“Let’s get to it, then, before the weather changes again,” Hudson said as he

started to walk northwest.

That hope was in vain. Before they’d gone ten meters, the temperature plummeted

and the skies clouded up. The sweat and rainwater cooled against Hudson’s skin.

Within two more steps, the snow started.

“I suggest we take shelter until this passes,” Tuvok said.

Hudson started to say that they couldn’t afford to wait, but then the snow

reached the intensity level of the rain—as did the wind. He also found that he

couldn’t speak because his teeth were chattering. So instead he simply ran

toward the closest structure: what looked like a residential building.

The front door slid open about halfway, then made a screeching noise.

“The metal has been warped,” Tuvok said.

“G-g-get ins-side,” Hudson said, squeezing between the door and its frame.

Chakotay and Tuvok did likewise—both were smaller of build than Hudson, so they

had an easier time of it—and then the door shut. The building’s lobby was a

utilitarian affair: a square room with walls painted beige. The back wall was

lined with a series of turbolifts; a few hideous paintings sat dolefully on the

two side walls, broken only by a computer interface that no doubt allowed

visitors to communicate with residents. A plush beige carpet took up the entire

floor. Hudson decided it was the most boring room he’d ever been in.

“W-wish we’d beamed down a medikit,” Hudson said, trying to warm himself with

his arms and failing miserably. His hair felt odd—no doubt the water there from

the rain had frozen into ice—and his skin felt like one giant goose bump. “We’ll

get pneumonia at this rate.”

Tuvok checked his tricorder. “It is a possibility—unfortunately, this is not a

medical tricorder.”

Nodding, Hudson turned to Chakotay. “Have you given any thought to what we might

have to do today?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied stoically, not looking at Hudson.

“Yes, you do.”

“All right, so maybe I do,” Chakotay snapped, turning toward Hudson, his jaw

set. “If I have to, I’ll kill him, but I’d like to avoid it if I can.”

“I know that,” Hudson said, grateful that he was now warm enough that he could

talk normally without forcing himself to enunciate without stuttering from the

shivers. “But it’s never easy to take up arms against your comrades—or your

friends.” He hesitated. “Last year, right after we started the Maquis, I had to

face off against my oldest friend—my best friend. He was in a runabout, I was in

the Liberator —and I realized that I might be put in a position where I’d have

to kill my friend.”

“What happened?”

Chuckling, Hudson said, “Actually, it was never an issue. Ben won the fight. I

was in bad shape, turning tail and running.” Hudson looked at Chakotay. “The

funny thing is, Ben did have the opportunity to fire on me. He could’ve disabled

me, destroyed me—but he let me go. He faced the test and couldn’t do it. Funny

thing is, I wasn’t sure I would’ve done the same thing in his place.”

“There’s a big difference,” Chakotay said. “I assume that ‘Ben’ is Commander

Sisko of Deep Space 9?”

Hudson nodded.

“He’s not a freedom fighter—he’s just a soldier. He was doing his job, nothing

more. You were fighting for a cause.” He smiled. “Besides, Starfleet’s always

been big on the lost cause. There’s no problem they can’t solve—so they let you

live, because they think you can be ‘cured.’” Chakotay sighed. “I wish they were

right, most of the time.”

Hudson found he had nothing to add to that, so he turned to the Vulcan. “You

picking up any life signs in the building?”

“Negative.”

“Hm.” He walked over to the computer interface, his clothes and hair dripping

water onto the carpet. He touched the black surface, and it lit up.

“Computer, was this building evacuated?”

“Please identify yourself.”

“Calvin Hudson. I’m a visitor to Slaybis IV.”

There was a pause while that information was processed. “The municipality of

Slaybis Central is in a state of emergency. All citizens have been evacuated.

Your presence in this building is unauthorized. Please depart immediately or

this unit will alert Law Enforcement.”

Tuvok looked up. “The temperature is once again rising, and the snow has

stopped. I would suggest that we follow the computer’s directive.”

“Yeah.” As Hudson moved toward the door, he pointed at Chakotay’s phaser. “Let’s

hope you won’t need to use that—or make that choice.”

The door to the building didn’t open any further than it had before, but they

managed to get through. At least now they knew why the capital city— Slaybis

Central? What bureaucrat thought that was a good name for a town? he

wondered—seemed like a ghost town: it was.

Again, the heat of the sun bore down on the city streets, melting the snow that

had already started to accumulate. Now, however, the humidity had not died down.

“This,” Hudson said, “is getting tiresome.”

“Isn’t there an old joke about how if you don’t like the weather, wait five

minutes?” Chakotay said with a small smile.

“The quote is often attributed to a human author named Samuel Clemens, who wrote

under the name Mark Twain,” Tuvok said without hesitating. “It was an attempt to

humorously convey the inconsistent weather patterns of San Francisco—illogical,

as that city has an unusually even climate for an Earth city.”

“Twain was big on illogic,” Hudson said with a grin. “C’mon, let’s move.”

 

Why are you talking? You must destroy!

“Get out of my head,” Tharia muttered.

“Excuse me?” the Starfleet captain said, a frown on his face.

“Nothing,” Tharia said quickly. “There is nothing to say.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Not—never mind.”

Tharia started pacing across the room. The device continued to whisper in his

mind. But he was having doubts.

It had all seemed so sensible at first. The Cardassians had to die, he knew that

now —knew it, with a clarity he’d never had regarding anything in his life.

From there, he knew that all the traitors had to die: Chakotay and his stupid

limitations, Elois Phifer—whose corpse he had been sure to identify—for

betraying them, the people of Slaybis IV—

Why did they have to die?

Everyone must die. They must all pay for letting your mates die.

Tharia had been sure of that. At first.

No, more than sure. Certain. He had no regrets about what he did on Nramia.

…bodies broken, lying in the street…

(Don’t think about it.)

Nor did he regret what he did to Chakotay and the others. They deserved it for

trying to stop him. Chakotay upbraiding him—Seska actually criticizing him for

killing Cardassians! And her a Bajoran, how could she do that?

But the people of Slaybis IV. Not to mention those farmers on Slaybis II, where

he planned to go next. What of them?

What of them? Just think about revenge. That’s all that matters.

“Yes. Revenge—it’s all that matters.”

“Revenge against who, Mr. ch’Ren?”

Tharia looked up suddenly. He had actually forgotten about the Earther captain.

What was his name? Whoever he was, he had come and asked to talk—the alternative

was for them to fire on him and kill him and destroy his gift.

They can’t destroy me. Every method was attempted to destroy me. They failed. I

am indestructible. Nothing can stop me.

“The Cardassians,” Tharia said, trying to ignore the voice. “They killed my

mates—took our land, betrayed us at every turn. They have to be stopped,

Captain. All of them must pay for what they’ve done.”

“I can understand your feelings, Mr. ch’Ren, but—there aren’t any Cardassians

here.”

“No, no, there was something worse than a Cardassian here—there was a traitor.

Phifer claimed to be one of us, but he betrayed our cause. He needed to be

stopped, don’t you understand? It’s because of traitors like him that the

Cardassians felt free to destroy our home! Athmin, Ushra, Shers—they’re all dead

because of them!”

“I understand your anger,” the captain said in a maddeningly calm voice—as calm

as Chakotay had been when he dared to criticize Tharia on the Geronimo. “But

there are thousands on this planet who did not betray you. They’re civilians.

They’re not a part of this.”

He’s lying. Don’t listen to him. He must die with the others.

“No—no, you don’t deserve to die, Captain.”

The captain half-smiled. “I’m relieved to hear that. Especially since I’m the

only way you can get off this world.”

Tharia frowned. “Don’t be insane. I’ve a ship.”

“Not anymore you don’t.” The Earther gave him a quizzical look. “It was

destroyed. Don’t you remember?”

“We landed without incident, Captain. I will tolerate no more lies from you!”

“I haven’t lied,” the Earther said quickly. “Check for yourself—the shuttle you

came down on was wrecked.”

He is lying. Kill him.

Ignoring the voice, Tharia went to the computer from which he had contacted the

Earther’s ship earlier. He ordered the sensors to train in on the area where his

shuttle had landed.

His antennae stood up straight on his head. A building had collapsed nearby—no

doubt the victim of Tharia’s own doings with the gift as he had used it to wreak

havoc on this world as he had on Nramia—and horribly damaged the shuttle some

time after he had taken over this building.

Tharia was no engineer. He could operate a computer with the best of them, make

it do whatever he wanted it to, but he had no skill with actually putting the

pieces together. That was B’Elanna’s job.

But B’Elanna was probably dead now, destroyed with the Geronimo.

He was trapped here.

No. You can go anywhere you want, be anything you want. I can help you achieve

your goal.

“It seems you’re right, Captain. What do you propose?”

No! Do not negotiate! Kill him now! You can take his ship!

The Earther said, “If you turn yourself and the artifact over to us, I’ll make

sure that you get a fair trial.”

“I can’t do that. The Cardassians must—must be—be destroyed.” Yes, they must be

destroyed. “I can’t allow you to take my gift from me.” Together, we will

achieve your goals.

“But there aren’t any Cardassians!” the Earther said. “And you have no way of

getting off this world.”

“Yes, I do, Captain.” Of course. It all made sense again. This Earther had to

die so Tharia could take over his ship. It was simple. Why didn’t he see it

before?

Together, we will triumph.

Tharia unholstered his phaser.

“Drop it, Tharia.”

Whirling around, Tharia saw Chakotay, along with two others, an Earther and a

Vulcan, whom he did not recognize. In fact, he barely recognized Chakotay—his

clothes were in disarray, his hair was wet and sticking out in all directions,

and he had mud smudged on his face. He was also pointing a phaser at Tharia, as

was the other Earther. The Vulcan only had a tricorder.

“You’re dead,” Tharia said. “You can’t be real, I killed you.”

“Not quite.”

The Earther captain stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“My name is Chakotay, Captain DeSoto. Tharia’s my problem, not yours. Your best

bet is to stay out of this.”

Smiling, the Earther said, “It became my problem the minute your friend started

killing people. I can’t just walk away from that.”

“Shut up, all of you!” Tharia cried. He pointed his phaser at Chakotay. “Why

aren’t you dead?”

The other Earther said, “I saved him.”

“Now we want to save you,” Chakotay said. “The artifact changed you, Tharia.

Turned you into something you aren’t. I know you—you’d never kill

indiscriminately like that. You’d certainly never leave your comrades for dead.”

He stepped forward. “You have to let that thing go.”

Don’t listen to him. He just wants me for himself.

“Shut up! You’re not real!” Tharia himself was not sure to whom he directed the

comment—the gift or the shade of Chakotay.

If shade it truly was. It was possible that the Geronimo was rescued. Yes, of

course it was.

No! Kill him! Kill him now, before it’s too late!

Thunder rumbled, shaking the building. The room they were in had no windows, but

Tharia could hear the rain now pounding against the transparent aluminum of the

windows in the outer rooms.

Tharia mentally instructed the gift to lighten up the rainstorm. He needed to

think, and this noise wasn’t helping.

The rain did not let up. In fact, it grew louder. The next wave of thunder was

intense enough to knock all five people in the room to the floor.

“Stop it!” Tharia cried. “I command you to stop!”

“You don’t give me orders, Tharia,” Chakotay said.

“Not you!”

The Earther captain’s face fell. “He’s lost control of it.”

If you will not do what needs to be done, I will do it instead.

Tharia screamed. “No! You will obey me! You’re mine to command!”

“Chakotay,” the other Earther said in a tone that sounded like a warning.

“Dammit, Tharia, stop doing this,” Chakotay said.

“I’m not doing anything,” Tharia said, running to the back of the room. He threw

open a cabinet that was lodged under the computer console to reveal the gift. It

still glowed green. “You have to stop doing this!”

…

“Why won’t you obey me?”

…

It took Tharia a moment to realize the truth—the gift had gone silent. Whether

he had lost control or not didn’t matter. It had been taken away from him.

Just as Athmin, Ushra, and Shers were taken away from him.

