Star Trek

by John Jackson Miller

  Georgiou nodded. “The scarred Dromax have deficits.”

  “This was several orders beyond that. Where Anowath had communicated peaceably with his Dromax guides, his twin’s mind-touch drove them mad. Anowath fled, taking his ‘brother’ with him—and that was the end of any further contact between the Dromax and the Oastlings.”

  “How did Anowath feel about it?” Dax asked.

  “Oh, he was horrified. Anyone would be. But he was also sympathetic to a being he had, himself, created. So he brought his duplicate back to the clerics of Oast.”

  Quintilian paused his walk and looked up, reverently. “When an Oastling dies, its mental membrane ruptures, releasing his or her intellect to the wind. The Oastlings spend their days walking about through the fields, communing, literally, with the fallen.” He lowered his head. “But Anowath’s duplicate was broken, in more ways than one.”

  Quintilian stepped to the edge and knelt. “He insisted on living in water, immersed as much of the time as possible. His body ultimately failed. Anowath sat in this pool, cradling him as he expired. And when his membrane burst—”

  “It killed Anowath too,” Georgiou said.

  “Yes—but not before it did something astonishing, as if all that wasn’t amazing enough. Contact with the temporal fissure had infected the duplicated Oastling’s mind, imbuing it somehow with the ability to ignore physical limitations. And it subdivided into many ‘spirits,’ if you will—all equally lethal.” He gestured to the pool. “The blood devils.”

  “How are they contained here?” Dax asked. “It sounds like they can go anywhere, do anything. I saw one pass through the hull of a starship.”

  “That’s right. As I said, they don’t like copper—my people have learned that—but to actually control them, they need to be immersed, as here. Under the constant mental control of the minders.” He gestured to the Oastlings.

  “The minders don’t seem to care that we’re here,” Georgiou said.

  “They know we’re supposed to be here. We’re allowed to do whatever we want. The guardian, for want of a better term, was above, on the surface: Captain Georgiou, mentally imprinted on the Oastling gatekeepers. That block is removed, thanks to you.”

  Dax’s eyes remained focused on the pool. “If the minders watch them, how did they escape into space? One struck the Farragut—and before that, Jadama Rohn had captured one.”

  “Eh?” Quintilian looked back at her. “No, that’s not quite right.” He stood. “But I’m not sure how much more I’m willing to share with you.” He touched a control strapped below his copper wrist guard. “Gnaeus, bring Emony Dax to the surface, please. She’s four meters ahead of me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dax’s eyes went wide. “Wait. I don’t—” she started, only to vanish in a whirl of transporter energy.

  As Quintilian turned back toward her, Georgiou stood. “How much more are you willing to share with me?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We never told you about the Farragut. What happened to it is classified.” She walked around the pool toward him. “I’ll ask again. How much are you willing to share with me?”

  “Everything—Imperial Majesty.”

  Georgiou stared. “What?”

  Quintilian bowed—and spoke words she had heard from him before in another continuum. “Hail, Emperor Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius! Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo’noS, Regina Andor!”

  She froze. “You know who I am?”

  “I didn’t. But after that night—such a wonderful night!—when you talked to me about emperors and empire, I got to wondering about the change in you. So when you slept—”

  “Pyramis and Thisbe read my mind.” She looked back at the Oastling minders and frowned. “That was the dream.”

  “Sorry about that—but I needed to know if I could trust you.” He rose and smiled. “You are really amazing, you know that? I could listen to your stories for days.”

  “I take it that you already have. Who needs me when you can download my brain?”

  “Oh, I definitely need you,” he said, raising his arm toward the stairs. “And if you’ll join me above, I’ll show you exactly why.”

  46

  Commercial Landing Zone

  OAST

  Quintilian had an army.

  That was the only way to describe it, Georgiou thought, even though it matched no force she’d ever known in appearance. And she saw it all, because the floodlights she’d seen earlier on the silos were now operational.

  She’d never known any planet to have a darker night than Oast, but Quintilian had utterly defeated it.

