The Latter Fire

by James Swallow

  “All. Lies.” Rumen spat out the bitter reply. His large fingers gathered into heavy fists, and Uhura felt a surge of unspent rage coming off the Syhaari like heat from a fire. She had noted places here and there along the walls of the holding area that looked like points of blunt-force impact; now she suddenly understood how they had gotten there. Rumen straightened and turned back to glare at them. “There was an accident, yes. Several of the Searcher’s crew perished when a plasmatic coil overloaded. But three of us survived. Hoyga, Tormid, and I.”

  Kaleo came to her old friend’s side, placing a hand on his arm, trying to calm him. “I know it will hurt you, Rumen. But you must tell us everything that happened.”

  Uhura listened as the other Syhaari fumbled with his explanation, faltering and falling over the painful memories as he slowly tried to reconstruct them. He talked haltingly about leaving the Great Veil for the first time and setting off into the unknown. The pilot spoke of how the Searcher’s engines had unexpectedly gone into a dangerous overload that threatened to cause a matter-antimatter explosion. Deploying their emergency solar sails, the crew attempted to shut down the drives without success—but rather than be obliterated, the explorer had been picked up by an unseen energy stream that carried them across interstellar space at speeds far greater than the Searcher was capable of. By the time the stream had dissipated, they were adrift close to the protostar nursery several light-years distant from the Sya system. They were lost.

  “You are describing the effect of a tachyon eddy,” offered Arex. “The solar sails were caught in a kind of spatial current that caused the ship to travel such a great distance.”

  Rumen gave a wan nod. “Where we found ourselves . . . that was the domain of this kind.” He gestured at the walls. “The ones that call themselves Breg’Hel.”

  “You encountered them there?” Xuur cocked her head, listening intently. “They attacked you?”

  “That was not their intention.” Rumen’s hands relaxed as emotion thickened his reply. “No. They were curious, I think. Cautious. But they did not bring violence. Not until later. At the time, we were not sure what they wanted. But I think I know now.”

  Uhura exchanged a wary glance with her captain, and she knew that he was asking the same questions she was. If this is true, Tormid has known of the existence of the Breg’Hel since the very beginning. But instead he feigned ignorance. Why?

  “A small ship came to us,” Rumen went on. “A scout, I believe. It was so fast, so agile. It was easy for us to be impressed . . . and afraid. They boarded the Searcher, and when Tormid saw what they were . . . alien life so totally unlike us . . . he panicked.” Rumen blinked slowly. “He insisted they were hostile. We didn’t know. There was no way we could communicate with them.”

  “He attacked them,” said Kaleo, in a dead voice. “I am right, yes?” Rumen gave a wooden nod, and she let out a sighing breath.

  “ ‘The alien is a danger to us,’ ” said Kirk. “I heard Tormid say those exact words. I didn’t realize how seriously he meant them.”

  “I think they might have come to rescue us. Instead, Tormid let his fear take charge. He killed them, Kaleo. First those who boarded the Searcher, then the ones remaining on their scoutship.” Rumen closed his eyes. “I can recall the savage look on his face. How he shouted me down when I tried to stop him. And then it was done, it was too late. He ended them, and I did not do enough to prevent it.”

  “That’s your crime,” said Xuur.

  “It is,” Rumen agreed, “but it is not the sum of what was done.” He advanced to the glassy screen and banged on it with the flats of his big hands. “Show them!” he shouted at the air. “Do it! You force me to watch every day, why hide it now?”

  Someone had to have been listening, because at once Uhura saw a milky glow shimmer through the quartzlike pane and abruptly there were fractured images being displayed upon it. Each was washed out, framed by a strange fish-eye aspect, but the collage of moving pictures clearly showed the same kind of interior spaces that she had walked through inside the Breg’Hel starship.

