Rosetta

by Dave Stern

  “Understood,” McCormick snapped. “Please get to your point.”

  “My point is this,” Malcolm said. “Captain Archer could not have been part of Sen’s initial plan. His arrival was, in effect, an unexpected bonus. So I wondered what that original plan—that deal between the governor and the Klingons—might have been. On Sen’s part, a fair assumption seemed to be the desire for money, and a place of refuge. But I wondered what the Klingons were to receive, and so I—ah. Here we are.”

  Reed punched one last command in, and the viewscreen split. Admiral McCormick stayed visible in the upper half, while in the lower—

  “These images are taken from a remote monitoring outpost, stationed inside the Neutral Zone between Coreida and the Klingon Empire.”

  Travis saw nothing on the screen but stars and empty space.

  “There are close to two dozen such stations scattered throughout the Zone, but for our purposes, the images from this one will serve,” Reed said. “Now—I asked certain friends of mine on Procyron…”

  Poz and Verkin, Travis added silently.

  “…if it would be possible to use these stations to in effect, spy on the inner workings of the Klingon Empire. To search for signs of activity that might give us a clue to the workings of that original plan—between Sen and the Empire. My friends attempted to do just that, and quickly found that the sensors were not of sufficiently high resolution to accomplish that task. However…”

  “Lieutenant…” McCormick said impatiently.

  “Sir. Please. We’re almost there.” He gestured toward the screen. “Now I ask you all to note the presence of the Ch’los K’tangol—the Warrior’s Nebula, also known as the Azure Nebula—there in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.”

  Travis looked where he was pointing, and saw a faint reddish haze.

  “Yes, yes,” McCormick said. “Go on.”

  “My friends noted the presence of that nebula as well, and what is more, as they searched through the most recent images being broadcast from the monitoring station, they noted the nebula disappear.”

  “Disappear?” Trip frowned. “What do you mean disappear?”

  Malcolm went back to his station. “Disappear,” he said, and keyed in another command. The image on the screen changed.

  “This image was relayed from the monitoring outpost earlier today.”

  Sure enough, the nebula wasn’t there.

  “That’s not possible,” Travis said out loud. “Is it?”

  “No,” Reed answered. “It’s not.”

  “So what’s happening there, Lieutenant?” McCormick asked. “Why can’t we see the nebula?”

  “My friends asked themselves the same question. They were able to perform a series of remote diagnostics on the monitoring station, and discovered that a piece of very sophisticated software had been introduced into the control system there, the effect of which was to disable certain frequency bands within the local sensor arrays.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why the nebula disappeared,” Trip said.

  “Ah, but it does,” Reed said. “It took some time—which is why I was late arriving here—but only minutes ago, my friends were at last able to eradicate the infecting software. Here is the corrected feed from the monitoring station.”

  Again, the display changed. At first, Travis saw no difference. Then he noticed that certain areas of space seemed to—well, “shimmer” was the only word Travis could think of to describe what he was seeing.

  In the far right-hand corner of the display, it was that shimmer that blocked the nebula from view.

  Trip let out a long, low whistle. “Whoa,” he said.

  “Lieutenant Reed,” T’Pol said. “I congratulate you on a job well done.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Thank you, Commander.”

  “Sonuvabitch,” McCormick said. “The Klingons. Dammit.”

  “Yes sir,” Malcolm said.

  “Word of this leaks out, it’ll blow the peace conference all to hell,” the admiral continued. “The Earth Firsters will have a field day.”

  “Yes,” Reed said. “I imagine they will.”

  Travis still had no idea what they were referring to. From the confused looks shooting across the bridge, he wasn’t alone.

  “How many are there?” McCormick asked.

  “Close to a hundred,” Reed said. “We’re showing the images to the Thelasians now—my friends designed a simulation of what they’d look like, if the cloaks weren’t…” He frowned, and entered a few more commands. “Here. You can see for yourself,” he said, and the image on the screen wavered, and then snapped back into focus.

  Travis blinked.

  Every place on-screen where he had noted a shimmer before—and there were dozens easily, close to a hundred perhaps, as Malcolm had said—there was now a Klingon cruiser.

  “Those are D-3s, by the way,” Reed said. “Without a doubt, an invasion fleet.”

  “How long have they been there?” McCormick asked.

  “A few days, some of them. Others—within the last few hours.”

  “What are they waiting for? The Confederacy is practically defenseless.”

  “Practically,” Reed nodded. “There are a series of automated defense stations near Procyron. We’re checking the integrity of the control software there right now.”

  “Sen,” Trip said.

  McCormick nodded, more to himself than anything else. “All right. This does change things, you’re right about that. Commander Tucker.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are to take Enterprise, proceed at maximum warp back to Procyron, and render the Thelasians all necessary assistance. Yes?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Finding Captain Archer—if you’re right about that too, which I suspect you are—is secondary. Is that understood?”

  Trip hesitated only a second before replying.

  “Yes, Admiral. Understood.”

  “Good.” McCormick settled back in his chair. “Nice work, Malcolm. You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reed said.

  McCormick nodded again. “Starfleet out,” he said, and the screen went to black.

