Star Trek: Typhon Pact 06: Plagues of Night

by David R. George III

  Everyone present met the news with muted but seemingly authentic enthusiasm. With the summit nearing its natural conclusion, Kamemor judged the moment right for her to introduce the two proposals that she had brought with her. After considering input from Proconsuls Ventel and Tomalak, and conferring with the Imperial Senate, the praetor had decided on two ideas that she believed would promote familiarity and trust generally between the Typhon Pact worlds and those of the Khitomer Accords, and specifically between the Romulan Star Empire and the United Federation of Planets. If the two alliances wanted to establish amity and make it endure, there could be no better start than between the largest, most powerful nations among them.

  “In the same spirit of cooperation that Domo Brex and Grand Nagus Rom have just demonstrated,” she said, “I would like to suggest not an adjustment of borders, but an opening of them.” Kamemor saw that she had everybody’s attention, including that of Brex and Sozzerozs, with whom she had not previously shared her intentions. “Because trade can entwine interests and encourage closer relations, I would like to advocate that the nations of the Khitomer Accords and the Typhon Pact allow each other’s civilian vessels to traverse one of their major trade routes.”

  Skeptical expressions greeted Kamemor, including one on the face of the Cardassian castellan. “While I can see how, under the best circumstances, such a loosening of borders could spur improved relations,” Garan said, “I can also see it leading to even more confrontations.”

  “Are you espousing a practice that would see Kinshaya ships in Klingon space?” President Bacco asked. “Tzenkethi ships in Federation space? Federation ships in Tholian space?”

  “Actually, I am,” Kamemor said. “Not all at once, and not everywhere. But I submit that we cannot effectively put aside our differences, that we cannot become allies—even friends—without exposing our cultures to each other. I am not saying that we should throw open every border, that all states should send ships to every sector of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. We can limit our exposure to each other by selecting individual areas of space in which to trade.”

  “Ferenginar welcomes all vessels of commerce,” declared the Grand Nagus.

  “That would be a beginning,” Kamemor said, “though I would at the outset choose a region of space with greater diversity, such as the Rigel Corridor.”

  “The Rigel Corridor does host a wide diversity of cultures,” said Bacco, “but it is also the heaviest traveled trade and passenger route within the Federation. I’m not sure that the sudden influx of Tholian and Tzenkethi vessels at this time would be readily and peacefully accepted.”

  Kamemor nodded her head in understanding. Proconsul Tomalak, who had first recommended using civilian ships along the trade routes, had also predicted the Federation president’s reaction to doing so in the UFP’s most populous areas. He had therefore offered another suggestion. “Perhaps a less crowded trade route then,” Kamemor said. “An area such as the Bajoran Sector.”

  Castellan Garan looked at President Bacco. “Most of the traffic around Bajor and even Cardassia these days comes and goes through the wormhole,” said Garan. “You could allow Typhon Pact freighters and trading ships into the sector and into the Gamma Quadrant.”

  Bacco seemed to consider the possibility. “There could be no military vessels,” she finally said. “And the civilian ships could not be armed other than for basic protection.”

  “I imagined that they would have to consent to random inspections as well,” Kamemor said.

  “And what about you, Praetor?” Martok asked. “What region of Romulan space would you open to Klingon traders?”

  “Not Romulan space,” said Rom. “Typhon Pact space.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Typhon Pact space’?” asked Brex.

  “The Typhon Expanse,” Rom said. “As far as I know, it’s a region of space only lightly explored by the Klingons, the Romulans, and the Federation, primarily because of several conflicts that have taken place there. But trade routes there could be opened back up to each of those worlds.”

  “‘Opened back up’?” Sozzerozs asked.

  “Until the Typhon Pact decided to build a starbase there and militarize the region,” Rom explained, “the Ferengi Alliance had established numerous shipping lanes through it.”

