Spots swam before Hurghom’s eyes as he studied the pathogen sample on the microscope slide, then once again consulted the readouts of the DNA analyzer.
No, not the albino, he thought as he recognized a lengthy tailored DNA sequence whose occurrence due to natural, random chance was extraordinarily unlikely. Or at least the albino could not have acted alone in creating and deploying this virus. And here is the proof.
The lab’s gene comparator quickly confirmed that this gene sequence — with which Hurghom had several decades of close familiarity — bore, to within tolerances nearly as fine as those of a retina scan, the signature of its creator: Hurghom’s erstwhile associate, Dr. Nej.
Nej, or someone building directly upon Nej’s work, had written a significant fraction of this new retrovirus’s DNA sequences.
Although Hurghom felt hot and was already experiencing some intermittent trouble with his vision, he had yet to become dizzy or otherwise incapacitated. He believed he was still reasonably rational, in part because he understood that he himself was in no position to make that judgment. After all, he thought, one has to remain fully rational in order to rationally evaluate rationality.
Doesn’t one?
Hurghom chuckled as he activated the genetic resequencing equipment in preparation for altering one of the viral samples. Once the base pairs had finished lining up, he incorporated another genetic sequence, one that he had long labored to develop, and which was based largely upon the work of his late grandfather Antaak. Now seemed an especially opportune time to try out this additional gene sequence, given the fact that the virulent nature of the underlying retrovirus would spread the new genes far and wide through the general Klingon population — and given that mass death probably awaited much of the population of Qo’noS anyway if his frantic efforts to produce an effective counteragent were to fail.
And given the urgency of his task, he decided to cease worrying about whether or not his decisions remained in any way rational.
Poor Nej, he thought as he finished grafting the new gene sequences directly onto those that had been authored years earlier by his former colleague. To this day he felt bad for Nej, whose discommendation had come largely as punishment for the failure of the Empire’s covert efforts to use a quadrotriticale virus to take SermanyuQ away from the Earthers a quarter century ago; Nej had abruptly lost his standing in the Empire’s scientific and political hierarchies, in spite of the fact that Hurghom had done about as much work on that project as had Nej. Nej’s higher HemQuch social status had given him the bulk of the credit when things had gone well; it had also, ironically, tarred him with a disproportionate amount of the blame for failure.
But maybe I can redeem both our reputations now, Hurghom thought as his new, yet-untested counteragent flowed through the chem synthesizer’s tangle of hoses into a fresh set of vials. And that of Grandfather Antaak as well.
Antaak, who had saved the lives of millions of his people from a virulent strain of Levodian flu on Qu’Vat only by contaminating the Klingon genome with Earther DNA, consigning a segment of the Klingon population to physical deformity for nearly a century and a half. Antaak, who had also killed millions, including himself, while trying to undo that one terrible mistake.
Maybe that was because he didn’t remain rational at the very end, Hurghom thought, chuckling again.
Unlike me.
Less than half a kilaan later, the elderly scientist carried several small vials and a palm-sized handheld aerosol sprayer down to the street, where the young warrior had left the groundcar parked before he had succumbed to the illness and died behind the controls.
Hurghom hoped he would be strong enough to shove the young man’s corpse into the passenger seat, and could hold out long enough to drive his vehicle to the center of TlhIng Veng.
• • •
Kang held his wife’s hand tightly, kneeling beside her as she lay on the cool flagstone floor of the open-air plaza near the heart of TlhIng Veng. Mara’s eyes stared unfocused at the overcast sky, from which a hot, dry wind blew relentlessly.
A wind that bears death upon its back, Kang thought.
“Perhaps I would have led a longer life had I stayed on as your science officer,” she said, simultaneously chuckling and coughing.
Although Kang had never believed that a desire for safety had motivated Mara’s decision to temporarily leave Kang’s command to join a three-year research project on Qo’noS, the irony of her observation did not escape his notice.
