“Two minutes.”
Rick’s console squealed an alert, and his weapons circuits blinked ready to be locked, as Signals shouted, “We have a lock. A definite lock.”
“Identify!”
“Shielded vessel, silenced and not under power, one minute ten seconds off the lightway.”
“Weapons!” Guns shouted. “We confirm an armed vessel, Skipper! Their phasers are armed!”
“On my command!”
“In range in fifteen seconds and counting!”
“Shields on fu—”
Then they were struck, and struck hard.
Chapter Nineteen
Perhaps it was because Rick did not know enough to keep careful hold of his weapons station. Perhaps it was his youth. Perhaps it was because of who he was and where he came from. Whatever the reason, Rick managed to fend off the stunners for the single instant required.
Barely.
A blinding flash of crackling energy exploded through the flight deck. Flickering blue tentacles of lightning raced up the consoles and passed through every body. The weapons lieutenant was blasted clear of his straps and halfway over his console. The number three screamed in agony and covered his eyes. Guns bellowed and went slack. Rick was aware of an awful pain searing his brain and locking his muscles down tight, yet still he somehow managed to hold his focus.
The moment before being struck, he had been glorying in the thrill of a surprise attack. His tracking system was focused down tightly on the alien ship, and as he monitored his tracking controls he was also extended outward, the warrior creeping up toward the enemy, weapons at the ready. In the span of two heartbeats he saw how the lieutenant honed in on the band of power that belted the ship’s lower base, locking his weaponry on target, waiting for Guns to fire his neutron cannon and blow the shield. He saw how the number three had his weapons trained on the vessel’s silent trail, where only a thin stream of emitted energy gave notice that the vessel was powered up to full, ready to move in for the kill.
But just as Guns prepared to blow the shield, Rick saw a bluish ball of energy race across the distance separating them and strike the nose of their own ship. In his convulsion, Guns fired off one cannon, and as the pain mounted in Rick’s skull he saw the missile strike the shield a glancing blow, exactly as Guns had intended. The pirate’s shield exploded in a fiery cloud of sparks, and the kinetic energy sent the vessel spinning slightly, so that the pirate’s second stunner shot up and over their ship’s nose.
Rick did not give it any conscious thought whatsoever. Screaming his rage and his determination not to give in to the pain, he locked in his controls to the lieutenant’s tracking and weapons, and fired.
Their vessel shuddered under the backlash from firing three massive phaser bolts at once. Rick shouted his defiance as the bolts blasted their target, melting a glowering red belt around half of the pirate ship’s lower base.
Guns heaved a heavy groan and struggled up in his seat.
“The controls! Get the controls!” Rick screamed, scarcely hearing himself as he worked to pull over the number three’s tracking and weapons. As the pirates fired their thrusters, Rick’s second batch of missiles smashed in and melted the tubes closed.
“They’re rotating!” Guns roared, his fingers stabbing at his own power deck.
“Got ’em!” Rick shouted, racing against the menace of undamaged weapons being rotated into firing position. As the pirate ship’s other side came into view, Rick fired a third volley, in sync with the stun-bolt blasted off by Guns. They shouted their defiant glee as the molten belt extended fully around the enemy’s weaponry, and glimmers of angry lightning raced up and down the ship’s surface.
“Firing second stunners!” Guns shouted, and again the blue-white powerball blasted the pirate’s nose, sending the lancing light-traces along and through the ship.
“Hold your fire,” Arnol ordered hoarsely. “Helmsman.”
“He’s still out, Skipper.”
“Take over, Lieutenant. Retrace to the near point and hold position. Guns, train all weapons on the vessel.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Skipper,” the junior signals officer announced, “we are receiving a distress call.”
“Order them to surrender. Keep alert, Guns, this may be a ruse.” He stabbed his console. “Chief Petty Officer, are you there?”
“Partly, Skipper. Only partly. What happened?”
“We took a stun-bolt direct amidships, but it looks like we survived and conquered. How’s our battle readiness?”
There was a longish pause, then, “Couldn’t muster more than half the main force, Captain. Maybe not even that.”
“Captain,” the junior signals officer announced, “they accept our surrender demand.”
“Hold to your weapons, Guns.”
“Finger’s on the trigger, Captain.”
“What’s their attack status?”
“No sign of power to any weapons system.”
“Order them to power down, suit up, open all bay doors, and bring all uninjured personnel into the outer holds where they are visible.” He keyed and demanded, “You hear that, Chief Petty Officer?”
“Aye, Skipper.” Life and strength were returning to Tucker’s voice.
“Ready what men you can muster, weapons and suits.” Arnol looked down and ordered, “Signals, inform me the instant their power is fully damped. Helmsman, at that point, I want you to extend the gravity net and draw them close enough for us to fasten a line.”
“Power damped, Skipper. Bay doors opening.”
“Gravity net extending, Captain.”
“Full shield, Guns. Defense perimeter on attack.”
“We’re ready, Skipper.”
“All right. Tuck, prepare to board and take prisoners.” He glanced around. “And have a medic sent to the flight deck. We’ve got seven, no eight, wounded up here.”
