Available Light, page 14
The Osijemal? It was the only answer that made sense, at least with respect to her understanding of transporter systems, but the scene outside this room’s windows would seem to belie that. Holographic technology provided one possible explanation.
“All right,” she called out, “if this is a holodeck joke, consider me amused and impressed. You can come out now.”
Of course, nothing happened.
Her people would find her. Chen knew that her companions, especially Rennan, would not stop looking for her. She had to be somewhere on the ship. All she had to do was figure out where she had been brought, and perhaps that revelation would provide a means of contacting Worf and the others.
“The answer’s in here, somewhere,” she said, to no one but herself. “I just have to find it, so let’s get to work. Think, Trys.”
Chen decided to conduct a methodical search of the chamber, starting at the door. She did not expect it to open, either at her approach or when she pushed and pulled on it, and she was not disappointed. The door possessed no handle or other obvious mechanism, and neither did she see any sort of key or control pad anywhere along the adjacent walls. Satisfied that she was stuck here until such time as she located another exit, she began working her way along the wall, intending to proceed around the room in clockwise fashion until she arrived back at her starting point. She might not have a tricorder, but she still had her own senses. Somewhere in here was a clue to her location, and how to get out, and she would find it.
So resolute was she in her convictions that it took her another full minute, she guessed, before Chen realized she was no longer alone in the room.
The sensation of being watched fell upon her with no warning, and she turned from the wall to scan the chamber, at which point she froze. Staring at her from where they now occupied the chairs behind the polished, floating table on the dais were seven beings.
And just where the hell did they come from?
Chen had heard no door open, and no indication of a transporter beam in use. One moment she was alone, the next she had an audience. Had they been watching her all this time, choosing only now to reveal themselves? She decided to take it as a good sign that they had appeared behind the table, which now acted as a barrier between them and her.
Of course, maybe your place is supposed to be on the table, with a nice Chablis.
Pushing away the sobering thought, Chen concentrated on studying her new admirers. If the chairs were any indication, these were tall specimens, vaguely humanoid in appearance yet while possessing many distinct characteristics. Slender yet muscled physiques were hinted at or else peeked out from variations on the multicolored gown Chen now wore, their pale orange skin providing sharp contrast to the darker, bolder colors of their garments. While each of the new arrivals almost certainly represented the same race, Chen noted the variations in height and weight, but nothing immediately stood out as indicative of gender. Completely hairless, at least so far as Chen could determine, their skulls consisted of a large, bulbous dome flanked by additional rounded protrusions where one might normally expect to find ears. Dark eyes were set under a pronounced brow, from which descended an extended set of mandibles that ended with a chin that fell almost to the center of their chests. Atop that length of bone or cartilage lay another, smaller segment that terminated just above a wide drooping mouth. This segment also featured a quartet of small holes at its lower end, suggesting a nose.
Their arms, Chen decided, were quite interesting. Somewhat similar to a human’s, they also featured a point of articulation between the shoulder and the elbow. Forearms flared out to form hands possessing seven phalanges. While the digits on either end of the hands were shorter than their companions, they did not appear to be obviously opposable. In fact, additional knuckles on each finger suggested a much greater range of motion than that of a typical humanoid hand.
Stepping toward the dais, Chen made a point to keep her hands where they could be seen. It occurred to her that these people already knew she was unarmed, but she figured the gesture could not hurt.
“Hello,” she said, not expecting to be understood.
“Greetings,” said the figure seated at the center of the table.
Well, that was easy enough.
While its voice seemed to possess a feminine quality—to her ear, at least, though she realized it was something she could not quantify—Chen remained uncertain as to the alien’s gender. Perhaps this species’ perceptions of gender differed greatly from how she understood them.
These are the kinds of things you learn when you’re a contact specialist. So, go forth and contact, already.
