Demands of Honor (14 page)

On the viewer, the cargo ship executed a turn and its cannons came alive, spewing green energy at the space in front of the Klingon ship. Fuller could not make out the probe at this distance, but, apparently, neither could the Klingons because they kept up a steady stream of fire that looked almost random.

Fuller understood. “They're trying to hit the probe, but they can't get a lock or even a visual, so they're firing at multiple coordinates in the probe's general area.” It wasn't a bad approach—the only one the Klingons had. Of course, it would take a good bit of luck for them to hit the probe before the shuttle engaged them.

Before that thought had fully formed in his mind, there was a flash of an explosion and Fuller realized that the first bit of luck of the day had just gone to the Klingons. His sensors came online. “The probe's gone.”

No one spoke, but they all understood. The Klingons would be able to transmit their situation to any nearby ships. Even another merchant ship could tip the balance in the Klingons' favor here.

Fuller didn't hesitate. He hit the transmit button on
the console. “Klingon vessel. This is the Federation shuttle
Galileo,
” putting emphasis on the word
shuttle.
“We demand you hand over the Federation citizens you are now holding. Drop your shields and power down your weapons or prepare to be destroyed.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. Then there was loud, hearty Klingon laughter.

“Federation shuttle. You are in no position to demand anything. I encourage you to keep your shields up and, by all means, use your weapons. We will destroy you anyway.”

The Klingons cut the line.

“Um, sir?” came a voice from behind him. It was Parmet. Fuller couldn't mistake the concern in his voice.

Fuller kept his eyes on the window in front of him. They were now close enough to the Klingon ship to see it unmagnified. “The challenge will keep them from asking any other ships for help. It will be a matter of pride for them to deal with us themselves,” Fuller said. “Mister Quatrocchi, change of plan. Meet them head-on at full speed. No maneuvers. Just give me a straight shot.”

Quatrocchi acknowledged and Fuller ran a quick diagnostic on the photon torpedo. It was functioning and its containment field was showing a solid hour of power.

A disruptor beam flashed by the shuttle, close but not close enough to touch their shields. The second shot hit them a glancing blow, and warning lights lit up the panel in front of him. Fuller ignored them and returned fire with phasers. They would be ineffective against the Klingon ship's shields—particularly at this range—but they might distract the Klingons for a few moments.

Another disruptor blast exploded in front of them, and Fuller didn't have to check his instruments to know that it had made a direct hit on their forward shields. They would be lucky if the shields were still holding at even 50 percent. Another shot might finish them, or even if it didn't, it might disrupt the torpedo's containment field.

Fuller returned fire but resisted releasing the torpedo. If he fired it too soon, the Klingons might have enough time to target it and detonate it in space. There was another blast, a direct hit that shredded their forward shields, which, at this moment, were the only ones that mattered.

Time was up and Fuller didn't hesitate. He released the torpedo, putting it on a straight path for the Klingon cargo ship. Photon torpedoes were guided weapons and could track their targets. However, at this range it would only be able to adjust course a few hundredths of a degree before it hit the Klingons or overshot them.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Fuller called out, and he felt the shuttle lurch to one side as Quatrocchi pushed the ship to its limits. There was a green flash and Fuller realized they had been hit again. Yet the shuttle was still in one piece, so the aft shields must have held.

Switching his eyes to the viewer, Fuller saw the torpedo speeding toward the Klingon ship. The Klingons fired wildly at it, but it would have taken pretty extraordinary luck to hit something moving that fast, even at close range. This time, luck wasn't with the Klingons, and the torpedo exploded in a brilliant flash of light against the front of the cargo ship.

Fuller's sensors were fried so he couldn't tell if the
Klingon shields were down. He would have to assume they were. A visual inspection told him that the forward disruptor cannons were twisted metal. It also told him exactly where the ship's transmission dish was located—near the front of the command area. Fuller aimed at it and with one shot the dish disintegrated. Now the Klingons would not be able to make a report even if they wanted to.

