Kobayashi Maru Read online

  Paul chuckled quietly. “A few of the vintage amusement items from Earth that I was hoping would pay most of the bills during that stopover we have coming up at Denobula Triaxa.”

  Rianna’s eyes narrowed. “Which ‘vintage amusement items’ are you talking about?” she asked in a voice that seemed to lower the ambient temperature by at least a good two degrees Celsius. Paul could only hope that he hadn’t accidentally traded away any of Mom’s favorite nifties in his haste to acquire the materials the crew needed to get the Horizon back under way.

  He concentrated for a moment, staring off at a bulkhead as he assembled a brief mental inventory. “Analog music recordings pressed on vinyl disks,” he said sheepishly. “Along with a couple of old hand-cranked players. Some flatvid movies recorded on celluloid, and a projector. A mechanical arcade game I think they used to call a ‘pinball machine.’ Oh, and a couple of boxes of books.”

  Her eyes narrowed further still. “Which books?” she said, her tone evoking childhood memories of the moments immediately preceding the occasional “time outs” he’d had to spend alone in one of the empty cargo holds.

  Wait a minute now, he told himself. Since Dad died, she’s my chief engineer. Which makes me her captain. It was damned difficult to remember that at times like this.

  Paul felt nothing but gratitude for Nora’s spanner when it chose that moment to come free, its gripping surfaces apparently shattering in the process.

  “Told you,” Juan said, shaking his head.

  “Oh, be quiet,” Nora muttered as she knelt to pick up the little bits of hydrospanner that now lay scattered about the deck.

  “Never mind us,” Juan said, addressing Paul. “In spite of appearances, I think we’re actually ready to shove off whenever you give the word.”

  Couldn’t have timed it better myself, Paul thought as he turned toward the man who sat fidgeting impatiently behind the helm, awaiting the order to break orbit.

  “Set us on a course for Gamma Hydra, Charlie. Warp two. Take us out when you’re ready. And try not to shake our fillings loose this time.”

  Charlie grinned. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he said, then immediately began updating the navcomputer with his left hand while entering velocity data with his right.

  Rianna began moving toward the open archway at the aft part of the bridge. “If we’re heading out now, I’d better keep an eye on my babies down in the engine room.”

  “Find something to hang on to,” Paul said to her departing back.

  “Just remember,” she said over her shoulder. “If I find out you gave away my big book about old-time Chicago, I’m gonna make you walk the plank.” And with that she disappeared into the access corridor behind the bridge.

  “The Chicago book,” Nora said, now apparently done clearing away the mess she’d made and discreetly disposing of the wreckage. “Wasn’t that the big old white hardcover that the village elder fell in love with?”

  Oh, crap. Paul swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure, but that book—which told the story of a crucial time in the history of Mom’s hometown—just might have gone out with the trade goods that circumstances had forced him to sacrifice. He hoped that Travis still had his copy of the book with him in his billet aboard Enterprise.

  And that he would be willing to rush it over to the Horizon on short notice to save his little brother’s life.

  “Hang on to your butts,” Charlie said. A moment later he pushed the throttle forward.

  Paul grabbed the back of the big chair in the center of the busy little control area as the Horizon lurched into motion. The freighter’s forward surge launched squadrons of butterflies deep in his guts, but they flew only for the split second it took for the inertial damping system to catch up to the warp drive’s sudden burst of superluminal acceleration. The blue-and-white world on the viewer immediately shrank to a small pinpoint of light before losing itself amid the myriads of other celestial fires scattered throughout the boundless interstellar deeps like so many grains of sand on a beach.

  The ship roared and rattled, but held together. Charlie grinned up at him from the helm. “Warp one point six. One point seven. One point eight. One point nine.

  “Warp two.”

  The rattling and shaking gradually evened out, and after a seeming eternity Paul realized that he had been holding his breath. He released it in a great relieved rush.

