Star Trek

by Alan Dean Foster

  Speculation was cut off by warning signals. Pitts’s eyes grew wide as he stared at his instruments. “Sir, I have a reading—they’ve locked weapons on us!”

  Robau’s expression tightened. “Are you absolutely certain, Mister Pitts?”

  “Yes, sir! The pertinent signatures are new but not unrecognizable.” He whirled to face the captain. “There’s no doubt!”

  That answered the question as to whether or not they were dealing with a ship, Robau decided. “Red Alert! Arm weapons systems!”

  Anyone on board who had neglected to fully comply with the previous alert needed no further urging to drop whatever they had been doing and respond to stations. Lights and warnings flared and blared throughout the length and breadth of the Kelvin.

  “Incoming!” Pitts yelled the warning as an almost familiar energy schematic appeared on his main monitor. An instant later the first officer confirmed his fellow officer’s reading of the newly detected signal.

  “Torpedo locked on us at three-twenty degrees, mark two, incoming fast! Type unknown, propulsion system unknown, capability unknown!”

  Those not seated scrambled to brace themselves for impact as Robau roared orders.

  “Evasive pattern delta five. Return fire, full spread! Prepare to—!”

  There was no time to prepare.

  Unexpectedly, the incoming weapon seemed to shatter. Instead of a single missile it devolved into a spray of smaller yet still immensely powerful projectiles. Slamming into the Kelvin, the unknown weapons ripped open several decks before finally concluding their path of destruction near the main engine room. Men and women were sent flying by the massive explosion that ensued. Others died almost instantly as the hull in their vicinity was breached and they were sucked out into the vacuum of space. Supports were twisted, sensitive instruments shattered, lines of communication severed. Precious atmosphere was consumed by fire that the ship’s automatic suppressors struggled to keep from spreading.

  From the command chair on the bridge a tense Robau hailed engineering. “Damage report! What’s our main power?”

  The technician who replied was not the chief of section. That venerable and respected senior officer lay somewhere farther toward the stern, having perished instantly when the torpedo had struck.

  “Our shields did nothing. All weapons systems off-line. Decks nine through fourteen report hull integrity compromised and numerous casualties.” He paused to glance at a handheld monitor. “Main power at thirty-eight percent, and I don’t know how long we can maintain that!”

  Dragging himself back to his station, the first officer slammed a hand down on the open communicator. “Deck nine, bridge here—report.”

  “Plasma seals activated and holding. Can’t say for how long, but for the moment we’re tight.”

  The first officer fought to gather himself—both his wind and his wits. “Winona—is she okay? My wife?”

  The reply steadied him. “Yes, sir. That’s the good news. Bad news is, she’s gone into labor.”

  Eyes wide, the officer turned sharply in the direction of the captain’s chair. Robau had also heard the reply. He was preparing to respond when a cry from Pitts filled the bridge.

  “They’re firing another, Captain!”

  Engineering’s report had been devastatingly accurate: for all the protection they were offering against the current attack the Kelvin’s shields might as well have been made of aerogel. Barely deflected, the blast from the second torpedo tore a gash along the Federation vessel’s primary hull. Flames flared and vanished as the oxygen that fueled them was consumed or dissipated into space. Every deck was rocked and, if not directly impacted by the explosion, suffered subsidiary damage that was life-threatening and ongoing.

  “Life support failing on decks seven through thirteen!” the helmsman shouted.

  “Get Starfleet Command on subspace!” Robau fought to make himself understood over the growing chaos and confusion. “Emergency power to communications!”

  “Shields at eleven percent.” Somehow the first officer had managed to stay at his station and monitor what remained of his instrumentation. “Eight percent! Six!”

  “That was like nothing I’ve ever seen.” The tactical officer was staring at his own readouts and shaking his head. “Velocity and condensed explosive capacity—we can’t take another hit!”

  Robau forced himself to stay calm. He had been through situations like this many times previously—in simulations. To the best of his knowledge no one had ever been through it in actuality. Gigantic unknown ship, unknown weapons, dead silence: nothing to do but wait for…what?

  The answer arrived more quickly than he expected.

  “Captain,” declared the first officer with obvious surprise, “we’re being hailed.”

  Shoot first, talk later. An inauspicious way to commence embryonic negotiations. Especially when your side couldn’t shoot back. Still, he mused, no matter what happened next, talking was better than dying.

  “Open communications.” Settling back into the command chair, Robau tried to compose himself. No matter what ensued, he wasn’t going to let their unknown enemy see that he was rattled. “And keep our transmission tight on me. No need to let them see the damage they’ve inflicted.”

  There was a moment of distortion before the forward screen cleared. The face that appeared on the monitor was humanoid. It featured heavily tattooed skin, pointed ears, and, in parallel primate terms at least, an unpleasant expression. In excellent Federation lingua franca it addressed its audience in a tone that was unapologetically severe.

  “Starship captain. I am Ayel. My captain requests the presence of your captain in order to negotiate a cease-fire. He will speak to you only in person. Face to face. Come alone. You come aboard our vessel via shuttlecraft. It is unnecessary to provide docking coordinates. Once you are within pickup range, your craft will be acquired and directed to the appropriate location.”

  Well, Robau thought, at least now they finally had some information. Even if none of it was good.

  “And if I refuse?” he responded appropriately.

  The visitor was remorseless. “Your main engines have been severely damaged. You can no longer achieve warp speed. Your weapons are disabled. Your refusal would be unwise.” The screen went blank.

  For a moment dead silence reigned on the Kelvin’s bridge.

  “Not a very talkative bunch,” the communications officer finally murmured.

  Pitts looked sharply at the command chair. “Sir, who are they?”

  A dissenting voice sounded from the vicinity of another console as the first officer continued to study his flickering instrumentation. “I think he’s Romulan.”

  Robau blinked. He was processing information, details, statistics that had not been reviewed in a long time, because there had been no reason for him or anyone else to do so.

  “We haven’t had contact with any Romulans in over fifty-three years, how can you identify—?”

  Apologetically, his first officer cut him off. “They’re the closest known genetic cousins of Vulcans.” He nodded in the direction of the forward monitor. “The body markings that were visible on this Ayel’s face and neck, epidermal coloration, attire, all point to him being Romulan and not Vulcan. And one more thing, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Even though he was brusque and only relaying orders, this Ayel was very, very emotional.”

  All eyes remained on the captain as everyone waited for Robau to come to a conclusion. It did not take long. When you’re down to a single option, decision-making becomes simple.

  “As long as they want to talk, there’s a way out of this. Has to be. Only logical. If their intent from the beginning was to destroy us, we wouldn’t be sitting here discussing their motivation now.” Rising from the command chair, he gestured at his first officer. “Commander—walk with me.”

  As the two most senior officers on the ship strode its damaged corridors their passing drew only occasiona
l glances from the rest of the crew. Much as they might wish to inquire of their captain and first officer as to the nature of the situation in which they presently found themselves, and desperate as they were for news, not one crew member stepped in their path, shouted a query, or otherwise tried to engage the two men. It was in situations such as the one they were currently facing that Starfleet training proved its worth.

  Robau addressed his second-in-command evenly. “If this goes bad, I mean really bad, I’m granting you authority to execute General Order Thirteen.”

  The younger man at his side momentarily lost his stride. “Sir, we could issue a mayday call to…”

  Robau was too human not to show that he was at least a little afraid. That did not in any way affect his resolve. “There’s no help for us out here. Even if someone responded they’d never get here in time. If we’re going down we’re taking them with us. Do as you’re told. Save as many as you can.” Stepping into the waiting turbolift, he turned to face the other man. The first officer’s expression was stricken. Both men knew what was at stake. Both men looked at each other for what each suspected might well be the last time.

  “Aye, Captain.” Stepping back, the younger man saluted sharply.

  Punching the lift control, Captain Robau left his first officer with one last directive.

  “You’re captain now—Mister Kirk.”

  II

  George Kirk continued to stare at the lift long after the door had closed. There being no time to spend on lingering remembrances, much less paralysis, he turned smartly and headed across the corridor toward the nearest communications panel. It was in moments of crisis that a captain’s mettle had to assert itself. Which meant that he had to assert himself—since he was now the captain.

  A finger slid over a control as he spoke toward the pickup. “Kirk to medical.”

  Deep in the thus far undamaged portion of the Kelvin, a very pregnant Winona Kirk was wheezing slightly as she underwent yet another in a series of progressive checkups with one of the ship’s physicians. The call that had been put through now came over the examination room’s speaker.

  “George? What’s going on? No one will tell me anything. The ship…”

  He cut her off. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

  She looked helplessly toward the doctor, who, despite the desperate situation that had engulfed the Kelvin, responded to the incoming query with the kind of reserve and calm aspired to by every physician who had ever uttered a healing mantra, picked up a willow branch, and twirled it widdershins over a queasy patient.

  “Everything’s fine. She’s had a few contractions, but the inhibitors should suppress labor long enough to get back to Earth—as long as you don’t give us any more bumps.”

  Bumps. The doctor was being discreet for the sake of his patient. “No promises,” Kirk replied. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Cutting the link, he forced himself to focus. He had to force himself.

  It is not easy for a man to tell himself that his wife and unborn child would have to wait.

  On board the chosen shuttle the door sealed tight behind Captain Robau as he settled himself into the pilot’s seat and commenced programming the departure sequence. He did not check the compact craft’s power reserves or whether its life-support system was fully charged. He would worry about both when it was time for him to return to the Kelvin.

  All eyes were on Kirk as he entered the bridge and settled himself into the command chair. On another occasion it might have been comfortable. Today it was not.

  “Lieutenant Pitts, transfer the captain’s vital signs to the main viewscreen. Assuming that we are receiving the standard relay from his shuttle.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  As the shuttle departed through the stern bay doors, Robau’s heart rate and respiration showed steady and normal. They only began to increase as his craft left the Kelvin and headed toward the enormous intruding vessel. Kirk told himself the rise was to be expected. Robau was as experienced an officer as could be found in Starfleet, but he was also human. Captain or no, he was not immune to the state of affairs in which they all presently found themselves.

