Galadjian was as accomplished in warp physics as Richard Daystrom was in computing—and if anything, he was more famous, because he welcomed interactions with laypeople and the media. Where other theoreticians tended to be distant and obscure, Galadjian thought his complex models were never complete unless he got the average person excited about them.
Galadjian’s mastery in the physics of shields and their interactions with nebulae had made him Starfleet’s choice for the Pergamum mission. Many of his ideas had gone into the most recent refit, reshaping and optimizing Enterprise for nebular travel. While Pike could understand why Galadjian had been awarded a commission—if not the lofty brevet rank—the captain still had no idea why the man had wanted to go to space.
But his credentials impressed Spock and Number One, and he had seemed to settle in well. Among his engineering colleagues, Galadjian’s exuberance kicked into overdrive. Lately, every trip Pike had taken to main engineering had felt like wandering into the after-party of a Cochrane Medal awards ceremony, with Galadjian quipping about the latest discoveries as if they were the juiciest bits of gossip around.
After about a month of that, Pike had decided to let Number One handle making the rounds.
The latest confab broke up. “Captain, I have my analysis,” Galadjian said, stepping away from the terminal as his juniors returned to their stations. He picked up a cup and saucer from the deck where they had fallen during the tumult and held them up before Pike. “Let us consider this saucer as Enterprise and this cup as a high-speed projectile—”
“I have a grounding in physics, Doctor. Starfleet likes that in its captains.”
“Yes, of course!” In their short time together, Pike had found he could be a little acerbic with Galadjian because the man either didn’t register sarcasm or didn’t resent it. The chief engineer set down the dishes and led Pike to the terminal.
Galadjian pointed to the display. “Based on the distribution of damage to the aft section and the nacelles and the surge of particular particles, I project to ninety-five percent certainty that we were exposed to the reaction of antideuterium with magnetic borotenite, four-point-eight kilometers behind our position.”
“Just ninety-five percent certain, huh?” Pike stared at the findings. “That sounds like a torpedo—and not one of ours.”
Galadjian grinned. “If such reactions happen naturally, we have come to the right place—because there is definitely a paper to be written here.”
“After people are finished shooting at us. Damage assessments, Doctor. Can we safely go to warp once we’re outside the nebula?”
“I believe so, but would like to have Spock’s opinion, when he is done with his work on the deflector dish.”
He’s not a member of your section, Doctor. “It can’t wait. There’s an emergency—as you might have surmised.” He gestured to the nearby cup, which was starting to rattle. “I need your best judgment now.”
“Ah,” Galadjian said. He pursed his lips. “Yes. Yes, all systems should function normally. I guarantee it.” He clasped his hands behind him and straightened at dutiful attention—a pose that broke when the ship shook violently, once again knocking the nearby saucer and cup to the deck. Enterprise had entered another area of dense material. He looked at Pike. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of which zone we’re in. Was that Upsilon or Phi?”
“I leave the alphabets to Spock.” Pike headed toward the exit. “Oh,” he called back, “as long as you’re working together, tell him I want to see him when he’s available. I have some news for him.”
“Aye, Captain!”
Inside the turbolift, Pike clapped his hand on the control lever and made his way to the bridge. The doors opened to a welcome sight: stars on the main viewer.
“Captain on the bridge,” Una announced, rising from the command chair. “Sir, that was the final layer of the formation. We are in the clear.”
“I’d almost forgotten what ‘clear’ looked like,” Pike said, relieved to be out of the giant chemistry set. He wandered toward the screen, admiring the open expanse.
Amin nudged Raden. “We just shaved a month off the transit.”
“Yes,” the helmsman whispered. “And a few centimeters off the hull.”
Pike’s jaw set. They’d done it; now it was time to report for duty—whatever duty—Starfleet required.
He turned to the bridge crew. “My mother used to say, ‘It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.’ I told you all that the message I received from Starfleet was broadcast a long time ago; what I did not say—except to Number One—is that we were also ordered to remain in the nebula.”
He paused, waiting for a reaction. Seeing his crew strangely relaxed, he plowed ahead. “Obviously, I have disregarded that order, judging that enough time has passed since it was sent that circumstances are likely to have changed. I accept full responsibility; none will fall on you. That said, I don’t want any of you thinking this is an okay practice when it comes to orders from me—or any future captains you may serve under.” Perhaps sooner than I’d like. “Is that understood?”
He got nods and statements of assent from the bridge crew. “Fine. All hands, prepare for warp. Lay in a course for—”
A chime sounded at communications. Lieutenant Vicente Nicola touched his earpiece. “Captain, we’re being hailed.”
Pike’s brow furrowed. “Is it whoever shot at us?”
“No, Captain. It’s Starfleet Command. They want to speak with you—immediately.” The dark-haired man hesitated. “It’s Admiral Terral, sir.”
Terral? Pike had clashed with him before over matters of policy, without ever once winning an argument. A joke around Starfleet had called him “the only Vulcan who could read minds remotely.” But the timing of this call was on a whole other level. “Vic, how would he even know we were here to—”
He stopped in midsentence and looked at Una. The woman’s expression was mild and serene, as it often was; as a human who grew up in the Illyrian colonies, she had adapted much of that placid species’ emotional self-control. Pike interpreted the current look to be the Illyrian version of trying to appear innocent.
“Never mind,” he said, heading back to the turbolift. “Keep the conn, Number One. I’ll take the call in my quarters.” He looked over his shoulder. “Unless somebody else wants to come along and enjoy the fun.”
There were no takers.
4
* * *
Warship Deathstrike
Pergamum Nebula
Baladon did not say that he had a realistic hope—that in exchange for Enterprise, the Klingons would give him one of the Federation worlds they had conquered. There, he’d set up his own Lurian society, free from the ruling Gheljiar and their dynasty of dunces. Humans favored luxurious planets for their homes; why they set off to study the reeking armpits of the galaxy was beyond him. Baladon would be happy to set up court and allow the privateers to come to him for jobs.
That is, if Klingons made deals.
“Are we still following Enterprise’s course?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jeld replied. “But they go fast.”
Baladon nodded. He had little worry about losing his prey. Tracking a vessel through a nebula was one of the few Lurian flight-deck talents, honed by operations in the Ionite. The nebula would slow Enterprise down again eventually.
At the tactical station, Vauss tentatively raised a finger. “Something’s out there.”
“Aha!” Baladon clapped his hands and sprang from his chair. “Sooner than I expected. They’ve been forced to stop. Perhaps we did damage after all.” He stepped to the bloody comm station and activated the shipwide address system. “This is Baladon, my legion. Even fools can find redemption, it seems, when history takes a hand.”
Jeld quietly grumbled, “They have no idea what you mean.”
“Consider that last attempt merely a drill,” Baladon continued. “Reassemble at the assault pods, weapons at the ready. On boarding Enterprise, yo
u will deal with any Starfleet personnel with extreme malice.” He laughed. “They aren’t conquerors by reputation, so it should be—”
At once, a deafening boom. Deathstrike rocked, knocking Baladon from his feet and several of his officers away from their stations. Alarms screeched.
“They shot at us!” Vauss yelled over the din.
“Nonsense,” Baladon said, using a console for support as he got to his knees. “Remember where we are! Enterprise is far ahead. You have driven us into a wave of dense material, or possibly a—”
Another clamor, another impact put him flat on his back. Baladon rolled over on the deck, seething with fury. This time, before he could say anything, a third blast struck.
Deathstrike shuddered, the sound of its impulse engine dying.
“Now we’ve stopped,” Jeld called out. “Still think they’re far ahead?”
Baladon gritted his teeth and looked at the forward viewport. Dark gases—maybe a moving silhouette? He stood. “Charge weapons. Find them!”
Vauss, huddled behind his control station, rose and tried to get his bearings. “Can’t see them.”
Baladon bolted toward the tactical station. He would sort this out himself. As he reached it, a clang reverberated through the overhead.
What in—?
One clank after another, and a little jolt to Deathstrike each time. Baladon was still piecing together what was happening when Vauss grabbed his arm. “Brother, look!”
Outside the forward viewport, a stubby cylinder hurtled toward Deathstrike’s bow, propelled by attitude-control jets on its rounded surface. It looked for a moment as if the object would strike the viewport, but it instead slammed, flat-end first, into the hull a few meters to the right. It was the loudest clang they’d yet heard.
Baladon instantly realized what would come next. “They’re cutting us open!” Several points on the bulkhead inside the impact location glowed as laser torches began cutting through. Deathstrike’s assault pods operated in a similar manner, but with a difference: there were Lurians piloting the small vehicles. These things didn’t seem to be carrying anyone—and that made them weapons. “They’re going to decompress the bridge!”
Chaos ruled, as Lurians rushed willy-nilly to find environment suits that nobody had thought to stock the room with. Time ran out quickly. The three-meter-diameter circle of metal that had been part of the bulkhead began to give way. Jeld shouted a warning—and everyone reached for whatever handhold they could find.
The panel fell in and slammed to the deck. Through the smoke from the cut, Baladon saw not the open space of the nebula, but another door, a few meters beyond. A moment later, that view vanished as a second, nearer door, flush to the outer hull of the ship, slammed shut.
They’re installing their own airlocks? That suggested to Baladon that the boarders might intend to keep Deathstrike’s occupants alive—which would track with Starfleet’s softhearted practices. But who knew they even had such capabilities?
Bipedal figures were now coming into view outside, carried along on jets of their own. Baladon cursed. His crew had been searching for spacesuits when they should have been looking for weapons.
“Repel boarders!” the pirate yelled for the first time in his life. Elsewhere on Deathstrike, something was already happening. Extremely high-pitched screeches intermingled with lower-pitched sounds of certain violence. Baladon, who always carried a sidearm for disciplinary purposes, raised his disruptor and trained it on the new doorway—
—not anticipating the powerful sonic wave that erupted from a device on the impromptu airlock doors facing them. The shriek knocked Baladon and others off their feet, even as the airlock doors cycled open again.
What passed that new threshold was unlike anything Baladon had ever seen—not in battle, nor in any records of warfare. A titan two and a half meters tall entered, completely protected in armor made from some kind of reddish composite. The outfit was anything but sleek, with multiple protrusions, including a large jetpack, equipment cases of various sizes, and gear asymmetrically stowed. Some parts of it looked newer than others; much of the plating was pocked and dented, as if by combat. The armor bristled with offensive systems: built-in energy weapons, what looked like grenades, and even some kind of white staff—which the faceless figure drew and thrust against the deck. An electric shock went through the floor, causing bridge crewmembers—but not the invader—to jump.
Baladon and a couple of others recovered and tried to fire on the attacker, but their shots glanced off something, not even making contact with the armor.
Energy shielding too? Baladon frowned. He had no time to strategize, as several more warriors poured through the doorways aft of the bridge. Unlike the first intruder, their gear seemed less battle damaged—but they bore just as many weapons.
The ensuing melee was as brief as it was surprising to Baladon, who knew fighting to be the one thing, besides eating, that every member of his crew had some talent at. He had all he could handle himself. As more intruders cycled through the new bridge airlock, the mighty Lurian flailed wildly at the warrior who had entered first. Baladon’s knuckles slammed against the armor, a painful act evoking no reaction. Nor did the next blow, or the next one, bloodying his hands but doing nothing else. Then in a movement faster than the Lurian could see, the intruder’s hand lanced forward, seizing Baladon’s beefy neck in a powerful grip. The warrior’s arm rose, lifting the hefty Baladon centimeters off the deck.
