by Dayton Ward
Once that was accomplished, the danger to the ship was averted, and the safety of Captain Picard and the other members of the crew secured, Worf would be only too happy to turn his attentions to th’Gahryn himself. The Andorian’s arrogance and impudence could not be allowed to go unchallenged.
That, Worf decided, would be a worthy pursuit indeed.
Running at a full sprint, Lieutenant Peter Davila crossed the final dozen meters of the portico leading to the side entrance of the parliament building and threw himself through the partially closed door.
“Lock it!” he shouted as he sailed past the two Enterprise security officers manning the door, hitting the floor an instant later. He tucked his body and rolled with the impact, coming up on one knee with practiced ease, his uniform and the extra padding of his tactical gear absorbing most of the impact. In front of him, Lieutenant Kirsten Cruzen slammed the controls to lock the door from the inside just as the first of the charging horde of Andorians reached the portico. Davila watched through the transparasteel portals set into the double doors as the protesters beat at them with their fists, their faces contorted into all manner of furious expressions. Ignoring them, Cruzen reached for the doors’ manual-override locking controls. The locks settled into position with a satisfying click, and Davila knew that even if whoever had compromised their security grid had also gotten into the parliament complex’s own systems, they could not open any of the doors secured in this manner.
So let’s all hope everybody else managed to get their doors locked.
“They look more than a bit miffed,” said Ensign Michael Baker from where he stood on the side of the doors opposite Cruzen.
“Maybe it was something I said,” Davila replied, reaching up to wipe sweat from his brow as he fought to get his breathing under control. He had been outside, patrolling the compound’s exterior when the intrusion alarms sounded. There was time only for a brief report from Lieutenant Choudhury before he lost communications with her, and since then he had experienced no luck reestablishing contact.
And that was when everything went straight into the toilet.
According to the protocols Choudhury had established in the event of a breach like the one they currently were experiencing, the Enterprise security details were to abandon their positions along the perimeter and fall back to the main compound, taking shelter inside the various buildings and underground facilities while avoiding direct confrontation with any civilians. Though concerned for the safety of his people, Captain Picard had been firm in his conviction that no Starfleet officer be responsible for the injury or death of an Andorian citizen, except when acting in self-defense and as a means of last resort. To Davila, it seemed like an overly passive strategy, but after considering it further, he came to realize why the captain had made such a decision. The political turmoil surrounding Andor’s reproductive crisis and the controversial involvement of the Federation in trying to remedy it would also come to bear here. As ridiculous as it might sound to any rational person, the death of even a single Andorian at the hands of a Starfleet officer—unfortunate in its own right—would only be taken and twisted out of all meaningful context by those opposed to Federation “meddling” in Andorian affairs, and seen as a deliberate assault on the sanctity and sovereignty of the Andorian people.
So, here we are.
“How in the hell did someone get into our grid again?” he asked. Whatever had happened, it was not the result of a random system attack, of this Davila was certain. “According to Choudhury, she wasn’t able to contact the Enterprise, either. Somebody’s going to an awful lot of trouble to mess with us like this.” He shook his head, studying the growing mass of Andorians gathering outside the doors. There were at least three dozen of them standing there, pounding on the portals. More could be seen beyond them, running in different directions across the courtyard, illuminated by the compound’s exterior floodlights. Assuming all of the entrances had been secured in accordance with the fallback protocol, none of the dissenters would get in, of that Davila was sure. Nothing short of an armor-penetrating missile was coming through those doors.
Of course, with our luck . . .
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Cruzen said, shaking her head. “They disable our force fields and cut off our communications, and for what? So the locals can run around out there and tear up the grass or maybe break a few windows?”
Davila shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the craziest thing.” He had read reports and accounts of activist groups on other planets, including Earth in the late twentieth and early to mid-twenty-first centuries, who indeed had expended considerable effort working to convey their message or agenda, often going to elaborate extremes in order to make a demonstration such as the one he and his companions now were witnessing. “If they believe the message is important enough, then they won’t think anything within reason is off-limits.”
“Even destroying property?” Baker asked, nodding toward the doors. “That’s not a protest. It’s a mob. What if they hurt or kill somebody out there, including some of their own people?”
“Then we’ve got a big problem, don’t we?” Davila paused, considering what he had just said. “Maybe that’s what someone wants. Throw open the doors, let all the protesters who’ve been clamoring to get in here have free run of the place, and we’ll be tied up figuring out what to do. Meanwhile, maybe somebody else is waiting for us to have our backs turned before they do whatever it is they’re really planning.” He pointed to Baker before gesturing down the hall. “If Lieutenant Braddock left the line and fell back to his rally point, he should be at Checkpoint Bravo. Get over there and see if he’s heard anything.”
Baker nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Something like fingers snapping caught Davila’s attention and he jerked in the direction of the noise, but not before Baker staggered, one hand reaching for his neck. Davila saw something there, but by then the ensign had sagged against a nearby wall and begun to slide toward the floor. Reaching for his phaser, Davila turned at the sound of someone approaching from behind him. His weapon cleared its holster at the same time he heard Cruzen call out in surprise before she too collapsed. Davila pivoted in search of the new threat, his hand coming up and leveling the phaser at the chest of the Andorian standing near an open doorway. The intruder was holding something in his right hand and pointing it at Davila, who flinched at the sight of the weapon but still managed to keep his phaser trained on its target as his thumb pressed the firing stud.
The weapon did not fire.
There was time only for one quizzical glance at the phaser before Davila felt a sharp sting in his left arm. Then his vision swirled out of focus and he was overwhelmed by the sensation of falling before everything dissolved to black.
“Fall back! Move move move!”
Lieutenant Austin Braddock yelled to be heard over the chorus of shouts and the clamoring of bodies beyond the perimeter wall’s metal gate as he stepped away from the small shelter that served as a guard house. Placing his hand on the shoulder of Ensign Theresa Dean, he forced the younger officer away from her post at the gate checkpoint and aimed her toward the parliament administration building fifty meters behind them.
“Get to Checkpoint Bravo!” he shouted. “Now!”
On the other side of the guardhouse, Ensign Nordon fell to the grass, knocked over by an Andorian who had cleared the gate and charged him like an enraged bull. The young Benzite rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal ball and covering his head with his arms to protect himself as a second Andorian came at him, lashing out with a foot that connected with the back of Nordon’s thigh.
“Hey!” Braddock shouted, drawing his phaser and aiming it at the protester. The Andorian looked up, saw the weapon, and turned to run away, leaving Nordon on the ground. Crossing to where the security officer still lay huddled, Braddock knelt beside him and tapped him on the arm. “Nordon, are you okay?” He divided his attention between his fallen comrade and the dozen or so Andorians who had s
caled the gate, though the protesters seemed content to leave the Enterprise people alone as they ran off across the courtyard.
The Benzite rolled onto his back, wincing as he reached to where the Andorian had kicked him. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Good,” Braddock said, offering Nordon’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
A shadow fell across the grass to his right and Braddock turned his head in time to see an Andorian bearing down on him, his face a mask of hatred. The lieutenant raised his phaser, but he had no time to fire before Dean crossed into his field of vision and tackled the Andorian, driving them both to the grass. The Andorian attempted to punch Dean, but the ensign was smaller and faster, using her speed to land several quick jabs with both hands to the sides of her opponent’s head. He fell back to the grass and Dean pushed him away before regaining her feet.
“What the hell was that?” Braddock asked, his eyes watching for new threats, but there were none. However many protesters had breached the gate here, they were all gone now, presumably heading for other areas of the compound.
Catching her breath, Dean said, “My phaser wouldn’t fire.”
Braddock examined his own weapon. The power level was fine, but when he took aim at a patch of grass and pressed the firing stud, the phaser did not fire. “Son of a bitch.” He cast a look toward the parliament buildings. “Somebody’s modified the weapons inhibitors to block us.” Without a functioning weapon, Braddock now felt more than a little exposed outside.
Helping Nordon to his feet, Braddock reached for his combadge. “Braddock to Choudhury,” he called out, not really expecting a response, given that he had lost contact with the command post mere moments after the force field protecting the gate had deactivated. Tapping his badge again, he said, “Braddock to Enterprise,” and received the same notable lack of response. “Well, things are just getting better by the minute, aren’t they?”
“Do you think Lieutenant Choudhury was able to contact the ship and report our situation before communications were lost?” Nordon asked, still favoring his leg.
Braddock shook his head. “I’m not counting on it. Until we hear otherwise, we need to proceed as if we’re on our own. If the Enterprise can help us, they will, but for now, we make do.” Eyeing something hanging from a belt around the fallen Andorian’s waist, he crossed over the unconscious intruder and retrieved the item. It was a long, slender cylinder, and he tested its weight in his palm before using his thumb to press the single control embedded into its casing. In response, the cylinder extended outward from both ends, achieving a length of just under one meter. Braddock could not help the smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
“What’s that?” Dean asked.
“Stun baton,” Braddock said. “Police-issue. You’re lucky he didn’t use this thing. You’d be out cold until morning.” He had carried something similar during his brief tenure with the security detachment at Starfleet Academy, where his responsibilities consisted mostly of patrolling civilian establishments near the Academy grounds and rounding up cadets who had imbibed intoxicating beverages in quantities that could be considered unhealthy. Such unglamorous duty was but one of the reasons he had requested transfer to a starship assignment.
Kneeling beside the Andorian, Braddock patted the intruder’s clothing before reaching into one pocket and extracting a thin, hexagonal-shaped card. “This says he’s a sentinel with the Lor’Vela Constabulary.” He shook his head. “Figures.”
“If a police officer can condone and even participate in such action,” Nordon said, his eyes widening, “who’s to say there isn’t some more tangible form of support from local institutions for what’s going on here?”
Braddock sighed. “That’s what I like about you, Nordon. You’re always an optimist. Come on, let’s go.” With communications unavailable, the teams would likely have to use runners back and forth between the different checkpoints and other defensive positions, and that worked only if the runners knew where to go. In the case of Braddock and his team, that meant getting to Checkpoint Bravo. Lieutenant Choudhury would be expecting her people to follow the contingency plan she had put into place for such eventualities, which in this case was the same as when facing a breach of the compound’s defenses: rally at positions inside various structures closest to the perimeter, take stock of the current situation, and wait for further instructions.
Piece of cake, right?
“Where the hell is everybody?” Dean asked as Braddock led the way across the courtyard’s open expanse.
“Good question,” the lieutenant replied. He could hear shouts in the distance, but other than the occasional lone figure running between buildings; it was almost as though he and his team had been forgotten as the protesters ran off to partake of more interesting activities. That notion did nothing to alleviate Braddock’s anxiety. The stun baton in his hand was comforting, but he still felt all but naked without a phaser. There was every reason to believe that the person who had incapacitated the Starfleet sidearms within the compound had probably not done so for other types of particle weapons, such as the disruptors used by Homeworld Security soldiers. Of course, that presupposed every Andorian on the grounds was automatically an enemy not to be trusted. Braddock did not believe that, but it was certainly plausible that more than a few soldiers might be in league with the protesters, to say nothing of whoever might be directing this little bit of chaos.
If it were me, I’d shut down everything, he mused. Why take that chance? Of course, that begged the question of what someone who might need a weapon would use in the event such measures were enacted. The stun baton he carried was one example, but what about weapons of greater lethality?
Now there’s a pleasant thought.
37
Beverly spotted the first intruder.
“Jean-Luc,” she hissed, barely audible even though Picard was less than a meter in front of her. He saw what she meant in the same instant she issued her warning, and instinct made him reach back and push her toward the nearby wall just as he saw the dark silhouette of an Andorian move into view. He stepped from behind a large support column, raising his arm and pointing something in their direction.
“Incoming!” Lieutenant Konya shouted, also reacting to the new threat by dropping to a crouch and scrambling for the feeble concealment offered by a large ornamental statue. A distinctive metallic snap echoed in the wide corridor, but the captain neither saw a flash of energy nor heard any burst of sound coming from where the Andorian lurked in the shadows. What kind of weapon was he employing?
“Stay down!” Konya barked over his shoulder as he adjusted his position behind the statue in order to take aim at the Andorian. He raised his phaser, and Picard heard the click as the lieutenant’s thumb pressed the weapon’s firing stud, but the phaser did not fire. Another sharp crack sounded in the passageway, and this time Picard heard something striking the wall over the lieutenant’s head.
“Konya!” he called out, watching as the security officer dropped back under cover. He looked over his shoulder, holding up his phaser. “It’s dead.”
“Mine, too,” sh’Anbi said, from where she had positioned herself behind another column.
Indicating for Beverly to move back the way she had come, Picard considered his officer’s ineffectual weapons. Their adversary was employing something that fired projectiles at its target, and was his hearing playing tricks on him, or were the projectiles themselves traveling at a far lower velocity than would be considered harmful, at least to most humanoids?
“Whoever brought down the force fields must have also deactivated the phasers,” he said, trying to keep watch along the corridor in both directions. He tried to spot the Andorian, but their assailant was once again cloaked in the near darkness. Konya was backing toward them, using whatever furniture, plants, and other decorative items scattered about the expansive corridor might offer some degree of cover. Somewhere ahead of the lieutenant, Picard heard foot
steps, at least two sets. Their opponent had a friend.
He likely had more.
“We can’t stay here,” Picard said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. Looking to Konya, he asked. “Where’s the nearest exit?”
The security officer gestured with his head back the way they had come. “About fifty meters up the passage, sir, but that’ll put us out in the open.”
Picard nodded. “I think the weapons they’re using are of limited range. We’re better off outside, where we can get some distance.”
“There are probably more of them outside,” Konya said, glancing over his shoulder and trying to keep track of their attacker’s movements. “Then again, at least out there, we might see them coming.”
“Agreed.” Rising to his feet, Picard was preparing to move around Beverly and take the lead toward the exit when he heard footsteps behind him. A shadow broke away from those cast upon the walls in front of them, and the captain saw the faint illumination of the backup lighting reflecting off a head of stark-white hair. His muscles tensed in anticipation as he saw the Andorian’s arm come up, his weapon aiming at them.
An earsplitting howl reverberated off the walls, and Picard saw a dark blur crossing the corridor toward the Andorian, who recoiled as he took notice of the abrupt movement. By then sh’Anbi was on him, driving him into the wall with the full weight of her own body. The Andorian was knocked off balance, grunting in surprise as he tried to recover from the sudden attack, but sh’Anbi gave him no quarter. She lashed out at his head with the edge of her left hand, and Picard heard bone against cartilage as the ensign’s hand struck the Andorian’s nose and he cried out in pain. The strike was followed by another, this time a knee to her opponent’s solar plexus, and the Andorian groaned in protest as air was forced from his lungs. He bent forward, his free hand reaching for his midsection, and sh’Anbi brought her fist down on the back of his neck. The Andorian fell forward, crashing down atop a decorative low-rise table, with the sound of the impact echoing in the corridor.