  Trip turned to Reed.

  “Friend of yours, I take it?”

  “We’ve worked together before.”

  Trip frowned. “You know—you might have told me first. About the Klingons. Would’ve meant a little less trouble all around.”

  “As I said—we only just completed the simulations.”

  “Hmmm.” Trip sat back in his chair, and punched the com. “Bridge to engineering.”

  “Hess here, sir.”

  “What do you think?”

  “She’ll handle four point five sir.”

  “Four point five?”

  “Yes, sir. Four point five.”

  Trip frowned.

  Before talking to McCormick, he’d asked Hess to give him an estimate of their best possible speed back to Procyron. He’d asked her to shoot for four point seven.

  “We’re doing maintenance on some of the starboard power conduits,” the lieutenant explained. “Don’t want to risk an overload before we’re done with that.”

  Trip nodded. “Maintenance. All right then. You’re the boss.”

  “Sir?”

  “Four point five it is, Lieutenant. Stand by.” He turned to T’Pol. “Best course?”

  “The quickest way back through Maldeev—the meteor cloud.”

  “What do you say, Travis? You up for that?”

  “You know it, Commander.”

  He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

  Trip smiled back. “Punch it.”

  Sen paused in midstride, and sniffed the air.

  He smelled ozone—the residue of electricity, coursing through the corridors of the Klingon vessel.

  “What part of the ship is this we are in now?” he asked V’Reth.

  The Klingon female—a few steps ahead of him—stopped in her tracks, and turne
d.

  “This is level five. There are the cargo chambers,” she said, pointing to two large doors just off to Sen’s right. “And the weapons lockers.” She pointed to an impressively armored hatch to his left, and then frowned.

  She strode up to Sen, and poked a finger into his chest.

  “Do not,” she commanded, “entertain any ideas.”

  “Of course not,” he answered quickly. “Just curious, that’s all.”

  They were on their way back to Sen’s quarters, having just taken a brief tour of the ship—a walk that had brought them close to engineering (but not close enough for his purposes), and then the armory (but again, not close enough), and then finally, into the crew’s mess, at Sen’s request, for a plate of gagh. He had been pleased to see that it was not fresh gagh, but rather fabricated whole, produced by the ship’s food replicators as he watched. The replication process, of course, demanded a considerable degree of computing power. Typically unsecured computing power, at least among those races he was familiar with who had the technology.

  He would find out very shortly whether or not the Klingons paid a similar lack of attention to this potential weak spot.

  “And there’s nothing else on this deck?” he asked.

  The female frowned a moment, and then her eyes lit up.

  “Ah. The auxiliary brig.” She pointed behind them. “It is used for the more troublesome prisoners entrusted to our care.”

  Sen nodded. That explained the smell—troublesome prisoners, the devices needed to keep them under control…

  “It may interest you to learn the human is now being confined there as well.”

  “Really? He was trouble?”

  “Indeed.” The female’s face clouded over. “On several occasions, he failed to show proper respect toward his guards.”

  How typical, Sen thought. The human captain, not knowing when to shut up.

  “Would you care to see the prisoner?” V’Reth asked.

  Sen shook his head. “Not necessary. I wish to return to quarters, please.”

  If the Roia program had managed to access the Klingon system, it should be able to replicate itself rather quickly, and he wanted to be ready, and available once it reached the necessary degree of autonomy to contact him. Most likely, that would not be until morning, but just in case…

  At that very instant, Sen felt a little tingling in his implant, and smiled.

  The Klingon system, it seemed, was not as secure as he’d supposed.

  “Very well.” The female nodded. “Perhaps you can compose more poetry, in my honor.”

  Sen managed to turn the laugh that welled up inside him into a smile.

  “Perhaps I can, at that,” he said. “I find myself in an unaccountably lyrical mood.”

  She eyed him suspiciously a moment.

  They resumed walking.

  Twenty-Three

  In the shuttle from S-12 to Jaedez’s flagship, Hoshi tried again to engage the general in conversation, to find out more about the mind-sifter. He, however, had little time, and littler inclination to chat. Most of the journey he spent in consultation via communicator with various commanders in the fleet. And when he wasn’t talking, he was utilizing a padd he’d been given by one of his soldiers to sketch out drawings of some kind. Hoshi thought she caught a glimpse of a tactical screen, but when she tried to lean closer to see it, one of the general’s guards abruptly stood up, blocking her view.

  She sighed, and turned her attention elsewhere. Out the shuttle window, where she could look back at S-12, and see, for the first time, the Mediators’ ship. It was shaped like a sphere. She could see the transparent wall of the analysis chamber, which ran like a belt along the bottom third of that globe. She saw no sign of weapons emplacements anywhere on it. Confirmation of both the Kanthropians’ status as Mediators, and their inability to defend themselves.

  The sound of metal on metal interrupted her thoughts; the shuttle was docking. Jaedez was on his feet in an instant, at the hatch as it opened. Another Conani—the markings on his uniform identified him as a sergeant, if Hoshi was remembering right—and, to her surprise, one of the Pfau, overweight, practically spherical himself, met him there.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the sergeant said.

