Invasion! First Strike Page 9

  Qul was back in the fight now, firing on the unidentified ship, and Donnier was doing an amiable job of detonating the Klingon phaser bolts before they struck the giant fan blades. He managed to catch three out of four bolts. Not bad.

  Kirk pulled himself around the helm against the heel of the starship. "Keep it up, Mr. Donnier. Photon torpedoes on the Klingon vessels, Mr. Sulu. Fire across their bows and detonate at proximity."

  "Aye, sir."

  New salvos spewed from the Enterprise, making a spitting sound here within the bridge, much different from the screaming streamers of phaser fire, much more concentrated and heavy-punching, exploding right in front of the Qul. The Qul flinched, probably blinded by the nearby explosions, and bore off on a wingtip, forced to cease fire and try to come about again.

  "Call them off, Kellen," Kirk said. "I'll open up on them if I have to."

  "What right have you to do that?" Kellen bellowed. "I brought you here to be my ally!"

  "But I'm not going to be your mercenary. Call them off."

  But Kellen only glared at the screen and clamped his mouth shut.

  "Fine," Kirk grumbled.

  As the firing intensified, the fans on the unidentified ship's long twisted hull began to close inward, lying tightly and protectively upon each other and creating a shell instead of a flower. The curve of the hull itself began to straighten out, like a snake uncoiling its body, thinning the field of target and making it harder to hit. Talk about looking like a living thing …

  The strange ship continued to fire those sickly-blue globes on the Klingon vessels that strafed it.

  "All right, General, have it your way," Kirk ground out. "Mr. Donnier, phasers on full power. Mr. Sulu, photon torpedoes full intensity, point-blank range. Fire as your weapons bear on any Klingon vessel."

  Kellen cranked around against the guard's hold on him and glared at Kirk. "No!"

  "It's your decision." Kirk met the glare with his burning eyes. "Call them off!"

  The Klingon's lips parted, peeled back, then came together again in a gust of frustration. He all but stomped his foot. Yanking one arm away from the guard on his left, he reached for his communicator, still being held by the other guard. As if it were all part of the same order, the guard let him have it.

  Kellen snapped the communicator open and barked, "Qul! Mev! Ylchu'Ha."

  Short and sweet.

  Worked, though.

  The Klingon vessels swung about, joined each other at a notable distance, then dropped speed and came to a stop in some kind of formation Kirk hadn't seen before. Good enough.

  "You seem to have the ear of your squadron, General," Kirk said. "Mr. Donnier, cease fire. Helm, minimum safe distance, then come about and all stop."

  "Aye, sir," Sulu said tightly.

  "Safe distance," Kellen protested, shaking his big head. "Warriors coming home shredded and shamed, spewing tales of a Federation devil with hands of fire and steel in his eyes. 'I fought Kirk! My honor is not so damaged as if I fought a lesser enemy!' It's become an acceptable excuse to lose to Kirk. Some want to avoid you, some want to challenge you because it would be a better victory. I expected you to come in and shake planets. And this is you? Talk? I wanted a warrior. All I find is this—you—who will not act. I will go home and slap my commanders who spoke of you."

  "Your choice," Kirk said, ruffled less than he would've anticipated at the Klingon's lopsided insults that actually were kind of complimentary. Matching the general's anger with his own control, he countered, "When you met them before, did you try to talk to them at all?"

  "No!"

  "So you opened fire without announcement."

  "They kidnapped me. My fleet came in and took me back. Of course we fired. I brought you to fight them, not to defend them."

  "You brought me here to handle the situation. So let me handle it."

  "I am disappointed in you, Kirk," the general said. "You do not deserve to be Kirk!"

  "That's your problem." With a bob of his brows, Kirk raised his voice just enough. For a moment he gazed at the alien ship, then cast Kellen a generous glance. "Be patient. Mr. Sulu, move us in again. Let's see if they'll talk to us."

  * * *

  "How many ships?"

  "We count six ships, Vergozen."

