“Permission granted, Mr. Pike. Welcome aboard.”
Kamnach’s voice was noncommital, but Pike thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He’d wanted him to at least nod in Charlie’s direction, wanted Charlie to react. To Pike it seemed petty, but if that was the way it was going to be…
The turbolift on the bridge had barely shut behind the last of the arriving officers, and Pike was still finding his place by the science station, when Kamnach opened the intercraft.
“All hands, this is the captain. I want to cut down on the chatter and give you the straight scoop from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. After you’ve been briefed, I’ll appreciate your keeping speculative chatter to a minimum. You’ll know what you need to know when you need to know it. In the interim, you’ll keep your opinions to yourselves.
“We are headed, as you know, for the Vestios sector. Federation ships have tangled with the Vestians in the past but, for the last several years, we had a treaty which more or less kept them off our asses.
“Now, however, two of their planets are engaged in open hostilities, and anyone not smart enough to avoid their ships has gotten caught in the cross fire. No Federation vessel has as yet been fired upon, but we will not stand passively by waiting for that to happen.
“Our mission—and we are operating under sealed orders, so any whisper of this beyond the hull of this ship will visit you with a court-martial; make no mistake about my seriousness here—is to patrol the border set by the aforementioned treaty to make certain none of the Vestians’ little internecine battles spill over into Federation space or interfere with friendly trade routes.
“A Vestian vessel encountered on our side of the treaty border is a Vestian vessel challenged. A challenge ignored earns a shot across the bow. Any aggression is returned in kind. Scanner and sensor techs, look sharp. These people have ships and weaponry at least equivalent to ours. Effective now, oh-eight-hundred hours, we are on yellow alert. Stations.”
With that he flicked off the intercraft and spoke over his shoulder.
“Mr. Pike, secure all bridge stations. Helm, warp factor three…”
Maybe he’s a different man once he’s on his ship, Pike thought after that first day. Kamnach wasn’t exactly Santa Claus on the bridge, but there was little evidence of the hard-ass act he’d put on during Pike’s interview. Out here he was all business—a little crude, overplaying the tough guy routine—but essentially a good commander. So far.
On their third day out, Pike showed up for breakfast after an early morning run through the lesser-used corridors and a session with the heavy bag in the ship’s minuscule gym, ready to perform the usual morning dance around the food dispenser. Room on a fully crewed cutter was at a premium, and the officers’ mess was a tight fit. With the long dining table in the middle, two average-sized humans trying to serve themselves at the food dispenser more often than not ended up bumping elbows.
As usual, the chief engineer was there ahead of Pike. Chee Wee Chua was a compact, smiling man with a wicked sense of humor; his crew called him Chewy. Most mornings he and Pike performed an elaborate choreography around the coffeepot to keep from spilling anything.
“After you, my dear Alphonse!” Chewy joked this morning. Softly so that only Pike could hear, he said: “Your dad says hello. First time you two served together?”
Pike nodded, wondering if he could trust Chewy with a message back to Charlie. The damnable thing about Kamnach’s divide-and-conquer policy was it made you wary of trusting your crewmates.
“Shiok!” Chewy said. “Awesome! You guys need to talk, you let me know.”
“Appreciate that,” was all Pike said, and Chewy took his place at the table as the others began to arrive.
“Twenty credits says he’ll have us running drills ’round the clock as soon as we’re within a day of the border,” the helmsman, a prematurely gray guy named Wesley who’d been a few years ahead of Pike at the Academy, was saying as he strolled in. “Run us so ragged that if we are under attack, we won’t be able to tell the real thing from a drill.”
“No one’s taking your money, Wesley,” the science officer—Renkova, Pike remembered—laughed as she joined Pike at the food dispenser. “We all know the captain too well!”
“New mission, same old conversation.” Hanley was usually the last to arrive. “Captain Kamnach never went to charm school, but he’s got the highest kill-to-casualty rate in the ’fleet.”
