by Ilsa J. Bick
Kaldarren turned aside, staring down at the long-dead planet spread below their ship. The planet looked like a flawed, red-gray agate marble, though his keen eyes picked out surface details as their ship skimmed over them in its orbit: the stippled ridges of mountains that were a curious rust color; a large irregular trough scooped out of the surface that had been a lake, or an inland sea.
The bigger question: If the Hebitians had lived here, how had they gotten to the planet to begin with?
Kaldarren reviewed what he knew. According to the Cardassians, they claimed descent from an ancient civilization, the Hebitians. Hebitian ruins found on Cardassia Prime testified that the Hebitians had developed a rich, highly evolved culture. The burial tombs the Hebitians had left behind brimmed with tremendous wealth, and it was from the plunder of those tombs that the Cardassians had built up their formidable military and financed their missions of conquest.
But another fact: There wasn’t a shred of evidence to suggest that the Hebitians were a spacefaring race, and nothing in any of the ancient Hebitian texts discovered so far suggested that the Hebitians had left the planet, ever. Until now.
Their orbit had brought them over a dried ocean bed, and Kaldarren could just make out the sheer drop-off of a continental shelf. Down there, once, there had been water, and on that water, ships had scudded from one shore to the next. Some of the ships had sunk, and if he only had time enough, Kaldarren might walk the trenches and submerged mountains, now laid bare to the naked eye, and wander into wrecks no living person had glimpsed for thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years.
Kaldarren felt the familiar tingle of excitement the prospect of a new discovery always brought. When Chen-Mai had originally contacted him with writings that the man claimed were ancient Cardassian, Kaldarren had been dismissive. Only after he’d studied the writings himself was he convinced that there might be some truth behind the legends that the Hebitians were telepaths and that they had developed a fabulous technology: a psionic intradimensional portal capable of allowing the Hebitians to move about the galaxy with nothing more substantial than thought.
Which was why Chen-Mai needed Kaldarren. Chen-Mai’s motives were pure and simple: profit. He was, he’d explained, acting at the behest of an employer who was very wealthy and would pay very well for the technology. Even if the technology turned out not to exist, the discovery of another Cardassian tomb, and the riches that were surely within, would be more than ample return for the investment.
Failure was not an option. Neither was getting caught by the Cardassians. The region wasn’t technically Cardassian; it was in dispute. Still, the Cardassians were very touchy about these things and would view any ship in the region, exclusive of pre-arranged Starfleet contacts, as a violation—and a provocation.
So why am I here? Why have I come to this godforsaken place where I’m just as likely to get shot by a Cardassian as find anything? They were questions Kaldarren had asked himself many times over, and ones to which he had yet to discover a satisfactory answer. He didn’t need the money. Money wasn’t a consideration on any Federation world. It was true that he needed resources that were hard to come by; all researchers competed for better ships, more personnel. That was why the Federation Science Council expected fairly detailed proposals.
Was it the challenge? Certainly there was that. But if Kaldarren were honest with himself, he would admit that he craved the prestige. He could picture the envy of his colleagues, the adulation and publicity he’d garner if he, Ven Kaldarren, were the author of the find of the century. (That Chen-Mai’s employer might not allow Kaldarren to publicize, much less publish and present, his findings had never occurred to him.)
But was he so callow that all he wanted was notoriety? No, there was more to it than that, and Kaldarren thought he’d hit upon it just a little while ago. There was Rachel Garrett. And why? Jase’s respect? To prove to his son that he, Kaldarren, was just as important as his mother? Maybe.
Or maybe it just has to do with Rachel. Just…Rachel. How long before that pain, and his desire for her, went away?
There was no answer for that particular question. He didn’t expect one—yet. Soon, though: He suspected he needed to know, and very soon. He couldn’t keep on this way, taking these kinds of risks. It wasn’t good for Jase—or him.
