Captain’s Log, Stardate 47955.2—First Officer Riker in temporary
command:
A Klingon assault
on the
The loss is, of
course, critical. If ever we needed Captain Picard’s wisdom and judgment, it’s
now.
Fortunately, the
He, Counselor
Troi, and Lieutenant Worf are questioning the Klingons in an attempt to
ascertain reasons for their attack.
And our passage
into the Neutral Zone looms ever closer.
“This
explains why we’re not dead.”
Worf
and Troi examined the disruptor in Warrick’s hand with interest, as he hefted
it and drew a practice bead on the far wall.
“What
do you make of this, Lieutenant?”
“An
unusual design,” Worf observed cautiously. “Smaller than any standard military
issue I’ve seen.”
“And,
from what we’ve both experienced, possessing a more powerful stun setting as
well,” its holder agreed. He tapped the firing button on the now-deactivated
weapon.
“With
a hair trigger, too.”
Troi
asked, “Might I hold it?” Wordlessly, Warrick passed her the pistol, and she
checked the grip as well.
“It
feels like it was made especially for a woman. The fit is much more comfortable
than for a standard Type II phaser.”
“A
customized weapon...” Worf pondered; then, he glanced up at the others.
“Imperial Intelligence.”
Warrick
smiled humorlessly. “Excellent, Lieutenant.”
Troi
inquired, “You said a moment ago you knew why you weren’t dead. What did you
mean, Commander?”
Warrick
again looked to Worf.
“It
is standard policy for hand-held disruptors to be set on kill when entering any
combat situation. This eliminates the need to defeat any foe more than once,”
Worf explained. “The methodology of Imperial Intelligence, however, is to have
its weapons on stun.”
“Why?”
Troi was confused.
“You
can’t torture a dead man for information, Counselor,” Warrick responded
matter-of-factly.
“They
are of a different breed. Often, honor has... less meaning to them,” Worf told
her. “Many are as treacherous as a–” he stopped abruptly.
“You
can say it,” Warrick added easily.
“–Romulan,”
the Klingon finished.
Personal Log, Stardate 47955.2:
If I were to
follow my own instincts—both those of command and friendship, I would turn back
without hesitation.
That goes to the
heart of it for me: Whose judgment do I trust? My own? Captain Picard’s? Though
the mission specialist seemed to have his full confidence, I hesitate to
relinquish command under these critical circumstances, even though the
regulations are rather explicit.
Now, as we
approach the point of no return, I find myself faced with one of the most
difficult decisions of my career. Do I risk my commission, and retain command,
or do I turn the ship over to a man of whom I’m just not sure?
“We’re
holding station at the designated coordinates, Commander. The Neutral Zone is
dead ahead.”
Riker
stared for a moment at the empty viewscreen. “And no delegation to meet us,” he
muttered in disgust. “At least, not one that cares to show itself.”
Yet
again, he glanced to his right. Mantovanni had taken a place on the small
‘courtesy cushion’ next to the First Officer’s chair; he gave no indication
either that he felt slighted or that he was attempting to mock Riker with some
sort of gesture. It was simply the place he’d chosen to sit.
He
too looked up in that moment; and, for the first time since Picard’s injury,
their gazes briefly met.
Will
was prepared for anything in that expression: Disdain, resentment, or something
even worse. Instead, the young captain nodded fractionally, and gave him the
barest hint of a reassuring smile.
It
was then the current commanding officer of the
“Sir,”
Riker stood, and addressed himself to Mantovanni, “I must at this time remind
you that regulations specifically state the senior officer, if either in the
direct chain of command or a mission specialist of appropriate rank, is
required to take the center seat in the event of the captain’s inability to
perform his duties.”
Without
a hint of hesitation, Mantovanni responded, “Thank you, Commander.” He also
rose, and glanced to ops.
“Mr.
Data, please make a note in the log; I assume command of this vessel stardate
47955.3.”
“Aye,
aye, sir,” the android acknowledged.
He
eased himself with what could only be called restraint into a chair that so
obviously belonged to another man.
Riker
leaned over and spoke in a low tone. “Captain Mantovanni, I know we have more
pressing concerns, but, I was just wondering: Why didn’t you relieve me at your
earliest opportunity?”
That
slight smile returned briefly.
“Two
reasons: One, I thought you had some things to work out for yourself, and
relieving you at that point wouldn’t have helped the situation. The Captain’s
decision to skirt the Neutral Zone until we reached the point proximate to
Selerria Four had given me some extra time, and I used it.
“Two,
Captain Picard told me you’re the best first officer in the fleet. That meant
you would come to me. Not because you’re predictable, or you necessarily
believe I’m a better commanding officer than you, but because you trust Captain
Picard in the way he trusts you; and you knew his instincts, in this case, were
less clouded than yours.”
What
he left unsaid was: Three, Considering
the loyalty you two inspire, I doubt I could have assumed command without your consent. And the dispute would have made our mission that much
more difficult to complete.
“Ensign
Page,” he ordered briskly, “Take us to Selerria Four, maximum...”
“Sir,”
Riker interrupted.
“Hold
on that, Ensign,” Mantovanni added quickly. “Go ahead, Commander.”
Well, here we go, Riker thought, and then
pressed ahead.
“I
think we might want to wait and hear what the Klingons have to say before we
cross into the Zone.” As a final thought, he added, “Just an instinct, sir.” A
hint of that ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ grin returned.
After
a moment’s consideration, Mantovanni nodded.
“Belay
that last, Ensign. Continue holding position.”
“Aye,
sir. Thrusters at station keeping,” Page confirmed.
He
leaned back in the command chair, but didn’t precisely relax. A moment later,
he murmured, just loud enough for Riker to hear, “Here’s to all our instincts being right.”
“I
have no words for you, human. You are a traitor from a race of traitors.”
Kaala
folded her arms and regarded her captors with an unwavering gaze. If undiluted
contempt had affected the security field, she probably could have taken it out
by herself with a single withering glare.
Her hands touched the fabric of the
garment in which she’d awakened, and she stiffened in frustration. Though she
despised humans and had little but disgust for their culture, Kaala had to
admit their security measures were surprisingly effective. Not only had they
removed her armor, upon which was concealed a number of built-in, relatively
undetectable devices she could have used to aid her escape; they had also
evidently overcome their normal squeamishness and searched her in a manner more
... thorough than she thought them capable. Other than the gray unisex
coveralls and soft-soled shoes which they’d provided, she was naked, possessing
neither weapon nor tool to aid her.
She
had been treated while unconscious, of that she was certain: the dizziness had
completely abated, and Kaala found herself finally able to think again with
clarity.
So much the better, she thought. If they are foolish enough to restore me
to my full strength, then I shall certainly use their own stupidity against
them, when the opportunity comes.
“What
exactly are we supposed to have done?”
This
came from her ‘counterpart’—a human dressed in the sable of what they called
their Special Operations Division.
She,
of course, ignored the question completely. This ‘blackshirt,’ as her fellow
operatives had named them, was accompanied by a Betazoid female, and...
…a
Klingon dressed in a Federation uniform stepped into view.
Of
this last one she had heard. Now the security measures employed became more
comprehensible.
“The
son of Mogh.” She gave the phrase an edge, though not necessarily one of
disdain. “I’d heard you had some
honor left, even though you serve the Federation and they are slowly draining
it away.”
Worf
bristled, but refused to respond in the manner she’d hoped. Instead he turned
the point back on her.
“If,
indeed, you believe I have honor yet remaining, then name the crime of which
you accuse the Federation, and I shall attempt to see justice done.”
“I’ll
speak of nothing with the Betazoid mind-witch present,” Kaala replied angrily.
Deanna
gave no indication she was insulted, which irritated the Klingon woman even
further. “Perhaps I should return to the Bridge… or go question the other one.”
Then she smiled pleasantly.
Well, well, well, Warrick thought,
concealing a smile. You’re better at this
than I thought, Counselor.
“Use
your discretion,” he confirmed. “I trust your judgment, and your powers.”
Kaala
realized that with K’las alive—if he was
alive—she had much less control over the situation than she’d thought.
Desperately, she appealed to her fellow Klingon again. “You dare to speak of
honor, Worf, as you stand idle while your superior sends this... thing to strip a warrior of his very
soul!”
Now is the chance, Warrick thought. Does he...
“If
I might have a moment alone, Counselor, Commander.”
“Of
course, Lieutenant, if you think it’ll do any good,” Warrick affirmed. He
motioned to Troi, and they moved to the other side of the brig, where they
conversed in low tones.
“I
shall offer you this one chance,” Worf snarled. He reached out and deactivated
the force field. Before Kaala could react to her sudden freedom, he leapt
forward and grasped her about the throat harshly. Then he pulled her to him
until their faces were close.
“On
my honor as a Klingon, I shall arrange to spare K’las the... attentions of
Counselor Troi, if you tell us the reason why you attacked. We wish none of
your secrets, only the truth!”
Kaala,
in a flash of insight, finally realized that their entire demonstration was a
deception, but one whose goal was far less sinister than any stratagem she
would ever have devised. She was used to a far more vicious foe, and had nearly
made the mistake of assuming this
conspiracy extended everywhere—that everyone here was an enemy. Her training
had taught her to entertain all
possiblities, and she employed it now.
Perhaps
what K’las had seen could be
explained. Perhaps the Federation was not yet completely corrupt.
Perhaps
the truth could still be other than what they had assumed.
Either
way, she would learn something: She would either gauge their acting abilities
if they pretended to know nothing of it…
…or enjoy
their expressions as she told them a truth they no doubt would be very sorry they’d heard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN