“Na sir ‘s na seachainn an cath. Neither seek nor shun the fight.”*
― Rae Lori
Chapter 5
USS Saratoga
Sick Bay
Captain Robau entered sickbay to find it a buzz of activity. Nurses and corpsmen moved quickly but professionally as they tended to the casualties from their engagement with the Klingons. It may have been controlled chaos, but at least there was a semblance of order.
A wave of strong feelings flooded Robau’s heart: sadness, pride, anxiety. He was not given to overt displays of emotion, but the sight of so many wounded and bleeding crewmen brought him up short.
“Captain?”
The voice of Lt. Jackie Rainer, R.N., shook Robau out of his reverie. He tore his gaze away from the wounded and focused on the Head Nurse.
“Lieutenant, I uh, wished to check on our wounded.”
Rainer smiled with understanding. “Certainly, sir. Dr. Tharn and Dr. Piper are this way; they’ve both finished several surgical procedures and I made them take a break. Follow me, please.”
The Captain dutifully followed the nurse. Even though he was commanding officer of Saratoga, he was under no illusions that he carried any real weight in sickbay. Tharn, Piper and Rainer held sway in this kingdom.
Dr. Tharn and Dr. Mark Piper made for an odd pair. The CMO was an acerbic Tellarite, brilliant, demanding and possessed of the acid tongue typical of her race. Piper by contrast was a middle-aged Human, soft-spoken with tremendous warmth and a country doctor’s charm. Yet despite their differences, the two physicians were collegial friends, holding great mutual respect for each other despite their frequent verbal sparring.
Nurse Rainer led the Captain to the Chief Medical Officer’s office, a cramped space filled with data slates and arcane medical equipment. A pungent smell hit Robau as he entered that was a mix of human sweat, blood, antiseptics, and wet dog.
Dr. Tharn slumped at her desk, a mug of steaming fermented root nectar in her fur-tufted hand. Dr. Piper perched on a stainless-steel stool, his thick but skilled fingers wrapped around a coffee mug emblazoned with the Starfleet Medical logo. Both appeared tired and haggard and they still wore surgical smocks stained with various hues of blood and gore.
Tharn glowered at Robau. “Are you going to say something or just stare?” she demanded, the fatigue evident in her voice.
Robau cleared his throat. “Report, please, Doctor.”
She leaned her elbows on her desk and rubbed her snout. “Two deceased: Crewman Second Class Petrovich was in the port sensor compartment when it got hit. Lt. Sh’var was killed when a plasma conduit ruptured.” A pause. “At least they both died quickly.”
The Captain absorbed this information, his face a stone. A young crewman and the Assistant Chief Engineer. “Other casualties?”
“All twenty four bio-beds are full with cases ranging from mild burns and smoke inhalation to major head trauma. However, thanks to Dr. Piper and my own surgical contributions, all should recover. Additionally, we have fourteen others who were treated and released. Two of those I have confined to quarters as they should still be in sickbay but we lack room. One of the nurses will check on them.”
“I see. Thank you for your efforts . . . both of you. I suppose it could have been worse.”
Tharn snorted derisively. “It may yet get worse. Don’t forget those people on the planet.”
Robay shook his head. “I haven’t. Commander Kirk is organizing rescue operations, but I fear there may not be many survivors.”
Tellarites do not typically have expressive faces, but Dr. Tharn’s eyes radiated sadness augmented with deep weariness. “Deities, I hope you’re wrong.”
“As do I. May I visit with the patients?”
Dr. Piper slid off the stool and straightened, his back popping audibly as he stretched. “Sure, it will do them good. I’ll go with you.”
“Get some rest, Mark,” ordered Tharn. “We may be busy soon.”
“You do the same. I’ll hit the rack after I accompany the Captain through the ward.”
Dr. Piper paused outside the CMO’s office and removed the stained surgical smock, revealing the blue tunic of the science/medical division. He ran gnarled fingers through a shock of wavy chestnut colored hair and fixed his somber gaze on Robau.
“Captain, there’s one of our patients I really want you to speak to. His injuries are relatively minor, but he’s taking the death of Lt. Sh’var very hard; he’s blaming himself for the Lieutenant’s death.”
“Oh? Who’s the patient?”
