CHAPTER ONE
Starfleet Command, nr San Francisco, CA. Earth Date Tuesday, December 20, 2422 CE.
"I am patching it through now, sir."
A hard, exhaled snort of air escaped from the admiral's flint-sharp nose. His adjutant stood a mere two metres in front of him – the other side of an elliptical desk – and yet this otherwise talented junior officer with a doctorate in strategic counter espionage could not see the utility in bending forward to allow her superior to read the data collected on her mini-PADD. Rather, she insisted on directing it through a myriad of firewalls, auto-encryption tools, de-encryption and anti-viral programs to appear, eventually, in the custody of the mini-PADD sitting inertly on the desk before the two-star officer's large right hand.
And thus there transpired a most difficult pause, to be sure. He stared at the black-bordered, palm-sized device for more time than mere rank permitted. For the admiral, as the recently appointed deputy chief of Starfleet Intelligence, should show a little more faith in his staff and his gadgetry: no amount of brass-bottomed will could make that data pass through those servile electronic barriers any quicker than it was going to take.
Even from two metres away.
"I should mention, Lieutenant, that I was impressed with your work on the telepath resistance program," he spoke as his eyes lifted to meet hers, "I'm hoping you'll keep up the standard during the practical application phase."
"That should not be difficult for me." She laughed as she spoke; he narrowed his eyes for a moment then laughed.
"Yes, yes, those blue contact lenses of yours. I keep forgetting you're a Betazoid" he offered in a softer tone. She nodded and smiled again, his mini-PADD beeped. He kept his eyes on hers just long enough to demonstrate a modicum of patience, dropping the gaze to desk level as his fingers began the process to access his inbox.
He read the information twice – not for his own benefit; he was concerned to ensure the clarity of his thoughts so as to avoid the need for oral explanation to his telepathic junior – then leant back in the black leather executive chair, bringing his hands together on his chest and steepling the fingers toward his chin.
"How do you feel about this project being in the hands of a civilian?" he asked the black haired lieutenant.
"Not just any civilian, sir. A Vulcan."
"Yes." He paused and for a moment and rested his chin on the tips of his index fingers, then dropped his hands to the arm rests. "I was hoping to see out my career without having to outsource … well, I don't need to say it."
She smiled.
"Lieutenant, if you'd be kind enough to prepare me a brief on this, err, woman's background …"
"I have done so." She interrupted.
"And this is all there is?" He spoke and flicked a finger at the mini-PADD screen. "A Romulan-speaking analyst who graduated from the Vulcan Science Academy with degrees in … what is this?" the Admiral flicked again at the screen of the mini-PADD, "Astrokinetic conductivity and applied quantum gravitational theory. Well, I guess if it's 'applied' it's no longer a 'theory' then is it?" The adjutant returned an easy smile. "Kelestra, in two weeks I need to be the best part of a hundred and seventy light years from here knocking on the door of the Romulan Neutral Zone. That gives you a month to ask questions and pull in favours. Take a round trip to Vulcan, if you must. I want to know how some astrophysicist can be head hunted to run our agents on the Romulan outer worlds."
"When is the entry on duty date, sir?"
He laughed. "Oh, why Level 31 has decided to send her straight into the field." A double sobriquet; 'Level 31' is a common catch-all for the Office of the Chief of Starfleet Intelligence which occupies an entire floor of Starfleet headquarters. But that's only half of it. Long-time insiders reckon the secretive and unaccountable 'Section 31' is staffed and managed from within those four hyper-strengthened walls. But as Section 31 does not officially exist and its activities are unsanctioned, a two-pronged nickname conveniently covers all bases. "Apparently an opportunity has come up on Talvath," he continued, "and it was just too good to miss."
"The problem child of the Romulan Star Empire." the adjutant interposed by way of unnecessary confirmation, then reading his unspoken thought "Aye aye, sir. I'll begin straight away."
"Dismissed, Lieutenant. And have a happy holiday – as brief as it will be." he spoke with informality and a smile in his voice, watching her squat, squarish form turn and stride toward the office exit. As an afterthought, he called her again and waited until she turned to face him.
"Just keep asking yourself one thing ..."
"Sir?"
"Who is this T'Shalkie?"
Squinting through the small gap between the plate window and its external blast shutter, he was surprised at how the evening had darkened once the pale sun of reddish gold had dropped below the snow covered mountains to the south east. Flustered at his inability to distinguish the haze of dark silhouettes, Senior Operative John Dann Finn snapped off the interior lights of the private quarters and sat against the edge of a round table, set for two, the guest more than an hour late.
It would be a while before his eyes could fully adjust to the pitch black although the contrast of the room with the slit of a dark blue starlit sky was plain. A hundred and seventy eight light years into that star filled expanse was his own sun, circled by his own earth, and not once in his thirty nine years living on and off that planet had he found himself alone on New Year's Eve. "So much freakin' easier if these Rommies had holosuites" he spoke aloud, as if hearing his voice would overcome the tedium of waiting.
Standing to study what he could now see of the outside, illuminated now by the blue-white binary star he knew as Delta Hydrae rising with its tiny mate over the frozen river plain in much the way his more familiar 'Moon' would ascend over his Poppa's wheat field, Finn craned his neck to take in the sheer breadth of the star spangled sky until a shadow moving on the left alerted him to a new arrival. He exhaled hard.
"Finally!"
The internal lighting snapped back on, he found himself blinking furiously as raised voices penetrated though the evening's quiet - not surprising he guessed, because a code word was required to pass the pair of Taurhai mercenaries the mysterious commander of this mission had posted for his protection - and hearing no more, he disarmed the door for ease of entry. In a final concession to his own human vanity, Finn used the last seconds as he heard the door swish open and turning away from a gust of cold, preened his short blonde hair and adjust the matt black jacket he chose to keep out that part of the Talvath weather not overborne by the central heating. It was a feminine voice that spoke first.
"Jolan'tru, rekkhai."
Swinging about hard on his heels and ignoring the discomfort to his eyes, Finn saw a woman, taller than him, short black hair and a youthful face, dressed in woven body armour of black and charcoal grey, her thin hips and waist accentuating the padding of the chest and winged shoulders, gloved hands below sleeves fastened to just below the elbows. 'A freakin' Vulcan', his first thought on noticing the smooth brow, acute eyes and pointed ears, before being drawn to a single, silver spearhead-shape insignia on her left collar - a junior officer he was certain - and on the right side where the neck begins to thicken at the torso, a bi-coloured tattoo of the avian symbol of the Romulan Imperium.
"I thought we agreed on no gibberish."
She giggled in a girlish way that surprised him. "I was only saying, 'Hello, sir', but if you want to speak in Anglish that's fine by me."
"You're T'Shalkie then? I thought we weren't meetin' until tomorrow."
"If I am, who else were you expecting tonight?" she said with a short laugh and before he could answer took a casual step toward him and spoke again. "Anyway, don't you all have implanted bio-translators in Starfleet these days?"
"I'm not Starfleet." he protested in a low tone. "And you know how those implants can be detected … that's if you are who you say ..."
"Who am I?" the tall visitor spoke with a quick turn of rhetoric and took another step, this time toward a keypad which she swatted to re-arm the door; a process which drew a loud objection; she ignored it and kept talking. "In your language I am Centurion Mrian i-Ra'tleihfi t'Vrirehu, commanding officer of her Imperial Majesty's Loyal Centuria Psi Gamma Seven …"
"Means nothin' to me." he snapped.
"Of the Ninth Cohort of the Temglohhan Legion. Or to put it another way, Mr Finn, we are the equivalent of your Special Forces."
The nausea flooded over him for not only did this woman know his name but she claims to be part of the Temglohhan: the Romulan Jagers, the Imperium's elite ground force. He needed to buy himself some time; some time to think. "What the fuck do you think you're doin' here? Unless you're trying to set off some diplomatic firefight that'll see you thrown into some icy dungeon on Crateris."
She took a silent step toward him; for a second he seemed in sudden awe of her simple looks and pale grey eyed beauty – for she lacked that common V-shape brow bone that so distinguished the Romulan race – his eyes falling again on that blue and green tattoo on her neck.
"You speak as if you know we Rihannsu very well, Mr Finn. I expect there's no need for me to explain the nature of the tattoo." Her voice had turned darker now. Finn took a step backward and then another – his mind was racing but his options were limited to one chance alone.
"It's a mark," he said at last, "the mark of the assassin."
"I'm not here to kill you, Mr Finn. But if you resist or …"
"I'm a Federation citizen, fuck it!" he yelled. "I expect you to get out of here, now!" He strode past her and pressed a button on the intercom. "Guards! Uhlan!"
"Don't waste your breath," she crossed her arms in front of her, leaning back on her right leg as if chatting to an old friend, "it would seem I gave the wrong code."
Looking hard into her face, its beauty so suddenly invisible to him, he could see only the ugliness of the enemy who kills in cold blood. His next words spat back at her with contempt.
"There'll be ramifications from this, Centurion, or whoever you are."
"Yes there will," she said calmly, "but for now I want to talk about why you're here and who's this T'Shalkie?"
In the encompassing silence Finn tried his best to stand tall and match her own 190 cm. He wasn't going to co-operate – not now, not ever – and he was patiently waiting for that singular chance that would let him play his ace. It'd worked before and he knew patience would work for him again.
