Текст книги "Reap the Whirlwind"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

There was no direct reply over the open channel, just the muted, muffled background sounds of powered tools in use and tired engineers grumbling profanities so harsh that they would make a Denebian slime devil recoil in fear.

On the main viewer, the change was subtle at first—a sense that the burning orb of the star called Jinoteur was growing closer, larger, brighter. Then its fiery presence was eclipsed, literally, by the collision of its fourth planet with all of its moons. A storm of planetary debris scattered from the apocalyptic impacts, revealing glowing orange volcanic cores. It was a terrifying but utterly compelling vision of destruction.

And it was expanding toward the Sagittarius.

“The Rocinante is safely away,” McLellan reported.

Beyond the rocky vista of a shattered planet and its broken moons, the star-flecked expanse of the galaxy distorted into bent streaks that continued to stretch, until they were well on their way to becoming endless rings of light.

“Mains online,” zh’Firro said crisply as she engaged the warp drive. Nassir thought the engines’ thrumming sounded off-pitch, atonal, sickly. He didn’t know if that was a product of the hasty repairs or of the distorted nature of the deforming region of space-time that they were racing to escape.

The ringlets of distorted starlight unbent and straightened into long, soft streaks. As the pitch of the engines normalized, zh’Firro said calmly, “We’re clear of the anomaly, sir.”

“Take us back to sublight,” Nassir said. “Xiong, keep scanning the Jinoteur system, I want as much data as we—”

“I can’t, sir,” Xiong said. “It’s gone.”

Nassir was not a fan of exaggerations. “The entire system can’t have been destroyed that quickly. Even if it was, studying the debris could—”

“There is no debris,” Xiong interrupted. He patched in an image on the main viewer: an empty starfield. “There’s nothing left. That wrinkle in space-time swallowed every planet, every moon, even the star itself. It’s gone, sir. Just…gone.”

Quinn sounded upset. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

“As in, it’s not there anymore,” Terrell replied.

Pennington was arriving late to the conversation between Quinn and Terrell, who was looking even more haggard than he had when they’d found him. The two men were huddled around the navigation console, staring at a blank grid on the starmap.

Shaking his head and holding up his palms, Quinn turned away. “Please don’t explain. I don’t even want to know.”

Theriault entered the cockpit and stood beside Pennington. “Where’s the Sagittarius?” she asked with obvious concern.

“They’re fine,” Terrell said. “I just hailed them. They’ll be here in a few moments.” He winced and shifted in his seat.

The young woman moved to Terrell’s side. “Are you okay?” She recoiled at the sight of the black glass that permeated his abdominal injury. “What is that?”

“A little present from the Shedai,” Terrell said. “Don’t worry, I’m told Dr. Babitz has the cure.”

Instantly, Theriault lifted her tricorder to scan the substance—and she paused as a drizzle of dirty water seeped out of the device, which made a sickly buzzing crackle in her hands. Her lips tightened into a disappointed frown.

Terrell smiled at her. “Good instincts,” he said.

The subspace comm beeped, and Quinn put the incoming signal on the overhead speaker. “Rocinante,” Captain Nassir said, “this is the Sagittarius. Everybody all right over there?”

“We’re good,” Quinn said, “but your first officer needs more help than my first-aid kit can offer. I can mend a bone, but I can’t fix a gut.”

Nassir replied, “We need a bit of distance between you and the others to make sure we beam up the right person.”

“How much distance?” asked Quinn.

“A few meters,” Terrell said.

Pennington said to Quinn, “We could carry him back into the main compartment. That ought to do it.”

“Or,” Theriault cut in, “the three of us could just step out of the cockpit for a few seconds. It’d be easier and safer than trying to move him.”

“You had me at easier,” Quinn said. He led the way out of the cockpit. Pennington and Theriault fell in behind him and followed him to the ship’s main compartment.

Alone in the cockpit, Terrell said, “I’m clear for transport, Captain.”

