Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  Friday, July 18, 2155

  Columbia NX-02, near Draylax

  “PLEASE ASSIST US! Our defenses cannot hold much longer against the hostiles’ weaponry!” Even without the bridge’s linguistic translation matrices rendering the incoming message into intelligible English, the static-laced voice that carried it would have conveyed a crystal-clear message of desperation and fear all on its own.

  Captain Erika Hernandez leaned forward in her command chair as she listened to the plaintive distress call and stared straight ahead into the star-flecked infinitude displayed on the large forward viewer.

  “Origin point of the transmission?” she said, turning her chair slightly toward the portside com station.

  “Looks like it’s coming from the Draylax system, Captain,” said the redheaded Ensign Sidra Valerian, her Scottish burr thickening into a heavy brogue as it often did during times of heightened tension. The youthful senior communications officer had gotten busy tracing the Mayday signal immediately after its arrival a few moments ago.

  “Maybe it’s lucky for the sender that he isn’t farther away, Captain,” said Lieutenant Reiko Akagi, from the helm console. “Draylax is very close to our current position. At maximum warp, I can get us there in just a few hours.”

  “Lucky for them, maybe,” said Commander Veronica Fletcher, Columbia’s executive officer and Hernandez’s second in command. “For us, not so much.”

  “Especially if we’re expected to stop a threat that the entire Draylaxian defense fleet can’t cope with,” said Lieutenant Kiona Thayer, the senior tactical officer. She stood in the bridge’s starboard section, studying the readouts on her station as Lieutenant Commander Kalil el-Rashad, Columbia’s second officer and sciences expert, analyzed the same data on his own console.

  “Not necessarily,” Hernandez said. “From what I’ve seen, Draylax’s defenses are nothing to write home about. In fact, their defensive capabilities have always been weak enough to make me wonder why they’ve been so uninterested in joining the Coalition.”

  “I wonder if they might be a bit more friendly to a Coalition sales pitch after this,” Fletcher said, her New Zealand accent sharpening her words.

  If they’re still around afterward, Hernandez thought, recalling the horrible devastation that had been visited upon Coridan Prime not so very long ago. Aloud, she said, “I’ll leave that sort of thing to the diplomats. Our main concern is putting an end to this assault, if we can. Reiko, make best speed to Draylax. Sidra, get me Starfleet Command. Advise Admiral Gardner of our diversion to Draylax.”

  Brushing a lock of her blond hair away from her eyes, Fletcher stepped close to the command chair and leaned toward Hernandez. “Gardner’s not gonna be happy about this,” she said in an almost conspiratorial tone. “After all, we’re supposed to be protecting the Coalition shipping lanes from pirates and litterbugs, aren’t we?”

  Hernandez favored her exec with a wry smile. “Weren’t you just complaining about how much patrol duty bores you?”

  “Let’s just say that boredom is infinitely preferable to reenacting the Charge of the Light Brigade,” Fletcher said quietly.

  “Don’t worry, Veronica,” Hernandez said with a grim chuckle. “We’ll scout out the situation first and assess the odds. Then whether we stay or fall back will be up to the captain’s discretion.”

  Fletcher’s reply was preceded by a bantering smirk. “That’s very reassuring, Captain. You have always been the very soul of discretion.”

  An excited exclamation from Ensign Valerian interrupted Hernandez’s rejoinder. “Admiral Gardner’s on the line,” the com officer said, looking surprised.

  “Very efficient, Sidra,” Fletcher said.

  The com officer’s brogue thickened even further. “Commander, I didn’t raise him. He’s calling us.”

  “He must have a spy aboard,” Fletcher said quietly, her voice obviously pitched for the captain’s ears alone. Hernandez couldn’t always quite tell when she was kidding. “Or maybe he’s bugged our helm console.”

  Hernandez ignored the comment. Nodding to the com officer as she rose from her command chair, she said, “I’ll take it in my ready room.”

  “Admiral Gardner,” Hernandez said as she seated herself at her small and perpetually cluttered desk. Fortunately, she had taken the liberty of pushing the stacks of paper, books, and two coffee cups safely out of the admiral’s line of sight. “Please go ahead, sir.”

