Orion's Hounds

by Christopher L. Bennett

  It had been this way before, he knew. In the prison on Romulus. Seven weeks of torture, starvation, and degradation. Feigning death to escape, a healing trance. Awakened in time to hear the guard preparing to scan him, risking exposure. There had been only one option left to him by his circumstances, his need to survive, his sheer rage. He had chosen, then as now, to set everything else aside, to save his shame and disgust for later and do what he had to do. He had killed four Romulans and mortally wounded another, forced himself into the fifth man’s mind before he died. He had abandoned Surak, given into rage and hate and killing, and he had chosen not to care until afterward.

  But he couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t care about that now. He was here—the science department. Someone here would have the access codes to the warp-signature data. His were blocked. He had tried a backdoor access already, but wasn’t familiar enough with these computers, with the cybersecurity protocols which Commander Jaza had devised based on principles from the Bajoran underground. He had recognized similarities to Maquis protocols, could have cracked the codes in time, but he had no such time. He needed viable codes now. And he needed an authorized voice to speak them.

  The main, general-use lab space was cluttered as such spaces tended to be, full of components and consoles and tables that got shoved around at the whims of whatever inspirations struck the scientists who shared it. This was deficient from a security standpoint, since the Jefferies-tube access panel was hidden from ready view.

  Tuvok slipped out through the panel soundlessly and peered around the portable holotank that someone had placed in the middle of the floor. Few were present in the common lab right now; that was fortunate. One was a security guard, a large, dark human named Okafor. He was escorting Cadet Orilly toward the exit. Tuvok could see that Orilly was agitated, feeling the jellies’ deaths as he did, feeling their urgings for help; yet she went along meekly with the guard. Her head turned toward him, as though she knew just where to look. Her eyes locked with his, yet she said nothing to the guard.

  But there—on the other side of the lab, conversing with K’chak’!’op, was Melora Pazlar. Tuvok felt a thrill of pent-up irritation at the tiresome Elaysian. She was irreverent, rude, arrogant. Yet he knew she would have the codes he needed. How perfect.

  Tuvok leapt at her, was on her in a second. She fell to the ground under his momentum. He heard several snaps of bone, heard her cry out. He didn’t care. His hands went to her temples.

  Strong, slick tentacles entangled him, pulled him back. K’chak’!’op. He struggled against them. “Please stop, little one,” came the sound of the Pak’shree’s voder. “You’re so fragile, I don’t want to risk hurting you!” But Pazlar was writhing on the floor, trying to back away, but helpless. Perhaps her motor-assist armature had shorted out. It was perfect, but he had to get free, get to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Okafor with phaser drawn, trying to get a clear shot. He fought harder, but more tentacles now entangled him.

  But then Orilly leapt into motion. One trunk knocked Okafor’s phaser away while the other swept against him and knocked him through the open doorway. She kicked his feet out of the doorway with her paw and slapped the lock panel. Then she spun and charged K’chak’!’op, rearing up on her hind paws. The Irriol’s weight slammed into the Pak’shree, knocking her over and breaking most of her tentacles’ grip on Tuvok. With a triumphant surge, he pulled free of the rest and fell upon Pazlar once again. She struggled feebly as his hands clutched her temples. “My mind to your mind,” he rasped. “Your thoughts to my thoughts!”

  “Nn no!”

  “Our minds are becoming…”

  “One!” they finished together. Yes—he had her voice. Now where was the code? The access code. She couldn’t hide it from herself.

  “Computer!” she said, Tuvok’s puppet. “Display wideband sensor specifications. Include specific calibrations and readings for Pa’haquel biosigns and warp-signature data. Authorization Pazlar, Gamma Nine, Emerald.”

  The computer chirped obedience, and the data came up on the nearest wall screen. Tuvok drank it in, and the jellies knew it as he did. Along with it he sent his own knowledge of deflector shields and how to calibrate them against the bio-energy stings of the hunters. He sagged with relief. Already he felt their triumph, shared in it. Now they will be safe.