The fight was over—for everyone. More armored characters streamed onto the bridge. As Baladon struggled helplessly, some carried off his companions; his crewmates seemed dazed, not dead. Other new arrivals produced power tools, which they deployed to begin removing control stations from the deck. This included the console of Deathstrike’s late communications officer, whose body was unceremoniously shoved onto the floor.
“I am Kormagan,” the invader said in perfect Lurian, easily audible through the warrior’s faceplate without mechanical amplification. The figure returned Baladon to the deck and released him. “Speak if you understand me.”
Baladon coughed—and nodded. “You’re from Enterprise.”
“What’s an Enterprise?”
Baladon slouched, only able to watch as the boarders did to his ship what he had done to so many others in his career.
Too late, he realized he had just discovered who the real pirates of the Pergamum were.
5
* * *
U.S.S. Enterprise
Outside the Pergamum Nebula
“You are not where you’re supposed to be, Captain. If you were, I would not be able to talk to you at all.” On the computer on Pike’s desk, Admiral Terral’s steely gaze cut across light-years. “Calling this moment a surprise would be an understatement.”
Leaning back in his chair, Pike had already decided there wasn’t any point in denying anything—so he started by being pleasant. “It’s good to see you, Admiral. You’re the first person I’ve seen in months that’s not a member of my crew.”
“That is another surprise,” the bald-headed Vulcan said. “I expected to see you as a hologram.”
“More trouble with the system.” That was another understatement. The holographic recorders and projectors had never really worked; Enterprise had rejected them like a transplanted organ. With no one to transmit to while in the nebula, there had been little impetus to get the systems going.
“I suppose you are going to tell me that trouble also explains why you disobeyed my order. Your mission isn’t even half over.”
Pike shifted in his chair. “Your message was sent months ago, Admiral. I thought it was prudent to come out and get an update.”
“The fact that we continued to transmit that message should have told you the order was still operative.”
“It could also have meant that nobody was left to turn it off.”
Pike blanched a little. It was a dark place to go for a defense—and Terral’s tone grew icier. “I highly doubt
you emerged simply to check the news, Captain. You were about to warp home.”
He smiled awkwardly. “How could you tell?”
“Your first officer, in her prudence, logged into the astrometric subspace database as soon as you left the nebula, to check what interstellar routes were occupied by Klingons.”
So that’s it, Pike thought. Una would have needed to consult the database in preparation for carrying out his order to return—and she also had to know the action would alert Starfleet of their location, perhaps in time to stop him before he did something he would regret. She’s as sly as ever. “Well, I guess I’m found out.”
“She did you a favor. She knows your mission there isn’t supposed to be over for months.”
“Admiral, we are at war—” He paused and tilted his head. “We are still at war, right?”
“Very much so.”
“Sorry to hear that. But we can help. I have a pretty amazing ship, and a lot of great people. The problem is we’re about as far from the action as we can be.”
“We have ships farther out than yours.”
“Every light-year we go deeper into the Pergamum is like a hundred somewhere else, Admiral. We just found that out the hard way. Little to no contact with the outside universe, and you’ve got to fight to leave it.”
“And you left it to fight. It is irrelevant. Your presence is not required.”
“Admiral Cornwell sent me a list of starships that were destroyed. Am I right in saying that we’ve lost more since?”
“We are fully capable of handling the threat.”
Pike studied the dark-skinned Vulcan’s face. He might have been able to read Katrina Cornwell, but it was impossible to tell how much confidence Terral had in what he was saying. On the chance that conditions had worsened, Pike thought it might be better to dial down his appeal and take a different tack.
“I apologize, Admiral. It was my decision; it’s on me.” He clasped his hands together. “Look, I got to know Philippa Georgiou at the Academy. I can’t remember what brought her back there, but I’ve never met a more consummate professional. That business back at Sirsa III last year where she and I were put at cross-purposes—that could have worked out badly. But it didn’t, because of her and her people.”
The Enterprise War Page 3