by David Mack
“Thank you,” Bridy said, taking a seat.
Quinn settled into the chair next to hers and nodded at Naya. “Much obliged, ma’am.”
Moments later, a procession of young men carrying plates of food and pitchers of beverages entered through a swinging door. From the kitchen behind them wafted the aroma of cooked meat, pungent spices, and something sweet. A bite of woodsmoke also lingered in the air.
In less than a minute, the long table was covered with food, plates, cutlery, and linens. Quinn was impressed. They might be funny-lookin’, he mused with a wry half smile, but they lay out a hell of a spread.
He expected the half-dozen men to sit down and join them, but instead Naya’s male kin all retreated back into the kitchen. So that’s how it is here, Quinn realized. Good to know.
After quickly perusing the offerings arrayed before him, Quinn reached toward a bowl of what looked like meat stew.
Under the table, Bridy kicked her heel into his shin. He jerked his hand back to his side and whispered to her, “What?”
Her voice was hushed but sharp. “Do you see her reaching for the food?”
At the head of the table, Naya sat with her hands folded in her lap. No drinks had been poured, and no food had been served.
“Sorry,” Quinn said, feeling more than a little ashamed of himself. His mother had taught him proper manners when he was a boy, but it had been a long time since he’d actually needed to put them to use.
He heard the front door open. A steady patter of footsteps followed. Ilka had returned with five other women, all of them adults like Naya. Their hair colors ranged from pale copper to silver, but otherwise they looked much the same as their hostess.
Naya stood as the women fanned out on either side of the table, so Bridy and Quinn did the same.
“Bridget, Cervantes—allow me to introduce the landgraves of Leuck Shire: Yan Cova, Adeva Oros, Enora Yova, Decin Rokon, and Urova Pren.”
“Hello,” Bridy said.
“A pleasure,” Quinn added, though he was sure he wouldn’t remember any of these ladies’ names in about ten seconds.
Gesturing for everyone to sit, Naya said, “Let us eat.”
Quinn let all the women serve themselves before he covered his own plate with slices of white meat in a brown gravy, hearty bread, and assorted raw and boiled vegetables. Then he picked up a copper pitcher and filled his ceramic mug with an amber fluid that, when he tasted it, reminded him of sweetened tea.
For most of the meal, the landgraves spoke only to Bridy Mac. They asked her banal questions: How many worlds had she been to? What was the life expectancy of a human female? Did men on Earth know their place as they did on Golmira? For the sake of satisfying his hunger and staying out of trouble, Quinn let Bridy do the talking for the first hour or so.
He was in the middle of enjoying his dessert, which bore an uncanny similarity to his grandmother’s pear cobbler, when the topic of conversation finally turned to the Denn and the recent history of their world.
“The collapse was centuries ago,” Naya said. “Journals from that time spoke often of instabilities and upheavals, but no one thought the end could happen so quickly.”
The landgraves nodded, and Yan said, “Survivors of the collapse spoke of a tipping point. Pollution had been warming the air and the seas for centuries before then, but no one did anything about it.”
Decin continued the story. “Our polar caps and permafrost melted, and the seas began to rise, destroying many of our coastal cities. Then the change in the ocean’s salinity disrupted the deep currents that moved warm water from the equator out to the polar latitudes, and the deep freeze began.”
“After countless warnings about how the planet had been warming,” Urova said, “it seemed ironic that Golmira should find itself the victim of a new glacial age. Temperatures plunged. The ice walls advanced, and our ancestors used every bit of energy they could burn to keep their cities alive.”
“But there was no stopping the ice,” said Adeva, picking up the narrative. “Within decades, the carbon fuels and the fissionable elements were used up. The engines stopped, and the cities went dark.”
Enora added, “All that remains of the old world is what you see now. We live in its ashes and grow our crops on its grave.”
Bridy asked, “Didn’t your ancestors explore solar power? Or biofuels? Geothermal taps? Hydroelectrics? Wind turbines?”
