by Dayton Ward
For nearly three hours, they scanned every millimeter of the room with their tricorders, searching for any clue about the explosion that had ravaged the chamber.
And they had come up with nothing.
“The room is secure,” Chekov said as he deactivated his tricorder and let it hang from his shoulder by its carrying strap. “I can’t find any sign of a hidden compartment or entrance that someone might have used to place the bomb.”
Lorta rose from where she had been kneeling near the front of the room and straightened to her full height, which Chekov noticed for perhaps the twelfth time was several centimeters taller than his own. Her own tricorder was bulkier than his, with a hardened case that Chekov suspected lent itself well to harsh environments. As sturdy as most Starfleet equipment was, it was not unheard of for a tricorder or phaser to succumb to the unforgiving elements of a storm-swept planet or moon. He made a mental note to record his observations in his personal log later. Perhaps it was something the engineers back at Starfleet Research and Development would be interested in hearing about.
She set her tricorder down atop the large, U -shaped conference table. “I too have been unable to find any breach. The room is as secure now as it has been since the beginning of the summit.”
Chekov nodded. “And so far we haven’t found any record of unauthorized transporter activity in this area from the sensor logs on either the Enterprise or the Terthos.” It had taken almost no time to confirm this information, given that both security chiefs had already ordered all transporter activity to and from the station to be recorded and an alert sounded if anything untoward was registered. Chekov hadn’t been so easily convinced, however, and had instructed his security team to scour the Enterprise ’s sensor logs looking for anything out of the ordinary during the past week.
“If the explosive was not transported into this room,” Lorta said, “then it must have been carried in by one of the delegates or their aides, or one of the starbase support staff.”
As far as Chekov was concerned, everyone who had entered the room during the morning session was a suspect. In addition to the diplomats and their various assistants, Admiral LeGere had assigned a contingent of Starbase 49 personnel to see to the various needs of the conference attendees to include refreshments, handling of routine communications request, and the like. It made things easier on the delegates, but it compounded Chekov’s security concerns tenfold.
Shaking his head, he began to pace the length of the conference table toward the front of the room, noting again how the table’s once highly polished surface was now covered with dust and riddled with pits and scars inflicted by debris. A hint of smoke, burned wood and melted plastic still tinged the air of the chamber, offering its own testimony as to what had happened here.
“Everyone coming into the room was scanned before being allowed access. We would have discovered any attempt to smuggle anything like an explosive in here.”
Initial scans had pointed to some type of improvised device. He had therefore ordered the entire podium, along with some of the fragments that were the only remnants of the explosive, transported to the Enterprise. Scotty was subjecting everything to a barrage of sensor probes that were far more intensive than anything their tricorders could manage.
He hoped the engineer would complete his examinations quickly, though. There had already been pressure from both ambassadors for a report as to the cause of the explosion and, more important, what was being done to prevent a repeat occurrence. Both parties had communicated their discomfort at continuing the peace summit. They had, however, expressed a reluctance to end things now. They agreed that the progress that had been made to this point, as grudging and hard won as it had been, was still significant enough that to conclude the proceedings prematurely would be wasteful.
With that, Captain Spock had gotten Admiral LeGere to arrange for an alternative meeting place elsewhere on Starbase 49. The officer’s mess had been converted into a substitute conference hall and the summit had gone forward with negotiations once again. That left Chekov and Lorta free to take as much time as they needed to conduct their investigation. But as he studied the blast-damaged interior of the room around him, Chekov was conscious of the fact that the new conference facilities could also fall victim to attack if he and Lorta did not move quickly enough.
“What is the status of the interrogations?” the Klingon security chief asked.
Chekov winced at her choice of phrase. He had assigned members of his security detachment to take statements from everyone who had been in the conference hall during the morning discussions with the exception of the ambassadors themselves, a duty he had reserved for himself.
“They’re not being interrogated, they’re being questioned. There is a difference.”
Lorta shrugged. “Perhaps for you.”
Ignoring the red herring, Chekov retrieved one of his security contingent’s datapads from the conference table, Tapping a series of commands on the unit’s keypad, he shook his head as he quickly scanned the transcripts of witness interviews taken earlier in the day.
“The accounts of the morning session are nearly the same. Nothing of any real value.” Of the statements he had reviewed so far, none had offered any insight as to who or what might have caused the explosion.
“Of course, someone is lying.”
Though he frowned at Lorta’s blunt statement, he was forced to concede that she was probably right. None of the accounts had given him cause to suspect that anyone questioned so far could be lying, but there simply didn’t seem to be any other logical explanation.
His attention was drawn to the sound of a transporter beam and he turned to see a column of energy coalesce and solidify into the form of Montgomery Scott. As the beam released the engineer, Chekov could see that his friend was tired. No doubt he had locked himself inside one of the Enterprise ’s science labs and worked at a breakneck pace until he had found something worth reporting.
