Star Trek - TNG - Strike Zone

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

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STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.,

under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

For Myra, Shana and Guinevere,

Who let me get my work done

Acknowledgments

Many readers are irritated by acknowledgments pages, because they feel the

author is indulging himself at their expense. But they don’t want to skip the

acknowledgments because they’re afraid they might be missing something, or

perhaps the author might somehow be offended.

Consider this a free pass. If you wish to skip the acknowledgments, do so

without guilt or fear of retribution. But, please, don’t begrudge the

existence of these following words. You see, for the people who are mentioned

herein, it will doubtlessly be the high point of their boring, pathetic little

lives.

Thanks (and blame, I suppose) for this work can be divided up among the

following:

Howard Weinstein (or, as his friends call him, Mr. Weinstein), who badgered me

into calling Bob Greenberger seven years ago and set me on a crooked path to

writing;

Bob Greenberger, editor and Trek maven, who, years later, badgered me into

calling Dave Stern;

Kurt Busiek, writer and newlywed, who also badgered me into calling Dave

Stern;

Dave Stern, editor of this book, who took the call;

Sharon Jarvis, my agent, and her able assistant Joanie Winston, who also take

my calls;

The August Party Crew: Mary Bloemker (who still hauls out my early fanzine

work just to watch me scream); the Burnsides (T.J., Jamie, Malcolm, Robin, and

the little Burnsides); Tom Chafin (whose impression of Commander Riker must be

seen to be believed); Rosie lanni (who seems incredibly willing to watch my

kids); Rich Kolker (the only deity I know personally); Pat and Jill O’Neill

and the little O’Neills; Sheila (”This isn’t science fiction. This is Star

Trek!”) Willis; plus others too numerous to count (about 27);

A.E LaVelle, Sara Paul and the rest of the STC and Second Age gang, and Steve

Kitty who introduced us;

David Peters, the brilliant writer of the Photon series;

Wendy Goldstein who was there at the beginning;

Tinker and Susan . . . you know who you are;

All the people who have praised my first novel, Knight Life, (which has

nothing to do with Star Trek, but I had to get a plug in);

Bill and Miggy for all their support;

Max and Steve for playing backup;

The whole crew at Marvel, DC and First Comics, just for the hell of it, but

particularly Bobbie Chase and Howard Mackie, who didn’t bust my chops during

this book’s deadline crunch; Carol Kalish also for the hell of it; Steve

Saffel, who gave me the best idea I never used, and who also wishes to make it

clear that his boring, pathetic little life has yet to have a high point;

To the Net, particularly Moriarty, Reverend Mom, Karen Williams, Doc Samson,

and Jayembee;

Gunter and Dalia David, who let me go to a Star Trek convention

convention; and Martin and Claire Kasman, who gave me somebody good to meet

there;

And lastly, Keith Roberts, who got me interested in Star Trek back in seventh

grade. Gimme a call, huh?

Prologue

THE SAND CRUNCHED beneath the sole of Budian’s three-toed boot. Then he

stopped so suddenly that his feet skidded just a bit beneath him, much to the

amusement of his immediate crew of three. He spun around, hissing between his

sharpened teeth. “Shut up! Shut up, the lot of you!”

If one did not have a Universal Translator one would have heard only a series

of gutteral grunts, coughs, and snarls, with an occasional body slap for

emphasis. The Kreel, for such was their race called, were notable for having

one of the singularly least elegant languages in all the known galaxy.

Their exterior was just as appealing as their language. The Kreel had spindly

legs that, in one of nature’s more curious design aberrations (right up there

with the bumblebee and the duckbilled platypus), supported a massively

sinewed, almost triangular torso. Their arms were long, their knuckles hanging

almost down to their knees. They took great pride in their bodies and were not

shy about displaying them, usually sporting breeches and skimpy tunics cut to

display a maximum amount of muscle. This was unfortunate for other races,

since Kreel skin was unbelievably wrinkled, dry, and red, as if they all had

permanent cases of sunburn. In addition, a thin layer of coarse, matted hair,

spotted their bodies.

Their heads seemed to rise up straight from their shoulders. As a

result, when they turned to look to the side or behind them, they had to

practically twist all the way around. They tended toward large lantern jaws,

and their eyes were huge, almost like handballs—appropriate for a race whose

home planet seemed shrouded in almost perpetual gloom. The planet they were on

now—under a blazing alien star—was so appallingly opposite from their home

that it was physically painful.

