The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [232]
The ruddy light from bloated, sinking sun spread across the section of the horizon that was visible from the cave’s verge before disappearing entirely, replaced by blackness, a few stars, and T’Rukh’s comforting glow.
The assassin continued to wait, watching the screen on his remote device as he pondered some of the more perplexing aspects of his current assignment. Prime of these was the motivation behind it. Vulcans—even those of the ousted Administrator V’Las’s ilk—claimed to revere their culture’s ancient traditions. Even if one did not believe, no one would set out to destroy a katra—the spirit of a deceased Vulcan— particularly the one carried by the assassin’s present target.
No one except, evidently, his employer.
The assassin had plied his trade long enough, of course, to understand that Vulcans were not monolithic in their views. The assassin knew that his actions today could bring down the fledgling Syrrannite government. The assassin did not regard himself as political, but he could tell when the political winds were about to start blowing in his direction.
A low beep signaled that the remote sensors he had planted under Seleya’s steps had acquired the target. A glance at the display confirmed that a small group of monks was approaching, heading down the mountain after the completion of one of their rites.
Clearing his mind, the assassin waited, holding the remote monitoring device gingerly as he continued to study its small display. A tactical overlay, created by the telemetry from the biometric sensor devices he had planted along with the explosives, confirmed that his specific target was in the center of the moving formation, his fellow adepts grouped around him.
The assassin continued to wait and watch as the leading edge of the procession stepped across ground zero. Heartbeats later the entire ring of monks had surrounded the tactical hot spot. He pressed DETONATE and was gratified by a brief flash, which was followed immediately by coarse static as the conflagration he had unleashed indiscriminately consumed both hardware and flesh.
Enterprise, near Deneva
The voice spoke to him from what seemed a very long way away.
“Captain, are you all right?”
T’Pol. He realized that T’Pol was speaking to him, leaning over his command chair in the center of the bridge. His blurred vision began to clear, and he saw lines of concern etched across her Vulcan features.
“I’m fine,” Archer said, pulling himself up into an upright position in his command chair. “I think.”
He belatedly realized that Hoshi and Malcolm had crowded around his chair as well, their worry plain on their faces. Ensign Leydon had turned away from the helm, apparently ready to spring toward him, as though he might topple forward at any moment.
“What happened, Captain?” Reed said. “Should I call Doctor Phlox?”
“I’m not sure what happened, Malcolm.” Just somebody walking on my grave.
I hope.
EIGHTY-THREE
Monday, June 21, 2156
Sol 5 of Martian Month of Capricorn
Popé Pueblo (“Canyontown”), Mars
WITH SEVERAL UNEVEN STACKS of battered metal cargo crates visible behind her, Gannet Brooks was speaking from the ancient flatscreen monitor over the bar. But nobody was listening. This had as much to do with the sound being turned all the way down as it did with the fact that every person in the room, with the lone exception of the Coalition of Planets Martian Representative Qaletaqu, was seated facing in the opposite direction, toward the makeshift speaker’s lectern in the tavern.
Qaletaqu stood at the lectern and regarded the dour gathering in silence. Never before had he seen such quiet prevail at a tribal leadership meeting. Ahota’s Public House, Canyontown’s only watering hole, was utterly still, its usual rough, back-slapping camaraderie replaced by a tension