Star Trek

by John Jackson Miller

  “I said stop!” Dax fired the phaser. The warning shot sizzled harmlessly overhead.

  “You’re not convincing me.” Georgiou saw Dax look back at the shuttle entrance, a few steps behind her. Athlete or not, if the Trill bolted for the inside, Georgiou knew she’d catch her. “You’d better shoot me, dear.”

  Her face racked with fear, Dax fired again. Closer, this time.

  Georgiou kept stalking toward her. “Run, rabbit. I’ll wring your neck.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Dax yelled. “Don’t you know what this is about? Don’t you care?”

  The emperor paused her approach. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the mission. Why you’re here. Why we’re doing this. I’m talking about Farragut!”

  The name was out of nowhere—but Georgiou had heard it before. “The starship?”

  “Of course the starship!” Dax spoke frenetically. “It was struck by a cloud that killed half the people aboard!”

  Section 31 had never told Georgiou the truth about anything—but Dax seemed to be sickeningly earnest. And what she was saying shocked her. “Wait. What kind of cloud?”

  “We think it was alive. It passed through bulkheads, traveled independently through space,” Dax said. “It went after people—and drained their red blood cells!”

  “A blood devil?”

  “Call it what you want—it was horrible!”

  A blood devil! Georgiou’s mind reeled. She had heard of the creature in the Beta Quadrant lore she’d studied. An ancient menace, considered mythological. No evidence of one had ever been found. Was it possible people in the Federation’s universe had never heard of one?

  Then it dawned on her. The Federation had heard of one. “The cloud—it’s the reason for this mission?”

  “Of course it is!” Dax said. “It killed people on Farragut the same way people died on the freighter your double encountered at the edge of Troika space years ago. The Jadama Rohn.”

  “Captain Georgiou?”

  “She was a lieutenant then—but yes. That’s why we need you—and that’s why we’re going. To find that ship, to explore the connection. To keep it from happening again!”

  Georgiou’s breath caught. Jadama Rohn was the freighter her old ally S’satah had been flying when she was delivering to Hephaestus the secret weapon she’d discovered in Troika space.

  Whipsaw was a blood devil!

  In a flash, she saw it all. If S’satah had found a blood devil—and been able to contain it in such a way that Georgiou’s team from Hephaestus hadn’t initially been able to detect it—then it was possible that it could be controlled.

  And if it could be controlled—and if there were more specimens where S’satah found hers—then Whipsaw might mean for Georgiou here far more than it would have in her universe. If Dax’s account was accurate, Farragut’s fate proved that Starfleet had no defense against the clouds, once deployed.

  “Do they know where the—where the cloud that struck Farragut went?”

  “No,” Dax said. “I saw it emerge directly from the hull of the ship and vanish. Almost as if it had teleported or something.”

  The wrench fell from Georgiou’s hand, clanking against the deck. Teleportation! Passing through bulkheads! What couldn’t it do?

  She calculated. So there was a blood devil loose in the Beta Quadrant—but there was no telling where it had gone, nor how to attract it. No wonder Section 31 and the Federation had turned to the past, and the slender reed of their Georgiou’s Jadama Rohn encounter, for a lead. The emperor didn’t quite understand how the same ship could have appeared a quarter century earlier in connection with the blood devil—but that was something that could be discovered.

  But only if she went.

  Fortunately, there was already a mission heading in that direction.

  Still under Dax’s panicked, watchful eyes, Georgiou turned. Finnegan was alive and on his hands and knees. His fingers fumbled with his red-drenched mouth—and he flicked a tooth to the deck. “Same damn one.”

  Georgiou looked at it—and him—and then raised her hands before Dax. “You’ve convinced me.”

  Dax’s eyes goggled. “I did what?”

  The older woman edged backward toward the resting place of the data slate. “I’ll go with you—but we need to agree that this never happened.”

  “We what?” Finnegan blurted.

  Cautious of the jittery Dax, Georgiou carefully knelt and toggled the data slate. After she issued a few commands, the lighting in the shuttlebay returned to full brightness.

