Star Trek

by Alan Dean Foster

  Kirk steadied himself. “I checked the complete available scientific description of the energy surge that was reported near Vulcan prior to Starfleet’s reception of the request for assistance. The parameters are almost identical to a similar surge that was detected just before the Kelvin was attacked by a Romulan ship more than twenty years ago—the day I was born, sir. Furthermore, that was also described as a ‘lightning storm in space.’ You know that, sir. I read your dissertation. That ship, which had formidable and advanced weaponry, was never seen or heard from again. The Kelvin attack took place on the edge of Klingon space. And at twenty-three hours last night, there was an attack; forty-seven Klingon warbirds were destroyed by Romulans, sir. And it was reported that the Romulans were in one ship, one massive ship.”

  Pike’s expression darkened to match his tone. “And you know of the Klingon attack how?”

  All eyes turned immediately to the heretofore silent communications officer. “Sir, I intercepted and translated the message myself. Kirk’s report is accurate.”

  Kirk stepped forward. Off to one side, a lieutenant moved his hand toward a cabinet that held his sidearm. From looking and listening to the excited, slightly wild-eyed cadet, there was no telling what he might do—or what he might be on.

  Kirk held his position, and the lieutenant stayed his hand—for the moment. “We’re warping into a trap, sir. The Romulans are waiting for us, I promise you that.”

  A troubled Pike digested this, then switched his attention to his science officer, who, despite Kirk’s startling appearance on the bridge, had remained remarkably restrained and silent.

  “The cadet’s logic is sound. Lieutenant Uhura’s record in xenolinguistics is unmatched in recent records, Captain. We would be wise to accept her conclusion.”

  Pike considered Spock’s counsel. Turning, he ordered the communications officer, “Scan Vulcan space. Check for any transmissions in Romulan.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure I can distinguish the Romulan language from Vulcan.”

  “What about you?” Pike asked. “Can you speak Romulan, Cadet…”

  “Uhura. All three dialects, sir.”

  “…Uhura, relieve the lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence enveloped the bridge as Pike deliberated. Coming to a decision, he turned toward the helm. “Mister Sulu, hail Captain Alexander aboard the Newton.”

  As the helmsman complied, the ship’s science officer shot the attentive Kirk another look. It was less than affectionate.

  Sulu’s eventual response was confused—and ominous. “Sir, our hail’s not getting through. We’re being blocked by some kind of subspace interference.” His hands whipped over the console in front of him. “I can try to analyze the—”

  “Never mind that now.” Pike was sitting up straight in the command chair. “Try the Excelsior.”

  Sulu complied, and on his own tried several other routings before sitting back slightly. “Nothing, sir. In fact, I can’t make contact with any of the fleet.”

  “‘Subspace interference’ my ass,” Kirk muttered. “Given the reality of what’s likely a fake planetary distress call, I’d hardly be surprised to discover that someone or something is deliberately interfering with Starfleet communications. Sounds to me like our signal is being blocked.”

  Pike deliberated. “We need to refine communications power in order to be able to warn the other ships of what we’ve discovered.”

  “Sir,” Sulu said unnecessarily, “for that we’d have to drop out of warp so that our signal incurs no distortion from post-lightspeed motion.”

  Emerge in the Vulcan system in concert with the rest of the armada or fall from warp in order to talk to them: not a choice Pike wanted to make. Try as he might, however, he could not come up with another option. Meanwhile, time was looking over his shoulder.

  “Understood,” he declared finally. “Emergency stop.”

  Sulu leaned toward his console. “Emergency stop, aye!”

  The six lines of subspace stretching from Sol to Vulcan abruptly became five as the Enterprise dropped out of warp. No stars burned in its immediate vicinity and no planets gleamed nearby. The ship was very much alone.

  Pike turned to Uhura, who, following a brief but intense discussion with the lieutenant who had been manning communications, had now relinquished that position to her.

  “Hail those ships, Cadet. Now.”

