Star Trek: The Children of Kings

by David Stern

  Both men smiled at that.

  “Probably not,” Noguchi said. “Good luck, Captain. Noguchi out.”

  The wall went to black.

  Pike sat back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. Hood and Excalibur, on their way. Meaning Captains Vlasidovich and Harrari. Dmitri and Michaela. That ought to be fun.

  Not.

  “Captain?”

  Pike looked up and shook his head. He’d almost forgotten his first officer was still in the room.

  “Sorry, Number One. That’ll be all.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and didn’t move.

  “There was something else?”

  “There is. Some discrepancies I discovered during my analysis of the Starbase Eighteen wreckage.”

  “Discrepancies?”

  “Regarding the pattern of weapons fire. It seems to have been concentrated in two areas: the command tower and a building approximately a klick distant from the base’s central core.”

  A kilometer. The number struck him funny: it didn’t make sense. On a starbase, you wanted to keep everything as close as possible. Shorter power lines, shorter distance for the water pumps to push. You did not build structures a klick apart on a starbase unless there was a damn good reason to.

  “What exactly was this building?”

  “It is—was—new construction. Neither the building nor its purpose is listed in our records. Analysis of remaining structural components suggests a duranium alloy was used for the building’s outer skin.”

  “Duranium. That’s heavy-duty stuff.”

  “Yes, sir. I am checking with Archives regarding the structure’s purpose.”

  “You let me know what you find out. As soon as you find it out.”

  “Aye, sir. Will that be all?”

  “For the moment. Except, let’s keep the news about Excalibur and Hood between us, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Number One. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She nodded and left the room.

  Pike watched her go and shook his head. Number One. The words still felt wrong coming out of his mouth. A captain and his first officer were supposed to be joined at the hip, to have a symbiotic, almost telepathic relationship. Three months into their five-year mission, and he still didn’t know her given name. She was from one of the Illyrian colonies. The first day they’d met, she’d told Pike her real name was something pretty close to unpronounceable, and she’d preferred “Number One.” Insisted on it, in fact. Pike agreed. What choice did he have? He tried to tell himself it wasn’t that important, that it was just a name. Number One she wanted to be, Number One she was. Fine. Except …

  He still couldn’t quite get over the feeling that the name was symbolic of something else. A desire on her part to keep him at arm’s length, not to let the bond between them develop into something other than a by-the-book, captain-and-first-officer relationship.

  Just another way things were not turning out as planned for him aboard Enterprise.

  THREE

  Look at the bright side, Ben.” Pitcairn smiled. “The power ever goes out, you can lead everybody around the ship. Rudolf the red-nosed red shirt. Or in your case, blue-chested red-shirt.”

  “Funny.” Tuval glared. “Not.”

  Chief Pitcairn was referring to the shunt Commander Tuval was wearing, which he had attempted to hide underneath a landing-party jacket. Why, Spock could not completely understand. The device had gone unnoticed until a few seconds ago, when the commander had leaned over the science station to discuss one of the weapons Spock had put onscreen, and the jacket had fallen open, revealing the glowing blue device beneath it.

  The two men had immediately begun a dialogue about the appearance and utility of the shunt. Spock used the time to begin preparing the next item in his presentation. That was when he noticed a longer-than-usual lag time in the system’s response. He quickly traced the delay to unusually high demand on the ship’s computing resources coming from the auxiliary science station. One of his subordinates, most likely, he thought, using the prioritized resources available at that station to complete the work. Nothing Spock had expressly forbidden, but common sense should tell them to request permission for such usage, particularly on Alpha Shift.

  Yet when he turned in his chair, he saw it wasn’t one of his subordinates after all.

  It was the ship’s first officer. Number One. He hadn’t even heard her come onto the bridge. She was leaning over the display now at the aux console, hard at work. As always, he admired her focus. The Vulcan wondered what she was doing. He considered offering his assistance but decided against it, there being little doubt in his mind that she would refuse any help. He had observed in Number One a reluctance to practice the easy camaraderie with the crew that humans seemed to value so highly, the joking repartee that other members of the ship’s senior staff—Commander Tuval and Chief Pitcairn foremost among them—excelled at. Such practices were most assuredly not a part of her job description, and many people aboard the ship lacked the same skill set. Spock included himself among that number, though his shortcomings were from design rather than an evolved personality matrix. Captain Pike, though capable of engaging in such repartee, more often than not held himself above it. This was perhaps why Spock already felt more at ease aboard Enterprise than he ever had at his previous posting, a research vessel whose commander had been far too emotional, far too outgoing, far too personally involved in his ship’s mission, and, frankly, far too cavalier about the parameters of that mission for Spock’s taste. Twice, they had broken off long-term research operations to investigate instrumental anomalies the commander found curious. In neither instance had those anomalies amounted to anything. This hunger for the unknown at the expense of procedure was dangerous, in his opinion, though at the moment, Spock felt a bit of it himself.

  Because Number One, he now saw, had activated the encryption protocols at her station, so that what she was doing remained private. Spock would have little trouble breaking the encryption protocol, should he so desire, and discovering exactly what the ship’s first officer was working on. Of course, he would never engage in such behavior, but—

  “What’s next, Mr. Spock?” Tuval asked, breaking into his train of thought.

