Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  He exploited her surprised state further by delivering a savage head butt. She dropped her weapon, though he couldn’t immediately see where it had fallen. He breathed a silent “thank you” to Adigeon Prime’s avian plastic surgeons for the durable cranial implants they’d installed in his forehead when they’d altered his appearance to enable him to pass as a Romulan.

  The woman shook her head, dazed, but nevertheless tried to get her feet back under her. Rising to a crouch, Trip responded with a rabbit punch and a hard right cross in rapid succession, both of which landed squarely upon the Romulan woman’s face.

  She fell back to the floor hard, apparently unconscious.

  Trip knelt to feel about on the floor for the woman’s fallen disruptor, but found only a handful of data chips, apparently the objects she had dropped just before losing her weapon.

  These two didn’t come here just to kill Ehrehin, he thought, realization dawning on him. They wanted to steal Ehrehin’s files after getting rid of us.

  But there was no time at the moment to consider their assailants’ motivations, or on whose behalf they might be acting. He groped about the dark floor for a few agonizingly long moments until he found the assassin’s pistol, which he immediately snatched up and brought before him in a two-handed combat grip.

  The other one isn’t on top of me already, Trip thought. Which has to mean that he doesn’t have night-sight gear, same as his partner.

  Which also meant that these people most likely weren’t career military personnel. They were acting on behalf of passion or politics, or perhaps simple greed.

  Trip heard the sibilance of another disruptor blast, accompanied by a momentary nimbus of light that originated from the opposite side of the room. He caught sight of the shooter’s silhouette and took aim just as another searing bolt of energy tore through the cabinet beside him, reducing it to a collapsing heap of burning shards. He hit the floor in a diving shoulder roll, hanging on to the disruptor pistol like the precious lifeline it had become. He rolled up into a crouch and kicked over one of the worktables before him, sending a computer terminal and several stacks of paper flying. He immediately opened fire from behind the cover he’d just created.

  Trip’s weapon illuminated the room just long enough to confirm that he had indeed hit his target, taking the shooter full in the chest. He ran to a control pad that was mounted on a nearby wall and quickly activated the lab’s emergency backup lights.

  A voice croaked weakly from somewhere behind him, down low. “Cunaehr.”

  “Sit tight, Doctor,” Trip said as he hastened to disarm both attackers, confirming their condition in the process. The man he’d just shot sported a disruptor burn that had thoroughly cooked every organ in his chest, killing him instantly. Damn these bastards for not believing in the “stun” setting, he thought, not for the first time since his arrival in Romulan space. Although he knew full well that the gunman had left him little choice, he nevertheless couldn’t deny the guilt he felt in situations like this one.

  The woman, however, was only unconscious, not dead.

  “Cunaehr,” Ehrehin repeated, far more weakly this time. Trip rushed to the old man’s side.

  “You’re going to be all right, Doctor,” Trip said as he knelt on the debris-littered floor not far from the spot where he’d left Ehrehin. He blanched as he noted that the old man was anything but all right, but he did his best not to display his feelings of shock and fear.

  “I’m sorry, Cunaehr,” Ehrehin said, wincing as he cradled the badly burned right side of his torso. “I’m afraid I didn’t follow your advice about staying down. I got up to trigger the silent security alarm.”

  Trip tucked the disruptor into his belt. Very gently, he helped the old man into a more comfortable-looking, half-reclined position up against the leg of one of the lab tables. Ehrehin’s charred tunic was stained emerald with blood.

  “I’ll call for the medics, Doctor,” Trip said, rising to his feet.

  “They’ll never get here in time,” Ehrehin said, shaking his head and coughing. Sea-green froth bubbled at his lips. “Promise me something, Cunaehr.”

  Trip knelt again beside the old man and took his frail hand in a gentle two-handed grip. “Anything.”

  “Don’t let Valdore finish this project.”

  Tears stung Trip’s eyes. “Of course.”

  “And you can’t let the Ejhoi Ormiin have it, either.”

