by Dayton Ward
Enkoa took the padd from Lleye’s hand and held it close to his face. “You are quite certain?” he asked.
Of course he is, Kein said silently. The question is redundant. As if he would have brought this to you without triple-checking it first.
The glinn was nodding. “It’s definitely one of ours, sir. A military sensor probe. I can’t read an ident from it at this range, if indeed it is actually broadcasting one.”
“It’s damaged, then,” Kein noted.
Lleye nodded again. “These readings would appear to reflect that assumption, Dalin.”
Enkoa drummed his fingers on the tablet. “Has it answered any remote commands?”
“Negative. Again, sir, probably a result of the damage.”
“It could have been attacked.” Enkoa’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Those probes are programmed to evade and escape in the event of detection by the enemy.”
Lleye paused. “Shall I prepare a data packet for the Gholen? Given the probe’s present attitude, it won’t have traveled far by the time they swing back this way.”
Enkoa grunted, as if the idea amused him. Kein knew what he would say next before he took a breath. “Plot an intercept course. We’re going to recover it ourselves.”
“Dal,” she said. “That will require us to divert several light-years from our assigned patrol pattern. It’s not a critical—”
He rounded on her. “The decision as to what is critical, and what is not, is the remit of a starship’s commander, Dalin.” He put an accent on her rank that set her teeth on edge. There was an arrogance there that was new in him. Sullen and aggressive. The words echoed in her thoughts.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I’ll bring the crew to standby. We’ll be ready to leave the pattern momentarily.” Kein turned her back on him and went to her console, so she didn’t have to look at the smile in his eyes. This little defiance of Hanno’s standing orders—he thought it made him somehow special. She had done her job, and pointed out the fact to him. Whatever happened next, she had obeyed the rules, and that would be noted.
Enkoa’s mood became more animated as the Lakar peeled away from its mission plan and sprinted at high warp toward a rendezvous with the errant probe. The closer they came, the firmer Kein was in her surmise that the device had malfunctioned in some way. Close-range sensors showed the effluent of a plasma discharge from the unit’s microwarp engine, and the ion trail left by the sporadic jets of thrust from its impulse drives. It moved like a pathetic, wounded thing. A bird with a broken wing, begging for the kindness of a merciful kill. Enkoa immediately suspected sinister origins as the damage.
Telso and his staff went out in suits to check the device, and the chief engineer’s insistence on a first-hand inspection raised Kein’s respect for him a notch; but she was careful to make sure that he remained unaware of that. With a delicate hand on the tractor beam, Glinn Lleye brought the probe into the Lakar’s tiny cargo bay and the object was secured.
She glanced at Enkoa, waiting for him to give the order to return to their original patrol pattern. He inclined his head, anticipating her. “Dalin, put the ship in silent mode. Full emissions control, no unauthorized communications or energy discharges without my express orders.”
Kein relayed the command with a nod. “May I ask why, Dal?”
He indicated the video feed from the cargo bay with a jut of his chin. “Look at that, Sanir, at the state of that probe. What does it tell you?”
Dark, rust-toned metal in the shape of a crooked arrow formed the fuselage of the autonomous remote unit, and there were clear lines of carbon scoring across the dorsal and ventral surfaces. Near hits from phaser fire, perhaps, or the remnants of a passing ion storm? From a cursory visual inspection, it was hard to be certain.
“It was attacked,” Enkoa decided. “And that may mean enemy craft are still at large in the area. Stealth is prudent.”
“If you believe that is so, perhaps we should send a warning to the Gholen,” Kein replied. “A tight-beam subspace signal, alerting them to the situation.”
But Enkoa was already out of his command throne and moving toward the bridge hatch. “Not yet,” he threw over his shoulder. “Not just yet.”
Telso reported that the device was no threat, and with the bay repressurized, Kein followed her commanding officer into the empty, gray-walled cargo compartment. The probe lay on a support frame, and the first thing she noted about the object was the smell it generated.
That faint stink of spilled electroplasma, likely from damage to the unit’s tiny interstellar drive, underpinned by the tang of burned metals. She saw Telso from the corner of her eye, and recognized the same engineer’s twitch in his stance, the inability to ignore that warning stench.
Enkoa didn’t appear to notice. He walked to the probe, peering into the open sections of the hull where torn bunches of optic cabling bled out patches of hard blue light. One of Telso’s men, Lakar’s computer systems specialist, was in the process of extracting a thick copper-sheathed torus from behind the bladed head of the probe. With a clicking sigh, the unit gave up the device and the technician held it in his hand, like a warrior brandishing the heart torn from the chest of a slain monster.
“The memory core,” Kein noted.
With care, the technician connected the module to a stand-alone console and let it run through the business of identifying itself, the Lakar’s codes and protocols assuring the probe’s machine brain that they were indeed duly appointed Cardassian naval forces and not enemy powers masquerading as same. If the ciphers were not in order, the memory core would destroy itself with a small but powerful thermal charge. This did not occur; instead, the core opened and a tide of information fell into the ship’s data banks. The probe, aware of its own level of damage, was programmed to immediately dump its contents to the nearest secure storage location. Kein watched sensor records stream past her; amid the flood of encoded symbols, there were great scars of jumbled static that blotted out the console screen at random moments.
