by David Mack
Kirk pondered the data on the displays. “Including the Klingons isn’t something we can do on a whim. For one thing, it would mean sharing classified sensor protocols.”
“Not to mention persuading them to help in the first place,” Sulu said.
“Be that as it may,” Spock said, “without their participation, we have no reliable means of locating a cloaked Romulan vessel in time to halt further attacks.”
The captain sighed, then turned toward the communications post. “Lieutenant Uhura. Get me a priority-one channel to Admiral Wong at Starfleet Command. Let her know it’s a matter of Federation security.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pivoting back toward Spock and Sulu, Kirk added, “It won’t be easy, but I’ll get the brass to sign off on sharing sensor protocols with the Klingons. Which means our last hurdle is going to be convincing the Klingons to cooperate. Any ideas on that front?”
Spock concocted a plan. “Securing their help will require diplomatic skills far beyond our experience. . . . Fortunately, we are acquainted with someone eminently qualified to assist us.”
Twenty-two
For the second time in as many days, Ambassador Sarek found himself surrounded by Klingons in the foyer of Prang’s dormitory suite with a disruptor aimed at his head. Repetition failed to make his predicament any less vexing on this occasion than it had been the day before.
Prang said with a sneer, “You should not have come back, Vulcan.”
“I am a patient man, Councillor, but, having come in pursuit of our mutual interest, I must confess I find your incivility most counterproductive.”
His sangfroid irked the brash Klingon politician. “What ‘mutual interest’? And don’t tell me ‘peace,’ because that’s the Federation’s desire, not ours.”
“I speak of turning our strength against our shared enemy—our true foe: the cowards who strike from the shadows to fan the flames of our mistrust.” When he saw Prang lower his weapon by the most incremental degree, he added, “The Romulans.”
His invocation of that reclusive interstellar power gave Prang pause. The councillor lowered his weapon a few degrees further, though it remained at the ready. “You have proof?”
“We have compelling evidence,” Sarek said. “Proof will come in the form of their starship brought to heel by our combined efforts. Assuming, of course, you wish to avenge yourselves upon the petaQpu’ who took Councillor Gorkon from you.” Sarek found it distasteful to resort to such aggressive proposals, but this negotiation needed to appeal to the Klingons’ sensibilities rather than his own.
Durok, a junior member of the Klingon delegation, pulled Prang aside and confided something to him while their backs were turned. They returned to the conversation once again masked with distrust. Prang said, “We know of no Romulan weapon that could have taken Gorkon without breaching our shields.”
“I am informed the weapon they used is one not of their own design, but plundered from an alien race of unknown origin. Some of this device’s properties are known to Starfleet, as are certain weaknesses of the Romulan cloaking device.” Sarek folded his hands at his waist, to enhance his professorial demeanor. “The Federation has granted me permission to share this and other classified intelligence with you, in exchange for the assistance of your vessel in orbit.”
Prang holstered his disruptor and, with a downward sweep of his hand, ordered all his compatriots to do the same. “What sort of assistance?”
“A hunt. The Enterprise will share with the HoS’leth special sensor protocols for tracking the Romulan ship. An observatory on the planet’s surface will help triangulate the position of the cloaked bird-of-prey that has been playing us for fools and pitting us against each other.”
A murmur circuited the room, passed from one Klingon to the next, until once again Durok pulled Prang aside. When the aide finished, Prang nodded, then returned to face Sarek. “A generous offer, Ambassador. And exactly the sort of cunning trick we have come to expect of Starfleet—and Captain Kirk.”
“I assure you, we are engaged in no deceit. Our intentions—”
“Spare me, Vulcan. How do we know these so-called sensor protocols aren’t a sly means of sabotaging our starship?”
“We would have nothing to gain by such action.”
“Wouldn’t you? Crippling the HoS’leth would certainly enhance your bargaining position. You would have a capital ship in orbit, and we would be defenseless.”
Their illogic confounded him. “An irrelevant detail. The original terms of our talks specified there were to be no capital ships in orbit. Though, as I recall, your side was the first to abrogate that clause of our prenegotiation agreement.”
“Stop splitting hairs, Vulcan. For all I know, this is just a distraction—an attempt to deny your role in Gorkon’s murder! We’re not giving you access to our ship!”
“We have not asked for any access. Quite the contrary, in fact. We are offering to share our sensor protocols with you.” Sarek directed a look at Durok, who he suspected was likely an intelligence operative posing as a political adviser. “I should think that would be incentive enough to merit your aid against a foe that wishes to see us both hobbled as interstellar powers.”
As he had hoped, his criticism compelled Durok to whisper once more in Prang’s ear. This time the councillor listened with narrowed eyes, as if being told something he did not want to hear. As his frown deepened, Sarek became certain Prang was being handled by his apparent subordinates and that he had just been given directions he found galling.
“For the sake of discussion,” Prang said, “let us assume I accede to your request. If your story turns out to be true, and we expose a Romulan vessel shadowing the conference, what action is Starfleet prepared to take?”
“They have been ordered to neutralize any Romulan interference.” Hoping the question implied they were close to an agreement, Sarek asked, “Does this mean you will instruct General Kovor to join the effort?”
Prang clenched his jaw. He approached Sarek, set a hand on the ambassador’s back, and guided him out of the foyer, into another room away from the rest of the Klingon delegation. In a harsh whisper he said, “I can try, but I cannot promise Kovor will listen.”
“Are you not a member of the High Council?”
“I am. But Kovor is a powerful general from a noble house, one long opposed to mine. If he refuses an order to cooperate with the Enterprise, my ability to compel his obedience will be quite limited.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if fearful of eavesdroppers. “I also would not be surprised if Kovor used a battle against a Romulan ship as cover for a ‘friendly fire’ strike against the Enterprise. He would call it an accident, but the Organians might not see it that way.”
The profound shift in Prang’s outlook did not escape Sarek’s notice. “You have shown little regard for the Organians’ reactions up until now. Why exhibit such abrupt concern?”
“I posture out of political necessity. If I do not cry for war at every turn, my rivals on Qo’noS will brand me as soft, and my father will send my younger brother to represent our house on the High Council. At which point I’ll become superfluous—which means I’ll be expected to fall on my tIq’leth, to shed my dishonor along with my blood.” Prang’s disgruntled sigh devolved into a low growl. “I will tell General Kovor to help the Enterprise with its hunt—but you need to warn Kirk: the general is not to be trusted.”
* * *
As soon as the Velibor’s sensors came back online, bad news followed.
Centurion Mirat leaned in beside tactical officer Pilus, who had taken over the command-deck post to replace the ship’s newly promoted second-in-command, Subcommander Kurat. Pilus was young and nervous and eager to please, and the tremors in his voice betrayed his fear that he would be punished merely for reporting facts—an apprehension Mirat found more reasonable the longer Sadira remained in command.
He tried calming the young officer by speaking in dulcet tones. “What have you found, Pilus?”
“New active sensor frequencies from the Enterprise,” Pilus said. “And matching frequencies from a subspace radio observatory on the planet’s surface.”
“What do I need to know about these frequencies?”
Before the young tactical specialist could answer, Mirat became aware of people at his back. Not wanting to compound Pilus’s fears by reacting with alarm, Mirat made a slow turn to face Kurat and Sadira. The human woman got to the point. “What has he found?”
“New sensor protocols from the Enterprise,” Mirat said.
The news put Sadira on her guard. “What of them?”
Pilus adjusted his stance to let the senior personnel see his console displays. “They’re using amplified harmonics in their subspace pulses.”
Kurat and Sadira looked as confused by Pilus’s technical jargon as Mirat was. To spare the senior officers the potential embarrassment of having to admit ignorance, Mirat asked Pilus, “Why is that significant, Sublieutenant?”
“It means they’re looking for something different.”
