Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

  Starfleet! Two of the strange ships passed the Vel-Tekk, pursuing the fleeing Tzenkethi’s Marauder. The arrowhead slid in front of the small mercenary ship, swerving around in order to confront Rah-Ban and his brother.

  “Fire!” yelled Vol-Ban. “Brother, fire already!”

  Rah-Ban pressed the appropriate buttons instinctively. A red beam appeared on the main screen, hitting the arrowhead’s shields without inflicting any damage to them.

  “Torpedoes!” demanded Vol-Ban loudly, swinging the Vel-Tekk around hard. “Target their phaser arrays!”

  Which ones? flashed through Rah-Ban’s mind. Once again, he reacted instinctively rather than deliberately; and again, his efforts didn’t succeed in penetrating the enemy’s shields. A fraction of a second later their ship shuddered when the counterattack hit. All the lighting on the bridge either flickered or failed, and his brother clung to conn in an attempt not to lose his footing.

  Cursing, Vol-Ban changed course, but the enemy’s weapons struck the Vel-Tekk’s shields again. Suddenly, Rah-Ban could smell smoke. The main screen failed, closely followed by weapons control on his displays.

  He noticed that they were being hailed, and opened a channel. At least they were still able to communicate. Maybe their damaged ship was capable of more besides? Rah-Ban attempted to reroute the main energy, deactivated life support briefly, and then…

  “This is Captain Richard Adams from the Federation starship Prometheus,” a stern voice announced from the loudspeakers, echoing through the darkened bridge. “Deactivate your shields, weapons, and engines. Surrender, and maintain your current position.”

  The Prometheus! Rah-Ban had heard about her. She was a state-of-the-art battleship belonging to the United Federation of Planets. Her multivector assault mode enabled her to separate into three hull sections, which could fight independently of each other. That was why their attackers looked so strange: All three opponents were part of the same ship.

  “You don’t get to tell us what to do!” yelled Vol-Ban, hammering his fist onto his flickering console. His attempts to activate the warp drive in order to escape their enemy—an endeavor that bordered on madness, considering the sheer amount of asteroids in the system—failed. The impulse engines also refused to respond to his efforts. “You don’t even know us!”

  There! Rah-Ban almost cheered when his efforts to redistribute the ship’s power bore fruit in getting the main screen back to life. He then tried to do the same for warp drive and tactical systems.

  Before he could, though, he saw the blurred, distorted image on the screen, which was being transmitted by Prometheus. It was a warrant of apprehension for him and his brother.

  “We know that you’ve been undertaking illegal business deals for several months,” the Starfleet captain said. “Weapons deliveries to Tullinar VI, organ trafficking in the Silva sector, joint smuggling with the Pakled in the Antares territories, and now a pact with the Tzenkethi… would you like me to continue?”

  Rah-Ban’s thoughts raced. Their potential employers had departed, and may even have been the ones to betray them, though that seemed unlikely. Either way, hoping to win a battle against the Prometheus seemed extremely bold.

  That, of course, didn’t stop Vol-Ban from crying out, “Brother, shoot! If we are doomed, I want to die fighting!”

  The light from Rah-Ban’s console keys bathed his face, as he got it working. He had regained weapons control, sensors, and shields.

  “Brother,” Vol-Ban urged. “Fire!”

  “We won’t wait much longer, Vel-Tekk,” the Starfleet captain said. “Deactivate your weapons and surrender.”

  “You are an impatient idiot, Vol-Ban,” Rah-Ban said, sighing as he complied.

  2

  OCTOBER 31, 2385

  U.S.S. Prometheus, Bajoran Sector

  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. And one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.

  Pensively, Captain Richard Adams brushed the words that were written in brass letters on the bridge bulkhead with his fingers. They adorned a small plaque that was mounted next to the left turbolift door. It had been created to commemorate the launching of his ship almost twelve years ago. The words came from an ancient bard from Earth, and although Adams saw them every day upon entering the bridge, he felt they were as fresh and wise as they had been on the very first day.

  “Are you ready, sir?”

  The voice of his first officer jolted him from his thoughts. Slowly, he turned around.

  “We’re approaching our destination.” As usual, when Commander Roaas smiled, the hairs on his upper lip twitched, while his cat-like eyes sparkled slightly. The Caitian was remarkably big, even for a member of his species. His auburn fur provided the feline-featured man with an almost aristocratic grace. “If you want to say a few words, now would be a good time.”

  Adams nodded. “Thank you, Commander.”

  Roaas returned to his post at the tactical station. His hands clasped behind his back, he stood waiting for further instructions.

  Adams passed the waist-high railing that separated the upper bridge section from the lower command center and went to his chair. Silently he glanced at the active stations. Everywhere, people were focusing on their work, displays were flickering, and control and confirmation signals were sounding quietly.

  A stage, he thought again, allowing himself a faint smile. “Status, Commander Carson? Lieutenant Chell?”

  Sarita Carson at ops quickly glanced at the displays on her half of the front console. “No reports from any of the departments,” replied the young human.

  “All systems functioning just fine, Captain,” the Bolian at the technical station added cheerfully.

  Adams nodded, pleased. “Mr. Ciarese?”

  Massimo Ciarese staffed the other half of the front console, the pilot’s station. The thirty-one-year-old human with his jet-black locks still appeared to be tanned and casual, even after several weeks aboard ship, as if he had only just left the Italian sun of his home on Earth. “We’re right on the assigned course, sir,” he said, not taking his eyes off his displays. “Warp five point five.”

  “How long before we reach Deep Space 9?”

  “Ten minutes, thirteen seconds, Captain.” Ciarese looked up, sighing contentedly. “We’re almost home.”

  The captain nodded, satisfied. “Almost, Ensign,” he repeated, turning around and settling into his chair. “Only almost.”

  The space station Deep Space 9 was located in the Bajoran sector. It was considerably more than a stone’s throw away from Earth. Still, Adams could relate to his conn officer all too well. The Prometheus was returning from extensive patrol duty, and she had spent the past six months traveling along the border of the hostile Tzenkethi Coalition. Even this most remote Starfleet base seemed like a welcome piece of home.

  And we need a piece of home…

  Adams could have ordered slipstream propulsion to reach DS9, which would have reduced the flight time considerably. But he wanted to give his crew some time to readjust. “All right. Mr. Winter, please open a ship-wide channel. All stations, all departments.”

  “Aye, sir.” Paul Winter at the communication station touched his controls.

  Communication officers had more or less disappeared from Starfleet ships. Generally, ops or tactical officers had taken over their duties. The Prometheus was an exception to this rule as she frequently operated in a separated state. Furthermore, Winter was a master in his field. Nobody knew more about subspace communications than the German with Sudanese roots and a penchant for near-superhuman fitness. From the moment he joined the Academy nine years ago, he had worked in Starfleet’s Communications Research Center, assisting in the Pathfinder project that had been created in order to establish communications with the Federation Starship Voyager, which had been stranded in the Delta Quadrant. His works about communicating with hypersubspace speeds were gener
ally regarded as groundbreaking. Adams was lucky to have Winter, and he was confident that they would include Winter’s theories in the standard curriculum at Starfleet Academy and would name lecture rooms after him.

  “Channel open, Captain,” Winter said.

  Adams glanced at Roaas who nodded confirmation, and then directed his attention at the main screen and deep space. He stood up again. “To all decks, this is the captain. Mr. Ciarese just confirmed that we’re ten minutes away from the end of our assignment. I know that you’re all longing to get there. Before we all take some time out on Deep Space 9, I would like to let you all—and I mean each and every one of you—know how proud I am of you. The Prometheus has proven herself under difficult circumstances, and that’s due to her crew.”

  Suddenly he noticed that the bridge had fallen silent. From the corner of his eye he saw that his crewmembers had stalled at their stations—as the crew had done undoubtedly all over the ship—in order to listen to him. Carson had even turned to face him with a beaming smile.

  “Relations between the United Federation of Planets and the alliance of races known as the Typhon Pact,” continued Adams, “are anything but amicable. You are aware of that. Since the Romulans, the Breen, the Tzenkethi, the Kinshaya, and several other species have formed their alliance, we have been forced into a new cold war, and Starfleet has to perform duties along a front line instead of pursuing their research, or committing to peace. Again.”

  He sighed quietly. As he had done so far too often of late, he pondered the fact that Starfleet had been derailed considerably from its mission of exploration, and he wondered if they were ever going to get back on track again.

  His gaze wandered again to the plaque on the bulkhead as he continued. “It had been the declared objective of our late president, Nanietta Bacco, to bring the diplomatic ice age between the Typhon Pact and the Federation to an end, and to build new bridges. The Prometheus’s exploration and patrol duties along the border to the Tzenkethi Coalition have played their part in making this new beginning happen. Our work here is done. It’s now up to the diplomats and world leaders to nurture it to fruition. Let’s hope for the best. Let’s hope that our role in the next stage of history will no longer be that of warriors. Adams out.”

  Roaas blinked, surprised while Ensign Winter confirmed with a nod that the channel had been closed.

  Adams settled back into his chair without a word. He didn’t like big speeches, let alone emotive ones. And yes, maybe he did get a little ahead of himself, but the day today marked far more than just the Prometheus’s return home. The crew knew that as well as he did. Today, the new president of the Federation, Kellessar zh’Tarash took over office, and many were hoping that a new era would begin with her. The fact that Adams and his crew would spend this day on Deep Space 9 of all places spoke volumes, as the Federation had lived through its darkest hour during the past few weeks right here. Should he really be surprised that his choice of words reflected the general spirit of optimism?

  “Our role in the next stage of history, Captain?” Roaas stood beside his superior officer, lowering his deep voice. “Are you being poetic now as well as everything else?”

  “This is an order from your commanding officer,” Adams whispered in the same teasing tone of voice. “Shut the hell up.”

  Roaas’s furry nose twitched in confusion. But he followed this order to the letter.

  * * *

  The Prometheus-class had been the future of space travel. It had been a mere fifteen years since designers and engineers inside the hallowed halls of Starfleet Headquarters and the Beta Antares Ship Yards had deemed this model to be a major quantum leap. The slender ships of the Prometheus-class were able to reach a top speed of warp factor 9.99, and featured state-of-the-art technology, as well as unprecedented tactical devices for the Alpha Quadrant. After all, which Starfleet ship featured not only one main battle bridge, but two smaller battle bridges as well, or could be split into three independent segments in battle situations? Which Starfleet ship boasted two engine rooms, one of which was capable of splitting into two by means of a complicated process?

  “Mine,” sighed Lieutenant Commander Jenna Winona Kirk, chief engineer of the Prometheus, lowering her tools. “Why mine, of all ships?”

  “Pardon me, Commander?” Her assistant Alex Meyer looked up from the console that he was attempting to repair. “Did you say something?”

  Kirk wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I’m just whining, Meyer. Feel free to ignore me.”

  The jovial man in his late thirties, who had an inexplicable passion for ancient trains from Earth, had no intention to do so. He crawled out from under his console, hit his head when trying to get up, and stood next to Kirk, rubbing the painful bump. “With all due respect, Commander, you’re not whining, you’re working.” Dark patches showed on his yellow shirt under his armpits. “And if you ask me, you’ve been doing so for far too long.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Kirk snorted. “Everyone on the ship is overworked, Lieutenant.” Indignantly she brushed a strand of her dark hair from her forehead. Generally, Kirk was regarded as a sociable person. Only two things were capable of spoiling her mood: when people mentioned her not-at-all-ordinary surname, and when the machines didn’t do what they were supposed to do.

