Serpents Among the Ruins

by David R. George III

“Let’s see it,” Sulu said, expecting that the general’s actions would provide the lead to the other ships.

  On the viewer, the tactical graphic winked off, and a Klingon warship appeared in space, heading toward Enterprise. NuH Bey’ swooped in, then arced away in a tight turn. It slowed, then came to stop directly ahead of Enterprise, its bow pointed in the direction of Romulan space.

  “The Klingons are now powering their weapons,” Tenger said. “All of their vessels are falling into formation with ours.”

  As relief flooded over Sulu, she turned toward Kanchumurthi. “Lieutenant, send to General Kaarg: the Klingons are people of their word, and you are a man of honor.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Kanchumurthi said, a smile on his face. Sulu realized that she was not the only one who felt relief.

  She sat down in the command chair, knowing that it only remained to be seen what action the Romulans would now take. But Sulu knew: it was over. The praetor and the people surrounding him might believe in the natural superiority of the Romulan genome, but they also understood numerical superiority; if not for the uncertainty about what the Klingon Empire would do, the Romulans would have attacked the Federation long ago. Now, faced with a combined Federation-Klingon force, the Romulans would move away from their ambitions for war.

  An hour later, they proved Sulu right. “Captain,” Tenger said, “the Romulans are disarming weapons and pulling back.”

  All eyes on the bridge turned to Sulu. “We’ve won?” Linojj said.

  Sulu smiled, but she said, “No. We haven’t won. But with our new allies, we just guaranteed that we won’t lose either.” Linojj nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned back to the helm. “Lieutenant Kanchumurthi, open a channel to all Starfleet and Klingon vessels.”

  As Sulu prepared what she would say, she thought about Linojj’s question. And she thought that maybe the Federation had won after all. And so had the Klingons and the Romulans. There would be no war now, thanks to Captain Harriman.

  Ambassador Kamemor fixed her gaze on the standing figure of the Starfleet officer, but only so that her eyes would not be drawn to the far wall, to the multihued patterns of the Algeron Effect glowing there. She sat at the conference table, listening to the statements of Commander Sulu with only half an ear. Already, Kamemor had heard all that she had needed to hear. That the Federation and the Klingons offered ample proof of their claims mattered little at this point. The crews of several Romulan starships had witnessed Tomed streaking through the Neutral Zone, heading directly for the Federation outpost, and wiping out an entire sector. Tomed’s own crew, rescued after a power-source problem had forced them to flee into space, had disclosed that they had expected their ship to be destroyed only minutes after they had evacuated it. But the ship had survived enough hours beyond that to take it into Federation space, and the fact that six of the crew—including Admiral Vokar and three engineers—remained unaccounted for pointed to their obvious complicity in the plot. There seemed insufficient cause for anybody to declare that the act had not been deliberate.

  At the end of the table, Federation Ambassador Endara and his staff listened in rapt silence to Commander Sulu’s descriptions of what had taken place. All of them seemed affected by the words, appearing alternately disbelieving, sad, and angry. Even the normally reserved Endara had paled.

  Ambassador Kage and his two aides also concentrated on the commander. In Kage’s case, he looked less engaged emotionally than interested in the diplomacy that would necessarily follow from here. His belligerent young aide, though, seemed more confused than anything else, as though he did not know how to react to the situation without direction.

  As she spoke, Commander Sulu raised the padd she carried in her hand, drawing Kamemor’s attention back to her. “There was no price paid higher than that in lives,” the Starfleet officer said. “But there were other costs.” She reached forward and set the padd on the table, its display faceup.

  Kamemor glanced down and saw the strange, grayish masses she had seen in another image, one captured from a Romulan vessel at the Neutral Zone. The picture disturbed her. Like the shimmering fragments of planet that marked the tragic end for the inhabitants of Algeron III, the splintered ruins of space would be a constant reminder of catastrophe.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Kamemor said, looking up. “We appreciate your time in sharing your experience with us. We also empathize with you for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” Sulu said. She turned and retreated across the room, taking a seat against the far wall between a Klingon general and Captain Harriman. “General Kaarg,” Kamemor said, “we would like to hear from you now.”

