STAR TREK: TOS - Final Frontier

by Diane Carey

  “Uh ... how far?”

  April frowned sympathetically. “Sarah ...”

  “I got it.” She put one hypo away, pulled out another one, a smaller one, and checked the cartridge. “This’ll wake him up.” She pressed the hypo to George’s arm.

  He jumped when she injected him with the stimulant, and suddenly he felt as though he’d just had six cups of coffee. Awake and nauseous.

  “What happened?” he asked, pressing his palms to the platform, testing his muscles. “Are we wrecked?”

  “The salvo punctured the hull and damaged some of the lower sections,” April told him, “but by itself it wasn’t nearly as potent as if the other one had gone off with it. We lost three crewmen in the blast, and there were several injuries. But damage to the empress herself is nominal. It fell short of the computer core, so we’re still all right.”

  “Tough ship,” George muttered, remembering the explosion’s bright light and the jarring it had given his legs. He had no idea how much time had gone by; not much, since they were still in the transporter room, but enough that April had had time to digest the deaths of three people.

  “Very. As soon as the bomb went off, I ordered evasive action on impulse thrusters. We’re keeping our distance, but they’re working a pattern to cut us off. I’m hoping we can evade them long enough to reestablish warp power. Can you stand up?”

  “I can try.”

  April grasped his arm with both hands, but it was t’Cael who did the [278] actual lifting. In fact, Sarah pulled April back from helping too much, lest he end up in bed himself. No matter how George tried not to wobble, he couldn’t walk without help. Odd he was leaning against a Romulan. A week ago—a day ago—he’d never have imagined it. Oh, what the hell. It was only t’Cael.

  George cleared his throat and forced himself to think. “Anybody look in the brig? What about Saffire?”

  “We checked,” April said with a shrug. “He’s still in there. There’s no chance he could’ve—”

  “Then there’s got to be somebody else.”

  “And no way to tell who,” the captain admitted as the three of them left the transporter room and headed for the nearest turbo-lift.

  “There could easily be two,” t’Cael said. “Our infiltrators often work in teams. I should have thought of it.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind, like the rest of us,” April said. “We triangulated on the signal and found it came from engineering. Drake went down there, but he can’t just arrest everybody on speculation. Claw is jamming all outgoing frequencies, so the spy won’t be able to send any more signals.”

  As they crowded into the turbo-lift and it started them racing toward the bridge, George turned. “That doesn’t stop him from sabotage. Saffire won’t talk?”

  “Would you?”

  “Maybe you’re asking him too gently.” He leaned heavily on the tubro-lift’s interior hand rail. Then he turned to April and suggested, “What about Wood? Have you checked him out?”

  “George, that boy?”

  “He’s perfect.”

  “How so?”

  “Ask anybody who knows anything about infiltration psychology. He’s young, impressionable, brilliant—too young and brilliant to have sorted out the tricks of life. He’d be easy to seduce. He has access to all systems; what better place to be than Brownell’s assistant if you want to funnel information about technology back to the enemy?” George’s thoughts raced as he spoke, but he saw from the expression on April’s face that he was making at least some sense. He pressed a forefinger into April’s chest and said, “Next to you, he’s the most harmless-looking person on board.”

  Surprisingly, April didn’t argue. His lips were stiff and he seemed [279] dubious for a moment, but pressed the intercom tie-in to the lower decks. “April to Lieutenant Reed.”

  “Reed here.”

  “Is Wood down there?”

  “I haven’t seen Mr. Spit-and-Polish yet, sir.”

  “Find him and detain him.”

  “Really?”

  George shouldered his way in. “Drake, get that kid. It’s just a hunch, but he’s too polite. He’s not assertive enough.”

  “If lack of assertiveness is a problem, I’d better arrest me now.”

  George hit the off-switch without further formality and steadied himself with a long breath. He forced himself to think rationally, to put priorities into his mind, and to place on a back burner the awful knowledge that Saffire’s accomplice still roamed the starship like a shark in dark water.

