Legacies #2 Page 7

  Scott wore a dubious expression. “Not likely, sir. I’ve just begun to study the data. I might know enough in a few days to jam the original at short range. But build you a new one?” A shake of his head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, sir.”

  “Then we face a number of new challenges, gentlemen.” Kirk leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “If we can’t replace the lost control unit, we’ll need to track down the original, no matter how difficult that task might be. But first we need to address the Klingons’ interest in the Jatohr’s generator. Mister Spock, you tapped into their portable databank. What do we know about their research so far?”

  “As we suspected, Captain, the Klingons mean to weaponize the generator, if they can. Fortunately, they remain unaware so far of its origin or intended function. But I suggest we not underestimate them. They will obtain those facts, and many more, very soon.”

  “If they haven’t already,” Scott added.

  “Noted.” Kirk glanced at the mission profile, then looked at Chekov. “Ensign, were you able to continue scanning the Klingons during your retreat from the fortress?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Have you identified any flaws in their tactical response?”

  “None, sir.”

  “So luring their sentries out of position with a diversion—?”

  “Would be a futile effort,” Spock interrupted. “Given the size of their garrison inside the fortress, they could summon sufficient reinforcements to respond to any event, without compromising their basic line of defense.”

  Kirk nodded. Everything his officers had told him confirmed his own worst fears. “If I were the commander of that garrison, I’d have guards in every submerged hangar. And I’d put antipersonnel mines in the lake around the fortress.”

  “A logical response,” Spock said. “And well within their capabilities.”

  “Nonetheless, gentlemen, we need to find a way back inside that citadel—one that won’t send us to war with the Klingons.”

  Scott wrinkled his brow in dismay. “Tall order, Captain. The Klingons like doing things the old-fashioned way: never trust a machine when a warm body will do just as well.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If they relied more on automated defenses, it would be an engineering problem. But the Klingons are real belt-and-suspenders types. They’ll use a sensor grid, but they’ll also post lookouts. They’ll put passcodes on doors, but they’re just as likely to booby-trap them.”

  “Mister Scott is correct,” Spock added. “The Klingons have a knack for redundancy.”

  Hoping younger minds might yield fresher ideas, Kirk looked to Chekov and Sulu. “Ensign, if I ordered you to lead a mission back to that fortress, how would you do it?”

  “We could tunnel in from underneath.”

  “That would have the virtue of being unexpected. Unfortunately, it would take years when all we have are days. Mister Sulu: your opinion.”

  Put on the spot, Sulu reclined and pondered the question. “We’ve already breached their defenses once by coming in from below, through a pod hangar’s moon pool. That trick won’t work twice. They have transport-scattering force fields inside the fortress, so we can’t beam in.” He was quiet for a thoughtful pause. “The one advantage we still have is the ability to mask ourselves from their sensors—but as Mister Scott said, their sentries are watching for us now. So we’d have to come from a direction they wouldn’t expect. Since we can’t strike from below, that only leaves attacking from above.”

  “Explain,” Kirk said.

  “A dive from low orbit, sir, with heat shields and a parachute. If we block their sensors and drop in after nightfall, we could touch down on top of the citadel.”

  “Right into the arms of their rooftop guards,” Scott said.

  Sulu shrugged. “I never said the plan was perfect.”

  Kirk stood, and his officers mirrored him without delay. “Keep working the problem, gentlemen. If the Klingons weaponize that thing before we can take it back, we’ll have no choice but to blow it to kingdom come—and that’s not an acceptable outcome. Dismissed.”

  None of the others spoke as Kirk walked out the door, but he felt their eyes on his back—Spock’s most of all. And he knew exactly why.

  If they destroyed the citadel, Captain Una and her shipmates would never be able to return home.

  Eight

  “Utterly unacceptable!” Prang pounded his fist on the table­top to punctuate his thought, a quirk Sarek considered juvenile and somewhat transparent in its affectation. The Klingon councillor continued. “Control of those subsectors is vital to the security of the Empire!”

