STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2298 - The Sundered

by Michael A. Martin

  Hanif touched his radio controls. “What’s wrong, Safa?”

  [231] “Did we ...” she hesitated. “Did we do the right thing here, Han?”

  He sighed. “What on the Rock are you talking about?”

  “These ... creatures,” she said, pointing down at the body nearest to her. “They’re not exactly Tuskers, are they?”

  “No, Safa. But they could have turned out to be something far worse. Fortunately, that’s no longer a problem.”

  “Unless their people start sending out rescue teams. Or war parties.”

  Tucking her weapon back into its holster, Moira approached Safa. “If that happens, we’ll be ready for them.”

  Hanif resumed watching the roiling energies contained within the tall blue cylinder. “Our dead visitors may have already given us the solution to that problem. But if that thing really is an Efti’el spacedrive, I wonder how they survived the acceleration.”

  Moira shrugged. “Maybe they have some way to manipulate gravity and inertia locally.”

  Hanif nodded, and an idea came to him. Pointing to his booted feet, he said, “We’re upside-down.”

  “Sorry?” Safa said.

  “This ship’s belly is moored to the Rock. And we’re walking around inside the ship’s belly. Because of Vangar’s spin, that way,” he pointed at the deck plating, “should be up.”

  Moira grinned, understanding. “And I thought I was just having an attack of vertigo when I came through the hatch.” She knelt on one knee and carefully pried up a mitr-square deck plate with her gauntleted hands.

  She placed the deck plate against a nearby bulkhead, holding it steady with one hand and her tail. With her free hand, she removed a small spanner from her suit’s utility kit and held it parallel to the deck plate. Then she released the spanner.

  The tool “fell” sideways, coming to rest against the deck plate.

  [232] Hanif felt his eyebrows launch themselves toward higher orbits. Spinless artificial gravity!

  He touched his suit’s radio controls again. “Wafiyy to Director al-Adnan.”

  After a beat, the director’s voice crackled into Hanif’s helmet. “What’s happening over there, Hanif? Are the hostiles neutralized?”

  “All dead, Director. We lost only Gavin.”

  The director hesitated another moment before responding. “Gavin. That’s ... unfortunate.”

  Hanif smiled, but without any humor. Unfortunate, you mean, that the sole casualty on this mission wasn’t me. Do you really fear that I’ll take your job? He could remember a time when al-Adnan had been more concerned with protecting the ’Neal People than with maintaining the trappings of authority.

  Hanif decided then that what the director feared most was change in general. And that made al-Adnan a most dangerous man to follow, especially in an environment where survival depended upon the ability to adapt quickly to the universe’s random exigencies.

  “Is there anything, else?” al-Adnan added, sounding impatient.

  Get ready to adapt to the future, Director, Hanif thought. Lead, follow, or get the hell out of its way.

  Aloud, Hanif said, “Tell the Science Heads we’re bringing back some things that will keep everyone in Vangar busy for decades.” Then he cut off the transmission without waiting for the director’s reply.

  Hanif stared once again into pulsating depths of the enigmatic blue cylinder. Standing quietly beside him, Safa and Moira were doing likewise.

  Maybe we won’t have to sit around waiting for the universe to come after us much longer. Perhaps the time has come for us to start pursuing it.

  Chapter 19

  2204, Auld Greg Aerth Calendar

  “In composition, mass, and atmosphere, it looks very much like Aerth, sir,” the control deck’s officer of the watch said. “And that’s a rare thing, with all the hard rads flying about in this corner of the cosmos.”

  Drech’tor Hanif Wafiyy nodded. He sat back in his padded chair, feeling every one of his eighty-four Aerth-years, as lifespans were still measured within Vangar. The plates of coarse flesh that interleaved across the small of his back ached. He reminded himself to adjust the gravity in his quarters yet again.

  Eighty-four years, he thought, gazing at the great blue world displayed in the wide viewer. We must still reckon time that way because even now our hearts hunger for a home like the one our Oh-Neyel fathers and mothers remembered.

  Hanif lost himself in the sunlit swirls of blue and white. Such a world could provide practically endless supplies of whatever Vangar needed, everything from food to the raw materials to build new Elfive worlds—or even entire navies of weapon-bristled star-vessels. During the generations since Hanif had acquired the machinery that had eventually given the People of Neyel mastery of both the stars and gravity, the [234] fact that such a place lay at the bottom of a steep, Aerthlike gravity well now posed no serious difficulties.

  Rather, their main problem had been exactly as the officer of the watch had framed it—the finding of such a world. Habitable planets were rare baubles indeed in the cauldron of violence that comprised the local stellar group, so far distant from the Great Pinwheel wherein Ancient Aerth lay forever lost.

  “Prepare to dispatch survey expeditions,” the drech’tor said. “I will require a complete inventory of this world’s usable resources as soon as possible.”

  The officer of the watch nodded, his tough gray hide rasping against itself as he passed Hanif’s order down to one of the sergeants, a female who had lost her tail to an EV accident a few months earlier. The new limb seemed to be growing back nicely.

  The sergeant hesitated.

  Hanif lofted his thick brows. “Is there a problem?”

  She took another moment to find her voice. “The ... the world beneath us seems already to be inhabited by sentients.”

  The drech’tor frowned. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t given that possibility sufficient thought. It had been so long since any alien species had posed any serious challenge to the Neyel People as they used their Efti’el technology to move Vangar wherever they willed in M’jallanish Space ...

  “What level of attainment have these sentients reached?” Hanif wanted to know.

  “The long-range probes showed evidence of cities, as well as heavy industries and their burnings. Iron foundries and the like. Apparently wet navies sail on their oceans.”

  “Have they space vessels? Orbital defenses?”

  The sergeant shook her head. “No evidence of such. Nor have we detected any nukes, or even telecom activity.”

  Hanif recalled a descriptive term he’d encountered long ago in one of the Elder texts: Iron Age.

  The officer of the watch bared his teeth in a war-grin that [235] would have done an older, more properly blooded officer proud. His tail switched back and forth as though in anticipation of the battle to come. “When do we attack?”

  The drech’tor adjusted himself in his seat, relieving his aching back. He had been thinking the same thing himself, when a more subtle idea occurred to him.

  “Not right away,” Hanif said, returning the younger Neyel’s grin.

  “Are we not to send out the survey vessels then?” the injured sergeant said, looking confused.

  “Send them,” said Hanif. “Let us learn the hearts of these indigies first. We may be able to help them even as we enjoy their world’s bounty. Such largesse from us could win considerable gratitude from them.”

  The officer of the watched looked stunned, as though he’d just borne witness to an unspeakable heresy. “Sir? I must respectfully remind the drech’tor that the makings of an empire are down there, awaiting us. We can put those resources to far better use than can the backward indigies.”

  Ah, impertinent, stupid youth.

  Drech’tor Hanif Wafiyy leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Exactly so. And who better to construct such an empire for us than the multitudes who already populate its provinces?”

  “How long has
it been since the aliens landed on the lawn of the Deliberative Althing, Wataryn? Fifteen years?” g’Isen wanted to know.

  Présider Wataryn considered his trusted advisor’s question in silence. Long enough for the Neyel to have raised great numbers of their ilk in their enclaves all around the planet.

  G’Isen, ever the apologist for the newcomers, was apparently just warming up. “Presider, when will you finally accept that the Neyel may be exactly what they seem to be?”

  [236] What special covert promises have the Neyel made to you, g’Isen? Wealth? Guarantees of star travel for your younglings?

  Wataryn turned his back on g’Isen, moving toward the wide window that encircled his office. Glass, the Oghen people’s Neyel benefactors had called the clear, thin, silicate stuff. The substance had been unknown on Oghen before the coming of the Neyel. Even now, the aliens continued teaching the people how to create still more exotic construction materials.

  After the First Landings, the world had begun to change virtually overnight. And Wataryn had been uneasy ever since the day the ancient Neyel chief had come to Oghen bearing his so-called Proclamation of Friendship and Understanding.

