Текст книги "What Judgments Come"
Автор книги: Dayton Ward
Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
In order to succeed, the Wanderer knew from this point forward that she must cease thinking of these Telinaruul as minions, and embrace them for what they truly were: the enemy. The danger they posed was significant. They were adversaries to be respected, if not feared. They must be viewed as skilled, if not superior. Her options were few, but not exhausted, and victory would be difficult, but not impossible.
However, that victory would not come without aid. For this, she would have to trust others of her kind. She would have to find some way of convincing those whom she once opposed to set aside their own selfish interests, and instead align with her against their common enemy. Would they be willing to do that? The Wanderer did not know, but there was no choice but to try. Her only alternative was to stand by and do nothing, and perhaps wait for the Apostate to finish what he had started. Indeed, the bold action she now contemplated was sure to rouse her foremost adversary, and he would stop at nothing to see to her failure. The lingering question for which she at present had no answer was whether the Apostate had acquired any followers from among her people. He was formidable even while acting alone. With a group to support him, he might well be unstoppable.
Marshaling her increasing strength, she reached with her mind toward the distant stars, seeking any of her people who might come forward to act during this most grievous challenge without question. To anyone who might be listening, she put forth her plea.
There was no answer.
Not yet. For now, the Wanderer would be patient, continuing to broadcast her entreaties while fueled by comforting thoughts of final, merciless retribution.
38
When the door to Cervantes Quinn’s apartment opened, it required physical effort on T’Prynn’s part to maintain her expression and composure as a vile aroma assailed her nostrils. Thanks to her keen olfactory senses—a trait shared by most Vulcans which was even more pronounced in females of the species—she had detected Quinn’s approach to the door even before it had opened, but now the combined stench of alcohol, old food, and his own unwashed body was almost too much to bear. Despite her best efforts to maintain her bearing, T’Prynn could not help blinking several times as her nose twitched in response to the malodorous assault.
“What the hell do you want?” Quinn barked. His voice, which was louder than necessary, echoed off the duranium plating of the nearby bulkheads and almost made T’Prynn wince. As it was, his words were slurred, and Quinn’s features and general demeanor suggested that he was still under the influence of the intoxicating beverage with which he had seen fit to embalm himself.
“Mister Quinn,” T’Prynn said, clasping her hands behind her back and maintaining a formal posture. “Is this a bad time?”
Quinn reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Current station time is 0954 hours,” T’Prynn replied. “I do not consider myself an expert on many human customs, particularly those involving the consumption of mood-altering substances such as alcohol. However, it is my understanding that imbibing such products at this time of day is considered unhealthy, and perhaps even indicative of addictive tendencies.”
Blinking several times, Quinn frowned before shaking his head. “You lost me at ‘current time,’ lady. Think you can condense all of that down to something us non-Vulcan types can understand?”
T’Prynn arched one eyebrow. “You are drunk, Mister Quinn.”
“No,” Quinn said, holding up his hand and pointing one shaky finger at her for emphasis. “I was drunk last night. I’ll probably be drunk again after lunch.”
“And now?”
Shrugging, Quinn belched, his expression twisting as though even he was repulsed by his own breath. “I’m in a cooling-off period.” He paused, his brow furrowing as though he was struggling to push past the fog enveloping his mind. Then his eyes widened and he regarded T’Prynn as though she had just appeared before him. “What?”
“I did not say anything,” T’Prynn replied, now beginning to consider the wisdom of her decision to call on the trader. “Before you decide to embark on your latest bout of inebriation, I have come to … make a request of you.”
That seemed to register with Quinn, as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I thought we were all even on the favors and debts I owed you.”
T’Prynn nodded. “Indeed we are. I have not come to collect on any outstanding obligations, nor is this a formal request from Starfleet. This would be … a favor, one which I would expect to repay at some point.”
“Really?” Quinn said, his tone one of surprise, though T’Prynn still sensed his wariness. “And what might this favor entail?”
