STAR TREK - TOS - 67 - The Great Starship Race

VIP免费

2024-12-20 1 0 516.42KB 233 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

STAR TREK (R)

THE GREAT STARSHIP RACE

PROLOGUE

Aboard the Romulan

Cruiser Scorah

"Valdus, you are a coward. I vomit on

cowards. Cowards should be cooked and eaten. No--

not cooked. And not swallowed. They should be chewed

raw, then spat out. When we return to the

homeworlds, you, your face, your body, your

uniform, your helmet, your smell ... will be

removed from my Swarm, walked off this ship and

stripped of rank. I never again want even to see

you or any sons you may unexpectedly sire.

If I had another pilot, you would be off the

bridge already. Take your post and turn your

eyes away from me. Anyone else who freezes

at the controls will be put outside the ship and

dragged home on a tether. Someone other than this

worm step up here and give me a report on that

vessel out there. And someone clear this smoke from

here!"

The scorn in Primus Oran's voice was

almost enough to move the smoke aside by itself.

Behind him, the object of that scorn,

Subcenturion Valdus Ionis Zorokove,

stepped away, actually stepped backward, and was

particular about keeping his eyes down even after he

turned to his helm. The Primus's blue

jacket and the red fur up the right arm seared his

memory instantly.

Smoke obscured sight of his own feet, andfor

an instant he was disoriented. Malfunctions,

malfunctions. Living and mechanical.

He maneuvered by simple habit through the

cramped bridge--low ceiling, subdued light,

shadows designed in, everything the colors of the

smoke, bulkheads angled to make the crew always

feel as if they were crawling about the underside of a

giant insect. His comrades turned away as he

squirmed past, partly for his benefit, partly for

theirs.

For some reason he kept hearing his own name over

and over in his mind. Before ten minutes ago, he

had been the pride of his family. Suddenly he

wanted to be anyone else, anywhere else.

The Primus is right. Cowardice endangers

all. And I am a coward. I am the

day's disease. Perhaps if I concentrate, I can

find a way to go home in even more humiliation.

Already he had accumulated a demotion, on

top of sitting on his backside in backspace,

in the back of a patrol vessel, doing

exploratory mapping work while the great war between

the Empire and the Federation raged. There would be no

guarding borders or putting down uprisings for this

lucky Imperial Swarm. The wars would

probably be over before the Scorah and its crew

finished drawing pictures of the stars out here.

Valdus didn't understand it, but the war with the

Federation planets was sucking the Empire dry.

Conquest had seemed guaranteed against this

foolishly openhanded, eager fledgling assembly

of planets that didn't even have a dominant

race among them. Surely, at first strike they

would crumble, and the Empire would have control over

vastly more space and resources.

But that's not what had happened. At the

Empire's first strike on an outpost, the

Federation had pulled together with an indignation never

expected, and began to fight back. The Empire

had attempted to skin a sleeping animal. Soft

and slothful while dozing, the beast had awakened at

first cut, ready to fight to the death.

"Unidentified ship is approaching," Commander

Rioc reported. "A very old and simple

design. Low warp capability only. No

response to any hails."

"Move us closer," Oran said. "They could be

a hostile ship in disguise."

Valdus chewed on his lip, and eased the

Scorah forward. He felt the coldness of his

fellow crewmen toward him. Somehow they were

expected to work with him for a few more days without having

anything to do with him.

Mutterings, orders, responses rumbled like

thunder in the distance, but for several seconds

Valdus could make no sense of it past the cloud

of his personal shame. He dreamed of turning to the

Primus, announcing how much he wished to leave

duty on board the Scorah now. Almost as much

as Primus Oran wanted him off. Alm.

But even after the Primus's condemnation and

sentencing, he still didn't have the courage to do it.

Valdus started plotting possible pivoting

maneuvers, just to be ready. In his mind Valdus

saw the Primus's large sunken eyes and

angular beard, and listened.

"Condition of our Swarm ships?" the Primus

asked. "And distance--"

Then Oran tripped and fell onto his side

against a support strut.

Valdus quickly turned away, like a dog that

had been slapped. The other four crewmen

occupying the small bridge paused, but no one

moved to help. Even Tarn--theirthe bold, dark,

intuitive centurion who everyone said would command the

sky some day--stayed back in the corner near

engineering access. Along with cowards, the Primus

had clarified to the crew that he loathed assistance

for old wounds. He barely tolerated help for

new ones.

Valdus gritted his teeth. And I will

give no help.

Only Rioc approached the fallen fleet

leader, but even he made no attempt to assist.

"Burn this foot," Oran grunted. "I should

have had it cut off." He forced himself up onto an

elbow, then over onto his knees, and managed

somehow to grip the support strut and rise to his

feet. "Condition?"

"All ships are on alert, ready to assist."

"Distance of the nearest ship? Don't make me

bark, Rioc."

The commander gazed at him, and coughed on the

smoke that was barely starting to clear despite the

whine of ventilators. "Worshipper and Whip

Hand are nearest, Primus. They can each be here

in one-third day."

As he straightened, Oran glanced at the

small sensor screens. "Alert to be ready."

The snapping, inaccurate, hard-to-read

screens were near Valdus, who had to fight not

to lean in the other direction, away from Oran.

He felt the Primus's glare sliding past him

like a creature of the deep caves.

The ventilators choked, and the smoke swirled

around them again, antagonizing everyone.

Improvement came slowly in the Empire.

Too often their brightest engineers were penalized,

demoted, even executed for failures in

experimentation, so there was less and less

experimentation. All that was left were the worst

engineers, the timid ones.

Someday we will have better, Valdus thought,

or we will go out and take better.

Shabby engineering. Poor manufacturing.

Eccentric controls. Officers who were ...

"I have more detail on that ship," Commander

Rioc reported. "Not a ship, precisely.

More like a long-.tance, long-term capsule.

Minimized living space, primary area is

storage. Presumably food, possibly

medicine. Three life-forms. Correction ...

four."

"Five, sir," the centurion corrected

again. "This blip in the corner--"

"Very well, five."

Bluntly, Oran interrupted, "Dock with

them."

Tightening his elbows against his ribs, Valdus

blinked and bit the inside of his lip. Yes,

dock with them. Give no consideration to caution, no

rein to the advance. That was the reputation of the

Primus Oran. He was famous for this trait.

He had won battles with it. His name was known in

the Tricameron for it.

Valdus lowered his eyes and forced a swallow.

I will never again be cautious.

Roaring, the Primus demanded, "Do I have

to say it again?"

"Prepare to dock," the commander related to his

crew in a subdued tone, for they could not move on

the Primus's command alone unless the order

affected the entire six-ship patrol Swarm.

Rioc looked at Oran as though waiting for

something else. Some clarification or

meticulousness.

None came.

The bridge manipulation officer said,

"Universal cowl ready, Commander."

Rioc nodded. "We are ready to dock,

Primus."

"Have I gone deaf, Rioc?"

Rioc sighed and gestured a silent order

to begin docking.

The procedure was awkward and irritating. They

had to abort and approach again four separate

times. Each time the Primus's face grew a

shade grayer, until at last the crew was ready

to crawl outside and force the cowl to fit.

Finally, by tilting their own ship until the

thrusters whined, they were able to link up and make the

"leakage" lights go off.

"Open the hatchway," the Primus snapped

instantly. No sensor checks, no tests of

any kind.

"What if their air is poisonous?"

Rioc asked.

Now Valdus did look up, and so did

everyone else. Poison?

The Primus snapped, "Then we hold our

breath. Or shall we all be as priggish as you are,

Rioc? I can send you to your quarters, where you will have

more time to build those little replicas of ships you have

battled. All those pointless Federation

duplicates you have dangling from your private

ceiling, as though you conquered them alone. Now, the

hatch."

Commander Rioc seemed to shrug without moving.

He gestured again for the crew to act, for the hatch

to be cranked open.

Then Valdus heard Rioc quietly utter

to the centurion, "Put the translator on

line. Prepare to turn it off whenever I look

at you. No more than a look, do you understand?"

"Yes, Commander, I understand exactly," the

centurion murmured back.

"Hands on disruptors."

So the commander and the centurion would commit caution

on the Primus's behalf.

The centurion motioned three of the bridge

crew to back away, in case the foremost were

attacked or struck down when the hatch opened.

Valdus was one of them. He moved back without a

^w because now he knew what he was. Cowards

always moved back.

His disruptor was cold, unassuring against his

palm. He looked for fear in his mind, his chest,

his limbs, but felt none. Perhaps it had been

pushed aside by humiliation.

The hatch slid open, to the side, then upward,

out of the way. Five faces s tared at them, piled

up like victims of a crash. Faces from yellow

to copper, all with large wide eyes, innocuous,

gawking, flat brows up, mouths open--how could

five creatures all have the same expression?

Primus Oran huffed, relaxed visibly,

turned to the commander, but swallowed a comment.

The visitors were already climbing through the hatch--

And the first one through plunged at the Primus and

took him in a body embrace that pitched them

both backward into Rioc, then all three against the

pilot console.

Startled, Valdus also flailed away and

bumped the bulkhead, and two others drew their

disruptors.

"No!" Rioc blurted. "Wait."

Slowly Valdus realized that this was no

attack. In fact, if it wasn't pure

delight, it was pure stupidity.

Both, he decided as he regained his balance.

"Translator," the Primus grunted,

canting his eyes toward Rioc.

Primus Oran didn't even push the

visitor off. The visitor was just hanging there

around the Primus's neck like a big decoration,

giggling and babbling in a language Valdus

didn't recognize. Nor, apparently, did

the senior officers, who had been much farther and

wider in their experiences than Valdus.

The other four visitors were through now, not even

one staying behind for safety. No caution here either.

They came through, also babbling, grinning, and

grasping hands with the Scorah's bridge crew.

Their clothing, a very basic space survival

suit with hook-up accesses for ... anyone's

guess. Valdus hadn't seen a suit like that

since early training, andfora few moments it stole

his attention.

When he roused himself from this bout of curious

nostalgia, the hatch was closed, Primus

Oran was free from his manacle, and a bizarre

standoff had begun.

The centurion held a medical unit up

near the five big-eyed strangers, but only

scowled at what he saw. An unimpressed

kind of scowl.

"Weak," he said quietly, toward the

Primus.

"I can see that. Is the translator on line

yet?"

Rioc didn't answer or even nod. He

touched the panel he had been preparing.

""Happy"' ... ".tance"' ...

"wait"' or "waiting"' ... "population"'

or "p"' ... "alone"' ...

"astrotelemetry"' ... "quasi-stellar"'

... "galactic voice"' or "noise"'

... "hopeful"' ... "lost hope"' ...

"foreign search"' ... "think"' or "thought"'

... "unproductive"' or "fruitless"'--"

The computer translated the foreigners' ^ws,

at least key parts of sentences, halting along in

a grim, utilitarian monotone completely

opposite to the motions and expressions of the people

talking. It was entertaining, had Primus Oran

been the type to be entertained.

Rioc glanced at the centurion, then at

Oran as the translator snapped off.

"Can you get anything from that?" the Primus

drawled.

"They've been looking for something and didn't

find it," the centurion supplied from a shadow.

"They were looking in space," the engineer offered.

"The computer is confused," Rioc said. "Too

many of them talking. Which is the leader? All their

uniform markings are the same. They all look

hungry."

"Engineering report," Oran requested.

