They weren’t working.
Vaughn rubbed at his eyes, concerned by what he felt, and by his inability at the moment to deal appropriately with it. While boredom, discomfort, and frustration likely would not threaten Vaughn in the hours and days ahead, another feeling had already taken hold of him: fear. The emotion had not developed from a concern for his own safety or survival, he knew—he had become adept at facing personal danger with relative composure—but out of his concerns for others. If something went wrong on this mission—and there were so many ways in which something could—then people—lots of people—would die. And that risk haunted him.
A single-toned chime sounded in the quiet room. Vaughn stood from the chair, intending to answer the door, but Commander Gravenor immediately emerged from the bedroom and said, “Come in.” As she crossed to the door, it opened, and Captain Harriman entered the room. He waited until the door had slid closed behind him before speaking.
“Enterprise and Tomed will be leaving the station in a few minutes,” he told the commander. “Are we prepared?”
“We are,” Commander Gravenor said. She glanced over at Vaughn, as though seeking to confirm his readiness. He nodded once in response. “I’ve got our things laid out in there,” she said, looking back at the captain and pointing toward the bedroom.
“Good,” Harriman said. He reached beneath the bottom of his uniform jacket and withdrew a small handheld device. Vaughn recognized the piece of classified equipment at once as a sensor veil. He and Commander Gravenor wore them as well. “Let’s go.”
The commander turned and strode back toward the bedroom, the captain close behind her. Vaughn followed, and as he crossed the room, he felt his heart rate begin to climb. Stop it, he told himself, knowing that he would have to find some way to banish—or at least rein in—this sense of dread. You have a mission, he thought, a mantra that he had adopted on a recent, exceptionally grueling assignment. You have a mission, he thought again, trying to focus his mind.
In the other room, Captain Harriman and Commander Gravenor gathered up the few items they would be taking with them. Vaughn quickly did the same. Then, with a bloody war in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants hanging in the balance, they waited.
Linojj tapped at the thruster controls, maneuvering Enterprise away from the Romulan space station. Tomed’s first officer, Subcommander Linavil, had confirmed the return route back to the Federation, and now Linojj started the ship along that path. She watched the readings on the helm display carefully, paying close attention to Enterprise’s position relative to the station. “We’ve departed Algeron,” she said when the numbers indicated that the ship had pulled away sufficiently. “We are free and clear to navigate.”
Free and clear? Linojj thought, acknowledging to herself the folly of what she had said. We can’t be that free with an Ivarix-class warship chaperoning us through space.
“Take us to full impulse,” Sulu ordered. She sat behind Linojj, in the command chair. “Let’s get out of this system.”
“Engaging impulse power,” Linojj said. She walked her fingers across the helm panel, coaxing the slower-than-light drive to action. Around her, the ship stirred like a living thing, as though rising up onto its haunches and preparing to spring forward. The low growl of the impulse drive grew, and an almost imperceptible vibration coursed through the ship’s structure like the tensing of muscles. In a short time, Linojj knew, Enterprise would leave the Algeron system behind, and then the ship could leap to warp. “One-quarter impulse,” Linojj said, reading the velocity from her display. She saw the momentary fluctuation in the ship’s acceleration the instant before Lieutenant Commander Buonarroti reported it.
“I just read a slight instability in the deuterium stream to the port impulse reactor,” he said from the starboard engineering station. By the time he’d finished speaking, the flux had vanished.
“Is it a problem?” Sulu asked. Linojj kept her eyes on the helm readouts, monitoring the velocity curve to see if the fluctuation would recur.
“I’m not sure,” Buonarroti said. “It may have been an isolated—” Again, Linojj saw the situation on her display right before the chief engineer announced it. This time, though, the ship’s acceleration did not steady. “There it is again,” Buonarroti said. “And now the stream isn’t stabilizing.”
“What’s causing it?” Sulu wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” Buonarroti said. “I’m trying to pinpoint the problem now.”
