Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  Li displayed a smile of gratitude that gave every appearance of utter sincerity. “Alpha Centauri will be pleased to share with the Coalition of Worlds all the mutual defense responsibilities to which we have already committed with both Draylax and Earth,” she said.

  Just as our nonhuman allies will no doubt be delighted to share in Alpha Centauri’s shipbuilding resources via the Coalition, al-Rashid thought as he cast a grin back at Li. It would certainly suit their individual governments’ interests better than allowing humanity to keep those resources all to themselves via exclusive Earth-Centauri arrangements—even if they still don’t much like the idea of humans getting more than one vote on the Coalition Council.

  Ambassador sh’Rothress’s next utterance almost made al-Rashid wonder if the Andorian woman had somehow read his thoughts. “Andoria, likewise, will be pleased to dilute the resulting overly strong human plurality in the Council vote by adding another new nonhuman member to our alliance,” she said, nodding toward Grethe Zhor, who stared back in silence, her vertical pupils revealing no emotion; Ambassador sh’Rothress seemed to be trying to demonstrate that her people were most definitely not kowtowing to Earth or any other world, in or out of the Coalition.

  “I trust this new Coalition member will prove far less disagreeable than have my esteemed Andorian colleagues,” said Gral, who bowed his porcine, gray-maned head toward Grethe Zhor with uncharacteristic deference. Then al-Rashid noticed that the Tellarite’s gaze lingered a little too long on the Draylaxian woman’s conservative gray tunic, and the three breasts it concealed. Why that particular anatomical detail seemed to fascinate Gral escaped al-Rashid completely; he thought it unlikely that Draylaxians would be considered attractive by the esthetic standards of Tellarites, who considered six nipples the norm as far as he knew.

  Though she made no reply to Gral, sh’Rothress’s antennae flattened slightly against her scalp, signaling her displeasure with the Tellarite’s insult. But such exchanges were nothing new, al-Rashid reflected; as long as the Andorians and the Tellarites weren’t reaching for knives or phase pistols, he wouldn’t worry.

  Maybe my plan won’t go down in history alongside the Missouri Compromise, al-Rashid thought, looking down at his hands, which remained placidly folded on the tabletop. But it should keep the Coalition from coming apart at the seams, at least for another few months.

  He heard several sets of footfalls approaching rapidly from the back of the auditorium. Looking up, he saw a small group of uniformed humans walking almost at a march directly toward the council tables. At the forefront of the group were four gray-haired men, three of whom wore formal Starfleet uniforms, complete with neckties, while a fourth was attired in MACO dress whites. All four men were distinguished from the small cluster of aides and security personnel that partially surrounded them not only by their bearing, but also by the impressive array of medals and ribbons displayed on their chests.

  Right on schedule, al-Rashid thought. The time had finally arrived for the military briefing that might well prove to be the basis for a horrific war. He knew he could do little now other than pray that whatever was to come next, the coolheadedness of the Vulcans would prevail over the excitability of the Andorians and the Tellarites.

  May whatever these men have to share with us today not tear open the wound of blind fear we all have worked so hard to suture, inshallah.

  Admirals Gregory Black and Sam Gardner formed almost matching bookends flanking Captain Eric Stillwell of Starfleet’s tactical technological branch and the commandant of United Earth’s MACO forces, General George Casey. Since all four military officers were already familiar to the assembled delegates, Gardner wasted no time on introductions, opting instead to plunge straight into his much-awaited briefing about the latest news concerning the Klingon situation.

  “Captain Jonathan Archer has just uncovered critical new information while he was on the Klingon homeworld of Qo’noS,” Gardner said without preamble. “In short, Captain Archer has determined that the Klingons are not responsible for the recent acts of aggression that have occurred in the Draylax system.”

  “Allah be praised,” al-Rashid muttered as the Andorian and Tellarite delegates erupted in a gabble of surprise and consternation.

  “It would appear that Captain Archer has once again performed a great service to this alliance,” Soval said, raising his voice slightly in an effort to restore decorum to the room.

