CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“They’ve seen us.”

K’las responded with only a nod. He adjusted course minutely, optimizing their intersection point as the Federation vessel loomed ever larger on the screen.

Then he opened the starboard impulse vent.

Immediately, an alarm sounded on Kaala’s console. At first, she moved to close it, but then a warning bell of her own went off just before she hit the control.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned to him and guessed, “You wish them to believe us more damaged than we are?”

A low growl issued from his throat, but he didn’t answer.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Do your questions ever cease, woman?” K’las finally roared in exasperation.

She spun in the chair to face him completely, and snarled, “Only when I am given answers!”

Rather than rising to the bait she offered, K’las relaxed further into his seat, and regarded her with an expression that, for a Klingon male, was almost philosophical.

Though she would never have admitted the fact, it frightened her.

“Very well, then,” he replied at last, as she mastered her temper and regained control. “You will have answers.”

“Captain, we’ve detected a small vessel off the starboard bow.”

Picard leaned forward interestedly. “Distance, Mr. Worf?”

The Klingon’s voice sounded perplexed. “The ship is well within the periphery of our long-range sensors, as if it just suddenly appeared there.”

Riker and Picard exchanged looks.

“A cloaking device?” the younger man guessed.

The captain nodded.

“It certainly makes sense, considering the situation.”

“Readings indicate the vessel is a Klingon scout ship,” Data informed them. “Her warp drive is inoperative, and she has damage to numerous systems. She is not broadcasting a distress signal, however. On her current course, she will intercept us in 50 seconds if we slow to impulse.”

“Hail them.”

Worf did so. After a few seconds, he informed them, “No response.”

“I do not believe the scout ship is able to reply sir,” Data continued. “Her subspace transceiver appears to be inoperative. There are two life forms aboard; both Klingon. Vital signs appear to be stable.”

“Slow to impulse, Ensign Page,” Picard ordered. Turning to Troi, he inquired, “Any impressions, Counselor?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly in concentration, and answered, “They’re extremely angry, Captain; a level of fury usually not achieved even by Klingons. There’s something else, but... ” She shook her head. “It’ll take me a moment to sort out, sir. Klingon emotions are difficult to identify specifically.”

“Bridge to Transporter Room Two, lock on to the two life signs aboard the Klingon vessel as soon as it’s in range, and prepare to transport.”

“Aye, sir.”

Before the eyes of all on the Bridge, the small ship suddenly shimmered and faded from view.

“What the hell... ?” Riker began, but Troi interjected.

“Sir, that anger I sensed is directed at us!” she warned.

A flurry of commands came in swift succession from the four senior officers as a horrid realization dawned upon them.

“Hard to port, Ensign!” ordered Picard instantly, even as Mantovanni commanded, “Shields!” A “Sound collision!” from Warrick was immediately followed by Riker’s, “All hands, brace for impact!”

Well trained as was the crew, swiftly as the orders had come, they were still struggling to fully comply when the scout ship hit.

K’las knew he couldn’t warn the Empire.

He knew he couldn’t destroy a Galaxy-class starship with so small a vessel—not without both guile and luck.

He could wound her, though; and as the scout’s emergency transporter deposited him on the Enterprise bridge directly in front of her captain, he knew one other thing.

He knew he could kill Jean-Luc Picard.

Enterprise seemed to stagger in space as the hastily deployed, not even half-formed shields rocked with the small ship’s impact. In just that moment, a Klingon warrior materialized in the middle of the Bridge. Smoothly, Worf drew his phaser even as the transport was complete and took aim a shade ahead of the intruder’s raised bat’elh.

“Data!” Warrick yelled in the same moment, even as he too readied his weapon. “ECM Alpha Seven!”

Quick as they both had been, neither got a chance to fire before they were hit by a pair of disruptor bursts from the second Klingon—a woman who had appeared behind them and gone unnoticed for a half-second in the chaos of klaxons and disorientation resulting from the scout’s suicide run. She fired a third time without pause, hitting Riker even as he rose to defend his captain.

The male roared in triumph as his blade descended. Picard did his best to avoid being cut in half by the weapon; his quick wits and martial skill probably saved his life. Though he partially deflected it, the blow still struck him squarely, shoving him brutally back into his chair.

He grasped at the weapon with his suddenly fading strength, forcing his assailant to abandon it for his d’k’tahg.

All of this had taken perhaps a second-and-a-half.

Then Mantovanni stepped between the Klingon and his chosen victim.

He remained peripherally aware of his surroundings: The brief exchange of fire behind him between Worf’s security team and the Klingon woman; Troi’s frantic call to Sickbay and the Transporter Room on behalf of Picard; Data’s attempt to execute Warrick’s protocol.