  “You’re gonna get it,” Nora said, shaking her head gently at Paul.

  “Come again?” he said.

  “Your mom’s book, remember? Since we didn’t get vaporized in a warp core breach just now, you’re going to have to deal with that.”

  He nodded glumly before pushing that problem off to one side. “We’ll just have to find a way to divert that particular asteroid before it hits us.”

  Nora grinned mischievously. “‘We’? ‘Us’?”

  He sighed. “All right. It’s my problem. Yours is transmitting my first contact report to ECS Central.”

  “I’m all over it, Skipper,” she said, turning toward the port communications console.

  “Please don’t call me that,” he muttered under his breath, sighing as he sent the log files from his chair console to Nora’s station.

  “Message transmitted to ECS Central,” Nora reported a few moments later.

  “No, it isn’t,” Juan said.

  “What are you talking about?” Nora said, scowling. “My console shows the message as sent.”

  Paul walked over to Nora’s station and confirmed that fact with a glance.

  “True enough,” said Juan, who was staring at the com interface from the opposite side. “But look at the frequency bands the transmitter used.”

  “Hell,” Nora said. “I didn’t tell the damned thing to use the snail channel.”

  “Looks like the transmitter’s subspace capabilities must have gone down,” Juan said with a cool, appraising nod, his hitch aboard the Horizon evidently having inoculated him against finding any sort of technological glitch surprising. He turned toward Paul. “The computer must have automatically enabled the regular EM radio antenna as a backup. So ECS Central isn’t going to receive that transmission for over a century, Jefe.”

  “You know, I think I like ‘Jefe’ even less than I like ‘Skipper,’” Paul said.

  “Sorry, boss,” Juan said as he returned to scrutinizing the com console. Paul wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the title or the balky transmitter.

  Regardless, he knew there was no point in chewing anyone out over this little setback. After all, virtually instantaneous interstellar communication via the subspace bands was still a relatively recent innovation, at least for humans, and therefore wasn’t yet completely trouble-free even under ideal circumstances. And that micrometeoroid swarm that had forced the Horizon’s most recent unscheduled layover couldn’t exactly be described as an ideal circumstance; the crew might continue to encounter yet-undiscovered meteoroid damage for weeks to come.

  “We’ll have to take the entire com system offline for a few hours at least while we get this problem sorted out,” Juan said.

  “The sooner you two get those subspace bands tuned back in,” Paul said, “the sooner I can cross that report off my list.”

  Perhaps ten minutes after Nora and Juan had pulled open the bridge’s primary com system access panel, Charlie pointed directly toward the main viewer.

  “What the hell is that?” he said with a puzzled frown.

  Looking at the forward screen, Paul could see for himself that his helmsman wasn’t simply imagining things. A long, tapered shape had indeed suddenly appeared like an apparition before his startled gaze, seemingly materializing out of nowhere.

  Nora and Juan both abruptly set aside their com system repairs, transfixed by the approaching ship.

  “Must have roared in pretty damned fast,” Juan said. “I’d guess she must have been doing warp four or better before she went sublight.”

  “What kind of ship is she?” Nora wanted to know.


  “I hope it’s not what it looks like,” Charlie said, his eyes suddenly going nearly wide enough to see in the radio spectrum.

  Paul swallowed hard as he nodded in silent agreement with the Horizon’s pilot. The bulbous projection at the nearer end of the incoming vessel’s long, narrow body marked it as something no freighter captain wanted to encounter. As did its two widely spaced, ventrally curved engine nacelles.

  The dull glow Paul saw emanating from the depths of the newcomer’s forward weapons tube wasn’t exactly an encouraging sign, either.

  “What’s a Klingon battle cruiser doing way out here in the Gamma Hydra sector?” he said, addressing nobody in particular. “We’re a hell of a lot closer to the Romulans’ stomping grounds right now than we are to Klingon space.”

  “Let’s just hope they keep right on going without noticing us,” Juan said, standing beside the com console, transfixed by the image on the screen.

