Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

46

For reasons he could not understand, Pennington was nervous.

“What the bloody hell’s wrong with me?” he asked as he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. “The last time I felt like this, I was picking up my prom date and meeting her father for the first time.”

“Did the father like you?” M’Benga asked, standing next to him as the pair waited outside the door to T’Prynn’s room.

Pennington shook his head. “Not one damned bit.”

“An excellent judge of character, it turns out.”

The pair exchanged amused glances, and Pennington tipped a finger to the side of his head in salute.

He and M’Benga had formed a casual friendship during the weeks they had spent here, thanks to both men’s easygoing natures. Pennington had learned that the doctor’s reserved demeanor housed a sharp wit and an almost encyclopedic knowledge of literature and history, allowing him to pepper his sarcastic remarks with references so arcane as to force the journalist to the nearest computer terminal in order to keep up.

The sound of the door’s bolt being slid aside echoed in the hallway, and Pennington and M’Benga composed themselves as it opened to reveal T’Nel.

“T’Prynn is ready to see you now,” the Vulcan said, opening the door wider and moving to one side, allowing the men to step into the room before she left, closing the door behind her.

Seated in a straight-backed chair near the window was T’Prynn. She wore a simple sleeping robe, and a thick, ornately decorated blanket had been laid across her lap, covering her from her waist to her feet. Her dark hair had been pulled into a knot at the top of her head, and her hands were clasped in front of her. With a typically Vulcan stoic expression, her alert eyes studied both men from head to toe as they stood before her. Pennington realized for the first time that her cheeks had sunken, if only slightly, evidence of the weight she had lost, even though her metabolism and other body functions had slowed during her coma to the bare minimum necessary to sustain her. She looked exhausted, and Pennington also noted the slight, irregular facial tic in her right cheek, even though she faced them at an angle, her right side somewhat obscured from direct view.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“Mr. Pennington,” T’Prynn replied, her voice somewhat raspy. “Dr. M’Benga. It is agreeable to see you both. Doctor, I’ve been told of the care and treatment you provided me throughout my incapacitation, not only on the station but during the journey from there to Vulcan. You have my sincere thanks.”

M’Benga nodded. “I was just doing my job, Commander.”

“I’m told, Mr. Pennington, that you also took an interest in my condition. I must admit that I am at a loss to understand this.”

“You’re welcome,” replied the journalist, offering a smile. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that at the time, you looked as if you could use a friend.” He felt his stomach lurch as he considered the woman before him, the architect of his professional downfall. As temporary as that expulsion might have been, it had arguably marked the lowest point in his life, surpassing even the ending of his marriage or the loss of his lover, Oriana D’Amato.

Now that she was here, there was much that he wanted to say, but this did not feel like the appropriate time. He thought he might try to visit her later in the day, or perhaps tomorrow, if she felt up to having visitors.

T’Prynn seemed to process that, then nodded as the tic made another appearance. “Very well. You also have my thanks.”

“How are you feeling?” M’Benga asked.

“Weak,” the Vulcan replied. “Except for a persistent headache, I am experiencing no pain. Healer Sobon tells me that there are a number of neurological issues that must be addressed before I can be declared fully recovered.” She unclasped her hands, and Pennington noted that her right hand remained limp in her lap as she raised her left hand to gesture toward her legs. “I retain all of my cognitive functions and senses, but I am unable to walk, though I possess all nerve sensation. I am only able to effect limited movement with my right arm, and you have already observed the minor muscle spasms in my face.”

M’Benga crossed his arms. “These are residual effects of the coma, I take it?”

Nodding, T’Prynn replied, “Indeed. Healer Sobon has told me that my brain essentially went into a form of hibernation, as a means of protecting higher functions from permanent damage caused by the neurological imbalance triggered by the coma. Once the Dashaya-Ni’Varwas complete, my brain slowly began to restore that functionality, but its progress is slowed because of the intensity of the meld and the effort required to remove Sten’s katra.Sobon is confident that I will be fully recovered in a few weeks, perhaps a month.”

The first hints of the afternoon heat encroaching on the house’s temperate climate were affecting Pennington, in the form of perspiration forming on his forehead. After wiping it away, he regarded his damp hand. “A month, you say? I don’t know if I have enough fluids in my body to hold out that long.”

