Despite his fever, Pike knew what she meant. A shuttle slamming into the space doors and shields at impulse speed would inflict severe damage to both vessels and almost certainly pulp anyone inside Climber One.
“That’s suicide,” he rasped. “You’d never survive the collision. You’ll be crushed.”
“I’m not bluffing, Pike. As my people say, today is a good day to die.”
“Captain,” Garrison interrupted. “This is going out on all frequencies. The Klingons are hearing this, too.”
Pike assumed that was intentional. Merata wanted her father to know what was happening.
“Sensors detect engine activity in the hangar deck,” Weisz confirmed from the science station. “Climber One is ready to launch.”
Pike remembered what he’d told Spock earlier about playing the hand you’re dealt. It seemed to him that the time had come to lay down his cards and hope for the best.
“Open space doors,” he ordered. “Number One, get our backside away from those battle cruisers for as long as you can.”
“A challenging task in three dimensions,” she observed, “but I’ll do my best. Hold tight, everyone.”
The inertial dampers were tested once more, this time on purpose, as Number One threw the Enterprise sharply into reverse, so that she shot backward away from the Klingons at full impulse. White knuckles gripped armrests and consoles as the sudden shift in momentum tugged hard on Pike and his crew. Pike could practically hear Caitlin Barry swearing profanely at the abuse her engines were taking, but at least the stern of the ship was leading the flight away from the Klingons, taking the hangar deck out of the line of the fire for a few crucial moments. Pike’s stomach twisted painfully.
“Colt!” he grunted. “Lower shields at my command.”
She looked back at him from the nav station. “But the Klingons—”
Number One called out to him. “Our stern is clear, Captain, for now.”
Pike noted that the Klingon barrage seemed to have paused for the moment. He suspected that Krunn was holding his breath while monitoring the situation closely.
“Do it, Yeoman!”
“Yes, Captain. Lowering aft shields.”
Pike hailed Merata. “Pike to Climber One. You are cleared for takeoff.”
“A wise decision, Captain,” she said from the viewer. “You’ll forgive me if I take my leave now.”
Her face vanished from the screen.
“Get that shuttle on-screen,” Pike ordered. “Now!”
“Aye, sir,” Weisz responded. “Switching to aft view.”
The image changed in time for Pike to see Climber One rocket away from the Enterprise. Merata’s voice was picked up by the ship’s communications array.
“Hailing Klingon forces. This is Merata, daughter of Krunn. Hold your fire!”
“Is the shuttle shielded?” Pike demanded.
Colt consulted her tactical sensors. “Negative, sir.”
He keyed the intercom. “Pike to transporter room. Mister Spock is on the fleeing Cyprian shuttle. Lock onto him immediately—and get him out of there.”
“Yes, Captain,” Yamata responded. “What about the pilot?”
Pike thought about Merata, and the Klingon battle cruisers poised to resume their attack on the Enterprise at the slightest provocation.
“Let her go.”
So much for the ryetalyn. He hoped he had made the right call. The Cyprians will just have to live with this, even if we don’t.
“Transporter room. Do you have Spock?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” the Vulcan replied directly. He sounded remarkably calm for someone who had nearly been splattered against the space doors or taken aboard a Klingon warship. “I can report that only my ego has been damaged by my recent misadventures.”
“Good to hear it, Mister Spock,” Pike said curtly. “We’ll talk more of this later. Pike out.”
Colt anticipated Pike’s next command. “Restoring shields, sir.”
He gave her an approving nod, grateful for her prompt action. Sick as he was, he needed everyone else at the top of their game. The stomach cramps increased, signaling that he was descending into the third and final circle of Rigelian hell. He wheezed audibly as the fever overcame Boyce’s temporary remedy. A fresh cough scraped at his lungs, which cried out for more oxygen. The air on the bridge felt as thin as Vulcan’s. Chills, alternating with hot sweats, racked his body. His vision blurred, and he had to blink to clear it. He glanced down at the back of his hand; discolored veins bulged beneath the skin, spreading out to the capillaries.
Stage three, he thought. Septic shock.
On-screen, the stolen shuttle accelerated toward the Fek’lhr. Pike watched tensely as a Klingon tractor beam latched onto Climber One and guided it aboard the larger vessel. It seemed that Yamata and his partner had extracted Spock from the shuttle just in time.
“Now what?” Number One asked aloud.
Good question, Pike thought. Would Krunn still command the battle cruisers against the Enterprise, with intent to destroy or capture the Federation spaceship, or was it enough that he had finally gotten his daughter back? And what was Merata saying to her father now? Did she still want revenge against the Enterprise or merely to be reunited with her father?
Long seconds ticked by as it occurred to Pike that, with Merata now safely aboard the Fek’lhr, Krunn no longer had any reason to go easy on the Enterprise. What if he remained intent on that “reckoning” he warned of before? The threat of a full-scale war with the Federation might not be enough to deter him. To the contrary, there were many in Starfleet who believed that the Empire was itching to take on the Federation and that war was all but inevitable. He’d seen strategic analyses that predicted all-out hostilities within a decade at most.