In response to Budian’s command, the three other members of the Kreel landing

party quickly bowed their heads (by bending slightly at the waist, almost in

the way the traditional Japanese did). Budian smiled then, showing his teeth

once more, before gesturing that his second-in-command should join him.

“What do you think, Aneel?” said Budian. “What do the instruments say?”

Aneel pulled out the detection device that was based loosely on the design of

a Federation tricorder, a marvelous instrument that current Kreel technology

didn’t have a chance in hell of duplicating. He swung the device around

hopefully, and then said nervously, “I’m not getting anything. I think it’s

broken.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” said Aneel cautiously.

“Fix it! Fix it, you feldling idiot!”

Unnerved by his commander’s display of temper, Aneel did the only thing he

could: He smacked the detector with the side of his fisted, three-fingered

hand.

The detector obediently lit up and started to hum contentedly. Aneel blinked

in surprise and then looked to his commander for approval. Budian nodded

curtly and then said “Which way?”

Aneel checked the readings on the detector and pointed. “Over there.”

Slowly, they made their way in the direction that Aneel led them. Budian was

one step behind and to the right. He was trying to watch everywhere at

once—watch Aneel, watch his own men behind him, because he didn’t trust a

single one of the pack, and, most of all, watch the sky.

The last wouldn’t have done him the least bit of good, he knew, because if

that accursed Other Race showed up (damned be their name and barren be their

women) to make a fuss over this planet (which was indisputably in Kreel

territory), then there was no possible way that Budian was going to be able to

see them in orbit from the planet surface. The idea was preposterous. He knew

that, and yet he couldn’t help himself as he kept glancing heavenward.

It was midday, and the air was just hanging there, the sky a blistering,

uniform red. In the distance, Budian could hear the steady chittering of

insects. No potential threat, but it was annoying.

“Through there.”

Budian looked up, mentally chiding himself for his lapse in attention. Such

lapses could prove fatal in the future. “Through where, Aneel?” he demanded.

Aneel was pointing straight ahead, but before them was only a wall of solid

rock—part of a large mountain range that seemed to extend before them.

“Through there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How the flarg do we get through there?”

Aneel gestured helplessly. “I don’t know, sir.”

Budian let out the sigh of one who does not suffer fools gladly—either that or

the sigh of one who is afraid he’s about to be made to look like a fool. He

reached for his belt and pulled out his weapon. “Stand back,” he said,

gripping the disruptor tightly with both

hands and bracing himself. The kick on these weapons was not to be taken

lightly.

Ten feet away from the mountainside he fired, blasting a steady wave of pure

sound at the mountain. Rock and dirt exploded, covering the Kreel with a fine

layer of filth. This did not bother them particularly; Kreel were not renowned

for bathing.

“You’re doing it, sir!” shouted Aneel. Budian nodded, keeping it up until so

much dust was swirling up that even they, with their enlarged eyes, couldn’t

see much. His finger lifted away from the trigger and the blast ceased.

“Wonderful, sir!” said Aneel.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Budian stood and watched, silently urging the dirt out of the way so that they

could see just what, if anything, they had uncovered.

Within moments, the debris had settled, and Budian’s breath caught in

surprise.

There was an opening. Clear as anything, there was an opening. There had been

some sort of door there before; gleaming metal edges were still visible where

the disruptor had torn it away. But now they had access to whatever it was

that lay inside.

The Kreel glanced at one another and then, out of deference, stepped aside and

indicated that Budian should go first.

There were times, it occurred to Budian, when being the leader wasn’t all that

it was cracked up to be.

The sleek battlecruiser Kothulu settled into orbit around the planet which

was, at present, simply designated as DQN 1196. The blazing red sun, a paltry

several million miles off, cast a gentle glow off the gleaming hull of the

ship.

“Commander?”

The commander did not look up immediately. One never looked up immediately

when a subordinate requested attention. It gave the impression that you were

anxious to hear what he had to say. A good commander, particularly a good

Klingon commander, always made it appear that whatever the subordinate was

about to say the Commander was already aware of it. The unspoken message was

“Why did it take you so long to report the obvious?”

