Star Trek - TOS - 79 - Invasion 1 - First Strike

by Diane Carey

  names like Orcu, Styx, Aralu, Jahannan, Doom, Hades,

  Hell... and on other planets names such as Kagh'Tragh

  and Aralua. Even Vulcan had such a concept, though we

  dropped it generations ago. All involved banishment

  and punishment."

  "If they'd had this on the mountain," McCoy grumbled,

  "there'd be eleven commandments."

  "Captain," Spock cautioned, "although Zennor and

  his crew have the physical appearance of devils, of

  'Furies,' they do not seem to have the inner makings of

  evil purpose. Legend was obviously written by the winners."

  "Saints and demons can be the same," Kirk contemplated,

  "depending on whether you approve of their

  work."

  He knew the bitterness was coming out in his voice,

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  but his feelings were boiling to the surface and he didn't

  feel inclined to push them down. He was beginning to get

  a picture of what his duty would be, and he didn't like

  looking at it.

  "They're not demons, no matter what they look like.

  They're just people with a fixed purpose, no different

  from any others who get their minds stuck on something.

  Zennor's a decent, forthright captain on a mission and

  he wants to do the right thing. It's just what I would do if

  I had those beliefs. And I stood by and let him kill

  Garamanus, even though I knew Garamanus was on the

  right track. I should've stopped it."

  Spock looked like a boy who'd broken a window with a

  rock, but wasn't sure whether the building had been

  condemned yet or not. He watched his captain. "Your

  devotion to Zennor is most unexpected, sir."

  Gazing at the forward screen, Kirk sadly said, "I like

  him. We have a lot in common."

  McCoy put one foot up on the stand of Spock's chair.

  "Figures you'd get on so well with the Devil."

  Crooking that eyebrow, Spock almost smiled. His eyes

  smiled, at least, and Kirk was flooded with a sense of

  possibility that blunted the torment of the moment.

  "What do I do now?" Kirk considered. "Escort a

  hostile power into Federation space? Abandon them

  here to stumble on the truth, then to attack the Klingons?

  Pretend they wouldn't find us eventually? I'll have

  to notify Starfleet. Have them standing by."

  At this moment he hated his rank. He hated being the

  watchful renegade of Starfleet, who not only had trouble

  dropped at his door, but who went chasing when it

  appeared. He didn't feel as unshatterable as his reputation

  and now remembered Kellen's expression when the

  Klingon general had discovered that the great Kirk was

  as much cautious sentinel as sword swallower.

  Kellen had been right about everything all along. So

  had Garamanus.

  He moved between McCoy and Spock, running his

  hand along the red rail. "I have to talk to him. I have to

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  make him understand, think past that tribal clubfoot he

  drags around."

  "Captain.. 2' Spock spoke, but he had no more to

  say, no way to bewitch logic so it could solve his

  captain's trouble.

  "Come-on, Mr. Spock," McCoy said, and took the Vulcan's arm. "It's that time. Back to sickbay. I want you

  to walk very slowly."

  Spock lingered a moment longer, still watching Kirk,

  still searching for something to say.

  In his periphery Kirk saw him, but this time didn't

  turn, didn't glance. He tucked his chin to bury a shudder.

  He would provide no excuses for Spock to stay. No

  more mistakes.

  "Captain?"

  "Mr. Chekov?" His voice was a croak.

  "Reading the Klingon fleet coming into short-range,

  sir. ETA, thirty minutes, distance--"

  The bridge went up on an edge as if it had been kicked

  from under the port side. Sirens blared; red alert came

  on automatically, changing the lights on all the panels

  for emergency readings in case the main power wobbled.

  Kirk slammed sideways and barely missed crushing

  Lieutenant Nordstrom at the communications station,

  where she was hanging over her console, pressed to the

  board by the impact.

  He skidded past her and caught himself on the aft

  science board, bending his back painfully over the edge

  and holding himself by his fingernails on the rubberized

  edge. One foot came up off the floor. Around him the

  bridge flashed to black and white as the lighting blinked,

  searching for conduits that hadn't been ruptured. The

  surreal forms of Spock and McCoy were crushed up

  against the side of the turbolift doorway.

  For a moment he couldn't turn his head. Artificial

  gravity was being compromised by impact or energy

  flush and he heard the systems yowl, but couldn't react.

  Any momentJ

  His arms and legs lightened abruptly and he shoved

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  himself off the console. He pushed Nordstrom back into

  her chair and told her, "All decks clear for action."

  "Aye, sir!" she said on a rushing breath.

  Stepping around her, he caught both Spock's arm and

  McCoy's good arm and provided leverage as McCoy got

  to his feet; then they both pulled Spock up and held him

  through the clutch of pain until he gained some control.

  "Over here." Kirk drew them to the science station

  and brought Spock to his chair. "Sit down." As Spock

  valiantly reached for his sensor controls, Kirk dropped

  to the command deck and glanced at the helm. "Mr.

  Byers, visual checks."

  Byers nodded and punched his controls, looked at

  them, then punched some more.

  Several of the auxiliary monitors lining the upper

  bridge flickered on, snatching power from other systems

  long enough to do their jobs, to show scenes of open

  space around the starship, including, off the port beam,

  the enormous purple plates of the Fury ship.

  "Put our forward shields to him, Mr. Byers."

  Again Byers didn't manage to respond, but only complied.

  The plates still glowed with expended energy. No need

  to ask what had happened.

  "Hail him." Kirk braced himself.

  "Channel open, sir," Nordstrom offered.

  "Kirk to Zennor. Pleas e come in."

  He was as cold as a beached carp. His hands scarcely

  had any feeling. He knew what was coming and that

  there was no way to backpedal.

  Nordstrom's wide Scandinavian features buckled as

  she touched her earpiece. "Channel's still open, sir. He's

  hearing you."

  He took her at her word. Drawing closer to his

  command chair as if closer to Zennor, he spoke again.

  "You looked at the files."

  Moments passed with not so much as a crackle on the

  comm. He waited. The bridge around him was dim now,

  some lights still flickering, trying to come back on. The

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  whir of ventilators told him there was a gaseous leak somewhere and compensation systems had come on. />
  The ship would take care of herself to some degree"I looked."

  A glint of solid chance rang through with the sound of Zennor's deep voice.

  "We have to talk about this," Kirk attempted. He almost winced. His sentence sounded hollow and point

  less.

  "There is no talk. I was wrong. The Danai were right all along. Garamanus was right. This is what he was trying to say when I ruined him. Now I must take on his purpose.

  He picked the right place, and I will reclaim it in his name.

  The fabric of this tenuous peace was ancient and crumbling. Kirk felt it shred in his fingers.

  "He wasn't right," he insisted. "You still believe the things you told me, don't you?"

  'I was right only when I told you that people don't change. You are the conqueror."

  "You know that's not true. The past doesn't matter."

  "The past is all that matters."

  Gazing at the slowly turning alien ship on the forward

  screen, Kirk gripped his chair. "We're friends. We're

  alike. Isn't that a better foundation than what you're

  talking about?"

  He waited. Nothing came back.

  No one on the bridge moved. The alarms and alerts

  seemed to get quieter in anticipation.

  "You knew about this." Zennor's words were heavier

  even than the usual sound of his voice now, and the

  personal wounding came through. "Is this how your

  people wrecked our civilization before? With trust as a

  weapon?"

  "No," Kirk said desperately. "Those mistakes were

  mine alone, not my culture's. Think... think! Be rational

  for one more moment. No one has any right to a

  particular piece of space. You have the right to live as

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  free beings in our society. Our hand of friendship is st'ill

  extended. Don't knock it away."

  In the corner of his eye he saw McCoy step slowly

  down to the center deck and join him on the other side of

  the command chair, providing what moral support he

  could and trying nobly to join him in the responsibility

  for what had happened. Now the two of them had

  something more in common than they'd ever wanted!

  McCoy moved forward a little and was about to say

  something when the comm boomed again.

  "Go to your civilization and tell them to get out." Kirk blinked at the screen.

  Aggravated, he allowed himself a dirty expression,

  "You want me to tell a trillion and a quarter people...

  to pack up and move?"

  "That is what you told us."

  The statement burned, for it had its strange ring of

  truth, at least truth as Zennor saw things.

  "It wasn't us," Kirk abridged. "No one alive had

  anything to do with what happened to your ancestors.

  My offer stands. Come with us and be welcome in the

  Federation. But you'll have to shed your attachment to

  the past."

  He waited for the threadlike moment of communication

  to crack, but instead there was only another stretch

  of silence. This time he wasn't going to-wait.

  "Zennor."

  When had this happened? At which moment had the

  career, the job, the duty become his veins and the blood

  flowing into them? When had the desire to drive a ship

  and do some good turned into responsibility for the

  whole Federation's well-being?

  He'd crawled out of a rocky youth, or been kicked,

  gone into Starfleet, where everyone insisted on conformity

  yet gave him medals for fire eating. He'd innovated,

  he'd survived, he'd swallowed fire, and they'd pinned

  awards on him and handed him a few hundred other

  lives and a ship with which to execute his appetite upon

  the galaxy.

