There was always noise, Thrang noticed. Everywhere, there was noise. There was the hiss and crack of the mining lasers, the dull rumble of the heavy machinery. Take that away, and there was still the constant hubbub of talk, complaints and curses and wailings in a dozen languages, from every sort of vocal tract imaginable. And take that away, and you were left with the endless hollow soughing of the wind in the tunnels, and the keening of it over the snows above.
Rura Penthe. The Aliens' Graveyard. Even in his heated bodysuit, Thrang had to work to repress a shiver.
The Nausicaan had no such luxury as a heated bodysuit. He wore bedraggled, tattered furs, his hair was matted, one tusk was broken. He glared at Thrang with mad red eyes.
"I ruled a world!" he shrilled. "I was its lord and its master! Now look! Look!" He made a sweeping gesture, indicating a low bunk with a stained mattress and another ragged pelt. "This! This is my domain!"
"Distressing," said Thrang. "You have my sympathies."
"Sympathies," the Nausicaan hissed. "What good are sympathies? I am reduced to this, and it was - it was unjust!"
"So you desire vengeance," said Thrang.
"Vengeance, yes. Against the Andorian filth who took my world from me. And against the Klingon scum who sent me here! J'mpok!" The Nausicaan made the name a curse.
"He was seeking to curry favour with the Federation," said Thrang.
"The Federation had already relinquished all claims on me! They left me to the justice of my people, and my people judged me fairly, and let me go free!" Thrang noted, silently, that the Nausicaan made no reference to the monumental bribes he had paid to that tribunal. "And then that fl'icht-worm of a Chancellor steps in to make an example, to ignore Nausicaan justice and send me here!"
And two of the venal judges - the two who survived - with him. But Thrang had no particular need of them. "A grave injustice, as you say," he said. "So, we should talk about rectifying it."
The Nausicaan glared at him. "And how will you manage that? You are nothing. You are an adventurer, a petty criminal with every hand raised against him -"
"And yet," said Thrang, "I can come and go as I wish, on Qo'noS or here on Rura Penthe. I can stroll out of this cavern right now, and no one will stop me. Not even -" his voice dropped a little "- if I bring someone with me. Would you like to come with me?"
The Nausicaan spat. "Words. Just words."
"Walk with me. You'll find my word is good."
"And then what? I want the hide of that Andorian scum. And I want J'mpok's head hanging on my wall. Can you give me those, renegade? Can you give me those?"
"Not yet," said Thrang with a slight smile. "One step at a time, I think. The first thing to do is to get you back your world. Let's walk and talk about that, Governor Gvochkorr."
---
Later, in his cabin aboard the starship Farah, Thrang sat at his communications console, studying the screen, while Deonsa glowered at him from the bed.
"Why don't you stop that?" she asked.
"In a minute," said Thrang. "There are things here that I need to deal with."
"You're trying to do too much. I don't know when you ever sleep, even."
Thrang laughed. "Well, you would know, if anyone would."
"Come to bed," she insisted.
Thrang ignored her. His fingertips drummed on the comms interface, sending messages across space. His face was motionless, but his expression seemed to change, illuminated as it was by the rapidly flickering light from the screen.
Deonsa sighed, and rolled over on her back. "I'm not used to being ignored," she complained.
"I imagine not. But there's a great deal to do." Thrang tapped another message into the console. "Things will start to improve. I must admit, it's a pleasant change to have some intelligent, well-motivated lieutenants at work. I look forward to phasing out our phage-controlled contacts. As it were."
"Your merchants," Deonsa scoffed. "What use are merchants?"
"Some of them are highly placed merchants. And, when my protective association becomes the only game in town, they'll be more highly placed than ever. It's just a question of making sure they realize, when the time comes, that they owe it all to me. Intelligent loyalty, it's so much better than the coerced kind." He turned to look at her, briefly. "You wouldn't agree with that, of course."
"A merchants' protective association. The Syndicate will eat it."
"The Syndicate, my dear, will be too busy eating itself. And when the Federation-Klingon war restarts, merchants will value all the protection they can get."
"You're dreaming. After all that they have gone through, the Feds and the Empire will not turn against each other so soon. They're still rebuilding -"
"Yes. They're weak, and hurting. And neither side will want to show weakness, and people who hurt want to lash out at those who hurt them. Or at someone, if those who hurt them aren't available. The galactic political situation is volatile, my dear. All I need to do is... make sure it bubbles the way I want it to."
"You overreach yourself. There is too much power concentrated against you, there are too many variables to control. You would need to be a genius, a master strategist -"
"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. There." Thrang tapped a final series of commands into the console, then shut it down with a decisive gesture. "The Nimbus situation isn't quite how I'd like it, but I'll let it work itself out." He rose, and turned to the bed. "Now, I'm all yours."
She watched him approach, wide-eyed. "No," she whispered. "No, not all mine. There's a core of you that will never be mine, a core no one can reach...."
"Indeed." He stood by the bed and looked down at her, a faint smile on his full lips. "Not even you, I'm afraid. Though your scent is particularly delicious, tonight."
"I don't understand why it doesn't... why I can't...." She pouted. "It's strange. It's not the Orion way."
Thrang laughed. "But it's the way you prefer things, my dear. Admit that." His hands reached for her.
I admit, I'm really wondering what Thrang's deal is - he's certainly very, very confident and keeping a lot of plates spinning in motion at the time, and yet it feels we haven't seen the whole plot revealed yet (though quite the scope!).
Looking forward to when it eventually comes crashing down, of course.
Oh - forgot to mention, I like the detail that Jm'pok did not let the governor get off lightly, even if he had to be heavy-handed, sounds like Stohl may be warming up the King Estmere
Post edited by antonine3258 on
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Thrang is an amazing politician, and a master strategist - but I feel confident that he will, in time, learn the truth of that old military maxim: "The first casualty of any battle is the battle plan." Strategy is the outline - but tactics are the details. And I'm not so sure of his tactical mastery.
"Nimbus III," I say to the Gorn prisoners, "presents interesting problems of jurisdiction. Nominally, it is claimed by no one. Its local authorities are, I am told, both ad hoc and de facto, which means that I can safely ignore them. Of course, no matter what your personal feelings, you are citizens of the Empire, and may apply to the Imperial Ambassador to be released into KDF custody." I smile at them. In the half-light of the brig, I imagine the effect is disquieting. "The Ambassador would, of course, release you to the ranking KDF officer in the vicinity - which, thanks to the agreements in place between the Empire and the Romulan Republic, would be me." I let the smile widen. "So, whatever I choose to do to you now, it will even be legal. I find that interesting."
"You cannot intimidate us, mammal," says the largest of the Gorn.
"Can I not? You forget that I can read your mind, reptile." In fact, my telepathy is modest at best, but there is no reason to show weakness before my captives.
"You are working with the Federation," another Gorn says. "They will not permit you -"
"Perhaps your eyes are inadequate," I say. "I, however, can see perfectly clearly in this light, and I assure you there are no Federation personnel lurking in the shadows. You are mine. All mine. Shall we begin?"
"The government of the Hegemony -"
"Finds you an embarrassment. They will not object if I rid them of an embarrassment. I am beginning to grow impatient." I treat them to another display of my fangs.
The prisoners shuffle behind the force-field barrier, muttering amongst themselves, a low rumbling of conversation that the universal translator fails to register. I wait. I have time, they are going nowhere.
"We would require assurances," the large Gorn says, "before any cooperation could be given."
"Assurances of what?" I ask. "I have no urge to kill or mistreat you, unless you make it necessary. That is all the assurance you will get from me, and all you should need." I step forward, my eyes fixed on the Gorn's, despite the ninety-centimetre difference in our heights. "In any case, this is only some mercenary arrangement, surely? A business contract, which has gone badly wrong for you. What will it cost you to name your employers and give me details?"
"No!" another, smaller Gorn shouts, suddenly. "No, the honour of our kind is at stake! And we cannot trust this - this Reman! We must not reveal anything!"
I glance at that one - and I am not alone in that; the other Gorn seem to be looking at their companion in surprise. He jabs a finger at the big spokesman. "We must not be forsworn!" he shouts.
"It is as the Reman says, Ryssarr," says the spokesman. "A business arrangement, not a matter of honour." He turns back to me. "The negotiation was with a commercial concern -" he begins.
"No!" shouts the smaller Gorn, Ryssarr. "We must tell her nothing! Nothing! We must -" He coughs, makes a choking noise. I look more closely at him. There is moisture glistening on his scales... he seems to be sweating....
Cold dread marches down my spine. Since when do the Gorn sweat?
I lunge for the security console, for the force field controls. "Security system. Fields online, partition main holding cell." Grid lines light up on the console, and I quickly draw a box around Ryssarr. It is easy enough to do, for the others are cowering back from him, as he chokes and sputters, and clear fluid trickles over his hide. I touch my wrist communicator. "Medical and bio-warfare teams to security holding, urgent."
Ryssarr convulses, and his scaly hide splits open in a dozen places, liquid gushing out - not clear, now, but a putrid greenish-brown colour. His flailing hand strikes the impenetrable barrier of the force field, and leaves a smear along it, hanging in mid-air, slowly oozing downwards. The edge of his lipless mouth seems to sag and slough away, and his next rasping cough brings with it a scattering of loosened teeth. He falls, and his sagging torso bursts like over-ripe fruit as it hits the deck plating, corrupt fluids frothing out of it. His hide parts like old rags, and for a moment his ribs protrude, like the hoops of a barrel, before they too crumble and fall into the ooze which is all that is left of him. In moments, he is reduced to nothing but a gently seething pool of greenish fluid, which swirls, contained in the force fields. The rest of the Gorn stare at it, aghast.
I find my voice. "What happened?" The Gorn spokesman shakes his head, silent.
Footsteps clatter behind me, then stop. I turn to see the medics, to read the shock on their faces. "Scan that," I order. "Screen the rest of the prisoners, maximum bio-warfare precautions. Make sure no one else is at risk. Find out what happened." The cold dread is not leaving me. I could well have been exposed myself.... "Everyone who has been in contact with the prisoners must be immediately tested for biological agents." I cannot tear my eyes away from the fluid that is all that remains of Ryssarr.
"Thrang," the big Gorn says. "It was - Ryssarr, he was the contact with - the advocate for - he arranged the contracts - with Thrang. Kalevar Thrang."
---
"Qo'noS, Ter'jas Mor, Ganalda, now Nimbus III." K'Men's face is stern and implacable on my viewscreen. "Imperial Intelligence has sent queries to Starfleet, the Republic, the Ferengi, to discover if any... similar incidents... have taken place in their territories."
I have been extensively decontaminated, and scanned, and I have bathed, and bathed again. Irrational, perhaps, but the fear of contagion is real. "What is it?" I ask.
"At some point, Thrang has infected key people with a cellular phage," K'Men says. "A gene-tailored virus specific to the individual. So far as we can tell, it is held in check by an anti-serum which must be periodically administered. Once the serum is withheld - well, the results, you have seen."
"How is this phage administered? Or the anti-serum?"
"The phage... that has yet to be determined. Opportunities can always be found. The anti-serum, now, that is interesting. It must be specific to the individual, as is the phage itself - and the indications are that Thrang supplied it to his victims in person."
I raise an eyebrow at that. "Time-consuming."
"Yes. Thrang has a fast ship, we know that... but its warp signature is conspicuous by its absence on our traffic monitoring. We may assume that his normal routine has had to be adjusted... and that his agents, therefore, are being -" K'Men smiles "- liquidated. So to speak."
I frown. "But they represent a resource which he must have spent years in acquiring and maintaining -"
"Quite so. Thrang is evidently moving on to a new phase of his operations, and disposing of his previous network. Since that network includes highly placed sources in II, in the Syndicate, and - we know now - among the Gorn separatists - we must wonder what he has found to replace it."
"Do we have any clear idea how much material has been compromised?"
"No. And it is likely that we never will. We can hardly ask the separatist movement what security clearance this Ryssarr held. We can, of course, ask the Syndicate about its agents. And the Syndicate will tell us what it deems allowable for us to know."
"Then we can only assume the worst," I say.
"Indeed. I will give you the same instructions that I have given to all my agents in this matter; trust no channels of communication, share no data with those not directly known to you. In the circumstances, you may - and should - communicate with your Starfleet colleague. We are developing a test for the phage contamination, and we may even hope to achieve a cure. Screening all our personnel, however, will take immense time and effort. And it may be pointless, if Thrang has abandoned these agents."
I catch myself drumming my fingers on the side of the console, and stop. "There are two possibilities," I say.
A glint comes into the Klingon spymaster's one eye. "Are there?"
"They do not amount to much, but they may prove more useful than simply taking Thrang's next proffered bait. If he has been administering this anti-serum in person, then we have a picture - partial and incomplete - of his past movements. We may gather some clue to his intentions from that."
"My analysts are already assessing that data." K'Men sounds disappointed.
"The second angle of attack lies in this organization of his. The K-T Mercantile Mutual Association. The surviving Gorn have provided me with all the information they had on this agency - which was, nominally, their employer."
"Matters are in hand there, also."
"Can we find some area where their patterns match? Thrang must have some consistent goal in mind. Or some contact, somewhere, with whoever is supporting him. Some place, some person, some communications channel... that he is still using, even now that his former network is being abandoned."
"It is possible," K'Men says, in grudging tones.
"There will be vast gaps in the data, I know. They may be bridged - with assumptions, and with luck."
K'Men nods. "I will pursue this. And I will transmit all our available data to you. Open your secure datacomms channel." He favours me with a wintry smile. "A problem shared... is, most likely, a problem doubled. But it can do no harm, at this stage, for us both to work on this."
The Tellarite's name is Darb glaesch Krim. He stands a little way away from me, on the other side of King Estmere's control consoles, and he glowers.
"I was with the delegation to the President," he says. "President Bacco spoke to us personally, to address our concerns."
Yes, well, that was then and this is now, and President Okeg is busier now than Nan Bacco ever was. Besides, this is a Tellarite speaking.... "I can put in a call to the President," I snap at him. "I'm sure he'll listen. Perhaps we can get him out here, in a diplomatic courier, and I can take King Estmere back to work. Would that suit you?"
Darb glowers some more. Evidently, he gets the point.
"Receiving telemetry from the probes," Three of Eight rumbles at us. "First merchant convoy is approaching the contact point now. No sign of hostiles."
"There won't be," says Darb. "I know that bunch, they're signed up with K-T MMA. The Vendanphans won't touch them. They never do."
I feel my antennae twitching. We know - at least, we're reasonably sure - that the K-T bit stands for Kalevar Thrang. Somehow, ships under his protection actually are protected, at least from some of the hazards of the galaxy today.
Like the Vendanphans. Vendanpha is an isolationist, independent world in the borderlands between the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance. There is a limited amount of trade, there is the occasional diplomatic visit or cultural exchange, but so far the Vendanphans have been content to go their own way. So far.
"First convoy has cleared the perimeter," Three reports. "Second convoy on inbound approach vector." He raises his head. "I have sensor contacts at the perimeter. On approach. Direction consistent with the Vendanpha system."
"Pirates," Darb spits. "This is the third time -"
"And the last," I say. I turn to Anthi Vihl. "Plot an intercept course at maximum asynchronous warp speed." Then to Cordul. "Open all subspace channels. If they've got anything to say, let's hear it. And let's get ready to say a few words ourselves." I settle myself in the command chair.
Trade between the Federation and the Ferengi flows constantly. The Vendanphans have taken to commerce raiding, it seems... though they are, naturally enough, scared off by the sight of escorting Starfleet warships. But there are only so many starships we have left, after all the fighting - we can't commit our forces to commerce protection indefinitely. Better to bring the raiders to action and finish them decisively.
The sensor buoys along the convoy's route are stealthed, undetectable - we think - by the Vendanphans' limited sensors. King Estmere is standing out a good long distance from the convoy - too far for the Vendanphans to detect her. But it's a distance my ship can cover in no time worth thinking about.
I feel the faint shiver as we go to warp. The ship's speed builds, steadily, to its tremendous maximum.
"I have a general hail from the approaching ships," Cordul reports.
"Let's hear it."
The speakers go live. "This is Admiral Ar'kratiri of the Vendanphan Fleet to all mercantile vessels. You are passing through Vendanphan sovereign territory and are subject to taxation. Cut your drives and prepare to be boarded. All cargoes are subject to investigation and confiscation. Do not attempt resistance."
"Do we have a read on the Vendanphan ships?" I ask Three.
"One command vessel, comparable to a Starfleet standard cruiser. Nine light frigates in three tactical formations. Six large vessels with low power signatures - my estimate is, freighters."
"Time to contact?"
"Three minutes, sir," Anthi says.
"Prep the frigates for immediate launch. Amiga." The android turns her metal eyes towards me. "Do we have the appropriate treaties and diplomatic records? Is there any justification for this - sovereign territory - claim?"
"No such claim has been reported to the Starfleet Diplomatic Corps," says Amiga. "The treaties existing with the Vendanphans specify the usual sovereign boundaries - in this case, specifically, the Oort Cloud of their home system. The applicable law is the standard convention on the freedom of interstellar space for civilian transit. Both the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance are formally committed to defend that convention."
In short, the Vendanphans' sudden claim to be an interstellar empire, ruling over deep space, is utterly baseless. I knew that, I suppose, but it's nice to have it confirmed by someone with a mechanically infallible memory. "Go to red alert," I order, and I watch the tactical board as it goes live.
The Vendanphan frigates are swooping in towards the merchant convoy. The freighters have limited armament - perhaps enough to make a fight of it, but not enough to stop them from taking serious damage, enough to wipe out all their profits from the journey. They know it makes no sense to offer resistance. I take a look at the other ships. The Vendanphan freighters are huge, and the mass readings show they're pretty much empty. My guess is that the convoy wouldn't have much left by the time those ships finished investigating and confiscating.
King Estmere crashes out of subspace. "Launch frigates," I order. "Mr. Cordul. Put me on general hail."
"Launching Alpha," says Anthi, "launching Bravo." Twin shudders as the Mesh Weavers shoot out from the bays.
"Channels open, sir," says Cordul.
I stand up. "Vendanphan vessels. This is Admiral Tylha Shohl aboard the Federation starship USS King Estmere. You are engaged in an act of piracy against Federation shipping. You are under arrest. Stand down and surrender your vessels, or you will be fired upon. You have sixty seconds to comply."
"Launching Charlie. Launching Delta." All four of my frigates are now in the sky.
Technically, we're outnumbered, two to one. But, if you consider class, the odds are a lot more in my favour. A single one of the Mesh Weaver frigates is very nearly equal to the Vendanphans' command cruiser - and, as for King Estmere herself, well, there is no comparison.
"Signal from the Vendanphan cruiser," Cordul reports.
"On screen."
Admiral Ar'kratiri has red skin and a skull decorated with multiple bony ridges; he is wearing a black uniform tunic with an extravagant number of medals and rank badges. His eyes are amber and slit-pupilled, and they are glaring at me. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands.
"It's self-explanatory," I say. "You're wasting time, Admiral."
"If the Federation has objections - we are engaged in legitimate taxation - if you object, I will withdraw my ships on this occasion - as a gesture of goodwill -"
"Try to escape, and I will open fire immediately," I say. "You have about thirty seconds left, Admiral. Power down all weapons, drives and shields, and stand ready for boarding. Or I will open fire." My eyes lock with his. I leave him no doubt that I mean it.
He blinks first. Literally so, as it happens. He turns his head, speaks to some underling. "Pass the word. All ships, surrender. Stand down."
"Wise decision, Admiral," I say. He replies only with another glare. I turn to address my own - underlings. "Security teams. Assemble boarding parties in all transporter rooms. Prep secure holding for incoming prisoners in quantity." The Vendanphan crews will have to be taken off their ships - well, there is room on King Estmere for all of them. "Engineering, ops, ready prize crews to take command." I let Ar'kratiri hear all this. I can see it isn't making him happy.
Darb stirs. "Good job," he says, in reluctant tones. "So far, anyway. What's your next move, though?"
"I have some ideas," I tell him. "Mr. Cordul. Prepare to transmit a communiqué to the Vendanphan government, specifics as follows -"
---
Grand Admiral Em'zanastri is a different colour from his subordinate; green, not red. He has a similar ridged skull, though, and his uniform tunic is so stiff with medals and ribbons and braid that I wonder he can stand up in it. He looks apprehensive in the main viewer. And well he might.
"Why are we meeting here?" he asks. The rendezvous point is in deep space, five light years from the nearest star, well away from the trade routes. An empty spot, where nobody goes. "And why did you specify an empty troop ship?"
