But Calloway shook her head. “I doubt that, sir. The Venture and the Bougainville may have more space, but our equipment is more modern. Besides, xenopsychology happens to be my specialty. They won’t get better treatment anywhere else, except at a starbase. That said, a couple of days won’t make any difference in these cases, and our mission is subject to a time restriction, if I understood that correctly. Didn’t the Klingons issue an ultimatum?”
Adams sighed. “Yes, they did, Doctor. But right now I couldn’t care less about the High Council’s wishes. If we need more than one hundred hours to solve this problem, we’ll take it.” He straightened his uniform jacket. “Still, you’re right—this crisis needs to come to an end, sooner rather than later.”
“In that case, it should be sufficient to send all patients who don’t show improvement to a rehab facility on Earth after our return.”
“All right, Doctor, I trust your judgment.” Adams avoided the unspoken phrase, if we return to Earth, that was implied by her tone, and inferred by Adams regarding this entire insane mission. “Do whatever is necessary to help your patients. But if anyone’s condition dramatically deteriorates, I want to be informed.”
“Absolutely, Captain.”
He started to depart the office, then stopped and turned back around. “Oh, Doctor, how are our Renao patients doing?”
“They were heavily sedated at the time of the onslaught. I haven’t had time for a full exam yet, but according to the bio-sensors, their brains didn’t take any further damage.”
“That’s something, at least.” Adams nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.” He stepped back into the main sickbay.
Casserea, whose biobed was next to the office, extended her slender fingers pleadingly in his direction. “Captain…” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper.
“Lieutenant.” He took her hand. It felt moist and cold.
“The horror…” she whispered. “I’ve seen pure horror.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I know,” Adams said soothingly. “I saw it too.” In a clumsy attempt to comfort her, he gently squeezed her hand. “But we will prevail, Lieutenant. I promise.”
When he left sickbay, he was only too aware that he didn’t have the faintest idea how to keep that promise.
I.K.S. Bortas, on the periphery of the Souhla system
The first thing Raspin saw when he regained consciousness was a metal sky with a glowing red sun. It took a while before he realized that he was still aboard the Bortas, staring at a light in the ceiling. But he was no longer on the bridge’s grid deckplates, but rather a solid slab of metal, and he was closer to the ceiling than he would have been had he been lying on the deck.
“He’s awake,” said a voice to his right. A head came into view, slender, grim, framed by dark, thick hair that had been tied into a bun at the back of his neck. It was Drax, the Bortas’s doctor.
I’m in the medical bay, Raspin realized. He was both relieved and surprised. Relieved because it meant that he had managed to steer the ship away from Iad successfully—otherwise all those who had been fighting wouldn’t have calmed down sufficiently to waste any thoughts on injured crewmembers. And it surprised him that such thoughts had been extended to the jeghpu’wI’.
An explanation was offered a moment later when Commander L’emka’s face came into view. The first officer’s attractive face sported several cuts and bruises that had been briefly treated. They probably hadn’t had the time to do more; the ship must be full of injured crewmembers.
L’emka said brusquely, “You may leave, Doctor.”
Grumbling, Drax turned away.
Carefully, Raspin moved his head. The biobed he was resting on stood at the back end of the small medical bay. All the other beds were occupied by Klingons with stab wounds, bruises, and disruptor burns.
Whatever had instantly healed the deadly wounds of the fighters in orbit above Iad had lost its effect as soon as the Bortas had gone into warp. Raspin wondered how many crewmembers had died during those last seconds of fighting, before common sense returned.
L’emka studied him silently for a moment. Her face showed an expression he had never seen on her before—at least not when she’d looked at him. He wondered whether his eyes were deceiving him, or whether he was imagining it, but even after he blinked, the expression was still there: respect. For the first time since Raspin had come aboard, the Klingon woman saw him not only as a pale figure at ops but as a valued crewmember, maybe even an equal.
No, that’s laughable, Raspin thought.
