Chapter Nine

THE RATTLE OF SMALL-ARMS FIRE caught Karish unawares. Ducking low, he looked to his left, watching as a platoon commander, standing silhouetted on a hill, was cut down. More gunfire erupted and Karish cursed as a reaction squad raced up the rocky slope, losing two more warriors before gaining the crest.

“I thought this area was secure!” Karish barked, looking over at Gadin, who stood dispassionate, arms folded.

“And as I said before, nothing is ever secured here,” Gadin replied calmly.

The squad disappeared from view after tossing grenades, and went down into the spider hole that the sniper had fired from.

“Well, if it isn’t secured, they’ll know about this.” As he spoke, Karish pointed to the heavy, four-engine plane that was lumbering in on final approach.

All those around him stood expectant, watching, holding their breath as the transport plane wove between two jagged peaks then nosed hard over, as if diving straight into the ground. At the last instant it pulled up sharply and flared, its rear wheels touching down hard. The plane bounced, floated, then settled back down again. A parachute popped out from the back, brakes squealed, plumes of dust swirled out as the props were feathered then thrown into reverse.

Karish watched the show with awe. Again, it was as if he were participating in a drama of the ancient days. All was coming to a climax. It was ironic that his participation in the raid underground had been the deciding factor, perhaps for the entire war. Initially, the raid had been terrifying, confusing, especially when they stormed into a lower level. It was there that he had seen Riker, wounded. For a moment he had stared at him from behind the sights of an assault gun. It had been a delicious, chilling moment. Here was the cherished first officer of Picard’s, and all that was required to end his life was a flick of his finger. And yet he had not. Instead he whispered for the human to remain still and then tossed a discarded poncho over his wounded body. Strange—the thought troubled him now, this display of mercy.

But whether he had spared Riker or not no longer mattered. The information that his very presence offered was all that counted, for where the first officer of the Enterprise was, there also was the place sought by his comrades . . . the headquarters of the Federation forces. With that knowledge, the war was all but won. A secondary strike had actually brushed right into the edge of the underground city. They were finally on the target.

Nervously, he looked up to the heavens. They must know what this was, any sensor could pick it up. Why hadn’t they reacted? In an instant, the realization came with a crystal clarity . . . they were impotent, they couldn’t react. That knowledge alone gave him joy: the mighty Federation, before whom his people had once groveled, now stood by in helpless silence. So much for their strength, he thought as he barked in laughter.

The transport skidded to a stop and with engines still howling swung about, the clamshell doors beneath its tail opening up.

A ground team raced forward, running alongside a primitive, gasoline-powered tractor that backed up to the plane. And as the cables they attached to the back stretched taut and the tractor slowly inched away, a long cylinder emerged from the darkness of the plane.

 

Seconds after Worf materialized in the Tarn theater of operations, he fell from a height of nearly two meters, grunting as he hit the ground. Appar ently Eddies still had a few bugs to contend with in the transporter room.

Unceremonious as his arrival was, Worf still did not feel his dignity had suffered much. The fact was, he had more honor in his little finger than these genocidal Tarn p’taks had in their whole army. As he rose from the ground and regarded the smooth, rounded side of the deadly bomb that stood before him, he reminded himself of his mission. He was to face these people and try to reason with them, warrior to warrior, though in his opinion none of the Tarn deserved that proud title. Nonetheless it was his duty to try, and though there were others on the Enterprise who could have beamed down instead, Worf had managed to talk Lieutenant Commander Data into sending him. This was, after all, really a job for a Klingon.

“Hold fire, don’t shoot!” he heard a familiar, noxious voice cry out.

“It’s a Klingon,” Karish announced.

“Commander Karish,” Worf announced.

“A surprise to see you, Klingon,” Karish replied.

“I am not surprised to see you doing this,” Worf said, motioning toward the bomb, which was inching away from them.

“This is a Klingon?” Gadin asked, coming up to join the two, gazing appraisingly at Worf.

Worf nodded.

“Legend says you are good warriors, worthy foes, almost as good as us,” Gadin continued.

Worf suppressed an irritated growl. “Almost” indeed!

“Too bad I’m ordering you to be shot,” Gadin announced as he gestured to several guards to carry out his orders.

“Wait!” Karish snapped.

Gadin turned to him with a bland look.

“This Klingon is from that Federation ship. He has been sent to interfere with our mission. Shoot him.”

Worf drew himself up, a toothy grin creasing his features as he uttered something in Klingon.

Worf was looking straight at Karish. The Klingon felt no fear, only contempt.

He heard rifles being raised up, but still held his gaze.

