STAR TREK - SCE - 26 - Age of Unreason

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Other eBooks in the Star Trek™: Starfleet

Corps of Engineers series from Pocket Books:

#1:The Belly of the Beast by Dean Wesley Smith

#2:Fatal Error by Keith R.A. DeCandido

#3:Hard Crash by Christie Golden

#4:Interphase Book 1 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#5:Interphase Book 2 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#6:Cold Fusion by Keith R.A. DeCandido

#7:Invincible Book 1 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido

#8:Invincible Book 2 by David Mack & Keith R.A. DeCandido

#9:The Riddled Post by Aaron Rosenberg

#10:Gateways Epilogue:Here There Be Monsters by Keith R.A. DeCandido

#11:Ambush by Dave Galanter & Greg Brodeur

#12:Some Assembly Required by Scott Ciencin & Dan Jolley

#13:No Surrender by Jeff Mariotte

#14:Caveat Emptor by Ian Edginton & Mike Collins

#15:Past Life by Robert Greenberger

#16:Oaths by Glenn Hauman

#17:Foundations Book 1 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#18:Foundations Book 2 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#19:Foundations Book 3 by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#20:Enigma Ship by J. Steven York & Christina F. York

#21:War Stories Book 1 by Keith R.A. DeCandido

#22:War Stories Book 2 by Keith R.A. DeCandido

#23:Wildfire Book 1 by David Mack

#24:Wildfire Book 2 by David Mack

#25:Home Fires by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

#26:Age of Unreason by Scott Ciencin

COMING SOON:

#27:Balance of Nature by Heather Jarman

#28:Breakdowns by Keith R.A. DeCandido

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon &

Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY

10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of

Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license

from Paramount Pictures.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-7592-5

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

http://www.SimonSays.com/st

http://www.startrek.com

To Denise.

With thanks to Keith DeCandido.

—S.C.

Chapter

The world was coming to an end.

Again.

Farhan Tanek struggled to keep his hands from closing on the neck of the oily little man quavering before

him. Tanek knew that as spiritual leader of the Varden faith, he had certain traditions to uphold, and

cold-blooded murder performed without a ceremonial blade and before the first hour of dawn would be

a break with ceremony, and thus looked upon unfavorably by his people. If only he could say honestly

that the killing would be an act of passion, a manifestation of ultimate rage, such matters would have no

bearing. But such forward thinking nullified that possibility. No, this killing would be a testament to

annoyance, and for that, there were protocols.

Tanek’s gaze drifted from his advisor to the open window of his private chamber, wonderingwhere he

had put his knife andwhen the sea of stars in the night sky would be replaced by the blood-red hues of

dawn.

Not soon enough,he decided, sighing inwardly and again fixing his attention on his advisor, Ezno

Clyvans. The two men were alone in Tanek’s chamber, a handful of guards posted outside the heavy

door. Tanek was tall and brawny, two meters in height, with a thick mane of wild auburn hair, a beard so

long it had been braided into two strands tossed behind his back and tied midway down his spine, brutish

features, and a plethora of rippling muscles reflecting the amber glow of hastily lit candles in each corner

of the room. He wore only a strip of dark cloth hastily tied about his waist that reached to just above his

knees. Even so, Tanek held himself with power and pride, his spine ramrod straight, his chin raised

imperiously. In a more superstitious age, he might, quite reasonably, have been considered a god.

Clyvans, on the other hand, might have been mistaken for a goat. Though he wore the many-colored

robes of their order over his flabby form and carried the Scepter of Truth, he slouched and was

constantly arranging his ill-kept, inky-black hair with pudgy, trembling fingers, trying and failing to the

point of distraction to keep it from covering his forehead and obscuring his third eye.

The third eye was simply a genetic anomaly serving no practical purpose, yet those rare beings (often

only one in a generation) bearing the mutation were invariably elevated to the role of advisor as per the

prophecies of the Ancients.

Tanek had wanted, for quite some time, to see the sacred scrolls revised to eliminate that particular bit of

business. Right at the moment, he was tempted to take care of the matter himself.

And why not? If what Tanek suspected was true, the war between the followers of the One True Faith

and the heathen Nasnan was about to come to pass, and with it would come global annihilation.

If am I going to die, if we areallgoing to die, should it not be with every fantasy fulfilled, every heartfelt

desire sated?

He could practicallytaste his advisor’s blood….