But L’emka didn’t laugh. Instead, she opened her mouth and said something remarkable. “You were extremely brave, Bekk Raspin. And you have acted honorably. None of us could have done what you did above Iad—and you would have had every reason not to do it after the manner in which you have been treated. But you have shown true courage. Once I regained my wits, I saw the adjustments you made at the helm. You saved the Bortas, as well as each and every one of us, and you have prevented the ship and its crew from meeting a disgraceful end. However, don’t expect that fool Kromm, or anyone else, to acknowledge that in any way.”
Raspin wanted to answer but his throat was too dry to talk. He cleared his throat before managing to say, “But why are you here, then, Commander?”
“Because honor demands it,” L’emka said earnestly. “Because you deserve to know that you were successful. Because I, as I have found out in the past few days, don’t think like most others here.” The corners of her mouth curled upwards. “And because I’m the only one who can make sure that you get the best available medical treatment. The Bortas needs her ops officer back as soon as possible—knife wound or not.”
Her words finally prompted Raspin to inspect himself. Below the chest he practically felt nothing of his body. The painkillers did their job well. Warriors generally preferred to go without them, but they had been applied to the Rantal. Perhaps they didn’t think he could bear the pain. It was yet another subtle humiliation, and he probably should have been offended. But right now, he was glad not to feel his injury. Raspin’s wound had been treated but remained open, a cloth spread over it. Drax would, he presumed, eventually find the time to complete the treatment.
“So I guess I was lucky, eh?” Raspin asked, facing L’emka again.
“Very lucky, yes. Klarn’s d’k tahg was stuck in your stomach up to its hilt. I had you beamed to sickbay along with Chumarr and Lieutenant Woch.”
Raspin swallowed. He would have preferred not to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue, but he had to. “How many casualties were there?”
The Klingon woman shook her head. “We don’t know yet. We only dropped from warp half an hour ago at the edge of the system. Besides, that shouldn’t be your concern. You shouldn’t count those who died while you rescued us but those who survived. Their number is far greater.”
Reluctantly, Raspin had to agree with her. The casualties weren’t his fault—the Son of the Ancient Reds was to blame. Hopefully the others aboard would also see it that way. Klingons excelled in placing the blame rather than being grateful, that much he had learned during his time among them.
Raspin had another thought. “What about Klarn?”
The first officer’s features hardened. “He will be punished for his attempt to murder you. The being’s influence was a mitigating circumstance up to a point. However, he was still stabbing you once the Bortas had gone into warp, and he didn’t even attempt to hold back. It is my hope that Kromm will not simply ignore that.” Uncertainty swung in her voice during her last sentence. Both Raspin and L’emka were quite aware of Kromm’s ability to overlook injustice and make questionable decisions.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “He failed in his attempt to quench his hatred with my life, and I saved the ship—and thus him. I believe that knowledge is enough punishment for him.”
L’emka gazed at him skeptically. “Are you sure? As a soldier in the Defense Force you have the right to ve
ngeance, even as jeghpu’wI’.”
The Rantal nodded. An inner peace that he hadn’t even dreamed of a few days ago washed over him. Forgotten were the self-loathing and the self-doubts. He had proven his worth, and none of the Klingons could deny him that without becoming dishonorable liars.
And even if they did deny it, at least two people knew it—Raspin himself and L’emka. That was enough.
“Yes, I’m sure, Commander,” he said. “Klarn is not worth it.”
She tilted her head. “You’re an extraordinary man. It’s a shame that nobody aboard has noticed that yet.” She smiled thinly. “Nobody else, in any event.”
He briefly hesitated, then dared to smile back. “Thank you, Commander.”
5
NOVEMBER 26, 2385
U.S.S. Venture, outside the Lembatta Cluster
The U.S.S. Venture was renowned as a ship that was always on the frontline when things got rough. Unlike many of her fellow Galaxy-class ships, which had been used for deep-space exploration missions lasting several years, Captain Bjarne Henderson’s ship was usually deployed on diplomatic missions: shipping ambassadors, admirals and other high-ranking dignitaries from world to world.
