A Distant Ship (Smoke on the Horizon)
Malcolm Reed jotted off another autograph, this one on the back of a bar napkin, before handing it back to two underdressed young women. "Thank you," he told them, his words short but civil as he discreetly studied them. It was a source of constant irritation for his friend, Trip Tucker, that Malcolm of all people seemed to have a woman in every port; but in the aftermath of their travails in the Expanse, all he could think about was how young they looked. Are they even old enough to be in here?
Travis Mayweather, with a broad grin on his face, smoothly picked up the ball. "That's very kind of you to say," he remarked, causing the first girl to giggle excitedly. The young pilot had grown into himself during their grueling pursuit of the Xindi weapon, and his confidence was an aphrodisiac among a relieved, adoring female population. "Unfortunately, we can't actually give tours of the ship."
"If that policy ever changes," Malcolm kicked in, "you two will be the first to know." He turned his attention back to Dr. Phlox, hoping the brush-off would seem natural; he didn't begrudge Travis the opportunity to flirt, but Reed couldn't seem to stir up the same enthusiasm. The notion of quietly sipping his gin appealed to him more, and he again wondered where his energy had gone.
The two women trailed off, chatting excitedly with a couple lingering gazes directed at Travis. Neither, Malcolm noted, gave him a last look; his relief warred with the faint-hearted sense that he should be offended.
"You had to wear that jacket," Travis remarked slyly, speaking from the corner of his mouth. His eyes remained locked on the women with the focus of a twenty-something male.
With exaggerated furtiveness, Malcolm lifted a hand to cover the Enterprise mission patch on the sleeve of his Starfleet fleece. "Do you think I wore this jacket to attract attention?" he murmured, knowing that such was not the case; rather, it had been a long day on the Starfleet publicity circuit, and Reed's fatigue persuaded him to take the measured risk of not changing his attire.
"You do need the help," Travis replied with a sly, light-hearted jab. "I've heard all these stories about Malcolm Reed in action." Mayweather leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. "So far I've been a little disappointed," he added confidentially.
"Mind your tongue, Ensign," Malcolm retorted. "It just so happens that I've been deflecting the attention to you."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Phlox remarked, jumping in with a mournful expression. "Neither of you are sending anyone my way!"
"You can have the next one, Doc," Travis rejoined, having already seen the next admirer in the corner of his eye.
"You're too kind," Phlox muttered before breaking into a broad smile. The newcomer was a husky man; a couple years shy of middle age, he had clearly once been a conscientious weight-lifter, but now carried the weight of too many nights spent nursing a bottle. He wasn't filthy or ill-kept, but neither was he clean and neat.
"How's your drink?" the man said, slurring slightly with the twin effects of bourbon and beer. The man's build and bluster reminded Malcolm of a tall, slim Tellarite; needless to say, he kept the comparison to himself.
"Delicious," Phlox beamed, gesturing at his half-full Cucamonga coconut lime breeze. It looked out-of-place between Reed's gin-and-tonic and Mayweather's Old-Fashioned Brandy. "Thank you."
"Good," the man grunted. "Because I'd heard that your people don't like alcohol."
Phlox's brow shifted in confusion as he tried to read the subtext. "You may be thinking of Vulcans," the doctor suggested finally, aiming for a simple case of confusion.
"You know, you're right," the man said slowly, rolling the words in his mouth as if thinking hard. "I get your species mixed up all the time."
Unlike the Denobulan physician, Malcolm's instincts detected the barbed undertone, causing him to shift in his chair. "Is there something we can help you with?" Reed asked warily, adding his own inflection of warning.
The man shrugged indolently. "I'm just trying to make sure your friend here is comfortable," he replied with seeming affability. "It must be hard for him, to be so far away from his own kind."
Travis' chair shot backwards. "I'm sure he's quite comfortable," Mayweather retorted as his hands clenched.
The man fell back a half-step before recovering his balance. "I'm just concerned about the—the alien's wellbeing," he replied, struggling to properly identify Phlox's species as his attention drifted towards Travis. "If he's not comfortable here—if all these humans make him nervous—then perhaps we can take him to the Embassy district."
"We're not going anywhere," Malcolm rejoined tightly, rising to his feet as well. On the other side, two more bargoers approached, taking up stances behind Phlox's antagonist. Malcolm could sense the silence that had settled over the rest of the patrons as they were drawn in to the tension.
"Perhaps we should go on our way," Phlox suggested as he, too, rose from the table. The genial doctor had little interest in causing a scene.
"If your friend wants to go, you should let him go," the man added, dripping with dishonest pretense. He edged closer to Travis, establishing a half-head height advantage over the younger man.
Travis didn't waver. "You're not chasing anyone out of here," he snarled firmly. His feet shifted slightly as his posture eased.
"You Starfleet people are the real problem, you know that?" the man bellowed, dropping his charade of concern. "You fly around space telling every species you meet where to find Earth. Did it occur to you that they might actually come here?"
"Sir!" Reed barked out in drill cadence, capturing the drunk's attention. "Why don't you just go back to the bar?"
"Are you trying to give me an order?" the man retorted in amazement.
Malcolm nearly shook his head in disbelief, dumbfounded that this was happening at all. I guess saving Earth isn't all it's cracked up to be, he realized. There's only one way out of this.
Travis beat him.
Whipping his arm about the shoulder, Travis let loose a furious haymaker, knocking the man off his feet and crumpling to the ground. In the split-second pause that followed, Malcolm moved quickly, landing a quick hook on a second adversary; and Travis spun around with a cross, ratting the teeth of the third aggressor.
Before the fight could descend into a general melee, a collective gasp rippled through the bar, causing the fighters to pause and turn. Phlox's face had expanded outward with air.
"Just what the hell were you two thinking?" Admiral Forrest bellowed furiously, breathing fire on the two officers standing before him. The admiral's countenance was not helped by his lack of sleep; the Starfleet Chief-of-Staff had been called in—personally—to bail Reed and Mayweather out of jail. "I should lock the two of you in the brig this instant!"
It is strange, Malcolm supposed, half-listening as Forrest launched into vituperate reproach, raking the two junior officers over the coals for their transgressions. But I feel good this morning. The heavy lethargy and dreariness of the past few weeks seemed momentarily lifted from him to enjoy the day…there was, after all, a beautiful sunrise that morning, breaking over the Sierra Nevadas right when he had Malcolm had been released.
And Malcolm's high spirits allowed him to appreciate other things as well—the wicked morning winds of the Bay, the screeching of seagulls by the dock, and the incredible geranium red of Admiral Forrest's face as he—"Yes, sir," Malcolm spurted out, sensing the pregnant pause in Forrest's tirade.
"Good!" Forrest barked, letting his shoulders deflate with the exhalation. "At ease, men," he added, before struggling to stifle a powerful yawn. "Have a seat."
Malcolm and Travis exchanged uncertain looks before obeying; they had not anticipated this part.
"Do you have any idea how much of a shit storm you've stirred up?" Forrest settled, wearily, onto the front of his desk; one hand fumbled behind him for a control pad.
Behind Malcolm and Travis, the image of a three-mast clipper disappeared as the embedded wall monitor switched to active, revealing the morning news nets. Scrolling along the bottom, next to the "LOBONews" logo, was the top story of the hour: "Starfleet officers assault civilians."
"That's rather selective," Malcolm muttered, his chipper mood dashed to the ground.
"Why do you even watch that?" Travis added with dismay; LOBONews was an intractable critic of Starfleet.
"It gets worse," Forrest replied, scowling darkly as the screen changed. Now, the portrait of an "unidentified alien" filled the screen, under a screaming headline that asked "Is Starfleet protecting enemy aliens?"
"Phlox isn't an enemy alien!" Travis shot back at the monitor, aghast at the deceitful presentation. "He risked his life to save Earth!"
How the hell can they not identify Phlox? Malcolm mentally appended, wondering how much willful ignorance and bad journalism it took to call one of the heroes of the Enterprise "unidentified."
Forrest exhaled loudly as he flipped off the monitor, allowing the portrait of the clipper to once again adorn his office. "What the hell am I going to do with the two of you?" he repeated, glumly; the admiral's face had become the picture of exhaustion. "These people have been looking for any excuse to attack Starfleet, and you gift wrap it for them!"
Travis sucked in a deep breath. "Sir, we saved Earth!"
Forrest dipped his head momentarily before answering. "In the eyes of—these people—" he gestured generally. "You barely saved Earth from a crisis of your own making. Ironic, isn't it?" he said, snorting with bemused laughter. "All those years of the Vulcans telling us that humans were too young, too naïve to go poking about a dangerous galaxy…and now it's the nativists, of all people, who are agreeing with Soval."
"What would you like us to do, sir?" Malcolm asked, a little more guarded than usual; he was unaccustomed to seeing a flag officer express such frustration.
Forrest looked at them askance. "Get your asses off the planet. And stay out of sight."
The roar of the falls rumbled furiously through the narrow gorges with the concussive force of crashing water, sending iridescent columns of spray towering upward in a perpetual bank of drenching fog that rose above the surrounding plateau.
The massive river—one of Africa's largest and most pristine—meandered lazily above the falls, running broad and shallow as it cut through dense forest, spreading across nearly two kilometers with dark blue water and bright green algae banks. Below the falls, the river gushed mightily, pouring itself through spectacular cuts between perpendicular walls of basalt, many reaching half a kilometer high, creating one of Earth's most famous whitewater rapids.
At the joining point—above and below, situated on the edge of Africa's central plateau—the river seems to pause for a second, as if gathering its breath before taking the plunge. Every minute, half a million cubic meters of water poured over the lip of the gorge, instantly dropping a hundred meters before smashing into frenetic pools that swirled below. It was the Mosi oa Tunya—the "smoke that thunders."
Malcolm Reed, tactical and ordnance officer on the Enterprise, felt as though he was being sucked into the falls, for he was nearly in them. Back on top the plateau—the gorges formed a rough "T" shape, with the falls running along the top bar before being channeled into the lower portion—an observation platform hung tightly, extending slightly on a rocky precipice at the base of the junction. From this vantage point, the wall of thunder was scarcely a dozen meters before him; and the churning basin far below was nearly invisible, beneath the billowing clouds of spray.
Despite the constant drone of noise—or perhaps because of it—Malcolm found the serenity of the moment as he watched the breathtaking display before him. The depths of the colors were stunning; the richness of the water and the surrounding vegetation, the whites of the rapids, the sheer stunning scope of the falls, all came together to make the falls a wonder of the natural world.
"Malcolm Reed, as I shit and bleed," a voice drawled behind him, barely audible in the polyphonic booms of the water. Malcolm, recognizing the voice, did not stir, choosing instead to remain entranced within the sheet of foaming water.
Moments later, a figure emerged through the mist, making its way to the Starfleet lieutenant. It was a man, nondescript in size and build, dressed in the same civilian wear that Malcolm had donned; the man's face was trim, but not thin, and a short, curly mess of dirty blond hair adorned his pate.
The two watched the falls in joint silence for a moment, neither showing any sign of haste; at least, none that could compete with the timelessness of the great Zambezi falls.
The man, still watching the water, finally broke the solitude. "I didn't expect to find you down here," he remarked lightly.
"How did you find me down here?" Malcolm retorted, a little bitterly. He had logged no travel itinerary; and Admiral Forrest himself had granted Malcolm permission to travel sans a communicator. His trail should have been all-but-invisible.
"Come now, Malcolm," the blond man replied. He stretched the words slightly, as if unable to suppress an old accent, but both men knew it was an affectation. "We know each other better than that."
"I suppose so," Malcolm grunted, resigning himself to not knowing. "Why are you looking for me?" he asked instead, still not altering his gaze; his eyes remained locked in the watery haze.
"I heard about the incident in the bar," the blond man remarked. He, too, was peering studiously into the haze. "It is a shame."
"What would you know about that?" Malcolm bit back caustically. "I'm sure you applauded it."
The blond man smiled slightly and shook his head. "How is it possible, Malcolm, that after all these years, you still understand so little?" he asked, clearly expecting no answer. "I've actually met the good doctor before, although I'm sure he has no recollection of it."
Oddly enough, Malcolm found himself drawing comfort from the assurance. "What do you know about it?" he asked curiously. "I'm sure you've investigated."