  And he clearly seemed on the way to conquering something else. A dozen Veneti freighters had landed beside the pristine ones she’d seen earlier; Quintilian’s employees were all about, readying the new ships for flight. Beyond those, she saw several vessels of a sort she had gotten to know well: Dromax troop and equipment transports. Finally, several of the peculiar Casmarran fliers sat on a rise nearby, their pilots out but keeping their distance from the crowd.

  The crowd in question: Dromax, by the hundreds. Having unloaded from their transports, the creatures gathered in packs beneath banners featuring icons denoting their tribes—tribes until recently at war with Agamalon, now his vassals. And keeping them in line: a host of Cascade-created warriors of the Double Crescent, led by none other than Agamalon.

  The emperor had seen more impressive forces gathered, of course, including her own. But Quintilian seemed to want to put on a show for her, and she’d decided to let him. “You were going to tell me how all this happened.”

  “It started when you ran out on me,” he said, walking alongside her. “Leaving abruptly seems to happen with all you Georgious.”

  She didn’t like the joke much, but she offered no objection. “Go on.”

  “The night you left Casmarra, I’d already learned from Pyramis and Thisbe you were the emperor, and what you were after. I knew Captain Georgiou and the Oastlings had installed their psychic lock sealing the blood devils’ lair, but I couldn’t just send you to Oast. There was too much chance your companions might tell Starfleet.”

  Quintilian strolled past rows of Dromax like a general on review. “That’s why I suggested you start with Agamalon, one of my oldest customers. I knew he’d do what I asked—and was delighted to hear the progress you’d made with him. That’s when I boarded one of my Veneti ships, which was making a weapons delivery to the system.”

  “Then it was you,” she said, eyes widening. “Leland didn’t transport that bomb to me at the Cascade. You did—because you’d learned that tactic when they riffled through my mind.”

  He grinned. “History doesn’t repeat, but it sometimes rhymes. I don’t think Twain said that, but it’s true.” He looked to her. “Did that really work with the Klingons?”

  “One warrior race at a time.”

  “I guess you’re right. The important thing is you gave me something I was going to need, anyway: the Dromax, under one leader, and control of the Cascade.” He looked up ahead and waved. “General!”

  Agamalon turned to face them. “Greetings, trader—and to you,” he said, indicating Georgiou. “If you’d told me you two were in league, Quintilian, I’d have treated her better.”

  “I couldn’t give up the game yet,” Quintilian said. “How are the troops, General?”

  “None of them like being here. But we are—for you.”

  “Don’t worry. My Oastling aides are back aboard ship, and all the natives are off in the fields doing whatever they do at night.” He gestured to crates, just unloaded from his freighters. “You’ll find special armor for the troops there—manufactured for the occasion. There was a reason S’satah wasn’t able to get enough copper to keep her smelter open—we had it. Get everyone outfitted and we’ll leave, soon enough.”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  The human couple resumed wa
lking. “Leave?” she asked. “For where?”

  “It’s all happened so fast—but more or less how I expected it. The Casmarrans went into immediate panic when the war ended. No market for their weapons—the Dromax aren’t about to start buying consumer goods. It put me into a position to—”

  Quintilian stopped as he noticed Agamalon’s return. “Forget something?”

  “Yeah. With everything I had to prepare, I forgot to ask about the two-legs. You know, the giggling fool.”

  “The—” Quintilian started. “You mean Finnegan?”

  Georgiou wasn’t sure who else fit that description. “The one you imprisoned.”

  “We held him, yes—but someone transported him away. I assumed it was you,” he said, gesturing to Quintilian. “You’d just called us to execute him, and nobody else has that technology. I figured you wanted to do the job yourself. How did he die?”

  “We didn’t transport him,” Quintilian said, alarmed. “My freighter was out of range by then.”

  Georgiou’s eyes went wide, and not only because Quintilian had ordered Finnegan’s death. Someone else had transported him, and she had a good idea who it was.

  “Hot night, darling,” she said, turning away.

