“That’s right,” the Klingon said.
“Very good. Ambassador Spock is accompanying us on this mission. Why don’t you come aboard, and we can discuss our results so far. Afterwards, the diplomats can decide how we should proceed.”
The notion that politicians should have the final say seemed to invoke disgust in Kromm. Nonetheless, he nodded.
“Agreed, Captain. We will beam aboard your ship.” Without another word he cut off the transmission.
“Delightful conversationalists,” Sarita Carson murmured.
Adams activated the intercom. “Bridge to transporter room.”
“Kowalski here.”
“Prepare to beam a Klingon delegation aboard.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain changed frequencies. “Bridge to Commander Roaas.”
“Yes, Captain?” the first officer’s voice answered.
“Meet me along with Commander zh’Thiin and Ambassador Spock in the transporter room,” Adams ordered. “We have visitors.”
“Visitors, sir?”
“The Klingons are here.”
18
NOVEMBER 9, 2385
U.S.S. Prometheus, on the periphery of the Lembatta Cluster
“Bah!” Kromm had entered the U.S.S. Prometheus’s conference room no more than fifteen minutes ago and he had already hammered his fist on the table for the third time. “You can’t be serious. I know your file, Adams! You’re not a coward!”
The long table stood alongside the windows in the room. The temperature in the room had been adjusted to suit humans. Eight people sat around the table for this discussion. Next to Kromm sat L’emka, who just emitted a strained sigh, and Chief Engineer Nuk. The latter appeared to be asleep. His eyes were closed and he breathed steadily and calmly. Across from the table sat the ambassadors, Rozhenko and Spock, along with Commander Roaas and the security chief, Lenissa zh’Thiin.
The Andorian’s gaze seemed fixed onto the windows and the space beyond them, where floating debris of the former Federation station 91 was visible. Members of Starfleet wearing heavy EV suits with small thrusters and even smaller spotlights floated among the remains of the tragedy that had happened here, trying to secure any available evidence.
At the head of the table sat Captain Richard Adams. Above the center of the table hovered a star chart of the cluster; a three-dimensional holographic projection consisting of air and blue light, slowly revolving around its axis. Adams had concentrated on this projection… until Kromm’s outburst.
“You might be right there, Captain,” the human said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But I also know your file. And I see the way you’re conducting yourself here. Therefore…”
“Conducting?” Kromm laughed. Incredulously, he stared at Commander L’emka who quite clearly didn’t share his indignation. Quickly he looked back at Adams. “Are you insinuating that I’m just playing a role? Captain, your ever-so-noble Federation is not the only victim of these dishonorable Romulans! Have you already forgotten? Qo’noS also has reason to grieve—and to be furious. That’s why Martok sent the Bortas in the first place!”
“So far, it’s still debatable who the perpetrators are and…” Commander Roaas began.
“The hell it is!” Kromm interrupted the Caitian loudly. “You found the evidence yourself, damnit! What else do you need?”
“Certainty,” Adams replied before Roaas, who clearly had difficulty remaining patient, could say anything. “And most of all we need respect, Captain. Generally, no one is to be interrupted while sitting at this table. I would appreciate it if you could also adhere to a tradition that is well-established aboard this ship.”
Kromm snorted. That was typical for Starfleet! Did the Federation prefer to turn a blind eye to the truth because they were so peace-loving? It was no wonder that the formerly strong league of worlds had slipped from crisis to crisis during recent years. On Earth, they obviously preferred to sit back and do nothing instead of getting their hands dirty.
“The Romulan senate is a scheming, paranoid collection of warmongers,” the Klingon snarled. “All Romulans are. I know that species better than you do, Adams. I know what they’re capable of.”
“And I know them far better than you do.” Ambassador Spock, his hands calmly folded on the table, faced Kromm with a steady gaze from his brown eyes and spoke in a quiet voice. “Considerably better than you, I suspect. Your description does not correspond with my experiences.”