He heard it all; none of it mattered.

The Klingon snarled and lunged at him, fully intending to use his superior strength to sweep this paltry human aside and finish his task.

He never knew what hit him.

Mantovanni stepped into the blow and guided its momentum, pivoting and redirecting the force of the attack even as he avoided the dagger. The enraged warrior suddenly found himself off balance and moving about as fast as his ship had been.

Instead of shields, though, he met the edge of Picard’s chair.

It was a very short meeting; hard as Klingon skulls are, duranium alloy is harder.

Even before his opponent had slumped completely to the floor, Mantovanni turned away and snapped, “Damage report!”

Data’s litany was short and precise.

“Forward shield generators are overloaded; there is minor structural damage to decks two and three where debris from the scout ship penetrated the shields and struck the hull.

“It would appear they were attempting to hit the bridge,” the android concluded.

“La’ra’s Fourth Rule of Engagement,” Mantovanni muttered.

“Sir?”

“A Klingon admiral, who said: ‘If your vessel is inferior and you cannot destroy your enemy, strike as lethal a blow as you can; this goal is facilitated by the fact that most basic ship design makes the bridge an easy target.

“’Aim for it.’”

The cool professionalism of the Enterprise crew was now apparent—even in the face of what had just happened, the bridge quickly regained a semblance of normal function: Worf, Warrick, and Riker were beamed to sickbay seconds after Picard and Troi had been; the Klingons were carted away to a holding cell by a contingent of the now omnipresent security guards; and every duty station was again manned in less than half a minute.

There were but two exceptions; the captain’s bloodstained chair and that of his counselor remained empty, their rightful owners spirited away.

Mantovanni spared them but a fleeting glance, and then stepped forward to stand near ops.

“Will the structural damage prevent a stable warp field from forming?”

Data briefly consulted his instruments, and then answered, “Negative, sir.”

“Then proceed on course at maximum warp, Ensign Page. You have the Bridge, Commander. I’ll be in Sickbay.”

“Understood, sir.”

Mantovanni reached the turbolift, and turned back for a moment.

“Oh, and Mr. Data?” The android glanced back expectantly.

“Don’t stop for any more ships.”

“My God.”

Beverly Crusher wasn’t certain what frightened her more—the terrible wound her captain had received or the fact that he was still attempting to command, to issue orders even as he slipped from agony into delirium.

“Beverly...” he managed to gasp, even as blood appeared in the corner of his mouth. “...tell... W– ”

“It’s all right, Jean Luc,” she attempted to soothe him with the sound of her voice; even while she both nodded for Ogawa to sedate him, and used all the skill of hand she possessed in a desperate attempt to stabilize his condition. “The ship is fine.”

She knew him well enough, however, to tell there was something important he was straining to say before he lost consciousness… or worse.

As far as Crusher was concerned, it wasn’t as important as his life; and in her judgment, he couldn’t spare the strength to try any longer. At the kiss of the hypo, Picard’s eyelids fluttered and closed.

She then turned her full attention to making certain he eventually opened them again.

Mantovanni entered sickbay expecting the worst.

Crusher was nowhere to be seen; he nodded almost imperceptibly. That was good. It meant Picard was still alive.

He slowed, hesitating for a moment. Two small groups of interns were clustered around the motionless forms of Will Riker and Jared Warrick. From the body language and tones being used, neither was evidently in any imminent danger.

Worf was being looked after by a lone attending physician, a sleek Vulcan woman with that look of quiet competence her people tended to project in such circumstances.

Everybody’s still breathing, he thought. Good enough for now.

“How’re they doing, Lieutenant?”

As was typically Vulcan, she wasted no words on superfluous emotional assurances. He was one of the few humans who could appreciate that.

“They will all survive. Each was struck by a charge from a disruptor with a particularly energetic stun setting.”

She finished her ministrations with the application of a hypospray to Worf’s neck. Immediately, his eyes opened, and he attempted to rise.

Evidently she had not overstated the weapon’s effect; she was able to easily hold him down on the table for the second or two in which he struggled to regain his feet.

“Your strength will return in a few minutes, Lieutenant. Until then, please remain on the biobed,” she informed him.

“I am fine, Dr. Selar,” he assured her curtly.

“Lay down.”

The steel in Mantovanni’s voice, as well as his own weakness, seemed to convince Worf that such was the proper course of action; and he grudgingly relaxed back onto the bed.

“Because of the brak’lul, Klingon physiology tends to be somewhat more resilient than human,” Selar observed. “The others will recover shortly.”

