Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“We have three…”

“The captain?”

The pause from the other end fed her fears. “ No, Commander.”

Khatami pressed her fingers into her brow in frustration. “Keep trying!”

“I’m working on it,”the transporter chief said, “ but there’s nothing else to lock on to down there.”

Thoughts of Zhao and the encampment, along with all sorts of wildly imagined terrors, flashed in her mind, though the anguish and torture was short as Halse called for her attention.

“Damage reports coming in, Commander,” he said. “Secondary hull compromised. Critical breach of the hangar deck. Life support is down to forty-four percent.”

At his own station, Mog turned in his seat. “They’re having to seal off engineering to contain a coolant leak.” Looking to Khatami, he said, “I should probably get down there.”

“I need you here,” she snapped, the words startling her even as they sprang from her lips. The Tellarite regarded her with torment in his eyes, the need to see to his people and his allegiance waging war with each other. She held his gaze and in a near-whisper added, “Please….”

Mog nodded once. “They’ve got it contained, and I can direct damage control from up here.” The delivery of his report was such that Khatami wondered if it was more to assure himself than anyone else. Returning to his console, he rechecked the row of display monitors before straightening in his seat. “But we’ve got another problem, Commander. The hit to the secondary hull has cracked the base of the port nacelle strut. It needs emergency repair and we can’t do it here.” Indicating the planet on the viewscreen with a nod of his massive head, he added, “Without shields, if we take another hit, the support will shear off and we’re done. Simple as that.”

We can’t leave yet,she thought. I can’t.

“Power is cycling up again on the planet,” Klisiewicz said. “We’ve got about forty seconds, Commander.”

Khatami jammed the intercom button. “Transporter room! Who’s down there?”

“This is Chief Schuster, sir. I’ve got Lieutenant La Sala and two members of the research team here. Lieutenant Xiong and…I’m not sure what the other person’s name was. Xiong’s pretty shaken up, but he’s okay.”

“What about the captain?” Khatami shouted into the intercom as if it would help her be heard better. “Xiong, wasn’t he with you?”

A new, weak voice replied, “ He wasn’t…beamed up…I…I don’t know…”

From the science station, Klisiewicz turned to look at her. “I’m not picking up any life signs, Commander.”

Khatami felt her mind slowing as if bogged down by a tremendous weight. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick even as her jaw continued to throb in pain.

I can’t…I can’t…

“Intensify your scans,” she heard Mog say even as he hauled himself out of his chair and toward the command well, “and send anything you find to the transporter room. Hurry, boy!”

“ I can’t find anything to lock on to,”Schuster’s voice echoed from the bridge speakers. “ Commander, I’m sorry.”

No…no…

“Power readings are spiking!” Klisiewicz shouted. “Ten seconds!”

“Atish?” It was Mog, speaking softly at her side. He placed a meaty hand on her forearm. “We have to go. Now.”

NO!

The word screamed at her, but Khatami knew there was but one course of action.

“Get us out of here,” she said flatly, hoping against hope that her demeanor masked even a portion of the rage and anguish and guilt that started to crush her insides. She barely registered anything as Neelakanta input the necessary maneuvers to pull the Endeavouraway from the planet and out of harm’s way. She could hardly listen as Mog advised the helmsman of the ship’s maximum safe speed even as the viewer displayed the pale, unforgiving ball of ice that was the planet Erilon receding from view.

She said nothing as the rest of the bridge crew regarded her, silently splitting their attention between halfhearted attempts to carry out their duties and looking into the face of the person who seemingly had left their captain behind to die on that frozen world.

Beaten and exhausted, Khatami could do nothing save remain at her post, her body struggling to occupy a chair that now seemed far too big to accommodate her, one that felt all the more uncomfortable in the absence of its rightful owner.

Sheng. Please forgive me.

13

Again, I am being…again, it is pain.

The Shedai Wanderer surveyed the scene of her final stand to reclaim this world for her heritage and her people. She had left the sanctity of rest, roused to action not as herald of the great vision but as its defender—and against what? The fragile, the limited, the selfish, the pitiful. Encroachers, plunderers, opportunists, what the Shedai had once labeled Telinaruul: those dismissed as criminals and subject to swift, merciless punishment.

Surrounding her was a frozen wasteland littered with broken husks; their essence voided, their purpose dashed. Looking upon them only honed her clarity of resolve, yet it also intensified her desire to escape being and return to the peace of the void. In this state, she resembled them.

She did not relish that.

Agony surrounds me…being brings suffering…but it is necessary in the now.

The knowledge she gained through being racked her, for as it was before, so it was now in this place.

