They all must be stunned, Ro realized, thinking of the several dozen Andorians who served aboard Deep Space 9. She started across the room toward th’Shant, but Quark called after her.
“Captain.” She looked back. “Good luck,” he said. “If you need anything …”
“Thanks, Quark,” she said. Then she headed for Ensign th’Shant, uncertain of what he would need or what she would say to him—or to any of the Andorians under her command. But she would do whatever she could.
II
Naked Frailties
Banquo: And when we have our naked frailties hid,
That suffer in exposure, let us meet,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it further.
—William Shakespeare,
The Tragedy of Macbeth, Act II, Scene 3
February–April 2383
13
The Argelian freighter Jorvan heaved to starboard after dropping out of warp. In the ship’s cramped command hub, the captain sat at one of the four control stations surrounding the central console. On the small monitor set into his panel, he watched the star field as it whirled about, until it fixed on the white, G2-class star of Laskitor.
“Set course for the third planet,” said the captain. Despite the heavy thrum of the impulse engines, he did not raise his voice, nor did he need to do so; his tone left no doubt that he expected the few members of his crew to follow his orders at once. Though relatively new to Jorvan, the captain had commanded several vessels throughout his career, which had lasted a considerable length of time. He’d long ago grown comfortable in a leadership role.
Although perhaps not quite as comfortable as I used to be, he thought.
“Laying in a course for Laskitor Three,” said the flight controller from her position to the captain’s right, her panel perpendicular to his. She tapped at her controls, and a digital overlay representing their flight path appeared on the captain’s monitor.
“Ahead one-half impulse,” he said, choosing the slower speed consistent with the practice of conserving fuel in older, less-efficient freighters such as Jorvan.
“One-half impulse, aye,” said the half-human, half-Vulcan flight controller. “Estimated time to orbital insertion, one hour, forty-seven minutes.” With Jorvan lacking both the sophistication of a starship’s warp navigation and the extreme precision of its sensors, the crew had brought the freighter into the system above the plane of the ecliptic. As a result, they would have to make the final leg of their journey to the planet at sublight velocity. Again, their procedures did not deviate from those expected of an older freighter.
“Anything on sensors?” the captain asked.
“Negative,” replied the tactical officer, who crewed the station to the captain’s left, opposite the flight controller. “But our range is limited,” she added.
“Of course,” the captain said. “It just makes it difficult to sit here and wait for the possibility of an attack.” He pushed his seat back from his station and stood up, the heels of his boots tolling against the metal decking. He straightened the dark-brown flight jacket he wore over his heavy work pants and pale-blue cotton shirt. He really had nowhere to go in the confined space of the command hub, other than to circle the four conjoined control panels at its core. He resisted his inclination to do so, figuring that it might set the flight controller and tactical officer on edge.
On the other side of the central console from the captain, the final control panel sat empty. The fourth member of Jorvan’s crew maintained watch on the freighter’s power and drive systems from the engineering compartment, located in the lower, aft section of the ship’s boxy structure. Between the command hub and engineering, four enormous cargo bays composed the bulk of the freighter.
Filled to capacity, the hold carried food, medicine, and equipment bound for the inhabitants of Laskitor III. Displaced from Entelior IV, which had been devastated by the Borg, the quarter of a million surviving colonists had spent months being relocated to the Laskitor system. Two years after the invasion had forced them to find a new home, the colonists still struggled to establish a stable infrastructure that would sustain them independently. Freighters made irregular but much-needed runs to the planet, ferrying all manner of supplies from the Federation.
Had the narrative of the people late of Entelior IV been unique, it would have been a sad but potentially uplifting story, but because some variation of it had occurred on world after world, it formed just one small part of an overarching tragedy. Only recently had the Federation’s efforts to transport provisions begun to fulfill the needs of the relocated and recovering populations. In the Bajoran sector, relief efforts—
“Captain,” said the tactical officer, a note of expectation in her voice, “sensors are picking up a vessel approaching on an intercept course, bearing—” She hesitated while she worked over her controls. “Strike that, sir. I read two vessels, bearing three-five-three mark six-one.”
“Can you identify them?” the captain asked, though only one answer made sense.
“Trying to,” said the tactical officer. “These old sensors don’t have the refinement that … got it. Two vessels, each with a limited profile, shields and weapons energized … and a helical structure.”
“‘Helical,’” the captain repeated. “Tzenkethi harriers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Standard shields,” said the captain. He placed his hands on the back of his chair but did not sit down. “Bring us about. Lay in our escape course and engage.”
As the two officers acknowledged his orders, the captain thought about what lay ahead. Off and on for months, the Tzenkethi Coalition had sent agile, heavily gunned assault ships out beyond their borders, in the direction of Federation space. Distinctively shaped, the aptly classed harriers attacked freighters carrying supplies to colonies newly resettled in the Laskitor, Corat, and Ergol systems. The Tzenkethi refrained from striking the colonists directly, perhaps because the settlements possessed virtually no planetary defenses and no weapon systems—or perhaps because the Coalition wished to stop short of committing an irrevocable act of war. In intercepting freighters, the Tzenkethi claimed encroachment on their sovereign territory. The harriers typically turned the Federation vessels away, occasionally disabling them or destroying their cargo. Two freighters had gone missing during the previous six months, but no solid evidence existed to implicate the Tzenkethi in the disappearances. The Federation had warned the Coalition against interfering in humanitarian efforts, and President Bacco had used particularly strong language in lamenting the two lost vessels, but the Tzenkethi had responded with their usual mix of belligerence and anti-UFP rhetoric.
“They’re approaching at high speed,” said the tactical officer. “Less than five minutes to intercept.”
“How long before we can safely go to warp?” the captain asked.
“Two minutes, ten seconds.”
The captain reached forward and touched a control surface on his console. A boatswain’s whistle sounded two high-pitched tones, indicating the activation of the freighter’s internal communications system. “Bridge to engineering.”
“Go ahead, Captain,” came the immediate response.
“We’ll be going back to warp within five minutes,” said the captain. “Are we ready?”
“On your order,” said the engineer.
“Very good. Bridge out.” He looked once more to the tactical officer. “Open an audio channel, standard Tzenkethi frequencies.”
“Aye, sir,” said the tactical officer, working her panel once again. “Channel open.”
“Tzenkethi vessels,” the captain intoned, “this is the Federation freighter Jorvan. We are on a humanitarian mission to Laskitor Three. We respectfully request that you stand down and allow us safe passage.” The captain waited, but he heard only silence.
“Nothing, sir,” the tactical officer said quietly. “But they are receiving us.”
“Tzenkethi ves
sels,” the captain said again. “This is the freighter Jorvan from the Federation. We ask that you allow us to proceed on our mission of mercy to the inhabitants of Laskitor Three. We are delivering food and medicine, as well as agricultural and other equipment. We would consent to being scanned so that you can assure yourselves that we are introducing no weapons of any kind into the system.”
After a few seconds, the tactical officer said, “Still nothing. They remain headed directly for us.”
Of the flight controller, the captain asked, “You know their top speeds?”
“Yes, sir,” the flight controller replied. “I’ve programmed our course accordingly, with a slightly slower maximum velocity. If the harriers should gain too quickly on us or fall back too far, I can adjust our speed so that it reads like phase variances in the warp coils.”
“Well done,” the captain said. “Time to warp?”
“To stay out of their weapons range,” said the flight controller, “we’ll need to begin our run thirty-nine seconds before they arrive.”
“Make it so.”
The captain waited, tense but anticipatory. At one minute prior to when they would need to flee the harriers, the flight controller announced the time, and then again at ten-second intervals. At ten, she counted down by ones. The captain listened to the sound of the ship as the warp drive engaged, the heavy vibrations of its operation well in excess of those produced by the impulse engines. The old freighter seemed to shudder beneath his feet.
“The Tzenkethi are in pursuit,” said the tactical officer.
The captain felt his hands tighten on the back of his chair, and he forced himself to relax. None of it’s as easy as it once was, he thought. Age had something to do with that, of course, but more than that—or at least in concert with it—everything had changed. No longer defining himself as the brash cadet, nor even simply as the vastly experienced captain, he had settled into different roles in his life: husband, father. He had long imagined such a change in his personal circumstances, but he had not foreseen the depth and profundity of the changes that had occurred within him. His personal life colored his professional life in a way he had never thought possible.
“The harriers are gaining on us,” reported the tactical officer.
“As expected,” said the flight controller. “There’s no need as yet to alter our velocity.”
Minutes passed, and the captain kept counsel with his own thoughts. He trusted his crew to perform their duties without issue, though he sometimes wondered if he still trusted himself. Not only had both his personal and professional lives changed, so too had the whole of life within the Federation. Even as entire world populations fought to recover from the Borg invasion, so too did Starfleet, its primary focus of voyage and discovery almost entirely placed on hold. Recently, rumors had begun to surface about a renewed commitment to exploration, but it remained to be seen whether—
“Captain, the Tzenkethi are closing to within weapons range,” said the tactical officer.
“On-screen.”
The tactical officer manipulated her controls, and the image on the captain’s monitor shifted, revealing the two harriers in flight. Unlike the great, teardrop-shaped battle cruisers of the Tzenkethi Coalition, the hulls of the smaller assault vessels wore not a silver, lusterless coating, but a rainbowlike sheen. Narrowing toward their aft sections, the harriers resembled an artist’s modern interpretation of the spiral end of a conch shell.
“We’re nearing the debris disk of the Beta Eneras system,” said the flight controller before the captain even asked.
“Their weapons are on a buildup to discharge,” said the tactical officer. She looked up at the captain. “They’re not looking to disable us.”
“Shields?” the captain asked.
“They can withstand an initial volley,” said the tactical officer, “but probably nothing more.”
“Understood,” said the captain. “After the first hit, raise the upgraded shields.”
“Aye, sir.”
