Seekers: Second Nature

by David Mack

  “First we learn to talk the talk, Hesh. We can learn to walk the walk later.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Begging your pardon, Commander?”

  “Never mind.” She turned and called down the steps to their hostess. “Seta!”

  The teen bounded up the stone staircase to join Hesh and Theriault. “Yes?”

  “I know you weren’t taught the translation for this side of the wordstone,” Theriault said. “But did Ysan ever tell you what this side was about? Any clue to its meaning might help us.”

  Seta looked fearful of the broad panel of alien symbols. “This side of the stone was only taught to disciples who were considered ready to become the new priestess. Ysan said it tells of how to use the wordstone to defend the people from the Changed in times of great danger.”

  Hesh, intrigued by Seta’s statement, lowered his tricorder. “How can the wordstone be used to stop the Changed?”

  “I don’t know, not exactly. Whenever Ysan mentioned it, she spoke in riddles. It meant ‘turning the stone,’ she would say. She also spoke of summoning the ‘Burning Eye,’ which had the power to turn flesh to stone. It could petrify anyone—even one of the Changed.”

  Dastin, who stood beside the pyramid platform and kept an eye on the cavern’s entrance, remarked, “Sounds like something we could use right about now.”

  Theriault pointed at the glyphs. “Seta, are you saying this thing’s an instruction manual for a doomsday weapon?” She regarded the towering structure with renewed awe. “Cool.”

  Tan Bao paced around the pseudo-obelisk. “Now all we need to do is figure out how to turn it on.” He let his fingertips slip across the raised symbols on its surface.

  His remark vexed Seta. “When the time comes, I alone must be the one who activates the wordstone.” Her bravado faltered when she noted the landing party’s stern collective reaction, but then she recovered her hauteur. “Please don’t misunderstand. I am grateful for your help, but I have a duty to defend not just the lives of my people but the sanctity of our traditions and our holy places—and the Shepherds say only a priestess may command the wordstone.”

  Theriault recalled reading of a similar custom among the tribe Captain Kirk and his crew encountered after discovering the previous Preserver structure. In the end, the injunction against letting outsiders tamper with the device proved to be an empty one, most likely a rule instituted to limit the degree to which the power of these artifacts could be abused. Regardless, if Seta could do what needed to be done, Theriault saw no reason to disrespect the Tomol’s customs. “You have our word: We’ll help you learn the wordstone’s secrets, and we’ll let you control it.”

  Her promise was enough to placate Seta, who stepped back to let them continue their work. Hesh sidled over to Theriault and spoke in a quiet voice. “The report filed by the Enterprise crew indicated that a particular set of sonic tones and syllables opened a hatch to a control area hidden inside the base of the structure. Perhaps we should emulate their actions.”

  That made sense to Theriault. “Okay. What did they do to open the hatch?”

  “The commanding officer opened his communicator and said, ‘Kirk to Enterprise.’ ”

  “I’m not gonna walk around this thing repeating ‘Kirk to Enterprise’ over an open comm channel. For one thing, if there’s a Klingon ship in orbit, I’d be giving away not just our presence but our position. For another, if the captain hears me, he’ll think I’ve gone crazy.”

  Dastin looked up at Theriault and took out his own communicator. It emitted a soft electronic chirp as he snapped open its grille with a flick of his wrist. “No one says you have to open a channel. Maybe this oversized Dom-jot trophy just likes the noise our gear makes.”

  Hesh tilted his head as he considered that. “He makes a reasonable point.”

  “This is a conspiracy, isn’t it?”

  Tan Bao took out his communicator. “Fine, I’ll do it.” He flipped open the grille. “Kirk to Enterprise.” Nothing happened, so he circled ninety degrees around the structure to the next side of glyphs and repeated the phrase, with the same negative result. He performed the same action and spoke the same words on the other two sides of the structure’s platform. There was no evidence of any change in the structure or its base. “So much for that,” Tan Bao said.

  Theriault felt as if they were close to unraveling this mystery, if only she could decipher the clues that were staring her in the face. She paced around the pseudo-­obelisk.

  “It makes sense the same phrase wouldn’t open a different structure,” she said. “We need to figure out the ‘open sesame’ phrase for this one.” She considered the variables. “Hesh, assume these are musical notations like the ones on the other object. Commander Spock parsed the tonal vocabulary of the first object, right?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “At the time, he didn’t know what phrase Kirk had used to open the hatch. Can we use that knowledge to map that sequence of tones to their corresponding glyphs on the first object?”

  The Arkenite nodded. “Maybe. Let me try.” He worked at his tricorder for a moment. “It appears Commander Spock already made that connection, as well. He identified the glyphs that constitute the hatch’s access sequence.”

  “Okay. Now I want you to examine where those glyphs are on the first object, and what glyphs are adjacent to them—and then look for corresponding relationships and positions among the glyphs on this object.”

  “You want me to hack its syntax.”

  “Precisely.”

  He was excited. “I will try.” His tricorder hummed and whirred as it processed the data through its cryptographic analysis software. After a minute had passed, Hesh looked up with an abashed shrug. “This would go much more quickly if I could interface with the ship’s computer.”

  “Just do your best,” Theriault said.

  “Yeah, take your time,” Dastin quipped. “It’s not as if the rest of us have jobs to do.”

  Theriault pointed at the Trill. That and her glare were enough to silence him.

  A chime issued from Hesh’s tricorder. He showed the display to Theriault. “I think we have something, Commander. A seventy-two point six percent likely access sequence.”

  “Translate that into an audio playback and let Seta listen to it through the speaker.”

  Hesh cued up the playback, then ducked out from under the tricorder’s strap and handed it to Seta. He coached her with a few gestures to hold it close to her ear, and then he pressed a button on the device to start a looped playback. Seta listened to several repetitions, and then she handed the tricorder back to Hesh, her eyes wide with admiration for the versatile device.

  Theriault caught Seta’s eye. “Did those sounds make sense to you?”

  “Yes. I can remember them.” She turned and faced the structure. “You all need to step down, off the platform, for your own safety.”

  The landing party heeded Seta’s advice and regrouped at the bottom of the pyramid’s nearest flight of stairs. Alone atop the pyramid, Seta lifted her arms, and her voice resounded in the vast underground space that surrounded the structure.

  “Torqilia ngovu ya moto, na kuwata dhibur waovu’oko!”

  Her words vanished into echoes that swiftly faded.

  Then came a low moan from deep within the bedrock—followed by a deep rumbling that showered the landing party with rocks and dust from high overhead. The quaking grew stronger and became a steady pulse, a bone-shaking low-frequency sonic assault that traveled up through Theriault’s feet, followed her spine to her head, and rattled her teeth.

  On top of the platform, the massive double-­arrowhead structure began to turn. The glyphs on its broad base flared white, and lightning cloaked it on all sides. Seta retreated down the steps and huddled with the landing party, who stared up at the spectacle with fear and ­wonder.


  Hesh tapped Theriault’s shoulder. She turned. Behind them, the chalky pools bubbled, and plumes of superheated vapor jetted from countless cracks in the cavern floor. The pseudo-obelisk finished its slow rotation when it had turned one-hundred-eighty degrees.

  The chthonic pulsing underfoot grew louder and more ominous.

  Dastin grasped Theriault’s shoulder. “With all respect to the chain of command, RUN!”

  She shouted to the others, “You heard the man! Haul ass!”

  Sheltering Seta in their midst, the landing party dashed out the cavern’s entrance, raced past the well in the chamber outside, and kept on running, back the way they had come.

  Between gasping breaths, Hesh shouted, “Where are we going?”

  Theriault sprinted past him. “Anywhere but here! Keep running till you see daylight!”

  “Then what?”

  “Keep running!”

  • • •

  Ten minutes after scrambling at a breakneck pace out of the cave entrance and down the slope into the jungle, Seta and the landing party staggered to a halt. Everyone was winded, but Hesh was the only one doubled over and fighting for breath. He had never run so far or so fast in all his life, and now he felt sick. He sank into a panting heap on the ground.

  Dastin nudged him with his foot. “No time to nap, buddy. We have to keep moving.”

  In his imagination, Hesh concocted the perfect retort: No, thank you. After careful consideration I have decided to let myself expire here in peaceful repose. In the flesh, the only reply he could force out of his parched mouth was, “Can’t.”

  Theriault leaned forward, hands on her knees, and let her perspiration-matted red hair hang like a curtain in front of her face. “Dastin. Knock it off. We all need a second.”

  The Trill scout sat down on the trail and palmed the sweat from his brow. Behind him, Tan Bao fished a hypo­spray from his satchel and loaded a fresh ampoule of medicine. He injected himself first, with a quick dose to his carotid artery. Within seconds, his breathing slowed, and Hesh could see that the nurse was more relaxed and was perspiring less. Then Tan Bao kneeled beside Hesh and held up the hypospray. “This is tri-ox compound. It’ll help your blood bind more oxygen and make it easier for you to breathe.”

  Hesh nodded, and Tan Bao injected him with the tri-ox. Its effects were just as swift in Hesh’s system as they had been in Tan Bao’s. Within a few seconds he felt refreshed, and his struggle to draw breath abated. He sat up and nodded. “Better. Thank you.”

  “All part of the service.”

  Tan Bao administered the next shot to Theriault. When he turned to offer one to Dastin, the Trill waved him off. “I’m fine,” Dastin said. “Save the last few doses for the others.” Tan Bao took the scout at his word and turned toward Seta. When the young woman declined with a nervous shake of her head, Tan Bao tucked the hypospray back inside his satchel.

  Theriault stood and dusted herself off. “Are we all good to go?” Tired nods confirmed the group was ready to travel. “We’re going back to the village. Nimur talked like she has a score to settle, so my bet is that’s where she’ll go to do it.” She looked at Dastin. “Take point.”

  “Actually, sir, I’d like to bring up the rear for a while. If you don’t mind.”

  Hesh noted a peculiar vibe between the scout and the first officer. They had a few seconds of intense eye contact, as if they were locked in a battle of wills, and then Theriault blinked. “Fine, I’ll walk point. Hesh, Tan Bao, flank Seta. Dastin has the rear guard. Move out.”

  She set off down the trail that led back to the Tomol village. Tan Bao and Hesh took up their positions on either side of Seta, waiting a few seconds to let Theriault get far enough ahead to provide a buffer between her and the team in case of hostile contact.

  Dastin tapped Hesh on the shoulder. “Can I use your tricorder for a second?”

  “Of course.” Hesh lifted the tricorder’s strap over his head and passed the device to Dastin. The scout made a brief sensor sweep of the surrounding area. Even viewing the display upside-down, Hesh could see the tricorder had detected nothing out of the ordinary.

  Dastin turned off the device and handed it back. “Thanks.”

  Hesh slung the tricorder strap back over his head and across his torso. “You’re welcome.”

  Seta started walking, and Tan Bao and Hesh kept pace with her. Almost as soon as they were moving, Hesh noticed that Seta seemed fixated on Tan Bao. The young priestess stared at the human man without shame. Her ­curiosity was like a hunger. “How old are you?”

  Tan Bao pretended not to find the intensity of her attention awkward. “Thirty-five.”

  “Is that old where you come from?”

  “Old? I’m not old!” He calmed himself. “I’m still young for . . . for one of my people.”

  “How long do your people live?”

  “It depends. Some longer than others. But if I’m lucky, I might live to be a hundred and twenty. Maybe even a hundred and thirty.”

  His answer made Seta’s jaw go slack with wonder. “A hundred and twenty . . . !” She composed herself. “At what age do your people choose a mate?”

  Tan Bao quickened his pace, moved ahead of Seta on the trail, and cast a fast look back at Hesh. “I’ll stay ahead of her, you fall back and watch her six.”

  “Understood.” Hesh smiled at Seta and tried to include himself in the conversation she had begun with Tan Bao. “My people can live to be almost two hundred years old.”

