The Red King - Michael A. Martin [114]
The tendrils of energy that had seemed relatively benign some eight days earlier, when Titan, the Valdore, and the Dugh had first emerged from the center of the phenomenon, now seemed almost malevolent, bringing to mind the grasping fingers of some hungry carnivore. Their colors had shifted down toward the red and orange end of the spectrum, with the more peaceful blues and greens muted almost into oblivion. Explosive energy discharges appeared and vanished within the effect’s apparently infinite depths, the interspatial equivalent of violent thunderstorms.
The Red King, preparing to snap out of the dream that keeps this corner of the universe running, Riker thought as he stared at the towering, ocher-and-crimson vista that filled the screen. Or is it the Sleeper, getting ready to wake up and replace everything around him with a brand-new Creation?
Even now, he still wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to call this thing, or how it ought to be characterized. All he knew for certain was that the phenomenon was now far more than part of the cosmic cenotaph that marked the sacrifice of his late friend and colleague, Data. It was an emergent universe that threatened to displace a goodly portion of this one. It had already killed billions, and would wipe out countless more if left to expand unchecked.
Sleeper or sovereign, this thing had to be sent back to wherever it had come from, and as quickly as possible.
Lavena turned her chair to face Riker, her hydration suit gurgling almost inaudibly as she moved. He saw that she was smiling through the semitransparent breathing mask that covered most of her face. “Navigational sensors have just made contact with the Dugh, sir.”
“Confirmed, Captain,” Dakal said, his gaze riveted to the viewscreen, where the dark shape of a battered Vor’cha-class cruiser was swiftly differentiating itself from the energy tendrils that appeared to be trying to grasp it like some sea monster out of Earth’s ancient maritime legends. “The Klingons seem to be right where we left them.”
Riker wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected Tchev to cut and run prematurely.
“Hail them, Cadet.”
The overflowing violence of the still-growing protouniverse disappeared a moment later, replaced by Captain Tchev’s scowling visage. Lieutenant Dekri, Tchev’s female second officer, was visible just beyond her superior’s right shoulder.
“You’re back, Riker,” the Klingon commander said. “At last.”
“QaleghmeH Qaq DaHjaj,” Riker said with a small wry smile. “Nice to see you, too, Captain Tchev. Thanks for keeping the porch light burning for us, by the way.”
Despite his good-humored banter, Riker found that he had to push back a small feeling of resentment; he reminded himself that Tchev’s refusal to assist in the Oghen evacuation stemmed from the horrendously damaged condition of his ship rather than from cowardice. Donatra hadn’t been wrong when she’d pointed out that the Dugh needed far more help in getting home than Tchev could contribute.
“We would not have waited for you much longer, Captain. The local spatial effects are becoming more intense by the hour.”
Riker wondered whether the Dugh could have survived another crossing through the anomaly on its own, but declined to speculate on the matter aloud. If Tchev needed a tow, Riker would see to it without going out of his way to humiliate the Klingons.
“Then we won’t waste any more time getting our ships under way,” Riker said.
Tchev grunted just before he and Dekri vanished, their images supplanted by that of the roiling spatial rift. Riker supposed that the Klingon captain’s surlier-than-usual mood had been inspired by the Dugh’s present vulnerability, and its unaccustomed reliance on outside aid. My old friend Klag got used to having just one good arm, Riker thought. So I think you’ll get over having your ship towed home, Tchev. Eventually.
“Incoming