“It’s likely that Starfleet will insist on your extradition, Commander,” M’Benga said. “They’ll argue that you’re well enough to travel to a Starfleet medical facility in order to complete your rehabilitation, during which you’ll almost certainly be under arrest. I can’t imagine a court-martial is far off, either.”

The right side of T’Prynn’s face twitched again. “Healer Sobon will resist such a request, on the grounds that he’ll wish to observe my neurological recovery, which he’ll no doubt perform via one or more mind melds.”

“I have no reason to argue or disagree with Sobon’s diagnosis or treatment suggestions,” M’Benga replied.

Pennington could not help smiling at his friend. “Look at you, being a bloody rebel and all.”

Raising his right eyebrow in fine Vulcan fashion, the doctor replied, “My concern is for my patient, and that’s the way it’ll be until she’s discharged from my care.”

“Your dedication to your duty is commendable, Doctor,” T’Prynn said, “but as I will be remaining in Healer Sobon’s care for some time, I see no reason for you to stay here. Starfleet surely has better uses for a man of your august talents.”

M’Benga nodded, reaching into a pocket and producing a piece of folded parchment. “It appears so,” he said, holding it up. “This was delivered to me via messenger from the Starfleet security contingent outside the commune. I’m to report to the Starfleet liaison in Shi’Kahr once I’m finished here. It looks like I’m receiving new orders.”

“Back to the station?” Pennington asked.

Shrugging, M’Benga replied. “I don’t know, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Healer Sobon has already contacted the Starfleet liaison office in Shi’Kahr,” T’Prynn said, “and informed them that you will arrive in due course. They will continue to post security details here until he declares me recovered, at which time I will surrender myself to Starfleet. You are relieved of your responsibility for me, Doctor, without any prejudice. Indeed, Sobon also has communicated a request to Starfleet that you be awarded a commendation for your devotion to duty.”

She paused, and though her expression revealed nothing, Pennington noted in T’Prynn’s body language that she was coping with something—perhaps a wave of disorientation, fatigue, or even nausea. For a moment, the journalist imagined what the Vulcan must be experiencing, helpless to do anything except react to whatever fits and starts her strained body and mind subjected her to. In a sense, she had been at war for decades, he knew. Was it unrealistic to assume that her recuperation would not take longer than a few days or weeks, as Sobon predicted? What, if any, long-term effects of her protracted torment remained to be discovered? Would T’Prynn ever achieve complete recovery?

“I suppose that’s it, then,” M’Benga said, nodding in final agreement. “I’ll honor your request, T’Prynn. However, I hope you’ll contact me and let me know how you’re doing.”

T’Prynn nodded. “I will do so, Doctor. Thank you.”

Much to his own surprise, Pennington found himself saying, “If you’d like the company, I wouldn’t mind staying. I need material to finish my book, and it’s not as if Starfleet cares if they ever see me again.”

“Yes, I’ve been told about your news features,” T’Prynn said. “I imagine they make for most interesting reading.” When she said nothing else for a moment, Pennington wondered if the Vulcan also had been told about the court-martial and conviction of Commodore Reyes or even the worsening political climate between the Federation and the Klingons. He decided that for now, unless she broached either subject, it likely was best not to mention them.

T’Prynn, with some difficulty, adjusted her position in her chair, and this time, the lack of mobility in her legs and right arm was apparent. Pennington could not help but feel sympathy for her, though he knew she likely would dismiss his open display of such emotion.

“As I said to Dr. M’Benga,” she said, “I appreciate your concern, as well as your offer, but it is not necessary. I will have everything I require here, and Sobon’s staff will tend to me during my recovery.”

Pennington recalled his conversation with young T’Lon and the hardships endured by those who returned to Kren’than after having chosen to leave the village for whatever reason. “It might not be the easiest path to travel, staying here, what with things being the way they are and whatnot.”

Understanding his veiled statement, T’Prynn nodded while casting her gaze down to her folded hands. “Indeed, but it is a burden that I am prepared to carry. I consider it a measure of recompense for the care I have been given.” When she looked at him again, Pennington saw something come over the Vulcan, as though she had made a decision. “You and I have had something of an adversarial relationship, Mr. Pennington, and that is my doing. While I would like to think that the actions I took served a greater good, I know now that there may have been other avenues to explore, options that might have spared the injuries done to you. While this may not be sufficient in your view, I hope you will accept my apology.”