  “Attenuating relevant frequencies in order to increase power, Captain.” Her hands were delicate but their movements were assured as she worked the pertinent instrumentation.

  An unusual quiet descended on the bridge as, lost in their own thoughts, everyone waited for a response. When it finally came it was neither what was hoped for nor what was expected. Unrecognizable pings and strange electronic stutters, as if somewhere a transmitter was crying in emptiness.

  Interference, an edgy Kirk thought. He stared at Uhura, silently trying to encourage a response that was not forthcoming. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  She waved a hand in his direction. “Kirk, quiet! I’ve channeled all communications strength into a narrow stream of encrypted information, and the ship is working to send it now.” Her other hand worked the console in front of her. “Opening a channel.” There was a stir on the bridge as everyone seemed to lean in her direction. At last she announced, “Channel open, sir. If you would like to try and make conta—”

  Pike was speaking before she could finish. “This is Captain Christopher Pike of the U.S.S. Enterprise. All ships be advised: possibility of hostile Romulan presence in vicinity of Vulcan. Until presumed emergency situation is further clarified, recommend full shields and weapons systems at standby.”

  “Message sent, sir,” Uhura reported.

  They waited for a response. And waited. Possibly it was being blocked by whatever was interfering with their communications.

  No one wanted to dwell on certain other possibilities.

  “No response, sir,” Sulu eventually felt compelled to report aloud for the official record. “From…any ship.”

  The fingers of Pike’s right hand drummed fretfully on the armrest of the command chair. “What’s the fleet’s ETA to Vulcan orbit?”

  Spock checked his readouts. “They should be preparing to drop out of warp now, Captain.”

  Pike nodded. “Tactical on screen. Display their automated transponder signals. Those, at least, should be strong and clear enough to penetrate any two-way interference.”

  Once more the science officer manipulated instrumentation. In response a quintet of glowing blue dots appeared on the forward main viewscreen. Each was accompanied by a name—Armstrong…Defiant…Newton…Mayflower…Excelsior…The attention of everyone on the bridge followed the dots as they moved into the Vulcan system.

  Spock continued to monitor his instruments. “The fleet has dropped out of warp.”

  As he watched the monitor, Pike tried not to show his unease. A moment passed, then another, and another. The dots had slowed enormously, but remained exactly as they should. The tension that had gripped the bridge began to subside. McCoy had moved to stand beside Kirk. Both men regarded the screen.

  “See?” Leaning close to his friend, the doctor dropped his voice to a whisper. “They’re there. They’ve arrived. I shouldn’t have just given you a dose of mud flea vaccine—I should’ve put you under general anesthetic. It would have been better than…”

  “Bones.” Kirk had not taken his eyes from the forward monitor. “Wait.”

  One of the blue dots had vanished from the screen.

  As a communications officer, Uhura had been trained to render reports straightforwardly and without elaboration, but at her age it was difficult to banish every trace of emotion from her voice.

  “Captain, we’re receiving a transmission on the distress frequency.” She worked her console. “I can’t get—Wait, something’s coming through. I’m acquiring only intermittent bits of contact, nothing complete.”

&nb
sp; “Let me hear whatever you’ve got,” Pike replied grimly.

  She transferred all incoming transmissions to the bridge speakers. None of it was clean, but there was no mistaking the gist of what they were hearing: bursts of screaming voices, cries of despair, orders underscored by hopelessness. The crackling, static-marred bursts of discontinuous distress were accompanied by the quiet disappearance of another blue dot from the viewscreen.

  “There are only four ships remaining,” a somehow dispassionate Spock declared. “Now three…”

  Pike’s voice reverberated throughout the bridge. “Red Alert! Ready all weapons. Mister Sulu, get us to Vulcan now—maximum warp!”

  There was no sense of forward motion. One moment the Enterprise was alone in the vastness of interstellar space—and then it had dropped into that subsidiary realm where reality was deformed by mathematics into a class of physics that would have delighted Charles Dodgson.

