Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (8 page)

Standing in the center of the supervisors’ deck in Vanguard’s operations center felt to Nogura like standing in the center of the universe. That impression wasn’t a product of the sheer size of the room, though Vanguard’s nerve center was quite cavernous compared to most command decks; rather, it was the towering walls of interactive viewscreens that wrapped two hundred seventy degrees around the expansive circular compartment. At any given moment, a few of those screens might be tasked to monitoring complex shipping traffic or displaying important tactical updates from Starfleet Command, but most of them showed the endless reach of space surrounding the station.

The one that held Nogura’s attention at that moment, however, showed a large, oblong block of a ship slowly maneuvering away from Vanguard and adjusting its heading as it prepared to accelerate to full impulse and, eventually, to warp speed. Seeing the vessel in motion, Nogura realized for the first time how slow and vulnerable-looking the
Ephialtes
really was, and he felt a pang of regret for having ordered the
Sagittarius
entombed inside the lumbering bulk of the
Antaeus
-class superfreighter. Watching it head out into space, he couldn’t help but think of some enormous sea creature being released into the wild only to find itself a fat and easy target for predators.

What if Alodae was right? What if I’ve just doomed him and his crew?
Reason reasserted itself in his thoughts. He knew the
Ephialtes
was in no greater danger than it would be on any other return trip to Federation space. Instead, he reserved his concerns for the
Sagittarius
and her crew. The ship had survived its tour of duty in the Taurus Reach by exploiting its two chief advantages: tremendous speed and a low profile.

And I just locked them inside a huge, sluggish target. What have I done?

Before Nogura could silently berate himself any further, the station’s executive officer, Commander Jon Cooper, crossed the supervisors’ deck to stand at his side. In a muted but professional tone, the lanky, salt-and-pepper-haired XO said, “Sir, the
Ephialtes
has cleared the approach lanes and is free to navigate. All her readings appear nominal.”

“Thank you, Commander.” As Cooper stepped away to resume his duties, Nogura allowed himself a small moment of relief. “Nominal” had been a code word chosen to indicate that the station’s sensors—which were formidable—had been unable to penetrate the sensor camouflage the engineering teams had installed inside the
Ephialtes
to mask the presence of the
Sagittarius
. Though there was no guarantee that the Klingons or the Romulans hadn’t improved their sensors in some unexpected way that would negate this defensive measure, Nogura knew he should take good news wherever he might find it.
Now all we have to do is hope the freighter doesn’t get attacked at random by the Klingons, or raided by some Orion corsair, or blunder into some exotic Tholian trap
. He scolded himself.
Stop that. Stay positive
. His years in Starfleet had made him understand how important his disposition was to the morale of those under his command. If he wanted to inspire optimism and courage and openness to new ideas, he had to exhibit those qualities himself. If he gave in to negativity, to defeatism, he would only drag his people down with him.
It all starts at the top,
one of his former commanding officers had told him when he was but a newly minted ensign.
A commander gets the crew he deserves
.

Watching the
Ephialtes
cruise away into danger, however, he found it hard to put a positive spin on the situation. He wondered if the twist of dread he felt knotting his innards at that moment was anything like what Reyes had felt when he first sent the
Sagittarius
and her crew all alone to Jinoteur, straight into the heart of the beast, just a few short years earlier. The more he thought about it, the more likely it sounded, but knowing that others had
experienced this brand of anxiety did nothing to alleviate the suffocating pressure in his chest.

He descended the stairs to the main level and walked to the turbolift. The doors opened as someone called from behind him, “Admiral?” Nogura turned to see a short, fiftyish man with close-cropped steel gray hair and a narrowly trimmed mustache walking toward him. The man wore the blue tunic and insignia of the Medical Division, and he carried a data slate. He offered a genial smile and extended his hand as he caught up to Nogura. “Hello, sir. I’m Doctor Gonzalo Robles, the new acting chief medical officer.”

“Good evening, Doctor,” Nogura said, motioning for Robles to follow him as he stepped inside the turbolift. “What can I do for you?”

Robles used one hand to hold the lift doors open. “Actually, sir, I came up to let you know that you missed your mandatory physical four weeks ago.”

“I what?”

A conciliatory shrug. “Doctor Fisher let a lot of paperwork slide over the last few weeks. I guess he had a case of short-timer’s disease, if you know what I mean.” He held out his data slate toward Nogura. “Anyway, as you can see, I need to complete your physical so I can certify you for duty. It’s really kind of an embarrassment that it’s been allowed to slip this long.”

Nogura took the slate from Robles and looked over its contents. It displayed an order from Robles, as acting CMO, for Nogura to report immediately to Vanguard Hospital for his physical. Looking up at the physician, Nogura said, “Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“Technically, sir, it shouldn’t have waited this long. It’ll only take an hour. If you—”

“
Doctor
.” Heads turned throughout ops as Nogura’s voice rose in volume, dropped in pitch, coarsened with exhaustion, and echoed off the high ceiling and surrounding bulkheads. “I have been awake for twenty-one hours. I’ve not had a decent meal since yesterday. And as busy as I know you are, I assure you: I am
busier. So I am going back to my quarters to log six hours of rack time. When I get up, I will come to your office, and you can do your tests. But if you say so much as
one more word
before these turbolift doors close, I will have you pushed out an airlock without a spacesuit. Do I make myself clear?” The lack of a response from Robles made it clear to Nogura, and to everyone else, that he had done exactly that. “Good night, Doctor.”

Robles removed his hand from the turbolift doors, which hissed shut. Nogura grasped the control bar. “Level Fifteen, Section Bravo.” As the lift coursed into motion with a hypnotic hum, Nogura shook his head.
I should have told Fisher to leave his job vacant
.

Unemployment suited Ambassador Jetanien. Sequestered inside his nondescript but also heavily fortified and comm-secure residence on Nimbus III, the Chelon diplomat enjoyed a measure of solitude and tranquility unlike any he had known since his childhood.

Months had passed since he and his staff had been forced to evacuate and abandon the Federation Embassy in Paradise City, the nominal capital of Nimbus III. The riot that had engulfed the city and toppled the embassy also had claimed the life of Senator D’tran of Romulus. To the Federation, the senator’s murder had been a public embarrassment, since it had occurred inside the Federation Embassy. For Jetanien, D’tran’s death was an aching loss and a lingering shadow over all he had accomplished in life; he had considered the man a friend, and could not disabuse himself of the suspicion that he had failed him in his final moments.

Hiding his profound dismay from his colleagues and acquaintances had been easy, thanks to the limited expressive range of Chelon faces. Having evolved from an amphibian ancestor on Chelar—known within the Federation by the far blander appellation Rigel III—the Chelons had leathery features and beaklike proboscises. Consequently, their emotional cues often went overlooked by non-Chelons, except for a few who had taken the time to learn their ways.

For his own benefit, Jetanien had taken up the practice of meditation to quell his tempest of self-recrimination, and as a positive reinforcement he had coupled his periods of reflection with sessions of sunbathing. Stretched prone across a heated artificial boulder, he basked in solar rays magnified by special panes in the glass roof above the chamber on the top floor of his villa.

To the casual observer, he would appear to be just another layabout on that backwater world, and that was precisely how he wished to be perceived. Officially, he had been indefinitely furloughed from the Federation Diplomatic Corps following the loss of the Federation Embassy. Unofficially, it was understood by a handful of very highly placed individuals within Starfleet and the Federation government that Jetanien now served as a clandestine diplomatic back channel to both the Klingon Empire and the Romulan Star Empire. Even if all other political relations between the powers should be severed, this secret pipeline of communication would remain, in the hope of someday brokering a true and lasting peace.

He reached down with one clawed manus, pressed a control disguised as a nub on the boulder’s surface, and filled his basking chamber with a fresh blast of steam. The cleansing moist heat soothed his tough hide as it seeped beneath the edges of his dorsal carapace. A sensation much like bliss began to suffuse Jetanien’s being.

Then he heard the buzz of an incoming signal on his private comm channel.
Naturally,
he thought, simultaneously appreciating and resenting the irony of the moment. He gave himself a gentle nudge and slid down the curved slope of the ersatz boulder. When his feet touched the floor, he pushed himself upright, then plodded across the room to the companel on the wall near the door. It was a local signal, from the outskirts of Paradise City. Knuckling open the channel, he grumbled, “This is Jetanien.”

A gruff male voice replied,
“What took you so long, you old turtle?”

“Lugok,” Jetanien said, his mood lifted by contact with his Klingon counterpart. “Forgive me. After all this time, I thought you’d forgotten how to use the comm.”

A deep belly laugh.
“Hardly, old friend. To be honest, it feels like I never get a moment away from it. My new master is almost as long-winded as you are.”

“If you dislike long-distance conversations, go home to Qo’noS.”

Lugok became a touch defensive.
“I’ve lost my patience for the tempo of life in the First City. Compared to Vanguard or this overcooked trash ball, Qo’noS is a madhouse.”

“No doubt.”

“So, are the pundits still calling for your head because you lost your embassy?”

Jetanien didn’t know which surprised him more: the fact that Lugok was deigning to engage in casual conversation, or that he was managing to sound as if he was interested in Jetanien’s replies. Choosing not to jinx the rare moment of social grace by the Klingon by questioning it, he restrained himself to answering the direct query. “I try not to heed the reactionary tirades of the chattering classes. For the moment, I’ve worked a bit of political judo and turned our setback to my advantage. I’m content to be the punch line of their snide jokes, because it serves to conceal the true nature of my ongoing work. So long as the cause of peace is served, my public disgrace is of little consequence—and possibly even of value.”

“You haven’t changed,”
Lugok said wistfully.
“You still use fifty words where five will do.”
He exhaled heavily, as if he were deflating.
“I wish I could be as blasé. Since the riots, my House’s honor has been smeared, and the political elites treat me like a pariah.”

Feeling a deep empathy for Lugok’s predicament, Jetanien said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be,”
Lugok said.
“It wasn’t until the powerful hated me that I realized how much I hated them back. And that, as it turns out, is why I’ve contacted you today.”

That sounded promising. “Go on.”

“I’m acting as a confidential adviser to Councillor Gorkon. I trust you know of him.”

“Most assuredly.” In addition to being Chancellor Sturka’s right-hand man on the Klingon High Council, Gorkon was the only high-ranking member of the Klingon government who was sympathetic to the diplomatic initiative Jetanien, Lugok, and their current Romulan contact, S’anra, had undertaken. Gorkon
had even gone to great effort and personal risk to extend a hand in truce to his former nemesis, Diego Reyes, in the hope of persuading the Klingon chancellor to make an overture of peace to the Federation. His efforts had withered and died on the vine, but Jetanien still had admired the audacity behind them.

“Gorkon wants to ask a favor of you.”
After the briefest pause, Lugok continued.
“He wants you to ask your contacts inside the Federation’s various intelligence services to look for hard evidence that the Romulans are forging secret alliances with some of the Great Houses of the Empire, in order to corrupt our government and turn it into a puppet of their own.
”

A low rumble born of doubt resonated inside Jetanien’s chest. “I’m not dismissing Gorkon’s request, but I need to ask: doesn’t the Klingon Empire have its own internal intelligence and security apparatus for matters such as this?”

“Gorkon fears those services have already been compromised. And if his suspicions are correct, the Romulans have friends on the High Council, which means we can’t launch a formal investigation without risking serious political consequences—up to and including execution.”

It was a bleak picture, but Jetanien understood Lugok’s concern. If elements within the Romulan Star Empire—most likely operatives and directors of its intelligence service and secret police bureau, the Tal Shiar—were co-opting the Klingon High Council, the diplomatic triumvirate he had established with Lugok and S’anra would be rendered moot. Worse, the Romulans, who already possessed a significant tactical advantage in the form of their cloaking devices, would be in a position to marry that technology to the considerable military, industrial, and economic resources of the Klingon Empire. It was a daunting prospect.