  “What’s she doing?” Dax asked.

  “You’ve got me,” Finnegan replied.

  Georgiou stood. “Computer, get me the bridge.”

  A puzzled voice echoed through the chamber. “Bridge here.”

  “I’ve managed to defeat the malware incursion,” she said, brushing herself off. “Your systems should be returning to normal.”

  “Who is this?”

  She licked her lips and winked at the others. “This is Agent Georgiou.”

  19

  U.S.S. Pacifica

  “…a delight to hear from you, Philippa—I’d grown worried when I hadn’t in so long. And what a surprise your request was. Yes, of course—I can’t wait to see you in person after all these years. Forthcoming will be instructions for entering Troika space as a special guest of the Veneti…”

  Georgiou finished reading the message on screen and sat back in her chair in the conference room. It was as simple as that: all she’d had to do was message Quintilian using the channel he’d shared with her counterpart a quarter century earlier. The merchant’s response had arrived within an hour.

  The day before, in the shuttlebay, Georgiou had considered dispensing with Dax and heading for Troika space alone. That had only lasted for a moment. Without Finnegan to operate fire control, she hadn’t thought much of her chances of getting past NCIA-93. Acquiescing, she’d decided, would lead her to the same destination. And it looked like it was going to—though there had certainly been recriminations aplenty in between.

  Cornwell entered with Dax in tow. “This room again,” the admiral said, nearly groaning.

  “Try leaving the door open this time,” Georgiou said with a smile. It paid to be helpful.

  The others sat. “We’ve decided to agree, for the sake of the mission, that yesterday’s problems never happened—”

  “No commendation for resolving them?” the emperor asked. “Tsk-tsk. Terrible how Starfleet treats Samaritans.”

  Dax looked to Cornwell. “What’s a Samaritan?”

  “In our universe, someone who helped a robbery victim,” the admiral said. “I’m sure she’ll say in hers it was somebody who helped the robbers.” Cornwell took a look at her data slate. “This report says we’re just about done with the repairs from yesterday—”

  Georgiou reached outward. “Oh, can I see?”

  “Hell, no.” The admiral pulled the data slate closer. “Mister Pettigrew has been placed on leave by the Federation Security Agency and is on his way back to Earth aboard Doolittle.”

  “Apparently Do-Nothing wasn’t available,” Georgiou said.

  “You see, that’s something that has to stop,” Cornwell said, putting the slate down. “This is never going to work if you don’t start treating the people you work with better.”

  “More lessons in comportment. Who will be my master of etiquette once we’re parted, Admiral? Is that Leland’s hidden specialty?” The door opened, and the man himself entered. She waved. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

  Leland led Finnegan and Sydia inside and gestured for them to take seats. He gave a wary look to the door when it closed behind him.

  “Sure that’s wise?” Georgiou asked. “Don’t you want a communicator in case you get stuck? Or perhaps sandwiches?”

  “Pandora’s Box is locked down,” he said, sitting. “We’ve stripped out code to render its applications inactiv
e.”

  “You shouldn’t have had them in the first place,” Cornwell said.

  “They were designed as a test of Starfleet security protocols.” He nodded to Georgiou. “You could say our agent tested them.”

  Cornwell sighed, disgusted.

  Leland forged on. “Now that we’re here, we have a new issue. Quintilian’s attachment noted that the Troika powers have only cleared him for three outsider guests.”

  “Three?” Cornwell was astonished. “We’d planned for a team of nine.”

  “All to keep an eye on little old me.” Georgiou rolled her eyes. “I don’t like crowds.”

  “Apparently,” Leland continued, “the three native species really only intended for him to allow in one person—but because each agreed to one visitor, he took it to mean he got three total. I get the sense he has to wheedle and politic to keep his franchise over there.” He looked to Georgiou. “Did he ever say why the Troika allows foreign traders to act as their delivery service?”