“That’s not necessarily something to brag about, Hanley,” Wesley remarked. “Losing the fewest of your own crew, yes, that’s commendable. But there’s talk that some of those engagements might have been prevented by a captain with less temper and more diplomacy.”
Hanley snorted. “Diplomacy!”
“Well, we’re still within subspace range, remember,” Chewy remarked. “How soon before we hit the dead zones, Wesley?”
“On our present heading? Just about where we might expect to bump into a rogue Vestian vessel, if there happened to be one out there.”
Chewy saw Pike’s bemused expression and was only too happy to elaborate. “We’re coming up on a debris field just before the no-man’s-land between us and Vestios. Mostly dust and small particles, with the occasional big chunk of rock. Also a lot of junked vessels from the Vestians’ last war. Kamnach’s famous for hiding in debris fields and confusing the other guy’s sensors.”
“Which is good and bad,” Wesley elaborated, “because all that tinfoil sometimes confuses our sensors, too, not to mention comm. Next to impossible to send or receive subspace as long as we’re in there.”
“Which is exactly what he wants,” Renkova suggested.
“I don’t understand,” Pike said, playing the innocent. He had a fair idea what they were driving at, but he wanted to hear it said before he passed judgment.
“You’ll find out,” Renkova said knowingly, with a nervous glance at Hanley, who looked as if he were going to argue, “as soon as the captain gives the Three Most Powerful speech.”
“Which should be right before he assigns ’round-the-clock drills,” Chewy added.
Before Pike could ask what the Three Most Powerful speech was, the intercraft sounded. “Captain to Number One. Mr. Pike, if you would, report to the bridge a few minutes early, please.”
Pike gulped his coffee—Kamnach frowned on food or drink on his bridge unless he specifically allowed it—grabbed a piece of toast to eat in the ’lift, and was just stepping out onto the bridge wiping the last of the crumbs off his mouth when Kamnach addressed the entire ship.
“All hands, this is the captain. Our ETA at the Vestian border is approximately twenty-two point five hours. In that time, I want all watch commanders to run emergency drills every hour on the hour. At the end of each drill, log your crew’s times into ship’s main computers for my perusal. Mr. Pike will oversee all departments. I expect everyone’s times to improve at each subsequent drill.”
It’s not how I would have done it, Pike thought, hoping it didn’t show on his face. You don’t get a better crew that way, just a more tired one.
Alpha shift was still trickling in and gamma shift was making the handoff, and Pike was making the rounds to secure all stations when he became aware that Kamnach had swung the captain’s chair around as far as it would go and was watching him.
“Number One?”
Pike straightened up a little too quickly. “Sir?”
“In your considered opinion, who are the three most powerful people in the quadrant?”
Pike avoided looking at Renkova. So this was what she’d been talking about. Too many options ran through his mind. He sensed that this was more important even than the opera question, and that a considerable part of his comfort level, or lack of same, on this voyage would depend on his answer. He was also very glad Chewy was down in engineering, because he’d have had a hard time avoiding his eyes. You were wrong about the sequence, my friend, but not about Kamnach’s predictability. Trying to keep his
voice light, he said: “I’ll trust you to tell me, Captain.”
Kamnach ticked them off on his fingers. “The President of the Federation, CinC Starfleet, and the captain of a starship. And out where the ships move faster than the subspace communications, Mr. Pike, which of those would you say is the most powerful?”
Pike felt like the new kid at school who didn’t know the rules yet. He didn’t like the feeling.
“I think the answer’s self-evident, Captain,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
Kamnach gave him a narrow look. “You always think your answers through so carefully, Mr. Pike?”
For some reason Pike found himself remembering the Neworlders and a scene in a freighter’s corridor many, many years ago. He couldn’t exactly stick his hands in his pockets and shrug as if he didn’t care this time.
He tried his lopsided grin instead. “Only when they’re important, Captain. And never during a red alert,” he added.
He saw Kamnach’s eyes narrow, but the captain let it go.
The red alert wasn’t long in coming.
