Chapter Seven



"THEY WILL NOT go off, Captain," Kellen said. "You have no choice now. You will have to fight with them."

"We'll see about that. Mr. Sulu, ahead one-half impulse. Mr. Chekov, take the science station. Ensign Donnier, take navigations."

The assistant engineer blinked in surprise and dropped to the command deck. Chekov jumped up to Spock's library computer and science station. Donnier slipped into Chekov's vacant seat and barely settled all the way down. He was a competent assistant for Scott, but he'd never been on the bridge before. He was young and particularly good-looking, which got him in many doors, only there to stumble over his personal insecurity because of a stuttering problem that he let slow him down. He'd requested duty only in engineering. That was why Kirk had ordered him to put in time on the bridge.

The unidentified ship began to return fire—one, two, three globular bulbs of energy that looked more than anything like big blue water balloons wobbling through space toward the Klingon cruiser. Two missed, but one hit and drenched the cruiser in crackling blue, green, and white destructive power. The cruiser wasn't blown up, but fell off and spun out of control.

"Heavy damage to the cruiser, sir," Chekov reported. "Main engines are seizing."

"Analyze those bolts."

"Analyzing," Spock's baritone voice answered from up on that monitor.

Kirk glanced up there. He'd been talking to Chekov.

He stared at the main screen, where the remaining four Klingon ships were dodging those heavy blue globes and pummeling the unidentified ship so unbrokenly that Kirk winced in empathy. "Stand by photon torpedoes."

"Photon t-torpedoes r-ready," Donnier struggled, barely audible.

As if he were standing at Kirk's side, Spock read off his analysis. "The unidentified ship's salvos are composed of quadra-cobalt intrivium … phased incendiary corosite plasma … and, I believe, plutonium. They also seem to have some wrecking qualities based on sonics."

"Everything's in there," Kirk muttered. "Fusion, phasers, fire, sound … effective, but not supernatural. Double shields shipwide."

"Double shields, sir."

"They will use their mass-dropping weapon if you give them the chance, Kirk," Kellen rumbled. "They can negate the gravity in the whole sector. You must attack them before they use it."

"If they have that kind of technology, General, then we're already sunk," Kirk responded, watching the action. "And they don't seem to have it."

"How can you know?"

"Because your ships are getting in some good punches and the visitors haven't used that 'weapon' again. They're using conventional defenses. If they have hand grenades, why are they shooting with bows and arrows? Helm, full impulse."

"Full impulse, sir."

"Good," Kellen whispered, then aloud said again, "Good. Fight them with this monster of yours, while we have the advantage."

"Just keep back," Kirk warned. "Helm, come to three-four-nine. Get between those Klingon ships. Force them to break formation."

"Kirk!" Kellen pressed forward and the guards had to grab him again.

Around them the giant Artemis hummed as she powered up to her full potential and all her systems came online. A choral song of heat and imagination, she took a deep bite on space and moved in on the clutch of other ships, cleaving them away from each other with the sheer force of her presence and her sprawling shields.

Two of the Klingon ships were pressured to part formation, while one other was forced off course and had to vector around again, which took time.

In his mind Kirk saw his starship plunge into the battle. He'd put her through hell in their time together and she'd always come out with her spine uncracked. She'd picked herself up, given a good shake, and brought him and his crew back in under her own power every time. This was one of those moments when he felt that esprit with sailors from centuries past, who understood what a ship really was, how a bolted pile of wood, metal, and motive power could somehow be alive and command devotion as if the heart of oak actually pumped blood. How fast? How strong? How much could she take? How tightly could she twist against the pressure of forces from outside and inside? How far could they push her before she started to buckle? How much of herself would she give up before she let her crew be taken? How tough was she?

Those were the real questions, because the ship was their life. If she died, they died. When a ship is life, it becomes alive.

"Port your helm, Mr. Sulu, wear ship," he said. "Mr. Donnier, phasers one-half power and open fire."

"Wear the ship, aye," Sulu said, at the same time as Donnier responded, "One half ph-phasers, s-sir."

Firing bright blue streamers, the starship came about, her stern section and main hull pivoting as if the engineering hull were held on a string high above.