  "Count again, Morien. Sweep the area. Be sure. They have stopped firing?"

  "Yes, Vergozen."

  "Fare, hold position. Make no movements."

  "Yes, Vergozen."

  "Morien, speak to the engineer. Have him take some time repairing the damage done to the ship as we came through the fissure."

  "Time?"

  "Have him go slowly. Keep the power down. Otherwise Garamanus will expect me to destroy those vessels instead of simply closing the cocoon and firing a few light shots at them. I do not want the repairs complete until I am ready for them to be complete."

  "I understand, Vergozen."

  "Speak to him personally, Morien, not on the communications line."

  "I will."

  The doors of the bridge were low and wide, and took several seconds to open, then to gush closed again, and this time they seemed to take longer. When they closed, Morien was gone, yes, but something else had changed too.

  "Zennor … so you have found them."

  "Garamanus—I did not expect you to come to the bridge yet."

  The mission commander turned to meet his vessel's Dana and resisted any movement of his facial features. Briefly he thought the Dana had heard his instructions to Morien, but as he forced himself to be calm he realized that Garamanus had just come in as Morien was leaving.

  Garamanus was watching him too carefully.

  That was the Dana's purpose. Not the ship or the danger, but the commander and the mission. To make sure the latter two meshed as the chieftains instructed. And the chieftains did as the Danai told them, for the Danai had special gifts.

  Holding his long hands before him in a relaxed position, with the traditional white streamers falling softly from his wrists, Garamanus bowed his heavy head. Over many years his horns had grown thick and bent his shoulders noticeably, but even so he was taller than Vergo Zennor by a hand's breadth. His presence chilled Zennor, and chilled the bridge.

  "You have made contact with the conquerors," the Dana said. "Play the tape."

  "They have not yet identified themselves," Zennor countered, speaking with cautious measurement. "I prefer to make personal contact first. Otherwise we will be assuming we are in the right place and that these are the people who deserve our coming. After so many centuries, after the millennia indeed, we should be prudent. Look—those ships are not familiar in any way. Some fired on us, but the large one stood them off. I would like to comprehend their conflict. We will give them a chance to speak to us before we give ourselves away. I appreciate your flexibility in my decision at this very special and important moment, Garamanus. Thank you."

  The vapor-pale face and heavy horns dipped slightly under their own weight as Garamanus turned to look from the screen at Zennor, and Zennor knew he had lost.

  Garamanus nodded as if in polite response, but his manner became a subtle threat.

  "Play the tape," he said.

  "Witness you conquerors … we the grand unclean, languishers in eternal transience, come now from the depths of evermore. Persistent … we have kept supple, fluid and … changeable … because we were destined to return. You have … cowered through the eons, knowing this day would come. . . . It has come. Because we are forgiving, we shall give you the opportunity to leave this … sector … or you will be cast away as we were cast away … or you will be destroyed as you have done to us. With your last moments you will know justice. We are … the impending. Now gather all you own, gather your kin … and stand aside."

  The message thrummed and boomed through the low rafters of the bridge, then echoed into silence. Not ending, just silence. Waiting.

  Everyone held still, and watched the captain.

  The sound of th
e heavy, eerie, haunted-house voice remained in every mind, and spoke over and over. Stand aside …

  Tightening and untightening his aching arm, aware of McCoy watching him because he'd never reported to sickbay for his own treatment, Kirk indulged in a scowl and tipped his head to Uhura. "Lieutenant, what's the problem with that translator?"

  "I don't know, sir," she said, playing her board. "Having some trouble distilling the accurate meaning of some of their words and phrases."

  "Fix it. I don't want to have to guess."

  "Trying, sir. I don't understand why—"

  "Was it a living voice, far as you could tell?"

  "Given the inflections and order of sentiments, I believe it was a recorded message, sir. Or it's being read to us."

  "I thought so too."

  He moved away from her, back to where McCoy was staring at the screen, eyes wide.

  "That's a mighty poetic mouthful," the doctor uttered. "Any idea what it meant?"

