“Hey, hold on,” Umplor said, scratching his protruberant brow. “The command drones need people in the machines, right?” Lokog grunted an affirmative. “But the Partners, they’re all about volunteering and making sure people don’t die in the machines. They aren’t just giving you brain-slaves to die in battle, are they?”
“No,” Lokog said. “Vabion and I took a few Pebru captives to serve the first couple of drones we captured. For the rest, we’ve fed them the servitors and slaves from our own ships—and by now, there are probably a few HemQuch inside the things, guiding them to kill others of their kind.” He laughed. “A fitting fate for all the nobles! When we’re done, they’ll still be running the Empire—from inside the machinery!”
His laughter was interrupted by a call from Ghopmoq aboard SuD Qav. “Captain Lokog! We’re reading multiple ships emerging from warp, heading this way!”
“Starfleet?” Lokog asked. He wouldn’t have expected them to make an aggressive move while trying to negotiate with the Partnership. He hadn’t given them that much credit for deviousness.
“No, sir. Klingon! It’s the Defense Force!”
Lokog shot to his feet. His bloodwine-laden circulatory fluids were slow to follow his brain upward, so he reeled, almost falling until Umplor caught and steadied him. Trying to regain his command dignity, Lokog strode forward and yelled, “To the ships!” Korok started to raise his stein and repeat the cry, then realized it was not a toast and clambered from his seat, tossing the stein aside.
Once aboard SuD Qav’s bridge, Lokog ordered Krugt to cast off from the Ware station. Then he studied the tactical plot of the incoming Imperial ships, puzzling over how they had gotten past the multiple lines of Ware drones between the Empire and here.
The drones, he remembered, whose delivery he’d been delaying to make K’Vagh sweat.
All right, so that may have been a factor. But still, the drones that were on hand should have been enough to hold them at bay.
Unless they made an end run around the drones and came at the Partnership from a different direction. Which could be why it had taken so long for them to get here. The bulk of the fleet must surely be busy with the uprising, but a few ships could have gotten through as an expeditionary probe to size up the Partnership as a threat . . . maybe just to posture and intimidate them. “How many ships?” he asked.
Ghopmoq was slow to answer. Was he counting on his fingers? “Fourteen, Captain.”
Lokog staggered. Then he ran to study the readouts over Ghopmoq’s shoulder. Yes, fourteen ships—and more than half were battlecruisers. This was a whole armada.
“They’re making challenge!” Ghopmoq said.
“Let’s hear it.”
The channel opened, and a heavy-browed young HemQuch appeared on the screen. “This is General Ja’rod, commanding the Imperial invasion fleet. You are all under arrest for high treason against the Klingon Empire. You may surrender like the dishonorable dogs you are . . . or you may attempt to reclaim your honor by dying in battle. Choose well—and choose quickly.”
“Captain,” Ghopmoq said, “I’m getting hails from Bakokh’s squadron and M’Tar’s—there are Imperial fleets attacking their positions as well! This is a full invasion!”
Lokog’s breathing quickened, and he tried to get it under control. “Get me the other squadron captains.”
“I have Korok and the two Balduk ships,” the sensor officer reported a moment later. “The others . . . they have already retreated.” He threw Lokog an imploring look, as if hoping to hear the same order.
“Flee, you cowards!” Korok was shouting drunkenly when he appeared in one segment of the screen. “Lokog, order them back to die like men!”
“We . . . we should regroup,” Lokog replied. “Gather more ships to . . . to make a stronger stand.”
“No,” Korok insisted. “Never again will I be forced into retreat!”
“These are not a handful of miners, you fool! These are the Empire’s finest warriors!”
“I will not be remembered as a coward!” Korok closed the channel with a forceful snap.
“We will go nowhere either,” Umplor said. “We are Balduk! We will stand our ground, even if we must be buried beneath it!” He gave a howling battle cry, which the other Balduk captain echoed.
“The other ships are engaging the Imperial fleet,” reported the gunner, Kalun.