Glancing in both directions to ensure they were alone in the corridor, she said, “We believe we have located a possible source for the Mirdonyae Artifacts. At the very least, it is possible it is a repository for such artifacts, and may contain other Tkon technology or clues which may prove useful as defenses against the Shedai. You are one of a very small group of people with any exposure to these objects, and one of even fewer people who have interacted directly with a representative of the Shedai. Your knowledge and expertise might prove valuable on the forthcoming reconnaissance mission to be conducted by the crew of the Sagittarius.”
In truth, she had doubts about Quinn’s usefulness on this mission, and not simply because of his current impaired state. While it was true that his firsthand experience with the Shedai made him an all but irreplaceable commodity, his state of depression over the loss of Commander McLellan would almost certainly affect his judgment. He might engage in some form of reckless behavior that could prove dangerous to the Sagittarius crew. Had McLellan’s death so completely affected him that he would forsake all of the progress he had made regaining control over his life during the past year?
Judging by his reaction, T’Prynn decided this might well be the case. His demeanor turned even more belligerent, and he scowled at her. “You know who else had knowledge and expertise? Bridy Mac, and she died the last time we went out on one of your little missions. So, I’m done playing spy, sweetheart.”
“I was sorry to hear about Commander McLellan, Mister Quinn,” T’Prynn said. “Her death is regrettable, though she gave it in service to Starfleet, and to you.” The mission reports submitted by Captain Khatami after the Endeavour’s rescue of Quinn from the mysterious, unnamed planet where he and McLellan had encountered the Shedai Apostate were quite thorough. By all accounts, Bridget McLellan had given her own life during a mission to find a possible origin point or other storehouse of Shedai technology and keep it from falling into the hands of the Klingons. The pair also had learned about the Tkon and how they had created the artifacts, and the other technology they had developed as defenses against the Shedai. “If not for her efforts, we would not have the information and opportunities we now possess, but our mission is not yet over. Do you wish her sacrifice to be in vain?”
The look of anger on Quinn’s face deepened, and when he spoke this time, his voice was low and contained what T’Prynn recognized as a hint of menace. “Don’t play that guilt game with me, lady,” he said, and when he pointed a finger at her this time, T’Prynn noted that his hand did not shake. “I said I’m done. Whatever you’re planning, I don’t want any part of it. Now, would all of you damned do-gooder types kindly just leave me the hell alone?” He stepped back into his apartment without another word, and T’Prynn stood in silence as the door slid shut.
It was a waste, she decided—an illogical squandering of a useful resource, which was precisely what Cervantes Quinn had become. However, if he wished to throw aside everything he had accomplished toward reclaiming the sense of self-worth and respect that humans seemed to require, then that was his choice. Despite this conclusion, T’Prynn considered pressing the issue, confronting Quinn yet again and continuing to do so until he saw reason.
She discarded the notion. In his present state, there would be no persuading Quinn, at least not in the short term. There was insufficient time for him to dispel the effects of prolonged alcohol abuse and grief—not in the time she had available to her.
“So be it, Mister Quinn,” T’Prynn said to the apartment door. With a final, protracted look at the unyielding barrier, she turned and walked away, leaving Quinn to his drink and his despair.
“You look tired, Admiral.”
Standing before the viewscreen in his office, his arms folded across his chest, Nogura released a sigh that he figured would serve only to confirm the observations of his visitor. Turning from the screen, upon which were displayed several status reports—none containing anything he might consider positive or heartening updates—Nogura directed his attention to Daniel Okagawa, presently a captain without a ship to command.
“I’m better off than some,” he said, moving away from the viewscreen. “I’m sorry about your people who were lost. I understand there will be a memorial service this evening?”
Okagawa nodded. “Yes, Admiral. I hope you can attend, and perhaps offer a few words.”
“Absolutely,” Nogura replied. “I think it’s the least I can do.”
“As tragic as their loss is,” Okagawa said, “their sacrifice saved everyone else aboard the Lovell.” His gaze shifted to the floor for a moment, and Nogura knew what the other man had to be thinking.
