Текст книги "Serpents Among the Ruins "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“It’s a tragedy,” N’Mest said at once. “Commander Sulu was correct in her assessment that this was a cowardly and immoral act.”

Vreenak conspicuously said nothing. Kamemor moved out from her chair and circled out from behind the table. Stopping opposite her aides, she said, “Subconsul Vreenak, have you no opinion on the attack on the Federation?”

“It’s a lie,” Vreenak said simply.

“A lie?” N’Mest said, incredulous. “Do you believe that the Federation outposts were not actually destroyed, that the region of space around them was not decimated, that four thousand people did not lose their lives?”

“Admiral Vokar,” Vreenak avowed, “is not a terrorist.”

“If your characterization is not inaccurate,” Kamemor said sternly, “it is at least irrelevant. What has been done cannot be undone, and that includes not only the act of destroying the Federation outposts, but the alliance of the Klingon Empire to the Federation. What we must do now is not dwell on the past, but focus on the future.”

“And if it is a future based on a lie?” Vreenak asked.

Kamemor moved forward, placed her hands flat on the conference table, and leaned toward Vreenak. “The future we now face, young Merken,” she said, admonishing him for his impertinent attitude, “is one of peace. The praetor and the Senate will not seek to go to war against a force combined of Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Force. And the Federation, despite being viciously attacked, despite being provided superior numbers by the Klingons, has not responded with violence. So at least for now, there will be peace. We should all be thankful for that.”

This time, Vreenak did not respond, apparently chastened enough to hold his tongue. Kamemor turned and headed for the door. Before she left, she looked back toward the conference table. “The lie, Subconsul Vreenak, is believing in something contrary to all evidence.” Then she turned and left, not waiting to see if he would brave a reply.

Captain Harriman walked beside Demora Sulu through the brightly lighted corridors of Space Station KR-3. He had not yet had an opportunity to discuss with her everything that had happened; he hadn’t even found time to contact Amina. While Enterprisehad traveled to Algeron, he had remained in seclusion, and during the return to KR-3, he’d spent most of his off-duty hours in conference with Gravenor and Vaughn, putting together the verbal report that they would deliver to Admiral Sinclair-Alexander. Within the next few days, though, he felt sure that he and Sulu would talk.

When Enterprisehad arrived at the space station just a few minutes ago, Admiral Mentir had asked to see Harriman at once. But while Mentir’s desire for an immediate debriefing about the mission seemed reasonable, and while Harriman had agreed to it, he had decided when disembarking the ship to first visit his father. This time, he would not allow Blackjack to keep him away. Demora, always a supportive friend, had asked if she could come along.

Now they entered the station’s infirmary. Only two of the biobeds in the main section were occupied, he saw, one by a sleeping man, and another by a woman whose ankle was being tended to by a nurse. The scene put Harriman in mind of all the dancing he and Amina had done over the years, since he had twisted his own ankle from time.

As he and Demora approached the wide door of the intensive-care section, it glided open before them. They started inside, but stopped at the threshold when a voice called from behind. “Captain Harriman,” a man said. Harriman turned to see the tall, lean figure of the station’s chief medical officer coming through a doorway on the other side of the room.

“Dr. Van Riper,” Harriman greeted him.

“Captain,” the doctor said after he had crossed the room, “I’m terribly sorry.”

Harriman nodded knowingly. “We all are,” he said, unsure that he would ever feel completely comfortable speaking about the apparent loss of the four thousand people in the Foxtrot Sector—and the fifty-one aboard Universe—when he knew the truth. “The attack on the outposts was a terrible thing.”

“Oh,” Van Riper said, and then he motioned with an open hand into the intensive-care section. “Let’s go in here,” he said, moving past Harriman and Sulu.

And Harriman suddenly realized that the doctor had not been referring to the events that had unfolded in Foxtrot Sector; he had been offering compassion for the death of Blackjack. “My father,” Harriman said, still standing in the doorway. “My father is dead?” The words, and his speaking them, seemed surreal.

“I’m afraid so,” Van Riper confirmed. “He died just a few hours ago. The injuries to his brain were just too severe.”

Harriman peered past the doctor, toward the far bay, where they had been treating Blackjack. An urge rose in him to race over and peer inside, to confirm that his father no longer lay in the biobed there. But there was no point; the doctor was not lying.

