by David Mack
The commander edged closer to Soong. “Interesting. Assuming the one we killed earlier was also from the Enterprise, that would be four Starfleet officers out of uniform, trespassing and engaged in hostile activities against us. I believe that qualifies as espionage.” He pointed his disruptor pistol at La Forge, but kept his attention on Soong. “I know the names of your companions, but not yours. Tell me who you are, or La Forge dies.”
“My name is Tejinder Soong. Noonien Soong was my father.” He raised one eyebrow. “As long as we’re making introductions, who the hell are you?”
The commander lowered his weapon. “I am Thot Kren.”
“Nice factory you have here, Kren. Win it from the Borg in a card game?”
Soong’s sarcasm didn’t seem to faze Kren. “It was exploration, not a game of chance, that led us here, Mister Soong. But finding the factory certainly counts as good fortune. We would never have had the resources or expertise to build something like this on our own.”
“I didn’t know the Confederacy had a need for fifty million android citizens.”
“Not citizens. Soldiers. Expendable ones.”
La Forge watched anger redden Soong’s face and harden his visage. “Those aren’t mere robots in there,” the scientist snapped. “Those are sentient beings!”
“Not without programming they aren’t. And we don’t plan on making them self-aware.”
Soong started to rise from his chair, but reversed himself as the guard by the door raised his rifle. Easing himself back down, he glared at Kren. “So. You plan to churn out an army of slaves. And do what with them? Become the big dog in the Typhon Pact? Bring the Federation and the Klingon Empire to their knees? Conquer the galaxy?”
“Precisely.” Kren turned and extended his empty hand to one of his men, who handed him a display tablet. Kren turned it toward Soong. “This is your ship we’ve captured?”
“Maybe.” As Kren’s sidearm started to rise, Soong quickly added, “Yes.”
Kren handed the tablet back to his subordinate. “When you’re done here, you’ll need to open it for inspection. But first . . . stop stalling and bring those androids on line. Now.”
Soong looked surprised. “I told you, I can’t. It’ll take several more hours at least to—”
“I don’t believe you. If you fail to comply, I will kill one of your companions.”
“Please,” Soong begged, “I’m not making this up, I—”
Kren aimed his pistol at La Forge.
“All right, wait!” Soong turned toward his console and started working. “I can get them on line in just a few more minutes, if you’ll let me work.”
Worf lunged forward, then was jerked back by the trooper holding his collar. The Klingon bellowed, “Soong! Do not cooperate with them!”
His outburst didn’t slow Soong’s furious tapping at the console—but Thot Kren pivoted with great slowness until he faced Worf. Then, moving with deliberate steps, he confronted him. “That’s exactly the sort of defiance I’ve come to expect of a Klingon. It’s the sentiment of a true warrior to be so cavalier with his own life.” He raised his disruptor and fired.
Jasminder Choudhury disintegrated in a crimson flurry. After her dying scream and the screech of Kren’s weapon had faded away, Worf’s savage roar continued to shake the room.
La Forge slumped in his chair, stunned silent, his rage and sorrow captive to his abject terror. An arm’s reach away, Soong sat paralyzed and gaped in horror at Kren.
Worf’s bitter howls ceased as a trio of Breen slammed their neural truncheons into his torso, shocking him half-conscious and dropping him to his knees.
Thot Kren looked at Soong and La Forge. “Keep working. You have thirty minutes to activate my androids”—he waved his disruptor lazily at Worf—“or this one dies next.”
As La Forge and Soong resumed work, a knowing look passed between them: there was no more time for perfect plans. There would be no more waiting for a perfect moment. The Breen commander had crossed the line from threats to open warfare.
It was a decision La Forge planned to make him regret.
30
Palpable anticipation stirred beneath the tense undercurrent of activity on the bridge of the Enterprise. It surrounded Picard, who felt it like an undertow. He noticed Šmrhová and Dygan sharing glimpses of mutual excitement, and he knew before the tactical officer spoke that good news was at hand. The raven-haired young woman wore a proud countenance as she met Picard’s expectant gaze. “Captain, your periscope is ready.”
