by David Mack
Then the commander asked, “Will you stand down, Centurion?”
“You know I cannot.” He took a step forward to stand between his men and Creelok. “If I approach the command deck to carry out my duty, will you give the order to fire?”
The two comrades regarded each other with bitter comprehension. Creelok heaved a sigh and bowed his head, as if surrendering to an oppressive burden. “What are your orders?”
“To relieve you of your command.”
A deep frown. “On what grounds?”
“Charges levied by Major Sadira, in accord with Article Seven of the ICMC.”
The commander understood Mirat had played him as artfully as the centurion had been manipulated by Sadira. “Officers of the Velibor . . . stand down.”
At first, no one complied. Creelok said, with greater intensity, “Everyone, stand down. That’s an order.” This time, the officers guarding the command deck holstered their weapons. As if to reinforce his point, Creelok added, “Stand aside. Let the centurion and his men pass.”
Mirat led his team onto the command deck. “Kiril, Valinor: Take Commander Creelok into custody and escort him to the brig. After the commander has been secured, release Major Sadira from her quarters.”
Creelok was indignant as Kiril bound his wrists with magnetic manacles. He glared at Mirat. “Tell me you understand why I surrendered.”
“To prevent a battle that would have harmed your crew,” Mirat said.
“Correct. Now tell me why you put us in this situation.”
“You know why, Commander. I had no choice.”
Kiril and Valinor prodded Creelok into motion and herded him toward the hatchway. As the commander made his exit under armed guard, he turned one last icy stare at Mirat. “We always have a choice, old friend.”
No one spoke as the commander was led aft and ushered down the ladderway to the ship’s lower decks. Even as the command crew returned to their posts and made a show of going through the motions of their regular jobs, they all avoided looking directly at the centurion. It felt to him as if he himself was now cloaked, unseen and unheard, a persona non grata on the ship he had served in good faith for nearly a decade.
The commander’s parting words haunted him: We always have a choice.
Only now, feeling the full weight of his crewmates’ disapproval, did Mirat allow himself to accept the truth that Sadira had offered him a choice—and that he had made the wrong one.
* * *
Less than two hours after her forced departure in disgrace from the Velibor’s command deck, Major Sadira returned with her chin up, her bearing proud. She was met by hateful stares from nearly every direction. Even the lowliest personnel regarded her with naked contempt.
At last—conclusive proof that hatred is stronger than fear.
The one person who didn’t shy away from Sadira in revulsion chose to meet her head-on just a few steps inside the hatchway. Subcommander Bedisa blocked her path, eyes gleaming with anger, hand perched on the grip of her sidearm. “You aren’t needed here, Major.”
“Quite the contrary. As this ship’s new commanding officer, I’d say my presence is nothing short of essential.”
“What are you talking about? I’m next in the chain of command.”
“Not anymore. My orders empower me to assume command if, in my estimation, the success of the mission depends upon it.” Sadira leaned in and lowered her voice to add, “Commander Creelok forced me to pull rank. I’d advise you not to repeat his mistake.”
Bedisa clenched her jaw, as if biting down on words she knew she might come to regret if spoken. Then she turned her gaze toward the centurion, who shrank from her attention into a shadowy nook of the command deck. When she looked back at Sadira, the ship’s second-in-command projected nothing so much as disgust. “Tread with care, human.”
Sadira cracked a humorless smile. “You invoke my heritage like it’s a slur. Yet the Senate and the Tal Shiar trust me with more power than they’ve ever given you. So perhaps the next time you utter that word, you should consider using it with a bit more respect.” Then, as if the confrontation had never happened, she turned toward the main console. “Helm! What is our current position?”
Toporok replied, “Far side of the planet’s moon.”
“Take us back into orbit at once.”
The helm officer balked. “I can’t, Major. All primary systems are offline.”
Bedisa explained, with more than a trace of condescension, “Ranimir disabled the cloaking device and took main power offline to expedite repairs to all the systems damaged by your mysterious artifact.”
“Then have him restore main power and engage the cloak.”
The subcommander shook her head. “Not possible, Major. Now that he’s begun repairs, it would take more time to reverse his steps than it would to let him finish.”
“Do we have a repair time estimate?”
“Primary systems back online in four hours,” Bedisa said. “Once that’s done, we can raise the cloak and return to orbit.”
It wasn’t what Sadira had wanted, but she couldn’t help what had been done in express contravention of her orders. All she could do was cope with the situation at hand. “Very well. Let him use any personnel or resources he needs to speed repairs.”
“Understood, Major.”
Sadira activated the commander’s panel of the main console. “Kurat. Have we continued to monitor signal traffic to and from Centaurus?”
The tactical officer joined Sadira and Bedisa at the main console. “We’ve intercepted the Enterprise’s reports that the Orion Syndicate has operatives near the conference.”
“And they base that on what, exactly?”
“They captured one who was suspected in a pharmaceutical theft. When they searched his residence, they found evidence he had been planning to attack the peace talks with a bomb.”
“Interesting. Has he confessed? Or named accomplices?”
“Chatter on the police channels suggests the man they caught was already dead.”
