Текст книги "What Judgments Come"
Автор книги: Dayton Ward
Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
More troubling than that unfortunate reality, he knew, was the greater concern that anyone planning such action was also well aware of the colony’s vulnerability.
19
It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Ja’tesh guided the Sporak all-terrain vehicle along the broken, uneven ground, steering it over and around rocks, vegetation, ditches, and other depressions with practiced ease. She had been piloting such vehicles since childhood, having been taught by her father almost from the time she had been able to walk.
“You drive as though you are possessed by a demon escaped from Gre’thor,” said her mate, Kraloq, from where he sat in the Sporak’s front passenger seat to Ja’tesh’s left.
She laughed, keeping one hand on the wheel while reaching with the other to poke her mate’s muscled arm. “Be thankful the ground’s dry,” she said, making no effort to quell the mischievous pleasure she was deriving from Kraloq’s discomfort. “There’s nothing like driving one of these through the mud after a good rainfall. That’s the sort of terrain these Sporaks were built to conquer.” Kraloq’s only reaction was to roll his eyes, a response that prompted another laugh from Ja’tesh.
She knew that, like most males, Kraloq preferred to pilot the vehicle rather than subjugate himself to his mate’s desires, but he endured this affront to his ego with silence, at least most of the time. As for her, the comfortable whine of the Sporak’s engine as its vibrations permeated the vehicle’s every surface never failed to soothe her. Likewise, they always elicited recollections of traveling with her father to his favorite hunting grounds on Qo’noS. The journey took almost an entire day from their home, with the travel time spent singing songs or listening to her father tell all manner of stories. Such tales often received increasing levels of embellishment during each subsequent trip, which only served to heighten their charm and embed themselves in Ja’tesh’s vast catalog of fond memories.
“Next time, we use the transporters,” Kraloq said, bouncing in his seat as the three tires on the Sporak’s left side rolled over a large rock.
“Where’s the adventure in that?” Ja’tesh asked, navigating the vehicle around an even larger rock. “The point of a trip like this isn’t the destination, my lover; it’s the journey we enjoy along the way.” In addition to the many skills her father had taught her, most of which served little practical purpose in modern Klingon society while being well suited to life on a remote colony world such as Traelus II, he also had imparted to her an appreciation for enjoying life, rather than simply living it. She loved eschewing the trappings of contemporary life and instead plunging headlong into nature. It was this desire to love and understand whatever world on which she found herself that had guided her to her present career as a horticultural specialist, and made her a prime candidate for membership in a colonization effort. Though not as respected as a career in the military, the work of settlements like this one also was of service to the Empire, inasmuch as it allowed her people to extend their reach that much farther into the galaxy. The Traelus system was among those regions which were at the most extreme edges of Klingon territory and influence, and Ja’tesh knew that, in generations to come, it might well provide a point from which the Empire would again seek to push its borders outward.
Besides, if she had not opted to volunteer for the colony assignment on Traelus II, she would never have met Kraloq. Though a farmer himself, he had served as an enlisted soldier in the military before an injury during training cut short whatever glorious career he might have enjoyed. Having never faced an enemy in battle, Kraloq instead left the service with feelings of shame and failure. Ja’tesh had never given much credence to the popularization of military service as a cornerstone of Klingon culture. Yes, she believed a strong force capable of defending the Empire and its interests was important, but the glamorization of “honor above all” and the casual sacrifice of lives in the name of glory and conquest were attitudes with which she always had taken fervent issue. Though she had been involved with one or two soldiers during her young life and at one point even had seen herself as a willing, loving, military wife, Ja’tesh had long ago decided that she much preferred her lover in her bed rather than his medals on her wall. It had not taken long for her to convince Kraloq of the virtues her line of reasoning embraced.
“You’re smiling,” Kraloq said, reaching for a support handle as Ja’tesh navigated the Sporak around a hole in the ground.
“Am I?” she asked, opting to share nothing further, though when she reached for him this time it was to stroke his long, black hair. Glancing to the far horizon, she saw how far the sun had traveled, and she looked at the chronometer set into the driver’s console. “It will be dark soon, but we should be home before that.”
