Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  He knows, Sulu concluded. He’s just testing me.

  As though sensing the hesitation, Grathus regarded Sulu with undisguised contempt. “And then?”

  Deciding that he had had enough of whatever game the Romulan commander might be playing to gauge his reactions, Sulu leaned back in the captain’s chair and forced himself to relax into the seat. “And then you know what happened. Your ship was attacked and presumed destroyed, by an automated defense system installed on the planetoid by an unknown party.”

  “This mysterious, enigmatic enemy,” Grathus said, “crippled a vessel of the Romulan Empire? I find that hard to believe.”

  “We saw the sensor telemetry data the ship transmitted,” Sulu fired back. “It bears out what I’m telling you. What reason would I have to lie?”

  The Romulan glowered at him. “I imagine you would say anything if you believed it might spare your ship from the wrath of my weapons.”

  Sulu heard the turbolift doors open and glanced over his left shoulder, offering silent thanks to whoever or whatever had seen fit to send Montgomery Scott to the bridge. His gaze was locked on the viewscreen as he moved to stand before the railing behind the captain’s chair.

  “You are not the captain, either,” Grathus said, noting the engineer’s arrival. “Another subordinate, I assume?”

  Resting his hands on his hips, Scott replied, “Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, chief engineering officer.”

  Grathus nodded in apparent recognition. “Yes, your name is familiar to me. You were the one who successfully installed a stolen cloaking device into your ship’s power systems. Please accept my compliments on your obvious technical prowess.”

  Appearing less than impressed with the disingenuous praise, Scott said, “Commander, I have no doubts that Lieutenant Sulu inquired as to the reasons for your crossing of the Neutral Zone. What are your intentions?”

  “As your captain would seem to be too cowardly to address me himself,” Grathus replied with mounting irritation, “I suppose I shall have to make my intentions known to you. I am here to ascertain the status of our missing ship,” the Romulan replied, “and to seek appropriate retribution against those responsible.” He paused for what Scott presumed was some sort of dramatic effect before adding, “Now, is your captain the one I should be suspecting, or is this situation due to an action you ordered?”

  Scott’s eyes narrowed. “We took no action against your fellow ship. It was attacked by some form of automated planetary defense system.”

  “Then it would seem that my quarrel is with the inhabitants of this star system,” Grathus said. “As you know, attacking a ship of the empire without provocation is not something we tolerate.”

  “As it happens, it’s not something we fancy much ourselves, Commander,” Scott replied, and Sulu heard the edge behind the engineer’s words. “The defense system on that planetoid has been there for thousands of years, long before it was colonized by anyone from the neighboring planet. The indigenous population is not to blame for what happened. All evidence would seem to point to this being a very tragic accident.”

  It was obvious that Grathus was tiring of this conversation. “That is for me to determine, human. My advice to you is not to become an obstacle as I attempt to do that.”

  “We’re not looking for a confrontation, Commander,” Scott said, “and I don’t think you’d risk interstellar war by launching an attack on a Federation vessel well outside your borders. Wouldn’t you rather find out what really happened here? We’re certainly willing to help in that regard.”

  On the screen, the Romulan frowned, but Sulu could tell that Scott’s words had registered with him. Could the chief engineer be right? Might Grathus not want a fight? It was possible, of course, but the current state of political affairs between the Federation and the Romulan Empire, military maneuvering and bluster and a genuine need to know what happened to their ship, to say nothing of simple pride were all but certain to be coloring the commander’s perspective. If Grathus was not prepared to take action against the Enterprise, then he at least was doing a first-rate job selling his ruse.

  You can do that when you outnumber your opponent three to one.

  “Mister Scott,” Chekov called out, and both Sulu and the engineer looked to where the ensign was standing over the sensor viewer, his expression one of worry. It was obvious he had something to report, but when he glanced to the viewscreen Sulu realized his friend was unwilling to talk while Grathus could hear.

  “Mute transmission,” Scott said to Lieutenant Palmer at the communications station, and Sulu saw the expression darken on the Romulan’s features in response to no longer being the focus of attention. “What is it, Chekov?”

  The young officer pointed to the viewer. “Sensors are picking up a pair of Dolysian freighters, sir. They’re still in orbit above the planet, but they’re coming around from the far side. Their trajectories indicate they’re on a course for one of the Dolysian moons.”

  Chekov did not have to say anything further for Sulu to understand the chief cause of his concern. “They’ll be sitting ducks by the time the Romulans get here. Can’t we warn them off?” Sulu asked.

  Shaking his head, Chekov replied, “There’s not enough time to get them out of danger.”

  “Then we’ll have to think of something else,” Scott hissed, turning back to the viewscreen and motioning for Palmer to reestablish the communications channel’s audio. “I apologize for that interruption, Commander, but it was a sensitive matter.”

  “Would it have anything to do with the pair of civilian transport vessels currently departing the system’s fourth planet?” Grathus asked. There was no mistaking the confidence in the Romulan’s voice.

  Scott said, “We are aware of the ships. They are unarmed and pose no threat to you, Commander. I respectfully request that you leave them in peace.”