  Still holding on to George’s arm, t’Cael allowed one final alternative to form in his mind, and spoke it before he thought better of the idea. “Captain, I may be able to defuse the situation even yet.”

  April turned to him. “What do you need?”

  “Allow me to speak to the commander of Soar. He is a loyal officer of the Empire, but a sensible one. I don’t believe he’s fully apprised of the truth.”

  The turbo-lift wheezed to a stop and the door panels sprung open, giving them a chilling view of the bridge’s main screen and its picture of the two Romulan warbirds working a pattern of maneuvers to cut off the starship’s evasive action. If they succeeded, there would be more fighting at sublight before the warp power came on line.

  April looked momentarily at the tactical display screens that showed computer-enhanced diagrams of the starship’s exact position in space in relation to the two pursuing ships. “How much time do we have before they cut us off?”

  “If they keep anticipating me like they have,” Florida said, obviously frustrated, “about eight minutes.”

  “Rot,” the captain muttered as he studied the enemies’ positions for a moment, then quickly digested what t’Cael had really said—the meaning behind his words. The Romulan was really suggesting a complex tangle of factions at work on those ships and throughout t’Cael’s government. Things were going on in this alien civilization that would take graduate study to figure out, that much was becoming obvious. And here stood t’Cael, who already understood it and was willing to [280] deal with it. He held out a hand, gesturing to the communications station. “At your convenience. Claw, open a channel for Mr. Cael to speak to the Soar. Tight gain, and scramble it if you can.”

  The big Indian shrugged and said, “I can’t tell much about their decoding technology, sir, but I’ll try.”

  George followed them, grabbing an earphone from Sanawey and plucking a second one from the mount above the board, which he handed to April. “We’ll listen on the translators.”

  T’Cael turned to face him, and for a moment it was as though they were alone on the bridge. Behind his stoic dark eyes lurked a definite hurt.

  “Still no trust, Kirk?”

  The earphone felt cool in his hand. George paused, then spoke in a low, firm tone. “I trust you,” he said, “not them.”

  T’Cael turned slowly back to the communications panel, but his eyes stayed on George long enough to establish a reciprocity between them. He cleared his mind, clasped his hands, leaned one hip on the console, and waited until Sanawey gave him the go-ahead.

  Then he spoke, carefully controlling his tone. “Vaed’rae, hwaveyiir Zwaan. Tiikhre’Urrt riov Kilyle’a.”

  Sanawey adjusted the translator sequence, then brought up the gain in time for George and April to hear the response. Translating all the words it understood, the computer did a good job of simulating the actual voice of the commander and relaying his shock at what he heard.

  “Primus! But Antecenturion Ry’iak informed us—”

  “That I was dead. He was mistaken. You may wish to verify my voiceprint.”

  “We’re ... already doing that.”

  “How thoughtful,” t’Cael said, and imagined H’kuyu’s embarrassed smile, because H’kuyu, as many might not, understood exactly what he meant.

  “Are you hostage?”

  “No, I’m negotiating. What else were you told?”

  There was a pause, and when H’
kuyu spoke again, it was with the low-slung tone of realization. “Very little.”

  T’Cael leaned even nearer to the sound of his colleague’s voice. “H’kuyu, I must invoke our oldest mnhei’soh, that which rules between you and me.”

  Another pause. “I understand. One moment.” The third pause was [281] longer, and during it they heard a distinct order barked in the background. After a few seconds, H’kuyu came back on. “Our transmission is now private. Say what you have to say.”

  T’Cael longingly eyed the main viewport’s picture of space and Soar, and smiled warmly. He wished Rihannsu and Federation sciences were compatible enough to give them views of each other. In his mind a clear image formed of H’kuyu’s craggy features, surrounded by long, wavy, gray-shot hair. How many years had they served aboard ships that were only a signal apart? A strange coincidence in a fleet that unofficially kept its officers moving around to prevent their developing long-term relationships. Usually only the power of high rank could afford a Rihannsu officer the luxury of keeping trusted confidants within reach. T’Cael and H’kuyu had been near each other since they were subcenturia, since long before either could wield such power. Luckily, they’d been smart enough not to point that out to anyone else.

  He kept control of his voice and plunged on. “For the good of the Empire, this ship must not be captured.”

  “You wish us to destroy it, Primus?”

  T’Cael ruefully smiled at H’kuyu’s interpretation. “This ship must be set free, this incident forgotten. Or we will all play into the Supreme Praetor’s personal game of acquisition.”

  “You ask much.”

  “I have never asked so much,” t’Cael agreed. “But I know you. You don’t want to do Ry’iak’s bidding. It can mean disaster for our civilization if tides are not turned.”

  “I’ll consider your words,” H’kuyu said. “The mothership is nearly within range. I’ll consult with the Grand Primus—”

  “The Grand Primus cannot be trusted.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I wish I didn’t know him so well, but I am certain.”

  “Captain,” Sanawey’s rumbling voice interrupted, “the other ship is picking up our gain. They’re tapping in on the conversation. I think they’re trying to descramble it with some kind of frequency disintegrator.”

  “Let’s hope they can’t,” April murmured, and tapped t’Cael’s shoulder. “Mr. Cael—”

  “I understand,” t’Cael said quickly in English, then immediately fell back into his native language. “Have you spoken to Kai?”

  [282] “No ...” H’kuyu sounded hesitant, as though he was gradually piecing together the truths and separating them from the deceptions.

  “He may be dead,” t’Cael said bluntly.

  “Indeed ...”

  “Are you in contact with Raze?”

  “Limited, Shall I relay your orders?”

  “No. They don’t know I’m here. We may be able to see how far Ry’iak’s subterfuge will go if he believes I’m dead. He may hang himself. Be cautious, my friend. He is the predator among us.”

  “I shall attempt to contact Subcommander Kai.”

  “Who was it who ordered you to detonate the hja? Was it Ry’iak?”

  “I’m unsure about that, Primus. A Rihannsu agent aboard the battlecruiser transmitted a message to Raze, and we were ordered to effect detonation. I had no idea you were there.”

  “Yes, about this agent—”

  Florida’s shout from the helm cut him off. “Captain, Raze is moving in!”

  April swung around. “Evasive action!”

  “They’re firing!”

  T’Cael straightened suddenly, seeing something in the way Raze moved—something in the tilt of its wings or the angle of its turn—that the Federation crew didn’t perceive. He sucked in his breath, then shouted into the communications relay. “H’kuyu! Ra’Traikh hu’yyak—”

  But the warning fell unheeded. There were two ships. Space lit up, and then there was one.

  Nothing was left of Soar but a spreading cloud of energy particles.

  A glitter of pulverized matter washed over the starship. On her bridge the crew stared outward, hardly believing that there could be such uncloaked brutality in their universe.

  “They fired on their own ship ...” Florida rasped. His voice cracked. “They took out their own people ...”

  In the viewscreen, Raze turned gracefully as if to say, I own space. I own you.

  The cloud that had been Soar thinned and faded away.

  Misery destroyed the smoothness of t’Cael’s features. Amidst the agony of loss, he recognized the beginning of true chaos—Rihannsu had begun killing Rihannsu. As he watched Raze sweep outward, he could barely compose himself. The pain showed clearly on his face. His friend, his fleet ...

  [283] He preferred to say nothing, but the inclination to be honest with Captain April was once again overwhelming. As the Federation captain watched him solemnly, t’Cael murmured, “The sport ends. The massacre begins.”

  April took a sympathetic step toward him, but there was nothing to say.

  Beside them, George’s fist struck the hand rail. “That’s it,” he snarled. “This has gone far enough! Robert—”

  April shook his head wearily. “It’s all yours, George.”

  “Carlos! Bring up the main batteries. Tie directly in to the warp engines. Let’s introduce those bastards to full power, Starfleet style!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  George rounded the hand rail’s end, dropped onto the command deck, and slid into the navigator’s seat next to Florida’s helm. Side by side, the two men urged the starship into a graceful arch, and she bore down upon the last ship of the Swarm.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE STARSHIP TURNED to face her enemy. It was as though the great white shark had awakened.

  And Raze knew it. The enemy’s sensors easily picked up the surge of power as the starship’s drive and defense systems began drawing on the giant warp factory in her core.

  As soon as the starship pivoted to attack stance, the last bird of the Second Imperial Swarm corkscrewed and ran for its life, heading away at full sublight.

  “Squealing like a pig,” George crowed. “Run, you tuck-tails.”

  Nearby, t’Cael indulged in a devilish nod, imagining Ry’iak squirming before the Grand Primus’ questions. Where’s your Field-Primus? Where’s your commander? Then where’s your subcommander? In fact, where’s your Swarm?

  “Captain, I’m picking up an incoming vessel,” Sanawey reported. “Approaching at high warp. Whatever it is, it’s big.”

  “The mothership, no doubt,” t’Cael said. By now even he was numb to his own announcement. He never guessed this Federation vessel, or any single vessel, could survive under siege by a fully armed Swarm, but it had. Who could’ve known they would have to face the mothership?

  “Power consumption must be incredible at the speed they’re moving,” Hart observed, shaking her head at her subsystems display.

  [285] Slouching in the command chair, with the lapels of his old Irish sweater bunched up under his ears, Captain April was the eminence of fatigue. “Mr. Cael, what can you tell us?”

  T’Cael moved toward him. “Our main fleet is made up of many divisions of ships—destroyers, monitor cruisers, prowlers, patrollers, battleships. There are only six motherships, which are our carriers. Each mothership carries six Swarms. The mothership travels and fights at hyperlight, while the Swarms are for sublight duty. They are taken to their area of assigned space by the mothership and detached there. While mounted for hyperlight, the mothership’s weapons and drive energy is channeled through the Swarm ships it carries, which allows for a considerably enhanced power reserve. The motherships are the fastest of our fleet, their officers our most experienced. Even as this one approaches, I’m certain others are on the way.”

  This news, while not altogether unexpected, shaded the bridge with omen. All these people
, who had helped design and build this ship, who were the cream of the Federation’s crop of engineers and scientists, knew beyond doubt just what this ship was capable of. In their minds they imagined leveled planets, demolished solar systems, wrecked fleets of enemy ships who never guessed the little struggling collection of cultures at the edge of the galaxy could focus such power into a single vessel. They imagined these things, knowing that this hadn’t been the purpose they’d envisioned for the starships when they started out. Now they sat aboard the single most powerful vessel ever imagined by science. The war hadn’t even started, and already they were battle-weary.

  War. Such a small word.

  Hart, having straightened up somewhere in the middle of t’Cael’s report, glared at him and drably asked, “How often do you people do this sort of thing?”

  T’Cael faced her and said, “Seldom, but we’ve made a mastery of being ready.”

  “You mean looking for an excuse,” George amended from the navigator’s post.

  “George,” April began, his tone both warning and scolding.

  But this time there was no heat in t’Cael’s eyes. “He’s right. I have said it myself.”

  “Claw, how long will it take a message to reach Starfleet Command at this distance?” April asked.

  “We won’t be sending any messages, sir,” the astrotelemetrist [286] answered. “That ship out there just came into jamming range, and they’re not going to let us broadcast.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” Florida said, watching the tactical monitor display the closing distance between them and the mothership.

  “I’d call that prophetic,” April said. He seemed crushed. This was the nature of captaincy—to be alone in the face of decision. They would fight again; they had no choice. “Well, you’re getting everything you wanted, George,” he said; the bitterness showed.

  George snapped his head up. “That’s not fair, Robert.”

  April ran a knuckle along his lip, and looked at George. Then he looked back at the main screen, refusing to apologize.

  Knowing now that they must survive at all costs, that they were the Federation’s only chance to be forewarned of the invasion that lurked at their doorways, April forced himself to stand up in spite of the weakness in his legs and a brief wave of dizziness. “I hate saying it,” he rasped, and no one doubted that he did, “but we’ve got to dispatch this mothership quickly and get out of here before we do any more damage. Does anyone have any ideas? Can we disable them enough that we could get away at lightspeed and prevent their following?”