The Brave and the Bold Book Two

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

Tharia stood up. “Thank you.”

  It is the first of many desires I will fulfill for you.

  It was another hour before Tharia finally made it back to the cave. B’Elanna and Gerron sat in the same spot, but this time they were on either side of a pile of rocks that had been heated by phaser fire. Still, even with that, it was cooler in the cave than it had become outside thanks to Tharia’s new possession.

  B’Elanna stood up quickly and barked, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I told you,” Tharia said in a quiet, almost subdued voice. He had wiped his face dry, and carried the box—the tool—the weapon—under his left arm. “I went out to search for food.”

  “And you put it in that box?” B’Elanna asked snidely.

  “No. This place doesn’t seem to have any native animal life, and the plants are all poisonous.”

  “Figures,” Gerron muttered.

  B’Elanna sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter—Chakotay’s in orbit, and he’ll be landing inside of fifteen minutes.”

  Nodding, Tharia said, “Good.”

  There was a momentary pause. “So what is in the box?” B’Elanna finally asked.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when Chakotay arrives,” he said.

  B’Elanna stood in front of the Andorian. Tharia could tell she was agitated by the way his antennae retracted in her presence. “I’m not letting you bring that thing on the ship until you tell me what it is, Tharia.”

  “It’s a weapon. The only weapon we’ll ever need. Trust me, B’Elanna. Have I ever lied to you?”

  Knowing full well that he hadn’t, B’Elanna could only let out a growl. “Fine. So what does the stupid thing do?”

  For the first time in many months, Tharia smiled.

  “I’ll tell you when Chakotay arrives.”

  Chapter Two

  CAPTAIN ROBERT DESOTO knew he was in trouble the minute he realized that his first officer was threatening his territory.

  The extremely wide, almost disturbingly toothy smile of Lieutenant Commander Dina Voyskunsky flashed across the table of the Hood’ s lounge at the captain as she placed a black stone down in a position that cut one group of his white stones off from the rest of his pieces. Suddenly, what seemed to be a solid, secure group of stones was now in serious trouble. Either it was going to wither and die, or he was going to have to struggle mightily to survive.

  Regardless, it was quite possible that the move had cost DeSoto the game. And Voyskunsky knew it. The first officer had a thin face with a disproportionately wide mouth. She also had wide teeth that DeSoto, in his less charitable moments—like right now, when she was beating him at Go—thought would be more at place on a horse than a human.

  “Your move, Captain,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

  DeSoto sighed, and gazed over the Go board. He could resign the game, of course—that was the proper thing to do when one was defeated and knew it. And DeSoto did know it.

  Under any other circumstances, he would, of course, resign, but he wanted to at least try to get some of his own back, even though intellectually he knew better. It wasn’t worthy of him—but what the hell, he was the captain, he could make an idiot of himself if he wanted.

  Besides, there was a possibility, however slim. Thirty-five years in Starfleet had taught him that there were always possibilities. You just sometimes had to look really hard for them.

  “I must once again thank you for teaching me how to play this game.” Voyskunsky grabbed her glass of synthale, moved as if to take a sip, then realized it was empty and put it back down.

  “Yeah, yeah, gloat all you want. You know I was the captain of the Academy team my junior and senior years? In fact, all four years I was there—”

  “You won two out of four Federation championships,” Voyskunsky said in a singsong tone. “You’ve only told me three times a day every day since I beat you the first time. That was, in case you’ve forgotten, eight months ago, and I’ve beaten you—”

  “Regularly ever since,” DeSoto said, taking some small pleasure in being the interrupter this time, “I know, I know.” He ran a hand through his rapidly thinning brown hair. I’m going to be as bald as old Jean-Luc soon, he thought, referring to his old friend Captain Picard of the Enterprise. Sooner if I keep playing Dina.

  DeSoto’s mother, Captain Mirabelle Brodeur, had been an amateur champion player of the ancient Earth game of Go, which dated back at least three thousand years. Originated in China, where it was called Wei Chi, the game was deceptively simple. One player got one hundred and eighty-one black stones and went first, the other got one hundred and eighty white ones and went second. The board was a grid of nineteen horizontal lines and nineteen vertical lines. Each player took turns placing a stone on an intersection, with the object being to secure the most territory. It was the precursor to many a tabletop war and strategy game, but where they had come and gone—and in some cases improved, particularly with the development of holographic technology—Go remained a vital and popular game. It also had remained all but unchanged over the millennia.