Kromm had never before met the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Vulcan—a living legend in his own right. He had heard and read a lot about him, though, especially about the many years that Spock had spent in the Romulan underground. They said that Spock had pursued an absurd dream there: the reconciliation of Romulans and Vulcans. Both peoples were vastly different, but according to biology and genetics they must have been brothers eons ago. Kromm thought it spoke volumes that Spock’s dream still hadn’t come true. It proved that even great personalities of his caliber could become obsessed with completely unrealistic goals. Even legends grew old.
Kromm turned on him, although he found himself instinctively keeping his temper in check while speaking to such a legendary figure. “Well, in that case, let us do something, instead of sitting here and asking questions that have long since been answered. The Typhon Pact made no pretense of the fact that they are hostile toward you and us. What happened here and on Tika IV-B is testament to that.” His gaze wandered to Rozhenko. “These attacks may be out of character for the Renao as you so eloquently keep pointing out, but I can guarantee you, the Romulans would carry them out just as swiftly as a taj would end up in a chest!”
“A precise analysis of the Scorpion wreckage is yet to come,” L’emka interjected rudely. “So far, Captain Adams’s team was only able to conduct a superficial…”
“You know the Pact, all of you!” Kromm screamed. The longer he sat at this table, the less he believed his eyes and ears. “You know what they are capable of, Captain! Remember Deep Space 9! Think of all the conflicts that the Breen have caused you in the past. And the Tzenkethi, the Gorn, and the Kinshaya. What more do you need? How much more obvious does Gell Kamemor have to be, before you finally realize that she is your enemy? Does Earth have to be in flames first?”
Adams rose, walking to the window. “Praetor Kamemor is a dedicated friend of the Federation. She’s a woman of reason and vision. She worked together with our late President Bacco on a lasting peace between us and the Romulan Star Empire. It wouldn’t make any sense whatsoever for Romulus to ruin this work and their mutual legacy now.”
“And yet you’re looking at debris out there.” Kromm also got up because the discussion seemed to be coming to an end. In his eyes it had done so long ago. “The universe is not logical, Captain Adams. Yesterday’s friend might be today’s liar.” At this point he couldn’t help but shoot a warning glance toward the insolent L’emka. “Therefore, I suggest we take this new evidence and use it for a joint raid on Romulus’s borders. We should let the treacherous petaQ within their senate know that they have picked on the wrong opponent.”
“Expensive,” someone suddenly grumbled to the right of him.
Slowly, Kromm turned around. The gray-haired Nuk still had his eyes closed, and his huge calloused hands were neatly folded on his impressive stomach, but apparently he had followed the conversation closely.
“What?” Kromm asked incredulously.
“War,” grumbled the quirky engineer into his disheveled beard, before giving off a relaxed sigh. He seemed to be so calm that it bordered on uninterested. “War costs.”
“Your engineer puts his finger on a very important point there,” Alexander Rozhenko said. The hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. Kromm would have loved to punch it out of his face, right there and then. “War costs. If we attack Romulus—be it for a good reason or not—Romulus will strike back. And the Federation and its allies—one of them being the Klingon Empire—will b
e involved in the next interstellar conflict.”
“Which we simply can’t afford,” finished Roaas. He seemed to have calmed down, judging by the tone of his voice and his impersonal expression. “Dominion War, Borg invasion, the Typhon Pact… Our shipyards are operating at full capacity, but the strength of our fleet is still not back to the level it had been before the war. And I’m sure I don’t have to discuss the lack of qualified staff officers with you, do I?”
Kromm sat down again, very slowly and without taking his eyes off the Caitian. “What is that supposed to mean, Commander?” he snarled aggressively. The dig hadn’t eluded him. If this walking piece of fur wanted trouble, he could have it.
“That’s enough!” Adams swung around from the window. His disapproving expression matched the tone of his voice. He went back to the table, pointing at the holographic star chart. “We will give every detail, every trace, and every theory of this case the attention it deserves, have I made myself clear? No exceptions, no short cuts, no excuses. We will draw our conclusions, and they will be well-founded conclusions, based on facts, and not on prejudice. And most of all they will not be based on dubious confessions.”
