Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code (11 page)

“Of course not!” Phlox’s youngest son snarled back. “This event is for Antaran-lovers only! Not enough that they contaminate our planet, pollute our air and our water, steal our resources. Now they seek to erode our most precious institutions! How soon before they have us marrying monogamously, sleeping with no one but a single spouse? Making our population plummet until we’re too few to stand against them?”

“Enough of this!” Vaneel stormed forward to face him. “Mettus, I enjoy seeing a party crashed as much as anyone, but if all you have to say is the same old boring, stupid rhetoric, then that’s not a good enough reason to interrupt me in the middle of my wedding.”

“It needs to be said, Vaneel! The world needs to know!”

“About things that happened three hundred years ago? Thanks, already got the newsfeed. Can I get back to getting married now?”

Mettus sighed. “You’re right, sister. This should be about you. Why don’t we take this somewhere private so we can talk? So I can convince you of the terrible mistake you’re about to make?”

Vaneel scoffed. “Since when did you care that much? You haven’t spoken to me, haven’t written, haven’t answered a letter in over twenty years! You didn’t acknowledge either of my other weddings, my degrees, any of it. And you want me to believe this, barging in here with a band of stormtroopers to make a political statement, is about me?”

“Yes! Because it’s
his
politics, not yours!” Mettus answered, pointing at Phlox. “All your life, always acting out to try to get his attention, his approval. Even his disapproval, as long as he took notice. You finally figured out that the only way was to play along with his pet cause. To join him in dishonoring the sacrifice of our great-grandparents in the Antaran wars.”

Vaneel stared. “This is the version of reality you’ve been living in all this time? No wonder we couldn’t reach you.” She narrowed her lips. “Whatever chance you might’ve had to voice your opinions, however insane, you forfeited by waiting until now to come forward. You’re not doing this for me—you’re doing it for the publicity. And I’m not going to play along.”

She turned away and returned to stand alongside Pehle before Phlox and the others. “Dad? You were saying?”

“No!” Mettus strode forward, the other four moving to follow. “I won’t let this Antaran scum touch my sister!”

“You’re a couple of years late for that,” Vaneel said, laughing heartily. But her laughter broke off when Mettus grabbed Pehle by the arm and shoved him away from Vaneel. The larger man retained his footing and shoved Mettus back, knocking him to the deck. The other four uniformed youths circled Pehle menacingly. T’Pol traded a look with Archer, drawing her communicator from the sleeve pocket of her dress uniform in case it became necessary to call in a security team.

But Vesena had beaten her to it. A contingent of
Denobulan police poured onto the roof, following the elder wife as she guided them toward the looming fracas. As soon as they spotted the approaching officers, Mettus and his gang broke and ran for the far exit. The lead police officer sent her team in pursuit, remaining behind to hear Vesena’s full report on the event.

Phlox’s family members and Sohon Retab moved forward to gather around Vaneel and Pehle. Archer left the shelter of the overhang to join them, moving with a resolute stride, and T’Pol followed, ignoring the rain (which had subsided to a moderate shower).

“I can’t apologize enough for this,” Phlox was saying to Sohon when she and Archer arrived at their side. “Mettus has kept himself apart from the family for so long that it never occurred to me he’d try anything like this.”

“The fault is hardly yours, my friend,” Sohon told him. “Although I know that as a father, you can’t help but feel ­otherwise.”

“Still, I should have known. The first wedding between our peoples—of course it would bring out the hate groups.” He shook his head. “Maybe it was a mistake to do this in public. Perhaps we should make new arrangements, reconvene somewhere more secure—”

“No!” Vaneel insisted. Taking Pehle’s arm, she went on. “We can’t let bullies like Mettus change the way we choose to live our lives. Besides, we had a hell of a good wedding going here. I was really enjoying your speech, Dad. Personally, I want to hear how it ends. Especially the part where you make it unanimous and Pehle and I are officially married. I don’t want to wait a moment longer than I have to for that.”

Phlox smiled warmly, pulling his daughter into his arms. “He’s so wrong about you. If anything, I’m the one who’s
been guided by your example. I’m so proud to be your father.” He chuckled as he pulled away. “Which is essentially how my speech would have ended anyway. So I, Phloxx-­tunnai-oortann, hereby cast my vote in favor of this marriage. Which I believe makes it unanimous!” He clasped Pehle’s hands in his. “Pehle Retab, I officially welcome you as the newest member of our family, third husband of Vaneel! Congratulations!”

