by David Mack
“Commander, we have new orders from Admiral Inaros,” Akhisar said. “‘Engage and destroy Starfleet vessel Sagittarius with extreme prejudice. Authentication code: Tisar, Jolan, Kolet, nine, four, seven, Seetha.’” He looked up at H’kaan. “Message is authentic, sir.”
H’kaan looked at Dimetris, who added, “I concur, sir. Message is authentic.”
“All hands to battle stations,” H’kaan said, stepping smartly to his command console. Dimetris and Akhisar took their places at the other two sides of the triangular station in the center of the bridge. “Subcommander, destroy that ship.”
“Yes, sir.” She lifted her voice and began belting out orders. “Helm, set intercept course, maximum warp. Weapons, stand by for a snap shot. Target their center mass. Centurion, stand by to drop the cloak on my mark.”
Curt acknowledgments came back to her in quick succession, and Akhisar nodded once to indicate he was ready. H’kaan watched the tactical display in front of him and felt his pulse quicken with anticipation as the Valkaya closed to attack position on the Sagittarius. When they reached optimal firing range for torpedoes, he said simply, “Now.”
Akhisar dropped the bird-of-prey’s cloak, and the weapons officer unleashed a burst of charged plasma that slammed into the small Starfleet scout ship and knocked it out of warp.
“Helm,” Dimetris called out, “come about and drop to impulse. Sublieutenant Pelor, charge disruptors and ready another plasma charge. Centurion, raise shields.”
Pelor replied, “Weapons locked!”
Dimetris crowed, “Fire!”
In the scant moments between the order and the action, H’kaan glimpsed the sparking, smoldering mass of the Sagittarius on the bridge’s main viewscreen. Looks like we scored a direct hit with the first shot, he observed with pride. All those battle drills finally paid off.
Then a pair of disruptor beams lanced through the smoldering husk of the Sagittarius, and the ship erupted in a massive fireball that quickly dissipated, vanishing into the insatiable vacuum of deep space. When the afterglow faded, all that remained was glowing debris.
“Secure from general quarters,” H’kaan said. “Well done, all of you.” Much as he tried to remain detached and professional, H’kaan could not resist the urge to gloat over his victory. “Kiris! Send to Admiral Inaros, ‘Starfleet vessel Sagittarius destroyed. Continuing patrol.’ And make sure to notify our friends at the Klingon High Command. I want them to know we’ve just scored the victory that’s eluded them for years.”
Akhisar sidled up to the commander and asked confidentially, “Are you sure you wish to rub their noses in our triumph so boldly?”
“Absolutely. I just wish I could be there to see the looks on their faces.”
A dull and distant buzzing, like a million bees at the bottom of the sea. That was all Nogura heard, all he could latch on to. He felt like a synesthete, seeing the steady, angry sound as if it were an anchor line sunk into the depths to serve as his guidepost, a filament of focus to lead him up out of the oceanic fathoms of sleep, back into the twilight of semiconsciousness.
Slumber’s murky curtain parted, and the waking world flooded into Nogura’s mind, smothering him with its overwhelming, concrete reality. He blinked as he turned his head toward the companel on the end table beside his bed. Despite still being so groggy that he felt as if he were bobbing on a storm swell, he swatted open the comm channel. “Nogura.”
“Admiral, this is Lieutenant Commander Dohan.”
Nogura visualized Yael Dohan as he honed in on her voice. He imagined the swarthy, athletically toned Israeli woman with her short-cropped coal-black hair standing over the Hub, the octagonal situation table on the supervisors’ deck inside the operations center. “Go ahead.”
“The Romulans took the bait, sir. At approximately 0356 station time, a bird-of-prey uncloaked and opened fire, destroying our Sagittarius decoy drone.”
Pinching the sleep from the inner corners of his eyes, he asked, “Are we sure they didn’t know it was a decoy?”
“As sure as we can be, sir. The drone’s sensors picked up a fair amount of encrypted signal traffic before the attack, and our long-range sensors picked up major chatter on the secure Klingon and Romulan frequencies just afterward.”
The admiral covered his mouth as he yawned and hoped the sound didn’t carry over the open channel. “All right,” he said. “What time is it now, Commander?”