“Commander?” came the prompt again.

Count to three, turn, look, then speak. “Yes, Tron.”

“Picking up life-form readings from planet surface.”

The commander nodded. “Kreel, I’d wager.”

A pause. Then Tron nodded. Keeping just the slightest touch of admiration out

of his voice he said, “I believe so, sir.” Subordinates knew that you never

let ranking officers be aware when you were impressed by some feat of theirs.

Once again the commander nodded, his massive, ridged head bobbing just a bit.

“So our intelligence was correct, then. The Kreel scum are rooting around in

this system.”

“What is there around to interest them, Commander?” Tron asked, then promptly

chided himself mentally. Never ask a question. It implies you don’t know.

Too late, though. The commander had heard.

“What is there, Tron?” he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the

entire bridge crew. “Nothing. Nothing of any interest except to a backward

race such as the Kreel.”

Slowly, the commander stood up. Tron’s fingers played across the intercom. His

mind jumped ahead, anticipating his commander’s thoughts. “The transporter

room is prepared to beam them up at your command, sir,” he said.

The commander sniffed in disdain. “Allow that Kreel slime to set foot aboard

our magnificent vessel? Even in chains, they would not be worthy of that. Take

a landing team, Tron, and find out what they’re up to. See what they’ve

found.”

“Yes, Commander. Although,” he added in his deep, gravelly voice, “you did say

that there was nothing of interest down there.”

“True,” replied the commander easily.

“Then how could they possibly . . . ?”

The commander turned and took several short steps over, bringing himself eye-

to-eye with Tron. “Even worms,” he said, “can turn up interesting tidbits in a

moldering corpse.”

The Kreel blinked in astonishment, unable to summon any of their usual bluster

and arrogance.

When they had stepped through the newly blasted hole in the mountainside, they

had discovered a stairway that led straight down into darkness. They shined a

light down into it, but the beam seemed to make only the barest dent in the

overwhelming blackness. Budian naturally (and reluctantly, although he covered

it well) went first, the others following behind him in single file.

They walked slowly down metal steps that seemed to trail off into infinity.

Aneel glanced down at one point and silently noted the fact that the steps

were not the least bit dusty, and he then made mention of that fact to his

commander. “It’s as if,” Aneel added, “they were somehow just repelling dirt.”

Budian snapped back, “Then it’s fortunate that they don’t just throw you right

off.”

From then on, Aneel decided he would keep his observations to himself.

Eventually, they reached the bottom of the stairs and there, several

several meters ahead of them, was a large, gleaming metal door. Detailed

symbols were etched on it, symbols that the Kreel, who stared at them in

confusion, could not even begin to understand. But when they got to within a

few feet of the door it silently opened.

The Kreel blinked in the light that overwhelmed them. They pulled out their

disruptors, ready in case something attacked them while they were momentarily

disoriented. But nothing attacked, and the disorientation soon passed.

They stepped into the light and were stunned by what they saw.

They were standing at the head of a corridor that branched off in two

different directions: Both paths were massive tunnels, gleaming metal and

arching in high curves above them.

The tunnels were at least twenty feet high, and upon closer inspection were

constructed of curved tiles, each about two feet square, joined so smoothly

that the seams were barely visible. Budian ran his fingers across them, and

even though he could see the divisions, he could not feel them. He shook his

head (and, as a result, his torso) in amazement. “What could have made this?”

he whispered. In the silence, his voice seemed to echo.

Aneel made vague gestures and wasn’t able to come up with a reply. No matter.

Budian hadn’t really expected one.

He gestured to the other two members of the group. “You two,” he said “go that

way.” He indicated the corridor branching off to the left. “Aneel . . . you’re

with me.”

This news was less than thrilling to Aneel. Not only would he have preferred

to be with someone other than the leader, he frankly would have opted to

remain back in the ship in the first place. The ship which was, even now,

sitting serenely on the planet surface waiting for them to return.

How much easier, thought Aneel, it would be if the Kreel had transporter

capability. But those techniques were used by wealthier and more advanced

races. Not the Kreel. Not the Kreel who were known as warlike, backward

scavengers. What they could do with the kind of weaponry used by the . . .

the . . .

He spat. Budian looked at him in mild surprise. “Is that to be considered a

criticism?” Budian asked in a very dangerous tone.

