Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

19

As she stood in the drab, utilitarian chamber onboard the massive Federation space station and regarded her hosts, Nezrene finally felt the first easing of the anxiety that had gripped her for so long.

My instincts were correct,she decided, sensing the warm blue auras of confidence emanating from her visitors and beginning to wash over her. These people can assist me.

“Nezrene,” said the large, Rigelian Chel as he towered over her, “my name is Jetanien, and I am a Federation ambassador. It is a pleasure to meet with you today.” He indicated with his massive manus the human female dressed in a Starfleet uniform who had accompanied him into the room. “This is Ensign Vanessa Theriault, who you may recall had a most memorable encounter with the Shedai on Jinoteur IV.”

It took an additional moment for the communications system’s translation protocols to convert the Chel’s words from Federation Standard to native Tholian, after which Nezrene turned her attention to the human, Theriault. “You are the one from the First World, who pleaded for the release of the Kollotaanfrom Shedai servitude?”

The human made a motion with her head, which Nezrene understood to be a gesture of affirmation. “That’s right.”

Though neither the Chel nor this human possessed even the most rudimentary telepathic capabilities, Nezrene still sensed, as she had on the First World, the female’s genuine concern for the welfare not only of Nezrene herself but also of her shipmates from the Lanz’t Tholis,who had been abducted by the Shedai and forced to serve them. It was a fascinating dichotomy, Nezrene decided, particularly given the lengths to which Tholia had gone to preserve from the Federation the secrets of the Shedai and its roots in her people’s history.

Humans are strange creatures,Nezrene reminded herself.

“On behalf of my people, I thank you,” she finally said, hoping the translation would carry with it her inflections of gratitude.

“Nezrene,” Jetanien said, “it is my duty to ask why you’ve come to us. Surely, you understand that your very presence here threatens the already fragile peace currently enjoyed by our people and yours.”

“Both of our peoples have allowed themselves to be guided by fear,” Nezrene said. “Tholians fear the return of the Shedai, and that dismay has translated into extreme xenophobia with respect to other sentient species. Your Federation senses an opportunity to avail itself of ancient technology it does not understand, while at the same time struggling to prevent your enemies from benefiting in similar fashion. None of that is of importance any longer. We must set aside our differences if we are to have any hope of preventing the Shedai from conquering us all.”

Surprisingly agile for his size and mass, the Chel began to walk around the room’s perimeter, his manus clapping together as an odd yet lyrical string of clicks emanated from his prominent proboscis. “And you are here because you wish to foster some kind of cooperation between our peoples with the goal of fighting the Shedai?”

How little these beings truly understand,Nezrene mused.

“You cannot comprehend the power of the Shedai,” she said. “Their sphere of influence once spanned star systems throughout this part of the galaxy, which they moved between as easily as you or I might traverse the rooms and passageways of this space station. The attempts you have made toward understanding the technology they once commanded are nothing, the merest fraction of the true power they wielded. And yet what you have seen—if employed in direct action against you—would be more than enough to crush your Federation and anyone else who dared to oppose them.”

Jetanien made a noise that Nezrene took to be one of irritation. “Then why areyou here?”

Continue as you have,she reminded herself, and there will be no going back. Are you prepared for what might result?

Yes,Nezrene decided, forcing away the harsh crimson flare of anxiety. The time for change had long passed.

“I offer to help you find the understanding you lack,” she said. “The secrets of the Shedai are too important to remain buried beneath the veneer of mystery and fear. My people have dreaded the Shedai’s reawakening for aeons and have no desire to return to the existence of slavery and servitude from which we sprang. We cannot act alone against our former oppressors, and at the same time, we must prevent the exploitation of the power they once held by those who also would threaten us. There are others like me who believe your Federation possesses not only the capacity to understand what we offer you but also the purity of spirit needed to utilize such knowledge with the required benevolence.”

The magnitude of what she proposed did not appear lost on either the Chel or the human. Nezrene sensed the disbelief radiating from both of them, even as they struggled to cope with the notion of equalizing the opportunities presented here with the impacts they surely would have on their own people. Nezrene knew she was navigating a treacherous slope. She also found it ironic that it would be the Federation—a body whose core principles included not imparting advanced technology to lesser-developed civilizations so as to avoid disrupting their natural development—that would benefit from what she proposed. Surely, gaining the knowledge of the Shedai would have some massive, long-term effects on whatever course of evolution and advancement the Federation currently traveled.

And the alternative? Subjugation, or destruction, not only for the Federation but for Tholia as well.

“What you suggest cannot help but be the foundation for a long-term pact of peace and cooperation between our civilizations,” Jetanien said after a moment. “However, conscience dictates that we also admit the possible risks. We are talking about a fundamental shift in our understanding of a great many subjects, many of which we are only just beginning to explore. We must work together, Nezrene, if we are to find the delicate balance needed to help both of our peoples deal with the immediate threat, as well as determining how this alliance will affect us all in the future.”

Though she did not share Jetanien’s optimism, Nezrene drew comfort from the Chel’s words. That he not only was able to consider the potential for danger represented by embracing the knowledge of the Shedai but also possessed the integrity to voice those concerns aloud caused a glow of intense satisfaction to warm her. Perhaps we have chosen wisely, after all.

Despite that confidence, Nezrene knew that this was only the first of many steps along a far-reaching path. Together, they could learn the secrets of the race that imprisoned her people so long ago.

“Then, my new friends,” she said, “let us begin that process today.”

20

T’Prynn rolled to one knee, her eyes and the numerous cuts on her face and hands stinging from the sand. Her mouth was dry from prolonged exertion, made worse by the unrelenting heat beating down on her from the harsh Vulcan sun. The side of her head pounded from the attack she had only partially managed to parry, and something wet trickled down her face. She wiped her temple with her free hand, her fingers coming away tinged with dark green blood.

The whistle of the ahn-woonslicing through the air warned her of the next attack, and T’Prynn rolled to her right just as she felt the heavy leather sling wrapping around her neck. The weighted ball on the end of the weapon struck just her chin, and she managed a single cough before the strap was pulled tight. She felt the leather contracting around her throat an instant before she was yanked backward, off her feet, and down onto the sand. Her body angled downward along the hill, disrupted sand shifting beneath her.

Clawing at the leather with her free hand, T’Prynn tried to bring her own ahn-woonto bear in a useless gesture of counterattack. Her adversary’s weapon dug into the skin of her neck, choking off her air. Then a shadow fell across her, blocking out the sun, and she looked up into the face of her enemy.

“You will submit, T’Prynn,” said Sten, hissing the proclamation through clenched teeth. He dropped to one knee beside her, keeping the ahn-woontaut in his hand as he pulled it ever tighter around her neck. “It is inevitable.” As she lay locked in his grip, the wind began to intensify, whipping sand through her clothes and across her exposed skin.

“I…refuse.” She bit the words, forcing them past her constricted throat and parched lips, all but shouting to be heard above the increasing wind.

Her right arm snapped upward, bringing with it her own ahn-woonand the heavy orbs attached to each end. Sten’s reflexes were superior, and he reached up to block the attack, but his movements and his position along the slope of the hill forced him off balance. Momentum brought him closer to T’Prynn, causing the strap in his hand to loosen. She grabbed it with her other hand, pulling it with all of her flagging strength. It was enough to carry Sten’s body forward, though now T’Prynn grabbed him and lurched from the ground, rolling after him as he fell face-first into the sand. An animalistic cry of rage escaped her as she landed atop his body, her weight not nearly enough to pin him. With her free hand, she lashed out at his head, landing blow after blow in rapid succession. Stunned by the sudden, ferocious attack, Sten could only attempt a clumsy defense. T’Prynn ripped his ahn-woonfrom around her neck and bolted to her feet, the wind ripping at her body as she pressed her right boot to the back of Sten’s skull and forced his face into the sand. Sten’s body jerked, his hands and feet spasming as he fought to free himself. She felt him struggling to raise himself and brought up her foot only to stomp down on his head once again.

“Die!”

As she moved to repeat the attack, Sten snapped upright, regaining his feet in a single, fluid motion. Green blood streamed from the wounds in his head, and sand stuck to his face, and T’Prynn saw the fires of hatred burning in the eyes of her betrothed.

“I will die,” he said, his words echoing above the howling wind, “but not before I take what is mine.”

“No!” another voice called out above the mounting storm. “You will die defeated, broken, and alone, with my hands on your throat and my blade in your heart.”

Surprised, T’Prynn turned to see Anna Sandesjo, her long red hair billowing about her face, her pale, soft features contrasting against the dark leather of her formfitting Klingon warrior’s uniform. In her hands, she held what T’Prynn recognized as a bat’leth,a ceremonial Klingon weapon. The curved sword, with its trio of grips along the blade’s outer edge, seemed almost too large for Anna’s hands, though she wielded it with the strength and confidence of a practiced master.

Anna.

Love, anguish, remorse. T’Prynn was awash in a sea of raw emotion as she beheld her former lover. How could she be here, now, in this place? Like everything else here, Anna’s presence made no sense.

Before T’Prynn could react, Anna twirled the bat’lethin her hands, the blade slicing through the thickening clouds of sand blowing about her, before lunging forward and charging up the hill toward Sten. She loosed a fierce battle cry, spittle flying from her lips as she raised her weapon above her head.

Drawing a knife from a scabbard along his left hip, Sten held the blade before him and beckoned Anna with his free hand. “Yes!” he shouted, welcoming the new challenge.

“Wait!” T’Prynn called after Anna, but there was no response as both she and Sten faded into the blinding sandstorm.

The sound of one of the medical monitors beeping jolted Pennington from his fitful slumber. He had fallen asleep sitting in one of the chairs in the room designated for T’Prynn’s quarters, and now he had a crick in his neck.

“Damn,” Pennington whispered as he rose from the chair, his right hand pressing against the side of his neck as he crossed the room to T’Prynn’s bed. Studying the bio monitor behind her head, he recalled what Dr. M’Benga had taught him about the different indicators. One small arrowhead traveling along a column of numbers—the one labeled as monitoring a patient’s brain-wave function—had ascended to the top of its scale, indicating a sudden increase in activity. According to the readings, T’Prynn’s mind was churning at something approaching warp speed.

“Good Lord.” His eyes widened as they alternated between the monitor and T’Prynn. As far as he could determine, there were no outward signs of change in the Vulcan woman’s body. He saw no muscle spasms or even a telltale movement of eyes beneath their lids, which might indicate dreaming. She remained completely inert, with only the machines and her slow, shallow breathing to indicate that she was anything other than dead.

M’Benga had mentioned similar events having occurred since T’Prynn’s collapse, but this was the first time it had happened in the five weeks following the U.S.S. Yukon’s departure from Starbase 47. The doctor had told Pennington to be on the watch for such changes in monitored activity, stressing that such instances were irregular, infrequent, and impossible to predict.

“What’s going on in your head, lady?” Pennington asked, wondering, as he had during his other visits, if she might be able to hear him when he spoke to her. As always and as he had come to expect, there was no response. After a moment, the gauge began to settle, dropping three-quarters of the way down the scale before coming to rest at what Pennington had learned was T’Prynn’s “default level,” the monitors recording her elevated mental activity even while in the grips of her coma. The tone that had awakened him also fell silent.

Pennington heard the door slide open behind him and turned to see M’Benga enter the room. The doctor was frowning as he inspected the readouts on the assorted displays around the bed. Beyond the doorway, Pennington saw one of the Yukon’s security personnel standing guard. One of the conditions of T’Prynn’s release to M’Berga’s custody was that she remain under watch at all times.

Looking to Pennington, M’Berga asked, “A spike?”

“Yes,” replied the journalist, rubbing his stiff neck. “Craziest thing I’ve ever seen. How can her mind jump into overdrive like that and she not twitch the slightest bit?”

Crossing his arms, M’Benga said, “Her mind is in a state of chaos. According to what Sobon told me, it’s been divided into two parts, thanks to the mind meld she shared with her fiancé all those years ago. It was forcibly interrupted for reasons unknown, and she’s been suffering the effects since then.”

“After so long,” Pennington said, “do you think this Vulcan healer can really help her? Wouldn’t the damage be too great, after all these years?”

M’Benga shrugged. “I really don’t know. Sobon seems to think that he can help her, but to be honest, I never bought into everything some of their doctors tried to teach us about Vulcan mental-healing techniques. That said, at this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

There could be no faulting the doctor’s commitment, Pennington decided. Only someone so dedicated would undertake a nearly nine-week voyage through space with his patient in order to attempt a controversial course of treatment, which, according to M’Benga, was not even recognized by the sizable faculty of the Vulcan Science Academy.

Dedicated or crazy,Pennington reminded himself. And look at the pot calling the kettle black.

“I feel so bloody helpless,” he said, shaking his head. “I just wish there was something I could do.” It was an odd sensation, especially considering the lingering anger and distrust he still felt toward the stricken Vulcan. He wondered what she might say to him if and when she ever awakened and was able to confront him about their joint sordid past and the conflicted feelings raging within him.

She’d tell me I was being illogical,he guessed.

As he stuck his hands into his pants pockets, the fingers on his right hand brushed across smooth metal, and he extracted the mandala. Its burnished surface reflected the dim lighting and the multihued indicators from different bio monitors, casting an odd kaleidoscopic pattern of colors across T’Prynn’s face. After a moment, he reached out and laid the medallion on her chest, just above where her hands rested.

“Here,” he said, his voice low. “I bought it for you, anyhow.” Looking up at M’Benga, he shrugged, offering a sheepish, humorless grin. “Stupid, I know.”

