Fables of the Prime Directive

by Cory Rushton

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  #53: Fables of the Prime Directive by Cory Rushton

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  #56: Wounds Book 2 by Ilsa J. Bick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Copyright © 2005 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-9683-3

  First Pocket Books Ebooks Edition June 2005

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  Prologue

  Stardate 51623.3,

  Commanding Officer’s Log. We’re abandoning Coroticus III. Hell, we’re abandoning the entire sector. I remember previous wars, against the Cardassians or whoever. Limited engagements, minimal losses. They lasted forever. What was it? Thirty years against the Cardassians? But those wars were what used to be called cold conflicts. This one, though—I don’t think we’re going to get through it. We take twenty years to create someone who can pilot a starship or fire a phaser. The Dominion takes weeks to raise a Jem’Hadar soldier. I thought I would see out my commission here, studying these people on this planet, but now I frankly don’t know if I’ll survive the day. Even if I did, what a final day this is. Wiping the computers. Destroying the physical evidence of the observation lounge. Abandoning a primitive but wonderful humanoid race to the tender mercies of the Dominion. And for hours and hours now the repetitive wailing sound of the red-alert sirens. It’s enough to—Oh, that’s it. Enough!

  “Turn that bloody noise off!” shouted Commander Tarsem Johal. “It’s driving me mad.”

  “Red alert muted,” replied the calm voice of the tactical officer. Lieutenant Saed Squire was young, barely out of the Academy where he’d taken a joint degree in security and ancient galactic civilizations. It was a rare degree, but it made him perfect for a sociological observation post on a pre-warp world orbiting Coroticus. “We’ve just heard from the U.S.S. Valletta, an Istanbul-class vessel. They’ll enter orbit in five minutes and request that we be ready for immediate departure.”

  “How did we do with the transporter apparatus?”

  “All outposts destroyed with minimal sign of their presence.”

  Johal nodded and glanced at his second-in-command. “Moseley, how’s the data backup going?”

  Sheila Moseley tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear as she read the progress reports. “We’re at seventy-five percent, Commander. We need another hour.”

  “We don’t have it,” growled Squire. “Commander, I recommend we dump it now.”

  “We’ll lose all that information.” Moseley turned to Johal. “Commander, I—”

  The red-alert siren started up again, triggered by some new disaster. “We have four…no, six! Six Jem’Hadar warships entering the system right behind the Valletta!”

  There was a silence for a few seconds.

  “The Valletta is four minutes away.” Squire’s voice remained muted.

  “And the Jem’Hadar?”

  “I can’t be sure. Fourteen minutes if we’re lucky.”

  “Lieutenant Moseley.” Johal reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Aye, sir,” she whispered. “Commencing total data purge.”

  “The Jem’Hadar are being joined by a Cardassian frigate.”

  “Data purge at seven percent.”

  “Keep an eye on the Jem’Hadar. Begin evacuation procedures. All nonessentials get out now in order of seniority.” The outpost could only transport three people at a time, but with only six permanent personnel this wasn’t much of a problem.

  “That leaves who, exactly?” muttered Moseley.

  “Wel
l, us and the commander,” Squire said with a wry grin.

  “Data purge at twenty-nine percent.”

  “The first three personnel are away, Commander,” Ensign Zophres called from the transporter station.

  “The Valletta is two minutes, five seconds from standard orbit and have reported our personnel safe and sound.”

  “Except for the warships right behind them.”

  “Except for that. Definitely an occupying force.”

  “Doesn’t seem big enough for a whole planet.”

  “The local population uses pointy wooden sticks, Sheila.”

  “Point taken. Data purge at fifty-four percent.”

  “The second group is away.”

  “Ensign Zophres, get yourself up to the Valletta. Lieutenant Squire, run the transporter.”

  The two men obeyed instantly.

  “Two Jem’Hadar just entered orbit!” cried Squire, his composure broken at last.

  “Where’d they come from?” asked Johal.

  “I don’t know! Commander, you need to get out of here.”

  The commander turned to Moseley. “You too, Sheila. Let’s go.”

  “The data purge isn’t complete, sir.”

