Star Trek: ALL - Seven Deadly Sins (7 page)

“Understood, Proconsul,” Nilona replied as he leaned over his console and set to work. The only indications of the
Kretoq
’s acceleration were the telltale movement of a status indicator Toqel noted on the helm console, followed by the image of asteroids passing the edges of the viewscreen as the ship pushed forward.

Stepping away from the tactical station, Rezek moved until he could lean close enough to Toqel to speak without being overheard by other bridge personnel. “Proconsul, that heading will take us to dangerous proximity to them.”

Toqel nodded. “Yes, it will. What better way to test the cloak than from point-blank range?” Her engineers had boasted that the cloaking field would be effective from as close as one ship length away from an enemy target. She intended to test that claim to the fullest extent possible.

“We should attack the Earther ship now,” said Mortagh, the Klingon officer manning the tactical console and the
Kretoq
’s designated liaison to those members of the original crew who had been retained in order to assist Toqel’s people with the transition to the vessel’s onboard
systems. “They do not suspect that we lie in wait, ready to slaughter them like the helpless prey that they are.”

Turning from the viewscreen, Toqel glared at the Klingon with undisguised contempt. “And what point would that serve? If I’d wanted to destroy them, I could have done that long before now.”

Mortagh sneered so that she could see his yellow, uneven teeth. “This childish game wastes a ship of the
Kretoq
’s stature. Do you know how many glorious victories this ship has achieved in battle? Of those, none were earned by sneaking around like cowards in the dark.”

“I’m not interested in glory,” Toqel countered, returning her attention to the screen. “I care only about defeating the enemies of the Empire.” Glancing at Mortagh one last time, she added,
“My
empire, not yours.”

Though still uncomfortable with the evolving situation, Rezek had returned to his station without further comment. Once more hovering over the tactical displays, he called out, “They are passing abreast of us, range three hundred
mat’drih.
” Nothing else was said for the few moments it took for the underside of the Starfleet ship to fill the viewscreen. It now was so close that Toqel could make out the seams in its hull and the markings of its registry number, NCC-1764, rendered in Federation Standard text.

“Proximity warning,” Nilona called over his shoulder, pointing to an alarm indicator mounted above the viewer. It had begun to flare fiery crimson an instant before a dull tone droned from the intercom system. The helm officer returned his attention to the task of guiding the ship through the asteroids, a task now compounded by the need to avoid a collision with the enemy vessel. “Our distance is less than five ship lengths,” he added, his tone laced with caution. “Any closer and we risk making contact with their deflector shields.”

Toqel nodded, feeling as though she could reach through the screen and brush the hull of the other ship with her fingers. “Maintain course and speed.” Glancing around the bridge, she saw the worry on the faces of her crew, and even clouding the stoic countenances of Mortagh and the other Klingons assigned to assist her people. This was probably as close as any of them had ever been to a Starfleet ship. On any other occasion, this would be an unparalleled opportunity to subject the vessel to intensive sensor scans and other means of gathering
data on its construction and capabilities. Despite her earlier chastising of Mortagh regarding the need for stealth, Toqel privately admitted a desire to unleash the
Kretoq
’s weapons. At this distance, the battle cruiser would still inflict massive damage even with the enemy vessel’s defensive shields activated.

No,
she reminded herself.
This is not the time.

Another moment passed, and then the ship moved beyond the screen’s frame, leaving nothing but a scattered collection of asteroids and open space.

“Hold position,” Toqel ordered. “Put it on-screen.” On the viewer, the Starfleet vessel now was moving away from the
Kretoq.
“Status?”

“They appear not to have detected us,” Rezek replied, sounding both relieved and impressed. “The cloak is functioning perfectly.”

Toqel smiled in approval. “Well, Rezek, as it seems we will survive the day, please pass along my compliments to Doctor Vaniri and his team.”

A collective murmur of satisfaction circled around the bridge, and Toqel did nothing to quell the newfound confidence. Even Mortagh and his fellow Klingons seemed duly awed by what they had just witnessed. Listening to the reactions taking place around her, Toqel sat in silence, content and yet disheartened to a small degree as she considered what had taken place here.

I am sorry, Sarith,
thinking as she did each day of her late daughter,
that we could not have accomplished this sooner.

“Maintain course until we’re out of the field,” she ordered, setting aside the sobering thoughts. “Then, set a course for Klingon space and engage at maximum warp.” Sensing a presence near her right side, she turned to see Mortagh standing there, and noted that the liaison maintained his dismissive attitude as he once more glared at her.

“An effective toy you have devised, Romulan,” he said, his arrogance and bluster firmly in place, the heel of his left hand resting atop the pommel of the dagger suspended from the belt at his waist. “And what will you do with it? Attack your enemies, or cower from them?”

Offering a wan smile before returning her attention to the viewer, Toqel replied, “Consider that knife with which you feel the need to assure yourself. In the hand of a savage, a blade can do little but kill, but when wielded by a gifted surgeon, it might save a life. As your knife is a tool,
so too is the cloaking field. It can save lives, or be used to take them. The difference, Klingon, is the intention behind its use.”

Mortagh loosed a snort of derision before turning and leaving her. Once more alone with her thoughts, she considered the report she soon would file with her superiors. The cloaking field was ready for a more stringent series of tests: trials in which the risks were far greater and accompanied by rewards of equal merit.

“Rezek,” she called over her shoulder, “prepare a secure communiqué to Romulus. I want to speak to Ditrius.” Her next actions would require soothing the troubled, feeble minds of the senators, and in her absence the vice proconsul would find himself burdened with that thankless duty. It was necessary, if she was to continue with her mission, and she could only hope that the headstrong officer was up to the task.

Yes, Toqel decided, the time for bolder, more decisive steps was fast approaching.

It was going to be one of those days, Admiral H. Franklin Solow decided as he peered through the expansive picture window of his office. The view of early morning sunlight illuminating the calm waters of San Francisco Bay was spectacular, even with the hint of dark gray beginning to discolor the horizon and promising rain in the hours to come. He already could feel the first dull pangs of a headache beginning to take root beneath his temples, radiating inward and settling in behind his eyeballs. Normally, it would take until late afternoon on a Wednesday—Thursday, if he was lucky—for Solow to begin feeling these initial assaults on his mind and his sense of well-being. When it started before lunch on a Monday morning?

I should’ve called in sick.

Forgoing his normal beverage of choice, black coffee, Solow instead had ordered a tall glass of chilled orange juice from the food slot in his well-appointed office. The juice had aided in swallowing a pair of analgesic tablets he had taken more from habit than with any real hope of alleviating his headache. Releasing a sigh that signaled his surrender to whatever personal discomforts chose to visit him on this day, Solow turned from the window and moved toward the high-backed chair situated behind his wide, polished oak desk. On the desk’s surface was a collection of reports, files, memoranda, and other administrative flotsam which was part and parcel of a Starfleet flag officer’s job.
Not for the first time, Solow wondered how quickly the Headquarters building would burn to the ground with the aid of the considerable amount of flammable materials housed just in his office.

And here I sit, with no marshmallows. Truly a tragedy if ever there was one.

Lowering himself into his chair with something less than ideal professional decorum, Solow eyed his assistant, Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Allen, who sat in the middle of three chairs positioned before his desk. The woman’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the bright red of her uniform dress, and, as he often did since the commander had begun working for him, Solow wondered if she might burst into flames when subjected to direct sunlight. “Okay,” he said, pausing to drink from his glass of juice. “Let’s have it.”

Allen, long ago having grown accustomed to the admiral’s relaxed demeanor when working in the confines of his private office, nodded as she held up the data slate that had been resting in her lap. “We’re still compiling the latest information and readying the newest set of reports for you, sir.”

“Anything new?”

“No, Admiral.” When the commander shook her head, the action was so animated that it caused the locks of her dark blond pageboy hairstyle to swing from left to right. Solow had commented on it early during their working relationship, fearing that Allen’s head might actually detach from her body and fly off to parts unknown. “Starfleet Intelligence is cross-referencing Captain Blair’s report against what we know of Klingon ship upgrades, but there’s been no chatter about anything like this. Whatever they’re up to, they’re keeping it very well hidden.”

Nothing bothered Solow more than a Klingon acting in anything other than the brusque, uncompromising manner that characterized their species. One of the benefits of attempting to understand a culture so predicated on a military mindset or warrior ethos was that—after a time—such an adversary became predictable, at least to some extent. The Klingons, when they remained brash and brutal, were consistent. It was when they chose subtlety or cunning over direct confrontation that they became enemies to be watched and feared.

This, Solow had realized upon first reading the report submitted by Captain Thomas Blair, commander of the
U.S.S. Defiant,
was looking to be one of those times.

“A cloaked Klingon vessel,” he said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. No matter how many times he had read Blair’s report during the past three weeks, the words simply did not sound correct or even believable to his ears. “And I thought I’d seen it all when it came to dealing with the Klingons.”

Now referring to whatever notes she carried on her data slate, Allen replied, “Comparative analysis of the
Defiant
’s sensor logs showed that the ionized plasma emissions they detected, while faint, were a definite match for the impulse engines of a Klingon D7 battle cruiser.” She looked up from her notes. “The Klingons aren’t in the habit of trading or selling military hardware, are they?”

Solow smiled, knowing the question was rhetorical, from her tone as much as the fact that Commander Allen was well-versed in the machinations of the Klingon military. Indeed, she was one of Starfleet Command’s foremost experts and advisers. Still, the notion was not without merit.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but if that was a Klingon ship playing games with the
Defiant,
then they had to get that cloaking technology from somewhere.” He let the sentence trail off, watching as Allen’s expression melted into a frown.

“The Romulans?” she asked. “Working with the Klingons?” She shook her head. “That’s going to keep me up nights.”

Offering a slight, humorless chuckle, Solow nodded. “It’s one possible explanation, but I’ll be damned if we’ve got the slightest hint of anything like that going on.” None of the reports he had been reading from Starfleet Intelligence had provided even the most inconsequential evidence to support the notion that the Klingons and the Romulans—or representatives who might or might not be operating with the authorization of their respective governments—had entered into some sort of alliance. While the very idea might be laughable to the casual observer, Solow knew that Starfleet Tactical had among its vast library of simulations and strategic planning more than one scenario featuring Federation starships pitted against combined fleets of Romulan and Klingon ships. So far as Solow was concerned, the results as provided by computers devoted to the execution of seemingly endless tactical war games were, to say the least, rather less than encouraging.

“For the Klingons to partner for any reason with the Romulans would suggest something’s upsetting someone somewhere,” Allen said, “perhaps for both sides. Are they that worried about us?”

Solow nodded. “Anything’s possible. After all, we’re not exactly overflowing with useful intelligence data so far as our friends across the Neutral Zone are concerned.”

Despite the period of isolation the Romulan Star Empire had imposed upon itself for decades following its defeat at the hands of Earth and its small band of allies, Starfleet Intelligence had made a handful of attempts to insert covert agents into the Romulan government and military. Most were never heard from again, and those who had survived detection had done so only by immersing themselves in Romulan society to the point of invisibility. Contact with such agents was sporadic at best, and with the care nearly every citizen of the Empire seemed to employ in order to safeguard information, reports offered by the operatives often were of little use.

“It certainly doesn’t make any sense on the face of it,” Allen said. “Romulan and Klingon cultures are so different, it’s hard to imagine them ever agreeing on anything, let alone getting along to the point of working together for some common goal.”

Leaning forward, Solow rested his arms on his desktop, reaching up to run the fingers of his left hand through his thinning, gray hair. “From what we know of how the Romulans go about things, they might be interested in seeking such an alliance, but only if they had something to gain, and felt they were in the superior negotiating position.” Assuming this theory of a partnership between the two enemy powers was correct, the natural question was what the Romulans felt the Klingons had to offer that justified handing over technology as advanced as a cloaking device. Solow wondered if seeking such a partnership, particularly with the Klingons, might create more problems than it solved.