by Diane Carey
We cheered, or maybe it was only the breathing around me suddenly becoming loud. The two remaining Klingons rounded away from us and began a new approach, a cooperative attack.
“They’re circling, Captain,” Sulu reported.
“With our current damage,” Spock said at the same time, “the two of them outgun us by seventeen percent. Analysis of their attack pattern indicates they intend to hit us at our weakest point, port side astern. They’ll be going after our nacelle strut, Captain. We cannot effectively maneuver to keep both ships away from it.”
“We can’t just leave Star Empire until we know they’re all dead either.”
Sulu stiffened. “Here they come.”
Captain Kirk moved tensely out of his command chair. “Just keep them off our tail.”
I clung to my dynoscanner more out of terror than duty, and a strange numbness came over me, making me ready to die at the sides of these particular people, who faced death with such unreachable dignity. But the level of mercy seemed too martyrish to me—the dreadnought was a twisted hulk. No one could have survived a cutting up like that. Kirk didn’t seem the suicidal type.
Unable to look, I kept my back turned from the main viewer and concentrated on my scanner, on the blurred pinkish readings of asteroids as my sensors tried to push through the Hovinga garbage. Asteroids … debris … space junk … bits of Klingon flotsam … and—a solidity. I squinted at it. Two hundred ninety thousand metric tons … length, three hundred meters … breadth, one hundred forty … another rock? Or—too big for a bird of prey … configuration still blurred …
Just when the thought hit me that it could be a Klingon heavy cruiser or a mothership for the birds of prey—a horrid, nasty thought—the thing suddenly accelerated from drift speed to three-quarters sublight, advertising that it sure was no natural object.
“Captain!” I spun around, unable to do more than stare at the viewscreen.
Before I could take another breath, a blue photon ball shot into our sight and peeled away the tip of a wing on the nearest Klingon ship!
Into our viewscreen as we watched in astonishment rose a dazzling alabaster messiah, a ship vast and bulky with three thick, angular nacelles lancing out behind like scarves flying in wind, and a sculpted engineering hull any designer would worship. Her primary hull was shaped hexagonally, giving her a gemlike quality. Lights glowed red, blue, yellow, white all along polished hull rims.
Sulu almost rose right out of his seat. “Star Empire!”
“Fascinating—” Spock whispered.
In the space before us were two dreadnoughts—one razed, one hale and robust, perfectly untouched. Two!
Between us the shocked Klingons wheeled around, trapped.
“Subjacent thrusters!” Kirk called suddenly. “Z-plus-two thousand meters. Get us out of firing line and give them a clear shot.”
Enterprise rose, leaving the stunned Klingons to face Star Empire. One of the Star Empires, anyway. In their panic the enemy fired two shots that missed completely. One ship veered off, turning its feather-painted underbelly to us and disappearing out a corner of the viewscreen. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I couldn’t breathe either. It might’ve been the smoke … all I heard was the whirr of ventilation fans clearing the bridge air, and my own heartbeat. All I saw was a superstarship cutting loose on the Klingons.
Bright blue photon balls, many times more powerful than our red ones, spun toward the Klingons, hitting both enemy ships at the same time. Their green armored skins wrinkled and shattered. Their ships ruptured, parting hull from strut, wing from hull, in a galaxy of spilled energy and explosions. Glowing debris spiralled into the void.
We were alone. With Star Empire.
She hung before us in engineered beauty, rising to face us ship to ship, her call letters bold against her hull: MKC 2331.
A mass sigh of relief brushed over the bridge complement.
“Captain, look!” Sulu pointed at the screen. There, as we watched, the spoiled hulk of the other Star Empire began, eerily, to fade away.
“It’s disintegrating!” I blurted.
Spock scanned it. “Negative. It is dissipating. Pure energy. No longer receiving readings of solid mass. Captain, we are observing a projection.”
Kirk pushed out of his command chair, moved around the helm, and glared at the screen as though he could get a closer look at the fading dreadnought. “Duped!”
