Star Trek®: Excelsior: Forged in Fire

by Michael A. Martin

  “What do you mean?” Nej asked.

  Qagh considered the House that had abandoned him all those long decades ago, and whose kinsmen were even now doubtless trying to follow his trail because of the Korvat affair.

  He considered how satisfying it would be to do more than simply elude the members of that House.

  He pondered how the isomiotic hypos he had found in the Mempan lab might help him attain that satisfaction, once he’d assembled a few other critically necessary components to complement them. It made sense. After all, why should he be forced to confine his offensive capabilities to the ability to kill only a few people at a time—especially at a time when he might need to gain serious leverage over one of the oldest Houses on Qo’noS?

  “I mean,” he said at length, “that you are going to do more than simply help me scrounge yet another few additional weeks or months of life, Nej.

  “You are also going to help me engineer and assemble a rather formidable weapon.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Early 2290 (the Year of Kahless 915,

  late in the month of Doqath)

  I.K.S. Klothos

  “What do you mean you cannot follow the trail?”

  Kor’s voice rose to a roar nearly loud enough to be heard in the vacuum of space, making Dax glad he was seated at a station in the aft portion of the Klothos’s bridge.

  “Our sensors no longer reveal any trace of the target vessel’s warp trail,” said the Klingon helmsman, his tone surly but not mutinous.

  “Then recalibrate them!” Kor ordered. He glowered as he turned, momentarily catching Dax and several assorted Klingon bridge officers in his withering glare before seating himself in the center-mounted command chair.

  “Incoming hail, Captain,” the communications officer shouted.

  A moment later, the equally perturbed visage of Kang filled the forward viewscreen. “Tell me that your ship hasn’t lost the trail as well,” Kang growled.

  “Ghuy’cha’ qI’yaH qovpatlh!” Kor said, rendering what Dax could only interpret as an artfully wrought stream of Klingon profanity. “I was hoping at least that your luck would prove better than mine.”

  “No. And Koloth has just informed me that he is faring no better.”

  Dax moved over to one of the tactical stations that served double duty as a science station, even though it bore little resemblance to any Starfleet console he had ever seen. The buxom Klingon woman who sat there—he thought her name was Ma’kella—stared up at him as though he had just pulled his symbiont out of his abdomen.

  “Do you mind if I try to reestablish the trail?”

  Ma’kella bared her finely sharpened teeth at him and growled something that Dax couldn’t quite make out, but which nevertheless required no translation.

  “Let him try!” Kor thundered behind him.

  Although the Klingon woman moved aside quickly, Dax noticed that she was watching him intently as his hands moved deliberately over the unfamiliar controls. “We might be able to track it indirectly using harmonic resonances in the lower subspace frequencies, assuming that the hard-radiation trail itself hasn’t degraded too far.” He watched the data scrolling across the screen and frowned at it.

  “Well?” Kor asked.

  “I’m not seeing anything,” Dax said. He continued adjusting the controls, but none of the new settings he tried seemed to give him the result he was hoping to see.

  He stood and turned toward Kor and the image of Kang that frowned across the bridge from the forward viewscreen. “Your tacticians are correct as far as I can tell. The trail does seem to end here.”

  “How can that be?” Kang said, his upper lip twitching slightly as if he were about to snarl.

  “Maybe another ship picked them up,” Dax said, spreading his hands. “Or maybe they discovered that they were leaving a detectable trail and found a way to mask it.”

  “Dor’sho’gha!” Kor cursed. “Then we must split up and redouble our efforts to find him.”

  “I think I may have a better idea,” Dax said. He was aware that the Klingons might not like what he was about to say, but he hoped that his best diplomatic manner would make it more palatable. “As powerful as your warships are, they weren’t built with scientific exploration in mind the way Excelsior was. Even at this distance, her high-powered sensors might be of significant use to us in this chase. Excelsior may not be able to pursue the albino alongside us, but she can at least give us a reliable map.”

  On the screen, Kang nodded. “It is a good plan. They have honor to regain as well, for the losses they took on Korvat. Even if the Federation won’t allow Sulu to fight, he and his vessel may still be of service to us.”