“Ensign Montgomery Scott, a young engineers on his first deep-space assignment. He suffered minor injuries when Sh’var was killed. Apparently the Lieutenant saved Mr. Scott’s life by pushing him out of the way when that conduit blew. There was certainly nothing the Ensign could have done; this was not his fault.”
Robau nodded as they made their way through the ward. The Captain took time to speak with the injured, at least those who were conscious, offering words of encouragement that sounded empty to his own ears. Piper added comments and answered Robau’s questions as they moved through Sickbay.
Piper led them to bed 16 where a slender young man with dark hair and pale skin lay. Ensign Scott’s eyes were closed and a sheen of healing gel covered the flash burns on his face and hands. The display above the young engineer’s bed beeped with a reassuring rhythm. Piper glanced at the readings, apparently satisfied.
“Mr. Scott?” Piper spoke in a kind but firm tone.
The Ensign’s eyes fluttered open, first fixing on the Doctor before shifting to the face of Captain Robau. Scott’s eyes widened.
The Captain offered a reassuring smile. “Mr. Scott, I wanted to stop by and check on you. Dr. Piper assures me you are making progress and should recover quickly.”
Scott cleared his throat, his mouth dry. Piper offered him some water through a straw which the Ensign gladly accepted.
“Thank you, sar; I appreciate it.” He lay his head back down as if the effort had drained him, his expression forlorn.
Robau glanced up at Piper then back at Scott.
“Ensign, I understand you’re grieved over Lt. Sh’var’s death, but there was nothing you could do to prevent that conduit from rupturing. His death was not your fault.”
Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes. “Nae, it should have been me, Captain. Mr. Sh’var, he sacrificed himself for me.” Scott shook his head slowly. “He was a fine, man, sar, and a brilliant engineer . . . far better than I. He dinnae deserve to die like that.”
“No, he didn’t. But neither did you, Ensign Scott. We’re in a war and chances are we’ll lose many more friends before it’s over. You have a second chance and I have a suggestion as to how your can honor Lt. Sh’var.”
Scott blinked and fixed Robau with an intense gaze. “Sar? How?”
“Make it your life’s purpose to be the best damn engineer you can be. Carry on his legacy, Mr. Scott; I believe Sh’var would be pleased with that.”
The Ensign’s brow knitted as he considered the Captain’s words. “Aye,” He replied slowly. “I believe he would.” There was another pause as Scott’s face relaxed and he turned again to face the Captain. “I’ll do that, Captain . . . you have my watch and warrant on it.”
Robau nodded. “I will hold you to that, Mr. Scott.”
* *
Bridge
Twelve hours passed as Saratoga and Pegasus scanned the surface of Theta Hyronis IV from orbit. The initial euphoria that George Kirk experienced over surviving the initial encounter with the Klingons had faded, replaced with a mix of sorrow and slow-simmering anger.
Thus far they had only recovered eighteen survivors out of a population of more than twenty thousand men, women and children. The survivors had hidden in an underground storage area, protecting them from the disruptor blasts and from the orbital bombardment that followed. Still, they all suffered from shock and radiation burns and were far from “okay.”
Kirk rubbed his face trying desperately to remain awake. Even with brief rest intervals, he had gone more than 36 hours without any real sleep and he was getting punchy. Captain Robau had done likewise; even now, he was in engineering consulting with Chief Engineer Andropov over temporary repairs to the damaged starboard warp nacelle.
A soft series of beeps from the communications station drew his attention. Ensign Emily Kroeger placed the transceiver in her ear and spoke softly before turning to Kirk.
“Incoming message from the Pegasus, sir.” His stomach knotted, anticipating the news. The destroyer had settled into high orbit, using its advanced long-range sensors to seek out any signs that the Klingons were returning in force.
The face of Kirk’s counter-part, First Officer Naji Sahawneh, appeared on the main view screen. From the expression on Lt. Commander Sahawneh’s face, the news was not good. He spoke without preamble.
“Commander Kirk, we’ve picked up multiple contacts approaching at high warp. Confidence is high it’s a Klingon strike force; we have 47 confirmed contacts.”
Kirk winced. That wasn’t a strike force; it was a damned armada. “How long?”
“At current speed, twelve hours.”
Kirk sighed. “Understood. You know our orders; recall your rescue parties and prepare to break orbit.”