Harriman felt a touch on his forearm, and he glanced down to see that Demora had reached out a hand to him. He looked up at her face, and saw an expression of sympathy and sadness, as well as complete understanding. In her childhood, he knew, she had lost her mother, and as an adult—

“Captain,” the doctor said. “I’ll give you a moment to yourself. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if you’d like any questions answered.” He walked back out into the main area of the infirmary. Harriman turned in the other direction, moving farther inside the intensive-care section. Demora followed, the door sliding closed behind her.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, and she reached out to hug him. He put his arms around her back and held her close for a few moments. Even though he felt as though he’d taken a phaser on heavy stun, the kindness and caring of his friend was not lost on him.

When he stepped back from her, she said, “Are you all right?” Then she shook her head quickly, as though she had asked the most ludicrous question possible.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m…I’m…” I’m an orphan,he thought. The idea—however foolish for a man of fifty-two—produced an awful, hollow feeling inside him. Not wanting to say that, though, he told Sulu, “I’m in shock, I guess. I think I believed that Blackjack would live forever.”

“He certainly was…” Demora shrugged. “…larger than life.”

Harriman surprised himself by smiling. “Yeah,” he said, “he was that.” Sulu smiled too, and the moment helped him. But still, the reality of his father’s death remained—would alwaysremain. It seemed incomprehensible that Blackjack no longer existed. It seemed wrong.

He reached both hands up to his face and wiped with the tips of his fingers at his closed eyes. Fatigue washed over him like a wave, trying to carry him away. I need sleep,he thought, and knew right away that running from this would be no answer.

“Do you want to go back to the ship?” Demora asked.

He did, but he said, “No, we have to meet with the admiral.” It occurred to him that this was why Mentir had wanted to see him right away. “I’m all right,” he said.

“You’re not all right, John,” Demora said gently. “But you will be.”

Harriman looked at his friend and saw her deep concern for him written across her face. He tried to reach inside himself, into his emotions, to define all that he felt—or at least understandall that he felt. There were so many different emotions: anger at his father for having driven a wedge between them, and for having treated him not as a son, but as a subordinate; guilt for not having worked harder—or worked at all, really—to mend their relationship; frustration for not having insisted on seeing his father after the accident.

Ironically, for all of the Starfleet officers who had supposedly died during the mission, it had been Blackjack who really had. Although the mission had been successful, there had been things that had gone wrong: Vokar and five others staying aboard Tomed;the Romulans interpreting the Universetrial as the testing of a new weapon and not a new drive; and the explosion, more powerful than expected, slamming into Ad Astra.In another sardonic twist of fate, it had been Blackjack who had first proposed the Universeruse. He’d foreseen being able to use the event to maneuver Azetbur, to cause her to proclaim that the Klingons would side against the aggressor in any hostilities between the Federation and the Romulans. Harriman had then found a way to use the test as a means of delivering him and the special ops team into Romulan space, proximate to an Imperial Fleet vessel.

None of that really mattered now, though. What really mattered was that his father was gone. And of all the complex emotions churning within him, Harriman found that what he felt more than anything else was simple sadness.

“John,” Demora said, and Harriman looked up at her, not realizing that he had dropped his head as he’d lost himself in thought. “I spoke with your father before I took the Enterpriseto Foxtrot XIII.” Harriman blinked, startled. Demora had said nothing to him about ever having visited Blackjack.

“We didn’t have much time,” she said. “He was very tired. But he told me…he told me that he loved you, John, and that he was sorry.”

Harriman’s jaw set, and the muscles in his face tensed. A tightness formed behind his eyes. He inhaled deeply, feeling his nostrils flare. He could not believe how quickly Demora’s words—his father’s words—had affected him.

“I loved him too,” he said, his voice now a whisper. He moved forward, back into his friend’s embrace. He hugged her for a long time, holding tightly to what he had not lost.

Epilogue: Designs

Elias Vaughn gazed through the viewing port in the conference room, his eyes drawn to the line of shimmering objects that had once been Algeron III. Though strikingly beautiful, the polychromatic fragments, born of a devastated world, reminded him of Foxtrot Sector, its thirteen asteroids smashed into oblivion. And like one domino toppling another, the memory of Foxtrot Sector forced him to recall that last moment with Renka Linavil. Two months afterward, Vaughn could still feel her flesh yield as he thrust the knife into her body.

