Текст книги "Storming Heaven"

Captain Kutal entered the main transporter room of the I.K.S. Zin’za to find his first officer waiting for him. BelHoQ’s lazy stance and saturnine glare radiated disgust as he grumbled, “Has that yIntagh Brakk lost his mind?”

“He claims our channels are being monitored and refuses to share sensitive intel over the comms,” Kutal said. Before his first officer could protest, he added, “I know it’s stupid, but he’s the fleet commander. We have no choice but to do this his way.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the transporter controls. “Beam over his lackey and get this done with.”

BelHoQ stepped back to the transporter controls and activated the system, filling the compartment with the rich hum of charging energizer coils. Kutal kept his true concerns to himself as he faced the platform and awaited Brakk’s courier. It had been less than a week since the Zin’za and the baS’jev had joined Brakk’s ship, the Qu’vang, as its combat escorts. Brakk had wasted no time splitting up Kutal’s and Chang’s ships, immediately ordering the baS’jev on a long-range reconnaissance patrol while keeping the Zin’za close by. Just as Captain Chang had predicted, Brakk—no doubt with prompting from his father, Duras—had pegged Kutal and Chang as hostile operatives of their rival, Gorkon. Regardless, the haste with which Brakk had responded had taken Kutal by surprise. He had expected himself and Chang to be held at arm’s length for a few months while Brakk assessed their strengths and vulnerabilities. Instead, the impulsive young commander had gone directly to dividing and conquering.

Even if I respect him for nothing else, Kutal decided, I have to admire his aggression. But that begs the question: Is he really paranoid about using the comms? Or is this merely a ruse?

“The Qu’vang is signaling ready,” BelHoQ said. “Energizing.”

A crimson flurry of high-energy particles swirled into view above one of the target pads, and within it a Klingon warrior took shape. Seconds later the glow of the beam faded, and the enlisted crewman stepped down and saluted Kutal with his right fist raised against his chest. “Captain Kutal, I bear a message for you from Captain Brakk.” He held out a data card in his left hand. “It is coded for your eyes only, sir.”

Kutal took the data card from the soldier. “Naturally.”

“My orders are to wait here for your encoded reply.”

“Whatever. Stay here. Don’t touch anything.” Kutal headed for the door and subtly cued BelHoQ to follow him. As they left the transporter room, an armed guard entered to keep Brakk’s messenger under watch until they returned.

Neither of them spoke on the walk forward to Kutal’s quarters, but as he led BelHoQ inside, the first officer stopped in the doorway. “He said the message was for your eyes only.”

“Do I look like I give a damn? Get in here, and lock the door behind you.”

BelHoQ secured the door while Kutal crossed to his desk, sat down, and inserted the data card into a slot beside his computer terminal. The imperial emblem, a black trefoil against a red background, appeared on the screen as a guttural, synthetic voice issued from the monitor’s hidden speakers: “State command authorization code.”

“Kutal wa’ pagh SuD loS Hut Doq vagh.”

“Command authorization accepted.” The imperial emblem faded to a vid of Captain Brakk in his office aboard the Qu’vang. It was Kutal’s opinion that Brakk was far too thin, his face too lean, and his hair too short. Worse, his nose seemed perpetually wrinkled, as if he spent every waking moment afflicted by a foul odor only he could detect.

“Greetings, Captain Kutal. You are a clever man, so I’m sure you already suspect there is no actual risk of our communications being intercepted. There are three reasons I have sent you this message in this manner. The first is that our rank and file have no need to know of our roles as pawns in the political games of our betters. The second is that I do not trust you enough to risk coming aboard your vessel. I have reason to believe you and your ship were assigned as my escorts in order to spy upon me for Councillor Gorkon, and possibly to move against me if the opportunity should present itself. I do not intend to give you that opportunity, Captain.

“The third and final reason I have sent you this message will become apparent soon enough. By now, your ship’s internal comms have been off-line for close to half a minute, and all compartments except your quarters have been flooded with neurocine gas.”

Kutal tensed and shot a look at BelHoQ. “Get my scanner from the second drawer.”

The first officer retrieved the scanner from Kutal’s desk and activated it as Brakk’s recording continued. “I have spared your life this long only because I wanted to thank you personally for helping me murder your valiant crew. The data card I sent was loaded with a computer virus. Normally, your ship’s data network would have scanned for such a threat and intercepted it, but by generously providing your voiceprint and command code, you’ve enabled my program to bypass your ship’s filters and take control of the intruder-control systems.”

BelHoQ showed Kutal the scanner’s readout; it confirmed Brakk’s message. “We might be able to reach the nearest escape pod before the gas takes us,” he said. Kutal got up, hurried to his lavatory, soaked two cloths with water, and tossed one to BelHoQ on their way to the door.

“Good-bye, Captain,” Brakk said from the computer terminal. “I doubt you’ll earn a place in Sto-Vo-Kor for blundering into a trap, so I’ll look forward to our next meeting in Gre’thor. Brakk out.” The message ended, and the screen went black.

A subtle hiss from the overhead ventilation ducts gave warning that Kutal’s quarters were being flooded with the deadly toxic gas. He unlocked the door, which hissed open. Though the air outside his quarters looked no different than that inside, an excruciating stinging assaulted his eyes, which watered instantly even as he squeezed them shut. Kutal and BelHoQ stumbled out into the corridor, holding their breath, mouths and noses covered by the damp rags. Squinting through the pain, they felt their way down the passage and stepped over the corpses littering the deck. Every bit of exposed flesh on Kutal’s face and arms felt as if it were on fire as he and BelHoQ staggered the last few steps toward the escape pod.

His hand was poised over the control pad to open the pod’s hatch when, out of the corner of his bloodied eye, he noted the blurred profile of a figure standing in the middle of the corridor. When he turned his head to look, he saw a Klingon in an environmental suit, pointing a disruptor at him. Then came a deafening screech and a blinding flash—and, with them, an end to his pain.

If not for his intense aversion to risk and his innate loathing for embarrassment, Brakk might have considered his victory over Captain Kutal and the crew of the Zin’za an empty one. But a win was a win, and all that really mattered was that Kutal was dead and Brakk was not, and that all the vital secrets Kutal had possessed about the Taurus Reach would soon belong to Brakk.

Gorkon was a fool to think he could saddle me with such obvious traitors, Brakk gloated. Now the House of Duras will know what’s so important about the Gonmog Sector—and then we’ll finally be able to get those Romulan petaQpu’ to back our rise to power over the Empire.

Brakk presided over the bridge of the Qu’vang from his elevated command chair, his attention fixed upon the main view-screen’s image of the Zin’za adrift in space. He was about to call for a status update when his first officer, Nuqdek, appeared. “We’ve bypassed the lockouts on the Zin’za’s protected computer core,” he said. “Its contents are being copied to our databanks now. We will have everything momentarily.”

“Well done, Commander. Have all our people returned from the Zin’za?”

“Yes, sir.” Nuqdek seemed troubled. “We’ve intercepted several subspace messages from Captain Chang on the baS’jev. He’s trying to reach Captain Kutal.”

“What of it? Let him enjoy the silence.”

A crewman at an aft station on the bridge called out, “Commander?” When he had Nuqdek’s attention, he gave the first officer a single nod. Nuqdek returned the gesture, then said to Brakk, “The databanks have been copied over, Captain. Do you wish to put a tractor beam on the Zin’za for its return to Somraw?”

“That hunk of excrement isn’t going anywhere,” Brakk said.

Nuqdek warily studied the battle cruiser on the viewscreen. “How, then, are we to explain its disappearance?”

Brakk looked down at his first officer. Some days I just don’t understand this man. “Why should we explain anything, Commander? Space is dangerous. Ships vanish all the time, even imperial warships. Why think the Zin’za immune to such a fate?”

“You mean to destroy it, then.”

“Of course,” Brakk boasted. “I armed its self-destruct system ten minutes ago. After I trigger it, nothing will remain of that overhyped rust pile except dust and memories.”

The first officer’s discomfort with that news was obvious to Brakk, despite Nuqdek’s effort to mask his unease. “Permission to speak, Captain?”

“What is it?”

“I suggest we salvage useful material and munitions from the Zin’za before you trigger its self-destruct package. Destroying the ship is obviously necessary for operational security, but it seems wrong to waste parts and torpedoes that could be made to serve this vessel.”

He waved away Nuqdek’s request. “Absolutely not. The last thing we need is for some overzealous junior officer at Somraw Station to notice that our weapons bay is stocked with torpedoes from a lot that was used to supply the Zin’za.” He directed his orders to the bridge officers surrounding him and Nuqdek. “Terminate all data channels to that ship! Helm, reverse thrusters, put us two hundred thousand qelIqams aft of the Zin’za. Tactical, raise shields.” With an oblique glance at Nuqdek, he asked, “Any last words for the fallen?”

For once, Nuqdek was wise enough to hold his tongue. He faced the viewscreen and lifted his chin, a final gesture of respect for the dishonored dead.

The helmsman reported, “We’re in position, Captain.”

Without ceremony or pity, Brakk pressed a button on his chair’s armrest, triggering the Zin’za’s self-destruct package. The battle cruiser erupted in an orange-white fireball that quickly spawned several more explosions, washing out the viewscreen for several seconds.

It was the most beautiful vision of destruction Brakk had ever seen. He couldn’t help but beam with satisfaction. Wherever you are, Gorkon . . . you’re next.

Confronted with the latest news from Captain Chang, Gorkon felt as if an oppressive weight had fallen upon his shoulders. “Are you certain the Zin’za’s been destroyed?”

“As certain as I can be, my lord.” His fury was palpable, even over a subspace channel. “Brakk claims he sent Captain Kutal and his ship on a routine patrol from which they never returned. Meanwhile, his ship’s newest combat escort just happens to be the Valkaya—a Romulan bird-of-prey whose captain volunteered its service to Brakk.”

“When was the last time you heard from Kutal?”

