Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

5

T’Prynn stood alone in the wasteland, listening to the howling wind as it whipped sand across her face and through her hair and the folds of her desert soft suit. Despite the lack of stars or a moon in the night sky, a strange violet luminosity surrounded her, and what she saw was desolation. Barren low-rise hills and rolling dunes stretched to the horizon in all directions, the faint illumination casting long shadows.

As always, this place did not seem familiar, though it reminded T’Prynn of the foothills leading into one of the mountain ranges that formed the perimeters of Vulcan’s Forge on her home planet. She had visited that region only once, in childhood as a student participating in a field excursion for a geology class, and she still recalled the fear that had gripped her during the group’s encounter with a wayward sehlat.

T’Prynn now felt a similar stab of anxiety as she stood, alone in this place, waiting. Again.

Feeling the weight in her hands, she looked down at the lirpashe wielded. A staff of dark polished wood, it featured an oversized curved blade at one end, offset by a blunt metal weight on the other. The weapon’s heft offered a measure of comfort, which T’Prynn knew was illogical but chose to embrace regardless. In another time and place, she would have rebuked herself for the flurry of emotional reactions she was allowing to detract from her focus. Now was not the time for such distraction.

Movement in the dunes caught her eye, and she looked up to see a lone figure approaching her. Clad in dark robes from head to foot, the new arrival also carried a lirpain his right hand, its blade gleaming even in the weak indigo light that surrounded it and him. He covered the distance between them with long, assertive strides, and as he drew closer, T’Prynn recognized the crest and other traditional symbols woven into the front of his robe. The embroidery highlighted the wearer’s lineage and ancestral history, and once again, T’Prynn considered the price she might well have paid had she agreed to join that family, as well as the penalty she had long endured for refusing to do so.

The figure stopped when less than ten meters separated them, reaching up with his left hand to push back his hood, revealing the face that had haunted her every moment since she had held his head in her hands and broken his neck.

Sten.

“We meet at the appointed place, T’Prynn,” he said, his expression inscrutable but his tone mocking the ritualistic words that were part of the many ancient, time-honored marriage ceremonies still performed by many Vulcans. Lifting his lirpaso that he could grip its staff in both hands, Sten regarded her with his fierce gaze. “Do you finally agree to submit?”

T’Prynn shook her head. Her answer was the same as it had always been, from which she had never wavered over the decades and which she would speak until her dying breath. “Never.”

“So be it,” Sten said, and for a fleeting instant, T’Prynn—as she always did at this point—thought she detected the barest hint of resignation in her bondmate’s voice. Then the time for reflection was over, as Sten charged, his lirparaised and its razor-sharp edge aimed at her.

Expecting the feint, T’Prynn was ready when Sten abruptly stepped to his left, lowering his weapon and attempting to swing it beneath her guard. T’Prynn twisted her own lirpadownward, blocking the attack and forcing his blade away from her body. The move left Sten’s torso exposed, and she jabbed forward, trying to take advantage of the opening, but her former lover was too quick and too well trained in this particular fighting art.

Sten recovered his stance, twirling his lirpain his hands until its blade was near his left hand. Lunging forward, he swung the weapon up and over his head, bringing it down straight at her head. T’Prynn was only just able to lift her lirpain defense, every bone in her body trembling from the force of the onslaught. Their blades locked, she kicked at him, her boot stomping into his midsection with all of the strength she could muster. It was enough to push Sten back and gain her some maneuvering room, but the respite lasted only seconds, as he recovered, adjusting his grip on his lirpaand renewing his attack.

He thrust the weapon forward, and T’Prynn reacted, dropping her arms in an attempt to block, failing to see that his maneuvering was a ploy. At the last instant, Sten pulled back the lirpa,dropping its blade and pushing forward yet again, this time getting inside her reach. T’Prynn felt the sting as the finely honed metal sliced across her abdomen. Gritting her teeth and releasing an audible groan at the sudden pain, she brought up her lirpaonce more, swinging around its blunt end and catching Sten just above his right elbow. She heard the sound of bone cracking beneath the force of the blow. Sten staggered to his left. He loosed his grip on his weapon and let its blade fall to the sand as he lost his balance and dropped to one knee.