Behind him, he heard the murmur of excited conversation as people arrived in the conference room. In his mind, though, he heard the flat thud that the subcommander’s body had made when it had fallen, lifeless, to the deck. He automatically tried to bury the memory, but then fought the instinct, knowing that he had to deal with this in order to overcome it.

Vaughn turned and scanned the room. Commander Gravenor and Captain Harriman talked with each other over in a corner, he saw; Vaughn and the commander had assumed their roles as envoys again, and the captain had been invited to the treaty signing by Federation Ambassador Paulo Endara. In addition to Endara, Vaughn recognized several of the dignitaries present—including Ambassador Kage, General Kaarg, and Senator Vorex Ontken—as well as a couple of the functionaries who’d recently begun to appear in intelligence briefs—Merken Vreenak and Ditagh.

It had been in such a brief, one from six years ago, that Vaughn had learned the name of the woman he had killed aboard Tomed.After returning from the mission, he had found numerous reasons to review old intel, refusing to admit to himself his true motivation. The tagged photograph he had located had originally arrived at special ops from an Yridian operative, from images captured at a military summit. Younger, and with her face not contorted by rage, Linavil cut an attractive figure.

From there, Vaughn had sought other information about her. More recent intelligence had revealed that she had been instrumental in promoting and then carrying out the occupation of the Koltaari, and that, like Vokar, she had favored war with the Federation. But he had also learned that Linavil had graduated at the top of her class from the prestigious R’Mala Military Academy, that she had competed and placed in voraantcompetitions on Romulus, and that she had a sister and niece living on Terix II. When he had discovered that her parents had died a decade ago, he’d been pleased to know that they would not experience the misery of dealing with their eldest daughter’s death, or at least with her disappearance.

It had been at that point, when Vaughn had practically rejoiced that Linavil’s parents were no longer alive, that he’d realized his emotional state had veered significantly off course. He had gone to Commander Gravenor, asking to be relieved of his field duties, but she’d encouraged him instead to see one of the counselors assigned to special ops. Vaughn had agreed, and in the month since then, he had grown more able to cope with having taken a life, and even with the likelihood of having to do so again. He no longer obsessed over finding out the details of Renka Linavil’s life, but tried to bear in mind the wrongs that she had wrought in the universe. Vaughn would have preferred to have brought her to justice—rather than having killed her—for whatever crimes she had committed, but naïve as it might be, he still believed in doing battle against evil.

What remained most troublesome now were the visceral memories of the confrontation: the sound Linavil’s flesh had made when he’d torn off the tip of her ear, the resistance to the knife entering her body, the heat of her blood on his hands. Vaughn knew that he could overcome his fixation on these terrible recollections, and the distress they caused him. But he also knew that it would take time for that to happen—far longer than it had taken for his physical injuries to be treated and to mend.

“Elias,” somebody said, and Vaughn looked to his left to see Captain Harriman approaching.

“Captain,” Vaughn said, and he clasped Harriman’s outstretched hand.

“John, please,” Harriman said.

“John.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Harriman said. They had not seen each other since their return to Space Station KR-3 from Algeron almost two months ago—and since the captain’s father had died, the result of the injuries the admiral had sustained aboard Ad Astra.Vaughn considered the unexpected death of the elder Harriman a tragedy, particularly for the captain.

“It’s good to see you,” Vaughn said. They could say nothing more right now, and they didn’t have to. The captain turned and headed toward the Federation ambassador.

On the other side of the room, the door slid open and Romulan Ambassador Gell Kamemor entered. Vaughn took note of her purposeful stride, several black, hardbound folios clutched to her breast. She made her way around the conference table, to the empty chair at its center. Her aides seated on either side of her, Kamemor stood there rigidly, waiting, her demeanor not what Vaughn would have expected for such a momentous occasion as a treaty signing.

By degrees, conversation stopped. Silence settled in the room, and all eyes turned toward the Romulan ambassador. Vaughn watched as several smiles faded, clearly indicating that he had not been the only one to notice Kamemor’s bleak mien.

