by KATHY OLTION
A moment later, the Cochrane jockey’s voice came crackling over the Gibraltar’s comm system. He sounded as if he were talking about a barroom brawl instead of a dogfight.
“Looks like I bit off more than I could chew,” said Dane. “Everything’s down . . . shields, weapons, you name it. I’m not going to be much help from here on in.”
“I’ll do what I can to protect you,” Stiles assured him.
There was a pause, as Dane seemed to realize to whom he was speaking. “You just want to make sure nothing happens to that pistol I won.”
“Damned right,” said Stiles.
But, of course, the pistol was the farthest thing from his mind. He was trying to figure out how he was going to repay Dane’s favor without getting his ship carved up in the process.
* * *
Hiro Matsura had never felt so helpless in his life.
The other captains were fighting valiantly, dodging energy volley after energy volley, but it wasn’t getting them anywhere. With one of their ships disabled—perhaps as badly as the Yellowjacket—the tide of battle was slowly but inexorably turning against them. In time, the aliens would blow them out of space.
But Matsura couldn’t do anything about it—not with his ship in its current state of disrepair. With his weapons down and his shield generators mangled, he would only be offering himself up as cannon fodder.
He wished he could speak to the aliens. Then he would let them know that he understood the reason for their hostility. He would make them see that it was all a misunderstanding.
But he couldn’t speak to them—not without programming their language into his ship’s computer. And if he knew their language, he wouldn’t require the computer’s help in the first place.
As Matsura looked on, Hagedorn’s ship absorbed another blinding, bludgeoning barrage. Then the same thing happened to Shumar’s ship, and Cobaryn’s. Their deflector grids had to be failing. Pretty soon, they would all be as helpless as the Yellowjacket.
The captain’s fists clenched. Dammit, he thought bitterly, there’s got to be something I can do.
His excavation of the mound on Oreias Eight had put the key to the problem in his hands. He just had to figure out what to unlock with it.
Unlock? he repeated inwardly.
And then it came to him.
There might be a way to help the other ships after all. It was a long shot, but he had taken long shots before.
Swinging himself out of his center seat, Matsura said, “Jezzelis, you’re with me.” Then he grabbed the Vobilite’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the lift.
“Sir?” said Jezzelis, doing his best to keep up.
The captain punched the bulkhead pad, summoning the lift. “I need help with something,” he told his exec.
“With what?” asked Jezzelis.
Just then, the lift doors hissed open. Moving inside, Matsura tapped in their destination. By the time he was finished, his first officer had entered the compartment too.
“Captain,” said Jezzelis, “I would—”
Matsura held up a hand for silence. Then he pressed the stud that activated the ship’s intercom. “Spencer, Naulty, Brosius, Jimenez . . . this is the captain. Meet me on deck six.”
A string of affirmative responses followed his command. All four of the security officers would be there, Matsura assured himself.
His exec looked at him askance, no doubt trying to figure out what could be so pressing about deck six. After all, there was nothing there except cargo space and equipment lockers.
“Mr. McDonald,” the captain went on, “report to the transporter room and stand by.”
“The transporter . . . ?” Jezzelis wondered out loud.
Then they reached deck six and the doors opened. Spencer, Naulty, Brosius, and Jimenez were just arriving.
“Follow me,” said Matsura, swinging out of the lift compartment and darting down the corridor.
He could hear the others pelting along after him, matching him stride for stride. No doubt, the four security officers were every bit as curious as Jezzelis. Unfortunately, there was no time for an explanation.
If his plan was going to stand a chance, he had to move quickly.
The captain negotiated a couple of turns in the passage. Then he came to a door and pounded on the bulkhead controls beside it. A moment later, the titanium panel slid aside, revealing two facing rows of gold lockers in a long, narrow cabin.
Matsura knew exactly what each locker contained—a fully charged palm-sized flashlight, a small black packet of barely edible rations, and an Earth Command emergency containment suit.
There were two dozen of the gold-and-black suits in all, each one boasting a hood with an airtight visor. As bulky as they were, a normal man wouldn’t be able to carry more than four of them at once—which was why Matsura had brought help along.
As Jezzelis and the others caught up with him, the captain tapped a three-digit security code into a pad on one of the lockers. When the door swung open, he grabbed the suit inside the locker and gestured for his assistants to do the same.
“Take them to the transporter room,” he barked.
Invading one locker after the other, Matsura dragged out three more suits. They weighed his arms down as if they were full of lead. Satisfied that he couldn’t carry any more, he made his way back to the lift.
Jezzelis was right behind him. With his powerful Vobilite musculature, the first officer didn’t seem half as encumbered as his captain did. As Matsura struck the bulkhead panel and got the doors to open for them, Jezzelis helped the human with his ungainly burden.
“Thanks,” Matsura breathed, making his way to a wall of the compartment and leaning against it for support.
The Vobilite took advantage of the respite to pin the captain down. “If I may ask, sir . . . exactly what are we doing?”
Matsura told him.
Then the others piled into the turbolift with them, and the captain programmed in a destination—the transporter room. As luck would have it, it was only a deck below them.
