by Greg Cox
“No kidding.” McCoy vented his exasperation. “How in blazes did those two get picked for a diplomatic mission? They’ve all but spit on each other since they beamed aboard.”
“As I understand it, Gast has been General Tem’s number one aide for some time now, and Ifusi is A’Barra’s personal protégé and, rumor has it, possibly his son, although that’s never been officially confirmed.” Kirk had reviewed the files on all the delegates prior to their arrival. “And, frankly, I suspect that at this point it would be hard to find any Pavakian or Oyolu who isn’t harboring a generous store of suspicion and resentment toward their lifelong foes. Ifusi and Gast may not be all that remarkable in that respect.”
“Now there’s a discouraging thought,” McCoy said. “On that note, I think I will pack it in.” He turned to go but lingered to look back at Kirk. “That offer to talk still stands, whenever you feel like it.” Compassionate eyes viewed Kirk with sympathy. “I know that you really cared for her . . . before.”
“Good night, Bones,” Kirk said. “I’ll keep that offer in mind.”
Having said his piece, McCoy departed, leaving Kirk to wander pensively through the nocturnal corridors. He knew he should turn in himself, but he suspected that sleep would not come easily tonight, so he took a stroll around the deck to clear his head. Night shift crew members going about their business passed by him occasionally, but the corridors were relatively empty at this time of night, at least compared to the usual bustling activity. The ambient thrum of the ship’s engines provided a welcome degree of white noise. He briefly flirted with the idea of poking his head onto the bridge, just to check on things, but that hardly seemed necessary. The Enterprise was patrolling the buffer zone. If any unusual circumstances occurred, the bridge crew would be quick to alert him. Kirk trusted them to do their jobs without him looking over their shoulders. Instead he let his mind drift as it processed the day’s events.
If Ifusi and Gast were having difficulty letting go of old grudges and tragedies, they were hardly the only ones. That was a failing they shared with pretty much any sentient being who had survived harrowing events. “Each of us hides a secret pain,” Sybok had said, and while Spock’s messianic half-brother had been wrong about a lot of things, he had probably been onto something. Kirk thought again of Thomas Leighton, one of Lenore’s final victims. Long before she had silenced him on Planet Q, Leighton had been tormented by his memories of the slaughter on Tarsus IV, which had left him both physically and psychologically scarred. And even Kodos himself, aka “Anton Karidian,” had been somewhat of a haunted, tragic figure consumed by guilt when Kirk encountered him again aboard the Enterprise, decades after the massacre. The revelation that his daughter had killed repeatedly on his behalf had practically destroyed the man; his death, mere moments later, had been a mercy.
Kirk remembered wrestling with his own conscience back then, trying to chart a course between justice and revenge. The difference had been far from easy to distinguish, so could he truly blame Ifusi and Gast for tightly holding on to old scores? To many Oyolu, General Tem was “the Scourge of Azoza,” a monster on the order of Kodos, while most Pavakians surely considered A’Barra an incendiary terrorist who was largely to blame for the violence that had consumed Oyolo. Scores of Pavakian civilians and military personnel had been killed or maimed by the insurgency, including the hostages slaughtered at Azoza. Much blood had been spilled on both sides of the conflict, the memories of which were no less seared into Gast and Ifusi than Kirk’s own troubled recollections of Tarsus IV . . . and Lenore’s descent into madness.
Each of us hides a secret pain, all right. Except sometimes it’s not all that hidden or secret.
Lost in thought, Kirk made his way toward his own quarters on E Deck. He found himself wishing that he had taken McCoy up on that offer to liberate a bottle from the bar. He wasn’t looking forward to his dreams tonight. He still had nightmares about Tarsus IV occasionally.
“Captain Kirk?”
He turned to see Colonel Gast approaching him. He was surprised to see the Pavakian officer still up and about. He slowed to let her catch up with him.
“Colonel?”
“Excuse me, Captain. Do you have a moment?”
