by John M. Ford
“I call for Security Option Two. Set for automatic destruct if we lose the Bridge.”
Maktai pushed buttons, took out his key and inserted it in the board, touched another set of controls. “Option set. Security password entered.”
“Kelly?”
“Executive’s password entered.”
Krenn worked his armrest console. “Captain’s password entered. Option in force.” There was a sound of weapon-shield harmonics, and curves bent on the Engineer’s displays.
The Engineer stood. “I’d better get aft. If we lose any more intercooler capacity, I’ll have to switch out a main, or we’ll melt.”
“Do it,” Krenn said, and turned to the Helmsman. “Zan Klimor, I want this.” His finger traced across the board. “Gunner, precision fire.”
Mirror rolled again, sideslipped vertically past the lead D4. “Action.”
Light lanced from each ship to the other. Mirror trembled. On the other ship’s forward pod, the Bridge deck exploded in a crown of fire. “Hit to our flight deck,” Specialist Antaan said. “We were decompressed already: no explosion.”
Dr. Tagore said clearly, “And if that ship had been set to destruct as we are?”
“Then we would all go to the Black Fleet together,” Krenn said, not annoyed. Humans met Death too late [243] in their lives. In many senses. “Is this not an acceptable outcome? Zan Kepool, pressors on the khex, before their second Bridge can assume control.”
“Acting, Captain,” the Navigator said.
The damaged ship began to drift, slowly on presser thrust, toward the other two. They continued to fire past it, then through it.
“Kai kassai, klingoni,” Krenn said. “Gunner, two projections on the far cruiser. Your discretion.”
The other Captain broke high, to avoid the drifting hulk. Mirror’s disruptors found its ventral surface: there was light, and violent outgassing, and the wound released cargo modules into space, some of them glowing with incident heat. Then the modules began exploding.
“That’s bombardment ordnance, Captain,” the Gunner said. There was an eruption inside the holed ship, and she shook from wingtip to wingtip.
Maktai said, “You were right. They didn’t intend to capture the colony.”
“What great glory that would have been, raining bombs,” Krenn said, finally angry. “What a prize. I told Kian he was wrong.”
“Captain,” Antaan said, “Fury’s shields are dropping.”
“Is he surrendering?” Dr. Tagore said.
Krenn turned. “This one would not. Boost—”
The center ship, Kian’s torn-winged cruiser, fired all its disruptors at once, six blue lightnings at Mirror. The display darkened with light-overload.
Fire arced around Mirror’s bridge, and every light went out. Someone cursed, in klingonaase; Krenn could not tell who. But it was a male voice.
The consoles lit again, then the dim red emergency lighting. Krenn felt lancing pain in his left leg, looked down: one of the repeater screens in the Chair near his boot had shattered, fragments ripping his trouser leg and the skin beneath. He looked around: there were [244] small cuts and burns, no one seemed seriously hurt. Kelly was injured slightly as well, but that was all right; now they could mend her.
Krenn looked at Fury, growing huge on the screen. “What are their shields?”
“Still low,” Antaan said, clutching a cut hand. “They’re recharging to—”
“Hit the pod!”
The Gunner acted, firing without sensor locks: beams tore crooked paths across the curve of Fury’s pod, skipping off metal into space, leaving traces burning red.
Fury did not fire.
In the pause that followed, Dr. Tagore said, “Weren’t we supposed to have exploded, a few minutes ago?”
Kelly said, “The verification cycle takes forty seconds. We recovered in thirty-one.”
Dr. Tagore said to Maktai, “Kai Security checks.”
Mak laughed.
Kelly said, “Fury’s trying to open link, RF channel.”
“Accept,” Krenn said.
The enemy Bridge was burning. Captain Kian was slumped in his Chair; it was not apparent what had injured or killed him. The Security Commander came into view, pushed Kian out of the Chair. He sat down.
“Krenn,” the Commander said, “Krenn sutai-Mutineer, do you remember who I am?”
“Yes, Commander Merzhan. I remember you.”
