Legacies #2 Page 8

  “I assure you, Councillor, there has been a mistake. One that we will investigate and resolve. Until then, I implore you not to make any rash decisions.” Sarek turned away and whispered to a nearby police commander, “Take him and the others back to their suites. And summon a crime scene investigation unit at once.”

  “Yes, Mister Ambassador.”

  Sarek stepped away as the police corralled the Kling­ons back inside their dormitory. Once he was well out of the Klingons’ earshot, he retrieved his comm from his pocket and flipped it open. “Sarek to Isa Frain.”

  His aide answered. “Go ahead, Mister Ambassador.”

  “Councillor Prang has summoned a Klingon starship to Centaurus. We must keep that vessel in check, or we will lose control of this conference. Please contact Starfleet Command and let them know we require immediate assistance. We need the Enterprise.”

  Nine

  Most nights, Kirk would have resented the aggressive double beep of the comm in his quarters during the small hours of gamma shift. Tonight, however, he had been plagued by restlessness, tossing and turning, unable to find comfort in the spaces between bad dreams, even when he had focused on the soothing hush of the ventilation system and the steady vibrations of the engines through the bulkheads. Liberated from his insomnia by the interruption, he was almost relieved to be able to roll over and activate the comm channel. “Kirk here.”

  He was answered by Lieutenant Seth Dickinson, a young command-track officer who was earning his stripes standing overnight shifts as the officer of the watch. “Sorry to wake you, Captain. We’ve received a distress signal addressed specifically to you.”

  “To me? From whom?”

  “Ambassador Sarek, sir. He says the talks with the Kling­ons on Centaurus have broken down—and that the Klingons have summoned one of their starships to the system.”

  At that, Kirk was out of his bunk and getting dressed. “Do the Klingons realize bringing a warship into Federation space might be seen as an act of war?”

  “They don’t seem to care, sir. Should I respond to Ambassador Sarek?”

  “Not yet.” He pulled on his trousers. “Did Sarek say why the talks failed?”

  “Yes, sir. Klingon Councillor Gorkon disappeared overnight, and his delegation is blaming it on foul play.”

  Tugging on one of his boots, Kirk said, “Foul play? Based on what?”

  “That’s unclear, sir.”

  Kirk put on his other boot. “Have you alerted Mister Spock?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have him meet me on the bridge in five minutes. Kirk out.” He closed the comm channel with a quick press of his thumb on the switch, took a clean green command tunic from his drawer, and pulled it over his head on his way out of his quarters to the corridor and turbolift.

  Four and a half minutes later, Kirk strode onto the bridge. Dickinson stood from the command chair and stepped aside as Kirk maneuvered himself into it. “Report, Lieutenant.”

  “I ordered long-range scans of the sectors adjacent to Centaurus. We’ve detected a Klingon D7 heavy cruiser moving at high warp toward the system.”

  It was just as Kirk had feared. “Do we know which one?”

  “Its energy signature matches the I.K.S. HoS’leth, out of Mempa.”

  Kirk frowned. “I’ve heard of the HoS’leth. That’s General Kovor’s ship.”

  “Is he—?” Dickinson’s question was cut off by Spock’s arrival in the next turbolift.

  The first officer descended into the command well to stand with Kirk and Dickinson. “Reporting as ordered, Captain.”

  “Mister Spock. Your father, Ambassador Sarek, is requesting Starfleet support at the peace conference on Centaurus.”

  A quintessentially Vulcan arch of one eyebrow. “Most odd. Did he say why?”

  “The leader of the Klingon delegation disappeared. Now his underlings are looking to use his absence as a reason to declare war.”

  The news caused Spock no obvious concern. “No doubt there are closer vessels to Centaurus than the Enter­prise.”

  “Three, actually. But none that are up to facing off with a Klingon cruiser.” Noting Spock’s uptick in curiosity at that detail, Kirk added, “The HoS’leth, out of Mempa.”

  “General Kovor,” Spock said, his manner at once grave.

  Kirk shifted his attention to Dickinson. “Lieutenant, open a channel to Starfleet Command. Request permission for us to divert to Centaurus at maximum warp, and make sure Admiral Wong has all the relevant details regarding why.”

  “Aye, sir.” The trim, crew-cut young officer climbed the steps to the communications post, where he relayed Kirk’s orders to the gamma-shift communications officer.

  Spock dropped his voice and positioned himself to keep his conversation with Kirk isolated from the rest of the bridge crew. “If Councillor Gorkon has been murdered—”

  “Then the treaty is at risk,” Kirk said, “along with the security of the Federation. But if the Organians step in, they’re likely to hamstring the Klingons and us in equal measure.”

  “A fact of which the Klingons are no doubt aware, Captain.”

  It was clear to Kirk that Spock was already considering the wider ramifications of the conference’s potential failure. “What are you thinking, Spock?”

  “Any number of parties in this region of space would have reason to want these talks to fail. If foul play has, in fact, befallen Councillor Gorkon, I think the most likely suspect will be an agent of neither the Federation nor the Klingon Empire, but of a power foreign to both—one that has a vested interest in seeing us and the Klingons come to ruin.”

  Kirk nodded. “That makes sense. But who would have the resources to bypass all the security at the conference?”

  “Difficult to say. But if I were to hazard a guess? I would limit my suspicions to the Orion Syndicate, the Nalori Republic, and the Romulan Star Empire.”

  Searching his memory for a detail from a day or two earlier, Kirk said, “Spock, wasn’t the last reported location of Lisa Bates’s Romulan bird-of-prey the Kaleb Sector?”

  “It was.”

  “And Kaleb Sector is adjacent to Alpha Centauri Sector.”

  “Also true.”

  “Could those facts be related?”

  “Possibly. But without additional evidence, I can’t say for certain.”

  Dickinson returned to the command well to stand with Kirk and Spock. “Captain, we have orders from Starfleet Command to proceed at best possible speed to Centaurus and render whatever aid Ambassador Sarek deems necessary.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Kirk raised his voice to issue orders. “Helm, set course for Centaurus, warp factor eight.” He watched the streaks of stars on the main viewscreen grow longer as the Constitution-class starship accelerated to its maximum speed. “Mister Spock, take the ship to yellow alert—and start running battle drills.”

  Spock balked at the order. “Are you sure that’s necessary, Captain?”

  “It is, Mister Spock. We might not be looking for a fight at Centaurus, but I have a bad feeling the Klingons will be.”

  * * *

  Smoke seared Sadira’s lungs and stung her eyes. Toxic fog choked every compartment and corridor inside the Velibor; it poured from overhead vents, snaked through the gaps behind the bulkheads, and left the crew of the bird-of-prey hacking phlegm and blood into the sleeves of their uniforms as they toiled to restore the ship’s many compromised systems.

  No one on the command deck paid Sadira any mind while they worked. Focused on the tasks at hand, they treated her as if she weren’t there at all. An engineer reported from inside the smoking husk of a sensor console, “Overloads on all the main circuits. We’ll have to bypass.”

  “Noted,” said Subcommander Bedisa. “Helm, how’s your control now?”

  “Still sluggish at subli
ght,” said Toporok. “Warp navigation still offline.”

  A flash of light preceded a burst of flames along the compartment’s overhead. An officer with a firefighting rig hurried over and squelched the flames before they could spread or devour any more of the ship’s suddenly limited and dwindling supply of air.

  Lights stuttered and went dark on the weapons console. A garbled hash of static and untranslated alien gibberish spilled from the overhead speakers, thanks to the shutdown of the communications station, which normally buffered and filtered such noise.

  In all the confusion and malfunction that swamped the command deck, the only system that still registered as online and operating within normal parameters was the cloaking device. For that bit of good fortune Sadira was thankful—because the Velibor’s invisibility was, at the moment, its only defense.

  Angry voices traveled up the corridor from the ship’s aft sections, announcing the approach of Commander Creelok and Centurion Mirat. The two graybeards traded complaints as they emerged from the hazy veil hanging in the darkness. The first words Sadira heard clearly were Creelok’s: “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘dead in space.’ ”

  “Dead would imply our position was stable, Commander. We’re adrift.”

  “I bow to your vocabulary.” As the commander and centurion stepped onto the command deck, Creelok paused to note Sadira’s presence with a disapproving glare. “Well, if it isn’t our personal saboteur. Come to pour epoxy on the controls? Or maybe erase the databanks?”

  She ignored their slights. “I merely stand ready to assist with repairs.”

  “Emphasis on merely,” the centurion said as he passed her. He followed Creelok to the compartment’s octagonal main console.

  Creelok keyed in a command on his panel. “Let’s see if this works.” He made a final adjustment, then said in a bolder voice, “Engine room, command. Ranimir, can you hear me?”

  Over the hastily restored internal comm, the chief engineer’s voice was reedy and faint behind a scratch of static. “I hear you, Commander.”

  Bedisa took her place at the main console, at the node beside Creelok’s. “Still no improvement on the helm controls. Databanks remain scrambled.”

  Mirat asked, “What about environmental systems?”

  “All offline,” Bedisa said. “Current repair estimate is six hours.”

  The commander looked displeased. “That’s going to make for some stale air.”

  Mirat dismissed the issue with a grimace. “We’ll survive.” He shot a venomous look at Sadira. “As long as our power reserves hold.”

  “We’re doing what we can,” Ranimir said from engineering. “But between the cloaking device and that crazy Tal Shiar gadget, we’re tapping all our reserves just to keep gravity on.”

  “Prioritize the cloaking device,” Creelok said. “After that, we need helm functions, then the databanks, and everything else after that. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir. Engineering out.” The channel closed with a scratchy wail of feedback.

  The commander confided some further instructions to Mirat, then he stepped away from the console, took Sadira by her arm, and led her off the command deck, down a narrow passageway that led to his quarters. When they reached his cabin, he opened the door using its manual controls, then shoved her inside. He followed her in and stood between her and the open doorway. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

  “Did I know your ship would prove defective and your crew incompetent? No.”

  “Careful, Major. That device you tied into our ­systems—what is it? Where did it come from? And why did it nearly cripple my ship when you turned it on?”