“Extraordinary,” his Vulcan counterpart mentioned.
Then, just when we didn’t need any more shocks, the screen before us began to change. We watched in amazement as the new supership split like an amoeba—two ships—four ships—six—they diverged and surrounded Enterprise with dreadnoughts.
“What the …?” Ensign Meyers began.
Kirk didn’t look away from the bizarre sight. “Analysis, Spock—which one is real?”
Even Spock seemed taken aback and had to force himself to the library computer. “I have … never experienced such an ability in a vessel…. Captain, their projections appear solid to my sensors. Undoubtedly part of the technology. Energy emissions read enough for only one ship, but I cannot isolate location. A most dynamic display of computer science.” He sounded as wonderstruck as a Vulcan could get. Maybe even a little more. Mr. Spock didn’t seem as paranoid about expressing some feelings when the situation allowed as most Vulcans I knew. Of course, most Vulcans I knew were younger and had less exposure to humans. And less finesse. And less compassion. And less pliability. And less talent.
I looked at Sarda.
He too was staring at the phantom ships as they hovered around us.
“Mr. Sarda, can you explain that?” Sulu asked, putting his apprentice on the hot seat.
I leaned forward, mentally and physically, ready to defend him. This wasn’t his fault—why were they picking on him?
He straightened, composing himself with some effort before facing the strange tribunal on the bridge. “It is a projection system feeding directly into our sensor banks. It operates similarly to a cloaking device, only on a reversed principle. They can confuse our sensor readings to show any item or illusion fed into the projection device at the source. The concept was originally developed for defensive purposes in combat, however it … may obviously be used offensively.”
“And the image of the destroyed ship?” Kirk asked him.
“The projector is capable of receiving sensor readings and analyzing them, then altering the phantom in accordance with changes which would happen if the illusion were real. It recorded the trajectories of the Klingon’s phaser shots, instantaneously computed them, then adjusted the image to simulate damage and debris.”
Spock breathed, “Fascinating.”
“Mr. Spock?” Kirk shifted his gaze.
“An unprecedented display of component-interlink capabilities. I am … impressed.”
Now Kirk’s eyes and voice became intimate. “And insulted that you weren’t let in on it?”
Spock tilted his head in disclaimer, the eyebrow speaking for him.
Kirk went on. “See if you can pinpoint the energy and find out which ship is the real one.”
“I may be able to trace the energy flow back to a source.”
Spock turned to his console. I watched Sarda. His amber eyes dipped away from me. He contemplated the deck of the walkway for a horrible moment before retreating to the weaponry panel. I wanted to be magically across the bridge, at least standing beside him if I couldn’t do any more, but we were separated by more than deck space.
Kirk eyed the dreadnought and its clones. “Uhura,” he said slowly, “put me on hailing frequency.”
“Already hailing, Captain. They’re responding on telemetry … requesting … biocode compliance as specified.”
Several sets of eyes hit me.
My spine tingled as I looked at them.
“Lieutenant, if you would be so kind?” Captain Kirk gestured toward the communication station.
“How nice of them
to ‘request,’” Sulu commented.
A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face as Uhura patched me in to the voiceprint scan, retina scan, blood content readout, and pulse identification. It took forever.
Finally: “Biocode discreet,” the computer’s soft female voice read out. “Piper, Lieutenant Commandgrade, Star Fleet Academy entry file J-34, stardate 8180.2, serial number G-61983-LRB, verified and approved.”
I sighed in relief, even though I knew I was me.
“Request communications as agreed, Star Empire,” Uhura hailed. She glanced at Kirk. “They comply, sir.”
“A little late. Report situation to Mr. Scott and advise he has repair time. And as for our starship thieves … let’s see who they are.”
The viewscreen wavered, changed, solidified on a youthful face, soft hair, large cheekbones, deep eyes.
“Brian!” I choked.
He spoke. “This message is for Enterprise command personnel, from Commander Paul Burch. We are in full possession of the dreadnought Star Empire. Do not attempt to fire on us. Our mission is peaceful.”