How long had she slept? Ages? Mere moments? When the song of the Conduit first beckoned, the Wanderer awakened to witness the savaging of what could have been. Sandswept ruins of her people’s former triumph mocked her. Burning heat gnawed at her being.

Then again came the song.

By heeding its call here and now, she was greeted by a world ravaged not by fire but by ice. Biting needles pierced her being, a sensation different but nonetheless torturous. Sorrow, rage, vengeance, roiled within her. Once more, the world she joined was lifeless, unfit, defiled by forces that dared to compromise the great vision.

But here, the Conduit remains. Hope is preserved.

The Wanderer moved across the desecrated land to the place of the known—within the Conduit—taking some comfort in the embrace of the stoneglass, a tangible legacy of her people’s achievements in millennia past. Simply looking at the meager attempts by the Telinaruulto defile the legacy, to seize control of its capability, seemed a grievous insult against the heritage of the Shedai. Such tampering, which had brought forth the song, enraged her.

Clarity revealed to the Wanderer three actions she deemed sufficient to rectify the arrogant encroachment of this apparent new breed of Telinaruul.

First: Become being and eradicate the individual threats. She had accomplished that goal for the now, but it seemed likely that others would soon come.

Second: Summon the dormant energies of the world itself and channel them against the collective threat. However, she had underestimated her quarry’s ability to elude destruction, which now forced her to plot new strategies if she was to achieve success in defending this world.

Third: Prevent future violations of this Conduit—if necessary—by destroying it.

Only this action gave the Wanderer pause. While this world no longer was viable, the small flicker of life placed upon it long since extinguished, she recognized the critical role this Conduit played for realizing the great vision.

No, it is not yet time. Through me, this Conduit can yet serve.

The Wanderer approached the Place of Joining, embraced an even deeper pain of being than she had yet endured, and began calling forth the power she needed for what was to come.

14

“Rocinante, this is Vanguard Control,”said a female voice that was all business but still sounded more than a bit alluring to Tim Pennington. “ You are cleared for departure from bay fifteen.”

Sitting in the cramped cockpit of Quinn’s dilapidated Mancharan starhopper, Pennington remained silent and watched as the privateer’s fingers moved as of their own volition, entering commands to the well-worn helm console. Pennington felt the increase of the subtle yet still noticeable vibrations running through the bulkheads that were too close and the armrests of the seat that was too rigid and uncomfortable for him as Quinn increased the power of the Rocinante’s fusion drive. Feeling the body of the ship shudder around him, the journalist briefly wondered if the freighter would self-destruct before even clearing the station’s landing bay.

“Thanks, Control,” Quinn said. He moved his hand to the joystick that offered him control of the ship’s maneuvering thrusters, while using the other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before rubbing his temple. To Pennington, the other man looked like he might throw up, pass out, or simply keel over and die at any moment.

“You okay, mate?” Pennington asked, finally unable to keep from saying something.

Tapping a series of keys on the helm console, Quinn replied without looking up. “I’ll live.”

“Long enough to keep from flying us into the wall?”

The bedraggled pilot ignored the question as he engaged the Rocinante’s maneuvering thrusters, guiding the freighter past the doors of docking bay fifteen and into open space. Pennington, keeping his hands in his lap and away from any of the cockpit controls—lest he accidentally engage some form of autodestruct sequence—watched as the walls of thick duranium composing Vanguard’s inner and outer hulls slid past.

He always had enjoyed space travel, particularly when he could do it aboard a small craft such as Quinn’s. With only the cockpit’s transparent canopy separating him from the airless void beyond, the unfettered view of distant stars was one Pennington relished. When starlight was unfiltered through a planet’s atmosphere or free from the obscuring light of a nearby sun—and certainly not as rendered via a ship’s viewscreen—his enjoyment of this aspect of space travel never had diminished. For him, it seemed as fresh as the first time he had taken in such a view. He had been eight years old and in the company of his father, then an attaché for the Federation Diplomatic Corps, to Vulcan on a goodwill trip. As he had learned then, and reaffirmed once again here and now, the vastness and beauty of space could only truly be appreciated when viewed in this manner.

The pleasure of the moment faded, however, as he reminded himself of the reason he was aboard the ship in the first place, and of his concerns that Quinn might just be getting ready to screw up his carefully laid plans.

“Rocinante,” said the woman currently acting as the voice for Vanguard Control, “ you are clear to navigate. Safe travels. Vanguard out.”

Waiting as Quinn engaged the ship’s impulse engine and began his computations for taking the ship to warp speed, Pennington turned in his seat to ask the questions that had been gnawing at him since before the privateer boarded the vessel.

“All right, Quinn, you planning to tell me what’s going on? What kind of trouble are you getting me into?”

Looking up from the helm console, Quinn regarded him with a skeptical expression. “What are you talking about?”

Pennington rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell. I saw you talking to T’Prynn in the corridor before we left. Why’s she pulling your leash this time?”

His eyes narrowing in suspicion and irritation, Quinn’s voice dropped in volume as he replied, “Now hang on, I don’t know what you might have heard, but…”

Holding up a hand to forestall any more of what he was sure would be Quinn’s attempt at skirting the truth, Pennington said, “Look, I know all about you and T’Prynn. She’s got something on you, just like she seems to have her bloody claws into a lot of other things on that station. She wants you to do something while we’re out here, doesn’t she?”

He knew it was a risky move, revealing his knowledge of Quinn’s clandestine relationship with the Vulcan. For that reason alone, he elected to keep private the fact that he had observed the freighter pilot’s first meeting with T’Prynn, deep in the bowels of the station’s massive storage facility and supposedly away from prying eyes and ears. Her plan for the covert rendezvous had been sound, save for the random combination of chance, bitter fate, and guilt that had conspired to have Pennington down there at the same time.

I’m trying to dispose of one secret, and I find myself dealing with someone else’s.

After the loss of the U.S.S. Bombayand her crew, including Lieutenant Oriana D’Amato, the ship’s helm officer and the woman with whom he had been sharing a short but fiercely passionate love affair, Pennington had gathered everything he could find that might link the two of them. Personal belongings, gifts they had exchanged, anything that might inadvertently be discovered and delivered to her widowed husband, Pennington had collected it all while still in the throes of his own grief. While seeking a garbage-disposal chute to dispose of the illicit evidence, he had chanced across Quinn and his would-be handler.

Of course, T’Prynn’s agenda soon would expand beyond inflicting misery upon the life of a tramp freighter captain, as Pennington was to learn firsthand.

Looking back on it now, I might have been better off if I’d putmyself down one of those chutes.

Not that he would ever seriously consider such a course of action, and not that it mattered right now, anyway. What was important was that he was certain T’Prynn had coerced Quinn into doing something questionable, perhaps even dangerous, during this flight to Boam II, and he needed to know how it affected him.

To his credit, Quinn appeared to consider the question before nodding—more to himself than Pennington—as if reaching a decision.

“Okay,” the pilot said, “but you have to swear you’ll keep your mouth shut about this. None of that damn reporter ‘on-and-off-the-record’ crap of yours, you understand?”

Pennington held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

Pausing to draw what might have been a calming breath before releasing a heavy sigh, Quinn said, “Here’s the deal. We have to go and pick somebody up.”

“Dammit, Quinn,” Pennington shouted, cutting off the pilot’s next sentence. He rose from his seat, fully prepared to launch into a tirade that would question Quinn’s integrity, intelligence, manhood, and genealogy—but the rant never made it past his lips as his head struck a control panel that formed part of the cockpit’s sloping overhead. Stars danced in his vision as he reached for his head, dropping back into his chair and wincing as a warning alarm wailed through the confined space.

Grunting in his own form of pain and irritation, Quinn fumbled for a bank of instruments near his left hand. A few frantic presses of controls later and the siren ceased its ear-piercing screech. “You mind watching what the hell you’re doing? You almost purged the life-support system.”

Still grasping the top of his head, Pennington glanced up at the control panel, which featured far more pieces of adhesive tape and what looked to be grease stains than he considered sanitary. “Sorry,” he said. After another moment spent probing his scalp in a search for blood that, thankfully, produced no results, he looked to Quinn once more. “I said I heard you talking to T’Prynn. I didn’t catch it all, but I heard her say she wants you to pick up some kind of sensor drone.”

Quinn sighed again. “Okay, okay.” Reaching into the pocket of his dilapidated jacket, he produced what Pennington recognized to be a trio of standard Federation data cards. He fanned the multicolored squares in his hand as though playing poker. “She wants me to track down a sensor drone, download the data it contains, and replace it with whatever’s on these.”

“What’s on them?” Pennington asked.

Shrugging, the pilot replied, “Damn if I know. I figure she’s up to something with Starfleet Intelligence, trying to mislead the Klingons or something.”

Given the pain he still was feeling, it took an extra moment for that last part to register with Pennington.

“Wait,” he finally said, sitting up in his chair. “Klingons? You mean she asked you to intercept a Klingon sensor drone?”

