Star Trek - TOS - 79 - Invasion 1 - First Strike Page 4

adjust and to shore up his courage to move forward and

  not back into what he already knew. The fleet would be

  looking for him. He had to contrive a way to let them

  find him.

  The darkness became blackness. The blackness

  pressed inward against his shoulders, down across the

  crest of his brow. He pressed back with his will, blinking

  his eyes as if they were the problem. The tunnel closed

  tighter at his sides--he could feel the change. He saw

  nothing, yet he sensed much.

  A throbbing glow--with a regular pulse. Red... blue

  ... red... blue... He moved toward it. Only a few

  steps now. He must control himself.

  He came out into a wider area, greatly to his relief, and

  all but ran forward, chased by the narrow dark section.

  Stumbling out into a broader area, he sucked air as if

  surging up out of a pool in which he had nearly drowned

  and only then realized he had been holding his breath.

  Taking it again nearly set him on his backside. He

  stumbled against the cave wall.

  25

  Diane Carey At his side his dagger thumped against the rock--the

  sound was strange. Metallic. On moss?

  With one hand on his dagger and the other on the

  moss, he pushed himself from the wall and took further

  steps into the chamber, where suddenly his heart recoiled

  within his chest and he stared to the point of pain.

  Draped with shrouds of green witoh's hair, the walls

  stared back. Within the spongy, foul moss, churning

  with what must be insect life, lichen wept from dozens of

  niches, each the size of a half-grown Terran pumpkin.

  His favorite food rode into his mind on this irrational

  bolt of fear, but gave him no comfort nor any anchor.

  Fear held on, for in most of these dark punch-outs,

  perhaps two-thirds of them, were perched bleached and

  staring skulls.

  Though all had eye sockets and peeled-back grinning

  mouths, those were the only common elements. Some

  had stumps of horns, others a dozen small holes over the

  gaping eye sockets, others were of such shape and

  description that churned the ugly bowels of Klingons

  lore in Kellen's head. Constructed to terrorize, tales of

  imminent evil rushed forward out of his childhood,

  beasts of prey infused by the wills of demons, who then

  had the abilities of both.

  Blood-chilled, Kellen's body convulsed and he staggered

  sideways, catching his heel upon the ragged floor

  and staggering further. Shivering, he struck the wall

  again and felt his dagger bang the wall again. Again, that

  metallic noise--and this time a faint red-then-blue glow

  coming on and off, on and off, under the moss.

  He yanked his dagger from its sheath and sliced into

  the moss, a long gash as if taking an enemy from throat

  to belt. The moss pulled apart and the lips of the gash

  quivered. Kellen dug his fingernails into it and ripped

  the moss away in sheet.

  Through a cloud of spoory dust, two panels of variegated

  lights blinked at him, casting red, yellow, and

  amber haze. Below the panels, a pulsebeat of technical

  readouts blipped up and down on a screen.

  26 FIRST STRIKE

  Kellen tore the sheet of moss further all the way to the

  floor. It came away cleanly, but for its own green cloud,

  and there was a manufactured metal wall, a right-angled

  corner, and part of a tiled floor.

  He stared at the wall, kicked it, then looked up into the

  skull niches and the eyes of the catacomb corridor. All at

  once, the sound he had been hearing made sense to him.

  He knew what he was hearing.

  "A ship... a spaceship."

  His voice startled even himself, and he flinched, but

  even more horribly it startled someone else.

  The wall was looking at him. A pair of eyes--real

  ones, live ones--opened in among the tenleaf and creepers

  on what he had thought was a cave tomb. White-ringed

  and wide, the eyes were yellow as the middles of

  eggs, each pinpointed in the center with a black dot

  focused like a drill on Kellen.

  The eyes came forward slowly from the witoh's hair,

  bringing strands of it stretching along.

  Suffused with horror, unable to call upon his tremendous

  discipline this time, Kellen watched as a creature's

  form took shape and pulled out of the growth. The top of

  its head was being eaten by a mass of moving white

  tendrils, each alive and fingering the green wall hungrily

  as the creature drew farther and farther out into the

  corridor.

  No, not eaten--the tendrils were part of the creature's

  head! Growing out of it like things he had seen in the sea!

  Grotesque, poison-tipped things.

  Instantly he looked up at the skull niches and searched

  until he found the one nearest him with the holes in the

  top. It was the skull of that--that.t The creature peeled out of the wall and with measured

  movements shed itself of the gluey membranes pulling at

  it from the wall. Each as long as Kellen's forearm, the

  anemone-tendrils on the beast's head swirled to one side

  and back to the other, seeking the open air as if driven by

  currents. Some of them still reached and snipped at the

  fungusy wall, plucking at it with tiny suckers.