The local women nodded. Naya said, “They tried, but by then it was too late. Biofuels require expendable crops, and once the glaciers came we could barely produce enough to subsist. The other options demand resources that our forebears lacked the wisdom to develop in time, and that are now beyond our grasp.”
Quinn leaned forward. “Mind if I ask a question?”
Naya nodded. “Please do.”
“Do you have much contact with other towns? When we were flyin’ in, we noticed y’all have a decent number of boats, and it looks like there are roads between here and some other provinces, or shires, or whatever.”
“Yes,” Naya said. “We trade and share news with other communities on a regular basis. Crops that grow well in one place often fare poorly in others, so we all have an incentive to cooperate. All of this is done by sea, however. The roads between the shires aren’t safe.”
Bridy and Quinn glanced at each other. Bridy asked Naya, “Why aren’t they safe?”
“The Goçeba,” Naya said. “Superstitious nomads. They roam the desert wastes between the coasts and ice walls, and they like to ambush travelers on the roads.”
Decin added, “The only time it’s safe to travel the roads is during the month of the summer solstice, when the Goçeba gather at the Precursor temple in the Hinterlands.”
Quinn felt a tingle of anticipation. It was the same sense of excitement he got at the card table whenever he drew a guaranteed winning hand or learned another player’s tell. Feigning nonchalance, he said, “Why do they like the temple?”
Enora replied, “It’s always been a magnet for the delusional, even before the collapse.”
“Some legends say it houses an artifact that predates the evolution of our species,” Naya added. “I’ve never seen it, so I don’t even know if the artifact exists, but the Goçeba certainly believe it does. And they worship it like fools.”
“I’ll bet,” Quinn said. “But only once per year, in high summer?” The Denn women nodded, so he pressed on. “And you said it’s where, exactly?”
“In the Hinterlands,” Adeva said. “In the center of a city once known as Doanhain. It was swallowed by the desert ages ago, but the nomads keep the temple uncovered.”
Quinn looked at Bridy, who inquired, “Is it far from here?”
Naya seemed unsettled by the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Ancient cultures are important to the Federation,” Quinn said. “If it’s as old as your legends say, there are thousands of archaeologists who’d love to study it. That alone could be a huge revenue source for your planet.”
Yan leaned forward, her expression eager. “Really?”
Admiring the woman’s finely honed sense of avarice, Quinn said, “Hell, yeah. But only if it’s really old. We’d have to go out and run some tests to be sure, but if that temple’s the real deal, we could probably get Federation support and snag some major investors to help rebuild your planet.”
His proposal inspired several seconds of terse, whispered discussion between the landgraves and their cynosure.
Naya looked up and said, “Would your Federation help control the Goçeba?”
He shrugged. “They’d have to if they want to get anything done.”
“Very well,” Naya said. “The temple is half a day’s ride from here. Tomorrow we’ll provide you with mounts, provisions, and a map. Until then, please stay here in Tegoresko as our guests.”
Bridy replied, “Thank you, Naya. That’s very kind of you.”
Quinn sipped his tea and felt as if he’d done some good by inviting hi
mself to dinner. Then he realized there was one very important question he’d neglected to ask.
“It’s not high summer, is it?”
“No, Cervantes,” Naya said. “It is early spring. The Goçeba don’t convene for many months yet.”
He let out a relieved sigh. “Just checkin’.”
11
February 23, 2267
Gorkon slammed his hand down on the conference-room table. “I refuse to believe there is no alternative to war!”
Diego Reyes was too exhausted to react to Gorkon’s outburst, and from where he was sitting, Ezthene appeared equally unfazed. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a Klingon would prove to be a political idealist,” Reyes said.
“No one denies that averting a full-scale conflict among our peoples will be difficult,” Gorkon says. “But it must be done. The Empire and the Federation both predict they will be victorious, but the truth is that our militaries are more evenly matched than either side will admit. Any war between us would become one of attrition, and with the Tholians and the Romulans waiting to strike us both, we would become the architects of our own doom.”
Indistinct metallic scratching sounds emanated from inside Ezthene’s environment suit of shimmering Tholian silk. His vocoder translated it for Gorkon and Reyes. “War is rarely the most productive response to a crisis. However, it has been one that your people have chosen many times. Why should this change now?”
“I’ve already said why,” Gorkon said.
“What he meant,” Reyes cut in, “isn’t why but how.”
The Klingon politician grunted softly and ruminated for a moment. “Chancellor Sturka must be persuaded there is more to be gained by negotiating with the Federation for access to the secrets of the Gonmog Sector than there is in taking it by force.”
“Good luck with that,” Reyes said.
Gorkon shot a withering look at Reyes. “Are you implying the Federation would not be willing to exchange information?”
“Why would they? They got to the Taurus Reach ahead of you, and they’ve paid in blood for the privilege.”
“There must be some way to broker a truce,” Gorkon said.
Reyes shook his head. Dull pain throbbed in his temples, and his ears and forehead felt hot. He blamed the Klingon food and the overcaffeinated swill they had told him was “a lot like human coffee,” but which tasted more like hot bitter syrup. “I don’t know,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing down to try to relieve some of the pressure in his sinus. “You’d have to lay groundwork on both sides. I’m talking about people working behind the scenes to open up lines of communication, head off conflicts before they go public, create a political pressure valve. But that’s not gonna happen in a year or even ten years, Gorkon. We’re talking about the kind of change that can take a generation.”
Gorkon nodded. “All too true. An accord between our peoples might not be possible during our lifetimes.” He smiled at Reyes. “Too many people like us are too afraid of change to let it happen. Which makes it imperative we steer the next generation down that path now, before their course becomes set.”
A new chorus of tinny shrieks turned attention back toward Ezthene. “You talk of peace in a generation,” he said. “But it will take far longer than that for the Tholian Assembly to put aside its hatred. Its grudges are long and deep.”
“I suspected as much,” Gorkon said. “At best, the Empire might seek a cease-fire with the Assembly.”
“Diego was right about you,” Ezthene said. “You are an idealist. Most curious.”
A tight smile betrayed Gorkon’s waning patience with his guests. “I could say the same of you,” he replied. “You tried to seek asylum on Vanguard for the same reason I brought you both here. You want to find a new way forward, for all of us.”
“How noble of you,” Ezthene said. “However, did it occur to you that your method was somewhat less benign than ours? After all, this unofficial summit of yours is hardly conducive to producing any kind of lasting agreement among our respective nations. You abducted us and brought us to Klingon space, where you indubitably hold the upper hand.”
Reyes added, “He makes a good point. This is hardly what I’d call a meeting of equals, Gorkon.”
“Because I brought you to Klingon space against your will?”
“That, and the fact we’re not really playing at your level of the game anymore, if we ever were.” Reyes nodded at Ezthene. “He’s an exiled dissenter, an outcast from his people. If what he’s told me is true, they’ll try to kill him on sight. And me? For God’s sake, Gorkon, I’m a legally dead convicted military criminal. Not exactly a mover and a shaker, if you know what I mean.”
Frowning, Gorkon replied, “I am certain I do not.”
“Look,” Reyes said. “You sit on the Klingon High Council. You’ve been the chancellor’s right-hand man for years now. That puts you in a position to make a difference. Ezthene and I, on the other hand, aren’t exactly poised to make much of an impact on our governments. So if you’re counting on us to bring your vision of the future to life, I think you’re in for a hell of a big letdown.”
Gorkon reclined, looked at the overhead, and chortled. “Of course,” he muttered. “How foolish of me.” He stood and planted his fingertips on the tabletop. “Please accept my apologies, gentlemen. I should have communicated my purpose more clearly when we first sat down together. I did not go to the effort and expense of bringing the two of you here so that I could send you back as envoys to your own peoples. You are not here because I believe either of you is positioned to influence the actions of your leaders or your deliberative assemblies.”
