Star Trek Terok Nor 01: Day of the Vipers Read online

  “Inspector?” said Pa’Dar.

  Without a transporter on board, they were going to have to do this the hard way. “Get a medkit ready!” Darrah didn’t bother to explain himself. He took a breath of damp air and dropped feetfirst from the open hatch, the tether singing out behind him.

  He struck the lake, and a heavy darkness enveloped him. The shock of the icy water threatened to press the air from his lungs, but he resisted, pushing hard back toward the surface and the halo of white light.

  Heavy wrappings of cloth swaddled the floating body, water soaking them, making it difficult to handle. Darrah spat out a mouthful of fluid and looped his tether over the drifting shape, pulling hard to bind them together. His hand found the control unit on the rescue vest and he slapped it hard. With a jerk, the duranium-carbide cable pulled taut and the two men were dragged out of the lake, reeled in to the waiting hatch.

  Pa’Dar was there, gray hands grabbing at Darrah’s shoulders, pulling him inside. In turn, Darrah held firmly on to his charge, dragging the waterlogged form onto the deck of the police flyer. “Medkit!” he shouted.

  He tore at the robes, yanking them back to get at the man inside the folds of the priest’s vestments. A face was revealed, heavy with scratches and contusions.

  “Osen!” Darrah grabbed the Bajoran’s head. “Can you hear me?”

  Pa’Dar handed him a stimulant hypospray, and Darrah shot the contents into cleric’s neck. Gar coughed hard and spat out a stream of blood-laced liquid.

  “Where’s Pasir?” Darrah shouted over the rumble of the wind through the open hatch. “Where’s the Cardassian?”

  Gar coughed again and shook his head. “Nuh.” He tried to speak. “Dead. Dead!” His eyes widened with shock as a flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the flyer and he saw Pa’Dar looming over him. “No! No! Get away!”

  “Osen!” Darrah grabbed him. “It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

  Gar pushed himself back to the bulkhead. “No,” he said weakly.

  Darrah turned to the Cardassian. “Any trace of other life signs?”

  Pa’Dar shook his head grimly. “Not at all. If Pasir was down there, then he perished.”

  Darrah sighed. “All right. Mark this location and then get us up above the storm. You can do that?”

  He got a nod in return. “Of course.”

  The Cardassian went to the front of the compartment, leaving the two Bajorans alone. Sealing the hatch, Darrah paused to snatch a tricorder from the medkit case and swept the sensor over his friend.

  Gar was breathing heavily. “Darrah…Darrah Mace.” His voice was thick with pain and effort, husky and rough. “It’s you.”

  “It’s me,” he replied. “No broken bones. No organ damage. I think. I’m not an expert with these things.”

  Gar pushed the tricorder away, leaning closer. “I’m fine. But…” He shot a terrified look at the Cardassian. “Don’t let him near me.”

  “He helped to rescue you, Gar.”

  “They tried to murder me!” spat the priest. “Pasir! He was insane! He said that it was an abomination…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The…alliance between Cardassia and Bajor. Between our two faiths. He swore that Oralius was not going to be polluted by corrupt Bajoran dogma.”

  “He was some sort of fundamentalist?”

  “He was a murderer! He pulled a weapon on me.” Gar’s hands reached out, and his fingers clutched at Darrah’s sleeve. “May the Prophets forgive me…There was a struggle and the flyer went down in the lake. I had to…I had to…”

  A chill washed through Darrah’s bones as he read the truth in the other man’s eyes. “You killed him.”

  “I had to!” husked the priest. “I had no choice!”

  “All right,” Darrah said, after a moment. “We’ll get you back to the hospital in Korto.”

  “No.” Gar’s grip tightened. “There are Cardassians in the city. I can’t be safe there! Kendra!” He straightened. “Please, Mace. Take me to the monastery at Kendra.”

  Darrah’s disquiet chilled him more than the lingering cold from the lake; in all the years they had known one another, he had never seen such an expression of naked terror on his friend’s face. “All right. When you’re healed, we’ll talk more about this. Until then, you mention nothing about what happened. Pasir died in the crash. That’s what we’ll say.”

