“He seemed like such a nice guy, too,” Reg said.
“I’m sure Colonel Green was loved by his dog.” Geordi looked around the mess. It wasn’t cramped, however the galley equipment was something they hadn’t thought to restore. It hadn’t seemed necessary, since they had assumed that they could always just beam back to Challenger to eat, or at least use the replicators on board the Thames or Clyde.
A deep vibration thrummed through the floor, and La Forge and Barclay swayed to one side for a moment under the pressure of acceleration before the inertial dampeners kicked in. “Well, we’re under way,” Reg said.
“And just when I got used to her.” Geordi sighed.
“Challenger? She’s a fine ship—”
“No, Leah.”
“Oh. I, uh—I’m sorry, Commander.”
Geordi laughed mirthlessly. “Don’t worry about it, Reg. Challenger is a fine ship. Not as fine as the Enterprise, though.”
11
Scotty watched as Leah Brahms slid into the ops seat. It had been her preferred place on the bridge since the project began, even though the Challenger was as much her baby as anyone else’s and so she merited one of the three center seats.
He knew she liked ops because its displays were a lot better than the tiny ones the center seats had in their armrests, and she liked to be able to monitor everything about the engines and power systems. If he was a hundred and twenty years younger, he reflected, she’d probably be his ideal woman.
Tyler Hunt dropped into the seat next to him. “Intrepid should be safe, at least. I wonder what this guy was after over there. What could they want with a two-hundred-year-old ship?”
“Good question,” Nog said from his position at tactical. “Could there be something aboard? Something valuable?”
“Like what?” Scotty asked. “Technology? Dinna be ridiculous, man. It’s two centuries out of date.”
“Classified material? Military secrets?”
Scotty shook his head. “Again, still two hundred years out o’ date. The only classified materials aboard would be their orders at the time, and mebbe some technical readouts that they’d have wanted to keep safe from others. A way to protect their systems against the Romulan telepresence weapon they had back then. But none of that would be worth a damn thing to anybody today.”
Hunt frowned. “A person, then? A life-form?”
“If that’s what they want, they’d have been better just asking us. I’d have beamed them aboard and wished them the best of luck sponging the object of their search off the walls.”
“More likely they were after us than Intrepid, surely,” Leah said. “We’ve got a lot of experimental projects and systems on board. Valuable research in a lot of places.” That sounded about right to Scotty as well. Even in his own career he’d seen that much. Strife with the Klingons over dilithium-rich planets, with the Romulans over borders, and then there was the whole Genesis Device business. Always planets, technical advances, or something that would give one a hand up in those two things.
“Whoever he is,” Qat’qa said, “he’s pretty good, but he’s inexperienced. Fresh from training, I suppose.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Only for them.”
“If they are after us,” Nog pointed out, “we’re probably walking into a trap.”
“Don’t worry, lad,” Scotty said grimly. “This ship has a lot more power under the hood than that Vor’cha does.”
“He’s coming about,” Qat’qa reported.
“Strange that he doesna cloak.” Scotty said thoughtfully. He didn’t like the oddity, not one bit.
“He knows he has a fight on his hands, so why waste the energy?” Hunt suggested.
“Well, the gloves are off now.”
The former Klingon ship rolled over as it banked, and spat torpedoes and disruptor bolts. The shots went wide, as Challenger barrel-rolled off to the side.
Challenger returned fire, the golden beams of her phasers flaring against the shields of her enemy.
Then the attacking ship did something unexpected.
Challenger lurched, and Nog knew instinctively what had happened. He had felt it often enough aboard smaller ships during the Dominion War. “They’ve got us in a tractor beam.”
“Break us free, Kat!” Scotty growled.
Qat’qa’s hands flew across the smooth panel in front of her, and the bridge trembled slightly. Nog could feel himself gently pushed first one way and then the other. The ship rocked back and forth as Qat’qa pushed more power into the maneuvering thrusters and the inertial dampeners struggled to keep up. “Lateral thrusters are doing no good,” she snarled. She sounded offended, as if the thrusters were personally insulting her. “The tractor beam is too strong!”