The blond man bobbed his head slowly. "It's a problem, Malcolm," he said quietly. The thunder of the falls would cover his voice, but security was a good habit to practice. "Just last night, an Andorian and two Rigelians were attacked."
"I hadn't heard about that," Malcolm admitted readily. While he typically followed the news quite closely, he had spent the last two weeks incommunicado. He glanced around for a second, checking on their privacy. "How bad?" he asked, barely audible.
"We've had to ask resident aliens to return to their embassies," the blond man admitted, uncomfortable with the truth. "It started with a few isolated incidents, singular cases that we could write off to some xenophobic thugs. But it's been growing more organized, more systematic."
"Have you found a common thread?" Malcolm asked curiously. His investigative instincts, sensing a puzzle, were surging to the forefront.
The blond man finally gave Malcolm a sideways glance. "That's a trade secret, Malcolm," he answered, albeit with little reprobation. "But a lot of the fear is genuine. Those Xindi bastards resurrected some ugly stuff here on Earth."
Malcolm understood completely; in the years and decades between First Contact and the launch of the Enterprise, xenophobia had gradually lessened, finally tapering to the point of being isolated within a fringe element. But old feelings die hard, even if they've been suppressed deep inside.
"I haven't really felt like I'm home," Malcolm admitted. "Everything still looks the same…but the people are different, somehow. I can feel it," he added, struggling to explain. "But I'm not sure what it is."
"They are different," the blond man answered. "I don't think this is the same planet you remember, Lieutenant. People are giving in to their fear and anger—and several opportunists have been exploiting it, encouraging it."
"What's happening?" Malcolm mused again, as he continued to study the white falls.
The blond man chuckled once. "Remember the Arrow Cross?" he asked, receiving a nod in response. The Arrow Cross was a fly-by-night political organization that had managed to get a single representative elected to Parliament. "They've introduced a new measure. The problem is, they have the backing of the Revanchists."
"That's new," Malcolm remarked. Prior to the Xindi attacks, the Arrow Cross was all but untouchable. "What's the measure?"
"They want to force all resident aliens to carry identification papers at all times," the blond man answered nonchalantly. "Any alien caught without papers is presumed to be seditious, and held in custody pending a hearing."
"That's—that's—" Malcolm tried to shake his head clear as he sought to make sense of it, but could find no solace of reason. "Wouldn't it be simpler to tattoo them?" he asked acerbically.
The blond man grunted. "You got me," he responded.
Malcolm's sigh was swallowed by the mist. "I have to admit," he said slowly. "I thought you'd be in favor of that."
"You misjudge me, Malcolm," the blond man replied softly. "I have no great trust of aliens…but I can distinguish between a forest and its individual trees."
They lapsed into silence as the pounding cannonade of the falls rumbled beneath their feet. The observation deck was secured with the same stabilizers used by Starfleet; but an intrepid designer had alertly programmed in a little wiggle room, to give the viewers a taste of the powerful reverberations.
As Malcolm stared deeply into the mist, his eyes began to track the contrasting counterpoint of falling water and rising spray. One shot straight downward, while the other rose in muddled haze; temporarily translucent, it embodied a sensation of great depth, such that Malcolm could almost reach inside. The montage of merging colors flowed without borders, creating a world of blues and grays and whites, every miniature hue impermanent.
Floating on the mist were a hundred delicate aromas, each one soft and tantalizing as they wafted above the water's surface. There was the inevitable scent of fresh, clear water; but as Malcolm submerged himself, the botanical spritzes emerged, each one a richness of its own. Plant oils, tree saps, and flowery tissues each carried a unique bouquet, and Malcolm sought to identify even a single one of the exotic fragrances.
Deep inside a particularly potent fragrance of lichu, Malcolm found the serenity he needed to ask the dangling question. "What is it you want from me?" he queried, quiet but firm.
The blond man seemed to speak from the corner of his mouth. "We missed your reports this last year," he remarked, embarking on a tangential route. "But the information you provided during your first two years on the Enterprise was quite impressive."
"It wasn't exactly a pleasure," Malcolm rejoined testily.
"Ah, yes," the blond man voiced in understanding. "We expected that you would eventually go native in Starfleet. But the intelligence was—shall we say—extremely valuable."
"You expected it?" Malcolm shot back, his serenity lost.
The blond man gave Reed a withering glance. "You were never the happiest person in our organization, Malcolm," he retorted with a scathing tone. "We figured we were doing you a favor by placing you in Starfleet."
"Thanks," Malcolm said acidulously. "But why are you here now?"
The blond man sighed gingerly. "We were going to let you go, Malcolm," he answered, becoming a montage of regret. "But we have a slight problem to attend to, and a lack of available agents."
"I thought you had a replacement for me." Malcolm's tone expressed his distrust.
The blond man shrugged. "He was killed. Never turn your back on a Breen."
"On a what?" Malcolm replied instinctively, before shaking his head. "Never mind," he said, avoiding the attempt at redirection. "I think I understand. But I don't work for you anymore." He didn't—and harbored no desire to ever return.
"The mission will get you off Earth," the blond man responded, his tone almost lethargic.
Malcolm ground his teeth. That changes things. "All right, I'm in. By the way…" he paused a second before inquiring. "What name are you going by now?"
The blond man stuck out his hand effusively. "Kelly. John Kelly."
It's a little odd, Malcolm decided during the shuttle's brief descent from the ship above to the surface below, that the procedures weren't changed after the Xindi problems. For indeed, the mechanisms still functioned as he remembered, from his last days several years previous, with scarcely a change to throw him off.
Following his conversation with Kelly, Malcolm returned to his temporary quarters in San Francisco, and hung his feet off the balcony for a day until the private message came in. Brief and simple, it appeared to be nothing more than a friendly missive between two old shipmates; and Malcolm accepted the "invitation" from Captain Bollard to visit the Polyphemus.
The Polyphemus quietly left orbit with Malcolm still on board.
It's amazing, Malcolm thought, realizing just how quickly he fell into the old routines learned over the course of lengthy missions. With the vastness of space, the biggest part of any task was simply getting there—but contrary to established wisdom, the extended trips were an agent's best friend. It gave a rusty officer like himself the opportunity to regain the habits and behaviors that would keep him alive once in the field.
Five days later—warp travel being ill-advised within the sun's gravitational field—the Polyphemus reached the ring of sentry pickets embedded in the trans-Neptunian objects that circled the solar system. Once there, Bollard brought the ship into a standard patrol route that conveniently overlapped an infinitesimal gap in the surveillance fields. Centered around a nondescript rock bearing the nomenclature of Messiphoca-27, it was here that Malcolm boarded a shuttlepod with Bollard and was ferried to the surface.
No record existed of Malcolm's stay on board, and the shuttlepod logs were wiped clean and overwritten. Only a handful of crew knew, and they had long since demonstrated their reliability.
You never forget the cold, Malcolm reminded himself as he trudged down the broken path on the surface of M-27. The entire might of science had yet to find a system, short of a full EV suit, that could shield a solitary human from the bone-numbing cold that surrounded him, and few operatives liked the bulky suits.
Instead, like his once-and-current colleagues, Malcolm utilized a system of layered cold-weather gear to fend off the chill. After all, he reflected, the surface temperature was far above absolute zero—higher by nearly forty Kelvin. Forty-three Kelvin, if you measure by my head. The temperature inversion created by the whispery methane atmosphere created warmer temperatures higher above the surface, before the air disappeared completely some four meters above his head.
A tight, synthetic body suit sealed his body heat within and countered the differences in atmospheric pressure; it was standard gear in warmer climates, such as the ice moon of Europa or, surprisingly enough, the polar craters of Earth's own moon. Over that he wore a heavy parka of tanned hide and fur; its benefit was mainly to capture particulate matter, and Malcolm's parka was already turning icy with slivers of frozen methane and nitrogen. Slapping against one thigh was a pony tank containing an enriched nitrogen-oxygen mixture; it, too, was fueled by his body heat, reaching a tolerable warmth by the time the gases reached his translucent face plate.
You never forget about the cold, Malcolm repeated, but you sure as hell forget about the bleakness. The surface of M-27 fell away on either side of him, plunging over not-so-distant horizons with brilliant contrast; the deep blackness of the sky rose above the albedo-tinged ice and rock with nary a haze between them. The surface itself was jagged and unworn; formed predominantly by nitrogen ice and rocky rubble, it formed a jagged moonscape of rough plains and shallow ridges.
Everywhere, from the dark ice beneath his feet to the glimmering whiteness of terraced slopes, was the same scale of color; white to gray to black, shining in degrees of brilliant brightness as the icy surface reflected the scant starlight. The sun itself was barely visible—no more prominent than its more-distant brethren—but ambient glow settled on M-27, providing light equivalent to that of a full moon.
Malcolm forced himself to pay attention to the walking path. It had once come automatically to him, and truth be known, he could likely still navigate the walkway blind; but such was a bad habit for an active officer. The concealed landing pad, with an underlay of tritanium props beneath the icy crust, was nearly half a kilometer behind him; it was already vanishing over the horizon.
The track itself was delineated only by the unusual weight of its glow; the difference was subtle, but Malcolm knew to look for it. The pathway was maybe a meter broad, marking out the strip where induced gravitons had been injected into the ice to create a semblance of familiar gravity. Even this was not for the faint-hearted; the design created a noticeable shift in gravity with minor shifts in altitude. Malcolm's head and feet thus inhabited variegated affects.
Malcolm knew that the base was a master of disguise. From a hundred meters overhead, a random observer would detect nothing; the surface was completely camouflaged, and the heat emissions of the below-ground facilities were carefully bled into the surrounding mantle with the consistency of naturally-occurring radioactive isotopes. It was a long way from Earth, but the distance bred autonomy and pragmatism, inculcating the officers with respect for the harshness of space.
As he trudged along, Malcolm raised his head to look before him. His instincts told him that he was nearing the destination; his eyes argued that conviction as they vainly sought to find any visible clues of the entrance. But Malcolm knew it was there. The rock face before him—one of the tallest on the rock—held a carefully-sequestered entryway.
Dim blue lighting finally emerged, guiding Reed the remaining distance. He looked up one last time, struggling to locate the distant sun; then Malcolm lowered his head and entered.
There was one task before he departed.
It was a little unusual, being summoned to the depths of the burrows that formed the underground compound, but Malcolm felt no honor in the curt behest. It was instead a twisting and winding path, literally and figuratively, that led him through corridors designed to confuse unwanted guests. Buried in the walls, around each junction and randomly placed in walkways, were series of security measures; sensors and scanners subjected Malcolm to repeated invasions, investigating him molecule by molecule for weapons encoded within viral patterns.
Years of training reasserted themselves as Malcolm ignored the low-level jitters induced by the intrusive appraisals. They were unwanted, yes, but they were simply a part of the environment; no different from the soft hums of power conduits or the tingling of dampening fields. I've been through this before, Malcolm reminded himself, and far worse.
And it was Malcolm's recall, buried within his instincts, that led him unerringly through the unmarked shafts, bringing him to a dimly-lit alcove. In the middle, behind a small desk, sat a young man visibly brandishing a plasma rifle; the guard pointed the barrel towards the door behind him, indicating that Malcolm should enter.
The director's office was, conversely enough, decorated with a colorful montage of sub-zero greenery.
"Malcolm." The gravelly voice was soft, but it bore the strength of steel. "It's a pleasure to see you again."
"Thank you, sir," Malcolm replied carefully. He came to attention, clasping his hands behind his back, and gave the man a polite nod of the head.
In an organization that prized its ordinary appearance, the director stood out like an Andorian in Paris. A few years past his physical prime, he wore his age with senatorial distinction; a carefully-coiffed design of salt-and-pepper hair rested above creased lines. Soft blue eyes spoke of experience and care.
"I must admit, you surprised me," Harris observed, tilting his chair back. With easy grace—the compound's artificial gravity was set low—he swung his feet onto the desk.
"I told you about my concerns," Malcolm replied tightly as his stomach churned and twisted. In some ways, he had departed the organization without warning, simply disappearing in the direction of the Delphic Expanse. Even Malcolm believed that reprobation was due, and the director was a master of imprecative malediction.
