STAR TREK: TOS - Final Frontier Page 4

  “Think of it, George,” April murmured. “An impossible rescue. A way to turn a four-month journey into a three-week epic triumph in the name of life. Think of it.”

  Now George moved around to face him, and to force April to look at him. In the upper edge of the view screen, unnoticed, the spacedock moved closer.

  “Why all the cloak and dagger?” George pressed. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “Couldn’t take the chance, old boy.”

  “Why?”

  April stepped closer to the helm, placed his hands on the console, and looked out, upward, at the looming spacedock. He nodded out, up. “That’s why.”

  Soft lights from the spacedock played in his eyes.

  George stepped closer, leaned over the console, and looked out. The lights bathed his ruddy cheeks and drew him onward, into astonishment.

  “My God ...” he whispered. “What is that?”

  “That,” April breathed, “is a starship.”

  Chapter Three

  SPACE WAS BLACK. Innerspace every bit as black as the Outmarches or the Wide. Nothing would color it, ever.

  “This is Field-Primus Kilyle. The Swarm accepts patrol.”

  “Acknowledged. Regards of the Grand-Primus go with you. We wish you adventure.”

  Space hummed now. Through it soared a gigantic winged craft, painted black as the space around it, but glossy and decorated with metallic painted feathers. From one wing, one at a time, bunches of feathers began to detach, like shingles falling from a rooftop in strong wind. Each bunch of feathers, once free of the bunch layered above it, became a ship. Where only one side of feathers, one wing, had been showing as it rested layered under the ship on top of it, each vessel now showed itself to be a small version of the mothership.

  Like an organized molt, the Swarm of six patrol vessels detached from the mothership which had delivered it to its patrol space at hyperlight speed. Now, capable of only sublight propulsion, the six would be alone in this interior space. Not even interior—practically anterior. Such was the irony of the “regards of the Grand-Primus.”

  On the bridge of the Swarm’s flagship, a ship they called Raze—yet another irony—the commander stifled a sigh and ignored the irritated glances of the bridge crew. It was an effort for her to ignore them, but she was determined to do it without the slightest hint of [30] self-awareness. In fact, they weren’t glancing at her; they were glancing at each other. Their communication was subtle, but it carried enough resentment that she could nearly see their thoughts right through the backs of their bird-head helmets as they deliberately didn’t look at her.

  “Deploy patrol, Kai,” she said, while watching in the main viewer as the mothership was suddenly and unceremoniously sucked into hyperlight to deliver the other Swarms to their own patrol space. A sense of relief followed.

  From her own bridge, a familiar voice: “Deploying War Thorn. Acknowledge, War Thorn,” her subcommander said, picking at his instruments.

  “War Thorn accepts patrol,” the communications panel rasped. In the viewer, one patrol vessel broke away from the Swarm and veered off at half sublight. Soon it was gone.

  Subcommander Kai went on without a pause. “Deploying Raffish. Acknowledge, Raffish.”

  “Raffish accepts patrol.”

  And so on down the line of five cluster ships under command of Raze. Soar, Experience, and Future Fire soon followed, until Raze was alone, only her metallic feathers rupturing the smooth blackness of space.

  The commander got out of her seat with measured casualness, habitually favoring her left leg. “I’m going to report status to Primus Kilyle.”

  She almost made it to the corridor entrance before a voice from behind halted her.

  “Commander Idrys,” said a young officer who was standing against the bridge strut, making it obvious that he had nothing to do. His colorless hair and ears whose points were slightly turned forward had become symbols of annoyance for her. “My compliments to the Primus.”

  The commander paused only long enough to give him an unbending glare. “I’m sure the Primus will be thrilled to hear from you, Antecenturion.” And I’m sure he also craves eating roast butterflies with the Klingons.

  As she stepped toward the corridor, she involuntarily added a little more sway to her old limp than necessary, reminding him of her own long history of service to the Empire.

  The ship seemed very small today. She chose to walk through it as long as possible, avoiding the lifts. Climbing the access ladders made [31] her feel more potent and, she admitted, stalled her confrontation with Primus Kilyle, a man so intense that he burned her with his presence.

