by Diane Carey
Then Captain Bateson dared to ask what they were all thinking. “Have we made it to Cardassia Prime? Could he be shooting at cities?”
“I don’t know,” Riker said. “But if so, our buffer’s run out.”
Did it matter if a grain of dust in a whirlwind retained its dignity?
Hornblower and the Atropos
Chapter 24
“We have destroyed sixteen outposts, primarily automated signaling centers.”
“How many killed?”
“Few.”
“Good. I want my options open.”
“The Cardassian subspace communications crackle with terror at our presence. They know we will soon come to Cardassia Prime, and they have no fleet in this sector to stop a ship like this. Nearly all their ships are on the defense perimeter. Their own vigilance will ruin them!”
“Good, Gaylon, good. We will strike at the heart of Cardassia Prime and erase their government’s seat. They will have to deal with the empire, and the empire will have to deal with me. Carry on.”
Gaylon felt invigorated giving such a report to Kozara, and especially having Zaidan standing by, watching, not really understanding any of the technology of this great sweeping vessel they had stolen.
So much power! And the interior was like artwork, like brushstrokes. Like the Klingon sky before a storm.
But there was trouble also. They had now lost contact with thirty-eight members of their crew below decks. Malfunctions, perhaps, or mistakes, but Gaylon did not believe that. Nor did Kozara. There was part of a Starfleet crew trapped below, and while the firedoors and bulkheads were secured, Gaylon had no way to be certain those would stay secured. This ship was too complicated. They could be sure of exactly nothing.
If some of the Starfleeters had broken free and debilitated the Klingons below, then time was against Kozara’s plan. The battle for possession of the ship was under way.
Time . . . time . . .
“Cardassia Prime in fifty-three minutes, Commander,” Klagh reported from the helm.
“Hold course and speed—”
The turbolift door swished open, and just as Gaylon turned, Morgan Bateson and that Klingon-sized first officer came charging out of the lift, brandishing hand phasers.
Where had they gotten charged hand phasers?
The question dominated Gaylon’s mind as he and three of his crewmates met the two angry men at the back of the bridge. The first officer fired, and took down two Klingons in what appeared to be phaser stun.
Stun! So they wanted to fight hand-to-hand. Gaylon joyfully lowered his disruptor and lashed out with a boot, tripping Bateson and sending him sprawling along the upper deck. Bateson’s phaser spun out of his hand.
“Hold them back! Gaylon! Hold them!”
Disruptor fire broke across the bridge, but both Will Riker and Captain Bateson dodged it—bless those support pylons!
Riker saw the Klingon that Kozara had yelled at and noticed that this was a first officer. At least, he was wearing those markings on his body armor.
All these Klingons were middle-aged to senior types, except one—actually the biggest one. Kozara’s crew . . . and his son?
Riker raised his weapon to get in another shot, and was stunned by a hard strike to the side of his head. The pain left him dazed, and when he shook himself back, the hand phaser was gone. His arms were shackled.
Too many Klingons—too experienced to be taken this way. It had been a poor chance, trying to take the bridge before more torpedoes could be unloaded on some innocent target, but they’d taken the bet. They’d lost.
Pinioned on the upper deck by two gray-haired Klingons with good grips, Riker tried to get his wits back. His eyes gradually focused, and he saw Kozara standing over Bateson on the upper deck.
“Pick him up,” Kozara ordered.
Two more of his men came forward and hoisted Bateson to his feet.
Kozara got almost nose to nose with his long-remembered enemy.
“What did you think, Bateson? I would take a ship only to let you steal it back? I have been ninety years recovering from you. You are a strange gift for the galaxy to give an old Klingon.”
“You may hold the bridge, Kozara,” Riker said, “but the rest of the ship is ours.”
“All I need is the bridge. Our traveling is nearly over. Now all we must have is that panel.” Kozara pointed, and sure enough got it right. Weapons and tactical. “I need no precision to cut apart a planet. This ship’s reputation will be like flies upon dung in the street. There will never be another Enterprise when I finish with—”
Kozara’s first officer, Gaylon, came to life suddenly from the tactical panel. “Commander, contacts! Three . . . four vessels!”
“Size and configuration.”
“Fighter tonnage,” Gaylon reported, squinting into the bright readouts, “three vessels bear standard Cardassian configuration, emissions, and signals. Fourth ship . . . is unfamiliar. Federation emission . . . spacelane signals . . . smaller than the others, but reads warp powered. Possibly armed.”
“Of course it has arms,” Kozara drawled. “Why else would they come out and challenge us?”
“Perhaps they’ve heard of you,” Bateson needled. “And your failure of a son. Hello, Zaidan. You’re a big boy now, aren’t you? Too bad you don’t understand what a bold warrior your father is. Even I have to give him credit. This is a gutsy way to commit suicide.”
Riker smiled. Not bad.
“What is it, Kozara?” Bateson asked. “Because you were embarrassed once, you’ll now slaughter millions? There’s honor. And they say you don’t have any. I’ll have to tell them they’re wrong.”
“You will tell no one anything, dog. I will keep you alive long enough to watch the ruination of your great flying legend.”
Bateson raised his chin. “Up thine.”
Kozara blinked. “What?”
Before Riker could think of a quick answer for himself, the son of Kozara swung his long arm and clipped Bateson hard across the jawline. Bateson’s head snapped back, but he stayed on his feet somehow.
“Kozara . . . do you let this boy decide the course of your actions?” he asked.
Riker held his breath. . . . He wanted to say something, felt obliged to, but some instinct stopped him. This was Bateson’s show.
“Kozara,” Bateson began, much quieter, “let’s speak across the years to each other. You’re involving everyone today—my crew, your crew, the Cardassians, the Federation, your empire—but this isn’t about all these other people. It was always about you and me.”
“Do you think,” Kozara challenged, “I am fool enough to fight you hand to hand when I already hold the advantage?”
“No, no,” Bateson said. “No . . . I don’t want to fight you. You’d turn me into oatmeal. I’m trying to tell you, man—you came here and took my ship from me. Kozara . . . you already won!”
For a place crowded with people, the bridge lapsed into a stunning silence. Riker flexed his fingers and swore everyone could hear it.
Kozara stared at Bateson. Bateson spread his hands in a complacent plea.
Was it over? Was Kozara, after all these years, less programmed than Klingons of the past?
“Commander,” Gaylon called, “the four ships are blocking our way.”
“Warn them back.”
“I did. The lead ship is hailing us.”
“Put it on.”
“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard commanding this defense fleet. We are armed and ready to stop your assault on Cardassia Prime. Starfleet has been notified. Within one hour, the starships Hood and Defiant will arrive. Until then, our four ships stand between you and the Cardassian homeworld. If you attack this formation or any Cardassian holdings, I will consider it an act of war against the United Federation of Planets. Think before you take action. Your entire empire will pay for your choice.”
Riker swelled up with relief and excitement, and looked at Bateson, who also was beaming. Picard! Scott�
��s signal had gotten through to Starbase 12!
“Fire!” Zaidan shouted. “Shoot! Kill them! They cannot threaten us! We are Klingons! They are nothing! Jean-Luc Picard is nothing! He is all finished! Shoot him out of the sky and I will call you father again!”
He rounded on Kozara, who stood near the command chair now, glaring at his son with a peculiar expression of distaste.
“If you do this, you will redeem yourself,” the son bellowed. “You will give me all I have been denied. Our name will not go down to shame!”
“Myself?” Kozara erupted at his son. “None of this is for myself! Do you still fail to understand? There is more in this galaxy than ‘myself’ and ‘yourself’! There is more than the stupid, hungry self! You greedy imbecile . . . stand away from me! Take your feet up from the deck of this fine ship whose corridors you do not deserve to walk.”
Stunned, Zaidan dropped back a couple of paces and gawked. His mouth hung open, as doltish as a landed fish.
“I was going to incinerate the Cardassian homeworld to undo the past for you,” Kozara said. “Since we embarked together I have heard nothing but your contempt and complaints, and they begin to gnaw on me. Look around you!” He waved at Picard, at Riker, even at Bateson. “These men have fought their way back to their bridge! They deserve to keep it. Gaylon, shields down.”
“Down!” Zaidan stormed.
He plunged toward Gaylon, but Gaylon was ready. He deflected Zaidan with one arm, holding him back just enough that Gaylon’s left hand could freely meet the tactical control panel.
Glaring into Zaidan’s challenging face, Gaylon said, “Shields are down, Commander.”
“Weapons,” Kozara ordered, also glaring at Zaidan.
Zaidan swung around to breathe fire at his father. “You are standing down? You will fight on my behalf! You will destroy them all for me! You promised!”
“A fool’s promise is not binding.” Kozara flamed back. “I will do nothing more for you, brat. I may be your shame, but you are mine.”
Enraged, Zaidan wasted no more time on his father, but whirled around to Morgan Bateson. “Look what you have done to my father! Bulldog Bateson, I will smash you for what you stole from me!”
“Stop!” Kozara blew between them and knocked his son back a pace, away from Bateson.
Even at his age, driven by the sheer strength of his will, Kozara had little trouble blasting his powerful son back. Zaidan’s fists flew wide, the fists of a construction engineer which would easily have broken Bateson’s skull.
“Get away from him, boy!” Kozara flared. “He is too worthy for such as you.”
Shaking out his apprehension, Bateson said, “Kozara, I really don’t need your help, you know.”
“And I would not help you,” his old rival said, “except that you are more deserving of my effort than this sorry whelp.”
The wizened commander took his own disruptor out of the holster and placed in upon the helm, all the time watching Zaidan’s hatred boil.
“Now that I have this ship in my hands,” Kozara said, “and I look at you, I begin to think in another way. Why should so many die for you? Why should my last action as a Klingon commander be on your behalf?. What have you done to help yourself but be born alive? Must honor go only from the father to the son? What kind of civilization do we have that the child cannot honor the family until the father’s shame is dissolved? Whatever turn the fates vomited upon me, I never whined like a brat. I never moaned. I never blamed anyone else for my failures. I never clung to the successes or shames of those who came before me and sought to flog myself with them and make strangers pay. I no longer care about myself, Zaidan, and as I watch you today, I begin to care less and less about you.”
“Well put,” Bateson offered. “Kozara, you’re a man of honor no matter what anybody says.”
“Yes, yes,” Kozara drawled. “And you are better than I care to admit, human. Better than my son.”
He turned away from Zaidan, and did not look again at his son. Instead, with rather shocking direction of purpose, he poked at the comm link on the helm. “Captain Jean-Luc Picard. This is Commander Kozara of the Klingon Advance Assault Squadron. Come and take this ship. I no longer want it.” He waved at Riker and Bateson then, and said, “Tell him or he will not believe.”
Riker didn’t actually believe it himself. Was it a trap? No, couldn’t be.
Still suspicious, he slowly moved to the comm link. “Captain, this is Riker.”
“Mr. Riker, do you have control of the bridge?”
“I believe so . . .”
“What does that mean?”
Rather than respond immediately, Riker looked at Kozara.
Kozara looked at Zaidan. Zaidan looked at Bateson.
Reading something in his old rival’s control of the moment, Bateson turned to Riker and said, “Tell him the bridge is ours, Mr. Riker. I’d like him to beam over.”
Riker felt his face crimp in a frown, but he couldn’t figure out a reason to disobey that order. Captains. Weird.
“Captain, we have the bridge. Captain Bateson requests that you beam over immediately.”
“Acknowledged. I’ll comply. Stand by.”
“Standing by.”
Around the bridge, Kozara’s crew members stood in surreal satisfaction. Whatever they had come here to do, they didn’t want to do it on Zaidan’s behalf. They didn’t think he deserved it. Odd—they’d been willing to slaughter a planet, a civilization, at Kozara’s bidding, and now just as easily stood down at his whim.