Feeling his headache getting worse the longer Gorkon talked, Reyes said, “Get to the point, will you?”
A forbidding scowl creased the Klingon’s brow as he replied, “You’re not here to sway your governments. You’re here to help me sway mine.”
12
February 24, 2267
“I know it’s generally considered gauche to make comparisons between one’s former and current spouses,” Pennington said, “but I have to admit I enjoyed my first honeymoon a lot more than this one.”
T’Prynn looked up from her bowl of plomeek soup at Tim Pennington. He had not said much during their first day aboard the civilian transport to Ajilon, preferring to sleep off the fatigue from their trek through the L-langon Mountains. Now that he was awake and facing her across their tiny dining-room table, she wondered if rather than requesting a suite with two bunks she ought to have requested separate quarters.
Without betraying her regrets regarding their travel arrangements, she replied, “If you are referring to the chaste nature of our cohabitation, I should think it would have been entirely expected.”
“Actually,” Pennington replied between bites of his pasta pesto with goschmol mushrooms from Tellar, “I was talking about the lack of fun and conversation more than the lack of sex.” He speared another forkful of food, lifted it halfway to his mouth, and stopped. “Wait a minute. What do you mean this should have been expected?”
“First, because I swore my marital vows under an assumed name, they are not legally binding. Ergo, you and I are not actually married, and no act of consummation should be expected.”
Cracking a rakish smile, Pennington asked, “Not even to maintain appearances?”
“I doubt anyone is observing our activity here in our cabin, Mister Pennington. Such a charade would in all likelihood be of no value to the preservation of our cover story.”
“Bloody match made in heaven,” he mumbled, then shoveled the forkful of pasta into his mouth.
T’Prynn added, “Also, since you seem to be unaware, I should make it clear my sexual preference is for women.”
He stared at T’Prynn as he chewed and swallowed. “Well,” he said. “That throws a wrench in things, doesn’t it? Thanks for sharing.”
The rest of dinner was quiet.
After placing his dishes outsi
de the cabin door for the ship’s housekeeping staff to collect, Pennington said, “I’m pretty sure there’s a lounge or pub somewhere on this boat, and I mean to find it.”
“I have no doubt that your experience as an investigative journalist will serve you well in that endeavor,” T’Prynn replied as she sat down in front of the cabin’s comm terminal.
Pennington walked away, and the cabin’s door slid shut.
Emancipated from her pseudo-husband’s inane small talk, T’Prynn powered up the comm and began a methodical survey of the major news feeds available within the Federation. Before her surreptitious departure from Vulcan, she’d had no opportunity to catch herself up on events that had transpired during the year she had been in a coma. The ban on modern technologies inside her native village of Kren’than had prevented her from learning anything notable during her post-coma convalescence, and her need to move quickly and evade detection after fleeing the commune had made such prolonged research impossible until now.
She intially looked for any news related to Starbase 47 during the year of her absence. The first news items returned by the system had been published within two days of her mental collapse. At the top of the list was a story by Tim Pennington that exposed Diego Reyes as the officer responsible for issuing General Order 24 against the independent colony on Gamma Tauri IV. The resulting photon-torpedo barrage by the starships Endeavour and Lovell had reduced the planet to a molten sphere—and claimed more than thirteen thousand lives, including those of a few thousand Klingons.
Next she read a firsthand account—also written by Pennington—of the rescue of the downed scout vessel U.S.S. Sagittarius on the planet known as Jinoteur. The story was extremely detailed, especially in its description of the shape-shifting, consciousness-transmitting aliens known as the Shedai.
T’Prynn wondered how Pennington had evaded the Starfleet censor on Vanguard when filing both stories. Then she saw the next series of linked reports. Commodore Reyes had personally facilitated the release of Pennington’s stories, bypassing the normal vetting process and transmitting the journalist’s content directly to the Federation News Service.