by Dave Stern
Travis nodded, and skimmed the document. The judgment granted, in every instance, Horizon’s claim on the money owed them. It set an interest rate at twenty percent. There was an aggregate amount due listed at the very bottom of the page.
He shook his head in disbelief.
“Looks like Horizon’ll be able to get themselves a faster engine than ours.” He handed Reed back the paper. “What else you have there?”
“Information on Sen. More details on his time at Coreida. He went to Qo’noS, you know, as part of the peace process.”
“That’s…unusual, isn’t it? Klingons don’t generally like intruders visiting the homeworld, if I’m remembering right.”
“Unusual’s the word for it. Their whole relationship with Sen seems a little unusual. Particularly given the fact that he defeated them at Coreida. Klingons don’t usually react well to defeat, and yet…” Reed turned one sheet of flimsy facedown on the table, ran a finger down another. “Here it is. Three visits by Sen, in all. Doesn’t make sense. Unless…”
Travis saw what he was driving at. “You don’t think it was a defeat at all?”
“No. My guess is…the Klingons staged a retreat, after Sen promised them something.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure.” Reed frowned. “But the terms of the treaty kept them out of Coreida, so…possibly colonization rights elsewhere.”
“The Neutral Zone,” Travis said, recalling the charts they’d looked at down in the command center.
“That would make sense. Sign a treaty pledging to leave those worlds alone, and then go on and colonize them anyway. Sen’s the one who would have been in charge of overseeing implementation of treaty terms, so if he looks the other way…who’s going to know?”
Travis nodded.
“His opposite number, by the way,” Reed said, holding up a photo of a Klingon, “fellow by the name of Kui’Tan. Who has moved up rather quickly through the ranks of the Empire, and is now a general in charge of—”
“Whoa,” Travis said, suddenly noticing the time. He pushed back his chair, and stood, “I gotta get moving. O’Neill’s gonna have my…”
He turned, and found himself looking right at the lieutenant.
She frowned. “Is this the scheduled time for your break?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then…”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Travis hurried from the mess.
He took the helm from Rodriguez, and took them the rest of the way in to Procyron, an easy trip, during which time he tried to get a message through to Horizon and deliver the good news. No channels were clear the whole way in, though—there was a lot of message traffic, a lot of back-and-forth between Enterprise and Procyron and the Armada. A lot of scrambling being done by all concerned, trying to pull together ships for a second fleet, one to defend Coreida from the Klingons. He left it for later, asked Carstairs to let him know when a channel opened up.
When they reached Procyron, Reilly relieved him. Travis flew Trip and T’Pol down to Tura Prex, to the government complex, where they were scheduled to meet with the new governor, and the Klingon ambassador to the Confederacy. Meanwhile, he and Malcolm were escorted to an office in another part of the city, where they met Poz and Verkin, and a Thelsian trade representative. Papers were signed, and money—a lot of money—was exchanged, most of it virtual (wired to an account in Horizon’s name), some of it real: a small metal box containing a quantity of dilithium crystals, according to Poz and Verkin, who scooped up the case eagerly.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” the Bynar said, and with a bow, disappeared.
He and Malcolm were then escorted back to the main governmental complex. Along the way, they learned from their escort that the Empire—in the person of their ambassador—was denying every accusation made against them, and insisting that the fleet of their ships gathered at Coreida were simply performing military exercises.
Reed was in a mood by the time they arrived at the tower and took the elevator up to the top floor. Travis followed him into the governor’s office, and froze.
Trip, it appeared, was in a mood as well.
The dominant feature in Sen’s office—or rather, what used to be Sen’s office—was a set of floor to ceiling windows at the far end of the room, looking out over the Prex. Commander Tucker and a Klingon—older, dressed in long ceremonial robes, wearing numerous military directions, Travis could only assume it was the ambassador—stood face-to-face in front of those windows. The Klingon wore a smug, self-satisfied expression.
Trip looked about as mad as Travis had ever seen him.
“Diplomatic immunity,” Trip said. “I don’t think diplomatic immunity’ll do you much good if you hit the ground from here.”
“Human. Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t threaten. Think of it more like a prediction—something that’s going to happen unless you start coming up with some answers. Who was Sen’s contact in the Empire? Where is the Governor now?”
The Klingon shook his head.
T’Pol—who had been standing a few paces back from the conversation—now stepped forward.
“Ambassador Schalk,” she said. “Your position is quite untenable. Your ships in the Coreidan neutral zone have been discovered. Transmission records from this show that former governor Sen and the Empire have been in regular communication for years, and it is only a matter of time until the content of those communiqués is also revealed. It is not logical for you to continue to deny the evidence.”
The ambassador snorted.
“I have seen no ‘evidence’ of anything. Sen spoke to the Empire? I think not—there are no records of conversations with the Emperor, or any of his duly appointed subordinates. I see no proof of that. If the Governor had contact with a private citizen, that is none of the government’s affair.”
Trip shook his head.
“Stop lying, Schalk,” he said. “Tell us where he is.”
The ambassador’s eyebrows rose.
“You dare accuse me of being a liar?”
Trip smiled. “If the shoe fits…”
Schalk glared.
“Human. Were I not at this moment bound by a blood oath to fulfill my ambassadorial capacities, I would have your head for those words.”
“Why don’t you resign, then?” Trip smiled.
Schalk glared.
The smile disappeared from Trip’s face as well. “You win, you can have my head. Take it home, mount it over your fireplace. I win…you tell me what I want to know. The truth.”
The two stared at each other a moment longer.
Then Schalk drew himself up to his full height, gathered his robes around him, and—without a backward glance—swept out of the room.
“Commander,” T’Pol said. “I hardly think that Admiral McCormick would approve of single combat as a negotiating tactic.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Malcolm said, speaking for the first time. “The Admiral appreciates the virtues of strength.”
T’Pol frowned. “I fear that in this instance, however, we may simply have succeeded in alienating the Klingons.”
“They can be alienated all they want, as far as I’m concerned,” Trip said, and all at once, the smile disappeared from his face. “One way or another, we’re going to find out where Sen and the captain are.”
V’Reth escorted him through the ship, taking the long way around once more, Sen suspected, to avoid sensitive areas such as the engineering deck and the bridge. He didn’t mind. He could picture them in his mind now, having seen schematics and surveillance footage. And he would walk them all himself, at his leisure, soon enough.
The Klingon paused in front of him, and coughed. She hacked something up from her throat, and spit it onto the floor.
“Are you all right?” Sen asked. “Sick?”
She spun on her heel and glared at him.
“I am not sick,” she said. “I do not get sick.”
> “Ah. You are strong,” he said. “You will prosper.”
“I am strong,” she agreed. “I will prosper. I will captain a ship like this one day,” she said, and coughed again. “Perhaps on that day, you will serve me.”
Doubtful on all counts, Sen thought.
He followed her one deck up, via an access ladder, to a door guarded by a particularly fearsome-looking warrior. Sen knew, thanks to Roia—who now controlled close to seventy percent of the ship’s functions, sans only the weapons systems and the self-destruct modules—that there were two others lurking nearby, just out of sight.
V’Reth acknowledged the guard at the door with a salute, and then turned to Sen.
“You will speak…”
Cough.
“…when spoken to,” she finished, clearing her throat. “You will address the captain as ‘sir.’ You will not offer opinions except when asked. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. Your behavior reflects…”
Cough, cough.
“…on me. And should you behave badly, I will be shamed. And I will not be happy. You would not like to see me unhappy.”
“No,” Sen agreed. “I would not like to see you unhappy.”
V’Reth turned and saluted the guard. He returned the salute, and opened the door, letting out a small cough, quickly supressed, as he did so.
They entered a long narrow antechamber, a hall, the walls draped with hides and with weapons of varying shape and size displayed alongside an array of military decorations, some of them bearing the imprimateur of the Emperor himself. Kareg, clearly, had served with honor. He was prepared to meet his ancestors with his head held high, Sen noted. Good.
V’Reth pushed aside a drape at the far end of the room, and they entered a second, much larger chamber. Half a dozen warriors stood at attention along the walls, which were covered with the same dark fabric. In the center of the room was a long, low table, surrounded by a series of ornately woven cushions. At the head of the table, flanked by two Klingon females, sat Kareg. At his right hand was a stack of empty dishes, at his left a large serving tray, on which several creatures, roughly the size and shape of Sen’s fist, wriggled in a puddle of greenish red sauce.
Kareg picked up one of the creatures—it looked like a large bug—with his left hand, ripped its head off with his right, and swallowed the rest whole.
He belched loudly, and then looked up.
“Sir,” V’Reth said, snapping to attention and saluting. “Maxim Sen, as you commanded.”
Kareg nodded, and waved Sen forward.
“Governor,” he said, and coughed. “Please. Sit. Are you hungry?”
Sen eyed the food dubiously, and shook his head. “Thank you, no. Sir.”
He lowered himself onto a cushion to Kareg’s left, next to one of the females. She eyed him rapaciously.
Behind him, V’Reth made a growling noise, and the other female backed away.
Kareg decapitated another of the creatures, and swallowed it. “You may be wondering why I asked to see you.”
Sen held back the reply that initially came to him—“No, I know exactly why you’ve asked to see me” (which he did, thanks to the communiqués between Qo’noS and Kareg that Roia had intercepted)—and bowed his head meekly.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I was.”
“It seems we have a small problem. One you may be of assistance in solving.”
“Whatever I can do.”
“Good. I appreciate your attitude.” Kareg turned aside then, and coughed into his hand. He took a drink of wine, and set down the glass.
“It is my understanding that the code you provided to deactivate the, uh, defense stations on the Coreida border is not functioning correctly.”
“Really?” Sen shook his head. “That is surprising.”
“Yes.” Kareg coughed again. Behind him, one of the guards coughed as well. “Is it possible that the sequence you gave us was incorrect?”
