by Dayton Ward
“Affirmative. We’re still tracking the Klingon transponder, and that group of life-forms is remaining stationary.”
Sensor readings from the Endeavour had shown that following their retreat from the bird-of-prey crash site, Nimur and her small band of followers had moved deeper into the lush forest dominating this area of the island, heading for the base of a nearby mountain range that sensors revealed held an array of caves and tunnels. The scans had not been able to penetrate far enough to determine if any of the subterranean passageways led back to the Tomol village or the Preserver artifact beneath it, but Stano certainly was not ruling it out.
“Have your team spread out to meet them, Lieutenant. We’re on our way.”
“Acknowledged. Lerax out.”
Sidestepping fallen, scorched trees, rocks, and other detritus, Stano and Theriault made their way across the devastated area. Standing near the edge of the forest at the clearing’s north end was Lieutenant Lerax. Tall and lanky like most members of his race, the Edoan’s bright orange skin clashed with his red tunic. Like his shirt, his black trousers were customized to fit his unusual physiology, which included three lower extremities and a third arm extending from his chest. His legs formed a tripod supporting his body, ending in oversized feet that were without boots or other footwear, allowing him greater traction and balance.
“Commander,” Lerax said, nodding to Stano. To Theriault, he offered, “Greetings, Commander Theriault. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Same here,” Theriault replied. “You’re new to the Endeavour, right?”
“That is correct. I was assigned to the ship during its most recent repair and maintenance layover.” Lerax, along with several others, had been posted to the Endeavour following the Battle of Vanguard, during which the ship had taken severe damage and lost a number of its crew, including most of the men and women working in the vessel’s main engineering compartments during the fight. Stano and other survivors had lost many good friends that day, and upon the arrival of Lerax and other new personnel there had been some natural resentment to newcomers coming to replace those who had been lost. It was unfair, of course, and thankfully such feelings had been short-lived as everyone settled into their roles, with the new additions quickly becoming part of what Captain Khatami sometimes called “the Endeavour family.”
Gesturing to the tricorder Lerax held in his left hand, Stano asked, “What have you got?”
“Seven Tomol life-forms, Commander, and one Klingon, though our readings indicate the individual in question has suffered injuries. I sent a team out to meet them, and they are being escorted here now. Two of them were armed, but they surrendered their weapons to my people, and we confirmed that their life readings did not match those of Nimur or other Changed Tomol.”
“Small favors,” Theriault said.
“Let’s get your medic over here,” Stano said. “Let him have a look at the Klingon. I’ll notify the captain and let her decide whether to beam him up to the Endeavour or notify Captain Kang.” She released a small sigh. “That should make for an entertaining conversation.”
Movement from the trees made her look up to see two members of Lerax’s security contingent, each wearing a red Starfleet tunic and wielding a phaser rifle, walking out of the forest. Behind them were the band of Tomol and the one Klingon. Another pair of Endeavour security officers trailed the group, also brandishing phaser rifles. Each Tomol was dressed in an assortment of what looked to be leggings and shirts woven from some form of leather or other animal hide, most with sleeves short enough to leave bare the blue-green skin of their arms. Humanoid in appearance, they ranged in height from shorter than Stano to taller than Lerax, most sporting long manes of straight silver hair, with gold-yellow spots tracing from the sides of their faces and down their necks to disappear beneath their clothing. As for the Klingon, to Stano he looked like he had been in a brutal bar fight and come out on the losing end. Pink blood, dried and darkened, crusted around a gash over his left eye and matted the hair on that side of his head. He held his left arm tucked close against his side, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Stano saw that he appeared to carry no disruptor pistol or even a knife, but Klingons had a nasty habit of producing weapons from anywhere, and nowhere.
“That’s Tormog,” Theriault said, moving to stand once more next to Stano. “He was leading the Klingon group studying the Tomol and the one tasked with selecting specimens for transport back to the empire for study.” In a lower voice, she added, “He’s an irritating, opportunistic bastard. Don’t trust him for a second.”
“Don’t worry.” Stano recalled the name from the reports she had read. Tormog was a scientist and not a member of the warrior caste, which meant that military leaders like Kang had little use or tolerance for him. One might think that Kang, at least, would be somewhat supportive of the doctor, given their similar status as QuchHa’, or members of the Klingon race descended from those who had suffered from the viral infection that had ravaged the empire more than a century ago. Tormog, like Kang, lacked the pronounced forehead ridges that were a prominent trait in Klingons who had avoided the virus and its effects, and his physique was comparable to a human male’s, though Stano knew the scientist still possessed a strength and stamina rivaled by only the most robust, physically fit humans.
As the security escort and their charges came to a halt, one of the Tomol, a male, stepped to the front of the group, his gaze fixed on Stano.
“You are of the sky-ships.”
Stano nodded. “Yes. My name is Katherine Stano. Are you the leader of your people?”
The Tomol seemed to consider her question for a moment before replying, “I am not a leader of anyone, but I suppose I speak for this group.” He looked to Theriault. “You are the one they call ‘Vanessa,’ yes?”