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  All for this?

  Yes, exactly this.

  "Zennor, answer me."

  His answer came, but not in the form he desired.

  "Captain--" Spock stared at his readouts, then

  turned his chair until he could look at the main screen

  without moving his head too much. "Something is happening

  in space. A fissure is opening. Reading a large

  solid object moving through. Coming toward us."

  Kirk pushed forward, stepped up onto the platform

  and stood in front of his command chair. "Dimensions."

  "Are... roughly seven hundred thousand metric

  tons .... Size... is... reading out at more than..."

  Even Spock couldn't keep the astonishment out of his

  voice.

  "Length overall is in excess of one thousand meters,

  sir."

  Sweat broke out on Kirk's face. "On visual." Nothing

  happened, and he was forced to snap, "Mr. Byers,

  forward visual."

  The big main screen dropped the image of Zennor's

  purple and black pinecone and caught a wide view of

  space in time to see a bizarre gash in the blackness of

  space, as if someone had come along with a giant cleaver

  and taken a random hack. Out of the gash spilled liquid

  blue light, and from within the light came a vessel.

  More than half a mile long, a thousand feet tall,

  shaped like Zennor's ship, the enormous moving corkscrew

  twisted itself through the gash in space, and when

  it was through the gash sealed up with a snap that made

  everyone blink.

  "Any drop in mass?" Kirk quickly asked.

  "None," Spock said. "They must have solved that."

  As they watched, the giant vessel screwed itself

  through open space toward Zennor's ship, and with

  skilled excellence the two came bow-to-stern and executed

  a flawless docking maneuver. Now Zennor's ship

  provided only the forward section of what had become a

  mammoth vessel.

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  Burning with the knowledge that his ugly guess had

  been right, Kirk looked upon the greatest assault vehicle

  he had ever seen. If its power matched its size, there

  would be disaster today.

  McCoy backed off to the ship's rail, apparently sensing

  that this wasn't the time to be hanging on the captain's

  chair, disturbing the bubble that was the command

  sphere. Kirk sensed the change without looking. He'd

  noticed that since the beginning of his career--the more

  tense the situation, the more the crew tended to keep

  distance, giving the officers room to think. He'd come to

  use that as ajump-start for dangerous thinking, a kind of

  personal red alert. He wished his head weren't throbbing.

  He didn't really care if the crew saw him wince. Maybe

  in a few minutes he would, if they lived.

  "Emergency alert, all decks," he said. "We're about to

  do battle with the damned. And they have nothing to

  lose."

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  Your foes are determined, relentless, and nigh.

  --"Lock the Door, Larrison,"

  a folk song

  Chapter Eighteen

  "SOUND GENERAL QUARTERS."

  He'd held off saying it, but the order was overdue.

  Hope had kept it back until now.

  "Battle stations... all hands to battle stations. This is

  not a drill .... Secure all positions .... Damage-control

  parti
es on standby."

  "Mr. Byers, veer us off to maximum phaser range. I

  don't want to take another of those hard punches at close

  range. Get me some room to maneuver."

  "Yes, sir... maximum phaser range, sir."

  "Mr. Spock, any other contacts from behind that

  fissure?"

  "None, sir. They may regard their combined vessel as

  some kind of dreadnought. In fact, there is no sign of the

  fissure any longer at all."

  "We know what kind of power it takes to open it,"

  Kirk uttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Practically

  have to float a black hole in here just to open the

  door."

  He should send Spock below while he had the chance,

  he knew. An inner alert stopped him. He noticed,

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  though, that McCoy wasn't saying anything. Spock

  would be little better off being tossed about on the way

  down to sickbay than here at his post, where all people

  with spinal injuries should be, of course.

  Kirk understood them both. He even understood

  himself this time.

  He settled into his command chair and forced himself

  to steady down.

  "Secure the ship. Shut down any nonemergency emissions.

  Short-range sensors on priority. Impulse engines

  prepare for tight maneuvering. Warp speed on standby.

  Arm phasers. And someone get me a cup of coffee."

  "Nonemergency emissions, aye. Short-range sensors

  ready, sir."

  "Impulse engines answering, sir."

  "Phasers armed and ready, sir."

  "Warp engines ready and standing by, sir."

  "Cup of coffee, aye, sir."

  The partoting back of his orders was reassuring and

  bolstered him. Underlying energy swung around the

  bridge from person to person, and through the ship like

  blood pumping.

  "Photon guidance on standby," he added, and Chekov

  said it back almost immediately. Settling back in his

  chair, with the cool leather pressing to his lower back

  and reminding him of lingering aches from Capella IV,