  Equally absorbed by the approaching apparition, Charlie said, “Not much chance of that. What are the odds they’d just happen to drop out of warp almost right on top of us?”

  “I’m receiving a hail,” Nora said. “Audio only.”

  “Put it on speakers,” Paul said, nodding.

  A deep, gravel-coated voice resounded through the small bridge. “Nov Duj. Pejeghbe’ Duj. Ghuh tIjta pagh QIH.”

  “Dunno what he’s saying,” Charlie said. “But it doesn’t sound friendly.”

  Paul was forced to agree. “Run that through the translation matrix, Nora.”

  “Already on it,” she said as she finished entering a brief series of commands into her console.

  A few tense heartbeats later, the computer substituted a synthetic English-speaking voice for that of the Klingon who was hailing them. “Alien vessel. Surrender your ship. Prepare to be boarded or destroyed.”

  Paul sighed. “That’s pretty much what I thought you were going to say,” he muttered under his breath. He flipped a switch on his chair console, opening an intercom channel to the engine room. “Mom, I’m going to need all the speed you can give me.”

  “You don’t seriously expect to outrun that monster, do you, son?” Rianna said, evidently having already monitored the developing situation from her station.

  “We’ve got a better chance of doing that than we do of winning a straight fight,” Paul said. Even though his brother had persuaded him of the wisdom of upgrading the Horizon’s weaponry during his last visit more than two years earlier, a Klingon battle cruiser was nowhere near as easy to dissuade from using force as was your garden-variety pirate ship.

  “All right, son,” Rianna said. “I’ve got my hand on the throttle. You just give the word.”

  “Consider it given. Charlie, take us back down into the gravity well of the system we just left, pedal down all the way. Maybe we can lose ’em in one of the asteroid fields.”

  “Hang on to your butts,” Charlie said again as he entered the appropriate commands. Paul felt his stomach lurch once more as the freighter accelerated and the inertial dampers again took a few microseconds to catch up. His lunch seemed to desire escape nearly as urgently as he did, but he somehow held on to it until the mercifully brief peristaltic impulse passed.

  “Nora, send a distress signal,” Paul said once he’d found his voice again. He knew that transmitting a Mayday via ordinary EM-band radio—the only option available with the subspace gear still down—would be about as useful as waving semaphore flags. But he had to do something.

  “It’s no good,” Nora said, shaking her head in evident frustration. “They’re jamming us!”

  “Then launch the log buoy,” Paul said, swallowing hard.

  “Done,” Nora said a moment later.

  Paul felt a subtle change in the vibrations coming through the deck plates. Something wasn’t right.

  At the helm, Charlie seemed to be beating back panic, but only barely. “The helm just went dead. Navigation is completely offline.”

  Paul’s heart raced. “Did the log buoy get away?”

  Nora slammed her fist down on her console, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath as though struggling to compose herself. “Afraid I can’t tell. My station just went down, too.”

  Darkness suddenly enfolded the bridge. Paul heard a brief chorus of startled cries and gasps.

  “Life support, too,” Charlie said. Only then did Paul notice the sudden total absence of the ubiquitous background hum of the air-circulation fans.

  Paul fumbled for the intercom controls. “Engine room! Mom!” Nothing. Despite the failure of the helm and just about everything else, the ever-present aural backdrop created by the warp engines was gradually intensifying.

  Then an eerie but welcome reddish glow slowly began to suffuse the chamber as the battery-powered emergency backup circuits dutifully yawned, stretched, and began to wake up.

  “At least something’s still working,” Paul said.

  “We still don’t have any control over anything up here,” Juan said, speaking from the gloomy shadows near one of the port stations.

  The vibration in the deck plates shifted yet again. Paul knew the ship was accelerating.

  “We’re still generating warp power,” Nora said.

