Once the medical staff had finished stabilizing the two survivors, Brooks asked one of the medics on duty for permission to speak with the lone MACO who had regained consciousness. Grudgingly, the pig-faced medic allowed her a few minutes to sit beside the young man, who identified himself as Corporal John Sheehan.
“Were you on Deneva as part of a Starfleet contingent?” Brooks asked, once the young trooper—who she could see now was really little more than a boy, an effect accentuated by his red buzz-cut hair and rather prominent ears—had given his permission.
“No,” Sheehan said, still flat on his back on one of the medical beds amid a forest of bandages, flexible tubes, and fluid-filled bags. “I was part of the Deneva garrison. Almost finished with my first one-year tour. Hey, do these pig-faced guys really know anything about treating humans?”
She offered him a gentle smile. “Until the rendezvous with the hospital ship Barnard later today, we’ll have to consider the Skev the best doctor shop in town.”
He laughed, gallows humor being a standard survival tool in any MACO trooper’s kit. “We have a few ground bases in this sector, especially on strategically important planets. Just in case the Romulans somehow make it all the way down to dirtside.”
“Looks to me like they did,” Brooks said. “Any idea how?”
Sheehan shrugged, which prompted him to wince in pain. “My guess is the Vulcans sold us a lemon. Damned Romulans figured out how to game the whole early-warning thing. We were up to our eyeballs in a Romulan assault force before we even knew what was going on.”
Must have been beamed down from orbit, she thought. Like that transporter gadget they have aboard Enterprise.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she said, “Did you see any Romulans up close?”
His eyes grew large and distant. She presumed he was reliving sights, sounds, and smells that she was grateful never to have experienced herself.
“I did,” he said very quietly. “Shot two of ’em down, right after they broke through our perimeter.”
“What do they look like?”
His expression told him that her question had struck him as a non sequitur. “Under their helmets, you mean? Sorry, I didn’t want to risk taking the time to peek. Adams tried to do that, and he got a nice new cauterized skull-piercing for his trouble.”
“I’m so sorry,” Brooks said, and meant it.
A stricken expression crossed Sheehan’s oddly young-old face. “Where are the rest of the guys in my unit?” he said, his tone shifting from grim to plaintive.
Brook’s first impulse was to explain that one of the doctors would soon bring him up to speed, wrapping all the bad news in sugar and a trained bedside manner.
But this wasn’t Earth. Whether it was appropriate or not, she couldn’t bring herself to leave this poor kid to the tender mercies of the Tellarites.
Very slowly and quietly, she told him the truth. Through her tears, she read the list of names she had assembled from the MACO dog tags the medics had taken from the bodies of the dead.
Afterward, she returned to the quarters Shav had issued her, far too exhausted at the moment to try to complete the interview she had begun with the captain. All she could think about was the poleaxed expression she had seen on Corporal Sheehan’s face before she’d left the infirmary. The enemy, by contrast, still lacked any visible countenance at all.
Brooks sat cross-legged on the futonlike bed, activated her padd, and began to write, despite the fact that she could find only a handful of words that might describe every human face she had encountered out here on the war’s ragged edges, at least so far.
Fear. Grief. Horror. Anger. Even hatred.
But fear still predominated by far, and no doubt would continue to do so at least until the Coalition figured out how to plug the hole the Romulans had apparently found in the defense grid around Deneva.
TWENTY-TWO
Tellarite Defense Frigate Miracht
Near Deneva
“NOW ENTERING STANDARD ORBIT, CAPTAIN,“ said Ensign Agram, the helm officer.
Captain Prev nodded brusquely, clutching the arms of his chair with three-fingered death-grips. “Any sign of the attackers?”
“They’re all down on the surface, mostly clustered in and around the main city on the northern continent,” said Lieutenant Ragaav, the tactical officer, who was working the main sensor console.
“Survivors?”
Ragaav shrugged. “I’m only picking up debris in orbit. If anyone remains in need of rescue, they are also down on the surface.”
And the next nearest Tellarite military vessel can’t get here for nearly another quarter-turning, Prev thought, his apprehension mounting. But as master of the Miracht, a Phinda-class vessel that sported one of the most advanced suites of offensive and defensive weaponry in Tellar’s star navy, he knew he could be confident of the outcome of any battle, so long as they attacked hard and fast, before the Romulans got the chance to get any of their craft back up into orbit.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t withdraw from the Romulan front the way the Vulcans suggested,” Prev said. So much for their “alternative strategic plan.”
Ensign Runkaar, the gunner, let out an impatient squeal, her six fingers twitching just above the fire control board. “Your orders, Captain?”
“Standard strafing pattern, Ensign,” Prev said. “Execute.”
Functioning like a single well-oiled machine, Prev’s bridge crew worked in unison, entering commands into their consoles at a furious pace.
Nothing.
“I said execute!” Prev said, rising from his chair.
