by David
THE CAPTAINS' HONOR
Prologue
Silence.
That is the one overriding characteristic of space
--not the immensity, or the beauty of the
star-flecked blackness, but the silence.
The M'dok battleship Restoration
drifted soundlessly into orbit around Tenara, a
shining speck in the ebony void.
On the command deck, however, there was the sound of
playful chatter.
"Our greatest victory," commented the
helmsman.
The captain nodded. "If this raid
succeeds," he promised, sinking back onto
his command cushion, "the heads of our victims will
adorn your cabins for twelve twelvedays."
"Great honor," the weapons officer
purred. "Just three twelvedays ago, my
year-wife bore a new litter. The little ones
will enjoy the delicacies we bring them, I
think."
Even now, the captain knew, back home
all the M'dok little ones were yowling with hunger.
Time was growing ever shorter for all his people.
A stranger looking at the M'dok captain
would see none of this tension. They would note
only his ramrod-straight posture, the
polished sheen of his uniform and blaster, and, if
they were conversant with M'dok culture, the
orange and green horizontal banding around his
neck that marked him as one of the higher caste.
If they were not conversant with M'dok culture,
they might easily mistake the captain for a
member of any of the other feline races common
to so many class-M planets. Which would be a
mistake--for unlike the other, more typically
gentle feline races, the M'dok had once
ruled this entire quadrant of space. Ruled
with an iron fist--that is, until the coming of the
Federation had robbed them of their colonies, and
confined them to their own stellar system. Now, with this
ship, the captain intended to put right that ancient
wrong.
"Alarm," said the sensor officer suddenly,
his back arched. "A starship is approaching,
falling into orbit from one-eleven."
"They request we identify ourselves," added
the communications officer.
"Radio silence!" the captain snapped.
"Categorize."
"Federation--constitution-class starship,"
replied the sensor officer. "Considerably
smaller than our vessel, sir."
As we expected. The captain nodded
with a smile of satisfaction.
The Restoration was larger, more powerful than
all but the great Galaxy-class starships of the
Federation, and there were only a handful of those.
Too few to waste on such a backwater
planet, certainly.
He studied the readouts in front of him,
scratching the edge of the console absentmindedly.
Power-consumption levels indicated that the
Restoration outgunned the starship by a factor
of at least four to one.
Disappointing. It won't even be a
fight.
His officers crouched over their stations
expectantly, awaiting their captain's
orders.
"Sir!"
It was the communications officer who had spoken
--a disturbing breach of protocol, considering his
youth and inexperience.
The captain turned, ready to admonish the
young officer.
The communications post was at the rear of the great
open command area. The youth was standing there, back
to his captain, his tail straightened, his
posture indicating great agitation. "The starship
has identified itself as the Centurion!"
At once the captain felt the fur on the
back of his neck rise. All thoughts of
censuring the youth were gone, replaced by an
excitement he knew the rest of his crew shared.
The Centurion. To destroy this ship
...
There could be no better way to prove to the
Highest of M'dok the worth of the Restoration
--and its captain.
He sprang off his command cushion and stalked
the length of the deck to the weapons officer's
side.
"Unsheathe our weapons, but wait for my
order to strike."
"Aye."
"Another request for identification, sir,"
the communications officer reported.
"Do we have visual?" the captain asked.
"Yes, Captain."
"Then put it on-screen!" the captain
snapped.
The view of space at the front of the
M'dok command area disappeared--to be replaced
by the image of a human, sharp-featured, of
middle age, in what the captain assumed was
Starfleet uniform.
"... repeating our request that you identify
yourselves. This is Captain Lucius Aelius
Sejanus of the Centurion."
The M'dok captain leaned forward.
Sejanus himself, and the Centurion. Even
within the M'dok Empire, cut off by the
accursed Federation from galactic civilization
these past two hundred years, the victories
of this captain, of this ship, were well-known. The
defeat of the J'ationakan convoy, destruction of the
Romulan war fleet in the Adharan system
...
Yes, the Centurion would be a worthy
opponent and a most worthy test for the
Restoration.
"Very well, Captain Sejanus," the
captain said softly. "We will identify
ourselves." He clamped a hand on the weapons
officer's shoulder. "Full phasers ...
now!"