Karish stepped forward, placing himself between the Klingon and the firing squad.

“I said, don’t shoot him,” Karish snarled.

Gadin, who was already walking away, turned and looked back.

“That’s my order.”

“Their ship is directly overhead. They’re watching us. That’s how this Klingon knew to beam down here.”

“All the more reason to shoot him.”

“All the more reason not to. They’ll see his execution. It might arouse their captain to do something, to strike here, to destroy that,” and he gestured toward the warhead.

Gadin hesitated.

“I know this for a fact, Gadin. Shoot him and your plan is destroyed. He came here for a reason. It was obviously not to stop us. They could just as easily have beamed an assault team down, or beamed the weapon away. I want to know why.”

“You’ve got two minutes. Guards, keep an eye on them.” Gadin turned and stalked away.

Karish looked back at Worf.

“Madness, Klingon. Why did you come?”

“It was my duty.”

“To your Federation overlords?”

Worf stiffened. He was in no mood to play semantic games with this . . . lizard. He ignored the insult and got straight to the point.

“You were about to kill Captain Picard and the away team. I have come to stop you.”

“Kill Picard?” Karish asked, and involuntarily looked up to the heavens.

“He is in the city below.”

“How?”

Worf told him of Picard’s beaming down, the assistance of the Tarn admiral, and the wounding of Riker. Karish shifted uncomfortably.

Worf looked at him closely. “You were there, were you not?”

“It was my duty. Yes, I saw him in the battle.”

“If I could, I would rip your throat out,” Worf growled darkly.

“You feel that much passion for a human?”

“A fellow officer,” Worf snapped. “You almost killed one, and now you will kill others with that bomb.”

“It is war,” Karish replied coldly.

“It is genocide! Bombing their city like that, murdering their old ones, the wounded, their children. There is no honor in this. It is not war, it is murder.”

“Fight a two-hundred-year war, Klingon, and then see what you would do.”

“They have, you have not,” Worf snapped. “You have merely sunk to their level.”

“Time is up,” one of the guards announced, casually pointing his rifle at Worf.

Startled, Karish looked over at the guard.

“Go on,” Worf growled. “Better yet, do it yourself, though know that my son will spit at the name of the murderer of his father. He will seek you with his blade and avenge me, as will my comrades from the Enterprise.”

“Your comrades,” Karish repeated thoughtfully. Then he turned and gave an abrupt command to the guard.

“He’s not to be shot,” Karish announced.

The guards looked at him in surprise. “But Gadin’s orders—” one of them began.

“And I am countermanding them for the moment. Guard this Klingon but don’t shoot him.”

The guard hesitated.

“Do you want the Federation ship above us to strike?” Karish argued. “If you kill this Klingon they will.”

He hesitated for a moment. “That is what this Klingon just told me and I believe him. Shoot him and the bomb is vaporized by the ship above us. I’ll go to speak to Gadin.”

The guard finally nodded in agreement and Karish looked back at Worf.

“You’ll live for the moment, Klingon.”

Karish sprinted off to catch up to Gadin, who was escorting the bomb down into the tunnel.

 

“What in the name of all the ancestors are you doing?” Admiral Jord roared.

“Sir, the Klingon member of our crew beamed down to talk with Karish.”

“I can see that on my screen,” Jord snarled. “Why did you not inform me first?”

“Sir, there was no time,” Data replied.

“They’ll kill him.”

“That is a possibility,” Data stated.

“I don’t understand this, it is futile.”

“Apparently Commander Worf disagrees with your assessment, Admiral. He believes that he can reach an understanding with the Tarn.”

The image of Admiral Jord flickered for a moment and Data realized that the Tarn commander had just shifted transmission frequencies and was scrambling the message.

“Listen carefully to me,” Jord continued. “One of my ship’s captains has his finger on the trigger and is all but looking for an excuse to shoot. This beam-down almost provoked that. We must keep this under control!”

Data could sense the tension in the admiral’s voice.

“I apologize, sir. Please tell your captain that it appears he will soon have the pleasure of watching a bomb explode down there.”

“Yes, I know,” Jord replied, and again there was the moment of hesitation. “I observed, though, that a Federation team saw the bomb and most likely reported back. There should be time to evacuate the upper levels.”

Surprised by the admiral’s comment, Data nodded in reply.

“One can hope so, Admiral Jord.”

 

A siren echoed through the corridors, startling Picard. The sound was ancient, a quavering, bonechilling howl that rose, dropped, then rose again.

Kneeling by Riker’s side, he looked up at Crusher, then over at one of the medics who jerked upright at the siren’s cry.

“What is it?” Picard asked.

“The tone’s not steady,” the medic announced. “It’s a bomb strike. Most likely one of their atomics.”

She tried to sound professional, detached, but her voice was shaking.

“What do we do?”

“Brace yourself, hang on.”

Out in the corridor Picard heard shouting, the stamping of boots. Crusher, who had been working to stabilize Riker’s punctured lung, looked over at Picard.

“Can we beam him out of here?”

“It means we would have to move him. I don’t think so.”

“Well, Jean-Luc, find out what’s happening,” Crusher snapped. Picard could not help but smile. The relationship between them had always been close, but whenever she was practicing her profession something inside demanded that she take over.

He got up from the side of Riker’s cot, weaving his way through the narrow room. Medics and orderlies rushed about, helping the wounded who could not move out of their cots, putting them under their beds to shelter them from falling debris.

Picard stepped out into the street. A column of troops moving at the double were racing past, weapons at the ready. He saw a young lieutenant at the end of the column and reached out to grab him as he passed.

“Where’s access tunnel nine?”

The lieutenant pointed straight up the corridor. “That way, sir, just under a kilometer away . . . where we’re heading.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

The boy drew back and saluted.

Picard gazed into the boy’s eyes. Throughout his career he had ordered many to almost certain death, yet the anguish of giving that order was something that never really went away. As he gazed into the youngster’s eyes he knew with a grim certainty that this lieutenant was about to die.

“Good luck, son,” Picard whispered.

“We all got to die sometime, sir. I guess I’m at the head of the line, that’s all.”

The boy turned and sprinted into the darkness.

Picard stepped back into the aid station.

“We’re moving!” he roared. “All walking wounded, try to help a comrade who can’t. We’ve got to get out of here!”

A medic stood up. “Sir, we have no orders.”

“You’ve got them now. Ensign, lead us in the opposite direction to access tunnel nine. Let’s go!”

Picard pushed through the crowd and knelt down by Crusher and Eardman.

“Jean-Luc, I’ve barely got the bleeding under control,” Crusher announced.

“I know, Doctor, but he’s still safer if we keep moving,” the captain said.

Picard struggled to pick Riker up, cradling him in his arms. Riker stirred and opened his eyes halfway.

“Captain? What’s going on?”

“Going for a little walk, Will. You’ll be all right.”

“Feel like I just lost a boxing match with Worf.” Riker grimaced as someone bumped into Picard. Apparently, word was spreading as to where the bomb was, and orders or not, hundreds were pour ing into the narrow street, all fleeing downward, into the depths of the city.

Gasping for breath, Picard broke into a run.

 

Small-arms fire stuttered in the corridor ahead, a stray bullet ricocheting off the ceiling above Karish. Catching up to Gadin, he crouched down low as a wild melee of hand-to-hand fighting erupted directly ahead. His eyes were drawn to the ceiling: one second it appeared to be solid, and then the next a scattering of rocks caved in. A human jumped through, feet first, assault gun up and firing even as he landed. A guard next to Karish dropped the human, but not before he had cut down two technicians working to arm the bomb.

A grenade detonated behind him. It seemed as if the tunnel was coming alive with Federation warriors, all of them bent on the single goal of eliminating the crew and guards around the warhead.

Gadin stood up in the middle of the gunfire, raised a hand, and commanded the tractor crew to stop. Then he went up to the side of the bomb, Karish following. A hatch on the side was open, a technician working furiously to set the firing mechanism. A burst of rifle fire cut him down, and another stepped over the body to complete the process.

Gadin, crouched by the side of the bomb, cut down two Federation soldiers who appeared out of the gloom.

“Ten minutes!” Gadin roared. “Arm it for ten!”

“Barely time to get away,” the technician shouted, trying to be heard above the roar of battle.

“We’ll catch more of them that way.”

The technician suddenly stood back and held his hands up.

“Its armed and running!”

“Back!” Gadin roared. “Get back!”

The units engaged ahead started to pull back, around the bomb.

“Can’t the humans disarm it?” Karish asked.

Gadin barked a laugh. “Once armed, nothing will stop it. They can’t open it and pull out the firing trigger or the uranium in time. It will be beautiful to see. It will . . .”

His words were cut off. He spun around, collapsing into Karish’s arms.

“So close to victory,” he gasped, shuddering once . . . and then was still.

Several guards gathered around Karish, looking down at the fallen soldier.

“Grab him!” Karish roared.