  Dax knew that the Federation wasn’t necessarily the only obstacle in Excelsior’s path; there was the sometimes capricious and always vehement Klingon High Council to consider as well. But he knew that now was not the time to raise that particular point.

  “Very well,” Kor said, settling back into his command chair. “We will see what Excelsior can offer us.”

  Minutes later, with subspace contact initiated, Dax brought Commander Sulu up to speed on the particulars of their situation. As if to point out that the bridge was still his, Kor stalked behind Dax as he spoke, occasionally interjecting comments.

  “Lieutenant Valtane is already working on ways to help you pick up the trail again,” Sulu said, sitting ramrod straight in his bridge command chair, though his parsecs-distant image rippled and wavered slightly on the main viewscreen. “In the meantime, please keep us apprised of whatever progress you’re making on your end.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Dax said, recalling what he’d been told of Starfleet’s tradition of addressing a ship’s commanding officer as a captain, regardless of the CO’s actual rank.

  “Before you sign off, Mister Ambassador, I have someone here who wishes to speak with you,” Sulu said.

  Dax gave a quizzical look to Kor as Sulu rose from his chair and moved out of the viewscreen’s frame. Moments later another figure stepped into view in the center of Excelsior’s busy bridge.

  “Greetings, Captain Kor, to you and your esteemed crew,” Ambassador Sarek said with apparent sincerity. “And to you, Curzon Dax.”

  Dax felt conflicting surges of relief and trepidation, his delight over Sarek’s renewed health wrestling with his apprehension over the Vulcan’s likely response to his decision to enter Klingon space.

  “Mister Ambassador,” Dax said, nodding. He felt tonguetied, his cheeks reddening as he realized how lame he sounded.

  “You seem to have recovered well,” Kor said. It seemed to be both a question and a statement.

  “I was very fortunate,” Sarek said. “Your own ambassadors Kamarag and Kishlat are mending as well, though not as quickly as I, unfortunately. Their injuries were evidently more extensive than mine.”

  Kor grunted, but said nothing more.

  Dax cleared his throat, ready to make his apologies to Sarek, though he had no wish to make himself appear weak in the eyes of the Klingons. “Sir, I realize that my decision to accompany the Klingon crew was—”

  “You chose the option you thought best under the circumstances,” Sarek said, interrupting him. “We each do as we must, guided by both logic and conscience.” Sarek paused, raising an eyebrow as if to signal that he would choose a more propitious time to deliver either reprimands or praise. Or perhaps he was merely acknowledging that he had no real power at the moment to force his will upon Dax. “I trust,” the Vulcan continued, “that we will discuss both at considerable length upon your return.”

  Sarek held up his hand, parting his fingers in the center in the familiar V-shaped Vulcan greeting. “Live long and prosper, Curzon Dax and Captain Kor.”

  Dax returned both the salute and the salutation, and the screen went black a moment later. Only then did he allow the tension that had gathered within him to leave his body.

  Here I was certain that Sarek would call me on the carpet right in front
of Kor and his crew, Dax thought. The fact that his superior hadn’t done so spoke highly of the trust he had invested in his junior ambassador. Perhaps it meant that Sarek assumed he might accomplish some tangible results with the very same Klingon captains who had been ready to rip his throat out only a few days before, and who were now allowing him to serve aboard their vessels, if only begrudgingly at first.

  Concealing the faint glimmerings of a smile, Dax realized that if one lone diplomat could gain the respect of three of the most accomplished warriors in the entire Klingon Empire, then perhaps galactic peace was attainable after all.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Stardate 9010.6 (Early 2290)

  U.S.S. Excelsior

  “Since Mister Dax’s subspace resonance idea still hasn’t panned out, we have to find some other way to get the Klingons back on the trail,” Sulu said, looking over his own tented fingers at the conference room monitor, which displayed the somewhat worried-looking countenance of Curzon Dax.

