STAR TREK: The Lost Era - 2355-2357 - Deny Thy Father

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Well, what do you get from it?”

  Will considered for a moment. “Something really unexpected,” he said. He described what his father had said, and what he now thought it meant. “It was my father’s good-bye speech,” he said. “It wasn’t much of one, but it was the best one he could bring himself to give.”

  The hours passed as Will and Marden talked. Will battled sleep, and eventually reached a point beyond tiredness, where he became more alert, and might not have been able to sleep if he’d tried. Later, they’d made some coffee and sat in silence, drinking it. Finally, Marden looked at the time.

  “We’re there,” he said. “Unless the schedule has been thrown way off for some reason. Plure is being beamed to the starship that’ll take him back to Earth for his trial, or he will be soon.”

  “Probably so,” Will agreed.

  “I know what this was all about, Will. I know you just wanted to keep me talking so that I wouldn’t get my shot at Plure. I wanted my revenge, and you kept it from me.”

  “I can’t apologize for that, Marden,” Will said. He felt different, somehow, after the long night and the unexpected revelations. Maybe it was just lack of sleep, but maybe it was something more. Maybe it had to do with a new kind of maturity making itself felt. He hoped that was it, in fact—he had wondered if he’d ever grow up, and now it seemed that he might after all.

  “You don’t need to. I appreciate it. I’m mad as all hell—but I appreciate it anyway. You stopped me from making a fool of myself, from throwing away my career and maybe my life. More than that, though, you corrected my course even when I couldn’t. I’m not a vengeful person, I’m not a judge and a jury, and I’m damn sure no executioner. If I had let myself become those things, it would have been a terrible mistake.”

  Will was as pleased as he was surprised by this response. “I think you’re right, Marden,” he said. “But if it’s all the same to you, now that you’re on to me, I’m going to kick you out of here. I need a shower. I’m on duty in a little while, and I need to wake up.”

  “On duty?” Marden asked, shocked. “I guess you’re right. We’ve been at this all night, haven’t we? I’m sorry, Will, honestly.”

  Will stifled yet another yawn and stretched his arms behind his head. “Don’t sweat it,” he said sleepily. “I’ll be fine.” But as he prepared himself for another duty shift, after his most exhausting day on the job and without a wink of sleep, he couldn’t help remembering what Marc Boylen had said on his first day here. “Don’t run into anything.”

  If he was going to, today would be the day.

  Chapter 35

  Cook failed.

  Failed? What do you mean, failed?

  He made an attempt. It went bad. He’s dead.

  Well, that’s some consolation, at least. And Riker?

  He’s fine. Unhurt.

  He’s been gone for, what, two years? And now that he’s back we still can’t manage to get him?

  To kill him. His career is in tatters. And we’ve been watching his son; we can move against him anytime we need to.

  Still ... sweet as that might be, Kyle Riker is the main goal. He has to be. What he did out there must be avenged.

  I can’t argue that. But the way things happened ... at least there were some positive results.

  How can you even think that! Are you—

  Insane? Don’t even bring up the idea.

  Then what?

  It made us ... closer ... than we ever had been. Than we could ever have expected. And we know the research bore ... certain fruits.

  I suppose. Still ... had it never happened—

  We needed it to happen, remember? For that matter, we pulled the trigger. We created the situation ...

  Because there was no other way. Starfleet would have found out.

  That’s a risk we ran, knowingly. And with the backup measure in mind. That’s why we chose 311 in the first place, because of its remoteness, and because of the possibility, if we needed it, of using them. It was just the schedule that went a little ... haywire.

  Yes, haywire. But Riker survived it And you didn’t. Which is why he has to pay the price. But ...

  Yes ... ?

  Since we know, for the first time in quite a while, where the father and the son both are, how much more delicious would it be if Riker had to watch his son die before he drew his own last breath?

  I do like the way we think.