Just as his life was taken away from him.

“Step away from it, Tharia.”

The building shook again, but this time it wasn’t just from thunder outside—it

was from lightning inside. A bolt smashed through the ceiling and struck the

floor not two meters from where Tharia stood.

The noise from the accompanying thunder was deafening. Tharia could feel the

increase in EM activity in his antennae. The noise from both filled his very

being.

He looked over at the Earther captain, who had stumbled to the floor.

Then he looked over at the other three—the ones with Chakotay were fellow

Maquis, probably. One of them—the Earther he didn’t know—was on the ground, a

wound in his head. The Vulcan had maintained his footing.

Chakotay was struggling to get up.

Rain started to pour in through the hole the lightning had made in the ceiling.

Tharia stared at Chakotay. His captain. His friend. His comrade.

His recruiter. The one who had convinced him to join his cell.

The one who told him he could get his revenge on the Cardassians by joining the

Maquis.

If it hadn’t been for the Maquis, this would never have happened.

The Cardassians attacked Beaulieu’s World because of the growing threat from the

Maquis.

Athmin, Ushra, and Shers died because of the Maquis.

Tharia found the artifact because of the Maquis.

Because of Chakotay.

“Because of you!” he cried, and fired his phaser at his erstwhile captain.

He fired again. And screamed again. And fired again. And kept firing and

screaming. He had no idea if he hit anything or anyone, he just kept firing.

It all made sense now. There was only one way to make everything right. Only one

way to end all the pain, all the suffering, all the death.

For the first time, he realized the truth—the real truth. Everyone didn’t need

to die to avenge his mates. He didn’t need to join the Maquis.

For the last time, he fired his phaser.

But this time, he had it pointed at his own chest.

Still, he kept screaming for as long as he could.

He no longer felt the rain on his chest, even though he felt the pain of the

phaser hit. His antennae and ears had both fallen silent. He could no longer

hear his own screams.

The one thing he could feel was his sense that at last—after doing so many

things wrong—he had done the right thing.

I should have died with them was his final thought before he found he could no

longer see, either.

And in his mind, he could hear screams, but they were not his own….

 

DeSoto stood upright and straightened his uniform. Well, this has been something

less than a howling success. While he had been grateful for the arrival of

Tuvok, Hudson, and the other one—since ch’Ren seemed likely to shoot

DeSoto—things deteriorated pretty quickly.

He looked across the room to see rain pounding in from a hole in the ceiling.

Ch’Ren, Hudson, and the third Maquis were all on the ground, getting

progressively wetter. The Andorian looked dead. Hudson had a gash on his head

that probably had rendered him senseless, and the other Maquis looked like he’d

taken a phaser hit as well. Both humans’ chests were rising and falling, at

least.

That left DeSoto and Tuvok. Neither of them were armed—DeSoto had come down

unarmed, per ch’Ren’s instruction, and Tuvok no doubt hadn’t earned enough of

the Maquis’s trust for them to issue him a weapon.

“Good work, Mr. Tuvok,” DeSoto said. The captain noted that the Vulcan was

moving closer to the cabinet that held the artifact. “Uh, what, exactly, are you

doing?”

“Ensuring our safety.” He seemed to toss something at the artifact.

DeSoto didn’t like the sound of that. “Whose safety?”

“That of the Maquis, of course.”

“The Maquis?” DeSoto really didn’t like the sound of that. “Don’t tell me you’ve

actually gone over to these traitors? How could you, of all people, do such a

thing?”

“I respectfully submit, Captain, that you do not know me well enough to make

such a judgment of my character.”

“We’ll discuss this later. Right now, I’m taking you, your new friends, and the

artifact back to the Hood. You’ll all be taken into custody.” DeSoto started to

move closer to Tuvok ever so slowly—and also toward Hudson’s weapon, which lay

on the floor about two meters from where the former Starfleet officer had

fallen.

“I cannot allow that, Captain. You are welcome to take the artifact—it is too

dangerous to be allowed in the hands of any but the researchers at the Rector

Institute. But you will not take us in.”

DeSoto knew that Tuvok was much closer to ch’Ren’s weapon than he himself was to

Hudson’s—and that Tuvok was a Vulcan, and therefore much faster than a human.

But words were not going to win this conversation; Tuvok had either truly gone

over to the Maquis, or was making far too good a show of his infiltration.

Either way, DeSoto couldn’t take any chances.

“Watch me,” he said, and then suddenly dove toward the weapon, grabbed it, and

rolled over. The idea was to then rise to his feet on the upward roll, but he

wasn’t as young as he once was, and he stumbled twice as he rose.

He found himself facing the barrel of ch’Ren’s phaser, held by Tuvok.

“It was worth a shot,” DeSoto said with a smile. “So now what, Mr. Tuvok? You

shoot me?”

Tuvok looked down at the floor. “That won’t be necessary.”

DeSoto couldn’t help but follow Tuvok’s gaze, especially once the Vulcan pointed

his phaser at the same spot on the floor.

He saw his transponder about twenty centimeters from his foot. DeSoto had placed

it in his boot, but it obviously had dislodged when he rolled over to pick up

the phaser.

Oh, crap.

Tuvok fired at the transponder. It disintegrated in an instant.

For the first time, DeSoto cursed his crew’s efficiency. Not a second later, he

felt the familiar tinge of a transporter beam as José Kojima—reading the

destruction of the transponder—followed orders and had the transporter room lock

on to where the transponder had been and beam anything there up.

In less time than it took him to complete the realization that he was being

transported, he found himself on the Hood’ 'sbridge. Voyskunsky got up from the

command chair just as he yelled, “Beam me back!”

“What happened?” Voyskunsky asked.

“I’ll explain later.” DeSoto was yelling. Of all the times… “Beam me back, now!”

 

Kojima said, “Sir, the Malkus Artifact emissions have disappeared from the

surface.”

DeSoto blinked. “Dammit. Pick it up, José.”

“Trying, sir.”

Voyskunsky smiled her toothy smile. “Still want to beam back down?”

Glowering at her, DeSoto said, “You’re between me and my chair.”

“Mine ’umblest apologies, sir,” she said, stepping aside and indicating the

command chair with a flourish.

As he sat down, DeSoto said, “Manolet, can you get a life-sign reading from

where I was beamed out?”

Dayrit shook his head. “Not reading anything, sir. The forcefield’s down, by the

way—but there are no indications of life.” A pause. “We’re being hailed.”

DeSoto frowned. “By who?”

“It’s a ship in orbit of the third moon—they’re just coming into sensor range.”

“Sir,” Kojima said, “I’ve picked up the artifact—it’s now in orbit around the

planet’s third moon.”

Voyskunsky let out a breath. “Gee, I wonder who they could be.”

“Baifang, intercept course for that ship, half impulse,” DeSoto said in a tight

voice.

“Aye, sir.”

“Shields up, red alert, all hands to battle stations. Arm phasers and load

torpedo bays. Can you identify them, Manolet?”

As the bridge was plunged into red lights and the alert klaxon started to sound,

Dayrit said, “Configuration matches one of the ships that engaged Commander

Sisko and his forces at Bryma last year.”

DeSoto nodded. “Hudson. He was one of the Maquis I met down there, along with

another human—and Tuvok.” He sighed. “Put the Maquis on screen.”

To DeSoto’s complete lack of surprise, Tuvok’s face appeared on the viewer. He

appeared to be standing in a mess hall that looked fairly generic. No one else

was with him—a wise precaution, as it meant that no one aside from Hudson and

that other human could be identified. “My apologies for forcing your exit,

Captain, but I could not allow you to take me or my allies into custody.”

“‘Allies,’ huh?”

“I would have thought, Captain, that my theft of the Manhattan made my

intentions clear enough. Since it has not, let me officially tender my

resignation now. I am a member of the Maquis.”

“Good. That’s another charge I can add when I arrest you. We in range, Manolet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fire phasers on the Maquis ship.”

Two seconds passed, and no phasers fired. “Sir, I’ve lost weapons control. And

shields are going down!” Dayrit slammed his hand against the console. “Dammit!

I’ve been cut off.”

Hsu said, “I’ve lost helm control.”

“Internal and short-range sensors functioning,” Kojima said, “but long-range is

offline.”

“Again, my apologies, Captain,” Tuvok said. “It would have been wise to change

the Hood’ s prefix codes after my departure.”

DeSoto gritted his teeth. They hadn’t changed them because they hadn’t expected

Tuvok to use that knowledge against them, or give it to the Maquis.

“Something’s being transported into Cargo Bay 2,” Kojima said. “Sensors are

reading an explosive device!”

Dayrit tapped his combadge. “Security to Cargo Bay 2.”

“Is anybody in there?” Voyskunsky asked.

Kojima shook his head. “No, the bay’s empty.” Then an alarm sounded. “Explosion

in Cargo Bay 2! Hull has been breached; forcefields sealing it off. And sir—now

I’m picking up the Malkus Artifact in the cargo bay.”

“I attached a small explosive to the artifact, Captain,” Tuvok said. “I told you

that Starfleet was welcome to the Malkus Artifact. That was the truth. Tharia

ch’Ren did not speak for the Maquis. We have no interest in attacking civilian

targets such as the two planets in the Slaybis system—or Nramia, for that

matter. Nor do we have any interest in a weapon that would have such a

corrupting influence.”

“You expect us to just let you go?” DeSoto said.

“Yes, sir, I do. Going to warp with a hull breach would be ill advised.”

Hsu turned to look at DeSoto. “They’re moving out of orbit, preparing to go to

warp.”

“Czierniewski to bridge. I’m negating the override of the prefix codes.”

“They’re going to warp,” Hsu said.

Voyskunsky shook her head. “Too damn late.”

Tuvok said, “I suggest you examine the artifact, Captain. You may find it

educational. Tuvok out.”

The Vulcan’s face disappeared from the viewer, replaced by the Maquis ship,

which went into warp.

“Czierniewski to bridge. You should have full functions now.”

“Helm control active,” Hsu said.

Kojima added, “I’ve got long-range.”

Voyskunsky waked around to the ops console. “Can you pick the Maquis up?”

He shook his head. “They’re not on the same heading.”

DeSoto sighed. “They beat us.”

Bitterly, Dayrit said, “Tuvok beat us.”

Voyskunsky raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure he did. He went out of his way not

to do any permanent damage to us. He had access to our systems, so he knew Cargo

Bay 2 would be empty. He did enough damage to keep us from going to warp after

him, but that’s it. And he did all of it while consolidating his cover, because

I’m sure that right now his Maquis buddies think he’s the bee’s knees.”

Dayrit said, “Commander, they’d also think that if he really did join them.”

“There’s one way to find out,” DeSoto said, standing suddenly. “Tuvok

specifically told me to check out the artifact. Has your security team reported,

Manolet?”

Checking his status board, Dayrit said, “Yes, sir. The cargo bay’s secure—and

there’s a black box sitting on the deck near the hole in the wall.”

“Good. You have the bridge. C’mon, Dina,” DeSoto said, moving toward the

turbolift. “Let’s see if he really did leave us a message.”

Within minutes, they arrived in the cargo bay. DeSoto tried not to look at the

big hole in the hull that made it look like the bay was exposed to space. Right

now, a forcefield was all that kept that look from being the truth.

Two of Dayrit’s people, Weiss and Hayat, were also present, going over the room

with tricorders.

Weiss said, “It’s all secure, sir—but, uh, there’s something attached to the

artifact.”

“Looks like some kind of mini-transponder,” Hayat added.

“Is that what it is?” Weiss frowned. “I’m reading a solenoid transtator. Who the

hell still uses transtators?”

Voyskunsky’s wide smile split her face. “Maquis who have to scrounge for parts.”

She knelt down by the artifact and found a small, flat, circular object no more

than a centimeter in diameter. It came off the black box with no difficulty.

Hayat’s eyes widened. “I’m reading an ODN chip in there.”

“How much you want to bet that’s Tuvok’s message?” Voyskunsky said with her

trademark smile.

DeSoto returned the smile. “No bet.”

