Star Trek - TOS - 79 - Invasion 1 - First Strike Read online

it scared him enough that he's pocketing his

  dignity. Certainly got me curious."

  "And the Capellan situation?"

  "Capellan space is cleared. He sent the other ships

  home. That Klingon COmmander wasn't

  too happy. His career is pretty much wrecked."

  "Yes," Spock rasped. "He is not allowed to start a war,

  but neither is he allowed to lose a skirmish. How long

  will we have to wait?"

  "We didn't wait. We're at warp five. Starfleet's sending

  the Frigate Great Lakes and two patrol sweepers to hold

  ground until the treaty takes affect. I've already signed off

  the situation."

  "And the Klingon vessels?"

  "Kellen's flagship is out in front, leading the way. .

  the other four are trailing."

  "So far, SO good."

  He waited for a response, but there was none.

  Spock's lips compressed. The pain indicator bounced

  at the top of the screen.

  Kirk put his hand on the blanket and pressed it, as if that would help.

  Second by second, the wave of pain subsided and the indicator drifted down a few degrees. Not enough, though, to make either of them feel much better.

  "This is my fault," he forced out. "I wasn't thinking

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  clearly. I should've had you beamed directly here without

  moving you."

  Spock blinked his eyes in a motion that otherwise

  would've been a nod. "Being distracted by complex

  circumstances and failing to think clearly are not the

  same, Captain."

  Poof. You're forgiven. Forget it.

  "We'll be approaching the location of the incident

  Kellen described within twelve hours. I need someone at

  the science station. Do you have a recommendation?"

  Offering an uncomplaining gaze, Spock pressed down

  the undertones of common sense. "I would prefer to be

  there myself, sir."

  A half-smile bent Kirk's cheek. "And I'd like you

  there. But part and parcel of dangerous duty is recuperation.

  McCoy deserves to have his satisfactions too, once

  in a while, and we've given him a hell of a day. Least we

  can do is let him hover over you for a watch or two.

  Besides, all this is going to turn out to be nothing.

  Something spooked a combustible Klingon and now he

  wants attention. That's all it is."

  "General Kellen is hardly a man given to idle combustion.

  And a systemwide mass falloff could be considered

  grounds for becoming 'spooked." I am quite eager to

  examine the circumstances myself."

  "Don't worry, you'll get your chance. For now, stay

  put. Mend well... I've got a few things to keep me busy."

  He took a step back.

  "Rest," the captain said. He touched the blanket

  again. "Get better. I'll keep you posted."

  "There it is, sir. Just popped onto our long-range."

  "Visual, Mr. Chekov?"

  "In a few more seconds, sir. Sensors are assessing the

  vessel's configuration now."

  "Clear for action. Go to yellow alert. Sound general

  quarters. Magnification one point seven-five as soon as

  you can. Mr. Sulu, reduce speed to warp one."

  "Yellow alert, aye."

  "Magnification one point seven-five, sir."

  FIRST STRIKE

  "Warp one, aye, sir."

  With amber flashes of alert panels blinking on and off

  in his periphery, Jim Kirk paused as his orders were

  echoed back to him from various positions on the

  bridge, a long-held naval tradition borne of common

  sense, to make sure orders were heard and understood

  over the howl of wind. Protocol was a good, stout handle

  to grip.

  Here there was no wind, but there was the constant

  whine and bleep of systems working, the almost physical

  thrum of engines deep below, and there was the undeniable

  tension of the bridge. Imagined in the minds of all

  here with a capital T, this tension existed in some form

  even in the most mundane of days, for this was the brain

  of the starship, and the starship was the security of the

  sector. Down not very deep, all hands here knew that.

  And the tension was different, tighter, when the captain

  was on the bridge, even though all orders might

  remain the same, course unchanged, situation stable,

  status unremarkable, for days on end. It was different if

  he stood here too.

  Always had been. Centuries.

  Normally he was the most comfortable here, on the

  bridge, but today there was the added presence of

  General Kellen, standing on the lower deck beside the

  command chair as if he deserved to be here. He was

  obviously used to such a position and was unimpressed

  by his rank privilege to stand here, even on a ship full of

  those he considered enemies. He said nothing, and had

  said very little. He watched the main screen obsessively,

  but with the keen eyes of a soldier seeking weakness.

  "Position of the other vessel?" Kirk requested.

  "Two points forward of the port beam, sir," Chekov

  reported. "Distance, two standard astronomical units

  .. roughly eighteen light-minutes."

  "Reduce to sublight."

  Sulu touched his controls. "Sublight, aye, sir."

  Kirk flexed his sore hands. "Mr. Chekov, where's that

  visual?"

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  "Here now, sir." The young navigator picked at his

  controls, tied in to the science station -- not the best, but

  workable for now -- then looked up at the screen.

  There it was.

