by David Mack
Vale took swift charge of the emergency command conference. “We need ideas for how to stop the Breen, and we need them fast. Whatever crazy notions you might have, spit ’em out.”
“You won’t like what I have to say,” Mareet replied. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned. I’d like to propose we break off pursuit and inform Starfleet Command that it needs to send in the big guns to deal with this.”
The suggestion made Riker bristle. “Absolutely not,” he told the green-haired Catullan. “This mission was assigned to us, and we aren’t giving it up. At least, not this easily.”
It wasn’t much of a pep talk, in Sarai’s opinion, but it seemed to steel Scarfield’s courage. “Mareet’s correct about us being outgunned, but there are other ways to hit them. They’re bound to drop back to sublight at some point, and when they do, I can ram the Husnock vessel at warp speed. I don’t care how strong its shields are, or thick its hull is—an impact at supraluminal speed would vaporize that thing. That’s just basic physics.”
“I’d rather not jump straight to kamikaze tactics,” Vale said. “Not until we’ve at least discussed other options that don’t involve suicide.” She aimed a hopeful look at Sarai. “Do the Breen ships have any known weaknesses we can exploit?”
Sarai shook her head. “None that I could find. They’ve made a lot of progress with their shield technology in just the last two years. And now that they’re in command of a Husnock vessel, I can’t even begin to tell you how much we don’t know about that thing.”
Mareet asked, “Could we coax the Breen ships into separating from the Husnock vessel? Some way that we could divide and conquer?”
“Doubtful,” Sarai said. “My experience with the Breen suggests they’ll stick together.” She faced Riker and Vale. “Have we considered negotiating with them? Exploring a political or economic compromise?” It was a long shot of an idea, but one that Sarai knew would most please Admiral Batanides by fulfilling her desire to capture the Husnock technology for Starfleet.
Her question made Riker scrunch his brow in confusion. “Are you suggesting we try to bribe the Breen into handing over the Husnock ship?”
“If that’s what it takes, why not?”
Vale fixed Sarai with an incredulous stare. “And with what do you propose we tempt them? What could we possibly offer them that would persuade them to give that thing up?”
“The schematics and software for slipstream drive,” Sarai said. As Riker and the captains overlapped one another’s exclamations of protest, she raised her voice to continue. “We know it’s something they wanted badly enough four years ago to attack the Utopia Planitia Shipyards. And two years ago they scuttled several of their ongoing spec-ops projects in a failed bid to capture an even more powerful drive system from an alternate universe.” The weight of four accusatory glares made her self-conscious as she concluded, “If our mission is to relieve them of that ship at all costs, this would be one way to get the job done with minimal loss of life.”
“Minimal loss of our lives,” Riker said, “here, today. But countless more lives would be lost throughout the galaxy if we hand over slipstream technology to the Typhon Pact.”
“I have to agree,” Vale said. “As logical as Commander Sarai’s proposal might seem on its face, depriving the Breen of one catastrophic technology by giving them another fails the spirit of our mission objective, which is to prevent disruptive technologies of any kind from falling into the wrong hands. That said, I appreciate that kind of fresh thinking. Now let’s find another idea, something just as unexpected but more focused and effective.”
All went quiet for a second while everyone racked their imaginations. The next person to speak was Captain Scarfield. “Our current conditions offer us a poor vantage from which to strike at the Breen. But what if we choose a different point of engagement?”
A nod of understanding from Mareet. “You’re saying get ahead of them.”
“Precisely,” Scarfield said. “Right now they’re in the lead, calling the shots. But if we figure out what their endgame is, maybe we can skip to that and put them on the defensive.”
“It’s not a bad place to start,” Riker said. “What do we know, or think we know, about what they’ve done so far? That might give us a clue as to what they’ll do next.”
Sarai picked up a padd from the conference room table and used it to call up the ship’s recent logs. “So far their modus operandi appears to be to let others do their dirty work and heavy lifting, and then they swoop in and take all the loot for themselves.”
A huff of cynical amusement from Vale. “That sounds like the Breen, all right.”
“We’ve been assuming that capturing the Husnock ship was their primary objective,” Sarai continued. “But their heading doesn’t take them back toward Breen space—it takes them deeper into territory we believe was controlled by the Husnock. Which means they might be using that ship as a means to an end. They might be after something much bigger.”
Riker’s eyes narrowed. “Like an entire Husnock fleet, for instance?”
“Possibly,” Sarai said. “Doctor Kilaris said she heard the Nausicaans say they had found a Husnock fleet. If the Breen knew about it, that would explain their current actions, and their reluctance to commit to a full-scale tactical engagement when we confronted them earlier.”
Looking troubled, Mareet asked, “If the Breen do have a lead on more of these ships, and they seize control of them before we can stop them, we’d find ourselves confronting a massively superior force. What would we do then?”
Vale traded a grim look with Riker, then she sighed. “If it comes to that, I guess we’ll just have to take another look at Fiona’s high-warp kamikaze idea.”
“Oh, well, okay then,” Sarai deadpanned, “as long as we have a plan.”
Twenty
* * *
Nothing was working out quite the way Brunt had expected.
Things had started out predictably enough. Though he had remained what felt like at least a few steps behind Gaila ever since he had piloted the Net Gain into this remote sector of the Alpha Quadrant, he had felt sure he was getting closer. The supply ships had led him to the Federation research expedition, and of course the brazen attack by the Nausicaan fringe group had proved a peculiar wrinkle. And though the ambush of the Nausicaans by an Orion Syndicate crew had seemed to catch the Starfleeters by surprise, Brunt had simply nodded. His only point of confusion up until then had been to wonder why the Syndicate hadn’t acted sooner.
Then the Breen cut the Syndicate crew off at the knees, and everything had gone haywire. Brunt had come prepared to contend with small factions, such as the Syndicate and even a renegade Nausicaan militia. But when the Breen and the Starfleet ships started exchanging fire, that was when Brunt had to admit to himself that he had become swept up in something he most assuredly was not equipped to handle. Playing two small bands of selfish opportunists against each other was old hat for the Ferengi bounty hunter, but inserting himself into what was fast becoming a large-scale military conflict was where he drew the line.
Just like my moogie always used to say: “When the great trogghemoths of the swamp do battle, the last place you want to be is under their feet.”
Taking that advice to heart, he had kept his ship well out of the crossfire between the Breen and the Starfleeters. At the same time, he had performed a risk assessment concerning the continuance of his mission. Following the Breen fleet was a risky proposition. If they detected his ship, their most likely response would be to blast him to pieces.
If only they weren’t my best bet of finding Gaila, he lamented.
Most surprising of all was that he felt just the tiniest sting of conscience for his peripheral role in this quickly escalating fiasco. He was watching the Breen abscond with a weapon of mass destruction, one whose technological secrets might tip the balance of power in the Typhon Pact’s internal contest for political influence, not to mention their cold-war arms race with the Fed
eration and its allies. He was almost certain he knew where they would go next, and what it would mean for countless worlds and lives throughout known space if the Breen were allowed to return home flush with the lethal bounty of the Husnock.
It was ridiculous, he told himself. There was no reason he should feel any compulsion to intervene, or gamble his reputation and business contacts by reporting what he knew to Starfleet, or the Grand Nagus, or anyone else. Who am I to cry foul? I used to be an arms merchant when it suited my interests. There was a time when I’d gladly have sold the Breen that ship.
Brunt winced. There it was again—that pinprick of guilt, deep inside his stomach. He knew where it was coming from, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. His mind kept flashing back to the sight of the red giant being annihilated by an antistellar munition. He had watched its hyperwarp shock front shatter an entire world. Stone and fire had expanded, disintegrated, and merged into a superheated cloud of gas swept away by a faster-than-light wave of violence against which nothing could stand. He had witnessed the cataclysm from a safe distance, but even still the experience had left him feeling hollowed out. Gutted. Afraid.