The troop carrier is there, among the Vendanphans' little fleet. Em'zanastri's flagship is... maybe equivalent in size to a Federation heavy cruiser; he has brought two other cruisers in support, and six of those frigate wings - and the troop ship. It's a significant enough force that I've deployed my Mesh Weavers again, just in case he gets any ideas. Behind King Estmere, the captured Vendanphan ships float free, some distance away.
"Grand Admiral." I salute, formally. I suppose my own dress uniform ought to be as stiff with medals as his is, by now. I've long since reached the point where such things don't matter. "I am Admiral Tylha Shohl, aboard the USS King Estmere. I am transmitting my personal clearances and diplomatic credentials along our data channels now, so that you will know that I have full authority for my actions in this matter."
"What... actions... do you propose to take?" He sounds nervous.
"Your ships engaged in piracy against Federation shipping. I would be within my rights to have their personnel transferred to the Federation for trial on that charge, but in view of the existing agreements between our governments, I have decided to exercise some latitude. Your personnel will be repatriated immediately, to be dealt with according to your own judicial system. That, sir, is why I requested that you should bring an empty troopship. So that they can travel home in reasonable comfort. King Estmere's brig, at the moment, is... a little cramped."
"I... see." Does he look faintly relieved?
"Please contact the troopship, sir, and have them set up for immediate transporter operations. Ops." I turn to Cordul. "Are we all set up at this end?"
"Ready for transport as soon as we get clearance, sir," the big man says.
"Excellent." I turn back to the screen. "At your discretion, Grand Admiral."
He looks offscreen, issues orders. After a short time, I glance at Cordul, who nods. I run a quick glance over the tactical board. There don't appear to be any changes.
"Our people are... returning to us," Em'zanastri says. "We... appreciate the Federation's attitude, Admiral Shohl."
"It would be helpful, sir," I say, "if I could report to the Federation Council that there will be no repetition of this incident."
"I -" He licks his lips; his tongue is a pale green. "I - am responsible to my government - I do not have your diplomatic status, I cannot enter into binding commitments on behalf of the Vendanphan people - I would like to give you my personal assurances, but -"
Let me guess. There are elements in his government pushing for commerce raiding, for some reason of their own. Some militant faction, perhaps, looking to engineer a crisis that will put them at the head of government? It happens. "The Federation, sir, can't accept only personal assurances. I'm afraid, if your government won't commit itself to suppressing piracy, we will have to take measures of our own in that direction."
"Measures?" He sounds nervous again. "What... measures... do you have in mind, Admiral Shohl?"
"For the present, sir - well, that is why I asked for a rendezvous at these coordinates. So that no navigational hazards would be created." I turn to Cordul. "Ops. Have transporter operations been completed?"
"Last set of detainees is on the pads now, sir. Let me see.... Off they go. Transport confirmed. All Vendanphan personnel transferred back to Vendanphan custody."
"Excellent. Then we'll just tidy up the rest of this mess. Scuttle those derelicts."
"Aye, aye, sir." Cordul touches a control on his console.
Behind us, the captured - and now empty - Vendanphan ships erupt in searing white light as antimatter demolitions charges breach their warp cores. The freighters were so large, their warp cores so feeble in power, that we had to place additional demolitions charges at strategic points on their hulls. The resulting explosions are spectacular.
Em'zanastri's face is stricken. "Material assets used in pirate actions will be destroyed," I say airily. "It's only property, after all." The Federation attitude - material things mean next to nothing in a post-scarcity economy. But the Vendanphans, in a single system, don't have a post-scarcity economy. I don't know how significant a percentage of Em'zanastri's fleet has just been vaporized - but the value of those freighters has to be significant; the loss from their destruction far outweighs any gains from piracy. The commerce raiding faction on Vendanpha, in short, has just taken an enormous hit to the wallet. Right where it counts.
I sit down in the command chair. "I hope such action won't be necessary again," I say. "And I certainly hope we won't have to escalate beyond mere damage to property. Please take that message home to your government, Grand Admiral. I believe that concludes our business here today. King Estmere out."
Just happy this is continuing - and two very interesting segments - Thrang is either removing all his old networks or is possibly playing against himself using small governments he's infiltrated?
I rather hope Thrang is overestimating the box. He's thrown away a tremendous and valuable amount of effort and personnel for whatever plan he's generated from it - if it is that valuable, people are in trouble.
And always nice to see what my favorite engineering officer is up to - I'm amused, and unsurprised, she added extra charges for more fireworks.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Heizis glowers at me over a litter of triangular Romulan datapads. To be honest, "glower" seems to be her default expression anyway. Her ready room is sparsely furnished, but it runs to two spare chair. I sit on one, and put my armoured boots up on the other.
"So," I say, "you got any leads at all, then?"
She glares some more and waves her hand at the datapads. "Many. My automated systems are running comparisons and correlations now. If you wish to help -" She grabs a stack of datapads and shoves it towards me. "Unfiltered comms intercepts from the past twenty days. Be my guest."
I don't know how many kiloquads of data a Romulan datapad holds, but just the fact that it takes more than one to hold this data... well, I ain't gonna have time to read it all before bedtime, put it that way. "We have got to develop some leads of our own," I say. "Can't just carry on dancing to Thrang's tune...."
"Do we even have a tune to dance to?" Heizis asks.
"Well," I say, "yeah. Got another message over the same encrypted comms channel that aimed us at Nimbus III. This time, the invite's to the shipyards at Nali Caerodi. Ferengi Alliance territory. I'm figuring it'll wind up with me being whacked on the head and shoved out an airlock by a bunch of Hupyrian goons, this time." Hupyrians are reliable, they stay bought when you pay them, they have no sense of humour and don't get distracted, and they're about seven feet tall and built like rocks. Ferengi use 'em a lot as bodyguards and such, I'm guessing Thrang will figure they're worth the investment too.
"That would seem to fit the pattern," Heizis mutters. Her eyes are turned back towards the datapads. Her eyelids and sclera look greenish - bloodshot, in a Reman.
"So can we maybe break this pattern, preferably before it breaks me? I always thought working for Intelligence was supposed to be a desk job, anyway."
"Our last attempt did not end well, if you remember," Heizis snaps. "My ship barely escaped, and there were casualties -" She puts some emphasis on that last word. Funny, I'd have figured her to be the type that thinks of the crew as expendable. Well, she's gone up a notch or two in my estimation, anyway. Doesn't help the immediate problem, though.
"So let's figure this out," I said. "These 'meet me in a dark alley at midnight' messages have to come from somewhere, right? OK, it's anonymized and routed through several dozen commercial subspace networks, but there's gotta be a point where it enters the system -"
"It may even be in those comms intercepts," says Heizis, tapping the stack. "Or it may not. We cannot monitor all subspace transmissions, everywhere - but we can monitor far more than we can intelligently listen to."
It's one of the oldest problems in signals intelligence. Ever since high-bandwidth communications were invented, intelligence analysts have been swamped with chatter to wade through. Ninety-nine and nine nines per cent of it is irrelevant to what we're looking for - heck, most of it isn't relevant to anybody, even the people sending it. And, of the stuff we find that is relevant... half the time, the relevance only shows up in hindsight. Lots of people talk about killing the Federation President or the Klingon Chancellor, for example, but you only know which ones mean it when the bodies start to hit the floor.
But. An encrypted subspace message reached me. Signals analysis identified the immediate transmitter, but that was just the last step in a chain of relays. And the message itself was disguised at several points - bundled as a signals overlay on something innocuous, inserted into one network by an unscheduled pre-empt... we can backtrack it a long way, but the odds are that it started life in some anonymous public comms centre somewhere, and Kalevar Thrang just walked off the street, rented a terminal for five minutes, sent the message and was off on his merry way.
Thrang. The guy gets about. And at this point, he really shouldn't be able to.
"He breezes in and out of First City," I mutter.
"Thrang? Apparently so," says Heizis.
"Well, that shouldn't happen, should it? I mean, OK, it's a city, not a secure installation, but by now. Imperial Intelligence must have a net over the place that a cockroach couldn't get through. So how's Thrang managing it?"
"A question I would like to ask him," says Heizis.
"He's very hands-on, isn't he? Zooming around the quadrant, dosing his agents in person... you'd think his organization, his backers, would handle some of the work load for him."
Heizis grunts. "Possibly this is one reason why we still have no idea who those backers are."
"'kay. I'm just wondering, though... suppose he's sending these messages through, well, some regular spot? Something he uses, or at least revisits?"
"Thrang visits a great many places, apparently," Heizis says.
"All the more reason," I say, "why he'd want a communications facility he could rely on. Something he knows is there when he needs it, when he's making a dash between his magic dissolving agents to stop them from dissolving. See what I mean?"
"Wishful thinking. We live in an age where communications are commonplace. Thrang will have no difficulty finding a transmitter."
"Well, it's worth checking, isn't it? I know it ain't much, but it's something."
Heizis sighs. "Do you have the available data on the transmission routes of your message?"
I fish in one cargo pocket and pull out a PADD. "It's on here." Actually, so's a lot of other stuff, some of which I would normally worry about a KDF-Republic operative seeing. These ain't normal times, though. I flip the PADD at Heizis, who fields it adroitly. "Got some of the same messages to Starfleet's other intel teams, too."
Heizis grunts. "That is encouraging," she says, with an ironic edge. The sad fact is that, beaten up by Orions, Thexemians, Gorn and warriguls as we are, we are doing better, so far, than any other operations I know about. Eta Meridia was a bust, the only contact Thrang had there was the late and unlamented Mirankar Ostrogolus. The operatives on Sherman's Planet ran into an independent Orion slaving company, and some rather tense negotiations are going on between the Federation and the Syndicate about ransoming them back. As for the chaos on Demara V, where our own people were mouse-trapped into a three-cornered firefight between Federation Security, Republic Intelligence, and the guys we're not supposed to know are Section 31... well, the less said about that particular Charlie Foxtrot, the better. Personally, I'm starting to think Obisek and the Reman underground have the right idea. They're sitting tight at the Vault, sending invitations to Thrang's agents to come and meet them, there. So far, no one's taken them up on it. But, on the other hand, nobody's shooting at the Remans, or dissolving them, or setting packs of warriguls on them, so maybe they're ahead of the game, there.
"Most of the relays are along the main Federation data transfer backbones," Heizis muses. "But the message most likely originates either in Klingon or Orion space, and that means it must travel along their data backbones. Since our grand alliance has yet to result in any unified communications infrastructure... it is the points of transfer which might prove interesting."
Then she sits forward a bit, and her little green-rimmed eyes narrow. "Hmm," she says. "Interesting."
I swing my boots off the spare chair so's I can sit up straight myself. "What is?"
"One of the data relays in the Neutral Zone," says Heizis. "Orbiting Dexian VII, in the Eta Eridani sector.... It has recently changed ownership. And the new owners... are K-T MMA. Thrang's own mutual protection society."
"Oho," I say.
"It is probably just a coincidence," says Heizis. "This group is expanding, it needs communications infrastructure of its own. This must be one of many acquisitions in and around the Neutral Zone."
"Yeah," I say.
"Thrang would be a fool to have something so obviously traceable," says Heizis.
"Yeah," I say again.
Heizis sits back in her chair and eyes me. "You want to investigate it anyway," she says.
"Well, yeah," I say. "Two main reasons. First off, we need some sort of info about K-T MMA and whatever the hell it's up to, and this is a good way to start eavesdropping on their communications. Second off, the only alternative seems to be Nali Caerodi, and I do not want to get beaten up by Hupyrians. Can't stand the smell of that beetle snuff."
---
The Dexian system consists of a bunch of class D planets, lumps of rock spat out by a star that looks like it wasn't even trying to make a proper solar system. Planet VII is actually one of the more appealing of the bunch; its surface is dirty white with water ice, and it has a sort-of apology for an atmosphere, mostly carbon dioxide and methane.
The communications relay is a big thing, four antennae reaching out for kilometres in a cruciform structure, with a big metal drum-shape beneath that. Our ships look quite puny as they approach it.
"Shielding for the central power core and support systems," Ajbit reports. "The cylinder also contains a habitation module - basic thing, just for temporary support staff, I'd guess. No life signs at present." She turns a sour face towards me. "I am reading high-intensity transporter inhibitors."
"Let's have a look." I wander over to the science console. I'm starting to get the hang of these big domed Hazari consoles, now. I take a look, and whistle. High intensity is right. I try to beam over to that station, I get reassembled at the other end as a bucketload of premier-grade Talaxian fishpaste. We need another approach.
"I have Palatine on secure comms," Hal Welti tells me.
"Oh, yeah, right, put her through."
Heizis's face appears on the main screen. I ignore her for a moment. Dechenchholing's sensors are pretty good, and the internal structure of that relay is coming up neatly on the console. Heck, it's mostly assembled out of standard components, we've even got schematics on file for some of it....
"I hate to interrupt," says Heizis, "but -"
"Yeah, right,"I say. "We need to get aboard that thing, don't we? And with those transporter inhibitors, we can't do it the easy way."
"The airlock on the habitation module will be secure," says Heizis. "And a shuttlecraft will certainly be tracked on approach - even if I send my gig under cloak, it will have to decloak to dock with the module."
I study the schematics, and find what I'm looking for. "Not a problem. This place has a back door, we'll use that. Well, I will."
"A back door?" She looks genuinely nonplussed. I should take a picture of that expression.
"The cylinder is open at the antennae end. I just spacewalk across to there, make my way inside, and get in through the auxiliary inspection hatch. Here." I tap a point on the console display. "It's a standard multi-purpose module, it's got access points for use in atmosphere. Obviously, they're going to be dogged down now, but that's no problem, I just take a force field projector with me and set up an air-filled bubble where I work on the hatch. Then I get inside, gimmick any remaining security, set up a data tap -"
"And the Palatine will run an immediate intel analysis," says Heizis. "We have the specialist facilities, after all. Very well. Proceed."
It doesn't take long to suit up, even with Ajbit giving me the evil eye all the time. She's given up on telling me to leave this stuff to junior officers. Anyway, this is a walk in the park. No life signs, no power signatures from automated weapons or suchlike - this is a straightforward get-in, get-out.
So I go through the airlock, and step out into space. Weight leaves me, and the suit thrusters kick in. My trajectory is plotted automatically, and I have nothing to do but admire the view until I get inside the cylinder. It's not much of a view. Dexian VII is a grubby disc beneath me, and the ships are parked alongside the relay, and, well, that's it. It's space. Didn't think I'd ever get jaded about space, but hey.
The open girders of the antennae loom up overhead, and the thrusters kick me again, and I travel over the lip of the cylinder and down inside. The central power core is a big metal sphere surrounded by a tangle of pipes and cables and deuterium tanks; the habitation module is an afterthought tacked on to the complex. I aim myself at it. As I get close, I feel a tug, and I switch the thrusters to manual and guide myself gently down onto the roof. Artificial gravity, spilling outside the module, just enough to affect me. Makes it a bit easier to work, in fact.
I set up the field projector, and a shimmering ghostly dome encloses me. I open the valve on the tank strapped to my back, and air gushes out. I don't open the suit, though. The air will be cold as anything. Frost blooms across the metal roof of the module; shielded from sunlight, it is bitterly cold itself. My gloved hands are a little clumsy on the inspection hatch, but it's easy enough to open it - nobody really expected this sort of approach, I think. I worm my way through, into the module.
It's basic, all right - life support, communal living quarters for maybe four people, and a main computer room. Computer room's all I need. I find myself a console and hack it in a couple of minutes. It's all standard stuff, we have the details on file, and my data intrusion packages are decidedly not standard. I open up a channel to the Palatine. "I'm in," I say to the scowling Reman who appears on the screen.
"Obviously," says Heizis. "Standing ready to receive data."
I fiddle with the console, slot an isolinear chip into a standard interface socket. "Here we go." The console flickers and beeps a bit as Starfleet Intelligence infiltration routines basically pwn the commercial security software. "OK. This thing is now our zombie servant. Transmitting." We'll start with the communications logs, and all the stored traffic records, and then we'll set it up to blind-carbon-copy every message it receives over to us.
"Data receipt confirmed," says Heizis. "So far, everything is going to plan." She sounds grudging. Then her shadowed eyes widen. "What did you just do?"
I glance at the console. It looks normal to me. "Didn't do nuffink," I say.
"There was a sudden spike in the data transfer," says Heizis. "Let me analyze -"
Then the screen goes blank. OK, so that wasn't in the plan. I hit the suit's comms. "Hey, guys. Is something up with the Palatine?"
"Not that I can see." Ajbit's voice. "They're off comms, but - Pex." Now she sounds urgent. "Sensor contact on approach."
OK, I tell myself, don't panic. "What is it?"
"A ship. Can't get a proper reading - it's got some sort of stealth field, and it's very fast."
Oh, boy. One guy we know has a fast stealthy ship. Oh boy. This can't really be a coincidence, can it? "Raise the Palatine. And go to red alert. I'm gonna try and gimmick those transporter inhibitors so you can get me out of here." OK, maybe a bit of panic. I look around -
There is a sudden glare of red light. Something smashes into my back, and I go sprawling over the console. Someone is grappling me from behind, holding me down. I reach for the phaser holstered at my hip, and my arm is pinioned in another grasp. More than one, and some of them are very strong. No need to ask who they are, too. You can beam through transporter inhibitors just fine, if you're the one who set them up, and you know their frequencies.
My arms are trapped. I'm hauled off my feet and turned around. To face -
"We have a guest." Red eyes in a leathery demon mask. Lethean. Trying to smile, which really doesn't improve things. "Welcome, guest," he continues. "Let's go somewhere we can be comfortable."
Well, it looks like our heroes are working to get back towards the average for how Intelligence is doing in this mess. Eep. Thrang is a very, very busy man, isn't he? I'm starting to wonder if he's got clones or copies. Who else to trust with all this but you? And he's got some very good bio-engineering skills.
Though the sad fates of the other operatives were kind of amusing how they were listed.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
*takes a look* US residents only - lets me out, I'm afraid.
I'm still working on the next update! It's been delayed because I've been quietly bricking myself all week, preparing submissions of one of my original novels to some lit agencies. (Yes, I'm trying to get myself properly published. Wish me luck.)
The lights flicker, go out entirely. The emergency circuits cut in, and the bridge is lit in a dim reddish haze, barely sufficient even by my standards. The console display is showing gibberish, the communications channel only static. "What is happening?" I snarl.
"That data spike - it was an adaptive virus," says N'aina. "It's in our systems -"
"Our systems should be secure!"
"I see the loophole," N'aina says tersely. "We can fix it - afterwards - and report it to the Flotilla. Once we're back online -" Her fingers are flying over the engineering console. "Network is partitioned. Shutting down sector by sector, sterilizing and re-initializing." She shoots a quick troubled glance at me. "Question is, how much damage can it do in the meantime?"
As if in answer, the deck shudders suddenly beneath my feet. "RCS thrusters firing," E'Maon reports. "And a burst on impulse. Safeties tripped. Impulse is offline, needs restarting." He, too, is working feverishly. "Isolated warp drive, shut it down already. Trying to calculate what that surge did -"
"Elements!" shouts Kaxath from the ops board. "The thing's infected internal security - shutting down systems now - but it's bad."
"How bad?" I demand.
In the dim light, I see him shake his head. "It's triggered the anti-mutiny protocols in main engineering. Flooded the chamber with anesthezine gas."
"Uh," says E'Maon. "That's... not good news. The impulse burst cancelled our orbital velocity. Currently, we're in free fall towards the planet. We need to get drives back online very soon -"
And that will be difficult, with our engineering staff unconscious on the floor. I stand up, and grab my breather mask. "Do what you can to purge the atmosphere. And continue fighting this thing. What about the Dechenchholing? Do we have communications there?"
"Sorry, sir," says N'aina. "Automated comms defence protocols tripped as soon as the virus was detected. I can try to override them, but -" When our computers were compromised, our communications shut down - so that we cannot infect any other ships. Necessary, but annoying.
"Concentrate on purging the virus. When this is over, then we will contact the Talaxian." I head for the door of the bridge. "Contact as many of the off-shift engineering staff as you can raise. I am going to main engineering, to take charge of this situation."
---
The lights flicker, on and off, as I make my way down the corridors. Sometimes, I reach doors that do not slide open at my approach - fragments of an overall security lockdown, imposed by the virus. I use accessways and service ducts to move between decks; I dare not risk the turbolifts.