Kraloq grunted. “Or, we could spend one more night under the stars.”
“That does carry a certain appeal,” Ja’tesh conceded, her smile widening. Twelve days spent camping and touring the remote highlands located more than two hundred kilometers to the south of the colony had served as a welcome change of pace from the activities that all but consumed their days. It had been the first extended respite she and Kraloq had enjoyed since arriving at Traelus II, and they had done their best to savor every moment of the time spent away from their fellow colonists. Ja’tesh had been anxious to see areas of the planet that had not yet been disturbed or even explored as a consequence of the outpost’s presence. For his part, Kraloq had spent a good portion of their getaway content to watch his mate bathing nude in the river that ran past their campsite, or lying on the small beach and allowing the warmth of the Traelan sun to dry her bare skin. And what of the nights? As Ja’tesh had expected, the open air, warm fire, and utter solitude had affected her mate’s desires and attentions in other areas, much to her satisfaction.
Males, she mused. So predictable. Perhaps one last night before returning to their demanding duties was not the worst idea, after all.
“What is that?”
Kraloq’s question broke through Ja’tesh’s reverie, and she turned her head to see that he was pointing out of the Sporak’s open passenger-side window at something in the distance. Her eyes tracked across the open terrain until she saw … something sitting atop a small rise. Whatever it was, its straight lines and reflective surface were very much out of place in the middle of open ground.
“Some kind of equipment from the colony?” Ja’tesh asked as she brought the Sporak to a stop. “I don’t recognize it.”
“It appears too small to be farm or excavation equipment,” Kraloq said. “And even if it was, what’s it doing all the way out here?”
Ja’tesh shrugged. “Maybe somebody else decided to camp tonight.” She smiled, but it had no effect on Kraloq, whose expression had turned dour. “What?”
“We should see what it is.”
“What do you think it is?” she asked, placing her hand on his shoulder.
Shaking his head, Kraloq replied, “I don’t know. That’s why I think we should look.”
For the first time, Ja’tesh realized her mate was displaying actual concern. “You’re serious.”
“Yes,” Kraloq said, nodding before pointing to the communications panel on the Sporak’s console. “We should notify the colony.”
Frowning, Ja’tesh said, “This is the soldier in you, isn’t it?”
Rather than replying, Kraloq had shifted his position in his seat in order to reach behind him and pull a small satchel from the floorboard of the rear passenger area. Ja’tesh said nothing as he reached into the heavy, woven bag and extracted from it a disruptor pistol. “We’re on an isolated planet near enemy territory. Yes, this is the soldier in me.”
Ja’tesh released a sigh of concession. “Fine.”
Shifting the Sporak into gear, Ja’tesh guided the vehicle toward the strange object as Kraloq made contact with the colony administrator and advised him of their discovery and current location, and that they were investigating the situation. Ja’tesh brought the vehicle to a halt at the base of the rise, and after refusing the disruptor pistol Kraloq offered her in favor of the knife she had already strapped to her right leg, the pair made short work of ascending the hill.
“It’s not ours,” Kraloq said, his brow furrowing as he studied the object sitting atop the plateau. Ja’tesh nodded in agreement as she regarded the odd construct. It was as high as her neck, and perhaps somewhat smaller than a typical shipping container. Rather than sitting on the ground, it stood on six short, thick legs. Its shell appeared to be constructed from some kind of metal or metallic composite material, though Ja’tesh saw nothing resembling seams, joints, or rivets. The thing looked to have been cast as a single piece, rather than assembled from plates or other components. Its black surface reflected the heat of the midday sun, though when Ja’tesh held her hand close to one side she felt no warmth.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “Is it some kind of generator?”
Kraloq replied, “Perhaps, but for what purpose? For all I know, it could be a bomb.”
The object, whatever it was, emitted an abrupt hum, causing both Ja’tesh and Kraloq to take several steps backward. Before Ja’tesh could say anything, Kraloq had drawn his disruptor and aimed it at one side of the construct’s flat, black shell.
“Wait!” she cried, holding out her hands. Then, unable to suppress a small grin, she added, “Don’t kill it just yet.” She cursed herself for neglecting to bring with her a portable scanner from the Sporak. “We should get some readings.”
She jerked at the sound of weapons fire, realizing only after an extra instant that the report had not come from Kraloq’s disruptor. A bright orange flash screamed past her and from the corner of her eye she caught sight of Kraloq dropping out of her field of vision just as something slammed into the side of the object. She felt bits of fire peppering her exposed skin as she dropped to the ground and rolled away from the object, trying to keep Kraloq in sight. She realized that the hum coming from the mechanism had died, but then her ears were filled with more disruptor fire, and Ja’tesh saw Kraloq kneeling on the ground, firing his weapon down the side of the rise. Jerking her head in that direction, she was startled to see a thin silhouette, maneuvering on a quartet of long, spindly legs as it held something in another, smaller extremity.
It was a Tholian, encased in what Ja’tesh recognized as the species’ version of an environmental suit, and carrying what could only be a weapon.
“Kraloq!”
Her lover said nothing but instead continued firing. One of his shots struck the Tholian in its narrow chest and Ja’tesh watched as it shuddered from the force of the impact but remained standing. Rising to his feet, Kraloq uttered a low growl of irritation as he fired again. Another energy bolt drove itself into the Tholian, and this time Ja’tesh saw bits of the alien’s environmental suit as well as its crystal body flying in different directions. The disgusting, insectlike creature emitted a high-pitched shriek Ja’tesh hoped was a cry of pain as Kraloq fired yet again, and this time the shot took the Tholian in the center of the hooded cowl obscuring the alien’s face. Whatever wail of agony it was unleashing came to an abrupt end as the Tholian’s body fell backward, stirring up dust and dirt as it tumbled down the slight slope.
His weapon held out in front of him, Kraloq made his way to the edge of the plateau and looked down, and Ja’tesh saw him nod in satisfaction at what he had just done. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “We need to warn the colony. If the Tholians are here, they’re planning something.” He was about to say something, but then Ja’tesh saw his eyes shift to look at something behind her just before he began to turn in her direction. Bringing his weapon around his body, Kraloq took aim at something Ja’tesh could not see before she heard the sound of another disruptor bolt, and a bright orange streak whined past her head and tore into Kraloq’s chest.
20
Wait!
Festrene called out to his companion, Hazthrene, cautioning him not to give hasty chase as the large Klingon with the weapon fell over the edge of the plateau and out of sight. Its mate—a female, if Festrene was not mistaken—lunged toward the other Klingon, disappearing down the slope. Hazthrene, young and impulsive and caught up in the stresses of the moment, followed after his prey, his weapon held up as he searched for a target. The third member of their triad, Tozhene, had already paid the price for his impatience, if what had happened to him at the hands of the Klingon was any indication. Why had he not remained hidden at the Klingons’ approach, which they had detected upon picking up the transmission from their vehicle to their settlement? Festrene had preferred to hide rather than directly confront the Klingons, waiting for an opportunity to neutralize the intruders without killing them. He could only reason that his younger companion had viewed the Klingons as a threat to the generator. However, his rash actions had now placed the entire mission at risk.
This was not supposed to happen! Festrene’s orders for this mission were simple: install the network of web generators and deploy them, without engaging any of the local Klingon population. This mission had taken a great deal of planning and coordination to conceive and carry out, not just because of the stealth required to operate without detection on the Klingon-held world but also because of the new, experimental technology with which Festrene had been charged. He had expended substantial time and effort learning the system and its operation. According to his superiors, if the experiment failed to be carried out here, it likely would be some time before another opportunity to test the weapon presented itself. This, of course, did not even take into consideration the political ramifications should the Klingons learn what was taking place on their planet.
And now, it appeared to Festrene that the entire scheme was unraveling.
