by David Mack
Terrell smiled. “That makes two of us.” He shifted the curtain of his bunk and checked the chrono on the bulkhead of his quarters. “You’ll have to go soon. I have third-shift watch at zero-hundred.”
“Just let me stay a little longer,” she said, pleading softly. “I feel safe here.”
He nuzzled the top of her head. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “There are no safe places, here or anywhere else in the Empire.”
She sighed. “I know.”
While she appreciated Terrell’s attempt to caution her, she wished he hadn’t spoiled her illusion of privacy. He was easygoing, a trait he shared with most of his thirteen crewmates aboard the long-range Starfleet scout ship I.S.S. Sagittarius. His calm demeanor often put Marcus at ease in a way few other things ever could.
She whispered in his ear, “How can I ever be free of him?”
Hugging her closer, he said, “Free might be too much to hope for.”
“I just can’t understand why the Empress would give so much power to such a malignant sociopath,” Marcus said. “He’s a rank opportunist. As soon as he has enough power or leverage, he’ll turn it against her.”
Terrell shrugged one shoulder. “Of course he will.”
“Then why give him the chance?”
“Because he’s what she needs out here,” Terrell said. “Hundreds of light-years from home, with little or no backup, it takes someone like Reyes to stand up to the Tholians and the Klingons at the same time. I don’t like him any more than you do, but you have to admit, he’s uniquely suited to this mission.”
She shook her head. “He’s a monster.”
“Maybe. But he’s Empress Sato’s monster, and as long as he doesn’t sink his fangs into her, she’ll let him do as he likes.”
No longer feeling safe or comforted, Marcus threw off the bedsheet and pulled aside the bunk’s privacy curtain. “What he likes, Clark, is threatening my son.” Tears of rage welled in her eyes as she looked back at Terrell. “As long as Reyes can hold David hostage, I can’t risk defying him.”
“If you ask me, you shouldn’t have tried in the first place.” Holding up his hands to ward off Marcus’s rising tide of anger, he added, “What I mean is, you shouldn’t have tipped your hand so soon. If you want to face off against a man like Reyes, you need to do it from a position of strength. Find your advantage first, then make your stand.”
“Too late now,” Marcus said, pulling on her shirt. Reaching down to pluck her trousers from the deck, she added, “Have you seen that green goon who parades around the station with Reyes? What the hell’s up with that?”
Rolling his eyes, Terrell replied, “That’s Ganz. Some kind of boss in a crime syndicate from the Orion colonies.” He pushed a hand over his head of close-cropped, wiry black hair as he continued. “I wondered how long it’d take before someone like him started throwing his weight around.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He watched Marcus finish getting dressed while he spoke. “A lot of missions Reyes sends us on these days involve scouting safe routes for shipping. Courses that use stellar phenomena to scramble sensors, that kind of thing. Once we plot safe paths, we usually notice Orion smugglers using them within a few weeks. And the crew of the Endeavour says they’ve been ordered to run interference for Orion merchantmen that wandered too close to the Klingon border.”
Marcus was hardly able to believe what Terrell was telling her. “Reyes is in league with the Orion pirates?” Flummoxed, she ran her hand through her hair. “That bastard’s not just amassing power—he’s lining his pockets.” She turned toward Terrell. “If he hoards enough wealth and recruits enough Orion corsairs, he could set up Vanguard as his own personal fiefdom.”
“I think that’s the idea,” Terrell said, nodding grimly.
Unable to stop herself, Marcus began pacing inside Terrell’s quarters. “This far from the Empire, with that kind of power, there’s no telling what Reyes might be capable of.” She kneeled beside Terrell’s bunk. “Promise me something.”
“If I can,” he said, taken aback.
“Promise if Reyes goes renegade, you’ll get my son off this station and back to the Empire, no matter what happens to me.”
Dismayed, Terrell said, “I can’t promise that, Carol.”
“Please, Clark. You’re the only one I’d trust. At least tell me you’ll try.”
He pushed back the bedsheet and reached out for her hand as he sat up on the edge of his bunk. “Look, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that, okay?”
Marcus was having none of her lover’s artful evasions. “So you won’t even try to help my son?”
Terrell sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Reyes is just too strong. The more power he grabs, the more the Admiralty pats him on the back for it.” Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he added, “It’s not that I don’t want to help your boy; I do. I just don’t know how much I can do against a man like Reyes. If he decides to secede, I’ll be lucky to survive with my skin.”
She pulled her hand free of his grasp. “I understand.”
He got out of bed as she walked to the door, which hushed open ahead of her. “I promise I’ll do what I can,” he said. “I just can’t say what that’ll be.”
Standing in the open doorway, Marcus looked back at her naked lover, who had the body of a boxer and the mind of a scientist. “That’s all any of us can say,” she said, regretting the impossible position in which she’d placed him. She stepped into the corridor and added guiltily as the door shut, “Thank you, Clark.”
2270
9
A Discovered Attack
“Welcome home, Enterprise. Stand by for final approach vector.”
