Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  “But for now, you have your orders, and you will carry them out. Go to Qo’noS. Impress the High Council. Make certain that we don’t go to war. And down the road, when and if the Romulan threat really does become more apparent, you will be able to use all the experience you’ve gained out there on the edge of the unknown—as well as the strength of a more unified Coalition—to stand up to it.”

  Archer saw Gardner move his hand toward the switch on his desk as he prepared to end the transmission. “Good luck, Captain. And Godspeed.”

  The computer screen went black

  With a roar, Archer smashed his fist into the screen, sending it tumbling off his desk in a short-lived shower of sparks. It crashed into the wall before falling to the floor, where it lay broken and dead.

  Archer knew it was a stupid, brutish gesture that T’Pol would have found appalling. Nevertheless, it made him feel better, at least for the moment. Still, he realized that the isolation and anger he felt now would be nothing compared to what he would experience when he entered the lion’s den on Qo’noS to deliver the Coalition’s ultimatum.

  When he faced that challenge, he would be utterly and terrifyingly alone.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Monday, July 21, 2155

  Qam-Chee, the First City, Qo’noS

  THE OTHER TWO TIMES that Jonathan Archer had visited the Klingon homeworld had taught him little about the civilization other than the fact that their architecture looked as foreboding and militaristic as nearly every Klingon he had ever encountered. He wondered if there was any room for nonmartial culture and beauty among these severe, warlike aliens. But although high art here seemed largely confined to the production of elaborate edged weapons, he knew there had to be more to the Klingon people than that; even the savage Hun tribes of ancient Earth weren’t complete strangers to art and culture. When discussing this very matter once with Trip, the engineer had said with his understated Southern humor, “Hell, even cannibals can make some beautiful bone necklaces.”

  Archer had left Enterprise under the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Donna O’Neill. She didn’t ask why he was not taking Commander T’Pol or Lieutenant Reed along, he noticed. By now, the missing shuttlepod had been noted, though Archer had yet to log the incident officially. D.O. wasn’t stupid, nor were any of the other bridge personnel; they probably figured that Malcolm and T’Pol were off on some secret mission—which, in truth, they were. It’s just not a mission that anybody authorized, Archer thought glumly.

  He had also decided to leave Phlox behind, given the threats Krell had made. It was better to know that the Denobulan was safe aboard Enterprise than potentially imperiled on the surface of the Klingon homeworld. Archer had left a grateful Hoshi Sato at her post as well; a small, communicator-sized translator unit clipped to his uniform jacket would ensure that he got his point across, and that he wouldn’t misunderstand the Klingons when they made theirs. He hoped they wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to communicate via their cutlery.

  Which left Archer alone except for the two MACO troopers who had accompanied him, Corporals O’Malley and Ryan, both of whom had been trained in multiple unarmed fighting techniques, including the Vulcan disciplines of Suus Mahna and V’Shan. Even though all three humans had been disarmed immediately upon entering the outer foyer of the Klingon High Council citadel, Archer knew he could count on the two MACOs to give a good accounting of themselves if it came down to a fight.

  They had not been able to offer much in the way of moral support during the interminable shuttlepod ride down from orbit, however. Archer knew he was on his own in the Great Hall, for better or worse. As the huge iron doors before him opened with a groan and a clang, Archer stepped into the expansive inner sanctum. This wasn’t the same High Council Chamber he had visited on Enterprise’s first mission, during which he had returned an injured Klingon named Klaang to his homeworld. He was thankful as well that it was not the forbidding multilevel courtroom on Narendra III, where a Klingon magistrate had once sentenced him to a year mining dilithium in the frozen depths of the asteroid penal colony Rura Penthe.

  Just because this place wasn’t that hellish chamber of summary judgment, however, didn’t make it any less intimidating, and Archer felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise like a phalanx of fighters adopting a defensive stance. Seated around the deeply shadowed, torch-lit room in a semicircular, two-level observer’s arena were some two dozen Klingons—all but one were male—none of whom looked particularly pleased to be present. At the apex of the semicircle sat the man whom Archer recognized as having thanked him—though Hoshi had implied it was more of a threat—when he had returned Klaang to his people. The Klingon chancellor’s hair and beard had become even whiter than they had been four years ago, but the form underneath the august warrior-leader’s bulky leather and armor seemed as formidable now as it had then.

  Archer stepped forward, holding out a data module in one open hand. “Chancellor M’Rek, honorable High Council members and warriors of the great Klingon Houses, I bring you an urgent message from the Coalition of Planets.”

  M’Rek gestured to one of his guards, who strode forward and snatched the data module from Archer’s hand. The soldier handed it to the chancellor, who held it out, then closed his hand around it, crushing it.

  “Starfleet sent you to deliver the message, human,” M’Rek said, his voice a low snarl. “It is only because you have aided the Empire in the past that you were not executed on arrival. Deliver the message yourself, and we shall see if your stay of execution merits an extension.”

  Having half expected such a response, Archer had already rehearsed his answer. He stepped forward, keeping his hands at his sides in a simultaneous show of defiance and submission; he hoped his body language wouldn’t distract the Klingons from the importance of his words.

  “Three days ago, three Klingon battle cruisers attacked the planet Draylax, crippling its defenses and causing thousands of casualties on that world’s surface. The aggressor ships did not respond to warnings from the Starfleet ship Columbia, or from my vessel, the Enterprise. They opened fire on our ships when we drew close enough for a confrontation. Our ships defeated two of the attackers, but the third was destroyed by a second trio of Klingon ships that arrived during the battle. These vessels did not engage either our ships or the colony. Afterward, Admiral Krell told me that the original three attacking Klingon ships were manned by rogue captains and crews.”

  “And your Coalition leaders do not believe his words? They think we are trying to incite war with them?” M’Rek said, his voice rising in both pitch and volume.

  “Not all of them do, Chancellor. But the Coalition Council is a democratic parliamentary body.” Archer wasn’t used to apologizing for democracy, but as he’d learned over the last four years, human cultures and mores were not predominant in the galaxy.

  Another older Klingon stood and shouted. “Draylax is not a member of your so-called Coalition, is it?”

  “Not currently, no,” Archer said, addressing him for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the chancellor. “However, Draylax is one of Earth’s allies, and is a signatory, along with Earth and Alpha Centauri, to a mutual defense pact. Draylax is therefore under Earth’s protection.”

  “Under Earth’s protection?” another Klingon snarled. “Were you not barely able to begin interstellar travel only a few short years ago?”

  Archer ignored the man’s hyperbolic comment, concentrating instead on addressing the High Council’s leader. “Chancellor, the Coalition does not wish to jeopardize the relative peace this part of the galaxy has enjoyed for so long. But understand that some in the Coalition may choose to authorize retaliation if the Klingon Empire initiates any further unprovoked attacks against—”

  “You accuse the Empire? Do you think us a race of honorless taHqeq?” M’Rek stood and stalked toward the captain. “If we were going to attack, you would know it from the screams of your dying, from the rivers of blood that would drown your
cities, from the stench of charred and burning flesh.”

  He glowered, lowering his voice as he neared Archer. Archer could feel the tension in the MACOs flanking him, and was grateful that they were trained well enough to know to avoid making any overtly threatening gestures.

  “What happened over Draylax was directed neither against that world nor yours, Captain,” the chancellor said after his face came to a stop only a few centimeters away from Archer’s. “Apart from a few minor Klingon-human skirmishes—including those in which you and your crew were involved, Captain—the Empire has spilled no Tera’ngan or Draylaxian blood. At least, not in sufficient quantities to merit a declaration of war.”

  Archer nodded, hoping that the sweat beading on his forehead wouldn’t be visible in the firelight of the chamber—and wishing that M’Rek’s most recent meal had been less aromatic. “I believe that, Chancellor, and have tried to convince my superiors of that. However, the Coalition Council requires—” He stopped himself for a moment, then quickly regrouped. “The Coalition Council requests assurances that the Klingon Empire understands its warning that any further hostilities will be treated as cause for war. We also ask you to furnish objective proof that your government neither planned nor ordered the assault on Draylax.”

  “You request assurances? You require proof?” M’Rek turned his back on Archer. He laughed loudly, as did most of the other Klingons in the room. “And what is it we are getting in return? Other than your Coalition’s promise not to initiate a suicidal war with us?”

  “What is it you want?” Archer asked, aware that he might regret that question more than anything he had said in this chamber so far. He recalled that on the day he had first seen a Klingon, the Vulcan ambassador Soval had warned him, “The last thing your people need is to make an enemy of the Klingon Empire.” Those words of wisdom reverberated in his head now.

  M’Rek turned back again to face him. “When our children are young, they learn to befriend the lowlier creatures of our world. Targs, qogh, qa’Hom…they play with them, sleep beside them, find allies in them. And when they attend to the Rite of Ascension, they learn that they must kill the animals that trusted them and feast on them. The animals are not Saj any longer, weaker creatures kept at our sufferance. They exist to be sacrificed.” M’Rek smiled, showing his pointed teeth. “You are a Saj today, Captain Archer. You must decide whether your Coalition Council sent you here knowing you would be sacrificed…or whether your sacrifice is born of their stupidity.”

  “Any act against me or my ship or crew will be considered an act of war as well, Chancellor,” Archer said, trying not to imagine what was going to happen next. He was aware that the two MACOs with him were even now assessing every possible mode of attack—as they more than likely had been doing from the moment the three of them had entered this chamber.

  “You ask us for proof, Captain,” M’Rek. “We have already given you every answer you will get without cost. Anything further you will have to earn through vItHay’ combat against a warrior of my choosing. If you truly wish to avoid war with the Empire, you may prove it…by fighting for the truth.”

  M’Rek gestured to the back of the chamber with a flourish, and Archer saw a figure standing in the shadows behind the chancellor. “If you are not a craven bIHnuch, then you will cross blades with the very person you most accuse of being a taHqeq.”

  The man stepped forward, and Archer saw the swarthy skin, the braided goatee, and the smooth forehead.

  Unless he backed down—a choice he doubted was in any way a realistic possibility—the warrior he was to face in a battle to the death was none other than Admiral Krell.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Romulan Scoutship Drolae

  THE ALREADY OVERSTRAINED ENGINES shrieked in protest at suddenly being thrown into full reverse. The half-illuminated, blue-green limb of a planet suddenly appeared in the formerly empty space directly in front of the slender sheet of transparent aluminum that protected the cramped crew compartment from the unforgiving vacuum of space.

  “Damn!” Trip shouted, momentarily forgetting to avoid using human idioms in the presence of Romulans. The planet that had suddenly appeared before him grew steadily and quickly until it filled the viewer’s field of vision almost completely. One moment he had been calmly studying the nav display on his copilot’s console; the next, an entire world threatened to fall directly on top of him like the mother of all rockslides.

  “Terix, I know we need to sneak up on these people,” Trip said, grateful for the flight harness that prevented his bucking seat from ejecting him like the Romulan equivalent of a cowboy tavern’s mechanical bull. “But did you really have to cut it this close?”

  Seated at the pilot’s console to Trip’s left, the centurion only laughed indulgently as he pulled back on his control yoke with one hand while entering attitude corrections with the other. If he was at all concerned about Trip’s outburst, he showed no outward sign.

  “As you have already noted more than once, we must provide our quarry with as little advance warning as possible,” the Romulan said. His words were punctuated by loud bounces and vibrations as the sturdy little ship’s belly slammed hard into the planet’s rarefied upper atmosphere.

  Trip attempted to draw some comfort from the clear evidence he’d just seen that human pilots had no monopoly on insanity. Before today, he had never brought a ship out of warp so close to the surface of a planet. Starfleet regulations strictly prohibited such stunts except in the direst of emergencies, presumably not only because they were hard on ships, but also because they could cause untold havoc planetside. The still-burning surface of Coridan Prime stood as a mute testament to the wisdom of those flight regs. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that the Romulan recon vessel had not only survived the punishing high-warp voyage all the way from Cheron to Taugus more or less intact, but had also somehow resisted being torn to molecule-sized pieces by the stress of Terix’s brutally abrupt deceleration.

  Now he feared that the really dangerous part of this mission still lay ahead.

  Terix quickly leveled out the Drolae’s descent as he continued to bring her down. The propulsion system gradually quieted, though its din was replaced by the nearly deafening howl of the steadily thickening nimbus of ionized atmosphere that surrounded the friction-superheated hull’s ventral surfaces. Still trading velocity for heat as it plunged ever deeper into the atmosphere, the scoutship roared across the terminator, passing very quickly from impenetrable night into a cloud-decked but brightly illuminated dayside.

  The scout punched through the bottom of the cloud deck moments later; despite the deep band of haze beneath the clouds, the planet’s upper mesosphere evidently admitted more than enough light to allow Trip to see that what he’d thought of only moments earlier as Taugus III’s western limb had now become its sunward horizon.

  Only about fifteen kilometers of intermittently turbulent atmosphere now separated the little vessel’s still-glowing hull from the planet’s forbidding rocky surface.

  “Do you have a fix yet on the dissidents’ camp, Cunaehr?” Terix asked, the rest of his attention completely absorbed by his buckboard-style piloting.

  Trip had already been fully engaged in trying to pinpoint their target before the centurion had asked the question. “The passive scans are giving me some ambiguous results. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to risk tipping these people off by putting the sensors into active mode, though.”

  Terix nodded. “I agree. I’m locking in on T’Luadh’s preprogrammed coordinates to make our approach. Can you handle the sensor controls?”

  “I think so,” Trip said, though he was wary of rousing Terix’s suspicions by appearing to be too familiar with Romulan military hardware.

  “Good,” said the centurion. “Continue making passive scans. Be on the lookout for any heavy concentrations of refined metals.”

  Trip nodded, working his console and keeping a weather eye on the passive sensors’ displays as the scoutshi
p continued its rolling, bumping descent. He felt grateful that he wasn’t prone to motion sickness.

  An orange light flashed, followed by a column of numbers in Romulan script. Trip paused the figures and read them over twice to make absolutely sure he wasn’t simply misinterpreting the alien characters to which he was still trying to become accustomed.

  “This doesn’t make a damned bit of sense,” he murmured.

  “You’ve found something?” Terix asked, still preoccupied with keeping the bouncing Drolae nearly level and more or less stable.

  “I picked up a strong signature of paesin’aehhrr,” Trip said, using the Romulan word for duranium.

  “Was it located at the preprogrammed coordinates?”

  Trip shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s gone now, and the sensors weren’t in contact with it long enough to localize it. In fact…” His voice trailed off as he ran through one of the columns of figures yet again.

  “Yes?” Terix said, sounding somewhat irritated.

  Trip looked up from his console and faced the centurion. “It might have been a reflection from an object in a low orbit around the planet.”

  “Another ship?” Terix ventured, raising an eyebrow as he continued making his rapid approach to the surface. “An Ejhoi Ormiin vessel preparing to attack?”

  Spreading his hands in frustration, Trip said, “This planet has a pretty electrically active ionosphere. Maybe it was only a reflection from the surface, or a sensor ghost.” Or maybe it was an orbiting surveillance drone set up by our friends down on the surface, Trip thought. An alarm system that’s designed to give them just enough time to roll the welcome mat out for us—and to be just small enough for us to miss on our way in.

  Another light flashed on the sensor console. “There,” Trip said, pointing. “Now I’m getting a definitive reading of refined metals. Right at the spot where T’Luadh said we’d find our, ah, friends hiding out.”