Star Trek: TOS: Cast no Shadow

by James Swallow

  Palais de la Concorde

  Paris, Earth

  United Federation of Planets

  The walk from the secure transporter room in the basement sublevels passed almost without Darius Miller’s notice. His thoughts were elsewhere, and he felt the familiar pre-mission tingle of excitement at the tips of his fingers. The activation order was barely two hours old, and he’d grasped it with both hands. Miller’s mind was sifting through the briefing he had been given, deconstructing it and weighing every part for nuance and meaning.

  His commanding officers in Starfleet Intelligence knew him well: a couple of weeks of downtime after his last mission in Orion space and he was getting the first echoes of boredom. Another few days and he would have been at their door, looking for something to occupy him. Miller couldn’t help it; he liked the work, liked the challenge of it. Working in field ops was the career that never stopped being interesting, and Darius liked to be interested. Nothing else he’d ever done for Starfleet could quite match the pace of the cloak-and-dagger stuff. The fact that on more than one occasion it had almost killed him didn’t cross his mind.

  Even though his body-clock told him it was two in the morning—he was still operating on San Francisco time—here in Paris, it was a rainy weekday and the Palais was busy. He scanned the faces of the staffers who passed him in the corridor; the majority of them were serious and intent, focused on a myriad of tasks. Miller was good at reading the mood of a place, but it didn’t test him to figure out what was hanging over everyone here.

  A report on the incident at Da’Kel had been cycling on the Federation News Service feed as he donned his uniform before setting off to headquarters, so the word was out to the public at large. Over a thousand deaths and a dozen starships destroyed, several hundred of the victims UFP citizens, and many of the ships under the flags of Federation member worlds. One Starfleet vessel was on the list of the dead—the U.S.S. Bode, a Ptolemy-class tug lost with all hands. That data hadn’t been released to the media yet, but it was only a matter of time before it broke. Right now, the news feeds were suggesting the incident was the result of some kind of accident; that, too, would soon be revealed as incorrect.

  Although it wasn’t his first time in the Palais, this was Miller’s first visit to the Cézanne Room; a midsize conference space, it was dominated by a long oval table and a single window that looked out on the grey Parisian day. The walls at either side each sported one of the paintings of Mont Sainte-Victoire, and the ceiling was dominated by a crystal chandelier that also concealed a holographic projection rig. A mix of civilians and Fleet types filed in ahead of him, filling up the seats.

  Miller fell into step behind a statuesque Andorian woman and hesitated a moment in the corridor, pausing to catch a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass frontage of a cabinet. He pulled at the hem of his claret-toned tunic to straighten it and brushed a speck of lint from his shoulder. A calm, steady face stared back at him, square-jawed and dark like carved teak, closely cut black hair tight against his skull. Satisfied that he presented a good example of Starfleet’s finest, he walked in and searched for a seat in the rows away from the table proper.

  A number of other officers were already there and he gave them a respectful nod. Miller immediately recognized Admiral Sinclair-Alexander; the woman was on the fast track to becoming the new chief of staff, so he’d heard. At her side, a tall man with Nordic features and a shock of blond hair caught his eye. He came over.

  “Commodore Hallstrom.”

  “Darius,” said the flag officer, with a warm smile. They shook hands. “I heard you were back on Earth. It’s good to see you.” His accent had the strong Scandinavian tones characteristic of those born on the Fenris Alpha colony.

  Miller nodded. “Thank you, sir. Are you well?”

  Hallstrom’s easy smile faded. “Not since I woke this morning, no.” He paused. “I have to admit, if someone saw fit to put you in this room, then I hate to imagine what might really have gone on out at Da’Kel.”

  “You haven’t been fully briefed yet?”

  The commodore shook his head. “There wasn’t time. This has all been pulled together very quickly.” He sighed. “I’d ask you what you know, but—”

  “I think everyone here is going to find out in pretty short order, sir.” He nodded toward the entrance as a group of three figures in heavy, steel-colored armor walked in, surrounding a fourth.

  Kasiel was rail-thin for a Klingon, but he made up for it with a manner that mirrored his wiry, athletic build. The ambassador was the polar opposite of his predecessor Kamarag, slight where the other man had been broad, taciturn where the other had been bellicose. He took a seat at the far side of the table and his cohort of bodyguards formed a wall behind him, impassive and silent. Seven years on from the Gorkon assassination, and the Klingons still insisted on a full military escort for their representative. It was their way of reminding Starfleet of their failures.

  Miller knew a little about Kasiel; Starfleet Intelligence’s files on him were sketchy, but they had learned that he served with General Chang in the years leading up to the conspiracy to murder Gorkon. As the commander understood it, Kasiel had been cleared of any involvement in the plot, but his proximity to Chang—the architect of much of the Gorkon assassination’s plans—had meant he was forced into a temporary form of exile. In this case, that meant the duty of being the Empire’s ambassador to the Federation. Miller had no doubt Kasiel resented every day he was forced to spend on Earth, but the Klingon hid it well enough.

  A Grazerite adjutant entered from another door on the far side of the room and addressed them all. “Gentlebeings, the President of the United Federation of Planets.”

  Everyone rose to their feet as the Efrosian walked in, his expression tense. President Ra-ghoratreii moved quickly to the head of the table and sat, gesturing with a nod for the assembly to do the same. He looked worn and his heavy brow was furrowed. This was to be his last year in the office, his term limit reached, and doubtless the politician wanted to end his tenure on a high note. An incident like this could destroy any hope of that.

  “Here we go,” said Hallstrom quietly, returning to his seat as Miller found a place where he could observe the proceedings as they unfolded.

  “Thank you all for coming,” began the president, absently stroking at his thin white beard. He glanced up as the room was sealed. “I think it is best if we go directly to the heart of this.” At a nod from him, the adjutant activated the holoprojector in the chandelier and ghostly display panes formed over the middle of the table. Miller saw a tactical display of the Da’Kel System there, centered on the third planet and the orbiting utility platform. “I believe everyone is aware of the reports circulating about what took place at the Da’Kel transfer facility approximately twenty hours ago, Earthtime. A subspace discharge destroyed the station and several vessels in close orbit.” The display showed a sphere picked out in white grid-lines, expanding to envelop the image. “I’ve asked our Klingon colleagues here to provide a more full and frank explanation. Ambassador?”

  Kasiel stood and gave a shallow bow. “Mister President.” His voice was firm and steady, but Miller immediately got the impression of a man who was working from a prepared script. “The current public data suggests that a warp drive system failure aboard a Tellarite transport vessel caused a cascade subspace event. That is incorrect. In fact, it was the deliberate and premeditated use of a weaponized subspace device, with the sole intent of taking as many innocent lives as possible, and in a most honorless manner.”

  Admiral Sinclair-Alexander leaned forward. “Are you suggesting this was the use of an isolytic weapon, sir?”

  “I am not suggesting it at all, Admiral,” Kasiel countered. “I am confirming it. A weapons system prohibited under the addenda to the Khitomer Accords by all main galactic powers, deployed against Klingon citizens in their own space.”

  “Klingon and Federation citizens,” said another voice. Miller saw a Vulc
an woman sitting a few seats down from Ra-ghoratreii. T’Latrek had been one of the president’s staff for many years and now served as a key advisor.

  “Indeed,” Kasiel allowed. “As I speak,” he went on, “operatives of the Klingon Defense Force and our law enforcement agencies are on site at Da’Kel, conducting an investigation into the cause of this attack. The full weight of the Empire’s power is being brought to bear on this circumstance, and you may rest assured that those responsible will feel the blade of justice at their throats in short order.” Kasiel paused and gave T’Latrek a look. “In addition, repatriation of remains of all Federation citizens will commence as soon as the investigation is completed. Chancellor Azetbur has personally requested that I extend her most profound sympathies to the families of those who lost their lives in this cowardly attack.”

  Then Kasiel sat down again, and folded his arms. Hallstrom caught Miller’s eye with a look that asked: Is that it?

  “The chancellor’s words are well-taken,” said Ra-ghoratreii, “but with all due respect, I think a more detailed explanation is in order.”

  “Mister President—” Kasiel began to speak, but the Efrosian nodded toward his adjutant.

  “Play the recording, please?”

  The Grazerite nodded. “Moments before the destruction of the U.S.S. Bode, this data was transmitted back to Starbase 24 in an emergency data transfer . . .”

  Miller knew that was a lie; an old design of ship like the Bode didn’t have the subspace capabilities to send that kind of narrowband emergency data packet, the so-called panic signal. But Starfleet still had covert listening posts all along the Klingon border, monitoring every bit of communications traffic they could read, and the explanation was a small piece of disinformation to keep that secret hidden.

  “This message was broadcast in the clear a few moments before the detonation,” said the adjutant.

  The holograph changed to a waveform display as the words were spoken across the room. “MaghwI’ chuH ghobe’ QIb.”

  Miller recognized the vernacular: an older dialect of Klingon, almost a “classical” form of the language, still used by some Imperial academics. The translation escaped him, though.

  Ra-ghoratreii studied Kasiel carefully. “Could you please tell us what those words mean, Ambassador?” The way he asked the question made it clear he already knew the answer.

  After a moment Kasiel gave a nod, as if he were conceding something. “It is a proverb, from the era of Kahless the Unforgettable. The literal translation is ‘Traitors cast no shadow.’ In the past, when a betrayer was put to death for his crimes, those words would be spoken before his execution.”

  “Who would consider a relief-and-recovery effort to be a betrayal?” said the admiral. “Enough to perpetrate an act like this?”

  Miller watched the president. He never once took his eyes off the Klingon. Kasiel’s lips thinned. “At this early stage, the investigation is following up many leads. I will inform you in due course what we have learned.”

  Ra-ghoratreii leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid that won’t do, Ambassador. Once we are done here, I will leave this room and give a press conference that will be broadcast to hundreds of worlds, some of which lost sons and daughters to this atrocity. I will not stand behind that podium and speak in half-truths. Please be clear.”

  Kasiel’s face colored, but he kept his tone neutral. “As you wish. It is the belief of the High Council that this deed was committed by a cadre of renegades from within the Empire. A militia of hard-line isolationists who believe that any peace with the Federation weakens us. They decry any alliance with outsiders as the path to ruin for all Klingons, and advocate that we maintain an adversarial state toward all alien powers.”

  “Even in the aftermath of the Praxis disaster?” asked the Andorian diplomat.

  “They believe that any Klingon who cannot stand alone against what fate throws at him is only fit to perish.” Kasiel glanced back at the president, gesturing at the waveform. “That archaic phrase on the recording was their maxim. We believe they have returned to plague the Empire after many years of inaction.”

  Ra-ghoratreii nodded slowly. “We appreciate your candor, Ambassador. Naturally, the Federation will place its assets at your disposal in this matter. By executive order, I will be dispatching our best people to assist the Empire in its prosecution of these criminals.”

  Miller blinked in surprise as Kasiel’s jaw set firmly; neither of them had expected to hear those words.

  “That will not be required,” said the Klingon stiffly. “This is an internal matter, directly under the aegis of the High Council and Imperial Intelligence.”

  “I remind you that more than two hundred victims of this attack were officers and enlisted serving in Starfleet,” insisted the president. “I am authorizing Starfleet Command to conduct a full investigation into what happened to them, in accordance with military regulations. Ambassador, as a valued partner in a unity toward galactic peace, I expect the Klingon Empire to extend its fullest cooperation.”

  Kasiel’s silent ire finally burst its banks and he shot to his feet. “Sir, you are questioning matters of Klingon sovereignty and territorial law! You have no authority to make these demands!”

  “No?” Suddenly, all the fatigue on Ra-ghoratreii’s face was gone, replaced by a steely determination. Miller’s respect for the man jumped a few notches. “Tell me, is it not true that while within the borders of your space, the crew of the Bode and the other Federation ships at Da’Kel were under the sworn protection of the Klingon Empire?”

