Rogue

by Michael A. Martin

  “Aye, sir.” Hawk’s fingers moved nimbly, almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Picard was reminded for a moment of Data’s ultrafast motions at the ops console.

  “Ship’s status, Mr. Hawk?” Picard said.

  Hawk continued manipulating the controls as he spoke: “As predicted, sir, our sensors are at less than half efficiency, thanks to these atmospheric effects. And even our enhanced subspace transmitter can’t make contact with anything as small as a combadge, if any of the survivors still have one. Shields won’t function at all in the lower atmospheric layers, but the phasers are operational. The transporter is on-line, but I wouldn’t recommend trying to exceed a two-kilometer radius with it.”

  “Grand,” Picard said wryly. He was grimly aware that without shields, a single hostile phaser blast could finish them all in the space of a heartbeat. Fortunately, that problem cut both ways; most of the rebel compound would be accessible via the Kepler’s transporter, even if the base’s detention-area forcefields were to remain intact.

  Though the sensor display was still obscured, the forward viewer showed the planet’s rapidly approaching terminator. Seconds later, a nightward mountain range rolled past and a shroud of darkness enveloped the little ship. To avoid detection, Hawk brought the ship low, hugging the planet’s dim curvature, maintaining an altitude of no more than sixty meters. The topographic map Batanides had obtained from Ruardh’s Intelligence Ministry was helping to keep the half-blinded shuttle clear of hills and rock outcroppings.

  Hawk tapped several controls on the navigation console, and the shuttle responded by banking gently onto a southeasterly heading. The craft’s forward velocity began to diminish, as did the buffeting and turbulence.

  “Captain?” the lieutenant said, his brow crumpling. “Something about these sensor readings isn’t right.”

  “Apart from the interference?”

  “Yes, sir.” The younger man gestured to the staticgarbled tactical display. “Even through the charged atmospheric particles, we’re already close enough to detect some sign of the rebel base. But I’m reading absolutely nothing. Not even a stray calorie of waste heat.”

  Picard pondered what that might mean. Then he glanced at his chronometer and decided to put the matter to one side for the moment. “Carry on, Mr. Hawk,” he said, rising from his seat. Best to let the lad do what I brought him along to do.

  Picard sat beside Batanides and Crusher. The admiral was massaging her temples.

  “Admiral, perhaps you should remain aboard with Dr. Crusher,” Picard said. “If you’re not feeling up to this—”

  Meeting his gaze, she cut him off. “Remember the time I came down with that Berengarian virus?”

  He was glad they lacked the time to tell Crusher that story. During their Academy days, Batanides had been exposed to an alien enzyme that put her into a coma and nearly killed her. She was alive now thanks partly to her own innate ruggedness, and partly because Picard and Zweller had secretly—and illegally—taken her to the remote planet Yrskatdon for the gene resequencing therapy that had ultimately saved her life.

  He wondered: Was she trying to remind him that she was tough? Or that their current circumstances might force him once again to bend Starfleet regulations?

  “How could I forget?” Picard said, nodding. If she could survive that, then a little queasiness wouldn’t even slow her down. He could already see the color returning to her cheeks.

  “How’s the mission timetable?” Batanides said.

  “We’re locked on course for the coordinates we received from Corey. The shuttle should be over the base in . . .” Picard paused to consult his chronometer “. . . two minutes and five seconds. We’ll have only a few moments to beam into the base before the Kepler flies out of transporter range. That will put us inside the base four and a half minutes before the forcefields in the detention area come down.”

  “If the forcefields come down,” Crusher said grimly.

  Picard ignored the doctor’s comment. “After the beamin, Mr. Hawk will circle around, pass back into transporter range, and retrieve everyone from the beam-up point.”

  His eyes on the instruments, Hawk said over his shoulder, “It’ll be tricky, because I’ll have to do the beam-outs a few at a time. I’ll just have to keep circling over the base until I’ve recovered everyone.” With a sheepish grin, he added: “Assuming that the Chiarosans don’t shoot me down first.”

