Welcome to the Jungle - Part 3

(Warning: Profanity and scenes of violence)

“USS Harken, Captain’s Log, Supplemental, Captain Audea Mistry, Recording: We are proceeding to the Xibalba System to intercept the Klingon freighter Nipoc before it can deliver an illegal consignment of subspace isolytic warheads to a Kzinti Captain. Starfleet Command has been alerted, and they are sending the Ticonderoga and Reykjavik to render assistance… which we will most certainly need.

I am not going to waste time stressing the enormous danger we’re facing. Rather, I’m focusing on utilising the incredible level of experience and expertise I’ve gathered onboard my ship. If there’s a solution to this crisis, they’ll find it.”

*

Dr Ruth Levitt, Astrophysicist and Stellar Cartographer, shook her head. “Nope. The best thing to do is stay away and wait for them to screw up. I’m surprised they haven’t done it already.”

Beside her in front of the Situation Display Tower, Haluk. the Vulcan Intelligence and Cryptoanalysis expert, was rapidly accessing more of the information from the Klingon datarod. “The warheads are indeed notoriously volatile, Doctor, but according to the intelligence provided, they are temporarily stabilised for transport with kelbonite casings. However, the potential for catastrophe is disquieting.”

Mistry finished her now-cold coffee and set aside the cup. “Having utilised them ourselves – unofficially – we know that already. There must be some way of safely neutralising them en masse.”

Dr Kisdi Dzenabe, the statuesque Wakandan expert on Subspace Fireld Physics and Sensor technology, crossed her arms. “If there were, they would not need to be transported to specialist facilities. The isolytic elements have multidimensional atomic structures extending into subspace levels, hence their efficacy in ripping open normal space.”

Perched on a tall stool, Colossale, the ageless, diminutive Fesarian Warp Dynamics Specialist stared upwards at the holographic display of the Xibalba system, his pale, hairless head reflecting the light. “Is there a particular point in trying to salvage the contraband, Captain? Wouldn’t it be safer to detonate it locally?”

Beside him, Dr Thizheris, the Andorian Navigation Specialist, turned his antennae in the direction of his colleague. “Has too much tranya addled your brain? A detonation of 900 subspace isolytic warheads at once would rip a subspace tear light years in volume!”

Leavitt looked to him. “And the surrounding subspace instability would prevent us from forming a warpfield and escape. Suicide is a poor hobby, Colossale.”

Colossale hopped off the stool and patiently walked up to the display, calling up more data, his tiny, pudgy fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Not if it was detonated…” He brought up a trajectory line passing between the Xibalba pulsars. “Here: the combined gravimetric pressures of the hyperdense stars would detonate the warheads, but also at least partially contain the rift and the subspace instability, until we escaped.”

The others looked up, Mistry nodding as the idea took hold of her. “Yes… trapping the ship precisely at the point of maximum gravimetric shear...”

Dzenabe grunted. “Now all you have to do is convince the Kzinti to please guide their ship into a suicide dive.” She glanced at S’Li, who had been silently sitting in the rear, not contributing. “How about it, Caitian? Shall we attract their attention with a laser dot, or will a ball of string do?”

“Enough, Kisdi,” Mistry snapped. “That smacks of racism.”

“Just trying to lighten the situation, Captain,” the Wakandan defended, not sounding very contrite.

“Yes, very amusing, Doctor,” S’Li muttered, never looking up, never raising his voice… but still capturing their attention. “But there is no need to do anything to attract their attention. They will come. They will come because they’re hungry. They will smell our flesh, and their bellies will growl, and they will hunt.”

He rose, leaning on his cane, looking older and more vulnerable than Mistry had ever seen him before, as he approached a now-wary Dzenabe. “They have three times your strength, your speed and durability. You probably won’t see them when they strike. They will rip you open from belly to brisket. And you will most likely still be alive when they feast on you. On all of us.” He started walking to the door.

“Professor?” Leavitt asked.

“Rmolo?” Mistry added, drawing up to him. “Please… we need you-”

S’Li paused and looked at her. “I’m an exolinguist and phonologist, Dear Captain. I’m not needed here.”

