Текст книги "Serpents Among the Ruins "

Автор книги: David George

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“Ask me again,” Harriman said seriously, moving to her again and taking her upper arms in his hands, “and I’ll never leave.”

“Oh, certainly, Mr. Starship Captain,” she teased, reaching over and brushing the tips of her fingers through the hair at the side of his head. “Mr. Warp Factor Nine, Mr. Ten Thousand Light-Years, Mr.—”

“How about Mr. Sasine?” he interrupted quietly.

“Is that a proposal?” she asked, smiling. In the eight years they’d been together, they’d each asked the other to marry countless times. The answers had always been yeses, and yet they had never progressed beyond that, had never discussed actually having a wedding. For his part, Harriman could not imagine pledging such vows and then saying farewell as Amina returned to whatever base she commanded and he returned to Enterprise.And yet—

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

The smile did not leave Amina’s face, but her expression changed somehow, from one of simple good humor to one of love and joy. “Yes,” she told him. “Of course.”

And for the first time, Harriman asked the next question. “When?” He surprised himself, but as other questions threatened—Would they continue to be apart most of the time, or would one of them give up, or at least change, their career? Where would they live? Could they make it work?—as those questions and others began to flood his thoughts, he managed to stem the tide and push them away.

Amina looked into his eyes for a long time, her expression never wavering. He loved her so much, and he knew she loved him. When will we get married?he thought again, and waited.

At last, Amina said, “Every day.”

Harriman’s lips parted in a way he could not control, his smile feeling as though it filled his entire face. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

He slipped his right hand around to the small of her back, clasped her right hand with his left, and then danced her into the sleeping area. They eased down onto the bed together, moving effortlessly in each other’s arms. It felt as though they had never parted.

They did not sleep for hours.

Sasine woke first in the morning. She usually did when they were together. Lying in the dark, she glanced over to the chronometer on the shelf beside the bed, the digits on its face glowing faintly. She’d woken half an hour before the beginning of her shift, she saw, and although she’d slept only six hours, she felt more rested than she had in a long time—probably since she and John had last been together, back on Pacifica. With him beside her, she always slumbered more soundly. When they were together, the strength and certainty of their relationship provided a feeling that, no matter the circumstances in the rest of the universe, her world was whole and happy. As at no other time, she experienced a remarkable sense of peace.

In the darkness, Sasine could hear the slow, gentle susurrus of John’s breathing. She felt the desire to roll over and take him in her arms. She wanted simply to hold him, to feel the warmth of his body and the love in his embrace. But he needed to rest, she knew, and she did not wish to wake him. Like her, he’d been sleeping poorly of late, and he had not needed to explain why in order for her to understand. They had both been living for months at the verge of Romulan space, and so had faced many of the same pressures and uncertainties. More and more, war seemed inevitable.

Located near both the Romulan and Klingon borders, Foxtrot XIII—as well as the other dozen outposts in the sector—sat on the first line of defense for the Federation. But functioning more as a monitoring station and depot, the outpost hardly constituted a primary military force. Sasine’s crew could certainly defend themselves, and they could even launch effective short-range attacks, employing both the weaponry installed on the asteroid and the small squadron of shuttles housed below the surface. But for all of that, and even with the more powerful weaponry currently being installed, there were limitations on what you could do from a rock in space.

Sasine yawned and stretched, arching her back carefully so that she would not disturb John. Then she moved slowly across the bed, slipped her legs over the edge, and rose to her feet. Her body temperature having dropped as she slept, she felt cold, and she hugged herself against what she perceived as the morning chill. Reaching for the chronometer, she deactivated the signal that would have awakened her in just a few minutes, and then she reset it for John. Most days, the signal did awaken her, rudely interrupting her sleep. She would get up and groggily get ready for the day, seeming to really come awake only once she had left her quarters and made her way to the operations center.

Now she made her way around the bed and into the bathroom, where she quickly prepared for her shift. In the sonic shower, she thought about the challenges facing John. As captain of the Federation flagship, one of the most powerful vessels in the fleet, his assignment to Foxtrot Sector these past months had been an obvious choice by Starfleet Command. Like the outposts, Enterprisewould be on Starfleet’s first line of defense, but as an offensive force, fighting not just to identify and slow invading vessels, but to beat them back or even destroy them. The responsibilities John shouldered were significant.