  “But without, obviously, violating our orders not to enter Klingon space,” said Lieutenant Commander Cutler, who sat at the table’s opposite side, between Dr. Chapel and Ambassador Sarek; the only senior diplomat not present, either physically or virtually, was Kamarag, who remained stable yet comatose in sickbay, in essentially the same condition as Dr. Klass.

  Sulu cast a narrow gaze at his exec. “Let’s take that as a given, Commander.” At least until we’ve completely run out of better ideas, he added silently.

  “Whatever we do, we’d better get it done while there’s still a trail left to follow,” said Chapel.

  “That’s definitely our biggest limiting factor at the moment, Doctor,” said the young Trill diplomat, who was participating in the conference via a scrambled subspace frequency. His image, which originated on a Klingon vessel located many light-years inside Klingon space, wavered and rippled slightly on the triple-sided monitor. “If there’s any way to reestablish the trail, we’re going to have to do it soon. Otherwise, we won’t get another chance at this terrorist ringleader until after he commits some other high-profile crime.”

  Ambassador Sarek, who had been sitting still and silent, finally broke his silence. “I quite agree.”

  Cutler shook her head emphatically. “Lieutenant Valtane is busy double-checking the sensor returns now, but he’s already hit the wall in terms of sensor efficiency. Whatever particle trail the hostile’s ship left behind is already way too attenuated for us to work with at this distance—our new sensors notwithstanding.”

  “Unless you can find a way to move those sensors closer to the trail somehow, Commander,” Dax said.

  Sulu’s jaw muscles tightened involuntarily as his frustration mounted further. “Let me point out, Mister Dax—again—that doing that simply isn’t one of our options.”

  “Indeed, Captain,” Sarek said. “We must instead explore an alternative strategy.”

  “What do you mean, Ambassador?” said Dax, looking somewhat chastened.

  Sarek raised his right eyebrow, a gesture Sulu recalled having seen the Vulcan diplomat’s younger son use frequently. “I mean that since we cannot simply follow our quarry to his next destination, we must instead anticipate that destination.”

  “Respectfully, Ambassador, that’s a great deal easier to say than to do,” Cutler said. “This is a very big galaxy.”

  “Granted, Commander,” Dax said. “But it’s all just a matter of narrowing down the search. The only question is ‘how?’”

  Cutler raised a skeptical eyebrow, folding her arms before her as though daring the Trill diplomat to go on. “I, for one, am dying to hear the answer to that question, Mister Dax.”

  “We already know our fugitive has an agenda,” Dax said, apparently unfazed by the exec’s doubts.

  Sulu nodded. “A chronic medical condition.”

  “A condition that requires continual monitoring and treatment,” Sarek said.

  “And treatment of a very specific kind,” Chapel said. “I haven’t seen a lot of serially progressive DNA mutations like this one before—hell, it doesn’t even have a name in the medical literature, unless you’ve been trained in the Klingon language—but it’s a safe bet our albino has an ongoing need to develop new therapeutic compounds that are rich in chromadiacetine.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Cutler asked, frowning.

  “Chromadiacetine is an amino acid. According to my preliminary tests, it’s the best candidate for creating compounds capable of arresting or delaying this particular genetic disorder. It could take a lifetime to work out all the permutations, though.”

  Sulu nodded. “Our fugitive may well have spent his whole life doing just that, Doctor: slowing down the drift of his DNA just long enough to develop another drug that will do the same job the next time his genome spontaneously mutates.”

  “But chromadiacetine doesn’t figure into the metabolic processes of most known humanoid species,” Chapel said. “Or most M-class ecologies, for that matter.”

  “Perhaps that is to our advantage,” Sarek said.

  “Maybe,” Sulu said, nodding. “Particularly if the stuff is rare enough to be conspicuous when somebody goes after it in large enough quantities.”

  Cutler brightened, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward enthusiastically. “So all we have to do is find whichever planet has enough of this stuff for our raider to find useful. There can’t be all that many places that fit the profile, can there?”

  Sulu released his breath with a hiss that he realized belatedly had morphed into something perilously close to a frustrated sigh.

