Rise Like Lions

by David Mack

Fury’s Reign

  Crushing pressure enveloped Tuvok’s skull. He’d collapsed facedown on the deck of the Geronimo’s bridge after staggering there in pursuit of Kes, who had stunned him with her first psionic jab. This time she hadn’t even deigned to look in his direction before smashing through his telepathic barriers with humbling ease. He clutched the sides of his head and writhed in agony, the pain so great that his vision blurred and nausea twisted his stomach and churned sour bile up his esophagus.

  “Kes,” he gasped. “Please stop.”

  The lithe Ocampa crouched over him. “Not much fun to be the one without control, is it?” He dug his hand inside his pocket, but found it empty. She held up the control device for the psi-damper chip inside her skull. “Looking for this?” Before he could beg her to stop, she puffed a breath across the small metallic cylinder, which turned brittle and disintegrated into powder that dusted Tuvok’s face. She clapped her hands clean. “Too bad.”

  “You…” His eyes felt as if they might burst. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Raising herself up to her full height—which wasn’t much, but from Tuvok’s vantage point lying on the floor was more than tall enough to be intimidating—she adopted an imperial countenance. “I don’t have to do anything, Tuvok. I’m doing this because I want to. That’s all the reason I need.”

  He struggled to keep his voice steady and his thoughts calm. “Power like yours can show mercy.”

  His attempt at calming discourse sparked an eruption of temper from the young woman. “Like the mercy you showed me when you kept me from Neelix? Or when your people cut me open and used me like a lab specimen? Or the kind of mercy that left me trapped in the brig while Neelix died?”

  Another lightning bolt of fiery torture blazed through Tuvok’s conscious mind. When his vision refocused, he blinked and realized Kes was kneeling over him and holding him by the collar of his jacket. Her face was deformed by rage into a sick parody of itself, and her voice broke as she screamed, “You took me from him! You made me give up the only thing I ever loved! You lied to me!”

  “I did what was necessary for the greater good.”

  She slapped him hard enough to gouge his cheek with her fingernails. “You and this whole sick corner of the galaxy deserve to pay, and I’m going to make sure every last one of you suffers like I have, only a thousand times worse. I’ll bring you all pain and sorrow and death, and you’ll worship me for it, because the ones who appease me best will get to die first.”

  He stole a glance at the chrono on the front of the helm console, then met Kes’s hateful glare with his dispassionate gaze and said simply, “Forgive me.”

  “I already told—” She caught herself, realizing perhaps that something in his tone had changed, that his words had been pregnant with a terrible implication. She locked one hand around his throat. “What are you hiding from me, Vulcan?” Tuvok felt Kes’s telepathic intrusions stabbing at his psychic barriers, and he summoned every psionic defense he knew to mask his thoughts.

  The harder he fought for his privacy, the angrier she became. “You told me once that I couldn’t kill you. You said every member of Memory Omega was trained to block the psionic wavelengths I use to kill.” She exploited a weakness in his defense and sent a jolt of white agony down his spinal column. “That was a lie, Tuvok. You thought if I believed it was futile, I’d stop trying. That I wouldn’t find out how powerful I really am.” With a few synaptic tweaks she fooled his body into believing it was on fire. His screams were hideous and involuntary. No matter how he tried to block the pain as a mere illusion, Kes forced the signal through. “Tell me what you’re hiding, Tuvok, or I’ll make sure your death is a slow one.”

  Overcome by his mind’s betrayals, Tuvok lost control of his defenses and felt Kes invade his deepest thoughts. As he’d feared, it had never been a real contest. His lifetime of skill was no match for the unstoppable force of her mind.

  Like a mental spectator, he stood on the black shore of his psyche and watched as Kes dredged the truth from the dark, still waters of his suppressed memories. It glittered like a jewel in her hand as she unraveled its secrets.

  “The psi-damper chip,” she whispered in the physical world, her breath warm on his face. “It had a failsafe…”

  “With a three-minute countdown,” Tuvok muttered as she exhumed the details from his brain, “to an explosive charge…”

  She let go of him and pushed herself away, scrambling about on all fours in a desperate search for the control device, which she now knew was the only way to stop the chip from completing its lethal final function. Pawing at the silvery dust on the deck, she whimpered, “The controller… Tuvok, help me!”

  Tuvok watched impassively as Kes struggled in vain to reassemble the powder into the device it once had been. Unfortunately for Kes, even Tuvok had not known its secrets, or in what part of her brain the chip had been implanted—only that her conditioning during her convalescence at the base inside Regula had rendered her permanently blind to that part of her own mind. Her eyes were bright with tears and terror as she looked at him. “Tuvok?”

  “There is nothing I can do to help you now.”

  She shut her eyes, balled her fists, and mustered a scream of furious denial—which caught in her throat as a tiny explosion inside her head was betrayed by a muffled pop and a tiny wisp of gray smoke from her left ear.

  Her eyes were still open as she slumped onto her right side, lifeless and limp. As Tuvok freed himself and crawled out from beneath her, he saw a thin trickle of blood escape from Kes’s right nostril. The banality of the moment struck him as both ironic and unjust: The greatest psionic power in the galaxy had just been murdered by an induced aneurysm. Her death, despite being necessary and at least partially self-inflicted, filled him with regret—not for his actions or omissions, but for the simple, grotesque wastefulness of it all.

  I must accept what I cannot change, Tuvok reminded himself. He reached over, gingerly nudged Kes’s eyelids closed, and stood to leave, knowing that in his own estimation, he had failed her in every way possible—and that her death would be his shame to bear for as long as he lived.

  “Good-bye, Kes.”

  35

  Blood and Bones

  Delivered from the coruscating embrace of the transporter beam, Picard was awed by the natural beauty of the Elemspur Monastery and its surrounding wilderness preserve. Located in Hedrikspool Province in Bajor’s southern hemisphere, the millennia-old religious retreat was considered by many scholars to be one of the most significant archeological sites in the quadrant. Despite his long service to Gul Madred, Picard had never been able to obtain permission to set foot on Bajor, never mind the monastery’s grounds, while in the Cardassians’ employ.

  Now he stood on its ramparts as an invited guest. He drew a deep breath of the muggy air and reveled in the lush bouquet of the Bajoran rain forest. Peaty, earthy qualities blended with floral fragrances. Then he turned and admired the monastery’s ornate stonework, lofty towers, and graceful arches. Bathed in the amber light of dawn, it was one of the most magnificent places he had ever seen.

  He heard the footsteps of people climbing the stairs to his left. With a quick tug he smoothed the front of his uniform jacket and then turned to greet Captain Calhoun and General O’Brien, who strode toward him side by side. “Gentlemen,” Picard said, shaking O’Brien’s hand first, then Calhoun’s. “I trust you’re well.”

  “I’ve been better,” Calhoun said.

  O’Brien shrugged. “Can’t complain.”

  Picard eyed Calhoun. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Captain: How did you and your crew survive when your ship rammed that bird-of-prey?”

  “I wish I knew,” Calhoun said. “I suspect the credit belongs to my navigator, but since he’s the only one who didn’t make it out alive…” He shook his head.

  The general glanced skyward and asked Picard, “How’s it going up there?”

  “Every ship that’s still intact
has been towed into orbit,” Picard said. “Most of the survivors have been beamed down to sanctuaries here on the surface. We’ve left skeleton crews aboard a few ships to work on repairs.”

  Calhoun nodded. “What about reinforcements?”

  “I spoke with Saavik,” Picard said. “She’ll be able to send replacement crews on a ship with a working jaunt drive in about thirty-one hours. Once they arrive, they’ll open a wormhole and escort us back to Erebus Station for repairs and refits.” Noting the pained look on Calhoun’s face, he added, “And in your case, Captain, reassignment—if you’re willing to helm a new ship.”

  The Xenexian captain let slip a rare hint of a laugh. Exorcising all trace of a good mood from his face—except for a mischievous gleam in his purple eyes—he replied, “Yes, I think I could be talked into that.”

  “Saavik thought you might.”

  Tilting his head toward the stairs to the monastery’s courtyard, O’Brien said, “We’re supposed to bring you down to the temple hall. Kai Opaka and her friends are waiting for you.”

  “Lead on, then.”

  Picard followed O’Brien and Calhoun down the weathered, rough-hewn stone staircase to a grass-covered, rectangular courtyard surrounded by a cobblestone walkway. Taking care to stay on the stone path, O’Brien noted, “Don’t walk on the grass. The locals seem to take that kind of personally.”

  “Noted,” Picard said. They passed through an open archway into a long covered promenade, which led to a pair of tall, dark wooden doors with brass fittings. O’Brien pushed open the doors, which protested with high-pitched shrieks. Then he stood aside and let Picard lead the way inside the temple.

  The main hall of the Elemspur Monastery had a high, domed ceiling adorned by antique murals and mosaics. Sturdy metal stands held tall white tapers whose flames danced madly as the three men disturbed the air with their entrance. Curved benches were arrayed in a 240-degree arc facing an elevated dais, upon which stood a short altar of rough granite, two marble tables topped with small items of religious paraphernalia, and a lectern of cold-wrought iron. The entire room was suffused with a pleasing, honeyed light, and reverberated with the distant mellisonance of deep voices chanting in forgotten tongues.

  Standing before a row of candles to Picard’s right was Kai Opaka. The stout woman busied herself reigniting wicks snuffed by the breeze that had followed the rebel commanders into the sanctum. It was to her credit, Picard thought, that she appeared perfectly serene in the performance of her task. Trailing her by a few steps was Vedek Winn, and seated on a bench at the back of the room, observing from a distance, was Iliana Ghemor, the Cardassian woman who, to Picard’s surprise, had been accepted by the Bajoran people as their prophesied messiah, the long-awaited Emissary of the Prophets.

  Opaka used a lit candle to relight an extinguished one, then set the first back into its place. She nodded at Winn, who stepped forward and continued the task as Opaka walked over to greet the visitors. “General, Captains,” she said with a broad and genuine smile. “We’re so glad you’re all still with us.”

  “So are we,” O’Brien said.

  The kai let the quip pass without comment. “We’ve quartered your personnel as best we can, given the continuing ecological damage inflicted by the destruction of Ashalla, but I assure you they’ll all be well fed and comfortably sheltered—as will you and your senior personnel.”

  “As long as the Cardassians don’t take another shot at us,” Calhoun said.

  Opaka shook her head. “Not likely. Between this battle and the one at Raknal Station, they’ve suffered great losses in a short time. I suspect it will be months before they have enough ships in this sector to mount a new offensive.”

  Winn added, “And even if they did, our surface-based artillery would make them think twice about closing to weapons range.” She folded her hands in a beatific pose that was at odds with her bellicose rhetoric. “You’re safe here.”

  “And for that we are tremendously grateful,” Picard said. “We promise not to overstay our welcome. If all goes as planned, we’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

  Taking hold of Picard’s arm with a feather touch, Opaka asked, “So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so. We’ve suffered significant losses and need to regroup.”

  The news provoked a look of concern from Winn, who asked the three men, “How badly were your forces hit?”

  O’Brien answered, “Very. We lost a lot of ships and a lot of good people.”

  Opaka turned her soulful gaze toward Calhoun. “I’m told you sacrificed your ship to save our world.” She reached slowly toward his left ear, and when he reflexively pulled away, she asked with a smile, “May I? Please?” He nodded his assent, and Opaka gently cupped his ear in her hand, closed her eyes, and squeezed the lobe. She winced, then opened her eyes and stared with reverence at Calhoun. “You and your crew did not expect to survive. You thought you were sacrificing yourselves—not just your ship.”

  Her proclamation made O’Brien and Picard face Calhoun and regard him with new respect. Calhoun, for his part, seemed uncomfortable with the attention. He gently removed Opaka’s hand from his ear. “We did what we had to do.”

  Winn looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “You risked your ships, your lives, and the fate of your rebellion—all to save us? Why would you risk everything for which you’ve fought and sacrificed, for just one world?”

  Picard, O’Brien, and Calhoun exchanged hopeful looks, and in that moment Picard was certain that they all had arrived at the same answer. As Calhoun spoke and O’Brien nodded, his belief was proved correct.

  “We did it,” Calhoun said, “because it was the right thing to do.”

