Dreadnought!

by Diane Carey

  “One of them,” Scanner whistled, rolling his eyes. “Probably chompin’ to get to the bridge.”

  “Not too soon. I’m still reeling from finding myself on this ship instead of Magellan.”

  “Know anything about her?” Merete asked.

  “I know about the officers,” I said shrugging, “and the usual tall tales. Same as everybody.”

  Scanner gestured to an empty bunk. “All yours. You’d best stay belowdecks till you get used to everything.”

  I sat down, testing the mattress for comfort. There wasn’t much. They deliberately made them that way to keep us from sleeping too much, I had always thought. “I intend to. Sure, I want bridge duty, but not till I warm up to the ship and get to know her.”

  “Good sense.” Scanner leaned against the vanity and pocketed his hands. I got a mental vision of a plow reposing next to him. His demeanor defied the stiff military line of his uniform, making it seem more like grubby overalls. He was the kind of person that couldn’t be decorated at any cost. “What’s your first name?”

  “Piper.” The look on his face made me explain. “Proxima was just colonized four generations ago, so we’re all one family. We have no use for clan identification, so we each have one name.”

  “You don’t have another one, like the Vulcans?”

  “Just Piper.”

  “Hey, I’m country. I can live with it. You’ll have to get squared away later. Something’s up and we’re supposed to report to stations in forty minutes, prepared for battlestations.”

  “Battlestations? A drill?”

  “Nope, no drill. Right, Merete?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t know what it is. Usually, with Captain Kirk, that means he doesn’t know the whole story either. He’s pretty good about letting the crew know what’s going on. He figures we should, since we risk our lives here.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “Leaving?” Scanner blasted. “Girl, we warped out of the Sol System twenty minutes ago!”

  “What? I didn’t feel anything!”

  “That’s Enterprise. Smo-o-o-th.”

  Merete got up from where she had been lounging on her bunk. “They received a special dispatch from Star Fleet Command about an hour and a half ago. I was in Sickbay when the Captain buzzed Dr. McCoy about it. He called a senior officers’ meeting, and ten minutes later the whole shore leave roster was cancelled and here we are.”

  “I had to bump up dinner a half hour. We’ll have to hustle if we want to get some grub,” Scanner said.

  Osira hissed something, drawing attention back to herself, and Scanner nodded an answer. On an inspiration he said, “Sound, Osira. Let her hear your voice.”

  Telosirizharcrede parted her maw, but her voice never reached the necessary decibels for me to hear it.

  The door opened. Glowing corridor lights eclipsed a narrow form and enhanced the dimness where we were standing. We all looked but no one moved, held by the coronaed shape in the doorway. Then Scanner ordered the lighting to intensify. We blinked, and the entity at the door sharpened into full color. He was wearing a standard gold and black uniform with lieutenant’s bars, yet he wore it more like a ceremonial tunic than military issue. He moved gracefully, more so than most Vulcans, his youthful features already cultivating the lionic grandeur typical of older Vulcans, yet it was plateaus deeper with resentment and distance. He was fairer than most Vulcans I knew, with lighter eyes and hair like burnished brass.

  He came into the room. His amber eyes refused all but the most fleeting contact with us. Probably it was only bureaucratic error that quartered a Vulcan with others, but it was telling on him. He went straight to his area, pausing only when he saw me. We exchanged a bald glare; his dry lips parted, then sealed without a sound. His expression changed, if only to become more recessed, but the civilized eyes narrowed a thought.

  Scanner looked at me, then at the Vulcan. “I’m plain croakin’ for lack of sustenance. Come on with me, ‘sira. How ‘bout you, Piper?”

  “I’ll go,” Merete injected, and I nodded to her in thanks, though not accepting. “But I want to wash up first,” she continued without a break. She started toward the head, following Scanner and Osira as they went through to their own cabin, Scanner yapping away in his Kentucky drawl about something delightfully insignificant.

  When the portals between the cabins closed, I was alone with the Vulcan. I might as well have just been alone.

