by David Mack
Kutal tensed and shot a look at BelHoQ. “Get my scanner from the second drawer.”
The first officer retrieved the scanner from Kutal’s desk and activated it as Brakk’s recording continued. “I have spared your life this long only because I wanted to thank you personally for helping me murder your valiant crew. The data card I sent was loaded with a computer virus. Normally, your ship’s data network would have scanned for such a threat and intercepted it, but by generously providing your voiceprint and command code, you’ve enabled my program to bypass your ship’s filters and take control of the intruder-control systems.”
BelHoQ showed Kutal the scanner’s readout; it confirmed Brakk’s message. “We might be able to reach the nearest escape pod before the gas takes us,” he said. Kutal got up, hurried to his lavatory, soaked two cloths with water, and tossed one to BelHoQ on their way to the door.
“Good-bye, Captain,” Brakk said from the computer terminal. “I doubt you’ll earn a place in Sto-Vo-Kor for blundering into a trap, so I’ll look forward to our next meeting in Gre’thor. Brakk out.” The message ended, and the screen went black.
A subtle hiss from the overhead ventilation ducts gave warning that Kutal’s quarters were being flooded with the deadly toxic gas. He unlocked the door, which hissed open. Though the air outside his quarters looked no different than that inside, an excruciating stinging assaulted his eyes, which watered instantly even as he squeezed them shut. Kutal and BelHoQ stumbled out into the corridor, holding their breath, mouths and noses covered by the damp rags. Squinting through the pain, they felt their way down the passage and stepped over the corpses littering the deck. Every bit of exposed flesh on Kutal’s face and arms felt as if it were on fire as he and BelHoQ staggered the last few steps toward the escape pod.
His hand was poised over the control pad to open the pod’s hatch when, out of the corner of his bloodied eye, he noted the blurred profile of a figure standing in the middle of the corridor. When he turned his head to look, he saw a Klingon in an environmental suit, pointing a disruptor at him. Then came a deafening screech and a blinding flash—and, with them, an end to his pain.
If not for his intense aversion to risk and his innate loathing for embarrassment, Brakk might have considered his victory over Captain Kutal and the crew of the Zin’za an empty one. But a win was a win, and all that really mattered was that Kutal was dead and Brakk was not, and that all the vital secrets Kutal had possessed about the Taurus Reach would soon belong to Brakk.
Gorkon was a fool to think he could saddle me with such obvious traitors, Brakk gloated. Now the House of Duras will know what’s so important about the Gonmog Sector—and then we’ll finally be able to get those Romulan petaQpu’ to back our rise to power over the Empire.
Brakk presided over the bridge of the Qu’vang from his elevated command chair, his attention fixed upon the main view-screen’s image of the Zin’za adrift in space. He was about to call for a status update when his first officer, Nuqdek, appeared. “We’ve bypassed the lockouts on the Zin’za’s protected computer core,” he said. “Its contents are being copied to our databanks now. We will have everything momentarily.”
“Well done, Commander. Have all our people returned from the Zin’za?”
“Yes, sir.” Nuqdek seemed troubled. “We’ve intercepted several subspace messages from Captain Chang on the baS’jev. He’s trying to reach Captain Kutal.”
“What of it? Let him enjoy the silence.”
A crewman at an aft station on the bridge called out, “Commander?” When he had Nuqdek’s attention, he gave the first officer a single nod. Nuqdek returned the gesture, then said to Brakk, “The databanks have been copied over, Captain. Do you wish to put a tractor beam on the Zin’za for its return to Somraw?”
“That hunk of excrement isn’t going anywhere,” Brakk said.
Nuqdek warily studied the battle cruiser on the viewscreen. “How, then, are we to explain its disappearance?”
Brakk looked down at his first officer. Some days I just don’t understand this man. “Why should we explain anything, Commander? Space is dangerous. Ships vanish all the time, even imperial warships. Why think the Zin’za immune to such a fate?”
“You mean to destroy it, then.”
