Demands of Honor (12 page)

Their captors also brought them glasses full of liquid that was warm and looked like blood. It tasted strong and bitter, but Christine and the others drank it, deciding not to think about what it might be. It must have been giving her some nourishment. Still, the two days without food were taking their toll. The ache in her stomach was constant now. And she felt physically weak and light-headed.

“Anyone want mine? I'm not hungry.” Arleen was the only one still able to make jokes. However, no one either laughed or smiled.

Finally, Christine said, “Alan, we have to do something.”

“Do something?” he asked.

“We need real food. We need to talk to someone about … about what is going to happen to us, about what they are planning.”

“I don't think they mean any harm with the food. I think it's what they eat themselves,” Alan said, shrugging.

“Yes, but
we
can't eat it. And while they might not mean harm with the food, they certainly meant harm when they murdered Max, so I, for one, would like to know what their plans are for the rest of us.” Christine heard the frustration in her voice. Remarkably, it was the first emotion she had shown since the scream-stopping slap.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but they only speak Klingon and they seem to have no interest in talking to us,” Alan said.

“We have to do something!”

Alan looked at Christine blankly. He had worn that
same expression since things had gone so horribly wrong. She realized now what the expression was: defeat.

Under her gaze, Alan shrugged. “Okay, maybe it's time we talk to the concierge about the service.” For a moment there was a flash of his old bravado. Christine found that it simply annoyed her now.

Walking two steps to the door, Alan lifted his fist, and with more strength than Christine felt she had, he pounded on the door several times. He waited a few seconds, then did it again. Before he could do it a third time, the door opened and one of their captors stepped in and shouted something in his language.

“We don't understand you because you killed the only one of us that spoke Klingon,” Alan said. “But I need to speak to someone in charge immediately. You can bring a translator if you have to, but we need to start communicating right now!”

The Klingon looked at him with surprise, then disappeared into the hallway. A few moments later the door opened again, and another Klingon, the one who had killed Max, stepped into the room.

“What do you want?” the Klingon barked out.

“So, you
do
speak English,” Alan said.

“Obviously,” the Klingon said.

“Why haven't you talked to us?” Alan asked.

“I have nothing to say to Earthers. You are fortunate that I suffer your continued existence on my ship.”

“Well, we have things to say to you. I think there has been a misunderstanding here.”

“There has been no misunderstanding. You were in Klingon space and we apprehended you.”

“But we were on a peace mission. We
are
on a peace
mission. We've come to talk to your leaders,” Alan said.

“You insult me by speaking of
peace,
” the Klingon said, making the word a curse.

“I don't think you know who we are. We are no friends of the Federation, we're on your side—”

“I know
exactly
who you are. You belong to a group called the Anti-Federation League, traitors to your own people. I have learned much about your cowardly and treacherous people. But you, you stand against those of your own blood. I thought there was nothing lower than Starfleet. I see that I was wrong.” The Klingon spat on the floor and turned to go.

Christine felt dizzy. Things were even worse now. “Wait, what is going to happen to us?”

The Klingon turned and looked at her. “You are being given to a Klingon military vessel for interrogation.”

“There's no need to interrogate us. We came here because we
want
to talk!” Alan said.

“We shall see.”

“I demand to talk to a representative of your government immediately,” Alan said.

“You will talk to the Klingon Defense Force interrogators. Perhaps if you impress them and survive the interrogation, they will consider your request.” The Klingon laughed and turned for the door.

What happened next surprised Christine more than anything else since the beginning of this trip. Alan lunged forward and grabbed the Klingon by the shoulder. “I demand you release—”

Almost faster than Christine's eye could follow, the Klingon turned and grabbed Alan by the forearm and
gave it a sharp downward tug. Christine heard the bones snap and saw Alan's look of stunned surprise. Before Alan could even cry out, the Klingon grabbed his other arm and did the same thing.

Alan screamed and slumped back into Arleen's and Cyndy's arms. The Klingon sneered, “I have been charged with delivering you alive. That means that you will eat the food we give you or you will suffer the consequences.” Then he disappeared out the door, which closed behind him.

Christine immediately turned to Alan, who was slumped against the wall, his arms hanging limply in front of him. Even in the dim light, she could see that they were both broken, seriously, at the forearm.

“Alan …,” she said as she approached him. His face was set in pain and he moaned as she reached out to touch him. As gently as she could, she took him by the shoulders. “Slide down so you can sit.”

It took a moment for what she had said to register with him. Finally, he nodded, and the other three of them helped him into a sitting position. Alan slipped the last few inches and screamed when he hit the ground. Through gritted teeth, he managed to get his arms into position on his lap.

They will have to be set,
Christine thought, but that would have to wait. There was something they needed to do first, before the Klingon came back. Clearly, the Klingons wouldn't hesitate to hurt them badly. They needed their strength.

So we can last longer when they torture us?
a voice in her mind asked. She silenced the voice through force
of will. All she could worry about was the here and now, which was plenty, as far as she was concerned.

“We have to eat, now,” she said, surprised at the strength in her voice.

“I can't, not that,” Cyndy said.

“We have no choice. I'll go first.” Christine grabbed a small handful of the squirming mass in the bowl and, without thinking, forced it into her mouth. She didn't chew and swallowed quickly, surprised when she didn't retch. Well, she was hungry. The next handful went down even easier, the next easier still.

U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

FEDERATION-KLINGON BORDER

C
APTAIN
K
IRK STEPPED ONTO
the deck of the shuttlebay, and immediately Fuller and the squad stood at attention. Kirk crossed the distance and took in the group of men and women he was sending out into the unknown. Correction, he was sending them into dangers he knew and understood all too well. They were all young, except for Fuller, of course.