Mantovanni nodded, and glanced down at Worf, noting his expression. It wasn’t difficult to read: Irritation at being unable to rise, coupled with the fact he’d been stunned on the bridge before stopping the intruders had combined into a feeling of humiliation and dishonor. The Klingon gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling.

Selar was more solicitous of emotional turmoil than other Vulcan doctors he’d met. With surprising tact, she informed them, “If you will excuse me, Captain, Lieutenant… my presence is required elsewhere.” At that, she retrieved a portable medical kit and left the infirmary.

Headed for the brig, no doubt, Mantovanni thought.

Returning his attention to Worf, the young captain leaned over, and stated quietly, “All the preparation in the world doesn’t mean you’re invariably successful, Mr. Worf. Your security team acquitted itself well after you fell in battle.”

He looked momentarily pleased, but then the memory of his failure caught him again, and a growl began to build deep in his throat.

“‘A warrior does not dwell on past defeats...’” Mantovanni began. Worf’s eyes widened a bit, and then he finished the quote himself.

“‘...instead, he resolves to prevent their repetition.’

“You are familiar with Klingon philosophy. The Axioms of Korrd are not well known outside the Empire.”

Mantovanni favored him with the slightest grin.

“It’s good advice. I know; I’ve had it said to me on more than one occasion.”

The candor restored Worf’s good humor as he realized the honor that had been done him; a noted warrior had shared with him the admission of imperfection.

“You have been defeated?” he asked in surprise.

Mantovanni feigned confusion. “Did I imply that?” A touch of the grin returned, and he held his hand out to the Klingon.

“On your feet, Lieutenant.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Worf took it, and found to his relief that he could now stand. Together, they moved to join Warrick and Riker, who had only now regained their senses.

“Where’s the captain? Is he all right?” Riker shook his head, attempting to clear the last of the disorientation.

“He’s in surgery. We haven’t heard anything yet,” Mantovanni responded. He hesitated, then added gently, at Will’s startled look, “The Klingon got in a shot with the bat’elh. We’ve got him and his friend in the brig.

“It’s fortunate you had Data initiate that countermeasure, Commander Warrick. He was able to override the final transport from the Klingon scoutship—the one attempting to affix an explosive device to the fusion reactor.”

Warrick nodded. “I figured he’d be the only one who could possibly implement it in time. The minute that ship cloaked...” he left the thought unfinished.

“Yeah. So much for Samaritanism,” added Riker sardonically. “Worf, you and Commander Warrick conduct an interrogation of the Klingons. It’d be nice to know why they’ve joined everyone else in declaring war on the Federation. If Counselor Troi isn’t already down there, contact her; I want her in on it.

“I’ll be on the bridge.”

As Riker left, he stopped one of the interns, a rather harried looking young lieutenant, and told her, “The second you know something about the captain...”

“Aye, sir,” she responded immediately, but he was already moving past her and out the door.

“Lieutenant Worf, head for the brig. I’ll be a few minutes behind you,” Warrick informed him in a carefully even tone. “Captain Mantovanni, might I see you for a moment in private?” He motioned towards Dr. Crusher’s empty office.

When the door had closed behind them, Warrick began simply with, “Well?”

Mantovanni sat down on the edge of Crusher’s desk.

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that to go on, Jared.”

“There’s so much I’m not sure where to start,” Warrick replied. “First there’s the idea of you taking a coded message from Starfleet Command on the bridge instead of listening to it first in private. Now you just stand by while Riker ignores you.”

“I’m aware of the situation.”

“Are, you, Captain?” Warrick pressed, emphasizing the rank hard enough to evoke a glare. “When do you plan to inform Riker that you’re taking command of this ship while Picard is injured?”

Mantovanni shook his head slowly. “I’m not.”

Warrick gestured back into the infirmary. “Should I have them check you out, too?”

“That’s just about enough,” the young captain responded, with a hint of warning in his tone.

“Is it? You see, I’m not so sure. I don’t understand what’s going on here, Cicero.”

The timbre of Mantovanni’s voice hardened further.

“Well, for some reason you’re laboring under the misconception that our friendship extends to the point of explaining my motives when I feel no need to do so. Fortunately for you, it does extend to the point where you’re allowed to be insubordinate on a regular basis. It’s the main reason why this commanding officer hasn’t demoted you like the last one did.

“Go deal with the Klingons. Now.”

Warrick put us his hands in mock surrender. “Captain Mantovanni’s given an order.” He paused just before the door. “I was starting to wonder if you still could.”

Mantovanni stared at nothing in particular for a moment after his friend had left, considering the exchange again.

I hope you make it, Captain Picard.

For all our sakes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN