STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2298 - The Sundered

by Michael A. Martin

  He looked down to see if he could tell where the tear might have occurred, and saw a neatly sliced opening in the suit’s chest-covering. Sulu’s eyes began to water and his stomach heaved as he looked back up.

  Yilskene was recovering his blade.

  Aidan Burgess was proud to think of herself as one possessed of a great many skills. She also knew that piloting a Starfleet shuttlecraft was not among them. But thanks to the access codes, transporter and environmental preprogramming, and helm automation routines she’d just downloaded, she and Jerdahn had managed to finish their uncomfortably hasty preparations in just under twenty minutes. According to [330] Janice Rand, whom Burgess contacted over a secure, Diplomatic Corps-issue communicator, Captain Sulu had just beamed over to the Tholian flagship a few minutes earlier.

  It’s time, Burgess thought as she sat in the darkened cockpit. She double-checked the settings on the faintly glowing helm, then entered the “initiate.” command. A comforting chorus of bleeps and chirps came in response.

  “Hangar doors opening,” Jerdahn said, unnecessarily, from the chair to her right. She could see the doors for herself through the cockpit windows.

  Seated on the left side of the small, deliberately darkened command center of the Shuttlecraft Genji, Burgess checked the automated departure procedure yet again. All the indicators remained green, and there was no sign as yet that her unauthorized launch of an auxiliary craft had been discovered. The observation deck that overlooked the main shuttlebay still appeared to be empty of personnel.

  Burgess felt the craft shudder slightly as its antigravs lifted it above the deck. The motion immediately smoothed as the Genji moved forward, cleared the open hangar doors, and was enfolded in the infinite blackness of space.

  But this region of space was far from empty. Though she could see only a handful of running lights near the orange crescent of the Tholian colony world, Burgess knew that she was surrounded by dozens of heavily armed Tholian ships.

  As annoyingly phlegmatic as ever, Jerdahn said, “We’re away.”

  And flying straight into the crosshairs of both the Tholians and the Neyel, Burgess thought, her hands unconsciously worrying the charm bracelet she’d kept with her since childhood. “Let’s hope the computer can carry out its instructions before some alert weapons officer blows us out of the sky,” she said.

  She saw Jerdahn’s answering shrug in the glow of the instrument panels. “Our lights are off. This vessel is small, [331] space is large, and the planet’s shadow conceals us. We will succeed.”

  Burgess knew that the Genji wasn’t exactly small, at least for a shuttlecraft. Intended, ironically enough, for special diplomatic missions, the craft was wider and roomier than most shuttles she’d ridden in previously, no doubt to make room for the small transporter unit it carried, as well as for its multienvironment life-support equipment. This latter feature was evidently intended to allow sentients with radically different environmental requirements to travel together in close quarters on diplomatically sensitive missions.

  And that’s exactly how I intend to use it, she thought. Sort of.

  Although the onboard inertial dampers suppressed all sensation of velocity, Burgess could see from the tactical displays that the Genji was moving swiftly toward the Neyel vessel, which was keeping station only a dozen or so klicks off of Excelsior’s stern.

  Burgess rose, drew a phaser from the storage locker, and checked it to make certain it was locked on the heaviest stun setting possible. Then she handed it to Jerdahn.

  “When your boss materializes here, he’s going to be pretty unhappy with both of us,” she said.

  Bathed in the faint light given off by the transporter’s targeting scanners, Jerdahn turned the weapon over and over in his large hands, studying it cautiously, as though it were a poisonous snake. She’d remembered then that he’d been on the wrong end of just such a weapon fairly recently.

  “I will be prepared,” he said simply, lowering the weapon to his side.

  A short time later, and with some assistance from Jerdahn, Burgess locked onto the Neyel vessel’s commander. A few seconds later, Drech’tor Joh’jym’s tall, powerful form began shimmering into existence on one of the two transporter pads located in the shuttle’s aft section.

  Joh’jym touched his chest to make sure he was still in [332] one piece, then cast his startled eyes about the shuttlecraft’s interior. Finally, his keen gaze lit upon Jerdahn and Burgess, whom he recognized immediately despite the darkness.