Admiral Spock watched the superstructure of the San Francisco Orbital Yards loom large ahead of his ship on the main viewer. A spacedock control officer relayed flight-path corrections to Enterprise’s senior helm officer, Lieutenant DePaul. Seated beside the young helmsman, navigator Kevin Riley divided his attention between preparing the ship to make port and gazing wistfully at the blue orb of Earth growing larger on-screen.
After more than twenty-five years of active service, Enterprise was putting into spacedock for a bow-to-stern refit. Apparently unwilling to entrust the ship’s future to its current chief engineer, Commander Scott had coordinated the planning of most of the ship’s upgrades—especially those to its impulse engines and warp drive—in addition to carrying out his duties as the ship’s executive officer. Scott had spent the past few weeks roaming the ship’s halls in a maudlin fashion. More than once Spock had overheard his first officer lamenting “the end of an era.”
On an intellectual level, Spock understood that humans sometimes formed emotional attachments to inanimate objects, and that ships held a special place in their imaginations. That knowledge, however, made Mister Scott’s behavior seem no less peculiar to Spock.
He also did not share his human crewmates’ nostalgic feelings about their return to Earth. Despite being half human, Spock felt no great sense of attachment to his mother’s homeworld. From the earliest days of his memory, he had always identified with the people and culture of Vulcan, even though his peers often had rejected him in the harshest possible ways. Out of consideration for Marlena, however, he had offered to accompany her if she wished to visit her father in France. To his mild surprise, she had demurred. “There’s no reason to go there,” she had said. “Once the ship’s in spacedock, we should proceed to Vulcan.”
In accordance with her wishes, he had arranged passage aboard the I.S.S. Merrimac, which was waiting in Earth orbit for them. As soon as he and Marlena were aboard, it would depart for Vulcan.
A male voice over the comm declared, “Enterprise, this is spacedock requesting transfer of helm control for your final approach.”
Spock nodded to Scott, who said to DePaul, “Transfer authorized, Lieutenant. Proceed when ready.”
“Aye, sir,” DePaul said. He keyed the commands into the
helm, then opened his comm circuit. “Spacedock, this is Enterprise. Releasing helm control on my mark. Three … two … one … mark.”
There was a faint shudder in the deck. Then DePaul swiveled his seat and looked back at Spock and Scott. “Helm control transferred, sirs.”
“Well done, lad,” Scott said.
On the viewscreen, the gridlike enclosure of space-dock seemed to swallow Enterprise. Automated tenders began extending mooring lines and supply umbilicals toward the starship.
Lieutenant Elizabeth Palmer turned from the communications station and said, “Admiral, we’re being hailed by Grand Admiral Decker. He wishes to speak with you.”
Spock glanced at the blonde and said, “Put him on-screen, Lieutenant.”
Palmer routed the message to the bridge’s main view-screen, which switched to an image of the square-jawed flag officer who had succeeded Garth as the commander-in-chief of Starfleet. “Admiral Spock,” he said. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, sir,” Spock said, choosing not to debate a superior officer in regard to what world he considered home.
Decker looked at Enterprise’s XO. “Commander Scott, I want to thank you for your exemplary work preparing the designs for Enterprise’s refit. Many of your suggestions will be incorporated into other Constitution-class refits.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Admiral. I’m looking forward to supervising the job and seeing it all finally come together.”
The grand admiral’s expression slackened. “Ah, yes. I’m sorry, Commander. I guess you haven’t heard yet. My son, Commander Will Decker, will be supervising Enterprise’s refit—as its new commanding officer.”
Scott’s smile faded, but he masked his disappointment with a neutral expression. “Aye, sir. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job of it.”
“As am I, but I know he’d appreciate your help, Mister Scott.”
Decker’s statement had been phrased as an idle observation, but Spock was certain Scott understood it actually had been an order.
“Aye, sir,” Scott said. “It’d be my honor.”
“Excellent. Commander Decker and I will beam aboard at fourteen hundred hours. Admiral Spock, I trust my son will be greeted with all proper honors?”
“Naturally,” Spock said. “Command will be transferred by the book.”
“Very good. Carry on, gentlemen. Decker out.”
The screen blinked back to the image of spacedock’s metal frame embracing Enterprise on all sides.
Scott turned toward Spock. “Can you believe that? Decker just sends his son to take over my refit!” His face twisted into a desperate expression. “Can’t you do something, Admiral?”
Rising from his chair, Spock replied, “No, Mister Scott, I cannot. I lack the authority to countermand an order from the grand admiral.” Walking to the turbolift, he added, “Please arrange for an honor guard to meet Commander Decker in the main hangar bay at fourteen hundred, and make all necessary preparations for a formal transfer of command at that time.”
“Aye, sir,” Scott replied as Spock entered the lift.
“Until then, Mister Scott, you have the conn.” The doors shut. Spock grasped the control lever and said to the computer, “Deck Three.”
The decks hummed past as the lift descended.