He was angry that Tozhene’s impetuous actions had already caused two deaths. The whole purpose of the pacification field was to prevent unnecessary loss of life. After all, dead prisoners were of no use, and an intact infrastructure like a city or other installation was infinitely more valuable than vast swaths of irradiated rubble. Occupying such territory became easier, and those captured could in turn be added to the workforces the Tholians required to carry out all manner of tasks ill-suited to their delicate physiques. Festrene applauded the pacification field’s concept as well as the attitude that had driven its creation, as he had always been reluctant to kill, even in battle, unless circumstances offered no other alternative. There were those who had argued that such measures and mercy were wasted on the Klingons, a warrior culture that prided itself on conquest and domination with little regard to the lives of those they fought. Thankfully, several of Festrene’s colleagues shared his own views, in that such conduct on the part of an enemy did not justify compromising or discarding one’s own morality.
It was his hope that this weapon, which he had championed, would demonstrate how easy it was to uphold such principles. The network of web generators had been established; the only thing that remained was to activate the field, but fate had conspired to bring the two interlopers into their midst, and now one of them was dead, and at the cost of one of Festrene’s subordinates. He wanted no more casualties.
Be cautious, he said as Hazthrene approached the edge of the rise, and recoiled as a new onslaught of weapons fire echoed across the plateau. His warning to Hazthrene had been for naught as the air was filled with the frenzy of several flashes of harsh crimson energy. Hazthrene was caught in the barrage and Festrene could only watch as his underling’s body absorbed the force of multiple strikes. A tortured chorus of agonized cries echoed off the nearby rocks as the subordinate collapsed to the ground, where he remained still.
No!
Pivoting on his hind legs, Festrene turned and skittered over the broken, uneven ground, lunging across the plateau to where he had placed the control console that would oversee the field’s deployment. All of the coordinates and power settings had been input; the only thing left to do was initiate the activation sequence. If he could get to the console, it would be a simple task to execute, provided the Klingon female did not reach him first.
He heard footsteps as he reached the console and looked up to see the Klingon running, but not in his direction. His first impulse was to raise his weapon and shoot her, until he realized she was using the terrain for cover, protecting herself by denying him a clear sightline. What was she doing? Looking in the general direction of where she seemed to be running, Festrene now understood that she was heading for the ground vehicle in which the Klingons had arrived.
A disruptor bolt struck the ground near the console and he turned to see the Klingon firing at him. She did so while running and dodging, and Festrene surmised that she was doing so more as a means of providing cover than with the hope of actually striking a target. She was attempting to shield herself as she broke onto the expanse of open ground separating her from her vehicle. Her tactic was successful, preventing Festrene from bringing himself up to a suitable firing position. At first he was confused about the Klingon’s actions; it was not typical of her people to run from a fight, or even to engage in such guerrilla-style strike-and-evade tactics. From everything he knew of Klingon society, they much preferred face-to-face battles in the open, staring down their enemies. Perhaps this Klingon was not a soldier, and was seeking escape.
No, you fool! Comprehension dawned as he saw her reach the vehicle. Instead of attempting escape, she reached for something, and Festrene remembered what had prompted this entire incident: the Klingons’ transmission to the colony. She’s trying to warn them!
Reaching for the console with his free appendage, Festrene struck the controls to initiate the pacification field. The Klingon was within the field’s targeted zone of influence, so she would be among the first to be subjected to its effects. The console emitted several strings of melodic tones, which told Festrene the protocol was under way, and a moment later he heard the web generator on the nearby plateau began to produce an ominous, resonating hum. In moments the hum grew louder, and Festrene watched the power indicators for all twenty-four generators glow bright yellow. He silently counted down the intervals until the generators would deploy their portion of the field.
Something hot punched him in his upper torso and he fell back from the console. He heard his weapon bouncing off a rock somewhere behind his head as he collapsed to the ground, a wave of agony radiating outward from the center of his body. His limbs, as though possessed of their own will, twitched and jerked as he rolled onto his back, and every movement sent new spikes of pain shooting through him. Lolling his head to one side, he saw the Klingon female running from her vehicle and toward him from beyond the generator, her weapon tracking him as she readied another shot. The expression on her face was one Festrene recognized as unrestrained fury, communicating her intent: vengeance.
Then, the generator fired.
From his vantage point lying flat on his back, Festrene had an unobstructed view as a pulse of orange energy erupted from the top of the mechanism, accompanied by a shrill whine as it described an arc across the clear blue Traelan sky. As it traveled, the pulse began to expand, flattening and stretching with each passing moment. In the distance, Festrene could see the pulses fired from other generators in the network following similar courses, each doing their part to weave their portion of the web as they converged on a point Festrene had calculated as being above the center of the Klingon colony.
It is working! The thought pushed past the torment gripping Festrene as the pain from his wound mounted. He could not be sure, but he thought the Klingon’s attack may well have damaged at least one vital organ in his torso. It was almost certain that he required medical attention, but there was none to be found in this place.
The field’s effect on the Klingon was immediate, who staggered to a stop in midstride and dropped her weapon as she reached with both hands to grip the sides of her head. There was no mistaking the distress she obviously was experiencing as she fell to her knees. Blood was running from her nose, and Festrene saw now that it also was coming out of her mouth. She released a gurgling, anguished howl before falling forward and landing face-first in the dirt. Her body continued to twitch as Festrene watched in horror.
What was happening?
The device had been designed to be used as a neurological attack, so the field’s effects on humanoids should not be this severe, and it certainly should not be killing anyone, as it appeared now to be doing.
What have I done?
Unable to move and feeling his strength ebbing, Festrene reached with one feeble appendage toward the console, willing it to deactivate itself. The mechanism was out of reach, and though it would deactivate itself after a prescribed interval, he knew by then it would be too late. Every Klingon at the colony would be dead, quite possibly along with every other specimen of animal life in the targeted area.
He had killed them.
With supreme effort as he fought through the pain racking his body, Festrene maneuvered himself so that he could crawl along the ground. Accompanied by the incessant hum of the web generator, he pulled himself through the dirt and dust until he felt the console’s warm smooth surface. Once activated, the field could not be aborted until it completed its programmed duration, but there remained a single option for disabling it. Festrene’s phalanges moved across the rows of controls and indicators until he found the familiar, octagonal switch that sat by itself in the center of the panel. It was intended for use only in the most dire of circumstances, which to Festrene seemed appropriate just now.
Despite his injuries and even as he felt consciousness beginning to slip away from him, Festrene was still awake and aware of his surroundings when the self-destruct protocol was triggered.
21
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His eyes wide with surprise as he regarded the welcoming, smiling face of Ezekiel Fisher, Reyes had to raise his voice to be heard over the background noise of the restaurant situated on the fringe of the Omari-Ekon’s gaming deck. All around him, patrons, servers, and other employees bustled past on their way into and out of the restaurant. Fisher himself seemed immune to the minor chaos unfolding around them, just as he appeared oblivious to the pair of Orions who had accompanied him this far into the casino. The burly security guards were going out of their way not to look obvious as they stood several meters away, pointedly looking anywhere except to where Fisher and Reyes stood.
Amateurs.
Hooking a thumb over one shoulder at the two guards, Fisher replied, “It’s like I told Thick and Thicker over there: I’m here for the buffet.”
Reyes resisted questioning the statement, knowing that for every guard he could see failing in his attempts to keep them under covert surveillance, there was another pair of eyes or ears keeping tabs on him from another, better vantage point. Instead, he said, “There’s nothing in there that’s good for you.”
“Exactly,” Fisher replied, smiling again. “I get tired of Starfleet dietary menus. Sometimes I just want to feel my arteries harden while I eat.”
“This place’ll do it,” Reyes said, following Fisher as the other man led the way into the restaurant. “I’m surprised Nogura didn’t declare this place off-limits to station personnel.”
Looking around before answering, Fisher regarded Reyes with a neutral expression. “Why would he do that? It’s not as though anything odd or bad has happened over here. At least, there’s nothing on any of the news feeds or daily briefing reports.”
It was more than just a casual statement, Reyes knew, thanks to the information T’Prynn had supplied him. The failed attempt to extract him, and the deaths of the two officers who had been involved, was being kept under wraps, at least for the time being. This had come as no great shock to Reyes, who could understand all the various reasons why Starfleet and Admiral Nogura, to say nothing of Ganz and Neera, would want to keep things quiet. It was just the sort of incident that could touch off all manner of headaches for the Federation. As for the Orions, while Neera seemed content to observe the status quo for the moment, Ganz was getting edgy. T’Prynn, having somehow managed to infiltrate the Omari-Ekon’s communications system, had overheard Ganz’s instructions to his underling to begin plotting Reyes’s “accidental demise.” She had passed that information on to Reyes, with the advisory that he be even more aware of his surroundings and the very real danger he now faced, and that steps were being readied to extract him from the Orion ship, sanctioned this time by Admiral Nogura. Despite this, Reyes had volunteered to remain in place long enough to take another crack at the Omari-Ekon’s navigational logs, knowing that whether he succeeded or failed, it likely would be his last attempt to secure the information.
Meanwhile, Reyes mused as he tried to keep up with Fisher, who was working his way farther into the restaurant like a man possessed, might as well eat. He was only somewhat surprised to see Tim Pennington, sitting alone at one of the tables with several small plates and bowls arrayed before him. The journalist smiled, lifting a fork to his temple in mock salute as Reyes approached.
“Mister Reyes,” Pennington said. “Fancy meeting you here, mate.”
Returning the greeting, Reyes noted that neither Pennington nor Fisher so much as acknowledged each other as the doctor walked past. A casual observer might not pick up on this, but Reyes knew the men were acquainted if not actual friends, so the lack of greeting was more than a bit odd.
What are you up to, Zeke?
The pair navigated a path around tables, patrons, and servers bearing plates and bowls of various substances Reyes had learned over time was food of one sort or another. Reaching the start of the buffet line, he let his eyes wander over the dual aisles with their stations containing all manner of cuisines. Markings on placards next to each station indicated which foods were suitable for one species or another, and Reyes had learned during his first days aboard the Omari-Ekon which stations to avoid. Most of the selections were self-service, and patrons took advantage of the setup to load their plates with whatever particular foodstuff tickled their fancy.
“What’s with you and Pennington?” Reyes asked, keeping his voice low.
The doctor turned and regarded him with a flat expression. “Pennington? He’s here? Imagine that. He probably likes the buffet, too.” He moved toward the serving line. “They make a pretty good Kohlanese stew, as I recall, but it’s been a while, and I heard they changed chefs.”
What the hell is he babbling about? The question teased Reyes, though he forced himself to play along. “They fired the last guy. Too many weird spices in the meat or something. Sent some poor bastard to the infirmary with a hole in his gut. Guess he didn’t read the menu cards.”
Fisher nodded. “That’ll teach him.” The line continued to move forward, and as he drew abreast of the first station along the buffet, he reached to where a stack of hexagonal plates sat waiting for customers. Retrieving two plates, he held one face up and offered it to Reyes. “Kind of reminds me of chow time at the Academy.”
There was something about the way he made the statement, coupled with the way he held the plate for an extra heartbeat as Reyes took it, that set off an alarm bell in his head. He scrambled to search long-buried memories of his days at Starfleet Academy, trying to connect anything to what Fisher had just said. Then, as he watched his friend take his place at the end of the serving line that ran the length of the buffet and past each of the stations on this side of the restaurant, something about the doctor’s movements triggered a response.
Fisher was holding his plate level, parallel to the floor, with his elbows tucked in tight at his sides, just as Academy cadets once had been required to do when navigating the dining facility during their meals. It had seemed silly at the time, he recalled, particularly given the emphasis with which his instructors had enforced the rule along with a host of others that, on their face, made no sense whatsoever. As it turned out, the rigid, formal movement through the cafeteria line, complete with facing movements and the proper positioning of arms and feet, had been one of numerous ways in which Academy instructors reinforced the various components of marching in formation during close-order drill. In hindsight, Reyes considered the practice as overkill, and indeed such policies and practices had been relaxed over the years, but for old-school Starfleet types like him and Fisher, it was just one more outdated practice from a bygone era.
So why the hell is he doing it now?
Instinct told Reyes to follow his friend’s movements, though he opted to do so while attempting to appear relaxed as he made his way through the buffet procession. After several moments spent perusing the various selections, both men made their choices. Fisher stood silent, an amused expression gracing his weathered features as he waited for Reyes to pay for both meals using his own credit chip.