To that end, the Venture frequently crossed the core regions of the Alpha Quadrant. She therefore worked well as a rapid reaction force whenever a crisis was imminent. During the short war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire in 2373, she had defended Deep Space 9. During the Dominion War, the Venture had helped retake both that station and the Chin’toka system from the enemy. During the Borg invasion, she had defended Andor. After the destruction of Deep Space 9, she had been one of the first ships on location to offer help. Now, she was here, patrolling space around the Lembatta Cluster as part of a fleet consisting of almost twenty ships.
Starfleet Command had labeled this deployment a sector blockade. They were supposed to prevent the fanatics of the Purifying Flame from committing any further suicide attacks on innocent worlds or space stations. Considering the Renao terrorists had at least one ship with experimental solar-jump technology at their disposal, which allowed them to cross up to thirty light years in zero time, Captain Henderson felt that this blockade was pretty porous, if not virtually useless.
Still, he suspected Starfleet was not here for the Renao alone. They wanted to take a stand against the Klingons who had amassed their own fleet beyond the border to Federation space with the full intent to invade the Lembatta Cluster, if that was what it took to eradicate the Purifying Flame.
Although he dismissed that notion as far too radical, Henderson had to agree with the Klingons in one respect: it was definitely easier getting down to the root of trouble than trying to catch all the spores drifting through space.
But maybe that was the reason why Admiral Gepta had just arrived aboard the Capitoline—to provide new orders.
“Captain, we’re being hailed by the Capitoline,” Lieutenant Andreas Loos reported from ops at the front of the bridge.
Henderson combed his thick brown hair with his thin fingers. He tended to ensure that his appearance was impeccable, even more so since he had celebrated his fiftieth birthday. His unruly hair often defied his efforts but he was proud of its fullness—which still grew without the aid of any hair restorer—and he refused to crop it to military length, as he looked much more attractive with fuller hair. Having to go the extra mile to keep wayward strands at bay was something he was willing to endure.
“On screen,” he ordered, screwing on an expectant smile.
The image on the bridge monitor changed. The streamlined Vesta-class ship hovering in space beside them—Henderson secretly called the Capitoline and her sister ships the “slipstream taxis” because they had to ferry even more VIPs around the quadrant at high speed than the Venture—was replaced by the pleasant appearance of its commanding officer. Captain Roberta Holverson—her friends called her “Bobby”—was several years younger than Henderson and had chestnut-brown hair. Although she was quite sophisticated, she wasn’t above a good evening of poker with like-minded colleagues, which made her one of those fellow captains with whom Henderson would have loved to spend shore leave, or at least have a drink in a cozy bar on one of the starbases. Unfortunately, their busy schedules had prevented that from happening so far.
“Bjarne.” Holverson greeted him with a warm smile.
“Bobby.” He tilted his head. He had been wondering for a while whether Holverson had noticed his interest in her and was toying with him somewhat. For more than a year now, there had been this subtle undertone in their conversations—merely the hint of a flirt. It was so indefinable that others might have regarded it as cordiality among colleagues, especially if they didn’t know that they hadn’t met for more than a few minutes at a time yet. “Have you had a pleasant journey to us out here in the wild?”
“It was short, as expected,” Holverson replied, rubbing his nose in the fact that the Capitoline was much faster than the older Venture.
Henderson laughed. “I can imagine. Space is alarmingly small when you race through it at high speed, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “I prefer slowness for all things that I should enjoy,” she replied suggestively. “But if there’s a job to be done, I detest unnecessary waiting time. Admiral Gepta is the same, by the way.”
Henderson took the hint and straightened. “Then we mustn’t let him wait. The Venture is ready to beam the admiral aboard.”
“Very well. I will inform the transporter room.”