  Trip frowned. The Ejhoi Ormiin was the Romulan dissident group from which Trip had recently helped rescue Ehrehin. Phuong had died on that mission. The Ejhoi Ormiin wanted to prevent Admiral Valdore from indulging in his imperial ambitions by stealing the warp-seven drive project that Ehrehin had undertaken on behalf of the Romulan military.

  The only problem with the dissidents’ plan was that they intended to keep the secrets of the revolutionary new stardrive for themselves—presumably to fulfill their own imperial ambitions. And what those ambitions were was anybody’s guess, given that their leader was a murderous Vulcan turncoat known alternatively as Sopek or Ch’uihv.

  “You think the Ejhoi Ormiin had something to do with this?” Trip asked.

  “Who else?” The voice was barely audible.

  Trip had to admit that that was a damned fine question, one to which he could provide no easy answer.

  The life was beginning to fade from the old man’s rheumy eyes. “Cunaehr,” he whispered. “Trip.”

  The old man had made it his habit never to use Trip’s real name, even though he had discovered it very early in their association.

  “Yes,” Trip said.

  “Everything…everything is up to you now.”

  Trip felt Ehrehin’s hand go slack at that moment. The old man’s final breath came a heartbeat later, laced with green bubbles as his lungs emptied for the last time.

  A crushing weight of responsibility settled squarely upon Trip’s shoulders. Whether war or peace came in the next few weeks might well depend on whatever he decided to do, or not to do, next.

  Moving with extreme care, Trip lowered Ehrehin’s body back to the floor from where it leaned limply against the table leg. Tears shrouded the old man’s image as he knelt beside him and took his hand for the last time. They had indeed become close, particularly since Ehrehin had saved his life at the Ejhoi Ormiin compound on Rator II, and had helped him find a place in Romulan society after their chaotic escape. The old man’s motivations had never been entirely clear to Trip—Ehrehin was certainly no Coalition sympathizer, despite his strong advocacy for peace—but Trip’s resemblance to the late Cunaehr might have been a factor. As well as Ehrehin’s respect for Trip’s talents as an engineer.

  After an uncountable interval, Trip released Ehrehin’s hand. Anger brought him to his feet and he stalked back to the front of the lab, where the surviving assassin still lay unconscious. Reaching down to grasp the lapels on the front of her black jacket, he hauled her up roughly.

  “Why did you do this?” he shouted into her slack face. “Who do you work for?” She made no response, and her body lolled before him like a rag doll. Dark green blood slowly trickled down her lightly ridged forehead, which sported a nasty gash, as well as from her split lower lip. He saw that she was still breathing and briefly considered remedying that before dismissing the thought in horrified disgust.

  Crap. Maybe I am going native, he thought with an inward shudder.

  The lab’s front and rear doors suddenly crashed open nearly simultaneously, admitting at least half a dozen uniformed and helmeted Romulan military troopers, each of whom carried disruptor pistols, several of which were being pointed directly at Trip.

  “This woman is a saboteur,” Trip said, suddenly feeling oddly detached both from his emotions and his body. Numbly, he realized that this must be what pure shock feels like. “She’s still alive,” he continued. “Her partner murdered Doctor Ehrehin. I had to kill the shooter, or he would’ve burned me down next.”

  One of the soldiers who had evidentl
y come in through the rear of the lab shouted a terse confirmation of Trip’s report. Then another one, a broad-shouldered, dour-faced man whose uniform baldric bore the single wedge-shaped insignia that denoted the rank of centurion, separated himself from his fellows and approached Trip closely.

  “Set the woman down,” he said in a deep and dangerous-sounding voice. “Carefully.”

  Despite the weapons that were directed at him, and the centurion’s obvious authority, Trip was unimpressed. He continued clutching the front of the unconscious woman’s garment in both hands. “Just who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  The centurion’s tone was surprisingly patient. “Terix. Centurion of Admiral Valdore’s Fifth Legion, in the service of our glorious Praetor D’deridex. And just who in Erebus are you?”

  Trip began to realize that he was not only in a crime scene, but also that he was challenging a phalanx of armed and perhaps trigger-happy Romulan military personnel, none of whom had reason to deal gently with defiance or disrespect. And he was doing all this while operating behind enemy lines under an assumed identity.

