As he rose to go check on Lieutenant Grinager, movement on the viewscreen—amazingly still intact and functioning—caught his attention. The viewer, continuing to track Daami, showed the Romulan vessel approaching Dakota. Harriman knew that the freighter carried no weapons of any kind, and that beyond navigational deflectors, it flew essentially undefended. The ship’s crew of thirty-nine men and women had met danger here because they’d had the simple misfortune of traveling the same flight path they’d plied dozens of times previously, without knowing that the Romulans had decided without warning to claim the surrounding space for their own. Nor had the crew of Dakota been permitted to correct their unwitting trespass, their vessel striking a Romulan mine and losing warp capability in the process. Hunley had responded to their distress call, but Daami had arrived on the scene before long, declaring the two Federation vessels to be in violation of their sovereign territory. Captain Linneus had not disputed the unforeseen assertion, instead asking only for the opportunity to repair Dakota and escort it back to Federation space. The Romulans had replied with the full force of their disruptors on Hunley.
The ensuing battle had been relatively one-sided, the light cruiser Hunley outgunned and outperformed by the larger, faster, newer Daami. The Starfleet vessel had also been hampered by the need to protect Dakota, Harriman knew; fortunately, Captain Linneus had been wise enough to transport the freighter’s crew off of their ship, although lowering Hunley’s shields had cost the ship some disruptor-inflicted damage. Only the command and combat skills of the captain had prolonged the confrontation for as long as it had lasted. Hunley had even managed to inflict its own share of damage on the Romulan ship.
Harriman watched as the blue pulse of disruptor bolts flashed across the screen. Dakota took hits amidships first, in the middle of its long cylindrical cargo container. Then Daami’s assault widened, blasting at the small control structure at the bow of the ship, and at the lone warp nacelle. Harriman saw the control center break off from the ship, followed by the warp engine. The great bulk of the cargo container split in two, and then an explosion flared, encompassing all of Dakota. When the light dimmed, only Daami and a field of wreckage remained.
Harriman tore his gaze from the viewscreen and moved toward the supine figure of Lieutenant Grinager. As he approached her, he saw blood seeping from her nose, but he also saw her chest rising and falling: she was alive. He bent down beside her and tried gently to wake her, but she did not stir. He got up and went over to the tactical station, where he touched a control to open a communications channel. “Lieutenant Harriman to sickbay,” he said, his voice sounding strange to him on the still bridge. He waited for a response, and when none came, he tried again. “Harriman to sickbay.” Then: “Harriman to engineering,” and “Harriman to environmental control.” Nothing.
He looked over at the viewscreen, and saw Daami turn and start back toward Hunley.
His mind raced as he bent to scoop up Grinager in his arms. Pain exploded in his left shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore it. He felt sweat cold on his face as he carried the lieutenant to the port turbolift. He wanted to get medical aid for her, but more important, he wanted to get to the rest of the crew and help them find a means of repelling the Romulans. At the Academy, he had studied the mysterious and secretive empire in depth, furthering a curiosity first provoked by his father’s stories of the Earth-Romulan war; Blackjack had heard the stories himself from his own father, who had lived through the conflict as a boy.
Stepping carefully past the body of the dead woman, Harriman stopped short at the turbolift doors, which did not open as he neared them. The lifts would have shut down automatically, Harriman realized, once the bridge had been compromised. Without hesitation, he turned and kicked at the knockout panel beside the turbolift. The small emergency door swung open on its hinges, revealing an access tube beyond it. He knew he could not carry Lieutenant Grinager in the cramped shaft, so he squatted and laid her back down on the decking, the pain in his shoulder easing dramatically once it had been freed of its burden. As soon as he could—if he could—he would send help back to her.
Before Harriman entered the access tube, he took one last look at the viewscreen. Daami drew nearer. The Romulan crew would not destroy Hunley, Harriman knew; they would want the Starfleet vessel for their own. Doubtless having jammed Captain Linneus’s messages to Starfleet, the Romulans would count on Hunley—and Dakota—being presumed lost, with no apparent causes.
But Harriman also knew another fact about the Romulans, something he had heard numerous times, not just aboard Hunley and back at the Academy, but throughout his entire life. Even back in his childhood, Blackjack had uttered the phrase to him.
Romulans don’t take captives.
Vokar sat in his command chair, raised above the level of the bridge around him. On the viewscreen, the Federation vessel slowly rotated, more or less along a line running from port side forward to starboard aft. The ship looked dead, a dark, worthless carcass, easily defeated by the might of the Empire, and now a mute witness to the superiority of the Romulan people.
Except that Hunley would not be worthless. Collected and taken home to Romulus, the Starfleet vessel would provide insight not only into Federation technology, but also into the culture of their military. The Empire had waged a war against Earth more than a century ago, but contemporary contacts with the Federation had been few; reliable information about the UFP was therefore considered a valuable commodity. Vokar had even heard rumors recently that there had been deliberation at the highest levels of the Imperial Fleet about capturing Starfleet personnel, should the opportunity arise, for the purpose of prolonged interrogation. But no such orders had come down to Vokar, and he would carry out his duty as current fleet policy dictated.
