by Diane Carey
"You also have my cooperation. And my apology. You were correct about these people's ancestry."
"Hah."
"I'm not saying you're right about the mythology and I don't believe in the thing you call Havoc. But there does seem to be an inescapable connection between them and this side of the galaxy."
"Thank you. Get out of my way."
"I will not get out of your way," Kirk blistered. "I will deal with this if you and your fleet will cooperate."
There was a pause, and he recognized it as the kind of pause a commander takes when he's weighing his options and trying not to give any away.
"What do you want?"
Respect for Kellen boosted a few degrees. He wasn't throwing the kettle out with the stew just because he had been disappointed before.
Kirk indulged in a pause of his own and let Kellen guess for a moment or two.
Then he said, "I want all of us to provide a united front and make them think twice about their intents."
"Against them? You're going to fight?"
"Only as a last resort. I want to back them down only enough to give me a chance to talk to Zennor."
"Talking again."
"Yes, talking. I want a chance to explain some historical data to him, without all this … fury."
How well the word fit.
Before him on the screen was a ship full of household spirits, glen nymphs, tikis, banshees and zombies, werewolves and medusas, none hellborn as legend had rattled down, but only a crew of Ishmaels. That wasn't hell over there, but another starship, crewed by expatriates with an ill-considered dream.
Still a dream, though. He didn't wish to wreck it, but only to redirect it. So much energy, a whole civilization and all its past for four thousand years, so much worth and resolve, if he could have the time to make them understand—
"No more talking," Kellen broadcast. "This is Klingon space. You will stand aside."
Gazing in unexpected longing at the purple scales of Zennor's now-vast ship, Kirk glanced at the upper starboard screens and noted the visual picture of the approach of ten full-sized Klingon battle cruisers, flanked by more than a dozen lighter-weight patrol cruisers. There weren't many overt differences between the two classes of ships—the difference was more one of hull weight and firepower—but to the trained eye, and Kirk had one, the difference demanded consideration.
"Hail Zennor again, Lieutenant," he crabbed.
Nordstrom's console beeped behind him, like pins going into his scalp. Went silent. Beeped again.
"No response, sir. He's closed his frequencies."
"Ship to ship."
"Go ahead, sir."
With a bitter hunch of his shoulders, Kirk leaned on his chair's arm, pursed his lips, and felt his eyes burn. "Very well, General. Both of you can have it your way. Be advised we're moving off. Mr. Byers, clear the way for the Klingon fleet to make their own maneuver against the Fury ship."
Byers glanced at him, emotions crashing across his round face. "Moving off, sir."
The Klingon fleet made no attempt to contact or warn off Zennor's invasion ship. They came in fast and firing, patrol cruisers rushing in first, with obvious intent simply to blast the invaders out of Klingon skies, or anybody else's sky. Kellen's determination had infected the fleet, and clearly they meant to be sure this threat would not exist after today, here or anywhere. They weren't going to leave enough of that vessel to limp into Federation sanctuary, only to come back at them later.
Kirk might've been reading too much into what he saw on the screen, but the sensations ran hot in his instincts and he didn't think he was misinterpreting much.
The patrollers led the way, strafing the closed purple petals on the Fury ship, trying to punch weak points in the hull where the heavier goosenecked cruisers could then inflict deep wounds. The hematite blackness of space erupted into waves of disruptor fire, sheeting off the Fury ship's cornucopia hull as fluidly as water.
The resulting glow of released energy as it flooded into space made him glad he had moved off to observance range. Even from here he could see the quick, maneuverable Klingon patrollers rocking in the waves of backwash, wobbling like seagulls.
"Effectiveness?" His hands were clenching and unclenching.
"None readable." Spock bent forward, leaning on one hand and hanging on to the sensor hood with the other. He had stood up when Kirk wasn't looking. "I suspect Zennor's dreadnought is swallowing the power wash somehow. It is accepting the impact, then absorbing the energy as it attempts to dissipate. Possibly back into their own power wells."
