B’Elanna smiled. “Let me get a look at your engines. I’ll coax warp eight out of them at least.”
“Let her do it,” Chakotay said. “She’s the best. In fact, she’s better than the best.”
Chakotay didn’t strike Hudson as the type given to hyperbole. “Darleen, take her to engineering.”
Mastroeni fixed Hudson with a glare, but did so without comment.
“All right, Mr. Tuvok, I think you’ve shown plenty of good faith,” Hudson said. “I’m still not completely convinced that your desire to join the Maquis is legitimate, but I’m content to not shoot you for the time being. Right now, the main thing is to get that artifact back from Tharia. We’ll figure out our next move after that.”
“Agreed,” Chakotay said.
Tuvok nodded. “Thank you.”
“First thing we’re doing is getting you out of that uniform. It won’t go over well around here.” Hudson smiled. “I think I’ve got something in my footlocker that’ll fit you.”
Tuvok’s eyebrow practically climbed off his head. “That estimation may be optimistic.” The Vulcan had a tall, lithe form, completely unlike Hudson’s own bulkier frame. Tuvok’s torso could practically fit in one of Hudson’s shoulders.
“We’ll figure something out. C’mon.”
“Cal.” It was Mastroeni over the intercom.
“Go ahead,” Hudson said, looking up.
“I’ve got good news and bad news. Tell Chakotay he wasn’t kidding about this Torres woman. We’ve got warp eight-point-five.”
“The bad news?”
“Tharia’s still going to beat us to Slaybis by about two hours.”
Chakotay muttered a curse in a language Hudson didn’t recognize. “With that weapon, two hours is a lifetime.”
“It will surely be the remaining lifetime of Lieutenant Phifer,” Tuvok said dryly.
Whirling on Tuvok, Chakotay said, “I don’t give a damn about the life of a Starfleet infiltrator, Vulcan. He knew the risks when he went undercover. But Tharia can’t tell what a legitimate target is anymore. He’s lashing out at everything in his way. He’s spent the last nine months pretending that the deaths of his mates didn’t affect him, and now he’s making up for it by killing indiscriminately.”
As calm as Chakotay had been intense, Tuvok said, “Then logic dictates we do everything we can to stop him.”
Chapter Six
A SMALL SHIP FLEW THROUGH THE REGION between star systems in a sector that currently was designated 22402 by the United Federation of Planets. Its registry was the Sun, though it was, truthfully, not registered to any particular planet, only to its owner, a woman named Aidulac.
Various and sundry ships piloted by Aidulac and named the Sun had wended their way throughout the galaxy for millennia, with but one purpose: to find the Instruments of Malkus the Mighty. The four Instruments that she herself had helped create millennia ago. The four Instruments that Malkus had used to cause untold death and destruction. The four Instruments that the rebels who overthrew Malkus hid throughout the galaxy.
The four Instruments that Aidulac swore to destroy if it took her the rest of her life. And, since she was functionally immortal, the rest of her life was as long as it needed to be.
It was, for the most part, a tedious existence. But Aidulac persevered.
The universe, naturally, didn’t make things easy on her. Perhaps it was its revenge for her having pried into so many of its secrets. Or perhaps she just hadn’t noticed the universe’s vicious sense of humor before. But for an obscenely long time, nobody unearthed the Instruments, and so she never found the wave pattern that would identify them. She went through hundreds of ships—all of which she named the Sun, after the vessel that had given her freedom from the Zalkat Union—and waited.
No one knew of the Instruments, even when questioned under Aidulac’s irresistible mental charms. So she waited some more.
At one point, bored with waiting and insane with loneliness, she went to a world now called Pegasus Major IV and used her abilities to take on many lovers and bear many children. Her mental charms had lessened over the years, to her annoyance. Nowadays she could truly affect only males. But that was sufficient. She thought she wanted the company of children while she waited.
But she grew bored with that, too, and resumed her wandering ways.
And her waiting.
