Star Trek: Vanguard 01: Harbinger

by David Mack

  “You have fire…for a human,” Lugok said, peeling her fingers loose one at a time. Gripping her wrist, he lifted her right arm over her head. “But your hands are weak.”

  Undaunted, she smirked at him. “Maybe. But they’re quick.” A glint of light flashing off metal caught Jetanien’s eye, and he realized that in her left hand Karumé held Lugok’s d’k tahg. She had pressed it, cutting edge first, against the man’s crotch. Keeping her eyes on Lugok’s face as he looked down at his predicament, she added, “Look familiar?”

  Jetanien chastised himself for not even having thought to ask Karumé, before the meeting, whether she was armed.

  The other two Klingons in the room—an attaché named Kulor and a bodyguard named Turag—made no move to defend or assist Lugok. Observing the knife poised beneath their boss’s genitals, they chuckled cruelly.

  No doubt sensing the delicacy of his situation, Lugok resumed eye contact with Karumé, released her hand, and smiled. “An honor to make your acquaintance…Envoy Karumé.”

  Karumé withdrew the blade from the Klingon ambassador’s groin, flipped it in her palm, and offered it to him grip-first. “The honor is mine, Ambassador Lugok, son of Breg.” He accepted the dagger from her and sheathed it in his boot. She gestured toward the mirror-perfect black table, and the two diplomats sat in adjacent chairs, which they turned to face each other.

  Lugok slouched. “Why have you asked for this meeting?”

  “Our starship Bombay was destroyed yesterday,” she said.

  “Yes,” Lugok said with a grin. “We heard.”

  “Did you destroy it?”

  He laughed. “No, but we applaud those who did.”

  “Do you know who destroyed our vessel?”

  Lugok’s amusement turned quickly to boredom. “No.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” Karumé said. She stood. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Rising to face her eye-to-eye, Lugok, despite his bulky physique, projected an aura of menace. “As do I,” he said. “Thank you for returning my blade.” He marched past her, toward the door on the opposite side of the room from where she and Jetanien had entered. He left in long, fast strides, and his attaché and bodyguard followed close behind him.

  The door swished shut a moment later, leaving Karumé and Jetanien alone in the conference room. She turned toward him. “The Klingons didn’t destroy the Bombay.”

  Jetanien was skeptical. “And your basis for this conclusion would be what, exactly, Ms. Karumé?”

  “Lugok said so.”

  “I see,” Jetanien said. “Permit me to extend my most humble thanks to you, then, for permitting me to audit this exchange. How else would I have learned that our most aggressive and implacable enemy in known space is also our most credible source of foreign intelligence? Most edifying, Ms. Karumé.”

  “Klingons take pride in their warmongering,” Karumé said. “If they defeated one of our ships in open combat, they’d be crowing about it from one end of the galaxy to the other.”

  “Unless they plan to destroy Vanguard’s starship support in preparation for an assault on the station,” Jetanien said. “In that case, better to neutralize our vessels clandestinely, so as to avoid sparking a reprisal before they can capture Vanguard.”

  Karumé shook her head. “Klingons are cunning, but they’re not subtle. When they want to attack, they’ll do it in force—and in the open. What happened to the Bombay wasn’t their style.”

  “Perhaps.” Moving back toward the door he and Karumé had entered through, he said, “I trust you don’t plan to conduct all your parleys at knifepoint?”

  “Of course not,” she said, following him out. “Lugok won’t fall for that twice. I’ll have to change tactics next time.”

  “A phaser, I presume?”

  “Cleavage, actually. Emasculation and titillation are oddly connected in the male Klingon psyche.”

  Where a human might have sighed, Jetanien groaned. “Please don’t have an affair with him.”

  “Wow,” she said. “You really don’t understand Klingon politics, do you?”

  Sandesjo sat in the commissary and picked at her breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and toast with jam. Everything about it revulsed her. Its aroma, its color, the fact that cooking had leached all the flavor from it—no one, she was convinced, could ruin a meal like humans. Even their coffee was weak. For the sake of keeping up appearances, however, she made the effort to eat and pretend to enjoy herself. Later, before her work-day overwhelmed her, she would slip away to the lavatory and sneak a couple of tuQloS pills to help her body take some sustenance from the human food she was forced to consume.

  Most of the seats at her table were empty. The mess halls and commissaries usually were packed in the hours immediately preceding and following the shift changes, and again during the staggered mid-shift lunch breaks. This morning, however, the main commissary on level seventeen was almost deserted. The last time Sandesjo had seen this many available seats during a prime dining hour was during the station’s first week of operation, when the engineering staff—profoundly irked that their long haul up from the bowels of the station’s power-generation core always left them scrounging for seats and settling for the least-popular menu items—had sent up a team early, to fake a radiation leak and clear out the upper-decks personnel, so the engineers could enjoy their choice of entrées in peace and comfort.

  The signal device on her belt beeped. She glanced down. It was from Turag. The code he’d sent her was an instruction to check in as soon as circumstances allowed. “Yes, sir,” she muttered, figuring that anyone who overheard would assume she had just been summoned by Jetanien. She downed the rest of her coffee in one scalding gulp, then stood and walked her plate to the return counter, where she abandoned it still half-full.

  Turning toward the door, she collided with Lieutenant Ming Xiong, the A&A officer who seemed to be invited to an inordinate number of high-level meetings with Jetanien and Reyes.

  Xiong glanced at the plate Sandesjo had turned in. “Not hungry this morning?”

  “I’m on a diet,” Sandesjo said.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “The ‘drop everything for Ambassador Jetanien’ diet?”

  She nodded once. “Ah…you’ve heard of it.”

  “Who hasn’t?” He smiled shyly at her and shifted his weight awkwardly. Breaking eye contact, he glanced away toward the chow line. Looking back, he said, “Guess I better get on line before Farber eats all the eggs.”

  “Probably a good idea.” She stepped around him. “Enjoy your breakfast, Lieutenant.”

  “You too,” he said, then hastened to correct himself. “I mean, I hope you did, you know, have a nice breakfast.”

  Tossing her straight, cinnamon-hued hair with a turn of her head, she cast a flirtatious look back over her shoulder at him.

  He finished his farewell with a simple, “Have a nice day.”

  “You too, Xiong.” As she left the commissary, she felt him watching her. Despite the brevity of their few meetings, his attraction to her had been clear from the start. Silly man. He has no idea what he’d be getting himself into.

  Minutes later Sandesjo was sequestered in her office. Her secret communication device opened quietly on her desktop, and Ambassador Lugok’s flushed, angry visage filled its screen. His voice was loud enough to crackle the device’s speakers with distortion. “Was your file on Karumé a joke?”

  She turned down the volume on the speaker. “I take it your first meeting did not go well?”

  “She nearly cut off my loDmach.”

  “I warned you she was aggressive,” Sandesjo said, an evil gleam lighting up her gaze. “Tell me, did you underestimate her because she was human or because she was a woman?”

  Lugok’s face bunched with annoyance. “Don’t be stupid, Lurqal. I would never underestimate a woman.”

  “Good to know.” Chilling her tone, she continued, “My time is short, Ambassador. What can
I do for you?”

  “What is the Federation doing to learn who destroyed its ship?”

  “Enterprise is being readied for departure,” Sandesjo said. “Probably within the day.”

  His brow knitted with confusion. “Today? There’s been no announcement.”

  “Starfleet’s probably keeping the deployment quiet, but none of the alpha-shift spacedock crew were at breakfast today. They must have been called in during gamma shift.”

  “Interesting,” Lugok said. “Do you know where the Bombay was lost?”

  “Not yet.” She transmitted a data file over the secure channel. “I’ve sent you a list of six star systems that would be worth monitoring during the next few days.”

  “Your selection criteria?”

  “Situated within the range of the Bombay at maximum warp for seventy-eight hours, presence of M-Class planets, source of subspace radio traffic within the past three months.”

  “Very good,” Lugok said. “Let me know if discussions resume with the Tholian envoy.”

  “As you command.”

  They traded valedictions of Qapla’, then cut the channel.

