Macro stared appraisingly at the cards in his hand, and then across the table at the insufferably smug face of the Rizajor who was his main opponent. Moments before, a Vidaiian and a K'Ingarian had also been in the game of Ziniean Let-Loose, but they had folded their hands and were watching the duel of wills between Macro and the Rizajor with some interest.
The Rizajor wasn't giving the slightest indication of what he had in his hand. His blond hair was long, and there was a fierce scar down the right side of his face. His purple eyes were as dark as storm clouds, yet they looked at Macro with a kind of bland disinterest. As if there wasn't a fortune in latinum currently sitting in the pot.
Macro knew little about the Rizajor beyond that he apparently had some involvement in the slave trade. It was something that Macro was comfortable with, what with slavery being his stock-in-trade as well. Macron was a Nordik, though, and had never had the opportunity to wander all that close to Rizajor space. But he'd heard through sources that Rizajors could be fairly tough customers, and this one seemed to be filling that bill admirably.
Macro stroked his green chin thoughtfully. From nearby he heard a low chuckle. Zoida was looking over his shoulder. "Stop breathing on me," he told her.
The scantily clad Nordik slave girl took a step back, but she grinned in a manner that bordered on savage pleasure. Macro had acquired Zoida the previous year and had intended her for a quick resale, but he had taken a fancy to her. Even though he'd had a buyer lined up, he decided to keep her. The buyer had lodged a protest with Macro. Macro had, in response, lodged a sword between the third and forth ribs of the buyer, and that had put an end to the protest (and, for that matter, the buyer).
The reaction of this girl had not gone unnoticed by the Rizajor. "Seems to me like you've got a fairly good hand," said the Rizajor, "judging by your girlfriend's reaction. Maybe I should fold right now."
In response, Macro turned and cuffed Zoida, knocking her back. She fell to the floor but landed like a panther, and she hissed fiercely at Macro.
"Or maybe," the Rizajor continued, "you two are working together to try and make me doubt myself. In which case...." He considered it, then nodded. "Yes. Yes, I believe that's probably it." He reached down into a case at his feet and pulled out two more bars of gold-pressed latinum, and dropped them onto the table. The table legs creaked slightly from the weight.
The card game had caught the attention by this point of all the rather seedy denizens of the equally seedy bar. Vladimir L-0 was a way station convenient to several frontiers, a place where various types who might otherwise be questioned in more "civilized" establishments on more "civilized" worlds could come to relax, meet, greet, and try to parlay a few extra credits for themselves whenever possible.
Macro looked at the bet, and felt the blood drain slightly into his face. "I can't cover that!" he blustered.
"Seems to me like you're in trouble, then," replied the Rizajor.
Macro's eyes flickered from his hand (which was a very solid one) to the bet on the table, and his greed was becoming overwhelming----to say nothing of his pride over the thought of losing to this arrogant-looking Rizajor. Then his eyes caught Zoida and he looked back at the Rizajor. " How about her?"
Zoida was shocked to hear herself being put up as a bet, but the Rizajor didn't seem the least bit surprised. It was as if he was expecting it. "She worth two bars of latinum? I don't think so."
"What she can provide in straight-up resale would be far less. What Zoida can provide in the way of----physical gratification----she's worth ten times that. I speak from personal experience." Macro chartled.
"Macro!" she snarled.
The Rizajor regarded her thoughtfully. "If I won you, Zoida---would you try to kill me as payback? Or would you show gratitude for one who'd treat you far better than a man who'd put you up for a stake in a game of Ziniean Let-Loose?"
Zoida appeared to consider the point. Then a look of contempt crossed her face as she said to the Rizajor, "Clearly I have no reason to be loyal to Macro than he's got to be loyal to me. Do what you will, Rizajor---and if it falls your way, I'll do what you will, as well."
"Fair enough," said the Rizajor. "It's a bet, Nordik."
"Excellent!" crowed Macro. "We finally have a game for true men, Rizajor! And now let us see which of us is the better of the two."
The back rooms in the bar were available for rent for just this kind of occasion, as the Rizajor strode into the room, pivoting quickly on his heel to make sure that the Nordik girl wasn't behind his back. Zoida stood framed into the door, grinning ferally, her bright blue eyes sparkling. The room wasn't elaborately furnished; then again, the sturdy bed in the corner wasn't really much more than the room really needed.