  “In Federation space that’s true enough,” he said. “Maybe even along our border with the Klingon Empire as well. Unfortunately, we just don’t know enough about the planets beyond to point the Klingons in any specific direction.”

  A pensive silence draped itself across the room like a shroud as Sulu considered his current range of options, which continued to narrow.

  “Are we still connected?” Dax said, shattering the silence. Returning his gaze to the screen, Sulu noticed that the Trill’s image was wavering even more than it had only moments before, as the distance between him and Excelsior grew at a pace that exceeded the speed of light itself by many orders of magnitude.

  “We’re receiving you, Ambassador,” Sulu said.

  “Before we lose contact completely, please send me everything you have on this chromadiacetine stuff, Captain,” Dax said, grinning with an almost haughty confidence that Sulu had a great deal of difficulty squaring with reality. “I’ll—how do you humans say it?—carry the ball from here. Curzon Dax out.”

  The Trill’s image fluttered momentarily before being replaced by the neutral blue-and-white star-sector-and-laurel-leaf logo of the Federation.

  Sulu stood, signaling that the meeting was at an end. Cutler and Chapel rose, as did Sarek, who moved with surprising suppleness for a man who had been so near death so recently.

  “I certainly hope Mister Dax knows what he’s doing,” Sulu said.

  The Vulcan surprised him with a subtle but fleeting facial expression that might have been mistaken for a half-smile had it lasted a fraction of a second longer.

  “He has never given me reason to doubt it,” Sarek said, and excused himself from the conference room, followed by Chapel and Cutler.

  There’s always a first time for everything, Sulu thought.

  Early 2290 (the Year of Kahless 915,

  late in the month of Doqath)

  I.K.S. Klothos

  “Your own planetary database has narrowed our search down to a single world,” Dax said, handing the datapad over to Kor, who sat in the command chair in the center of the cramped control center.

  “Mempa II,” Koloth said, watching from the chair’s left side as Kor scowled down at the datapad. “How can you be so certain that is the world we seek?”

  “Indeed,” said Kang, who stood at the chair’s opposite side looking askance at Dax. “We cannot afford to be led
down a false trail. Should that happen, we may never find our quarry again.”

  Dax took a long, deep breath. Speak loudly and confidently, he told himself for perhaps the hundredth time since he’d made his decision to accompany these warriors in their quest for the albino. These are Klingons, after all.

  “Do you really need me to brief you on Doctor Chapel’s findings yet again?” he said with as much angry authority as he could muster. “Not only is Mempa II the sole known source of easily accessible chromadiacetine in the entire sector, it’s also home to one of the most advanced bioscience labs in your Empire. Neither piece of information is likely to be a secret from the raider; he’ll be drawn there like a mreker pup to a prong flower blossom.”

  The three Klingon captains regarded Dax in unreadable, stony silence for a protracted moment that felt at least half as long as eternity itself. Then Kang and Koloth both turned their gazes upon their comrade who occupied the Klothos’s center seat.

  As the flagship commander, Kor would make the decision that guided the actions of the other two Klingon captains.

  “Very well,” Kor said at length, his dark, intense eyes settling upon Dax. Addressing Kang and Koloth, he added, “Unless either of you has reason to object.”

  Kang and Koloth exchanged a wordless glance punctuated by a curt mutual nod.

  “We will return to our vessels, Kor,” Kang said as he began moving toward the hatch in the control room’s aft section.

  “Lead the way,” Koloth said to Kor. “To Mempa II.”

  Early 2290 (the Year of Kahless 915,

  late in the month of Doqath)

  Klingon space, near Mempa II

  The repairs completed—using parts scavenged from the few Mempan shuttlecraft stationed at the laboratory settlement—the Hegh’TlhoS rose into orbit, surmounting the orange-tinted atmosphere and entering the inky darkness of space. Qagh felt better than he had in days; his wounds from Korvat were healing well, and Nej’s latest treatment had returned him to nearly full strength. Now, both he and his ship, as well as his crew, were operating at close to peak efficiency.