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"Comm is totally blanketed. Nothing's getting out of the Expanse. We can't even call the Enterprise back." "Red alert. Battlestations." Turning to Wizz, Bush said, "Wake up the off watches and tell them to man emergency posts." The captain reached toward him. "And make sure -- oh, George Hill, let go of my ankle! This isn't the time!" Bush twisted around. "Turn loose of him, George! Red alert, George, red alert!" On the upper deck, the strange mascot of a ship remote enough to have a mascot uncoiled its tentacle from Captain Bateson's leg and wrapped another one around a strut of the bridge rail. He had to have hold of something. Bateson climbed up to the command deck, but didn't sit. "Mike, find a post and man it." Dennis bolted out of the turbolift. "Aye, sir!" "John, maintain that position." "Aye, sir," Wolfe said as he followed Dennis back onto the bridge. "Wizz, keep trying to break the comm blanket." "Will, sir." "Engineering, bridge -- Ham, you read me?" "Hamilton here. I see 'em, sir." "Good. Let's put everything we've got on line. I want all systems back on." "Some are. I put the TT and TA systems at priority, but gotta tell ya two of the Prac-J nozzle heads are still clogged, DC's and one reaction chamber are inhibited, ARI's are acting up and the MIE's still iffy. DCA's under repair, but there's no juice right now, and the CC fractionators, well -- " "Ham, just flush some energy through those systems. Even if you can't get them working, I want them to read as if they're working." "I get it. Ten-four." Eduardo Perry pivoted with some effort until his wide form was generally facing the captain. "Tell him to flood the power transfer conduits." Bateson nodded. "Ed says to FB the PTC's." "Copy that." "And how's the deuterium supply?" "Oh, we got lotsa fuel. " "Copy, bridge out. Lucky thing I speak his dialect." Bateson stepped away from the command chair and stalked that Klingon ship again. "Can't hold that thing off alone... they're blocking communications . . . must mean they don t want anyone to know they're here. Not a good way to start the day . . . what do they want? Something . . . somehow we have to get a flash-SOS out and keep them from killing us long enough for backup to get here." Attentive to the captain's words yet preoccupied with the approaching monster, Gabe Bush dotted the bridge with his attention, moving from position to position, but found himself a useless cog at the moment. Mike Dennis was manning the mates' console, so he couldn't even go over there and pretend. When that sunk in, he allowed himself twenty seconds to look at the approaching vessel on the forward screen. Five times the size of the Bozeman, Goliath pulled out from behind a drifting cloud of space dust. The bulbous forward hull was linked to a pair of backswept wings by a long, thin, funnel like neck. The bridge bulb stuck out in front, as if to threaten whatever it pointed toward. Mission accomplished . . . Like most Klingon ships, this one's hull plates were drizzle green, like icebergs reflecting the cold ocean. He'd seen it himself, off Newfoundland. "The color of envy," Bush murmured. Quite involuntarily then, he turned to see who had spoken. Was he so startled? They'd fought Klingons many times before, yet until now he never added up the simple fact that they'd never faced down a full-sized warship. Birds-of-prey, scoutships, recon cruisers, yes, and many daring smugglers, pirates, wild-soured individuals with a personal goal. Those were the most entertaining and challenging, because all rules were suspended, treaties ignored. Shaken from his thoughts by the movement of Captain Bateson beside him, Bush stepped sideways with a twitch of nerves in his legs. His right hip bumped the ship's rail. For a moment he was off balance. He braced up against the rail long enough to regain composure and hoped nobody saw. Morgan Bateson had done all but grow horns. His shoulders were hunched like a cat's, his hand clutching the arm of the command chair with fingernails turned tightly inward. His eyes were bright and sparkling with anticipation. Despite the cold pit in the bottom of his stomach, Bush felt the same sizzle. They had to feel it, to tell themselves only their enemies were vulnerable, that they themselves were the predestined winners and God was on their side, nobody else's. Bush got an involuntary flash of all the different humanoid beings in known space, and how many more there must be, and wondered which were made in the image of God. Wouldn't make the folks at home feel very secure to think Saint Peter had a skull ridge. At moments like this Bush thought he was out of place, out of time. He'd come from a small port town, not even big enough to be called a harbor, still a bit of old America, scarcely altered in the past three or so centuries. And here he was, remembering home, seeing Newfoundland ice in the Klingon warship, having theological discussions in the back of his mind. The warship was getting closer. "Forward impulse," Bateson said, not sitting down. He rarely sat down. The order seemed ludicrous, advancing on a ship like that. "Helm, comply," Bush reinforced, just in case anybody doubted the captain's intent. "Complying." Who was even at the helm? They'd been in the middle of repairs. Oh -- Ensign Welch. Not the best. Wanted to do it, tried hard to learn, basic maneuvers okay, but not very creative. A light touch, not much experience. Bush contemplated a change of postings, but he wasn't in command anymore. Ten minutes ago he had turned the bridge over to the captain. The tiny brass cup, still half-filled with golden spiced rum, was still warm in Bush's hand. He looked down at it. A flake of cinnamon floated on top. He placed the cup on the deck beside the helm trunk, intending to return to it later. "Confirm shields up." Bateson's voice startled Bush, though it shouldn't have. Instantly the anchor of protocol took a bite on Bush's nerves. The initial fear melted away, replaced by step-by-step processes forged over two thousand years ago in the military tradition. One thing at a time, each thing in order. Process, process. He stepped forward to look at what Andy Welch was doing at the helm. So far, so good. Bozeman was pulling forward angling "up" and port, into the path of the oncoming Klingon. "Hailing frequency," Bateson said. Dayton turned. "Sir, it's not working." "Do it anyway. We might be able to break through on short range. Send every signal you know how to send." "All right," Dayton sighed with a shrug of one shoulder. "Beating a drum in a vacuum . . Bateson didn't look back. "Beat proudly. Let's go by the book, Gabe." "Good choice, sir," Bush said, raising his voice for the crew. "After all, you wrote it. Mr. Dennis, hoist the yellow jack." Looking epic-and-span in his crisp new uniform, Dennis blinked briefly, startled, then dredged up the bit of knowledge he'd probably never used in any other duty. "Uh -- oh, yellow jack, aye," he said then, and found his way to the mates' console, a place on the bridge between engineering and sensors that presented overrides on all sections and a series of special authorization grids for use by senior officers only. Security ships were the only vessels still rigged this way, the only ship so single-minded, so basic, so clean of purpose that the mates could actually run such confrontations. The link at times like these between captain and mates was drumhead tight. Klingons or not, they'd understand the universal sign of flashing yellow and red hull strobes. Since the first flashing lights on police cruisers, keepers of the law had carried submission lights. Two yellow lights and two red ones on the sides of the main viewscreen came on, to confirm that the yellow jack had been lit, corresponding yellows and reds were flashing on the cutter's outer hull, and any vessel in the area was expected to heave to. "Mr. Wolfe," Bush went on, "give us a profile of that big hammerhead, will you, when you can?" So far, John Wolfe seemed more at home with his science board than Mike Dennis did with his mates' console. The science console was like any in Starfleet. If the rest of the ship fell apart with obsolescence, the science station would still be made state-of-the-art. It was the only station on every ship that was constantly upgraded. They might be using slingshots, but their aim would be pinpoint perfect. The science board made no sounds except for two soft bleeps and one click. Wolfe looked up. "Klingon ship is standard full bore design, except I'm reading thirty-two percent more raw tonnage and roughly fifty percent fewer crew on board than usual." He turned. "She's fully armed, and I'm reading some strange configurations in the cargo bay that read empty, but if they were really empty I'd only pick up the container and the air inside. Instead, I'm getting some kind of coloration on my screen." "What do you think they are?" Bush asked. "If this were a simulation, I'd say they were jettison salvos. On the other hand, I've never scanned real ones." "Thanks for admitting that, John," Captain Bateson broke in. "Do you think Hates what they are?" Wolfe looked briefly at Bush for moral support, found little, then glanced at Dennis and got more. A second later than was proper, he finally looked at the captain and took a risk. "Yes, sir." "Salvos . . ." The captain's murmur swelled on the bridge. No one else spoke. Jettison incendiaries. Bush got a shiver as his internal barometer dropped. Not often used, so brutal were those weapons, so entirely savage that they tended to spark revenge and rage even brighter than the thing they were set upon to burn. Many stellar wars and the occasional interstellar one or two had been ignited by a single use of such things, and few people ever spoke of them. Everyone wanted to forget those sticky, sizzling destructives. Not surgical at all. Not nice. Not fair play. "Packed and inbound," the captain uttered. He was speaking to himself, fingering his beard, thinking. Then he shifted in his seat and tilted his head. "Go, Gabe." Bush flinched to life and the words were out before he thought them. "Helm, block their flight path." "Aye, sir," Andy Welch responded. He'd been ready. Course plotted. Now the ship instantly powered up around them, its inner hum bolstering them as if the deck were rising under their feet.

Copyright © 1997 by Paramount Pictures