Other eBooks in the Star Trek™: Starfleet Corps of Engineers series from Pocket Books:
#1: The Belly of the Beast by Dean Wesley Smith
#2: Fatal Error by Keith R.A. DeCandido
#3: Hard Crash by Christie Golden
#4: Interphase Book 1 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#5: Interphase Book 2 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#6: Cold Fusion by Keith R.A. DeCandido
#7: Invincible Book 1 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido
#8: Invincible Book 2 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido
#9: The Riddled Post by Aaron Rosenberg
#10: Gateways Epilogue: Here There Be Monsters by Keith R.A. DeCandido
#11: Ambush by Dave Galanter & Greg Brodeur
#12: Some Assembly Required by Scott Ciencin & Dan Jolley
#13: No Surrender by Jeff Mariotte
#14: Caveat Emptor by Ian Edginton & Mike Collins
#15: Past Life by Robert Greenberger
#16: Oaths by Glenn Hauman
#17: Foundations Book 1 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#18: Foundations Book 2 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#19: Foundations Book 3 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#20: Enigma Ship by J. Steven York & Christina F. York
#21: War Stories Book 1 by Keith R.A. DeCandido
#22: War Stories Book 2 by Keith R.A. DeCandido
#23: Wildfire Book 1 by David Mack
#24: Wildfire Book 2 by David Mack
#25: Home Fires by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore
#26: Age of Unreason by Scott Ciencin
COMING SOON:
#27: Balance of Nature by Heather Jarman
#28: Breakdowns by Keith R.A. DeCandido
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
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Copyright © 2003 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.
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To Denise.
With thanks to Keith DeCandido.
—S.C.
Chapter
1
The world was coming to an end.
Again.
Farhan Tanek struggled to keep his hands from closing on the neck of the oily little man quavering before him. Tanek knew that as spiritual leader of the Varden faith, he had certain traditions to uphold, and cold-blooded murder performed without a ceremonial blade and before the first hour of dawn would be a break with ceremony, and thus looked upon unfavorably by his people. If only he could say honestly that the killing would be an act of passion, a manifestation of ultimate rage, such matters would have no bearing. But such forward thinking nullified that possibility. No, this killing would be a testament to annoyance, and for that, there were protocols.
Tanek’s gaze drifted from his advisor to the open window of his private chamber, wondering where he had put his knife and when the sea of stars in the night sky would be replaced by the blood-red hues of dawn.
Not soon enough, he decided, sighing inwardly and again fixing his attention on his advisor, Ezno Clyvans. The two men were alone in Tanek’s chamber, a handful of guards posted outside the heavy door. Tanek was tall and brawny, two meters in height, with a thick mane of wild auburn hair, a beard so long it had been braided into two strands tossed behind his back and tied midway down his spine, brutish features, and a plethora of rippling muscles reflecting the amber glow of hastily lit candles in each corner of the room. He wore only a strip of dark cloth hastily tied about his waist that reached to just above his knees. Even so, Tanek held himself with power and pride, his spine ramrod straight, his chin raised imperiously. In a more superstitious age, he might, quite reasonably, have been considered a god.
Clyvans, on the other hand, might have been mistaken for a goat. Though he wore the many-colored robes of their order over his flabby form and carried the Scepter of Truth, he slouched and was constantly arranging his ill-kept, inky-black hair with pudgy, trembling fingers, trying and failing to the point of distraction to keep it from covering his forehead and obscuring his third eye.
The third eye was simply a genetic anomaly serving no practical purpose, yet those rare beings (often only one in a generation) bearing the mutation were invariably elevated to the role of advisor as per the prophecies of the Ancients.
Tanek had wanted, for quite some time, to see the sacred scrolls revised to eliminate that particular bit of business. Right at the moment, he was tempted to take care of the matter himself.
And why not? If what Tanek suspected was true, the war between the followers of the One True Faith and the heathen Nasnan was about to come to pass, and with it would come global annihilation.
If am I going to die, if we are all going to die, should it not be with every fantasy fulfilled, every heartfelt desire sated?
He could practically taste his advisor’s blood….
“Stop your blathering,” Tanek said firmly, bringing an immediate halt to his advisor’s incessant chatter. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. After all, I am not highborn, I am simply a barbarian who seized his position by force of arms. I have none of your breeding, education, or culture. My mind is minuscule and unable to grasp greater concepts and greater truths, and I have all the sense of a rutting animal. Yet here I am, standing tall, while you are on your knees before me. Fate mocks us, yes?”
Tanek took cruel satisfaction in placing Clyvans in the impossible position of coming up with a response that would not entitle his superior to beat him to within an inch of his life. In point of fact, everything Tanek had said was true, or was, at least, the popularly, if silently held position of the highborn. Yet Tanek was brilliant, and knew more about his people, their needs, and the intricate inner workings of every facet of their society better than any other member of the Varden.
Clyvans stammered yes, no, and maybe in quick succession, then fell silent and closed his eyes, waiting for the blows to fall.
Smiling, Tanek instead retired to a chair beside his bed. “As I was saying, if I understand you correctly, the plans for the device that might have rid us of the Nasnan once and for all have been stolen. The only person who could replicate these plans lies dead in a chamber three stories below us in this keep, his throat cut ear to ear. All evidence points to a single suspect who has fled the keep. It seems to me our course is clear.”
Clyvans nervously tapped his scepter, giving Tanek no choice, by the will of his people, but to listen. “Not all evidence points to a lone suspect. There are no witnesses. What this man might stand to gain is unclear. And he, ah…he seemed nice.”
Tanek waited, crossing his huge arms over his barrel chest.
“Oh!” Clyvans cried, then tapped his scepter again.
“In any case,” Tanek said, “we have one killer, who is also a thief, and, by all reports, a collaborator. Our cours
e seems simple enough. Find the bastard before he can meet with Tirza Sirajaldin. Either take the plans from him or torture him into revealing where they’ve been hidden, then give him to me that I may amuse myself with his long, lingering death…an event I will choreograph with amazing creativity.”
“Our best trackers have already been dispatched. The Elite will find him.”
“Then why are you here, precisely?”
“I, ah…interpreted your likely response to this crisis.”
Tanek rubbed his temple. His head was beginning to throb. God’s teeth, for just a ray of sunshine through that damnable window.
“Anticipated,” Tanek said. “You mean to say that you ‘anticipated’ my likely response.”
“Exactly so. This man is an offworlder. Our people are interested in offworlders. To treat him as you might a member of the enlightened Varden who has fallen from grace or even a heathen Nasnan would not be advisable.”
“Offworlders know the risks in coming here. Our planet may be beautiful and interesting to them as our culture is not like theirs, but once they step foot on the ground that is mine to hold sway over, once their vessels penetrate the atmosphere of our planet…there is no turning back for them.”
“But we are talking about a Federation citizen, my liege. And, as I may remind you, the Federation recently extended an invitation—”
“A Federation…citizen…” Tanek whispered, his expression unchanging. “And that means what, exactly?”
“Well,” Clyvans began, unaware at first that he was not being asked for his opinion and expertise. Tanek leaned forward and froze the smaller man with his powerful and vengeful gaze before the advisor could say another word.
“I just wonder,” Tanek said with terrifying softness, “does his status as a Federation citizen make him a superior physical specimen of some kind?”
Still unsure of how to respond, or even whether or not he should, Clyvans panted, “Um, ah, that alone, no, I wouldn’t think it—”
“Able, for example, to withstand multiple knife wounds without flinching? Amputations with an only slightly sharp surgical saw? A beheading, even, without it being a particular bother or inconvenience?”
“I would think not,” Clyvans said, quivering at the images Tanek had ruthlessly placed in his own head. “No. But the political and social ramifications must be considered.”
“Done and done,” Tanek said coldly. “Now find this soon-to-be-screaming bag of flesh and bring him to me!”
Tanek watched with no little pleasure as Clyvans rose, spun, and practically tripped over his robes fleeing the chamber. In moments he was gone, and Tanek went to the window, surveying the city he made his home in these warm summer months. Though it was still the hours before dawn, the city was abuzz with activity. Merchants swarmed about the jagged spires in airships to deliver their wares, workers hurried through the winding streets to be at their jobs on time, lovers met with breathless anticipation or parted with sorrow and regret. Somewhere, at least one duel to the death was taking place over a matter of honor, perhaps because a show of anticipation was mistaken for anxiety and neither party would take responsibility. And elsewhere, a child was being born. The city, and thousands more like it upon this precious world, teemed with life.
If his people failed, if the Elite did not do their duty well and retrieve the plans, all life that did not serve the Nasnan would be eliminated. The buildings would remain, but the people, his people, would all be dead.
He’d lived through such crises before. He’d brought about resolution through peaceful negotiation or through relentless battle. Yet this time felt different. There was change in the air, and he could sense it.
It was the end of the world.
Again.
Perhaps this time, there would be no reprieves.
* * *
Ezno Clyvans scurried from the keep of his lord just as the first rays of sunlight burst upon the horizon. He carried two things with him. One was in his flowing robes, and he had to reach an elevated point, a clear field, to make it work. The other was in his head. It was knowledge, and that meant power, pain, and responsibility.
Ezno had hoped things would go better with Tanek. The man was brilliant, no question of that, but he was also very proud, and his righteous fury, once engaged, was almost impossible to disarm.
Thus, technically at the very least, Ezno was about to commit treason. In his heart he was true to the Varden faith, the order that also ran all government upon the planet Vrinda. Yet he was certain that Tanek would be the death of them all. He had to take extreme measures.
Twenty minutes later, Ezno stood atop the mound housing the Shrine to Unreason. He stole up through the spiral staircase, ten stories, twenty, his unique status having provided him sole and unlimited access to the tower. The sun was now peeking from between the clouds, the sky a furious meld of crimson and ochre.
He reached the rooftop only seconds before an airship cruised within firing distance and came to a stop, hovering menacingly.
“Advisor Clyvans!” roared a synthesized voice from the airship. “Your duplicity has been uncovered. Recordings have been found of you speaking with the criminal after Menzala Trivere’s killing. Keep your hands at your sides, turn, and proceed to the base of the tower, where you will be arrested.”
Fear ripped through Ezno as the chilling realization came that he would die atop this shrine if he did not absolutely and immediately comply. Yet, his life, one life, compared to so many others…
His hands slid into the pockets of his robe.
“Advisor, please, do not force us to damage the shrine!”
Ezno almost smiled at that. He would be cut in half, but it was the shrine these soldiers worried about. Good—that was as it should be. There was hope for his people yet.
Hauling out the small device the offworlder had given him, Ezno raised it high, and struck the button to engage its transmission signal. He never heard or felt the bolt of blue-white lightning that took his life and seared a hole in that tower, causing its upper two levels to collapse.
Then all was silent…but for a receiving beacon in deep space that captured the transmitted signal and instantly forwarded it to Starfleet Headquarters.
Chapter
2
Carol Abramowitz stared out the viewport into the endless reaches of space, startled to hear the mad, shuddering clinking of ice cubes coming from the drink in her hand, an actual Napoleon Brandy. A few months ago—a lifetime ago—a Ferengi lieutenant named Nog had promised her this bottle in exchange for one of her recordings of Sinnravian drad music. Nog had come through a few weeks later, and Carol had put the bottle away, saving it for the right occasion. She was lucky to have been able to rescue it from the slag heap that her quarters had become in the turbulent atmosphere of the gas giant Galvan VI—the planet that had become the grave site for twenty-three of her crewmates.
Shifting her gaze from the flowing array of stars and suns, she focused on her hand and saw that it was shaking. There was no turbulence from the transport Lionarti, the only means of travel available to her at this late date. The ship was an old, ill-conditioned Belgarian freighter, true enough, but there were no external forces preying upon her, all the critical stresses she was experiencing were coming from somewhere deep within.
“Nice view, wouldn’t you say?”
Carol whirled, the glass falling to the floor, shattering, the centuries-old alcoholic beverage splattering across the deck. A breathtakingly handsome raven-haired man stood before her. She drew in a sharp breath, momentarily backing away from her bout of nerves, now compounded by embarrassment. Looking closer at his angular face, she could see minor flaws, a slight asymmetry to his features, little scars, and eyes that were a shade lighter than perhaps they should have been.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he said, crouching quickly at the same moment as Carol, the two of them snagging old rags shoved against the interior bulkhead and gingerly picking up the broken piec
es of glass.
“It wasn’t you,” Carol said, eyeing a nearby airlock and wishing she could just pop it open and let herself be blown into space rather than face any further humiliation. Her companion was well dressed and well groomed, a man who looked every bit as out of place on this junker as Carol herself. His tunic’s design reminded her of something she had seen for sale on one of the pleasure planets whose brochures she went through before charting her current course, and she said as much.
He smiled, glancing down at the soft dark fabric of his tunic, his strong hand unconsciously tracing the thin white detailing. “You’re right, that’s exactly where I found this.”
“Been to many of them?”
“No, that was my first. It was…interesting. But the lack of spontaneity surprised me. There was very little truth in it, if that makes any sense at all.”
“It does.” Carol felt herself flushing, and the heat rising within her now had very little to do with embarrassment. Soon they were on their feet, her unknown gentleman leading her from this overstuffed storage area to what the crew had laughingly called “the lounge.” The only difference between the two areas was that this one lacked a viewport and the crates had been arranged in a semblance of furniture in an ancient living room: three for a couch, two for a love seat, a smaller one for a coffee table, and so on. The crew themselves were clustered in the aft deck, working on some repair or gambling, or perhaps even both. Carol had come to see that every moment she spent in space was a gamble, but where else might she feel at home?
The man smiled. “Ian,” he said.
“Oh. Carol.”
Sitting together on the couch, they shook hands, the contact electric and immediate, lingering far longer than necessary.
For the simple fact alone that he hadn’t asked what was troubling her, she thought she could hug this man. How could you talk about the death of friends, the immediacy of grief, and the terrible dawning of one’s own true mortality with someone you’ve only just met? That only left her the option of lying, a thing she despised.
Age of Unreason Page 1
