“Very good,” Devix said. “Anything, Lieutenant Terrin?” It bothered him that he felt compelled to ask the question, since his crew knew their jobs and would keep him appropriately informed.
“Working on it, sir,” Terrin said. “The amount of chatter is considerable and . . .” Devix looked over when she paused, and the lieutenant peered up from her console at him. “I have it, Admiral.” She operated her controls. “Isolating the channel now.”
“On-screen, Lieutenant.”
The view of Earth and of Starfleet’s reaction to the sudden appearance of an interloper fled the display, replaced by the image of a large, powerful-looking human. He wore his gray hair pulled back from his head, and he had a dark, penetrating gaze. Devix knew his Starfleet counterpart on sight, but then recalled that the commander-in-chief hailed not from Earth or any of its colonies, but from Capella IV. They had met once, a long time ago, both of them so far—in so many ways—from the ranks they would ultimately achieve.
“Commander-in-Chief Akaar,” Devix said. “This is Fleet Admiral Devix, aboard the Imperial scout vessel Enderavat. Please forgive our sudden appearance. If we did not travel under cloak, we obviously would not have been able to reach Earth.” He saw a long suspension bridge in the distance beyond Akaar, identifying his location as Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco.
“Admiral,” Akaar said, his features as quiet as though they had been hewn from wood, “you have ten seconds to explain your presence in Federation space before I order a dozen ships to close on your position and open fire.”
Devix doubted that Starfleet had twelve starships available at Earth to support such a threat, but he took Akaar’s meaning. “Commander-in-Chief, I have little desire to see my crew and my vessel reduced to cinders, and even less to launch any attack of our own. If you will check your sensors, you will find that this vessel possesses only light weaponry, and with its systems powered down, has no immediate ability to fire its weapons, to protect itself with shields, or to hide itself with a cloak.”
Akaar peered off to one side, and Devix assumed somebody provided him corroboration of the Enderavat’s status. When the commander-in-chief looked back, he said, “You’ve earned yourself another five seconds to explain why the head of the Imperial Fleet has brought a Romulan vessel to the very heart of the Federation.”
Devix drew himself up in an attempt to project his seriousness of purpose. “I have come because we need to talk.”
“Then talk,” Akaar said.
“This is something we must do in person, Commander-in-Chief,” Devix said.
Akaar did not reply at once. His jaw set and his eyes fixed, he could have been a statue. Before he began speaking again, Devix said, “You will have preparations to make, of course. You will want to isolate me once I transport down, to ensure that I am who I say I am, and that I am bringing no weapons—no explosives, no biological agents, no threats of any kind—to your shores. I will travel alone. I will provide coordinates so that you may use your own transporter to retrieve me.”
The narrowing of Akaar’s eyes provided the only indication that he even registered the words Devix spoke.
“While I am on Earth, my ship will remain undefended and unprepared to launch an attack,” Devix continued. “I ask that you refrain from boarding the Enderavat. My crew have their orders and will not deviate from them. When our meeting has concluded, I will take my ship—weapons, shields, and cloak still off line—directly to the Neutral Zone, preferably with a Starfleet escort.”
When Akaar finally broke his silence, he uttered just one word: “Why?”
“Commander-in-Chief,” Devix said, “I trust that, in your position, you will understand this better than anybody else possibly could. As the military leader of my people, I despise war. I am therefore here to discuss something very different.”
“Is there any reason at all for us to trust you?” Akaar wanted to know.
Considering the situation, Devix felt it best to admit the truth. “From your perspective, there is no reason whatsoever,” he said. “But I implore you, Leonard James Akaar. There is everything to gain from simple talking.”
Again, Akaar slipped into silence. Devix could see the effort in the Starfleet admiral’s eyes, could see him weighing competing judgments, calculating the danger each potential course of action might hold. Finally, he said, “I will order every ship in Earth orbit to hold station and refrain from opening fire on the Enderavat. Will you stand by while a decision is made on your request?”