  “Philippa?” he asked, while her back was to him.

  “Just a moment,” she said, adjusting her cuffs. “It was cooler before. I think it’s all these engines running.” She faced him again. “I wouldn’t worry about Finnegan. You know I was here for Section 31. Perhaps they found him.”

  “I don’t know how they could have.” Quintilian scratched his head. It was the first time she’d seen him thrown by anything. “Did Finnegan know you were headed to Oast?”

  “He’s an idiot. I don’t think he could find his own ass with a map.”

  “Well, it’d take them a long while to discover where this planet is.” He looked back to his forces. “We can redouble our preparations and leave them nothing but an empty landing zone.”

  “Then maybe you’d better finish explaining.” She reached for his hand. It felt unusually cold. “I can’t help you without knowing what’s next.”

  Quintilian pulled his hand away. “Just a second. Gnaeus!”

  She saw Quintilian’s assistant exiting a freighter. Dax followed behind, prodded along by a disruptor-wielding Dromax. “How may I assist, sir?” Gnaeus asked.

  “Hypospray.”

  Gnaeus had one at the ready. Quintilian applied it to his own neck. “Steroidal. A little arthritis from the old injury,” he said to Georgiou. He passed the device back to Gnaeus. “We’re speeding up the clock. Spread the word.”

  “Very good.” Gnaeus gestured to Dax. “What’s to be done with your guest?”

  Quintilian started to say something—only to look to Georgiou. “Dax isn’t going to approve of any of this,” he said. “I was going to deal with her the same way as Finnegan.”

  “What happened to Finnegan?” Dax asked. She looked to the emperor. “What’s going on?”

  “You may wish to dissect rather than disintegrate her, sir,” Gnaeus said. “I noticed something unusual during her transport.”

  Dax’s eyes went wide at that. “What?” Quintilian asked. “Does she have a weapon?”

  Georgiou quickly interceded. “Dax had to disarm before the Oastlings would take us to the shrine.” She tugged at Quintilian’s arm. “You just said Gnaeus has much to do, darling. Other things can come later.”

  Quintilian studied the Trill, unsure. “I don’t know—”

  “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Dax asked.

  Georgiou took a step toward her. She stared at her intently, speaking slowly and choosing her words with care. “Emony, something very big is happening—and I need Quintilian to tell me about it. Do you understand that? If you want to stay safe, you’ll let us talk.”

  “But—”

  “I’m talking to you, Dax,” Georgiou said, a little louder. “You know what it’s like to want to keep a secret. Quintilian is concerned you’ll tell. I need him to know that you won’t talk. Just listen.”

  Their eyes locked for a couple of seconds. Then Dax put her head down, resigned. “I’ll do what you say.”

  Georgiou looked to Quintilian. “She won’t cause any trouble. I guarantee it.”

  He accepted that. “The guard will follow us, just in case. Gnaeus, make the rounds.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Georgiou shot Dax a quick look before stepping closer to the armored Quintilian. She wrapped her arm around his. “Now, before we were interrupted. You were saying?”

  NCIA-93

  OAST NEBULA

  As messages on one’s arse went, Finnegan had found his to be disappointing reading. It was just a bunch of numbers and letters, and even Section 31’s finest hadn’t figured it out. Their doctor was still working on how to remove the ink, some Orion variety that had thus far defied erasure.

  At least she’d been able to cure his sniffles—and, most importantly, provide him with fresh clothes. Often during his various exiles from service he’d longed to be in an official Starfleet uniform again. Just not for days on end, as had happened in Dromax space.

  The Section 31 vessel had left that region. When Finnegan walked onto the bridge, he saw a dusky mass filling the screen ahead: they’d entered the nebula Oast was supposed to be in. But listening to Leland, Finnegan quickly got the sense that nobody quite knew where they should be headed.

  “This is ridiculous. There’s no sign of the system?” Leland asked his crew.

  “We’ve scanned as much as we can under silent running,” said the officer at the helm. “If there’s a pocket in here, we can’t find it.”