  The command corridor was heavily guarded by sentries, and she stalked past them without even seeing them. Only when she stopped at the Primus’ door did she acknowledge the. existence of the two stuffed uniforms standing like cast stone on either side of the entrance. For a moment she said nothing, but only looked at the calligraphied letters on the door: T’CAEL ZANIIDOR KILYLE, FIELD-PRIMUS.

  The letters looked foolish to her now, where for years they had not. They were being phased out, these announcements of who dwelled within. It was part of a growing paranoia on the part of the Senate, a symptom of the praetor’s own insecurities.

  “Advise the Field-Primus that I’m here,” she said directly, not looking at either of the subcenturions.

  One of the helmeted guards twisted a toggle on the door panel. “Field-Primus,” he said, “Commander Idrys wishes audience with you.”

  “Admit her.”

  The subcenturion immediately produced a permission chip from his belt pack and attached it to the cowl of Idrys’ uniform while the other guard tapped out the code that would open the door.

  Entering the Primus’ quarters was like entering another world. The air was moist here and very fresh, fed by the breath of hanging plants that crowded the ceiling. Unlike the austere military tone of the rest of the ship, this chamber was deep with color—plants by the dozens, exotic and shocking, so thick they seemed to be growing from the walls, ceiling, and deck. Mostly green, the foliage was complicated here and there with the bright yellows, purples, and blues of plants that fared less well in these atmospheric conditions, and some whose natural colors had nothing to do with greenness. Others had bizarre growths typical of alien environments visited by the Primus over the years. There were even a few that qualified as trees, with woody stems and drooping fronds.

  “Come in, Commander,” the Primus’ deceptively soft voice invited from somewhere among the vegetation.

  Idrys stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a mechanical breath. She moved carefully so as not to damage any of the plants, and took care to step widely around an intelligent-looking vine whose runners always seemed to be moving toward her. She stifled a cough [32] brought on by the humidity and mossy smell, and parted a veil of bright amber hanging blossoms. “Primus?”

  “To your right. Around the demontree.”

  Anything with a name like that got a wide berth. When she cleared it, Primus Kilyle stood in front of her, half smiling at her hesitation. “Welcome,” he said simply.

  Among the plants, he was a striking anomaly. His hair was raven black, without a trace of shine, his complexion darksome and disturbing. His eyes were large and extremely black and round, wreathed all around in shadows, and always seemed to be opened a little wider than was comfortable. They held a stubbornness, and certainly an intelligence of dangerous proportion. Over them, brows arched like sickles, in artistic contrast to the peaked ears, which were almost perfect by Rihannsu standards of beauty. Idrys knew the wedges of her own ears were too backturned to meet that standard, and at times regretted having won a rank higher than those who wore helmets. A vain regret, but one she always felt upon first glimpsing the Primus.

  Primus Kilyle seemed determined to draw attention to himself, even in private. He preferred wearing the old-style officer’s jacket, indigo blue and decorated only with a single river of go
ld fur up the right arm and hanging freely down the back, instead of the scarlet and black uniforms now favored by the Senate for military use. Though the padded shoulders and narrow waist of the jacket lent a wedged effect to his thread-thin frame, the glamour of his rank seemed to be lost on him. His old regalia was almost provincial now, as things turned more harsh in the Empire, including fashion, and only a simple silver rope around the high yellow collar marked him to other Rihannsu as Field-Primus of the Swarm.

  “I always expect to come in here and find you’ve been consumed by a gang of seedbearers,” she told him.

  He gave her his cryptic grin again and continued pruning a stubborn shrub. “I will have died content,” he said.

  “You will have died off duty,” she corrected. She stopped near a strange thin protrusion from one of the squatter plants, pointed at a grotesque black ball at the tip, and asked, “What’s this?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that’s its idea of a flower.”

  “I see.” She looked around at the other growths, which were more obviously flowers, a collection of beauty ranging from the exotic to the modest, and avoided making more useless chatter, no matter how [33] uncomfortable she felt. “Primus ... may I ask again that you come to the bridge when dispersing the Swarm.”

  “You may, of course. But am I needed to disperse the Swarm?”

  “The crew needs to see you there. For your own safety, sir. Your absence from the bridge gives leverage to the other commanders.”

  T’Cael stopped his trimming and slid his thigh up onto a big pot from which a tree was crowding the ceiling, and looked at her with particular trenchance. Idrys’ long toast-brown hair, pin-straight and heavily plaited to keep it from swinging, framed her face with very little style. Her cheekbones were hidden in fleshy bronze cheeks and a coloring closer to some Klingon races than to Rihannsu, a trait which he knew had made her climb to command all the more rigorous and all the more valuable. And during that rigorous climb she had learned a directness he deeply appreciated, no matter how risky it might be for her to speak candidly. He felt it coming. Old data.

  “You’re commander of the Raze,” he said. “She is the Swarm flagship. For the sake of your future, you might as well be seen dispersing the Swarm yourself.”

  Twisted between her own goals and guilts, Idrys nodded and murmured, “I thank you for your trust.”

  “Go on,” he invited.

  “Antecenturion Ry’iak will be coming to see you soon with the Supreme Praetor’s greeting,” she said. “He’s already spreading disaffection among the crew.”

  “This is dry duty, Idrys,” t’Cael pointed out. “Hinterspace.”

  “Dry duty, yes, but even hinterspace has pirates to defend against.”

  “We’re in far more danger from these plants than from pirates.”

  Idrys pressed her lips tight in frustration. “The other commanders of the Swarm will enjoy having the Praetor’s whip hand on board your flagship. You know the Senate won’t question the slightest excuse to remove you.”

  “Is this a warning?”

  Idrys realized she had been staring past him, afraid of those black eyes. Now she looked at him squarely. “Never. A hope that you will come to the bridge.”

  Slipping off the edge of the pot, t’Cael grasped a handful of vines and started examining them again. “Hold this, please,” he requested, handing her the end of one particularly swollen vine.

  Reluctantly, Idrys accepted the duty and grasped the end of the vine. It was stiff, but she felt a spongy interior—and some resistance [34] from the vine. It didn’t want her to be holding it. Trying not to be obvious, she backed away and avoided committing her whole palm to holding the vine. The Primus grasped the center of the vine and raised a blade that looked like a medical implement, selected a spot with great care, then swiftly sliced into the plant’s flesh and drew the blade all the way down to Idrys’ fingers. The plant started fighting.

  “Sir ...” Idrys began, having to hold on tighter than she wanted, to keep the vine from twisting out of her grip.

  “All things fight when they are cut,” t’Cael said, with a tone one uses to quiet a child. Was he soothing her or the plant?

  She determined not to let go, no matter what happened. Was this some strange little test? How long would she have to know him before she actually knew him?

  Some of the plant waste went on the floor, and some of it was stuffed into t’Cael’s pocket without a thought, suggesting the importance the regalia held for him. “Hold tight on to it.”

  Idrys tried to respond, but could manage only a nod through her suddenly morbid fascination with his mutilating of this plant. She watched unblinking as he dug his fingers into the seam he had cut and forced it to part. At first the plant resisted violation. Then, suddenly, the incision burst open. Idrys jumped slightly as a dozen long tiny vines exploded outward and filled the air in front of t’Cael, wet new leaves uncrinkling with what actually appeared to be joy.

  “Birth,” t’Cael murmured. With special familiarity he helped the little leaves unfold and escorted the supple new vines into shape.

  Idrys nose caught a blast of planty aroma from the baby vines. She grimaced and looked down at her hands. Her fingers were clenched around a long withered shell. The mother vine had shriveled.

  With a shiver, she dropped it.

  T’Cael was peering at her in a sidelong way. She couldn’t tell whether he approved or not.

  And he deliberately didn’t tell her.

  “I’m aware of the tensions you feel on the bridge,” he said, still combing his fingers through the vines. “I have guarded my words for a quarter generation.”

  “You may have to do more than that now. Especially in front of the Praetor’s eye.”

  “Ry’iak doesn’t frighten me.”

  “He should,” she said quickly. She had to say it quickly, before her tongue remembered she was talking to Primus Kilyle, hero of the [35] Wide War. “As senate proctor he holds great power, even with a rank of only antecenturion. He is a dagger over your head.”

  T’Cael allowed himself a rueful snicker and said, “In its way, even that is an honor to me.”

  “A dubious one. It says the Praetor is afraid of you.”

  “Ry’iak is too young to have gained his post by earning it. He is the Senate Proctor only because of some attachment to the right family, or as a payment for some favor he had little to do with. He hasn’t the experience to know what his power really is. I can turn that to my favor.”

  “Sir, the Senate will listen to him, especially if he knows how to lie artistically. The Supreme Praetor will welcome such lies.”

  “Even the Supreme Praetor’s power isn’t sufficient to remove me from a position I earned. I am Field-Primus, don’t forget, even if in this ignoble area of hindspace.”

  “Our area of patrol is your punishment, sir,” she reminded, though she knew he had never misinterpreted the meaning of an assignment so far inside Rihannsu territory, where absolutely nothing could possibly happen and absolutely no further honor could be earned. It was a punitive assignment for a man of t’Cael’s status, and utterly ruinous for those among his Swarm who had plans for their own advancement. Especially now.

  “Ry’iak is the Praetor’s eye. He is here,” Idrys went on slowly, “because his presence pressures you. Each time the crew sees him, they are reminded of your reputation as a dove among preybirds. They see their chances for advancement moving further away.”

  “And you’re here to tell me ...”

  “That a commander’s dishonor is his crew’s.”

  He plucked a predatory insect from his hand and crushed it. “Thank you.”

  With a sheepish grin, Idrys added, “It is my duty to say it.”

  “It is,” he agreed. Now he left the baby vines and moved to another plant, a thick thing with spiky arms and fat seed sacks. He began palpating the seed sacks and selectively began pruning them. “Don’t fear, Idrys. The Supreme Praetor doesn’t yet hav
e the power to remove me unless I dishonor myself. If I had refused backspace duty, then I would be a target. But I accepted it, and we’re here.”

  “It’s disgraceful duty to be shunted into such cushioned space,” she said, daring to repeat herself. “Word of Federation military buildup is giving the Supreme Praetor leverage to gain power. There are twenty [36] supervessels being built by the Federation, to be launched simultaneously as a statement of galactic might. Super battleships. The humans will instigate a war just as an excuse to take Rihannsu space under their control.”

  T’Cael tipped his head downward and scolded, “Idrys, you don’t really believe such things.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Exaggeration. I know something of the humans, don’t forget.”

  “You’re the closest thing to an expert that we have,” she acknowledged. “No one denies that. But there is a time for flexing muscles, after all. Even now, our ships are gathering in the Outmarches, probing the Neutral Zone for reasons to attack the Federation before they attack us. That’s why this hinterspace duty is so painful to us and dangerous to you, sir. The crews of our Swarm are hungry to be part of the vanguard. They’re looking for an excuse to mutiny without dishonoring themselves. They’ll find one just as our fleet will find an excuse to attack the Federation. There will be war.”

  As his hands fell away from the plant, t’Cael realized he had grown poor at hiding his feelings. There had been a time when no one could tell what he was thinking. Even his least radical ideas had earned him the Senate’s distrust since the Wide War. With a gesture of unshielded disgust, he put down the blade as though afraid to have a sharp instrument in his hand at this moment. Absently he dropped a palmful of loosened seed pods into his pocket.

  “Personal honor was once worth more than personal glory,” he said with great regret. “Loyalty was once a greater trait than acclaim in battle. I do not care for what I see happening around me. It makes me ashamed.”

  Idrys took a step closer to him through the cloying leaves of his personal jungle. “You need not be ashamed! The only cure is for you to cast your lot with the Praetor so we can leave this laughable patrol and participate in the glorious confrontation. Your praises could still be sung in the Praetor’s alcazar, Primus, and your deeds told with awe from here to ch’Havran!”