So far, the virus is... annoying. Internal communications are snarled, my wrist communicator relays only snatches of gobbledygook from the bridge. But my personal access codes still serve to override the security locks, and though the lights flicker, the gravity grids and the life support systems - as yet - do not.
I am still two decks away from main engineering when the deck gives a violent lurch beneath me. I stumble, and catch at a stanchion to stop myself falling. My communicator bleeps at me, and I answer. "Who is it?"
"Bridge." N'aina's voice, speaking rapidly. "Don't know how long this channel will last. The virus is all the way through our KDF comms modules, it seems to reinitialize backup copies of itself as soon as we clear them. We might need to disconnect those from the network and wipe them completely."
Thrang's work, it must be; evidently, KDF data security is hopelessly compromised. "Do it." Losing our ability to talk securely to K'Men and J'mpok, against losing the ship: not a decision at all, really. "What else?"
"Still can't raise any engineering staff. And that last jolt - might have been a surge in the singularity core. Sir -"
The voice cuts off in a random surge of noise. I snarl, and redouble my speed. If the virus is compromising control over the singularity core, then problems such as dropping onto the surface of the planet become trivial by comparison.
Main engineering is one vast chamber, built around the endlessly spinning core. The secure door snaps at my heels as I run in. I look around, and my heart sinks. I can see the ring armatures wobbling as they circle around the core. And I can still see a faint mist of anesthezine gas in the air. The engineering crew are lying in slumbering heaps on the deck. Even if I revive one, they will likely be so groggy from the after-effects of the gas, they will be unable to work effectively.
I head for the main control console at a run. Simple enough to punch in the commands to restart impulse... but impulse will not restart without a power surge of some kind. From the core, or from the auxiliary fusion reactor - I could start up the fusion reactor without difficulty, but that will not solve the problem of the core. I can see the graphs for its power output, and they are already well outside permitted variations. My fingers stab at the console, initiating safety protocols, trying to invoke whatever measures I know about core control - but I am not an engineer, and I cannot contact the bridge, and my engineering staff are unconscious -
Wait. N'aina mentioned something, a while ago now. And it might just prove our salvation. I hit the console again, open the voice command channel.
"Computer! Initialize the emergency engineering hologram!"
A pause, perhaps of a fraction of a second, feeling like an eon to me. Then a column of air glows, and a figure solidifies -
The photonic engineer looks bland, almost unfinished; dressed in neutral garments, it could be any species or gender, or none. It turns to look at me, and it smiles.
"Hello! You look like you're - trying to restabilize a compromised singularity core! Would you like to - get some help with that, or - carry on by yourself?"
N'aina has evidently not modified it from some Starfleet default interface. That won't matter. I hope it won't matter. "I need help!"
"OK!" The hologram walks briskly to another console. "Your recommended options are - one, to eject the unstable core, or - two, to shut down to zero-output mode and re-start the control armatures from default. Which option do you prefer?"
Ejecting the core, at the moment, leaves the ship dead in space and falling powerless to the planet. Shutting down and re-initializing - will take hours, during which time we are, still, powerless. "Neither option! The ship needs power restored, urgently!"
"OK! You want to pursue options outside of normal safety procedures. This is not recommended! Please confirm that you want to proceed on this basis."
I swear I can hear the unstable control armatures, a grating, keening sound as they spin around the core. "Confirmed!" I screech.
"OK! Your other options are - one, to rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating, or - two, some other option. Which option do you prefer?"
"One!!"
"OK! You want to - rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating. This is not recommended! Please confirm that you want to proceed on this basis."
"Stop asking me to confirm things!"
"OK! You want to - stop asking for confirmation when you pursue options outside recommended safety procedures. This is not recommended!" I think I am going to scream, when it adds, "Confirmation request protocol has been suspended."
"Good! Now get to work!"
"OK!" The thing taps rapidly at its console. Its fingers are moving faster than mine could. "You want to - rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating. Do you want to start with - one, ring armature one, or - two, ring armature two, or - three, ring -"
"Start with number one!" I scream. I have to start somewhere, and this idiot machine will ask me questions until I am dead, at this rate.
"OK! Now editing command and control parameters for ring armature one. Please monitor the theta and eta bands on the control output display. Are those readings - within normal parameters, or - outside normal parameters?"
"Outside." I can see the wavering lines, and the warning icons beside them. "Well outside."
"OK! Implementing control variations now. Please tell me if these changes make the readings - better, or - worse."
It taps in a sequence of commands. The lines on the graph swing wildly upwards, and the core shrieks, a weird unearthly howl of protest. "Worse! Much worse!"
"OK! Adjusting. Please remember that this procedure is not recommended!"
The lines on the output graph swing down, steady themselves. The warning lights change, some of them, from red to amber. "Better!" I gasp.
"OK! Locking command and control protocols for ring armature one. Do you want to - proceed to ring armature two, or - proceed to ring armature three?"
"Die horribly and in pain!" I snarl at the idiot thing.
"I do not know how to - die horribly and in pain! Would you like me to - consult an online reference on this topic, or - carry on with what I'm doing?"
"Proceed to ring two!"
"OK! Now editing command and control parameters for ring armature two. Please monitor the delta and zeta bands on the control output display. Are those -"
"Outside normal parameters! We may have only minutes! Get on with it!"
"OK! Implementing control variations -"
This time, the lines on the graph smooth out, and there are no ominous sounds from the core. "Better!"
"OK!" Is it my imagination, or does the thing sound hurt by my interruptions? "Now proceeding to ring armature three. Please monitor the beta and gamma -"
"Beta and gamma outside normal parameters!"
"Please also monitor the overall alpha band and tell me if it is - within normal -"
"Outside!"
"OK! Editing command and control parameters for -"
"Get on with it!"
"OK! Implementing -"
"Shut up!"
The lines on the output display seem to buck and skew for a moment - then settle into the normal range. I breathe a sigh of thanks to the Elements. "Better!" I snap at the hologram.
"OK! Please remember that this procedure is not recommended. Safety procedures are there for our benefit! They should not be ignored!"
"Restart our impulse drive!" I snarl at it.
"OK! Restarting impulse. Power is now - on. Do you want to -"
"No. No to whatever it is." The wrist communicator bleeps. "Yes?"
"We're regaining control," N'aina's voice says. "Killing the KDF modules worked, we are purging the virus from essential systems - we have helm control, and are heading back up to orbit -"
"What of the Dechenchholing?"
"They moved out-system, chasing - something. They seem to have lost it, they're heading back now. As soon as we can confirm comms is clean of the virus, we'll raise them."
"All right. In the meantime, get every engineer and medic available down here. Check out the singularity core, make sure the quick-fixes haven't damaged it. Also -" I glare at the vacuously-smiling hologram. "Also, Subcommander, you and I need to talk."
Clippy, the old "assistant" that came bundled in Microsoft Office and insisted on trying to help whenever you did anything. Emphasis on "trying". Also see the Pocket President Program in A Girl and Her Fed.
Clippy's dead and buried, thankfully - but voice mail trees we still seem to be stuck with (ui trends are always strange, in retrospect, I've often felt)
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
The big Orion and the Thexemian manhandled the spacesuited figure onto the empty platform in front of the main viewscreen. It was practically the only free space on the Farah's cramped, narrow flight deck. Kalevar Thrang lounged in the command chair and regarded the captive coolly.
"Well," he said, "pop that helmet, and let's see who we've caught."
Mokasso stepped forward, snapped open the connecting clips, and lifted the helmet away, revealing the reticulated skin patterns, the pale blue eyes, the dishevelled mousy topknot of hair -
"Ah." Thrang smiled. "The persistent Talaxian! Pexlini, isn't it? I just missed you on Eta Meridia V. Of course -" he tapped his holstered pistol with one finger "- I wasn't actually aiming at you."
"You've gotta be Kalevar Thrang," Pexlini said. Her eyes narrowed, looking hard at the sonic antiproton pistol at Thrang's hip.
"Astute! I like that. Shall we make some introductions?" Thrang sat up straight, gestured with his left hand; his right was tapping in commands on the chair's console. "My delightful Deonsa at the helm, Shaltri on engineering - Mokasso, I think you've met, and that's Mituz holding your right arm - and on your left, well, I think he should introduce himself -"
"I am Seralok Masgrabolus," said the Thexemian, "and when I say my name, men turn pale and women run and hide."
Pexlini craned her head round over the neck ring of her suit to look at him. "You guys have gotta be a real blast at cocktail parties," she said.
Thrang laughed. Masgrabolus glared. "Well," Thrang said, "this is all very pleasant - Deonsa." His voice was suddenly hard and businesslike. "Pursuit status?"
"No problems," the Orion woman said. "The warbird's been disabled by the virus. Might recover, might crash into the planet - no danger to us either way. The Hazari escort is in pursuit, but it only has standard warp drive. No chance of catching us."
"Excellent." Thrang beamed at Pexlini. "The Farah is very probably the fastest thing in space. Borg-style subtranswarp and an asynchronous warp field, the best of both worlds. Our current speed is -?" He looked inquiringly at Shaltri.
"Equivalent of warp 35," the Troyian said.
"We can really move, when we need to," said Thrang. "However, we were slightly lucky, in that the Farah was within range - even her greatly extended range - when the intruder alarms indicated traffic in the Dexian system. Now, what was that in aid of? You have an invitation, I believe, to meet with my agents at Nali Caerodi?"
"Yeah," said Pexlini, "like I had invitations to meet 'em at Eta Meridia and Nimbus, right? And we both know how that turned out. So what's your problem, huh? I'm trying to make a deal here, that's all, why are you making it such hard work for everyone?"
"A deal," said Thrang. His right hand was still working at the console. "For your Hazari patrons in the Delta Quadrant?"
"That's right. Look -"
Thrang's hand stopped moving. "No," he said, looking down at the console. "No, that's not right, is it?" He rose to his feet, stood straight, squared his shoulders. "Not right at all -" He saluted smartly and clicked his heels together. "Is it, Captain Pexlini? Or, rather, Admiral Pexlini, of Starfleet Intelligence?"
Pexlini's jaw dropped. Deonsa turned to face Thrang, her eyes troubled. "Watch the road, my dear," said Thrang. She turned back to the helm.
"It is true," Mokasso said. The Lethean's voice was thick and gloating. "I see the truth of it in her mind."
"Well, you don't really need to." Thrang smiled at Pexlini. "Your biometric data was, of course, classified when you joined Intelligence. But Starfleet's classified data has no secrets from me."
"I don't doubt it," said Pexlini. "All arranged by someone who's just turned to soup, yeah? Crazy way to operate. You gotta have spent years setting that up -"
"Well," said Thrang, "it was just a phage I was going through." He laughed. No one else did.
"OK," said Pexlini. "So maybe I'm who you say I am, but you know what? We can still make a deal here, can't we? Maybe a better deal than you thought you could, even. Starfleet's resources are way better than the Hazaris', we can pay you more for the archive, that's gotta be good news for you, right? You -"
"You talk too much," said Mituz.
"Yeah." Pexlini swallowed audibly. "I talk when I get nervous, right? It's a failing, I know it is, particularly in my line of business, but, y'know, whaddaya gonna do? But I'm still talking sense, aren't I?"
"Oh," said Thrang, "in a way."
"We should shut her up," Mituz said.
"If she gets tiresome, just put her helmet back on," said Thrang. His eyes were hard, calculating. "I take it Starfleet is liable to be... boringly traditional... about ransoms?"
"You know the deal," said Pexlini. "Ransom for a Starfleet Admiral, well, that and twenty energy credits will buy you a hot raktajino. Listen -"
"Oh, let's not bother with the charade," said Thrang. "You know, by now, that selling off the Rehanissen Archive is not a factor in my plans." Pexlini's eyes flickered. "Oh, yes," Thrang continued, "my plans. Are Starfleet and Imperial Intelligence still looking for my mysterious backers? They'll be looking an awfully long time."
"There's just you?" said Pexlini.
"I might take issue with that word just," said Thrang with a smile. "Oh, no, I'm not just anything or anyone, my dear Admiral."
"OK," said Pexlini. "So, um, the way these things are supposed to go is, like, you explain your master plan now, and then put me in an easily escapable death trap?"
Thrang laughed. "Kill her," said Deonsa.
"Oh, no," said Thrang. "No, no, no. Or, at least, not yet. Not before I've found some use for her. Never turn down a gift from the gods, my dear." His voice hardened. "Mituz, Seralok, take her to the brig. The secure holding area, I think. I have a healthy respect for Intelligence's agents... I don't want her breaking free and causing annoyance. I'll decide what to do, later on."
"Listen," Pexlini called out desperately as the two thugs dragged her to the door, "whatever it is you want, we can maybe come to some sort of deal over it, can't we? C'mon, you're a businessman, make me an offer! We can negotiate, damn it!"
"You have no conception," said Thrang, "of what I want. We'll talk, later. Possibly."
The bridge door hissed open, then shut. The sound of scuffling in the corridor beyond faded away.
"Kill her," Deonsa said again. "No games, no plotting, just kill her."
"Only if I can't find another use for her," said Thrang. "I'm not wasteful, my dear."
"She knows too much!"
"She knows nothing," said Thrang. He sat down in the command chair, and casually crossed his legs. "She doesn't even suspect anything interesting. And a Starfleet Admiral... is a resource. Not one to be thrown away."
"You think you can use her?" Deonsa asked. "For -"
"Oh, no, not that," said Thrang with another smile. "No, Intelligence officers lead such rackety, disreputable sorts of lives, they're no use for that part of the plan. No, for that, I need a much more presentable sort of Admiral, one with a long, distinguished record, and unimpeachable public morals. One with credibility."
Silk whispers over my skin. It feels... different.
I look in the mirror, repress the urge to wriggle, to shift the fit of the robes. I should look good... in theory, I know I look good. I have seen... almost myself... in robes like this before. My Mirror Universe duplicate, in her scarlet robe edged with gold. She may have been a megalomaniac, but she certainly looked good.
I am the same as her... physically. Except for one point, of course. I reach up, touch the scar on my face. My mirror double had no scar.
Perhaps that's a good thing. That scar is part of me, not her, no matter what it looks like. I straighten my back, take an experimental pace towards the mirror, trying to look... I don't know... composed, elegant, self-confident.
Absurd, I think. I'm confident enough, every day - I am a Starfleet Admiral, projecting confidence and authority and leadership is part of my job, and I do my job well. But, of course, when I'm doing that, I'm in uniform, not scarlet and gold Tholian spider silk....
And I have, usually, tools and weapons and armour in my transporter buffer, and my combadge to call my ship - well, I have communications, now, at least. My hand goes to the gold bangle at my left wrist. Commercial-grade wrist comm, and stylish enough not to clash with the outfit... but not much, compared with my combadge, or the phaser pulsewave in my hands, the sharp staticky feeling in my antennae from a personal shield around me -
I shake my head. I don't need these things. I need the communicator, and I need stylish, smart, civilian clothes. And, right now, that's all I need. Right now -
I check the time, on the data stalagmite in the corner of my quarters. Right now, I have maybe five minutes to reach the transporter room, or I'm going to be late.
I get a few glances from passing crew members as I make my way along the corridors. My sandals make an unaccustomed sharp clacking sound on the deckplates as I walk. Flimsy things, those sandals, but they match the robes... I could hardly wear Starfleet-issue boots, could I? Lieutenant Jenro is at the console in transporter room two. He makes no comment on my appearance, just checks the coordinates, and nods confirmation as I step onto the pad -
Blue light sparkles around me, and I am down.
I breathe in, deeply, and look around the quayside. To one side of me, the water, and an old-fashioned Earth sailing ship, masts outlined against a fading dusky sky. The air is cool, by Earth standards - quite comfortable, for me in my thin spider silk robe. To my other side is a long building with artfully dilapidated-looking walls and a high, pitched roof. This part of Earth gets cool enough to see snow, sometimes. The building looks crude, functional and industrial - it was, I gather, a warehouse once. Since the twenty-first century, though, it has housed one of the finest restaurants on the planet, instead.
A voice behind me says, "Hello, Tylha," and I turn.
"Osrin. Hello."
Osrin Corodrev smiles at me. "Dressed to kill, I see." The handsome thaan is wearing a midnight-blue formal business suit, himself; he looks elegant and confident and commanding. Osrin Corodrev. Technically, my great-grand-uncle; an Andorian genetic augment, bred as a weapon by his insane father, kept for decades in suspended animation while the Nausicaans used him and his fellow augments as agents against the Federation - now, liberated, and his own person at last. I've met him a few times since I set him free, and - in spite of his origins - the person he's become is... not a bad one.
"You're looking pretty sharp yourself," I tell him, and I offer him my hand. His smile broadens as he takes it. His father was a miserable self-hating runt of a man, and he edited his child's genome to breed an almost textbook example of a good-looking thaan. It occurs to me, as we walk together to the restaurant's entrance, that - apart from my scars - we look like one half of a charming foursome. The humans might even think of us as an attractive couple. Well, humans don't understand Andorians, never have.
Inside, the place is quiet and simply furnished, a picture of understated good taste. A real human server, not a hologram, shows us to a table - I notice some heads turning among the other diners; they seem to be all human.
"I heard about this place when it celebrated its four hundredth anniversary," says Osrin as we sit down. "That's quite some going, and it still has a great reputation. The cuisine is - kind of traditional, for this part of Earth. But, well, it appeals to me."
"I can understand that," I say, studying the menu. "After all, you know about my tastes in human music, yes?" I don't know if he's heard that my tastes in human music once helped save the galaxy. Or if he'd believe it, if he heard it. I'm still not sure I believe it. Damn Q and all her self-righteous continuum, anyway. "Anything you recommend?"
"I'd start with the seafood terrine," Osrin says. "And I'm having the frikadeller for the main course. Ground meat dumplings, pan-fried... a local speciality. Outstanding."
I nod. "Sounds good to me. And, maybe some local fruit drinks? I won't insist on tunnel wine."
"Go native all the way," says Osrin, "it's the best way." Then, in a lower, more serious voice, he adds, "Thanks for this, Tylha."
"For what? You're taking me out to dinner, remember?"
"Well, I'm glad you're giving me the chance." He gives me a rueful smile. "A quiet evening, out, away from crises and panics and everything...."
Osrin works, now, for the Interstellar Disaster Relief Agency, and in the aftermath of the Iconian war, they are stretched as far as Starfleet itself. "True enough, we've both spent too much time lately sprinting between disasters!" I smile back at him, painfully aware, for once, of the stiffness of the right-hand side of my face. "Not much chance of disasters here, though. Unless they burn the - what was it? The frikadeller?"
"No chance of that. These guys are the best," Osrin assures me. He signals a discreetly hovering server, and we make our choices.
The food is good. This part of Earth, a little peninsula some way to the east of Holst's home country of Ingalan, has a whole new culinary tradition - maybe I'm biased, but it seems better, to me, than traditional Ingalish cooking. And Osrin, when he sets out to be a pleasant dining companion, is good at it. Of course, we can't steer the conversation entirely away from the war and its aftermath - we're both too bound up in it to avoid talking shop - but, even there, we manage to find a lighter side, now and then.
Like, for example, when the conversation turns to the desperate final stages... and Osrin mentions the front man for Temporal Investigations, Lieutenant Crey. "Oh, yes," I say. "The lightweight."
"The... lightweight?" Osrin raises his eyebrows at me.
"Not my choice of terms. Ronnie Grau's. Philip Crey was displaced eighty-some years in time, in the Bozeman incident. Ronnie, though, got herself time-warped three times, and for a total of more than two centuries. So she sent some very indignant memos to Temporal Investigations, asking why an important post was given to, as she put it, 'that freaking lightweight'."
Osrin laughs. "I take it that didn't get her the job?"
"You know Ronnie. Actually, I would trust her with the fabric of the space-time continuum. But public relations? Not a chance."
"I've never actually met Ronnie Grau. If she lives up to the stories you tell about her -"
"Oh, she does. She definitely does."
The frikadeller, accompanied by some unfamiliar but not unpleasant Earth vegetables, lives up to its reputation, too. Afterwards, a sweet fruit-based dessert, and then coffee, an Earth drink like Andorian katheka. Osrin accompanies his with a liqueur, called something like "konyak". I don't.
"You don't drink at all?" Osrin asks. "Alcohol, I mean?"
"Occasionally. Very occasionally. I enjoy a drink, but... I'm not too keen on what it does, if you drink too much."
"No," says Osrin, thoughtfully, "no, I suppose that wouldn't be your style at all. You're a very controlled sort of person. Most of the time, anyway."
