Текст книги "Twilight "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

50

Charivretha sat at the dining table with Thirishar’s bondmates, a tall glass of Andorian ale in her hand. She had arrived just as Thriss, Anichent, and Dizhei had been starting dinner. At Dizhei’s invitation, Charivretha sat down at the table with them, although she would not join them in their meal; in just a few minutes, she would be leaving for the ambassadorial reception.

It had been an arduous, tiring day, spent in meticulous preparation for the summit tomorrow. Charivretha did well with details, able to master massive amounts of facts, allowing herself to recall them effortlessly as needed; she could sometimes even cull unexpected and valuable conclusions from previously unvisited juxtapositions of information. But for all of that, she cared less for the preliminaries and more for the actual job. She enjoyed politics, not paperwork.

Throughout the long day today, Charivretha had looked forward to a glass of ale. She could not abide replicated versions of the drink, but Anichent had discovered that the barkeeper on the station possessed a couple of bottles in his stock. She had asked Anichent to purchase them, as good an excuse as any to visit Thirishar’s bondmates this evening. Thirishar had offered the three of them the use of his quarters just before departing on his mission, and they had all moved in here that same day. Charivretha tried to spend as much time as possible here with them, but her responsibilities sometimes interfered, as had been the case during the past few days.

Now, she smoothed the white, thickly textured fabric of the formal dress she wore, and then raised her glass in salute. Anichent sat across from her at the table, the tall, hardy figure putting her in mind of Zherathrizar, one of her own bondmates. Dizhei, already old for her years, but very sweet, sat to her right, and Thriss, usually so lively, but quiet right now, sat to her left.

“To family,” Charivretha said as she lifted her glass. Only Anichent and Dizhei followed her lead—Anichent had ale; Dizhei’s glass contained water—and matched her toast. Thriss continued eating her meal, not looking up. Charivretha chose to let the discourtesy pass. She sipped at her drink, the fiery liquid tumbling down her gullet like warm gravel, heating and rasping her throat, and leaving behind a delicious warmth and fullness.

Anichent smacked his lips and delivered a husky sigh after taking a healthy gulp of the ale. He really did resemble Zherathrizar in many ways, Charivretha thought, from some of his mannerisms to his mode of dress; the brown leather vest he wore over a pale green tunic and brown pants gave him the air of an outdoorsman, though she knew his aspirations actually leaned toward politics. “I thought I was overcharged for the ale,” he said in a voice made deeper by the Andorian drink, “but now I’d have to say it was worth it.”

“And I’d have to agree,” Charivretha said in a bass whisper. She cleared her throat, and then looked over to Dizhei. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?” she asked the prim schoolteacher.

“Thank you,” Dizhei said, “but I don’t want to change the sound of my voice.” She smiled, a clear signal that she understood and accepted the good-natured teasing.

“So, what have you been doing during the past few days?” Charivretha asked. She looked from Dizhei to Anichent to Thriss, including all of them in her question, although again, Thriss did not look up from her dinner.

“Actually, we’ve begun touring the station,” Anichent said around bites of his meal. “This is a very interesting place.”

“Really?” Charivretha said. She did not care much for Deep Space 9 herself, finding it a sterile and unwelcoming environment. The unfriendly Cardassian architecture certainly contributed to that feeling, and the Bajoran climate bothered her even more. Here, in Thirishar’s quarters, the temperature and humidity had been elevated to sufficiently high levels, but in the public areas of the station the coldness and aridity made her constantly uncomfortable.

“We wanted to acquaint ourselves with Shar’s new life,” Dizhei explained.

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Charivretha said. She admired the forgiveness Thirishar’s bondmates managed for him, despite his continually selfish behavior. She loved her chei,but he embarrassed her at times, even shamed her, by the self-centered way in which he had chosen to live his life.

With her thoughts, a seed of anger began to form deep within her. As she felt it grow, she very deliberately put her glass of ale down on the table. As an ambassador, she always searched for ways in which she could effectively hide and then restrain her emotions, and she found that concentrating on specific movements could serve that purpose.

“Today, we went to the operations center,” Anichent said. “We contacted Lieutenant Ro, and she got authorization for us from the station commander.”

“A young Bajoran man escorted us around while we were there,” Dizhei said. “He was kind enough to show us where Shar works. It was very exciting.”

“I’m glad that you’re enjoying your time here,” Charivretha said. Then, as casually as she could, she asked, “Did all three of you visit the operations center?”

Dizhei cast her eyes downward, immediately conveying an answer to Charivretha.

“No,” Anichent said, keeping his tone light. “It was just Dizhei and me.”

“I see,” Charivretha said. She reached forward and picked up her glass, again allowing the small physical action to cover and redirect her rising emotion. It concerned her that Thriss had not accompanied her bondmates on their tour, particularly considering the young woman’s dour mood this evening. Of course, Thriss’s emotions had always run at speed, and sometimes out of control—it remained a wonder to Charivretha that Thriss had managed to complete her studies and become a physician—and so perhaps today represented an isolated incident. “So where else have you been on the station?” she asked.

“Well, we’ve certainly spent plenty of time on the Promenade,” Anichent said, and then added, rather melodramatically, “shopping.” He raised his eyebrows and sent a sidelong glance at Dizhei.

“Oh, I haven’t been that bad,” Dizhei protested. The two began to bicker playfully, obviously a comfortable scene the pair had acted out on many other occasions. Charivretha liked these people, and she felt gratified that Thirishar had been so fortunate with the bondmates who had been selected for him. During the confrontation she had engineered before he had departed on his mission, Charivretha had wondered whether she had made a wise choice in bringing all three of them to the space station. She had initially considered sending only for Anichent, with whom Thirishar had formed his first romantic bond; ch’Thane knew that her cheifound stability and peace in that relationship, but she had also realized that any chance of convincing Thirishar to return to Andor would require something other than a promise of constancy. And in the end, it had been the emotionalism and volatility of Thriss that had finally compelled his agreement to come back home.

Anichent and Dizhei had moved past their lighthearted raillery about shopping and returned to the subject of where they had been on the station during the last few days. Anichent mentioned the mid-core science, engineering, and administrative facilities, the runabout bays, and the docking pylons. Charivretha took another drink of her ale—a gulp this time, and not just a sip—and set her glass back down. “Thriss,” she said, attempting to remain conversational, although her voice had been roughened by the ale. “How have you enjoyed these places?”

At last, Thriss looked up from her meal. “I’ve stayed here,” she said. “I wanted to stay close to Shar.”

“I can understand that,” Charivretha said carefully, “but really, you should occupy yourself until he returns.”

“I miss him,” Thriss said simply.

“I do too,” Dizhei said. “I just want Shar to come back from his mission and then come home with us. I want our shelthreth…”If there was more to her thought, she did not give voice to it.

“You know me,” Anichent said, shrugging. “I encouraged him to join Starfleet, because I knew that’s what he wanted.” He paused, and Charivretha thought he was deciding just how much he wanted to say about how he felt. “I just never thought he’d leave Andor so soon. Or stay away so long. I miss him too.”

“I know,” Charivretha said. She thought of her own bondmates, and how unthinkable—how unlivable—it would have been for any one of them to do to their group what Thirishar was now doing to his. “But at least he finally promised to come home,” she said, trying to focus on the positive. Both Anichent and Dizhei nodded and smiled, and Thriss returned her attention to her plate. Charivretha could see that none of Thirishar’s bondmates felt all that sure of his pledge. Either they doubted his word, or they doubted Thriss’s account of his giving it. Whichever the case was, Anichent and Dizhei at least seemed to be dealing well enough with their misgivings; Thriss evidently was not.

“I know Shar promised to come back to Andor with us,” Anichent admitted, “but I’m just not so sure that he actually will.”

“Of course he will,” Charivretha pronounced. “I won’t allow his Starfleet career to stand in the way.” She regretted the strength of her words at once; she thought that a lighter touch was required here.

Anichent put his fork down on his plate and folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. “Shar didn’t leave Andor to join Starfleet. He didn’t leave usfor Starfleet.” A strange quality in his tone made it seem as though he had discovered an unpleasant truth. “I know we talk that way, but Shar’s told us many times why he left.”

“What Thirishar may say and what may be true,” Charivretha said, peering across the table at Anichent, “are not necessarily the same.” No words and no reasons, she knew, could explain away the irresponsibility of what Shar had done.

“I know that,” Anichent said, meeting Charivretha’s gaze, almost challenging her. “But I’ve been wondering if he might be right about our people. Maybe the way of life we’ve chosen as a race won’t save us after all.”

“That’s absurd,” Charivretha said, no longer concerned about the force of her tone. “Since the reforms, the death rate has decreased significantly.”

“We’re not dying as fast as a people,” Anichent allowed, “but maybe…I don’t know…maybe some of us are dying a lot faster as individuals.”

“What do you mean?” Dizhei wanted to know.

“What he means doesn’t make any sense,” Charivretha said. “It’s simply doubletalk to allow Thirishar to obviate his responsibilities.” She felt angry not only at the negativity of the conversation, particularly in front of Thriss, but that anybody at all could try to justify her chei’s actions. She fought to keep her emotions in check.

