Serpents in the Garden Page 19

  * * *

  After they had eaten, Kirk took a brief stroll to the upper edge of the pit, as high as the guards would allow. He scanned the buildings for signs of activity, for evidence of Klingons, as he always did. When he turned back, he met Nyran on the path and quickly discovered that it was no coincidence.

  Nyran peered through the gloom in every direction. His hands clenched and unclenched, and as he cleared his throat for the third time, Kirk realized he was nervous. “What is it, Nyran?” he asked.

  “I must . . . may I speak my true mind?”

  “Yes, of course. Always.”

  Nyran cleared his throat again, then the words spilled out in a flood. “James, you must not trust Keran.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Nyran looked all around again, as if to see who might be listening. “He means to betray Tyree,” he said.

  “Betray how?”

  “He told one of the guards this morning that he had information for her. Information he said might be useful. She didn’t care. But he might find another who will pay attention to him. And I don’t know what information he could have that would be useful to the Victors, except Tyree’s true name.”

  Kirk ran through his own interactions with the young man and satisfied himself that Keran didn’t know anything about his origins. Anyway, Apella was already aware of his identity.

  Which meant Nyran was probably correct. Tyree would be his best bargaining chip. “What did he want in exchange?” Kirk asked.

  “He didn’t say, but he told me he does not intend to die as a slave in this pit. I gathered he meant to trade information for his own freedom.”

  “And you’re sure about this?”

  “If you mean, am I only saying this because Keran is from Rocky Bluff and because I believe he once wanted Joslen and now might lust for my mother . . . the answer is no. Those would be reasons enough, perhaps. But Tyree is my chief, and the Hill People are my people, and it is with them that my loyalties lie.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Nyran. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Good,” Nyran said. “I can ask no more.”

  He headed back down the path, leaving Kirk alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know either young man well, though he admired the courage Nyran had demonstrated on more than one occasion. But he remembered Keran’s face, when he had rounded the curve and seen Rowland and Elanna locked in an embrace. If Nyran had actually heard Keran offering to trade information, that was significant. But he couldn’t discount the idea that Keran did, in fact, have a thing for Elanna. And that could easily rile a young man who had lost his father.

  Kirk would watch for signs of betrayal, but he had to keep an open mind to any possibility, including that Nyran might be trying to set Keran up. Every starship captain had to deal with tension in the ranks. He had to get the situation here settled, had to get out of this pit and in touch with the Captain Cook, and he had to convince the Klingons to abandon Neural before full-scale war broke out.

  That would be challenging enough, without trouble between two of his supposed allies and the looming threat of betrayal.

  * * *

  Later that night, Kirk sat with Rowland and Tyree in their sleeping area. The fires had died to smoldering embers and the night was cool; winter was coming to Neural, the Freeholder chief had said, and Kirk was beginning to believe him.

  Kirk took a position nearest the pathway, so he could see if Keran came within earshot as they spoke. The conversation began with casual chatter about their workdays—Kirk hauling, Tyree shoveling, and Rowland carting containers of raw ore up to the smelter from the recesses of the pit. It shifted quickly to more pressing concerns.

  “If we can’t do something in a hurry, Tyree,” Kirk said, “there’s going to be war.”

  “We are already at war. Freeholders and Victors are constantly at one another’s throats.”

  Kirk nodded. “I’m talking about something of greater proportions—and much greater destructive capability. The Klingons—the aliens working with the Victors, taking the leutrinium processed here—are a vicious, aggressive race bent on expanding their empire.” He indicated himself and Rowland. “Our people are not warlike, but we are powerful.”

  “This war?” Tyree said. “It will ravage our homes, our villages?”

  “It might,” Kirk said. “Or it might take place entirely among the stars, where you won’t see it. But it would affect you just the same.”

  “What would be the reason for this war?”