  The air in the temple was charged with equal parts excitement and anxiety, but O’Brien felt only the latter. He and the vast majority of the remaining commanders of the Terran Rebellion had gathered in the sacred hall of the Elemspur Monastery at the behest of Director Saavik, whom he had been told would be making a personal visit to address them. The news hadn’t seemed especially noteworthy to O’Brien until Keiko had explained that no director of Memory Omega had ever done anything remotely like this in its century-long history.

  Sensing the enormity of the moment, O’Brien had shaved and made an extra effort to find a clean shirt to wear to the meeting.

  Milling about the domed hall were people he’d known for years, and some he knew only on sight but not by name. Picard and Calhoun stood off to one side, conducting a discussion in whispers. Keiko stood with a circle of Memory Omega operatives that included Selar, Tuvok, and L’Sen. Eddington held court for a few of the rebellion’s senior commanders, including Ezri Tigan and Alan Kistler. O’Brien spotted Picard’s first officer, K’Ehleyr, and her shipmates, Troi and Barclay, lurking along the room’s periphery. Near the back of the room, Calhoun’s first officer, Soleta, was engaged in a muted but intense conversation with former Praetor Hiren and four of his Romulan commanders. Dozens of others packed the rows of seats, filling the room with a hushed undercurrent of worried voices.

  The euphonious hum of a transporter beam halted the overlapping dialogues and drew everyone’s attention to the front of the room, where a prismatic swirl of particles coalesced into the white-garbed and eminently dignified shape of Saavik. She wasted no time on a preamble. “The Valiant has arrived in orbit and begun preparations to shift your vessels back to Erebus Station. Replacement crews are being beamed aboard your ships to assist in repairs.”

  Calhoun interrupted, “You didn’t come all the way here just to tell us that. What’s the real news?”

  The Vulcan woman lifted one brow a quarter of a centimeter, and O’Brien read the subtle shift in her expression as one of annoyance—and then decided he probably was just projecting his own feelings onto her. Raising her chin, Saavik directed her reply to the room at large, not just to Calhoun. “The captain is correct. You have been gathered together so that we can plan the final stage of this revolution. The good news is that our cea
se-fire with the Klingon Empire seems likely to hold, and might soon develop into a formal truce. The bad news is that peace with the Cardassian Union seems all but impossible. Recent intelligence suggests that Damar personally would prefer to end this conflict, but he is under extreme pressure from his people, their civilian government, and the Cardassian military to press on, despite their recent losses.”

  It definitely was not the news O’Brien wanted to hear. “So, what now?”

  “As noble—and fortunate—as your defense of Bajor was, it will leave the Cardassians’ appetite for revenge unsatisfied. Regrettably, this war will not end until Cardassia’s collective will to wage it has been broken.”

  Picard stepped forward to stand at O’Brien’s side as he asked Saavik, “What, precisely, are you suggesting that will entail?”

  “We must lay waste every major military and political target in the Cardassian Union—starting with their homeworld, Cardassia Prime.”

  Fatigue robbed O’Brien of his strength, and he rubbed his eyes as he exclaimed, “No.” He repeated that single word so many times in rapid succession that he lost count of how many times he’d said it. “That’s not the answer. It can’t be.” The war-weary general shook his head. “I’ve seen too much killing, too many worlds left in flames. It has to end. Someone needs to be the first to take the high road. I can’t believe the only path to victory is paved with blood and bones.”

  “It has ever been thus,” Saavik said, “and so it shall remain.”

  Moving forward to join the debate, Calhoun raised his voice for the benefit of the crowd. “She’s right. This is no time to shy away from hard choices.”

  “No one’s shying away,” O’Brien said. “If anything, choosing peace is the hard way. We’ve all lost people we care about, we all want our pound of flesh, an eye for an eye. But some lines, once they’ve been crossed, can’t be uncrossed.”

  Standing between O’Brien and Saavik, Picard looked torn. “Miles, I share your revulsion at the notion of genocide, but I spent a good portion of my life living among the Cardassians. I know their temperament well, from first-hand experience. They’re a ruthless, almost amoral people. Saavik may be right—the only way to slake their thirst for war might be to drown them in it.”