“Konya!” Corsi called. “Can you reach them telepathically?”
“I’ve been trying,” the Betazoid replied. “No more luck than Faulwell, for the same reason. Their brain structure’s hard to read, and they don’t seem to be ‘hearing’ me.”
“Damn. Commander? Any suggestions? Commander?”
“I don’t know.” Gomez met Corsi’s eyes pleadingly. “I can’t decide. What if…what if I choose wrong? I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Corsi grabbed her shoulder. “And we don’t want to lose you, Commander. So get a grip! If you need a slap in the face I’m willing to provide it.”
Gomez gritted her teeth and tried to think of something. Fortunately (or unfortunately?), just then Pattie called, “Commander, I have a thought.”
“Go ahead, Pattie.”
“It doesn’t seem like anybody’s shooting at me.”
“Feeling left out?” Abramowitz quipped.
“Not particularly. But maybe they don’t see me as a threat. I’d like to try getting closer, so I can try to convince them to stand down.”
“But then they might start shooting at you,” Gomez said.
“With antiquated particle beams like those? My carapace can handle a few hits.”
Gomez hesitated, but Corsi raised a hand threateningly, and only half-jokingly. “Okay, Pattie. Go.”
A moment later Pattie rolled out from behind a column, curled up into pillbug mode and wheeling herself forward. Well, actually backward—she propelled herself by flexing her carapace plates outward one by one, rolling herself along in a continuous reverse somersault. Which made sense, given that the Nasat, a people prone to conflict avoidance, had evolved the ability for the purpose of retreating from danger. What Pattie was doing now would probably qualify her for psychiatric evaluation on her own world, but then, Sonya wondered, was it any saner for the rest of them to be here?
Indeed, Pattie advanced unmolested—if anything, the attackers were trying to avoid hitting her. Peering around the column, Sonya saw them gesturing to her as though waving her to safety. She vanished from view…but the shooting continued.
After a few more moments, Corsi scowled. “Now what? Commander, should we signal her?”
“No, that might turn them against her. We just have to hope she can get through to them somehow—or find a way to overpower them.”
Corsi shook her head. “Nasat aren’t the overpowering type. I hope she hasn’t gotten in over her—”
She broke off, realizing the shooting had stopped. “Pattie to away team,” came her voice over their combadges. “My head is just fine, Commander Corsi. And I think cooler heads have prevailed—though maybe ‘heads’ isn’t the right word.”
Chapter
5
“It’s a stretch, Scotty.” On the comm screen in Sutherland’s office, Director Iskander shook his head. “You’re asking me to believe that what happened this morning is a delayed reaction to something that took place nearly a year ago. That these microwarp fields were somehow weakened, but fourteen of them managed to stay intact throughout extensive handling while one other erupted after being buried quietly for all that time.”
“We don’t know what set it off, Cemal. It could’ve been dug up by an excavator, subjected to rougher handling than the others. Or it could’ve just been hit more directly by the Breen weapon, so it was closer to the bursting point.”
“And what about the sixteenth one? If it was buried in the rubble with the other, why didn’t it go critical and expand too?”
“You know I cannot answer that. It could’ve been blown farther away in the attack. Maybe some souvenir hunter found it and carried it off to parts unknown.”
“Or maybe this isn’t some bizarre accident, but a carefully planned attack.”
“Cemal, their interference patterns are fluctuating! A destabilized warp field would look just like that.”
“And is it the only thing that could?”
“No, but—”
“Scotty, if this were just an accident, why would Captain Zakash claim differently? Why bring a whole fleet here for a wild-goose chase?”
“I can think of a reason or two to bring a fleet to Earth,” Scott said darkly.
“And it would be a pointless exercise, given the level of defenses we have now. The Nachri fleet is small, underpowered, little more than an orbit guard.”
“Maybe,” Scotty said. “One thing, though—the planet where yon Cabochons were found? It’s in the space once controlled by the Nachri Empire.”