  Clearing his mind and the processing resources display from his screen, Spock brought up the material he had assembled a moment earlier.

  “The next and final item of my presentation is, of course, the cloaking device.” He keyed in a series of commands, and the screen in front of them filled with the image of a machine, a dumbbell-shaped device, a three-dimensional model that began to revolve on its axis. “This image file was provided by—”

  “Hang on. Is that a prototype?” Chief Pitcairn asked. “A working prototype?”

  “Based on the evidence I have accumulated,” Spock said, “I believe so.”

  “Pretty clear they’ve moved beyond prototype at this point,” Tuval said. “Given what we just saw this morning.”

  The commander was referring to the recording of the attack on Starbase 18. Spock was not entirely sure he agreed; sensor data from that recording were not consistent with the model of the cloaking device’s behavior, at least as he understood it. It was a puzzle still to be sorted out.

  “I have used an image-enhancement program to increase the resolution of the file. Note here”—Spock magnified the image—“these markings. Where the device tapers, in the middle.”

  “Looks like chicken scratch to me,” Pitcairn said.

  “It’s Klingon, isn’t it?” Tuval asked.

  “It is. A single phrase, which I believe to be the device’s identification protocol. Roughly translated, it equates to ‘Black Snow Seven,’ ‘Black Snow’ referring to the code name for the cloaking device program, ‘Seven’ the iteration of this particular model.”

  An unusually poetic name for a weapon, Spock thought, particularly given the fact that it was a Klingon device. Though there was so
me confusion about the exact origin of the underlying technology, reference in some of the intercepts to place names that seemed to him more Romulan in origin than Klingon. Regardless, the name was appropriate: Black Snow, falling precipitation, a dark cloud that would not only cover but hide from sight everything that it touched. A cloaking device.

  “And this image came from where?” Pitcairn asked.

  “Starfleet Intelligence,” Spock replied, leaving out the fact that it was highly classified, that he’d only managed to obtain it because he had connections, highly placed ones, within the Archives.

  “Starfleet Intelligence.” Pitcairn snorted. “There’s an oxymoron.”

  “There are a lot of very smart people in Intelligence,” Tuval said.

  “Then they’re in the wrong place. Skulking around in the shadows—it’s not how we do business,” Pitcairn said.

  “Not how we’d like to do business, ideally. But it’s a nasty galaxy out there, Chief. You know that.”

  “I do. Starfleet stands for something a little different, though. Don’t you agree, Mr. Spock?”

  The two men glared at each other and then at the science officer.

  Spock hesitated. He knew and understood both sides of the argument. He tended to side with Chief Pitcairn’s position, having the long, counterproductive example of the Vulcan High Command and its shortsighted actions with regard to the Andorians to draw from, but at this time, he did not particularly wish to advocate either side.

  He was saved from having to do so by Lieutenant Garrison.

  “Excuse me, sirs,” the lieutenant said. “But we’re being hailed.”

  “First officer’s on the bridge, Lieutenant,” Tuval said, gesturing toward Number One and the auxiliary science station. She was up on her feet even before Garrison—a little red-faced now—had turned to face her.

  “Sorry, sir. Hadn’t seen you there. We—”

  “We’re being hailed. I know. Details, please.”

  Number One took the command chair as she spoke.

  “Hail comes from an Orion vessel. Identifies itself as Karkon’s Wing, ” Garrison said.

  “Pirates?” Tuval had moved across the upper level of the bridge to the weapons station. “What are they, kidding? They’re going to take on Enterprise ?”

  “Not pirates,” Garrison said. “They claim to be representatives of the Trade Confederacy. They want to talk to our leader.” Garrison frowned, translating as he listened. “No. Not leader, exactly. The word they’re using is … taleed. Something like that.”

  “Tallith,” Number One suggested.

  “Yes,” Garrison nodded. “Their tallith wants to talk to ours.”

  Tallith. Spock was not familiar with the term.

  “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” Number One said. “Please summon the captain to the bridge, Mr. Garrison.”

  Orions. Pike didn’t know a lot about this tallith, but he knew enough about the species to be wary. Pirates and courtesans. Brutes and temptresses. The women with pheromones that had the effect of rendering males of most species “highly suggestible,” at least according to the shipboard computer; the males significantly larger, stronger, and more vicious than their human counterparts. Like us, Pike thought, only with animal instincts on overdrive. As if they had devolved to some more primitive form of creature. Orion civilization itself was a shambles—corrupt government, clan warfare, rumors of genocide. Though if what Noguchi had told him was right, this tallith had begun to turn things around. Well. He’d see soon enough.

  The lift door opened.

  “Captain on the bridge,” said Ensign Colt, who was manning the records station. She blushed as she caught Pike’s eye.

  Kid had a bad case of hero worship, Pike thought. He recognized the symptoms, having gone through them himself with Commodore Bennett. He’d have to cure her of that later. For now …

  He stepped down a level, took his chair. “What do we know?”

