Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (11 page)

Doubt animated Stano’s youthful features with a lopsided grimace, an arched brow, and a roll of her deep brown eyes, all at the same time. “I think we’ve milked this for all it’s worth, Captain. Even if this had been the
Sagittarius,
we’d be done by now. There’s nothing left here.”

Despite sharing the XO’s opinion, Khatami paused before she replied, lest she seem too eager to agree or too easily swayed from her opinions. Then she looked at Stano. “All right. File your report with Starfleet Command, as per the mission briefing.”

Stano nodded. “No survivors, no sign of the culprit. Got it.” She moved quickly aft to the comm station, where she directed communications officer Lieutenant Hector Estrada to load up
and transmit, on a less-than-secure coded frequency, the
Endeavour
’s prewritten, phony after-action report—setting into place yet another piece of Vanguard’s carefully crafted puzzle of disinformation.
If this is what’s going to be expected of us from now on,
Khatami grumped to herself,
Starfleet Academy will have to start teaching cadets about sleight-of-hand
.

A few moments later, Stano returned to Khatami’s side. “Message sent, Captain.”

“Very well. Helm, set a course for—”

“Captain,” Klisiewicz interrupted. The lean, dark-haired young man looked up from his sensor hood. “I have something here that you and Commander Stano need to see.”

Khatami and Stano exchanged keen glances of alarm. They both knew that Klisiewicz was not prone to emotional outbursts or hyperbole for effect, which meant whatever he’d just found was serious. Khatami sprang from her chair and hurried up to the sensor console, where Klisiewicz remained hunched over the hooded display, and she loomed over his left shoulder while Stano leaned in over the man’s right. The captain asked, “What’ve you got?”

“A massive signal on long-range sensors.” He stepped back to allow Khatami and Stano to take turns confirming his discovery with their own eyes. “Major fleet movements inside Tholian space, all of them heading toward the border zone closest to Vanguard.”

Khatami was still studying the sketchy data being compiled by the sensors and analyzed by the ship’s computer as Stano asked, “Could it be a training exercise?”

Klisiewicz shook his head. “I’ve never heard of the Tholians doing anything like this, not on this scale. If I’m reading that thing right, we’re looking at battle group deployments.”

“You’re reading it right,” Khatami said. “Those are heavy warships massing on the border.” She leaned back to let Stano have a look as she added, “Those aren’t recon units looking to harass border worlds. If I had to make a bet, I’d say that’s a major expeditionary force.”

Gazing into the azure light of the sensor display, Stano looked perplexed. “None of them are crossing the border, even though there’s nothing ahead of them. What’re they waiting for?”

The science officer shrugged. “Maybe they’re waiting for final orders?”

“More ships would be my guess.” Khatami’s already fretful mood darkened. “Either way, we need to get a warning back to Vanguard immediately. It looks like the Tholians are gearing up for war in the Taurus Reach.”

Stano and Klisiewicz swapped nervous glances, then the first officer mustered the will to ask, “War against who?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Khatami descended into the command well and strode back to the center seat. “Neelakanta, set course for the Tholian border. Estrada, inform Vanguard of the change in our flight plan, warn them about the Tholian fleet, and ask if they have any idea what’s got the Tholians riled up this time. Klisiewicz, keep an eye on that fleet and let me know if you read any more ships moving to join it.”

The bridge crew swung into action. Watching one last, lonely piece of debris tumble-spin past on the main viewscreen, Khatami sensed she was witnessing a disaster take shape.

Stano moved back to Khatami’s right side. “What are
my
orders, Captain?”

Khatami hardened her heart for the days to come. “Start running battle drills.”

“You perplex me, Jetanien.”

The Chelon diplomat lowered his bowl of
N’va’a
and shot a questioning look across the table at his young Romulan hostess, who reclined lazily in her chair and held a tall-stemmed cocktail glass brimming with the blue ale of her homeworld. “In what regard, S’anra?”

S’anra met his stare. “You’ve always struck me as a creature of refined tastes and educated sensibilities. So I find it impossible to fathom how you tolerate that odiferous swill.”

“On my world,
N’va’a
is considered a beverage of rare quality.”

Her coy smile threatened to stretch into a smirk. “On my world, we’d call it compost.”

Jetanien lifted his bowl of fermented fruit juice in a jaunty faux salute. “Your loss.”

The former aide to Senator D’tran of Romulus favored Jetanien with a brief glimmer of amusement, then sipped her drink. As the pair enjoyed a moment of silence, Jetanien noted the tasteful appointments of S’anra’s villa. They sat in the center of an interior courtyard, beside a small swimming pool ringed by tall trees that offered her shade from the powerful rays of the late-afternoon summer sun. The rooms of the villa all had been decorated with works of art, such as sculptures and paintings, that were as beautiful as they were subdued. Like his own residence, S’anra’s home on Nimbus III was located outside of Paradise City, and, despite its obvious attention to creature comforts, it was equipped with a variety of potent concealed defenses.
It would seem she’s taken the same lessons from D’tran’s death that I have,
Jetanien concluded.

She set down her drink. “Since you took the liberty of arriving
with an ample supply of your own beverage, I presume your visit is not about availing yourself of my hospitality.”

“Not entirely, no,” he confessed. “Though who could resist your charming company?”

Her gaze sharpened as she studied him. He could tell that, far from the eager young naïf she had presented herself as months earlier to his assistant, Sergio Moreno, S’anra was a shrewd if inexperienced player in the political arena. “What are we really here to talk about?”

“Any number of topics present themselves.” Jetanien kept her waiting a few moments by taking another swig of
N’va’a
and then setting down his bowl before sitting back against his portable
glenget,
a special type of kneeling chair designed to accommodate his unusual anatomy. “Your assumption of D’tran’s mantle of diplomacy here on Nimbus III; the need to defuse tensions between our two governments following that unfortunate incident with the
Enterprise
and one of your birds-of-prey; the Romulan Star Empire’s new accord with the Klingons; the rumors of a new praetor rising to power on Romulus in the next year; my suspicion that you’ve initiated a sexual relationship with my assistant, Sergio, as a means of compromising my privacy. Many things are in short supply on Nimbus III these days, my dear, but worthy topics of conversation we possess in abundance.”

She tapped her index finger twice on the tabletop and narrowed her eyes. “I saw what you did there, Jetanien. You muddied the waters with an excess of verbiage to conceal which subject really matters most to you. It was an especially deft gambit to finish with a personal accusation designed to make me feel defensive and vulnerable, so that I would dismiss the rest of your prattle as preamble. But I think it’s the new accord with the Klingons that sparks your interest.”

“What a curious presumption,” Jetanien dissembled. “Why would you think that?”

Projecting her suspicion like a rebuke, S’anra said, “Off the top of my head? There’s no reason to discuss my succession of D’tran as your clandestine channel to Romulus; it’s a fait accompli.
The
Enterprise
fiasco is far too public to merit our attention, and any rumors of a new praetor are woefully premature—as I’m sure you already know. And you should have more faith in your man Sergio. His only virtue greater than his stamina is his phenomenal discretion. Your secrets are safe with him, Jetanien—but you already knew that, too, or else you would certainly have forbidden him to become my lover.”

“Actually, I did forbid it. When I took him to task for his disobedience, his only defense was the rather cryptic human expression, ‘
É l’amore
.’” Jetanien had to stop himself from grinding the halves of his mandible in frustration. “If he weren’t such an exemplary attaché in every other respect, I’d have fired him on the spot. I might do so yet.”

S’anra threw her head back and laughed, then half covered her mouth with her fingers. “Please don’t,” she said with a teasing lilt. “I rather enjoy him.”

“You mean you enjoy his company.”

A rakish tilt of her head. “That, too.” Putting on a more serious air, she continued. “In any event, that leaves the Romulan-Klingon accord as the sole remaining topic of interest.”

“If you say so,” Jetanien replied, feigning disinterest. “I suspect your alliance will be short-lived.”

She picked up her drink and lounged back, affecting a casual air. “Alliance? That’s quite a loaded word. I think you might be overstating our relationship with the Klingons.”

“What would you call it?”

A small shrug. “A détente, perhaps. A beneficial exchange of technology in return for certain logistical considerations.”

“In other words, you traded the secrets of cloaking technology for a handful of warships and . . . what else? Passage through Klingon space to the Taurus Reach? Those hardly seem like a recompense worth surrendering your monopoly on the cloaking device.”

She swallowed a sip of Romulan ale. “Our monopoly lost some of its value after the
Enterprise
absconded with one of our devices.”

“Ah. I see.” He reached out with one clawed manus and lifted his bowl of
N’va’a
to his mandible, then inhaled its heady fragrance while he waited for S’anra’s patience to crumble. He did not have to wait very long.

Simmering behind dark eyes, S’anra asked, “What do you see, Jetanien?”

“Now that Starfleet has one of your devices, you’re afraid you can no longer traipse undetected through Federation space. You’ve lost your advantage against us because you were tricked, so rather than risk creating a second enemy on your doorstep, you bribed the Klingons to let you travel through their Empire, and to provide you with more powerful ships that you think can keep Starfleet on its side of the Neutral Zone.” He clicked his mandible in an approximation of the
tsk-tsk
noise some humanoids made. “Still, it’s a terrible price to pay for that privilege . . . unless you happen to be close to rolling out a newer, better version of that technology.”

Noting with satisfaction that S’anra’s mood had taken a turn for the petulant, Jetanien rewarded himself with another draught of the
N’va’a
.

The young Romulan took a calming breath and forced herself back into a semblance of composure. “An interesting hypothesis. Most imaginative.”

“Thank you. I do strive to entertain with my prognostications and analyses.” At the first sign that S’anra was starting to relax, he added, “But even those boons would not yield a sufficient return on Romulus’s investment, would they? No, it seems to me your praetor and Senate must be angling for a far greater reward, something valuable enough to merit currying favor with the Klingon High Council. Or part of it, at least.”

His speculation pushed S’anra back into an agitated state. “Such as?”

“Who’s to say? But given what I know of your praetor and the Klingons’ Chancellor Sturka, I find the notion of them sharing common ground less than plausible.”

As Jetanien had hoped, his verbal feint enticed S’anra to
smugness. “Sturka is not the only member of the High Council.”

He leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. “Of course not, but he and Gorkon hold most of the others in line. Now, if you can get to Gorkon—well, that would be a very different scenario. But it’s not likely your people could offer him anything better than what Sturka has already promised him and his House.”

Mimicking his body language, S’anra shifted forward and lowered her voice. “And what, exactly, do you think Sturka’s promised to Gorkon?”

“The Empire. Gorkon seems likely to succeed Sturka as chancellor.”

S’anra’s eyes shone with a conspiratorial gleam. “I wouldn’t be so certain.”

“I didn’t say I was certain, my dear, only that I thought it likely. Pray tell, who do you predict will be the next to sit upon the throne of Kahless?”

She sat back and waggled a finger at him. “That would be telling.”

“So it would. And I’d hate for you to incur the wrath of someone like Duras.”

Jetanien paid careful attention to S’anra’s lack of a reaction. Her face was a blank slate—perfect for playing poker but ill-suited to brazen mendacity or fervent denial. Had she pretended to confusion or surprise, he might have had a harder time gauging whether his educated guess had struck the mark. Instead, she had made such an effort to bury her surprise that she had simply frozen.
She may as well have indicted Duras herself,
he gloated silently behind his leathery physiognomy. All that remained now was to play out the conversation according to its unwritten rules before retiring to his residence and passing the news along to Lugok.

“In any event,” the Chelon said, “even with your help, Duras is a long shot at best. And considering the wealth and influence his House already wields, he can’t have been an easy mark for your people to exploit. Still, I can’t fault your—what do you call
them? ah, yes, the Tal Shiar—for their forward thinking in this matter. Though I doubt the Federation has anything worth trading for someone of his stature, perhaps we should look into buying a few lesser figures on the Klingon High Council. No doubt the return on investment would be quite stellar.”

The Romulan leaned back in her chair and sulked while staring at her empty glass. “There are no words equal to the depth of my contempt for you right now.”