“Hello?” She slowed to a halt and he did the same, inclining his head. “I’m so sorry,” she went on, “have we met? I’m terrible with names . . .” As the doctor spoke, she pushed out a little with her more ephemeral senses and took the measure of the man. He was guarded and finely controlled, his thought process all hard edges and opaque, seamless surfaces.
“We have not met before,” he replied. “I would like to trouble you for a few moments of your time.”
Tancreda felt the first small stirrings of alarm. “Well, perhaps if you’d like to make an appointment with my office—”
“What I have to discuss would be better addressed in a setting like this one,” said the Vulcan. “It is about a delicate matter.”
She allowed herself to settle into a neutral, ready aspect. “Oh?”
He nodded once. “Specifically, the repayment of a debt owed. By your employer.”
“I work for Starfleet Command, Mister, uh . . .”
He made no attempt to provide his name. “Your other employer, Doctor Tancreda.”
The alarm in her thoughts became a clarion. “I think you have made some sort of mistake,” she said, her tone cooling. “Please excuse me.”
“If you leave now, it will become necessary to find another method of communication,” he said as she turned away. “One less . . . amenable.” And there, just beneath the static layer of control, she sensed a spike of violence, ready for release.
If he knew her name, then he had to know what she was. He’d deliberately allowed her telepathic senses to see that knife of brutality, the implied threat, as clearly as if he had opened his tunic to reveal a weapon tucked in his waistband. Tancreda halted and turned back. “Who are you?”
The Vulcan ignored the question. “In work such as ours, it is important that those on opposite sides maintain a certain level of . . . interaction. Do you agree?”
“I suppose so.”
He nodded. “Sometimes it becomes necessary to maintain those links through unorthodox means. I believe the Terrans have a phrase for such a thing. A ‘back channel’?”
Tancreda had a communicator bracelet around her wrist, and by now she had carefully moved her hand to it so she might tap a hidden key on the device. She smiled slightly. “Pardon me for asking, but your accent . . . I don’t recognize it. I’m wondering what province of Vulcan you’re from?”
And then, as briefly as he had shown her the intent of careful lethality, the man gave a flash of a feral smile. It was gone so fast that at first Tancreda thought she might have imagined it. “I think we both travel quite widely.”
The breeze off the bay was growing cooler, stronger. She sensed the dampness in the air. “Why speak to me?”
“That will become clear,” he said. “Section 31.” He offered the words: “A clandestine group that exists within the structure of the Federation, dedicated to the preservation of that coalition at any cost. It draws agents from a diverse pool of skill sets and backgrounds . . . and it frequently acts in direct contravention of Starfleet and Federation policy for what is determined by it to be the greater good.”
Tancreda said nothing. They were past the point of pretending. She would simply give him no reaction, no confirmation. By now Control would have received her panic signal and there would be people on the way. All she needed to do was wait.
But he had to be aware of that. There was little doubt in her mind that the man who stood before her was no more a Vulcan than she was. He was Romulan, most likely an operative of the Tal Shiar, the Star Empire’s secret police. What he was doing here, on Starfleet Command’s doorstep, was something she hesitated to speculate about.
Tancreda studied him carefully, committing everything about him to memory. “I’m curious about this . . . debt you mentioned. Perhaps you could explain that to me?”
“Kodiak Delta,” he replied, as if the name would be explanation enough. It had no meaning to Tancreda. “We are calling in that marker. Certain agreements were made with your people.”
“I don’t—” Her comm bracelet hummed before she could answer. With the “Vulcan” watching her intently, she raised it to her mouth. “Yes?”
“Tell him exactly what he wants to know.” The voice of Control was firm. She didn’t question how he knew what was going on. “Answer four questions. Nothing more.” The communicator clicked back into silence.
Her hand dropped away and she faked a smile. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“You were previously assigned to monitor a convicted offender, a Vulcan female named Valeris. She has been observed in the company of a human male who calls himself Vaughn. Tell me how Valeris escaped from the Starfleet stockade on Jaros II.”
