Star Trek - TNG - 08 - The captain's Honor

by David

  THE CAPTAINS' HONOR

  Prologue

  Silence.

  That is the one overriding characteristic of space

  --not the immensity, or the beauty of the

  star-flecked blackness, but the silence.

  The M'dok battleship Restoration

  drifted soundlessly into orbit around Tenara, a

  shining speck in the ebony void.

  On the command deck, however, there was the sound of

  playful chatter.

  "Our greatest victory," commented the

  helmsman.

  The captain nodded. "If this raid

  succeeds," he promised, sinking back onto

  his command cushion, "the heads of our victims will

  adorn your cabins for twelve twelvedays."

  "Great honor," the weapons officer

  purred. "Just three twelvedays ago, my

  year-wife bore a new litter. The little ones

  will enjoy the delicacies we bring them, I

  think."

  Even now, the captain knew, back home

  all the M'dok little ones were yowling with hunger.

  Time was growing ever shorter for all his people.

  A stranger looking at the M'dok captain

  would see none of this tension. They would note

  only his ramrod-straight posture, the

  polished sheen of his uniform and blaster, and, if

  they were conversant with M'dok culture, the

  orange and green horizontal banding around his

  neck that marked him as one of the higher caste.

  If they were not conversant with M'dok culture,

  they might easily mistake the captain for a

  member of any of the other feline races common

  to so many class-M planets. Which would be a

  mistake--for unlike the other, more typically

  gentle feline races, the M'dok had once

  ruled this entire quadrant of space. Ruled

  with an iron fist--that is, until the coming of the

  Federation had robbed them of their colonies, and

  confined them to their own stellar system. Now, with this

  ship, the captain intended to put right that ancient

  wrong.

  "Alarm," said the sensor officer suddenly,

  his back arched. "A starship is approaching,

  falling into orbit from one-eleven."

  "They request we identify ourselves," added

  the communications officer.

  "Radio silence!" the captain snapped.

  "Categorize."

  "Federation--constitution-class starship,"

  replied the sensor officer. "Considerably

  smaller than our vessel, sir."

  As we expected. The captain nodded

  with a smile of satisfaction.

  The Restoration was larger, more powerful than

  all but the great Galaxy-class starships of the

  Federation, and there were only a handful of those.

  Too few to waste on such a backwater

  planet, certainly.

  He studied the readouts in front of him,

  scratching the edge of the console absentmindedly.

  Power-consumption levels indicated that the

  Restoration outgunned the starship by a factor

  of at least four to one.

  Disappointing. It won't even be a

  fight.

  His officers crouched over their stations

  expectantly, awaiting their captain's

  orders.

  "Sir!"

  It was the communications officer who had spoken

  --a disturbing breach of protocol, considering his

  youth and inexperience.

  The captain turned, ready to admonish the

  young officer.

  The communications post was at the rear of the great

  open command area. The youth was standing there, back

  to his captain, his tail straightened, his

  posture indicating great agitation. "The starship

  has identified itself as the Centurion!"

  At once the captain felt the fur on the

  back of his neck rise. All thoughts of

  censuring the youth were gone, replaced by an

  excitement he knew the rest of his crew shared.

  The Centurion. To destroy this ship

  ...

  There could be no better way to prove to the

  Highest of M'dok the worth of the Restoration

  --and its captain.

  He sprang off his command cushion and stalked

  the length of the deck to the weapons officer's

  side.

  "Unsheathe our weapons, but wait for my

  order to strike."

  "Aye."

  "Another request for identification, sir,"

  the communications officer reported.

  "Do we have visual?" the captain asked.

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Then put it on-screen!" the captain

  snapped.

  The view of space at the front of the

  M'dok command area disappeared--to be replaced

  by the image of a human, sharp-featured, of

  middle age, in what the captain assumed was

  Starfleet uniform.

  "... repeating our request that you identify

  yourselves. This is Captain Lucius Aelius

  Sejanus of the Centurion."

  The M'dok captain leaned forward.

  Sejanus himself, and the Centurion. Even

  within the M'dok Empire, cut off by the

  accursed Federation from galactic civilization

  these past two hundred years, the victories

  of this captain, of this ship, were well-known. The

  defeat of the J'ationakan convoy, destruction of the

  Romulan war fleet in the Adharan system

  ...

  Yes, the Centurion would be a worthy

  opponent and a most worthy test for the

  Restoration.

  "Very well, Captain Sejanus," the

  captain said softly. "We will identify

  ourselves." He clamped a hand on the weapons

  officer's shoulder. "Full phasers ...

  now!"

  The weapons officer pulled the phaser lever.

  Triple bolts of red-yellow light seared the

  darkness ...

  ... and disappeared harmlessly into the Tenaran

  atmosphere.

  "What happened?" the captain hissed

  angrily.

  The weapons officer looked as angry at

  himself. "They dodged, sir, and disappeared."

  "So quickly? Where?"

  The sensor officer scratched his cushion in

  frustration.

  "Sensor traces indicate that they entered the

  atmosphere, sir, but I can no longer track

  them."

  "The atmosphere ..." the captain said

  thoughtfully. "Perhaps we struck them after all?"

  "Possible," said the sensor officer, "but

  unlikely."

  Then he yowled, "Directly below us,

  sir!"

  "Helm--hard left! Fire phasers

  again!"

  The Restoration shuddered as the engines and

  artificial-gravity units whined--but it

  escaped the photon torpedo fired by the

  Federation ship.

  "They just sent a tight-beam subspace

  transmission," the communications offic
er

  reported. "A call for assistance."

  "It will do them no good," replied the

  captain. "Helmsman, take us out of orbit

  --put some hunting distance between us."

  The Restoration leapt ahead, leaving the

  Federation ship still mired in Tenara's

  atmosphere and gravity well.

  "Sejanus has earned his reputation," the

  captain acknowledged. "But a reputation will do

  no good against this ship."

  "Picking them up ahead of us," the sensor

  officer said.

  Now the main viewscreen was filled with the

  image of space--and ahead of them, the

  Centurion, a silver dot, moving slowly,

  erratically around the planet below.

  "It appears we struck them after all," the

  sensor officer said. "My readings indicate

  loss of warp-speed capability, power output

  in their engineering section down by fifty percent."

  "Close on them," the captain said harshly.

  He savored the moment, committing it to memory,

  so that for years to come he could tell of his defeat

  of the Federation's greatest warrior.

  The captain turned his back on the weapons

  officer and took up his seat on the command

  cushion. "Once we are within range, you have

  my leave to destroy them."

  "Then Tenara will be ours for the taking."

  Chapter One

  According to the regulations manual he had so

  recently finished reviewing, a starship

  bridge officer receiving an emergency call for

  assistance should pass the message on to the

  senior officer on the bridge in a calm,

  detached manner.

  But when Lieutenant Worf received the

  distress signal from the Centurion, he

  responded not in the manner of the trained

  Starfleet professional, but as a

  Klingon warrior with a thousand generations of

  warrior blood running through his veins.

  In other words, he yelled.

  "Commander Riker!"

  The Enterprise's first officer, who had

  been sitting conversing amiably with ship's

  counselor Deanna Troi, started forward in

  his chair.

  Worf immediately realized he had spoken rather

  louder than he'd intended, and made a

  distinctive effort to calm down.

  By the book, Lieutenant, he told

  himself. By the book.

  "Sir, I am receiving a request for

  assistance from the USS Centurion. She is

  in orbit around Tenara and is coming under heavy

  attack from an unknown assailant."

  Riker jumped to his feet. "Data, how

  soon can we get there?"

  At the ops console, the android lieutenant

  spoke calmly and precisely. "Two hours

  minimum, sir, at top warp speed. At our

  present rate, two days."

  "Damn," Riker muttered. "Maximum

  warp, then. Immediately."

  "Warp nine-point-six--aye, sir."

  Worf knew the commander's thoughts paralleled

  his own. Even at maximum warp, we'll be

  there in time to do nothing better than pick up the

  pieces. If there are any. Worf felt the

  subtle sensation throughout his body as the ship

  accelerated.

  Riker turned to Worf again. "Send a

  message to the Centurion that we're on the

  way."

  Worf complied as Riker touched the fleet

  insignia on his chest and spoke again.

  "Captain Picard, to the bridge."

  "The Centurion," Worf said after he had

  completed the transmission. "Captain

  Sejanus' ship."

  Riker nodded. "Let's hope we get there

  in time."

  All ships, all lives, were equally

  valuable, but it was difficult to believe that a

  ship and a commander so famous for daring exploits,

  so apparently invulnerable, could be destroyed.

  That can't happen to legends, Worf thought--

  but of course he knew better.

  There were numerous examples of just such

  occurrences quoted in the Starfleet regulations

  manual.

  When the call came, Jean-Luc Picard

  was sleeping in his cabin. Riker's voice

  requesting his presence on the bridge brought him

  awake instantly. As Picard's eyes

  opened, he was sliding off the bed. He pulled

  on his boots quickly, but without wasteful haste.

