A collective murmur of satisfaction circled around the bridge, and Toqel did nothing to quell the newfound confidence. Even Mortagh and his fellow Klingons seemed duly awed by what they had just witnessed. Listening to the reactions taking place around her, Toqel sat in silence, content and yet disheartened to a small degree as she considered what had taken place here.
I am sorry, Sarith, thinking as she did each day of her late daughter, that we could not have accomplished this sooner.
“Maintain course until we’re out of the field,” she ordered, setting aside the sobering thoughts. “Then, set a course for Klingon space and engage at maximum warp.” Sensing a presence near her right side, she turned to see Mortagh standing there, and noted that the liaison maintained his dismissive attitude as he once more glared at her.
“An effective toy you have devised, Romulan,” he said, his arrogance and bluster firmly in place, the heel of his left hand resting atop the pommel of the dagger suspended from the belt at his waist. “And what will you do with it? Attack your enemies, or cower from them?”
Offering a wan smile before returning her attention to the viewer, Toqel replied, “Consider that knife with which you feel the need to assure yourself. In the hand of a savage, a blade can do little but kill, but when wielded by a gifted surgeon, it might save a life. As your knife is a tool, so too is the cloaking field. It can save lives, or be used to take them. The difference, Klingon, is the intention behind its use.”
Mortagh loosed a snort of derision before turning and leaving her. Once more alone with her thoughts, she considered the report she soon would file with her superiors. The cloaking field was ready for a more stringent series of tests: trials in which the risks were far greater and accompanied by rewards of equal merit.
“Rezek,” she called over her shoulder, “prepare a secure communiqué to Romulus. I want to speak to Ditrius.” Her next actions would require soothing the troubled, feeble minds of the senators, and in her absence the vice proconsul would find himself burdened with that thankless duty. It was necessary, if she was to continue with her mission, and she could only hope that the headstrong officer was up to the task.
Yes, Toqel decided, the time for bolder, more decisive steps was fast approaching.
6
It was going to be one of those days, Admiral H. Franklin Solow decided as he peered through the expansive picture window of his office. The view of early morning sunlight illuminating the calm waters of San Francisco Bay was spectacular, even with the hint of dark gray beginning to discolor the horizon and promising rain in the hours to come. He already could feel the first dull pangs of a headache beginning to take root beneath his temples, radiating inward and settling in behind his eyeballs. Normally, it would take until late afternoon on a Wednesday—Thursday, if he was lucky—for Solow to begin feeling these initial assaults on his mind and his sense of well-being. When it started before lunch on a Monday morning?
I should’ve called in sick.
Forgoing his normal beverage of choice, black coffee, Solow instead had ordered a tall glass of chilled orange juice from the food slot in his well-appointed office. The juice had aided in swallowing a pair of analgesic tablets he had taken more from habit than with any real hope of alleviating his headache. Releasing a sigh that signaled his surrender to whatever personal discomforts chose to visit him on this day, Solow turned from the window and moved toward the high-backed chair situated behind his wide, polished oak desk. On the desk’s surface was a collection of reports, files, memoranda, and other administrative flotsam which was part and parcel of a Starfleet flag officer’s job. Not for the first time, Solow wondered how quickly the Headquarters building would burn to the ground with the aid of the considerable amount of flammable materials housed just in his office.
And here I sit, with no marshmallows. Truly a tragedy if ever there was one.
Lowering himself into his chair with something less than ideal professional decorum, Solow eyed his assistant, Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Allen, who sat in the middle of three chairs positioned before his desk. The woman’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the bright red of her uniform dress, and, as he often did since the commander had begun working for him, Solow wondered if she might burst into flames when subjected to direct sunlight. “Okay,” he said, pausing to drink from his glass of juice. “Let’s have it.”
Allen, long ago having grown accustomed to the admiral’s relaxed demeanor when working in the confines of his private office, nodded as she held up the data slate that had been resting in her lap. “We’re still compiling the latest information and readying the newest set of reports for you, sir.”
“Anything new?”
“No, Admiral.” When the commander shook her head, the action was so animated that it caused the locks of her dark blond pageboy hairstyle to swing from left to right. Solow had commented on it early during their working relationship, fearing that Allen’s head might actually detach from her body and fly off to parts unknown. “Starfleet Intelligence is cross-referencing Captain Blair’s report against what we know of Klingon ship upgrades, but there’s been no chatter about anything like this. Whatever they’re up to, they’re keeping it very well hidden.”
Nothing bothered Solow more than a Klingon acting in anything other than the brusque, uncompromising manner that characterized their species. One of the benefits of attempting to understand a culture so predicated on a military mindset or warrior ethos was that—after a time—such an adversary became predictable, at least to some extent. The Klingons, when they remained brash and brutal, were consistent. It was when they chose subtlety or cunning over direct confrontation that they became enemies to be watched and feared.
This, Solow had realized upon first reading the report submitted by Captain Thomas Blair, commander of the U.S.S. Defiant, was looking to be one of those times.
“A cloaked Klingon vessel,” he said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. No matter how many times he had read Blair’s report during the past three weeks, the words simply did not sound correct or even believable to his ears. “And I thought I’d seen it all when it came to dealing with the Klingons.”
Now referring to whatever notes she carried on her data slate, Allen replied, “Comparative analysis of the Defiant’s sensor logs showed that the ionized plasma emissions they detected, while faint, were a definite match for the impulse engines of a Klingon D7 battle cruiser.” She looked up from her notes. “The Klingons aren’t in the habit of trading or selling military hardware, are they?”
Solow smiled, knowing the question was rhetorical, from her tone as much as the fact that Commander Allen was well-versed in the machinations of the Klingon military. Indeed, she was one of Starfleet Command’s foremost experts and advisers. Still, the notion was not without merit.
“Maybe not,” he said, “but if that was a Klingon ship playing games with the Defiant, then they had to get that cloaking technology from somewhere.” He let the sentence trail off, watching as Allen’s expression melted into a frown.
“The Romulans?” she asked. “Working with the Klingons?” She shook her head. “That’s going to keep me up nights.”
Offering a slight, humorless chuckle, Solow nodded. “It’s one possible explanation, but I’ll be damned if we’ve got the slightest hint of anything like that going on.” None of the reports he had been reading from Starfleet Intelligence had provided even the most inconsequential evidence to support the notion that the Klingons and the Romulans—or representatives who might or might not be operating with the authorization of their respective governments—had entered into some sort of alliance. While the very idea might be laughable to the casual observer, Solow knew that Starfleet Tactical had among its vast library of simulations and strategic planning more than one scenario featuring Federation starships pitted against combined fleets of Romulan and Klingon ships. So far as Solow was concerned, the results as provided by computers devoted to the execution of seemingly endless t
actical war games were, to say the least, rather less than encouraging.
“For the Klingons to partner for any reason with the Romulans would suggest something’s upsetting someone somewhere,” Allen said, “perhaps for both sides. Are they that worried about us?”
Solow nodded. “Anything’s possible. After all, we’re not exactly overflowing with useful intelligence data so far as our friends across the Neutral Zone are concerned.”
Despite the period of isolation the Romulan Star Empire had imposed upon itself for decades following its defeat at the hands of Earth and its small band of allies, Starfleet Intelligence had made a handful of attempts to insert covert agents into the Romulan government and military. Most were never heard from again, and those who had survived detection had done so only by immersing themselves in Romulan society to the point of invisibility. Contact with such agents was sporadic at best, and with the care nearly every citizen of the Empire seemed to employ in order to safeguard information, reports offered by the operatives often were of little use.
“It certainly doesn’t make any sense on the face of it,” Allen said. “Romulan and Klingon cultures are so different, it’s hard to imagine them ever agreeing on anything, let alone getting along to the point of working together for some common goal.”
Leaning forward, Solow rested his arms on his desktop, reaching up to run the fingers of his left hand through his thinning, gray hair. “From what we know of how the Romulans go about things, they might be interested in seeking such an alliance, but only if they had something to gain, and felt they were in the superior negotiating position.” Assuming this theory of a partnership between the two enemy powers was correct, the natural question was what the Romulans felt the Klingons had to offer that justified handing over technology as advanced as a cloaking device. Solow wondered if seeking such a partnership, particularly with the Klingons, might create more problems than it solved.
Sounds like wishful thinking.
“Why do I feel like we’re on the outside looking in?” Allen asked.
“Because we are,” Solow replied, rising from his chair and retrieving the juice glass from his desk before making his way to the food slot situated in the wall to his right. “Or, we will be, if there’s any truth to this.” Starfleet had been attempting to develop their own version of a cloaking generator for years, or at least create sensor technology that might penetrate such a field, with no tangible results. When the Romulans disappeared deep into their own territory, seemingly never to be heard from again, that research slowed and eventually faded to nothing as other priorities took precedence. With the reappearance of Romulan ships during the past year, efforts had begun anew, but the progress to this point did not look promising. According to the reports Solow had read, new teams of undercover agents were at this moment being prepared and trained for insertion behind enemy lines, in the hope that they might eventually uncover information pertaining to the cloaking technology, as well as other military secrets. Such operations required time and patience to carry out with any degree of success, and Solow now doubted the Federation had that kind of time.
Turning from the food slot with a fresh glass of juice, Solow returned to his desk. “When can you have the updated reports ready?” he asked, reaching up to rub his temples. Was it his imagination, or were the analgesics actually working?
“Eleven hundred hours today, Admiral,” Allen replied.