Finally, the universe gave her hope. She detected an Instrument on a human colony belonging to a governmental body that had taken over many of the worlds once ruled by the Zalkatians: the United Federation of Planets. They called it Alpha Proxima II. However, by the time she reached the world, two Starfleet ships had already arrived, and they would not permit her to land on the planet to take the Instrument—ironically, because the planet was quarantined thanks to the Instrument’s virus, which had infected thousands.
She might have been able to convince the two Starfleet commanders, Decker and Kirk, to let her take the Instruments, but many of her descendants on Pegasus Major IV had inherited her persuasive abilities. They had been nicknamed “Sirens” after some human mythological creature and gained a reputation—one that Decker and Kirk had used against her.
The second Instrument had proven just as elusive, again because of the interference of Starfleet. This time it was the energy weapon, which had been discovered on a moon of the planet Bajor.
Now, only a few short months later, she had been thrilled to find that the third Instrument—the weather controller—was in a region of space between the Federation and the Cardassian Union. Best of all, the region was demilitarized—there was no chance of interference from Starfleet.
The Instrument was in transit to a star system that the locals referred to as Slaybis. Aidulac put the Sun on course for that world.
This time, she thought, I will not fail.
“So what’s your story?” Darleen Mastroeni asked B’Elanna Torres.
Torres had just finished rerouting some of the power relays to coax some more speed out of the warp engines without straining the Liberator hull or shorting out its structural-integrity field. Mastroeni had been worried about the latter, since the SIF had taken a beating after their last throw-down with the Cardassians, but everything seemed to be functioning well. Torres was obviously very good at the type of seat-of-the-pants engineering that was required to survive in the Maquis, and Mastroeni had decided that she was going to do what she could to recruit this prodigy away from Chakotay.
“Story?” Torres asked as she checked over the readings.
“C’mon, everybody in the Maquis has a story.”
Smiling, Torres said, “Oh yeah? What’s yours?”
“You ever hear of Juhraya?”
“Of course,” Torres said with a nod.
“Did you know that the first contact between humans and Cardassians was on Juhraya? Most people don’t know that.”
“I certainly didn’t,” Torres muttered. “Is there somewhere I can get a drink on this boat?”
Mastroeni nodded and led the way toward the mess hall. “Sure. Follow me.” Tuvok wasn’t there anymore, so Mastroeni could go there to relax. “Anyhow, a Cardassian ship crash-landed on Juhraya about fifty years ago. Some people say it was a Starfleet ship that made the first contact—some kind of silly diplomatic thing—but that’s typical of their propaganda. It was us, and everyone who matters knows it.”
Torres laughed. “No love for Starfleet, huh?”
Snarling, Mastroeni said, “Not remotely. A bunch of arrogant prigs with no conception of how the galaxy actually works.”
As they entered the mess hall, Torres said, “You won’t get any argument from me. I went to that penal colony they call the Academy for a year and a half.”
Mastroeni nodded. “They kicked you out.”
“Let’s just say we all agreed that it wasn’t the place for me.”
“Well, that agreement turned out good for us. Coffee?”
Torres nodded, and Mastroeni approached the
food replicator and ordered two coffees, black.
“How’d you know I took my coffee black?” Torres asked as she removed her steaming mug from the slot.
“You’re an engineer. Haven’t met one yet that didn’t drink it black.”
“Very observant.” She took a sip. “Anyhow, you’ve now heard most of my ‘story.’ I grew up on both Kessik IV and Qo’noS.”
“So you are part human?”
“Half and half,” Torres said with a nod. “My father’s human, but he left when I was a kid. After that, my mother and I moved to Qo’noS.”
“Which did you like better?” Mastroeni asked the question mostly by way of trying to find out what Qo’noS was like. She knew very little about the Klingons, but she always imagined that she would like it on their homeworld.
