Star Trek Page 12

  The door to the training center whisked open, admitting a meek-looking human years her senior. She’d dealt with him before: Pettigrew, a Federation observer charged with indoctrinating her in their beliefs.

  She sighed. “Now what? Shall I recite the pledge to the flag?”

  Pettigrew looked around the featureless room. “What flag?”

  “The one in all our hearts.”

  He grinned. “Starfleet has oaths. We don’t. But I have something here that might qualify.” He placed his data slate on her desk. “A ceremony recently took place on Earth, following the events of the Klingon War. It may teach you better than I could.”

  Georgiou rolled her eyes—and then froze as she cast them onto the small screen.

  Michael!

  Pettigrew noted her interest. “In this room, you can cast it to the surrounding screens.” He touched a control on the slate, and instantly Georgiou found herself sitting in Starfleet Headquarters, watching Cornwell preside over a presentation ceremony to the Discovery crew. Around and behind her, cadets and VIPs listened with rapt attention to Michael Burnham as she pontificated.

  “—will not take shortcuts on the path to righteousness,” Burnham said. “No, we will not break the rules that protect us from our basest instincts. No, we will not allow desperation to destroy moral authority.”

  “I’m told you know this young woman,” Pettigrew said. “She sees our ideals clearly.”

  Georgiou tried to tune him out.

  “Some say that in life there are no second chances,” Burnham said. “Experience tells me that this is true. But we can only look forward.”

  The emperor smoldered. She had not heard from this universe’s Burnham at all since they parted company in the underground temple of Molor. Georgiou wondered if Leland or Cornwell had shared anything about her present situation with Michael. Whatever the answer, the doppelgänger of her adopted daughter hadn’t contacted her. Why should she? Gallivanting across the galaxy had to be much more fun.

  And now, here she was, addressing the faithful, assuring them of their—and her—righteousness. She’d even said the word.

  “—we will continue exploring. Discovering new worlds, new civilizations. Yes, that is the United Federation of Planets.”

  “But it is not the Terran Empire,” Georgiou silently replied.

  “Yes. That is Starfleet.”

  “Section 31 not included.”

  “Yes, that is who we are—and who we will always be.”

  But it is not me—and it never will be. Georgiou’s anger rose. Wrath, at Leland, at Cornwell, at the Federation. At Michael, for bringing her to this misbegotten universe. And abandoning her to it.

  She was done. It was time to go. Time to leave.

  Time to kill somebody.

  Pettigrew saw that she was lost in thought. “A wonderful speech, wasn’t it?”

  She looked at the old man—and then the data slate on the desk before her. Her mind churned. Then, she smiled at him. “It is wonderful. Please, let’s listen to it again. More closely, this time…”

  16

  U.S.S. Pacifica

  The man named Leland laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Finnegan put his hand on the guy’s shoulder and joined in the glee. He had no idea what the Section 31 chief was on, but he figured it had to be good.

  “I’m sorry,” Leland said, when he finally could speak. “I thought you said the Federation gave you one of its slots on the mission team.”

  “Ah,” Finnegan said, a finger to the air. “The admiral did.”

  Leland nearly broke out again at that, before quickly regaining composure. “I’m sure she had her reasons. Glad I bumped into you.” He looked down at what Finnegan was carrying. “Sorry I jostled your, uh—”

  “Popcorn,” Finnegan said, displaying the container he’d special-ordered from the galley. “Part of the training.”

  “Of course.”

  “Want some?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Finnegan had another thought and withdrew his hand from Leland’s shoulder. “Er—sorry for nearly bashing you at Thionoga.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He patted Finnegan on the back. “Welcome to the team, Sean.”

  “Good to be aboard!”

  The bald man continued up the corridor, pausing once to look back at Finnegan before heading around a corner. More laughter wafted down the hallway.

  There’s a jolly fellow, Finnegan thought. Section 31 must be a happy place to work after all.