  He was sitting at his desk, facing away from me. His shoulders were squared. He was not meditating. I went toward him.

  “Sarda,” I began, fully planning to come up with more to say.

  His voice was a cutting edge. “There is no reason for us to intermingle. We have a propensity for mutual abrasion.”

  “And I’m tired of it.” I forced myself into his periphery. “Is it so against Kolinahr to forgive?”

  He turned to me—a surprise—and stood up, allowing me to read the control in his eyes. “Our history is an unfortunate one. However, nothing has changed. Forgiveness is a social enigma which does not alter circumstances.”

  “You deny forgiveness, yet you cower to bitterness. If emotion is foreign to you, how can you hate me so?” I can wield logic too.

  It hit home. The flaw in his Vulcan façade flickered. After a moment he regained control. “I … do not hate you, Piper,” he said, but he was using my name as a title, a rank, not as a name. The sound of it that way was galling. “I simply see no advantage to our speaking.”

  This was the first time in nearly an Earth-standard year that Sarda had spoken to me at all. I began to prefer the silence.

  The lids dropped over my eyes, shutting out the sight of a man whose reputation my ignorance had spoiled, shutting in the knife-edged pain of knowing I had caused him to be ostracized by others of his kind at Star Fleet. To top it all off, he had to bear the degradation of bunking with me, especially when a Vulcan’s most prized possessions are his solitude and privacy.

  “As you wish,” I said, forcing a strength I didn’t feel.

  Sarda walked away, directionless, silent.

  “Remember,” I added, “you do yourself and Star Fleet a disservice by denying your talent. I never meant to hurt you, Sarda. I thought you wanted—”

  “There is no profit in repeating that which we both recall. Your interference was understandable, yet not within your right.”

  “And it cost you dearly, I realize that. I can’t mend it. I can only apologize.”

  “Apology, like forgiveness, is peculiar to races enslaved by emotion. Vulcans are not among them. Since the error in lodging will be rectified soon, it will be mutually beneficial for you and me to avoid any excess contact. This is a large ship. I shall attempt to keep most of it between us.”

  “Sarda …”

  “Good afternoon.”

  There was a little scratch on the door, and Scanner leaned in.

  “Come,” I offered limply.

  “All clear?” He led the others in. Sarda had gone.

  I nodded. “Thanks for doing that.”

  “You an’ Sarda got a past, eh?”

  “Not a nice one. Well … it was nice, once. But that’s done with and can’t be helped.”

  “Hm. Sorry to hear it.” I was grateful to him for letting the matter drop. “Ready to go eat?”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’ll do you good,” Merete decided. “Everybody needs time to get acclimated. Even captaincy candidates.”

  The ache behind my eyes got dull and throbbed. “All I want right now is to get lost in anonymity for a while. A crowded ship’s mess hall sounds perfect.”

  We headed toward the door, but never made it. The intercom signals shattered our peace.

  “Lieutenant Piper to the bridge, immediately; Lieutenant Piper report to the bridge!”

  Chapter Three

  THE DOORS OF the bridge access turbolift slid open before me. My hair was tied up, my uniform pleat-perfect, my spine reed
straight, and nothing but dignity glowed on my face as I strode confidently onto the bridge of the Enterprise, surrounded by my impressed superiors.

  Well, that was a nice dream. Too bad it didn’t happen that way.

  Fact was, I stumbled out of the lift, hair flying in a wavy mass of light brown, my breath ragged from running the corridors, my mind clattering with questions and phobias. Only when I was hit full in the face by their uniforms did I remember I was still wearing my black zip-front jumpsuit. The hooded one with the flared legs and short wing sleeves. The one that wasn’t regulation. The one that showed off too much of my figure, not enough of my efficiency, and nothing of my rank.

  Momentum propelled me into the handrail. Hadn’t even seen it.

  “Oh … sorry,” I murmured, rudely staring at the arresting presence opposite me on the walkway. I thought of Sarda as I stared.

  This wasn’t Sarda.

  I knew several Vulcans, but he was the most renowned. Even more grand than the rare holos I’d seen of him, his face was a catalog of experiences, even of emotions. The elegiac calm behind his lack of expression told of great hidden learning, nothing like the hauteur of other Vulcans. His eyes, like polished nitaglase, held a warmth equal to the restraint and staggering intellect. The smugness of my Vulcan fellowclassmen was strikingly absent in him. I didn’t miss it.

  Commander Spock. I wonder if he’ll ever speak to me.

  Everyone on the bridge seemed tall as I stood panting in front of them. It was a cruel illusion, since I was used to looking straight across or down at most people. The shortest person was Captain Kirk, but it took me awhile to notice that, because it was he who was the nucleus of the bridge. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was half Vulcan. He had the pride, the sturdiness, the same penetrating gaze as his companion, but he was also a little casual, a little cocky as he scanned me.

  He gestured and said, “Down here, Lieutenant.”

  I blinked. Was that his voice? It was so soft!

  Numb, I moved toward him. Damn it, I’m trembling.

  I noticed the bridge crew, but only subliminally. They were an impressive collection of high-rankers, each with a reputation of his or her own, but I was dull to their legendary impact as I stiffly lowered myself down the access steps, concentrating only on not falling flat on my face.

  “Lieutenant,” the Captain began, hazel eyes clasping mine, “What do you know about the Star Empire?”

  I did my best not to shrug. “Nothing, sir. Should I?”

  He turned his head, still looking at me, and paced a few steps. “I asked you first.”

  A swallow did nothing for the dryness in my throat. “Sir, I … don’t understand what you want. I’ve never heard of a starship called Star Empire. There isn’t one.”

  “There is.” Mr. Spock glided into motion, joining us near the command chair. “The ship is a prototype, the only one of her kind. Construction was recently completed at Star Fleet Headquarters. It is a thoroughly military machine, devoid of any luxuries typical of a patrol starship, with a usual complement of five hundred crewpersons.”

  Silence dropped on the bridge.

  Five hundred …

  “Lieutenant,” Kirk prodded.

  I jolted out of the hypnotism of Spock’s voice. “How can that be? I just spent a year at Command Central. You can’t hide an entire starship.”

  “You underestimate Command Intelligence, Lieutenant,” Spock droned.

  “But why? What purpose?”

  “Exactly my question,” Kirk said. “You almost destroyed the simulation computers with your communicator. Very innovative, but where did you learn such a ploy?”

  Great. All I needed was to have to tell him I got it from reading children’s stories. This time I did shrug. “Just happened to have read about the theory behind it, sir.”

  “Do you just happen to be aware of that technique’s use by terrorists?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sure. Of course I was. It never occurred to me to lie.

  A strange intimacy overtook our conversation as I locked eyes with him, seeking symbiosis that would help us understand one another. I lowered my voice as though he and I were alone. “What’s it all about? And why am I here?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me what your biocode is doing on an advance signal from Star Empire.”

  “My code? It has to be a mistake.”

  He paused for a leisurely sigh. “Uhura, please verify the coding.”

  The stunning black woman danced large hands over her board. “Biocode transmission, identify.” She listened, then recited, “Code blood type O-positive, bone marrow D-hypercore, EEG catalog Z-four-twenty, indices ten and eleven. That’s …” Her glance melted me. “Definitely Lieutenant Piper, sir.”

  “You’re the only one who can clear that message when we receive it,” Kirk fired, deliberately stealing my time to think. “I want to know why.”

  Breath came and went in a lump. I started to say something, stopped, squeezed my fists tight, then started again. “A message from a new starship,” I muttered. I felt my eyes narrowing, a habit I had when I was trying to knit together a puzzle without enough pieces. “Why … don’t we go back to Command Central and ask them?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Who does know?”

  “Only the insurgents who stole Star Empire.”

  “Stole it! A starship?”

  “The only starship of its kind. We’ve been ordered to effect pursuit and dispatch the thieves. The confusing part is this advance biocode, telling us where Star Empire will be waiting for us. Why would they tip their hand, and why to you?”

