Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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“Even with its effects on our sensors, the Tholians should not have been able to detect us,” Ineti said. “Drawing power directly from the warp engines is the most likely cause, and perhaps is a design flaw. We should alert Fleet Command of the unexpected discrepancy as soon as possible.” With another knowing smile, he added, “Whenever that might be.”

Allowing the cool, slightly vibrating surface of the bulkhead to act as therapy against the headache she could feel descending upon her, Sarith finally opened her eyes and glanced at the chronometer displayed on her desktop computer terminal. She quickly calculated the interval of time remaining until her next planned subspace communication back to the empire and noted that several hours remained—more than enough time for her to compose a thorough account of their current situation and status.

Finally, something new to report.

The journey to this region of space, far beyond Romulan boundaries, had taken months, thanks in no small part to the circuitous route that had been required in order to skirt Federation and Klingon territory, not to mention their paying particular attention to avoid the network of observation outposts the Federation had deployed along their border with Romulan space. To the best of Sarith’s knowledge, it was the first time any military vessel had left the confines of the Romulan Star Empire since shortly after the war against Earth.

All so that we might spy on our former enemies.

“I know that expression,” Ineti said after a moment. “Once again, you wonder if this assignment is worthy of an officer of your stature.”

Sarith smiled. As always, she failed utterly at concealing her thoughts and feelings from her oldest friend. “I do not question the Praetor’s orders, or the directives of Fleet Command,” she said, the words sounding rehearsed even as she said them. “I would simply have appreciated more information. It is preferable to know for what exactly we are undertaking such risk, would you not agree?”

“Of course,” Ineti replied, “just as I’ve agreed with you on each of the seventeen occasions since our departure when you have raised this same question.”

Sighing, Sarith shook her head. The old man certainly could be exasperating at times. “I have to wonder what interest the Praetor might have in happenings taking place so far from home,” she said. Her vessel had traveled almost the length and breadth of explored space, and for what reason? To gather information on the recent upswing of Federation, Klingon, and even Tholian activity in this heretofore isolated region of space, to relay that information back to her superiors, and to do so without alerting anyone to her ship’s presence. It was of paramount importance to the Praetor that no one know of the Romulans’ first slow steps toward emerging from an isolation that had lasted more than a century, and that their interests were piqued by whatever might be unfolding here.

“Just because we do not see the threat,” Ineti said after a moment, “does not mean it does not exist. Such prudence has guided us for countless generations, my friend. Do not forget that.”

“Some would call that philosophy nothing more than simple paranoia,” Sarith countered. In fact, judging from the scant intelligence data received from undercover operatives positioned within the ranks of the Federation Starfleet, the Earth-centric political body seemed almost obsessed with expanding their influence into this region of space, which apparently had provoked the Klingon Empire into dispatching their own vessels. The activities of both entities appeared to have angered the Tholians, and by all accounts, war in this region seemed inevitable.

Among the many things missing from the intelligence reports was what had set these events in motion.

What had brought the Federation here, possessing it to venture into territory flanked by two rival powers who both considered the humans and their allies to be a threat? Had the Klingons learned of some potential military advantage the area offered, and were they now determined to seize it before the Federation staked their claim? How did the Tholians factor into the equation, apart from simple xenophobia and a desire to be left well enough alone?

Sarith’s mission was simple: Find answers to those questions.

3

“Go away.”

The words were spikes piercing Cervantes Quinn’s head even as he said them, aided as they were by the fact that he was speaking while pressing his right cheek into the cool surface of the bar in Tom Walker’s place. The wood—or whatever material simulating wood that had been used to construct the bar—vibrated beneath his face, sending renewed waves of pain into his skull and giving him cause once again to utter his oft-used yet never-honored entreaty to any benevolent deity who might be listening.

Please, just let me die in peace.

“Quinn,” Tim Pennington said, repeating the summons for the third time while simultaneously placing a hand on Quinn’s left shoulder and shaking it. “Come on, we’re going to be late. We’re due to ship out in less than an hour.”