  And then the guilt began to sink in.

  Interlude

  CLAN CHE’HITH’RHA LEAD SKYMOUNT, STARDATE 57175.3

  Elder Che’sethri had grown tired of the Hunt. Sacred duty or no, the unrelenting grind of it left its wear on an aged body and mind. There were times that Che’sethri wished he could emulate the elders of other species, those who lived in blissful ignorance or neglect of the cosmic mission which drove the Pa’haquel, and who could afford to indulge in leisure, comfort and simple inactivity.

  Yet a vista like the one spread before him on the sensation wall was enough to fire what remained of his predatory spirit, to get him excited about the Hunt once more, for a little while at least. For before him was the largest assemblage of skymount schools he had beheld in many a year. They had been drawn by a rare and novel phenomenon: a protostar had collided with a tachyon stream, and their interaction had somehow triggered a subspace vortex. The gravitational suction from the vortex drew in the protostar’s hydrogen, compressing and fusing it, and the resultant energy fed and perpetuated the vortex, while also radiating outward in a flood of wide-spectrum energies, heavy nuclei, and exotic particles. As such, it was a veritable feast for starfaring creatures. The sensation feeds revealed five different schools of skymounts, turned toward the fount with their tentacles spread wide, sails grown between them to catch the nourishing outpour. They were not alone; a few of the diaphanous sail-sylphs that rode the tachyon currents had spilled wind and fallen to normal space in order to feast. Some branchers were present as well on the far side of the system, though the skymounts and sylphs kept their distance from those.

  But they were of no interest to him now. The five schools offered an unprecedented opportunity; with luck and cunning, he could make the biggest kill of his career. Some in his clan complained of being too far antispinward to reach the upcoming Great Hounding. But to Che’sethri, there was just as much glory to be had here, and with no need to share it with others. Maybe his fleet would add enough skymounts to require splitting it in two, and allowing his eldest son to take his place at the lead of one. With other great fleets depleted by the Hounding, he could swoop in with two mighty fleets in its wake and instantly become a force to be reckoned with. Other fleets would be eager to make alliance with his, giving many nubile females in marriage to boost his fleet’s numbers. Perhaps some of the high and mighty fleets, like that overbearing fossil Aq’hareq’s, would be so badly depleted that he could absorb their shamed survivors into his as a ready labor force.

  Such a triumph, he imagined, might win him enough esteem that he could get away with turning both fleets over to his sons and retiring into leisure. He chuckled to himself. More likely, a hunt that successful would fire him up too much to enjoy retirement. Perhaps the best-case scenario would be if he died gloriously in the struggle and left the triumph and prestige as a legacy to his sons. But what struggle could there ever be with skymounts? Perhaps when he was done with them he would go after the branchers.

  Huntsmistress Rha’djemi jogged up to him, bowing her head briefly, though her attempt at humility made little headway against her lust for action. “We stand ready, Elder. All mounts report their stings are hot and ready to fire. We are poised to strike all five at once, three ships emerging in the midst of each school. We will take them unaware, all fat and gorged and slow—my Elder, if we wished we could slay every last one!” She finished with a laugh of savage glee.

  Che’sethri chuckled at her zeal. “Calm yourself, Huntsmistress. Remember the balance. Kill too many, and what will our grandchildren have to kill?”

  “Of course, Elder. I just meant—imagine if we c
ould.”

  “Yes.” Not that he could blame her. Rha’djemi’s enthusiasm for the hunt was what made her indispensible to him, what had brought her to her rank and kept her there. Raised without a mother or sisters, the girl had always been more interested in combat and hunting than in the maintenance of skymounts, resources and personnel. Her fierce competence had brought her quickly to authority, and quickly silenced those few foolish young males whose pride made them resent taking combat orders from a female (and the Fethetrit, whose pride made them resent taking anyone’s orders). If anything, she’d had more friction with his wife, who wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a female under his command instead of hers. But Rha’djemi had won the matriarch’s grudging respect, if not her love. The huntsmistress, far more than Che’sethri himself, had kept this fleet a viable hunting force over the past few years. And he supposed he had himself to blame for her lack of regard for future generations. He had done all he could to discourage her suitors, not wishing to lose her to another mount or fleet through marriage. Unfortunately there were no eligible males on this mount that were distant enough relations for her to wed. And she could not remain a huntsmistress if she were mount-wed and obliged to serve the needs of her skymount. He would marry her himself just to keep her onboard, if his wife would ever allow it.