Kirk had sent Fuller's son to defend Starbase 42 and Sam had not come back. Would Sam's father come back? The odds were at least fair that he would not. However, on the surface, the mission was logical—Spock had certainly thought so.

Every member of Starfleet took an oath to protect and defend the citizens of the Federation. That oath now
required that they attempt a rescue. And a small team had the best chance of getting to the hostages before the Klingons could kill them. Yes, it was well reasoned and perfectly logical. Nevertheless, some of the seven people in front of Kirk would likely die in what might be a completely vain attempt to rescue people who were already dead.

Logic was enough for Spock, but Kirk found it a cold comfort now. And it would be of no comfort to the families of any of these men and women who were lost. The captain, of course, allowed none of what he was thinking or feeling to show on his face. Instead, he simply nodded to Giotto, who said, “Squad is ready for inspection, Captain.”

Kirk made eye contact with each member of the squad. He and Fuller went back years. Jawer had served on the ship for months, but the others he had met only briefly. “Mister Fuller, are you and your people ready?” Kirk said.

“Yes, sir. As soon as you give the word, Captain.”

“The word is given, Michael,” Kirk said, shaking Fuller's hand. Stepping back, Kirk addressed the whole squad. “This ship, Starfleet, and the Federation owe you all our thanks.” Kirk would have liked to say more and he suspected the squad might benefit from more of a pep talk, but he knew time was short. “I will leave you in Mister Fuller's capable hands. Good luck.” Then he headed with Giotto to the shuttlebay lift that would take them to the observation booth.

With the captain gone, Fuller turned to the squad and ordered, “Suits, now.” He picked up his own silver EVA
suit from the container and slipped into it. Like most experienced security officers, he didn't much care for working in the suits. Though relatively lightweight, they still restricted one's movements and slowed reactions during missions where small fractions of a second could mean the difference between life and death.

However, on this mission, the suits were a necessity. And there was no point in delaying putting them on. The seven of them could suit up inside the shuttle, in flight, but it would be awkward in the confined space. They would wait, however, to put on the helmets until the last possible moment.

When everyone was set, he said, “Check your weapons. Make sure each is set to heavy stun only.” Then he reached down to test the two phasers that he wore on each side of his suit. He was a firm believer that too much firepower was not enough. For a ground assault, he preferred phaser rifles, but the rifles would limit their mobility in the confines of a ship. The Mark II phaser pistols they carried were more than powerful enough. If set too high, they could breach the hull of the ship they would board, possibly ending the mission for all of them.

Each member of the squad checked in, and Fuller gave the shuttle a final visual inspection. The shuttle was boxy, a far cry from the sleek, long-legged beauty of the starship that housed it. Chief Engineer Scott's additions, which had been welded onto the roof of the craft, made it look downright ungainly.

Yet those additions might be what allowed them to return to the ship. The oblong torpedo would have to work if they were ever going to get inside the Klingon freighter. The addition of the class 1 probe—which sat
beside the torpedo—had been Scott's idea, and it had been a good one. It was rare enough to encounter an engineer who was able to give you exactly what you needed. To find an engineer who gave you things you hadn't even thought to ask for was remarkable indeed.

“Sir, should we board now?” a voice asked from behind him. Fuller turned and saw Lieutenant Eileen Caruso standing three meters from him. He nearly smiled with pleasure before he remembered that Caruso had died a full twenty-five years before at the Battle of Donatu V. It was impossible. Fuller blinked and Caruso disappeared, replaced by Ensign McCalmon—who, with her dark skin, didn't look anything like Caruso had when the lieutenant was alive. Caruso had died young, but she had lived long enough to save Fuller's life on board a dying ship.

“Yes, Ensign. Everyone on board,” he said. As he waited for the others, he berated himself. After he'd got James Kirk's message about Sam's death, he had seen his son in crowds for weeks. Caruso was a new trick of his subconscious. Would he start to see them all now. Andrews? Woods? Captain Shannon?

He couldn't afford to lose his grip now. His squad was depending on him. He had to complete this mission because Sam was also depending on him. His son was calling out for justice. Fuller knew that justice would not be served by confronting the Klingons on board the cargo ship, but he had to survive the encounter so that it could be served later. He had no doubt that the time would come, and quickly, when he would face a bigger force than a handful of Klingon civilians.

He had to reassert control. As he stepped into the shuttle, Fuller found himself thinking about Ben Finney.
They had served together years ago, along with a young officer named James T. Kirk. They had seen a few things in those days. Some of those things still visited Fuller in his dreams.

Finney had, on the other hand, left an essential part of himself on one of those missions—though no one had realized it then. In fact, Finney had seemed fine until years later when he had lost his own battle for control and had tried to frame Kirk for murder. Fuller found himself wondering if Finney had started seeing people from the old days before the final break came.

Taking the copilot seat, Fuller began running the preflight check and pushed all of the thoughts out of his mind. He was surprised at how easy it was. For now, the mission was everything. The young lives in this shuttle were depending on him.

Scott was looking over the shuttledeck officer's shoulder when Kirk and Giotto entered. Immediately, the small room was overcrowded. Nevertheless, none of them would be anywhere else at this moment.

Except for the shuttle, the shuttlebay was clear. Mister Kyle stepped out onto the empty deck carrying a long pole. “We have to arm the torpedo manually,” Scott said.

Kirk understood. Rigging an arming mechanism in the shuttle wouldn't make sense for a single torpedo. Kyle touched the torpedo with the device, hit a switch on the staff, then backed away. As soon as he was clear, the shuttlebay officer hit a button on the control panel and a light came on telling them that the bay was depressurizing. Though it took less than a minute, for Kirk the process seemed agonizingly slow.

Finally, the light turned to green, and immediately the bay doors began to open. Kirk leaned down and hit the button on the intercom and said, “Good luck, Mister Fuller.”