Nassir’s reply over the speaker sounded faint from the remove of the main compartment. “Stand by. Energizing now.”

Seconds later a high-pitched ringing tone resonated inside the cockpit, and Terrell’s body became a speckled gold shimmer. He faded, became translucent, and vanished.

“He’s safely aboard,” Nassir said. “Theriault, get ready to beam back in sixty seconds.”

She faced Pennington and Quinn. “I guess you guys better get back in the cockpit. There’s no one flying this thing.”

Quinn smirked, nodded, and went forward to take his place in the pilot’s seat. Pennington lagged behind a moment. He stared at his still-damp shoes while trying to think of something clever to say. He was at a complete loss for words as Theriault lifted herself on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thanks for the rescue,” she said, backing away like a bashful child. The moment she stopped, the musical drone of a transporter effect began. She smiled. “See you on Vanguard.”

Then she shimmered and vanished, the warmth of her kiss lingering after her. It had been a simple gesture, almost innocent, more sweet than romantic. Nothing about it had suggested anything more than friendly affection and gratitude. Naturally, therefore, Pennington found himself utterly smitten.

He returned to the cockpit with damp and wrinkled clothing, squishing shoes, tousled hair, and an enormous grin on his face. Flopping into the copilot’s seat, he only half listened while Quinn verified a flight plan with the Sagittarius and plotted a tandem return journey to Vanguard.

As Quinn started flipping switches and powering up the warp drive, he fixed Pennington with a good-natured glare. “What is it with you and redheads?”

“Dunno, mate,” Pennington said. “Just lucky, I guess.”

27

The Lanz’t Tholis had set course for Tholia at its best possible speed after striking a decisive blow upon the Klingon vessel. Nezrene [The Emerald] felt the waves of confusion rippling through the ship’s communal thought-space SubLink. Many of the hundreds of crewmembers had expected to fire upon the Starfleet vessel as well, and dark scarlet pulses of resentment tainted the mind-lines of the ship’s rank and file.

Mutiny was all but unheard of on Tholian ships; the caste system clarified all roles, and every Tholian understood his or her genetic and social destiny almost from the first moment of solidification. But with no members of its leadership caste left alive after the brutal incarceration by the Shedai, there was a vacuum of authority aboard the Lanz’t Tholis—one that it was now Nezrene’s duty to fill.

Only a handful of the ship’s crew had been able to witness what she and the others who were yoked to the Shedai machine’s nodes had overheard. The others had all been trapped in the machine’s infernal core, isolated from the terrible voices that had reigned outside. Held in that excruciating stasis, they had been unable to commune or resist; raw suffering had been the whole of their existence while inside the burning prison.

Pyzstrene [The Sallow], the ranking engineer aboard the ship now that its lead engineer had been atomized by the Shedai, was proving to be the most vocal and pointed of Nezrene’s critics. It was the Federation’s incursion into the Shedai sector that brought this horror upon us.

Kaleidoscopic images, each facet of which represented another crewmember’s unique point of view, replayed the attack on the Klingon ship, followed by Nezrene’s order to hold fire when the gunners had trained their sensing units on the Federation vessel. Pyzstrene continued in fiery hues and bellicose tones. Why does Nezrene favor one of our foes over another? Their fight was not our concern. It would have been better to have fired on neither than to show favor to one.

Nezrene, sensing the need to quash dissent and reassert control quickly, offered her thoughts to the twenty-three others who had shared her fate inside the horrid machine. Forming a new SubLink they synchronized their memory-lines. We must show them the truth together, she counseled her comrades. All signaled their agreement by adjusting the hues of their mind-lines to a uniform shade of warm amber. With their shared experience coagulated into a single coherent memory-line, Nezrene opened their private SubLink to the rest of the crew.

This is why we did not destroy the Federation ship, Nezrene explained with calming shades of pale green and blue. Her dulcet tones conveyed sincerity and authority. The other voices in the SubLink fell silent. A general tenor of anxious anticipation preceded the revelation by those who had heard the Voices.

Twenty-four facets showed the same moment from differing perspectives but with only one narrative. Two humans, one wearing a uniform of Starfleet, stood beneath the great machine and were confronted by the second greatest of all the Voices.

“We’re begging you for their freedom,” said the male human.

The Voice asked the female human, “Do you also plead for the Kollotaan’s freedom?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you return them to their ship?”

“I can,” he said after a brief pause. “And I will.”

Nezrene terminated the memory-share and adopted the bright surety of the leadership caste. Perhaps it is the custom of other species to repay justice with treachery, but it is not our way. They spoke in our defense. That is why we defended them.

Her argument galvanized the crew of the Lanz’t Tholis. Their collective mind-line calmed to a muted golden glow. Harmony and balance were restored. Discipline would prevail. All she had left to dread was their homecoming.

As the ship’s acting commander, it would be her task to inform the Ruling Conclave that the Shedai had awakened—and that they had dispersed to countless worlds across the sector.

Tholia’s true enemy had returned.

Only one path had been offered for the Wanderer’s flight from the First World, one channel through the First Conduit, one route to salvation. Expended by her struggle against the Apostate and his minions, she had accepted it.

She was alone on a desiccated, airless moon. Once geologically active, it was long dead, as was the barren world that held it in gravitational thrall. Two forlorn orbs in the endless darkness, turning and revolving around a fading star, a slow death incarnate.

Behind her a Conduit lay dark and cold, its flawless obsidian surface reflecting glimmers of starlight. Without a power source the Conduit was little more now than sculpture, a mute reminder of powers and glories surrendered to the iniquities of time. Silenced and enfeebled, it would be of no use to the Wanderer. Never again would the Song issue from it; without the infusion of power from the First Conduit, it was naught but a shell, a monument to what might have been.

This star system was one of the most remote of all the Shedai’s possessions. It was quite possibly the most distant node in the Conduit network from the First World, and also from the interstellar nations of Telinaruul that had dared to trespass into the realm of the Shedai. The journey across the desert of space-time, spanning many dozens of light-years, to the nearest linked world would be long and silent.

It did not matter. Strength would return. The Wanderer would fortify her essence by drawing on vast reservoirs of energy hidden in extradimensional folds of space-time. Her recovery would seem slow by the standards of some Telinaruul. For her it would be a brief respite, a momentary regrouping. When it was complete she would begin her passage of the stars.

Despite being one of the most newly formed of the Shedai, she had earned her name and her place among the Serrataal for her particular gift, unique among her kind: the ability to project her consciousness across the deepest reaches of space without a Conduit to guide her transit. With enough time to gather her strength, she could traverse the vast reaches between stars, make planetfall, and recorporealize. Her arrival could occur without warning. A breath from the heavens, a cold whisper, would be her only herald.

She would ford the darkness. World to world, she would seek out the others, the diaspora of the Enumerated. Those loyal to the Maker she would aid and organize. The Apostate’s partisans she would destroy. Cleansing the Shedai of dissident voices would be crucial. Only united would they have the power to expel the Telinaruul from their domain—and subjugate them.

Retribution would not come quickly. But it would come.

Of that the Wanderer was certain.

28

T’Prynn had been awake for more than thirty hours, since the SOS from the Sagittarius had been received by Vanguard Control. It had been a tumultuous period, full of desperate stratagems and expedient measures, and while T’Prynn had not been in the center of it, she had been busy behind the scenes, influencing outcomes.

Three hours had passed since Commodore Reyes had issued General Order 24 against Gamma Tauri IV. Afterward he had withdrawn to his private office and refused visitors, even T’Prynn and Jetanien. She desired to emulate him and retire to her quarters for an extended period, perhaps a few days, to meditate and order her thoughts. It was a luxury that would briefly have to be postponed, however. Duty and circumstance had conspired against her; before she could sequester herself, there was an item of business she needed to address in person.

As she stepped out of the turbolift onto an upper floor of a Stars Landing residential complex, her body felt sapped of vigor. Every step forward was a labor, and despite her robust Vulcan constitution the events of the past day had left her enervated to an unusual degree. She forced herself to press onward with poise and fortitude, banishing her fatigue as just another irrelevant perception.

At the door she hesitated. Procrastination is illogical, she reprimanded herself. This matter must be dealt with in a timely fashion. Failure to act promptly could have significant negative consequences. Her resolve bolstered by a review of the facts, she pressed the door buzzer and waited.

Fifty-four seconds later the door opened. Anna Sandesjo lurked beyond the edge of the doorway, squinting into the white light of the hallway as it crept into her darkened apartment. She was wrapped in a midnight-blue robe of Terran silk tied loosely shut at her waist. Groggy and peeking out from behind tousled locks, she said, “It’s half-past four in the morning, T’Prynn.”

“It is urgent that we speak,” T’Prynn replied. She resisted the urge to enter Sandesjo’s home without invitation. After a few seconds, the semi-somnambulating Klingon in human guise ushered T’Prynn inside. Walking behind her, T’Prynn admired the placid nature scene that had been delicately embroidered on the back of her lover’s robe.

Sandesjo’s hand brushed a control panel on the wall as they entered the living room. Lights flickered on and filled the space with a warm golden ambience. Sandesjo stopped in front of the plush sofa and turned to face T’Prynn. “Is this a social call?” she asked with a wicked grin and sleepy eyes. “You’ll have to work to make up for interrupting my beauty rest.”

“It might be best if you sat down, Anna.”

The stern tone of T’Prynn’s suggestion hardened Sandesjo’s expression. She did as T’Prynn had asked and lowered herself onto the middle of the sofa. “What’s this about?”

Pulled by my hair over burning coals.

Sten’s katra-voice tormented her thoughts: You have betrayed her, just as you betrayed me.

A twinge of discomfort tugged at the corner of T’Prynn’s eyelid. She suppressed it as she spoke. “Just over one hour ago the Klingon battle cruiser Zin’za left the Jinoteur system. By now it has likely confirmed to the Klingon High Council and to Imperial Intelligence that there was no Starfleet ambush there.”

Sandesjo’s brow constricted with suspicion. “It was called off?” She studied T’Prynn’s face. Understanding added bitterness to her gaze and her voice. “It never existed.”

“No, it did not,” T’Prynn said. “It was a lie intended to delay their entry into the system so that a rescue effort would have time to reach the Sagittarius. That effort has succeeded.”

Shock dominated Sandesjo’s expression for a moment. Then it was replaced by indignation. “You’ve blown my cover.”

“Correct,” T’Prynn said. “When your handlers realize that you passed them completely fraudulent intelligence, they will conclude that you have been compromised.”

The double agent buried her face in her hands. “They’ll kill me for this,” she muttered.

“You will be protected,” T’Prynn said. “You’ll go on extended leave and move to secure quarters elsewhere in the station until a transport arrives six days from now.” Sand hurled into my eyes. Sten’s nose shattering beneath the heel of my palm. “It will bring you to a world inside Federation space. After you have been debriefed by Starfleet Intelligence, you will be given a new identity, and a new face, before entering permanent protective custody on one of the core Federation planets.”

Sandesjo dragged her fingers through her hair, pulling taut the skin of her temples and lifting her eyebrows. It transformed her blank expression into one of shock. “And what about you?”

“I will organize your protection from now until you board the transport,” T’Prynn said. “After that, agents of—”

“No,” Sandesjo said. “I misspoke. What about us?”

His hand clamps shut around my throat. I claw at his eyes.

“I will not be going with you,” T’Prynn said.