Taking care not to float from his chair, Harris waved a hand in the air. "No, no, not that," he replied with unperturbed calm. It sent cold daggers through Malcolm's veins. "No, not that," Harris remarked again. "We saw that coming, years away. Besides, the intelligence you sent us was well worth it."
Malcolm bristled under the weight of the reminder. He wasn't exactly proud of those actions.
"No, I'm surprised that you came back," Harris continued. He dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned forward. "But then, none of us can ever truly leave this life behind."
"This is strictly temporary." Malcolm clipped his words more tightly than usual. "As soon as the Enterprise relaunches, I'll be leaving."
"Yes, of course," Harris mused neutrally, as if contemplating a conundrum. "But even for a temporary gig…I find it interesting that you agreed so readily."
"My reasons are personal." Malcolm nearly gargled the words.
"Don't worry, Malcolm, I heard about the incident with your doctor," Harris answered, countering with a smile of seemingly-sincere support. "But it's hard to believe that a single, isolated event like that would make you jump at the first opportunity to leave Earth."
"It's not quite that simple," Malcolm muttered, not knowing if he was telling the truth. Harris' nonchalant statement drove deep; his motives were about getting away from something, from the overwhelming sense of discomfort he had felt among Earth's denizens.
"Of course not," Harris observed, and the director rose to signal the end of the meeting. "You and Kelly will have the Black Prince for this mission. She's waiting in bay thirteen." Needless to say, the compound didn't have thirteen launch bays; it had three, which were randomly numbered to help confuse any potential foes. Or friends who got too far. "Kelly will have the mission briefing. Good luck and Godspeed, Malcolm."
There was no sound in interstellar space.
Like anyone else, Malcolm had seen his share of classic, pre-War films, many of which detailed extreme and implausible scenarios of mutated humans and giant cockroaches from Mars. Some of the films, Malcolm believed, were even entertaining in their own sort of way; futuristic fantasies in which you could hear the whine of lasers screaming between ships and the explosion of torpedoes, where rocket ships could traverse black holes, and teenagers could captain great starships in cataclysmic battles that destroyed planets.
Some of the films were entertaining, Malcolm believed, if you had never been in space. The hull of the average spacecraft was only centimeters thick. That was the reality of space. The glorious heroes, the bull-headed quips of bravery, the weird obsession aliens have with human sexuality…okay, he had met a couple of the last.
Kelly gave his partner a careful, sideways glance, trying to read the signs that inhabited Reed's dispassionate expression. The two men had worked together for several years, developing a system of subtle cues that allowed them to exchange complex thoughts with the scarce twitch of an eyebrow; but Reed seemed more distant now, not inscrutable so much as hollow. Something had happened to Malcolm, something out there—in the Devil's Expanse—to alter Malcolm in alveolate fashion.
Taking care to tame the inevitable squeaks, Kelly swung his cockpit chair around until he fully faced his once and current partner. Malcolm was only a meter or so behind; the main cabin of the Rigelian harrier was not large, scarcely larger than a decent lavatory. The Black Prince herself was slightly larger, somewhere between a shuttlepod and a personal yacht, but substantial alterations consumed the extra space once dedicated as crew quarters.
"Any questions on the profile?" Kelly asked, referring to the mission profile detailed on Malcolm's padd.
Reed snorted as he pulled out of a contemplative fugue. "No," he said slowly, gathering his thoughts. "It was…quite straightforward." But only in a way, he supposed. Like many missions, gaping holes of unknown factors littered the course with myriad opportunities for convoluted, on-the-fly shifts and alterations.
At the base, they were doing old-fashioned ground-pounding investigative work, the sort of thing at which Malcolm excelled.
The Genetic Research Institute—primary business offices in Windhoek, Namibia and research facilities on the sub-Antarctic Marion Island—was the only such facility licensed by Earth Parliament to research so-called "corrective" genetic therapy. The GRI's presence and purpose were widely known, albeit less than popular; the memory of Khan Noonien Soong still haunted humanity, even through the prism of the Final World War.
And therein lay the problem. Known only to a handful—Malcolm estimated, with little certitude, that less than a thousand people were in the loop—the GRI used the leftover embryos from Khan's laboratories as the basis for their research. The work conducted by Khan's scientists was so advanced that it remained cutting-edge, even after nearly two centuries.
There was a leak within the GRI.
Chapter break
Malcolm stepped out into the frozen world of Omicron Ceti VII.
Who in their right mind would build a trading post here? Malcolm wondered as he trudged into shin-high packs of methane snow, his feet crunching through the centimeter-thick layer of ice on top. The ice was so cold—hell, everything here is so cold, Malcolm thought, restraining a little bitterness—that even the superheated backwash of the harrier failed to melt it.
It was day on this side of Omicron Ceti VII. Despite the planet's distance from its mother star, considerable ambient light filled the air; the ever-present, swirling mixture of snow and ice crystals reflected and magnified the scarce natural lighting that came from the starlit skies overhead. The empyrean firmament was clear and crisp, with nary a cloud in sight; the astral particles of methane were stirred from the surface, riding high on gusts of driving wind. The view skyward was almost…ethereal, Malcolm decided, momentarily transfixed.
A sharp nudge from behind brought Malcolm's focus back to the network of landing pads, and he paused forcibly, steeling himself against the biting chill as he adjusted the thermal scarf wrapped around his head. Undercover assignments meant no Starfleet gear, and his crossbred mixture of weatherized clothing struggled in temperatures that never rose above two hundred degrees—in Kelvin. Cold enough to freeze ammonia.
The pads themselves rose nearly a kilometer above the valley floor, sitting atop massive stanchions that sunk deep into banks of dirty crystals and permafrost. Huddled in the lee of a towering mountain—not that it does much good, Malcolm griped—the extensive complex nearly disappeared in the darkness. Its visual presence was marked only by the rows of landing lights adorning the platforms and the lit windows of the main buildings ahead.
Malcolm stepped into the air-tight hatchway and stamped his boots with great relief, as if dislodging water crystals from damp feet; but the methane rapidly sublimated and disappeared into the circulation vents, leaving him almost aridly dry. As he reached up to unwrap his scarf, the machinery clicked loudly, signaling the end of the process; and the inner hatch swung open, releasing Malcolm into the central annex.
Who in their right mind would build a trading post here? Malcolm knew the answer—someone who wanted a permanent facility which nonetheless evaded notice. Here, on the edge of Orion space, that meant the Syndicate—the loose cartel of Orion crime bosses who overshadowed the quadrant. A Syndicate-controlled port was the ultimate in confidentiality, allowing traders and smugglers alike the opportunity to scrub their trail clean.
The hatchway entered directly into a makeshift bazaar, running the length and breadth of the central plaza. Minding his training, Malcolm took care to not tilt his head and gawk at the alien assemblage, nor flinch at the harsh aromas and corrosive odors; instead, exercising his peripheral surveillance, Reed entered the racket of noise as if a native.
In proper order, Malcolm and Kelly exchanged quick glances, checking to confirm that their disguises had not shifted. The pigmentation of both men was altered to appear yellowish-gray, with complex networks of plastique ridges adorning their faces; long beaded braids hung downward. Beneath their parkas, both men wore thick tunics made of interwoven rope, further adorned with beads.
They were Rigelian.
"That way," Malcolm grunted, directing his partner through the push-and-shove of the concourse. The dockmaster's office was unlabeled, its façade blending in with the dingy exteriors of the permanent stalls lining the plaza's perimeter; but only one such stall had two massive green-skinned Orions towering above the throng. Their bare chests revealed well-built bodies, rivaling many trees in size and strength, and both were adorned with stud jewelry implanted beneath their hides.
In some arcane manner, Malcolm realized, it made sense that the dockmaster would be the smallest Orion he had ever seen.
While still larger than either of the Rigelian-disguised humans, the dockmaster—Haas—seemed dwarfed by his desk, and even in the dimly-lit gloom of the office, Malcolm's eyes detected notable pudginess. In any other race, the Orion would have been a prototypical middle-manager—except he was seven feet tall and green.
"Purpose for your business?" Haas grumbled, barely deigning to look up at the new arrivals. The data padd in his hand already contained the stated registry of their ship; a Rigelian harrier, with modest alterations, traveling under the Earth name "Black Prince." Protocol had to be observed, after all, so that the Syndicate could skim its cut.
"Personal," Malcolm answered, allowing his usually-terse tones to tighten even more. Smugglers did not like talking about their business.
The Orion dropped the padd onto his desk with a clatter. "What kind of personal?" he demanded.
"It's a matter of family honor," Kelly stated, intervening smoothly in the minuet he and Malcolm had perfected many years past. Even after three years, the two men still fed seamlessly from each other.
"Ah," Haas replied, uttering a satisfied growl. He picked up the padd and keyed in an entry. "Pregnant sister. Length of stay?"
"Until we find the bastard," Malcolm groused.
"Three days," Kelly corrected. "At most."
Haas eyed Kelly with trained suspicion. "You'll have to pay for all three days, then," the Orion replied, his voice rumbling in warning.
"We intend to," Kelly answered.
Haas sat back with a satisfied grunt. "Very well then. Your ship will be detained until you make payment to the bursar. Is there anything else I can do to assist with your stay?"
"There is one thing you could help us with," Malcolm admitted. "We would like an audience with Tatsu'Shad."
"Tell him that Orson Jones would like a bit of his time," Kelly added.
"Orson Jones," the Orion underboss murmured as the two Rigelians entered his suite, escorted by another set of hulking guards. At Tatsu'Shad's direction, the two barricades stepped back outside. "I thought I killed you."
"To be fair, you did," the first Rigelian answered blandly. "But I got better."
Tatsu'Shad harrumphed in a low baritone, not bothering to stand up; even in a seated position, his head reached the chests of the newcomers. "Who are you now?"
The first Rigelian patted himself on the chest. "John Kelly," he answered, and then gestured at his companion. "This is my associate." He made no move to provide a name.
The Orion racketeer gestured for the two men to take a seat before him, as if supplicants at a throne; and as Malcolm's eyes shifted to adapt in the low lighting, he began to believe that it was an accurate analogy. The main room of the suite—recessed openings hinted at other rooms, most likely plus-sized alcoves harboring delights too decadent to imagine—was lushly decorated with the sumptuous depth and color befitting the cultured opulence of a prince.
Tatsu'Shad himself sat on elevated cushions before a recessed arch in the wall, richly decorated with intricate geometric shapes etched in black against the red-toned backdrop. A row of softened lighting ran behind the rim, casting a yellow glow that reflected from behind with mellow warmth, hiding coquettishly behind thin veils that draped on either side. Two large lamps, both blushing with pink-tinged glimmer, completed the aura of regality. The remainder of the room was decorated likewise, in lustrous tones of red and yellow, with crafted displays of rich, candlelit tapestries hanging on every wall.
Malcolm sat down slowly, feeling behind him for the plush cushions as he went; Rigelian anatomy was not kind on peripheral vision, but his hands did the work of locating the velvet shams. As he settled into the sumptuous padding, Malcolm quietly made note of a fragrant bouquet, breathing upwards from the sighing pillows, smelling remarkably similar to amber rose.
"There now, gentlemen," Tatsu'Shad grunted with satisfaction. "I always say, there's no reason why we can't mix a little comfort with business…can I get you something?" he offered, spreading his hands expansively in a display of openness. "Gramilian mosambi fruit? Tagusian truffles? Perhaps some Vandrosian wine?"
"No, thank you," Malcolm replied warily. It is unwise to refuse an Orion's generosity, he thought, reciting an old maxim, and more unwise to accept it. The Orions were not in the habit of poisoning their guests; at least, not with food. It was the servers—the scantily-clad, pheromone-laden, concupiscent enchantresses—that screamed of danger.
"Well, then," Tatsu'Shad replied, unruffled. "What does bring you here? Surely not to avenge your death," he added with a genteel smile, unafraid of his two guests. The underboss' once-trim figure was slipping into corpulence, but he could still handle them with ease.
"We're looking for a human, actually," Malcolm answered, taking his role in the conversation. As he spoke, Malcolm watched the Orion carefully, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfit. "A male named Jacek Pawlak. He arrived here six days ago."
Tatsu'Shad frowned and shook his head, causing his jewelry to jingle. "The name means nothing to me, human," he replied after a moment's thought. Fine gold chains stretched from his earlobes to his jowls, and they moved with flashing brilliance as he spoke.
