Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

  “I…” Jassat hesitated. The Prometheus didn’t receive any current news while she was in slipstream. The entertainment displays on the far side of the counter still showed the Federation news from the previous day. They dealt with the end of Andor’s reproduction crisis, the initial days of the new Federation president, trade issues with the Ferengi, and the Federation’s partnership with the Cardassian Union, which had suffered since news had emerged that the former Federation president, Nanietta Bacco, had been murdered two months ago by members of the True Way, a Cardassian group of extremists.

  And there was news about an attack on a space station near the Lembatta Cluster. His people, little known to or noticed by the galactic society, had claimed responsibility for this atrocity.

  “It’s alright.” Moba shrugged his rounded shoulders. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”

  Jassat shook his head. “No, you might as well know, since it’s no secret. I’m Renao.”

  The Bolian looked at him pensively for a moment. “Hmm, never heard of them,” he said. Then he furrowed his bifurcated brow. “Hang on.” His gaze flickered to the screen that was mounted only a few meters away on the wall, where some expert from Earth gave his view on the latest events. Jassat couldn’t understand him as the voices in the Starboard 8 drowned him out, but the image of a Watchtower-class space station behind the man said enough.

  “Oh,” Moba said. “Now I understand your concern. But don’t worry. There’s an old Bolian saying: Don’t judge a woman by her mother. What I’m trying to say is this—it’s not your fault if your people go on the rampage.” Sympathetically, he lowered his voice. “Is that what’s bothering you? What’s happening with your people?”

  “Among other things,” admitted Jassat. “But I have visited the Home Spheres only twice within the last five years. My view is that of an outsider. I know that will change just as soon as we reach the Lembatta Cluster. But everything that is happening there still feels distant and strange.”

  “Is that why you look as if you feel uneasy in your uniform?” the curious barkeeper asked.

  “Hey, Moba!” one of the engineers shouted from his table. “Do we have to throw our glasses on the floor to get you to come by?” He and his three comrades waved their empty glasses.

  “We’ll talk again in a minute,” Moba promised before hurrying around the counter to serve the thirsty men.

  Is that why I feel uneasy in my uniform? Jassat repeated the barkeep’s question in his mind. How could he explain that to the other man? Or to himself?

  Jassat belonged to a civilization where everyone and everything had its specific place within the numerous spheres of life. If you were born into a certain neighborhood of a city, that neighborhood was your home. You stayed loyal to it, and in return, it offered security. Of course, the Renao knew that they needed to refresh their gene pool to ensure a healthy development of their species. To that end, the ritualized exchange of members from neighboring spheres was permitted. Even so, by the time an inhabitant of the basalt deserts on the northern continent of Onferin wound up three light-years away on the coast of the Narad Sea on Lhoeel, he would have had to pass at least four sphere borders. Very few Renao achieved that feat during their lifespan.

  This way of life had been maintained for centuries, so every Renao had an ingrained desire for stability. It had only been during the past few decades that Jassat’s species had increasingly utilized faster-than-light travel. They had established first contact with the United Federation of Planets. All these events had led to the beginning of a breakdown of internal dogmas. Bold young people such as Jassat had served as exchange officers aboard Starfleet vessels after an association agreement between the sphere of the Renao and the Federation had been agreed to.

  During his time aboard the Prometheus, Jassat had crossed more spheres than any Renao in the history of his people. The only reason he could bear these relentless changes was his environment’s consistency aboard the ship. The rooms and corridors of the Prometheus had become his sphere. He belonged here just like his superior officers, friends, and crewmates did—especially Jenna Kirk, Sarita Carson, and Captain Adams, who had taken him under his wing.

  Suddenly, everything had changed. The political situation had deteriorated, and the Renao had recalled their officers to their respective Home Spheres. But Jassat didn’t want to go back. He wanted to see the stars—but most of all he didn’t want to leave his new home. In order to stay aboard the Prometheus, he needed to graduate from Starfleet Academy to endorse the commission he had attained within the Renao fleet. For four years, he had fought a battle to accept San Francisco on the planet Earth as his new sphere. It hadn’t been easy because part of a cadet’s life was traveling to different worlds, and training flights aboard other vessels. His comrades had provided Jassat with the stability that he so desperately required. During his four-year tenure, there had been little to no fluctuation, which was gratifying.

