Ghost of a Chance (18 page)

But as luck would have it—though to this day he had never admitted that luck had anything to do with it—he had come into possession of a phase-shifted payload device capable of delivering any obtainable warhead to any programmable point inside virtually any fixed defensive barrier.

In the end, of course, he had sold the delivery system to the Thaitifa, and they had used it to great effect against the Vanolens. The sale was what mattered, after all, not the ones who had died, not even the real estate that had been obliterated, and in the end he had been able to find comfort in that belief—that and the fact that the Thaitifa had paid the most ridiculous price imaginable, a boon that by itself had propelled Gantel to first associate at his next evaluation.

It had been the right choice. And in any case, if he hadn’t closed the deal, some other associate would have, sooner or later.

His one true regret was that the delivery units he had sold the Thaitifa were the only ones he’d had on hand. Before he was able to obtain more, the Garn, from whom he had purchased the weapons—a race of methane-breathing quadrupeds who, during negotiations, had given new meaning to words like “challenging” and “awkward”—had managed to lose the war they were fighting, and lose it in a big way. There had been nothing left but ashes by the time Gantel got around to going back.

With a sigh Gantel meandered back across the room and, from one of the taps over the microbar, drew an icy glass of berry juice—a blend selected from nine different worlds, a combination of flavors to please any palate. He drank it all. It tasted wonderful. He was coming out of the dark pool now, exorcising his doubt, feeling better.

He had met with failure more than once along the way, the price of taking chances, but throughout his celebrated career Gantel had managed to find a way to cover up his worst setbacks, usually by placing most of the blame on someone else; and to be sure he had closed on many a marginal deal, snatched breakthroughs from the jaws of calamity, fooled the sharpest opponents into trusting him completely, and turned the needs and suffering of others into opportunity and profit many times over.

Drenar Four was no exception, he told himself, setting his glass down.

“Enta sa tnoai,” he said out loud, quoting in the ancient tongue: “Seize the deal.”

He focused once more on the situation at hand. The cruiser’s shields had been repaired, and Gantel was relatively certain that the Federation ship’s photon torpedoes could not collapse them, at least not in a first volley. And without any shields of its own, the Federation vessel would not survive long enough to fire many rounds.

Triness would see to that.

Jonal and the others were doing a fair job under the circumstances; they were as capable a team as any he had fielded in some time. The trouble was, like most Televek, Gantel hated to rely on others, an instinct the Televek had retained since prehistoric times. But civilization, and success itself, usually required the delegation of responsibility. A director, certainly, must direct.

Moreover, his plan to feign assistance, though certainly risky, was a good one; it had been working famously, and should continue to do so.

Although this new wrinkle, moving the moons around to alleviate the tectonic pressures within the planet, had the potential to pose some nasty complications. Still, though, he doubted the visitors had the time or the resources to make any real difference. They would be finished as soon as he said so. All he had to do was keep things from getting any more convoluted, keep the risk factors from escalating, until the rest of the plan could be”We have the first director on our extended scans,” Triness said, her voice nearly as melodic as the strains of a Vanolen windwhyle to his ears. And indeed she spoke mostly welcome words. He wasn’t looking forward to First Director Shaale’s arrival, but unless something went incredibly wrong—something he had resolved not to think about, at least not constantly—the rest of the week promised to turn out very well indeed.

Gantel drew a second glass of juice with a sigh of imposed satisfaction. He marveled at the color and the tantalizing aroma; then he set the glass back down. He wasn’t thirsty anymore. And his stomach didn’t feel quite well.

“Very good,” he said, gathering up his director’s dress coat, shrugging the weight of it onto his shoulders. “I’ll be up in a moment.”

***

Chakotay watched the viewscreen fill up with moon. The first phase of their efforts had gone well indeed. Though the process was akin to watching water evaporate, the first moon’s trajectory had been measurably altered. The second moon’s movement would be much less impressive, and the strain on the warp engines as the deflector was again activated was sure to worsen.