  Kirk considered how to phrase his answer without giving away too much. “The Klingons made a promise,” he said after a while. “They would leave worlds like yours alone. We agreed to the same thing.” He paused, took a drink of water. “I came back here because I wondered if I had made a mistake when I gave you those flintlocks.”

  “We needed them! I did not want to admit it. You know, James, that I never wanted to fight, to kill. But the Villagers would have killed us all, or enslaved us. The weapons you gave us kept us alive long enough to join with other bands, to build defenses. They were our only chance for survival.”

  “I know that now. I no longer think providing them was a mistake. The Klingons would have made sure that the Victors were better armed than you, no matter what. Knowing that, if by giving you those weapons I helped you defend yourselves, then it was the right thing to do. If I made a mistake, it was in expecting my people to adequately investigate the Klingon presence here. They had a light footprint at the time. They still do, but heavier than it was. Chances are whoever was tasked with checking out my report simply asked the Klingons—and, to be fair, the agreement was very new then, and everybody was walking on eggshells—”

  “Why?” Tyree interrupted.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would they walk on eggshells?”

  Kirk and Rowland chuckled. “It’s just an expression,” Kirk explained. “They were very cautious about how they dealt with the Klingons, so as not to upset the apple ca—never mind. Not to make any trouble. I believe that the Klingons lied, and my people believed them.” He couldn’t explain that he had been busy exploring the galaxy, attending to crises on dozens of other worlds, even facing down Klingons over different matters. Heading up diplomatic efforts with the Klingons, over Neural or anything else, hadn’t been one of his responsibilities. Still, he could have followed up, had a conversation with somebody at Command. The Klingons had taken advantage of perceived Federation disinterest, and the situation here—entire populations put to work as slaves to feed the hungry maw of the Klingon Empire—was the result.

  Tyree, squatting on the ground, dug a finger into the dirt. “You said war will come if we do not do something. If through this war we could kill every last Victor, then I would beg you to let it happen. But what can we do? We are prisoners. Slaves. How can we affect anything?”

  “I’m not sure we can, Tyree. But we might have a chance.”

  “What are you thinkin’, Admiral?” Rowland asked.

  “The Klingons can now claim that they are invited guests of the Victors and that the Victors are the dominant society on Neural. That may be true. But to invite the kind of presence the Klingons have here, the invitation would need to be universal, or nearly so. One aggressively dominant group can’t decide, on its own, to hand their world over to an occupying force. Still, the Klingons would use that defense, and the more vigorously they’re told to leave, the more they’d resist. Klingons are nothing if not contrary.”

  “Commanding them to leave would make them want to stay?” Tyree asked.

  “Exactly. But if we could remove their excuse—their justification—they might be more willing.”

  Rowland shifted his position on the hard ground, so he was sitting with his legs crossed, knees outspread. He looked like a student awaiting words of wisdom from a great scholar. “How do you mean, sir?”

  “Victory and Freehold together don’t account for everyone on the planet, but they make up the v
ast majority. Certainly they’re the ones with the greatest level of civilization. The remaining tribes are scattered across the planet, and essentially powerless. That doesn’t mean their opinion has no value. If the Victor . . . sponsorship, for lack of a better word . . . were taken away, the Klingons would have a much harder time making the case that they were wanted here. If the two largest groups on the planet were united in opposition to a Klingon presence, then the—” Kirk didn’t want to name the Organians in front of Tyree. “—those who created the agreement in the first place would be driven to enforce it. And they have means to do so that even my people don’t.”

  “You believe that the Victors would join with us in opposing these Klingons?” Tyree asked.

  “It’s a stretch, I know,” Kirk said. “But it might be our best shot.”

  “How? The Klingons give them weapons. Power.”

  “That,” Kirk replied, “is something I haven’t figured out yet.”

