Star Trek: Typhon Pact 02: Seize the Fire

by Michael A. Martin

  For keeping his attention focused there was the only way she could think of to maintain any hope of being reunited with her beloved S’syrixx, who had been serving on one of those recon ships at the time of the Sazssgrerrn catastrophe. But when the mammals’ ship left the concealment of the ice belt and suddenly headed sunward, any chance of hiding the fact from Gog’resssh evaporated like the tail of a comet at perihelion.

  “How could the Earthers have penetrated so far into this system without anyone having noticed their approach earlier?” Gog’resssh bellowed at her without preamble as he came storming onto the command deck, presumably upon having received word of Titan’s presence from Second Myrmidon Zegrroz’rh.

  She assayed her sincerest expression, keeping her facial scales as flat as possible, and hoped for the best. “I am at a loss, First Myrmidon. It’s as though the Federrazsh’n vessel just came out of nowhere.”

  Gog’resssh bared his unattractive ranks of teeth. “It is a gift from Blessed S’Yahazah herself. We are in need of supplies. We shall take whatever we require from the mammals.”

  Z’shezhira watched with rising trepidation as Gog’resssh lumbered toward the helm station, where Sk’salissk patiently awaited his commander’s orders.

  “Helm, plot an intercept course,” Gog’resssh rumbled.

  GORN HEGEMONY RECONNAISSANCE VESSEL SSEVARRH

  “The legal subcaste tribunal has completed its deliberations,” said Dr. R’rerrgran as he stepped across the threshold to S’syrixx’s now computerless quarters. Through the briefly opened door, a vigilant pair of hulking war-caster guards, as hard and stolid as boulders, were visible.

  S’syrixx, who had been confined to said quarters since his actions had first earned him Captain Krassrr’s unwanted scrutiny, could tell from his old friend’s scent as much from his ruffled facial scales and the convoluted topography of abject misery that twisted his dual sagittal crests, that the news he was about to impart was not good.

  “I did everything I could, my friend, to intervene on your behalf,” R’rerrgran said. “In fact, I have done little else since I stopped your initial summary execution. But the law is the law. Once the tribunal has delivered an official sentence, it must be carried out immediately.”

  “I am aware of that,” S’syrixx said.

  “Had I done any more . . .” The physician trailed off.

  “I understand.” S’syrixx felt far more calm than he had expected. He supposed he’d experience his emotional meltdown when his execution became more imminent than it was presently; perhaps he still needed time to process what was about to happen to him. “Had you done anything more, then we would probably have to share an airlock together.”

  R’rerrgran tipped his head forward in miserable assent. Then he reached into a pocket on his eggshell-hued medical tunic and withdrew a small hypo injector.

  S’syrixx felt a sharp jolt of fear. “Is this how it is to be done, R’rerrgran? An injection?”

  R’rerrgran’s vertical pupils looked strangely opaque. “No. A short time ago I was granted permission to administer an analgesic to you. When death comes, her embrace will at least be a gentle one.”

  S’syrixx held out his still-lacerated foreclaw, and R’rerrgran dutifully administered the injection.

  “Would you like me to repair that?” R’rerrgran said, indicating S’syrixx’s foreclaw wound.

  The idea sounded so absurd that S’syrixx found he couldn’t restrain himself from an intense emotional release. He suspected his meltdown had finally begun. Out in the corridor, as the guards prodded him toward the outer hull—toward, presumably, the nearest airlock—he began issuing peels of deep, chuffing laughter. He willed the unwelcome yet cathartic sensation to stop, but it wouldn’t, even as the unamused troopers marched him past the scowling bulk of Captain Krassrr and the three spindly legal-casters who had no doubt unanimously condemned him. His mad chortles continued even after he once again found himself inside a cramped airlock, where he stood hunched between the two heavy pressure doors.

  The sense of risible absurdity persisted, even after the outer airlock door irised open and allowed a powerful blast of escaping air to deliver him into the vacuum’s cold embrace.

