Purgatory's Key

by Dayton Ward

  Wonders never cease.

  Kirk nodded. “My pleasure, Captain. Kirk out.” He gestured to Uhura to sever the communication. Once J’Teglyr’s face vanished from the viewscreen and was replaced with an image of the Qo’Daqh, the captain shook his head as he let himself drop into his command chair. “Lieutenant Uhura, have all department heads forward damage reports directly to Mister Scott in engineering.”

  “Aye, Captain,” replied the communications officer.

  After a moment spent studying the wounded Klingon vessel, he activated the intercom panel on his armrest. “Kirk to Spock. What’s your status? Anything new on the probe?”

  Several seconds passed before the Vulcan’s voice replied, “Unchanged, Captain. It appears to have lost power, and we are no longer receiving telemetry. We are analyzing the data we have collected in the hopes of determining a way to reestablish contact or perhaps retrieve it. I was going to ask Mister Scott to assist us, but it is likely his skills are now required elsewhere.”

  “Your gift for understatement never ceases to amaze me, Spock. Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better figure it out fast. Now that the Klingons know for sure that we can access the transfer generator, I don’t expect them to sit idly by and wait this out.” Though he did not believe the unexpected attack from the Qo’Daqh was born from that concern, there was still Captain J’Teglyr, who was continuing to play his cards very close to his vest.

  Kirk closed his eyes, shaking his head.

  “Things can never be simple, can they?”

  Twenty-one

  Visla knelt beside Koveq, staring into eyes that no longer saw anything. Somehow they remained undamaged despite the ruin visited upon the rest of his face and chest. Ignoring the blood and the stench of his burned flesh, she placed her palm along the tattered, burned skin of his left cheek.

  “I am sorry, my dear friend.”

  She had already carried out the ritual, staring into Koveq’s open, lifeless eyes before releasing a raucous scream toward Sto-Vo-Kor, warning its denizens that a fine warrior was due to arrive in their midst. All that remained was to see to the disposal of his body. Would there be time to do even that before she was forced to abandon ship?

  With him positioned behind her during the brief, fierce skirmish with the Federation ship, Visla had not seen the explosion from the overloaded console that had taken Koveq’s life and injured another of her bridge officers. The precision phaser strike from the Enterprise had triggered massive overloads throughout the Qo’Daqh, overwhelming its overstrained, underpowered electrical relay systems. It was yet another indictment of an aged vessel that should have been refurbished or scrapped long before Visla had reached adulthood. The explosion had been enough to singe the hair on the back of her head, and shrapnel had peppered the back of her chair and her exposed skin. She had swiveled around in time to see Koveq fall from his station, dead before his body even collapsed to the deck.

  From that point the battle’s end was a foregone conclusion. The Enterprise had scored devastating hits on the Qo’Daqh, disabling its main engines and hampering a number of internal systems. Had its commander been of a mind to do so, the Starfleet vessel would have been able to destroy her ship with ease. Instead, Kirk had chosen in typical Earther fashion to spare her and her crew, and Visla now loathed him for it.

  Finish us, you worthless targ. Send us from this life with some shred of dignity.

  It was not to be. There would be no honorable death this day.

  “Commander.”

  It was Woveth, who had come up behind her. Turning away from Koveq, Visla regarded her first officer and for the first time noticed the near silence of the Qo’Daqh’s bridge. Nearly every station and display monitor was inactive, and only emergency lighting cast any illumination into the cramped space. The rest of her bridge crew was gone, having been ordered to the ship’s transporter room as part of the evacuation to the Vron’joQ.

  “What is it?”

  Woveth replied, “The last of the crew has left the ship. We are all that remain, except for the dead.”

  Nodding at the report, Visla considered the eleven other Klingons who, like Koveq, had died in the battle. Most of the other casualties had come from the explosion in the ship’s aft portion, while two had suffered fatal injuries similar to Koveq’s. “Have the dead been sent on their way to Sto-Vo-Kor?”

  “Yes, Commander. I saw to it myself.”

