by David Mack
Early charts of this sector had designated this galactic backwater the Gujol system, which would have made its second planet Gujol-2. However, having learned from the recon teams that the natives called their world Arethusa, the Klingon High Command had changed the planet’s name accordingly in the Imperial Master Catalog. The rationale was that respecting the original name of a planet made its jeghpu’wI’ more receptive to Klingon control after the Empire conquered them and planted its banner atop a mountain of their dead.
That was reason enough for Kang, son of K’naiah.
His helmsman, Ortok, rotated his seat almost completely around to look up at him. “Captain, we are ready to begin our approach to the planet.”
“Good.” Looking down from his command chair’s elevated dais, Kang swiveled toward his communications officer. “Kyris, tell the Homghor to assume an antipodal orbit to ours.”
She nodded once. “Yes, Captain.”
Kang checked the ship’s chronometer. Barring complications, he reasoned his crew could help the recon team exfiltrate within the hour, and then they would be on their way back to Qo’noS with a great prize locked away in the biostasis chamber secured in the Voh’tahk’s hold.
His inner cynic gnawed at him. Since when does any mission go without complication?
Then the senior weapons officer, Mahzh, silenced a warning on his console. Kang turned toward the man, expecting a report. Instead, Mahzh stared in silence at his display, keying in commands one after another. Kang grew restless. “Mahzh! Report.”
“There was a momentary sensor contact. It registered at first as a ship, but then it vanished.” He looked back at his screen, as if hoping to find a definitive answer where none had been a moment earlier. “It might have been random cosmic noise, or a glitch in the sensors.”
That was not what Kang considered a satisfactory report. “Check it again.”
“I did, Captain. No contact.”
“Do it a third time.” He rotated his chair away from Mahzh and called for his first officer, who also happened to be his science officer—and his wife. “Mara!”
The trim woman—who, like Kang himself, was a Quch’Ha, afflicted with the weak, humanized physiognomy produced by the century-old genetic calamity known as the Augment Virus—left the port side console and leaned close to receive her orders. “Captain?”
“Have the gunners make regular sensor sweeps of this system while we orbit Arethusa. If they detect anything out of the ordinary, I want them to blow it to bits.”
She bowed her chin. “Understood.”
Kang fixed his eyes on the world that swelled to fill the main viewscreen. Somewhere on that planet’s surface was a bioweapon that could make the Klingon Empire the predominant power in this quadrant, perhaps even the entire galaxy.
His orders were clear and left no room for interpretation. He was either to capture that weapon for the glory of the Empire, or he was to make certain it never fell into the hands of the Empire’s enemies—by blasting this world into a sphere of molten, radioactive glass.
Either outcome had been deemed acceptable by the High Command.
He smiled. Today was a good day to die . . . but it would be an even better day to kill.
• • •
Despite all the times Clark Terrell had experienced silent-running operations aboard a starship, he continued to find them eerie and a touch irrational. The practice, like many Starfleet protocols, traced its origins to a bygone era of sea-based naval warfare. Submersible ships seeking to evade sonic detection systems used by surface vessels would halt all onboard activity. Most of a ship’s internal machinery would be turned off, propulsion would cease, and shipboard conversations were hushed. Even a single stray sound could betray a submarine’s position and doom it to destruction by depth charges, timed explosives dropped from the surface.
In the era of starship operations, silent running typically entailed reducing a ship’s ambient energy profile, strictly limiting communications, and switching off the running lights. The first part was the most essential. Ceasing active sensor scans was one of the most effective means of masking a starship’s presence; another was throttling back the matter/antimatter mix in the warp core to the minimum level required to maintain the reaction. It also helped to power down all but one segment of the main computer, to minimize the Cochrane distortion produced by a bank of faster-than-light processor cores running in parallel.
What Terrell couldn’t figure out was why Starfleet’s silent running procedure called for reducing the life-support settings to minimum; its effect on the ship’s energy profile was inconsequential, and it wasn’t as if the hum of the ventilation system was going to carry through a vacuum. Between the rapid drop in the Sagittarius’s internal temperature and the stale air quality, he was giving serious consideration to the notion of saying to hell with stealth, hailing the Klingons with a barrage of vulgar invective, and coming out shooting.
Then he took a fresh look at the Klingon cruiser Voh’tahk on the main viewscreen. He recalled the brutal beating the Sagittarius had suffered the last time it challenged a similar foe, and he took into account the presence of a second hostile vessel, a fast-moving bird-of-prey.
He rubbed his palms together for warmth. A little cold never hurt anybody.
“Helm. How’s our anchor holding up?”
Ensign Nizsk answered while reviewing the readings on the forward console. “Steady, Captain. We remain securely tethered to the asteroid.” The insectoid helmsman and navigator toggled some settings on her panel. “Ancillary systems remain stable in standby mode.”
“Good.” Terrell looked over his shoulder at Sorak. “How’s our camouflage working?”
“Satisfactorily—for the moment.” The old Vulcan turned a look of grudging approval in Taryl’s direction. “As the ensign predicted, the mineral compounds in this asteroid are masking our residual energy signature from the Klingons’ sensors.” The Orion field scout tried and failed to suppress a small but prideful smirk—which faded quickly when Sorak continued. “However, as I warned, because we can’t raise our shields without giving away our position, the same radiation that conceals us is also slowly cooking us from the inside out.”
Taryl took the criticism in stride. “Already on top of it, Captain. I’ve coordinated with Doctor Babitz. She’s making the rounds with prophylactic anti-radiation meds. As soon as she’s dosed the engineers, she’ll swing by and get the rest of us squared away.”
“Well done, Ensign.” Terrell stood and regarded the changing perspective on the main viewscreen. Because the asteroid on which his ship had hitched a ride was tumbling slowly as it drifted toward a close pass with Nereus II, their vantage on the planet and the pair of Klingon ships in orbit was in constant motion. The computer was able to compensate to a small degree, but it was still jarring when the passive visual sensors handed off from the forward angle to the aft and back again. “Mister Sorak, this is making me dizzy. Switch to a tactical grid, please.”
“Aye, sir.” Sorak swapped out the image on the viewscreen with a computer-generated schematic showing the position of the Sagittarius and the Klingon ships relative to the planet.
“That’s better.” Terrell eyed the Klingons’ positions. “Antipodal orbits?” He considered the relative advantages and disadvantages of such a deployment. Without line-of-sight, the two vessels would be unable to render immediate tactical support to each other in a firefight, and they would be unable to transfer personnel via their transporters because of interference from the powerful magnetic field generated by Nereus II’s molten-iron core. Terrell could think of only one reason for the two ships to have placed themselves opposite each other on either side of the planet. “They’re looking for us. They’ve spread out to maximize sensor coverage.”
Sorak nodded. “A logical deduction.”
Ensign Taryl called up a scroll of data on
the screen above the sensor console. “If they are, they’re not looking very hard. The Klingons haven’t made any active scans of this asteroid.”
“Yet,” Terrell noted, hoping to ward off the jinx Taryl’s boast had unwittingly invited.
The bridge door opened with a low hush. Doctor Lisa Babitz walked in, a hypospray in each hand. “Who’s first?” Nizsk ignored the doctor’s invitation, since her carapace protected her from the asteroid’s low-level radiation.
Terrell raised his hand. “Captain’s prerogative.”
Babitz walked over and pressed one hypo against Terrell’s carotid artery. The injection was delivered with a soft hiss and a fleeting sting. “Whatever happened to the captain going down with his ship?”
“I wasn’t aware we were sinking.”
“Matter of opinion.” The tall physician headed aft. “Mister Sorak, you’re next.”
The Vulcan tilted his head to afford Babitz easier access to his neck. “Once again demonstrating that rank has its privileges.”
“Whoever said it doesn’t?” She pivoted away from the Vulcan and looked first at Taryl, then at Razka, who was seated on the opposite side of the compartment. “Next?”
Razka pointed at Taryl. “The ensign has rank.”
Taryl pointed back at Razka. “The chief has seniority.”
Babitz lobbed one hypospray to the Orion woman and the other to the Saurian. “Inject yourselves. I don’t have time for this.” While they administered their own anti-radiation meds, the chief medical officer looked around, her countenance apprehensive.
Terrell knew that face all too well. “You’re fantasizing about disinfecting again.”
“No, just wondering how long it’s been since anyone sanitized this bridge.”
“As if a germ would stand a fighting chance on this ship.”
“You just keep telling yourself that.” The hyposprays returned to Babitz just as they’d left her—by slow, casual lobs. She caught both of them, one in each hand. “But don’t come crying to me the next time you wake up with the Zircolian flu.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He rubbed the sore spot on his neck. “How long will this last?”
“About a day.” Babitz turned to show the captain the back of her blond bob as she muttered, “Assuming we all live that long.”
Terrell watched his high-strung ship’s surgeon leave the bridge, and then he returned to his command chair. Outside his ship, nothing had changed. Inside, he and his crew had bought themselves a day-long reprieve from the worst effects of their improvised cover. But somewhere down on the planet’s surface, his landing party was on their own against odds that had suddenly turned against them—and he had no way of warning them.
For the moment, Terrell had no better option than to engage in a protracted game of hide-and-seek with his Klingon counterparts—and to do whatever he could to keep his ship and crew in play until their own reinforcements arrived to level the playing field.
15
“Don’t you see what you’re doing to us? To me? To yourself?”
Kerlo had stabbed at Nimur with pointed words, but she was impervious to his appeals. “You speak as if I’m the one who’s blind, Kerlo. But I’m the one whose eyes are finally open. I can see everything that’s been hidden from us for so long. All our lives we’ve been told lies, one after another, and any time we dared to ask questions, we were told to trust the Shepherds.”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
“Because they ask us to go to our deaths just as we mature into our greatest power!” Her mate’s willful blindness drove Nimur to distraction. “I have seen people very different from us, people who have lived much longer lives. Why should we cut ours short? Because of some shapes on a piece of stone? How do we know the priestesses haven’t been lying to us for ages? Keeping us weak, keeping us fearful and stupid, so they could control us?”
“That makes no sense, Nimur. How would it benefit the priestesses? When their times come, they go to their Cleansings, just as we all do. They live no longer than any of us; they keep their children no longer than anyone else. If this is a plot, what is their reason?”
The village square was packed with fretful witnesses to Nimur and Kerlo’s argument. Most of the observers remained well behind the ring of Wardens who surrounded the couple, but a few strained against the defensive cordon, eager to see what a fully Changed person looked like in the flesh. Nimur did not resent their curiosity; it was only natural. What she resented was Kerlo’s purposefully obtuse attitude. “Why must you defend those who would walk us to our deaths? Are you that beaten-down? Are you that weak-willed?”
Anger put an edge on Kerlo’s voice. “I’m no weakling, Nimur. Neither am I a fool. You talk as if you alone possess the truth—but all I hear from you are delusions, wild fantasies that all make you sound like a hero and the rest of us like idiots.”
“What’s delusional about not wanting to die an empty death?”
“Nothing. But our sacrifices for the Cleansing aren’t empty, Nimur. Each of us knows that if we cling too long to the flesh, we’ll become something terrible—an abomination. Our surrender to the fire is our final act of bravery, the moment when we put the good of the people ahead of our own interests. It is our redemption from the evil that lives within us all.”
His platitudes filled her with revulsion. “Words. Nothing but words. The same holy gibberish we’ve been force-fed all our lives. Stop parroting the priestesses and try thinking for yourself!” She turned away from Kerlo and escalated her argument to include everyone within range of her voice. “All of you! Learn to use your minds! Open them to the possibility that the priestesses are wrong! That the Shepherds were wrong! Accept the possibility of your own greatness!” The Wardens tensed as Nimur prowled in a circle, working the crowd. “The Change is a gift! It’s our birthright, one that—”
“It’s a curse!” Kerlo was furious. “Look at her! Her clothes are stained in blood, but she has no wounds! Whose blood is she wearing?” He thrust an accusatory finger at her. “You killed the priestess and her Wardens, didn’t you? Admit it!”
“I deny nothing.” Shocked silence fell over the throng. Nimur met their silent reproach with contempt. “Ysan had no right to command me, and she paid the price for her arrogance. As did her so-called defenders.” She turned in a slow circle, training her cold stare on each of the Wardens facing her. “I would just as soon rid us of all these hooded monsters, these tools of oppression. What good have any of them ever done us? What other role do they serve but to force us into the fire? Why should I spare any of them? Why should any of you?”
Kerlo stepped into her path. “Because none of us have appointed ourselves their judges.”
“Maybe it’s time you did.” The vacancy in his stare made clear to her that he did not understand what she was implying. Pivoting to drink in the rapt attention of her former friends and neighbors, Nimur saw that none of them grasped what she was revealing to them. As much as it pained her to do so, she would have to spell it out for them. “Within each of you lies the seed of fire that will enable you to become as I am now.”
The mere suggestion horrified Kerlo. “Why would we want that?”
“Why?” His stupidity enraged her. “Why do you want to remain an insect when you can become a giant? The hotter my fire burns, the more clearly I see, Kerlo! This universe is but a machine for the creation of gods. It’s our purpose, our duty—our destiny to ascend.”
None of them saw what she did.
Their auras were dull like fading embers, waiting for a divine breath to reinvigorate them. Even as their energies shrank in fear, Nimur saw her own expand. She was the kindling fire that could spark the others. The younger Tomol were not yet ready, but most of those who had been born within a few moon-turns of Nimur stood poised on the threshold of the Change. And now that Nimur saw how their psychic emanations were react
ing with her own, she knew that with focus and effort, she could ignite her people into a bonfire of power. With such allies at her side, she could shape this world to her will. In time, all of creation would bend to her demands.
But it was critical, she knew, to be sure that those whose sparks she fanned were ready to be her allies in that new world. They would need to embrace their inner fires willingly.
“None of us wants to die. I am here to tell you that you don’t have to. My power can be yours, if you’re willing to accept it. Each of you is a flower waiting to bloom, a seed on the verge of breaking its sheath and rising to meet the sun. We were meant for more than this. Let me stoke the fire that dwells within you, and together we will make this world give us what we deserve.”
No one spoke, but Nimur knew she had struck a chord. The auras of many Tomol in the crowd became more responsive to her radiated will. The connection was still too weak for her to push them fully into the arms of the Change—but it was close and would come soon enough.
She turned toward Kerlo and gave her former mate an ultimatum.
“I have risen, Kerlo, and soon others will ascend with me. Change with us . . . or die.”
• • •
Theriault was all but mesmerized as she watched her tricorder translate the glyphs on the side of the metal structure into a string of phonemes and precisely pitched tones. “If this actually works, remind me to write a thank-you letter to Commander Spock.”
“Such gratitude would seem premature, sir.” Hesh stood beside Theriault, conducting his own tricorder analysis of the one panel of glyphs that Seta had been unable to translate for them. “Commander Spock’s discovery that these symbols constitute a system of musical notation gives us a foundation for the study of their meaning and function, but learning the phonetics of a language does not necessarily grant any insight with regard to its syntax.”