"I guess Macro learned who was the better," she purred. "The great fool."
"More fool he," agreed the Rizajor.
"And what shall I call you?" She slinked across the floor, her hips swaying, the scraps of cloth that served as her clothing barely clinging to her.
"Nick," he said.
"And will you sell me, Nick? You own me now. Will you sell me, or keep me?"
"I thought I'd reserve judgment on that," said Nick.
"Until when?"
"An hour, maybe two, from now."
She sprang toward him, and his first reflex was to try and shove her away. But she wrapped herself around him in a rather nonthreatening manner, her arms behind his back, her legs straddling his hips. "Merely an hour?" she said challengingly with a raised brow. "I think we can make up your mind faster than that."
And then her lips were against his, hungrily, and it seemed as if she weren't so much a woman as she was a force of nature. She practically stole Nick's breath away as she pulled at his clothing, trying to yank his loose shirt off him. He staggered back toward the bed, hit the mattress, and fell back onto it. She literally ripped off his shirt and started to do things down his bare chest.
He pulled her up to face him, looked into her eyes, and felt as if he were being sucked into a maelstrom. Her lips were drawn back, her teeth glittering and white, her skin an eerie ghostly white, and he rolled over her so that he was atop her. Somewhere in all of that her clothes fell away, his chest pressed against her, and the heat was overwhelming. Her hands reached below his waist as his own arms extended up toward the pillow that lay at the bed's far end.
The door to the room opened in totally silence. The Rizajor named Nick didn't see Macro enter, moving with stealth that seemed unnatural in one so large. Zoida spotted him, through, but she said nothing---merely hissed more loudly to cover his entrance. Macro carried a large sword, which glittered in the dim lighting of the room. He kept it highly polished, incredibly sharp. Keeping it clean was something of a challenge considering the number of times that he'd shed blood with it.
He took two quick, silent steps and was across the room, the sword brought up over his head as he prepared to bring it slamming down. The Rizajor was oblivious, his back glistening with sweat, his right hand under the pillow...
And suddenly there was a scream of energy which tore through the pillow, blasting it apart, slicing through the air, slicing through Macro. The energy bolt hit him dead square in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He dropped the knife and, at that same instant. Nick suddenly arched his back and shoved Zoida out from under him. She hit the floor, stunned and confused, as Nick snagged the falling sword from midair with his left hand. In his right hand he was holding the blaster he'd stashed under the pillow.
All of this happened before Macro had even time to hit the floor. The momentum of the energy bolt had slammed him back against the door, and he now slid to the floor with obvious confusion in his eyes.
Nick eased himself off the bed. From the floor, Zoida looked at the fallen Macro in shock and then back at the Rizajor. "You---you shot him----and you----you didn't even see him...."
"Practice," Nick said evenly. His voice, his demeanor, seemed to have changed. He seemed more in command, more formidable than before. If Zoida were a fanciful type, she would've imagined that thunderclouds were massing over his head.
He walked slowly toward Macro, who was lying on the floor, clutching his belly. Blood was fountaining out, and Macro was clutching things that he didn't even want to think about touching, trying to shove them back into his body. Nick crouched down, and his eyes were dead and cold. "Gut shot," he said, almost as if commiserating. "It takes a while to die of those. Painful as hell. And the damage is too extreme for any nearby med facility. You're dead. Of course"----he twirled the sword in his hand with surprising expertise; it seemed to come alive in his long fingers....."if you wish, I can end it for you better."
"You----you bastard...." stammered out Macro.
Nick nodded slowly. "Yes, I'm a bastard. But even bastards have friends. I've had a few, including one who saved my life once. His name was Tasheer. Name seem familiar?" At first Macro shook his head, and then his eyes went wide in realization. "Ah. You remember him. Good," said Nick. "Tasheer had his faults, certainly. Something of a lowlife, really. But, as I said, he saved my life on one occasion, and that made me beholden to him. I owed him, and then some Nordik slave trader violated an agreement and wound up killing him. Shoved a sword between his ribs." He looked spectacularly at the blade in his hand. "This one, perhaps? Was this the sword?"
