Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins

by Margaret Clark (Editor)

  “All sensors active,” Rezek reported after a moment. When Toqel turned from the viewscreen, she saw the expression on the centurion’s face change. “We are detecting only residual energy signatures coming from the planet’s surface.”

  Frowning, Toqel asked. “What do you mean?”

  Looking up from the sensor displays, Rezek replied, “All power generation systems are off-line. Sensors are recording traces of discharges from particle beam weapons as well as high-yield explosives. Proconsul, the outpost appears to have been destroyed by orbital bombardment.”

  “What?” Even though she had suggested just such a scenario scarcely a khaidoa ago, the words still sounded alien to her ears. “Are there any survivors?” Perhaps someone still alive down on the surface might be able to offer some clue as to what had taken place here.

  Rezek shook his head. “I am detecting no life-forms, Proconsul.”

  Total destruction? How was that possible, and who was responsible? The questions raged in Toqel’s mind as she turned once again to face the viewscreen. “Helm, take us into orbit. Rezek, disengage the cloaking device, and route that power to scanning. I want a full-spectrum sweep of the surface.”

  “Redirecting sensors,” Rezek replied, his voice taut. For several moments, the only sounds on the bridge were those of the various control consoles, with the occasional chatter of a disembodied voice speaking through the ship’s intercom system. “We have visual.”

  “On-screen!” Toqel snapped, the first hints of dread beginning to worm their way into her mind. The image of Theta Cobrini V was replaced by an orbital view of what to her eyes appeared as an opaque ghostly smudge against the craggy, orange-gray terrain of the planet’s surface. Without being asked, Rezek increased the image’s magnification, bringing into sharp relief what Toqel could see were vast craters, from which emerged remnants of artificial constructs—twisted structural supports, fragments of blackened hull plating, and other detritus littering the scorched earth. Turning from the screen, Toqel saw Rezek looking back at her, the centurion’s expression one of confusion.

  “Well?” Toqel asked, all but shouting the question.

  “Residual energy readings are consistent with those of plasma torpedoes,” Rezek answered. “Romulan plasma torpedoes, Proconsul. I am confirming my findings with the tactical officer aboard the Vo’qha, and she corroborates the readings.”

  How in the name of the Praetor is that possible?

  Had Vrax, or someone in the Senate, authorized a separate mission, and left her uninformed? To what end? None of this made any sense. Was someone pursuing another agenda, one at odds with her own? Had she been betrayed? If so, by whom, and for what purpose?

  No answers presented themselves, and then she had no time for further reflection as an alarm klaxon wailed across the Kretoq’s bridge.

  “What is it?” she asked, talking to Rezek’s back as the centurion bent over the tactical displays.

  “Sensors are detecting four vessels,” he said. “Klingon D7 battle cruisers. They were on the far side of the planet. I don’t know where they . . .” He paused, and before he spoke again Toqel heard the frustrated grunt escape his lips. “They were cloaked, Proconsul.”

  “Cloaked?” Toqel’s thoughts turned to the four other ships traded by the Klingons as part of the exchange initiative. According to the last report she had received, those vessels were still conducting tests near Galorndon Core, nearly a dhaei’s travel at maximum warp.

  Another warning alarm sounded on the bridge, and Rezek shouted to be heard above its wail. “The vessels are assuming attack postures, increasing speed and powering their weapons!”

  “Shields up!” Toqel ordered, lunging around the helm console and reaching for the captain’s chair. “Stand by all weapons. Helm, make ready for evasive maneuvers.” All around her, Romulan centurions turned to their stations, carrying out whatever frantic preparations they might complete in the precious little time remaining to them. Toqel tried to ignore her racing heartbeat. It had been a very long time since she had faced ship-to-ship combat, and only once as a vessel’s commander.

  Sarith, I wish you were here now.

  “They’re locking weapons on the Vo’qha,” Rezek called out, and on the screen, Toqel saw the leading Klingon vessel enter the frame, its weapons ports glowing a harsh, vibrant jade. Then a pair of writhing green balls of energy spat forth, crossing the void separating the ships before disappearing past the screen’s right edge. “Direct hit on the Vo’qha!” Rezek reported. “Their weapons are passing through the ship’s shields!”

  “Fire all weapons!” Toqel called out, an instant before something struck the Kretoq. The deck shifted beneath her feet and she all but fell into the captain’s chair. Alarm sirens blared again, and she saw several alarm indicators flashing on workstations around the bridge.

  Behind her, another centurion, Santir, said, “Direct hit to our secondary hull. Engineering reports damage in their sections.”

  “Proconsul,” Rezek said, “Our attackers are pulling back, but Captain Lajuk is broadcasting a distress signal. They’re under continued assault.”

  “On-screen,” Toqel ordered, and the image changed to show the Vo’qha being pummeled by repeated weapons blasts from two of the four newly arrived Klingon ships. Hull breaches were evident, and a cloud of debris surrounded the wounded vessel.

  “The enemy ships are firing Romulan weapons, Proconsul,” Rezek said, his tone one of shock and disbelief. “Plasma torpedoes.”

  We have been betrayed!

  The blunt statement hammered in her mind, defying her efforts to ignore it as she took in the scene on the viewscreen. Everyone on the bridge watched as the Vo’qha shuddered beneath the brunt of multiple hits, and an instant later the ship disappeared in a brilliant burst of white-hot energy as its warp engines overloaded. A sphere of superheated plasma expanded outward from what had been the secondary hull, swallowing the ship and everything in the immediate vicinity. The image on the viewer automatically lowered its brightness and reduced its magnification so that Toqel could see the pair of Klingon warships that had slain the Vo’qha making a hasty retreat.

  “Evasive!” Toqel shouted over the disorderly cacophony threatening to engulf the bridge. “All weapons, fire at will! Helm, plot a course out of the system, and stand by to engage at maximum warp.” Still reeling from the loss of the Vo’qha, Toqel forced her mind to consider her options. Her ship, already damaged and alone against four adversaries? Those were very poor odds indeed.

  From the tactical station, Rezek said, “Proconsul, the ships are retreating.” A moment later, another indicator tone sounded at his station, and he added, “One of the ships is hailing us.”

  “Open a channel,” Toqel said, turning toward the viewscreen. The image jumped and broke up in response to the frequency shift, and then Toqel beheld the pudgy, irritating visage of Grodak, seated in the command chair aboard the bridge of a Klingon ship. No longer the disheveled, unclean brute she had encountered in that repellent cabin on Narendra III, Grodak now sat before her well-groomed and alert, and wearing a ceremonial ambassadorial sash over his crisp military uniform.

  “Greetings, Proconsul.”

  Her anger already mounting, Toqel rose from her chair and pointed an accusatory finger at the loathsome Klingon. “Grodak, you worthless piece of filth! What is the meaning of this?”

  The Klingon shrugged. “I should think that much was obvious by this point, my dear. I have been given the singular privilege of testing our newest advances in weapons and stealth technology. The information provided to us by your military with respect to plasma torpedo launchers was most illuminating, even if the technical schematics were a bit—how shall I say it—lacking? Thankfully, we possessed the resources to make up for the gaps in our information. What do you think of our results?”

  Imagining her hands around Grodak’s throat, Toqel hissed through gritted teeth, “We had an agreement—an understanding.”

  “Q
uite true,” Grodak replied, “and one we may have honored, but it seems that trust remains an issue for both sides of our arrangement. This business you conjured about attacking this outpost and leaving the blame to fall to the Klingon Empire—did you truly believe you would accomplish such folly?” When he leaned forward, his lips curled to reveal his uneven, stained teeth. “And did you honestly believe we would give you vessels from our fleet, without some means of defeating them in the event we ever faced them in battle?” He used one hand to indicate the bridge of his ship. “It’s quite a simple thing to retune our weapons and thwart the frequencies on which deflector shields operate, particularly if you have access to the enemy vessel’s main computer, as I did. Deactivate your weapons, or I will demonstrate this ability again.”

  Forcing herself to stand rigidly still, Toqel called over her shoulder to Rezek. “Do as he says.” To Grodak, she growled, “So much for Klingon honor.”

  Grodak waved away the accusation. “I told you before that not all Klingons subscribe to the teachings of Kahless. I merely happen to be one such Klingon.” He pointed at her. “Besides, I’ll not be lectured about honor by the likes of you. After all, you did have spies sneaking about in our midst. We found one such rodent, and he proved to be most cooperative once he was subjected to some of our more effective interrogation techniques.”

  Of course, Toqel realized. Bitterness enveloped the thought, but she allowed no visible reaction. “No doubt you have spies among us, as well.”

  “Indeed. That is the way of things, after all. If the Klingon Empire is to thrive, we need to adapt to our enemy, even when that enemy prefers cowardly skulking in the shadows rather than direct action. Regardless of where you choose to fight this battle with us, Romulan, you will lose.”

  Toqel wrestled with the repercussions of what Grodak had admitted. Surely, Starfleet vessels already were on the way here, once it was realized that contact with the outpost had been lost. They would investigate the remnants of the base, and conclude Romulan culpability, just as Toqel would have engineered Klingon blame if she had been allowed to go forward with her original plan to attack the outpost.

  “I can see it in your face, Toqel,” Grodak taunted. “So far as the Federation is concerned, Romulus will have much to answer for in the days to come. We are content to leave the details to you, but I think we both know the correct course of action if we are to preserve the secrecy of the alliance we’ve forged.” Once more, he offered another repulsive smile. “Good luck with that, Proconsul. Perhaps in the future, your unchecked arrogance will not blind you to the possibility that your enemies are not fools.”

  He vanished from the viewscreen, his image replaced by that of the quartet of Klingon battle cruisers, which immediately began to veer off and move away from the Kretoq.

  What have I done? The question rang in her ears, even as she became aware of the bridge crew standing at their stations, watching her and waiting for new orders.

  “Proconsul?” Rezek prompted, his voice low and uncertain.

  “Prepare a message to Romulus,” Toqel replied, her gaze shifting to the deck plates at her feet. “I need to speak to the Praetor at his earliest convenience. Helm, set a course for home. Everyone else, return to your stations.” The tension on the bridge was palpable as her people turned to whatever tasks awaited them, leaving Toqel alone with her own tortured thoughts. Her mind and body were only now beginning to feel the stresses of what had happened here today, as well as what it might mean once they returned to Romulus.

  “I’m sorry, Sarith.”

  Turning in his seat, Nilona regarded her with an expression of concern. “Proconsul?”

  “Nothing,” Toqel snapped. Then, in a calmer voice, she added, “See to your duties, Centurion.”

  As I will soon see to mine.

  8

  Eschewing any of the chairs adorning his opulent private office, Praetor Vrax had instead chosen to pace across the room’s ornate carpet. Flanked by a security officer as well as Vice Proconsul Ditrius, Toqel stood at the center of the supreme leader’s sanctuary, her hands clasped behind her back. She watched the Praetor, who, in apparent defiance of his age, moved with a determination belying his years. Despite the room’s cool temperature, Toqel felt perspiration beginning to dampen her back.

  “A most distressing problem we have here, Proconsul,” Vrax finally said, breaking the silence that had all but engulfed the room since Toqel’s arrival under guard several moments earlier. He spoke with a deliberate cadence, each word channeling a portion of the frustration and disappointment Toqel knew he now felt toward her.

  “Yes, my Praetor,” she replied. There was no point in attempting to deny or mitigate what had happened. It would be insulting, both to Vrax as well as herself, and ultimately do nothing to alter the current situation.