“No sir,” said Aneel, in such an offhand manner that Budian realized he was

telling the truth. “I was only thinking of the Klingons.”

“May their ships dissolve in piles of rust and their sun go nova,” said Budian

quickly.

They both spat, then pressed on, leaving little bubbling traces of

expectoration on the floor behind them. They took some degree of comfort in

cursing the Klingons at any opportunity, simply because they knew that the

Klingons were so far advanced beyond them that cursing and spitting were the

only things they could really do.

As they walked away, a small section of the floor came to life. The metal

rippled ever so slightly, and the spit disappeared without a trace.

* * *

“They’re definitely not here,” said Spyre.

Tron nodded, sticking his head in through the open hatch of the Kreel scout

ship. It was a patched-together affair inside, and Tron noted parts from at

least four different technologies. He entered carefully, making sure not to

accidentally step in something distasteful. He stared at the command panel in

wonder, then reached behind it and came away with a handful of wiring—and

tape.

Tape! By the Emperor, tape! It was nothing short of miraculous

that this vessel hadn’t blown up. He allowed it to slip from his fingers and

turned to his crew.

“Find them,” Tron said.

“Do we kill them once we find them?”

Tron’s brow wrinkled slightly. Left to their own devices, back before the days

of the Great Enlightenment, that is exactly what they would have done. “Their

fate is in the commander’s hands,” he said. “Between you and me, killing them

would certainly be my preference. What we will probably do”—and he emphasized

the probably with faint distaste—“is toss them in their ship, take them in

tow, and drop them off, powerless, somewhere in space. Their fate from that

point on is in their own hands. However, you don’t have to be gentle when you

do find them.”

Budian and Aneel could not believe their good fortune.

They walked by room after room now, doors hissing open as they passed. It was

as if this underground lair was filled with secrets that it could not wait to

yield up to them. And each room was filled with . . .

“Weapons,” said Aneel, stopping at one to palm a handgun reverentially. Unlike

the huge, clumsy weapons that the Kreel exploratory group was carrying, these

were smaller, sleeker. Unmistakably deadly, however.

Budian snatched the weapon from his second-in-command’s hands. “You might hurt

yourself with this,” he snapped. Or me, he added silently. “Come on. Let’s see

what’s at the end of the corridor.”

“But . . . ” Aneel gestured helplessly. “Shouldn’t we go through some of these

rooms? Explore them? Catalog the weapons?”

“They’re not going anywhere. They’ve been here, who-knows-how-long, and will

continue to be here. Let’s discover everything

this find has to offer before we start charting what we’ve found. That’s

simple enough to understand, isn’t it, Aneel?”

“Yes, sir,” said Aneel with marked lack of enthusiasm.

They worked their way farther along, Aneel now making a conscious effort to

look neither left nor right. Eventually, the corridor made a slight turn, then

another, and then Budian stepped back in alarm as another form suddenly

appeared in front of him. Without hesitating he swung up the small weapon he’d

been carrying and pulled the trigger.

A split-second too late, he realized that it was one of his own people.

The unfortunate Kreel threw up his hands and shouted.

“Wait!” he began—and then vanished. There was no beam from the weapon, merely

a soft, diffuse glow, and suddenly the Kreel simply wasn’t there. It was as if

Budian had been holding a remote-control device while watching something on a

monitor, and had then just shut it off.

“Don’t startle me!” shouted Budian at the empty air, for it had all happened

so quickly that he didn’t fully have the time to register that the crewman was

gone. “I hate it when—” And then it began to sink in.

He stared at the space which the crew member had once occupied, then glanced

at the remaining two members of the group. They each took a slight step back,

as if nervous they might be next.

He held the gun a bit more tightly. “Come on,” he said, gesturing with it.

They followed obediently.

So the two branching corridors had come back on each other, and now the three

members of the stalwart Kreel race walked on another twenty meters, past more

rooms with fascinating technology, past curious inscriptions on the walls that

made no sense to them.

And eventually, they hit a dead end.

The door facing them was more massive than any they’d ever seen. The two sides

of it came together in a vertical zigzag pattern that looked like teeth, ready

to crunch down on any who endeavored to enter. To the right was a small panel

made up of an array of smaller multicolored rectangles. Ten going up, four

across, forty in all.