Wordlessly, Macro nodded.
"Well, then," said Nick. "I'd say this falls into the realm of poetic justice, wouldn't you?"
And suddenly the warning tingled in the base of Nick's skull.
There was nothing psychic about the knack he had, nor anything mystical. The Rizajor simply had a knack for knowing when danger was imminent, and was able to react with speed and aim that seemed---to anyone else----supernatural. In the case of Macro, of course, it had been easy. He'd been expecting just such a tactic as Macro had pulled, and was ready for it.
The attack of the Nordik girl, Zoida, on the other hand, was a bit more ill timed.
Zoida leaped at him, and Nick--still from a crouched position---slammed out with his right foot. It caught Zoida squarely in the gut while she was still in midair and sent her falling to the floor. It did not, however, slow her down significantly. With an animal roar she was upon him, her fingers outstretched, her nails bared.
And out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw Macro starting to reach into the folds of his shirt. It was possible that Macro was simply trying to stop the bleeding. On the other hand, it was also possible that he was about to pull a weapon.
Nick took no chance. He yanked the blaster from his belt and swung it around with his left hand, the barrel hitting the Nordik girl full in the face. He heard a crack which told him that he'd likely broken her lower jaw as she went down, screeching. His right hand, meantime, swept in an arc, slicing through Macro's throat, severing his vocal cords, cutting through major arteries. Dark blood poured out from Macro's throat and he slumped back, his eyes rolling up into the top of his head.
Nick scrambled to his feet as Zoida backed against the far wall. There was the look of the wild, wounded animal in her face. Her damaged jaw fed pain into her that fueled her rage, and Nick brought the blaster up and even with her. "This has one setting, and it's a fatal one," Nick warned her. "I don't want to have to kill you----but I will."
Zoida, with a bestial roar, leaped at him.
And a split second before he could squeeze the trigger, he sensed someone else behind him, but he couldn't fire in two directions as the same time. And then there was a blast from behind him, accompanied by the familiar whine of a phaser. The stun blast struck Zoida and flipped her backward over the bed. She hit the floor and lay there, unmoving.
Nick spun, his blaster still leveled since he had no idea what to expect. But even if he'd known....he would still have been surprised.
"I'll be damned," he said.
Elizabeth Weir stood in the doorway, her phaser in her hand. She was dressed in civilian clothes of dark black. She was looking down at the bloody corpse of Macron, and then slowly she shifted her gaze to Nick. "What the hell have you done? Tell me it was self-defense."
"It was self defense."
"Would you lie if it were otherwise?"
Rush's eyes flashed. "To others, yes. To you, no." He paused. "You came in a ship?"
"I did."
"Let's get in it and I'll tell you." He started for the door, then paused and said, "Leave first. I'll follow a minute or so later. I don't want to be seen with you."
"Why not?"
"You know what you look like, Weir?"
Despite the goriness of the situation, the violence that had infested the room mere moments earlier, Weir couldn't help but smile inwardly. Reverence was never one of Nicholas Rush's strong suits. "What do I look like, Rush?"
"You look like a Fleet officer dressed in civilian clothes. If I'm spotted with you, I'll be ruining my reputation."
As the runabout hurtled away from Vladimir L-0, Weir turned from the controls to study Rush's face. She felt as if she were trying to find, somewhere inside, the young man she'd met twenty years ago. Rush, for his part, was calmly wiping away the final traces of Macro's blood from his hands.
"You had to kill him, didn't you? Weir asked after a time.
Rush looked up. "Yes. It was self-defense."
"That's how you arranged it. You permitted yourself to be pulled into a situation where you knew that you'd be attacked---and then could defend yourself with lethal force."
Rush put down the towel he was using to dry himself. "He killed a man to whom I owed my life," he said. "Honor demanded that the score be evented. But I'm not an assassin. I couldn't just walk in and kill him."
"You're splitting hairs, N'klaraet."
Rush sat back. "Gods----'N'klaraet.' It's been ages since I went by that. Hurt my ears to listen to people muck up the gutterals. Closest Terran tongues came was 'Nicholas.'"