  “We’re being jammed. The Jem’Hadar are beginning a planetwide scan.” Squire looked at his commander. “They can’t be allowed to find the post, sir.”

  “I’m praying you have options for me.”

  “I’ll secure the base. There won’t be much left to come back to, but a limited-spread photon grenade inside the shields should keep the base hidden and wipe out the relevant data. The shields should also mask the explosion itself. I hope.”

  “Get it done, Lieutenant.” Johal took up his position on the transporter pad, Moseley beside him, her hair in her eyes. She didn’t bother to tuck it away this time. “Follow us up.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lieutenant engaged the transporter and the beams took Johal and Moseley away.

  The Valletta lurched under fire, causing Johal and Moseley to stumble even as they coalesced on the ship’s pad. Johal hadn’t experienced ship-to-ship fire since his time on the Grixalon. He stumbled off the pad, trying to control his movement with a burst of forward momentum.

  The young crewman at the controls nodded. “We’re taking Jem’Hadar fire, sir. Are you the last ones up?”

  “No,” said Johal. “One of my officers is still—”

  “Shields down to fifty-six percent,” said the familiar voice of the ship’s computer.

  “Prepare for warp.” The voice was female and authoritative, and coming from the transporter chief’s combadge.

  Johal slammed his hand against his badge. “Johal to bridge. Belay that. I have a man still down there.”

  “We can’t wait, Commander. It’s one officer or an entire ship…my crew and the rest of yours.” A pause. “We just read an explosion from your previous coordinates.” Another pause. “No life-signs. I’m sorry, Commander.”

  Johal felt the sudden, indescribable alteration in the vibration of the deck plates as the Valletta went into warp. It matched the sinking feeling in his stomach. I’m sorry, Squire.

  Chapter

  1

  Two years later

  Fabian Stevens and Tarsem Johal stood above the treeline, perched on a rocky outcrop that allowed them a vantage point over the village far below. Coroticus III was a class-M world, and Stevens allowed himself a moment to breathe in the scent of alien pine drifting up on the mild wind. This almost makes it worthwhile, he thought. The S.C.E. was to begin the process of rebuilding a dozen cultural observation posts on pre-warp worlds throughout the sector, with the da Vinci handling Coroticus III and Sachem II. Stevens was leading a small team on Coroticus, training a group of young technicians in the process before they could be left on their own, while Corsi located the Dominion headquarters for the planet and Abramowitz observed whatever cultural contamination the Dominion might have left behind. It was not a mission that promised to be much of a challenge. At the same time, escape was impossible; the da Vinci wasn’t due to pick them up for seven days. The ship was now dropping off another team—with P8 Blue, Chief Hawkins, and Bart Faulwell in Stevens, Corsi, and Abramowitz’s roles, respectively—then would report to Avril Station for a week to conduct upgrades on their outdated systems.

  “You’re not pleased to be on this assignment.” Johal’s smile was gentle.

  Stevens dragged his attention away from the scene below. “I’m sorry if I seem distracted, Commander. The S.C.E. is happy to assist however it can. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Johal shrugged, the smile never leaving his eyes. “Rebuilding duck blinds is hardly a challenge worthy of the Corps of Engineers. Nevertheless, your expertise is appreciated. This sort of mission hasn’t been the highest priority lately, but it is what we’re out here for. Exploration. Discovery.”

  Stevens nodded. High above them, a dark green bird floated serenely. There was nothing Stevens could see that even hinted at this world’s recent past as a Dominion conquest. Of course, that didn’t mean Coroticus III wouldn’t reveal some scars eventually. Rebuilding Starfleet’s observation posts here wasn’t simply meant to resume the original mission. It was to study the effect of alien conquest on a pre-warp civilization. “We take that duty seriously, sir. You’ll be back at work in no time.”

  “I won’t be staying on when the post is up and running again. I’m only here to patch things up, and then only because I know the place better than anyone else.” His eyes lingered on the vivid forest, and beyond toward the purple mountains in the distance.

  “So, what is your next assignment? Or should I say, where?”

  Johal chuckled. “Picking strawberries.”

  “Strawberries?”

