Gog’resssh displayed his teeth, as well as a good deal of the interior of whatever creature he had eaten live during his most recent meal. Tracing the line of her left cranial crest with a single long claw, he said, “You mean the new warrior caste that we would build, together.”
“Of course,” she said calmly though she was now thoroughly nauseated. It wasn’t just her captor’s touch; it was also the realization that his understanding of gene-pool viability encompassed the necessity of severely bending Gorn society’s ingrained cross-caste miscegenation taboo in order to build the future he envisioned.
Using the most persuasive tone of Voice she could muster, Z’shezhira continued. “If you wait . . . If we wait for Krassrr to complete his mission before we move to take Hranrar and the ecosculptor that will re-create it, then all we will have done is rebuild the same warrior caste that judged all of Sazssgrerrn’s war-caster survivors to be unworthy of continued care and life after their rescue from the dead crèche’s ashes.”
“You really wish to make common cause with the Federrazsh’n mammals?” said Zegrroz’rh, incredulous. “Not even the weaklings in the political caste believe in such foolishness.”
Gog’resssh said nothing. He had retreated inward, evidently evaluating what he was hearing. Z’shezhira knew from experience that this was when the first myrmidon was at his most dangerous. He would emerge from his meditations either with a calm acceptance of whatever suggestion had been made, or else with a stern—and usually physical—rebuke for any notion he deemed worthy of rejection.
Ignoring the second myrmidon, Z’shezhira continued working on Gog’resssh, layering her Voice in every overtone of trust she knew how to create. “I know you haven’t forgotten how the war-casters who once commanded this ship—your own caste-peers—tried to euthanize you and all the other survivors of your garrison after we took you aboard and treated your wounds. They said it was ‘for the greater good of the caste.’ “
“Yessss,” Gog’resssh said, his facial scales contorting into a fury that nearly made Z’shezhira flinch away.
“I implore you, First Myrmidon,” she said, standing her ground against him. “Do something for the greater good of your caste now. Join forces with the mammals against Krassrr—at least until it is no longer convenient.”
She prayed she’d get the chance to recover S’syrixx from the mammals’ clutches before Gog’resssh’s inevitable betrayal of Tie-tan’s commander and crew.
Heartbeat after heartbeat passed in silence as both Z’shezhira and Zegrroz’rh awaited the first myrmidon’s decision.
“Hail Tie-tan,” Gog’resssh said finally. “Use a tight beam to prevent Krassrr from listening in.”
Z’shezhira could scarcely contain her relief. “Immediately, First Myrmidon.”
“This is unwise, First Myrmidon!” Zegrroz’rh exclaimed.
Gog’resssh flashed into motion with surprising speed. Moments later, Zegrroz’rh lay insensate on the deck. Z’shezhira’s heart raced.
“Get me Rry’kurr,” Gog’resssh said in a calm tone as cold as space.
HIGH ABOVE HRANRAR
The ancient thinker took in the sweeping blue curve of the world below with a feeling akin to awe. Having such rich raw material for its work was a vanishingly rare privilege. If only it could muster the power to do something with it. Unfortunately, time and entropy had long ago robbed it of this capability. For long eons, all the ancient thinker could do was listen to the voices of the small creatures who occasionally crossed the dark reaches in order to touch its body and organs with their energy pulses and their insignificantly tiny physical forms. Or watch with half-blind subspace eyes as its brethren succumbed one by one to the very same time and entropy that awaited everything that thought and lived, should it think and live long enough to experience it.
It had been ages since the ancient thinker had experienced the presence of so many smallminds at one time. And it was the first time it had experienced the simultaneous presence of two distinct groups. What a conundrum both groups presented, at turns unified and contentious, variegated and homogeneous, both within their respective groups and across whatever gulf of difference separated them one from another. Though the two groups were clearly mutually hostile, they were also more alike than either group realized. How long would it take, the ancient thinker wondered, before either or both groups understood that?
As a self-protective precaution, the ancient thinker extended a semipermeable subspace bubble around them, making it large enough so that the hundreds of smallminds on their various conveyances could communicate with one another when in close proximity, and yet small enough to prevent them from too easily summoning legions of other troublesome small-minds.