“You got it,” Quinn said as he returned the data cards to his pocket. “Figure the drone’s data is important to her, and whatever’s on these is fake. Maybe she’s trying to monitor ship movements or something.”

“And you don’t think this might get us killed?” Pennington asked, making no effort to rein in his rapidly escalating anxiety.

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure it could get us killed. If we get caught, that is.” Turning back to the helm console, Quinn looked up once more and smiled. “So, we should probably avoid that.”

“Fine idea, mate.” Shaking his head, the pain he still felt making him regret the action, Pennington tried to get comfortable in his seat. “Okay,” he said finally. “So, we go to Boam II, then catch this thing on the way back?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not exactly. T’Prynn gave me a set of coordinates and told me that I have to intercept it at a certain location at a certain time, otherwise I don’t get what she’s after. She says these things don’t have a lot of power, or computer memory, or whatever. They do whatever scanning they’re supposed to do, transmit their data to a predetermined point of receipt, and then wipe their data cores to make room for whatever they’re tasked to scan next.”

“So if we get to the probe after it transmits whatever data T’Prynn wants,” Pennington said, “then we’re out of luck.”

“You got it.”

Nodding, the journalist leaned forward in his seat until he could get a better look at the computer display on Quinn’s console. He recognized a series of Federation star charts, though he could not read the entire screen thanks to a smudge or smear of something on the panel. Reaching out, he rubbed away the offending obstruction with the sleeve of his shirt. “So, what systems are near the rendezvous point?”

“That’s what I’m checking.” Quinn pointed to the monitor. “According to the charts, we’ll be near the Jinoteur system.” Shaking his head, he added, “Never heard of it.”

“Neither have I,” Pennington said, though he knew that his and Quinn’s knowledge of the Taurus Reach meant little to nothing in this situation. With so much of the area still unexplored, even by unmanned sensor probes, there simply was no telling what mysteries lay within this unknown region of space.

Or, why T’Prynn might be interested in one of them.

As Quinn resumed his warp calculations, Pennington considered the privateer’s original theory about the Vulcan’s reasons for the assignment she had given him. “Why would she need data from a Klingon sensor drone to learn about Klingon ship activity? Starfleet’s already got listening outposts and sensor arrays strung out all over the Taurus Reach.” Indeed, he knew that a line of monitoring and relay stations had been brought to bear in this part of space and dedicated to Vanguard’s oversight of the region. Making use of state-of-the-art technology, such fully automated outposts also were currently being deployed along the Federation-Klingon border. Reportedly, they soon would replace the asteroid-based outposts and their crews who stood vigil along the Neutral Zone separating the Federation from territory claimed by the Romulan Empire.

What could a lone sensor drone of admittedly inferior capabilities offer that Starfleet’s own sensor arrays could not?

Curiouser and curiouser.

There was also the point to consider that the Rocinante,being a civilian merchant vessel, would conceivably be able to move through the Taurus Reach without attracting too much in the way of official attention—particularly if Quinn held to whatever course and timetable T’Prynn had given him. On the other hand, if the Klingons discovered what was going on, at worst Quinn and anyone unfortunate or stupid enough to be with him at the time would likely be captured or killed, leaving T’Prynn and Starfleet untainted by any accusations of illegal or antagonistic actions against the empire.

With Quinn involved in preparing the Rocinantefor warp speed, Pennington mulled over this new information, taking pieces of it and putting it together with what else he knew of T’Prynn’s activities aboard Vanguard. Was the unusual assignment she had given Quinn—and by extension, himself—somehow connected to some of the other things for which he knew she was responsible? Did it somehow dovetail with the questions that troubled Pennington himself, the answers to which he had pledged to answer by any means available to him?

While the story he had fed to Quinn about interviewing colonists and how they were faring in the Taurus Reach was not technically a lie, it was only part of the reason he had asked to accompany the privateer on his journey to Boam II. After several weeks of careful contemplation, the journalist had decided that in the wake of the personal and professional setbacks he had suffered, the only way he would ever regain his status—and his sense of self-worth—was by aggressively striving to solve the mystery that had taunted him for weeks.

What really happened to the U.S.S. Bombay,and who was responsible? Further, why did Starfleet already possess these answers while taking extraordinary steps to keep that truth from the public?

Pennington had found himself caught in the middle of that conundrum a month earlier when a tip, received from an anonymous source, had led him to information about the starship’s tragic loss at the hands of Tholian vessels while in orbit of Ravanar IV. More evidence—in the form of log entries, requisition and status reports, and transcripts of subspace communiqués—indicted Starfleet, specifically Commodore Reyes and members of his senior staff, as participants in a secret intelligence-gathering operation on the planet, which also had been destroyed by the Tholians. The evidence, which Pennington painstakingly had corroborated by interviewing people named in many of the reports and logs, should have formed the foundation for the story of his career while simultaneously bringing justice for the crew of the Bombay.

For Oriana,he thought, reminded once again of the captivating woman with whom he had shared a bed. That loss and the pain he still felt were made worse by the fact that he had been unable even to say goodbye to Oriana D’Amato before she had left on what turned out to be the Bombay’s final mission. The unexpected arrival of the U.S.S. Enterpriseat Vanguard, aboard which her husband served as a geologist, prevented him from seeing her in the days leading up to her ship’s departure.

While her death gnawed at him, Pennington’s grief and ire also were driven by the fact that Starfleet seemed hell-bent to keep the truth about the Bombay’s fate a secret. That alone was deplorable, but the measures that had been taken to accomplish the cover-up were beyond the pale. Evidence, sources, and testimony Pennington had acquired all had been manufactured in a deliberate scheme to draw the reporter into a web of lies, which he then had written and submitted to the Federation News Service. No sooner had the tremendous news story been published than it was immediately discredited, with Starfleet able to demonstrate that the information Pennington had used for his report contained incorrectly time-stamped log entries and notations by people either already deceased or not known to exist at all. And almost as immediately, he was fired from the FNS.

He had been set up. Deliberately. Everything was a fraud.

Not everything,he reminded himself. It can’t be.

Pennington was certain that the data itself—the sensor logs, communications transcripts—was simply too detailed and voluminous to all be a sham. Somewhere, beneath the surface of the lie which had been perpetrated, the truth lay concealed. He was certain of it—just as he knew that T’Prynn had been behind the entire affair. The intelligence officer had denied the accusation of course, but despite her best efforts he had seen the truth peeking out from beneath her rigid Vulcan façade.

Part of him understood the reasons for the cover-up. Any open acknowledgment of the Tholians’ role in the destruction of the Bombaywould damage the diplomatic relations the two powers currently enjoyed, which doubtless were already strained by the simple fact that Starfleet knew the Tholians were guilty and had called them on it. Pushing the issue would almost certainly lead to war.

Still, it made no sense to Pennington that the Federation should back away from the issue now. A strong, vibrant façade during its movements into the Taurus Reach seemed critical, not only with the Tholians watching their every move but also the Klingon Empire and any other power throughout the Alpha and Beta quadrants. To him, this action only seemed to further drive home the notion that this mysterious region of space contained something that the Federation—or more specifically, Starfleet—wanted to possess. Their apparent need was sufficient grounds in official eyes to downplay the loss of a starship and its crew.

Well, that’s just not bloody good enough,Pennington decided. Not for Oriana.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the unmistakable shift in the Rocinante’s engines as the freighter’s warp drive engaged. Beyond the cockpit’s canopy, he watched the stars stretch and distort into multicolored streaks as the ship entered subspace. Such would be the view, he knew, for however long it took to get to wherever Quinn’s formidable Vulcan master was sending them.

Turning in his seat, Pennington regarded the interior of the dilapidated cockpit before looking down the short corridor leading to the ship’s equally cramped and decidedly untidy passenger compartment.

“Three days to get there,” he said. “Maybe you could spend some of that time straightening up around here, mate.”

Quinn leaned back in his seat, releasing another sigh as he reached up to rub his bloodshot eyes with the heels of his hands. “I had to fire the maid. Feel free to strap on an apron if you’re bored. I’m getting me some shut-eye.” As he closed his eyes, he added, “And it’s twelve days, round trip.”

“Twelve days?” Pennington repeated, aghast. “Where the hell are we going?”

Several moments passed before Quinn opened his eyes once more. “Oh yeah, I forgot. What I said before, about picking up somebody? That wasn’t a lie. We’re going to Yerad III first, to pick up a guy and bring him to Ganz.”

“You’re kidding.” In the month that had passed since first meeting Quinn, Pennington had taken the time to learn as much as he could find about the Orion merchant prince whose ship currently was docked at Vanguard. From what he had learned, the journalist had decided that Ganz was a most unsavory individual, someone to be avoided if indeed one possessed an ounce of common sense or self-preservation instinct.

When Quinn spoke this time his voice had already taken on the groggy drawl of someone fighting to stay awake. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.” There was something else, but by that point the man’s voice had deteriorated to little more than an incoherent mumble, though Pennington thought he picked up something about T’Prynn and what sounded like an observation of how her legs looked in the newest version of Starfleet uniform for female officers.

This wanker is going to get me killed.