"Yes," I say. I settle myself in the command chair - it is stiffer and more upright than the Goroke's Elachi-designed command couch, but somehow it is still more comfortable. "Yes," I say again, "it was good of Shalo to bear me in mind. I must thank her when we meet again."
On the main screen, Rrueo's face appears - vaguely sullen. She has changed little since last we met - she still wears a tangle of Ferasan earrings, her pelt is still midnight blue save for one light stripe across her eyes. But she twitches in her own command chair, as if she is uncomfortable in it.
"What is bothering you?" I ask. "Some aspect of our mission -?"
"No," says Rrueo. "No... it is a trivial point, but -" Annoyance evidently gets the better of her. "Every time Rrueo transfers to a new ship, the bridge is larger than before! It is impractical! Rrueo must use the intercom, now, just to address her officers! And there are targs browsing on the lowest level! Why are there targs? Rrueo is not hungry!"
I smile at her. "Buyer's remorse? Perhaps you should have chosen differently. My own bridge, I assure you, is quite cosy. Intimate, even."
To one side of me, at the main science station, my Klingon exec, Laska, sniffs and mutters something that sounds like "Dream on."
"Rrueo does not doubt it. Rrueo did not expect you to pick something so small... Rrueo's own ship carries one like that as an auxiliary."
"S-s-s-s-s. Oh, no," I say. "Not like this."
The standard Bird of Prey spaceframe has seen many modifications, many elaborations, over the centuries it has been in use. This latest version - technically, the Kor class - is the culmination of certain schools of design. It is definitely not roomy... indeed, it is a compact mass of drives and weapons systems, in which its crew live like parasites in a host. A strong and muscular host. Strong, muscular, fast and dangerous.
"Well," Rrueo says, "you will have a chance to prove it, in perhaps twenty more minutes. If you are satisfied with the tactical plan -"
"I am." I formulated it myself, after all.
"Then Rrueo will hang back, with the Skaldak under cloak, and will move in to protect your toy when it looks in danger of getting broken."
"I will be generous, and leave you something to kill." I turn one eye to look at the tactical console. "We should probably begin to observe subspace silence. There is no point announcing ourselves - prematurely."
"Rrueo agrees. Skaldak out." The screen blanks out, then displays a schematic of the target system. Air hisses out of the ancillary breathing tubes at the sides of my jaw. A sweet sense of anticipation rises within me. "Like old times," I say to Laska.
"Sir?" The small, flat-featured alien, Siowershoe, speaks up from the other side of the bridge.
"The General's career began in a B'Rel class Bird of Prey," Laska explains. Her craggy face breaks into a brief smile as she adds, "Bloodily."
"All the best careers do," I say. "At least in the KDF. Make preparations. Battle stations."
Alarms sound. I rap out the M't-Kh'rhyii sutra with my tongue as I review the mission parameters, one last time, in my mind.
The compressed decalithium, we have learned, was being transported between two branches of the Daggers of QarS - essentially, a home-grown terrorist group in the Empire. The House of QarS was discommendated around the time of the Hobus supernova - I do not know the details - and from then on, its rogue elements have been attempting to win back legitimacy, and to harass and attack those they consider responsible for the House's disgrace. Incompatible goals, but no matter. They are one of dozens of such minor irritants in the Klingon body politic.
And we are approaching their main base - a Class L planetoid on the fringes of Orion space. Here, we have benefited from Shalo's contacts. The Daggers bought protection, originally, from a minor house within the Orion Syndicate; the armistice with the Federation, though, meant an end to commerce raiding for several minor Klingon houses, and they had to turn to other sources of income. One, the House of Verga, decided to... take over... the protection contract. They were not subtle about expelling the Orions - and those Orions were happy to pass details of the security setup to Shalo, when she asked.
So. A raid. Against a comparatively weak enemy, whose forces and dispositions are known to us in advance. Hardly sporting, perhaps... but excellent practice for us, in our new vessels.
"Coming out of warp," Siowershoe reports.
"Battle cloak," I order. Somewhere, Rrueo's ship is doing the same - I will not see her, I hope, unless pressing need arises. It should not. "Long-range telemetry?"
"As expected," says Laska. "Three heavy defence satellites, a wing of Birds of Prey, another of fighters, and a Vor'cha class cruiser to back them up."
"They should have further support nearby, under cloak. S-s-s-s-s. An error. Intercept course for the nearest satellite. Maintain cloak." I swivel one eye to look at the latest addition to my bridge crew. "Tachyon detection?"
She looks like a Klingon at first glance, but she is wearing a monochrome variant on a KDF uniform, and open panels in her face expose circuitry for our inspection. For social purposes, she has a name - Goota, a meaningless pair of syllables. "Tachyon detection grid is - operational," she says in expressionless tones. "Its parameters are - as we were informed. Our battle cloak is - stable. We will not be - detected."
"Excellent. But warn me if that is likely to change." The android's mechanical efficiency, though, will be a major asset in maintaining our cloak. "Range to target?"
"Two thousand kellicams."
"Arm plasma torpedoes. We will fire at minimum safe distance." I allow myself a smile. "I see no reason to drop the cloak, not at this stage." The Verga ships are flying a standard patrol pattern. I am not greatly concerned over them - not at this stage. The firepower of the static satellite platforms is considerably greater, though. So, it is those I must destroy first.
"What of the QarS?" I ask, off-handedly. "Are any of their ships in evidence?"
"Shuttles docked at the surface station, nothing more," says Laska. "I am not sure the QarS have a meaningful fleet, at present. Their Daggers are... distinctly blunted."
"No doubt they are being bled dry, paying what is, effectively, protection money to the House of Verga. If I were not a warrior of the Empire, I would venture to criticise the peculiar social structures of you Klingons...."
"Is Mlkwbrian society any better organized?" Laska pronounces the name of my people... as easily as any humanoid with a normal vocal tract can manage. I could find fault with her lateral consonants, but they are the best she can do, her tongue lacking any transverse keratinous ridges.
"I suppose we, too, have our foibles. If you have a few days to spare, perhaps I can recite the historical epic of L'l'l-th'kr'h-t'a for you. You would understand us so much better, then."
"Perhaps you should keep your mystique, sir," says Laska. "In range."
"Fire torpedoes!"
Nuru-Or shivers as bolts of flame burst from her forward launcher. The first of the hyper-plasma torpedoes slams into the satellite's shields, overloading them, bringing them down. The second punches into the hull armour, spraying it over the sky as flaming vapour. The third proceeds into the satellite's exposed vitals - and its detonation vanishes instantly in the far brighter blast of a core breach. Siowershoe, at the helm, mutters and curses to herself. We do not need to drop the battle cloak in order to fire the torpedoes - but that means we have no shields, and Siowershoe is working hard to avoid any collisions with the debris of the satellite.
"Tachyon detection is - intensifying," Goota reports. "Compensating - as planned. Cloak is - stable."
The Verga forces know of our presence - there can be no doubt of that. Their attack groups are wheeling about. But my new ship has the best cloaking technology known to the Empire, and they have no clue where they should wheel. I watch the tac display with one eye, while checking the sensor repeaters with the other. There is no response from the ground station. That is perplexing.
I sketch out a course on the tac console. "That one next."
Nuru-Or slices invisibly through space while her opponents cast about in confusion. The next satellite explodes towards us on the viewscreen.
"Fire."
And again the torpedoes rage out of the launcher, and again their target burns and dies.
"This is where it gets interesting," says Laska.
Indeed. With only one satellite left, our next target is obvious. The Verga ships are already converging on it. One cruiser, two flights of light vessels, and the guns on the satellite itself - that is more than adequate to set up a killing zone.
If I am foolish enough to permit that. "Drop cloak. Raise shields. Cannons to wide area fire." I study the tac display, target one Bird of Prey. "That one. Subspace jump...." I count off seconds in my head. "Now!"
Nuru-Or is visible, and the Verga ships come about sharply to engage her. And as they do, the subspace jump flicks us across kellicams of space - and we reappear, just behind the target I have indicated.
"All cannons fire!"
And the Nuru-Or shows her full strength. My species has comparatively limited colour vision, but even I can see the difference between our weapons and theirs - the Verga ships have standard disruptors, whereas mine is equipped with retrofit Herald technology, antiproton weapons with an eerie, spectral gleam. Cannon blasts rave out of my ship in a cone of widespread destruction.
The ship ahead of us stands no chance; her screen goes, and then one wing, and then chunks of her hull explode and she spins away uncontrollably, venting air and reaction mass and warp plasma in one cloud of flame. The light fighters stand no better chance, a single bolt is enough to shatter one. The cruiser, comparatively slow and sluggish, is out of position; one of the surviving Birds of Prey vanishes into battle cloak, while the other veers wildly aside on a rapid evasion pattern. That leaves the satellite, and its guns are already speaking. Disruptor blasts savage my forward shields.
"Sustained fire on the satellite, now! Fire torpedoes!"
The plasma torps are, by torpedo standards, large and slow - they can be targeted and brought down before impact. If I give my target that chance. I ignore the battering of my forward shields, ignore the first flash-bang of a transient overload on a bridge console - concentrate on sending a barrage of antiproton fire into the satellite's shields, bringing them down, clearing a path for the plasma torps. If just one of them gets past the satellite's fire and hits the target, it should be enough -
In the event, two do. More than enough. "Hard about, three hundred mark four!" And Nuru-Or swerves aside, away from the core breach as the satellite goes up. Two Birds of Prey and a Vor'cha left. The cloaked one shimmers back into visibility, close on my tail, weapons stabbing at my aft shield. A good tactic. I applaud it, with my rear-mounted turrets. The enemy ship slews away and explodes.
That still leaves two, and they are trying to bracket me between them, to blast my shields down from both flanks. My shield strength is lower than I would like - I send the ship into an evasion pattern, then bring her around again, to target the last Bird of Prey. Nuru-Or is not only stronger than that ship, she is faster, too. The starfield whirls vertiginously on my screen, and then the enemy settles neatly into the targeting reticle, and my cannons blaze with their ghostly bolts again, and the enemy is dead.
The Vor'cha is coming up fast, and her heavy disruptors are becoming a problem. I wheel the ship about once more, to bring the cruiser into my forward arc -
- and suddenly it is gone.
I reacquire the target in seconds, but by then there is no point. Rrueo's Skaldak has come out of cloak. The Gorkon-class battlecruiser has engaged its subspace snare, drawn the Vor'cha in front of it - and now, it engages another specialist weapons system, the fore-mounted disruptor autocannon. I watch almost in amusement as the blinding storm of disruptor bolts shatters the cruiser's shields and starts to chew through the armour and the hull itself. I wonder if it will chew all the way through the ship and out the other side. As it happens, it chews as far as the warp core, and that is enough.
"Incoming communication from - Skaldak."
"On screen." Rrueo's face appears. "Well, I let you have one," I say.
"Rrueo appreciates it. How is your toy?"
I glance over the damage control board. "Barely even play-worn. Yourself?"
"Rrueo must remember this vessel is not so agile as Brathana. That last core breach was almost close enough to damage Rrueo's shields. However. We are both intact, and the Daggers of QarS await us."
"Indeed." Though there has still been no reaction from the surface station, and that worries me. "Well. Let us go down and reason with them."
---
Nuru-Or comes in for a landing on a low ridge, overlooking the dome of the QarS base. Just one environment dome - and I count three Toron and four Kivra shuttles on the apron beside it. There are fixed-mount disruptor emplacements, too, but they are silent. The whole base is silent.
This bothers me.
Further along the ridge, a gleaming skeletal shape drops from the sky to settle onto the rock: Rrueo's auxiliary Hoh'SuS Bird of Prey - not as effective as my ship, but still more than enough to cope with any shuttlecraft. Between us, we can blast those disruptors, crack open that dome, any time we wish.
"Still no response to our hails?" I ask Goota.
"Negative."
"Strange. S-s-s-s-s. I could have sworn we made ourselves noticeable. Well. We must knock at their door, it seems. Laska, you have the conn. Siowershoe, Goota, with me. Security detachment will meet us at the main lock."
And we leave the ship. The planetoid is small, its gravity light; we move easily - in armour, with full personal shields, and with weapons ready. I carry a polaron pistol in each fist, trophies from a fight with the Vaadwaur. Out of the corner of one eye, I spot another force moving down the ridge, led by a familiar loping figure. Rrueo leads from the front, like any good Ferasan warrior. Our two groups come together at the edge of the landing apron.
"Rrueo is perturbed." She has a disruptor pistol in one hand, a tricorder in the other, and a frown on her face.
"So am I. S-s-s-s-s. They should not be so - silent."
"Rrueo detected no power to shields or weapons, no change in alert status, as we approached. Those shuttles are empty. The cannons are powered down. Rrueo does not like this." Her slit-pupilled eyes grow vague, unfocused. "Rrueo feels no mind-tones. Beyond ourselves, that is."
I stare at the dome. "Are they all out?"
"Rrueo is beginning to think so." She stalks forward, scanning with her tricorder, muttering to herself.
It seems there is nothing to shoot. I holster my pistols. I stride towards the dome - it will be better to be inside it, in any case. The temperature out here is barely above freezing, and there is only just enough oxygen to breathe. I see an airlock entrance let into the side of the dome, and I make for that.
The control panel for the door is standard Klingon design. I study it for a moment, but I see no security measures. They have not even locked their doors.... I reach for the control.
And there is a sudden blue blur in the air beside me, and Rrueo's hand slaps mine aside, hard. I turn to face her. "What -?"
"Rrueo has readings." She holds up her tricorder. "Complex organics in the air, inside the dome. Alpha-furanizol - a rapid respiratory poison. Rrueo is reading, also, other organic masses. Bodies. Dead ones. None living." Her whiskers twitch. "That is the reason for their silence. It is the silence of the grave."
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