“No, it’s not doubletalk,” Anichent said. “Shar wasn’t happy on Andor. He didn’t like not having choices about some important things in his life. To stay there would only have continued to hurt him.”

“He did—and does—have a choice about loving you, Thavanichent,” Charivretha said. “And about loving Vindizhei and Shathrissía. And he does love all of you.”

“I know he does,” Anichent said. “I know.”

“And with love comes certain obligations,” Charivretha told him. “And that’s true whether you’re an Andorian or a Klingon or a Tholian.”

“Obligations, yes,” Anichent said. “But I’m not sure love—real love—makes demands.An obligation is something Shar should want to fulfill, but our demands…the demands of our society…I think maybe we’ve been asking too much of Shar.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charivretha said. She pushed her chair back and stood up, unable to remain still. “Nothing has been asked of Shar that hasn’t been asked of generations before him.”

“Then maybe we’ve been asking too much of all of us,” Anichent suggested.

“It doesn’t matter,” Thriss said suddenly. All eyes turned toward her. She still sat with her head down. “Nothing will matter if Shar doesn’t come back from his mission.”

“Thriss, don’t,” Dizhei said, obviously saddened by her bondmate’s despondency.

Anichent reached over and tenderly put his hand on Thriss’s forearm. “He willbe back,” he insisted.

Thriss slowly withdrew her arm from Anichent’s touch. She stood from her chair. “Excuse me,” she said, and Charivretha thought she saw tears in the young woman’s eyes. Thriss walked from the dining area and across the room, disappearing into the bedroom.

Dizhei looked over at Anichent. “I’m going to go to her,” she told him. He nodded, and she followed Thriss through the bedroom door.

Charivretha and Anichent regarded each other across the table. “I’m not sure what any of us are going to do if Shar doesn’t come back to Andor this time,” he said quietly.

“He’ll come back,” Charivretha said, as though stating a fact. “I’ve got to get to the reception. Thank you for the ale.” Anichent nodded, and Charivretha rose and headed for the door. She expected that he might say something more to her, but then she had entered the corridor and the door had closed behind her.

As she strode toward the turbolift, she realized that, if Thirishar did not come back to Andor this time, then she had no idea what she would do either.

51

Vaughn watched his daughter die, and in that terrible instant, he relived the moment of their separation, felt the weight of the years since, and regretted everything.

Prynn’s body landed in a heap beside the captain’s chair. The air grew heavy with the awful smell of her burned flesh. Vaughn stood in front of the chair and looked down at her, his heart aching. He studied Prynn’s inert face, her slack features a harsh contradiction to the horrific injuries she had suffered.

Vaughn felt the need to move away from his daughter, and to reach the console she had just been operating. He wanted to suppress his emotions and focus on keeping Defiantintact and headed away from its attackers. Prynn was dead, but the rest of the crew were not.

Except that there was no flight control console, no Defiant.There were no crew, and no attackers. And so Vaughn crouched down next to Prynn. He reached out to touch her, but stopped as a memory drifted through his mind. He turned his hand up, and was actually relieved when he saw that his palm had not been scorched.

There’s no conn for me to burn my hand on,he thought, but the notion floated through his consciousness like vapor, there one moment, dissipated the next. He stretched his arm out toward Prynn again. His fingers alit on her shoulder, pressing lightly. The texture of her uniform, the resistance of the unmoving body beneath, all seemed real—though he knew none of it could be.

Vaughn reached down and dipped two fingers into the pooled fluid atop Prynn’s mangled midsection. He brought his fingers up to his face, and saw that they were red with blood. His daughter’s blood. The realization slammed into him with incredible emotional force. Anger, heartbreak, and guilt filled him.

Why are you doing this?he asked himself. Why are you reliving this?He believed that this could not be real. He had not traveled back six weeks to this moment, nor had the moment traveled forward to him. But no matter the explanation, he had no time for this; he had a mission to accomplish.

Vaughn stood up and peered down at his daughter. Peered pasther. Beneath Prynn’s body, the decking appeared as it should, covered with a light gray carpet. But just beyond her, the carpet faded away, blending along an irregular border into the surface of the road. Vaughn looked up and saw this dead and deadly planet stretching away from him in all directions. And yet he also stood on one small section of Defiant’s bridge, around the captain’s chair. And though he knew that Prynn would not die—had not died—and though he knew that this could not be real, his heart still grieved for the loss of his daughter. Grieved as it had when this had actually happened. He felt the familiar rage and anguish, the enormous guilt, and he wondered how this could have happened again.

It’s not happening again,he forced himself to think. Prynn was not dying—not almost dying—again. Ruriko was not dying again.