  Gar seemed to shrink in on himself, his fingers moving up to probe at the flesh of his face. “Yes. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  Darrah stepped up to the control console. “Change of plan,” he told the Cardassian. “We’re going to Kendra.”

  “What am I doing here?” Jas Holza grumbled to himself under his breath as he filed into the Chamber of Ministers, the last man to enter from the atrium outside. The question had too many facets for his liking; it cut too deep, with neither the literal nor the figurative answers to give him any sort of peace. He sat in his assigned place, hollow inside. In the highly polished surface of the steel table before him, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He looked like his father; the sudden realization caught him off guard. Yes, in the warped mirror of the shiny surface, he saw the ghost of his parent in the haggard and beaten man that he was, aged before his time. With effort he pulled his eyes up to where the First Minister stood. Like many of the men in the room, Jas was slightly unkempt, having been called from his opulent temporary lodgings in Ashalla back to the chamber in the middle of the night. Only a few—Lale Usbor most obvious among them—looked as if the impromptu meeting was nothing but a minor inconvenience. Jas’s gaze fell on Kubus Oak; all that Jas and Korto had done for that man, and the minister for Qui’al had yet to even acknowledge his presence. Instead Kubus was in quiet conversation with one of his aides. The only man who did meet Jas’s gaze was Keeve Falor. The agitator was stern and quiet. He reminded Jas of a pit-fighter waiting for his next bout. And I? I wreath myself in pity, like an animal walking to the slaughterhouse.

  “Colleagues,” began Lale. “My apologies for recalling you at such short notice, but an issue of great import has been brought to my attention, and it must be addressed immediately.”

  General Coldri, who even on the best of days could only be described as a man of bleak and forbidding aspect, gave the officer at his side a curt nod. Coldri’s expression filled Jas with dread.

  “Major Jaro Essa,” said Lale. “Will you please repeat the information you presented to me before this assembly?”

  “Sir.” Jaro had a padd in his hand, but he didn’t refer to it. “Ministers. As of twenty-two–bells, Ashalla local time, the reprisal force under the command of Colonel Li Tarka was logged as overdue for their scheduled communications check-in. Their last known coordinates were close to Ajir, an uninhabited system in the Coreward Marches. Based on data supplied by the crew of a vessel in the employ of Minister Kubus, they were investigating a possible sighting of a Tzenkethi warship, with intent to censure and detain it in connection with the Cemba incident.”

  The chamber was silent now, every minister listening intently to Jaro’s flat, emotionless report—every one except Jas Holza, who studied Kubus Oak. Kubus doesn’t have any freighters within a hundred light-years of Ajir. Jas was sure of it; as part of his increasingly unfair association with the man, the minister was privy to some of the Kubus clan’s ship movements. I’m certain of it. But if that is so, then where did he get that data from?

  He thought about the scoutships from his own fleet, the Kylen and the Pajul; and Lonnic, dear Tomo, who had remained at his side even when other members of his staff had seen his self-destructive course and left the Korto administration. The tone of Jaro’s explanation caught up with him. What is he telling us?

  The major continued. “A short time ago, the detection stations on Andros picked up this signal on a subspace emergency band. Degradation of the transmission indicates that it was under intensive jamming. Only the application of a large amount of energ
y to burn through the blockade allowed us to receive it. The sending of the message was clearly an act of desperation.” Jaro raised the padd and tapped a key.

  Immediately the air filled with the buzzing hiss of a communications channel. The next words he heard made Jas Holza’s blood run cold. “This is Lonnic Tomo…of the Korto District…” Some heads turned to face him. He saw Keeve’s eyes narrow. The static-laced message stuttered, then went on. “…Aboard the Bajorian Space Guard warship Clarion, we are under attack by…Tzenkethi marauder. They have already…killed the crew of the Glyhrond…Cease your attack, please!”

  The raw panic in Tomo’s last words hit Holza like a hammer, and he rocked back in his chair, the color draining from his face. “Prophets,” he whispered. “She’s dead.” He gripped the table in front of him, his head swimming. He felt dizzy and sick.

  “It would seem that Colonel Li engaged the Tzenkethi without success,” Jaro concluded, the pronouncement a death knell for the men in the reprisal fleet.

  A wave of raised voices echoed around the chamber, some in fury, others decrying the destruction. “You’ve brought this to pass, Kubus!” snapped Keeve. “What sort of botched data did you give the Space Guard?”

  Kubus blinked, for a moment showing signs of shock over Jaro’s revelation; but in the next moment he was composed again. “I provided only what was asked of me by Colonel Li! What he chose to do with the information was his choice!”

  Keeve rounded on Lale. “I was against this so-called task force from the start! A poorly planned operation motivated only by the immediate need for vengeance? Is it any wonder that more Bajoran lives have been lost because of it?” He smacked his fist into his palm. “What is needed is rational thought and measured response, something this administration seems poorly equipped to deliver!”

  The argument went on over Jas’s head. He stared at his hands, recalling a time when Lonnic had held them. Many years ago now, when they had been young and both untested; and now she was gone, ripped away in the dark, and he would never see her again. Her directness, her honest counsel, all gone. The only voice that had ever dared to stand up to him, to show him the errors of his ways—and then still to stand by him. “Tomo,” he husked. “Oh, Prophets. Please keep her safe.”

  “I am forced to agree with Minister Keeve,” grated Kubus, drawing Jas’s attention toward the man. “In principle if not in language. He is correct when he stated that the task force sent to censure the Tzenkethi invaders was not adequate to the task.” He shot a poisonous glare at General Coldri, which the chief of staff ignored.

  “You’re trying to blame this on the shortcomings of the Space Guard?” said another minister, one of Keeve’s supporters.

  Major Jaro folded his arms. “The Militia are an arm of the government,” he growled, “and we can only operate to their orders. Would you have us do otherwise? Perhaps martial law would suit you better, Minister?”

  “Blame for this must be apportioned…” began Kubus, suddenly trailing off as he saw a runner enter with a message tab for the First Minister.

  “Blame,” Jas said in a low voice. “There should be blame.” His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. And I must share in it. What have I become? He wanted to leap to his feet and shout the words. An annex for Kubus Oak’s dreams of empire? His willing vassal? And all along Lonnic was warning me, trying to guide me away, and I ignored her. I knew it was true and I ignored her because I was weak! Jas saw the broken pieces of his life falling down around him. All of it had been in service of Kubus Oak’s agenda, not his. The collapse of the Golana settlement and the ongoing loss of the clan’s lands and influence. Oak had clothed it in lies made to sweeten the moment, and he had gone along. Why? Why did I do this? Am I so spineless?

  Jas stiffened and made to rise to his feet, the words pushing at his lips; but there was a new arrival in the chamber, and he turned with Kubus and Keeve and all the others to see Jagul Kell enter the room, a cloak folded over his arm.

  The Cardassian bowed to the First Minister. “Sir. I have grave news. Thank you for allowing me to address the Chamber.”

  Jas wavered, the energy of his turmoil suddenly dissipated by the alien’s arrival.

  “I have been informed of the loss of your ships and their brave crews.” Kell looked solemn. “I only wish that the Cardassian Union could have done something to prevent that terrible sacrifice.”

  “We fight our own battles,” said Coldri with hard emphasis.

  “What I am about to tell you may force you to reconsider that, General. Pride, after all, must have its limits.” The jagul sighed. “One of my ships has been conducting deep-range scans of stars in the sector as part of a scientific program run by Professor Ico. They detected a vessel, Ministers. A starship of Tzenkethi design, caught by chance in their scan ratios.”

  Keeve voiced the question on everyone’s mind. “It’s coming here?”

  Kell nodded. “It is. Based on the projected speed and course of the marauder, it will reach the Bajor system in less than five hours.”

  Coldri was instantly on his feet and speaking into a handheld communicator unit. Jas caught the words “scramble” and “raiders.”

  “I have contacted Central Command and requested the assistance of any Cardassian cruisers in the area, but they will not get here in time.”

  “You must have ships here,” said Kubus. “Warships.”

  The jagul shook his head. “Only transports and light escorts, Minister. Nothing that is a match for a Tzenkethi marauder.”

  Lale nodded grimly. “We will place the planet on full alert, gather what ships we can to form a blockade. If the Tzenkethi come to strike us once more, then we will meet their aggression with all the force we can muster.” He surveyed the room. “I would suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that if you have the means, you should seek shelter for your families and make your districts aware of the threat that now faces us.”

  The chamber emptied faster than Jas had ever seen happen before, but he remained in his chair, once or twice buffeted by the figures that passed him, the ministers eager to remove themselves from a building that would most likely be a major target for any orbital attack.

  When he looked up he saw Kubus Oak standing across from him, watching him with a measuring gaze. “Holza,” said the other man. “This is a time to be strong, my friend, you understand?”

  Jas got to his feet. “A moment ago you were as frightened as the rest of us. Now you seem calm.”

  Kubus sniffed. “If the Tzenkethi are coming, they’ll find nothing to shoot at in Qui’al. And what ships of mine are in-system will be gone within the hour. I’ll have little to lose.”

  “And you’ll be on one of those ships?” Jas snapped. “To stand in safety and return only when the dust has settled?”

  “I can’t have myself put in harm’s way.” He smiled, as if the idea were comical to him. “Think, Holza, think. This, no matter how tragic, is an opportunity. The intelligent man turns that to his advantage.”

  “You disgust me,” said Jas.

  Kubus’s face turned stony. “Save some of that judgment for yourself, Minister. Don’t let the woman’s death give you some sudden growth of conscience.”

  Jas could find no words and glared at the other man in impotent rage.

  “Yes,” Kubus sneered. “You may hate me now, but you won’t step from the path at my side. You can’t. You lack the insight to do it.” He came closer and tapped Jas on the shoulder. To any observer, it would have looked like a friendly gesture of support. “You have only a short time before news of the Tzenkethi incursion breaks around the planet. Instead of staring at me, I’d suggest you use the time to get your family to somewhere remote, somewhere safe.” He grinned. “After all, in the chaos that follows an attack on our planet, who could say what might happen to them?”

  Kubus walked away, leaving Jas alone. With shaking hands, Jas drew a communicator from his pocket and activated a link that would connect him
with Korto city.

  Orange fingers of sunlight were creeping over the horizon as Darrah turned the police flyer onto a final approach, lining up to touch down on the port’s landing pads. He felt bone tired and thick-throated, a chill inside him even though he had dried himself down and changed into the nondescript flight suit in the aircraft’s deck locker. He concentrated on the work of flying, but he was troubled. Gar had refused to be drawn on his ordeal and disappeared into the Kendra Monastery the moment they had touched down; and on the flight back to Korto, the Cardassian Pa’Dar had been equally uncommunicative. Rather than return to the port with him, the scientist had asked Darrah to drop him off at the enclave outside the city. Darrah had no reason not to agree, but the alien did not seem interested in thanks for his help.

  The storm was gone now, passed out toward the ocean and diminishing, and beneath the flyer the streets of Korto were still wet, shimmering like dark stone. Darrah blinked hard, his eyes rough with fatigue. He thought of Karys and the bed he had abandoned to rescue Osen. It seemed like a world away, as if he’d been gone for days. “I just want to get back,” he said aloud. He’d put the flyer down and then requested someone else to pilot him back to his house. After the night he’d had, it was the least he deserved.

  It wasn’t until he climbed out of the flyer, the engines winding down in a falling whine, that Darrah realized something was wrong. The port’s alert lamps were flashing and there were men running back and forth. Over the noise of the flyer, if he strained to hear it, Darrah could pick out the sirens of police ground units.

  He was halfway down the gantry to the port control building when Proka caught up with him. He had a steaming mug of thick brown fluid in his hand. Raktajino, spiced with slivers of kava. Darrah had little taste for the Klingon beverage, except when he needed a hard caffeine hit to keep him on his feet.

  “You’re going to want this,” said Proka. The look he gave Darrah was not promising.

  “Something very bad is happening,” said Darrah. It wasn’t a question. Proka’s face was answer enough.