The Three-Handed Game 18

Tylha

I charge off the transporter pad and head for the bridge at a run. It feels very, very good to have King Estmere's familiar walls about me once again. Even the crazy Tholian artificial gravity seems comforting, now.

"Welcome back, sir," says Anthi Vihl as the bridge doors hiss open.

"Thanks." I head for the command chair. "What's the situation?"

"The Gorn ships are surrendering. But, sir, there's a problem." Anthi looks puzzled. "Vice Admiral Grau was beamed off the Falcon's bridge just as she negotiated the surrender."

"What? Get me a line to that Gorn maniac. And let me have the tac net, I want a good picture of local space."

"Still lousy with sensor interference, sir, but you'll have it." Warp core breaches, and Ssurt's remaining subspace jammers, are making a mess of the display, but I can still read it.

A dark blue Gorn face appears on the main screen. I glare at him. Reception on the station was just fine, and I got to hear all of Ssurt's transmissions - including that sideshow with the holograms. None of it made me like him. "Send her back," I order him shortly.

"I do not understand you," Ssurt replies.

"Oh, do we have to do this formally? This is Vice Admiral Tylha Shohl aboard the Federation starship King Estmere. You are holding Vice Admiral Veronika Grau. Return her. Now."

"I do not understand," Ssurt repeats. "She was - transported - just as I ordered my ships' surrender. I did not order it. I do not know who is responsible."

"You're the one who's been after her," I say.

"Yes. I admit that. But I do not have her."

I look at the tactical display. The weapons fire has died down - the Gorn ships have realized their position is hopeless. If it wasn't for this business, it'd be all over bar the shouting. I turn back to Ssurt. "If it wasn't you, it must have been one of your subordinates. Order her return, now."

"I -" Ssurt visibly struggles with himself. If he has Ronnie, he's won, no matter what the state of his fleet, if he can get her back to his employers. That thought must be passing through his head.

So I quash it, hard. "Eject your warp core." His brilliant eyes widen at that. "Eject your warp core. You're not going anywhere. Do it. Or I will open fire on your ship and disable it."

"If Grau is, as you suspect, aboard -"

"It'd put her life at risk. I'll chance it. Ronnie's a survivor." I lock eyes with him "Last chance. Eject your warp core."

Over at the tac console, Anthi is bent over the controls. Ssurt must be able to see our targeting systems light him up, because he croaks, "Ejecting the core!"

"Smart decision, General." Possibly the first such he's made.

"But I still do not have her," Ssurt protests.

"We'll check that." I turn to F'hon Tlaxx. "Set me up for fleet-wide address."

"On it, skipper." I glare at Ssurt during the pause. "You're on, skipper."

"This is Vice Admiral Shohl to all Starfleet ships," I say. "Vice Admiral Veronika Grau has been kidnapped from the bridge of her ship. Obtain her biometric records direct from the USS Falcon, and search every Gorn ship, every life sign in this system, in detail, until she is found. Shohl out." I turn my attention back to Ssurt.

"I do not have her," he repeats, despondently.

"I'll believe that when I see it. In the meantime - who wants her? Who are your employers, General? We will find out, so you may as well tell us now."

Ssurt shakes his head. Defeat seems to sit ill with him. "Payment was to come from the Dolsulca system. Home of the Siohonin, an Imperial vassal species. They seem to be attempting a revolt against the Empire at present... I do not know why they need or want Vice Admiral Grau."

"Feel free to speculate," I tell him. I turn to Zazaru at the science station. "Find out what we have on these Siohonin."

"The Siohonin... tried to conceal their involvement. They used a Lethean intermediary for the negotiations - I had him tracked. I feel it best to know who I am dealing with... but I could not find out why." He hangs his head. "It did not seem to matter...."

"Skipper." F'hon's voice. "Incoming hail from the Tapiola."

"We'll finish this later, General." I leave him in no doubt he won't enjoy it. "Switch me through to T'Pia."

A deflated Gorn is replaced on the screen by a smoothly unruffled Vulcan. "T'Pia to Shohl. I have been sweeping the vicinity of the Falcon for residual energy signatures."

Well, Tapiola must have the best sensor arrays of any ship in the area. "What have you found?"

"I am... unsure, as yet. Vice Admiral Grau was abducted from her bridge, with the Falcon at combat readiness and shields raised. It was a formidable piece of precision transporter work. I do not believe, frankly, that Ssurt's ships have the capability. If they did, he would already have employed it."

"So, if not Ssurt, then who?"

"That is the question. I have data consistent with a warp contrail, not one of the Gorn ships, and certainly not Starfleet. I conjecture that a stealthed ship approached under cover of the sensor jamming and the general disturbances of the battle, moved to very close range of the Falcon, transported Vice Admiral Grau, and departed."

"It... could make sense. But who? And why?"

"Unknown at this time. I will continue my analyses. I suggest that you continue with your detailed searches of the Gorn vessels and local space. It is possible that I am in error. But I greatly fear that I am not, and that a new... player... has entered the game."

The Three-Handed Game 17

Ronnie

Red alert, over a long period, is hard to sustain. Tallasa and Jhemyl, being Andorian, don't need regular sleep cycles and can stay lively... for a while. Haloy's Rigelian */*species 5102*/* face is unreadable, and certainly doesn't show fatigue. Leo Madena on comms, though, is starting to look distinctly ragged around the edges. Come to think of it, I doubt I'm any oil painting myself.

*/*fatigue toxins rising---
reprocessing of blood factors at 87% and declining---
neural stress levels elevated 118%---
switch to regenerative mode required within 47 hours---*/*

Oh, be quiet, you. Anyway, sleep is for tortoises. Said so before.

"Are we getting anywhere yet?" I ask Leo. He shakes his head dumbly. To be honest, I don't see any reasonable way of getting past the Gorn jamming, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

"Tuataras are moving again, sir," says Tallasa.

Every so often, the cruisers come in for a probing attack. So far, it's just been indecisive skirmishing, with the Gorn ships scuttling away fast when we hit them with tetryon fire. I always worry, though, in case they've come up with some new wrinkle I haven't thought of. "Vectors?" I ask.

"None on approach. They seem to be... circling. I think they've just changed their patrol pattern, sir, that's all."

"OK. Keep an eye on them, though." Superfluous advice, but what the heck, commanding officers get to give it.

"Sir," says Leo. "I have a transmission coming in. It's the Gorn, sir."

"Whoopee," I say, with noticeable sarcasm. "All right, let's hear him."

A new image appears on the screen. Ssurt is standing in what looks like a Starfleet briefing room; it's with something of a shock that I realize how tall he is. Well, the bigger they are, and so forth.... "Vice Admiral Grau," he says. "I wonder if you have given any more thought to the matter of surrendering yourself?"

"Yeah, well," I say, "I keep mulling it over, and you know what? It still seems like a lousy idea."

