Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (10 page)

“Magron,” Tarpek said, “open a hailing frequency.” A moment later, the communications officer nodded to Tarpek that the channel was open, and the first officer nodded at Droga.

“Attention, Federation vessel
Ephialtes
. This is the Imperial Klingon warship
vaQjoH
. Drop to impulse, surrender, and prepare to be boarded.” Droga waited several seconds while watching the slow mountain of a ship on his viewscreen. Then, to his satisfaction, the enormous cargo vessel slowed to impulse just shy of an intimidating-looking planetary debris field. The
vaQjoH
circled the freighter once, then took up a prime firing
position off the ship’s aft starboard quarter. Looking toward Magron, Droga asked, “Have they surrendered yet?”

Holding up one hand to signal that he needed a moment, Magron first looked perplexed, then alarmed. Slowly, he turned to face the captain. “Sir, we’re being hailed by a
different
ship.”

“
Another
ship?” Droga spun toward Tarpek. “Where is it?”

From the weapons console, Rothgar answered, “Behind us, sir.” Anticipating the captain’s next order, he patched the aft angle to the viewscreen, and the image of the
Ephialtes
was replaced by that of a
Constitution
-class Starfleet battle cruiser. “They have a full weapons lock,” he added with a note of submission that Droga found distasteful.

“They’re hailing us again,” Magron said.

Bloodlust had Droga’s pulse thundering in his ears, but for once his wisdom prevailed over his passion. He took a deep breath, then said in an even voice, “On speakers.”

“Attention, Klingon vessel
vaQjoH
. This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation starship
Enterprise
. Power down your weapons immediately, or we will fire upon you. Acknowledge.”

Droga pointed at Magron, who opened the response channel. “Captain Kirk, this is Captain Droga of the Klingon warship
vaQjoH
. Apparently, there has been some misunderstanding. We—”

“There’s been no misunderstanding,”
Kirk interrupted, his words sharp and quick.
“You intercepted a Federation vessel and ordered it to surrender and prepare to be boarded. You armed your weapons and locked them on an unarmed civilian ship. That’s an unprovoked act of aggression, Captain.”

Shooting a glare at Rothgar, Droga pointed at the man’s console and then pulled one finger across his throat in a slashing motion. Rothgar released the weapons locks on the
Ephialtes
and began powering down the weapons. Droga had played his fair share of games of chance, and he had earned a reputation as a skilled gambler. He knew a bluff when he heard one—and this
man Kirk was not bluffing. Though the crew of the
vaQjoH
enjoyed a battle as much as any band of Klingon warriors, Droga was certain none of them were in the mood to commit suicide, and it would do the Empire no service to lose a warship for no good reason.

“We’ve complied with your directive,
Enterprise
. With your permission, we’ll depart.”

“Yes, you will—on a course we’ll specify, with my ship’s weapons locked onto your warp core. And if you try to engage that cloaking device or go to warp speed before I give you permission to do so, I will blast your ship to bits. Is that understood?”

Humiliation churned into rage deep inside Droga’s gut, but he knew he was in no position to dictate terms. Kirk’s reputation, earned over just the last few years, preceded him. There was no doubt in Droga’s mind that a thoughtless act of bravado at that moment would accomplish nothing except the near-instantaneous destruction of his ship and crew.

“Understood,
Enterprise
. We await your approved flight plan. Droga out.” Magron cut the channel, and the rest of the crew sagged into their chairs. It was obvious that no songs would be sung over that night’s meal aboard the
vaQjoH
. Staring at the massive gray battle cruiser lurking on their aft quarter, Droga understood all too well why many of his fellow starship commanders had begun using Kirk’s name as a curse and the word
Enterprise
as an obscenity.

Discreetly savoring the sweet taste of victory, Captain James T. Kirk watched the
Enterprise
’s main viewscreen, which showed the aft end of the Klingon bird-of-prey
vaQjoH
as it retreated toward Klingon space with the
Enterprise
close behind it. All around Kirk, the sounds of the bridge and the hum of the ship’s impulse engines were a welcome aural backdrop after nearly a full day of eerie silence. Acting on orders from the sector’s ranking officer, the
Enterprise
had been lurking near a planetary
debris field, lying in ambush with its key systems running at minimum levels and all nonessential systems powered down. Now the
Constitution
-class starship was under way at full power, as Kirk preferred.