The engineer leaned past a strut. "Their ship

is basic early interstellar exploratory

vessel, all equipment of a picture-taking or

measuring nature. They have very weak sensor

capability, no defenses, no weapons, only

primary light speed and limited maneuvering

capabilities at sublight."

The visitors were touching and laughing again, in

fact almost dancing with delight.

Valdus smiled. His muscles had been

welded by the Primus's excoriations, and now he

was suddenly smiling.

But so was everyone else ... was Oran smiling?

A man who'd had those muscles surgically

removed with his first promotion?

"Get them basic drawing materials,"

Oran said. His voice was lilting as he clasped

the hand of the next shaggy-haired visitor who

approached him. "Prepare a holographic star

map. Get them to show where they are from. Location of

their--" As he was engulfed in another embrace

... his--engaging, resourceful little planet."

Several Empire officers smiled and bounced

to action, backslapping each other in a manner

reserved for weddings and only among clan members

who trusted each other. Suddenly men who had never

trusted each other were standing side by side. Tensions

melted away. The joy of these idiotically

naive visitors was infectious.

We're going to get credit for finding them!

Valdus drew in a refreshing breath. He

knew what was happening. The Primus would get that

information, and this ship ... would suddenly be crewed

by heroes.

An unexploited planet. A rare prize

with sufficient resources to support a culture

intelligent enough to be turned into a workforce. A

whole planet to be mined, milled,

to provide materials and a reasonably skilled

herd of people who could be taught to manufacture

whatever the Empire needed in its war with the

Federation. Advanced enough to be useful, primitive

enough to offer no resistance.

An Imperial dream. A planet of

slaves.

"Maps, maps," Primus Oran chanted,

"this sector."

"Coming," the commander said.

An electrical fizz hurt their ears, then

a pop, and abruptly a wall-size

holographic star chart of this portion of deep

space filled the center of the bridge. Rioc and

two other crewmen were briefly awash in primary

colors as they stepped through it to get out of the way.

Silence fell on the bridge. All gazed

at glowing stars, hovering nebulae, streaking

comets, overlaid by thin red navigational beams.

The newcomers paused, and the one who had first come

through the hatch frowned at the holograph. He

glanced at his shipmates, conversed briefly, but

they were clearly confused. Not by what they were

supposed to do, but by the picture they saw.

"They see nothing familiar here," Commander

Rioc said.

Oran nodded. "Expand the grid."

The holograph swelled, grew more

intimidating, demanding attention.

The visitors fell suddenly silent--

startled. They blinked their large light-catching

eyes and retreated nervously toward each other.

The mood of joy began to slip.

Valdus felt his own smile fall away, and

held very still.

Primus Oran motioned to the aliens, then at

the holographic star map. "Well? Show us."

The visitors flinched, drew their shoulders

inward at his tone. A steady tone, yes, but with a

huff of threat.

They want to show us, Valdus realized,

but they don't know how to read the map. Have they

ever seen a picture of space? Primus

Oran wants that planet--

"Can the computer explain," Oran said with his

teeth tight, "in their language?"

The centurion leaned over a screen.

"Insufficient primary vocabulary. Doubtful

accuracy as yet."

"Don't we have a linguist on board?"

"No, Primus, there is not a linguist on

board anywhere in the Swarm, and you know no one

puts a linguist on any Empire ship that is not

a diplomatic ship, and that in the current

circumstances we have no diplomatic ships

either."

Valdus stared at the centurion, who continued

to stare at the small screen without apology.

Reaching out with one hand in a motion he hoped was

unthreatening, Valdus caught the arm of the first

visitor and pulled him toward the humming star

map, pointed at the visitor's chest, then at the

map.

Gaping at him, the visitor seemed to want

to comply and moved forward again toward the star map,

frowning and looking for a point of reference--

Then fate turned against them. The visitor's

clumsy boot came down on Oran's old

injury, and because of the thickness of the old-style

space boot, the visitor didn't realize

until too late that he was standing on his host's

foot. Didn't realize--until Oran choked

in pain and lashed out. His knuckles crashed across

the alien's cheekbone.