Vaughn pushed himself back into the moment, back onto the empty planet from which waves of destruction had been launched at the Vahni. He looked out at the vacant landscape, and with an effort, walked from the fragment of Defiant’s bridge and back onto the road. He examined his fingertips again, and saw them still wet and red with blood. He turned, expecting—not expecting; hoping—that the scene had vanished. But the incomplete center section of Defiant’s bridge sat incongruously in the middle of the road.

His mind reeled, vainly attempting to make sense of what he saw. Of what he knew. Of what he felt. For real or not, explicable or not, his emotions were genuine, more than mere echoes of what had come before. Profound sadness held him in its grip. Prynn had not died, and yet he felt as he had in that moment when he had believed that she had been killed.

Vaughn seemed trapped, encaged by his own sorrow. He had lost any sense of time, he realized, and conscious thoughts not born of his feelings had become difficult to manage. Everything had slowed down around him, as though this instant when he had thought Prynn dead would never end.

Is that what this is?he forced himself to think. An effort to slow him down, to prevent him from reaching the pulse and trying to shut it down? And if so, would not a phaser blast, or even a well-thrown stone, have sufficed?

Vaughn wanted to turn from the scene of Prynn’s near-death, but found that he could not tear his gaze away. He stood there for long moments, struggling. Finally, he allowed the kilometers that had passed beneath his boots to take over. Tired from the physical efforts of the last day and a half, Vaughn let his eyelids close. The heartache remained, but with Prynn’s still figure no longer visible, he found enough will to employ an old mantra and try to rein in his emotions: You have a mission.

Vaughn turned, then opened his eyes. The empty road extended away from him, and he started walking again.

The sky reached down. Vaughn watched as, maybe two kilometers ahead, the clouds swirled above and funneled down to the road like a tornado. He pulled out his tricorder, although he was no more certain of the device than he was of his own senses anymore. He attempted a scan, but the interference from the energy made it impossible.

As Vaughn walked on, he saw a piece of his past come alive. The whirlpool of gray clouds withdrew from the road by degrees, eddies of energy spinning the matter beneath it into a different form. The effect reminded him of a transporter or a replicator, but not working all at once, instead rebuilding from the bottom up.

Even when it was only partially completed, Vaughn recognized the structure the clouds were creating. Tall—and he knew it would grow taller still—it spanned the roadway and well beyond. A complex steel framework sat perched atop a concrete base.

So this is what’s happening,he thought. And this is how it’s going to be.Harriman, Ventu, Prynn, and now this—not time travel, not holograms, not illusions or delusions. Not real, exactly, not authentic,but real enough, the energy clouds somehow reorganizing matter into people and places and events from his past—and probably re-creating the corresponding sensor readings on his tricorder. Someone or something was peering into his mind, into his memories.

But why?

Vaughn walked on, determined to reach the site of the pulse. By the time he reached the steel-and-concrete structure, its construction had been completed, the funnel of gray energy withdrawing back up into the cloud cover. The gantry towered above him. The tangled mass of metal gave the impression of architectural confusion, but Vaughn knew that every beam, every conduit, every joint, had been meticulously planned and constructed. The launchpad looked no different now from when he had visited here as a teen.

Vaughn strode through the flame trench, the channel between the two huge concrete slabs on which the tower complex sat. When humankind’s early spacecraft had lifted off from here, taken into orbit by massive, controlled explosions of fuel, the initial fires had been diverted here. Up ahead, the huge steel wall that had directed the flames reached from slab to slab. At the bottom of one side of the wall, daylight peered through an open doorway. Vaughn headed there at a steady gait, determined to put this slice of his past behind him as quickly as possible.

Vaughn had read about this place as a boy, captured as he had been by the promise and wonder of exploration. But he recalled now that the joy he had expected to feel when he had first visited this place had never materialized, supplanted by his knowledge of the tragedy that had begun here. As it had then, melancholy now swept over him.

The heels of his boots clicked along the concrete that had replaced the roadway, the sound reverberating hollowly between the walls of the slabs. Vaughn tried to concentrate on humanity’s first steps out into the cosmos, many of which had been taken from this very place. But he could not remain focused on such thoughts, his mind being pulled back again and again to his first trip to Cape Canaveral. And back to Prynn lying nearly dead on the bridge of Defiant.And to Ventu, killed in the collapse of the tower. And to Captain Harriman, back on that fateful day.

Vaughn kept his eyes on the open doorway in the steel wall at the end of the flame trench. The rectangle of light sat dwarfed by the black wall. Vaughn felt insignificant amid his massive surroundings, and a sense of the helplessness and fear that must have enveloped the people whose deaths had begun here closed in around him.

