Seated next to the Arcturian, Lieutenant McCormack turned from the navigator’s console and nodded. “We can launch strikes at three targets from our present position, Captain,” she said. “We’ll have to shift orbit to take runs at the others.”
One step at a time,Khatami reminded herself.
Her first attempt to order torpedo bombardment was interrupted as Klisiewicz announced another volley of incoming fire. Again the sequence was repeated, with the Endeavour’s shields bearing the brunt of the attack while the excess pushed past, reaching out to hammer against the ship’s comparatively weaker hull. Renewed alarms wailed across the bridge and the lights flickered again before dying out altogether, leaving the command center in momentary darkness before backup illumination activated.
“Localized overloads, Captain,” Mog called out from his station. “Engineering is rerouting main power to the bridge now. Shields at fifty-eight percent and holding, but we’re taking a beating. Another round might be too much for the generators.”
Ignoring the damage report, Khatami leaned forward in her chair. “Fire on designated targets,” she ordered. “Full spread.”
Once more the lighting wavered as the ship’s defensive systems drew power from wherever it could be found, and Khatami watched as six photon torpedoes—one after another and each encased in a writhing orange ball of unfettered energy—darted away from the ship and arced toward the planet’s surface.
“Picking up photon detonations, Captain,” Klisiewicz reported several seconds later while still peering into the viewer. “Two direct hits, the others missed.” After a moment, he shook his head. “All locations still registering power readings.”
Damn!
“Helm, bring us about,” she said. “Mog, route power from secondary systems to the shields.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the Tellarite turning in his seat. “Captain, the shield generators are already showing signs of strain. We might lose them altogether if we get hit again.”
“We get hit without the shields and we’re dead,” Khatami countered. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
From over her right shoulder, the ensign at communications said, “Captain, we’re being hailed by the landing party. They’re picking up intruders on the surface and are requesting emergency beam-out.”
Before Khatami could reply, Klisiewicz cut her off. “Incoming!”
Even as she gave the order for evasive action, Khatami’s eyes were drawn to the image on the main viewer. Rising up from the frigid surface of Erilon, seven streaks of crackling yellow light converged on one another to form a larger, more intense ball of energy that continued to race outward from the atmosphere on a collision course with her ship.
“All hands!” she shouted. “Brace for impact!”
38
Lieutenant Jeanne La Sala was the first to see them coming.
“Activate the forcefields!” she shouted to her companion, Ensign Roderick, even as she dropped down behind the stack of crates containing supplied transported to the surface from the Endeavour. Other than shelters and other small buildings—all constructed from thermoconcrete—radiating outward in a haphazard formation from the center of the research outpost’s base camp, the groupings of cargo containers and other equipment scattered about the compound were the only protection available.
Seconds later and in response to her command La Sala heard the telltale hum of power generators activating from somewhere behind her. A low droning sound filled the air, and she directed her gaze toward the forcefield positioned ten meters to her left. Essentially a metallic shaft rising three meters out of the frozen earth, it was adorned with an indicator light positioned atop the pole. The bulb flared to life, a blazing crimson that seemed as out of place on this barren, lifeless plain as she or her companions. The emitter, like the twenty-nine other such devices deployed around the base camp’s perimeter, were now acting like a blanket for the outpost, protecting it not from the harsh elements of this inhospitable world but rather whatever demons it seemed to have spawned.
“Forcefield activated,” Roderick called out from where he was crouched behind another cargo container to her left. Holding up his tricorder for emphasis, he added, “All emitters functioning.”
Showtime,La Sala mused, pulling the hood of her parka up onto her head in an attempt to ward off the chilling effects of the breeze blowing across the open ground. An involuntary shudder ran down her body, a stark reminder not only of the harsh environment in which she found herself but also what had happened the last time she had found herself in such a situation.
Forcing the unwelcome thought to a dark corner of her mind, La Sala peered through the sights of her phaser rifle, focusing on the pair of dark figures approaching from across the snow-covered plain. They moved with phenomenal speed, kicking up a wake of snow and dirt that plumed into the frosty air behind them. Other than being able to tell that their upper extremities appeared to taper into sharpened points rather than anything resembling hands—it was difficult to make out any details from this distance—so far as La Sala could tell the newcomers were identical to the one they had previously encountered.
Watching their approach, La Sala recalled the mission briefing as delivered by Captain Khatami, who in turn had relayed Commodore Reyes’s instructions on attempting to communicate with the creatures. As a Starfleet officer, La Sala understood and valued the need to make such overtures. The Federation’s philosophy of peaceful expansion and the seeking of mutual friendship and cooperation with other species throughout the galaxy was worthless if it was not embodied by every single person, like her, who swore an oath to defend those lofty principles.
Did that apply to situations when the other party appeared incapable or unwilling to listen to such reason? Not so far as La Sala was concerned. If the creatures—be they intelligent beings or mindless animals—attacked again as they appeared to be preparing to do, she and her people had the right to defend themselves.
Assuming we survive,she mused, we can try talking afterward.
“Here they come,” she called into her communicator, which lay open near her left elbow and tuned to the frequency she had established for all members of the landing party working in the base camp. “Everyone hold their positions.”
If the looming apparitions noticed or cared about the forcefield now insulating the base camp, it was not indicated by their actions. As they approached, La Sala saw them split up, veering to her right and left even as they continued their advance toward the outpost. She kept her attention on the one which appeared to be coming in her general direction, tracking its movements through her phaser rifle sights. The distance between it and the forcefield shrank with every beat of her heart; it grew larger in her sights with every step, and still it defied all her efforts to make out any sort of identifying characteristic. It was nothing more than a featureless obsidian humanoid, moving with deadly grace over the snow-covered terrain.
Without slowing so much as a single step, it plunged headlong into the invisible barrier.
An unrestrained fury of energy charged the air as the creature made contact with the forcefield. La Sala winced at the piercing sound elicited by the miniature maelstrom, sensing the effects of the violently released discharge playing across her own exposed skin. She watched spasms and convulsions rack the thing’s body, yellow radiance reflecting off its dark, featureless hide with the same intensity that sunlight might be refracted through a prism and—for a moment, anyway—giving the creature an odd crystalline appearance. Then the effect was over as the creature stepped back from the forcefield. It stood motionless, less than fifty meters in front of her, appearing to stare straight ahead as though pondering its next action. Its elongated, pointed upper extremities hung still and useless at its sides.