by Various
“My early arrival is due to T’Pau’s wish to review the plan ahead of our prescribed schedule. Have you completed it?”
“Yes,” T’Pol said, crossing her quarters to the desk set against the far wall. Reaching for the card reader slot of the desktop computer station on her desk, she extracted a data card. “This is a copy of the…”
She sensed rather than heard the movement behind her, Staal doing his best to affect a stealthy approach. An instant later she felt his fingers on either side of her neck. Even as she jerked to one side, using practiced moves to break Staal’s hold on her before he could tighten his grip, she immediately recognized the tactic he had attempted to employ.
Tal-shaya. There could be no mistaking Staal’s intent, for the ancient martial art served but a single purpose: Her friend had come here to kill her.
Saying nothing, Staal renewed his attack, lashing out at her with his open right hand. T’Pol parried the attack, blocking his arm before thrusting her knee upward into his groin. Not giving him a chance to recover, she struck him across the face with the edge of her left hand. She stepped back in search of maneuvering room, driving her foot into his knee and sending him falling to the deck. A satisfying grunt of pain exploded from his lips as he rolled to one side in an effort to regain his footing.
“Staal, explain yourself,” T’Pol said, maintaining a defensive stance as she watched him roll to a kneeling position. A trickle of green blood from his nose belied his human appearance. No sooner did Staal pull himself to his feet than T’Pol chose to go on the offensive. She lunged for him, closing the distance between them even as he readied for an attack of his own. Striking out at him once more, she thrust the heel of her hand up into his chin, driving it upward with more force than even she had anticipated. Reeling from the blow, Staal could only stand defenseless as T’Pol kicked him in the midsection, pushing him off his feet and sending him crashing into her array of meditation candles. He lay motionless, and only when T’Pol moved to stand over him did she notice the pool of green blood expanding out from beneath his head.
Reaching down, she rolled Staal onto his side, catching her first look at the centimeters-long shard of amber-tinted glass buried into the side of his neck. The amount of blood hemorrhaging from the wound could only have been caused by the severing of a major artery, an injury that likely would prove fatal if he did not receive prompt medical attention.
He must not die! Her mind screamed the declaration. She had to know why he had come to betray and murder her, but his condition prevented any immediate interrogation.
A single option remained to her, she knew, but it was a distasteful one. She knew from a lifetime of training—almost all of which had been held in secret in order to protect the knowledge of such ability—that forcing a meld upon an unwilling participant was one of the most heinous, vulgar acts one Vulcan could commit upon another, second only to murder. Despite that, T’Pol could not see that she had a choice, not if she was to learn the truth behind the attempt on her life.
Extending her right hand until her fingers rested on the katra points of Staal’s face, T’Pol ignored his faint, labored breathing as she felt the initial quiver that always accompanied this most sacred and closely guarded of Vulcan mental disciplines.
“My mind to your mind,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Staal. “My thoughts to your thoughts.”
Shadows encroached upon her consciousness, pushing inward from the outer boundaries of awareness and reaching out to capture her mind within its grasp. T’Pol sensed another presence—weak, fading, but there nonetheless.
“Why did you try to kill me?”
T’Pau.
Even the simple response appeared to tax the mortally wounded Vulcan, and with that effort came T’Pol’s need to avoid becoming too closely linked with his dying mind. Still, she pressed on, continuing to refine and focus the joint thoughts until an indistinct image of T’Pau appeared in her consciousness. T’Pol explored further, realizing she now saw herself standing next to the rebel leader, acting in Staal’s stead as she forced him to relive this memory.
I no longer have confidence in our ally T’Pol, said the indistinct, wavering image of T’Pau.
“If true, that is regrettable,” T’Pol replied aloud, sensing her near immersion into the mind-meld experience.
I do not believe her intentions are what they appear to be. Her loyalty to Empress Sato is something I have suspected from the beginning.
“I have not yet witnessed this firsthand.”
You have found her presence welcome to you?
“She has served adequately in many ways, but has not ingratiated herself to me.”
Then this task I present to you will not be problematic?
“No more so than when you asked me to kill T’Les.”
In the face of this startling new revelation, T’Pol had to struggle to maintain the already tenuous, fading link. T’Pau, responsible for the death of her mother. Even with the life draining from Staal’s body with every passing moment, T’Pol pressed onward, deeper into the recesses of her friend’s mind.
“Why?” she asked, her own question shadowed by the same word released only with supreme effort from the mouth of the dying Staal. “Why did you have her killed?”
She became an unknown quantity. There was no choice but to eliminate her. She jeopardized what we have worked to create, apart from the Empire. Now her daughter seeks to do the same thing. She must be elimin…
The word and, indeed, everything that remained of the consciousness dwelling within Staal’s wounded form, faded from existence. T’Pol sensed it happening in time, withdrawing from the meld and returning to the sanctuary of her own body as the final flicker of light faded forever from Staal’s mind.
Her hair matted with sweat, she pulled her hand away from Staal’s corpse. The full treachery of T’Pau had been laid open for her mind’s eye, and the knowledge filled her heart with a nearly unchecked rage. The revered Vulcan leader—the would-be savior of her race from the savage Terran Empire, the woman who called T’Pol a trusted adviser and confidante—also was the cold-blooded murderer of her beloved mother. The more she processed this knowledge, the more intense her passionate hatred became.
