Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  “Hail the Mup’chIch,” Nah’tan said. “Invite her commander to share the spoils of our conquest.”

  “Communications are jammed, Captain,” Dekk’ven said, his voice rising to a slightly higher than normal register.

  Nah’tan muttered a curse that might have shocked even his own brother. “Get them back online!”

  Abruptly, the yellowish lights on the bridge winked out, and the blood-hued emergency lights replaced them. Nah’tan whirled toward Nevahk’s station, where the technician was moving his hands across multiple screens, almost in a panic. “QaStaH QI’yah nuq jay’?” Nah’tan roared, desperate to discover the cause and meaning of whatever malevolent influence was afflicting his ship.

  “We’ve just lost life support!” Nevahk shouted. “Other systems are beginning to fail, shipwide!”

  A sound like a gong reverberated through the Veqlargh Jajlo’ ’s hull, and Nah’tan felt the hollow, dropping sensation of the artificial gravity cutting out beneath his boots. He scrabbled to grab hold of his chair as a variety of surprised shouts, random clatterings, and other less identifiable noises reverberated from across the bridge and from other parts of the vessel.

  “Shields are down, and we have explosive decompression on three decks, from Soch to Hut!” Kori’nd screamed, her voice raised to a nearly frantic pitch as she drifted upside down and clutched at the console at her station for stability.

  Suddenly, the central viewscreen switched images, showing a trio of what appeared to be vulqangan staring forward from what was obviously a Klingon bridge. The female in the center smiled viciously, uttering but a single short phrase before the image disappeared.

  “Boch ghlchraj,” the woman said just before vanishing. “Your nose is shiny.”

  Captain Nah’tan of the I.K.S. Veqlargh Jajlo’ barely had time to wonder why a Vulcan had hailed them with Klingon taunts from the Mup’chIch’s bridge, or why the viewscreen now showed the Mup’chIch firing its disruptors directly at the Veqlargh Jajlo’.

  His final thought, just before the smoke and fire and darkness took him, was one of disappointment. Perhaps today was not to be such a glorious day after all.

  Day Twenty-nine, Month of K’ri’Brax

  Dartha, Romulus

  The holographic image of the Romulan captain flickered lightly in the air as a small insect flew through it. The kekla-gnats were ever-present in the Romulan capital at this time of year, when the grekekla trees were in fragrant bloom. Even here, within Admiral Valdore’s spacious office in the Romulan Hall of State, this tiniest member of the insect orders had insinuated itself.

  Seated behind his heavy sherawood desk, his hands steepled under his chin, Valdore listened to Commander Dagarth’s report with barely contained glee. The first full-scale test of the Romulan Star Empire’s new tactical system—conceived by Valdore and designed and realized by the scientists under his command—had been an outstanding success.

  There had been some trepidation on all fronts, given the earlier failure against the first klivam vessel that Dagarth’s bird-of-prey, Nel Trenco, had attempted to seize, but their system reportedly had worked flawlessly in capturing and maintaining control over the Mup’chIch—which Dagarth’s crew had then used to destroy the pursuing I.K.S. Veqlargh Jajlo’. Had any serious operational errors occurred—or had the Klingons somehow managed to summon reinforcements—the considerable risk of causing an ill-timed war with the Klingon Empire would have loomed. Instead, as matters stood now, the best evidence available would show that one Klingon vessel had been responsible for the destruction of the others. The Klingons would be more interested in concealing their embarrassment than in engaging in another war against Romulus.

  “Your service will be commended,” Valdore said, gesturing toward the holographic image of the female captain of the Nel Trenco. “History will mark this day well.”

  “I serve the Empire,” Dagarth said, bowing her head. The image rippled slightly again, then disappeared.

  On the other side of the desk, Doctor Nijil, Valdore’s chief technologist, approached, a triumphant smile playing upon his lips even as his hands were clasped behind him in a show of submission.