Crouching low, he fired a burst down the corridor, then started to run, ejecting the clip from his gun and slamming a new one in. In the shadows he could see the Federation fighters, moving ghostlike, flashes of light as they fired, bullets singing past.

Karish felt as if his lungs were about to burst and yet still he ran. He saw the guards herding Worf along and shouted for them to pick up the pace.

As he cleared the entrance of the tunnel, Karish scrambled up over the rocks and down into the trenches that had been cut to shield them.

The warriors carrying Gadin slid down by his side. All were panting for breath. One of them was counting down the final seconds.

Karish looked at Gadin and solemnly leaned over, dabbing fingertips into the entry wound over the fallen leader’s heart and streaking the blood onto his forehead.

“For I am of your circle,” Karish intoned. “I am of your blood, and you are of mine.”

As he spoke he cut his arm and allowed his blood to drop onto Gadin’s own.

Worf watched the ceremony and nodded.

“Very Klingon,” he said, obviously moved.

“He was a good leader. A good warrior.”

“And now who commands?”

Karish looked around at the warriors who were gazing at him expectantly.

“I do.”

 

“Hail Admiral Jord,” Data ordered, while moving to stand beside Captain Picard’s chair. The screen flashed to life.

“It is difficult to determine, Admiral, but I believe a fission bomb is about to be detonated. If we are to act, now is the time.”

“The Klingon, what happened to him? It was hard for us to track.”

“He is with Karish.”

“So, they didn’t kill him?”

“Admiral, the bomb.”

“Fate is fate,” Jord replied. “My orders stand.”

“Then, sir, it is upon your head.”

It was evident that the Federation forces below had received warning. Perhaps they had evacuated. If we had a full functioning transporter, we could lock on, and move the bomb out into space a second before detonation, Data thought. But that was not an option.

He stood silent, waiting, thinking of Picard.

 

There was a strange instant of silence, so fleeting that Picard wondered if he had imagined it. It was a final instinctive moment of hushed quiet before the storm . . . and then the shock wave hit. Braced against the walls of a corridor, he knelt down, clutching Will, covering him.

The floor beneath him swayed as the shock wave from the bomb reverberated. After long seconds Picard raised his head, trying to sense the air. There was no heat. Good—the blast had vaporized walls, sealing passages with rubble. Hopefully, no radiation would reach this far.

But the air was thick with dust. Will was coughing. Picard laid him down on the floor, fumbled with the gas-mask pack someone had issued him, and struggled to get it on Will.

A light snapped on, someone holding a flashlight up, shouting for quiet. Discipline started to take hold. More lamps came on; then the dull red of emergency battle lamps set into the walls came back to life. Sections of the ceiling above had caved in on the street, dozens were hurt, but there was still air; they were still alive.

In the distance he heard a siren, still quavering out its warning. It snapped off, and a loudspeaker echoed, ordering calm. It was Julia’s voice.

Strength, he could detect strength there, and it filled him with pride. She was still a Starfleet officer and she was taking control, her voice hollow but steady, detailing casualties to emergency clearing centers, ordering troops to repel any breakthroughs.

“Captain?”

It was Crusher. She crawled up to his side, wiping blood from her eyes from a scalp wound, kneeling over Will.

“How’s he doing?”

“Get me out of this,” Will gasped, “and I swear, I’ll always try and draw to an inside straight when I play poker with you.”

She smiled and brushed him lightly on the cheek.

“Eardman?”

“Here, sir.”

She staggered over to join him, wide-eyed.

Will looked up at her and she reached out, clutching his hand.

“So, how’s my favorite historian?” Will sighed.

“Still with you, Will.”

Picard stood up. “I’m going back to see Lucian Murat,” he announced. “Dr. Eardman, will you accompany me?”

She reluctantly let go of Will’s hand, and then, as if on impulse, she leaned over, her lips lightly brushing against his.

“Almost worth getting wounded for,” Will whispered.

“I’ll be back,” she announced, and then followed Picard into the gloom.

 

“Shall you take it to him, ma’am, or shall I?” The lieutenant facing Julia Murat phrased the question in a manner indicating his willingness to do the task himself, but his tone suggested otherwise.

“No, I shall take it to Lysander,” she said quietly, her fingers trembling as she took the preliminary casualty report from the lieutenant’s hands. “I shall take it to Lysander,” she repeated dully.

Julia paused at the door, staring at the knob. She forced her hand to reach for the handle then paused again, fingers hovering above the latch. She glanced down at the papers she held in her hand and willed them to disappear. She put her hand on the latch.

“Who’s there? Come in.” Lysander had heard the latch move and called a greeting behind the closed door.

