Star Trek® Cast no Shadow

by James Swallow

  Power failed, ice rimed the corridors and compartments. It drifted, forgotten by crews who no longer needed to stop to rest their engines or seek some shore leave. But nothing is truly lost in the vacuum. For decades, Xand Depot remained derelict—until those who had need of a hidden place that had fallen from the star maps came looking.

  The station lived again, if you could call it that. Much of the facility was irreparable, open to the void and too badly damaged to patch. But there were still decks where life support could function, and with some gentle coaxing the generator had been reawakened. Now it served as one of a number of hidden places where Rein’s people could move freely without attracting unwanted scrutiny.

  He leaned in toward the monitor screen before him, pulling the heavy miner’s overjacket tight across his shoulders. It was always chilly on this deck, the bite of the cold like a winter’s day along the coast where he had grown up, and Rein’s thin frame didn’t deal well with it. It made him irritable. He folded back the hood from his head, running a hand through the unkempt peak of his hair and down the line of pigment spots that ran to his neckline. He sighed and drew himself up as the encryption key locked in, and the hyperchannel finally connected.

  Seryl’s face filled the screen. The other man was older than Rein, and in some ways he had once been a mentor to him. But that was a long time ago, and Seryl’s place at the vanguard had long since been taken by his student. “It was done.”

  The older man nodded. “It was done. But not as we had hoped.”

  Rein frowned. “Explain.”

  Seryl looked away from the sensor pickup at his end of the communication, as if glancing at someone out of sight. It was difficult to get a read on where the other man was; the heavily coded signal was thick with static and the images were washed-out and grainy, making the background a wall of shadows. “The weapon did detonate. But not where we had planned. And not with the force we expected.”

  He nodded. Rein’s younger brother Colen was in charge of monitoring the news feeds and comm traffic throughout the sector, and everything they had seen on the public channels showed that the isolytic device had fallen short of its intended target yield. But there was no way the Klingons could know that. The destruction Rein and his people had wrought was terrible enough. At least for now.

  “I have concerns,” Seryl told him. On the screen, the old man absently traced the line of his own faded pigmentation. It was a gesture many of their kind exhibited in times of stress. “I think something went wrong with the device. The displacement was asymmetrical. Unbalanced. It was weakened.”

  Rein paused, evaluating this information. “Do you think that, at the end, Zennol was trying to . . . stop it?”

  Seryl reacted as if he had been slapped. “Of course not! Zennol understood exactly what was at stake. He placed his life in service to the First Monarch as . . . as we all have. He was paid in kind with guarantees for his family. He would not have faltered at the last moment!”

  “Leru, then? He was young. He might have had second thoughts.”

  The other man shook his head. “Zennol was there to make sure that did not happen. No, Rein. There was another reason. I think the weapons . . . may not be all that they were promised.”

  “No?” Rein smiled thinly. “How many ships destroyed or scuttled? The orbital station obliterated? How many dead among the tyrants and their allies?”

  “It could have been more.”

  His smile grew as chill as the room. “It soon will be. Thanks to you.”

  Seryl looked away again, static crackling over his voice. “If we proceed.”

  “If?” Rein snarled the word back at him. “Ah, so it is you that has the doubts, then?”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth!” Seryl snapped back at him. “If we were misled about the weapons, then what if there is a malfunction? If there is a failure and we are captured?”

  “You must ensure that never happens,” Rein insisted. “The scheme turns on keeping the Klingons floundering in the dark, putting them off balance. We have to make sure they are looking in the wrong place, so when we strike, they chase their tail like a maddened animal!” He blew out a breath. “Yes, Zennol knew the stakes, and so do you, Seryl. If any one of us is dragged into the light, it will mean the end of our world! They will come and take their reprisals: one thousand dead for every Klingon corpse! We must be ghosts, or we will never find our vengeance!”

  “My life is given in the name of freedom, not revenge.”

  “They are one and the same,” Rein retorted, barely catching himself before he chastised the older man. Instead he moved closer to the screen. “Seryl. My trusted friend. You know what you must do. Zennol and Leru, their sacrifice was brave, but it was only the landing of the first blow. What you do next will show our enemies the absolute strength of our resolve. We all must stay the course.”

  “I have never believed otherwise,” came the reply. “You are right, as always. Whatever happens, they won’t see our faces.”

  “Not until it is too late,” Rein told him. “And when that day comes, the tyrants will be on their knees, drowning in the ashes of their fallen empire.” He gave a sad smile. “You will take us there.”

  When Seryl spoke again, it was as if he had the weight of ages upon him. “Remember us, Rein. Promise me that.”

  He nodded, reaching for the disconnect key. “Promise made, old friend. I’ll carve your name on the walls of Akadar’s temple myself.” Before Seryl could speak again, he cut the signal.

  For long moments Rein sat there in the dark and the cold of the comms room, weighing the choices he had made. When he heard footfalls on the rusted deck plates, he wiped his eyes and stood up.

  Colen appeared at the open doorway. “It’s almost time,” said his brother, stifling a wet cough. “The new delivery will be here any moment.”

  “Of course.” Rein stood up and trailed after his sibling.

  “You spoke with Seryl?” he asked as they walked up the inclined ramp toward the cargo tier above. “What did he want?”

  “What any of us want. Reassurance. A voice to tell us that we are doing the right thing.”

  “We are,” Colen replied without hesitation. “The tyrants pushed us to this with their thuggery and their lies. What choice do we have if not slavery and dissolution?” He snorted. “No one else will help us. The rest of the galaxy is blind to our struggle.”

  “Most of it, at least,” Rein noted as they walked into the open storage space. “A righteous cause can still have some supporters, so it seems.”

  The cargo tier had once been home to transient shipping modules, back when Xand Depot was in full operation; but now it was a wide, empty chamber. Gattin, Rein’s second, was there with Tulo and a few of the others, waiting with tricorders and sensor wands at the ready.

  Rein looked up. In the curved ceiling over their heads there was an arc of transparent metal looking out into the blackness beyond. He looked hard, wondering if he might see some visual artifact of the cloaked ship out there with his naked eye; but there was nothing. He wasn’t surprised by that: their patrons were exceptionally good at keeping their identities a secret. And for now that served his cause as well as theirs.

  At his side, Colen was looking up at the same blank patch of space. “How do we even know they are here?” he asked.

  “They could have been out there for days,” muttered Tulo. “Watching us.”

  “Keep your nerve,” Gattin said, her tone acid.

  Rein was about to add something, but then a glitter of emerald light formed out of nothing in the middle of the empty cargo bay. He heard the humming of energy and displaced air molecules. In seconds, a rectangular capsule materialized, a slab-sided thing bereft of any markings or detail that might suggest its origin.

  The similarity between the container and a burial casket was not lost on Rein, and he gave a grim nod. “Check it.”

  Colen took one of the tricorders and made a slow orbit of the box, scanning
the seams. Rein looked up again as he worked; he still saw nothing.

  “Trace amounts of subspace radiation and omicron particles. It’s the same as before.”

  “Good.” He glanced at Gattin. “Bring the anti-grav up from the ship. I want to get it on board as soon as possible.”

  “Rein?” Colen looked surprised. “We’re moving it? We’re not going to assemble the third one here?”

  “No. We’ve stayed here too long as it is.” He beckoned his brother closer. “I want you to make sure there are no tracking devices embedded in the container or the parts before we leave this place.”

  Colen folded his arms. “It’s safer to do the assembly work first.”

  Rein shook his head and jutted his chin toward the window overhead. “They’ve come to the depot twice now. That’s enough. We can’t afford to fall into a predictable pattern.” His voice went low. “One mistake. We only need to make one mistake and we are done.”

  “We can’t trust anyone,” added Gattin.

  In the dimness of the cargo bay, Colen seemed pale, his pigment spots dark against his neck and temples. “It’s only that—” Suddenly he broke off and gave a hacking, bone-deep cough that bent him over with its force. He wiped his lips with a kerchief, and before Rein could lay a hand on him, he pushed his brother away. “I’m all right. It’s just the cold.”

  Rein watched him for a moment and then nodded. “Have the medic take a look at you after we get under way.”

  “I don’t need any special treatment because I’m your brother,” he replied.

  “And you won’t get any,” Rein snapped back, his temper fraying. “Now, do what I told you. Transfer the components and take everything we need from here. We’re not coming back to this place.” He stalked away, his hands knitting together.

  Colen watched him disappear out of sight with Gattin at his side and then hastily discarded the kerchief, the cloth marked with flecks of red.

  Starfleet Penal Stockade

  Jaros II

  United Federation of Planets

  At night, the temperature outside dropped sharply and the majority of the inmates retreated back to their cells or the day room. Valeris tested the limits of the prison’s regulations by remaining in the courtyard. The Vulcan was careful to remain well within the sensor perimeter atop the light towers, and she knew that somewhere on the roof of the building, a security hover drone sat with its wings folded like a patient raptor, ready to burst into motion and come after her if she ditched her perscan unit and tried to bolt for the boundary line.

  There was a rock she favored, a long oblate thing with a surface that was flat and slightly angled. Valeris sat upon it, her eyes closed, filling her senses with nothing but the feel of the stone and the cold brush of the air on her face.

  It had been a few days now since her last conversation with Doctor Tancreda, no more than a few meters from this very spot. Perhaps the Betazoid had finally gained a measure of understanding from her. Perhaps at last the psychologist had accepted that Valeris wanted to be left alone to go through the motions of her days without Tancreda’s constant probing at the walls of her persona. If a day ever came when Valeris wanted to unburden herself, then she would choose to speak. Until that time her thoughts were her own.

  It was important for Valeris that her thoughts remained her own.

  And then, cool like the night breeze, she felt the ghost of a ripple in the psychic space of her meditation. She knew immediately that it was the aura of another Vulcan: the telepathic resonance was unmistakable. But even as she became aware of that, another certainty pushed its way to the front of her thoughts. A familiarity, a sudden, absolute knowing that triggered—what? An emotional response?