  Brodeur’s husband, Dr. Hiram DeSoto, a civilian physician, had never evinced any interest in the game, but their son did. By the time Robert DeSoto reached his teen years, he had become renowned—first at his local school, later at the Academy—as a championship-caliber player.

  He couldn’t get anyone on the Hood to play against him, though. The problem with being a such a good player, of course, was that you were far superior to most of those around you. This, along with the added awkwardness most had at the idea of playing against their commanding officer, left him with either the deeply unsatisfying notion of playing the ship’s computer, or not playing.

  Then Dina Voyskunsky transferred to the Hood from the Excalibur, and one day saw DeSoto playing against the computer. She asked what he was doing; he told her; she was intrigued, never having heard of the game; and he proceeded to take her under his wing as his mother had done with him.

  A year later, he was deeply regretting that decision. Voyskunsky had gone from a nine-stone handicap to playing even with him in six months, and now she was beating him with alarming regularity.

  Then he saw it. There was indeed a possibility. It would require both of them to play brilliantly, and would probably still wind up with him on the losing end. However, he had to give it a shot. He had to do something to salvage the tattered threads of his dignity.

  As he prepared to place one of his stones, he was interrupted by the beep of the communication system. “Bridge to Captain DeSoto.”

  It was the voice of Lieutenant Manolet Dayrit, the Hood’ s security chief and current duty officer on the bridge. “Go ahead, Manolet,” DeSoto said after tapping his combadge.

  “Sir, you need to come up here. We’re receiving a distress signal from the U.S.S. Voyager.”

  DeSoto frowned, then recalled a recent fleet memo about the newest Intrepid-class ship, which was supposed to incorporate bioneural circuitry that would facilitate navigation through the Badlands. With the growing Maquis problem—and with the Maquis increasingly making use of the plasma-storm-filled Badlands as a hiding place—Starfleet had decided to create a ship that could handle that navigation hazard more easily.

  “We’ll be right up,” the captain said, standing. “DeSoto out.”

  Voyskunsky had once again employed her too-wide smile. “So what’s your move?”

  “We’ll finish this later. Right now I’m more worried about that distress signal.”

  As they exited the lounge, Voyskunsky asked, “Why?” As they headed toward the turbolift, Voyskunsky reached to the back of her head to tie her long brown hair back into a ponytail. She wore it loose only off duty.

  “Because Voyager’ s supposed to be on her shakedown cruise. I don’t know where that was supposed to be offhand, but I doubt it was this far out.”

  As they entered the turbolift, Voyskunsky said, “So it could be a very clumsily laid trap.”

  DeSoto n
odded. “Bridge.” The turbolift started to accelerate upward. “Or they really could be out here near the Cardassian border, in which case, I’d say the shakedown cruise went horribly wrong.”

  Dayrit had already moved from the command chair to the tactical station behind it when DeSoto and Voyskunsky entered the Hood’ s small bridge. Ensign José Kojima stood at the operations console next to Dayrit, also right behind the captain, with Lieutenant Baifang Hsu at the conn at the bridge’s fore. While DeSoto moved to the captain’s chair, Voyskunsky stood between Dayrit and Kojima. “Report.”

  “The distress call does seem to be from Voyager, sir—the hailing language matches. We can be there in ten minutes at warp nine. But I checked—Voyager should be in Sector 001 on its shakedown cruise. The location of the distress call is only about an eighth of a light-year from the DMZ.”

  Voyskunsky looked down at DeSoto. “We have to check it out, Captain.”

  DeSoto nodded. “Agreed. Baifang, set course for that distress call, warp nine.”

  The young woman’s long-fingered hands played across the conn. “Course plotted and laid in, sir.”

  “Hit it. José, the nanosecond we’re in sensor range, I want a full scan on whatever’s broadcasting that signal. Manolet, give me long-range—make sure there aren’t any Maquis or Cardassian surprises waiting for us.”

