Lokog scoffed, tightening the garotte. “ ‘Our people’? We are diseased, Vhelis! Victims of a plague that stripped us of our Klingonhood. We have no place in the Empire.”
“We are still Klingons! And many . . . back home fight for our place, as any Klingon would! Now that Chancellor M’Rek lies on his deathbed . . . we have our chance! The Council is in turmoil—if the QuchHa’ unite and strike now, we can win a place for ourselves . . . maybe even the chancellorship! But you keep us away from that righteous battle out of fear!”
“A battle we could not win! The HemQuch are divided now, but they will surely unite against us, and they have an insurmountable advantage of numbers!”
“Four thousand throats can be slit in one night by a running man!”
She was either bold or stupid to use that particular saying under the current circumstances. “You failed with even one throat, petaQ!”
Her eyes blazed in defiance. “Only if you lack the will to kill me.”
It was then that he realized she was doing him a favor. He had been ambitious once, before the Qu’Vat Plague had stripped him of his ridges and his standing, forcing him to start over with nothing, an outcast operating on the fringes of Klingon society. But for eleven years now, he had used his virally induced transformation as an excuse to remain there, to settle for a liminal existence as a pirate and mercenary, retreating ever further from the influence of Empire and Federation alike. Preying on easy targets and taking pleasure from their helplessness, rather than from the triumph of overcoming a true challenge.
“You’re right. I am a coward.” He tossed the garotte away, meeting her contempt-filled eyes.
“But I can change that,” he went on as he finished the job with his bare hands. He thanked her as she died, then donned his armor with a new sense of purpose.
“Find me battle!” he roared as he stormed onto the bridge, dragging Vhelis’s naked corpse behind him by her hair. Perhaps she deserved better after the gift she had given him, but he had a statement to make to his crew. If he had become lazy and dissolute, and if only his own bedmate had had the courage to kill him for it, then the rest of his raiders must be in even worse shape, and they needed a harsh awakening. Lokog was done being timid.
His crew got the message and leapt to their stations. The junior sensor officer Ghopmoq, now keenly aware of his abrupt promotion to Vhelis’s former post and the consequences if he failed in that responsibility, rose determinedly to the occasion. By the time Lokog had finally tired of displaying Vhelis’s corpse and had permitted the ship’s jeghpu’wI’ servitor to take the empty shell to the recyclers, Ghopmoq had managed to pinpoint the energy emissions of weapon discharges and straining engines within range of SuD Qav. Better yet, one of the engine signatures read as Andorian. Lokog thrilled at the timing. After years spent in retreat from the Federation Starfleet, now he had a chance to go on the offensive against them at exactly the moment he’d sought it. Surely it was a sign that fate was on his side.
U.S.S. Vol’Rala
While an undertaking as dangerous as raiding a Ware station to liberate its “primary data core components” could never be called routine, Giered Charas hadn’t lied when he said his teams had it down to an art. While the station’s automation attempted several methods to expel or kill the boarding party, each one was met in turn by a well-practiced defensive measure: Transporter beams were scrambled by an interference field, extreme changes in atmosphere and temperature were staved off by environmental suits, and replicated weapon emplacements were pre-empted by the prompt destruction of any matter replication unit the team encountered. This station’s computer even attempted shutting down its gravity plating and opening its airlocks to purge the intruders, but the boarding party locked their magnetic boots to the deck the moment the gravity faded, and once the flow of air had stopped, they used their zero-g combat training to maneuver swiftly through the corridors. Meanwhile, aboard Vol’Rala, th’Cheen made sure both boarding shuttles were protected by destroying any robotic repair arms within reach and using pinpoint fire to sever any adjacent plasma conduits that might build to an overload.
