Star Trek #97: In the Name of Honor

by Dayton Ward

  “Sir, we’re receiving a high-priority subspace communiqué from Admiral Bennett on Earth. He wishes to speak with you immediately.”

  Frowning, Kirk exchanged looks with McCoy. Robert Bennett, Chief of Staff at Starfleet Command, rarely contacted ship commanders himself, choosing instead to leave such tasks to his small army of assistants. The fact that this was the second time he had done so with Kirk was not lost on the captain, the first such contact having happened during the Nimbus III incident. Kirk believed that whatever the reason for this latest communiqué, it must be equally serious.

  “I’ll take it down here, Commander,” he said.

  The image on the screen shifted to that of Robert Bennett. The admiral was a severe-looking man with dark, narrow eyes that peered out from beneath a heavy brow made more prominent by his receding line of thin brown hair. A mischievous smile almost always seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface of the stony expression that dominated his features.

  Upon seeing Kirk dressed in his sweat-soaked workout attire, Bennett’s brow furrowed even more and the smile began to play at the corners of his mouth.

  “Captain Kirk,” he said, “I seem to have this habit of catching you in various states of casual relaxation. Do you even own a Starfleet uniform?”

  Kirk laughed, remembering his last communication with Bennett just after returning to the Enterprise from his camping trip with Spock and McCoy at Yosemite. He had been filthy and badly in need of a shower and a change of clothes, not exactly the professional appearance one might want to project to a Starfleet Chief of Staff.

  “Just a little workout to ease the tension, Bob,” Kirk replied. “A shipload of diplomats gets your shoulders in a knot. You remember how it is.”

  Bennett nodded. “I do, which is why I let myself get promoted. Maybe you’ll get smart and change your mind one day.”

  “Over my dead body,” McCoy said, just loud enough for the comm’s speaker to transmit. Kirk looked sideways at his friend, though he’d long since given up being surprised by anything McCoy might say in a given situation. The doctor had never been one for Starfleet protocol, after all.

  Bennett said, “Jim, I don’t think I have to tell you how important the Federation Council views this meeting with the Klingons. We have a chance to bury some hatchets, maybe even once and for all.”

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m more than a little skeptical about the whole thing.”

  “For what it’s worth, you’re not alone in your feelings, and it’s not just grumbling amongst us old-timers minding the store back home. We’ve got reason to believe this isn’t a popular idea with a lot of people.”

  “Now why do I think he’s about to tell us this might not turn out to be just another quiet assignment?” McCoy asked. He had crossed his arms and his face was set in that expression Kirk knew his friend adopted when he was listening to something he didn’t want to hear in the first place.

  “Your doctor’s right,” Bennett said. “We’ve gotten intelligence reports that suggest someone may try to sabotage the conference.”

  “Klingons?”

  “Possibly, though I wouldn’t rule out people from our side, either. Subspace has been jammed with people speaking out against any sort of treaty with the Empire. You may have your work cut out for you this time, Jim, so watch your aft shields on this one. My people will stay on top of this and pass on any information we can get our hands on, but I’m counting on you to keep things under control. Good luck. Bennett out.”

  As the screen went dark, McCoy sighed. “Well, just another boring day, eh, Jim?”

  Kirk didn’t answer. Instead, his thoughts were racing ahead to the conference, so peaceful and noble in intent, and the consequences of any incident that might harm the proceedings there or, more important, anyone involved. He knew that with the heightened tensions between the Federation and the Empire in recent years, some of which he had contributed to, it wouldn’t take much to set off conflict between the two powers.

  He recalled the party they had thrown aboard the Enterprise following the incident with Klaa and his ship near Sha Ka Ree. With the misunderstanding ironed out to the satisfaction of both sides, the crews had intermingled that evening and Kirk had idly wondered if there was indeed a possibility of a lasting peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire.

  His gut, however, told him such a lasting peace would be a longer time in coming.