“I will,” Devix said. “But time may be a critical component of our conversation.”
“I understand,” Akaar said. “Stand by. Starfleet out.”
The view of Earth returned to the screen. On it, the two Starfleet vessels Devix had seen a few moments earlier had drawn very close, both taking up positions off to starboard—obviously so that they would not risk striking the nearby space station if called upon to fire their weapons. The ships floated in such proximity to Enderavat that the admiral could read their names: Susquehanna and First Minister.
Nobody on the bridge said anything. Devix turned and walked over to sit down in the command chair. He and his crew could do nothing more but wait.
Via the dedicated transporter just outside his office, Akaar made it from Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco to the Palais de la Concorde in Paris in less than three minutes. He entered the Monet Room—the situation room—at a run. He did not beat the president there. Jas Abrik, the Federation Security Advisor, had also arrived.
“How in the hell does a Romulan ship travel through light-years of Federation space into Earth orbit without Starfleet knowing about it?” Bacco demanded of the admiral even before he’d taken a seat. “I guess I should be happy it’s not a warbird hovering a hundred meters above the Palais.”
“Planetary defenses would have alerted us had the vessel entered the atmosphere,” Akaar said. He regretted the defensive response even as he offered it.
“Thank you,” Bacco said. “I feel so much safer now.”
As Akaar sat down opposite the president at the round conference table, the door opened and a small Vulcan man—Undersecretary of Defense Vorent—entered at a brisk pace. He carried several padds with him, which he set down as he took a seat beside the security advisor. When Vorent glanced up and saw the president peering in his direction, he said, “Secretary Shostakova is presently out of the system, meeting with—”
“I know where the secretary is,” said the president. “What I want to know right now from the Department of Defense is how a Romulan ship can cross—”
“Madam President,” Akaar interjected quietly. Without the chief of staff present to keep Bacco properly focused, the admiral knew he would have to try to do so. “With a Romulan ship already in Earth orbit, I would suggest that the more important question is not How did it get there? but What do we do about it now that it is?”
The president took a breath and appeared to settle her emotions. “You spoke with the fleet admiral? What’s his name?”
“Devix,” Akaar said. “And yes, I did speak with him. He wants to meet with me to talk.”
“About what?” asked Abrik.
“He didn’t specify,” Akaar said. “He only said that he wants to speak with me in person, that he despises war, and that our conversation may be time-sensitive.”
“The praetor is forcing Devix to resign,” Abrik said. “Could this be a defection?”
“Such an action would not be consistent with the admiral’s character,” Vorent said. “He is a staunch loyalist.”
“He could be pretending to defect,” Abrik said. “Then planning to function as a double agent.”
“I don’t think that makes much sense either,” Vorent said. “He and the Romulans would know that we would treat any such defection cynically, if we even granted him political asylum.”
“Wait,” Bacco said. “Nobody’s talking about giving asylum to the current and soon-to-be-former head of the R
omulan Imperial Fleet. Relations with the Empire are at a low ebb, and I don’t think antagonizing the praetor or the military is the way to win them over.”
“But by providing asylum—” Abrik started, but Akaar cleared his throat, a sound like gravel being ground together, cutting off the security advisor.
“We do not know for what reason Admiral Devix has come to Earth,” Akaar said. “He could be seeking political sanctuary, but I don’t think so.”
“Then what does he want?” Bacco asked.
“I think he wants exactly what he said he wants: to talk with me.”
“But for what purpose?” Abrik asked again.
“I don’t know,” Akaar said. “But since the attack in the Bajoran system, this is the second time that the Romulans have sought discussion. I believe that it is in our best interests to hear them out.”
“They have lied to us,” Bacco said. “They caused the deaths of more than a thousand of our people and we don’t know how many of their own. They destroyed a space station, along with whatever trust we had built up with them. Should we give them the opportunity to do so again?”
