Free Star Trek V: The Final Frontier by J. M. Dillard

seriousness replied: “Life is
not
a dream.”
    “Go to sleep, Spock.”
    In the back room of the Paradise Saloon, Talbot sat at the round table with Caithlin Dar and Korrd. Dar sat stiffly, her spine not touching the back of the chair. Korrd lay slumped across the table, still passed out as a result of the incredible amount of liquor he’d imbibed in anticipation of his capture. The exit was barred by an armed sentry—a shabby homesteader with a handmade pipegun.
    So they sat, waiting . . . for God knew what.
    Talbot ran a trembling hand over his forehead; his palm came away shining, damp with perspiration.More than at any other time in his life, Talbot craved a drink. The recent excitement had sobered him up quickly, resoundingly, so that his mind was entirely clear, so that he could think.
    That was worst thing of all, being able to
think.
    Not that he was afraid of thinking about what the homesteaders and their maniacal leader—whom Dar insisted was Vulcan, not Romulan; Talbot believed
that
about as much as he believed the leader’s reassurance that they would not be harmed—would do to him. No, in a way, he welcomed the thought of dying. He had long ago given up wanting to live.
    He preferred to stay in a pleasantly dull alcoholic haze, because when he thought, he
remembered.
    Seven years before, St. John Talbot had been one of the most, if not
the
most, respected diplomats in the Federation service. At the time, he had been rather impressed with himself and his talents. After all, he had negotiated a truce between Capella and Xenar, avoiding an interstellar war, and as a result, had received the Surakian Peace Prize and been awarded a coveted assignment to Andor.
    Up to that time, Talbot had led a charmed life. Born to wealthy parents, sent to all the best schools. He was a precocious boy; it had always been easy for him. So easy, so very, very easy.
    The Federation Diplomatic Service was a goal that only the very best strived to attain. Talbot was admitted without a hitch; he never worried for a moment that his application would be rejected. After all, he was rich, he was brilliant, he was talented, he was handsome . . . and there was nothing in the universe to stop him.
    But now the memory of his arrogance filled him with pain. Oh, he had boasted then of his diplomatic conquests. “Not a drop of blood shed,” that was Talbot’s motto. St. John Talbot, bringer of peace, miracle worker.
    He’d become too cocky, too sure of himself. On Andor, his overconfidence got the better of him.
    The capital city had a large population of disaffected immigrants, most of them miners from the neighboring system of Charulh. The Andorians were not generally hospitable to outworlders, even if the outworlders had lived and worked on Andor and benefited the Andorian economy for the past seven generations. A small group of Charulhans, in a desperate demand for a voice in the Andorian government, had kidnapped a number of influential citizens, including the adolescent son of the city’s female Andorian governor, with whom Talbot had worked closely.
    A hostage situation. Talbot had successfully handled a half-dozen of them during the twenty-year course of his career. He felt more than competent to handle the situation—alone, at his insistence. After all, he was at the top of his form. The great St. John needed no native cultural advisers to help him clean up the mess.
    He had acted on his own, sending the kidnappers a message intended to defuse the situation, but inadvertently, thanks to Talbot’s spotty knowledge of Charulhan culture, the message had insulted the lot.
    The response was almost immediate.
    Talbot slowly squeezed his eyes shut in a futileattempt to blot out the image formed by his sobered brain . ..
    The street outside his office in the capital. The body of the governor’s son. Only a child, really. The Charulhans were honorable even when committing violence; they had broken the boy’s neck, so that his head