The Denobulans cheered and began to dance in the rain, the recent disruption seemingly forgotten. But T’Pol caught Archer’s attention as she noted the police team returning to report to their chief. “They’re saying that Mettus and the others got away,” she related to the admiral. “They suspect the complicity of a member of the building’s security contingent with the anti-Antaran group.”

Archer looked grim. “Then this may be bigger than just a few angry kids. Vaneel and Pehle may not be out of the woods yet.”

U.S.S. Vol’Rala,
Rastish system

Tavrithinn th’Cheen had been expecting the next Partnership world on the Ware map to be defended by a cordon of ships. No doubt word of
the task force’s actions would be getting around. And this was a particularly populous world, its bright, sprawling Ware cities metastasizing across the landscape and even out into the oceans. But th’Cheen had not expected the kind of ships he detected once
Vol’Rala
neared the planet. “Captain,” the tactical officer announced in surprise, “those ships . . . they’re Klingon!”

Captain sh’Prenni rose from her command chair, frowning. “The Empire, here?”

“No, ma’am, I think not. Mostly older ships . . . civilian, decommissioned military, a few that seem to be captured prize ships modified with Klingon markings and equipment.”

“Privateers, then.”

“I’d say so, yes.” Th’Cheen had certainly encountered enough of those during
Vol’Rala
’s cleanup of the Kandari sector. “Nine ships in all.”

“Not only that,” said Hari Banerji, “the lead vessel is
Sud QaV
. Lokog’s ship.”

Captain sh’Prenni’s antennae cocked thoughtfully. “Well. He gets around, I’ll give him that.”

“Vabion must have brought him here,” Commander Charas observed. “He probably wants to raid the Ware for himself.”

“And he brought friends,” zh’Vethris added. “Are we interrupting a feeding frenzy?”

“Or a protection racket?” sh’Prenni wondered. “Let’s find out. Hail him, Hari.”

“No need—he’s hailing us.”

Th’Cheen knew Lokog mainly by reputation; most communication between
Vol’Rala
and
SuD Qav
in the past had been through the medium of weapons fire, and the privateer had generally not stuck around for conversation when
Vol’Rala
had arrived. So it was a surprise when the Klingon’s oddly humanized visage appeared on the forward screen. His belligerence was certainly Klingon, though.
“Attention, Starfleet vessel! You are outnumbered. Stand down and prepare to be boarded!”

“By you, Lokog?” asked sh’Prenni. “Don’t make me laugh. I recommend you tell your associates to leave. Whatever interest they have in the Ware, it will be rendered useless to them in very short order.”

“That we will not allow,
’anDorngan
. We know you must reach the orbital station to commit your sabotage, and you cannot do that so long as
we stand in your way. And no—you will not be laughing.”
The screen went dark.

The Klingons did not attack, but then, they didn’t have to. “He has a point, Captain,” th’Cheen observed. “To get close enough to fire the probes, we have to descend to the station’s orbit, and the Klingon ships stand between us and it. Worse, if we descend, we will be hemmed in between them and the planet, surrendering the high ground.”

The captain moved closer and studied the tactical readouts over his shoulder, thinking. “Maybe not. Consider, Vrith, that orbit is not just a matter of altitude, but velocity. Those ships aren’t standing still between us and the station—we’re all circling the planet in the same direction, keeping pace with one another like
zabathu
on a racetrack.”

Th’Cheen’s antennae perked up at her words. “So what if we ran in the other direction?”

She clapped his shoulder. “Exactly.” She strode around the bridge, giving orders. “Zoanra, plot us a retrograde descent. Duck behind the Klingons’ horizon. Hari, once we’re out of sight, very quietly release a spread of probes on an intercept trajectory with the Ware station.”

“It won’t take long for them to catch up with us,” Charas pointed out.

“Which gives Ramnaf an excuse to take us back up through their lines and make it look like we’re trying to get maneuvering room for the fight. When we’re really diverting their attention long enough to let the probes sneak up on the station and do their work.”