  Wataryn looked out at Mechulak City’s ever-changing skyline. In the distance, great plumes of thick, black smoke rose in columns like the legs of mythical colossi.

  “The Neyel foul our air and water far faster than ever we did before their coming,” Wataryn said, casting several of his eyes skyward. “And they take much back with them into their Skyworld.”

  “It could be as they say,” g’Isen said. “Merely the price of progress. But examine what we’ve gotten from them in return for what they ask of us, Presider. Before the Neyel, we could not even adequately feed ourselves. Nor could we do aught to ward off disease. The Neyel have not only put paid to those ills, but they also promise us the stars.”

  “But can they deliver on that promise?” Will they deliver on that promise?

  “The Neyel can ply the space between the stars. Their starcraft demonstrate the truth of it.”

  Starcraft our foundries now manufacture for them in great numbers, Wataryn thought, his stomachs rumbling as his distress mounted. His dual-thumbed hooves clattered on the floor as he’ turned to regard his advisor.

  “And haven’t they also given you the office of Presider?” g’Isen continued before Wataryn could speak.

  [237] Wataryn chuckled at that as he chewed on the tough flap of skin that covered his lips. He had worried it and tugged on it so often during the last two years that it now hung down nearly as far as the dewlap that dangled beneath his neck. What have I done to really question the Neyel and their oh-so-altruistic behavior? When have I ever publicly asked what they get out of their great munificence?

  “I suppose they did well to back such a compliant leader,” Wataryn finally said aloud, despising himself for his weakness and timidity. “It would do no good to oppose beings so mighty and benevolent that the people treat them almost as gods.”

  The chamber’s heavy door opened with a loud crash. In the threshold stood an office clerk, whose forehooves banged together nervously. Beside the clerk stood a tall, aggressive-looking Neyel who wore a simple black coverall which bore scores of military-looking decorations. The hard-skinned being’s slate-gray tail clutched at the door’s ornate bonetree handle, then slammed the door closed.

  The clerk’s dewlap quivered when he spoke. “One of our Neyel b-benefactors wishes to see you, Presider.”

  Wataryn nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous obviousness of the clerk’s comment. “Yes. Yes, I can see that,” he said, trying to gather his dignity about him. He was surprised that he, too, wasn’t shaking. Being in close proximity to Neyel had always made him nervous.

  “Drech’tor Hanif Wafiyy is dead,” the Neyel announced, his voice like thunder.

  Wataryn had dreaded this moment ever since he’d first learned of the drech’tor’s great age and fragility. “That is sad news, indeed,” he said. It was no secret to Wataryn that many of the ancient drech’tor’s underlings had far less beneficent intentions toward Oghen and its people.

  “And who succeeds the august Wafiyy in ruling the Great Stone Skyworld?” Wataryn continued, already dreading the answer.

  [238] The Neyel drew a lethal-looking blade in one great, clawed hand and unholstered a massive pistol with the other.

  “That need not concern either you or the rest of the Oghen cattle,” the creature said, its hard face somehow contorting into a vicious sneer. “Your continued service to the Neyel is all that need occupy your attention from this moment forward.”

  At that, Wataryn finally did laugh aloud, while g’Isen and the clerk watched him with puzzlement written large across their faces. A perverse sense of relief flooded him, and the horrific tension in his stomachs abated somewhat.

  At last, we are slaves in name as well as in fact.

  Chapter 20

  2265. Auld Greg Aerth Calendar

  “The fleet reports ready, Sub-drech’tor Jonat,” the helm officer reported.

  Jonat’s eyes were on the main viewer, where the Oghen homeworld slowly turned, the setting sun emphasizing the haze of orange and ocher that dominated its atmosphere. Several other Neyel vessels, all of them long, tapering cylinders that mimicked the noble lines of the Great Vangar Rock itself, were visible in lower orbits.