  “That’s nice,” the teen said, her manner one of utter boredom.

  The trail twisted its way through the turquoise foliage of the jungle, down the shallow grade of the hill, and back toward the valley. Overhead a merciless sun beat down and cooked the jungle’s ambient moisture into stifling vapor. Shrill caws and whooping shrieks filtered down from the canopy between broken spears of daylight, and distant growls served as a constant reminder to Hesh that this wilderness was not one that would forgive careless blundering.

  He looked back, seeking to elicit some measure of bland reassurance from Dastin, even if it came in the form of sarcastic needling. Instead, he saw nothing behind him except an empty path bordered by impenetrable walls of green leaves, brown vines, and fiery-hued fruit blossoms. Hesh slowed his pace, hoping that Dastin had simply fallen back farther than usual and would quickly catch up. Several seconds passed, and the trail behind him remained empty.

  Fearful of raising his voice but needing to signal the others, he croaked in a strained faux whisper, “Lieutenant Tan Bao!”

  Tan Bao heard him, looked back, and immediately intuited the problem. He halted, stopping Seta, and then he whistled once to alert Theriault.

  She stopped, turned around, took stock of the situation, and held out her empty hands. “Where the hell is Dastin?”

  From somewhere close by came a throaty roar, a sound of primal hunger.

  Hesh swallowed to choke back a yelp of fear. “I am not sure we want to know.”

  • • •

  A very fine line separated the tracking of a retreating enemy and the act of fleeing for one’s life. Tormog had to concede to his conscience that it was entirely possible he had crossed that line while following the Starfleeters and their pet novpu’ during their flight from the caves.

  Let the High Command call it cowardice, if they choose. Dead men can’t file reports.

  The Federation landing party and their novpu’ companion had scurried from the caves like vermin at the first sign of danger. As much as Tormog had wanted to see what they had roused in the hidden cavern, his duty had compelled him to continue his surveillance of their activity on the planet’s surface. They apparently were aware of the transformation experienced by the Tomol, but their interest in it seemed to be more abstract. Whereas his orders were to acquire a live Tomol subject for study so that their innate powers could be
duplicated and weaponized, the Starfleet team had no clear agenda that he could discern.

  Their mad escape had carried them out of the caves and back into the sultry arms of the jungle. Tormog was grateful for the additional cover the tropical environment offered. He could follow the main trail as long as he stayed sufficiently far behind them and used his portable scanner to generate a sensor-blocking field to mask his life-signs. The disadvantage to that strategy was that it prevented him from using his scanner to track the enemy, but since they were hewing strictly to the beaten path, it made little difference. Even a barely trained tracker such as Tormog—who had always preferred the less glorious occupations of genetic sequencing and chemical ­engineering—could follow the crisp, fresh boot prints in the half-dried mud.

  It was one of the Empire’s dirty secrets: As much as it venerated its warrior culture—though Tormog had long thought a more appropriate description of the Empire’s attitude would be to say that it fetishized its martial roots—it needed a much broader spectrum of ability and experience not only to thrive but even to survive. What good was a warrior without the farmer who provided the food that fed him? Or the chefs who could turn base ingredients into meals worthy of song? What use was a soldier without an engineer to design his marvelous starships, craft his fearsome energy weapons, or architect the integrated sensor and communication systems that made his majestic victories possible? What was the purpose of expanding an empire without a plan for disseminating its profits? How could a warrior learn the inspiring words of Kahless without first learning tlhIngan’Hol from a skilled teacher?

  No one would ever admit the truth, to themselves or to offworlders. Far more Klingons performed roles that had nothing to do with battle than those who did. All the glory, all the hype, all the power went to those who mastered the art of swinging a bat’leth, commanding a space fleet, or grinding a world full of jeghpu’wI beneath their booted heels. Little praise ever reached the ears of those like Tormog, whose imaginations were the secret engine shaping the destiny of the Klingon Empire. Bitterness welled up, unbidden, from the deep dark place in his heart. The only ones for whom the Empire has less love than scientists are the diplomats.