  It was him. There could be no doubt.

  Footsteps approached, soft leather shoes crunching lightly over the patina of sand cast across the courtyard by the winds. Valeris turned her head toward him, schooling her expression to maintain her neutral aspect, and at last opened her eyes.

  Spock emerged from the pools of shadow between the towers and halted a short distance from the rock. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his face betrayed nothing.

  How like him. Valeris studied Spock, allowing the moment to extend into silence. She recalled hearing a ship pass overhead before sunset; perhaps it had been the one that brought him here.

  He looked old. It was as if she were seeing him with new eyes, or perhaps it was more truthful to say she was seeing him as he really was, not how she had wanted him to be. The last time she had laid eyes on Spock was as he left the tribunal chamber at Starfleet Command, after completing his deposition to the admiralty board. His statement only added weight to the scales stacked against Valeris by her own deeds, fully revealed in the light of Admiral Cartwright’s arrest and imprisonment.

  A surge of sensation rose up inside her, and belatedly Valeris realized that it was the churn of buried emotions struggling to take voice against her former mentor. For a moment, she wavered on the edge of allowing them to slip their cage—but she knew if that were to occur, she might never find a way back to any kind of stability. With monumental effort, she marshaled her will and silenced the cry inside.

  Then she uttered the first words she had said to Spock in seven years. “What do you want?”

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  Valeris searched his expression for anything, any minute tic that might give her a clue to his state of mind. He wore civilian clothes, in a style that had been popular with her elders when Valeris was a child, and he carried himself stiffly. She wondered what possible reason he could have to appear before her now, after so long. Valeris had heard about his departure from Starfleet. Is he dying, perhaps, and come to make amends? She dismissed the thought, dismayed at how much the notion of that perturbed her.

  “My well-being is as one might expect in these circumstances,” she said. “Have you come here to apologize to me?”

  He watched her intently. “What could I say that would count as an act of contrition? What value would that have?” Spock took a shallow breath. “What could you say?” He gave a small shake of the head. “I regret what took place between us. You left me no choice, Valeris.”

  “There is always a choice,” she replied, quicker than she intended.

  “We have both had time to reflect on what occurred aboard the Enterprise that day.” Spock’s gaze did not waver. “You feel that I disappointed you, that I failed your belief in me, because I did not see what you saw in the Klingons.”

  Yes, she wanted to say. But she remained silent.

  “I did fail you, Valeris,” he went on. “As your teacher, your senior officer, as a fellow Vulcan and . . . as an associate. I did not see the path you were taking until it was too late. I did not stop you soon enough, and so you were lost to me.”

  Annoyance struggled at the base of her thoughts. “You have no right to take responsibility for me, Spock. You are not my father, nor my husband or . . . associate. I made my own choices. I understood every one of them.”

  Valeris placed her hands flat on the cool surface of the rock, to stop them from drawing into tight fists. She knew it would be so very simple to hate him. It would be easy to fall into the trap of an emotional response. All these years on Jaros II without the companionship of other Vulcans and only the company of emotive beings had eroded Valeris’s control. On some deep, personal level she was appalled at herself for the need that rang in her thoughts; the primitive part of her wanted to hurt him, make him feel what she did now.

  And yet, Spock had felt what she felt, just as Valeris had shared with him during their forced mind-meld. The conflicted recall of that moment came back once more and she turned her thoughts from it.

  At last Spock looked away. “I have lost too many friends in recent years. And on each occurrence, one cannot help but wonder, even against logic, if there was not some way events could have gone differently.”

  She took his meaning. “Captain Kirk . . . ” Vale
ris considered the name. “I will confess that I was dismayed to learn of his death aboard the Enterprise-B. Of all the humans I have known, I had the greatest respect for him. I . . . admired him.”

  “And yet you drew him, and the rest of us, into a plan for war.”

  Valeris’s lips thinned. “I regretted his involvement in the move against Gorkon. But he was Cartwright’s selection for the mission. The admiral believed he would act against the Klingons in reaction to his own history with them.”

  When Spock looked back at her, his gaze was stony. “If you thought he would embrace aggression without consideration or forethought, then you did not understand James Kirk at all. He was an exceptional human, able to see beyond himself and the moment. He let go of his rage against the Klingon people for the death of his son. The conspiracy to kill Chancellor Gorkon went against everything he believed in.”

  “It would appear so,” Valeris replied after a long moment. “So, then. I return to my original question. What do you want with me, Spock?”

  “A group of terrorists attacked the Da’Kel utility platform in the Mempa Sector several days ago. A weapon of mass destruction was used. There were many deaths.”

  Valeris’s arms drew up and she folded them across her chest. “A tragedy,” she said, almost dismissive. “But not uncommon, given the Klingon predilection for solving all problems with massive bloodshed.”

  “A contingent of Starfleet officers and Federation citizens were also victims of the attack. Two members of the Starfleet crew were in your year at the Academy.” He mentioned the names, but Valeris’s recollection of their faces was vague and without consequence.