  It continued even after his lungs ceased functioning and a darkness that he recognized as death’s cloak swaddled him, pushing aside all thought save a final regret that his separation from beautiful, lost Z’shezhira had now been made permanent. . . .

  GORN HEGEMONY WARSHIP S’ALATH

  “I mean no disrespect, First Myrmidon,” Z’shezhira said. “But are you certain this is the wisest course of action?”

  Gog’resssh’s neck scales separated from one another until they stood almost perpendicular from the radiation-scarred flesh his sleeveless military tunic revealed. “You forget your place, female,” the war-caster growled, baring his innumerable teeth. “Who are you to question my wisdom?”

  Z’shezhira felt her heart race as though it were a warp core. All too aware that she had to defuse her captor’s easily roused anger as quickly and deftly as possible, she allowed her head to loll to the side, exposing her neck to a potentially fatal bite in an ages-old Gorn gesture of submission.

  “I did not mean to question your wisdom, First Myrmidon,” she said. “My intent was to direct your attention to an easier and more desirable target than the mammal vessel.”

  Gog’resssh’s frown deepened until his face resembled a seam of old, weathered copper jutting out of a mountainside. “Which target?”

  She turned toward the command deck’s central visual display, which showed a tactical diagram of the Hranrar system on which the relative positions of the S’alath, the Sst’rfleet vessel, and the Gorn recon flotilla were both clearly limned in amber. Z’shezhira also noticed that Sk’salissk’s claws were frozen over his helm controls as he awaited either confirmation or rescission of Gog’resssh’s most recent order. And on the other side of the helm console, Second Myrmidon Zegrroz’rh was regarding her in a cool, appraising silence, his one good compound eye seeming able to bore a hole through her scales.

  “Well?” Gog’resssh roared.

  “I’m speaking of the Gorn vessels in orbit of Hranrar, First Myrmidon,” Z’shezhira said at length.

  “But there are six Gorn ships to our one,” Gog’resssh said. “The Federrazsh’n ship is but a single vessel.”

  “But it’s hardly worth raiding, at least for the purpose of restocking our provisions. I’ve studied the habits of the Federrazsh’n mammals, First Myrmidon. They keep no live food aboard their vessels.”

  Gog’resssh’s jaws slackened with evident horror. “No live food? Nauseating.”

  “Nauseating indeed,” she said. “Nearly as nauseating as the horrible dander being produced by all those mammals. The vessel’s corridors are literally acrawl with such creatures.”

  The first myrmidon stood in contemplative silence, apparently shuddering slightly in response to his own imagination.

  “The human ship would be a far easier target to take down,” said Zegrroz’rh, to whom Z’shezhira had never attributed a surfeit of imagination.

  She struggled to exhibit the same poise and confidence she would have brought to a technical briefing. “Do not be deceived, Second Myrmidon—their ships have surprisingly effective weaponry and evasion capabilities. And even if we were to ‘take down’ the Federrazsh’n ship, there would still be next to nothing aboard that we could eat.”

  “I should think that the crew of that vessel would qualify as ‘live food,’” Zegrroz’rh said. Snorts and huffing chuckles passed quietly among the half-dozen or so other war-casters now present on the command deck.

  Gog’resssh, however, wasn’t laughing. “So, Z’shezhira, you suggest instead that we take supplies from six Gorn recon vessels—in fact, from six apparently very well-armed Gorn recon vessels.”

  “Yes, First Myrmidon,” she said.

  Gog’resssh’s teeth reappeared. “The S’alath is critically short
of personnel in departments throughout this ship.”

  That’s what you get for being so quick to order summary executions, you crècheless bastard, she thought as she struggled to prevent her neck scales from rising into agitated postures. Aloud, she merely said, “True. But the S’alath also boasts more than twenty of your strongest fighters, First Myrmidon.” Or at least twenty of those who had proven themselves the least easy to kill.

  But Gog’resssh appeared to be in no mood to accept flattery. “Even so, we would still be significantly outgunned. The S’alath would have to engage up to six well-armed adversaries simultaneously.”