“I’m sorry about the Lovell, too,” Nogura added. “She was a tough little ship.” The sight of the vessel’s secondary hull, torn literally to pieces by the Shedai entity, had been unnerving to say the least. He was, in all honesty, stunned that the ship had suffered so few casualties. Two crew members, Ensigns Frances Porter and Bernd Perplies, were lost when the alien attacked the Lovell’s primary hull. It was a credit to Areav zh’Rhun and Kurt Davis, their unwavering leadership and poise under tremendous pressure and chaos, that the remainder of the Lovell’s complement had survived. As for the vessel itself, it was far beyond any reasonable hope of repair. Though its primary hull remained largely intact despite the Shedai’s best efforts, Starfleet had decided that restoration, which would have to include replacing the lost hull section and upgrading the vessel’s systems, was not worth the effort.
“You have no idea,” Okagawa replied. “She may not have been the slickest or best-looking, but she had heart.” He paused, and a small chuckle escaped his lips. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw her after my orders came through. She was six months off the scrap heap at Qualor II along with the other two Daedalus-class dinosaurs the Corps of Engineers had salvaged, and I was sure Command had to be yanking my chain.” A small smile teased the corners of his mouth. “And the crew. Every one of them is really something special.” Holding up a hand, he added, “I know, rare is the captain who says any member of his crew isn’t less than a stellar performer, but I’m particularly proud of my people.
“They took an old rust bucket that was already decades beyond its expected operational lifetime,” the proud captain continued, “and over the next year, they tore that thing practically down to the spaceframe before renovating, reconfiguring, or flat-out rebuilding every major system. And they did all that while we were carrying out our regular assignments, including a handful of missions that were anything but routine.” When he smiled this time, it was an expression of unabashed smugness. “The Lovell may not have been much to look at, and she was a long way behind the sleeker, more modern ships Starfleet has these days, but she never let me down—not once.” With another faint smile, he leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to miss that old girl.”
“It’s a shame she can’t be salvaged,” Nogura said, glancing at the viewscreen and one of the reports it displayed—a briefing submitted by Captain Okagawa on the Lovell’s condition and status of its personnel. With the vessel no longer serviceable, its contingent of specialists from the Corps of Engineers would be assigned to another ship, and the rest of the crew would probably receive orders to other starships or stations throughout Starfleet. “I’ve informed Command that I’d like to keep at least some members of your crew on hand for a while, namely Commander al-Khaled. He and Lieutenant Xiong make a good team, and if Xiong’s theory about the Shedai is right, we’re going to need all the help we can get.” His attention lingering on the viewscreen, Nogura’s gaze fell upon another report he had been disturbed to receive. “Especially if the Defiant didn’t just get lost on its way home.”
“You haven’t heard anything new?” Okagawa asked.
Nogura shook his head. “They transmitted an encrypted message that said they had left the Traelus system and were being chased by Tholian ships. Captain Blair indicated he was setting an evasive course, and according to the star charts of that area, he took the Defiant into territory we haven’t yet investigated. Who the hell knows what might be there?” During his many years of Starfleet service, Nogura had come to understand and accept that whenever he saw what he thought was the most startling revelation the universe had to offer, the universe would find a way to show him something even more remarkable. “Well, it won’t remain unsurveyed for long; I’ve already asked Starfleet for a ship that I can send to look for the Defiant.” He had been reluctant to do so, given the classified nature of Operation Vanguard, but with the Endeavour still on patrol and more than a month away and the Sagittarius preparing for its critical mission to the Eremar system, Nogura had been left with no other choice. Thankfully, there were one or two vessels whose captains were briefed into Starbase 47’s top-secret mission, at least to varying degrees. Starfleet, understanding this, had dispatched the Enterprise to the Taurus Reach, and according to its captain the vessel was expected to reach the area of the Defiant’s last known position in three weeks.
Leaning forward in his chair, Okagawa rested his elbows on his knees. “Is it possible they’ve found a place to hide and they’ve just gone quiet, to reduce the chances of detection?”
“Maybe,” Nogura conceded. He had waited for forty-eight hours from the time of Captain Blair’s last message before declaring the Defiant missing in action, but he refused to change that status to “presumed lost” until such time as the Enterprise completed its search operation.
Of course, while ascertaining the Defiant’s fate was important, Nogura had another pressing concern. “Whatever they found on Traelus II, it’s obviously something the Tholians don’t want anyone to know about, particularly the Klingons.”
Okagawa frowned. “Do we have anything more on what he was talking about?”