Kirk wondered what this was about. “Certainly. How can I help you, Colonel?”
She faced him in the empty hallway, her posture ramrod-straight, her hands clasped behind her back. For a moment, she seemed unwilling to meet his gaze, but then she lifted her chin, looked him squarely in the eyes, and addressed him in a rather formal tone.
“I wish to apologize for my possibly . . . undiplomatic . . . remarks at the reception. We were indeed your guests and my behavior was perhaps not befitting that of an officer. You should know that I have great respect for Starfleet and your own distinguished career in particular. I would not want you to think poorly of me.”
Kirk was impressed by her willingness to take responsibility for her lapses. Perhaps General Tem had known what he was doing when he selected her for this assignment after all. Kirk chose to take this as an encouraging sign where the peace talks were concerned.
“Apology accepted, Colonel,” he said graciously. “And don’t be too hard on yourself. I understand how difficult it can be to put aside past differences. Trust me, I know.”
“Thank you, Captain.” A slight smirk lightened her stiff military bearing. “Mind you, this doesn’t mean I intend to be any less resolute at the bargaining table when it comes to—”
A high-pitched siren cut off her words and sent a jolt of adrenaline through Kirk’s system. He rushed to the nearest wall-mounted comm unit. “Kirk to Security! Report!”
Chekov’s voice responded immediately. Kirk assumed he had been burning the midnight oil in his office, possibly reviewing the security arrangements for the ongoing peace talks. More receptions and tours were on the agenda.
“Unauthorized weapons fire on D Deck,” Chekov reported. “In General Tem’s stateroom!”
Gast overheard the report. Shock showed upon her tawny features. “The general?!”
Kirk was equally alarmed. “On my way,” he barked into the comm. “Kirk out.”
He dashed to the nearest turbolift, with Gast keeping pace beside him. The siren, keyed to go off whenever an energy weapon was fired without authorization aboard the ship, blared in their ears as the lift carried them up one deck to where the VIP staterooms were located. Sprinting, they arrived outside Tem’s quarters just as Chekov and a full security team reached the scene. The alarm had also drawn Riley and the Oyolu delegates from their respective quarters. They spilled into the corridor, some still in their bedclothes, and looked about in confusion and alarm. Lenore emerged hesitantly from a smaller stateroom, intended for visiting aides and hangers-on, located between those assigned to the Oyolu and Pavakian delegations. She pulled a modest silver nightgown tightly shut as she joined the others in the hallway. Her eyes were wide awake and alarmed.
“Jim?” she asked worriedly. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t have time to respond to her or the Oyolu at the moment.
“Everybody, stay back!” he ordered as he commandeered a phaser from a security guard. He nodded at Chekov, who overrode the lock on the door. Phasers drawn, they charged into the deluxe stateroom to find a severed right arm lying on the floor of the work area—and the charred silhouette of a humanoid figure scorched into the carpet nearby. Command stripes on the sleeve and a furry brown hand made it clear at a glance that the limb had belonged to General Tem. The rest of the Pavakian military leader had apparently been vaporized by a disruptor blast.
“Bozhe moi!” Chekov exclaimed, reverting to his native Russian.
Kirk knew how he felt. He looked around warily but did not spot any lurking assailant. The security officers fanned out, clearing the stateroom corner by corner. The phaser alarm kept on wailing, making it hard to think. “Somebody kil
l that damn siren.”
“Aye, sir,” Chekov said, locating a control panel on the wall. He entered the access code to silence the alarm. “That should do it, sir.”
The siren mercifully abated, but a high-pitched whine immediately drew Kirk’s eye to a disruptor pistol resting atop a desk in front of a computer terminal. There was no mistaking the bloodcurdling sound of a disruptor on overload. Smoke rose from the pistol. The smell of overheated circuitry alerted Kirk’s nostrils. The weapon sounded as though it was only moments away from an explosion that could take out a good portion of the deck.