Was today the day that war began? Was this the spark that set off a galactic conflagration?
“Shields, Yeoman?”
“Fifty percent, Captain,” she reported, “but holding.”
Pike braced himself for another salvo, even as he realized that he was in no shape to direct a defense against three battle cruisers. To be honest, he doubted that he could even make it to sickbay under his own power; he felt like he already had one foot in the grave. He exchanged a meaningful look with Number One, who began to rise from her seat at the helm. Klingons or no Klingons, he needed to turn over command to her. He was very near the end of his rope.
“Number One,” he began, “I’m afraid—”
“The Klingons!” Colt blurted. “They’re breaking away!”
Pike glanced at the screen, where, in fact, the Fek’lhr had turned about and was speeding away from the Enterprise, followed promptly by the other two battle cruisers. He watched with relief as they shrunk rapidly into the distance.
“Sensors confirm that they are exiting the system,” Weisz reported, “and not wasting any time about it.”
“Whew!” Colt wiped her brow in relief. “I got to say, I thought we were goners for few moments there.”
You and me both, Pike thought, but apparently Krunn was in no hurry to start a war now that he had his daughter back. If and when the Federation and the Empire finally came to blows, it would not be over Merata. Pike considered that a victory, of sorts, although he doubted that the Cyprians would agree. Guess we’re on our own, and no closer to finding a cure for this damn fever
He rose from his chair, ready at last to turn it over to Number One, only to have his legs give out beneath him. Dizziness assailed him, and his vision dimmed. Gasping for breath, he crashed onto the deck. A darkness as black as space replaced the bright lights of the bridge, even as he heard Number One crying out from what sounded like light-years away.
“Captain!”
Twenty-six
“We’re ready on our end, Number One,” Garrison reported from the bridge. “Enterprise is tapped into Cypria III’s global media network. All we need is the go-ahead from the authorities down on the planet.”
“Than
k you, Mister Garrison,” she replied. “Stand by for the green light.”
She and Rosha Mursh had the briefing room to themselves. Rosha sat at the head of the conference table, facing the viewscreen, while Number One was a few seats to her right, operating the viewer controls. She had contemplated delegating this task to Spock, so that she could remain on the bridge while the captain was fighting the fever in sickbay, but had ultimately felt that she understood the players and politics down on Cypria III better than Spock. He was certainly capable of looking after the bridge in her absence, even if he had somehow allowed Merata to get the drop on him before.
Funny that, she thought. It was unlike Spock to be so careless. Far be it from her to question his account of the incident, but she couldn’t help but wonder . . .
“This had better work,” Atron Flescu grumbled upon the viewscreen. His ruddy face lacked its usual professional smile. Dark circles under his eyes suggested that he had not been sleeping well. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“I believe it is the only option left to us, Prime Minister. We are all set here. Just say the word and we’ll commence.”
“I don’t know,” he said, balking at the last minute. He tugged nervously on his collar. “I’m still not sure . . .”
“We’ve already discussed this,” she reminded him patiently. “It is in your best interests, as well as ours. Rumors of Merata’s return to the Klingons are already provoking unrest on your planet, as we both know too well. It’s imperative that we put a positive spin on this latest development in order to calm your people and put this controversy behind us.”
The facts were indisputable. News reports from Cypria III, monitored by the Enterprise, made it clear that the violent disturbances she had witnessed on the planet were escalating as word spread that Little Elzy had been “stolen” again by the Klingons. Demonstrations, marches, and even riots had been reported all over the planet, with angry crowds besieging even the prime minister’s mansion in Sapprus, shouting and chanting and clashing with Flescu’s own security forces. Government vehicles had been torched, campaign posters and holograms vandalized. There was even wild talk of declaring war on the Klingons, even though the Cyprian military had no real warships at its disposal, a fact that Number One regarded as extremely fortunate. If all else failed, it was better that the unrest be confined to the planet, although that still left Flescu in a highly uncomfortable position, particularly with an election coming up.
“I suppose I do have a civic duty to quiet any disorder and restore calm,” he said, coming around. “I have to think of what’s best for Cypria.”
Not to mention keeping Elzura from being used against him by his political opponents.
“Trust me, Prime Minister,” Number One assured him. “This is our best chance to achieve a peaceful resolution to all our problems.”
“I hope you’re right,” Flescu said, after mulling it over for a moment. “And it’s not like I have any better ideas. We have to try something . . . or my career is mulched.”
Number took that as a yes. “Is everything prepared on your end?”
“The media have been informed to expect a statement regarding Elzura and are standing by to broadcast. Give me a few moments to introduce Madam Mursh.”
“Understood.” She muted the audio to check on Rosha. “Are you also ready to proceed?”
“I think so,” the Cyprian said hesitantly. She caught herself wringing her hands and placed them quietly on her lap below the table. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Let us get on with this.”
Number One inspected the older woman. She could only imagine how hard the last few days had been on her. At least Soleste and Junah were both said to be recovering from their respective injuries, although Junah was presently confined to the brig, locked up in the same cell his sister had recently occupied. Given his alleged attack on Spock, this seemed a prudent course of action. Stunning a Starfleet officer with his own laser pistol pretty much guaranteed a one-way ticket to the brig.