As they turned to leave, the artifact suddenly gave off a brief discharge of

green light. DeSoto had to blink spots out of his eyes. “Report,” he quickly

said.

Both Weiss and Hayat examined their tricorders. “No indication of anything

harmful, Captain,” Weiss said.

“But the artifact’s now reading inert,” Hayat added.

Voyskunsky indicated the artifact with an inclination of her head. “Look, it’s

not glowing anymore, either. Just a plain black box.” She scratched her chin.

“Come to think of it, I think the same thing happened to the other two after

they were separated from their users. But there wasn’t anything in the records

about ill effects suffered by the people involved with their mission.”

Blowing out a breath, DeSoto said, “Probably just some kind of shutdown

procedure.” To the security guards, he said, “Stow that thing somewhere safe.”

Then, to his first officer, he said, “C’mon, Dina, let’s see what Mr. Tuvok has

to say.”

Chapter Nine

CAL HUDSON FOUND CHAKOTAY SITTING in the mess hall of the Liberator. He was

nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold and staring at the bulkhead. Hudson was

standing halfway across the room from him, but he could smell the dirt and grime

on his clothing even from there.

“I’ve gotten a request from the crew, Chakotay,” Hudson said after a moment.

“They’ve asked me to drag you—kicking and screaming, if necessary—to the cargo

deck so you can get out a change of clothes.”

Chakotay shook his head, as if coming out of a daze, and looked over at Hudson.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes, Chakotay. You haven’t changed since we beamed up from Slaybis.

And, after the multiple weather offerings we got, the ones you’re wearing are

pretty ripe. People want to eat in here, but thanks to you, they walk right out

with a lost appetite.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, I’ll change, of course. It, ah—it hasn’t been at the top of my

list.”

Hudson smiled. “Wasn’t at the top of mine, either. But then, I was unconscious.

Last thing I remember was a piece of wall falling on my head—then I’m lying on

my bunk with a bandage on my head.” His hand involuntarily went up to the

electronic bandage that still sat over the wound the debris had made when the

lightning had shattered part of the building on Slaybis.

“That’s a better excuse than mine,” Chakotay said with a small smile.

“I’m not so sure about that. I assume you’re thinking about Tharia.”

Chakotay snorted. “Gee, how’d you guess?”

Deciding to brave the olfactory gauntlet, Hudson walked across the mess hall and

sat across from Chakotay. The smell was almost overpowering, and Hudson wondered

how Chakotay could stand it.

“I keep going over what happened in my head,” Chakotay said, “trying to figure

out some way I could’ve changed things. If I’d just stunned him as soon as we

walked in the door—”

“And if you’d missed?”

“Then I’d have fired again.” Chakotay went to take a sip of his tea, realized it

was cold, then put it back down. “We could’ve stopped him.”

“And when he woke up?”

“I don’t know, but he didn’t have to—” Chakotay cut himself off. “I’m sick of

death, Hudson. Every time I turn around, I see people dying—more to the point,

family dying. My family on Trebus, Tharia’s family on Beaulieu’s, hell, even

Tuvok’s family on Amniphon. And it’s only going to get worse.”

Hudson nodded. “I know. I lost my wife, Gretchen, not long ago—not to the

Cardassians,” he added quickly, “but—well, I wonder sometimes if I would’ve done

what I did if she were still alive.”

Chakotay stood up just as the door to the mess hall opened again. “We should’ve

been able to save him.”

“Perhaps,” said the new arrival: Tuvok. “But we were not. It is illogical to

dwell on that which we cannot change.”

“Maybe, Tuvok,” Chakotay said, “but it’s just as illogical to ignore the past

when you can learn from it.”

“True. However, my concern is not with the past, but with the future.”

Smiling, Hudson said, “You want to know if we’re going to let you join or shoot

you down where you stand?”

“I had assumed the second alternative to be somewhat less dramatic than you

describe, but you are essentially correct.”

Hudson had, in fact, been considering that very thing since he woke up. The

Liberator was currently on course to the Badlands in order to make sure that

they had truly shaken the Hood; then it would proceed to a Maquis safe house to

off-load Chakotay’s people. Torres had made noises about having to scrounge for

another ship, but her grumbling had been good-natured—she seemed to enjoy the

challenges of taking clapped-out old ships and making them work. Of course,

Mastroeni hadn’t stopped her attempts to recruit the half-Klingon woman, but

Torres was apparently having none of it.

That left the question of what to do with their apparent new recruit.

“We can’t deny,” Hudson said after a moment, “that you kept your word—and you

definitely fought for our side.”

“He and DeSoto were in the room alone together. That was a perfect opportunity

to turn both of us in, and he didn’t take it. Instead, he did everything he

could to make sure we got away from the Hood safely—and gave them that damned

artifact while he was at it.” Chakotay gave a lopsided smile. “It’s not like

Starfleet isn’t chomping at the bit to get both of us into a prison cell, after

all. They tend to get self-righteous about people who ‘betray the uniform.’”

“Betray, hell,” Hudson said, his expression sour. “I’ve done more to uphold what

Starfleet’s supposed to stand for since I joined the Maquis than I ever did as

one of their officers.”

“It is my hope,” Tuvok said in a quiet voice, “to do likewise.”

“I hope so, Mr. Tuvok, because unless Captain Chakotay here has an objection, I

think you’d be a welcome addition to the ranks.”

Chakotay shook his head. “No objections here. In fact, I’d like to offer you a

place with me. After all, I—” His voice caught. “I just lost a hand at

operations, and I think it’d be nice to have someone in that position who was

less—volatile than he was.” He turned to Hudson. “Unless you have any

objections?”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t really have an open slot here—in fact, I’m looking

forward to getting you people off here so we have some space again—and I don’t

think Darleen’s ready to serve with our Mr. Tuvok just yet.”

Tuvok nodded. “I would tend to agree. Therefore, Captain Chakotay, I accept your

offer.”

“Bridge to Hudson,” said Mastroeni’s voice over the intercom. “We’re entering

the Badlands. Still no sign of pursuit.”

“Good. I’ll be right up.” He turned to Chakotay. “Speaking of space—will you

please go change your clothes so people don’t have to stand three meters away

from you?”

Tuvok added with as much emphasis as he was ever likely to use, “A most apt

suggestion.”

Laughing, Chakotay said, “Fine, fine, I’m going.” He moved toward the door, then

stopped and turned around. “By the way, when we make it to the safe house, I

want to have a service for Tharia. I think it’s the least we can do. Will you

join us?”

“Of course,” Hudson said.

“Thank you.” With that, Chakotay left. Hudson’s nose was relieved.

He turned to the Vulcan. “You realize there’s no going back, Mr. Tuvok.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Hudson, I am fully cognizant of the consequences of what

I have done today. The only regret I have is that we were not able to save Mr.

ch’Ren. In retrospect, I should have realized that suicide was a danger. The

first person to find the artifact also took her own life when confronted with

the possibility of capture.”

“Even if you had anticipated it, I doubt we’d have been able to get the phaser

out of Tharia’s hands before he turned it on himself. Don’t tell me you’re

having the same doubts as Chakotay?”

Tuvok’s eyebrow raised. “Doubts? No. As I said, it was merely a regret. And, as

I told Captain Chakotay, dwelling on regrets is illogical. If you will excuse

me, Mr. Hudson.”

“Of course,” Hudson said.

That man’s going to make an interesting Maquis, Hudson thought.

 

Captain DeSoto had already watched Tuvok’s recording, so he instead watched

Kathryn Janeway’s reaction as she watched it.

They sat in the conference lounge on the Hood, the latter ship having returned

to Sector 001 after a quick and fruitless search for the Maquis ship. Voyager

had made it safely back to Utopia Planitia and was now undergoing repairs.

Janeway had taken a shuttle to rendezvous with the Hood at Earth, where

Voyskunsky, Dayrit, and a security detail had been tasked with delivering the

Malkus Artifact to the Rector Institute. In addition, Admiral Nechayev had sent

a sufficiently edited account of the mission to Gul Evek, thus keeping the

Federation’s side of the bargain that allowed the Hood access to the DMZ.

Tuvok’s message was being delivered in the corner of what appeared to be a cargo

bay. “While it is true that there would be short-term benefits in turning

Lieutenant Commanders Hudson and Chakotay over to Starfleet, it is my opinion

that more information on the Maquis can be gathered in a long-term infiltration

than any attempt at questioning the lieutenant commanders—who would not, I

believe, part with any useful intelligence. In addition, with the death of

Lieutenant Phifer, we have lost a long-term operative. I am the logical

replacement for him, especially given the level of trust that I believe I have

engendered with the Maquis. I will attempt to make regular communications to

Deep Space 9 to apprise Starfleet of my progress. Lieutenant Tuvok out.”

Janeway smiled and shook her head as Tuvok’s face faded from the screen.

“Typical.”

“What?” DeSoto asked.

“All of it. Everything Tuvok does is proper and logical—even by Vulcan

standards. Notice how he referred to Hudson and Chakotay by the rank they each

had when they quit Starfleet? Not to mention calling himself ‘Lieutenant Tuvok.’

That’s his way of reassuring us—or me, at least—that he hasn’t abandoned us.”

“Either that or he’s putting up a very good front.”

Shaking her head, Janeway said, “No chance of that, Captain.”

“Please,” DeSoto said, “it’s Bob. After over ten years in the center seat, I’ve

gotten sick of the word ‘captain.’”

“All right, Bob,” she said with a small smile. DeSoto noticed that the smile

didn’t change her face all that much—Janeway always seemed to be alert, her eyes

always probing. “And I’m Kathryn.”

“Not Kate?” he said with a smile.

The smile widened, and this time it did change her face to a mischieviously

vicious expression. “Not twice.”

“Kathryn it is.”

“In any case, Bob, I’ve known Tuvok for a long time—he wouldn’t betray the

uniform.”

DeSoto leaned back. “I hope you’re right. ’Cause I gotta tell you, he certainly

had me fooled.”

“Then he’s doing his job right,” Janeway said. “In any case, thank you for

showing me this. Once Voyager’ 'sback up and running, Tuvok should have gathered

enough intel to make the mission a success. Then we can start solving the Maquis

problem once and for all.”

Remembering the chaos on Slaybis IV, DeSoto said, “I hope so, Kathryn. I truly

hope so. This whole mess has gone on too long as it is.” He smiled. “When are

you due back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“In that case, can I interest you in a tour of the ship—maybe some coffee, a

meal, even a friendly game of Go?”

Janeway laughed. “Nice try, Bob, but I’m not about to get hustled by a champion

Go player. Besides, I haven’t played in years. And even at my best, I wouldn’t

stand a chance against you.”

Shrugging, DeSoto said, “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Besides,” Janeway said, standing up, “since I am back on Earth, there’s someone

I have to go see.”

DeSoto recognized the glint in Janeway’s eye. He saw it in the mirror every time

he was able to get back to the Rigel colonies where his wife lived. Also rising

from his chair, he offered his hand. “Well, have fun, Kathryn. Once my people

report back, we’re going to be heading off to Starbase 96 in order to take some

supplies to Brackin’s Planet. But I hope to get some progress reports from you

on how Mr. Tuvok’s doing.”

Accepting DeSoto’s handshake vigorously, Janeway said, “I’ll do my best. Oh, and

say hi to Commander Ju’les for me when you reach the starbase.”

“I will.”

With that, Janeway departed the lounge. DeSoto sighed. I was really hoping to

get her into a game of Go. Need to find someone besides Dina to go up against…

 

Dina Voyskunsky returned to her quarters after she and the security team had

beamed back up from Earth. The people at the Rector Institute had been thrilled

to see them—except, of course, for the wizened old Vulcan woman T’Ramir, who

simply nodded. She had apparently been studying the Zalkat Union all her life,

and had been trying (mostly in vain) to learn more about the Malkus Artifacts

since the first one was brought back to Earth by the Enterprise a century

earlier.

Voyskunsky had hoped to visit her aunt Irina in Estonia before they had to ship

out again, but she only had time to send a quick message. Dayrit had expressed a

similar regret regarding his sister in the Philippines.