The weapons officer pulled the phaser lever.
Triple bolts of red-yellow light seared the
darkness ...
... and disappeared harmlessly into the Tenaran
atmosphere.
"What happened?" the captain hissed
angrily.
The weapons officer looked as angry at
himself. "They dodged, sir, and disappeared."
"So quickly? Where?"
The sensor officer scratched his cushion in
frustration.
"Sensor traces indicate that they entered the
atmosphere, sir, but I can no longer track
them."
"The atmosphere ..." the captain said
thoughtfully. "Perhaps we struck them after all?"
"Possible," said the sensor officer, "but
unlikely."
Then he yowled, "Directly below us,
sir!"
"Helm--hard left! Fire phasers
again!"
The Restoration shuddered as the engines and
artificial-gravity units whined--but it
escaped the photon torpedo fired by the
Federation ship.
"They just sent a tight-beam subspace
transmission," the communications offic
er
reported. "A call for assistance."
"It will do them no good," replied the
captain. "Helmsman, take us out of orbit
--put some hunting distance between us."
The Restoration leapt ahead, leaving the
Federation ship still mired in Tenara's
atmosphere and gravity well.
"Sejanus has earned his reputation," the
captain acknowledged. "But a reputation will do
no good against this ship."
"Picking them up ahead of us," the sensor
officer said.
Now the main viewscreen was filled with the
image of space--and ahead of them, the
Centurion, a silver dot, moving slowly,
erratically around the planet below.
"It appears we struck them after all," the
sensor officer said. "My readings indicate
loss of warp-speed capability, power output
in their engineering section down by fifty percent."
"Close on them," the captain said harshly.
He savored the moment, committing it to memory,
so that for years to come he could tell of his defeat
of the Federation's greatest warrior.
The captain turned his back on the weapons
officer and took up his seat on the command
cushion. "Once we are within range, you have
my leave to destroy them."
"Then Tenara will be ours for the taking."
Chapter One
According to the regulations manual he had so
recently finished reviewing, a starship
bridge officer receiving an emergency call for
assistance should pass the message on to the
senior officer on the bridge in a calm,
detached manner.
But when Lieutenant Worf received the
distress signal from the Centurion, he
responded not in the manner of the trained
Starfleet professional, but as a
Klingon warrior with a thousand generations of
warrior blood running through his veins.
In other words, he yelled.
"Commander Riker!"
The Enterprise's first officer, who had
been sitting conversing amiably with ship's
counselor Deanna Troi, started forward in
his chair.
Worf immediately realized he had spoken rather
louder than he'd intended, and made a
distinctive effort to calm down.
By the book, Lieutenant, he told
himself. By the book.
"Sir, I am receiving a request for
assistance from the USS Centurion. She is
in orbit around Tenara and is coming under heavy
attack from an unknown assailant."
Riker jumped to his feet. "Data, how
soon can we get there?"
At the ops console, the android lieutenant
spoke calmly and precisely. "Two hours
minimum, sir, at top warp speed. At our
present rate, two days."
"Damn," Riker muttered. "Maximum
warp, then. Immediately."
"Warp nine-point-six--aye, sir."
Worf knew the commander's thoughts paralleled
his own. Even at maximum warp, we'll be
there in time to do nothing better than pick up the
pieces. If there are any. Worf felt the
subtle sensation throughout his body as the ship
accelerated.
Riker turned to Worf again. "Send a
message to the Centurion that we're on the
way."
Worf complied as Riker touched the fleet
insignia on his chest and spoke again.
"Captain Picard, to the bridge."
"The Centurion," Worf said after he had
completed the transmission. "Captain
Sejanus' ship."
Riker nodded. "Let's hope we get there
in time."
All ships, all lives, were equally
valuable, but it was difficult to believe that a
ship and a commander so famous for daring exploits,
so apparently invulnerable, could be destroyed.
That can't happen to legends, Worf thought--
but of course he knew better.
There were numerous examples of just such
occurrences quoted in the Starfleet regulations
manual.
When the call came, Jean-Luc Picard
was sleeping in his cabin. Riker's voice
requesting his presence on the bridge brought him
awake instantly. As Picard's eyes
opened, he was sliding off the bed. He pulled
on his boots quickly, but without wasteful haste.