“Four days ago. He’s missed his last three check-ins. Which would suggest his ship was destroyed while mine was on its own pointless recon mission, as ordered by Brakk.” His mien took on a cast of suspicion. “Why would Brakk have risked so bold an attack on other Klingons? What could have made that worth the potential consequences?”

“Most likely, the information in the Zin’za’s databanks.” Gorkon entered commands via the interface panel beside the screen. “I’m elevating your security clearance so that I can tell you this. What you’re about to hear is classified at the highest levels.”

“Understood, my lord.”

“The Empire’s interest in the Gonmog Sector is driven by more than a desire for territory and resources. Five years ago, a Starfleet vessel, the Constellation, made a discovery that motivated the Federation to build a major starbase far beyond their own borders. It became clear that there was something there that they considered vital to their interests. We soon learned it was related to an extinct precursor civilization, one that had left technology on worlds throughout the sector and complex information concealed inside genetic sequences.

“So far, only the Empire and the Federation have actively pursued the secrets of this ancient race. The Tholians have taken aggressive action to impede both our efforts, for reasons we don’t yet understand. Starfleet’s scientists seem to have surpassed our own in their understanding of the alien devices, while the Romulans have, until now, apparently been unaware of the reason for this tripartite conflict so far from our respective territories.

“I have reason to suspect Duras and his allies had already stolen a limited amount of information regarding the Shedai. Apparently, that taste merely whetted their appetite. Captain Kutal and the Zin’za had been at the forefront of the Empire’s investigation of this sector, and they had amassed a significant degree of raw intelligence about the Taurus Reach. Their involvement had been known only by myself and a few trusted contacts inside the High Command and Imperial Intelligence. But it seems Duras became aware of their role, and he took advantage of Brakk’s proximity to steal the information from the Zin’za’s computers.”

Chang’s intense focus made it clear he understood the gravity of the matter. “If Brakk has acquired that data, then it most likely has already been passed on to the Romulans.”

“Precisely. Duras and his son might not even grasp the significance of the information until they’ve already traded it for favors. But once the Romulans learn what’s at stake in the Gonmog Sector, they’ll stop at nothing to acquire its secrets—most likely by using Duras and his cronies to do their dirty work.” Gorkon clenched his fists. He wondered for a moment whether he should share his latest findings, then decided he had so few allies, especially on Qo’noS, that someone else needed to know the truth, just in case something happened to him before he could act on it. “There’s something else, Captain: I’ve gathered a great deal of disturbing intelligence from a number of sources. It seems we have underestimated our foes, and quite badly.”

“In what regard?”

He leaned closer to the screen, as if huddling to share a confidence with someone across the table. “The House of Duras has begun consolidating power in the most ruthless and efficient manner I’ve ever seen. Their operatives are moving against anyone they perceive as a rival, an enemy, or even a mere impediment, and they are using every means possible: assassination, extortion, blackmail, bribery, fraud . . . whatever it takes to make themselves unassailable.”

“Have you discussed this with Chancellor Sturka? Perhaps he can—”

“It’s too late for that.” Gorkon simmered with righteous anger toward his former ally and patron. “I’ve uncovered evidence that links many recent actions by Duras to the chancellor himself. Apparently, despite Sturka’s long hatred of the House of Duras, now that their accumulated wealth and political power has reached a critical mass, the chancellor sees more advantage in allying himself with their treachery than he does in opposing it.”

Now even Chang seemed worried. “How deep are their connections?”

“Their estates and financial holdings are in the process of merging via proxies, and my sources inside Sturka’s House suggest the chancellor and Duras have made secret betrothals for several of their respective scions, to cement the bond between their Houses.”

“This cannot be allowed to come to pass,” Chang said. “If their Houses unite, the Duras family will be like a blood tick on a targ’s back—entrenched in the highest echelons of Klingon society for generations to come. And Duras would almost certainly replace you as Sturka’s chief adviser on the High Council.”

Gorkon wondered if Chang thought him a fool who needed to be told the obvious. “I am well aware of the consequences that would attend the ascendance of Duras. That is why we can no longer wait to take action. Duras and his House are on the offensive, which is when one is always at the greatest risk of being off balance. If we can break his momentum now, and goad him and his House into a mistake when they are the focus of attention and envy, it could be enough to put them back in check for the foreseeable future.”

“Whatever service you require of me, my lord, you’ll have it. No matter what the cost to myself or my honor, I will not permit Duras to become chancellor.”

The declaration coaxed a thin smile from Gorkon. “Your loyalty honors me, Chang.”

“I have one concern, my lord, and it’s more for your sake than for mine.”

“Speak freely.”

“If the House of Duras is as powerful, ruthless, and entrenched as you say, we may find that opposing their interests could be considered the same as opposing the chancellor’s, or even the Empire’s. How do we fight such an honorless fiend without being branded as traitors?”

It was a question to which Gorkon had given a great deal of thought during many an anguished and sleepless night. Now, at the moment of decision, he divined the answer.

“By striking at him from a direction he does not expect.”

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