  Xuur made a choking noise and looked away, her pale skin even more ashen than usual. Uhura wished she could do the same, but found it impossible to avert her gaze. She watched as a figure—or was it different figures?—in a Syhaari environment suit moved through what had to be the corridors of the scoutship Rumen had described. Some of the images showed the same sequence of events from a different angle, some looped in an endless cycle. In every one, the invader in the bubble-helmeted suit used a handheld laser weapon to commit murder, over and over again.

  “Tormid told me we were compelled,” said Rumen. “That once it had been done, there was no turning back. None of them could be left to speak of our existence. Hoyga, she was as sickened as I, but his logic . . . his force of will silenced her.”

  Then the images changed. Time had passed. Some of the visual displays remained static, empty, the bodies of the dead lying motionless where they had fallen. Uhura saw the suited figure again, this time in only one image. He was in a part of the Breg’Hel ship filled with active devices, screens and panels and modules dedicated to functions she could only guess at. As she watched, time seemed to jump forward in fits and starts.

  “What is he doing?” said Arex.

  “Taking salvage.” The sudden understanding hit Uhura hard. “Pulling their systems. He’s ransacking the ship.”

  Then time jumped again, and the views of the ship showed no movement for long seconds. “Tormid came back aboard the Searcher with a hoard of stolen technology,” Rumen explained. “Everything he could carve out of that death ship. He used what he could adapt to fix the damage to our vessel.”

  “He always was innovative, in a callous way,” Kaleo said bitterly.

  “So now we know where those ‘insights’ of his came from,” said Kirk, in a low, cold voice. “Tormid plundered the Breg’Hel craft.” He shook his head.

  Xuur nodded to herself. “All of a sudden, their belligerence seems understandable.”

  “Their warp engines are quite clever,” Rumen noted. “The basic design and configuration was clear to us . . . and Tormid was always a quick study.”

  “How could you let him do it?” Kaleo’s question was not an accusation, but a sorrowful thing.

  Rumen released a solemn sound that was somewhere between an animal cry and a gasping sob. He reached up and pulled at the fasteners on his shipsuit, peeling open the ragged material. “Fear stopped me at first. He was my commander. I was duty-bound to obey him. But then I realized what road he was taking us down. So, I challenged him to answer for what he had done.” Rumen bared a section of his chest, and there was a patch of ugly, burned skin where his fur did not grow. Uhura had seen such injuries before, the mark of laser-fire wounds. “He shot me and left me for dead aboard the scoutship.” The Syhaari’s head drooped as he recalled that moment. “I think he believed I would perish there. The Searcher detached from the scoutship and set it adrift. And I waited to die.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Kirk. “I’m guessing Tormid left you there so the Breg’Hel would have someone to blame for what happened to their crew. But instead of a corpse, they got—”

  “A prisoner,” Kaleo broke in.

  “They found me. They healed me. Then they punished me.” All the fight seemed to go out of the older Syhaari, and he sank to his haunches. Uhura heard the deep sorrow in his words and felt a pang of empathy. “Another Breg’Hel vessel arrived, and when they boarded . . . they cried out, with a sound unlike anything I had ever heard before. A raw scream of pain for their loss. And I was at the center of their anger. I could not tell them I had no part in it. They reviewed their visuals . . . ” He waved at the screen. “They did not differentiate between Tormid’s actions and mine. His crimes were revealed to them, and I paid the price in his stead.”

  “And so you have been held here, on thi
s ship, for years?” Arex studied Rumen carefully.

  “Yes. I am moved back and forth from a sleeping cell to this chamber once each ship’s day. At first, there would always be one or two of them here, waiting for me. Young ones and old ones. Some of them beat me. Some screamed at me in their language. I came to deduce that they were the family members of those who had died on the scout. They came to make me pay, and as I could manage no more than the most basic communications with them, I was forced to endure it. After a while, it stopped. But the ones on this ship, they still hate me.” Rumen tapped his arm, where Uhura had noticed the crimson rings on the limbs of the Breg’Hel. “The coloration they have here? I think it has some kind of meaning, a signifier for a clan or a domestic unity.”