  He had struggled through and graduated. And now, he was back here. But the Prometheus suddenly felt different. He had read that she had been modernized after the Borg invasion of 2381. Several corridors and rooms had undergone changes; most of all the main engine room where the modern slipstream reactor glowed next to the warp drive’s matter-antimatter reaction chamber. What bothered Jassat even more were the changes in his personal environment. He had grown used to his fellow cadets as they were the only constant feature during his life at the Academy. Maybe he had grown too used to them. Now, they were all gone and strewn across dozens of ships throughout Federation space. His former comrades had carried on living their own lives during the past few years. Lieutenant Garrett Moss, who had been the alpha-shift communications officer several years ago, had left the Prometheus, and had been replaced by Paul Winter. Sarita Carson seemed to have found a new best friend—this Andorian security chief. And Adams… He had only seen him briefly during a short welcoming ceremony when the “newcomers” had come aboard. The captain had smiled and said that he was happy to have Jassat in his crew. Then again, he had said that to everyone.

  “I’m sorry, that took a bit longer than I thought.” Moba reappeared on the other side of the counter. “Now, where were we? Ah, I remember—your uniform. So, where’s the itch… metaphorically speaking?”

  Before Jassat could reply, his combadge beeped. “Adams to ak Namur.”

  “One moment, please,” Jassat said, turning around and tapping the small device on his chest. “Ak Namur here, Captain.”

  “Please report to my ready room immediately, Lieutenant.”

  Jassat’s heartbeat increased. It seemed as if the captain had read his thoughts. “Understood, sir. I’m on my way.” He signed off and turned back to the Bolian barkeep. “I’m sorry, I must leave.”

  “Of course. No problem. What did my so-called father always say? When duty calls, don’t wear ear-defenders. Just tell me what’s troubling you another night. I’m always here.”

  Jassat had no idea what the Bolian bartender’s father’s saying actually meant, but he didn’t really care all that much at present. He was already making his way to the exit.

  * * *

  Richard Adams wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. He valued Jassat ak Namur. The young Renao had turned out to be dutiful, modest, and inquisitive. These were traits of a true Starfleet officer. But ak Namur was part of a civilization that unexpectedly had declared war on the entire galaxy, and the Prometheus was on her way to find out the extent of the threat and to react appropriately. Considering the nature of this journey, Adams couldn’t avoid this encounter. He needed to know whether his protégé was ready for this mission.

  His doorbell chimed, and Adams asked his visitor to enter. Ak Namur hesitantly walked into the room. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”

  “Yes, come in, Mr. ak Namur.” Adams sat behind his desk, beckoning the young Renao to come closer. At that moment the intercom beeped and the voice of Lieutenant Commander Se
nok, the watch commander for beta shift, sounded over the speakers. “Captain, we’re almost on the outer edge of the Lembatta Cluster. Leaving slipstream now.”

  “Understood,” Adams replied. “Wait for my orders before continuing our journey.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Adams signed off. He felt the ship trembling slightly when it dropped from slipstream into normal space. Jassat ak Namur held his breath, gazing at the window behind Adams’s back. The captain swiveled around on his chair and got up. Stepping to the window he took in the view of the panorama before his eyes. A huge nebula filled the emptiness of space before them. It looked like the menacingly steaming aura of a monstrous lurking cosmic life form that was staring at them with two dozen glowing red eyes. Adams had read that the Lembatta Cluster was called ‘eng mIgh in Klingon, which translated roughly into “Cloud of Evil.” It wasn’t particularly scientific, but the captain understood why someone would come up with that name. “Impressive view,” he said.

  Ak Namur drew closer and stood next to him. “Yes,” he simply said.