“Well, that makes sense. They were the first victims of the Shanial. Perhaps these Cabochons were how the enemy struck—they snuck these harmless-looking baubles onto other worlds like Trojan horses, and then burst out to attack.”
“Except there was nobody in this one. Cemal, there’s something that Zakash isn’t telling us, as sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Maybe so, Scotty. But I can’t afford to ignore the possibility that we’re under attack. And Zakash is our only source of information about the Shanial—at least until your team makes contact again.”
“But can we afford to ignore the possibility that I’m right? That there are fifteen other time bombs waiting to go off? Even if you’re right, if these are Trojan horses o’ some kind, surely that’s all the more reason to get them off the planet right away!”
Iskander needed to consider only briefly. “All right. I’m still not convinced they have anything to do with this matter, but we should take precautions. Can your people manage to move them without setting them off?”
“It won’t be easy. It’s as delicate a job as I’ve ever had to do—but we’ll figure out a way.”
“This is most interesting news, Director Iskander,” Zakash said to the human on the viewing globe. “These…‘Cabochons’ could explain a great deal about the Shanial’s method of attack. Once we arrive, our science teams will be glad to cooperate with yours in analyzing this technology.”
“As a precaution,” Iskander told him, “we’re having them removed to a secure research facility in our asteroid belt. I’ll try to arrange clearance for your teams.”
“A wise precaution,” Zakash said, trying not to display the flush of excitement that ran through him. “The Shanial are a cunning foe, devious and secretive. I do not wonder that they’ve managed to convince some of your people that this attack was a mere accident. That is how they weaken a foe—by sowing confusion and doubt.”
“Yes,” the human replied with a conviction that delighted Zakash. “The Dominion was the same way, eating away at us from within. We should have learned by now not to fall for such tricks again.”
“I have faith in your clarity of thought, Director,” Zakash said. “We shall arrive within a standard hour. Defense Group out.”
Once the globe went dark, Zakash clapped his fists together in triumph. “Trusting fool. Did you hear, Jomat? They’re taking the crystals off the planet!”
“Yes,” his first officer replied, “it should make obtaining them much easier.”
“And once we have them, what a weapon we will wield against our oppressors!” He rose, addressing the whole command deck crew. As the moment of battle neared, it was important to remind them of their cause, to motivate them to succeed. “Imagine what we could achieve—an army could be smuggled in a pendant. A warfleet, an invasion force could slip through a planetary defense grid as easily as a clump of space dust. The simple reexpansion would be devastating, as we’ve seen today! Our forces could destroy an entire city simply by arriving there—the rest would simply be cleanup! The whole Federation will soon be at our mercy!” Zakash basked in the crew’s cheers.
But Jomat moved closer to speak privately. “Don’t lose proportion, Captain. Our enemy is the ruling party, not the Federation.”
“It was the Federation that put them in power two centuries ago, that supports them to this day,” Zakash snapped. “The party’s alliance with the mighty Federation cows the people into
submission, reduces them to a passive shadow of the glory that was Nachros. The rhetoric of democracy they borrowed from the Federation lets them create an illusion of freedom, of legitimacy.” The captain let his voice rise loud enough for the rest to hear. “Theirs is a Federation of hypocrites, Jomat. They claim such high ideals, and yet they persistently ally themselves with brutal and corrupt governments—the Klingons, the Romulans, the Son’a—anyone who suits their own interests, while turning a blind eye to their brutality and corruption, condoning it in the name of ‘diversity.’ That makes them our enemy—the enemy of all downtrodden peoples. That is why we must create a new Nachri Empire, one that enforces justice rather than paying lip service to it.”
Again the crew cheered; again Zakash basked. Jomat observed their adulation. “They would follow you into Death’s own fortress,” he said.
“Yes,” Zakash sighed. “It’s most heartening.”
“Just take care to remember it is a means and not an end.”