Kirk reacted quickly. Setting his own phaser to disrupt, he fired at the screeching pistol. A brilliant azure beam vaporized the disruptor before it could detonate. Kirk let out a sigh of relief, glad to have averted the explosion in time, even as he recognized that he had probably just eliminated a key piece of evidence.
So much for the murder weapon, he thought. Damn.
To add insult to injury, the weapons alarm went off again, triggered by Kirk’s own blast. Chekov hastily deactivated the siren before he issued the order. Kirk appreciated it.
“Excellent reflexes, Captain.” Chekov gazed at the spot where the overloading pistol had been only seconds before. A scorch mark marred the surface of the desk. “That was rather too close for comfort, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I quite agree, Mister Chekov,” Kirk said, scowling. An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu was already sending a chill down his spine, but he forced himself to focus on the apparent murder of General Tem instead. “Any other trace of the general?”
Chekov conferred with his team, then shook his head. “Negative, Captain.” He stared bleakly at the lifeless arm on the floor, which appeared to have been cauterized at the shoulder as though by an energy beam, as well as at the charred silhouette on the carpet. He sniffled, beginning to sound a little stuffy again. “I think that may be all that’s left of him.”
Kirk was thinking the same thing.
“Let me through! I demand to see—”
Colonel Gast barged into the stateroom, forcing her way past an officer at the door. Kirk moved to block her view of the remains, but it was already too late. She froze in place, brought up short by the horrific sight. A strangled gasp escaped her throat. She clutched her chest.
“I’m very sorry,” Kirk said. “Rest assured, we’ll find out who is responsible for this.”
“Who?” she asked scornfully. “Can there be any doubt?” Rage contorted her features as she wheeled about to confront the Oyolu, who were crowded in the foyer with Riley and the others, just outside the study area. “You! You did this!” she accused, pointing at A’Barra and Ifusi. “Murderers! Assassins! We were fools to think we could ever trust you!”
“But I know nothing of this!” A’Barra insisted. He turned anxiously toward his aide. “Ifusi?”
“I swear to you, Great Defender, this is not my doing!” The younger Oyolu’s face hardened as he gazed upon the severed arm and the blackened silhouette. “Not that any of our people are likely to mourn the Scourge of Azoza. This looks like justice to me.”
“Justice?” Gast snarled. “I’ll show you justice, you barbaric animal!”
She lunged at Ifusi, but Chekov and his squad moved quickly to restrain her. “Please control yourself, Colonel,” Chekov said. “Do not force us to take you into custody.”
“I am not the criminal here,” she protested. “The true villains are right in front of you!”
“That remains to be proven,” Kirk stated.
“Are you blind?” She stopped struggling against the guards’ grip, but her chestnut eyes continued to shoot photon torpedoes at the Oyolu. “Who else could have committed this heinous act?”
Riley glanced suspiciously in Lenore’s direction, and Kirk knew that they had another tense discussion in their future. He had to admit that the same thought had crossed his mind as well, especially after that business with the disruptor pistol . . .
Twenty years ago, Lenore had tried to kill Kirk by planting an overloading phaser in his quarters aboard the old Enterprise. Alerted by its telltale whine, he had barely disposed of it in time. A few more moments and he would have been blown to atoms . . . just like tonight.
“I assure you, Captain Kirk, Ambassador Riley,” A’Barra said, “we are innocent of these charges. I am as dismayed and baffled by this shocking event as you are.”
“Liars!” Gast hissed. “You wouldn’t know the truth—or basic decency and honor—if we bombed your entire wretched planet with it.”
“You call us liars?” Ifusi said, predictably taking offense. “How dare you doubt our word?” He threw out his arm and pointed indignantly at the grisly evidence on the floor. “This is some duplicitous Pavakian ruse to soil our good name and exact unfair concessions from us. It has to be!”
Kirk realized that he needed to stop things from escalating more than they already had.