  "I'd say they're inviting us to get out of their way."

  "I told you." Kellen stepped forward, but made no advances toward the helm this time, especially since the guards flanked him snugly now. "Attack them, Kirk. Your chance will slide away under you. Do you see it sliding? I see it."

  "Something tells me I'll get another chance, General. Mr. Spock, are you reading any shielding on that ship?"

  "No, sir," the upper monitor said. "No energy shields at all, except for the way clover-leaved hull plates fold down."

  "Not battle attitude, then," Sulu offered.

  "Not ours," Kirk said, stepping down to his command center and slid into his chair. "But we don't know theirs yet, other than the defensive posture we've just seen. Maintain status."

  "Aye, sir," Sulu and Donnier at the same time, and tensed as if they'd realized they were relaxing too much.

  Kirk moved back to the rail, where McCoy stood over him. "Opinion?"

  "Pretty lofty talk," the doctor said. "But there's a ring to it. I can't put my finger on it."

  "Mr. Spock?"

  By not looking at the monitor, he could imagine that Spock stood up there, next to McCoy, bent over his sensors, adding his deductions to the information being drawn in by the ship's eyes and ears. Spock wouldn't have admitted it, or wanted it said aloud, but there was a lot of intuition in that man.

  "There is a common tone in the phrases," Spock said, his voice rough, underscored with physical effort. "'Witness you conquerors,' for instance. 'Eternal transience,' 'destined,' and the suggestion that we have been expecting them, that they have been wronged, and that they believe they are returning from somewhere."

  "Conclusion?"

  "We may have a case of mistaken identity."

  "That may not make a difference," McCoy warned. "They're inviting us to leave, remember? They might not take our word for our intentions."

  "They can't take anything for anything until we've identified ourselves."

  "Captain," Spock's rough voice said from the monitor, "I suggest you answer their immediate request first."

  "Set the parameters? Yes … I agree."

  There it was. The reason he needed Spock here. He hadn't thought of that. Just answer them. The simplest answer had almost slipped by. Set the line of scrimmage before he offered anything else.

  "Challenge them!" Kellen insisted. "Demand they stand down and allow us to board and inspect! Then we'll be inside!"

  Kirk rubbed his hands and, gazing at the screen, shook his head.

  "I think Mr. Spock and I have something else in mind. Lieutenant Uhura," he said slowly, "tell them … 'No.'"

  Chapter Eight

  "'NO'? THAT IS all they say?"

  "Nothing else. The translation has no error, Vergozen. They say only 'No.'"

  Vergo Zennor gazed through the smoldering constant vapor at the wide band of screen curving halfway around his bridge on either side of where he stood. He thought he had gotten used to the moisture necessary for some members of his crew, but today, for the first time since years past, his skin began to itch.

  This was a beautiful portion of space. Or perhaps he only wanted it to be beautiful. Ordinarily he would sit, but with Garamanus on the bridge, he felt compelled to stand.

  Shrouded in the mystique of his order, the echo of subtle power held dear by all Dana, Garamanus made no comment as the answer came in from the conqueror ships.

  No?

  Zennor bowed his own heavy head. His horns tingled. So he was more tense than he let on, even to himself.

  His own feelings were lost to him. Simple desires of a straightforward mission had become suddenly and almost instantly entangled in the mechanisms of those ships out there. He had hoped to explore awhile before facing those who lived here. He wanted to search around.

  No longer possible. Now there were beings to be confronted, the tape had been played, and the answer had come back. No.

  How strange. How simple. He had trouble with simple things.

  The ship at the front was a sizable arrangement of white primary shapes—a circle, an oblong, two cylinders, joined to each other by graceful necks of white pylons. Behind it were ships more familiar to him in raw form, more like the green dawn silhouettes of creatures in hunting flight, heads down, wings arched, muscles tight and tucked.

  None was moving forward now. No, they had said.

  No.