  “That would fit the evidence,” said Xuur. “The Federation Diplomatic Corps are aware of many cultures with a clan-based society. Several of them share the consideration that an assault on one of their kindred is an attack on all of them.”

  “Hence their desire for bloody vengeance on the Syhaari people,” said Kirk, grim-faced. “I’ve had a bad feeling about Tormid from the very moment I met him. Spock and Scotty both suggested that he was keeping something from us. But I never thought it could be something like this.” He turned to Kaleo. “You see what this means, don’t you? Those warp drive systems that Hoyga was so reticent to let us take a look at, they’re not the product of some grand intuitive leap that Tormid made. They’re based on stolen Breg’Hel technology.”

  “I want to deny every word of this,” said Kaleo. “I want to say it is a lie, but I know Tormid and I know . . . I know it is true.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “One soul’s greed has doomed our species, Kirk. And I fear you and your crew will suffer along with us because of it.”

  * * *

  Spock made his way up the deck levels of The Light of Strength, using the multiple handholds built into the walls to ascend to the command cupola at the bow. Like their buildings back on Syhaar Prime, the Syhaari ships had no ramps or stairs to move from deck to deck, but were served only by elevators or direct movement through open passageways in the floors and ceilings. A human might have found the climbing and swinging motions required to be tiring, but Spock’s Vulcan constitution was hardy, and if required, he could have run a circuit of the craft without breaking a sweat. But still, it was not lost on him that Tormid had directed Spock to beam aboard on the ship’s lowest level and then come to him via the longest way around. An act of passive aggression, Spock thought. A small way in which Tormid wishes to remind me that he is in the superior position here.

  It was foolish illogic of a kind that he had encountered more than once, and Spock paid it no mind. If Tormid meant to begin this private meeting by placing the Enterprise’s first officer “off his game,” as Doctor McCoy would have put it, then he had seriously misjudged Spock’s character.

  He emerged in the small, dome-like chamber to find Tormid poring over a portable screen upon which a tactical plot of the Sya system was displayed. The scientist-commander was carefully moving groups of icons back and forth across the panel’s touch-sensitive surface, playing out battle scenarios against the inexorable approach of the leviathan.

  “I hope your reason for interrupting me is a good one,” Tormid said without looking up.

  “I believe so. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me in person.” Spock approached to a respectful distance and waited with his hands behind his back. From where he stood, he could pick out a lone glyph on the screen that signified the Enterprise. Tormid seemed to be ignoring it.

  “Why are you still here?” he said tersely. “If you do not wish to retreat and lick your wounds, then why do you dither? Why not join us in the preparations for the battle?” Tormid looked up. “Or better still, summon more of your so superior ships to come and aid us in the monster’s extermination.”

  “We will remain here to assist you,” Spock replied.

  “In a nonmilitary capacity!” Tormid countered. He tapped the bright green icon that designated the leviathan itself. “This freak of nature has already damaged your vessel, killed your captain and crewmates—”

  “There is no evidence that the Icarus crew is dead,” said Spock, but Tormid kept talking.

  “—and you show no desire for justice?” He eyed the Vulcan. “Are all you offworlders the same? Have you moved so far from your homeworlds that you no longer care about the violation of sovereign territory?”

  “On the contrary, Starfleet protects the integrity of its borders, and those of its allies, with the utmost vigilance,” answered Spock.

  Tormid rose to his feet. “I thought that was what we Syhaari were. Your allies, at least in some fashion. But now you refuse to stand side by side with us in this, our hour of need?” He gave a negative growl. “You are only feast-day friends, then. Here to eat with us, but turning away when we ask for a meal in kind.”

  “There is no incentive in a frontal assault against the intruder object. That is why I will not give the order to take part in your attack plan.”

  Tormid came closer, and his scent filled Spock’s nostrils. “What are you made of, Vulcan? The humans, they seem to have a spirit like ours, but you? You are a cold thing, bereft of passion. A computing device that walks and talks!”

  “I am governed by logic,” Spock explained, his neutral expression never altering. “My species have learned to master the chaos of emotions. We operate on pure reason and objective truth. Vulcans do not allow themselves to be swayed by emotive extremes.”