  Peace talks had not prevented him from being forced to stand helpless aboard the bridge of his crippled ship while David Marcus, his only son, had died at the hands of a Klingon. Though time had eased the agony of that horrible day, the pain remained, suppressed as it was so that only his closest friends could sense anything other than the persona of the proud, confident starship commander that he normally projected.

  Still, from time to time he could sense it, lingering deep within him, jading his soul and clouding his hopes for peace with his enemies, perhaps forever. It was only with supreme force of will that he kept the feelings buried and his focus on his command, not allowing his personal distrust of Klingons to intrude on his sworn duty to uphold the principles of Starfleet and the Federation.

  Feeling the doctor’s eyes on him, Kirk looked up and smiled. “Well, that’s why we have a shipload of diplomats. It’s up to them to make this all work out.”

  McCoy snorted. “I think I trust the Klingons more than I do the diplomats. At least with a Klingon you know where you stand most of the time.”

  Chapter Four

  TENTATIVELY AT FIRST, but with unrelenting perseverance, the first rays of sunlight pierced the thick, humid jungle and chased the darkness away. The melodic chorus provided by countless insects diminished with the approaching dawn as nocturnal predators sought shelter until nightfall returned. Water dripped liberally on the lush undergrowth from the towering canopy of trees above. Rising from the jungle floor was a modest-sized mountain. Formed from granite out of the belly of the planet, its peak was shrouded by a thick layer of clouds. No one had ever bothered to venture to the top of the mountain, the simple reason being an overwhelming lack of interest to see what might await an intrepid explorer there. The mountain did not even have a name. It was, like the rest of the planet from which it had sprung, unremarkable in the eyes of those who called this world home.

  At the base of the mountain was a mammoth stone wall, fifteen meters tall and forming a U -shape that used the sheer face of the mountain itself to create an enclosed compound half a kilometer in diameter. The wall’s straight lines and smooth finish stood in stark contrast to its surroundings, its artificiality made evident by the telltale hum of the powerful energy shield encompassing the compound. Generated by a series of large metallic columns rising out of the ground outside the wall at regular intervals, the shield was all but impenetrable to weapons, sensor scans, and transporter beams.

  The wall itself had but a single entrance that was blocked by a pair of massive metal doors, their polished finish long ago dulled and inundated with rust by the jungle’s ever-present moisture. Inside the wall, a massive opening formed an entrance into the mountain. The resulting tunnel was lit by rows of dim, yellow-tinged light fixtures hanging from wire attached to the sides of the subterranean passage. To either side of the entrance, twenty-five two-story structures made of equal parts stone and metal composites lined the massive wall’s interior perimeter. A single building was different in construction from the others, this one a freestanding structure that housed a lone short-range transport craft. There was room for more than one, but given the circumstances, one was all that was needed. Despite the compound’s large population, the only way the majority of the inhabitants would travel aboard the ship would be as cargo, not passengers.

  Decades old, the prison had been refurbished several times over the years in response to the long-term deteriorating effects of jungle moisture and harsh weather. Prior to the hot season and its oppressive heat, violent storms would ravage the region for mon
ths. The heavy monsoon season had ended and temperatures were already on the rise. In a few weeks, the heat would become potentially deadly to all but the hardiest of life-forms. Given such conditions as well as the fact nothing even remotely resembling civilization could be found anywhere in this hemisphere, the area made an ideal location for a prison.

  With the exception of five buildings that housed the prison’s control center, armory, and billeting for the staff, the rest of the structures were used to quarter prisoners. Each of the barracks buildings were comprised of forty cells, each of those secured by a door constructed from heavy tritanium. The gray, unpolished doors were identical, one meter wide, two meters tall, and half a meter thick. A single narrow slot, perhaps two centimeters high and fifteen centimeters long, broke the surface of each door half a meter from the top.

  Inside one of the cells forming the structure known to the prisoners as Barracks 6, Stephen Garrovick lay awake in the upper bunk of a two-tier bed. More like a hammock than an actual bed, the rough-woven material that formed his mattress sagged beneath the weight of his body. It was comfortable enough though, and better than other places he had slept in during his captivity.

  Sunlight filtering through the door slot had washed across his face and awakened him minutes earlier, just as it did nearly every morning. It was a rare occurrence for Garrovick to sleep until the guards sounded the three shrill horn blasts signaling the start of each new day.

  Lying in the near-darkness he listened, trying to determine whether or not his cellmate, Sydney Elliot, was still sleeping in the lower bunk. Her breathing pattern indicated that she wasn’t, but he didn’t say anything. It was their longtime unspoken agreement that neither would speak until the horn sounded, on the off chance that either one of them was still sleeping. A few hours of uninterrupted slumber was something to treasure in places as devoid of peace as the various hellholes they had called home during the past several years.

  Eight years.

  Out of necessity, Garrovick had long ago given up any sense of incredulity that came with realizing how long he had been in captivity. The duration of his confinement was a simple fact now, best accepted at face value and nothing more. After the first three years had passed, he had surrendered any hope of ever returning home or of seeing his family again. To dwell on the feelings of despair that almost always accompanied such dreams was hazardous in an environment such as this, where the guards and even fellow prisoners would be watching for any sign of weakness to exploit. Better to just accept the reality of the situation and cope with it.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the horn located in the prison courtyard. Three blasts echoed through the damp morning air, resounding off the interior of the cell.

  “Rise and shine,” he said as he sat up, his right hand reflexively moving to rub the smooth top of his head. In an attempt to keep various species of mites and fleas from overwhelming the prison population, every prisoner was depilated of all body hair at least once every two weeks, more often when the weather grew warmer as it was beginning to do.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sydney Elliot replied, her voice not dulled by sleep and confirming for Garrovick that she had indeed been awake. “Another glorious day in Shangri-la.”

  Garrovick smiled at the dry humor as Elliot rose from the lower bunk, taking a moment to stretch the kinks out of tired muscles. He couldn’t help but notice her shrunken form in the paltry light provided by the slot in their door, as well as the circles under her eyes that contrasted even against her ebony skin. He guessed that she’d suffered another bout of insomnia, the third time in the past five days. The attacks had come more often in the last year or so, but Elliot never complained about it. Garrovick had asked her about it when he’d first begun noticing her condition, but she dismissed the inquiries. “I like to stay up late reading a good book,” she had quipped on one occasion.

  A native of the harsh environment found on Mars and a security officer on the Gagarin, Elliot had once been the epitome of prime physical conditioning. Aboard ship she had been a fierce athlete, making a reputation for herself in many good-natured sporting competitions. Her prowess in unarmed combat had given her a reputation of another kind, the type that crewmates bestowed on someone they knew could be counted on in a sticky situation. Be it suspicious locals on a first-contact mission or a bar brawl on Argelius, the Gagarin personnel had always considered it a tactical advantage to have Sydney Elliot watching their backs.

  However, just like Garrovick and the other captives here, Elliot’s body had long ago succumbed to the ravages brought on by years of abuse and improper diet. While the last few years had seen a marked improvement in their treatment, they were still fed only enough to survive and remain sufficiently healthy to work and to fend off various diseases.

  The sound of the door lock disengaging caught Garrovick’s attention just as the door swung open, flooding the tiny cell with morning sunshine.

  “Chow time,” Elliot said, clapping her hands to emphasize the point as the pair made their way from the cell. “I guess it’s too much to hope for an omelet made from Ktarian eggs and a nice tall glass of orange juice.”

  Garrovick snorted as they stepped out onto the catwalk running the length of their cell block level. “Keep dreaming, Syd.”

  A former security officer himself, Garrovick had liked the younger officer from the moment she had joined the Gagarin ’s crew. Fresh from the Academy and Starfleet Security School, Elliot had displayed more brashness and confidence than he had during his first assignment aboard the Enterprise. While he had been forced to find his sense of self-assurance during his initial tour, Elliot simply oozed it. It wasn’t arrogance or cockiness, but the cool demeanor displayed by someone confident in her own abilities.

  Along with a thousand or so other prisoners, they waited for the morning routine to begin. Every day, they would line up and the prison’s central computer would verify that everyone was accounted for. This was done by means of a metallic band worn by each prisoner. On humanoids, the device was worn around the right ankle. Embedded in each band was a tiny transceiver monitored by the computer.

  It was an effective means of observation given the fact that on any one day, the prison population could be spread out over several kilometers, both above and below the surface of the planet. No means of removing the bands had ever been discovered, short of severing the limb it was attached to. This rendered most thoughts of escape moot. Even if an escapee somehow got away from the guards, through the prison’s lone entrance or over the wall and through the forcefield surrounding it, the computer was capable of tracking that person anywhere on the planet.

  “jaH!”

  The single barked command, the order for the prisoners to begin moving down from the catwalks and into the line from which they would receive their morning meal, came from one of the Klingon guards in the small courtyard below them. No matter where the prisoners went, be it the mess hall or the mines or to the bathing area, they always did so in line. Except when working in the mines or on some other detail, prisoners were not allowed to move about independently unless given permission to do so. Violating this most basic rule invited harsh retaliation by the guards.

  As he shuffled along behind a Rigelian prisoner, Garrovick looked across the courtyard to the building opposite his. There he could make out the forms of Robert Kawaguchi and Sinak, two more Gagarin crewmen. They were also looking his way and the three men greeted one another with subtle nods.

  Lived to see another day.

  He knew he wouldn’t see the other two survivors of the Gagarin until they made it to the mess hall, where they would gather at a single table and take comfort in each other’s company. While he had no evidence to support his theory, it was Garrovick’s belief that the six of them were all that remained of the Gagarin ’s fifty-person complement.

  Despite Captain Gralev’s having set the ship’s selfdestruct sequence into motion, the Klingon commander had managed to thwart that daring plan
. With members of his own crew having taken over most of the Gagarin ’s vital areas, Captain K’lavut had used his ship’s massive cargo transporters to move the surviving crew to his own vessel before the Gagarin ’s warp core exploded. When Garrovick had been able to get a headcount, he found that twenty-eight of the crew had been beamed out. As he had feared eight years ago, he considered the twenty-two left behind to be the fortunate ones.

  After their capture, the surviving crew members had been segregated into small groups. Except for those in his own group, Garrovick had never seen anyone else from the Gagarin since that day. Of the seven people that had been brought to this prison with him, one had died from disease and the other from extreme physical torture. Garrovick’s dreams were still haunted by the gruesome death that had befallen Captain Gralev soon after their arrival here.

  Gralev had been a target for extreme prejudice simply for being an Andorian, but her fate had been sealed when she had outwitted K’lavut, albeit temporarily, in front of his subordinates on the Gagarin ’s bridge. She had been tortured and finally killed at the hand of the prison commander as the rest of her crew had watched helplessly, a horrifying demonstration of the penalty for disrespectful behavior.

  The prisoners continued to march, moving out into the courtyard to form a series of columns, one for each cell block. Klingons strolled about the groups of prisoners, their sharp haircuts, trimmed beards, and shiny uniforms contrasting against the prisoners’ shaved heads and drab gray coveralls. While none of the guards were armed with disruptor pistols or even bladed weapons, each guard carried a stun baton in hand. It wasn’t a weapon that conveyed any overt threat, but Garrovick knew from experience that the baton could deliver electrical shocks of varying intensity capable of incapacitating or even killing its victim.

  Garrovick caught sight of one Klingon in particular, Khulr. The leader of the guards, Khulr was known among the prisoners for his exceptional cruelty. In spite of the camp’s policies on treatment of prisoners which had been enacted a few years previously, Khulr still took great pleasure in administering beatings and other harassment, most of which appeared to go unnoticed by the prison’s commander. He had been reprimanded for exceeding his authority on occasion, but never severely.