by David Mack
Noting the density of their accommodations, Nassir asked, “Everybody tucked in?” There were general murmurs of assent and agreement. Nassir figured this was as good a time as any to break the bad news to his unauthorized passengers. “I think it’s only fair to warn you all that this won’t be a smooth ride home, folks. This ship’s been ordered to help Endeavour hold the line, which means we’ll be taking fire. Conditions down here can get ugly real fast, so if you have second thoughts about choosing my boat as your ride, you’ve got thirty minutes to bail out.”
He left them to think that over while he climbed the ladder up to his ship’s truncated engineering deck and transporter bay. Ilucci and his engineering team were all engaged to one degree or another on repairs to various components of the scout ship’s warp core. Nassir caught Ilucci’s eye and asked, “What’s the word, Master Chief?”
“Five minutes away from being five by five, Skipper.”
“Well done. When you finish, go help the Endeavour team. They yanked out their main phaser coupling, and they’re running late getting a new one put in.”
“Two miracles before dinner?” The portly chief engineer traded amused looks with his run-ragged crew of enlisted mechanics, then cracked a reassuring smile. “Good as done, boss.”
The captain pivoted about-face toward the ship’s sensor probe launcher—technically a misnomer, since it was equally capable of launching photon torpedoes. Because of the ship’s limited storage space and the difficulty of moving bulky elements from the cargo deck to the engineering deck, it usually carried only probes and no torpedoes. The rationale for that decision was that the Sagittarius was not designed for heavy combat. Any threat serious enough to merit a photon torpedo was likely one the Archer-class scout ship ought be outrunning.
That afternoon, its entire complement of six sensor probes had been replaced by torpedoes. Junior recon scout Ensign Taryl inspected the new ordnance with her tricorder.
“Do our fish check out, Ensign?”
The Orion woman turned a confused look toward Nassir. “Fish, sir?”
“An old Terran nautical term for torpedoes. I picked it up at the Academy.” Waving off the mismatch in their jargon, he inquired, “Are they ready to go?”
Taryl checked her tricorder one more time, then switched it off. “Ready, sir.”
“Good. Load one into the tube now. When Vanguard gives the order, I want to be ready to come out swinging.”
Ezekiel Fisher haunted the open doorway of his no longer private cabin aboard the Lisbon. He had expected to share his accommodations from the moment the evacuation order was sounded, and he had been right: his VIP cabin for one had become a steerage berthing for six. The once antiseptic-smelling compartment had become a sauna of bad breath and sweaty bodies pressed much too closely together.
The loss of comfort and privacy didn’t really bother him. He had also taken in stride the news that his personal effects had been removed from the cargo hold and abandoned to make room for noncombatant Starfleet personnel who would be coming aboard at the last possible moment. Only monsters value things over lives, he told himself to lessen the sting of the news.
One enlisted crewman after another packed into every free space inside the Lisbon. Some of them claimed corners of the mess hall; others staked claims to slivers of space between hulking blocks of machinery. Other than that, there wasn’t much talking. Apparently, most of those running for their lives seemed to think there wasn’t much left to say.
The tense but muted atmosphere inside the transport was split by the squawk of Captain Boonmee’s voice over the ship’s PA system.
“Attention, all crew and passengers of the Lisbon, this is the captain. Admiral Nogura has just sent a priority comm to all ships still docked at the station. Vanguard is asking for trained medical personnel, preferably with trauma experience, to stay and tend the wounded if necessary. I’ve been asked to emphasize that this call for doctors, nurses, and technicians is strictly voluntary. FYI, we’ll be taking off in fifteen minutes. That’s all.”
Moments later, Fisher saw two people struggling against the tide in the corridor, blading and shouldering their way toward the exit. One of them he recognized from Vanguard Hospital—a Caitian nurse named Kiraar. The other was a human-looking male civilian of middling years whom Fisher didn’t recognize, but the man carried a telltale black medical bag.