  A pair of “Aye, sir’s” came from behind him.

  Ten uncomfortable minutes later, Hsu said, “Coming out of warp, sir.”

  Voyskunsky peered over Kojima’s shoulder. “Reading the ship’s ID beacon. It and the hull configuration match with NCC-74656, U.S.S. Voyager.” She turned to Dayrit. “Anything on long-range?”

  Dayrit shook his head—an odd sight, as the Filipino security chief had no discernible neck, so his head seemed to swivel directly on his shoulders. “There’s some activity in the DMZ, but it all seems to be interplanetary—and it’s all civilian.”

  “As it should be,” Voyskunsky said. “After all, ‘demilitarized’ means ‘no military.’”

  Kojima muttered, “And don’t think the Maquis don’t love that.”

  Turning back to the ops officer, Voyskunsky asked, “What was that, Ensign?”

  “Nothing important, sir,” Kojima said, straightening. “I just—well, if they allowed military ships in the DMZ, the Maquis might not be so much of a problem.”

  Snorting, Dayrit said, “No, instead we’d have Starfleet and Central Command ships baring their teeth at each other. Three minutes later, we have another Cardassian War on our hands.” Something on the tactical console then caught Dayrit’s attention. “Incoming call from Voyager—it’s Captain Janeway.”

  Good, DeSoto thought. It was looking more and more like this call was legitimate.

  “In visual range,” Hsu announced from the conn.

  “Put it on the viewer,” DeSoto said.

  DeSoto watched as the general vista of space was replaced with a side view of the U.S.S. Voyager. The ship had a more angular saucer section that made it more aerodynamic. Where that was an unnecessary consideration for most starships, the Intrepid-class ships like Voyager were designed to be able to land on a planet’s surface. DeSoto appreciated the alteration to the standard design, though he couldn’t help but think that it made the ship look like a garden spade.

  Right now, the nacelles were dimmed, and only about half the ship’s running lights were operational. If this wasn’t a true distress call, they were certainly making a good show of it.

  Standing up, DeSoto said, “Let’s answer the hail, Manolet. Put Captain Janeway onscreen.”

  The view of Voyager was replaced with that of her bridge. DeSoto smiled at the sight of the other ship’s much roomier control center. When his former first officer Will Riker had transferred to the Enterprise to be Picard’s first officer over seven years earlier, DeSoto had joked that he was going to a luxury liner. While Voyager wasn’t as grandiose as the Galaxy-class monster that Jean-Luc and Will served on, it still put the Hood to shame in its roominess. You could run laps on that bridge and not disturb a single duty officer, he thought with a smile.

  In the center seat was a woman with features that managed to be both hard and soft, her brown hair tied into a bun at the back of her head.

  “This is Captain Robert DeSoto of the U.S.S. Hood.”

  “Captain Kathryn Janeway of what’s left of the Voyager ,” the woman said dryly. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Captain.”

  “You’re a little far from home, aren’t you?” he said with a smile.

  “No, we’re a lot far from home. The whole point of a shakedown cruise is to shake the ship and see what falls down. In our case, it fell right on our heads.”

  “What happened?”

  “Something’s wrong with the new bioneural gel packs. First they supercharged the engines so much that our dash to Alpha Centauri at warp one became a crazed sprint to the Cardassian border at warp nine-point-nine-eight.”

  DeSoto whistled in appreciation mixed with horror.

  “Now we’re at ten percent power. We’d appreciate a boost, if you’d be so kind, Captain.”

  Voyskunsky said, “Bridge to engineering. Prepare to set up a power transfer between Hood and Voyager.”

  “On it, Commander,” Lieutenant Czierniewski, the Hood’ s chief engineer, said.

  Janeway smiled. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Happy to be of help.”

  “I’m afraid there’s something else. My security chief discovered something before sensors went down. We need to verify it with you.”

  DeSoto shrugged. “Sure.”

  A tall, mahogany-skinned Vulcan lieutenant stepped forward from the tactical station at the aft of the bridge and addressed the screen. “If you would please direct your sensors at coordinates 318 mark 15.”

  “Scanning,” Dayrit said, manipulating his console. His dark eyes then went wide. “What the hell—?”

  “What is it, Manolet?” Voyskunsky asked.

  “Weird energy reading is what it is. It’s focused on one of the ships in the DMZ—hell, it’s changing course. Heading is 211 mark 9, heading away from us. Can’t get a solid fix on the ship.” His dark face contorted into a grimace. “Damn, they changed course again.”

  Kojima spoke up. “Sir, I’ve determined what the energy reading is. It relates to General Order 16.”

  DeSoto turned around to look at Kojima. “Sixteen?”

  “That confirms my suspicions,” the Vulcan said. “There is a ship in the Demilitarized Zone that is carrying one of the Malkus Artifacts from the Zalkat Union. Standard procedure would be to pursue that ship and confiscate the artifact.”

  Turning back to the screen, DeSoto said, “Yeah, well, standard procedure is also that Starfleet vessels don’t enter the DMZ—or abandon ships in distress that they’re in the middle of helping.” He sat back down in the command chair. “Manolet, try to track that ship as best you can until it goes off sensors.”

  “It’s already changed course four times, Captain.”

  “Understood. Keep trying anyhow.” He looked at the viewscreen. “Captain, I’m familiar with what General Order 16 says but not why it says it. Since your security chief seems to know more about it, I suggest you beam over here so we can figure out the best way to retrieve it.”

  “I already have some thoughts about that, actually.”

  DeSoto smiled. “I’m sure. Meantime, I’ll send a damage control team over to help your engineer out.”

  “Mr. Honigsberg will welcome the help.” Janeway returned the smile. “We’ll be ready to beam over in fifteen minutes. Janeway out.”

  Voyskunsky was checking one of the aft consoles. “Power transfer beam is active—reading stable. Power is increasing to Voyager.”

  Nodding, DeSoto got up. “Great. C’mon, Dina, let’s greet our guests. You have the conn, Manolet. Send all our sensor telemetry to Admiral Nechayev at Starfleet with a note that more will be forthcoming.”

  Dayrit nod
ded, which looked on him like his head was about to tumble forward and fall off.

  As he walked toward the turbolift, DeSoto looked forward at Hsu. “Baifang, once the ship goes off sensors, project a course—take all their course corrections into account. If I’m going to talk Nechayev into letting us fly free in the DMZ, I’m going to need to know I have a course to follow.”

  Hsu nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Voyskunsky’s too-wide smile made a return as they entered the turbolift. “You’re going to convince the Ice Queen to let you hop the fence?”

  DeSoto grinned. “That’s the plan.”

  “I guess the first question before us,” DeSoto said as he looked around the table in the briefing room, “is what, exactly, are the Malkus Artifacts, and why is there a Starfleet General Order regarding them?”

  In addition to himself and Voyskunsky, three officers from Voyager had come over for the briefing: Captain Janeway; her first officer, Lieutenant Commander Cavit; and the Vulcan security chief, Lieutenant Tuvok.

  Janeway cut an impressive figure. She had what DeSoto had always thought of as the “captain’s trick”—appearing to be the tallest person in the room even when he or she wasn’t. DeSoto, who barely cleared a meter and a quarter, had never mastered the trick, which was why he had always cultivated a more relaxed style of command. People like Janeway or Picard could lead by their presence. Bob DeSoto knew he didn’t have that, so he led his people in other ways.

  Aaron Cavit had the look of a seasoned officer, though DeSoto found his round face almost as impossible to read as Tuvok’s—from whom he at least expected it. DeSoto did, however, notice Cavit giving Voyskunsky an odd look as he entered. If DeSoto’s first officer had any reaction to that look, she hid it well.

  Tuvok, who was holding a padd, answered the captain’s opening question. “There are, in fact, four Malkus Artifacts, and they date back to the heyday of the Zalkat Union—an interplanetary governmental body that encompassed much of what is now known as the Alpha Quadrant approximately ninety millennia ago. For a period of indeterminate length, the Union was ruled by a tyrant colloquially known as ‘Malkus the Mighty.’ Two hundred and twenty years ago, an Earth ship discovered what is believed to be the homeworld of the Union on Beta Aurigae VII.”