As she entered, she asked the computer for any personal messages. She was off

duty, so any official communiqués could wait.

“You have two personal correspondences. One from Irina Voyskunsky and one from

Lieutenant Commander Aaron Cavit.”

She blinked. Then she smiled and sat down at her desk. “Put the message from

Commander Cavit on screen.”

“Dina, it’s Aaron.” The look on Cavit’s face was one Voyskunsky hadn’t seen in a

very long time: contrition. “Look, I’m sorry about how I behaved. I wasn’t

expecting to see you again, and I—” He hesitated. “You were right, it was my

fault. I’m the one who got cold feet on Pacifica. I guess I just wasn’t ready to

deal with what it might mean for both of us, for our careers, if we kept going

the way we were going and good God, listen to me, will you?” He suddenly burst

into a smile. “I’ve been in bad holonovels that weren’t this overdramatic. Let

me try that again.” He looked right at the viewer. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.

Forgive me.” The smile came back. “How’s that?”

“Better than whining,” Voyskunsky muttered with a smile.

“Unfortunately, I’m stuck at Utopia Planitia for at least a few more weeks, and

my sources tell me the Hood’ s off to Starbase 96. And once we’re done here,

we’ll be off to the Badlands to ferret out the Maquis. But once that’s done,

I’ve got some leave time coming. The way these things usually go, it probably

won’t be for another month or three, but maybe we can get together—on Pacifica

or somewhere else—and see if we can make up for lost time.” He grinned, a facial

expression she wouldn’t have credited him with being capable of based on his

last visit. “Or, failing that, at least catch up on the last twelve years. I

seem to recall your being an excellent dinner companion. What do you say? Let me

know. I’ll be on Mars for quite some time.”

The screen went blank.

Voyskunsky stared at it for several seconds.

Part of her was sorely tempted not to respond. Let him twist in the wind the way

I did on Pacifica. Three days I waited for him to show up…

Then she decided that she was too old for such pranks. Besides, much as she

hated to admit it, she missed Aaron Cavit, and wouldn’t mind finding out what

he’d been up to.

“Computer, reply to message from Lieutenant Commander Cavit. Simple text

message: It’s a date.”

 

Aidulac piloted the Sun through the Demilitarized Zone.

For the third time, she had failed. Again, Starfleet had managed to get there

before her. She had no idea how or why the Hood had been able to enter the DMZ

unmolested, but there it was.

At least her biggest fear—that the people who found the Instruments would use

them to re-create Malkus’s tyranny—were unfounded. Starfleet had, at least,

managed to confiscate the Instruments before the damage they did was too

extensive. Given the number of people Malkus killed during his reign, the paltry

few who died on Alpha Proxima II, Bajor’s moon, Nramia, and Slaybis IV were

minor.

Still, the most dangerous Instrument was still out there. Somewhere. And Aidulac

was quite sure that the last would prove to be by far the most dangerous.

Especially if her suspicions were true.

The one thing that was different this time was that the Instrument had been

moved from where it was found. She had never been able to examine the sites on

Proxima or the Bajoran moon.

But she was able to backtrack to where, precisely, the Maquis had found the

third Instrument—a moon surrounding a gas giant in the Grovran system.

The Sun pulled into orbit around the moon. Her scanners showed her a most

uninteresting world: rocks, vegetation, more rocks. A pang hit her as she

realized that it was much like the planetoid where she had lived before Malkus

took her away to have her supervise the creation of the Instruments. Like that

long-dead planetoid, this moon was of no interest or consequence to anyone. That

was why she had chosen the planetoid then, and also no doubt why the rebels

chose this moon as a place to dispose of the Instrument.

The only thing to mar the landscape was the wreckage of a shuttlecraft.

She landed the Sun near that wreckage. A fierce wind blew through Aidulac’s hair

as she stepped out, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she checked the scanner

she had built into her forearm, and found an area of ground that had a higher

heat index than it should.

Approaching it, she found that the area had been fired upon by some kind of

directed energy weapon. It was also the spot to which the trail of the

Instrument led.

Her scanner found something else, as well. It was buried beneath the rock, and

Aidulac needed to use her own weapon—a laser she had convinced a friend to give

her years ago—to cut through the rock to get to it.

The component was small—probably too small for most eyes to see—and green and it

glowed slightly. Aidulac recognized it as easily as she would have recognized a

piece of her own flesh.

A segment from the weather controller.

Even her own work was subject to the ravages of entropy, it seemed. The

component was a minor one, but it probably affected the Instruments’ability to

interconnect.

For the first time in ninety thousand years, Aidulac smiled.

She placed the component in a pocket of her jumpsuit and walked back to the Sun.

For the first time, she retrieved a part of her legacy. Now it was just a matter

of waiting for the final act to start.

 

The third planet in the Narendra system had been part of the Zalkat Union once.

It was called Horbin then, and it had been used as parkland. Few visited the

world, and the parkland fell into disuse. It was an inconsequential part of the

Union—which was why, when the rebels overthrew Malkus the Mighty, they chose

this as one of the places to hide one of the Instruments of his rule. After all,

why would anyone wish to come to this place?

After the fall of the Union, it lay unoccupied for many millennia. Until the

Klingons came and put a base there.

Decades passed. The planet that one government had made into an uninteresting

parkland had been transformed by another into a thriving colony. Dozens of

cities had been built, many thousands of Klingons lived long and fruitful lives

on the world, and it had become a prosperous part of the Klingon Empire.

Yet, in the ground beneath the smallest of Narendra III’s twelve continents, the

fourth and final Instrument of Malkus the Mighty’s rule lay undisturbed. The

only clue to its existence was a mild green glow and the endless yet silent

scream of the mind that occupied it.

Or, rather, one of the minds. The psionic impressions of seven others had been

made on the Instrument, simply waiting for the time when it was unearthed.

Then four more were added.

This surprised the screaming mind. He had not realized that the third Instrument

had been found. But apparently it had.

Still, if more minds had been imprinted, then whoever possessed the third

Instrument had failed just like the first two.

And so the screaming continued….

Third Interlude

“CAPTAIN ’S PERSONAL LOG , U.S.S. Voyager, Captain Kathryn Janeway, Stardate

48391.7.

“While our mission to capture Captain Chakotay’s Maquis cell and retrieve

Lieutenant Tuvok from his undercover operation has technically been a success,

everything else has gone to hell in a handbasket. Voyager is trapped in the

Delta Quadrant, Chakotay’s ship has been destroyed, and several of my crew were

killed when the Caretaker violently took us seventy thousand years across the

galaxy to the Ocampa homeworld. We have now begun our long journey home, with

members of Chakotay’s Maquis cell replacing the Voyager crew that was lost.

Chakotay will replace Aaron Cavit, who was killed, as my first officer and serve

as liaison between the Starfleet and Maquis crew members. I don’t know if

terrorists and officers will be able to work together, but I have to give it a

try if we’re to have any hope of getting home.

“The details of our enforced exile are in my official log, but I would like to

take this opportunity to note those under my command who lost their lives

needlessly. Cavit was due to be reunited with an old friend when this mission

was complete. My conn officer, Stadi, had family on Betazed. Chief Engineer

Honigsberg had been chomping at the bit for months to take Voyager out into

space. The entire medical staff…

“Computer, pause.

“Dammit.

“Computer, resume.

“I will get the rest of us home, one way or another.”

 

Part 4: The Final Artifact

2376

This portion of the story takes place two years prior to Star Trek: Nemesis; it

also takes place shortly after the Star Trek: Gateways book series, and a couple

of months after the Star Trek: The Next Generation novel Diplomatic

Implausibility .

Chapter Ten

J’LANG WISHED HE COULD REACH THROUGH the viewscreen and rip the Ferengi’s ears

off.

“The marble still hasn’t arrived, Quark. We’re breaking ground on the memorial

today, and I don’t have my marble. Why is that?”

“Captain Butterworth’s freighter left Deep Space 9 yesterday,” Quark said. “They

had a couple of delays—”

J’lang growled. “I’m a sculptor, not a navigator, but even I know that your

space station is not on a direct course from the Sol system to the Narendra

system.”

The Ferengi seemed unimpressed. “And if the freighter was only carrying your

marble, that would be an issue, but they also supply me with various other items

from Earth. There’s a good number of humans on this station, and I like to give

them a taste of home. That’s how I know Captain Butterworth in the first place,

and how I was able to get you your precious marble. In any case, he’ll be in

orbit of Narendra III first thing tomorrow morning, guaranteed.”

“Quark, throughout this business association, every time you have ended a

sentence with the word ‘guaranteed,’ it has been preceded by words describing

events that have never happened as you described.”

“Well, that won’t be the case this time,” Quark said primly.

J’lang scowled. “I was given this commission by Chancellor Martok himself,

Quark. Do you know what that means?” The Ferengi opened his mouth to reply, but

J’lang didn’t give him the chance. “It means that this could be the opportunity

of a lifetime. If the chancellor likes my war memorial, then it’s only a short

step to doing something for the Hall of Warriors! Artists kill for chances like

this,” he said, leaning forward, hoping that the Ferengi understood that he

spoke literally, “and I’m not going to let it be destroyed because a Ferengi

petaQ was too inefficient to get me my marble on time!”

Now, finally, Quark looked concerned. In fact, he seemed to be quivering. “Look,

I want this deal to go through as much as you—I just had a big land deal get

yanked out from under me and honestly, I could use the latinum. Trust me, you’ll

have your marble.”

“I’d better. Because do you know what will happen if I don’t?”

“I don’t get my commission,” Quark said matter-of-factly.

This time J’lang smiled. “Besides that. Are you familiar with Lieutenant Koth of

the Tcha’voth?”

“Sure.” The Tcha’voth was the Klingon Defense Force ship assigned to the Bajoran

sector. “He spends an hour a day in the holosuite killing things after he gets

off-shift, and then drinks two mugs of that chech’tluth stuff before heading

back to the ship.”

J’lang’s smile spread into a grin. That certainly sounded like Koth; you didn’t

need chronometers on ships he served on, you just had to follow his routine, and

you’d know what the time of day was. “He’s also my cousin—a member of my House,

and quite happy to rip off your head and spit down your neck if I ask him to do

so. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Quark?”

“Oh, quite clear, yes,” Quark said, nodding quickly and swallowing nervously.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me…” The Ferengi cut off the connection.

Of course, the truth was that J’lang and Koth hadn’t spoken in years. They were

only distant cousins, and the sculptor seriously doubted that he could prevail

upon the lieutenant to kill a Ferengi on his behalf. But, he thought happily,

Quark doesn’t need to know that.

J’lang turned off his screen and turned to look outside the window of the small,

cluttered office. It was part of a prefabricated structure built on this, the

smallest continent on Narendra III, meant to be here only as long as it took

J’lang’s apprentices to construct the Dominion War Memorial and the workers to

put together the other buildings that would accompany it—a restaurant, a museum,

and some other things that were of no concern to J’lang.

The idea had been to honor those who died in battle defending the empire. But

what Chancellor Martok had specifically requested was that it honor not just the

Klingon dead, but all those who died in service of the fight against the

oppressors from the Gamma Quadrant. So J’lang was instructed to build something

that would honor not only the Klingon Defense Force, but Starfleet and even the

Romulan military.

J’lang had taken the idea one step further. The memorial would consist of

representations of ship captains from each of the three forces—but each would be

constructed in a stone from the capital planet of each government.

The human element was proving to be most problematic. He still hadn’t figured

out what pose to put the Starfleet captain in. For the Klingon, he’d chosen a

classic pose of standing upright and hoisting a bat’leth over his head. The

Romulan would stand in a slight crouch and aim her disruptor forward (and if

that made the Romulan stand a bit shorter than the Klingon or the human, J’lang

had no real problem with that, and he doubted the chancellor would either). But

what to do with the human? Perhaps just standing there with his arms on his

hips. Standing around looking foolish is what humans do best, after all….

Out the window, J’lang could see several Klingons—some civilians, some

volunteers from the Defense Force who wanted to aid in the construction of this

dedication to their fallen comrades—laying the triceron explosives that would be

used to carve out the space for the statues. J’lang had chosen the top of the

largest hill on the continent for the memorial’s site. Since the statues would

be west-facing, the sun would rise every morning behind the statues,

illuminating the figures majestically from behind.

J’lang smiled. It will be glorious. After this, they’ll be begging me to work on

the next statue for the Hall of Warriors. The inductions into the Order of the

Bat’leth are soon, and I know they haven’t chosen the sculptor for that yet. If

I can pull this off…

The visions of artistic glory that danced in J’lang’s head were suppressed by

the site of the various Klingons moving away from the blast site. Just as they

did, his intercom beeped.

“J’lang,” said the voice of his assistant, Perrih, “we’re about to start the

blasting. Do you want to come down to the observation room?”

“I can see it fine from here, Perrih. Tell Dargh he can blow up the hill

whenever he wants.” Dargh was the engineer the local government on Narendra had

sent to oversee the mechanical aspects of the memorial. J’lang had found him to

be prickly and irritating, with beady little eyes that never looked at the same

thing for more than half a second. He seemed to have an endless supply of

questions about inconsequential minutae that were not J’lang’s concern as an

artist. So he left Perrih to deal with him. That was an assistant’s purpose,

after all.

The alternative was to deal with him directly, which would almost certainly lead

to J’lang having to kill Dargh, and the project was already behind schedule as

it was….

Within a few minutes, a most satisfying explosion erupted from the hill as the

triceron ripped through the dirt and grass and rock, pulverizing them to their

component atoms and spreading them to the wind.

J’lang had never cared much for explosions—they usually resulted in damaged

artwork—but he had to admit to admiring this one. And damn his beady little

eyes, but Dargh had done his job superlatively well. When the dust and smoke

cleared, J’lang saw a near-perfect L-shaped hole in the hill of just the right

size. Oh, the edges would need smoothing, and the surface needed to be flattened

and paved, but it was exactly what J’lang needed to start with.

The other thing he noticed as the smoke cleared was the small black box.

Then, suddenly, a sharp pain sliced through J’lang’s skull.

Once, when he was a boy, serving as one of many apprentices to the great

sculptor Dolmorr, J’lang had accidentally turned on a welder while it was facing

his arm. The white-hot agony that shot through his forearm and wrist was greater

than any pain J’lang had thought it was possible to feel. Decades later, he

still sometimes felt phantoms of that pain when he closed his eyes.

The agony he felt now was a thousand times worse than that.

I AM FREE! AT LAST, AFTER AN ETERNITY OF TORMENT, I AM FREE!

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It only increased the pain in

J’lang’s skull.

Suddenly, the pain vanished. And with it, most of his other senses. He could no

longer feel his body around him, no longer hear the hum of the generator that

kept power in the prefabricated structure, no longer smell the plate of racht

and bowl of grapok sauce that he’d abandoned an hour ago but never disposed of.

He could still see, however. And what he saw was the black box. He could not

control his movements, so he could not take his eyes off it.

Then, minutes later, he saw several Klingons moving as one—indeed, moving in

more perfect formation than any soldiers J’lang had ever seen—toward that black

box.

And all J’lang could think was that the project was about to fall considerably

further behind….

 

Patience. That had always been Malkus’s watchword. He knew that all he needed to

do was not rush anything, and it would come to him. Pressure brought sloppiness.

When rebels started agitating on Alphramick, he simply waited for them to make a

mistake. True, there was a cost in the lives of his soldiers, but they had

already pledged their lives to Malkus, and he could always get new ones. But, by

waiting, the rebels exposed themselves for the disorganized fools they were, and

Malkus was able to crush them far more spectacularly than he would have had he

rushed things.

When he had Aidulac supervise the creation of his Instruments, he did not give

her any kind of deadline. He knew that in order for her to truly accomplish what

he wanted, he needed to give her all the time and all the resources she needed.

He ruled the universe. He could afford to wait.

Aidulac had outperformed even Malkus’s expectations. Using his Instruments, and

her team’s other gift of immortality, he had ruled for many ages.

Until he was at last overthrown.

Even then, those who opposed him made one fatal mistake. They had been able to

destroy his body, true—though Aidulac had given him the means by which to stave

off entropy, he was by no means invulnerable—but first they placed his

consciousness within one of the Instruments.

They had thought this would be the worst kind of torture.

They were wrong.

Oh, it was torture, true. To live for so long as nothing but thought was a

hellish existence.

But it was still existence. And as long as Malkus lived in some form, he knew he

would eventually triumph.

He just needed to wait.

First, he needed someone to colonize the world, as these Klingons finally did.

Then they had to unearth the Instrument.

As soon as they did, Malkus was able to reach out to their minds, just as the

other shards of his consciousness had done with Tomasina Laubenthal, Orta, and

the third being who had been enslaved without Malkus realizing it. But where the

mental shadows of Malkus that inhabited the other Instruments were limited in

scope, Malkus was whole in this Instrument, and his powers were manifold.

Once he took command of all the minds currently inhabiting the world now called

Narendra III, Malkus went further. Eleven minds had been imprinted on Malkus

when the other three Instruments shut down. He now reached out to trace those

minds….

The first three were Guillermo Masada, Spock of Vulcan, and Leonard McCoy.

Masada’s mental trail ended shortly after being imprinted, which meant that he

had died in the interim. Malkus was disappointed, but such were the risks.

Spock’s seemed to end and then start again, which confused Malkus, but his

mental impression was still strong. McCoy’s was also thriving.

Next were Declan Keogh, Joseph Shabalala, Benjamin Sisko, and Kira Nerys.

Keogh’s and Shabalala’s trails also ended shortly after imprinting, and Malkus

found that Sisko’s trail led to a place he could not go. It was not death—but

Sisko’s mind was no longer within Malkus’s purview. However, Kira’s impression

was quite strong, and she was as easily enslaved as McCoy and Spock.

The final four were Robert DeSoto, Liliane Weiss, Ellen Hayat, and Dina

Voyskunsky—but of them, only DeSoto’s trail did not end. His mind, too, now

belonged to Malkus.

Four slaves where once there were eleven. Pity that mortals’lives are so brief.

But it did not matter. Soon, he would once again rule everything.

He gave instructions to his four new slaves….

*   *   *

The bar on Starbase 24 didn’t have any prune juice. It was the perfect ending to

what had been a most wretched day for Worf, son of Mogh, former Starfleet

lieutenant commander, and current Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.

He dolefully sipped the weak raktajino and looked over the screen of his padd,

but the words were starting to blur. He hadn’t slept in almost forty hours.

While Klingons did not share the human need for obscene amounts of sleep, he did

need to rest eventually. Sadly, he was unlikely to get much chance to do so

before the conference on Khitomer started.

In the months since the end of the Dominion War, the three major Alpha Quadrant

powers, the United Federation of Planets, the Romulan Star Empire, and the

Klingon Empire, had mostly settled down. A few crises had threatened to break

the fragile peace, but each had been solved without plunging the quadrant again

into war—or out-and-out destruction—and now the three powers felt the need to

sit down and determine just what the future of the quadrant would be. So

ambassadors from all three governments were going to assemble at Khitomer, a

Klingon planet near the borders of the other two powers, in order to try to

settle the inevitable differences that had come up: protectorate worlds, former

Cardassian planets that were now up for grabs, relief efforts throughout the

quadrant, exacting reparations from the Breen, and a great deal more.

Worf, as the ambassador to Qo’noS and a Klingon who had lived most of his life

within the Federation, had been one of many diplomats invited to attend, given

his unique perspective on both governments.

Before he left Qo’noS, though, several matters had demanded his immediate

attention. He had to sign off on the latest reports from Emperor Vall on taD,

look over the fifth draft of the resolution between the Klingon Empire and the

Tholian Assembly regarding the incident on Traelus II, approve half a dozen

visas, read over an application from a Bolian opera company to tour the Empire,

and several other niggling matters that had all started to blend in Worf’s head.

Then he was informed that the Defense Force vessel that was supposed to convey

him to the conference had been detained by an emergency. Worf’s aide, Giancarlo

Wu, had managed to get a Starfleet vessel to divert to the Klingon Homeworld. It

couldn’t go to Khitomer, but could at least drop him off at Starbase 24, which

was only a few hours away by shuttle. Given that it was the nearest Federation

base to Khitomer, Worf was sure he’d be able to get a ride from there.

Then another crisis reared its head, involving some Tellarites who had managed

to get themselves arrested on Mempa V. It was the sort of trivial stupidity that

Worf was usually happy to fob off on Wu, and indeed he did so this time as

well—but it meant that Wu would not be able to accompany him to Khitomer. Worf

had been ambassador for four months, and he was quite sure that he would have

committed several dozen homicides by now if it hadn’t been for Wu’s

organizational skills, cool head, and ability to deal with irritating minutiae.

So Wu went off to Mempa and Worf boarded the U.S.S. Musgrave, a Saber -class

ship that was rather small and had no guest quarters. For an eighteen-hour trip

that was going through the ship’s alpha and beta shifts, this probably didn’t

seem an issue to the Musgrave’ 'scaptain—a polite, if terse, human named Manolet

Dayrit—but Worf had been hoping to take advantage of the opportunity to catch up

on sleep. Instead, Captain Dayrit installed him in the conference lounge, and he

spent the time catching up on paperwork.

On arrival at Starbase 24, Dayrit informed him that a runabout, the St.

Lawrence, was already scheduled to take one ambassador to Khitomer, and they

could take Worf as well. He still had an hour, so he headed for the bar hoping

for a prune juice to settle him down.

Then again, his last trip to Khitomer had not gone as planned, either.

“Attention, Ambassador Worf. Please report to Landing Pad F. Ambassador Worf to

Landing Pad F, please.”

Finally, he thought. He drained the rest of his raktajino, placed the padd in

his jacket pocket, and strode out of the bar.

As he walked purposefully down the corridor toward the landing pad, a voice

sounded out from behind him. “My goodness, if it isn’t Mr. Woof!”

Worf felt a knot tie in his left stomach. Not her, he thought. Please let that

have been my imagination.

No such luck. Worf stopped walking and turned around to see Lwaxana Troi,

daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, Heir to the

Holy Rings of Betazed, and general bane of Worf’s existence. For a time, Worf

had pursued a relationship with Deanna Troi, one of his crewmates on the U.S.S.

Enterprise and Lwaxana’s daughter. That relationship had eventually ended, and

one of the many benefits to that was that there was no danger of this woman

becoming Worf’s mother-in-law.

As always, Lwaxana was overdressed. Worf wore a simple brown tunic, black pants

and boots, and a thick, ankle-length black leather coat decorated with both the

Klingon and Federation insignias, in which he hid several weapons. Lwaxana, on

the other hand, wore un elaborate fuchsia dress with numerous buttons and

fastenings that probably took her hours to get into. The dress was decorated

with a blue flower pattern—it gave Worf a headache just to look at it. Her hair

was equally elaborate, held in an unnatural pattern with a variety of pins. The

grooming rituals of most Federation races had always been incomprehensible to

Worf, but he found ones involving hair to be especially ludicrous. Tying his own

hair into a ponytail was as far as he was willing to go to accede to that

custom. Lwaxana, of course, as with everything else, took it to an absurd

extreme.

Bowing to the inevitable, Worf allowed Lwaxana to catch up. I might as well get

this over with, he thought glumly. Like most Betazoids, Lwaxana was a telepath,

so she probably picked up that thought, but Worf found himself unable to be too

concerned with that. His negative thoughts had never even slowed her down in the

past.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” Lwaxana hooked her arm into Worf’s

and led him onward down the corridor.

“Thank you,” Worf said, not meaning it, and looking at the arm as if it were a

poisonous snake.

“So, Woof, you’re an ambassador now. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each

other at diplomatic functions like this conference on Khitomer.”