  Kyle passed a few days in San Francisco, enjoying the feeling of being back home. Except for the hole in his insides every time he thought of Michelle, he was already beginning to feel like his time on Hazimot was a dream, half-remembered, some of the details already fading as real life went on. Not that this is anything like real life, he thought. He wasn’t working yet, still hadn’t even entered the Starfleet Command complex.

  He was bored already and growing more so by the hour. Now he stood on the crest of a long hill, wishing someone would attack him just to provide some diversion. When he heard footsteps approaching rapidly from behind him, he whirled, half-expecting and, he realized, almost desiring some kind of assault.

  But it was Ensign Halalaii, one of the guards assigned to protect him. She was panting, as if the climb had taken more out of her than him. “Sir,” she said, “Admiral Paris would like you to report immediately to Starfleet Headquarters. There’s an emergency of some kind.”

  The thought of going back to Headquarters—the lion’s den, as far as Kyle was concerned—was still a bit unnerving. But Owen had done a lot for him, and if he could help out the admiral, he had to do it. “I’ll catch an air tram right away,” he said.

  “No time for that, sir.” She tapped her Starfleet insignia badge, which she wore on her chest in spite of being out of uniform for this assignment. “Three to beam in.”

  Kyle braced himself for the momentary vertigo that always overtook him when he was transported, and then it was over and he was standing in Owen Paris’s office.

  “Thank you for coming, Kyle,” Owen said, rising from behind his desk.

  “I’m not sure that I had a choice,” Kyle answered. “The ensign said there was an emergency.”

  “That’s right,” Owen said. He excused the two security officers, asking them to wait in the hall. They would continue to keep their distance from Kyle, but would stay alert just the same. “Come on,” Owen said to Kyle. “I’ll explain as we go.”

  “Go where?” Kyle asked, rushing to keep up with Owen. The admiral had already started down the hall, his strides long and purposeful.

  “Situation room,” Owen replied. “We’ll be met there by the others.”

  “What others?” Kyle queried. “What’s happening, Owen?”

  Owen slowed a moment to give Kyle a chance to catch up, and when he explained he did so in low tones, so that not even the security officers following behind could hear him. “It’s a ship, the Pegasus. Captain Erik Pressman in command.”

  “I don’t know him,” Kyle said. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s a good officer. A bit too ambitious for my tastes, but otherwise I have every faith in him.”

  “So what’s the problem with the Pegasus?”

  “We’ll be there in a moment,” Owen said. “And you’ll see.”

  He led the way through a door guarded by yet another gold-uniformed security officer. Inside, a long, curved table stood in front of a vast display screen. In addition to the seats around the table, there were a dozen workstations, and beyond those, auditorium-style seating for a couple dozen more. No one else was in the room when they arrived, but there was an image on the screen. Two planets, one reddish and the other predominantly green, but with orange splotches here and there. Arrayed around the planets were fine-lined spherical grids that intersected one another. In the area of intersections was a blinking red dot.

  “That’s Omistol,” Owen said, pointing to the planet on the right. “And Ven, on the left. Heard of them?”

  “I think so, but not re
cently. I’ve kind of been out of the loop recently.”

  “I know you have, Kyle,” Owen said. “But we’re going to ask you to catch up fast now.”

  “You still haven’t told me what’s going on,” Kyle reminded him. “Or what this has to do with the Pegasus.”

  “Omistol and Ven have been at war for almost three years,” Owen said. “A vicious, bloody, terrible war. Each side has lost more lives than it can afford. We keep thinking the war will end because one side or the other will realize that they’re both committing suicide. So far, though, that hasn’t been the case. They’re still at it.”

  Kyle nodded. He could follow this, all right, but he wanted Owen to get to the real point.

  “Those grids on the display show each planet’s claimed sphere of influence. As you can see, there’s an overlap. That’s a big part of the problem, right there—they both want to control that section of space, which is a main shipping lane for their system. It’s not the whole problem, but it’s kind of symptomatic of the greater issues. They both claim that space, and neither will relinquish that claim. The red dot in the middle of the disputed territory? That’s the Pegasus.”

  “What’s it doing there?” Kyle asked. As he did, the door opened again and more Starfleet officers filed in. Kyle recognized Vice Admiral Horace Bonner and Admiral J. P. Hanson, but none of the others, a mix of captains and some of their staff people.

  “Captain Pressman was responding to reports that a pirate—one that has been preying on Federation ships, not too far from Omistol and Ven—had taken refuge in the disputed zone. He went in intending only to investigate the report and capture the pirate vessel if it was, in fact, inside there, and to leave immediately if it wasn’t.”

  “And was it?”

  “The Pegasus was unable to locate the pirate. What it located instead was trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the fleets of both Omistol and Ven were moving toward one another, in force. Omistol’s ships were cloaked. They were on the Pegasus before Captain Pressman knew they were coming.”

  “Cowardly bastards,” Kyle growled. “I hate cloaking.”

  “So does every civilized people,” Vice Admiral Bonner put in, joining the conversation. “Welcome back to the fold, Mr. Riker.”

  “Thank you, Vice Admiral,” Kyle said. They shook hands. “It’s nice to be back, I think.”

  “As you can see, we’ve brought you back at the best possible time. For us. Maybe the worst for you, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean?” Kyle asked.

  Bonner looked a little surprised. “You haven’t told him, Owen?”

  “I’ve been trying to fill him in on the whole picture,” Owen Paris said. “Not just the details.”

  “If the details are important,” Kyle said, “then I’d like to know them as well.”

  “Very well, Kyle,” Owen relented. He looked like he was sorry to have to say it. “One of the bridge officers on board the Pegasus is your son, Will.”

  Chapter 36

  Will had tried every trick Starfleet Academy had taught him, and a few new ones he’d made up on the spot, trying to break the grip of the graviton beam that held them in place. The Omistolian warship was gigantic, half again the size of the Oberth-class Pegasus, and its tractor beam powerful beyond even the experience of Captain Pressman. Beads of sweat appeared on Will’s upper lip and at his temples, not from the heat but from the exertion and concentration he applied to the problem. And still nothing worked.

  The worst part was, they had come here for nothing-chasing a shadow, a ship that wasn’t here in the first place. Captain Pressman had warned them of that possibility before they’d entered the system. But they had all agreed that it would be worth the risk if they could find Heaven’s Blade, the pirate vessel that had been making this region decidedly unsafe for Federation freighters. The Blade hadn’t been here at all, though. If by chance it had passed this way, it hadn’t stayed long.

  The word that it might be here had come in from Starfleet Command shortly after they’d transferred Endyk Plure to the ship that would carry him to Earth. After a brief conference with his officers, during which the phrase “suicide mission” had come up a few times too often for Will’s liking, Pressman had given the orders to move into the war zone between Ven and Omistol. And so they had. They had still been in the disputed zone, looking for the elusive Heaven’s Blade, when the Omistolians had decloaked. There had been a brief verbal exchange between Captain Pressman and the leader of the Omistolian force, but no shots were fired. And then, when Captain Pressman gave the order to Will to get them out of here, now, the tractor beam had been engaged. They had gone, since then, exactly nowhere.

  “We could try blowing them out of the sky,” Marc Boylen suggested. He’d already suggested it, a couple of times, with no luck.

  “Mr. Boylen,” Pressman reminded him. “The ship holding us in its beam is just one of many. It’s far larger than we are and far more heavily armed. We’re a scientific exploration vessel, not a warship. Even if we could beat that one ship, they have many more. We would be begging for them to wipe us out.”

  “May I speak frankly, sir?” Lieutenant Commander Rungius asked. Bethany Rungius was the ship’s chief of security, a hard-nosed officer with a reputation for making hard decisions quickly.

  “Of course,” Captain Pressman said.

  “While I would never suggest that we ‘beg’ to be wiped out, I can’t really see the difference. They’re not holding us because they want to play catch. If they don’t destroy us now they’ll destroy us later.”

  “They want us for something,” Will argued, “or they’d have done it already.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Riker,” Pressman agreed. “We just need to wait until they tell us what it is they want from us.”

