Star Trek: TOS: Cast no Shadow

by James Swallow

  “Kallisti,” Miller repeated. “Gorkon. Krios.” He gestured in the air. “Connect the dots for me.”

  Vaughn saw something so fleeting in the woman’s eyes that he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it: a shift, a change somewhere deep down. But then it was gone and her aspect was as it had been. Her elfin, almost coy manner was at odds with the words that came from her mouth.

  “From what I was made aware of, it appears that a representative of the Thorn contacted Admiral Cartwright directly. He wanted to meet with the admiral to discuss matters of mutual benefit. His name was Seryl.”

  “A Kriosian freedom fighter looking for a sit-down with an admiral of the fleet?” said Miller. “Why did he go to Cartwright? Why not someone at Starfleet Intelligence?”

  “Because of who Cartwright was. You will recall that he was quite open about his feelings toward the Klingon Empire.”

  Sulu gave a nod. “That’s true. While he never overtly contradicted Federation policy, he certainly came close to it. Cartwright wasn’t the most politic of commanders. His views were a matter of public record.”

  “A meeting was facilitated,” Valeris went on.

  A question crossed Vaughn’s mind. “Were you present?”

  She shook her head. “Not at the beginning. Later I . . . acted as a proxy.”

  “Continue,” Miller prompted.

  “Starfleet was aware of the existence of the Thorn and their opposition to the Klingons, so the admiral agreed to open a line of communication. A covert back channel. This was the first iteration of the Kallisti protocol.”

  “This man, the Kriosian,” said Sulu, “he wanted support for his group against the Klingon occupation force?”

  Valeris shook her head. “No. Seryl revealed that he was not acting on the direct behalf of the Thorn. He was, in fact, serving as a go-between.”

  “For who?” asked Vaughn.

  “General Chang.”

  Miller actually snorted with derision. “Chancellor Gorkon’s chief of staff? One of the highest-ranking Klingon officers in the Defense Force hierarchy? And here we have what has to be one of his sworn adversaries working for him?” He shook his head. “Come on, Valeris. You can do better than that.”

  She turned to look at Vaughn. “I know that console contains a psychotricorder module, and I know you already have baseline data on my physiological state. So please tell me, Lieutenant, according to your sensors, has anything I have said so far been a lie?”

  Vaughn looked down at the monitor reading: heartbeat, perspiration, pupil dilation—all of it configured to look for even the smallest, most Vulcan glimmer of duplicity or misdirection. “The machine says no,” he replied. “But I’ll reserve my own opinion.”

  “As you wish.” She inclined her head and turned back to Sulu and Miller. “What is the human phrase, Commander? ‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’? You are of course aware that Chang considered himself a student of Terran culture . . . ”

  “‘Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall,’” muttered Sulu, almost to himself.

  “Measure for Measure,” Valeris noted. “Act two, scene one.”

  “Let’s keep the Shakespeare appreciation to a minimum,” Miller interrupted, with a cutting gesture. “Stay on topic. So somehow Chang had a group of radical freedom fighters in his pocket.”

  Valeris nodded once more. “It was via the auspices of the Kriosians that a line of secret communication was opened between Admiral Cartwright and General Chang. Through it, the framework for the conspiracy to terminate Chancellor Gorkon was created.”

  “And you were part of that process,” Sulu added. “You were Cartwright’s agent.”

  “Among others.”

  Vaughn held up a hand. “Wait a second. This doesn’t marry up. If the Thorn and Chang were working together . . . that would mean that they were talking months before the Praxis incident. Before Gorkon publicly sued for peace.”

  “That is correct. The destruction of Praxis only served to accelerate a process that was already under way. Even before that incident, Gorkon had made it clear to his inner circle that he planned to reach out to the United Federation of Planets with peaceful intent.”

  Miller paused, musing. “There had been rumors, before Praxis exploded,” he noted. “We knew the Klingons were feeling the pressure of decades of unrestricted military spending and social problems. Gorkon was the first moderate chancellor in centuries, certainly the first to suggest ending the cold war between the Empire and the Federation.”

