Star Trek: Seekers: Second Nature

by David Mack

  “I’ve been better.” She sniffled and wiped nascent tears from her eyes. “I bet you wish now you’d never signed up for starship duty, right? Then you could be home with your sia lenthar instead of stuck here on a bird with clipped wings.”

  Hesh took a chance and trusted his instincts. He reached out and held Cahow’s hand. “There is nowhere I would rather be than here. When my friends back home hear what a fine sia lenthar has welcomed me on the Sagittarius, I will be the envy of every soul on Arken.”

  Her eyes shone with overwhelming emotions, and she released her pent-up tension with a short, self-conscious laugh. “That’s great, Hesh.” She smiled at him. “We like you, too.”

  • • •

  White heat surrounded dark thoughts. Every direction seemed to promise more of the same—nothing but endless fire and boundless pressure, a burden beyond measure, as bright as the sun.

  Fleeting memories stitched themselves together in the blinding inferno.

  The Klingons’ sky-ship had fallen from its heavenly perch and returned to the world cloaked in flames. Its magic window had gone blank, leaving only darkness and fear, the all-consuming dread that came with knowing the end was near but being unable to see it arrive.

  Alone in the blackness, huddled around the magical device that refused to awaken, the Changed had united their powers and linked their minds. They had fled the fire only to have it find them. The Cleansing would not be so easily defied.

  Wind had screamed through the splintering ship and its metal skin had wailed as it bent and broke apart. Then had come the bone-crushing stop and a flash like a thousand dawns.

  All that was had seemed to end. Only the searing light and heat of the crucible remained.

  Now thoughts stirred and coalesced; they grew clearer as the Changed surfaced from their blinding slumber. This boiling sea was a pit of molten rock beneath a crust of glass. Beyond that fragile barrier lay the promise of freedom. The Changed siphoned raw energy from the liquid rock and willed themselves toward the darkness above.

  The glass cracked and heaved upward at their point of impact. Fractures radiated across its obsidian surface, like strands in a hidden web suddenly revealed.

  Another upward surge, another relentless push for liberty—and the Changed exploded through the glassy crust into open air. Once the balmy breezes might have seemed warm to them, but after their immersion in a lake of fire, the sultry night felt blissfully cool.

  Emancipated, the Changed separated and strode across the jagged remnants of the crater’s glassy crust. With each step they divorced their minds a bit further from one another, until at last Nimur was alone with her own thoughts. She led her Wardens up the slope of the crater, toward the circle of Tomol who had gathered around its perimeter. Every member of the throng projected fear in waves, but none of them ran; they all stood as if paralyzed.

  At the top of the slope, Kerlo waited for Nimur. His fearful aura was tinted with sadness as he looked upon her. “What are you going to do to us?”

  “I’m going to lift you all up.”

  It was obvious he did not trust her. “You mean you’re going to make us all like you.”

  “Yes. This is our birthright, the heritage the priestesses denied us. I’m giving it back.”

  “What if we don’t want to be like you?”

  She was baffled by his refusal of her generosity. “Don’t be a fool, Kerlo. We were born to live as gods. Why choose to live and die as a worm?”

  His terror turned to contempt. “I don’t see any gods here. Only monsters.”

  “After I open your eyes, you’ll see the truth. Then we can rule this world together, as we were always meant to.”

  “I would rather be cast into the fire now, as the person I am.”

  Nimur’s temper flared. Like an alien presence in her mind it cried out for violence, for retribution, for the chance to hurt Kerlo until he submitted to her authority. She fought back against the urge, but it was like trying to stop the ocean from crashing against a beach. Her hands clenched into aching fists. “If death is what you crave, Kerlo, keep refusing my kindness. I am offering you a life longer than any you ever dreamed of.”

  “There are measures of a life more meaningful than its duration.”

  “What good is a life that fades like a spark from the fire?”

  Kerlo gestured toward the smoldering pit. “As opposed to what? Burning out of control and consuming the world? Sooner or later, we all go into the darkness. But I’d rather soar as a spark for an instant than destroy everything beautiful that made life worth having.”

  “And what of our daughter? Don’t you want to see her life?”

  “Of course I do. But not if it means she grows up seeing her parents as abominations. Not if it means she has to be twisted into something ugly to survive.”

  There was no more point in arguing with Kerlo. Nimur could see that her mate’s foolish idealism had left him blind to what really mattered. She was offering him the world, but he was too timid to take it—for now. “You will join me, Kerlo. You won’t be able to help yourself.”

  “You think giving me power like yours will make me want what you want? Or make me forgive you? Or follow you, like these puppets who used to be Wardens?” He stepped forward until their noses almost touched. “Give me that power now. Watch what I do with it.”

  Did he want her to kill him? Was his urge to self-destruction so compelling? Slaying him might serve as an example to the others and preempt future challenges to her authority—or it could alienate the rest of the Tomol and spur them to reject her boon. She knew their resistance could be overcome, but what if Kerlo was able to make good on his threat? What if by Changing all the others, she inadvertently empowered her own enemies?

  Right now I have the advantage, Nimur reasoned. If I’m to keep it, I have to be more careful about whose powers I awaken. I need to be sure those I lift up are loyal to me.

  She stepped aside and gestured with a sweep of her arm toward the crater of molten rock. “Cleanse yourself in the fire, then, if that’s your wish. I won’t stop you.” Kerlo met her taunting gaze with an angry look. He tensed as if to begin his march into the molten stone, but then he paused—and took half a step backward. Nimur laughed at him. “Just as I thought. When your time comes, you’ll welcome the Change.” Her mate closed his eyes and hung his head in shame.

  Around them, the emotional temperature shifted. Pockets of resistance faded. Nimur felt her hold over the others grow more solid. Then she sensed a mental presence, at once strange but familiar, and she remembered her flurry of vengeance in the caves.

  It was behind her, lurking in the gathering darkness. She reached out and snared it with her mind. It struggled as she pulled it toward her, too stubborn to see it had no hope of escape. When at last her prey hovered before her, caught in her invisible grip, she looked him in the eye.

  “Hello, Tormog. I thought you’d have run back to your sky-ship by now.” He spat at her. The wet glob hit Nimur’s cheek. She tightened her unseen hold on Tormog’s body until he cried out. “Don’t do that again.” She turned him upside-down. “Why are you still here?”

  He could barely breathe. “Mission . . . not done yet. Need . . . new subjects.”

  “What makes you think I’ll let you abduct any of my people?” She nodded at her mate. “He’s plotting to kill me, and I won’t even let you take him.”

  Tormog shook his head and gritted his teeth. “Doesn’t . . . matter. Have . . . my orders.”

  “I’m sure you do.” She looked up at the night sky and imagined the Klingons’ sky-ship hovering there, concealed between the stars, spying down upon them. When she focused her mind, she could almost feel the sky-ship, but it was just too far away for her to touch.

  Then she looked back at Tormog and saw the talking-tool tucked into a pouch on his belt. Holding him in place, she coaxed the device from Tormog’s belt with a thought and floated it into her hand. She emulated one of the other strangers
by flicking her wrist to open the cover of the small box. It buzzed gently in her hand, and a small crystal on its inner face glowed red.

  She held it up so Tormog could see it. “How do I talk to the sky-ships?”

  “You mean . . . my people’s ship?”

  “All of them. I want them all to hear what I have to say.” She relaxed her hold on the Klingon to make it easier for him to answer her.

  He drew a long breath and steadied his voice. “Turn the center dial so its red line points at the dot above it. Then rotate the left dial all the way to the right. Then . . . just talk.”

  Nimur did as he’d instructed and showed him the adjusted settings. “Like this?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Tormog. You’ve been very helpful.” She tossed him aside and enjoyed the dull, heavy sound of his body hitting the ground. “Stay there until I call for you.”

  He wore a look of wild confusion—wide eyes, half-bared fangs, and a furrowed brow. “You’re not going to kill me?”

  “Not unless you give me no choice. After all . . . why would I kill a perfectly good slave?”

  25

  Khatami watched the northern hemisphere of Nereus II fill the Endeavour’s main viewscreen as McCormack announced the ship’s updated status. “Standard orbit achieved, Captain. The Voh’tahk is keeping its distance on the far side of the planet.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Let me know if the Klingons make any sudden moves.”

  The navigator kept her eyes on the helm console. “Aye, sir.”

  Estrada checked in next. “Sir? Captain Terrell says his landing party is safely back aboard the Sagittarius. They’re standing by to receive our medical and engineering teams.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She glanced over her right shoulder at Stano. “Commander? Is our landing party ready to beam down?”

  “Aye, sir. I’ve put Commander Yataro in charge of the team.”

  Selecting personnel for landing parties was the first officer’s responsibility, but as the ship’s commanding officer, Khatami reserved the prerogative to overrule the XO’s choices. In practice, she was reluctant to do so. Second-guessing Stano might undermine her ability to do her job, which could lead to a breakdown of the chain of command. Regardless, Khatami harbored misgivings about letting the Endeavour’s new chief engineer lead a landing party into a tense crisis situation. It wasn’t that he was a poor officer; he simply hadn’t been tested yet—at least, not on her watch. “Belay that. Mister Klisiewicz, I want you to lead the landing party.”

  Klisiewicz traded a concerned glance with Stano before he replied. “Captain, I’m sure Commander Yataro is capable of leading a repair-and-rescue op.”