  Sandesjo tucked the closed briefcase device under her desk. She activated her computer, checked her morning schedule, then walked to her door and looked for an aide who would fetch her another cup of watered-down, barely caffeinated Terran swill. It was going to be a long day, and weak human coffee would be better than none.

  Her carefully laid plan was derailed by an all too familiar voice of authority. “Ms. Sandesjo,” Jetanien said from the doorway, in his favorite tone of arch superiority. “Permit me to thank you for recommending Akeylah Karumé as our new envoy to the Klingon delegation.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. The huge Chelon ignored her.

  “Until now, I had been greatly vexed by the problem of how to maintain a political dialogue with the Klingons, while at the same time threatening their chief representative with forced emasculation. Fortunately, Ms. Karumé has adroitly merged these two concepts.”

  “You must be very proud, sir.”

  “Exquisitely,” he said. “Are you familiar with the Nemite Revolution that occurred two thousand, four hundred and twelve years ago on Tamaros III?”

  “If I say yes, will it stop you from lecturing me?”

  “It all began when the proconsul to the High Epopt of Tamaros appointed a Yoçarian to serve as the castellan of the capital city…”

  Steeling herself for a very long history lesson whose only allegorical moral would be another iteration of “Thanks for sending me a maverick,” Sandesjo concluded that there wasn’t enough coffee in the galaxy to make this job bearable.

  “We should have been prepared for this,” Councillor Torr said, his tirade inciting a low chorus of grumbles among the rest of the Klingon High Council. The sharp-featured young councillor paced like a chained targ in the dimly lit chamber ringed by statues of great warriors of ages past. Chancellor Sturka listened with waning patience as Torr continued. “One of the ships defending Vanguard has been destroyed, yet we are unable to capitalize on this opportunity. Why? Because we have been too cautious in our strategy for seizing the Gonmog Sector.”

  “Save your propaganda, Torr,” Sturka said, his voice worn to a low growl after more than a decade of presiding over this increasingly fractious ruling committee. “They lost one frigate, but another battle cruiser has made port. If anything, Vanguard is better defended than it was before.”

  “Enterprise is there, that’s true,” said Veselka, a woman whose peculiar charms were matched only by her cunning. “But she made port for repairs, and her captain is untested.”

  Kulok, the grizzled councillor from Lankal, snorted out a derisive laugh. “Pike, untested? Ridiculous.”

  “You need stronger raktajino, old man,” snapped Alakon, a warrior who had risen from commoner origins and earned his place on the council through honorable combat. “Pike commands a fleet now. His old ship is in the hands of a new commander: Kirk.”

  Argashek grunted and turned toward Grozik and Glazya, his longtime allies on the council. “Kirk?…A good Klingon name.”

  Councillor Narvak interjected, “Just because his name sounds Klingon, it doesn’t mean he’ll fight like one.”

  “But it will be fun to see him try,” Councillor Molok said, flashing an evil grin that sent creases halfway up the sides of his bald head.

  Laughter rocked the hall. Sturka rapped the end of his staff on the cold stone floor. The sharp reports and echoes muzzled the jollity. All eyes turned back to the chancellor, who leaned forward on his throne. “Before we move against Vanguard, we should make certain we know who destroyed their vessel.”

  “It wasn’t us,” Glazya said, her wild frazzle of dark hair, her wide eyes, and her upswept eyebrows conveying perfectly her almost feral temperament. “Unless Starfleet blew up its own ship, it had to be the Tholians. After that episode with Ambassador Tolrene here on Qo’noS and Sesrene and his delegation on Vanguard, it’s obvious there is something wrong with them.”

  Sturka noted Glazya’s point. Tolrene’s abrupt seizure and subsequent behavior had been decidedly odd. Reports that the Tholian delegates to Vanguard, Earth, and Qo’noS had suffered the same symptoms at the exact same moment had been even more alarming. It was unclear, though, what had caused the incidents, or why it might provoke the Tholians to start a war.

  “The Gonmog Sector is unexplored space,” said Councillor Gorkon, a former general who remained the leanest and strongest warrior on the council. Sturka knew that Gorkon could easily defeat him in mortal combat, which is why he had cultivated the former battle-fleet commander as an ally, ever since the day Gorkon had first hinted at his political ambitions. “There are countless unknown threats that could have destroyed the Federation ship,” Gorkon continued.

  Torr lost his patience. “What difference does it make who destroyed their ship? We should strike before they regroup.”

  Gorkon turned his forceful gaze against Torr. “Until we know who destroyed the Bombay, we won’t know whether attacking Vanguard will pit us against one foe or two.”

  “Facing two foes would only add to our glory,” Torr said.

  “Only if we win, you ignorant young jeghta’pu.”

  “We have underestimated the Federation in the past,” Sturka said. “Not again. Encourage our warriors to boast, it will keep their spirits up. But in here, we face the facts. They have moved many ships and people into the Gonmog Sector—or the ‘Taurus Reach,’ as they call it…. Why?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Councillor Indizar. Slimmer and more feminine-looking than Veselka, she had ascended to the High Council because of her background in covert intelligence. “They fear we will expand our conquests to the Tholian border, leaving them surrounded and unable to grow.”

  Every councillor nodded in silent agreement—all but one, a heavyset man lurking in the back of the group, half in shadow. Sturka pointed to him. “You have another opinion, Duras?”

  Councillor Duras walked forward, stepping into the broad circle of harsh overhead light in front of the chancellor’s throne. An acrid, musky odor clung to him like a bad reputation. “The Federation would not risk war on two fronts merely for the possibility of future expansion. A commitment this large can mean only one thing: There is something in the Gonmog Sector that they want…. We should learn what it is.”

  Sturka stroked his bearded chin briefly as he considered Duras’s suggestion. “You might be right.” He looked up and scanned the faces of the gathered councillors. “It is likely that the Tholians destroyed the Starfleet ship. If so, I look forward to one day facing them in battle. But if other powers are in play in the Gonmog Sector, we must know who they are before our ships cross the border.

  “Duras, your suspicion that the Federation has a motive besides expansion…interests me. Work with Indizar’s people in Imperial Intelligence. If you can show me a plausible alternative motive for the Federation’s efforts…
we’ll adjust our strategy and tactics accordingly.”

  Three successive strikes of Sturka’s metal-tipped staff on the stone tile beside his throne signaled that this meeting of the High Council was adjourned. The councillors filed out in a few mumbling clusters, grouped into three rival factions. Keeping them plotting against one another was hard work for Sturka, but it was better than having them plotting against him. Politics was a cutthroat business on any planet, but on Qo’noS the term was always used literally.

  Walking quickly back to his chambers, Sturka noticed Gorkon fall into step behind him and his retinue of imperial guards. Sturka nodded to his chief defender, Tegor, to let Gorkon breach the defensive circle. Gorkon slipped inside the perimeter of guards and remained a respectful half-pace behind Sturka. “You know why he wants to investigate the Gonmog Sector,” he said. Sturka did not need to ask who Gorkon spoke of. The ex-general’s long-festering distrust of Duras made it abundantly clear.

  “Of course I do,” Sturka said, turning the corner. Outside the narrow slices of window on their right, the sunset washed the First City in soothing crimson hues. “He thinks he’ll find something to make himself rich or powerful. Something that can make him chancellor.”

  “That will be a cold day in Gre’thor, my lord.”

  Sturka imagined his d’k tahg sunk deep in Duras’s throat. He smiled. “Yes, Gorkon. It certainly will.”

  13

  “Your actions led to the loss of a starship and the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet personnel, Mr. Quinn.” T’Prynn’s dark and icy declaration burned brightly in Quinn’s memory. The burden of his guilt was staggering. Hundreds of lives, he told himself. My fault. To his own disgust, the only thing he could think of to do about it was order another drink.

  He was on his fourth or fifth drink of the evening. In his experience, a well-told series of half-truths, omissions, and exaggerations could postpone most bar tabs for about an hour. Then his excuses for delaying payment would stretch too thin to be credible, and it would be time for him to leave. Somewhere around sixty-five minutes or four drinks into his visits, whichever came first, most barkeeps began to suspect that his tab was going to linger much longer than he himself would. To save everyone the embarrassment and effort of eighty-sixing him, he made a habit of evicting himself before his welcomes had to be officially withdrawn.