T’Prynn lurched forward, sensing her opportunity and ignoring the pain in her belly as she readied for another swing. Sten jerked himself upright, his right hand extending toward her, and at the last instant, she realized what he had done. Sand showered her face, stinging her eyes and catching in her nose and mouth. Gagging and spitting to clear her throat, T’Prynn reached up with one hand to wipe her eyes, backpedaling away from Sten and trying to keep him in her line of sight. When she looked up again, Sten was nowhere to be seen. Rubbing sand from her face, T’Prynn searched but could find no sign of him. Even the sand where they had fought appeared undisturbed, with no footprints or tracks to tell the story of their brief skirmish.

“Submit,” she heard his voice call out, carrying over the wind.

Gripping the lirpain her hands ever tighter, she screamed her reply. “Never!”

Dr. Jabilo M’Benga sat alone in Isolation Ward 4 of Starbase 47’s sickbay, which was darkened save for the feeble illumination offered by the work light over his desk. So engrossed was he in the stack of reports that he had allowed to accumulate in his office—paperwork for which there never seemed to be sufficient time except for late at night, well after his normal duty shift had ended—that several seconds passed before he became aware of the telltale string of beeps echoing across the room. Their volume was subdued, barely carrying over the music M’Benga had set to play over the room’s internal communications system.

Turning in his seat, M’Benga’s gaze shifted to the ward’s only patient and the biofunction monitor positioned above her bed. Bathed in the soft crimson light cast down from a small lamp he had found in her quarters, T’Prynn seemed almost regal as she lay unmoving on the bed, covered with a thermal blanket designed to offer a semblance of the desert warmth she might experience on her home planet. The Vulcan’s expression remained as vacant as it had been when M’Benga and Dr. Fisher found her, collapsed near Vanguard’s main hangar deck.

From where he sat, M’Benga could make out the one indicator on the bio monitor that deviated from the others. Unlike those designated for a patient’s pulse, blood pressure, respiration, and other autonomic actions—all of which hovered just above the minimal levels needed to sustain life—the gauge denoting the detection of brain-wave function had spiked, bouncing up and down along its column of status markers as the monitoring equipment detected heightened activity.

“Hello,” M’Benga said, rising from his chair and crossing to the biobed. He watched as the indicator rose to its highest level, remaining there for several seconds, as though fighting to free itself from the constraints of the monitor’s display. Based on the readings, T’Prynn’s mind, or at least a portion of it, was working overtime.

As part of his routine examination of the equipment overseeing his patient, M’Benga also checked the small, shallow clay bowl he had set on the nightstand next to her bed. A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from a coil of incense resting in the bowl, releasing a pleasing, earthy fragrance that reminded M’Benga of Vulcan’s arid climate. It also did a wonderful job of masking the smell of cleansing agents used to disinfect and sanitize the sickbay patient areas. Knowing that incense was often used by Vulcans as a means of facilitating meditation, he had placed the bowl near T’Prynn in the hopes that she might sense its presence even while locked in her deep coma. So far, he had detected no reaction from her to this or any other external stimuli, but M’Benga figured there could be no harm in continuing the holistic regimen.

He activated a computer interface terminal at the side of T’Prynn’s bed. “Computer, this is Dr. M’Benga. Begin recording.”

“Recording,”replied the feminine voice of the station’s main computer system.

M’Benga cleared his throat before reciting, “Personal log, stardate 1573.9, time index 2137 hours. Notes on patient T’Prynn. Medical scans indicate increased mental activity, similar to that recorded on three earlier occasions. Computer, append links to appropriate entries from my log, using keywords ‘T’Prynn’ and ‘coma’ as search arguments.”

There was a momentary pause before the computer replied, “Acknowledged.”