“Affirmative. Oh, and, Captain Holverson?” Henderson leaned forward. “We need to have an in-depth discussion about commanding a quantum slipstream spaceship—as soon as there’s a little more time.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Absolutely, Captain Henderson. Capitoline out.”
* * *
Two minutes later Henderson stood along with First Officer Di Monti, his Tellarite security chief Kraalbat, and a four-person honor guard in the Venture’s main transporter room. The captain nodded at the Bajoran transporter chief. “Energize.”
The chief obeyed. Shimmering energy columns appeared above two of the transporter pads when Admiral Gepta and his female adjutant materialized. Henderson had already met the admiral several times, whose reputation as an uncompromising crisis manager preceded him. Still, his presence never failed to impress Henderson. Gepta was a Rigellian Chelon. To the casual observer he appeared to be an upright-walking turtle the size of a human. Instead of a shell he wore a polished breastplate made of duraplast. His skin had an olive-green hue and was covered in scales, his deep-set eyes had a piercing gaze, and his powerful ocher-colored jaws had an oily shimmer.
“Admiral on deck,” Di Monti announced in a loud voice, following protocol. Everyone snapped to attention, and one of the crewmen blew a boatswain’s whistle.
Gepta waved his gloved hand dismissively. “As you were. We’re in the field here, no reason for a parade. At ease.” His voice was rumbling and deep, as was often the case with Chelons.
Henderson nodded at his crew, and everyone relaxed a little.
“Captain Henderson?” Gepta should have known that, but Henderson overlooked the question. If Gepta had half the difficulty telling humans apart that the captain had with Chelons, he should count himself lucky that Gepta hadn’t addressed the blonde and curvaceous Crewman Miners.
“I’m honored, Admiral,” said Henderson, shaking his visitor’s hand. The admiral wore protective gloves, as in stressful situations the Chelon skin produced a very potent contact poison. Despite the protective measures, Henderson hoped that Gepta carried neutralization tablets with him—just in case.
The captain introduced his officers.
“Delighted to meet you, gentlemen. My adjutant, Commander Deveraux.”
She and Gepta complemented each other perfectly, thought the captain. They both looked as if they needed a refresher course in smiling.
“Would the admiral like to go to his quarters first to freshe
n up from the journey or…”
“From the journey?” Gepta emitted a cackling noise that could have been interpreted as laughter, but sounded more like gasping for breath. “The flight aboard the Capitoline from Earth to here was barely longer than a transfer by shuttle to Mars. This slipstream technology the Voyager brought back from the Delta Quadrant is truly a miracle weapon.”
Henderson noted with some concern that the admiral called the propulsion system a weapon. This assumption—that the Federation might use the slipstream technology in order to gain a strategic advantage over the Typhon Pact powers—was mainly responsible for the four-year-long tensions between Federation, Klingons, Ferengi, and Cardassians on one side, and Romulans, Gorn, Breen, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, and Tholians on the other.
“I understand,” he said, trying to conceal his sentiments in this matter. “Let’s go to the conference room and I will bring you up to speed.”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” With those words, Gepta marched out of the transporter room toward the turbolift as if he owned the ship.
Don’t fool yourself, Henderson pondered as he followed him with a resigned expression. Chances are that he will take over the Venture, making her the flagship of this operation.
They took the turbolift up to the bridge. Upon their entrance, Henderson’s second officer rose from the command chair, making way for the captain. Di Monti said, “Admiral on the bridge.”
“Nothing to report, sir,” Commander Makzia said. The Saurian woman with purple skin blinked with her big eyes and took her station at conn, relieving the ensign who had filled in while she commanded the bridge.
“Before we get to work, I’ll need a shipwide channel,” Gepta said. “And record my words so they can be distributed to all other ships in the vicinity.”
I knew it, shot through Henderson’s mind. He nodded at Loos, who had turned around, gazing at him quizzically. “You heard the admiral, Lieutenant.”
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