“Blair didn’t go into specifics in his messages,” Nogura replied, “but we can gather that he was talking about some kind of weapon, which the Tholians apparently used on the Klingon colony on Traelus II. If the Tholians wiped out that colony, then the Klingons will want payback.” The Traelus system was close enough to Tholian territory that an imperial presence on the second planet had caused the Tholian government to launch a flurry of protests in the wake of the Klingon colonists’ taking up residence there. It was but one of several aggressive actions the Empire had undertaken since first venturing into the Taurus Reach, to which the Tholians also had objected. Tensions between the two governments had only worsened during the past two years, with both sides becoming ever bolder toward one another, and Nogura was resigned to the inevitable confrontation he was sure would soon erupt. In his mind, it was not a question of if, but rather when. Of course, if the Tholians also were behind whatever fate had befallen the Defiant, then the Federation would find themselves with few options so far as confronting the Assembly was concerned.
And won’t that be grand.
Clearing his throat, Okagawa said, “I’m guessing diplomacy isn’t our best friend at the moment.”
“Did working with those engineers give you a gift for under-statement, Captain?” Nogura sighed, shaking his head.
“You become numb to that sort of thing after a while,” Okagawa replied.
The report Nogura had received from Ambassador Jetanien on the collapse of the joint-venture colony on Nimbus III was not unexpected, but nonetheless disheartening. He knew that Jetanien, working in concert with Klingon Ambassador Lugok and Romulan Senator D’tran, had expended great effort to convince all three parties to cooperate in establishing the settlement on Nimbus III. Skeptics, Nogura among them, had doomed the undertaking to certain failure from the outset, but that had not dissuaded Jetanien. The multitude of external pressures being applied by the respective governments had not helped. Also contributing to the mix were the inherent problems that came from both the Federation’s and the Klingon Empire’s quest for a means of dealing with the Tholian Assembly, and doing so while each party fought not to appear vulnerable to the other. The simple truth was that the Klingons and even the Romulans were more interested in any intelligence avenues that might be exploited via Nimbus III, and Nogura was confident such an agenda had motivated the Federation, as well. No one from any of the three governments would ever admit to this, of course. Some political analysts were even conjecturing that the colony might actually continue in some form for a short while, if only to keep up the pretense of wanting to engage in constructive collaboration. Nogura was curious to see how that might play out, and just how much support the colony received from any of its sponsors.
I’m betting not all that much.
“So, we’ve got the Tholians mad at the Klingons,” Nogura said, “and the Klingons mad or getting ready to be mad at the Tholians, and the Klingons and the Romulans all mad at us. Pretty good, I’d say, for not even being lunchtime yet.”
“What about the Tholians?” Okagawa asked.
Nogura waved away the question. “They were already mad at us. That just leaves the Shedai, and with the luck we’ve been having, they may be on their way here right now.”
There was no way to know what had become of the Shedai entity that had escaped from confinement inside the Mirdonyae Artifact and wrecked the Lovell. The brief contact Xiong and Mahmud al-Khaled had achieved with the creature had yielded little in the way of useful information. The two officers, along with Doctor Carol Marcus, believed that with communication now possible with the entities and if some measure of control could be put in place, some sort of dialogue and negotiation might be feasible. If nothing else, the link at least provided one of the best new avenues of research into the mysterious Shedai that had been discovered since Operation Vanguard’s inception.
All of which might not matter, Nogura reminded himself, given Xiong’s other theory: that the escaped Shedai entity had fled somewhere to regroup, or regain whatever energy it had lost while being held prisoner. The lieutenant had also put forth the unpleasant hypothesis that the Shedai might well be seeking out others of its own kind.
“What if that thing decides to come back?” Okagawa asked. “What if, God help us, it decides to bring friends?”
Reminded of the power just one of these creatures possessed during its attack on the station and the Lovell, and knowing from mission reports what a group of the aliens could do if provoked, Nogura had only one answer. “If we don’t or can’t find anything useful in the Eremar system, then we’re probably going to need God’s help.”
39
Hospitals. Reyes had always hated them.
