by Various
Coughing, Hoshi rubbed her neck, obstinate as ever, gasping for air. “Do you expect…my people…to accept an alien…as their Emperor?”
“No, but they will accept me as Lord Protector.”
Lord Protector of the Realm—a title given to those who exercised the Emperor’s powers in the event that the true heir to the empire—say, a child—was too young to assume those duties.
“You fool—we don’t have a child!”
“Not yet.”
For Hoshi, the temperature in the compartment seemed to abruptly plummet as she realized his strategy. Terran law and tradition forbade an alien—even her husband—from ascending to the throne. However, there was nothing in the law to keep Shran from acting as a caretaker to their child—even if it were nothing more than a clump of cells in a gestation chamber.
If the union of Earth and Andoria had proved fruitful, Hoshi had planned to order the creation of a binary clone—a human-Andorian hybrid made from their DNA. A son to continue the Sato Dynasty, as “foretold” by the Defiant historical database, or so she had informed Shran. She had intended the child to be born a few years from now, after the rebels were defeated and Shran and his people had demonstrated their fidelity to her and the Empire.
She realized that Shran was not content to wait. He intended to bring this child into existence now, and rule in its name.
Shran nodded to one of his guards, who approached her menacingly. He turned her head to the side and plunged a cold syringe into her carotid artery. She cried out in anguish—more mental than physical—as he drew blood.
“Doctor Soong will require more genetic material from you before he can sequence a viable embryo,” Shran informed her calmly, “but he requested a sample of your blood to begin.”
When the guard was finished, Hoshi tried to get to her feet, but found her shoulders pinned down by a pair of powerful blue hands. She struggled against them as her husband approached her.
Hoshi had a trump card. At least, she hoped she did. She played it.
“You’re forgetting something, my dear husband,” she said.
Shran finished her thought. “The Defiant database. How could I possibly do harm to you if it wasn’t predicted by your history book from the future?” He leaned in close, his voice almost a whisper, his remaining antenna circling to point at her like an accusing finger.
“I know it was all a lie.”
Hoshi couldn’t contain the shock that she felt. Shran read the truth on her face. This pleased him. “Your mistake, if I may be so bold, was assuming I would accept your word at face value. I had Doctor Soong reconstruct the Defiant’s data core—while he wasn’t able to recover the entire database, what he found was more than sufficient.” He laughed. “The Defiant is not from our future, but that of another universe? How very fascinating.”
Hoshi’s confidence was waning with each second. “You gave your word to me—to the Empire,” she said to him.
“Let’s keep in mind, my beloved,” he said, moving close enough to kiss her, “that you lied to me first.”
The craft trembled—Hoshi could see the blue glow of atmosphere slipping by the viewport. They had been ascending all this time and were now in Earth orbit.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. Taking the vial of bright red blood from the guard, he slipped it into his belt. Shran disappeared into the cockpit, leaving Hoshi to be tortured by her thoughts.
8
E nergize.”
Mayweather watched as Admiral Talas and her personal guard shimmered into existence on Defiant’s transporter pad. She bounded down the steps to Mayweather with purpose. Still can’t get used to the sight of an Andorian in a Starfleet admiral’s uniform, Mayweather thought as he saluted his superior.
“Permission to come aboard,” Talas asked.
“Granted, Admiral. May I ask to what we owe the pleasure?”
“Congratulations are in order. Your ship has been selected to lead the new task force.” Talas moved for the door, which sighed open. Mayweather and the Andorian guard followed her into the corridor. The captain had to practically jog to keep up with her long strides.
“What task force would this be?”
“General Shran has ordered us to find the rebels who planned the attack on Earth and wipe them out.”
“We’re leaving orbit?” he said, not quite believing it.
Talas cocked her head at Mayweather. “Very astute, Captain. I can see why the Empress promoted you so quickly.”
