Star Trek - TNG - 62 - Maximum Warp Book One Read online

  "What is your authorization to ask questions of me?" T'sart asked. Too important to just kill, he knew the agent would have to at least listen to the questions, if not answer them.

  Before the Tal Shiar agent had a chance to reply--as if he actually would have--the sub-commander entered again.

  He was looking down at his tricorder. "Commander, I have the final death toll. Total native casualties: forty three thousand, seven-hundred-thirty-two." The "two" trailed off as he looked up and saw only T'sart and the member of the Tal Shiar.

  The agent looked at the sub-commander intently. The sub-commander nodded quickly, pivoted on a heel, and left.

  The automatic door closed swiftly behind him.

  The Tal Shiar agent curled around back to T'sart. "Why has this one been left alive?"

  "He failed to tell me what I wanted to know," T'sart said finally, hating to be without acceptable choices. "But I thought he might yet be of use."

  In a motion that could best be described as a glide, the agent moved toward the whimpering man, who was still cowering on the floor. "Tell him what he wants to know."

  T'sart shook his head. "He will not talk for you. He doesn't know your reputation, and I've already made him aware of mine."

  "I cannot help you," the Caltiskan said, muffling his sobs. "You will destroy our world."

  "Your world should have been destroyed a billion

  years ago," Tsart told him. "I'm beginning to think even you don't know why it wasn't."

  "I implore you," the Caltiskan pleaded. "I beg of you."

  The agent frowned and shook his head. "You'll not get him to talk," he decided.

  "Perhaps not," T'sart admitted. "But I'm having several small children who survived the bio weapon gathered--"

  In a swift arc of his right arm, the Tal Shiar agent pulled out his disrupter, fired, and returned the weapon to his cloak.

  "A waste of time," he said as the Caltiskan shrieked into nothingness, his body vaporizing, his voice lingering as echo. "Your count is now forty-three thousand, seven-hundred thirty-three."

  "Yes." T'sart glowered. "And now I suppose it would be a waste of time." He sighed. "That man was the director of this facility. Sooner or later, he would have cracked, and been of use."

  The Tal Shiar agent walked past him and began investigating the main computer and sensor consoles. "It is no longer your concern. You are relieved here."

  Deep within himself, T'sart exploded. But he contained it, turned it in on itself, and though inwardly he churned, on the surface he was calm and seemingly imperturbable. "I'd ask by whose authority, but I'll assume that's a classified Tal Shiar secret."

  Without nodding, the agent somehow managed to convey a nonverbal affirmation. He then added, "As of now, everything about this project is a state secret."

  In a brief, weak moment, T'sart actually attempted debate. "This is my discovery. I am familiar--"

  The Tal Shiar silenced him with a glare. "The last person I met who was familiar with this facility is now vapor and ozone. Leave the troops, take your assistants, and return to the homeworld. Your work here is ended."

  Eyes narrowed, T'sart burned silently, but again refused any display of anger.

  He marched to the main console, flipped a few switches, pulled a data crystal from his pocket and replaced it into the data bank.

  "I expect you will not relay my official protest to your superior," he said as he turned toward the exit.

  "Never speak of this place again," the agent called after him.

  "Of course," T'sart replied. "Never."

  "And, T'sart?"

  He turned back toward the agent, a bit surprised at the use of his name without rank or title.

  The Tal Shiar smirked. "Be grateful it is not forty four thousand seven-hundred thirty-four."

  Personal Spacecraft R'laga Uncharted space near the Caltiskan system Bordering Romulan Empire-claimed space

  "Lotre," T'sart called from the aft scanner console. "Transfer power from shields to sensors. We must break through this interference."

  T'sart saw his other assistant stiffen at the suggestion. "Something on your mind, Varnell?" he asked.

  Hesitating a moment, Varnell only spoke once Lotre was looking away. "We have been ordered out of the area by the Tal Shiar. To stay--"

  "Think, Centurion. The local subspace interference will mask us from their detection." T'sart kept himself from snapping at Varnell, but only barely. The rage was difficult to contain, given the circumstances, even for someone with his mental discipline.