  From nowhere else than high above Oghen was it clearer that this world, the nucleus of the Neyel Hegemony, was now all but used up. The time had finally arrived to annex some of the other worlds whose presence had been discovered since the consolidation of the historic conquest of this one. Their resources could be used in fairly short order to restore the Coreworld of Oghen to something approximating its former beauty and glory.

  A pity so few of the Oghen cattle now remain down there as witnesses to Oghen’s coming rebirth, Jonat thought, considering the expendable indigie workers whose mortal labors had built the bulk of the newly commissioned fleet. Some of them were excellent stargazers and worldfinders. It’s a pity for [240] them that they were so ill-equipped to take and hold such worlds as their ’scopes could locate.

  There were times, usually in the dead of night when sleep refused to come, that Jonat wondered if the slaughter of the Oghen had been truly justified. After all, the cowfolk were hardly the Tuskers of Neyel children’s bedtime tales. In fact, they were passive in the extreme, and had proved far easier to dominate than any other race the Neyel had encountered before or since. He sometimes secretly wondered what might have happened had the Neyel and the Oghen indigies gone out into the universe together as partners.

  But it was self-evident that the Oghen were slaves by nature. And every Neyel knew that slaves could never be trusted as equals. Slaves, even seemingly passive ones, could only turn to treachery and rebellion in the end.

  “Your orders, Sub-drech’tor?” the helm officer prompted, his club-headed tail twitching behind him. Jonat wondered how many times the young officer had had to repeat himself before capturing his attention.

  “Acknowledge the fleet’s readiness. Tell them we move out now, on a heading for the primary target.”

  Lirillia, Jonat thought, turning the name of the soon-to-be-subjugated world over and over in his mind. An attractive name for such a harsh ball of dust.

  But a conquest was a conquest, and orders were orders. Of such small links were the mighty chains of empire forged.

  “It will be done, Sub-drech’tor,” the helm officer said. Using both hands and tail simultaneously, the youth quickly set about pressing buttons and moving vernier switches. A throb of eager, barely-constrained power vibrated through the deck plates beneath Jonat’s feet.

  All those decades we searched until we found Oghen, a world once so very like lush and fabled Aerth. And all the while we had forgotten that ever since leaving Aerth we Neyel have made ourselves capable of surviving and prospering on [241] any sort of world, so long as it is one we can wrest from whoever holds it. Now that we ha
ve sufficient ships and crews to take such worlds outright, let it at last be done.

  Jonat’s gray lips peeled back from his rows of sharp, even, white teeth. “Engage,” he said, punctuating the command with an authoritative slash of his tail. “It is time to teach the sky who truly owns it.”

  PART 7

  VANGUARD

  Chapter 21

  Sulu stood in an iron-barred holding cell, along with the rest of the boarding party. After confiscating their equipment, their captors had ignored Sulu’s initial request to be taken to the ship’s commander. Now he listened, via the universal translators sewn unobtrusively into each of the team members’ field jackets, to the Neyel troops as they debated how the mysterious intruders got aboard their vessel without cutting their way in, and without any evidence of having been deposited by another ship.

  So they really don’t know about transporters, Sulu thought, recalling Jerdahn’s earlier confusion and incredulity at the prospect of being beamed back onto his ship. But Jerdahn appeared to have adapted to the situation quickly. If the commander of Jerdahn’s ship proved equally adaptable, then there was real cause for hope.

  Sulu listened with greater interest as the Neyel troops engaged Jerdahn in the conversation, and began arguing amongst themselves about just what to do with their prisoners.

  “Surely they cannot be beings of reason, like us,” said the gray-sashed commander of the guards.

  “They are,” Jerdahn said. “They had many chances to kill me. But each time they offered peace instead.”

  “Bellstine!” one of the guards exclaimed. “They are too [246] dangerous to be allowed further life. One of these may have been the toktof who killed my Gretsel.”

  Several of the Neyel began thumping their club-tipped tails onto the ground and walls, creating a discordant, metallic gonging sound. The rough-hewn hands of a few of them also began to twitch on or near their weapons.