Legacies #2

by David Mack

  “Not here,” Mirat said. “She must have gone below­decks.” He continued to marvel at the scope of the damage wrought by one alien component wired into their ship’s systems. “How did she activate the thing without main power?”

  “No idea.” Bedisa pulled her mess of black hair from her face and tied it into a regulation tail behind her head. “You’d have to ask Ranimir. Speaking of which—” She walked to the engineering station and tried in vain to coax data from it. “So much for damage reports.”

  As other members of the command crew groaned back to consciousness and coughed at their first deep breaths of the smoky haze that enveloped them, the centurion inquired loudly, “Can anyone tell me if the cloak is still working?” His question went unanswered while the others pawed at their hobbled consoles.

  His comm unit vibrated on his hip. It was standard procedure on a bird-of-prey for personal comms to be silenced, since they were so rarely used while on board. He pulled the device from its pocket and activated it. “Mirat here.”

  Ranimir’s voice was a tense whisper. “Centurion! It’s Sadira! She—” A howl of noise spat from the comm’s speaker.

  “Ranimir! What’s going on down—” The channel went dead before he finished. He tucked away the comm and faced Bedisa. “We’d better get down to engineering.”

  They left the command deck, both at a full run, and shouted holes through knots of personnel blocking the corridors and ladderways. Less than a minute later they descended the emergency ladder to the engineering deck, where they found Sadira on a tear, terrorizing the weary mechanics and engineers.

  “If propulsion is not restored within the hour,” she shouted at one enlisted man, “I’ll have your family exiled to the mines of Remus!” She seized another man by the collar. “Get the shields back up, or I’ll show you how the Tal Shiar deals with those who fail the praetor.” Arriving at a wounded engineer lying on the deck at her feet, she kicked him in his gut. “You can die after you bring the weapons back online. Until then, stand up!”

  Bedisa crossed the deck in long strides, her fury rising. “Major! What are you doing?”

  Sadira wheeled about and met Bedisa with a manic gleam. “Motivating the crew.”

  “By abusing them? By making them wonder who their enemy really is?”

  The two women stood nose to nose. Sadira’s mania turned to malice. “Meaning?”

  “Repairs to the ship were nearly complete before you triggered that alien device of yours. Whatever it is, wherever it came from, it’s the source of all this damage—and you’re the cause. So if you want this mission to go forward, stop using that thing and let us fix the ship!”

  Everyone watched the human political officer. She raised her chin and wore a smug half smile in the face of Bedisa’s open challenge.

  A crimson flash and an earsplitting shriek—then Bedisa stumbled backward and collapsed, a smoking cavity burned halfway through her abdomen. The light left her eyes as she struck the deck. Mirat had seen many people meet their end; he recognized death when he saw it. He knew in a glance that Subcommander Bedisa was gone.

  Sadira pocketed her compact disruptor and made a slow turn to stare down all the haunted eyes in the room. “Any more questions? Any more complaints? Then get to work.” She crossed the deck and paused at Mirat’s side just long enough to say, “I am promoting Lieutenant Kurat to second-in-command. See that Bedisa’s access codes are transferred at once.”

  Mirat watched her exit the engineering deck and fantasized about planting his dagger between her shoulder blades.

  He was certain her coup would never have gone this far if not for the reputation of the Tal Shiar. Regulations be damned, he castigated himself. I should have trusted my instincts and supported the commander, not this maniac. He knew what had to be done, but when he pondered the true cost of staging a mutiny, he found his hands unwilling to do the work of his heart.

  Standing up to Sadira would be a death sentence, no matter the outcome. If he failed, he would die on the ship; if he succeeded, he would be tried and executed on Romulus.

  His eyes fell upon the charred corpse of Bedisa, and for a moment he was surprised to find he envied her, both because she had died with her pride unblemished, and because she now was free of whatever consequences might yet attend this nightmare of a mission.

  If only I loved life less and honor more, we could all be free.