The Rihan officer re-asked her question, this time only showing interest in the mysterious T'Shalkie. "She's a Rihanha is she? A Romulan?" And still he said nothing. Attending to a communication device on her right wrist, she smiled and walked away from the operative, appearing to him to be checking the interior of the small apartment. In a long moment she spoke again. "I have a shuttlecraft standing by above us with a teleport for two. We'll be taken aboard shortly and your status as a Federation citizen respected. Once you've responded to our questioning you'll be repatriated to your embassy at the capital."
For the first time he smiled and then slowly shook his head. "I'm trained not to co-operate with Romulans."
She mocked his bravado with silent disinterest; turning away from her captive the officer walked leisurely toward the small food preparation area and congratulated herself in her native tongue that she'd found exactly what she wanted to find. The moment of self-satisfaction was disturbed abruptly by Finn's shrill command.
"Stop! Stand where you are! … I'll use this if I have to!"
Mrian turned abruptly to see a plasma assault pistol pointed toward her throat – but the calm in her voice defied his belief that he alone spoke from a position of strength.
"Go ahead then, Finn. Use it. What're you waiting for?"
"Backup. I tripped the failsafe alarm when I grabbed this …" he moved the weapon around like the arms of a windmill "… they'll be here within two … stand fast!"
Still smiling she took three small, confident steps toward the agitated operative. Ignoring his next demand and seeing her take a full stride, Finn flicked a small lever with his thumb; a small orange light shone from the top of the pistol; stepping back and with a careful aim, a finger jammed hard on the trigger.
*fzzzzzz*
His mind burst into a sheer panic; the trigger pressed again and a third time but by now it was much too late. The centurion's left hand was tightening its grip on his right arm just above the elbow. As the scream of pain grew and the weapon flew free, she pushed upward and forced the right side of his stout body askew to rise about ten centimetres off the ground and then not content with her handiwork until thumb and forefinger could feel bone, cartilage and tendon separate. Shocked at the ease of her conquest and his own failed effort, Finn could offer no further resistance and meekly slumped to the carpeted floor while clutching at the apparently dislocated limb.
"You stupid, weak, fool!" she sneered, standing over the pathetic human. "Don't you know that a plasma weapon must be primed before it is fired? It's not like some stun phaser or disruptor; real damage demands real preparation."
It was obvious as soon as he aimed the pistol that it was impotent, for the priming light must shine red to fire; orange being merely a sign of recharging. Of course if he'd known what he was doing she would now be dead, her body armour offered no defence to a plasma bolt that could evaporate flesh from chin to pelvis. Picking up the discarded weapon, she flicked at the switch and jammed it into the rear of her utility belt; she had already set in place another plan to deal with the incoming cavalry.
"My enemy's friend is my enemy, Mr Finn, and any repeat of this insolence will cost you dearly … for now, there's a higher duty I must serve. Get up."
With little effort her right hand whisked him onto both feet, protests of pain lost among the urgency of making the escape. The major walked back to the food preparation area and to its refrigerating apparatus then flicked a small pouch on her belt and extracted a thin silver tube perhaps the length and width of her thumb. Shaking it near her ear to hear the contents splash inside she held it prone in gloved fingers, as if offering Finn a treat.
"Any idea what this is?" And when he didn't respond, "Tetralithium trihyper-sulphate … or I think that's what your Federation calls it."
His eyes closed. This time he spoke with a voice etched in pain.
"Your description is inaccurate but ..." She interrupted his thought by shaking the tube between thumb and forefinger so that he could hear the liquid swirl. "Yes, yes, I know," he continued in an anxious tone "it must be in liquid form for once it begins to crystallise, it detonates."
The Rihanha nodded at his analysis and spoke. "And developed by the Andorsu as recently as when? Just last year wasn't it? Although it's proved a little dangerous in their cold-world mining operations … especially in the wrong hands," Mrian paused to turn away and open the small freezing compartment "well … I'm told it can be very dangerous."
The tube was placed among trays of ice and the thermostat adjusted downward. Finn's voice turned frantic.
"That stuff's totally unstable. It'll blow any time it starts to set."
"I predict thirty seconds of safety …" she replied matter-of-factly, then hearing the faint sound of booted feet running across icy gravel, "or maybe a little less."
Finn yelled loud in perfect Taurhai for the squad to stand fast and not enter. It only served to draw words of contempt from the major who moved adjacent to the wounded man.
"The language of our enemies, Mr Finn. Why this will be an interesting interrogation." She pressed a button on her wrist transmitter and calmly gave her own order for shuttle lieutenant to transport the duo, "Arrain. Haeuui, kre'urrier."
To Finn the three seconds before they energised into a bright green and crimson phase was akin to waiting on the gallows-master to snap open the trap door. Not that he would meet his maker that day, unlike the six heavily armed Taurhai who stormed the apartment only five seconds later.