  “I’m still going through their correspondence,” Georgiou said. There was years of it, all provided to her that morning for her research. “Every time they get near anything useful they veer off into discussing Vulcan poetry or the Han dynasty. They once did a whole exchange on the economic reforms of Charlemagne. I have to read it in short sections or I get too excited.”

  “Read it all. You have to be Captain Georgiou to make this work. Quintilian claimed not to know for sure what had really befallen Jadama Rohn in 2233, but he indicated in later messages that the ship still existed.”

  Cornwell appeared fretful. “But sending only three people. Which three?”

  Leland pointed. “Well, Agent Georgiou, of course.” He nodded to Dax. “Emony gets a slot because of her… previous bargain.”

  Impressed, Georgiou looked to the Trill. “Did you make a deal, dear? Good for you!”

  Dax simply shuddered. The young woman had been wary of Georgiou since the shuttlebay incident.

  “That leaves one more slot,” Leland said. “I’m thinking Sydia.”

  “Just us girls,” Georgiou said. “We’ll paint the Troika red.”

  Cornwell slapped the table. “No, no. That’s two slots for Section 31. The Federation Council insists on an observer.”

  “You’re counting Georgiou as one of our slots?” Leland asked, alarmed.

  “She’s your agent, isn’t she?”

  Sydia clasped her hands and faced forward. “Admiral, I assure you, my loyalties are both to the Federation and to Section 31. I can serve both.”

  “No,” Cornwell said. She faced Georgiou. “And she’s already established she’s going to make life hell for whoever else we send.”

  Dax grew agitated. “The clock is running. Quintilian’s expecting us now. Can’t we decide?”

  Finnegan, uncharacteristically silent until now, spoke up. “You know, I could still go.”

  The others looked to him, some surprised he was still there.

  “I’m not this evil henchman of hers,” he continued. “But we do get on. You know, apart from the blood and the bashing.”

  “You like the blood and the bashing,” Georgiou said.

  Finnegan didn’t crack a smile for a change. “I’ve heard from people who’ve heard from Jimmy Kirk. Some of our friends are gone—and the rest went through hell.”

  “I was there,” Dax said somberly.

  “Well, if I can keep it from happening again, I still want to try. An evil cloud’s not a fair fight.”

  Georgiou considered. She didn’t really care who went with her; it would all end the same, with her finding Whipsaw and reclaiming her empire. Finnegan seemed highly unlikely to interfere with that end. “He’s acceptable,” she finally said. A meager endorsement, for sure, but she figured anything more enthusiastic would be suspect.

  Leland eyed her—and then Finnegan. “Okay with me,” he said.

  Cornwell studied Finnegan for long moments, before nodding. “All right, Sean.” She toggled a control on her data slate, throwing a star map onto the large screen before them. “Where’s the insertion point?”

  Leland didn’t need to consult his notes. “Quintilian’s instructions said Tagantha. It’s where Archimedes ran into him years ago.”

  “That’s nearest to the Casmarrans,” Georgiou said, putting stress on the second syllable of the name. Seeing blanks on the others’ faces, she added, “One of the Troika races.”

  Cornwell and Leland looked at each other. “Did we know the names of any of the species before now?” the admiral asked.

  The spymaster indicated the emperor. “We knew she did—but she wouldn’t say. But that’s why we—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m the guide to the hidden kingdoms.” Georgiou looked to Cornwell. “What else?”

  “We’ll follow the original plan, with you entering via a Starfleet shuttle, like Captain Georgiou would have. I guess you’ve seen it—Boyington.”

  Dax nodded. “I’ve checked the shuttle—it’s ready to go.” She looked to the admiral. “Who was Boyington?”

  “Aviator. One of the Flying Tigers who unofficially assisted China in World War II before the United States was involved.”

  “Sounds covert,” Leland said. “I like it.”

  “Once war broke out, he led a squadron called the Black Sheep.”

  Finnegan chuckled. “Okay, now you’re definitely trying to tell us something.”

  “That I won’t deny,” Cornwell said. “They had been Boyington’s Bastards, but they wouldn’t print that in the newspapers.”