Kirk gripped his own chair with one hand and Donnier's chair back with the other. "Ten points more to port."

"Ten points, sir."

"Good … twenty points more … keep firing, Mr. Donnier."

The ship swung about, showing them a moving panorama of stars and ships on the main screen, swinging almost lazily from right to left.

When he couldn't see the unidentified ship on the main screen anymore, he said, "Midships."

"Midships," Sulu said, and tilted his shoulders as he fought to equalize the helm.

Donnier glanced at Kirk, plainly confused by the term "midships" on something other than a docking maneuver. Good thing Sulu was at the helm instead of someone with less experience. Maneuvering a ship at sublight speeds, in tight quarters, had entirely different characteristics from maneuvers, even battles, at warp.

At warp speed, the helm maneuvers were very slight and specific, designated by numbers of mark and course, and even moving the "wheel" a pin or two had sweeping results of millions of light-years.

But at impulse speed, things changed. And changed even more in tight-maneuvering conditions. Helm adjustments became more sweeping, bigger, sometimes a full 180 degrees, or any cut of the pie. "Midships" meant "find the navigational center of this series of movements and equalize the helm."

Forcing her crew to lean, the starship dipped briefly to port, then surged and came about to her own gravitational center and ran her phasers across the hulls of the Qul and the MatHa', knocking them out of their attack formation. The point of Donnier's tongue was sticking out the corner of his mouth and his backside was hitched to the edge of his seat as he concentrated on his phasers, following not the angle of his phaser bolts but the position of the moving Klingon ships out there—it was exactly the right thing to do. Like pointing a finger.

The two Klingon ships wobbled, shivered, nearly collided, and bore off, one of them forced astern and down. Kirk hoped Kellen took note that the starship's punches were being pulled.

"Good shooting, Mr. Donnier," he offered. "Maintain."

Sweating, Donnier mouthed an aye-aye, but there was no sound to it.

The other two cruisers—he forgot their names—kept wits and plowed in again, opening fire now on the Enterprise. The ship rocked and Kirk had to grab his command chair to keep from slamming sideways into the rail. His scratched fingers burned with the effort.

Full phasers.

He didn't want to respond in kind. He wanted to make a point, not chop four other ships to bits.

Well, not yet.

Problem was that their commanding general was here, out of communication. They might take that as final orders and fight to the death.

Qul was back in the fight now, firing on the unidentified ship, and Donnier was doing an amiable job of detonating the Klingon phaser bolts before they struck the giant fan blades. He managed to catch three out of four bolts. Not bad.

Kirk pulled himself around the helm against the heel of the starship. "Keep it up, Mr. Donnier. Photon torpedoes on the Klingon vessels, Mr. Sulu. Fire across their bows and detonate at proximity."

"Aye, sir."

New salvos spewed from the Enterprise, making a spitting sound here within the bridge, much different from the screaming streamers of phaser fire, much more concentrated and heavy-punching, exploding right in front of the Qul. The Qul flinched, probably blinded by the nearby explosions, and bore off on a wingtip, forced to cease fire and try to come about again.

"Call them off, Kellen," Kirk said. "I'll open up on them if I have to."

"What right have you to do that?" Kellen bellowed. "I brought you here to be my ally!"

"But I'm not going to be your mercenary. Call them off."

But Kellen only glared at the screen and clamped his mouth shut.

"Fine," Kirk grumbled.

As the firing intensified, the fans on the unidentified ship's long twisted hull began to close inward, lying tightly and protectively upon each other and creating a shell instead of a flower. The curve of the hull itself began to straighten out, like a snake uncoiling its body, thinning the field of target and making it harder to hit. Talk about looking like a living thing …

The strange ship continued to fire those sickly-blue globes on the Klingon vessels that strafed it.

"All right, General, have it your way," Kirk ground out. "Mr. Donnier, phasers on full power. Mr. Sulu, photon torpedoes full intensity, point-blank range. Fire as your weapons bear on any Klingon vessel."

Kellen cranked around against the guard's hold on him and glared at Kirk. "No!"

"It's your decision." Kirk met the glare with his burning eyes. "Call them off!"