  He’d been working, too, since his arrival aboard Pacifica—though he remained a bit murky about what his title was. He knew he hadn’t been reinstated to Starfleet; as near as he could figure, he was a civilian specialist, seconded to Section 31. It didn’t have the sound of a long-term career, to be sure, but it was easier on the back than hauling ore.

  Finnegan entered a turbolift, popcorn bucket in hand, ready to get back to his workplace for the afternoon. He nodded absently to the other passenger, an ensign. Then he stared at the ceiling and began to mumble: “Think like a murderer. Think like a murderer. Think like a murderer.”

  “Excuse me?” the ensign asked, looking up at him.

  “How’s that?”

  “I thought you said, ‘Think like a murderer.’ ”

  “Ah, right,” Finnegan said. He smiled and indicated his bucket. “You see, I’m on assignment. That was advice from the admiral.”

  “Our admiral?”

  “Yes, I…” Finnegan paused. “You know, I think it’s probably classified.” He gave the ensign a wink. “Official secrets and all.”

  “Of—of course,” the ensign stammered.

  The turbolift stopped and the doors opened. “That’s my stop,” Finnegan said. “I’ll be seeing you!”

  “Uh, yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye, Finnegan could see the ensign leaning out of the open turbolift, looking after him. It was nice that people were interested in him, but he had work to do.

  Think like a murderer, he said to himself as he walked to his destination. Think like a murderer.

  Kitty Cornwell had indeed said those words, as he’d begun his training that morning. “Georgiou is much more likely to accept you if you’re more like her henchman was,” she said. “And that means you’ll be better able to keep tabs on her for us in the field.” That had made sense to him, although he was unclear on exactly how he’d report in on her. But Cornwell had clearly thought he could pull it off. Georgiou didn’t know why he was imprisoned at Thionoga, so he could play it any way he wanted.

  The problem was that while Finnegan was great at mischief—ask any cadet at the Academy—evil, he wasn’t. He was able to summon enough menace to frighten, certainly. But that was always in the name of a good laugh, even if he was the only one who laughed about it.

  Both the Federation and Section 31 wanted the investigative mission into the Farragut Cloud to begin yesterday, and Cornwell had a full slate of meetings about it scheduled with the other prospective members of the team. But while she wasn’t able to proctor him this afternoon, she had given him a suggestion: watch old movies.

  All through the day in the darkness of Pacifica’s small theater, he’d screened parts of many different productions, every one steeped in malice. Most had been produced on Earth between the First and the Third World Wars; people then seemed to have a taste for the macabre. Maybe it was the shadow of death constantly hanging over them. But there were also snippets of scripted entertainments from other worlds, each one a crash education in Thinking Evil.

  Reentering the theater and reclaiming his seat, he put his feet up and called for the computer to pick up where it had left off. As the room darkened and the images resumed, he sighed. Somewhere between Iago and the Mad Scourge of Tellar Prime he’d not only gotten the gist, but started to despair of the whole idea.

  What kind of place was Georgiou’s realm, anyway, if everyone walked around dragging their knuckles and hating all
day? And how was it even possible that their Finnegan was a vicious wretch? He knew himself to be a prankster, no more. Didn’t their Sean have sisters, a grandmother, a neighbor like Cornwell to keep him from turning into this “Blackjack” character?

  Maybe he did, he thought. But maybe they’re bad people too. That was agonizing to think about.

  “Damn it, that’s enough,” he said, straightening in his chair. “I’ve seen plenty. Computer, end playback.”

  “Working.” The images on screen disappeared, leaving him in the dark.

  He rolled his eyes. “You forgot the lights.”

  Nothing.

  “Computer, lights!”

  When there was still no action after a few seconds, he let out a deep breath. He hadn’t found a voice-recognition system in years that couldn’t get his accent; that Pacifica had one was startling, and a bit unnerving.

  But not as unnerving as the next thing he noticed: the kernels in the bucket in his lap starting to float upward, little blobs in the blackness. He quickly released the tub to grasp at them—only to have the container tumble away, pinwheeling corn everywhere.

  Now I’m floating too, he realized. Oh, Kitty. They’ve given you a lemon. Your big ship’s a disaster.

  Darkness notwithstanding, Finnegan saw his duty clearly, regardless of his role: engineering needed his knowledge—if not a good talking to. If they were all like that stammering kid in the turbolift, they probably thought artificial gravity came from a can.

  Bouncing off the overhead as he felt his way toward the door, it occurred to him that at the very least, this was one calamity they couldn’t pin on him.

  Section 31 Vessel NCIA-93

  Alongside Pacifica

  Emony Dax knew how to work with people she disliked. Many of the coaches Emony had learned from thought that motivation meant keeping their athletes in a state of perpetual fear. Some of the academics Tobin knew were so arrogant they couldn’t finish a sentence without an insult or a slight. But Emony had always been able to muddle through, finding a way to cooperate. She’d done everything poor Eagan had ever asked, understanding that his experience was worthy of respect, even if his attitude wasn’t.

  Her brief time with Section 31, however, had put her amiability to the test. The agents aboard NCIA-93—a drab name for a forbidding vessel—had been downright unfriendly, looking upon her as an invader in their secret society. Nobody had even explained to her what the ship’s name stood for. Leland tolerated her for what she knew but lapsed into patronizing without a thought. And while Dax wasn’t expecting cheer from a Vulcan, his henchwoman Sydia had never said more than a five-word sentence to her. And every one of those had begun with “do not.”

  “Do not look at that,” Sydia said of the console before Dax’s chair in the command center.

  “They said I could wait here.”

  “Do not tell her that,” Sydia said to an aide.

  Someone guided the Trill to a chair facing a wall. Dax didn’t care. She had ten minutes before her respite—shuttling back to Pacifica, where Leland and Cornwell were set to brief the entire team headed for Troika space. The admiral, at least, was pleasant. But Dax wasn’t looking forward to seeing Emperor Georgiou again: by far, the worst possible coworker she could imagine.

  She’d almost resigned after learning of Georgiou’s origins, and the crazy-land she was said to be from. A “mirror universe” where alternate versions of people acted in venal ways? It sounded bizarre, macabre, impossible—and Dax came from a people who secretly implanted symbionts in their bodies. Nothing in her or any of her predecessors’ histories readied her for the concept—and no briefing could have ever prepared her for meeting Georgiou.

  In their meetings, Georgiou had treated Dax to condescending comments, shocking statements, and occasionally, licentious innuendos that made her skin crawl. She could see why Leland and Cornwell considered the emperor a possible asset: she was clearly one of the most intelligent beings Dax had ever met. But every interaction had ended with the Trill harboring the same thought: Why didn’t I get to meet the nice one?

  It didn’t matter. Georgiou was the only person who could help prevent another Farragut—and that had energized Dax. She’d done plenty of gymnastic routines where levels of difficulty had been added. She had to cope, to contend—and she had to make sure that the emperor would help. Whatever else Georgiou wanted out of her existence on this side of the mirror, that had to be nonnegotiable.

  Dax looked at the time. Her transport to the meeting was past due. She stood and approached Sydia, who was busy at another station. “Weren’t they supposed to call me when the shuttle was ready?”

  “Do not—” the Vulcan started, hiding her console screen. Then her head tilted, and she stepped to another station. “Something is wrong with Pacifica.”

  “What is it?”

  “Power dips. To start with.”

  “We can’t shuttle over?”

  Sydia glared at her. “Pacifica’s bay doors cannot open without power.”

  Another Section 31 officer called out that the ship wasn’t responding to hails.

  Dax grew alarmed. She’d been through this before. “Can we transport people there? Are their shields up?”

  Sydia stared. “Life-support only.”

  Dax’s breath quickened. The Cloud couldn’t have followed her, could it?