  Georgiou sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do without these little historical insights.”

  “We’re more interested in yours,” Cornwell said. She stood. “Leland’s ship will shadow you to Troika space and park outside, waiting for word.” She looked down across the table. “I’m dead serious, Your Highness. The Cloud hasn’t struck again—but nobody doubts it will, and the only defense is finding out its origins. If you betray us again, we’ll make your last couple of imprisonments seem like days at the spa.”

  “Very Terran. Maybe I could get to like you people after all.”

  “Dismissed. Get to work.” Cornwell marched out, with Dax and Sydia following. Leland lingered, making notes on his data slate.

  Finnegan and Georgiou rose from their chairs at the same time. “I guess we’ll be working together,” he said, “so no hard feelings.”

  Leland looked up, his interest piqued. “What exactly happened?”

  “Just a friendly tiff.”

  “I hit him in the face with a wrench,” Georgiou said.

  Finnegan rubbed his jaw—and then felt inside his mouth. “That reminds me. I need to get to sickbay. Cornwell’s dentist was going to fix me up again, but I missed him earlier.”

  Leland stopped Finnegan before he could exit. “You know, you could come over to our ship. Our doc does good work. She’ll fix you right up.”

  Finnegan gave a gap-toothed grin. “Thank you, brother. I owe you a drink.” A beat. “You think I could have a drink first?”

  Leland smirked. “I’m sure we could arrange that.”

  “Then I’m definitely going.” He waved and departed.

  As Finnegan ambled off, Leland turned to Georgiou. “You’re really going to play nice this time?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m unaccustomed to having my word questioned.”

  “I’ve stuck my neck out for you.”

  “Yes, thanks for all your kind assistance.” Passing him in the doorway, she paused and touched his cheek. “It’s a shame that in my universe you were dissected by Klingons and served to their livestock.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Please stop doing that.”

  Stage Three PLUNDERING

  Enjoy all the riches you can today, because eternal life is overrated. I once met someone who was a thousand years old—a Casmarran, last survivor of a race slaughtered a century ago by Emperor Georgiou. She didn’t spare him to show m
ercy. Is there any greater punishment than wandering forever, with your whole world gone?

  —EZRI TIGAN

  From a message to the Intendent, 2372

  20

  Shuttlecraft Boyington

  TAGANTHA SYSTEM

  In one of the languages of Georgiou’s homeworld, the term déjà vu meant “already seen,” while another concept, déjà vécu, referred to a more chronic and unnerving phenomenon: the persistent feeling that whole sequences of events had been lived through before.

  If many more people hopped between universes, Georgiou figured someone would need to ask the French to come up with some new terms. She’d longed for something to call the knowledge—not the feeling, but the certainty—of having seen something before, only in her reality. Then there was the extended version, having the same experiences over again, only in a slightly different context. That one, while more annoying, at least offered her an advantage: she usually knew what was coming next.

  It was happening again as Boyington exited the gaseous mess of the Taganthan System to head deeper into Troika space. In her universe, the first sentry vessels from a Troika power had appeared within minutes after her annihilation of Quintilian’s flotilla and the destruction of Jadama Rohn; there hadn’t been time to clear the traitor Eagan’s body from the deck before the fireworks started. Here, again, as if on cue, a half dozen ships appeared far ahead, spinning through space toward her.

  Or, to be more precise, rolling.

  “Weird ships,” Finnegan said from the pilot’s seat. “Like starfish on a skewer.”

  “They’re Casmarran,” Georgiou responded from behind. “Get used to the way they look. You’ll see a lot of it.” It was a visual theme with the Casmarrans; six broad five-pronged asterisks connected through the center by a tall central stalk. The gold-colored vehicles spun on their long axes through space, their spokes nearly a blur. Propulsion came from jets mounted on small hubs at either end of the axles.

  In the copilot’s seat where she’d been practicing piloting, Dax gawked. “Bizarre. They’re like those spiked things Trill farmers use to punch holes in the soil. Aerators.”