The door showed no interest whatsoever in opening.

Budian stepped up to it and waited with as much patience as he was capable of,

but the door did not move. It had been closed for countless years and would,

apparently, remain closed for countless more.

“Stand back,” he ordered tersely. He brought up his brand-new weapon and fired

it point-blank at the door.

The door did not seem to take kindly to this: Budian’s hand weapon vanished.

Along with the hand that was holding it.

Just like that. Budian’s right arm now ended in a neatly cauterized stump at

the wrist.

Budian stared, dumbfounded. It had happened so swiftly that he hadn’t had time

to react. There were horrified intakes of breath from his men, and that was

the first confirmation that he wasn’t imagining it. With that realization came

his first physical reaction. He staggered, leaning against the wall and

holding up the stump in shock.

He tried to flex the fingers that were no longer there. He could swear that he

was doing it. He knew that he was doing it. Even as he reached out with his

remaining hand and actually touched the mound of hardened flesh, his mind kept

screaming, It’s still there! It has to still be there!

“Sir . . . ” Aneel breathed. “Are you all right?”

The cosmic stupidity of the question hung there, and not even Budian would

touch it.

“We . . . ” the other crew member, who was called Deni, spoke up. “We have to

get you back to the ship.”

“No.” The reply was faint.

“But . . . ”

“NO!” said Budian with more force, and now pain was finally starting to

agony. Not now. Not here. “No, first we get through this feldling door.”

It was clear what was going through their minds.

They thought they were going to have to try firing on it. They glanced at each

other, silently agreeing that if that order was given, they’d fire on Budian

before they’d take that suicidal course.

Fortunately for them (and, one would have thought, Budian, except ultimately

it didn’t make much difference) that was not the option that Budian was

considering. Instead, Budian gathered his strength, stepped away from the

wall, and walked toward the panel. He was now cradling his maimed wrist in the

crook of his left arm, and the initial pain was beginning to subside ever so

slightly. He was certain, though, that for months he would be imagining the

flexing of the hand that was no longer there.

He touched the panel and the forty colored rectangles lit up. A low hum filled

the area, and the colors reflected on his taut face.

“A combination lock of some sort,” he muttered. “You probably have to touch

them in a specific order.”

“So . . . how do we get in?” asked Aneel.

“We just keep pushing different panels until we hit the right mix.”

“But that could take . . . ”

Budian turned on him, fury barely contained. “This cursed door cost me a hand!

Whatever’s behind it, I want to know! Whoever built this installation, they

just left weapons, lying around, more advanced than anything we have. Maybe

more than the Klingons have. But they thought enough of whatever’s behind this

door to keep it locked up. I want it! I deserve it!”

He turned and, with his remaining hand, started pushing panels furiously. Each

one had an individual note to it, a faint ping sound came as it was hit. And

each one glowed under his touch, ever so briefly. But no combination was

prompting the door to open, and display its secrets.

Suddenly there was a sharp, high-pitched whine.

Budian turned to his men, who were standing about five feet away, and said

“What does that sound like to you?”

It started almost ludicrously. Budian was staring at his men, waiting for

Aneel to speak, and then Aneel’s face twisted in horror, as did Deni’s. That

was the first thing he saw.

Then Budian thought that his two remaining crew members were getting taller.

This was quickly replaced by the partially correct realization that he,

himself, was, in fact, getting shorter.

He looked down and the full truth, the full horror of it, began to dawn on

him.

He was dissolving.

His feet were already gone, reduced to some unrecognizable, formless mass.

Even as his mind managed to register this, his shins were gone, then his

knees. There was a distinct hissing sound, but nothing else. No smell of

burning flesh. No blood. No mess or muss.

And when the full nauseating terror managed to completely penetrate, that was

when he began screaming.

Budian began to shriek in words incomprehensible even to a

Kreel. He was incoherent with fear and terror as he looked down and saw his

body, his magnificent body, being destroyed molecule-by-molecule.

And yet, for all his horror, he never once asked for help, never appealed for

aid, divine or no. For the Kreel do not beg. Die horribly, yes, but not beg.

And now his chest was gone and he was still hideously aware; he could still

see and feel what was happening.

Oh god, thought Budian, let it end let it end let it end. But it didn’t.