Unfortunately, that barrier could only delay the inevitable; already, the ancient thinker could sense the approach of a great armada of smallmind conveyances, all aligned with the most numerous of the two groups, coming in quickly from the Great Outer Darkness.
With one small portion of its vast but sedentary consciousness, the ancient thinker heard a new thread of cross-talk, something so far unprecedented: a dialogue between the two groups that did not appear to be the immediate precursor of either a fear-threat display or a violent conflict.
The ancient thinker settled in to listen. . . .
18
U.S.S. TITAN
“His name is Gog’resssh, Captain,” Rager said as she examined the incoming hail. “He says his ship is not part of Krassrr’s fleet.”
Riker scowled as he leaned forward in his command chair. “Ship? What ship?”
Rager tapped a command into her console. “Sensors confirm the presence of his vessel, about a dozen klicks below us.”
“Why didn’t we detect his ship before now?”
“Look where we are, Captain,” the senior ops officer said. “We’re caught smack in a firehose of electromagnetic lines of force. We can barely see our hands in front of our faces, so to speak. My best guess is that we didn’t see him earlier because he didn’t want us to.”
“Fair enough,” Riker said. “What does he want?”
“He’s asking to parley on a secure visual channel. He says Krassrr can’t crack it.”
“Pipe it into my ready room, Lieutenant,” Riker said as he rose to his feet.
“I must advise caution, Captain,” Tuvok said from the main tactical station. “The Gorn have a well known penchant for deception, going all the way back to the Cestus III massacre. I could also cite far more recent events.”
Riker nodded, understanding that Tuvok was referencing S’syrixx’s recent attempt to steal a shuttlecraft and escape from Titan—an action that Riker himself had thwarted with an act of pure guile. He felt reasonably confident in his ability to hold his own against whatever tricks this Gog’resssh might have up his sleeve. Still, he wished more than ever that Deanna could be at his side now to help him evaluate the veracity of this Gorn’s words.
Pushing aside the ache of his wife’s continued absence, he said, “Believe me, Commander, I’m fully aware of the risks of dealing with the Gorn. That’s why I’ve got Commander Keru personally shadowing S’syrixx’s every move.” The Gorn tech-caster had complained of feeling unsettled shortly after Titan’s bumpy descent into Hranrar’s atmosphere, so Riker had allowed him to return to Lieutenant Qontallium’s borrowed crew quarters—under the close supervision of both Qontallium and Commander Keru, of course.
“But that Typhon Pact fleet is only about six hours away now,” Riker continued. “We might not have warp capability for at least twice that long. Our away team is still out of touch and out of reach, despite every out-of-the-box technical trick Commander Pazlar, Torvig, and White-Blue have tried so far. And that artifact out there”—Riker gestured toward the distant, hazy image of Brahma-Shiva that hung on the forward viewscreen, nearly at horizon level—“could sweep every living thing on Hranrar into oblivion with almost no notice, thanks to our good friend Krassrr. I’d say that being overly caut
ious is a luxury we can’t afford any longer.”
Tuvok nodded, though his veneer of Vulcan calm seemed to have worn very thin indeed. “It is difficult to know how to proceed under circumstances such as these.”
“Agreed. That’s why I want you listening in on the conversation I’m about to have with this Gog’resssh. I’m going to need Mister S’syrixx’s perspective as well. Just keep him out of sight when you bring him into the ready room.”
The Vulcan nodded. “I will see to it, Captain.”
Making haste to his private office off the bridge’s forward starboard section, Riker sat alone at his desk and activated the computer that sat atop it. Within moments, a nightmarish visage—crocodilian except for its anomalously buggish eyes—appeared in the monitor’s center. Partially healed burns and battle scars pocked and lined the creature’s facial and cranial scales, forming roadmaps of pain, connecting craters and fissures that brought to mind the surfaces of ancient asteroids.