“Message from Starbase 3, Captain,” Lieutenant Flowers reported. “Relayed from Starfleet Command on Scramble.”
Kamnach did not look up from the report Pike had just handed him, which contained each department’s times from the last of three emergency drills. The times had not improved, and the numbers did not please him. Everyone was sleep-deprived and on edge, except for Kamnach, who seemed to thrive on stress.
“On speakers,” he said finally, after he’d allowed the tension to build for a long moment. “I think we all have a fair idea what the message is, but I want everybody to hear it. Keep rumor to a minimum.”
“Aye, sir.”
A few moments later, Admiral Straczeskie’s voice filtered through the static.
“…reports indicating the government of Vestios II has been toppled by insurgents from Vestios V, who have announced they will disregard treaty and attack any Federation vessel within three parsecs of the treaty border between our space and theirs…Tellarite freighter and science vessel Colwell have not responded to our hails and are presumed missing…Aldrin is to proceed with Sequence 142-alpha. Straczeskie out…”
“Acknowledge that, Comm,” Kamnach said tersely, “and open intercraft.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Well, people, this is it,” he announced. “We’re not playing anymore. Navigator, lay in course alpha-tango-zulu. All stations, set your scanners for debris trails. Report anything that looks as if it might be a piece of a freighter or a science vessel. Number One,” he added without pausing for breath. “You’ll continue the emergency drills belowdecks.”
“Sir?”
Kamnach swung his chair around. “No better time to practice for an emergency than in an emergency. You’ll instruct the department heads I want five minutes shaved off the last drill time, or I’ll know the reason why.”
Kamnach was taking a nap when the first sighting occurred. He’d been on the bridge for three shifts straight, and gave the conn to Pike with a yawn.
“Twenty minutes is all I need. You watch out for bogeys in the meantime.”
“Aye, sir.”
Ten minutes into Kamnach’s twenty-minute nap, Pike and Wesley simultaneously spotted a distinct scatter pattern running through the background debris.
“Helm, slow to impulse,” Pike said, leaning forward in the captain’s chair, still an uneasy fit. He waited until Wesley had done so. “Analysis, Renkova?”
“Scanning, sir,” she replied. “Predominantly manufactured, with some organic scree.”
Before Pike could open a discrete to order the transporter room to beam some of the debris aboard, Kamnach strode out of the turbolift. The change from warp to impulse had been enough to tumble him out of a deep sleep and catapult him onto the bridge.
“I have the conn,” he announced abruptly, impatient for Pike to get out of his chair. “What have we got?”
Renkova’s initial assessment was correct. The debris was metallic, manufactured, but their initial sweep hadn’t scooped up enough of it to make an identification.
“Definitely a vessel hull, Captain,” Pike reported, indicating the readout in the center of the briefing room table. “Consistent with materials the Tellarites use, but also historically used by several other species in their ship manufacture, not all of them members of the Federation.”
Kamnach made an impatient gesture. “I’m not interested in ‘historical’ data, Mr. Pike, just the here and now. That debris is from a destroyed space vessel, yes? I want to know what destroyed it.”
“We’re not certain of that yet, either, Captain,” Renkova chimed in. “If we had more debris, or more time—”
“Or an opportunity to scan for a vector backwards to a possible attack vessel—” Pike interjected.
“We don’t have any of that!” Kamnach said. “No time, no luxury to pussyfoot around playing detective. Destroying a Federation vessel is an act of war. And given our proximity to Vestian space, there’s no question in my mind who’s responsible. Any Vestian vessel caught on either side of the border is, in my estimation, fair game. Mr. Pike? You have anything to add?”
“Only that unless we get official clearance from Starfleet Command we shouldn’t—”
“Lieutenant Flowers? On our current heading, how soon before we lose subspace comm with Starbase 3?”
Flowers hesitated, fiddled with something on the table in front of her. Pike caught Chewy’s glance from across the table.
“Approximately one hour from now, sir,” Flowers said at last. “Debris from the region in Sector 47B will obscure our signal. I can’t guarantee you incoming or outgoing until we clear the field, sir.”
“Good enough,” Kamnach said, cutting her off. He leaned forward so that he was eye to eye with Pike. “That means once we enter that debris field, we’re on our own, Number One. You check your regulations for standard procedure under those conditions.”
“No need, Captain,” Pike said evenly, holding Kamnach’s gaze. “I’m aware of the regulations. Once out of subspace comm range, all combat decisions are at captain’s discretion.”
“Best you remember that, Mr. Pike.” Kamnach pulled himself to his feet. “Keep your eyes peeled, gentlemen. A hundred credits out of my personal account to the first one who spots a Vestian vessel. Dismissed.”
“…perfectly legitimate tactical maneuver,” Hanley the weapons officer was arguing in the rec room late that night. Kamnach had finally relaxed the ’round-the-clock drills, and most of the bridge officers at last had a chance to decompress.
“Not the way I’d have done it necessarily, but well within bounds,” Wesley conceded, pouring himself another beer from the communal pitcher in the center of the table.
He and Hanley were discussing a previous mission with Kamnach in command. In that instance the “target of opportunity,” as Hanley called it, had been a Klingon vessel.
Pike had researched Kamnach’s record; he knew which battle they were talking about.
“Slightly different situation there, wouldn’t you say, Hanley?” he chimed in, taking an empty chair and reaching for the pitcher when Wesley was through. “The Klingons were in clear violation of the border in the Jeris II incident. And Kamnach’s was the only ship in the sector. Out here, we’ve got backup.”
“Intention is half the law, Pike,” Hanley said stonily. “We’re at war.”
“Are we?” Pike arranged his chair so that Lieutenant Flowers, at another table with a couple of female crew members, was within his line of vision. “I don’t recall any official declaration. Unless that occurred after we left Earth and Admiral Straczeskie just forgot to notify us.”
Hanley muttered something about people who had regulation books in place of their spines and pushed off, taking his beer mug with him. Pike got up as if to follow him and ask him to come back and finish the debate, then thought the better of it, using Hanley’s abrupt departure as an excuse to str
oll past Flowers’s table.
“Buy you ladies a drink?” he asked. The other two shook their heads, but Flowers beamed at him.
“That would be nice, Commander. I’ll have a Tarkalian tea, please.”
“…never been on a combat vessel before,” Hana was saying. Hana and Chris…they were on a first-name basis by now. Her two girlfriends had wisely moved off, and the rec room was mostly empty. She looked down at her teacup, too shy this close to meet his eyes. “I’ve only ever been on in-system vessels before, off Vega mostly. That’s where I’m from.”
“So you’re as much a newbie on Aldrin as I am.”
She nodded.
Pike waited for her to go on. When she didn’t, he said, “You know what? I’ve never been in combat, either.”
“Really?” Her eyes were even more beautiful close-up, a surprising pale gray against her coffee-colored skin. Pike remembered women who looked like her in Sulawesi when he was a boy. “But you seemed so calm and in control.”
“Running drills? Sure. Anybody can do that. But nobody knows how they’ll react in a real combat situation until they get there.” He changed the subject. “Will you walk in the arboretum with me?”
“I’d like that,” she said, getting up first. “As long as you don’t make any jokes about flowers.”
He didn’t understand her at first. “I’m sorry?”
“Because of my name,” she explained. “Every man I’ve ever known has made a joke about it. ‘Flowers for a flower…a rose by any other name…’Even my father used to joke that he should have named me ‘Rose.’”
“No jokes,” Pike promised, falling into step beside her.
The arboretum, like all spaces on a cutter, was small, really not much more than a roomful of potted plants—some of them knocked over during evasive maneuvers in the drills, and he helped Hana set them upright, their hands touching as they scooped the soil off the deck and patted it around the roots—but cool and inviting, a universe away from the chronic tension on Kamnach’s bridge.
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