Watching those two force their way upstream against the evacuation filled Fisher with guilt. For several painful seconds he wrestled his conscience, fighting the urge to run toward the crisis as he had for most of his adult life. I’ve given Starfleet more than fifty years, he rationalized. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? Part of him wanted to believe that, but the better angels of his nature reminded him of what he knew all too well. If I turn my back now on people in need of a doctor, the last five decades of my life will have meant nothing.
Fisher dodged past his cabinmates to his bunk, retrieved his medical satchel, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he pushed his way out into the corridor and began his own upstream battle back toward the station he thought he’d left behind.
“Dammit, Admiral, that’s a suicide order, and you know it! There’s no way I’m doing that!”
Nogura was not one to tolerate direct repudiation of his orders by a subordinate, much less in such a vociferous and disrespectful manner, and absolutely never in front of others—and Captain Telvane of the Starfleet cargo transport U.S.S. Panama had just committed all three offenses at once, on the supervisors’ deck in the middle of Vanguard’s operations center.
A sudden shocked hush fell like a curtain as every person in ops turned to see what would happen next. Nogura stepped out from behind the Hub and prowled toward Telvane. The burly, square-headed, lantern-jawed, sun-browned freighter captain towered over the admiral, and yet it was the larger man who seemed to lean ever so slightly away as Nogura confronted him. Rather than raise his voice to match Telvane’s outburst, Nogura made his reply cold and quiet.
“This is not open for discussion, Captain. Deploy your ship as ordered.”
Digging deep to dredge up the last of his courage, Telvane protested, “My ship doesn’t belong with a battle group, Admiral. We should be escorting the civilian convoy.”
Nogura roared, “Captain! Your ship has a Starfleet registry and a phaser bank! Get back to your bridge and take your ship into battle, or I’ll find someone who will!”
“What’re you going to do? Court-martial me?”
“No, I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.” Nogura drew his phaser and held it casually at his side, aimed at the deck. “Make your choice, Captain.”
Telvane backed away, a disgusted scowl on his swarthy face. “Looks like I’m dead either way. I hope you can live with yourself, Admiral.” He turned and headed for the turbolift.
Nogura holstered his phaser. He didn’t worry whether he would be able to live with his decision. He was too busy worrying whether he would live through the next hour.
Pennington sprinted the last several meters to the Denevan dogwood on Fontana Meadow just as a trio of Starfleet botanists, two men and a woman, inserted small, high-tech devices into the soil all around it. “Wait!” he cried. “Not yet!” The three blue-shirted young officers looked askance at him as he stumbled to a halt in their midst and reached for one of the tree’s lower branches.
The taller of the men seized Pennington’s wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s all right, mate,” Pennington said, raising a small pocket knife in his other hand.
The other male botanist grabbed Pennington’s knife hand and told his female colleague, “Call security!” She reached for her communicator and flipped it open.
Struggling to break free, Pennington shouted, “Let go, you wankers! I just want one of the flowers!”
The woman lowered her communicator and looked into his eyes. “Why?”
There was no time for lies. “I lost someone I loved on the Bombay.
I want the flower as a memento. I don’t have anything else.”
She put away her communicator and said to the men, “Let him go.”
The big man blustered, “Are you crazy? He—”
“That’s an order, Ensign.” Pennington noticed the two men’s shirts had no braid on their cuffs, but those of the woman’s minidress did—a solid stripe. The men let him go. Not wanting to press his luck or test the lieutenant’s patience, he snipped a yellow-centered white blossom from the dogwood’s lowest branch, pressed the flower carefully inside his bifold wallet, and tucked it into his jacket’s inside pocket. He offered the lieutenant a sad smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now stand back.” Pennington did as she said, and the other two men did the same. The lieutenant opened her communicator. “Bernstein to Endeavour. Ready for transport.” She backed up three steps. Seconds later, the tree vanished in a sparkle of transporter energy, leaving behind a perfectly smooth divot in the ground.
From the communicator, a man’s voice said, “Transport complete. The tree’s safe inside our arboretum. But you three had better hurry up and head back, because—”
The station’s Red Alert resounded ominously inside the vast terrestrial enclosure. The botanists, and every other person Pennington could see, sprinted for the turbolifts. He ran like hell to keep up and prayed his transport didn’t leave without him.
32
“All hands to battle stations,” Captain Khatami announced over the Endeavour’s PA system, her manner cool and efficient despite the flashing red panels on the bulkheads and the fearful mood that pervaded the ship. “This is not a drill. Damage control teams to alert stations.” She closed the channel with a quick jab at the button on her command chair’s armrest, then watched Airlock 2 and the surrounding infrastructure of Vanguard’s main hangar recede on the bridge’s main viewer as her starship navigated in reverse on thrusters.
Lieutenant Neelakanta made some fine adjustments at the helm and keyed the switch for the station’s comm channel. “Vanguard Control, Endeavour. We have cleared all moorings.”
A woman’s voice responded from the helm’s speaker. “Endeavour, this is Vanguard Control. Outer doors are open, and you’re clear to proceed.”
“Acknowledged,” the Arcturian helmsman said. “Clearing bay doors in ten seconds.”
Departure from spacedock normally took twenty-five seconds, but Khatami had seen fast exits such as this many times over the years. Within seconds, the gray curve of the lower half of Vanguard’s massive saucer hull dominated the viewscreen from the edges in.
“Endeavour, you have cleared bay doors. The lane is clear, and you’re free to navigate.”
“Helm,” Khatami said, “bring us about, bearing nine one, mark one five. Lieutenant McCormack, raise shields and arm all weapons.”
“Shields up,” McCormack confirmed. “Phasers and torpedoes armed.”
“Charge up the tractor beam, too, Lieutenant,” Stano added as she moved to stand beside Khatami’s command chair. “It might come in handy.”
Khatami looked up at her first officer. “Brushing up on starship combat tactics?”
Stano smiled nervously. “Always worked when I crammed for tests at the Academy.” Her forced joviality vanished as the image on the main viewer panned in a swift blur to reveal the Sagittarius emerging from the Bay 3 doors directly ahead of Endeavour—and, in the distance, a vast swarm of tiny gray specks moving amid the cold brightness of the stars.
Hector Estrada held one hand over the transceiver protruding from his left ear and swiveled his chair to face Khatami. “Captain, the Panama and the Buenos Aires confirm they’re in position and awaiting your orders.”
Neelakanta chimed in, “Sagittarius is clear of spacedock and moving into a defensive posture on our aft port quarter.”
“All ships, proceed to first coordinates as planned,” Khatami said. “McCormack, make sure the rest of our battle group has the latest update on Vanguard’s firing solution. We need to stay out of their crossfire and force the Tholians into it. Neelakanta, ahead full impulse.”
“Full impulse, aye,” Neelakanta said over the rising hum of the ship’s engines.
Khatami turned toward the sensor console. “Klisiewicz, how’s the evacuation going?”
“Ten minutes ago, it was a crisis. Now, it’s officially a disaster.” To McCormack, he added, “Aft viewer, please.” McCormack switched the viewscreen to an image of the steady stream of civilian vessels pouring like a flood from Vanguard’s open docking bays and leaping into warp—but there were several vessels still docked at the lower pylons. “Sensors show way too many people inside the station. I think a lot of people just missed their rides.”
Stano looked at Khatami. “I’ll have all transporters stand by to beam out survivors on your order.” She got the captain’s nod of approval and stepped away to make it happen.
“Forward angle,” Khatami said, and McCormack returned the screen to its default view. The elegant Miranda-class frigate Buenos Aires and the stout Equus-class cargo transport Panama were directly ahead, holding position between Vanguard and the incoming Tholian armada. “McCormack, have Sagittarius cover zones one and two with the Panama. Buenos Aires can cover three and four. We’ll defend five through eight.” She turned and looked back at the communications officer. “Estrada—send the message packet.”
Estrada nodded and transmitted a vital signal back to Earth in a coded subspace radio burst: a packet of prerecorded messages by the Endeavour’s crew and officers, final missives to be delivered to their loved ones by Starfleet Command in the event that they or the ship did not survive the battle to come. It wasn’t the first time Khatami had recorded a possible farewell to her husband, Kenji, and daughter, Parveen, nor was it the first time she had served aboard a ship whose crew had all prepared parting sentiments on the eve of battle. But until now, she had never actually taken the extra precaution of sending the messages home for safekeeping.
That was because, until now, she had never been asked to face down an enemy armada with two warships, a scout vessel, and a freighter.
On the viewscreen, the gray specks grew larger and more distinct with terrifying speed, until the Tholian ships’ triple-wedge hulls hove into view like an arrowstorm descending with deadly intent from the darkness. Khatami drew a sharp breath. She felt as if she were standing alone on a beach at night, waiting for a tidal wave to crash down and sweep away all in its path, knowing in her heart that it would be as unstoppable as it was inevitable.
She forced herself to exhale and clear her mind. Making a silent survey of her bridge, she was pleased to see that everyone remained focused and alert. Tensions were high, but her crew appeared resolute. Wiping the sweat of her palms over her black trousers, Khatami was almost hypnotized by the terrifying spectacle of the Tholian armada bearing down on Vanguard.
She couldn’t stand to sit still. She stood and paced around her chair as she addressed her bridge crew. “Listen up, everyone. In the next few minutes, any one of you might need to take over at any one of these stations. If the worst comes to pass, one of you might find yourself in command. No matter what happens, know that I have faith in you. Most important, I want you to remember this advice: Whoever’s on weapons control, fire for effect. Use the phasers to dimple enemy shields, then use torpedoes to break them. Don’t ignore an enemy ship because it’s damaged—it can still be used to ram us or the station. If its shields are down, destroy it. Last but just as important, stay alert for the retreat signal from Vanguard. When that sounds, we’ll have to beam out as many survivors as we can. The people on that station are counting on us to pull them out before it’s too late. I’m counting on all of you to make sure we don’t let them down.
“That’s all. Man your posts.”
As her crew returned to their duties, Khatami returned to her chair and beheld the hundreds of incoming vessels that now filled the forward viewscreen.
She gripped her cha
ir’s armrests and grimaced.
Allah help us all.
Most of Vanguard was being maintained by a skeleton crew, but in the operations center, every console was manned. The wraparound screens covering the high walls teemed with images of Tholian warships cruising at full impulse on a direct interception trajectory. Red Alert panels flashed beneath every screen and beside every turbolift, though the wailing klaxon had long since been muted on Nogura’s order. The admiral stalked across the supervisors’ deck toward the Hub. “Dunbar! Hail the armada commander, tell him we want a parley!”
The communications officer punched commands into her console and shook her head. “They don’t acknowledge our hails, sir.”
Nogura cursed under his breath. Commander Cooper looked across the Hub at him. “Do you really think you can talk our way out of this?”
“I’d like to try,” Nogura said. He looked back at Dunbar. “Send the following to the lead ship: ‘Tholian commander, this is Admiral Heihachiro Nogura. I formally request terms of surrender.’” A hundred wide-eyed stares suddenly were aimed at Nogura from every direction. He looked at Dunbar and ignored the others. “Send it, Lieutenant. See if it buys us any time.”
Dunbar transmitted the message as she replied, “Aye, sir.”
“Commander Cannella,” Nogura shouted across the deck.
Raymond Cannella, the station’s heavyset fleet operations manager, looked up from his space-traffic-control station, his fleshy face a portrait in stress, and retorted in his thick, northern New Jersey accent, “What?”
“How many ships are still docked?”
Cannella checked his auxiliary data screen, tracing a line across the monitor with his index finger, then called out, “Twenty-six.”
“Tell them all to launch now,” Nogura said. “As in, right this second. I don’t care who or what they’re waiting for, they need to go. Anybody left behind will have to beam out with us.” The admiral shot an imploring look at Dunbar, who seemed to be listening to a reply. “Well?”