Forged in Fire

by Michael A. Martin

  “Return fire!” Koloth shouted, tightly gripping the arms of his command chair. “Full reply.”

  Though Gherud hesitated, the two bekks manning the guns hastened to comply with Koloth’s orders. But the ’OghwI’’s answering barrage seemed to have little effect on the attacking ship. All three of them now displayed brightly glowing weapons tubes, evidence that they were about to deliver a devastating triple-tandem attack.

  Koloth sat back in his chair. Perhaps this isn’t Kirk’s day to die after all, he thought as the spots before his eyes grew larger, more numerous, and danced with increased abandon. But if it is my day to die, at least this death will lead to Sto-Vo-Kor.

  The ship rattled and shuddered again.

  “Return fire!” Koloth shouted.

  Gherud looked bleak. “Weapons systems are off-line. Shield generators are failing as well.”

  As the edges of the room began growing dark, all Koloth could do was pray that incoming fire would finish him and all the sick crewmen before the illness did.

  He felt drunk, like a young bekk plunging too quickly into his first barrel of bloodwine.

  Closing his eyes, he braced for the end. He welcomed it, reveling in the intense burning sensation of molten bat’leths piercing his forehead. He suddenly felt himself drifting as consciousness itself began to drain away.

  “Sir! We’re receiving another hail!” It was Gherud’s voice again, reaching him as though from a great distance, tethering him to the material world with the slenderest of threads.

  Through the haze that had gathered around him, he heard an even more distant voice coming over the comm. It belonged to another male Klingon, his tones every bit as deep and aggressive as the voice that had demanded his surrender.

  But this voice was far more familiar. Koloth smiled.

  “This is the commander of the I.K.S. Klolode cha’,” the new voice said in inflections that brooked no debate. “The next vessel to open fire on the ’OghwI’ does so at its own peril. Captain Koloth’s ship and crew are under my protection.”

  But Koloth experienced no sense of relief. He understood that he was not only to be denied a glorious final battle with Kirk, but would also very likely miss his last opportunity to enter Sto-Vo-Kor via a hopeless battle against the Klingon forces that now opposed him. He felt only bitter disappointment that an old friend would so blithely risk sending his soul to Gre’thor for all eternity — even to conduct a rescue.

  Perhaps today isn’t my day to die after all, he thought. At least not in combat.

  As oblivion finally overtook him, Koloth could only hope that the yIH virus would take that into consideration.

  TEN

  Stardate 8998.2 (Late 2289)

  U.S.S. Excelsior

  Sulu paused before the mirror in his quarters, making sure one last time that his maroon dress uniform jacket was both spotless and free of any conspicuous wrinkles.

  He tugged at his too-stiff collar. Why in the name of the Great Bird did the captain order all this pomp and ceremony? Sulu thought. We’re bringing aboard a Federation diplomatic team, not a fleet admiral on an inspection tour. He couldn’t help but wonder whether the captain was unconsciously living up to the derisive description that some of his fellow flag officers had snickeringly attached to him — “Styles without substance” — shortly after Excelsior’s initial transwarp-engine tests had ended in failure nearly half a decade ago.

  The dress uniform tunic constricted Sulu’s chest like a fencing jacket that was at least one size too small. He was grateful that he’d had occasion to don formal attire only very rarely over the past few years; like the rest of his Enterprise crewmates, Sulu had worn an ordinary duty uniform even while standing before Federation President Hiram Roth, anxiously awaiting the statesman’s decision about how Kirk and his crew might be disciplined in the immediate aftermath of the alien probe affair.

  Once he was finally satisfied with the appearance, if not the comfort, of his apparel, Sulu exited his quarters and turned left down the quiet corridor. He strode toward the nearest turbolift, whose door hissed open obediently to admit him.

  Only after he was sealed inside did he realize that the lift wasn’t empty.

  “Commander,” Captain Styles said with a stiff nod, his ever-present swagger stick looking even more pretentious than usual tucked under the left arm of his medal-bedecked dress jacket. Styles’s free hand was on the lift’s control handle. “Main shuttle bay,” he said, his gaze cast upward as he addressed the computer.