  Tormid seemed to take that on board, scowling at the concept. “Kirk was your commander, and I would surmise he was also your friend, if that is something your kind allow yourselves to have.” The Syhaari studied the Vulcan as if he were some artifact in a museum. “Yet you do not wish to punish those who harmed him?”

  Some distant part of Spock, buried deep, did feel for his missing colleagues. But it would not, could never, be the thing that governed his actions. “Violence for the sake of vengeance solves nothing. Captain Kirk would be the first to agree with that statement, as would Lieutenants Uhura and Arex, Envoy Xuur . . . and, I imagine, so would Captain Kaleo.”

  At the mention of Kaleo’s name, Tormid’s expression became brittle. “She wants to be like your Federation so much, and I think it has diluted her views. Now she has paid the price.” He gestured at the transparent dome and the gray expanse of space beyond. “The Syhaari have always struggled, Commander, challenging the odds that have been ranged against us. We learned to trust only grudgingly, to protect what is ours, to seize opportunity when we can. I think Kaleo has forgotten that.”

  “You speak freely of the Syhaari character,” Spock replied. “But I wonder, sir, if you actually speak of your own.”

  Tormid gave him a dismissive snort. “They are the same.” He turned and loped away. “My time is limited, offworlder. Full command of the Syhaari star force is now my responsibility, and that means dozens of rangers and explorers to be marshaled for the coming confrontation. The . . . leviathan, as you call it, is on a direct course to Gadmuur. I have a battle to prepare for, and unless you have something to contribute, go back to your starship.”

  “I reiterate: your plan of action is gravely flawed,” Spock said bluntly. “The presence of the Enterprise as an additional combatant would not tip the tactical advantage in your direction.” He took a step toward Tormid, the only outward sign of the frustration that colored Spock’s thoughts. “Even with our help, your ships will not be enough to drive off the intruder. Your weapons cannot harm something of such mass.”

  “Each of my craft can become an antimatter bomb at a single word of command,” said Tormid. “If we must hurl them like arrows, we will.”

  “That will only deplete your forces further. I implore you to not to commit to a military action at this time. It is my firm belief that the crew of the Icarus are still alive, and that they will do all th
ey can to find another solution to this dilemma. I ask you to give them time.”

  Tormid showed his teeth. “Ah. I was wrong about you, Vulcan. You do feel something. It is fear. You are too afraid to accept the truth that already stares you in the face.” He shook himself and grimaced. “Kirk is dead. They’re all dead. And we will all suffer the same fate if we do not beat back this alien threat!” Tormid went to the dome. “Our conversation is over. You have nothing of value for me.”

  Spock was silent for a moment, considering Tormid’s intractable response. He reached for his communicator, but before he flicked it open to summon Enterprise to beam him back, another question pressed at the Vulcan’s thoughts. “I find myself asking what it is that you are afraid of, sir. What is it that so troubles you, that violent conflict is the more palatable alternative?”

  “Get off my ship,” Tormid growled, without looking back at him. “And stay out of our way.”

  * * *

  There was no warning before the Breg’Hel came for them.

  The iris hatch suddenly cranked open with a wet hiss, and a pair of the reptilians strode into the holding chamber, each one brandishing a metallic baton that telescoped into a short lance.

  Kirk saw Rumen flinch at the sight of the weapons and shrink back into the shadowed corner where they had first found him. Despite herself, Kaleo bared her teeth, the echo of her comrade’s actions making her angry. Kirk had to wonder what indignities the other Syhaari had suffered at the hands of his captors to make him react in such a manner.

  On the other side of the open door, he glimpsed three more Breg’Hel, each of them wearing the same kind of belt-and-waistcoat outfits, each constantly in motion. They moved from foot to foot, shifting their weight as if they were nervous. Perhaps so, he thought. They’ve never seen a human or a Rhaandarite or a Triexian before. They don’t know what kind of threat we could represent.