“My name is T’Ryssa Chen, of the Federation Starship Enterprise. My people and I have no hostile intentions toward you. Our mission is one of peaceful exploration, studying newly discovered planets and—if appropriate—making contact with any civilizations we might find on those worlds. We found your vessel adrift in space, and when we detected no crew aboard along with damage to the ship itself, we wanted to see if we could determine its point of origin, and perhaps inform the people there of what we’d found.” When none of the aliens said anything in response to her hastily concocted opening statement, she held out her hands. “Are you able to understand me?”
The alien offered a single, slow nod. “Oh, yes, we now understand you quite well. My name is Alehuguet. You have already learned that we call our vessel the Osijemal.” It gestured to the companions seated to either side of it. “We are the Conclave, representing the leadership council for our people.”
“Who are you?” asked Chen.
“We call ourselves the Nejamri, and we have been monitoring you since your vessel approached to within range of our scanning capabilities. Along with the communications between you and your companions as you have moved about here on our vessel, we have also monitored your interactions with your fellow travelers on your ship. This, along with your own attempts to understand our languages, has greatly assisted us in constructing a translation matrix. It is not yet complete, but we have determined that it is sufficient for us to proceed.”
“Fair enough.” If she and the away team were going to wander around over here, trying to access the ship’s computer and learn whatever they could about the people who built it, it was reasonable that these people would be just as curious about them.
Alehuguet continued, “According to our scans, your ship seems to carry representatives from many species.”
“That’s true,” replied Chen. “I actually represent two different species: human and Vulcan. Most of the people on my ship are human or some close relation, and our Federation is a collective body consisting of civilizations on nearly two hundred distinct worlds.” She indicated herself with a tap to her chest. “For what it’s worth, I am a female of my species.”
“As am I.”
Chen asked, “We’re still aboard your ship?”
Her face seeming to brighten as she regarded Chen, Alehuguet nodded. “Yes, but I suspect that you will have difficulty believing the truth about where you are. Our studies of your device’s interaction with our computer have helped us select a word you can use to describe this place: Haven.”
“Okay,” said Chen. “Haven it is, then.” Some kind of holodeck or other room that gave the illusion of being anywhere but on a spaceship. The need and benefits of such a retreat aboard a vessel during long-duration voyages were obvious, but she still did not understand the apparent drama surrounding this place. “Why am I here?”
Again, Alehuguet smiled. “Because, T’Ryssa Chen, we have been waiting a very long time for someone like you. We desperately need your help.”
16
No matter how many times he strode into the hallowed Great Hall, Martok was all but helpless to resist the sense of pride washing over him. Here, cradled within the chamber’s massive stone walls, was not just the legacy of the High Council but the very history of the Klingon Empire itself.
In particular, he enjoyed being here at times like these, when it was empty and he had it to himself. At this time of day, he was free to revel in the Hall’s solemn nature without the activity of a council in full session, along with the annoyances that often accompanied such gatherings. Alone with his thoughts, Martok recalled his initial visit to the Hall, as a boy during a family excursion to the First City. Though not yet a blooded warrior while preparing to complete his first hunt, he remembered how his heart beat with anticipation and excitement upon seeing the storied chamber. Like the city itself, it represented all that it meant to be a Klingon. The stories told to him by his father and grandfather about the Empire’s bravest warriors fired his imagination, and those flames were fueled as he laid eyes upon this hallowed sanctuary. As a boy, he never entertained the notion that he would see the inside of the Hall except as a visitor. The idea that he, the latest generation in a long line of simple foot soldiers from a common family born of the Ketha lowlands, might one day serve as a member of the High Council, let alone as its chancellor, would have been preposterous to that young boy so long ago.
It took us a long time, Father, but we restored honor to our house.
