by Peter David
This time, they played on a tall, athletic-looking specimen with a lean face, close-cropped blond hair and slate-blue eyes. His garb was civilian, like that of most escort pilots these days—a brown leather jacket over a rumpled, gray jumpsuit.
“Welcome to the base,” said the commander. “My name’s Shumar.”
The other man looked at him for a second, but he didn’t say a thing in return. Then he got down from the platform, walked past his fellow human and left the transporter room by its only set of sliding doors.
As the titanium panels slid closed again, shutting out the marginally brighter light of the corridor outside, Shumar turned to Corbaryn. “What’s the matter with your friend?” he asked, as puzzled as he was annoyed.
The Rigelian smiled without much enthusiasm. “Captain Dane is not very communicative. The one time we spoke, he described himself as a loner.” He regarded the doors with his ruby red orbs. “Frankly, given his attitude, I am surprised he takes part in the war effort at all.”
“The one time?” Shumar echoed. He didn’t get it. “But he was your escort, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Cobaryn confirmed in a neutral tone. “Still, as I noted, he was not a very loquacious one. He appeared to be troubled by something, though I cannot imagine what it might have been.”
Shumar frowned. “It wouldn’t hurt him to say a few words when he sets foot on someone else’s base. I mean, I’m not exactly thrilled about my lot in life either right now, but I keep it to myself.”
The Rigelian’s eyes narrowed. “You would rather be somewhere else?”
“On a research vessel,” Shumar told him unhesitatingly, “conducting planetary surveys. That’s what I did before the war. Unfortunately, I’ll have to get hold of a new ship if I want to pick up where I left off.”
“The old one was commandeered, then?” asked Cobaryn.
Shumar nodded. “Four years ago, when I was given command of this place. Then, a little more than a month ago, it was blown to bits by the Romulans out near Gamma Llongo.”
The Rigelian sighed. “You and I have much in common, then.”
The commander looked at him askance. “Don’t tell me they pressed you into service. You’re not even human.”
“Perhaps not,” said Cobaryn. “But it is difficult to pursue a career as an explorer and stellar cartographer when the entire quadrant has become a war zone.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Besides, it is foolish to pretend the Romulans are a threat to Earth alone.”
“A number of species have done just that,” Shumar noted, airing one of his pet peeves.
The Rigelian nodded wistfully. “Including my own, I hesitate to admit. However, I cannot change my people’s minds. All I can do is lend my own humble efforts to the cause and hope for the best.”
The commander found the sentiment hard to argue with. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll arrange for some dinner. I’ll bet you’re dying for some fresh muttle pods after all those rations.”
Cobaryn chuckled softly. “Indeed I am. And then, after dinner…”
Shumar glanced at him. “Yes?”
The Rigelian shrugged. “Perhaps you could introduce me to your security officer? The one with the splendid red hair?”
The request took the commander by surprise. “You mean Kelly?”
“Kelly,” Cobaryn repeated, rolling the name a little awkwardly over his tongue. “A pleasing name. I would be most grateful.”
The commander considered it. As far as he knew, his security officer wasn’t attracted to nonhumans.
But then, the Rigelian had asked for an introduction, not a weekend in Tahoe.
“If you like,” Shumar suggested, “I can ask the lieutenant if she’d like to dine with us.”
“Even better,” said Cobaryn.
The Rigelian looked like a kid in a candy shop, thought the commander. He wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about expressing his yen for Kelly—even to a man he had only just met.
Shumar found it hard not to like someone like that.
As Connor Dane entered the rec lounge at Earth Base Fourteen, he didn’t even consider parking himself at one of the small black tables the base’s crew seemed so fond of. Instead, he made his way straight to the bar.
The bartender was tall, thin, and dourfaced, but he seemed to perk up a little at the sight of the newcomer. Of course, he probably didn’t see too many new faces in his line of work.
“Get you something?” he asked.
Dane nodded. “Tequila, neat. And a beer to chase it with.”
“We’ve got a dozen beers,” said the bartender.
The Cochrane jockey slid himself onto a stool. “Your choice.”
The bartender smiled as if his customer had made a joke. “You sure you wouldn’t want to hear our list?” he asked.
“Life’s too short,” said Dane. “Just close your eyes and reach into the freezer. I promise I won’t send it back, whatever it is.”
The bartender’s brow knit. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I’m not kidding,” the captain assured him.
The bartender shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
A moment later, he produced a shot glass full of pale gold liquor. And a moment after that, he plunked a bottle of amber beer down beside it, a wisp of frosty vapor trailing from its open mouth.
“There you go,” he said. He leaned back against the shelf behind him and folded his arms across his chest. “I guess you’d be the Cochrane jock who checked in a couple of minutes ago.”
Dane didn’t answer, hoping the man would get the message. As luck would have it, he didn’t.
“You know,” said the bartender, “my brother flew one of those needlenoses back before the war.” He looked at the ceiling as if he were trying to remember something. “Must have been ten, eleven—”
“Listen, pal,” Dane snapped, his voice taut and preemptive.
It got the bartender’s attention. “What?”
“I know a lot of people come to places like this for some conversation,” the captain told him. “Maybe your commander does that, or that foxy redheaded number behind the security console. But I’m not looking for anything like that. All I want is to kick back a little and pretend I’m somewhere besides a hunk of titanium in the middle of —”
Suddenly, a high-pitched ringing sound filled the place. Scowling at the interruption, Dane turned to the emergency monitor above the bar—one of hundreds located all around the base.
A moment later, the screen came alive, showing him the swarthy, darkbrowed visage of the man in charge of the place. What was the commander’s name again? he asked himself. Shumac? No…Shumar. He didn’t often pay attention to things like that, but this time the name seemed to have stuck.
“Attention,” said the base commander, the muscles working in his temples. “All hands to battle stations. Our long-range scanners have detected a Romulan attack force at a distance of twenty-six million kilometers.”
The Cochrane jockey bit his lip. At full impulse, the Romulans would arrive in something under eleven minutes. That didn’t leave him much time.
As the lounge’s contingent of uniformed officers bolted for the door, Dane raised his glass of tequila and downed it at a gulp. Then he took a long swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The bartender looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Didn’t you hear what the commander said?” he asked.
The captain nodded. “I heard.” Ignoring the man’s concern, he held his beer up to the light, admiring its consistency. Then he raised the bottle’s mouth to his lips and took another long pull at its contents.
“But…” the bartender sputtered, “if you heard, what the devil are you still doing here?”
Dane smiled grimly at him. “The Romulans may rip this base in half, pal. They may even kill me. But I’ll be damned if they’re going to keep me from enjoying a refreshing beverage.”
Finally, he
finished off his beer and placed the bottle on the bar. Then he got up from his stool, pulled down on the front of his jacket and headed back to the base’s only transporter room.
His message to his staff delivered, Commander Shumar turned from the two-way viewscreen set into the Ops center’s comm console and eyed the officer seated beside him.
“Have you got the Nimitz yet?” he asked.
Ibanez, who had been Shumar’s communications officer for the last two and a half years, looked more perturbed than the commander had ever seen him. “Not yet,” the man replied, making adjustments to his control settings.
“What’s wrong?” Shumar asked.
“They’re just not responding,” Ibanez told him.
The commander cursed under his breath. “How can that be? They’re supposed to be listening twenty-four hours a day.”
The comm officer shook his head from side to side. “I don’t know what the trouble is, sir.”
Shumar glared at the console’s main screen, where he could see Ibanez’s hail running over and over again on all Earth Command frequencies. Then he gazed at the stars that blazed above him. Why in blazes didn’t the Nimitz answer? he wondered.
According to the last intelligence Shumar had received from Command, the Christopher-class vessel was within ninety million kilometers of Base Fourteen. At that distance, one might expect a communications delay of several seconds, but no more. And yet, Ibanez had been trying to raise the Nimitz for nearly a minute without success.
Without the warship’s clout, the commander reflected, they wouldn’t be able to withstand a Romulan attack for very long. No Earth base could. Clearly, they had a problem on their hands.
Of course, there was still a chance the Nimitz would respond. Shumar fervently hoped that that would be the case.
“Keep trying them,” he told Ibanez.
“Aye, sir,” came the reply.
Crossing the room, the commander passed by the engineering and life support consoles on his way to the security station. When he reached Kelly, he saw her look up at him. She seemed to sense his concern.
“What’s the matter?” the redhead asked.
Shumar suppressed a curse. “We’re having trouble raising the Nimitz.”
Kelly’s eyes widened. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not the kidding type,” he reminded her.
She swallowed. “That’s right. You’re not.”
The commander leaned a little closer to her. “This could be a mess, Kelly. I’m going to need your help.”
She took a breath, then let it out. It seemed to steady her. “I’m with you,” the security officer assured him.
That settled, Shumar took a look at the monitors on Kelly’s console. The Romulan warships, represented by four red blips on the long-range scanner screen, were bearing down on them. They had less than ten minutes to go before visual contact.
The commander turned his attention to the transporter monitor, where he could see that someone was being beamed off the station. “That Cochrane pilot had better be good,” he said.
Kelly tapped a fingernail on the transporter screen. “That’s not the Cochrane pilot. That’s Cobaryn.”
Shumar looked at her. “What…?”
The woman shrugged. “The Rigelian showed up in the transporter room and the Cochrane jock didn’t. Who was I to argue?”
The commander’s teeth ground together. True, Cobaryn had a valuable cargo to protect—medicines and foodstuffs that might be of help to some other Earth base—and technically, this wasn’t his fight.
But the Rigelian had seemed so engaging—so human in many respects. And by human standards, it seemed like a slimy thing to abandon a base at the first sign of trouble.
“Transport complete,” said Kelly, reading the results off the pertinent screen. “Cobaryn is out of here.”
Shumar forced himself to wish the Rigelian luck. “what about the Cochrane pilot? He’s got to be around the base—”
His officer held her hand up. “Hang on a second, Commander. I think our friend has finally arrived.” Her fingers flying over her controls, she opened a channel to the transporter room. “This is security. Nothing like taking your sweet time, Captain.”
“Better late than never,” came the casual response.
Obviously, Shumar observed, Dane wasn’t easily flustered. But then, that might be a good thing. After all, the Cochrane might be all the help they would get.
“Get on the platform,” said Kelly.
“I’m on it,” Dane answered.
The security officer took that as a signal to manipulate her controls. Pulling back slowly on a series of levers, she tracked the dematerialization and emission processes on her transporter screen. Then she glanced meaningfully at the commander.
“He’s on his way,” said Kelly.
Shumar nodded soberly. “I sincerely hope the man’s a better pilot than he is a human being.”
The first thing Connor Dane noticed as he materialized in his cockpit was the flashing proximity alarm on his control panel.
He swore volubly, thinking that the base’s scanners had been off a few light years and that the Romulans had arrived earlier than expected. But as he checked his external scan monitor, the captain realized it wasn’t the Romulans who had set off the alarm.
It was the Rigelian transport.
Craning his neck to look out of his cockpit’s transparent hood, Dane confirmed the scan reading. For some reason, that idiot Cobaryn hadn’t taken off yet. He was still floating in space beside the Cochrane.
Shaking his head, Dane punched a stud in his panel and activated his vessel’s communications function. “Cobaryn,” he said, “this is Dane. You’ve got to move your blasted ship!”
He expected to hear a response taut with urgency. However, the Rigelian didn’t sound the least bit distressed.
“I assure you,” said Cobaryn, “I intend to move it.”
The human didn’t yet understand. “For Earthsakes, when?”
“When the enemy arrives,” the transport captain replied calmly.
“But it’ll be too late by then,” Dane argued, fighting the feeling that he was swimming upstream against a serious flood of reality.
“Too late to escape,” Cobaryn allowed. “But not too late to take part in the battle.”
The human didn’t get it. Maybe the tequila had affected him more than he’d imagined. “You’ve got no weapons,” he reminded the Rigelian. “How are you planning to slug it out in a space battle?”
“I would be perfectly happy to discuss tactics with you,” Cobaryn told him reasonably, “but I think the time for discussion is past. It appears the Romulans have arrived.”
Spurred by the remark, Dane checked his scan monitor. Sure enough, there were four Romulan warships nearing visual range.
Bringing his engines online, he raised his shields and powered up his weapons batteries. Then he put the question of the transport captain aside and braced himself for combat.
Shumar eyed the Romulan vessels, each one a sleek, silver cylinder with a cigar-shaped plasma nacelle on either side of it and a blue-green winged predator painted on its underbelly.
No question about it, the base commander mused grimly. The enemy had a flair for the dramatic.
“Shields up,” he said. “Stand by, all weapons stations.”
Kelly leaned forward and pulled down on a series of toggles.
“Shields up,” she confirmed. She checked a couple of readouts.
“Weapons stations standing by, awaiting your orders.”
Shumar’s stomach had never felt so tight. But then, in the past, Romulan assault forces had been deflected from the base by the Nimitz or some other Terran vessel. In four years as commander, he had never had to mount a lone defense against an enemy attack.
Until now.
“Fifty kilometers,” said Kelly. “Forty. Thirty. Twenty…” Suddenly, she looked up at the transparent dome an
d pointed at a swarm of tiny silver dots. “There they are!”
Continued Next Month…