“Of course,” Brakk boasted. “I armed its self-destruct system ten minutes ago. After I trigger it, nothing will remain of that overhyped rust pile except dust and memories.”
The first officer’s discomfort with that news was obvious to Brakk, despite Nuqdek’s effort to mask his unease. “Permission to speak, Captain?”
“What is it?”
“I suggest we salvage useful material and munitions from the Zin’za before you trigger its self-destruct package. Destroying the ship is obviously necessary for operational security, but it seems wrong to waste parts and torpedoes that could be made to serve this vessel.”
He waved away Nuqdek’s request. “Absolutely not. The last thing we need is for some overzealous junior officer at Somraw Station to notice that our weapons bay is stocked with torpedoes from a lot that was used to supply the Zin’za.” He directed his orders to the bridge officers surrounding him and Nuqdek. “Terminate all data channels to that ship! Helm, reverse thrusters, put us two hundred thousand qelIqams aft of the Zin’za. Tactical, raise shields.” With an oblique glance at Nuqdek, he asked, “Any last words for the fallen?”
For once, Nuqdek was wise enough to hold his tongue. He faced the viewscreen and lifted his chin, a final gesture of respect for the dishonored dead.
The helmsman reported, “We’re in position, Captain.”
Without ceremony or pity, Brakk pressed a button on his chair’s armrest, triggering the Zin’za’s self-destruct package. The battle cruiser erupted in an orange-white fireball that quickly spawned several more explosions, washing out the viewscreen for several seconds.
It was the most beautiful vision of destruction Brakk had ever seen. He couldn’t help but beam with satisfaction. Wherever you are, Gorkon . . . you’re next.
Confronted with the latest news from Captain Chang, Gorkon felt as if an oppressive weight had fallen upon his shoulders. “Are you certain the Zin’za’s been destroyed?”
“As certain as I can be, my lord.” His fury was palpable, even over a subspace channel. “Brakk claims he sent Captain Kutal and his ship on a routine patrol from which they never returned. Meanwhile, his ship’s newest combat escort just happens to be the Valkaya—a Romulan bird-of-prey whose captain volunteered its service to Brakk.”
“When was the last time you heard from Kutal?”
“Four days ago. He’s missed his last three check-ins. Which would suggest his ship was destroyed while mine was on its own pointless recon mission, as ordered by Brakk.” His mien took on a cast of suspicion. “Why would Brakk have risked so bold an attack on other Klingons? What could have made that worth the potential consequences?”
“Most likely, the information in the Zin’za’s databanks.” Gorkon entered commands via the interface panel beside the screen. “I’m elevating your security clearance so that I can tell you this. What you’re about to hear is classified at the highest levels.”
“Understood, my lord.”
“The Empire’s interest in the Gonmog Sector is driven by more than a desire for territory and resources. Five years ago, a Starfleet vessel, the Constellation, made a discovery that motivated the Federation to build a major starbase far beyond their own borders. It became clear that there was something there that they considered vital to their interests. We soon learned it was related to an extinct precursor civilization, one that had left technology on worlds throughout the sector and complex information concealed inside genetic sequences.
“So far, only the Empire and the Federation have actively pursued the secrets of this ancient race. The Tholians have taken aggressive action to impede both our efforts, for reasons we don’t yet understand. Starfleet’s scientists seem to have surpassed our own in their und
erstanding of the alien devices, while the Romulans have, until now, apparently been unaware of the reason for this tripartite conflict so far from our respective territories.
“I have reason to suspect Duras and his allies had already stolen a limited amount of information regarding the Shedai. Apparently, that taste merely whetted their appetite. Captain Kutal and the Zin’za had been at the forefront of the Empire’s investigation of this sector, and they had amassed a significant degree of raw intelligence about the Taurus Reach. Their involvement had been known only by myself and a few trusted contacts inside the High Command and Imperial Intelligence. But it seems Duras became aware of their role, and he took advantage of Brakk’s proximity to steal the information from the Zin’za’s computers.”
