Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

46

Even with the added quiet, given the absence of the steady thrum of the Endeavour’s warp engines, which were deactivated while the ship was cradled in the embrace of Vanguard’s docking bay three, Khatami found that the solitude and serenity of her quarters did little to enable her concentration on the task at hand. Despite hours spent at her desk, perusing file after file from the ship’s personnel database, she seemed unable to make what was turning out to be one of the most difficult decisions of her still young captaincy.

“Captain’s Personal Log, supplemental,” she spoke to the computer. “So the question remains: Who’s my first officer?”

Once more—she had long since lost count of how many times she had repeated this process during the evening—her eyes scanned her desktop viewer, reviewing and comparing the service records of her top three candidates. She had stalled the decision long enough, she knew, waiting until after returning from Erilon, part of her feeling as though she still occupied the post herself. It could be delayed no longer.

“Lieutenant Commander Norton does a fine job leading beta shift,” she said. “He has experience and his record clearly makes him the strongest candidate, but he’s prickly and overly officious.” Shrugging to herself, she added, “There’s Lieutenant Stano from gamma shift. She’s very capable and very respected by her team, but she’s not the most efficient person in Starfleet. And I know she’s on the sciences track, but I can see some real leadership qualities in Lieutenant T’Pes….”

Khatami let her voice trail off as she wondered whether she would be able to build a quick confidence and rapport with any one of them, as she had done with Ensign Klisiewicz. Through their shared need to immerse themselves in the secret information about the meta-genome, they had begun to forge a bond of trust, and it was one she appreciated more than he might realize. Other than herself, there was no one on board who understood more about the meta-genome and Starfleet’s greater mission in the Taurus Reach than he did.

She had made a point soon after the Endeavour’s departure from Erilon to meet with the young ensign and express her thanks; not only for the assistance he had lent her on the bridge during that mind-numbing first attack, but also for his willingness to step quickly into a role of research and responsibility. He surely must be viewing his posting on the starship as a much greater job than he ever imagined, she remembered asking. And she knew she never would forget his reply.

“I’m only following your lead, Captain,”she heard Klisiewicz’s voice repeating in her thoughts. “We’re in the same boat, you know? And if you’re not getting out, neither am I.”

“Think Starfleet would approve a field promotion from ensign to lieutenant commander?” She smiled at the thought, ridiculous as it may have been. Khatami already had put in a request to promote Klisiewicz to full lieutenant, a rank commensurate with the level of responsibilities he currently held. While Starfleet had not yet responded to the request, she figured there was no need to push her luck. Releasing an amused sigh, she said, “Computer, delete that last remark.”

“Deleted,” the monotone, feminine voice replied.

Khatami regarded the follow-up mission to Erilon as a success save for the unfortunate loss of three more members of her crew, serving as a small measure of emotional closure for her transition to command and stating in no uncertain terms that it was time to move on. While Commodore Reyes had said as much during her post-mission debriefing even as the Endeavourwarped back to the station, Khatami herself still harbored no small amount of insecurity about her abilities, particularly as they stacked up to the challenges she knew lay ahead.

You got lucky this time, Tish. The next time won’t be so easy.

The tone of her door chime sounded, pulling her from her reverie and the pool of doubt into which she felt herself plunging. “Computer, end recording,” she said, relieved by the welcome distraction. “Please, come right in!”

Dr. Leone was standing at the threshold as the door slid aside, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes crushed into his characteristic squint. “Captain,” he said, his expression communicating his discomfort, “I was just passing by and I, well, didn’t know whether you’d had dinner yet.”

Shaking her head, Khatami replied, “Not yet, no.” She waited to see if the doctor would venture into the room on his own accord, and when he did not, she gestured to him with a smile. “You’re welcome to join me if you like.”

Leone nodded several times in quick succession as he entered, his lips pursed in a tight grin. “Well, I hadn’t had a chance to check in since we returned to Vanguard,” he said, hovering over the empty seat near her desk. “CMO protocol being what it is and all, it’s good form to check on the commanding officer’s emotional well-being from time to time, particularly after a stressful assignment. You know, make sure the burdens of command aren’t weighing too heavily, that sort of thing.”

Suppressing the urge to giggle, Khatami replied, “I understand.”

“So, things seem okay then?”

Khatami found herself flattered by Leone’s awkward display. Though public expression of friendship or support was by no means the doctor’s strong suit, there was no mistaking his genuine concern for her. At the same time, she understood that he was not seeking emotional reciprocity.

“I think so,” she replied. “I was just finalizing my decision to appoint my new first officer.”

“Well, it’s quite an honor to even be considered, Captain. I accept,” Leone said as he sat down in the chair opposite hers. His expression remained neutral for several seconds before he added, “By the way, if I ever say that again, feel free to have me locked up for psychological evaluation, and if you thought I was serious, even for a second, then make sure you book yourself into the padded room next to mine.”

Now she did laugh, welcoming the rush of warmth that came with it. Though others might take exception to his sardonic personality, in his own way, Leone always had been able to put her at ease.

“So,” she said after a moment, “tell me about this mysterious outbreak you contained down in the mess hall the other day.” Feeling a hint of mischief taking hold as she noted Leone’s worried expression, she fought to school her own features. “I seem to have misplaced your official report on the incident.”

Clearing his throat and appearing as though he would rather be somewhere—anywhere—else, the doctor shifted his position in his seat. He even raised a hand in an animated attempt to respond, but as soon as he opened his mouth, she saw comprehension dawn. “It was a minor outbreak, Captain, nothing too serious. I was able to…initiate quarantine procedures and keep the reaction from spreading, if that’s what you mean. I’ve stayed on top of the situation, but it appears my single application of the treatment regimen is proving effective. I don’t expect there will be any new flare-ups.” He squirmed in his seat again, the expression on his face indicative of someone who might just have sat upon an unexploded photon torpedo.

“Ah,” Khatami said, folding her arms across her chest and nodding as she listened to the rambling report. “Well, while I appreciate your initiative, Doctor, it’s my opinion that you pursue other ‘treatments’ from now on.” When she finally did smile, she leaned across the desk toward him. “I’m sure the idiot deserved it, but I know I’ll need time to earn the crew’s respect. I also know I need to earn it on my own.”

Leone nodded. “Understood, Captain,” he replied. “And…may I speak freely?”

“You’ve been doing that for as long as I’ve known you, Tony,” Khatami said, laughing again. “Permission retroactively granted.”

“For what it’s worth,” the doctor offered, “I think you’ve done a hell of a job. Captain Zhao’s a hard act to follow, and I know it takes time to figure out your own way, but I think you’ll do just fine.”

Khatami smiled. “This isn’t just another prescription morale booster, is it?”

Shrugging, Leone replied, “When it rains, it pours.”

The door chime sounded again, and when Khatami gave permission for the caller to enter, she turned to see Mog standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” the burly engineer said by way of greeting. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Khatami replied, gesturing for him to enter. “Dr. Leone and I were discussing a few things before I take him up on his dinner invitation.”

Turning to stare at the doctor, Mog affected a mock expression of shock. “You? By Kera and Phinda, I’ve finally lived long enough to have seen it all.” His eyes narrowing, he asked, “Are you feeling well? I hear there’s something going around on the lower decks.” Leone’s reply was limited to a pained grimace, more than enough to elicit a bellowing laugh from the husky Tellarite. To Khatami, he said, “So, is there room for one more in this party?”

“Only if you eat something that doesn’t smell like it’s been rooted out of a silage pile,” Leone said as he rose from his seat, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think Tellarite cuisine was developed as the result of an elaborate dare.”

“That doesn’t stop you from enjoying my bojnoggiin the mornings,” Mog noted.

“I’m having it scanned for addictive substances before I drink another drop,” the doctor replied, wincing as he headed for the door.

Khatami turned to follow him when she felt Mog’s hand on her arm. Waiting for Leone to walk out of earshot, the engineer looked to her. “From the looks of things,” he said in a low voice, “the doctor beat me to it, but I’ll say it anyway. Captain Zhao would be proud of you.”

The words, soft and sincere, embraced Khatami with the warmth and comfort of a favored blanket. While she knew that Mog’s support and loyalty to her was absolute, it still felt good to receive affirmation from one of her closest and most trusted friends. “Thank you, Mog. I appreciate that.”

“Hey,” Leone said from the corridor, poking his head through the door. “You coming or not? I’m hungry.”

Mog chuckled as the doctor’s head disappeared again. Nodding toward the door, the engineer said, “I don’t think he ever visited Captain Zhao. That has to be a good sign.”

Feeling her inner demon recede somewhat in the face of her friend’s observation, Khatami nodded with a conviction she had not felt in some time. “I’ll take all the good signs I can get.”

47

Basking under lamps designed to simulate the warmth generated by the sun of his homeworld, Jetanien lay disrobed and belly-down atop the stone slab that was the dominating piece of furniture in the bedroom of his private quarters. Though the heat expelled by the lamps was far above the tolerance and even safety margins of most humanoid species, for a Chelon the effects were soothing, relaxing and reinvigorating muscles fatigued by the stresses of his position and the anxieties they evoked.

Despite the sun lamps’ calming effects, Jetanien was unable to shake entirely the frustration and despair that continued to gnaw at him even here in his otherwise comforting refuge. At this moment, both the Klingon and Tholian delegations were on their way to their homeworlds, having departed the station at the decree of their respective governments.

Though the summit had been tumultuous, Jetanien admitted, he felt also that the first signs of real, measurable progress had taken hold when the meeting met with untimely interruption. Events far beyond his influence had conspired to pull apart the tenuous links he was sure were on the verge of sending the Federation, Klingons, and Tholians down a path of mutual understanding and perhaps even cooperation. Once again, the three interstellar bodies eyed one another as players on different sides of a game board, each waiting for the other to initiate play. No, Jetanien decided, a better analogy was one of warriors in centuries past, who gazed upon each other across ancient battlefields in the moments prior to the first sword being drawn.

In essence,he mused, I have accomplished nothing.

In particular, Jetanien regretted the opportunity he had lost with Ambassador Sesrene. The Tholian diplomat had only just begun to offer substantive clues as to the reasons for his people’s bizarre, unexplained reactions to the Klingon and Federation presence in the Taurus Reach. That Jetanien might have come so close to answering so many lingering questions before his efforts were thwarted was as disheartening as it was frustrating.

Might a better diplomat have gotten those answers? Would he or she have made a more effective facilitator, rather than wasting precious time trying to regain control of a situation he or she should never have lost in the first place?

As they had from the moment Commodore Reyes suspended the summit, those questions tormented Jetanien. What could he have done differently, or more efficiently? What mistakes had he made, and which now demanded attention and correction in order to avoid repeating them? Would there be an opportunity to redeem himself?

What if it already was too late? Had he squandered his one chance to make a difference here, where steady, lucid leadership and gifted foresight were necessary if the unthinkable was to be avoided?

His thoughts were broken by the sound of his door chime. Rising from his sleeping tablet, Jetanien reached for a robe to cover his considerable bulk before answering the summons.

“Enter.” From beyond his bedroom he heard the sound of the door to his quarters opening, followed by the gentle, rhythmic footfalls of someone walking in his direction.

“Ambassador?” called out a female voice, one he recognized. A moment later, Akeylah Karumé appeared in his doorway, wearing one of her customary multicolored robes replete with its dazzling array of abstract designs. The tall, brown woman appraised him with an expression of alarm.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Your Excellency,” she said, glancing away in obvious embarrassment.

“Not at all,” Jetanien replied, clicking his beak as he stood up and ushered her into the room. “What can I do for you?”

Clearing her throat, Karumé said, “We’ve just received this parcel addressed to you.” She produced what he recognized as a standard-issue green diplomatic pouch of a type used by members of the Federation Council when in session on Earth.

“Indeed,” the ambassador said, considering this unexpected delivery. “From one of my esteemed colleagues, no doubt.” Experiencing a pang of optimism, he asked, “Might it have come from Sesrene?”

Karumé shook her head. “Actually, it’s from Lugok.”

Making no attempt to stifle his surprise, Jetanien released a disbelieving snort. “You’re joking. Did you have it scanned for explosives?” he asked even as he extended one of his thick webbed hands to take the proffered pouch from her.

“And biotoxins,” Karumé replied. “Though any self-respecting Klingon will tell you that to attack one’s enemies in such an underhanded manner is dishonorable.”

“Only if anyone were to find out,” Jetanien countered as he opened the pouch. Its contents consisted of a single green data cartridge, the squared variety used as secondary storage in Federation computer systems.

“Is there anything else, Your Excellency?” Karumé asked after a moment.

Shaking his head, Jetanien moved toward the doorway leading from his bedroom to his office. “No, my dear. Thank you for delivering this. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He walked to his desk, lowering himself onto the stool situated there before turning and holding up the data cartridge so that Karumé could see it. “If there’s anything here of note, I’ll be sure to call you immediately.”

Karumé took her leave of him, and Jetanien waited until the doors closed behind her before inserting the cartridge into his desktop computer interface and activating the unit. A moment later, the display screen flared to life and the image coalesced into view to show an almost genteel-looking Lugok.

“ Ambassador Jetanien,”the recorded image of the Klingon began, “ I apologize if this message disturbs you at an inconvenient hour.”

Never trust a polite Klingon,Jetanien mused as he considered Lugok’s expression.

“ Your Excellency,”the ambassador continued, “ as you certainly can appreciate, the demeanor of conflict a diplomat might project in a group setting is different than the one he might choose to show an individual in a more private discussion. Politics, as you well know, is as much a game of positioning and perception as it is power and progress.”

“I wonder, do I sound this way when I talk?” Jetanien asked aloud, the question of course being heard by no one.

On the screen, Lugok said, “ Despite the impasse at which our respective governments find themselves, I am…hopeful that you and I might find a way to continue the dialogue we began before the termination of the summit. It would be unfortunate if our superiors’ shortsightedness prevented us from realizing the potential you seem to believe awaits us all. I look forward to your response, so that we might discuss how best to proceed. Qapla’, Your Excellency.”

Jetanien was already stunned into silence as he watched the recording. His surprise was only compounded as Lugok’s expression melted into something that—loosely defined, of course—resembled a warm, welcoming smile. Then the image faded as the recorded message ended.

“Well,” Jetanien said to no one, “that certainly was unexpected.”

Naturally, the ambassador was suspicious. What could be motivating Lugok to act in this manner? Jetanien’s instincts told him the Klingon’s motives were far from noble, but what if he was wrong? Was it possible that Lugok had been visited by a realization that so far seemed to elude his superiors on the Klingon High Council? Might he truly be inspired to forge a lasting peace here in the Taurus Reach?

There is only one way to answer those questions.

Tapping one of his claws against his broad beak, Jetanien grunted in growing anticipation as he considered his options in responding to Lugok’s intriguing proposition. How should he proceed? What risks lay ahead, and were they worth incurring?

It seemed he would have to call Karumé after all.

48

Still damp from her shower, Anna Sandesjo stepped from her bathroom and wrapped a robe around her cooling body. Crossing her quarters to her desk while using the towel she still carried to complete the task of drying her hair, she paused, smiling to herself as she realized that T’Prynn’s scent still lingered among the other aromas permeating the room. It, the disheveled bedsheets, and the various articles of her discarded clothing scattered with abandon about the room all conspired, along with her own still fresh memory, to reconstruct the scene of vigorous passion that had unfolded here.

T’Prynn’s appearance at her door had been unexpected though not unwelcome, and Sandesjo could see that she was distracted, even upset—by Vulcan standards, anyway. At first she had been worried by T’Prynn’s unexpected visit, but it had quickly become apparent that her lover had come for a single purpose. Surprised to find herself in the unfamiliar role of caretaker, Sandesjo had asked what was troubling the Vulcan, but her questions had gone unanswered. Then the need for words had passed, replaced by other, more urgent desires, after which T’Prynn had left as abruptly as she had arrived, offering as an excuse a need to return to her duties.

Just as well,Sandesjo mused, considering that I have duties of my own.

Opening her briefcase to extract the hidden subspace transceiver, she proceeded quickly through the steps to activate it and send its clandestine hailing message. Engaging in yet another unscheduled communication carried a risk, particularly now, during the time observed aboard the station as “late night.” Though most civilian businesses—with the exception of the various taverns scattered across Stars Landing—were closed until morning, Starfleet operations continued around the clock. Her transceiver was programmed to camouflage its signal amid the plethora of communications coming and going from Starbase 47, of course, but there was always the chance that a bored ensign working the late shift might through fortunate happenstance stumble across her clandestine frequency while searching for something more interesting with which to pass the time.

A tone sounded from the unit’s interface panel, signifying that the transceiver had completed the connection process. Sandesjo released a sigh of resignation, knowing that the elation she had enjoyed during the past few hours was about to evaporate in the face of the reality that was her duty.

“ What?”Turag asked as his face came into focus on the transceiver’s display monitor. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his long hair seemed to fan out in all directions at once. “ Why have you disturbed me? What could possibly be so important at this time of night?”

Sandesjo could tell by his heavy eyelids and slurred words that while Turag might indeed have been sleeping, he had received assistance from a generous helping of bloodwine or whatever swill her contact chose to imbibe. Opening her mouth to offer her report, she was interrupted by Turag discharging a profound belch that echoed across her quarters. She flinched as something, spittle or perhaps a fragment of whatever he had eaten for dinner, launched from his mouth and landed on the visual pickup of his own transceiver. It clung there, partially obscuring her view of the drunk, disgusting Klingon.

An improvement, actually,she decided.

Holding his head in his hands, Turag regarded her through bleary eyes. “ The Jinoteur system?”he asked after listening to Sandesjo relay to him her most recent intelligence acquisition. “ We’ve not sent any ships to chart that region, so far as I’m aware.”

Sandesjo forced herself to maintain her composed expression. “As I already said, only unmanned probes have been dispatched to that region. A Klingon probe was intercepted after charting the Jinoteur system and its information stolen by Starfleet spies.” It was not entirely true, of course, but she knew that should the High Council forward any formal accusation to the Federation, such a charge would bear only a passing resemblance to the facts she provided.

Her job here and now was to ensure that did not happen.

“ An outrage!”Turag bellowed, after which he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, the alcohol coursing through his veins obviously wreaking havoc with his head. “ Those dishonorable cretins will pay for their insolence. This is an affront to the entire Klingon Empire. I will see to it…”

“You can do no such thing,” Sandesjo snapped, cutting him off. “Only a limited number of people know of this, and all of them currently reside on this station. If the High Council attempts to contest this, it will become apparent to anyone with a functioning brain stem that a spy must be at work here.”

Turag growled in frustration, more from his inebriation and being roused from sleep, Sandesjo gathered, than from any real frustration with what she had said. Leaning closer to the monitor so that whatever still remained stuck to the visual pickup now appeared as a massive blemish on his nose, Turag asked, “ Then what exactly do you expect me to do, Lurqal?”

Fool!Would she have to explain everything down to the most minuscule detail? How much of this conversation would he even remember in the morning? Would she have to repeat the entire exchange tomorrow?

“Obviously,” Sandesjo said, grappling to maintain her composure, “Starfleet feels this system is of some value, or they would not have gone to the trouble not only to secure the information from our sensor drone, but also to ensure we did not obtain it.” Reaching to the transceiver’s keypad, she tapped a command string. “Fortunately, I have a copy of that data. I will dispatch it to our contact off-station.” In his present state, there was no way she could trust Turag not to misplace or delete the potentially valuable sensor information, assuming he even could refrain from sending it to Starbase 47’s general-purpose broadcast network so that it could be read by every computer terminal on the station.

Turag’s drunkenness seemed to disappear, perhaps as a consequence of him realizing that Sandesjo was in fact removing him from the decision-making loop. To his credit, the idiot appeared also to comprehend that there was precious little he could do about it at the moment.

His eyes narrowing, he asked, “ How did you come by this? Surely this isn’t something Ambassador Jetanien leaves lying about in a desk drawer or an unguarded computer file.”His lopsided smile grew into a broad, toothy grin. “ Did you perchance bed that whelp of a human who seems so taken with you? No doubt he carries no small amount of useful information, and it would be child’s play for you to pry it out of him.”

“It would,” Sandesjo replied, “just as if I were to employ any number of other tactics. How I came to possess the data is not your concern. What matters now is what we do with what we have learned.”

Considering the precariousness of her current position, the less Turag—or anyone else, for that matter—knew of her methods, contacts, and other resources at her disposal, the better. For all intents and purposes, she now was on her own and in need of every advantage she could marshal—including maintaining her web of secrecy even from those she supposedly could trust.

In truth, she was apprehensive about the usefulness of the sensor data without more knowledge of the Jinoteur system. Given its remote location near the far border of the Gonmog Sector, why did Starfleet consider it a location of interest? The information contained within the sensor logs was intriguing, certainly. While she was no scientist, even Sandesjo could understand how planets with moons acting in such a manner as attributed to those scanned by the unmanned drone would garner interest.

Was it a naturally occurring phenomenon, or something artificial? If it was the latter, then who was responsible? How did they wield such power, and what other capabilities did they possess? Despite her best efforts to glean any sort of clarifying information, Sandesjo had so far been unable to penetrate the cloak of secrecy surrounding the Federation’s motives. Whatever mystery lay in wait in this region of the galaxy, it surely must be of immense value to incite Starfleet to such brazen action while undertaking significant risk.

For her to be successful in discovering those motives—particularly in time for the empire to beat the Federation to reaping any as-yet-unknown benefits—Sandesjo knew she would soon have to invite similar risk. Even with the limited amount of information at her disposal, it was easy for her to comprehend that whatever secrets the Gonmog Sector harbored, the Klingon Empire was compelled to find them first.

“Alert the Chancellor and the High Council,” she said. “A strategy must be put into motion that allows our ships to investigate this region without making it appear we learned of its value from the Federation.”

“ And what are they to look for?”Turag asked.

Sandesjo shook her head. “I have no idea, but time is of the essence. I will continue my efforts to learn more, but you must not dawdle with this, Turag. We cannot afford for this to be lost amid one of your nightly repasts of drinking and whoring or whatever it is you do.”

“ I know my duty, Lurqal,”Turag said, his tone reflecting his dissatisfaction at her answers and general attitude. “ You, however, would do well to remember your place.” Leaning closer to the visual pickup once more, any trace of humor vanished from his features. “ Yours is a dangerous profession, after all. Peril waits beyond every turn, and accidents do happen. It would be a shame for such a tragedy to befall you, particularly before you find your way to my bed.”

Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward and the transceiver’s display screen went dark as he severed the communication from his end, leaving Sandesjo to stare at the inert monitor and her own muted reflection.

Dismissing the idiot Klingon from her thoughts, if only momentarily, she keyed a new command sequence into the transceiver’s control keypad. A moment later, the screen flared once more to life as the new frequency was established.

“It’s done,” Sandesjo said without preamble. “Turag has the information, though I have no idea what he’ll do with it.” Frowning as she regarded the image on the compact viewscreen, she added, “I also have no idea what purpose it serves to tell him in the first place.”

“ Your duties do not require you to possess that information at this time,”said T’Prynn, from where she sat in the dimmed illumination of her own quarters. “ When it is appropriate, I will provide you with further instructions.”

She had changed from her uniform into a robe, though it was not a typical meditation robe as Sandesjo had seen worn by other Vulcan females. This one appeared to be woven from silk, maroon in color and highlighted by gold stitching as well as an ornate floral pattern rendered in a darker shade of burgundy. Bare skin below her throat was visible at the point the robe wrapped across her chest, and Sandesjo felt her pulse jump as she remembered her own lips pressed to that very spot earlier in the evening.

“Assuming Turag is cognizant in the morning and manages to relay the information I gave him,” she said, “the Klingons will certainly send ships to the Jinoteur system to investigate. Why is that advisable?”

“ All in good time,”T’Prynn replied, her right eyebrow arching. “ For now, carry on with your normal duties. Maintain your cover, especially with respect to Turag. His judgment is lacking, but that only makes him more dangerous.” She paused, and Sandesjo was sure she detected the faintest hint of a smile on the Vulcan’s lips. “ I will be in contact soon.” The image faded, leaving Sandesjo to stare once more at the now-inactive viewscreen.