Vengeance is emotion run wild. Vengeance is not logical. T’Pol’s mind rang with the words that her boiling blood would not heed.
So furious was her mounting anger that she realized she had not heard the chime of the intraship communications channel until it sounded for the third time. Her fist clenched so tightly that she thought she might draw blood, T’Pol slammed her hand down atop the comm panel set into her desk. “What is it?”
“Your presence is requested on the bridge,” replied a taciturn male voice. “Sensor probes have detected the presence of six Starfleet vessels entering this sector.”
Had Shran found them? Even if that was so, T’Pol found that she simply did not care.
“Set a course back to Aldus Prime,” she said.
13
A t long last, Malcolm Reed smiled in satisfaction as an emerald-colored indicator light on his science station console began to blink.
“It’s about bloody time,” he said under his breath before turning his chair to face Captain Mayweather. “We’ve confirmed the source of the transmissions.”
Mayweather rose from the command chair and moved to the bridge’s upper deck to stand next to the major. “You’re sure it’s not another relay beacon?”
“I’d stake my life on it,” Reed replied, turning back to the console and entering a new string of commands.
“That’s about what it’ll probably cost if you’re wrong,” Mayweather said.
In response to Reed’s instructions, the image on the main viewer shifted to a tactical display of nearby planetary systems in the starship’s vicinity. “The signal is coming from Aldus Prime,” he said. “Practically under our noses.”
Tracking the source of the signal had not at all been an easy task. Reed had s
pent nearly all of the past two days sifting through volumes of data collected by Defiant’s sensors, cursing in mounting frustration as—time and again—what at first had appeared as legitimate communications streams turned into phantoms and decoys, a product of the rebels’ impressive encryption and scattering equipment. Only after the vessel maneuvered close enough to scan the Aldus system with short-range sensors was Reed able to make a positive determination.
Turning from his console, the major noticed Mayweather looking away from the main viewer and followed the captain’s gaze to a workstation on the bridge’s port side. An Andorian officer was hunched over his own console and speaking discreetly into an inset communications speaker.
“Ch’Berro’s informing Talas,” Reed said, although he was sure Mayweather needed no explanation. At every turn, the Andorians aboard Defiant had been working to undermine Mayweather’s command in favor of the admiral. Talas was the physical manifestation of a greater, more insidious political climate: the covert transference of the Terran Empire into the hands of these blue-skinned, bug-headed bastards.
And Reed, for one, was itching to do something about it.
However, Mayweather himself had cautioned Reed as well as a growing cadre of imperial loyalists aboard Defiant that any action to seize the futuristic starship for themselves needed proper timing and coordination in order to succeed. Too many key personnel aboard ship had been replaced by Andorians, and well-trained replacements—preferably humans—needed to be ready at a moment’s notice to fill those roles. Despite ongoing, covert efforts, Mayweather still believed they were not quite ready.
“Helm, increase to warp five and order the fleet to match our speed,” the captain ordered.
Nodding, Ensign Zona replied, “ETA is five minutes, twelve seconds.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the turbolift doors at the back of the bridge opened and Admiral Talas stepped onto the bridge.
“Status report,” she said as she stepped into the command well and sat in the empty captain’s chair. Reed turned to Mayweather, who was offering the admiral a cold stare.
“The situation’s under control, Admiral,” Mayweather said. “We’ve located the source of the transmissions, and I’ve just ordered a course change. I didn’t see a need to inform you.” Talas knit her brow. “Why, Captain,” she said in a condescending tone that made Reed bristle, “at what point did you assume leadership of my task force?”
“I merely anticipated what seemed to be the obvious next step, Admiral,” Mayweather replied with an obvious effort to maintain a civil tone. “We’ve located the Empress, and our orders are to affect a rescue.”
Pointing a long finger at Mayweather, Talas countered, “Your orders are to observe the chain of command, Captain. Any new instructions will come from me, and you do not take action with this ship so long as I am the ranking officer aboard. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Mayweather said, biting down on every word. Reed sensed the anger raging beneath the captain’s calm exterior. “With your permission, I’d like to finalize our assault plan.”
Talas shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Captain. Such planning has already been completed.” To Zona, she said, “Set a course for the planet, and notify weapons crews to stand by for orbital bombardment. Notify the ship captains to implement the deployment strategy.”
“What?” Mayweather said, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “Admiral, what about…?” He stopped in mid-sentence, casting a look over his shoulder at Reed. He said nothing more, but the look in his eyes told Reed that the captain had reached the same abrupt conclusion.
“We’re not going to help her, are we?” Reed asked.
Turning in her chair to face him, Talas replied, “Remember your place, Mister Reed,” she said, each word laced with venom.
Unfazed by the threat, Reed pressed forward. “Shran. He told you to only put forth the appearance of trying to rescue the Empress, but only so the people on Earth won’t hunt him down and burn him at the stake. Your real orders are to destroy the planet and her with it.”