Apprehension burst over the well-bbing. Thunder

broke on the bridge. The alien flew

backward and landed among his own kind like a

gamepiece in some arena contest, and they all went

down. The aliens sank back in fear.

In the corner, Valdus felt his senses

blur. Distrust welled inside him.

"I want your planet!" Oran shouted,

bearing down on them. "I will boil your hearts

to get what I want!"

Rioc slammed into him, pushing him away from the

aliens and on top of Valdus, who did all

he could to push back while the officers shouted over

him.

"What are you doing!" Rioc demanded.

Oran struggled. "I'm interrogating them!"

"Not very well!"

"Will it be your heart I boil, Rioc?"

Paranoia washed over Valdus. He looked

at the faces of shipmates with whom he had served

for two seasons, and those faces became enemies

before his very eyes. Enemies, enemies. He had

to get out from beneath them, had to get out of this trap--th

deathtrap--

Suddenly the engineer pushed at his assistant.

The assistant lashed out with the side of his

disruptor--when had weapons been drawn?

A bright reed of energy pierced the bridge

headers, cutting downward into the controls, and

sliced one of the visitors cleanly in half.

Suddenly everyone was fighting, arguing, defensive.

What moments ago had been a crew in harmony

now suddenly was a tangle of vulgarities.

Slipping on the mutilated visitor's

blood as it pooled, Valdus pushed past his

crewmates. He had to get away from here.

Away from all these who were against him.

I can't breathe--they'll kill me by stopping

me from breathing--

Even as Oran was propelled into a support

strut, he bellowed, "It is the natural way

to conquer or be conquered! I will not perpetrate

immorality by failing to take advantage of this

natural treasure!"

"Not me," Valdus gasped. "Not me !"

Terror spread through him. In a corner, the

aliens crouched together. Valdus saw them as the

horror they were. Their faces were pinched, pale,

their eyes contracted. His hands turned cold.

He felt his face pale to ash, saw his

comrades' faces go gray too.

But there was horror too in his crewmates--

all this time they had been enemies, and he had been

duped into working with them. His chest grew tighter,

tighter--

He pressed his shoulder blades against the

bulkhead and tried to breathe within the cloud of ghoulish

discomfort--ghoulish because it came from within himself. This

grisly sense of dread--his life in danger.

He pushed away from Rioc and Oran as they

shouted at each other, but not soon enough.

Not quickly enough to avoid being splattered by blood

as Oran drew a utility blade and slashed

Rioc across the throat.

Rioc gagged, twisted away, snatched at his

exposed windpipe with one hand and at Valdus with the

other, then crumpled against Valdus, forcing him

to trip.

Valdus choked with sudden savage terror,

trying to pull away from the clawing corpse.

Oran spun on the visitors, his knife

dripping. The aliens shrieked and huddled, faces

filled with doom as they realized what would happen

to them now.

Oran plunged at them, and in the span of a

gasp two aliens were sliced to death,

gushing dark red blood all over the others. Then

the centurion attacked Oran, the engineer

attacked the centurion, the sensor officer and the

guards all turned on each other, and Valdus

saw it spreading before him ...

A clear path toward the engineering corridor.

While slaughter erupted behind him, Valdus

ran. He wanted to get away from the enemies

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

STARTREK(R)THEGREATSTARSHIPRACEPROLOGUEAboardtheRomulanCruiserScorah"Valdus,youareacoward.Ivomitoncowards.Cowardsshouldbecookedandeaten.No--notcooked.Andnotswallowed.Theyshouldbechewedraw,thenspatout.Whenwereturntothehomeworlds,you,yourface,yourbody,youruniform,yourhelmet,yoursmell...willberemovedfr...

展开>> 收起<<

STAR TREK - TOS - 67 - The Great Starship Race.pdf

共233页,预览47页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

STAR TREK - TOS - 67 - The Great Starship Race

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: