Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

7

Sweat dripping from her black hair to sting her eyes, Rana Desai lunged forward, her arm and racquet extended to meet the ball as it bounced off the court’s well-marred forward wall and came out short and shallow. Her opponent had placed a wicked spin on the ball with the perfection of a seasoned pro, draining its inertia and forcing Desai to scramble in a desperate attempt to reach it before its second bounce.

She was too slow, groaning in defeat as the ball dribbled past her and rolled toward the rear corner of the racquetball court.

“Nice play,” she said, mopping perspiration from her brow with the sweatband on her right wrist. “If I’d known you could kick my ass all over this court, I might not have recruited you for my office in the first place.”

“Thanks, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Holly Moyer, offering an apologetic smile as she pushed a lock of her long auburn hair out of her face, tucking it underneath the black band she wore around her head. “You almost had that one, though. I may have to get more creative.” Walking toward the small door at the rear of the court, she said, “That’s two games. Want to go best out of five?”

“Don’t push your luck, Lieutenant,” Desai said, maintaining her poker face though her words carried a jovial tone. Though she was Moyer’s superior officer in Starbase 47’s office of the Starfleet Judge Advocate General, she had established a policy among her staff that rank did not extend to off-duty activities. Given that she and her subordinates spent upward of ten to twelve hours each day within the confines of the station’s JAG office, which itself was ensconced within the larger container that was Vanguard itself, the ability to leave behind work and all of its trappings was of paramount importance to her. In addition, Desai also made it a point to schedule one-on-one meetings—preferably in an informal atmosphere—a tactic she had learned often helped her junior lawyers to gain new perspective on a difficult case or some other troubling aspect of their day-to-day duties.

Desai followed Moyer off the court to a low-rise bench atop which sat their respective racquets. “What’s happening with McIlvain’s Planet?” she asked, reaching into her bag for a bottle of water, randomly selecting one of several cases she knew currently sat in Moyer’s open file and which had been causing the lieutenant no end of grief.

Moyer drank from her own bottle before shrugging. “Tellar and Rigel are bringing their cases for arbitration,” she said. “Meetings are scheduled for early next month.” Shaking her head as she took another swallow of water, she added, “The place isn’t big enough for both of them, I guess, even though their respective colonies aren’t even on the same landmass.”

“One big, happy Federation, aren’t we?” Desai grabbed a towel from her bag and wiped her face as she took a seat on the bench. “It sounds like something for the C.A.’s office,” she said, referring to Aole Miller, Vanguard’s colonial administration liaison.

“Will do,” Moyer replied. Adopting a wistful smile, she added, “You know, if the planet really isMcIlvain’s, then why doesn’t he just come take it back from these guys?”

Desai offered a mock wince. “Okay, you’re not allowed to make jokes again.” Leaning against the wall, she considered the next item on her mental checklist. “What about that follow-up statement from Lieutenant Ridley? We need to make a ruling on that bar fight.”

Moyer shook her head. “Not yet, but I expect it by the end of the day. As it stands now, I’m leaning toward simple assault rather than domestic battery.”

“They weren’t married?” Desai asked.

“One guy is the second husband of the other guy’s third wife, or something. I can never keep that stuff straight,” Moyer replied, examining the strings of her racquet. “I’ll call a Denobulan JAG I know on New Bangkok and get her opinion.”

“Fair enough,” Desai said, rising from the bench and moving back toward the court. Feeling energized after the brief respite, she nodded to Moyer. “Let’s go. Three out of five.”

“It’s your funeral, Captain,” Moyer said, the words punctuated by a mischievous smile as she followed Desai onto the court, closing the access door behind her.

Stretching her arms over her head, the captain asked, “What’s up with that cargo-theft case?” While crime, particularly theft, had so far been rare on the station, there had been a handful of notable exceptions, one of the most recent of which involved the attempted pilfering of medical supplies and equipment from a docked cargo hauler. The perpetrators were a band of privateers, and initial interviews with the group suggested they were a loose-knit lot who with magnificent clumsiness had bungled the execution of an equally insipid scheme seemingly plotted over more than a few bottles of Aldebaran whiskey.

Despite a curiously ample collection of evidence and confessions, Desai’s instincts told her there was more to this case than what was visible on the surface.

“Well,” Moyer said, “if they hadn’t botched the job, they would have turned a tidy profit selling that stuff on the black market.” Shrugging, she said, “Somebody’s paying their bills. I’m following the money and seeing where it leads.” She shook her head. “Otherwise, it’s a pretty weak case, Captain. Security’s screwup hurt us.”

Desai could sympathize with her plight. The case currently hinged upon sloppy paperwork submitted by one Ensign Donovan Collig, a member of Vanguard’s security team. “I ripped Lieutenant Jackson a new…well, let’s just say he didn’t sit comfortably the rest of that day.”

She had wasted no time addressing the matter with the station’s chief of security in no uncertain terms, particularly given the fact that it was not the first time she had heard members of her staff complain of poorly assembled incident reports submitted by the security section. Thanks to Collig’s failure to retain key forensic samples from the crime scene, Moyer’s evidentiary chain was broken, severely fracturing any chance the JAG office had of connecting the attempted burglary to where Desai believed it originated: the Orion trader Ganz.

It was not the first time such a setback had occurred during one of her staff’s investigations where the goal had been to link something tangible to the merchant prince who for reasons defying logic and common sense was allowed to maintain a vessel docked with the station. Were such failures truly accidental? Was it possible that Ganz had friends embedded within the station’s security force?

“Hey!”

A voice from above and behind them echoed off the walls. Startled by the outburst, Desai and Moyer looked up to the spectator stands situated one level above the court to see Ezekiel Fisher regarding them from where he sat reclined in one of the seats. Leaning forward until his arms rested atop the safety railing, he offered one of his paternal smiles. “Are you going to play or not? And quit talking shop. It throws off your game.”

Desai laughed, running her free hand through her sweat-dampened hair. “It’s already off,” she replied. “And who invited you, anyway?”

“I’m never one to await an invitation to witness a demonstration of athletic prowess,” Fisher said, rising from his seat. “You’ve looked better, though.”

“I can only hope,” Desai replied, watching as the doctor descended the narrow, spiral staircase leading from the observation deck. Turning to Moyer, she said, “I guess I’ll quit while I’m behind. Your game, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll take it any way I can get it,” Moyer said, breaking into a wide grin. She nodded to Fisher as he moved toward them. “Good to see you, Doctor,” she said before looking to Desai. “See you at the office, Captain.”

Fisher’s gaze followed the lieutenant’s willowy form as she disappeared through the door at the back of the court. He waited until Moyer was out of earshot before glancing at Desai. “Always liked redheads.”

Offering a mock scowl, Desai punched him playfully on the arm. “What are you doing down here?”

Fisher gestured to the door and they started toward it. “You know me. If somebody’s playing a sport anywhere on this station, I’ll find it. I’m a serial spectator.”

“Ever think you’d have more fun if you played instead of just watching all the time?” Desai asked as she once again sat down on the bench.

Waving away the suggestion, Fisher said, “There’s no senior circuit on the station.” He smiled at his own joke as he sat down next to her. “Okay, you got me. Haven’t seen much of you lately, and figured I’d see how you’re doing, and all that.”

“Making a house call, Fish?” Desai regarded him with a lopsided grin.

“Not if you keep calling me that,” Fisher replied, grimacing at the nickname she knew he hated. “You’ve been working hard these past few weeks, hiding in that office of yours. Do you ever get out of there?”

Desai nodded as she rummaged in her bag for her bottle of water. “Sure. I get to eat every so often, and I’ve read about this phenomenon that’s supposed to relieve fatigue and stress. Sleep is what I think they’re calling it.” In truth, the workload had been enormous during the past month. The inquiry into the loss of the Bombayhad resulted in many other cases and issues being reprioritized, and she and her staff had been playing catch-up since then.

“So you’re saying that your social life has been drawing the short straw,” Fisher said, leaning back against the wall and reaching up to stroke his beard.

Is he kidding?Desai looked askance at the doctor as she sipped her water. Fisher was the only person on the station—so far as she knew, anyway—who possessed knowledge of her relationship with Commodore Reyes. As he also had been a friend of Reyes for decades, she was certain he knew that same relationship had been strained during recent weeks. Despite that, in all the time she had known Fisher, the man had made it clear that getting involved in the personal affairs of others, even his close friends, was an activity he preferred to avoid if at all possible.

If he’s here, then he’s worried about Diego,she surmised. And maybe even worried about me.

“Fish,” she said after a moment. “How’s he doing?”

Eyeing her from beneath a furrowed brow, Fisher asked, “Like he’d tell me?”

“He’d tell you before he told me.”

“Well, that’s because I’ve courted him longer,” the doctor countered, his deadpan delivery making her laugh. “He’s carrying a lot of weight around. His mother’s on his mind. Hallie Gannon and everyone else on the Bombayare on his mind.” Sighing, he glanced about the corridor before saying, “He loves being here, Rana. Challenges, mystery, lots to learn. It’s just the place for him at this point in his life. But, he hates to lose people. Always has.”

Desai nodded. “I know.” She had seen as much during the inquiry into the destruction of the Bombay,during which she had been duty-bound to sit and listen as the prosecutor she’d appointed grilled Reyes for hours on his actions—or lack thereof—which may or may not have contributed to the tragedy. He had been forced to relive the incident through grueling testimony, every moment of which Desai was sure had rubbed at the wound inflicted by the loss of the starship and its crew, the captain of which had also been a close friend.

“What’s odd,” Fisher said, “is that he’s endured thirty years of losing people. You’d think he’d have found a way to cope with it by now.”

The blunt comment stung Desai. “That seems a little harsh. You know that inside he’s not what we all see in the uniform.” While he presented a gruff, commanding exterior in public, she had seen firsthand the vulnerability Reyes contained with exceptional skill. That he managed it so well was a testament to his force of will, and was one of the many qualities she admired—no, loved—about him.

“Oh, I know,” Fisher replied, “and that’s my point. He closes off. Keeps people out, and keeps the hurt all caged up in him. That’s not any way to heal, Rana.”

Desai nodded. “Well, you’re the healer. What do you suggest?”

“I have no idea,” Fisher said.

“And once again, your sage counsel proves invaluable,” Desai replied, releasing a humorless chuckle as she busied herself tucking her racquet into her bag. For all the problems she had faced dealing with Reyes on a personal level, confronting him in a professional setting had proven almost as daunting. Much of that was her fault, she knew.

“We’ve disagreed on any number of issues, Fish, and some of those disagreements have been volatile.” She chalked that up to her passion for upholding and defending Federation law, even when it became inconvenient to Starfleet missions and interests. “I know he understands on an intellectual level that I’m just doing my job, but sometimes I wonder if our professional…spats…are having an effect. You know, gradual but detrimental effects.”

Frowning, Fisher shook his head. “Give the boy some credit, Rana. He’d know if you were shirking your responsibilities in order to ease tension, either what’s between you two or whatever he’s carrying around on his own. He’d never forgive you for that.”

“Now you’re talking like a doctor,” Desai said, rising from the bench. “I should make appointments to see you more often.”

“Come by anytime,” Fisher replied, smiling. “Don’t even need to call ahead first.” Standing up, he regarded her in that mentoring manner she had come to appreciate. “Don’t worry, Rana. In addition to all the responsibility he has on his shoulders right now, it’s been a long time since Diego’s been able to care about anyone that didn’t just take orders from him. He’ll find his way, and so will you.” Reaching out to pat her on the arm, he indicated the racquetball court with a nod. “In the meantime, don’t let it throw you off your game.”

After leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek, the doctor turned and walked out of the room, leaving Desai to finish gathering her belongings as well as her thoughts. In his customary fashion, she realized, Fisher had managed to offer comfort, confidence, and support, all without really conveying anything in the way of helpful advice.

How does he do that?

Meanwhile, Desai knew she was faced with a choice. She could strive ever more diligently to ensure that her relationship with Reyes did not suffer because of their sometimes conflicting responsibilities, or she could surrender to what many might consider to be inevitable. It would, after all, be easy to concentrate solely on her work, committing herself to the career she had chosen and allowing the professional gap to widen between them, taking with it any chance for personal harmony and happiness.

Most troubling to her, Desai realized, was that the question seemed to possess no easy answer.

8

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, her back straight and her hands clasped gently in her lap, T’Prynn closed her eyes. Feeble illumination offered by the lone candle resting atop the squat table before her was the only source of light in the room, its flickering luminescence still visible through her eyelids. The rest of the room was consumed by darkness, offering no distractions and allowing her to concentrate on clearing her thoughts and opening her mind as—for the second time—she began to meditate.

And the second time, she failed. As with the first attempt, the serenity she sought within her own mind was interrupted by a single, pervasive demand.

Submit.

The voice of Sten, her long-dead fiancé, called to her as it had almost constantly since that day fifty-three years earlier when, while enveloped in the violent yet passionate embrace of Plak tow,T’Prynn had killed him, snapping his neck during ritual combat. The act had been in accordance with Vulcan traditions and had come while in the throes of ceremonial kal-if-fee,where she had fought Sten to the death for the right to be freed from their betrothal. Even in death, he had forsaken everything that Vulcans held dear, forcing his katrainto her mind as her hands broke his neck.

Submit.

Since that moment, fueled as it had been by long-suppressed emotions run amok—anger, betrayal, unrequited lust—Sten’s living spirit had dwelled alongside T’Prynn’s own consciousness, carrying on the sacramental duel and challenging her for supremacy of her own mind.

Submit.

While there scarcely was a moment during which T’Prynn was not aware of its presence, Sten’s katraseemed to be intruding upon her thoughts of late with increasing frequency, to say nothing of amplified force. She suspected it was due to a lowering of her mental defenses in the face of working long hours and not allowing herself sufficient time for sleep and meditation. There was also the distinct possibility that her infrequent yet fervent trysts with Anna Sandesjo, the inexplicably alluring woman who—among other things—served currently as attaché to Ambassador Jetanien, might also be a contributing factor.

An intriguing notion, that,she mused.

Still, the occurrences were not unknown, and in the past T’Prynn had been able to cope with the incursions using one of several techniques imparted to her by the Adepts. Indeed, she owed her sanity and even her life to the centuries-old order of masters who safeguarded not only the ancient teachings of Surak but also the writings and rituals surrounding Kolinahrand other mental and physical disciplines designed to reinforce the Vulcan people’s edict of wisdom through logic and the careful, deliberate mastery of passion.

Submit!

Despite their best efforts, however, the Adepts had been unable to rid her of Sten’s constant, hammering attacks against the fortification she had erected around her consciousness. All such attempts had failed, with the high masters informing T’Prynn on each occasion that the katraof her dead fiancé would remain with her unless it left of its own volition, or upon her death. Until either of those events occurred, she would forever be locked in mortal combat within the depths of her own mind.

I will not submit to you!Her mind all but screamed the rebuke. I will never surrender.

Deciding with no small amount of irritation that further attempts to meditate would meet with the same result, T’Prynn made one more concerted push against Sten’s katra,succeeding once again—if only temporarily—in forcing her late fiancé’s ubiquitous presence into a deep, dark corner of her mind. That accomplished, she leaned forward and blew out the candle before rising to her feet.

“Computer, lights.”

In immediate response to her commands, a quartet of recessed red lights, one set at eye level into each of the room’s four walls, glowed to life and cast their harsh crimson glare toward the ceiling. As she crossed her quarters to the small, austere desk that occupied the corner nearest her bed, she opened the closure of her meditation robe, removing the garment and folding it carefully before laying it on the edge of her bed. “Computer, display docking-bay departure schedule,” she said, pausing long enough to retrieve her uniform before continuing on to her desk.

Atop the workstation sat a standard-issue bulky gray computer terminal. A collection of data cards, each labeled and ordered with meticulous care, rested within the storage niche molded into the terminal’s base, but aside from that the polished surface of the wood desktop was bare. In accordance with T’Prynn’s request, the computer screen flared to life and coalesced into a text display featuring several columns of precisely arrayed data. Pulling on her uniform and smoothing it into place, she leaned forward to review the report on the monitor. It took her only a moment to note that Cervantes Quinn’s small vessel was still scheduled to depart the station on time.

Her plan to conscript the freighter pilot carried no guarantees of success, of course. She was confident that the Klingon sensor drone, one of however many such devices dispatched into the Taurus Reach by battle cruisers of the empire, would be at the coordinates she had calculated based on information gleaned from a furtive review of intercepted Klingon subspace communiqués. While she initially had doubted Quinn’s ability to find the device and obtain the data it would contain, she reminded herself that the man made a living scrounging and scurrying about space, somehow obtaining that which should by all rights lie beyond his limited grasp. For all the faults the trader possessed, prudence demanded he not be underestimated, regardless of whether he was acting upon her instructions.

However, T’Prynn was surprised and somewhat concerned that Quinn had defied her instructions to avoid contact with Tim Pennington, particularly after the role the trader unwittingly had played in her harsh yet necessary ruination of the man’s credibility as a journalist. Quinn, for reasons as yet unknown, had befriended the disgraced reporter, with the pair spending a great deal of time in pursuit of their mutual interests. So far as T’Prynn could discern, those hobbies involved little more than their repeated attempts to deplete the inventories of Stars Landing’s various tavern owners in methodical fashion.

Whereas she originally was confident that Quinn never would reveal his own complicity in Pennington’s professional downfall, now she found herself doubting that certainty. Quinn would be required to manufacture some sort of falsehood in order to explain the necessity of retrieving the sensor drone. Failing that, and assuming their friendship had strengthened as much as T’Prynn believed it had, the higher the possibility that Quinn might actually find the moral fortitude within himself to confess his sins. If that were to occur, T’Prynn would find herself faced with carrying out another unpleasant yet quite necessary act in the name of preserving the secrecy surrounding Vanguard’s presence in the Taurus Reach.

Until then, Quinn is useful,she reminded herself, and the journalist may yet prove to be, as well.

Assuming the unlikely duo managed to accomplish the comparatively simple feat of capturing the sensor drone, T’Prynn had estimated the odds to be severely against the mismatched duo escaping detection and successfully retrieving the information she sought before the drone could transmit it to a waiting vessel.

As for that sensor data, what would it contain? Of that, T’Prynn had no idea. Indeed, nothing at all was known about the area of space the drone was scheduled to scan in six days’ time. Named by the Starfleet stellar cartographers tasked with cataloguing the plethora of stars and planets revealed by the Federation’s own array of unmanned long-range sensor probes deployed into the Taurus Reach nearly two years earlier, Jinoteur had at first appeared to contain nothing of even passing interest. With all that Vanguard was currently tasked to oversee in respect to the legitimate colonies, remote Starfleet outposts, and trading vessels scattered throughout the region, the apparently nondescript system might well have gone unexplored for the foreseeable future.

That notion was revised even before Starbase 47 itself had become fully operational, when it was discovered that a series of rampant, unexplained malfunctions aboard the station were not due to onboard systems errors as might be expected aboard a starship or starbase that had been rushed through construction and into active service. Instead, the anomalies had been caused by interference from what specialists from Starfleet’s Corps of Engineers had described as a “carrier wave” emanating from somewhere within the Jinoteur system, all but imperceptible except by sensors specially modified to detect it.

Computer analysis eventually had determined that the wave was in effect a previously unknown variety of communications signal. Further, translation software also had offered the theory that the signal might in fact be transmitting a warning. Station and corps engineers had devised a means of answering the signal, after which the carrier wave abruptly had ceased its transmissions. Yet, even after several months of continued analysis, the reason for the strange signal—as well as the identity of those responsible for sending it or any intended recipients—remained a mystery.

Was there a connection to a larger riddle, the one that Vanguard and its crew had been assembled to solve? Might the originators of the carrier wave somehow be connected to the same ancient beings who appeared to have created the equally intriguing meta-genome that Starfleet researchers were seeking even now?

There was only one way to find out—though doing so carried with it a need for care and stealth so as to prevent attracting the unwanted attention of either the Klingon Empire or the Tholian Assembly. Both powers were making their own forays into the Taurus Reach in response to Federation expansion into the region, though by all accounts the Klingons appeared to have been taken in by the extensive disinformation campaign currently in play. Dozens of colonies and remote outposts, all of them genuine efforts on the part of Federation citizens, were springing up throughout this area of space. Only a handful of people knew that some of those colonies were in fact providing cover for research operations tasked with studying artifacts of ancient alien technology and construction, chiefly to determine whether there was any connection to those responsible for the meta-genome.

It had taken significant effort on her part to infiltrate Klingon communications networks in order to determine the routes and timetables related to the array of unmanned sensor drones the empire was dispatching into the Taurus Reach. Determining the schedule and travel path of the probe assigned to the Jinoteur system had been difficult, but it was a simple matter when compared with the larger challenge of actually devising a means of intercepting it in a manner that allowed Starfleet to collect the drone’s information while at the same time denying it to the Klingons. Only fortunate happenstance had allowed her to commandeer Cervantes Quinn’s furtive journey to Yerad III in order to meet her needs, saving her from having to employ someone from her expansive network of operatives and informants.

Submit.

The voice sliced through her thoughts with the force of a keenly sharpened blade, ringing in her ears and her mind.

Without her conscious control, T’Prynn’s right hand formed a fist and slammed down onto the surface of her desk. The sound of wood cracking echoed across the confines of her quarters, and she looked down to see that she had punched a hole through the desktop and fractured the surrounding wood. Momentary physical pain registered as she noted the sting of several splinters piercing her flesh, and she welcomed the fleeting respite from the mental anguish currently plaguing her. For a moment, her attention was riveted by the six green splotches of blood welling up from where the splinters had penetrated her skin.

You are weak. The words goaded her, though this time she could not be sure if the voice was Sten’s or her own. Eventually, you will have to surrender to me. It is inevitable.

Ignoring the patent threat, T’Prynn slowly and methodically removed each of the splinters from her hand before moving to the small bureau set against the wall near her quarters’ compact, utilitarian lavatory. From the top drawer, she retrieved a small hand towel and a protoplaser. She wiped her hand clean before waving the small medical device over it. The tiny wounds—as well as any bruising they might later generate—were healed in seconds.

If only I could erase you as easily,she thought as she returned the protoplaser to her bureau. She thrust the taunt into the deepest recesses of her mind, where she knew the enduring consciousness of her onetime betrothed still lurked, waiting for the moment when she was at her most vulnerable so it could seize control and finally achieve what it had demanded for so long.

Submit,the voice said again.

“Never,” she said aloud, tossing the bloodied hand towel into the matter-reclamation slot near her lavatory door, before turning on her heel and marching out of her quarters.