“I hated both of them pretty much equally, actually. Kessik was too pastoral for the Klingon side of me, and Qo’noS was too rough-and-tumble for my human side to deal with.” She laughed. “Or maybe I was just rebelling. Who knows? I was a dumb kid who resented her parents, like most dumb kids. So I went to the Academy, figuring they’d take just about anybody, and I hated that, too. Came to live out here and actually liked it until the treaty messed everything up, so I joined Chakotay.”
“Who is now a man without a ship,” Mastroeni said, grateful for the opening.
Torres shrugged. “He’ll pick up another one. Probably some junk heap I’ll have to beat into shape, like usual.”
“You know, we could use a good engineer here. The Liberator obviously likes your touch.”
“I don’t think it’d work.” Torres grinned. “Chakotay and Hudson on the same ship would just get ugly.”
Mastroeni started to ask why they needed Chakotay, but she cut herself off. Torres had thought the offer was being extended to the entire cell. “Yeah, that would,” she said slowly. “Of course, you could just come over yourself.”
Before Torres could answer, the door opened to reveal Tuvok. The Vulcan had changed into a shirt that was tailored for a person twice his size—probably one of Cal’s, Mastroeni thought—and pants that had been rolled up at the ankles. On anyone else such garb would have looked foolish, but, much as Mastroeni hated to admit it, Tuvok wore it with dignity.
Her hand automatically went to her phaser. “What do you want, Vulcan?”
“I was seeking out Ms. Torres. Ms. McAdams informed me that she would be here.”
“We’re having a private conversation,” Mastroeni said.
“That’s all right,” Torres said, setting down her mug and walking over to the Vulcan. “What is it, Tuvok?”
Cursing, Mastroeni set down her own mug and also walked over to the Vulcan, who was holding a padd. Obviously, her attempt to recruit Torres had failed. Still, she didn’t trust the Vulcan—and she wasn’t at all happy that he was gallivanting around the Liberator unescorted. She made a mental note to talk to Hudson about that later.
“I have been perusing the data on the Malkus Artifacts from the Rector Institute—where the first two artifacts are being studied,” he added at Torres’s quizzical look, “as well as sensor data from the Odyssey, Rio Grande, Enterprise, and Constellation.”
Frowning, Mastroeni asked, “You got all that from the Hood?”
“Before I departed, yes, I made copies of all that data.”
“You expect me to believe that Starfleet ships carry around sensor data from hundred-year-old missions?”
“Of course,” Tuvok said as if such a colossal waste of computer storage were the most natural thing in the galaxy.
Torres nodded. “He’s right, actually. You never know when you may need a piece of information from an old mission. And Starfleet computers have a lot of storage space.”
Mastroeni still thought it a waste, but at this point she was staring a gift horse in the mouth. This information might help them deal with this crazed Andorian and his weapon. “What’ve you found?”
“The sensor data that the ships have been able to accumulate—combined with the usual advances in sensor technology—means that we might be able to get a transporter lock on the artifact when we find it.”
Tuvok handed Torres the padd. She studied the data on the screen, but shook her head. Mastroeni looked over her shoulder and saw that the screen had several different sensor readings on different sections of the viewing area, including recent readings from the Liberator’ s own scans.
“These readings are too scattershot. Maybe—maybe—if you got the thing onto a transporter pad, then the two consoles working together could get a lock, or if you put some kind of homing device on the thing, but that’s the only way to do it.”
“My combadge could easily serve such a function,” Tuvok said.
Mastroeni snorted. That combadge was currently in Hudson’s possession, surrendered to him when Tuvok changed clothes. She had been suspicious that he had left the device on—it was the easiest way for Starfleet to track him down—but simply said, “What does this mean in plain words?”
“I had hoped that we would be able to get a transporter lock on the artifact when we arrived at the Slaybis system and simply confiscate it that way. Unfortunately, as we have seen, this will not be possible.”
A thought occurred to Mastroeni. “Wait a minute, why don’t we just lock in on those distinct emissions of yours? Isn’t that how we know it’s there in the first place?”
“Unfortunately, those emissions cannot be traced to the precise location of the artifact. A transporter lock requires a precise coordinate fix, and thus far the energy signature given off by the artifacts has not been able to provide that.”
Torres looked up suddenly. “We might be able to do something sneakier than a combadge. Tharia’s not stupid. I doubt we’d be able to sneak a combadge or a pattern enhancer or anything like that onto it. But I might be able to put together a mini-transponder.” She turned to Mastroeni. “Mind if I paw through your parts? I know I’ve got some of what I’d need in my footlocker, but I’ll need some molybdenum, some bits of ODN cable, and a solenoid transtator.”
Tuvok’s eyebrow came dangerously close to flying off his forehead. “I fail to see how a solenoid transtator would be of any use.”
Grinning widely, Torres said, “Watch and learn, Tuvok.”
I have simply got to get this woman to join our cell, Mastroeni thought as she led the pair of them to the parts locker. Anybody who can make a Vulcan—especially that particular Vulcan—look that nonplussed is someone I want to keep around.
Chapter Seven
AS SOON AS THE LIBERATOR’S long-range sensors started picking up readings from Slaybis IV, Cal Hudson knew they were too late.
For starters, sensors were picking up the distinctive emissions of the Malkus Artifact on the planet itself, with no immediate sign of the Geronimo’ s shuttlecraft in orbit.
Then Mastroeni gave her report on what sensors were picking up on the planet: “Temperatures in the equatorial regions are below freezing, with snow and ice storms. Temperatures in the polar regions are close to fifty degrees above freezing, with severe flooding. I’m picking up hurricanes on the coasts and tornadoes inland.” She looked over at Hudson with as grave a look as he’d ever seen on her face. “It’s Nramia all over again.”
Hudson shook his head. “Prepare to come out of warp and plot a standard orbit.”
“Sure, I—” Then something caught her eye. “Uh, better make that an orbit of the third moon. I’m picking up a Starfleet ship, heading for Slaybis at warp eight.” Again she turned to Hudson, but this time the grave look was replaced by fury. “It’s the Hood! That goddamn Vulcan betrayed us!”
“We’ll deal with that in a minute,” Hudson said, more concerned with their immediate safety than the long-term—or even short-term—consequences of the Hood’ s presence in a demilitarized area. “Get us to the moon without their seeing us.”
“I know what to do,” she said through clenched teeth. It was risky, but they could wait until the las
t possible second to come out of warp and slide right into orbit of the moon—currently on the far side of the planet. It involved dumping a lot of velocity in a short amount of time, and was difficult for any ship to pull off—a ship with a sufficiently small mass to be able to dump velocity that fast sometimes wasn’t structurally sound enough to survive the maneuver, and a larger ship simply couldn’t decelerate that quickly. Usually space was large enough for a huge margin of error when it came to dropping speed, but a standard orbit decreased that margin considerably.
“Decelerating—now!” Mastroeni said as she performed the maneuver. Alarms went off all around Hudson. Most were warnings of problems that could be tabled, or fixed quickly—except for the one that indicated the failure of the structural-integrity field.
“Engineering,” he yelled, tapping the intercom, “McAdams, we—”
Then the alarm stopped. SIF then read at one hundred percent. The lights did dim, however.
“McAdams, what just happened?”
“This is Torres. I was able to divert power from life-support to the SIF.”
Hudson blinked. “Are you out of your mind? Life-support—”
“—is nonessential in the short term. Just the air we’ve got will last us a day or two, and we can live with low lights for a while. We’ll be able to get the SIF running on its own long before there’s any kind of problem.”
“Uh, fine,” Hudson said, nonplussed. He wanted to rebuke Torres, but he found he had nothing to say that was in any way recriminatory. “Carry on.” He turned to Mastroeni. “Any way we can steal her from Chakotay?”
Mastroeni almost smiled. “Working on it.”
It figures. Hudson shook his head and put his mind back to immediate business. “Did you read any Cardassian ships?”
“No. And I’m still not.”
“What about the Hood?”
The Brave and the Bold Book Two Page 8