After showering, Sasine opened the bathroom door, leaving the lighting panel on a low level so that she could see in the sleeping area. She retrieved her uniform and under-clothing from the built-in dresser and slipped them on. In the dim light, she spied her gold dress from last night lying on the floor, and she picked it up and draped it across the half-wall. Then she retrieved her shoes and exchanged them for the uniform boots sitting in the corner.

Ready for her shift, she walked to John’s side of the bed. She bent down and watched him for a few moments as he slept. In repose, he looked less like the confident and experienced starship captain he was, and more like the young man who peered out at her every day from his Starfleet Academy graduation photograph. She could see in him now the innocence of his youth, unburdened by the responsibilities that both adulthood and duty had brought on. At the same time, she could also see the man he would become– hadbecome—surmounting the hardships of a strange and occasionally tragic childhood, growing into somebody she respected and appreciated—and who could always make her laugh.

Just thinking of that, Sasine smiled. She actually considered asking Lieutenant Commander Civita to take her shift for her so that she could spend more time with John. Today would be a relatively light day of duties for her, her last on Foxtrot XIII. She had been assigned to the outpost less than a year ago, and it had surprised her that Starfleet Command had chosen to rotate out the crew as quickly as it had. She supposed that the mounting strain between the Federation and the Romulan Empire had a great deal to do with the decision. She absolutely understood and appreciated the motivation of alleviating some of the pressure and tension her crew had been feeling for so long without surcease. But her crew had also accepted such pressures with equanimity; they had known what their duties would entail before accepting assignment here.

Sasine stood up and peered over at the chronometer. Alpha shift would begin in just a couple of minutes, she saw, and even though the preparations for leaving the outpost for another crew had already been made, she still had some small but important tasks to perform today. Chief among them, she wanted to address hercrew, some of whom would not be serving under her at her next posting. She would also oversee their transport up to Enterprise,aboard which they would make the trip back to Space Station KR-3 before being reassigned. Once the small group of engineering specialists from Agamemnonhad completed their work—the new weapons had been classified at such a high level that even Sasine had not been permitted to observe their installation—the outpost’s new crew would begin beaming down, also from Agamemnon.

At the moment, she was not sure where her next assignment would take her—she’d been told of several possible postings—but what pleased her most about the transfer was the travel time aboard Enterprise.While John would be standing his normal watch, that would still allow them to spend the evening and night together. And whether at a lush, beautiful resort or aboard a functional and relatively sterile starship, any time that she could spend with John was time she would treasure. They believed in the same things, laughed at the same things, viewed the universe in the same ways; they belonged together. They meshed. Even last night, in a cramped cabin beneath the pockmarked surface of a dead asteroid, poised on the edge of the Neutral Zone, they had managed to smile and laugh and love.

Sasine looked down at John, then went into the bathroom and extinguished the lighting panel. In the darkness once more, she carefully padded over to the door to her quarters. She felt for the panel set into the bulkhead beside it and worked its controls. The door slid open, and light spilled in from the corridor. She took one last look across the room toward the bed. Over the half-wall, she could just make out John’s sleeping figure. “I love you,” she whispered, and then turned and left.

By the time she had reached the operations center, she had already begun to count the time until they would be together again.

Minus Nine: Algeron

Ambassador Gell Kamemor watched the Klingon bring his fist down on the conference table, the stars visible through the viewing port beyond him. “No!” he bellowed at her, then bolted to his feet with such force that his chair flew backward and toppled to the floor with a clatter. “No!” he roared again, then flung himself forward and hammered the center of the long, elliptical tabletop once more, this time with both fists. The fleshy parts of his hands pounded down atop the image of the stylized bird of prey, a planet in each talon, that symbolized the Romulan Star Empire. “Qo’noS will never permit outsiders to inspect our weapons facilities.” Spittle shot from his mouth, Kamemor observed with distaste, one tiny bead hanging up in the young Klingon’s dark beard.

Kamemor waited to react. She knew without looking that the eyes of all the delegates—of everybody present—had turned toward her. Thirteen people occupied the room right now: Ambassador Kage and his two aides, one of whom had been the one to rage at her; Federation Ambassador Paulo Endara and his staff of four; her own Romulan delegation of three; and two of the six waitstaff. Of those half-dozen service personnel, Kamemor had yet to ascertain who belonged to the Romulan Intelligence Service, though she had no doubt that the treaty negotiations were being closely monitored by the secretive organization.

A tense silence descended. The versicolor glow of the Algeron Effect, just a few hundred thousand kilometers from the space station, angled through the viewing port and stippled the far wall. Kamemor remained quiet, though not completely still. She tilted her head upward slightly and regarded the Klingon agitator with measured disinterest; she neither challenged him nor withdrew from his ire. Although he did not frighten her, the tall, broad-shouldered Klingon seemed dangerous—not on the basis of his imposing form, but because of the surety with which he acted and spoke. That likely indicated either the bravado of youth or the vicarious strength of powerful friends, and Kamemor suspected the latter. She knew that Chancellor Azetbur, leader of the Klingon High Council for nearly two decades now, had faced increasing opposition at home of late, and Kamemor fully expected that opposition to be represented here. As much as Azetbur had designed and driven the rebuilding of her civilization’s infrastructure after the accidental destruction of their primary energy-production facility, she’d done so both by promoting peace and by accepting charity from the Federation, and neither policy had been particularly palatable to the Klingon military.

As Kamemor peered across the table, she took note of the young Klingon’s immaculate raiments: a silver, metallic vest worn over a black shirt; black pants with high, matching boots; a dark, heavy cloak; and a scarlet version of the tripartite emblem of the Klingon Empire worn on the front of his left shoulder. The attire resembled a military uniform too much, she thought, to have been selected arbitrarily. No, the aide clearly functioned as a puppet of the Klingon Defense Force, and he obviously felt no reluctance about demonstrating his loyalties.

“Perhaps we should recess for an hour or two,” Ambassador Endara suggested from one end of the table. The young Klingon said nothing, instead holding Kamemor’s gaze. Just before she looked away, she saw hatred flash across his already angry eyes. The observation served only to frustrate her. While she did not hold with the arrogant and too-common view of her people that Romulans were innately superior to all other races, she could see how the behavior of Klingons such as this one could foment such an opinion.

Kamemor looked down the beautiful table—its rich blond top had been carved whole from the trunk of an urukantree, she had been told—and over to where the Federation ambassador sat flanked by his aides. Endara, an older human with short black hair and a bronze complexion, had demonstrated as much confidence during these negotiations as the young Klingon, but confidence born of an entirely different source: the Federation ambassador possessed a lifetime of diplomatic experience. Still, as the weeks here at the Algeron station had run into months, and as the months now raced toward becoming years, Kamemor had seen her own dissatisfactions with the proceedings reflected in Endara.

“Perhaps a recess would be in order,” Kamemor agreed.

“No,” came another voice, and Kamemor turned back to look directly across from her, to where Ambassador Kage sat beside his volatile aide. Unlike the young upstart, the seasoned Kage dressed the part of an ambassador for his people, wearing long, heavy robes embellished respectfully with the glittering icons of dozens of worlds. “It is not even midmorning,” the grizzled ambassador said, his manner and tone unusually quiet for a Klingon. “I do not think a recess will be necessary.” He leaned forward in his chair, reached out, and rested a hand atop his aide’s closed fist. “Will it, Ditagh?” he asked softly.

The gentle nature of the physical contact and of the appeal surprised Kamemor. Even after all this time tussling over so many issues with him, she had not yet become accustomed to the demeanor of the Klingon ambassador. Not nearly as impressive physically as his fiery aide, Kage could still command a room. But as firm and demanding as he had been during these negotiations, he nevertheless had conducted himself with tact and sensitivity. One of Azetbur’s disciples, to be sure,Kamemor thought, not for the first time. It also seemed clear to her that Kage faced challenges not only with Romulus and the Federation, but within his own faction.

The Klingon aide did not look down at Kage, but pulled back from the table, managing to extract his hand from beneath the ambassador’s without growling. Behind him, as one of the Romulan waitstaff left the room, another set down the ewer she carried and quickly righted the fallen chair. The aide grabbed it away, and the server shrank back as though she had been struck.

“Thank you, Ranek,” Kage offered. The woman looked at the ambassador and nodded politely, then retrieved the ewer and hastened for the door. Kamemor felt her eyebrow rise involuntarily, and she consciously brought it back down. The server who had picked up the chair was a new addition to the waitstaff, having arrived at the station only within the last few days. Kamemor had not yet learned the woman’s name, and it said something about Kage that he had.

The Klingon aide set his chair back at the table with a thump, then dropped into it. “Now then,” Kage said, returning his attention to Kamemor, “I believe that you were speaking about limitations on the types of weapons allowed under a new treaty, Ambassador.”

“I was,” Kamemor concurred. She glanced at her two subconsuls, who sat to her left, then folded her hands in front of her and recalled the point she had earlier been advancing. “I believe that it would be in the best interests of all concerned if we can devise a means of preventing the creation of metaweapons. After all, where there are no such weapons, there are no possibilities of triggering their use. Of course, for an agreement of this type to succeed, it would require trilateral monitoring.” This time, Kage’s aide grunted, but he stayed in his chair, eyes cast downward, hands in his lap.

“Yes,” Kage said. “I understand your viewpoint. But how, precisely, would you define a ‘metaweapon’?”

Again, Kamemor felt her eyebrow climb. She had not anticipated the question. “I don’t have a ready answer to that,” she told Kage, “but I’m certain that we could construct a definition satisfactory to all.”

“Perhaps,” Kage said noncommittally. “But it is an important question, one that begs an answer priorto any discussion of this issue.”

Irritation welled within Kamemor, and behind that, anger. With no substantial progress in these talks recently, she had thought that they could be advanced by the settling of even a single minor point. She had raised the matter of metaweapons—at the suggestion of one of her subconsuls—because she had believed it one on which all parties could easily agree.

Diplomacy is a charge for the forbearing,Kamemor reminded herself. Still, she remained angry, and so she stood up, using the movement to cover her emotions. “I’ll try to respond to that, Ambassador,” she told Kage, then walked along the table, past her subconsuls, and over to the viewing ports. She peered out at a line of objects shining against the darkness of space like gems against a jeweler’s cloth. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to the port. A dull melancholy washed over her, drowning her choler in a tide of memories. Even all these years later, she could not escape the anguish she had felt—that all Romulans had felt—when the tragedy had occurred.

“A planet once orbited out there,” she said. “A planet that—” She stopped. She had been about to describe the scope of the disaster by referring to the size of the colony’s population. But not only was it not her place to reveal such information to outworlders, she also did not wish to speak of the horrific details. “A planet that no longer exists,” she went on, “because of an isolytic subspace weapon.” The planet—Algeron III—had not even been fired upon, but when a nearby enemy ship, fighting a losing battle against a bird-of-prey, had unleashed the weapon, a rent had formed in the fabric of subspace. The tear had been drawn to the power sources on Algeron III and had sliced through the planet with devastating result. The home to so many Romulans had been reduced to ruin so quickly that there had been no possibility of defending against it. At the same time, the force of the destruction had sealed the fissure, and had also crystallized many of the resultant planetary fragments, which now orbited the system’s star and refracted its light into the colors of the spectrum. The effect was magnificent to behold, but it also marked the graves of millions.

Kamemor turned to face Kage, her hand still on the port. “This is your answer,” she said. “This is what we must prevent.”

“Ambassador, I am terribly sorry for your loss, for the Romulan people’s loss,” Kage said with apparent sincerity. “But I must point out that my people did not—”

“No, they didn’t,” Kamemor snapped, cutting him off. Then she paused, slowed her breathing, dropped her hand from the port. She concentrated on regaining her composure. “Nor am I suggesting that any sane Klingon, any sane individual or group, would commit such a monstrous act.” Her words began to come quicker, reflecting the passion of her resolve. “But there are insane Klingons, insane humans, insane Romulans.If we could be assured that no such weapons would ever be used, because none were ever made, would we all not breathe easier?”