She saw the raw fear in his honey, black-slitted eyes, and it made her heart skip a beat. “Professor… you’ve met the Kzinti-”

“Yes,” he interjected. “And as your team’s apparent default Kzinti expert, I have only one piece of advice: destroy them. From a distance. None of your past encounters with Klingons or Romulans or Orions can prepare you, any of you. I need to go, Dear Captain. Please excuse me...”

Mistry was ready to argue further with him, but held back. “Of course, Professor. And… I’m sorry.”

That made him pause. “Sorry? For what?”

“For promising you that we wouldn’t be facing the Kzinti.”

Now a little of the more confident, grandfatherly Caitian she knew and loved flashed back at that. “That was hardly something you could promise me, Audea. You really must learn to curb that human sense of grandiose-” Then he stopped and frowned, glancing at Haluk. “Young Vulcan, there is a large file in my personal database, from around Stardate… ah, 2287, I think… if you access it, you’ll find extensive intelligence on Kzinti vessel security and computer protocols, obtained following my last encounter. Using it, you may devise a means of taking remote control of the Kzinti freighter after they take ownership of the warheads, and guide them into Mr Colossale’s gravimetric trap point.”

Haluk looked down at his display, his brow furrowing. “I believe I have located the file, Professor. However, there will certainly have been upgrades in the thirty-three years since this intelligence was first gathered.”

“You would be surprised, Mr Haluk. Their technological progress is exceedingly slow, and typically based upon what they can buy or steal from others. And they typically buy or steal weapons and engines, not support or security systems; to focus on such trivialities is to appear afraid, and to potentially show weakness with other Prides.”

Mistry smiled, drawing in and hugging S’Li. “Thanks, Professor. You don’t have to go now...”

He harrumphed, adjusting his spectacles. “Clearly someone of your youth can’t properly appreciate the exigent toiletry demands of one of my advanced years… I have to go. It can be in the nearest hygiene chamber, or in the corner of this room.”

Leavitt smiled. “If there’s a vote involved, I vote for the first one.”

As he smirked and turned away again, Dzenabe stepped up to him, her reluctant expression lacking any of her usual arrogance. “Professor… my earlier remarks may have been construed as racist and insulting to felinoids such as yourself. It is possible that I… I may regret them now.”

He raised a furry eyebrow to her. “Please, Dear Doctor, this gushing penitence ill-becomes you. Retain some dignity.”

*

Two hours later, Mistry was in her office, in a conference call with the two Starfleet Captains on their way to join her at Xibalba: Captain Nandi Trujillo of the Shangrila-class attack cruiser Reykjavik, and Captain John Demlin of the Centaur-class cruiser Ticonderoga. She had heard both names, knew they had good, solid reputations for dealing with the unexpected, the arduous… and not too proud to question Mistry taking command of the operation, even if the orders relayed to them from Starfleet Command made that clear. “The Klingon and Kzinti freighter will have arrived and begun the exchange of money and goods by the time we all catch up.”

Demlin, a handsome-looking human male, offered a smile from his side of the screen. “I hope they’re considerate enough to hang around and wait for us.”

Mistry smiled back – was he flirting with her? – as she replied, “I don’t think they’ll be rushing the movement of the warheads; they’ll have to use driver drones rather than transporters… and no doubt the Klingons will hold up matters checking on every bar of latinum for counterfeit currency.”

Trujillo, a sable-haired human female with a remarkably-fixed gaze that Mistry could feel through the viewscreen, smiled as well. “And the interference from the pulsars that they’re using to mask their presence will also mask our approach. What are we expecting with regards to armament from either ship?”

“The Kzinti vessel is unarmed, though the Kzinti themselves will certainly have hand weapons. The Klingon vessel has forward and aft Type-4 phaser banks. But the real danger is a stray beam setting off the warheads.”

“Or an intentional one,” Demlin added, “If the Klingons decide to go to Sto-Vo-Kor rather than a Federation penal colony.”

Trujillo nodded in agreement. “Then I recommend moving in and taking out their weapons immediately, give them nothing to fall back on.”

Mistry nodded back. “And in the meantime, the Harken will take remote control of the Kzinti vessel, and pilot it on a course between the pulsars to trigger the controlled detonation.”