The ride down took only a few seconds. Jimenez was the first one to bolt into the corridor with his armful of containment suits. Matsura was last—but not by much.
As they spilled into the room, McDonald was waiting for them at the control console. He looked confused when he saw what the captain and his helpers were bringing in.
“Sir . . . ?” said the transporter operator, staring at Matsura as if he was afraid the man had lost his mind.
“Don’t ask,” the captain told him, dumping his suits on the raised transporter platform. “Just drop what’s left of our shields and beam these out into space—say, a hundred meters from the ship.”
McDonald hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if he thought he might have been the butt of a very bizarre joke. Then he activated the transporter system, overrode shield control, and did as Matsura had ordered.
The captain pointed to Jezzelis. “Yours next.”
His first officer deposited his load on the platform. At a nod from Matsura, McDonald beamed that into space as well.
It seemed to take forever, but the captain saw every one of their two dozen Earth Command-issue containment garments dispatched to the void. Only then did he take a deep breath, wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and start back in the direction of the turbolift.
He had to get back to the bridge. It was there that he would find out if his idea had been as crazy as it seemed.
Connor Dane didn’t like the idea of being protected by Aaron Stiles. For that matter, he didn’t like the idea of being protected by anybody.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t in much of a position to complain about it. It wasn’t just his life on the line—it was his crew’s lives as well. And he had no one to blame but himself.
If he hadn’t risked the Maverick to keep the aliens from destroying the Gibraltar, his ship wouldn’t be a useless piece of junk now. He would still be trading punches with the enemy instead
of cringing every time a dark triangle veered his way.
Of course, the enemy had all but ignored him since the moment his ship was disabled. Obviously, they had more viable fish to fry. But eventually, they would finish frying them—and then Dane’s ship would be slagged with a few good energy bursts.
Not a pleasant thought, he mused. He looked around his bridge at his officers, whose expressions told him they were thinking the same thing.
They deserved a lot better than the fate he had obtained for them. But then, so did everyone else in the fleet. There were brave, dedicated people serving under every one of Dane’s colleagues.
And it looked like their only legacy would be a few odd scraps of charred space debris.
“Sir,” said his navigator, “something seems to be happening in the vicinity of the Yellowjacket.”
Dane turned to her. “Are they being attacked?”
Ideko shook her black-and-white-striped head from side to side. “No, sir. It’s something else. I—”
“Yes?” said the captain.
Ideko frowned and called up additional information. Then she frowned even more. “Sensors say they’re containment suits, sir.”
Dane looked at her. Then he turned to his screen, daring it to show him what his navigator had described. “Give me a view of the Yellowjacket, Lieutenant. I’d like to see this for myself.”
A moment later, an image of Matsura’s ship filled the screen. And just as Ideko had reported, there was a swarm of black-and-gold containment suits floating outside the vessel.
“I’ll be deep fried,” the captain muttered. He leaned forward in his chair and studied the Yellowjacket more closely. “There’s no sign of a hull breach,” he concluded.
“None,” agreed Nasir, who had taken up a position on Dane’s flank.
“So what are they doing out there?” Dane wondered.
No one answered him.
The captain was still trying to figure it out when one of the triangles separated itself from the thick of the battle and headed in the direction of the Yellowjacket.
Like the Maverick, the Yellowjacket was defenseless. It had no weapons, no shields . . . no threat to keep the enemy at bay.
Damn, thought Dane, feeling a pang of sympathy for his colleague. This is it for Matsura.
Of course, he expected Matsura to give the aliens a run for their money—to buy as much time as possible for his crew, or maybe even try to maneuver the enemy into the sights of another Christopher.
But the captain of the Yellowjacket didn’t do a thing. He just sat there, as if resigned to the fact of his doom.
Dane was surprised. Matsura had seemed like the type to fight to the end, no matter how small the chances of his succeeding. Apparently, he thought, I was wrong about him.
As the alien ship bore down on the Yellowjacket, Dane grimaced in anticipation. But the deadly energy burst never came. Instead, the triangle slowed down, came to a stop in front of the toothless Christopher . . .
And just sat there.
Nasir muttered a curse.
“You can say that again,” Dane told him.
The triangle reminded him of a dog sniffing something new in the neighborhood. But what was new about the Yellowjacket? Hadn’t the aliens run into Starfleet vessels twice before?
Then it came to him. But before the captain could make mention of it, his comm grate came alive with Matsura’s voice.
“Don’t ask questions,” said the captain of the Yellowjacket. “Just transport all your containment suits into space. I’ll explain later.”
Dane looked at his first officer. “You heard the man, Mr. Nasir. We’ve got work to do.”
Before Nasir could utter a protest, Dane swung out of his chair and headed for the turbolift.
Alonis Cobaryn was stunned.
A scant few minutes earlier, he had been entangled in the fight of his life, battered by an implacable enemy at every turn. Now he was watching that same enemy withdraw peacefully from the field of battle, its weapons obligingly powered down.
Except for one triangle-shaped ship . . . and that one was hanging nose to nose with the Yellowjacket in the midst of nearly a hundred and fifty black-and-gold containment suits, looking as patient and deliberate as a Vulcan.
Clearly, it wanted something. Cobaryn just wished he knew what.
Tapping the stud on his intercom, he opened a channel to the Yellowjacket. “Captain Matsura,” he said, “you offered to provide an explanation. This might be a propitious time.”
“Damned right,” said Dane, joining their conversation. “Exactly what did we just do?”
“And,” added Cobaryn, “how did you know it would work?”
“Believe me,” said Matsura. “I didn’t. I was wishing I could speak to the aliens, tell them somehow that we weren’t trying to dishonor their burial mounds . . . and it occurred to me that what we needed was some kind of peace offering. But it had to be an offering they understood—something they would immediately recognize as precious.”
“Something like . . . a year’s supply of containment suits?” Dane asked, clearly still in the dark.
“Remember,” said Matsura, “the aliens had never seen a human being—or, for that matter, a member of any other Federation species. I was hoping they would identify the suits as our shells—or at least what passes for shells in our society.”
Cobaryn was beginning to understand. “And if we were anything like them, these so-called shells would have great spiritual value.”
“Exactly,” said Matsura. “And anyone who’s generous enough to present offerings of great spiritual value can’t be all bad.”
Dane grunted in appreciation. “Nice one.”
“Indeed,” remarked Cobaryn. “However, now that we have achieved a stalemate, we must capitalize on it. We must build a basis for mutual understanding with the aliens.”
“As I understand it,” said Matsura, “a couple of our colleagues are gearing up to do just that.”
“Hagedorn here,” said a voice, as if on cue. “Stand by. Captain Shumar and I are going to attempt to make first contact.”
“Who died and left him boss?” asked Dane.
But Cobaryn could tell from the Cochrane jockey’s tone that he didn’t really have any objection. It was simply impossible for Dane to cope with authority without making a fuss.
As the Rigelian watched, a pod escaped from the belly of the Horatio and made its way toward the waiting triangle ship. No doubt, both Shumar and Hagedorn were aboard.
“Good luck,” Cobaryn told them.
A hundred meters shy of the alien vessel, Daniel Hagedorn grazed the last of the Christophers’ seemingly ubiquitous containment suits.
The protective garment seemed to want to latch onto the escape pod, desiring rescue, but Hagedorn urged his vehicle past it. Then there was nothing but empty space between him and the triangle ship.
Twenty meters from it, Hagedorn applied the pod’s braking thrusters. Then he sat back and waited.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” wondered Shumar, who was ensconced next to him in the copilot’s seat.
Hagedorn shook his head. “You’re the scientist. You tell me.”
“I’m not an ambassador,” said Shumar. “I’m a surveyor. I’ve never made contact with anything smarter than a snail.”
“And the only contact I’ve made has been with a laser cannon. Apparently, we’re at something of a disadvantage.”
For a moment, silence reigned in the pod’s tiny cabin. Hagedorn took advantage of it to study the alien ship. For all its speed and power, it didn’t appear to be based on a very efficient design.
“It must be gratifying,” he said, using the part of his mind that wasn’t focused on the triangle.
Shumar looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your work on Oreias Eight . . . it gave us this opportunity. You can be proud of that.”
“You mean . . . if we don’t make it?”
Ev
en Hagedorn had to smile at that. “Yes.”
Shumar looked at him. “Either way, Captain, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Hagedorn told him.
His colleague nodded. “I know.”
Suddenly, something began to move underneath the triangle ship. Hagedorn could feel his pulse begin to race. He willed it to slow down, knowing they would need to be sharp to pull this off.
“Is that a door opening?” asked Shumar, craning his neck to get a view of the alien’s underside.
It certainly looked like a door Hagedorn said so.
“Then let’s accept their invitation,” Shumar suggested.
It was why they had come, after all—in the hope that they might obtain face-to-face contact with the aliens. Carefully, Hagedorn eased the pod down and under the triangle, all the while gaining a better view of what awaited them within.
The first thing Hagedorn saw was a smaller version of the alien vessel, sitting alongside the open bay door. Then he spotted some of the aliens themselves, standing back from the opening behind what must have been a transparent force field.
They were tall, angular, and dark-skinned, with minimal, vividly colored clothing, and white hair drawn back into thick, elaborate braids. Their pale, wideset eyes followed the pod as it came up through the open doorway into an unexpectedly large chamber.
Hagedorn landed his vehicle and the door closed behind him. He took a moment to scan the aliens more closely. He noticed that all four of them had hand weapons hanging at their hips.
“They’re armed,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t you be?” asked Shumar.
It was a good point.
Of course, neither of them had figured out yet how they were going to communicate with their hosts. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time Hagedorn had been forced to improvise.
He flipped the visor of his containment suit down over his face, grateful that he had had the foresight to hold a couple of the garments back when he received Matsura’s instructions.
Then, his fingers crawling across his control console, he cracked the pod’s hatch and went out to meet the aliens.