"Is that a bad thing?" I prop my elbows on the table, put my chin in my hands, and study his response.
"I've seen you angry, remember," Osrin says.
"Oh, you think you have," I say. "I was low a litre and a half of blood when we first met. When I'm at full strength, then I'll show you angry."
Osrin holds his hands up in mock surrender. "No need! I'll take your word. But you don't just do angry, surely?"
Oh, now. Now, I have to think very carefully about what I say next. Because good food and pleasant conversation and the handsome thaan before me are having an effect, and they might make me say something like... "What else would you like to see?" I ask.
"Well," says Osrin with an honest-to-goodness grin, "now there's a question." Then his face turns deadly serious, and he leans a little way forwards, and his voice drops. "You're a very interesting shen, you know that, Tylha?"
I don't say anything. I just try to give him a cool, controlled, noncommittal smile, and try to hold my antennae very still, so they don't betray the sudden pounding of my heart.
"I mean it," Osrin says. "You're brave, and you're principled, and you're talented. And those things... well, you know how I spent most of my life. People with principles... I've not seen enough of those. But I like them."
"Keep talking," I say. "I like what I'm hearing."
A quick flash of smile. "And it doesn't hurt that you're... well, you look good enough in a Starfleet uniform, but tonight -"
"Even with -?" I raise one finger to my right cheek.
Osrin shakes his head. "I never even noticed it."
Our eyes meet, and I hold his gaze. There is a challenge in it, a challenge which must be met... a challenge that maybe I want to meet -
A discreet electronic chime cuts through the air - and through the moment. I curse, and reach for the comms bangle.
"It's mine, I think." Osrin pulls a sour face. He yanks a tablet communicator from his tunic pocket, looks at the panel, and swears softly. "Damn it. Koneph." His chan-partner. A nice enough guy in his own right... nice enough, maybe, to be my chan-partner too? I mull that one over, while Osrin walks off a little way to take the call. It's the sort of thing... that will take a lot of mulling, I think.
I don't know. This is a side to my life that - I've just not thought of. For such a long time. When did I think about it? The raw young cadet I was, with the messed-up face and the lost homeworld, was never one for dating - and since my Academy days, life has been one long series of breathless crises. When was the last time I went on a date? - if that's what this is. I think that's what it is....
Osrin comes back to the table with a forbidding look on his face. "Damn it," he says, as he sits down. "Just one evening without an urgent problem, is that too much to ask?"
"What's the matter?" I ask him. "Can I help?"
He looks uncertain. "I don't want to worry you -"
"Osrin. Starfleet, remember? We're here to be worried."
He bites his lip, looks away from me, out of the restaurant's big glass window. The evening has turned to night, and I can just make out Earth's moon, its gibbous face shining through the masts of the sailing ship at the quayside. It ought to be... romantic.
"It might be one for the Diplomatic Corps, anyway," Osrin mutters.
"I know Diplomatic Corps. Hell, I'm a member in good standing myself. Ambassadorial credentials and everything. Osrin. What's the problem?"
He takes a deep breath. "Kon's heard from our people on Gimel Vessaris. We still keep in touch." Osrin's fellow augments, now mostly making a living on my former homeworld. "The Nausicaans are making demands. They're claiming the planet is legitimately their territory after all - they've issued demands for the colonists to leave."
My back, and my antennae, stiffen. "That's not true. They have no right -"
"They're claiming differently, apparently. Kon's asking if the colony can get Starfleet or Imperial Guard protection, if - if the worst comes to the worst."
"Damn straight it can." Things are passing through my mind. "We picked up a Nausicaan ship recently, asking for asylum. It was part of the initial raid on Gimel Vessaris - we have its data cores on file, we have all their records. If there was anything legitimate about the Nausicaans' claim to that system, we would know." I push myself away from the table and stand up. "Give me Koneph's comms code, and I'll have a detailed evidence summary for him no later than this time tomorrow. And I'll talk to the Klingon Imperial Liaison, and put some pressure on there, too. This thing is going to go away, Osrin. Be sure of it."
A plan of action is forming in my mind. I know what to do, what data I need from the Yasan T'o's computer core, who to speak to, where to deliver a firm diplomatic protest.
The new Nausicaan Ambassador was named Sgramash. He stood over seven feet tall, and his bladed armour gleamed, though no brighter than his tusks. He stood in the centre of the Great Hall, his gaze fixed on J'mpok as the Chancellor sat in his chair of state.
"The tribes of Nausicaa have spilled much blood for the Empire," he declaimed. "Their own blood, and the Empire's enemies'! The Chancellor knows this. The High Council knows this."
J'mpok stirred on the chair. "Why do you tell us what we already know?" he asked.
"To remind you, Chancellor." Sgramash took a step forward.
J'mpok's eyes glittered. "Nothing is forgotten," he said.
"Then let us look to the future," said Sgramash, "and what the future might bring. If it brings conflict, where does the Empire stand?"
Anger edged J'mpok's voice as he answered. "In the forefront of battle, as always!"
"Battle with whom?" Sgramash demanded. "The tribes of my people have their own conflicts, their own battles to fight. But if we are drawn to conflict with a mightier power - does the Empire stand with us?"
"The Empire stands with its sworn friends and allies," said J'mpok. "All its friends and allies."
"A day might come, Chancellor, when the Empire must choose. The Empire is not the Federation, to seek to be friends with everyone. If conflict comes, will the Empire abide by old loyalties? Or newer, more convenient ones?"
"I have said that nothing is forgotten," said J'mpok. "But I must be careful where I pledge the Empire's honour... and so should you be."
There was a muttering, now, among the ranks of the High Council. "We should not show weakness!" one of them shouted - Sarv, of the House of Kungan, J'mpok noted. A new face on the Council, one of the many who had replaced... those who were gone.
"We are not weak," said J'mpok. "We are not weak, so long as one Klingon stands with blood in his veins and honour in his soul! - But we have just fought a long war. It was a necessary and an honourable war, but we should be sure that our next... is also necessary and honourable."
"Is it not honourable to stand with one's old allies?" demanded Sgramash.
"It is honourable," said J'mpok. "Is it necessary?"
"That," said the Nausicaan, "is not yet certain. But my people are demanding certain ancient rights, and if those demands are not met - well, it would not be the first time we fought for our rights. The tribes are not averse to battle."
"You think the Klingons are?" J'mpok rose to his feet and glowered down at Sgramash. There was more angry muttering from the High Council. But the Nausicaan stood his ground.
"I will carry the Chancellor's words back to the tribes," he said. "My people will consider them... but, in the end, words matter much less than deeds. If we call for the Empire's support in our cause... then may the Empire's deeds be honourable."
---
"Upstart," J'mpok snarled, later, in his private office. "Who is this Sgramash, anyway?"
"Recently elevated to his position," said Ambassador S'taass. The huge Gorn's voice was matter-of-fact. "A warrior of some reputation, but he is also independently wealthy. He controls shipping lines, whose convoys have not greatly suffered from any of the current... depredations."
J'mpok sat down behind his bare desk, scowling. "Those worry me," he said. "The work of reconstruction is difficult enough, without these added problems. What is causing all this?"
"The main problem," said S'taass, "stems from the convulsions in Orion space. Melani D'ian is making every effort to establish control, and I expect that, ultimately, she will be successful. But, at the moment, many old rivalries have flared up between the Orion Houses - old treacheries revealed, old enmities rekindled. The source may be guessed -"
"Kalevar Thrang and his thrice-damned archive," said J'mpok.
"Quite," said S'taass. "Of course, it is simply a catalyst. Many of the Orion Houses, seeing others in disarray, seek to take advantage. Others, perhaps fearing some attack, have decided to get their retaliation in first. It is messy, complicated, destructive and expensive. So it must be financed, by some means. Commerce raiding is... traditional, in such matters."
"I know," muttered J'mpok. "There is discontent also among the Imperial Great Houses. Perhaps not so much - we are Klingons, we bore the brunt of the war, we know how important it is to rebuild, after our losses." He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Then, too, the demon M'Tara eliminated any number of ancient quarrels when she exterminated so many of the Council. But there is still... discontent." His heavy-lidded eyes smouldered beneath his brow ridges. "At a time of such discontent - and in the aftermath of the war - it weakens us, S'taass. And you know what that means. If we are weak... then we must appear to be strong."
"You mean that you cannot necessarily refuse Sgramash's call for solidarity, if he makes it," said S'taass.
"Internecine warfare with the Nausicaans... oh, the Empire would win, no doubt of that. But in doing so, we would also lose.... But where does Sgramash demand these ancient rights of his?"
"Evidently, from a power that the Nausicaans cannot confront by themselves. There are few enough of those. The most likely one... is the Federation."
J'mpok sat, completely silent, for the space of several seconds. Then he said, "The worst of it is, there are those among the High Council who would welcome the resumption of the war with the Federation. They hunger for glory, for the defeat of our long-standing enemy. It is natural, I understand this. But now, now of all times.... We are not ready. Such a conflict would break us. Even if we won, it would break us. I am not so in love with glory, S'taass, that I neglect reality."
"Well," said S'taass, "we must do all we can, realistically. The Hegemony still has many close ties with the Nausicaans, and I will see what influence may be brought to bear. Sgramash is a businessman as well as a warrior. He may be amenable to a financial settlement, if we can determine what his ancient rights are worth. I will devote my attention to this -" He paused. "That is, if I continue in my current post."
J'mpok raised his head and stared at the Gorn. "Is there doubt of that?"
"Conceivably," said S'taass. "Representations have been made to King Slathis - one Commissioner Hrissaak, apparently, worries that I have become too close to the Empire, that I no longer represent the Hegemony's interests as well as I might." The Gorn's scaly face was unreadable. "I will, of course, keep you fully informed as to... whatever eventuates."
Oh, boy, Thrang ain't messing around when he talks about security. The cell... One force-field wall, and the floor, ceiling and the other walls are all solid metal. There's a sanitary and waste-reclamation unit, and it must be hooked up to a short range transporter, because there is no piping or anything leading out of the cell. And there's no way of gimmicking a basic transporter setup like that - not in any way that would reassemble me in anything resembling humanoid shape at the other end, anyway. Waste transporters just haven't got the bandwidth for live transport, and there ain't nothing anyone can do about that.
I don't see myself digging through solid hullmetal walls with my bare hands, or a plastic fork, either. There are tricks you can do with a force field, shorting it out or manipulating its frequencies. But you need the right tools and specialist training, both of which I ain't got.
Food and other supplies are delivered through a sort of hatch affair in the field, and I can be quite sure that one side of it is sealed solid whenever the other side opens. If I had a hidden confederate on the outside, I could get them to pass me the tools I need. Like hiding a file in a cake, only, y'know, kinda more technical. But no one on Thrang's crew is on my side.
I get the impression, maybe inaccurately, maybe not, that however fast it might be, the Farah isn't very big. Might be a heavily modified Orion corvette, or an entirely original design. But it's somewhere on a par with a Bird of Prey or a similar heavy raider. I suppose it's good news. If we can ever catch this thing, my ship or Heizis's should be able to beat it in a fight. Should be. Maybe.
I'm not getting much in the way of solid information, of course. Every so often, one of Thrang's crew drops by to shove rations through the forcefield hatch. The Lethean, Mokasso, barely speaks, and I try to keep my mind blank when he turns up. The Orion, Mituz, has the usual Orion techniques for handling prisoners, I don't get anything much from him but insults. I don't see the helmsman or the engineer, I'd guess they're running the ship. Um. And I'd guess that Deonsa has some duties besides the helm, too, if you know what I mean.
The only one who's any use is the Thexemian, Seralok Masgrabolus. And that's stretching the definition of "any use" all out of shape, but, well, it seems Thexemians like to talk.
"So why are you with Thrang, anyway?" I ask him as he shoves a pack of ration bars and a jerrycan full of water through the hatch. He pulls a sour face at me.
"I am a member of Thrang's crew, because he pays well, and will pay better," he says.
"OK, see your point, we all gotta eat, right? But, c'mon, you know there's plenty of people can pay better than Thrang -"
"They will not pay in the coin he promises! When Thrang comes to his power, those who stood by him will be rewarded. I will have power and dominion, and when I say my name, then, men will die of fright and women will hurl themselves at my feet."
"Oh, man, that'll take forever to clean up. How's Thrang gonna manage all that, anyway?"
"When he is king among the ruins, power and dominion will be his to bestow."
"King among the what, now?" Masgrabolus just glares at me. I decide to try a different tack. "So, OK, he gets to be king... somehow... so what make you think you get any goodies out of that? I mean, Thrang's been kinda rough on his associates to date, yeah? Like the guys who melted? Or your pal Mirankar Ostrogolus, who got his brain removed the hard way?"
"Thrang chose weaklings and honourless scum to be subjected to the phage," says Masgrabolus. "And I myself pointed out Ostrogolus as a worthless worm who walked in puffed-up pride, fit only to be used and discarded." I'm not sure worms walk, but hey, he's got the guns and the key to the cell, if he wants to mix his metaphors, there's not much I can do about it. "Those of us who have been true friends to him... he will be a true friend to us. And when his protective association is the only stable power left in the quadrant, we will be in a position to rule!"
Oh, boy. One thing about our man Thrang, then - he thinks big. Masgrabolus shuts the forcefield hatch, and turns around; I guess he thinks he's leaving on a good exit line. I'm inclined to let him go, now.
There's not much to do around here but think. And I need to think, long and hard, about one thing. Kalevar Thrang.
---
It's only a couple more mealtimes - one with the Lethean, one with the Orion - before the man himself shows up. Kalevar Thrang, in person, with a nasty smile on his lips and a sonic AP pistol in his hand.
"Admiral Pexlini," he says.
"Oh, hell, you can knock that off," I say. "It's only on paper, anyway. Sometimes you need flag rank if -"
"If you are to command the resources you need. I know. These old-fashioned military rankings are so inadequate, really, aren't they? To the jobs Starfleet actually does?"
"Guess so. So, are you planning to reform them? Restructure everything, when you're king among the ruins?"
Does the smile maybe slip, just a fraction of an inch or so? "Ah. Thexemians, yes... their culture places too much value upon boasting and display. But we mustn't judge, must we? Or at least you mustn't. Prime Directive and all that." He brings the gun up, covering me. His other hand reaches for a wall panel. The forcefield winks out.
"Walk with me a while, Admiral." The gun makes it an offer I can't refuse. I step out of the cell. They took my EV suit, left me only the basic coveralls I was wearing inside it. I've got... well, no equipment that will help in this situation.
With most people, I'd be looking for a chance to grab the gun. I don't think Thrang will give me one. "Where are we going? Somewhere nice?"
"Just the transporter room." He gestures - with his free hand. Smart thinker. I walk the way he's pointing.
"Kinda cramped in here," I comment, as we make our way down a narrow corridor with bare metal walls.
"Oh, the Farah is designed for use, not ornament. I'm fond of her, nonetheless. I will have something more... kingly... in the fullness of time, but I will probably keep the Farah anyway. I have my sentiments, Admiral."
"Will you lay off the Admiral, please, your majesty?" I say, and Thrang laughs.
The transporter room is small, with only four pads in the chamber. Thrang points me to one of them. I don't see any alternative, so I go stand on it.
"Now, then," Thrang says, and starts tapping on the console. "I've decided to destroy you, Admiral. Let me tell you how I will do it."
"Oh, hell." Now the moment's come, somehow I don't feel anything but a kind of disgust. "Beamed into space on wide dispersion? That's not even original, dammit."
"Nothing so inelegant, or so wasteful. No, no." Thrang is smiling away like anything. "In a few moments, I will beam you down to the landing docks at Nali Caerodi. It's where you were meant to be anyway, so it fits in with my plans. I'm sure you'll cope with being dropped onto a Ferengi station. And, after that, you're free to go, or stay, or do whatever you please."
I frown at him. "What's the catch? It can't be that easy...."
His smile is big and broad and there is nothing good about it at all. "You're an intelligent person. Why don't you tell me what the catch is?"
I think. Furiously. I think as if my life depended on it, which it very well might. "You're just letting me go? I don't believe it. And if I don't believe it, sure as hell nobody else will -"
"Ah!" Thrang positively glows with self-satisfaction. "I thought you'd be clever enough. Yes, Admiral. No one will believe you escaped, or that I set you free for nothing. Everyone must assume, now, that you are my agent. The more you deny it, and the more their checks disprove it... the more they must believe that you are a very adept and plausible agent of mine indeed. They must always doubt you, from now on. As an intelligence agent, you are - ruined. At least until...."
OK, so he expects me to fill in after the "until", but I'm kinda not in the mood. "Until what?"
"Until you realize," Thrang says, "that you need to be my agent. Because I will be the only employer who will have you... and because, when I am - king among the ruins - you will understand that you need to work for me. I intend to be the only game in town, Admiral. And I can find a use for someone of your abilities, when you come to me of your own free will. Not if, Admiral. When."
That's when I jump him.
I leap from the transporter pad and I claw at him. The nails of my right hand rake down his cheek, hard enough to leave furrows. But the transporter console is between his body and mine, and anyway, he reacts fast. He doesn't shoot, just clubs me hard with the gun. He is very strong.
I land on the deck with stars exploding across my vision. There is a brief sickening whirl when I think I'm going to lose consciousness. Then Thrang is hauling me to my feet. I don't resist. I can't.
He is holding me up with one hand. The other is pressed to his cheek. He is still smiling.
"Oh, my," he says. "We do want our little dramatic gesture, don't we? Do you think it accomplishes anything?" I slur something random by way of an answer.
He pulls his hand away from his cheek. The scratches made by my fingernails are fading already, half healed, new skin firming over them almost as I watch.
"Dramatic gestures," says Thrang, "are good for nothing. I'll speak to you later, Admiral. When you've properly come to your senses." He lets go of me. Somehow, I stay upright. He's put me on the transporter pad. "Have a pleasant trip." He reaches over to the console, presses a button, and I go away.
---
The transporter light fades, and I'm down. Station side on Nali Caerodi. The planet itself is a class L lump of not-much-use, the shipyard and trading facilities are mostly in orbit. So, I'm dumped on a Ferengi space station, possibly with concussion, which kinda ain't gonna help.
I try to marshal my spinning wits. First things first -
My coveralls don't come with much, but they come with a few goodies sewn into the lining, and Thrang and his goons didn't check for anything beyond weapons or other stuff with power supplies. I pop a seam with my left hand, and manage to extract a small glittering thing from the lining. Thalmurian water gem. Not one of the big ones that's worth a fortune, but one that's worth enough. I hope.
The beam-in point is just a metal cubbyhole, off the main thoroughfare of this station - whatever station it is. There's a fair amount of junk about. Ferengi are not always big on recycling. I spot a plastic bag, maybe a discarded wrapper for components or something. I hold the water gem between my lips, while I use my left hand to pull the bag over my right.
OK. One step. Now to find a Ferengi. Any Ferengi.
It doesn't take long. A short, squat, big-eared gnome in shabby overalls comes shambling past the cubbyhole, and he turns when I give a piercing whistle. His mouth comes open, revealing the usual disgusting Ferengi teeth.
"You. Here." I don't give him time to argue, just press the water gem into his hand. "See that? Money. Profit. Call it a down payment. I need to pay my occupancy tax, ration allowance, breathing permit, all the usual stuff." You get gouged on everything if you're on your own, on a Ferengi station. "Set me up with the basics, and anything left over from that jewel, you can keep, all right?" Then I put my fierce face on. "Cross me, and I'm gonna come back and rip your lobes off, OK? We got a deal here?"
"You're crazy," the Ferengi says. He looks at my face, then at the jewel, then at my face again. "OK. You're crazy, but with money, so I guess you're just eccentric. OK, deal."
"Terrific." I feel myself relax, just a tiny bit. Any Ferengi knows the bureaucracy on their station, and any Ferengi will make a deal. If you give them a chance, and don't give them much choice. "Gonna need communications, sometime soon, too." I'm racking my jolted brains, trying to think of names, contacts, useful people. "Gonna want to put in a call to, uhh, one of your DaiMons. DaiMon, DaiMon...."
"Listen," says the Ferengi, "you're in trouble, right? You need to get fixed up, somehow. Come with me, I'll get you food, somewhere to rest, while I get your permits sorted." He holds up the gem. "This'll cover it."
Honest Ferengi. Kind Ferengi, even. And I could do with a rest, at that. "OK. Thanks."
"Your head's bleeding."