“Every little bit might help, I suppose,” the doctor replied.

Pennington nodded. “I suppose.” He looked down at the comatose T’Prynn, whose outward peace belied her relentless inner struggle.

21

“Admiral on deck.”

Cooper issued the command with snap and precision as he stood next to Jetanien, and he and the officers from the senior staff—Lieutenant Haniff Jackson and Dr. Fisher—came to positions of attention just as the doors leading to the docking port’s access gangway parted. Standing alone in the foyer just beyond the doors was a slender Asian man of shorter-than-average height, dressed in the standard-duty uniform of a Starfleet flag officer. His once-black hair was liberally streaked with gray and styled in a brush cut, and his face was tanned and lined. Despite his obvious advanced age, his deep blue eyes seemed to miss nothing as they took in everything around him, and when he stepped through the doors and onto the station, it was with the confident stride of a man comfortable with his own abilities.

Rear Admiral Heihachiro Nogura.

“You must be Commander Cooper,” he said, moving to stand before the younger man. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Permission granted, Admiral. Welcome to Starbase 47.” Until the moment the personnel transport had entered the station’s docking bay and its captain had contacted Cooper, the commander and the rest of the crew had not even known the identity of the officer sent to replace Commodore Reyes. The whereabouts and schedules of several high-ranking Starfleet officers were considered classified information, especially for a select few individuals. Nogura numbered among that small group, owing in large part to the fact that very little in the way of Starfleet tactical planning took place without his input. He was one of a handful of specialists entrusted with the responsibility of developing, coordinating, and putting into motion any policies and strategies that involved the use of military force. Considering the current political climate in which the Federation found itself as it faced potential threats from several quarters, people like Nogura were invaluable assets. His presence here spoke volumes as to the importance of Operation Vanguard.

Taking the admiral’s proffered hand and shaking it, Cooper said, “I’d like to introduce key members of my senior staff.” He made quick introductions before indicating Jetanien with his free hand. “And this is Ambassador Jetanien, our diplomatic envoy.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Nogura said. “I look forward to getting to know you better as we move forward.” In his left hand, the admiral carried a computer data card, which he handed to Cooper. “Commander, these are Starfleet’s orders assigning me as commanding officer of this facility and returning you to your position as executive officer. Your reassignment is by no means a statement of Starfleet’s lack of faith in your abilities. On the contrary, I’m counting on you to help push me through the inevitable settling-in adjustments I’ll have to make.”

Cooper nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“I’ve been keeping updated with the reports you’ve been filing,” Nogura said, “but for now, give me the highlights. For example, what’s the latest with the Tholian we’re protecting?”

Not wasting any time, is he?After glancing around to ensure that no one without the proper security clearance was within earshot before responding, Cooper nodded to Jetanien.

In a subdued voice, the ambassador said, “She’s under the supervision of Dr. Marcus and Lieutenant Xiong, who currently head up our primary research team.” Indeed, the Tholian, Nezrene, had spent almost all of her time with Marcus and Xiong in the Vault, the top-secret research facility hidden deep in the bowels of the station, working to understand the various artifacts and information recovered from planets now known to have existed once under the rule of the Shedai.

“That research facility,” Nogura repeated, also mindful to prevent his voice from carrying. “Its security hasn’t been compromised?”

“No, Admiral,” replied Lieutenant Jackson at Cooper’s prompting. “It and its contents remain classified.”

Nogura nodded in approval. “Excellent. We’ve got more pressing concerns out here. Now, my understanding is that both the Endeavourand the Sagittariusare away from the station, with neither ship due back for some time?”

Cooper said, “That’s correct sir. The Endeavouris on security patrol and won’t return for at least three weeks. Sagittariuswas sent to perform a low-profile recon probe based on some new intelligence we received about Klingon ship activity, and she’ll be back in six days.” After a moment, he added, “Both ships, as well as the Lovell,have been getting run pretty ragged, Admiral.”

“I know,” Nogura replied, “and I’m already taking steps to fix that. Until then, they’ll just have to do the best they can, but we’ll see about not overextending them any more than absolutely necessary for mission-critical assignments.” He paused, reaching up to cover his mouth as he stifled a yawn. “Pardon me, Commander, but I’m afraid my aging body doesn’t cope as well as it once did with long-duration space travel. It probably doesn’t help that the bunk they gave me is smaller than the bed my grandson sleeps in. I’d like to grab a shower, a decent meal, and a real bed for a few hours before we dive into everything.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Cooper said.

Jackson added, “Quarters have already been prepared, Admiral, and I’ll see to it that your belongings are delivered there. All of the latest reports, including detailed information on the topics we’ve just discussed, are available to you at the personal workstations in your quarters and your office.”

Cooper asked, “Admiral, is there anything else you need from me at this time?”

“Actually, there is. I never cared for all the pomp and circumstance of a formal change-of-command ceremony, and I’m sure the crew has better things to do. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m opting to forgo the formal song-and-dance routine and get down to business.”

Hearing such an unpretentious request, particularly when it came from an officer of Nogura’s rank and standing within the upper echelons of the Starfleet Command hierarchy, filled Cooper with relief, but it was Fisher who could not pass up the opening Nogura provided.

“The crew will be devastated to hear that, sir, but we’ll do our best to deliver the news gently and soften the blow.”

When Nogura laughed, it was from his belly, and the results echoed off the curved corridor walls. His whole face seemed to expand to accommodate the full smile that took over his features. “Nicely played, Doctor.” Nodding once more to the group, he said, “Thank you, all. I won’t keep you from your duties any longer.”

“Aye, sir,” Cooper said, before indicating to Jackson that he should accompany the admiral to his quarters. Nogura and Jackson departed, leaving Cooper alone with Jetanien and Fisher.

“Not what I expected,” Fisher said.

Jetanien loosed a litany of chirps and clicks. “Don’t let appearances fool you, Doctor. Admiral Nogura’s reputation is well earned. His list of diplomatic and military achievements is as lengthy as that of the advances he’s guided in the realms of science and exploration. Given the situations we face out here, he is an ideal selection for commander of this station.”

Not liking the way that sounded, Cooper nevertheless could not disagree. Nogura was known for his by-the-rules approach, but he had incited no small amount of controversy with his propensity to serve not the cold, lifeless words used to construct the rules but rather the spirit imbued in them.

Cooper’s attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps descending the gangway from the docking area, and he looked up to see a woman, also dressed in the duty uniform of a Starfleet flag officer. “Admiral on deck,” he called out, drawing himself back to a formal stance as the woman crossed the threshold separating docking port from the station itself. She wore black trousers and a red tunic, rather than the skirt version that had become the standard-duty uniform for female personnel, and she carried a polished black briefcase in her left hand. Her brown hair was cut in a short, feminine style that did not descend past her collar, and Cooper noted the gray highlights around the temples and scattered across the top of her head. Crow’s feet were visible at the corners of her eyes, and a few wrinkles bordered her mouth. Cooper knew that she was in her mid-fifties, but only because he had done some preliminary research upon learning that she was en route to the station.

Here we go.The thought elicited a knot of anxiety in his gut.

“Permission to come aboard, Commander?” she asked as she moved toward Cooper.

“Granted, Admiral,” Cooper said. “Welcome to Starbase 47. I’m Commander Jon Cooper, executive officer.” He quickly introduced Fisher and Jetanien.

The admiral nodded. “Gillian Moratino, Starfleet Judge Advocate General Corps. I’m here to preside over the court-martial of Commodore Reyes.” With the hint of a smile on her lips, she asked, “I’m guessing you’ve been expecting me?”

“Something of an understatement, Admiral,” Jetanien said.

“I get that a lot.”

Cooper knew of Moratino only thanks to information he had retrieved from the main computer. By all accounts, she was a competent jurist, having presided over numerous courts-martial of varying size and scope, always comporting herself with restraint as she dispensed her rulings with a firm yet fair observation for the rule of law. She was well known for having little tolerance for courtroom theatrics, preferring instead that the focus of the case remain on facts and pointed testimony. Given the furor surrounding the charges against Reyes and the attention his court-martial already had generated within the media, as well as Starfleet and the civilian populace, Cooper viewed Moratino as an ideal candidate to keep the trial proceedings from devolving into a circus.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Admiral?” he asked.

A sly grin graced Moratino’s features. “I hear you’ve got one or two decent places to get a drink around here. One of those’ll do nicely, especially if they can offer a meal that doesn’t come out of a food slot.”

“Manón’s Cabaret, Admiral,” Cooper replied. “It’s a civilian establishment, but it’s become the de facto officers’ club.” His inner cynic was already telling him that within twenty-four hours, word would circulate through the crew that the woman who might well decide Commodore Reyes’s fate had arrived. If that were true, then Moratino would want one last, quiet meal before everyone on the station realized who she was.

Looking to Jetanien, Cooper asked, “Ambassador, would you be so kind as to escort the admiral?”

The Chel bowed his head. “It would be my honor. I’m told the Tarellian snail stew is especially tasty this evening.”

“That sound you heard,” Fisher said, “was my appetite venting into space.”