by Diane Carey
“What if none of ours is up there?”
“I don’t know,” Riker said, irritated that he didn’t have all the answers yet.
“Well, I know this for sure,” Bateson said, “everybody on board was confirmed human before we embarked, except for Ensign Yuika and Engineer Ush. And all my crew from the Bozeman are human.”
“Doesn’t mean much,” Riker told him. “Klingons aren’t beyond hiring humans, and some humans aren’t beyond working for Klingons. A human willing to work with an alien culture against the Federation is a very valuable commodity. Just like the spies the Federation has in other cultures. It’s a fact of life in a hostile universe.”
Watching Scott bump around inside the Jefferies tube, Bateson leaned against the tube’s support strut. “Hmmm . . . imagine William Riker admitting the universe might be hostile. And, of course, once again, you’re the one who’s right.”
“All right, Morgan,” Riker sighed irritably, “snap out of it. We have to launch an underground offensive from down here. Would you please put me in charge of that maneuver, since I know more about large modern ships than you do?”
Momentarily startled at being called by his first name by someone he thought didn’t like him, Bateson contemplated that and came to an instant decision. “Yes, fine. Have at it.”
“In that case, I need you to tell me what you know about Klingons.”
“What? I was all wrong!”
“No, sir, you weren’t,” Scott said from inside the tube. “Better stop saying that before Mr. Riker has to get humble.”
“Humble? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Riker took over, saying, “It means your timing was wrong, but your approach was exactly right. I’m admitting that we’ve never fought Klingons full-blown like this. You were right about Klingon motivations. We all reacted just fine once it happened, but you were the only one who saw it coming.”
“But I was completely surprised!”
“Doesn’t matter. You knew the Klingons would eventually take aggressive action.”
“Kozara’s a rogue! He was coming after me. If I hadn’t been here—”
“Kozara’s no rogue. He has the sanction of the empire. That’s a big difference. They saw an opportunity and they took it. Their advantage was that he knew you personally and he’s had ninety years to think about your methods. He made an offer and the High Council took him up on it. I’m glad it was us, in this ship, instead of someone less experienced in a less powerful vessel.”
“Dead right,” Scott’s muffled voice confirmed. “We’d be the cleanup crew for a slaughter.”
Riker held out a hand of truce to Bateson. “I know about ships of the line from this era. You know about Klingons not as a culture, but as enemies. What have you faced that I never have? I need to know if I’m going to coordinate a counteroffensive from below decks. What do you know about Klingons that you think I should know?”
Bateson eyed him suspiciously from inside his despondence. “I might’ve been blustering . . . I’m sure you know they’re basically fearless. They never hesitate when there’s an opening. Even when they should hesitate. They, uh, they want individual glory. Our problem a century ago was this—how do you fight a race of beings who are big, fierce, stronger than you are, used to prevailing physically, who think it’s Viking to die in battle, and who are notorious sore losers? And who are absolutely fearless? They just come at you and they’re very good at it. They never back down, they never think twice, they’re single-minded and purposeful. That’s why I decided not to retreat . . . we always thought it was the wrong message to send to people like that.”
“Well, as you found out, they’re not that unsophisticated anymore.”
“No . . . I guess they’re not.”
“What do you think our advantages are?”
“Technically? I wouldn’t know.”
“Not technically. As humans.”
“Oh . . . well, we’re more clever than they are. I come from back in the days when men were men and Klingons were Klingons and the men lost. We had to figure out ways to handle that. And one thing I’ve always counted on is that Klingons tend to get angry and stay angry. That adrenaline thing they depend on, like the ancient Berserkers.”
“Pardon me?”
“Berserkers.”
Scott stuck his foot out from the tube and shook it to get their attention. “Lunatics,” he contributed.
Bateson smiled in spite of himself. “They were hand-to-hand fighters in the Iron Age . . . ironically, they were Vikings. They’d go wild, strip off their mail shirts, and fight in bear skins. They were called ‘bear sarkers.’ That’s where we get the term—”
“ ‘Go berserk’.” Riker smiled. “I never knew that.”
“Well, being from Alaska, you were deprived,” Bateson said with a teasing wink.
“How do you know all this?”
“Word-origins are a great way to learn history. I never had many personal roots, and it’s a way to get some.”
“And another way,” Riker recalled, “is building parts of wrecked ships into our lives, isn’t it?” He offered a comforting smile. “Sir, I’m starting to like you better than I did before.”
“Well, thanks,” Bateson said gratefully. “I always liked you, even though you’re a pain in the command seat.”
“Thank you. Now, how do we use all this brilliance?”
“Well, I’ve always thought that humans have an advantage because, after a point, our adrenaline levels out and we tend to calm down and start being sneaky. Like the smaller of the schoolboys tend to get smarter than the bullies. And we don’t have the cumbersome baggage of honor or the restraints of logic. We’re a lot more individual, a lot more different from each other than they are.
“Good . . . I think we can use that. What else?”
“What else? . . . Well, their system, the way it was designed, what they value in their society, tends to put a whole lot of people on the front lines who all have the same talents and the same weaknesses as each other.”
With some effort, Mr. Scott climbed down out of the tube entirely and added, “You got ten Klingons—you got ten Klingons.”
“That’s right,” Bateson said. “But you got ten humans? You got ten really different methods of doing almost anything. Starfleet values all kinds of talents. These are science people, those are medical people, those are tacticians, that’s a comm specialist, these are engineers . . . and we’re all on the front lines. There are captains who came up from engineering, some who are historians, others out of cartography or spectroscopy—you come up against a Starfleet captain, and you don’t know what the hell you’re in for. At least, that’s the way it was ninety years ago. That’s why the Klingons were never able to beat the Federation. We’ve got them all figured out, and they can’t make sense of us. It’s a fabulous advantage.”
Feeling somewhat warmer toward this warmonger, Riker grinned again. “So that’s why it was such an insult when Kozara said you were predictable.”
Bateson groaned out his misery. “Sure was. We always took it as given that Klingons were uncooperative and uncoordinated, grim and immovable, and so bigoted they forgot to understand their enemies. And look at me, Mr. Preparedness, trapped down here like a rat. I allowed my ship to be taken. It’s unforgivable.”
“You couldn’t have known that Kozara had spent the past ninety years having the Klingon whipped out of him. He’s spent the better part of a century eating his pride for dinner every night.”
“Wait a minute . . . wait a minute. That still doesn’t change his general technological background.” Bateson contemplated. “He and his men have basically the same backgrounds, that of a warrior. They aren’t specialists. Kozara won’t have any scientists or tech guys with him. Even though he planned to take over a ship of the line, a mighty complicated ship with lots of labs and departments, he’ll have brought only warriors with him. They can move the ship, fire the weapons, but there are lots of things on
a ship like that that can confuse the very devil out of them. That’s it! I knew I wasn’t so dumb!”
Starting to feel as if they really did have some advantages, Riker smiled. “No, sir, you’re not so dumb.”
On a roll, Bateson took the approval with a sad nod. “What Klingons have trouble understanding is that muscles don’t matter. Their hand-to-hand predeliction is silly. It’s part of evolution that muscles aren’t important unless you’re going to remain a beast. The geek in the lab shows that brains are more important. One blue-haired old lady with a phaser could hold off an army with bat’leths.”
“You’re right,” Riker said. “I never really thought about that. How do we use all this knowledge to our advantage? We have to take the ship back, or at least make it unusable to Kozara. How do we use Kozara against himself, knowing what you know?”
Bateson shook his head now, baffled. “A Klingon to whom honor means nothing? I’ve no idea.”
“Well, I do.” Proudly, Riker offered, “And you just gave it to me. We can surprise them, and I know how.”
“How?”
“By having a sense of humor.”
Bateson clapped his hands once sharply. “Oh, yes! A sense of humor can be a formidable weapon against somebody who doesn’t have one! Right?”
Riker grinned again. “I like that.”
With both arms up the tube as he made a final adjustment of some mysterious kind, Scott contributed, “We can use that to reduce their numbers. I’ve got a hell of a sense of humor. You’ll be surprised how much of one this ship has.”
“Did you get the message sent?” Riker asked.
“Aye, I did. Low-power’s the best I could do. It’ll take a while, maybe four hours, to reach starbase. Unless there’s a ship between here and there with the sense to relay.”
“Then we’ll have to get to work.”
Scott finished what he was doing and said, “I can tap into the computer system from down here and get a sensor location on all Klingons aboard. We’ll get ’em designated in groups, then go after a bunch at a time. If that’s what you had in mind.”
“Captain?” Riker turned. “Permission to begin assault on the hijackers?”
Bateson waved both hands. “All right, Will, you’re in charge of the covert assault team. Gentlemen, let’s start thinking dirty tricks.”
“I’ve got a few,” Scott said cannily, his dark eyes flickering in the dimness.
“I’ll bet you do,” Riker said, grinning. He stepped toward the auxiliary tool locker. A wrench could be a weapon with the right attitude behind it.
Then, unexpectedly, Bateson took his arm and held him back. “One condition, Commander.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I don’t want to kill any of them.”
What? Had he heard right?
Riker openly gawked. “Captain . . . begging your pardon, sir, but what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to kill anybody.”
Speechless, and just to be sure he was hearing right, Riker looked at Scott.
“He’s got me on that one,” the senior engineer admitted, also staring as if the captain had grown elephant ears.
“I have a message to convey to Kozara and the whole Klingon Empire,” Bateson said. “Call it a personal message, if you want.”
“Kozara’s planning to fly into Cardassian space and unleash quantum torpedoes on millions of innocent people! And it’s no time for a message between Robin Hood and the Sheriff!”
“It’s exactly the time,” Bateson said calmly. “Klingons understand killing perfectly well. Nonlethal assault will leave them baffled about the Federation’s intent. This is much bigger than you, me, and Kozara. We’ve got to keep the empire confused about us.”
“Well, begging the captain’s pardon, but you’re completely confusing me, sir!”
Bateson managed a smile. “Eh, it’s what we heroes of the past do best. There’s something else, though. You recall that Kozara wouldn’t say he destroyed the Nora Nicholas, even though I asked twice. I think he disabled her and left her crew adrift somewhere.”
Unable to bring himself into that funnel of hope, Riker asked, “What makes you think that?”
“Because he’d have boasted about it if he killed them. Kozara has a cautious streak. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t have to do. What if this assault goes bad for him? He wouldn’t want the empire saddled with the slaughter of a whole ship and crew if things go sour. I just know how he thinks. Or at least . . . I know how he used to think. Until I’m sure he killed our men, I don’t want to kill his.”
“Sir, I hope you’re right.”
“If I am, we might be able to get out of this without an act of war. There’s kerosene all over the floor, and I don’t want to be the one to throw the match. I headed off a war ninety-three years ago. Do I want to have come through time only to destroy a couple of civilizations now? Thank you, no.”
Pausing, Riker ran through all this double-thinking, and decided, “Well, that does make some sense.”
“Let’s hope it keeps making sense,” Bateson said, ready to doubt himself again, “because if they did kill the crew of the Nora Nicholas, then the war’s already started. Let’s get going. By the way, ‘sheriff’ comes from ‘referee’ of the ‘shire,’ from back in the days when the English language was still linked to . . .”
His voice trailed off as he crawled into the conduit tunnel.
“They’re coming! Clear the deck! Clear the deck!”