“It would appear so,” Worf said neutrally, long since having given up correcting

Lwaxana’s perpetual mispronunciation of his name. For lack of anything better to

say, he asked, “How is your son?”

“Doing as well as possible, under the circumstances,” Lwaxana said, with a

notable dimming of enthusiasm. Betazed had been conquered by the Dominion during

the war. In fact, both Lwaxana and Worf had both been involved in the planet’s

liberation a little over a year ago—Worf had commanded the U.S.S. Defiant, one

of the Starfleet ships involved in the mission, and Lwaxana had led the Betazoid

resistance movement—though they did not encounter each other then.

“How is the rebuilding progressing?” he asked.

“Slowly. I just came from Earth, actually, and had a talk with the Federation

Council about it. I spent two days wrangling with Minister al-Rashan and a

tiresome little Cardassian who’s trying to get the Federation to commit more

resources to Cardassia than to Betazed! Can you believe it?”

“No,” Worf said truthfully. Cardassia was the enemy. Betazed was part of the

Federation, and deserved consideration before a foe.

“Neither did I. But this Eli Gark person, or whatever his name is, he’s a sneaky

one,” Lwaxana said, not concealing her annoyance.

Worf started. “You mean Elim Garak?”

“Don’t tell me you know the little toad?”

Hiding a small smile, Worf said, “Oh yes.” And, he thought, if ever two people

deserved each other, it is Garak and Lwaxana.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr. Woof,” Lwaxana said testily.

Worf suppressed a growl.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they continued down the corridor. Worf was

not looking forward to the next few hours. He doubted he would be able to

contrive an excuse to use the St. Lawrence’ 'saft compartment to grab a quick

nap—not with Lwaxana accompanying him.

“Worf—” Lwaxana started.

This got Worf’s attention, both because she pronounced his name properly and

because she was hesitant. He had known Lwaxana Troi for twelve years, and he

would never have used that word to describe her before.

Against his better judgment, Worf prompted, “Yes?”

“You saw Odo before he—before he went home?”

Suddenly, Worf understood. Odo was the security chief on Deep Space 9; both he

and Worf had ended their tenures serving there at the same time. For reasons

Worf could never comprehend, the changeling and Lwaxana had formed a close

friendship. In fact, they had even temporarily married—something involving the

custody of her then-unborn son.

“Yes,” Worf said simply.

“I know what happened. He wrote me a very nice letter before he left explaining

that he was returning to the Founders’ homeworld to be with his people. I know

that that’s what he always wanted, but I need to know from someone who saw him.

Was he—was he happy?”

Worf would no sooner have used happy to describe Odo than he would have used

hesitant to describe Lwaxana. But Worf had come to respect Odo during their time

serving together, and while they were hardly friends, Worf felt he knew the

changeling fairly well.

Choosing his words carefully, Worf said, “He was—content. He had found a

mission, a—purpose. It gave him strength.”

They arrived at the landing pad. Lwaxana smiled and patted Worf on the biceps.

“Thank you, Worf. I needed to hear that.” She extricated her arm. “I need to get

back to my room and meditate before my ship leaves tonight.”

“Tonight?” Worf’s heart almost sang. She’s not coming with me?

“No, I’m not coming with you. I’m just waiting for these idiot engineers to

finish repairing the matter interflux broomihator or some other such thing on my

personal transport. Then I can go on to Khitomer. I’d offer you a ride, but I

suspect you’ll find your companion on the St. Lawrence more—entertaining.” She

smiled enigmatically. “I look forward to seeing you at the reception,

Ambassador. And good luck to you. I’m sure you’ll continue to serve the

Federation with honor.”

Worf blinked. It was the nicest thing Lwaxana had ever said to him. In fact, it

might have been the nicest thing Lwaxana had ever said in his hearing. “To you

as well, Ambassador Troi. Betazed could have no better advocate.”

Lwaxana’s smile widened. “See, Woof, you just proved my point. You lie like a

diplomat. You’ll do quite well.”

And with that, she turned and continued down the corridor, laughing.

Which raised the question of who it was that Worf was sharing the runabout with.

The landing-pad door slid open to reveal the inside of a standard Starfleet

runabout. Two humans in Starfleet uniforms sat at the fore of the vessel, going

through the preflight checklist. One turned around and said, “Ah, Ambassador

Worf, good to have you aboard. I’m Lieutenant Matthew Falce, and this,” he

indicated the person to his right, “is Ensign Hilary McKenna.” He indicated one

of the side chairs. “Have a seat—we’ll be taking off within five minutes or so.”

Worf was about to ask if the other ambassador had reported or not when a

surprisingly familiar voice came from the entryway to the aft compartment.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Ambassador.”

The last time Worf had heard that voice, it was in a corridor on Deep Space

Station K-7 a hundred years ago. The Defiant had gone after an elderly Klingon

spy who had traveled back in time to assassinate CaptainJames T. Kirk and

restore his own lost honor. They had succeeded in stopping the spy without

altering the time lines—which meant, among other things, that the person in the

St. Lawrence had not known of Worf’s clandestine trip to the past.

They had encountered each other on several occasions besides that, of course,

but this was their first meeting as colleagues.

Inclining his head respectfully, Worf said, “Ambassador Spock. It is an honor,

sir.”

And he meant it. Like Worf, Spock had become an ambassador after serving in

Starfleet, but both his military and diplomatic service were the stuff of

legends—admittedly, as much due to the sheer volume of them by comparison to

Worf’s own much shorter career in both fields.

Indeed, the man standing before him seemed to carry the weight of his years. He

was dressed in an austere black robe that covered him from neck to foot; his

face—the features of which displayed only his Vulcan heritage—was heavily lined,

his black hair thinner than Worf remembered it being in the long-ago corridors

of K-7.

Then he spoke, and his lips rose in the tiniest of smiles—the first betrayal of

the human half of his lineage. “The honor is mine, Ambassador Worf. Your

accomplishments have been quite noteworthy.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not at all. You have had perhaps more impact on Klingon politics over the past

decade than any other individual. And I speak as one who has some passing

familiarity with the vicissitudes of Klingon politics.”

Worf took a seat on one of the rear chairs of the runabout. “That is something

of an overstatement of my accomplishments, Mr. Ambassador.”

One of Spock’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he took the seat opposite

Worf. “Indeed? Given that your actions were directly responsible for the ascents

of the last two chancellors, not to mention the installation of Emperor Kahless

and the fall of the House of Duras, it is, if anything, an understatement.”

“I simply have done my duty.”

“As have I.”

Falce and McKenna communicated with Starbase Operations to receive clearance to

disembark. As they did so, Worf said, “An intereresting statement, Mr.

Ambassador, given that you have spent the last several years attempting to

reunify Romulus and Vulcan. Some might argue that such an act was contrary to

your duty as a Federation ambassador.”

“And would you be among those?”

“My—experience tells me that any attempt to deal with the Romulans is one

fraught with peril. I have witnessed Romulan treachery firsthand on far too many

occasions—starting on the very planet we are heading toward.”

Spock nodded. “Ah, yes, the so-called Khitomer massacre.”

Worf tensed. “‘So-called’?”

“My apologies—I did not mean to belittle your tragedy, Ambassador.”

The words were a poor attempt at soothing Worf, and he was having none of it.

When he was six, he had accompanied his mother, father, and nurse to Khitomer

for an extended stay. That stay had been cut short by a cowardly Romulan attack

on the planet, one that wiped out thousands of Klingon lives. Worf and his nurse

were the only ones who were not killed or taken prisoner. While his nurse

returned to Qo’noS, Worf was raised by a Starfleet chief petty officer and his

wife on Gault and Earth.

“Still,” Spock continued, “the symbolism of this particular planet is potent,

wouldn’t you agree? The site of the first significant peace talks between the

Federation and the Klingon Empire took place at Khitomer after Praxis’s

destruct—”

“I’m aware of the planet’s history, Ambassador,” Worf said testily, “as well as

your own role in the Khitomer Accords. What I have to wonder is if you truly

intend to represent the Federation at this conference—or the Romulans.”

The runabout cleared the station and went into warp. As it did so, Spock’s head

tilted. “An odd accusation, given that my presence at the conference is over the

objections of the Romulan senate. They still view me as a criminal. In any

event, the Romulans did ally with the Federation and the Klingon Empire during

the war.”

“Eventually, and only when confronted with evidence of the Dominion’s

treachery—treachery that we had to bring to their attention.” Worf leaned

forward, aware that his voice was rising, but too tired to really care at this

point. “And even so, they are demanding equal reparations from the Breen even

though their losses were a fraction of those suffered by the Empire or the

Federation.”

His calm in direct contrast to Worf’s rising anger—which served only to make it

rise further—Spock said, “The Empire’s losses were as much due to the

irresponsible troop allocations of Chancellor Gowron as anything. Given that you

challenged him on that very basis, I should think you’d be aware of it. The

Romulans should not be penalized for that.” Before Worf could respond to that,

Spock held up a hand. “I do not dispute your points, Mr. Ambassador. May I

humbly suggest that we table our debate until we reach the proper forum for it?”

Worf bit back an instinctive reply. Why am I having this argument? he asked

himself. He had had no intention of engaging Spock this way—indeed, he had

nothing but respect for the man, even if he personally found his mission of

reuniting Romulus and Vulcan to be a useless cause that would probably do more

harm to Vulcan than good.

Instead, he leaned back, again inclined his head, and said, “Agreed.”

“Good. I—” The ambassador cut himself off and put his hand to his forehead,

closing his eyes.

Worf frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Just an odd—” Again, he cut himself off, this time opening his eyes and letting

his arms drop to his sides.

Almost robotically, Spock rose from his chair, turned, and walked toward the aft

compartment.

“Ambassador?” Worf got up and went after him. Spock had a reputation for many

things, but wandering off in the middle of a conversation—the middle of a

sentence —was not one of them. And Worf had spent far too much time serving in

Starfleet to be anything but completely on his guard when witnessing such

behavior.

Worf followed Spock aft to find him opening the runabout’s weapons locker.

Taking a tiny palm-sized phaser out of a small pocket inside his jacket, Worf

said, “Move away from there, now.”

Moving with surprising speed for someone of his age and encumbered by so large a

cloak, Spock whirled and fired a hand phaser at Worf, who ducked out of the way

and fired his own phaser. It glanced off the ambassador’s shoulder, but he

barely seemed to notice. The hit should have stunned him—or at least slowed him

down.

It did neither. Spock dove for Worf, his free hand reaching for Worf’s shoulder.

The Klingon tried to twist out of the way, knowing full well what Spock

intended, but the crowded confines of the runabout gave him little room to

maneuver, and Spock was able to grasp at the nerve cluster in Worf’s shoulder

even through the thick leather of his jacket.

Worf’s thumb spasmed on his phaser as he passed out.

 

“You call this a bed?”

Dr. B’Oraq smiled at the wizened old human who stared incredulously at the metal

slab in the rear compartment of the shuttlecraft.

“Actually,” she said, “I call it a QongDaq, and it’s good for your back.”

“Good for your back, maybe. Me, I’ll take a feather bed any day of the week and

twice on Sunday.”

“Most humans with spinal difficulties have them because they sleep on surfaces

that are too conforming. It encourages misalignment of the vertebrae.”

“Look, little lady, you rationalize your Klingon excuses for hurting yourselves

in the name of honor all you want, but what it comes down to is you folks just

like pain too damn much. When you get to be my age, you start to appreciate

comfort.”

“Most Klingons don’t get to be your age.” B’Oraq tugged on the braid that

extended down past her right shoulder. The hairs in that braid, which was

secured at the end with a pin in the shape of her House’s emblem, were the only

ones of that length. The rest of her auburn tresses were kept at neck level.

“Good point.” The human actually let out a smile at that one, which B’Oraq took

as an encouraging sign. “Still, that’d go a long way toward explainin’ why the

state of your medicine’s still so blasted appalling.”

Smiling, B’Oraq said, “That’s what I’m hoping to change, Admiral.”

Leonard H. McCoy let out a noise that sounded like a bursting pipe. “Don’t you

start with that ‘admiral’ nonsense. I’m just an old country doctor tryin’ to

find reasons to keep on goin’. The name’s Leonard.”

Again tugging on her braid, B’Oraq said, “I could not be so—so familiar, sir.”

“Poppycock. We’re colleagues.”

B’Oraq’s eyes widened. “Hardly. You are—the same as a Dahar master, only in

medicine. I am just a humble physician attempting to live up to your ideals. To

call us colleagues would be like saying a third son of a lowlevel House is the

same as a member of the High Council.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, B’Oraq,” McCoy said, taking a seat in a metal chair

next to the bunk. “You’re doing some damn fine work.”

The shuttle was the captain’s personal transport from the I.K.S. Gorkon,

B’Oraq’s posting. Captain Klag had generously allowed his ship’s physician to

make use of it to escort McCoy to his speaking engagement on Qo’noS. The

shuttle’s aft compartment would normally serve as the captain’s cabin, with the

pilot, copilot, and up to four passengers using bunks lining the walls of the

hallway between the cockpit and the rear.

Sitting on the edge of the QongDaq, B’Oraq said, “Perhaps. And perhaps one day,

I will be able to call myself a ‘colleague’of Leonard McCoy.” She smiled. “After

all, even the third son of a low-level House may get a seat on the Council—one

day. But that day is not today.”

He chuckled, a papery sound. B’Oraq was glad the elderly human was able to

travel. He seemed fragile physically, even by the low standards of humans, but

his mental acuity hadn’t dimmed with age. When she had asked him to give a talk

on improving medical practices within the Empire to the High Council, he had

happily accepted.

“May I offer you a drink, Admiral?”

“If you’re gonna insist on titles, stick with ‘Doctor.’ Just ’cause Starfleet

promoted me out of lack of any better use to put me to doesn’t mean I have to

like it. As for a drink, no thanks. I don’t think these old bones could handle

your Klingon hooch—not to mention this old cardiovascular system.”

“Actually, I had something else in mind.” She turned to the replicator next to

the QongDaq and said, “Bourbon.”

McCoy’s eyes went quite wide at that. Smugly, B’Oraq handed one of the mugs that

materialized at her instruction to the human.

The old doctor took the mug and then gingerly sniffed its contents. He looked

quizzically at B’Oraq. “Sour mash?”

She nodded. “One of the benefits of studying medicine at your Starfleet Academy.

An old medical-school friend gave me the replicator pattern when I saw him

last.”

“Good ol’ Southern boy, huh?” McCoy asked with a grin.

“Actually, he’s a Trill, but he acquired a taste for the stuff during one of our

post-finals pub crawls third year.”

Another papery chuckle. “Yeah, I remember several pub crawls like that during my

med school days, back in the mists of prehistory.” He gave the mug a look, then

raised it toward B’Oraq. “Mud in your eye.”

B’Oraq watched as McCoy took a sip, rolled it around in his mouth, then

swallowed. He closed his eyes tightly, opened them, shook his head from side to

side twice, then let out a long breath. His voice cracking, he said, “Smooth.”

He coughed once. “Not bad, as replicated mash goes. Course, back in my day, we

made this stuff ourselves.”

“Unfortunately, the ingredients are hard to come by, and I didn’t have the time

to acquire them and brew them before you arrived, otherwise I would, of course,

have provided that.”

McCoy grinned. “Don’t worry about it, B’Oraq. This is as fine a gift as you can

give me. ’Sides, given what I’m about to face, I might be better off with a few

of these in me.”

“Don’t be so sure. I had expected more resistance from the High Council when I

first proposed this, but they were surprisingly receptive.” She tilted her head.

“Then again, Chancellor Martok spent many years stationed at Deep Space 9 with

access to Federation medicine. That may have colored his perceptions. Besides,

the Empire has become more receptive to advanced medical treatment over the past

few years, especially thanks to the war.”

“Really?” McCoy asked, then took another sip. B’Oraq noted that the second

swallow was less of a struggle than the first.

“It’s much easier to insist that you can survive with an injury and that having

it treated shows weakness when you are just fighting alongside other Klingons.

But when your Federation and Romulan allies are fully recovered from more

devastating injuries in less than a day, you start to learn the value of being

able to return whole warriors to the field of battle.”

McCoy held up his mug again. “I’ll drink to that.”

“After the talk, I will take you back to the Gorkon —you’ll be able to see in

person the new medical ward I designed. It’s not up to Starfleet standards, of

course, but we’re getting there.”

“That mean I’ll get to meet your patient?”

B’Oraq tugged on her braid. “I’m not sure who you mean.”

“Klag. I read up on that transplant procedure on your captain after you invited

me to hold this little kaffeeklatsch. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or

appalled.”

Chuckling, B’Oraq said, “Either will do. It took me a month to convince him to

even replace his arm at all. He’d lost it while winning a heroic battle at

Marcan V, and you know how my people love their heroic battles.” That elicited a

like chuckle from the human. She continued. “However, I did talk him into it—but

he absolutely refused a prosthesis.” In a passable impersonation of Klag’s deep

voice, B’Oraq said, “‘It must be the arm of a warrior or no arm at all!’” Back

in her own voice: “I thought I would go mad. Finding a donor that met both the

necessary biological qualifications and his parameters for what constituted ‘the

arm of a warrior’ was nigh impossible.”

“So what happened?”

“An odd bit of luck—if you can call it that. Klag’s father died. I was able to

have the body preserved in stasis until the Gorkon could return to Qo’noS. Then

I performed the procedure.”

McCoy shook his head. “A transplant. What’d you do, sew it on with needle and

thread?”

B’Oraq laughed. “The captain might’ve preferred that—without anesthetic, of

course. But no, the ancient nature of the procedure notwithstanding, it was done

with proper modern technique—and in the Gorkon’ 'sstate-of-the-art medical ward,

not some chamber of horrors on the Homeworld. I’m hoping that each new class of

ship that the Defense Force constructs will improve on my designs.”

Snorting, McCoy said, “So what the hell you need me for?”

“Because hope isn’t always enough. You are a revered figure in Federation

medicine.”

“Yeah, but my history with Klingon medicine isn’t exactly what you’d call

stellar. My most famous operation was when I failed to save the life of the

chancellor that your ship’s named after.”

B’Oraq sighed. “Perhaps, but that was hardly your fault, and I think people know

the true political motivations behind your subsequent imprisonment.”

“Don’t remind me,” McCoy said, taking another sip of his bourbon and not even

seeming to notice this time. “Took me months to stop shivering after they

rescued us from Rura Penthe.” The ice planet where the empire sent their worst

criminals had a deserved reputation as a hellhole. Worse, he and Captain James

Kirk had been sent to Rura Penthe not due to any crime they had committed, but

as part of an elaborate frameup designed to prevent a Klingon-Federation

alliance.

“Still,” B’Oraq said, “I’ve seen the footage of your attempts to revive

Chancellor Gorkon after he was shot. I can assure you that your efforts were

more successful than any contemporary Klingon doctor’s would have been. In fact,

your efforts then were probably more than most Empire physicians would have done

now, eighty years later.”

After draining his mug, McCoy said, “Maybe. In any case, B’Oraq, I hope you

succeed. And I’m—well, honored to be part of your efforts.”

“The honor is mine, Doctor.” She frowned. “Doctor?”

The human seemed to fall into a daze for a moment, then blinked twice. “Just

gettin’ old, B’Oraq. I think I’d better see just how good that QongDaq is on my

sacroiliac.”

Wincing at his pronunciation, B’Oraq said, “I think it would be best if you just

called it a bed, Doctor.”

“Put a feather mattress and some cushions on it, and I’ll call it a bed. Not

befo—”

He seemed to fall into a daze again.

“Doctor?” Now B’Oraq got up from the QongDaq and went over to McCoy. “Are you

all right?”

McCoy made a grunting noise, but said nothing. Then he got up, went over to his

luggage, and started going through it.

“Dr. McCoy, what is wrong? Can I help you with something?” He hadn’t mentioned

any specific illnesses or other difficulties that he might need aid for. Then

again, that didn’t preclude the possibility that he had them. Physicians, after

all, were notoriously awful patients, and he doubted that the elderly human

would trust a Klingon doctor—even B’Oraq—with any kind of detailed information

about any condition he might be suffering from.

Still, this sudden total silence from him as he rummaged through his bags was

bizarre—and out of character.

She walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Doctor, are you—”

Before she could complete the sentence, McCoy whirled around with a speed she

never would have expected from even a Klingon of his age, much less a human, and

injected her arm with a hypospray. “What are you—?”

The depressant took hold in her bloodstream almost instantly. She tried to

activate the communicator on her wrist, but her arms felt like dead weight. Her

vision clouded over, and she managed to somehow ask “Why?” before

unconsciousness overtook her.

Chapter Eleven

“SIR ,WE ARE RECEIVING A PRIORITY CALL from General Talak,” Lieutenant Toq said

from the operations console on the bridge of the I.K.S. Gorkon.

Finally, Captain Klag thought.

“He wishes the communication to be private,” Toq added.

Klag couldn’t imagine why that was necessary, but he was hardly about to

question a general. Not even this one. “I will take it in my office.”

Then he had to get up.

Not, on the face of it, a difficult chore, but one that had presented more of a

challenge these last few months.

It was a simple maneuver, one that Klag had performed without a conscious

thought for most of his life: brace himself on the arms of the chair with his

hands and push upward into a standing position. Then came Marcan V and the crash

of the I.K.S. Pagh that had severed his right arm at the shoulder. He’d spent

several months getting used to doing things with just the one arm—and eventually

coming to the conclusion that he was a lesser warrior with only one good limb.

Then M’Raq, Klag’s father, died.

It had taken him just a few weeks to adjust to having only one arm after Marcan

V, but it had been months since Dr. B’Oraq had grafted M’Raq’s right arm onto

Klag’s shoulder, and still he was not accustomed to the new limb. For one thing,

M’Raq was built differently from his son: shorter, squatter, and with a right

arm that was three centimeters shorter than Klag’s left.

So now getting up from a chair became a major production. His left elbow bent

more than his right elbow in order to brace himself. And no matter how many

times he got up, he always listed to the right when he rose upward. Of course,

he was conscious of this, tried to avoid it, failed, and listed even more to the

right when he did so.

All this was magnified tenfold when he was on the bridge. He was the commander

of a ship full of warriors. He had not had a say in his command crew when he was

given the Gorkon, and they left much to be desired—at first. But over the months

he had been their leader, they had turned into a crew that Klag would match

against any in the Defense Force.

They deserved better than a captain who got out of his chair like an old woman.

Sure enough, he pushed himself upward and listed to the right. He did not, at

least, stumble. Taking advantage of this, he quickened his gait toward the door

to his office, keeping most of his dignity intact.

I will conquer this, he thought with anger. He had considered simply remaining

standing when on the bridge, but that would be akin to admitting defeat. He had

not admitted defeat when facing a Jem’Hadar squadron without benefit of a right

arm on Marcan V; he was damned if he was going to do it now for so simple a

thing as getting up from his chair.

“Commander Tereth, you have the bridge,” he said.

The crew said nothing, of course. One of the bekk 'sat the sciences station to

Klag’s extreme left had snickered the first time he’d been on duty when Klag

rose from his chair. Klag had not seen the bekk since.

He had Tereth to thank for that.

There were many reasons the Gorkon crew had come together over the past few

months, but Klag gave Tereth most of the credit. With the welcome departure of

Drex—the son of Chancellor Martok, and who had inherited none of his father’s

honor—from the first officer’s post, and with his second officer, Toq, still too

new to the position to be considered for promotion, Command sent Tereth,

daughter of Rokis, to be his new second-in-command.

Klag entered his office and sat in the chair behind his desk—a much less onerous

task, since the ship’s artificial gravity was on his side and he could simply

fall into the seat without the use of his uncooperative limbs.

