Chapter Eight



"'NO'? THAT IS all they say?"

"Nothing else. The translation has no error, Vergozen. They say only 'No.'"

Vergo Zennor gazed through the smoldering constant vapor at the wide band of screen curving halfway around his bridge on either side of where he stood. He thought he had gotten used to the moisture necessary for some members of his crew, but today, for the first time since years past, his skin began to itch.

This was a beautiful portion of space. Or perhaps he only wanted it to be beautiful. Ordinarily he would sit, but with Garamanus on the bridge, he felt compelled to stand.

Shrouded in the mystique of his order, the echo of subtle power held dear by all Dana, Garamanus made no comment as the answer came in from the conqueror ships.

No?

Zennor bowed his own heavy head. His horns tingled. So he was more tense than he let on, even to himself.

His own feelings were lost to him. Simple desires of a straightforward mission had become suddenly and almost instantly entangled in the mechanisms of those ships out there. He had hoped to explore awhile before facing those who lived here. He wanted to search around.

No longer possible. Now there were beings to be confronted, the tape had been played, and the answer had come back. No.

How strange. How simple. He had trouble with simple things.

The ship at the front was a sizable arrangement of white primary shapes—a circle, an oblong, two cylinders, joined to each other by graceful necks of white pylons. Behind it were ships more familiar to him in raw form, more like the green dawn silhouettes of creatures in hunting flight, heads down, wings arched, muscles tight and tucked.

None was moving forward now. No, they had said.

No.

Zennor forced himself to turn away from the Dana and shiver down the waning-moon eyes that followed him. Unlike Morien and the helmsman Farne, Garamanus was of Zennor's own race, the horned ones among the many, yet Zennor felt nothing like him and when Garamanus was on the bridge the place became as foreign as this space.

"They want us to speak to them," he said quietly.

"You have had more communication than this with them?" Garamanus rumbled.

"I sense they want to speak. When they contact us again, I will answer them myself."

"That is not the procedure." The Dana's voice was like wind. Low wind.

Zennor tightened his thick neck muscles and tensed his shoulders, which raised his head and the curved horns upon it. He saw his own shadow move like a wraith against the oblong helm as he turned to face the Dana.

"This is not your forest grove or sacred Nemeton," he said. "This is my ship and my mission. We can never go back, and now the situation complicates. I have done your bidding and played your sanctimonious tape. Nothing else is required of me yet. The next decision is mine. And I want to speak to them. When the time comes to destroy them, that will be my decision too."


General Kellen fumed with disappointment, but he was standing on the port side of the command chair, flanked by the Security team, saying nothing. He cast the guards no attention and as such seemed to understand why they were here.

At least he wasn't insulted by the fact that he was being treated like a delinquent.

Kirk offered him a glance, as if to communicate that he understood what the general was feeling, whether or not he intended to act upon it.

"Two minutes, sir," Sulu reported. "No action out there."

"Nothing on the open frequencies, sir," Uhura confirmed.

Kirk nodded, sighed. "All right. We'll do it by the book. Uhura, ship to ship. Universal Translator on."

"Tied in, sir. Go ahead."

He moved to his command chair, but despite his raging muscles did not sit down. Not with another fleet's general on his bridge.

Clearing his throat, he parted his lips to say the words that were so practiced, yet so different every time he said them, because they were said hundreds of light-years away from the last time, and each utterance was something completely new and critical.

"This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise. We represent the United Federation of Planets and request you communicate with us on peaceful terms. We await your reply."

Channels remained open as he paused. There was a different sound about it, an openness, like a cave without an echo, a tunnel waiting for someone to shout through it.

They waited. All the others took their cue from him, and he didn't move or make any sounds. Let the greeting distill, see what would happen. Let the listeners hear the ring of his voice and decide on its honesty, let them decide what to believe.

A full minute. Nothing came over the waves.

Ten more seconds. Sweat tickled his spine.

Finally he asked, "Recommendations, Mr. Spock?"