“Good,” Solow said. “I want a package encrypted and readied for secure transmission to Starbase 47. Nogura’s our foremost expert on the Romulans, and if they’re getting into bed with the Klingons, we need him looking over the data we’ve collected.” Pausing, he shook his head. “Figures Starfleet would ship him out to the farthest point of known space that doesn’t require you to speak Kelvan.”
Admiral Heihachiro Nogura was one of Starfleet’s leading tactical minds and a key player in much of the strategic planning that had been put into motion during the previous year when war with the Klingon Empire had seemed inevitable. For over a year, he had been stationed at Starbase 47, a remote installation on the fringes of Federation space. Overseeing a massive—and highly classified—research and military operation taking place in that region, Nogura still had been called upon to weigh in on the escalating situation with the Klingons, even after the mysterious Organians had put a stop to the pending hostilities between Starfleet and the Empire. If the Romulans were emerging from their figurative shells and seeking renewed conflict with the Federation—and asking the Klingons to participate—then Starfleet once again would require Nogura’s keen insights.
“What do we do in the meantime, sir?” Allen asked.
Releasing a heavy sigh, Solow settled back in his chair, turning it so that he once more looked out over the bay. To the west, storm clouds were gathering.
Was it an omen? If so, then it most certainly was going to be a very long day.
“For the moment,” he said, not liking the way his words sounded, “we wait.”
7
Transition from warp drive complete, Proconsul. Now proceeding at impulse power.”
Toqel swiveled the captain’s chair at the sound of Centurion Nilona’s voice, feeling a slight twinge in her stomach as the Kretoq’s inertial dampers compensated for the battle cruiser’s deceleration to sublight speed. Looking up from the handheld computer interface pad containing the latest reports delivered by her lead engineer, she said, “Excellent.” She rose from the chair, moving to stand behind the helm officer and take in the image displayed on the bridge’s main viewscreen. “What about the Vo’qha?”
From behind her at the tactical station, Centurion Rezek replied, “It has just dropped out of warp, as well.” A status indicator flashed on his console, and after turning to consult it, he added, “Coded burst message from Commander Lajuk, Proconsul. He awaits your orders.”
“What is the status of our cloak?” Toqel asked.
Rezek said, “Fully operational.” He reached for one bank of controls at the tactical station. “Sensors detect no trace of the Vo’qha.”
As it should be. Toqel smiled at the thought. She had been waiting for this moment since receiving approval from Praetor Vrax to undertake this clandestine survey mission. Having proven the success of the technological exchange she had championed, the Kretoq now was crewed solely by loyal Romulans, with Captain Mortagh and his contingent having been returned to Klingon space after the completion of the exercise in the Dar’shinta system.
“Continue on course to the fifth planet,” she ordered. In accordance with the instructions she had been given by Praetor Vrax himself, the first order of business would be to determine the full capabilities of the outpost’s sensor array. During the khaidoa that had passed since the Tal Shiar’s initial report on the installation being constructed here, covert reconnaissance had been conducted by vessels operating at the very edge of the border separating Romulan and Federation space. As a result, most of the new information was limited in details and quality, but one thing had been determined: the base—while still largely under construction—was operational, including the massive sensor array that appeared to be its most prominent feature.
“Sensors standing by,” Rezek said, and Toqel nodded at the report. Stepping around the helm console, her attention was fixed on the image of Theta Cobrini V—as it was listed in Federation data banks—growing larger on the viewscreen. According to the long-range scan data originally collected fvheisn ago by sensor probes, the planet was unremarkable in nearly every measurable sense. It possessed no useful mineral deposits in any amounts to justify establishing a mining operation. Its atmosphere, just like the system’s other four planets, was poisonous to most humanoid species. Indeed, the world’s only redeeming feature was that it was the outermost planet in a system that sat adjacent to the territory of an enemy. Its orbit around the Mar’venas star would allow for ground-based sensors to collect detailed scans of Romulan ship activity in the vicinity of the border. If Starfleet foll
owed its usual pattern, a series of satellites and other unmanned drones would augment that sensor coverage, making this system a key location in the Federation’s early warning and defensive reaction strategies.
Assuming it’s allowed to remain here unmolested.
“Proconsul, we are inside the planet’s orbital trajectory,” Nilona reported from the helm.
“Activate sensors,” Toqel ordered, casting a glance over her shoulder at Rezek. “Inform Commander Lajuk to do the same.” According to the information gleaned from the unmanned drone scans, the outpost’s sensor array should have been powerful enough to detect an uncloaked vessel while still light-years away at warp. Pinpointing such a vessel within the system’s perimeter should be child’s play. Despite the known limitations of the new cloaking generator to fully mask impulse emissions, detecting such readings normally required specialized sensor components. The likelihood of the outpost’s possessing such equipment was small, Toqel knew, therefore increasing the odds of a successful reconnoiter prior to departing the system and returning to Romulan space.
Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins Page 6