"Yeah, I know." Well, I didn't, but it comes as no surprise. "Prago. DaiMon Prago, that's the guy." Prago is a Ferengi businessman, based at the Nali Caerodi shipyards, and he owes the Federation big time. Cooperation, I can get it from him.
"OK. DaiMon Prago, I'll ask around," says the Ferengi. "It's not going to be a problem, you know. Hey. Lean on me."
I lean on him. Ferengi are stronger than they look, they can hold up a concussed Talaxian. Just like Thrang could. "Thanks."
"No problem. I'm Greng, by the way."
"Hi, Greng. I'm Pexlini."
"Pexlini." Greng's eyes narrow for a moment. "Your hand's in a plastic bag," he says.
Pex is being very clever, especially considering her current concussion. Also - Thrang's ego just wrote a check I think his body literally isn't going to be able to cash, to extend an old saying - assuming I've got the right guess what's going on.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
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Comments
Rura Penthe. The Aliens' Graveyard. Even in his heated bodysuit, Thrang had to work to repress a shiver.
The Nausicaan had no such luxury as a heated bodysuit. He wore bedraggled, tattered furs, his hair was matted, one tusk was broken. He glared at Thrang with mad red eyes.
"I ruled a world!" he shrilled. "I was its lord and its master! Now look! Look!" He made a sweeping gesture, indicating a low bunk with a stained mattress and another ragged pelt. "This! This is my domain!"
"Distressing," said Thrang. "You have my sympathies."
"Sympathies," the Nausicaan hissed. "What good are sympathies? I am reduced to this, and it was - it was unjust!"
"So you desire vengeance," said Thrang.
"Vengeance, yes. Against the Andorian filth who took my world from me. And against the Klingon scum who sent me here! J'mpok!" The Nausicaan made the name a curse.
"He was seeking to curry favour with the Federation," said Thrang.
"The Federation had already relinquished all claims on me! They left me to the justice of my people, and my people judged me fairly, and let me go free!" Thrang noted, silently, that the Nausicaan made no reference to the monumental bribes he had paid to that tribunal. "And then that fl'icht-worm of a Chancellor steps in to make an example, to ignore Nausicaan justice and send me here!"
And two of the venal judges - the two who survived - with him. But Thrang had no particular need of them. "A grave injustice, as you say," he said. "So, we should talk about rectifying it."
The Nausicaan glared at him. "And how will you manage that? You are nothing. You are an adventurer, a petty criminal with every hand raised against him -"
"And yet," said Thrang, "I can come and go as I wish, on Qo'noS or here on Rura Penthe. I can stroll out of this cavern right now, and no one will stop me. Not even -" his voice dropped a little "- if I bring someone with me. Would you like to come with me?"
The Nausicaan spat. "Words. Just words."
"Walk with me. You'll find my word is good."
"And then what? I want the hide of that Andorian scum. And I want J'mpok's head hanging on my wall. Can you give me those, renegade? Can you give me those?"
"Not yet," said Thrang with a slight smile. "One step at a time, I think. The first thing to do is to get you back your world. Let's walk and talk about that, Governor Gvochkorr."
---
Later, in his cabin aboard the starship Farah, Thrang sat at his communications console, studying the screen, while Deonsa glowered at him from the bed.
"Why don't you stop that?" she asked.
"In a minute," said Thrang. "There are things here that I need to deal with."
"You're trying to do too much. I don't know when you ever sleep, even."
Thrang laughed. "Well, you would know, if anyone would."
"Come to bed," she insisted.
Thrang ignored her. His fingertips drummed on the comms interface, sending messages across space. His face was motionless, but his expression seemed to change, illuminated as it was by the rapidly flickering light from the screen.
Deonsa sighed, and rolled over on her back. "I'm not used to being ignored," she complained.
"I imagine not. But there's a great deal to do." Thrang tapped another message into the console. "Things will start to improve. I must admit, it's a pleasant change to have some intelligent, well-motivated lieutenants at work. I look forward to phasing out our phage-controlled contacts. As it were."
"Your merchants," Deonsa scoffed. "What use are merchants?"
"Some of them are highly placed merchants. And, when my protective association becomes the only game in town, they'll be more highly placed than ever. It's just a question of making sure they realize, when the time comes, that they owe it all to me. Intelligent loyalty, it's so much better than the coerced kind." He turned to look at her, briefly. "You wouldn't agree with that, of course."
"A merchants' protective association. The Syndicate will eat it."
"The Syndicate, my dear, will be too busy eating itself. And when the Federation-Klingon war restarts, merchants will value all the protection they can get."
"You're dreaming. After all that they have gone through, the Feds and the Empire will not turn against each other so soon. They're still rebuilding -"
"Yes. They're weak, and hurting. And neither side will want to show weakness, and people who hurt want to lash out at those who hurt them. Or at someone, if those who hurt them aren't available. The galactic political situation is volatile, my dear. All I need to do is... make sure it bubbles the way I want it to."
"You overreach yourself. There is too much power concentrated against you, there are too many variables to control. You would need to be a genius, a master strategist -"
"Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. There." Thrang tapped a final series of commands into the console, then shut it down with a decisive gesture. "The Nimbus situation isn't quite how I'd like it, but I'll let it work itself out." He rose, and turned to the bed. "Now, I'm all yours."
She watched him approach, wide-eyed. "No," she whispered. "No, not all mine. There's a core of you that will never be mine, a core no one can reach...."
"Indeed." He stood by the bed and looked down at her, a faint smile on his full lips. "Not even you, I'm afraid. Though your scent is particularly delicious, tonight."
"I don't understand why it doesn't... why I can't...." She pouted. "It's strange. It's not the Orion way."
Thrang laughed. "But it's the way you prefer things, my dear. Admit that." His hands reached for her.
Looking forward to when it eventually comes crashing down, of course.
Oh - forgot to mention, I like the detail that Jm'pok did not let the governor get off lightly, even if he had to be heavy-handed, sounds like Stohl may be warming up the King Estmere
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"Nimbus III," I say to the Gorn prisoners, "presents interesting problems of jurisdiction. Nominally, it is claimed by no one. Its local authorities are, I am told, both ad hoc and de facto, which means that I can safely ignore them. Of course, no matter what your personal feelings, you are citizens of the Empire, and may apply to the Imperial Ambassador to be released into KDF custody." I smile at them. In the half-light of the brig, I imagine the effect is disquieting. "The Ambassador would, of course, release you to the ranking KDF officer in the vicinity - which, thanks to the agreements in place between the Empire and the Romulan Republic, would be me." I let the smile widen. "So, whatever I choose to do to you now, it will even be legal. I find that interesting."
"You cannot intimidate us, mammal," says the largest of the Gorn.
"Can I not? You forget that I can read your mind, reptile." In fact, my telepathy is modest at best, but there is no reason to show weakness before my captives.
"You are working with the Federation," another Gorn says. "They will not permit you -"
"Perhaps your eyes are inadequate," I say. "I, however, can see perfectly clearly in this light, and I assure you there are no Federation personnel lurking in the shadows. You are mine. All mine. Shall we begin?"
"The government of the Hegemony -"
"Finds you an embarrassment. They will not object if I rid them of an embarrassment. I am beginning to grow impatient." I treat them to another display of my fangs.
The prisoners shuffle behind the force-field barrier, muttering amongst themselves, a low rumbling of conversation that the universal translator fails to register. I wait. I have time, they are going nowhere.
"We would require assurances," the large Gorn says, "before any cooperation could be given."
"Assurances of what?" I ask. "I have no urge to kill or mistreat you, unless you make it necessary. That is all the assurance you will get from me, and all you should need." I step forward, my eyes fixed on the Gorn's, despite the ninety-centimetre difference in our heights. "In any case, this is only some mercenary arrangement, surely? A business contract, which has gone badly wrong for you. What will it cost you to name your employers and give me details?"
"No!" another, smaller Gorn shouts, suddenly. "No, the honour of our kind is at stake! And we cannot trust this - this Reman! We must not reveal anything!"
I glance at that one - and I am not alone in that; the other Gorn seem to be looking at their companion in surprise. He jabs a finger at the big spokesman. "We must not be forsworn!" he shouts.
"It is as the Reman says, Ryssarr," says the spokesman. "A business arrangement, not a matter of honour." He turns back to me. "The negotiation was with a commercial concern -" he begins.
"No!" shouts the smaller Gorn, Ryssarr. "We must tell her nothing! Nothing! We must -" He coughs, makes a choking noise. I look more closely at him. There is moisture glistening on his scales... he seems to be sweating....
Cold dread marches down my spine. Since when do the Gorn sweat?
I lunge for the security console, for the force field controls. "Security system. Fields online, partition main holding cell." Grid lines light up on the console, and I quickly draw a box around Ryssarr. It is easy enough to do, for the others are cowering back from him, as he chokes and sputters, and clear fluid trickles over his hide. I touch my wrist communicator. "Medical and bio-warfare teams to security holding, urgent."
Ryssarr convulses, and his scaly hide splits open in a dozen places, liquid gushing out - not clear, now, but a putrid greenish-brown colour. His flailing hand strikes the impenetrable barrier of the force field, and leaves a smear along it, hanging in mid-air, slowly oozing downwards. The edge of his lipless mouth seems to sag and slough away, and his next rasping cough brings with it a scattering of loosened teeth. He falls, and his sagging torso bursts like over-ripe fruit as it hits the deck plating, corrupt fluids frothing out of it. His hide parts like old rags, and for a moment his ribs protrude, like the hoops of a barrel, before they too crumble and fall into the ooze which is all that is left of him. In moments, he is reduced to nothing but a gently seething pool of greenish fluid, which swirls, contained in the force fields. The rest of the Gorn stare at it, aghast.
I find my voice. "What happened?" The Gorn spokesman shakes his head, silent.
Footsteps clatter behind me, then stop. I turn to see the medics, to read the shock on their faces. "Scan that," I order. "Screen the rest of the prisoners, maximum bio-warfare precautions. Make sure no one else is at risk. Find out what happened." The cold dread is not leaving me. I could well have been exposed myself.... "Everyone who has been in contact with the prisoners must be immediately tested for biological agents." I cannot tear my eyes away from the fluid that is all that remains of Ryssarr.
"Thrang," the big Gorn says. "It was - Ryssarr, he was the contact with - the advocate for - he arranged the contracts - with Thrang. Kalevar Thrang."
---
"Qo'noS, Ter'jas Mor, Ganalda, now Nimbus III." K'Men's face is stern and implacable on my viewscreen. "Imperial Intelligence has sent queries to Starfleet, the Republic, the Ferengi, to discover if any... similar incidents... have taken place in their territories."
I have been extensively decontaminated, and scanned, and I have bathed, and bathed again. Irrational, perhaps, but the fear of contagion is real. "What is it?" I ask.
"At some point, Thrang has infected key people with a cellular phage," K'Men says. "A gene-tailored virus specific to the individual. So far as we can tell, it is held in check by an anti-serum which must be periodically administered. Once the serum is withheld - well, the results, you have seen."
"How is this phage administered? Or the anti-serum?"
"The phage... that has yet to be determined. Opportunities can always be found. The anti-serum, now, that is interesting. It must be specific to the individual, as is the phage itself - and the indications are that Thrang supplied it to his victims in person."
I raise an eyebrow at that. "Time-consuming."
"Yes. Thrang has a fast ship, we know that... but its warp signature is conspicuous by its absence on our traffic monitoring. We may assume that his normal routine has had to be adjusted... and that his agents, therefore, are being -" K'Men smiles "- liquidated. So to speak."
I frown. "But they represent a resource which he must have spent years in acquiring and maintaining -"
"Quite so. Thrang is evidently moving on to a new phase of his operations, and disposing of his previous network. Since that network includes highly placed sources in II, in the Syndicate, and - we know now - among the Gorn separatists - we must wonder what he has found to replace it."
"Do we have any clear idea how much material has been compromised?"
"No. And it is likely that we never will. We can hardly ask the separatist movement what security clearance this Ryssarr held. We can, of course, ask the Syndicate about its agents. And the Syndicate will tell us what it deems allowable for us to know."
"Then we can only assume the worst," I say.
"Indeed. I will give you the same instructions that I have given to all my agents in this matter; trust no channels of communication, share no data with those not directly known to you. In the circumstances, you may - and should - communicate with your Starfleet colleague. We are developing a test for the phage contamination, and we may even hope to achieve a cure. Screening all our personnel, however, will take immense time and effort. And it may be pointless, if Thrang has abandoned these agents."
I catch myself drumming my fingers on the side of the console, and stop. "There are two possibilities," I say.
A glint comes into the Klingon spymaster's one eye. "Are there?"
"They do not amount to much, but they may prove more useful than simply taking Thrang's next proffered bait. If he has been administering this anti-serum in person, then we have a picture - partial and incomplete - of his past movements. We may gather some clue to his intentions from that."
"My analysts are already assessing that data." K'Men sounds disappointed.
"The second angle of attack lies in this organization of his. The K-T Mercantile Mutual Association. The surviving Gorn have provided me with all the information they had on this agency - which was, nominally, their employer."
"Matters are in hand there, also."
"Can we find some area where their patterns match? Thrang must have some consistent goal in mind. Or some contact, somewhere, with whoever is supporting him. Some place, some person, some communications channel... that he is still using, even now that his former network is being abandoned."
"It is possible," K'Men says, in grudging tones.
"There will be vast gaps in the data, I know. They may be bridged - with assumptions, and with luck."
K'Men nods. "I will pursue this. And I will transmit all our available data to you. Open your secure datacomms channel." He favours me with a wintry smile. "A problem shared... is, most likely, a problem doubled. But it can do no harm, at this stage, for us both to work on this."
The Tellarite's name is Darb glaesch Krim. He stands a little way away from me, on the other side of King Estmere's control consoles, and he glowers.
"I was with the delegation to the President," he says. "President Bacco spoke to us personally, to address our concerns."
Yes, well, that was then and this is now, and President Okeg is busier now than Nan Bacco ever was. Besides, this is a Tellarite speaking.... "I can put in a call to the President," I snap at him. "I'm sure he'll listen. Perhaps we can get him out here, in a diplomatic courier, and I can take King Estmere back to work. Would that suit you?"
Darb glowers some more. Evidently, he gets the point.
"Receiving telemetry from the probes," Three of Eight rumbles at us. "First merchant convoy is approaching the contact point now. No sign of hostiles."
"There won't be," says Darb. "I know that bunch, they're signed up with K-T MMA. The Vendanphans won't touch them. They never do."
I feel my antennae twitching. We know - at least, we're reasonably sure - that the K-T bit stands for Kalevar Thrang. Somehow, ships under his protection actually are protected, at least from some of the hazards of the galaxy today.
Like the Vendanphans. Vendanpha is an isolationist, independent world in the borderlands between the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance. There is a limited amount of trade, there is the occasional diplomatic visit or cultural exchange, but so far the Vendanphans have been content to go their own way. So far.
"First convoy has cleared the perimeter," Three reports. "Second convoy on inbound approach vector." He raises his head. "I have sensor contacts at the perimeter. On approach. Direction consistent with the Vendanpha system."
"Pirates," Darb spits. "This is the third time -"
"And the last," I say. I turn to Anthi Vihl. "Plot an intercept course at maximum asynchronous warp speed." Then to Cordul. "Open all subspace channels. If they've got anything to say, let's hear it. And let's get ready to say a few words ourselves." I settle myself in the command chair.
Trade between the Federation and the Ferengi flows constantly. The Vendanphans have taken to commerce raiding, it seems... though they are, naturally enough, scared off by the sight of escorting Starfleet warships. But there are only so many starships we have left, after all the fighting - we can't commit our forces to commerce protection indefinitely. Better to bring the raiders to action and finish them decisively.
The sensor buoys along the convoy's route are stealthed, undetectable - we think - by the Vendanphans' limited sensors. King Estmere is standing out a good long distance from the convoy - too far for the Vendanphans to detect her. But it's a distance my ship can cover in no time worth thinking about.
I feel the faint shiver as we go to warp. The ship's speed builds, steadily, to its tremendous maximum.
"I have a general hail from the approaching ships," Cordul reports.
"Let's hear it."
The speakers go live. "This is Admiral Ar'kratiri of the Vendanphan Fleet to all mercantile vessels. You are passing through Vendanphan sovereign territory and are subject to taxation. Cut your drives and prepare to be boarded. All cargoes are subject to investigation and confiscation. Do not attempt resistance."
"Do we have a read on the Vendanphan ships?" I ask Three.
"One command vessel, comparable to a Starfleet standard cruiser. Nine light frigates in three tactical formations. Six large vessels with low power signatures - my estimate is, freighters."
"Time to contact?"
"Three minutes, sir," Anthi says.
"Prep the frigates for immediate launch. Amiga." The android turns her metal eyes towards me. "Do we have the appropriate treaties and diplomatic records? Is there any justification for this - sovereign territory - claim?"
"No such claim has been reported to the Starfleet Diplomatic Corps," says Amiga. "The treaties existing with the Vendanphans specify the usual sovereign boundaries - in this case, specifically, the Oort Cloud of their home system. The applicable law is the standard convention on the freedom of interstellar space for civilian transit. Both the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance are formally committed to defend that convention."
In short, the Vendanphans' sudden claim to be an interstellar empire, ruling over deep space, is utterly baseless. I knew that, I suppose, but it's nice to have it confirmed by someone with a mechanically infallible memory. "Go to red alert," I order, and I watch the tactical board as it goes live.
The Vendanphan frigates are swooping in towards the merchant convoy. The freighters have limited armament - perhaps enough to make a fight of it, but not enough to stop them from taking serious damage, enough to wipe out all their profits from the journey. They know it makes no sense to offer resistance. I take a look at the other ships. The Vendanphan freighters are huge, and the mass readings show they're pretty much empty. My guess is that the convoy wouldn't have much left by the time those ships finished investigating and confiscating.
King Estmere crashes out of subspace. "Launch frigates," I order. "Mr. Cordul. Put me on general hail."
"Launching Alpha," says Anthi, "launching Bravo." Twin shudders as the Mesh Weavers shoot out from the bays.
"Channels open, sir," says Cordul.
I stand up. "Vendanphan vessels. This is Admiral Tylha Shohl aboard the Federation starship USS King Estmere. You are engaged in an act of piracy against Federation shipping. You are under arrest. Stand down and surrender your vessels, or you will be fired upon. You have sixty seconds to comply."
"Launching Charlie. Launching Delta." All four of my frigates are now in the sky.
Technically, we're outnumbered, two to one. But, if you consider class, the odds are a lot more in my favour. A single one of the Mesh Weaver frigates is very nearly equal to the Vendanphans' command cruiser - and, as for King Estmere herself, well, there is no comparison.
"Signal from the Vendanphan cruiser," Cordul reports.
"On screen."
Admiral Ar'kratiri has red skin and a skull decorated with multiple bony ridges; he is wearing a black uniform tunic with an extravagant number of medals and rank badges. His eyes are amber and slit-pupilled, and they are glaring at me. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands.
"It's self-explanatory," I say. "You're wasting time, Admiral."
"If the Federation has objections - we are engaged in legitimate taxation - if you object, I will withdraw my ships on this occasion - as a gesture of goodwill -"
"Try to escape, and I will open fire immediately," I say. "You have about thirty seconds left, Admiral. Power down all weapons, drives and shields, and stand ready for boarding. Or I will open fire." My eyes lock with his. I leave him no doubt that I mean it.
He blinks first. Literally so, as it happens. He turns his head, speaks to some underling. "Pass the word. All ships, surrender. Stand down."
"Wise decision, Admiral," I say. He replies only with another glare. I turn to address my own - underlings. "Security teams. Assemble boarding parties in all transporter rooms. Prep secure holding for incoming prisoners in quantity." The Vendanphan crews will have to be taken off their ships - well, there is room on King Estmere for all of them. "Engineering, ops, ready prize crews to take command." I let Ar'kratiri hear all this. I can see it isn't making him happy.
Darb stirs. "Good job," he says, in reluctant tones. "So far, anyway. What's your next move, though?"
"I have some ideas," I tell him. "Mr. Cordul. Prepare to transmit a communiqué to the Vendanphan government, specifics as follows -"
---
Grand Admiral Em'zanastri is a different colour from his subordinate; green, not red. He has a similar ridged skull, though, and his uniform tunic is so stiff with medals and ribbons and braid that I wonder he can stand up in it. He looks apprehensive in the main viewer. And well he might.
"Why are we meeting here?" he asks. The rendezvous point is in deep space, five light years from the nearest star, well away from the trade routes. An empty spot, where nobody goes. "And why did you specify an empty troop ship?"
