an emperor.”

  She stifled a laugh.

  He noticed. “What?”

  “You spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about them. Emperors and empires.”

  “That’s not exactly experience.”

  “You’ve even named yourself for one.”

  He pointed to the air. “No, he was an educator. Marcus Fabius Quintilianus. Brilliant man; Vespasian made him a consul in the years after Nero.”

  “I must have been thinking of another universe. My point remains.”

  Quintilian nudged her playfully. “Seriously, what would you do if you were emperor
?”

  “Emperor,” she repeated, her hair tousled by the breeze. “Not Captain Georgiou. Emperor.”

  “That’s right.”

  She paced across the balcony. “Acting not in the interest of Starfleet or the Federation, but of the Veneti, and the Troika species.”

  “Sure. Humans, Klingons—all other alliances are immaterial. What do you think?”

  “As emperor,” she said, turning, “I see many possibilities. Your intent has been to protect these strange species from a galaxy of beings who are not like them, and who would use their resources and territory for their own purposes. But to succeed, you will have to use them for your purposes, in a way you’ve never done.”

  He leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms in evident interest. “Tell me more.”

  She stepped to the railing and pointed in the direction of the hangars. “The Veneti freighters have little rock-shooter cannons. I would upgrade them. They can become serious warships without adding significantly to the vessels’ masses or their energy needs.” She turned back to face him. “Once I’ve done that, I’d maximize what I get from the species themselves.”

  He chuckled. “Were you at dinner? I’ve already gotten quite a lot.”

  “You’re skimming off the top, like a trader,” she said, filling the last word with disdain. “An emperor plunders. An emperor would see how easily the Veneti freighters move around in Troika space—and would see opportunities.”

  “Like?”

  She pointed to the star directly overhead, one that he’d shown her the night before. “First, the Dromax. You say they’re warlike and multiply quickly. They have to be brought under your control first.” Clenching her fists, she paced again. “I would spare a few freighters for kamikaze duty, landing in tactical centers bearing high explosives. In the chaos following detonation, my next wave lands, bearing commandos.”

  “Bearing what?” He laughed, plainly amused by her flight of fancy. “Where’s this army coming from?”

  She pointed down from the balcony. “My warehouse workers, just as my merchants are my navy. They’ll be enough—until the Dromax are brought to heel. You’ve said they multiply quickly. They’re your shock forces.”

  Mesmerized, he nodded. “Draft the conquered. Like Alexander.”

  “Then back to Casmarra. The economy will be in collapse without the Dromax military market. I bomb S’satah’s facilities and declare myself the market for Casmarra’s munitions.”

  His eyes widened at that. “Kill her?”

  “She was willing to do it to me when I landed.” She didn’t mention the foundry. “Only then do I mop up the Oastlings. The fear they have for the other powers is mutual—otherwise the Dromax certainly would have invaded. But I’ll have both the Casmarrans and Dromax on my side, and can quickly take whatever’s necessary.”

  Quintilian, who had begun listening with bemusement, was no longer smiling—but neither did he appear horrified. “Then what?”

  “I no longer need worry about trading internally for profit—or about the locals’ fears about opening up to outside trade.” She looked to the sky and spread her arms wide. “I open the doors, trading with neighboring neutral systems until I see which are most vulnerable, ripe for takeover using the tactic I used with the Dromax.”

  “That won’t work with the Federation and the Klingons.”

  “That, I will have prepared for. There are a host of weapons which may be employed—once manufactured. Or found.”

  He stared at her. In a lower voice, he said, “Then what?”

  “Repeat.” She faced him. “Repeat, and rule.”

  For several seconds, he watched her, dumbfounded. Georgiou worried for a moment. She’d broken character, showed him something she hadn’t intended to. She wasn’t sure how he’d respond.

  Then he started laughing. “It almost sounds like you’ve done this before.”

  She smiled—and stepped back inside. “Where’s that bottle?”

  * * *

  They continued celebrating each other’s existence far into the night. If he exhausted more easily than she expected given his years, he returned to the game again and again—repeatedly calling down for wine and sweets between their more private activities. It was, for Georgiou, like a time out of a dream.

  So much so that when a dream began for her, she couldn’t tell that she had fallen asleep.

  She was on Terra, in the training center, practicing—no, watching others practice fighting. Young people. Herself—and San. Her beloved, long-dead San.

  The emperor stepped toward them, wondering why she hadn’t been noticed yet. When San delivered a kick that put her younger self onto the floor, Georgiou stepped over to offer words of encouragement—and a hand.

  “Get up! The floor may be comfortable, but you can’t stay down forever.” She knelt closer. “Open your eyes!”