But B’Elanna insisted that what little Voyager was beginning to accomplish was within the desired parameters, and she hadn’t advised calling the mission off—not yet, anyway. Chakotay took her word on all of it. Nearly impossible feats of precise engineering under extreme duress were the sort of thing she was good at; he’d staked his life on that more than once.

He rose from the captain’s chair, then returned once more to the ops station where he had been standing for much of the past few hours, peering over Ensign Stephens’s shoulder. The whole thing was theory.

They couldn’t be sure that their effort would have a large enough effect to ease the violent turbulence within the planet, or whether the benefits, even if they succeeded, would come in time. But it made sense to try, if only to help ease the sense of helplessness that Chakotay knew the crew felt.

“Commander,” Paris said, “extreme long-range sensors are picking up several vessels. They appear to be on a direct course toward the Drenar system.”

“Those are certainly the Televek transport and supply ships we told you about,” Jonal said, drawing up beside the Commander at Ops. The Drosary glanced at the panel where the sensor information was displayed and smiled, first at the ensign, then at Chakotay. “Just as promised, help is on the way.”

“You will all be quite pleased when the Televek vessels arrive,” Tassay said as she and Mila joined the others. “They will help bring our problems, and those of the people below, to an acceptable solution.

And when all of that is finished, before we go our separate ways, there will be time for some of us to get to know some of you a little bit… better, perhaps.”

Chakotay found her looking only at him as she spoke this last.

Looking into him, it seemed. And he felt for a moment as if he were staring deeply into some part of her as well.

“I certainly hope so,” Mila said, strolling back toward Paris’s station, running one fingertip lightly across the back of his neck. He seemed to weather the assault well enough.

“You are a wonderfully skilled pilot,” she told him. “I’ll bet you’re the best your Starfleet has to offer.”

“You don’t have to tell him that,” Chakotay remarked. “Just ask him, and he’ll be glad to tell you.”

“I was a good pilot, too,” Mila said, slightly more serious.

“One day I will be again, and I will demonstrate my skill.”

Paris looked up at her, his expression softer than any that Chakotay was used to seeing. “I believe you,” he said. “And I think you’ll get your chance, just as I have.”

Chakotay turned at the sound of the turbolift door opening behind him.

Lieutenant Torres stepped onto the bridge and stopped in mid-stride.

Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips.

Chakotay followed her gaze to Paris and Mila, who were engaged together in what was becoming a special moment. Mila bent over, her nose nearly touching the lieutenant’s as he raised his face to hers. They whispered briefly to each other, grinning frivolously.

When Chakotay looked back, he found B’Elanna still rigid, fists clenched at her sides, only she was looking at him now. He felt Tassay behind him then, her warm breath on the back of his neck.

One of her hands gently touched his side. “I hope things work out perfectly,” she said softly, “for all of us.”

Chakotay felt a little chill, and perhaps he also felt guilty, as if he’d just been caught in a lie. He gently brushed Tassay’s hand aside.

“You have something to report, Lieutenant?” he asked Torres, hearing his voice crack as he spoke. He cleared his throat and waited. The answer seemed to take a while.

“Not right now,” Torres said stiffly.

“Then why are you on the bridge?” Chakotay asked, feeling slightly annoyed. After all, she wasn’t helping anyone just standing there casting a dark mood over the bridge. At least, he didn’t want to think she was helping…

Again she paused. “Just checking the image on the main screen,” she said. Which made no sense. It wasn’t any different from the monitor screens in engineering.

“Checking for what?”

“It’s a long story, I guess,” she answered. “It’s just…” She looked away from the screen, looked at everyone on the bridge.

“Just what?”

B’Elanna let a look of sad frustration cross her features for just an instant, very different from the strict expression she had brought in with her. “I have a lot to do right now. Duties.

You understand, or at least I think you do. I know you used to.”

She spun on her heel and tromped back toward the lift door.

“Where are you going?” Chakotay asked.

“I’ll be in Engineering,” she said, “doing what needs to be done.” And then she was gone.

