STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ®

by Andrew J. Robinson

  Dane’s mouth twisted at the other man’s tone. “You mean butterfly catchers, don’t you?”

  Matsura found himself turning red. “I don’t use that terminology.”

  “But your buddies do,” the other man observed. “And don’t insult my intelligence by claiming otherwise.”

  “All right,” said Matsura, “I won’t.”

  That seemed to pacify Dane a bit. “At least you’re honest,” he conceded.

  “Thanks. Now, I’m sorry you took the trouble to fly all the way over here, but I’m leaving to try to hook up with Stiles and Hagedorn. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

  Dane snorted. “I’ll put my money on Shumar and Cobaryn.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Matsura. “I’ll—”

  Suddenly, his navigator interrupted him. “Sir,” said Williams, her face drawn with concern as she consulted her monitor, “we’re picking up a number of unidentified vessels.”

  The captain saw Dane turn away from the viewscreen and spit a command at one of his officers. He didn’t look happy.

  For that matter, Matsura wasn’t very happy either. “Give me visual,” he told Williams.

  A moment later, Dane’s image vanished from the viewscreen, to be replaced by that of three small, triangular vessels. They were gleaming in the glare of Oreias as they approached.

  The aggressors, Matsura thought. It had to be.

  “Raise shields,” he announced. “Power to all batteries.”

  “Raising shields,” Williams confirmed.

  “Power to lasers and launchers,” said his weapons officer.

  “You still there?” asked Matsura over their comm link.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” came Dane’s response. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m not much of a team player.”

  No big surprise there, Matsura told himself. “I’ll try to work with you anyway. Leave your comm link open. If I see an alien on your tail, I can give you a holler.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Dane.

  Then the enemy was on top of them. Or rather, the triangular vessels were plunging past them—so intent on the colony, it seemed, that they were ignoring the Christophers above it.

  Matsura took the slight personally. “Lock lasers on the nearest ship,” he told his weapons officer.

  “Targeting,” said Wickersham, a fair-haired man with a narrow face and deep-set eyes.

  “Fire!” the captain commanded.

  Their electric-blue beams reached out and skewered the enemy vessel—failing to disable it, but getting its attention. It came about like an angry bee and returned fire, sending out a string of scarlet fireballs.

  “Evade!” Matsura called out.

  But they weren’t fast enough. The energy clusters plowed into the Yellowjacket, sending a bone-rattling jolt through the deckplates.

  The aliens packed a punch, the captain realized. He had made the mistake of judging their firepower by their size.

  “Another one on our port beam!” said Williams.

  “Split the difference!” Matsura ordered.

  At the helm console, McCallum worked feverishly. What’s more, his efforts paid off. The Yellowjacket sliced between the two triangular ships, preventing them from firing for the moment.

  Suddenly, the third vessel loomed on Matsura’s viewscreen, its underbelly exposed, filling the entire frame with its unexpected proximity. He had never had such an easy target and he might never have one again.

  “Target lasers and fire!” he commanded.

  At close range, their beams seemed to do a good deal more damage. The enemy staggered under the impact.

  “Their shields are at twenty-eight percent,” Williams reported.

  A barrage of atomics might take the alien out of the fight, the captain noted. But before he could launch one, the enemy was bludgeoned with blasts of white fury.

  Dane, Matsura thought.

  “Their tactical systems are offline,” his navigator told him.

  The captain could have finished off the alien then and there. However, the vessel wasn’t in a position to hurt the colony anymore, and he still had two other marauders to worry about.

  “Where are the others?” he asked Williams.

  She worked at her console. “Right here, sir.”

  A moment later, he saw the two still-capable triangles on his viewscreen. They were going after the Maverick with their energy weapons blazing, trying to catch her in a deadly crossfire.

  Unlike Matsura, Dane didn’t make an attempt to dart between his adversaries. He headed straight for one of them, exposing his starboard flank to the other.