  The two saluted each other.

  The sergeant leaned forward then, and spoke quietly into Jaedez’s ear.

  Hoshi heard the word “Andorian,” and then “problem.”

  “Excuse me,” she began. “Is Theera—”

  The general silenced her with a raised finger.

  Theera was supposed to be following them on another shuttle. Had something happened to that ship?

  Jaedez finished listening and turned to the Pfau.

  “Teraven,” he said, “this is Ensign Sato. She plans to witness the procedure. If you could escort her to the facility…”

  “General, is there a problem? Is Theera all right?”

  “The Andorian is fine,” Jaedez said. “She—and I—will be along in a moment. In the meantime—Teraven?”

  The Pfau bowed to him, the general inclined his head in return, taking Hoshi in the gesture as well, and then he spun on his heel and was gone, the other Conani trailing in his wake.

  The Pfau—Teraven—turned to Hoshi. “Ensign, if you’ll follow me…”

  He led her from the shuttlebay through a small door and into the interior of the Conani flagship. The corridors were dimly lit, and smelled—to Hoshi, at least—of something at once vaguely metallic, and something very, very old, something now in the midst of decaying. It was a stench that she had a hard time ignoring, both for obvious reasons and for the fact that it reminded her of the cacophony of smells she’d encountered aboard the Xindi warship.

  Not a good omen.

  “Excuse me?” Hoshi called after Teraven, who despite his bulk was moving along at quite a good clip through the corridors. She was having trouble keeping up with him. “This mind-sifter—are you familiar with it?”

  The Pfau turned and spoke to her without breaking stride.

  “Very,” he said, but instead of slowing down to engage in conversation, Teraven, if anything, increased his speed.

  “It’s some sort of memory-retrieval device?”

  “Retrieval?” Terraven shook his head, and did slow a bit then. “I would not use the word ‘retrieval.’ It facilitates recollection.”

  “And how does it do that?”

  He shrugged. “To be honest, I have absolutely no idea. But I can assure you, the device works quite well.”

  The corridor dead-ended in front of them, at a single heavy door. Teraven keyed in a combination on the pad next to it, and they passed through into a good-sized room—roughly the same dimensions as the mess back aboard Enterprise—completely bare of furnishings or ornamentation. Gray metal walls, gray steel-plate decking, stark, utilitarian light fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

  At the far end of the room was a single oversized chair of the same gray metal, with straps hanging from the arms, shackles dangling from the legs. Nearer to the door, there was a small metal table, with a device of some sort on it. The mind-sifter, she supposed, a box made of some dull, heavy-looking metal, with various knobs and dials on one side, and a bar of gleaming white metal atop.

  Hoshi took another look around the room, and the unease she’d felt earlier intensified.

  It looked like a torture chamber.

  “Elder Green said that the procedure—the use of the memory-sifter—was often painful. Would you say that’s true, or…”

  Teraven nodded. “It is not a pleasant experience, clearly. The length of the session is the determining factor.”

  “May I…” she asked, gesturing to the device.

  “Be my guest,” he said. “Please do not, however, touch the yellow button on your extreme right.”

  “No yellow button,” Hoshi said, looking for—and finding—the control he was talking about. “Got it.”

  There were a half-dozen chairs
along the wall behind the table. She pulled up the closest one and sat down. She ran a hand down one side of the device; the metal there was pitted, and slightly warm to the touch. It looked unlike anything she’d seen before—a souvenir of Governor Sen’s triumphs at Coreida, the general had said. The spoils of war. Alien technology. Obviously something the Conani didn’t entirely understand—maybe something they weren’t using correctly. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be painful. If she could figure out how it worked…

  She leaned closer. None of the switches on the control surface were labeled. She stood up and walked around it. There were as many knobs on the very back of the device as there were on the front. Odd. There was nothing on the right side of the sifter, other than a few rows of indicator lights. There was a single large switch on the left, with a smudge of writing underneath that. She knelt down, and squinted at it. Maybe a half-dozen symbols intact, the rest worn off. The alphabet looked vaguely familiar.

  Klingon.

  She frowned.

  Klingon?

  She turned back to Teraven. “This is a Klingon machine.”

  “Yes.”

  “The general said—Governor Sen gave it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Hoshi frowned again.

  Sen and the Klingons.

  Something about that struck her as noteworthy. Sen, and the Klingons.

  She pictured the governor, at the reception, smiling at Captain Archer as if he’d just seen a long-lost friend, and all at once, her heart started beating very, very fast.

  “Sonuvabitch,” she said out loud.

  Teraven frowned. “Excuse me?”

  Hoshi stood up. “Where’s the nearest com?”

  “The nearest com?”

  “I need to use your com system. I need to contact my ship—Enterprise.”

  “You’ll have to talk to the general about that,” he told her.

  “Never mind,” Hoshi said, heading for the exit. She’d find it herself, because this couldn’t wait, Malcolm was right, Sen was alive, and what was more—

  Two meters away from the door, it swung open, and General Jaedez stepped through.

  Behind him, flanked by two fully armored soldiers, each holding on to one of her arms, stood a battered, bruised, and somewhat bloody Theera.