  “May we assume that you have hard evidence to back up this…extraordinary claim?” Gral asked, his piggy eyes overflowing with suspicion. The Andorian contingent seated near him appeared equally skeptical.

  “We do indeed have such evidence,” said General Casey, nodding. “The audiovisual records supporting Captain Archer’s findings will be made available to each of you later today.” He paused momentarily before adding, “I must admit up front that the quality of the images is less than optimal; as with many intelligence finds of this sort, it had to be obtained using less-than-optimal means, and under less-than-optimal circumstances.”

  Something in the MACO general’s tone warned al-Rashid that pressing him on those “less-than-optimal” means and circumstances would be less than welcome.

  After the two Starfleet admirals had finished spending the next twenty minutes furnishing the details of Archer’s fateful discovery, Soval said, “Attacking the Klingons would have been a grievous error on our part.” Despite his people’s vaunted emotional control, the Vulcan foreign minister looked somewhat rattled by the enormity of what the Draylax affair had nearly caused.

  “We would have been the aggressor,” said Samuels, his expression mirroring Soval’s, only without the hard veneer of Vulcan composure. “The Klingons would have felt entirely justified in striking back at us, and hard.”

  “There will be no war with the Klingon Empire,” al-Rashid said, sinking back into his chair as he allowed a tremendous sensation of relief to take wing; his words, which he had aimed at no one in particular, sounded almost like a benediction in his own ears.

  A woman’s voice sliced through al-Rashid’s joy like a hot blade. “Why do you seem so happy about this?”

  He found himself blinking his incomprehension at the official observer from Draylax, who regarded him with undisguised puzzlement from across the table.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” al-Rashid said. “The Klingons weren’t behind the attack against your people. You don’t want war with them, do you?”

  Grethe Zhor shook her head, sending a cascade of golden hair tumbling around her leonine face. “Of course not, Minister. But instead of an easily conceptualized enemy to rally my people to straightforward action, we now must contend with a mystery attack by phantoms disguised as Klingons.”

  “Which is why Starfleet is already busy planning tactical countermeasures against the new Romulan weapon,” Samuels said.

  “Until those countermeasures become available,” the Draylaxian said, “and perhaps for a goodly period afterward, we will be at war with phantoms, Minister, make no mistake. Against whom shall we rally the varied peoples of the Coalition in such a phantom war—a struggle in which one cannot even see the enemy’s face? At whom shall we point the Coalition’s guns?”

  “Pfagh,” Gral said. “Romulans are no more phantoms than are Klingons. And there is no more reason to fear them than the Klingons.”

  The silence that came from both the Andorian and Vulcan delegations spoke more eloquently than any counterargument al-Rashid could have devised.

  Recalling the terrifying holovids he had seen of the charred bones and burning seas of Coridan Prime—the handiwork of phantoms—Earth’s interior minister began to believe that the Draylaxian had the bleakest vision of the future of anyone in the room.

  He also thought it was probably the clearest.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Day Thirty-nine, Month of K’ri’Brax

  The Hall of State, Dartha, Romulus

  NIJIL TRIED to affect a look of cool compos
ure as he watched Valdore rise from behind his massive sherawood desk. The admiral remained quiet until his impressively broad form had finished unfolding to its full height.

  “I have given you all the time I can spare, Nijil,” Valdore said. “Praetor D’deridex and First Consul T’Leikha are both growing restless, as are the admirals of the fleet. Is the arrenhe’hwiua telecapture system finally ready for general deployment?”

  While there was no way to know for certain whether the new offensive system would work perfectly in actual use, the tests thus far had given Nijil every confidence that the fleet would experience no significant problems with it.

  Which meant that there was only one thing Nijil could afford to say. “It is ready, Admiral. The Coalition vessels we have just acquired with the system will provide all the cover we need, in addition to illustrating the need to apply the telecapture technology more generally against all our adversaries.”

  Nijil was aware, of course, that the enemy ships the fleet had taken most recently hewed to the same general technological principles as did the Romulan fleet. But he also had the good sense to avoid mentioning that fact to Valdore, who was obviously in a mood to hear answers that were as positive as they were unequivocal.

  Valdore nodded his acknowledgment, looking well pleased. “Good, Nijil. Outstanding.”

  The scientist was well acquainted with Valdore’s moods when he was not pleased. Indeed, he had encountered the man’s disruptor-like glare just this morning, after another subordinate had failed to discover anything new about Centurion Terix’s apparently failed mission to recover the avaihh lli vastam stardrive data the Ejhoi Ormiin assassins had stolen from the late Ehrehin’s lab—radicals who had paid Nijil rather handsomely in exchange for his giving them access to the late scientist.

  Nijil rejoiced at the fact that he wasn’t among those who had to deal with the admiral’s bad side. At least, not recently.

  The admiral continued, “Our advance forces will mobilize just as soon as you finish verifying the installation and calibration of the attack fleet’s telecapture units.”

  “My people can complete the last of the settling-in adjustments in an eisae,” Nijil said, nodding. “Perhaps less. I only wish we were able to produce and install more than two telecapture units per squadron in the time allotted.”

  “Two per squadron will suffice, Nijil.” A broad smile spread across Valdore’s face. It was a rare sight, and a welcome one. “The fleet will move against the Isneih and Sei’chi systems, right on schedule.”

  Nijil nodded. From those beachheads, the Romulan fleet would face few serious impediments to its ultimate goals, provided it maintained the advantage of surprise. Even if the Coalition were to discover prematurely what was coming, they could do little to keep the point of the Empire’s spear from reaching the worlds that constituted the very beating heart of the Coalition of Planets.

  The alien lloann’mhrahel who populated the vast regions of space that lay beyond the Avrrhinul outmarches that marked the Empire’s present-day borders would no longer be safe, assuming all went well as the very near future began to unfold. Not even ancient, ruddy Thhaei—Vulcan—itself could stand for very long against Romulus’s most glorious onslaught in recent memory.

  “I have more news for you, Admiral,” Nijil said.

  The admiral raised an eyebrow.

  Scarcely able to contain his excitement, Nijil began to explain the warp-speed breakthrough his theoretical people had just stumbled upon. “The technology division may very soon render Centurion Terix’s mission moot….”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Romulan Scoutship Drolae

  Near Romulus

  AS THE OVERSTRAINED LITTLE SHIP obediently transitioned from nearly warp six to a relatively sluggish warp two, Trip breathed a new prayer of thanks to any deity who might be monitoring such things anywhere in the vast empty spaces between Romulus and Earth. He was grateful not only that the vessel around him had successfully endured yet another brutal bout of rapid acceleration and deceleration—not to mention the sustained hard use it had suffered in between those extremes—but also for the simple fact that, as one of Trip’s automotive-engineer ancestors might have put it, Centurion Terix had apparently left his keys in the scout vessel’s ignition, so to speak.

  That simple, unaccountable fact also proved to be a source of nagging disquiet from the moment Trip had left the Taugus system until now, when Romulus was already becoming visible on the long-range sensors as a small but brightly shining cerulean bauble, locked in a perpetual gravitational dance with the ruddy wasteland of Remus, an ugly, blotchy orb that appeared to be perched on the blue planet’s shoulder like some grimly vigilant gargoyle.

  Despite his relatively trouble-free passage to Romulus thus far, Trip still continued to worry that Terix had set some sort of elaborate trap for him—one whose jaws still had yet to spring shut on him. Talk about paranoid, he thought. All Terix had to do was rig the warp core to lose containment once I started accessing the helm station. He really didn’t need to set any traps more complicated than that.

  But he still had his nagging doubts. For one thing, it just wasn’t like Terix, a man who clearly did not give his trust easily, to be so sloppy. But not only had the Scoutship Drolae apparently not been rigged to explode in the absence of a special surreptitious abort code, the sturdy little vessel’s com system had actually allowed him to maintain constant surveillance over the subspace frequencies being used by the Romulan fleet, apparently thanks to Terix’s simple failure to log off of the com console just prior to disembarking for the Taugus raid.

  But most fortunate of all—not to mention most suspicious of all—was the fact that this blunder had left Trip with access to many of the fleet’s highest-security channels.

  As he initiated his sublight approach to the steadily growing sapphire planet, rehearsing the verbal report he would make to Valdore all the way, some of the chatter he was hearing on the secure com channels began to both intrigue and frighten him. For starters, the Romulan fleet’s technology division appeared to have just made an unspecified but apparently significant breakthrough in following up on the late Doctor Ehrehin’s warp-seven stardrive research.

  Trip wasn’t at all sure what that meant—let alone how they had managed it without Ehrehin—if the news turned out to be anything other than a hopeful rumor. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, he thought. After all, somebody else would have built the first airplane back in the early twentieth century if Orville and Wilbur had decided to throw in the towel early.

  The other messages he intercepted soon afterward began to chill him to the depths of his soul. Disciplined-sounding voices familiar to anyone with military training, regardless of language, had begun speaking in clipped, determined phrases of fleet movements. Large fleet movements, which were being discussed only on what Trip had identified as the highest-security channels to which he had access. All of the fleet movements were apparently covert.

  And all of them were headed away from Romulan space, proceeding in the general direction of the core Coalition worlds.

  Two specific destinations, which he assumed were Romulan place names for Coalition locations, had already recurred frequently enough to draw Trip’s attention. Isneih, Sei’chi. He hadn’t heard either name before, so he couldn’t translate them readily into their English equivalents. But he imagined those places wouldn’t be hard to locate using the data files on the Drolae’s nav computer. After activating the autopilot, he immediately set about doing just that.

  Isneih. A supermassive white star located about nineteen light-years from another marker, which Trip had already designated as Earth’s solar system.

  Trip’s heart raced as he compared his own mental star map to the one displayed on the nav console. The Calder system, he thought, his spine chilled as though suddenly exposed to a total vacuum. That’s getting a little too close to Andoria and Vulcan for comfort.

  With Calder pinned down on the map, it took o
nly another few moments to locate the Romulan fleet’s other frequently mentioned objective: Sei’chi.

  His stomach abruptly went into freefall. Alpha Centauri. Only a bit more than four light-years from Earth.

  A proximity alarm interrupted Trip’s grim musings, forcing his attention back up to the forward windows. The space in front of them was quickly growing very crowded, and not merely because the Drolae was fast approaching Romulus.

  A flat, horseshoe-crab-shaped Romulan bird-of-prey had just dropped out of warp directly between him and the looming planet. The rapidly approaching vessel was oriented so that the glare of Eisn, the bright yellow sun around which Romulus and Remus orbited, provided garish illumination to its ventral hull, which displayed the bright red plumage of a predatory bird.

  Without warning, a disruptor beam lashed out from the warbird, scoring a direct hit that rocked the little scoutship and rang her hull like a colossal clapper striking an outsize cathedral bell. Fortunately, Trip’s flight harness kept him from being flung from the pilot’s seat.

  He engaged the throttle, and wasn’t a bit surprised when the warp drive failed to engage.

  Swell. Terix, you sadistic bastard. You really did plan this all along, didn’t you? Trip felt physically pinned down, as though he’d just been literally caught in the steel jaws of a bear trap.

  But he knew that even a trapped animal was anything but helpless. Few creatures were more dangerous than a wounded bear, after all, and Trip understood that he wasn’t entirely out of options, trapped or not. He began entering commands into his partially disabled engineering console, beginning by punching up the fuel-containment subsystem.

  His com console light flashed, signaling an incoming hail. A harsh male voice came over the speaker. “Scout vessel Drolae. You will heave to and deactivate your weapons. Prepare to be boarded, or vaporized.”