PHYSICS
by Melter of Snowflakes
The ship rocked under the disrupter fire.
"Shield status," Captain Darrin Jordan called from the center
seat.
"Shield three down to eighty percent and holding," came
the reply from Lt. Jill Anderson, Chief Weapons Officer.
"Bring us around 120 degrees to port. Let's try to get
them in front of us. Weapons, stand-by on all forward
torpedoes," the captain ordered.
"Coming to 180, sir," and "Torpedoes ready at your
command, sir," came the expected acknowledgements.
Jordan could feel the old gravity and inertial damping
fields strain as the little ship came to it's course.
"Enemy cruiser on main viewer," said Lt. George
Neuwirth, Chief Helm, as the dark grey form entered the
screen.
"Fire torpedo one!"
Seconds later, the ship shuddered as a torpedo was launched
from teh overhead pod.
"Torpedo away and running. Impact in six seconds."
The torpedo smashed through what shields were left
working aboard the cruiser and continued on to the ship
itself, vaporizing hundreds of tons of hull.
"Direct hit on main hull. Scanning traces of atmosphere,
hull metals, and bodies. Must have breeched some crew
quarters," said Lt. Anderson.
"Sensors indicate a power loss; four percent and
falling," said Lt Cmdr. Derrick Robie, who was both sciences
and the first officer.
"Weapons, target warp engines and fire."
Again, the little ship shuddered in response to the
captain's orders.
HIGH FRONTIER rocked again, another disrupter hit.
"Hit on shield two, down to seventy-five percent."
"Torpedo impact on enemy cruiser, engine hit. Power
levels down to fifty-two percent," reported Robie. "They're
trying to bring torpedoes to bear."
The ship on the screen slowly swung to stare at the
captain, it's torpedo tube glowing in preparation to fire.
"Evasion, starboard!" Jordan called.
The little ship hurried to answer before the torpedo
impacted a damaged shield.
Jordan gripped the arms of his chair as his vision
blurred from the rumble as the torpedo buckled the shield
that was unable to stop it.
"Damage report!" Jordan called as the vibration stopped.
"Port phasers down, shield one down, superstructure
damage to weapons bar... Incoming disrupter fire through
shield one."
Torpedoes were relatively easy to evade, their travel
took time. Disrupters and phasers moved at the speed of
light, there wasn't enough time. For just a moment, the beams
of energy connected the two ships across the thousands of
kilometers, then the energy began to ease the bonds of the
molecules making up HIGH FRONTIER's hull.
"Hull breech, decks seven and eight at forward rec-
room."
"Make sure all the doors are sealed, and get me damage
reports," said Jordan. "weapons, stand-by with all available
torpedoes. Damage control, get me engineering and see to it
that shield one comes back up."
The appropriate personnel responded to the captain's
orders.
"Sir, torpedoes two through four and six are loaded and
ready to fire at your command," announced Weapons.
"Helm, bring us around to 270 degrees, drop aft shields
and give me best possible impulse speed.," the captain
ordered, carefully observing the small tactical screen and
the bridge crew.
The D-7M slowly twisted to follow, just as Jordan
thought he would.
"Helm, full about to 090 degrees, use emergency power if
you have to. Weapons, wait two seconds, then open fire with
everything you've got."
A pair of "Aye, sir," replied and HIGH FRONTIER's aging
integrity field generator fell a step behind the turn of the
ship and the gravity dropped a few tenths of a G. The
attitude of the ship stabilized and the weapons pod opened
fire with the flaming death that was all too often the last
thing a D-7M commander saw.
"First torp impacting now, damage assessment meant coming
through sciences," reported helm.
"Report," said Jordan.
"Heavy damage to shield system, engineering, warp and
impulse drives, weapons and crew quarters. Power curve
indicates weapons grid still active, a power being..."
"Yes?"
"...transferred to movement. Shields collapsing, but
weapons are still powered."
"Weapons, be ready to defang her once and for all,"
Jordan said. "Load the torp pod. Communications, get me their
Captain on the screen."
"Establishing a link." The screen of HIGH FRONTIER's
brisdge had often displayed the wonders of the universe. Now,
it showed the interior of the Klingon cruiser; smashed,
wrecked, and battered, but not beaten, yet. THe command
chair's occupant spun around to face his own screen, and look
into the eyes of his opponent.
I am Captain Darrin Jordan, commanding the StarShip HIGH
FRONTIER. Hopefully, I won't have to, but just in case, there
are five of the most powerful weapons known to Federation
science pointed at your vessel. I will not hesitate in using
them."
Jordan paused for a moment, looking for a clue from the
Klingon's face. Not finding one, he continued. "Now, would
you like to tell me what's going, or shall we blow each other
to particles on the interstellar winds?"
The Klingon waited for his ship's computer to make the
translation, then smiled a broad, toothy smile.
"I am Captain K'Tath, of the Imperial Klingon Vessel
BRIGHTCLAW. We had heard about the JAVELIN refit and couldn't
wait to see them for ourselves. So, we came and looked. A
most formidable foe, our D-7 has found. The more we look, the
more similarities seem to show up." He turned off screen and
barked a string of Klingon.
Robie spoke to Jordan, "Their weapons and what was left
of thier shields have gone off line."
"Reduce to yellow alert and take weapons off line."
"Entering the lion's den? asked Anderson.
"I don't think so," he replied. Jordan turned his
attention back to K'Tath. "We both seem to have taken a leap
of faith."
"Yes, I hope it isn't off a tall cliff." K'Tath laughed,
surprising Jordan. "As I said earlier, we are merely testing
the newest the Federation has to offer us. One ship and one
crew are certainly worth the information gained. And, to die
in battle, that is the greatest glory."
"You picked a fight with us, for glory!" Jordan
exclaimed. "You could have started a war."
"After over one hundred years, you humans still miss the
point." He turned away from the screen, and spoke to his
crew again.
His face faded from the screen, showing the cruiser
floating in space. Then, the ship too faded from space
itself, leaving HIGH FRONTIER alone again.
"They've cloaked, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He touched the intercomm panel
on his arm rest. "Engineering?"
"Canada here."
"Do we still have warp drive?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, bridge out. Helm, set course for StarBase 20,
warp 3."
The ship moved out and entered warp space.
"Do you think we'll ever understand them, sir?"
"In time, Jill, all things in their time."
StarBase 20
"What'd you run into, a D-7?" the Dockmaster asked
chuckling.
"As a matter of fact... we did," Jordan smiled.
"Oh, uh, well... um, pull into Bay 16," he responded
sheepishly, and closed the channel.
"Okay, George, take us in, carefully."
George Neuwirth, Chief Helm, passed his hands across the
his control panel, and the little ship eased into it's
assigned bay.
"Dare, see if you can get me an appointment with the
base commander. As for the rest of you, standard docking
procedure and engage the mooring system."
"Docking system engaged and running smoothly," replied
George.
"Captain, I've Commodore Finley on. He'll talk to you
right now," said Communications Officer Dare Huntington.
Jordan swirled his chair around. "I didn't realize that
things were that boring out here. Okay, put him on the
screen."
Jordan's chair righted itself relative to the rest of
the bridge as the main screen changed from the interior of
the StarBase to the interior of the commodore's office.
"Captain Darrin, somebody finally gives you a ship, and
you go out and mees up the paint!"
"Ha, at least I don't have to work on them. Well, not
much anymore, anyway. Seems you finally got respectable and
responsible. Either that or you bothered one too many
admiral's daughters, eh, Erik?" Jordan grinned.
"Very funny, especially when one of those daughters is
now my wife."
"Poor thing, I hope she knows you as well as I do."
"Naw, I still have a few Academy secrets she doesn't
know. But I don't think you called just to interrogate
me about my private life, did you?"