Definitely not a member of the Gorn Hegemony’s lace-doily-knitting caste, Riker thought, making a mental note never to let his guard down around this one. Despite the reptiloid’s obvious fierceness, this Gog’resssh didn’t strike Riker as regular military. He also appeared singularly untrustworthy, in a way that somehow transcended Riker’s own acknowledged visceral biological bias against sentient reptiles; right or wrong, he was certain he’d never invite Gog’resssh to Titan’s weekly officers’ poker game.
“I’m Captain William T. Riker, commander of the Federation Starship Titan,” Riker said, opting for the strong, confident opening that often best concealed a weak hand. “To whom am I speaking?”
“I am First Myrmidon Gog’resssh, lately in command of the Gorn Hegemony warship S’alath,” growled the all but unreadable face on the screen. “I believe that you and I can be of considerable help to one another, Captain.”
Riker nodded, impressed both by the creature’s directness and the apparent sincerity of his overture. He was keenly aware, of course, that sincerity could be replicated at least as readily as most other commodities in the universe. “I hope that’s true, First Myrmidon. Provided we both can find a way toward mutual trust.”
“I can understand your reticence, Rry’kurr,” Gog’resssh said. “Our two peoples have had a long history of misunderstandings. My nation’s recent decision to recall its envoys to your Federrazsh’n and co-found the Typhon Pact has no doubt greatly widened the breach that already separated us. It is hard to believe that only a suncircuit ago our fleets assisted your Sst’rfleet in opposing the incursions of the machine-mammals.”
The Borg.
Riker dipped his head forward in acknowledgment. “I salute your people’s sacrifices.”
“Would that I could have shared in them. Unfortunately, my duties at the time took me elsewhere.”
A small amber light appeared at the bottom of Riker’s screen, indicating that his ready-room door chime—which he had set to silent operation for the duration of this conversation—had been activated. He maintained eye contact with Gog’resssh as he touched a control on his desktop keypad, entering the override command that allowed the door to open with a quiet but appropriately serpentine hiss.
With a momentary upward glance, Riker noted that Tuvok had returned, and that he had S’syrixx, Keru, and Qontallium in tow. Per the orders he had given Tuvok, the quartet stood quietly just inside the ready room, their backs to the now-closed doors as they listened to the conversation and watched the reptilian face that was being relayed to the monitor on the ready-room visitor’s table. Riker was the only person in the line of sight of the visual pickup.
Taking advantage of the Gorn commander’s ostensible openness, Riker made an overture of his own. “I understand your frustration, First Myrmidon. During the Dominion War, I served aboard the Enterprise.”
“The Federation’s flagship. It bears a name as distinguished and freighted with history as that of the S’alath.”
Although his attention was largely focused on Gog’resssh, a stray movement from S’syrixx’s direction momentarily caught Riker’s eye. The Gorn technology expert seemed to have flinched, or at least tensed, at the mention of the name “S’alath.” He mentally filed the observation away.
Focusing his entire attention back upon Gog’resssh, Riker said, “ ‘S’alath.’ I recognize that name. S’alath was the Gorn commander the Metrons pitted against Captain James Kirk right after the Cestus III massacre.”
“The very same. At the Battle for Inner Eliar, S’alath was the warrior who thwarted a Met’rr’onz death sentence by defeating your K’irrk, despite his treacherous mammalian tricks.”
Riker decided that the present moment might not be the best time to correct the rather large liberties Gog’resssh was taking with the history of Federation-Gorn relations. Instead, he said, “Kirk commanded an earlier era’s Enterprise. As I was saying before, there were many times during the Dominion War when I wished my Enterprise had been more involved in the fighting.”
“Then perhaps we are more alike than we are unalike, Captain,” Gog’resssh said. “We may even want the same thing from this planet.”
Though Riker was almost certain he already knew the answer, the question was worth asking. “What’s that?”
“The ecosculptor.”
Brahma-Shiva. “You’re right about that, First Myrmidon. If that device really can rebuild entire planetary ecosystems to order, it would be tremendously useful for both the Gorn Hegemony and the Federation.”
“Then let us work together,” Gog’resssh said, “to jointly acquire it.”