“Huh?” Quinn said, the word coming out as much a gargle as it was anything remotely intelligible. Pulling his head up, during which he discovered that some of his long gray hair had become stuck to the bar by way of a congealed green substance equally likely to be Aldebaran whiskey or engine coolant, he turned and regarded Pennington—all six of him—dancing in his unfocused vision. “What are you talking about?”

Pennington rolled his eyes. “The shipment, Quinn, don’t you remember? The replacement parts for the load lifters that farmer on Boam II ordered? You contracted with the station to deliver them in a week. We have to leave this morning if we’re going to keep that schedule.”

Watching as the six dancing Penningtons continued their fluctuations before his eyes in a frenzied attempt to meld into a single irksome speaker, Quinn came to the conclusion that the journalist’s slight Scottish brogue was even more irritating to hear first thing in the morning, particularly when Quinn was nursing a hangover that harbored enough force to initiate a warp-core overload.

“Right,” he said finally, nodding in acknowledgment to Pennington and immediately regretting the movement. He reached up to cradle his forehead in his hands. It was going to be a long day, but ultimately one he had no choice but to survive, at least if he wanted to get paid.

Vanguard’s quartermaster division had already taken pity upon him by offering him a contract to transport supplies and other requested items from the station to the various colonies that were springing up throughout the Taurus Reach. So far the work had been marginally profitable, if not exciting, at least enough to keep him fed and his ship, the Rocinante,in working order. It also provided him with at least some funds that he could put toward his outstanding debts, the number and amount of which escaped him at the moment.

I wonder if I’ve got enough to buy a new skull,he thought as another stab of pain wormed its way behind his eyeballs.

Regarding him skeptically, Pennington shook his head. “Did you spend the night here?”

“Possibly,” Quinn replied. “I think so.” He pondered the question for an additional moment. “Yeah.” Like many of the other establishments located within Stars Landing, Starbase 47’s commercial and entertainment district as well as home to the majority of the station’s civilian population, Tom Walker’s was open around the clock so as to better serve personnel assigned to each of the station’s three standard duty shifts. The bar was also one of the few places aboard the mammoth station where Quinn normally could find solace at this ungodly hour of the day, as evidenced by the fact that the bar was empty of other patrons.

Almost empty, anyway.

“Well, you look like hell,” Pennington replied, making no effort to hide his disdain. “Are you going to be able to pilot that flying death trap of yours, or not?”

“I’ve flown when I felt a lot worse than this,” Quinn said as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Feel free to stay behind, if you’re worried.”

Shaking his head, Pennington replied, “Ordinarily I might take you up on that, but I’ve got my own reasons for tagging along.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn said, recalling that the onetime reporter for the Federation News Service had lined up a series of interviews with several members of the colony on Boam II, one of the first such settlements to be established at the start of Federation expansion into the Taurus Reach. Pennington planned to write a story about how the colony had thrived in the sixteen months since its founding, in the hopes of showcasing some of the positive progress being made in this region.

“It’s not going to win me any prizes,” Pennington conceded, “but hopefully it’ll let me pay a few bills, assuming I get to write it.”

Nobody’s gonna buy it,he mused, but why rain on his parade?Under most other circumstances, Quinn probably would not have cared less that the journalist’s life lay all but in ruins—that he’d been fired from his job and dumped by his wife.

Of course, given that Quinn himself had played a hand, albeit unknowingly, in demolishing Pennington’s career, things were different. Acting on direction of the station’s intelligence officer, Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn, Quinn had planted information that she had given him and that she had designed as bait to trick Pennington into writing a damning article for the FNS about the destruction of the U.S.S. Bombayat the hands of Tholian vessels last month. The information was fake, its sources either liars or phantoms created by the Vulcan for the sole purpose of luring the journalist to craft a story which could then—along with Pennington himself—be discredited. Her tactics had proven successful, with the FNS wasting no time firing Pennington and Starfleet using that opportunity to cloak in shadow whatever had really happened to the Bombaysomewhere deep in the Taurus Reach.