“Captain!” Once again, Kromm hammered his fist on the table. Nuk winced, startled, opening his eyes. “The Renao did confess.”
Adams raised his hands defensively. “Don’t worry, Kromm. Onferin is still on the list of places that I intend to visit during this mission. But before we head to the Renao homeworld we should ensure that our crime scene out here doesn’t conceal any more secrets from us. All in good time. Violence doesn’t solve any problems, Captain—knowledge does. I’m sure Chancellor Martok would agree with me there.”
“The chancellor demands answers, Captain, and he wants them soon.”
“As do we,” Adams replied. “And I have a hunch that we will find some of them on Lembatta Prime. We should take advantage of that opportunity before moving on. To do otherwise would be inefficient to say the least.”
Kromm struggled. On the one hand, he deemed Adams’s strategy too hesitant. On the other hand, he wanted to honor the High Council in the way it deserved, investigating the case thoroughly so not to miss any enemies of the empire against whom they could take vengeance.
So he finally yielded. “Very well. We shall do it your way, Adams. For now! If this only costs us time without leading to success, we will continue our conversation—with clearer words. Is that understood?”
Roaas glowered at him. “Threats are uncalled for, Captain Kromm!”
But Adams waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry,
Commander. Kromm and I understand each other.”
With these words, the meeting ended. Kromm left, and he was not particularly satisfied.
* * *
Adams stared after the Klingons until the conference room door hissed shut behind them. He took a deep breath. That went worse than expected. Kromm was likely to be a bigger problem than anticipated. He lacked vision, and tried to make up for it with pride and volume. Adams didn’t have any doubts that he could soothe his ruffled feathers again should the circumstances require him to do so but he wasn’t all too keen on the notion.
“Captain?”
Spock’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts. The old ambassador had drawn close to stand next to him without him noticing. Clasping his hands behind his back, Spock looked at Adams with an impassionate expression. It seemed as if he hadn’t witnessed the argument with Kromm.
“Ambassador,” Adams said, facing him. From the corner of his eye he noticed zh’Thiin and Roaas standing by the windows, whispering to each other. “What can I do for you?”
The half-Vulcan raised one eyebrow. “I believe I can do something for you, Captain Adams. I am finding these modified Scorpion attack fighters to be increasingly troublesome. With your permission, I wish to renew some of my contacts on Romulus. Perhaps with their aid, I may uncover more information without alerting the praetor and the senate. Would your Ensign Winter be able to open a secure subspace frequency so I may reach Romulus?”
Adams nodded. A touch of relief flooded over him, as this was an actual productive course of action, as opposed to what Kromm had been suggesting. “Of course, Ambassador. If anyone can do that it’ll be Ensign Winter. They call him the subspace magician here on board.”
Spock raised his eyebrow again. “Remarkable. I was not aware that the habit of promoting extraordinarily talented officers to the level of miracle workers still existed within Starfleet.”
The captain chuckled. “The universe is a dangerous place, Ambassador. Simple spacefarers like us have a tendency to feel more secure when we can rely on witnessing a miracle now and then.”
* * *
The Starboard 8 was almost empty. The majority of alpha shift was already sound asleep in their cabins after having been relieved from duty and it would take another two hours before the personnel from beta shift would populate the corridors. But that wasn’t the only reason why Jassat ak Namur was faced with empty tables when he entered the small club on deck eight of the Prometheus that was one of the crew’s favorite recreation centers.
It’s the view. They’re staying away because of the view.
Outside the three rectangular viewports that took up the majority of Starboard 8’s exterior wall drifted the debris of Starbase 91 through the empty void of space. Beyond the rubble, the cluster nebula lurked menacingly with its dark red glowing in front of a black backdrop. This view would certainly not lift the spirits of Starfleet officers after work. Not under these circumstances.