Kelly gave an understanding nod. "We assumed that he'd be traveling under an alias," the agent admitted. "But he is an amateur; it was worth the chance." And we don't know his alias, Malcolm added mentally.
"Of course," Tatsu'Shad replied with a rumbling baritone. "We've caught a few amateurs that way. Do you have any more information?"
Malcolm felt himself hesitate before speaking; their intelligence was thin, and it went against the grain to disclose their best information without a quid pro quo. "He came in a private yacht, under the name Bella Luna," he uttered unwillingly. He was offering their best card for little more than the good faith of a racketeer.
"Now that may be useful," Tatsu'Shad acknowledged as a smile broke his face; the look gave Malcolm the chills. "The Bella Luna…" the Orion made a show of fumbling behind him, before withdrawing the data padd stashed surreptitiously beneath a pillow. "The Bella Luna docked six days ago. Sole passenger, a human named Wayne Davis."
There's the alias, Malcolm realized. "Is he still here?" Reed asked, carefully hiding his eagerness.
"The ship is docked on Platform Three," Tatsu'Shad answered solemnly, his voice rumbling. "Pad Seven. It's currently impounded. Your friend—" his nostrils flared with a snort— "doesn't seem to have paid his docking fees."
All three men understood the obvious implication: Jacek could have stowed away—or more likely, been taken unwillingly—on another craft. Passenger manifests submitted to the dockmaster's office were often less than complete. But it gives us hope, Malcolm realized with a wave of suppressed elation.
Kelly cleared his throat. "About the yacht…" he said carefully, alluding to an unspoken suggestion.
"It's a piece of junk," Tatsu'Shad grunted again, releasing a flash of anger. "Destroy it, if you want. It's not worth the impound fees."
The Rigelian named Kelly nodded sagely and shifted about, unhooking a small, leathery sack from his belt. "Harris sent along a gift," Kelly said as he tossed the sack to Tatsu'Shad.
Malcolm could hear the distinct clinking of crystals before the sack disappeared into the Orion's meaty fist.
Malcolm choked back a convulsive spasm of hacking phlegm as the harsh smoke hit his lungs.
"Been a while, eh?" Kelly responded, grinning wryly. He took the mouthpiece from his companion and, after dipping it felicitously in isopropyl alcohol, took a long drag of matisia-infused smoke. "Nothing like a relaxing puff," he added facetiously.
Malcolm shot his companion a glare of affected anger.
The Omicron Ceti trading complex, as befitting its Orion masters, contained several luxurious lounges, located on the upper tiers high above the bazaar level. Malcolm had been there once; not these lounges specifically, but others owned and operated by the Syndicate. Their opulence was extraordinary; charmed with a certain posh quality, the hedonistic extravagance was refined, not crass, designed for people who sought the rich comfort of affluence.
And, Malcolm acknowledged, our "connection" with Tatsu'Shad could get us in. But their target, Jacek Pawlak, came nowhere close to possessing the personal import necessary to gain interest. Thus, the two Rigelian-disguised humans found themselves in the lower-level dive, along with the various drifters, derelicts, vagabonds, vagrants, and fly-by-night smugglers who eked out peripatetic livings in space.
In trained fashion, the two men sat in a corner booth, hidden in the shadows of the room; the flame-lit water pipe between them added to the sense of darkness by toying with the light-sensitive eye. It was, in experienced opinion, the best way to pass the time on a critical mission; with the rest of the dregs, Jacek's options for drink were limited to the ill-kept tavern, and an amateur such as Jacek would need a shot to calm the nerves. From there on, it was simply a waiting game.
"What's bothering you, Malcolm?" Kelly asked quietly. Reed thought he could see concern beneath his companion's Rigelian mask as the other man leaned inward. "And don't bother denying it," Kelly added with a caustic glare.
"I didn't realize you were carrying blue crystals," Malcolm retorted, but his voice carried less anger than he desired.
The two men straightened up in unison as a waitress returned with their beverages. Malcolm promptly handed her a couple small coins; never run a tab was a basic rule of barroom stakeouts. Malcolm took his tankard, discreetly passing his hand over the rim. A mote-like trail of dust fell into the drink, neutralizing certain compounds designed for Rigelian physiology.
Kelly's shrug was nearly lost beneath the heavy woven tunic. "It's the best hard currency we have," he rejoined, exhibiting no guilt. "So what happened to you out there?"
When humanity first broke the light-speed barrier, it still took four years to reach the nearest star.
When seen from the night skies of planet Earth, the stars appeared as a great canopy, spreading across the heavens in ceaseless brilliance; the dazzling array of sequined grandeur seemed packed beyond comprehension, with the luster of starlight filling every conceivable iota of the firmament. But as one drew closer, the stars paradoxically disappeared.
Space is vast, Malcolm reminded himself as he watched the approaching star slowly appear before them. The slimmest speck of separation between two stars translated into trillions of kilometers of real space, nothing but the cold, rarified dust of the interstellar medium. In this frozen vacuum, solitary pinpricks of light existed, no brighter than the weakest torch in the darkest forest, providing sanctuary and lighting a path home.
Even the star, provisionally labeled S/2153 D 489 Delphini, was next to nonexistent. The Enterprise's sensors struggled to depict it as the starship crossed the system's heliopause; the star was nothing more than a speck of light, barely visible on the viewscreen. It's amazing, Malcolm realized, that something so insignificant can provide so much heat. Or is the truth that we require comparatively little heat to survive?
It was a small red dwarf, inconspicuous even among the most mundane stars of the cosmos. Scarcely a third of the size of Earth's sun, it flared brightly only within its tiny pocket of the continuum, and would do so for billions more years; what a red dwarf lacks in luminosity, it makes up for in longevity.
But the focus was on the second planet of the system, now filling the main viewscreen as the Enterprise neared its target. The planet appeared lush, even to the naked eye; beneath a cobweb array of wet clouds one could see vast oceans of rich blues and the dark greens of forest and grass. In a way, it reminded Malcolm of flying over the Scottish moors; rolling hills and vales interspersed with deep lochs of—
"The ecosystem is quiet prolific," Commander T'Pol noted unemotionally, casting a rote tone over Malcolm's odd reverie; the tactical officer was not prone to woolgathering. "Given our preliminary readings, I estimate that there are several million species of chromophyllic plants alone."
"What about Xindi?" Captain Archer asked, scarcely glancing backward to the science console. Like Malcolm, the captain seemed to be entranced by the beauty of the planet.
"I'm detecting no signs of larger animal life at all," T'Pol reported a moment later. "We will, of course, need to do a closer survey to be certain."
Nothing? There were a hundred reasons—more like a thousand—why a planet with such a rich biosphere might never develop the larger species of mammalia that dotted so many worlds, Malcolm knew; he was projecting his home island onto an alien world, and experiencing shock at the differences.
But it was still eerie.
Malcolm's console flashed at him, ripping his attention back to his duties. "Captain, I'm picking up an atypical metallic signature," he reported promptly, focusing in on the reading. "It's at the northern end of those equatorial islands."
"Is it a landing craft?" Archer asked, his own attention still fixated on the viewscreen. Off to the side, Ensign Sato discreetly zeroed the image on the abnormal reading.
"Likely, sir," Malcolm answered momentarily. The reading was far too solitary for any natural source.
From behind, Malcolm could see the captain's body straighten. "Any bioscans?" Archer asked, directing the question at T'Pol.
"None within a thirty kilometer radius," T'Pol reported, confirming her earlier readings.
Archer turned around, allowing Malcolm to see the ardent expression on the captain's face. "Prep a shuttlepod, Malcolm," Archer ordered, and Malcolm eagerly scrambled to obey. "Let's go check it out."
"He's moving," Kelly whispered alertly. While his attention appeared to be on the bubbling pipe, the veteran's peripherals were scanning the room. Their target had just set an empty mug down on the main bar. "Looks like he's leaving. Maybe five meters to the door. Slightly hurried."
"Got it," Malcolm replied, his lips barely moving. They moved in practiced unison, feigning a stagger of temporary inebriation as they left the booth.
Malcolm lowered his head slightly, allowing the shadows of his cowl to fall over his Rigelian mask. There was little risk of anyone identifying the false face, but he was playing the role of an underground trader; every step, every movement, every shift of his eyes was carefully calibrated to give the appearance of someone who prefers obscurity.
With little effort, Malcolm identified their target. Jacek Pawlak was not a smuggler, nor was he a trained agent; the man was a glorified security clerk from a crime-free facility on Earth, and he stuck out among the well-worn veterans of space. His body was tense, his steps were rushed, his head darted around in rapid movement; Malcolm didn't need to see the man's face. Jacek carried his guilt like a bull's-eye.
Only a single, sideways glance traveled between Reed and Kelly as they weaved their way around rickety tables and aging stools. Little verbal communication was necessary; the two men had spent many years honing their skills together, and now they separated, Kelly drifting to the right and Reed to the left, avoiding a direct line towards their target.
Malcolm loosed control of his body, allowing his autonomic impulses to guide him; it gave his pace a halting stagger that denied any purpose and the familiar blank stare of a druggie, blending with the other intoxicated and stoned patrons of the canteen. In his mind's eye, he assembled a replica of his surroundings; placing the walls and doorways in place, then filling it out with the montage of aliens milling about.
With apparent randomness, Malcolm kept a cluster of bodies between himself and his target, taking care to approach on an oblique curve matching his left-handed, listing stride. Without looking, Malcolm knew that his partner was doing the same, from the other side; but as they crossed the threshold of the doorway, a pace apart, neither gave the slightest recognition.
Ahead, Malcolm could see Jacek hurrying through the main bazaar, and Reed tensed subtly; Jacek was agitatedly glancing over his shoulder, as if spooked. Malcolm ran a quick regression through his mind, analyzing the angle of Jacek's stare; it was directed at neither of the pursuing agents, but that provided little relief.
Someone else is following him, Malcolm recognized, resorting again to his peripherals. Malcolm's pulse quickened while his pace remained the same; the pursuit suddenly doubled in intensity, no, tripled—the element of unknown ratcheted up the tension. No longer was he pursuing a single amateur; now, another trained agent was out there, unidentified.
Malcolm's senses zeroed in on a cluster of traders, some several paces behind Jacek. None was an obvious mark; they were following the human only roughly, with a nonchalant stride, occupied in conversation with one another. The familiar signs—the one trader who wasn't talking, perhaps, or one who stood off slightly—were not present. So why are they alarming Jacek? The would-be smuggler must have recognized one of them…
Dropping his right hand into his cloak, Malcolm carefully freed the straps holding his M26 blaster; the miniature weapon was designed for concealed carry and discreet use. It utilized a split-second plasma reaction to propel a projectile at nearly the speed of light, thus leaving no means of tracing the shooter.
The feel of the weapon gave Malcolm no relief.
It wasn't the suddenness of the movement that captured his attention; it was the unanticipated nature. Dozens of beings were milling about the bazaar, but all moved more or less according to prediction.
It's a simple trap, Malcolm realized as he watched it unfold, simple but effective. With Jacek's attention drawn backward, a rangy Nausicaan stepped into the human's path, wielding a curved knife, allowing Pawlak to impale himself on the tip. With a grunt, the Nausicaan hit man thrust the weapon deep, twisting it sadistically into his victim's entrails.
Jacek uttered a single, high-pitched scream as he died.
"Now at thirteen kilometers altitude," Malcolm reported. He was riding in one of the twin jump seats; Commander T'Pol occupied the other, with Ensign Mayweather at the controls. Captain Archer, who was pacing the small bay, rounded out the landing team.
"There's a break in the canopy ahead," T'Pol added. "It should be wide enough."
Travis ignored his sensor readings, opting instead to peer into the forested murkiness ahead. "I see it," he replied moments later, pulling the shuttlepod slightly to starboard.
It took Malcolm maybe a half-minute longer to spot the upcoming meadow; the fog banks kept the surface low-lit, and the grasses themselves were the same shades of dark green that populated the trees.
As the shuttlepod approached, ducking under the irregular cloak of moisture, the horizon of the alien world spread out before them, causing Malcolm to suck in his breath as the panoramic view expanded in every direction. Undulating hills and rippling mountain ridges underlay the shroud of tall, powerful trees and unbroken fields of forested pavilions; in the distance, it merged into dull blue-gray skies of permanent water masses suspended in the air. Rivers and lakes could be spotted, running through the land and into the sky, disappearing into distant seas shining with remarkable splendor under the veils.