  * * *

  Kirk let Spock step by him into the faculty office he had commandeered for an impromptu briefing, then closed the door. They turned to face Chekov, Uhura, and Scott, who stood in the middle of a room whose bland décor and sparse furnishings betrayed its institutional nature. “The good news: the Klingon cruiser in orbit just became our second most pressing concern. The bad news: if I’m right, somewhere in this system is a cloaked Romulan ship carrying the artifact recently stolen from the ­Enterprise—and we need to find it before it strikes again.”

  His officers exchanged anxious glances.

  Chekov was the first to speak. “Romulans, Captain?”

  “So it seems, Mister Chekov.” He turned toward his chief engineer. “Scotty, we—”

  The door opened behind Kirk, who turned to see Ambassador Sarek enter the office. “Captain, we need to persuade the Klingons to resume the negotiations as soon as possible.”

  “This isn’t a good time, Mister Ambassador. Please return to your suite.”

  “I will not be brushed aside, Kirk. This matter demands your immediate attention.”

  It was an effort for Kirk to restrain his temper when challenged so brazenly in front of his crew, but he knew no good would come from antagonizing Sarek. “With all respect, Ambassador, my crew and I need to contend with a more pressing matter, so if—”

  “More pressing than the cause of peace with our most fierce rival in local space? If such a threat to this conference exists, Kirk, I demand to know about it.”

  Kirk bristled at being badgered into divulging classified information about something as potentially controversial as the Transfer Key. “Unfortunately, it’s a top-secret Starfleet matter.”

  “That may be, Captain, but as a senior ambassador of the Federation Diplomatic Corps, I hold the diplomatic rank of a Starfleet admiral. If you force me to invoke that authority, I will, but I would prefer you accord me the respect due my office and tell me what is going on—not least because I suspect it relates to the disappearances of Councillor Gorkon and Mister Zeroh.”

  Outranked and outflanked, Kirk relented. “Mister Spock? Care to fill him in?”

  Spock shouldered his expository duties with aplomb. “For some time, commanding officers of the Enterprise have been in clandestine possession of the Transfer Key, an artifact from an alien universe—a device that by itself can be used to shift individuals out of this universe into another, and that when connected to its parent apparatus, located on a world whose territorial sovereignty is a matter of dispute to be resolved at this conference, might enable much larger movements of personnel and materiel, including starships, between the two universes.”

  “Intriguing,” Sarek said. “To what purpose?”

  “Its creators, the Jatohr, mean to invade our universe,” Spock said. “Their first beachhead was repulsed eighteen years ago on Usilde, but in the process several Enterprise crew members were stranded in the Jatohr’s dimension. Several weeks ago, with our help, Captain Una journeyed there to rescue those personnel—but shortly afterward the Transfer Key was stolen by a Romulan spy. Unless we recover the Key, Captain Una’s return will be ­impossible—and if the Romulans reverse-engineer it, they will have the Federation at a major tactical ­disadvantage—one we might never be able to overcome.”

  “I see.” Sarek returned his attention to Kirk. “Please continue, Captain.”

  Only years of hard-won discipline prevented Kirk from making a sarcastic retort about Sarek g
iving him leave to carry on with his own briefing. He stifled his burgeoning frown and tried to pick up where he had left off. “Mister Scott, I need you to devise some means of blocking the Transfer Key’s displacement effect.”

  “I don’t know if I can, sir. It doesn’t work by any laws of physics I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then learn some new ones, Mister Scott. As long as that device remains unchecked, we’ll be fighting a losing battle.”

  Spock interjected, “I have a few theories you might find helpful, Mister Scott. We should confer after this meeting adjourns.” The first officer struck a more cautious note as he faced Kirk. “Captain, if we leave orbit to search for a cloaked Romulan vessel that might or might not still be here, Councillor Prang and General Kovor might take undue advantage of our absence.”