Somehow, perversely, he was aware until his very last moment when his head hit

the floor and that too began to melt away; his brain continued to function and

And the last image that he registered was his men, grinning.

Moments later the floor rippled and the remains of the Kreel commander were

swallowed up.

* * *

Tron stood at the entrance to the cave, the entrance that had been blasted

away, and stared at it in amazement. “How could this have been here?” he

demanded. “How could our earlier surveying parties have been over this planet

and not found it?”

It was rhetorical, of course. None of the other Klingons had been in those

earlier exploratory parties, and so no personal reckoning was being held. One

of the Klingons thought, Maybe it wasn’t ready to be found. It was a private

speculation, one made more from what passed for Klingon whimsy than from

anything else, and as such, it was a speculation that went unvoiced.

It so happened that he was right. But he wouldn’t have been believed, anyway.

“All right,” said Tron, gesturing to his small group. “Let’s see what’s

inside.”

And then a gutteral voice said, “Instead, let us show you . . . Klingon pig.”

It came from just inside the opening, and the accent was unmistakable. Tron’s

face twisted in disgust as he said, “Is that Kreel I smell in—”

The ground to Tron’s immediate left exploded, taking with it the Klingon

standing there.

Tron reacted instantly. “Fall back!” he shouted, and the remaining Klingons

promptly did so, firing back into the hole. They blasted a steady barrage, all

bets off, determined to reduce the Kreel to free-floating molecules.

The Kreel fired back. The Klingons didn’t know, couldn’t know, that the Kreel

were crouched on steps, placing them safely below the blasts that were passing

harmlessly over their heads.

A pencil-thin beam of light shot out of the hole, lanced over the head of one

of the Klingons crouching behind a rock.

And then the beam of light reversed itself and, as if it had eyes, swung back

and blasted the Klingon from existence.

Tron had seen enough. He tapped his wrist communicator and shouted into it,

“Commander!”

Imperturbable came the reply: “Yes, Tron?”

“Beam us up, sir! Now!”

“Report, Tron.”

“If you don’t beam us up—sir—I won’t live to give you my report!”

An instant later, Tron felt the comforting glow of the transporter

beam around him. He and the remainder of the ill-fated Klingon away team

materialized on the transporter deck of their ship.

Tron barely had time to step off the platform when the call came down from the

bridge that Tron had better haul himself up there now and explain just what

the devil had happened, and how a simple search-and-destroy mission could

possibly go so completely off-kilter.

“The scream, sir.”

Tron paused and turned, looking back at the other survivors of the landing

party. One of them, a first-year techno, said, “The Klingon death scream, for

our slain comrades on the planet surface.”

Tron had never been much of a traditionalist, but that was never something

that was healthy to admit. Nevertheless, he said, “I think, novice, that my

first duty is to get to the bridge or there may be a lot more Klingon

screaming going on.”

Down on the planet surface, Deni and Aneel had quickly retreated into the

confines of the cavern when they had heard the transporter whine. Once, they

would have felt a stab of jealousy over the Klingon technology that gave them

such gifts. Now, however, they felt nothing except the heady intoxication

similar to a child given the key to a candy store.

Aneel was poking around in one room when footsteps snapped him around, weapon

at the ready. Aneel, however, was a little more cautious than the late Budian,

and so he did not blow Deni to atoms. This was fortunate, for Deni was holding

a weapon so huge that he had both arms wrapped around it and still his hands

didn’t quite meet. It glistened silver, and it was almost completely smooth.

The part that seemed to be the muzzle was large enough for a Kreel child to

crawl into.

Aneel’s huge eyes became even wider.

“What the flarg is that!”

Deni’s squat head moved out from behind it. “I don’t know! But it’s . . . it’s

big!”

“Then it must be good.”

And then the big gun began to beep.

The two Kreel looked at each other. “What did you do?” demanded Aneel.

“Nothing! Nothing, I swear! It just started by itself.”

“Let’s get it outside! If it’s going to explode, it’s not going to do it in

here!”

Deni started frantically to drag the huge weapon, and Aneel shouldered one end

of it. Between the two of them, they broke all speed records as they bore the

weapon up and out of the tunnels. Once they were a safe distance from the

entrance, they set the weapon down with the barrel pointing straight up. Then

the thing started to tilt over, right onto Aneel. “Help me!” he barked at

Deni.

