Legacies #2

by David Mack

  Then both ships came to a halt facing each other . . . and nothing happened.

  Sadira tensed. “What’s going on? Why don’t they fire?”

  Nevira reacted to new intel at the communications console. “Encrypted signals are passing between the Enterprise and the HoS’leth,” she said. “Enterprise hailed the Klingon ship. After a delay, the Klingons are responding.”

  Desperation crept into Sadira’s tone. “What are they saying?”

  “Unable to crack their cipher, Major. Trying all known keys.”

  Mirat had a premonition the Velibor’s fortunes were about to take a turn for the worse. “Pilus, focus all passive sensors on the HoS’leth. Tell me if their emissions change.” To Sadira he said under his breath, “I suggest we shut down the Transfer Key and withdraw. Now.”

  “Based on what? Our enemies’ reluctance to fight? I can fix that.” She opened a channel to the engineering deck. “Ranimir! Charge up another pulse for the Transfer Key.”

  “Understood, Major. We’ll need a few minutes to buffer the charge.”

  “Make it fast. We need to strike before it’s too late. Command out.” She closed the channel, then activated the Transfer Key’s targeting interface. “We’ll hit the Kling­ons again. That should be enough to push whoever’s left on that ship into a berserker rage. Helm! Take us out of the polar magnetic field and put us on a heading for another pass at the HoS’leth.”

  The Velibor’s impulse engines made the hull resonate with sympathetic vibrations as the bird-of-prey sped toward another perilous flyby assault on the Klingon cruiser. Speaking out against Sadira’s plan was pointless, Mirat knew. All he could do was stand at her side as she fought to lock the Transfer Key’s targeting sights on to a new victim inside the HoS’leth.

  Then came Pilus’s report: “Major! The Klingons are generating new active sensor frequencies—the same kind being used by the Enterprise and the planetside observatory.”

  If Mirat was ever going to have a chance of talking sense to Sadira, this was it. “Major, they’re triangulating our position!”

  “No, Centurion, they’re just attempting to. Continue the attack.”

  Kurat was the next to deliver bad news. “Both ships are changing course—coming about to intercept us! Enter­prise is raising shields and charging weapons!”

  Sadira jabbed at her controls. “Engineering! Why isn’t my weapon ready yet?”

  “Still buffering the charge,” Ranimir said. “Fire too soon and we’ll fry half the ship!”

  The two starships loomed larger on the viewscreen, both speeding toward the Velibor. Pilus called out, “Enemy ships targeting our position!”

  The major reached toward the trigger button of the Transfer Key. Mirat abandoned caution and decorum to grab Sadira’s arm. “No! You’ll cripple us! We must retreat!”

  She yanked her arm free, then elbowed his chin. His head struck a low bulkhead hard enough to leave him seeing spots. Sadira raged at him, “Don’t you dare touch me, Centurion! I should—”

  “Incoming!” Pilus shouted. “Two salvos! One from each ship!”

  Sadira stared in horror at the incoming torpedo barrage. “Evasive!”

  The Velibor’s engines moaned like spirits denied peace in the grave. On the viewscreen, stars wheeled and streaked into sloppy twists as the ship rolled and yawed through a desperate series of maneuvers, all in a panicked bid to escape—

  Thunder and darkness, the stomach-turning lurch of chaotic motion as inertial dampers succumbed to overwhelming violent force. Mirat felt his feet leave the deck. Bodies flew and tumbled in stuttered motion as consoles flickered between life and death. Then he met a bulkhead with his shoulder and the side of his head. Gravity vanished for half a breath, then reversed, throwing him against the overhead.

  Normal gravity returned and pulled him to the deck. He, like the rest of the Velibor’s command crew, struggled to stand and return to his post. A ghastly pall of dark gray smoke lingered at eye level inside the compartment and snaked away into the connecting corridors. Torched consoles crackled and spat white-hot sparks. He brushed the glowing motes from his uniform and sleeved green blood from his gashed forehead. Light-headed, he staggered to his place at the main console, where he opened a channel to engineering. “Ranimir! Damage report!”

  “The cloak . . . is offline,” the chief engineer said between coughs. “Shields . . . up.”

  Sadira, her face decorated in Terran crimson, clawed her way back to her feet. “What about the Key? Is it intact?”

  “Barely,” Ranimir croaked.

  “Forget that,” Mirat cut in. “Do we have weapons?”

  “Affirmative. Plasma torpedoes . . . ready!”

  Pilus called out, “Both ships are locking weapons!”

  “Plasma torpedoes on the HoS’leth, disruptors on the Enterprise! Lock and fire!”

  “No!” cried Sadira, adamant in her madness. “Finish charging the Key! We—”

  Mirat returned Sadira’s backhanded swat and knocked her to the deck. It meant the end of his career, but that was the least of his troubles now. “This is real combat, you hevam wikah! Fight like a soldier—or make way for those who know how!”

  * * *

  There she is! Kirk gloated at the sight of his phantom foe made real in a flash of antimatter annihilation. “Stay with her, Sulu! Chekov, switch to phasers only.”

  The red-alert siren wailed as Spock stared into the hooded sensor display. “The Romulans are raising their shields, charging weapons, and changing speed and heading—”

  “To an attack profile,” Kirk interrupted. “I see it, Spock. Scotty, more power to the forward shields. Sulu, keep showing them our nose. Chekov, status.”

  “Still working to lock phasers, Captain!”

  “Work faster, Ensign—because here they come!”

  On the viewscreen, the bird-of-prey made a rolling turn as it fired. A huge, expanding plasma charge slammed into the engineering section of the HoS’leth as the Romulans’ disruptor banks raked the Enterprise’s starboard shields. The crash and boom of the shields dimpling before the attack resounded through the hull, followed by Chekov’s report—“Firing!”—and the whooping cry of the phaser banks nearest the bridge being discharged.

  “Report,” Kirk said.

  “A glancing blow off their aft shields,” Spock said. “No damage.”

  Chekov looked over his shoulder just long enough to show Kirk an apologetic frown. “Sorry, Captain. They’re just too fast!”

  “Keep after them, Ensign. Increase your lead time, and let the targeting computer help.” He swiveled left, toward Scott. “Damage?”

  “Shields took a bruising,” the engineer said. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

  Uhura pointed at the main screen. “Captain!”

  Kirk looked back to see the image of the HoS’leth drift across the screen as the Enterprise continued its mad chase of the Velibor. The Klingon cruiser was listing, and its port warp nacelle had gone dark. As the ship yawed to expose its underside, the massive breach in its secondary hull became visible. “How bad were they hit?”

  Spock adjusted the sensors. “Scanning. . . . Major internal damage. Their warp core has been breached, and they have lost main power.”

  “Which means they’re running without shields or disruptors,” Scott added.

  Sulu warned, “The Romulans are making another pass!”

  White-knuckling the arms of the command chair, Kirk snapped, “Full impulse! Overtake them before they—”

  The bird-of-prey unleashed another plasma torpedo, as well as a broadside with its disruptors, all of it targeted onto the HoS’leth.

  On the Enterprise, everyone winced as the plasma munitions flared on impact and shredded the aft quarter of the D7 cruiser. Kirk felt a queasy sympathy for its ­Klingon crew as he saw the Romulan ship�
��s disruptor beams slice through the HoS’leth’s engineering section, pylons, and nacelles before it banked hard to port, a split second ahead of Chekov’s latest counterattack.

  “They’re accelerating,” Sulu reported. “Moving out of phaser range and circling around for another run.” He looked back at Kirk and shook his head. “We can’t overtake or outmaneuver them at impulse.”

  Looking up from the sensors, Spock added, “I estimate we have less than ninety seconds before their next attack run, Captain.”

  “Sulu, put us within transporter range of the HoS’leth. Spock, scan for survivors.” As they executed his orders, Kirk turned aft toward Uhura. “Lieutenant, hail the Kling­ons, tell them to stand by for evacuation. Mister Scott—”

  “Charging transporters now, Captain. Standing by to drop shields and relay coordinates.”

  “Look sharp, Scotty. We’ll only have a few seconds.” On the viewscreen, a red-and-silver streak of motion, an omen of the next cycle of punishment. “Spock?”