  The Empire had betrayed him, disloyally sticking him in a thankless and uninteresting job where he suffered the buffoons in the defense ministry. He had led offensive weapons research for thirty-five years, and now ... now he'd been cast away again. Just as he had discovered what could be the power to rule the galaxy.

  And that was the scope of it; he'd confirmed it. That the Tal Shiar had suddenly involved themselves only demonstrated how right he was. They knew it would make them gods. But they were ill-suited to such a role. T'sart was not.

  "The Tal Shiar will not bother us, I assure you."

  Varnell nodded, seemingly unconvinced. "Yes, sir," he replied nonetheless.

  "I cannot pierce the special disruptions around the sphere," Lotre said, turning from his sensor console. "I'm having trouble enough with the local disruptions. Feedback has burned out the main sensor relays. Again. And we've depleted our reserve stores."

  "So we've burned them out." T'sart pivoted toward him. "Do you understand the power here? Do you understand the level of technological sophistication?"

  "I do," Varnell said.

  Ever unimpressed with ill-timed sycophantic blatherings, T'sart challenged him. "Really, Varnell? Tell us why you think so."

  "I... I knew it when we saw their entire military was protecting the one science complex."

  T'sart wagged a lecturing finger. "You knew then it was important to them. But not that it would be important to us."

  Respectful, but with a guarded tone, Varnell proceeded on an unexpected tack. " "Us' meaning the Empire, or meaning those of us on this vessel?"

  "Are you challenging my loyalty, Centurion?" T'sart looked at him quizzically, as if the young centurion had grown a second head. "Just what are you asking? I've assessed my duty to the Praetor. Have you? We've lost much in helping the Federation with their war against the Dominion. We are weak. Do you think I would seek to bolster myself and not my comrades?"

  For a very long moment Varnell was silent. Whether it was from internal debate on the issue, or simply whether to speak at all, T'sart was unsure. "That is," he finally said, slowly, "with all due respect, sir, not what I meant." And then he lowered his head and his voice. "You are as loyal to the Empire as I, I'm sure of it."

  "You're uncomfortable, Varnell. Why?" T'sart stepped closer to him.

  The centurion glanced at Lotre. "Why do we discuss such matters in his presence?"

  Why, indeed, T'sart thought, are we discussing this at all? "Lotre is a Romulan. As loyal as I am."

  "He is a Klingon," Varnell said emphatically.

  "Genetically, yes. But that is all."

  "That is all they are," the young Romulan spat. "Genetic dispositions to rage and murder."

  T'sart was droll. "How scientific of you."

  As if suddenly remembering something, Varnell's attitude shifted into reverse. "I am sorry for speaking out of turn."

  "Not at all," T'sart said nonchalantly. "But know that I trust Loire's loyalty. And surely you trust mine as much as I trust yours, correct?" He leaned down a bit, looking into Varnell's eyes and studying his slightest expression.

  "Of course, Commander." The centurion would probably not have looked nervous to most. But T'sart knew people. He'd seen people at their best, and at their worst. Especially their worst. He could read a man almost as well as an empath.

  After a moment, T'sart nodded to himself. He leaned over Varnell's shoulder and tapped into one
of the control consoles.

  Varnell turned quickly, reaching to push T'sart away, but it was too late. His face contorted in shock and anger as he flashed into a sparkle, and then dematerialized.

  There was silence as Lotre left his station and joined T'sart near the main view port.

  "You should have let me stab him," Lotre said.

  T'sart shrugged. "This was less messy."

  Lotre huffed. "And less fun."

  The corners of T'sart's lips curled upward as first Varnell's leg floated past the port window, then his left arm, then part of his torso, then finally his horrific, frozen visage. "Oh, I don't know about that."

  Lotre chuckled darkly. "You doubted his loyalty this much?"

  Alone with only Lotre, T'sart felt free to show his true rage. "He knew!" he yelled, turning back toward the helm. "I watched his eyes, and he knew!"