  Zennor forced himself to turn away from the Dana and shiver down the waning-moon eyes that followed him. Unlike Morien and the helmsman Farne, Garamanus was of Zennor's own race, the horned ones among the many, yet Zennor felt nothing like him and when Garamanus was on the bridge the place became as foreign as this space.

  "They want us to speak to them," he said quietly.

  "You have had more communication than this with them?" Garamanus rumbled.

  "I sense they want to speak. When they contact us again, I will answer them myself."

  "That is not the procedure." The Dana's voice was like wind. Low wind.

  Zennor tightened his thick neck muscles and tensed his shoulders, which raised his head and the curved horns upon it. He saw his own shadow move like a wraith against the oblong helm as he turned to face the Dana.

  "This is not your forest grove or sacred Nemeton," he said. "This is my ship and my mission. We can never go back, and now the situation complicates. I have done your bidding and played your sanctimonious tape. Nothing else is required of me yet. The next decision is mine. And I want to speak to them. When the time comes to destroy them, that will be my decision too."

  General Kellen fumed with disappointment, but he was standing on the port side of the command chair, flanked by the Security team, saying nothing. He cast the guards no attention and as such seemed to understand why they were here.

  At least he wasn't insulted by the fact that he was being treated like a delinquent.

  Kirk offered him a glance, as if to communicate that he understood what the general was feeling, whether or not he intended to act upon it.

  "Two minutes, sir," Sulu reported. "No action out there."

  "Nothing on the open frequencies, sir," Uhura confirmed.

  Kirk nodded, sighed. "All right. We'll do it by the book. Uhura, ship to ship. Universal Translator on."

  "Tied in, sir. Go ahead."

  He moved to his command chair, but despite his raging muscles did not sit down. Not with another fleet's general on his bridge.

  Clearing his throat, he parted his lips to say the words that were so practiced, yet so different every time he said them, because they were said hundreds of light-years away from the last time, and each utterance was something completely new and critical.

  "This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise. We represent the United Federation of Planets and request you communicate with us on peaceful terms. We await your reply."

  Channels remained open as he paused. There was a different sound about it, an openness, like a cave without an echo, a tunnel waiting for someone to shout
through it.

  They waited. All the others took their cue from him, and he didn't move or make any sounds. Let the greeting distill, see what would happen. Let the listeners hear the ring of his voice and decide on its honesty, let them decide what to believe.

  A full minute. Nothing came over the waves.

  Ten more seconds. Sweat tickled his spine.

  Finally he asked, "Recommendations, Mr. Spock?"

  Gravelly and contemptuous, Kellen spoke before Spock had a chance. "Recommendations," he intoned. "Recommendations. The great shipmaster asks for recommendations. The cavalier of Starfleet asks of his subordinates what to do. The Federation's headmost uphelmer parries to his rear and mocks the rash faith given to him by those he flies before. Recommendations. Certainly the stories that come back to my people of Starfleet's Argonaut will be different after today." He gestured to the deck at his feet and added, "The arrogant falls before me."

  Kirk glared at him without really turning his head, but with only his eyes shifted to the side.

  Kellen was sizing him up and was no longer impressed. That bothered him.

  It shouldn't, but it did.

  "I am …"

  The bridge changed suddenly. All eyes turned to the screen, to the alien ship holding position out there.

  The two words were long, sonorous, even distorted, like distant foghorns sounding over a cold ocean. Then the voice paused as if listening to itself, testing the open frequencies.

  Or maybe they were just changing their minds.

  Kirk felt the eyes of his crew. He kept his on the screen.

  "I … am … Zennor … Vergo of the Wrath."

  There was a sense of echo. Something about the tenor of that voice. Like the last upbow on a cello's low note.

  He glanced up at McCoy and mouthed, Vergo of the Wrath?

  The doctor shook his head and turned one palm up. No idea. Uhura the same.

  On the science station monitor, Spock's brow furrowed, but he said nothing yet.

  Kirk shifted his feet to take some of the ache out of his back. Maybe it was empathy. What a morning.

  Square one.

  "Thank you for answering," he said, though it sounded clumsy. "Where are you from?"