  “Reading approximately three dozen survivors on the HoS’leth, all in the forward section. Sending transport coordinates to Mister Scott now.”

  Kirk knew the timing would be close. “Sulu, try to anticipate the Romulans’ attack vector, then put us between them and the HoS’leth. Chekov, prepare to lay down suppressing fire. Force the Romulans off their optimal firing trajectory while our shields are down.”

  Uhura’s voice cut through the excited chatter. “Captain! Commander Lomila of the HoS’leth demands we not evacuate her crew.”

  That news drew looks of surprise from around the bridge and a glance of curious interest from Spock. Kirk took it in stride. “They want to go down with their ship. I understand that. I even respect it. But right now they’re the only ones who can verify to the Klingon High Council that we were both attacked by the Romulans. If they die, the Klingons will blame us and say we faked the sensor logs.” He made eye contact with Scott. “Beam them over, now.”

  “Aye, sir. Dropping shields. Energizing.” The engineer set to work, taking remote control of the ship’s multiple transporter platforms to pluck the Klingon survivors off their crippled ship.

  The bird-of-prey’s narrow outline took shape on the main viewscreen. Its forward plasma torpedo launcher began to glow as it charged to fire.

  Still gathering sensor data, Spock announced, “The Romulan ship’s energy profile is a match for the Velibor—the ship that aided Lisa Bates’s exfiltration from the Enterprise with the Transfer Key.” He looked up at Kirk. “Your hunch appears to have been correct, Captain.”

  “Then we need to find a way to stop that ship without destroying it—and get the Key back before they use it again.” The bird-of-prey was close enough now for the viewscreen to render in crisp detail the stylized raptor emblem on its dorsal hull. “Time to phaser range?”

  Chekov’s hand hovered above the firing switches. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Sulu, arm a full spread of torpedoes. Fire on my mark.”

  Working quickly, Sulu replied, “Photon torpedoes standing by.”

  Scott’s hands flew from one part of the engineering console to another. “First round of transports done. We need thirty seconds to finish!”

  “Stay on it, Mister Scott. Spock, can we raise just the forward shields?”

  “Attempting to angle deflectors,” Spock said as he worked.

  “Here we go,” Sulu muttered under his breath.

  Chekov declared, “Firing range in four, three—”

  “Fire!” Kirk bellowed. “Keep firing! Alternate phaser batteries!”

  “Torpedoes away,” Sulu said over the howling clamor of the ship’s weapons.

  “The Romulans are locking weapons,” Spock said. “Firing—”

  On the viewscreen, the image of the Velibor was blotted out by the all-too-familiar sight of a plasma torpedo hurtling toward the Enterprise. It had been over a year since the ship had last faced the Romulans’ terrifying new armament, and Starfleet still had no solid defense against it.

  Sulu asked, “Evasive maneuvers, Captain?”

  “Hold station, Lieutenant! Keep firing!”

  Searing white light flooded the main viewscreen. The Enterprise shuddered as an impact like a thunderclap echoed through its groaning hull. Then the blinding glow faded to reveal the Velibor, changing course with a hard turn as the Enterprise’s phaser beams deflected off its shields at oblique angles before one lucky shot slipped through and blazed a red-hot scar across the Romulan vessel’s bow.

  “Their plasma torpedo deflected off our shields and detonated six kilometers above us,” Spock said. “Damage to both our warp nacelles and dorsal hull.”

  Adrenaline surged through Kirk and impelled him to spring from the command chair. “What about the Romulans? I’m sure I saw Chekov score a hit.”

  “Affirmative, a phaser strike to their torpedo launcher,” Spock confirmed. “The weapon has been neutralized. If they continue their attack, they will have to rely on disruptors.”

  Kirk gave Chekov a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. “Good shooting, Ensign!” He looked to Scott. “Transport status?”

  “All survivors aboard and shields back up, sir. But I suggest we move clear, on the double. That ship’s warp core could go at any second.”

  “Noted. Chekov, snag the HoS’leth with a tractor beam. We need to send it away from the planet. Sulu, once that’s done, get us out of its blast radius.” Confident the derelict D7 was being handled with dispatch, Kirk moved to stand with Spock at the sensor console. “How long until the Romulans’ next attack run?”

  “They do not appear to be making one. At least, not against us.”

  “Explain.”

  Spock straightened, his expression grave. “They are headed into the atmosphere of Centaurus, on a direct heading for New Athens.”

  All at once, Kirk understood. “They must think the Klingon crew is dead.”

  “Which means,” Spock concluded, “the Romulans must now eliminate the last Klingon witnesses who might testify to their involvement in this incident: Councillor Prang and the remainder of his delegation.”

  There was no time to waste. Kirk bolted back to the command chair. “Sulu! Pursuit course, full impulse!”

  The helmsman shot a petrified look at Kirk. “Sir? Into the atmosphere?”

  “You heard me, Lieutenant.”

  “But, sir, we’re not designed to operate in atmosphere.”

  “Neither are they, Mister Sulu. Which means this might be our one chance to catch the Velibor before it kills the Klingon delegation. But if we fail . . . all of this will have been for nothing.” He pointed at the planet on the viewscreen. “Take us in, Mister Sulu. Full impulse.”

  * * *

  Between the red-alert siren and the hectic chatter of the Enterprise’s superficially wounded crew and its terminally put-upon nursing staff, Doctor McCoy could barely hear himself think.

  Trailed by Nurse Christine Chapel, he moved down the triage line of Enterprise crewmen in the main compartment of sickbay. He assessed the waiting patients with clinical efficiency. “First-degree burn. Give him some ointment and cut him loose. . . . Minor laceration. Antibiotic cream and a quick pass of the dermal regenerator. . . . Hm. Shrapnel, but not deep. Hand me some tweezers.” He held out his hand; Chapel planted the requested sterile instrument into his palm. He extricated a sliver of metal from a female Caitian officer’s neck, then passed the tweezers back to Chapel. “Antibiotics and a dermal re-gen.”

  The door slid open behind McCoy, who turned to see a quartet of crimson-shirted Enterprise security officers usher more than a dozen scuffed-and-scorched Klingons into sickbay. “What the devil is this?”

  Before the ranking security officer could reply, the Klingons turned in unison against his team, pummeling the four men to the deck in a matter of seconds. Their
leader, a wild-eyed woman, seized McCoy by his throat. “What has Kirk done?”

  He would have answered if only he had been able to breathe.

  Chapel raced to intercede. “Let him go! He’s a doctor!” The Klingon officer tightened her grip on McCoy’s esophagus.

  Then Chapel decked her.

  It was a solid punch, a hard jab to the Klingon’s nose. Cartilage and bone collapsed with a satisfying crunch, and magenta blood spilled from the Klingon’s crumpled nostrils. She let go of McCoy and stumbled backward two steps before falling unceremoniously on her ass.

  “If you’re smart,” Chapel said, pointing at the Klingon, “you’ll stay down!”

  McCoy stepped between the women and waved Chapel back. “It’s okay. . . . But get more security down here, just in—” Before he finished, the door to the corridor opened again, and six armed security officers hurried in to stand between him, Chapel, and the Klingons. The four Enterprise crewmen assaulted by the Klingons struggled to their feet with bruised chins and wounded pride. Massaging his throat, McCoy grumbled, “Better late than never.”

  The female Klingon on the deck got up, with one hand pressed to her face to stanch the bleeding from her broken nose. She glared at McCoy. Her new injury gave her voice a flat, nasal quality. “I told your captain to leave us on our ship!”

  “You’ll have to take that up with him. I’m just the ship’s surgeon.” McCoy frowned at her. “Are any of your people hurt?”

  She looked offended by the question. “We will live.”

  “Suit yourself.” He turned away to tend patients still awaiting his attention.

  The Klingon’s enraged lament turned him back. “Kirk should have let us die with honor! He robbed us of our glory in Sto-Vo-Kor!”

  McCoy had never understood the Klingon mind, and he suspected he never would. All he could do was scowl at the Klingon woman’s outburst. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘Thank you.’ ”