06 - TNG 010 - A Call to Darkness by Star Trek

Author:Star Trek
Language: deu
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2020-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

IT WAS ON his way home from work, two days after the incident in the tavern, that Dan’nor saw his father again. One moment, he was walking alone; the next, Trien’nor was walking beside him.

“Come,” said the older man, looking straight ahead. “We’ll walk down to the wharf. You know where it is?”

“Yes.” Dan’nor watched his father’s face, more accessible now even in the flat, sunset light than it had been in the tavern’s back room. It had been a long time since he’d seen Trien’nor, but the man showed no signs of having aged. Pure First Caste blood had its advantages.

However, there was something different about him. Something that had been missing in the simple, unambitious factory clerk who had raised him—the man who’d spent so much time looking out the window with that sad little smile on his face.

He was almost . . . Military . Was that it? Yes. For the first time, Dan’nor could picture his father in a uniform—a young, proud First Caster with a shining future.

Was there a connection between this and Trien’nor’s skulking in the shadows? Dan’nor shivered when he remem bered the faces around that room, and the way his father’s seemed to fit among them.

“You,ve changed,” he said, the words coming out of their own volition.

Trien’nor smiled a thin smile but didn’t respond otherwise. Their heels made a soft scraping sound on the pavement.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked. “What were you doing with those men?”

Again, no answer.

Dan’nor decided to try another tack. “How did you find me?”

Trien’nor shrugged. “You can probably answer that for yourself.” A pause. “I have ways of finding things out.”

It was almost more evasive than no answer at all.

As they got closer to the river, the breeze picked up. It swept Trien’nor’s hair back—the red hair of an aristocrat. Dan’nor had inherited the color of it but not its agelessness; his was just beginning to show threads of silver.

“So,” said the older man, at last turning to his son. “It seems you are no longer in the Military.” The words were gentle, unoffensive. However, his eyes—pale gold like those of his forebears—seemed to probe where the words could not.

“I was . . . ousted ,” said Dan’nor. Even now, it wasn’t easy to say the word. “My own fault, I’m afraid.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

Dan’nor told him, leaving out only the most insignificant details. When he had finished, he somehow felt better about it. It still hurt, but the pain no longer had an edge to it.

“You were unlucky,” said Trien’nor, “that’s all. No less efficient, no less cautious than anyone else would have been in the same position. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The Military had never been a topic of discussion between them. What little he knew of Trien’nor’s aborted career he had learned from his mother.

And yet, here they were—discussing Military matters. It felt strange—but no stranger than the rest of this conversation.

They came to the bottom of the hill and the river narrowed to a dark blue violet band—a reflection of the deepening sky.

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