Within two centiphases, the shuttles had returned with all personnel and four liberated processors from two different species. All four had to be kept in the landing bay’s quarantine section, for neither species could survive in an Andorian climate and atmosphere. All had been enclosed in special life-support units within the data cores, facilitating their transport to the ship. It seemed they had been re-sedated through the tubes plugged into their bodies, or else were simply too weak from inactivity to revive fully. Either way, sh’Prenni hoped it had kept them from panicking during their transport to Vol’Rala, and afterward while Banerji and Chirurgeon th’Lesinas altered the two quarantine bays to match their respective environments.
One species was native to a frigid liquid-methane environment with a nitrogen-hydrogen atmosphere—probably that of the nearby giant planet’s most massive moon, which Banerji likened to a larger version of Titan in his home system. The other was an aquatic species from a liquid-water environment, presumably a dark one, given that it had infrared pits and echolocation nodes in place of eyes. “I can’t imagine how either one got into space,” the science officer reported to sh’Prenni as he waited for them to revive. “The fishy fellows have no kind of manipulative ability, and the others are from an anaerobic environment where fire would never be possible—which would put quite a damper on any efforts to invent technology, unless they’re a good deal cleverer than I am.”
“If they are from the nearby moon,” Zharian th’Lesinas observed, “the Ware could have abducted them from there, as it’s done with other races we’ve encountered.”
“The bipeds, maybe. But the only place the aquatic creatures could live on that moon is in the subglacial ocean that’s completely enclosed underneath the icy crust. That would explain their nocturnal adaptations, I suppose, but it’d make them damned hard to get to!” He chuckled, intrigued by the problem.
“Not to mention the totally different biochemistry,” th’Lesinas put in. “Look at these readings. The hydrogen breathers don’t even use DNA—they’re based on some kind of complex lipids inside azotosomic cell membranes. The two couldn’t come from the same evolutionary origin.”
Banerji noted a readout. “Well, now they can tell us themselves. They’re awake!”
His typical human optimism led him to gloss over the initial difficulties in establishing a translation matrix. But it took only a few centiphases for his linguistics officer to finesse the equipment to the point where communication was possible. The methane-based organisms called themselves the Nierl. They were slender, tailed bipeds with forward-leaning bodies terminating in flowerlike heads, if that was the word—each with a quadrilaterally symmetric array of manipulative sensory tendrils around a central cluster of optical organs and a four-flapped mouth. The stouter, more assertive one gave its name as Vuulg, and its slighter companion was Rulii. They identified the aquatic sentients as the Sris’si, verifying that both species occupied the nearby moon, with the Nierl on the frigid surface and the Sris’si in the warmer depths below—an environment that the Nierl thought of as molten rock, for under their native conditions, water was a mineral. “That is the Sris’si’s origin world,” Vuulg explained.
“Then the Nierl are not natives?” Captain sh’Prenni asked.
“We are of the Partnership of Civilizations. You must know this; you found us aboard a Partnership station.”
Sh’Prenni exchanged a look with Banerji and th’Lesinas. “We’ve liberated captives from a number of stations of that type,” she said. “None of them referred to a Partnership of Civilizations.”
Vuulg and Rulii waved their tendrils in evident distress. “We are not captives!” Vuulg insisted. “The Partnership does not employ the Ware in that fashion. We are all volunteers!”
“Yes, we are!” Rulii added. �
��And we insist that you return us to complete our full tenure!”
Studying the poor creatures with pity, sh’Prenni strove for patience. “I know this is difficult for you. But we have dealt with the Ware before. Its promises are insidious. But it is far more destructive than it appears.”
“Only if misused,” Vuulg countered. “The Partnership is more enlightened. We choose to subordinate ourselves to the Ware’s needs for a limited tenure, in exchange for which our people, our families, can thrive. It is how we repay the Partnership for the bounty it provides.”
“A payment that cripples you? Damages your brains, atrophies your bodies?”
“Our terms are brief enough to cause no serious decay. The system has worked for many generations! It has enabled the Partners to thrive as they never could before!”
“Excuse me,” Banerji asked, “but have you ever met any ‘volunteers’ after their tenure?”
The creatures traded a look, tendrils waving—to communicate or merely express a mood? “Not that we know of,” Vuulg admitted. “But our numbers are large, and the Ware does not demand that many.”
“We may have met former volunteers who did not wish to speak of it,” Rulii added. “It is not the most pleasant experience, I admit. And you miss out on so much while you are under.”
“It is a vital service,” Vuulg protested.
“Oh, of course. I would not have volunteered otherwise. But I will be happy enough to leave it behind when my tenure ends.”
It soon became clear that the Nierl could not be dissuaded from their convictions, and a follow-up conversation with the Sris’si (which proved rather more challenging, since their more alien mentality and sensorium provided less linguistic and conceptual common ground) confirmed that they felt the same sense of duty to sacrifice themselves for the Partnership. “It’s the same pattern we’ve seen on half a dozen worlds,” sh’Prenni told the science and medical officers once they’d stepped away from the quarantine bays. “Their societies have been so seduced by the Ware’s luxuries that they rationalize the victimization of their own people. Even the victims are fooled into going along.” She noted the skeptical tilt of th’Lesinas’s antennae, and asked, “What are you thinking, Zhar?”
“Well, it’s odd, Captain,” the portly chirurgeon replied. “All four rescuees show only the most minimal brain damage, as if they’ve been emplaced for only two or three moons. It’s consistent with their story of serving only finite terms as volunteers.”
“Yes,” Banerji added, “and the boarding party confirmed that all the processors appeared equally viable. We were wondering about that, remember? None of them had the years of progressive brain damage we’ve found in the majority of captives on other Ware stations.”
“But how could that be?” sh’Prenni asked. “We’ve seen repeatedly how difficult, how dangerous it is to persuade the Ware to give up its captives. I can’t believe this Ware is so different that it just . . . voluntarily lets them go before they’re harmed. Or that these beings could have somehow figured out a way to reprogram it. Look at them! You said yourself, Hari, they aren’t even capable of starting a fire!”
Banerji grew thoughtful. “Then imagine how much the technological bounty of the Ware would mean to them.”
“Exactly. They’re even more dependent than most—which makes them more vulnerable than most. Even if it does somehow let them take turns, spare their lives for some reason, it’s still slavery. The Ware’s standard procedure is to make itself alluring to bait the trap. It’s harming them, whether they know it or not. It’s just hiding it more insidiously here.”
“Except,” the elderly human muttered, speaking as much to himself as to her, “if these species are more susceptible, why would it need to be more insidious with them?”
Before sh’Prenni could formulate a response, the comm signaled. “Bridge to captain,” came Charas’s voice.
She strode to the wall console and opened the return channel. “Sh’Prenni. Report.”
“We’re getting a distress signal from Flabbjellah, Captain. The message is unclear, but they’re in battle with a Ware ship and they need assistance.”
“Set course to intercept. Maximum warp factor.”
“Captain,” said th’Lesinas, “we can’t just take the rescuees into battle.”
“But we can’t just drop them back on the Sris’si moon,” Banerji replied, “not with their special life-support needs. It would take hours to work out a way to move them.”
Sh’Prenni considered. “Bridge. Tashmaji’s already on standby for our call, correct?”
“Yes, Captain,” Charas confirmed. The high-speed courier was one of two belonging to the task force. Since the Ware sent drone battleships after any vessel that stole their “proprietary components,” standard procedure was to transfer rescuees to one of the couriers, which would then whisk them away to their homeworlds before the drones could hunt them down.
“Contact Commander sh’Regda. Have her rendezvous with us en route to Flabbjellah. Th’Lesinas will send you the life-support protocols to forward to Tashmaji.” She nodded to the chirurgeon, who moved to his console to comply. “That will give us time to prep for a transfer and have the rescuees clear before intercept.”
“Very good, Captain.”
Banerji chuckled. “So we rush them away from their home planet, then have another ship rush them back to almost the same place they left. Quite the roundabout commute.”
“At least they’ll be safely home,” sh’Prenni told him. “Now let’s make sure Captain zh’Ethar and her crew can come home safe as well.”
