WHAT JUDGMENTS COME

by Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore

“… SO, WE BELIEVE GANZ OR NEERA ORDERED THIS LEKKAR KILLED. DO WE KNOW WHY?”

“No,” Nogura said, “nor do I particularly care. What I do care about is whether Ganz, or Neera, or whoever, might decide that a better long-term alternative to killing their own people is simply getting rid of Reyes. We need to get him out of there.”

“So that we can arrest him again?” Moyer asked.

Nogura eyed her with annoyance. “That’s what is usually done with those who’ve divulged Starfleet secrets, and consorted with the enemy to place Starfleet or Federation personnel and property at risk.”

“With all due respect, Admiral,” Moyer countered, “we don’t know the whole story. Diego Reyes is a lot of things, but a traitor? I find that hard to believe.”

Holding up a hand, Nogura shook his head. “I’d like nothing more than to share your doubts, Commander, but at the very least, there are questions to be answered. If nothing else, Reyes is still a convicted criminal, with a prison sentence waiting in the wings if and when all of this insanity finally shakes out. Even if it’s decided that he still has to be sent to that penal colony on Earth, it’s a better fate than anything Ganz has planned for him.”

For Marco Palmieri and David Mack.

Thanks for inviting us to the party.

PROLOGUE

April 2270

A crisp breeze was cutting across the immense lake, and Tim Pennington shivered at the chill on his nose and cheeks. Stepping onto the wooden dock that extended twenty meters out over the water from the bank, he turned and waved to the pilot of the boat that had transported him three kilometers from the mainland to this small island. The pilot, as he had during the entire journey, feigned interest as he returned the gesture before directing his attention back to the boat’s controls. Pennington watched the small craft back away from the dock before turning clockwise until its bow pointed back the way it had come. The boat accelerated across the water and in a handful of seconds disappeared into the layer of fog that had moved in to shroud the lake.

“Have a nice day, mate,” Pennington muttered. Now alone on the dock, he jammed his hands deeper into the lined pockets of his jacket. A look to the forest on his right told him that the Caldos sun had already slipped behind the trees. It would be dark soon, nightfall taking with it any residual warmth. He was coming to realize that his jacket was not heavy enough to prevent the bracing, damp cold from reaching his body. A dull ache in his right arm was making itself known, and he reached up to massage his shoulder socket.

Almost makes me miss Vulcan. Almost.

Pennington walked the length of the dock until he reached a set of stairs leading down to a landing that was constructed of a dozen evenly cut and spaced sections of thick wood. Like the dock itself, the landing appeared to have been installed recently. Scrutinizing the framework of wooden railing running alongside the stairs, he noted that the metallic bolts and clamps used to anchor the support posts were free of rust. He supposed that the builders might have used components that would withstand corrosion for an extended time, but that seemed unlikely, given the tenets upon which the colony on Caldos II had been established, and by which it was continuing to expand.

Originally conceived as a re-creation of Earth’s Scottish Highlands from the seventeenth century, the Caldos colony’s various structures all were built using construction materials and techniques of the era. The settlement offered numerous modern technological conveniences, though whenever possible such equipment was housed within a traditional faзade. Even the weather modification network had been programmed to replicate the climate of the Highlands.

A bit too closely, for my tastes, Pennington decided. Despite any misgivings he might harbor about the local weather, to his practiced eye, the colony was a fine tribute to his homeland, the care and precision with which the re-creation had been realized succeeding in making him yearn for a return to the region of his birth. How many years had passed since his last visit to Earth? Too many, Pennington knew, and indeed he had been making his way in that direction when one of his colleagues at the Federation News Service had made contact, sending via subspace message the information that had led him here.

“Of all the places,” he said aloud, though there was no one—not even the party to whom his comment was directed—to hear, “you certainly found yourself a nice little hideaway, didn’t you?”

Pennington knew that calling the Caldos colony isolated was a bit extreme, but the star system was outside the established trade routes. Still, it was comfortably within Federation territory and benefited from semiregular Starfleet patrols through the region. Though the settlement was just establishing itself, long-term plans called for a sweeping spaceport that would benefit from both commercial and Starfleet traffic. That facility, according to information Pennington had read, would be constructed more than a hundred kilometers to the south, near the continental coastline, well away from the tranquil colony’s population center. For now, though, Caldos II was the perfect location for someone who did not want to be found.

Or who’d been ordered not to be found.

The walk from the dock was easy enough, with the gravel trail charting a winding path through the forest. It took only a moment for Pennington to realize that this section of the woods only partially obscured from view the straight, angular silhouette of a large, single-story building nestled within a small glade. The cabin was constructed from stone and wood, with a sharply sloped roof and a covered porch running along the structure’s frontage. As he drew closer, Pennington saw that the cabin’s large front window likely afforded its occupant a picturesque view of the lake as framed by the trees. Lights were on inside the house and visible through that window, as well as a few others, and a wisp of thin, light gray smoke drifted upward from the stonework chimney that was the most prominent feature of the cabin’s western wall. Stacks of wood lined that wall, each piece cut into serviceable lengths for easy transport through the adjacent door leading into the house. Besides the interior illumination, the only other noticeable clue to the presence of modern technology was a low, muffled hum Pennington heard as he walked closer to the cabin. It seemed to be coming from a small outbuilding situated near the tree line behind the house. A generator, perhaps?

He was half a dozen steps away from the cabin’s porch when the front door opened, light pouring out from the structure’s warm interior and highlighting the form of a muscled, middle-aged man. His appearance had changed since the last time Pennington had seen him, his thinning black-and gray hair having now grown to a point well past the man’s shoulders. A trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard highlighted his face, and the Starfleet uniform he once had worn with much pride was long gone, replaced with loose-fitting, comfortable-looking clothes that Pennington supposed were ideal for the Caldosian climate. What had not changed was the man’s expression. His eyes bored into Pennington’s, studying and sizing him up, while the rest of his features remained impassive.

“Diego Reyes,” the journalist said, unable to suppress the smile he felt forming on his lips, “as I live and breathe.”