  The praetor turned to Brex and Sozzerozs. Kamemor had intended to offer the Devoras Division, an area within Romulan space near both the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire, but the Typhon Expanse made more sense, considering its familiarity to the Ferengi. She saw no objection from either the domo or the imperator. “The Typhon Expanse would be acceptable,” she said.

  “We would need to work out the details, of course,” Garan said. “As President Bacco already indicated, there would have to be limits on vessels’ armaments, prescribed procedures, inspections, a timeframe.”

  “We would have to establish a method and schedule for reviewing the status of the program,” Martok added.

  “And a mutually acceptable means of mediating any disputes that might arise,” said Brex.

  Suddenly, several voices spoke at once across the table as separate conversations started. To her great satisfaction, Kamemor perceived widespread interest in her idea. She allowed the multiple dialogues to continue for several moments, but she wanted to capitalize on the others’ eager acceptance of her suggestion. She stood from her chair and waited as voices trailed off and faces turned toward her.

  Into the hush that followed, she said, “I have a second proposal. While we seek to demystify our people for one another, while we seek to acquaint them so that they might better understand one another, we cannot do so only among the civilian population. The Romulan Imperial Fleet, the Klingon Defense Force, Starfleet, the Breen Militia, and all the other military forces contain sizable numbers of our citizens. And since they have been at the forefront of our armed conflicts, they most especially need to learn to accept the people whom they have so often called enemy.”

  “You can’t be saying that you want to allow the starships of the Typhon Pact states to travel within Khitomer Accords territory,” said Martok, an expression of incredulity on his face.

  “No,” Kamemor said. “I have no desire to invite tension and conflict. I’m suggesting something smaller, something that would not jeopardize the inhabitants of either political alliance.” The praetor saw expectant looks around the table as the dignitaries waited for her to explain herself, but then awareness seemed to come to the Federation president.

  “Exploration,” Bacco said simply.

  “Yes,” said Kamemor. “A joint mission of exploration, well beyond the borders of the Typhon Pact and the Khitomer Accords.”

  Once again, the people around the table looked to each other, as if they might find answers in one another’s eyes. Finally, Martok spoke. He said words that Kamemor wanted to hear, offering a sentiment that she hoped the others shared.

  “It could work.”

  June 2383

  16

  The fusion core pulsed with power. Though noticeably cold, the entire space hummed with energy, as if charged, like the air before a planetside electrical storm. In the center of the vertical conduit—one of six that attached above to the midcore power-transfer hub of Deep Space 9—an immense, brilliant column of harnessed force flowed upward, carrying the output of one of the four fully functioning reactors to the rest of the space station.

  Security Chief Jefferson Blackmer paced around the metallic mesh walkway that circled the coruscating pillar of energy, headed for the ladder that would take him down to the reactor itself. He looked everywhere about him, not allowing his gaze to dart, but trying to take in every surface. In the bulkheads along the round walkway, as with the bulkheads enclosing all twenty-five levels above the reactor, few control panels or access plates interrupted the many rows of sensors that kept a meticulous watch on the flood of magnetically contained power. The security officer thought—and hoped—that he would be able to dist
inguish anything out of place.

  Blackmer rarely visited the lower core, although circumstances had brought him down there just two days before. He still felt relatively new to DS9, having transferred from the Perseverance less than a year earlier. He had replaced Lieutenant Commander Evik Nath, a middle-aged Bajoran whose death from natural causes clearly shocked and saddened the crew and residents of the station. Perhaps because Evik had been so well liked and so highly regarded—Blackmer still heard the man’s name fondly mentioned around DS9—the reception of the new security chief had trended toward the cool side. In particular, while Captain Ro treated him professionally, she also plainly resisted establishing the sort of easy familiarity she demonstrated with Colonel Cenn and Lieutenant Tenmei and other crew members. After ten months’ active duty on the station, Blackmer had essentially given up attempting to gain the friendship of his commanding officer, settling instead for her respect and a utilitarian working relationship.