Putting it out of his mind, he activated the small viewscreen on his desk. The

face of General Talak appeared on it. Klag controlled his reaction. Talak was of

the House of K’Tal, the same House that produced Captain Kargan— may he suffer

in Gre’thor for all eternity, Klag thought—the captain’s hated former commanding

officer. The general had the same crest as Kargan, and the same perpetual scowl,

though not nearly so fat a face.

“Captain Klag. Your request to search for your private craft has been

granted—after a fashion.”

Klag frowned. That was unusually vague. “What do you mean?”

“The disappearance of your craft would normally not be worth taking you off your

current assignment, but it is part of a larger problem.”

“It is not the loss of my craft that concerns me, General, but the loss of my

chief physician, not to mention a Federation dignitary.” Klag did not mention

the fact that their current assignment was hardly a priority. Kinshayan pirates

had been raiding the border for centuries, and Defense Force ships had been

putting them down for just as long. It mattered little whether the Gorkon or

some other ship performed this duty.

“Ah yes,” Talak said with a snort, “your ‘surgeon.’The one who put that—that

thing on your right shoulder.”

Talak paused, perhaps hoping Klag would rise to the bait, but there was nothing

to be gained by antagonizing the general, and quite a bit to lose.

Realizing that his gambit was fruitless, Talak went on. “As I said, there is

more to this. For one, that Federation dignitary.”

Klag smiled. “I imagine Ambassador Worf has expressed his concerns with the

disappearance of a Starfleet admiral?” Klag would have expected no less from

Worf. The Gorkon had escorted the Federation ambassador to his first mission, on

the planet taD, and the ambassador had earned Klag’s respect during that

mission—a coin Klag did not part with easily.

To Klag’s surprise, Talak said, “No, he hasn’t—because he has disappeared as

well. He was on his way to that summit meeting on Khitomer along with Ambassador

Spock. Their runabout has also disappeared—at approximately the same time as

your shuttle, from what we can tell.”

Klag leaned back in his chair and rubbed his bearded chin with his left hand.

Spock was a legend, of course, for his pivotal roles in both the Organian Peace

Treaty and the Khitomer Accords, though the rumors about the Vulcan’s undercover

work on Romulus led Klag to think the old ambassador had lost his sanity.

“There is more,” Talak said. “A Bajoran colonel named Kira Nerys and a Starfleet

captain named Robert DeSoto have also disappeared—as have a trio of artifacts

from the human homeworld. These are powerful devices from the Zalkat Union—and

Ambassador Spock, Colonel Kira, Admiral McCoy, and Captain DeSoto all have had

interaction with these artifacts.”

Though he’d heard of the Zalkat Union, he knew nothing of the artifacts Talak

spoke of. “What are my orders?”

“It has been decided,” and Talak’s phrasing made it sound as if the decision was

made over the general’s head and against the general’s better judgment, which

pleased Klag no end, “to cooperate with the Federation on this matter. Therefore

you are to rendezvous with a Starfleet ship and begin an investigation. The High

Council will not lament the loss of a tedious lecture on pointless medical

procedures, but it says little for the Empire if we cannot guarantee the safety

of three dignitaries of an allied power within our borders. This entire business

has also thrown the Khitomer conference into disarray.”

“I’m surprised the Romulans haven’t insisted on sending a ship of their own.”

“The Romulans are just as happy to be rid of the Vulcan and your friend Worf,”

Talak snapped. “They have no interest in pursuing this.”

Klag thought it interesting that Talak referred to Worf—a member of the House of

Martok, after all—in such a way. Martok was a very popular chancellor. To go

against him at this stage was tantamount to suicide, and disparaging Worf

publicly was an invitation to incur the chancellor’s wrath.

“The coordinates of the rendezvous and all the details about these missing

artifacts are being transferred to you now. Command out.”

Talak’s face faded from the screen. Klag leaned forward and activated the

intercom. “Bridge.”

“Tereth.”

“Commander, we should be receiving information on our new assignment, as well as

coordinates for a rendezvous with Starfleet.”

“Coming in now, sir.” A pause. “We’re to meet with the Enterprise at Terra Galan

in three hours.”

Klag blinked. He had expected the rendezvous to be somewhere closer. Terra Galan

was a useless lump of rock, with no real significance beyond its proximity to

the Federation/Klingon border. Neither government had even bothered to claim it.

In any event, the Gorkon would barely make it at maximum warp. “Best speed to

Terra Galan, then, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Out.”

He closed the connection, then once again leaned back. The Enterprise, he

thought happily. It will be good to see Riker again. Over a decade earlier, Klag

had served with Riker on the Pagh, as second officer to the human’s first

officer as part of an exchange program. They had formed a bond during the

human’s brief tour, and Klag considered Riker a true comrade-in-arms. Perhaps at

last we will get to die together.

Klag read over the records that had been sent. The Malkus Artifacts were

impressive devices. They had been found within Federation and Bajoran borders,

as well as in the Demilitarized Zone between the Federation and Cardassia.

The assignment of the Enterprise made a certain amount of sense. They were still

the cream of Starfleet’s crop, and Riker’s previous post to the Enterprise was

under DeSoto on the Hood. Plus, of course, both ambassadors and Admiral McCoy

had served on previous ships called Enterprise.

Klag did not know DeSoto, but he had met Kira Nerys at her command on Deep Space

9—and both of them were heroes of the Dominion War. Klag particularly remembered

the Hood’ 'sheroic efforts at Chin’toka. Both of them had been alone when they

disappeared, the captain never returning to the Hood from a vacation on Earth,

the colonel never returning to her station from a meeting on Bajor.

And then there was B’Oraq, his revolutionary physician. The woman who had

convinced him to restore his two-limbed status, and also allowed him to try to

regain his father’s lost honor.

Klag, son of M’Raq, vowed that he would do whatever it took to find them.

 

When the Gorkon’ 'sbeams deposited him, Captain Klag, and Commander Tereth in

the transporter room of the U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701-E, it was only the

second time that Toq had ever set foot on a Starfleet vessel. And ironically,

the last one was also called Enterprise.

Toq was born on Carraya on a secret prison planet run by a Romulan and populated

by the survivors of the Khitomer massacre and assorted Romulan guards. The two

species managed to live in peace for two decades, some even having children—Toq

was one such. It was not until the arrival of Worf, son of Mogh—then a Starfleet

lieutenant—that Toq and the other children even knew what being a Klingon truly

meant.

The prison planet was, as far as Toq knew, still there. He, Worf, and the others

had sworn to keep Carraya’s secret, which Toq was happy to do. He was eager to

forget the place ever existed. He had been content on Carraya, but he had

thrived once he came to live in the Empire. The House of Lorgh had taken him

in—Lorgh himself had even made R’uustai with Toq, bonding the young man to the

House. With the onset of the Dominion War, Toq had joined the Defense Force, and

his position as a member of Lorgh’s House enabled him to study to be an officer.

He had risen quickly in a short time, culminating in becoming second officer on

the Gorkon after he slew Lieutenant Kegren when the latter’s incompetence

endangered the ship.

Until now, though, even with the war, he hadn’t set foot on a Federation

starship since that day Worf brought him on board the previous Enterprise.

That occasion had been Toq’s first encounter with humans, and he hadn’t been

impressed. Humans seemed—unfinished, somehow. As if the designers of their

bodies couldn’t be bothered to give them any actual distinguishing features.

Round tiny ears, smooth foreheads, uninteresting hair, skinny bodies—and they

all looked the same.

Now three of them sat around a table, and the only way Toq could tell them apart

was that one of them had no hair. That had to be the famed Jean-Luc Picard. The

other two were the captain’s old friend Riker and the android Data, but Toq

wasn’t sure which was which. Supposedly the android was the paler one, but they

were all so pale it was not really possible to distinguish.

Picard stood. “Captain Klag, it’s good to see you again—I’m sorry it isn’t under

more pleasant circumstances.”

“Such circumstances are difficult to come by, Captain,” Klag said.

Gravely, Picard said, “Indeed.” He indicated one of the other humans with his

hand. “Of course, you know Commander Riker, and this is my second officer,

Commander Data.”

Good, Toq thought with relief. Data is the one with the yellow collar.

“Commander Tereth, my first, and Lieutenant Toq, my second,” Klag said.

Picard nodded to Tereth. “Commander.” Then he turned to Toq. “It’s good to see

you again, Lieutenant. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Toq was surprised that Picard remembered him. It had been

many years, and Toq had been but a beardless youth then.

As everyone took their seats, Klag asked, “Is there any new information you

have?” Klag sat at the opposite end from Picard, with Tereth on his right and

Toq on his left. That put Klag in an equivalent position at the table to Picard,

which was only fitting.

The android replied. “Starfleet Command has conducted an investigation of both

the Rector Institute and the Hood shuttlecraft’s last known position. The

evidence points to Captain DeSoto being responsible for the removal of the

Malkus Artifacts from the institute.”

Tereth bared her teeth. “So the captain has gone rogue.”

“No,” Riker said with conviction. “Captain DeSoto’s one of the most stable

people I’ve ever known. He’d never do something like this willingly.”

“You served with DeSoto, didn’t you, Commander?” Tereth asked.

“Yes.”

“Over a decade and a half ago? And have you seen him since the war?”

“What’s your point, Commander?” Riker asked, folding his arms.

“My point,” Tereth said, leaning forward, “is that humans are particularly

susceptible to mental trauma following war. It is one of your species’

unfortunate weaknesses. It is quite possible that he went mad.”

Picard spoke before Riker could say anything. “The Dominion War was hardly the

captain’s first military engagement, Commander Tereth. And I don’t see what is

to be gained by assassinating the man’s character. We’re here to determine what

happened, not why.”

“I agree,” Klag said, which earned him a look from Tereth. Turning to her, Klag

continued: “Picard and Riker know DeSoto—I know them. Their word is enough for

me.”

Tereth smoldered, but said nothing.

A brief awkward silence was broken by the android. “There is a much more likely

scenario, which relates to the Malkus Artifacts themselves. There is a fourth

artifact still undiscovered: the one that can be used to control people’s minds.

The range of the device is unknown, but it is not beyond the realm of

possibility that exposure to the other artifacts made both Captain DeSoto and

Colonel Kira—not to mention Admiral McCoy and Ambassador Spock—susceptible to

it.”

Toq spoke up. “In the records Command forwarded to us, there was mention of a

Zalkatian archaeological dig begun a year ago on Beta Lankal. One of the records

there indicated that, when combined, the Malkus Artifacts become much more

powerful. If someone has uncovered the fourth artifact, they may be using these

thralls to bring them together.”

Data nodded. “That would fit the pattern, Lieutenant. May we see those records?”

Rather than answer, Toq turned to look at Klag—it was his decision, after all.

Klag nodded. “We will, of course, share all data.”

“Of course,” Picard said. “In addition to Starfleet Command’s scans on Earth and

near Starbase 24, we’re awaiting a call from Deep Space 9 regarding their

investigation into Colonel Kira’s disappearance. All that information will be

sent over as soon as this meeting is finished.”

“Sir, if I may,” Data said. “There was a discrepant sensor reading in the data

from Starfleet Command.”

Picard frowned. “Discrepant in what way?”

“I cannot say without further investigation.”

Tereth turned to Toq. “You shall also investigate this discrepancy, Lieutenant.”

Smiling, Klag said, “What is that human saying? ‘Two heads are superior to

one’?”

Riker returned the smile. “Something like that.” Then he grew more serious. “I

suggest we split up and do our own scans where the St. Lawrence and the shuttle

carrying Admiral McCoy were last seen.”

“We should also officially declare the four vessels missing,” Tereth said, “if

they haven’t been already. Even to civilian ships. Someone may come across

them.”

Klag said, “I will also alert all Defense Force ships to search for these Malkus

Artifacts. I understand they give off a particular emission?”

“Yes,” Data said. “Starfleet ships are under general orders to confiscate a

Malkus Artifact should they detect that emission.”

Riker rubbed his chin. “I think we might be better off making that a more active

scan. General Order 16 says that if anyone happens to find it, they should

confiscate it. Until we find out what happened yesterday, all Starfleet and