  She couldn’t help but strike a haughty note. “Do other people find your bluster intimidating, Commander? Because I find it tedious.”

  “Answer my questions, or I’ll put you out an airlock.”

  “The Tal Shiar would take a dim view of such action.”

  Creelok was unperturbed. “They’ll be welcome to file a complaint.” He prowled forward and loomed over her, his countenance darkening with menace. “Tell me what you’ve done to my ship, damn you. That thing was active for less than a minute”—he gestured at the emergency lights and smoke—“and it did this. Explain. Now.”

  Sadira took a breath to compose herself. Then she looked Creelok in the eye. “I owe you many things, Commander. My thanks, for your assistance. My apologies, for these unexpected consequences. Maybe even a future debt of obligation, if our mission ends in success. But the one thing I’m certain I don’t owe you, in any form, is an explanation. Put into simple terms, Commander, the details of my mission—and those of the alien technology upon which it relies—are so far beyond your security level that if I were to answer your questions, I should be obliged to kill you—and then myself.”

  “I would have no objection to the latter consequence.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But it changes nothing.”

  She moved to step past him. He raised his arm and blocked her way by force. “You’re playing with your life here, Major. My crew doesn’t like being used as pawns. Push them too far, and I guarantee they’ll make you regret it.”

  “Then I’d suggest you impress upon them the unpleasant truth that I have operational authority for the duration of this mission. And that a mutiny against me will end not just their careers but their lives—and those of their loved ones, their friends, and anyone else they might possibly care about.” She made a blade of her hand and thrust it into Creelok’s ribs with enough vigor to knock the breath from his lungs but not hard enough to break any bones. He dropped his arm, and she stepped past him, only to pause on the far side of the open doorway.

  “Get your ship and your crew in order, Commander. Our mission is not yet over—and I mean to see it finished, at any cost.”

  Ten

  Most of what the Starfleet refugees had been able to break down and pack for travel had been gathered in an orderly fashion, in the center of the camp. Taking a cursory mental inventory, Una noted with some surprise a detail that was obvious in retrospect, but which had jogged her memory only when she had consciously looked for it. She faced Shimizu, who approached bearing another armful of bundled tools. “Tim? Am I seeing things, or does this camp have no stockpile of food and water?”

  Her query halted him in midstep. Befuddled, he surveyed the same pile of tools, weapons, and makeshift shelter elements that had led her to ask the question. “I guess you’re right. I think I noticed that once, too. But it was a long time ago.” He shook his head. “Can’t remember the last time I even thought about it.”

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  Another long, perplexed pause left Shimizu troubled. “I don’t know.”

  It was clear to Una there was nothing to be gained from pressing her old friend further. She waved him past her, toward the load-out stack. “Never mind. Not important. Drop your gear and take a rest before we move out.”

  “You got it, Captain.”

  He shuffled away while she looked up at the unchanging sky. What is this place?

  Her moment of anxious reflection was interrupted by the approach of Feneb, whose arms swung in long arcs as he loped across the dusty ground on a direct path to Una. He had come alone, which Una took as a hopeful sign—a lack of fear if not an outright display of trust.

  He greeted her by pressing his hand over his chest and briefly averting his eyes downward. “Leader Una, please do not seek the enemy city.”

  “I need to, Feneb.”

  The grizzled Usildar fidgeted and swayed, a behavior she had not seen before, but one that conveyed denial coupled with vehement refusal. “We are safe in the canyon. Soon you will have a way home. You should take shelter and wait with us.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. Time is strange here. If we wait too long in the canyon, we
might miss our chance to go home.” Pessimism welled up from some dark chasm inside her. “Assuming we haven’t missed it already.”

  Feneb scraped his knuckles in the dirt with each lazy swing of his arms. “It is dangerous to face the enemy, more than you know. Better to hide.”

  How could she make him understand? “That’s not possible anymore. The Jatohr know the gate was opened. Their sentry globes will be watching the arrival point.”

  Arm outstretched, Feneb pointed a crooked finger at Una’s phaser. “But you have fire.”

  “Yes, but mine is the only phaser that works, and it might not be enough. We saw one globe search the canyon, but there could be more. If we want to go home, I’ll need to lure them away from the gateway.”

  His stare turned hard, and his body language turned defensive. “My people will not leave. We will stay here.” He inched closer to Una. His voice became a hoarse whisper. “This place obeys the enemy. No one can fight them here—not even you, Leader Una.”

  “I’m not looking to fight them. I want to negotiate with them.”

  “They will not bargain. This is a waste of time and a needless danger.”

  “You may be right. But I have a duty to seek peace before I accept conflict.”

  Behind her, the other Starfleet refugees had gathered around the load-out staging point. A dozen meters away, atop a cluster of rocks, a few dozen Usildar observed the discussion. Some looked tense, others frightened. As futile as the effort felt, Una knew she had to make her appeal to Feneb at least once more before she abandoned him and his tribe to their fates.

  “Please, go with my people. You’ll all be safer together than apart.”

  “We will not leave the canyon.”

  “But if the portal opens and you’re still here, we won’t be able to keep it open long enough for you to reach us. Your only way home is to be there when it opens.”