by Diane Carey
A throbbing glow—with a regular pulse. Red … blue … red … blue … He moved toward it. Only a few steps now. He must control himself.
He came out into a wider area, greatly to his relief, and all but ran forward, chased by the narrow dark section. Stumbling out into a broader area, he sucked air as if surging up out of a pool in which he had nearly drowned and only then realized he had been holding his breath. Taking it again nearly set him on his backside. He stumbled against the cave wall.
At his side his dagger thumped against the rock—the sound was strange. Metallic. On moss?
With one hand on his dagger and the other on the moss, he pushed himself from the wall and took further steps into the chamber, where suddenly his heart recoiled within his chest and he stared to the point of pain.
Draped with shrouds of green witch's hair, the walls stared back. Within the spongy, foul moss, churning with what must be insect life, lichen wept from dozens of niches, each the size of a half-grown Terran pumpkin. His favorite food rode into his mind on this irrational bolt of fear, but gave him no comfort nor any anchor. Fear held on, for in most of these dark punch-outs, perhaps two-thirds of them, were perched bleached and staring skulls.
Though all had eye sockets and peeled-back grinning mouths, those were the only common elements. Some had stumps of horns, others a dozen small holes over the gaping eye sockets, others were of such shape and description that churned the ugly bowels of Klingons lore in Kellen's head. Constructed to terrorize, tales of imminent evil rushed forward out of his childhood, beasts of prey infused by the wills of demons, who then had the abilities of both.
Blood-chilled, Kellen's body convulsed and he staggered sideways, catching his heel upon the ragged floor and staggering further. Shivering, he struck the wall again and felt his dagger bang the wall again. Again, that metallic noise—and this time a faint red-then-blue glow coming on and off, on and off, under the moss.
He yanked his dagger from its sheath and sliced into the moss, a long gash as if taking an enemy from throat to belt. The moss pulled apart and the lips of the gash quivered. Kellen dug his fingernails into it and ripped the moss away in sheet.
Through a cloud of spoory dust, two panels of variegated lights blinked at him, casting red, yellow, and amber haze. Below the panels, a pulsebeat of technical readouts blipped up and down on a screen.
Kellen tore the sheet of moss further all the way to the floor. It came away cleanly, but for its own green cloud, and there was a manufactured metal wall, a right-angled corner, and part of a tiled floor.
He stared at the wall, kicked it, then looked up into the skull niches and the eyes of the catacomb corridor. All at once, the sound he had been hearing made sense to him. He knew what he was hearing.
"A ship … a spaceship."
His voice startled even himself, and he flinched, but even more horribly it startled someone else.
The wall was looking at him. A pair of eyes—real ones, live ones—opened in among the tenleaf and creepers on what he had thought was a cave tomb. White-ringed and wide, the eyes were yellow as the middles of eggs, each pinpointed in the center with a black dot focused like a drill on Kellen.
The eyes came forward slowly from the witch's hair, bringing strands of it stretching along.
Suffused with horror, unable to call upon his tremendous discipline this time, Kellen watched as a creature's form took shape and pulled out of the growth. The top of its head was being eaten by a mass of moving white tendrils, each alive and fingering the green wall hungrily as the creature drew farther and farther out into the corridor.
No, not eaten—the tendrils were part of the creature's head! Growing out of it like things he had seen in the sea! Grotesque, poison-tipped things.
Instantly he looked up at the skull niches and searched until he found the one nearest him with the holes in the top. It was the skull of that—that!
The creature peeled out of the wall and with measured movements shed itself of the gluey membranes pulling at it from the wall. Each as long as Kellen's forearm, the anemone-tendrils on the beast's head swirled to one side and back to the other, seeking the open air as if driven by currents. Some of them still reached and snipped at the fungusy wall, plucking at it with tiny suckers.
A ship, specter-crewed!
As his renowned sobriety crumbled, Kellen raised his thick arms and warned the creature back with a senseless shout, but had no effect.