Maybe Junah should have been raised as Klingon too, she thought. Sounds like he’d fit right in.
A blinking light on the console indicated that she was linked into the ship’s main communications array, so that she could control the transmission directly from her seat in the briefing room. She listened closely as Flescu wrapped up his opening remarks.
“—ultimately, this distressing affair is first and foremost about family, so it is only fitting and proper that we hear from the one most intimately affected by recent events, Elzura’s own loving mother—”
Number One signaled Rosha and routed the signal to the planet’s waiting media.
You’re on, she mouthed silently.
Rosha’s face appeared on the viewer, just as, in theory, it was appearing on screens and billboards all over Cypria III. Number One imagined it looming over the mob crowding the plaza outside Envoy House and before the irate citizens surrounding the prime minister’s mansion. She muted the audio from her own screen to avoid an echo effect in the briefing room as Rosha bravely addressed her entire planet.
“My name is Rosha Mursh. Most of you already know who I am, thanks to your constant support for my family during this difficult time. Speaking on behalf of my entire family, we will be forever grateful for your thoughts, prayers, and concern. That all of Cypria has rallied to try to help us bring Elzura home is deeply moving and proves beyond a doubt what I have always known, that we are a deeply caring and generous people.”
So far, so good, Number One thought, impressed by Rosha’s quiet dignity and presence. Here’s where it gets tricky.
“I know that many of you have come to think of Elzura as family, as a daughter of all of Cypria, and that you are understandably disappointed and angry that she will not be returning to our beautiful world after all. Certainly, no one was looking forward to that long-awaited homecoming more than my family and I. We have spent many long, painful years waiting and hoping and praying to be reunited with our lost little Elzy at long last . . . which is why it is so very hard to tell you all that, despite our most fervent wishes, that precious little girl is gone forever.”
On cue, Number One inserted a microtape into the console. Her finger hovered above a blinking button.
“You have all seen the holos of our dear little Elzy, the beautiful child who has captured all our hearts, but what you have not seen is this . . .”
Number One pressed the button. Shocking images and audio, downloaded from the holographic recorder in Soleste’s prosthetic eye, replaced Rosha on the screen as they were broadcast to every corner of the planet.
Merata, in unbridled Klingon ferocity, snarled like a feral beast, all wild eyes, ridged brow, and pointed teeth. Number One understood that this recording came from Merata’s aborted escape attempt in sickbay. She dialed up the volume so that Merata’s savage fury came across even more emphatically. Looking far more Klingon than Cyprian, the intimidating young warrior bared her teeth and glared murderously from the screen.
“My name is Merata!” she roared. “A daughter of the Empire—and I care nothing for your pitiful world.”
Number One cut off the recording, returning the screen to Rosha, who dabbed her eyes before continuing.
“That was hard to watch, I know. I didn’t want to believe it either. I fooled myself into thinking that there was still some trace of our Elzura inside the bloodthirsty monster you just saw, that perhaps there could still be a place for her on Cypria . . . until I watched her nearly beat my son to death with her bare hands.”
Number One pressed another button and an image of Junah Mursh, his face battered and bruised, took over the screen. Blackened eyes, a busted nose, broken teeth, and split lips testified to the severity of Merata’s attack. She held the ugly image on screen for a count of five before switching back to Rosha once more.
“If not for the heroic response of Captain Pike and his brave crew, my son and elder daughter and I might not have survived
the bestial wrath of . . . that Klingon who calls herself Merata.” Rosha choked back a sob. “That’s when I was forced to recognize the dreadful truth, that Elzura—our little Elzy—truly died ten years ago, in every way that matters. What remains is not my daughter, not Cyprian, and not anyone who can ever live among us peacefully. Merata is Klingon, and she belongs with Klingons, where we can only hope that she will live out her life as she sees fit, in a way she never could on Cypria.”
Well said, Number One thought, finding herself touched by the woman’s obvious emotion and sincerity. She briefly considered replaying the sickbay recording, just to drive home what Rosha was saying, but decided that was unnecessary. Chances were, the Cyprian media would be replaying the damning images for days and nights to come. With any luck, the fearsome Merata would displace Little Elzy in the public’s consciousness, making it easier for them to let go of the latter.
At least that was the aim.
“Elzura is lost to us,” Rosha said, “and always has been. All we can do now is mourn her loss and comfort each other, treasuring the loved ones who are still with us, as we sadly move on with our lives. And we must not hold this tragic inevitability against the selfless crew of the Federation ship Enterprise, who has shown nothing but kindness and compassion to my family. We cannot blame them for seeing the truth about Merata before our own hearts could face it. They are visitors, guests to our planet, who simply found themselves in the middle of a torturous situation that was never of their making. And they need our help.”
Here it comes, Number One thought. Our last hope of beating the fever.
“I said before that we Cyprians are a deeply caring and generous people, and I truly believe that. Let us prove that once and for all by putting aside our own sorrow to come to the aid of innocent travelers in distress.” Her eyes grew wetter, but her voice did not falter. “I know that’s what Elzura would have wanted.”