Hunt braced himself against the edge of a science console and sat down to look at power readings that were scrolling up on the station’s main display. “She’s right. It’s the strongest tractor field I’ve seen outside of mining stations.”
Scotty cursed. “And what, apart from the obvious, have they got us by, Mister Hunt?”
“The forward port quarter of the secondary hull, aft of deflector control.”
“They’re arming more torpedoes!” Nog called.
“Kat!” Scotty prompted her. “Get us free.”
“You must break the tractor beam, sir! Unless . . .”
Nog looked up from his board. “Torpedo incoming, running true!”
Hunt moved forward, as if being closer could make Qat’qa’s job easier. He checked the controls she was using, and was surprised to see that she wasn’t pouring on throttle power, or steering. “What are you doing?”
“Initiating emergency saucer separation!” Qat’qa snapped. Scotty’s eyes widened, gleaming as he grasped her idea. “Go right ahead,” he ordered.
“Torpedoes still incoming,” Nog reported. “Five thousand kilometers . . . Two thousand . . .”
Scotty gripped the armrests of his seat, bracing his legs against the floor and hoping they didn’t cramp up on him. He could feel the physical tension of everyone grabbing hold of the nearest wall or console and bracing themselves.
The huge saucer lifted away from the curved neck of the Challenger’s stardrive section. For a moment, they were both encased in the same shield envelope. Then there was a flicker of power spilling out into the visible spectrum as the shield envelopes of each part of the ship sealed themselves, sparking against each other for an instant before the saucer rose away from the stardrive section.
A fraction of a second after that, three blazing torpedoes, their outer casings already shedding hard radiation in the run-up to detonation, skimmed under the saucer’s surface. There was only a ten-meter gap between the two sections of the Challenger, but it was enough to allow the torpedoes through.
They were well past the ship when they detonated.
“Nog,” Qat’qa said without looking around, “the power distribution center is on the ventral surface of that petaQ.”
Nog smiled tightly. “Get me in position where I can target the lower surfaces and I should be able to knock out their shields.”
“You heard the man, lass,” Scotty agreed.
“Do not miss, Ferengi,” Qat’qa said grimly. She swept her hands across the flight console as if she was playing a concerto. Her deft touch rotated the Challenger ninety degrees around its y-axis, and then set the ship spinning around the x-axis as it rushed toward the swooping enemy ship.
Even with the inertial dampeners operating at peak efficiency, she could feel a tug on her back and a dizzying sensation. From the expression on Leah’s face to her left she could tell that everyone else on the bridge was feeling it too. She could also tell that none of them were enjoying it as much as she was, and resisted an urge to laugh with the joy of it.
Challenger spun with the aft ends of her impulse units carving out tracks on a surface that existed only in Qat’qa’s imagination, like a figure skater pirouetting across the ice.
>
In no more than two or three seconds, the ventral surface of the Klingon-built ship would pass across the Challenger’s nose.
Nog was ready, and delighted that Qat’qa had given him exactly what he had asked for. He launched a spread of three torpedoes ahead of the enemy’s direction of travel. Then, in the couple of seconds before the torpedoes reached their point of impact, he began a phaser barrage.
The bright phaser beams flashed against their opponent’s ship’s shields for an instant, and then the torpedoes detonated. The Klingon ship slowed, shaken by the triple detonation. Her systems automatically strengthened the forward shields, to protect against radiation damage or a second wave of torpedoes.
The strength of the shields around the rest of the ship wavered, and dropped for a moment. Then the Challenger’s phaser beams were through the weakened shield, carving an intricate spiral tattoo across the ship’s ventral hull.
Metal glowed and melted, and power junctions exploded.
“This is one of Odo’s favorite tricks,” Nog said with a tight grin as his fingers danced across the tactical console.
All eyes turned to the main viewer, expecting to see phaser beams impale the other ship at its most vulnerable points. Instead, the ship started to drift. Nog chuckled from the tactical station. “Perfect!”
“You haven’t fired,” Hunt pointed out.
“I didn’t need to,” Nog said smugly. “I’ve transported their bridge crew directly to our brig through the gap in their forward shields. Odo’s favorite trick.”
Scotty began to laugh. “Well done!”
Hunt tapped his combadge. “Hunt to security team beta; post duty officers in the brig. We have prisoners to look after.”
“It won’t take long for the rest of their crew to realize what’s happened and get replacements to their stations,” Scotty pointed out. “Let’s make sure that doesna happen, Mister Nog.”
Nog was already on his way to the turbolift. “Security team alpha to transporter room one. Issue phaser rifles, and pick one up for me.”
Tyler Hunt followed him into the turbolift. “Security team delta to transporter room two. Rifles all round.” He looked at Nog. “I suggest you beam into the bridge, since you’ve already emptied it, and I’ll take a team to the engine room. It wouldn’t do if they’ve got an auxiliary or battle control center there.”
“I agree, sir.”
Nog was glad to see that the security team was already waiting for him on the transporter pad. An athletic-looking human male and female, a deceptively willowy Andorian, and a thick-set Benzite. All carried phaser rifles and wore hand phasers at their waists.
The Benzite handed Nog a rifle as he took his place. “Chief Carolan,” he said to the elfin human woman at the transporter console, “if you could set the controls to activate the center pad three seconds from my mark, and the rest of us two seconds after that, I would be very grateful.”
“I can do that,” she replied with a smile. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”
Nog used his free hand to manipulate the settings on a metallic globe until it chirped. He set it on the center pad, and straightened up, readying his rifle. “Mark.” Carolan tapped a control, and the sphere vanished almost immediately. Nog tensed, ready for his turn. “Energizing,” Carolan said, and a silver whirlwind turned the room around Nog into a dim bridge of Klingon architecture.
Two bodies were just hitting the floor, joining three that were already there, knocked down by the stun grenade that had beamed in first. Nog stepped over a groaning body that was slumped at his feet, just as the door to the neck section opened, and two Ferengi did double-takes in the doorway. They belatedly tried to raise phasers, but Nog and Kovac were faster, dropping the pair with well-placed shots on heavy stun.
A Nausicaan on the far side of the bridge was on his knees, but hadn’t quite gone all the way down under the stun grenade’s effect. He looked up at the sounds of footfalls and phaser fire, and froze. He had a Klingon disruptor pistol at his belt, but clearly thought better of going for it, as he was looking down the business ends of a couple of phaser rifles. Slowly and rather unsteadily, he raised his hands, but stayed on his knees.
While the Bolian security officer put restraints on the Nausicaan, Kovac bounded across to the door and hit the emergency seal, cutting off the bridge from anyone else who might try to come and investigate what was going on.
Nog quickly surveyed the bridge before slinging his rifle across his back. Like the bridges of most Klingon-built vessels, it was dimly lit in infernal tones, but the heavy shadows between the stout industrial furnishings weren’t hiding any conscious members of the crew. Apart from the two Ferengi who had been stunned next to the double-doors to the neck section, there were two more Ferengi, a human, and a Tellarite, all recumbent at various stations. They all wore simple but practical jerkins and jumpsuits, in various colors. Satisfied, Nog slapped his combadge. “Nog to Challenger, enemy bridge secure.”
Tyler Hunt took a few deep breaths in the instants between his stun grenade dematerializing and the transporter beam sweeping him across the void after it. It wasn’t fear, per se, but a habit he had long since gotten into, which he was vaguely convinced kept his nervousness at bay.