Gravelly and contemptuous, Kellen spoke before Spock had a chance. "Recommendations," he intoned. "Recommendations. The great shipmaster asks for recommendations. The cavalier of Starfleet asks of his subordinates what to do. The Federation's headmost uphelmer parries to his rear and mocks the rash faith given to him by those he flies before. Recommendations. Certainly the stories that come back to my people of Starfleet's Argonaut will be different after today." He gestured to the deck at his feet and added, "The arrogant falls before me."

Kirk glared at him without really turning his head, but with only his eyes shifted to the side.

Kellen was sizing him up and was no longer impressed. That bothered him.

It shouldn't, but it did.

"I am …"

The bridge changed suddenly. All eyes turned to the screen, to the alien ship holding position out there.

The two words were long, sonorous, even distorted, like distant foghorns sounding over a cold ocean. Then the voice paused as if listening to itself, testing the open frequencies.

Or maybe they were just changing their minds.

Kirk felt the eyes of his crew. He kept his on the screen.

"I … am … Zennor … Vergo of the Wrath."

There was a sense of echo. Something about the tenor of that voice. Like the last upbow on a cello's low note.

He glanced up at McCoy and mouthed, Vergo of the Wrath?

The doctor shook his head and turned one palm up. No idea. Uhura the same.

On the science station monitor, Spock's brow furrowed, but he said nothing yet.

Kirk shifted his feet to take some of the ache out of his back. Maybe it was empathy. What a morning.

Square one.

"Thank you for answering," he said, though it sounded clumsy. "Where are you from?"

"Here."

Kellen bristled, but didn't interfere, though he stared a burning hole into Kirk's head.

"According to our history, our laws and treaties," Kirk attempted, "this area is claimed by the Klingon Empire. Nearby is a neutral area of space, beyond which is space charted and occupied by the United Federation of Planets. We have no records of the configuration of your ship, or any planets in this vicinity which could support advanced life. Can you give us the location of your home planet?"

"We do not … know it."

Putting one foot on the platform that held his command chair, Kirk cranked around to Uhura. "Can't you fix that translator? We're not making sense here."

She shook her head in frustration and touched her earpiece. "I don't think it's in the system, sir. I think it's endemic to their language or their brain-wave patterns."

"Scotty, take a look."

"Aye, sir."

As the engineer crossed the deck behind him, Kirk pressed an elbow to his chair's arm and grimaced. What would help?

"Our communications equipment has visual capabilities," he said, speaking a little slower and more clearly. "Will you allow us to open our screens so we can look at each other?"

Another pause.

Kellen looked at him. Kirk ignored him.

"It is against our custom," the booming voice came finally, "to display living faces on screens. . . ."

The voice drifted off as the translator struggled along after it.

All right, next step.

"Very well," Kirk responded, measuring his tone. "Perhaps we can meet face-to-face. Will you come to this ship as our guests?"

"No—" Kellen choked, balling his fists.

Waving him silent, Kirk went on, "We have the ability to transport you here in minutes."

He stopped and waited. Over the years he'd learned that extra talking didn't usually serve. Make the statement, and wait.

Hell of a long pause.

Were they making this up as they went along?

Why not? I am.

The alien ship turned passively on the screen, drifting not from power but on a breath of solar wind from the distant red giant sun that drenched its purple fans in bloody glow, and the leftover momentum from the battle so shortly arrested.

"You may …"

The voice paused, as if listening. Kirk held his breath. His crew did the same.

" … come here."


"One moment please."

A gesture from him caused a click on Uhura's control board that cut off the frequency.

"What's the atmosphere like over there?" he asked.

Chekov started looking for that, but from the subsystems screen, Spock already had the answer. "Scanning … reading oxygen, nitrogen, argon, with faint traces of methane and other gases … rather thin and quite warm. Breathable for controlled periods of time."

"How controlled? Bones?"

The doctor flinched as if coming out of a trance. "I'd recommend an hour at a time, Captain."

"Noted. Lieutenant Uhura, inform the transporter room that we'll be visiting that vessel out there. I want the coordinates kept updated at all times, in case we have to come back in a hurry. The transporter officer'll have to stay on his toes."

