“Report, Ensign,” Okagawa said.
Pzial held up his index finger to signal that he needed a moment. His bright red eyes were wide with surprise as he listened to whatever signal he had received. After a few more seconds, he looked up at Okagawa and said, “I’ve intercepted a coded Klingon signal, Captain. It’s one of their newer ciphers, took me a few seconds to unscramble it.” He flipped a few more switches on his console. “I’m still translating it. Sounds like they’re using idiomatic code phrases.”
Commander Araev zh’Rhun stepped behind Pzial and observed over his shoulder. The Andorian zhen squinted as she examined the data on Pzial’s screens. “That encryption method is not generally used by the Klingon military,” zh’Rhun said. “This signal is very likely being sent and received by agents of Imperial Intelligence.”
“Their team on the ground is recommending something called ‘Protocol Say’Qul,” Pzial said. “Whatever that is. I can’t find it in the Klingon language database.”
Science Officer Xav joined zh’Rhun and hovered over Pzial’s other shoulder. “In tlhIngan, words are sometimes compounded to create more complex terms,” the Tellarite said. “Try breaking the word down into its components.”
“Well, Say’ has a few possible meanings,” Pzial said, reading from a screen above his console. “It can be a verb, meaning to make something clean, or an adjective, meaning that something is clean.” He switched to a different set of data. “Qul means ‘research.’…I’m not sure putting those two words together makes much sense.”
Xav scratched the back of his head. “Maybe it’s a directive to purge their computers of sensitive information,” he said. “Clean up their research?”
“It might be an order to remove their scientific personnel from the planet,” zh’Rhun said.
Okagawa got up from his chair, tucked his data slate under his arm, and joined the press of bodies gathered around the communications station. Xav and zh’Rhun both moved half a step aside to make room for him. The communications officer ducked his head slightly as the captain leaned over him. “Pzial,” Okagawa said, “scroll this list back a bit—one screen should be sufficient. I want to see something.”
“Aye, sir,” Pzial replied. The data on the overhead display paged back one screen’s worth of data, showing more selections from a very limited Klingon-English translation menu.
Pointing at the screen, Okagawa asked Xav, “Why are these words not in alphabetical order?”
“But they are, sir,” Xav said. “Our phonetic renderings of tlhIngan use the uppercase and lowercase Q characters to distinguish different pronunciations. In a translation dictionary, words that begin with the lowercase Q are listed before those that begin with the capital Q.”
“So,” Okagawa said, “for all we know, the word that Pzial transcribed from the Klingons’ coded message might not be Qul but qul. The Klingon common noun for ‘fire.’ ” He looked at zh’Rhun. “Care to parse that into a familiar idiom, Commander?”
“Cleansing fire,” the Andorian first officer said with a grim realization.
Walking back to his chair, Okagawa remarked, “Yeah. That sounds like the Klingons I know and love.” He sat down. “Commander, what’s the ETA for the Endeavour?”
“Twenty-five hours and forty-nine minutes,” zh’Rhun said.
Okagawa shook his head. “This could be over by then.” He signed the command authorization on his data slate and handed it to a yeoman, who carried it to the communications officer. “Pzial,” the captain said, “add that intercepted signal to the report we’re sending to Vanguard, and let them know what we think it means. After that, get al-Khaled back on the horn; tell him to pack up and bug out. I’m not letting trouble catch us with our pants down this time.”
“Sir,” zh’Rhun asked, “what about the colonists?”
He nodded. “We’ll warn them,” he said. “They’ve got their own ships, enough to carry a few thousand people. Anyone who wants a ride with us can come along,” he said, “but no luggage, no gear, nothing. We can evac a few hundred guests if we dump our cargo. Endeavour can carry a couple thousand.”
As if fearing reproach for stating the obvious, Xav said, “Captain, there are more than eleven thousand colonists on Gamma Tauri IV. Your evacuation scenario would leave nearly fifty percent of them stranded in the event of a disaster.”
“I know, Xav,” Okagawa said, staring at the reddish-brown world turning slowly on the main viewscreen. Something terrible was stirring on the surface of that world, and Okagawa had no idea how to stop it. All he could do was prepare to meet it head-on. “Commander,” he said, “take the ship to yellow alert.”
15
Commander BelHoQ was in search of perfection on the bridge of the Klingon battle cruiser Zin’za. As the first officer of one of its newest warships, he took pride in his job performance, and he expected nothing less than exemplary work from all those who served as members of his crew.
“Kreq,” he said as he passed the communications officer. “Tell spacedock to prepare for our departure.” Moving along to the weapons station, he slapped the shoulder of tactical officer Tonar. “Run a battle drill exactly thirty-one minutes after we go to warp,” he instructed the lieutenant. “Don’t announce it, just run it.” Tonar nodded his understanding. BelHoQ moved on to the next free station and opened a channel to the engineering deck. “Engineering, bridge,” he said. “Respond.”
Lieutenant Ohq, the chief engineer, replied over the comm, “What do you want, bridge?”
“What I want, Ohq, is full power and all systems ready for launch in ten minutes,” BelHoQ snapped. “And if I don’t get it, there won’t be a crawlspace on this ship deep enough or dark enough to keep me from feeding you to the captain’s targ.”
“The engines are ready for space, Commander,” Ohq said, his tone all bluster and bravado. “If you want to know where the delay is, try the cargo deck. Engineering out.”
Ohq cut the channel. The first officer permitted himself an admiring sneer for the chief engineer’s fearless attitude. Then he patched in an intraship channel to the cargo bay. “Cargo bay, bridge! What’s the holdup down there, you taHqeqpu’?”
His hail was met by a din of falling containers, shouting voices, and overtaxed machinery. The longer BelHoQ listened to the chaotic opera of ineptitude over the speaker, the angrier he became, and the harder the rest of the bridge crew laughed. The first officer’s rage finally exploded from him, too potent to be restrained. “Urgoz, you damned Qovpatlh! If I have to go belowdecks to get an answer from you, no one will ever find your body!”
After a few more thuds of tumbling cargo, Urgoz, the cargo chief, spoke over the comm, sounding winded and harried. “Sir.”
“What in Gre’thor is going on down there?” BelHoQ demanded.
A few huffs of breath preceded Urgoz’s reply. “Just a few problems, Commander. One of the new hands didn’t secure the stacks as ordered. It’s under—” He was interrupted by another clanging ruckus that quickly gave way to silence. As if nothing had happened, Urgoz finished, “It’s under control, sir.”
BelHoQ stifled the laughing bridge officers with a glare. “How long before you’re ready for space, Urgoz?”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Urgoz said.
“You’ve got ten,” BelHoQ said. “Don’t be late. Bridge out.” He cut the channel before he was forced to endure another one of Urgoz’s pathetic excuses or simpering apologies. Just as he finished making a note in his duty log to cut the cargo crew’s rations by a third for the next week as a punishment, Captain Kutal stepped onto the bridge. BelHoQ announced, “Captain on the bridge!”