Whereas Quinn could accept that his chosen line of work might entail visiting hardship or even harm on others, he had his limits. He did not believe in killing except in self-defense, and he studiously avoided cheating or otherwise harming innocent people. Pennington’s only apparent crime had been one of unchecked enthusiasm as he wrote and published his story with the information he had obtained. Because of that, he was now a laughingstock in the professional journalism community and an outcast even here, aboard this station in the hind end of space. It was because of the guilt Quinn felt over his role in Pennington’s professional demise that he had befriended the disgraced reporter, without cluing him in to the true reasons behind his decision, of course.

I’m not acomplete idiot.

“So, are we going or not?” Pennington said, his voice seeming to acquire an even thicker accent as his annoyance level rose, and each syllable tapping a new nail into Quinn’s alcohol-ravaged brain.

Holding up a hand to silence his friend, Quinn said, “Yeah, yeah, we’re going. Just hang on a minute.” His brow furrowed as he recalled the previous evening’s activities. “The cargo’s already in the hold, and I took care of preflight last night.” Seeing the look of concern on Pennington’s face, he added, “ BeforeI started drinking, all right?”

Pennington appeared to relax. “Fine. Let’s go then.”

“Get your stuff and meet me at the docking port,” Quinn said as he began searching through the numerous pockets lining his shirt, trousers, and jacket. “I need to settle up with Tom.”

An expression of surprise appeared on Pennington’s face. “You’re settling your tab? Is this some sort of special occasion?” He frowned. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“I’m not that lucky,” Quinn retorted before waving Pennington toward the door. “Go. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. We’ll be out of here on schedule.”

Pennington pointed a cautioning finger at him, his frown turning skeptical. “Don’t be late,” he said as he turned and headed for the door. “I need this job, and so do you.”

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll be fine,” Quinn said to the reporter’s retreating back before his gaze returned to the bar. Once Pennington was gone, he shook his head. “Two weeks with that,” he said to no one, imagining the round-trip voyage to Boam II and back. “Mommy, make it stop.”

And with that, he laid his head back down on the bar. Within seconds, the few innocuous sounds drifting through the tavern faded away as Quinn once more allowed sleep to reach out for him.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he felt another poke in his left shoulder.

“Dammit, Tim,” he said, jerking his head up and squinting in pain at the sudden movement. “You’re worse than my second wife.” He whirled around on his barstool, seriously considering punching Pennington for the second time since meeting the aggravating journalist.

Instead of Pennington, Quinn found himself staring into the face of Zett Nilric. Impeccably dressed, as always, in a tailored slate-gray suit with polished black shoes, the trim Nalori regarded him with an expression cold enough to freeze warp plasma. The tavern’s low overhead lighting reflected off his oily black skin and shaved head, making his expression appear all the more sinister.

“Mr. Quinn,” Zett said without preamble, his tone reserved and almost lyrical as he spoke, “Mr. Ganz wants to see you.”

Quinn sighed. That the Orion would send his right-hand man and most trusted enforcer to personally escort him to see their mutual employer could not bode well. “What did I do now?”

Zett, of course, did not smile. “Why, nothing. At least, not yet.”

4

Occupying his customary table at the rear of Starbase 47’s officers’ mess and without moving his eyes from the data slate lying atop the table near his left elbow, Commodore Diego Reyes reached with the fork in his right hand to stab at his eggs.

The fork scraped against the plate, alerting him that he had already consumed his breakfast. Looking over at the empty plate with an aftertaste of the meal still in his mouth, he realized that he had been so engrossed in his morning reading that he had failed to recognize how utterly horrible the eggs had tasted.

“What the hell did I just eat?” Reyes asked, frowning, as he reached for his glass of orange juice in the hope of washing away the aftertaste of…whatever.

Across from him, Dr. Ezekiel Fisher’s brown face warmed as he offered a wistful smile from over the rim of his coffee cup. “Ktarian eggs. I made a change in your diet profile for the galley after your last physical. Those are lower in cholesterol, and they’ve got all sorts of vitamins and minerals a growing boy like you needs.”

Reyes frowned at his longtime friend. “You know I hate Ktarian eggs,” he said. “Always have. I’d rather chew on my boot.”