“Bring us to their rear,” Fuller said, and the shuttle immediately swung around. To Fuller's surprise the Klingon ship started to turn as well, no doubt trying to bring the rear guns to bear on the shuttle. Quatrocchi matched the movement, keeping the shuttle skimming the length of the cargo ship and keeping them out of the deadly weapon's field of fire.

The trip was short, and at the last moment Quatrocchi lifted the shuttle ten degrees to give Fuller a clear shot. It would briefly put them in the sights of the Klingons' one remaining weapon, but it was necessary.

Fuller targeted the guns and fired. Luck was with them again and the guns exploded. “All their weapons are down,” Fuller announced, and he could feel the relieved sighs of his people.

Quickly, he reached for his helmet and put it on as Quatrocchi did the same. “The easy part is over. Now let's go in and get the hostages.”

Doctor McCoy leaned down and said to Kirk, “Jim, when was the last time you slept?”

“Slept?” Kirk asked.

“Yes, when did you last sleep?”

For a moment Kirk wasn't sure. Certainly, not since they had received the distress call. Before that …

“See, Captain, that is the point. If you have to think that long about it, it's been too long since you've done it.”

“Bones,” Kirk started to protest, but McCoy cut him off.

“Jim, it will be hours before we hear from the shuttle. Until then, there's nothing you can do for them. But when we do hear, they will need you to be in reasonably good condition.”

Kirk almost protested out of habit, but stopped himself for two reasons. One, because it wouldn't do any good. And two, because McCoy was right. There was nothing he could do for Michael and the others on the bridge. As he stood up, he said, “Mister Spock, let me know the second the shuttle appears on long-range sensors.”

“Of course, Captain.” Spock had been up for at least as long as Kirk himself, but Vulcans could go without sleep for days or longer without any significant cost to their performance.

“And, Captain, you should stop by the dining room on your way,” McCoy said.

Kirk nodded, realizing that the doctor was right again. He stopped into the dining room and picked up a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee. He would have his meal in his quarters, where he could monitor the situation while he ate.

Sitting at his computer terminal, Kirk realized that he had been hungry. He ate mechanically and quickly, but he was glad he had eaten—he could not afford to get light-headed or be thinking about food later.

That done, his thoughts kept going back to Sam Fuller and his father. Michael Fuller had been the best person to lead the rescue. Kirk's decision to send him
was right and perfectly logical, as Mister Spock would say. However, it might also well mean that Kirk had sent two friends, father and son, to their deaths just months apart.

The condolence message to Michael Fuller reporting his son's death was among the most difficult of Kirk's career. To whom would Kirk send the father's condolence message? He knew that Michael had never married Sam's mother. Was there anyone left to receive the transmission? Anyone whom Kirk had not put on a path to death?

The intercom beeped once and Mister Spock's voice came on.
“I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain, but long-range sensors indicate that the Klingon cruiser
D'k Tahg
has entered system 7348.”

“Thank you, Mister Spock.” The captain realized that despite his doctor's orders, he would not be getting any sleep for some time.

ORION-BUILT MINING FACILITY

SYSTEM 7348

FEDERATION SPACE

T
HE CLAN WAS LOOKING
to Adon, waiting for word. Surely, the son of Gorath would know what to do. Surely, he would have their path mapped out. Adon was sorry to disappoint them. At the moment, he had his grief and his anger, but little else to offer them. And time for action was growing short, he could feel it. Night was falling.

There was
one
thing he could do. One thing that tradition demanded and his father deserved. When Uncle approached, Adon said, “We need to bury my father immediately.”

Uncle nodded and the clan went about their task. They didn't rush the ritual, not exactly, but they moved with purpose as if they all understood that something would be
required of them, and soon. Adon silently asked his father for guidance again and again. He wished for only the smallest part of his father's wisdom.