Even as a decorated, combat-tested general in the Klingon Defense Force, and now occupying the highest seat of power in all the Empire, Martok still looked to his father, Urthog, for advice. Given the family’s lack of noble blood, Urthog and his father before him had imparted an enormous amount of hard-won, commonsense wisdom, the appreciation of which in many ways was beyond the ability of those from more “accepted stock.” In the years since his ascension to the role of chancellor, Martok had continued to seek his father’s guidance. His aim was to ensure his reign over the Empire remained rooted in the best interests of all Klingon people, regardless of their societal status. He only wished his mother, wife, Sirella, and daughters Lazhna and Shen were still alive, so that he might benefit from their perspective as well. Regardless, he looked to their memories to help keep him on the correct path, their influence reminding him of why he was deemed worthy of such responsibility in the first place.
This is all your fault, Worf.
“You are not considering redecorating, are you? If so, I have some thoughts on curtains and new paint, and perhaps a plant.”
The voice, deep and intimidating for those who did not know its owner, echoed off the Hall’s high ceiling and slanted walls. With a smile, Martok turned far enough to his left that he could see with his one good eye K’shaf, a member of the council and one of his closest friends, regarding him from the chamber’s entrance. So involved was he with his thoughts that he had not sensed the other Klingon’s arrival. Were it anyone else, Martok might have cause for concern, but K’shaf had proven on occasions too numerous to easily count that he was worthy of unwavering trust.
As was always the case, K’shaf was dressed in an immaculate yet well-worn uniform featuring the vestments representing a long military career as well as his current political office. His long gray hair was pulled back from his face and secured at the base of his neck by a thick leather band. A wide, silver baldric hung from his right shoulder and across his broad chest to rest on his left hip, adorned with all manner of awards and devices that gave further testimony to his service and accomplishments. His ensemble was completed by the long, dark gray robe that was a match for the one Martok currently wore, as was the case with all active members of the High Council. The air of a politician was disrupted, however, by the scar running down the left side of K’shaf’s face, a gift from a Jem’Hadar soldier during a brief yet fierce hand-to-hand battle at the height of the Dominion War when it seemed the Empire might well be conquered. Unlike K’shaf, that soldier had not lived to fight another day.
“Having seen the way you keep your office,” replied Martok as he crossed the Hall’s stone floor toward his friend, “I suspect it is your wife who sends along such ideas. Or perhaps your son.”
K’shaf smiled. “My son has not yet even learned to walk or feed himself.”
“And yet he is still not so slovenly as his father.”
Laughing with a raucous ferocity only enhanced by the Hall’s acoustics, the two friends exchanged their usual greeting, which involved each trying to knock the other off-balance. The short, mock skirmish ended, as it always did, in a draw, evoking more laughter. Clapping K’shaf on his left shoulder, Martok eyed his friend with a bemused grin.
“The session is not scheduled to begin until later this morning,” he said. “What brings you here at such an early hour?”
“I knew you would be here, and that you likely would be alone. I know how you like to come here before each session, and that you prefer the solitude to the normal business conducted here.” K’shaf’s own smile widened. “I must say I find it hard to disagree with that stance.”
The truth was that even now, years after the loss of Sirella and with his children all dead, Martok found himself on the constant hunt for reasons not to remain in the home they had once shared. If there was any location on Qo’noS that held less appeal for him, he had yet to find it. Why he hadn’t relieved himself of the burden of the family dwelling and sought other, smaller accommodations somewhere else in the city’s Old Quarter remained a mystery, except that it harbored far more pleasant memories than those that caused him pain and sorrow. Despite this, he found himself growing increasingly restless during those hours he spent there. Aside from sleeping and the occasional meal, he chose to occupy his time in other environs, such as his office or one of the libraries housed within the Great Hall or at one of the city’s many taverns and gaming parlors. K’shaf often accompanied him on such ventures, and between them they were able to forget—at least for a time—the responsibilities they shouldered.
“It seems a bit early in the day for bloodwine,” said Martok, before making a show of casting conspiratorial glances about the meeting chamber. “But it would not be the worst idea.” After the pair shared another chuckle, he appraised K’shaf. “Something troubles you, my friend. Speak.”