Akaar considered this, but then recalled the Ten Tribes of Capella. He thought about his people’s bloody history, their tendency toward fast violence, and how far they still had to go before they would be worthy of joining the Federation. “The alternative to talking,” Akaar said, “is not talking. And I do not believe that not talking with our adversaries has any chance of turning them into our friends.”
The president sat back in her chair and regarded the admiral. “So you’re suggesting that we should live up to our high-sounding principles, is that it?” The hint of a smile played at the edges of her lips.
“Yes, Madam President,” Akaar said. “Something like that.”
“And what if the admiral dies—by his own hand or otherwise—while he’s on our soil?” Bacco asked. “What do you suppose that will do for interstellar relations?”
“That’s a risk, of course,” Akaar said. “But I don’t believe that he came here to end his own life.”
Bacco nodded. “All right, we’ll talk to Fleet Admiral Devix,” she said. “But I want it done safely. I don’t want the last act of a disgraced military man to be a suicide bombing that attempts to prove his patriotism by killing Federation citizens.”
“Understood,” Akaar said.
“So then how will you speak with him?” Bacco wanted to know.
Akaar didn’t quite have an answer. He wanted to volunteer to transport up to the Romulan ship, or to beam over to a Starfleet vessel with Devix, but he didn’t believe that the president would find either choice palatable. He looked to Abrik and Vorent, hoping that they might offer a suggestion. Neither of them said anything for a few moments, until at last the security advisor spoke up.
“There’s the penal colony in New Zealand,” Abrik said. “The inmate processing section of the maximum-security division is set up to receive individuals considered dangerous and a possible threat to colony personnel. We can transport Devix there, verify his identity as best we can, check him for weapons, disarm him if necessary, execute a scan for disease.”
Akaar looked over at the president. “I believe that would suffice for our needs,” he told her.
Bacco stood up. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she said.
“I’ll set it up,” Abrik said. “Admiral, I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready.”
“Understood,” Akaar said. He rose and made his way toward the door, headed for the office he kept in the Palais. From there, he would contact Admiral Devix.
“Admiral,” Bacco said, stopping him as he reached the door. “Be safe. The praetor may be replacing the head of her military, but I don’t want to have to replace mine.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Akaar said, and he proceeded to his office.
Devix stood again in the middle of the Enderavat bridge, speaking with his Federation counterpart. The admiral could see that Akaar had moved from his Starfleet Headquarters location, obviously to the secure facility they had set up for their discussion. Devix understood the precautions—had in fact suggested them—but the inability of his crew to perform a quick extraction did draw his concern, though he could say nothing about it.
“Admiral,” Akaar said on the main viewscreen, “we are ready to receive you.”
“I understand,” Devix said. “I will head to the transporter pad for which we provided you coordinates. I will contact you from there, and you can beam me down.”
“Acknowledged,” Akaar said. “Starfleet out.” The screen returned to a view of Earth and the two Starfleet vessels.
Devix turned to the sensor board. “D’Voral, the bridge is yours. Do you understand your orders?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good,” Devix said. “I’ll be back shortly.” He quickly exited the bridge into a turbolift and ordered it to take him to the nearest transporter room. As the lift began to move, he allowed himself a brief moment to wonder about his legacy. The last half-decade had seen failures in the Imperial Fleet under his leadership, but there had also been a time when he had collected one impressive military victory after another, beginning with the Klingon conflict at Nequencia. At this point in his career, Devix felt that neither category of engagement fairly represented the most important aspects of his time as fleet admiral. For decades—Decades!—he had kept Romulus fundamentally at peace. There had been some clashes during that period, but for the most part, he saved Romulan lives by not committing those lives to unnecessary military action.
But people often mistake an absence of action for inaction, Devix thought. Some historians, he knew, would characterize the fleet admiral as untried during those times of peace, a military man not forced to fight, and therefore not proven. They would not see that he prevented conflict, that he eschewed battle whenever that would best serve the Empire and the Fleet.
But this, he thought. If what I do here becomes known, how will I be remembered? How will I be judged? At least part of the answer to that, he knew, would depend on the results of his actions while in orbit of Earth.
The turbolift eased to a stop and its doors opened. He paced out of the cab and into the corridor. Just a few strides took him to his destination.
Devix stepped inside the transporter room. He peered at the pad, at the precious cargo atop it, then moved to the control console. He tied into the communications system, knowing that Lieutenant Terrin had kept the channel open to the Starfleet commander-in-chief. “Devix to Akaar.”
“Akaar here,” came the immediate response. Although the admiral’s voice remained even, the swiftness of his reply seemed to betray a level of anxiety. “Are you in position?”
The admiral took one final look at the transporter pad across the compartment, then said, “Yes, I am.”
Fleet Admiral Devix heard the hum of the Federation transporter rise, then saw streaks of white light form. He watched the entire process, until the pad stood empty. Then he left the transporter room and headed back to the bridge, hoping that he had done the right thing.
Admiral Akaar stood in the main processing room in the maximum-security wing of the New Zealand Penal Colony, along with a transporter operator and a pair of security officers, all from Starfleet. They stood in a large room, divided into thirds by thick walls of transparent aluminum. Akaar and the others stood in the outer section of the room, while the inner section contained the transporter platform; the middle portion of the room remained devoid of any adornment beyond the phaser emitters that lined the two narrow side walls.
It had been explained to Akaar that authorities would transport the few inmates sentenced to serve in the maximum-security wing directly to the inner third of the main processing room. Immediately upon transport, shields automatically snapped into place to prevent beaming out of the room. Security sensors would automatically check for weapons and dangerous materials anywhere on—or inside—the inmate, and biological scans would search out disease
s, particularly those intended for bacteriological warfare. Further, sensors would work with Federation security databases to confirm the inmate’s identity.
Akaar stood beside the transporter console, while the two security officers positioned themselves on either side of their section of the room. When Devix hailed him, the admiral reached up and activated his combadge. “Akaar here,” he said. He would know shortly whether or not the trust he’d shown his Romulan counterpart had been misplaced. “Are you in position?”
Devix paused for just a second, then said, “Yes, I am.”
Akaar nodded to the transporter operator, who set to working the console. Because of the two walls of transparent aluminum separating the inner third of the room from the outer third, Akaar could not hear the familiar whine of the transporter, but he saw the white beams of light as they brightened and coalesced into a shape.
“Transport complete,” the operator said, but she spoke her words in a whisper.
Akaar stared at the platform, then reached up and tapped his combadge again. “Akaar to Starfleet Headquarters,” he said. He waited a moment as Starfleet’s internal communications system routed his signal directly to his own office. He did not take his gaze from the platform.
“Starfleet Headquarters,” said the voice of his first assistant. “This is Lieutenant Reel. Go ahead, Admiral.”
“Reel, I need you to patch me through to the Palais de la Concorde immediately,” he said. “To the president’s office.”
“Right away, sir,” Reel said. “It’ll be just one moment.”
As Akaar waited, he glanced down at the console and activated the communications controls there, opening a channel to the inner third of the room. Then he looked back over at the transporter platform, drew in a breath, and said, “Welcome to Earth, Praetor.”
Gell Kamemor sat in front of President Bacco’s desk, feeling a mix of conflicting emotions: exhaustion and exhilaration, fear and anticipation. The trip from Romulus to Earth had been long and harrowing—harrowing not because she felt personally endangered, but because she believed that another rogue attack impended, that the commander of the missing vessel, Vetruvis, meant to commit an act of aggression against the Federation. If Kamemor failed to prevent that, then she knew that war would likely follow not far behind, and as Admiral Devix raced her toward Earth, she knew that failure could come in any number of ways. If the ship carrying her got turned back, stopped, or captured, or if she arrived too late, or if the president refused to speak with her, then the praetor’s efforts would amount to nothing.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Raise the Dawn (Star Trek, the Next Generation) Page 32