Agram cursed and banged one cloven fist into the center of his helm console. “Helm has failed, Captain!”
“Negative control over the weapons fire control systems,” Runkaar said, her squeals now taking on an edge of frustration. “Defensive systems are failing as well.”
The overhead lights suddenly failed, plunging the entire control complex into utter darkness during the few heartbeats it took for the battery-powered backups to kick in.
“Life support is down,” Ragaav reported. “Along with communications.”
A terrible sense of dread began to settle deep inside both of Prev’s stomachs. “Agram, get us out of here— now!”
“No propulsion, either, Captain,” Agram said.
Dread ossified into a fatalistic certainty. The Miracht had flown right into a trap. Clearly the Romulans had hidden one of their vessels nearby, perhaps using the flux created by the planet’s magnetic field as a means of concealment, and from there they had attacked.
“The Romulans have struck us with their new weapon,” Prev said. “The one that can seize control of other vessels.”
“We must resist!” Ragaav shouted as he rushed to the spot where Prev stood.
“It’s too late for that, Ragaav,” Prev said, shaking his great shaggy head. “But it’s not too late to launch the log buoy. Just in case.”
Ragaav looked scandalized. “You’re planning to destroy the ship?”
“We can’t let the Romulans capture it, now, can we?” Prev said, angered because he didn’t like the idea of dying any better than Ragaav did. “Whatever their other capabilities, they don’t have anything quite like our Phinda-class frigates.”
“We can’t initiate the self-destruct system, either, Captain,” Agram reported, sounding relieved. “That system has failed, along with all the others. Backup sensors are still working, though.” He paused, then let out a short but fearful squeal. “A bird-of-prey is approaching. Must have been using the planet to conceal itself from us.”
Prev cursed. “What about the log-buoy launcher?” he wanted to know. After Agram shook his head, the captain turned back to Ragaav and said, “Launch the buoy manually. While we still have a little time left.”
Ragaav approached Prev very closely, and the captain could see the glint of mutiny in his small, dark eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for Ragaav’s sidearm and seized it befo
re the lieutenant could succumb to the temptation to draw it on him.
Prev couldn’t afford to let anybody stop him from doing what had to be done.
Backing toward the lift, he said, “Ragaav, you have the bridge.” Before exiting the bridge, he pulled out his own sidearm and tossed Ragaav’s weapon to a very surprised-looking Ensign Agram. “And make sure that buoy gets launched, Ensign.”
As he stepped over the motionless bodies of his engineering crew, Prev kept telling himself that everybody aboard the Miracht would have frozen to death because of the life-support system failure anyway. He wished they’d had the sense to see that, but they had instead opted to defend their engine room from what had to be done. To the death, as it turned out.
Despite the pain in his heart and the heaviness in his soul, Prev felt confident that Phinda, the ancient god after whom both Tellar’s second moon and the new Tellarite frigate class had been named, would see fit to forgive him for what he had done.
And what he was about to do.
The mobile communicator in his pocket squealed, and he pulled it out with his free hand.
“Prev here. Go ahead.”
“The log buoy is away, Captain,” Agram said. “And the Romulans are going to start boarding us at any moment.”
“Let them come,” Prev growled.
“That’s not all, Captain. Ragaav is on his way down to the engine room now. He’s bringing cutting tools and weapons.”
Prev felt a brief surge of disappointment to learn that Agram hadn’t used Ragaav’s weapon to stop him from attempting a mutiny. On the other hand, this way no Tellarite hands aboard the Miracht save his own needed to be spattered with innocent blood before events reached their inevitable conclusion.
“Good work, Agram,” the captain said. “Prev out.”
He tossed the little comm unit to the deck. And after pausing to offer the old deity Phinda a brief prayer, he knelt beside the reactor core’s open access hatch and pointed the barrel of his sidearm directly into the matter-antimatter annihilation chamber. With as much gentleness as his blunt fingers could muster, he began to squeeze the trigger.
During the half-heartbeat that preceded the searing flash of brilliance that followed, he awaited Phinda’s tender embrace.
Dateline: Near Kappa Fornacis (Deneva)
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE OCTOBER 16, 2155, NEWSTIME JOURNAL SPECIAL COMMENTARY FOLLOWS:
This is Gannet Brooks, with all the news that’s under the sun and beyond, reporting from the United Earth Space Probe Agency Medical Ship Christiaan Barnard.
There’s no easy way to report what I have to report tonight, so I’ll just say it: Deneva has fallen to the Romulan Star Empire, a development that eyewitnesses on the ground have confirmed. In addition, at least two Coalition vessels—Starfleet’s recently constructed Daedalus-class Starship Yeager and the Tellarite Defense Frigate Miracht—have failed to check in after attempting to render aid to the human settlers on Deneva.