“As before, I’m unable to determine the cause of this latest spike in activity,” M’Benga continued, watching as the gauge began dropping until it came to rest at one of its lowest levels, an indication that T’Prynn’s mind was returning to its state of near-catatonia. “Duration of latest active period was just less than two minutes. REM sleep has been ruled out, because of patient’s current condition. Dream state is possible, perhaps even probable, as a consequence of the trauma the patient seems to have suffered. I have not yet ruled out the possibility of this being the effect of a healing trance, as would be normal for Vulcans who have sustained significant physical or psychological damage.”

He had paused, considering his next comments, when he heard from behind him the door to the ward sliding open. He was not surprised to see Ezekiel Fisher entering the room. The station’s chief medical officer seemed preoccupied, which M’Benga could not fault, given that Fisher likely was returning from one of his frequent visits to see Commodore Reyes.

“Good evening, Doctor,” M’Benga offered as Fisher strode toward him.

Fisher nodded. “Evening, Jabilo,” he said, his attention on the bio monitor above T’Prynn’s bed. “No change, I take it?”

“You just missed another spike in mental activity,” M’Benga countered, nodding toward the monitor. “It only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was just as intense as the other occasions.” Sighing, he reached up to wipe grit from his eyes. The first mild protests of fatigue were calling, but he ignored them. “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure this out. I’ve run through every kilo-quad of data in the computer’s medical banks, both here and at Starfleet Medical, and come up dry. The doctors I’ve been able to reach on Vulcan haven’t been of much help, either.” He shook his head. “According to her file, she was suffering from those episodes for decades.Someone on Vulcan had to examine her at some point, if not offer some course of treatment.”

“We both know how tight-lipped Vulcans can be,” Fisher said, crossing his arms and reaching up to stroke his beard.

M’Benga released a mild chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.” During his medical internship on Vulcan, he had come to learn a great deal about not only Vulcan physiology but also the shroud of secrecy that seemed to permeate so much of their culture. Only after working in such close proximity to Vulcan physicians had he begun to penetrate the opaque veneer that protected Vulcan society from the peering eyes of “outworlders.”

Regarding him for a moment, Fisher said, “You look like hell. When’s the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”

M’Benga shrugged. “I do all right.” As had become his habit, he would seek a few hours’ sleep in one of the ward’s unused patient beds, wanting to be close at hand in the unlikely event that T’Prynn’s condition changed to any measurable degree. Stepping away from the bed, he crossed the room toward his desk and indicated the computer terminal with a wave of his hand. “I do have one lead that hasn’t hit a dead end just yet.”

He reached the workstation and keyed a command string to bring up a log of communiqués he had received in recent weeks. “A friend of mine, a Denobulan physician who also interned at a Vulcan hospital, suggested that this could be the result of a mind meld that was forcibly interrupted. If, for instance, she was subjected to a meld against her will and that meld was broken, her own mind may have rallied in some sort of self-defense. If the other party’s melding abilities were far superior to her own, she may not have been able to extract herself from the union without inflicting severe psychological damage to herself.”

“That’s an interesting leap you just made there, Doctor,” Fisher said, pulling another chair closer to the desk and taking a seat. “What makes you think she was forced into a meld?”

Pointing to the computer screen, M’Benga replied, “Something my friend said. Remember what I told you about T’Prynn and the marriage challenge she underwent, where she ended up killing her fiancé in ritual combat?”

Fisher added. “Just don’t ask me to say its name.”

M’Benga ignored the joke. “Part of the original betrothal process involves a mind meld when the parties are children. Another meld takes place during the actual marriage ceremony. So, I started wondering, what if, during the Koon-ut-kal-if-fee,T’Prynn’s fiancé tried to force her to meld. Maybe she killed him in a desperate attempt to break that meld. That would almost certainly have some debilitating effects.” He shrugged. “Of course, without being able to talk to anyone on Vulcan about this, it’s just a theory.” To that end, he had sent all manner of messages to the Vulcan Science Academy, including a complete dissertation of his hypothesis. He had yet to receive a response to any of his queries.