  “Chang did not wish to see that,” said Valeris. “He felt it was a betrayal of his people. He wanted to maintain the status quo, and he was aware that Admiral Cartwright felt similarly. The fallout from Praxis presented an immediate opportunity to remove Gorkon, and the conspirators moved swiftly to take advantage of it.”

  “An opportunity?” Sulu’s words were almost a growl. “I saw that disaster unfold right before my eyes. Do you know how many lives were lost on that day? And how many more have perished since? This ship and my crew were very nearly counted among them.”

  “I do not have an exact figure,” she replied, with apparent unconcern.

  Vaughn listened for a trace of anything approaching compassion in her voice, and found nothing. Like her, Elias had grown up in an era where the Klingon Empire was seen as the enemy of right and freedom. Still, he had thought the obliteration of Praxis and its aftermath was enough to stir a moment of regret in anyone. Clearly not, he corrected himself.

  “I am simply stating the facts, as you requested,” Valeris told them. “The code word ‘Kallisti’ was used as a signifier and pass-phrase for the communications conduit created by the Gorkon conspiracy. That network was abandoned after Admiral Cartwright’s arrest and Chang’s death.”

  “Except that it wasn’t,” Miller retorted. He got up and walked across the room, pacing out his thoughts. “So now we’ve got more questions than we have answers. More discrepancies.”

  Sulu shook his head. “This just doesn’t add up. The Kriosians have no love for the Klingons, and that’s putting it lightly. The Empire annexed their planets, strip-mined them. Why would this man Seryl be willing to become a messenger boy for his bitter enemy?”

  “Who knows what Chang had over him?” said Miller. “He may have had no choice.”

  “War makes strange bedfellows,” said the lieutenant, almost to himself.

  “I agree,” said Valeris, watching him intently.

  “Then there’s the reason we are all here,” continued the captain. “The attack on the Da’Kel platform . . . ” He glanced at Vaughn.

  “According to the Klingons, the blame for that is being laid at the door of the House of Q’unat. Radical anti-Federation hard-liners.” The lieutenant grimaced. “But honestly, sir, I don’t buy that for a second.”

  Miller turned back to face Valeris. “Clearly there is a lot more going on than the Klingon High Command knows . . . or want us to know. The question is: Who is the liar here?”

  Valeris raised an eyebrow. “It will become tiresome if you continue to accuse me of repeated falsehoods.”

  Miller was silent for a moment, turning over something in his thoughts. Finally he addressed Sulu. “Captain, you should know that I’ve made a number of encrypted subspace communications while I’ve been on board the Excelsior.”

  “Go on,” said Sulu.

  Vaughn said nothing, but he had been aware that Miller had secluded himself in his cabin for several hours.

  “We’re going to be joined by an operative from . . . from another agency, once we reach the border.”

  Sulu eyed him. “That’s all you’re giving me?”

  “For the moment.”

  The captain frowned. “All right.” But he didn’t sound like he meant it.

  Miller pointed at Vaughn. “What about the device used at Da’Kel? Does that connect with any of this new information?”

  The lieutenant tabbed through the digital files on the
padd, coming to the file that showed the long-range sensor readings captured by Starfleet’s Firewatch monitor stations along the Neutral Zone. “It’s undoubtedly an isolytic weapon. The subspace signature of the detonation is unmistakable.”

  “Ambassador Kasiel confirmed as much,” said Miller. He looked at Valeris. “This Thorn cadre . . . Would a device like that be within their capabilities? Would they be willing to deploy it?”

  “With regard to your first question, I do not believe so,” she told him. “The civilization on Krios Prime possesses warp drive and related technologies, but I believe the capacity to fabricate the components of an isolytic weapon is beyond them, and certainly beyond a group like the Thorn. But as to your second question, I have no doubt they would use such a weapon without hesitation, if they possessed it. Culturally, the Kriosians are a passionate and highly emotional people, often given to extremes of reaction. They are not adverse to the use of violence as means to an end.”

  “Perhaps the Thorn and the Q’unat clan are in this together?” Sulu offered.