  “What about all the vessels we detected entering the nebula a while ago? Didn’t we get headings?”

  “Some were Casmarran vessels of the sort Finnegan described,” Sydia replied. “We were reluctant to close in, given how he said they responded to Boyington.”

  Finnegan stepped into the command well. “You said there were other vessels entering?”

  “Dromax, Casmarran, Veneti,” Leland said, not budging from his stance near the helm. “It’s a big parade.”

  “I don’t get it.” Finnegan scratched his new beard—something he’d started to like, now that he’d had a chance to groom it a little. “The Dromies and the Casmarrans hate the Oastlings. It’s the whole reason the traders have jobs.”

  “We know, Sean. You covered it in the briefing.” Leland looked back with impatience. “Is there anything else?”

  “Come to think of it, I had a question.” He pointed inside his mouth. “This viridium stuff in my tooth. Is it going to kill me?”

  “Well, we really don’t know.”

  “The doc doesn’t know?”

  “The doctor doesn’t know the stuff exists. And I’d rather you not talk about it here.”

  Finnegan was incredulous. “You folks put it in without knowing?” He grew enraged. “I want it out. Or some other people will lose some teeth.”

  “Calm down. We’ll get to it.” Leland gestured to an empty chair at a console away from the action. “Just take a seat, all right?”

  Finnegan looked back at the unattended console and frowned. He’d forgotten why he was here. Georgiou and Dax may have been recruited by Section 31, but he was representing the Federation and Kitty Cornwell. And with no Georgiou to shadow, he had nothing left to do.

  He sat, happy that some of the tenderness was gone. It was a communications console, he saw—but the screen at its center was running programs he couldn’t recognize at all. Jumbles of characters identified channels.

  Idly, he picked one and turned up the volume to listen. “Nothing,” he said—

  —only to hear his own voice amid a screaming snarl of feedback that nearly deafened the bridge crew.

  Sydia stepped quickly over and silenced the noise. “That is the feed from the sensor in your tooth.”

  “Great,” he said, glad the ear-splitting
clamor was gone. It was another reason to get the dental work. Even if the Section 31 ship was out of range most of the time, he felt squeamish knowing his every utterance and belch had been broadcast across space.

  He was about to leave the console behind when something on the comm screen caught his eye: a series of numbers followed by a series of letters, divided by a slash. “Hey, what’s this?”

  Leland called back, “Sean, we really don’t have time.”

  “No, I’m serious. What are these characters?”

  Responding to Leland’s aggravated gaze, Sydia stepped beside Finnegan and looked. “That is the frequency on which the particular viridium in your mouth appliance decays. It is unique to that transponder. The characters that follow are the decryption key.”

  “Doesn’t that look like—” He shifted in the chair. “Well, like what I’m sitting on?”

  “Impossible. There are no other viridium beacons currently in use in this region.”

  “Why don’t we just see?” Finnegan asked. “Does anyone have the message handy? I’d rather not try to look at the moment.”

  Sydia turned back to Leland, who shrugged. “Try it,” he said. The Vulcan called up the character string and entered it into the receiver interface.

  “There is a signal,” Sydia said. “Very weak.”

  Leland stepped over. “Boost it!”

  Over the comm, they heard static resolve into recognizable words. “—won’t cause any trouble. I guarantee it.”

  “That’s Georgiou!” Leland said.

  “The guard will follow us, just in case,” said another voice. “Gnaeus, make the rounds.”

  “That’s Quintilian,” Finnegan said. “Gnaeus is his Dromax-about-the-house.”

  “Yeah,” Leland said, “but the range is limited. What are they doing out here?”

  “Did you do some dental work on Georgiou too?”

  “She’d have bitten off someone’s hand.” Leland seemed bewildered. “She shouldn’t have access to something like this at all.”

  “The identifier in the encryption key says it is of our manufacture—but we did not deploy it,” Sydia said.

  “Amplify that signal—and track it.” Leland jabbed Finnegan in the shoulder. “Good catch.”