  The Renao with his crimson skin, jet-black hair, and glowing yellow eyes also resembled an unsaintly figure from Earth’s mythology. This appearance was, of course, misleading. Jassat ak Namur couldn’t hurt a fly. But was this frame of mind similarly exotic among his people as his excitement of discovery was?

  Adams tried to begin this delicate conversation with small talk. “I can hardly imagine what it must be like, living in the light of these dying stars.”

  The lieutenant’s expression showed a hint of wistfulness, but his demeanor also displayed an obvious tension. “The sky on Onferin, where I was born, is always red. In the early hours of the morning it turns into a pale pink, around noon it glows bright red, and when bad weather is coming, it’s like coagulated blood. This light seems to bring out all kinds of passion—even dark ones, apparently.”

  “Yes, from where we are standing it certainly looks that way,” Adams said. “What’s your stance on all that, Jassat?” He used his visitor’s first name deliberately to create a more intimate atmosphere. He also wanted to express that he wasn’t speaking as captain to his subordinate, but instead as a father figure to his protégé.

  Ak Namur shook his head. “I don’t understand it, Captain. I really don’t. It’s true that our people value the harmony of spheres above all else. According to our faith, everything in the universe has its place. This place was assigned by a cosmic order, and that’s where we belong. This faith has been deeply rooted since the early days of our culture, and it has always been ruling our way of thinking and acting.”

  “I remember that Starfleet’s philosophy to explore the entire galaxy had been one of the reasons leading to the deterioration in relations between the Federation and the Home Spheres,” Adams said. “Peaceful as our mission might be, to some Renao leaders it came across like an outrage.” He remembered the words of the radical man in the video message to the Federation Council. The galaxy has turned into a place of fear and terror, and that is your fault alone. War and invasions, wherever you look. Misery and suffering. Distrust and resentment. And why? Because you allowed it to go this far. Your unnatural desire to expand is tipping the balance in space. Your striving for new worlds and new civilizations, your attempts to build bridges in places where nature didn’t intend them to be let you forget where your natural spheres are.

  “All that is true,” said ak Namur. “But the harmony of spheres applied to the generation of our fathers. The young Renao know that this faith is obsolete. They know that a universe full of wonders awaits those who have the courage to overcome their fears and go forth. Well, at least they knew that a couple of years ago.” The young man fell silent for a while. He seemed to be so unsettled that Adams regretted not leaving him behind on Deep Space 9 when he found out where their mission was taking them. He should have left him there, no matter how useful Admiral Akaar deemed the Renao officer to be.

  “But even if they reverted to the old traditions and mindsets, the radicals’ actions still don’t make any sense,” ak Namur continued finally. “My people are not stupid, Captain. They may not agree with the Federation’s way of life, or indeed that of the other superpowers in the galaxy, but they do know that they can’t do anything about it. A small nation such as ours that occupies not even ten planets will never be able to fight against the combined forces of the Klingons and the Federation, not to mention the Typhon Pact powers. The attack on Starbase 91 therefore seems completely pointless. It’s an act of violence that won’t achieve anything. I can’t rule out that some lunatics on the inner planets dream of a fight against the rest of the universe. You will find fanatics in every civilization. But there’s a vast difference between dreaming and acting. Acting would require these people to leave their Home Spheres. And those who espouse that view would shy away from this step, because in order to achieve their goal they would have to become what they loathe most—a disturbing factor to the harmony of spheres, a sphere defiler.”

  Adams looked at ak Namur pensively. “Thank you, Jassat. It’s good to get that perspective. But allow me one last question.” He fixed the young man questioningly with his eyes, adopting a more official tone of voice. “Do you feel ready, Lieutenant, to meet your people as a Starfleet officer, and to do everything that’s required of you in that position, in order to preserve peace?”

  Ak Namur seemed uncertain for a moment. Obviously, he had asked himself the same question. He straightened himself, nodding. “Yes, Captain. I do wish that my return to the Home Spheres could happen under more amicable circumstances, but I will do my best to help you find out who murdered so many innocent people. The perpetrators should receive their just punishment, whether they are Renao or not.”

  “Very well.” Adams smiled slightly at the young man. “I didn’t expect anything less from you.” He put a hand on ak Namur’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go to the bridge and set course for your homeworld.”

  Ak Namur nodded and smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

  They crossed the room when the intercom on Adams’s desk beeped again. “Bridge to Captain Adams,” said the voice with the slight New Zealand accent, belonging to beta shift’s communications officer.

  Adams activated his combadge. “Adams here.”

  “Sir, we have received a priority message from Starfleet Headquarters.”

  Adams’s stomach turned. Please, let it be a message that the special envoy is late, he prayed to the universe, though he had a suspicion that it was much worse news than that. He gazed at ak Namur. “Go on ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young Renao left the room.

  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Adams sat down behind his desk. “Patch it through, Ensign Harris.”

  Admiral Akaar’s image confirmed the captain’s premonition a few seconds later. As usual, Starfleet’s commander-in-chief sat behind his desk in his office. “I’m afraid there has been another attack by the group that calls itself Purifying Flame. The Klingons have lost a moon in the Tika system not far from the Lembatta Cluster in an attack that is very similar to the one on Starbase 91. According to our information there have been no survivors.”

  Adams briefly closed his eyes, shaking his head. This was a nightmare.

  Akaar continued impassively. “There was another claim of responsibility, but this was sent specifically to the High Council on Qo’noS.” The white-haired Capellan laughed without humor. “To say that the Klingons are angered would be the understatement of the century. They are seething. Some voices are already demanding a raid on the Renao’s Home Spheres. Fortunately, reason is still prevailing, so that will not happen, but Chancellor Martok has dispatched a ship to investigate the matter. It’s an old Vor’cha-class battle cruiser commanded by an overzealous warrior by the name of Kromm. If he was on his own I’d send you reinforcements, just in case. But according to the Palais, Ambassador Rozhenko is accompanying him. Still, I wanted to warn you. Don’t leave
the field to the Klingons, Captain; otherwise, we’ll be heading straight toward the next galactic crisis.” Akaar leaned toward the screen. “Look after yourself, Dick. Akaar out.”

  14

  NOVEMBER 6, 2385

  I.K.S. Bortas

  “Haven’t you got better things to do, Lieutenant?” Sighing, Rooth wiped his face with his callused hand. “Do you really have to waste my time with this?”

  The eyes of the Klingon standing on the other side of the desk widened. “Sir, I assure you… this issue is anything but a waste of time. This jeghpu’wI’ has sabotaged my console, without a shadow of a doubt!”

  The office of the ship’s security department was deep inside the ship’s belly, several hundred steps away from the I.K.S. Bortas’s command center. Lieutenant Commander Rooth was in charge. But you didn’t have to be a security chief to realize one thing—Lieutenant Klarn was an idiot. He had just been ranting and raving all the way from the bridge to this office.

  “And why should he do that, hmm?” Rooth asked, bringing up the related personnel file on his computer screen with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Bekk Raspin has been in the Klingon Defense Force for just over six months, and he has never given us any reason to suspect him of sabotage.” And why should he start with your station of all places? he added to himself. Klarn’s communications console on the bridge was by no means the ship’s centerpiece.

  “Are you not listening?” Lieutenant Klarn clenched his fists, and his shoulders trembled aggressively. “He’s a jeghpu’wI’—enough said!”

  “That merely means that he comes from one of our conquered worlds,” Rooth stated. “From Rantal. It also says that his people are inferior. That’s all.”

  “Oh, really?” Leaning forward, Klarn rested his fists on Rooth’s desk and glared at him. The light from the small overhead lights reflected from his uniform’s metal shoulder plates. “Why, do you think, isn’t there anyone else from Rantal in the entire force, eh? Why, do you think, did the military leaders give jeghpu’wI’ a wide berth for centuries, and preferred to go down honorably in battle rather than having an inferior being on the bridges of their ships—talented or not?”