“And the party just got more crowded,” Colt said. “Oh boy.”
Pike was getting used to having Colt at the nav station. “Tactical analysis. On-screen.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. “Coming up.”
A computer-generated graphic appeared on the viewer, charting the relative positions of the various ships in three-dimensional space. Blinking red triangles indicated the Klingon vessels while a glowing blue delta represented the Enterprise.
Pike studied the graphic as the crimson triangles converged on his ship. One of the realities of space combat was that it was all but impossible to completely surround a ship unless you had a full armada. On the downside, there were always a multitude of angles and orientations from which the enemy—or enemies—could come at you. Within minutes, the battle cruisers were facing off against the Enterprise from above, below, and, in the case of the Fek’lhr, head on. Pike noted that Krunn had shrewdly positioned his forces so that Cypria III and its laser defenses blocked at least one avenue of retreat.
Just what I would have done, Pike thought, if I had a fleet at my disposal.
“The Fek’lhr is hailing us,” Garrison said.
“Of course it is.” Pike coughed to clear his throat and lungs. He still whistled when he breathed, but not quite as badly as earlier; it seemed the doctor’s remedy had helped some after all, even if his voice still sounded raspier than he liked. His throat felt like it had been dragged over rocks. “Let’s hear from the good general again.”
Krunn reappeared on the screen, like a recurring bad dream Pike just couldn’t shake. It occurred to Pike that he and his Klingon counterpart had never actually met in the flesh, not that that would have likely made any difference. Krunn was more about making threats than shaking hands.
“Captain Pike,” Krunn addressed him smugly, looking in far better spirits now that he had numbers on his side. He cracked his knuckles loudly. “I assume you are aware that my reinforcements have arrived.”
“That did not escape my notice,” Pike said. “Your friends made good time.”
“Never underestimate the speed and strength of the Klingon military,” Krunn gloated. “Remember that, should you live to see another day.” He fixed his gaze on Pike. “This is your last chance, human. Return my daughter, and I may let you and your pitiful ship go limping back to the Federation.”
Pike doubted he could talk his way out of this fix, but felt obliged to try.
“Have you spoken to your boarding party yet?” The Klingon prisoners had been beamed to the Fek’lhr some time ago. Pike assumed that they had been debriefed by Krunn by now. “Did they tell you that Merata chose to stay behind? Perhaps matters are not as simple as you make them out to be.”
Krunn’s temper flared, burning away his earlier smugness.
“Merata chose nothing of the sort! You have confused my daughter’s mind, making her forget where her true allegiances lie.” He peered suspiciously across space. “I am informed that you have a Vulcan science officer, Pike. If he has employed some foul Vulcan mind trick on Merata, I swear by the honor of my house that—”
“There have been no tricks,” Pike interrupted, “Vulcan or otherwise. It’s just what I’ve been telling you all along, that this situation is complicated and confusing by its very nature, and for Merata most of all.”
He was tempted to summon Merata to the bridge, have her speak to her father directly, but there was no way to guarantee what she might say or to predict whether she would even want to try to mollify Krunn. An old-fashioned lawyer Pike knew on Starbase 11 always said that a smart attorney never asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to, or called a witness to the stand whose testimony had not been carefully rehearsed. Merata had already proven herself highly unpredictable, trying to kill Soleste one day and saving her another. Letting her talk to Krunn might calm matters—or it could just as easily inflame an already incendiary situation.
Was it worth the risk?
“Let me clarify matters for you, Pike,” Krunn growled. “You are outnumbered, three to one. Give us back Merata or we will take her by force . . . and your ship as well!”
He could do it too, Pike realized. The battle cruisers didn’t even need to risk destroying the Enterprise with Merata aboard. All they needed to do was bombard the ship with disruptor blasts until her shields collapsed. They could then easily take out the Enterprise’s weapons and propulsion units, leaving her unable to defend herself or repel any more boarders. Krunn could beam aboard as many soldiers as he needed to capture the ship, and the fact that a hefty percentage of the crew were down with fever would just make that all the easier for the Klingons.