Shaking and blushing with anger, Sandesjo clenched her jaw and closed her fists white-knuckle tight. “You used me,” she said, her voice hoarse and unsteady. “I risked everything for you.” She sprang to her feet, her face bright with fury. “My cover, my honor, my life. And you used me.”

“I did what duty required,” T’Prynn said.

Sandesjo’s slap stung the left side of T’Prynn’s face, and Sten’s backhand burned against the right. Paralyzed by the dual assault, one from without and the other from within, T’Prynn stood and suffered the rain of blows. One sharp strike after another buffeted her face, snapping her head from side to side and coating her teeth with a coppery-tasting sheen of green blood. She had lost count of how many real and imagined hits she had suffered when her reflexes returned and she grabbed Sandesjo’s hands, halting her attack.

The wet crack of Sten’s breaking cervical vertebra ends the challenge—and begins our lifelong duel.

Grappling with Sandesjo was difficult. Though she looked human, her Klingon musculature gave her considerable strength and made her a durable, formidable opponent for T’Prynn. Fueled by rage, she twisted and lurched in the Vulcan’s grip, growling like a wild animal struggling to free itself from a trap. Then she lurched toward T’Prynn instead of away from her, and they staggered clumsily, entwined in a desperate, anguished kiss.

Sandesjo’s lips pulled away from T’Prynn’s like a spent wave retreating from a beach. T’Prynn’s measured breaths were overpowered by Sandesjo’s gasps of lust and desperation. “Don’t do this,” Sandesjo implored. “Don’t make me leave you.”

“There is no other way,” T’Prynn said.

The pulling and twisting resumed, and Sandesjo abandoned words for inarticulate roars and screams. A skillful shift of her balance enabled Sandesjo to slip free of T’Prynn’s grasp. She stumbled away, grabbed a wireless lamp from an end table, and hurled it at T’Prynn, who easily sidestepped it. The lamp struck the wall with a soft crunch and a thud. It fell to the floor, its light extinguished.

All at once Sandesjo abandoned the fight. Her knees folded beneath her, and she slumped down onto them. Fury collapsed into defeat. With sagging shoulders and a tired sigh, she seemed to resign herself to T’Prynn’s endgame.

“A security detail will be here in five minutes,” T’Prynn said. “They will escort you to your temporary quarters. There will be no need to pack. All your needs will be provided for.”

Sandesjo glared at T’Prynn. “Not all of them.”

T’Prynn turned away and walked toward the door. She stopped as Sandesjo called out, “You want to know what’s ironic?” T’Prynn looked back. Sandesjo let out a mirthless chuckle and regarded the Vulcan woman with a bitter grin. “Right now I want to cry like a human—but Klingons don’t have tear ducts. Vulcans do have them—but I guess you think I’m not worth crying over.”

The barrage of katra attacks came swiftly, faster than they ever had before, and with enough ferocity to make T’Prynn wince. She replayed the memory of Sten’s neck breaking over and over until she regained control of her conscious mind. Then she coaxed her mien back into a properly Vulcan cipher.

“Do not presume to know what I think, Anna,” she said, and fled her lover’s abode, hounded by Sten’s vengeful katra.

Walking alone through the terrestrial enclosure and then the corridors of the station’s upper levels, T’Prynn could not imagine where she might find refuge. Seeking medical assistance would only increase the likelihood of her val’reth secret undoing her career. Meditation offered no solace. The piano at Manón’s, once a redoubt of tranquility, had proved vulnerable. Her lover’s arms no longer offered any shelter.

She had run out of ways to run from herself. There was nothing left to do but admit that Sten’s taunts had contained at least a kernel of truth: she had betrayed Anna. Though she had buried her shame deep in the tombs of her mind, she harbored no doubt that Sten would unearth it and use it to bludgeon her psyche for decades to come.

T’Prynn returned to her arid quarters, undressed, and made a perfunctory attempt at sleep, fully expecting to find Sten’s malevolent shade waiting in her dreamscape—standing atop an open grave, spade in hand…and gloating.