“I have a question,” he said, out loud. Kaldarren looked over at Chen-Mai. “If we don’t find the portal…”
Chen-Mai didn’t even let him finish the sentence. “Then you’d better hope the Cardassians do catch us, because you won’t like the alternative. Neither will your boy.”
Failure is not an option. Kaldarren let a moment go by. “Well then,” he said, “I guess I’d better not fail.”
“No.” Chen-Mai didn’t so much as crack a smile. “I guess you’d better not.”
Chapter 12
This had better work. Halak watched as the carpet of light that was Maltabra City slid away beneath the aircar. This had damn well better work.
He was on edge, maybe because the Bolian was driving. But there was something wrong, something more. Halak could feel it.
“Matsaro will take you to the shuttle,” Arava had said. She’d plucked up her cloak and slid it about her shoulders. Her fingers worked the clasp: a jevonite dragon with ruby eyes and golden scales that was Qadir’s personal emblem.
(Halak hadn’t wanted to question her too closely on how she’d come by the piece. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Qadir only gave baubles and expensive trinkets to potential conquests. Or intimates.)
Arava said, “I’ve hidden the shuttle there, in a valley near the old Tsoran mine. Everyone moved out of the hills long ago, ever since the mines dried up. I checked, and there are no expeditions registered for that area. So you won’t run into anyone, and vice versa. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“We have passage off Farius Prime,” said Batra. Halak had heard the strain in Batra’s voice, and he’d taken her hand. But her fingers were cold, and she hadn’t spared him a glance.
Arava had shaken her head. “I want you to use the shuttle to get off-world. It’s got a fake registry. No one will know it’s you. Avoid the spaceport at all costs. I’m pretty sure Qadir’s men are watching out for you.”
“But you said yourself that our being in Starfleet…”
“Will only get you so far.” Arava’s tone was firm. “You have no reason to trust me, I know. You don’t know me. But you have to trust me on this.”
Batra had gone very pale. “I’m not sure I have a choice. I guess if Halak trusts you, I have to.”
“Fair enough. The reality is that even if Qadir isn’t looking for Samir, the Orion Syndicate would be just as happy to get their hands on him.” Arava had turned a grim smile on Halak. “You’re more valuable than you know. A lot of information in that brain of yours.”
“What about you?” Halak said. He’d given up hope of having her leave with them. Halak comforted himself with the reality that she’d stayed alive and moved up the ranks in Qadir’s organization for years now.
“When I’m ready, you’ll know,” she’d said. “There’ll be plenty of noise, and you can bet that everyone in the damn quadrant will hear it.”
Now, dead ahead, Halak saw the city’s perimeter beacons winking. In a few more moments, they would be out of the city proper, and that much closer to getting off the planet. Everything had gone according to plan. The Bolian had gotten them off without a hitch; they weren’t being followed; and in a few seconds, they’d be beyond the precincts of the city proper. But Halak just couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something.
But what was it? Halak worried the feeling like a dog nosing an old bone. Halak had glanced at the Bolian’s onboard systems and seen that the proximity alarm was on. So no one could sneak up on them from behind, and they weren’t being followed.
The Bolian said, “Something on your mind?”
“What?” Halak realized then that he was practically breat
hing down the Bolian’s neck. “No,” he said, watching as the Bolian keyed in the aircar’s transponder to signal to the perimeter automated sentries that their aircar was leaving the city’s immediate vicinity. “Uh, how much longer?”
“About another twenty minutes.” The Bolian’s blue eyes flicked to Halak and then back to his instruments. “Sit back, will you? You’re making me nervous.”
“Sure,” said Halak. The aircar’s onboard computer pinged with a recognition signal and he listened as the city computer noted the date and time. “You’ve been where we’re going?”
“Once or twice. It’s a valley along the far western flank of the range. There’s nothing out there but a bunch of rocks, okay? No way anyone can sneak up on us either. The valley’s too well hidden. So relax. Arava told me to take care of you, and I’ll take care of you.”