As they closed in on the meadow, Travis eased the nose of the shuttlepod downward.
But before pandemonium could erupt, the assassin jerked backwards, as if struck by a propelled object; and he, too, feel dead to the floor.
Shit! Malcolm's mind screamed at him, urging him to move in the scant fraction of time before the bazaar went crazy. He couldn't be certain—despite the heavy feeling in his chest—that his partner had shot the assassin; but this was not the time to be caught carrying a weapon.
And a second later, the bazaar erupted in frenzy as the milling traders scrambled away, none wanting to be caught in the vicinity when the Orion guards arrived. The killing of a human, that was no big deal; but there would be retribution for the death of the Nausicaan assassin.
Malcolm's feet danced spryly as he sought to stay upright, between the helter and skelter of the fleeing traders. Would Kelly really be that daring? It was an audacious gamble, particularly for an agent trained in covertness. Maybe he's confident that he won't be caught? No, Malcolm decided, carefully timing his ricochet from one alien body to another; Kelly wouldn't do something so rash.
Malcolm knew what everyone else present knew—as a rule, Nausicaans were not allowed in Orion trading posts. Nausicaans were among the most violent of races, and trade, legal or otherwise, profited from safe, secure harbors. The Syndicate abhorred violence that wasn't its own.
Which means one thing, Malcolm recognized. The only way for the Nausicaan to enter the post was with the express approval of the local underboss—Tatsu'Shad. Jacek's killing had to have been on the orders of the Syndicate; and whoever shot the hitman had killed a protected asset of the Syndicate.
The bazaar was clearing quickly, and Malcolm needed no explanation: the guttural bellowing of two Orion thugs carried easily over the din, sending the mélange of preservation-minded traders scattering as if before a shockwave of barely-restrained fury. The bulk of unwashed bodies shoved each other in retreat, and years of old training rushed forward; Malcolm allowed the wave to carry him forward, as his sought an opening.
There, he thought, recognizing an opportunity. It was slim—barely wide enough—but he could slip his body through, escape the mass, and move himself forward. A quick movement—to the left, forward, to the left again—and he was free of the throng, slipping into a dimly-lit alcove along one side. He was safe—unless—
The flood of bodies rushed past in noisy stampede, leaving a strong odor in their wake as Malcolm crouched to the floor, trying to make himself scarce. There, his mind recognized, counting off ticks; the guards should be approaching soon…and passing by…
Before him, the massive shapes of two Orions appeared, bedecked in various decorations of leather and jewelry. Malcolm's gut plummeted; their eyes were sweeping the corridor, as if searching for a particular target, and he tried to crouch lower, disappearing into the shadows.
One of the guards swung his eyes past the alcove, but Malcolm felt no relief; and the guard's eyes returned, peering in suspiciously. Malcolm held his breath, making no discernable movement; he dared not even shift his head.
As the moment grew heavy, a sense of peaceful doom settled over the Starfleet lieutenant. For in the corner of his eye, he saw the guard raise a gun, and a brutal stream of light crossed the short distance to Malcolm.
As the dim world fell into blackness, Reed had time for one last thought: I hope that thing has a stun setting.
It must be night, Malcolm thought wryly as he led the way through the thick bramble. The forest floor was nearly black, and Malcolm was quickly reassessing his take on the planet; there were portions, he was certain, that resembled his Scottish neighbors, but they had set down in the middle of a tropical rainforest.
Already, he could feel the sweat running down his body in uncontrolled torrents. The air was thick and sweltering; his water-resistant uniform was growing damp in the sultry heat, and a mist rose everywhere, hovering only a meter above the carpeted floor. It was more like a sauna—if a sauna had jaguars.
Malcolm had seen the bioscans, and he trusted them; but somewhere in the jungle was a rodent whose snarl sounded suspiciously like a large cat. And that was only one sound among a hundred; a boisterous caterwauling of bird calls could be heard overhead, mixing with the sounds of bullfrogs croaking and rats scrambling through the forest debris.
Malcolm's torch caught a reflection. "Sir," he whispered, then pressed forward through a thicket of ferns, his pistol raised in readiness. In the scant clearing before them rested what appeared to be an alien craft; a quick survey revealed that the hatch was open, and the vessel deserted.
"Judging by the oxidation, this happened about two weeks ago," T'Pol noted. And judging by view, it was a long time before that, Malcolm reflected. He didn't doubt the accuracy of T'Pol's hand scanner; the hot, wet atmosphere preternaturally aged the exposed systems of the craft, giving the false appearance of far greater duration.
"I think it's Xindi," Travis added, stepping carefully around the forsaken shuttle. "I can recognize the design lines."
"Malcolm, search the area," Archer ordered; the captain's voice seemed disembodied in the blackness. "See what else you can find. T'Pol, some of their databanks may still be intact—"
"Captain!" Travis' voice cut through in alarm. "It's a body!"
Malcolm swore softly as he navigated towards the ensign's voice; finding a body, this close to the landing craft, was rarely a promising sign.
Reed reached it half a pace behind T'Pol, who already held her scanner aloft. "It isn't Xindi," she reported, punching the controls of the unit. "At least, not one of the three species we've encountered so far. It appears to be badly burned."
"Is it anyone we're familiar with?" Archer asked as he emerged from a thicket.
Malcolm imagined T'Pol shaking her head. "No, sir," she answered verbally; body gestures were next to useless. "However, the whole area seems to be scorched."
"It wasn't the shuttle," Travis countered immediately, causing Malcolm to feel a familiar tingle of adrenaline; if the source of the blast wasn't the shuttle…it had to be someone else.
"On your toes, everyone," Malcolm responded quickly. His gaze jumped from the burned body as he began sweeping the perimeter for signs of the assailant. "Whoever did this could still be out there."
"I'm not detecting any signs," T'Pol rejoined primly.
"And your scanner isn't perfect," Malcolm answered grimly. He detected no movement, but that meant little; and he felt unusually jumpy, as if his instincts had come alive in warning.
Shutting off his torch to assist his night vision, Malcolm gazed more sharply into the thick, dark shrubbery that surrounded the blast zone, searching not just for signs of movement but also for unusual patches of black that might indicate a stalker. They're out there, he was certain; his senses were honed and alert, warning him of danger lurking out there, somewhere in the midnight jungle.
Without much thought, Malcolm raised a hand to loosen his collar; between the heat and moisture, his uniform was becoming unusually constrictive, causing him to fancy a momentary notion of stripping it off entirely. And the fidgeting with his collar did little to help; if anything, it felt even tighter, as if ensnared in a diabolical trap.
Malcolm's focus slipped as a faint burning sensation pricked his right hand, expanding rapidly to cover the underside of his forearm. This isn't right, his mind warned him; the sensation wasn't "normal." On an alien world…that often meant danger. Suppressing the furious urge to scratch, Malcolm instead rolled his sleeve upward, exposing a portion of his arm.
A blue-gray mottling covered his arm.
He lifted his eyes again, noticing that the world was suddenly becoming brighter; and a burning sense of pain slammed him to the ground, forcing him to roll in agony. But within the pain, he felt a strange sensation of bliss; a sense of uplifting, a sense of heated euphoria.
A being emerged in front of him, and Malcolm leapt to his feet with surprising grace. It wasn't the enemy he had been watching for; but any unknown being was a potential danger. This one barked at him in a strange, guttural tongue, and obeying his instincts, Malcolm pulled back into the darkness.
The alien turned and ran a short distance through the jungle, and Malcolm followed, springing carefully across the spongy ground to hide his footfalls. He heard the alien growl again, then it lifted some sort of instrument; and Malcolm starred with shock as it fired a lightning beam straight into the captain's chest, knocking his commanding officer to the ground.
Malcolm rocketed forward, landing on the alien's back and pulling them both to the ground. His ears noted in passing the skittering sound of the lightning generator sliding into the underbrush; he could feel the alien's body go limp beneath him. Its bioelectric field indicated that it was unconscious, and no longer a danger.
Spryly, Malcolm jumped back to his feet, turning back to check on the captain. Archer, too, was stumbling back to his feet; and Malcolm was relieved to note that the captain seemed to have suffered little injury. His clothing was untorn, his long hair was barely disheveled, and the delicate ridges lining Archer's face were not even bruised.
Travis appeared a moment later, himself appearing no worse for the wear, giving Malcolm a profound feeling of easement; the pilgrims' safety was his responsibility. He had nearly failed, but that was irrelevant; they were still alive.
"What should we do with it?" Malcolm asked, gesturing to the catatonic alien before them.
Archer frowned. "We'll have to leave it," he muttered unhappily. "We can't take it with us." And killing it in cold blood was not an option.
"We should get moving again," Travis added. "We can cover several more kilometers before daybreak."
As the trio turned and left, the memory of the unconscious alien slipped away.
Chapter break
Malcolm's head throbbed steadily as he clawed his way back to consciousness, awakened by the semi-rhythmic banging of a blunt object upon unyielding sheet metal and the echoing vibrations resonating within the cramped room.
Even before opening his eyes, Malcolm's suffering mind began to construct an image of his surroundings. The close reverberations beating against his body indicated that his new environment was small and cramped, scarcely more than a storage closet, but lacking any accoutrement; except for himself, the room may as well be abandoned. Stifling heat, thick enough to drag upon his breathing, indicated that ventilation was next to nonexistent; and the pungent aroma of alien scents and excrement suggested that the constrained confines was utilized as a holding cell.
Eyesight revealed little; it was the weakest of the five senses, after all, and Malcolm was trained to operate without it. The chamber was pitch black, with only a crease of light showing the frame of the hatchway.
In his mind, amid the pulsating pain, he sketched a map of his surroundings, exercising patience as he translated the non-visual cues provided by his senses. The cell, he detected, was roughly rectangular, maybe two meters by three; a little large for a closet, but perhaps the right size for a storage room. He followed the ripples carefully, searching for minute fluctuations, but none were noticeable; the room was otherwise empty, he determined.
He sought the source of the metallic racket and located it, slightly above the floor on one side; it came from the outside, as if something were hammering the sheet metal. In a second, the battering rhythm broke and gave way to a garish racket that upset the sonorous currents of the cell; the paneling had given way, forced inward by whatever mechanism labored behind.
"Malcolm?" The voice was low and muffled underneath the dwindling clamor.
"Kelly?" Malcolm groaned slightly as the words added to the pulsating cadence in his head. "I swear to god, I hope you brought some analgesics."
His partner's smile carried through the darkness. "'Fraid not, Malcolm," Kelly replied laconically. "I could free you or bring you painkillers, but not both."
Malcolm exerted a painful grin. "You guessed wrong," he groused.
"We have to keep moving," Malcolm urged his comrades as they paused, momentarily, in a moon-lit clearing. The leafy canopy overhead never broke, but here and there—these isolated patches within the unending jungle—it thinned just enough to allow the glow of moonbeam to illuminate the remote floor with the chromatic aura of soft light and shadow. For a moment, in the wee hours of the dark, the primeval bush assumed an almost diaphanous beauty of gossamer phosphorescence; but the incandescent echo of light would not last long.
A muffled thud sounded beside Malcolm, but the security officer paid it little concern; it took little more than simple instinct to identify the falling object as Travis. Having been high above, spryly scaling the heights of the towering, emergent hardwoods, the dexterous navigator dropped lightly from the lower limbs of a nearby tree. "We're on course," Travis reported, picking himself up from the decaying debris of the forest floor.
Archer didn't respond immediately, causing his two companions to turn and look at their leader; he was squatting on a rock, a brooding expression on his face, as his fingers played with a patch on the clothing he wore. "Enterprise," Archer murmured, reading the carefully-aligned markings.
"Yes," Malcolm replied cautiously, uncertain of what to make of this. "It's our old ship, remember? You were the captain."
"It doesn't matter," Travis added crossly. He was bouncing on his feet, clearly ready to keep moving. "We don't have time for this. We have to get to the Eternal City."
"The Eternal City," Archer murmured distantly. He remained pensive, as if agonizing over an invisible dilemma.