The doctor didn’t want to dwell on how a Tal Shiar agent knew the scope of her earlier mission. “Valeris didn’t escape. She was released into the custody of operatives from Starfleet Intelligence.”
The man raised an eyebrow in a gesture that was very Vulcan of him. “On whose authority?”
“Ambassador Spock.”
“For what purpose?”
“To assist in the investigation of the bombing incidents in the Da’Kel System.” She folded her arms. “You have one more question.”
He was silent for a moment, looking away at the gray storm clouds. “Where is Valeris now?”
Tancreda hesitated. The news of the Excelsior’s expulsion from Klingon space after the second attack was only just breaking here on Earth, but her superiors had learned of those events soon after they happened. What they had not expected was for Valeris, Lieutenant Vaughn, and Commander Miller to be missing from the ship’s complement when Sulu’s vessel crossed back into Federation space. The Excelsior would be arriving at Starbase 24 for repairs within the next ten hours, and their agent among the crew would give a full debrief—but Tancreda wouldn’t be privy to any of that.
She answered as best she could. “We don’t know where Valeris is. She’s now considered to be a . . . rogue element.” Tancreda felt the first drops of rain landing around her on the sidewalk.
“The treaty as it currently stands between the Federation and the Klingons is not one of mutual benefit,” said the man, glancing at the sky again. “The Federation gives much and receives little. It is both tactically and economically unsound.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“The collapse of that treaty would be welcomed by certain groups, Section 31 foremost among them. A weakened Klingon Empire, isolated and alone . . . Do you agree, Doctor?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” she said. The conversation, and not the cold in the air, was chilling her.
“If Valeris and the threat of what she knows were to . . . disappear . . . there would be one less impediment to the fall of the Klingons. Others would gain in return.” He nodded to her. “Tell that to your employer.” The man turned to go.
“Jolan tru,” she called after him.
He glanced back and gave the brief smile again. “Jolan tru, Doctor Tancreda.”
And now the rain came, the sky above darkening as the clouds passed over, the raindrops bouncing off the sidewalk and the boulevard. She watched the man merge into a knot of people at the street crossing and lost sight of him. The downpour grew in strength, soaking her hair, and she wandered to the curbside and reached for the summons key on a taxi call-stand.
A cab pulled to a halt before she could even touch the button, the gull wing door rising open. The vehicle had a human driver. “Get in,” he told her. “You’ll be debriefed on the way.”
“But what about—” Tancreda gestured toward the street crossing.
“We’ve got an agreement,” interrupted the driver. “You just paid them what we owed. Now, get in.”
She did as she was told, and the taxi glided away, its gravimpellors flaring.
14
Thirteen Years Earlier
Starfleet Command
San Francisco, Earth
United Federation of Planets
/>
The summons had not been delivered to her through the usual manner, via the data queue in her terminal in the cadet barracks. Instead, a dour Cygnian wearing the tabs of a warrant officer came to the door of the quarters Valeris shared with her Andorian roommate. He wordlessly offered her a piece of paper—not a padd, but an actual slip of replicated paper—and waited while she read it.
When she was done, the noncom took the note back and left. She never saw him again. Her lectures for the day had just ended; it had been Valeris’s intention to spend the rest of the afternoon engaged in quiet study, reading up on materials about navigational hazards near high-gravity bodies. Instead, she crossed the Academy quad and took the shuttle tram to the main building of Starfleet Command, the massive monolith of gray lunar stone and glass rising high into the sunny Terran sky.
She was expected. They gave her a temporary pass and the data-card displayed a small map to show her the way to the offices of the admiralty on the upper levels. There were precious few civilians here, she noted. Almost everywhere she looked, officers in Fleet uniforms went back and forth, intent on their duties. No one but her wore the tan-toned jumpsuit of a cadet, and her clothing drew a few sideways glances as she made her way across the marble floor of the atrium to the elevator bank. She paused only once, at the foot of the memorial wall. Beneath a massive Starfleet roundel made from beaten bronze and copper, atop a pedestal a stone bowl presented an eternally burning flame to commemorate the lives of those who had died in service.