"Let me see if I can persuade you otherwise," says Ssurt. "As you may have gathered, I have gained access to the Delta Gracilis station. Let me show you one of the things I found aboard it."

He makes an imperious gesture with one taloned hand, and two more massive Gorn step into the frame, dragging a third figure between them; a cringing female Ferengi */*species 180*/* in a Starfleet science commander's uniform. Tylha's computer whiz, Klerupiru.

"Ferengi," says Ssurt. The two Gorn troopers let Klerupiru go, and she drops to her knees. "I suppose, Vice Admiral Grau, that - like me - you consider one Ferengi more or less to be of little account." And there is a disruptor pistol in his hand.

I jump to my feet. "No!"

Klerupiru wails. Ssurt turns towards her, aims the pistol, fires. There is a flash of green light, and deathly silence, save for the body slumping inertly to the floor.

"No," I say again, in a whisper this time.

"One Ferengi is not important," says Ssurt. "The Vulcan, though, you may consider of some personal significance. And then there is the Andorian. Starfleet made her a Vice Admiral like yourself, evidently she is of value. I will give you some time to consider this, while I choose the subject for my next demonstration. You have five minutes." The screen goes blank.

"No," I say, stupidly, to myself. I can't think of anything else to say.

"Sir -" says Tallasa, and stops. Starfleet regulations don't cover situations like this. There is a ghastly silence all around the bridge. It seems to last forever.

Unexpectedly, it's Leo Madena who breaks it. "It's, um, it was - it was a fake, sir."

I whirl round to face him. "What?"

"I'm pretty sure," says Leo. "Uh, I'm checking now, but - well, it's, um, Ferengi Execution 104. Standard, umm, holoprogram. Re-skinned with a Starfleet uniform. Yeah." He fiddles with his console, and the image of Klerupiru's cringing form appears again on the screen. "See under the left armpit, there? Skin, clipping through the uniform. Uh, rush job of programming, I think, sir."

I feel an enormous sensation of relief. I peer intently at the screen. He's right, there's bare flesh poking through the uniform, where it shouldn't be. "Ferengi Execution 104?" I ask.

"Standard program in a lot of holo-libraries, sir."

"They made a Ferengi snuff holo? They made a hundred and three others, before it? Who the hell would want something like that?"

"Anyone who's ever done business with a Ferengi?" Tallasa asks wryly. The sense of relief is as pervasive as the earlier shock.

"What are you doing watching stuff like that?" Leo's ears turn red and he doesn't answer. "Never mind." I shake my head. "It just goes to show, you never do know what'll turn out to be useful. OK, people, let's get ready for act two, then." I sit back down in the command chair and compose myself.

It doesn't take long before Ssurt reappears on the screen. Despite everything, my heart skips a beat when I see that this time, it is Saval being held between two Gorn guards.

*/*inaccurate---
cardiovascular anomaly not detected---
some elevated stress levels only---*/*

Shut up. Ssurt is fondling his disruptor pistol in a positively unhealthy fashion. "So, Vice Admiral Grau," he says. "Do you have anything to say, before I proceed with my next demonstration?"

I really, really hope Leo is right about this. "Nope," I say. "Carry on."

Ssurt's yellow eyes open wide at that. "What?"

"I said, carry on. Shoot as many holograms as you like. We've got popcorn."

Ssurt snarls. He makes a gesture with his free hand, and Saval, the Gorn troopers, and the briefing room behind him all fade away, leaving behind only the bare wires of a Klingon-style holodeck.

"I'll admit," I say, "you had us worried for a minute."

"I can bombard that station," says Ssurt, "blast it and your friends into rubble."

"It's a big station, and Tylha's probably found a dozen secure boltholes now," I say. "You'll need your whole force to pound it flat enough to be sure of killing her, and while you're pounding, we'll be escaping."

"I will pull you out of your bolthole." Ssurt's tone is getting uglier. "I will tractor those asteroids away and expose you."

"I thought of that one. Same thing applies. You'd need to concentrate all your ships on one vector to get a good hold on those big rocks, and if your force is concentrated in one place, we can slip out through all the places it's not."

"Then consider this. It will not require nearly as much force and precision to collapse that asteroid cluster -"

"To push the rocks into each other and crush our ships," I interrrupt. "Yeah, right. And how flat do your employers want me, exactly? For that matter, who are they? You still haven't said."

Ssurt glares. "This is not over," he hisses, and cuts the connection.

"Trouble is," I muse, "he's right about that part."

"There's a way out of any cage, sir," says Tallasa grimly. Waitaminute. Wasn't that Chris Pike? When did Tallasa start doing quotations?

"Sir," says Leo, "I've got the Tapiola on the laser channel."

"OK," I say, "let's hear them."

T'Pia appears on the screen. She is small and perfectly formed as always - I must look like something the cat dragged in by now, but T'Pia has not one ginger hair out of place. "I have good news," she says.

"Oh, wow. Great. That'll make a change from Ssurt's charm offensive, anyway. Did you see that transmission?"

"I did," says T'Pia. "Your analysis of the true situation was swift, I must congratulate you. In any event, it is of transmissions that I wish to speak. I believe we may have a way to send a message through the jamming."

That perks me up, enough to make me jump out of the command chair. "How? How does it work, and can we get a message back?"

"We have not been idle during our time here," says T'Pia. "Long-range sensors have located several of Ssurt's transphasic mines, and also two of his subspace jamming beacons. They are too far from the asteroid cluster for us to find a firing solution with our main armament, but I have analysed the jamming patterns, and I believe Tapiola can create a resonant subspace pulse which will cancel out the jammers. They will, of course, automatically remodulate and adapt, but there will be a brief window of opportunity in which we can transmit a general distress call."

"Right," I say, "right. Sounds like a plan to me. What do you need from us?"

"Tapiola's subspace antennae must be entirely devoted to creating the resonant pulse. We will need Falcon actually to transmit the distress call. Your communications officer appears to be competent, which is fortunate, as the operation will have to be very precisely coordinated."

"Right." I shoot a quick glance over at Leo. He looks worried, but he nods assent. He's doing all right, is Leo. I shall be sorry to lose him, when he comes to his senses and asks for a transfer.

"OK," I say. "Standard priority one distress call, and... can we include a data packet? Some quick precis of the Gorn forces in the area? Maybe?"

"I'll try, sir." Game lad.

"Transmitting requisite data over the laser link now," says T'Pia. "Please indicate when your timers are synchronized with ours."

"Yes, sir." Leo's fingers fly over his console. The message, when the time comes, will have to be sent automatically - there is no way human reflexes can match the mechanical ones on the Gorn's jamming beacons - but Leo has to program the whole process in advance, and I'm hoping he's setting it up right. "Transmission recorded and ready. Timers locked in. Tapiola, ready when you are."

T'Pia's head turns. "Begin the pulse," she orders.