“Just after 0438, sir.”
“Hrm. Cut new orders to the Endeavour. Have them divert and proceed to the drone’s last known coordinates at maximum warp.”
“Acknowledged. Dohan out.” There was a soft click as the channel closed.
Collapsing back onto his bed, Nogura hoped this convoluted deception didn’t turn out to be a waste of time, or worse. If the enemy really believed it had destroyed the Sagittarius, then the Klingon and Romulan patrols in the sectors adjoining Vanguard might let up just enough for the real Sagittarius to be safely on its way to Eremar. But if the enemy knew that they’d just destroyed a drone, then every patrol ship in the Taurus Reach would be on high alert.
Let the lie live just a few hours longer, he prayed, that’s all I ask.
Captain Droga considered the news his first officer had just given him and felt torn between jubilation and envy. To make sure his revels weren’t premature, he asked, “This is confirmed?”
“Yes, sir.” Tarpek pointed at the communications officer. “Magron showed me the message from High Command. The Sagittarius was destroyed fourteen hours ago by one of our Romulan allies, roughly fifty-nine light-years from our current position.”
Droga swiveled his chair on its elevated dais until he faced the weapons officer. “Rothgar! What’s been Starfleet’s response to the attack?”
The portly lieutenant looked over his shoulder at the captain. “The battle cruiser Endeavour has been diverted from its regular patrol route. It’s on a direct heading for the coordinates where the Valkaya reported the Sagittarius destroyed.”
“Glorious!” The broad-shouldered, hard-muscled captain stood and hopped down to the main deck beside his burn-and-shrapnel-scarred first officer. “Now we’re free to plunder the prey we’ve been tracking since last night.” He pointed to the slow, hulking vessel on the bridge’s main viewscreen. “Have we figured out what that is?”
Tarpek reached over to a command console and keyed in a few commands. A string of data appeared on the screen, superimposed over the image of the ship: registry, tonnage figures, and other technical gibberish Droga didn’t feel like making time to read. That was the job of the first officer, who reported, “The Federation freighter Ephialtes. Twenty-five crew and officers, maximum speed warp six. Primary function: colony support.”
Stroking his brown-and-gray-bearded chin, Droga could see with his own eyes that the vessel was unarmed and likely had only the most perfunctory shielding. “Is it carrying anything worth stealing?”
“Perhaps,” Tarpek said. “Our scans suggest it’s fully loaded with unrefined minerals.”
The captain nodded. “Probably bound for the refinery on Benecia.” He gave Tarpek’s shoulder a hard, fraternal slap. “Let’s make sure it never gets there. Are we set?”
“Yes, sir. The target is now fully inside the blind spot created by the qul’mIn star cluster, and there’s no indication its crew has detected our presence. The cloaking device appears to be working—for now.”
Droga understood the grievance implicit in Tarpek’s last remark. Their ship, the I.K.S. vaQjoH, was a Klingon bird-of-prey, so far the only class of ship that the Klingon Defense Force had succeeded in equipping with the Romulan invention known as the cloaking device. Even aboard the vaQjoH and ships like her, however, the new technology was plagued by overloads, spontaneous failures, and other potentially disastrous malfunctions. As much as Droga enjoyed being able to creep up on his prey in deep space like a hunter stalking targ in the deep forest, he hated the unreliability of the new system and had se
rious doubts that it would ever really earn widespread acceptance by the great mass of Klingon warriors. That’s a problem for future generations, he decided as he climbed back into his command chair. Once he settled in, he pointed at the ship on the main screen. “Commander, seize that vessel. I want its cargo.”
“Yes, Captain.” Tarpek moved from station to station, handing out orders and back-slaps as he went. “Garthog, prepare to sweep in from their starboard side. Hold position at five hundred qelIqams. Kopar, stand ready to drop the cloak, on my command. Rothgar, target their engines, but do not fire unless I give the order. We want to board this ship, not destroy it.” Returning to the captain’s side, he shouted, “Drop cloak and come to attack position!”
The bridge lights switched from a dull, ruddy background glow to a harsh white glare as the cloaking device disengaged and the ship’s crew switched into combat mode.
Garthog declared, “In position!”
The weapons officer added, “Torpedoes locked!”
“Magron,” Tarpek said, “open a hailing frequency.” A moment later, the communications officer nodded to Tarpek that the channel was open, and the first officer nodded at Droga.
“Attention, Federation vessel Ephialtes. This is the Imperial Klingon warship vaQjoH. Drop to impulse, surrender, and prepare to be boarded.” Droga waited several seconds while watching the slow mountain of a ship on his viewscreen. Then, to his satisfaction, the enormous cargo vessel slowed to impulse just shy of an intimidating-looking planetary debris field. The vaQjoH circled the freighter once, then took up a prime firing position off the ship’s aft starboard quarter. Looking toward Magron, Droga asked, “Have they surrendered yet?”
Holding up one hand to signal that he needed a moment, Magron first looked perplexed, then alarmed. Slowly, he turned to face the captain. “Sir, we’re being hailed by a different ship.”
“Another ship?” Droga spun toward Tarpek. “Where is it?”
From the weapons console, Rothgar answered, “Behind us, sir.” Anticipating the captain’s next order, he patched the aft angle to the viewscreen, and the image of the Ephialtes was replaced by that of a Constitution-class Starfleet battle cruiser. “They have a full weapons lock,” he added with a note of submission that Droga found distasteful.
“They’re hailing us again,” Magron said.
Bloodlust had Droga’s pulse thundering in his ears, but for once his wisdom prevailed over his passion. He took a deep breath, then said in an even voice, “On speakers.”
“Attention, Klingon vessel vaQjoH. This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation starship Enterprise. Power down your weapons immediately, or we will fire upon you. Acknowledge.”
Droga pointed at Magron, who opened the response channel. “Captain Kirk, this is Captain Droga of the Klingon warship vaQjoH. Apparently, there has been some misunderstanding. We—”
“There’s been no misunderstanding,” Kirk interrupted, his words sharp and quick. “You intercepted a Federation vessel and ordered it to surrender and prepare to be boarded. You armed your weapons and locked them on an unarmed civilian ship. That’s an unprovoked act of aggression, Captain.”
Shooting a glare at Rothgar, Droga pointed at the man’s console and then pulled one finger across his throat in a slashing motion. Rothgar released the weapons locks on the Ephialtes and began powering down the weapons. Droga had played his fair share of games of chance, and he had earned a reputation as a skilled gambler. He knew a bluff when he heard one—and this man Kirk was not bluffing. Though the crew of the vaQjoH enjoyed a battle as much as any band of Klingon warriors, Droga was certain none of them were in the mood to commit suicide, and it would do the Empire no service to lose a warship for no good reason.
“We’ve complied with your directive, Enterprise. With your permission, we’ll depart.”
“Yes, you will—on a course we’ll specify, with my ship’s weapons locked onto your warp core. And if you try to engage that cloaking device or go to warp speed before I give you permission to do so, I will blast your ship to bits. Is that understood?”
Humiliation churned into rage deep inside Droga’s gut, but he knew he was in no position to dictate terms. Kirk’s reputation, earned over just the last few years, preceded him. There was no doubt in Droga’s mind that a thoughtless act of bravado at that moment would accomplish nothing except the near-instantaneous destruction of his ship and crew.
“Understood, Enterprise. We await your approved flight plan. Droga out.” Magron cut the channel, and the rest of the crew sagged into their chairs. It was obvious that no songs would be sung over that night’s meal aboard the vaQjoH. Staring at the massive gray battle cruiser lurking on their aft quarter, Droga understood all too well why many of his fellow starship commanders had begun using Kirk’s name as a curse and the word Enterprise as an obscenity.
Discreetly savoring the sweet taste of victory, Captain James T. Kirk watched the Enterprise’s main viewscreen, which showed the aft end of the Klingon bird-of-prey vaQjoH as it retreated toward Klingon space with the Enterprise close behind it. All around Kirk, the sounds of the bridge and the hum of the ship’s impulse engines were a welcome aural backdrop after nearly a full day of eerie silence. Acting on orders from the sector’s ranking officer, the Enterprise had been lurking near a planetary debris field, lying in ambush with its key systems running at minimum levels and all nonessential systems powered down. Now the Constitution-class starship was under way at full power, as Kirk preferred.
Kirk got up from his command chair and strode to the forward console, which was manned by helmsman Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu and navigator Ensign Pavel Chekov. “Keep that ship within optimal firing range, Mister Sulu.”
“Aye, sir,” Sulu said, his baritone cool and professional.
To Chekov, Kirk added, “Make sure you keep the heat on them, Ensign.”
Chekov looked over his shoulder and up at Kirk. “All weapons still locked, sir.”
As he stepped away, he gave the boyish Russian a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Good work.” He climbed the short steps out of the bridge’s command well to its upper ring and joined his first officer, Commander Spock, who peered intently into the cerulean glow emanating from the hooded sensor display. “Spock, any sign the Klingons have armed weapons?”
“None, Captain.” Spock straightened and turned to face Kirk. “They appear to have taken our warning at face value.”
“As well they should.” Kirk looked across the bridge toward the communications console. “Lieutenant Uhura, inform Vanguard that our objective has been accomplished, and we await further orders.”
Uhura nodded. “Aye, sir.” She turned to her panel and sent the message.
The half-Vulcan, half-human first officer leaned closer to Kirk and looked at the image of the Klingon ship on the main viewscreen. “The advance intelligence Vanguard provided about this attack was surprisingly accurate, Captain. Their mission briefing predicted not only the coordinates of the Klingons’ ambush, but its time and likely attack vector.”
Spock’s observations stoked Kirk’s curiosity—and his suspicions. “You think they had something to do with arranging the attack?”
The question prompted Spock to recoil slightly and cock one eyebrow in mild surprise. “Not at all. I was merely remarking on the admirable degree of precision in their report. In retrospect, it appears to be well grounded in logical assumptions.”
Kirk frowned. “Right down to the Klingons starting to use cloaking devices.”
“A troubling development, to be certain. A Klingon-Romulan alliance could alter the balance of power throughout known space.”
As always, Spock’s knack for understatement fueled Kirk’s cynicism. “That’s a nice way of saying they’d be writing the Federation’s epitaph inside of a year, Spock.”
Brow creased with thought, Spock replied, “I doubt the situation would become so dire so quickly. And, while such a development would prove less than advantageous t
o the Federation, it would not significantly alter our current security status.”
Anxiety put an edge on Kirk’s voice. “How do you figure?”
Spock folded his arms. “We already find ourselves in adversarial relationships with most of the other powers in local space. Apart from the Klingons and the Romulans, we also face opposition from the Gorn, the Tholians, and, to a lesser degree, the Orions.” His eyebrows arched upward as he added, “While it is not in our interest for the Klingons and the Romulans to pool their resources, share their technologies, and coordinate their actions, I suspect this new alliance they’ve forged will be short-lived.”
“Based on what?”
The first officer cocked his head slightly. “A great many factors. However, I think both peoples will eventually find their respective worldviews . . . incompatible. And I suspect the Klingons will quickly realize their current arrangement benefits the Romulans far more than it helps the Klingon Empire.”
Before the captain could ask Spock to elaborate, Uhura called out, “Captain? We’re receiving a priority signal from Vanguard. It’s Admiral Nogura, sir.”
Kirk and Spock exchanged looks of intrigued surprise. Descending the steps to the command well, Kirk replied, “Put him on-screen, Lieutenant.” As he settled into his chair, the image of the vaQjoH was replaced by the lean, angular features of Admiral Nogura. Striking a relaxed but confident pose, Kirk greeted his superior with a half nod. “Admiral.”
The gravel-voiced admiral’s comportment was stern. “Captain Kirk. Before I begin, let me remind you that Starfleet considers all transmissions in this sector vulnerable to interception—an assessment with which I concur.”
“Understood.”
“Have you held on to your official mission logs, as I ordered?”
“Yes, sir. Though I have to say, Admiral Comstock is starting to insist that we transmit our logs back to Starfleet Command for analysis. He hasn’t yet gone so far as to countermand your order, but—”