  As the lift began its smooth, almost undetectable acceleration, Sulu realized that this was only the second time he’d been entirely alone with his new captain during the nearly four weeks he’d been aboard Excelsior.

  “I know this wasn’t what you were expecting, Commander Sulu,” Styles had said on the last such occasion, which was Sulu’s first day on the ship. “But the top job here is no longer vacant after all.”

  “I . . . understand, sir,” Sulu had replied, his voice sounding unconvincing even in his own ears.

  “I’ll be staying aboard as Excelsior’s CO, and I’ll be in need of a new executive officer,” Styles had said. “You have come rather highly recommended for the job.” He’d smiled broadly, extending his right hand as he rose from behind the situation room desk.

  Sulu’s fingers felt numb as he’d accepted the handshake.

  “Captain,” Sulu said, acknowledging Styles’s presence alongside him in the lift, but keeping his expression as neutral as possible. An uncomfortable silence shrouded the lift as the two men stood side by side, each looking upward, carefully avoiding making eye contact. Not for the first time, Sulu wondered whether he’d been inflicted on Styles rather than recommended to him. Perhaps Styles had offered him the exec job with the expectation that he would decline it as he had the Bozeman posting.

  A whistle sounded over the intercom, followed by a familiar, businesslike voice. “Cutler to Captain Styles.”

  Styles released the lift’s control handle and punched a button on a wall-mounted panel. “Styles here, Commander. Go ahead.”

  “The ambassador’s shuttle is making its final approach, sir.”

  “Very good, Commander. Mister Sulu and I are already on our way. Styles out.” Styles punched the intercom button again, closing the channel. “I hope the ambassador will appreciate the reception he’s about to receive — especially in view of Excelsior’s having taken the Saratoga’s place as his transportation to the Korvat conference on such short notice.”

  “I know how badly you wanted this command,” Styles had said on that first day, sounding sympathetic. “But that just wasn’t the way things shook out this time. I hope Excelsior won’t turn out to be a big disappointment for you.”

  “Of course it won’t, Captain,” Sulu had replied, determined to do his utmost not to let time make a liar of him.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Styles leaned against the side of the turbolift and cast a questioning look at Sulu. “Well, it seems you’ll get your chance to keep a close eye on the Korvat diplomatic meetings after all.”

  And you’re still wondering whether I had something to do with the Saratoga’s last-minute itinerary change, Sulu thought.

  Ignoring the captain’s last comment, Sulu said, “Ambassador Sarek has never been overly impressed by Starfleet’s ruffles and flourishes, sir.” He paused to pull at his collar again, emphasizing his point. “So I wouldn’t expect him to be very demonstrative either way.”

  “Why do you say that, Commander?” Styles said, his tone growing slightly brittle. “Apart from the obvious fact that Ambassador Sarek is a Vulcan, I mean.”

  Sulu was growing uncomfortable with the drift of the conversation — and this latest reminder of how starkly their personalities and command styles differed — but he did his best to conceal his discomfiture nevertheless. “I’ve . . . met the ambassador before, Captain,” he said finally.

  Styles nodded. “And therefore your judgment regarding how to ha
ndle him should be preferred over mine. Just like your assessment of the alleged danger facing the Korvat conference.”

  “I never said either of those things, sir,” Sulu said.

  “You didn’t have to, Commander.” Styles grasped the control handle again and said, “Computer, stop lift.”

  The lift’s gentle but relentless motion came to a quick but smooth halt. Releasing the handle again, Styles turned toward Sulu and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

  “Captain?” Sulu said, more uneasy now than he’d been at any other time since he’d become Excelsior’s executive officer.

  “It’s no secret that you’ve wanted to command this ship for years,” Styles said.

  Sulu nodded. “I suppose not, sir.”

  “And as recently as a few weeks ago, you still thought Starfleet Command was going to hand her over to you.”

  Again, Sulu nodded. “Admiral Kirk had cut the initial command-transfer orders personally, several years ago. Sir.”

  “But they hadn’t been implemented until after Starfleet Command rescinded the last orders Captain Kirk had issued as an admiral,” Styles said, obviously intent on reminding Sulu that even after five years not everyone had forgiven the breaches of discipline that Kirk and his crew had committed, even though their actions had saved Earth from obliteration.

  Sulu’s collar suddenly felt too hot as well as too tight. “Permission to speak freely, Captain?” he said in clipped tones, steeling his courage to say precisely what was on his mind.

  “Go ahead, Commander,” Styles said with equal curtness.

  “As recently as a few weeks ago, I had it on very good authority that you were going to retire, along with Commander Darby, your previous exec. Lieutenant Commander Cutler hadn’t applied for the job, so Excelsior’s center seat would have been entirely up for grabs. You even made a public announcement that you were leaving the service.”

  “Changing a decision is a time-honored command prerogative,” Styles said, denying nothing.

  “Fair enough, Captain.” Sulu could at least take comfort in this demonstration of some flexibility on the captain’s part, whether he understood it or not. “Sir, may I ask you why you changed your mind about retiring?” he asked.

  “That, Commander,” Styles snapped, “is something that I choose to keep to myself.”

  It was obvious to Sulu that he had stepped on a raw nerve, which hadn’t been his intention; however prickly his relationship with his captain might be, he didn’t regard Styles as an enemy.

  “I withdraw the question, Captain.”

  “Very good. Suffice it to say that I am Excelsior’s captain, until Starfleet Command says differently — regardless of how much more qualified you might believe yourself to be for the job.” Styles grasped the lift’s handle again and told the computer to resume the cabin’s motion. “So suck it up, Commander.”

  Sulu bit back a tart response, then drew in and released a single deep, calming breath. He told himself that he had no reason to be angry with Styles. In fact, the captain was probably entitled to a bit of ire, considering all the second-guessing to which his exec had subjected him lately, justified or not.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Sulu couldn’t deny that Styles was right — his own career disappointments and the captain’s evident paranoia notwithstanding.

  • • •

  In the observation gallery that overlooked Excelsior’s main shuttle bay, Sulu watched in silence as the boxy, eight-meter-long spacecraft moved through the hangar’s wide-open entrance, her passage marked only by a momentary sparkling ripple of the aperture’s atmosphere-retention field. A moment later, the craft made a textbook touchdown in the precise center of the amber markings that denoted the vessel’s designated landing space.

  The Nancy Hedford appeared to be a standard-issue Starfleet shuttlecraft, a fact that Sulu found mildly surprising considering the illustrious passenger he knew it carried; he’d half expected Ambassador Sarek to arrive in a larger Vulcan craft, though he supposed that the Starfleet shuttle’s simple utilitarian design held a certain aesthetic appeal for the austere and parsimonious Vulcan diplomat. Sulu glanced to his left, where Captain Styles stood, watching the shuttle’s arrival with a slight scowl. Perhaps the captain was disappointed by Ambassador Sarek’s choice of such an unadorned vessel, and by the implication that followed — that Sulu might be right about Excelsior’s reception committee being overdressed for the occasion.

  Tucking his riding crop securely under his left arm, Styles turned and made his way down the ladder toward the main landing level, with a dress-uniformed Cutler following close behind. Sulu brought up the rear as the trio entered the hangar, where two rows of six dress-uniformed security guards stood rigidly at attention, flanking a path that led away from the shuttlecraft’s main hatch and toward the interior exit that led into the rest of Excelsior’s expansive secondary hull.

  As the Hedford’s hatch opened, Styles took up a position at the honor guard’s left side — near security officers Melinda Rebovich and Nino Orsini — while Sulu and Cutler stood facing Styles from the right.

  A slightly bent figure emerged first from the shuttle. Sulu immediately recognized him as Sarek, despite the hood that covered his head and shadowed most of his face. The Vulcan ambassador was dressed in a robe that was darker and somewhat more ornately patterned than the one he had worn when Sulu had spoken with him two days earlier. His hands were folded under his voluminous sleeves.

  A few meters behind Sarek was the male Trill who had answered Sulu’s clandestine call to the Vulcan ambassador’s office, and alongside him walked a third figure, a middle-aged Vulcan whose gender seemed indeterminate beneath a heavy swaddling of formal diplomatic robes. The pair silently followed Sarek down the ramp and onto the flight deck. The shuttlecraft’s hatch remained open as the three diplomats moved along the path created by the two ranks of at-attention security personnel.