Riker held up a hand. “Let’s discuss the issue of trust first. How do I know you’re not secretly working with Krassrr?”
The relatively inflexible, bug-eyed visage displayed an expression that Riker could only interpret as disappointment. “I know that Krassrr sought to destroy you, Rry’kurr. As far as I can tell, he believes he has already done so.”
“Krassrr holds us responsible for the destruction of one his ships,” Riker said with a nod. “He’s also accused us of stealing some of his fleet’s food supplies.”
Gog’resssh tipped his head forward so that his cranial crests seemed to make an ironic-looking salute. “My apologies for Krassrr’s error, Rry’kurr. The supplies in question now reside in the S’alath’s hold.”
Riker realized that his first impression had been correct. Gog’resssh wasn’t regular military.
He was a pirate.
“It was an act of treachery on my part, some would say,” Gog’resssh continued. “But were I possessed of a truly treacherous frame of mind, I might have informed Krassrr of your real condition, as well as your present position. I have done neither.”
Of course you haven’t, Riker thought as his picture of the rogue Gorn’s true agenda became clearer. But that’s only because you don’t want Krassrr to know your whereabouts any more than I want him to know mine.
He decided he could afford to believe what Gog’resssh had told him so far, though he still had other concerns. “Then perhaps we can work together, First Myrmidon Gog’resssh. By operating in tandem, the two of us might accomplish what neither of us could achieve separately.”
“I am glad to see you are capable of making decisions quickly, Rry’kurr,” Gog’resssh said around a formidable arsenal of newly revealed teeth. “For little time remains for us to do what must be done. You must be aware that a Typhon Pact fleet is coming.”
Riker nodded. “Once those ships arrive, there will be no way for either of us to prevent Krassrr from using the ecosculptor to wipe out the Hranrarii.”
Gog’resssh tipped his head to the side, as though he were pondering something puzzling. Even without the benefit of Deanna’s empathic abilities, Riker could tell right away from the Gorn pirate’s protracted silence that the fate of the Hranrarii had never even numbered among his lowest-priority considerations. He simply wanted to get his claws wrapped around a potent new technology as quickly as possib
le—without even allowing that technology’s current possessors a chance to test it for him first.
“I know that your entire caste may soon face extinction without the intervention of the ecosculptor that Krassrr’s crew is busy repairing right now,” Riker said.
“Your Federrazsh’n intelligence gatherers are to be commended, Rry’kurr,” Gog’resssh growled.
“Our subspace astronomers deserve some of the credit as well. A coronal mass ejection on the scale of the one that destroyed the warrior-caste crècheworld of Sazssgrerrn was bound to get noticed sooner or later.”
Gog’resssh’s multifaceted eyes narrowed slightly beneath the weight of his bony reptilian brow. “Sazssgrerrn. I once thought I was destined to die there, unobserved and unmourned. I am gratified to hear that someone was watching, even if the watchers were only mammals.”
Riker ignored the Gorn’s newest casual, almost pro forma slur. “Now the way I understand it, Krassrr intends to test the device on Hranrar. His plan seems to be to turn the planet into a replacement for Sazssgrerrn. Won’t that benefit your entire caste? Why would you want to help me stop him from doing that?”
Gog’resssh snorted in evident derision. His usually unfathomable insectile eyes now seemed to glow with an eerie inner light. “Krassrr would redesign this world to nurture the warrior caste as it was. Not as it is destined to be.”
Under your benevolent rule, you mean, Riker thought. Piracy and paranoia, stir-fried with a healthy dollop of badly healed wounds and megalomania. Wonderful.
Riker had no doubt that Gog’resssh would stab him in the back the moment the first myrmidon’s objective was firmly in his scaly grasp.
He had only one question left. “Suppose destroying the ecosculptor turns out to be our only option?”
The Gorn pirate barely had to pause to consider his answer. “It would not be my first choice, Rry’kurr. But that option would at least prevent Krassrr and those like him from achieving an irresistible advantage over my new warrior caste. I believe I could live with that eventuality, should it prove unavoidable.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Seize the Fire Page 28