  “Arrival at Vulcan in five seconds,” Sulu reported calmly. “Four, three, two…”

  “EVASIVE!” Pike roared.

  “ON IT, SIR!” was Sulu’s immediate response.

  The captain’s command was unnecessary. Having dropped out of warp directly in front of the flaring, disintegrating remains of the Defiant, Sulu had responded instantly and reflexively to avoid the impending collision. Wrenched sideways on impulse power at the command of her helmsman, the Enterprise shuddered but quickly steadied herself.

  Chaos was in orbit around Vulcan.

  The two remaining ships of the fleet were engaged in a desperate and losing battle against a gargantuan craft the likes of which was as unfamiliar to those on board the Enterprise as it was startling in its unprecedented dimensions. Nothing they fired appeared able to penetrate the enormous defensive field that surrounded the hostile intruder. Meanwhile, an unending stream of torpedoes and similar deadly devices continued to detonate against the smaller ships, hammering away at their defenses.

  Spock’s voice was controlled as ever, but he was speaking faster than usual. “No identifiable registry on the ship. It’s massive. Energy signatures, deployed weapons systems, design—all unknown.”

  “Get Starfleet Command on subspace!” Pike demanded. Uhura’s response was immediate and disheartening.

  “Negative! All outsystem transmissions are subject to severe interruption emanating from the vicinity of Vulcan. And there’s something else, sir. I think I’ve located the source of the general interference. I detect the signature—very advanced, but identifiable—of a plasma drill operating in the atmosphere.”

  IX

  On board the Narada an alarm was sounding. There was no panic. Between its size, superior technology, and advanced automation its crew felt confident they were in little danger. Nevertheless, the newest intrusion had to be reported to the captain.

  “Captain,” Ayel informed his commander, “a new Federation ship has dropped out of warp.”

  Nero acknowledged the information as he watched the continuing but rapidly fading battle on the main viewscreen. His response was succinct as always.

  “Destroy it also. Like the others. Waste nothing, including time.”

  The first officer acknowledged the command. It was exactly what he had expected, but chain-of-command formalities had to be adhered to. Romulus deserved no less.

  Images and information collided on Spock’s console, and he whirled to face the command chair. “Captain, they’re locking weapons systems onto us.”

  “Continue evasive, come about ninety degrees! Mister Sulu, try to get us underneath them—if their shields are indicative of the ship’s design, they may be weaker along the ventral longitudinal axis. Prepare to fire all weapons!”

  The stream of torpedoes from the hostile vessel was unending. As the Enterprise shifted position, one of the lethal tracking explosives passed directly between her engine nacelles. A second detonated nearby. Overwhelmed shields buckled beneath the unprecedented power.

  Secondary explosions tore throughout the impacted decks. Crew members were thrown into the walls, the floor, and the ceiling as artificial gravity was temporarily distorted. In sickbay McCoy was slammed into a wall and pinned there until gravity was stabilized. When he dropped back to his feet he noted with professional detachment that a gash had been opened above one eye. Flames leaped from a rip in one wall. That would not be allowed to continue consuming precious atmosphere. Either the section’s fire suppressors would put it out, or it would be snuffed when the area was sealed and remaining air was evacuated. He stumbled toward the exit.

  A dazed department technician was standing by the edge of the blaze and staring off into the distance. Grabbing him, McCoy looked into the man’s face and talked to him until the tech finally responded. Then the doctor spun him around and shoved hard.

  “Get outta here before the compartment is sealed! You want to die unbreathing?”

  As comprehension dawned, the man nodded, whirled, and ran. In the wrong direction. Cursing under his breath McCoy started after him, only to find himself cut off as a translucent section of emergency response barrier slammed downward, its base forming a permanent seal with the deck. Halting and turning back, the tech stared in wide-eyed realization at McCoy. Then the severely damaged wall behind him crumpled like foil, shattering into pieces as it was sucked away into the vacuum of space—along with the doomed technician.

  There was nothing McCoy could do. He had glimpsed that look of terror before, but only in training vids. Seeing it in person…

  Mouth set, he turned away. The ship continued to shudder and tremble around him. There would be other casualties, other wounded. As someone whose skills were needed elsewhere, he could not linger to mourn. The crewman he had tried to help was already dead. The doctor hurried off in search of an intact sickbay.

  On the bridge isolated flares of combustion continued to be extinguished one after another as her crew struggled to survive and fight back.

  “Shields at thirty-three percent,” Sulu reported. “Their weapons are more powerful than anything I’ve ever seen, Captain! Delivery mechanism is not unfamiliar but the explosive force is unprecedented. None of our torpedoes have that kind of focused energy and we don’t seem to be able to penetrate their shields with our own weapons.” He looked apprehensively toward the command chair. “We can’t take another hit like that!”

  “Get me Starfleet Command!” Pike ordered.

  Spock spoke up before Uhura could reply.

  “Captain, the Romulan ship has lowered some kind of enormous high-energy-pulse device into the Vulcan atmosphere. Its output appears to be blocking our communications and transporter abilities.”

  “All power to forward shields!” Pike commanded. “Continue evasive, Mister Sulu! Prepare to fire all weapons anew. They have to have a weak spot!” If they don’t, he told himself worriedly…

  As his ship shook around him, he refused to allow himself to dwell on the possibility.

  On board the Narada the tactical officer was reveling in the contest with the new target. Its evasive maneuvers were more elegant than those of the Federation ships he had already destroyed and its return fire more incisive, if equally fruitless. Already it had suffered serious damage from a couple of near misses. As soon as the Narada’s full weapons systems locked on the newest arrival, it would go the way of its annihilated cousins. Another moment and—

  “We have them! Preparing to fire terminating torpedo cluster…”

  His gaze never having strayed from the forward view since the uneven battle had been joined, Nero suddenly leaned forward and thrust out a restraining arm in the direction of tactical.

  “WAIT!”

  Baffled but obedient, the tactical officer’s hand hovered over the control that would expel a final flurry of advanced torpedoes from the Narada’s bottomless armory. His captain was gazing fixedly at the image on the screen with an intensity he had not displayed even at the height of the battle with the other Federation vessels.

  “The enemy h
ull—give me visual, full magnification.”

  At the requested resolution the image was unsteady as the Narada’s sensors sought to track the fast-moving Federation ship. The vessel slid continuously in and out of view as well as focus, but one brief glimpse was all Nero needed to distinguish her identification: U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701. For the first time in a very long while his mouth curved upward in a slight smile, this time one of recognition. Nearby, his hand poised over the release element, the tactical officer waited for the order to fire the final, fatal burst.

  It never came.

  Uhura did not need to translate the incoming signal. Astonishingly, it was perfectly comprehensible as transmitted.

  “Captain, the commander of the hostile ship is hailing us!”

  At his station Chekov was staring at his instruments and shaking his head. “How are they cutting through the blanketing interference?”

  “How are they drilling through the planet?” Kirk muttered aloud.

  Pike had no time for casual speculation. No matter what the circumstances or the conditions, given the shape they were in, every minute they were not under attack was another minute the crew on devastated decks could use to make repairs and tend to the wounded. Another minute engineering could use to try and restore the ship’s defenses. In the current state of affairs, any exchange of communication was to their benefit.

  “On-screen,” he told his communications officer.

  Uhura complied and the forward monitor cleared instantly. Almost as if, Pike realized, the hailing vessel was intimately familiar with Starfleet communications protocols. The image that coalesced was by itself enough to resolve any remaining uncertainty as to whom they were dealing with. The humanoid was visibly Romulan. Furthermore, the enemy commander did not look as if he had been recently engaged in a battle to the death with five Federation starships. His demeanor was relaxed, cool, and his tone was almost…cordial.

  “Your valor does you great honor, Captain, and the skill of your crew surpasses, however uselessly, any that has preceded it.”