“So,” Fisher said, “what’s the next step?”

Stifling a yawn, M’Benga shook his head. “For now? Continue to monitor her treatment and hope that she actually is in some form of healing trance. That, or fly to Vulcan, kidnap one of their doctors, and shanghai him back here.”

“You could take her to Vulcan,” Fisher said.

It was a thought M’Benga had considered himself, more than once. “It’s almost nine weeks’ travel from here.” Nodding toward T’Prynn, he added, “Before I subject her to that, I’d like to verify that someone will be willing to help her when we finally get there.”

Fisher said, “If she never comes out of that coma, someone on Vulcan likely will want her taken there, anyway. You might be speeding up the inevitable.”

“Maybe,” M’Benga replied, hearing his uncertainty lacing the single word. Still, the bio monitors overseeing T’Prynn’s condition told him enough to keep going. He was certain that somewhere deep in the recesses of her tortured mind, T’Prynn was fighting to escape whatever gripped her. Even if he could not offer assistance, he still wanted to be here when—if—she managed to claw her way to consciousness.

“Something inside her simply refuses to give up,” he said, studying T’Prynn’s still form once more, “and I don’t plan to give up on her, either.”

6

Though it often had a calming effect on his stomach and even went so far as to alleviate the collected stresses of a given day, the bowl of chilled Coferian oyster broth offered nothing for Jetanien on this night.

It probably has more to do with my choice of drinking companions.That, the Rigelian Chel ambassador decided, to say nothing of the subject of the conversation in which he currently was engaged. Jetanien pushed his bowl to the far corner of the desk and returned his attention to the tabletop viewer before him. On the screen, a burly Klingon regarded him with a look of disdain to which the ambassador had become all too accustomed.

“Lugok,” Jetanien said, reining in his growing exasperation and attempting to retain his composure, “how in the name of all that is civilized and sane do you think the Federation is going to react to this?”

The Klingon ambassador shrugged. “I imagine it will do what it always does: flail about, decrying the action as hostile, and make stern noises about swift and unforgiving retribution, all while quietly hoping something more serious comes along with which to occupy their attention. Earthers have no stomach for conflict, Jetanien. We both know that.”

An aggravated rattle exploded from Jetanien’s oversized proboscis. “You’ve been reading too much of your own propaganda, Lugok. If anything, humans have proven themselves to be among the most brutal of known sentient species. When provoked, they can and will fight, particularly in defense of those things they hold dear. Your ship attacked an unarmed farmingcolony, Ambassador. They obliterated a defenseless freighter for no reason.”

Not responding immediately, Lugok instead reached for something out of range of the viewer’s video pickup, and Jetanien watched as the Klingon brought a stout, wide-based mug to his mouth. When he pulled it away, a red film was visible on his mustache, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. “Rest assured, Ambassador, that if the empire truly had viewed this willful encroachment on our territory as of any real concern, the colony itself would simply have been removed, rather than allowed to leave unmolested. As for the freighter, it was a regrettable error, I admit. Our vessel’s sensors were overdue for refit with more modern systems. However, it’s worth noting that the Earther colony was trespassing on a world already claimed by the empire.”

Feeling his ire rising, Jetanien cleared his throat. “Lugok, setting aside the apparent fact that no sign of Klingon presence on the planet was detected prior to the colony’s establishment, tell me this wasn’t retribution for what happened to your people on Gamma Tauri IV.”

“This was not retribution for what happened to our people on Gamma Tauri IV,”Lugok said, his expression so neutral, so impassive, that Jetanien wanted very much to reach through the display viewer and throttle the Klingon. “Believe that, or don’t. Either way, it is no concern of mine.”