Demlin smiled again. “I have a Science Department taking bets as to the ultimate outcome of a massive isolytic explosion in the balanced gravity well of two pulsars. The smart money is on it not overwhelming the stars and swallowing up everything in this sector.”

“Put me down for a few credits,” Trujillo quipped dryly, focusing on Mistry again. “Captain, the Kzinti on the freighter… what about them?”

“I’ll send a message, explaining the situation and offering them a chance to surrender. If they accept, I’ll need one or both of your ships’ Security teams and facilities.”

Demlin’s smile dropped. “And if they don’t accept? What if they try and set off the warheads themselves?”

Mistry’s face went taut. “In addition to remote controlling their engines and navigation, I’ll be locking down their interior structure, to minimise such a possibility. If anyone is still in a position or gets into a position that threatens to detonate the warheads, they’ll be beamed into a safer part of their ship. For the record… I hope that they choose to live.”

The other Captains went silent, until Trujillo offered, “When we’re done, you’re both invited over to share a bottle of Aldebaran whiskey I recently acquired.”

Demlin smiled again. “Accepted – but don’t tell my CMO, she’s been strong-arming me to stick an artificial heart in me since an Orion disruptor damaged my current one. Her antennae will curl if she hears I’ve gone drinking.”

Mistry frowned. “Are you okay for this mission, Captain?”

“Yes, Captain Mother. I’ll drink you both under the table and still dance a mazurka.”

Trujillo chuckled. “Now that I want to see.”

*

Twenty minutes before their arrival in the Xibalba System, the Harken was joined by the Ticonderoga, and then the Reykjavik; the larger ships flanked the smaller one, offering a tight power signature in case some leakage made its way through the sensor static of the system ahead of them. Once or twice, she glanced at the vessels, imagined commanding one of them, with hundreds of crew under her authority… hundreds of lives depending on her, instead of just forty.

No thanks.

Fifteen minutes before their arrival, the Harken’s sensors cut through the pulsar static to display the two freighters, and the automated drones ferrying objects between them. She arranged to feed the signals to the other ships, producing a whistle from Demlin, on a link from his own vessel. “You want to tell me how a little ship like yours has a better sensor package than either of ours, Captain?”

Mistry smiled at the image of the man. “We serve as a testbed for many experimental devices and algorithms, some of which will feed through to the rest of the Fleet.”

“Eventually,” Trujillo groused, her image from her own ship beside Demlin’s. “Maybe you can throw our Engineers a few sneak previews when this is over?”

Mistry’s smile broadened; despite the urgency of the mission, the stakes, she felt a comfort at the camaraderie shared with her fellow Captains. It wasn’t a common experience for her, had never been one, not in her years of command. She tended to keep to herself, both on the ship and in missions for Starfleet Command, knowing how many of her fellow CO’s looked on her with disdain… a disdain she didn’t get from Trujillo or Demlin. It was… enjoyable. “Let’s get the next couple of hours out of the way and we’ll see.”

Ten minutes before their arrival, she upgraded the Yellow Alert to Red. She kept her eyes forward on the viewscreen, but with her peripheral vision watched as sidearms were distributed to certain crewmembers on the Bridge, those not immediately vital to the success of their mission.

And she listened, listened to the reports from the rest of the ship flooding in, heard the tension in the voices. By all rights, everything should go without a hitch… maybe even on both sides. She could happily go for the rest of her life without being directly or indirectly involved in the deaths of others.

Five minutes before their arrival, she triple-checked the Auxiliary Engineering station to her left, where Haluk sat, having completed the algorithms to override the Slim Belly’s systems and guide it to what Leavitt began referring as the Crush Point; he claimed to have also taught himself the basics of piloting along the way.

Yeah, you’re not a spy. Like I’m not bloody British...

Two minutes before their arrival, an alert came the Radio Shack, and Leavitt reported, “Captain-”

Mistry almost smacked the intercom switch on the arm of her chair. “Now’s not the time, Doctor-”

“Captain, we’re picking up a build-up of gravitons and polarised magnetic energy in the general vicinity of the freighters.”

She frowned, even as Gallop was reporting, “Dropping out of warp- Shields up-”

“Colossale thinks it could be the end point of some sort of displacement wave or corridor through null space-”

“Null space?”