  “You mean they’ll put a gun to Sarek’s head the minute our backs are turned. I’m aware of that, Spock. But if I’m right, the Klingons are bluffing to draw concessions, while the Romulans have hit us twice so far. We need to deal with the threat that’s already drawn blood.”

  “A reasonable point,” Spock said.

  Uhura asked, “Where does that leave our investigation of the Orion Syndicate?”

  “In progress,” Kirk said. “Just because we have proof the Romulans are in play doesn’t mean the Orions aren’t also looking to sabotage the talks.”

  A sage nod from Sarek. “A wise observation, Captain. We should also consider the possibility their efforts are being coordinated. It would not be the first time the Rom­ulans employed a proxy in addition to committing their own resources to this kind of operation.”

  Chekov added, “If the Romulans hired the Orions through a third party, the Syndicate might not even know who it is really working for.”

  “Also a reasonable supposition,” Sarek said.

  Once again, Kirk made an effort to recover control of the briefing. “Uhura, Chekov, have another look at Jorncek’s residence. Look for anything that might tell us if he has accomplices. Pay particular attention to his recent communications. I want to know who he was talking to, who was giving him his orders, and who was funding him.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Uhura said.

  “Spock, Scotty, get back to the Enterprise. Find a way to block the Transfer Key. We have four hundred thirty highly trained personnel at our disposal. Put them to work.”

  Scott accepted the challenge with his head held high. “Aye, sir.”

  Finally, Kirk looked to Sarek. Mindful of his inability to pull rank on the man, he moderated his tone to minimize the appearance of confrontation. “Your Excellency, I think that you would be safest in your suite until this situation is resolved.”

  “I disagree. From what you’ve said, neither distance nor shields offer any defense against this Transfer Key, so I fail to see what benefit would be realized by confining myself behind closed doors when there is work to be done.”

  Baffled and annoyed, Kirk furrowed his brow. “What work, Ambassador?”

  “You have your mission, Kirk. I have mine. I must return to the Klingon delegation and convince them it is in our mutual best interest to resume the talks in spite of the danger.”

  Dealing with Sarek made Kirk regret all the times he had accused Spock of being stubborn, because his father redefined the term. “The last time you tried that, you and your wife ended up held hostage.”

  “I remember. Do you have a point, Captain?”

  “My point is, the last we heard, the Klingons blame you for this. Right now they’re more likely to shoot you than talk to you.”

  “That, Kirk, is exactly why we must continue trying to get them to talk.”

  Eighteen

  Hours, days, weeks—Una wasn’t sure such temporal dis­tinctions mattered anymore. Martinez, Shimizu, and she had been hiking mountain trails and dusty low-road passes for what felt like forever. When she concentrated, she could dredge up murky recollections of times spent resting, and maybe even sleeping, though not once had she felt the need to sip from her canteen. There had been hours of darkness, she remembered only vaguely, nights spent under a sky more indigo than black and as starless as the heart of a black hole.

  In due course mountains diminished to hills, and those in turn surrendered to a rolling lowland of shingle and sand. Each change of the scenery took Una by surprise, as if each new environment had replaced the last without her detecting the transition. It was the same feeling of disorientation that had haunted Una since her arrival in this dimension, on her first lonely march across the salt flats, and then her trek into the mountains.

  At the summit of a low slope, a glare of sunlight along the horizon blinded her. She raised her hand for shade to help her eyes adjust. On the other side of the knoll a crescent-­shaped beach stretched away in either direction, its shores vanishing into a haze where land and sky became one. Encompassed by the endless beach was a becalmed sea the color of lead.

  Martinez and Shimizu halted on either side of her. Both men shaded their eyes with raised hands. Una was amused by their identical poses. “We look like we’re saluting the dawn.”

  Shimizu grinned. “I said I’d follow you to hell. Never said I’d do yoga.”

  Martinez squinted. “Hang on—here they come.” He pointed.