“Ten,” Rick corrected, his gut clenching at the sight of Wander and Consuela sprawled motionless half-on and half-off their dais, their limbs intertwined. Even unconscious, they remained together.
Chapter Twenty
The lean, dark man and the wizened, old crone both wore the black robes of diplomats, with shoulders and sleeves chased in the silver filigree of senior rank. They gave the scarcest of bows before the Prince Commander’s desk and announced, “We have news.”
“I assumed nothing less,” the Starfleet commander replied dryly, “given the fact that you insisted on seeing me without delay, despite the fact that we are currently engaged in three major conflicts.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, the man stated, “Our monitors report that someone seeks to invade our most secret ways.”
The Prince Commander leaned back in his seat. “This is not what I wish to hear. Especially now.”
“They have not yet found the door,” the crone reported. “Yet they seek.”
The Prince Commander, distant heir to the Hegemony throne and Commander of His Majesty’s Primary Battle Fleet, rose from his seat and began pacing the cold stone floor. He positively loathed this Starfleet monitoring station, for that matter, and was immensely glad that he did not have to appear more than once or twice each Standard year. The only reason he came at all was because it housed the Talents.
This fortress world possessed the charm and ambiance of a deserted tomb. The walls were thick and overly high, constructed of close-fitting, reddish gray stone. Interior and exterior were totally unadorned. The hallways were long and windowless and winding and narrow, filled with the anguish of all Talents who had been trapped and tortured there in eons past. The Prince Commander did not object to the years of rigid discipline forced upon all Talents. He merely objected to having it under his command.
To make matters worse, the senior diplomats who were assigned liaison duty between the Talent station and his own command positively made his skin crawl.
From the relative safety of his office’s most distant corner, he demanded, “So these
forbidden ways do truly exist? I always thought they were the stuff of legends.”
“That a man of your rank and station might consider them mere legends,” the crone replied, swiveling upon a cane whose handle was carved from a single jewel, “is a testimony to the thoroughness with which we serve the Hegemony.”
“Of course,” the Prince Commander acquiesced. “So we are faced with the threat of a renegade Talent.”
“Perhaps,” the crone corrected. “It appears so.”
“Appears? You’re not sure?”
“We have lost contact with one of our ally vessels. And now we are picking up strange news. Rumors of a freighter inbound for Avanti with a captured pirate vessel.”
“Impossible.”
The other diplomat was a shrewd and ambitious man who ruled the planetary station with an iron fist. He tolerated the foul conditions only because his future advancement was at stake. “My monitors claim that it is so.”
“Then your monitors have made a mistake.”
“Doubtful,” the crone quavered. “Most doubtful. These Talents guard their right to utilize the system’s most powerful mind-amps with great zealousness.”
The Prince Commander inspected his appearance in the full-length mirror. The tailored white robe hung most attractively over his corpulent form. The belt of woven gold managed to draw in his distended belly, and the high jeweled collar hid his chin’s multiple folds. “If that is the case—”
“Then it is only a matter of time before the door is breached and the forbidden ways trod once more,” the crone droned ominously.
“I suppose I must alert Central Starfleet Command,” the Commander muttered, shuddering at the thought of bearing such news to the Prince Regent. Then he had an idea. “But you say that these are mere rumors?”
“That is so.”
“Then perhaps the renegade can be eliminated before confirmation has been received. That is, if he exists at all.”
“Difficult in the extreme,” the male diplomat protested.
“Yes, or captured by other pirates,” the Prince Commander went on happily.
“We have done as ordered,” the lean man retorted. “We have come to you with news of possible renegade Talents. What you do with this news is up to you.”
The crone wheeled to face her associate and protested, “But this is a Talent we are discussing!”
“A renegade Talent,” he countered.
“Yet a Talent just the same. No one else could have detected the forbidden way and done so without monitoring equipment!”
“If it was done at all,” he responded.
“Whether or not the rumors are true must be checked out thoroughly,” the crone snapped back. “But if they are, such a Talent must be brought to us and utilized!”
“Your report is duly noted,” the Prince Commander said cheerfully, delighted at the sight of diplomats quarreling among themselves. They and the sensitives were the scourge of the empire, the lot of them.
He returned to his desk and seated himself. “Naturally, I could not take such a report to Starfleet Command without further verification. But in the meantime, I want you to use all powers at your disposal to eradicate this threat, if it exists at all. Yes. Then I should be able to report that the threat was identified and eliminated. Is that understood? Very well. Then, you are dismissed.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Rick keyed the door and announced, “Ensign Richard reporting as ordered.”
“Enter.”
He walked in and stood stiffly at attention. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”
“That’s right.” Flanking the captain were the senior helmsman, his head swathed in bandages, the senior weapons officer, and the acting signals officer, and power control officer—their superiors were still laid up. “Have a seat, Ensign.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
The captain’s quarters were both large and sumptuous, compared to the rest of the ship. A polished table extended the length of the carpeted front room, a console flanking the captain’s head position. Two side alcoves contained softly glowing light-sculptures. Rows of framed commendations rose above the bookshelves. Ornate panels separated this room from the captain’s private quarters.