Then the silver and gray mist swirled around him, and the transporter room vanished, resolving into the much larger hall of a Klingon engineering deck. Harsh actinic lights illuminated both the elephantine generators and horizontal warp core, and three twitching bodies on the floor. Two of the semiconscious bodies were Ferengi, and the other was Klingon. They all wore basic jumpsuits, covered in scorch marks and chemical burns. Unfortunately, the bright lighting, presumably intended to reduce injuries while working on the complex machinery also happily illuminated Hunt and his security team.
A disruptor bolt flicked past Hunt’s head, and sent him diving to the floor. One of the security team with him picked off the gunman, a Nausicaan on an inspection cat-walk above, with a lucky shot. The heavy stun wasn’t quite enough to send the Nausicaan tumbling, but a second was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.
Hunt rolled onto his side, loosing a couple of shots in the direction of the clatter of approaching boots. His instincts had served him well as a Klingon in furry civilian garb tumbled forward, unconscious before his body stopped running.
Gold and emerald beams slashed viciously through the air overhead, and Hunt could almost imagine that the whine of the weapons was really the screaming of the air as it was cut and scarred. Beside Hunt, Ensign Michaels’s thigh popped open with a puff of gases that used to be solid muscle and liquid blood. He fell with a grimace, still firing his rifle with one hand while trying to drag himself to cover with the other.
Hunt darted out, laying down covering fire in the direction of an equipment bay from where two shadowy figures were shooting at his men. The attackers were well-sheltered, and he couldn’t tell for sure what species they belonged to, but one was smaller than the other, and he thought the small one might well be a Ferengi. Hunt had to be more careful with his shooting than the enemy, as he was trying to shoot past the warp core and didn’t dare risk hitting it. Blowing up the ship with himself on board wasn’t the plan he had in mind to neutralize the Challenger’s foes.
Grabbing Michaels’s free arm, Hunt hauled him behind a dense metal buttress. He lobbed another stun grenade down the hall, and heard some satisfying thuds. Moving cautiously forward, he found that the last resistance was now safely unconscious. “Hunt to Challenger, medical transport required. Beam Michaels directly to sickbay.” He could hear the sound of the transporter beam even as he continued. “Engineering and auxiliary control secure. The ship is ours.”
Nog and Hunt walked along the line of cells in the Challenger’s brig, looking at the crew of the captured vessel. Some of them were still aboard her, confined to quarters, but a Starfleet security team was also on board. The most vital components of the engines and weapons had been removed, and the replicator system destroyed. The c
rew would have to sit where they were until Starfleet came for them.
The bridge crew had been comprised of three Klingons, two Nausicaans, and six Ferengi, including the captain. Nog was surprised to see the Ferengi in charge of the attack. It just wasn’t the Ferengi way, though he knew there were mercenaries among his people. The Klingons and Nausicaans had resisted talking for a short while, but finally admitted that the Ferengi were in charge of the ship. Hunt and Nog both believed them.
“Getting the Ferengi to talk might be more difficult,” Nog said as they walked.
“I’d have thought the Klingons or Nausicaans would have kept quiet longer,” Hunt admitted.
“They’re just mercenaries,” Nog pointed out. “There’s no family or cultural loyalty for them. It’s just a job.”
“I see what you mean.”
“But it will be a different matter with the Ferengi. They’ll keep their mouths shut as long as it profits them.”
“Then we have to convince them that talking will be a better idea.”
Nog was already thinking along those lines. “I think I know how to handle them. But first I need to change out of my uniform.”
When he returned to the brig, Nog was wearing his finest and most garish civilian suit, which had been a present—at a very reasonable price—from his father. He nodded to the looming human guard. “Let me into number three.”
The guard deactivated the forcefield holding the Ferengi captain, allowing Nog to enter. The captain was thick-set with small lobes and blunt teeth. Nog gave him the broadest, coldest smile he could manage. “So, Captain Kren, isn’t it?”
Kren glowered at him. “What if it is? And who are you, anyway?”
“Who I am isn’t important,” Nog said dismissively. “What is important is the profit you’ve been earning.” He leaned in threateningly as he spoke.
Star Trek: TNG Indstinguishable From Magic Page 15