  The subspace-transmitted image of the stern-faced man displayed on her ready-room terminal began speaking without any preamble. “Captain, an emergency situation has arisen.”

  “Draylax,” she said.

  Gardner nodded soberly as he ran a hand across his duranium-colored crew cut. “It’s a potentially explosive situation.”

  “We’re already on our way there at maximum warp, sir. My com officer was about to advise you of our course change. We’ll reach Draylax in less than four hours.”

  Assuming we don’t get sent back out on pirate patrol in the meantime, she added silently.

  “Outstanding, Captain,” Gardner said with the faintest hint of a smile. “The Draylaxians are in considerable danger, given their relatively limited defensive and tactical capabilities. Even a single NX-class starship could make all the difference.”

  “We’ll do everything we reasonably can to assist the Draylaxians,” Hernandez said, nodding. “And to limit the loss of life.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, Captain. Nevertheless, I need to emphasize just how critically important Draylax is to the Coalition.”

  Unbidden, a frown creased Hernandez’s brow. “I thought the Draylaxians had refused Coalition membership.” Like the government of the nearby Porriman civilization in the Gamma Virginis system, with whom Hernandez had recently concluded a series of negotiations that had proved both lengthy and fruitless, the Draylaxians remained stubbornly determined to protect their sovereignty by avoiding large-scale diplomatic entanglements.

  “They have,” Gardner said with a grave shake of his head. “Which is a damned shame for us.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Admiral,” Hernandez said, blinking involuntarily.

  He leaned forward slightly. “I’ve just conferred with Minister Samuels. He and I are in agreement that if Earth could get another nonhuman civilization or two to apply for Coalition membership right now, Captain, it would go a long way toward smoothing the ruffled feathers of the Vulcans, the Andorians, and the Tellarites over Earth’s position favoring full membership status for Alpha Centauri. Our intervention in the current crisis might persuade the Draylaxians that joining the Coalition is in their best interests after all.”

  “My only interest is in saving lives, Admiral,” Hernandez said, shaking her head. “The galactic political horse-trading behind all of this really doesn’t concern me all that much.”

  “I’m afraid it has to concern you now, Captain,” Gardner said, his voice evoking the cold solidity of hull metal. “We’re involved in this matter regardless. Even though Draylax isn’t a Coalition member, it has recently entered a mutual defense pact with one of its closest neighbors: Alpha Centauri.”

  “And we’re already committed to the defense of Alpha Centauri,” Hernandez said. A slow, sinking feeling began tugging her guts inexorably downward.

  The admiral nodded. “Alpha Centauri is one of the United Earth government’s Coalition partners, which has its own separate mutual defense compact with Earth. Therefore Starfleet is legally required to treat an attack on Alpha Centauri as if it were an attack on Earth. We are obliged to protect Alpha Centauri’s treaty partners as well.”

  “So we have to treat an attack on Draylax as though it were an attack against Alpha Centauri,” Hernandez said. Her stomach was now in free fall.

  “Or against Earth itself,” Gardner said, nodding.

  Hernandez recalled a history course she’d taken at the Academy, in which she had studied the complex diplomatic cat’s cradle of mutually interlocki
ng defense agreements that had bound the European nations of the early twentieth century. With so many countries prepared to deploy their armies in defense of so many allies, all it had taken was the assassination of one man in an obscure Balkan country to plunge most of the planet into the bloodiest war humanity had ever experienced up to that time.

  “So I’m afraid you may have to do a bit more than whatever you ‘reasonably can,’ Captain,” the admiral continued, his gaze hard yet also sympathetic. “You have to defend Draylax. To the death, if that’s what it comes to. Columbia is therefore to be considered expendable so long as Draylax remains in jeopardy.”

  And while the Coalition’s nonhuman members remain in a snit over the Alpha Centauri business, or Draylax continues to stay out of the alliance, Hernandez thought sourly. She could only hope that something other than the blood of her crew would become the coin that purchased peace within the Coalition, if such a thing was even possible.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Do we know who the attackers are, Admiral?”