“Then let me make one thing clear to you, Krunn. We don’t want this fight, but we will defend ourselves if necessary.”
“Good!” Krunn said. “That will make your surrender all the more satisfying!”
The transmission ceased abruptly, replaced by the ominous sight of the Fek’lhr cruising toward them. Bursts of emerald energy flared from the ship’s twin disruptor cannons.
“They’re opening fire!” Pike shouted. “Brace for impact!”
* * *
“Your family is here to see you,” Spock said.
Merata remained confined to her quarters. There had been talk of returning her to the brig following her attack on Doctor Boyce, but mixing her with the other Klingon prisoners had seemed inadvisable at the time. The fact that she had ultimately aborted her escape attempt in order to attend to her injured sister had also mitigated in her favor.
“Send them in,” she said quietly, sounding unusually subdued. She rose from the bed to greet her visitors. No pendant adorned her throat; the hidden transceiver had been discovered in the wake of the Klingon incursion, after the sergeant’s tracking device was identified as such. “You need not stay if you are needed elsewhere, Vulcan. They are in no danger from me.”
Spock was tempted to return to the bridge. Even though Number One was now on hand to assist the captain during the present crisis, he was uneasy being away from his post while the Enterprise was anticipating the arrival of two more Klingon battle cruisers. Yet Pike had urged Spock to keep close to Merata in hopes of winning her trust and cooperation. Perhaps Merata could convince her father to call off the assault for the sake of her newfound Cyprian family?
Moreover, the last time I left her alone, the consequences were dire.
He admitted Rosha and Junah Mursh to the chambers. The older woman brought with her the same stuffed lizard Spock had glimpsed in Soleste’s holographic “home movies.” Junah brought only his usual surly attitude and expression. Spock had been reluctant to include Junah in this visit, but his mother had insisted. Spock resolved to keep a close eye on the discontented Cyprian youth lest his presence prove disruptive or unnecessarily provocative.
“We just came from sickbay,” Rosha said wanly, obviously under stress. “From your sister . . .”
Merata nodded. “How does she fare?”
Spock considered what he had learned of Soleste’s condition, as well as the circumstances surrounding it. As Doctor Boyce had put it, matters had been “touch and go” with the injured sister after the disturbance in sickbay. The injuries sustained during the Klingon raid had reopened old wounds and traumatized an already weakened system. There was some concern as to whether she was strong enough to survive this latest surgery or any resulting complications.
“She hasn’t woken from the surgery yet.” Rosha wiped a tear from her eye with her free hand. “The doctor says she should recover, but that there are no guarantees, after everything she’s been through already. He says she’s fighting for her life.”
“She is not one to surrender readily,” Merata observed. “That much I have learned these past few days.”
Rosha accepted Merata’s words in the spirit in which they were clearly intended. “Yes, that is very true.” She gazed warmly at her Klingon daughter. “The doctor says we have you to thank for saving your sister’s life. If you h
adn’t found him in time, and then volunteered your own blood for the operation . . .”
Merata shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. “The doctor is too generous in his praise.”
Spock thought that a fair assessment. Apparently, Boyce had omitted the part where Merata herself had rendered the doctor unconscious before rousing him in time to treat Soleste. Nevertheless, Merata had redeemed herself to some degree by choosing her sister’s life over the prospect of escape.
“I don’t think so,” Rosha insisted. “If not for you—”
“If not for her, none of this would be happening,” Junah said, interrupting her. “Soleste wouldn’t be dying, we wouldn’t be stuck on an alien starship menaced by Klingons, and you wouldn’t be making a fool of yourself by pretending that this bloodthirsty savage is family.” He regarded Merata with undisguised loathing. “We’d all be better off if Soleste had never found you!”
Spock tensed, expecting Merata to react ferociously to her brother’s harsh words, but, to his surprise, she merely looked back at Junah from across the room. When she spoke, her tone was more somber than irate.
“You may be right,” she said.
“Don’t say that, either of you.” Rosha frowned at her offspring. “We need to be here for each other, now more than ever.”
“Too late for that,” Junah said. “Her Klingon friends blasted that possibility to bits a decade ago, along with Father.”
“Please, Junah,” his mother pleaded. “This isn’t helping.”
Merata nodded at the plush lizard Rosha had with her, perhaps in an effort to defuse the situation. “Is that for me?”
“Why, yes, of course.” Rosha looked painfully grateful to be asked. “I’ve held on to Forko all these years, ever since . . .” Unable to finish the sentence, she started over. “I would have brought him before, but I wasn’t quite sure what to expect that first time, or if you would even remember. . . .”
“I remember.” Merata accepted the gift from her mother. “Thank you.”
Spock noted that the stuffed lizard had been seared in places and stitched back together in others, having somehow survived the Klingon raid on the mining complex so many years ago. He wondered momentarily what Klingon children played with. Toy weapons, he imagined, or miniature soldiers. Nothing cute or soft or comforting.
Or was he guilty of stereotyping Klingons too broadly? Despite their well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness and aggression, surely they were not entirely about war and conquest, just as Vulcans were not entirely without emotion or sentiment, save for those rare few who had attained the ultimate ideal of Kolinahr. Spock thought of his own childhood pet, lost to him so many years ago. I-Chaya had been a true companion to him as a boy. Spock missed him still.
“Red alert! Battle stations!”
The announcement resounded throughout the ship. Spock knew that he could not delay any longer. If ever there was a time to test his tentative bond with Merata, this was it. They needed her help to talk Krunn down from the brink of war.
“Merata,” he began. “I fear matters have come to a head. Only you may be able to—”
A sudden tremor jolted the room as the Enterprise came under attack, even sooner than Spock had anticipated. The shock sent everyone stumbling across the floor. Books and manuals tumbled from shelves. The overhead lights flickered ominously, creating a strobe-like effect. Gasping, Rosha lost her balance and fell against the large triangular viewer console facing the bed. Her head struck the edge of the unit, and she dropped to the floor.
“Mother!” Merata called out.
Spock rushed to check on the fallen woman, who moaned and stirred fitfully upon the floor. At first glance, she appeared only dazed by the blow and there was no evidence of blood, but he was anxious to verify that she had not suffered any serious injuries.
“Madam Mursh!” he asked urgently. “Are you able to respond?”
Distracted, he noticed too late that Junah had come up behind him. Greedy fingers plucked Spock’s laser pistol from his hip. He spun around in alarm.
“Sorry, Vulcan,” Junah said. “I need your weapon . . . and you out of the way.”
A crimson beam struck Spock at the speed of light.
Twenty-three
Disruptor beams assailed the Enterprise from three directions, causing the bridge to pitch back and forth like a raft on stormy seas. A blast from above hammered the ship, causing Pike to glance up anxiously at the transparent aluminum dome overhead; the bulb had been designed to withstand everything from a rogue comet to an ion storm, but even Starfleet engineering had its limits. Dust, ash, and minute particles of ceramic and plastiform fell like an unexpected snow flurry, aggravating Pike’s already raw throat and lungs. Deafening booms accompanied the pounding in his skull.
“More power to the forward deflectors,” he croaked. “And return fire!”
Colt somehow managed to keep from being thrown from her seat. “At which ship, sir?”
“All of them, any of them,” Pike answered. “Whoever you can lock onto, Yeoman!”
“Understood, Captain.” She unleashed a laser blast, which bounced off the Fek’lhr’s shields. “I always liked shooting galleries.”
The lead battle cruiser banked away from the Enterprise’s lasers, then came around for another strafing run. At the same time, a blast from the BortaS hit the Enterprise from below, causing the entire ship to tilt upward at a nearly ninety-degree angle. Pike was thrown against the back of his chair, so that he seemed to be staring straight “up” at the main viewer, while loose papers, microtapes, data slates, digital styluses, coffee mugs, and other paraphernalia tumbled past him to collide with the rear of the bridge. A flying slate cracked a display panel above Garrison’s head, causing the enlisted man to yelp out loud, and a standing crew member fell backward over a safety rail, landing hard in front of the helm and navigation stations, before the ship’s gravity corrected itself and the bridge tilted back into its usual orientation. Up and down went back where they belonged.
“Shields at fifty-eight percent!” Colt shouted above the chaos. “And falling!”
And the worst part was, Pike realized, that the Klingons were actually holding back. They were fighting—and winning—a war of attrition here. These were controlled blasts, calibrated to chip away at the Enterprise’s shields, not destroy the ship. The Klingons weren’t even using their photon torpedoes.
Perhaps he could convince them that they were doing more damage than they were?
“Hail the Klingons,” Pike ordered. “Ship to ship!”
“Yes, sir!” Garrison swept shattered bits of display screen off his console. “Opening a channel!”
“Enterprise to Klingon vessels,” Pike said. “This is Captain Pike speaking. Hold your fire if you don’t want to destroy this ship and everyone on it!”
Krunn’s voice replied over the bridge’s loudspeakers. “Do you think me a fool, Pike? I shall not fall for this pathetic trick again!”
“What about Merata?” Pike challenged him. “Are you willing to bet your daughter’s life on that, after all you’ve done to rescue her?”
“At least she would die a Klingon. I would sooner see her lost in battle than let you turn her against my house . . . and back into a worthless Cyprian tree worshipper!”
“I think he means it, Captain,” Number One said. “I fear Merata’s conduct during the Klingon raid may have realigned the general’s priorities somewhat.” Another blast jostled her in her seat. “He wants her back, or he wants her dead. No other outcomes will satisfy him.”
That sounds about right, Pike thought.
Colt managed to hit the Ch’Tang’s starboard wing with a well-aimed laser beam, but that wasn’t going to be enough to turn the tide of the battle. Swirling smoke and ash began to fog the atmosphere aboard the bridge. The fallen crew member limped back to his post, clutching his ribs. A blast from the BortaS nearly sent the Enterprise into a spin. Emergency klaxons and malfunction alerts sounded fro
m nearly every console. Warning lights flashed all over the bridge, like the stardust festival on Ivar VI but without all the gaiety. Pike’s ears rang. He felt foggy and lightheaded, as though whatever Boyce had injected him with was already wearing off. For a moment, as his anguished body reeled before the sensory onslaught, and the chaotic scene took on the surreal quality of a nightmare or fever dream, Pike had to wonder if he wasn’t still on Talos IV after all, and everything that had happened since was just another disturbingly lifelike illusion . . .
“Vina . . . ?” he whispered.
Colt and Number One both cast him sideways looks.
“Damage reports flooding in,” Garrison reported, snapping him back to reality. “We’ve lost gravity on decks ten through twelve. Life-support on minimal in the cargo bay and maintenance. Injuries reported in main engineering and elsewhere”
“Institute damage control procedures on all decks,” Pike ordered. “Instruct sickbay to prepare for additional casualties. Standard triage protocols in effect.”
“Shields down to fifty-two percent,” Colt added. “Sorry, sir.”
This is all about Merata, Pike realized. Maybe only she could end this.
He hated putting the future of his ship and crew in the hands of a short-tempered Klingon teenager, but he had run out of options. It was time to roll the dice and hope for the best. His finger stabbed the intercom button.
“Pike to Spock. Get Merata up here now.”
To his surprise, his second officer failed to respond with his usual promptness. Pike checked quickly to see the intercom was still working, but it appeared in order. He pressed down on the speaker button.
“Pike to Spock, respond immediately. Repeat: respond at once.”
The Vulcan did not answer.
“Spock!” Pike said, growing alarmed. “Answer me, Spock!’
* * *
“This is all your fault!” Junah snarled, swinging Spock’s laser pistol toward Merata, who found herself hard-pressed to keep up with the rapid cascade of events in her borrowed quarters. His lean face, contorted with rage, bore an uncomfortable resemblance to her own. He braced himself against a curved wall as disruptor blasts continued to pummel the Enterprise and Pike’s voice called for Spock somewhere in the background. The deck rocked beneath them. “You’re a disgrace to our father’s memory. You should have died years ago!”