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Chapter Eighteen (cont.)

The doors to Shuttle Bay 1 slid open with a hiss and Matt limped around to the hatch on the side of the old Vulcan shuttlecraft that filled the bay’s interior.  The thing was so large that two of the four Star Fleet shuttles normally stored here had been moved to Shuttle Bay 2 to make room.  Several engineers were closing up access hatches on the outer skin of the shuttle, gathering up their tools and equipment, and slowly leaving the bay; each nodded to Matt and the XO, one even giving them a thumbs-up.

The pair came around to the side of the shuttlecraft, and Matt suddenly came to a halt.  “What are you doing here?”

Quincy Talbot looked up from where he was sitting down on the ramp leading up into the shuttle’s interior.  “Waiting for you, Captain Dahlgren, Sir.”

“Quincy, I don’t have time for another lecture on the leg . . .”

“Oh, you have plenty of time because you aren’t flying this thing, Captain.”

Matt glared at his chief medical officer.  “Excuse me, Doctor?”

“Beaming down to Hak’ta-thor was necessary.  I understand.  Getting almost no sleep so that your leg can heal, in order to get this ship motivated and worthy for the Fleet was necessary.  I don’t like it, but I understand.  But this?” Quincy shook his head.  “You aren’t some twenty-two year old space cadet, Captain.  You have officers whose duties encompass missions just like this, good officers.”

“Quincy, I have to talk to them . . .”

“That’s what sub-space radio is for, Sir.  Your officer assigned to this mission will contact the Nephkyrie, and he will patch you through to them.  Putting yourself out on the ledge isn’t part of your job description anymore, Captain—and it damn sure ain’t necessary.”

“Thank you for that opinion, Doctor.  Now step aside,” Matt growled.

“No.  Matt, I will declare you medically unfit for command if you so much as place a single one of those six eleven boots in that shuttle.”

Matt started to snarl, and then he saw the seriousness with which Quincy was stating his position.  Instead the Captain turned to Chan.

“The two of you think this up together, Chan?”

Before the Andorian could answer, a fourth being cleared his throat from inside the shuttlecraft.  Natantael Malik descended the ramp.  “Actually, I called him, Skipper,” the Trill admitted.  “You don’t need to be doing this, Sir.”

“And while I was willing to let you go, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian added, “I can’t say that I am sad to see the good Doctor here and prepared to stop you.”

Matt started to open his mouth, and Quincy shook his head.  “I will do it, Matt.  Don’t force me to.”

The Captain let out a long breath, and he nodded.  “If my executive officer, my second officer, and my ship’s surgeon are in agreement then fine; we will do this your way.  I trust you gentlemen are happy now?”

“Happy?” Quincy replied.  “Nope.  Because that blue-skinned, ice-water in his veins executive officer of yours should have already knocked some damn sense into your head; instead of me having to come into this hanger to pull out the big guns.  And you, Captain, Sir, should have more sense than to think the two of you could get away with this.”

“I think he is happy, Chan,” Matt said.  “Remember for when you get your own ship:  if the chief medical officer isn’t whining he isn’t happy.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Sir,” the Andorian answered.

“Whining?  Whining?  Why I’ll . . .”

“You’ve made your point, Quincy—don’t push it,” Matt warned.  “Mister Malik, I presume that since you and the doctor have grounded me, you have arranged for a pilot?”

“I have,” the Trill beamed.

“In that case, gentlemen; let’s get this show on the road.”

Chapter Eighteen (cont.)

The old shuttlecraft decelerated out of warp and immediately the threat receivers in the cockpit lit up.

“They know that we are here,” muttered Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, the sole Antaran aboard the Republic, as he adjusted his controls.

“Chin up, Ciyan,” Sean’s voice came over the sub-space communicator.  “If they decide to open fire with that many guns, the odds are you will be dead long before your brain can say ouch.”

“Thank you, Sir, for providing me with that most motivating and fear-alleviating pep talk.  Remind me never to ask you calm my jitters again, Commander.  And to never volunteer on conducting repairs underway.”

“Fear is a good motivator, Ciyan.  Just hold it together.”

Ciyan looked down at his instruments.  “They are scanning me.”

“We see it.”

“And now they are hailing the shuttle,” the engineer finished.  He grimaced and flicked the communications switch

“We feared that you had been compromised; already we have had an encounter with the dominant species in this region—the species that you assured us were nothing more than vermin, loathed by all others.”

The guttural voice paused, and turned cold.

“Vermin do not build such starships, Inderi.  What else have you lied to us about, we wonder?”

“I am not Inderi.  I am Lieutenant Ciyan Judek, of the United Federation of Planets, and I wish to establish a dialogue between my commander and your leaders.”

“Foolish and incompetent.  The Solidarity is best served without her presence.  You are not the species that Inderi termed human; you are Antaran, as was she.”

“Yes.  The Federation consists of one hundred and fifty four member worlds, each of which has chosen to voluntarily request admission for their species.”

“A multi-species polity?  How . . . unusual.  And these humans?  Are they members?”

“They are one of our founding members.  Who am I speaking with?”

“Ah.  Not vermin, indeed.  You are speaking with the Solidarity of Nephkyrie.  Are these humans still a force within your Federation?"

“They are a major species within the Federation, yes.”

“And their settlements on our world were authorized by your Federation?”

“We had no knowledge of your claim on New Columbia.  Perhaps you can speak with my commander . . .”

“Lies.  We know our marker was landed; we know it was removed.  And now we know the true threat we face.”

Ciyan heard the hum of a transporter beam, and he began to twist as an object started to materialize—when White Cloud’s own transporter beamed him out and away from the shuttlecraft, micro-seconds before the fusion warhead detonated.

Chapter Nineteen

Matt leaned forward, and he rubbed his thigh with one hand.  “Thank you, Mister Philips,” he replied to the image of Sean on the main viewer.  “White Cloud is to proceed to New Columbia; I want you to take up a position in orbit above the settlement—and if you receive any indication that the Nephkyrie are activating that transporter beacon, I want you to destroy it.  You are authorized for a photon torpedo strike from orbit, Mister Philips—I will provide that order in writing if you so desire.”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” Sean answered.  “I understand the stakes; if they can reverse the beam and transport to the planet, then removing them will be far more difficult.”

“You’re going to have a minimum crew aboard, Sean—I’m pulling all of my Marines back, and the majority of your engineers.  And just so she doesn’t decide to try anything, we are transferring Inderi aboard as well; that should be one less headache for you to worry about.”

“Understood,” the engineer said as Matt addressed his chair audio pickup.  “Mister Malik.”

“Sir.”

“Time for Plan B.  How long will it take to reset the inhibitor field?  I want it to conform with our shield bubble for maximum strength.”

“Thirty minutes, Captain.”

“How much will that increase the field strength?”

“Enough that I will guarantee they can’t beam anything aboard, Sir.  However, we will be vulnerable to proximity warheads.”

“Not for long, Mister Malik, get to work down there.  Miss Biddle,” he addressed the Operations officer.  “Plot us a course behind the Nephkyrie vessel, maintaining a distance of at least three million kilometers.  Miss Montoya, let’s make our way there and match that ship’s vector and velocity.  Once we are in position, Miss Biddle, I will need you to plot a course at Warp speed to bring us out very close to their ship; Miss Montoya I want Republic oriented so that our belly is facing their hull.”  Matt pulled up a schematic of the Nephkyrie vessel on the main viewer and he highlighted a small section of their hull.  “Put us here, Miss Montoya.”

“How close do you want her, Sir?” Grace asked.

“Our shield bubble extends fifteen meters beneath the keel; I want us to come out of Warp with no more than thirty meters of separation between our shields and their hull.”

Everyone on the bridge, including Chan, turned to stare at Matt.  Isabella’s jaw gapped opened in shock, as her face drained of blood.  Grace merely blinked.  “Did you say thirty meters of separation?  Sir?”

“No more than thirty meters, Miss Biddle.  Ideally I don’t want five meters of separation.  Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to get in so close against them that they cannot use their transporter delivered nukes without gutting their own ship in the process.  Mister Roshenko,” he continued as he swiveled the command chair to face his tactical officer.  “We’ve got four phaser arrays on the ventral surface—I want every weapons emplacement that can bear on us destroyed the instant we come out of warp,” dozens of different gun mounts began to flash on the display.  “I do not want over penetrating shots if you can avoid it, Mister Roshenko.  We will have bare seconds—at best—before they bring those seventy-six emplacements on-line and to bear; you will have to be accurate and fast.”

Matt sat back and he rotated his seat forward.  “I want us as close as a tick on a hound, people.  Once we are on station, and their local weapon systems are disabled, the Nephkyrie will have a choice—begin a dialogue or continue to stonewall.”

Chan cleared his throat.  “And if they continue to stonewall?  Sir.”