  When he’d finished inspecting the grid on which he stood, Blackmer swung onto the ladder and climbed down to the reactor chamber. As he understood it, Deep Space 9’s original lower core had been jettisoned and destroyed some years earlier, then replaced with the core of an abandoned Cardassian station. The half-dozen energized-plasma generators had been manufactured more than three decades earlier. Over the course of the seven or so years since the second core had been installed, Starfleet engineers maintained and upgraded the reactors, but only four of the complex mechanisms continued in regular use. The other two reactors remained off line, though the engineering staff sporadically coaxed them into service to ensure that they could serve as functional backups during repair cycles or in the case of an emergency. Since DS9 did not operate as an ore-processing facility—one of the major uses for which the Cardassians had originally constructed the station—the four reactors provided more than sufficient power.

  Blackmer moved slowly about the huge compartment at the base of the lower core. The generators towered above him as he visually scanned the area. His flesh prickled, a sensation like a colony of insects swarming over his body. He wanted to leave, but since he hadn’t finished what he’d gone there to do, he didn’t think that he should.

  The security chief didn’t know for precisely what he searched, but he understood how to categorize it: something left behind. A tool, a tricorder, a phaser … something. He acted out of concern and even fear, because he’d learned long ago to trust his instincts. In his position, he could rely on little else.

  As Blackmer studied one of the massive reactors, he wondered about the methods employed to secure the lower core. Deflector shields and a specially designed hull protected the station against unauthorized transport from beyond its confines, but had measures been taken to ensure that nobody could beam in to the reactor compartment from within DS9? He didn’t know with certainty—though he recognized that he should—but he also doubted it, as such a scheme would compromise the safety of Starfleet personnel. The engineering team did not continuously crew the lower core during the normal operation of the generators, but emergency transport protocols would still need to be available in the event of a mishap.

  Except that the power flow probably inhibits beaming in or out anyway, the security chief realized. Again, he didn’t know, but he should.

  A plate on the nearest reactor identified it as reactor three. Around its circumference, numbers and symbols paraded across a host of display screens. Blackmer studied them for a moment, not really searching for anything out of the ordinary, as he likely wouldn’t have discerned an abnormality even if he saw one. He also knew that any problems with the reactors, or any alterations to their performance, would trigger warnings in the operations center.

  Taking a few steps back, Blackmer peered beneath the inward curve of the generator’s base. He moved slowly around it until he returned to where he’d started. Finding nothing that caught his attention, he moved on.

  In the same way, Blackmer examined each of the reactors, including four and six, despite their nonoperational status. Doing so, he circumnavigated the compartment. Choosing caution over expedience, the security chief then made a second circuit, examining not the generators, but the workstations that lined the bulkheads. Sometimes, when he spotted access panels, he pulled them off and peered inside. He felt like a blind man searching for color.

  Once he returned to reactor three a second time, Blackmer stopped. His eyelids had grown heavy, notwithstanding the great vibratory drone that enveloped him. He doubted himself, wondering just how observant he’d been on his last circuit around the compartment. More than that, he had yet to scale the power-transfer conduits for four of the reactors so that he could subject those spaces to his scrutiny.

  With fatigue fast washing over him, he moved to the nearest companel. He raised a hand and jabbed at it, bringing it to life. “Computer, what time is it?”

  “The time is zero-one-twenty-seven hours,” said the familiar, feminine voice of the station’s primary processor.

  Great, Blackmer thought. Not just after midnight, but well after. He’d spent more than two and a half hours roaming through the lower core. He’d intended only to make a cursory pass through the reactor deck, had even planned on a quick stop by Quark’s afterward. Obviously, he’d gotten caught up in a search that had quickly become painstaking, and he’d lost track of the hour.

  No time to visit Quark’s now, he thought. He’d hoped to visit the bar before turning in because he would have little opportunity to do so after tonight, at least in the near term. With preparations continuing in earnest for the arrival of the Typhon Pact vessels later in the week, Blackmer would need to rise early and work long hours in the coming days.

  Maybe just a quick stroll on the Promenade, he thought, if only to catch a fleeting glimpse of Treir’s smile. Then, alone in the lower core, Blackmer shook his head and chuckled at himself. He grasped the scope of his foolishness, given what he’d come to Deep Space 9 to accomplish. Additionally, he had to admit that Treir had shown no interest in his advances. Or rather, she responded to his flirtations in the same way that she did with everyone else who wooed her, men and women alike: with a flip of the red hair she’d grown long, with a smile, a laugh, a stroke of one hand along the curve of her hip. Whatever game anybody played with her, she played it right back, and she always appeared to emerge victorious—usually netting nothing more than an increased tip, as best the security chief could tell, but she had a gift for rebuffing admirers without turning them into disgruntled customers. But even though Treir seemed to enjoy taking on the role of coquette, Blackmer saw past that, perceiving a strong personality and fierce intellect behind her dancing eyes and radiant green skin. When he spoke with her, she often—

  Blackmer didn’t know if he heard some foreign sound amid the constant rumble of the lower core, or if maybe he saw the flicker of a reflection on the companel screen. Regardless, he all at once knew that somebody else had entered the reactor compartment and stood behind him. He knew it even before he turned and saw a phaser leveled in his direction.

  Ro Laren woke with a start. Pushing herself up in bed, she heard a voice, but it sounded unintelligible, as though muffled or far away. Fully asleep just a moment before, her foggy mind could not make sense of the words. As she worked to rouse herself, she waited, expecting that the message would be repeated. It was.

  After the light tones that signaled the opening of a communications channel, a voice said, “Ops to Captain Ro.”

  She recognized the speaker as Lieutenant Aleco Vel, the officer on duty in ops during the delta shift. “Ro here,” she said. Her voice sounded gravelly, and she quietly cleared her throat. “Go ahead.”

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Aleco,” he said. “We’ve got an unscheduled entry into the reactor core.”

  Unscheduled, Ro thought. Not unauthorized. Which likely meant that one of the engineering crew had decided to conduct maintenance after hours. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “I’ve stressed
to the crew that, whenever possible, they should take the initiative, rather than just being reactive. That’s especially the case, considering who we’ll be seeing by the end of the week.”

  “Captain,” said Aleco slowly, as though reluctant to divulge something that he knew he must. “It’s Chief Blackmer.”

  Blackmer! Ro threw aside the bedclothes and bounded from atop her mattress. She’d slept in her underwear, and so she reached at once for the uniform she’d worn the previous day, which lay draped across the back of a comfortable chair in the corner. “Did he just enter the reactor core now?”

  “No, we only found out about it now,” Aleco said. “But it appears that he’s been there for at least an hour, maybe longer. The reactor compartment was empty, and we think he overrode the security seal. We wouldn’t have even known except that Lieutenant Merimark was running diagnostics on the reactors and happened to notice a slight increase in the power usage to cool the compartment. That only happens when there are personnel there, and since there was nothing on the schedule, the lieutenant mentioned it. The computer confirmed the chief’s identity. We thought you’d want to know.”

  Because you’re aware that I don’t completely trust our new chief of security, Ro thought. Although she’d never said anything of the kind to her crew, she also knew that sometimes she projected her apprehensions about Blackmer.

  After stepping into her uniform pants, she pulled her red, command-division undershirt over her head. “Have two armed security officers meet me outside the main entrance to the lower core,” she said. “Make sure nobody contacts Mister Blackmer before we get there.” She declined to refer to him as lieutenant commander or chief, rejecting the esteem inherent in the use of his Starfleet rank or DS9 position.

  “Yes, Captain,” Aleco said.

  “Ro out.” She grabbed the gray-shouldered overshirt of her uniform and raced from her bedroom, across the living area of her quarters, and out into the corridor. Only when she’d entered a lift and specified her destination did she finish donning her official captain’s attire.