Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Rough Beasts of Empire

by David R. George III

  “Spock, can you hear me?” she asked gently.

  It required a moment for him to find his voice. “Yes,” he said, the word coming out in a dry whisper.

  Corthin nodded, apparently satisfied. A native of Romulus, she had joined the Reunification Movement three years earlier. A schoolteacher by trade, she had dedicated herself to the idea that the Romulan and Vulcan people should seek understanding, cohesion, and ultimately, integration. She had demonstrated her commitment to those ideals time and again, becoming a trusted right hand for Spock and, of late, offering flashes of her own leadership abilities.

  “Do you need some water?” she asked. She wore conservative Romulan clothing, including black slacks and a long-sleeved ultramarine blouse.

  Spock nodded, and Corthin reached to her side for a covered cup. She held a dispensing tip to his lips and he drank. The cool liquid felt strangely foreign in his mouth and throat, but also instantly refreshing.

  After setting the cup aside, Corthin said, “You were attacked.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Spock told her, his voice no longer rasping.

  “When you didn’t return by the time expected, we sent people out to search the tunnels for you.” She looked down for a moment, clearly battling her emotions. “I found you. You’d lost a great deal of blood. I placed you in a stasis field and—”

  “Stasis,” Spock said, concerned about the usage of such a device, which consumed a considerable amount of power. Though minerals in the rock strata beneath Ki Baratan could and often did interfere with sensors, they did not provide comprehensive cover, particularly for communications signals and higher-powered equipment. In recent years, first under Praetor Hiren, and later under Shinzon and Tal’Aura, Romulan Security forces had ventured beneath the capital city to locate and apprehend members of the Reunification Movement. Over time, more than a half dozen had been taken into custody; of those, at least three had been executed, though none since Tal’Aura had taken control of the government. As a precaution, Spock and his compatriots had abandoned even carrying devices that could compromise their freedom, though they still maintained caches of equipment for use in exigent circumstances.

  “Yes, stasis,” Corthin said. “You were in critical condition. With your injuries, I couldn’t risk moving you, and I didn’t know how long it would take for Shalvan to reach us.” A skilled Romulan physician, Shalvan had joined the Movement more than a decade ago, not long after Spock had first come to Romulus.

  Spock did not argue the point with Corthin. With no hint of ego, he understood his importance to the cause of reunification. “How long since the attack?”

  “Two days,” Corthin said. “The knife punctured your heart. Shalvan had to operate.”

  Two sets of footsteps sounded behind Corthin, and Spock watched her glance up over her shoulder. Above her appeared the doctor himself, the dark circles below his eyes combining with his gray hair to make him appear even older than his advanced years. D’Tan took up a position beside him, the young man’s stone-faced countenance not completely masking his concern for Spock.

  “How are you feeling?” Shalvan asked. The doctor squatted down and reached for Spock’s wrist, presumably to assess his pulse. The physical contact occurred coldly, Shalvan’s mental barriers obviously in place.

  “I am fatigued, and my muscles are not entirely flexible,” Spock said, “but I am pleased to be alive.”

  “As you should be,” Shalvan said. “You would not have lived much longer had Corthin not found you when she did.”

  Spock acknowledged Corthin’s deed with a slight bow of his head in her direction. Then he began to push himself up in preparation to stand. Corthin and Shalvan both moved to stop him.

  “The surgery went well, Spock,” Shalvan said, “but you are not sufficiently recovered to walk.”

  “That may be,” Spock allowed, “but since powered equipment was employed in my recovery, we must relocate in order to ensure that we avoid detection.”

  “We’ve already moved twice,” Corthin said. “Once prior to your surgery, and once afterward. We’re under the far northwest corner of the city now.”

  “I see,” Spock said. Satisfied, he allowed Shalvan to help him lower himself down. As he lay back, he realized that the simple act of trying to prop himself up had exhausted him. “What is my prognosis?”