Matt pressed another button.  “Mister Beck.”

“Sir.”

“You have been listening as I requested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want all Marines outfitted with Phaser Rifles and field armor.  Additionally, Mister Shrak will be sending you a list of crewmen that will flesh out your boarding parties.  Can you outfit another hundred and twenty personnel gleaned from our crew and Philip’s engineers?”

“I don’t have enough armor, but I’ve got plenty of phasers.  And grenades; I’ve assembled a good supply of those since you installed that replicator, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mister Beck.  If they continue to refuse to talk, ladies and gentlemen, then we will board them; we will find our colonists; we will recover our colonists; and we will destroy their transporter system.  And if we can’t; if the colonists are dead and they continue to refuse to even speak with us, then I’ll blow them out of space.”

Matt lowered his head, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  “Any officer or crewman who feels that they cannot with good conscience participate in such an action may report to Mister Shrak for transfer to the White Cloud.”

“Miss Montoya, this is all contingent on you getting us that close without ripping off a nacelle in the process.  Can you do it?”

The young Lieutenant stared at the Captain for a moment and then she nodded her head slowly.  She licked her dry lips.  “Y-yes, Sir.  I can get us that close.”

“Very well, then.  Get your departments prepared; Mister Shrak assemble a list of personnel to augment the Marines and have them report to Lieutenant Beck.  We have thirty minutes until Mister Malik finishes his adjustments.  You have that length of time to get ready for this.  Mister Shrak, you have the conn; I need to inform Admiral Hanson at Starbase 114 in case something goes wrong.”

Matt stood, and he turned around and cocked his head at the Andorian.  “I have the conn, Sir,” Chan answered; but then he stepped up close.  “And they say I am the crazy one, pink-skin,” he whispered.

“Just get the ship ready, Chan," Matt replied in a low voice.

“On one condition, Captain,” the XO continued.

“Condition?  Your are setting conditions?”

“Yes, sir.  You will not be boarding that ship, but sitting in that command chair instead, Sir.  That is my sole condition.”

“Agreed.  Now get her ready, Mister Shrak.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

What are they British Redcoats.        

Chapter Nineteen (cont.)

“Miss Biddle, is our warp jump plotted?”

“Yes, sir,” the Operations officer replied as she made a final adjustment to her controls, a thin bead of sweat dripping down her nose.  “Warp drive will be engaged at Warp Factor 2, for .9732 seconds on computer control.”

“Very well,” Matt answered calmly, as he secured the safety straps across his waist.  “Mister Shrak, set General Quarters throughout the ship, and sound Red Alert in all compartments.”

The bridge lighting dimmed, replacing the normal bright illumination with a harsh red glow.  “All stations report manned and secured for Battle Stations, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian answered.

“Initiate the warp jump, Miss Montoya.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied.  “Warp speed in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . ENGAGED!”

Republic surged forward, crossing over the boundaries into warp, and then almost immediately dropped back into normal space.  Matt could hear the thrum of the phasers firing even before Isabella could report.  “We are at the designated coordinates, Sir; six meters, forty-two centimeters of separation between the keel and the Nephkyrie vessel!”

The ship rocked as a half-dozen Nephkyrie laser cannons struck her forward shields, but then the batteries on the alien vessel fell silent.

Pavel Roshenko looked up. “Weapons emplacements neutralized, Captain.  No hull penetrations.”

“Forward shields holding at 98%, Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian added, and then his antennae shivered.   â€œWe are being hailed.”

“On screen.”

The main viewer blanked and for the first time, Matt and his crew could see the Nephkyrie with their own eyes.  The man on the screen was humanoid, his smooth skin a darkened bronze, offset by the coal-black well groomed hair that covered his head.  Except for the strange skin color and the eyes—eyes with a vertical cat’s slit and an iris of purple—he could easily have passed as a human.  A handsome human.

“You will remove your vessel at once.  You are not welcome here among the Solidarity,” he said.

Matt nodded.  “We will be depart as soon as our people have been returned to their home; the Federation does not desire conflict with the Solidarity, and we are prepared to greet you in peace.  If they are not returned, however, then we shall meet you with war.”

“War?  You would go to war over such a small number of your people?  For which my species has a need?  You would condemn thirty-five million to death for twelve thousand of your own kind, and see an entire species eradicated?”

“If it proves necessary, then yes.  I am Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer of the Federation Starship Republic.  And we do not allow any race to steal away twelve thousand of our own people—not without paying the consequences of that action.”

The Nephkyrie on the screen met Matt’s stern gaze evenly, and then he nodded.  “I am Typhias, and I am Speaker for the Solidarity.  Your people were interlopers and intruders upon a planet which our race had claimed long ago as its own.”

“Your claim was one which the Federation was unaware of until just recently, Speaker Typhias.  However, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I promise that we will evacuate our colonists and leave you the planet.  That offer is contingent, of course, on the colonists being returned to us safe and sound.”

Chan cleared his throat and Matt swiveled his chair to face his executive officer.

“They are attempting to gain a transporter lock on the entire ship, Captain Dahlgren.  The inhibitor is blocking their attempts—for now.”

Matt turned back to the main viewer.  “I would advise you to cease those attempts, Speaker Typhias; they might easily be interpreted as hostile.  You have seen the power of my weapons; I would hate to turn them onto your vessel in earnest.”

The Speaker turned to someone off-screen and spoke rapidly in a language that the universal translator did not recognize, making a slashing motion with one hand—a hand with four elongated fingers and two opposing thumbs.

“Transporter lock-on attempts have ceased, Captain Dahlgren,” Chan reported.

“Thank you, Speaker Typhias.  I would like to begin discussing on when we can expect our people to be returned.”

Typhias’s mouth twisted and he leaned forward.  “Your weapons are impressive.  As is your ability to block our transport beams; but I have heard nothing that would compel me to relinquish the specimens we have retrieved.  The survival of my race is at stake, human, and I shall not let a mere twelve thousand lives of another species stand between our survival and extinction.  You would do the same, would you not?”

“No.  We would find another way.  We will offer to your race our collected medical knowledge and resources in an attempt to restore your DNA to its original configuration; my scientists and medical professionals have already determined that it might be possible to alleviate your own damage through means that do not require the death of thousands—millions—of my own people.”

“And your solution has been tested and proven?”

“No, but we can work . . .”

“Then it is useless.  The Solidarity must be assured of survival, human.  And if survival requires that we harvest your species, than that is what we must do.  I order you again to depart, and trouble us no further; failure to comply will result in your own deaths.”

Matt frowned.  “We are too close to your own vessel for you to risk your transporter bombs, Speaker Typhias.  Do not force me into the position where I have to board you and recover our people.”

“Board us?” the Nephkyrie began to laugh.  “Ah, you are indeed amusing, human.  You shall not step one foot upon the decks of this ancient vessel—but we will take yours for the Solidarity.”

The screen blanked, and Matt swiveled his chair as he heard the hum of a transporter beam—several transporter beams.

Nephkyrie troops, wearing thick heavy cuirasses of armor plating and combat helmets appeared onboard the bridge of Republic and those aliens held readied weapons, but the Marine security guards and the bridge crew responded instantly, drawing their own.  Phasers and beams of unknown energy began to criss-cross the bridge as Republic’s crew fought the intruders.

Matt unclipped his safety belt and rolled out of his chair, just instants before a high-energy beam burnt a hole through the back, and he tapped his comm badge.  “Intruder Alert!” he barked.  “All hands repel boarders!”  Wincing with the pain, Matt knelt on his injured leg and drew his own Type I phaser, firing a long burst into one of the intruders, who crumpled to the deck.

The Operations console exploded under the fire of another Nephkyrie, and Grace Biddle was slammed to the deck, bleeding and burnt.  Matt twisted and he fired two short beams into the alien that stood over Grace, joined by a third beam from Isabella, and the soldier fell.

And then the shrill sounds of phasers stopped; the Nephkyrie intruders were down, along with nearly half of Matt’s bridge crew.  Chan pulled himself back up to his feet, and he leaned on his Mission Ops station, holding a burnt and nigh useless arm tight against his side in pain.  “Intruders reported on Decks 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8.  Mister Malik reports Main Engineering is secure, but he is requesting immediate reinforcements; Mister Beck is deploying Marine reaction teams and crewmen prepped for boarding operations against the Nephkyrie.”

“How the Hell did they get through the in . . . no, don’t answer that, Chan!” Matt snarled.  “Miss Montoya—set course to rendezvous with the Balao, maximum Warp.  Mister Roshenko, take out any transporter emitters on their hull!”

The turbolift doors opened and a pair of marines and two medics emerged.

“Transporter emitters destroyed, Captain,” Pavel answered calmly.  “That will only slow them, however—and they rolling their ship!”

“Now, Miss Montoya!”

And Republic surged forward, into Warp and away from the Nephkyrie ship

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