“Hah!” from Dr. McCoy.
Brian cleared his throat and went on. “We have confiscated Star Empire in the name of galactic civility. We will accept an ambassadorial party of three officers, which must include Lieutenant Piper and at least one Vulcan.”
The young face on the viewscreen, a face whose nuances I thought I knew, paused for our response.
“What is the purpose of your mission?” Kirk demanded.
Brian’s face went blank. Beads of sweat broke across the bridge of his nose. He was scared; I could see that, feel it. It didn’t come out in his velvet voice except for a slight crack when he began speaking again. “That will be revealed only to your boarding party. I repeat: our goal is peace and the security of the galaxy. Please …” He closed his mouth tightly. The last plea—his? Or Star Empire’s?
“We will not comply with terrorists,” our captain said. “Surrender immediately and we will consider your problem.”
Brian started shaking. “We must speak in person, Enterprise. Please comply.”
Captain Kirk gazed into that face as though Brian Silayna had just walked up and tweaked his nose. “Mr. Spock,” he invited.
Spock tilted his head. “Security. Place Lieutenant Piper under arrest. Charge: conspiracy with terrorists.”
I sucked in my breath, but pride and a few other satellite emotions kept me from resisting when two helmeted brontosaurs grabbed my wrists.
On the viewscreen, horror flared across Brian’s face. There was a shuffle of confusion on the bridge behind him.
“Cut transmission,” Kirk ordered, like a theatre director issuing a cue. The viewscreen dissolved to the star field and the hovering threat of the dreadnought.
“Let them think about it for a while,” Kirk murmured. “Take the Lieutenant to deck six. Confine her to her quarters under computer guard.” Kirk’s words went to the security guards, but his eyes fused into mine, delivering a subliminal message. He knew me somehow—I’d had that feeling since Kobayashi Maru. I felt the intensity of closeness to him, but I was cold, dead, as though I was a cancer in his body and my stupidity would kill him. He would never allow that.
“Sir—no!”
Security yanked me away on my own echo.
My mind tombed in on me. Duty became torture.
Chapter Six
STAR FLEET UNIFORMS had a special dignity even lying unused on a bunk. The rich golden fabric, outlined in black, sparkled with the triangular insignia and the wrist slashes designating rank and assignment. Captaincy candidate, mine told anyone, everyone who knew the color code and slash designations.
I unzipped the front of my jumpsuit and shrugged it from my shoulders, letting the top hang around my waist as I pulled on the uniform turtleneck and adjusted the ribbed collar around my throat. Then I gazed down at the uniform shirt and pants and thought about putting them on also. It wouldn’t do to be caught out of uniform when things started prancing again.
I thought about putting the uniform on. I tortured myself about it. Such a proud costume, such accomplishment behind it … my fingers ran along the heavy material of the sleeve, feeling every test I had taken at the Academy, every trial they’d put me to, one by one seeing the obstacles they’d thrown in my path, feeling myself squeeze through every layer of the sieve of heavy competition—countless hopefuls going for their peers’ jugulars to get this uniform.
And I had gotten it. Piper from Proxima was among the trickle of captaincy trainees. Piper, who had trembled in the face of an unbeatable enemy, only to watch them beaten by people whose posts I aspired to. Piper, who’d frozen at the helm, ignored orders, and been shoved aside by an ensign. Been shown up by a junior-grade attendant who happened to be on the bridge at the right time. Promotion time. But not for me. My next assignment would be in the ship’s laundry.
I sat on the bunk, shoulders sagging more with each replay of my poor performance on the bridge. The memories wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t mellow, wouldn’t change, no matter how much I tried to explain my behavior or find excuses for it.
How had Kirk done it? How had he kept a multidimensional map of space and the movements of all those ships in the front of his mind? I couldn’t even conjure up the movements we were making without the help of a scanner, much less tell what the Klingons were doing, what they planned to do, what they thought about doing, and what they decided not to do. I didn’t even want to think about what they actually did. Spock hadn’t known what the Klingons were thinking, and he even had his library computer to call upon. Yet Kirk had known their minds at every turn. That didn’t make sense. Spock should have been in command of his own ship long ago. Vulcans’ deductive abilities outmatched any human’s in speed, efficiency, and just about everything else. Most of the captaincy candidates at Star Fleet Academy were humans, and Command couldn’t get away with saying only humans applied anymore. But even Star Fleet had its prejudices, apparently, biases that rose into the Admiralty, some kind of good-old-boy ethic. Somehow they kept, quite carefully, I had always assumed, most aliens from rising too high in the Fleet. If any race had the brain stuff to be starship captains, the Vulcans must have.
My shameful performance proved humans were unpredictable, no matter how hardened they were to routine.
The madder I got at myself, the more disdainful I became at the petty prejudices I sensed at Fleet Command. Sarda behaved perfectly, steadily in the face of danger. He should have been the c-candidate in the first place.
With a painful sigh I slipped the top of my jumpsuit back over my shoulders and zipped it up, leaving on the pullover and leaving off the uniform. Tears welled in my eyes. I forced them back, feeling my cheeks flush. A few minutes later the uniform was back in the wardrobe and I was closing the door.
Why was I here? Did Kirk actually believe I had conspired with terrorists? With traitors?
Brian.
Brian.
Why wasn’t he on Magellan?
Coward. Ask the real question. Why is he on Star Empire?
I had to know. I had to find out. I had to get out. I couldn’t be in any more trouble, that was sure. Certainly couldn’t top myself for mistakes.
“And I’m not standing still for this,” I muttered, and looked around for a way to break through the computer guard.
Almost immediately I spied the heat sensor alarm for fire emergency and a memory flickered of a quiet, talkative, passionate morning in my quarters at the Academy. “Yes …”
If I tried to walk out the door, the computer guard system would identify me instantly and knock me senseless. There was no way to disarm it from here. But … there had to be a way to fool it.
The carpet hampered my movements as I dropped to my side on the cabin floor and detached the circuitry access panel and traced the fire alarm alert relays. Yup, there they were, just where Brian told me they should be. Ah, that wonderful morning … I’d learned a lot that time … so
me of it was technical.
“There you are,” I murmured as I yanked out the relays that would’ve told the ship’s fire brigade about a tripped alarm in this cabin. Now the thing could scream its electronic brains out and no one would hear.
That done, I ran to the head and got the curling implement I used to make my hair look better than it did now. “You’ll work. Okay, Brian … here’s hoping you told me everything.” Back at the fire sensor, I let the implement heat up and held it against the sensor filaments until they reached melting point, turned brown, red, and sizzled. At the locked door the alarm light started flashing, but I had disarmed the klaxon. Brian … you’d better be—
The cabin door hissed open. Even a computer guard wasn’t allowed to trap a prisoner in a burning room.
“Weeeeow!”
The implement went sailing back into the head and clanged against the urinal, then to the floor. I was long gone before it fell.
* * *
The transporter room on deck six hadn’t been used in weeks. Everything was shut down completely and it took me a few minutes to reactivate the platform. Time mattered. I was safe unless the Captain or somebody tried to talk to me in my quarters; the fire alarm filament would cool and, assuming the crisis was over, the computer guard would seal the door back up. An irresistible grin touched my lips when I thought of the confusion once my escape was discovered. That little ploy was sandbox strategy. Anyone who knew how the fire system worked could’ve done it; anybody who had an engineer to explain the little flaws, that is. Captains had engineers. Kirk had Scott. I had Brian Silayna, once.
Something was going on here. My skin almost fell off when the door parted with a sibilance and someone came in.
“How did you find me?” I gasped.
“Through logic,” Sarda said, depositing a heavy uniform parka on the transporter console. It was an extra. He had one on. “You were absent from our quarters. Logic suggested you had not escaped without plans to reach Star Empire. This is the closest transporter r—”
“Is that parka for me?”
“Obviously. As is this phaser.”
