Final Frontier

by Carey, Diane

  “Sarah,” he said gently, catching her hand in his, “I should be up there. You know that.”

  “Fine. Go if you can,” she shouted. “You made me come here to treat a special crew for a special mission, and that includes you. And I’m going to treat you.” Her chin quivered as she suddenly fell silent. For several telling seconds, she just looked at him. Then the thought fell out, unbidden. “You’re the most special part of this mission.”

  He held her hand close to his chest. “I’m so glad you’re here, Sarah.”

  Her shoulders tightened. “Well, I’m not. There are a lot of doctors out there more qualified for this kind of expedition than I am and you know it. This isn’t fair, Robert. You’re not fair to me.”

  “I don’t want to deal with strangers,” he told her, just as he had told George not long ago. “I want people around me I can trust. People I don’t have to get to know. I know you hate to see people suffer. I know plenty of doctors who could do this assignment, and, yes, perhaps better than you, from a medical standpoint. But I don’t want them. I want someone I know, someone who knows me. It’s you I like, Sarah.” His voice grew softer still, given substance by the steady percussion of the heart monitor above the bed. His blue eyes sparkled once again, and the pressure bandage on his head made him seem vulnerable and brave all at the same time. He drew her hand closer still, until it was almost under his chin. “In fact,” he said slowly, “it’s you I love.”

  • • •

  George stalked the bridge, never taking his eyes from the vulture ship. His whole body was one big nerve.

  “Translate the message,” he said.

  Sanawey’s thick fingers moved over the board. He touched the earphone and repeated, “They demand identification and declaration of intent. Pretty straightforward.”

  Bernice Hart raised her head from her own controls. “Don’t they say who they are?”

  “They don’t have to,” George shot toward the port side, the mean edge of bigotry slipping forward. “Florida, call engineering and get somebody up here who knows how to use that library unit.” He stabbed his finger at the library computer station. “I want confirmation of design on that ship.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sanawey, confirm what I’m thinking. What language is the message?”

  Sanawey had to swallow before he could respond, and his tone was apologetic. He knew what the words meant to the ship, to the Federation. “Language banks catalog it as Romulan, Mr. Kirk.”

  George’s fist slammed into the command console. “What are they doing in our space? This is an act of war!”

  “Uh . . . sir?” Sanawey began.

  “What?”

  “They’re repeating the demand for identification and intent, and, uh . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, they demand to know why we’re trespassing into their territory.”

  George turned to glare at him, his rage changing to astonishment. Crushing silence struck the bridge.

  George’s eyes grew hard. In a hushed voice he asked, “Can you confirm that?”

  Sanawey did his best to key into the library computer’s starchart banks, and precious moments slid by while he found the right connections to get the computer to help him.

  His hand clenched, George soundlessly cursed the Vulcans for programming the library banks, then refusing to provide Starfleet even one person who really knew how to use them. He forced himself to keep quiet while Sanawey, drenched in sweat now, struggled with the computer.

  Finally the big man straightened. “I can’t exactly specify our location, sir. We don’t have a single starchart matching this sector.” Cryptically he added, “We’re not in our own space, that’s for sure.”

  “Are we in the Neutral Zone?” George asked.

  “No, sir, we have charts of that, and we’re not there.”

  From his position on the port side, Drake made a funny sound in his throat. “Looks like maybe we are the act of war.”

  George touched his forehead and gritted his teeth. “Uh, boy,” he groaned. He looked up at Hart. “No warp drive?”

  “Not a chance,” she said, her face deathly pale now.

  The turbo-lift opened behind them, and two engineers appeared.

  “Graff, reporting as requested, Mr. Kirk,” the older one said.

  “And Saffire, sir,” said the other one.

  “Know something about that library computer?” George demanded immediately.

  The younger man shrugged. “Mostly how it ties in to the warp navigation system, but we can probably work the catalog banks for you, sir.”

  “Get over there and dig out a design specification for that ship out there.”

  As the two engineers stepped past the communications station, Sanawey said, “Mr. Kirk, they’re repeating their message again, and this time they warn they’ll fire on us if we don’t respond.”

  George paced around the command chair. “Will they, now. All right . . . but don’t tip our hand. Make the response in Romulan. Can you?”

  “Language banks aren’t complete for that language, but we can probably make a few simple messages.”

  “Don’t use any big words, George,” Drake added.

  “Sir?” Graff said as he bent over the library readout. “Information on that design is sketchy, but it correlates with the design of seven bird-of-prey type fighters that attacked Starbase One and the USS Patton in the year—”

  “That’s enough for me,” George barked. “Don’t identify us. Tell them we’re on a research mission and our navigational sensors malfunctioned. Tell them we require a few hours’ repair time and we’ll gladly leave their space.”

  “How can we leave their space if we have no frame of reference?” Florida reminded.

  “Why don’t we have a frame of reference? The computers can project on known stars, can’t they?”

  “They can if we have long-range sensors,” Sanawey filled in, “which we don’t, because sensors are down.”

  “When will we?”

  “We’ll have short-range pretty soon, but long-range could take a day or more to recover.”

  George glared at Sanawey as though it was his fault, then looked at the viewer for a moment. An idea bloomed and he wagged a finger. “Tell them we’ll be glad to let them escort us out of their space.”

  “They’re going to want to know where to escort us,” Sanawey said.

  “Don’t tell them that yet.” George eyed the threatening ship again. “Tell them we have no hostile intentions. But we’re perfectly willing and able to defend ourselves if they make any aggressive moves.” He looked at Sanawey. “You make damned sure they understand that last part.”

  “I’ll try to be diplomatic, sir.”

  “Just be clear.” He leered at the viewscreen again and murmured, “You don’t take chances with Romulans.”

  • • •

  “Message response coming in, Primus,” the bridge centurion announced.

  T’Cael, Idrys, Ry’iak, and Kai all turned as a unit, probably the only time they would ever move in harmony.

  “Language?”

  The centurion tipped his helmeted head in a kind of shrug. “They respond in Rihannsu common. A computer-to-computer message, sir, not a voice.”

  “Then we still don’t know.” T’Cael sighed.

  “If they speak our language—” Idrys began.

  “If they speak it. Why did they not respond in speech then? Why does their computer speak for them? Do they speak Rihannsu or do they translate?” He moved to the nearest monitor and ordered, “Let me see the message.”

  Idrys and Kai crowded him, though not too close, as the words appeared on the screen in Rihannsu script:

  There has been a navigation malfunction. We are a research vessel. You may escort us out of your space upon repair of our systems. Move no closer. We make no hostile plans, but we will counterattack if you fire first.

  • • •

  “That’s all of it
?” Idrys’ bronze face puckered.

  “All, Commander,” the centurion answered.

  Kai bolted back from the screen. “They invite us to attack! They dare us!”

  Ry’iak, stepping away from another monitor at the centurion’s station, was quick to add, “They offer no identification and clearly put a challenge before us. We must accept it.”

  “No.” T’Cael’s voice blanketed the bridge. “Look at the arrangement of words. Clumsy. Rihannsu is not their native language nor any dialect of it. They may not understand what they’ve said.”

  “We know what this says!” Kai fumed.

  “Yes, but not what it means. If they wanted us to attack, why didn’t they simply attack us first?”

  “They beg provocation,” Ry’iak stated firmly. “If we fire first, they have an excuse.”

  “Antecenturion,” t’Cael began, drawing the word out, “they are in our space. Provocation has already been established.”

  “That ship could mutilate a single fighter like Raze,” Idrys pointed out. “When the Swarm arrives, we’ll have a chance. We’re the ones who should be stalling for time.”

  Ry’iak sighed with frustration and flattened his arms at his sides. “You will be remiss in your duty if you fail to destroy the invaders before they can repair themselves.”

  T’Cael straightened. “There’s more to be gained in space than destruction of unfriendlies. If we destroy them, we gain nothing for the Empire.”

  “And if they destroy us?”

  “What good will we have done if we force them to destroy us?” t’Cael responded, carefully turning Ry’iak’s logic back upon him. “I prefer to see what good can be gleaned from this before we start cutting hulls.”

  “But they’ve admitted to being disabled,” Ry’iak insisted. “We can attack and destroy them easily now, before they regain full power!”

  The crew watched, casting guarded glances at a contest between undeniable powers. T’Cael folded his arms and nodded slowly.

  “If they’re incapacitated,” he said, “the wiser course is to await the Swarm, after which we shall have a chance of taking that ship. It is a prize.” A prize indeed. One that would make him a hero and give him the power to force the Supreme Praetor to back off. He pivoted toward Ry’iak. “You wouldn’t want to deprive the Empire of such a trophy, would you, Antecenturion?”

  The two men stood silently. T’Cael knew perfectly well that Ry’iak wanted the giant ship destroyed to prevent t’Cael from becoming a champion at a time when his orders were to bring the Field-Primus to contrition. But here was the bridge crew, waiting to hear him admit he wanted to deny the Praetor possession of this bright medallion.

  T’Cael gave the silence time to work. Then he began again, cagily. “However, if you are personally anxious to attack them, I shall authorize you a three-man remote fighter and you may attack the intruder yourself.” He held out his hands. “Forgive me for not thinking of it sooner. It’s just what you’ve always desired—a glorious death in the name of the praetor. Kai! Prepare a Nestling Three. Assign two men to Ry’iak’s—”

  “No!” Ry’iak choked out, twitching. “No . . . I . . . am guided by your . . . your wisdom. We must await the Swarm. The Empire must have a chance to capture the intruder ship . . .” His voice dwindled as he ran out of breath.

  T’Cael folded his arms again and moved close to Ry’iak for a private conversation. “You’ve been working very hard. Perhaps it is time to rest. You may leave the bridge if you wish.”

  Ry’iak’s fists balled. He didn’t raise his eyes. “You enjoy making a fool of me in the eyes of the crew,” he growled between his teeth.

  A little grin of gloating touched t’Cael’s lips and he moved even closer. “If only you didn’t make it so easy.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in, then moved away with a slight but very calculated swagger. Only when Ry’iak leaned against the bulkhead and made no moves to leave the bridge did t’Cael think he might have pushed his victory a bit too far in the hope of ridding himself of the nuisance entirely.

  He turned his attention back to the bridge crew. “We shall resist making demands on them until the odds are better. Until the Swarm reassembles, we have no way to back up our threats.” He gazed at the deck as he spoke. “When the Swarm arrives, we’ll be able to deal with the intruders on our own terms. Until then,” he said, raising his dark head, “our demands will be disguised as requests.”

  He let the idea ferment, and indeed, no one offered any argument. Idrys sensed the purpose of his pause, and let it ride out. Then she asked, “What are your orders, Primus?”

  “Request more general information,” he said, “and ask what their home planet is. Offer to help if they require assistance.”

  Shocked, the bridge crew glared at him.

  Even Idrys blinked. “Assistance?”

  “Yes. They will tell us what they need. Information about their casualties and repairs will be valuable to us. We will know their weaknesses.”

  With great satisfaction, he saw the bridge crew exchange glances of amazement and respect for his cleverness. They had just witnessed a hard-won trick of war play, gleaned of t’Cael’s experience—or so they thought. Luckily, they didn’t know him well enough to realize his true hopes for the contact.

  “Brilliant, Primus,” Idrys breathed. “A glorious plan.”

  He nodded with a touch of modesty. “Send the message, Commander.”

  • • •

  Sarah’s lips tightened, giving her a little-girl look. A stray lock of hair tickled her eyelashes as she pouted at the captain. She didn’t pull her hand away from his, but she felt herself withdraw. She knew this April magic was nearly irresistible to her. If she met his eyes, she’d be lost. Yet his gaze drew her to him.

  He looked up at her with a hopefulness she’d seen before.

  “Patient-doctor infatuation,” she said, dropping her gaze.

  “No, it isn’t,” he responded without a moment’s hesitation, as though he knew she was going to say that.

  Now she did pull her hand back, drawing a thermal sheet up over his legs. “Love doesn’t work in space,” she professed. “Love needs candlelight.”

  April chuckled. “Does it? I thought it was starlight. We have plenty of starlight, Sarah.”

  “You’re just making me uncomfortable. Please don’t—”

  He reached out and touched her forearm, his fingers closing slowly around her wrist in a manner so gentle that she couldn’t resist it. “I’m a lonely man, Sarah.”

  Her eyes flashed then, and her emotions bucked. She slapped his hand. “Robert April, you’ve never been lonely in your life! You’ve got more friends than anybody! The whole galaxy wants to be your buddy. Lonely, my backside!”

  “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “I hate being caught in a lie . . .”

  “You can’t lie,” she shot back. “Your tongue would twist off.” She squirmed, caught in that sweet gaze of his that would melt her down if she didn’t manage to stay angry. “I don’t want to hear it, understand? I belong somewhere else, doing something else, and if anybody on board this ship finds out about this, you’re going to look like a complete fool. They’re all going to think you brought me here instead of a qualified space-medicine physician because you’ve got a crush on me. So cut it out, just cut it right out. Everybody loves you, Robert, and you’ve got no excuses to corner me like this. I’ll bet even the Romulans are going to love you. You just can’t get away from your own nature—”

  He raised his aching head. “What Romulans?”

  Sarah stopped her tirade and her lips hung open. She clamped them shut then and waved her hands. “Just a figure of speech.”

  Only when she tried to cloak the mistake did she realize how frightened she was. Only a tense and dangerous situation on the bridge could keep George Kirk from throttling her with questions about April’s condition, and Kirk hadn’t called down once yet. April rolled up onto his elbow and got her by t
he arm again. “Sarah,” he began, “what Romulans?”

  She tried to hide it, but he had already caught the fleeting signal of danger in her eyes that told him she was protecting him. With anyone else, he might have missed it, but he knew her, and he knew how to interpret that flicker. Suddenly his protests about not wanting to work with strangers made sense.

  He gripped her elbow tighter and used the leverage both to hold on to her and to pull himself up. “Sarah, what’s going on?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “You’re out of it. Don’t make me sedate you. Robert—”

  He slid off the table, barely able to keep from toppling over.

  She refused to help him. While she frantically tried to think of ways to stop him from going, he reached the door of his private cubicle and the panel slid open. He caught himself on the edge of the doorway, and the breath was crushed out of him by what he saw.

  Sickbay. A dozen quickly arranged diagnostic beds—all full.

  The air moved with groans of battered and broken people. The results of gravitational failure at warp speed knelled.

  April hung at the door, choking. “Oh, my God . . . my God . . .”

  Sarah stood frozen in place, her hand over her mouth, her eyes unblinking and welling with moisture.

  The captain’s voice cut through her. “Get me to the bridge.”

  • • •

  She took him there herself, even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. When the turbo-lift opened, she helped him move onto the bridge.

  George caught sight of them and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  April didn’t answer, instead concentrating on what he saw on the main screen.

  George glared at Sarah. “Is he all right?” he asked.

  She simply shook her head. “Not even close.”

  George came toward them and grasped April’s arm to help him down the two steps into the command arena. “Sit down, at least.”

  April still gazed at the birdship. “Who are they?”

  “Romulans,” George answered.