"You mean Kellen's doing them a favor by firing on them?"
Spock nodded. "We may not have the capacity present to overload Zennor's ability to absorb the punishment."
"Could it do the same to phaser and photon energy?"
"No way to judge that." The Vulcan glanced at him. "Likely, though. To devise such an ability, they must have a remarkably resilient and adaptive culture."
"They had to be." Peering at the screen as if he were about to do surgery, Kirk mumbled, "Better do something else, then."
At the forward science station, Chekov straightened suddenly. "Sir, the general's heavy cruisers are moving in!"
"Which is the general's ship?"
The young man pointed at the main screen, lower starboard. "He was broadcasting from the ship with the yellow ensign, sir."
Kirk squinted.
On the screen, flooding past them at proximity range, growing suddenly out of the edges of the screen, came the elegantly massive Klingon war cruisers, with their hulls of brushed silver, forms not so swanlike as the Enterprise, but instead mindful of the in-flight silhouettes of cranes on a dark horizon. Their necks outstretched with sensor bulbs chewing at space before them, they flowed past the starship on a rendezvous with General Kellen's version of foresight.
And there, on the right, was Kellen's own ship, banded with a yellow collar for identification over and above the other vessels, so everyone would know where the fleet leader was. Klingons didn't believe in protecting their leaders.
As soon as they reached short range they opened fire. There was no approach strategy—they simply plowed in, blasting away. The dozen patrollers vectored off, then swung around in circles, up, down, and at angles, buzzing about the attack scene and shooting whenever they had clearance.
Space lit up in a holiday light show, flash upon flash of bright blue-green energy, and there was so little damage on Zennor's dreadnought that the scene was nearly entertaining. Kirk felt detached, drugged with fascination and regret, as he watched the patrollers zag about the huge purple ship, having less effect than sparrows smashing into a brick wall.
He pushed out of his chair. Moving toward Spock, he hung an arm over the rail and kept his voice down. "Energy weapons seem to be about as useful as a waxed deck."
"Zennor's technology has found a way to negate enemy fire by absorbing it." Spock kept one hand on the sensor hood, bracing his weak back. "His claims were apparently not bravado. The ship is very strong. He has not even returned fire yet. . . .
"If, as I suspected, Zennor's ship has some way of not only funneling down the enemy fire, but drawing upon it … he may be taking the opportunity to build power while draining the Klingons'."
Kirk turned to Nordstrom. "Lieutenant, ship to ship with General Kellen."
"Yes, sir. Ready."
"General, this is Kirk. Be aware your shots are being absorbed somehow by Zennor's ship. We think you're providing him with energy to fight you."
"Mind your own business."
Shaking his head, Kirk pushed off the rail and went back to his chair, but didn't sit. "You're welcome. Lieutenant, keep the channels open."
"Channels open, sir."
McCoy joined him there. "One tribe fighting another tribe. And why? Because they're tribes. It's a sorry sight."
"Your civilization depends on how much you suppress the savage," Kirk told him. "They're giving in to it instead."
Kirk snapped him a fierce look. "Are you doing that on purpose?"
His pique pinned the conversation to the deck and the only thing that saved McCoy was Yeoman Tamamura appearing in the turbolift with the captain's tray and several cups of coffee.
"Sir," she greeted, but she was glancing at the action on the screen and almost dumped the tray onto the captain's chair. She recovered in mid-slosh, handed the captain his cup, then offered one to McCoy.
"Do we get popcorn too?" The doctor looked up, not at the yeoman, but at Kirk.
Over the open channels in the background, communication between Kellen and the other ship crackled as the captains and their helms coordinated an attack that was clumsy at best, but in essence the clumsiness didn't matter. They kept opening hard fire, but the disruption kept having no effect, just sheeting down the folded petals of the Fury ship and somehow being funneled away without cracking that scaly armor.
Petals … petals … scales …
He'd done and felt this many times before, yet each time the tapestry was different. The lives were the same, but not a thing else. No training scenario could anticipate the real thing, with dozens of minds working independently, and passions flying wild.
He flinched as an explosion on the upper left corner of the screen took him by surprise, and his mind was instantly back on the choreography of the battle.
The bridge crew flinched at the stabbing light and didn't even have time to shield their eyes. When the light faded, there was nothing left but tumbling hull plates, motes of smoke, and a forest fire of sparks. Gases and remnant plasma from the disseminated bowels of the cruiser spun through space, burning themselves away without purpose, with nothing left to push on.
A full-sized Klingon cruiser—gone!
"What happened?" Byers stammered.
Ensign Chekov gawked at the screen. "Sir, did they self-destruct?"
Realizing he too was staring like a struck midshipman, Kirk didn't bother to mask his surprise. "Mr. Spock?"
But even Spock frowned at the scene. "I … suppose they may have sacrificed shield power for disruptors. . . . Perhaps they did not have time, or forgot, to divert power back to their deflectors." He turned to his sensor hood, determined to depend on the witness of science instead of guessing. After a moment he reported, "Zennor apparently opened fire, Captain. Reading the same kind of energy flush signature as when we and Zennor engaged the Klingons earlier. Much stronger now, however. One Klingon battleship has exploded … a direct hit. Complete thermal compromise. They must have been hit squarely in the warp core. No survivors noted as yet."
"Pretty sore price for a mistake." Aware of his crew's glances, Kirk tried to be casual. He hadn't even seen the Fury ship fire. It must have happened while one of the other Klingon ships was masking the view. "Keep your eyes open, everyone. I don't want to miss another change. Keep the short-range sensors sweeping for lifepods, Mr. Chekov."
"Yes, sir," Chekov answered.
Spock's face was blue with sensor light, and he squinted as he spoke. "Residual energy is nominal … dissipating. No solid objects larger than point-five-three meters. No possible survivors."
Annoyed, Kirk peered from the corner of his eye. "Keep scanning anyway, Mr. Chekov."
"Aye, sir."
"There they go!" Donnier grasped the navigation console with both hands and held on.
The nine remaining Klingon battle cruisers moved in, using a dependable hourglass formation. Four ships came in, firing hard, then bore downward; then two more came in, separated, and strafed the flanks of the pinecone-shaped hull; then the last three, making a triangle around the enemy as they roared from the Fury ship bow to its stern, grazing the purple scales with full disruptor fire all the way.
Space before the Enterprise was no longer black, but made up of plumes of electric blue and sargasso green.
As the last wave of cruisers seared by, the Fury ship opened fire again. Lavender and yellow spirals of energy built along the half-mile-tall stern of the dreadnought, screwed down the body of the ship as pretty as anything, then went out from the ship like sound waves to engulf the passing Klingon fleet.
"Wow!" Donnier gasped. He rocked back in his chair and his hands fell onto his lap.
That pretty much summed up the expressions Kirk saw in his periphery.
The nearest three Klingon cruisers were knocked straight sideways—and no ship was ever meant to take that. They squalled off, spewing mare's tails of expelled gas and tumbling hot wreckage. Scorched bits of fragmented hull material rolled through space and splattered on the starship's shields.
Kirk and his bridge crew bit a collective lip at the sight. Those crews must be flying around inside there like so much trash in a tumbler. Artificial gravity would be screaming. Kirk could hear the bones breaking. Their propulsion systems were buckling. He could see it from here.
What a punch Zennor packed with that combined ship.
And not a word from him. Despite their dramatic manner and archaic speech patterns, Zennor and his people evidently hadn't come here to make speeches.
"Condition of the Klingon ships," he requested.
Spock studied his readouts. "Two ships veering off, both venting plasma. One is adrift … being tractored out of range by two patrol cruisers. Another is emitting spotty motive ratios, but is limping away under its own power. . . . The others are regrouping and coming back in." He paused again, then cleared his throat and added, "General Kellen's ship is shutting down partial life-support, but is not veering off."