“May we begin?” she said flatly. Her words might have formed a question, but there seemed little choice in the answer. As though previously choreographed, people gravitated toward their places. The Romulan aides seated at the table, along with one of Endara’s staff, rose and moved to chairs ringing the room; the other aides and staff members and minor officials—including Gravenor and Vaughn himself—retreated to the perimeter as well. At the table sat Ambassador Endara and Captain Harriman, Ambassador Kage and General Kaarg, and Senator Ontken. Ambassador Kamemor continued to stand.

When everybody had stilled, Kamemor reached forward and set the top folio in the center of the table. Even from his vantage at the side of the room, the volume seemed to Vaughn to have some weight to it, measuring at least a couple of centimeters thick. “This,” Kamemor said without inflection, “is the trilateral treaty document negotiated for many months, and finalized in the past two.” Vaughn saw stealthy smiles blossom around the room. An accord to which the Federation, the Klingon Empire, and the Romulan Empire were all signatories would be historic.

If,Vaughn thought. If.He perceived some quality, some… restraint?…in the Romulan ambassador that made him think that this conference would not proceed as originally intended by all involved—including Gell Kamemor. The ambassador confirmed Vaughn’s suspicions with her next sentence.

“The Romulan Star Empire will not sign it,” she said.

Where there had first been conversations, and then smiles, there now came the mutter of confusion. Even Ontken, a member of the Romulan Senate, peered up at Kamemor bewilderedly. “Ambassador, I don’t understand,” he said. “The Senate voted to authorize the praetor to—”

“The praetor contacted me early this morning,” she said. Vaughn found it surprising that a woman so skilled in the means of diplomacy would interrupt a Senator, especially in front of others. It reinforced his observations that things were not right. “The praetor expressed to me his absolute condemnation of the attack on the United Federation of Planets perpetrated by Aventeer Vokar. An order for the arrest and trial of the admiral, should he still be alive, has been issued throughout the Empire, and the praetor is considering trying him in absentia.”

“And for that reason,” Ambassador Endara asked, confused, “you won’t sign the treaty?”

“Yes,” Kamemor said. “The praetor feels that, because of the odious acts driven by one man and committed by him and his associates, the Empire has been asked to concede too much, and has also been willing to concede too much.”

Slowly, as though trying to contain his emotions, Ambassador Endara rose from his chair, his hands on the edge of the table. “After the tremendous efforts that we’ve all put in—that you’veput in, Gell—the praetor is going to undermine the peace process because the Federation and the Klingon Empire think that what Vokar did was wrong?” His words climbed in volume as he spoke, his agitation plain. Seated beside him, Vaughn saw, Captain Harriman maintained a stoic expression.

“No,” Kamemor said, “the praetor is not going to undermine peace.” She set down on the table the other folios she carried, all three of them the same size, and with not nearly as many pages as the first volume she’d set down. She lifted the top folio from the pile and handed it across the table to Ambassador Kage, then picked up the second and walked it down to the end of the table and gave it to Endara. As she returned to stand in front of her chair, she said, “This is a revised version of the treaty, greatly simplified.”

Endara opened the folio and began paging through it, his gaze moving swiftly over its few pages. The Klingon ambassador placed his copy on the table in front of him without opening it. “Pardon me,” Kage said, “but it is not reasonable to expect us to begin negotiating a new agreement after we have already finalized a previous one.”

“By order of the praetor,” Kamemor said, “Romulus will no longer negotiate. What is contained in these documents are the only terms to which we will agree. They can be amended in no way. They must be signed and ratified within ten days.”

“Or?” Endara asked, looking up from his copy of the treaty.

“Or there will be no accord,” Kamemor said. Vaughn did not think that she necessarily agreed with what she had been ordered to do and say.

“Allowing ten days for full consideration by the Federation Council is unrealistic,” Endara said, now seeming resigned that there would be no treaty signed today.

“Even the Klingon High Council requires some time to battle their way to concurrence,” Kage added.