  “Heart rate’s elevated,” Pitts reported in a monotone. “One ten per minute.”

  “High, but within parameters, given the situation,” Kirk murmured to no one in particular.

  If anything, Robau thought as his shuttle was drawn deep into the heart of the alien craft, its size is even more implausible and unreasonable when seen close up. What could be the purpose behind so much construction? What Romulan or Vulcan group would have need of a vessel of such magnitude? It struck him as wasteful, excessive, even megalomaniacal. Where had the behemoth come from, and why had it attacked his ship without the slightest provocation? What were they up against?

  Or who.

  Two of them were waiting for him as he stepped off the shuttle. Without being ordered to do so, he had come unarmed. The necessity had been implicit in the tone of the individual who had issued the original demand. In any event, they would surely have scanned him for weapons before greeting him in person.

  Though bulkier than the spokesperson who had communicated the order that he appear in person, his guards were plainly of the same species. Up close, there was no denying Kirk’s analysis: if these were Vulcans, they were unlike any Robau had ever encountered.

  The interior of the gigantic vessel was as chaotic as its exterior. Possibly it did not seem so to its crew or builders. Every species, he reflected, viewed matters of starship interior space and design from their own unique perspective and built according to their own needs and desires.

  For example, though replete with instrumentation, the enemy ship’s bridge had the look of barely organized bedlam. Alien eyes followed him as he was urged roughly forward before finally being brought to a halt before a seated individual whose visage was already known to him: the one who had called himself Ayel. Another sat behind him—a bodyguard, perhaps? Or someone of greater importance?

  An image appeared between Robau and his interrogator. Hovering between them was a ship soaring through space. If it was nothing like a Federation vessel, it was also nothing like the gargantuan monstrosity on which he presently found himself. Larger than a shuttle yet far smaller than the average starship, its most prominent feature was a large rotating torus in the vicinity of the stern. He could only speculate on its function. The movement and design intrigued him so much that for a moment he forgot the dire circumstances in which he found himself.

  Ayel brought him back to reality. “Are you familiar with this craft? What do you know of this ship and its—crew? Its origins, its designs, its intentions?”

  Eyeing his interrogators, Robau ignored the question. Two could play the game of protocol. “Who is your commander?” He indicated the unblinking figure sitting behind Ayel. “Is it him? I will speak only with your captain.”

  “You will speak only to me,” his questioner replied sharply.

  Robau replied as steadfastly as he could. “Then ask him what right he has to attack a Federation vessel operating in open, free, unclaimed space.”

  The valiant verbal maneuver was brushed aside. “What has just occurred can hardly be called an attack. My captain will easily destroy your ship if you do not respond to the question.”

  Robau regarded the schematic anew. At that moment, at least, he hoped there was a truth monitor trained on him. “I’ve never seen it before. Don’t recognize the type. Is it one of yours?”

  His interrogator barely held his frustration in check. “Are you familiar with—or better—know the location of the individual, Ambassador Spock?”

  The image of the ship was replaced by one of an elderly Vulcan. Robau found himself gazing at a face that had plainly seen many years and experienced much. Wise, knowing, yet typically enigmatic in the way of Vulcan-kind. Robau decided it was the face of someone he would like to know. Once again he shook his head.

  “No. I am unfamiliar with the individual you
identify as ‘Ambassador Spock.’ I’ve never seen him before.”

  Ayel hissed in exasperation. “What is your current stardate?”

  Yet another in a series of bizarre questions that seemed to be proceeding from the curious to the merely inexplicable. “Stardate? Twenty-two thirty-three oh-four.” Turning his gaze away from the questioner he scanned the alien faces that were focused on him. All were intent, unblinking, and driven by a purpose he could not divine. “Who are you people? Where are you from?”

  Something in the captain’s tone, perhaps. Or maybe it was his innocent ignorance. Whatever the cause, it triggered an explosion of movement in the individual who had been sitting behind Ayel. Eyes wide, he sprang forward straight at Robau. At the same time his fingers clutched tightly around the staff he was carrying. Four ceremonial blades sprang forth from the top of the instrument. Charging alien and quadruple blades converged…

  On board the Kelvin the portion of the monitor that was tracking the vitals of Captain Pierre Robau flatlined suddenly and in unison. George Kirk’s fingers tightened on the arms of the command chair.

  “Oh God.”

  He did not have time to think, to reflect, to mourn. The voice of Lieutenant Pitts rang out as alarms blared throughout the bridge.

  “They’re launching again!”

  “Evasive!” Kirk snapped. “Delta-five maneuver! Fire full spread!”

  Only because the desperate helmsman managed to execute a maneuver that was rarely if ever carried out with success did the ship avoid a direct and fatal strike. Even so, the glancing detonation caused additional damage. Intact, the Kelvin might have shrugged it off. Wounded as she was, it was a struggle for those on board the starship simply to maintain power and life support.

  “Sir, multiple decks report damage,” Pitts called out. From the other side of the bridge the science officer provided unwelcome confirmation.