  27

  Diane Carey

  A ship, specter-crewed!

  As his renowned sobriety crumbled, Kellen raised his

  thick arms and warned the creature back with a senseless

  shout, but had no effect.

  He scoured his earliest memories, and called the thing

  by name.

  "Iraga./" he shrieked.

  "Approach pattern SochDIch on my mark!"

  "Yes, Science Officer!"

  "Forward vessels, disruptors on full double-front! Target

  engines! Repeat, engines only until we have made

  our pass!"

  "All are ready, sir. Three ships in forward configuration,

  two behind us!"

  "Tell all the others to put their shields on priority. For

  us, I want scanners on priority, set to seek out Klingon

  physiology. Transporter, stand by."

  Science Officer Aragor gripped the command chair

  with both hands until his fingernails made impressions

  on the simulated animal hide. The sudden silence on the

  bridge made him realize that he and the bridge crew had

  been so excited they'd been yelling at each other. In each

  echo he heard the ghost of Kellen's voice--Be quiet.

  Speak softly. Calm down.

  He battled to contain himself. He wanted his general

  back and he would get him back. Now he had a target.

  A ship had come out of that crack or hole or blur in

  space. There had been a great shaking, not as great as the

  mass drop, but enough to send the fleet spinning for a

  few seconds. When they gathered themselves, there was

  a ship there.

  Configured like no ship Aragor had ever seen, this

  alien vessel was the length of their entire fleetJsix ships

  laid beak to tail--and shaped like a corkscrew.
Great

  fans of black and purple hull material fanned out and

  overlapped each other in a spiral against each other,

  archirig forward like welded petals into a point. There

  28

  FIRST STRIKE

  was no top or bottom, no visible bridge or command

  center. Seeming almost to flex its way through space, it

  was constructed perfectly to screw through that opening

  out there. The more he stared at the hornlike ship, the

  more Aragor became sure these last moments were no

  accidents. The mass falloff had something to do with

  these newcomers.

  Interlopers, he charged. Unlawful entry into Klingon

  space. Kidnappers. Invaders!

  Thought after thought, he built himself into a mode of

  attack. This wasn't his job, but he would accept it. Never

  in his life had he seen an effect such as that ship's entry

  into this sector from wherever it had come, and no

  power of that magnitude could be taken lightly. He

  would have to get Kellen back, and Kellen would agree.

  Together they would conquer before they were them-

  selves taken. It was the Klingon way.

  Or at least, it would be today.

  "All is ready for the run, sir," Tactical Officer Mursha

  reported, and looked at Aragor as if to confirm.

  "Handle the scanners yourself, Mursha," Aragor said

  in a last-minute change. "Find him."

  Mursha looked afraid for an instant, then straightened

  so sharply that it seemed to hurt his shoulders. "I will!

  I'll find him!"

  Aragor felt an urge to chide him for his hesitation, but

  Mursha had just taken the tactical position two days ago.

  Aragor left him alone.

  "Attack configuration. Flank speed. Keep full speed

  until we get within transporter range. No veering off

  until my order, do you understand?"

  "I understand, sir," the helmsman said.

  "Fleet... advance!"

  With three ships forming a point before it and one

  other ship riding behind its starboard beam, the Qul surged to full impulse. The five ships rocketed through

  open space toward the massive arrangement of curves,

  targeting the deep pulsing mauve glow of the conical

  29

  Diane Carey ship's engines. Aragor recognized the surge of matter-antimatter

  propulsion and was reassured by it, but the

  color was unexpected. The color of Klingon blood.

  The fleet ships arched in, keeping formation tight and

  maneuvering for position as they reached the invasion

  ship. The outer ships opened fire. Phaser energy blanketed

  the other ship and brightened a veil of otherwise

  unnotable particles of dust in space. Suddenly the whole

  area was shimmering.

  At once the unfamiliar ship declared itself an enemy

  shipreit fired back. Globular bolts were launched from

  the inner folds of the huge purple-and-black fans, striking

  the first three Klingon ships without wasting a shot.

  Energy foamed over the Klingon ships' deflector shields

  and skittered into space to wash across the Qul and its

  flanking ship.

  The Qul shuddered under Aragor's chair. Phaser wash

  broke between her hull plates and shriveled the outer

  mechanics in their trunks.

  "Some systems overloading, sir," the helmsman called

  over a sudden braying alarm.

  "Lock down," Aragor said. "Never mind trying to

  repair now. And cut off that cursed noise!"