Lokog watched the screen a moment longer as return fire began to blast through the fools’ shields. “Good. Let them buy us time.” Who cares how I’m remembered, if I’m not around to know it? Let the nobles kill each other over honor—I fight to survive. “Get us out of here,” he cried even as Korok’s ship was blown into a cloud of debris. “Do it now!”
14
October 8, 2165
I.K.S. Gantin IKS-302
LIEUTENANT D’KHUR HAD QUESTIONED Worik’s strategy at every turn. “It is reckless,” the warrior-caste officer had insisted, “to sabotage a Starfleet listening station. They must surely monitor them closely. We could alert them to our impending invasion.” Worik had insisted that it was worth the risk to blind the Federation to internal Klingon communications.
D’Khur had objected even more fiercely upon learning of Worik’s full plan—not merely to disable the communications relay that Starfleet used to spy on the Empire, but to install a signal interceptor that would feed it false communications, the better to mislead the Federation. “The modifications will take too long! If Starfleet detects the signal interruption, a warship could arrive before we finish!”
Worik had asked if D’Khur feared the prospect of battle, shaming him into silence. But the captain knew it was only a matter of time before the lieutenant challenged his competence and fought him for command of Gantin, a command D’Khur had been slated for before Worik was promoted above him.
After all, Worik knew that D’Khur was entirely right. He only hoped the proof of that would come before D’Khur decided to kill him at last.
Fortunately, Starfleet’s response time lived up to D’Khur’s warnings. Gantin had barely left the station when a sphere-prowed, cylinder-bodied Starfleet vessel interposed itself in their path. Worik recognized it as a Daedalus-class warship, the kind that had formed the backbone of the Earth fleet during the war with the Romulans. The Raptor-class Gantin, a compact Bird-of-Prey variant with only a dozen men in its crew, was entirely outmatched. The human who appeared on the viewscreen to issue his challenge appeared strong and stalwart as well. “This is Captain Bryce Shumar of the United Starship Essex,” he announced. “Surrender at once or be destroyed.” Shumar did not speak with fury, but he did not need to; it was clear from his eyes that he would make good on that threat. This was a man who had seen many battles and would not shrink from another.
Still, Worik had to make it look good. “Battle stations!” he cried. “Strike them hard!”
D’Khur and the crew fought well, not caring that they had no hope of victory. All that mattered to them was being true to the precepts of a warrior—to strike quickly or strike not, to face the enemy and reveal one’s true self in combat, to seek adversity and destroy weakness . . . and most of all, to choose death over chains and to die standing up.
That was what made it so hard for Worik to betray them—even if, by doing so, he was honoring two of Kahless’s most important precepts, the first and last: to choose one’s enemies well and to guard honor above all. He may not have been warrior caste like his crew, but he shared their belief in the qeS’a’, and he acted now for the Empire’s honor, even at the cost of his own.
And so it was that Worik exploited his crew’s lust for battle to lure them into recklessness, attacking when evasion would be wiser and leaving Gantin open to crippling blows from Essex’s phase cannons and torpedoes. D’Khur was killed when a surge of phased energy penetrated Gantin’s failing shields and blew out a plasma circuit behind
his station. Worik was glad that the first officer had been spared the ignominy that was to follow.
Soon, Gantin was crippled and helpless before Essex, and Shumar appeared again on the cracked viewscreen. Warrior or no, he proved himself human by declaring: “I give you one last chance to surrender your vessel and spare your crew. There is no need for anyone else to die.” Worik wondered how many of Shumar’s crew had been lost. Not too many to close his mind, Worik hoped.
The engineer placed his hand upon the control that would detonate the warp reactor. “I stand ready, Captain,” the veteran soldier announced with pride. The blast might not be enough to destroy Essex at its current range, but it would ensure the crew’s honor and their place in Sto-Vo-Kor.
It was the hardest thing Worik had ever done to open a return channel to Shumar and accept his offer of surrender.
U.S.S. Essex NCC-173
Shumar’s security officer, Morgan Kelly, was a tall, strongly built female whose dark skin and unflinching manner would have let her pass easily as a QuchHa’ Klingon. She and Shumar questioned Worik relentlessly about the purpose behind Gantin’s mission, looming over him in Essex’s compact brig while more guards stood by outside the grilled door. They pressed him to reveal whether his sabotage signaled an imminent Klingon invasion, and if so, where and when it would occur. Worik held out for more than an hour, not wishing to risk their disbelief by giving in too easily.
Finally, Kelly gave him an opening. “You understand what’s going to happen to you and your crew, don’t you?” she asked in a rough contralto voice that Worik had grown to find quite attractive. “You will rot in a Federation prison for the rest of your lives. All of you. But if you cooperate, things would go better for you. You could still see your homes again before you die.”
Worik took his time before answering. The reluctance in his voice was genuine, but hopefully he masked the true reasons for it. “Let them go,” he said.
“What?”
“My crew merely did as I commanded. I am the one responsible for the sabotage. Let them return home in Gantin. Let them escape the dishonor of letting a warship fall into enemy hands. And you can have me . . . and my cooperation. I will answer your questions if you set them free.”
Shumar leaned in closer. “Your crew are enemy soldiers captured in an act of sabotage. We can’t just let them go with a slap on the wrist.”
“You can if it lets you save an entire Starfleet outpost.”
That got their attention. “What outpost? Where?”
“That is my price,” Worik told them, crossing his arms. “Send my crew home, and I will answer.”
Kelly narrowed her eyes, studying him. “Why? Why would a Klingon captain surrender at all, let alone ask mercy for his crew? I thought you guys longed to die in battle.”
He looked at her through hooded eyes. “That is what our leaders teach us we should do. But we still know fear and pain. I saw my first officer die before me—an officer you killed, Lieutenant Kelly.”
“You attacked us first. You killed our helmsman and two engineers.”
“I know. But whoever started the fight, we all die the same. I do not wish to see more Klingons die for a pointless war. My men deserve better.” He grimaced. “They will call me a coward for this,” he said. “They will see that my name is damned for all time. But they will not die for no reason, or share in my dishonor.”
It was at most a partial truth. Even if they were sent home, his men were as good as dead. As honorable warriors, they would be compelled to commit Mauk-to’Vor to cleanse themselves and their families of the shame that Worik had inflicted upon them. They would believe—and the songs of history would record—that Worik had dishonored them by placing their lives above the good of the Empire. They would never know that he had done just the opposite.
But the Earthers did not think like Klingons. To earn their belief, he had to give them a reason for his betrayal that made sense in their terms. He had to make it seem he shared their morality, offering them the opportunity to save lives as an incentive to accept the truth he told them.
Shumar examined him closely. “Are you a coward, Captain Worik? Would you lie to us merely to spare your crew?”
Worik held his gaze without wavering. “If courage means being willing to throw away the lives of my crew in an unnecessary war, then I will embrace the mantle of a coward. And I will tell you where and when the attack will be, so that you may save hundreds of lives on your side . . . and perhaps millions more on both.”
He saw that Shumar was ready to believe him, and his damnation by Klingon history was assured. But this was how it had to be. He had to take the stain of this treason on himself alone, in order to spare his family—most of all Deqan, whose position in the High Council must not be compromised. Worik’s act would help the Federation gird itself against invasion, but that might not be enough to avert the war by itself. Something more would be needed, and Deqan had to be in position to make it happen.
Hoping devoutly that Deqan knew what he was doing, Worik began to speak treason against the Empire.
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco
“According to Captain Worik,” Shumar reported over the monitor in Jonathan Archer’s office, “the first strike in the Klingon invasion will be against the Starfleet outpost on Ardan Four. It will be a swift, surgical attack by at least three warships, and it will come within the week, Worik estimates.”
“Ardan Four,” Archer repeated, sipping his herbal tea; it was too late in the day for coffee. “And you find his intelligence credible?” Even as he asked, he realized that an officer of Shumar’s experience would not call for help just two days after beginning his border patrol unless something were genuinely wrong.