Sahawneh nodded. “Will do. We brought two other survivors aboard a few minutes ago. Unfortunately, one of them, an elderly man, succumbed to his injuries. The other is critical.”
Commander Kirk shook his head grimly. “Nineteen survivors out of over twenty thousand. The bastards were thorough.”
“True enough. We’ll contact you when our rescue teams are on board. Pegasus, out.”
“Might as well share the good news,” mumbled Kirk as he stabbed the comm switch on the chair’s armrest. “Kirk to Captain Robau . . .”
* * *
IKS Nag’var
Flagship of the 12th Klingon Expeditionary Force
Meditation Chamber of Thought Admiral Vor’cha
Thought Admiral Vor’cha gazed at the streaming star field as the Nag’var cruised at warp accompanied by a flotilla of Imperial Naval vessels. He had reviewed all the telemetry from the Theta Hyronis’ system and was now ready to ‘discuss’ the fiasco with the surviving commander, Captain Tref.
“Is Captain Tref still waiting in the antechamber?” Vor’cha asked of his aide, a smooth-browed commander by the name of Krev.
“Yes, my lord. He’s pacing like a caged Targ.”
“Time to uncage him. Send the Targ in, Commander.”
Krev hesitated. “My lord, he is still armed.”
Vor’cha lifted a bony brow ridge. “Of course he’s armed, Krev. Do you think that troubles me?”
Krev quickly bowed his head. “No, excellency! Certainly not.”
“We will allow Captain Tref a vestige of his honor for the moment, seeing as how he has forfeited most of it.”
The Admiral’s tone was conversational. Krev knew that when the Thought Admiral spoke in quiet tones he was most dangerous.
In the ante-chamber, Captain Tref, son of Kral, indeed paced. He was furious for having been ordered to leave the Theta Hyronis system at the very moment he was about to regain the upper hand against the Starfleet cruiser. Victory and honor were snatched from his grasp for reasons he could not fathom. Thought Admiral or not, he would get answers for this outrage!
He paused to glare at the two armed troopers who stood guard by the Admiral’s mediation chamber. They remained impassive despite his angry scrutiny.
The doors trundled open with a mechanical growl and Commander Krev stepped out. “The Admiral will see you now, Captain Tref.”
Tref brushed the aide aside and stormed in. Krev shook his head in wonder. Did the Captain not understand how he had disgraced himself and the Imperial Navy?
The chamber was dimly lit; most of the illumination came from the large, circular viewport which backlit the Thought Admiral in silhouette. Vor’cha was an imposing figure; he stood two meters tall with prominent brow ridges and broad shoulders. He appeared younger than his 160 years, though lines and scars hinted at past battles. Vor’cha eschewed the modern uniform of breeches and silver mail tunic, wearing instead the traditional leather armor and cape preferred by the High Houses of Q’onos.
Tref offered a brusque salute before angrily demanding, “Admiral Vor’cha! Why was I recalled at my moment of triumph?”
Vor’cha smiled, revealing sharp, uneven teeth. “Triumph? Do you consider the loss of seven Imperial vessels a triumph, Captain?”
“The Earthers took us by surprise, Admiral, but we quickly . . . “
“Surprise?” bellowed Vor’cha. “Is your brain so addled that you did not think that Starfleet might retaliate?”
Captain Tref growled, “Of course we anticipated a counter-attack, my lord, but in number not a lone ship.”
“And yet,” continued Vor’cha, pouring a hefty amount of blood wine into a goblet, “That. Lone. Ship. very nearly wiped out the battle group under your command, Captain Tref. Or did I misunderstand the after action report?” The Admiral gazed impassively at Tref as he took a generous quaff of wine.
Tref was silent for a moment, realization now over-taking the self-righteous anger that had burned in his heart. “I take full responsibility for the actions of my battle group, my lord,” he stated, gruffly.
Vor’cha chuckled. It was not a pleasant laugh. “Actions? More like in-action from my perspective. I must say, I’m disappointed to see you, Captain.”
Captain Tref frowned in puzzlement. He was quick to act but often slow to think. “My lord? But you ordered my immediate return.”