Sadira chuckled. “Splendid. If we play this right, Romulus will get what it needs, and the Orions will take the blame.”
The centurion emerged from the dark and leaned into the penumbra of the main console’s lone overhead light. “The Orions might not be blameless for much longer, Major. Reports from our spies on the ground suggest they have another agent in play, one who means to finish what the dead man started. In this case, patience might prove our best ally.”
“I don’t take your meaning, Centurion.”
All eyes focused on Mirat, who reasserted his proud bearing. “If the Orions are this committed to doing our dirty work for us, perhaps we should remain here, monitor the situation from a safe distance, and withdraw in the event that they succeed.”
Sadira imagined choking the cowardly old centurion while disemboweling him with a dull spoon. “Are you suggesting we abandon our mission and sit idly by, in the hope that a mediocrity like the Orion Syndicate achieves our objectives for us?”
“I merely propose that it might be more prudent to let them shoulder the risk, since their aims and ours appear to intersect.”
“Picture this, Centurion: We stand down and let the Orions blunder their way through this. In their mad flailing, they expose weaknesses in the Klingons’ defenses and flaws in the Federation’s security protocols—vulnerabilities both sides quickly rectify. Then, after it becomes clear the Orions have failed and been neutralized, we would be obligated to resume our mission—which would then be made all the more difficult because the Orions will have squandered our foes’ most exploitable errors.” She shook her head. “No, we can’t wait for someone else to do our job for us, Centurion. If we want a war between the Klingons and the Federation, we’re going to need to start it ourselves.”
Seventeen
K
irk knew they were already five minutes behind schedule, but he had to make Sarek see reason. “Ambassador, for your own safety, I think it would be best.”
“Absolutely not, Kirk. To let you walk at the head of the procession would diminish the Klingons’ perception of my role as the leader of this delegation.”
“If I let you take point, I might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your chest.”
“Unless I command the Klingons’ respect, these talks will end in failure.”
No wonder Spock hates arguing with Sarek. The man’s never wrong.
Behind them in the dormitory corridor stood the rest of the Federation’s negotiating team, flanked on either side by three armed security officers from the Enterprise. Spock stood a short distance ahead by the door, ostensibly content to let Kirk debate Sarek without his assistance.
The Vulcan diplomat walked toward the door. “We need to go now, Kirk.” The others who were queued up in the hallway plodded into motion behind Sarek.
Spock obliged the approaching delegation by pushing open the door, then stepping clear while holding it for them. The security officers kept pace and marched with the politicos across the quad toward the alumni center, in which the talks were slated to resume. Kirk exited the dormitory last. Spock fell in at his side as they hurried to overtake the head of the procession.
Had the choice been up to Kirk, he and his men would not have been involved at all. Their presence had been requested by Sarek—not because he expected to need their protection, but because the Klingons had informed him their delegation would return only with armed escort. Had the Federation representatives arrived without a comparable force at their side, it would have been perceived as a sign of weakness by the Klingons—and, consequently, as an invitation to more egregious abuses and demands at the bargaining table.
Bright sun and a warm breeze made for a pleasant if brief walk across the manicured lawn. Kirk and Spock reached the double doors of the alumni center ahead of the delegation. They each pulled open one door and stood to either side so that Sarek could make his grand entrance. Meanwhile, from the opposite side of the center’s main lobby, the Klingon delegation arrived through another pair of doors. Just as Sarek had predicted, Prang was at its vanguard, several steps ahead of his comrades.
A pair of security officers relieved Kirk and Spock at the doors, enabling them to catch up and fall in behind Sarek just as he met Prang in the middle of the lobby. Behind him were several Klingon military officers led by the scar-faced General Kovor and a fierce-looking female officer who wore a commander’s rank insignia.
Sarek raised his right hand in Vulcan salute—a V-shape formed by separating the fingers into two pairs at an uncomfortable angle. “Greetings, Councillor Prang.”
“You’re wasting your time and mine, Vulcan.”
“A curious assessment. I look forward to hearing more about it—inside.”
The two diplomats stared each other down: Prang, a storm looking for somewhere to rage; Sarek, a mountain cold and immovable. Behind the councillor, General Kovor grinned at Kirk. “Nothing says peace like an armed military escort, does it?”
“I guess that depends on the military.”
Kovor and his officers stepped off to one side, and Kirk and Spock shifted with them. The general motioned to his comrade. “This is Commander Lomila, my first officer on the HoS’leth. Lomila, this is none other than Captain James T. Kirk of the Enterprise.”
Lomila eyed Kirk in a way that left him feeling almost violated. Then she flashed a smile of fearsome, sharp teeth. “After all the stories . . . I thought you would be taller, Captain.”
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment.”
The general’s one-eyed gaze narrowed. “And this must be Commander Spock. Among my people, you’re almost as infamous as your captain.” Unable to goad Spock into a reaction or a reply, Kovor put his sights back on Kirk. “It’s an honor to face you at last, Kirk.”
“I’m sure it is.” Just as Kirk had expected, Kovor remained calm, betraying nothing—a preview of the cunning reserve that had made him a feared starship combat tactician.
A few meters away, Prang was the first to blink, ending his staredown with Sarek. The grouchy Klingon lumbered toward the conference room. “Let’s get this farce under way.”