“Still no response, Admiral,” announced the communications officer, who had been attempting for several minutes to open a channel to Hunley.“I can’t be sure that they’re receiving us because of the radiation.” When Daami had returned to the Starfleet vessel, sensors had revealed low-level radiation distributed throughout much of the ship, likely a result of the disruptor strikes. Just as the radiation inhibited sensor scans, it might also be interfering with communications.
“Voldat,” Vokar said, calling to his first officer. The elder, graying centurion, slightly thick through the middle, appeared immediately to Vokar’s right, almost as though he had transported there.
“Yes, Admiral,” Voldat said crisply.
“How many are still left alive aboard that ship?” Vokar asked, preparing the endgame with Hunley.
“Indeterminate overall,” Voldat said. “Our scans cannot penetrate the radiation, which has spread through ninety percent of the ship. But prior to our last assault, sensors detected two hundred thirty-one life signs.”
“And how many would you estimate now?” Vokar asked.
Voldat peered at the viewscreen, clearly to assess the damage that Daami had inflicted on the Starfleet vessel. Numerous dark patches marred the silvery-white surface of the ship’s main body, a circular structure twelve decks deep, and the bridge had been opened to space. “I would approximate twenty-five to seventy-five dead.”
“Leaving at least one hundred fifty,” Vokar said. “Section the cargo holds to confine ten to an area, then transport them over. Identify the highest-ranking officers so that I can question them before we put them to death.”
“Admiral,” Voldat said, “because of the radiation, we cannot establish a transporter lock anywhere but along a relatively small section at the stern, and we read only seven life signs in that area.”
Vokar took in this information reluctantly; he did not appreciate disruptions to procedure. “Transport the seven aboard when the holds are prepared,” he told Voldat. “Form boarding parties and beam over to the uncontaminated section of the ship, and herd its crew into that area so that they can be transported to Daami.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Voldat said, and he started to
move away.
“Voldat,” Vokar said, and the centurion stopped. “Take no chances over there. I want to interrogate their officers, but not at the expense of Romulan lives. If any of them offer the slightest resistance, kill them at once.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Voldat said, and he continued on his way.
Vokar looked at the viewscreen again, at the beaten Starfleet vessel displayed there, and he wondered how much of an effect this would have on his career. He had attained the rank of admiral far faster than most in the Romulan military, but that fact did not satisfy him by itself. Vokar had ambitions beyond a simple admiralty. He would lead the Imperial Fleet one day, conceiving and executing victories befitting his people—victories that, today, too many in the upper strata were content to wait for, eschewing preemptive action in favor of reactive policies.
Vokar would change that mindset. He had already done so aboard his ship, and he had set about influencing Imperial Fleet Command as well. Beyond that…well, he did have ties in the Senate, and he had no trouble at all envisioning himself one day among their number, leading his people from the highest levels of power.
From the highest level of power.
In the future, the Federation, the Klingons, the Tholians, and all the others would bow before the might and natural superiority of the Romulans. And the Empire would be led by Praetor Aventeer Vokar.
Harriman moved through Hunley’s engine room, waiting anxiously for word from Lieutenant Bexx. He paced back and forth behind the chief engineer, trying not to disturb her as she worked at an environmental-control console, but—“Anything?” he asked, stopping beside her. From an intellectual standpoint, he understood the requirements of command, and the need to allow people to do their jobs, but however much time they had, he knew that it must be running out quickly.
“Just a moment,” Bexx said, not taking her gaze from her work. The engine room stood mute around them. Most of the engineering staff had already left to join the rest of the crew in the ship’s cargo holds, and the few who remained observed quietly.
Harriman felt no apprehensions about having to lead a starship crew for the first time in his career, beyond the horror of being seventh in the chain of command and the only one of those seven still alive and conscious. The captain, first officer, science officer, and navigator had all been lost when the bridge had been hit and the hull breached; the second officer had not been heard from since the last disruptor strikes, and might have been among those killed when the penultimate bolt had struck the ship and brought down the deflectors; and the security chief, Lieutenant Grinager, still lay unconscious on the bridge, though Harriman had reported her injuries to sickbay personnel, who would send somebody there to treat her.
“All right,” Bexx said, looking up from her console. “I’ve overridden the radiation protocols and retracted the emergency bulkheads, except in the stern sections.” She reached up and wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead, from beside the bifurcated ridge that ran across her bald skull and down the center of her face. Harriman only now noticed the sheen on Bexx’s light blue flesh, an indication of the anxiety she must be feeling.
“Good work,” Harriman said, then put his hand on Bexx’s forearm, squeezing it softly. “It’ll be okay,” he told her. “This will work.” He felt far less sure than he hoped he sounded, but he’d learned from observing his father over the years that confidence, like fear, could be infectious.
Bexx nodded, though she seemed unconvinced. “I wouldn’t recommend keeping the emergency bulkheads open too long,” she said. “The Romulan sensors won’t be able to find us, but they won’t have to if the radiation kills us.”