  His outburst drew a reply of equal ferocity from Sarek’s portly, white-bearded, and wide-snouted adviser on interstellar communications infrastructure, Gesh mor Tov of Tellar. “Have you lost your mind, Prang? All we’re asking for is the right to set up a subspace comm relay!”

  “A surveillance array, you mean!” Prang pointed at the star map currently shown on the room’s single large viewscreen. “A single spy platform there could intercept signals between all our major star systems along the Federation’s border, including those from Qo’noS itself!”

  Durok, one of Gorkon’s more sanguine advisers, added, “I’m afraid Councillor Prang is correct. Allowing the Federation to establish a communications relay station in that subsector would jeopardize the security of the Empire.” His expression brightened. “Perhaps we could establish and maintain the relay, and route your signal traffic for you.”

  Military adviser Beel Zeroh scrunched his brow at Durok. “You think we’d let a Klingon communications array handle Federation comm traffic? Are you serious?”

  “Are you?”

  Zeroh clenched his fist and snapped in half the stylus he was holding.

  Thinking it might be best to redirect the discussion, Sarek used the panel in front of him to switch the information on the room’s main viewscreen. “Let us table that conversation for later in the proceedings. At this time, let me suggest we move on to agricultural issues.”

  “A capital idea,” said Gempok, the Klingons’ adviser on matters of the interior. “Can I ask that we begin by addressing the invasive species your people introduced to Homog Three?”

  His question prompted looks of confusion among most of the members of the Federation delegation—all except Sarek, who had made a point of learning the Klingon names for the star systems and planets whose disputed sovereignty were items of contention for this summit. “With all respect, Lord Gempok, I believe you mean Sherman’s Planet. Though I must admit I am unclear with regard to what ‘invasive species’ your comment refers. It was my understanding all the tribbles were successfully removed from the planet’s surface.”

  “Not the tribbles, you toDSaH! The loSpev!”

  This time Sarek counted himself among the ranks of the perplexed—and it was his adviser on agricultural affairs, Cellinoor sh’Fairoh, who grasped Gempok’s meaning. “Lord Gempok,” the Andorian shen began, her timbre as gentle as could be, “do you mean to say that the Klingon Empire considers the grain known as quadrotriticale to be an invasive species?”

  “By definition, it cannot be anything else. Your scientists have interfered with Homog Three’s natural ecosystem, and my people will not just sit by and watch your Federation infest entire worlds with its genetically engineered crops!”

  Doing her best to remain nonconfrontational, sh’Fairoh replied, “Lord Gempok, I assure you, the engineered crops we’ve introduced to Sherman’s Planet are entirely safe, and pose no threat, directly or indirectly, to that world’s ecosystem.”

  Gempok shot a sidelong look down the table at his colleague Mardl, a smooth-headed, almost human-looking female Klingon who served on their delegation as legal counsel. “We’ve heard that lie from the Federation before,” Gempok said.

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bsp; Sarek knew his peers understood as well as he did Gempok’s allusion to the previous century’s infamous Augment virus, a genetic-engineering program based on human efforts to create a “superior” species. The virus had conferred some genomic enhancements, but at the cost of humanizing the patients’ appearances. That side effect had made its victims, the QuchHa’, objects of ridicule and oppression within their own culture.

  Even wheat grain has become a source of discord, Sarek reflected. He updated the on-screen information again. “Clearly, agricultural matters require further review before we revisit them. In which case, I suggest we move on to issues connected with currency exchange.”

  “You mean currency sabotage,” said Lord Motas, the emissary of the Klingon Imperial Treasury. His long, thin face was perfectly matched to his lanky physique and his dry, sardonic baritone. “Your economic system has no currency model. How can we set rates of exchange?”

  Taking her cue from Sarek, Aravella Gianaris answered the query. “Our economy of surplus might appear confusing, but I assure you, Lord Motas, it has a rational basis. While we no longer use cash, we have a robust system of credit and debit that—”

  “A fiat economy,” Motas sneered.