Chang’s intense focus made it clear he understood the gravity of the matter. “If Brakk has acquired that data, then it most likely has already been passed on to the Romulans.”
“Precisely. Duras and his son might not even grasp the significance of the information until they’ve already traded it for favors. But once the Romulans learn what’s at stake in the Gonmog Sector, they’ll stop at nothing to acquire its secrets—most likely by using Duras and his cronies to do their dirty work.” Gorkon clenched his fists. He wondered for a moment whether he should share his latest findings, then decided he had so few allies, especially on Qo’noS, that someone else needed to know the truth, just in case something happened to him before he could act on it. “There’s something else, Captain: I’ve gathered a great deal of disturbing intelligence from a number of sources. It seems we have underestimated our foes, and quite badly.”
“In what regard?”
He leaned closer to the screen, as if huddling to share a confidence with someone across the table. “The House of Duras has begun consolidating power in the most ruthless and efficient manner I’ve ever seen. Their operatives are moving against anyone they perceive as a rival, an enemy, or even a mere impediment, and they are using every means possible: assassination, extortion, blackmail, bribery, fraud . . . whatever it takes to make themselves unassailable.”
“Have you discussed this with Chancellor Sturka? Perhaps he can—”
“It’s too late for that.” Gorkon simmered with righteous anger toward his former ally and patron. “I’ve uncovered evidence that links many recent actions by Duras to the chancellor himself. Apparently, despite Sturka’s long hatred of the House of Duras, now that their accumulated wealth and political power has reached a critical mass, the chancellor sees more advantage in allying himself with their treachery than he does in opposing it.”
Now even Chang seemed worried. “How deep are their connections?”
“Their estates and financial holdings are in the process of merging via proxies, and my sources inside Sturka’s House suggest the chancellor and Duras have made secret betrothals for several of their respective scions, to cement the bond between their Houses.”
“This cannot be allowed to come to pass,” Chang said. “If their Houses unite, the Duras family will be like a blood tick on a targ’s back—entrenched in the highest echelons of Klingon society for generations to come. And Duras would almost certainly replace you as Sturka’s chief adviser on the High Council.”
Gorkon wondered if Chang thought him a fool who needed to be told the obvious. “I am well aware of the consequences that would attend the ascendance of Duras. That is why we can no longer wait to take action. Duras and his House are on the offensive, which is when one is always at the greatest risk of being off balance. If we can break his momentum now, and goad him and his House into a mistake when they are the focus of attention and envy, it could be enough to put them back in check for the foreseeable future.”
“Whatever service you require of me, my lord, you’ll have it. No matter what the cost to myself or my honor, I will not permit Duras to become chancellor.”
The declaration coaxed a thin smile from Gorkon. “Your loyalty honors me, Chang.”
“I have one concern, my lord, and it’s more for your sake than for mine.”
“Speak freely.”
“If the House of Duras is as powerful, ruthless, and entrenched as you say, we may find that opposing their interests could be considered the same as opposing the chancellor’s, or even the Empire’s. How do we fight such an honorless fiend without being branded as traitors?”
It was a question to which Gorkon had given a great deal of thought during many an anguished and sleepless night. Now, at the moment of decision, he divined the answer.
“By striking at him from a direction he does not expect.”
19
The Wanderer turned her thoughts to stillness, arresting her motion. Her solitary journey to the Telinaruul’s bastion in the darkness had been arduous, burdened as she was with a ponderous mass of superdense matter. Her native ability to traverse space—a talent that made her unique among the Shedai—normally entailed shifting only her consciousness and an attendant field of energy. Only a few times before then had she tried to bear physical objects across the interstellar void. Even small and relatively insignificant payloads had proved exhausting. It was a testament to her recent increase in power that she had become strong enough to bear a load such as this.