  “Good. It is the least we can do for them. Despite whatever disgrace they may have carried, they served with honor until the end.” That her crew had followed her commands and never wavered in their loyalty to her was without question. What remained unanswered was whether the lives of the dead had been sacrificed in service to a noble goal. That would be a matter of much discussion once she and the rest of the Qo’Daqh survivors were returned to High Command, where she would face a full accounting of her decisions and actions.

  So be it.

  “He was a fine warrior,” said Woveth.

  “Yes, he was.” Visla rose to her feet, pausing one final time to study Koveq’s unmoving form. In addition to his status as a loyal soldier of the Empire and her most trusted confidant, he had been a great deal more, but those were thoughts she could revisit at a more appropriate time. For now, there was the unpleasant prospect of presenting herself and her crew to Captain J’Teglyr. Was the shame she now felt the same as that experienced by her son upon his rescue from the doomed HoS’leth? If he could carry such a burden while awaiting retrieval on Centaurus, she could compose herself and face what was to come.

  * * *

  J’Teglyr waited just long enough for Commander Visla to step through the hatch and onto the Vron’joQ’s bridge before he stepped forward and slapped her across the face.

  “Who gave you authorization to attack the Starfleet ship?” His bellowing question echoed off the room’s metal bulkheads and deck plating.

  For her part, Visla took the full brunt of the strike, her only reaction being the snapping of her head to the left. When she looked back to face him, a small rivulet of blood had appeared at the corner of her mouth, courtesy of the ring on J’Teglyr’s right hand. She did not reach up to wipe at the blood. Standing just behind her, a male Klingon with lieutenant’s rank, presumably her first officer, stepped forward, reaching for the disruptor on his hip. He froze in midstep when Visla held out a hand, and her unspoken order was complemented by Commander D’jorok drawing his own weapon and aiming it at the lieutenant’s chest.

  “Move again, and I will kill you where you stand.”

  Waving his first officer to step back, J’Teglyr returned his attention to Visla. “Was it your intention to start a war with the Federation?”

  “Is war against the Federation not what the Empire has always wanted?”

  J’Teglyr clamped his fist at his side. The temptation to strike again was almost overwhelming, but he resisted it. His initial fury was already beginning to ebb, but there remained the very real situation this fool may well have exacerbated.

  “Such a decision is not yours to make.” He forced every word between gritted teeth. “Once you arrived in the system, you fell under my authority as the senior officer present. I could kill you right here and now, and the High Command would give me a commendation.”

  Visla snorted. “Doubtful. Such awards are reserved for actions of true worth. We both know High Command thinks so little of me. Even killing me would be viewed as little more than disposing of a nuisance.”

  “Then maybe I’ll do it for my own amusement.” J’Teglyr took a long look at her, making no attempt to conceal his obvious, wanton stare. She was certainly attractive, and he had no doubts the passion and anger she had exhibited during her brief battle with the Enterprise would translate to other, more recreational pursuits.

  She understood his leering for what it was and lashed out. J’Teglyr let her land the blo
w, feeling the sting as her hand snapped across his cheek. He even smiled in response.

  “Dream all you want, J’Teglyr,” she said. “Were I to allow your fantasy to come to pass, it would only be in service to putting my blade through your eye.”

  J’Teglyr released a hearty laugh, nodding in admiration. “Worry not, Commander. Despite whatever failings you might observe in my personal conduct, I am first and foremost an officer sworn to duty. There will be no dishonorable actions or liberties taken here today.” His smile faded. “You are guests aboard my ship. Do not make me regret my decision to rescue your worthless hides.”

  “What of my ship?” asked Visla. “Can it be towed to a repair base?”

  Turning from her, J’Teglyr eyed the image of the Qo’Daqh on the viewing screen as it drifted in space. The wounded vessel was tumbling on its long axis, its maneuvering and positioning thrusters offline like so many other of the ship’s systems. Its starboard warp nacelle appeared inert, and numerous portholes were dark.

  Looking to Visla, he asked, “Were all the survivors retrieved?”