Kirk got up from his command chair and strode to the forward console, which was manned by helmsman Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu and navigator Ensign Pavel Chekov. “Keep that ship within optimal firing range, Mister Sulu.”

“Aye, sir,” Sulu said, his baritone cool and professional.

To Chekov, Kirk added, “Make sure you keep the heat on them, Ensign.”

Chekov looked over his shoulder and up at Kirk. “All weapons still locked, sir.”

As he stepped away, he gave the boyish Russian a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Good work.” He climbed the short steps out of the bridge’s command well to its upper ring and joined his first officer, Commander Spock, who peered intently into the cerulean glow emanating from the hooded sensor display. “Spock, any sign the Klingons have armed weapons?”

“None, Captain.” Spock straightened and turned to face Kirk. “They appear to have taken our warning at face value.”

“As well they should.” Kirk looked across the bridge toward the communications console. “Lieutenant Uhura, inform Vanguard that our objective has been accomplished, and we await further orders.”

Uhura nodded. “Aye, sir.” She turned to her panel and sent the message.

The half-Vulcan, half-human first officer leaned closer to Kirk and looked at the image of the Klingon ship on the main viewscreen. “The advance intelligence Vanguard provided about this attack was surprisingly accurate, Captain. Their mission briefing predicted not only the coordinates of the Klingons’ ambush, but its time and likely attack vector.”

Spock’s observations stoked Kirk’s curiosity—and his suspicions. “You think they had something to do with arranging the attack?”

The question prompted Spock to recoil slightly and cock one eyebrow in mild surprise. “Not at all. I was merely remarking on the admirable degree of precision in their report. In retrospect, it appears to be well grounded in logical assumptions.”

Kirk frowned. “Right down to the Klingons starting to use cloaking devices.”

“A troubling development, to be certain. A Klingon-Romulan alliance could alter the balance of power throughout known space.”

As always, Spock’s knack for understatement fueled Kirk’s cynicism. “That’s a nice way of saying they’d be writing the Federation’s epitaph inside of a year, Spock.”

Brow creased with thought, Spock replied, “I doubt the situation would become so dire so quickly. And, while such a development would prove less than advantageous to the Federation, it would not significantly alter our current security status.”

Anxiety put an edge on Kirk’s voice. “How do you figure?”

Spock folded his arms. “We already find ourselves in adversarial relationships with most of the other powers in local space. Apart from the Klingons and the Romulans, we also face opposition from the Gorn, the Tholians, and, to a lesser degree, the Orions.” His eyebrows arched upward as he added, “While it is not in our interest for the Klingons and the Romulans to pool their resources, share their technologies, and coordinate their actions, I suspect this new alliance they’ve forged will be short-lived.”

“Based on what?”

The first officer cocked his head slightly. “A great many factors. However, I think both peoples will eventually find their respective worldviews . . .
incompatible
. And I suspect the Klingons will quickly realize their current arrangement benefits the Romulans far more than it helps the Klingon Empire.”

Before the captain could ask Spock to elaborate, Uhura called out, “Captain? We’re receiving a priority signal from Vanguard. It’s Admiral Nogura, sir.”

Kirk and Spock exchanged looks of intrigued surprise. Descending the steps to the command well, Kirk replied, “Put him
on-screen, Lieutenant.” As he settled into his chair, the image of the
vaQjoH
was replaced by the lean, angular features of Admiral Nogura. Striking a relaxed but confident pose, Kirk greeted his superior with a half nod. “Admiral.”

The gravel-voiced admiral’s comportment was stern.
“Captain Kirk. Before I begin, let me remind you that Starfleet considers all transmissions in this sector vulnerable to interception—an assessment with which I concur.”

“Understood.”

“Have you held on to your official mission logs, as I ordered?”

“Yes, sir. Though I have to say, Admiral Comstock is starting to insist that we transmit our logs back to Starfleet Command for analysis. He hasn’t yet gone so far as to countermand your order, but—”

“I’ve informed Admiral Comstock your logs will be relayed from here,”
Nogura said.
“As soon as you finish escorting that Klingon ship out of the Iremal Cluster, set your course for Vanguard. I’ll debrief you in person after you arrive. Understood?”

Masking his unease at Nogura’s gruff manner, Kirk replied with a straight face and not a hint of emotion, “Perfectly, sir.”

“Good. Send us your ETA once you’re en route. Nogura out.”
The image on the screen reverted to that of the
vaQjoH,
cruising at full impulse ahead of the
Enterprise
.

Kirk leaned forward. “Sulu, how long until we cut that Klingon ship loose?”

Sulu glanced down at his console. “Seven hours and twenty-six minutes, sir.”

Rising from his chair, Kirk said, “Very well. Keep me apprised of any changes.”

“Aye, sir.”

Turning toward Spock, Kirk saw his second-in-command seated at the sensor station, his expression grave as he seemed to pierce the bulkhead with a thousand-meter stare. Kirk climbed the steps to the upper ring, then edged slowly toward his friend. He kept his voice low. “Spock?” No reply. Kirk raised his voice ever so slightly as he inched closer. “Spock?”

Spock blinked, then turned his head to look at Kirk. His manner was even more subdued than normal. “Yes, Captain?”

“Is everything all right? You look troubled.”

The half-Vulcan’s brows furrowed. “Not exactly. I was merely recalling our last visit to Vanguard, approximately three years ago. I departed the station with an important personal matter unresolved.”

Taxing his memory for three-year-old details of the
Enterprise
’s first visit to Starbase 47, Kirk recalled Spock’s unusual encounter with another Vulcan in some kind of cabaret-bar. “Does this have anything to do with that woman you met at the nightclub inside the station?”

“If you mean T’Prynn,” Spock said, reminding Kirk of the woman’s name, “yes, it does.”

Kirk wondered if she was another past romantic acquaintance of Spock’s, like Leila Kalomi, or some link to his mysterious Vulcan heritage, like his former fiancée, T’Pring. Hedging his bets, he asked, “Hoping to pick up where you left off three years ago, Spock?”

Steepling his index fingers as he folded his hands in front of his chest, Spock replied, “For T’Prynn’s sake . . . I sincerely hope not.”

As the senior officers of the
Endeavour
impatiently went through the motions of a search-and-recovery operation, Captain Atish Khatami leaned forward, perched on the edge of her command chair. The main viewscreen showed little except infrequent glimpses of scorched wreckage tumbling across the star-flecked emptiness of interstellar space, but Khatami’s focus was on the chronometer mounted on the base of the forward console, between the Arcturian helm officer, Lieutenant Neelakanta, and the irksomely chipper young navigator, Lieutenant Marielise McCormack.

Time’s passage preoccupied Khatami’s thoughts. The
Endeavour
crew needed to stay long enough at these coordinates,
retrieving the debris of the unmanned drone, to convince any Klingon or Romulan vessels that might be observing them that this was a recovery of wreckage from the real
Sagittarius,
but Khatami didn’t want to spend one moment longer on this charade than necessary.
Every second we’re not on patrol, we’re asking for trouble,
she worried.

Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano conferred quietly with science officer Lieutenant Stephen Klisiewicz. Khatami shook her head at the younger woman’s new beehive hairstyle. Stano’s dark hair and alabaster skin made the beehive look good, but Khatami still questioned her first officer’s adoption of the fad that had swept through Starfleet during the past few years. Ever wedded to practicality, Khatami had chosen (over her husband Kenji’s desperate objections) to have her own raven hair styled into a short but elegant coiffure that she could wash in sixty seconds and towel dry just as quickly.
To each her own,
she decided.

The shy-natured first officer stepped down into the command well and crossed to Khatami’s chair. “We’ve reeled in almost every piece large enough to get our hands on,” she said. “If we keep at this much longer, we’ll be chasing dust motes.”

“We still need to stretch this out a bit,” Khatami said. “Vanguard just confirmed the
Enterprise
intercepted a Klingon attack on the
Ephialtes
inside the Iremal Cluster nine hours ago. Another couple of hours and the
Sagittarius
will be in the clear.”