Mayweather resisted the impulse to knock the admiral on her ass. “The last time Defiant left the system, the rebels took advantage of our absense. Millions of the Empire’s citizens died.” None of them were Andorians, he wanted to add.
“I’m well aware of what transpired,” Talas replied evenly. “That’s why the rebels must be made to understand they haven’t weakened our resolve.”
“And if they attack Earth again? Who’s going to stop them if we’re off on another wild-goose chase?”
Talas didn’t entirely grasp the metaphor, but she understood his point. “The rebels aren’t capable of launching a follow-up strike so quickly.”
Mayweather could barely hide his contempt. “You know this—how?”
Talas didn’t see the need to respond, but the captain pressed his point. “Admiral, our so-called intelligence told us we’d find the entire rebel fleet sitting defenseless in the Devolin system. We found nothing.”
“I’m certain you’ll h’ave better hunting this time.” She pressed on, not waiting for Mayweather to object again. “Inform your transporter chief that additional personnel will be beamed over from the Warship Kumari within the hour.”
Mayweather recognized the name—the Kumari was Shran’s former command. More Andorian spies aboard my ship. “Defiant already has a full crew complement, Admiral.”
“Several of your officers will be transferred planetside.”
“May I ask which members of my crew you’re planning to get rid of ?” Mayweather asked tightly.
The admiral handed him a blue data card. “Everything you need to know is on here.” Talas stopped outside a door leading to crew quarters, eyeing the signage on the bulkhead.
“This room is unoccupied, is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Please tell the quartermaster that these are now my quarters. Inform your senior officers that we’re warping out of orbit at nineteen hundred hours.” Then she stepped through the door and was gone. The guard that had accompanied her spun on his heel, rifle in hand, taking his post, ready for anything.
For a moment, Mayweather found himself longing for the un-complicated duties of a MACO sergeant.
Charles Tucker’s face itched, but his hands were too busy to do anything about it. He was pulling himself upward, rung over rung, climbing through an access tube toward the heart of his ship. As much as he wanted to stop his ascent and dig through his radiation-poisoned skin, the gesture would have been futile. He knew the prickling sensation wasn’t really physical in nature; it was triggered by the anxiety he was feeling—anxiety at having two of his most competent engineers replaced by blue-skinned flunkies. Anxiety at having his ship ordered away from his home planet, still smoldering after an attack that was less than a week old. Anxiety at not knowing why he had been ordered to meet with the captain deep inside the bowels of the ship.
Tucker climbed into a horizontal tube that was tall enough for him to walk in and pressed deeper into the engineering hull. The bulkheads surrounding him were lined with vibrant red and yellow conduits and cabling. He found it strange that the inside of a ship as powerful and as lethal as Defiant was painted in a variety of bright, cheerful colors—not just the conduits, but the doors, the corridors, even the ship’s command deck. Maybe it’s designed to keep us in good spirits, so we don’t kill each other, he mused. The color scheme had proved of no benefit to Defiant’s original
crew, who had in fact killed each other, for reasons still unknown.
At least the outside of the ship is a more appropriate tritanium gray, he thought to himself.
As he probed farther, Tucker could feel the heat of the warp plasma passing through large conduits over his head. He was approaching the main plasma junction, where the superheated gases were channeled upward into the diagonal pylons, en route to the warp nacelles suspended far above. The noise and the EM interference generated by this network of conduits frustrated all known types of recording and surveillance devices—making this part of the ship an ideal place for a clandestine meeting.
He entered the junction and found Mayweather leaning against a support strut, arms tightly folded. The captain must have been here for a few minutes—the heat was getting to him and sweat beaded on his forehead. Or maybe it’s not the heat, the kid is finally cracking under the pressure, Tucker thought.
“Funny meeting you here, Cap’m.” He swallowed his pride a little every time he said Mayweather’s rank aloud. The notion that a twenty-nine-year-old grunt was in charge of this magnificent ship…
“Seemed a little more discreet than the briefing room,” Mayweather said. After a moment, he asked, “This may sound a little odd, but…have you received any communiqués from the Empress in the last week?”