I don't see or hear anything happen. I hate it when a battle's fought at a level my senses can't even register. There are some funny jagged lines on one of my console displays, and that's it. I can't even say for sure whether they were related, darn it.

"Transmission sent, sir," says Leo.

"Any acknowledgement?" I ask, knowing the answer full well in advance.

"No, sir."

"It was not to be expected," says T'Pia. "The nearest subspace relay post to our position would not have time to generate and transmit a response before the Gorn jammers locked down again." For a moment, it almost looks like a faint shadow of emotion clouds her brow. "We must anticipate that the Gorn will respond to this by continuously remodulating the jammer frequencies. We will not be able to attempt the same stratagem again."

"So, now," I say, "nothing to do but... wait and see if it worked."

I'm really lousy at the waiting thing. I huddle in the command chair and sulk, and fret. About half the time, I'm fretting about the message and whether it got through or not. The other half, I'm fretting about my big concern....

We're here because Q's cryptic - or drunken - words pointed Tylha towards Tamik's device. A quantum reality manipulator, it's the sort of thing Q might well be interested in. And Q, being Q, must have known about the Gorn mercenaries... in fact, there is no reason why Q couldn't be the mysterious employer of the Gorn mercenaries. This whole situation might be a Q-designed set-up.

And if it is... my worry is, it might be set up with only one end in view. To leave us trapped, with no way out except a truly desperate measure...

Turning Dr. Tamik's machine back on.

---

But it turns out, a bit later, I needn't have worried. Not about that, at least. Our message was received, and we get proof of it, in the most direct and unambiguous manner you could imagine.

One moment, everything is quiet, except for the ceaseless circling of Ssurt's task force. Then, suddenly, a rash of brilliant dots stipples the starfield, as if it's suddenly broken out in a half-dozen new constellations. And then, in amidst those bright dots - each one a destroyed Gorn mine - there is a welcome sight indeed. Federation starships, crashing out of subspace, shields up, and guns hot.

King Estmere is there, surrounded by her Mesh Weavers and T'Pia's support frigates. And the big carrier has found some friends from somewhere - the massive forms of four of the new Guardian class cruisers. I didn't think those were past the field trials stage, yet, but these four certainly seem to be working just fine.

Two of Ssurt's patrolling Tuatara cruisers are within range of the Guardians as they emerge. Space crackles with phaser fire as the big ships throw all they've got - and they've got plenty. The Gorn ships vanish in fiery blazes of light.

As for King Estmere - I've been of the opinion for some time, now, that Tylha's exec, Anthi Vihl, secretly has the hots for her boss. An unfortunate Varanus now discovers exactly what happens when you get between a frustrated Imperial Guard zhen and her would-be girlfriend. King Estmere's plasma banks blaze, and the Mesh Weavers add their tetryon barrages to the mix, and all of a sudden that Gorn ship is dead, killed hard enough, probably, to send shockwaves back in time and ruin the crews' parents' first dates.

"Transmissions coming in, sir," says a sleepless Leo Madena.

"Let's hear them. And let's move." I sketch in a course on my tac display.

A new voice makes itself heard on the bridge "- Gorn ships in the Delta Gracilis system. This is Rear Admiral Stuyvesant aboard the USS Custodian. Stand down and surrender your vessels. You are under arrest. Any attempt at resistance will be met with maximum force. I repeat: to all Gorn ships in the Delta Gracilis system -"

Ssurt's ships, patrolling to allow us no avenue of escape, are scattered around the asteroids and the station. If he could link them up, he could still make a fight of it, but that massive, compact force of heavy starships can overwhelm any isolated elements and destroy them in detail. My job, therefore, is to join up with that compact force, and help keep Ssurt's ships scattered.

Falcon leaps forward, squeezing neatly through a gap between two county-sized rocks. There is a single Tuatara on the other side, waiting for us, and I feel an almost unhealthy thrill as our beam banks and plasma torps cut loose. The Gorn ship gets off a volley which makes our forward shield flare, and then our weapons bludgeon their shields down and shred their hull. The Tuatara spins away, one warp nacelle coming loose, air and flames gushing from the rents in its hull.

T'Pia is moving too; Tapiola skips nimbly out of the asteroids and guts a passing Phalanx before turning her attention to another Tuatara. The Gorn cruiser advances, firing disruptors, hard and fast. Tapiola's shields flare and flicker, and the science vessel seems to falter for a moment... and then the Tuatara, suddenly, is wallowing helplessly in an induced gravity well, and a heavy thermionic disruption torpedo brings down its shields, and Tapiola's tetryon arrays finish the job.

"Hard about, niner seven mark three eight three! Try and plug us in to the Custodian's tactical net!"

"On it, sir. Uh, I have King Estmere on direct link -"

"Put her through!" A cold, hard, blue face appears on my screen. "Commander Vihl. Great to see you."

"We got your distress call, sir. Custodian and her consorts were participating in the - rescue - mission already - when we received your call, Admiral Stuyvesant volunteered to assist."

That assistance has cost Ssurt another two cruisers by the end of that sentence. "Tylha is still aboard the station, as far as I know. Can you bring King Estmere round to pick her up?"

"Tactical situation permitting, yes, sir. I believe Admiral Stuyvesant wishes to speak to you. I will take King Estmere in as soon as resistance is dest- ceases."

Falcon is dashing across space, now, towards the Guardian cruisers and the shelter of their guns. The remaining Gorn ships are moving in several different directions. I'm guessing some of them want to try and catch the Falcon, but most of them want someone else to try and catch the Falcon. Tapiola is cruising smoothly on by our side, tetryon arrays snapping out at any Gorn ship that looks like it's getting close.

"Vice Admiral Grau." Stuyvesant's voice. "Sir, as senior tactical officer present in this system, you are entitled to assume command of my battle group should you wish -"

"No need, Rear Admiral, no need. You and your guys are doing a lovely job." I'm starting to feel light-hearted. And light-headed. "Leo, can you try and get me Ssurt? He's got to know he's beaten by now."

"On it, sir."

"Custodian and Paladin will cover your approach, sir," says Stuyvesant. OK, Ronnie, relax and let someone else handle the tactical planning. "Protector and Yeoman will support King Estmere on her path to the station. Assuming all goes to plan, we will link up at point -"

"I have the Zo'ar," Leo Madena interrupts.

"OK. Let's see if we can finish this up without any more shooting. Put him on."

Ssurt's face appears on the screen. I can't read his expression.

"General. You lose. Don't throw any more lives away. Tell your ships to stand down."

"I still have resources." The hissing voice is laden with wounded Gorn pride. "My minefield and my jammers -"

"Will be cleared as soon as we get round to sweeping them up! How many more ships do you want to throw in front of our guns? You're not a Klingon, Ssurt, you don't need to go out in a blaze of glory, and you owe it to your crews not to get them killed!"

