Текст книги "New Frontier Omnibus (Books 1-4: "House of Cards", "Into the Void", "The Two Front War", "End Game")"

Автор книги: Peter David

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Her shoulders started to tremble, and her discipline began to crack. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Selar went to her then, tried to put a hand out, but Soleta shoved it away. Realizing the violence inherent in her move, she quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand as she said urgently, "I'm sorry, I—"

But Selar waved dismissively. "No apology necessary. Considering the circumstances . . ."

"After my encounter with my . . . with the Romulan . . . I informed Starfleet that there was an emergency of a personal nature which required my immediate attention. I had to speak to my parents in person. This was not something that could be dealt with over subspace. I returned home, returned to Vulcan, which was where my parents had relocated to in the interim. I confronted them and they . . . admitted to the true nature of my parentage. They even pointed out that they had never lied to me . . . and they had not, you know. What child, living in a normal environment, thinks to ask her father whether he is truly her father? No lie was required, for the question had never been posed. They told me that it should make no difference. That it did not diminish me, or make me less of a person than I was." Slowly she shook her head. "No difference," she repeated in clear disbelief, and then she said it again, her voice barely above a whisper, "No difference."

Selar waited. When Soleta said nothing after a time, Selar asked gently, "Did you return to Starfleet?"

"Not immediately. I could not. I felt . . . unworthy. Despite my parents' urging, I felt I was less than the woman I was. It affected the way I conducted myself, deported myself. The way I dressed, the way I spoke . . . even to this day. Habits that I'd learned, training I had had . . . it all seemed a sham to me, somehow. Things learned by another person who was not me, but had only pretended to be me. I extended my leave of absence, and I roamed. Roamed for so long that eventually Starfleet got word to me that if I did not return, I would simply be dropped from the service. They put me in a position where I was forced to decide what to do with my life."

"Obviously you decided to return to Starfleet."

"Obviously, yes, considering that I am sitting here in a uniform. But it was not, to me, an obvious decision to make."

"What prompted you to make it, then?"

"It was my mother's dying wish."

Selar lowered her eyes. "I am . . . sorry . . . for your loss. She must have been quite young."

"All too young. Vulcans have a long life span under ideal circumstances, but that is no guarantee."

"I know that, I assure you," Selar said. Had Soleta been less self-involved, she would have detected the slight ruefulness in Selar's tone, but she did not.

Instead Soleta found herself staring at the Memory lamp which Selar had burning in her cabin. "I asked to be assigned as a teacher upon my return, and considering my lengthy departure, Starfleet saw no reason to deny my request. I was more comfortable with that situation than with the thought of continuing to wander the galaxy. However, circumstances arose so that my presence was required here."

"And you never told Starfleet of what you had learned, about your true parentage."

"No. Technically, it is withholding information. I imagine that they could make matters difficult for me, were they to learn of it. But . . . in the grand tradition of my family . . . they did not ask, and so I have had no need to lie. Convenient, is it not?"

"Very."

Soleta said nothing for a time, appearing to consider something. Finally Selar told her, "For what it is worth, Soleta . . . I do not consider you 'impure,' as the humans might say. A tortured soul, yes. But impure? No. I consider you a person of conscience and integrity. No matter what happens in the future of this vessel, I will always consider it an honor to serve with you."

"Thank you. I appreciate that. Truly, I do. And in your saying that, you've enabled me to make up my mind about something." She clapped her hands briskly and said, "Clear your mind."

"What?"

Soleta waggled her fingers and indicated that Selar should bring herself closer. "If you still desire that I probe your mind . . . that I meld with you . . . I will do so. After your sitting here patiently and listening to my life's story . . ."

"I do not wish your help out of some misplaced sense of gratitude," Selar told her.

Soleta looked at her skeptically. "Pardon me, but as I recall, a short time ago you were endeavoring to force me into aiding you through a bindingyou are concerned about the ethics involved in my helping you?"

"Matters are different now. You were," and clearly she hated to admit it, "you were correct before. I was . . . 'desperate,' if we must discuss the situation in human terms. I did not wish to depend on such relationships as friendship in order to accomplish what I felt needed to be done. But now that you have unburdened yourself . . ."

"You feel closer to me?"

"Not particularly, no. I simply feel that you have more problems than I do, and it is probably unjust to burden you with mine."

This once again prompted Soleta, in a most shocking manner, to laugh out loud. It was not something she had great experience in doing. It was a quick, awkward sound, closer to a seal bark than an actual laugh. "Your consideration is duly noted," she told her. "But I tell you honestly now, Doctor, that if you are comfortable with the situation—knowing about me what you now know—then I will assist you in your self-examination. If I say to you that it is the least I can do, I ask that you accept that in the spirit in which it's given."

Selar nodded briefly. "Very well."

She drew a chair over to the couch and sat down, facing Soleta. She cleared her thoughts, her breathing slow and steady, relaxing into the state of mind that would most facilitate the meld. Soleta did likewise, almost with a sense of relief.

Soleta did not have a tremendous amount of experience in the technique of the mind-meld, but she was certain that Selar's experience and superior training would more than make up for whatever Soleta might herself lack. Slow, methodical, unhurried, she waited until she sensed that her breathing was in complete rhythm with Selar's. Then, gently, she reached out, touching her fingers to Selar's temples.

"Our minds are merging, Selar," she said.

Their minds, their thoughts, their personas drew closer and closer to one another. The tendrils of their consciousness reached toward each other, gently probing at first . . .

. . . and then . . . contact was made . . .

. . . drawing closer still, and their thoughts began to overlap, and it was becoming hard to determine where one left off and the other began . . .

. . . and Soleta had a sense of herself, she did not lose it, it was still there, still vibrant and alive, but she had a sense of Selar as well, she was Selar, and Selar saw herself through the view of Soleta, outside her own consciousness, looking inward . . .

. . . and Selar felt uncertain and fearful, and she wasn't sure whether the insecurities rose from herself as Soleta and the knowledge of her true lineage or from herself and her concerns over her own state of mind, and she fought past it . . .

. . . and Soleta saw images flashing past her, images that were herself but not herself, images and sensations and experiences that were as real for her as they could possibly be, except none of them, absolutely none of them, had ever happened to her . . . and she began to scrutinize herself with an expertise that she had never before possessed, except it was not herself that she was scrutinizing, and yet it was, and it was with a facility that she had never had, except she did . . .

. . . and Selar felt herself slipping deeply into her own consciousness, gliding into Soleta's mind and using it as an ancient deep-sea explorer would use a bathysphere. Waves of her own thoughts and unconsciousness rippled around her as she descended further and further, moving through her psyche, and she felt waves of light pulsing around her. No, not light . . . life, her life, spread all around about her . . .

. . . and Soleta felt pain, waves of pain, and she heard voices crying out, and one of them was her own, her very own voice, and one of them was not, it was a male, it was someone she had never met in her life, and his name was Voltak, and she knew him with greater intimacy than she had ever known herself, and she could feel him moving within her . . .

. . . and Selar felt him slipping away, and Soleta called out his name, and Selar felt his loss ripping at her, and then Soleta was suddenly yanked downward, further downward, left looking upward at Voltak in the way that a swimmer trapped beneath a frozen lake sees the face of someone above, on the ice, staring down at them . . .

. . . and Selar's mind was left naked and exposed, Soleta probing with Selar's expertise, burrowing down to the core of her psychic makeup, seeking, searching, and buffeted with wave upon wave of heat, red heat that washed over her in delicious waves of agony that she could not ignore, that swept into every pore of her skin, enveloping her, caressing her, and she moaned for the exquisite torment of it all . . .

. . . and she felt something calling her, driving her, and it was voices, not just hers, not just Soleta's and Selar's, not just Voltak's, but Vulcans, hundreds, thousands, millions of them, driving her toward the heat, toward the red waves, as if they were trying to pound her into an inferno shore, and she welcomed it, she welcomed the heat and the waves, she could not, would not turn away from it, she embraced it, wanted it, wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything, and her breath was coming in short gasps, their minds slamming together . . .

My God. . .

The separation was violent. Soleta yanked away from her, and Selar tumbled backward, the chair overturning and spilling her onto her back. Soleta fell over, rolled off the couch and onto the floor. She lay there panting, gasping, her fingers still spasming as sensations shook her body. Sweat was dripping off her forehead, spattering onto the floor. With supreme effort she managed to look over at Selar, who didn't appear to be in much better shape. Selar was lying on her back, her arms outstretched, sucking in air gratefully, as if she had forgotten to breathe for however long they had been joined. It clearly took tremendous effort but slowly Selar turned her head and managed to look at Soleta. Soleta, for her part, felt embarrassed, like a voyeur, even though it had been Selar who had asked for the probe.