As Valeris rode the turbolift upward, she reflected that a human cadet in her position would have been experiencing a fear reaction by this point. Certainly, she was unable to deny that a vague sense of trepidation was upon her, but definitely not anything that could be classed as alarm. That was beneath her. Instead, the Vulcan woman considered her current state to be one of heightened curiosity.
Her circumstances were highly irregular: a cadet in her second year of the Starfleet Academy curriculum, one with excellent marks in all her studies, abruptly summoned to a meeting with an officer of admiral’s rank, without explanation. Such things tended to happen only when a question of expulsion or matters of similar seriousness were at hand.
Valeris could see no reason why she would be subject to such a thing. She had transgressed no rules or regulations. Perhaps, she reflected, the opposite was true. It could be that she had been singled out for some special accolade. Valeris was aware that she was on track to becoming the highest-scoring Vulcan student in the history of the Academy. Perhaps they wanted to discuss that with her?
The turbolift deposited her on the fortieth floor and she followed the pass’s directions along the corridor. The one element of this that seemed the most unusual was the note. Typically, if an officer wished to speak with a cadet, a comm message would be sent, but the act of actually writing down words on a physical piece of paper . . . What did that mean? It seemed needlessly archaic. But then again, the summons would leave no trace in Starfleet Academy’s communications database.
At last she reached the office, and the yeoman at the desk gestured at the door. “Go right in, Cadet,” said the young man, barely glancing at her. “He’s ready for you.”
Valeris looked up, and a piece of the puzzle clicked into place as she saw the name on the door: ADMIRAL LANCE CARTWRIGHT.
Inside, Cartwright’s office was spacious, as befitting an officer of his status; the footprint of the room would have swallowed Valeris’s cadet quarters and half as much again. Panoramic windows looked out across the bay, sunlight muted as the automatic polarizers cut down the afternoon glare.
The admiral’s choice of décor was sparse, but precise. A couple of plants added splashes of greenery, and in a cabinet behind him she saw a case containing a dozen medals. Alongside it stood a shelf of real paper books with volumes by Sun Tzu, Vegetius, and Lee Kuan. There were some framed holopics arranged at the corners of his desk, and on a low coffee table stood a museum-quality model of a Constitution- class starship. Valeris glimpsed the name and registration across the saucer—U.S.S. ARK ROYAL NCC-1791—and felt a twitch of old, buried memory.
She pulled her gaze away, dismissing the impulse before it could distract her. The Vulcan drew up to parade-ground attention. “Cadet Valeris, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Cartwright put down the padd he held and nodded. “At ease, Cadet.”
Valeris saw a careworn paper notebook and a fountain pen near the admiral’s right hand, and immediately knew where the summons had come from. “How may I be of service, Admiral?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question. “It’s been a good few years since I last saw you.” He glanced at the model starship, then back. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Yes sir.” He looked much as she remembered him, and as Valeris studied his face, noting the lines where human aging had marked his dark complexion, there was a curious sensation in the pit of her chest that she could not identify. Valeris considered it; it was some sort of reaction by association, she determined. A tension in her connected to a moment of recollection.
“I’ve been following your progress ever since Captain Spock sponsored your application to the Academy,” continued the admiral. “I agree with his evaluation of you. You have the potential to become a fine officer one day, Valeris.”
“That is my intention.” Inwardly, she began to wonder where the conversation was leading. A man of Cartwright’s stature would not have brought her all the way from the campus just to compliment her.
He smiled briefly. “You’ve certainly got the confidence for it.” Then the smile vanished and his manner hardened. “But I wonder if you have the insight.” He opened a drawer and removed another padd, dropping it on the desk where Valeris could get a good look at it. “You wrote this?”