  “Not exactly,” Gianaris said. “It still relies on the conversion of energy to matter, so there are finite resources to consider. However, by leveraging economies of scale, establishing guaranteed personal incomes, and exempting certain sectors of endeavor from being tied to profit models, we’ve enabled—”

  “An interstellar culture of freeloaders,” Motas said, his disgust evident. “A Klingon works for what he earns.”

  “As do Federation citizens,” Gianaris said, “if they want anything more than simple state-funded housing and a subsistence income. But by eliminating the threat of poverty, we free our people to pursue lives of self-improvement, excellence, and achievement.”

  “You coddle your people,” grumbled General Orqom, who represented the Klingon High Command at the conference. “You make them dependent. Weak.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Gianaris said. “We achieve strength through unity.”

  Prang stood. “I have heard enough of this mewling prattle for one day. Ambassador Sarek, let us know when your people are ready to bring ideas to the table that do not insult our intelligence or ask us to be your chowIQpu’.”

  Unfamiliar with Prang’s parting epithet, Sarek looked to his delegation’s tlhIngan Hol translator, Saoirse Liu. The fair-skinned, dark-haired human woman declined to parse the vulgarity, demurring from her duty with a small wave that cautioned Sarek: Don’t ask.

  Across the table, the entire Klingon delegation got up. They departed en masse—all except Councillor Gorkon, who loomed over his place at the table with a grave countenance.

  Sarek stood and said to his people, “Give us the room, please.”

  His subordinates followed the Klingons out of the conference room. The last person to leave closed the room’s double doors, offering Sarek and Gorkon a rare moment of privacy.

  “A brief adjournment might be for the best,” Sarek said. “When we resume tomorrow, perhaps calmer voices will be able to prevail.”

  Gorkon sighed. “I certainly hope so, Mister Ambassador. Alas, many of my peers are unwilling to accept the truth of our predicament or the necessity of these proceedings.”

  “It is our job to impress it upon those we lead.”

  “Quite true.” Gorkon’s shoulders slumped, as if the burden of responsibility had become all too real. “I will do what I can to move my people toward compromise before we reconvene. But for all our sakes, I hope your reputation as a diplomat is well earned. Your delegation can be swayed by reason. But if Prang gets his way . . . mine will bow only to the sword.”

  * * *

  Dream logic. In all his many years, never had Sarek ever heard of two words that less deserved to be used in conjunction. Since his youth, he had been trained to hone his thoughts with rigorous Vulcan disciplines designed to keep in check the deep and violent cauldron of his people’s emotions, which in eons long past had nearly led the Vulcan race to its destruction. What few non-Vulcans ever learned was that his people’s mental training was not limited to the waking hours. Even when a Vulcan slumbered, he or she continued the battle for emotional balance.

  He had learned to master the slings and arrows of waking life, to weather the indignities of other, less logic-driven people, with the presence of his conscious mind. But when he slept, he had to contend with the most wily, cunning, and dangerous threat of all—his own subconscious mind, and its endless battalions of surreal imagery and personified anxieties.

  To contend with the danger, Sarek, like most other Vulcans, had learned the art of lucid dreaming. He had trained himself to remain alert to the irregularities of a dream state, to note its odd perceptual shifts, irrational physics, and uncanny coincidences.

  This evening, his mind had conjured a detailed simulacrum of the conference room, complete with his and Gorkon’s delegations in their assigned seats—and giant insects gnawing through the walls, floor, and ceiling, so that the entire space threatened to collapse in on itself.

  How trite and easily parsed. I had hoped my subconscious might yield a vision of moderate subtlety. With a mental command he banished the massive termites and willed both teams of delegates—all of whom he knew to be mere extensions of himself within the dream world—into silence so that he could use the dream’s slowed perception of time’s passage for meditation upon the issues that would top the next day’s agenda. If I am to spend my hours of rest mired in the concerns of work, I shall at least do so on my own terms.