He returned his attention to the monitor. On it, he saw bright specks of light growing in brilliance at the aft tips of the Tzenkethi ships. As he watched, the illuminated points began to spin quickly around the curving hulls of the harriers, racing forward until they reached the bows of the ships and fired spiral torrents of energy out into space.
A roar tore through Jorvan’s command hub, as though a substantial asteroid had crashed into the freighter. The captain flew from his feet and landed hard on the deck, pain slicing through his hip, his wrist twisting unnaturally as he tried to cushion his fall. Within his own body, over the cacophony surrounding him, he heard the sickening sound of a bone breaking. The lighting panels went dark, throwing the space into an eerie glimmer generated solely by the glow of the instrument panels in the center console.
“Shields down,” called out the tactical officer, somehow still at her station. “Raising upgraded shields.”
The captain glanced toward the conn and saw the flight controller climbing back to her feet. “We’ve fallen out of warp,” she yelled, even as the din around them settled into a relative calm. The meaty pulse of the warp drive had vanished, and the drone of the impulse engines failed to replace it. “We’re drifting.”
The freighter shook again as another salvo pounded into Jorvan, but without even hearing a report from his tactical officer, the captain could tell that the upgraded shields had protected the ship far better than its regular defensive system. Still, he felt no desire to learn how long the new shields could endure. He reached up and took hold of his chair with one hand, holding his other arm close against his body as he sought to protect his injured wrist. As he pulled himself back up, he said, “Where the hell’s the cavalry?”
“They’re here,” said the tactical officer.
On his monitor, the captain saw the Tzenkethi ships altering their courses, but too late. The impressive figure of a Federation starship swooped into view. The great ellipse of the primary hull, the squat form of the engineering section, and the angular, streamlined warp nacelles distinguished the Starfleet vessel as one of the Sovereign class. The captain knew that, concealed among the larger bodies of Beta Eneras’s debris disk, the ship and its crew had lain in wait for the opportunity to halt a Tzenkethi attack in progress.
The captain watched as bands of gold energy sliced through space, landing on their marks. It did not take long for the larger, more powerful vessel to compromise the shields and weapons systems on both harriers. Then blue-white curtains bathed the assault ships, the tractor beams tethering them to their captor.
Concerned about his crew, he peered at his officers. “Are you all right?”
From the tactical station, Lieutenant Choudhury nodded. At the conn, Lieutenant Chen said, “Just a few bumps.”
The captain stabbed at a control surface to open an internal comlink. “Bridge to engineering,” he said. “Mister Taurik, what’s your status? Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” said the engineer. “I was thrown from my feet during the attack, but I have suffered no injuries.”
“Very good,” the captain said. “Report to the bridge.”
As the engineer acknowledged the order, the tactical officer said, “Captain, we’re being hailed.”
“And it’s about time,” the captain said with a half-smile. “On-screen.”
The image of the two harriers hanging in tow winked off, replaced by that of a starship bridge. At its center stood a tall Klingon, clad in the black-and-gray uniform of Starfleet, his red turtleneck indicating his place in the command division. “Captain Picard,” he said, “are you all right?”
“Yes, we are, Mister Worf,” said Picard. “Have you taken the Tzenkethi crews into custody?”
“We have, sir,” Worf said. “After disabling their shields, we transported them directly to the brig. Medical teams are currently examining them for injuries.”
“Well done,” Picard said. Knowing that the danger to his crew had passed,
he felt a sudden playful urge—a side of himself that fatherhood seemed to trigger. “But what took you so long?”
“So long?” Worf said, visibly confused. But then the captain saw a twinkle in his eye, and his first officer said, “I was curious to witness the firepower of the latest generation of Tzenkethi harriers.”
“Indeed,” Picard said, appreciating how far Worf’s sense of humor had advanced over the years. “I trust it was illuminating.”
“Yes, sir,” Worf said. “And I trust it was of no inconvenience to you.”
“Nothing more than a broken wrist,” Picard said, motioning to the arm he still held steady against his body.
Worf’s mouth dropped open, a stark look of concern freezing the rest of his features. “Captain, I can assure you, we proceeded according to the plan and with the utmost haste.”
“Of course you did,” Picard said, forcing a toothless smile onto his face as his wrist began to throb. “This occurred during the first attack. There’s nothing you could have done about it.” He paused, then added, “And it’s nothing Doctor Crusher won’t be able to mend.”
The mention of Picard’s wife appeared to distress the first officer further. He’s right to feel apprehensive, Picard thought. But it’s not Worf who Beverly’s going to take to task about this.
The turbolift door slid open, and Lieutenant Commander Taurik stepped into the command hub. Refocusing his attention on what needed to happen next, Picard said, “Prepare to release the Tzenkethi ships from the tractor beam and to transport the Jorvan’s cargo into the Enterprise’s holds. We still have supplies to deliver to Laskitor Three. Then we’ll return here to make whatever minimal repairs are needed on the Jorvan so that it can travel back to the nearest starbase under its own power.”
“Aye, sir,” Worf said.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact: Plagues of Night Page 17