Star Trek: TOS: Cast no Shadow

by James Swallow

  The major’s interest was less in regulations and salutes and more in competence and loyalty. Indeed, the interior of her ship bore closer resemblance to a privateer than a serving ship flying Imperial colors, but that was reflective of the unorthodox missions the Chon’m engaged in. Her ten-person crew was just as eclectic; they wore no uniforms and carried no insignia. Some of them were not even Klingons, and some did not appear to be Klingons, although it would take a detailed genetic scan to determine which was which.

  Kaj made her way from the bridge down the long corridor that sloped to the keel deck, dismissing the guard at the heavy iron hatch leading to the cargo bay. She slapped at a control with the heel of her hand and the hatch ground open. Inside, the Starfleet officers and the convict did their best not to appear intimidated.

  “Major,” said Miller, with a nod. “Permission to come aboard?”

  “Granted,” she said with an incline of her head. “But then, this isn’t the first time you’ve been aboard one of our ships under . . . irregular conditions, is it, Commander?”

  He gave her nothing in return. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “It’s my first time,” offered the younger human, Vaughn, “if that counts for anything.”

  “We are aboard a Klingon combat vessel,” said the Vulcan, reverting to type immediately. She made a show of looking around the interior of the bay. “Judging by the drop-hatches in the floor and the dimensions of the internal hull spars, this is a B’rel-class K-22 scout, more commonly known as a bird-of-prey.”

  Kaj glanced at Miller. “You allow the convict to speak out of turn whenever she wishes? The Federation is as lenient as I expected.”

  “We prefer to consider ourselves as compassionate,” said the commander.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Kaj studied them. Like the Vulcan, the two humans were now dressed in civilian attire of a utilitarian cut, similar in design to the major’s own functional gear. Both men appeared unarmed, although she doubted that was so. Vaughn carried a daypack over his shoulder and made no attempt to set it down on the deck.

  “So you were pacing the Excelsior all the way from Da’Kel?” Miller went on. “What would you have done if we’d ignored your little invite?”

  Kaj smiled thinly at Valeris. “I would have exercised a different contingency in order to secure the information I required. Suffice to say that it is better for the crew of Captain Sulu’s ship that you did not.”

  “And now you have us right where we want you,” said Vaughn.

  The lieutenant’s idiom was lost on Kaj, and she ignored it. “Commander, I suggest that you and your officer make yourselves . . . comfortable . . . while I discuss our objective with the convict. Once I have the information I require—”

  “Discuss?” Miller spoke over her. “By that, can I assume you mean, use a mind-sifter?” He shook his head. “I think we need to lay down some ground rules right now, if this is going to work out.”

  Kaj stiffened at his tone. “Remember where you are, Miller,” she told him. “You are on your own now, beyond Federation intervention, light-years within Klingon space. You draw breath only because I allow it. Do not mistake the . . . the lenience I have shown to you so far to be compassion.”

  Miller seemed unfazed. “That’s how it is, huh? So, what next, you threaten to turn us over to General Igdar if we don’t do as you say? I guess that could work for you. You could tell him you caught us spying, maybe even gift-wrap Valeris here for him to send to public execution . . .”

  “Sir,” Vaughn broke in, “this is just a suggestion, but could you not give her any ideas?”

  The dark-skinned human went on. “You could do all that, score some points with the general, maybe even get on his team.” The lightness faded abruptly from his tone. “Then, when the Thorn attack again—”

  “And they will,” said Valeris.

  “When they attack again and hundreds more Klingons perish, you can be right there with him laying the blame, once again, in the wrong place.”

  Miller’s flippant tone chafed on Kaj and set her teeth on edge; the Starfleeter had struck a nerve. With effort, she pushed aside all her personal desires for vengeance and forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “I am pleased to see we have a clear understanding of each other, Commander. Very well. We will proceed, for the moment, as you suggest.” She glanced at Valeris. “How do we find them, criminal?”

  The Vulcan concealed her irritation at the label Kaj had given her. “I am aware of a location that the Thorn used as one of its bases of operations. The coordinates are out on the far side of the Klingon Empire, on your colonial border.”

  “That’s quite a trek from here,” Miller added. “How do you propose to get us across Imperial space without raising any alarms? A ship this small . . .”

  Kaj allowed herself a smile. “Ever since Kirk took one of our craft, you think you know all our secrets, don’t you?” She gestured at the walls. “This is the Chon’m, a variant of the bird-of-prey design with some very uncommon properties. These ships are unique, Commander. Their construction makes them well suited as test beds for exotic weapons and experimental tactical systems. I imagine you recall the Dakronh?”

  “General Chang’s flagship,” said Vaughn, without hesitation. “A bird-of-prey like this one, capable of firing its weapons while still cloaked.”

  Kaj nodded. “The Dakronh and the Chon’m were sister ships, drawn from the same research program. But where Chang’s vessel was designed as a first-strike weapon, this ship is more suited to an espionage role.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Valeris.

  In reply, the major drew her communicator and spoke into it. “D’iaq, status?”

  “About to move off, Major. Orders?”

  “Activate the veil. Pick something . . . innocuous.”

  D’iaq grunted his acknowledgment. “A cargo tender, perhaps?”

  She nodded. “I leave the choice to you. Kaj out.” She stepped out into the corridor, and the others followed her through the ship.

  “A veil?” Miller raised an eyebrow. “What is this, a costume party?” A quiver ran through the deck as the ship’s drives came online.

  “In a way,” Kaj replied. “The Chon’m is like your Terran chameleon, Commander. It can take on the appearance of anything I wish it to, to blend in and pass unseen. A matrix of holographic generators embedded in the outer hull project a three-dimensional visual image that allows us to take on the guise of any other craft of similar size and mass.”

  “Intriguing,” offered the Vulcan. “But such a mechanism would work only as camouflage against visual scanning. A standard sensor sweep would reveal the true nature of the vessel immediately.”

  “Do all Vulcans share her tendency to state the obvious?” Kaj asked. Before anyone could reply, she went on: “The veil system is also capable of generating a focused dispersal field that can mimic the sensor profile of anything in its holographic library.”

  “Hiding in plain sight. I guess that’s Klingon guile . . .” said Vaughn. “Which begs the question: Why be so open about how it works? I’d have thought you would want to keep something like that secret.” He paused as a thought occurred to him. “Or are you just going to kill us when we’re done here?”

  Miller smiled again. “She told us because it’s not a secret,” he said. “Starfleet Intelligence has been working on holo-ship concepts for years. They stole the technology from us in the first place.”

  “More accurately,” Kaj explained, “I stole the technology from you.”

  Kaj deposited them in the cramped mess hall of the Chon’m, with a burly Orion standing guard by the door. He carried a plasma shotgun cradled in the crook of one arm, and if it had not been for the sound of his breathing, Valeris could have mistaken him for an extremely lifelike sculpture. The Orion stood immobile, ignoring any attempt to engage him in conversation, and eventually Lieutenant Vaughn gave up, returning to sit at the far en
d of the dining table with Miller and the Vulcan.

  Valeris used her time as productively as she could, poring over the data files and information they had brought with them from the Excelsior. She isolated herself in the data, shutting out the constant bass rumble of the ship’s warp engines and the riot of stenches wafting through the ship, which threatened to overwhelm her. Still, as she worked, Valeris kept an ear open to listen to the humans.

  “You think Kaj is coming back anytime soon?” asked Vaughn after a while. “We’ve been in here for hours.”

  “She said she had to visit the sickbay,” said Miller.

  “The major seemed well enough to me.”

  The commander nodded. “It’s not that kind of medical attention she’s getting,” he noted, gesturing at his face. “Don’t be surprised if she looks different next time you see her.”

  Vaughn frowned. “So those stories about II agents are true, then?”

