Is she mad? I ask myself, and then chide myself for a foolish question. Of course she is - but there may be method in her madness, and I see no other alternatives.
I turn to Laska. "Comply."
"Sir -"
"S-s-s-s-s. Comply."
She takes a deep breath. "Lower shields. Power down all weapons." I turn to my tactical display. The Falcon is already defenceless; as I watch, the symbols for King Estmere's shields wink out, followed by the Anar's.
"Well," the Andorian Vihl comments over the comms link, "at least, whatever happens, it will be quick."
I do not have the heart to disabuse her. But this offers the best chance for the Fek'lhri to take us alive, and if that happens - well, it will be many things, but quick will sadly not be among them.
"Movement in the Fek fleet," M'Rel reports. The fresh scar on his cheekbone is angry, inflamed.
"Details?"
"Still closing. Weapons range in three minutes... but...." The Klingon frowns. "One of the dreadnoughts has altered course...."
I study the display. M'Rel is right, one of the black towering shapes is moving at an angle to the rest... as I watch, another, too, seems to shift position. I mutter a mantra under my breath, trying to clear my mind -
"The first dreadnought's course now intersects with that of one of the carriers... the carrier is changing vector...." M'Rel's voice becomes a shout. "It's turning the wrong way!"
I can see it. On the screen, the nightmarish shape of a Kar'fi carrier blunders inexorably towards one of the smaller escorts - which veers off, suddenly, only to find itself directly in the path of the dreadnought -
- and the carrier changes course again, and lesser ships scatter wildly as it veers across the sky -
- and suddenly, the wall of Fek'lhri ships is in confusion, vessels darting this way and that - and failing to escape.
The first collision is between a K'Norr escort and a Kar'fi, the smaller ship crumpling as it rams into the carrier's armoured flank, the dull red fires of the Fek'lhri drives abruptly paling into invisibility as first the escort, then the carrier, dies in the blinding flash of a core breach. Frigates and fighters flee from the radiation and the expanding cloud of debris - and there is no safe path for them to flee along; all of a sudden, space is alive with lesser collisions, ships exploding or caroming off one another, a sudden chain reaction of crashes and explosions.
Space grows blindingly bright with the eruption of broken warp cores. I can barely see the first dreadnought die, as the chain reaction spreads throughout the Fek'lhri fleet. Even the destruction of those massive vessels is lost in the spreading, seething mass of flame. It is... almost beautiful, in a way. The way so many of those ships seemed to choose exactly the wrong path to take... a ballet, almost, of self-immolation.
My ship trembles, just a little. I check. The navigational deflector is registering minor impacts, scattered fragments of flying debris from the death of the Fek'lhri armada.
Where those ships were, there is now a cloud of cooling flame and shattered wreckage.
The organic parts of Grau's face are radiating smugness. "What was that?" I demand.
"I remembered a chat I had with an old friend," says Grau, "about no-win scenarios. He told me about some of the scenarios he'd planted for the Kobayashi Maru simulation at Starfleet Academy. I remembered the activation code for this one. I don't think it was the one he actually wound up using. Too obvious. Too deus ex machina. But, I figured, it was a no-win scenario all right, so this one was worth a shot."
"S-s-s-s-s. Because it is all about you."
"I had to guess, and I guessed right. So, then, what's our next move?" Vihl and Oschmann are both lost for words, staring at her. I do not know if they are more appalled by her arrogance or her luck.
"Our situation has not materially improved," I say. "I suppose we should examine the wreckage of the Fek fleet, to see if there is useful information to be gleaned. But if it is just some sort of game...." My voice trails off, because something is happening, on the viewscreen.
Lines of light are glittering across the void... insubstantial lines, some a brilliant golden hue, some a pale white, insipid, almost greyish by comparison. Lines spear through the cloud of debris that is all that is left of the Feks... lines surround us on every side... and some of them -
"Are those curved?" I ask, dubiously. "They look curved...."
"Confirmed," says Laska. "It appears to be... a radial grid. Rings and sectors... and each sector is at least ten thousand kellicams across...."
Something is bothering me. I have seen something like this before... I recite another mantra to clear my mind, and then I notice a light flashing on the command console. The Anar is requesting a private comms channel.
I swivel one eye to look at the communications viewscreen. Both Vihl and Grau seem to be preoccupied by something; they are looking off-screen, and Grau's smug look has been replaced by one of worry. The sudden appearance of the glowing lines, perhaps? I cut them out of the audio channel, and turn my attention to Oschmann. The human renegade looks worried, too. "We are experiencing intermittent malfunctions on our drive systems," she says.
"Details?"
