by Dayton Ward
“Is the thing carrying some kind of shielding to hide it from sensors?” Blair asked, turning his attention back to the main viewer and the image of the communications buoy. “Or was it just powered down until now?” Even as he asked the questions, he knew what his science officer would say.
Sutherland replied, “No odd shielding that I could find, and even if it had been drifting inert for however long, our sensors should still have picked it up.” She nodded toward the viewscreen. “That thing wasn’t here five minutes ago, sir.”
“Then where the hell did it come from?” Mbugua asked from where he stood at the bridge railing, looking up at Blair and Sutherland.
Her attention attracted by an indicator light flashing on her console, Sutherland turned and once more peered into the workstation’s hooded sensor viewer. “Okay, this is starting to get annoying.” When she looked away from the console, a frown clouded her features. “Sensors have just detected another buoy, seventeen million kilometers from our present position, toward the system’s outer boundary.”
Not liking the implication of what he was hearing, Blair said, “And you’re sure it wasn’t there before, just like this other one?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the science officer replied. “Sensor logs show no record of it.”
From behind Blair at the communications station, Ensign Ravi-shankar Sabapathy said, “Captain, the second buoy is now transmitting its own signal.”
Blair gestured to Sutherland. “Feed those coordinates to the helm,” he said as he stepped down into the command well and moved to the center seat. “T’Lehr, take us there, safest speed.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Lieutenant T’Lehr, and the Vulcan began inputting the appropriate instructions to the helm console.
Settling into his chair, Blair said, “Sutherland, let’s have a full-spectrum sensor sweep of the system. Give me everything you’ve got.”
From where he still stood at the railing near Sutherland’s station, Mbugua said, “What are you thinking, sir?”
“That somebody’s screwing with us,” Blair replied as he again used his towel to wipe his face. It was a gut call, nothing more, but an instinctual feeling he had learned long ago not to dismiss out of hand.
Mbugua frowned. “We’re a long way from Romulan space, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He nodded toward the viewscreen. “The Klingons are just down the block, but cloaking technology doesn’t strike me as their cup of tea.”
“Don’t believe everything you’ve heard or read,” Blair countered. “There are plenty of Klingons in the Empire who’d happily use a cloaking device if they thought it could get them close enough to cut your throat with one of those ceremonial daggers they love so much. That said, a Klingon ship commander wouldn’t play games like this.” Pausing, he shook his head, regarding the image of asteroids sliding past the Defiant as the starship made its way through the field. “No, this is something else.” Would a Romulan ship venture so far into enemy territory, even with the ability to shield itself from sensors? Blair held no illusions about such a scenario, provided the vessel’s commander had good reason for such an act.
So, the question—assuming it is the Romulans—is: What’s the point of all this?
“Captain!” Sutherland called from her station, and Blair looked up to see the science officer alternating her gaze between her hooded viewer and other screens and readouts at her console. “I think … wait … that’s not right.” When she frowned, Blair was sure he heard the science officer mutter a particularly colorful Andorian oath before she turned to face him. “Sir, I thought sensors registered some kind of spatial distortion, just for a second, but it’s gone now.”
Rising from his seat, Blair moved to the edge of the command well, placing his hands atop the red railing. “What kind of distortion?”
Sutherland shook her head. “I’m not sure, sir. I’ve never seen anything like it, natural or artificial. According to sensor logs, it reads almost like background ionization, but there’s nothing here that could be the cause of something like that.” Drawing what Blair took to be a calming breath, she added, “It has to be artificial, sir.”
“Another ship,” Blair said, at almost the exact instant as Mbugua offered an identical declaration. The two men exchanged a knowing glance before the first officer turned from the railing.
“Red Alert,” he called out, his voice booming across the bridge. “All hands to battle stations.”
Moving back to his chair at the center of the command well, Blair said, “Shields and weapons, T’Lehr. We’re going hunting.”
Even as he gave the orders, Thomas Blair gripped the arms of his chair and felt a knot form in his gut, his anxiety increasing as he considered the nature of the quarry they might be seeking.