  “You have done well, also,” Valdore said, pointing toward the scientist with one hand as he reached into a recessed area under his desk with the other. He noted that Nijil flinched just a little in response to the maneuver, as though Valdore might have been retrieving a concealed disruptor pistol rather than a celebratory bottle of carallun wine.

  “Relax, Nijil,” Valdore said in a deep voice intended to inspire calm, uncorking the wine as he spoke. “You’re in no danger from me.” He stood and hoisted the bottle above the level of his head, allowing the light from the tall windows to glint through the green ehrie’urhillh glass of the bottle.

  “I know that you don’t normally drink, but you will share a toast to our success.” Valdore took a swig of the tart liquor, not bothering to stop to look for drinking vessels. Then he passed the bottle to Nijil, who wasted no time following Valdore’s lead. The scientist seemed to try not to make a face at the bitter taste, but with little success.

  Valdore stoppered the bottle again and returned it to its dusty spot beneath his desktop. A few khaidoa ago, he had made a point of leaving that dusty spot undisturbed by not celebrating the Romulan Star Empire’s devastation of Coridan. Even though he had played a part in the execution of the attack, it had not been a proud moment for him. Not only had it seemed a dishonorable action, it had also failed to disrupt the peace pact that now united the worlds of the fledgling Coalition of Planets. The sneak attack had, however, greatly curtailed the Coalition’s supply of dilithium, a material that had long been crucial to the operation of Coalition starships. Many in the Romulan military thus saw the action as a success, and Valdore was happy to accept the resulting laurels and accolades, finding such unearned praise infinitely preferable to once again facing the prospect of political disfavor, imprisonment, or even execution. He reflected that his longtime friend and former senator, Vrax, who languished in Praetor D’deridex’s dungeons during the long khaidoa that had followed the Romulan military’s most recent significant tactical defeat, might not be so fortunate.

  Looking beyond Coridan, Valdore was glad to focus on his other plans for furthering the military goals of the Romulan Star Empire’s ambitious Praetor. The half-crazy Doctor Ehrehin was still working on a singularity-powered stardrive prototype, and Nijil and his team had been engaged with multiple projects, including a stable cloaking device capable of rendering large manned vessels effectively invisible to both scans and visual observation. Unfortunately, the invisibility cloaks that had been tested so far worked only to conceal small objects, or ended up quickly overtaxing the power-production capabilities of large vessels—invariably with explosive results. It appeared that significantly more time—or an unexpected breakthrough—would be necessary to find a truly workable solution to the cloaking problem.

  Recently, however, Nijil and his team had succeeded in developing a new technology, one based in part on the principles that governed the operation of the telepathically controlled drone ships, whose recent failure had resulted in Valdore’s brief imprisonment alongside Vrax. This new tactical system was able to intuitively bypass ships’ control mechanisms, allowing the Romulans to seize control of enemy vessels.

  Thanks to Valdore’s association with the former Vulcan Administrator V’Las, Nijil had already succeeded in confirming that the tactical system would work well enough if deployed against Vulcan software, and the just-concluded field experiments against the Klingons showed that their vessels were vulnerable as well.

  “We must bring our new arrenhe’hwiua telecapture system to bear against Coalition vessels,” Valdore said, emerging from his reverie. “Other than those of the thaessu, that is: our distant Vulcan cousins. But we must do so in a way that does not implicate the empire.”

  Nijil nodded, then spoke. “It is easier to unravel a weave when one has pulled a
single thread. If we target a Coalition vessel that is of little intrinsic importance, something that is not likely to be missed immediately, we will have grasped the very thread that leads us to other, more consequential ships.”

  Valdore raised one eyebrow as he considered his chief technologist’s words. The time to strike against the Coalition was coming, but to assure victory, whatever specific blow he was going to deal would have to be carefully considered and flawlessly planned.

  He smiled. When the hammer finally fell, the Coalition would not even have time to wonder about what had hit it.

