Final Frontier

by Carey, Diane

  Swallowing a lump of rage, t’Cael went on. “I know who is in command. He will make sure the other ships protect him.”

  April folded his arms and tried to imagine someone who would behave that way. “I see . . . thank you for that. I’ll try not to waste the advice. Carlos, the ships?”

  Florida checked his readouts. “Sir, they’re closing steadily. I’d give them another nine minutes to proximity range.” He turned to look at April. “Retreat?”

  The bridge tensed. No one had missed the conversation at the center, nor had anyone underestimated its importance. Florida wanted to know if he should carry out the last order he was given before the questions arose. He watched the captain, and waited.

  In space before them, five computer-enhanced slits grew larger, and at bridge central Captain April communed with the viewscreen.

  George watched him. T’Cael watched him.

  “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Plot a course toward the enemy flagship. Prepare for combat engagement.”

  • • •

  George reached over the command chair and grasped the captain’s elbow in mute approval. April looked at him, his features hardened with the agony of his decision, and nodded his appreciation of the gesture. George tried to think of something appropriate to say, but nothing could make a man like Robert April be glad he was about to take lives.

  Sanawey suddenly gasped.

  The captain turned. “What is it, Claw?”

  The Indian shook his head in disbelief as he stared into his readout screen. “Sir . . . I’ve just pinpointed our location.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re . . . Christ.”

  April turned to look. “Say it.”

  The big man straightened. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he could bring himself to say it.

  “We’re practically on top of the Romulan Homeworlds!”

  Inside enemy territory, yes . . . but so far in? That far inside?

  Staggered, everyone stared at Sanawey. Then April turned to t’Cael, and all eyes followed his.

  The Romulan commander didn’t seem affected. If he was surprised at all, it was surprise that these people hadn’t fully understood the import of their presence here, or the grave menace they represented. He scanned their dazed faces. Finally he widened his eyes at them and shrugged. “That’s why we were upset.”

  “Mr. Kirk, Engineer Chang is hailing,” Sanawey called.

  George joined him on the upper deck. “Kirk here.”

  “Chang, sir. We . . . got it.”

  “What do you mean, got it?”

  “It was running from section to section, through the automatic doors, and accidentally it . . .”

  “It what?”

  “It accidentally ran into a section where the environmental controls weren’t functioning yet. No heat, no gravity—it was only about eighty degrees Kelvin in there. The autohatches weren’t sealed.”

  George shuddered, his shoulders drawing inward. “You mean it’s . . .”

  “Frozen like a statue.”

  George grimaced. He didn’t know whether such a death would be less or more gruesome than dying by laser. Either fate seemed somehow unjust for a creature that had lived its life by the rules of nature, and played fairly.

  “Okay, get rid of it. While you’re down there, make sure the electrical locks are on in all the sections where environmental control isn’t automated. We don’t want anyone strolling into a super-subzero area.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Good job, by the way. Kirk out.” He straightened. “Cancel intruder alert status,” he told Sanawey, then looked down at April. “Ship is secure, Captain.”

  “Thank you, George,” April said simply, then once again pressed the intercom beside him. “Dr. Brownell, we’re going to have to put priority on weapons capacity.”

  “Then you’re gonna have to send Graff down here to take over on the warp reprogramming. Saffire’s the only one of these clay brains who can handle the weapons program, and he’s gonna have to do it from Auxiliary Gunnery Control in the engineering section.”

  Graff turned at the sound of his name and headed for the turbo-lift. “On my way, sir,” he said to April as the lift doors parted.

  “He’s coming, doctor,” April relayed. “Mr. Cael, pardon my bluntness, because I know this is difficult for you. But if you have anything to tell us that might improve our chances even more, might you say it now?”

  “Certainly,” t’Cael began, but honor forced him to clear his throat before he could continue. “Our ships, and their commanders. Raffish is commanded by a man named Llarl. He gained command less through accomplishment than through politics. He should not be your first consideration. The ship most dangerous to you is War Thorn. It is updated to the most modern armaments. Zayn Z’ir is formidable in battle, and she is tenacious and young enough to meet you on any level of recklessness.”

  Listening intently and burying any reaction, April took a moment to wag a finger at Sanawey, who immediately nodded as though he had anticipated the gesture. His big fingers tapped in a record mode and tied it in to the library computer’s strategical coordination banks.

  “Soar,” t’Cael was saying, “is an older fighter. She lacks the more sophisticated armaments of the other ships.”

  “No plasma mortars?”

  “No plasma mortars. Less maneuverability. Lower shielding. However, her commander, H’kuyu, is also older. He was given Soar in order that his experience would prove a counterbalance to the ship’s inadequacies. You’ll have a hard time surprising him.”

  “Are you getting all this, Claw?” April asked.

  “Right into the computer’s logistics library, sir.”

  April nodded. “Go ahead, Mr. Cael.”

  T’Cael acknowledged him with a gracious glance, burying the nausea that insisted he was turning traitor. He fought to define his motives—peace, yes. Acting upon his honor to save these humans. Telling them only what they needed to know to save themselves. That—and no more.

  Past the bile that rose in his gullet, he continued.

  “Future Fire is also lacking in shield capacity; however, its arms are peak aptitude. Tr’Poll commands it, a man of little mercy, but also little intuitiveness.” T’Cael raised a brow and grinned at the captain. “He has the imagination of a dead fish. Be unpredictable—you’ll disorient him easily.”

  On the upper deck, George focused on what t’Cael was saying, trying to absorb it all. Maybe the computer was assimilating it into some kind of battle strategy, but he didn’t entirely trust this “library” business yet. He wanted to know these things himself, to have them at hand when the minutes were up.

  “Experience,” the description went on, “has experienced a malfunction in its sensor relays during this voyage. They’ll have to fight manually. Commander h’Daera, however, is an expert at such battle techniques. She’ll more than compensate for the lack of sensors simply because she dares to anticipate. However, she tends to overestimate herself and can be tricked into making errors in judgment.”

  “And Raze?” April prodded, speaking gently because he felt this particular ship was at the end of the list for a reason—t’Cael was avoiding it.

  “Yes . . . Raze.” T’Cael sighed. “Difficult to tell. Its commander”—unbidden images of who should have been in command burned in his mind—“is Kai. He also has little imagination. But he is fiercely dedicated and knows enough to bend rules. There was a time . . . when I put great trust in him.”

  “Is he the one you referred to?”

  “No. I referred to Ry’iak.” Bile rose in his throat. “He has bored himself under our skin and means to feed there.” He worked at controlling his bitterness. “That one will do anything, sacrifice anyone, to protect his own ambitions, and his life.”

  “Sounds like a conflict of interest,” April commented.

  T’Cael paused. “I’m sorry?”

  “It sounds as though protecting h
is life may get in the way of his ambitions.”

  “Oh, yes, you’re correct about that. He will be torn. Ry’iak is a fool, but a ruthless fool. He’s the sort who enjoys pulling the feathers from baby nei’rrh—when he isn’t acting like one of them—all of which makes him ideal to his chosen career.” T’Cael folded his arms, fuming. Slowly he noticed the curious looks he was getting as his feelings surfaced.

  “Sounds like a dangerous chap,” April said.

  “Yes, he’s a chap.”

  April smiled, both at t’Cael’s grim expression and at his sincere effort to fit in. “Is there someone who directs strategy for the Swarm as a unit?”

  T’Cael stood rock still for a moment. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “I do.”

  The captain pressed his lips flat in understanding of the irony.

  “Three minutes, Captain,” Florida announced. His voice quivered, and he blinked self-consciously.

  “How can we tell them apart?”

  T’Cael responded to April’s sensible question with a little shrug. “Simply. Each ship’s wingtips are colored for identification. Raffish is white, War Thorn is deep red, Future Fire is blue, Soar is gherru, Experience is—”

  “Pardon, but we don’t know what ‘gherru’ is.”

  Pausing, t’Cael looked around the bridge, then leveled a finger right at George’s hair and said, “This.”

  “Orange,” Drake offered.

  “Copper,” April graciously corrected.

  George simply twisted his lips in disgust and pushed t’Cael’s arm down with burgeoning familiarity. “Just get on with it.”

  “Experience is gray, and Raze, as you’ve seen, is gold.”

  April maneuvered into his command chair and steeled himself. “All right . . . so be it. Let’s close the gap. Move in on Raze.”

  “Robert—” George began, an idea forming in his mind.

  The captain twisted around. “You have something, George?”

  “Yes, a bluff. Shields at half power, lasers at half, particle cannon shut off. Make us appear weaker when they come in to scan us. Our best weapon is the fact that they have no idea what we can do.”

  “They may have already scanned us.”

  “But they may not have.”

  “Make them act rashly?” April murmured, understanding. “Let’s go one step further. Carlos, calibrate to fire half lasers at Raze.”

  Florida’s face crinkled. “At this distance? They’ll hardly feel it!”

  “Exactly.”

  “We did fire on them before,” Florida reminded. “They’ve felt the lasers.”

  “Yes, but we may be able to make them believe we’ve lost power. Let’s try, shall we?”

  Drake tried to brighten the bleak situation by offering, “Prime bait, Captain sir. We’ll look like candy-asses, won’t we?”

  “Colorfully put, but I’m hoping so,” April responded, eyeing Raze in the main viewer. The starship maneuvered around for pursuit.

  “Interesting use of the language,” t’Cael noted, glancing at Drake.

  “Yes, that’s Lieutenant Reed up there. Be careful never to listen to what he says.”

  A twinge ran up April’s spine at the sight of Raze growing larger on the viewer. The Romulan fighter might have been small in comparison to the empress, but its glossy black hull and fire-feathers gave it a fierce and intimidating appearance.

  The ship began moving off, stalling until the Swarm could swoop in to protect it.

  April leaned forward. “Stay with him . . . ready . . . fire!”

  Florida struck the gunnery grid, and the computer took over. Lancets of light energy broke from the empress’ primary hull and joined the two ships in a puppet show. The starship held the string, and the Raze became a marionette trying to dance away. Unlike before, however, the Romulan fighter was able to easily break away from the half-powered lasers and veer off on a different course.

  “Stay with him,” April repeated.

  Sanawey touched his earphone and reported, “Subspace activity, Captain, high gain and scrambled.”

  “They’re calling for help,” t’Cael informed them.

  “As you predicted,” April said. “My compliments. You know your people well.”

  “That is my duty, after all,” t’Cael responded sadly.

  “You’re a pragmatist, Mr. Cael. Don’t feel too bad about it. I wish I could adapt as readily.”

  Suddenly Florida stiffened. “Here they come!”

  “George, get down here.”

  George shook himself and stepped down to April’s other side. He and t’Cael stood like bookends on either side of the command chair. He knew what Robert wanted of him; he just wondered if he was up to it. He might be able to match the Romulans in pure ferocity, but as for knowing how to stage a battle . . . as for doing it with a ship like this—

  “Let them come,” he muttered. “Let them get too close to maneuver; get ready for full laser power.”

  On the screen, the Swarm grew large. Five ships, close enough to make out the Romulan hieroglyphs on their hulls. Close enough to begin.

  “Full deflectors! Helm, hard starboard!” George ordered. “Bring up laser power and come about.”

  Florida struck his board. The starship carved space, veering away from Raze and swinging around to face down three of the approaching ships at point-blank range.

  “Fire!”

  The controls rang again. Two contained slices of full-power laser energy vaulted from the starship, struck two of the ships, and rocked the third with a near miss. The two injured ships fell off their course, shields burned and weakened.

  “Excellent,” t’Cael murmured. At once, he glanced toward April and Kirk, and was glad to see that neither had heard him. The maneuverability of the huge ship left him speechless. He never would have guessed that such bulk could become so instantly graceful. Power, yes . . . but such style! And such fine control—

  “Very good, George,” April said. “Nicely done.”

  George cleared his throat. “Just luck.”

  “No it isn’t just luck. You have an intuition when it comes to these things. If I didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be standing beside me.”

  Suddenly incensed, George began, “That’s not much to bet—”

  On the viewscreen, the Swarm pulled together, the three uninjured ships moving between the starship and the two damaged fighters, and fired on the starship.

  “Brace yourse—”

  Florida’s shout was cut off as thick wands of green energy struck the starship’s forward deflectors. The ship bolted hard to one side. George was pitched toward the command chair and crushed up against April as waves of destructive energy vibrated through the deck under his feet.

  “Plasma mortars?” April gasped.

  From the hand rail, hanging on tightly, t’Cael answered, “No. Contained ion bolts, drawn from engine power. Very efficient.”

  “I see that. Status?”

  “Deflectors holding, sir,” Florida reported, shaken. “Don’t ask me how . . .”

  “Because they’re made to, Carlos,” April assured him, forcing himself to believe it too. If he could make these people think the ship was able to compensate for all their lack of military training and experience, perhaps he could bluff them into getting through it. All it took was a little white lie now and then, and a good dose of feigned confidence.

  Just then a black wedge with copper tips veered in and t’Cael gasped, “Soar!” He lunged toward the navigation station, though the controls were foreign. “Keep away from him!”

  “Hard over!” George ordered, but not soon enough.

  Soar dipped in close to the starship and dropped a purplish-green and almost transparent blob of energy. Not being a trained tactical helmsman, Florida turned them in the wrong direction—right into the splotch of color. As the starship cut to port, the blob struck the outer deflectors.

  A boom of engulfing energy thundered through the ship. The decks and bulkh
eads seemed to convulse around them. George felt the starship heave, a single great spasm that lifted him from the deck and threw him onto the astrogator, then completely over the helm console. He rolled into a heap and landed on his back with his feet in the air, piled up against Florida. Thrums of destructive force bombed across the skin of the starship, and shook her where she hung.

  Several seconds later, the ear-crushing drum of aftershock began to slip back.

  “Good God—” Breathless, April called across the bridge as he pulled himself up from the deck.

  Beside him, t’Cael was also using the command chair for support. “That,” he said, “was a plasma mortar.”

  He tried to hide his astonishment that they were still alive at all, that this ship was strong enough to swallow his finest weapon and return to fight again. If that didn’t stun the Swarm for a few seconds, nothing would.

  “Unbelievable!” April wheezed, slipping shakily back into his chair.

  “A very good weapon at proximity,” t’Cael said. He noted that his hands were white as he gripped the command chair, and drew them away. “Someday we may be able to make it work at hyperspeed.”

  “Let’s bloody well hope not! George, I don’t think they’re playing anymore . . . George? Where are you?”

  “I’m under here.” George dragged himself up from forward of the helm island with Florida in tow, and stuffed the navigational engineer back into his seat. “Bring up particle cannons to full power.” He spun around, his eyes boring right through the viewscreen and into the hulls of Raffish, Experience, and Future Fire. “Let’s go down their throats. Hard about!”

  His anger spread like a virus. Each person visibly knuckled down and braced for whatever impact it would take to shake these hawks from the empress’ tail.

  “You’ve confused Llarl,” t’Cael observed as he watched his ships loop by on the screen. “He’s awaiting orders from Raze. You have time to move now, while they’re scattered. You’ve kept them from fanning out; now keep them from assembling. Confuse them as to your intent. Sweep broadly around them—Kirk, what are you doing?”