  “You’ll make a complete recovery,” Shalvan said, touching the flat of his hand to Spock’s forehead. “But your body has undergone serious trauma, first from the wounds and then from invasive surgery. You will require at least another five to seven days of bed rest.”

  Spock received the news with equanimity. In his younger days, he might have been inclined to push himself to best the doctor’s forecast, but Spock acknowledged the limitations of his age. Though still strong, his body did not convalesce as swiftly as it once had.

  With a promise to have a meal delivered to Spock and to check on him again shortly, Shalvan exited the cave. Once he had, Spock looked to Corthin. “I was attacked by a Reman,” he told her.

  “We know,” Corthin said, peering over at D’Tan.

  “I discovered the assassin,” the young man said, his final word laced with contempt. For all his efforts on behalf of reunification and his staunch preference for the Vulcan way of life, he had not yet learned how to fully govern his Romulan passions. “I should have left him to die.”

  “Then he is alive,” Spock said, seeking confirmation from Corthin. For the moment, he chose not to address D’Tan’s aggressive attitude. As tired as he felt, he had trouble enough concentrating on one train of thought.

  “Yes,” she said. “He suffered a fractured skull and an epidural hematoma, but Shalvan operated on him. He has already largely recovered.”

  “You’re holding him, then?” Spock asked.

  “Under constant and redundant guard,” D’Tan offered. “He won’t be going anywhere.”

  “We’re keeping him away from our present location,” Corthin said. “We searched him for comm and tracking devices. We didn’t find any, but if he’s not acting alone, his accomplices could come looking for him.”

  “Has he told you why he attempted to kill me?” Spock asked.

  “The cur refuses to speak,” D’Tan said. “He will not even provide his name, much less whether or not he is doing the bidding of others.”

  “In the interest of your safety,” Corthin said, looking at Spock, “I think we must assume that the assassin has allies or employers. If that is not correct, then the danger to you has ended by virtue of your thwarting the attempt on your life and our subsequent capture of the assassin. If it is, then you are clearly still at risk.”

  “I have been at risk since joining the cause of reunification,” Spock said. “The Romulans have taken me into custody on more than one occasion, and have even threatened my execution.”

  “Are you suggesting that Tal’Aura’s government is behind this?” Corthin asked, her tone doubtful.

  Spock closed his eyes for a few seconds, fighting his fatigue. “No,” he finally said, looking up again at Corthin. “Considering the tumultuous relationship between the Romulans and the Remans, an affiliation between the two seems unlikely.” Since Shinzon’s death more than a year ago, the Remans had continued their revolt against their Romulan enslavers, eventually accepting the status of Klingon protectorate, settling first on the continent of Ehrie’fvil on Romulus, and then on their own world of Klorgat IV. “But the simple fact of enmity between the Romulans and the Remans does not mean that the two do not share political imperatives.”

  Corthin tilted her head to one side, her brow furrowing. “I understand why many of my people oppose the reunification of Romulus and Vulcan,” she said, “but why would the Remans oppose it? Why would they care at all?”

  “Because,” D’Tan said slowly, realization evidently dawning on him, “the reunification of the Vulcans and Romulans would probably entail the reintegration of the Romulan Star Empire and the Imperial Romu
lan State.”

  “And a reinvigorated Romulan Empire might not be in the best interests of the Remans,” Corthin concluded. “But did this assassin take action on his own, or as part of an organized Reman plot?”

  “I do not know,” Spock said, “but I believe it is essential that we find out.”

  “We will,” D’Tan said. “I will.” He darted from the room, his sense of purpose plain.

  Spock watched him go. “D’Tan claims devotion to the Vulcan way of life, and yet he sometimes displays a regrettable lack of emotional restraint.”

  “He is still young,” Corthin said.

  “Indeed,” Spock agreed. “Too young, I think, to interrogate the Reman.” When Corthin nodded hesitantly, Spock said, “Violence would not serve our purpose.”

  “No, of course not,” Corthin said. “I will supervise the process. I’ll enlist the aid of Dorlok and Venaster.”