“Right. Sorry.” Watching the black landscape skimming below, Halak sighed. A muscle complained along his right side, and he shifted, wincing. Other than getting himself knifed, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d accomplished.
Or lost. His eyes slid to Batra who sat on his right. The Bolian had left the interior lights off in the aircar, and the only light came from the green and yellow glow of instruments and sensors in the front. So Batra was a shadow, like an old daguerreotype: all dark profile, though he caught the glint of reflected light in her eyes. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. There was no soundproof barrier between them and the Bolian, so he wasn’t free to talk. Halak chewed the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure what he could say—or reveal—anyway.
No one must know. Turning aside, Halak rested his forehead upon the cool glass of the aircar’s passenger window and closed his eyes. Lies layered upon other lies, and no way to see his way clear. And now there was Batra, who’d seen and heard too much already. He’d have to think of something he could tell her.
Unless it was already too late for that. Halak’s stomach churned with anxiety. Batra had said nothing after they’d left Arava. There had been no time for talk, no privacy for it either. A blessing, and a curse: He had time to think out what he wanted, or thought it safe to tell her. But, with every passing moment, he felt her edging further away, the unspoken breach between them widening. But, if he told her everything, he’d lose her. Halak had no illusions about that. And if he didn’t, he’d likely lose her anyway. He had to worry about what might get her killed, too.
Arava was right. Starfleet was a buffer, but not even Starfleet could, or would, protect either of them forever.
He leaned forward. “What about patrols?”
The Bolian didn’t look around. The glow from the instruments made his blue skin look yellow. “None from the city out this far,” said the Bolian, as a single soft ping sounded as the aircar chimed the quarter-hour. “The shuttle’s computer has a preprogrammed flight path input that will take you out of Farius Prime’s space and keep you well away from regularly scheduled transport corridors. The shuttle’s transponder signal registers as Vulcan. Plenty of Vulcan merchant ships in and out of here all the time.”
“Oh?” Somehow the image of Vulcans running illegal arms or drugs didn’t square with Halak.
“There are plenty of legit Vulcans doing business here. Anyway, Arava thought it was better that the ship show as Vulcan. You’re less likely to be shot at, for one.”
“That’s comforting. What about communications?”
“Keep your channels closed until you’re a good parsec out of Farius Prime’s space. Then you can use communications. Not before: There’s a Syndicate listening post on the second moon, and the Qatala maintains a perimeter relay system. More than likely, they won’t be interested in you, but I wouldn’t take any chances.” The Bolian paused. “Any idea where you’re headed?”
Halak hesitated. There was something about what the Bolian had just said that bothered him. Or maybe it was something the Bolian had done. Something about a heading…The feeling he’d had earlier—that there was something not quite right—bubbled to the surface of his mind. But he still didn’t know….
As for where they were going, his next move depended on Batra. But he had no illusions: They weren’t going to Betazed. More than likely, Batra wouldn’t want to have anything more to do with him. But they’d still have to get in touch with Enterprise. (He’d think of some way to explain how they came to have a Vulcan shuttle later.)
None of this was the Bolian’s concern, so Halak said, in an offhand way, “Not yet. Betazed, maybe.”
“Mmm.” The Bolian’s fingers crawled over the altitude controls and Halak felt the pit of his stomach drop as the Bolian decelerated. He watched over the Bolian’s shoulder as the aircar’s sensors detailed the cleft of a narrow valley, and then the shuttle itself.
He saw immediately that the Bolian had been right. The valley was isolated, and there were no passes or trails. Halak saw that the valley was really a couloir, surrounded by eskers and moraines—rocks and boulders pushed into piles by a glacier as it had advanced and then retreated. Plenty of cover for anyone wanting to ambush them, but the sensors showed all clear.
“Any way someone could mask a signature?” he asked the Bolian. “Hide their ship, maybe? How about the magnetic fields around these mountains?”
“Magnetic fields are there; they almost always are, even around these extinct volcanoes. But if you’re talking a cloak, I doubt it.”