“Your boot would offer more nutrition than what you usually eat. Besides, they taste better when you mix in green peppers,” Fisher countered, indicating Reyes’s plate with a nod of his head. “You didn’t seem to mind them this time.”

His scowl melting somewhat, Reyes said, “Is it part of a chief medical officer’s job description to harass and harangue those in his care in as many ways as possible?”

“Absolutely,” Fisher replied, nodding with conviction as he took another sip of his coffee. “It’s the second verse of the Hippocratic Oath, the one you never hear because most doctors are going on about doing no harm and whatnot. Me? I skipped right to the good part.”

“I thought all that stuff about doing no harm wasn’t even in the Hippocratic Oath,” Reyes said.

Fisher smiled. “You have to look for it. Which is all the more reason to get to the harassment and haranguing, such as telling starbase commanders that their eating habits are atrocious, and that if they don’t start taking better care of themselves, more of their favorite dishes will be deleted from their diet profiles.”

Deciding that he probably would survive this particular breakfast—while at the same time making a mental note to get with the quartermaster about clandestinely shipping in some care packages from Earth as soon as possible—Reyes pushed the plate away and reached for his data slate. It contained various morning reports submitted by the station’s department heads as well as a distillation of message traffic and other updates received from Starfleet Command in the past twenty-four hours.

“Do you remember Terrance Sadler?” he asked as he held up the tablet for Fisher to see.

The doctor nodded. “Sure. Left Starfleet about six years ago to settle down on some colony planet.”

“Right,” Reyes said. “Hell of a security chief. Probably the best I ever had.” As he spoke the words, he looked about the mess hall to ensure that his current security officer, Lieutenant Haniff Jackson, was not in earshot. It was not that he doubted Jackson’s abilities or potential, of course, but Sadler had served under Reyes for three years aboard the U.S.S. Dauntless. Nearly every member of their ship’s crew for one reason or another owed his or her life to Terrance Sadler, who had proven to have a knack not only for anticipating trouble but for handling it, as well.

A real bad karma magnet, Terry was.

“What about him? Did he send you a note, bragging about how exhilarating life is on the frontier?” Fisher asked, reaching for a carafe at the center of the table to refill his coffee cup. “Unlike here, where nothing ever happens.”

Ignoring his friend’s sarcasm, Reyes replied, “The last I heard, he settled on Ingraham B.” He held up the data slate for emphasis. “According to Starfleet Command, all contact with the colony there has been lost.” He frowned as he glanced over the report for the fourth time. “That planet’s nowhere near Klingon space, or any other known threat.”

Was something new making its presence known in that still isolated area of Federation territory? Ingraham B, while not a military target by any means, was still home to a thriving agricultural and scientific colony. Terrance Sadler had elected to resign his commission and accompany his wife, herself an accomplished xenobiologist, to the planet in the hope of settling down, starting a family, and leaving behind the stresses of life aboard a starship.

Yeah, but if trouble comes knocking, you can bet Terry will be the one answering the door.

“You know, it could be something as simple as a power failure,” Fisher offered, “or whatever else that might knock out their communications gear. It doesn’t always have to be something malicious causing problems.”

Shaking his head, Reyes pointed to the data slate again. “It’s been three days since contact was lost. They’re sending a ship to investigate, but it’ll take weeks just to get there.”

“Space is big, Diego,” Fisher said, in that paternal manner of his which allowed him to state even the incredibly obvious without coming off as patronizing or insulting. “For all we know, they’ll have comm up before that ship can get halfway there.”

While he wanted to think that something innocuous could be responsible for the apparent communications blackout, Reyes’s gut told him that simply was not the case. His feelings of apprehension only deepened when coupled with the pain he still carried over the loss of the U.S.S. Bombay. The captain of the ship, Hallie Gannon, had been his first officer on the Dauntless. She and Sadler had also been friends, and their notorious late-night poker games had seen more than a few credits whisked from Reyes’s own pocket.

I hope everything’s all right out your way, Terry.