I would never have sold such a weapon. Not at any price, not to anyone.
Was it hypocritical to seek higher moral ground after all he had done? All his life he had been taught—and had told others—that there was no greater good than profit. No deal that could not be justified so long as the return on investment was good enough. Had he been wrong?
He tried to distract himself with the minutiae of tracking the Breen while preserving his ship’s stealth profile. Lurking a few light-hours behind the three Starfleet vessels, the Net Gain was barely able to maintain a sensor lock on the Breen ships and their stolen Husnock warship. Brunt couldn’t tell whether the Starfleet ships were keeping their distance by choice, or because they lacked the ability to catch up to the Breen.
And what would they do if they caught them? It had shocked Brunt how decisively the Breen had pummeled the Titan into submission and cowed its escort ships. Had the Starfleeters finally inserted themselves into a situation they couldn’t handle? It certainly had seemed so to Brunt back on the wasteland moon, inside the Husnock shipwreck. What would they have done if I hadn’t been there to save their asses?
As he thought about their predicament, he lost himself in a daydream of derring-do and heroics better suited to a holonovel than a man bent on profit and survival. Part of him wished he were in a position to intervene, to somehow set his thumb on the scales of fortune and tip the balance to the Starfleeters—if only because he found them so much easier to inveigle and manipulate than he did the Breen. The Breen also had a bad habit of expressing their displeasure at winding up on the losing side of a haggle by shooting people.
Wouldn’t it be grand, just once, to be the one who swings in and saves the day?
He divested himself of that absurd fantasy. The real universe was no place for heroes. Everything he had ever seen in his life had shown him that the price of courage was pain and regret, exacerbated by the loss of profit. Many of his former acquaintances, not to mention a legion of infamous and tragic figures from Ferengi history, had learned that lesson the hard way: Heroism was a sucker play, a racket, a scam with no payoff. Being hailed as a savior might look good on paper, but in practice it never seemed to work out as promised.
In the long run, vengeance well executed brought not only greater satisfaction but richer rewards. Pushing away all delusions of nobility, Brunt cleared his head and reminded himself why he had come all this way and shouldered all this risk.
At the end of the day, Brunt was in this mess to get paid.
Twenty-one
* * *
The Husnock fleet yard looked to Thot Tren like a fearsome black fractal pattern in space, with wheels on spokes radiating from other larger wheels, all linked to a central hub, with nearly every available berth occupied by a Husnock warship. It was a thing of beauty.
“Vang, order the Sulica and the Tarcza to assume defensive positions on our aft flanks,” Tren said. “Bol, scan the base. Sevv, tell our boarding party to stand by with those command codes. We’re about to need them. All ships, engage cloaking devices.” On the viewscreen, stars stretched by warp-speed distortion rippled as the ship cloaked. “Helm, take us to impulse.”
Tren tensed as his escort ships and the Husnock dreadnought dropped out of warp, with the captured vessel ahead of the Kulak, as a buffer between Tren’s ship and the massive starport. It was a precaution dictated by the Sulica’s earlier scouting missions to the fleet yard.
Despite the space station having been long left derelict, its weapons systems had armed the moment they’d detected the presence of an unauthorized alien starship.The Sulica and her crew had narrowly escaped destruction by cloaking and retreating before the station’s array of beam weapons had been able to slice them apart. Approaching the starport in the open was an error Tren knew not to repeat.
Bol reported from tactical, “The station is locking weapons on the Husnock ship.”
Tren faced his signals officer. “Get me Chot Braz on a secure frequency.”
Sevv opened the channel and nodded at Tren. “Ready.”
“Braz, are you ready to proceed?”
“Transmitting friend-or-foe confirmation now. Stand by.”
There was something familiar and comforting to Tren about the level of Husnock paranoia that would lead them to treat even one of their own ships as a threat until confirmed otherwise. It was the same level of distrust he had come to expect from his fellow Breen.
“Station’s weapons are releasing their targeting locks,” Bol said.
So far, so good, Tren told himself. “Braz, what’s your status?”
“Logging in to the starport’s control system now. Defense grid override commencing.” A moment later the Spetzkar commander added, “Defense grid neutralized. You are clear to disengage cloaking devices.”
“All ships,” Tren said, patching automatically into the ships’ shared secure channel, “disengage cloaking devices. Stand by to deploy boarding parties to the station.” Closing the channel, he added to Vang, “See it done.”
“Yes, sir.” Vang withdrew to an open station on the port side of the command deck.
Tren was not given to pacing, but he felt the urge now. He was impatient and keenly aware of the danger posed by the Starfleet ships that, in spite of his warning, continued to dog his battle group. I respect Vale’s tenacity. A shame she lacks the discretion with which to temper it.
Vang returned to Tren’s side. “Boarding teams have reached the station’s control center.”
“Ahead of schedule. Good.” He switched to the shared channel. “Braz, is the starport’s comm network intact?”
“Affirmative. Initiating ping sequence. Assuming these translations of the Husnock language are accurate, we should be able to bring all vessels online in a few minutes.”
“Understood. Proceed with due haste.” Tren ambled toward the main viewscreen to admire the assembled Husnock fleet more closely. There were ships of many different sizes and configurations. None appeared to be larger than the one he and his crew had captured. He could only speculate as to what the various ships’ mission profiles had once been. Were there minelayers? Minesweepers? Fast-attack cruisers? Might the Husnock have employed small fighter spacecraft deployed from carrier vessels? There was so much Tren yearned to know about the Husnock’s long-dormant arsenal. You’ll know in time, he promised himself. Be patient.
Minutes bled away while Tren waited. On the main screen the Husnock station loomed; on the aft tactical displays, sensor readouts tracked the approaching Starfleet force. He feared time might not be on his side. Unless we secure the rest of the Husnock vessels before the Titan and her group arrive, we might have to settle for only half a prize—or maybe none at all.
Pessimistic thoughts haunted him. He reflected on the recent high-profile failures of his peers. The destruction of the Salavat shi
pyard under Thot Keer. Thot Konar’s botched assassination attempt on Federation president Nanietta Bacco. Thot Trom’s failure to recover a valuable prototype wormhole-drive starship from an alternate universe. Each defeat the result of Starfleet interference, each one a scathing public humiliation for the Breen Confederacy.
Every moment that elapsed without word from the boarding parties made Tren worry just a bit more that his name would soon be added to the ranks of the beaten and disgraced.
Then came the news from Braz: “Uplinks established and confirmed. Bringing the Husnock fleet’s main reactors online now. Preparing to transmit remote command codes to all vessels. Stand by for final confirmation.”
“Well done,” Tren said. “Once you have access, I want a complete inventory of our ghost fleet’s ordnance for Breen Militia Command.”
“Understood. I’ll signal again when we have an estimated deployment countdown.”
“Acknowledged.” Tren closed his side of the channel and stepped back from the main viewscreen to find Vang once more lifting his snout in a subtle bid for his attention. “Report.”
“The Starfleet vessels are alternately increasing speed and slowing. Either their lead ship is damaged, or they are engaged in a strategy so bizarre it defies comprehension.”
“Have you warned them to cease their pursuit?”
“Yes, as you directed.” Vang glanced toward the tactical displays. “They have not responded, nor have they complied.”
On the main viewscreen, the Husnock fleet glimmered with signs of growing power. Under his helmet, Thot Tren bared his fangs in a grin.
“Let them come, then,” he said. “If they try to stop us, they fly to their doom.”