"Hard to be certain, sir." Her mouth tightens a little at that. Oschmann is one who does not like uncertainties, and likes even less to admit to them. "Preliminary diagnostics show no problems... but, as we turn onto certain headings, drive output suddenly drops to zero. It is as if... we were being prevented from moving in some directions."
"S-s-s-s-s." Something clicks inside my head. "Perhaps you are." I turn one eye over to the helm station, and the hulking Gorn shape before it. "Talash. Are we experiencing any drive problems?"
"No, sir."
"Test that. Bring us about, in a full turn. Oschmann. Transmit details of the directions in which the power loss occurs." My fingers move on the tactical console, setting up a map. "S-s-s-s-s. I begin to see." I superimpose the glowing grid lines. "Science. Any analysis as yet?"
"Insubstantial," Siowershoe reports, "and low-energy... holographic projections, I believe, sir, though we are at present unable to determine the location of the projector."
"Extend your visual scan. You should see some lines in other colours - green, blue, red."
"Sir?"
"If I am correct, that is what you will see." I cut the audio channel to the Starfleet ships back in. "Grau. Vihl. Are you, by any chance, experiencing difficulties with your engines?"
On my console, the vectors from Oschmann's data appear. One more confirmation.
"How did you know?" Grau demands.
"You are not the only one who can guess right. What is the nature of your problem?"
Grau's thin lips grow thinner. "We're restricted to something under ten per cent of impulse power," she says, "and even that only on a limited range of headings."
"We have similar power losses," Vihl says, "and are completely immobilized if we're turning to... roughly a ninety-degree arc -"
"On you current heading -" I consult my display "- you are unable to make headway between marks two two five and three two five, am I roughly correct?"
"What the hell is happening now?" Grau demands. "If you know something -"
"I am awaiting final confirmation," I say. I look at Talash.
"Turn completed. No unusual activity, no power drains, helm responding normally," the Gorn reports.
"And that is what I needed." I lean back on the command couch. The new cushions squeak and rustle beneath my weight. "The next move. And yes, this is some sort of game. A particular game - Commander Vihl will know it."
"I will?" Vihl looks nonplussed.
"Thev lin, Commander Vihl."
"Waitaminute," says Grau. "Andorian chess?" That comment earns her a dirty look from Vihl.
"Played on a circular board divided into rings and sectors," I say, "in alternating colours of gold and grey. What do we see on our viewscreens? And our ships are, it seems, restricted... so that their abilities correspond to the moves of some of the game pieces."
"What?" says Grau.
"I think I see," says Vihl.
"In the most common translations of the terminology," I say, "my ship is, it appears, the queen, with movement unrestricted in all directions. The Anar is a rook, able to move normally along rank and file - ring and ray, in the terms adapted to the circular board. But her helm will not answer if she attempts to move on a diagonal."
"What about us?" Grau demands.
"Our ships appear to be the two most mobile pieces on the thev lin board. Yours appear to be the two least mobile. The King Estmere is the lesser pawn, able to move only one space, and able only to move around the ring, or inwards towards the centre of the board - the lesser pawn can never retreat. And you, Vice Admiral, command the greater pawn. You may move one space at a time around the ring, and you may move towards the centre along specific sectors - the first and the tenth rays of the thev lin board. On a conventional board, those rays are outlined in red."
I shoot an enquiring look at Siowershoe. "Confirmed," she says, slowly. "I have visual on... red lines. Patching them through to your tactical board now, sir."
I glance down. "We appear to be on the fourth ray... a weary way to go, before we can advance inwards. Well, no matter. Blue and green?" I demand of Siowershoe.
"Two of the - rings - are so marked, sir."
"The blue ring indicates that we approach the centre of the board - we will all find our movements restricted after that point. All pieces advance only one ring at a time after the ninth ring. Commander Vihl, will you enlighten Vice Admiral Grau as to the meaning of the green ring?"
Vihl swallows. "The three outermost rings of the board are... a safe zone," she says. "Pieces in that region can't be attacked. The green line marks the point at which we become subject to attack."
"Commander Vihl is of course correct," I say. "I wonder what form the opponent will take... though I am convinced that an opponent will be provided."
"And we have to fight them, crippled like this?" I did not think it possible for Grau to look any paler or less healthy, but she has managed it.
"You will have assistance, naturally," I say.
"Big of you," Grau mutters. Oschmann stares at me.
"A natural consequence of the rules of the game," I say. "However this variation plays out... we must assume the objectives remain the same. To bear the pieces of the highest value to the safety of the centre." I smile, rather enjoying the lecture. It is obvious that I am alone in this. No matter. "The highest scoring pieces are the ones with least freedom of movement. If this is a game, we must win it - and to do that, Vice Admiral, my ships must work to protect yours." My smile widens. "You may be comforted, Vice Admiral Grau. This remains, as you said - all about you."
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