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Chapter Three (cont.)

Republic shuddered and the bridge lighting flickered as the disruptor bolts slammed into her portside shields, quickly followed by the hammer-blow impact of the torpedo. 

“Port shields at 22%!” Grace called out from Operations.  “Sectors 150-270 of the dorsal array are off-line!”

“Long-range sensors inoperative,” reported Amanda from the Science station.

“Roll ship, Miss Montoya—put them on our starboard side,” ordered Chan from the captain’s chair, with a grimace.  The attacks were coming too fast, the crew were exhausted beyond all belief, and the constant stream of hostile Klingons had left the ship unable to effect all but the most basic of repairs.  He glanced down at the repeater display of the damage control board, and he shook his head.

“They are coming about, Sir!” barked Pavel from Tactical, and Chan suddenly smiled as he recognized the maneuver.

“Miss Biddle!  Prepare to lock the forward tractor on the lead ship—on my orders hold her in place!  Mister Roshenko, hold fire to my command—then give me everything you have!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” both officers answered.

“Mister Malik,” Chan continued as the two Klingon bird of prey cruisers finished their turn and started a new attack run, “reinforce the forward shields.”

“Bowen here, Sir,” a voice came over the speaker, “Commander Malik is in surgery—reinforcing forward shields; it’s a mess down here, Commander, but the engines are still on-line!”

“Understood, Mister Bowen,” the Andorian answered.  “Give me as much power as you can to the shields and forward tractor.”

The two cruisers on the screen parted course and then swept back into towards the Republic in an intricate maneuver that required perfect timing—and would cause their weapons to impact almost simultaneously on the same shield location.

“Now, Miss Biddle!” he barked.

The tractor beam caught the Klingon and Republic heaved as the hostile vessel slammed to a sudden halt, both ships spinning around their joint center of mass despite the best efforts of the stabilizers—the bird of prey captured by the tractor sliding directly in front of her sister ship as the second vessel opened fire!

“Finish her, Mister Roshenko!” Chan ordered crisply, and a volley of four torpedoes streaked away from the Republic, even as a golden phaser beam burned into the tractored ship’s shields. It was too much for the old K’vort-class ship, the combination of Klingon disruptors and torpedoes on her belly and Federation weapons on her back—and she exploded as the second cruiser raced by over the back of Republic.

Pavel did not wait for an order, but golden beams lanced out from the stern arrays and the rear tube spat another torpedo and the Klingon ship staggered; that did not keep her commander from firing his rear torpedo and Republic shook violently again.

“Starboard shields down to 17%, forward tractor off-line,” Grace reported.  “Emitters are burnt out, Commander.”

“Get us facing her, Miss Montoya,” Chan ordered.  “Understood, Miss Biddle,” but then the emergency lighting dimmed and half of the bridge stations went dark.  “Engineering, report!”

There was no answer.

“Engineering!  Lieutenant Bowen!”

“Grissom, Sir.  Warp core is in emergency shut-down—we had a coolant breach.  We have impulse and battery power only.”

“Can you restore the mains, Mister Grissom?”

“Working on that, Sir.”

“She’s coming back in!” reported Amanda from the science station.

“Divert all power to forward shields, Miss Biddle, get our nose to her, Miss Montoya!” Chan snapped, but he looked at the strength levels of the forward shields and he knew that this time the Klingon would slice straight through them.

At that moment, a new starship came out of warp and interposed itself between the Klingon and Republic, and Chan sat back in his chair and he let out a deep breath of relief, as Admiral Hansen’s Blackhawk—her shields intact—absorbed the fury of the Klingon attack.  The bird of prey broke off the attack and started to run—but she couldn’t outrun the salvo of eight photon torpedoes launch by the Akira-class starship and her shields flared against the first explosions, and failed, and the detonations ate into her hull and she erupted in massive fireball, leaving only debris in her wake.

The main viewer flickered and Sig Hansen, tall and blonde and immaculate in his Starfleet uniform stood there on the bridge of his flagship.  “Captain Dahlgren, I hope you do not mind if we cut in.”

Chan unfastened the safety straps and he stood.  “Admiral Hansen, we do not mind at all.  Captain Dahlgren is not . . . available at the moment, Sir.”

Hansen nodded.  “Looks like we arrived in the nick of time, Commander Shrak—I would like a full briefing, however.  What exactly did Republic do this time?”

“I can beam aboard as soon as our damage control teams get the situation under control, Admiral and provide with that full report then.”

“My engineering and medical teams are standing by to assist, Republic.  Blackhawk out.”

The screen returned to its view of local space and Chan nodded.  “Miss Biddle,” he said softly, “you have the conn.  Send the ship to yellow alert and coordinate with Admiral Hansen’s engineers.”  He opened the communicator again.  “Engineering, inform the bridge when warp power has been restored.”