  It was a maneuver that depended on the enemy’s being caught by surprise and veering off. But if that didn’t happen, it was suicide.

  Had Matsura been fighting both the aliens on his own, he might have made an effort to do something similar. As it was, he found the move reckless to the point of insanity.

  You idiot, he thought—and not just because Dane had endangered his own ship. By placing himself in jeopardy, he had made it necessary for the Yellowjacket to expose herself as well.

  Matsura frowned. “Pursue the vessel to port, Mr. Weeks! Target lasers and fire!”

  Weeks managed to nail the enemy from behind with both blue beams. He hit the triangle hard enough to keep it from striking the Maverick with an energy volley, but—unfortunately—not hard enough to cripple it.

  As they dogged the alien ship, trying to lock on for another shot, the captain saw the other triangle peel off to avoid the Maverick—just as Dane had gambled it would.

  But as surely as the Maverick had climbed out of the fire, the Yellowjacket was falling into it. As Weeks released another laser barrage, the enemy to port looped around with amazing dexterity. Then it came for Matsura and his crew, its weapons belching bundle after bundle of crimson brilliance.

  “Hard to starboard!” the captain called out, hoping to pull his ship out of harm’s way.

  But it was no use. The alien’s energy clusters dazzled his screen and rammed the Yellowjacket with explosive force—once, twice, and again, finally wrenching Matsura out of his captain’s chair and pitching him sideways across the deck.

  Behind him, a control console erupted in a shower of sparks. Black smoke collected above it like a bad omen. There were cries of pain and dismay, punctuated by frantic status reports.

  “Shields are down!”

  “Hull breaches on decks five and six!”

  “Lasers and atomics are inoperable!”

  Dazed, Matsura watched someone grab a fire extinguisher from the rack on the wall. Ignoring a stinging wetness over his right eye, he dragged himself to his feet and made his way back to his center seat.

  On the static-riddled viewscreen, the battle had advanced while Matsura was pulling himself together. Somehow, Dane had incapacitated another of the enemy’s vessels because only the Maverick and one of the aliens were still exchanging fire.

  Abruptly, the commander of the triangle decided to change tactics. The ship broke off the engagement and went hurtling out into the void. And just as abruptly, its sister ships departed in its wake.

  Matsura’s first instinct was to follow them. Then he remembered that the Yellowjacket was in no shape to pursue anyone.

  Without shields and weapons, she was all but helpless. The captain looked around at his bridge officers. They looked relieved that the battle was over, especially the ones who had sustained injuries.

  “Casualties?” Matsura asked, not looking forward to the response he might get.

  Williams, who looked shaken but not hurt, consulted her monitor. “Sickbay has three reports, sir, but more are expected. No fatalities as far as the doctor can tell.”

  The captain frowned. “Dispatch a couple of engineering teams to see to those hull breaches.”

  Williams nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Matsura turned to Weeks, who was holding a damaged left arm and grimacing. “Tacticals are a mess, sir,” he got out. �
�I’ll see to bringing them back online, but it’s going to take a while.”

  “First,” the captain said, “you’ll get yourself to sickbay.”

  “But, sir,” Weeks protested, looking even more pained than before, “we’re in need of—”

  “Repairs? Yes, we are,” Matsura told him. “But they can be carried out without you.”

  The weapons officer looked like he was going to put up a fight. Then he said, “Aye, sir,” and made his way to the lift.

  Matsura was about to check on his propulsion system when Williams spoke up. “Sir, Captain Dane is asking to speak with you.”

  His jaw clenching, the captain nodded. “Link him in.”

  A moment later, Dane appeared on the viewscreen. “You look like you took a beating,” he observed. “What’s your situation?”

  “The situation,” said the captain, doing his best to keep his voice free of anger, “is I’ve lost my lasers, my atomics, and my shield generators. And that’s just a superficial assessment.”

  Dane grunted. “Tough luck. We suffered a little damage ourselves.” He began tapping a command into his armrest. “I’ll contact the others and let them know what happened here.”

  Matsura’s mouth fell open. That was it? he wondered. No thanks? No recognition that he had put his ship and crew on the line to bail out a reckless fool of a comrade?

  If this had been an Earth Command mission, Matsura’s wingmates would have been quick to acknowledge what he had done. But this wasn’t Earth Command, he reminded himself bitterly. It was something completely different.

  And Connor Dane was still a Cochrane jockey at heart, taking low-percentage chances as if his life were the only one at stake.

  Matsura was tempted to lash out at the man, to tell him how he felt; but he wouldn’t do that with two complements of bridge officers privy to the conversation. He would arrange a better time.

  “You do that,” Matsura said. “And when you’re done, I’d like to speak with you. In private.”

  For the first time, it seemed to dawn on the other man that his colleague might not be entirely happy with him. “No problem,” Dane answered casually. “I’ll tell my transporter operator to expect you.”

  “Yellowjacket out,” said Matsura—and terminated the link.

  A moment later, Dane’s face vanished from the screen, replaced with a view of his Christopher. Matsura studied it for a moment, his resentment building inside him.

  Then he got up from his center seat. “You’ve got the conn,” he told Lieutenant Williams and headed for the Yellowjacket’s transporter room.

  As far as he knew, that system was still working.

  “I’d ask you to pardon the mess,” Dane said, “but I might as well tell you, it’s like this all the time.”

  Matsura didn’t say anything in response. He just frowned disapprovingly, looked around Dane’s cluttered anteroom and found an empty seat.

  Obviously, Matsura wasn’t pleased with him. And just as obviously, Dane was about to hear why. Removing yesterday’s uniform from his workstation chair, Dane tossed it into a pile in the corner of the room and sat down.

  “All right,” he told his fellow captain. “There’s something you want to get off your chest, right? So go ahead.”

  Matsura glared at him. “Fine. If you want me to be blunt, I’ll be blunt. What you did out there a minute ago was foolish and irresponsible. Leaving your flank exposed, forcing me to go in and protect it . . . you’re lucky you didn’t get us all killed.”

  Dane looked at him. “Is that so?”

  “You’re damned right,” Matsura shot back. “No Earth Command captain would ever have taken a chance like that.”

  Dane shrugged. “Then maybe they should consider it.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” asked Matsura, turning dark with anger. “You’re going to defend that gambit—after it crippled my ship and injured seventeen of my crewmen?”

  Dane smiled a thin smile. “Given a million chances, I’d do it a million times . . . hands down, no contest.”

  Matsura was speechless.

  “Of course,” Dane went on, “I’m not one of the noble black and gold, so none of my skill or experience means a flipping thing. But I’ll tell you what . . . I’ve met a few Romulans in my day too. In fact, I was blasting them out of space long before you ever warmed your butt in a center seat.”

  Matsura’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a difference between experience and luck,” he pointed out.

  “Men make their own luck,” Dane told him. “I make mine by pushing the envelope—by doing what they least expect. Come to think of it, you might want to think about pushing the envelope a little yourself.”

  “Me . . .?” Matsura asked.

  “That’s right. Dare to be different. Or do you want to spend the rest of your life living in your flyboy buddies’ shadow?”

  Matsura’s jaw clenched. “I don’t live in anyone’s shadow—not Hagedorn’s or Stiles’s or anyone else’s. What I do is carry out my mission within the parameters of good sense.”

  Dane grunted. “Right.”

  “You think otherwise?”

  Dane shrugged. “I think good sense is what people hide behind when they can’t do any better.”

  “Says the man who hasn’t got any.”

  “Says the man who accomplished his mission,” Dane noted.

  Matsura flushed and got to his feet. “Obviously, I’m wasting my time talking to you. You know everything.”

  “Funny,” said Dane, keeping his voice nice and even. “I was just about to tell you the same thing.”

  Matsura’s mouth twisted.

  “And just for the record,” said Dane, “I didn’t expect you to protect my flank. As I said, I’m not much of a team player.”

  The other man didn’t respond to that one. He just turned his back on Dane, tapped the door control and left.

  The captain shook his head. Matsura had potential—anyone with an eye in his head could see that. But the way things were going, it didn’t look like he was going to realize it.

  Not that that’s any of my headache, Dane told himself, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

  Matsura was still boiling over Dane’s remarks as he left the Yellowjacket’s transporter room . . . and on an impulse, headed for a part of his vessel he hadn’t had occasion to visit lately.

  Men make their own luck, Dane had told him.

  But Matsura had done that, hadn’t he? During the war, he had been as effective a weapon as Earth Command could have asked for. He had risen to every challenge thrown his way.

  But Dane wasn’t talking about efficiency or determination. He was talking about thinking outside the box. He was talking about a willingness to try something different.

  You might want to think about pushing the envelope . . .

  And, damn it, Matsura would do just that. He would show Dane that he could take the direction least expected of him—and do more with it than the butterfly catchers themselves.

  Neither Shumar, Cobaryn, nor Dane had discovered anything of value with all their meticulous site scanning. But with the help of his research team, Matsura would turn up something. He would find a way to beat the aliens that his colleagues had overlooked.

  Or do you want to spend the rest of your life living in your fly-boy buddies’ shadow?

  Matsura swore beneath his breath. Dane was wrong about him—dead wrong—and he was going to make the arrogant sonuvagun see that.

  The captain had barely completed the thought when he realized that his destination was looming just ahead of him. Arriving at the appropriate set of doors, he tapped the control pad on the bulkhead and watched the titanium panels slide aside.

  Once, this relatively large compartment on Deck Eight had been a supply bay. It had been converted by Starfleet into a research laboratory, equipped with three state-of-the-art computer workstations and a stationary scanner that was three times as sensitive as the portable version.

/>   It was all Clarisse Dumont’s doing. If the fleet was going to conduct research in space, she had argued, it might as well enjoy the finest instruments available.

  Matsura hadn’t been especially inclined to make use of them before; he had left that to those members of his crew with a more scientific bent. But he would certainly make use of them now.

  “Mr. Siefried,” he said, addressing one of the three crewmen who had beamed down to the colony to collect data.

  Siefried, a lanky mineralogist with sharp features and close-cropped hair, evinced surprise as he swiveled in his seat. After all, it wasn’t every day that Matsura made an appearance there.

  “Sir?” said Siefried.

  “What have we got?” asked the captain, trying his best to keep his anger at Dane under wraps.

  The mineralogist shrugged his bony shoulders. “Not much more than we had before, I’m afraid. At least, nothing that would explain why the aliens attacked the colony.”

  Matsura turned to Arquette, a compact man with startling blue eyes. “Anything to add to that?” he asked.

  Arquette, an exobiologist, shook his head. “Nothing, sir. Just the same materials we saw before. But I’m still working on it.”

  “Perhaps if we had a context,” said Smithson, a buxom physicist who specialized in energy emissions, “some kind of backdrop against which we could interpret the data.”

  “That would be helpful, all right,” Matsura agreed. “Then again, if we knew something about these aliens, we probably wouldn’t have needed to do site research in the first place.”

  The scan team looked disheartened by his remark. Realizing what he had done, the captain held his hand up in a plea for understanding. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

  “It’s all right, sir,” said Smithson, in an almost motherly tone of voice. “It’s been a frustrating time for all of us.”

  Matsura nodded. “To say the least.”

  But he wasn’t going to accept defeat so easily. Not when Dane’s smugness was still so vivid in his memory.

  “Do you mind if I take a look?” he asked Smithson.

  “Not at all,” said the physicist, getting up from her seat to give the captain access to her monitor.