Happy birthday to me.
The bridge of the I.K.S. Kretoq was dark and all but silent. The battle cruiser’s primary power generators had been taken off-line, with reserve power being channeled only to systems absolutely required to operate the vessel. Those consoles that were active were muted, their controls casting a pale red glow only just visible in the room’s subdued lighting. From where she sat in the command chair, Toqel sensed the anxiety all around her as she and everyone else on the bridge watched the image of the Starfleet vessel on the main viewscreen. Drifting among the asteroids of the Alamedus system—labeled the Dar’shinta system on Romulan star charts—it rotated in space as it altered its trajectory and began drawing closer to the Kretoq.
“Maintain position,” Toqel ordered. The chair’s high, unpadded backrest was uncomfortable, designed for Klingon physiology as well as a mindset that viewed concepts like ergonomics as crutches for the weak. Despite the ache at the small of her back, Toqel forced aside the compulsion to rise from the seat, not wishing to appear frail in the eyes of those few Klingon warriors present on the bridge.
“Range ten thousand mat’drih and closing, Proconsul,” reported Rezek, the young centurion standing alongside his Klingon counterpart at the tactical station. “They know we are here.”
“They suspect something is here,” Toqel corrected without turning her attention from the viewscreen, tapping the nail of her right forefinger on the arm of her chair. Casting a glance toward Rezek, she asked, “What’s the status of the cloak?”
Pausing to study one of the tactical station’s status displays and to confirm with the Klingon officer assigned to him, the centurion replied, “Operating at full capacity, Proconsul.”
Toqel nodded in approval. The integration of cloaking mechanisms into the onboard systems of six Klingon vessels had gone surprisingly well, even when accounting for the often radical differences in Romulan and Klingon technology. Her cadre of engineers had negotiated those obstacles in fine fashion, leaving Toqel to test the newly equipped vessels in the only manner that was of any tactical importance. Entering foreign territory and attempting to thwart the sensors of an enemy ship would quell any lingering doubts held by the Senate. Once all such uncertainty was laid to rest, Toqel knew the senators would give her the latitude she needed to further strengthen the Romulan fleet, eventually forging it into a weapon against which no enemy of the Empire would be able to defend.
First things first, however.
“Proconsul,” Rezek said after another moment, “the Starfleet ship is engaging its full array of sensors.” When he spoke this time, Toqel thought she detected a hint of anxiety in his voice. “They appear to be conducting an expansive scan of the immediate area.”
Seated at the helm before Toqel, Centurion Nilona turned in his seat. “Should we cut all remaining power, Proconsul?”
Toqel’s immediate response was to arch her right eyebrow as she regarded him. “That would hardly be conducive to our experiment.” Though the new cloaking field was able to conceal the ship’s motion—
an ability lacking in earlier versions—it could not completely mask plasma emissions generated by the impulse engines. Still, the output from the Kretoq’s maneuverin
g thrusters was easily shrouded. Provided no undue spike in power generation took place while the enemy vessel’s scanners probed for her ship, Toqel had been assured by her engineers that the cloak should withstand even the most intense sensor sweep.
The Starfleet vessel was growing larger on the viewscreen, its maneuvering thrusters propelling the enemy vessel ever closer.
“They detect us!” Nilona said.
Toqel did not agree. Engaging the Kretoq’s impulse engines to give them some distance after depositing the last communications buoy—itself a means of baiting the Starfleet ship and seeing how its commander would react to the mysterious appearance of the objects—likely had triggered an alarm to the enemy vessel’s sensors. It was a calculated risk, but in addition to being a further test of the cloak’s abilities, Toqel also wanted maneuvering room if it became necessary to retreat, or even to turn and fight.
Forcing her voice to remain calm and measured, she ordered, “Stand by to route power to weapons and shields at my command.” Glancing toward Rezek, she called out, “Range.”