  “Let me put it this way: last time I saw Kaj, she didn’t appear the same as she does now. Of course, she was shooting at me at the time, so I didn’t get that good a look.”

  The lieutenant leaned closer. “For a woman who tried to kill you, you’re pretty well-disposed toward her.”

  Miller shrugged. “This mission is nothing personal, Elias. It’s just the work. Yesterday Kaj was our enemy, today she’s our ally.”

  “It’s tomorrow I’m more concerned about,” admitted the other man.

  “Good instinct,” said Miller. “But just keep your focus on the job. You mix emotion into it, and that’s what causes problems.” He glanced at Valeris. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Undoubtedly,” she replied without looking up. “But the lieutenant does raise an interesting point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your association with Major Kaj. I suspect it might be based on more than just exchanges of weapons fire.”

  Valeris had observed that Commander Miller liked to display an outward manner of casual directness, but for a moment she saw a brief flash of the man that lurked beneath that façade: the veteran covert operative and spy. “Call it mutual respect,” he said. “You spend that long hunting someone, or being hunted by them, and you get to know their personality. Let’s just say that Kaj and I have been playing a long game and leave it at that.”

  Valeris looked up at last. “Do you trust her?”

  Miller’s easy manner reasserted itself. “I trust Kaj to be Kaj. Same way I trust you to be you.”

  For a moment Valeris hesitated on the cusp of voicing her thoughts out loud: You think you know me. You do not.

  Vaughn indicated the padd in her hand with a jut of the chin. “What is that you’re reading?”

  She glanced at the lieutenant. “It is your report, Mister Vaughn. Specifically, the collation of the sensor readings from the first detonation at the utility station. With the addition of data from the Excelsior’s sensors at the time of the second blast, I have been able to undertake a deeper analysis.”

  “I thought you were trained for the helm, not sciences,” said Miller.

  “My talents are numerous,” Valeris replied with a sniff. “My minor at Starfleet Academy was in weapons technology. I am more than familiar with the function of offensive subspace munitions.”

  Vaughn took the padd and studied. “Isolytic weapons. Every major galactic power has banned these things . . . The Klingons and Romulans, the Federation, Tholians and Orions . . . Every time one of them is detonated, it slams the barrier between this dimension and subspace like a hammer. Next thing you know, there’s fallout of spatial anomalies, warp field distortions, singularities . . .” He shook his head. “How much hate do you need to have to use something that can break space-time like glass?”

  “I have observed that if any emotions have a limit, hatred is not among them.” Valeris’s words seemed to come from a long way away. She felt unwilling to dwell on the deeper truth of them, for fear she would touch on her own buried feelings.

  “Before,” said Miller, “on the Excelsior, you said you thought the dispersal pattern of the first blast was flawed.”

  She nodded. “Correct. There is a similar asymmetry to the second discharge, but it is not identical to the first.” Valeris indicated the patterns on the padd. “I believe that while each isolytic device produced a powerful destructive effect, neither detonated at their full potential.”

  “You’re saying those bombs were malfunctioning?” asked Vaughn.

  Miller stared into space. “No, it’s not that. I see where she’s going with this. It’s all to do with how the weapons were manufactured.” He made a spherical shape with his hands. “Constructing an isolytic subspace weapon isn’t like brewing up some bathtub chemical explosives. It’s difficult work: it requires highly advanced hardware and, most of all, time.” He gave a slow nod. “I think Valeris is right. I think the Thorn mishandled the weapons. They botched the construction because they were hasty. They wanted to take advantage of the situation at Da’Kel, and they couldn’t wait.”

  “If those subspace devices had operated at maximum capacity,” Valeris told them, “it is my belief that the Da’Kel III colony and everything in orbit around it would have been consumed by a spatial rupture. As it was, the isolytic reaction could not maintain a long enough period of criticality. The decay rate was too short.”

  They were all silent for a long moment. “A planet-killing bomb, small enough to fit inside a cargo shuttle.” Vaughn was grim-faced as he said the words. “How the hell did a group of minor-league freedom fighters get hold of something that dangerous?”