Mirat filled in the rest: “Which means there’s something new they expect to find—something that will lead them to us.”
Kurat shouldered past Mirat to gain access to the tactical console, which he knew better than anyone else on the ship. “If we know their sensor frequency, can we work backward from that to figure out what they’re seeking?”
“Possibly,” Pilus said. “But it could take days, and it would be guesswork, at best.”
This could be an opportunity, Mirat realized. “Major, if we’re in danger of being revealed by the Enterprise, perhaps now would be a good time to withdraw to the outer edge of the system and engage silent-running procedures.”
“Don’t be a fool, Centurion. For all we know, the Enterprise is cycling through a range of frequencies, hoping to get lucky.”
Pilus interjected, “Then why is the observatory on the surface using the same frequency?”
His question drew a hard look from Sadira. “What did you say?”
“The observatory,” Pilus said. “It’s using the same frequency as the Enterprise.”
Sadira pointed at the tactical console. “Show me.”
Pilus called up multiple screens of sensor data. “They appear to be creating overlapping scan fields, though their angles of detection are limited by the planet and its moon.”
Mirat saw the trap taking shape and was in no mood to watch it snare the Velibor. He left Pilus to stand by the communications officer. “Nevira, are we picking up any signal traffic between the HoS’leth and the Enterprise?”
“Affirmative,” Nevira said.
Fear began to crack Sadira’s mask of arch superiority. “What are they saying?”
Nevira covered the wireless transceiver in her ear and concentrated while working her panel’s controls. “Unknown, Major. I’m unable to crack the channel’s encryption.”
Time was running out, Mirat was certain of it. He hurried to Sadira’s side and prayed he could make her see reason. “Major, if the Enterprise has a new detection method that can pierce the cloak, and they give it to the HoS’leth, they’ll have three active sensor matrices—”
“And they’ll triangulate our position,” Sadira said. “I know, Centurion.”
“Then you agree: it’s time to withdraw.”
Her anxiety turned to mania. “Quite the contrary. It’s time to land the killing stroke.”
Mindful of what had happened to Bedisa when she challenged Sadira’s command decisions, Mirat chose his words with care. “Major, it is my duty as centurion to advise you in good faith. Even under the best of conditions, our ship is no match for two heavy cruisers. Right now, our only remaining advantage is the cloaking device. But if the HoS’leth joins the hunt, the cloak might cease to be of use—and we would then find ourselves outgunned and defenseless.”
“True,” Sadira said. “Which is why we can’t afford to wait for that hammer to fall. We need to strike first, and in a way that will guarantee the peace talks collapse.” Her next orders came in rapid succession. “Nevira, put together a message on a coded Starfleet frequency, one we know the Klingons recently broke. Relay a message through the planet’s satellite network to the Enterprise, confirming we are ready to attack the HoS’leth on their signal. Pilus, arm a spread of plasma torpedoes—tight grouping, proximity detonation. Toporok, move us into an attack profile against the HoS’leth’s aft port quarter, ventral approach.” As the junior officers swung into action, she ordered Kurat, “Start scanning the Klingons’ compound on the surface. Find me high-value targets. And charge up the Transfer Key.”
This time, even Kurat balked. “The Key? Now? After what it’s done to the ship?”
“Ranimir says he solved the buffering problem,” Sadira said. “Do as I command, Kurat—or I’ll have you replaced by someone who will.”
Kurat put his fist to his chest and saluted her. “Yes, Major.”
Mirat watched the cowed young officer retreat to the sensor console to look for targets. Shaking his head in dismay, the old centurion made his way to Sadira’s side. “Have you ever commanded a starship in combat, Major?”
“No,” she said. “But that’s what I have you for.”
“Major, please—this is madness. We’ve struck our blows for the Empire, but it’s time to withdraw, while we still can.”
Her steely gaze remained fixed on the viewscreen image of the Enterprise and the HoS’leth, cruising together in orbit of Centaurus. “Not yet, Centurion. Not while there remains any hope of peace between the Federation and the Klingons.” A cruel smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Hate must win the day.”