  Stupid, he told himself.

  “Cunaehr,” Trip said quietly, having regained enough presence of mind to avoid blurting out his real name. “Doctor Ehrehin’s chief assistant.”

  Terix laid a large gauntleted hand on Trip’s shoulder, the apparent gentleness of the gesture only barely concealing a grip of hard, cold steel. “We will take charge of this…perpetrator now, Cunaehr,” the centurion said.

  “I think this woman and her partner were working for the Ejhoi Ormiin,” Trip said, not yet quite able to will his arms to move or his hands to open. “They wanted to take for themselves the new stardrive we’ve been developing for Admiral Valdore. And they wanted to make sure that Doctor Ehrehin couldn’t re-create it later.”

  Trip realized that they had succeeded, at least, in the latter goal. It also dawned on him that they had accomplished one of the objectives of the bureau that had sent him here to Romulus, using means that probably wouldn’t have much bothered the spymaster Harris, and probably would have made Captain Stillwell do a football quarterback’s end-zone victory dance.

  Except, of course, for the fact that Trip hadn’t managed to seize a working warp-seven drive for Earth and the Coalition. Without the brilliance of Doctor Ehrehin on tap, the likelihood of that eventuality coming to pass now seemed vanishingly small, his own engineering skills notwithstanding; while Trip had tremendous faith in his own abilities, he harbored no delusions of being Ehrehin’s peer.

  “Let us take charge of the prisoner now, Cunaehr,” Terix repeated. “We will interrogate her thoroughly about her ties to any political dissident groups.” Although Trip still could hear something like compassion and sympathy in Terix’s voice, the centurion’s grip on his shoulder felt progressively more stern with each passing second.

  Trip nodded, then allowed a pair of Terix’s troopers to take the unconscious woman from his nerveless hands.

  “Do not worry,” Terix said as the troopers carried the woman away and began securing the room as a crime scene. “You may continue Doctor Ehrehin’s work secure in the knowledge that he will be avenged.”

  Continue Ehrehin’s work, Trip thought, aghast but trying desperately not to show it. Work that Admiral Valdore expects to produce a working warp-seven stardrive soon. So that Praetor D’deridex can grab even more new elbow room for his galactic empire.

  Trip Tucker had never before felt more alone and isolated than he did at this very moment. Only now was he beginning to understand, in a deep, visceral way, just how dependent he had become upon Ehrehin, not only for the accomplishment of his mission on behalf of Earth and the Coalition, but also for simple survival in such a strange, faraway land.

  Long before he had allowed circumstance to sweep him into the spy trade, all Trip had ever wanted to do was to be an engineer. For the first time in his career, he wished he’d never picked up a tool, never gone into space, served on a starship, or so much as laid eyes on the Starfleet Charter.

  Particularly Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-one.

  Day Thirty, Month of K’ri’Brax

  The Hall of State, Dartha, Romulus

  The intercom on the desk buzzed in a broken tone that denoted an incoming communication from a particular source. Chief Technologist Nijil placed the secured privacy earpiece carefully into his right ear before opening up the channel.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The deed has been done,” said the deep but flat voice on the line’s other end.

  A triumphant smile slowly began to spread across Nijil’s vulpine features.

  “There has, however,” the voice continued guardedly, “been a slight complication….”

  EIGHT

  Tuesday, July 15, 2155

  E.C.S. Horizon, Gamma Hydra Sector

  PAUL MAYWEATHER HEARD the noise of the creaking deck plates behind him as it rose slightly above the background buzz of the ancient freighter’s computers and air-circulation fans. Turning toward the familiar sound, he watched as his mother and chief engineer, Rianna Mayweather, approached the middle of the aft section of the small hexagonal bridge that she had always insisted on describing as “cozy” rather than “cramped.”

  Gesturing toward the image of the uncannily Earth-like globe that turned slowly on the bridge’s large forward viewer, she said, “The people down there really surprised me.”

  “I’m just happy they turned out to be friendly and willing to deal with us,” Paul said.