  Big. Well, they could see it, but that wasn't much help.

  It looked like --

  "Looks like a big... pasta noodle," Chekov said. "A

  little overboiled, maybe..."

  "It's a hunting horn, sir," Sulu offered.

  Uhura swiveled to look over the heads of Sulu and

  Chekov. "Looks like a cornucopia to me."

  Engineer Scott canted his head to one side. "I think

  it's a giant purple foxglove kicked on its side. Y'know,

  the flower part."

  "Enough," Kirk droned. "You're at alert."

  "Aye, sir," Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu uttered, each

  suddenly attentive to stations.

  Satisfied, Kirk rubbed his elbow again and eyed the

  new ship. It did look like all those things. Like a porridge

  of those t hings. Huge collars of hull material set n a

  pattern, purple plates fanned out like playing cards.

  Maybe Scott was the most right. The structures were like

  flower petals, winding down to a point. Yet there was a

  decidedly nonfloral ferocity about it.

  He could see why Kellen would be shaken. The ship

  was the color of Klingon bloodplum fans shimmering

  in the light of the nearest sun, twisting down, around and

  around, into shades of night orchid, etched in sharp

  black.

  "All stop. Hold position relative to the other vessel.

  Communicate orders to the Klingon ships."

  "All stop," Sulu said as his hands played the helm.

  "Compensating for drift, sir."

  "Fire!"

  General Kellen's big voice became a thunderbolt


  under the low ceiling.

  Kirk spun and belted, "Security!"

  Kellen plunged for the helm console, his wide hand

  aimed specifically at the phaser controls. Another

  inch--

  86

  FIRST STRIKE

  Sulu pressed upward out of his helm chair, driving his

  knobby shoulder into Kellen's chest and almost disappearing

  under the bulk. Ensign Chekov lunged sideways

  from the navigator's position and pushed his own skinny

  shoulders over Sulu's head and under Kellen's chin,

  while Kirk himself made a grab and caught a handful of

  hair and silver tunic with his weakened left hand. With

  the other hand he clutched the arm of his command chair and hauled away.

  The chair swiveled, then caught and gave him purchase.

  He drew back hard. It took all three of them to

  hold Kellen away from that critical inch.

  An instant later the two Security guards made it down

  from the turbolift vestibule and grappled Kellen by his

  arms, muscling him back from the helm and plunging

  him against the bright red rail until his great bulk arched

  and his face screwed up in anger. Not too soon, though,

  for Kirk's mind flashed over and over that Kellen's hand

  had been halted directly over the phaser control. No

  guesses. Kellen knew exactly where those firing controls

  were, though there were no markings.

  Once the Security men hit the lower deck, the crisis

  ended, but Kellen strained against them and bellowed,

  "Shoot while you have the chance!" He pivoted toward

  Kirk. "Fire on them!"

  "I don't know them!" Kirk pelted back, squaring off

  before him.

  The big Klingon's face bronzed with excitement. "But

  I have seen what they are!"

  Angry now and reminded of it by the screaming

  muscles and throbbing bones in his left arm and both

  knees, Kirk said sharply, "You've described a Klingon

  legend. I told you before, legends don't use conventional

  power ratios. Barbarians don't drive around in ships like

  that."

  The general stopped hauling against the red-faced

  guards. He seemed to accept Kirk's charge of the moment,

  and fell again into that disarming, nearly bovine

  self-control which had garnered him a reputation even in

  Starfleet circles.

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  "What are your intents?" he asked.

  As the passive bright lights flickered in Kellen's spectacles, Kirk said, "I intend to hail them."

  "You will give us away."

  "I've already done that by entering the sector, General.

  We neither explore nor protect by stealth. Will I have

  to call more guards?"

  The general squinted at him as if in challenge, but let

  his arms go slack in the guards' grips and acknowledged

  with his posture that this was not his bridge. The power

  of such a concept rang and rang. Command. One per

  ship, one only.

  "Bring us into short-range communications distance,"

  Kirk said, without taking his eyes from the general's.

  "Aye, sir," Sulu responded, and beneath them the ship

  hummed its own answer.

  "Shields up, Mr. Chekov. Keep weapons on-line."

  "Phaser battery on standby, sir. Shields up."

  "Captain," Communications Officer Uhura spoke in

  that crystal-clear teacher's English, "Mr. Spock is calling

  from sickbay. He requests to speak to you."

  Kirk allowed himself a smile, but didn't allow Kellen

  to see it. "Somehow I'm not surprised. On visual."

  Spock's angular face appeared on the darkened monitor

  on the upper bridge, just above the library computer

  access panel. Kirk stepped up to meet it as if his first

  officer were there, at his post, as usual.

  "Captain," Spock greeted. "Permission to monitor the

  encounter with the unidentified vessel."