The padd was displaying the cover page of a dissertation Valeris had assembled for her class in Advanced Federation Culture and Law. The assignment had been to write a thesis based on the topic of Starfleet’s role as a military force serving a democratic confederacy. As she considered it, she recalled that her grading for the assignment was overdue. “I did.”
Cartwright picked up the padd again. “That’s quite a title: The Federation-Klingon Conflict: A Study in Failures. A solid ten thousand words of searing indictment of current policy.”
“I felt I more than adequately attacked the subject at hand, sir.”
The admiral eyed her. “ ‘Attacked’ is right,” he said. “One of your tutors brought this piece of work to my attention. To say that the tone of your writing here is highly incendiary would be an understatement, Cadet. And apparently this isn’t the first time you’ve expressed such a . . . strident viewpoint.”
Valeris hesitated, framing her reply. “I am reminded of a human aphorism, Admiral: ‘I call it as I see it.’ “
“Is that so?” Cartwright’s lips thinned and he leaned forward in his chair, his hands coming together before him. “What you’ve presented goes against the grain of current Starfleet policy and the peaceable ethos our officers are sworn to uphold.” He paged through the digital document and highlighted a section of text. “Here you talk about Starfleet’s errors in judgment at a number of key confrontations with the Klingon Empire. Each time you suggest that a forceful military response would have been preferable to the more measured, diplomatic approach that was taken.”
“History provides many examples of situations where peaceful overtures toward the Klingons have ultimately proven fruitless, sir. I reference several of them.”
“It’s a commonly held truth that your species are not a violent people, Cadet,” Cartwright said, his tone hard. “And yet, here you are advocating something close to open warfare with a major galactic power!”
“I believe we are at war with the Klingons, Admiral,” she replied. “In my opinion, we have never been at peace with them.” Valeris pointed at the padd. “In section four, you can find my correlation between the Federation-Klingon conflict and the ‘col
d war’ that existed on your planet between the capitalist and Communist states of the twentieth century—”
He cut her off. “I know my Earth history, Valeris. But what you suggest in this paper is that we adopt a similar course toward mutually assured destruction!”
Valeris tensed. The confidence she had felt before the conversation was crumbling. “With respect, sir, that is a gross simplification of the point of my thesis.”
Cartwright frowned. “You understand, Cadet, that in the current political climate, a work like this will be a black mark against you? Did it not occur to you at any time that you were essentially passing judgment on the very organization you hope to serve in?”
Valeris couldn’t find the right reply.
The admiral didn’t wait for her. “This dissertation smacks of arrogance. It is the work of an unseasoned mind, and it will damage your academic record. Do you have anything to say to that?”
She found her voice, at last. “Admiral, the Klingon Empire represents a clear and present danger to the safety of the United Federation of Planets, and we have not yet risen to the challenge of dealing with them in a strong and unflinching manner.” Valeris took a breath. “I am a Vulcan, and I do wish to strive for peace. But I would do so by keeping in mind the words of one of your human luminaries.” She pointed at one of the books on Cartwright’s shelf. “In his work Epitoma rei militaris, the Roman Vegetius states: Si vis pacem, para bellum.”
“ ‘If you want peace, prepare for war,’ ” the admiral translated. He smiled thinly. “You really are a student of our history, aren’t you?”
She didn’t hear him. Her thoughts were veering toward the chaotic. The idea that Valeris could have jeopardized her future in Starfleet through something as simple as a student paper. . . .
Cartwright got up and took the padd with him, coming around the desk toward her. “There are people in this building—ones who consider themselves doves among hawks—who would see you drummed out of the Academy for writing something like this.” His expression shifted, becoming almost fatherly. “Especially after that debacle on Nimbus III and all the political fallout that followed. No one in government or the fleet wants to be the one to say that maybe the olive branch isn’t working.” He offered the padd to Valeris and she took it. “I’ve made sure that none of them will know about your dissertation, or your rather forthright opinions.”
Star Trek® Cast no Shadow Page 23