“Scotty,” Chekov said, “tell me you’ve got good news.”
Pausing only long enough to glance at the imposing figure of Lorta, twice, Scotty replied in a noticeably downbeat voice. “Well lad, I’ve completed scans of what’s left o’ that podium and the shrapnel we dug out of the walls, but I dinna think you’ll like it.” He cast another look at Lorta. “Neither you, lass.”
“What did you find?” Chekov asked.
Holding up the tricorder he’d brought with him, Scotty activated it and handed it to the security chief. “The explosive was placed on the underside of the podium’s desktop with a common adhesive strip, no different from the kind ye can find in bulk aboard ship.” He pointed to the tricorder’s small display screen. “Now, look at this.” Lorta stepped closer and peered over Chekov’s shoulder at the data displayed on the screen.
“Most o’ the fragments that we found embedded in the podium came from what looks to be a standard Klingon datapad. Analysis of the metallic composites, glass, and pieces of other components confirmed it.”
“So the explosive itself was hidden inside the datapad,” Chekov said. Moving to a nearby wall, he ran his hand over one damaged section. His fingers probed the jagged edge of a wound where a piece of shrapnel nearly the size of his fist had been extracted. Even here, nearly the length of the room away from where the podium had been, the force of the explosion had been powerful enough to drive debris several centimeters into the normally resilient material of the wall panel. “We still should have picked it up on our security scans.” Returning his attention to Scotty’s tricorder, he pointed to one puzzling readout on the unit’s display. “What’s this?”
The engineer shook his head. “Some kind o’ chemical residue. Almost missed it on our scans. When I adjusted the sensors and repeated the sweep, it stood out like a supernova. There was a high concentration o’ the stuff near where the bomb was placed, and scattered readings across most o’ the shrapnel in the podium and what we found in the walls. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
>
“Qo’legh,” Lorta said simply.
Chekov and Scotty looked at her with matching confused expressions. “A highly volatile mixture,” she continued, “that can only be created through the combination of three otherwise inert substances. When mixed in the correct manner, it makes for an efficient explosive. It is designed to leave very little in the way of detectable residue.”
“That’s why you dinna find it with yer tricorders,” Scotty said. “I only caught it with the enhanced spectral analysis available on the Enterprise. Damn impressive stuff, if ye ask me.”
Chekov began to pace, his brow furrowed in concentration. “So the datapad was a fake, probably containing enough real components to get past a routine security scan, but these chemicals were stored in separate compartments inside its casing, which then mixed to form the explosive?”
“That’s the ticket, laddie,” Scotty replied.
Lorta added, “The chemical reaction is instant, meaning that the explosion was the result of either a timed delay or a communications signal once the device had been placed.”
“We would have detected any unauthorized comm signals,” Chekov said. “So that leaves the delayed detonation, which makes the most sense now. The intended target may have been the speaker scheduled for that time according to the session’s original agenda.” Both he and Lorta already knew that according to the session’s agenda for that morning, a diplomatic aide to Ambassador Kaljagh had been scheduled to speak.
In his mind’s eye, Chekov saw the datapad sitting innocuously underneath the surface of the podium, an internal chronometer counting down the seconds until detonation and unaware of the chaos and suffering it would eventually unleash. That anyone could set such a callous action into motion with total disregard for anyone who might be caught in the blast was both sobering and infuriating to him.
“We may be dealing with a Klingon, but not a trained assassin,” Lorta suddenly said.
“What makes ye think that?” Scotty asked.
“Because no one was killed. A Klingon assassin would not waste such an opportunity.”
It took an extra second for that to sink in for Chekov. “But why a Klingon at all? Why not a human, or Tellarite, or Andorian?” After all, many races were well represented aboard Starbase 49.
“I base my theory only on the weapon used.” Lorta indicated the conference hall and the unchecked damage defacing it with a wave of her arm. “Qo’legh is a favored tool of Klingon spies, but the manner in which it was wasted here suggests someone not trained in the art of covert assassination.”
“What if whoever planted the bomb wasn’t trying to kill anyone?” Scotty asked. “What if, instead, they simply wanted to disrupt the peace talks?”
Lorta nodded. “It is a more plausible explanation, though still one that we have no proof to support.”
“If they are out to disrupt the summit,” Chekov said, “then they’ll have to try again.”
“And if we are not dealing with a professional covert operative, then they may make an error that we can exploit. We must be watchful for such opportunities.”
Scotty looked around the conference room that still bore the scars of the previous and thankfully unsuccessful attempt. “I hope that happens before someone does get killed.”
Chapter Twenty-five
UHURA DIDN’T REMEMBER Klingon ships smelling this bad. Of course, this was the first time she had been aboard such a vessel when there were Klingons around. The food they ate, the substances they inhaled into their lungs, not to mention their own personal hygiene, all conspired to produce a conglomeration of odors that threatened to overpower her.