As he neared the doorway, Vaughn told himself that he should not stop beyond it. That he wouldnot stop beyond it. He knew what was there, had seen it all those years ago, and he did not need to see it right now. You have a mission,he thought again, and began repeating the phrase over and over in his mind.

It did not matter. He passed through the doorway, saw the roadway reappear beyond the launchpad, and then peered to his right, as though he had no control over his own body. The plaque hung there on the concrete slab, brass letters raised on a darker background. Vaughn stopped and read it.

LAUNCH COMPLEX 39, PAD B

TUESDAY, 28 JANUARY 1986

1139 HOURS

DEDICATED TO THE LIVING MEMORY OF THE CREW OF

SHUTTLE ORBITER CHALLENGER , OV– 99

COMMANDER FRANCIS R. “DICK” SCOBEE

COMMANDER MICHAEL J. SMITH, PILOT

RONALD E. MCNAIR, MISSION SPECIALIST

ELLISON ONIZUKA, MISSION SPECIALIST

JUDITH A. RESNIK, MISSION SPECIALIST

GREGORY B. JARVIS, PAYLOAD SPECIALIST

S. CHRISTA MCAULIFFE, PAYLOAD SPECIALIST

“THIS DAY”

SEVEN EXPLORERS

SAILED ON A FLAME OVER

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

The words struck Vaughn like a punch to the face. He felt dazed and sad and alone. His knees wavered beneath him, and he thought for a second that he would go down. He looked skyward, the gray launch tower pushing up toward the gray clouds above.

“Stop it,” Vaughn yelled, elongating the vowels. “Stop it.” Somehow, he kept his feet. He dropped his head back down, and said, “You have a mission. Stop feeling what you’re feeling.” He peered to his left, at the road as it headed away. “You have a mission,” Vaughn said. “You have a mission.”

He repeated it another fifty times before he was finally able to get himself moving again.

Vaughn walked on.

He walked through a section of battlefield on Beta VI, where he and his team had been unable to do anything but watch as more than eleven thousand men had beaten each other to death with rocks and sticks. Today, he saw only one member of his team, and perhaps only a dozen men attacking each other, their boots sloppy with the blood of the corpses lying at their feet.

He walked past the dark, stale cell—not much more than a box—in which the Breen had once kept him for seven weeks. He had survived only by licking at the damp stones of the walls, and by killing and eating the aurowaqqa—furry, ten-legged creatures, larger than his hand—that had occasionally found their way into his prison. He killed an aurowaqqatoday, beneath the heel of his boot, unable to stop himself, and then felt…diminished…for having done so.

He walked down the streets of Pentabo, on Verillia, amid throngs of emaciated children, orphaned by war and living in the wreckage of their world. The desperate, hungry faces he saw today reflected more sorrow and pain than should have been possible for young people to feel. The scene broke his heart anew.

He walked along the corridors of Kamal,the old Cardassian freighter lost in the Badlands. Bajorans, whose gaunt bodies betrayed their horrific lives under the Occupation, sprawled dead throughout the ship, their Cardassian oppressors dead beside them. He looked for the Orb, speculating about a connection to this haunted planet, but his experience did not extend to that portion of the freighter.

And finally, as the already pale sky faded toward the onset of night, Vaughn stood on the bridge of T’Plana-Hath,staring at the viewscreen, living again that terrible moment when he had first known for sure that Ruriko was gone. Part of him died with her. Again.

Vaughn walked on.

The light would be gone soon. Because of the amount of the energy interference, the tricorder could not tell Vaughn how far he had traveled today, but it did not matter. Either he would reach the pulse, or he would not. Less than a day remained now before the next destructive wave would launch into space.

Vaughn’s legs, very tired now but still strong, had held up remarkably well to this point, and he felt confident that he would not falter physically. On an emotional level, though, his strength had waned greatly. That the people and places he had seen on his journey had been re-creations and not precisely genuine was irrelevant, because his reactions to those people and places had been genuine—both whenever they had first occurred and again today.

As Vaughn marched up another rise, he dreaded what he would find on the other side. The experiences of his past had been appearing closer together, and he expected another incident shortly. “You have a mission,” he said, despite the uncertainty of his emotions and of his ability to control them.

As he reached the top of the rise, Vaughn tried to brace himself for whatever lay beyond it. It did not work. He stopped, his eyes narrowing as he regarded what he saw before him.

In the distance, a complex of neglected structures spread across the landscape. From this height, Vaughn could see into their midst. No buildings stood in the center of the complex. There was only a circle of darkness.

The site of the pulse.