Tales from the Captain’s Table (23 page)

Before I moved Gundar through the public areas, I had the sense to stop at a replicator station and collect a few platters of Denobulan scallops and
yamok
sauce. Years of running ops for the resistance overcame my nerves. An almost nonstop internal monologue—reminding me to stay calm, keep the needs of the mission first—played in my head. Passing through the edge of the reception area, an inebriated officer pawed at one of the plates before lifting the whole tray of seafood off my cart. I smiled in acknowledgment and continued to move forward. Only a turbolift and a few passageways before Gundar would be boarded on a shuttlecraft headed for the resistance. Fifteen steps, fourteen steps…eight…three…

Heart thudding in my throat, I guided the hovercart into the turbolift and ordered the door closed. I cleared my throat and said, “Shuttlebay.” A nearly imperceptible jerk and the turbolift started upward. The door parted soundlessly and I exited.

Not surprisingly, the transport-center waiting area was desolate. The comings and goings of Club members ebbed and flowed with the shift changes on Doblana Base. Another few hours and I’d be hard-pressed to find a place to walk. I directed the cart past dozens of rows of empty chairs, my shoes clicking against the glossy stone-paved floors. A shadow darkened the wall. I paused. No one appeared. I continued moving forward until I reached the VIP boarding area. Using my security pass, I activated the doors and I stepped through.

Reon waited for me. An amused half-smile crossed his lips as he glanced at the cart. “The scallops are a nice touch. I like your style.” He stood up. “If you’ll follow me through to the airlock to your shuttle, I’ll help you secure Gundar. You’ve contacted Shakaar to arrange the rendezvous?”

I shook my head. “I’ll do that once the shuttle’s in flight.”

“Can you risk waiting that long?” he said as we walked together.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do. If you want to go ahead and talk with the pilot, I’ll put Gundar in the holding area. We need to get out of here. Fast.”

I sensed anxiety beneath the poise. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you once we’ve cleared Doblana’s defense grid.”

I didn’t hear footsteps until we stood beside the airlock. I knew without looking that Plin was behind me.
What the hell—

“You decided to throw a going-away party without me. How unlike you, Kira!”

“What are you doing?”

“I wanted a witness to your betrayal, Reon. You set Teara up. Made it look like she was the double when she was really following your instructions. You’re not going to get away with it.”

I turned to face him, forcibly ignoring the pain carving up my insides. Plin must have checked the internal communication records. I should have known. He never changed. I wanted so desperately to believe that he wasn’t a collaborator that I’d allowed him to deceive me.

“I’ve got him covered.” Plin’s voice echoed through the waiting area. I heard her unsheathe her weapon.

“So, Nerys, you’re back to believing that I’ve lived down to all your expectations.” Laughing bitterly, he took a step toward me, holding open his hands to show that he wasn’t armed. “Feeling morally superior to your collaborator brother about now, eh?”

“You’ve always bailed out when circumstances became too hard.” Reon’s inscrutable expression made it impossible to guess what his next move would be. I spat on the ground. “Collaborator.”

He flinched as if I’d struck him.

Anxiously, Plin said, “We only have a brief time before the shift changes. Nerys—you take my weapon and I’ll secure Gundar in the shuttle hold.”

I reached behind me to take the weapon from Plin. I heard the low hum of the hovercart moving forward shortly after she passed by me, followed shortly by the dull thud of a closing door.

“This time your inability to let go of the past may be your undoing,” he said, his voice low; he took another two steps toward me.

I unfastened the phaser’s safety. “Don’t move any closer—” Before I could react, he plunged forward; I gasped. He threaded his hands behind my head, smashing his mouth into my ear.

“Listen to me.
There is no double
,” he whispered. “I scanned Teara’s corpse—she’s as Bajoran as you and I. She was set up and there’s only person who could have done it.”

My eyes widened.
Prophets let him be wrong.

“Gundar is bait,” Reon continued. “There is no systems upgrade. I checked. Plin arranged to have him sent here. She must be in trouble with the Cardassians because she’s selling out Shakaar as some kind of loyalty test to save the Club.”

My mouth fell open; I choked back a scream. I didn’t know what to believe. My brother pulled me tight into his arms, allowing me to lean against him for support. I felt the weight of something slipped into my jacket pocket. “Once you’re far away and safe, find out the truth for yourself. I’ve given you the map, so to speak.”

Had he crafted another illusion for my benefit? All these years in the Officers’ Club had made him a master of the masquerade. I pulled back from his embrace to search his face.

I heard Plin walking across the shuttle deck. She’d be back at the airlock within seconds.

“Whatever you do, don’t go straight to Shakaar. Go anywhere else.” He shoved me away, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Aim your weapon,” he mouthed.

Tossing my hair defiantly, I snarled loud enough for Plin to hear, “You won’t get away with this, Reon or whatever your name is. You can tell your Cardassian masters that they’ll have to do better if they want to break the spirit of Bajor!”

Plin emerged from the airlock, glanced between me and my brother. “The shuttle’s ready to go. Shakaar will need time to make the rendezvous, and I can help you through Cardassian security much faster than you can go through by yourself.”

“You have to stay here, Plin,” I said with as much earnestness as I could muster. “You have to figure out what damage Reon’s done to your operation—for Bajor’s sake.” I thought I caught a glint of triumph in her eye before she again donned a mask of earnest indignation.
Reon might be telling the truth.

She reached for the weapon. “Go with the Prophets, Nerys.”

Then I knew. Leaving Reon at the Club would mean his death. If Plin had betrayed the resistance to the Cardassians, she couldn’t afford to let Reon expose her before she could cover her tracks, or she’d kill him as revenge for framing Teara. My brother would die either way.

Until I was away from the Club and could prove or disprove Reon’s story, I wouldn’t know the truth. And in that moment, the truth couldn’t matter, because the mission came first.

I met his eyes: A hint of a smile on his lips told me that he’d made peace with his fate. Numbly, I handed Plin the weapon and moved through the airlock. I imagined I heard the metallic zing of phaser fire before the airlock doors sealed.

When the shuttle hatch closed, I checked to make sure that Gundar was still alive (he was) and then headed up to the front to check with the pilot. I gave him a fake destination, one many hours away from the Officers’ Club, and settled into the copilot’s chair. The authorities wouldn’t touch me before I’d led them to Shakaar. I wasn’t too worried about being hassled until the spoonheads figured out that they’d been duped. At that point, I’d shake whatever goons might be waiting for me and request emergency extraction. Recalling my operative codes and how Plin had shared hers with me during our first meeting, I thought of her—and Teara and Reon. Reaching into my pocket, I removed what he’d put in my pocket—an oval-shaped locket I instantly recognized as my mother’s. I found a memory chip inside: Reon’s map. I wondered where it would take me.

As the mission meandered to a conclusion, I wished for sleep, for drink, for any sensation that would make the memories go away. Escape eluded me for a long time. I worked for Bajor and would sacrifice whatever was required of me to assure my people’s freedom, including giving my life and in this case, my brother’s life. I tried being matter-of-fact about his loss and managed quite well for a time.

Tears finally spilled on the day when Shakaar, thanks to Reon’s chip, slipped through an untraceable backdoor into the Cardassians’ communication network. Those in my cell assumed that I wept for joy, as they all did, because at last we had in our power the ability to break the Cardassians’ stranglehold on Bajor. Not so much as a supply clerk would be reassigned without the resistance knowing about it. The occupation would end.

I raised my face to the blue-green summer sky of Dahkur and remembered my brother.

“I
’m pleased you decided to take me up on my offer.”

Captain Jonathan Archer gazed at the Andorian city spread below and nodded. “I appreciate the invitation, Shran, as well as the tour of your city. Porthos appreciates it too.”

“Without your help, Captain, there would be no peace agreement between Vulcans and Andorians.”

“I’m glad I was able to help.” Archer glanced over the beagle’s head at Shran with a feeling of satisfaction.
Nice to be in a position to help two cultures work out their differences.
“So where is this place you’re taking me?”

Hopefully, a nice restaurant.
Archer had an aversion to most bars, especially the dark, smoky kind a lot of folks seemed to enjoy. He preferred a light ambience—not to mention a place that appreciated beagles.

“It should be around here somewhere.” Shran’s antennae twitched as he moved forward one step at a time.

What?
Archer wondered.
Is he just expecting a doorway to suddenly appear?

“Ah, here we are.” Triumph flooded Shran’s voice.

Street lights illuminated a door deep within a hooded archway a few feet away. The age-darkened wood sported an intricate metal plaque embedded in the worn grain. Archer studied the door in surprise; he could’ve sworn there was a wall there a moment ago.

Shran grasped a heavy metal handle and pulled the door open.

“Welcome to the Captain’s Table,” the Andorian said. He waved Archer forward with a tilt of his head.

Archer smiled and scratched Porthos’s ears as he stepped inside.

Anticipation can often be misleading
, Archer thought. He moved farther into the room, pleased to find the interior neither dark nor smoky. In fact, there wasn’t even a hint of sour beer in the air, only a pleasant, sawdusty scent. “Somebody takes good care of this place.”

“As it should be, Captain Archer. As it should be,” a deep voice said.

The man polishing glasses behind the bar stood tall, with a breadth that matched the voice. He wore his silver hair short in a style that reminded Archer of his days back in boot camp.

“Have we met?” Archer slid onto a leather-covered barstool.

“Cap knows everyone,” Shran said. His antennae dipped toward each other as he took Archer’s arm. “Set us up with a round of drinks, would you, Cap?”

The bartender’s eyes twinkled, but Archer suspected the man’s gaze could turn water into ice if the occasion warranted. “It’ll be just a moment.”

“I’ll take a—” Archer started.

“Scotch, neat,” Cap finished.

Archer nodded and flashed a puzzled smile. “How did you know?”

“It’s my business to know.” Cap pulled a thin blue bottle from the shelves lined up beneath a spotless wall-length mirror. “Would you like to try the Andorian brand? Highly recommended by many customers, especially Shran.”

Shran gave a quick nod.

“I’ll give it a try then,” Archer said. An antique propeller mounted above the mirror caught his eye. It reminded him of a remote-control model his father had given him a long time ago. “Is that a de Havilland?”

Cap nodded. “A genuine de Havilland Moth, circa 1925. The particular plane this little gem comes from flew solo from Britain to Australia.”

The bartender turned away before Archer could ask any more questions. Shran led the way through assorted aliens, tables, and chairs until they came to a table with a couple of empty spaces.

“Here, have a seat,” Shran said. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Captain Jonathan Archer, diplomat extraordinaire.”

Archer tore his attention away from the antique model aircraft displayed throughout the room and nodded to the group.
Easy to get used to this place
, he thought as he relaxed into the brown leather chair, settling Porthos comfortably on his lap.

“What is
that
doing in here?” hissed a feline alien. Her scarlet mane fluffed wide around her pink-furred cheeks, and for a moment Archer thought she might just decide to take Porthos on.

“Calm your fur and relax, Prrgghh.” Cap’s deep voice carried a no-nonsense tone. “Porthos is as welcome as anyone else in this establishment.”

A youth in long, flowing robes drifted up to the table with a tray so full Archer wondered how he managed not to spill anything. The youth gracefully served everyone without dampening the long sleeves of his robe, then slipped back to the bar.

“I assume we pay when we leave?” Archer asked.

“Not exactly.” Shran’s antennae wriggled. “The only payment for libation in this establishment is to tell a story.”

A noxious breeze swept through the room as the outer door opened and an enormous alien oozed inside. Without a glance in either direction, the newcomer proceeded to the bar and coated three seats.

“Caxtonian,” Shran said. Archer nodded and sniffed his Andorian Scotch to clear the oily smell from his sinuses. The Scotch did the job. He sipped the light amber liquid. It slipped smoothly down his throat, leaving behind a pleasant burn.

Shran watched him expectantly.

“Good choice.” Archer nodded his approval. The Andorian smiled and began introductions. The Klingon female covered her surprise well when Archer gave her a traditional Klingon greeting. He smiled politely at the slender green-skinned alien and gave the feline Prrghh a cool nod.

A palm-sized gold and green spotted lizard poked its head through the white beard of the rotund man sitting opposite Archer. The lizard leapt down onto the table and raced across to touch noses with Porthos.

The man pulled a curved pipe from between his teeth and grinned. “Better watch out or Lizzy here will eat that little friend of yours.”

“I’d be glad to lend Lizzy a hand,” the feline muttered.

A big-eared alien wandered over and stood behind the white-bearded man. Archer groaned and refrained from hiding Porthos under his chair. The last time he’d crossed paths with a gang of Big Ears, they’d tried to kidnap the poor beagle. But the group at the table didn’t know that, and neither, apparently, did the alien.

“What is that creature?” Big Ears asked.

Archer grinned. “I’d be careful if I were you. You don’t want to get Porthos angry.”

“Why not?” Big Ears asked. He looked the beagle over. “The creature doesn’t look very dangerous to me.”

“He’s a first-generation clone of the original Porthos,” Archer said.
If I’m supposed to tell a story, may as well do it now.
“The canine hero who provided the inspiration for the BIA—the Beagle Intelligence Agency—and a decorated member of the
Canis Beagalis
clan. Human and beagle have fought side by side against many enemies. In fact, the Beagle Brigade played a major roll in winning the Pac Man Offensive during Earth’s Third World War.”

Shran sipped his drink, covering a small smile. Archer ruffled Porthos’s ears and continued. “Don’t let his small stature and mild looks fool you. His nose is registered with the Intergalactic Sniffers’ Association. His paws are licensed lethal weapons.”

Big Ears smiled wide, exposing sharp, crooked teeth. “Just how did this
operative
come to be part of your…crew?”

The table exploded with laughter. Archer looked at the sneering faces and decided that by hook or by crook, he was going to prove to this crowd that his pal Porthos was the best of the best. If they wanted a story, he’d give them a tale to beat all tales….

“As a boy I watched all the
Beagle Brigade
vids I could get my hands on, but I’d never had a chance to meet a beagle personally until four years ago. It was five a.m. Sepulveda time when I got the call.”

Big Ears interrupted again. “Where is this Sepulveda?”

“It’s a minor planet in the Orion system. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Archer continued before the alien could question him further. “One of Earth’s most prized researchers, Mary Ellen Findalot, had been abducted and taken deep into the Sepulvedan rain forest by a band of renegade aliens. Admiral Tucker needed two good operatives to find and rescue the researcher. When the admiral’s personal shuttlecraft arrived to pick me up I found out he didn’t necessarily mean two
humans
. I’d be working with one of the best sniffers in the system: Porthos the Great, aka Double-O One.

“I was so excited about meeting my boyhood hero, I made the admiral wait while I polished my dress shoes until they reflected my freshly whitened teeth….”

The shuttle dropped us off in front of a run-down hotel in the middle of Sepulveda’s wettest rain forest. The peeling paint and moldy boards of the building were only a façade: Poke & Prod Intergalactic was the birthplace of the most cutting-edge technology in the entire galaxy. It also happened to be the facility where Doctor Findalot conducted her research.

Long-tailed birds flashed blue overhead, swooping between broad-leafed trees like kids on a playground. Tropical flora draped the dark green foliage with splashes of orange, red, and yellow. A rich perfume saturated the air—tropical jasmine, maybe, with a hint of guano.

A second shuttle touched down a few feet away. The doors sprang open and a beagle jumped out.

I knew my new partner the moment I saw him. Who wouldn’t know Porthos the First? Shiny black and brown coat. Neatly trimmed nails. Nice curl to his tail. He
was
smaller than I expected, but his eyes and ears were constantly alert, his little beagle body poised to leap into action at any moment.

I was looking Porthos directly in his big brown hero eyes, intending to say something earth-shattering like “Wow,” when Admiral Tucker cleared his throat.

“Porthos—this here’s Captain Jonathan Archer.”

The beagle looked me over from head to toe—and sneezed.

I glanced down at my shoes and smiled, but my shoes didn’t smile back. Time for another spit polish.

The humid jungle temperature rose two notches, ignoring the fact that my shirt was already dripping wet. I waved away a curious fly and frowned at the sun peeking between the trees.

“Doctor Findalot’s assistant is supposed to be meeting us here,” Admiral Tucker said. “Something about important equipment.”

A funeral dirge echoed inside the hotel.

“Ah, here she comes.”

A shimmery haze warped the air in front of us as a soft female voice oozed from the speakers.
“Welcome to the R&D Lab Network, where we love to take your samples.”

“Did anyone say anything to you about samples?” I asked Porthos. He shook his ears.

The hazy air coalesced into a ravishing, dark-haired angel.

“Hey, Doc.” Admiral Tucker shook the angel’s hand and turned to me. “This here’s Captain Jonathan Archer, Porthos’s new partner.”

A whiff of musky perfume sent my head spinning. I forgot about Porthos. Forgot about the admiral. Forgot about everything but the woman in front of me. She looked me over from head to toe—and sneezed.

This time I didn’t bother looking at my shoes.

“I’m Cari Fetchalot,” the angel said. She stepped forward until we were nose-to-nose. Her deep brown eyes—like twin cesspools—drew me into a deep forbidden tunnel.

Too bad my shoes had lost their polish.

“I thought you might be needing this.” The air whistled as a very broad, very sharp-looking machete flashed by my ear.

I backed around Porthos. He backed around me. Admiral Tucker backed around both of us.

“If you have no idea why you are here, please remain standing. A doctor will be with you shortly to see if you have anything we want.”

Doctor Fetchalot flicked her wrist, flipping the machete into the air. Somehow she managed to catch the thing without slicing through her hand, and presented me with the butt end.

“I have something for you too.” She handed Porthos an orange package. A beefy fragrance filled the air, sending my stomach into hunger spasms.

“You didn’t.” Admiral Tucker glanced at the doctor in disbelief, then wrestled what was left of the package from Porthos’s sharp beagle teeth.

“You boys have a nice trip.” The smile on Doctor Fetchalot’s face lit the entire jungle. Then the air shimmered and she was gone.

Admiral Tucker groaned. I peered over his shoulder at the writing on the wrapper.

BEAGLE BURGERS
—
YOU NEED
’
EM
,
WE FEED
’
EM
. A double beagle burger with cheese.

“Nothing we can do about it now.” The admiral crumpled the wrapper into a tiny ball. “Guess you guys’d better get going. Don’t want you wasting any time.”

He shook out what looked like a handkerchief and handed it to Porthos.

“I know you’d rather be working alone,” the admiral said. “But the captain here’s a good man. You watch each other’s backs and come back in one piece with our missing doctor, you hear?”