The captain glared at his first officer. “I lead our people where they wish to go. To the defeat of our oppressors, the restoration of our lost greatness. I am nothing without their support—and without the cause we all share.”
“Of course, Captain,” Jomat said in a yielding tone.
“Good. Now—ready the kinetic missiles and FMS drones. The first shot of the revolution is about to be fired!”
Bart Faulwell was having a great time, though he was the only one. Deciphering the Shanial language, so he told the others, was a rare challenge for him, the kind he rarely faced in this age of near-instant computer translation. Not only that, but he was presented with a type of grammar and concept arrangement new in Federation experience, one he was having to learn as he went, and could no doubt produce a fascinating paper about. “I feel like Bowring or Sato in the pioneering days of Starfleet,” he beamed.
“I’m sure we’re all happy for you,” Gomez told him dryly. “But are you actually getting anywhere useful?”
“Oh, we’re making a lot of progress,” the bearded linguist told her. “The key was recognizing how their anatomy affects their worldview—like the way that Syclarian journal on BorSitu Minor became easier to translate once I realized that their anatomy led to a circular mode of writing. So much of the way we see things is based on a fixed sense of bilateral orientation—a definite forward and reverse direction, a right wing and a left wing, and so forth. With their radial symmetry, they see things much more flexibly. You can reverse direction and still be making progress, have foresight and hindsight at the same time…and most questions have more than two sides in their minds. I doubt they ever invented the true-or-false test.”
Gomez gazed over at the Shanial, considering his words. The two emissaries who parlayed with Faulwell and Pattie (they seemed most comfortable with her nearby) were apparently among the leaders; Faulwell had introduced them as Matriarch Varethli and Designer Rohewi. It was in fact impossible to pin down a front or back to them. Each Shanial had a barrel-shaped torso supported by four squat legs at the base. Extending from the upper part of the torso were four longer limbs, which arced tarantula-style to the ground, terminating in four thick, mutually opposed digits; these served as arms or additional legs as necessary. Atop the torso was a domelike head containing four eyes at the compass points, and above them four large ears, which seemed to be used in echolocation. There were only two mouths, but Gomez couldn’t decide whether to think of them as being on the front and back or on the sides. Though the heads didn’t turn, Gomez could see the eyes rotating within their sockets to track her movements, proving that the Shanial were watching her as well.
“So if they don’t take sides,” Corsi asked, “what were they doing shooting at us?”
“Just because they have a multivalued logic doesn’t mean they won’t protect themselves,” Faulwell said. “As far as I can tell, they thought we were Nachri, and they’re afraid of Nachri.”
“But why would they think that?” Gomez frowned.
“Same reason they weren’t afraid of me,” said Pattie. “Because you’re bipeds.”
“I get the strong impression,” Faulwell added, “that the Nachri are the only humanoids they’ve ever met. They didn’t know that it’s the dominant sentient form in the galaxy.”
“How could they not know?” O’Brien asked. “With subspace technology like this, how could they not have been spacefarers?”
“There’s a more important question,” said Corsi. “Why are they afraid of the Nachri?”
Faulwell shrugged. “I’ll need to improve the translation before we can get any clear answers.”
“Fine,” Gomez said. “You do that.” She turned away, planning to leave him to his work.
But the linguist sidled over to her and spoke softly. “Commander, I just want you to know…nobody blames you for your…moment of indecision before. We’ve all been through so much lately—”
“That’s okay,” she replied curtly, not really wanting to discuss it.
Faulwell studied her. “I remember something you told me back on Evora. That no matter what losses we endure, we’re survivors, and fighters. We’ve all lost people before, and we’ve dealt with it, and moved on, because we had our duty to keep us going.”
“I said that?”
“Words to that effect.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Well, I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.”
Faulwell blinked. “Well…it brought me some comfort. Then, and now.”
“It was just words.”
The linguist smiled. “Words are powerful things. Especially when they come from a leader. We all look to you to give us strength, Commander. You’ve never let us down yet.”