Seeing her now, weakened and vulnerable, and in the wake of what they had shared, Pennington realized that he could no longer hold on to the anger he had felt toward her. With his reputation restored, was there really anything left for which to hold her accountable? Would doing so accomplish anything?

No. Let it go.

“Thank you, T’Prynn,” he said, his voice soft. He glanced at M’Benga, who was nodding in approval.

T’Prynn slumped in her chair, and M’Benga moved forward to help her. She raised her left hand, halting his advance. “I’m fine,” she said, “but I am growing fatigued. T’Nel will assist me in returning to bed.”

Pennington said, “I think that’s our cue, then.”

“Yes,” M’Benga replied. “Thank you for seeing us, T’Prynn.”

“Think nothing of it. I wish you a safe journey back to Starbase 47, gentlemen.” Reaching beneath her blanket, she said, “Mr. Pennington, there is something I’d like you to take with you.” Her hand emerged and extended toward Pennington. In her palm, the journalist recognized the familiar bronze finish of the mandala.

Frowning in confusion as he took the disc from her, he said, “I don’t understand.”

“A reminder,” T’Prynn replied. Straightening her posture, she regarded them both as she held up her left hand and offered a traditional Vulcan salute. “I wish you both peace and long life.”

M’Benga returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Commander.”

“Goodbye, T’Prynn,” Pennington added, swallowing a lump in his throat as his fingers caressed the mandala. Would he see her again? He found it unlikely, given Starfleet’s intentions toward her.

Then again, she wasT’Prynn.

47

Reclining against the chair’s padded backrest at a table in a quiet corner of Manón’s Cabaret, Nogura sipped his wine and watched the subdued hive of activity taking place around him. Members of the station’s complement and civilian personnel occupied most of the other tables, as well as chairs, sofas, and floor cushions arranged about the nightclub’s interior. A low buzz generated by numerous conversations hovered in the air, the words themselves just beyond his hearing, and he took note of the few furtive glances cast in his direction from other officers. It was easy to comprehend the subject of at least some of the conversations: him.

Well,he conceded, perhaps not you specifically.

Most of the discussions likely revolved around the man he had replaced, along with the events that had transpired to bring about that replacement. It went without saying that Diego Reyes had been respected by his crew, to say nothing of the feelings carried by any close friends among them. Nogura was certain that a sizable percentage of Starbase 47’s population supported the former commodore, whether they agreed or disagreed with the decisions he had made and the actions he had taken. Doubtless, some of those people would believe that the sentence imposed on Reyes was too harsh. They had that luxury, of course.

Bringing his glass to his nose, Nogura closed his eyes and savored the wine’s supple aroma before taking another sip. He was adjusting to a more comfortable position in his chair, content to wait quietly for his meal, when he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Admiral Nogura, I hope I am not disturbing you.”

Turning in his seat, Nogura looked up to see Ambassador Jetanien regarding him. The Rigelian Chel, despite facial features that did not lend themselves to a wide variety of expressions, still managed to appear more than a bit disconcerted.

“Not at all, Ambassador,” Nogura replied. “Would you care to join me?” Even as he asked the question, he realized that the chairs already at the table would not accommodate the Chel’s unique physiology.

Jetanien, however, having obviously encountered this situation on more than one occasion, was already taking action. A simple wave to one of the cabaret’s staff produced two more employees as if from thin air, carrying a backless chair better suited to the ambassador’s special seating requirements. Jetanien thanked them and perched on the seat, across from Nogura.

“Excellent service here,” the admiral remarked.

“I am something of a regular patron,” Jetanien replied. He indicated Nogura’s plate and its partially consumed meal. “Eating alone can be unhealthy, you know. Drinking alone also has its share of negative benefits.”

Smiling, Nogura held up his wineglass, swirling its contents. “Hazards of rank, I suppose.” Long ago, he had adopted the custom of enjoying a quiet drink with his evening meal after a long day’s work. It did not matter to him that he usually dined in solitude; such was the fate of a flag officer serving without peers at any duty station. “Besides, I can hardly blame the crew for giving me a wide berth. I can’t imagine any of them feel particularly comfortable approaching me, even in such a casual atmosphere as this.” He waved his free hand to indicate the nightclub’s interior.

Jetanien made a sound that sounded like water draining from a sink. “I doubt that any of them harbors any true ill will toward you, Admiral. After all, you played no role in Commodore Reyes’s court-martial and subsequent conviction.”

“Nevertheless,” Nogura countered, “I’m the one Starfleet sent to replace a man they respected.” He released a small sigh. “Damn shame, too. What a waste of a good officer.”

“One could argue that the commodore’s intentions were honorable, Admiral,” Jetanien said, resting his oversized hands on the table.

Frowning, Nogura shook his head. “You know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell.” He glanced across the table before adding, “Well, maybe you don’t.”

“I do indeed, sir,” the ambassador replied. “Despite his motivation, Commodore Reyes was still in the wrong, legally speaking. Morally speaking, that is a topic all its own. I do not know what I might have done were I in his position, but I’d like to think that he was acting on behalf of a greater good.”

It was an interesting viewpoint, one Nogura found hard to fault. Of course, Jetanien and a select few members of the station’s senior staff had all been briefed on Starfleet’s true mission in the Taurus Reach from the beginning. For Jetanien now to state that he believed Reyes to have been acting toward a higher, more august purpose, would that not also constitute an admission that earlier decisions and actions taken in the name of security—some by the ambassador himself—were less than moral? Were they perhaps illegal?

Let’s save that particular can of worms for another day, shall we?

A server approached the table and set down before Jetanien a large bowl of what looked like something that might have been retrieved from one of the station’s waste-extraction centers. A faint aroma wafted from the bowl, and Nogura could not help wrinkling his nose in mild protest.

“I apologize if the odor is bothersome,” the ambassador said as he brought the bowl to his mouth, “but they make a pickled keesabeetle broth here that is unmatched in flavor.”

Nogura shrugged. “ Unmatchedis as good a word as any,” he said, wiping his nose and draining his wineglass. “Ambassador, can I assume that you didn’t visit me this evening to counsel me on my dining habits or to discuss the former Commodore Reyes? Have you heard anything new from the Klingons with respect to Lieutenant Xiong?”

Emitting an irritated snort, Jetanien shook his head. “Lugok maintains that no prisoners were taken from Erilon. Either he’s an accomplished liar, which I doubt, or else he’s not being kept informed with regard to this situation.”

Nogura frowned and leaned forward to glare at the Chel. “So, what are you doing about it?”

A deep, resigned sigh escaped Jetanien’s birdlike mouth. “At the moment, nothing. Lugok has gone quiet, apparently on orders from the High Council. All diplomatic relations have been frozen.”

“It’s not just you and Lugok,” Nogura replied, “but you know that. The truth is, no one on either side is talking to anyone about anything, and everyone’s getting itchy trigger fingers.” After taking a moment to listen to the gentle, almost soothing buzz generated by the conversations of other patrons, Nogura finally leaned back in his seat. A dull ache had begun to manifest itself behind his left eye, an early warning of an impending headache.

The least of my problems,he conceded.

“I appreciate your efforts, Ambassador,” he said, “but the unfortunate reality is that as far as the larger picture is concerned, Lieutenant Xiong—regardless of his unique knowledge and capabilities, is a single man.” He waved a hand in the air above him, gesturing toward the ceiling. “All of this—our mission, whatever secrets might still be waiting for us to find out there—is liable to become very unimportant in the coming days and weeks, and Xiong’s probably nothing more than one of the first casualties in a conflict that will see him joined by countless others.”

Jetanien gave an irritated grunt and said, “I find it hard to disagree with you Admiral, given current events, but consider this. What if the Klingons dohave Xiong and by some miracle and with his assistance—coerced, of course—discover some dreadful weapon that can be turned against the Federation?”

“If that’s the case, Ambassador,” Nogura replied, “then I imagine the war will go very quickly, and very badly, for us.”

48

The spoon, which was more like a small shovel or a gardening tool than an eating utensil, was almost too large for his mouth, though Xiong had learned the trick of balancing the heavy metal bowl in his left hand. This allowed him to concentrate on forcing down whatever it was in the bowl that had the nerve to call itself his evening meal. It was a pallid, cold gruel, as tasteless as it was devoid of color. He had eaten it twice a day every day for however long he had been Komoraq’s unwilling guest, trying to imagine that the bland paste was anything else.