  “Evidently,” Spock interrupted, “they wish to talk, and evidently they want the Lieutenant to do the listening.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I said. “Sir, I don’t know what to tell you. Believe me, Captain, if I knew …”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to know. Spock, summon my officers to the briefing room. Lieutenant Piper, come with me.”

  “Star Empire is a prototype MK-X Class One Federation dreadnought. As you can see on your monitors, it is a massive ship, roughly thirty percent heavier in deadweight tonnage than standard starships. There are three warp drive nacelles, the third mounted high on the rear on the primary hull. That hull is fifteen decks thick. Its construction was ordered by the Admiralty two solar years ago, during a peak uprising and series of border skirmishes with the Klingons during which the Klingon hierarchy was undergoing a purge. The ship was only recently completed, under the supervision of Vice-Admiral Vaughan Rittenhouse, who has guarded the project since its inception. Star Empire is capable of attaining a maximum burst speed three warp factors faster than Enterprise, carries five dual-mount phaser banks, four banks of photon torpedoes, triple shielding, and a full battery of state-of-the-art weaponry. We are severely outclassed.”

  Mr. Spock’s final punctuation added gravity to his monologue. I looked around, shyly moving only my eyes, trying to see the reactions around me. The briefing room was brimming with flag officers—most of the bridge crew was here, as were Dr. McCoy, saucily lounging in his seat and scraping the table with his fingernails, and Chief Engineer Scott, whose texts I’d heard Brian quote so often. Montgomery Scott wasn’t at all the person I’d expected. First of all, he spoke with this fabulous trill I’d never heard before and I couldn’t begin to guess which planet he hailed from. His dark hair had threads of silver, accented by a charcoaly moustache and a twinkle in a pair of hematite eyes. He watched the explanation and the interaction of his colleagues with a recessed scrutiny, as though he was delighted to be out of the limelight but quite ready to jump under it if necessary. Engineering, judging by the way he watched Star Empire’s complex schematics 3-D their way across the viewscreens, was less a career to him than it was pure religion.

  And Sarda—he was here too. His wish to keep most of the ship between us was dead aborning. He stood behind his superior officer and never
looked at me once. Apparently he had been promoted to the position of second officer of weapons engineering and design. I groaned mentally, remembering our past.

  “Give the details of today’s events, please, Mr. Spock,” the Captain requested.

  “Very well, sir. At fifteen hundred hours this afternoon, the Star Empire was piloted out of spacedock by persons of unknown identity, who apparently gained clearance through some form of high-style intelligence espionage. It was an exceptional accomplishment, considering the security cloaking the project. We can only assume the insurgents perpetrating such a feat were, and are, operating from within Star Fleet.”

  Reaction fogged through the room, taking various forms.

  “A military coup?” Dr. McCoy blustered. “That doesn’t make sense, Spock.”

  “It is only one of a series of logical possibilities, Doctor. However, it is the most reasonable, based on available data. Shortly before Star Empire warped out of the system, Star Fleet Command received a Code Zero priority comsync with Lieutenant Piper’s biocode, specifying where Enterprise could rendezvous with the dreadnought. We can only assume they will announce their demands to us at that time.”

  “Thank you, Spock.” Kirk turned to us as the computer viewscreens went blue and awaited further orders. “Federation Destroyer Pompeii will be joining us at the rendezvous point, bringing Vice-Admiral Rittenhouse with it.”

  “Unprecedented,” Spock suggested.

  “It is his baby,” Kirk said. “If it was Enterprise …”

  “You’d be chasing off after it with your boots unpolished and all your swords unsheathed,” McCoy busted in. “I don’t like the way this sounds, Jim. It smacks of rebellion.”

  “We won’t jump to that conclusion yet, Bones.”

  “An’ I’m not too crazy about the idea of taking potshots at a doomsday weapon with five phaser banks and triple shielding either.”

  Only now did Mr. Scott speak up, giving a sage tilt to his head. “He’s got a point there, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Scotty.”