The troop carrier is there, among the Vendanphans' little fleet. Em'zanastri's flagship is... maybe equivalent in size to a Federation heavy cruiser; he has brought two other cruisers in support, and six of those frigate wings - and the troop ship. It's a significant enough force that I've deployed my Mesh Weavers again, just in case he gets any ideas. Behind King Estmere, the captured Vendanphan ships float free, some distance away.
"Grand Admiral." I salute, formally. I suppose my own dress uniform ought to be as stiff with medals as his is, by now. I've long since reached the point where such things don't matter. "I am Admiral Tylha Shohl, aboard the USS King Estmere. I am transmitting my personal clearances and diplomatic credentials along our data channels now, so that you will know that I have full authority for my actions in this matter."
"What... actions... do you propose to take?" He sounds nervous.
"Your ships engaged in piracy against Federation shipping. I would be within my rights to have their personnel transferred to the Federation for trial on that charge, but in view of the existing agreements between our governments, I have decided to exercise some latitude. Your personnel will be repatriated immediately, to be dealt with according to your own judicial system. That, sir, is why I requested that you should bring an empty troopship. So that they can travel home in reasonable comfort. King Estmere's brig, at the moment, is... a little cramped."
"I... see." Does he look faintly relieved?
"Please contact the troopship, sir, and have them set up for immediate transporter operations. Ops." I turn to Cordul. "Are we all set up at this end?"
"Ready for transport as soon as we get clearance, sir," the big man says.
"Excellent." I turn back to the screen. "At your discretion, Grand Admiral."
He looks offscreen, issues orders. After a short time, I glance at Cordul, who nods. I run a quick glance over the tactical board. There don't appear to be any changes.
"Our people are... returning to us," Em'zanastri says. "We... appreciate the Federation's attitude, Admiral Shohl."
"It would be helpful, sir," I say, "if I could report to the Federation Council that there will be no repetition of this incident."
"I -" He licks his lips; his tongue is a pale green. "I - am responsible to my government - I do not have your diplomatic status, I cannot enter into binding commitments on behalf of the Vendanphan people - I would like to give you my personal assurances, but -"
Let me guess. There are elements in his government pushing for commerce raiding, for some reason of their own. Some militant faction, perhaps, looking to engineer a crisis that will put them at the head of government? It happens. "The Federation, sir, can't accept only personal assurances. I'm afraid, if your government won't commit itself to suppressing piracy, we will have to take measures of our own in that direction."
"Measures?" He sounds nervous again. "What... measures... do you have in mind, Admiral Shohl?"
"For the present, sir - well, that is why I asked for a rendezvous at these coordinates. So that no navigational hazards would be created." I turn to Cordul. "Ops. Have transporter operations been completed?"
"Last set of detainees is on the pads now, sir. Let me see.... Off they go. Transport confirmed. All Vendanphan personnel transferred back to Vendanphan custody."
"Excellent. Then we'll just tidy up the rest of this mess. Scuttle those derelicts."
"Aye, aye, sir." Cordul touches a control on his console.
Behind us, the captured - and now empty - Vendanphan ships erupt in searing white light as antimatter demolitions charges breach their warp cores. The freighters were so large, their warp cores so feeble in power, that we had to place additional demolitions charges at strategic points on their hulls. The resulting explosions are spectacular.
Em'zanastri's face is stricken. "Material assets used in pirate actions will be destroyed," I say airily. "It's only property, after all." The Federation attitude - material things mean next to nothing in a post-scarcity economy. But the Vendanphans, in a single system, don't have a post-scarcity economy. I don't know how significant a percentage of Em'zanastri's fleet has just been vaporized - but the value of those freighters has to be significant; the loss from their destruction far outweighs any gains from piracy. The commerce raiding faction on Vendanpha, in short, has just taken an enormous hit to the wallet. Right where it counts.
I sit down in the command chair. "I hope such action won't be necessary again," I say. "And I certainly hope we won't have to escalate beyond mere damage to property. Please take that message home to your government, Grand Admiral. I believe that concludes our business here today. King Estmere out."
(Edited to fiks spellyng.)
I rather hope Thrang is overestimating the box. He's thrown away a tremendous and valuable amount of effort and personnel for whatever plan he's generated from it - if it is that valuable, people are in trouble.
And always nice to see what my favorite engineering officer is up to - I'm amused, and unsurprised, she added extra charges for more fireworks.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.
I dare you to do better.
Heizis glowers at me over a litter of triangular Romulan datapads. To be honest, "glower" seems to be her default expression anyway. Her ready room is sparsely furnished, but it runs to two spare chair. I sit on one, and put my armoured boots up on the other.
"So," I say, "you got any leads at all, then?"
She glares some more and waves her hand at the datapads. "Many. My automated systems are running comparisons and correlations now. If you wish to help -" She grabs a stack of datapads and shoves it towards me. "Unfiltered comms intercepts from the past twenty days. Be my guest."
I don't know how many kiloquads of data a Romulan datapad holds, but just the fact that it takes more than one to hold this data... well, I ain't gonna have time to read it all before bedtime, put it that way. "We have got to develop some leads of our own," I say. "Can't just carry on dancing to Thrang's tune...."
"Do we even have a tune to dance to?" Heizis asks.
"Well," I say, "yeah. Got another message over the same encrypted comms channel that aimed us at Nimbus III. This time, the invite's to the shipyards at Nali Caerodi. Ferengi Alliance territory. I'm figuring it'll wind up with me being whacked on the head and shoved out an airlock by a bunch of Hupyrian goons, this time." Hupyrians are reliable, they stay bought when you pay them, they have no sense of humour and don't get distracted, and they're about seven feet tall and built like rocks. Ferengi use 'em a lot as bodyguards and such, I'm guessing Thrang will figure they're worth the investment too.
"That would seem to fit the pattern," Heizis mutters. Her eyes are turned back towards the datapads. Her eyelids and sclera look greenish - bloodshot, in a Reman.
"So can we maybe break this pattern, preferably before it breaks me? I always thought working for Intelligence was supposed to be a desk job, anyway."
"Our last attempt did not end well, if you remember," Heizis snaps. "My ship barely escaped, and there were casualties -" She puts some emphasis on that last word. Funny, I'd have figured her to be the type that thinks of the crew as expendable. Well, she's gone up a notch or two in my estimation, anyway. Doesn't help the immediate problem, though.
"So let's figure this out," I said. "These 'meet me in a dark alley at midnight' messages have to come from somewhere, right? OK, it's anonymized and routed through several dozen commercial subspace networks, but there's gotta be a point where it enters the system -"
"It may even be in those comms intercepts," says Heizis, tapping the stack. "Or it may not. We cannot monitor all subspace transmissions, everywhere - but we can monitor far more than we can intelligently listen to."
It's one of the oldest problems in signals intelligence. Ever since high-bandwidth communications were invented, intelligence analysts have been swamped with chatter to wade through. Ninety-nine and nine nines per cent of it is irrelevant to what we're looking for - heck, most of it isn't relevant to anybody, even the people sending it. And, of the stuff we find that is relevant... half the time, the relevance only shows up in hindsight. Lots of people talk about killing the Federation President or the Klingon Chancellor, for example, but you only know which ones mean it when the bodies start to hit the floor.
But. An encrypted subspace message reached me. Signals analysis identified the immediate transmitter, but that was just the last step in a chain of relays. And the message itself was disguised at several points - bundled as a signals overlay on something innocuous, inserted into one network by an unscheduled pre-empt... we can backtrack it a long way, but the odds are that it started life in some anonymous public comms centre somewhere, and Kalevar Thrang just walked off the street, rented a terminal for five minutes, sent the message and was off on his merry way.
Thrang. The guy gets about. And at this point, he really shouldn't be able to.
"He breezes in and out of First City," I mutter.
"Thrang? Apparently so," says Heizis.
"Well, that shouldn't happen, should it? I mean, OK, it's a city, not a secure installation, but by now. Imperial Intelligence must have a net over the place that a cockroach couldn't get through. So how's Thrang managing it?"
"A question I would like to ask him," says Heizis.
"He's very hands-on, isn't he? Zooming around the quadrant, dosing his agents in person... you'd think his organization, his backers, would handle some of the work load for him."
Heizis grunts. "Possibly this is one reason why we still have no idea who those backers are."
"'kay. I'm just wondering, though... suppose he's sending these messages through, well, some regular spot? Something he uses, or at least revisits?"
"Thrang visits a great many places, apparently," Heizis says.
"All the more reason," I say, "why he'd want a communications facility he could rely on. Something he knows is there when he needs it, when he's making a dash between his magic dissolving agents to stop them from dissolving. See what I mean?"
"Wishful thinking. We live in an age where communications are commonplace. Thrang will have no difficulty finding a transmitter."
"Well, it's worth checking, isn't it? I know it ain't much, but it's something."
Heizis sighs. "Do you have the available data on the transmission routes of your message?"
I fish in one cargo pocket and pull out a PADD. "It's on here." Actually, so's a lot of other stuff, some of which I would normally worry about a KDF-Republic operative seeing. These ain't normal times, though. I flip the PADD at Heizis, who fields it adroitly. "Got some of the same messages to Starfleet's other intel teams, too."
Heizis grunts. "That is encouraging," she says, with an ironic edge. The sad fact is that, beaten up by Orions, Thexemians, Gorn and warriguls as we are, we are doing better, so far, than any other operations I know about. Eta Meridia was a bust, the only contact Thrang had there was the late and unlamented Mirankar Ostrogolus. The operatives on Sherman's Planet ran into an independent Orion slaving company, and some rather tense negotiations are going on between the Federation and the Syndicate about ransoming them back. As for the chaos on Demara V, where our own people were mouse-trapped into a three-cornered firefight between Federation Security, Republic Intelligence, and the guys we're not supposed to know are Section 31... well, the less said about that particular Charlie Foxtrot, the better. Personally, I'm starting to think Obisek and the Reman underground have the right idea. They're sitting tight at the Vault, sending invitations to Thrang's agents to come and meet them, there. So far, no one's taken them up on it. But, on the other hand, nobody's shooting at the Remans, or dissolving them, or setting packs of warriguls on them, so maybe they're ahead of the game, there.
"Most of the relays are along the main Federation data transfer backbones," Heizis muses. "But the message most likely originates either in Klingon or Orion space, and that means it must travel along their data backbones. Since our grand alliance has yet to result in any unified communications infrastructure... it is the points of transfer which might prove interesting."
Then she sits forward a bit, and her little green-rimmed eyes narrow. "Hmm," she says. "Interesting."
I swing my boots off the spare chair so's I can sit up straight myself. "What is?"
"One of the data relays in the Neutral Zone," says Heizis. "Orbiting Dexian VII, in the Eta Eridani sector.... It has recently changed ownership. And the new owners... are K-T MMA. Thrang's own mutual protection society."
"Oho," I say.
"It is probably just a coincidence," says Heizis. "This group is expanding, it needs communications infrastructure of its own. This must be one of many acquisitions in and around the Neutral Zone."
"Yeah," I say.
"Thrang would be a fool to have something so obviously traceable," says Heizis.
"Yeah," I say again.
Heizis sits back in her chair and eyes me. "You want to investigate it anyway," she says.
"Well, yeah," I say. "Two main reasons. First off, we need some sort of info about K-T MMA and whatever the hell it's up to, and this is a good way to start eavesdropping on their communications. Second off, the only alternative seems to be Nali Caerodi, and I do not want to get beaten up by Hupyrians. Can't stand the smell of that beetle snuff."
---
The Dexian system consists of a bunch of class D planets, lumps of rock spat out by a star that looks like it wasn't even trying to make a proper solar system. Planet VII is actually one of the more appealing of the bunch; its surface is dirty white with water ice, and it has a sort-of apology for an atmosphere, mostly carbon dioxide and methane.
The communications relay is a big thing, four antennae reaching out for kilometres in a cruciform structure, with a big metal drum-shape beneath that. Our ships look quite puny as they approach it.
"Shielding for the central power core and support systems," Ajbit reports. "The cylinder also contains a habitation module - basic thing, just for temporary support staff, I'd guess. No life signs at present." She turns a sour face towards me. "I am reading high-intensity transporter inhibitors."
"Let's have a look." I wander over to the science console. I'm starting to get the hang of these big domed Hazari consoles, now. I take a look, and whistle. High intensity is right. I try to beam over to that station, I get reassembled at the other end as a bucketload of premier-grade Talaxian fishpaste. We need another approach.
"I have Palatine on secure comms," Hal Welti tells me.
"Oh, yeah, right, put her through."
Heizis's face appears on the main screen. I ignore her for a moment. Dechenchholing's sensors are pretty good, and the internal structure of that relay is coming up neatly on the console. Heck, it's mostly assembled out of standard components, we've even got schematics on file for some of it....
"I hate to interrupt," says Heizis, "but -"
"Yeah, right,"I say. "We need to get aboard that thing, don't we? And with those transporter inhibitors, we can't do it the easy way."
"The airlock on the habitation module will be secure," says Heizis. "And a shuttlecraft will certainly be tracked on approach - even if I send my gig under cloak, it will have to decloak to dock with the module."
I study the schematics, and find what I'm looking for. "Not a problem. This place has a back door, we'll use that. Well, I will."
"A back door?" She looks genuinely nonplussed. I should take a picture of that expression.
"The cylinder is open at the antennae end. I just spacewalk across to there, make my way inside, and get in through the auxiliary inspection hatch. Here." I tap a point on the console display. "It's a standard multi-purpose module, it's got access points for use in atmosphere. Obviously, they're going to be dogged down now, but that's no problem, I just take a force field projector with me and set up an air-filled bubble where I work on the hatch. Then I get inside, gimmick any remaining security, set up a data tap -"
"And the Palatine will run an immediate intel analysis," says Heizis. "We have the specialist facilities, after all. Very well. Proceed."
It doesn't take long to suit up, even with Ajbit giving me the evil eye all the time. She's given up on telling me to leave this stuff to junior officers. Anyway, this is a walk in the park. No life signs, no power signatures from automated weapons or suchlike - this is a straightforward get-in, get-out.
So I go through the airlock, and step out into space. Weight leaves me, and the suit thrusters kick in. My trajectory is plotted automatically, and I have nothing to do but admire the view until I get inside the cylinder. It's not much of a view. Dexian VII is a grubby disc beneath me, and the ships are parked alongside the relay, and, well, that's it. It's space. Didn't think I'd ever get jaded about space, but hey.
The open girders of the antennae loom up overhead, and the thrusters kick me again, and I travel over the lip of the cylinder and down inside. The central power core is a big metal sphere surrounded by a tangle of pipes and cables and deuterium tanks; the habitation module is an afterthought tacked on to the complex. I aim myself at it. As I get close, I feel a tug, and I switch the thrusters to manual and guide myself gently down onto the roof. Artificial gravity, spilling outside the module, just enough to affect me. Makes it a bit easier to work, in fact.
I set up the field projector, and a shimmering ghostly dome encloses me. I open the valve on the tank strapped to my back, and air gushes out. I don't open the suit, though. The air will be cold as anything. Frost blooms across the metal roof of the module; shielded from sunlight, it is bitterly cold itself. My gloved hands are a little clumsy on the inspection hatch, but it's easy enough to open it - nobody really expected this sort of approach, I think. I worm my way through, into the module.
It's basic, all right - life support, communal living quarters for maybe four people, and a main computer room. Computer room's all I need. I find myself a console and hack it in a couple of minutes. It's all standard stuff, we have the details on file, and my data intrusion packages are decidedly not standard. I open up a channel to the Palatine. "I'm in," I say to the scowling Reman who appears on the screen.
"Obviously," says Heizis. "Standing ready to receive data."
I fiddle with the console, slot an isolinear chip into a standard interface socket. "Here we go." The console flickers and beeps a bit as Starfleet Intelligence infiltration routines basically pwn the commercial security software. "OK. This thing is now our zombie servant. Transmitting." We'll start with the communications logs, and all the stored traffic records, and then we'll set it up to blind-carbon-copy every message it receives over to us.
"Data receipt confirmed," says Heizis. "So far, everything is going to plan." She sounds grudging. Then her shadowed eyes widen. "What did you just do?"
I glance at the console. It looks normal to me. "Didn't do nuffink," I say.
"There was a sudden spike in the data transfer," says Heizis. "Let me analyze -"
Then the screen goes blank. OK, so that wasn't in the plan. I hit the suit's comms. "Hey, guys. Is something up with the Palatine?"
"Not that I can see." Ajbit's voice. "They're off comms, but - Pex." Now she sounds urgent. "Sensor contact on approach."
OK, I tell myself, don't panic. "What is it?"
"A ship. Can't get a proper reading - it's got some sort of stealth field, and it's very fast."
Oh, boy. One guy we know has a fast stealthy ship. Oh boy. This can't really be a coincidence, can it? "Raise the Palatine. And go to red alert. I'm gonna try and gimmick those transporter inhibitors so you can get me out of here." OK, maybe a bit of panic. I look around -
There is a sudden glare of red light. Something smashes into my back, and I go sprawling over the console. Someone is grappling me from behind, holding me down. I reach for the phaser holstered at my hip, and my arm is pinioned in another grasp. More than one, and some of them are very strong. No need to ask who they are, too. You can beam through transporter inhibitors just fine, if you're the one who set them up, and you know their frequencies.
My arms are trapped. I'm hauled off my feet and turned around. To face -
"We have a guest." Red eyes in a leathery demon mask. Lethean. Trying to smile, which really doesn't improve things. "Welcome, guest," he continues. "Let's go somewhere we can be comfortable."
Though the sad fates of the other operatives were kind of amusing how they were listed.
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My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
It's like watching an episode of DS9.
I got this in my email today and immediately thought of him.
All budding authors feel free to apply:
Enter for Your Chance to Become a Star Trek Author!
http://www.startrek.com/article/strange-new-worlds-fan-fiction-contest-returns-for-2016
On the other tentacle, if I'm wrong, I think our author stands a fair chance of winning...
I'm still working on the next update! It's been delayed because I've been quietly bricking myself all week, preparing submissions of one of my original novels to some lit agencies. (Yes, I'm trying to get myself properly published. Wish me luck.)
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Good luck anyway, though!
Nouveau riche LTS member
The lights flicker, go out entirely. The emergency circuits cut in, and the bridge is lit in a dim reddish haze, barely sufficient even by my standards. The console display is showing gibberish, the communications channel only static. "What is happening?" I snarl.
"That data spike - it was an adaptive virus," says N'aina. "It's in our systems -"
"Our systems should be secure!"
"I see the loophole," N'aina says tersely. "We can fix it - afterwards - and report it to the Flotilla. Once we're back online -" Her fingers are flying over the engineering console. "Network is partitioned. Shutting down sector by sector, sterilizing and re-initializing." She shoots a quick troubled glance at me. "Question is, how much damage can it do in the meantime?"
As if in answer, the deck shudders suddenly beneath my feet. "RCS thrusters firing," E'Maon reports. "And a burst on impulse. Safeties tripped. Impulse is offline, needs restarting." He, too, is working feverishly. "Isolated warp drive, shut it down already. Trying to calculate what that surge did -"
"Elements!" shouts Kaxath from the ops board. "The thing's infected internal security - shutting down systems now - but it's bad."
"How bad?" I demand.
In the dim light, I see him shake his head. "It's triggered the anti-mutiny protocols in main engineering. Flooded the chamber with anesthezine gas."
"Uh," says E'Maon. "That's... not good news. The impulse burst cancelled our orbital velocity. Currently, we're in free fall towards the planet. We need to get drives back online very soon -"
And that will be difficult, with our engineering staff unconscious on the floor. I stand up, and grab my breather mask. "Do what you can to purge the atmosphere. And continue fighting this thing. What about the Dechenchholing? Do we have communications there?"
"Sorry, sir," says N'aina. "Automated comms defence protocols tripped as soon as the virus was detected. I can try to override them, but -" When our computers were compromised, our communications shut down - so that we cannot infect any other ships. Necessary, but annoying.
"Concentrate on purging the virus. When this is over, then we will contact the Talaxian." I head for the door of the bridge. "Contact as many of the off-shift engineering staff as you can raise. I am going to main engineering, to take charge of this situation."
---
The lights flicker, on and off, as I make my way down the corridors. Sometimes, I reach doors that do not slide open at my approach - fragments of an overall security lockdown, imposed by the virus. I use accessways and service ducts to move between decks; I dare not risk the turbolifts.
So far, the virus is... annoying. Internal communications are snarled, my wrist communicator relays only snatches of gobbledygook from the bridge. But my personal access codes still serve to override the security locks, and though the lights flicker, the gravity grids and the life support systems - as yet - do not.
I am still two decks away from main engineering when the deck gives a violent lurch beneath me. I stumble, and catch at a stanchion to stop myself falling. My communicator bleeps at me, and I answer. "Who is it?"
"Bridge." N'aina's voice, speaking rapidly. "Don't know how long this channel will last. The virus is all the way through our KDF comms modules, it seems to reinitialize backup copies of itself as soon as we clear them. We might need to disconnect those from the network and wipe them completely."
Thrang's work, it must be; evidently, KDF data security is hopelessly compromised. "Do it." Losing our ability to talk securely to K'Men and J'mpok, against losing the ship: not a decision at all, really. "What else?"
"Still can't raise any engineering staff. And that last jolt - might have been a surge in the singularity core. Sir -"
The voice cuts off in a random surge of noise. I snarl, and redouble my speed. If the virus is compromising control over the singularity core, then problems such as dropping onto the surface of the planet become trivial by comparison.
Main engineering is one vast chamber, built around the endlessly spinning core. The secure door snaps at my heels as I run in. I look around, and my heart sinks. I can see the ring armatures wobbling as they circle around the core. And I can still see a faint mist of anesthezine gas in the air. The engineering crew are lying in slumbering heaps on the deck. Even if I revive one, they will likely be so groggy from the after-effects of the gas, they will be unable to work effectively.
I head for the main control console at a run. Simple enough to punch in the commands to restart impulse... but impulse will not restart without a power surge of some kind. From the core, or from the auxiliary fusion reactor - I could start up the fusion reactor without difficulty, but that will not solve the problem of the core. I can see the graphs for its power output, and they are already well outside permitted variations. My fingers stab at the console, initiating safety protocols, trying to invoke whatever measures I know about core control - but I am not an engineer, and I cannot contact the bridge, and my engineering staff are unconscious -
Wait. N'aina mentioned something, a while ago now. And it might just prove our salvation. I hit the console again, open the voice command channel.
"Computer! Initialize the emergency engineering hologram!"
A pause, perhaps of a fraction of a second, feeling like an eon to me. Then a column of air glows, and a figure solidifies -
The photonic engineer looks bland, almost unfinished; dressed in neutral garments, it could be any species or gender, or none. It turns to look at me, and it smiles.
"Hello! You look like you're - trying to restabilize a compromised singularity core! Would you like to - get some help with that, or - carry on by yourself?"
N'aina has evidently not modified it from some Starfleet default interface. That won't matter. I hope it won't matter. "I need help!"
"OK!" The hologram walks briskly to another console. "Your recommended options are - one, to eject the unstable core, or - two, to shut down to zero-output mode and re-start the control armatures from default. Which option do you prefer?"
Ejecting the core, at the moment, leaves the ship dead in space and falling powerless to the planet. Shutting down and re-initializing - will take hours, during which time we are, still, powerless. "Neither option! The ship needs power restored, urgently!"
"OK! You want to pursue options outside of normal safety procedures. This is not recommended! Please confirm that you want to proceed on this basis."
I swear I can hear the unstable control armatures, a grating, keening sound as they spin around the core. "Confirmed!" I screech.
"OK! Your other options are - one, to rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating, or - two, some other option. Which option do you prefer?"
"One!!"
"OK! You want to - rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating. This is not recommended! Please confirm that you want to proceed on this basis."
"Stop asking me to confirm things!"
"OK! You want to - stop asking for confirmation when you pursue options outside recommended safety procedures. This is not recommended!" I think I am going to scream, when it adds, "Confirmation request protocol has been suspended."
"Good! Now get to work!"
"OK!" The thing taps rapidly at its console. Its fingers are moving faster than mine could. "You want to - rebalance the central ring armatures while they are operating. Do you want to start with - one, ring armature one, or - two, ring armature two, or - three, ring -"
"Start with number one!" I scream. I have to start somewhere, and this idiot machine will ask me questions until I am dead, at this rate.
"OK! Now editing command and control parameters for ring armature one. Please monitor the theta and eta bands on the control output display. Are those readings - within normal parameters, or - outside normal parameters?"
"Outside." I can see the wavering lines, and the warning icons beside them. "Well outside."
"OK! Implementing control variations now. Please tell me if these changes make the readings - better, or - worse."
It taps in a sequence of commands. The lines on the graph swing wildly upwards, and the core shrieks, a weird unearthly howl of protest. "Worse! Much worse!"
"OK! Adjusting. Please remember that this procedure is not recommended!"
The lines on the output graph swing down, steady themselves. The warning lights change, some of them, from red to amber. "Better!" I gasp.
"OK! Locking command and control protocols for ring armature one. Do you want to - proceed to ring armature two, or - proceed to ring armature three?"
"Die horribly and in pain!" I snarl at the idiot thing.
"I do not know how to - die horribly and in pain! Would you like me to - consult an online reference on this topic, or - carry on with what I'm doing?"
"Proceed to ring two!"
"OK! Now editing command and control parameters for ring armature two. Please monitor the delta and zeta bands on the control output display. Are those -"
"Outside normal parameters! We may have only minutes! Get on with it!"
"OK! Implementing control variations -"
This time, the lines on the graph smooth out, and there are no ominous sounds from the core. "Better!"
"OK!" Is it my imagination, or does the thing sound hurt by my interruptions? "Now proceeding to ring armature three. Please monitor the beta and gamma -"
"Beta and gamma outside normal parameters!"
"Please also monitor the overall alpha band and tell me if it is - within normal -"
"Outside!"
"OK! Editing command and control parameters for -"
"Get on with it!"
"OK! Implementing -"
"Shut up!"
The lines on the output display seem to buck and skew for a moment - then settle into the normal range. I breathe a sigh of thanks to the Elements. "Better!" I snap at the hologram.
"OK! Please remember that this procedure is not recommended. Safety procedures are there for our benefit! They should not be ignored!"
"Restart our impulse drive!" I snarl at it.
"OK! Restarting impulse. Power is now - on. Do you want to -"
"No. No to whatever it is." The wrist communicator bleeps. "Yes?"
"We're regaining control," N'aina's voice says. "Killing the KDF modules worked, we are purging the virus from essential systems - we have helm control, and are heading back up to orbit -"
"What of the Dechenchholing?"
"They moved out-system, chasing - something. They seem to have lost it, they're heading back now. As soon as we can confirm comms is clean of the virus, we'll raise them."
"All right. In the meantime, get every engineer and medic available down here. Check out the singularity core, make sure the quick-fixes haven't damaged it. Also -" I glare at the vacuously-smiling hologram. "Also, Subcommander, you and I need to talk."
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My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
"Well," he said, "pop that helmet, and let's see who we've caught."
Mokasso stepped forward, snapped open the connecting clips, and lifted the helmet away, revealing the reticulated skin patterns, the pale blue eyes, the dishevelled mousy topknot of hair -
"Ah." Thrang smiled. "The persistent Talaxian! Pexlini, isn't it? I just missed you on Eta Meridia V. Of course -" he tapped his holstered pistol with one finger "- I wasn't actually aiming at you."
"You've gotta be Kalevar Thrang," Pexlini said. Her eyes narrowed, looking hard at the sonic antiproton pistol at Thrang's hip.
"Astute! I like that. Shall we make some introductions?" Thrang sat up straight, gestured with his left hand; his right was tapping in commands on the chair's console. "My delightful Deonsa at the helm, Shaltri on engineering - Mokasso, I think you've met, and that's Mituz holding your right arm - and on your left, well, I think he should introduce himself -"
"I am Seralok Masgrabolus," said the Thexemian, "and when I say my name, men turn pale and women run and hide."
Pexlini craned her head round over the neck ring of her suit to look at him. "You guys have gotta be a real blast at cocktail parties," she said.
Thrang laughed. Masgrabolus glared. "Well," Thrang said, "this is all very pleasant - Deonsa." His voice was suddenly hard and businesslike. "Pursuit status?"
"No problems," the Orion woman said. "The warbird's been disabled by the virus. Might recover, might crash into the planet - no danger to us either way. The Hazari escort is in pursuit, but it only has standard warp drive. No chance of catching us."
"Excellent." Thrang beamed at Pexlini. "The Farah is very probably the fastest thing in space. Borg-style subtranswarp and an asynchronous warp field, the best of both worlds. Our current speed is -?" He looked inquiringly at Shaltri.
"Equivalent of warp 35," the Troyian said.
"We can really move, when we need to," said Thrang. "However, we were slightly lucky, in that the Farah was within range - even her greatly extended range - when the intruder alarms indicated traffic in the Dexian system. Now, what was that in aid of? You have an invitation, I believe, to meet with my agents at Nali Caerodi?"
"Yeah," said Pexlini, "like I had invitations to meet 'em at Eta Meridia and Nimbus, right? And we both know how that turned out. So what's your problem, huh? I'm trying to make a deal here, that's all, why are you making it such hard work for everyone?"
"A deal," said Thrang. His right hand was still working at the console. "For your Hazari patrons in the Delta Quadrant?"
"That's right. Look -"
Thrang's hand stopped moving. "No," he said, looking down at the console. "No, that's not right, is it?" He rose to his feet, stood straight, squared his shoulders. "Not right at all -" He saluted smartly and clicked his heels together. "Is it, Captain Pexlini? Or, rather, Admiral Pexlini, of Starfleet Intelligence?"
Pexlini's jaw dropped. Deonsa turned to face Thrang, her eyes troubled. "Watch the road, my dear," said Thrang. She turned back to the helm.
"It is true," Mokasso said. The Lethean's voice was thick and gloating. "I see the truth of it in her mind."
"Well, you don't really need to." Thrang smiled at Pexlini. "Your biometric data was, of course, classified when you joined Intelligence. But Starfleet's classified data has no secrets from me."
"I don't doubt it," said Pexlini. "All arranged by someone who's just turned to soup, yeah? Crazy way to operate. You gotta have spent years setting that up -"
"Well," said Thrang, "it was just a phage I was going through." He laughed. No one else did.
"OK," said Pexlini. "So maybe I'm who you say I am, but you know what? We can still make a deal here, can't we? Maybe a better deal than you thought you could, even. Starfleet's resources are way better than the Hazaris', we can pay you more for the archive, that's gotta be good news for you, right? You -"
"You talk too much," said Mituz.
"Yeah." Pexlini swallowed audibly. "I talk when I get nervous, right? It's a failing, I know it is, particularly in my line of business, but, y'know, whaddaya gonna do? But I'm still talking sense, aren't I?"
"Oh," said Thrang, "in a way."
"We should shut her up," Mituz said.
"If she gets tiresome, just put her helmet back on," said Thrang. His eyes were hard, calculating. "I take it Starfleet is liable to be... boringly traditional... about ransoms?"
"You know the deal," said Pexlini. "Ransom for a Starfleet Admiral, well, that and twenty energy credits will buy you a hot raktajino. Listen -"
"Oh, let's not bother with the charade," said Thrang. "You know, by now, that selling off the Rehanissen Archive is not a factor in my plans." Pexlini's eyes flickered. "Oh, yes," Thrang continued, "my plans. Are Starfleet and Imperial Intelligence still looking for my mysterious backers? They'll be looking an awfully long time."
"There's just you?" said Pexlini.
"I might take issue with that word just," said Thrang with a smile. "Oh, no, I'm not just anything or anyone, my dear Admiral."
"OK," said Pexlini. "So, um, the way these things are supposed to go is, like, you explain your master plan now, and then put me in an easily escapable death trap?"
Thrang laughed. "Kill her," said Deonsa.
"Oh, no," said Thrang. "No, no, no. Or, at least, not yet. Not before I've found some use for her. Never turn down a gift from the gods, my dear." His voice hardened. "Mituz, Seralok, take her to the brig. The secure holding area, I think. I have a healthy respect for Intelligence's agents... I don't want her breaking free and causing annoyance. I'll decide what to do, later on."
"Listen," Pexlini called out desperately as the two thugs dragged her to the door, "whatever it is you want, we can maybe come to some sort of deal over it, can't we? C'mon, you're a businessman, make me an offer! We can negotiate, damn it!"
"You have no conception," said Thrang, "of what I want. We'll talk, later. Possibly."
The bridge door hissed open, then shut. The sound of scuffling in the corridor beyond faded away.
"Kill her," Deonsa said again. "No games, no plotting, just kill her."
"Only if I can't find another use for her," said Thrang. "I'm not wasteful, my dear."
"She knows too much!"
"She knows nothing," said Thrang. He sat down in the command chair, and casually crossed his legs. "She doesn't even suspect anything interesting. And a Starfleet Admiral... is a resource. Not one to be thrown away."
"You think you can use her?" Deonsa asked. "For -"
"Oh, no, not that," said Thrang with another smile. "No, Intelligence officers lead such rackety, disreputable sorts of lives, they're no use for that part of the plan. No, for that, I need a much more presentable sort of Admiral, one with a long, distinguished record, and unimpeachable public morals. One with credibility."
And it sounds like Tylha may be wanting to check if she's been keeping her traits up to date.
Still really enjoying this.
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Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.
I dare you to do better.
Silk whispers over my skin. It feels... different.
I look in the mirror, repress the urge to wriggle, to shift the fit of the robes. I should look good... in theory, I know I look good. I have seen... almost myself... in robes like this before. My Mirror Universe duplicate, in her scarlet robe edged with gold. She may have been a megalomaniac, but she certainly looked good.
I am the same as her... physically. Except for one point, of course. I reach up, touch the scar on my face. My mirror double had no scar.
Perhaps that's a good thing. That scar is part of me, not her, no matter what it looks like. I straighten my back, take an experimental pace towards the mirror, trying to look... I don't know... composed, elegant, self-confident.
Absurd, I think. I'm confident enough, every day - I am a Starfleet Admiral, projecting confidence and authority and leadership is part of my job, and I do my job well. But, of course, when I'm doing that, I'm in uniform, not scarlet and gold Tholian spider silk....
And I have, usually, tools and weapons and armour in my transporter buffer, and my combadge to call my ship - well, I have communications, now, at least. My hand goes to the gold bangle at my left wrist. Commercial-grade wrist comm, and stylish enough not to clash with the outfit... but not much, compared with my combadge, or the phaser pulsewave in my hands, the sharp staticky feeling in my antennae from a personal shield around me -
I shake my head. I don't need these things. I need the communicator, and I need stylish, smart, civilian clothes. And, right now, that's all I need. Right now -
I check the time, on the data stalagmite in the corner of my quarters. Right now, I have maybe five minutes to reach the transporter room, or I'm going to be late.
I get a few glances from passing crew members as I make my way along the corridors. My sandals make an unaccustomed sharp clacking sound on the deckplates as I walk. Flimsy things, those sandals, but they match the robes... I could hardly wear Starfleet-issue boots, could I? Lieutenant Jenro is at the console in transporter room two. He makes no comment on my appearance, just checks the coordinates, and nods confirmation as I step onto the pad -
Blue light sparkles around me, and I am down.
I breathe in, deeply, and look around the quayside. To one side of me, the water, and an old-fashioned Earth sailing ship, masts outlined against a fading dusky sky. The air is cool, by Earth standards - quite comfortable, for me in my thin spider silk robe. To my other side is a long building with artfully dilapidated-looking walls and a high, pitched roof. This part of Earth gets cool enough to see snow, sometimes. The building looks crude, functional and industrial - it was, I gather, a warehouse once. Since the twenty-first century, though, it has housed one of the finest restaurants on the planet, instead.
A voice behind me says, "Hello, Tylha," and I turn.
"Osrin. Hello."
Osrin Corodrev smiles at me. "Dressed to kill, I see." The handsome thaan is wearing a midnight-blue formal business suit, himself; he looks elegant and confident and commanding. Osrin Corodrev. Technically, my great-grand-uncle; an Andorian genetic augment, bred as a weapon by his insane father, kept for decades in suspended animation while the Nausicaans used him and his fellow augments as agents against the Federation - now, liberated, and his own person at last. I've met him a few times since I set him free, and - in spite of his origins - the person he's become is... not a bad one.
"You're looking pretty sharp yourself," I tell him, and I offer him my hand. His smile broadens as he takes it. His father was a miserable self-hating runt of a man, and he edited his child's genome to breed an almost textbook example of a good-looking thaan. It occurs to me, as we walk together to the restaurant's entrance, that - apart from my scars - we look like one half of a charming foursome. The humans might even think of us as an attractive couple. Well, humans don't understand Andorians, never have.
Inside, the place is quiet and simply furnished, a picture of understated good taste. A real human server, not a hologram, shows us to a table - I notice some heads turning among the other diners; they seem to be all human.
"I heard about this place when it celebrated its four hundredth anniversary," says Osrin as we sit down. "That's quite some going, and it still has a great reputation. The cuisine is - kind of traditional, for this part of Earth. But, well, it appeals to me."
"I can understand that," I say, studying the menu. "After all, you know about my tastes in human music, yes?" I don't know if he's heard that my tastes in human music once helped save the galaxy. Or if he'd believe it, if he heard it. I'm still not sure I believe it. Damn Q and all her self-righteous continuum, anyway. "Anything you recommend?"
"I'd start with the seafood terrine," Osrin says. "And I'm having the frikadeller for the main course. Ground meat dumplings, pan-fried... a local speciality. Outstanding."
I nod. "Sounds good to me. And, maybe some local fruit drinks? I won't insist on tunnel wine."
"Go native all the way," says Osrin, "it's the best way." Then, in a lower, more serious voice, he adds, "Thanks for this, Tylha."
"For what? You're taking me out to dinner, remember?"
"Well, I'm glad you're giving me the chance." He gives me a rueful smile. "A quiet evening, out, away from crises and panics and everything...."
Osrin works, now, for the Interstellar Disaster Relief Agency, and in the aftermath of the Iconian war, they are stretched as far as Starfleet itself. "True enough, we've both spent too much time lately sprinting between disasters!" I smile back at him, painfully aware, for once, of the stiffness of the right-hand side of my face. "Not much chance of disasters here, though. Unless they burn the - what was it? The frikadeller?"
"No chance of that. These guys are the best," Osrin assures me. He signals a discreetly hovering server, and we make our choices.
The food is good. This part of Earth, a little peninsula some way to the east of Holst's home country of Ingalan, has a whole new culinary tradition - maybe I'm biased, but it seems better, to me, than traditional Ingalish cooking. And Osrin, when he sets out to be a pleasant dining companion, is good at it. Of course, we can't steer the conversation entirely away from the war and its aftermath - we're both too bound up in it to avoid talking shop - but, even there, we manage to find a lighter side, now and then.
Like, for example, when the conversation turns to the desperate final stages... and Osrin mentions the front man for Temporal Investigations, Lieutenant Crey. "Oh, yes," I say. "The lightweight."
"The... lightweight?" Osrin raises his eyebrows at me.
"Not my choice of terms. Ronnie Grau's. Philip Crey was displaced eighty-some years in time, in the Bozeman incident. Ronnie, though, got herself time-warped three times, and for a total of more than two centuries. So she sent some very indignant memos to Temporal Investigations, asking why an important post was given to, as she put it, 'that freaking lightweight'."
Osrin laughs. "I take it that didn't get her the job?"
"You know Ronnie. Actually, I would trust her with the fabric of the space-time continuum. But public relations? Not a chance."
"I've never actually met Ronnie Grau. If she lives up to the stories you tell about her -"
"Oh, she does. She definitely does."
The frikadeller, accompanied by some unfamiliar but not unpleasant Earth vegetables, lives up to its reputation, too. Afterwards, a sweet fruit-based dessert, and then coffee, an Earth drink like Andorian katheka. Osrin accompanies his with a liqueur, called something like "konyak". I don't.
"You don't drink at all?" Osrin asks. "Alcohol, I mean?"
"Occasionally. Very occasionally. I enjoy a drink, but... I'm not too keen on what it does, if you drink too much."
"No," says Osrin, thoughtfully, "no, I suppose that wouldn't be your style at all. You're a very controlled sort of person. Most of the time, anyway."
"Is that a bad thing?" I prop my elbows on the table, put my chin in my hands, and study his response.
"I've seen you angry, remember," Osrin says.
"Oh, you think you have," I say. "I was low a litre and a half of blood when we first met. When I'm at full strength, then I'll show you angry."
Osrin holds his hands up in mock surrender. "No need! I'll take your word. But you don't just do angry, surely?"
Oh, now. Now, I have to think very carefully about what I say next. Because good food and pleasant conversation and the handsome thaan before me are having an effect, and they might make me say something like... "What else would you like to see?" I ask.
"Well," says Osrin with an honest-to-goodness grin, "now there's a question." Then his face turns deadly serious, and he leans a little way forwards, and his voice drops. "You're a very interesting shen, you know that, Tylha?"
I don't say anything. I just try to give him a cool, controlled, noncommittal smile, and try to hold my antennae very still, so they don't betray the sudden pounding of my heart.
"I mean it," Osrin says. "You're brave, and you're principled, and you're talented. And those things... well, you know how I spent most of my life. People with principles... I've not seen enough of those. But I like them."
"Keep talking," I say. "I like what I'm hearing."
A quick flash of smile. "And it doesn't hurt that you're... well, you look good enough in a Starfleet uniform, but tonight -"
"Even with -?" I raise one finger to my right cheek.
Osrin shakes his head. "I never even noticed it."
Our eyes meet, and I hold his gaze. There is a challenge in it, a challenge which must be met... a challenge that maybe I want to meet -
A discreet electronic chime cuts through the air - and through the moment. I curse, and reach for the comms bangle.
"It's mine, I think." Osrin pulls a sour face. He yanks a tablet communicator from his tunic pocket, looks at the panel, and swears softly. "Damn it. Koneph." His chan-partner. A nice enough guy in his own right... nice enough, maybe, to be my chan-partner too? I mull that one over, while Osrin walks off a little way to take the call. It's the sort of thing... that will take a lot of mulling, I think.
I don't know. This is a side to my life that - I've just not thought of. For such a long time. When did I think about it? The raw young cadet I was, with the messed-up face and the lost homeworld, was never one for dating - and since my Academy days, life has been one long series of breathless crises. When was the last time I went on a date? - if that's what this is. I think that's what it is....
Osrin comes back to the table with a forbidding look on his face. "Damn it," he says, as he sits down. "Just one evening without an urgent problem, is that too much to ask?"
"What's the matter?" I ask him. "Can I help?"
He looks uncertain. "I don't want to worry you -"
"Osrin. Starfleet, remember? We're here to be worried."
He bites his lip, looks away from me, out of the restaurant's big glass window. The evening has turned to night, and I can just make out Earth's moon, its gibbous face shining through the masts of the sailing ship at the quayside. It ought to be... romantic.
"It might be one for the Diplomatic Corps, anyway," Osrin mutters.
"I know Diplomatic Corps. Hell, I'm a member in good standing myself. Ambassadorial credentials and everything. Osrin. What's the problem?"
He takes a deep breath. "Kon's heard from our people on Gimel Vessaris. We still keep in touch." Osrin's fellow augments, now mostly making a living on my former homeworld. "The Nausicaans are making demands. They're claiming the planet is legitimately their territory after all - they've issued demands for the colonists to leave."
My back, and my antennae, stiffen. "That's not true. They have no right -"
"They're claiming differently, apparently. Kon's asking if the colony can get Starfleet or Imperial Guard protection, if - if the worst comes to the worst."
"Damn straight it can." Things are passing through my mind. "We picked up a Nausicaan ship recently, asking for asylum. It was part of the initial raid on Gimel Vessaris - we have its data cores on file, we have all their records. If there was anything legitimate about the Nausicaans' claim to that system, we would know." I push myself away from the table and stand up. "Give me Koneph's comms code, and I'll have a detailed evidence summary for him no later than this time tomorrow. And I'll talk to the Klingon Imperial Liaison, and put some pressure on there, too. This thing is going to go away, Osrin. Be sure of it."
A plan of action is forming in my mind. I know what to do, what data I need from the Yasan T'o's computer core, who to speak to, where to deliver a firm diplomatic protest.
All at once, I am back on solid ground.
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"The tribes of Nausicaa have spilled much blood for the Empire," he declaimed. "Their own blood, and the Empire's enemies'! The Chancellor knows this. The High Council knows this."
J'mpok stirred on the chair. "Why do you tell us what we already know?" he asked.
"To remind you, Chancellor." Sgramash took a step forward.
J'mpok's eyes glittered. "Nothing is forgotten," he said.
"Then let us look to the future," said Sgramash, "and what the future might bring. If it brings conflict, where does the Empire stand?"
Anger edged J'mpok's voice as he answered. "In the forefront of battle, as always!"
"Battle with whom?" Sgramash demanded. "The tribes of my people have their own conflicts, their own battles to fight. But if we are drawn to conflict with a mightier power - does the Empire stand with us?"
"The Empire stands with its sworn friends and allies," said J'mpok. "All its friends and allies."
"A day might come, Chancellor, when the Empire must choose. The Empire is not the Federation, to seek to be friends with everyone. If conflict comes, will the Empire abide by old loyalties? Or newer, more convenient ones?"
"I have said that nothing is forgotten," said J'mpok. "But I must be careful where I pledge the Empire's honour... and so should you be."
There was a muttering, now, among the ranks of the High Council. "We should not show weakness!" one of them shouted - Sarv, of the House of Kungan, J'mpok noted. A new face on the Council, one of the many who had replaced... those who were gone.
"We are not weak," said J'mpok. "We are not weak, so long as one Klingon stands with blood in his veins and honour in his soul! - But we have just fought a long war. It was a necessary and an honourable war, but we should be sure that our next... is also necessary and honourable."
"Is it not honourable to stand with one's old allies?" demanded Sgramash.
"It is honourable," said J'mpok. "Is it necessary?"
"That," said the Nausicaan, "is not yet certain. But my people are demanding certain ancient rights, and if those demands are not met - well, it would not be the first time we fought for our rights. The tribes are not averse to battle."
"You think the Klingons are?" J'mpok rose to his feet and glowered down at Sgramash. There was more angry muttering from the High Council. But the Nausicaan stood his ground.
"I will carry the Chancellor's words back to the tribes," he said. "My people will consider them... but, in the end, words matter much less than deeds. If we call for the Empire's support in our cause... then may the Empire's deeds be honourable."
---
"Upstart," J'mpok snarled, later, in his private office. "Who is this Sgramash, anyway?"
"Recently elevated to his position," said Ambassador S'taass. The huge Gorn's voice was matter-of-fact. "A warrior of some reputation, but he is also independently wealthy. He controls shipping lines, whose convoys have not greatly suffered from any of the current... depredations."
J'mpok sat down behind his bare desk, scowling. "Those worry me," he said. "The work of reconstruction is difficult enough, without these added problems. What is causing all this?"
"The main problem," said S'taass, "stems from the convulsions in Orion space. Melani D'ian is making every effort to establish control, and I expect that, ultimately, she will be successful. But, at the moment, many old rivalries have flared up between the Orion Houses - old treacheries revealed, old enmities rekindled. The source may be guessed -"
"Kalevar Thrang and his thrice-damned archive," said J'mpok.
"Quite," said S'taass. "Of course, it is simply a catalyst. Many of the Orion Houses, seeing others in disarray, seek to take advantage. Others, perhaps fearing some attack, have decided to get their retaliation in first. It is messy, complicated, destructive and expensive. So it must be financed, by some means. Commerce raiding is... traditional, in such matters."
"I know," muttered J'mpok. "There is discontent also among the Imperial Great Houses. Perhaps not so much - we are Klingons, we bore the brunt of the war, we know how important it is to rebuild, after our losses." He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Then, too, the demon M'Tara eliminated any number of ancient quarrels when she exterminated so many of the Council. But there is still... discontent." His heavy-lidded eyes smouldered beneath his brow ridges. "At a time of such discontent - and in the aftermath of the war - it weakens us, S'taass. And you know what that means. If we are weak... then we must appear to be strong."
"You mean that you cannot necessarily refuse Sgramash's call for solidarity, if he makes it," said S'taass.
"Internecine warfare with the Nausicaans... oh, the Empire would win, no doubt of that. But in doing so, we would also lose.... But where does Sgramash demand these ancient rights of his?"
"Evidently, from a power that the Nausicaans cannot confront by themselves. There are few enough of those. The most likely one... is the Federation."
J'mpok sat, completely silent, for the space of several seconds. Then he said, "The worst of it is, there are those among the High Council who would welcome the resumption of the war with the Federation. They hunger for glory, for the defeat of our long-standing enemy. It is natural, I understand this. But now, now of all times.... We are not ready. Such a conflict would break us. Even if we won, it would break us. I am not so in love with glory, S'taass, that I neglect reality."
"Well," said S'taass, "we must do all we can, realistically. The Hegemony still has many close ties with the Nausicaans, and I will see what influence may be brought to bear. Sgramash is a businessman as well as a warrior. He may be amenable to a financial settlement, if we can determine what his ancient rights are worth. I will devote my attention to this -" He paused. "That is, if I continue in my current post."
J'mpok raised his head and stared at the Gorn. "Is there doubt of that?"
"Conceivably," said S'taass. "Representations have been made to King Slathis - one Commissioner Hrissaak, apparently, worries that I have become too close to the Empire, that I no longer represent the Hegemony's interests as well as I might." The Gorn's scaly face was unreadable. "I will, of course, keep you fully informed as to... whatever eventuates."
Oh, boy, Thrang ain't messing around when he talks about security. The cell... One force-field wall, and the floor, ceiling and the other walls are all solid metal. There's a sanitary and waste-reclamation unit, and it must be hooked up to a short range transporter, because there is no piping or anything leading out of the cell. And there's no way of gimmicking a basic transporter setup like that - not in any way that would reassemble me in anything resembling humanoid shape at the other end, anyway. Waste transporters just haven't got the bandwidth for live transport, and there ain't nothing anyone can do about that.
I don't see myself digging through solid hullmetal walls with my bare hands, or a plastic fork, either. There are tricks you can do with a force field, shorting it out or manipulating its frequencies. But you need the right tools and specialist training, both of which I ain't got.
Food and other supplies are delivered through a sort of hatch affair in the field, and I can be quite sure that one side of it is sealed solid whenever the other side opens. If I had a hidden confederate on the outside, I could get them to pass me the tools I need. Like hiding a file in a cake, only, y'know, kinda more technical. But no one on Thrang's crew is on my side.
I get the impression, maybe inaccurately, maybe not, that however fast it might be, the Farah isn't very big. Might be a heavily modified Orion corvette, or an entirely original design. But it's somewhere on a par with a Bird of Prey or a similar heavy raider. I suppose it's good news. If we can ever catch this thing, my ship or Heizis's should be able to beat it in a fight. Should be. Maybe.
I'm not getting much in the way of solid information, of course. Every so often, one of Thrang's crew drops by to shove rations through the forcefield hatch. The Lethean, Mokasso, barely speaks, and I try to keep my mind blank when he turns up. The Orion, Mituz, has the usual Orion techniques for handling prisoners, I don't get anything much from him but insults. I don't see the helmsman or the engineer, I'd guess they're running the ship. Um. And I'd guess that Deonsa has some duties besides the helm, too, if you know what I mean.
The only one who's any use is the Thexemian, Seralok Masgrabolus. And that's stretching the definition of "any use" all out of shape, but, well, it seems Thexemians like to talk.
"So why are you with Thrang, anyway?" I ask him as he shoves a pack of ration bars and a jerrycan full of water through the hatch. He pulls a sour face at me.
"I am a member of Thrang's crew, because he pays well, and will pay better," he says.
"OK, see your point, we all gotta eat, right? But, c'mon, you know there's plenty of people can pay better than Thrang -"
"They will not pay in the coin he promises! When Thrang comes to his power, those who stood by him will be rewarded. I will have power and dominion, and when I say my name, then, men will die of fright and women will hurl themselves at my feet."
"Oh, man, that'll take forever to clean up. How's Thrang gonna manage all that, anyway?"
"When he is king among the ruins, power and dominion will be his to bestow."
"King among the what, now?" Masgrabolus just glares at me. I decide to try a different tack. "So, OK, he gets to be king... somehow... so what make you think you get any goodies out of that? I mean, Thrang's been kinda rough on his associates to date, yeah? Like the guys who melted? Or your pal Mirankar Ostrogolus, who got his brain removed the hard way?"
"Thrang chose weaklings and honourless scum to be subjected to the phage," says Masgrabolus. "And I myself pointed out Ostrogolus as a worthless worm who walked in puffed-up pride, fit only to be used and discarded." I'm not sure worms walk, but hey, he's got the guns and the key to the cell, if he wants to mix his metaphors, there's not much I can do about it. "Those of us who have been true friends to him... he will be a true friend to us. And when his protective association is the only stable power left in the quadrant, we will be in a position to rule!"
Oh, boy. One thing about our man Thrang, then - he thinks big. Masgrabolus shuts the forcefield hatch, and turns around; I guess he thinks he's leaving on a good exit line. I'm inclined to let him go, now.
There's not much to do around here but think. And I need to think, long and hard, about one thing. Kalevar Thrang.
---
It's only a couple more mealtimes - one with the Lethean, one with the Orion - before the man himself shows up. Kalevar Thrang, in person, with a nasty smile on his lips and a sonic AP pistol in his hand.
"Admiral Pexlini," he says.
"Oh, hell, you can knock that off," I say. "It's only on paper, anyway. Sometimes you need flag rank if -"
"If you are to command the resources you need. I know. These old-fashioned military rankings are so inadequate, really, aren't they? To the jobs Starfleet actually does?"
"Guess so. So, are you planning to reform them? Restructure everything, when you're king among the ruins?"
Does the smile maybe slip, just a fraction of an inch or so? "Ah. Thexemians, yes... their culture places too much value upon boasting and display. But we mustn't judge, must we? Or at least you mustn't. Prime Directive and all that." He brings the gun up, covering me. His other hand reaches for a wall panel. The forcefield winks out.
"Walk with me a while, Admiral." The gun makes it an offer I can't refuse. I step out of the cell. They took my EV suit, left me only the basic coveralls I was wearing inside it. I've got... well, no equipment that will help in this situation.
With most people, I'd be looking for a chance to grab the gun. I don't think Thrang will give me one. "Where are we going? Somewhere nice?"
"Just the transporter room." He gestures - with his free hand. Smart thinker. I walk the way he's pointing.
"Kinda cramped in here," I comment, as we make our way down a narrow corridor with bare metal walls.
"Oh, the Farah is designed for use, not ornament. I'm fond of her, nonetheless. I will have something more... kingly... in the fullness of time, but I will probably keep the Farah anyway. I have my sentiments, Admiral."
"Will you lay off the Admiral, please, your majesty?" I say, and Thrang laughs.
The transporter room is small, with only four pads in the chamber. Thrang points me to one of them. I don't see any alternative, so I go stand on it.
"Now, then," Thrang says, and starts tapping on the console. "I've decided to destroy you, Admiral. Let me tell you how I will do it."
"Oh, hell." Now the moment's come, somehow I don't feel anything but a kind of disgust. "Beamed into space on wide dispersion? That's not even original, dammit."
"Nothing so inelegant, or so wasteful. No, no." Thrang is smiling away like anything. "In a few moments, I will beam you down to the landing docks at Nali Caerodi. It's where you were meant to be anyway, so it fits in with my plans. I'm sure you'll cope with being dropped onto a Ferengi station. And, after that, you're free to go, or stay, or do whatever you please."
I frown at him. "What's the catch? It can't be that easy...."
His smile is big and broad and there is nothing good about it at all. "You're an intelligent person. Why don't you tell me what the catch is?"
I think. Furiously. I think as if my life depended on it, which it very well might. "You're just letting me go? I don't believe it. And if I don't believe it, sure as hell nobody else will -"
"Ah!" Thrang positively glows with self-satisfaction. "I thought you'd be clever enough. Yes, Admiral. No one will believe you escaped, or that I set you free for nothing. Everyone must assume, now, that you are my agent. The more you deny it, and the more their checks disprove it... the more they must believe that you are a very adept and plausible agent of mine indeed. They must always doubt you, from now on. As an intelligence agent, you are - ruined. At least until...."
OK, so he expects me to fill in after the "until", but I'm kinda not in the mood. "Until what?"
"Until you realize," Thrang says, "that you need to be my agent. Because I will be the only employer who will have you... and because, when I am - king among the ruins - you will understand that you need to work for me. I intend to be the only game in town, Admiral. And I can find a use for someone of your abilities, when you come to me of your own free will. Not if, Admiral. When."
That's when I jump him.
I leap from the transporter pad and I claw at him. The nails of my right hand rake down his cheek, hard enough to leave furrows. But the transporter console is between his body and mine, and anyway, he reacts fast. He doesn't shoot, just clubs me hard with the gun. He is very strong.
I land on the deck with stars exploding across my vision. There is a brief sickening whirl when I think I'm going to lose consciousness. Then Thrang is hauling me to my feet. I don't resist. I can't.
He is holding me up with one hand. The other is pressed to his cheek. He is still smiling.
"Oh, my," he says. "We do want our little dramatic gesture, don't we? Do you think it accomplishes anything?" I slur something random by way of an answer.
He pulls his hand away from his cheek. The scratches made by my fingernails are fading already, half healed, new skin firming over them almost as I watch.
"Dramatic gestures," says Thrang, "are good for nothing. I'll speak to you later, Admiral. When you've properly come to your senses." He lets go of me. Somehow, I stay upright. He's put me on the transporter pad. "Have a pleasant trip." He reaches over to the console, presses a button, and I go away.
---
The transporter light fades, and I'm down. Station side on Nali Caerodi. The planet itself is a class L lump of not-much-use, the shipyard and trading facilities are mostly in orbit. So, I'm dumped on a Ferengi space station, possibly with concussion, which kinda ain't gonna help.
I try to marshal my spinning wits. First things first -
My coveralls don't come with much, but they come with a few goodies sewn into the lining, and Thrang and his goons didn't check for anything beyond weapons or other stuff with power supplies. I pop a seam with my left hand, and manage to extract a small glittering thing from the lining. Thalmurian water gem. Not one of the big ones that's worth a fortune, but one that's worth enough. I hope.
The beam-in point is just a metal cubbyhole, off the main thoroughfare of this station - whatever station it is. There's a fair amount of junk about. Ferengi are not always big on recycling. I spot a plastic bag, maybe a discarded wrapper for components or something. I hold the water gem between my lips, while I use my left hand to pull the bag over my right.
OK. One step. Now to find a Ferengi. Any Ferengi.
It doesn't take long. A short, squat, big-eared gnome in shabby overalls comes shambling past the cubbyhole, and he turns when I give a piercing whistle. His mouth comes open, revealing the usual disgusting Ferengi teeth.
"You. Here." I don't give him time to argue, just press the water gem into his hand. "See that? Money. Profit. Call it a down payment. I need to pay my occupancy tax, ration allowance, breathing permit, all the usual stuff." You get gouged on everything if you're on your own, on a Ferengi station. "Set me up with the basics, and anything left over from that jewel, you can keep, all right?" Then I put my fierce face on. "Cross me, and I'm gonna come back and rip your lobes off, OK? We got a deal here?"
"You're crazy," the Ferengi says. He looks at my face, then at the jewel, then at my face again. "OK. You're crazy, but with money, so I guess you're just eccentric. OK, deal."
"Terrific." I feel myself relax, just a tiny bit. Any Ferengi knows the bureaucracy on their station, and any Ferengi will make a deal. If you give them a chance, and don't give them much choice. "Gonna need communications, sometime soon, too." I'm racking my jolted brains, trying to think of names, contacts, useful people. "Gonna want to put in a call to, uhh, one of your DaiMons. DaiMon, DaiMon...."
"Listen," says the Ferengi, "you're in trouble, right? You need to get fixed up, somehow. Come with me, I'll get you food, somewhere to rest, while I get your permits sorted." He holds up the gem. "This'll cover it."
Honest Ferengi. Kind Ferengi, even. And I could do with a rest, at that. "OK. Thanks."
"Your head's bleeding."
"Yeah, I know." Well, I didn't, but it comes as no surprise. "Prago. DaiMon Prago, that's the guy." Prago is a Ferengi businessman, based at the Nali Caerodi shipyards, and he owes the Federation big time. Cooperation, I can get it from him.
"OK. DaiMon Prago, I'll ask around," says the Ferengi. "It's not going to be a problem, you know. Hey. Lean on me."
I lean on him. Ferengi are stronger than they look, they can hold up a concussed Talaxian. Just like Thrang could. "Thanks."
"No problem. I'm Greng, by the way."
"Hi, Greng. I'm Pexlini."
"Pexlini." Greng's eyes narrow for a moment. "Your hand's in a plastic bag," he says.
"I know," I say. "I'm eccentric."
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