With new respect Riker watched Kozara. There must be something in him, for his crew to do this unexpected thing.
In fact, Kozara seemed more satisfied by this surrender than embarrassed by it.
Before Riker could reflect further, a single transporter beam sizzled onto the upper forward deck, and a moment later, Jean-Luc Picard was standing there.
Was he ever! Fully armed with a phaser rifle, this was a different Jean-Luc Picard than Riker had ever seen before. His bearing was supremely confident, and from the moment the transporter beams faded away, he was undeniably in command of this bridge.
“Stand down!” he snapped to the cluster of Klingons.
“They’re stood down, Captain,” Bateson said, stepping forward with two disruptors he had collected from Gaylon and another Klingon. “Of his own choice, Kozara has decided to modify his course of action. He is not our prisoner. His men are not under guard.”
Picard didn’t believe for a moment, but when Riker stepped forward with his back to Kozara, the captain’s expression changed.
“Confirmed, sir,” Riker said, and gave him a little flare of a brow for good measure.
Just for a moment, Picard actually looked disappointed. Was that right? Riker looked again, but the moment was passed.
“Very good,” Picard said. “Number One, take tactical and run a diagnostic on the ship’s systems. Give me an overview.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Captain Bateson, your lip is bleeding.” Picard stepped down to the command arena with Bateson and Kozara. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” Bateson told him with a shrug that was becoming emblematic. “Sorry to spoil your fun.”
“Yes, I was rather looking forward to it,” Picard told him, still holding the phaser rifle, but pointed now at the deck. “Where’s your crew?”
“Set adrift on Kozara’s derelict ship, back in the Typhon Expanse.”
“We’ll pick them up. And the others?”
“Mostly they’re locked belowdecks, in the pods and lower levels. We’re breaking them out few by few.”
“Well,” Picard sighed, “that’s certainly a better welcome than what I expected.”
“What about your mission, Jean-Luc?” Bateson asked.
“Yes!” A flare of success bolted from Picard, so pleasant that Riker turned and looked, just to help enjoy it. “On those Cardassian ships out there are the crew of the Durant and the satellite tender Tu
scany . . . at least those who are still alive. Their captains are commanding those ships. It’s a good job, you know, when a man gets to bring—”
“Captain!” Riker suddenly had to interrupt as half his board lit up. “I’m reading a Klingon warship on approach vector—fighter class!”
He waited for orders, but didn’t know which captain to look at for those.
Picard tilted his head cannily at Bateson. “Captain, it’s your command.”
Bateson waved a hand. “Oh . . . no, sir, you took the bridge. I was a captive here. You’re in command.”
Hesitating, Picard glanced at Riker, then back at Bateson. Would he take it?
Riker held his breath. It was a fine line—Bateson was the assigned captain, but he had lost the ship. Picard was the senior officer reconfiscating the vessel.
“I’m not taking the ship, Captain,” Bateson warned during the pause.
“Well,” Picard finally answered, “all right, very well. Would you take tactical, please, and check on phaser power?”
“Aye aye,” Bateson responded, and Riker caught a bit of joy in his voice.
Incredible! Bateson was actually having a good time. In fact, both captains were.
“Number One, please take the helm,” Picard requested.
“All we have is quantum torpedoes,” Riker told them as he settled tightly into the helm chair. “We compromised phasers from belowdecks before we came up here.”
“Picard to engineering. Mr. Scott, do you read?”
“Scott here. Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Thank you. We’ve got a hostile encounter and we need phaser power. Quantum torpedoes won’t maneuver quickly enough.”
“Working on it, sir. My handiwork’s hard to untangle.”
“Quickly. Picard out.”
“Attack position,” Bateson ordered. “Full about.”
“Full about, sir,” Riker said. It did feel good to have his hands on the helm!
Beneath his touch, the big ship pivoted mightily in space, shouldering through the punishment of an asteroid cloud, toward the oncoming Klingon ship.
They could see the ship on their screen now—a strong warship rigged for battle, coming in with its fins down like a shark about to attack.
