Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

30

“Ambassador, you’re tired. You should go home and get some rest.”

Looking up from the curved desk at the center of his cramped, dimly lit office, Jetanien saw Akeylah Karumé, one of the diplomatic envoys assigned to his staff, watching him from the doorway. A statuesque human female with brilliant ebony skin and a penchant for dressing in vividly colored attire, she was most attractive by Terran standards. She stood cloaked in shadow, owing to the room’s muted illumination as well as the fact that Jetanien had deactivated the display monitors that normally fed him constant updates from a variety of sources. He noted that Karumé was carrying a data slate in one hand, and over her left shoulder hung the black bag she often used to carry whatever personal effects she brought with her to work each day. By all appearances, the envoy was on her way home for the evening.

“It’s not that I disagree with your assessment, Ms. Karumé,” he said as he reached for the nearly forgotten bowl of Denebian shellfish broth sitting near one corner of his desk. “However, the problems of any given day have a habit of ignoring the civilized strictures of regular business hours.” Taking a sip of the broth, Jetanien recoiled at the cold brew, which had congealed into a bitter paste since he had first procured it from his office food slot. How long ago had that been, anyway?

Karumé entered the office and, without invitation, placed her bag on one of the two guest chairs at Jetanien’s desk before settling into the other one. “I read the report on your latest meeting with the Tholian ambassador,” she said. “Not good.”

“To put it mildly, Ms. Karumé,” the ambassador replied. He rose from the backless chair designed to accommodate his bulky physique and moved to the food slot for another bowl of broth. “So long as Nezrene enjoys Federation sanctuary, there will be no negotiations.”

No matter what concession he had offered, the Tholian ambassador, Sesrene, had been immovable on that one basic point. It was obvious to Jetanien, even from the limited contact afforded the two diplomats via the subspace communications link, that his Tholian counterpart was most upset at the thought of whatever information Nezrene might now be sharing with the Federation. Jetanien had tried to reassure Sesrene that no collusion against Tholian interests was in the offing, but there was no penetrating the thick cloak of xenophobia that seemed to cover most Tholians.

Fairly troubling,he reminded himself, considering your whole reason for being assigned to this station is to resolve such disputes.Perhaps in time, if and when Nezrene’s efforts began to produce results, there would be new opportunities to reach out once again to the Tholians—assuming that they opted not to do anything rash in response to perceived threats.

Tholians acting rashly?The sour thought echoed in Jetanien’s mind as he took his fresh broth from the food slot. Perish the thought.

“So,” Karumé said, her nose wrinkling in apparent response to the broth’s odor, “what do we do now?”

“About the Tholians?” Jetanien asked, retaking his seat. “Nothing—for the moment, anyway.” He took a long drink from the bowl and sighed in contentment as the warm broth slid down his throat and its vapors drifted across his nostrils. With his free manus, he indicated the assortment of files and data slates covering his desk. “There are other pressing matters demanding our attention, my dear.”

“The Romulans,” Karumé said, nodding thoughtfully. “I read that report, too.”

Emitting a string of satisfied clicks, Jetanien nodded in approval. “You are nothing if not efficient and thorough, Ms. Karumé. It’s but one of the many reasons I am grateful for your presence on my staff.” He paused for another sip of his broth before continuing. “If the Romulans are emerging from their proverbial shells to investigate our interest in the Taurus Reach and they learn even a fraction of what we already know, then you can be sure it will have repercussions throughout the quadrant. The Romulan Empire is unlikely to stand idle and leave to us whatever treasures are to be found here.

“Then there are the simple questions of how long they’ve been here and how much they know,” he added, setting aside his broth. “Not just about the Taurus Reach but also about Starfleet and the Federation in general. It’s been more than a century since the war; each side naturally will want to know how far the other has advanced.” Shaking his head, Jetanien rested his manus on his desk. “This on top of the noise the Klingons keep making. If the Romulans are preparing some kind of new offensive, we may well be looking at a two-front war.”

Karumé leaned back in her chair. “Any word yet on how Starfleet Intelligence is reacting to the othernews about the Romulans?”