That’s when the weapon spoke to them.

In a pleasant female voice that, incredibly, spoke Kreel, the weapon said,

“Targeting.”

They froze, staring at each other. Then Deni’s face twisted in disgust, and he

said, “It’s a woman’s weapon.”

“Don’t be a feldling idiot,” snapped Aneel. Then, as they both pulled their

full weight into it and righted the gun, Aneel said cautiously, “Gun . . .

what are you targeting?”

“Orbiting vessel. Visual aid requested?”

“Sure.”

The air before them shimmered slightly and there, hanging in front of them, a

patch of stars twinkling around it, was a Klingon

battlecruiser. In contrast to the ship’s design, and intent, it seemed almost

peaceful.

“Awaiting instructions,” said the gun.

Aneel and Deni looked at each other once again.

For a brief moment, Aneel found himself wishing that the commander were still

around to take charge of the situation. He was good at that. But the commander

was, at the moment, a small puddle of goo, and since his status didn’t seem

likely to change in the near future, it was Aneel who was left to make the

decisions.

“Shoot at it,” he said.

“As you request.”

Silently and efficiently, small tripod legs stretched out from the bottom of

the gun, giving it balance and stability. Aneel and Deni stared at it. As the

weight of the weapon was taken from them, they suddenly realized what was

about to happen. It also occurred to them that, when it did, their personal

health and safety would be best served by being elsewhere.

They ran.

“You allowed yourselves,” said the Klingon commander slowly, “to be routed by

a few pathetic Kreel?”

Every word hung in the air filled with disdain and disbelief, on the bridge.

Tron shifted uncomfortably, but stared resolutely straight ahead.

“And you have the nerve,” continued the commander, rising from his chair and

circling his subordinate, “to return to this ship with a report of that

nature? Are you prepared, Tron, to live the rest of your life in Disgrace?”

Tron did not answer. There could be no answer. To be in Disgrace was

tantamount to a death sentence, for no Klingon could live in

such a state. Bereft of friends, of property and privilege, of everything.

Even . . . of name.

“Commander!”

The warning came from the science station. The commander turned quickly, for

the controlled alarm in the science officer’s voice was very noticeable. Tron

breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the distraction, and then the commander

glanced back at him. The silent message was clear: This is not over.

“What is it, science officer?”

“Energy reading on planet surface, sir. Massive burst.”

The commander frowned, bending over and seeing for himself. “What are those

little rodents up to?” he demanded. “That’s enough of this. Lock on to them

and beam them up here. I hate to pollute the ship but I see no alternative,

thanks to the mishandling of the situation.” He shot Tron a look.

“Commander, shields just came on!”

Immediately, the commander spun around to look at the viewscreen, expecting to

see another ship approaching them. But only the planet was there. “Source?” he

said.

And then the Klingon battlecruiser was knocked out of orbit.

As if a giant hand had flicked them away, the ship was knocked literally end-

over-end, hurtling through space like an out-of-control poker chip. Artificial

gravity could not even begin to adjust as the Klingons were tossed around in

their ship. One moment they bounced off walls, the next they ricocheted off

ceilings. Miraculously, there was only one casualty, down in engineering, as a

technician landed wrong and broke his neck.

“Stabilize us!” shouted the commander, somewhat unnecessarily, for the

helmsman was frantically trying to do just that. The first thing he had to do,

though, was get his hands on the controls.

The commander spun out of control across the length of the bridge, crashing

into Tron. “Computer!” the commander shouted. “Override manual control!

Stabilize!”

Shipboard functions such as helm were always left, at least on this ship, to

the Klingons themselves. How could one be a Klingon if one did not hold the

direction of his destiny in his own hands, after all? But now the commander

removed that prohibition against the computer, and shipboard systems promptly

kicked in with reverse impulse. Slowly, the Klingon ship pulled out of its

spin.

Once it had stopped, the bridge was silent for a long moment as they all

looked to the commander.

The commander, in turn, looked to the screen. There was no sign of the planet

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Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeithertheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.AnOriginalPublicationofPOCKETBOOKS?POCKETBOOKS,adivisionofSimon&SchusterInc.1230AvenueoftheA...

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