  “No doubt. But I want a command officer on the ground, just in case.”

  “Sir, I’m a science officer.”

  “You’re also my third-in-command, which means you outrank Yataro on this ship.” She swiveled her chair and quashed any further discussion with a pointed look. “Grab your gear and report to Transporter Room One, on the double. That’s an order.”

  “Aye, sir.” He nodded and walked toward the turbolift.

  As Klisiewicz stepped inside the turbolift, Stano descended the stairs into the command well and stood beside Khatami’s chair. Her voice was low and grave. “Captain, I—”

  “Not now, Commander.” Stano accepted the rebuff and returned to the sensor console on the upper deck of the bridge. Their truncated conversation cast a pall of tension over the bridge.

  Estrada dispelled the air of disquiet with an excited declaration. “Captain, we’re receiving an audio message from the planet’s surface. It’s a broad-spectrum transmission, but the signal appears to be coming from a Klingon communicator.”

  “Who’s hailing us?”

  The communications officer listened for a moment while adjusting the switches on his console. “Actually, sir, I don’t think we’re being hailed directly. The message isn’t addressed to any specific person or vessel, and”—he fiddled with a few more switches and frowned—“well, I’m sorry, but this I can’t explain. According to the universal translator, the person sending the message is directing it to ‘the sky-ships above us.’ I’ve checked the translation three times, sir. It says ‘sky-ships’ instead of starships.”

  Khatami feared the situation on the planet had just taken a turn for the worse—and that she was about to send her landing party into the thick of it. “Are the Klingons hearing this?”

  He looked at his screens. “Yes, sir. They’re receiving it now.”

  “I want to hear it, from the beginning. Put it on speakers.” She sat back and waited while Estrada queued up the incoming message for playback.

  A feminine voice wafted down from the overhead speakers. “This message is for the people on the sky-ships above us. I don’t know where you’ve come from, what you want, or why you’ve involved us in whatever fight you seem to be waging. But know this: You are not welcome on Arethusa, either of you. My name is Nimur, and I rule this world. Tell your people, and anyone else who might be foolish enough to come here: If you trespass on our soil again, you will do so at your own peril. Because as of now, Arethusa, and every living thing that dwells upon it—including your stranded comrades—are now mine. This will be your only warning.”

  The transmission stopped, and a shocked silence settled over the Endeavour’s bridge. Khatami looked over her shoulder at Estrada. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. That’s the whole message.”

  Stano grimaced. “I bet the Klingons are gonna love that.”

  McCormack let out a cynical harrumph. “I’m surprised they aren’t glassing the planet.”

  “Give them time,” Neelakanta deadpanned.

  Khatami stood and strode forward, doing her best to project confidence and authority. “Lieutenant McCormack, keep our shields at maximum, and arm all weapons.”

  McCormack entered the commands as she asked in a shaky voice, “Am I targeting the planet or the Klingons?”

  Neelakanta muttered with dry gallows humor, “With our luck? Both.”

  Khatami cursed her luck with a grim sigh. So begins another glorious day in Starfleet.

  TO BE CONTINUED IN

  Point of Divergence

  by

  Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Kara, my wife: Thank you for, as of this writing, suffering me to go on living under your roof. I’m sure my friends would all say that suffering is the operative word to describe your patient forbearance of my ongoing writerly foibles.

  Dayton Ward and Kevin Dilmore: Thanks for agreeing to follow me on another damned-fool fictional crusade into the Star Trek universe. It wouldn’t be the same without you guys at my side. Here’s hoping our new mission to tell tales of strange new worlds and new life-forms in the twenty-third century is one that we’ll continue together for years to come.

  Rob Caswell, artist extraordinaire: Without your unique vision, and your inspired pairing of the cover-art aesthetics of James Blish’s classic Star Trek anthologies from the 1970s with Masao Okazaki’s masterful design for the Archer-class scout ship Sagittarius, we might never have conceived of Star Trek: Seekers. We all owe you a debt of gratitude. I salute you, sir.

  My esteemed editors, publisher, and licensor: Thanks for letting us build another new corner in the Star Trek sandbox. We’ll try not to break too many of your toys this time.

  Lucienne, my agent: I promise I will get back to work on my new original novel manuscript very soon. (And this time, I mean it.)

  Bourbon: You’re perfect just the way you are. Don’t ever change.

  Lastly, I extend my gratitude to you, gentle readers, for all your kind support and encouragement. Here’s hoping that Star Trek: Seekers exceeds your wildest expectations.

  Ciao!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Mack is a professional working on a closed course. Do not attempt to replicate his literary s
tunts without trained supervision. Learn more at his official website:

  www.davidmack.pro

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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