The Klingon's lips parted, peeled back, then came together again in a gust of frustration. He all but stomped his foot. Yanking one arm away from the guard on his left, he reached for his communicator, still being held by the other guard. As if it were all part of the same order, the guard let him have it.

Kellen snapped the communicator open and barked, "Qul! Mev! Ylchu'Ha."

Short and sweet.

Worked, though.

The Klingon vessels swung about, joined each other at a notable distance, then dropped speed and came to a stop in some kind of formation Kirk hadn't seen before. Good enough.

"You seem to have the ear of your squadron, General," Kirk said. "Mr. Donnier, cease fire. Helm, minimum safe distance, then come about and all stop."

"Aye, sir," Sulu said tightly.

"Safe distance," Kellen protested, shaking his big head. "Warriors coming home shredded and shamed, spewing tales of a Federation devil with hands of fire and steel in his eyes. 'I fought Kirk! My honor is not so damaged as if I fought a lesser enemy!' It's become an acceptable excuse to lose to Kirk. Some want to avoid you, some want to challenge you because it would be a better victory. I expected you to come in and shake planets. And this is you? Talk? I wanted a warrior. All I find is this—you—who will not act. I will go home and slap my commanders who spoke of you."

"Your choice," Kirk said, ruffled less than he would've anticipated at the Klingon's lopsided insults that actually were kind of complimentary. Matching the general's anger with his own control, he countered, "When you met them before, did you try to talk to them at all?"

"No!"

"So you opened fire without announcement."

"They kidnapped me. My fleet came in and took me back. Of course we fired. I brought you to fight them, not to defend them."

"You brought me here to handle the situation. So let me handle it."

"I am disappointed in you, Kirk," the general said. "You do not deserve to be Kirk!"

"That's your problem." With a bob of his brows, Kirk raised his voice just enough. For a moment he gazed at the alien ship, then cast Kellen a generous glance. "Be patient. Mr. Sulu, move us in again. Let's see if they'll talk to us."

* * *

"How many ships?"

"We count six ships, Vergozen."

"Count again, Morien. Sweep the area. Be sure. They have stopped firing?"

"Yes, Vergozen."

"Fare, hold position. Make no movements."

"Yes, Vergozen."

"Morien, speak to the engineer. Have him take some time repairing the damage done to the ship as we came through the fissure."

"Time?"

"Have him go slowly. Keep the power down. Otherwise Garamanus will expect me to destroy those vessels instead of simply closing the cocoon and firing a few light shots at them. I do not want the repairs complete until I am ready for them to be complete."

"I understand, Vergozen."

"Speak to him personally, Morien, not on the communications line."

"I will."

The doors of the bridge were low and wide, and took several seconds to open, then to gush closed again, and this time they seemed to take longer. When they closed, Morien was gone, yes, but something else had changed too.

"Zennor … so you have found them."

"Garamanus—I did not expect you to come to the bridge yet."

The mission commander turned to meet his vessel's Dana and resisted any movement of his facial features. Briefly he thought the Dana had heard his instructions to Morien, but as he forced himself to be calm he realized that Garamanus had just come in as Morien was leaving.

Garamanus was watching him too carefully.

That was the Dana's purpose. Not the ship or the danger, but the commander and the mission. To make sure the latter two meshed as the chieftains instructed. And the chieftains did as the Danai told them, for the Danai had special gifts.

Holding his long hands before him in a relaxed position, with the traditional white streamers falling softly from his wrists, Garamanus bowed his heavy head. Over many years his horns had grown thick and bent his shoulders noticeably, but even so he was taller than Vergo Zennor by a hand's breadth. His presence chilled Zennor, and chilled the bridge.

"You have made contact with the conquerors," the Dana said. "Play the tape."

"They have not yet identified themselves," Zennor countered, speaking with cautious measurement. "I prefer to make personal contact first. Otherwise we will be assuming we are in the right place and that these are the people who deserve our coming. After so many centuries, after the millennia indeed, we should be prudent. Look—those ships are not familiar in any way. Some fired on us, but the large one stood them off. I would like to comprehend their conflict. We will give them a chance to speak to us before we give ourselves away. I appreciate your flexibility in my decision at this very special and important moment, Garamanus. Thank you."