Ssurt bares his teeth, and I am very glad that he's on the screen and not face to face with me in the flesh. "You are - regrettably - correct," he says. He turns his massive head. "Pass the word to the squadron. Stand down. Surrender."

Euphoria washes over me. "Sensible decision," I tell him. "Now listen." I can't help it, I always start to babble at times like this. "We need to have a nice cosy chat about things, you and me and Starfleet Intelligence, like who your employers actually are, and what they want with me, and why they can't simply ask for me to come and -"

I don't get any further with that sentence before a red light closes around me and takes me away.

The Three-Handed Game 16

Absolute silence fell across the Zo'ar's bridge as the viewscreen went dark. The Lethean intelligence officer, Banen, shot a nervous glance at Ssurt, as the tall Gorn sat, impassive as a statue, on his command chair. Banen could sense anger and frustration boiling behind that apparent calm, though he dared not look into his superior's mind - would not have dared, even if the Ferasan R'kirr were not present, as ever, to forestall any telepathic probing.

"Tactical display," said Ssurt, eventually.

The image of the asteroid field appeared on the screen, the icons for the two Federation starships blinking within it. Around it floated the symbols for Ssurt's ships; nearby was the Delta Gracilis space station itself... and, wrapped around everything like a great grasping hand, the minefield.

"A pretty little problem," Ssurt observed. "If we needed, simply, to kill them, it would be easy enough to achieve... but success in this operation depends on our retrieving Grau alive. If we destroy her ship, we cannot guarantee that she will reach an escape pod in time... and I do not see a way, at present, to destroy the Tapiola without jeopardizing the Falcon.... So. Other approaches must be found."

"Sir." Ssurt's exec, Krruvuk, spoke, rising to his feet, a great green-grey mountain of a Gorn who towered even over Ssurt himself. "I must ask - formally - whether you should not heed Grau's words. Is this - operation - worth it? Is her person worth the expenditure in resources, the loss of lives?"

"Do you question me?" Ssurt's tone was mild, yet laden with menace.

Krruvuk refused to be intimidated. "We have lost two ships already, and taken significant casualties. Our troops must know they risk their lives in a good cause. As the Klingon tradition has it, I serve the captain but I speak for the crew. Should your crew lay down their lives in this cause?"

"Consider," said Ssurt, "the economics of the situation, and then answer that question yourself. Our employers are offering a princely sum by any standards. By our normal allocations of prize money, the lowliest bekk in my fleet will receive enough darseks to live like a king for a year. You, yourself... your share will be sufficient to buy your own squadron, if that is what you desire. Perhaps it is not a noble or a romantic cause to fight for... but it is more than adequate, nonetheless."

Krruvuk considered for a moment, then said, "I withdraw... any objection."

"Good. I do not require distractions. Grau has, as you have observed, already proved costly for us." His yellow gaze flicked across the bridge, settled on Banen. "I did not anticipate her ingenuity... or her ship's capabilities."

"Sir." The intelligence officer swallowed, hard. "I... based my estimates of the Falcon's capacities on the reports from the Tiaza Zephora incident. We had solid information on her weapons and shields, but - for much of that time, her drive systems were artificially restricted. I assumed that she was not significantly more manoeuvrable than a standard Excelsior class starship. I was - in error."

"Yes," said Ssurt.

Banen steeled himself. The yellow eyes seemed to probe him for an anguished moment, as if Ssurt himself had the gift of telepathy. Then the general said, "But there were factors of which you could have no knowledge. And the involvement of the Tapiola, too, that was something none of us expected. I will grant you an opportunity, therefore, to redeem yourself."

"I have - I have something, perhaps, already," said Banen eagerly, relief washing through him. "There are life signs on the station. Few in number, but definitely present."

"Workers and technicians, presumably," said Krruvuk dismissively.

"Perhaps not. The Falcon attempted to send a signal... I think she succeeded. A message was sent from the station, and I was able to glean a partial identifier. A known associate of Grau - King Estmere's commander. The Andorian, Vice Admiral Shohl."

"So," said Ssurt. "That is interesting."

"To trade one Vice Admiral for another... even Starfleet could see a level of justification in that, " said Krruvuk.

"And if we hold her colleagues in our hands, Grau may prove more malleable," said Ssurt. "So. How long to lock transporters on these life signs and beam them up?"

Banen turned to his console, and his heart sank. "My sensor readings indicate... they have engaged transporter inhibitors around the station. It will not be quite so simple -"

"It need not be complicated," said Ssurt. "Land assault squads by shuttle on the station and detain this Shohl and her companions." He rose to his feet. "We shall make a sport of it, I think. Banen, R'kirr, Krruvuk... each of you will take an assault shuttle with a strike team. The one who brings me this Shohl, alive and suitable for trading, wins."

---

"This is unwise," said R'kirr on the private comms channel. Banen watched the station swell in the shuttlecraft's viewport, and said nothing.

"Unwise how?" asked Krruvuk. He, too, was tied in to the private channel used by the commanders only.

"Shohl did not become a senior Starfleet officer through family connections and patronage," R'kirr said. "We must expect resistance, intelligent resistance. It is unwise to make this a game, and I do not propose to play one. If that means I lose, so be it. But I will not be competing with you two for the prize - my team will support yours in whatever action you take."

"Agreed," said Krruvuk. "I, too, have misgivings about this sporting proposal. Banen?"

Banen hesitated a moment. To win Ssurt's game might bring him needed prestige, enough to wipe out the memory of his error over Falcon's abilities... but they were right, this was a target that needed a careful approach. "I concur," he said. Of course, he thought in the privacy of his own skull, if the opportunity arose to claim the prize for himself anyway.... Then he reflected that R'kirr's shuttlecraft was not so far away, after all, and that the Ferasan's telepathy was formidable and his ethics nonexistent, and he hastily quelled that line of thought.

The assault shuttles closed in on the station's docking bay. Banen turned his attention to the next task, that of overriding the access doors' security codes. The Delta Gracilis station was built to a standard Federation pattern, there were known security trapdoors and vulnerabilities.... He concentrated for a while, tapping out sequences of codes on his security console. He hoped, devoutly, that the station had not improved its security. Another black mark, another failure on his part... Ssurt had a low tolerance for failures.

The console flashed acceptances at him. "I have access," he reported. "Opening the docking bay."

A hectare of metal slid aside, exposing the way into the station. The shuttles moved smoothly onwards, coming to rest on the deck with barely a jar. Banen remained engrossed in his console.

"Well?" R'kirr's voice demanded. "What information do you have for us?"

"I have... partial idents from three combadges," said Banen. "One I am certain, now, is Shohl, the other two... I am cross-referencing known officers aboard Falcon and King Estmere now...." A pause, while he worked feverishly. "Two science officers, one Ferengi, one Vulcan. Commander Klerupiru from King Estmere, Commander Saval from Falcon. The Vulcan is Grau's chief science officer, she will not willingly lose him. The Ferengi... I have no details on the Ferengi."