"The Eternal City," Malcolm repeated, seeking to prod the captain back into the moment. "You used to be the captain of the Enterprise, but now we're returning to the Eternal City. It's all that matters now."
Kelly led the way, skating carefully through the network of maintenance shafts and sanitation ducts while Malcolm followed behind, guided as much by the rattling sounds of Kelly's passage as any sense of sight. The ducts were pitch black, allowing only brief glimpses of dim light to intrude upon the Stygian darkness, but Kelly found his way unerringly through the warren; it was slightly more surprising, Malcolm thought, that the unavoidable racket failed to draw any interest, but there too the regular din of the facility more than covered the jangle of their passage.
Or perhaps, Malcolm figured, the transient residents know better than to investigate the odd fracas.
A trained metronome of time ticked away the minutes in Malcolm's head as they continued through the interminable ductwork. It was in part an automatic reaction—for he had no solid notion of how much time could safely transpire before his escape was noticed—and in part an intentional effort to regulate himself, to pace his breathing and his thoughts within the claustrophobic blackness and heavy, stale air.
Not for the first time, Malcolm found himself pondering upon the readiness of his Starfleet superiors for the realities of space. They could develop a warp-five engine, no doubt; but did humanity really expect the interstellar reaches to be so clean and antiseptic? His regular duty coveralls would have been woefully insufficient amid the jagged cracks, the hostile lumps, and the irregular projections of the surrounding walls; the thickened Rigelian gear was saving him from many a potential broken bone.
After a distance—eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds, Malcolm counted; it was a dangerous length of time for a newly-escaped special operative to spend in the shafts—Kelly stopped before him. With three precise blows, a sheet of metal popped outward, allowing the two operatives to fall, in relief, into a small room.
"Sorry for the stench," Kelly said, smiling, taking a minute to rest on the floor plates. His Rigelian tunic appeared battered and stained, yet intact; somewhere along the way he had either lost or discarded the pseudo-latex mask.
"Someday I'll introduce you to a Pyrithian bat," Malcolm responded, equally laconic. Grabbing his own mask by the braids, he gratefully pulled it from his head; the plasticine compound allowed him to breath freely, but it still felt as though he was suffocating. Starfleet's working on new plastic surgery techniques, he recalled, wondering when they would be ready for field use.
"So where to from here, Macduff?" Malcolm questioned, stretching his legs to ease the kinks embedded within his muscles. "I don't suppose you have a plan, a back-up plan, and two contingency plans?"
"Nope," Kelly replied, smiling easily. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving more grim in the blonde locks. "But I do have the access codes to Jacek's shuttle."
Malcolm grinned back. "You're all rash-and-dash today, aren't you? Shooting the assassin, after all…"
Kelly hurtled a baleful glare at his companion. "I can control my anger a bit better than that, Malcolm."
"Ah," Malcolm replied, feeling a bit relieved; he allowed himself to slump against the wall. "So who did shoot him?"
"Oh, I did," Kelly answered, nearly laughing at his partner's bewilderment. "But it wasn't rash; that Nausicaan was marked for assassination from the start."
Malcolm closed his eyes momentarily as he eased through Kelly's words, searching for the careful omission that would lend reason to an otherwise-foolish plan, and groaned once. "Tatsu'Shad," he said, somewhat miserably. "Tatsu'Shad was in on it."
Kelly nodded slowly. "The Nausicaan worked for a rival in the Syndicate."
"And the—killing—can't be traced back to Tatsu'Shad," Malcolm averred.
"Right-o." Kelly gave Malcolm a slap on the shoulder. "Let's get going."
The soft sound of a creature moving through the underbrush was nearly deafening.
Malcolm awoke in shock, springing to his feet even as the neural pathways of his hybrid mind flew into action, sending bioelectric impulses deep into the shadowed regions of his amygdala and adrenaline shooting down every root and stem of his system. The noise was completely unfamiliar, an unknown sound that matched nothing in the alien's experience; but it was concurrently commonplace, its ordinariness almost comforting as the vibration echoed within the human's root instincts.
With his senses in jarring discourse, Malcolm landed lightly on the pads of his elongated toes, gripping into the half-rotted soil with the bared phalanges. His ears twitched as his head spun around, and tufts of fine hair quivered in the light breeze, searching out the source of the disturbance; there was something, he knew, some sort of large animal moving across the jungle floor, its intentions unknown and untrustworthy.
His tufts of hair flickered again, registering the slight change in bioelectric fields around him; without turning to look, Malcolm recognized the distinct signature of his two comrades, themselves jolted from the shallow reaches of cautious sleep into instant wakefulness. There was a reason why their people—far from the most fearsome predator upon the planet—had achieved a position of relative dominance; and now, beneath the black canopy of the deep rainforest, those same survival instincts surged forward, promising protection from the unseen threat.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Malcolm flexed his toes, allowing his grip of the mucky soil to lessen. He was the most experienced of the three; it was his duty to protect them, and so he moved forward, stepping circumspectly upon the carpeted array of decaying leaves and squelching mud. Doubtlessly, the other being out there had already located the trio; but sufficient stealth and wariness may yet protect them all.
It was the smell that gave their onlooker away.
There was something resolutely foreign about it. Malcolm's nose, a mélange of delicate adenoids and olfactory nerves, twitched suspiciously as he soaked in the rich tapestry of jungle life, painting a portrait far more detailed than his foolish eyes could ever provide; and amid a thousand odors, each one imprinted distinctly upon his mind, his attention zeroed in on a solitary scent.
It did not belong. It was foreign; so foreign that Malcolm wondered if it was even of his world. His nerves worked hard, teasing out the various tendrils of aroma contained within, searching for a clue. There was a heavy layer of metallic odor, a blend of processed substances that each carried its own uniqueness; and the distinct dullness of plasticine, drenched in sterilizing agent. And the perceptible scent of harissa phalon spice underlay it.
The smell grew stronger as the being approached their rest site, and Malcolm slunk backwards, willing himself to disappear within the shadowy embrace of the underbrush. His comrades did likewise, disappearing from sight and sound; although an attuned observer could still detect them, their own bouquets were lessened behind the perfume of the flowered bushes.
And Malcolm watched carefully as the stranger stepped into the small clearing.
It was clearly a hominid, he recognized immediately; the being, clad beneath a suit, possessed the standard two-arm, two-leg physiology of his own people. But it was clad almost entirely in a jumpsuit, thicker and heavier than the one he himself was wearing; it was primarily made of metallic copper fabric with dull gray pads interspersed across the suit.
The stranger's head possessed a familiar, hairy mane, and was oddly lacking any meaningful brow ridges above its offset eyes. Below that, however, its face became obscured; where the snout and mouth should have been located, the creature wore some form of mechanical apparatus. It was made of translucent material, but in the darkness, it was enough to blur the visage beneath. From the base of the mask, a tube ran downward, attaching itself to a metallic tank strapped to the being's waist.
Breathing silently, Malcolm began to inch backwards, stealth more critical than speed. The malodorous brush stayed between him and the stranger, helping to shield his withdrawal, and each toe fell lightly upon the muck, avoiding even the sluicing sound of oozing mud. His haunches were primed to catapult him upwards if the moment burst out in danger; but the interloper seemed unaware of his presence, and Malcolm was in no rush to reveal himself.
What? The matted fur on Malcolm's arms shot straight up as he heard movement from the side, nearly causing him to stumble in panicked haste. It took but a second to locate—there, to his right, a bush was shaking—but the cause baffled him; for from behind the vegetation came Archer. And Archer stepped slowly, but freely, into the small clearing, approaching the stranger with no sense of fright.
Malcolm nearly hissed at his comrade, but his sense of self-preservation quashed down the vocalization in stillbirth, and he watched in frozen terror as his comrade approached the stranger, arms open in hesitant gesture, somewhere between defensiveness and acceptance.
Barely aware of the static hysteria he was causing, Archer moved forward slowly, his own instincts fighting a brutal battle within. A portion of him screamed for flight; this being was completely unknown, a stranger not just to Archer but to the planet itself. It was unknown, and thus a danger, and his life depended on the ability to flee.
Yet despite the alien nature of the being, some unfathomable string pulled him forward, promising that all would be well if only he welcomed the stranger. For the alien was, inexplicably, readily familiar, as if it was his own kind; and Archer smiled slightly as he held out a hand, pointing to an insignia on the being's chest. "Enterprise," he said slowly, the word uncomfortable but not unknown. He then pointed to the identical insignia on his own clothing. "Enterprise," he repeated.
In retrospect, the shock was foreseeable.
Crawling through another stretch of cramped ducts, the air around them was heavy and stale, as if adding a blanket of mold amid the crepuscular darkness of the tubules. Here and there, Malcolm noticed as they moved, minuscule cracks around time-worn bolts allowed in the faintest echoes of external glow, quickly extinguished amid the lugubrious murkiness of gamy air.
Resisting the urge to clench his teeth, Malcolm focused on the rhythm of his breathing as he sucked the air in and expelled it through his mouth. He had been in worse; as if that's any consolation, he grumbled wryly, recalling the week spent in microbacterial decontamination. Oddly enough, he had been fussy as a child, a stickler for cleanliness, but the fetid air was quickly reminded him that he was a child no longer.
Ahead, Kelly banged against a metal hatchway once, twice, three times before it broke away, sending a clatter down the ductwork. The superannuated air rushed outward, giving Malcolm a scarce moment of warning before the heat was gone; and his body jumped in rapid compression as the external coldness hit, plummeting from one human tolerance to the other in a single breath.
Icicles of gas tore into Malcolm's lungs as he crawled from the shaft, emerging beneath the harsh artificial lights of the space port. Unsettled snow swirled about him, traveling on strengthened zephyrs tearing across the tableau of landing pads, vanishing into an overhead pastiche of blurry spotlight and particle, blanking out the stars he knew lay beyond; and somewhere, beyond the outer veil of the lights, lay the unforgiving barrens of Omicron Ceti VII.
"Malcolm!" Kelly's screaming voice was barely audible in the harsh gusts, but Malcolm's trained ears caught the exclamation, shifting his focus back to his partner; Kelly was holding out a breathing mask, and Malcolm took it gratefully, strapping the transparent apparatus over his face. Flipping up the woven cowl of his Rigelian cloak, Malcolm felt the sharp sting of the elements lessen slightly, enough to keep him alive.
Kelly pumped a fist in the air twice, then pointed with a single finger, and Malcolm echoed back, indicating he understood: the Bella Luna was in the direction indicated, and the two men set off across the tangled expanse of landing pads, keeping low and in the shadows.
The trio—the quartet, now—gathered together in the clearing as old suspicions vanished, shadows of disquiet giving way to a sense of renewed kinship; for the newcomer's face, while still unknown, bore a familiar resemblance to someone Malcolm had once known, as if in an extended dream in the early reaches of his childhood. Her face was unusually smooth, her skin olive and her hair long and raven black, but there had been others like her once before; others that he knew, and could rely upon, and entrust his survival with.
Inside the translucent mask, he could see her lips move in the rough approximation of speech; and sounds emerged, rough and mechanical, but in language familiar to him. She said her name was Hoshi, and that she came from among the stars of the firmament, high above the highest winds and beyond the highest stratospheres.
"Have you come to join our pilgrimage?" Malcolm asked a few minutes later, thoughtfully weighing over Hoshi's words of greeting and introduction. Her own purpose, her own raison d'être for walking the ladder of light, was curiously absent from her initial words, and only but a few subjected themselves to the travails of the journey in this lifetime or the next.
"I have come to take you home," Hoshi replied slowly, and Malcolm's muscles eased for the first time in days; too large a party would only attract the attention of the Inhibitors, but adding a fourth journeyer would strengthen their coterie of supplicants.
"What do you know of the Eternal City?" Travis asked excitedly, youthful ardor powering his openness.
"Not much more than you, I would imagine," Hoshi replied. The mechanical lag gave the impression that she was choosing her words quite carefully. "What do you know about…the Eternal City?"
The captain spoke up then, a wistful look coloring his eyes with dreamy quality. "And it shall come to pass that in the mountains/the Eternal City shall be lowered from the heavens/and lifted above the highest hills."
"And there," Travis added, his zeal matching the reverence of the captain, "The Eternal City shall be the Perfection of Beauty/and the abode of those who escape/in peace and friendship forever."
"And you're certain it's there?" Hoshi asked suddenly.
Malcolm's head nearly whiplashed in surprise; why has the ladder been revealed to her, if her convictions are less than absolute? "Of course it is," responded. "I've seen in; I had a dream…and it was divine."
As Kelly and Malcolm approached the Bella Luna, a stray thought ran through Reed's mind, forcing him to kick himself mentally: What did the sailor say about the wreck? It's a real piece of ship. It had nothing to do with envy, of course; for even though Jacek's craft was larger than Malcolm's own, it possessed nowhere near the self-confidence of the Black Prince.
What appeared from a distance to be mottled paint was, on closer inspection, a montage of stains, abrasions, and scorch marks that could only come through time and neglect; the duranium hull was intact but nearly invisible beneath the dirt and grime. A quick circling tour revealed little variation; the disrepair was universal, and the engines were coated in the irradiated remnants of exhaust. Spy he may have been, Malcolm supposed, but Jacek was clearly not a spacer.
Working by flashlight in the darkness beneath the tubular overhang of the ship, Kelly was punching codes into a keypad, working calmly and deliberately; a loud clang a moment later announced success as the heavy hatchway groaned and shuddered open, granting ingress to the darkened recesses of the ship.
In practiced motions, the two men entered, scanning the interior carefully for any hidden traps before they advanced, but no such devices were found. With relief, Malcolm pushed the breathing mask up to the crown of his head and tested the air; it was stale, but warm enough and dense enough. Even without looking, he could tell that somewhere, a power plant was online.
Kelly flashed his light about the dark confines, sweeping over and then settling on a metal ladder. "Why don't you go up," he remarked, running the light upward to verify the open hatchway. "I'll take down." It would take a full inspection, but the craft appeared to only have the two decks.
Malcolm scaled the ladder carefully, sweeping his own light above him as he advanced. As he crossed the deck plate, the rumbling sound of machinery met his ears, and the air warmed precipitously; pausing at the threshold, he turned off the light and waited while his eyes adjusted.
The upper deck was lit, not by traditional lights but by the glow of instrument panels and heating shunts, which cast cascading echoes between the jungle of hoses, conduits, and rattling machinery. With a glance, he realized that the upper deck was entirely devoted to the web of equipment necessary for extraterrestrial travel. Resting on the deck lay a plasma pistol, and Malcolm picked it up.
Of more interest was the corridor that ran down the length of the engine room, for at the end, Malcolm could see what appeared to be a control room. Closer inspection revealed it to be the craft's cockpit, set within a projecting bubble on the prow of the ship, and settling into the pilot's seat, Malcolm began cracking his way into the central computer.
As night became day, and day became night, the travelers continued their journey, with Travis guiding their way by the glow of the stars and the angles of the sun. They were not far now; a particular chill had overtaken the air, and the endless jungle at last thinning out as they approached the base of the ladder itself and began the upward trek into the mountains.
The late rays of morning sun, split apart by mountainous peaks, saw the weary travelers pulling themselves into the solitary way-station that sat at the climax of the first ascent. Nestled in a small plain amid two embracing ridges of ageless rock, the way-station was a simple affair, possessing a simple parapet made from the ample forestry, a guarded stream, and a small plot of ceviche and amaranth growing on a terrace built by long-deceased hands. Gratefully, the foursome fell into the waiting crevasses and pulled thick blankets over themselves.
When the sun again set, the foursome stirred, eager to get on their way. From here, it was a night's journey across broken terrain of pinnacled ridge and plunging valley; one can only hope, Malcolm mused, that the monks who once inhabited these summits left behind trails and bridges which have stood strong across time.
And that, in turn, would bring them to the base of the second ascent.
The Bella Luna's computer held out for under a minute.
Once inside, Malcolm scanned through the contents rapidly, whistling under his breath as he went. In a way, what he found made sense; back at the genetic institute, Jacek had been a paper-pusher, and not a scientist, and what do paper-pushers do? They document everything, he thought in sweet surprise as he scanned the library banks. Jacek was a compartmentalized piece of the chain, but he provided the information needed to find the next crucial piece.
"Find anything there?" Kelly's voice came floating into the cockpit.
Malcolm, still sitting, spun around in the pilot's chair. "It's all here, John," he replied, relieved by his partner's presence. Kelly stood a meter outside, holding a shoe-sized cryogenic canister. "Did you find—"
"Yep," Kelly answered roughly. The canister remained nestled in his arm. "Jacek hadn't made the delivery yet."
"That's great news," Malcolm replied. His mind was shifting ahead, plotting out the next move. "The computer has all of the contact information. We can arrange—"
"All of it?" Kelly interrupted gruffly. A disquieted expression crossed his face.
"The contact info, yes," Malcolm answered carefully, his enthusiasm tampering down. His partner's coolness was unexpected.
And then Kelly drew a plasma pistol from his belt. It roughly matched the one Malcolm had found.
"Can you step away from the computer, Malcolm?" Kelly's voice was firm, not asking and not demanding.
Malcolm stood up slowly as a chill ran the length of his body. "What are you doing, John?" he asked quietly. "We can use the information to lay a trap—"
"I already know who the next link is, Malcolm," Kelly replied. It confirmed the ice in Malcolm's spine as Kelly's voice became dangerously low. "Didn't you understand the objective here?"
"We were to plug the leak—" Malcolm's voice trailed off for a moment as neurons swirled about, completing the thought. "Ensure the shipment, and then eliminate the mules." Fittingly, he felt as though a mule had kicked him the gut; how had he missed this?
"Step away, Malcolm," Kelly replied, his voice now a steel threat. His pistol was pointed at the computer controls.
Malcolm gritted his teeth. "John, I can't let you—" A sharp bolt of ionized particles leapt across the gap, causing the controls to explode in a fiery ball of supercharged atoms. Malcolm reeled away as the burning spray sizzled across his body. "Christ, what the fuck?" he exclaimed, giving voice to the searing pain.
As Malcolm staggered about, searching for a means of support, Kelly turned and ran down the length of the engine room. Malcolm clenched his teeth and followed, inwardly surprised that the decision was so simple: he would stop Kelly and terminate the delivery. Whatever happened after that…would happen.
And if nothing else, he figured, the weather outside will take care of these burns.
Chapter break
Oddly enough, springtime was the best season to visit the city by the bay. The winter rainy season is done; the summer rainy season has not yet started, and the emergent sun brings temperatures to relative warmth and stability. The moisture-soaked air becomes reasonably dry, and spring-blooming trees and flowers emerge, bringing color to the otherwise-drab hues of afternoon fog. A group of yoga practitioners exercised on green parkland; and the fine aroma of fresh-caught fish wafted inward from the piers.
And Malcolm found no solace.
His eyes were vacant as his body hunched over, elbows resting on the rim of a broadened concrete wall. The observation deck was several stories above the tree-lined boulevard below, and a casual passerby would only have noticed a man watching the protestors winding their way along the street; but Malcolm's vision was abstracted many light-years away, far beyond the outer limits that most people had even dreamed of.
Encased within his solitary bubble, Malcolm was little aware of the steady movement around him, the ebb and flow of other observers stepping up to the wall, watching the protests for a period of time, and then departing; it was but a background rhythm, a distant murmur of movement less significant than a shift in the breeze.
Malcolm's reverie was little disturbed as a newcomer poached a position close by, leaning forward in mock approximation of Reed's own posture; and the two men stood side-by-side for several minutes, neither acknowledging the other, until the newcomer finally spoke.
"So what are they complaining about today?" the man asked. His voice was strong and harmonious; it took little effort to project himself across the short gap existing between them.
"Hm?" Malcolm straightened up slightly, as if startled by the man's presence; it was a pretense, both knew, but a polite one of sorts. "Oh," he added, a paragon of play-acting. "The Denobulan embassy wants to build a temple." Only then did Malcolm move, as if seeing the weaving array of people for the first time, many holding placards spewing self-righteous invective; one—rather inaccurately—proclaimed, 'This little piggy should run all the way home.'
"Hm," the newcomer repeated, as if in thoughtful expression. He was slightly taller than Malcolm, possessing a broad build and hair of white and silver. "Just imagine if they wanted to build it near the Scar," he added. "Can you imagine what the Arrow Cross would claim?"
"I just don't get it," Malcolm mused, allowing despondency to touch upon his tone. "Can't these people tell the difference between a Denobulan and a Xindi? For that matter, the difference between one Xindi and another?"
The older man smiled benignly. "There's a certain degree of comfort in such harsh dualism, Malcolm," he replied. "A false sense of comfort, but comfort nonetheless."
"One world, one people, one culture," Malcolm muttered caustically.
The bottom of the ravine was unseen, disappearing somewhere far beneath the blanketing mist of the mountains; the top of the rock face vanished high above; and the next peak, only but a short distance away, was little more than an ill-defined brume of earthy browns and verdant greens.
A deep instinct, hidden somewhere in the depths of another life, warned Malcolm of the intrinsic danger of the path, but he experienced little inversion as the quartet wound their way along the slender footpath projected outwards from the sheer face of the cliff. Scarcely half a being wide, and possessing a low railing of stout, aged timbers, the footpath had once been created with finely-masoned stonework; but eons of shifting rock and gentle mist had worn the edges and cracked the seals. The very survival of the walk was testament to the engineering skills of its creators.
And then the quartet came to a tunnel, plunging its way deep into the strata of towering bedrock. From the entrance—barely a crack, cloaked in unyielding darkness—they entered, stumbling and scrapping their way up the first concourse. Alone of the four, Travis carried with him a walking stick; and he used it now, probing ahead to ensure that the path did not fall away suddenly.
At the top of the first concourse, they reached a turn, doubling back upon their own path; and only now, as hints of sunlight beckoned, did Malcolm ease the taunt clench of his abdomen. This tunnel was equally long—a kilometer or two, he figured—but the rays of purified sun streamed in from the top, glistening off the damp walls of the rock-lined corridor.
And when they emerged, Malcolm knew, they would be above the clouds.
"Ten months," Malcolm murmured, his voice nearly abducted by a gust of wind. "We were out there for ten months. Two just to get to the Expanse…and eight months in Hades. Can you even imagine what it was like?" Malcolm shook his head, the motion vague. "We didn't just go farther than humanity as ever gone: we went ten times as far. There were days when the only thing that kept me going was memories of home…I was ready to give my life for those memories. Nearly did, several times." Malcolm chuckled hauntingly. "And then I come home to this." He gestured with his chin to indicate the mass of people below.
The two men observed a moment of silence; Harris, calm and companionable as he projected calm and comfort above the swirling storm below them; Malcolm, taut and uneasy as unwanted thoughts and overwrought anxieties preyed upon his mind. Was it only fantasy? he wondered. Was it always just a fantasy?
As Malcolm slept through the sun, he had a dream.
And the view was stupendous.
Before him, spread out in wide vista spanning a distance beyond eyesight, were plummeting mountain gorges and soaring peaks, the top unseen from the depths below, and the depths lost from the heights above. Endless walls of towering rock, slickened and green with the old growth of moss, flanked every ravine, and in the thickened, moist air, one could hear the guttural roar of waters coursing their path amid the cliffs and boulders, scouring the ravine bed ever deeper and deeper.
And in the middle, whispery clouds of mist and vapor, the effervescent steam of rising spray below and cooling temperatures above, drifted around the monolithic rock, as if its own diaphanous ocean sprouting island peaks of skyscraping spires of rock. The hazy rays of the warming star played upon the waves, dancing with hues of roseate and lavender, every moment changing as soft breezes played upon the rarefied sea.
And in those heights, far above the surface of the planet, far above the water-worn depths of the ravines and trenches that threatened to reach the liquid rocks within, the mountain peaks spread across the horizon as if a thousand sandbars, escarpments, and new-growth mountains still unworn by the depravities of time. Even here, the dominant color was a montage of green; thick moss and heather clung to every available surface, coating the entire landscape with a varying, undulating wave of luscious life.
And here and there, above the surface of the superstratum sea, tips of trees emerged triumphant, their roots many meters below. These were the emergent crowns, the layer above the top of the forest, where the massive beasts could soak in the undiluted sun needed to support the colossi; and here, in these heights, could be found a biosystem of its own, a thriving array of avian hunters and arboreal scavengers, who would never once set a foot on solid ground.