  The commander nodded. “Yes.” She indicated her companion. “Lieutenant Woveth and I were the last to leave.”

  “How many casualties did you suffer?”

  Visla cast her gaze toward the viewing screen. “Twelve, including my weapons officer.”

  There was a definite change in her tone, and when he looked back at her, J’Teglyr realized from her expression that Visla must have enjoyed a personal relationship with this other officer. His initial impulse was to make some snide remark to that effect, but he quashed the urge. Though it might provide a moment’s petty enjoyment, there was nothing else to be gained from such a childish taunt. Instead, he redirected his attention back to the viewing screen and the Qo’Daqh.

  “Lieutenant G’peq, lock all weapons on that ship.”

  He heard Visla step toward him. “What?”

  “It is a relic,” J’Teglyr said without looking at her. “It is not worth the effort to tow it to a spacedock, let alone the resources necessary to restore it. Better to remove it and its stain of dishonor altogether.” To his surprise, Visla offered nothing more in the way of resistance. Perhaps she was already resigning herself to whatever fate the High Command had reserved for her and realizing that her time and energy were better spent on things other than the distraction of an unsalvageable vessel, regardless of whatever sentimental value it might hold.

  “Weapons are ready, my lord,” reported G’peq.

  “Fire.”

  A pulsing tremor surged through the deck plating and into J’Teglyr’s boots in response to his command as the tactical officer unleashed the full fury of the Vron’joQ’s disruptor cannons and torpedo launchers. The lighting as well as most of the bridge consoles dimmed, the result of power being drawn to feed the ship’s weapons. An instant later J’Teglyr watched a maelstrom of disruptor energy and photon torpedoes streak across the screen, surging through the space separating the Vron’joQ and the Qo’Daqh.

  The first disruptor bolts slammed into the wounded vessel at its midpoint, boring into the reinforced hull plating and weakening them just enough for the torpedoes to strike with full, unfiltered force. G’peq was already repeating the onslaught, and the targeted ship buckled in the face of the second barrage. The Qo’Daqh began to come apart, its primary hull and part of the boom section pulling away from the larger engineering section. Both warp nacelles also were torn off, and the engineering hull started to crumple before the entire ship was enveloped in a massive explosion signaling the collapse of the warp drive’s antimatter containment system. The Qo’Daqh’s death throes lasted mere heartbeats before the effects of the blast faded and all that remained of the stricken vessel was an expanding cloud of debris.

  “Well done, Captain,” said Visla, her words all but dripping contempt. “No doubt your many glorious victories in battle allowed you and your crew to hone the skills you bring to bear against a derelict vessel. You are truly a credit to the Empire.”

  Rather than respond to the obvious verbal jab, J’Teglyr instead directed another wide smile at her. “Even the least challenging of targets can prove useful on occasion. Now, it seems our most pressing matter is what to do with you and your crew while you are guests aboard my ship. Will you conduct yourselves like proper warriors of the Empire, or will I be forced to throw you into a holding cell or perhaps out an airlock?”

  “I think you are mistaken, Captain.” Visla pointed to the viewing screen. “Have you forgotten the Federation ship?”

  “You are referring to the vessel you attacked without provocation?” J’Teglyr shook his head. “No, that has not ventured far from my thoughts. What do you suggest we do, Commander? Attack the Earthers again? Setting aside the point that you still do not have authorization to carry out such actions, are you not aware that we are in territory that is governed by the Organian Peace Treaty? Do you not understand the ramifications for breaching the treaty, and the risk this presents to the very security of the Empire?”

  Still standing next to Visla, Woveth snarled. “A treaty enacted and enforced by ghosts? This is what guides our actions? Does it fuel our cowardice, as well?”

  Once more, Visla jabbed a finger at the screen. “Kirk possesses the crucial component we need to exploit the alien technology. Why are we not doing everything in our power to take it from him?”

  Whatever she or her family had done to earn the Empire’s wrath, Visla was still a Klingon of courage. This, at least, J’Teglyr could respect, and he saw from the faces of his bridge crew that he was not alone in this regard.