“Stop your blathering,” Tanek said firmly, bringing an immediate halt to his advisor’s incessant chatter.

“Let me see if I understand you correctly. After all, I am not highborn, I am simply a barbarian who

seized his position by force of arms. I have none of your breeding, education, or culture. My mind is

minuscule and unable to grasp greater concepts and greater truths, and I have all the sense of a rutting

animal. Yet here I am, standing tall, while you are on your knees before me. Fate mocks us, yes?”

Tanek took cruel satisfaction in placing Clyvans in the impossible position of coming up with a response

that would not entitle his superior to beat him to within an inch of his life. In point of fact, everything

Tanek had said was true, or was, at least, the popularly, if silently held position of the highborn. Yet

Tanek was brilliant, and knew more about his people, their needs, and the intricate inner workings of

every facet of their society better than any other member of the Varden.

Clyvans stammered yes, no, and maybe in quick succession, then fell silent and closed his eyes, waiting

for the blows to fall.

Smiling, Tanek instead retired to a chair beside his bed. “As I was saying,if I understand you correctly,

the plans for the device that might have rid us of the Nasnan once and for all have been stolen. The only

person who could replicate these plans lies dead in a chamber three stories below us in this keep, his

throat cut ear to ear. All evidence points to a single suspect who has fled the keep. It seems to me our

course is clear.”

Clyvans nervously tapped his scepter, giving Tanek no choice, by the will of his people, but to listen.

“Notall evidence points to a lone suspect. There are no witnesses. What this man might stand to gain is

unclear. And he, ah…he seemed nice.”

Tanek waited, crossing his huge arms over his barrel chest.

“Oh!” Clyvans cried, then tapped his scepter again.

“In any case,” Tanek said, “we have one killer, who is also a thief, and, by all reports, a collaborator.

Our course seems simple enough. Find the bastard before he can meet with Tirza Sirajaldin. Either take

the plans from him or torture him into revealing where they’ve been hidden, then give him to me that I

may amuse myself with his long, lingering death…an event I will choreograph with amazing creativity.”

“Our best trackers have already been dispatched. The Elite will find him.”

“Thenwhy are you here, precisely?”

“I, ah…interpreted your likely response to this crisis.”

Tanek rubbed his temple. His head was beginning to throb.God’s teeth, for just a ray of sunshine

through that damnable window.

“Anticipated,” Tanek said. “You mean to say that you ‘anticipated’ my likely response.”

“Exactly so. This man is an offworlder. Our people are interested in offworlders. To treat him as you

might a member of the enlightened Varden who has fallen from grace or even a heathen Nasnan would

not be advisable.”

“Offworlders know the risks in coming here. Our planet may be beautiful andinteresting to them as our

culture is not like theirs, but once they step foot on the ground that is mine to hold sway over, once their

vessels penetrate the atmosphere of our planet…there is no turning back for them.”

“But we are talking about a Federation citizen, my liege. And, as I may remind you, the Federation

recently extended an invitation—”

“A Federation…citizen…” Tanek whispered, his expression unchanging. “And that means what,

exactly?”

“Well,” Clyvans began, unaware at first that he was not being asked for his opinion and expertise. Tanek

leaned forward and froze the smaller man with his powerful and vengeful gaze before the advisor could

say another word.

“I just wonder,” Tanek said with terrifying softness, “does his status as a Federation citizen make him a

superior physical specimen of some kind?”

Still unsure of how to respond, or even whether or not he should, Clyvans panted, “Um, ah, thatalone,

no, I wouldn’t think it—”

“Able, for example, to withstand multiple knife wounds without flinching? Amputations with an only

slightly sharp surgical saw? A beheading, even, without it being a particular bother or inconvenience?”

“I would think not,” Clyvans said, quivering at the images Tanek had ruthlessly placed in his own head.

“No. But the political and social ramifications must be considered.”

“Done and done,” Tanek said coldly. “Now find this soon-to-be-screaming bag of flesh andbring him to

me! ”

Tanek watched with no little pleasure as Clyvans rose, spun, and practically tripped over his robes

fleeing the chamber. In moments he was gone, and Tanek went to the window, surveying the city he

made his home in these warm summer months. Though it was still the hours before dawn, the city was

abuzz with activity. Merchants swarmed about the jagged spires in airships to deliver their wares,

workers hurried through the winding streets to be at their jobs on time, lovers met with breathless

anticipation or parted with sorrow and regret. Somewhere, at least one duel to the death was taking

place over a matter of honor, perhaps because a show of anticipation was mistaken for anxiety and

neither party would take responsibility. And elsewhere, a child was being born. The city, and thousands

more like it upon this precious world, teemed with life.