  "Who knew?" Lotre asked.

  "The Tal Shiar agent," T'sart hissed. "He entered and knew where every console was, what every control panel did! And only this dim-witted centurion, only Varnell could have provided the Tal Shiar with that information!"

  "I've never seen you this way." Lotre didn't back away, but did seat himself in the nearest chair.

  T'sart barely noticed. "I've never been this close!" He pounded a fist on the bulkhead and the vibration rumbled through the deckplates. "Disloyalty! I loathe it! I gave years to the Empire, and they nearly hand me over to a Federation/ Klingon tribunal! And now this?"

  "But they did not--"

  Lips curling in burning indignation, T'sart slammed himself into the helm seat and bludgeoned the console before him. "No, they reduced my power instead. Putting me in a useless defense position, ignoring my past work, and squandering my talents. It took half my influence, half the favors owed me, to get this pitiful result. You know that!" He turned back toward Lotre.

  "And you know I struggled back. With this, this discovery it is mine. The Empire cannot have it."

  "The Tal Shiar are a shadow empire unto themselves. I doubt the Senate is even aware--"

  Cocking his head to one side, T'sart suddenly had one of those brilliant flashes he'd come to love about himself, the rush of adrenaline when it dawned on him what he must do--and could do. "You're right, my friend," he said, regaining his composure. "You're right. The Tal Shiar would not have informed the Senate. They know, and we know, and no one else does."

  A bit taken aback, a strange emotion to see on such a Klingon face, Lotre narrowed his brow. "You intend to make war against the Tal Shiar?"

  T'sart nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe I do."

  Lotre scoffed. "Tal Shiar agents are everywhere. You won't be able to just requisition one warbird, never mind the two or more we would need."

  With a smirk that could have cut neutronium, the Romulan ground out a mirthful whisper. "We won't need a warbird. Not when we can have a very strong and very powerful starship. And I know just where to find one."

  Chapter Three

  U.S.S. Enterprise. NCC-1701E Romulan Neutral Zone Section 19

  "Sir, I cannot explain this. It makes no logical sense." From Data, that was quite a thing to hear.

  Picard glanced up at the silent warp engine core. Normally it would be thrumming with energy, with raw, focused power. It should be that way now, but wasn't. Why?

  Geordi La Forge slithered out of a Jefferies tube to Data's right and walked over to the console next to the android. He tapped harshly at the controls. "Still nothing, sir. Zero." In the three years since Geordi had exchanged his VISOR for the more natural-looking optical implants that also allowed him to see, Picard

  had become used to the man's wealth of expression, once so hidden. Now, his engineer's grayish eyes cast themselves down in frustration.

  "Not sabotage," Picard said. Not if the Romulans were in the same boat. Seeing the warbird lose gravity ... well, there was something more wrong than could be simply explained away with an answer of sabotage. Something large, Picard thought, and felt a rock of tension rolling around his gut.

  "If it was sabotage, I don't know how," La Forge said. "This should be working. There's no reason we shouldn't have power--we just don't. I mean, this isn't just not being able to create a warp field. We can't generate enough power to heat a cup of coffee. Not unless we drain a battery."

  "It would seem," Data said with deliberate slowness, "some sort of... field, perhaps ... is inhibiting high-energy power consumption and," he raised his brows, "even creation. I believe it is localized to this area of space. How far it extends, we do not know."

  "How are you now, Data?" Picard asked, allowing himself the slightest edge of concern in his voice.

  The android seemed to consider the question a long moment. His yellow color probably was no paler than usual, but Picard thought he appeared somewhat more sallow than was the norm. "I suppose the best way to describe it, sir, is 'under the weather." My power source is similar to that of many of the ship's systems. Just as the Enterprise computers are running on battery backup, so am I, essentially."

  A strange thing to have a member of one's crew tell you. "How long can you... maintain that?"

  "At full capacity? A limited amount of time without internal recharge, sir. At this level of operation, for me, perhaps a few years."