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  Burgess rose, smiling. “I wish to invite you to a ... diplomatic meeting. I regret that I’ve been forced to use such extraordinary means.”

  The drech’tor’s voice was a low growl. “You’re trying to force me to parley with the Devils. Haven’t you listened to anything I have said about them?” Then she saw a flash of movement in the near-total darkness as he lunged toward her.

  Before Burgess could react, Jerdahn fired the phaser. He ended up having to repeat the procedure three times before his superior finally slumped insensate to the deck. Then, with surprising gentleness, Jerdahn carried the unconscious Joh’jym to a starboard-side seat and fastened him there with restraints he jury-rigged by taking apart one of the safety harnesses.

  While Jerdahn secured Joh’jym, Burgess activated the next set of preentered commands. The Gengi responded by passing the Neyel vessel and tracing a long ellipse back toward the Jeb’v Tholis. According to the readouts, the shuttle was approaching the Tholian flagship at high impulse speed, while running a gauntlet that consisted of at least three dozen other armed Tholian vessels.

  How much longer will our small size and lack of running lights protect us? she wondered uneasily, now that the Genji had flown clear, of the planet’s shadow.

  Burgess was momentarily startled by the crackle of a forcefield behind her. Aware that she couldn’t see it in the darkness, she didn’t bother turning to look at it. Instead, she glanced at a glowing console before her and quickly confirmed that the entire aft portion of the cabin—the section that lay beyond the forcefield—was now hermetically sealed off from the forward section, as per her plan.

  “Pressure and temperature are rising in the aft section,” [333] she told Jerdahn. “My board shows an N-class atmosphere forming behind the barrier.”

  Jerdahn grunted. “I will not raise an objection if our next ‘guests’ are made comfortable.”

  So Jerdahn had a sense of humor after all. Perhaps a human heart truly did beat beneath that gray, sequoialike exterior. She grinned in the darkness, which was gradually being suffused by a gentle, oven-like light coming from the superheated atmosphere trapped behind the forcefield.

  Perhaps two minutes later, the wedge-shaped Tholian flagship loomed before them, looking as large as a mountain. Just as it seemed that a crash was inevitable, either Jerdahn or the navigational computer—Burgess wasn’t sure which—veered off from a direct collision. A bright pyrotechnic shower became visible through the forward windows as the shuttle’s shields intersected with those of the Jeb’v Tholis.

  An amber light flashing on her console told her that it was time to activate the transporter scanners. They’ve got to know we’re here now, Burgess thought as she searched the Tholian vessel for her two Tholian targets. Ambassador Mosrene’s profile was already stored in the transporter computer’s active memory, so the system established a stable lock on him almost immediately. The display indicated that Mosrene and his diplomatic retinue were still aboard Yilskene’s flagship, apparently ensconced in VIP quarters well away from the warrior-caste Tholians who comprised the bulk of the crew of the Jeb’v Tholis.

  Unfortunately, Admiral Yilskene was proving somewhat more difficult to track down. Since he had never beamed aboard Excelsior, Burgess hadn’t been able to upload a copy of his sensor profile to the Genji’s computer. But she knew that all she had to do was scan for Captain Sulu. By now, the captain should be in the midst of his ill-advised duel
against the Tholian admiral. And unless Sulu was already dead, [334] whichever Tholian life-sign registered as closest in proximity to him had to be Yilskene’s.

  There! Recognizing Sulu’s distinctive human signature—he was the only human aboard the Jeb’v Tholis, after all—Burgess quickly established a lock on the Tholian signature nearest to him and entered the “energize” command for both Yilskene and Mosrene.

  Then Burgess turned toward the figures that were taking shape within the forcefield barrier. She felt ready to face the greatest challenge of her diplomatic career.

  Then, seeing by the dull glow of the confined Tholian atmosphere, she counted the figures who now stood disoriented behind the energy barrier.

  There were three.

  “Oh, crap,” she whispered.

  Chapter 30

  Sulu’s lungs felt as though they were on fire from the noxious gases, and the heat leaking into his suit was burning his skin as well. As Yilskene charged, Sulu parried the blow, ducked, and sidestepped. The momentum of his charge carried the scorpionlike Tholian warrior past Sulu and to the other side of the room, but not before Sulu’s blade tagged the Tholian’s shield again.

  Setting his blade down so as not to slice himself with it, Sulu quickly pulled an adhesive emergency patch from the forearm pocket of his environmental suit. Applying it to the tear across his chest, he could feel immediately that the leak had been plugged.

  But before he could purge the suit, Yilskene was back on the attack, lunging with his monoblade raised high. Sulu scrambled to recover his own blade, and just barely saved himself with a parry-sixte-and-disengage that would have done the Starfleet Academy fencing team proud.

  Sulu feinted, lunged, and smacked Yilskene’s shield, almost disarming him a second time. While Yilskene recovered, Sulu hit the purge button on the suit’s belt, and was immediately rewarded with an invigorating blast of cool air. He still felt sick to his stomach, but at least he was no longer in immediate danger of toxic poisoning.

  [336] Sulu repeatedly advanced, feinted, advanced, retreated. Yilskene matched most of his movements with surprising grace, though the admiral’s heavy crystalline body couldn’t quite keep up with Sulu’s speed.

  Yilskene lunged again, and Sulu parried, then leapt to the side and riposted. Yilskene barely caught the blow with his shield. Our energy shields have each taken about the same amount of punishment, Sulu thought, wondering whose shield would fail first.

  He hoped he could persuade the Tholian to at least call it a draw before both shields were exhausted, leaving “kill-or-be-killed” combat as the only other option.

  Tuvok noticed an alarming change in the readings. “Commander, Captain Sulu’s suit has been breached.”

  Chekov visibly blanched, and his finger hovered over the communicator on the chair arm. It was an unnecessary action, Tuvok knew, because the comm channel to the transporter room was already locked open.

  “Is he hurt or is it just the suit?” Chekov asked.

  “Biomonitors still show strong life signs, sir,” Tuvok replied. “But he could easily have sustained a life-threatening injury already.”

  Chekov’s leg bounced quickly. Tuvok had seen the commander exhibit this particular nervous tic before during times of high stress. Clearly, this was such a time.

  The voice of Ensign Prager came over the comm. “Should I beam him back now, sir?”

  The readings on Tuvok’s monitors suddenly changed again. “Sir, the suit has been stabilized.”

  The commander let out an audible sigh. “Good. That means he really is alive and kicking.” To the comm, he added, “Stand by, Ensign.”

  All at once, it seemed to Tuvok that again, the captain was about to triumph in spite of having gone about his [337] mission in a highly unorthodox, utterly illogical manner. While he was gratified that the captain was evidently doing as well as he was in an extraordinarily unfavorable situation, Tuvok simultaneously found himself experiencing an uncomfortable sensation akin to frustration. He wondered why the captain bothered to consult him when he routinely refused to avail himself of his advice.

  I simply have a fundamentally different approach to problem-solving than do most of the humans in Starfleet, he realized with the clarity of an epiphany. Mother and Father were wrong after all. I do not belong in Starfleet.

  The moment was manifest. He had not experienced such hyperlucidity since the tal’oth ritual he had undertaken at the age often.

  I do not belong here.

  It was not an emotional thought born of fear or nerves or pride. Nor was it some residual shadow of the memories the Tholian ambassador had passed to him. Somehow, he knew that he responding to the cold, clear voice of logic itself.

  I do not belong here.

  Sulu lunged again. Then, as Yilskene attempted to parry, Sulu brought his blade around in a semicircle, redoubling his attack. His blade grazed Yilskene’s body, chipping off a swatch of crystalline hide. A viscous, turquoise liquid seeped from the wound.

  Sulu was winded now, but even as his body became more tired and his muscles fairly screamed for rest, he felt a state of calm enveloping him. The blade had become almost an extension of himself, its movements as natural as those of his arms and legs.

  Yilskene had landed several more blows on Sulu’s shield, but Sulu had matched his opponent strike for strike. The Tholian’s shield had to run out of energy soon.