One of the most disconcerting facts surrounding the fall of Deneva is that the planet was protected by a Vulcan-built sensor grid capable of providing at least a limited degree of warning in the event of any Romulan incursion. The core worlds of Coalition space, including Earth and the Alpha Centauri settlements, rely on similar Vulcan sensor grids as the lynchpins of their own systemwide defense programs. Could these planets have vulnerabilities similar to Deneva’s? And, more importantly, what can be done about it? An official spokesperson has confirmed that this matter has already risen to the top of Starfleet’s priorities.
But the Romulans’ apparent destruction of the Miracht—one of the most advanced military starships in the star navy of Tellar, a civilization whose starfaring experience significantly exceeds that of Earth and Alpha Centauri—does not bode well for Earth’s space forces in their efforts to find a quick solution to this problem. After all, Tellar’s starfaring technologies are more advanced than those of Earth’s NX- or Daedalus-class starships, rivaling those of Andoria and even Vulcan. Could the nearly simultaneous loss of both the Miracht and the Yeager, immediately following the as yet unexplained catastrophic failure of Deneva’s early-warning grid, be seen as clear evidence that the Romulans have developed potent new weaponry? Senior Starfleet officials have harbored such suspicions for months, citing prior incidents involving ships from Vulcan and the Klingon Empire, and even Earth’s own Starship Enterprise.
But as dire as the future might appear now that the Romulans have added Deneva, like Calder II and Tarod IX before it, to its expanding list of subjugated worlds, this reporter can see more reason for encouragement than despair. And that is because for all that we don’t know about these mysterious Romulans, and for all the fear that a lack of knowledge can engender, the simple truth is that the enemy’s knowledge of humanity is equally deficient. The Romulans just don’t understand how often humans have risen to occasions such as these in the past.
And that will be their undoing.
TWENTY-THREE
Saturday, October 18, 2155
Enterprise, Oregon, Earth
THE TIDINGS OF WAR from the frontier droned on in the corner where Selma Guitierrez sat lotus-style on the floor, doing her yoga stretches in front of the living-room screen.
Nelson Kemper tried to ignore the broadcast, concentrating instead on the laughing, brown-eyed, brown-haired toddler who sat on his knee, balancing herself precariously as he leaned back on the sofa as her pudgy fingers maintained a firm grip on both of his thumbs. Although little Elena had already been walking for more than six months, she had yet to outgrow the need for “daddy rides,” much to Kemper’s delight.
On most days, such small but sublime joys served only to vindicate the decision that he and Selma had made almost two years earlier, shortly after their discovery of the unplanned pregnancy that had ultimately given them Elena, who had since become the light of their lives. They had decided then to swap their military careers for a semirural existence in a town that shared its name—Enterprise—with that of the Starfleet vessel where they had last been posted as MACO troopers.
Today was not one of those days.
After the third time Selma had replayed the recording of Gannet Brook’s report about the assault on Deneva—neither of them had been in the mood to listen to any more of Keisha Naquase’s well-meaning but ill-advised pacifism—Kemper knew that something was very different today. Although he found that playing with Elena brought him no less joy than it ever did, he also noticed that it was becoming harder than ever before to keep trying to ignore what was going Out There, in the hostile immensity of deep interstellar space.
Just as it was becoming increasingly difficult to tamp down his burning need to do something about it.
After swinging Elena playfully onto his shoulder, Kemper got his feet beneath him and walked toward his wife.
“How many more times are you going to watch that?” he said, nodding toward the image of Gannet Brooks, whose every pore seemed to radiate a mixture of both concern and encouragement.
Selma stretched once more, then rose to her feet. She pointed a small remote control unit at the screen, and Brooks’s likeness abruptly vanished.
“Sorry, Nelson,” she said, brushing several strands of her dark, lustrous hair away from her eyes. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t. At least, not as much as that Naquase woman bothers me. If Starfleet could figure out how to use her denial to turn a turbine, Earth’s ships would all be able to hit warp eight, easy.”
Selma snickered as she began doing some standing stretches. “Bless her heart. Gotta love anybody whose best military advice amounts to ‘Run away, find a hole to hide in, and pull it in after yourself.’”
Kemper felt Elena fidgeting on his shoulders, so he gave her a few quick bounces to settle her down. “Well, I suppose we haven’t got to the part where we pull the hole in after us. At least not yet.”
Selma froze in mid-motion and studied him,
a grave look on her olive-toned face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Nelson?”
He nodded slowly. “Earth is under direct threat from these Romulans, Selma. In spite of that, we seem to be taking Naquase’s advice, even though we’re both trained warriors who know better.”
There. He’d finally laid his cards on the table, or at least most of them.
“I thought we settled this after the thing with the freighter out in the Gamma Hydra sector,” she said with a weary sigh. “We might both be trained warriors, Nelson, but we’re also both new parents.”
He paused to shrug, then continued bouncing Elena, who responded by releasing a happy cry. “The Romulans don’t seem to think much of anything’s been settled,” he said. “They’ve taken Deneva, Selma. I had cousins living there.”
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise) Page 22