Sarek watched Prang lead the Klingon delegation away, then motioned for his people to follow them. Turning to Kirk and Kovor, he said, “Thank you, gentlemen, but neither of your forces will be required further today. You are both dismissed.” And with that he followed Prang.
The declaration left Kirk and the Klingon general speechless at first. They regarded each other with mixed expressions of amusement and suspicion. Kovor nodded to Lomila, who snapped at the armed Klingon guards, “naDev vo’ peghoS!” The troops turned away from the delegation and marched back the way they had come. A single look from Spock effected the same action by the red-shirted Starfleet security officers shadowing the Federation diplomats.
Kirk nodded at Kovor. “Until we meet again, General.”
“I shall look forward—”
A peculiar noise and a brilliant flash of light filled the cavernous lobby. In the space of a single blink both effects had faded—then a woman in the Federation delegation screamed. Spock and Kirk sprinted toward the commotion with Kovor and Lomila at their side.
At the entrance to the corridor that led to the conference room, the two delegations had recoiled from each other. Profanities and threats were shouted in both directions and in multiple languages; fingers were being pointed. The air crackled with the potential for violence.
Kovor silenced the Klingons with one bellow: “bIjatlh ’e’ pemev!”
“Quiet!” Kirk shouted at the Federation delegates. “What happened?”
Aravella Gianaris, the economic adviser, was on the verge of panic. “They disintegrated him! Or kidnapped him! He was there, then—zap! He was gone!”
Spock asked in a calming baritone, “Who was gone?”
“Beel Zeroh,” said Gesh mor Tov. “Our military adviser!”
Durok from the Klingon contingent protested, “We did nothing!” He pointed at Sarek. “Your man Zeroh probably misfired his own weapon—the same one he used to kill Gorkon!”
Pandemonium erupted as both sides volleyed accusations and epithets. Behind Kirk and the others, both security squads converged on the scene. Everything was about to spin out of control, Kirk was sure of it. He faced his security team. “Take Sarek and the others back to their dorm! Now!” Then he found Kovor and snapped, “Get your people out of here.”
The general barked one order at Lomila, and she gave their troops rapid-fire orders in tlhIngan Hol. In a flurry of brutal efficiency, the Klingons mustered their delegation into a tight phalanx and marched them out of the alumni center, back to their own residence hall, even as the Enterprise security team herded Sarek and his remaining advisers out the door to the quad.
Kirk, Spock, Kovor, and Lomila were the last four people in the lobby. The two duos said nothing, but mirrored each other’s stew of anxiety and regret. Then they turned their backs on each other and went separate ways.
Passing through the main entrance to the quad, Kirk confided to Spock, “That sound we heard, before Zeroh vanished, and that pulse of light. Did those look familiar to you, Spock?”
“Indeed. It was the same as the Transfer Key effect that sent Captain Una into the alternate universe.”
Despite his best attempt to present a calm façade, Kirk was unable to keep from clenching his fists in rage. “The Transfer Key is close by, Spock. Which means so are the Romulans—and her.”
“By ‘her,’ I presume you mean the Romulan spy Sadira, whom we knew as Ensign Bates.”
“Yes, Spock, her.”
“Regardless of Sadira’s involvement, it would be logical for the Romulans to use the Transfer Key to tr
y to disrupt the peace talks.” Spock’s brow creased. “Which means—”
“This might be our best chance to steal it back.”
“Precisely.”
* * *
Searing-hot phosphors fell like summer rain from the overheads, and the atmosphere inside the Velibor was more smoke than air. Auxiliary power stuttered on and off at random. The main console on the command deck showed nothing but garbled computer code and the wild static of cosmic background radiation. Most of the command crew was sprawled on the deck, stunned.
Centurion Mirat stepped gingerly to avoid treading on his fallen comrades. Near the forward bulkhead, he found Subcommander Bedisa collapsed next to the tactical station. He kneeled next to her and fished for a rejuvenating patch in the partially depleted medkit he had salvaged from a lower deck. There was one medicated patch left. He unwrapped it and affixed it to Bedisa’s throat, above the collar of her uniform tunic.
It took a few seconds for her to regain consciousness. She awoke with a gasp and sat up quickly. Then she slumped backward. It was a common side effect of juva patches, a sudden rush of energy followed by vertigo. Mirat steadied her until she recovered her balance and her breathing slowed to a normal rate. “Are you all right, Subcommander?”
“Yes, I think so, Centurion. Help me up, please.”
He stood first, took Bedisa’s hands, and hefted her to her feet. He closed his medkit. “I was belowdecks when the ship lurched. What happened?”
The question hardened Bedisa’s features into a mask of anger. “She used her toy again.” The subcommander eyed the smoldering ruins of the command deck. “I thought she couldn’t do any more harm while main power was offline. I was wrong.”
Mirat was sure he had heard wrong. “She used the artifact again? On whom?”
“I think she was targeting the leader of the Federation team this time.” A cynical smirk. “Based on the curses she let slip before the ship went to hell, I’d say she missed.” Her mood turned to concern as she searched the deck. “Where is she?”