  Vaughn shook his head, putting down the padd. “The House of Q’unat would never ally themselves with aliens. And from what we can determine, they may not even exist anymore. Klingon interclan conflicts don’t tend to leave a lot of survivors.”

  Miller’s frown deepened. “Maybe. But Starfleet Intelligence thought the Thorn were dead and gone, too, remember? We still need to figure out who the players are here.”

  Valeris reached out and took the padd without waiting for permission. She scanned the data on the Da’Kel blast with a quick, steady focus. “These sensor readings of the subspace discharge . . . they are correct?”

  “Of course,” Vaughn snapped, resenting the implication. “You have something to add?” said Miller.

  She gestured to the main screen on the far wall. “If I may?” Sulu gave her a wary nod, and Valeris manipulated a control on the padd, migrating the display to the bigger screen. She did it effortlessly, deft enough to show that she hadn’t forgotten anything about how to operate starship systems.

  The screen showed a graphic representation of the moment of peak effect from the isolytic weapon’s discharge. Like a series of nested spheres and ovoids, layers of energetic power were shown in grids of color, each one representing a flayed seam of subspace briefly torn open by the blast.

  “The pattern of the detonation is asymmetrical,” Valeris stated. “Observe.” Again, without waiting for consent, she stood up and crossed to the panel to point out certain sections of the display. The security guard never took her gaze off the prisoner. “Here, and here, the phase shift is out of synchrony.”

  “That’s likely just a distortion effect from the sensors that registered the blast,” Vaughn countered. “You have to bear in mind that this data is an amalgam of readings from five different listening posts, the closest of which was several light-years from the actual site of the event. Errors are bound to have crept in.”

  “I understand that,” she replied, “but I believe there may be another reason for this discrepancy.”

  “Which is what?” Miller prompted.

  “I am not certain. Perhaps, if I could examine this data in greater detail and build upon Lieutenant Vaughn’s work—”

  Vaughn raised his hand, interrupting her. “Just a second. Was I not paying attention? When did you go from being the subject of an interrogation to a member of this investigation?” His irritation toward the Vulcan was building by the moment; the woman’s arrogance was unbelievable.

  Valeris favored him with a look and raised her eyebrow. “However you wish to characterize me, Mister Vaughn, for all intents and purposes I became a part of this investigation the moment you took me from Jaros II.”

  “You’re only here to provide information,” he retorted.

  “Is that not what I am doing?” she replied. “As I was told, it is in my best interests to provide as much assistance to Commander Miller as possible. My Starfleet officer training and science skill set can be of use in that manner.” She nodded at the screen.

  “Lieutenant . . . ” Miller had a warning in his tone, but Vaughn didn’t hear it.

  “You are not a Starfleet officer.” He bit out every word, his expression twisted in disgust and barely restrained anger. “You gave up the right to call yourself that when you broke your oath to the Federation! You are a disgrace to this uniform and the ideals for which it stands!”

  “Vaughn!” snapped the commander. “That’s enough.”

  Valeris studied him for a moment. “Thank you for making your opinion of me clear, Lieutenant. You may be correct . . . but I think you will find that no matter what I may have been convicted of, I am still an active participant in this operation. And I believe I can locate an anomaly in the isolytic effect readings.” She held up the padd.

  “At this stage, we need all the input we can get,” said Sulu.

  “Yes, we do,” agreed Miller, his gaze boring hard into Vaughn’s. “Is that clear?”

  Vaughn colored slightly, swallowing his annoyance. “Aye, sir.” It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Miller turned back to Valeris. “You want to help? Go ahead. Read the files. Anything sparks a thought, I want to know about it.”

  A bosun’s whistle sounded from an intercom on the desk, and Sulu tapped the panel. “This is the Captain.”

  “Bridge here.” Commander Rem Aikyn, Excelsior’s Rigelian first officer, had a manner that was brisk and businesslike. “Sir, we’re slowing to sublight. Estimate ten minutes to Neutral Zone perimeter.”