“Ticonderoga and Reykjavik are breaking formation,” Gallop continued. “Targeting Klingon weapons pods!”

*

The two larger Starfleet vessels swept out in wide curves, easily avoiding the attempts by the Nipoc to attack them, responding with single expert phaser strikes that disarmed the ship without overly damaging it.

The Harken drew closer to the Slim Belly, close enough to establish a solid contact. On the Bridge, Haluk reported, “Contact established, encrypting system locks… they will not re-establish control, Captain.”

“Good work, Mr Haluk; commence Lockdown. Mr al-Rad, scan the freighter, locate any Kzin near the warheads, prepare to beam them to more secure parts of their ship.”

“I’m reading 47 Kzin over there, Ma’am,” al-Rad reported. “None in their cargo hold. I don’t think they had time to repressurise that area after making the physical exchange with their cargo drones.”

This is working out better than I expected, Mistry told herself… glad she wasn’t so superstitious as to worry about making such a bold, confident statement.

“Captain!” Leavitt’s voice cut back into her thoughts. “Graviton tunnel opening up 5,000 kilometres at 177-mark-34!”

“Directing Slim Belly towards the Crush Point,” Haluk continued calmly. “ETA nineteen minutes.”

Mistry barely registered the update, calling out, “Al-Rad! Show me this graviton tunnel they’re talking about!”

The viewscreen altered to another point in space, where the local starfield was twisting like a helter-skelter slide… and nine spearhead-shaped, ruby-coloured, tri-nacelled ships of Kzinti design emerged, one after the other, rapidly dividing into two packs of four and five raiders, spreading out and firing ugly blue plasma bolts at the other two starships.

“Where the Hell did they come from?” Gallop exclaimed, watching as the Ticonderoga and Reykjavik departed from the Klingon freighter and took evasive action. “What was that, some sort of wormhole-”

“Never mind,” she snapped back, gripping the arms of her chair. “Helm! Keep us close to the Slim Belly, they’re avoiding us, probably to avoid hitting the freighter, so that’ll protect us! Tactical, scan those new raiders, find out what you can and feed it to our sister ships!” She looked to Haluk. “Can we get this damn freighter moving faster?”

“Negative, Captain,” the Vulcan replied, “It is not designed for fast getaways while carrying a full load… particularly a full load of volatile cargo.”

“Open a hail to the raiders.”

A second later, and, “Hailing Frequencies Open, Ma’am.”

Mistry cleared her throat, expecting a dismissive attitude to her feminine voice, but not giving a damn about appeasing them in any way. “This is Captain Audea Mistry of the USS Harken: cease your attack on our vessels with immediate effect! You are in Federation territory and-”

A booming roar cut her off.

A second later, al-Rad confirmed, with a shaking voice, “Th-They ended the transmission, Ma’am.”

She felt eyes on her. She kept facing ahead. “How’s our side doing, Mr Gallop?”

Her First Officer checked his readings. “The raiders are using some sort of plasma-based weapons similar to old Romulan designs, along with more standard phasers. They’re faster, more maneuverable than our ships, but we have stronger shields. So far it seems to be a stand-off, Captain.”

She nodded, trying to control her racing pulse. “Hail the Slim Belly.” As al-Rad complied, she hoped that she would get a better response from those not in a position to fight. “This is Captain Mistry of the Harken. As you are already aware, we have control of your vessel, and are guiding it to its destruction… but you don’t have to join it. Call off the attacking ships and surrender, and we’ll beam you to safety. You have my word.”

The image of the pulsars on the viewscreen was suddenly replaced by a close-up of a snarling felinoid, one superficially resembling Professor S’Li, but larger, leaner, fiercer, baring gleaming teeth and slitted, hungry eyes that fixed on her. “And you have my word, Captain Mistry of the Harken, that when this is over, my Female and I will have you round for dinner.”

The image of the binary pulsars, flashing hypnotically at them as they drew closer, returned.

“Eighteen minutes to Crush Point,” Haluk updated.

“Captain,” Gallop reported, “One of the five raiders attacking the Reykjavik is verering off and is heading for us!”