  The alarm growled down to a sorry woooo, then broke

  off. Closer and closer the Klingon fleet raced, skating the

  length of the enemy vessel as if measuring it.

  "Keep firing," he said, too softly to be heard.

  The other ships had their orders--they fired relentlessly

  and took the incoming blue foam of return fire on

  their forward shields, maneuvering to protect the Qul,

  whose power was concentrated on sensors. Qul had some

  shields, but not enough to take direct hits of that

  magnitude. And if Mursha found the commander's

  physical blip, Qul would have to hammer a hole in the

  enemy's shields, then drop her own shields completely to

  beam him up.

  "The phaser fire is bouncing off the invader ship!" the

  helmsman blurted. "But I don't see any conventional

  broadcast deflectors at all!"

  30 FIRST STRIKE

  Aragor squinted and watched. That could make his

  task easier. The enemy ship was taking the direct fire on

  its many fan-shaped hull sculptures.

  "This must be their manner of defense," he said.

  "There must be another ship, the real ship, hidden inside

  the outer fan arrangement. That makes it almost impossible

  for a moving vessel to hit. In order to incise that

  inner ship, an attacking vessel would have to hover over

  / and fire down between the fans."

  "That would be suicide," the helmsman said, and

  gripped his controls tighter, as if afraid he'd made a

  suggestion that might be taken.

  "Well?" Aragor roared at Mursha when his nerves

  took control and thoughts of a second run began to form.

  He didn't want to make a second run. The lead ships

  were being pulverized. Their shields wouldn't take a

  second bombardment.

  "Scanning..." Mursha had his mustache to the readouts,

  both hands on the curved adjustments, looking for

  Klingon life signs.

  The bridge erupted in sparks and smoke puffs as

  damaged systems began to overload. More hits broke

  through the formation and began to pry it apart. If the

  forward ships couldn't hold their position, Qul would

  have to bear off.

  Tense silence gripped the bridge. No voices. Only the

  sounds of the ship straining around them as they maneuvered

  their deadly tight course.

  On the main screen, huge hull fans blew past beneath them, like a petals of a massive orchid.

  "Sir!" Mursha gulped. "I believe--"

  Aragor shoved out of the command chair. "Activate

  the beams immediately! Beam him up! Transporter

  room, do you hear me? Activate beams?

  "Vergozen!"

  "Speak softly, Morien. Your voice is hurting me."

  "Many of us were resting or eating in the Barrow when

  a strange creature came there?

  31

  Diane Carey

  "We are all strange creatures, Morien. You mean you

  did not recognize this one?"

  "Or his kind. Not at all."

  "Describe him."

  "He had a helmet for a head, black hair around it, a

  skeleton on the outside of his chest, and long sleeves

  almost to the ground. He shouted at me and danced!"

  "He danced?"

  "Then he churned into lights and disappeared. What

  does it mean? Have we done something wrong?"

  "No. The others have already reported an intruder

  aboard. We were sending the guards when those ships

  came and somehow he was plucked away. Now we have

  alterations to make on our equipment. We must be sure

  this cannot happen again. And send a message back

  along the wrinkle. Tell them we seem to have betrayed

 
; our arrival and now there are ships following us. There is

  apparently a destructive effect involved in the process of

  transferring. Suggest it be corrected before the fissure is

  opened again."

  "Yes, Vergozen."

  "Morien, tell me... how many eyes did this creature

  have?"

  "Two that I could see. Unless there were others

  hiding."

  "Two eyes... well, it's a beginning."

  "Why did you bother with me! Why didn't you beam

  an antimatter explosive into that ship while you had the

  chance! They had no shields! At terrible damage to the

  fleet you came in to rescue me, and now we have lost the

  chance to destroy them!"

  The booming voice was glorious anger to Aragor as he

  stood without moving while General Kellen shouted at

  him. Aragor didn't care that he had made a mistake,

  because he had his commander back and he would walk

  fire for Kellen.

  The crew stood before the general in utter numb

  shock. They had never heard him yell before. Never.

  32

  FIRST STRIKE

  The general's clothing was coated with fine green dust,

  his usually neat hair disturbed by burrs and bits of

  mold, and he was consumed with shuddering in terror,

  but he wasn't hurt. He vented his terror by shouting at

  Aragor and glaring wide-eyed at the enemy ship as

  it slowly moved away on their main viewscreen. Its

  purple fans were reflected softly in the lenses of his

  eyeglasses.

  At last he gave up on Aregot and swung on the tactical

  position.

  "Mumha! Analyze the enemy ship. Can we still beam

  in?"

  "No, sir. They have made some kind of energy web

  around their ship that resists transporter beams. Not

  deflectors as we know them, but--"