Jetanien released an irritated grunt. “If you mean this idea of Romulans and Vulcans possibly sharing common ancestry, as you might imagine, those in the business of being paranoid are doing exactly that. Even as we speak, comprehensive stratagems for the hunting and exposing of covert Romulan agents are being developed. The Vulcans in particular seem very distraught about this notion, though, of course, there’s a segment of their society that has always known about this.” Shaking his head, he added, “For a race known for its collective intelligence and enlightenment, Vulcans are almost human-like in their propensity for keeping secrets.”

“The societal implications alone could be overwhelming,” Karumé said. “It took decades for humans to accept the Vulcans after they came to Earth, and xenophobia escalated for months in the wake of the Xindi attack, even after that threat was neutralized. For something like this, with a brutal enemy being related to one of our most trusted allies?” She shook her head. “Imagine what could happen.”

Finished with the broth, Jetanien set the bowl aside. “I’d like to think your people have come a long way in that time, Ms. Karumé, and that such narrow-minded prejudices are a thing of your past.”

“You and me both.” Leaning forward in her seat, Karumé frowned as she studied the files on his desk. “What is all that? Since when do you keep real paper files?”

“I don’t,” Jetanien replied, holding up a leather-bound notebook for her to see. “Long ago, these belonged to a dear friend of mine—a human, believe it or not, named Selina Rosen. One of the most dedicated people I’ve ever known, she loathed computers and instead made copious use of real books and paper. She did all of her writing by hand, and only when something was intended for public dissemination did she give her notes to an assistant for transcription.” Indicating the collection with a wave of one manus, he added, “When she died, she left instructions for all of this to be delivered to me. It’s provided much inspiration over the years.”

“So, you cart all of this around with you from assignment to assignment?” Karumé asked. “Seems more than a bit impractical to me.”

Jetanien grunted in understanding. “When I was much younger, I considered it little more than an eccentric affectation, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate the almost visceral connection Selina had to her work.” Leaning closer to Karumé, he added, “It’s something I’ve tried myself from time to time, and I have often thought of incorporating the practice into my daily routine.”

Snorting in mock derision, Karumé replied, “Well, don’t look at me. I’ve seen your handwriting. Besides, I like computers and their accessories just fine, thank you.” She rose and went to the food slot on the far wall, where she entered a sequence on the rows of buttons on the control pad beneath the unit. A moment later, the door slid up to reveal what Jetanien recognized as a cup of coffee—brewed with a hint of vanilla, if his nostrils did not deceive him—along with a new bowl of the Denebian shellfish broth. After handing the broth to him, she returned to her seat, nodding toward the collection. “So, why are you poring over all of that, anyway? Feeling nostalgic?”

“Hardly,” Jetanien countered, holding the piping-hot bowl of broth between his manus. “At the prime of her own career, Selina was a member of Earth’s diplomatic contingent. This was before the Federation was founded, my dear, dating to the Coalition of Planets. She was a member of the team that helped to negotiate the language and parameters of the original treaty between Earth and the Romulans. Her notes on that period are fascinating reading, Ms. Karumé. You’d do well to avail yourself of the wisdom contained here.”

Karumé’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the ambassador. “Wait a minute, this is starting to make sense now. Are you telling me you’ve found something that can help us today?”

“Perhaps,” Jetanien replied, pleased with himself and with Karumé for her deductive skill. “In one of Selina’s journals, there are several entries detailing correspondence she shared with a Romulan named D’tran. A former military officer who left the service to enter politics, he was a junior senator assigned to the Romulan diplomatic team working to ratify the treaty. Contact between him and Selina was, of course, wholly unauthorized, carried out in total secrecy.”

Frowning, Karumé shifted in her chair as though seeking a more comfortable position. “To what end?”

Jetanien rolled his shoulders, the closest he could come to a shrug. “Back-channel communication. It seemed that D’tran, like Selina, felt that the original treaty was too limiting and laced with animosity. Rather than laying the foundation for future cooperative spirit between the two powers, the armistice served as little more than a fence erected between two spiteful neighbors, much like the Neutral Zone itself. Even after the treaty went into effect and the Romulans went into seclusion, Selina and D’tran maintained sporadic contact for a time. According to everything I could find in her journals, the communications protocol they used was never discovered.”

“But you found it,” Karumé said, nodding toward his desk. “Somewhere in all of that, she wrote all about it, didn’t she?”

“Indeed, she did,” Jetanien replied. The hours he had spent ensconced in his office, rummaging through the long-dormant files and journals, had finally yielded something he thought he could use. From the assortment of papers and files, he retrieved one battered, scuffed leather journal. “It’s all in here—the ciphers they used and how they hid their messages among other subspace communications traffic. The methods were so simple as to be laughable, which is probably why they worked so well.”

He waited, watching as Karumé’s eyes widened in realization. Holding up a hand, she regarded him with equal parts confusion and disbelief.

“You can’t seriously be thinking of trying to use that?”

Straightening his posture, Jetanien nodded. “Absolutely. Think of the possibilities, Ms. Karumé. Our two governments have spent the past century staring at each other across the vast gulf of space, each waiting to see what the other will do. Now, the Romulans are here, lurking in the shadows and possibly sizing us up once more for war. If an option exists—any option—that might avoid that, are we not duty-bound to pursue it?”

“You don’t even know if there’ll be anyone on the other end,” Karumé countered. “For all we know, this D’tran is dead, like your friend. Maybe he was discovered and imprisoned or even killed decades ago.”

Jetanien nodded. “I have considered those possibilities, of course. The way I see it, either D’tran will answer, or he won’t. Perhaps he left information to a trusted protégé, as Selina did, and that person will answer. If their government has discovered the existence of the protocol, the worst that can happen is that they won’t answer any message of mine, which is what is currently happening with the official overtures the Federation is sending. That leaves me no worse off than if I were to do nothing.”

Karumé finished her coffee and said, “Well, when you put it that way, I say give it a shot, and see what happens.”

Jetanien released a satisfied grunt. “I think you would have enjoyed knowing Selina, Ms. Karumé,” he said as he laid the treasured journal on his desk and began flipping through its pages, searching for the key entry. “I am quite certain she would have liked knowing you.”

Karumé returned the smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Ambassador.”

“As you should, my dear,” the Chel responded. Having found the journal entry he sought, he reached for his desktop computer interface. “Now, as you say, let us see what happens.”

Even as he began the task of formulating a message that might be appropriate for reestablishing contact with Selina Rosen’s Romulan counterpart—or his replacement—after the time that had passed since his friend’s death, Jetanien could not help considering the potential held by this simple action. Might it lead to the first true diplomatic relations between the Federation and the Romulans in more than a century? If so, would history one day list him as the arbiter of a new era of trust and cooperation between the two former enemies?

The very idea filled Jetanien with more excitement and hope than he had felt in weeks. There was much work to be done, he decided, as he pushed away thoughts of rest. Sleep could wait.

31

Atish Khatami stepped off the turbolift and onto the Endeavour’s hangar deck, beholding the scene of chaos before her.

Perhaps chaoswas too strong a word, she decided as she began moving among the dozens of people occupying the vast chamber. Cots and containers of supplies that had been stored here were now in use. Moving among the people were the familiar blue tunics of Endeavourmedical personnel, as well as the red shirts worn by members of the ship’s security division. Other members of the crew also had been drafted for working parties, helping to organize the sudden influx of new passengers the Endeavourhad acquired.

“Captain,” a voice called out above the fray, and Khatami looked up to see Commander Stano crossing the deck toward her. The first officer’s expression was all business as she sidestepped other crew members.

Nodding as Stano drew closer, Khatami asked, “Is that all of them?”

“Yes,” the commander replied. “Transporter control reports the last eleven colonists just completed beam-over. I’ve got an engineering crew standing by to beam across and see if we might be able to repair the damage and restore environmental control.”

Khatami shook her head. “No. We’ll take the ship in tow and tractor it to Pacifica. Once we get there, we’ll assist in any way we can with repairs, but I don’t expect we’ll be hanging around that long.”

Footsteps echoed along the deck to her right, and she turned to see Dr. Leone walking toward them. Like Stano, the chief medical officer had tabled his usual sardonic manner, now all business as he tended to his latest batch of patients.

“We’ve finished treating the most serious injuries,” he said, reaching up to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. “A lot of radiation burns from the engine overload and some broken bones and assorted lacerations and other bruises, all sustained during the attack. We’ve stabilized all of the radiation patients, and none of the other injuries is life-threatening, but a few of them will be sore for the next couple of days.” His expression changed, and Khatami knew the doctor was readying for the transition back to his normal behavior even before he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sleeping on those cots won’t be much help,” he said. “If you want, I can set up a torture rack in sickbay. It’d be less painful.”

Smiling despite herself, Khatami said, “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. My compliments to you and your staff. As for the billeting situation, Commander Stano is taking care of that, but this will have to do for now. Make sure they have access to whatever they want or need from ship’s stores.”

“All the reconstituted chicken they can eat,” Leone replied. “They were better off with radiation poisoning. Anyway, that’s my report.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Khatami said as the doctor turned and made his way back to where his staff had set up a central point for treating the Roanoke’s passengers.

“He’s always going to be like that, isn’t he?” Stano said, eyeing Leone as he went back to work. “I mean, I knew he could be a smart-ass, but all the time?”

Khatami replied, “Yes, and I like him that way, Kathy, so leave him be.” She knew from experience that Anthony Leone’s attitude was a gauge not just to the state of the crew but of any other situation in which he found himself. So long as the doctor maintained his sense of humor, things were not as bad as they might seem.

“Whatever you say, Captain,” Stano replied, obviously unconvinced but apparently unwilling to press the matter further.

Sighing, Khatami reached up to wipe her eyes, which still stung from lack of sleep. She had been awakened by Stano with the report about the distress call from the Roanoke,a colony transport ship en route from Alpha Centauri to Pacifica, one of the more popular destinations for settlers in the Taurus Reach. The Endeavourhad tracked following the coordinates provided by the ship’s captain, Zachary Clavell, to find the Roanokeadrift in space, its life-support systems damaged and its engines destroyed. The vessel’s complement of fourteen crew and ninety-six colonists had been at the end of their rope, the onboard supply of oxygen all but depleted by the time the Endeavourarrived. Quick work by the starship’s transporter crews had taken care of the immediate danger, beaming over every person from the Roanoke,after which security and medical personnel had coordinated the transfer of evacuees from the Endeavour’s emergency and cargo transporters to the hangar deck.

According to the Roanoke’s captain, the ship had come under fire from a lone Klingon battle cruiser, the assault taking out the life-support systems and disabling the engines. Rather than destroying the transport vessel outright or even boarding her for the purpose of looting her cargo, the Klingon commander seemed satisfied to condemn the injured ship’s crew and passengers to a slow, lingering death from freezing or asphyxiation, whichever came first.

Angered by the wanton callousness of the attack, Khatami shook her head. “Where is Captain Clavell?”

Stano pointed and waved. A short, burly man dressed in an orange jumpsuit and black boots returned the gesture and made his way in short order.

“Captain Khatami,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Zach Clavell, captain of the Roanoke.You have no idea how happy we were to see you.”

Khatami shook the man’s hand, noting how tired he looked. The skin beneath his red-rimmed eyes was dark and puffy, and he had not shaved in several days. His hands and face were dirty, as was his unkempt hair, and there were stains and even a couple of tears in his jumpsuit. Khatami made a point not to wipe her hand on her trousers. “Glad to be of service, Captain. Can you tell me what happened?”

Blowing out a deep breath, Clavell replied, “We’d heard about some of the trouble out here, of course, but the route we were taking to Pacifica had been approved by Starfleet. My understanding is that it’s well traveled and frequently patrolled. Space is still pretty big, I guess.” He shrugged. “Anyway, we picked up the Klingon ship on our long-range sensors, and it came up on us pretty fast. We received a hail and were ordered to drop out of warp. Since we don’t have weapons and there was no way we were going to outrun them, I ordered us to drop to sublight.”

As he spoke, his gaze cast downward toward the deck, he put his hands into the hip pockets of his jumpsuit. Khatami recognized the look; it was the posture of a man who believed himself to have failed. In this case, Clavell affected the look of a ship master who had not succeeded in maintaining the safety of his vessel and crew. Never mind that the situation was out of his control and that he had been outmatched against the Klingon ship. It was a sensation nothing could alleviate.

I know how he feels,Khatami thought, recalling once again the day she had been forced by tragic circumstance into the position of commanding the Endeavour.Not a single moment had passed since the death of Zhao Sheng that she did not compare herself to her late captain. On many of those occasions, she found herself falling short, but it only motivated her to keep reaching for that standard, impossibly high as it may have been.

“What happened next?” Khatami asked when Clavell paused, obviously uncomfortable with recounting the incident.

“We’d just dropped out of warp when the first attack hit. Our engines were knocked out with their first salvo. From then, we were even more helpless than we’d already been. We watched as the ship circled us, as though its captain was sizing us up before deciding to board us or just finish the job and destroy us.” He stopped, swallowing. “I never served in Starfleet, and I’ve never been shot at before. I don’t mind saying I’ve never been as scared as I was right then.”

“It’s okay,” Stano said, reaching out and placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

After a moment, Clavell nodded. “Then they shot at us again, and I got a report from my chief engineer telling me they’d knocked out life support. Now the clock was ticking. More than a hundred people onboard, sucking oxygen, and the temperature set to start dropping? You know how that goes. Then we get another hail. This time he identifies himself as Captain Kutal, and his ship is called the Zin’zaor something like that.” When Khatami bristled at the name, Clavell took notice. “You know him?”

“More that we know ofhim,” Khatami corrected. “He’s been making something of a reputation for himself in the Taurus Reach.” Kutal and his ship, the Zin’za,had been at Jinoteur when the Shedai apparently caused the system to vanish. As a consequence of that, the Klingon Empire knew far more than the Federation would like about the Shedai and the potential harbored by their technology.

Nice understatement there,Khatami mused. Maybe you’re still sleepy.

“So,” Stano said, “they just left you there?”

Clavell nodded. “Kutal said it was an unfortunate misunderstanding, that their sensors mistook us for an enemy ship. He didn’t really seem all that choked up about the ‘confusion,’ of course. Naturally, there were no offers to help, though he said he’d be happy to finish the job if that’s what we wanted. Then the communication ended, and they just flew away, leaving us there, adrift and bleeding our atmosphere into space.” He paused, covering his mouth as he coughed. “If you hadn’t heard our distress call…”

“But we did, and everyone’s safe now,” Khatami said. “We’ll get you to Pacifica.”

Clavell replied, “That was supposed to be my job.”

“And you’ll finish that job,” Stano said. “You never had a chance against a Klingon cruiser. In fact, you’re lucky he didn’t just cut you to pieces without saying a word.”

“I suppose,” Clavell said. He looked up from the deck and gestured over his shoulder. “Captain, I appreciate everything you and your crew have done for us, but if it’s all right with you, I’d like to check on my injured.”

“Of course,” Khatami replied. She waited until the dejected captain was out of earshot before turning to Stano. “The Klingons are getting bolder,” she said as she studied the scene before her. Across the hangar deck, the Roanokepassengers were settling in. Several dozen had taken advantage of the tables set up to serve as a temporary mess facility, and others had chosen cots in the berthing area and fallen into relieved slumber, their ordeal finally behind them.

“That’s one way to put it,” replied the first officer. “Tempers are running hot lately, especially after that incident at Starbase 42.”

Khatami nodded. The recent attack on the installation orbiting the second planet in the Casmus system was the most egregious assault by Klingon forces on a Starfleet target to date. Klingon invaders, drawn to the system after reports of rich dilithium deposits being found on the third planet, had boarded the station and killed a large number of its crew. They eventually were defeated by a joint mission between the Starships Enterpriseand Constellation,but the cost in lives had been alarming.

“What I don’t understand,” Stano said, “is why they’re targeting civilian ships and then leaving them adrift. What’s the point of that?”

Khatami replied, “Maybe because a Starfleet ship responding to a distress call means they’re not somewhere else?” It was an alarming thought, especially considering what she knew of recent imperial ship movements. The Klingons were sending more vessels into the Taurus Reach all the time. Even with their resources stretched thin with defending their borders, the ships and personnel they had placed here still outnumbered those supplied by the Federation. “I think we need to alert Admiral Nogura about this. He’s going to want more ships.”

“I can’t say a few more Constitutionswould go unnoticed,” Stano said, “or unappreciated. Sooner or later, this kind of constant probing and outright daring is going to blow up into something more serious.”

Khatami released a sigh. “I know, but I imagine there’s a line even they won’t cross, at least not until war’s formally declared.”

The question needing an answer, she knew, was where that line was drawn.