  Twenty-Five

  For the next several days, Kirk hauled leutrinium rods to Klingon freighters, through rain that fell from morning until well after nightfall. Each day was cooler than the last, and after the sun’s minimal warmth had faded, the damp nights grew bitterly cold. Kirk and Rowland had spent what spare moments they had looking for a way out of the pit, testing defenses, sometimes taking beatings for their efforts. At every possible opportunity, Kirk passed by the mine headquarters buildings, looking for Apella.

  This morning, he knew, was more momentous than most. Kirk was aware that this was the day the Captain Cook would come back and would only reach communicators buried next to a tree. Kirk was heading up toward the smelter in the morning, and he saw Apella talking to a couple of other Victors. He looked like he was issuing orders for the day. When he saw Kirk, he made eye contact, and Kirk started toward Apella.

  The guard accompanying Kirk and a few other laborers to the smelter shouted after him, but Apella dismissed the man’s concerns. “Let him be,” he said. “I’ll personally have him delivered to his duty station.”

  The guard grumbled, as did a few of the other workers, Kirk noted. He wasn’t surprised—when everybody was oppressed, anything that smacked of preferential treatment for one was regarded with suspicion and resentment. Ordinarily Kirk would have refused any special privileges. But these were not ordinary times, and the task ahead of him was a crucial one.

  “Good morning, Kirk,” Apella said as the admiral neared him. “Are you enjoying our weather?”

  Kirk glanced skyward. The clouds were thick and dark, and a steady drizzle had been falling since before dawn. “I’ve seen better.”

  “You are nonetheless comfortable, I take it?”

  “I’m sure our comfort is far down your list of priorities, Apella.”

  The man’s thick brush of a mustache twitched. It might have been a smile. “True, Kirk. Productivity is my top priority.”

  “Got to get that ore processed for your Klingon masters, right?”

  “That is not the word I would use. But yes, getting the ore processed is why you are all here.”

  “Master is the word I’d use, Apella. We may be your slaves, but you’re slaves to the Klingons.”

  Apella laughed, but Kirk didn’t hear any humor in it. “I have wealth, I have power.”

  “Power over what, exactly? Us? Are you free to walk away from your responsibilities, if you want to? Are you free to refuse the Klingons their ore? To refuse them anything?”

  “Why would I want to?”

  “To demonstrate that you’re a free man. What have they promised you, Apella? Why do you do their bidding?”

  A scowl came over the Victor’s face, and Kirk knew he had touched a nerve. “What, Apella? Did they promise that you would rule over Victory? Maybe you do, but Victory is devoted to one end—satisfying their need for leutrinium. That still makes you their servant.”

  “Not just Victory, Kirk. My fist—”

  “Your fist does what? Rules over the rest of Neural? It doesn’t reach Freehold. There are other peoples, other tribes, that you don’t have dominion over.” There was a faraway look in Apella’s eyes, and Kirk made an intuitive leap. “Is that what you were promised? That you’d rule not just this city, but the entire planet? Is that why you’re letting them have everything they want?”

  Apella’s jaw worked, but no sound issued from his mouth. Kirk laughed. “And you fell for it. That’s the oldest one in the book, Apella. I guess there really is always a sucker born every minute.”

  “I do not like your implication, Kirk.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Apella. I’m coming right out and saying it. You’re a sucker. With your help, the Klingons are stripping your world of a resource that is valuable to them—and therefore, presumably, to other races, other planets, or even right here on Neural. With a resource like that, you could trade for whatever you might need. Instead, you’re just handing it over to the Klingons, and in return, they’re telling you what to do and how to do it. Promising you power that they’re not delivering. When they’ve taken everything they can get, they’ll move on to someplace else, leaving you with nothing but perpetual war and hatred. Doesn’t seem like a very good deal to me. Maybe it’s time to renegotiate.”

  As Kirk spoke, Apella’s face darkened, and a vein on his forehead started to pulse like a big, dark worm. “You have work to do, Kirk. Better you pay attention to that than to the affairs of your betters.”