Julia opened her eyes and paused a final moment before entering. The room she moved into was in disarray, her son standing amid the scattering of papers and maps with arms folded behind him in thought.

“Mother, I was hoping you would come.” He sounded pleased. “I’ve found the map of quadrant seventeen. It’s been years since we sealed it off but I think we could use it now. I’d like to hear what you think about it. It’s a long shot, of course, but—”

“Lysander.” Julia interrupted softly.

Only now did Lysander raise his eyes from the map below him.

He stiffened. “What’s wrong?”

“Preliminary casualty report, Lysander.”

“How many?” he said quietly.

“Five hundred at least . . .” Her voice trailed off. Julia stood silent.

“Mother,” and now there was fear in his voice.

“They found her in one of the old exit shafts—”

“No!” He spoke harshly in disbelief. He turned quickly, his head shaking back and forth. His breath was ragged. “It can’t be her. I’ve told her not to play there. . . . It couldn’t have been her.”

“She was there, Lysander. Our Alissia.”

“No!” The one word was a drawn-out whisper. “She promised me she wouldn’t play up by those damned exit shafts.”

She stood silent.

“It’s a mistake. Mom, it’s a mistake.”

Mom. He had never called her that before; it was always “Mother.” Julia lowered her head at the sound.

“God!” he suddenly shouted. “Not my daughter!”

He turned to his mother at the doorway, his face contorted with rage and confusion. “You are sure?” He trembled, every muscle in his face pleading for her to tell him that she had been mistaken, that his little girl would meet him at home later that night.

“They brought her to me, Lysander. It was her.”

He stared blankly, struggling to comprehend what it was that she was saying, as if the enunciation had been foreign and he was in the midst of translating it to something more familiar. And then he shut his eyes to it all. Without opening his eyes, he said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Leave me. You have done your duty.”

Julia hesitated. “I will not leave. Not yet.”

He exhaled slowly. It seemed he had no strength to argue.

Julia watched as he turned and glanced at the maps scattered about, blueprints lying across chairs. His step was heavy as he moved about the room, picking up a map to place it neatly on a desk, rearranging a set of building plans into some semblance of order. His face was stony, composed, as he replied to her comment. “Stay or leave as you like.”

He sat down with a blank gaze, no tears, just the blank stare.

“I need to plan the counterstrike,” he finally whispered.

Julia wasn’t sure if she had heard him correctly.

“Has your heart grown as cold as this? Have you no grief?”

“Hating takes less time.”

“What have we become?” she whispered.

“Our father’s children.” He spat it out, his hands busy with cleaning.

Julia stood with disbelief etched on her face. “Don’t you feel anything?”

He paused as if reflecting.

“What is the purpose of all this?” Julia asked, her voice awash in despair.

“An odd time to sprout a conscience, Mother,” he offered dryly. She did not reply.

“Go to hell, Mother. There’s nothing left now but to fight.”

“I already am in hell,” she snapped, struggling to hold back the tears of grief, not only for her granddaughter, but also for her only son, who had lost the ability to embrace grief.

Julia’s face softened. “You stand a better chance than anyone of convincing your father to end this damned war.”

Without even a moment of thought he said simply, “No.

“We still have the refined uranium. Sling it in a container beneath one of our Mustangs, spray it over where we think their processing factory is, that’ll kill them by the thousands,” he stated firmly, his confidence bolstered at the sound of his words.

Julia pulled to attention at his statement. She whispered, “No, Lysander. No. We must listen to the captain who comes from the Federation. You must defy Lucian.” She was insistent now, her voice raised in its urgency. He must hear her.

“Lysander, listen to me, Alissia is dead!” she screamed. “Now go to her!”

Her words struck like a physical blow. He felt it all; the shocked numbness was gone and he was filled with the horror of never holding the delicate hand again, never tucking the child in at night, never staring into gray luminous eyes and wishing for the stars to come a little closer so that she could brush one, just once, with eager little fingers. There was nothing left.

“We are all dead,” he whispered.

“Not yet, Alissia yes, but not the rest of the children.”

She stared at him. Lysander could see the hope in his mother’s eyes. Finally he raised his head, went to the door, and opened it. An orderly waiting expectantly outside snapped to attention.

“Staff meeting in ten minutes,” he announced hoarsely. “We must plan our counterstrike.”

The orderly saluted and dashed off. Lysander looked back at his mother with hollow eyes.

“Lysander?” She started to raise her arms, as if to embrace him, but he stepped back, going rigid.

“I am my father’s son,” he whispered.

“Yes,” and she nodded sadly, “I can see that you are.”