  “Klingons,” Gardner said after a pregnant pause. “Three battle cruisers, according to the reports we’ve just received.”

  Hernandez nodded, though she wasn’t encouraged. “I hope we arrive in time to do some good. Once we get there, we’ll hold them off as long as we can, Admiral. I’m sure Major Foyle and his MACOs will give the Klingons one hell of a fight.”

  She could only hope that Doctor Metzger’s sickbay would be spared the baptism of fire that the MACOs were about to face.

  The admiral nodded again, his eyes glistening with unshed moisture. “I know you all will do your best, Captain Hernandez. Godspeed to you and your crew. Gardner out.” And with that, his image vanished.

  Oh, well, she thought. “Captain’s discretion” has always been overrated anyway.

  She reached across her desk and punched a button on the compad built into the desk beside her computer terminal.

  “Hernandez to engineering,” she said.

  The Austrian chief engineer replied in his customary blunt Teutonic tones. “Lieutenant Graylock here, Captain.”

  “We need to get to Draylax as quickly as possible, Karl. I need you to push it a little bit past the redline. Again.”

  “I suppose my engine core can manage warp five point two for an hour or so without vaporizing us completely,” he said, an undercurrent of dour humor buoying his grim words. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Just try to keep us in one piece, Karl.”

  “That complicates things a bit, Captain, but ja, I think my people can handle it. I’ll make Biggs and Pierce get out and push if I have to. And I’ll set Rivers and Strong to running in the hamster wheel.”

  Smiling, she said, “Thanks, Karl. Hernandez out.” She pressed another button. “Hernandez to com.”

  Ensign Valerian’s crisp reply came half a heartbeat later. “Bridge, Captain.”

  “Sidra, isn’t Enterprise’s patrol route supposed to take her into this sector about now?”

  “Aye, Captain, I believe it is.”

  That struck Hernandez as suspiciously like a good omen, though she was far too experienced an officer to put much stock in such things. “Try to raise them. I need to speak with Captain Archer as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, I’m on it, sir,” the com officer said. “I’ll transfer the connection to your ready room once it’s established.”

  “Thank you, Sidra. Hernandez out.”

  She hadn’t decided yet whether she was calling because she wanted to ask for Jonathan’s help, or because she merely needed the emotional closure of a last farewell.

  FOURTEEN

  Friday, July 18, 2155

  Enterprise NX-01

  CAPTAIN JONATHAN ARCHER COULD FEEL his pulse accelerating as he left his ready room and stepped onto the bridge. His conversation with Erika Hernandez had crossed over the time of Enterprise’s early-morning shift-change, so while most of his alpha-watch crew were already on deck, his gamma-watch commander, D.O., was still seated in the captain’s chair, going over reports on a datapad.

  “Ensign Mayweather, your console should be receiving a set of coordinates near Draylax in a moment,” Archer said before acknowledging O’Neill or any of the others. “Set a course there immediately, maximum warp.”

  He spoke up then, looking around at the other members of the bridge crew. He noticed that a few faces were missing; T’Pol’s absence was to be expected, but he had assumed he would see Malcolm Reed at his usual place behind the tactical station. “It appears that the Klingons have launched an attack near Draylax,” he announced loudly. “Captain Hernandez is taking Columbia there now. We are going to be her backup.”

  “Is this the first strike of a war?” O’Neill asked, surrendering the captain’s chair to Archer as she stood. Alarm was etched on her features.

  “We’re not sure yet, D.O.,” Archer said. “All we really know so far is that three heavily armed Klingon warships are fighting their way toward the Draylax system’s main population centers. Draylax’s entire defense fleet may not be up to fending them off, and Admiral Gardner has ordered Columbia to assist them.”

  “And Enterprise?” O’Neill asked warily.

  “Gardner hasn’t given us any new orders yet, but I expect that to change soon enough.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but isn’t sending Starfleet’s two best ships to deal with this a bit of overkill?” Mayweather asked, turning from his console. “Draylax isn’t even part of the Coalition of Planets.”

  “That may be, Travis, but Earth has a mutual defense arrangement with Draylax,” Archer said, taking his seat and toggling a switch on one of its arms. “Burch, I need full warp capability. We have to push this ship to her limits. And make certain all weapons ports and hull-plating polarization protocols are triple-checked. We may be seeing some action soon.”

  “Right away, sir,” Burch replied, his voice issuing from the com unit on Archer’s chair.

  Archer reached for a datapad that O’Neill was patiently holding out to him. “How was the night shift, D.O.? Did I miss anything interesting?”

  O’Neill, a petite redhead, smiled grimly. “Not really, sir. We encountered a cloud of debris at about oh-three-hundred. Drifting ice crystals that must have been the remnant of some long-dead comet. But they apparently weren’t substantial enough to even fog up the windows.”

  “Where’s Malcolm?” Archer asked, gesturing toward the tactical station that the enthusiastic Englishman usually manned during the alpha-watch hours.

  “He called in sick earlier,” D.O. said, her smile slipping into a frown. “Said he must have had a bad reaction to some of Chef’s food. Unless we wanted to have him hitting the head every five minutes, it didn’t make sense to have him on duty.”

  Archer grinned and lowered his voice. “Malcolm and his sensitive stomach…it’s a wonder he’s ever able to fly at all sometimes. I assume Phlox will have some kind of antidiarrheal to settle him down.” He squinted for a moment, scrolling through a personnel roster in his mind. “Who do we have to replace him? Yoc? Beaton?”

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll take Reed’s post myself,” O’Neill said. “I didn’t really have any plans for my off-duty time today, and I’m not terribly tired.”

  Archer clapped a hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder and stood. “Suit yourself, D.O. Have some food ordered up from the mess though; can’t have your stomach rumbling so loudly it drowns out the com system. But before you take over that post, I have a call to make from my ready room. You have the bridge again until I’m done with that.”

  Turning toward the communication station, Archer saw that Hoshi Sato was frowning as she studied her com-system displays. “What’s wrong, Hoshi?” he asked, moving toward her.

  “I know you said it was all right for a certain crew member to make private subspace transmissions off the main system,” Sato said, keeping her voice low even as she glanced sideways to make sure that none of the other bridge crew were standing near enough to
overhear her. “But I think we should put them in the official logs.”

  Archer frowned. “Do any of these transmissions pose a problem?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hoshi said, shrugging. “But another, significantly longer transmission went out last night.”

  “And?”

  “Enterprise’s clocks happen to be roughly synchronized with the region on the planet to which the transmission was sent,” Sato said, carefully leaving out the name of the planet they both knew they were discussing: Vulcan. “The transmission went out at about oh-three-thirty hours. That seems like an odd time to be dealing with personal business back home.”

  Archer waved his hand to one side. “I’ve given up on what seems ‘odd’ when it comes to those particular people, Hoshi. Thanks for alerting me, but I’m not overly concerned about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sato said, though her expression showed that she wasn’t entirely placated.

  “Besides, we have bigger fish to fry right now,” Archer said. “I need you to raise Admiral Krell of the Klingon Defense Force. Pipe it through to my ready room after you set up the connection.”

  Minutes later, Archer found himself pacing in his small ready room office, wishing that any of his closest companions aboard the ship were present to consult with him regarding the trials that lay ahead: T’Pol, Trip, Malcolm…even Porthos was good for counsel from time to time. It wasn’t that he couldn’t make decisions on his own, but he’d always found it best to bounce ideas off his trusted friends, even if, ultimately, he went with his own gut feeling more often than not. But at the moment his most trusted friends were either “dead,” hallucinating, running to the bathroom, or sleeping on the pillow at the foot of his bed.

  Two chimes sounded from the com unit mounted on the wall. “I have Admiral Krell,” Sato’s voice announced from the speaker.

  Archer crossed back behind his desk, tilting the desktop viewscreen up even as he remained standing. The visual pickup would be looking up at him, giving him a subtle if slight psychological advantage. “On-screen,” Archer said.