“Excellency,” K’voq said as he held out a communicator, “Captain Kutal wishes to speak with you.”

Morqla released an audible sigh, which to his own ears sounded like air escaping from a compromised hull seal. While he was a creature of duty, he had no trouble admitting that there were some aspects of his current assignment for which he had little patience. Having to speak to Captain Kutal ranked at the top of that list. Responsible for the science contingent which had been transported from Qo’noS, Kutal had chosen to remain aboard his vessel, the I.K.S. Zin’za,currently in orbit over Palgrenax. Though his authority did not extend to the planet’s occupational garrison, the captain nevertheless chose to regard his dealings with Morqla as though he were addressing a subordinate or perhaps even one of the jeghpu’wI’he oversaw.

For his sake, he should hope he remains out of myd’k tahg ’s reach.

Sighing in resignation, Morqla took the communicator from K’voq, clearing his throat before speaking into the unit’s pickup grid. “This is Governor Morqla. What do you want, Captain?”

“ I await the latest status report from the survey team,”Kutal replied without preamble. “ They are late, as they are every day.”

“They are scientists,” Morqla said. So far as he was concerned, that was more than enough information to explain the matter. “I’ve never bothered to learn how they view time management, or even if they care about it at all.”

Kutal’s coarse laughter echoed from the communicator. “ At least we agree on that much. However, I’m required to submit my own update to the High Council, and I cannot do so until I hear from those insolent bookworms.”

“What do you want of me?” Morqla asked. “I have no authority over their activities, nor any knowledge of why they’re here in the first place.”

“ They billet in the village you use as your headquarters, do they not?”the captain barked. “ I was hoping you might exercise some hands-on means of motivating them to tear themselves away from those piles of rocks and carry out their other duties. The chancellor is most interested in their latest findings.”

Given the disdain with which the chancellor normally viewed scientists and others who did not directly support the empire’s military agenda, the governor suspected that the decision to devote time and resources to an archaeological expedition, like many of the council’s recent choices, was made due to the empire’s desire to match or counter the Federation’s expansion into this region of space.

Perhaps one of those undercover operatives the chancellor has sprinkled throughout the Federation has finally offered something of value.

Despite his low and unglamorous role within the empire, Morqla was not ignorant of the covert program that Sturka had initiated. Thanks to the trust of friends situated within the more prominent echelons, he knew that Sturka had begun placing covert agents at all levels of the enemy’s political and military ranks. From high-ranking officials to lowly enlisted Starfleet personnel, Klingons surgically altered to appear as human or members of other species now permeated the Federation, collecting information in the hope that it might allow the planning and execution of an overwhelming offensive designed to assert Klingon dominance throughout this quadrant of the galaxy once and for all. Morqla had no idea if such a massive campaign was anywhere near becoming a reality, but he suspected the chancellor’s scheme must be paying some dividends for him to continue supporting it even after all these years.

Even so, had one of those agents unearthed some morsel of information regarding the Gonmog Sector?

From what Morqla had read of the reports already presented by the scientists dispatched to Palgrenax, it was estimated that the ruins, which exhibited architecture not at all consistent with anything the planet’s current population might have developed, were supremely ancient. Further, it appeared that many of the materials used to build the structures were not native to this planet. According to other reports submitted more recently by the leader of the science cadre, Dr. Terath, a vast storehouse had been established to amass artifacts and examples of ancient technology found cached at numerous underground locations scattered across the planet. Based on the scientist’s preliminary indications, the millennia-old technology—and its builders, whoever they might have been—were possessors of tremendous power.

One such repository was located deep beneath the village where Morqla had chosen to headquarter his garrison, though the governor himself had not taken the time to explore the ancient structure for himself. Such things had never held much interest for him, though Terath’s latest reports had given him cause to reconsider that position. Given how uneventful his duties had been of late, he figured such exploration might prove to be an entertaining diversion, if nothing else.

Did Sturka believe these millennia-old ruins to be the key to some kind of mysterious, ultimate weapon which might be brought to bear against the enemies of the empire? It sounded like something Morqla might read in the pages of poorly written fiction, barely serviceable as a children’s story; most definitely not something to which Chancellor Sturka would pay any mind, let alone commit time and resources.

Still, if there are alien artifacts bearing some strange, powerful quality, then I would appear to be in a good position to benefit from such a discovery.

“I know there has been some minor success understanding the ancient technology found here,” Morqla said. “They’ve managed to channel power to some manner of control console, but they don’t know what it does or how it acts in concert with other mechanisms they’ve found.” He shrugged, though only K’voq, standing silently nearby, could see the gesture. “Even I have to admit to a degree of fascination.”

“ That is your weakness,”Kutal replied, “ not mine. The chancellor requires updates and progress. Either you can instill that motivation to those petulant glob flies, or I will.”

“I will see to it, Captain.” With that, Morqla severed the connection before tossing the communicator to K’voq. “That petaQwould not make a boil on a flatulent targ’s rump.” As he turned to head back into his office, he cast one final observation to his aide. “Find Dr. Terath and bring her to me. It seems more and more people are becoming interested in our little out-of-the-way planet.”

21

Quinn was snoring. Again.

Pennington glared sideways at the disheveled privateer who sat slumped in his pilot’s chair, dozing and oblivious of the stink of stale sweat and distilled, recycled air permeating the Rocinante’s cockpit as he slept off his latest drunk. Of course, Pennington realized, it could be argued that this was in fact an extension of the same continuous state of intoxication the hapless rogue had seemingly fostered throughout the last several decades of his life.

After three days aboard Quinn’s cramped and none-too-pleasant refuse scow of a ship while en route to Yerad III, Pennington’s exasperation with the vessel’s messy interior had all but reached its limit. Though he had made an attempt to tidy up, as a way of passing the time as much as anything, he soon had surrendered to the unalterable, unkempt reality that was the Rocinante.

The small galley at the rear of the passenger compartment boasted stains and particles from sources that might have once been intended for human consumption. Nothing short of sandblasting—or perhaps a photon torpedo—would likely prove effective at cleaning the place now. The “sleeping quarters” consisted of a pair of hammocks, one for himself and one for Quinn, fashioned from sections of woven cargo netting. While the lavatory had given him cause for concern, the shower area was reasonably sanitary, though Pennington figured that owed to Quinn’s evident disinterest in using it.