  Kirk eyed the face on the screen. "And just how did

  you know we were approaching the unidentified ship at

  all, if I may ask?"

  But he already knew, and glanced at Chekov, hunkering

  down there at his navigation console and scouting

  Kirk in his periphery.

  "Collusion, sir," Spock admitted.

  "I see. And once you've monitored?"

  "I shall analyze the information and make recommendations."

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  FIRST STRIKE

  "As usual. I see again. You intend to do all this from

  sickbay?"

  "As necessary."

  "How?"

  "If Lieutenant Uhura will give you a wide view..."

  Without waiting, Uhura skimmed one hand over her

  board, and Spock's monitor clicked to a wide side view

  of the Vulcan laid out on his diagnostic couch, with the

  antigravs working silently at his sides, but with a new

  development. Above him was mounted a small monitor.

  "And who did that?" Kirk asked, as if asking which of

  the kids put the soccer ball through the bedroom window.

  "Scotty."

  Burying a wince, he turned and glanced up at the port

  aft station, main engineering, where Chief Engineer

  Scott tucked his chin guiltily and peered out from under

  the squabble of black hair.

  "Wouldn't want him to get bored, sir," the stocky

  engineer excused, letting his Aberdeen accent make him

  sound quaint, "lyin' there, an' all."

  "And which of the ship's heads did you lock McCoy

  into while you were doing this?"

  Scott held his breath. "Don't recall mentioning it to

  him, Sir."

  "Nor do I," Spock confirmed.

  "They both forgot to mention it to me."

  McCoy sauntered out of the turbolift when Kirk

  looked toward the voice, and came to join the captain on

  the starboard deck.

  "Flummoxed," the doctor said. "Right in my own

  sickbay. That's what you get when you try to hold down a pointed-cared bunco artist." He cast a glower at Scott.

  "Or his sidekick, Jock the Jolly Tinker."

  Scott actually blushed, and Kirk crushed back a grin.

  "I should be able to assist effectively," Spock said, and

  there was unmistakable hope behind his reserve. He

  managed not to frame a question with anything but his

  eyes, gazing across the silent circuits at his captain.

  McCoy didn't approve, according to his expression,

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  but he said nothing, and Kirk felt the decision go thunk into his hands from the chief surgeon's.

  "I'd go stir-crazy myself," he allowed. "Glad to have

  you on duty, Mr. Spock. I'll leave it to your better

  judgment not to overburden yourself."

  "Oh, he won't be overburdening himself," McCoy

  said. "He's scheduled for a sedative."

  "When?"

  "The minute I decide he's overburdening himself!!"

  "Oh, of course. You heard it, Mr. Spock. You're on

  duty, but you're also on medical probation."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Kirk nodded to Uhura. "Keep Mr. Spock's channel

  open, Lieutenant." While cannily watching Kellen press

  his hair back into place, Kirk left McCoy's side, swiveled

  toward Uhura's communicatio
ns station, and spoke very

  quietly to her exotic, expectant face. "Note to Starfleet

  Command, scramble. Klingons have intimate knowledge

  of our bridge control configuration. Suggest necessary

  changes in color code and location with next design

  upgrades. Kirk, commanding, Enterprise, stardate...

  so on. And while you're at it, give them our location."

  She turned her eyes up to him. "Right away, sir."

  "Captain," Sulu interrupted, "coming into short-range

  comm, sir. Thirty seconds."

  "Open channels. Let's see if they'll talk."

  "Talk," Kellen snapped. Cranking his thick arm

  around his own body, he dug between the silver tunic

  and the protective molded vest that Klingons had started

  using only lately and only in battle, and yanked out his

  personal communicator.

  "Stop him!" Kirk shouted, but the Security men

  weren't fast enough in snatching the communicator from

  the big fist.

  Snapping it to his lips Kellen spat, "Aragor! High.t

  Tugh!"

  The guard grabbed the communicator and Kellen's

  hand and cranked hard. Kellen's face twisted into a

  grimace, but he knew he'd gotten his message through

  FIRST STRIKE

  and gave up the communicator before arms were

  broken--a toss-up just whose arms.

  "Captain, the Klingon ships are moving around us!"

  Chekov gulped. "Attack formation!"

  "On screens!"

  The main screen and four subsystems monitors

  changed to show the five Klingon ships swinging freely

  around the Enterprise as if swung on strings. In open

  space, the starship could easily have outmaneuvered

  them, but in these tight circumstances the lighter-weight

  Klingon ships were like hornets buzzing around a swan,

  racing away toward the unidentified vessel at full impulse,

  and they got the best of the bigger ship on short

  notice.

  "General, order them back!" Kirk demanded.

  "They have their orders," Kellen answered, strangely

  calm now. He watched the screen as a man watches a

  house burning down.

  Kirk grabbed for his command chair's shipwide announcement