He scoured his earliest memories, and called the thing by name.
"Iraga!" he shrieked.
"Approach pattern SochDIch on my mark!"
"Yes, Science Officer!"
"Forward vessels, disruptors on full double-front! Target engines! Repeat—engines only until we have made our pass!"
"All are ready, sir. Three ships in forward configuration, two behind us!"
"Tell all the others to put their shields on priority. For us, I want scanners on priority, set to seek out Klingon physiology. Transporter, stand by."
Science Officer Aragor gripped the command chair with both hands until his fingernails made impressions on the simulated animal hide. The sudden silence on the bridge made him realize that he and the bridge crew had been so excited they'd been yelling at each other. In each echo he heard the ghost of Kellen's voice—Be quiet. Speak softly. Calm down.
He battled to contain himself. He wanted his general back and he would get him back. Now he had a target.
A ship had come out of that crack or hole or blur in space. There had been a great shaking, not as great as the mass drop, but enough to send the fleet spinning for a few seconds. When they gathered themselves, there was a ship there.
Configured like no ship Aragor had ever seen, this alien vessel was the length of their entire fleet—six ships laid beak to tail—and shaped like a corkscrew. Great fans of black and purple hull material fanned out and overlapped each other in a spiral against each other, arching forward like welded petals into a point. There was no top or bottom, no visible bridge or command center. Seeming almost to flex its way through space, it was constructed perfectly to screw through that opening out there. The more he stared at the hornlike ship, the more Aragor became sure these last moments were no accidents. The mass falloff had something to do with these newcomers.
Interlopers, he charged. Unlawful entry into Klingon space. Kidnappers. Invaders!
Thought after thought, he built himself into a mode of attack. This wasn't his job, but he would accept it. Never in his life had he seen an effect such as that ship's entry into this sector from wherever it had come, and no power of that magnitude could be taken lightly. He would have to get Kellen back, and Kellen would agree. Together they would conquer before they were themselves taken. It was the Klingon way.
Or at least, it would be today.
"All is ready for the run, sir," Tactical Officer Mursha reported, and looked at Aragor as if to confirm.
"Handle the scanners yourself, Mursha," Aragor said in a last-minute change. "Find him."
Mursha looked afraid for an instant, then straightened so sharply that it seemed to hurt his shoulders. "I will! I'll find him!"
Aragor felt an urge to chide him for his hesitation, but Mursha had just taken the tactical position two days ago. Aragor left him alone.
"Attack configuration. Flank speed. Keep full speed until we get within transporter range. No veering off until my order, do you understand?"
"I understand, sir," the helmsman said.
"Fleet … advance!"
With three ships forming a point before it and one other ship riding behind its starboard beam, the Qul surged to full impulse. The five ships rocketed through open space toward the massive arrangement of curves, targeting the deep pulsing mauve glow of the conical ship's engines. Aragor recognized the surge of matter-antimatter propulsion and was reassured by it, but the color was unexpected. The color of Klingon blood.
The fleet ships arched in, keeping formation tight and maneuvering for position a
s they reached the invasion ship. The outer ships opened fire. Phaser energy blanketed the other ship and brightened a veil of otherwise unnotable particles of dust in space. Suddenly the whole area was shimmering.
At once the unfamiliar ship declared itself an enemy ship—it fired back. Globular bolts were launched from the inner folds of the huge purple-and-black fans, striking the first three Klingon ships without wasting a shot. Energy foamed over the Klingon ships' deflector shields and skittered into space to wash across the Qul and its flanking ship.
The Qul shuddered under Aragor's chair. Phaser wash broke between her hull plates and shriveled the outer mechanics in their trunks.
"Some systems overloading, sir," the helmsman called over a sudden braying alarm.
"Lock down," Aragor said. "Never mind trying to repair now. And cut off that cursed noise!"
The alarm growled down to a sorry woooo, then broke off. Closer and closer the Klingon fleet raced, skating the length of the enemy vessel as if measuring it.
"Keep firing," he said, too softly to be heard.
The other ships had their orders—they fired relentlessly and took the incoming blue foam of return fire on their forward shields, maneuvering to protect the Qul, whose power was concentrated on sensors. Qul had some shields, but not enough to take direct hits of that magnitude. And if Mursha found the commander's physical blip, Qul would have to hammer a hole in the enemy's shields, then drop her own shields completely to beam him up.
"The phaser fire is bouncing off the invader ship!" the helmsman blurted. "But I don't see any conventional broadcast deflectors at all!"
Aragor squinted and watched. That could make his task easier. The enemy ship was taking the direct fire on its many fan-shaped hull sculptures.
"This must be their manner of defense," he said. "There must be another ship, the real ship, hidden inside the outer fan arrangement. That makes it almost impossible for a moving vessel to hit. In order to incise that inner ship, an attacking vessel would have to hover over it and fire down between the fans."
"That would be suicide," the helmsman said, and gripped his controls tighter, as if afraid he'd made a suggestion that might be taken.
"Well?" Aragor roared at Mursha when his nerves took control and thoughts of a second run began to form. He didn't want to make a second run. The lead ships were being pulverized. Their shields wouldn't take a second bombardment.
"Scanning …" Mursha had his mustache to the readouts, both hands on the curved adjustments, looking for Klingon life signs.
The bridge erupted in sparks and smoke puffs as damaged systems began to overload. More hits broke through the formation and began to pry it apart. If the forward ships couldn't hold their position, Qul would have to bear off.
Tense silence gripped the bridge. No voices. Only the sounds of the ship straining around them as they maneuvered their deadly tight course.
On the main screen, huge hull fans blew past beneath them, like a petals of a massive orchid.
"Sir!" Mursha gulped. "I believe—"
Aragor shoved out of the command chair. "Activate the beams immediately! Beam him up! Transporter room, do you hear me? Activate beams!"
"Vergozen!"
"Speak softly, Morien. Your voice is hurting me."
"Many of us were resting or eating in the Barrow when a strange creature came there!"
"We are all strange creatures, Morien. You mean you did not recognize this one?"
"Or his kind. Not at all."
"Describe him."
"He had a helmet for a head, black hair around it, a skeleton on the outside of his chest, and long sleeves almost to the ground. He shouted at me and danced!"
"He danced?"
"Then he churned into lights and disappeared. What does it mean? Have we done something wrong?"
"No. The others have already reported an intruder aboard. We were sending the guards when those ships came and somehow he was plucked away. Now we have alterations to make on our equipment. We must be sure this cannot happen again. And send a message back along the wrinkle. Tell them we seem to have betrayed our arrival and now there are ships following us. There is apparently a destructive effect involved in the process of transferring. Suggest it be corrected before the fissure is opened again."
"Yes, Vergozen."
"Morien, tell me … how many eyes did this creature have?"
"Two that I could see. Unless there were others hiding."
"Two eyes … well, it's a beginning."
"Why did you bother with me! Why didn't you beam an antimatter explosive into that ship while you had the chance! They had no shields! At terrible damage to the fleet you came in to rescue me, and now we have lost the chance to destroy them!"
The booming voice was glorious anger to Aragor as he stood without moving while General Kellen shouted at him. Aragor didn't care that he had made a mistake, because he had his commander back and he would walk fire for Kellen.
The crew stood before the general in utter numb shock. They had never heard him yell before. Never.
The general's clothing was coated with fine green dust, his usually neat hair disturbed by burrs and bits of mold, and he was consumed with shuddering in terror, but he wasn't hurt. He vented his terror by shouting at Aragor and glaring wide-eyed at the enemy ship as it slowly moved away on their main viewscreen. Its purple fans were reflected softly in the lenses of his eyeglasses.
At last he gave up on Aragor and swung on the tactical position.
"Mursha! Analyze the enemy ship. Can we still beam in?"
"No, sir. They have made some kind of energy web around their ship that resists transporter beams. Not deflectors as we know them, but—"
"But our chance is lost!"
Aragor continued staring. That voice—so loud, so completely uncharacteristic.
"Sir … sir," Aragor began, "we had no salvo prepared for penetration. We thought we should take the opportunity to rescue you before we—"
Kellen rounded on him again. "You had one chance! You will not have that chance again! Next time the choice is to save my life or take an enemy life, take the enemy life!"
Nobly said, but Aragor remained confused. He lowered his voice to compensate for the boom of Kellen's.
"Sir, why do you want to destroy them? What did you see there?"
Breathing heavily, Kellen fell suddenly still and his eyes fogged with fearful memory. He gazed again at the enemy ship. His voice changed. The skin around his eyes tightened.
"All these things we tell our children to scare them … things we pretend to have conquered in our own minds … they're all true, Aragor. There are demons. Real demons."
"Demons? Which demons, sir?"
Two strong shudders washed through Kellen's large body, but he valiantly controlled himself and spoke with steady confidence.
"I saw the Iraga first," he told them, and paused.
A chill washed through the bridge. Aragor's heart began pounding. The other crewmen were looking at him as if to wonder whether to be afraid of their general's sudden insanity or afraid of what he was saying.
They didn't really think he was insane. They knew he was not.
That meant he had seen … it.
Kellen's frazzled condition and overheated excitement ran like a virus through them all.
"Then there were others," he added.
Aragor's hands were clenched. He could barely find his voice to speak. "More … Iraga?"
"No, other kinds. After the Iraga came out of the wall, others came too. Demons with vestigial membranes expanding from their shoulders … they spread their arms and the membranes opened and filled the space before me …"
"Shushara!" the helmsman gasped.
"Others had fingers that reached to the ground … and with fangs protruding from their foreheads …"
"Hullam'gar!" Mursha whispered, his face blanched. He looked at the helmsman, and together they were terrified.
Watching realization dawn in his crewme
n's faces, Kellen nodded slowly. As he transferred his excitement to the crew, he seemed to grow more like his usual self, recapturing the restraint that had brought him ultimately to power.
"The tales are all true," he said. "They have come back as they promised they would … and they are on that ship out there."
His knees barely steady enough to support him, Aragor moved toward Kellen. "What should we do? What can we do?"
"I know what to do," the general said. "It will take us all to defeat them. Aragor, you beam onto Ruhl's ship and take command of the fleet. Call the Empire for reinforcements. Track that ship, but do not go near it. Do not. I will go for help."
"For help? From where?"
"I said it would take us all," Kellen repeated.
Once more he turned to the viper's tongue of a ship on the main screen. He began distractedly plucking the bits of moss and dust from his hair.
"We need a demon to fight demons," he said. "I am going to get one."
I begin to like you, Earthman. And I saw fear in the Klingon's eyes.
—Maab of Capella IV
"Friday's Child"
Chapter Three
"
LEFT FLANK, secure position and open fire!"
Ah, life in space. Weeks of tedium broken by moments of terror.
For centuries they'd said that about being at sea. It was dead true about both.
Dust rolled off the ridge from photon salvo bombardment and turned into a shimmering heat in the valley below.
Two hundred enemy troops. Maybe more. Almost the whole crew of a large battleship. That meant there must be more than one ship up there now, and probably a conflict going on in space.
The captain's dirty hands and torn uniform tunic attested to a stressful morning. Barely noon, and there had been four major skirmishes already.
Through the shaggy hair of his attacker he had shouted to his own men, while chiding himself for having been surprised, for concentrating so much on the movements of the troops that he'd let himself be jumped. His face cracked into a grimace as he took a numbing blow to the side of his head and had to damn away the dizziness in order to keep fighting. If he had to be close to a Klingon, this was at least the way. Punching.