“Ardan makes sense as a target, sir. It’s our strongest fortification in that sector of the buffer space between Federation and Empire, a key resupply and refueling depot for the border patrol and the exploratory fleet. And it’s strategically positioned to be a foothold for an invasion force.”
“All true,” the admiral replied, “but there are other targets just as good. What if this Captain Worik is sending us on a wild-goose chase?”
Shumar grew solemn. “Worik surrendered this information reluctantly, and at great personal cost to his honor. He’s basically damned himself in the eyes of his people and his family to tell us this. At the very least, it’s worth taking seriously. And if I may, sir, given the report that they plan a surgical strike, it wouldn’t require that great a diversion of resources to safeguard against it.”
It was a bit brazen of Shumar to offer such unsolicited advice to his superior officer. Archer knew that Shumar disagreed with him on a variety of issues, most of all on the question of non-interference. But Shumar had accrued an admirable record in the Romulan War, and he took more readily to military matters than Archer ever had. The admiral was not averse to taking his advice.
Heaven knew, he had enough bad news to deal with already. The latest reports from T’Pol and Reed had been disheartening; solving the mystery of the Ware’s origins had brought them no closer to negotiating leniency for Vol’Rala’s crew. Tucker’s proposal to attempt re-engineering the Ware with Willem Abramson’s help was promising, but there was no guarantee it would work.
Meanwhile, Maltuvis was still tearing through the opposition on Sauria; only two major states had yet to surrender to his conquests, and their aerial defenses were inadequate to stand against the space-capable fleet he now possessed. Archer had tasked Starfleet Intelligence with finding evidence that could expose the dictator’s Orion backers, in the hopes that it would undermine his “Sauria for the Saurians” rhetoric and give political ammunition to the opposition; but the Three Sisters, heads of the Orion Syndicate, seemed to have been working on their subtlety following the defeat of their attempts to infiltrate and undermine the Federation. Proof remained elusive, and Maltuvis still had lev
erage over the Federation as long as the threat of war with the Klingons remained.
Which meant that if there was any chance of heading off that war before it started, Archer had to seize it. “All right, Captain. It’s your collar, so it’s your mission. Get Essex to the Ardan system and set a trap for the invaders. Docana and Atlirith are in the sector—I’ll ask Shran to divert them to meet you there.”
“Very good, Admiral. If that’s all . . .”
“One more thing—I’ll talk to Admiral Narsu about sending a ship to transfer your prisoner to Starbase Twelve. We wouldn’t be very good hosts if we took a cooperating prisoner into a war zone.”
“Indeed not, sir. I had planned to contact the admiral myself.”
“Then I’ll let you go ahead with that, Bryce. How are you enjoying having Uttan as your commanding officer, by the way?”
“A bit odd, sir, after fighting side by side so long in the war. But some of us are more comfortable behind a desk than others. He’s doing a fine job of it, sir.”
“Good to hear. Archer out.”
The screen blanked, and Archer shook his head. Some more comfortable behind a desk than others. I just wish I were one of them. He signaled the outer office. “Marcus, get me Admiral Shran as soon as you can.” He sighed. “And have the yeoman bring me some coffee.”
October 9, 2165
Ware orbital station, Etrafso system
“They want us to stop?” Hari Banerji asked in mildly cross befuddlement, which was as close as he ever seemed to come to anger. “But I’ve only just begun working!”
Vol’Rala’s aging human science officer was crouched beside the Ware station’s primary data core along with Tucker, Akomo, Vabion, and T’Pol, the latter of whom had just arrived from Endeavour to deliver the message from the Senior Partners. “According to the Partners,” T’Pol told the engineering team, “the Klingon invasion takes priority. They request that we join in the border defense efforts rather than continuing our work here. Their drone fleets are defending their borders as well as they are able, with assistance from that portion of the mercenary fleet that has not retreated in the face of the Klingon armada. But the Klingons have gained experience in combatting Ware fleets and have adapted to their weaknesses.”
Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code Page 25