  Sulu scowled involuntarily. The Lady Amanda Grayson-Sarek, the ambassador’s wife, was conspicuously — and somewhat disconcertingly, to Sulu’s mind — absent.

  Following Sarek’s lead, the diplomatic party came to a stop directly in between Captain Styles and the spot where Sulu and Cutler were standing. Using both hands in an elegant, almost ceremonial way, Sarek removed his hood, revealing his iron-colored hair as he turned toward the captain.

  “Captain Styles, I presume?” Sarek said, his voice deep and resonant despite his advanced age. Sulu knew that the ambassador was about a century and a quarter old; while this age would have been all-but-impossibly ancient for a human, it added up to perhaps late middle age for the typical Vulcan.

  Sulu watched as Styles fidgeted for a moment, appearing as if he wanted to shake hands in greeting, then instead raised his right hand in an awkward attempt to make the standard split-fingered Vulcan greeting.

  “Captain Lawrence H. Styles, Mister Ambassador,” said the captain with exaggerated courtliness. “Please allow me to welcome you and your people aboard my command, the U.S.S. Excelsior. I trust that your voyage was a pleasant and uneventful one.”

  “We encountered no difficulties along the way, Captain,” was Sarek’s only answer. He gestured toward the pair that had accompanied him, indicating first the Trill and then the other Vulcan. “While the rest of our party prepares to disembark, please allow me to introduce two of my colleagues, Junior Ambassador Curzon Dax of Trillius Prime, and Dostara of Vulcan, our diplomatic aide.”

  The rest of his party, Sulu thought, feeling suddenly reassured at the notion that the Shuttlecraft Hedford was not yet completely empty. The Lady Amanda must still be aboard the shuttle.

  “Very good, Mister Ambassador,” Styles said. “This is my senior staff, Commander Sulu and Lieutenant Commander Cutler.” Then, a few pregnant moments later, as if only belatedly realizing that Sarek had introduced his lower-ranking subordinate as well as the more senior one, Styles gestured toward two members of the honor guard and added, “And these
are Lieutenants Rebovich and Orsini, in charge of our security honor guard.”

  Sulu greeted the diplomats as though he had spoken to none of them recently, lest it feed Styles’s suspicions.

  “Trillius Prime,” Cutler said as she and the young Trill engaged in a handshake, a custom to which the Trill evidently weren’t as averse as were Vulcans. “I have to confess that I’m not familiar with that planet.”

  The young man grinned sheepishly, using his free hand to brush back his brown and somewhat-longer-than-Starfleet-regulation hair. Sulu noted that his fair-skinned face was framed by an orderly row of almost reptilian russet-colored spots that ran down both sides of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his plain gray civilian suit.

  “ ‘Trillius Prime’ was a name concocted by some ancient, long-forgotten stellar cartographer, Commander,” said Curzon Dax. “These days we tend to use the same nomenclature to describe both ourselves and our homeworld: Trill.”

  Sulu winced inwardly as Sarek raised an eyebrow; the junior ambassador was probably not scoring any brownie points with his boss by correcting him right in front of Excelsior’s command staff. This kid had better learn a few fundamentals very quickly, Sulu thought. Or else his diplomatic career is going to be one of the shortest ones in Federation history.

  Seeming to be aware of Sulu’s misgivings about Dax, Sarek spoke as though intent on dispelling them. “Junior Ambassador Dax is one of the Federation’s leading experts on Klingon culture and society.”

  “I have made an extensive study of everything known to both Trill and the rest of the Federation regarding Klingon customs and mores,” Dax said. “Including the discipline of the Mok’bara.”

  Styles appeared impressed. “No doubt your special training will be extremely useful in the days ahead.”

  Let’s just hope he doesn’t need to trot out his Mok’bara knowledge while negotiating with the Klingons, Sulu thought; combat among diplomats, unarmed or otherwise, was usually a bad sign.

  “Thank you, Captain. That’s assuming, of course, that my, ah, assumptions about Klingon psychology are more or less on target,” said the young Trill, punctuating his comment with a halting smile that Sulu thought instilled very little confidence.