  “Yours is not the first voice to speak of such things.” He glanced to D’jorok. “My first officer shares similar views.” J’Teglyr looked to the viewing screen, on which G’peq had switched to an image of the Enterprise in orbit above Usilde. “Kirk is no fool. He knows that we want the Key. He is not about to let it fall from his grasp so easily, and he will fight if provoked. As you have witnessed for yourself, he is also a formidable opponent. However, none of this matters. Even though I share your desire to take the Key from Kirk, my orders on this matter are plain and inviolable. I am not to attack the Enterprise for any reason, unless or until a clear, unmistakable opportunity to retrieve the Key presents itself.”

  “A keen warrior creates such opportunities,” replied Woveth, “instead of waiting for them like a child pining for his supper.”

  “And a loyal warrior finds a way to do that while not shirking his duty or disrespecting his superiors.”

  Another glance to a few of his own subordinates told J’Teglyr that this conversation, carried out in their presence, might become troublesome if he allowed it to continue. Spirited disagreement he could abide, depending on the situation, but outright defiance of his status as the captain of this ship could not be tolerated. To so openly challenge a commanding officer was to contest the target as unfit to lead. Such action might even imply a possible attempt at mutiny and forcible removal of the beleaguered officer from command.

  J’Teglyr glared at Visla. “I do not know how order and discipline were maintained on your vessel, but here subordinates keep their insolent tongues still or else they lose them to my blade.”

  Stepping away from her and Woveth, he stalked around the bridge’s perimeter until he was standing directly before the viewing screen. His gaze focused on the Enterprise, trying to imagine its commander’s thoughts. What was Kirk’s ultimate goal with the alien technology? Even if his presence here was motivated by purity of purpose, what would happen if and when he was successful in rescuing his comrades and Councillor Gorkon? What would happen then? How far were the Earther captain and his superiors willing to go to keep the field generator out of Klingon hands or those of the Romulans or anyone else who expressed similar interest? Would they risk war? J’Teglyr doubted the Federation would initiate such a conflict, but despite all propaganda to
the contrary, he knew they were more than capable of answering such a threat. Most experts agreed that despite the troublesome Organians and their interference, war between the Empire and the Federation was inevitable.

  And won’t that be glorious?

  Twenty-two

  Sarek opened his eyes and saw nothing. What he sensed, however, was far from void.

  In this space of presence within emptiness, he assessed what he knew rather than dwelling on what he did not. He felt light rather than heavy, warm rather than cold, dry rather than wet. He was aware of his own heartbeat and respiration, both of which seemed slowed, though not to the point of alarm. It was as if his metabolic processes had been reduced in a manner similar to what might be done to achieve medical stasis, and yet there was no questioning his awareness of himself and his surroundings, such as they were. An attempt to reach up and touch his face yielded nothing. He felt no movement of his arm or the sensation of his fingertips brushing his cheek, and yet this did not trouble him.

  Most interesting.

  “Is anyone there?”

  Sarek was certain he perceived the sound of his own voice. It seemed to echo first in his ears and then within his mind, but before he could speak again there were other voices, emerging without warning from the void. A multitude of thoughts—flashes and fragments of ideas and memories and emotions—were all around him. The sensation was not dissimilar to a mind-meld, and he recoiled from the uncounted minds that seemed eager to speak to him all at once. He closed himself off, shielding his own thoughts using skills and mental disciplines he had honed after years of practice.

  Within a moment, the voices faded to a dull murmur, held at bay and allowing him space to think. Now he heard only dozens of voices rather than hundreds or thousands. Focusing his attention on a single source, Sarek was able to isolate a specific thought or feeling, likening it to overhearing a lone conversation within a crowd. Even then, such separation was fleeting, as unwelcome interruptions abounded. The thoughts he perceived were little more than random comments offered from passersby, including unexpected bursts of insight or the natural rise in volume from a voice speaking with passion or a need for attention.