But why in the name of Kahless shouldn’t she expect to be safer on the Homeworld than in the cold depths of space?
“Help is on the way, my love,” he said as gently as he could, though he hated himself for failing to keep a slight but audible edge of fear out of his voice.
He expected himself to be better able to accept the predations of death, no matter whom it stalked. He had, after all, managed to do so on many previous occasions. When he and the other survivors of the wrecked warship I.K.S. Klolode had briefly seized control of the yuQjIjDIvI’ starship ’Entepray’ more than twenty years ago, the Earthers aboard that vessel had captured Mara and threatened to kill her unless Kang agreed to a truce. Kang had actually given her up for dead that day, and even told his Earther adversary, QIrq, that she would understand and accept her fate as a casualty of war, just as he would.
But this death was one that befitted neither a warrior nor a warrior’s wife. Nor was this death exclusive to Mara, as the random clusters of fallen and still-collapsing Klingon bodies sprawled throughout the windy plaza so grimly attested.
Kang had no doubt that his own body would be added to the growing ranks of the dead soon enough.
A sudden motion just inside the periphery of his vision interrupted Kang’s musings, and he turned to see who was approaching. Though multi-hued spots had begun to move before his eyes, swelling and shrinking as they tumbled past one another, he saw a single figure moving in haste toward the plaza’s open center, waving an arm over his head as he stepped over the untidy array of bodies, apparently paying special attention to the approximately half of them that were still moving, speaking, or otherwise showing signs of life.
Hurghom? Kang thought as he belatedly recognized the man, who was apparently using some sort of sprayer on each still-living body he encountered.
Kang was perplexed by the unexpected presence of Kor’s CMO — out of uniform and off duty while both the Klothos and the QaD were in orbital drydock undergoing repairs — before any of the city’s emergency personnel had made an appearance.
A sudden wave of dizziness nearly toppled Kang as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Through narrowed eyes, he studied Hurghom, who as yet showed no sign of having seen either him or Mara. He must be in league with whoever did this, he thought with a certainty that transcended logic itself.
Drawing his d’k tahg with a shaking, sweat-slicked hand, Kang approached Hurghom from behind as dizziness competed for his attention with memories of his grandfather’s tales of Qu’Vat.
Qu’Vat, the world on which Hurghom’s grandfather had slain millions while splitting the Klingon species in twain.
• • •
The last of the vials was nearly empty.
The job is done at last, Hurghom thought as he depleted the contents of the aerosol sprayer for the last time. All that remained to do was to watch and wait — and hope that the hastily synthesized counteragent would live up to its promise before he succumbed to the disease himself.
Something clamped onto his shoulder, then spun him roughly about.
The countenance into which Hurghom suddenly found himself staring was a study in ferocity. As he blinked away the spots that were increasingly obscuring his vision, he gradually came to realize that he recognized that face, just as he did the familiar dark leather-and-mail military uniform beneath it.
“What have you done, Hurghom?” Kang said, taking the empty vial and sprayer from the scientist’s nerveless fingers. He raised the small apparatus
to his nose and sniffed it.
“It’s odorless, Captain,” Hurghom said, though he knew that Kang had to have discovered that for himself already.
“Of course,” Kang said, tossing the spent container over his shoulder. It made far too much noise when it clattered to the pavilion’s stone floor. “Death would be at a decided disadvantage were you to give it a scent that might betray its presence, like some desert targ.”
Confusion joined hands with fever and delirium. “Captain, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Hurghom noticed the hungry-looking silver dagger in Kang’s hand. How long had the captain been holding it, drawn and apparently ready to strike?
“Then allow me to explain, Doctor,” Kang said as he grabbed Hurghom’s shoulder with his free hand, ungently ushering him forward.
He’s lost his mind, Hurghom thought, realizing that he now stood at least as close to a violent death as he ever had before. He’s acquired the disease, and it has driven him mad.