And all this, he knew, was amazing, but it was scarcely a fraction of the secret preserved in this protected realm beneath the heavens. For that—it sat atop a mountain ridge, hidden among the twisting and turnings currents, inhabiting one peak out of many.
A craggy promontory jutted outward from a towering mountain, itself occupying a valley between others of even greater height. Not quite a kilometer long, and half as wide, the escarpment possessed additional, steep-faced peaks at the outcropping. And in between, atop the terraced slopes of the ridge, lay the Eternal City.
Malcolm straightened up suddenly as another thought occurred to him. "Is Kelly really dead?"
Harris smiled again. "Kelly is dead," he allowed.
"Sir…" Malcolm swallowed a bit before launching forward. "All of it…it was your doing, wasn't it?"
In the ensuing moment of silent contemplation, Harris' face drew abnormally long. "Yes, Malcolm," he answered reluctantly; but the younger man needed to hear the truth.
Malcolm, too, observed an extended moment of quietus before speaking again, granting sound to the inquiry foremost on his mind. "Why would you provide augmented gene samples to an alien race?"
"Malcolm," Harris replied, a little wearily, "do you really think we would be so foolish as to hand out unadulterated samples? The—recipients—are already experiencing catastrophic failures in their genetic engineering program. Within a year, maybe two…" Harris paused as he wrinkled one eye. "It'll crash their GE program for a century."
Malcolm's brows furled up. "But, sir…" his eyes shifted to the blue sky as he pressed on. "Aren't you concerned that they'll fix the samples?"
Harris laughed gently. "Someone would have to see the original, pure samples in order to debug the altered ones. And we keep a very close eye on those individuals."
"Don't you ever worry that you're inadvertently going to trigger a war?"
Harris laughed again, as if humoring a naïve child. "Malcolm, nothing I do can either cause a war, nor prevent one. War is inevitable; all I can do is change the terms on which it's fought."
And as he approached, looking down from the mountain spire, he couldn't help but be amazed by the sheer beauty. Imposing masonry of white stone and topaz trim decorated every wall, every opening, every arch and pillar. Highlights of gold trim played beneath the sunlight, adding brightness to the already-gleaming assembly, and nowhere did shadows appear.
The city itself was built upward and inward, its lower walls built directly into the steep face of the crag as if the natural growth of cliff-face balustrades. For three levels, each three meters high, they built upwards against the rock; each wall reinforced, yet possessing open-air windows, illuminating the chambers within. And each tier was topped by esplanade walkway, lined with white stone and deep green moss, with a parapet crowning the wall.
And above that, he saw, where the cascading rock face curved inward to form the ridge, seven additional levels were built upward, each more open than the last. From the solid walls at the base, the third and fourth levels gave way to arched doorways, which in turn yielded to powerful pillars holding an astonishing fascia of bas-reliefs, themselves decorated with a hundred tales of a hundred heroes fighting the hundred great battles of old. And adorning the top, on the seventh level of the sky, was a broad avenue lined with gilded parapets.
The structures ran along each side of the ridge, reaching from mountain to peak, framing within a green courtyard of elegant simplicity possessed of four terraced levels, culminating at the foot of the Temple. And he stepped forward, one foot before the other, scarcely even aware of the movement; his eyes were wide with awe as he emerged from the mountain passage. As he stepped into the light, the brightness exploded before him; and he covered his face for momentary relief before proceeding onward.
"I remember listening to Cochrane's speech as a child," Malcolm observed, ruminating upon the memory as he watched the trail of angry protesters wind their way down the boulevard. Placards waved in the bay breeze, but the wind simultaneously snatched away their screaming invectives, providing a relative solitude amid the ire. "One day, there would be nothing to kill nor die for; that humanity would live life in peace, with no greed nor hunger…no hate and no war."
Harris snorted loudly. "Malcolm, is that what you really think? As long as humans have a military, they'll end up using it. Here's the reality: power corrupts, and military power corrupts just as bad.
"Give man an army and time, and he'll find a reason to use it," Harris continued, rolling into bleak rhapsody. "Think about history: before the Final World Wars, there was not a single year in human history—I dare you to find one—when there was not a war taking place somewhere on Earth. Hate begets hate, war begets war, and ultimately, but because no one is willing to risk the first step, it plunges us into the dark abyss of annihilation. The fact is, Malcolm, that we are the agents of death."
The assertion fought fiercely upon Malcolm's mind, stirring up a sea of unwanted turbulence. "Sir, have you read our mission logs from the Expanse?" Malcolm challenged, feeling the weakness even as he spoke. "Don't you understand what we did?"
"I understand better than you think, Malcolm," Harris replied, allowing his voice to lapse into a slow drawl. "You reached out a hand in friendship: after you had been militarily defeated. You didn't try peace because you believed in it, Malcolm, you tried it because it was your last card to play. Your first instinct was to kill them—and even when you ran headfirst into a stronger enemy, you still tried for war."
Harris paused and shook his head slowly before continuing. "Remember the parable of the scorpion and the frog, Malcolm? The scorpion couldn't stop its own nature—not even to save itself. Humanity is the scorpion, Malcolm."
A path—for he had no recollection of its length—led him through the front gate and into the mezzanine, where he noticed for the first time his blood-kin moving about in reverent quietude. The Eternal City claimed little permanent population; the Virgins of the Temple and the Holy Guard were the only residents. The remainder were, like him, pilgrims from afar, come to witness the glory for themselves; and they were few and far between, for the Eternal City was hidden from all but the highest of acolytes.
He strolled down the course of the plaza, engaging in no rush as he drank in the stunning beauty of the sunlit city. Everything was designed with a purpose; even the most basic of stone was cut according to the holy numbers, and the topaz swirls created a dozen images, each one visible from a different distance, blending into one another in a cosmological dance of creation.
And there before him, nestled within the embrace of the culminating spire, was the Temple itself. The Temple of the Ava'Bahram itself, the holiest of holies in the Eternal City, open to all who can find it.
On the outside, it appeared little different; polished white stone constructed the walls, etched with topaz and topped by a broad roof trimmed in gold. The entryway was flanked by two colossal pillars, the pillars of the Jahan. And between them, in the entryway, there was no door; instead, a thousand strands of heavy thread draped unto the floor, concealing the glories within.
Four guards flanked the entryway, but they paid him no heed as he stepped forward; for he had found the Eternal City, and no one who found it would be barred. He could already smell the soft aromas coming from within; and as he reached out his hands to push aside the threads, he stepped into a stunning light.
For all around him was s beauty indescribable. It could not have been made by mortal hands; the astonishing brilliance overwhelmed him for a moment, and shutting his eyes failed to temper the light.
An ill-placed wash of ocean mist hit the two men, instantly drenching each to his core. "Zefram Cochrane had one helluva dream, Malcolm, there's no denying that," Harris went on, paying little heed to the watered chill of the weakened zephyr. "But look at those people out there; do you really think they'll ever get on board with this little vision of yours? They think their ignorance is strength, for Christ's sakes!"
Malcolm remained in silence, and Harris continued. "I love your little dream, Malcolm, I really do, and I wish I could believe it. But here's the reality: give us…five years. Those people out there? They'll draw us into some catastrophic conflict, something bordering on annihilation, and someone has to make sure that humanity survives."
Malcolm's voice caught a breath of wind. "So that's it, then? Are you telling me there's no hope at all?"
Harris exhaled a halting sigh. "Malcolm, I think—I think the wall is too high. What are you really expecting after all? You think that if you close your eyes, and wish really really hard, that a new Earth will magically materialize before you? I think humanity learned that lesson, Malcolm." Echoes of the Final World Wars floated between the two men.
"It's a beautiful dream, Malcolm, and yes, I think that some individuals, at some moments, might find a way to transcend themselves…but humanity as a whole? The same people who can't even get their racial slurs right? We'll destroy ourselves in a misbegotten attempt to preserve what little we have."
A moment lapsed while Malcolm mulled over the words of his superior. "When did we become so nihilistic?"
"When we had our eyes on the stars, Malcolm," Harris replied simply. "When we had our eyes on the stars."
Malcolm looked about wildly, lost and confused by what confronted him.
There were no white walls. There was no glittering gold, nor glowing sapphire. The terraced bulwarks grew green weeds from within cracks, and the parapets were shattered. No beings brought movement to these rarefied heights; only the stir of the wind ruffled the wild growth which overran the crumbling foundations.
And the Temple of the Ava'Bahram—the holiest of the holies—was but a mirage, its glory nonexistent, its reality but a handful of broken stones.
"I don't buy it, sir," Malcolm said suddenly, straightening up rapidly with new-found hope.
Harris' head swiveled about in confusion. "What?"
"I don't buy it, sir," Malcolm repeated. "I know it can happen—because I saw it out there. It may have only been a glimpse, and it may have taken desperation, but for a moment, we realized that dream. Don't you see, sir? I know it can happen. I'm not saying it will; I know that it's not automatic or inevitable, and I know that it won't simply be handed to us. But I refuse to accept that mankind is so tragically bound to fear and war that peace and brotherhood can never become a reality. I'm not saying that it will happen; but I am saying it can."
"I never took you for a fool, Malcolm," Harris replied, his voice light and easy.
It did not achieve the desired effect. "Sir…with all due respect…I'm out. I'm out of this little thing of yours."
Harris gave a gracious smile. "Sure you are, Malcolm, sure you are. Tell you what; I'll give you a few months, let you pull yourself back together." He straightened up, in preparation to leave. "But when the Enterprise relaunches, I'll be looking for your reports again. I'll even let you keep the Black Prince for awhile, okay? Just try to return her in one piece."
Harris gave the younger man a fatherly pat on the shoulder, turned, and walked away.
The brutal winds of Omicron Ceti VII tore at Malcolm's coverings, threatening to rip away the hastily-clasped cloak and stolen breathing mask that protected him from the instant death of hyperborean cold. Slicing icicles of frozen gases battered his protection, seeking the vulnerable flesh within; overhead, a thousand diamonds were thrown about in the harsh winds, whipped to and fro with the gasping fury of the giant eagle, locked in endless fray with the dragon Nidhoggr.
Keeping his eyes moving and his head lowered as he ran, Malcolm followed a jagged course in his pursuit of the fleeing form of Kelly. Sheets of ice lay interspersed across the metallic grate of the landing pads; many were hidden, intermixed with dark liquids drained from the myriad craft which landed here, forcing Malcolm to constantly weave and shift as slick patches appeared beneath his feet.
Somewhere behind, as Malcolm's eyes danced about, he could see the hulking forms of Tatsu'Shad and two of his attendants bellowing forward, their great mass sliding unhindered across the icy sheets. Neither cumbersome nor unwieldy, they moved nimbly on their feet, the giants' roars carrying through the tenuous atmosphere of frozen air.
And just ahead, scarcely ten meters distant, Malcolm saw the retreating form of his once-trusted comrade fleeing across the aerodrome, gripping tightly onto the cylindrical containment unit which held some of humanity's gravest secrets.
A vast, dark chasm materialized shortly before the two humans, causing Kelly to skid to a halt on the lip of the landing pad. Before him, a great space of rarefied air opened wide, its heights and depths obscured by the shining twinkle of swirling icicles, but both knew the bottom was far beyond survival; and Kelly stopped, perched uncannily close to the edge.
Malcolm, too, brought himself to a halt, digging the heels of his boots deep into the grillwork under foot; he was barely five meters distant, but his friend was already indistinct, his features blurring into a black shadow framed by the firelights of ice.
Malcolm turned his head about, bringing his focus back to the three Orions who made up the third leg of the pursuit. They, too, came to a stop, demonstrating remarkable discipline over their own inertia; but the hulking beasts were clearly defined, their green skin nearly shining in the lights illuminating the landing strip.
For a second, Malcolm stood between them, his actions frozen with indecision; understanding the precariousness of his own position, Malcolm looked ahead at Kelly, and back to Tatsu'Shad. The latter glared at him, a fury projected along the dagger-like line of his eyes.
Malcolm looked again at Kelly, and again at Tatsu'Shad; then he lifted his weapon and fired.
-finis-
Citations
i Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies - or else? The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or else we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
ii
Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable... Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals.
Martin Luther King, Jr.
iii
I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.
Martin Luther King, Jr.