As always, the effort failed, and Xiong instead tried to preoccupy himself with studying his surroundings as he brought another spoonful of the vile concoction to his mouth. He sat on a small box, leaning against one stone wall of the chamber that had been his home since arriving on this planet. Across from him was the wall dominated by the Shedai control consoles, dormant except for those few occasions when he and Tasthene, working together, had been able to make some limited progress accessing the ancient apparatus. Tasthene stood before the console, regarding him as he ate.

“You act like one of my children when they dislike the nourishment I would prepare for them,” the Tholian said.

Xiong laughed. “You sound like my mother. She would never let me be excused until I’d finished.” Holding up the bowl, he added, “Of course, her cooking was better.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what she would have done with fifty-three of us,” he said, recalling Tasthene’s stories of his large family.

“Offspring can be very taxing,” Tasthene said, “but the rewards outweigh the challenges.” Listening to the Tholian’s words, Xiong knew that the memories of his lifemate and his children were what saved his friend, the strength he needed to get through the situation he now faced. He had a reason to live, motivation to find some way of escaping this ordeal and one day returning home.

And what do you have, besides your ever-unquenchable thirst for knowledge?

Forcing away the taunting question, Xiong dropped his oversized spoon into the bowl, metal clanging against metal and echoing in the chamber. The action did not go unnoticed; within seconds, Xiong heard heavy footsteps coming in his direction. Then a shadow fell across him as a Klingon guard moved into view from around one of the ubiquitous stacks of packing crates.

“You are finished?” the guard asked.

Xiong nodded, holding the bowl out for the Klingon to see. “My compliments to the chef.”

The sarcasm naturally was lost on the guard, who offered a disapproving scowl as he examined the bowl and its partially consumed contents. Then he directed a derisive sneer at Xiong. “I see that time has not strengthened your inferior Earther palate.” Taking the bowl, he added, “This is a standard prisoner’s ration, containing every essential nutrient needed to keep you alive.”

Having already had some variant of this conversation more times than he could remember, Xiong countered, “If that’s the case, then it’s no wonder you don’t keep that many prisoners. Most of them probably kill themselves once they find out what’s on the menu.”

It was as close to friendly banter as he and his guards had managed to force during his stay. The guard released a small, growling laugh before heading back to the small desk from which he and his companion kept watch over the lieutenant and Tasthene.

With nothing else to occupy time until the guards returned to take him to the oversized packing crate that served as a makeshift prison cell and his “bedroom,” Xiong picked up his tricorder. “I think I’ll take another look at that artifact,” he said as he made his way across the chamber to the enigmatic stone sarcophagus sitting alone in a corner of the room. Its lid had been removed, allowing Xiong an unobstructed view of the crystal it cradled.

What are you?

It was a question he had asked countless times since first laying eyes on the mysterious object, sitting atop the multihued, elaborately patterned cloth lining the casket’s interior. The crystal had resisted all sensor and scanning attempts, with Xiong unable to detect the presence of even the slightest energy signature emanating from the object. As far as his equipment was concerned, the crystal simply did not exist. One of the first things he had done after receiving it from Lorka was to test how it reacted when placed in proximity to the Shedai control equipment, and the results were disappointing. While he had been able to detect minute reactions to the archaic equipment, it had been even less than those received by Tasthene’s direct interfacing with the console, defying Xiong’s theory of a form of biometric association via the crystalline physiology of both the Shedai and the Tholians.

A momentary shiver down his spine broke Xiong from his reverie. Once again, and as had happened every time he came into proximity of the crystal, he felt an inexplicable, illogical sensation of dread wash over him. Rather than outright fear, he thought of it as an impression of foreboding. Whatever this object was, instinct told him that it was wrong.

No,he corrected himself. Not wrong. Evil.

He shook his head, disappointed with himself. As a scientist, Xiong knew he should be guided by knowledge and logic rather than emotion, but he could not deny the instinctive desire to flee this place, to get as far away as possible from the crystal and whatever it might represent. He forced the ridiculous notion back to the depths of his mind. It was an object, he reminded himself, nothing more.

Heavy footfalls behind him made him turn away from the sarcophagus, and he felt his body tense in anxiety and anticipation as Lorka entered the chamber, the now-familiar pair of Klingon bodyguards accompanying her. Her expression, as always, was one of determination, though Xiong noted an altogether new quality to the way the female Klingon carried herself. Gone was the obvious disdain with which she normally regarded him and Tasthene. Instead, the lieutenant sensed a sort of subdued excitement, as though she might be concerned with allowing her true feelings to become known, either to him or just to her subordinates.

“You will come with me,” she said, pointing at him. “Bring your scanning equipment.” With a nod, she indicated Tasthene. “The Tholian as well.”

Frowning, Xiong crossed the room to the small worktable he had been given to use, on which sat his tricorder and the Klingon equivalent of a portable computer terminal. “What’s going on?” he asked as he slung the tricorder over his left shoulder and allowed it to rest along his right hip.

Lorka ignored him at first, instead barking orders in native Klingonese to her guards, who moved quickly to replace the stone lid on the sarcophagus before lifting the large container between them. “We have discovered a new chamber,” she finally said to Xiong. “One that our scanners had not been able to detect. It contains technology similar to this.” She indicated the Shedai consoles with a dismissive wave before turning on her heel and marching out of the room. A third guard, the one who had overseen his meal, gestured for Xiong to follow her. Glancing over his shoulder, Xiong saw Tasthene shuffling across the dirt floor, guided at gunpoint by another Klingon sentry.

Even with the illumination provided by the strings of work lights suspended in the corridor, he almost lost sight of Lorka as she made her way around corners and forks in the tunnel. Xiong was unable to keep track of the twists and turns in the narrow subterranean passage as he all but ran to keep up with the Klingon woman, who covered ground in long, rapid strides. He only caught up to her because she stopped before what appeared to be a hole in the tunnel’s rock wall. Light from a portable lamp filtered into the passageway from inside whatever room lay beyond the wall, and Xiong stepped closer until he could look through the hole. When he did so, he was unable to suppress an audible gasp.

“What is this?”

Lorka stepped through the hole and into the room, and Xiong did not wait for an order or an invitation to join her. Once inside, he was able to get a better view of the new chamber’s contents. The room itself was unremarkable, carved, as were all of the others, from the bedrock, the walls too smooth to have been created by normal excavation equipment. Lining the far wall was a single console, similar in most respects to every other specimen of Shedai technology Xiong had encountered. As expected, the console itself was dark and lifeless, its smooth black surface free of blemishes or dust despite having likely been sealed away in this room for uncounted millennia. A wall of flat obsidian stood before him, over the console, also dormant, but none of that surprised Xiong. He had seen it all before.

It was the pedestal that commanded his attention.

“Do you know what that is?” Lorka asked.

Xiong estimated that the column rose about a meter from the chamber’s smooth floor. It was octagonal, seemingly carved from a single piece of transparent crystal. At its center was a slim pillar of lavender crystal, which caught the light from the portable lamp. The column flared at its top, expanding into a concave bowl, at the bottom of which Xiong saw a pentagonal base that also was formed from the darker inner crystal.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, realization dawning.

From behind him, Xiong heard Tasthene scurrying across the dirt floor until the Tholian stood beside him. Though his companion’s expression would be unreadable with or without the environment suit, Xiong still noted the hesitant manner in which Tasthene approached the pedestal. He seemed almost afraid to get too close.

“Do you know what it is, Tasthene?” he asked. “Is it at all similar to any control mechanism your people might’ve created?”

Tasthene uttered a string of clicks and chirps that translated as “I have never before seen anything like this. However, it seems familiar to me, somehow, just as I feel I should recognize the other Shedai artifacts we have studied.”

“It seems obvious that the item in the box is intended to be used in conjunction with this base,” Lorka said, her tone one of contempt.

Xiong nodded. “Of course, it’s obvious, but what’s notobvious is the purpose that this thing serves. For all we know, we’re holding the key to some kind of planetary self-destruct system.” Memories of what had befallen Palgrenax and had very nearly happened to Erilon were never far from his mind, particularly as he had tried to access and navigate the ancient, unknown control systems, all the while worried that he might invoke whatever final defensive protocol awaited his first careless action.