  The Klingon officer stood and lumbered across the room, hauling his hefty frame to the spot where Commander Sulu had delivered her statements. Kamemor raised her eyes to meet his. “During the time of which we speak,” he began, “four Klingon warships were on patrols near the borders—”

  As the general continued, Kamemor noted that her aides, Subconsuls N’Mest and Vreenak, grew restive. Seated to either side of her, the two shifted several times in their chairs. Vreenak in particular moved excessively—not that he moved very much, but the somber circumstances called for quietude. Kamemor wondered which caused his unrest, the calculated murder of four thousand people, or that the crime had been perpetrated by a man she knew he had admired.

  Or perhaps he is not entirely comfortable feigning sorrow for the deaths of beings he considers inferior to Romulans, she thought cynically. In the brief time she had known Vreenak, Kamemor had come to appreciate his quick mind and his willingness to commit to an opinion—something many young diplomats failed to do—but too often his opinions seemed motivated by an unflagging belief in the preeminence of the Romulan people. While she disagreed with such biases, and vigorously opposed employing them as the basis for Romulan policy, she had not dismissed Vreenak from her employ, because she hoped to guide the young man from his narrow views. Her experience had demonstrated to her that the world of diplomacy required expansive perspectives. When all factions in a negotiation considered issues from all sides, and not simply from the standpoint of their own needs and desires, much could be accomplished. Although the months of negotiations prior to the Tomed incident had failed to produce a treaty, she felt that progress had been made, in large part owing to the consideration of the larger picture by the Klingon and Federation ambassadors.

  Captain Harriman possessed a wider view as well, she thought, not taking her eyes from General Kaarg, but keenly aware of the captain’s presence across the room. After what had happened at the Foxtrot outposts, the concerns that she had harbored about helping him—transporting him and his two colleagues onto Vokar’s ship—had vanished. Harriman’s claim that the admiral had intended to commit an act of violence against the Federation had been borne out. She did not know how the captain had survived the ordeal, but he obviously had, though he had just as obviously failed to prevent Vokar’s attack. She had not yet had a chance to speak with him privately, but when she had first seen him upon his return to Algeron, he had looked at her with an expression that she had interpreted as acknowledging both his gratitude for her assistance, and his torment for his failure.

  When General Kaarg had finished delivering his statements, Kamemor thanked him. After he had withdrawn, returning to his seat beside Commander Sulu, Kamemor stood up to address all those assembled. “I appreciate everybody’s time and tolerance in dealing with this matter so soon after the tragedy. I will bring these reports back to my government, and we will, I am certain, take action.” What actions the praetor and the Romulan Senate might take, Kamemor did not know, but she also understood that it would likely not make any difference in the current flow of politics among the three powers. The Klingons had made their choice of allegiance, and they would not forsake it—at least not in the foreseeable future—no matter what the Romulans had to say; even the unlikely exoneration of Vokar would be met with enough skepticism to prevent Qo’noS from
changing sides. “I again offer, on behalf of the praetor, the Senate, and my people, our most solemn condolences on the disaster the Federation has experienced. I also want to assure all parties that if Admiral Vokar and others did commit this heinous crime, then they did so on their own, and not under the aegis of Romulus. We unequivocally condemn these actions.” She peered slowly around the room, being sure to make eye contact with each person present. “Thank you,” she said at last, ending the meeting and dismissing the participants.

  The Klingon and Federation delegations exited the room in silence, leaving Kamemor with her two aides. She stood up, preparing to leave herself, but first she wanted to know the thoughts of the people with whom she worked. “What are your impressions of the situation?” she asked.

  “It’s a tragedy,” N’Mest said at once. “Commander Sulu was correct in her assessment that this was a cowardly and immoral act.”

  Vreenak conspicuously said nothing. Kamemor moved out from her chair and circled out from behind the table. Stopping opposite her aides, she said, “Subconsul Vreenak, have you no opinion on the attack on the Federation?”

  “It’s a lie,” Vreenak said simply.

  “A lie?” N’Mest said, incredulous. “Do you believe that the Federation outposts were not actually destroyed, that the region of space around them was not decimated, that four thousand people did not lose their lives?”

  “Admiral Vokar,” Vreenak avowed, “is not a terrorist.”

  “If your characterization is not inaccurate,” Kamemor said sternly, “it is at least irrelevant. What has been done cannot be undone, and that includes not only the act of destroying the Federation outposts, but the alliance of the Klingon Empire to the Federation. What we must do now is not dwell on the past, but focus on the future.”

  “And if it is a future based on a lie?” Vreenak asked.

  Kamemor moved forward, placed her hands flat on the conference table, and leaned toward Vreenak. “The future we now face, young Merken,” she said, admonishing him for his impertinent attitude, “is one of peace. The praetor and the Senate will not seek to go to war against a force combined of Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Force. And the Federation, despite being viciously attacked, despite being provided superior numbers by the Klingons, has not responded with violence. So at least for now, there will be peace. We should all be thankful for that.”

  This time, Vreenak did not respond, apparently chastened enough to hold his tongue. Kamemor turned and headed for the door. Before she left, she looked back toward the conference table. “The lie, Subconsul Vreenak, is believing in something contrary to all evidence.” Then she turned and left, not waiting to see if he would brave a reply.

  Captain Harriman walked beside Demora Sulu through the brightly lighted corridors of Space Station KR-3. He had not yet had an opportunity to discuss with her everything that had happened; he hadn’t even found time to contact Amina. While Enterprise had traveled to Algeron, he had remained in seclusion, and during the return to KR-3, he’d spent most of his off-duty hours in conference with Gravenor and Vaughn, putting together the verbal report that they would deliver to Admiral Sinclair-Alexander. Within the next few days, though, he felt sure that he and Sulu would talk.

  When Enterprise had arrived at the space station just a few minutes ago, Admiral Mentir had asked to see Harriman at once. But while Mentir’s desire for an immediate debriefing about the mission seemed reasonable, and while Harriman had agreed to it, he had decided when disembarking the ship to first visit his father. This time, he would not allow Blackjack to keep him away. Demora, always a supportive friend, had asked if she could come along.

  Now they entered the station’s infirmary. Only two of the biobeds in the main section were occupied, he saw, one by a sleeping man, and another by a woman whose ankle was being tended to by a nurse. The scene put Harriman in mind of all the dancing he and Amina had done over the years, since he had twisted his own ankle from time.

  As he and Demora approached the wide door of the intensive-care section, it glided open before them. They started inside, but stopped at the threshold when a voice called from behind. “Captain Harriman,” a man said. Harriman turned to see the tall, lean figure of the station’s chief medical officer coming through a doorway on the other side of the room.

  “Dr. Van Riper,” Harriman greeted him.

  “Captain,” the doctor said after he had crossed the room, “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Harriman nodded knowingly. “We all are,” he said, unsure that he would ever feel completely comfortable speaking about the apparent loss of the four thousand people in the Foxtrot Sector—and the fifty-one aboard Universe—when he knew the truth. “The attack on the outposts was a terrible thing.”

  “Oh,” Van Riper said, and then he motioned with an open hand into the intensive-care section. “Let’s go in here,” he said, moving past Harriman and Sulu.

  And Harriman suddenly realized that the doctor had not been referring to the events that had unfolded in Foxtrot Sector; he had been offering compassion for the death of Blackjack. “My father,” Harriman said, still standing in the doorway. “My father is dead?” The words, and his speaking them, seemed surreal.

  “I’m afraid so,” Van Riper confirmed. “He died just a few hours ago. The injuries to his brain were just too severe.”