Mistry leaned forward. “Arm phasers! Take it out before it can-”

Wixtar was ahead of her, the Harken’s dorsal phasers striking out, damaging one of the raider’s three nacelles as it… just soared past, without firing? “Did- Did we-”

“Intruder Alert!” Wixtar cut in. “They beamed though our shields somehow! Read our shield frequencies! We have Kzin on Decks 2, 3- ”

“Condition Ten!” Gallop called out, motioning for the armed crewmembers on the Bridge to take defensive positions. “Full Lockdown! Transporters, turbolifts, blast doors! All Hands: we’ve been boarded!”

“Change our shield frequencies!” Mistry bellowed over the chaos, checking their progress to the Crush Point: seventeen minutes away. Bloody bastard BUGGER-

*

Five minutes before, when Red Alert sounded, Nola had been standing guard in the curved corridor on Deck 3 outside the entrance to the Radio Shack, idly looking at the hand phaser issued to her, along with the armoured vest and headgear; when the klaxon sounded, she raised the phaser in the direction of-

“Shit!” Sebastiere, standing opposite, stepped aside immediately. “Nola, please!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” She holstered her phaser once more; it had been set on Stun, but that was no excuse for being careless with any weapon. She offered an embarrassed smile. “Too bad Movie Night was cancelled, you’re less likely to end up unconscious-”

He frowned at her; sweat beaded down from under his headgear. “It’s not funny, Nola! This is serious business!”

She nodded. “I know, Charles. I’m scared, too.” Then she frowned at him.

He noticed it. “What? What is it?”

She shook her head now. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

“Damn it, Nola, just say something to take my mind off of this!”

She breathed out. “Your voice has changed. It’s not as… French-Canadian as it usually is.” Her gaze narrowed. “Captain Mistry’s been teaching me to listen to accents, to narrow down a speaker’s origins.”

Sebastiere reddened.

Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “Do you... do you exaggerate the accent? Seriously?” She couldn’t help but laugh, despite the acute anxiety of the situation. “Why the hell would you do that?”

The other crewman looked down either side of the corridor, before finally admitting, “I thought- I thought it sounded exotic. Romantic. You know?” As she continued to laugh, he pleaded. “Don’t tell the others, okay? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Nola calmed down, nodding. “Sure, Charlie, whatever you say.” Louder now, she called down one end of the corridor, “You get all that, T’Shak?”

Unseen, the Vulcan called back, “Yes, and I have relayed it to Mr Granch.”

In punctuation, booming Tellarite laughter carried to them.

Then the Radio Shack doors parted open, and S’Li stepped out, tightly gripping his cane without actually using it for support. His tail smacked hard repeatedly against the nearest wall as he looked to the two crewmen. “You cubs need to come in with the rest of us.”

Nola stared at him with concern, never having seen him so nervous, so agitated before. “Professor, we can’t leave our post! Security protocols-”

“Protocols be damned! The Captain has no business leaving you out here!”

Leavitt stepped outside with her fellow scientist. “Rmolo, we’re not supposed to be out here, come on, you’re distracting them-”

She took him by the arm, but he shook it off. “These cubs are too young to be facing such calamities! They don’t understand!”

“Professor!” Nola turned to him, trying to calm him down. “Please, we’ll be okay-”

Then Commander Gallop’s voice filled the air. “Condition Ten! Full Lockdown! Transporters, turbolifts, blast doors! All Hands: we’ve been boarded!”

A shimmering sound was lost in the alert, but blue-purple energy columns three metres down the curved corridor caught Nola’s attention, the columns coalescing into two-metre-tall orange-furred felinoids that were on the move even before they had fully formed.

Nola froze, unable to move, speak, think, watching as the Kzin charged in their direction, roaring, “MEAT!!”

Time slowed, compressed.

Things happened in tiny portions.

She reached for her phaser.

She froze again.

S’Li drew up behind her.

He wrapped an arm around her.

He dragged her backwards to the Radio Shack.

In front of her now, Sebastiere was stepping back as well.

He was drawing his own phaser.

He was raising it towards the Kzin.

They were faster.

One towering Kzin pounced on him, roaring, “MEAT!”

He grabbed the young man’s phaser arm at the forearm.

And ripped the arm from its socket…

PART 4