  He noticed that Rha’djemi was staring at him, almost trembling with bloodlust, and he realized he’d wandered off into thought like the senile old fool he was. He bowed to her. “May the Spirit bless our hunt this day, and may the prey forgive us for what pain we cause,” he intoned ritually. “Proceed with the strike.”

  Rha’djemi rolled her eyes; she had no interest in religion, and liked inflicting pain. But she made no comment, being too eager to begin the strike. “Yes, Elder,” she said in a hurry, already whirling to address the crews. “Communication teams, confirm synch! Propulsion teams, ready for dewarp! Stinger teams, keep them hot but keep them focused! Ready…ready…strike!”

  But even as she spoke, Che’sethri began to realize something was wrong. The skymounts were already starting to move, away from where the subfleets would emerge. It was almost as if they knew an attack was coming. But that was not possible.

  The sensation wall blurred as the warpfield collapsed. After a moment, it cleared again…and by now it was definite that the skymounts were fleeing. “Fire, fire! Compensate, do not let them slip away!” Rha’djemi was calling. He heard surprise in her voice, but she kept it firm and steady, focusing the crews, keeping them from losing their rhythm in the face of this unexpected turn.

  But the skymounts had already picked up a fair amount of speed and were pulling away. “Pursue, best speed!” the huntsmistress snapped. “Divert energy to sublight propulsion!” Now the quarry began to tumble and shimmer, their armor slowly materializing. By the time the attacking mounts drew close enough, the armor was in place, the stings absorbed.

  “Keep firing!” Rha’djemi cried. “The armor cannot hold long!”

  But something strange was happening. The sting blasts were not even reaching the armor; instead they splashed off of shield envelopes that shimmered just above the prey’s skin. Rha’djemi emitted a squawk of surprise, but promptly swallowed it and rallied herself. “Compensate for that! Scan for the shield frequency, recalibrate the stings! Maybe we can pierce them!” She had enough experience battling Fethet raiders and planet-dwellers’ fleets (always so protective of their imaginary borders) to be able to cope with deflector shields.

  He sensed her frustration, shared it. This was to have been a triumph, the hunt of a lifetime, and now they’d be lucky to bag two or three before the rest warped away. What had happened? How had it gone so wrong so quickly?

  “Concentrate on the weak spots! Be bold, draw close, remember they will not fire back!” Despite her dismay, Rha’djemi kept her focus, and the determination in her voice brought Che’sethri renewed confidence. Perhaps this would not be the kill of a lifetime, but it could still be a good kill, and that was what mattered. They had a duty, a sacred task to perform, and with Rha’djemi guiding the hunt there was no question of success.

  But then he saw Rha’djemi shimmer with violet light and disappear, her voice falling silent in midcommand. He looked around wildly, saw the others shimmering out along with her. A moment later, the violet glow engulfed him.

  Then he saw Rha’djemi’s form before him once again, and he was relieved. Except in the next moment, he realized that behind her, all around her, was open space. Her mouth moved, but he heard nothing. Her eyes were wide with a fear he’d never seen in them before. The sight was even more painful to him than the rush of air torn out of his lungs in the next moment.

  At least, Che’sethri reflected in his final moments, he had managed to keep her with him until the end.

  Part Two

  Titanomachy

  Thus moving on, with silent pace,

  And triumph in her sweet, pale face,

  She reached the station of Orion.

  Aghast he stood in strange alarm!

  And suddenly from his outstretched arm

  Down fell the red skin of the lion

  Into the river at his feet.

  His mighty club no longer beat

  The forehead of the bull; but he

  Reeled as of yore beside the sea,

  When, blinded by Oenopion,

  He sought the blacksmith at his forge,

  And, climbing up the mountain gorge,

  Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.

  —“The Occultation of Orion”

  Chapter Nine

  When Will Riker had gotten his promotion to full commander, nearly two decades ago back on the Hood, Captain DeSoto had taken him into his ready room for a private talk. “At this rate,” he’d said, neither of them recognizing the irony at the time, “you’ll be a captain within five years. I don’t know if you’ll still be on this ship when the time arrives, so I figure there are some things I should let you in on now.”

  The list had been short but insightful, typical of Robert DeSoto. But the last item had been the most important, he had stressed. “When you get your own ship, and go on your first mission…you will make a serious mistake, one that will have lasting consequences. Not ‘could,’ not ‘might’—‘will.’ Or ‘shall,’ I guess,” he amended with a smirk, to make it clear he wasn’t addressing Will by name. “Don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying I lack faith in you. It happens to every captain. It’s how people learn, it’s necessary. The catch is, the mistakes you make as a captain can do a hell of a lot more harm than the mistakes of commanders, lieutenants, and other mere mortals.”

  “And there’s nothing you can do about it?” Riker had asked.

  “You will make the mistake, that can’t be helped. But if you remember that, if you accept it, then you can probably keep the mistake from being too big.”

  Now, today, Riker was wondering if too much time had passed since he’d heard that advice. Already, only a few months into his first command, he’d made more than one mistake of truly epic proportions. In the Small Magellanic Cloud, his decision to purge the Red King’s intelligence from the Romulan fleet it had taken over had forced its energy matrix back into the substrate of surrounding spacetime, triggering an expanding spatial distortion which had destroyed the Neyel homeworld of Oghen and snuffed out its population of two billion—and possibly the populations of several other worlds to boot, if the subsequent closure of the interspatial rift had not damped out the distortion wave as theorized. True, if Riker and his crew had not intervened, the emergence of the Red King’s protouniverse would have wiped out those worlds anyway, along with most of the rest of the SMC, in a sort of localized ekpyrotic Big Bang. But the thought still haunted him that if he’d acted less precipitously, gathered more information before attempting to interfere with an unknown and profoundly alien phenomenon, two billion deaths might have been averted. Starfleet and Deanna had assured him there was nothing he could have done differently, as had Pi
card when he’d sought his former captain’s advice over subspace. And intellectually he knew they were right. But he still couldn’t help wondering.

  And now, on his very next mission, he’d made another mistake which could devastate an entire civilization. The species itself would presumably adjust, but its culture would be changed forever. Whatever he may have thought of the Pa’haquel’s way of life, he couldn’t see its forced abandonment due to his precipitate actions as anything but a catastrophe.

  On a smaller scale, Riker’s mistake had caused serious damage to at least one member of his crew, probably more. Melora Pazlar was in sickbay with numerous broken bones and other physical traumas, her fragile, low-gravity frame badly damaged by Tuvok’s attack. The damage to her mind by the forced meld had not yet been assessed; Dr. Ree did not believe there would be neurological damage, but the psychological was harder to assess. As for the damage to Tuvok’s career as a Starfleet officer, or Orilly Malar’s, it was too early to judge. Others had been under the jellies’ emotional influence and had not acted upon it. At the moment Riker was more inclined to blame himself than either of them, though.

  As soon as Tuvok had accessed the sensor data and transmitted it to the jellies, Deanna had called the bridge to pass along their triumph and gratitude. Within minutes, they had begun replicating the new sensor components, incorporating them into their anatomy. They began instructing their young to do the same, and sending out the word through their telepathic channels. More than likely, Jaza had surmised, they would write it into the genes of new embryos, and the ability to detect and evade the Pa’haquel would become a permanent part of their species.