“True. But surely you must have realized the reason I was recalling you. We were able to monitor the debacle from one of our jamming drones. At least Captain Drurn had the good sense to order the destruction of his ship rather than face the dishonor of surrender. If, as you say, you had the upper hand in battle, you should have taken the chance to finish the Earthers, ignored my order, and flown your ship straight through theirs. If you had done so, at least your house would have honor satisfied." Vor'cha casually placed the heavy goblet on a table.
"As it is, I have ordered all your kinsmen in the Imperial Navy to be executed and your land holdings on Q’onos are being burned to the ground as we speak."
With a bellow of outrage, Captain Tref pulled his d’k’tahg from his belt and charged the Admiral.
Vor’cha produced a Mek’leth from his cloak and easily parried Tref’s clumsy attack, severing the Captain’s knife hand before striking a lethal blow to his neck.
Tref’s lifeless body crashed to the deck, blood pooling at the Thought Admiral’s feet. The chamber doors opened and the two guards charged in, weapons at the ready, followed by Commander Krev.
“Have that removed and jettisoned into space,” ordered the Admiral as he wiped the blood from his short sword. “Inform me when all the members of the House of Kral are dead.”
Krev saluted. “It shall be done, my lord.”
As the corpse was removed, Vor’cha sat in his throne-like chair and brooded. He had opposed the strategy of “least respect” for this very reason. Many on the High Council did not believe the Federation capable of resisting the Klingon Imperial Navy. Vor’cha knew they held the advantage in ship numbers and skill, but he was a student of history. Too many times in the past, Humans had been underestimated. Even with their string of victories against the retreating Starfleet, the anomalies troubled him: the Deltan, Tyra, and now Captain Robau had employed brilliant ruses to defeat superior forces. To be sure, it was merely a set-back for the rapid Klingon advance, but it gave their adversaries a powerful weapon, one which most on the High Council dismissed as irrelevant.
Hope.
* * *
USS Saratoga
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 2242.38, Richard Robau recording. With the Klingon fleet a mere six hours away, we have departed the Theta Hyronis system accompanied by USS Pegasus. With temporary repairs in place, we should be able to maintain warp six until we arrive at Starbase 10 to offload the survivors, complete repairs and restock our weapons stores. In the meantime, we will stay at yellow alert in case we come across any Klingon ships.”
Robau paused, considering his words. “Despite our efforts, the citizens of Theta Hyronis IV fell victim to the marauding Klingon attackers. I cannot fathom why they would slaughter innocents without allowing them to surrender. Such a mindset is completely and utterly alien to me, yet these are the barbarians we face. I fear this travesty will continue until we can put together an effective defense and begin to counter-attack. I only wish I knew how we are to do that.”
The chime of the comm signal interrupted him. He paused and saved his log entry before answering. “Robau here.”
“Captain, we’re receiving a scrambled priority one signal from Starbase 12. Admiral Hoyt Braxton is standing by.”
Robau frowned. Why Admiral Braxton and not Admiral Takarwa? And why Starbase 12 instead of 10? “Pipe it to my quarters, Lieutenant.”
Momentarily, the image of Vice-Admiral Hoyt Braxton appeared on Robau’s viewer. Braxton had close-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and eyes the color of a glacier. He also had the reputation as a hard-nosed S.O.B. From the dark bags under his eyes, it was evident that Braxton had been getting no more sleep than Robau.
“Captain Robau, you are to divert immediately to Starbase 12 and report to me upon your arrival. I will inform the C.O. of the Pegasus that he is to do likewise. I’ve got a job for you.”
“Admiral, forgive me, but my orders from Admiral Takarwa are to return to Starbase 10.”
A pained expression crossed Braxton’s face. “Ah, hell. Captain, I’m sorry. Subspace communications are still screwed up over a third of the sector. I thought you knew.”
“Knew what, sir?”
Braxton’s eyes betrayed pain and weariness. “The Klingons attacked Starbase 10 about six hours ago. The base was completely destroyed. We also lost the Essex, the Hood, and the Minsk in the attack. Over 1500 Starfleet personnel were killed.”
Robau was stunned. It took him a moment before he trusted himself to speak. “Any survivors, Admiral?”
“No, Captain, As best we can tell, there was no one left alive.” The Admiral took a deep breath to steady himself. “Make your best speed, Captain. We have much to discuss when you arrive. Braxton, out.”
* * *
The END of “Saratoga: Into the Fray.” More Four Years War stories to come.