Chakotay stood silently contemplating B’Elanna’s last words. He could hear Tassay trying to talk to him again, continuing the same conversation, as if nothing had happened. “I have such plans,” she continued. Something about taking a shuttle through the rest of the Drenar system in a couple of days to do some sight-seeing. He was trying very hard not to listen.

“Commander,” Rollins said, “those ships are approaching optimal sensor range. I’m scanning now.”

“Excellent,” Jonal said, moving toward Rollins in the tactical bay as the ensign worked at his consoles. The Drosary stepped closer and attempted to look down at the readings, but Rollins waved him off as if he were a fly buzzing too close.

“Those are definitely Televek reactor signatures,” Rollins reported.

“They are such punctual people, these Televek,” Tassay said, her voice loud in Chakotay’s ear.

“And nearly as friendly as we are,” Mila told Paris, again nose to nose.

“Commander,” Rollins said then, looking up, wide-eyed. “This is odd.

They don’t look much like transports or supply ships. Any of them.

I’m trying to verify tonnage, configuration, and energy curves, but as far as I can tell, those ships are all identical to that—” Jonal wrapped his arm around Rollins’s neck, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

At almost the same instant Mila wrapped an arm around Paris’s neck and tightened it, nearly lifting him out of his seat. Chakotay tried to move, but he felt hands grabbing him, reining him in. Before he could utter a sound, Tassay had one hand over his face, an arm firmly around his middle. She bent him backward far enough to immobilize him, nearly far enough to break his back, and held him fast.

“We’ll have to take control ahead of schedule!’” Jonal shouted.

Chakotay watched as Mila forced Paris to one side, then used her free hand to tap rapidly at the helm panel. The ship lurched once, hard to port, then again, to starboard, shuddering as the force rippled through the hull and deck plates. Then Voyager came to a full stop. Jonal held Rollins aside and worked the tactical controls. In a moment he looked up at the other Drosary. “We are secure at the moment.”

Chakotay tried to struggle, but that effort quickly proved pointless.

The two security guards stationed on the bridge were of little use at the moment as well. Even as Jonal, Mila, and Tassay performed their tasks, they held their captives so as to shield themselves against the guards’ drawn phasers.

Chakotay was amazed at the strength the Drosary possessed; it was even more remarkable than their well-defined physiques would suggest. He was helpless against her hold, as were the others.

“What do you want?” he managed, though his words came out garbled under the pressure of Tassay’s hand.

“We want all of you to remain perfectly still, or we will snap the necks of these officers one by one,” Jonal replied. He turned to Chakotay. “Tell your officers to do as I say.”

Chakotay said nothing at all. He couldn’t give these people that kind of freedom; he wouldn’t.

Jonal asked again, but the commander kept still. “Very well, then, they will do what you say,” Jonal said angrily after only a slight hesitation. “Have your guards put down their weapons.

Then I want the bridge sealed off.”

The difference was subtle. Simon says, more or less. But Chakotay thought this was something he could try to work with.

“Seal the doors,” he told Stephens, who quickly complied. He told the guards to comply as well.

“A good start,” Jonal said. “Seal the conduits, too. I want the computer to begin continuous scans of all areas surrounding the bridge.

We don’t want anyone breaking in through a wall somewhere. Tell the computer to do that, or Tassay will kill you. Once that happens, you will be replaced by another bridge officer, who will die in turn, until I get what I want.”

“Very well,” Chakotay said, giving the commands. There wasn’t anything else he could do just yet.

“Doors and conduits are sealed, scans are in place,” Stephens reported after a moment.

“Now change the bridge computer control authorization code so that no one can surprise us,” Jonal ordered, grinning slightly.

“Change it to accept my voice, my name.”

“I can’t do that,” Chakotay muttered.

“Then I will kill you, and that one,” Tassay said, nodding toward Stephens. Her voice sounded different, cold.

Chakotay grudgingly nodded, and once again the ensign complied.

“Computer, transfer all controls, authorization code alpha-fine, abacrom-dexter, six, four, zero, nine, one. Copy voice authorization.”

Chakotay looked to Jonal, who nodded and spoke his name. The computer confirmed the transfer.