  “As they represent this system’s native population,” Grathus replied, “then they may be in a position to provide us answers about this mysterious ancient defense system you claim destroyed our ship.”

  Stepping forward, Scott’s tone hardened. “Commander, we’ve been over this. The Dolysians do not know anything.”

  “We shall soon see,” the Romulan said.

  “You’ll force me to take action to protect them,” Scott snapped.

  Leaning back in his chair, Grathus sat in silence for a moment, and Sulu was certain he detected just the very hint of a smile tugging at the corners of the Romulan officer’s lips.

  “That should prove interesting.” He made a gesture with his left hand that Sulu did not recognize, but then the meaning became clear when Grathus disappeared from the screen, replaced by an image of space and the now quite familiar energy field.

  At the science station, Chekov reported, “Their speed is increasing, sir! Sensors are also detecting their weapons are arming and that they’ve activated their shields!” He paused, leaning even closer to the viewer, to the point that Sulu thought his friend might try to drive his forehead through the device. “They’re also breaking off from the formation they were keeping. At their present speed, they’ll be here in a little over eighteen minutes.”

  “They may be moving into positions to try and surround us,” Sulu warned. His knowledge of Romulan space battle tactics was a bit sketchy, but three ships at his disposal would give Grathus all the latitude he required to assume a variety of attack postures and formations designed to exploit his numerical advantage over the Enterprise.

  Scott muttered something that was only just audible, and Sulu was sure he comprehended at least a few of the more colorful if now seldom used words from the Scotsman’s ancestral home on Earth. “Sound Red Alert,” he said as he moved to the captain’s seat and thumbed the intraship communications switch on the chair’s right arm. “This is Commander Scott,” he said, his voice echoing through the bridge’s intercom speaker. “All decks to alert status. All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat: this
is not a drill. All decks acknowledge.”

  As he resumed his position at the helm, Sulu noted that the battle stations indicators for each deck as displayed on his console were changing from red to green, indicating that designated officers were reporting their deck as ready for battle. “What are we going to do, Scotty?” he asked as he maintained watch on the indicators. “Those Dolysian freighters don’t stand a chance against the Romulans.”

  “We’re the only chance they have, lad,” Scott said, his voice muted and carrying with it an air of reluctant acceptance. “Energize main phasers, Mister Arex. Bring all weapons to full power and place them on standby. Route power from all nonessential systems to the shields.” Then, his voice somewhat muted, he added, “If they’re really going to do this, at least we’ll be ready.”

  On his console, Sulu saw the last of the indicators flash green.

  The Enterprise was ready for battle.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lying on the floor in the Nevathu’s engineering section, Mylas pulled himself away from the hole created by removing one of the deck plates, which in turn had given him access to the section of power routing conduit he had been repairing. He looked up at his junior engineer, Daprel, as he handed the younger man the laser seal he had just finished using to service the conduit.

  “That should do it, I think,” Mylas said as he pulled himself to a sitting position. “We can replace this deck plate and move to the next junction.” He reached for the towel he had placed atop his tool kit and began using it to wipe his hands.

  Daprel nodded. “Yes, Mylas.”

  With a grunt, Mylas pulled himself to his feet, wondering if the snaps and pops emanating from certain joints were his body’s way of informing him that he might finally be growing too old to be crawling through the bellies of space ships. Perhaps it was time he traded places with younger, eager-to-please junior engineers like Daprel?

  I think not. At least, not yet.

  Wiping his forehead with his towel, he noted the look of disdain on Daprel’s face. When he glanced down at himself, Mylas realized that very few areas of his jumpsuit were free of grime or dirt. “What troubles you, Centurion?” he asked, smiling. “Dirt on one’s hands never sullied an officer’s career, particularly that of an engineer. You don’t think I’m going to keep doing this forever, do you?”

  Rather than feeling disheartened about his appearance and the prospect of the time needed to clean himself once his work was done, Mylas instead relished the evidence of his hard work. Though he had tried to instill this attitude into the impressionable minds of the apprentices Fleet Command and Commander Vathrael saw fit to assign to his mentorship, he had come to realize as he grew older that such effort, more often than not, was a waste of time for all involved.

  Is it the young officers who are so inflexible, or perhaps someone else? Not for the first time, Mylas considered that notion, and came away thinking that it had to possess at least an element of truth. He knew that his days serving as the engineer even of a small ship such as the Nevathu were coming to a close. Fleet Command could not afford the luxury of allowing senior officers with little or no prospects of advancement to linger within the ranks, not when so many promising young candidates were entering the service. His superiors had been tolerant of Vathrael’s insistence that he serve under her command, but he suspected that their patience would be at an end once Vathrael made her report about the failure of the mission here. Vathrael herself would almost without question be sanctioned in some manner, and Mylas knew that Fleet Command would use this incident as an excuse to send him to retirement. If he was fortunate, he might be granted an instructor’s position at the military academy’s engineering school. Barring that, there were numerous learning institutions on Romulus that would welcome his skills and experience.

  You concern yourself with matters which have no immediate importance, he reminded himself. Better to concentrate on the problems at hand.

  Moving out of the way so as to allow Daprel to restore the section of deck plating to its proper place, Mylas had set to the task of returning various tools to his kit when he heard heavy footfalls coming in his direction from the engineering section’s forward area. There were, at present, only four people aboard the Nevathu, and he did not have to look up to know that the heavy, measured footfalls belonged to Centurion Terius. It was not until Mylas had placed his laser seal in the kit’s proper storage slot that he looked up to see the weapons officer standing at the corridor junction. Mylas could not help noting that Terius was wearing a disruptor pistol on his hip.

  “What is it?” Mylas asked as he closed his tool kit and retrieved his hand towel.

  The centurion said, “Our sensors are detecting the approach of an unidentified craft. It does not appear to be moving on a direct course toward us, but that does not alleviate my concerns.”

  Daprel, his eyes wide, asked, “One of the Starfleet transports?”

  “No,” Terius replied, shaking his head. “It’s too large, and its construction too primitive. Most likely, it’s a craft belonging to the indigenous population.”

  “That seems unusual,” Mylas said, continuing to clean his hands. “From what Commander Vathrael told us earlier, their primary settlement is some distance from here. Is the vessel armed?”

  “I don’t believe so,” the weapons officer answered. “Even if it is, nothing these people might bring to bear has any chance against our shields or even our hull plating.”

  Mylas eyed the centurion. “You do realize that the defensive shields and the cloaking field are off line at the moment, yes?” He had been forced to deactivate both systems in order to effect repairs to the power conduits running beneath the engineering deck. “Without them, we might still be vulnerable to some form of projectile weapon or explosive.” That the efforts he and his Daprel had expended and the systems they had labored to repair might be at risk of further damage from some primitive attack by the natives of this tiny planet was not a comforting thought, to say the least.

  “Why would they even be in this area?” Daprel asked. “We were told the inhabitants were conducting mining operations on the other side of the planet.”

  Terius said, “The obvious conclusion is that they are searching for us.” Looking to Mylas, he asked, “Is it possible they were able to detect our descent from orbit, even while we were under cloak?”

  “Possible?” Mylas considered the question. “Given our condition at the time, the ship may have been emitting some energy reading our cloaking field was unable to conceal. I won’t know unless I conduct another review of our systems.”

  Waving away the suggestion, Terius replied, “There’s no time for that. The ship is here, now. That is our primary concern.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?” Mylas asked. “The commander’s orders are that we maintain stealth. We’re not certain these primitives can even locate us.”

  Daprel added, “And even if they can, we still outmatch them so far as weaponry is concerned.”

  “The ship’s weapons only matter if we’re in flight,” Terius snapped, glowering at the junior engineer with disdain. “Sitting here on the ground like a wounded animal? They’re useless. We need to get the cloaking field back into operation.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a series of three tones sounding from the intercom system. Terius looked up as the pings were followed by a click and a short burst of static before the voice of Ciluri, the lone centurion on duty on the Nevathu’s bridge, called out, “Terius, the Dolysian ship is changing course! It is now heading directly toward us!”

  Muttering what Mylas recognized as a very old and even anachronistic Reman profanity, Terius smacked the nearby bulkhead with the flat of his hand. “It seems the ‘primitives’ can track us, after all.” He pointed to Mylas and Daprel. “Arm yourselves, and move to the landing ramp.”

  “You’re suggesting we attempt to repel them with hand weapons?” Mylas asked.

  “I’m not suggesting an
ything,” Terius answered. “We will defend this ship, no matter the cost.”

  With the weapons officer shouting like one of his old military academy instructors to move ever faster, Mylas and Daprel each retrieved their personal weapons from a locker near the engineering deck’s forward compartment. As they neared the still-open hatch leading to the landing ramp, Mylas saw that Terius and Ciluri were already there, both of them brandishing disruptor rifles, which of course were much more powerful than the standard-issue sidearms they all carried. They, along with Mylas and Daprel, comprised the entire crew left aboard the Nevathu, with Commander Vathrael and Subcommander Sirad off the ship and both having taken sizable scouting parties with them.

  “I don’t understand,” Mylas said as he followed Terius down the ramp. “Our cloaking field has only been deactivated for a short while. They could not possibly have tracked our location—not this quickly.”

  Terius did not look back at him as he replied, “Maybe they’re benefiting from outside aid.”

  “The humans?” Mylas shook his head. “That is not their nature.”

  “We can argue this later,” the centurion barked, reaching for his disruptor as he approached the edge of the ramp.

  Stepping down onto the ground, Mylas offered a nod of encouragement to Daprel and Ciluri, both of whom were allowing their fear and inexperience to affect their composure.

  “Look,” Ciluri said, pointing toward the horizon. “There.”

  A small black shape had come over the mountains in the distance, and was now growing larger with each passing moment. To Mylas’s practiced eye the craft was an ungainly creation, with straight lines and bulky components attached seemingly at random to the transport’s wide, boxlike primary hull.

  “Scan them again,” Terius said.