“Dr. Latasa has informed me that we have sufficient hyronalin aboard to treat the entire crew,” Harriman said, sidestepping the obvious detail that the medication would be useless to a ship of corpses. “So, are we all set?” he asked.
“Aye,” Bexx said, walking over to another engineering station and consulting it. “Passive sensors are functioning in the stern sections, and also in the hangar deck and in all the docking ports, in case the Romulans decide to board that way.”
“And communications?” Harriman asked.
“All channels are still open below deck two,” Bexx said.
“Good,” Harriman said. He turned to face the other four engineers standing at consoles around the room. “All right,” he said, “you all know your jobs.” As heads nodded in acknowledgment, Harriman started for the doors. Before he left, though, he stopped and told the engineers, “Good luck.” Then he hurried on, headed for a cargo hold, and a desperate attempt to save the Hunley crew.
Centurion Rentikin Voldat stepped onto the transporter platform and took a moment to scrutinize the first boarding party. The eleven men all appeared alert and serious, each with a disruptor pistol held in his hand, and with a breathing mask strapped across his nose and mouth; intelligence reports indicated that at least some Starfleet vessels incorporated anesthetic gas as part of their intruder-control systems.
Satisfied, Voldat lowered his own mask across his face, then drew the disruptor that hung at his hip. He looked to the transporter operator and nodded. As the operator worked his controls, the blue particles of dematerialization formed in Voldat’s vision, dissolving his view of the transporter room as they multiplied.
And then, in what seemed to be no time at all, and with no perceived lack of consciousness, Voldat saw his eyesight begin to clear. In place of the transporter room aboard Daami, he now saw a dark, unfamiliar corridor. “Sensors,” he said, and at once, he heard the buzz of a portable scanner in use.
“I read no life signs in this section of the deck, Centurion,” reported Lieutenant Arnek. Earlier, scans performed aboard Daami had detected seven of the Hunley crew here, but they must have abandoned the area, clearly realizing that, at least for a short time, the radiation in the other portions of their ship would mask their location. It did not matter, of course. There would be no escape for these Starfleet officers.
“What about the other decks in this section?” Voldat asked.
The scanner continued to hum. “Negative, sir,” said Arnek. “I read no life signs in any of the stern sections, on any of the—” As soon as Arnek stopped speaking, Voldat knew something had gone wrong. “Sir, the radiation on the ship has cleared. I’m reading human life signs all over—”
And then the pinpoints of light that marked the dematerialization process filled Voldat’s vision once more. Except that this time, the pinpoints were not blue, but white.
Lieutenant Bexx stared unrelentingly at the console before her, determined to act as swiftly as possible when—if—the time came. She felt the runaway beat of her heart pounding in her chest, a consequence of her fear and anticipation for what lay ahead. If Lieutenant Harriman had been—
The readings she had been waiting for raced across the display on her panel: twelve transporter signals, deck seven, aft. “Now,” she yelled, even as her hands sped across her console, working the Hunley’s environmental controls. She heard the other engineers operating their own consoles behind her. All over the ship, she knew, emergency bulkheads began sliding into place, containing the radiation caused by the disruptor strikes. She had to wait only a second before the red indicator lights on her panel all turned green. Then she sent the predetermined signal to each of Hunley’s cargo holds.
For probably the tenth time, Harriman checked the setting on his phaser, then adjusted the tricorder he carried on a strap over his shoulder. Fifteen of his crewmates stood in a semicircle beside him, and another, Ensign Gabe Márquez, stood studying a console a few meters in front of him. They all waited for the signal that they hoped would come from Lieutenant Bexx or one of her engineering crew.
They did not have to wait long.
Ensign Márquez said nothing as Harriman saw him suddenly move into action. The ensign rapidly and silently worked the controls of the cargo transporter.
A moment later, Harriman dematerialized.
<
br /> “Admiral,” the tactical officer said, “the radiation on the Starfleet vessel just dissipated.”
Vokar sat forward in his command chair, concern unfurling within him like a flag before the wind. “All at once?” he asked.
“No, not all of it,” the officer said. “There continues to be radiation around where our disruptor bolts landed. But the rest of it—”
“Shields up,” he yelled, understanding the deception that had taken place. “Lock weapons on the Starfleet ship. Destroy it.”
“Admiral,” the weapons officer said, “our boarding parties are over there.”
“Do it,” Vokar yelled.
But then the whine of a transporter filled the Daami bridge.
As soon as he saw Romulan personnel, Harriman felt a powerful urge to squeeze the trigger of his phaser. His desire for retribution almost overwhelmed him, the image of Captain Linneus being thrown into space a haunting memory that he knew would never leave him. But vengeance would not serve the captain, Harriman understood, or any of the others who had lost their lives aboard Hunley. What Captain Linneus would have wanted, more than anything else, would have been the safety of the rest of his crew.
At the far end of the bridge, a Romulan officer dashed toward a door. “Stop,” Harriman called, and he leveled a phaser shot past the man, careful to aim away from any consoles; he could not risk damaging the bridge controls he would likely need. The beam streaked into the bulkhead beside the door and erupted in a shower of sparks. The Romulan stopped.
Serpents Among the Ruins Page 16