  “And also assuming,” Crusher said, her gaze trained on Picard, “that this entire situation isn’t a trap. It’s still possible that Commander Zweller’s message was a ruse created by the rebels.”

  “Or perhaps even by the Romulans,” Picard said as he rose and walked to the portside weapons locker. He quickly removed two tricorders, a pair of hand phasers, and a compression phaser rifle. “I’ll grant that we may be walking into a trap. On the other hand, we can’t accomplish anything by waiting. This is the best—and the only—lead we’ve got.”

  Batanides followed him and took possession of a tricorder and one of the hand phasers. After checking the charge on her weapon, she turned toward the cockpit. “Heads up, Mr. Hawk.” She threw the phaser to him, hard.

  Hawk swiveled his chair toward her and plucked the phaser out of the air as though it had been standing still. The admiral smiled. “Good reflexes, son. You’ll be a real asset to the away team.”

  Picard frowned as he slung the rifle onto his back. “Admiral, I prefer to have Mr. Hawk piloting the shuttle. His reflexes will be put to better use here in case of a Chiarosan attack. I hadn’t intended on leaving the doctor on board alone.”

  Crusher gave him a look of mock umbrage. “I’m capable of piloting a shuttle, Captain.”

  Batanides took the remaining phaser and tricorder out of Picard’s hands. “She won’t be alone. You’ll be staying aboard with her.”

  Picard struggled, not altogether successfully, to control a volcanic surge of anger. “Damn it, Marta, I brought Mr. Hawk along specifically for his piloting skills—”

  She interrupted him once again. “Skills that we’ll need more urgently after we’ve rescued the hostages. You’ve certainly got more than enough flying expertise to keep things going until we get to that point. In the meantime, Hawk and I will assemble the prisoners at the prearranged beam-up coordinates.”

  “Riker and Troi are my officers. I should be going down there to rescue them.”

  “As the captain of the Enterprise, you’re less expendable than Mr. Hawk.” Batanides nodded toward the young officer. “No offense intended, Lieutenant.”

  “None taken, sir,” Hawk said, wide-eyed. He was still seated in the cockpit.

  “With all due respect, Admiral, you’re beginning to sound like my first officer. You are the most senior officer here. And that makes you the least expendable of any of us.”

  Batanides walked to the aftmost section of the cabin and took her place on one of its two transporter pads. “This hellhole has taken too much away from me already. I’m not going to put another old friend at risk unnecessarily. And I’m through discussing it.” She pointed at the pips on her collar for emphasis.

  Picard silently bit the inside of his lip as he contemplated just how deep and wide her stubborn streak had grown since their Academy days.

  “Then Godspeed,” he said after a long moment.

  “Beam-down window opening in thirty seconds,” Hawk said, staring at a readout. The viewscreen still showed nothing but featureless darkness, punctuated by sporadic auroral light-flashes that made the barren land stand out in sharp, shadowed relief.

  Hawk suddenly looked up from his console, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “What is it?” Picard said.

  “It’s strange. I’m picking up tetryon emissions from somewhere. It’s faint, but it’s interfering with the transporter lock.”

  “Can you compensate?”

  Hawk made several minute adjustments to his console. “There. Lock established. Fifteen seconds to beamdow
n window.” Hawk then rose from his seat and shot a questioning glance in Picard’s direction.

  Picard unslung his rifle and handed it to Hawk, who walked over to the admiral’s side. The captain sat behind the cockpit controls and methodically punched in the transporter commands. Then he turned his chair aftward.

  “Marta, I will be very upset with you if you get yourself killed,” Picard said.

  She grinned as the pads energized. “Just drive carefully, Johnny. And don’t forget to leave a light on for us.” The beam brightened and the pair shimmered out of existence.

  Crusher took the seat beside him. “ ‘Johnny?’ ” she said inquiringly.

  An alarm klaxon sounded. He said nothing to the doctor; the wavering image on the tactical display now demanded his full attention. At least four small vessels were approaching, coming from all directions.

  And they were all closing on the Kepler very, very quickly.