As always, th’Cheen was impressed by the captain’s strategic mind.
Vol’Rala
’s retrograde move took the Klingon privateers off guard, disrupting their formation as they scrambled to reverse their own orbits in pursuit. It did not seem to occur
to any of them to thrust downward and use their forward momentum to skirt the edge of the atmosphere, letting them circle tightly around the planet and intercept the
Kumari
-class battleship from ahead. But then, these were raiders and pirates, not trained battleship commanders. The surprise maneuver scattered their formation sufficiently that, once four probes had been released on an unpowered trajectory and
Vol’Rala
had accelerated outward from the planet again, the ship was able to penetrate the Klingon lines with little difficulty.

Still, the privateers were quick to give chase as the ship ascended. Sh’Prenni laid a hand on Breg’s shoulder. “Ramnaf, your job is to keep their attention away from the probes and the station, while making it look like we’re still trying to reach the station. Think you can handle that?”

“The Klingons are making that easy, Captain,” the Arkenite replied. “They’re coming into formation ahead of us on retrograde arcs. A polar trajectory should make it look like we’re trying to get around them to the station, while luring them away from the probes.”

“Good call. Do it.”

Th’Cheen left the details of the ship’s course to Breg. His own part in the distraction was to occupy the Klingons with particle beams and photonic torpedoes, keeping them so caught up in their battle frenzy against
Vol’Rala
that they would not notice the probes. “Remember my rules of engagement,” sh’Prenni advised him. “No more bloodshed than strictly necessary.”

“Captain, they’re Klingons,” th’Cheen countered. “They will take that as an insult.”

“Exactly,” the captain replied. “These are nothing but bullies and thieves. Let’s not give them the satisfaction of treating them like warriors.”

The tactical officer felt limited by the captain’s restrictions on the use of force, but he offered no protest. Th’Cheen prided himself on the quality of his work. Throughout his career, many had expected him to coast on his aristocratic birth, to achieve status in the Guard through his clan ties rather than his merits. He had been determined to prove them wrong. Was a member of the Clan of Cheen entitled to success and achievement? Yes, but only because the resources and opportunities granted to him as a member had guaranteed him the best education and training from childhood onward. Perhaps that had given him a head start over those who lacked those advantages, but he had earned his advancement through hard work just as much as they had. He had never attempted to use his clan name to curry political favor within the Guard, instead letting his work prove his worthiness to serve among the best and brightest.

Indeed, it was the benefits of his superior education that currently enabled
Vol’Rala
to hold its own while massively outnumbered by Klingon privateers. Granted, most privateer vessels were little threat to a capital ship like
Vol’Rala,
but nine of them could pose a significant danger if allowed to surround the starship. Th’Cheen’s precision fire prevented that, damaging or driving off ships that attempted to close off gaps in the Klingon formation and leaving those gaps clear for Breg to dive through. The Klingons managed to dodge the worst of it—these privateers tended to flee readily from any serious challenge—but he managed to cripple two of the smaller ships and leave a third, one of the prize ships, tumbling with only one working engine, out of the fight until its engineer could rebalance the thrust. He even managed to clip
SuD Qav
’s wing, destroying one of its disruptor banks.

But then Banerji spoke. “Captain, I’m picking up a trans­mission from the Ware station—directed at the Klingons.”

“Can you decipher it?”

“Given time, perhaps.”

“I think we can handle that without you,” Charas remarked. “The Klingons are breaking off the attack. They’re on an intercept course for the probes!”

Commander ch’Gesrit stared at the first officer. “The Ware alerted the Klingons?” the engineer asked.

“We’ll sort that out later,” sh’Prenni said. “No more dodging, Ramnaf. Head for the probes.”

“Aye, Captain, but we’ll never reach them in time to save them.”

“Then belay that. Aim right for the station so we can fire another probe salvo. We’ll blast right through the Klingon lines if we have to.”

That proved harder in practice than promise, however. Only two of the privateer ships veered off to take out the probes, leaving five between
Vol’Rala
and the station. The number of foes had been nearly halved, but the need to close in on the station created the very disadvantages that sh’Prenni had been trying to avoid, limiting the ship’s maneuvering options and allowing the Klingons to hem them in against the planet from above.