  Both men, Spock knew, had served in the Romulan military and possessed some experience in such matters. He gave his approval, then told Corthin that he needed to rest.

  “Of course,” she said. “As you are able, I’ll keep you informed of our progress.”

  “Very good,” Spock said. He watched Corthin depart—she darkened the lighting panel on her way—before allowing his eyes to slip closed once more. He pondered again, as he had for the past couple of months, just how the Romulan schism would impact the Movement. Thus far, he and his comrades had modified little in their word-of-mouth efforts to draw more people to their cause. As sleep pulled him down into its pliant folds, Spock thought that maybe the time had come for a different kind of action.

  5

  “We need you, Ben.”

  From across the room, Sisko looked over at the admiral, who had turned back on his way out the door, apparently to tender one last entreaty. “I understand,” Sisko said, more to head off further conversation than for any other reason, but in truth, he did understand. At the Azure Nebula, the crews of Enterprise, Titan, and Aventine had defeated the Borg—had defeated not just some number of cubes, but the entire Collective, and if he could believe the reports, not only for the near term, but permanently. Victory, though, had not come soon enough either to save the sixty-three billion killed during the invasion or to prevent the destruction of more than forty percent of Starfleet. Admiral Walter didn’t have to build a case that Sisko should remain on active duty; the terrible devastation rendered the need for experienced officers self-evident.

  But I don’t know if I want to be needed, Sisko thought. Again. To Walter, though, he said, “I’ll consider it . . . discuss it with my wife.”

  The admiral continued to stand silently in the doorway, his gaze measuring. His waist had spread some and his hair had gone white in the nearly three decades since Sisko had first met him. The irregular scar crawling from his right eyebrow and up his forehead hadn’t changed from those days, though; even dermal regenerators had been unable to restore George Walter’s flesh to its natural state. The jagged streak of pale skin acted as a disquieting reminder to Sisko that the two had served during the last Federation-Tzenkethi war. Sisko had witnessed the infliction of the wound that had caused the disfigurement, an image that for months afterward had returned to him in nightmares.

  For an awkward moment, he thought that the admiral might step back into the room and renew his appeal. Sisko had agreed to reactivation in Starfleet solely for the duration of the Borg crisis; once the peril had passed, he’d intended to doff his uniform and return home to Bajor. Perhaps Walter believed that his willingness to leave his civilian life in Kendra Province for a starship assignment once meant that he could be convinced to do so again. The admiral himself had recruited him for the battle against the Borg, traveling all the way to Bajor to make his pitch in person.

  Maybe he feels he has to say more because he doesn’t think that I’ll really consider his offer, Sisko thought. Or maybe he doesn’t trust that I’ll talk with Kasidy about it. The admiral had met Kasidy when he’d visited their home, and had likely sensed the tension between the couple.

  Sisko didn’t know what else to say, and he had no desire to hear more than he already had. Fortunately, Admiral Walter chose to offer nothing more. The single-paneled door slid closed behind him with a whisper.

  Sisko exhaled heavily, unaware until that moment that he’d been holding his breath. He turned away from the door and gazed through the large picture windows set into the two outer walls of the room. The spectacular views visible in both directions attested to the fact that he’d been assigned VIP quarters at the base.

  Crossing the large living section, Sisko peered out across the beautiful violet waters of Alonis. Starbase 197 did not just sit at the western edge of the main landmass on the planet, but slipped away from it and into the surf; half of the facility had been constructed on dry ground, and half beneath the waves. An aquatic species, the Alonis had evolved enough technologically to provide for their cultural desire to explore. They had first fashioned rebreathing suits and land-based methods of transport to allow them to travel the ten percent of their world not submerged beneath the oceans. Not satisfied to stop there, they had continued striving, until in time they’d discovered the means of thwarting the gravitational pull of their world, ultimately developing faster-than-light drive and making contact with other species.