  Several narrow causeways rose out of the gray water—if it was, in fact, water. The paths were all twenty meters wide and equidistant from one another, roughly two kilometers apart. They appeared to radiate from a shared point beyond the horizon, like spokes in a wheel too grand to be observed in its entirety from the vantage of the earthbound.

  Una stared in wonder at the causeways. “What are they?”

  “Roads to the enemy,” Martinez said.

  Una hurried down the slope to the beach. The sand was powder soft, and her booted feet sank in almost ankle-deep with each step. The causeway extended all the way onto shore, sparing her the need to wade through the motionless gunmetal liquid to reach it. Her eyes swept over the dreary surface in search of ripples or other artifacts of disruption caused by the rising of the roads, but she saw none. Everything about the vista had a surreal quality, from the disturbing uniformity of color in the sky, paths, and water, to the way that nothing except she, Martinez, and Shimizu ever seemed to move. And the silence . . . her surroundings felt eerily quiet.

  She halted one step shy of mounting the causeway. “Do we just walk across and hope it doesn’t sink before we get to the center?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Shimizu said. “The road will do most of the work.” An uncertain frown. “Question is: Are you ready to face what’s waiting at the other end?”

  “One way to find out.” Eyes on the road’s vanishing point, Una stepped onto it.

  Martinez and Shimizu joined her on the end of the causeway. Seconds later, the beach was kilometers behind them, and the glassy smooth, ashen-hued expanse was all around them. Una turned and watched the last remnants of landmarks disappear behind the planet’s subtle curve. “This is amazing. I don’t feel any sensation of movement. No wind, no acceleration.” Looking forward, she perceived no end to the path. “How long does it take?”

  “Less time than you’d think,” Martinez said.

  Shimizu closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “If you want the trip to pass more quickly, just let your thoughts wander.” Before Una could ask him why that would matter, she noticed Martinez had done the same thing: he stood with his eyes shut, head tilted back, as if surrendering to whatever lay ahead.

  Una was reluctant to follow suit, but soon the monotony of their surroundings made her want to close her eyes just to have a break from the relentless sameness. Isolated with her own thoughts, she wondered whether the causeway had been designed with illusions intended to conceal the true distance between the ends of the spokes and their hub, or if—

  “We’re here,” Shimizu said.

 
; Her eyes snapped open to behold a terrible wonder.

  It was a Jatohr city floating on the leaden sea. Its architecture had the same flowing, curvilinear quality Una remembered from the citadel on Usilde: no hard edges or corners anywhere in sight. All the surfaces exhibited the same pearlescent quality, though the range of pastel hues on display was far greater. There were soft streaks of pink and lavender, patches of light bluish gray, gentle whorls of pale sea green and chartreuse. Lording over it all were numerous towers that resembled the spiral horns of a Terran narwhal or a Bolian ilok.

  The sky above the city was alive with white flashes of motion—Jatohr transport pods moving at great speed and arcing around one another with effortless grace. Some vanished behind the looming bulbous structures of the alien metropolis, while others plunged into the pewter-colored sea—all, Una noticed, without provoking the least trace of a ripple.

  Her eyes followed the causeways to a latticework of paths that surrounded the city and continued inside through high arched tunnels that penetrated to its very heart.

  Una looked at her compatriots. “So what now? We just walk in?”

  Martinez looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Not unless you want to get fried by one of their flying globes. And once you go inside, the damned things are everywhere.”

  “I didn’t come all this way just to give up at their front door.” She contemplated the vastness of the alien city. “Sooner or later, it’ll get dark again. When it does, we’ll go in.”

  Shimizu cocked an eyebrow. “Pretty sure their killer beach balls can see in the dark.”

  A scathing glare of reproof. “Would you rather try this in broad daylight?”

  The biologist doffed his pack and set it on the city’s perimeter walkway, then sat down and used his gear for a cushion. He draped one arm over his eyes and crossed his feet as if to settle in for a long nap. “Okay, Captain. Bivouac ’til nightfall it is.”

  Nineteen