“Well done.” He rose from his chair and strode forward. “On-screen, Lieutenant.”
The image of churning vapors slashed by strokes of lightning was replaced by a split screen. On the left was a tactical display showing the Enterprise’s position relative to the four Breen ships within the star system; on the right was a rotating series of images, each showing one of the four Breen ships accompanied by its relevant technical specifications. As Picard studied the situation report, Šmrhová handed over the security console to a relief officer and joined Picard in the center of the bridge. He frowned and confided, “A rather grim picture.”
“The ship in orbit is following an aggressive search pattern, using tachyon-based sensors to probe the atmosphere. The other three ships are all on direct headings to join the search. We can evade the one ship currently in orbit, but once all four start overlapping their scans, they’ll pinpoint our location in a matter of minutes.”
He decided to test the young lieutenant. “What do their tactics suggest to you?”
She studied the information on the main viewer. “They’re not acting on a hunch. The fact that they’ve retasked four starships to the search indicates they’re aware they’re tracking a high-value target and not something small, like a scout or a bird-of-prey.” Another moment of thought, and her brow creased with concern. “If they’ve captured or killed the away team, they might have identified them—in which case it’s likely they know they’re hunting us.”
“Unfortunately, for now we need to assume that’s true. Which means we need to make a decision in the next few minutes: whether to withdraw, attempt a rescue of the away team, or engage the Breen ships in combat.” He turned a worried look at the screen. “Because once those ships make orbit above us, we’ll be trapped.” He noted Šmrhová’s steely resolve. “What’s your recommendation, Number One?”
Now that he’d put her on the spot, several other officers around the bridge stole sidelong looks to see how she handled herself. After only a few seconds of consideration, she said, “The prudent choice would be to withdraw now and avoid direct engagement.” She looked at Picard. “But I suggest we hold position for another two minutes before leaving the atmosphere.”
Dygan turned from the ops console looking perturbed. “Captain, that would be a grave mistake. The incoming Breen vessels will make orbit in just under three minutes. Any delay on our part could result in our being trapped inside the atmosphere. With all respect to Lieutenant Šmrhová, I advise immediate retreat.”
“Thank you, Glinn,” Picard said. “Your points are well taken—though I don’t recall asking for them.” He turned back toward Šmrhová. “I concur with your timetable, Lieutenant. Make the ship ready for orbit.”
“Aye, sir,” Šmrhová said. Picard returned to his chair as the acting XO started snapping out orders. “Tactical, arm all weapons and charge shield generators—we’ll need them as soon as we clear the atmosphere. Helm, take us to the planet’s southern magnetic pole and prepare to make orbit inside its nexus. Ops, stand by to reroute power from the SIF to shields and phasers, and start a two-minute silent countdown, on-screen.” She turned aft, toward the master systems display. “Chen, as soon as we clear the atmosphere, hail the away team and monitor their frequency for a response.” With an upward glance, she added, “All decks, Red Alert. All hands to battle stations.”
Confirmations of Šmrhová’s orders came back in quick succession, and she made a fast tou
r of the bridge stations to verify that all was set as she’d commanded. Watching her work, Picard admired her air of confidence and her attention to detail, though he suspected both might be the product of some suppressed insecurity. As long as she does her job well, he reminded himself, it’s best not to question the hows or whys. Take it at face value.
On the main viewer, the countdown dwindled to its final seconds. The tactical readout showed the lone Breen ship in orbit making a sweep of the planet’s opposite pole, and its three reinforcements still just outside weapons range but closing at flank speed. This would be close.
“Helm,” Šmrhová said in a strong voice, “take us up!”
The bridge crew acted in concert, everyone playing their part expertly, as the Enterprise ascended from the thundering depths of the atmosphere back into the familiar comfort of vacuum. Dygan switched the main screen to its standard forward view with a semitransparent tactical schematic superimposed over its left third.
Picard watched the ship’s chrono display on the command panel beside his chair. As it changed over to 0200, he heard the feedback tone of an incoming signal being received at the master systems display. Lieutenant Chen verified its authenticity, then declared, “It’s Worf!”
“On speakers,” Picard ordered.
Everyone paused to listen as the Klingon’s baritone resounded across the bridge. “Enterprise, this is a prerecorded message. We have found a Borg-created factory that is mass-producing Soong-type androids. It is under Breen military control. Velex and La Forge have been captured, along with our mysterious ‘good Samaritan.’ Choudhury and I will attempt to rescue them and recover the stolen androids, but our odds of success are poor. I recommend the Enterprise destroy this facility by torpedo strike immediately, and at any cost. Worf out.”
The brief message cast a dark spell over Picard’s mood.
Dygan reacted to an alert on his console. “The Breen ships have traced Worf’s comm signal to us. All four vessels are moving to intercept with shields raised and weapons charging.”
So much for a clean escape. “Helm, set course for the third planet, full impulse. Engage.”
• • •
Gloved fingers seized Worf by the back of his collar and yanked his head up from the floor, jerking him back to consciousness. Thot Kren stood over him, holding Worf with one fist and punching the Klingon’s face with the other. “You left a transmission device in the mountains!”
Worf snarled but said nothing. Kren hit him again and broke his nose.
“My men detected its signal! Who did it contact? What message did you send?”
All the Breen commander got from Worf was a bloodied smile. If the Breen had detected the signal, that meant Worf’s transceiver—which he’d torn out of his uniform collar and hidden under a landing strut of Soong’s ship on the plateau after he made contact with Choudhury—had received the check-in signal and verification code. It also meant the Enterprise was still here and likely already en route to reduce this valley and everything in it to superheated vapor.
Mission accomplished, he gloated.
Thot Kren threw Worf back to the floor and pivoted toward Soong, drawing his disruptor as he turned. “Your time is up. Can you bring the androids on line or not?”
Soong swiveled his chair to face Kren. “I brought them on line four minutes ago.”
The Breen raged through his vocoder, “Why didn’t you inform me then?”
From outside the control center came a sudden and sustained shrieking of disruptor fire, followed by berserker roars so loud they trembled the ground and shook the walls.
The cyberneticist flashed a diabolical smirk. “I was waiting for that.”
Thirty seconds earlier . . .
Standing guard outside the entrance to the control center, Spetzkar trooper Feid heard a low rustling from inside the factory. He beckoned his partner, Nolik, warned him with a gesture of the disturbance inside the massive industrial complex, and signaled they should shroud.
He activated the camouflage circuit on his own suit, and together the two commandos faded from the visible world into their realm of monochromatic gray twilight. They acknowledged each other, then Feid braced his rifle against his shoulder as he moved toward the factory’s nearest access point, a broad gap in its towering wall of pipes and scrap metal.
Nolik stayed close on Feid’s right flank, checking high and low, and occasionally making a quick pivot and backpedaling while watching behind them for trouble.
The two of them reached the wall and put their backs against it. Feid remained on point, and he edged toward the corner and stepped carefully around it to scout the path ahead.
Shuffling toward him was a wall of identical humanoids, their faces blank, eyes aglow, arms limp at their sides. It was a mob that filled the entire width of the passageway, twenty meters across, and it stretched back as far as he could see, into the smoky haze of the factory. There had to be hundreds of thousands of them, and their front rank was less than twenty meters from the exit and advancing in halting steps . . . until one of them looked directly at him. Then its face contorted with rage. It let out a roar and sprinted toward him.
All the other androids beside and behind it, a quarter million of them at the very least, painted the night with battle cries and joined its pell-mell charge.
“Fall back!” Feid cried as he opened fire at the oncoming flood-crush of androids, still not sure how they’d seen past his shroud.
He sidestepped to let Nolik join him on their two-man skirmish line, both of them firing a steady barrage of disruptor fire into the rioting throng. Androids fell by the dozens, collapsing in smoking heaps of melted metal and sparking circuits, but others hurdled over their fallen brethren and pressed forward, rapidly closing the distance to the exit.
More troopers charged to join him and Nolik, adding their own firepower to the mix. One of them started calling for reinforcements even as another sounded a call for retreat.
Then one of the androids got hold of Nolik, who blasted it at point-blank range—but not before it tore off one of Nolik’s arms. He and his attacker collapsed to the ground, both of them equally incapacitated. The situation on the battlefield degenerated into mayhem. Androids poured out of the factory and swarmed the platoon of Spetzkar defending the control center. Panicked cries crowded Feid’s comm channels as he fired at damn near anything that moved while watching the rest of his platoon vanish, one after another, into the teeming mass of mechanical rage. Then his backward stumbling ended as his back struck a wall, and the last thing he saw was a pale golden face twisted in murderous fury.
• • •
Shouts of panic, screams of pain, and cries of terror crackled from the comms of Thot Kren and his two Spetzkar commandos. They and the four Breen technicians seemed at once frantic and paralyzed, pivoting and fidgeting with indecision as the situation outside turned calamitous.
Worf kneeled on the floor and listened with sadistic glee to the rising pandemonium.
Heavy impacts resounded on the control center’s locked outer door, accompanied by the groaning of overstressed metal and the snap-crack of splintering polycarbon panels.
Kren pointed at the anteroom that separated the main laboratory from the entrance and barked a long string of untranslated vocoder noise at his men, who hefted their rifles and scrambled out of the lab. Working together in the anteroom, they pushed heavy furniture against the door, then braced themselves to hold the line against a tidal wave of mindless violence.
An argument raged between the Breen technicians, two of whom ran toward a jury-rigged console in the corner, a piece of Breen technology. Kren turned and shouted at them, “Stop!”
The two Breen at the console yelled back, “We have to drop the scattering field! There’s no way out without a transporter!” They turned their backs on him and resumed working.
The commander fired and disintegrated the pair of them.
Their two colleagues spat a storm of noise as they lurch
ed at Kren, who turned again and fired off a snap shot, vaporizing the remaining Breen scientists.
In the fraction of a second it took Kren to turn his back on Soong and pull a trigger, the android scientist crossed the room in a blur and was all but on top of him. Kren was very fast—faster than Worf would have expected—and he nearly brought his disruptor around in time to add Soong to his list of kills. Instead, Soong swatted the weapon from Kren’s hand with such speed and ferocity that the Breen actually recoiled by the tiniest degree, caught by surprise.
As the disruptor clattered across the floor toward La Forge, Worf sprang from the floor and got his manacled hands over Kren’s head and closed his right arm around the Breen’s throat.
In the anteroom, the two Spetzkar turned to see what was happening behind them.
La Forge lunged from his chair, grabbed the disruptor pistol as he rolled, and landed prone and shooting. His deadly barrage slammed into the two Spetzkar and vaporized them.
Kren staggered under the burden of Worf’s dead weight on his back and the crushing pressure of the Klingon’s lock on his throat. The Breen threw himself backward against a wall, perhaps hoping to break Worf’s grip and knock him free—an outcome made exceedingly unlikely by the magnetic manacles that bound Worf’s wrists and made his choke hold all but impossible to force open. Kren tried to stretch his arm to reach a fearsome stiletto sheathed on the side of his boot, but Worf refused to let him bend forward.
The Breen threw desperate backward jabs with his elbows. A few even connected well enough to crack some of Worf’s ribs. His chest ached and his breathing became a fight of its own. This has gone on long enough. With a feral roar and a twist of his upper body, he broke Kren’s neck. Vertebrae shattered with a wet crunch, and Kren sagged in Worf’s arms, a sack of flesh and bone. Worf let the body fall, and it struck the floor with a dull slap.
Standing over his vanquished enemy, Worf felt . . . nothing. There was no honor, no satisfaction, no catharsis of revenge. It simply was, and Worf felt secretly alarmed to find himself so numb in the aftermath of mortal hand-to-hand combat.