The vapor-pale face and heavy horns dipped slightly under their own weight as Garamanus turned to look from the screen at Zennor, and Zennor knew he had lost.

Garamanus nodded as if in polite response, but his manner became a subtle threat.

"Play the tape," he said.


"Witness you conquerors … we the grand unclean, languishers in eternal transience, come now from the depths of evermore. Persistent … we have kept supple, fluid and … changeable … because we were destined to return. You have … cowered through the eons, knowing this day would come. . . . It has come. Because we are forgiving, we shall give you the opportunity to leave this … sector … or you will be cast away as we were cast away … or you will be destroyed as you have done to us. With your last moments you will know justice. We are … the impending. Now gather all you own, gather your kin … and stand aside."

The message thrummed and boomed through the low rafters of the bridge, then echoed into silence. Not ending, just silence. Waiting.

Everyone held still, and watched the captain.

The sound of the heavy, eerie, haunted-house voice remained in every mind, and spoke over and over. Stand aside

Tightening and untightening his aching arm, aware of McCoy watching him because he'd never reported to sickbay for his own treatment, Kirk indulged in a scowl and tipped his head to Uhura. "Lieutenant, what's the problem with that translator?"

"I don't know, sir," she said, playing her board. "Having some trouble distilling the accurate meaning of some of their words and phrases."

"Fix it. I don't want to have to guess."

"Trying, sir. I don't understand why—"

"Was it a living voice, far as you could tell?"

"Given the inflections and order of sentiments, I believe it was a recorded message, sir. Or it's being read to us."

"I thought so too."

He moved away from her, back to where McCoy was staring at the screen, eyes wide.

"That's a mighty poetic mouthful," the doctor uttered. "Any idea what it meant?"

"I'd say they're inviting us to get out of their way."

"I told you." Kellen stepped forward, but made no advances toward the helm this time, especially since the guards flanked him snugly now. "Attack them, Kirk. Your chance will slide away under you. Do you see it sliding? I see it."

"Something tells me I'll get another chance, General. Mr. Spock, are you reading any shielding on that ship?"

"No, sir," the upper monitor said. "No energy shields at all, except for the way clover-leaved hull plates fold down."

"Not battle attitude, then," Sulu offered.

"Not ours," Kirk said, stepping down to his command center and slid into his chair. "But we don't know theirs yet, other than the defensive posture we've just seen. Maintain status."

"Aye, sir," Sulu and Donnier at the same time, and tensed as if they'd realized they were relaxing too much.

Kirk moved back to the rail, where McCoy stood over him. "Opinion?"

"Pretty lofty talk," the doctor said. "But there's a ring to it. I can't put my finger on it."

"Mr. Spock?"

By not looking at the monitor, he could imagine that Spock stood up there, next to McCoy, bent over his sensors, adding his deductions to the information being drawn in by the ship's eyes and ears. Spock wouldn't have admitted it, or wanted it said aloud, but there was a lot of intuition in that man.

"There is a common tone in the phrases," Spock said, his voice rough, underscored with physical effort. "'Witness you conquerors,' for instance. 'Eternal transience,' 'destined,' and the suggestion that we have been expecting them, that they have been wronged, and that they believe they are returning from somewhere."

"Conclusion?"

"We may have a case of mistaken identity."

"That may not make a difference," McCoy warned. "They're inviting us to leave, remember? They might not take our word for our intentions."

"They can't take anything for anything until we've identified ourselves."

"Captain," Spock's rough voice said from the monitor, "I suggest you answer their immediate request first."

"Set the parameters? Yes … I agree."

There it was. The reason he needed Spock here. He hadn't thought of that. Just answer them. The simplest answer had almost slipped by. Set the line of scrimmage before he offered anything else.

"Challenge them!" Kellen insisted. "Demand they stand down and allow us to board and inspect! Then we'll be inside!"

Kirk rubbed his hands and, gazing at the screen, shook his head.

"I think Mr. Spock and I have something else in mind. Lieutenant Uhura," he said slowly, "tell them … 'No.'"