Lingering in the comfort of darkness, she attuned herself to the invisible energies that transited the ether in all directions. This was but one mystery of the great emptiness—that it was never truly empty. Space-time was abundant with unseen forces and extradimensional pockets of dark power waiting to be tapped, if only one understood how to see the universe’s true shape.
She knew she was beyond the reach of the Telinaruul’s mechanical sensing devices, ensuring that her next great labor would not attract their attention. In contrast, their presence was a clarion shattering the silence, a white-hot beacon in the dark. High-energy signals poured like a river from their space fortress. Shining brighter than all of it was the presence of the Progenitor, his essence blazing like a sun despite his imprisonment within an artifact of the Tkon.
How arrogant these Telinaruul were! Who were they to think they had the right to act as jailers for a being who had been an ancient before their kinds’ first ancestors took shape in the primordial soups of their insignificant worlds? To enslave a being who had ruled a spiral arm of the galaxy before their puny races even had language? It was an offense against the natural order.
They will all suffer, she vowed. Soon, the Progenitor will be free, and they will all know the cold fire of our vengeance. If forced to choose between emancipating the Progenitor and destroying the station, the Wanderer knew that the freedom of her people’s great sire took precedence. Pride demanded that the Telinaruul pay for their hubris, but as one of the Serrataal, her duty to the Elder One trumped all other objectives and desires.
The Wanderer focused her essence on the block of raw matter she had borne across hundreds of light-years. Her consciousness penetrated its superdense atomic structure, beheld its ultrastable atomic shells, and marveled at its furious inner storm—particles of every conceivable color, flavor, and spin. Manipulating muons and quarks, bosons and neutrinos, she reshaped the matter by will alone, transforming it into an extension of her desire, an instrument of her impending vengeance. This would be slow work, demanding the most painstaking precision and attention to subnuclear details. This was a labor the Wanderer had undertaken only twice before in her countless millennia, though neither instance had been freighted with such urgency as this. On those occasions, the continued existence of the Shedai had not been at stake.
She tried to remember where, when, and how she had learned this delicate art and the arcane science behind it. It was so old a memory that its specifics eluded her. All she could recall was that the process had been imparted to her by one of the elders in the early days of the Shedai’s sovereignty over this part of the galaxy. It had been among the final rituals confirming her status as one of the Serrataal, those who had been elevated from the churning hordes of the
Nameless in recognition of their innate gifts, their inborn worthiness to be counted among the elite. As a Shedai with a name, the Wanderer had earned the right to share in the hegemony’s most guarded secrets, the foundation of knowledge upon which their sprawling civilization had been erected. Mastery of these secrets had been her final test of worthiness.
Now the future of all Shedai hinged upon her ability to bend reality’s shape to her will, to work the miracle she had been taught two hundred fifty million years earlier, a magic she had worked only twice in the span of an entire revolution of the galaxy. There was no question in her mind that she would succeed. She had vowed to see it done, and its completion was all that stood between her and the sweetness of revenge. It was of no consequence to her that the Sage and the Herald both doubted her ability; she did not require their faith or their approval. Let them mock her and call her youngling; soon she would make them recant their taunts. When the time came, and she proved herself worthy, they would hear the Progenitor’s voice in the song, and they would know she had spoken the truth. I will be vindicated, she promised herself.
She trapped a quark strangelet in the porous interdimensional membrane and reversed its spin. Atom by atom, the Wanderer molded the mass of collapsed-star core material until it fit the shape of her imagination. For now it was nothing but a superdense blob of heavy metal, squandering its hard-won energy as waste heat and chaotic radiation, its crude form nothing but a prison for its potential—a bastille to which the Wanderer held the keys.
Cloaked in silence and night, she labored alone, paying no heed to time’s passage; she would work for as long as it took to finish her task. Sustaining herself with starlight and fury, she felt her thoughts take shape and knew that the hour of her wrath would soon be at hand. When her work was done, she and her kin would free the Progenitor, annihilate the space station, and imbue the galaxy’s Telinaruul with an old brand of terror, one they apparently had forgotten.