“We’re at one-half impulse,” Linojj said. She heard the sound of the ship change, an inconstant whine now joining the hum of the impulse engines. The velocity indicator continued erratically upward.
“Fluctuations are increasing,” Buonarroti said. “Both in number and in size.”
Linojj saw movement in her peripheral vision, and she looked in that direction to see Sulu striding toward the engineering station. “Are we in any danger?” the commander asked.
“Not yet,” Buonarroti said. “But the temperature is beginning to climb in the core.”
“Do we need to shut down the impulse engines?” Sulu asked.
“Possibly,” Buonarroti said, “but…let me try to adjust the deuterium flow, try to control the instability.” Linojj watched as the chief engineer expertly worked his panel.
“Captain,” Tenger said from the tactical station. “The radiation level in the port reactor is also increasing.”
Sulu did not hesitate. “Shut them down, Xintal.”
“Acknowledged,” Linojj said. Her hands fluttered across her panel, working to bring the impulse drive offline.
“Rafe,” Sulu said, “can you tell—”
“Captain,” Linojj interrupted, startled to find herself fighting a losing battle with the helm controls. “I can’t shut down the port reactor.” She scanned her readouts for the ship’s current velocity. “We’re at three-quarters impulse and still accelerating.”
“Rafe?” Sulu asked, her voice firm, her manner serious but composed.
“The core is pulling in more fuel than it should, keeping the reaction hot,” Buonarroti said. “Let me shut down the deuterium stream.”
“Radiation is beginning to increase significantly,” Tenger said. “The temperature in the core is spiking.”
“Eighty percent of full impulse,” Linojj said.
“It’s not working,” Buonarroti said, turning from the engineering station to face Sulu. “The deuterium-flow regulator reads fully functional, but it’s not controlling the influx of fuel into the reactor. I need to go down there.”
“Go,” Sulu said immediately.
Buonarroti jogged around the chair in front of the engineering station and raced for the starboard turbolift. “Gray,” he said, calling across to the port side of the bridge, where Lieutenant Trent sat at the library-computer console. “You’re with me.” The ship’s chief computer scientist took only a second to secure his station, then hurried around the perimeter of the bridge, past the main viewscreen, and joined Buonarroti in the turbolift. The doors glided closed after them.
Sulu stepped back down to the center section of the bridge and paced over to stand beside Linojj. “What do you think?” Sulu asked quietly. “Did they do this?” She did not have to identify whom she meant by they; Linojj had already wondered herself if the ship had been sabotaged.
“I don’t know,” Linojj said, looking up at Sulu. “But why would they? If the Enterprise is destroyed in Romulan space, even in an accident, nobody’s going to believe that the Romulans weren’t involved. And wouldn’t that drive the Klingons to side with the Federation if hostilities break out?” As she thought through the argument she was making, Linojj found that it made sense to her. That, in turn, brought relief, to know that the first shot of the war had likely not just been fired.
Sulu nodded, although if in agreement or in simple acknowledgment, Linojj could not tell. “Ramesh,” Sulu said, turning to face him at the tactical-and-communications station at the aft section of the br
idge, “get me the Tomed.”
Ambassador Gell Kamemor waited in her cabin on Algeron, peering out into space through the viewing port in her sleeping quarters. A sliver of her pallid face reflected on the oval pane, a sheer contrast to the onyx night beyond. Kamemor studied the arc of her waxen flesh, one ear sweeping upward to a graceful point, one eye staring relentlessly back at her. She did not appear nearly as weary as she felt.
Behind her, a clock kept time, its staccato ticking permeating the surrounding silence. Kamemor still had not completely decided on what actions she would take—or fail to take—in the next few minutes. She had pledged her cooperation to Captain Harriman, a man she had known—and trusted, at least to some extent—for some time, but what he had asked of her held danger not only for her, but for her people as well. If the captain had deceived her about Vokar, about the admiral’s intentions to instigate war no matter the circumstances, then aiding Harriman at this point might itself abet the start of hostilities. Kamemor had labored a very long time for peace, had struggled against prevailing sentiment that held war to be inevitable, and yet what she did or did not do in the next several moments might decide everything.
The tick, tick, tick of the clock seemed to echo the beating of her heart. Her thoughts drifted with the sound. The ebony expanse of space outside the viewing port faded, as did her ashen likeness, replaced in her mind by the faces of Ravent, her mate, and Sorilk, her son. Kamemor had visited Ravent only three times during the past year, on foreshortened trips back to their homeworld of Glintara. She had seen Sorilk just once, when the starship on which he served had stopped briefly at Algeron. And yet Ravent and Sorilk inspired most of the passion Kamemor devoted to crafting a lasting peace with the Klingons and the Federation. She knew that even a war in which the Empire eventually triumphed would put her loved ones at risk, and she could not countenance such a threat.
And is not almost everyone somebody’s loved one? Kamemor thought. Did the Empire not mourn the loss of even a single Romulan soldier? Would it be any different for Klingon or Federation citizens? The Klingons did not look upon the prospect of death in the same way that Romulans did—Klingons might be less reluctant to die under certain circumstances—but they still did not seek the ends of their lives.
A belief Kamemor embraced held that the measure of all sentient existence rose to infinite heights. A necessary corollary of that conviction gauged a Klingon life or a Federation life—Vulcan, human, Andorian, or whatever—as no more or less valuable than a Romulan life. The citizens of the Empire wanted none of their people to be killed in battle, but what they should have wanted was for no people, of any race, to be killed in battle. That meant seeking and sustaining peace, and Kamemor had dedicated her career to establishing equitable accords to do just that.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Now, though, she had to decide, had to figure out, who had told her the truth—if anybody even had. Klingon and Federation ambassadors and aides, her own aides, the Romulan Senate, the Klingon High Council, the Federation Council…alleged truths had come to her from many sources. Kamemor understood that in the world of diplomacy, a single word, a particular shade of meaning, could be employed to twist the truth in order to achieve some end. Words and ideas often became arguments to persuade, to threaten, to dissemble, all simply to bring about some course of action.
Did Harriman tell me the truth? she wondered. Did my aides? Did she herself fully grasp the nuances of all that had transpired these past few years, of all that had been said?
Right now, it came down to this: did she really know John Harriman, and could she—should she—trust him? Should she be so wary of Admiral Vokar, a man whose sometimes-ruthless service record could not hide the heroic deeds he had achieved for the greater good and glory of the Empire?
A tone beeped in the room, and then repeated, vying for her attention with the ticking of the clock. Kamemor peered away from the viewing port and across the room, at the portable sensing device that sat on the shelf built into the bulkhead above her bed. Harriman had configured the scanner for her, and the signal told her that in nearby space, the crew of Enterprise faced disaster, and the crew of Tomed would shortly react to that crisis. The time had come for Kamemor to choose which course of action she would take.
She peered once more out the viewing port. She could not see Enterprise or Tomed from here, nor could she see the beautiful, glistening colors of the Algeron Effect. But she did not need to see the sparkling remnants of Algeron III to be reminded of what had occurred in this system. Kamemor thought of the horrible weapon that had been wielded here, thought of the terrible destruction and death wreaked upon her people by a merciless enemy, and she knew that she could not let that happen to anybody else, Romulan or otherwise. There were lines that should never be crossed—not in everyday life, not in peacetime, not in wartime. Kamemor might not be able to prevent Vokar from perpetrating the heinous act of terror Harriman had accused him of planning, but she could try.
She stopped on her way out of her bedroom to deactivate the signal calling from the portable scanner, then tucked the scanner inside the folds of the long scarlet robe she wore. She then walked to the door to her quarters and stopped as it opened before her. She realized that this would probably be a defining moment of her life. With luck, no Romulan would ever know about it.
Kamemor strode through the door and down the corridor. She did not look back.