Twenty-three
Overkill. That was the word that sprang unbidden to Una’s mind as she eyed the Jatohr platoon tasked with escorting her, Shimizu, and Martinez out of the headquarters building and across a ramp whose smooth white surface gleamed like porcelain. Her disbelief at the Jatohr’s obvious fear of her and her comrades amused her so much that they were halfway across the hundred-meter-long bridge before she noticed the city was once again bathed in daylight.
We couldn’t have been inside that long, could we? She searched for the directions of shadows, expecting to find long stretches of shade thrown by a rising sun, but the pitiless twin suns blazed from high overhead. How can it be midday again so soon?
The bridge was wide enough that she and her friends walked side by side with several meters to spare on either flank. A dozen armed and armored Jatohr pushed forward ahead of them, their massive, undulating foot muscles leaving a slick sheen on the bridge’s surface. It wasn’t slippery enough to prevent Una and the others from following, but it made their footing too uncertain to attempt making a run in any direction.
Shimizu spoke from the corner of his mouth, his voice low. “Why didn’t they kill us?”
His question earned a disgusted scowl from Martinez. “Heaven help us—are you complaining about not being executed?”
“No, I’m just asking: Why are we alive?”
Una thought back to her first mission on Usilde. “I once spoke to a Jatohr scientist named Eljor. He said his people were peaceful by nature. That they abhor violence.”
A sidelong glance from Martinez. “Maybe your translator parsed him wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” Una said. “Tim’s right. If they wanted us dead, we would be.”
“Right,” Shimizu said. “So what’s going on?”
Ahead of them, at the far end of the bridge, a massive round doorway dilated open on the side of a pear-shaped building composed of the same nacreous substance as everything else in the Jatohr’s floating metropolis.
Una stared into the shadows beyond the doorway. “I think we’re about to find out.”
&nb
sp; The trio followed their guards into the towering open space of the bulbous structure. Once inside, the eerie silence that blanketed the city gave way to a buzz of muted chatter. At first it sounded like a hiss of escaping gas, a burbling of liquid leaking from a pipe, and the buzzing of an insect hive of mind-boggling proportions. Then Una’s eyes adjusted to the dim conditions inside the vast chamber. A tier spiraled up the interior of the dome above and was dotted at regular intervals by platforms jutting off the tier into the open air of the atrium. Perched on the platforms were Jatohr whose shells bore what looked like ornamental or ceremonial markings, perhaps badges of office. The floor level of the atrium was packed with Jatohr, their giant sluglike bodies pressed together in a teeming, ever-restless mass of striped orange flesh.
The slug scrum parted. The soldiers leading the trio formed a wedge and pushed their way to the great chamber’s center. There the triangular formation split to either side, forming a narrow channel that led to a dais with gently sloped sides. The guards behind Una and her friends made them keep walking until the three stood on the dais, surrounded by a sea of alien faces.
A sustained near-subsonic note filled the cathedral-like space, hushing the Jatohr even as it made Una feel as if her teeth might rattle free of her jaw. She imagined she could sense her internal organs vibrating against one another as the deep, muffling drone overwhelmed her. On either side of her, Martinez and Shimizu likewise winced before the sonic onslaught.
Silence washed over them like absolution.
Then came an amplified voice full of hatred and contempt, a baritone roar Una hadn’t heard in eighteen years, and had hoped never to hear again: Woryan.
“Some among us have long wondered: Will the doorway ever open again? I always knew it would. Just as I always suspected it would be you who opened it, creature Una.”
A blinding spot of light drew her gaze upward, to Woryan’s exalted place inside the hall. She regarded the ruthless Jatohr leader with the same contempt s/he exuded toward her and all the other denizens of the universe she considered home. “Woryan. I would say it’s been too long, but that would be a lie. If I had never looked upon your face again, it would’ve been too soon.”