Star Trek(71)

Ganaiar studied him for some moments. “Velom, you aren’t considering this?” the Malurian protested.

“Please, Velom,” Travis went on, holding the chieftain’s gaze steadily. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Rinor sighed. “No,” he said, pulling out a disk-shaped communicator. “You don’t.” He hit a switch, and a moment later, three swirls of energy resolved into armed Malurians surrounding the Chelons in the camp.

“This is outrageous!” Ganaiar boomed. “You agreed to come unarmed into my camp as a sign of allegiance. You swore to abide by my will.”

“And now you will abide by mine. Kill these three, or my people will kill you and them.”

“You need our cooperation.”

“We need a revolt on Rigel III. And the fact is, your martyrdom will achieve that just as well as your leadership. Our weapons are set to mimic Starfleet phase pistol signatures.”

The chieftain faced him with arms crossed. “Is that so, Rinor? Our weapons are more straightforward.”

A number of armed Chelons rose out of the surrounding undergrowth, drawing back on heavy longbows. The bolts flew true and impaled the Malurian ambush party. Mayweather winced and looked away, in time to see Rinor grappling with one of the humans’ captors over the latter’s crossbow. The Malurian was stronger than he looked, able to resist the massive Chelon’s grip and force the weapon toward his opponent’s head. But the guard clung to him firmly, and soon Rinor began to weaken and tremble. His eyes rolled back, and when the guard released him, he fell to the ground with a heavy thud and lay there twitching.

“Oh, my God,” Sangupta said. “Their contact venom. It’s lethal stuff. He’s got hours at most.”

Mayweather stepped forward, arms still bound behind him, and looked pleadingly at the chieftain. “Do you have an antitoxin? We need to find out what he knows about our people.”

Ganaiar studied him. “I am sorry, no. We have not yet devised one for his kind.” The Velom surveyed the other bodies. “As for the rest . . . were they Chelon, they would have simply been wounded. As it is . . . unfortunate, but they left us no choice.”

Mayweather gazed down at Rinor, who was trembling harder and starting to moan. Sajithen came up alongside him. “It is taking effect quickly,” the director said. “He received quite a dose. The agony will be extreme.”

Travis faced the Velom. “Can you at least give him something to ease the pain?”

“He will not be coherent enough to tell you what you seek, even given an incentive.”

“You think that’s what I care about?” Mayweather shouted. “Just ease his pain, please! Nobody deserves to suffer like that.”

The chieftain studied him for a long moment . . . then gestured to an attendant. The attendant’s heavy staff lifted into the air . . . and came down with great force on Rinor’s neck. Travis closed his eyes, wincing.

When he looked up again, he saw Ganaiar examining him with surprise and approval. “Release them,” the Velom ordered. As the attendants complied, Ganaiar went on. “I regret that I know nothing about where they hold your people, Commander Mayweather. And I regret that I was unable to deliver them to you alive for interrogation.

“Most of all, I regret that I allowed Rinor to mislead me about your Federation. If it appoints people like you as its military officers, that reveals much about its true intentions.”

Mayweather accepted the apology with a grave nod. “You thought you were doing what was necessary to protect your people. Believe me, I understand that.”

“Yes.” Ganaiar gave him the Chelon equivalent of a smile. “But while I cannot help you locate your people . . . I do have some knowledge regarding the First Families’ operative inside the Trade Commission.”

“If you mean Rehlen Vons,” replied Sajithen, rubbing her unbound wrists, “we know of him.”

“Rehlen Vons is dead, and a Malurian wears his face. But perhaps I can direct you toward the source of the information they needed to replace him.”

June 24, 2164

Babel Station

Sedra Hemnask answered the door of her suite, attired in casual evening wear. Her eyes widened when she saw Jonathan Archer standing there. “You’ve been released!”

“And you’ve been avoiding me,” he told her, perhaps redundantly.

Eyes darting furtively, she summoned him inside. Once the door shut behind him, she said, “I felt you faced enough scandal without me complicating things.”

“You could’ve given me an alibi for the shooting.”

“Clearly you didn’t need one. I knew you were innocent. And whoever attempted to frame you must have been a fool to think anyone would believe it.”