No answers came, at least not that could be heard over the roar of his grief, anger, and his desire to take the life of his father's murderer. When the ritual was finished and night had fallen, Uncle and Bethe were at his side. He felt their eyes and thoughts on him. They were waiting.

Like the others.

Still, his anger roared in his blood and in his chest. And then he had it, not an answer, but a beginning. He found that he had something to say to his clan after all: “My people, I am not my father. I cannot tell you now that I know a path to victory. I have only the burning of my blood and a single task that I must perform.” He could see them waiting for his next words, looking to him as their leader despite what he had just said. “Tonight, in the darkness, I will descend to the mine through its shaft and take the crystals we pulled from the ground with our strength.”

“The crystals are rocks to us, valuable only to those from the stars. The risk would be great. What purpose would that serve?” Uncle said.

“Revenge,” Adon said. “At least the first and smallest part of it. My blood burns now to end Gurn's treacherous, pitiful life, but that battle would be over before it would begin. They have many weapons, and the power of the green-skins' mine. And they have their new alliance with the Klingons, who tried once to destroy us. I take the crystals because Gurn wants them, because his Klingon masters want them. I take them because we won them with the courage and blood of our people under the leadership of Gorath of our clan.”

There it was: purpose. He could feel it. If it wasn't his father's spirit speaking to him, it was close enough for Adon. Finally, he had a task that satisfied part of the calling of his blood and seemed to satisfy the clan. Once again, they were looking to him as their leader. On this small matter at least, he hoped he would not disappoint them.

“I go now and I go alone,” Adon said, heading immediately for his flying machine, Uncle and Bethe still by his side.

“I will go with you,” Bethe said.

“No, I must go alone.”

“You have a plan then?”

Adon hesitated for a moment before he said, “Of course.”

“How are you going to carry all of the crystals by yourself?”

This time his hesitation was longer. Bethe kept her eyes on him the entire time. “Your plan?”

“I am still working on some of the details.”

“Whatever the plan is, it will benefit from another pilot. You may be the best we have, but, after you, there is no one better than I.”

“No, my father is the best pilot we have,” Adon said reflexively, but he knew when he was beaten. “But it is true that you are the best after me. I welcome your assistance.”

“You accept good counsel, like your father,” Uncle said, looking at him with that maddening approval. He had just been outmaneuvered by one of his childhood playmates, and Uncle seemed to think that it was another sign that he was a worthy leader. Adon shrugged and climbed onto the flying machine that had been his father's
as Bethe climbed onto the one Adon himself had used when he and his father had raced.

Adon switched on the talking device. “Low power. Keep the weapons off.” It would keep the machine's noise to a minimum.

“Of course,” Bethe said.

“Follow me.” He took the vehicle into the air. He stayed close to the ground, below the level of the trees. The mine had cameras pointed in all directions—the green-skins had guarded their work carefully. In the dark, the craft would be harder to see, particularly if they kept to the cover of the trees for as long as possible. The same cameras could also see in the dark, but Adon doubted that Gurn and his people even knew about that, let alone how to use the monitoring equipment.

The trip took longer at that altitude because the constant maneuvering around trees meant they had to keep their speed low. Still, Adon pushed his own craft to the limit of safety, and Bethe matched his movements. She was perhaps the only other member of their clan left who could do that.

They had to travel to the rear of the mine, then follow the rim of the great pit the green-skins had dug into their world. It was wide and so deep that if a person fell into it, he would have plenty of time to consider his fate before he reached the bottom.

Adon reached the rear of the mine complex and motioned to Bethe. She nodded and they started their descent. There were cameras in the shaft, but Adon doubted that Gurn would have thought to have them manned. The computer could have watched the cameras, but Gurn would have had to think to ask it to do so.

Still, there was a chance they would be seen. If that happened, Adon was prepared to fight. In fact, he would welcome the opportunity to satisfy the burning of his blood.