“Before you claim the victory,” Merzhan said, “I have a message for you. It was given to me by General Margon zantai-Demma. Are you listening?”
“Captain,” the Navigator said, “Fury’s boom is separating.”
Without looking away from the screen, Krenn stroked his fingers on the command board. “I am listening, Merzhan.”
“General Margon said there would be a time to tell [245] you this, Cadet. I think this time is good. Listen well: there were no survivors of the line Rustazh. None. There was only a lineless one of certain attributes, which zantai-Demma had a use for.
“Do you understand, tokhe Human-straav’? Does your crew understand? Does your kuveleta consort?” He was screaming.
“Communications,” Krenn said, “jam all frequencies. Weapons, action.”
The display showed Fury’s boom moving forward from the main hull, on its internal impulse engines. Then Mirror fired on the vector Krenn had ordered, and cut the boom in two; the impulse unit, running light of load, tumbled and shot past the command pod, and was gone.
Dr. Tagore said, “Can he still execute a destruct? By remote control?”
“You understand well, Emanuel,” Krenn said. “But he must do it by laser link; everything else is jammed. And it will take him a little time to think of it. Zan Klimor: this course.”
The Helmsman looked at his order repeater. “Affirm,” he said, not too steadily.
“When I was younger than you,” Krenn said, “I did not hesitate.”
“Affirm, Captain.”
Mirror began to roll, her dorsal side to Fury’s hull, ventral toward the slowly tumbling pod, sliding into the gap between them.
“Kai the Helm,” Krenn said.
“Laser pulse,” Kelly said.
“What’s the phrase, Emanuel ... about doors.”
Dr. Tagore said, “We make a better door than a window.” His voice seemed to come from far away.
Krenn nodded. “Gunner, free fire.”
Mirror cut Fury’s command pod into scrap.
There was a cheer on the Bridge. Krenn heard Kelly softly singing “Undefeated.” He turned around.
[246] Dr. Tagore’s chair was empty. Krenn stood up, too late remembering his leg; but he caught the Chair arm, and did not fall.
Dr. Tagore was sealing the last of his bags. “You’re hurt,” the Human said, as Krenn limped into the room.
“I am well,” Krenn said. Auloh had removed the splinters and sealed the skin. “And you?”
“Well enough.”
“Did you find the fight dishonorable? I knew Captain Kian, as Mak must have told you: there could be no talking his prize away from him. He was filled with klin ... I take no pleasure in his death.”
“I understand this,” Dr. Tagore said. “I am pleased that the colony lives. And I am pleased that you are alive, and the others of the crew. And yes, yes, I was thrilled, in the thick of the battle. But the universe is still backwards. Don’t ask me to be more pleased than this.” He sat down on one of his cases. There was a long, quiet pause.
Krenn said, “You are correct, Emanuel. I destroyed Merzhan in anger, and not for any war that might or might not have been.”
Dr. Tagore said, “I did not understand all the one said. But I think the epetai-Khemara would be proud of a student who could defeat three ships with one.”
Krenn said nothing.
“I am a man of the Federation,” Dr. Tagore said, “not its center, but its fringe, yet still within it. But not all people born in Federation space belong. Some go off to th
e Pioneer Corps, or alone to mine planetoids. Some find that dark country which is madness, and we cannot bring them back, because they are happier there than ever they were sane.
“When a Klingon is born, Krenn, and the one cannot be a Klingon ... where can the one go?”
Krenn touched the wall communicator. “Dr. Tagore’s baggage is to be taken to the Transporter Room.” He released the call key, smiled. “Pozhalasta [247] prishl’yiti bagazh. One of the first things I ever learned to say in your language. I have never had the chance to use it.”
Dr. Tagore smiled, said in klingonaase, “ ‘Where are the secret military installations?’ I never got to use that one, either.”
Krenn laughed aloud. He took Dr. Tagore’s arm, and led him from the room; he was laughing too hard to speak.
They took the lift down the boom to Engineering; crew were busy making repairs, cleaning up debris and burn marks, moving wounded and dead. Few of the workers even noticed Krenn to salute. Krenn keyed a shielded door, and went through, motioning for Dr. Tagore to follow.
In the large chamber beyond were three cylindrical assemblies of metal and crystal, more than a meter across and several meters long, glowing from within: at the core of each cylinder was an assembly of octahedral crystals, of a deep red-gold color.
“Carter Winston’s ring,” Dr. Tagore said. “Dilithium.”
“What you asked to see.” Krenn laughed again. “Mirror is an intermediate design ... we’re only using our existing equipment at higher power levels. The ship is always on the brink of overload. But there is a new generation coming, the D6, which will make full use of the dilithium focus. And then, everything Admiral Shepherd said, will happen.”
“But ... you had it all along.”
“There was a race, who called themselves Willall, who had it. But they were kuve, and did not know what they had. So the Empire took it, as was only fitting.”
Dr. Tagore said, his voice rather small, “And now you have the report, and know how little we have. I am terribly stupid, Krenn. I still am not able to think as a Klingon.”
“No, you do not,” Krenn said. “Do you think the Council will believe that Starfleet freely gave them a [248] complete report? They will read the report, and assume the truth is greater by a certain factor, and finally see themselves reflected. And the Federation, for its part, will assume we have stolen its knowledge, and we are equal on its level. And there will not be a war. This is what you wanted: I do not think its achievement makes you stupid.”
“Oh, my,” the Human said, “oh, my.” He seemed quite shocked. “Are you ... all right?” Krenn said, in Federation. “I should not like ... for you to die now.” He had heard that old Humans sometimes died of shock.
“This one is very well,” Dr. Tagore said. “This one is farther from death than in fifty years. I feel like ... Lancelot, when his miracle came.”
They rode forward again. The corridor from the lift door to the Transporter room was lined with ship’s officers, all saluting, but with their weapons out of sight; Mak’s doing, Krenn knew. Dr. Tagore nodded to them, as he passed; Krenn saluted. Maktai passed the two of them through the door.
Kelly was waiting at the transporter console. Dr. Tagore’s bags were stacked neatly on the passenger discs.
“I think it has been an honorable mission,” Dr. Tagore said, “even if not a glorious one. You realize, Krenn ... there won’t be any place in history to be written ... for either of us.”
“There are kinds and kinds of glory,” Krenn said. “And that which is done before the naked stars—”
“Is remembered,” the Human said. “Yes. I think that’s history enough to make.”
There was a tightness in Dr. Tagore’s face: Krenn felt an overpowering ache in his own jaw. “Emanuel—”
The Human stopped just short of the transport stage, turned.
“I would tell you ... on whatever ship I have, in the White Fleet or the Black ... there will be a place for you, epetai-Tagore. Even if you do not take it.”
[249] Dr. Tagore’s voice was very strong, in no way old. “And if I should hear that you have passed from this life, Krenn, I will mourn you ... even if you do not want it.”
Dr. Tagore stepped onto the disc. He held up his hand, palm forward. Krenn saluted, and Kelly. They held the gestures for a moment; then Krenn said “Energize,” and there was the click of controls, and the silent, golden light, and then nothing.
Kelly reached to null the controls. Krenn said, “Wait.”
“Captain?”
“If I ordered you to gather your gear, including your medical data, and beam down here, for ... treatment, would you obey?”
“Mirror would then depart?”
“You would not be abandoned. You would wait for ... a ship to return.”
Kelly said, “Only the Ship’s Surgeon may order medical leave. And the Surgeon may not be ordered in matters of medicine.”
Krenn said, “The Security Commander’s message from Fury—”
“You explained that all of the line were dead, Captain. That the name was free for any founder to take. This was in no way contradicted.” She touched the transporter controls. “If I am ordered to beam down, I will obey. But if Mirror is to return here ... I should like to return with it.”
“Very well, Commander,” Krenn said. He touched the communicator. “Crew to cruise stations. Prepare to get under way.”
The atmosphere on the Bridge was foggy and thick, the temperature luxuriously higher than normal. Krenn breathed deeply, smiled, nodded to the Engineer: they had earned it. And there was power to spare.
He sat down in the Command Chair, noticing that the broken display had already been replaced. The [250] main display showed the wreckage of Kian’s squadron, some of it still glowing. A bit of the bombardment ordnance exploded, far away.
But it was not just Kian’s squadron, of course. It was Kodon’s. And Margon’s. And others’ as well. It was all in Section Two of the Red File. And when it was known that the war faction had almost gotten its wish—against a Federation that had dilithium, while almost destroying the Contacts Branch ship carrying that crucial information back to the Empire—
The Intelligence Master said he valued the Empire above all things, certainly above any faction of councillors. And Krenn believed that—though he had also arranged other outlets for Section Two.
And the faction that had brought about the death of Thought Admiral Kethas would themselves die of an Imperial displeasure, killed by their own squadron of ships.
The last move of the Reflective Game.
Krenn wondered if Meth would reward him with the truth about his birth. Certainly they had spent high energies, at an event horizon. Or would Meth keep the information, as he had kept Kelly’s pattern, always just out of the reach of those he used as weapons?
Krenn smiled. Three years ago he had begun searching for Kelly’s past, and Zharn’s; and, almost by accident, he had found his own. Meth was correct: information was power, secrets weapons. Krenn thought how strange it was that this secret, that he was not the son of Rustazh, had made him even more the son of Khemara; given him exactly the weapon with which Kethas had tried to arm him. The weapon of patience, against which Klingons had no defense.
“Ready for orders, Captain,” the Helmsman said.
“Course for Klinzhai, direct, zan Kepool,” Krenn told the Navigator. “Zan Klimor, Warp 4 until we’re across the Zone ... then Warp 6.”
Krenn looked at the stars on the main display. Federation space, he thought, but the same stars. There [251] was the answer to Dr. Tagore’s question: Where could the one go? Anywhere: the naked stars were the same.
Too late now. If they ever met again, in this life or the next, he would have something lo tell Emanuel.
The Human had been wrong about one thing, though. Dr. Tagore believed that Klingons kept their pain, their grief, to themselves, never shared it. And of course that was wrong.
Was not revenge, Krenn tho
ught peacefully, the final reflection of sharing?
The stars streaked past, and the ship was gone.
Epilogue
Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 8405.15
I am ... fascinated, as Spock would say.
I am reminded of something Abraham Lincoln is supposed to have said, when he met the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin: “So you are the little lady who started this big war.” And I keep thinking of all those log entries I have made, indelible now, that refer to the Klingons as “vicious, heartless murderers,” or the like. I did that very casually. Certainly the Klingon record has been far from gentle. But I think I shall be more careful now, in what I say for the record.
I know that most of the crew have read the book, either during leave or since; ship’s library has printed nearly two hundred copies. (Spock provided the information ... one of the few times I can recall having to ask him twice for something.) The response has been very quiet—the non-regulation hairstyles [253] have all gone—but still it is there, and I’d be a poor Captain if I didn’t see.
Especially notable has been the lull in the war of words between Spock and Dr. McCoy. I suspect there has been a temporary truce, of sorts: Bones will not bring up Spock’s episode in the Embassy game room if Spock will not mention McCoy in diapers.
And though I do not have words to tell them, I think all the more of both my friends for what I have read: and for those small glimpses I am grateful.
And for the reminder that the Federation has never been perfect, and never will be, I am grateful as well.
The book may, as Starfleet officially insists, be almost completely fictional. I should be sorry if that is so: truth is always more interesting. And I speak as a man who once ... once long ago, in the city of Chicago ... was tempted almost beyond reason to change history.
I feel a sort of bitterness now, one I am not sure if the author intended. Perhaps it is because I have seen how things could be made different, given only small changes: I think of the Klingons I have just read about, all of them now surely dead ... and I think of how much we have lost, by not knowing them sooner.
End entry.