This time it was K’shaf who looked around, as though verifying there was no one to overhear their conversation. Indicating for Martok to walk with him, they began pacing a circuit around the Hall’s perimeter. After waiting for several moments for the other Klingon to say something, Martok was about to prompt him when K’shaf at last broke the silence. When he did so, it was in hushed tones.
“This business with the Federation and the secrets that have been exposed. There has been much talk among the other councilors, but we all await your views on the matter and what you think it all means for the Empire.”
With a sigh, Martok replied, “It has consumed my thoughts for some time, and I confess that I am conflicted. On the one hand, there can be no excusing the crimes committed by President Zife and those who aided him. The Khitomer Accords have been stressed and tried to the point that I fear they one day will simply crumble beneath the weight of our collective stupidity.”
Enacted nearly a century ago, after the global catastrophe that had imperiled Qo’noS and every living thing upon it, the Khitomer Accords were the first of many tumultuous steps taken by the Federation and the Empire on their way to the present-day peace now enjoyed by both powers. Along the way, Federation scientists and engineers had provided all manner of expertise toward aiding the homeworld to recover from the ecological damage inflicted upon it following the destruction of the planet’s moon, Praxis. The resulting atmospheric pollution, left unchecked, would have rendered Qo’noS uninhabitable if not for this intervention. While many Klingons bristled at the idea of humans coming to their aid—even now, decades later—cooler and more practical minds eventually prevailed. The bond forged during that effort only served to strengthen an alliance many on both sides would have dismissed years earlier as a naive fantasy.
Despite a promising beginning, the Accords would be tested numerous times in the decades since its enactment. Nearly fifteen years earlier they nearly collapsed altogether, when Chancellor Gowron opted to withdraw from the agreement after the Federation declined to participate in the planned Klingon invasion of the Cardassian Union. It was but a temporary setback, with the Accords being restored as the Federation and the Empire joined forces to fight the looming Dominion threat. The treaty remained intact, and the bond between the Federation and the Empire was perhaps as strong as it had ever been. At least, that was the case until the human journalist’s startling revelations about secret agencies running amok, lashing out from the shadows while using vaunted Federation “morals” and “ideals” as cover for their actions. Martok knew with utter certainty that there would be no shortage of Klingons, including some who joined him here in this very chamber, who saw these new allegations as more than sufficient reason to once again question the necessity and practicality of the Khitomer Accords. It was this that had so occupied Martok’s thoughts in recent weeks, during which he attempted to consider a broad range of viewpoints, both supportive and otherwise, regarding the Empire’s long-standing if sometimes troubled relationship with the Federation.
“We have always known that humans and others like them can be as deceitful and dishonorable as any enemy we have ever faced,” said K’shaf. “And yet, how many times have we stood shoulder to shoulder as brothers, facing off against some of those same enemies?”
Martok grunted. “If your argument is that humans are susceptible to corruption, I remind you of the circumstances in which I became Chancellor of the High Council.” When K’shaf did not reply, Martok released a small chuckle, almost under his breath. “I often wonder if Worf, from wherever the Enterprise might be wandering the cosmos, ever laughs at the challenges and headaches he avoided by abdicating his own rightful ascension to the chancellorship.”
Worf’s challenge and defeat of the previous chancellor, Gowron, in the wake of the latter’s shameful political maneuvering at the cost of far too many Klingon lives during the closing weeks of the Dominion War, should have secured his own rise to the role, but he had demurred. Instead, he recommended Martok to be the face of the Klingon Empire as it moved forward into a new age, throwing off the chaos that had plagued it from within. Gowron’s corruption along with other internal strife, coupled with the deliberate sabotage of the Klingon government by the Dominion at the height of the war, had nearly torn the Empire apart. Worf viewed Martok as the one best suited to lead all Klingons out of that dark time. For someone with a humble upbringing and modest societal standing who wanted nothing more than to serve the Empire with honor, being asked to shoulder such responsibility was unheard of, and Worf’s endorsement had caused no small amount of strife among the members of the High Council.