“Hmmm.” Sen frowned. “Is that possible? Let me think.”
Kareg raised an eyebrow.
Behind him, the coughing guard bent over, spat on the floor, and staggered out of the room.
“I believe the code was a mathematical progression,” Sen said. “A series of four sixty-four-digit numbers?”
“I am unfamiliar with the exact nature of the signal.”
Sen shook his head. “And I can’t recall it exactly either.”
Kareg looked up. “V’Reth!”
The Klingon woman stepped forward.
“Sir!”
“Would you please consult with Qo’noS, and obtain—”
A loud cough suddenly burst forth from Kareg, from deep in his chest. It caught the captain by surprise, leaving him no chance to cover his mouth. Phlegm and spittle sprayed across the room.
Sen made a face, and wiped his brow with a napkin. The females at the table flinched, but made no move to turn away, or clean themselves off. Not that it would have mattered if they had.
They were all, each and every one of them here in this room, and elsewhere aboard the ship, dead already.
“Excuse me,” Kareg said, grunting, trying to clear his throat. He took another sip of water. “V’Reth?”
“Sir. I will fetch the code.”
She saluted, and turned to leave the room.
“Wait,” Sen said. He wanted her here, with him, when the end came. “It’s coming back to me now.”
“It?” Kareg frowned. “What do you mean it?”
The governor smiled. “I’m afraid I have to confess—the code I provided earlier was incorrect.”
Kareg slammed his fist down on the table.
“You dare!”
“Captain,” Sen said, allowing a touch of anger to creep into his voice. “You have kept me a prisoner aboard this ship for over a week. You have not lived up to your end of the bargain—why should I live up to mine?”
A nasty smile crossed Kareg’s face. “Because I will kill you if you don’t.”
“Is that so?” Sen asked.
“Yes,” Kareg said, and coughed again.
V’Reth coughed.
One of the guards behind them coughed. A second, and then a third joined in.
The female on Sen’s right started too, bent over double, and then turned away from the table. He removed a knife from her place setting and held it tight against his arm, just beneath the table.
Kareg was still coughing, bent over double.
“Shall I call for your doctor?” Sen asked, over the sudden cacophony. “So he can give you the bad news personally?”
Kareg straightened—with some difficulty, as he could not stop coughing—and glared at the governor.
“What are you talking about?”
Sen smiled.
Kareg’s eyes widened.
“You,” he croaked. “What have you done?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Sen said, which was the truth. It was Roia—and he couldn’t help but picture the flesh-and-blood version in his mind as he thought about her—who had devised the plan, rerouting exhaust from the impulse engines into an unused maintenance duct, combining it there with bacterial by-products from the sewage recyclers to produce a noxious gas, a mutagenic, highly contagious compound that had been circulating throughout the ship for upward of an hour now, working its magic on the Klingon (and only the Klingon) respiratory system, in effect choking them to death on their own excrement—which, now that he thought about it, was really as poetic as justice could possibly get.
“I will kill you,” Kareg said, shoving his chair backwards, and drawing his weapon.
Sen lunged across the table and slashed the captain’s throat open with his own knife. As Kareg fell forward, a look of shock on his face, he yanked the weapon from the Klingon’s grasp, and quickly turned.
Two guards were still on their feet, reaching for their own weapons. He killed them first, and then the others, and then, for good measure, Kareg’s fe
males, who had huddled together in a corner of the room.
He stepped back from the table then, and surveyed the carnage with satisfaction.
Scheming, plotting, working behind the scenes to affect one’s desires…that was all well and good, but there was nothing like a little action, like getting your hands dirty, to get the blood really going. He felt, all at once, ten years younger, felt alive in a way he hadn’t for a long time now. The deal with the Klingons had been a mistake; he saw that in retrospect. It had been like a retirement, and he was not ready for that. No, Maxim Sen had a lot of living yet to do. The question, once more, was where. What direction he went from here? He thought again of the Verengi. Or heading off deeper into the Beta Quadrant. Possibilities, both of them. He would have to see.
A hand clawed at his pants leg.
He looked down and saw V’Reth lying on the floor, blood pooling at the corners of her mouth.
“Poetry,” she gasped. “You wrote me poetry.”
“Yes,” Sen nodded. “Really, that can’t get around.”
He shot her too, then, and tossed the now fully discharged weapon on top of her corpse.
Taking a particle rifle from one of the guards—just in case—he made his way down to the auxiliary brig, following Roia’s instructions till he reached the cell he was looking for. He entered the code she gave him on the keypad, and the cell door swung open.
A figure hung from the far wall, suspended by a complicated-looking series of shackles. It looked quite dead, for a minute.
Then it stirred, and raised its head.
“Ah,” Sen smiled. “Captain Archer. That is you, isn’t it?”
“Well.” The human’s voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“I assume that’s some kind of insult.” Sen deactivated the shackles holding Archer up. The captain fell to the floor with a loud thump.
“Get dressed,” Sen told the human. “You have work to do.”
Twenty-Five