  “Six well-armed adversaries who would have no reason to expect hostilities from us,” Z’shezhira said. “They have called for reinforcements to encourage the Federrazsh’n ship to leave the Hranrar system. Were they to see us, they would believe us to be one of the reinforcement vessels they are awaiting.”

  A glimmer of understanding appeared to be dawning in Gog’resssh’s dull, silvery insectile eyes. “And we can raid their stores of live food and other supplies while their guard is down.”

  “You are indeed wise, First Myrmidon,” Z’shezhira said with as much humility as she could muster—which wasn’t nearly enough to cover the intense loathing she felt for this vile creature.

  This creature who was enforcing her separation from her betrothed.

  “It is decided, then,” Gog’resssh said, snapping Z’shezhira out of her reverie. “Helm, enter a new course. We will approach Hranrar, and our fellow Gorn.”

  Though she couldn’t be certain she wasn’t merely indulging her own wishful imagination, Z’shezhira thought she could sense relief in the manner of both Zegrroz’rh and Sk’salissk—relief that they were no longer contemplating an imminent encounter with the hideously alien Federrazsh’n mammalians.

  “As friends?” Zegrroz’rh asked. He appeared confused. “Do you really think they might accept the S’alath as a reinforcement vessel?”

  “Not unless they are unforgivably stupid,” Gog’resssh said. “Even if we were to try to obscure this ship’s identity with a falsified transponder, they’d no doubt check its authenticity.”

  “With respect, First Myrmidon, I think you give the tinkering subcastes too much credit.”

  Gog’resssh’s nostrils flared, but he restrained himself from any deeper display of anger. “Never underestimate the tech-casters.”

  “Perhaps we could alter the markings on our hull,” Zegrroz’rh said.

  “It won’t fool them long enough to do us any good,” Gog’resssh said, this time with a hoarse growl obviously intended as a warning that he would brook no further discussion of the matter. “They will recognize the S’alath, and then they’ll want an explanation for her sudden return to ship-of-the-line status after such a lengthy absence. We might not be able to fight our way out of that eventuality—at least not against six vessels. So we will approach by stealth instead.”

  Zegrroz’rh and Sk’salissk both acknowledged their superior’s order with nods and grunts. Z’shezhira had to suppress a cunning, tooth-baring grin of her own when Second Myrmidon Zegrroz’rh approached, his one good eye flaying her with his obvious suspicion. Ever since her initial encounter with Zegrroz’rh, she’d imagined that he’d always hated and feared the technology caste and his other cultural betters.

  “You will continue to monitor the recon fleet’s communications,” Zegrroz’rh said with a brusque growl. “And never forget, tech-caster: I will be keeping my eye on you, to be certain you hold nothing back. Do we understand each other?”

  She nodded mutely. I understand that you trust me about as far as I trust you. Which was to say, hardly at all.

  After the uncomfortable silence between them ran its course, Z’shezhira returned her attention to the console before her and began executing passive scans of the recon flotilla, as well as of the subspace frequencies the other ships most commonly used.

  When she slipped the personal receiver unit into her ear canal, she found herself immediately immersed in a flurry of intership comm traffic. The gabble of overlapping voices startled her at first, until her sensitive ear began to separate them, enabling her to hear their reptilian character. She could hear the distinctive plodding cadence of Gorn warriors as well as the quicker, more nimble locutions of comm specialists. Not only members of her own species, but her fellow caste-mates as well, all of them stationed on the various ships of the recon flotilla.

  Despite having the lone watchful eye of the hateful Zegrroz’rh trained upon her back, she thought there had to be a surreptitious way she could get a message to one of those comm specialists. A way to let her beloved S’syrixx know that she was still alive. Then she heard S’syrixx’s name uttered in the gabble, and her hopes rose.

  But only until she heard and sorted out a few more words from the surprisingly chatter-filled ship-to-ship channels. S’syrixx. Tribunal. Treason. Execution.

  Airlock.

  Z’shezhira redirected one of the remote superluminal subspace scanners and began looking for biosigns in the immediate vicinity of the Ssevarrh, the vessel upon which S’syrixx had served. In defiance of her will, the scan revealed the presence of a Gorn body adrift beyond the vessel’s hull. She divined from the weakness of the bio-readings that this body had exited the ship both unwillingly and without protection. She could also see that the tumbling, distant shape was rapidly cooling toward the ambient temperature of space. Her spine experienced a chill that very nearly matched it.

  S’Yahazah’s blood, she thought, sagging heavily into the comm console’s too-broad chair. They’ve just murdered S’syrixx.

  U.S.S. TITAN

  “What the hell happened to Captain Krassrr?” Vale demanded, apparently speaking to no one in particular.

  Standing in front of his command chair, Will nodded. He was staring at the image of Vela OB2–404 II, the world that Krassrr had called “Hranrar.” The ancient, micro-meteoroid-pitted orbital platform hung above it like an ill omen, and several Gorn vessels were visible in its vicinity.

  “One minute Krassrr is about to run us out of town by force,” Will said. “And the next minute he just disappears. Doesn’t seem like typical Gorn behavior.”

  Troi was beginning to think she might have an explanation. “Krassrr’s behavior doesn’t appear to be typical of the Gorn warrior caste.”

  Will regarded her with a wry smile. “Krassrr certainly seems as warrior-like as any Gorn soldier I’ve ever encountered.”

  “And I have no doubt that that’s exactly what he is,” Troi said. “He probably wouldn’t be in command if he belonged to one of the other castes. But the relationship—the balance—between the various Gorn castes aboard those ships may be severely out of equilibrium at the moment, in view of the ecocrisis they’ve been forced to deal with.”

  “Meaning that the demands of the other castes may be forcing Krassrr to change his methods.”

  “This is a hell of a change. Damned sloppy, if you ask me.”

  Troi shook her head. “I’m picking up a great deal of vigilance from each of those Gorn ships, Will. The warriors among those Gorn crews are keeping a very close watch on everything we do. It’s just not their place to speak for their captain when he’s . . . preoccupied.”

  “So what do you suppose he’s preoccupied with?” Vale asked.

  Troi shrugged. “Underneath all that vigilance, I’m picking up a strong undercurrent of confusion. Agitation.”

  “As though there’s some sort of power struggle going on between the castes?” Will asked.

  Before she could answer the question, another sudden jolt of emotion struck her like a fist to the abdomen, forcing her to wince involuntarily. It was still more imminent death, but it was a far stronger sensation than anything she’d yet experienced with the Gorn.

  “Counselor?” said Will, moving toward her seat on the bridge. She realized she was clinging to the chair’s arms as though she feared falling.

  “Someone’s
dying, Will,” she said, breathless, gazing up at him through a shroud of tears. She gestured toward the main viewer. “Out there.”

  “Captain, one of the Gorn vessels has just ejected something into space,” Ensign Dakal said.

  “Red Alert!” Vale shouted.

  “Belay that,” Will said as he moved toward Dakal’s station. “Exactly what did that ship eject?”

  “A body, sir. A Gorn male.”

  “Part of a stealth boarding party?” Vale asked.

  Dakal shook his head. “Not unless they’re sending their troops out without environment suits. This one appears to be all alone, and lacks any apparent life-support apparatus.”

  Will moved back to Troi’s side. “Maybe this explains the undercurrent of emotion you’re picking up, Deanna,” he said quietly. “This might be a burial in space.”

  But every instinct Troi possessed argued against that. “No, Will. He’s alive.”

  “Only for the moment, however,” said Tuvok, whose hands were moving quickly over the tactical console as he ran scans of his own.

  “Mister Dakal,” Will said. “Can you get a transporter lock on that individual?”

  “I think so, Captain.”

  Vale cut in: “But can you do it without being noticed by all those vigilant Gorn eyes that must be studying our every move?”

  Although the Cardassian ensign at ops looked distinctly uncomfortable, he wasted no time activating the remote transporter system’s targeting scanner. “No pressure,” Troi heard him mutter. “Lock established.”