“The terms of the treaty are simple enough to warrant agreement within the prescribed time frame,” Kamemor said, apparently not willing—or not permitted—to cooperate in any way. “The Neutral Zone currently established between the Romulan Star Empire and the Klingon Empire will be reaffirmed, and any violation whatsoever of the Zone will be deemed an act of war. The identical reaffirmation of our borders will occur with the Federation. Finally, the Federation will agree to ban the research and development of cloaking technology in exchange for the Empire leaving the world of the Koltaari.”

And there it is,Vaughn thought: the final result of Captain Harriman’s plan. The failed trial of Universe’s so-called hyperwarp drive had been intended to draw the Romulans’ disapprobation, and a concomitant accusation that the Federation was seeking a first-strike capability through the development of a vastly improved engine system. That, in turn, would force the Klingon chancellor to move toward choosing an allegiance.

Although the Romulans had believed the destruction of Universeto be due to the testing of a metaweapon and not a drive system, the outcome had been the same. Starfleet had handed over the hyperwarp specifications to both the Romulans and the Klingons in order to demonstrate that the Federation did not possess a first-strike capability, if for no other reason than that hyperwarp did not work. The “development” of the “new” drive had merely been the introduction of cloaking technology into the field configuration of a transwarp engine.

And transwarp was simply a failed technology of the past.

Hyperwarp would neverwork. But the Romulans would note the Federation use of cloaking technology, and they would want to stop it in order to maintain that particular military advantage. It would not matter that Starfleet had always declared its aversion to the use of cloaking devices, because the Romulans had never believed that. And so when it came time to negotiate a treaty, the Federation would be able to give up what it never had and never wanted, placating the Romulans and getting something from them in return—in this case, the freedom of the Koltaari.

“If the treaty is signed and ratified within ten days by both the Klingons and the Federation,” Kamemor continued, and then she paused, and it seemed obvious to Vaughn that she did not like the orders she had been given. “If the treaty is signed and ratified, then we will withdraw.”

Nobody responded for several seconds, and then Ambassador Endara said, “‘Withdraw’?”

“We will close our borders,” Kamemor declared.

Endara paged through the treaty again. “That does not seem to be in here,” he said.

“It is not,” Kamemor said, “because we of course wish to control our own space. But the praetor has chosen this direction, and he has the support of a majority of the Senate.” From Senator Ontken’s raised eyebrow, it seemed to Vaughn that he was likely not among that majority.

“Ambassador,” Endara said, “we do not seek to isolate Romulus. We would choose peace. We would choose friendship.”

“You will have one of those,” Kamemor said. “It is for you to decide if it is enough.” She leaned forward and reached for her copy of the treaty. She paged to its end, then pulled a writing implement from her sleeve and signed the document. “I have already signed your copies,” she told Kage and Endara. Then she hurried around the table, headed for the door. “N’Mest, Vreenak,” she said along the way, and her two aides followed her out.

In her wake, Kamemor left shock and uncertainty. But as much as what Ambassador Endara had said was true—that the Federation did seek friendship with the Romulans—Vaughn knew that the treaty would be signed, and that there would be peace.

And that, he knew, was something that he could definitely live with.

Chancellor Azetbur emerged from her private study into the large main room of her office. She skirted the dais situated just outside the door, and upon which sat the great chair that she occasionally used to receive official guests. Overlooking the conference table in the center of the room, the old throne had been passed down through a long line of chancellors, who had draped its wide back with various trinkets: a gold ceremonial sash, a scabbard, an ornamental chain, and other personal items. No matter where she stood in her office, her eyes always seemed drawn to a silver medallion her father had for years worn.

As she came out from behind the dais, Azetbur noted the chill in the room. A cold snap, unexpected at this time of year, had enveloped the city as the sun had set. The wintery air invigorated her, though it had grown too frosty now even for her tastes, her breath puffing out in front of her in a pale cloud. Rinla, her assistant, had already closed the dozen tall, peaked windows in the outer wall, she saw.

A hammering sound, three loud knocks, filled the room, the noise echoing off of the stone blocks of the walls. Azetbur looked to the timepiece standing beside the great chair and saw that her visitor had arrived late. She presumed the disrespect to be deliberate. How could she have believed otherwise of this man who wanted her dead, who might even have requested this meeting to in some way further that end?

With calm and deliberate movements, Azetbur stepped up onto the dais, turned, and assumed her place on the great chair, various of the mementos there rattling as she sat. She waited until the knocks came again. “Enter,” she called.

