Studying his tricorder, Xiong once more felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest. “Too late for that, Lieutenant. I’m picking up a life-form—not one of our people—heading this way.”
Then the rumbling returned, and this time all of them in the corridor nearly were thrown off their feet. It continued for several seconds and, in a fit of panic, Xiong stared wild-eyed at the ceiling of the passageway, searching for signs that the stone tunnel might cave in on them.
“What the hell is that?” he cried, shouting to be heard above the din.
Khatami had only time to grip the armrests of her command chair.
The energy blast slammed into the Endeavour’s forward shields, overflow from the point of impact bleeding through the protective screens and lashing out against the hull of the ship itself. Khatami felt the force of the attack transferred through the innards of the starship, the deck shuddering beneath her feet even as the starship lurched to starboard, throwing her against her chair.
Overhead lighting flickered as alarms rang out across the bridge. All around her, people held on to anything that might provide support, be it the railing around the command well or their own workstations. Only Mog failed to anchor himself in time, his robust frame tumbling from his chair to the deck near the turbolift alcove. Even over the alert klaxons Khatami heard the engineer grunt in pain from the force of his fall.
“Mog!” she shouted as she swiveled her chair in his direction. “Are you all right?”
The Tellarite rolled to a sitting position even as Lieutenant Neelakanta wrestled the helm console to bring the Endeavourback under his control. “I’m fine,” he called out, pulling himself to his feet and stumbling back to the engineering station.
“Damage reports,” Khatami ordered, ignoring the dull ache in her side from where she had struck her chair.
“Shields at seventy-three percent and holding,” Mog replied after a moment. “All systems functional.”
Nodding at the report, Khatami swung her chair back to her right until she could see the science station. “Ensign, is the Lovellunder attack?”
Klisiewicz shook his head. “No, Captain. They seem to be out of range.”
“Let’s keep them out there,” Khatami replied. “Where are we with the weapons emplacements?” she asked even as she saw the younger man returning his attention to his sensor displays.
“Power stations are recharging,” Klisiewicz said a moment later. “Estimating next barrage in fifteen… mark!”
“Get us some maneuvering room, helm,” Khatami ordered. “Do we have targets plotted yet?”
Seated next to the Arcturian, Lieutenant McCormack turned from the navigator’s console and nodded. “We can launch strikes at three targets from our present position, Captain,” she said. “We’ll have to shift orbit to take runs at the others.”
One step at a time,Khatami reminded herself.
Her first attempt to order torpedo bombardment was interrupted as Klisiewicz announced another volley of incoming fire. Again the sequence was repeated, with the Endeavour’s shields bearing the brunt of the attack while the excess pushed past, reaching out to hammer against the ship’s comparatively weaker hull. Renewed alarms wailed across the bridge and the lights flickered again before dying out altogether, leaving the command center in momentary darkness before backup illumination activated.
“Localized overloads, Captain,” Mog called out from his station. “Engineering is rerouting main power to the bridge now. Shields at fifty-eight percent and holding, but we’re taking a beating. Another round might be too much for the generators.”
Ignoring the damage report, Khatami leaned forward in her chair. “Fire on designated targets,” she ordered. “Full spread.”
Once more the lighting wavered as the ship’s defensive systems drew power from wherever it could be found, and Khatami watched as six photon torpedoes—one after another and each encased in a writhing orange ball of unfettered energy—darted away from the ship and arced toward the planet’s surface.
“Picking up photon detonations, Captain,” Klisiewicz reported several seconds later while still peering into the viewer. “Two direct hits, the others missed.” After a moment, he shook his head. “All locations still registering power readings.”
Damn!
“Helm, bring us about,” she said. “Mog, route power from secondary systems to the shields.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the Tellarite turning in his seat. “Captain, the shield generators are already showing signs of strain. We might lose them altogether if we get hit again.”
“We get hit without the shields and we’re dead,” Khatami countered. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”
From over her right shoulder, the ensign at communications said, “Captain, we’re being hailed by the landing party. They’re picking up intruders on the surface and are requesting emergency beam-out.”
Before Khatami could reply, Klisiewicz cut her off. “Incoming!”
Even as she gave the order for evasive action, Khatami’s eyes were drawn to the image on the main viewer. Rising up from the frigid surface of Erilon, seven streaks of crackling yellow light converged on one another to form a larger, more intense ball of energy that continued to race outward from the atmosphere on a collision course with her ship.
“All hands!” she shouted. “Brace for impact!”
38
Lieutenant Jeanne La Sala was the first to see them coming.
“Activate the forcefields!” she shouted to her companion, Ensign Roderick, even as she dropped down behind the stack of crates containing supplied transported to the surface from the Endeavour. Other than shelters and other small buildings—all constructed from thermoconcrete—radiating outward in a haphazard formation from the center of the research outpost’s base camp, the groupings of cargo containers and other equipment scattered about the compound were the only protection available.
Seconds later and in response to her command La Sala heard the telltale hum of power generators activating from somewhere behind her. A low droning sound filled the air, and she directed her gaze toward the forcefield positioned ten meters to her left. Essentially a metallic shaft rising three meters out of the frozen earth, it was adorned with an indicator light positioned atop the pole. The bulb flared to life, a blazing crimson that seemed as out of place on this barren, lifeless plain as she or her companions. The emitter, like the twenty-nine other such devices deployed around the base camp’s perimeter, were now acting like a blanket for the outpost, protecting it not from the harsh elements of this inhospitable world but rather whatever demons it seemed to have spawned.
“Forcefield activated,” Roderick called out from where he was crouched behind another cargo container to her left. Holding up his tricorder for emphasis, he added, “All emitters functioning.”
Showtime,La Sala mused, pulling the hood of her parka up onto her head in an attempt to ward off the chilling effects of the breeze blowing across the open ground. An involuntary shudder ran down her body, a stark reminder not only of the harsh environment in which she found herself but also what had happened the last time she had found herself in such a situation.
Forcing the unwelcome thought to a dark corner of her mind, La Sala peered through the sights of her phaser rifle, focusing on the pair of dark figures approaching from across the snow-covered plain. They moved with phenomenal speed, kicking up a wake of snow and dirt that plumed into the frosty air behind them. Other than being able to tell that their upper extremities appeared to taper into sharpened points rather than anything resembling hands—it was difficult to make out any details from this distance—so far as La Sala could tell the newcomers were identical to the one they had previously encountered.