Selar was trying to mouth a word. Soleta propped herself up on one elbow and angled herself closer to Selar, just close enough to hear her say it:

"Impossible" was the low whisper. Selar had now actually managed to muster enough strength to shake her head, and again she murmured, " Impossible."

"Apparently . . . not." Soleta was surprised, even impressed, with the calm in her voice. Ever since learning the truth of her background, stoicism had not been something that she had always been able to maintain. Here, though, she was clearly capable of rising to the occasion. "Apparently it's not impossible at all."

"But it was . . . it was barely two years ago . . . I . . . I went through it . . . not time . . . not for years, it is not time . . ."

"Perhaps it's because of the way that it ended the first time," Soleta said reasonably. "The urge was never truly satisfied, but because you were mindmelded at the time . . . it sent you into a sort of psychic shock . . . numbed you . . . but it's finally worn off . . ."

"You . . . you do not know . . . what you are saying . . ." Selar's face had gone dead white.

"Maybe not," agreed Soleta. "Maybe I don't know what I'm saying at all. Maybe I'm completely crazy . . . except I know what I saw, Selar. I know what I felt and experienced. Whether you like it or not, whether you want to admit it or not . . . what you're going through right now is the first stages of Pon farr.Your bad experience the first time threw your system off, but now the mating frenzy is back with a vengeance. And I have absolutely no idea what you're going to do about it."

And Selar had the sick feeling that, somewhere in the ship, Burgoyne was sniffing the air and grinning. And she wasn't far wrong.

VII.

THROUGH THE CORRIDORSof the Kayven Ryin,Si Cwan moved with the utmost care, flexing his arm to work out the kinks in his shoulder.

He was alone.

He had given Zak Kebron the slip, for Kebron had quickly made it clear he had no intention of letting Cwan handle matters the way he wanted to. The idea of not using any of the hand weapons, for starters, was intolerable to Kebron. In his arrogance—at least, arrogance the way Si Cwan saw it—Kebron felt that he himself did not have to depend on weapons. But he was of the forceful opinion that if Si Cwan had the opportunity to use a weapon on Zoran, he should take it. That nothing was going to be accomplished by treating the situation as a grudge match.

But this had gone far beyond grudges. Si Cwan knew, beyond any question, that he was going to kill Zoran. He simply had to. Honor would not allow anything less. And he had to do it with his bare hands. This was not a question of honor allowing anything less, but rather his simple determination to make Zoran's punishment as painful as possible.

So Si Cwan had, moving quickly, left the Brikar behind. He'd been subtle about it; give him some credit. He'd darted down a corridor at a faster clip than the Brikar could maintain, and then run off down a connector, slid through a maintenance tube, and next thing he knew, he was on his own. And if he should live long enough to be in a position where he need make excuses, he could always simply claim that they had become accidentally separated from one another. Accidents, after all, did happen.

He heard a noise.

It was definitely not Zak Kebron. He already knew that rock-steady footfall. No, it was quick, extremely light-footed. He would almost have thought it was the movement of a small animal, so fast and nearly insubstantial was it. But Si Cwan wasn't fooled, not for a moment.

He crouched down and moved like a giant spider, arms and legs operating in perfect synchronization. He presented as minimal a target as possible, should it come to that.

He moved past one room, the door to which was closed, and from within he thought he heard something. A quick footfall, or perhaps something on a table within that was slightly jolted and sent skidding. Something. He paused outside the door, crouching to one side, trying to determine whether or not he should burst into the room. It could very well be that someone was waiting for him to do precisely that, and had a vicious weapon aimed squarely at the door.

Or perhaps they had anticipated that he would think entry through the door was a trap . . . and were instead aimed at the ceiling, or at a vent, hoping that he would make his entry that way.

He still had the plasma blaster slung across his shoulders, and practicality began to rear its ugly head. He still had every reason to want to throttle Zoran . . . but by the same token, he had a few more reasons to want to continue to live.

Well . . . perhaps using the plasma blaster wouldn't be such a crime after all, as long as the killing blow was struck by hand. That was, after all, the important thing.

