After a moment, all eyes were on him. Some were astounded, others worried, still others confused. Almost everyone on board knew about Na Bukh’s last encounter with Jassat in Starboard 8, after all. Krish Iniri looked as if she was prepared to physically intervene if necessary. She was also the ranking officer in the bar.
But Na Bukh’s words surprised his audience, most of all Jassat. “I was an idiot. Worse, I was an idiot in front of everyone. And because I have been so public an idiot, I want to put things right in front of everyone, as well.” He pointed at Jassat. “This is Lieutenant Jassat ak Namur. Most of you know him. He came on board several years ago as an exchange officer, went to Starfleet Academy and returned from Deep Space 9 about a month ago. He’s Renao, and what’s more, he’s the only Renao in Starfleet, if I’m not mistaken.” Na Bukh looked at Jassat for confirmation.
All Jassat could do was nod. He was far too astounded to utter even one word.
“I won’t lie—I always found him to be a bit strange. The red skin, the black hair, the glowing eyes… There are monsters in mythology of Triex that look somewhat like him. It’s nonsense to judge a stranger’s character by their looks, but that weakness resides deep within us. Usually reason is stronger than that. But sometimes it isn’t.”
His yellow eyes looked straight at Jassat.
“I got carried away by prejudice and the atrocities committed by some fanatics that happen to look like you, and accused you, Lieutenant—and not only you, but your entire species. I said some very despicable things that I wish I hadn’t voiced. I shouldn’t even have thought them. My behavior was completely inappropriate, not only towards a superior officer, but also towards a comrade from my crew. I sincerely apologize, Lieutenant.”
“Hear, hear,” came from the corner where the security people sat. Two or three people applauded Na Bukh’s words.
Jassat couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wasn’t surprised that some of his crewmates were ashamed of their latent aggression, which had been put on display of late. There was no room for xenophobia within the fleet. Tolerance and the curiosity for the diversity of cultures within the galaxy were not only classed as virtues, they were expected from everyone wearing the uniform. So once they were no longer under the Son’s influence, they must have been devastated at the realization of how easily they had been manipulated. That someone would actually apologize to him as eloquently as this and in front of so many witnesses, however, he hadn’t imagined in his wildest dreams.
“I’m not one to bear grudges, Ensign,” he replied, because he had the feeling that he needed to say something, although he was barely able to think clearly right now. “You were under the influence of the Son of the Ancient Reds, just like everyone else.”
“Wrong,” said Na Bukh, and his bony head wobbled from side to side on his thin neck. “ Not like everyone else. I have insulted and offended you; I allowed my fears and prejudices to get the better of me. I was weak. I expected more of myself. I really thought I was better than that.” He genuinely seemed crestfallen at the realization of his failure.
“Not all is lost, Ensign.” Moba grinned, putting his phaser aside. “At least you had the courage to stand up in front of everyone and admit your mistake. I would call that a sign of strength and character. Come here. You two are going to have a drink now. And you’ll find that as the only Renao and the only Triexian aboard this ship, you have much more in common than you think.”
Na Bukh tilted his head. “I need to eat something before my shift. But let me suggest something else, Lieutenant. If it’s not beneath you to sit around a table with some Jeffries-tube scrubbers, join us, and we’ll have a drink over there.”
The club door opened again, and Jassat saw Jenna Kirk enter the Starboard 8. He made a grateful gesture, nodding at Na Bukh. “I’m sorry, but my date has arrived. We’ll catch up some other time, I promise you.”
The Triexian turned around, recognized the chief engineer, and his sheep-like face broke into a grin. “Some other time, then, Lieutenant. Have a nice evening.” And with that, he returned to his table.
“Have I missed anything?” Jenna asked, approaching the counter with raised eyebrows.
“I suppose you could say that,” Jassat said dryly. Pensively, he stared after the Triexian. With every passing light year we get farther away, things can only get better, Moba had said earlier. Apparently, he had been right. Maybe, just maybe, things were slowly getting better.