The doors to her office opened, each of the pair of floor-to-ceiling panels pushed inward by a guard. Kaarg’s officers,she thought. She had taken his point about the uncertain trustworthiness of the members of Klingon Internal Security who normally protected the Great Hall and the chancellor. For now, Azetbur had reassigned those officers elsewhere.

General Gorak walked forward into the room, his strapping form impressive in his military uniform. As he advanced toward Azetbur, she saw a sheathed ritual sword lashed to his side, as well as a horde of medals adorning his chest plate. Her right hand found and gripped the top of her walking stick, which leaned against the side of the throne; it galled her to be in the presence of a man considered a hero of the Empire, but who she knew wanted to betray her. She did not fear him, especially not at this moment, with Kaarg’s officers just outside; Gorak had kept his designs in the shadows, demonstrating his cowardice, no matter his military record. He would not act against her right now with reprisal just beyond the doors—although Azetbur had not been averse to the other precaution that Kaarg had suggested.

But while she did not fear Gorak, she had tired of his continual, concealed threat. When Kaarg had informed her of the traitor’s request for a meeting, she had concurred with his counsel to grant that request, in the hope that she could learn more of Gorak’s intentions. With the Romulan menace sufficiently defused, and relations with the Federation stabilized, she wanted to focus now on securing her position and addressing domestic issues.

Azetbur waited for the general to stop in front of her before she spoke. “Gorak,” she said, choosing to deliver the minor dishonor of omitting his rank.

“Chancellor,” the general said, his breath blowing out in front of his face in gray wisps. Then he actually bowed his head. His fraudulence turned her stomach. She had to defy the urge to heft her walking stick and pound his head with it.

“You appear…rested, General,” she said, an oblique reference to the month of peace they’d experienced since the Romulans had pulled back into their space and closed their borders. She did not know how long that would last, of course, but she had begun lobbying the High Council to begin applying Klingon resources elsewhere than at the edge of Romulan space. Gorak had publicly supported such a shift in policy, but Kaarg had informed her that such was not the case in private.

“I am rested,” he said readily, not appearing to perceive her veiled insult.

No one can be insulted less,her father used to tell her, than those who deserve insult most.“Your wing departs Qo’noS tomorrow,” Azetbur said, her voice rising at the end, not as a question, but to invite comment. She typically did not track the movements of the Klingon Defense Force closely enough to know where individual officers would be—not in peacetime, anyway. Gorak would know that, and so her awareness of his coming assignment would send him a message that she was watching him carefully.

“Yes, we leave at dawn,” the general confirmed. “We are planning a defensive sweep along the Gorn border.”

“Are you expecting trouble from the Gorn?” Azetbur asked.

“I am not ‘expecting’ trouble,” Gorak said, “but it is always a good idea to watch your enemies and potential enemies, and to let them know that you’re watching.”

Azetbur smiled, despite her impression that the general had begun to bait her. “I agree,” she said. She understood and appreciated this type of exchange. Gorak might not have been speaking plainly, but at least he was speaking to her,in the light and not from the shadows. She suddenly held out hope for this meeting. “And what of enemies here on Qo’noS?” she asked. “How will you manage to monitor them while you are gone?”

“Chancellor?” Gorak asked. “I don’t believe I have enemies on Qo’noS.” He seemed to reconsider his words, and then added, “I suppose I must, but none worth watching so closely.”

Azetbur rose quickly to her feet, bridling at the general’s arrogance. Bad enough that he plotted to overthrow her, to take her life, and now he stood here and slighted her? “Why are you here, Gorak?” she said, lifting the saber-tooth walking stick and thumping it once on the dais.

“I am here at your behest, of course,” he said.

Azetbur grew tired of the game. She descended onto the floor and closed to within an arm’s length of the general. “What is your purpose in requesting this meeting?” she said angrily. “State either your true reason or the false one you intended to give, but tell me one of them now.”

“Chancellor, I did not reque—”

A glint of light flashed to the left of Azetbur’s head, and in the next instant, Gorak staggered backward. His hands came up quickly, and the sudden movement caused Azetbur to reach for the d’k tahgat her side.