At the communications station, Lieutenant Estrada turned in his seat. “Captain, we’re still receiving no responses to our hails.”
“Keep after it, Lieutenant,” Khatami ordered. She knew it likely was a fruitless gesture, but she wanted it on record that every peaceful overture was attempted when and if the situation deteriorated during the next few minutes.
And what are the odds of that?
“One of the ships is breaking formation,” reported Lieutenant Klisiewicz from the science station. He looked up from the console’s hooded sensor viewer. “It’s accelerating to warp seven and coming right at us. Intercept in forty-three seconds.”
Khatami did not have to look around her to know that the anxiety her bridge officers were feeling was heightening with each passing second. The Endeavourwas still a long way from home, and three ships against one were not good odds, even if the one vessel was a Constitution-class starship. Forcing her own unease from her mind, she straightened in her chair.
“Are they targeting us?”
Turning back to his sensor readouts, Klisiewicz shook his head. “No.”
At the helm console, Lieutenant Neelakanta asked, “Captain, should we target?”
“Negative,” Khatami replied. Something was off here. It was a gut reaction, one she could not explain. “Maintain course.” Glancing toward Klisiewicz, she asked, “What about his two friends?”
When the young science officer looked at her this time, a frown clouded his features. “They’ve adopted a parallel course, Captain, holding distance one million kilometers port side, aft.”
“You think they’re screwing with us?” asked Stano.
“We know they’ve been doing it with civilian traffic,” Khatami replied. She had read several reports during the past several weeks, detailing accounts of merchant or colony vessels being harassed by Klingon warships, not just in the Taurus Reach but all along the border separating Federation and Klingon territory. No shots were fired, and no communications were exchanged, so the reasons for the odd behavior remained unknown. “There’ve been no reports of them going after Starfleet ships. Not yet, anyway.” Starfleet had no way to know if the Klingons were itching to provoke a fight, a move that essentially would void the ongoing, if largely stalled, diplomatic talks between the Federation and the empire. Khatami figured it was something far simpler, and Klingon ship captains were getting restless and looking for some means to alleviate boredom as they patrolled unfamiliar space far from home.
As opposed to just curling up with a good book.
The next moments passed in silence, save for the omnipresent chatter of the various bridge systems and the occasional voice from the intercom offering some form of status report, before Klisiewicz again spoke. “Here they come. They’re matching our course and speed, Captain.”
“Onscreen,” Khatami ordered, an instant before the aspect on the main viewscreen shifted to show the Klingon D-7battle cruiser as it angled toward the Endeavouron what appeared to be a collision course. It was an incredibly dangerous maneuver at warp speeds, one that lasted mere seconds before the Klingon ship veered to its right, offering a sidelong view of the menacing vessel. From this distance, every seam of every hull plate was clearly visible as it sailed past, arcing out of view.
From over her left shoulder, Khatami heard Stano say, “Somebody tell me I’m not the only one who needs a diaper change.”
“They’re playing chicken,” Khatami said, rising from her chair. Even as she spoke the words, the alert indicator at the center of the helm and navigation console began blinking a deep crimson. “Hell of a thing to do at warp seven.”
“One of the other ships is coming in for a fly-by,” reported Klisiewicz. “Same trajectory as the first one.”
Khatami nodded. “They’re trying to provoke a reaction, hoping we might blink or, better yet, open fire.” The thought of spending the last three days of their return journey to Vanguard being hounded by Klingons did not sit well with her. In fact, the idea of spending the next three minutes so engaged irritated her, and her annoyance mounted as she watched the image of the Klingon ship growing larger on the main viewer.
“Mr. Neelakanta, target their warp nacelles. Don’t use the computer; you’ll have to do it manually. Do notengage weapons. Mr. Estrada, the instant we have target lock, I want you to broadcast a tight-beam signal on all frequencies, directly at the Klingon ship. Channel it through the navigational deflector. I want it to bounce off their walls and rattle their teeth. If you blow out a window or two, I’ll promote you right here and now.”
“Aye, Captain,” replied the communications officer. “What do you want the message to say?”
Crossing her arms as she studied the image of the oncoming ship, Khatami said, “Back off.” As the Klingon ship drew closer, she heard a telltale beeping from Neelakanta’s console.
“Nacelles targeted, Captain,” reported the helmsman, and Khatami nodded in approval. Achieving a target lock without assistance from the ship’s fire-control systems was no easy feat.
“Sending the tight-beam message,” said Estrada.
The reaction on the viewer was immediate, with the Klingon vessel abruptly changing its course and even accelerating as it hurled past the Endeavour.
“That’s got their attention, Captain,” Klisiewicz called out. Khatami looked to her science officer, who was leaning over his sensor viewer. The unit’s cool blue light played across his face. “All three ships are veering off.”
“I’m picking up comm traffic between the ships,” said Estrada. The lieutenant sat with his eyes closed, the fingers of his left hand held against the Feinberg receiver in his ear. “I think you rattled their cage, Captain.”
A chorus of satisfied chuckles and other indications of approval sounded around the bridge, but Khatami ignored them. “Klisiewicz, any indications that they might be coming about?”
“Negative,” replied the science officer. “They’re making a beeline out of here at warp seven.” He turned from his console, his expression one of satisfaction. “Looks as if you spooked them, Captain.”
Khatami shrugged, “Even three on one isn’t a guarantee against a ship of the line.” From a weapons and defense perspective, the Endeavourand her sister starships were theoretically capable of standing up against three D-7cruisers, but it was a hypothesis tested only on rare occasions. In those instances, it had come down to the experience and shrewdness of the vessel’s commander as much as the capabilities of the ship itself.
“The big question now,” said Stano as she moved from her station to stand at the curved red railing, “is how long the Klingons are going to keep up this nonsense.”
As she returned to her seat in the captain’s chair, Khatami felt the first hints of fatigue as the adrenaline of the past moments began to fade. “They’ll keep it up until they get the reaction they’re looking for.”
When that happened, all bets would be off.
16
After much careful deliberation, most of which had been carried out while consuming a sizable portion of his personal, private supply of bloodwine, Captain Komoraq decided that he truly was beginning to hate this planet.
Standing on a plateau, the highest point on the small island that was the focal point of Klingon presence on this world since the M’ahtagh’s arrival, he surveyed the lush landscape around him. At first glance, the island seemed nothing more than a tranquil haven, one among a vast archipelago far from the shores of the nearest continent and surrounded by brilliant azure water. Yes, Lerais II, as the Earthers called it, had much to offer, if one were interested in such pursuits as farming or fishing. The world teemed with vast untapped natural resources, a temperate climate, and numerous plant and animal species never before encountered. Were he a colonist, Komoraq could see the allure of making a home on a world such as this. As a scientist, he would appreciate the unparalleled opportunities the planet presented.