U.S.S. Venture, on patrol near Lembatta Prime
“This is getting worse and worse.”
Glowering, Captain Bjarne Henderson stood in front of the five Scorpion replicas that had been lined up in Cargo Hold 3 aboard the Venture. One of the fighters had been almost completely dismantled save for its framework, while all the parts were scrutinized by the ship’s engineers and scientists.
All other vessels had at least been opened up to remove their dangerous explosive cargo and disarm it. Afterward, three teams had focused on separate aspects of the replicas: the propulsion, the armament, and the defense mechanisms. During these inspections, Commander T’Eama, the Venture’s Vulcan chief engineer, had discovered something very unpleasant.
“I always thought the Renao were backward farmers,” Henderson continued. “And now you’re telling me they not only managed to recreate Romulan Scorpion fighters, they even improved them?”
“I would not describe the modifications to the attack fighters as improvements,” T’Eama replied. “The engineers of the Purifying Flame have neglected all safety protocols in order to construct starships that will result in certain death for their pilots. Maintaining a cloaking device and shields simultaneously causes an energetic oscillation effect that gradually increases until the reaction overloads the drive and tears the ship apart.”
Kraalbat, the Tellarite security chief, said, “If you have bombs made of trilithium, tekasite, and protomatter aboard, it probably doesn’t really matter whether you’re abiding by the usual safety specifications.”
“That is a logical assumption,” T’Eama said tersely.
Henderson shook his head. “So, let me get this straight—we are now dealing with enemy vessels that are not only extremely agile and flown by pilots with a death wish, but they also feature cloaking devices and active shields.”
The Vulcan nodded. “That is correct, Captain.”
Henderson wiped his brow with his hand, exhaling noisily. “Fantastic. When I report that to Admiral Gepta he’s going to dance with joy.”
Next to him Kraalbat chuckled at the captain’s sarcasm, no doubt envisioning the anger of the ill-tempered Chelon admiral.
T’Eama naturally remained stoic, her hands clasped behind her back. “The situation is not completely hopeless.”
“How reassuring,” said Henderson. “Let’s hear the good news, then.”
“These fighters appear to have been built in great haste. That has in turn led to deficiencies in both security and functionality, most notably in two aspects. First, the drive shielding has not been installed properly on any of the vessels, which means they will leak drive plasma when active. This drive plasma can be located by accordingly calibrated sensors. Furthermore, while the shields remain active while cloaked, they are of poor quality and are likely to collapse after one direct hit from a ship’s phaser, according to my calculations.”
“They’ll still be difficult to fight,” Kraalbat said. “They still have impressive speed and agility. In his debriefs, Captain Adams mentioned a fight against fanatics in orbit around Onferin. The fighters attacked the Bortas, and attempted to fly straight into her. The Klingon ship was badly damaged. And those fighters were neither cloaked nor protected by shields.”
Henderson shook his head in resignation. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He straightened himself, smoothing his uniform. “Very well, I guess I’m going to give the admiral the good news.”
“We should also warn all the other ships in the fleet,” T’Eama said, “as well as the K
lingons. They need to adjust their sensors or they will always target the traces of the cloaked fighters and never the ships themselves.”
“Thanks for the advice, Commander. I will see to it.” The captain nodded at the Vulcan woman. “And despite everything—good work. Keep it up, and if you discover any more weaknesses of the replicas let me know right away. We need all the advantages we can get in the fight against these madmen.”
17
NOVEMBER 28, 2385
Xhehenem
The hives were burning.
Brossal ak Ghantur saw it, but he still couldn’t believe it: two of Kharanto’s proud arcologies—these buildings of glass, stone, and metal that reached for the sky—stood in flames. Red and golden flames licked at the façades, dark smoke billowed from broken windows and open entrances.
Here and there, pieces of rubble rained down from collapsing upper levels, searing the carefully cultivated plants. The air was hot and smelled of destruction.
Wherever Brossal looked, all he saw was madness. In the streets, on the plazas… chaos everywhere. What had begun with the temple’s destruction two days ago had now mutated to an insurrection, if not a civil war. But this war didn’t know any front lines or parties, just death.
What has happened to us?
It wasn’t the first time that Brossal had asked himself this question, and if he was brutally honest, he had known the answer for a while. The rumors were true—there was no other way. His people were losing their minds—no, they had lost them ages ago. The burning buildings, all the hatred, and the increasing number of casualties bore witness to that. Renao murdered Renao and called it a necessary resistance, or saving the Harmony of Spheres.
“Where are we going?” Brossal looked at Alyys. His little second-born girl seemed to have a fever; her brow was sweaty, her glowing eyes glazed over, her voice weak. Hiskaath, Brossal’s son, carried in his arms because she was too small and weak to keep up with her brother’s and father’s walking speed as they fled from the flames. Again.
“To the harbor.” The travel bags he was carrying on his back and in his hands hampered his movement more than anticipated. He considered leaving them behind so they could move faster, but they contained everything he had left—apart from his children. “We’ve already waited too long.”
That was it, wasn’t it? The worst thorn in his side, his biggest guilt. He had hesitated for far too long while holding out hope. Even when they had killed Kynnil, his beloved partner, even when Hiskaath had spouted radical nonsense, even when Alyys had been shouting and flailing in her sleep uncontrollably—Brossal had hesitated, although his bags had been packed a long time ago. He had hoped against hope. Clutched at straws. Because a Renao didn’t give up his home. That was unthinkable. Where else did he belong? How did you leave a place that was part of yourself, as much as the nose on your face and the red of your skin? Just the thought was preposterous. Still…
I’ve waited too long. An epiphany, bitter as rotten ley. Let’s hope we won’t pay the price for that.
“Harbor?” Hisk was panting, but he persevered bravely. “Why are we going to the harbor? What are we supposed to do there? We are needed here, Father.”
Brossal stopped, dropping one bag and grabbing his son by the shoulder. “What are we needed here for, eh?” he asked sharply, turning Hisk around so he could see the burning arcologies behind them. “To die?”
“To fight!” Hisk wrenched himself free. “The fire cleanses, Father. Don’t you understand that? It brings about a glorious new beginning—for us and the Harmony of Spheres. Iad has awakened, and the Son will come to bring his salvation. He comes to us through the fire!”
Tears welled up in Brossal’s eyes. For twelve cycles he had shared his life with this boy, but he barely recognized Hisk these days. The words that came out of him now were not those of the carefree child he had raised. Someone else’s thoughts seemed to have taken root in Hisk’s mind, putting words in his mouth that were not his. It broke his heart.
He wanted to scream and shake the boy until reason returned to him. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.
Hisk seemed to interpret Brossal’s silence as doubt, and he continued speaking. “The sphere is everything, Father. You taught me that. So don’t be a foolish coward. Let’s protect it like true Renao!”
A deafening noise made Brossal look up. The upper four levels of the arcology to the right succumbed to the insatiable hunger of the flames and collapsed. Burning debris crashed down to the ground, reflecting in the glass façade and smashing into burning shards.
Alyys cried quietly in Hisk’s arms. She had closed her eyes, hardly noticing the world around her due to her fever.
“Do you call that protection?” Brossal’s hand trembled as he pointed toward the destruction. “Was it protection when they came to set fire to your home? Was it what true Renao do, when they murdered your mother?”
Hisk remained silent. His eyes were defiant, proud—but mentioning the dead Kynnil had stirred up another emotion: pain.
“You’re right, Hiskaath. I was a coward and foolish, and I will regret that for the rest of my life. But I’m not anymore.” Brossal picked his bag up again. “Not a second longer.”
He grabbed his son and ran forward, away from the ashes of their yesterday and down to the harbor, toward the ocean and the hope of tomorrow.