While he did not say so aloud, the Chel suspected the real reason for the empire’s interest in the planet, to say nothing of its willingness to use any means to defend that interest. Could it be that Lerais II was home to Shedai technology? There would, of course, be no way to determine that without a comprehensive sensor scan, something a colony transport would have been unable to accomplish. As had been demonstrated on several occasions, the Shedai artifacts found on other worlds throughout the Taurus Reach were curiously immune to detection unless one knew precisely what was being sought.

And if I’m right, the Klingons will never allow a Starfleet vessel with the proper equipment anywhere near that planet.Indeed, Jetanien decided, such an act might well spark another, larger confrontation.

For the first time since their dialogue had begun, Lugok abandoned his relaxed posture and leaned forward until his grizzled features all but filled Jetanien’s screen. “Unless I’m mistaken, there is no treaty between our governments requiring the empire to notify the Federation of its activities, particularly in open territories. It is unfortunate that your colonists suffered from a simple technical malfunction, but there is little to be done about that now. Perhaps if a greater level of trust existed between our two governments, this tragedy might have been avoided.”

Though the words almost sounded sincere, there was no mistaking Lugok’s expression. The Klingon either was lying about the destruction of the freighter or was simply regurgitating whatever story had been fed to him by a superior. Either way, the ambassador appeared not to care.

“Trust, you say?” Jetanien countered. “Is this the same trust that involves placing an undercover agent aboard this station? Within my own staff?”

Again, Lugok shrugged, appearing to be considering a nap. “Opportunity presented itself, Ambassador. Are you suggesting that such action is beneath your vaunted Federation?”

The revelation that the late Anna Sandesjo, one of his trusted aides, had actually been a Klingon intelligence operative surgically altered to appear human had come as a shock to Jetanien. Other members of his staff had discovered Sandesjo’s true identity even before it had come to T’Prynn’s attention. He had been considering just what to do with the covert agent, whether to expose her and have her arrested or find some way to monitor, if not direct, her activities for his own uses. T’Prynn had beaten him to that decision, further surprising him by converting Sandesjo into a double agent working for her.

For all the good that ended up doing for us.Given the length of time Sandesjo had served on his staff, how much damage had she caused to Federation security interests before Jetanien had discovered her and T’Prynn had converted her? Despite the precautions T’Prynn was sure to have taken, could they be sure that the Klingon agent had not continued providing real, actionable intelligence to her superiors? Jetanien was certain that all of the ramifications of this security breach had yet to be felt.

“Jetanien,”Lugok said, “we appear to be dancing around the important issue dangling before us. At first, we believed that your unrestrained expansion into the Gonmog Sector was carried out for the Federation’s usual arrogant, selfish reasons, but of course, we both now know the real purpose of your presence here.”He pointed one large finger at Jetanien, and the Chelon imagined it coming through the screen to poke him in his chest. “Your fumbling and indecisiveness have angered an enemy that threatens both our peoples. You can hardly fault the empire for pursuing its own interests in the region, especially now that we may well be searching for some weapon with which to defend ourselves from this adversary you’ve provoked.”

As irritating as Lugok could be, Jetanien knew he was right. Starfleet’s mission to uncover the truth behind the Shedai had come with tremendous, unforeseen costs. The demonstrations of their power on planets throughout the Taurus Reach, including most recently the staggering disappearance of the entire Jinoteur system, was sending shock waves throughout the Federation and beyond. Now, with the Klingon Empire aware of the secrets buried within the Taurus Reach, Starfleet’s original mission to determine the origin of the meta-genome had changed. The quest for unparalleled scientific discovery was now a mad dash to secure technology and weapons with the potential to shift the balance of power throughout the galaxy, possibly for centuries to come.

“Well, as you say, the Shedai are a threat to both the Federation and the empire,” Jetanien said, his beak punctuating his words with rapid staccato clicks. “To that end, it would seem logical that our peoples come together in joint defense against this menace.”

Throwing back his head, Lugok released a hearty, thunderous laugh, which seemed determined to overload the viewer’s audio ports. Once he settled down, he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, that’s quite a fine idea you have there, Jetanien. We will join hands and stand up to our mutual enemy. Assuming we prevail, what are we to do in the aftermath of our glorious victory?”