And then Chan left the bridge for transporter room 2.

Chapter Three (cont.)

“This is all supposition, you realize, Commander,” Hansen said with a frown after Chan finished briefing him fully.  “True or not, you have zero concrete evidence of Mar’s involvement.”

“Yes, sir,” Chan said with a quick nod.  “Gaining that evidence is one of the reasons that Captain Dahlgren went ahead to Earth—he should arrive tomorrow, in fact.  And once he does so, then we can have her brought to justice.”

Hansen shook his head and he swore softly.  “This is so far above my pay-grade,” he whispered.  “You are claiming that the Argellian Ambassador to the Federation Council is murdering people left and right!  In an alliance with a rogue Klingon House . . . so that she can gain the Presidency?”

“Sounds like bad fiction, does it not, Admiral?” Chan answered lightly, but then a serious look came over his face.  “That does not stop the matter from being quite real, however.  How else can we explain that the Klingons had Republic’s command codes?  The ambush that killed Sam Carmichael and the Balao?  As they were carrying messages back to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command?  That our own communications with Earth and Starfleet Command are being blocked from the sub-space network?”

Hansen sighed and he sat back in his chair.  “We haven’t been able to raise Command either—not since Parker commed me with orders to come to your aid.  And before you ask, Commander, I have already changed the command codes aboard Blackhawk.”  He shook his head.  “This will tear the Federation apart if it becomes public knowledge—especially after the infiltration of our government by the Founders during the War.”

“That rather depends on how it is spun—and whether or not we can find evidence that will stick to Mar.  And whether or not Matt simply kills her for threatening his family,” the Andorian finished quietly.

Hansen looked up and he just stared at Chan for several moments.  “Will he go that far, Commander Shrak?  You know the man better than I.”

“Yes.  If she has tried to make good on her threat, he will kill her, damn the consequences.  He will not try, he will find a way and she will die.”

Both men were silent for a moment, and then the admiral nodded once again.  “Well, that is a matter that we will have to deal with when we arrive at Earth.  What is the condition of Republic?”

“Lieutenant Grissom has warp power restored—we can be underway in fifteen minutes,” and Chan shrugged.  “We have damage throughout the ship, however.  Shields are capable of only fifty-percent strength, the ablative armor is in tatters, a third of our phaser emitters are damaged and off-line, the forward tractor is a write-off, and we have lost all long-range sensors.  We also have thirty-two dead and a large number of wounded—and our torpedo magazines are below half.”

He shook his head.  “On the good side, neither impulse engine has been damaged.  The starboard nacelle took a direct hit yesterday from a decloaking K’tinga, but the secondary systems are on-line and holding.  In short, we are half-blind, and lost a lot of our punch, but we aren’t lame—not yet.”

“Admiral Parker said that other ships were en route to provide you with assistance, Commander.  When and where they will appear, I have no clue—but I do know that word from the Klingon Empire is that Mak’vegh is charging after you with half of his House Fleet.  So how about we get back in warp on a heading for Earth before he charges up our backside with more firepower than either of us can deal with?”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the Andorian answered as he stood.

Chapter Three (cont.)

“Miss Madsen?  Are you still with us?”

Lara jerked upright, and she shook her head.  “Sorry, Dr. Woolsey,” she stammered.  “It won’t happen again.”

The hologram stared at her for a moment.  “How long has it been since you slept, Nurse?”

She thought for a moment and frowned.  “Day before yesterday?” she guessed.

Woolsey clucked his tongue and now he frowned.  “Well, Blackhawk is sending personnel across to assist,” he looked out of the Sick Bay and he cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.  “Once they arrive, I want everyone assigned to Medical to report your quarters and get at least four hours of sleep—six would be better.  NO EXCEPTIONS.  Now, then,” he said turning back to the young nurse.  “What is the condition of the symbiote?”

“It is not responding, Doctor,” Lara answered softly.  “Mister Malik remains in a coma—the host body should recover, but the symbiote remains in critical condition.”

The EMH frowned again.  “It should have responded to the treatment—if the diagnosis is correct,” he took the PADD from Lara and scrolled through the data again.  “I want another cellular scan of the symbiote and the host—let’s see if we missed anything the first time around, Miss Madsen.”

“I will prep the Commander, Doctor.”

“Keep me informed,” Woolsey said as he walked over to another patient.  The doors to sickbay slid open before he reached the bio-bed, however, and fresh, rested medical personnel from the Admiral’s ship began to enter—and the Doctor smiled.

“Wonderful—glad you could join us.  I am Doctor Woolsey, acting Chief Medical Officer Republic.  My people will brief you before they catch some shuteye.”

One of the newcomers came to a halt and he stared at the hologram.  “Where is Doctor Talbot?” he asked.

“Doctor Talbot is with the Captain, Doctor . . . ?” Robert answered and asked.

“Halloway.  Who is in charge here?”

Robert Woolsey frowned again.  “I am, Doctor Halloway.  This is my sickbay.”

“Not anymore—I want a briefing on the condition of all patients before each of you Republics go off-shift.”

“Pardon me, Doctor Halloway, but this is my sickbay—you are here to assist me.”

“Computer, end EMH,” the doctor from Blackhawk ordered.

“Unable to comply without command override authorization,” the computer broadcast.

“What?”

“The Captain of this ship values me as a Starfleet officer, not merely a hologram, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey said in a cold voice.  “My program has been altered to prevent anyone from ending my program on a whim.  Now, if you will join me in my office, I will brief you on the patients and we can assign your personnel to their duties.”

“I don’t take orders from a hologram!”

“In this sickbay, you will either follow my instructions or you will be removed from the ship!”

Halloway smiled.  “You haven’t the authority.”

Woolsey tapped his holographic comm badge.  “Sick-bay to Security.  Escort Doctor Halloway to Transporter Room 3 and return him to Blackhawk; inform Commander Shrak my full report will be forthcoming.”

“On our way, Doctor Woolsey,” a voice answered—and Halloway’s smile slowly faded.

“Holograms do not give orders on Starfleet vessels!” he insisted.  “Not when properly relieved by actual medical personnel!”

“Doctor, you have not relieved me.  And you are not here to relieve me.  You were assigned to Republic to assist me.  And you will either do that while obeying my orders, or I will have you clapped in irons and removed from this ship!”

The doors slid open again and two burly Marines entered the Sickbay.  The senior nodded at Doctor Woolsey.  “Is there a problem, Doc?” he asked.

“That depends if next words out of the mouth of Blackhawk’s junior surgeon are ‘aye, aye, sir’ or not.”  Woolsey said in a somber voice.  “And if the words are not ‘aye, aye, sir’, then you will remove him from my Sickbay and from this ship, and I will write a formal complaint into his permanent file.  A compliant that Commander Shrak will endorse, I might add.”

The Marine shook his head and chuckled.  “Don’t think he’s joking, Sir.  He’s not, and the XO will back him.”

Halloway’s shoulders slumped and he whispered, “Aye, aye, Sir,” through gritted teeth.

“Excellent!” said Robert Woolsey with a grin.  “Thank you, Corporal Danforth—I think that will be all.”

“Anytime, Doc, anytime,” the Marine answered as he turned to leave.

“And now, Doctor Halloway, if you will join me in my office, we can discuss the conditions of my patients and the duties I expect your people to carry out.  Shall we?” he asked with a wave of his hand.

Love this ship!

Chapter Four

“Qapla’, Matthew!” Koram barked at Matt, Quincy Talbot, Chris Roberts, and Alvin Thiesman as the four Starfleet officers stood on the warship’s transporter pads—all dressed in civilian clothing.  Banner, under the command of Lieutenant Turovik, assisted by two members of the crew, had been dropped off twenty-four hours before and was now approaching Vulcan.  With that part of their cover intact, Matt and his small band had travelled to Earth aboard Amar.  “We will remain here in orbit . . . ostensibly to give my crew a chance to experience the many cultures of Earth and enjoy a few days of rest and recreation.  Should you need us, we will be prepared my brother.”

Matt nodded briskly.  “I have no doubt of that, Lord Koram.  Have you managed to contact Cha’shin?”

The Klingon shook his head.  “No . . . and that worries me, Matthew Dahlgren.  Are you certain you trust this officer you hope will aid you?”

“Ben Maxwell?  Koram, I trust him as much as I trust you.”

“Ah.  I hope then that you find success, Matthew—and that your enemies will deliver themselves into your grasp.”

Koram turned to the crewman standing at the transporter controls and the barked out a series of command in the Klingon tongue.  Matt raised his hand to his chest and he nodded at Koram as the device began to hum; then he and his companions dissolved within a curtain of light.

********************************************************

The quiet night was broken as a transporter beam emerged from nothing and then the forms of the four men solidified, the curtain of light surrounding them fading away into darkness once more.  Although momentarily distraught by the sudden burst of light, the crickets and frogs once again began to chirp and croak. 

“Right in the middle of nowhere,” grumbled Quincy.  “And Starfleet Security will probably be beaming in right behind us to find out who is beaming down here in the middle of the damn night!”

“Relax, Doctor Talbot,” Matt said as he started walking.  “Koram beamed down, and then right back up again, seventy-two Klingons from his ship—calibrating his systems, he is telling Security right now.  Of course, he didn’t realize that Security frowns on such activity and will shut down the transporter units—at least that is what he is going to tell them.  Security does respond to unauthorized beam-downs—but they are going to be hard-pressed to get to us immediately since more than a dozen took place before the Klingons energized our transport.”

Matt stepped onto a gravel road running through the fields and took a left.  “And if they do beam in?  We are four humans out for a stroll on autumn eve—not Klingons.”

The doctor snorted.  “And won’t they ask us why we are out and about for the night?  And query our IDs?”

“Certainly,” Matt answered.  And except for the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs and the crunch of the gravel beneath their boots, the night grew quiet once more.

Finally, Quincy sighed.  “And what, O Great and Powerful Oz, will we do when they discover that all four of us are supposed to be aboard a Federation Starship heading towards the borders of the Federation?”

“Mister Thiesman, would you care to answer that?”

“Aye, aye, Sir.  Doctor Talbot, I changed everyone’s ID back aboard ship.”

“You hacked the ID?  I was under the impression that is impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible, Sir.  I may be a Marine—and enlisted at that—but I know a few tricks.  They won’t pass muster for a full security examination, but a cursory reading, in the field, in the early hours of the night?  The overlay will show us as local residents, with only a few minor infractions against our records.”

“Minor infractions?” asked Chris as he kept scanning the woods to either side of the road with his eyes.  “Why on earth would you give any of us a criminal record?”

“Because in the real world, Mister Roberts,” the Marine answered, “very few people are fine, upstanding citizens that volunteer for Starfleet.  People get in altercations; they drink too much real alcohol; they drive too fast; they do dumb things—and nothing in the universe sets off alarm bells in a Security officer’s head like someone with an immaculate past.”

In the distance behind them, there was a distant hum of a transporter beam.

“Eyes front, gentlemen,” Matt said, as he continued to walk.  “You were saying, Mister Thiesman?”

“Yes, sir.  Mister Roberts, once the Security officer looks at your ID, sees that you are from this area, a local who has never left home, sees that you have been detained four times in the past ten years for brawling and intoxication, he is going to mentally slot you into ‘harmless, local, yokel’.  The Security beaming in now, they aren’t local—they don’t know you and they don’t expect to know you—but they certainly know people like the ones with your record.”

Ahead of them on the road, another transporter trace suddenly appeared, and two Security officers in armor and helmets suddenly appeared.

Matt stopped and he nodded.  “Evening,” he said calmly.  “You here about the Klingons who beamed down a few minutes ago?  Back that way?” he said pointing towards the fields on the far side of the woods.

One of the Security officers frowned.  “How did you know they were Klingons?”

Matt chuckled.  “Because they beamed down in that field and we could see them from the road.  Beamed down and beamed right back up again—is the Starfleet running an exercise tonight?”

“Identification,” the guard demanded.  Matt shrugged and pulled out his card, passed it over.  One by one, the others did the same.

“Why are you folks out this time of night?”

“Our wives are throwing a baby shower for that young man’s missus.  We got out before the estrogen levels began to peak.  Old Bill Maddox has a pub right down this lane . . . about another kilometer and a half ahead.”  Matt smiled again and he leaned close to the Security officer.  “Thought we might toast him starting up a family—you boys want a drink?” He asked as he pulled out a silver flask from his jacket pocket, the sharp smell of real whiskey rising in the night air as unscrewed the top.

The officer frowned, but the second one handed back the IDs and nodded.  “Clean,” he said.

“Be on your way then,” the first said.  “But don’t even think about driving if you are drinking real whiskey.”

“Why the hell do you think we are walking, officer?  For our health?  My old lady will skin me alive I get in trouble with the law again,” Matt thundered.

“Just you watch yourselves—the local constabulary will be at that pub in force if any of you start something,” the second officer warned, frowning at Chris.

Matt shook his head sadly.  “We never start anything, officer—but we have finished it a time or two.”

The officers gave him a dirty look again as Matt raised the flask in salute and took a deep pull, then one of them spoke into his communicator and the pair beamed away.  “Care for a snort, gentlemen?” Matt asked.

“No, sir,” answered Alvin.  “Thank you, no, Captain,” replied Chris.

But Quincy grabbed the silver flask and pulled down a long swallow.  He sighed and sealed the top before passing it back over to Matt.  “I thought you were never going to ask,” he complained.  “And how far much farther is it?  My feet are already aching.”

“Bill lives in town not far from the pub.  Just about fifteen hundred meters or so on down this road.  As the crow flies,” he qualified his remark as the captain started forward again.

“As the crow flies?  And how far, exactly, would that be as the doctor walks?”

“About three kilometers, give or take.”

“THREE?”

“Well, we couldn’t beam in too close to town, Doctor Talbot.”

“Oh, my aching bunions.”

This is great but more please

Yeah that explains it. Yikes the Federation is so prone to these attacks from within.