  Will Riker paced back and forth in the holding cell for what seemed like days. Asking the guard for the time had been an exercise in futility, akin to soliciting a charitable donation from a Ferengi DaiMon. The total absence of any sort of clock gave time an elastic, unreal quality.

  “Will,” Troi said. Though she was sitting on the cell’s single cot in a contemplative-looking lotus position, she appeared to be having trouble concentrating.

  Riker stopped in his tracks. “Sorry. I can’t seem to stop pacing. And there’s not much else to do.”

  Zweller, who was leaning insouciantly against one of the cell’s stone walls, chuckled.

  “Is something funny, Commander?” Riker said testily.

  “You’re wearing a groove. I hope you don’t tip your hand so easily during those poker games the counselor was telling me about.”

  “This isn’t a game. Remember, we have no way of knowing if your little stunt will work. Or exactly when it’s supposed to happen.”

  Zweller stroked the white stubble on his chin. “I’ll grant you the first point. But not the second. I suggest you be ready to move in exactly four minutes and fortytwo seconds.”

  Riker’s eyebrows rose skyward. Even Deanna looked surprised.

  “Where have you been hiding your timepiece, Mr. Zweller?” Troi said.

  The older man smiled enigmatically, gently tapping his skull with his index finger. Then he nodded toward the guard who was standing in the corridor, his back toward the cell. “Don’t distract me. I’m counting down.”

  “In your head,” Riker said, still incredulous.

  “Yes. In my head.”

  “And what are we supposed to do at the end of your countdown?” Troi asked.

  Riker grinned. “I can think of something.”

  He laced his fingers together and popped his knuckles loudly.

  Hawk almost couldn’t believe his good luck. Not only had he persuaded Captain Picard to bring him along on the mission, but he had also been allowed to participate in the ground rescue itself. He might never get a better opportunity to unravel the mystery surrounding the death of Aubin Tabor—and to learn what Section 31 really expected to accomplish by helping the Romulans take possession of Chiaros IV.

  Hawk clutched the stock of the phaser rifle tightly as the Kepler’s transporter engulfed and disassembled him, bringing on a feeling of vertigo. He felt as though he was dropping over the edge of an endless, iridescent waterfall, tumbling an impossible distance. The sensation brought to mind Reg Barclay’s tales of similar experiences, until he reminded himself that this was no ordinary beamdown; the heavily ionized Chiarosan atmosphere was probably complicating the transport process.

  Suddenly, Hawk was whole once again. He found himself standing beside Admiral Batanides in a roughhewn, curving stone corridor. The place appeared to have been excavated from the planet’s very bedrock and was surprisingly well lit, thanks to row upon row of ceilingmounted light panels. Hawk could hear distant shouts echoing up and down the hallway, though no one was visible besides themselves. For a moment he wished they had brought a larger contingent with them from the Enterprise. But if they had, there would have been little room aboard the Kepler for the rescuees.

  He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. If the team’s assumptions had been correct—based upon Commander Zweller’s brief subspace transmission—then the security forcefields in the detention area were due to fail in exactly four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

  The admiral opened her tricorder and studied it for a few moments. Then she nodded, indicating that she had found her bearings—if, Hawk reflected again, Zweller’s message and its coordinate data could be trusted.

  Hawk took the point, staying several paces ahead of Batanides. Cautiously, the lieutenant peered around a corner. He heard the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls and saw a flurry of motion at one of the corridor’s far ends. He ducked back the way he had come, flattening against one of the rough stone walls. The admiral did likewise. Scarcely daring to breathe, Hawk watched as a half-dozen very large Chiarosans, some armed with blades, others carrying disruptor-type weapons, and still others holding Starfleet-issue phasers, ran quickly past. Hawk was struck by how quiet and graceful such large beings could be.

  What was their hurry? Were they being mobilized to attack the Kepler?

  Peering around the corner once more, Hawk established that it was safe to move, at least for the moment. They crept forward cautiously. Two corridor turnings later, they entered a chamber filled with what appeared to be security holding cells, none of which were occupied. Unfortunately, their entrance surprised a lone Chiarosan guard, who immediately drew a pair of serrated blades and was on top of Hawk almost before he realized what was happening. The lieutenant brought his phaser rifle upward just barely in time to ward off the soldier’s initial blow. Sparks struck as the gleaming swords skipped off the phaser’s tough duranium casing.

  Then the Chiarosan stepped quickly backward; with an impossibly limber motion, he delivered a spinning kick to Hawk’s shoulder, knocking him to the stone floor. The wind rushed from the lieutenant’s lungs. His fall was considerably more painful than he expected, no doubt because of the planet’s intense gravitational field. Compared to the point-three-eight Earth-normal gravity he’d grown up with in Bradbury City, the pull of Chiaros was downright brutal. Hawk rolled, hugging his rifle, barely avoiding being eviscerated by one of the guard’s swords. A second blade sang past his ear and clanged deafeningly against the stone floor.

  Compared to this guy, Ranul’s holodeck pirates are pushovers.

  But although the Chiarosan was strong and fast, Hawk wasn’t out of moves just yet. Tripping the release on the rifle’s strap, Hawk swept the weapon beneath the warrior’s feet, bringing him to the ground with a heavy thump. Hawk rose, then slammed the rifle’s stock up under the Chiarosan’s jaw as the guard scrambled to recover his footing. Hawk hastened to deliver another smashing blow, stunning his adversary and knocking him down once more. But the guard didn’t appear injured—he looked annoyed, and again rose to confront Hawk.

  A phaser beam suddenly hit the Chiarosan squarely in the chest, instantly incinerating most of his body cavity. He was dead before his massive body struck the stone floor. The stench of scorched flesh permeated the corridor, making Hawk’s gorge rise.

  Incredulous, Hawk turned toward the admiral, whose phaser was still raised. At that moment, he couldn’t help wondering how Section 31 could really be any worse than the Federation’s so-called “legitimate” intelligence agency.

  Hawk spoke haltingly as he recovered his breath. “Was . . . that . . . really . . . necessary?”

  The admiral’s eyes were steel. “Stunning these people only makes them mad,” she said. “And I’m through wasting time.” Calmly, she holstered her weapon and resumed making tricorder scans. “There are no lifesigns in this part of the detention area. They must have moved the prisoners.”

  Hawk’s throat clenched involuntarily. “Or killed them.”

  Batanides adjusted the tricord
er and her expression brightened. “No. I’m picking up human lifesigns, about a hundred meters that way.” She gestured toward a “T” intersection about twenty meters down the corridor, and they began quietly walking in that direction. Hawk stayed in front, controlling his breathing, keeping his rifle at the ready.

  “The tricorder says there’s a Tellarite among the humans,” she said.

  “That would be the Slayton’s CMO,” Hawk said, nodding. “Dr. Gomp.”

  “You know him?”

  Hawk shook his head. “I took a look at the Slayton’s crew manifest last night.”

  “Sounds more like you memorized it.”

  He shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. Though he rarely showed off his eidetic memory gratuitously, he couldn’t deny that it often came in handy.

  The admiral returned her attention to the tricorder, then suddenly stopped walking. Hawk followed suit when he turned and saw the look of alarm on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Hawk said. He thought he could hear distant shouting.

  “A whole bunch of Chiarosan life-form signatures are approaching, fast,” she said. “And they’re getting between us and the prisoners.”

  He gripped the phaser rifle tightly. “I guess we’re not going to make that first rendezvous at the beam-up coordinates after all.”

  She tucked the tricorder away and took up her phaser. “Then we’ll have to switch to Plan B,” she said, gesturing toward his rifle. Its stock was slick with sweat. “Lieutenant, this time you’d better remember that that thing is not a club.”

  Then she bolted ahead of Hawk in the direction of the oncoming din. He was surprised at her speed, and sprinted to keep up.

  * * *

  Picard took the Kepler into a steep dive until the dark ground seemed to be getting close enough to touch. Then he barrel-rolled to gain some altitude, temporarily evading the pursuing Chiarosan vessels.

  Crusher studied an intermittently functioning sensor display. “There are five of them now, as far as I can tell,” she said gravely. “And none of them is answering my hails.”