"Only three?" R'kirr demanded. "No others?"

"Not that I can detect," said Banen.

"He may be right," Krruvuk's voice rumbled. "We saw only a very few life signs - it is possible they were shutting down their operations and preparing to withdraw from the base."

"A final confirmation that all was complete? Yes," said R'kirr, "it is possible, at least."

"Computer security is running on default standard protocols," said Banen. "I do not have administration privileges, I cannot locate personnel precisely - not here, not from this console. If I could access an admin workstation, things might be different." He stood up. Behind him, in the cramped interior of the shuttle, the faces of his assault squad turned to him expectantly. Gorn, mostly, a few Klingons, no others.... They would suffice, though, for the task in hand. "Make ready," he told them.

He blinked repeatedly as they left the shuttle, going into the bright lights of the Federation docking bay. The Feds always liked their interior lighting bright, too bright.... Krruvuk was wearing faceted eye shields against the glare, he noticed, and R'kirr's savage green eyes had their pupils contracted to mere slits. The wiry Ferasan held a scanner in one hand. "This registers some life signs," he said.

Banen pulled out his own tricorder, connected to the data feed from the shuttle, and studied the results. "Yes," he said. "The life support system... that is the best way to discover the occupancy of any region. There is respiration, air being used - there." He pointed, and R'kirr nodded.

Krruvuk lumbered over to look at their instruments. "The readings are very faint," he grumbled.

"Necessarily so. Only three people, on a station of this size?" said R'kirr. "We have done well to detect them at all."

"They must be grouped together," said Banen. "It makes things easier for us, I suppose - they are not trying to hide."

"It would do them no good," said R'kirr, and licked his fangs with his pale pink tongue. Yes, Banen thought, the Ferasan was a notoriously competent hunter.

"Move out," Krruvuk ordered.

They marched in an orderly column out of the shuttlebay, along the bright empty corridors of the base, following the readings of Banen's and R'kirr's tricorders. "A meeting room, it looks like," said the Lethean, as he called up a plan of the base. "Perhaps they have... made camp in it, for some reason."

"Foolish," said Krruvuk. "Do they think to resist us? The three of them?"

"Starfleet can be tricky," muttered R'kirr.

"This one is not," said Banen with something approaching a sneer in his voice, though no expression showed on the leather mask of his face. "Station security is still at default minimum setting - I can penetrate their console lockouts with ease. They should have engaged a competent data security expert, I think."

"Having to hack the maps and the doorways would not delay us long, in any case," said Krruvuk.

The column reached the end of a corridor, found themselves facing a pair of wide double doors. "In there," said Banen, and reached out with his mind. He could feel the Ferasan engaging his own telepathic talent, too, a weird, uncomfortable sensation like an itch deep down in his brain. "I sense them... the Andorian is guarded, alert, I could breach her mind, but it would take time. The Vulcan is shielded, the Ferengi... I cannot read a Ferengi mind."

"No one can," said R'kirr, "and who would want to?" He looked sidelong at Banen. "Did you sense... anything else?"

"No. What is there to sense?"

"For a moment, I thought... but you are right. Only three life signs."

"Aware of us?" Krruvuk demanded.

"Oh, by now, they must be," said Banen. "Even the incompetents of the Federation could not have missed our approach."

"Yet the security alert level has not risen," said R'kirr. "Curious...."

"What good could a security alert do them? No guards to respond, no ships to come to their rescue... a red alert would make an annoying noise, no more."

Krruvuk grunted. "Let us make some noise of our own," he said, "and announce ourselves. Warriors, forward. Banen, open those doors."

The Gorn shock troops strode up to the doorway, weapons ready. Krruvuk held a disruptor rifle that looked like a toy in his massive hands. Banen touched his tricorder, sent the signal -

The door hissed open.

"Vice Admiral Shohl!" Krruvuk shouted. The room beyond the door appeared to be in darkness; Banen could make out faint shapes, as if the furniture had been piled up in hasty barricades. "Surrender yourself!" There was no response. With an imperious wave, Krruvuk sent his shock troops forwards.

Banen took a deep breath, and followed them in. He would at least be near the front ranks when the Andorian was taken -

Then there came a series of crashes, and suddenly the lights in the room came on, full strength, dazzling the Lethean. The Gorn troopers in the front rank were staggering and falling, explosions raging around them... and they moved with a strange, dreamlike slowness. "Chroniton mines!" someone shouted, and suddenly the air blazed with heat and light.

Somehow, there were figures all around the walls of the room, and they had weapons in their hands, and the dull blatting noise of plasma fire was everywhere, and the shock troopers were falling, falling - The armed figures were heavily armoured, with bulbous face-concealing helmets, mostly black, except for one in grey who wielded, not a plasma gun, but a phaser rifle whose glaring orange beam cut down the troopers with surgical precision. There was a chattering of automatic weapons fire, too, and a deep-throated roaring that had to be a plasma flamethrower -

Something slammed into Banen, hard, and he stumbled. Shot. He had been shot. His shield had taken the worst of the bolt, his body armour had held - but he had worn armour designed for phaser fire, and the enemy was using plasma. Another bolt stabbed into him, and this time he felt searing pain, and screamed aloud as the scent of his own scorched flesh rose to his nostrils.

"Security holograms!" R'kirr screeched. The Ferasan's blue fur was on fire in half a dozen places, and as Banen watched, another plasma beam struck him and dropped him in a yowling heap to the floor.

Krruvuk roared a challenge and charged forwards, his disruptor rifle blazing with sick green light. For the first time, in the sudden chaos, Banen caught a glimpse of their target. She stood in the circle of light cast by a force shield generator, and there was a grim look on her face, and a weapon in her hands that sent out blast after blast of golden lightning.

She saw Krruvuk, turned, and pointed that weapon. She fired.

There was no blast of phaser light, but something hit Krruvuk and stopped him in his tracks. Then the photon grenade exploded at his feet, lifting the huge Gorn bodily into the air and dropping him to the deck. Banen felt the light of Krruvuk's mind go out.

Another plasma bolt hit him, and another. His shield was gone, his armour was melting, it was sticking to him, and it burned. "Fall back!" he howled at the top of his voice. He ducked the next volley of plasma fire, caught R'kirr's battle harness in his fingers, and scrambled along the floor, dragging the half-conscious Ferasan after him. The Gorn troopers, disciplined even now, were falling back by groups, providing covering fire for each others' retreat. Some of the Klingons were less disciplined, they rushed forwards, eager for glory and battle... and they died.

Banen reached the doorway, pulled himself and R'kirr through it. He groped for his tricorder. One of his arms was burned, his fingers barely functioned. Somehow, he found the command interface, sent the order to close those doors, close them and lock them.

He sent the command. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a message appeared on the tricorder's interface, a single sentence: "Yes, OK, I'll let you do that."