Only a little while longer, she reminded herself as she sat at the communications station on the Terthos ’s bridge. She figured it would take another thirty minutes to complete the diagnostic check of the ship’s communications systems.
Coming aboard at Murgh’s request, Uhura had assisted him in tracking down the malfunction troubling the Klingon vessel’s communications systems. One of the ship’s engineers had installed an emergency lighting source near one of the intraship relay junctions, causing no small amount of interference to the intercom system in that part of the ship. Working together, Uhura and Murgh decided that the job required a new suite of diagnostic programs to track down and isolate such glitches.
“How’s it running now?” asked Lieutenant Brian Connors, his face displayed on one of the communication console’s monitors. Uhura had wasted no time calling the computer specialist when it became apparent that she would have a very difficult time understanding the peculiarities of the programming language used to interface with most Klingon military computers. Connors, an Enterprise engineer with an affinity for computer languages from a wide range of races, had made short work of the problem.
Studying the results of the diagnostic program on another monitor, Uhura nodded with no small amount of admiration for the young computer expert. “So far, so good. You have a magician’s touch, Lieutenant.”
“Excellent,” Murgh added as Uhura severed the connection. “The system appears to be operating much more efficiently than before.”
Uhura leaned back into her chair, raising her arms over her head and stretching her back. Klingon furniture wasn’t designed with comfort in mind, and after the past few hours her back muscles were beginning to protest.
“I’ve also got Connors working on a few other routines that should improve the interface to your computer’s Universal Translator as well. It should cut down the time it takes for you to get a translation from languages already on file, and maybe even improve first-contact response time, too.”
From the center of the bridge, Uhura heard mocking laughter. Turning in her chair, she recognized Lieutenant Ag’hel, the Terthos ’s first officer, sitting in the command chair and looking directly at her. The Klingon officer made no effort to hide the condescending smile on her face or the matching tone of her voice.
“Yet another example of Federation technical prowess. It’s a pity that such talent is wasted on useless pursuits like teaching computers to talk.”
Uhura regarded the first officer with an amused expression. “I don’t know about that. Without ship’s communications, you can’t transmit or receive orders during battle. And an effective translation processor can aid in the breaking of enemy encryption codes. There are more ways to defeat your opponent than simply overpowering them, Lieutenant.”
The smile on Ag’hel’s face warmed with a new sincerity. “Perhaps there is hope for your species after all, human.” She turned in her chair to give the bridge a quick visual inspection, satisfying herself that all was as it should be.
Attempting to turn the conversation to something more interesting, Uhura said, “There aren’t very many women in leadership positions aboard Klingon ships, are there?”
“Very few, and none in command,” Ag’hel replied, then added with a fierce note of pride in her voice, “I intend to be the first.”
Uhura nodded admiringly. The lieutenant had spirit, that much was certain. But it would require more than that to advance to any respectable position of leadership within the Empire. No women held any political power so far as Starfleet Intelligence had been able to determine. As for their military, female Klingons served in all manner of capacities, though as Ag’hel had said, none commanded any vessels of their own. However, several served as first officers, so it could only be a matter of time. How the increasing number of women in power would affect the Klingon Empire, a patriarchal society in the extreme, remained to be seen.
“I hope you succeed, Lieutenant,” Uhura said. “Good luck.”
“Luck will not be necessary,” Ag’hel said, turning away as she rotated the command chair again, surveying the control stations of the ship that had been entrusted to her care.
The next several moments passed in silence as Uhura reviewed the final diagnostic reports from the communications console with Murgh. From the looks of things, the system now appeared to be
operating perfectly.
“You are as proficient as your reputation indicates, Commander,” Murgh said, nodding in satisfaction at the reports on the computer displays.
As Uhura began to allow herself to be pleased with her efforts, a shadow fell across the console. She turned to see Lieutenant Ag’hel standing no more than a meter away.
“Tell me something, Commander,” the Terthos first officer said. “Women appear to occupy many seats of power within Starfleet. They command your starships and starbases, making decisions that affect hundreds or even thousands of lives. Do you aspire to such a position?”
I guess I asked for that, Uhura thought before replying. “I’ve thought about it, certainly. But I’m doing something that I have a gift for and that I love to do.”
Ag’hel’s expression grew doubtful. “And what about your duty to Starfleet? Does that not have value?”
“Of course,” Uhura said. “But I am able to serve Starfleet while doing something I enjoy. Don’t you enjoy serving the Empire?”
“Personal enjoyment is not a requirement of loyal service, Commander,” Ag’hel replied sharply, though her expression quickly softened. “However, I take great pride in my accomplishments.”
Uhura smiled at that. “Maybe we’re not as different as we might think, Lieutenant.”
She would never know whether or not Ag’hel agreed. The Klingon’s response was interrupted as the deck shuddered. A red-alert klaxon began wailing on the bridge, and Uhura saw the Klingons manning various stations around the dimly lit command center turning to their tasks with a renewed sense of frantic purpose.