  “Both the Federation and Klingon diplomatic envoys are quite upset,” Vrax continued, “though obviously for different reasons. The Federation naturally believes the attack on their outpost to be an act of war, and we may one day find ourselves at odds with the humans and their allies as we did generations ago. Still, I prefer it to be on my terms and at a time of my choosing, rather than being manipulated into a war I do not yet believe our people are prepared to wage.”

  While being held in custody, Toqel had been allowed to review the latest reports detailing how the Federation had communicated its displeasure to the Romulan government. At this moment, deliberations were under way that might force the ejection of Romulan ambassadors and their staff from the recently established embassy on Earth. Elsewhere, both Klingon and Federation officials were calling for the removal of Romulan representatives from the still-developing joint colony venture on Nimbus III. It had been difficult for Toqel to contain her own anger while reading reports of how Klingon leaders were decrying the recent “Romulan” action at Mav’renas.

  “My Praetor,” she said after a moment, “I do not understand. Why do we not show the Federation that the Klingons are responsible for the attack on their outpost? Our sensor logs of the battle we later fought, including the destruction of the Vor’qha, could speak for themselves.” While such a confession almost certainly would require revealing the Romulan-Klingon cooperative effort she had helped to forge, the price of that admission surely would be enough to quiet the political turmoil Vrax currently faced.

  Though he did not offer an immediate answer, Vrax released a small, humorless chuckle as he leaned on his cane, as close to piercing the cloud of irritation that had hovered over him since Toqel’s arrival. Finally, he shook his head. “It is quite simple, actually. The Senate, and I am forced to agree with them on this point, is unwilling to reveal to the Federation that we were so easily duped by the Klingons. Fortunately, the Klingons, for their own reasons, are quite willing to continue our budding alliance, and would prefer not to alert the Federation to its existence. For that to occur, we must accept total responsibility for the incident in the Mav’renas system. Needless to say, doing so at this time presents its own unique set of problems, much like the last time we found ourselves facing such a situation.”

  Toqel nodded in agreement. Barely a fvheisn had passed since the Praetor’s authorization of the covert mission into Federation space and the subsequent destruction of those Starfleet observation outposts along the Neutral Zone. Several lengthy negotiations between political representatives from both sides had calmed the humans’ initial outrage at the unprovoked attacks, which the Romulan contingent had explained as a tragic misunderstanding of the outposts’ purpose. Whether the Federation diplomats truly had believed the reasoning—a mistaken perception that the outposts were to be the focal point of a new offensive by Starfleet forces—had been a matter of much debate in the Senate chamber in the time immediately following the matter’s resolution.

  “We were able to come to an accord on that occasion,” Vrax continued, “forestalling hostilities at least for a while, to say nothing of the promise of renewed talks between our governmen
ts. Even that colony on Nimbus III, which I originally opposed, might still prove useful.” He paused, his brow furrowing as his gaze locked with hers. “Contrary to what the citizenry may or may not believe, I am quite content to bide our time until we can learn more about Starfleet’s strengths and weaknesses, and to allow for our ships and personnel to prepare for the day when war might well come. If we are faced with such a conflict now, I am uncertain as to how we might fare.”

  Coming from any ordinary citizen, such a remark, if made in the presence of the Tal Shiar, would be considered treason against the Empire. Indeed, even though Toqel was aware of the current status and capabilities of Romulan forces better than any other military officer, it still alarmed her to hear the Praetor speak in such stark, unflinching terms.

  “So,” Ditrius said, speaking for the first time since escorting Toqel into the Praetor’s chambers, “the Romulan people will have to stand in silence while the Klingons make fools of them.”

  The Praetor shook his head. “No, not the Romulan people, Vice Proconsul. So far as they, the Federation, and perhaps most Klingons will be concerned, what happened was the grave overreaction by a single overzealous ship commander.”