  The first day at the table had been marred by one contretemps after another. Sarek was certain that had been the Klingons’ intention from the outset. They had come prepared to stir up controversy on every point of discussion. No matter how Sarek had tried to steer the conversation, the Klingons had found cause for vehement objection. That sort of obstruction could not be counted upon to occur on its own, or even to be reliably improvised in the moment. No, it took careful planning; months of research and rehearsal. Except for Gorkon himself, the Klingons had come ready to provoke a fight.

  But why? They must know what will happen if we defy the Organians. Sarek wondered if that might be the point. Their bluster might be designed to force us into the role of peacemakers by way of concession. The Klingons seem to think us so fearful of incurring the Organians’ wrath that they believe we will accede to all their demands in order to preserve the peace.

  It was a rather logical strategy, viewed in context. But then why was Gorkon not taking the same tack? Were his overtures to peace intended to offset his subordinates’ saber rattling and keep the Federation at the table long enough to give the Empire what it really wanted? Or was Gorkon exactly what he claimed to be—a diplomat who truly desired to forge a lasting peace?

  Finding the answer to that question, Sarek decided, would very likely determine whether the peace conference was destined to succeed or doomed to fail.

  As he began to formulate conversational gambits with which to open the next day’s talks, Sarek was roused from his sleep by a shrill wailing of alarms. He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. It was still dark outside; the chrono on the bedside table put the local time as roughly three hours before sunrise. Next to him in bed, Amanda stirred and blinked groggily toward the window. Her voice was dry and brittle. “Sarek? What’s happening?”

  “I do not know.” He got out of bed and grabbed his robe off the bench at the foot of the bed. “Please stay here while—” His personal comm device buzzed on his nightstand. He picked it up and flipped it open. “This is Sarek.”

  The nervous voice of his Bolian aide Isa Frain replied over the comm, “Sorry to wake you, Mister Ambassador, but there’s an emergency at the Klingon residence hall.”

  “What manner of emergency, Isa?”

&
nbsp; “They won’t say, but they’re really angry.” Her voice grew more fearful. “Sir, they’re shouting about going to war.”

  “I am on my way. Sarek out.” He closed the comm and took clean clothes from his closet. Once dressed, he bid Amanda farewell with a look. She reciprocated with a small nod, having long since adapted to the simple gestures of Vulcan courtesy. He pocketed his comm on his way out, then hurried from their suite to fend off yet another diplomatic catastrophe.

  Cloaked in shadow, Sarek crossed the New Athens University quad, moving from one pool of lamplight to the next, until he arrived at the dormitory where the Klingon delegation had been housed. A crowd was gathered outside. As he drew closer, he saw that local peace officers and university security personnel had surrounded the Klingon delegates, who shouted threats and profanities in their native tongue.

  Sarek shouldered through the wall of police. “Let me through. I am Ambassador Sarek, step aside.” When he reached the Klingons, he searched in vain for their one reasonable voice, only to find himself confronted by Prang. The burly councillor seized Sarek by the front of his cassock and almost lifted him off the ground. “You, Vulcan! You did this!”

  Three police officers intervened to break Prang’s hold on Sarek. Liberated from the grip of the madman, Sarek asked in a firm but level tone, “Where is Councillor Gorkon? I wish to speak directly with him.”

  Struggling to escape the police, Prang shouted, “You mock us? How dare you!” Spittle flew from between his bared teeth as he added, “Fek’lhr take you, you petaQ!”

  “I do not understand. Why do you say I mock you?”

  “You ask for Gorkon, when you know damned well you’re the one who murdered him!”

  For half a breath, Sarek’s hard-won emotional control nearly deserted him. He answered Prang through a mask of forced grace. “I am sure there must be some mistake, Councillor.”

  “There is no mistake! He’s gone! Vanished from a locked room in the night! And we Klingons all know exactly who’s to blame!” He wrested one arm from the police and pointed at Sarek. “I’ve already summoned our cruiser the HoS’leth to show you the error of your ways! You will die for this, Vulcan coward!”