  “Yes.” Kasiel bit out the word.

  “And if the circumstances were reversed, would you not at this very moment have a flotilla of warships ready to cross the border into our territory, the treaty be damned?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Then we understand one another.” Ra-ghoratreii glanced at the admiral, who gave him a curt nod in return. “We will send a single vessel, Ambassador. The captain and his crew will respect all conventions of the Khitomer Accords and the letter of Klingon law.”

  “They may observe only!” Kasiel snapped. “Your vessel will be escorted at all times! Any Starfleet personnel who interfere with the investigations of Imperial Intelligence will be considered obstructions to the inquiry, and dealt with accordingly!”

  “That’s acceptable,” said the admiral.

  “Good,” said the president. “Let us work together to find the people responsible for this and see that they answer for their actions.” He got to his feet, and the room rose with him.

  Kasiel and his party were the first out the door after Ra-ghoratreii departed, the ambassador’s face stormy. Miller watched him go, and things began to click into place for him. Years of extensive field operations in and around Klingon space, a working knowledge of exotic weapons systems . . . His file had to have been top of the pile when Starfleet Intelligence got wind of the president’s intentions.

  Ra-ghoratreii had played Kasiel carefully; the man had been ready to give this order before he entered the room, but now that he had done it out in the open, there was little the Klingons could do to prevent it happening. Any attempt to stop Starfleet going to Da’Kel would look dishonorable—or, worse, that the Empire had something to hide.

  He waited for the rest of the people to file out of the room, taking a moment to study one of the Mont Sainte-Victoire paintings, the soft aura of the protective stasis field around the artwork humming at the edge of his hearing.

  Miller lost himself in the brushstrokes for a moment, thinking hard. He’d expected to be here in his role as an intelligence officer, to supply a viewpoint from SI if the president decided to call on him; but now he understood he had been sent along to watch as Ra-ghoratreii cut his orders right in front of him.

  “Commander Miller?” He turned to find Admiral Sinclair-Alexander standing behind him.

  “Sir.” He stood to attention.

  “At ease.” She gave him an appraising loo
k. “Hallstrom tells me you’re a talented officer.”

  “He’s very generous, Admiral.”

  “The hell he is,” she countered. “He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  “That’s true. I try not to be a fool, if I can help it.”

  Sinclair-Alexander nodded. “Good advice at any time.” She nodded toward the door. “I spoke to Vice Admiral Bur’Gun before I came up here. It seems you’re in the frame for this mission, Commander.”

  Bur’Gun was current chief of operations at SI; Miller’s direct superior was a gruff Tellarite with a permanently sour outlook that was perfectly suited to spook work. Miller liked him, but the feeling didn’t seem to be mutual. “Sir . . . the president said a single ship . . . Do we know who’s been assigned?”

  The admiral pursed her lips. “We need someone the Klingons will respect. Someone who has shot at them once or twice. I have an idea. But for now, that’s not your concern. Report to Starbase One immediately and await further orders.”

  “Aye aye, Admiral.”

  “Stay on your toes, Miller. Give the Klingons half a reason, they’ll slam the door on us and we’ll never know what happened to our people out there.”

  Starfleet Intelligence Command

  San Francisco, Earth

  United Federation of Planets

  Outside, the predawn light was turning the sky a shade of pale orange, but in the eternal artificial day of the evaluation center’s bullpen, there was nothing to mark the passage of time. Lieutenant Junior Grade Elias Vaughn made his way back to his desk with two cups of raktajino and settled into his chair. The virtual workspace in front of him was cluttered with a dozen padds and displays, even a few scraps of actual replicated paper lined with notes. He reached for the comm earpiece slaved to his console, turning it over in his fingers. A few hours of listening to the raw feed from Starfleet’s Fire-watch monitor stations had turned up nothing but some low-priority chatter from smugglers in the Hromi Cluster; he’d tagged the data and forwarded it to the appropriate analyst, but aside from that, Vaughn had not had a productive night.