Jordan looked seriously at the man on the screen. "No,"
he answered, "I didn't. Though I'd rather not broadcast it
through the base."
"Understood. Come over as soon as you can."
COMMODORE'S OFFICE
The walk to the Commodore's office gave Jordan time to
think about the last few days, and especially about the
skirmish with the D-7. If the Klingons wanted to know about
the newest ships of StarFleet, there were easier ways than
picking a fight with the first ship to come along the Neutral
Zone. Even though HGIH FRONTIER had proven itself as a
fighting vessel, spies could have told the High Council that
without the bloodshed. Or, could it have been personal. Was
the Klingon a descendant of some warrior that died in the
Federation/Klingon Wars?
That was a thought. Or maybe one of the crew was, a good
number of his crew were from career families.
Darrin pressed the door's buzzer.
It slid open with the characteristic "whoosh" and closed
when he was all the way inside the room.
Erik Finley motioned to a chair and Jordan sat down.
"You think something else is going on besides the
original attack?" Erik reached for a red bottle and two small
glasses before sitting. He filled them both and pushed one
toward Jordan.
"I was thinking so, maybe I'm making something out of
nothing." He took a drink. "Good stuff, I'll get some."
"Down on the Promenade's second floor."
"Okay. I'd hate to think that I'm doing all this
paperwork over a bored Klingon captain."
Finley grinned. "I can imagine," he said. "But you have
a feeling or something?"
"Yes. You know, 'I have a bad feeling about this.'"
They really didn't seem interested in destroying us, just a
deadly game of tag." I hate sending out messages to
families."
"Especially for what passes for Klingon curiosity."
Finley finished his glass and filled it again. "Maybe we
shouldn't be so nice in the future. You've got a Mark Ten
JAVELIN, use it. I've seen the article in STARFLEET REVIEW,
rather impressive. Firepower, maneuverability, and the best
shields the Federation taxpayer can buy." He leaned forward,
as if telling a big secret. "Rumor has it that they might
replace the old CONNIEs with JAVELINs."
"I really don't think so, HIGH FRONTIER isn't much good
over warp eight; too much shaking."
"Refill?"
"No," replied Jordan. "The firepower’s great, but it'd be
better to get places in time to use it, wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah, though having the big stick nice too. I think
your just looking at a Klingon commander bucking for a
raise."
Jordan shook his head in agreement. "He could have
been."
Finley drained his glass as Jordan stood to go. "Could I
interest you in a tour?"
"Let me get back to HIGH FRONTIER and I'll see you in a
few hours."
HIGH FRONTIER
More doors "whooshing" open. Lieutenant Nathan Canada
quickly looked toward the door and stood up, straightening
his tunic.
"Captain, welcome to my humble domain," he said with a
noticeably Spanish accent and fluid bow.
"Why, thank you," Jordan replied with a slight grin.
"how are things?"
"We'll be ready in two or three days; a few of the
panels need to be fabricated still and 20's working on the
impulse deck power converters." Cananda pointed to an empty
spot on the floor.
"Couldn't leave if we wanted to, eh?" Jordan asked.
"Not even if I got out and pushed," Canada said smiling.
"Keep up the good work and let Miller know if you need
anything."
"Sure thing, Captain."
StarBase 20
After the tour of the StarBase that Finley promised,
Jordan enjoyed dinner at one of the base's fine eating
establishments with George Neuwirth, Jill Anderson, and Erik
Finley (who, Jordan thought, was the reason for the fine
meal).
The three of them were involved in animated conversation
while Jordan sat staring into a slowly cooling cup of coffee.
"Captain... captain? Are you still in there?" Jill
looked across the table, concerned.
Jordan shook his head, "I'm afraid so, Jill. Just caught
thinking." He sipped from the cold cup. "Ick."