  “An Earth fruit. A delicacy the galaxy over. The Mizarians will pay almost any price for a kilo of strawberries.” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “It acts as a mild narcotic for them.”

  “I know the fruit, Commander. I’m guessing that Starfleet isn’t assigning you to strawberry duty?”

  “Good guess, Mr. Stevens. My sons own a large farm on one of Shiralea’s moons. Turns out the equatorial belt is virtually perfect for strawberries. Just as good for blueberries in the right season. My whole extended clan lives there: sons, daughters, grandchildren, various in-laws.” He paused to allow a faint, wistful smile. “And my wife.”

  “It sounds…idyllic. Very idyllic.”

  Johal laughed. “No need to be polite, Mr. Stevens. It’s not for everyone.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. I tried it, before the war started. It didn’t take, and I found myself off Rigel and on the da Vinci before I knew it. If you don’t mind my asking, if retirement beckons, why not leave this assignment to one of your officers?”

  Johal looked out at the vista before them. “My tactical officer died destroying the post so that it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. My first officer was lost when the Ogun was destroyed a few months later. She’d been reassigned as a yeoman. It was only supposed to be until the war’s end.” He smiled faintly. “It just goes to show that you can never take anything for granted.”

  Stevens remembered Salek and Chan Okha, who died during the war, and 111, who died shortly afterward, and Ken Caitano and Ted Deverick, who died just a couple of weeks ago, and Diego Feliciano and Stephen Drew and all the other crewmates who died at Galvan VI—including his best friend, Kieran Duffy. He whispered, “Amen.”

  Domenica Corsi, head of security on the U.S.S. da Vinci, sniffled and pinched her nose in annoyance. She growled softly, but the growl became a kind of peep before ending in a surprisingly delicate sneeze.

  Carol Abramowitz glanced away from her padd, her fingers poised over the keys mid-task. “Is something wrong, Commander?”

  Corsi glanced up at the cultural specialist, a look of mingled guilt and defiance on her face. “No.”

  Abramowitz watched for a moment as Corsi sniffed repeatedly. To her surprise, Corsi broke first, pulling a
handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her nose. Above the handkerchief, her eyes glared. “Do you have a cold, Commander?” Abramowitz tried to keep the amused disbelief from her voice. “Core-Breach” was never slowed by anything as commonplace as an illness.

  “No.” Corsi looked away to where her team was setting up the research post’s security perimeter. Unfortunately, neither T’Mandra nor Makk Vinx was doing anything wrong with the equipment, and Corsi couldn’t find any excuse to walk away. “It’s…it’s an allergy.”

  Abramowitz frowned. “Didn’t the EMH take care of all that before we left?”

  “Apparently Coroticus III has something new, with which my immune system disagrees. I’ll be fine.” She sneezed explosively as the breeze brought some foreign pollen or microscopic feather dust to her nose’s attention.

  “Gesundheit,” chuckled Abramowitz.

  “That’s a nasty word in Klingon,” muttered the security chief, stalking past Abramowitz and determined to find somewhere else to be.

  “I’m a cultural specialist,” called Abramowitz toward her retreating back. “You know that I know that gesundheit isn’t a Klingon curse word.”

  “It’s bound to be a curse somewhere.” She walked out of site, down toward the proximity sensors along the hidden path leading to the nearest Corotican settlement.

  Abramowitz shook her head, smiling softly despite her sympathy with the security chief. Modern medicine was full of miracles, but the universe was equal to the task of throwing the miraculous offtrack. Something Corsi had said caused her to pause. The Klingon meaning of “gesundheit,” she thought. Corsi was wrong—it wasn’t a swear word. In Klingon, “gesundheit” (properly, ghISong Heytlh) simply meant a calendar. A particular type of lunar calendar that had gone out of favor after the destruction of Praxis, but the point remained. Yet that wasn’t really what Corsi had said that made her consider. Rather, it reminded her of a conversation she’d had with the da Vinci’s captain, David Gold, just before they’d been beamed down to the surface of Coroticus.

  Gold had asked her to stay for a moment after the mission briefing. The cultural specialist paused at the door as the others filed out. “Yes, sir?”