  Still, Sulu remained wary. In fencing tournaments, he [338] had sometimes allowed pride to lull him into a false sense of security, and that had been his downfall. More than once he had been defeated by overcommitting to his attack, or by allowing his opponent’s retreat to force him into chase and overextension, leaving him off-balance and vulnerable.

  Here he could afford to make no such mistakes. Luckily, even as he became cooler and more controlled in his attacks, Yilskene seemed to become steadily more frenetic, even vicious.

  Another thrust from Yilskene. Sulu parried and riposted. The admiral counterparried, then lunged again. Sulu again ignored the fact that a giant crystalline scorpion was angrily charging him, and met the blade with his own. Sparks skittered across the whisker-thin blades as they struck each other. Sulu used Yilskene’s momentum to trap the Tholian’s blade, forcing Yilskene to disengage.

  Sulu pressed forward, and Yilskene brought his shield to bear yet again. Sulu slashed at it, prompting Yilskene to retreat shouting a Tholian curse.

  Sulu advanced and feinted, then feinted a second time. As Yilskene attempted to block the initial false thrust, Sulu swung his blade around, knocking the Tholian’s weapon from his grasp.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Yilskene’s blade skittered onto the floor near him, slicing a long trench in the hard black floor before it came to rest. The Tholian stooped in an effort to regain his weapon.

  “Admiral Yilskene, it appears that I have disarmed you,” Sulu said, watching Yilskene stop in his tracks. “Though it is my right in this ritual to kill you, I choose not to exercise that right. It does not serve my needs to do so, nor does it serve the good of either the Tholian Assembly or the United Federation—”

  As Sulu spoke, a familiar shimmering light began to envelop Yilskene.

  [339] Dropping his weapon, Sulu leapt toward the admiral, even as his foe began to dematerialize.

  “Where have they gone?” Taskene asked, running to the room’s empty center.

  Crellene, Yilskene’s weaponskeeper looked back at Taskene, her eyespots glowing a distressed purplish hue. “They’ve been taken!”

  Taskene passed a claw over the crystal outcropping on a nearby bulkhead. She knew that sounding an alarm was likely unnecessary—the truthcombat had been broadcast, via the Lattice, to every ship in the fleet—but she knew that it was her duty to sound an alarm just the same.

  A moment later her consciousness entered the SubLink of the Lattice. It was a cacophony of bright noise, with many minds conversing at once.

  The consensus was rage at the perfidious Feder
ation starship, whose transporter beam was the only possible culprit. In its reflexive, collective anger, the Lattice very nearly directed a devastating attack on Excelsior.

  But Taskene and many others realized that such an attack would have killed Admiral Yilskene.

  The Lattice’s consensus quickly shifted from rage colors to hues of patient, vigilant waiting.

  But Taskene knew that the colors could easily shift again should the waiting last too long.

  Yilskene’s memories will survive within the Lattice, should the admiral die aboard Excelsior, rang the rapidly darkening thoughts of Benrene [The Gray]. Taskene saw/heard other voices, members of various castes, flashing colors of agreement.

  Suddenly, an alien gleam entered into the SubLink unbidden, and another bedlam of bright sounds and stentorian light assaulted the Lattice. When it receded, the SubLink’s contact with Mosrene’s mind had become strangely muted [340] and misdirected, just as had occurred with Admiral Yilskene moments earlier.

  Reacting to this new violation, the Lattice’s colors shifted yet again toward passion and wrath.

  Chekov saw Akaar looking up from his monitors. Alarm not only showed on the Capellan’s face, but was clearly audible in his voice as well. “Captain Sulu and Admiral Yilskene have just been beamed off of Yilskene’s flagship!”

  Chekov swiveled in his chair. “By whom?” He directed his voice to the comm. “Transporter Room, have you beamed back the captain?”

  “No, sir.” Ensign Prager sounded surprised.

  His mind racing, Chekov turned back toward his science officer. “Where did that transporter beam originate, Mr. Tuvok?”

  The Vulcan tapped his fingers nimbly over his console, his eyebrows knotted in deep concentration. “I am still attempting to determine that, sir. Scans show that the beam did not come from any of the Tholian vessels.”

  “What about Oghen’s Flame?” Chekov asked.