“Something is happening aboard Enterprise,” Sublieutenant Akeev said from the sciences station near the main viewscreen. Subcommander Renka Linavil peered down at the officer from the raised command chair at the rear of Tomed’s bridge. The sublieutenant’s tone had contained a recognizable note of agitation, but his words had conveyed a woeful lack of useful data. But Linavil immediately suspected treachery, perpetrated not against the Starfleet crew, but by them. She trusted the Federation not at all.
“Something is happening?” Linavil questioned, not even attempting to moderate the irritation she felt. Akeev had served under Admiral Vokar for years, and therefore should have known better than to offer up less than complete information. Had the admiral been on the bridge right now, rather than off-shift in his quarters, either the sublieutenant would have acted capably, or he would have found himself relieved of duty.
“Readings indicate abnormally high levels of radiation,” Akeev explained. He checked the console, and then added, “It’s coming from the impulse drive.”
“Full sensor sweep,” Linavil ordered. “Are they raising shields? Charging weapons?” She doubted the Enterprise crew would be adopting an offensive—or even a defensive—posture in these circumstances, and Akeev should already have been monitoring the Starfleet vessel anyway. But her request for a complete sweep attended two purposes: first, to confirm Enterprise’s status, and second, to emphasize to the science officer the consequences of performing his duties less than rigorously.
“I’ve been monitoring continuously, Subcommander,” Akeev said, clearly abashed. “Enterprise’s shields remain down, and its weapons offline.” He consulted the sciences console before resuming. “The source of the radiation is the port impulse drive. The temperature in the reactor is also increasing.”
Linavil stood from the command chair and descended to the deck of the bridge. “What is happening?” she demanded. She saw the eyes of other bridge personnel turn toward her, but she continued to focus on Akeev.
“It’s difficult to know for sure,” the sublieutenant said, studying the readouts, “but it reads like a malfunction.”
“Are they in danger?” Linavil wanted to know. She peered at the main viewscreen, at the image of Enterprise as it soared through space ahead of Tomed.
“If the temperature and radiation maintain their rises, yes,” Akeev said. “The reactor will go supercritical and explode.” The sublieutenant looked up, and Linavil saw what appeared to be satisfaction in his expression. If nothing else, it demonstrated why the officer, as bright a scientist as he was, had
not attained a rank beyond the one he currently held.
“Can we prevent that from happening?” Linavil asked.
“Can we—?” Akeev started, evidently confused. “Subcommander?”
“It was a simple question, Sublieutenant,” Linavil said, marching across the bridge to the sciences station. “Can we prevent Enterprise from being destroyed?” She found Akeev’s shortsightedness disturbing, but it seemed obvious to her that the destruction of a Starfleet vessel in Romulan space—however it happened—would be viewed by both the Federation and the Klingons as an act of hostility. And even if the Romulan Star Empire did not need the Klingon Empire fighting by its side, it did not need the Klingons fighting alongside the Federation either. But she did not feel the need to explain this to Akeev. Instead, she said, “The Enterprise crew must have detected the danger, and they clearly cannot shut their impulse drives down, otherwise they already would have done so. So is there something we can do to assist?”
“I…I don’t know,” Akeev stammered. “I’m not, uh, familiar with—”
“Shields down,” Linavil said, cutting off the sublieutenant both with her words and by turning her back to him as she looked toward the tactical station. “Be prepared to transport their crew into the cargo holds.”
“Yes, Subcommander,” responded the tactical officer.
Linavil turned toward the communications station. “Contact Enterprise,” she said.
“Subcommander,” the comm officer said, looking up from her console, “Enterprise is hailing us.”
“Put them through,” Linavil said, and she peered toward the main viewscreen, prepared to face the enemy—and if necessary, help them.
Kamemor arrived at her destination, hastily consulted the scanner she had carried here, then quickly slipped inside. As the door slid shut behind her, the lighting in the room increased automatically from a low, standby level to station normal. She inspected the small room at once, her gaze darting from a lone, freestanding console on one side to an alcove on the other. As the scanner had told her, the room was empty.
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