If his people failed, if the Elite did not do their duty well and retrieve the plans, all life that did not serve

the Nasnan would be eliminated. The buildings would remain, but the people, his people, would all be

dead.

He’d lived through such crises before. He’d brought about resolution through peaceful negotiation or

through relentless battle. Yet this time felt different. There was change in the air, and he could sense it.

It was the end of the world.

Again.

Perhaps this time, there would be no reprieves.

* * *

Ezno Clyvans scurried from the keep of his lord just as the first rays of sunlight burst upon the horizon.

He carried two things with him. One was in his flowing robes, and he had to reach an elevated point, a

clear field, to make it work. The other was in his head. It was knowledge, and that meant power, pain,

and responsibility.

Ezno had hoped things would go better with Tanek. The man wasbrilliant, no question of that, but he

was also very proud, and his righteous fury, once engaged, was almost impossible to disarm.

Thus, technically at the very least, Ezno was about to commit treason. In his heart he was true to the

Varden faith, the order that also ran all government upon the planet Vrinda. Yet he was certain that

Tanek would be the death of them all. He had to take extreme measures.

Twenty minutes later, Ezno stood atop the mound housing the Shrine to Unreason. He stole up through

the spiral staircase, ten stories, twenty, his unique status having provided him sole and unlimited access to

the tower. The sun was now peeking from between the clouds, the sky a furious meld of crimson and

ochre.

He reached the rooftop only seconds before an airship cruised within firing distance and came to a stop,

hovering menacingly.

“Advisor Clyvans!”roared a synthesized voice from the airship.“Your duplicity has been uncovered.

Recordings have been found of you speaking with the criminal afterMenzala Trivere’s killing. Keep your

hands at your sides, turn, and proceed to the base of the tower, where you will be arrested.”

Fear ripped through Ezno as the chilling realization came that he would die atop this shrine if he did not

absolutely and immediately comply. Yet, his life, one life, compared to so many others…

His hands slid into the pockets of his robe.

“Advisor, please, do not force us to damage the shrine!”

Ezno almost smiled at that.He would be cut in half, but it was the shrine these soldiers worried about.

Good—that was as it should be. There was hope for his people yet.

Hauling out the small device the offworlder had given him, Ezno raised it high, and struck the button to

engage its transmission signal. He never heard or felt the bolt of blue-white lightning that took his life and

seared a hole in that tower, causing its upper two levels to collapse.

Then all was silent…but for a receiving beacon in deep space that captured the transmitted signal and

instantly forwarded it to Starfleet Headquarters.

Chapter

Carol Abramowitz stared out the viewport into the endless reaches of space, startled to hear the mad,

shuddering clinking of ice cubes coming from the drink in her hand, an actual Napoleon Brandy. A few

months ago—a lifetime ago—a Ferengi lieutenant named Nog had promised her this bottle in exchange

for one of her recordings of Sinnraviandrad music. Nog had come through a few weeks later, and Carol

had put the bottle away, saving it for the right occasion. She was lucky to have been able to rescue it

from the slag heap that her quarters had become in the turbulent atmosphere of the gas giant Galvan

VI—the planet that had become the grave site for twenty-three of her crewmates.

Shifting her gaze from the flowing array of stars and suns, she focused on her hand and saw that it was

shaking. There was no turbulence from the transportLionarti, the only means of travel available to her at

this late date. The ship was an old, ill-conditioned Belgarian freighter, true enough, but there were no

external forces preying upon her, all the critical stresses she was experiencing were coming from

somewhere deep within.

“Nice view, wouldn’t you say?”

Carol whirled, the glass falling to the floor, shattering, the centuries-old alcoholic beverage splattering

across the deck. A breathtakingly handsome raven-haired man stood before her. She drew in a sharp

breath, momentarily backing away from her bout of nerves, now compounded by embarrassment.

Looking closer at his angular face, she could see minor flaws, a slight asymmetry to his features, little

scars, and eyes that were a shade lighter than perhaps they should have been.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he said, crouching quickly at the same moment as Carol, the two of them

snagging old rags shoved against the interior bulkhead and gingerly picking up the broken pieces of glass.

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