  SIX

  Monday, July 14, 2155

  Enterprise NX-01, near Altair VI

  TO ARCHER, the regulation-required inspection of the United Earth Space Probe Agency’s port facilities at Altair VI had seemed all but interminable. The fact that the planet’s surface gravity, at least in the areas not outfitted with artificial gravity plating, was fifty percent higher than Earth normal didn’t help matters any. And despite the protective eyewear that he and Malcolm Reed and everyone based at the Altair VI colony donned whenever the inspection checklist had required them to venture outside, the intense brightness of the sun had given Archer a nearly equally intense yearning for a welding mask.

  Archer was thankful, at least, that the proceedings had gone largely without incident, and that the few areas in the central compound and its surrounding out-buildings that weren’t quite up to Starfleet standards and UESPA code hadn’t affected any critical systems. Fortunately for everyone concerned, Altair VI’s mild and relatively Earth-like climate, particularly at the high northern latitudes where the bulk of the settlements had been established, rendered the planet’s few thousand human colonists safe from pressure-dome blowouts and other similar technological catastrophes, if not from distant Altair’s intense, ultraviolet-heavy brilliance. The few small problems that had been discovered during the inspection had been put right within a couple of hours with the aid of Enterprise’s new chief engineer, Lieutenant Mike Burch, and his able crew.

  After he had finally finished with the inspection and the final exchanges of pleasantries with the port’s command staff, Archer and Reed returned to Shuttlepod One and took it back into the green-tinged sky that overlooked the northern seaside port facilities. Archer turned the shuttlepod as it gained altitude, allowing him to take in the welcoming vista of the Darro-Miller settlement that had risen over the carbon dioxide–in-fused Altair-water aquifers to the south. The pioneer town was still growing quickly, already home to nearly twenty-two thousand humans; more than a few of these settlers would no doubt soon participate in the creation of other settlements, either elsewhere on this world or on the even more challenging surface of the system’s still largely untouched fourth planet.

  The magenta-and-white mountains beyond Darro-Miller rolled into view next, fronted by an enigmatic jumble of ruined stone columns and temples that had been left behind untold eons ago by some long-extinct sentient race. Archer looked on wistfully as the tantalizing ancient vista quickly vanished over the horizon and the shuttlepod arced upward toward a standard orbital insertion.

  “They say the statues the archeologists found down there look almost human,” Reed said, almost as though he’d been reading Archer’s mind.

  “It’s amazing to find traces of anything that looks so much like we do almost seventeen light-years from home,” Archer said as he returned his full attention to the console before him. “I wish we had at least a solid week down there to go picking through those ruins.” The mysteries of where those ancient people had gone, where they had originated—and whether they were cosmic cousins of humanity or had arisen independently—were enticing almost beyond measure.

  “A few uninterrupted days of shore leave for the crew wouldn’t go down badly either, sir,” Reed said, wearing an expression that was somehow both hopeful and fatalistic.

  “Time and tide are impatient mistresses, Malcolm,” Archer said with a weak smile. “Duty calls. Starfleet says we’ve got pirates and raiders to catch.”

  Roughly forty minutes later, Archer found himself back on Enterprise’s busy bridge, along with Reed, Mayweather, and Sato. After confirming that the engineering repair team was also back aboard and ordering Ensign Mayweather to break orbit for the starship’s next destination, the captain leaned back in his command chair and watched Altair VI begin making a swift descent into the void. Presented on the main viewer in an aft view, the blue-green orb quickly began to shrink in apparent size, like a pebble falling in slow motion into a dark and bottomless pit.

  Now he had to get Enterprise back to the main civilian shipping lanes of Coalition space. It was time to resume the interminable vigil, patrolling for pirate vessels that only very rarely deigned to put in an appearance. Which really meant that it was time to go back to simply waiting around passively for something, anything, to happen, while the Romulans, and maybe the Klingons as well, continued drawing their plans behind the slumbering backs of the Coalition’s perpetually distracted movers and shakers.

  “On course and steady on half impulse power, Captain,” Mayweather said as he entered several commands into his console, refining the starship’s flight path.

  “Thanks, Travis,” Archer said. “Engage warp drive, warp factor five. Let’s not keep our pirates and raiders waiting any longer than we absolutely have to.”

  Mayweather turned and favored him with a brief but rueful grin before facing front once again. “Aye, sir,” he said, then pushed the throttle stick purposefully forward. The feel of the deck plates suddenly changed beneath Archer’s boots as the increased output of the vessel’s powerful matter/antimatter reactor sent subaural vibrations racing throughout Enterprise’s superstructure.

  “Captain!” Reed’s sudden exclamation from the tactical console at the bridge’s aft section startled Archer out of his reverie. The keening wail of a proximity alarm pierced the air at almost the same moment.

  Archer turned his chair around, then rose to his feet in a single swift, fluid motion. “What is it, Malcolm?”

  A frown of concern crumpled the ever-vigilant weapons officer’s forehead. “The long-range navigational sensors have just made contact with a small object in our flight path. It fits the general profile of a manned space vessel.”

  Archer motioned to Hoshi to cut off the klaxon, whose nerve-jarring noise abruptly ceased a moment later. “Collision danger?” he asked, facing the tactical console.

  Reed shook his head. “Correction, sir: The object doesn’t lie directly in our flight path. We should clear it by a hundred kilometers or more.”

  “So why the alarm?” Hoshi asked. “A hundred klicks is a pretty wide berth, isn’t it?”

  “In deep space, that’s like practically trading paint jobs,” Mayweather said, frowning as he studied the console before him. “If this thing’s a ship, then why isn’t it using a standard navigational beacon?”

  Donning a frown that matched the helmsman’s, Archer nodded. “That’s exactly what I intend to find out, Travis. Match velocity and intercept.”

  “Aye, sir,” Mayweather said, adjusting the stick with one hand as he touched a series of buttons and switches with the other. “Dropping out of warp.”

  “What about our pirates and raiders, sir?” Reed asked as the deck plates beneath Archer’s feet resumed their usual subwarp feel.

  Archer turned toward his weapons officer, noted his ironic grin, and returned it. “Let’s just say it’s their turn to sit around and wait.”

  “Unless they’ve decided to come to us,” Mayweather said, nodding in the direction of the unknown and not yet visible vessel.

  Archer was already considering that possibility—along with the possibility that the mystery ship might be a Romulan or Klingon vessel, here to probe Coalition defenses surreptitiously.

  “It’s definitely a ship, Captain,” Reed said. “I’m reading hull metal.”

  “Visual?” Archer asked.

  “Coming up now, Captain,�
�� Reed said.

  Archer faced the forward viewer, upon which a long, slender shape was already beginning to resolve itself, obviously with the help of a good deal of low-illumination image enhancement. Whatever this vessel customarily used for running lights had been either disabled through mishap or deliberately turned off.

  Archer’s frown deepened. “It’s a ship, all right. She’s either rigged for silent running, or else she’s a derelict. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that exact configuration before, though.” He turned back toward the tactical station. “Malcolm?”

  Reed was already studying something on his console that only he could see. “Already on it, sir.”

  The aft starboard turbolift doors hissed open and T’Pol stepped purposefully onto the bridge, a look of concern overlaid upon her otherwise stoic Vulcan features. Archer nodded to her in greeting, and she returned the gesture before becoming completely absorbed in the image that had just formed on the forward viewer.

  “The ship configuration databanks recognize the design,” Reed said, his eyes abruptly widening.

  “And?” Archer said sharply, struggling with only partial success to subdue an intense surge of impatience.

  “It’s Klingon, Captain,” T’Pol said calmly, beating the saucer-eyed tactical officer to the punch as she moved gingerly to one of the aft science consoles.

  “Tactical alert,” Archer said, and the bridge lighting dimmed automatically in response.