  Other than his boots, he was fully

  dressed he had learned years ago that it was

  wisest to nap fully clothed and lying atop the

  covers rather than under them. At first he had found

  his naps less than re/l, but he'd adjusted

  and realized the truth in the old saying that a

  starship captain is always on duty.

  Minutes later, the turbolift doors

  whooshed open and Picard stepped out onto the

  bridge. Riker turned quickly at the sound.

  "Captain."

  "What is it, Number One?" Picard's

  eyes swept over the bridge, noting the

  quiet efficiency of his crew.

  "We just received a distress signal, sir."

  Riker turned. "Lieutenant Worf, play

  that message again."

  The scene of onrushing stars on the forward

  viewer vanished, replaced by a hugely

  magnified view of a man. Behind him, Picard

  could see busy movement, figures passing from

  one side to the other, and crew positions much like

  those on the bridge of the Enterprise. The man

  himself was stiff, erect, proud, his gray hair

  cropped close to his head.

  "This is Captain Lucius Aelius

  Sejanus of the USS Centurion," he

  said, his voice beautifully modulated and

  resonant, each word carefully formed. "We

  are in orbit about the planet Tenara and have just

  come under attack by a powerfully armed unknown

  assailant. I request immediate assistance from

  any Federation or allied vessel within range

  of Tenara. If you are unable to come to our aid,

  I request that you pass this message along to the

  nearest Federation starbase or outpost." The

  image faded, replaced by the starfield.

  "Lucius Sejanus," Picard said

  softly. He stared at the screen for a long

  moment, as if fascinated by the afterimage in his

  mind. Finally he tore his eyes

  away. "Status, Number One?"

  "We received that message about fifteen

  minutes ago, sir. We increased to top warp

  speed immediately, but even so we won't reach

  Tenara for almost two more hours. I'm afraid

  we might get there too late to help."

  Picard nodded. "Still, Number One, your

  swift action maximizes the chance that we'll be

  able to do some good. Does Captain Sejanus

  know we're coming?"

  "We sent out a response immediately, sir,

  but there's been no reply."

  The implications of that hung in the air. After

  a moment, Picard managed a half-smile.

  "If anyone in Starfleet has a chance of

  surviving such an attack, Number One,

  it's Captain Sejanus and the Centurion."

  He wheeled
about, heading for the captain's ready

  room off the main bridge. "I'll want

  to see all staff officers in the meeting room

  in half an hour. And let me know the instant

  you hear anything from the Centurion."

  "Tenara," Jean-Luc Picard said,

  "lies on the frontier between the Federation and the

  M'dok Empire. The Tenarans requested

  membership in the Federation seven years ago, but

  it's only within the last year that they were able to join

  us. The delay was caused by M'dok objections

  to what they saw as the Federation's expansion

  into their sphere of influence. The situation was

  resolved only by years of delicate

  negotiations." Picard stood, and began pacing

  back and forth in front of the spectacular view

  of the onrushing starfield that dominated the meeting

  room. His senior officers--Riker, Data,

  Worf, Chief Engineer Geordi La

  Forge, and ship's counselor Deanna Troi

  --were seated around the conference table in front of

  him.

  "One very important item of the treaty between

  us regarding Tenara," the captain went on,

  "is that, while Tenara is a full member of the

  Federation, we will continue to regard the surrounding

  space as unclaimed territory. Recently,

  however, the Tenarans have come under attack--

  by hostile ships we believe to be M'dok."

  "So nothing has changed, has it,

  Captain?" Geordi said bitterly.

  "They're still up to their old tricks.

  We negotiate with them, but it does no good.

  A peace treaty doesn't mean anything

  to them."

  "The present situation is still quite different from

  open warfare," Picard cautioned. "And you must

  remember that the treaty their empire signed with the

  Federation almost two hundred years ago was

  imposed on them by us. It has never sat well

  with them. By that treaty, we allow them only

  police ships, to keep peace within the small

  space they still control."

  He looked at the assembled officers one

  by one. "I know that the feeling is widespread and

  growing in the Federation that violence is the proper

  response to this violence. That's a normal

  reaction, I suppose. Certainly it's an

  emotionally satisfying one. I hope that everyone

  in this room is capable of stepping back from that

  initial reaction, though, and thinking of the

  consequences. That's exactly the sort of

  difficult task the Federation Council has

  had to undertake. The Centurion has been

  assigned to help the Tenarans protect their