“Mmmm.” Halak didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But he wanted to be sure. He’d had enough surprises for one day. “Scan for life signs, would you?”
“Did that already. Not a living breathing soul around for fifty kilometers. That is, unless you count the Katangan mountain lions and a couple herds of caprinated rams.”
“Great. So do it again,” said Halak.
“Whatever you say.” The Bolian hiked his shoulders and activated the aircar’s sensors.
One glance confirmed that the Bolian was correct: no one else there. The Bolian swung his head around. “Okay?”
“Just about. Don’t land right away. I want to do a flyby, go north about two kilometers,” Halak tapped the sensor grid, “to that talus out there, and then circle back from the east.”
“What for? You just saw. The sensors…”
“I know what I saw. Humor me, okay? When you come back around, I want you to angle the aircar so I get a good look at the shuttle.”
He felt Batra touch his elbow. “Samir?”
He twisted his head to look back at her. “I just want to be sure.”
“But Arava…”
“I know what she said. But things haven’t exactly gone according to plan now, have they? I just want to be sure,” he said again, reaching for her face. Her cheek was as still and cool as marble under his fingers. “I want to keep you as safe as I can.”
“Suit yourself,” said the Bolian.
In another moment, Halak felt their speed pick up again, and he watched as they lifted out of the valley. The Bolian circled and as he came in from the east, he flicked on a set of floodlights. Peering out the windscreen, Halak saw the steep slope of rocks and debris fanning around the base of a craggy peak that was the talus. The surrounding mountains were void of vegetation, and as they dipped back to the couloir, he saw scree and weathered arroyos where erosion had sluiced away soil to reveal bare red rock. In another second, he spotted their shuttle squatting on the surface.
“Satisfied?” asked the Bolian.
“Yes,” said Halak. “You can set us down now.”
In another minute, the aircar had ridden a vertical column of compressed air to the surface. The Bolian killed the engine but left a pair of headlamps on that illuminated the shuttle in a wash of silver light. He then popped the driver’s side gullwing door before unfolding his lanky frame; Halak did the same with the rear passenger door. Sliding out, he turned and reached back to take Batra by the hand.
“Let’s go,” he said.
But Batra didn’t take his hand. Instead she looked past
Halak, over his shoulder. “Samir,” she said, her voice strangled. Her eyes were wide and dark. “Samir.”
The way she said his name, he knew even before he turned. In the same instant, he heard the soft ping of the aircar’s chronometer, and then it hit him: the thing he couldn’t put his finger on. That damn ping.
Halak exhaled, very slowly, but his mind raced, riffling through his options. He had to gamble now that the Bolian didn’t know about his phaser. His brain leapt back to his meeting with Arava. He didn’t think the fact that he had a phaser had come up while the Bolian was around, but he couldn’t remember. He had to play this exactly right. Halak inched around: halfway, to his left, keeping his phaser hand—and his phaser—hidden from view.
The Bolian leveled a weapon at his chest. With an almost dispassionate eye, Halak saw that the weapon was a Breen pulse gun. Breen pulse guns were illegal in Federation space because they had no safety, and only one setting: kill.
Halak waited a full three seconds before speaking. “You know, I had a hunch. Things were just going too smoothly. I’m rusty, though. I missed it until just now. You keyed in an exit code when you left the city limits. But, see, not keying in the code would’ve made sense, if you were trying to get someone out and didn’t want anyone to know. But Arava said that Qadir’s men were out looking for me, and so if you keyed in a code and you’re one of Arava’s men—and by extension, Qadir’s—then that means Qadir ought to have sent someone after us. But he didn’t because Qadir knows all about this already, doesn’t he?” Halak shook his head in wonderment. “You’re working for Qadir, not Arava. I missed it.”
“Bad luck for you. Back away from the car, please. Hands in the air where I can see them.”
Halak made a half move to comply but stopped. “What’s going to happen to Arava?”