“You’re relieved, Major,” Talas hissed. Gesturing to ch’Berro, she said, “Place him under arrest and throw him in the brig.”
The young Andorian had no time even to rise from his station before red-alert klaxons began wailing across the confines of the bridge.
“What is that?” Talas shouted above the din.
Turning back to the science station, Reed bent over the hooded viewer and activated it, setting its selection controls to offer him incoming data from Defiant’s tactical systems. “Sensors are picking up seventeen ships approaching at high warp. Orion interceptors, Vulcan Suurok-class vessels, Tellarite cruisers, all on an intercept course. They were hiding on the far side of the Aldus star. They’ll be on us in less than two minutes!”
“Ambush,” Mayweather said.
Just kill me and get this over with.
The thought repeated in Hoshi Sato’s mind as she once more was led down the narrow subterranean passageway back to her holding cell, where she would—again—wait until the unscheduled resumption of her “trial.”
For more than two days, Hoshi had witnessed a seemingly unending stream of testimony from representatives of half a dozen races throughout the Empire, who all had taken their turn before the ersatz tribunal to relay their accounts of life under imperial rule: savaged cities, slaughtered innocents, and devastated global cultures as a result of oppressive actions and heinous crimes perpetrated in the name of the Terran Empire. That Hoshi herself actually was free of blame for many of these heinous acts was, of course, a fact of little importance to her prosecutors.
As had become habit, her two Vulcan escorts guided her from the rebels’ command post to her cell. While she might be fed during this intermission, what Hoshi really wanted was sleep. With the measures in place to keep the rebels’ transmission from being detected, the frequent interruptions and calls to the chamber where the trial was being broadcast came at all hours of the day or night. Sometimes she was left alone for several hours, other times she was hurried back and forth. Hoshi wondered whether the chaotic schedule might also be a ploy by T’Pau to erode her physical and mental resolve.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
They rounded yet another bend in the corridor, and Hoshi’s toe caught on a loose stone. She stumbled forward, but her fall was arrested by one of her guards, who easily pulled her back to her feet.
“Thank you,” Hoshi said, surprised that the guard had not simply allowed her to drop to the tunnel floor. “I didn’t…”
The rest of her words were drowned out by the high-pitched whine of a phaser. Harsh blue energy erupted from the darkness of the corridor ahead of her, striking the guard on her left in the chest. The Vulcan had no time even to cry out in shock as his body dissolved into nothingness. Hoshi pulled away from the other guard as he drew his own phase pistol, but the weapon never cleared its holster as another beam lanced from the shadows and touched him, wiping him from existence.
Rescued? Hoshi’s mind screamed the single word. Can it be?
Now standing alone in the tunnel, she watched as a lone figure emerged from the darkened passageway ahead of her. Her savior wore a simple, dark cloak with a hood that concealed her face. Hoshi recognized a twenty-third-century phaser in her benefactor’s right hand.
“Who…?” she began, but the words died in her throat as the new arrival pushed back the cloak’s hood, and she found herself staring at T’Pol.
“It is agreeable to see you again, Your Majesty,” the Vulcan said, mimicking the greeting she had offered during their encounter aboard Hoshi’s yacht.
“I don’t suppose you’re here to kill me?” the Empress asked. Though still shaken by what had just transpired, she made no effort to hide her sarcasm.
T’Pol shook her head. “The thought did occur to me, but other matters must now take precedence.” Pausing to look ahead and behind her, she added, “You cannot r
emain here.” Reaching into the folds of her robe, the Vulcan extracted what Hoshi recognized as another piece of futuristic technology from Defiant: a communicator. Flipping open the unit’s antenna grid, T’Pol pressed one of the two small buttons set into the device’s face-plate, and Hoshi saw the center red indicator light begin to blink.
“I have activated its homing beacon,” T’Pol said before closing the communicator and handing it to her. “Once the Defiant is in range, you will be transported aboard.” She reached once more into her robe, this time extracting a data padd. “Give this to Commander Tucker, and have him program the communicator with the information he’ll find encoded here. He will understand and explain everything to you.”
Frowning, Hoshi asked, “Why are you doing this?”
“I am a loyal subject of the Empire,” T’Pol replied, her expression—as always—revealing nothing.
“You’ve said that same thing the whole time I’ve been your prisoner,” Hoshi countered. “What’s changed?”
“Perspective,” T’Pol answered before turning to leave. “Live long and prosper, Your Majesty, and pledge to do what you told me you would do if given the opportunity.” Without waiting for a response, the Vulcan moved off down the corridor at a fast clip, disappearing around a bend.
Then the sound of increasing energy echoed in the tunnel, and Hoshi felt the familiar tingle of a transporter beam playing across her body…
…and she materialized in Defiant’s transporter room.
“Welcome aboard, Your Majesty,” said Commander Tucker from where he stood behind the transporter console, the small grin teasing the corners of his mouth making him appear as though he was insufferably pleased with himself. Behind him, MACO Sergeant Hayes and Corporal Madden stood at attention, each offering her a traditional salute.
Then everything lurched to her right as something slammed into the Defiant. Hoshi staggered to maintain her balance, reaching out to put her hand on the wall of the transporter chamber.