  “Here we go,” Sulu said, glancing at the others. “Rem, anything from the Klingons yet?” he asked.

  “Nothing. But we can see them on long-range sensors. A pair of D-18 destroyers, waiting at the rendezvous point.”

  “All right, you know the drill. Yellow Alert, defensive posture. I’ll be up there in a few moments.”

  “Aye, sir. Aikyn out.”

  “You’re raising the shields?” said Miller. “Won’t they see that as combative?”

  Sulu eyed him. “Possibly. But anything less would be a sign of weakness, and I find a strong first impression works best with Klingon captains.” He glanced at Valeris. “And after what happened to the Bode and all those other ships, I’m not willing to cross the border with Excelsior in anything even remotely resembling a vulnerable state.”

  “The Klingons will be insulted,” Miller went on.

  “A little,” Sulu admitted, “but we can weather that. They respect strength. If they don’t think we’re willing to take the gloves off for this, we won’t get within a parsec of Da’Kel.”

  Gion

  Da’Kel System

  Mempa Sector, Klingon Empire

  Seryl walked across the damp grey earth of the barren little moon, his shoulders hunched forward and the hood of his environment jacket pulled forward over his head. A light, persistent rain had begun as he made his way back from the sluggish creek, and the air was becoming damp and clammy again.

  He quickened his pace, the canteens of water thudding against his legs where they hung on the lanyard over his shoulder. The elderly replicator in the cargo shuttle had malfunctioned for the final time two days earlier, forcing Seryl and his cohort Cadik to survive on the sparse ration packs in the storage compartment. They still had a supply of purification tabs, but the sullen heat on the surface of Gion meant they were going through water very quickly. This was his second trip of the day.

  Seryl glanced up. Overhead, past the faint green hue of the moon’s atmosphere, the surface of its parent world was visible. Da’Kel II was an ocean planet full of turbulent, rust-red iron oxide seas; it had largely been ignored by the Klingons when they colonized the star system: they had instead focused their efforts on the more temperate third planet. The colony of Da’Kel III was visible in the morning sky as a glimmer of light low to the easterly horizon.

  He wondered about what was going on there now. The flotilla of first–responder ships drif
ting around the edges of the blast zone, the Klingons grimacing through their viewports at the sight of all the bloodshed caused by one act of damning reprisal . . . Seryl wished he could see their faces. He wished he could make them know who had done this to them.

  But now is not the time, he told himself. It’s too soon.

  That thought drew a mirthless smile from him as he started up the steep incline of the hill. Too soon. It was almost a joke: Seryl was one of the few of the group who remembered a time before the tyrants came to their homeworld—not like Cadik or Leru, not like the young ones who had grown up knowing nothing but a life beneath the boot heel of the Klingon Empire. Seryl had once lived free, only to have it all taken away from him. His family had lost everything—status, power, a line of lands ceded to them by the First Monarch himself—and been reduced to poverty, after the invaders had annexed their holdings to take the rich ore buried beneath. Seryl’s parents had died destitute, and he had vowed then to oppose the Klingons until the very end.

  And now that moment is almost here. He felt a sting of something bittersweet. A distant ring of resentment, deep inside, tempered by a certainty born of age and insight. His time was over; it had been over for a long while now. Perhaps ever since Rein had come to be a part of their group. As a youth, Rein was everything Seryl had once been: a firebrand, a man of charisma and defiant, singular purpose. Rein had been Seryl’s greatest apprentice, and he had eclipsed his mentor in almost every way.

  “I should be proud,” he said to the air, between puffs of wet breath. “I am proud.” The words still rang a little hollow, though.

  He used his hands to pull himself up the last few meters, toward the top of the rise. Up above, the cargo shuttle lay beneath a net of sensor webbing and makeshift camouflage, sitting in the mud where Cadik had landed it after they left Leru and Zennol aboard the merchantman. While their comrades had traveled on to the target, they had put down here and gone silent, unseen by the enemy, waiting for the right moment. They were the second tier of the attack, the greater blow that was to follow. If anything, their mission was more vital than the first, for the effect of it would be all the greater.