SuD Qav
Shortly after Lokog had set his ship on course for the battle, he had realized that his enthusiasm had been premature. The battle was forty tup away at top speed, and few battles lasted more than a few tup. He had feared SuD Qav would arrive to find only wreckage—though there was still a chance that they could face the victor, hopefully finding them strong enough to put up a satisfying fight but damaged enough to assure victory. That was the name of his ship, after all: Last Chance.
To Lokog’s relief, they found the battle still going on once they arrived. It was more of a chase, really, with the Starfleet vessel—an Andorian-built light cruiser whose identifier beacon called it the U.S.S. Flabbjellah—in pursuit of an unfamiliar ship, a gray vessel with two boxy, inward-tilted warp nacelles flanking a central module in the form of a sphere bisected at its equator by a seven-sided slab. In the estimation of Kalun, SuD Qav’s gunner, the Andorian ship was firing to disable, while the unknown ship was firing defensively, more interested in escaping its foe than destroying it. But that did not entirely explain the longevity of the combat.
“I think,” Ghopmoq said after studying his scans for a while, “the gray ship is repairing itself with incredible speed!”
“Impossible,” Lokog spat. “You said there were only four life signs aboard. How could they work so fast?”
“It is as I said, Captain—the ship is repairing itself.”
Once the idea sank in, Lokog thrilled at the potential. What a prize that technology would be for a raider! And what an advantage it would be for a warrior, to recover from damage almost as quickly as it was inflicted! (He rubbed the stinging welt across his throat as he thought this.) Either way, he had to keep that ship from falling into Starfleet’s hands. “Battle stations! Prepare to engage the ’anDorngan vessel!”
The crew hesitated. Although Flabbjellah was a midsized vessel, its speed and firepower surpassed SuD Qav’s, and Lokog’s raiders were unaccustomed to facing foes that could put up a better fight than they could. The one person aboard who’d proven to have that kind of fire was Vhelis, and she was no longer available. (If only, Lokog mused, there were a way he could have the satisfaction of killing his crew without the inconvenience of their subsequent absence.) But the others had seen the consequences of disobedience, so
they quashed their doubts and bent to their tasks.
Of course, Lokog was no fool. For all his determination to strike at Starfleet, his belief in picking his battles remained intact. An Andorian light cruiser at full strength would have outmatched his ramshackle privateer, but Flabbjellah was damaged and strained from its extended running firefight—and Lokog had a formidable ally against it.
Those conditions saved Lokog the trouble of trying to devise a clever strategy. The pilot, Krugt, brought SuD Qav in on a simple intercept course while Kalun cut loose with all weapons, battering Flabbjellah’s damaged shields. A few particle-cannon bolts shot out in SuD Qav’s direction, but the Starfleet crew’s main focus was on their mysterious quarry, so their fire toward the privateer was halfhearted and defensive. They would soon learn that Lokog would not be warned off so easily. Not when he had the advantage, at least. No doubt the gray ship would turn and join him in the attack, combining its formidable weapons with SuD Qav’s to reduce the Starfleet ship to radioactive scrap.
But after Kalun’s fire had blasted the light cruiser badly enough to cripple its propulsion, Lokog belatedly realized that the quarry ship was not taking the opportunity to go on the offensive. Instead, it merely continued its now unharried flight. “What?” Lokog cried when Ghopmoq confirmed the evidence of Lokog’s eyes. “Hail the ungrateful cowards!”
The face that appeared on the viewer moments later was as dark and smooth-browed as Lokog’s own, save for an array of light spots adorning the brow, a completely hairless head, yellowish eyes, and small fins protruding from behind the ears. “My name is Daskel Vabion, chairman of Worldwide Automatics on the planet Vanot. I appreciate your impulse to intervene on my behalf, though I had the situation under control.”
“I am Lokog, commander of the Klingon vessel SuD Qav—and you could never have defeated your foe without me. Now, before they can regroup, circle back to join us and we can blow the Starfleet scum to atoms!”
Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code Page 2