The doors slid shut. There were a few faint screams from the other side, then silence.

Banen groaned. Beside him, R'kirr was moaning too, smoke still rising from his smouldering fur, his mind reduced to nothing but a red roar of pain. Banen found a medkit, and with shaking hands pulled out an analgesic medijector. He rammed it into his throat and pushed the stud, again and again, sending synthetic endorphins into his system until the pain of his burns faded away.

"Set up," he croaked at the surviving troopers. "Set up. That computer expert was not incompetent. She was very, very good."

He rose, staggering, to his feet. "I need to report," he said vaguely. "And we need to retreat. They could send those holograms out after us...." Holograms. No wonder he hadn't been able to sense their minds. The surviving Gorn shock troopers eyed him doubtfully. "I am senior officer," he said with all the force he could muster. "We have taken too many casualties. We must regroup and obtain reinforcements. Back to the shuttle bay."

They obeyed, the fitter ones supporting the wounded, one massive Gorn figure cradling R'kirr protectively in his arms. Banen refused aid, though the analgesics made him giddy, and he was dimly aware, still, of how much damage had been done to him.

"Not the bay itself," he ordered. "Observation gallery. Above it." The last thing he wanted was to be in the shuttle bay, and have that Ferengi take control of its doors and open it to space.

Reluctantly - very reluctantly - he keyed his wrist communicator to report. "This is Banen," he said. "The enemy has taken control of the station's security systems. They are able to generate photonic security troops of their own. We have taken substantial casualties. Krruvuk is dead, R'kirr is severely injured. We need -" His voice almost broke. "We need assistance."

Ssurt's voice was direct and practical when he replied, and somehow Banen found a sense of menace in that. "State your requirements," he said.

"We need fresh troops, armoured against plasma fire. We need tech teams capable of breaching the station's systems and disabling the holograms. We need - I need - medical support. I will be able to break their security systems. That Ferengi cannot defeat me."

"Very well," said Ssurt. "You will have what you need. I am ordering fresh shuttles to launch now, they will be with you within minutes. Once you have assembled them... and your immediate medical needs have been addressed... you will proceed."

"Yes, sir," said Banen.

"Much depends on this mission," said Ssurt, and signed off with an audible click.

Banen submitted to the rough-and-ready ministrations of a Gorn field medic. Pain suppressed, he was able to inspect his own burns with an almost detached interest. He would have scars, he realized, scars that would show even on a Lethean's leathery skin.... It didn't matter. He lurched over to the windows of the observation gallery, looking out towards where Ssurt's ships swept in tight orbits around the station, or around the asteroids. His spirits lifted as he saw a row of bright dots, moving in an orderly line towards him. The shuttles. The shuttles with the fresh troops and tech experts that he needed, that would win him this fight -

Burning golden light slashed across the starscape.

The station. The station had a defence grid, and Shohl and her pet Ferengi had reactivated it. And the station had been abandoned before the armistice - its automated systems still read KDF forces as hostile. Dimly, Banen could hear the screeches and the high-pitched hum as the EPS grid built up power, and discharged it... discharged it through phaser banks and beam arrays, at the incoming shuttles.

The light Kivra shuttlecraft stood no chance. The heavier Torons put up some resistance, but not enough. They burned. They all burned.

Then there was another sound; first a loud click, that seemed to come from a dozen directions at once, and then a voice, a voice that spoke from the public address system with a harsh Andorian snarl.

"This is Vice Admiral Shohl to the enemy forces on this station. I just want to make you aware of the reality of your situation. I am not trapped in here with you - you are trapped in here with me. If you have any sense, you'll leave. Departure for your shuttlecraft will not be blocked. Shohl out."

Banen sagged against the nearest wall, slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. He still had the medijector. He used it, blasting endorphins into his bloodstream until he didn't care any more.

The Three-Handed Game 15

Ronnie

Oh, my. What a burden it is to be popular, to be sure.

"Sir." Tallasa, my long-suffering Andorian exec, speaks up in her best I am taking no nonsense from my commanding officer tones. "I will remind you formally that it is not Starfleet policy to comply with demands of this nature."

"Oh, did I look like I was brimming over with sentiments of noble self-sacrifice?" I hit the comm link to the Tapiola again. One good thing, this laser beam link-up is virtually impossible for the Gorn */*species 1643*/* to hack into. "T'Pia. You're logical. If it starts to look like Ssurt's offer is the sensible deal, let me know, will you?"

"Starfleet policy in these matters -" T'Pia begins.

"I know, I know, I got that from my exec already. Just... consider it logically, will you? I've got my own opinions, but I'm sort of biased." I study the tactical display. It's telling me there are a whole lot of Gorn ships out there.

"Noted," says T'Pia. "Our tactical options seem to be limited, however. We are at a distinct disadvantage."

"Yeah, I spotted that."

"The Gorn battle group consists primarily of cruiser-level and heavier elements. This is unusual. I would have expected a higher proportion of frigates and other light craft."

"Oh, Ssurt has frigates, and I'll even tell you where they are." She's such an innocent, sometimes. "They laid this darn minefield, and then they shot off to lead King Estmere and our frigate groups a merry dance all over that nebula. The distress call was a fake, and we fell for it beautifully."

"Ssurt could not have anticipated our exact response," says T'Pia.

"He covered a bunch of options. If we'd hared off in different directions, he'd have picked Falcon off individually. If we'd all moved out as a group, we'd have run into his minefield and got pounded by that until his battle group turned up to finish the job."

"That implies that the mines are concentrated around our probable departure vector towards the nebula," T'Pia says. "If we attempt to leave in another direction, we will encounter fewer mines."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Your ship, like mine, has refracting tetryon armament. A wide-area barrage should be sufficient to clear a gap in the minefield, through which we can escape at warp speed."

"Again, yeah, maybe. But we can't do that. Tylha's still on the station, and we can't throw her to the Gorn, either." The Gorn ships are getting awfully close, and I am short on inspiration.

*/*individual initiative and creativity insufficient for task---
consult central tactical libraries for effective countermeasure procedures---
reconnect--- priority--- reconnect--- reconnect--- reconnect---*/*

Quiet, you. Let me think.

"Awright. We need to neutralize Ssurt's numerical advantage. We need to hold him off until we're missed, until King Estmere realises she's chasing sensor ghosts, or Starfleet notices we've missed a check-in, whatever." I look again at the tactical map, and inspiration, finally, strikes. "Horatius at the bridge."

"I am not familiar with the reference. We need a plan of action, urgently."

I sketch in a course on the tac console. "Here. Hide in the asteroidal debris. Like Horatius at the bridge, we hold choke points - the gaps between the asteroids - where they can only come at us singly. Lars Porsena of Clusium, by the nine gods he swore - sorry, rambling. Let's do it."

"Tapiola should be able to accomplish this. Is the Falcon sufficiently manoeuvrable, though?"