But who can I look to? Sonya thought. Outwardly, though, she just gave the older man a tight smile and said, “Thanks, Bart. Get back to your translations now—we really need them.” He nodded and moved off, accepting the words. Are the words really enough, with no certainty behind them? How can I lead when I don’t know where to go from here?
It was refreshing to get her hands dirty.
Paradoxically, Keiko found it cleansing to get down on her knees and work with some good honest soil. It had come from life, and it sustained life—what could be more pure?
Molly and her friends had gone over to Masoud’s place, and Keiko had decided she needed to get out of the house. So she’d left little Kirayoshi with Aunt Midori and gone over to the rebuilt Academy grounds to visit Boothby. Naturally the wizened grounds-keeper had no patience for mere social visits, so he’d wasted no time putting her to work, recruiting her to help him tend some of the more exotic floral displays. Balancing the needs of plants that had come from dozens of worlds, evolved under radically different conditions, so that they could coexist in a single bed without dying or killing each other was an ongoing challenge, and Keiko was always as glad to help out as Boothby was to have an expert xenobotanist as a volunteer. The work struck Keiko as a sort of metaphor for what the Federation strove to achieve, and she figured that was why Boothby worked so hard at it—not that she’d ever extract such a sentimental admission from the old grouch.
“Careful with those windsingers!” Boothby scolded. “Plant them the wrong distance apart and the chords interfere—sounds like a transporter accident.” A Talosian windsinger was a cluster of wire-thin stems, each terminating in a single metallic-blue leaf seemingly too large for it to support. They trembled in the slightest breeze, and the air rushing across the leaves’ microserrations created a haunting chimelike sound that rose and fell in pitch with the changing airflow. It actually did sound somewhat like a transporter chime, Keiko realized. Though their homeworld had been interdicted for some reason since its discovery, the ancient Talosians had planted them on a number of worlds during their spacefaring age, thousands of centuries ago. Past Starfleet crews had reported hearing such chimes on dozens of the worlds they’d visited, even coming to expect them as part of the ambience of alien planets.
Sadly, late in the twenty-third century those same Starfleet explorers had unknowingly spread a botanical plague that had killed off most of the windsingers. Starfleet’s botanical gardens were one of the few places—aside from Talos IV, Keiko presumed—where windsinger chimes could still be heard. Now they’d bred a strain that hopefully would be hardy enough to survive unprotected in Earth’s biosphere. Keiko would’ve liked to be involved in that work, but she’d been too busy trying to build a nice, quiet family life with Miles. At least she got to participate in this small way.
Still, she realized her preoccupation with this morning’s argument was causing her to make mistakes. “I’m sorry, Boothby,” she sighed. (Somehow it had never occurred to her to ask his first name. Assuming he even had one.) “I just…had a fight with Miles this morning.”
Boothby grunted. “I thought you’d resolved not to do that anymore,” he said, with a touch of “I told you so” in his tone. “How’d he screw it up?”
“It wasn’t him,” she insisted. “Well…not really.” She fidgeted under that glare that would brook no nonsense. Boothby’s visage was as rough and gnarled as a Denevan millennium tree. Nobody knew how old he was. He’d mentioned being Martian by birth, which narrowed it down to under two hundred and seventy, but people said he’d always been here and the Academy had just grown up around him. Anyway, however old he was, his eyes looked older than Q, and certainly a thousand times wiser. They had a way of digging right down to the roots of your problems.
“I mean, most of the time Miles is the perfect husband and father. We have just the life we want, a quiet life where we can focus on being a family. No more space battles, no more religious fanatics, no more invasions.”
“And then these Shanial have to come along and screw it up for you. How inconsiderate.” She didn’t ask how he knew their name. He was Boothby, after all.
“It’s not just them, whoever they are.” She laid out the gist of her argument with Miles—how he kept finding reasons to spend time away from her, kept taking on responsibilities that weren’t his.
Aftermath Page 6