  “Someone is backing them,” said Miller. “There’s no other explanation.”

  From out of nowhere, a strident Klaxon began to bray, the raw-edged sound slicing through the room. Valeris’s eyes snapped up to see the big Orion guard suddenly spring into motion, bringing up his plasma weapon to a ready position.

  “What’s going on?” called Vaughn, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the alarm.

  Miller was already on his feet. “Combat alert! We’ve got to get to the bridge!” He pointed toward the corridor, after the Orion. “This way!”

  Valeris gathered up the padds and followed.

  “I thought we had some kind of disguise for this ship?” said Vaughn. “You know, low profile and that sort of thing?”

  A shuddering impact slammed up from the decking beneath their feet, and they stumbled against the wall, the lights along the corridor of the Chon’m flickering and buzzing from the force of the hit.

  “It would appear otherwise,” said Valeris as she picked herself up.

  10

  I.K.S. Chon’m

  En Route to the Colonial Border

  Klingon Empire

  Had they considered the ship an honorable foe and one worthy of respect, they might have given the Chon’m a warning; but instead the two D-7 cruisers swept in behind the vessel, one taking the wing of the other as it fired a salvo of disruptor fire into the hull of their target.

  The shape of the cargo tender—a bulky, blocky craft lacking any grace in its design—flickered and hazed as the bolts passed through it. Backwash from the energy nimbus cracked into space and the holographic veil abruptly collapsed, revealing the true form of the bird-of-prey beneath, wings outstretched in cruise configuration.

  At the helm of the Chon’m, D’iaq was nimble and turned the agile ship quickly, barely avoiding the next pulses of shimmering green fire. The second D-7 came about and presented its bow to the smaller ship—but instead of firing its cannons, it discharged a throbbing wall of high-energy antiprotons that washed over the bird-of-prey. The pursuers were clearly well aware of their target’s capabilities; until it dissipated, the antiproton wave would collapse any attempt to activate warp drive.

  Only then, after they had struck the first blows and hobbled their quarry, did the commander of the attack wing deign to address the crew of the Chon’m.

  The hatch hissed open as the bird-of-prey lur
ched again, and Valeris fell against Vaughn, her feet slipping out from under her. He caught her before she could strike her head on the wall of the corridor. Her body was warm through the thin sleeve of her jacket, and the randomness of the realization struck him; Vaughn had somehow expected her to be cold to the touch, as cool as Vulcan logic.

  Valeris pulled away from him and followed Miller into the ship’s forward pod, and Vaughn fell in behind her.

  The red-orange light of the Klingon bridge was a stark contrast to the well-lit brightness of a Starfleet command deck, and with all the crossbars and armored supports it seemed cramped and utilitarian. Vaughn was reminded of the interior of an ancient iron tank he had seen in a museum on Earth, a tight space given over to the functions of movement and battle and nothing else.

  On the screen, a Klingon cruiser swept past the bow of the Chon’m, seemingly close enough to reach out and touch.

  “What now?” said Miller.

  A figure at the gunnery console turned and Vaughn had to look twice to be sure who he was seeing there. It was Major Kaj, except that it was not. Her hair was gone, leaving a bald scalp framing her hard features; the color of her flesh was odd, patches of it lightened and others still the dusky shade she had been when he first saw her. But most strange was the dissolution of her cranial ridges: where there had been defined lines of bone, now there were only a few chevrons of cartilage, and her eyes . . . her eyes were now a piercing green. Kaj was no longer Klingon.

  “Vaughn!” Miller called to him, and he snapped out of the moment. “Make yourself useful, Lieutenant.” The commander was pointing at an empty engineering console, and he went to it.

  Valeris went with him. “The warp engine,” she said, scanning the Klingon text on the screen.

  He nodded. Vaughn’s grasp of written Klingon was basic, but he knew enough to interpret the data. The rain of antiproton energy had crippled the functions of the drive system.