by Dayton Ward
Jetanien nodded. “That seems like a fair compromise. There may yet be hope for you as a diplomat, Diego.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Reyes countered, though he did offer a small laugh to punctuate his reply.
“And what of their request for increased space in their embassy?” the ambassador asked.
Shrugging, Reyes replied, “They can have as much area behind their rear bulkhead as they want.” T’Prynn recognized the humor in the statement, given that the embassies occupied areas along the outer ring of the station’s primary hull, and “behind the rear bulkhead” was nothing but open space. The commodore, from her observations, derived some measure of amusement from the employment of sarcasm.
Even Jetanien laughed, emitting another series of clicks and grunts. “That’s more like the Diego Reyes I know. I should’ve guessed that you wouldn’t easily submit to such petulant whining.”
Submit.
The command came unbidden, lunging from the depths of T’Prynn’s consciousness and forcing itself into the forefront of her awareness. It was Sten, at one time her fiancé, calling to her as he had since that day more than five decades ago when he was gripped by the temporary near insanity that characterized the Plak tow, the blood fever, which was the culmination of the ancient Vulcan mating drive, the Pon farr. As his betrothed mate, T’Prynn had rejected him and demanded the rite of ritual combat, the kal-if-fee, in order to free herself from the marriage bond. It was during that death challenge that Sten, sensing his impending defeat at T’Prynn’s hand, forced into her mind his katra, his own consciousness. Even as he faced death, he attempted to bend her to his will, demanding that she subject herself to him. As always, she defied him, and her hands snapping his neck punctuated what she believed was to be her final refusal.
Submit.
The calls for subjugation had not ceased with Sten’s demise. They had instead continued unabated during the ensuing 52.7 years, his katra haunting her waking moments, her dreams, and even her attempts to assert any degree of mental balance and control via meditation. She had sought the assistance of Vulcan Kolinahr masters and even the revered Adepts themselves, who had taught her techniques for managing her unique condition. Those methods only served to treat the symptoms, however; as to ridding her mind of whatever remained of Sten, for that there seemed to be no cure.
Submit!
From the tormented depths of her own mind, T’Prynn conjured her all too familiar response to Sten’s challenge. Never.
“Commander, are you quite all right?”
It required an extra moment for T’Prynn to realize that Jetanien was speaking to her, and that both he and Commodore Reyes were regarding her with their own particular expressions of concern. Had her own features or bearing betrayed her inner turmoil? Unsure of the answer to that question, T’Prynn clasped her hands behind her back and nodded.
“I apologize for my momentary distraction, gentlemen. I was giving thought to some issues I plan to address once our business here is completed.”
“You look tired, Commander,” Reyes said, his eyes narrowing as he frowned.
T’Prynn offered another nod. “I have had some trouble sleeping in recent days, Commodore, though you can be sure it will not affect my ability to carry out my duties.”
Reyes replied, “I trust your judgment, Commander, but feel free to take some time for yourself and go visit Doctor Fisher, if you think it’s necessary.”
“I will do that, sir,” T’Prynn replied, hoping to put the matter to rest and move on with other, more pressing concerns.
Appearing satisfied with her answer, Reyes returned his attention to Jetanien. “All right. Where were we?”
“You were asking me to speak to the Klingons on your behalf,” Jetanien replied, “in the hope of staving off total war between the Federation and the Empire.”
“Right,” the commodore said, nodding. “Can you help me out here?”
Tapping the nail of one large, scaled finger on his desk, the ambassador uttered a seemingly random string of clicks and pops. “I shall do my level best, my friend.”
A beep from the diplomat’s desk made him reach for the intercom panel situated near his left hand. “Yes?”
In response to his query, a feminine voice replied, “It’s Anna Sandesjo, Ambassador. I have those reports you wanted.”
“Excellent,” Jetanien replied. “Bring them right in.”
His office doors parted a moment later, and T’Prynn turned to see a young human woman enter the room. She wore conservative gray pants with a matching jacket over a white blouse, and her red hair fell loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were a startling shade of green, and when T’Prynn met her gaze she sensed tremendous intelligence and confidence. There was an additional, unquantifiable reaction, and another moment passed before she comprehended the feeling she was experiencing as she beheld Anna Sandesjo.
Desire? Yes, T’Prynn felt that, but there also was something else, which she could not yet identify.
Their momentary contact was broken as the woman made her way to stand before Jetanien’s desk. Extending her right arm, she offered the ambassador a data slate. “Here you are, sir. Everything I could find on all diplomatic exchanges between the Klingons and the Tholians. There’s not really much there, I’m afraid.”
“A little light reading?” Reyes asked.
Pausing to scan the data slate’s display, Jetanien uttered a snort of disapproval. “Very light, as it happens. As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, diplomatic relations between the Klingon Empire and the Tholian Assembly can probably best be summed up with a synopsis which reads, ‘Don’t bother us, and we won’t bother you.’ “
“And here we are,” Sandesjo replied, “doing what we can to annoy both sides.”
Again, Jetanien laughed. “It’s what we diplomats do best, my dear.” Looking to Reyes, the Chelon asked, “How else may I be of service, Diego?”
Reyes shook his head. “I think I’ve bothered you enough for one day. Thanks for your help, Jetanien.” As he turned to head for the door, he glanced toward T’Prynn. “Commander?”
“Aye, sir,” T’Prynn acknowledged, moving to follow Reyes. As she turned, her eyes once more locked with Sandesjo’s, and this time T’Prynn saw something new in the human’s expression. What was it?
Submit, challenged Sten, interrupting her thoughts.
Die, she countered, rallying her mental skills and forcing her long-dead fiancé’s consciousness back into the dark hole from which it had emerged. Then there was merciful silence, and she had time for one last fleeting glance in Sandesjo’s direction as she left Jetanien’s office. Though the human said nothing, the corner of her mouth turned upward, and T’Prynn registered the other woman’s all but imperceptible nod.
Fascinating.
5
“Are you done yet?”
Though he asked the question with a smile, Clark Terrell still received one of Vanessa Theriault’s trademark glares from where she knelt at the bank of the massive lake. Positioned next to her on a large rock were her science tricorder as well as a specimen collection kit, which Theriault had already filled with samples of the lake water as well as nearby vegetation and even some of the small, minnowlike creatures she had found near the water’s edge. As interesting as those examples might prove to be, it was the vial the science officer now held in her hand that had Terrell’s undivided attention.
“Almost,” Theriault replied as she sealed the vial and returned it to her kit. “This algae sample is loaded with the meta-genome, but none of the surrounding vegetation has it. Neither does anything else, for that matter.”
Terrell nodded. “Just like Ravanar IV, and the other planets where it was found.” Whoever or whatever was responsible for the apparent scattered seeding of the complex gene sequence on so many disparate planets across the Taurus Reach, their choice of a dispersal pattern was as much a mystery as their reasons. “And no rhyme or reason to the target planets, either, ev
en though this planet seems to be a lot like Ravanar.” This region in particular reminded him of what he had reviewed of the survey reports from the first system where the meta-genome had been discovered. The lake selected by the landing party for their survey was surrounded by mountains, which in turn were situated in the midst of a vast desert. The water here—fed to the lake by underground streams running through the mountain range—was crystal clear, affording the first officer an unfettered look at the sand and rocks forming the lake bottom. After determining that the water was safe for human consumption, he had dipped his hands into the lake and drunk from it, relishing the taste. It was cool but not, he suspected, so cold as to preclude swimming.
“Think we could convince the skipper to authorize a few hours’ shore leave?” Theriault asked, smiling as she returned various instruments and collection containers to the kit. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it.”
“Only since we beamed down,” Terrell replied. Captain Nassir had opted to keep the Sagittarius in orbit above Traelus II, unwilling to sacrifice the greater effectiveness of the ship’s sensors while in space for the sake of landing in this idyllic location, even if only for a short while. Of course, his keeping the rest of the crew aboard ship made it easier to maintain Terrell and Theriault’s cover story of transporting to the surface to collect samples of dilithium and other raw minerals, which they had done while acquiring specimens found to contain the meta-genome.
Checking the chronometer display on her tricorder, Theriault said, “Well, I’m done, and according to this we’ve got about twenty minutes before our next scheduled check-in. Did you bring your swimsuit?”
Terrell’s reply was cut off by the telltale beeping of the communicator in his jumpsuit’s hip pocket. Smiling, he shook his head. “Right on cue. I told you the captain knows everything.” He extracted the device and flipped open its antenna grid before announcing, “Terrell here.”
“Clark,” said the voice of Captain Nassir, “we’ve got company up here. A Klingon scout ship is coming around the far side of the planet. We don’t know yet if it just warped into the system, or if it’s been here all along and hiding from us. Right now I don’t care. Stand by for beam-up.”
“Klingons?” Theriault said, her expression a mask of concern. “All the way out here?”
Frowning as he gestured to the science officer to hurry up with collecting her equipment, Terrell said into the communicator, “Are their weapons hot?”
“Affirmative,” the captain replied, “but their shields are down. I think they know you’re down there and they’re trying to bait me into raising shields so we can’t beam you back. So, get your asses in gear.”
Terrell knew that a planet like Traelus II, with its vast deposits of valuable minerals, would not escape the notice of anyone scouting for such materials. The Klingons required elements like dilithium, and their needs were perhaps even greater than those of the Federation. What concerned the commander now was whether the Klingon ship currently in orbit had any other reason for taking an interest in this particular planet.
Let’s hope not.
“Understood, Skipper,” Terrell said. Seeing that Theriault was ready to go, he began to report that they were ready for transport when a flickering light in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to see four columns of coarse ruby-red energy appear out of nothingness. Within seconds each of the columns coalesced into the form of a bipedal figure.
“Clark,” Nassir’s voice called out from Terrell’s communicator. “Be advised that sensors are picking up the Klingon ship’s transporters.”
“Um,” Theriault replied, “we know, sir.”
Terrell’s hand was already moving to the palm-sized Type-1 phaser in his right hip pocket when the figures completed the materialization process and the Klingon at the front of the formation drew a sidearm from the holster at his waist with startling speed, leveling it at the first officer.
“Do not move, Earther.” He was tall and muscled, his dark uniform tunic and pants stretched tight across his physique. The disruptor pistol wavered not one iota as its muzzle pointed at Terrell’s chest.
Freezing in place and holding his arms away from his body to demonstrate that he carried no other weapon, Terrell asked, “What’s the meaning of this? We’re on a peaceful scientific survey mission here, and pose no threat to you.”
“You’re trespassing, Earther,” the Klingon snapped. “This world has been claimed by the Klingon Empire.”
“Since when?” asked Theriault, and when Terrell glanced at her he saw the ensign’s features cloud with uncertainty in the wake of her bold challenge.
The Klingons snarled as they regarded her, and the leader replied, “Since I said so, but if you wish to dispute that, I would welcome the challenge.”
“Goading an obviously inferior opponent into challenging you?” Terrell said, not even bothering to hide his scowl. “That sounds awfully dishonorable for a Klingon warrior.”
“What do you mean, inferior?” Theriault asked, her words laced with indignation.
Turning so that he could offer a scathing glare to the ensign, Terrell replied, “Oh, I’m sorry, Vanessa. Were you wanting to challenge him to single combat?”
Theriault glanced toward the hulking Klingon before pursing her lips and shaking her head. “I think I’ll just stand over here and be inferior.”
Nodding, Terrell said, “Good plan.” His encounters with Klingons had been few and infrequent during his career, but stories of the Empire’s supposed allegiance to the notions of honor and courage in battle were well known, dating back to Starfleet’s initial contact with the militaristic race more than a century ago.
As though considering Terrell’s words, the Klingon glowered at him, and for a moment the first officer was certain the disruptor would belch energy at any second. “You are fortunate that my orders do not afford me the luxury of showing you the errors of your arrogance.” He shifted the weapon to point its muzzle at the communicator in Terrell’s hand. “Tell your ship to retrieve you, now.”
“Or what?” Terrell asked.
The disruptor moved again, this time to aim at Terrell’s face. “Or I will disobey my orders and risk the wrath of my superiors.”
From the communicator, Terrell heard Nassir say, “That’s enough, Commander. Stand by for beam-up.”
Angry that the Klingons appeared to be getting their way, Terrell nevertheless clenched his jaw to keep from exacerbating the already tense situation. It took considerable effort on his part to restrict his response to “Aye, sir.”
Terrell and Theriault arrived on the bridge of the Sagittarius to see Captain Nassir standing before the main viewscreen with his arms crossed as he faced off with the image of another Klingon.
“All right, Commander,” Nassir said, his voice low and clipped, “my people are back aboard. Now, perhaps you’d be so kind as to show me some record of the Klingon Empire laying claim to this planet?”
Seated in a high-backed chair that blocked most of the area to either side, the Klingon leaned forward until his swarthy visage all but filled the screen. “Are you calling me a liar, Captain?”
Nassir, unmoved by the Klingon’s display of indignation, replied in a calm, even voice, “I don’t believe that’s what I said, Commander. What I requested was the record you or someone else surely sent to your superiors, who in turn would have relayed that information to your diplomatic envoys for transmittal to their counterparts within our Federation Diplomatic Corps. This procedure was put into place when it became apparent that both our governments expressed interest in exploring the Taurus Reach, so that incidents such as this apparent and unfortunate miscommunication might be avoided.”
Standing at the rear of the bridge, Terrell forced himself not to smile. The captain was known for his enjoyment of spirited debate on a vast array of topics, and relished laying oratorical traps for any opponent foolish enough to accept his challenge.
“Someh
ow,” Terrell whispered, his words audible only to Theriault, “I don’t think this guy’s in the mood for cunning wordplay.” A quick look over the shoulder of Lieutenant Commander Bridget McLellan at the information displayed on her tactical console told him that both the Sagittarius and the Klingon scout ship had raised their defensive shields, but he felt a twinge in his gut as he noted that only the enemy vessel’s weapons were powered.
I hate when that happens.
On the viewscreen, the Klingon—Terrell realized for the first time that he did not even know the commander’s name—said, “I am not a diplomat, Captain, nor am I a custodian of administrative minutiae. I follow the orders of my superiors, who directed me to this world which the Empire has claimed. If you wish to dispute that, then you may address your grievances to whichever bloated sack of useless skin and meat oversees such matters. For now, you are trespassing. Remove your vessel from orbit above this world and leave this system.” He paused, his stern expression fading even as his eyes seemed to go flat. “I will not ask again.”
“Captain,” McLellan called out from the tactical station, “their weapons are targeting us.”
Theriault gasped. “They can’t be serious.”
“You don’t know Klingons,” Terrell countered, stepping into the command well and taking up a position behind McLellan. Another reading of her console’s status displays and other gauges was enough to bring him up to speed. According to the sensors, the Klingon ship and the Sagittarius appeared to be evenly matched.
“Commander,” Nassir said after a moment, his stance unwavering as he maintained his gaze on the Klingon, “there’s no need for violence today. We already know from your landing party’s actions on the planet’s surface that the superiors to whom you’ve pledged your allegiance also wish to avoid such actions.”