  “Just ten more minutes,” Meyer said. “You heard the ol’ man.”

  Kirk nodded. “I did. But, apparently, this stubborn piece of space junk didn’t.” Sullen, she kicked the casing of the EPS manifold in front of her. With a thud the bottom of her boot struck the metal. The manifold remained unfazed. “I’ve been trying to eliminate this unit’s energy fluctuations for an hour!”

  Meyer wiped his face and his thin beard. Kirk thought he looked tired, which put him in company with the rest of the crew. “These fluctuations are zero point zero zero three percent, Commander. There’s no real cause for concern here.”

  “You say that now,” Kirk grumbled. “But what if this zero zero three suddenly becomes a three without any zeroes during a battle? Maybe even a three before the point? If the secondary engine room doesn’t deliver optimal results when we need them, we’ll be in deep trouble. Explain that to the ol’ man on the bridge. Adams may seem like a father figure but I can assure you, he’s a tough customer. And rightly so, if you ask me. A ship at the front line should operate faultlessly, even if it’s only on standby.”

  “It is operating faultlessly,” said Meyer insistently. “Zero zero three is well within tolerable parameters, even more so when you’re only a stone’s throw away from a space station and its engineers. Don’t create more work than necessary for yourself, Commander. The mission lies behind us.”

  “That’s what you think.” Kirk unfastened the tricorder from her waist, pointing it toward the permanently glowing bunch of conduits next to the manifold. “But it will only be finished once we dock at DS9, won’t it? Everything can happen until then. And a good ship is always prepared.”

  And a good ship has only one erratic engine room, she added quietly. In truth, her frustration was making her do the Prometheus an injustice. It was a great ship, but Kirk’s love for her engines was only exceeded by her pursuit of perfection. “Almost” and “as good as” simply didn’t cut it for the engineer. Had that been the case she probably wouldn’t have progressed past her first posting, and certainly not onto one of Starfleet’s most advanced ships.

  Still, it was highly frustrating having to service eight propulsion systems. She had to deal with the warp drives in both the separatable main engine and each secondary engine room, as well as three additional impulse systems in the secondary engine room, not to mention three slipstream reactors that had been added only three years ago. You could bet that at least one of her babies was causing problems for Kirk at any one time.

  To make matters even worse, the temperature control in the secondary engine room was acting up, so Meyer and Kirk had to attempt their unsuccessful repairs in an environment of
thirty-eight degrees.

  Meyer nodded. “Very well. You’re the boss, Boss.” He turned around and returned to his console that was still hanging open. Tugging on his uniform collar, he tried to force some fresh air between his skin and the sheer fabric. “But once we’re finished here we should pay Doctor Barai a visit in sickbay and get some treatment for dehydration. It’s hotter in here than in a jamaharon with two hundred Nuvian concubines.”

  Despite her annoyance, Kirk couldn’t help but laugh as she gazed at her tricorder’s readings. “What kind of a twisted comparison was that? I think you’ve been watching too many salacious holovids, Mister.”

  Grunting, Meyer stuck his head out from under the console. “Risan pornography is not salacious, it’s a recognized art form. You don’t have to like it, Commander Kirk, but you have to accept it.”

  Kirk snorted derisively at Meyer’s arch tone. “I don’t have to do anything. In my family, we make our own rules.”

  Now Meyer laughed. “Did your famous ancestor decree that in his will?”

  “He was the one who started it,” the lieutenant commander replied, tucking her tricorder away again before making another attempt to optimize this ungrateful EPS manifold. “And if you don’t do as you’re told, Deputy Chief Engineer Meyer, I will continue with his legacy. Understood?”

  Meyer sounded both admiring and gently teasing when he replied, “The famous method of James T. Kirk: getting your own way at all cost, and being right in the end.”

  “Resistance is for beginners,” Kirk said dryly. Both of them snorted with laughter, and for a brief moment she actually forgot about the irritating beta engines.