  And more than eleven thousand of them died yesterday for no good reason, Sisko thought. The death toll could have been far greater, he knew, but that would afford little salve to those who had lost friends, neighbors, colleagues, and loved ones. Though grateful that their society and the Federation would go on, the Alonis mourned the tragedy that had befallen so many, on their world and beyond.

  Trying to clear his head, Sisko stood quietly staring out across the water for several minutes, until the sun dipped below the horizon, the great orb linking up with the yellow-orange column of light it cast across the surface of the purple sea. The mix of colors dazzled, and he thought about how much Kasidy would appreciate the view. A pang of guilt overcame him, and he knew that he had to compose a message to his wife. Kasidy deserved more than the simple note he’d already sent her, the few words he’d recorded and transmitted to let her know that he hadn’t been killed or seriously injured during the combat with the Borg.

  It had been almost a full day since Sisko and the surviving crew of New York had abandoned the starship to the first repair teams. While an Alonis tug towed the vessel to the nearest dock—one of several orbiting structures that had endured the Borg attack—all of New York’s personnel transported down to the planet surface, to Starbase 197. Once Sisko reached the quarters allocated to him, he sent quick word to Kasidy of his survival and general good health. He then lay down, wanting merely to rest for a few minutes, judging that the adrenaline still coursing through his body wouldn’t allow him to sleep. He’d woken up twelve hours later.

  After replenishing himself with a sizable breakfast, the captain had been called into one meeting after another. Starfleet Command debriefed him, asking for details of the battle against the Borg waged by New York, James T. Kirk, and Cutlass. Sisko also wrote and filed accounts of the confrontation, checked in with the base’s infirmary, and updated crew casualty lists. When he could, he read some of the reports coming out of the Azure Nebula, essentially seeking confirmation of something he found difficult to credit, namely that the Collective had been vanquished for good.

  With the sun halfway out of sight, Sisko glanced out the great window to his left and saw lights starting to come on across the skyline of Lingasha, the largest nonmarine city on Alonis. Pulling himself away from both vistas, he walked over to an inner wall, sat down at a sleek, modern desk, and touched a control pad to bring up the lighting in his own quarters. Facing the companel on the desk, he said, “Computer, record a message to Kasidy Yates, Kendra Province, Bajor.” Accompanied by a quick sequence of electronic tones, the symbol of the United Federation of Planets winked off from the display, replaced by the word
RECORDING.

  “Kasidy,” Sisko began, but then he immediately found himself at a loss for how to continue. “Kas,” he tried again, “I wanted to tell you . . .”

  What? Sisko thought. He didn’t really want to tell his wife what he knew he must, and he certainly couldn’t do so via subspace. For the moment, he would simply have to give her more than he already had, for despite Kasidy knowing that he had made it safely through his mission, she would remain concerned about him. Despite her opposition to his returning to Starfleet, even for a short time, and regardless of whatever else had transpired between them of late, he knew that she still loved and missed him. And though he also knew that in the end it would come to nothing, he loved and missed her too.

  He could not even think about his four-year-old daughter, Rebecca. Or his son and daughter-in-law.

  “Computer,” he said, “cancel recording.” As the UFP standard reappeared on the readout, Sisko decided to take on another uncomfortable task, one that he’d specifically requested from Starfleet Command. “Computer, record a message to Lieutenant Prynn Tenmei at Deep Space Nine.” After the companel indicated its readiness, he proceeded.

  “Lieutenant, this is Captain Sisko. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I accepted reactivation to Starfleet within the last month in order to help fight the Borg threat. I was part of a task force detailed to protect the Alonis. Your father’s ship was also one of those assigned.” He found himself unable to keep from hesitating and looking down for a moment, though he knew such cues would telegraph his intention to deliver bad news. “The James T. Kirk bore a great deal of battle damage. I’m sorry, but your father was critically wounded. He suffered a traumatic head injury. His body is alive, but . . .” Again, Sisko looked away from the monitor, sad not just for Tenmei’s loss but for his own. “. . . but the doctors report no brain activity.”