Theriault nodded. “That’s right. If you know my name, then you know my people and I are your friends. Or at least we wish to be.”
“So I have heard.” The Tomol turned back toward the group and pointed to Tormog. “This person is from another sky-ship, and he is injured.”
Waving over one of Lerax’s security officers, Ensign Kerry Zane, who also was doing double duty as the team’s medic, Stano said to Tormog, “We’ll see what we can do.”
Zane, whose imposing, muscled physique looked as though it might burst from his uniform at any moment, reached up to stroke the thick mustache that was as blond as his receding hairline. He appeared uncertain as he studied his new charge before turning to Stano. “I’m not sure how much good I’ll be, Commander. I don’t know Klingon anatomy.”
“Just do the best you can,” Stano said.
The Klingon released a growl of contempt. “I do not require your aid, human.”
Stano replied, “But I require yours, so I’d like to make sure you’re not about to die or anything, at least, not until we’ve got this situation under control.” As Lerax and Zane escorted Tormog to a fallen tree trunk and had him sit so that he could be examined, Stano returned her attention to the Tomol. “May I ask what you are called?”
“I am Kerlo.” He paused for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground as though weighing what next to say, and when he looked up again Stano saw pain and shame in his eyes. “Nimur is . . . was . . . my mate.”
“You’re kidding,” Theriault said.
Apparently not understanding what had been said, Kerlo continued, “The Nimur I loved, the mother of my child, is gone. All that remains is the abomination she has become. This is a sad day for my people, foretold to us through the generations, just as we were warned against allowing it to happen.” He stopped again, his eyes lowering once more in sadness and disgrace. “My Nimur has always been of strong mind and spirit, but I never thought she would forsake us . . . forsake me . . . this way.”
The sorrow in the Tomol’s words was palpable, and Stano pitied him and the child of whom
he spoke. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Despite her unwillingness to abide by our most sacred traditions,” Kerlo said, “she did not ask for what has happened to her. Still, the others she has turned must be stopped before they destroy all of our people, and yours.”
“Can they be stopped?” Stano asked. “I’m told you have weapons that may combat someone who has undergone the Change?”
“They are a formidable enemy,” said Tormog from where he sat on the felled tree, and Stano saw the Klingon pushing aside Zane and the ensign’s efforts to examine him. “They control things with their minds. They change shape at will. They are like gods.”
“Don’t you Klingons like to brag that you killed all your gods?” Theriault asked. The question earned her a menacing glare from Tormog, which she ignored. To Stano, she said, “We know the Tomol possess at least some knowledge about the Change, along with weapons and maybe other tools to deal with anyone who endures it.”
Kerlo said, “You speak of our Wardens. It is true that they wield the lances given to us by the Shepherds.”
“Are these lances the most powerful weapons you have?” Stano asked.
Frowning, Kerlo replied, “I have only ever seen the lances. If the Shepherds provided other, more powerful weapons, I have never heard of them.”
“Maybe down in the caves,” Stano said. “Or something.”
“The Shepherds provided many tools,” Kerlo continued, “as well as knowledge enshrined in the many glyphs they left us in the underground passages. Only a fraction of those teachings are understood by our people, and I’ve often wondered what secrets they hold.”
“The Preservers,” Stano said. If there was a secret to dealing with Nimur and her followers, it stood to reason that the ancient race, along with depositing the Tomol here and setting up the civilization by which they had lived for uncounted generations, would have put in place contingencies for when things did not go according to plan. It would be consistent with their known methods, such as what Captain Kirk and the Enterprise had found on that planet where the Preservers had relocated the group of Native Americans. “We need to get Klisiewicz down into those caves. If anybody’s going to figure out those symbols in short order, it’s him.”
“Typical humans,” Tormog said again. “Always talking when you should be acting.”
Growing annoyed, Stano turned to Zane. “It’s obvious he’s going to live. Can you do something about that hole under his nose?” Waving off the ensign as he began to reply, she fixed her gaze on the Klingon. “Given how much success you’ve had with these people, Doctor, what do you suggest we do?”
“A strategic retreat would seem to be in order,” Tormog replied. “It is obvious these primitive people do not possess the weapons or the stomach to battle the creatures they one day will become. We must regroup if we are to devise an appropriate plan of attack.”
“Retreat?” Theriault asked, her tone one of derision. “I didn’t think that was even a word in the Klingon vocabulary.” Tormog again scowled at her, but she made a point of turning away from him to face Stano. “He’s obviously stalling, hoping Kang will come so they can have another shot at capturing specimens to take back with them.”
“That would be a mistake,” Kerlo said.
Stano nodded, recalling the destroyed bird-of-prey. “Yeah, we saw what happens when the Klingons tried it. Besides, we’re not leaving you down here to deal with them on your own.” She gestured toward Tormog. “Like it or not, we’re involved now, and we have to try to fix what the Klingons broke.”
“The question is whether we’ve got the juice to do anything against Nimur,” Theriault said. “You’ve seen what she and her followers can do.”
Stano said, “But the Changed aren’t invulnerable. We killed at least a half dozen of them when we glassed the bird-of-prey.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Theriault countered, “but while some of her followers may still be weak enough that the Wardens’ lances can handle them, Nimur has grown so powerful that she can absorb a full barrage from several of them and just smile. Our hand phasers were slightly more effective, and maybe concentrated fire from a bunch of them will put her down, but I’d rather bet on something with more stopping power.” She gestured to some of the security officers Stano had brought with her from the Endeavour and the phaser rifles they carried. “You’ve got the idea.”
“Right,” Stano replied, thankful once again that she had opted for Lieutenant Lerax and his team to carry the larger, more powerful weaponry. “How’s your armory on the Sagittarius?”
Theriault shrugged. “No worse than the rest of the ship. We’ve got eight rifles in a weapons locker and extra power packs for all of them.”
“That’s a good start,” said Stano, “but if nobody has any objections, I’d rather be somewhere else when Nimur comes back.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
Stano released a humorless chuckle. “Some place less dangerous. I hear the Neutral Zone’s nice this time of year.”
11
“I feel so different than I did before,” Kintaren said as they moved through the forest with Nimur in the lead. “I understand why you wanted to share this gift.”
Nimur nodded. “We must share it with all our people.” Pausing her march through the trees, she turned to regard her fellow Tomol, each of their auras now awash with the heat of the Change. She sensed the power pulsing through their bodies, strengthening bone and muscle and heightening their senses. They radiated with untested strength, and she felt them reaching both into and beyond their own minds, testing limits that continued to expand.
“Where are we going?” Kintaren asked. “To the village?”
“No,” Nimur replied. “We first must attend to intruders in our midst. I feel them and sense how they do not belong.”
Kintaren frowned. “I do not understand.”
“You will, in time.” Nimur knew that her sister and the other Changed, still coming to terms with their new existence, did not yet comprehend all that was available to them. She sensed their uncertainty and apprehension, though a few among the group, like Larn and Ayan, were beginning to grasp the potential they now wielded. Very soon, Nimur knew, they all would realize the promise of their birthright.
Closing her eyes, she pushed her awareness beyond her being. Her body shifted in rhythm with the branches swaying in the breeze. She sensed the movement of animals over the ground or through the trees or the sky itself. Though distant, she felt the heartbeats of all the people in her village. Even farther she felt the pulse of still more life, though what she sensed was not Tomol. It was at once familiar and alien, so much that Nimur was easily able to identify these energies as strangers such as those she already had encountered in the caves. And yet, even in this, these new sensations were different. They were near where the sky-ship had fallen from the stars and where Nimur had defied the fury unleashed by those still lurking above the clouds to destroy her.
Then she became aware of another concentration of intruders, a larger group even more distant, perhaps beyond Suba’s boundaries. Something there resisted her attempts to understand it. Why was that? Moments passed before Nimur realized that her difficulties lay in the fact that whatever she was trying to feel was not alive.
“Nimur?” Kintaren prompted. “What is it?”
“I am not certain.” Something was . . . there. It was large, and cold, and unyielding. It was not natural, of this Nimur was sure. It did not run in the forest or swim in the sea or soar among the clouds, and yet she sensed the object was perhaps capable of all those things.
Another sky-ship?
Could it be? How was that possible? How many such constructs floated among the stars? There was no way to know, of course. Pushing her thoughts farther, she felt the energies swirling within and around the object, and they were similar to that of the sky-ship on which she
had found herself, with the ones who called themselves Klingons. This sensation was different, softer and more focused. Auras of blue and yellow and white were prevalent, as opposed to the harsher crimson and black that characterized the Klingon ship. What was it doing here? Searching for her? Perhaps.
“I see the strangers,” Nimur said. “I see their sky-ship.” From the air, the intruders seemed to carry all of the advantages in any confrontation, but a sky-ship here on the ground carried with it great potential, if it could be captured. Though she could see it in her mind’s eye, she was uncertain of its precise location. Could she use the energy it emitted as a means of finding it? Once more, she probed outward, allowing her thoughts to float as though on the wind until they found the song she remembered when she had spoken with the other sky-ships. There indeed was a similar song being sung toward the clouds, but then Nimur was aware of another, weaker song also in the air. This was different, she decided. It did not seem intended for a vessel high above Arethusa but instead for a place here on Suba.
It seemed intended for her.
“What is this?” she cried, raising her arms as she sensed something within her that was not of her own flesh and blood. Something alien. How had it come to be there, and how long had it been inside her?
“Nimur?” Kintaren asked, her tone one of concern.
There, her mind screamed as her gaze penetrated the skin and muscle of her left arm. Embedded within her flesh was a tiny object, forged from metal but in a manner far beyond anything created by one of her people, and featuring tiny barbs that must have been present to ensure the object remained anchored to the flesh of its unsuspecting host.
And it sings. To the sky-ships.
Snarling with newfound rage, Nimur clawed at her flesh, the nails of her right hand digging into her left arm. She sensed no pain at the wounds she was inflicting upon herself, so focused was her anger. Fingers pushed through muscle tissue until she sensed the object before digging it out from beneath her skin and holding it up to examine it.