  “But meanwhile, sir, the Ven fleet continues to approach,” Rungius pointed out. “If we’re still here when they arrive, then we’re stuck in the crossfire and we’re dead anyway.”

  “Maybe that’s why they’re holding us,” Marc offered. “To use as a shield, or a hostage, against the Ven?”

  “The Ven have no more reason to like us than the Omistol do,” Rungius countered. “We’d make a pretty poor hostage. Neither world seems to be all that fond of the Federation.”

  “All we can do,” Pressman told his crew, “is wait. When they want us to know, they’ll tell us.”

  The wait wasn’t long. The bridge had fallen into an uncomfortable silence, everyone watching the implacable advance of the Ven fleet and the maneuvering into battle position of the Omistolians on their display screens, when Dul Dusefrene, the ship’s communications officer, spoke up. “There’s a hail from the Omistolians, sir,” she said. “It’s Oxxreg.” This, everyone knew, was the commander of the Omistolian fleet and the one who had carried out the short and unproductive dialogue with Captain Pressman earlier.

  “On the screen,” the captain ordered. A moment later, the image of the Omistolian appeared on the big main screen. His face was flat, an unpleasant shade of dark olive. Will was reminded of toads back home.

  “I have a proposition for you, Captain Pressman,” Oxxreg said, his voice sibilant and oddly mellifluous. “You’ll want to discuss it with your superiors.”

  “This is my ship,” Captain Pressman replied. “I am fully empowered to make decisions regarding her safety.” Nonetheless, Will noticed that he put his hands behind his back and, so hidden from Oxxreg, gestured toward Lieutenant Dusefrene. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and her hands flashed across her control board. Starfleet had already been alerted to their situation here, and she was opening a channel to headquarters so that they’d hear whatever Oxxreg’s proposal was.

  “Not this decision, I would wager,” Oxxreg said. “But have it your own way.”

  “I will,” Pressman said, standing firm. His jaw was set and he looked as determined as he sounded. Will hoped it was convincing to the Omistolians.

  “I’m offerin
g an extremely simple deal,” Oxxreg went on. “Your ship’s safety, in return for a very small favor.”

  “We’re not in the habit of negotiating with those who make unprovoked attacks on us,” Pressman replied.

  “You were inside our zone of influence with no prior authorization,” Oxxreg shot back. “A zone currently the subject of a rather bitter dispute. For all we know, you are working with the Ven.”

  “I’ve already explained our mission to you.”

  “Yes, chasing a ship. Which your Command, all the way back on Earth, claims was here, but which none of our instruments have located any sign of. Surely you understand that this explanation is not terribly convincing or believable.”

  “Nonetheless, it’s the truth.”

  “Be that as it may,” Oxxreg argued. “You’re in restricted space. You have not received, or even asked for, permission to be in this space. We are fully within our rights to destroy you as a trespasser and a spy. I’m offering you a way to avoid that fate.”

  Pressman moved his shoulders a little. “Say we were to accept that negotiation is an option,” he said. “What would your offer be?”

  “We would release your ship and grant you safe passage out of our vicinity,” Oxxreg replied.

  “In exchange for ... ?”

  “In exchange for Starfleet arms and assistance,” Oxxreg said. “This war has been brutally expensive, in terms of lives and finances. Both our planet and the Ven—” This word he said with a sneer, almost as if it were the worst curse he could think of. “—have nearly bankrupted ourselves waging it. We need but a few solid victories, though, to turn the tide. Starfleet could provide the necessary armaments to destroy Ven’s fleet, and maybe their entire planet.”

  “And you think that they’ll give you these weapons, just to save us?” Pressman laughed at the screen. “You obviously don’t understand Starfleet.”

  “Your superiors do not value you and your crew?” Oxxreg asked.

  “Of course they do,” Pressman objected. “But they have priorities, and standards. Both of those require that they not interfere in wars that are none of their concern. Particularly in petty little skirmishes like the one you have going with the Ven.”