“What is that?” Enkoa asked.
“File corruption, sir,” Telso responded. “When the probe was damaged, some of the data may have been lost.”
Enkoa turned to face Kein. “I want you to examine the data that is there, and reconstruct what’s missing, if you can.”
She hesitated. “That may take some time, Dal. Lakar does not have a forensic computing suite on board.”
“Do what you can,” he continued.
“The computer lab on Tantok Nor would be a better choice for such a task,” she insisted, but Enkoa silenced her with a hard look.
“I want a preliminary analysis by the end of the duty shift,” he told her, in a tone that left no room for compromise.
A few hours later the two of them were in the tiny duty room, standing either side of the table with a large padd there before them. Panes of text rolled past, small and bright. They hurt Kein’s eyes to stare at them too much; already, she would see them arrayed inside her eyelids if she closed them, burned into her retinas from time spent poring over the sensor logs.
Enkoa’s hands were in motion, moving slowly from where they were folded across his chest, then to his sides, then to the desk, then folded again. This was atypical behavior for him, and she was faintly alarmed by it, unable to map it on to the man she had known during her tour aboard the Rekkel. Command was changing him in many small ways, and none for the better, so it seemed.
As before, when they had spoken about Hanno and his dismissive orders, Enkoa talked without really acknowledging Kein. “This … I suppose I should not be surprised by this. In light of recent events, it is a logical progression.”
“Recent events”: by which he meant the abortive engagement with the U.S.S. Rutledge. Kein took a slow breath. She had known exactly how Enkoa would interpret the data from the very start of her analysis. “The information is not conclusive,” she told him. Kein felt as if she had said those words a dozen times now. “The corruption
has made entire sensor spectra completely unreadable. Sir, I would be wary of making a swift judgment on what you perceive to be represented here.”
Loops of planetary bodies and twin suns moved on the screen. “It’s not a question of how I see it,” he retorted. “It’s the most likely result based on the data to hand.” He tapped a raised keypad set into the desktop. “Computer?”
“Ready.” She had never liked the arch female voice that Central Command had programmed into their starship mainframes. It reminded Kein of her mother in her parent’s less generous moments, of which there had been many.
“Data tie-in. Identify star system on display.”
There was barely a pause. “Isolating. Setlik system, Dorvan Sector perimeter. Contested zone.”
Contested typically meant that it was a piece of dirt desired by Cardassian Central Command but as yet not officially annexed. The Fleet had ships enough for patrolling, but flotillas for colonial operations, for the establishment of bases and garrisons, were considerably thinner on the ground.
Intelligence reports—or at least, the vague fictions that the Obsidian Order deigned to give to the military—noted that one planet in the targeted system supported a Federation outpost and agricultural-industrial complex. Kein’s lip curled as she considered this. Starfleet building farms at the very walls of Cardassian territory. Idiocy.
Enkoa addressed the computer. “Given the data encoded in the files recovered from the sensor probe, what is the most likely explanation for these readings?” He touched a tab on the padd and a string of false-color images taken from far orbit opened. Each was blurry and hazed by corruption, but the core content of them was clearly visible; blotches of dark green, some of it in crisscrossed rods, others in tight knots, were scattered around the site of the Federation settlement.
“Data is inconclusive,” reported the machine, echoing Kein’s earlier statement.
The dal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m aware of that. Extrapolate and evaluate. Give the most likely explanation.”
“Working.”
“Sir—” ventured Kein, but he wasn’t listening.
“Energy patterns correlate to seventy-nine percent similarity with duonetic accelerated field matrix.”
“What is the most frequent usage of such technology within the United Federation of Planets?” he demanded.
“Gravity-resist mechanisms common to military ground vehicles. Long-range photonic weapon delivery systems.”
“Weapons.” Enkoa was grim, but she sensed eagerness buried beneath it.
“That technology is also deployed in several nonmilitary applications,” she replied.
“But not in such large numbers,” he insisted. “You can’t deny that!”
“Perhaps,” Kein admitted, “but there is also the matter of the veracity of the source data you are basing your assumption upon.” She nodded at the padd “There’s a lot missing.”
Enkoa drew back and gave her a brief nod. “I’m aware of that. But what data there is … You must admit, it’s compelling.” He worked the padd, moving a series of time-lapse images into view. “This is a datum from the probe captured over the course of a three-day period. Look.” He taped the panel. “Tell me what you see.”
She looked. The views showed the motion of the green blotches, shifting and moving from one location to another, spreading apart.
“A deployment,” he answered his own question for her. “The time index matches the passage of that Starfleet scow through the area.”
“You believe the Rutledge transported weapons down to this planet?”
He showed teeth. “Oh no, Sanir. I believe that they transported more weapons down there. They’ve probably been supplying them with hardware and matériel for months, stockpiling it. Preparing.” Enkoa manipulated the images again. “Setlik is a system of paired blue giant stars, and thus a messy fog of radiation that our long-range sensors have difficulty penetrating. Moreover, it’s unpleasantly close to a dozen Cardassian client worlds.” He leaned across the desk. “Tactically, it’s an ideal staging point for an attack.”
Kein blinked. “From a certain point of view, I can agree. But at the same time, I must ask the question. Why? What would any attacker have to gain from such a sortie?” She frowned.
“The reasons are many. To induce instability in the Union’s outer rim, to affirm Starfleet’s claims to these border worlds. Perhaps just because we are a threat to them.” He tapped the screen. “This could be the first indicator of preparations for a preemptive strike.”
She frowned. “Remember what Jagul Hanno said. The Federation are loath to fire the first shots in any conflict. It’s not in their nature to attack without provocation. They do not operate with the same autonomy as our military. Starfleet would need at least the pretense of a reason, if only to appease their politicians.”
Enkoa’s nostrils flared at the mention of Hanno’s name. “And I remember what you said, Sanir. We are always at war.”
Kein felt that same, bone-cold chill again. “Laen,” she said firmly; it was the first time she had used his forename since he had been promoted above her. “What are you suggesting?” She asked the question because it was what was expected of her, but in truth she already knew the answer, because she knew him.
“This is an opportunity.” Enkoa stepped back from the desk. He would have paced, if he had the room. “For this ship, for my crew. For you and me. A chance to show our mettle.” His voice lowered, becoming conspiratorial. “The Setlik system is close. We can be there before the Gholen sweeps back this way; we can act with boldness and cunning!”
She said nothing, watching, making her expression neutral.
“I have … become aware of certain things,” he added, after a moment. “I have contacts, Sanir. Sources outside the chain of command.”
Kein raised an eye-ridge, wondering who or what he could be referring to.
He shook his head, dismissing the words. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I take this opportunity while it presents itself. Hanno thinks the Lakar is fit only to patrol in the shallows, tethered to him. This will dissuade the jagul of that. Together, we can show him that we are worthy soldiers of the Union.” He tapped his rank sigil. “That we deserve these.”
When she spoke again, Kein was mildly surprised by the flatness of her own voice. The slow-burning emotions she felt inside did not show themselves. “The data recovered from the probe should be returned to Tantok Nor for deep analysis. Jagul Hanno specifically ordered us not to engage in combat operations.”
“They could be making ready to attack as we speak!” he retorted. “If we leave the area and warp back to Kelrabi, it could be days before a deployment would be ready! We are here now, in range!” Enkoa reached out and grabbed her arm, and Kein forced herself not to react. His expression softened, and a cajoling edge entered his voice. “We can advance by stealth in the shadow of Setlik Major, cross the orbits of the inner worlds, and pass close to the third planet. We can conduct an in-depth scan and confirm what the probe detected.”
She doubted that he would do little more than a cursory survey, perhaps just enough to justify what he had already decided was the truth. Behind that smile and those friendly eyes, Kein knew, Enkoa had already made up his mind. The momentum of his need for a victory, for a way to validate himself, was too great.
“Any delay could prove fatal,” he added. “I need to know you will give me your best when we confront this battle force.”
Battle force. Enkoa had labeled the Federation presence already, doubtless so he could make it easier to convince himself he was right. After all, those words had a much more convincing ring to them than unconfirmed units.
He had no intention of conducting a reconnaissance; Enkoa was planning a sneak attack, nothing less.
She took a breath, held it, and suddenly the slow turmoil inside her shifted; it was in the room with her, all around. Kein was in the eye of a storm, abruptly becalmed, with a single, clear understa
nding in her thoughts. Whatever I say in the next few moments will alter the course of my future forever. And Enkoa’s with it.
Kein nursed that thought for a moment, let it settle. It had to be a rare thing, to find yourself at a turning point and be fully aware of it. She studied Enkoa and that thin, almost pleading cast to his pale face. Resentment burned hard in her chest, never showing, but inwardly consuming her.
If she wished it, there were options open to her, ways she could stop him from going down this path. A single subspace message to Tantok Nor would be enough. And if it came to open opposition, she rated her chances better than his. Glinn Lleye feared her enough to follow her orders, even if they flew in the face of his commander’s; if mutiny was the only rod she had to play, she would win with it. Kein had already made halfhearted attempts at counseling caution and he had ignored her every time. She could stop him if she really wanted to, but it would require an exercise of energy that the dalin was not willing to expend.
What was it that the server had said? The ruin of those sorts of men usually comes out of nowhere. Opportunities arise for those around them, those who perhaps feel aggrieved, to let them make their own mistakes.
And here was just such an opportunity. All that needs to be done is to let it happen.
Her lips parted as a wolfish smile threatened to emerge on her lips. Silence on her part would damn Enkoa, she saw that clearly now; but it felt insufficient. All at once, she wanted to push him, to goad him. “With all due respect,” Kein began, in a tone that showed anything but, “Lakar has little experience of combat operations. The crew may not be capable—”
He spoke over her. “You should have more faith in our crew, Dalin. They are trained and ready for any confrontation.” Color darkened his eye-ridges.
She demurred. “If you believe so, Dal.”
“I do,” he insisted. “Now, take your post. I want us under way to Setlik as quickly as possible.”