“Ambassador Kamemor,” Kage said, “I do understand your view. And my colleague misspoke a few moments ago when he implied that a Romulan presence at a Klingon weapons facility would be unacceptable. Under appropriate circumstances, Chancellor Azetbur would welcome Romulan representatives—and Federation representatives as well.” Next to Kage, the young aide lifted his hands up onto the table, tensing them into fists, and Kamemor thought that he might actually strike the ambassador; instead, he simply looked away. “The difficulty I see,” Kage continued, “is that there are powers beyond our three. The Gorn are certainly capable of developing metaweapons, as are the Tholians, and even the Tzenkethi. By agreeing never to do so ourselves, we would therefore be allowing these powers to create such weapons and attack us without fear of commensurate retaliation.”

“Pardon me, Ambassador Kage,” Endara said, “but that’s hardly the case. The might of the Klingon Defense Force could be brought to bear. Or the might of Starfleet or the Romulan Imperial Fleet. We could even consider a mutual defense pact.”

“But of course, metaweapons could potentially cripple the fleets,” Kage argued. “Do not misunderstand me. The Klingon Empire opposes any employment of these weapons, and even the construction of them. But we do not want to sign a treaty that we might one day have to break in order to survive.”

“At the risk of introducing another intractable issue into these proceedings,” Kamemor said, “I submit that this is worth exploring.”

“I agree,” Endara said. “Standing Federation policy dictates that we would favor the inclusion, in any treaty, of a covenant to ban the production of these weapons.”

“PetaQ,”Kage’s aid muttered. Kamemor recognized the Klingon invective.

“Ditagh,” Kage chided, almost inaudibly.

“No,” the aide responded loudly. He stood back up again, though not as quickly this time, and his chair remained upright. “This petaQ—” He pointed a thick finger toward Endara. “—hurls lies at us and I’m not supposed to speak of it?”

“Ditagh,” Kage repeated, more firmly. “These are diplomatic proceedings. You will therefore conduct yourself diplomatically.”

“Wait,” Kamemor said, stepping away from the outer bulkhead and into the center of the room. “What lies?” She had seen no reason to respect the peevish Klingon aide, but none of his churlishness, his inexperience, or his status as somebody’s pawn precluded his statement from being true. Kamemor had worked for months to fashion an agreement for a meaningful and prolonged peace among the three powers, but if she was being lied to, she wanted to know it.

“Federation representatives sit here spouting peace—” He waved a hand dismissively in the direction of Endara and his staff. “—while at the same time they’re trying to develop a weapon to wipe out the Klingon Empire.”

Endara stared at the aide with what Kamemor could only interpret as a complete lack of comprehension. “Ambassador Kage,” Endara said at last, expressly addressing the statesman rather than his subordinate. “The Federation has been a friend to the Klingon Empire for years—for decades.What’s just been suggested is not only patently false, but absurd in the extreme.”

“How would you know?” the Klingon aide barked, finally turning toward Endara. “Does Starfleet keep you informed of its—”

“Ditagh,” Kage interjected. He rose slowly from his chair as his aide spun in his direction. The ambassador fell well short of the young Klingon’s height and build, but Kamemor still thought the older man seemed the more formidable of the two. “Sit down,” Kage ordered. The aide hesitated only briefly, and then he returned to his seat, evidently realizing that, no matter who pulled his strings, he was on his own right now, in this room.

“My apologies,” Kage said, looking around to include both Kamemor and Endara. “Ditagh does not speak for our people. He is my aide, and obviously…enthusiastic. But I am the official Klingon representative at these meetings.”

Kamemor bowed her head, acknowledging Kage’s declaration. “Perhaps, though, it wouldbe best to recess until after the midday meal,” she said.

Kage opened his mouth as if to protest, then looked down at his aide and seemed to change his mind. “A fine idea, Ambassador.”

Kamemor looked to Endara for his approval. “I have no objection,” he said, then rose, his staff collecting the reference materials they’d brought to the meeting and spread out on the table. At the same time, the young Klingon got up and hurried out of the room, and the second Klingon aide, silent throughout the meeting, followed. Kage took the time to excuse himself, then exited too. A few moments later, Endara and his staff also departed, leaving Kamemor in the room with her two subconsuls.

“What is the question I have in my mind right now?” she asked without preamble, walking over to face her assistants across the table.

“Why are the Klingons really against a prohibition on the production of metaweapons?” said N’Mest, a woman who’d worked with Kamemor for six years, and who could often anticipate Kamemor’s reactions to diplomatic parleys. But not this time.

“No,” Kamemor said. She looked to the other subconsul, Merken Vreenak, a young man who’d come to work for her less than a year ago. She’d so far found him sharp and industrious, an asset to her despite his overt chauvinism; Kamemor loved her people too, but not in such an unreasoning, aggressive manner.

Vreenak returned her gaze. “Is Ditagh correct?” he said. “Is the Federation constructing a metaweapon?”

“Yes,” Kamemor said, her lips curling up slightly on one side, impressed by the subconsul’s acuity. “I want both of you to find out what you can. Check intelligence reports, fleet logs, even rumors on the public comnets, anything at all.” In Kamemor’s experience, she did not think it likely that the Federation and Starfleet would be attempting the creation of some ultrapowerful weapon, but neither did she trust their officials and officers—not most of them, anyway.

“Ambassador,” said Vreenak, “I’ve already heard rumors supporting Ditagh’s claim.”

“You’ve already heard?” Kamemor snapped. “And you didn’t think to inform me?”

“They were rumors only, Ambassador,” Vreenak proffered as justification. Kamemor dismissed it.

“Pursue those rumors,” she ordered. “Locate their sources, ascertain their veracity.”

“Yes, Ambassador,” Vreenak said. Kamemor turned and headed for the door, which slid open at her approach. Before she left, though, she stopped and peered back over her shoulder toward the conference table. “Do not allow your distrust for non-Romulans to color your inquiry, Subconsul Vreenak,” she said. Kamemor did not wait for a response before she continued out of the room.

Kage walked unhurriedly down a corridor on the habitat level, considering carefully what he would say when he reached his destination. In his youth, as a soldier, he had regarded himself a man of action, willing to charge headlong into any situation, but his mindset had shifted as he’d grown older. Rash behavior had given way to forethought, and he’d eventually quit the physical rigors of the Klingon Defense Force in favor of the mental challenges of civil engineering. But his subsequent successes in that realm had failed to sate his natural desire for battle, and so when Azetbur, newly installed as chancellor, had called upon him to join her government, Kage had accepted. He’d learned the artful combat of diplomacy under Azetbur’s tutelage, and had come to relish the struggles it often provided: the subtle machinations, the blatant lies, the different colors of truth when viewed through different eyes. In his tenure as an ambassador, Kage had furthered Klingon objectives with the Lorillians, the Tholians, the Vedala, the Lissepians, the Otevrel, and dozens of other species. But the Romulans…

At an intersection, Kage turned left into another empty corridor, tinted green by indirect lighting. Of the few sections he’d been permitted to visit on the space station, only the habitat level stood free of security personnel. The apparent attempt at Romulan hospitality rang false to him, though, and he felt certain that his delegation—and that of the Federation—remained under constant, covert surveillance. Not that the station contained anything of value to the Klingons; had it, the xenophobic paranoia of the Romulans would likely have prevented them from hosting the negotiations here. Still, that same intense distrust for people beyond their borders would have driven the Romulans to continuously monitor their alien guests.

The station itself seemed utilitarian, a series of rings of increasing and then diminishing diameter, set one atop another to approximate a sphere. The structure put Kage in mind of something a child might cobble together out of blocks. Kage assumed that the facility had been constructed as quickly as possible after the destruction of the planet in this system, and that it functioned primarily as a platform from which the effects of the isolytic subspace weapon could be studied. Judging from Kamemor’s reaction today, though, Kage supposed that the station might also serve as a memorial, as a place mourners could visit to be near the place where their loved ones had died.

Kage passed the door to his own guest quarters and stopped at the next one. He quickly reviewed what he might say and how he might say it, depending on how the conversation developed, and reminded himself of his goals: foremost, to gain information, and secondarily, to limit his liabilities in the ongoing discussions with the Romulans and the Federation. Then he jabbed at the signal control on a panel set beside the door. He heard a tone, unwavering and tedious– Like the Romulans,he thought—followed by a voice.