Boom boom boom boom—the pounding feet of booted Klingons set the whole corridor shuddering, but Will Riker was shuddering well enough on his own as he ran along the curved corridor, just keeping enough of the curve between him and the six Klingons chasing him. If they caught up so much as two meters, they’d have a clear disruptor shot at him, and he had no weapon with which to shoot back.
So he ran. He wanted to shoot, but the so-called guerrilla assault team had no hand phasers so they had to be clever whether they liked it or not.
As Riker ran, he could almost feel the burning sting of disruptor fire between his shoulder blades—and he did feel it as shots slammed into the bulkheads behind him, spraying him with sparks and shorn-off bits of plate. He kept running, glad he was as tall as most Klingons and able to keep ahead of them.
“This way!”
It was Captain Bateson, waving to him from inside a doorway. Riker angled in that direction, not slacking his pace. Bateson disappeared inside the darkened room, and Riker plunged in after him, then instantly flattened himself up against the wall.
Pitch dark in here—except for the faint red floor lights from the corridor.
An instant later, three—four—six Klingons came piling into the room, stinking of sweat and panting with blood-hunger.
Riker slipped back out the door behind them, and Bateson was immediately after. Giving Bateson one second to clear the door, Riker slammed his hand into the door control panel.
The door whooshed shut.
“Will, lock the door!”
The whole door panel boomed and rattled—Klingons had just slammed against it from inside. They were kicking it and pounding it with their weapons. Then there was the sound of a disruptor shot, but the door held somehow. Riker touched it—yes, it was warm.
Six of them, trapped!
“Hurry, Scotty!” he called down the corridor. “The door won’t take many more shots! Turn on the program!”
“Understood.” Down the corridor about ten feet, Scott worked at another panel, then said, “Computer on, Holodeck Two. Run Scott program 1A, continuous presentation, all vocal controls suspended, authorization Scott-E-five-two-seven-three.”
Almost instantly, from behind the door, a terrible cackling and screeching noise rose, counterpointed with the howls and furious shouts of Klingons.
“Shut it down!” a Klingon demanded from inside.
Then others started yelling—
“Program off! Prog
ram off!”
“Where are the controls?”
“Computer! Program off! Off, you metal tank!”
“Find the door! Look for the door!”
There was no more pounding on the panel where Riker stood. However, the howling, shouting and screeching from inside got much worse.
Much worse.
“What did you do to them?” Riker asked as he and Bateson joined a beaming Mr. Scott down the hall. “What’s going on in there?”
“I sent them to my great-uncle’s poultry farm,” Scott told them. “Lots of feathers and birdie guano to slip around on. Lots.”
Riker glanced at Bateson, then Bateson asked, “And how many chickens were on your great-uncle’s poultry farm, Scotty?”
“Oh . . . ’round . . . forty-five thousand, give or take the odd Christmas goose, sir. And for every one they kill, the computer makes two more.”
Riker threw his head back and laughed. “Six Klingons and forty-five thousand chickens!”
“What battle methods!” Bateson complained. “George Washington’ll be spinning in his crypt!”
Scott brushed his hands together triumphantly. “And they’ll never find the door.”
The dark squares of their sails were urgent with menace, and Hornblower’s eye could read more than the mere drama of the silhouettes against the clear horizon.
Ship of the Line
Chapter 22
CARDASSIA PRIME
Madred Village
“What is it?”
“Mark! Stand back. Everybody take cover! Take cover! Atherton! Atherton, take cover! Everybody down. Mark, get your backside down.”
“It’s landing! Steve, are you seeing this? It’s preparing to land!”
“Nothing ever lands here! It’s got to be something else. Take cover right now!”
“Or what? You’ll tell Mom? That thing’s landing! Maybe we can get out—”
Steve McClellan grabbed his brother’s arm and pulled. “Then they’re coming to kill us. Move.”
Fighting his injured hip, Steve dragged Mark into the shadows where Brent Atherton, Dan Leith, and several other members of both crews were huddled.