“Lieutenant.”
The bartender’s friendly shout distracted Jassat from the debris. Squinting, the young Renao looked to the right toward the underlit white counter. Behind the counter stood the Bolian. A lonely engineer sat in front of the counter on a stool that was upholstered with dark fabric. He stared into a glass filled with a dark amber drink. The screen at the other end of the counter displayed a political talk show on the topic of the “Renao Crises.” According to the text overlay, that was the name given to this matter. The sound had been muted.
“Are you trying to take root on the threshold?” the bartender shouted. He grinned broadly. “Come in, Mr. ak Namur. Make yourself at home.”
Home. Visually, that might be the case—the Prometheus was home to Jassat, by now probably even more than the cluster out there. For years he had yearned to return to this ship, and to be among these officers again. For years, he had dreamed about sitting in the Starboard 8 again.
But now? Empty chairs at empty tables? And the uneasy feeling that this home was no more than an illusion.
Hesitantly, Jassat went to the counter. The engineer briefly looked up. Was he imagining things, or did this man’s expression show skepticism? Skepticism… and maybe even a silent accusation?
Word about the disaster in the Tika system had long since gotten around the crew. The second video of the alleged Renao claiming responsibility was being played on the news nets around the clock. Jassat couldn’t blame his crewmates if they regarded him with mistrust. He didn’t know most of them, and they didn’t know him. Still, it hurt him considerably.
Again, Captain Adams’s question echoed through his mind. Do you feel ready, Lieutenant, to meet your people? Adams had wanted to know whether he was prepared to defend the Federation’s values against the Renao, who might be deluded, and might look upon him as a traitor. A stranger. Jassat had affirmed that question. But what about the Federation citizens, who were looking at him as if he was an alien? What about people like this engineer and his accusing gaze? The man by the counter was by no means the only one, as the previous days aboard the Prometheus had proven to Jassat. Wherever he looked, he was met with mistrust. Not necessarily on the bridge but on the lower decks. Almost everywhere, he noticed questioning gazes, frowns, and whispers behind his back. Shipmates fell silent when he came around a corridor corner. Near the engine room, some ensign had even snapped at him, calling him a “murde
rer.” Jenna Kirk who had witnessed the incident by chance, had given the man a proper dressing down so that he took to his heels just as soon as he had been dismissed. But Jassat was worried… what’s more, he knew that wasn’t the end of it. That was how it always began, and that was never where it ended. Mistrust generated fear, and fear led to violence.
“What’s your poison?” The bartender rubbed his hands together. “The usual?” The dedicated gesture and the broad smile chased Jassat’s worries away, at least for the moment.
“The usual?” The Renao was amazed and amused in equal measures. “I only ever ordered a Q’babi juice once here.”
Moba raised an admonitory finger. “But you said that you used to drink that juice way back when. Oh yes, I do remember such little details. Especially, if they come from the only Renao who ever happened to stroll into my small club. Besides, apart from you and Commander Kirk, nobody asks for Q’babi juice. Most people think it’s too sweet. But what did my cousin on Rigel V always say? ‘Tartly or sweet, all good things are neat!’”
“In that case—the same as always,” Jassat mumbled, a little perplexed but generally grateful.
Since he’d been back on the Prometheus one feeling had gradually grown stronger: a premonition that everything was wrong all of a sudden. He felt exactly what Thomas Wolfe, an ancient author from Earth, had written: “You Can’t Go Home Again.” During his time at the Academy, Jassat had thought about the Prometheus and his goal to serve aboard her again almost every day. To be in his chosen Home Sphere. Now that he had reached that goal and his dream had come true, he felt increasingly like a stranger.
“Our conversation four days ago was interrupted,” Moba chatted while pouring Jassat’s favorite drink, “and I never got a chance to ask you what you’ve been up to these past couple of years.”
“I spent the better part of the past few years in lecture rooms,” replied Jassat dryly.
Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire Page 16