He had avoided them as best he could throughout his life, and even on those few occasions where he had entered one as a patient, he had done his level best to ensure that his stay was as brief as possible. Although logic reminded him that he should know better and that hospitals generally were dedicated to the preservation of life, he still tended to think of them as places where people went to die, or at the very least to emerge as somehow worse off than when they entered. His dislike went back to one of the more unpleasant memories from his childhood, when his parents would take him to visit his maternal grandmother at a hospice where she had spent the final months of her life suffering from an incurable blood disease. Seeing her, withered and fading with each passing day, had become almost too much to bear, but young Diego Reyes had put on a brave front out of consideration for his mother, maintaining it throughout his grandmother’s funeral and his mother’s mourning. In the years that followed, his choice of career had seen to it that he had spent more than a bit of time calling on sick or injured loved ones and friends confined in such places, and one of Reyes’s deepest regrets was that he had been unable to make the transit to the Sol system to be by his mother’s side when she too had contracted a mortal illness.
Thankfully, his visit to Vanguard’s hospital was with the knowledge that the person upon whom he was calling would soon walk out of here under his own power and one day resume the life that had been so harshly interrupted by one moment’s selfless act.
“They told me you were coming for a visit,” Tim Pennington said, looking up as he noticed Reyes, flanked by a pair of officers from the station’s security detachment, entering the patient ward. He pressed a button on the control panel next to his bed, which raised him to a sitting position. The journalist shifted as though trying to make himself more comfortable. Offering what Reyes thought might be a forced grin, he added, “You’re interrupting my beauty sleep, you know.”
Reyes shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be doing much good, anyway. I thought Zeke was going to fix your face while he had you here.”
“How do you improve on perfection?” Pennington asked, and Reyes watched him reach across his body with his left hand for a carafe situated atop the bureau next to his bed. As he poured himself a glass of water, he noticed Reyes studying him. “I’ve got a ways to go before I’m ready to try this with the other mitt.”
Nodding in appreciation, Reyes replied, “You’ll get there, Tim.” Though the prosthetic was all but identical to the arm he had lost, Pennington still faced months of physical therapy before using the artificial limb became second nature to him.
“Damned right, I will,” the journalist said as he returned the carafe to its place on the bureau. “I mean, I’m still bloody well right-handed, you know.” Looking down at the replacement arm, most of which was concealed by the long sleeve of his hospital shirt, he held up the artificial hand, which to Reyes looked real enough. He noted that Pennington winced at the movement, and he massaged his shoulder with his left hand. “One good thing about this is that I’ll be able to type a hell of a lot faster. I’ll have to increase my word count goals, just to keep things challenging.”
For some reason, Reyes found that funny, and allowed himself a smile and a small laugh. He did not know if Pennington’s demeanor was born from an honest positive outlook, or if he might just be affecting bravado. If it was the latter, then Reyes decided that the man’s performance was flawless.
Shifting again in the bed, Pennington swung his legs from beneath the sheets and stood, using the opportunity to stretch. “I can’t wait to get out of this place and into a proper bed. Doctor Fisher said if he liked what he saw during his next exam, he’d release me to my quarters, and I’d only have to come down for physical therapy.” With a nod, he gestured past Reyes to the pair of security guards standing behind him. “Still not old enough to go to the loo on your own, I see.”
Reyes glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the security officers were not amused by the remark. “They do have phasers, Tim.”
“Yes, they do,” Pennington said. “My apologies, boys. Blame it on the excellent pharmaceuticals Doctor Fisher has provided during my stay.” Turning his attention back to Reyes, he asked, “So, rumor control has it you’re leaving.”
Nodding, Reyes replied, “That’s right. Starfleet’s finally figured out what they want to do with me.”
“Bastards,” Pennington said, his expression turning to one of disdain. “Even after everything you did to help Nogura and T’Prynn, they’re still going to throw you in a hole.”
“Nogura did everything he could,” Reyes replied, choosing his words with care. “I can’t say I disagree with Starfleet’s decision.”