  Harriman peered past the doctor, toward the far bay, where they had been treating Blackjack. An urge rose in him to race over and peer inside, to confirm that his father no longer lay in the biobed there. But there was no point; the doctor was not lying.

  Harriman felt a touch on his forearm, and he glanced down to see that Demora had reached out a hand to him. He looked up at her face, and saw an expression of sympathy and sadness, as well as complete understanding. In her childhood, he knew, she had lost her mother, and as an adult—

  “Captain,” the doctor said. “I’ll give you a moment to yourself. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if you’d like any questions answered.” He walked back out into the main area of the infirmary. Harriman turned in the other direction, moving farther inside the intensive-care section. Demora followed, the door sliding closed behind her.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” she said, and she reached out to hug him. He put his arms around her back and held her close for a few moments. Even though he felt as though he’d taken a phaser on heavy stun, the kindness and caring of his friend was not lost on him.

  When he stepped back from her, she said, “Are you all right?” Then she shook her head quickly, as though she had asked the most ludicrous question possible.

  “It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m…I’m…”I’m an orphan, he thought. The idea—however foolish for a man of fifty-two—produced an awful, hollow feeling inside him. Not wanting to say that, though, he told Sulu, “I’m in shock, I guess. I think I believed that Blackjack would live forever.”

  “He certainly was…” Demora shrugged. “…larger than life.”

  Harriman surprised himself by smiling. “Yeah,” he said, “he was that.” Sulu smiled too, and the moment helped him. But still, the reality of his father’s death remained—would always remain. It seemed incomprehensible that Blackjack no longer existed. It seemed wrong.

  He reached both hands up to his face and wiped with the tips of his fingers at his closed eyes. Fatigue washed over him like a wave, trying to carry him away. I need sleep, he thought, and knew right away that running from this would be no answer.

  “Do you want to go back to the ship?” Demora asked.

  He did, but he said, “No, we have to meet with the admiral.” It occurred to him that this was why Mentir had wanted to see him right away. “I’m all right,” he said.

  “You’re not all right, John,” Demora said gently. “But you will be.”

  Harriman looked at his friend and saw her deep concern for him written across her face. He tried to reach inside himself, into his emotions, to define all that he felt—or at least understand all
that he felt. There were so many different emotions: anger at his father for having driven a wedge between them, and for having treated him not as a son, but as a subordinate; guilt for not having worked harder—or worked at all, really—to mend their relationship; frustration for not having insisted on seeing his father after the accident.

  Ironically, for all of the Starfleet officers who had supposedly died during the mission, it had been Blackjack who really had. Although the mission had been successful, there had been things that had gone wrong: Vokar and five others staying aboard Tomed; the Romulans interpreting the Universe trial as the testing of a new weapon and not a new drive; and the explosion, more powerful than expected, slamming into Ad Astra. In another sardonic twist of fate, it had been Blackjack who had first proposed the Universe ruse. He’d foreseen being able to use the event to maneuver Azetbur, to cause her to proclaim that the Klingons would side against the aggressor in any hostilities between the Federation and the Romulans. Harriman had then found a way to use the test as a means of delivering him and the special ops team into Romulan space, proximate to an Imperial Fleet vessel.

  None of that really mattered now, though. What really mattered was that his father was gone. And of all the complex emotions churning within him, Harriman found that what he felt more than anything else was simple sadness.

  “John,” Demora said, and Harriman looked up at her, not realizing that he had dropped his head as he’d lost himself in thought. “I spoke with your father before I took the Enterprise to Foxtrot XIII.” Harriman blinked, startled. Demora had said nothing to him about ever having visited Blackjack.

  “We didn’t have much time,” she said. “He was very tired. But he told me…he told me that he loved you, John, and that he was sorry.”

  Harriman’s jaw set, and the muscles in his face tensed. A tightness formed behind his eyes. He inhaled deeply, feeling his nostrils flare. He could not believe how quickly Demora’s words—his father’s words—had affected him.