* * *
The plan was simple: they would take one of the Kranaals that flew for Brossal’s employer to the offshore algae growth stations. He was hoping that they would make it to a large transport there in order to leave Xhehenem. The Renao didn’t care much for space travel, so they didn’t have many space ports on their worlds. But imports and exports of resources among worlds required that some of the algae stations had such ports at their disposal. Brossal’s workplace—a huge offshore plant—was one of them.
This is our best chance, he thought when they arrived at the harbor. He had tossed aside the heavy travel bags somewhere along the way and had taken over carrying Alyys. Our only chance.
Chaos reigned in the harbor as it did everywhere else. Brossal saw smashed windows, burning fishing boats, and two corpses floating in the water, face down.
Even this, his familiar route to work, had become a frightening reminder of the horror of what his people had become.
“There!” Brossal pointed at a fence for Hisk’s benefit. “This way, son. Behind the workshops. Do you see the high fence? There’s the Kranaal landing area for my growth station.”
They were not the only citizens from Kharanto banking on this escape route. Brossal saw dark silhouettes here and there between the huts in the harbor.
The last remaining sensible people, he thought, and that certainty hurt more than his overexerted lungs. The last cowards leave the ship. Late. Too late. Just like me.
And then the workshops exploded! The blast knocked Brossal off his feet. He hit the dock’s stone floor hard as a wave of incredible heat washed over him. A terrible roar and hiss, similar to those of predators roaming the wilds of Xhehenem, deafened his ears.
Where was Hisk? Alyys was still cradled in his arms when he regained his equilibrium. She was fast asleep, despite all the horror. At least the fever was merciful that way.
But where was the boy?
“Hisk!” Brossal’s wailing, panicked scream was drowned out by the roaring fire, but still he screamed, fueled by his anguish. “Hiskaath!”
Nothing.
Brossal saw gigantic columns of smoke rise from the remains of the workshops, felt the heat of the flames on his face and arms, saw terrified figures darting from the shadows. Some of them were burning like the huts up front and hurled themselves into the water—if they made it that far. Others seemed to withdraw into the dark as if someone was dragging them there. He didn’t see his son.
“Hiskaath!”
Suddenly, he saw Kynnil in his mind’s eye on the day Hisk had been born. He remembered the happiness in her face, the promises they had made
to each other, and the hopes they had shared. Hopes for Hiskaath’s future. For the start of their first-born’s life, his family had been his sphere.
And suddenly he realized how much he had really betrayed Kynn and their time together. His dithering, his waiting, his hoping. There was no future, not here where this madness ruled and a life was worth less than an unfulfilled dream. Brossal had broken the most important promise that he had ever given by clinging to the familiar against all reason, when the familiar had become something twisted and horrible. He had trusted people he thought he knew over his home—and now they were all paying the price with their burning dreams, their dying wishes, and their blood.
“Hiskaath!”
Sobbing, he slumped to the pier floor. He pressed the sleeping Alyys against his chest, tears running from his eyes, his open mouth uttering a silent scream. It was over, here and now, because everything had come to an end.
And then he felt a wet hand on his leg. “Father.”
Hisk! The boy pushed himself up onto the stony pier. Panting, he looked at Brossal. Salt water dripped from his hair and his clothes, and despite the heat of the fire columns behind them, he was trembling all over. But he was alive.
“I must have fallen into the water, Father,” he said. His gaze wandered to the burning workshops. Stunned, he stared at them. “Were you looking for me? What… what happened?”
Brossal touched him, stroked his wet cheek with the back of his hand, almost incredulously. Was he dreaming? Was he also suffering from a fever that made him delusional? But this couldn’t be a dream. Dreams didn’t feel so real, so alive.
“Did the terrorists do that? Did they want to stop us from leaving our home?”
“Yes, son,” Brossal whispered, grateful, oh so endlessly grateful. “Exactly.”
Hisk looked at him. Big eyes, pale face. “But that means we can’t get away from here!” He sounded scared. He sounded—for a moment—like the Hisk from the past who hadn’t been blinded by madness. And Brossal realized that he did have a chance after all. The future awaited, and with it the promise he had given Kynn.
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