by Diane Carey
“Don’t you? Think of the accomplishments we could make if we all had the same goals, if we all pulled together … the unlimited glories if only the Klingons, the Romulans, the Orions could join with us in a singular movement toward the good of all.”
“But, sir, they could. They don’t because they want their sovereignty. And according to the Articles of Federation, they have that right.”
“Do they?” He got up and circled the table. “The right to fragment the galaxy? The right to hold back progress? To be a constant threat? Why, with a fleet of dreadnoughts, we could unite the races of the galaxy, create one marvelous conglomerate. Imagine the progress, Lieutenant! Not a child without food, without medical care. In medicine alone, merging of sciences would allow a surge of advances to match the rediscovery of the Fabrini lexicons. Technology could move forward without espionage. There would be no more need for petty secrets, Lieutenant.”
“It sounds … very nice, sir.”
“It’s a goal we should all be striving for. Of course, such things are the tasks of diplomats, not mere soldiers like you and me. We are pawns to greater schemes, and our duty now is to get that magnificent piece of engineering back into capable hands. I’m going back to the bridge. I want you two to stay here in the briefing room until I call for you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir, we understand.”
Dr. Boma followed him out, and soon Sarda and I were alone.
Distractedly I got up and wandered to another print of the Vice-Admiral’s personal emblem, emblazoned on the door. It was gold, outlined in red, very majestic. “I hope nobody ever puts me in a position like the one he’s in right now,” I murmured. “I used to think it would be wonderful to rank that high in the Fleet, command so many people … I guess the higher you climb in the system, the more it ties your hands. Even Captain Kirk can’t take action.”
“Captain Kirk covered for us.”
I turned. “What do you mean?”
“He obviously avoided telling the Vice-Admiral that you were under arrest.”
“You’re right. Why would he do that? What is it he sees in all this that I’m missing?”
“Nothing I am aware of.”
“But there is something. Something about Rittenhouse that seems familiar to me. What was it he said about the Klingons, the Romulans, and Orions?”
“He spoke of the unlimited accomplishments if there could be unity in the galaxy.”
The personal emblem seemed to swell toward me as I stared at it. Suddenly I understood something too terrible to believe. “No! He didn’t. He said unlimited glories. Singular movement … a galactic homogeny or something. And he talked about a whole fleet of dreadnoughts!”
“It seems unusual to you?”
“It seems familiar. Like a pattern I studied for my captaincy dissertation. A very dangerous pattern.”
“What is your hypothesis?”
“There’s something about him. All the signals are here. The personal emblem—I’ve never heard of a flag officer establishing a personal emblem. And the name he chose for the dreadnought … he wants an excuse to get rid of the crew and get the ship back so he can use it to take power in the galaxy!”
Sarda looked at me as though I’d just suggested he stand on his head and sing love songs to Andorians. “That is an extraordinary leap of logic. No one ship, regardless of power, can possibly effect an aggression upon the entire civilized galaxy, Piper.”
I groaned. “Pretty farfetched, I guess. Still …” Once again the Vice-Admiral’s emblem absorbed me thoroughly, making me tremble with whole-souled warning, but in no way I could pin down.
A presence filled the space at my shoulder before I realized he had moved at all. “Your human insights are at work upon you?”
“That or my human imagination. I don’t know which is more faulty. It sounds crazy, I know.”
“They are telling you something about Rittenhouse which is eluding me?” It must have been difficult enough for him to admit human insights existed, much less admit his lack of them prevented a knowledge, but he said it inquisitively, not tersely, and urged me to answer. “Say what bothers you.”
“I think he’s trying to get in the back door.”
“I do not understand that phrase.”
Facing him fully for a long gaze made the connection I needed. “Let’s see if the computer understands it.”
“What do you hope to learn from the computer?” He followed me to the conference table console and remained standing behind me when I sat at the access controls and turned them on.
“We know Rittenhouse has the dreadnought project. Let’s find out what else he’s got. Computer.”
“Working.”
“Library tie-in. Read out current duties of Vice-Admiral Vaughan Rittenhouse.”
WORKING. CREATOR AND DIRECTOR OF SPECIAL
PROJECTS—CLASSIFIED … DEPUTY CHAIRMAN, STAR FLEET MILITARY STAFF COMMITTEE … ADVISOR, FLEET OPERATIONS … MEMBER, LOGISTICAL SUPPORT COMMITTEE … ADJUNCT ADVISOR, ADVISORY BOARD FOR GALACTIC EXPLORATION.
COMPLETE.
“Well, isn’t he the busy little bumblebee.”
“I am unfamiliar with that classification; however, if you mean to say the Vice-Admiral is exceptionally active in military government, I agree with your estimation.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“Let’s see where those committees fit into Star Fleet Command. Computer, supply visual schematic breakdown of Star Fleet Command.”
A few seconds ticked away as the data was called to the top. Then we got a screenful:
Sarda gazed contemplatively at the schematic and said, “Interesting. Those committees are among the most powerful in the military government.”
“A man that ambitious might be tempted to stack his deck.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He can’t be everywhere at once, can he? Is it logical to guess he might try to put his own followers in power where he couldn’t have influence himself?”
Sarda’s brow furrowed. “If your instincts about him are correct or nearly so.”
“How could we find out?”
“Perhaps there are correlatives between upper-eschelon officers currently answerable to Rittenhouse or formerly under his command.”
“I’ll see.”
“A time limit should make the information easier to handle.”
“Let’s try the past three Earth-standard years. Computer, correlate as specified and put the roster on screen. Only officers with current ranks of commander or higher.” The computer’s answer was:
CAPTAIN STEPHEN LEEDSON
ADMIRAL RAN ARMSTRONG
COMMANDER LU SING QUAID
COMMANDER CHIRITA DUR TAHR
CAPTAIN SUKARU TUTAKAI
COMMANDER ELIZABETH CONNOLLY
CHIEF ADJUTANT STAV
CAPTAIN ROY NASH
COMMANDER IRENE FOGEL-MALONE
COMMANDER SUSAN YIN
COMMANDER ADEB BEN ABDULLAH
CAPTAIN NIDITORICUMTU RO
COMMANDER PAUL BURCH
FEDERATION UNDERSECRETARY FOR THE INTERIOR NIGEL SWENSON
“Wait a minute … wait a minute. Look. Leedson … Tutakai … Nash … Yin.”
“Fascinating—three starship captains and a starship first officer. Also, I believe Admiral Armstrong once commanded the Constellation.”
“Three out of twelve current starship captains. And didn’t you tell me—”
“Indeed. Hornet, Potempkin, and Lincoln are the ships Rittenhouse said are on their way to this location.”
“Rather an amazing coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite.”
“Quite and a half.” I asked the computer to specify present duties of everyone on the list not commanding a starship, and found some very interesting, and frightening correlatives. “Sarda, do you see this? Lu Sing Quaid is chairman of the Starship Officer Selection Committee and a member of the Logi
stical Support Committee at Star Fleet Command! Admiral Armstrong is the Star Fleet Representative to the UFP Congress. Chirita Dur Tahr is in consideration for the ambassadorial post from her home system.”
“It seems Vice-Admiral Rittenhouse has maneuvered his influence with assiduity.”
“He’s got his fingers into everything. Could a vice-admiral influence the selection of representatives in those groups?”
“Easily.”
“Computer, where does the Star Fleet Representative fit into UFP Congress?”
Pompeii’s computer wasn’t nearly the equal of the one on Enterprise and took longer to trace down that information, giving me time to break out in a nervous sweat. Even Sarda shifted positions a few times, although I didn’t think he quite understood the alarms that were ringing in my head about Rittenhouse and this weird, familiar pattern I thought I was seeing and hearing all around us. Finally the computer found our diagram.
UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS
GENERAL ASSEMBLY
UNITED NATIONS SOL SYSTEM UNITED PLANETS OF 61 CYGNI
Contact World: Earth Contact World: Tellar
EPSILON INDII STAR EMPIRE FIRST FEDERATION
Contact Cluster: Kohlhase Contact World: Tholus
CAMBORN SECTOR ALLIANCE PELIUS COALITION
Contact World: Antares IV Contact World: Tau Lacertae IX
AGGREGATION OF RIGELLIAN SYSTEMS ALPHA CENTAURI CONCORDIUM
Contact World: Rigel 4 Contact World: Procyon
PLANETARY CONFEDERATION OF 40 ERIDANI ALTAIR QUADRANT Contact World: Altair 6
Contact Worlds: Vulcan and Tau Ceti
“Hmm …” I found myself hmming. “Looks to me like the kindly Vice-Admiral has his finger on the carotid artery of the civilian government as well as Star Fleet Command. Or maybe I should say he’s got his knife on it. The Star Fleet Representative sits pretty high on that totem pole.”
“A difficult perch to maintain,” Sarda mentioned, “without great caution.”
He made me grin, and I stopped sweating. “We’ve got to warn Captain Kirk. We’ve got to make sure Rittenhouse doesn’t convince him to leave the sector.”
I stood up, fumbling in the various pockets on the uniform parka’s heavy exterior lining for one of the communicators, but before I found it I was slowed by a strange feeling, some odd awareness of extra thought, more than my own brain could exude, and I raised my eyes to Sarda. For a long time we exchanged that gaze, a tense, knowing kind of unity. Dangerous, yes; we were committed … almost. Did he want to stop before the commitment took us both forward into disaster?
As I suspected, he seemed to know my thoughts. Protocol wouldn’t allow him to meld with me, to breach the deeply personal zones and boundaries between our minds, but the extrasensory communication was there, I swear it was.
“Am I wrong?” I asked, not knowing for sure just what question I was asking him.
A long breath flowed through him before he would answer. “We … are making gross assumptions,” he warned, “without sufficient evidence. The Vice-Admiral may very well be no more than a supremely dedicated and active officer. I can find little logical support for your guesses, nor do I understand completely your bases for making them since I have tried to limit my contact with humans in spite of … circumstances. And yet …”
I latched onto those humanlike pauses of unsureness and wondered whether he would go the way of logic, which said I was out of my mind, or follow me into the fog of intuition.
“Yet,” I urged.
“I see no harm in suggesting to Captain Kirk that Enterprise take care to remain in this sector.”
He backed off, mentally and physically, as I had felt him do so many unfortunate times. The loss was acute, a hard ball in the hollow of my gullet. He might have felt the pain; I know I did. Bucking down the urge to follow him and pull him back into my sphere of sensation was the hardest job of resisting I had ever done. Almost … we had almost touched, almost understood each other. Almost.
I was beginning to really hate that word.
The communicator flipped open. Distractedly I tuned it to the right frequency, pretending not to feel Sarda’s dense wall. “Piper to Enterprise.”
But instead of Kirk’s dulcifying response or Uhura’s acknowledgement, the only sound was that of the briefing room door breathing open.
“Close it.” The strong order made me realize Boma hadn’t spoken at all before now. He held a phaser on us. Beside him stood Rittenhouse.
“Close the communicator, Lieutenant.”
I remained still. “Sir, I’ve never had a phaser held on me before and—”
Boma grabbed the communicator and snapped it shut, knowing what I was trying to do, and with a disgusted expression stuffed it into a pocket. Rittenhouse searched Sarda for his communicator but found none.
“I thought I saw a perceptive glimmer in your eyes, young lady. I’ve only seen it a few times before, and I’ve had to take steps to protect the future of this galaxy.”
“Then I’m right,” I murmured, chilled to the toes at the prospect. I hadn’t wanted to be right.
“The galaxy is ready to grow up, Lieutenant. You, move over there beside her.” He motioned Sarda into the line of Boma’s phaser. Boma posed a stern, inflexible presence, trenchant even though he wasn’t saying much, a silent determination that piqued my curiosity. Men like Rittenhouse could entice followers with dreams and promises, but the steadiness in Boma’s black eyes told of other motivations too. He was acting the myrmidon role, phaser held rock-steady, but he was no unquestioning puppet. While Rittenhouse talked, I found myself staring at Boma, looking for … truths?
“You’re an unusually discerning person, Lieutenant Piper,” the Vice-Admiral said. “My compliments on your rare insights. I can only hope they’re not too contagious. I’d hate them to catch on before my goals are realized.”
“Meaning before you can carry out a coup at Star Fleet? That’s what the dreadnought is for, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. What I’m planning is necessary. The Federation is ineffective and will be until it comprises the whole known galaxy. My way is a better way for everyone. Get your hands up. I know better than to trust an independent thinker.”
“This way, both of you.” Dr. Boma stepped away from the door and herded us both through it into an empty corridor.
“The Klingons first, right?” I prodded when Rittenhouse came out. The answer hung on his face. “Don’t do it, Vice-Admiral,” I went on. “They have the right to self-determination too. What you’re planning hasn’t ever worked.” In an odd way I was pleading, not warning. The false threat in my tone helped cover for my own stupidity. They’d left Sarda and me alone on purpose, to see if we would do just what we did. I would’ve listened in too. I wanted to kick myself for underestimating them.
“I can make it work, Lieutenant.” Rittenhouse narrowed his green eyes, full of youth despite their aged casing, and wistfully added, “I can keep it pure. Put them below, Boma. Then join me on the bridge.”
We watched him go.
“Move.” Boma’s phaser nudged my shoulder. Sarda was in front of me.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him, moving slowly, letting Sarda pull ahead. “You’re not the type to be enchanted by utopianism.”
“How do you know?” He seemed amused.
“I can just tell. And you’re a civilian. What could Rittenhouse offer you?”
“More success than I’ve had in the past.”
“A high rank in some new fleet? That’s how the song is usually sung.”
“You’re a unique young person, Lieutenant, the Vice-Admiral’s right about that. But you talk too much.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and I try too hard. See?” My arm swung in an arc and I put my whole weight into an awkward body slam. Boma grimaced as we crushed up against the hull. I tried to knock his hand on the bulkhead strut to make him drop the phaser but somehow he kept hold of it and surprised me with a deliberate
twist to the left that broke my leverage. I tumbled backward, off balance, and skidded hard to the floor. He brought the phaser down to aim square at my throat. In desperation I shoved my legs between his and jerked him to his knees. His arms flew up as he struggled for control, but by then Sarda appeared and reached for the key nerves on the side of Boma’s neck. Boma squirmed to one side, but too late. He grimaced and shouted a bitter “No!” before crumpling under Sarda’s hand.
The same Vulcan hand hauled me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I muttered, straightening my twisted parka.
“Your deductions seem to have affected them,” Sarda observed.
“We hit home, all right. I’d rather have been wrong, Sarda. This is terrible for Star Fleet, you know? Either way we’re in for a major shakedown. Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.” I stepped over Boma’s inert form and jogged down the hallway, trying to decide where I was going, and ran flush into pain.
Blue-green lights. Energy … frozen spine—pain—I yelled Sarda’s name before my throat closed up—hands in front of me … my own hands, white and bloodless—nerves burning, fraying—my head snapped backward as my spine constricted. I felt myself falling forward, slipping to one side. A heartbeat thudded in my head—ba-boom—ba-boom—knees buckled … no feeling in my feet … consciousness dribbling away … ba-boomp—baaa-booom—baaa—
My mind guttered, and winked out.
Chapter Seven
THE DREAM WAS uncomfortable. A dark place, cold and confusing, full of two-sided masks with strange faces inside, crushing my thoughts with their presence, too close, too tight, and the pain came back.
Roaring in my ears—too loud to think. I drifted upward toward a dimness. Not light, exactly, but a place other than this. A place to go, a place for me to feel again. I grasped onto the pain with my fragmented mind and pulled myself up toward that dim place. It was a hard, long fight. My life clung to the thread of pain and the terrible deafening bawl.
The sound changed even as I wished it to go away, but it didn’t stop, changing instead to a sucking noise, like planet-sized bellows sucking and gushing—ssssssssss-chuuuuuh-sssssssss-chhuuuuuh