“That’s enough, all of you,” he said firmly. “This is a crime scene and I need everyone to clear out immediately.” He gestured toward the exit. “Mister Chekov, please see to it that the delegates are escorted back to their quarters . . . separately.”
“Yes, Captain.” Chekov signaled his people to release Gast, who refrained from launching another physical attack even as she practically radiated an icy fury. He personally took charge of the surviving Pavakian delegate. “Please come with me, Colonel. Your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.”
He reached for her arm, but she yanked it away.
“This isn’t over, Kirk,” she said coldly. “My government will hear of this.”
Kirk had no doubt of that. “Please express our most sincere condolences. I will keep you informed of the investigation.”
“This way please, Colonel,” Chekov insisted. “Let Captain Kirk do what he has to.” He turned his head to one side as he sneezed loudly. “Excuse me.”
Kirk barely noticed. At the moment, Chekov’s stuffy nose was the farthest thing from his mind. He contemplated the gruesome remains on the floor and examined the stateroom. An assortment of data disks were piled at the work station by the computer terminal, as though the general had been busy earlier, while the bed in the adjacent compartment was unmade, suggesting that Tem had not yet retired for the evening when he was attacked. Kirk crouched to inspect the severed arm. Fingerprints and DNA could be used to verify that the arm had indeed belonged to Vapar Tem, but Kirk suspected that would be a mere formality. Aside from Gast, Tem had been the only other Pavakian aboard.
I’ll have the arm sent to sickbay, he thought, not that McCoy will have much to autopsy.
“Kirk.”
He looked up to see that Riley had lingered behind after the others left. The ambassador looked understandably perturbed. Although he was missing his jacket and shoes, he was still fully dressed in a dark shirt and trousers, having apparently not hit the sack yet. His expression was hard, his fists clenched at his sides. Glancing past Riley, Kirk saw that Lenore had apparently retreated back to her own quarters at some point.
Probably not a bad idea, under the circumstances.
Kirk rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Ambassador. It looks like both our jobs just got a lot more complicated.”
“And you don’t find anything, well, suspicious about the fact that this attack took place not long after you brought a certain multiple murderer aboard the Enterprise?” He didn’t wait for an answer before beginning to lay the case for the prosecution. “I’m told you found a disruptor pistol, set to overload, on this site when we arrived?”
“That’s right,” Kirk confirmed, knowing where Riley was going with this.
“An apparent murder. An overloading pistol. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”
Yes, Kirk thought. Too much so.
Eight
It was still daylight on Pavak as
Brigadier-General Pogg escorted the two Enterprise officers into the enormous aboveground silo Spock had noted before. More than ninety meters tall, the ominous gray structure had been constructed expressly for the purpose of eliminating the protomatter missiles in a (hopefully) safe and efficient manner. Its seamless outer shell reportedly boasted several layers of dense shielding to contain the protomatter in the event of an accident. Spock considered this a prudent precaution. He knew better than most how dangerously unstable the substance was.
Armed guards were posted all around the silo and at every entrance. Even with Pogg accompanying them, both Spock and Scott were scanned to confirm their identities before being allowed inside the facility, the interior of which was lined with several levels of catwalks and scaffolding overlooking a king-sized transporter pad some six meters in diameter, atop which a towering gantry had been erected. Busy Pavakian soldiers and technicians swarmed the walkways, preparing for the disarmament process to begin. An elevated monitoring station located near the top of the silo appeared to offer an excellent view of the operations below. As worked out in advance, the plan was for each missile to be beamed, one by one, onto the pad from various sites across the planet. Upon arrival, each missile would be inspected and identified before being disintegrated. After each such operation, the transporter buffers would be purged to prevent the missiles from being rematerialized here or elsewhere.
“As you can see,” Pogg said, “we have spared no expense or effort to carry out this process. It has been an ambitious, laborious, and frankly expensive operation involving dedicated teams of Pavakian engineers all over the planet . . . lest anyone doubt our commitment to peace.”
“Very impressive,” Spock replied. “I applaud your obvious industry and diligence.”