“Hoshi?” Tucker almost laughed. “Why would Her Imperial Highness send a message to a lowly engineer like me?”
“I know the two of you have a history—I thought she might’ve contacted you.”
He sneered at Mayweather’s suggestion. “I’m sure Hoshi crossed me out of her little black book a long time ago.” With a little bitterness, he added, “The minute she got what she wanted.”
As much as Tucker resented his new captain, he realized the two of them probably had more in common than either cared to admit. They both had been used by the Empress during her climb to the top—yet they had also profited handsomely from their association with her. Maybe she only saw them as the most competent officers for their respective positions—or maybe all of her old conquests received some kind of “consolation prize.” All things considered, Tucker still resented being used.
“I hope she’s all right,” Mayweather said. “Otherwise, humanity is in a heap of trouble.”
“That’s certainly the case if those blue bastards have anything to say about it.”
Neither of them had heard Malcolm Reed climbing up the Jefferies tube. Both whipped out their sidearms as the major entered the junction. Reed indicated the pulsing conduits overhead. “Gentlemen, I don’t think you want to be discharging particle weapons in here.”
Tucker holstered his phase pistol, somewhat reluctantly. In truth, he’d like nothing more than to blast a fist-sized opening in Reed’s chest. Eight months had passed, and yet Tucker still had vivid memories of his time in “the booth,” a heinous contraption designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain a human nervous system could comprehend. The device—an invention of Reed and Doctor Phlox—was destroyed when the I.S.S. Enterprise was crushed in the Tholian’s energy web.
Too bad he wasn’t atomized along with his damn booth, Tucker thought. The major had operated the device that day with his usual level of ruthless efficiency—but more than that, he had enjoyed torturing the engineer. In the white haze of searing pain, Tucker had promised he would kill the major when he was finally released. Tucker still had not disavowed that promise.
Reed eyed Tucker warily, then turned to the captain. “I didn’t realize you’d invited anyone else, sir.”
“Stand down, both of you,” Mayweather chided, noting the disdain in their eyes. Reed and Tucker moved a little away from each other. “We need to pool our knowledge and figure out what the hell is going on.” He turned to Reed. “Has there been any response from the personal transceiver?”
“I’ve been hailing it every thirty minutes, piggybacking on our transponder signal. No response so far.”
“What personal transceiver?” Tucker asked.
“It’s Hoshi’s,” Mayweather replied, dropping the title. “She told me to contact her in the event of…trouble.”
Reed snorted. “I suppose a coup d’état could be classified as ‘trouble.’”
“Wait a sec,” Tucker said. “Who said anything about a coup?”
“Open your eye, will you, Commander?” Reed said scornfully. “Shran’s installed his own people in key positions on this ship. They’re just waiting for his order. Half of Earth is in ruins after the worst attack in a century, and the Empress hasn’t been seen in public for nearly a week.”
“Can you blame her? You should’ve seen the reception they gave her in Stalingrad…”
“Hoshi told me if there was any trouble on Defiant, I could reach her day or night on that transmitter,” Mayweather said. “There’s been no response for three days.”
They shared disturbed looks as the warp conduits thrummed over their heads. Reed finally broke the silence. “We have to assume the Empress is dead and that General Shran is now in control of the Empire.”
“Listen to yourself!” Tucker retorted. “It’s called the Terran Empire for a reason—the council would never let an alien claim the throne.”
“Shran may not be Emperor in name, but it’s clear he’s the one calling the shots.”
Tucker knew it wouldn’t have been the first time a world leader had been usurped by a spouse. In the early twentieth century, a North American dictator by the name of Wilson was poisoned by his wife, who proceeded to rule in her husband’s stead for half a decade. It was years before anyone figured out what really happened. Or so Tucker had been told in high school.
“Shran doesn’t need to claim the throne,” Mayweather offered. “All he has to do is undermine and weaken the Empire from the inside—long enough for the rebels to win a decisive victory.”
Reed picked up on the captain’s chain of thought. “Next thing you know, Andoria secedes from the Empire—with Shran leading the charge.”
On the whole, Tucker thought the notion of a quadrant-spanning human empire was probably a bad idea. Still, he didn’t want to live in a universe where the Empire had collapsed and humans were no longer feared. Every species that had ever been victimized by Earth would declare open season on Terrans. Tucker would do anything in his power to prevent that from coming to pass.
“All right,” Tucker said. “What the hell do we do?”
Mayweather considered. “First order of business, we bury the hatchet.”
“Cap’n?”
“The three of us have had our differences,” Mayweather continued. “From this point forward and until further notice, we have to put the welfare of this ship, her crew, and the Empire ahead of our personal concerns or vendettas. We work together. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”
Tucker couldn’t help but smile a little at the captain’s proposal. He even felt a slight jolt of electricity travel up his spine. Maybe I’m more of a patriot than I thought.
Reed looked to Tucker. Until further notice, they seemed to say to each other silently. A truce—both knew it was the right course of action for now.
He could see Reed’s thin lips twitch upward in an imitation of a smile. The major was obviously itching to rid this ship of every single blue blood. Tucker recalled seeing this exact expression on Reed’s face once before—on Defiant’s bridge, when he watched their old ship get blown to smithereens on the viewscreen.
“I’m with you to the bitter end, Captain,” Reed finally said.
The hell with it, Tucker thought as he unashamedly scratched at the itch that had nagged him since he climbed into the Jefferies tube. “Where do we start?”
9
H oshi screamed.
Her universe was white, cold, foreboding. An antiseptic odor permeated everything, and an intense white light flared from somewhere over her head. She tried to move, but there was something smooth and unyielding pinning her down. Was she lying atop a bed, or a table? She could not
turn her head to see.
A shadow fell across her vision, and the silhouette of a figure blocked out part of the blinding light. Hoshi caught sight of her own face reflected and distorted in a pair of blue lenses—eye-glasses on the person’s face. She knew that face! It was a man, looking down upon her with an almost-paternal smile.
Throughout it all, she heard a baby crying. Why? Where was it? She looked around but could not see it. There was only its plaintive wailing, growing ever louder. Then the cries stopped, and everything faded, seemingly pulling away from her as she fell.
That sensation was shattered as Hoshi was jerked from sleep by the sound and sensation of something colliding with the ship, her body momentarily suspended in midair as her yacht’s artificial gravity fluctuated. Her bed disappeared from beneath her and she sensed her body floating out and away from it. Then the gravity returned and she dropped hard to the deck of her private bedchamber in a disjointed heap.
What the hell?
“Guard!” she yelled from the floor, her mind still fighting off the last vestiges of sleep. Shaking her head, she forced away the haunting memories that had infected and perverted her dreams in the days since her forced departure from Earth. A last fading image of Arik Soong loomed in her vision, and she buried it as she had every time she had awakened from sleep for…how long? Four days? Five? Hoshi could not remember, and gave up trying as she rolled to her feet, pushing hair away from her face as she padded barefoot across the room toward the door.
“Guard!” she yelled again, this time punctuating the call by slapping the locked smooth metal door with the heel of her hand. “What the hell’s going on?”
Hoshi really did not expect an answer, as none of the Andorians had said so much as a single word to her since her banishment from Earth on her husband’s orders. Nor did she expect the door to open. Except for times when a guard delivered her meals, the door had remained locked. Her personal yacht, one of her favored refuges from ceremony and duty as leader of the Terran Empire, had become her prison. She had no idea how long the vessel had been under way or what course it currently was pursuing. Most of the past few days were enveloped in a sedative-induced fog, which was only now beginning to fade. Her memories were returning, and Hoshi felt herself gripped by renewed anger as she recalled what Shran had done to her.