  She had to find out—and this time, she’d need to use the method of transit she’d so often avoided. She’d just have to hope for the best that it wouldn’t reveal her species’ secret. Heading for the turbolift, she called back. “Sydia, I’m going to the transporter room. If they don’t send me to Pacifica, I’m going to come back here and ask you a question a minute for the rest of your life!”

  17

  U.S.S. Pacifica

  Georgiou swam, a shark in the night. Pacifica was her ocean, its Jefferies tubes the underwater rivers connecting lakes and inlets as she made her way toward the only bay she cared about. Thionoga had been a dry run, by comparison. Now she had brought one of Starfleet’s most advanced vessels to heel using nothing but a pair of night-vision goggles and the one asset that had never failed her: the stupidity of others.

  Or rather, one person in particular. Harmon Pettigrew, tutor in Federation civics and gasbag-in-chief.

  She had intended to kill him, an hour earlier in the training center. She had planned to smash his data slate against the composite surface of her desk, after which she would have impaled one of the device’s shards in his neck. He would have lived long enough for his biometric scans to be useful in getting the two of them out of the locked training area, but surveillance would have caught it, giving her mere seconds to get anywhere. As satisfying as his death would have been, she’d decided to look for another way.

  Instead, Georgiou had appealed to the old fool’s vanity, declaring, after the third replay of Burnham’s pablum, that an epiphany was at hand. His words had swayed her, and so had those in the speech; she was on her way to becoming a good and productive member of Federation society, and a diligent and trustworthy agent for Section 31. She only needed time. Time to meditate on Burnham’s words; time in which no others would intrude upon her thoughts as she contemplated her new path. She needed privacy—

  —and, oh, yes, the data slate, so she could continue watching the interminable ceremony. The boob had immediately agreed, never realizing that his device was still tied into the training center’s visualization tools; neither had he remembered to log out from his VIP priority access to the starship’s systems.

  That was all an engineer of Georgiou’s caliber needed. It had been an easy matter to huddle up in her chair, pretending to watch the speech when, instead, she had hacked her way into the main computer of Pacifica. The work had required more finesse than her sabotages at Thionoga; it didn’t surprise her that Starfleet systems were better prepared against cyberattack than those of some unaffiliated prison for civilians. But introducing malicious code into a closed system was a f
reshman course among the Terrans—and she was far from a novice.

  And it helped that the code had already been written for her. She only wished she could be present when they figured out where she’d gotten it from.

  The important thing was that it worked. In short order, she had blunted the surveillance threat while also generating enough emergencies to get everyone the hell out of her way. The lights were out, of course: that classic from Thionoga was worth a repeat. Killing the gravity was another must. She had added the flourish of random restarts of those systems on certain sections of the ship, boosting gravity to Jupiter-cloudtop levels long enough to smack the hell out of anyone trying to get oriented.

  Then came the targeted attacks on the people Pacifica would be deploying against her. She treated main engineering to a series of false readings from the warp core; not enough to force people to evacuate the ship, but enough to keep them chasing gremlins in the dark. Starfleet’s vaunted security personnel were given something different to worry about, as the main computer took note of wherever they were and began speaking in urgent Klingon in adjacent rooms.

  Cornwell and Leland she’d just locked in their conference room, listening to a screech from the main computer so loud as to make calling for help difficult. It was a lesser fate than, say, beaming them into space, but she’d only had forty minutes.

  Since then, it had been an easy matter to avoid Pacifica’s crew as they blundered about with their portable lighting; those without, she had simply floated past, sneaking by along the overhead. Nobody was looking for her, so far as she knew, but she couldn’t count on that being the case forever. Fortunately, her destination wasn’t far.

  Shuttlebay dead ahead. Georgiou lifted her goggles long enough to check the data slate taped around her forearm. She’d used it as her guide and command center, purposefully tripping the ship’s sensors on momentarily in areas when she needed intel. It told her that the cargo deck and attached shuttlebay remained nearly deserted. That was good. While she’d left those areas in the dark, she’d kept gravity functioning there, figuring that things floating around and bumping about wouldn’t be good for her prospective escape vehicle, whichever one she chose.