  Rianna nodded. “Of course. But isn’t it amazing how quickly they picked up English?”

  “I thought that was pretty remarkable, too,” said Charlie Nichols, who seemed delighted to be back behind his helm console after his brief sojourn dirtside. He looked happy to hear that the last few repairs had finally been completed, no doubt because he was raring to perpetrate yet another one of the sudden, kidney-damaging lurches directly from space-normal speed to warp two for which he was so renowned.

  Paul nodded silently in response to the observations of his mother and the helmsman before facing forward again to study the stately turning of the blue-and-white-streaked world on which he and the Horizon’s crew had just completed the bulk of their emergency repairs. He had to admit that the natives’ facility for languages was remarkable, if indeed they had been telling the truth about never before having played host to a visiting Earth vessel.

  But even more remarkable was the lucky happenstance that this world’s barely industrial-age inhabitants had been able to furnish sufficient supplies of the metals and organic polymer precursors necessary to allow Mom, Nora, and Juan to get the Horizon’s propulsion system up and running again after that damned micrometeoroid swarm had crippled the Horizon’s aging Bussard collectors and navigational deflectors.

  Juan Marquez and Nora Melchior, who served in the freighter’s small merchant crew as junior engineer and Jill-of-all-trades respectively, were in the process of replacing a burned-out navigation sensor module in one of the starboard consoles. Although they’d seemed utterly absorbed in their work, they both evidently had been following the desultory conversation every bit as closely as Paul had done.

  “I’ll grant you that they’re quick learners,” Nora said, grunting as she strained to free a slightly balky hydrospanner from the awkward tight space between consoles into which she’d gotten it stuck. “But none of the natives I dealt with seemed all that big on original thinking.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Juan said. Paul quietly watched as the junior engineer looked askance at Nora’s handling of the spanner, as though expecting it to come flying out at any moment, like Excalibur suddenly freed from the stone. “Sure, they seemed a bit imitative, but that probably just reflects their method of absorbing new languages.”

  Nora grimaced as she put more of her weight into the task of trying to extract the spanner from where it had become lodged. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. It might be fun to come back here in twen
ty years,” she said, pausing momentarily to grunt with another burst of futile effort to extract the spanner, “to see if they’ve started trying to build their own J-type interstellar freighters.”

  Rianna folded her arms and shook her head skeptically. “They’re still trying to get a handle on steam technology, Nora. I wouldn’t expect them to get anything off the ground for at least another hundred years or so.”

  “Probably true,” Juan said, his dark eyes still riveted to Nora’s trapped spanner. “Careful with that thing, Nora,” he said, his expression showing vicarious pain for the abused tool. “You’re gonna break it if you’re not careful.”

  “Helping is good, Juan,” Nora said, scowling slightly as she continued fruitlessly coaxing the stubborn instrument. Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she worked. “Kibitzing, not so much.”

  Juan shrugged and looked toward Paul and Rianna, perhaps to avert his eyes from Nora’s flagrant abuse of the innocent spanner. “Anyhow, the natives really didn’t seem nearly as interested in that sort of thing as they were in the cultural stuff, anyway.”

  Paul couldn’t help but agree with Juan, though he thought that Nora definitely had a point as well. In fact, he had already characterized the natives as very bright and imitative people in the log he had recorded for later transmission to Earth Cargo Service Central. Even in the merchant service, which arguably made more of an imprint on the galactic neighborhood than did Starfleet, detailed reports about all first contact situations were a regulation-required necessity. It made no sense to allow the next Earth ship that happened by this world to rediscover these people purely by accident.

  “I’m still just happy that they seemed so eager to help out a bunch of stranded strangers,” Paul said. Had the Horizon been forced down in more hostile surroundings, the outcome of their just-concluded adventure might have turned out far less happily.

  “Don’t forget that they expected to be paid for the stuff we needed,” said Rianna, her gaze locked on her younger son’s. “I think their cultural leanings saved our asses at least as much as their sense of altruism. We’re just damned lucky they were willing to accept some of the stuff we were carrying in the hold. What exactly did you give them, anyway?”