  "You said perhaps a dampening field..."

  "Possibly, sir," Data said. He looked tired. "Conjecture, since we cannot detect such a field. Sensors are semi-operative, but I find nothing unusual as of yet. We have confirmed that the Romulan ship is in a similar situation, and the cargo vessel is completely dead in space."

  "Let's hope some life support on the cargo ship is working. What about the warbird? What systems have they up and running?"

  Data shook his head. "Scans are not precise at these low power levels."

  Picard turned in thought, glancing at an engineering station that was dark, of necessity, to conserve power. "In any case, it's not the Romulans' doing. And whatever is happening isn't limited to this vessel. Assuming the Romulans aren't deceiving us by pretending to have similar power troubles ..."

  La Forge nodded. "Lucky for us if they're not."

  The captain pressed out a breath into a sigh. "Being stranded in the Neutral Zone doesn't feel particularly lucky, Mr. La Forge. Even with the recent tone of accord." He tapped a command into the console before them, then had to type in an access password to bypass the power restrictions in effect. "If this problem is localized to this region of space... We began losing power here," Picard said, pointing at an area of the

  graphic he'd requested from the computer. "Let's assume whatever is causing this doesn't have an effect outside a certain perimeter. Let's also assume that if we go back the way we came our ability to generate power will return as well."

  "Those are a lot of assumptions, sir," Data said.

  "I'm open to a better suggestion, Mr. Data."

  The android looked to La Forge, then back to the captain. "I have none, sir. But maneuvering with only chemical thrusters--"

  "Yes," Picard said gravely, turning off the monitor before him. "Retracing an impulse-speed journey with only thrusters would take days."

  "Sixty-two point three two days, sir," Data said.

  Only two decimal places. Data was weak.

  The captain looked up again at the looming, silent engine core. Picard was used to having the power of a hundred suns at his fingertips. The laws of physics said he still did. At least the laws he knew said that. There was a mystery here, and he wanted to solve it for more reasons then just freeing his ship from the flypaper they'd been glued to. "Well, gentlemen," he said matter-of-factly, "I suggest we find a non-engine alternative to propulsion."

  "Nonengine propulsion, sir?" La Forge asked. "There isn't a solar sail big enough to move the Enterprise at the speed we'll need to--"

  "No, Commander. I have another idea. If the Romulans will help."

  La Forge's eyes grew wide, then became a disbelieving squint. "I don't like this plan already.
"

  "Of course, Captain." J'emery chuckled humorlessly. "I'm certain the only solution to our situation is for me to allow your engineers access to my ship's most critical systems. Will your doctor need to perform an operation on me as well? What about my crew?" Suddenly the Romulan commander's false smile was gone. "Should I have every third man commit suicide so as to save room in your brig?"

  Picard sighed inwardly and glanced back to Deanna Troi, ship's counselor, empath, and confidant.

  "He's taking this better than you thought," she offered, then looked to Riker for agreement.

  "Much."

  The captain grunted a nod and turned back to the forward viewscreen and J'emery's angry visage.

  "You know as well as I do that this isn't a trap set by either of us. Our respective governments have been working together for months. The trade embargo between our governments has been lifted. We have no quarrel with you. And if our goal was to destroy your vessel, and we'd laid this snare, you would've been killed by now. I'll assume the reverse is true as well. Our subspace communications are down, so we'll also assume neither of us is waiting on fleet support. However, we've launched a communications buoy and confirmed to Starfleet our position and situation. Doing that also verified that approximately four light minutes from our respective positions this ... dampening field, whatever it is, weakens enough for normal power systems to come on-line. We can sit here and argue, or we can both help one another end this situation

  peacefully." The captain walked slowly back to his command chair, lowering himself down with just the slightest adjustments to his uniform tunic. "I realize our personal trust factor isn't especially high, no matter what our governments may have agreed to. I'm willing to shuttle aboard your ship myself, bring the parts necessary, and help with the required modifications." He nodded. "More reassurance than that, I cannot offer."