He unslung the blaster, aimed it squarely at the door, and fired. At such close range, the plasma blast plowed through the door like acid through paper, and Si Cwan leaped headlong through the door, shoulder rolled and came up to face . . .

. . . nothing.

He was inside a laboratory, and there was no evidence of anyone else there. There was a beaker rolling across a table. Other than that, nothing.

He muttered a curse as he slung the plasma blaster over his back. The noise of the plasma blaster would undoubtedly attract Zoran or his compatriots there.

Orelse Kebron himself, which would leave Si Cwan with explaining to do and an undesired ally at his back. Si Cwan felt that if there was one thing he did not need, it was someone watching out for him.

He thought that up until the moment that the ceiling crashed in on him.

It caught him completely by surprise as an overhead grating slammed down onto him, driving him to his knees. A split second later, Zoran dropped down from his hiding place overhead inside one of the engineering service ducts, and landed squarely on Si Cwan's back.

He drove a vicious blow to the base of Si Cwan's neck, to the hard cluster of muscles situated there, and by all rights it should have paralyzed Si Cwan from the neck down for approximately five minutes. In the short term, it did the job. Si Cwan thudded to the ground, unable to feel anything in the rest of his body. The fall spilled Zoran to the floor as well, but Zoran rolled away and came quickly to his feet. Si Cwan struggled furiously, trying to regain command over his movements, as a sneering Zoran approached him.

'Too easy. Much too easy," he said.

The humans had a phrase for it: mind over matter. The mind belonged to Cwan, and the matter was– in this instance—his own body. He refused to acknowledge the physical reality that he was helpless. He would not allow himself to die helplessly in a paralyzed condition. It simply could not, would not be done. His brain sent commands to the rest of his body to respond, sending synapses roaring through him like photon torpedoes.

Against all odds, against anything that Zoran would have deemed possible, Si Cwan's legs slammed upward. They did not do so with all the force that they usually possessed. But it was sufficient as his legs scissored around Zoran's at the knees. Before Zoran could move, Si Cwan forced himself to twist at the waist. He felt sluggish, torpid, but slow for Si Cwan was still lightning for most anyone else. The move was enough to collapse Zoran's leg, and Zoran went down to find himself on the floor, face-to-face with the enraged Si Cwan.

Si Cwan rolled over, half leaping and half lunging toward Zoran. He landed squarely on his opponent, grabbed him firmly by the ears, yanked upward and then down, slamming Zoran's head onto the grated floor. Zoran's head rang from the impact, and with a roar and an effort fueled by the explosion of pain behind his eyes, Zoran shoved Si Cwan off himself. Si Cwan rolled over toward a table, saw an opportunity, and quickly upended the table, sending it tumbling toward Zoran. Zoran barely managed to scramble out of the way, and by the time he was on his feet, so was Si Cwan.

They stood there for a moment, catching their respective breaths, their chests heaving, their hatred almost palpable.

"It's been ages, Si Cwan," snarled Zoran.

"Where are the other two? Rojam and Juif, they must be nearby."

"You don't think I'd give away our strategic position, do you?" In point of fact, they were nowhere nearby. The confrontation was strictly between Zoran and Si Cwan, which was how Zoran had wanted it.

Yet Si Cwan smiled with thinly veiled contempt and said, "Did you embark on this stupidity on your own? Or, even better . . . did they accompany you on this endeavor and then take the opportunity to abandon you? Is that it? Have your cheerfully domineering ways managed to grate on them after all these years? That would not surprise me. No, not in the least."

Rallying himself, Zoran said, "Tell me, Si Cwan, what it is like knowing that you are a complete and total failure?"

Si Cwan did not even deign to answer the question. He merely tossed a disdainful look at him.

"I see you have a weapon on your back," continued Zoran. "And yet you would not use it."

"I've known you too long, Zoran. I knew that you would desire to settle this hand-to-hand, between the two of us. In many ways, you're sadly predictable."

"In many ways, so are you. The difference between us is, I make use of that predictability . . . and you don't."

And Zoran snapped his arm forward in what seemed an oddly casual gesture, as if he were endeavoring to shake hands.

A short blade hurtled out from his sleeve, thudding deeply into Si Cwan's already injured upper shoulder. Si Cwan let out an angry roar and tried to pull it out, but the tip was barbed and it wasn't going to be easy to remove. Nor was Zoran giving him the time, for Zoran vaulted the distance between the two of them, grabbed the blade by the handle, and twisted it. Pain screamed through Si Cwan, and he howled in fury.

"Enjoying your vengeance, Si Cwan?" asked Zoran as he wrenched the dagger around in place. Blood fountained from the gaping wound in Si Cwan.

But in order to handle the dagger, Zoran had had to get close in to Si Cwan, giving him opportunity to strike back. The base of Si Cwan's hand slammed into the bridge of Zoran's nose, and the crack—like a ricochet—sounded in the room. The world hazed red to Zoran, and suddenly he felt Si Cwan's hands at his throat. Cwan's thumbs dug in and upward, seeking out the choke hold, cutting off Zoran's air.

"I don't care what happens to me," Si Cwan said hoarsely, his voice a growl, "and I don't care how I die, as long as you die first."

Zoran drove a knee up into Si Cwan's gut. Si Cwan grunted, ignoring the pain, beyond its ability to influence him. He was focused on one goal: choking the life from Zoran. His hands were locked securely on, all his strength dedicated to the effort. The rest of the world seemed to evaporate around him. There was just Zoran, and him, and the feel of Zoran's pulse beneath his fingers which Si Cwan was determined to extinguish.

He started to force Zoran down, down to his knees, and Zoran cried out in pain and fear. And in desperation, Zoran managed to slam his head forward against the hilt of the dagger, driving it in even deeper.

Si Cwan had no choice. The knife struck a muscle which, as a reflex, caused Si Cwan's hands to flex open just for a moment. It was all Zoran needed as he tore himself away, literally throwing his body the distance of the lab. He crashed to the floor just inside the door.

Dark liquid covered the entire front of Si Cwan's tunic, but he didn't care. Like an unswerving juggernaut, he lurched toward Zoran, fingers still opening and closing spasmodically as if he still had Zoran's throat between them. As if he was positive that it would only be a matter of moments before he once again had Zoran's life in his hands.

There was much that Zoran had fancied about Si Cwan, for it had been several years since he had actually set eyes on him. There was much that he had managed to convince himself of. Once upon a time, he had spent days hunting by Si Cwan's side. He had wrestled with him, sparred with him, confided in him, given Si Cwan his confidence and received it in return. For the purpose of rationalizing the split that had occurred between them, Zoran had indulged in that habit which most sentient beings engaged in when separating from old friends: demonizing. Zoran had told so many people that Si Cwan was a fake, a fraud, a lazy bastard who was more lucky than skilled, and of whom everyone had been afraid because of his station in life, that Zoran had more or less convinced himself of that as well.

So it was very disturbing for Zoran to find himself in combat with Si Cwan now and come to the stark realization that his memory had played tricks on him. He had convinced himself that, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, he could easily handle Si Cwan.

Now he realized that, at the very least, he could handle Si Cwan but with extreme difficulty. Extreme difficulty meant that a good deal of time was going to be occupied accomplishing it. And time was something he did not have in abundance.

He tapped the comm-link unit on his wrist even as he backpedaled into the corridor. "All right, enough! Beam me out!"

That was when Zoran felt the ground starting to tremble beneath him. He glanced off to his right and saw what appeared to be a walking landmass advancing on him. Zak Kebron charged forward, arms pumping.

Then Zoran heard a defiant war cry and his attention was yanked back to Si Cwan. Cwan had actually ripped the barbed dagger from his shoulder, which should have been impossible. At the very least, any normal person would have collapsed in agony by that point. But if there was any doubt in Zoran's mind that Si Cwan was far from normal, it would certainly have been settled by now.

The dagger was dripping with Si Cwan's blood. He could not have cared less. He tossed it aside, sending it clattering across the floor leaving a trail of red behind him. And then he lurched forward toward Zoran.

One hand was outstretched, his palm covered with thick, dark fluids; his own.

He didn't care.

He had a weapon still strapped to his back.

He didn't care.

He was injured, wounded, every muscle in his body aching, and weak from blood loss. And Si Cwan didn't care.

The only thing he cared about was getting his hands on Zoran. Which, ultimately, he was unable to do.

A sound filled the immediate area. Although it was of a different timbre than the noise produced by a regulation Starfleet transporter, nonetheless it was easily identifiable as a matter transporter sound.