The report regarding Ingraham B was one of more than twenty received from Starfleet Command since yesterday morning, and those were but a percentage of the briefings and updates transmitted to Starbase 47 during a given week. The reports were a lifeline of sorts for the station, connecting it with the rest of the Federation and reminding all aboard that they were but one act of an immense, multifaceted play that was being written anew with each passing day. While much of what Reyes reviewed was positive—details from dozens of newly explored worlds, a few first contact situations, and so on—there also were several reports that caused him concern. Heightened activity from within Klingon and Tholian borders was at the top of that list, of course, particularly as they related to his current assignment.

What the daily briefings never failed to do, regardless of whether they contained encouraging or disquieting news, was remind him that this was a time of unprecedented potential—for Starfleet and the Federation as a whole. Never before had so many opportunities to make so much progress in so many different areas of knowledge—science, technology, relations with new civilizations—been within such seemingly easy reach.

Of course, much of that excitement was unfolding very far from where Diego Reyes currently sat.

That’s okay,he mused, though with more than a small amount of melancholy. We have our own unique brand of excitement here, don’t we?

The initial discovery of virtually identical samples of incredibly complex genomes—collected by the U.S.S. Constellationtwo years ago from five different star systems and all separated by several light-years—had ignited a firestorm of policymaking and strategizing at the highest echelons of Starfleet Command. Theories raged over the origin of the “meta-genome,” as it had come to be known. Was this a clue to some future step in natural evolution, one that humans and humanoid species throughout the galaxy might eventually take? There were those in the Federation science community who believed the intricate DNA might be artificial in nature. If that was the case, who was responsible for it? Was it someone with whom the Federation might ally itself, or was it a possible—and potentially staggering—new enemy?

Vanguard’s primary mission, so far as the public was concerned, was to provide logistical support for the extensive exploration and colonization effort already well under way in the Taurus Reach, as well as to be a nucleus for Starfleet operations in the area. In reality, that duty provided cover for the station’s true purpose—directing the efforts of Starfleet specialists to learn as much about the meta-genome and its origins as was possible. It was a tall order, especially considering that, with precious few exceptions, Starbase 47’s entire complement was unaware of the meta-genome’s existence in the first place.

The strain of commanding this effort, so far from home, had already taken a personal toll on Reyes, its harshest blow coming with the news of his mother’s death. That loss had weighed heavily on him, along with his inability to even be present at the end, bound as he was by his duty to Starfleet, this station, and the growing number of secrets it harbored.

Suppressing the truth behind the loss of the Bombay,not to mention the steps that had been taken to prevent the ship’s destruction from igniting all-out war with the Tholians, had been distasteful enough. Compounding that dilemma was the willful scuttling of the professional career of journalist Tim Pennington, who had reported the incident via the Federation News Service. The reporter had been used—duped into writing a story using information both fabricated and manipulated so that Starfleet might discredit him in the eyes of the public. Their sacrifice of Pennington cast off suspicions that the Bombaytragedy had resulted from anything more than an unfortunate accident.

Reyes could only hope that whatever secrets the Taurus Reach held, they would prove to be worth the costs already incurred in discovering them. Such feelings of guilt and uncertainty had visited upon him no small number of sleepless nights, a situation made worse by the fact that there was no one on the station with whom he felt he could discuss his troubles.

Including my two closest friends,Reyes reminded himself as he looked across the table at Fisher, who sat back in his own chair, sipping his coffee and watching the random procession of Starfleet personnel moving about the officers’ mess.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” the doctor said after a moment, returning his attention to Reyes. “Even for you.” It was as much an observation as it was a joke, Reyes realized. The two old friends long ago had left behind the necessity to fill dead air with inane conversations, and the irregular breakfasts they shared were often as not eaten in almost total silence, with Fisher enjoying his customary fruit plate and coffee, while Reyes ate whatever the food slot produced as he pored over the contents of the data slate his yeoman delivered without fail each morning.

Reyes shook his head. “Sorry. Lost in thought.” Shrugging, he added, “Just trying to get geared up for another exciting day of reading supply requisitions, status reports, and whatever complaints have been levied against me by some irritated colony administrator.”

“You’re irritating colony administrators again?” Fisher asked. “What’d you do this time?” No sooner had he spoken the words than he raised a hand as if to wave them away, adopting a knowing smile as he did so. “No, wait. Scratch that. What did Rana sayyou did this time?”

Reyes replied, “Nothing yet, but the day’s just getting started.” He and Captain Rana Desai, the station’s representative from Starfleet’s Judge Advocate General Corps, already had faced off several times on matters involving several of the newly established Federation colonies in the Taurus Reach. Most of those cases had involved Starfleet’s attempts to secure needed resources from planets upon which colonies had been founded. To him, what appeared to be a straightforward situation—Starbase 47’s need to remain self-sufficient by acquiring raw materials from worlds in neighboring star systems—often was made more complicated by a variety of legal and public-relations issues he was both unqualified and unmotivated to understand.

For that, he relied upon Captain Desai, and his attitude often resulted in conversations with her on these and related topics that could be, for lack of a better word, animated.

“We’ve been butting heads a lot lately,” Reyes said after a moment. “A lot of it’s just the usual—not seeing eye-to-eye on this or that.” He shrugged. “She’s got a tough job to do, enforcing or even making law this far out in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes I think she forgets that she’s not the only one carrying a heavy pack.” Indeed, Starbase 47’s assignment to oversee the legitimate and burgeoning Federation presence in the Taurus Reach was becoming more demanding with each passing day, bringing with it an increasing number of situations and issues between Starfleet and civilian entities that required not only his own attention but also that of Captain Desai. That the pair sometimes exuded diametrically opposing viewpoints in some cases was—in Reyes’s opinion, at least—a galactic understatement.

Leaning back in his chair as he stroked his beard, Fisher offered one of his trademark knowing smiles. “I imagine the ethical and philosophical debates alone make for pretty stimulating dinner conversation.”

Despite himself, Reyes winced in reaction to his friend’s comment, quickly looking about the mess hall to see if anyone else might be overhearing their conversation. While he and Desai both took steps to keep their personal relationship as low-key as possible, the commodore was nagged by the constant feeling that everyone on the station—along with anyone sitting aboard one of the dozen or so ships currently making use of Vanguard’s docking facilities—knew exactly what was going on.

Reaching for his orange juice, he sipped from the glass before answering. “They don’t really aid in my digestion, though.”

“I have no doubt,” the doctor said, the words almost consumed by the chuckle that came with them.

Of course, Reyes was hampered in his dealings with Desai by the fact that he was required to keep from her the host of secrets regarding the station’s true mission, a situation made all the more complicated by the fact that the two of them were sleeping together.

One of these days I’ve got to quit half-stepping,he reminded himself, and just find some way to becompletely miserable.

Fueling that misery for sure was his need to monitor the aggressive movements of both the Klingons and the Tholians into the region. So far, their incursions had brought about several very tense encounters, including the destruction of the Bombayand the Starfleet outpost on Ravanar IV.

The incidents had ratcheted up the already strained relations between the Federation and the notoriously xenophobic Tholians, coming much closer to igniting a war between the two governments than was generally known. It had taken a supreme effort on the part of Ambassador Jetanien, the Federation’s diplomatic envoy currently assigned to Vanguard, to head off that conflict by conducting a series of heated negotiations with his Tholian counterparts. In the end, hostilities had been avoided, but how long would the fragile peace last?

One way or another,Reyes mused, we’re going to be ringside when that question gets answered.

Draining the last of his coffee, Fisher placed the cup back on the table before retrieving the cloth napkin from his lap and wiping his mouth. “Time to go to work,” he said as he rose to his feet, taking a moment to wipe a stray crumb from his blue uniform tunic. Reaching up, he ran a finger inside the shirt’s black collar. “Whoever designed this new uniform must have been an executioner in a previous life. At least the old collars didn’t feel like I was sticking my head through a hangman’s noose.”

Reyes smiled at the comment. In actuality, he found that he preferred the recently introduced uniform redesigns. The only thing he had found out of sorts was the proliferation of red tunics, worn by personnel who at one time might have sported gold. The new color scheme was taking a bit of getting used to.

“Maybe it’s just too small for you,” he offered as he gathered the data slate and stood up from his own chair. “Might want to check your own diet card, Doctor.”