Though his demeanor was stoic, Spock’s thoughts were troubled.
Because the grand admiral had assigned his son to supervise the refit, Spock thought it likely Matt Decker meant to reward his scion with permanent command of the Enterprise when the refit was complete in a year’s time. Either way, once Willard Decker took command of the ship, he would have the run of it; nothing and no one would be able to move on or off the vessel without his knowledge and consent.
If the Tantalus field device is still aboard once Decker has command, Spock realized, it will be impossible to keep it hidden from him.
The turbolift stopped, the doors opened, and Spock stepped out. Walking down the corridor to his quarters, he noted the time on a bulkhead chrono. Decker was scheduled to arrive in approximately one hour and eleven minutes.
Spock had that long to smuggle the Tantalus field device off the Enterprise.
10
An Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove
Marlena stepped briskly across Enterprise’s auxiliary shuttlebay. She used her right hand to guide a torpedo-like shipping pod mounted on an antigrav pallet.
The pod was loaded with her and Spock’s personal effects from their quarters, as well as one vital piece of precious cargo: the Tantalus field device.
Though the bay was normally abuzz with busy personnel, today it was mostly deserted. Most of Enterprise’s crew had been mustered in dress uniforms to the main hangar deck to greet Grand Admiral Decker and his son, and to witness the formal transfer-of-command ceremony. Marlena’s absence from the event was very likely to be noticed, but that could not be helped; there was no one else she and Spock could trust to see their mysterious weapon safely off the ship.
As she neared the waiting shuttlecraft, Clausewitz, a shuttle control officer stepped into her path and held up his hand. “Halt, ma’am.”
“Get out of my way, Gibbs,” Marlena said without breaking her stride. She beckoned a nearby cargo chief. “You: come help me load this pod.”
Gibbs backpedaled a few steps before he planted his hands on the shipping pod and forced Marlena to stop. “You can’t load this pod until it’s been inspected.”
“In case you’re unaware, Lieutenant, I outrank you. And I’m ordering you to remove your hands from Admiral Spock’s property and let me pass.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am. I’m under orders to make visual inspections of all incoming and outgoing cargo.”
Edging closer to the man, Marlena asked, “Whose orders?”
“Commander Decker’s,” said Gibbs.
“Well, my orders come from Admiral Spock,” Marlena retorted. “And he was very clear: his container is not to be opened or tampered with.”
She tried to step forward, but Gibbs pushed back, halting her progress. “That may well be, ma’am, but Commander Decker is now in command of this ship.”
“Is that a fact?” As she inched closer to the young officer, Marlena slowly pulled her communicator from her belt. She flipped open its grille and set it for the intraship frequency, which was carrying the transfer-of-command ceremony for the benefit of personnel who could not leave their duty stations.
Over the comm, Spock’s voice intoned in a stately manner, “—mand of a starship is an honor and a privilege accorded to very few, even in a fleet of this size. To be worthy of it, an individual must possess a rare combination of learned skills and inborn attributes …”
Marlena turned down the volume of her communicator and smirked at the lieutenant obstructing her departure. “Sounds to me like Admiral Spock is still making his opening remarks—which means the ceremony has not yet happened.” She tucked her communicator back onto her belt. “Spock is still in command, therefore his orders stand, and Commander Decker’s orders are not yet valid.”
Gibbs seemed to be thinking that over as the cargo chief stepped up behind him and waited to see how the situation would play out. Then Gibbs’s jaw stiffened with resolve. “That may be, ma’am, but I—”
He froze as Marlena poked the tip of her dagger into the soft spot under his chin. “Choose your next words carefully, Mister Gibbs,” she said. “Because if you try to open this pod, you’ll end up inside it.” With her blade, she traced a line down the front of the man’s yellow tunic, past his belt to his groin, and flashed a malevolent smile. “Or should I say … part of you will.”
Gibbs swallowed hard, then turned his head to speak over his shoulder. “Chief Maas, put Admiral Spock’s shipping container on the shuttle. Now.”
“Aye, sir,” said the cargo chief, who relieved Marlena of her burden and hurried it to the waiting shuttlecraft.
Marlena backed away from the lieutenant. “Wise choice,” she said. When she was se
veral meters away from him, she turned and quickened her pace to the shuttle. At its hatch she paused to make certain the shipping pod was loaded safely into the cargo compartment on the shuttlecraft’s underbelly. Then she stepped inside and closed the hatch behind her.
“Lift off immediately,” she said to the pilot.
He looked back in surprise. “Shouldn’t we wait for Admiral Spock?”
“No,” Marlena said. “He’ll beam over to Merrimac once the transfer of command is done.” She settled into the mission commander’s seat next to the pilot. “We’re on a tight schedule, mister. Let’s go.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the pilot said. He signaled the launch control officer for clearance as he primed the shuttlecraft’s controls. Less than a minute later, they were in flight, exiting Enterprise and cruising above the broad blue curve of Earth on a direct course to the I.S.S. Merrimac.