A public alert-klaxon of an emergency vehicle wailed nearby, growing closer even as the late-afternoon breeze began to accelerate. A few blue-smocked first-response personnel had finally appeared, and had begun moving swiftly among the sick and the dying to perform battlefield-style triage.
Kang brought Hurghom to a stop after bringing him past at least a dozen other sprawled, insensate bodies.
“Mara?” Hurghom said when he saw the deathly still woman who now lay at his feet.
“Why, Hurghom?” Kang rumbled into Hurghom’s ear, speaking in a perilously quiet voice from almost directly behind him. “I trusted you, perhaps as much as Kor trusted you.”
“I came here to save as many people who’d been exposed to the pathogen as possible,” Hurghom said.
“And just how did you acquire such intimate knowledge of this . . . pathogen before anyone else did?”
Hurghom’s blood ran as cold as the ice-choked northern reaches of the Natlh Sea. Great Kahless. He really thinks I’m the one responsible for this massacre.
Kang’s blade swung around from behind Hurghom, entering his chest so quickly and cleanly that he felt no pain whatsoever. He noticed the d’k tahg that protruded from his sternum a moment after its arrival, which gave Hurghom the absurd but transitory impression that the weapon had somehow sprouted haft-first from his own insides.
Cure or no cure, I’m going to die now, he thought, pleasantly surprised by the detachment and equanimity he felt at the prospect. And if I am remembered, it will be as either a great hero or a villain.
Or perhaps merely as a fool.
Hurghom dropped very slowly to his knees, as though the viscosity of the very air had just increased a hundredfold. Balancing precariously on both qIVon for what felt like an eternity, he took a moment to study the woman who lay supine before him.
From his now much-closer vantage point, he could see that she was still breathing; he was thankful for that, though he was uncertain whether or not his counteragent deserved any credit for that.
But it was her forehead that attracted his attention most.
Under the skin mottling — which appeared to be fading rapidly before his admittedly fever-plagued eyes — a healthy pattern of ridges and bumps had begun rising. It was like watching a chain of mountains thrusting upward from beneath the planet’s crust, but with the requisite geological ages squeezed into the space of a dying man’s last few heartbeats.
He smiled, allowing himself the luxury of hope, if only for others.
It’s working.
Which meant that QuchHa’ were transforming back into HemQuch. Those who had been immune to the transformative effects of the yIH-metabolized retrovirus two decades earlier could now recover their genetic birthright.
Antaak’s sins, and by extension Hurghom’s as well, would finally be paid for in full.
Hurghom turned his face up toward Kang and beamed at him, though the captain’s gaze was riveted to his wife’s visibly metamorphosing face.
And although the afternoon light was steadily compressing into a narrow tunnel, Hurghom could see that Kang’s own forehead was rippling and moving as his own HemQuch traits began to resurface.
“Mara?” Hurghom heard Kang say, as though speaking from across a tremendous distance. “You’re alive!”
It is indeed a good day to die, Hurghom thought.
As he pitched face forward into the embrace of the encroaching darkness, he wondered if any of Sto-Vo-Kor’s lodgings were reserved for those who died trying to wrest the secrets of creation from the universe itself. . . .
PART V:
RECKONING
I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.
— Zane Grey (1872–1939)
FORTY-TWO
Stardate 9049.6 (Early 2290)
U.S.S. Excelsior
Less than twenty minutes after seeing off Ambassadors Sarek and Dax, both of whom were now on a fast transport en route to rendezvous with other starships bound for their respective homeworlds, Hikaru Sulu watched as a mournful Janice Rand ran the control console of Excelsior’s transporter room three. Rand, the console before her, and the entire room quickly vanished behind a shimmering curtain of light, to be replaced scant moments later by the far wider and higher spaces of Archer Auditorium at Starfleet Headquarters.
The place stood empty at the moment, from the circular central space to the raised dais that supported the padded chairs, the long curved table, and the tabletop lecterns that had been set up especially for the five adjudicators of today’s hearing. Even the gallery that overlooked the whole chamber was engulfed in an eerie, pregnant silence.