" No!"howled Si Cwan in outrage, and in desperation he leaped at Zoran. His hope was that if he managed to leap into range of the transport effect in time, he would be brought along to wherever it was that Zoran was heading. But he was too late. Zoran's form became just insubstantial enough for Si Cwan to fall right through it. He hit the metal grating of the floor as Zoran—along with Si Cwan's chances for revenge—disappeared.

"Get back here, you bastard!" shouted Si Cwan, slamming his fists on the floor in frustration.

"I doubt he'll hear you," observed Kebron, who had chugged to a halt just short of running Si Cwan over.

Then the comm unit that Si Cwan had taken off of the fallen Thallonian beeped. There was no question in his mind who it was who was endeavoring to get in touch with him. He activated it and said angrily, "I call you coward, Zoran!"

"I call you dead, Si Cwan," Zoran replied with just a touch of regret. "But if you wish to discuss it further, I suggest you adjourn to a location two decks below you, aft section." And he clicked off.

Without hesitation, Si Cwan pivoted and started off in the direction that Zoran had indicated, but he was brought to an abrupt halt by Kebron, who had gotten a firm grip on his arm. "No you don't. Not again."

"I'm not going to let him get away!"

"You already did. If you mean you that's up for debate."

"Kebron, let go of me!" he said with angry imperiousness. And then, in a tone that was a bit more pleading, he added, "Please."

"We go together. On your honor. Say it."

Si Cwan gritted his teeth and nodded reluctantly. "Together. But you will not interfere in the outcome. On your honor. Say it. Say you will do nothing to interfere in the outcome of the battle between Zoran and myself."

"If you insist. On my honor, I will not interfere in the outcome of the battle."

"Very well. Let's go." And he charged off, but slowly enough that Kebron could keep up.

Zoran stared out at the depths of space which beckoned to them. Rojam and Juif stood on either side of him, fidgeting nervously, staring at the darkened navigation console of their escape vessel. It was not a particularly large ship; indeed, joined as it was to the airlock of the it had actually avoide the Marquanddetecting it. It had room enough for three people, and also a single transport pad, which Rojam had used to get Zoran off the science vessel to which they were still attached.

"Zoran, get us out of here," Juif said urgently. It was difficult to tell whether Zoran had actually heard him. He simply sat there, jaw set, anger flickering in his eyes.

Rojam crouched down and said sharply, "Zoran . . . I wish, for your sake, you had defeated him in the manner you desired. But we had a deal. We gave you your ten minutes. The bomb is set. Further delay risks all our lives."

In a faintly mocking tone, Juif added, "It is the province of Si Cwan and his ilk to make promises that they do not keep."

Slowly Zoran turned to them, appearing to notice them for the first time since he'd been beamed aboard the escape vessel. "I am curious," he said. "If I had not rigged this vessel so that its flight systems would only respond to my voice commands . . . would you have left me on the ship? Left me behind to die with Si Cwan? Or did you only stick to our plan because you needed me in order to escape?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Rojam said flatly, and Juif echoed the sentiment.

Zoran looked into their eyes, tried to see the true feelings there. "You are afraid," he said after a moment.

"Of course we're afraid!" Juif told him in mounting exasperation. "We're attached to a vessel that's going to be space dust in a few minutes, and you're quizzing us over our devotion as your friends! Cut us loose from here and let's be done with it! We can discuss this all you want later, but if we don't break off now, there's not going to be a later!"

Zoran stared at them for a moment that seemed to stretch out into forever, and then he said, "Nav computer, voice ID, Zoran Si Verdin."

"Voice ID confirmed," the computer replied indifferently.

"Nav systems on line. Detach vessel from airlock. Set heading to 183 on the Y-axis. Activate."

"Activating."

There was a slight jostling, the sound of huge metal clamps releasing, and a moment later they were free of their moorings. The escape vessel dropped away from the doomed science vessel and arced away into the blackness of space.

And they didn't even notice that, far in the distance, something was starting to ripple into existence . . .

Si Cwan crept forward, and then was very unnerved as Zak Kebron strode by, making no attempt at subtlety. "Kebron!" he hissed angrily. "Zoran is just ahead! A little stealth would be appreciated!"

Kebron looked at him blandly. "I'm Brikar," he informed him. "I don't do 'stealth.'"