"Yes, I know. You officially changed your name on your records. N'klaraet of Rush became Nicholas Rush."
" 'Nick,' to my friends." He eyed Weir with open curiosity. "Do you fall into that category, Weir?"
"I would like to think so." She paused. "You're trying to drag me off topic, which is something in which you've often excelled. The point is---if you have a grievance, you could have....."
"Could have what? Arrested him? Tried to bring him in for Space Federation justice? Weir," and he leaned forward, staring out into space, "it's different when you're out there. When you're on your own. When you don't have the power of the Space Federation at your beck and call. I work best outside the system, Weir---and since you've made a surprise visit, I take it you're aware of just how outside the system I am."
"And did it bring you personal satisfaction? Killing that Nordik?"
He blew air impatiently between his lips. "Yes. Is that what you want to hear, Weir? Yes, it did." He sat there for a moment and then turned to gaze steadily at Weir. And in that dark stare, Weir saw a hint, just a hint, of a soul that had terrified armed men twenty years ago. Saw the fires that burned within Rush. "Don't you get it, Weir? I'm a savage. I always have been. I've created this...this cloak of civilization that I wrap around myself as need be. But I've kept this to remind me." He ran a finger down the scar on his face. "As much as I've tried to leave behind my roots, I've still felt it necessary to keep this with me so I never forget."
"Rush---Nick...."
"Do you know why I did it, Weir?"
"You told me. You killed him because...."
"Not that." He waved dismissively as if the Nordik were unimportant. "Why I followed your suggestion. Why, when you eventually told me you thought I was destined for greatness. I---in my naivete---believed you."
"You've never gone into specifics. I thought..."
"I had a vision of you, Weir. As absurd as it sounds----before we met. I had a vision of you. I believed that you were important in my life."
"A vision. Like a dream?"
"I mean I saw you as clearly, as plainly, as I see you here and now. I saw you and..." His voice trailed off.
"And....?"
"And---someone else. Someone with whom I was---involved. We kept our affair rather discreet."
"It didn't end well, I take it."
"Nothing ends well, Weir. Happy endings are an invention of fantasists and fools."
"Oh, stop it!" Weir said so sharply that it caught Rush's attention. "Self-pity does not become you. It doesn't become anyone in Fleet."
Rush got up and strode toward the back of the runabout. Setting the computer on autoguide, Weir followed him. Rush turned and leaned against the back wall, facing Weir.
"You should never have resigned, Nick. That's the simple fact of the matter. I know you blamed yourself for what happened on your previous assignment, the Destiny."
"Don't bring it up."
"But Fleet cleared you...."
"I said don't bring it up!" said Rush furiously. The scar seemed to stand out against his face and, bubbling with anger, he shoved Weir out of the way as he started to head back to the helm of the runabout.
And to Rush's astonishment, Weir grabbed Rush by the wrist and swung him back around. Rush banged into the wall and, as much as from surprise as anything else, slid to the ground. He looked up at Weir in astonishment. "Trying your hand at savagery yourself, Weir?" he asked.
Weir stabbed a finger at him. "Dammit, Rush, I believed in you! I looked into your eyes twenty years ago and I saw greatness! Greatness that did not deserve to be confined on Rizajor."
"You should've left me the hell alone. Just as you should now."
"That's not an option. You're a Fleet officer. No matter what you are now----that is what you will always be. You can't turn away from that. You have a destiny. Don't you dare let it slide away. Now get up. Get up, if you're a man."
There was something about the words---something that stirred in Rush's memory. He automatically relegated what Weir was saying now....something about the Centauri---to some dim and less important portion of his mind as he tried to dredge up the phrasing.
".....and it is my belief that no one could be more suited...." Weir was saying.
"Elizabeth, please, just----give me a moment," and the sincerity in Rush's tone stopped Weir cold. Rush pulled himself to standing and he was eye-to-eye with Weir. He was lost in thought, and Weir---sensing something was up----said nothing. Then Rush snapped his fingers. "Of course. You said that to me then. Gods, I haven't thought about it in years...."
"What did I say?"
"About my being a Fleet officer. About destiny."
