Star Trek Prometheus - in the Heart of Chaos

by Christian Humberg

  “Very well.” Adams touched the intercom button on his armrest. “Adams to sickbay.”

  “Calloway here, Captain.”

  “Send Mr. ak Namur into the shuttle hangar. Have him board the Charles Coryell. We’ll remotely pilot him down to the planet.”

  “Understood, Captain. Ambassador Spock wanted me to let you know that he’s on his way to the bridge. His work here is done.”

  “All right.” The Vulcan had not left the young Renao’s side during the entire journey. Adams didn’t know what exactly he had done to alleviate his suffering, but he assumed that Spock had taught Jassat some Vulcan meditation techniques.

  Not even half a minute later, the turbolift door opened and Spock entered the bridge. The old ambassador nodded at Adams solemnly. “Everything is ready.”

  “Will he make it?” asked the captain.

  “I believe so. Lieutenant ak Namur has displayed impressive willpower. His determination has not faltered.”

  Ak Namur’s voice then sounded over the speakers. “ Charles Coryell to bridge.”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  On the viewscreen, the young Renao’s face appeared. He seemed much calmer than he’d been outside the holodeck hours earlier. Sitting at the small shuttle’s conn, he looked at Adams with white glowing eyes. “I’m ready for the flight to Iad, Captain. Thank you again… for everything.”

  His words referred to a small farewell gathering that Adams had arranged following Kirk’s advice in the Starboard 8 during their flight back. They had only sat together for about an hour—Jassat, the bridge officers, Kirk, and a handful of men and women that the Renao had invited. The young man hadn’t had the strength for more. On his shoulders rested the destiny of the entire cluster, after all.

  During his return to sickbay at the end of the celebration, a surprise had been waiting for him. The entire crew of the Prometheus had lined the corridors in order to salute him, to shake his hand, or just to say, “Farewell, and good luck.” Each and every one of them—even those who had been unpleasant to ak Namur several days earlier—knew of the sacrifice he was about to make for the future of his people. And for peace.

  “Don’t mention it,” Adams replied. He smiled at the young man encouragingly. “You’ve been a role model for your people since you first came aboard as an exchange officer. You leave our ship now as a role model for all of us.”

  “It’s been an honor serving under you, sir.”

  “The honor is all mine… Jassat. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” The young Renao lifted his fist to his chest, saluting Adams for the last time in Renao style, before terminating the connection.

  Adams swallowed, permitting himself to feel the apprehension he had kept from ak Namur. Silently, he glanced at the rest of his bridge crew. Their expressions showed him that they were ready for the final battle.

  The captain raised his voice. “Computer, initiate separation sequence.”

  “Separation sequence initiated. Auto separation in ten seconds.” The computer began the countdown. “Separation sequence in progress.”

  A blue warning light overrode the yellow alert. Adams felt the familiar rumbling when the three hulls separated.

  “Upper and lower secondary hulls, stay in close formation,” he said. “Synchronize shield grid.”

  As before, the three segments of the Prometheus assumed a belly-to-belly flight position. Engulfed in their concerted shield bubble and protected by the increasingly effective modifications that Mendon, Kirk, Spock, and Barai had made to the ship, the Prometheus penetrated the chaos zone around Iad once more.

  I.K.S. Bortas

  The Bortas’s bow disruptor fired a massive energy blast at the asteroid. Another surface structure disappeared in a soundless explosion. Debris and frozen gas formed a spreading cloud around the base in the rocks. But Kromm’s ship hadn’t caused any damage worth mentioning so far—except for the solar-jumper that had been almost ripped apart by a full hit from the same bow disruptor right at the beginning.

  Captain Kromm cursed. “This rock is as tough as the heart of an old warrior.”

  The attack cruiser shook under enemy fire.

  “Shields down to seventy percent,” Raspin reported.

  Kromm hit his armrest with his fist. “Get these attack fighters down from the sky. I feel like I’m in a Zekar swarm here.”

  “They are too fast,” Chumarr said. “They have improved their strategies since Onferin. Then, they just tried to ram us. Now, they are using their plasma cannons.”

  “They are farmers!” Kromm shouted. “The former flagship of the Empire must be able to deal with a few farmers.” Inwardly, though, he had to admit that the fanatics handled themselves much better than expected. But he would rather have bitten his tongue off than admit that out loud.

  “Firing torpedoes, wide dispersal pattern.” Rooth might dally over peace and philosophy, but when push came to shove, he still fought like the warrior he had always been.

  On the viewscreen, a small black shadow darted past, firing green energy blasts. Behind it, a red glowing torpedo suddenly appeared. The projectile came around in a tight loop, found its target, and hit the tail of the replica Scorpion attack fighter.

  A huge detonation tore the small ship apart—much bigger than a ship of this type should have produced. The blast hit the Bortas head-on, shoving the battle cruiser aside.

  The force threw L’emka, Mobok, and Raspin off their feet. Klarn was the only one who managed to grab his console and stay upright. A beam underneath the ceiling broke with a sharp bang, impaling a grid floorplate and barely missing Kromm’s left arm.

  “What was that?” the Klingon captain demanded.

  Raspin pulled himself up on his console. “Shields down to fifty percent.”

  Rooth cursed. “These little taHqeqmey have bombs aboard.”

  “Captain, we need to keep them at arm’s length,” L’emka said. “Otherwise, this will be a very short-lived battle.”

  Kromm merely growled.

  “Captain!” Klarn turned away from his comm station. “Apparently, there are even more of these fighters. I have just intercepted a transmission from the asteroid base. They said that the ‘armada’ will be ready for battle in two minutes.”

  “Armada?” Kromm sat up straight in his command chair. His face became a visage of fury, and he cursed, “ Va! How many ships do these petaQ have?”

  “The way it sounds, Captain,” Klarn said grimly, “a great many of them.”

  U.S.S. Prometheus

  “We’ve reached Iad,” Ensign Ciarese reported.

  “Mr. Winter, pass on the order to launch the shuttle,” said Adams.

  “Right away, Captain,” the communications officer answered. He spoke into his console. “Lieutenant th’Talias confirms the launch of the Charles Coryell. Ensign Naxxa has taken over the remote control.”

  “External view.”

  The stern of the upper secondary hull appeared on the viewscreen of the bridge. The small, sleek shuttle broke away. It performed a tight loop before descending in a steep angle toward the planet surface.

  “Flight altitude stable, no noticeable reaction from the energy being on the planet,” Carson reported.

  “Good,” said Adams. “Mr. Winter, open a channel to the shuttle.”

  “Yes, sir. Channel open.”

  “ Prometheus to Charles Coryell.”

  At first, there was only static in response, but then ak Namur’s voice came through. “I can hear you, Prometheus.”

  “How are you? Can you feel the life form’s influence?”

  “Barely, Captain. And I’m not even sure whether the restlessness that I feel isn’t my own.”

  Spock stood next to Adams on the bridge. “It would seem that the white energy is protecting Mr. ak Namur from the Son’s influence. Unless the being’s attention is being drawn away by the battle on the periphery of the system.”

  “Commander Carson, can you tr
y to ascertain the being’s current whereabouts?”

  “I’m on it, Captain,” said the ops officer. “The strongest concentration of psychoactive radiation is still within the remains of the ancient Renao city.”

  “Something is still keeping the Son there,” Roaas said, “even if his prison has long since been blown away, and the fury within the cluster is permanently increasing.”

  “Lucky us.” Adams turned to Winter. “Have Naxxa land the shuttle on the edge of the ruined city.”

  The dark-skinned German nodded affirmatively.

  “Coming in to land,” ak Namur said. “Distance to target coordinates: one kilometer. Five hundred meters. Charles Coryell has touched down.”

  “Understood, Charles Coryell. We’ll be on our way, then. Once again—good luck, Lieutenant. We will never forget your commitment.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Good luck to you as well. Stop the Flame. Enough innocent people have died.”

  “We will. Prometheus, out.” Adams turned his attention back to the bridge. “Ensign Ciarese, take us out of here. Set a course for the Kuiper belt. Let’s give Kromm a hand.”

  I.K.S. Bortas

  The Bortas shuddered and shook like a mad klongat. Sparks flew from the damaged gunnery station, where Chumarr lay on the ground, a sharp piece of debris protruding from his skull. Nuk had personally come up from the engine room in an attempt to fix the console in a hurry. A bekk was assisting him.

  “Shields down to nineteen percent,” Raspin said.

  “Keep firing!” Kromm ordered, glancing over his shoulder at the gunnery station. “We need to break open this asteroid before the armada launches.”

  Rooth, who stood alone by the secondary weapons control, frantically entered commands. His dark face showed traces of burns and his gray hair had been singed. “Firing bow disruptor and photon torpedoes.”

  Once again, a thick green energy bolt darted towards the Purifying Flame’s shipyard, accompanied by a barrage of glowing light globes. When they hit, stones and structures were hurled into space soundlessly. The little celestial body looked as if it had been in the middle of a meteor shower. Craters had opened all over its surface, and a large piece had broken off. But the shipyard still seemed to be intact.

  Klarn was still reporting from his intercepted transmissions. “Crews are boarding the fighters and preparing for takeoff!”

  Raspin shouted loud enough that his voice broke. “We have an attacker from behind!”

  “All disruptors, fire!” Rooth said.

  A Titan’s fist hammered into the battered Bortas. The stars whirled across the main viewscreen, bodies fell on top of each other.

  A moment later, the bridge went dark.

  Iad

  Jassat climbed slowly, gingerly, up the knoll on the edge of the ruined city. Columns and segments of the wall were scattered all over the landscape, witnesses of a civilization long gone. He—he of all people, the eternal outsider—had come to Iad, a world his people only knew from legends but that was the mythological core of their entire culture. At any other time, he would have considered the historical meaning of this area absolutely fascinating. This was the cradle of the Renao people.

  Today, however, he barely noticed it.

  Thick red fog surrounded him. Up until his landing, he had believed that the white energy that filled his body to the brim would protect him from the Son, who was eternally greedy for violence. But he had been wrong. The Son simply hadn’t noticed him before, and had ignored his tiny ship.

  Now, however, the ancient entity turned its attention toward the unwelcome guest.

  DEATH! the Son screamed at Jassat in a thousand languages and images that penetrated his mind from everywhere and anywhere. HATRED! VIOLENCE! FURY! HUNGER, UNIMAGINABLE HUNGER!

  A groan broke from Jassat’s lips, and he held his head. What was he doing here? He was about to throw away his life—for what? The Renao despise me, because I have left the home spheres. That’s what they all said: Evvyk, Moadas, everyone. And my fellow Starfleet officers hate me because I am Renao, a people of murderers and fanatics.

  He shook his head as he staggered to the top of the knoll. “They don’t deserve it! They don’t deserve being freed! None of them! Let them kill each other for all eternity, die and return, and die again. Why should I give my life for them? Why?!” He screamed the last word at the destroyed landscape that had been ripped open and devastated by the starships’ bombardment. It was a mirror of his soul—devastated and empty.

  He sensed that the Son’s overwhelming presence was close; an enormous mind, corroded by madness.

  BLOOD! WAR! BATTLES! RAGE! KILL! KILL!

  But suddenly, he perceived something else amid the maelstrom of screams for destruction. It was a quiet voice, a gentle disharmony in the screaming greed for murder and devastation. Like a child’s hand in a storm it tugged on Jassat, asking him to extend his hand and offer comfort.

  LONELINESS, DEEP SADNESS, LONGING FOR THE HOME SPHERE…

  Trembling, the young Renao raised his hands, staring at them with widened eyes. He saw red skin extending from Starfleet sleeves. And he saw a white glow engulfing both, a weak mist that made the sleeves and his hand look unreal in a way. I’m here, my son, he suddenly thought with the strange clarity that replaced all doubts and dark thoughts. I’m here… AND I WILL REDEEM YOU.

  The gigantic cloud-body of the energy being towered above him like a mountain of glittering red. It bent down to him, swirled all around him, and apparently wanted to swallow him.

  Jassat looked up, spread his arms and looked towards the Son, the boy.

  And he released.

  With a massive eruption, the energy inside his body broke free—and the world around Jassat ak Namur turned white.

  28

  DECEMBER 2, 2385

  I.K.S. Bortas, on the periphery of the Souhla system

  “Shields down,” Raspin said.

  “Weapons systems malfunctioning,” Rooth added. “Main power fluctuating.”

  Squinting, Kromm looked around. He had a splitting headache, and his left arm dangled broken and useless by his side. The bridge was only illuminated by the weak emergency lights. But what he saw was sufficient to let him know that the end was near. Pungent smoke lingered in the air. Flames came from the comm station. Sparks flew everywhere. The Bortas shuddered and groaned like a deadly wounded animal.

  And the asteroid shipyard was still intact. The bridge’s viewscreen flickered with interferences but Kromm believed he could see tiny ships take off.

  “Engine status?” he asked.

  “Impulse engines functioning normally,” Mobok answered, gasping for air. “Warp drive is down.” He coughed, wet and rattling. A dark liquid oozed from his mouth, staining his armor.

  Kromm straightened. He knew what he had to do. There were no alternatives left. The certainty calmed him—the first time he’d truly felt calm for longer than he could remember. “Today is a good day to die.”

  L’emka approached him. “Captain, the Prometheus is en route, they—”

  With a smooth movement, Kromm pulled his disruptor out and fired.

  His first officer collapsed unconscious.

  He turned toward the gunnery station. “You!” he said, nodding at the bekk from engineering. “Take the commander to escape pod five.”

  “Captain?” Bewildered, the bekk just stared at him.

  “Do it!” Kromm shouted.

  The young Klingon quickly threw L’emka’s limp body over his shoulder and left the bridge.

  Kromm opened a channel on his chair. “Kromm to security.”

  “Lieutenant Woch here.”

  “Go to Ambassador Rozhenko’s quarters. Stun him with your weapon, and take him to escape pod five. I want him off my ship, and I don’t wish to discuss it with him. The same for the two Renao in the brig. They’re to join the ambassador and my first officer in escape pod five. Once all of them are inside, jettison the pod.”

  “Underst
ood, Captain,” Woch said without hesitation.

  Kromm terminated the link. The Bortas shook again under hostile fire, but this time, Kromm didn’t sway.

  Rooth limped to his side. The old Klingon looked at his captain with a grim face. He didn’t say a word but his look said more than Kromm needed to hear.

  “Do you think it will be enough?” Kromm finally asked.

  The corners of Rooth’s mouth twitched. “Nuk would know that better than me, sir.”

  The captain turned around to regard his chief engineer with a querying glance.

  A lopsided grin appeared on Nuk’s wrinkled face. “It will be enough, Captain. I’ll make sure of it.” The stout engineer went to one of the engineering consoles, typing several commands.

  The Bortas shook again, but no one cared to give any status reports anymore.

  Kromm gazed at all those still present. Klarn pressed his lips together in determination. Mobok stared at him from glazed eyes, blood on his chin and chest.

  “And you, Raspin?” Kromm asked the Rantal, seated at ops.

  Raspin sat up straight. “You didn’t shoot at me, Captain,” he said.

  Kromm nodded. “That’s right, I didn’t.”

  The Rantal straightened his narrow shoulders. His black eyes glittered. “My life never had meaning, sir. May my death have one after all.”

  Kromm smiled. Maybe there was Klingon blood inside this jeghpu’wI’ after all. Who would have thought?

  An alert flickered on Raspin’s console. “Escape pod five has been jettisoned.”

  That was it. Now everyone was gone who could have blemished this heroic act by Kromm, son of Kaath, with their presence. Now, only warriors remained on the Bortas. They would knock on the gates of Sto-Vo-Kor together.

  Today was a good day to die. Maybe even the best.

  Kromm looked up to the viewscreen. “Mobok, set a course for the asteroid base. Ramming speed.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  With an unwilling shudder, the Vor’cha-class attack cruiser started moving, to bring the wrath of the Klingon Empire to the Purifying Flame. The Bortas could look back on a long, glorious history. She had been Chancellor K’mpec’s flagship. Chancellor Gowron had commanded her during the battle for the Klingon Empire. She had escorted the returned Emperor Kahless to Qo’noS. And now, under Kromm, she would protect the Empire from a threat that had cost thousands of lives already, and would have cost millions more if they didn’t stop it.