"Thank you. Mr. Spock, sure you're all right?"
Spock looked at him as though threatened. "For the moment, Captain."
Might or might not be true. Spock was smart. He knew a hollow reassurance that he was just dandy would probably result in his being kicked below. Telling a hazy version of the truth, that he was suffering some, had a different effect and implied that he would speak up when he couldn't handle it anymore.
He probably wouldn't.
Feeling McCoy's dagger gaze from the port side of his command deck, Kirk deliberately didn't look over there. Gripping his chair as if holding himself to the concrete presence of the chair and the deck, he watched the Klingon fleet as it was casually smashed.
"Lieutenant Nordstrom, contact the flight deck and sickbay. Deploy four pilots and two interns in two shuttlecraft to retrieve lifepods and treat survivors. Instruct them to stay at safe distance until the engagement is over, and to make their reports to Mr. Chekov."
"Understood, sir," Nordstrom responded, and turned to her board.
"Sir!" Chekov bolted straight and looked at the screen, but there was no time for him to say anything more.
Turning its hornlike tip to meet the remaining Klingon ships, the Fury ship turned violent with yellow and thistle-purple electrical weapons that buzz-sawed through the Klingon approach. Amazing that such a knightly color as purple and all its florid shades could be made so bitterly deadly.
Before their eyes three more Klingon cruisers had their approach-side wings shorn off and were forced to drag themselves away, or be dragged, their structural balance sliced apart as if they had been caught in a bear trap. The ship from hell was a hell of a ship.
The main force of the Klingon battle fleet, crippled in minutes?
It was unthinkable.
"My God!" McCoy croaked. "All of them at once … Jim, Kellen's ship!"
The remaining Klingon vessel, the general's ship had turned up on a wingtip and was tilting drunkenly across space toward the midsection of the Fury vessel. The Klingon ships were very heavy, long-bodied, almost as heavy and long as the Enterprise, and a little better balanced. To see one skidding on an edge like this, rolling off its line of
gravity and shrunken to toy proportions as it rolled nearer and nearer to the enormous modified Rath, shook the bridge crew for a few critical seconds.
Byers came halfway out of his seat. "It's going to collide!"
Chapter Nineteen
AS A MAN STEPS onto a guillotine ramp, Jim Kirk stepped onto the platform that held his command chair, slid onto the edge of the black leather seat, and spoke quickly so that his crew would move quickly.
"Mr. Spock, condition of the general's ship?"
"Impulse drive is off-line. They are helpless."
"How much of a pounding can we take?"
"Unknown." Spock swiveled his chair around to meet Kirk's eyes. "May I ask why, sir?"
"Because I'm going to move her in at close range."
At the helm, Byers turned and his eyes got big. "Sir?"
Kirk ignored the question. "Ahead one-quarter impulse, Mr. Byers. Mr. Donnier, ready with tractor beams."
"One-quarter impulse, aye."
"Tractor beams r-ready, sir."
"Full magnification on Kellen's ship."
The Enterprise leaped forward with breathtaking ferocity, as hungry to get into the cockfight as her captain was. The ship was different in battle mode than cruising mode, all systems warmed up, on-line, backed up, humming … maybe she actually did jump. Maybe it wasn't just imagination.
Patrol cruisers zigzagged in and out of the screen as the starship approached the scene of intensity. On the screen was a huge magnified picture of Kellen's cruiser sliding toward the sharp edges of the Fury ship's five-hundred-foot-wide scales. Kellen's disabled ship was still shooting, though it drifted at a nauseating pitch toward the Rath, making a last-ditch attempt to do the impossible.
The aft scales on the Fury ship were the largest ones, and Kellen's ship was sliding toward the big vessel's aft starboard quarter. Only now did Kirk get a full perspective of just how large Zennor's ship had become, with that vast new section added on.
What was in that section? Was that the power base?
"Mr. Spock, where's the emission center of those energy spirals? See if you can zero in on it."
