Star Trek: The Next Generation: Exiles by Howard Weinstein

Author:Howard Weinstein
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science Fiction, Star Trek, Fiction
ISBN: 9780671705602
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1990-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

LEANING ON A lacquered black cane, Zeila hobbled through the vaulted lobby of the forum building, taking new pleasure from familiar tapestries and mosaics as she passed them. The day before, as she lay dazed under the rubble of the marketplace, she hadn’t been sure she’d ever see anything again. For the first time in her life, she’d been forced to face squarely the real possibility that she might die at the hands of her own people before she could complete her plan to save Alaj.

Had she been standing a few meters closer to the booby-trapped peddler’s cart, she would no longer be here to mull over such abstract concepts. Regardless, whether by dumb luck or cosmic plan, she’d survived the attempt on her life. Reducing circumstances to their basic components—as she preferred to do—a leader in her tenuous position had two choices: hide, or resume the march to wherever she’d been headed.

For Zeila, the choice was easy.

So she marched, as best she could, back to her office. And found a large obstacle blocking her chosen path.

Lef.

The burly intelligence deputy had staked out the doorway to her office like a soldier guarding a critical pass in the midst of battle. He did not look like someone who would easily yield.

“Honoress, what are you doing here?”

“I work here,” she said dryly, noticing several fresh scabs on his face where he’d been cut by the flying debris the day before. “What are you doing here? Don’t you work someplace else?”

“I knew you’d come in today.”

“Oh, and when did you figure that out?”

“The moment the doctor told you to stay off that leg for at least two days.”

“Well, Lef, I could do that if you’d let me go into my office where I could sit down.”

“Curister,” he scolded, “you were told to rest. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

Zeila sighed. “You’re right. I do feel weak. In fact . . . I feel very weak.”

Lef took a concerned step toward her.

“I feel like . . .” Zeila’s breathing grew shallow and she swayed. “I feel like . . . like I might faint.” She folded, and Lef darted forward to catch her before she hit the floor. With a strained grunt, he got her upright, propped her slender body against his chest, and fumbled at the old-fashioned door handle with his free hand. He managed to get it open, then clumsily lifted Zeila, nearly tripping over the cane still snagged on her wrist. He brought her inside and gently set her down on the deep cushions of her couch.

The moment he straightened up, her eyes opened and she flashed a mischievous grin, highlighting the tapered white scar on her chin. “That’s one way of getting you to let me into my own office. Did you have trouble picking me up because I’m getting fat, or because you were also hurt yesterday?”

He glared at her with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I’m not hurt.”

She rested her injured leg on a footstool. “The hell you aren’t.

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