  “Vessel has identified itself as Karkon’s Wing, ” Spock said. “ Marauder -class, with considerable hull and weapon augments.”

  “A threat to us?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They have weapons, they’re a threat,” Tuval said.

  “Not at this distance, Commander,” Spock said. “They are at the edge of our scanning range and holding position. Within the Borderland, Captain.”

  Pike frowned. The Borderland was a vast swath of territory, portions of which were claimed by (among others) Klingon, Orion, Dorelian, and Huni interests. The area was subject to frequent territorial skirmishes, hijackings, acts of terrorism—it was a dangerous place to travel. Starbase 18 had been located in a little tendril of Federation space that reached inside it, the area Pike and Enterprise had been patrolling over the last few weeks. One of the reasons they had had so many encounters with Hexar and Captain Kritos.

  “All right. Let’s see what they want.” He gestured to Garrison. “Open the channel.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Pike prepared himself. Given the tallith’s achievements, he expected the man would have to be a formidable warrior, first of all. A charismatic leader as well. Experienced. Shrewd. An older man, most likely, a particularly successful merchant, a retired pirate … Tuval was right to be on his guard; Pike would have to be, too. Noguchi might want him to feel out the Orions with regard to establishing a closer relationship, but the captain’s foremost concern had to remain, as always, the safety of his ship and crew.

  The screen came to life. The captain blinked.

  The tallith was a woman.

  A striking-looking woman at that, with long dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, and dark green skin, wearing what looked like pirate leathers, black with a red and gold insignia stitched on the chest. She sat in a command chair analogous to his own, her expression impassive, impervious. Commanding.

  “Greetings. I am Liyan of the Codruta, tallith of the Orion people.”

  “Christopher Pike, captain of the Enterprise .”

  “Your ship—you and your officers—are well known among my people.”

  “Your reputation precedes you as well, Tallith. You have accomplished much.”

  “With much more to do. But I thank you for the compliment.” She bowed her head.

  Pike supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised, at that. Women were the power behind many of the Orion clans, particularly the traders. The pheromones at work, the females offered themselves up as slaves or courtesans to rich merchants, whom they then began to influence in ways both subtle and obvious. Or tried to, anyway. There were at least as many stories of slave girls reduced to little more than beggars as there were of rich and powerful pirates turned into little more than oversized lapdogs by their women.

  This was no slave girl on the viewscreen before him, though. This was a woman used to, and comfortable with, power. Liyan of the Codruta.

  Odd that she should have identified herself as being from that clan first and as an Orion second.

  “I will come straight to the point, Captain Pike. I request your assistance.”

  “Assistance.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask what type of assistance?”

  “I would discuss that when you arrive.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I would like to invite you and your senior officers to come aboard Karkon’s Wing as my guests.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pike said. “But by terms outlined in the Gorengar treaty, Federation personnel are expressly forbidden from assisting—”

  “Gorengar. Of course. I should have been clearer. This is an emergency situation. Exceptions are provided for same in the treaty, are they not?”

  “They are. But …” Pike scanned the status monitor on the arm of his chair as he spoke. He didn’t note any problem with the Orion vessel, its engines, life-support systems … “An emergency. May I ask what kind?”

  “The crisis is medical in nature.”

  “We’re happy
to forward supplies to you.”

  “Supplies we have, Captain Pike. What we require is expertise. Advanced treatment. Of the kind that only Federation doctors can provide. Let me show you.” She gestured toward someone offscreen. A second later, her image disappeared, replaced by what was obviously a sickbay. Diagnostic beds, a variety of old and new, filled with patients, some simply bandaged, others more seriously injured. Dozens, at least. Maybe as many as a hundred.

  The sickbay disappeared, and Liyan returned.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “We have been attacked. A series of unprovoked raids on our holdings in this sector, on our ships. This is the most recent. And the deadliest.”

  “Who’s responsible for these attacks?”

  “Klingons,” the tallith said. “Two warbirds. The ships appeared from nowhere. Almost like magic. We suspect some new technological advance.”

  The bridge around Pike, which had been buzzing with activity, fell silent.

  “Very interesting,” the captain said. “I think we will take you up on your invitation after all.”

  FOUR

  Every bit of the Borderland was disputed territory, not just the vast interior but the very edges of it, which Enterprise and Karkon’s Wing were both skirting. Those edges were ill defined enough that Pike had the landing party board a shuttle for transport over to the Orion ship, rather than use the materializer. Ben wasn’t happy with that decision. He and the captain spent the first few minutes of the shuttle flight arguing about it. Boyce, for his part, didn’t have strong feelings on the subject, but he knew a lot of people who did. The evidence, in his opinion, was entirely inconclusive.

  In the seat next to him, Lieutenant Hoto droned on. “… this database search I have conducted even this morning has revealed matches between current Codruta surnames and names of several ruling families from the days of the Second Empire, indicative of not just the clan’s importance in those times but supportive of this tallith’s claims to a position of leadership based upon historical precedent. The name Liyan also carries with it specific resonances, as the Orion story cycle most commonly known as the Doerge suggests, in that . . .”