Suddenly looking much older, Rush walked across the runabout and dropped back into the helm chair. "That's the trouble, Weir. That's always been the problem. I could see the future so clearly, even when I was a young man. I saw my people free, and it was so clear, so pure a vision, that I couldn't help but believe that I was destined to bring them that freedom. And then I saw you-----don't ask me how. And again I felt destiny tapping me on the shoulder, pointing me, guiding me. I guess----I had it easy."
"Easy?" Weir looked stunned. "You had an uprising more brutal than anyone who wasn't raised a Psychlo. Easy, you say?"
"Yes, easy. Because I never doubted myself, Weir. Not ever. I never doubted that I was destined for something. And I...." he smiled grimly. "I never lost. Oh, I had setbacks. I had obstacles thrown in my way. But in the end, I always triumphed. Moreover, I knew I would. And when I worked my way up to first officer on the Destiny...." He shook his head. "Dammit, Elizabeth, no one guides a planet to freedom unless he feels that he was born to win. That feeling never left me."
"Until the Destiny disaster."
"Yes."
Weir sighed deeply. "Nick...I've been where you are now. I've suffered----personal disaster. Indignities. Torment, psychological and physical. And I'd be lying if I said there weren't times I nearly walked away from it all. When my body, my soul screamed, 'Enough. Enough.' But destiny doesn't simply call to Rizajor rebel leaders, Nicholas. In a way, it calls to anyone who aspires to command of a starship."
"Anyone such as you," said Rush.
"And you. It called to you once, and it summons you now. You cannot, you must not, turn a deaf ear."
Rush shook his head. "It's crazy. You're not actually suggesting that I get back on the bridge of a starship, are you?"
"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. In fact, that's what I recommended both to Admiral Lutes and Admiral Hammond."
"Hammond?" Rush looked up and made no effort to hide his disdain. "He's an admiral now? Good lord, Elizabeth, you want me to re-up with an organization so blind to talent that it would evaluate someone like Hammond?"
"Hammond accomplishes that which he is assigned," Weir replied evenly. "We all of us work to the limits of our individual gifts. Except for a handful of us who walk away from those gifts."
"This is guilt. You're trying to guilt me."
"I'm trying to remind you that you're capable of greater things than skulking around the galaxy, accomplishing clandestine missions. Yes, you're doing the jobs assigned you. I take nothing away from your small achievements. But a Nicholas Rush isn't meant for small achievements. That's a waste of potential." She leaned forward, rested a hand Rush's arm. "Twenty years ago I met a young man with more raw talent than any I'd ever encountered before----and quite possibly since. That talent has been shaped and honed and focused. Your service record was exemplary, and you cannot---you must not----allow what happened with the Destiny to destroy you. Think of it this way: The Destiny disaster, and the subsequent court-martial---your resignation, your guilt---these are scars that you carry on the inside. But they're only scars, not mortal wounds, and you must use them to propel you forward as much as the scar you carry on the outside does. The fact is, there's a starship that needs a captain, and a mission that would seem to call for your---particular talents. Do not let Fleet---or yourself----down."
Rush leaned back in his chair, stroked his chin thoughtfully, and gazed out once more at the passing stars. Weir wondered what was going through his mind.
He was a savage under the skin, that much Weir knew. In some ways, he reminded Weir of Wrrf. But there were differences, though. Wrrf always seemed about as relaxed as a dormant volcano. His ferocity was a perpetual and prominent part of his nature. But Rush had gone much further. He had virtually created an entire persona for himself. As he'd said himself, a sort of cloak that he could wrap around himself, and use to keep the world at bay and his inward, tempestuous nature away from the world. As a consequence, he was uniquely focused, uniquely adept at troubleshooting, and one of the most dedicated individuals Weir had ever encountered.
What was he thinking? What great moral issues was he considering as he contemplated the thought of reentering Fleet openly, to pursue his first, best destiny? What soul-searching, gut-wrenching contemplation was....?
Rush looked at Weir with a clear, mischievous air. "If I take command of a starship, Hammond will have a fit, won't he?"
Weir considered the matter. "Yes. He probably will."
Rush leaned forward, and there was a sparkle of sadistic amusement in his eye. "So tell me about that ship you want to put me on...."
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