  “If I run across any betters, I’ll keep that in mind,” Kirk said. “In the meantime, you might want to give some serious thought to what I said. You could do much better than you’re doing now.”

  Apella summoned a guard and told him to escort Kirk to the smelter. “Just because he reports there late does not mean his quota is any less. Tell his supervisors there that it is my wish that his quota be increased by two loads.”

  “Yes, Apella,” the guard said. He nudged Kirk in the ribs with the barrel of his rifle. It was all Kirk could do to not snatch the weapon away from him, which he easily could have. But a small act of rebellion now might make a more significant one later more complicated. For the sake of his mission, Kirk swallowed his pride and let himself be herded to the smelter.

  * * *

  Apella was still pondering Kirk’s words when Krell stormed into his office. “You need to step up production,” the Klingon said, without preamble.

  “You told me just days ago that you were happy with our output,” Apella replied. “I told you we could produce more, if you supplied better weapons and tools. We could take Freehold itself and put everyone there to work.”

  “You will get what you want, perhaps, if you increase production,” Krell said. “Increase first, reward later.”

  “But . . . how are we to—”

  “How is your concern, not mine, Apella. I have told you what I require. I will not answer any more questions.”

  “But, honored Krell, to do that I need more workers.”

  “Then find them. Or work the ones you have harder. Or both. The empire needs leutrinium. You supply it, or we find someone who will.”

  Apella was at a loss. He had not given any thought to increasing production, since Krell had so recently—and forcefully—turned down his offer to do just that. Instead, he had called back the slaver parties, intending to let the population of potential workers grow unimpeded while he maintained current levels. “May I at least ask—”

  “You may ask nothing,” Krell insisted. “You may only do.”

  With that, he stormed out of the office, leaving Apella sitting at his desk with a dumbfounded look on his face. What could have prompted that? he wondered. Was there something going on with the Klingon Empire that had increased their demand for leutrinium? Or was Krell simply changing his mind for no reason other than to torment him?

  Or was Kirk right, and Krell was just using him to get his leutrinium without ever meaning to elevate his status beyond governor of Victory? Which was, he thought, not worthles
s in itself. But he had been promised so much more.

  If he refused Krell’s demand, the Klingon could easily kill him and appoint someone more agreeable in his place. Which meant Apella was stuck. He had no choice but to increase production—somehow—or face Klingon wrath.

  He heard footsteps outside, and then a quick rapping at his door. Not Krell, then—he had stopped knocking long ago. “Enter!” he called, relieved that it wasn’t Krell with some other impossible demand.

  A pair of guards came through the door holding between them a Freeholder Apella didn’t know. He was a young man, although not so young he didn’t have a forehead gem. “Yes?” Apella asked. “I am very busy today.”

  “Our apologies, Governor,” one of the guards said. “This man claims he has important information for you. About one of the slaves.”

  Apella took a closer look at the Freeholder. He had broad shoulders and strong arms and was likely a good hand with a shovel or pick. His face was plain and did not hint at guile or trickery. “What is it?” Apella demanded, aware that he was taking the same tone Krell had with him, just minutes before. “I’m a busy man.”

  “May we speak in private?” the slave asked, indicating his keepers with the slightest shifting of his eyes, back and forth.

  “No, we may not. Whatever you have to say, say it now.”

  The young man let out a sigh. “Very well. One of the slaves, captured with me, is Tyree. Chief of all—”

  “I know who Tyree is!” Apella cried. He turned his gaze to the senior of the guards. “You had Tyree in the pit and didn’t tell me?”

  “I knew nothing of it!” the older one said. “He would speak only to you.”

  “I trust I will be compensated for this information,” the Freeholder said.

  “Compensated in what way?”

  “My freedom?”

  “How about your life?”

  “My—”

  “The Freeholders would kill you for betraying their chief. I could kill you now, for any reason or none at all. But because you pleased me, I will spare you.”

  “But . . . I could be of great service to you, Governor.”