  The deck rattled and vibrated. The effect was very different from anything he had ever experienced before. More powerful, and more out of control. Deck segments slammed into one another like a planet’s tectonic plates suddenly cranked into absurdly fast motion, a billion years crammed into a few fleeting heartbeats.

  “We’d better get the escape pods ready,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “Just in case.”

  Charlie entered a command, checked a readout, then cursed. “Not functioning.”

  Why doesn’t that surprise me? Paul thought, struggling to remain calm, or at least to sound that way the next time he spoke. “Nora, get that viewer back up. I need to see what that Klingon ship is up to.”

  “Working on it,” she said, a keen edge of terror audible in her voice. “But I can’t seem to—”

  She stopped abruptly when the forward viewer suddenly winked back to life, displaying an aft view. Looming against the star-bejeweled blackness of deep space, the Klingon battle cruiser was still closing in inexorably on the Horizon’s retreating stern.

  “Good work,” Paul said, thankful for whatever small miracles might appear.

  “I didn’t do it,” Nora said, sounding flummoxed. “I still haven’t figured out why the hell the lights went out in the first place.”

  They’re why, Paul thought, staring straight ahead at the approaching harbinger of death. They must have a new weapon that can cripple us without having to blow us full of holes first. And the screen came up just now because they wanted us to see whatever’s going to happen next.

  “Charlie,” he said aloud as renewed determination and plain, old-fashioned anger stiffened his spine. The Horizon was both his home and his livelihood, and he wasn’t going to give up either without one hell of a fight. “We’re going to have to get clever with these guys.”

  I.K.S. Mup’chIch

  “The remote system is working flawlessly so far, Commander,” Centurion T’Vak said, his gaze still riveted on the broad bank of gauges and indicators that stretched across three bridge workstations.

  Of course, the still experimental arrenhe’hwiua telecapture weapon had worked somewhat less than flawlessly during its initial outings, Commander T’Voras recalled; still, it had enabled the capture of the klivam cruiser he was currently using as the system’s test bed, and had done so in fairly short order. And thanks to the Romulan Star Empire’s long and acrimonious association with the Klingon Empire, the translation device that the chief technologist’s office had integrated into the prototype had succeeded in transmitting a convincingly barbaric-sounding klivam hail.

  It was a pity that it couldn’t also do something about the lingering stench of the hirsute, overly armored animals that had once infested this othe
rwise adequate vessel.

  “We have achieved complete control over the Terran freighter’s propulsion, navigation, and life-support systems,” the centurion said as he entered a few adjustments into the system interface.

  “Very good, Centurion,” T’Voras said. “Admiral Valdore and Chief Technologist Nijil will both be pleased indeed. I shall not neglect to mention your diligence to them.”

  The centurion immediately stood at attention and offered the traditional salute, his clenched right fist raised to high chest level just below the left shoulder, his bent elbow positioned precisely above the lower abdominal ribs that protected his heart. “You do me honor, Commander,” the junior officer said.

  Let us hope that this device will prove as effective against Terran military vessels, T’Voras thought, as it has thus far against their civilian freighters and the klivam warship that now carries us.

  An ominous blood-green light on the device’s central console suddenly began flashing rhythmically, matching the staccato wail of a klaxon. The centurion immediately returned his full attention to his readouts.

  “The freighter crew is attempting to bypass both its primary and secondary systems,” he said, sounding surprised at his opponent’s apparent ingenuity.

  T’Voras nodded, taking the revelation in stride. “They’re no doubt trying some novel method of recovering their console functions. Respond accordingly, Centurion, and maintain control.”

  The centurion’s brow ridge crumpled with concern, as though he’d suddenly become worried that the commendation he had been expecting earlier might suddenly metamorphose into a reprimand. Or perhaps something far worse.

  T’Voras placed a hand gently on the hilt of his razor-sharp dathe’anofv-sen, his Honor Blade. That shall be entirely up to him, he thought.

  E.C.S. Horizon

  “Damn it!” Nora shouted.