It was not a lie so much as an artful navigation of the truth. Nogura had in fact been a staunch advocate for Reyes, convincing Starfleet Command to commute his sentence in recognition for the services he had provided while aboard the Omari-Ekon. However, the admiralty and JAG Headquarters had been unwilling to overturn Reyes’s court-martial conviction. In exchange for the leniency they had decided to show by not sending him to the New Zealand Penal Settlement, Reyes had agreed to go into permanent exile. His life would be comfortable and he would be able to enjoy his retirement at some quiet, undisclosed location where every effort would be made to ensure his new identity afforded him a degree of freedom and anonymity. There would be no official record of his final disposition, save for a classified file at Starfleet Headquarters. Like most of the documentation pertaining to Operation Vanguard, it would be buried under multiple levels of security and all but impossible to retrieve save for those few individuals who would possess the necessary authorization and “need to know.” So far as the rest of the galaxy was concerned, Diego Reyes would cease to exist.
I can live with that. After everything that had transpired since he was named Starbase 47’s first commanding officer, retreating to some unnamed corner of the universe to live out the rest of his days had acquired a definite appeal.
For a moment, Reyes wondered if Pennington might be seeing through his small deception, but if the reporter suspected anything, he had opted not to raise the issue, at least in front of the security guards. Instead, he asked, “So, what brings you down here? I’m surprised Nogura even let you out of your house arrest at all.”
“He’s given me some time to wrap up a few loose ends,” Reyes replied. “Say my good-byes—that sort of thing.” Pausing, he considered the odd relationship he had shared with Pennington since their arrival on the station. They had begun as adversaries, with Pennington on the constant hunt for any information that might fuel his news stories, while Reyes was tasked with ensuring the journalist never got too close to the truth of the station’s actual mission in the Taurus Reach.
“I came to say two things. First, thank you, again, for the things you did that saved the lives of people under my command. You took a lot of risks when you didn’t have to, but those actions made all the difference when it came to those men and women. I’ll never forget that.”
Looking uncomfortable with the praise being heaped upon him, Pennington swallowed before replying, “You’re welcome, I guess. I certainly hadn’t planned on things going that way, but I’m glad it worked out, at least most of the time.”
Reyes nodded. “Second, I’m pretty sure I never got around to saying I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the things done to you early on. T’Prynn was my intelligence officer when she did what she did, so that makes me responsible for her actions. I’ll never forget that, either. I’m truly sorry, Tim, for everything.” He held out his right hand, realizing only after doing so that it might not be the most appropriate gesture, given Pennington’s condition.
For his part, Pennington grinned. “You probably want to forgo that for the time being.” He held up his right hand again for emphasis. “I haven’t quite gotten the knack of not crushing the pulp out of anything I touch with this thing. Maybe next time.”
“Next time,” Reyes repeated, his voice low. Gripped with a sudden bout of self-consciousness, he tried to ignore the sensation that the patient ward had grown cooler in the last few minutes. Drawing a deep breath, he said, “I should probably get going.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Pennington replied, his gaze shifting around the room. Then, he unleashed another of his insufferable smiles. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I bloody well hope you get wherever you’re supposed to be going this time.”
Once more Reyes laughed. “I’ll do my best. Take care of yourself, Tim.”
“Same to you, Diego.”
It was harder to leave the ward than he had anticipated, but any anxiety Reyes might have felt started to fade the moment he and his security detail emerged into the corridor and found Ezekiel Fisher standing in the passageway as though waiting for him. In his right hand he held what looked to be a large glass bottle filled with a golden brown liquid, and wrapped with a label he was sure he recognized.
“Is that Kentucky bourbon?”
Holding up the bottle, Fisher replied, “You planning to make me drink it by myself?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Reyes said.
After asking the pair of security guards to wait outside his office, which required convincing them that there were no secret exits from his cramped, disheveled workspace, Fisher directed Reyes to one of two chairs positioned around a small conference table in the room’s far corner. The doctor retrieved two glasses from a cabinet behind his chair and commenced dispensing generous portions of the bourbon into them.
“I suppose you can’t even tell me where you’re going,” Fisher said, taking a seat.
Before replying, Reyes sipped from his glass, relishing the smooth, warming sensation as the alcohol worked its way down his throat. “After drinking the watered-down bug spray that passed for booze on that ship, you have no idea how good this tastes.” He glanced over his shoulder to verify that the office doors were still closed before saying, “I’m not allowed to tell you or anyone else that I’m heading for Caldos II.”