  Her younger self did that—revealing, in place of eyeballs, two dark oval bubbles, gases swirling within.

  Just like the Oastlings’ heads.

  “You don’t belong here,” Young Georgiou said in a voice not human.

  Georgiou swiveled to see San approaching, with the same eyes—plus lightning. “You don’t belong here,” he chanted.

  She turned again—and put her hands to her ears to shut out their words. But they pierced her brain, and she felt her entire existence peeling away. She screamed, but no sound could blot out what they were saying.

  Georgiou snapped up in bed, sweating. But even as she panted with exhaustion, somehow she knew the truth: she was just in another dream.

  29

  Domus Quintiliana

  CASMARRA

  “You’ve been asleep all day!” Dax said.

  Georgiou yawned. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my night?”

  “Spare me. I think I know all I want to know.”

  Georgiou had awakened with the sun on the horizon; the fact that it was going down at the time had been a surprise to her. Her revels had contributed to her long slumber, surely—and then there was the dream, as strange as any side effect she’d ever experienced from a chemical, alcohol or otherwise.

  Quintilian had long since exited his chambers. For some time, she’d lingered there, studying his mirror and personal effects. None of the indicators of vanity in an older man: no telltale wig stands, no color for his salt-and-pepper beard. All else was normal, like a hypospray containing what appeared to be a vitamin supplement. She did see a container of rouge, which matched the trace amount on her fingertips; she didn’t judge him for that. He wasn’t likely to keep his tan aboard starships.

  After a quick predinner breakfast rustled up for her by the servants in Quintilian’s villa, she’d found Dax reading in the building’s library. It was a smaller version of an enormous structure she’d seen on her tour the day before—and it didn’t take Georgiou long to realize the Trill gymnast had been figuratively bouncing off its walls for hours.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Dax asked in anger.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “That’s easy. I’m on a mission, remember? And I haven’t been able to do anything.”

  “It’s important to know one’s limitations.” Georgiou exited the library.

  Dax stormed after her into a drawing room. “I’m serious,” she said in a hurried whisper. “You and Finnegan nearly got yourselves killed trying to find out where Jadama Rohn was. It’s in the Vertex 22 impound. We should go.”

  “In my own time,” Georgiou said. Since the previous evening, sleuthing for secret weapons had lost its urgency. “If Vercer’s niece was right, it was moved there twenty-five years ago. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Dax grabbed the taller woman by the arm and turned her. “What about Farragut?”

  “What about it? I don’t think the Cloud is coming back for the other half.”

  “You don’t know that.” Dax scowled. “I think you just want a few more days of being treated like a queen.”
<
br />   “Why shouldn’t I? You know what I was robbed of.” Georgiou forcibly removed Dax’s hand from her arm. “You should sympathize. You were famous across the stars—and now you’re nobody. Take the spoils where you can get them.”

  She marched into one of the galleries, leaving Dax behind—and attracting the attention of Quintilian, who was conferring with Pyramis and Thisbe. Standing before a wall lined with busts of emperors from many planets’ histories, he beamed when he saw Georgiou. “We’ll take this up again later,” he said, and the Oastlings quickly withdrew.

  “I thought I heard you arguing with someone,” he said as Georgiou accepted his embrace. He looked toward the door to the drawing room, where Dax had been. “Having a problem in the ranks?”

  “Just an impatient child who doesn’t like to wait.”

  “Well, some things are worth waiting for. A very long time,” he said, kissing her. Then, his hands still on her arms, he held her out so he could look closely at her.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, drinking her in. “I just see you in a whole new light.” He shook his head, smiling all the while. “I never imagined.”

  “I have that effect on people,” she said. But the depth of his gaze made her wonder if it was something other than their relationship status that had changed.

  “I have an incoming call from the Casmarran interlocutor,” he said, stepping back. “Dull business, I’m sure. But I’ll see you for a late dinner. The larders are still full from Oast—and my cook has promised some amazing things.” He cupped his hand to whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but we save the best stuff for ourselves!”

  “The only logical thing to do.”

  He kissed her and went on his way, another ornate cane in hand.

  Georgiou looked back at him, heading purposefully into the sliver of the universe he ruled—and began to wonder. She’d been intending to build her base anew in the Federation’s universe. Conquest had to begin somewhere and had to start with something. In her reality, she’d have thought nothing of killing Quintilian and supplanting him, plundering his estate and putting it to her own ends. But even though the opportunities in this region of space were limited, he seemed to know how to get the absolute most out of them. Good help was hard to find; smart help was even more difficult.