I look over to Tallasa's sister Jhemyl, at the helm. She gives one brisk, competent nod. "Oh, yeah," I say. "Falcon may look like an old-fashioned Excelsior-class cruiser, but she's got a lot going for her. We can do this."

"Lead Gorn cruisers in weapons range in one minute, sir," says Lieutenant Haloy at the science station.

"So let's move. Now."

Falcon swings around, her RCS arrays flashing warning lights already as we push them to the limits. The triple-dagger shape of the Tapiola is sleek and graceful by comparison... and T'Pia is already closer to those asteroids than we are. OK, that might be good, she can cover us as we come in... maybe.

"Leo. Any contact with Tylha yet?"

"No response yet, sir," says Leo Madena from the comms station. Damn. Not that Tylha would have any great insights into the tactical situation, but it would be nice to know she was in the picture. As it is, I can just see her opening the doors for some Gorn hit squad when they land on the station.

"Tactical. We're not moving too quickly, so let's lighten the load... like, a couple of web mines' worth."

"Rolling mines," Tallasa responds. I'm hoping T'Pia's thought to do the same - anything which slows the Gorn ships down, and maybe scatters them around a bit, works to our advantage. Legends of ancient Rome keep whistling through my head, the Horatii and the Curiatii... it's not, necessarily, any help. The commander of that battle group is not Lars Porsena of Clusium. He's someone altogether more scaly, and more up to date.

"Lead Tuatara in weapons range in ten," says Tallasa. Some Gorn captain is pushing his luck, there, a bit, wanting to be first in for the kill. Or the takedown. Whatever they want.

"So, lemme see," I say, "doesn't that sort of put him in our weapons range too?"

"Thought you'd never ask, sir," says Tallasa with a feral Andorian grin. "Aft arrays targeted."

The squat armoured shape of the Gorn cruiser comes into range, and virulent green disruptor light spits from its forward beam banks... and Cherenkov-blue glares shoot back from our aft beam arrays. The fire from the Tuatara gnaws at our shields - but our tetryon barrage is no love-tap, either, and I can see the Gorn's forward shields weakening. A secondary beam snaps off the Tuatara's hull, to strike an approaching Phalanx science vessel. At this range, it won't do much more than rattle his fangs, but it should at least warn them we won't go easy.

And then the Tuatara triggers the web mines, and is suddenly enclosed in a mesh of golden light. Our beam arrays snap shots into it, but the cruiser's drive is offline, and it dwindles and drifts out of our effective range as we continue to race for the relative safety of the asteroid cluster. A flash of light announces that the short-lived forcefield meshes have collapsed. The energy release from that will drain his shields and scar his hull....

So far, though, it's nothing more than a skirmish - cosmetic damage only, a little bit of a scratch, for both sides. My aft shields are still solid, but the cruiser is wounded in little more than its pride. It's when the rest of the Gorn ships close in that things will start getting serious.

"Tapiola is inside the asteroid cluster," Haloy reports.

"Good. How long till we join her?"

"Three minutes," says Jhemyl.

"Three minutes is a long time in politics. What are the Gorn doing?"

"The cruisers are... hanging back," says Tallasa. "But there's some movement - Sir, two of the support vessels are heading off at an angle, at high impulse speed."

Planning to swing wide, curve back in, and get between us and the asteroids. At least, that's what I'd do if I were in their shoes. "Do we still have the laser link to Tapiola?"

"Sorry, sir," says Leo. "I think it's blocked by asteroid debris."

So T'Pia is, at least, safely tucked in among the asteroids. Everything now depends on her situational awareness... or whether we can take on those support ships by ourselves, and finish them before the cruisers catch up with us. Hmm. This is not shaping up to be a good day.

"Battleship Zo'ar," I muse aloud. "Didn't say IKS or GHV... conclusion, this is not an operation sanctioned either by the KDF or the Gorn government. Entirely some private shenanigan on Ssurt's part.... Can you have just one shenanigan, or is it one of those words that's always plural?"

"I don't think that gets us anywhere, sir," says Tallasa, tight-lipped. "One Draguas and one Varanus vessel now on intercept course. Intersecting our trajectory to the asteroid cluster in one minute."

Oh, boy. "Any chance of evading?"

"Not without turning away from the asteroids."

"Right, then. This is where the shooting starts, in earnest. Target the Varanus first off, plasma torps and tetryon beams. Hold the wide area tetryon barrages in reserve, we'll need them later." There are a number of nasty tricks we can play with the tetryon armament, but they won't be enough to finish all Ssurt's ships, not by a long chalk.

I can see the two Gorn support craft on the tac display now. Unlike the squat and chunky Tuataras, these ships are long, almost elegant in their lines. Proper spaceships, like they used to have in the comic books when I was young. All that time ago. They look graceful, they move gracefully, too... in a sharp, sweeping curve... towards us... with weapons hot.

"Stand ready!"

Disruptor beams explode across space, and our forward screen flares under a punishing barrage. Our forward banks spit back blue-hot defiance, and the plasma torpedoes howl out of the launchers. I wince. We're at maximum effective range, and already the Gorn firepower is making my shield strength dip alarmingly -

"Sir!" Haloy's voice. "I have ships on sensors! They're - they're Starfleet, sir!"

"Don't get too cheerful," I say. "They're not real. T'Pia's brought her holo-emitters into the fight, that's all." Still, it's a good sign. The little ginger Vulcan is on the ball, after all.

Vessels like T'Pia's Orb Weaver are fitted with elaborate holo-imagers, and they can - briefly - channel a fair chunk of power through them from the main warp core. Using this offensively - say, by creating holo-images of combat starships - is a relatively new wrinkle. Since my time, anyway. The phantom ships can dish out punishment like the real thing, but they can't take it - the holo-matrices destabilize under weapons fire. And, of course, they fade out anyway once the holo-emitters reach their limits.

But, for the moment, a substantial amount of firepower is hitting that Draguas from an unexpected angle, and that's good news for me. Better news still comes when its Varanus companion is suddenly wrapped in a cage of glowing golden light. Not web mines, this time, but a full-on Tholian web, from the Orb Weaver's emitters. Lines of dazzling blue reach out from among the asteroids, hitting the caged ship - T'Pia's own tetryon banks. And there's a fuzzy white something that I realize, after a second or two, is a Tholian thermionic torp -

"The Varanus is trapped! Hit it! Before it gets free!"

Falcon pours tetryon beams and plasma torps into the web, hammering at the ship within. The web seems to pulse, to flare - and then, suddenly, it collapses in a burst of dazzling light. The Varanus hangs for a moment, scorched and battered - then it vanishes in the far brighter light of a warp core breach.

The nearby blast is too much for T'Pia's holograms, they wink out like so many candle flames in the shockwave. But it's too much, too, for the Draguas. Shields stripped to nothing, hull breaches marring her graceful lines, the support vessel turns to flee - but there is no other target for my forward batteries and T'Pia's, now. Caught in the crossfire, the Draguas shatters and burns.

"OK, guys, nice work. Now, Jhemyl, do your stuff, get us in among those rocks."

"On it," the Andorian says tersely. I nerve myself. I don't like what's going to come next.

Falcon turns and swoops like her namesake, hurtling into the group of asteroids. The deflectors complain as small pieces of rock whang off them, and suddenly the proximity alarms start a constant screaming. On the screen, I see slabs of stone, millions of years old, looking so close I could reach out and touch them -

"Trying not to scratch the paintwork, sir," says Jhemyl in abstracted tones, her hands moving with nerveless precision on the helm console. "Tucking us behind that big chondrite mass ahead, and coming about."

"The cruisers are closing," Tallasa says. "I don't know if they're agile enough to follow us in -"

"They shouldn't be," I say. "But then, we shouldn't be agile enough for this. By rights. We really do have to pull Tylha off that station, you know. It's mostly thanks to her that we got set up with all this classy gear."

"We owe her a drink, then, at any rate," says Tallasa. "Sir, it looks like at least one cruiser is going to try to follow us in -"

And those squat, chunky, compact Tuatara cruisers are better suited to nipping between asteroids than a Starfleet ship. Damn.

*/*structural designs inefficient in both cases---
simple cubical or spherical structure utilizes space more effectively---*/*

Oh, who died and made you Mies van der Rohe? Tallasa's right, a cruiser is speeding towards the asteroids, with a sleek Phalanx science vessel in support. They're undergunned, compared to me and T'Pia, but they don't need to kill us by themselves. All they have to do is flush us out.

"I have contact with the Tapiola, sir," says Leo Madena. "Also - message from Vice Admiral Shohl. Just says 'apprised of situation', sir, that's all."

Well, that's a load off my mind. Not that Tylha can do very much about the situation, but at least she knows it's happening. "Get me T'Pia, then. And then, let's drop some more web mines, and come about... if we've got room to come about?"

"Technically, no, sir," says Jhemyl, "but I'll see what I can do. Can someone kill those proximity alarms? I think they're going to start getting noisy."

I thought they were already noisy enough, but I see what she means, as Falcon twists and turns, threading her way through the masses of rock. I only imagine a brief tremor as the web mines are launched.

"T'Pia here," says a businesslike voice. "What are your requirements?"

"We've got Gorn on our tail. Need to shake them off."

"Logical. My photonic emitters are still in cooldown mode, but -"

Tetryon fire flashes past us from somewhere - I can't make out where, the screen is full of whirling rocks as Jhemyl flings the ship into the asteroid cluster. I can't make out what T'Pia is shooting at, either. She can't possibly have a firing solution on the Gorn.

And indeed she doesn't. What she does have is a line on one of the asteroids, which becomes two asteroids fairly neatly as the tetryon barrage hits home. Fragments of rock fly in all directions - big fragments, some of them. The approaching Phalanx's deflector flares with a massive overload as the ship is hit by a piece of rock roughly the size of the Eiger. As for the approaching Tuatara, its desperate course changes send it straight into our web mines, where its hapless commander has the indignity of sitting still and helpless while his ship is pounded by debris fragments. By the time the shrapnel has stopped flying, our route into the asteroid cluster has been decisively closed behind us.

We worm our way in among the big rocks, near the spiky shape of the Tapiola. "Nicely done, helm," I say, with some feeling.

"Thank you, sir," says Jhemyl.

"Yeah, well, don't feel too grateful, because next time I need to get a grand piano up a spiral staircase, I am totally calling you. What's our overall status? Anyone know?"

"No injuries, no significant damage, just some minor stress on shields and RCS thrusters," says Tallasa. "I'm counting... four, maybe five feasible approaches to our current location, for a Tuatara-sized ship." She gives a little tight-lipped smile. "We can cover those. Between us and the Tapiola -"

"- we can play Horatius at the bridge," I finish for her, cheerfully. "Just so long as no one gets any ideas about acting like Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm's son."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Character in human history - had an advantage like this, and threw it away. Moral of the story, don't be that guy."

"You'd prefer us to be this... Horatius, instead, sir?"

"Oh, yeah. He won." I lean back in the command chair. Life is good. Or, at least, life is not imminently in peril. Probably.

"We're being hailed, sir," says Leo Madena. "Subspace frequency... it's the Gorn commander again."

"Happy, happy, joy, joy. Let's hear him."

The slate-blue features of General Ssurt appear on the screen. "Sorry," I say, "just can't come out to play, not in such nasty weather, I'd catch my death of cold."

"You have found a bolt hole," says Ssurt. "You believe yourself to be safe? That is only temporarily the case, I do assure you."

"It's a big rough universe out there, nobody's safe all the time, General. General in whose army, by the way? You didn't say."

"It is not relevant."

"Oh, but I think it is. You're not claiming to be KDF, or Gorn Hegemony... that makes this a little piece of private enterprise on the side, doesn't it? In which case, General, you need to start thinking about your bottom line. You've lost two ships and taken damage on several others already, that's a whole lot of red ink in your ledger to start with. How many more do I have to smash up, before this enterprise of yours becomes too expensive to turn a profit?"

"More than you can destroy," says Ssurt bluntly. "In any case... we are Gorn, not Ferengi. The cost of the operation is not of paramount importance. We have taken losses, yes... and that makes us the keener to achieve victory. In that way, we will honour the dead."

"By making more of them?" Ssurt is making me feel tired, tired and angry. "I promise you something, General. I am personally going to turn you into luggage."

He seems unmoved. "Other humans have made similar threats. It is evidently some part of human culture... you must explain it to me, when you are my prisoner."

"Don't hold your breath. Anyway, what do you want me for? Who's paying you for this, General?"

"Beam aboard my command ship, and you will find out."

"No, thanks. Momma told me never to get into cars with strange Gorn."

"I regret that you must soon learn to ignore your parent's advice. In the meantime, I will address myself to the commander of the USS Tapiola. Are you receiving my transmission?"

"This is Vice Admiral T'Pia aboard the Tapiola." T'Pia's voice is rigidly professional.

"Excellent. Your presence here is an unanticipated factor, and it is a complication I can do without. I do not need you here, Vice Admiral T'Pia, and you do not need to involve yourself. It is of no matter to me if you choose to depart. Of course, you are not covered by the stipulations of my contract, so it would be no problem for me to destroy you."

"You are attempting to kidnap a Starfleet officer. It is my duty to prevent you," says T'Pia. "As to my destruction, I intend that you should find that a problem of insuperable complexity."

"Very well." Is that amusement in Ssurt's yellow eyes? I'm not enough of a reptile to be able to tell. "It seems we have no more to say to each other, for the present. We will talk again, though, and soon. You may depend upon it."