"Yes, sir."

"'Vergo of the Wrath,"' he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the big quartz ship on the screen. "Could that mean 'captain' of the Wrath? Could 'Wrath' be the name of the ship?"

"Possibly," Spock answered from the monitor. "However, I caution against applying our own use of words and concepts based on something that sounds familiar, sir."

Kirk sighed. "Never mind how complicated it might end up being to deal with people who name their ship 'Wrath.'"

He avoided looking at Kellen. The Klingons named their own ships with words like that.

"Dr. McCoy, you come with me, and I want a Security detail with us also. Palm phasers only. I don't want to appear too threatening."

Placing a hand on the rail, he climbed the three steps to the quarterdeck and stood over Uhura's station. She continued to look at her board and tap at her fingerpads, and that bothered him.

"Ship to ship," he said, and waited for the click from Uhura's board before he spoke again to the unknowns. "This is Captain Kirk. I will come to your ship with a greeting party. We will come directly to your bridge, unless you have other instructions."

Silence fell in. He got the feeling things were being discussed over there and anticipated their changing their minds, but—

"Come."

"Thank you. We'll be there in a few minutes. Kirk out. Mr. Sulu, drop the hook. We'll be staying awhile."

"All systems stabilized, sir. Holding position."

"Secure from red alert. Stand by at yellow alert. Damage-control teams get to work. General Kellen, you may communicate with your ships and assess their damage. If they need any lifesaving assistance, we'll provide it."

Kellen raised his neatly bearded chin. "Imagine my gratitude."

"Inform them we're going aboard the unidentified ship. If they make any aggressive movements, Mr. Scott will drive them back again. Is that clear, Mr. Scott?"

"Crystal clear, Captain."

"General, do you want to join the boarding party?"

"I?" Kellen's face turned horrible. "I will never go there again."

"Fine." Kirk turned away and looked at Uhura again. "I need a linguist. Do we have one on board?"

"Yes, sir. Me."

"You?"

Her almond cheeks rounded in a smile. "What do you think 'communications' means? 'Small talk'?"

"Sorry," he said. Then he hesitated. Take her along?

He paused for a moment and pressed down the twinge in his stomach. "Lieutenant, I'd like you to join the landing party."

Uhura's face lit up. She didn't get asked very often, and the couple of times before had turned out to be near-disasters. Still, she seemed excited.

"Aye, sir," she said, for the same reason Scott had said it, and in almost the same tone.

"Very good," he offered, and moved around her. "Mr. Spock, you have the conn."

The crew's eyes came up to him in a nearly audible snap. Silence from the monitor up starboard. Uneased, nobody spoke. How inappropriate it would have been for anyone, however well intended, to point out the captain's colossal error.

Kirk scowled at himself. "Mr. Scott," he corrected, "you have the conn."

Scott nodded with more sympathy than was comfortable for either of them. "Aye aye, sir."

It was the eternal ideal response to a commanding officer, the one that saved any situation and would get anybody off the hook. Didn't work quite so well at the moment. It got Scott and Spock off the hook and relieved the bridge crew of their tension, but did nothing for the captain who had made the blunder.

He charged over it. "Uhura, bring along a tricorder tied directly in to Mr. Spock's computer access channel, so he can see what's going on. Let's go."

"Captain," Kellen broke in, coming to the rail below the bright red turbolift doors, "you are out of order here. I organized this mission. I am its commander."

"You're a guest on my ship," Kirk corrected. "You can act that way, or you can go back to your own fleet and all bets are off."

"This transport is folly," the general insisted. "No one with any sense goes over to an enemy ship in the middle of a battle!"

"It was your battle, not theirs. They didn't fire on us until you opened fire. And part of the mission of this vessel is to contact new life forms on an amicable basis if at all possible."

"It is impossible. This is the Havoc. There is no amicable basis."

"We'll see. I'll be back in an hour. Gentlemen, let's take a look at who these people are."