Other than his boots, he was fully
dressed he had learned years ago that it was
wisest to nap fully clothed and lying atop the
covers rather than under them. At first he had found
his naps less than re/l, but he'd adjusted
and realized the truth in the old saying that a
starship captain is always on duty.
Minutes later, the turbolift doors
whooshed open and Picard stepped out onto the
bridge. Riker turned quickly at the sound.
"Captain."
"What is it, Number One?" Picard's
eyes swept over the bridge, noting the
quiet efficiency of his crew.
"We just received a distress signal, sir."
Riker turned. "Lieutenant Worf, play
that message again."
The scene of onrushing stars on the forward
viewer vanished, replaced by a hugely
magnified view of a man. Behind him, Picard
could see busy movement, figures passing from
one side to the other, and crew positions much like
those on the bridge of the Enterprise. The man
himself was stiff, erect, proud, his gray hair
cropped close to his head.
"This is Captain Lucius Aelius
Sejanus of the USS Centurion," he
said, his voice beautifully modulated and
resonant, each word carefully formed. "We
are in orbit about the planet Tenara and have just
come under attack by a powerfully armed unknown
assailant. I request immediate assistance from
any Federation or allied vessel within range
of Tenara. If you are unable to come to our aid,
I request that you pass this message along to the
nearest Federation starbase or outpost." The
image faded, replaced by the starfield.
"Lucius Sejanus," Picard said
softly. He stared at the screen for a long
moment, as if fascinated by the afterimage in his
mind. Finally he tore his eyes
away. "Status, Number One?"
"We received that message about fifteen
minutes ago, sir. We increased to top warp
speed immediately, but even so we won't reach
Tenara for almost two more hours. I'm afraid
we might get there too late to help."
Picard nodded. "Still, Number One, your
swift action maximizes the chance that we'll be
able to do some good. Does Captain Sejanus
know we're coming?"
"We sent out a response immediately, sir,
but there's been no reply."
The implications of that hung in the air. After
a moment, Picard managed a half-smile.
"If anyone in Starfleet has a chance of
surviving such an attack, Number One,
it's Captain Sejanus and the Centurion."
He wheeled
about, heading for the captain's ready
room off the main bridge. "I'll want
to see all staff officers in the meeting room
in half an hour. And let me know the instant
you hear anything from the Centurion."
"Tenara," Jean-Luc Picard said,
"lies on the frontier between the Federation and the
M'dok Empire. The Tenarans requested
membership in the Federation seven years ago, but
it's only within the last year that they were able to join
us. The delay was caused by M'dok objections
to what they saw as the Federation's expansion
into their sphere of influence. The situation was
resolved only by years of delicate
negotiations." Picard stood, and began pacing
back and forth in front of the spectacular view
of the onrushing starfield that dominated the meeting
room. His senior officers--Riker, Data,
Worf, Chief Engineer Geordi La
Forge, and ship's counselor Deanna Troi
--were seated around the conference table in front of
him.
"One very important item of the treaty between
us regarding Tenara," the captain went on,
"is that, while Tenara is a full member of the
Federation, we will continue to regard the surrounding
space as unclaimed territory. Recently,
however, the Tenarans have come under attack--
by hostile ships we believe to be M'dok."
"So nothing has changed, has it,
Captain?" Geordi said bitterly.
"They're still up to their old tricks.
We negotiate with them, but it does no good.
A peace treaty doesn't mean anything
to them."
"The present situation is still quite different from
open warfare," Picard cautioned. "And you must
remember that the treaty their empire signed with the
Federation almost two hundred years ago was
imposed on them by us. It has never sat well
with them. By that treaty, we allow them only
police ships, to keep peace within the small
space they still control."
He looked at the assembled officers one
by one. "I know that the feeling is widespread and
growing in the Federation that violence is the proper
response to this violence. That's a normal
reaction, I suppose. Certainly it's an
emotionally satisfying one. I hope that everyone
in this room is capable of stepping back from that
initial reaction, though, and thinking of the
consequences. That's exactly the sort of
difficult task the Federation Council has
had to undertake. The Centurion has been
assigned to help the Tenarans protect their