As he smoothed a wrinkle from his dress uniform’s maroon tunic, Sulu craned his neck to take in the high, vaulted ceiling. This place had always reminded him of the interior of a cathedral, almost as though Starfleet itself was a kind of temple to rationality, despite the occasionally inexplicable actions of some of those who wore its uniform. Through the panoramic windows in the rear of the chamber he could see portions of a unique and unmistakable city skyline, framed by a foreground silhouette of the Golden Gate Bridge enfolded in a delicate batting of early-morning fog.
San Francisco, he thought. Everything began here for me. What better place could there be for everything to come to an end?
The room was a somewhat smaller version of the Federation Council chamber, where he had been called on the carpet just four years earlier, along with James Kirk and the rest of the former admiral’s senior officers. That tribunal had been convened shortly after a powerful alien probe had come to Earth seeking the cetaceans that had vanished from Earth’s oceans some two centuries earlier. The observation gallery had overflowed with diplomats from a dozen worlds, other Starfleet officers, and members of the media, all of whom had become noisily ebullient after Federation President Hiram Roth had summarily dismissed most of the charges, having taken into account the fact that Kirk and his crew had just finished saving Earth from certain destruction.
Again, Sulu thought wryly.
As he waited for the arrival of the members of the board of inquiry to take their places on the dais, Sulu found it difficult to imagine himself encountering such good fortune today.
An impossibly young female ensign in a dress uniform entered the chamber through a discreet green-room door, raised an electronic bosun’s whistle to her lips, and sounded the three piping notes that signaled the imminent arrival of senior flag officers. Sulu stood rigidly at attention as a male lieutenant entered carrying the specialized legal tricorder that identified him as the court reporter for today’s proceedings; he sat unobtrusively in a chair set against the panoramic window behind the dais, directly beneath the blue-and-white expanse of the UFP flag.
The first of the Starfleet brass to enter the chamber and take his seat was Admiral Lance Cartwright, whose hard grimace made Sulu believe that the admiral had paid very close attention to every infraction Sulu had committed over the course of his long career, despite all the enthusiastic
applauding he had done in another public gallery immediately after the late Federation President Hiram Roth had acquitted the Enterprise crew of any wrongdoing in the wake of the Genesis affair.
Next came grim-faced, silver-haired Heihachiro Nogura, the admiral whose arm James Kirk had twisted to regain command of the Enterprise during the V’Ger crisis of about eighteen years previously. Nogura was followed by Admiral Robert Bennett, whose usual indulgent smile had been replaced by a somber, almost grave expression. Despite their apparently dire moods, Sulu was reassured by the presence of Nogura and Bennett, both of whom had long been after-the-fact supporters of the frequently unorthodox improvised field tactics of James Kirk and his crew.
Sulu felt considerably less reassured by the entrance of the craggy-faced Admiral William Smillie. One of Starfleet’s more influential flag officers, Smillie had once publicly criticized the “maverick” actions of James Kirk and his senior staff during the Genesis affair — despite the fact that those actions had literally saved the world. Sulu could only hope that the man wasn’t nursing a misguided five-year-old grudge.
Admiral John Jason “Blackjack” Harriman, Starfleet’s current C-in-C, was the last to be seated, taking his place at the center of the semicircular table. A broad-shouldered, aggressive-looking man with a bristly iron-gray crew cut, Harriman picked up a pen-sized metal wand from his lectern and rang a small bell twice, perfunctorily calling the hearing to order.
Three to two against me, Sulu thought, his spirits crashing and cratering. And that’s the best-case scenario.
“Commander Hikaru Sulu,” Harriman said, his gray eyes as hard and pitiless as a pair of neutron stars.
Sulu hadn’t felt quite so small and helpless since he was eleven years old, on an extremely bad day on Ganjitsu. His two sets of commander’s bars, which he had placed very carefully on his uniform’s right shoulder and left sleeve before he’d beamed down, seemed to have increased in mass tenfold.
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