“Guns has been relating to us your actions, or as much as he can remember. I want you to tell me what happened.”
Rick swallowed. The stern visages facing him gave no indication as to whether they meant to reward him or demand his summary resignation. “It’s all a little fuzzy, Captain.”
“Take your time. Try to make it as complete as you can.”
Rick struggled to make sense of the flurry of images. So much, so incredibly much had been packed into a battle that had scarcely lasted twenty seconds. He finished lamely, “I’ve probably forgotten something important, but I think that’s everything.”
Captain Arnol nodded once and glanced back down at the papers before him. “Your records indicate that other than your inbound transport, this is your first voyage into space. And that up to now you have received no formal training, as it was not available on your homeworld.”
“I guess that’s all pretty much true, Captain,” Rick replied feebly.
“This beats all I’ve ever heard,” the helmsman muttered.
“I agree,” the captain said. “Yet nonetheless we must accept the fact that we are all alive and here today because of this young man’s swift actions. Ensign, I am entering into your permanent records that your handling of this emergency saved the life of every man and woman on this ship.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Rick managed.
“Furthermore, as soon as we dock I am sending a message to Starfleet Command recommending that you be put up for the Medal of Valor. The recommendation will bear the signature of every officer on this ship.”
To that Rick could find no reply.
“On behalf of all who serve under me, I extend to you my heartiest thanks and congratulations.” The captain rose to his feet, and all followed his lead. “I am hereby granting you a temporary battlefleet promotion to lieutenant, and assigning you full watch status as Fourth Weapons Officer. This ship normally does not hold such a position, but I want you to go on record as a watch officer, and Guns says he would be willing to add you to his group.”
“Proud to stand with him,” the veteran growled. “Very proud.”
“I have searched the records and found nothing to suggest that an ensign has ever been granted a battlefleet promotion even before cadet training, and there is every likelihood that this decision will be overturned when you return to Fleet Command. But nonetheless it will remain on your record. And if I have anything to do with it, your actions will go down in battlefleet history as an example which other ensigns should strive to follow.”
“I found these among my own articles, thought you might care to use them.” Arnol stood, picked up a small wooden box from his console, walked over, and handed it to Rick. “Your bars of rank, Lieutenant. Wear them with pride.”
Rick looked down at the shining silver bars, and for a moment they seemed to shimmer before his eyes. He struggled to mouth the words, “Thank you, Captain.”
“You have earned them.” The captain marched back to his place, and still at attention, announced, “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
In a daze, Rick walked back out into the passage. He leaned against the wall and felt a sudden surging desire to run and share the news with someone, anyone who could share the thrill and make it real.
Almost without realizing it, he found himself walking down the corridor and entering sickbay. The medic gave him a friendly nod, noted the bars on his shoulders, and grinned. “The skipper did it, then. Congratulations.”
“The whole crew knows about it?”
“Everybody who can walk and talk. You’re the hero of the hour.” He sobered as his glance shifted to the door behind him. “You and the pair of sensitives in there.”
“How are they?”
“Hard to tell. Th
e girl’s from your homeworld, I hear.”
“That’s right.”
The medic walked over, keyed the door, motioned Rick forward. “Hard to know exactly what’s up with a sensitive who’s been power fried, so I’ve let them sleep and just kept a careful watch.”
The sickbay was crammed with beds and patients. Rick craned through the doorway, saw the two motionless forms lying in beds set side by side, both surrounded by softly beeping monitors. “She looks so pale.”
“Deep sleep,” the medic said calmly. Clearly he was not worried. “Done a little checking. Best thing that can happen under the circumstances, or so the books say. They both woke up a couple of times and drank some water, with my help of course. Even said a couple of words to each other. Almost as though each came back just to make sure the other was doing all right.” The medic smiled a second time. “Never thought I’d see the day when I would care about a pilot’s health.”
“Scouts,” Rick corrected, and for some reason felt a pang of jealousy. Not at the attention given these two, but rather over the feelings they showed for each other, even here, even now.
“Not anymore,” the medic replied. “Not in my book. Anybody who’s done what they’ve done deserves the full ranking.” He gave the pair of beds a confident nod. “Give them time, they’ll come around. They’re strong, they’re sharp, and they’ve got the greatest reason of all to recover.”
“What’s that?”
The medic’s third grin was the biggest of all. “Love.”
****
Consuela drifted in and out of sleep, moving back and forth in a rushing surge of waves. Steady and deep, carrying her away and then returning. She heard the calm voices, did not care to focus and listen, because to do so would mean rising to full consciousness. And she was not ready for that. Not yet.
She felt the reassuring return of strength to her limbs, and the gradual easing of the pain in her mind. The shock had been staggeringly powerful, but the memory of her experience in the training hall helped her cope. That and Wander’s presence. She had woken up several times, managed to turn her head and see that he was there and resting easily, even spoken to him once. For the moment, it was enough.
The Dream Voyagers Page 13