"Still stuck on that D-7?" asked Finley. "you're gonna
worry yourself a bald spot." He smiled broadly.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am thinking about that
silly D-7. Just out testing us, he says. That test cost me
four days at a StarBase, millions in repairs and 12 dead
crewpersons. I hate writing those letters, and for deaths as
worthless as..." He stopped.
"Sir, that was the Klingon's fault, not yours. And we
all knew the risks. Nobody in StarFleet had a limb twisted to
join. We," she swept her hand to indicate the others in the
restaurant, "are all here because we want to be here. To see
what is there. How'd the recruiting poster go, George?
"'To see new places, meet new beings,' if I remember
it correctly."
"Sure did," said Finley. "That's what got me out here,
though I was hoping for a ship command. But, being out here
in 20's been far from boring. Why, look over there, a group
of Rigellian traders. Wonder what they have this time?"
Finley's gaze stopped on a half-dozen heavily robed
forms making their way across the sunken center floor of the
restaurant to a grouping of reclined chairs with small tables
near them.
"Commodore," answered Jill, "it's either something
incredibly boring, or something incredibly amazing."
"Like?" George prodded.
"Oh, say, Antarian Water, or an FTL engine that's better
than warp drive."
"That would be a good trick. I hope to see it my
lifetime."
The Rigellians placed themselves about the grouping and
seemed to to do the things all the other varied customers of
the restaurant did. The fabric of their robes caught Jill's
eye; black with a shimmering reminiscent of oil on water.
Maybe a shift or a dress for formal occasions, she thought.
Hopefully, she'd see them before HIGH FRONTIER left the
StarBase.
"Maybe we will. You never know with technology these
days," said Jordan. "Some day, even HIGH FRONTIER will be
able to cruise at warp ten."
"Sure, and maybe Vulcans'll sprout wings and fly!"
exclaimed George, rocking back and forth with a hearty laugh.
"Maybe." Jordan surveyed the room too. Vulcans,
Tellarites, Andorians, and dozens of inhabitants of the
Federation, and the galaxy. And, gee, of all the creatures to
see here, Klingons. But, these looked familiar to Jordan, the
seldon seen "New Klingons," or in less cultures circles,
"Turtles." They acquired the second name because of the
ridges on their foreheads that were unique to each Klingon.
Finley lifted his wrist for the communicator it carried.
"Finley to Ops."
"Ops here."
"Lieutenant Germaine, why are there Klingons on my
station, and why wasn't I told?"
"Sir, they're just traders here to meet with the
Rigellians. And, they agreed to follow all the rules and
codes of the station."
"Yes, I'm sure they did. Have Security post extra guards
at the entrances to HIGH FRONTIER. And get few keep an eye
on things here. It's been quiet lately, I want to stay that
way, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Minutes later, a group of security people appeared in
the restaurant placed to provide full coverage.
"Commodore, I really don't think..."
Finley cut Jordan off, "Captain, I do That's why they
are are here." He indicated the guards. "I'll be right back."
He stood up from he table and headed for the the Klingon/
Rigellian group.
Jordan watched him walk over, and began to feel uneasy
about the two groups together. Rigellians, the best traders
in the Federation, and the Klingons, the worst enemy of the
Federation.
Finley patted the robes of one of the Rigellians and
shook hands with the Klingons. They all exchanged words for a
few minutes, then Finley returned to the table and sat down.
"Well, they seem to be getting along all right so far,"
commented Jill, finishing her meal.
"So far," Jordan said finishing his cold coffee.
HIGH FRONTIER
Captain's Log, stardate 10573.2. Darrin Jordan,
commanding officer, recording.
The repairs to HIGH FRONTIER are proceeding according to
schedule, such that Engineer Canada will be needed more
inside than out, and the group of Klingons on StarBase 20
have presented no troubles, so far.
We should be on our way again in a day.
I am reminded of an old 2-D show quote:
"For every action their is an equal and opposite
reaction. They hate us, we hate them. They hate us back. We
are victims of mathematics."
Is that all we are, or is there more than just numbers?
END OF LOG ENTRY.
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