The centurion replied, “Sixty-three hundred mat’drih, and closing.” After a moment, he added, “Proconsul, their current course heading indicates they will pass close enough that collision is a danger.”
Very close, Toqel conceded, but still distant enough to suggest the Starfleet vessel’s sensors had not actually locked onto the Kretoq. “Helm,” she said, “lay in a course out of the asteroid field along our current orientation. Adjust your course to utilize the largest asteroids along our flight path for cover. Engage when ready.”
“Understood, Proconsul,” Nilona replied as he leaned over his console and set to work. The only indications of the Kretoq’s acceleration were the telltale movement of a status indicator Toqel noted on the helm console, followed by the image of asteroids passing the edges of the viewscreen as the ship pushed forward.
Stepping away from the tactical station, Rezek moved until he could lean close enough to Toqel to speak without being overheard by other bridge personnel. “Proconsul, that heading will take us to dangerous proximity to them.”
Toqel nodded. “Yes, it will. What better way to test the cloak than from point-blank range?” Her engineers had boasted that the cloaking field would be effective from as close as one ship length away from an enemy target. She intended to test that claim to the fullest extent possible.
“We should attack the Earther ship now,” said Mortagh, the Klingon officer manning the tactical console and the Kretoq’s designated liaison to those members of the original crew who had been retained in order to assist Toqel’s people with the transition to the vessel’s onboard systems. “They do not suspect that we lie in wait, ready to slaughter them like the helpless prey that they are.”
Turning from the viewscreen, Toqel glared at the Klingon with undisguised contempt. “And what point would that serve? If I’d wanted to destroy them, I could have done that long before now.”
Mortagh sneered so that she could see his yellow, uneven teeth. “This childish game wastes a ship of the Kretoq’s stature. Do you know how many glorious victories this ship has achieved in battle? Of those, none were earned by sneaking around like cowards in the dark.”
“I’m not interested in glory,” Toqel countered, returning her attention to the screen. “I care only about defeating the enemies of the Empire.” Glancing at Mortagh one last time, she added, “My empire, not yours.”
Though still uncomfortable with the evolving situation, Rezek had returned to his station without further comment. Once more hovering over the tactical displays, he called out, “They are passing abreast of us, range three hundred mat’drih.” Nothing else was said for the few moments it took for the underside of the Starfleet ship to fill the viewscreen. It now was so close that Toqel could make out the seams in its hull and the markings of its registry number, NCC-1764, rendered in Federation Standard text.
“Proximity warning,” Nilona called over his shoulder, pointing to an alarm indicator mounted above the viewer. It had begun to flare fiery crimson an instant before a dull tone droned from the intercom system. The helm officer returned his attention to the task of guiding the ship through the asteroids, a task now compounded by the need to avoid a collision with the enemy vessel. “Our distance is less than five ship lengths,” he added, his tone laced with caution. “Any closer and we risk making contact with their deflector shields.”
Toqel nodded, feeling as though she could reach through the screen and brush the hull of the other ship with her fingers. “Maintain course and speed.” Glancing around the bridge, she saw the worry on the faces of her crew, and even clouding the stoic countenances of Mortagh and the other Klingons assigned to assist her people. This was probably as close as any of them had ever been to a Starfleet ship. On any other occasion, this would be an unparalleled opportunity to subject the vessel to intensive sensor scans and other means of gathering data on its construction and capabilities. Despite her earlier chastising of Mortagh regarding the need for stealth, Toqel privately admitted a desire to unleash the Kretoq’s weapons. At this distance, the battle cruiser would still inflict massive damage even with the enemy vessel’s defensive shields activated.
No, she reminded herself. This is not the time.
Another moment passed, and then the ship moved beyond the screen’s frame, leaving nothing but a scattered collection of asteroids and open space.
“Hold position,” Toqel ordered. “Put it on-screen.” On the viewer, the Starfleet vessel now was moving away from the Kretoq. “Status?”
“They appear not to have detected us,” Rezek replied, sounding both relieved and impressed. “The cloak is functioning perfectly.”
Toqel smiled in approval. “Well, Rezek, as it seems we will survive the day, please pass along my compliments to Doctor Vaniri and his team.”
A collective murmur of satisfaction circled around the bridge, and Toqel did nothing to quell the newfound confidence. Even Mortagh and his fellow Klingons seemed duly awed by what they had just witnessed. Listening to the reactions taking place around her, Toqel sat in silence, content and yet disheartened to a small degree as she considered what had taken place here.
I am sorry, Sarith, thinking as she did each day of her late daughter, that we could not have accomplished this sooner.
“Maintain course until we’re out of the field,” she ordered, setting aside the sobering thoughts. “Then, set a course for Klingon space and engage at maximum warp.” Sensing a presence near her right side, she turned to see Mortagh standing there, and noted that the liaison maintained his dismissive attitude as he once more glared at her.
“An effective toy you have devised, Romulan,” he said, his arrogance and bluster firmly in place, the heel of his left hand resting atop the pommel of the dagger suspended from the belt at his waist. “And what will you do with it? Attack your enemies, or cower from them?”
Offering a wan smile before returning her attention to the viewer, Toqel replied, “Consider that knife with which you feel the need to assure yourself. In the hand of a savage, a blade can do little but kill, but when wielded by a gifted surgeon, it might save a life. As your knife is a tool, so too is the cloaking field. It can save lives, or be used to take them. The difference, Klingon, is the intention behind its use.”
Mortagh loosed a snort of derision before turning and leaving her. Once more alone with her thoughts, she considered the report she soon would file with her superiors. The cloaking field was ready for a more stringent series of tests: trials in which the risks were far greater and accompanied by rewards of equal merit.
“Rezek,” she called over her shoulder, “prepare a secure communiqué to Romulus. I want to speak to Ditrius.” Her next actions would require soothing the troubled, feeble minds of the senators, and in her absence the vice proconsul would find himself burdened with that thankless duty. It was necessary, if she was to continue with her mission, and she could only hope that the headstrong officer w
as up to the task.
Yes, Toqel decided, the time for bolder, more decisive steps was fast approaching.
6
It was going to be one of those days, Admiral H. Franklin Solow decided as he peered through the expansive picture window of his office. The view of early morning sunlight illuminating the calm waters of San Francisco Bay was spectacular, even with the hint of dark gray beginning to discolor the horizon and promising rain in the hours to come. He already could feel the first dull pangs of a headache beginning to take root beneath his temples, radiating inward and settling in behind his eyeballs. Normally, it would take until late afternoon on a Wednesday—Thursday, if he was lucky—for Solow to begin feeling these initial assaults on his mind and his sense of well-being. When it started before lunch on a Monday morning?
I should’ve called in sick.
Forgoing his normal beverage of choice, black coffee, Solow instead had ordered a tall glass of chilled orange juice from the food slot in his well-appointed office. The juice had aided in swallowing a pair of analgesic tablets he had taken more from habit than with any real hope of alleviating his headache. Releasing a sigh that signaled his surrender to whatever personal discomforts chose to visit him on this day, Solow turned from the window and moved toward the high-backed chair situated behind his wide, polished oak desk. On the desk’s surface was a collection of reports, files, memoranda, and other administrative flotsam which was part and parcel of a Starfleet flag officer’s job. Not for the first time, Solow wondered how quickly the Headquarters building would burn to the ground with the aid of the considerable amount of flammable materials housed just in his office.
And here I sit, with no marshmallows. Truly a tragedy if ever there was one.
Lowering himself into his chair with something less than ideal professional decorum, Solow eyed his assistant, Lieutenant Commander Cheryl Allen, who sat in the middle of three chairs positioned before his desk. The woman’s pale skin contrasted sharply with the bright red of her uniform dress, and, as he often did since the commander had begun working for him, Solow wondered if she might burst into flames when subjected to direct sunlight. “Okay,” he said, pausing to drink from his glass of juice. “Let’s have it.”