“Surely,” Jetanien replied, “this unprecedented alliance to protect our common interests might be viewed by any rational person as the foundation for a stronger, longer-lasting relationship between our two peoples? There is much good we can accomplish, Lugok, if we could only pledge to work together rather than against each other.”

Once more, Lugok smiled. “You’re at your most entertaining when you propose such fantasies, Jetanien. We Klingons are not fools; we understand that you only now come to us after your failed attempts to hoard the alien technology for yourself. It is but the latest in a string of deceptions foisted upon the rest of the galaxy by your Federation. They are a gang of weak cowards who lack the fortitude to face their enemies in battle. Instead, they would rather attempt to defeat their foes by boring them to death with their words, hiding behind lies and treachery.”Once more, he leaned forward, his eyes boring out from the viewer as they locked with Jetanien’s. “It has not worked for you on any other front, Ambassador, nor will it work for you here.”

Forcing himself not to react to Lugok’s baiting, Jetanien still could not discount the words of his counterpart. The divide between the Federation and the Klingon Empire had been widening for some time, long before the latest developments here in the Taurus Reach. Even now, as he conversed with Lugok, teams from the Federation’s Diplomatic Corps were locked in protracted negotiations with similar representatives from the empire. Key among the many issues being debated were agreements with respect to territorial expansion by both parties. For years, Klingon officials had maintained that the Federation’s outward growth threatened to constrict the empire’s ability to do the same. Instead, they were being forced in directions where the possibilities of finding planets rich in the various natural resources required to maintain their society’s standard of living dwindled. In the Klingons’ eyes, this was tantamount to an attack on their very civilization, and while the Federation struggled to reach some form of mutual accord that might avert interstellar war, the Klingons, of course, seemed all but eager for what many on both sides saw would soon devolve into inevitable, open conflict.

Jetanien knew this was to be expected, given the empire’s long heritage of enhancing its power and influence through conquest and enslavement and the great honor Klingons placed on the warriors who served as the instruments of that expansion. If Federation diplomats held any hope of bridging this massive ideological gap, it lay in finding some form of common ground, some means of earning the Klingons’ respect. Jetanien also was certain that as negotiations ran on longer, the likelihood of winning that appreciation through words rather than demonstrative action grew very slim indeed.

“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” he said after a moment. “Lugok, you and I may not be friends, but at least we have cultivated a respectful professional rapport. The fact that you and I continue to correspond when our governments would have us turn our backs on each other is proof enough of that. Surely, there must be something we can accomplish, some example we can offer our peoples to show that war does not have to be our destiny.”

As he raised his massive hands, Lugok’s face for the first time took on an expression of regret. “There are limits to my influence, Jetanien. Circumstances have changed, both here and elsewhere. It seems that fate would prefer the course we now travel.”He looked off to his right, as though someone or something else had caught his attention. “There are other matters to which I must now attend, Ambassador, but with luck, we may soon revisit this discussion.”Without waiting for any acknowledgment, Lugok severed the connection, his image on Jetanien’s viewer now replaced with the seal of the United Federation of Planets and the words “Communication Ended.”

Jetanien sighed. Klingon stubbornness. How many times has Diego warned me about it?

For a moment, his thoughts turned to his friend, still held prisoner in the station’s brig. Commodore Reyes had refused most visitors’ attempts to see him, and intellectually, Jetanien knew it was an appropriate stance to take. With a court-martial looming, the less anyone spoke to Reyes directly, the better off those people would be if and when they were summoned to testify.

None of that made Jetanien feel any better. Though there was precious little he could do for Reyes at this point, it had not saved him from the many sleepless nights he had spent in contemplation, examining the situation from every angle and hoping he might stumble across something previously overlooked.

He could not dwell on that now, he reminded himself. For the moment, he had far more pressing matters to address.