The World of Computer Software/World_Of_Computer_Software-02-387-Vol-3of3.iso/s/st-novel.zip/CHAP#2.TXT

Text File | 1993-03-01 | 10KB | 260 lines

                           ***    TWO    ***



            Light-years away, at the edge of Federation-occupied space,
       defense outposts guard a zone of space currently designated as
       'off-limits' to all vessels, Federation or otherwise.  This Neutral
       Zone separates the United Federation of Planets from the ruthless
       and powerful Klingon Empire.  Both galactic powers were initially
       allowed by treaty to peacefully enter the Zone.  But tensions
       between the two opposing forces had escalated to such a point that
       no contact between the two powers could be called peaceful or
       productive, by either government. The Zone had become a central
       point for espionage and counter-intelligence, making neither side
       confident that its military secrets remained secret.

            Each outpost skirting the Zone is a fully armed battle
       station, carrying the equivalent firepower of a light destroyer.
       The border is patrolled regularly by a rotating shift of
       Starfleet's finest cruisers and destroyers.  These precautions are
       designed as a check and balance system, assuring total compliance
       with the pre-established Klingon/Federation treaty.  The standing
       orders at each outpost are as follows:

            1.  Hail all vessels approaching Neutral Zone and warn
                them off.

            2.  If compliance is negative; fire one warning volley and
                advise Starfleet via designated patrol vessel.

            3.  If negative compliance continues; disable vessel if
                possible, destroy vessel if not.

            Outpost Delta Gamma 13 spotted the distant ship streaking
       towards the Neutral Zone.  On the outpost's main battle bridge,
       night-watch was on duty.

            "Commander O'Hara, I have an outbound vessel at 038, warp
       7!" Lieutenant Tomy announced. She was a bit excited, it being her
       first tour of duty and first day at this post.

            The tall, fair-haired Irish Commander, O'Hara, had almost
       finished his own tour of duty on DG-13.  He had felt that this
       assignment was a form of punishment for the practical joke he
       played on his former Captain while aboard the USS Yorktown.  It
       is an established fact, that few people enjoy transporting down
       to a planet, only to find that their underwear has materialized
       on the outside of their uniform.  Though the Commander had not
       actually been caught in the act, everyone knew who had perpetrated
       it.  Neither was he openly blamed for placing nitrous oxide
       cannisters in the emergency respirators just before the Yorktown
       went on "Environment Alert" drills.

            It was all true, what people said about him; O'Hara was a
       compulsive practical joker.  Though he never meant any harm with
       his humorous escapades, he always seemed to over-do his pranks on

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       the very people who appreciated them the least.  Usually they were
       the ones who also out-ranked him.  And although he tried, O'Hara
       could not even force himself to stop.  If there were humor in it,
       O'Hara would go out of his way to play or overplay the joke.

            "I'm right here, me darlin'. You don't have to shout," said
       Commander O'Hara to the young and nervous Lieutenant.  He stood
       behind her and sipped a warm cup of coffee.

            "Sorry, Sir.  I'm sending the standard transmission now." She
       touched her index finger lightly on the pressure sensitive switch
       and the high intensity warning signal was sent out, automatically
       placing the outpost on yellow alert.

            The slightly scaly alien Ensign at the weapons console turned
       sluggishly toward the Commander and announced, "Defense fields
       activated; station recorder is on; all 'feet' on yellow alert."

            The ensign was a Frillian from the planet Narn.  His face
       looked more reptilian than anything else, and his ever-open green
       eyes were large, with long vertical pupil slits in his iris. His
       uniform was cut to suit his unique physiognomy.  He had eight
       appendages in all, and a short stub of a tail.  Frillians, not
       having hands to speak of, use their long digited feet to operate
       all equipment;  One set of four to grasp and manipulate, the other
       set of four to walk with.  Mr. Spitt did, however, know the
       difference between 'Hands', a ship's company and 'Hands',the things
       that make it easier to pick your nose, but it pleased him to
       constantly punctuate the physiological differences between their
       species.

            "That's gettin ta be old, Mr. Spitt.  Why doncha try to be a
       wee less humorous and a bit more purple."

            Frillians were red in complexion when asleep and a bright
       lavender, when fully awake.  This would normally make it easy for
       one Frillian to be able to tell if another Frillian was enjoying a
       conversation or dozing through it, if it wasn't for the fact that
       their race is color-blind, and do talk a great deal in their sleep.

            Lieutenant Tomy pressed a series of buttons which allowed her
       to bring up a visual of the incoming ship on the main viewscreen.
       She snapped a fingernail pressing the last button.  That did not
       bother her though, for she had already bitten most of the others off
       over the past six hours.

            "Is that the best ya kin do.  I kin hardly tell the ship from
       the stars," said the Commander, squinting his blue eyes.

            "Viewer is at maximum, Sir," she said as she tried to pull the
       fingernail out from under the viewscreen resolution button.

            "Any change in speed or course?"

            "No, Sir. But they seem to be trying to skirt our position."
       She succeeded in removing the nail and tossed it nonchalantly over

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       her shoulder.  It landed in the Commander's coffee and sank to the
       bottom, but O'Hara's attention was elsewhere.

            "Don't eat that!  It's my friend!" shouted the crimson
       Frillian.

            "Wake up, Mr. Spitt!"  The Commander glared at the weapons
       officer.  He swore to himself never to let the ensign work a triple
       shift again.  Most of their small crew had been in and out of
       sickbay the two days past, with a curious form of 'intestinal
       disfunction of unknown origins'.  Unknown to the crew, that is,
       but the outpost's doctor pulled Commander O'Hara aside and warned
       him that if he ever found any trace of laxatives in the food
       processors again, he would have to 'file a detailed report to
       Starfleet, that would be incriminating to someone on this outpost
       of command rank.'

            "Mr. Spitt!" said the Commander.

            The Frillian cocked his head, "Aye Sir, it does seem to be
       foaming at the mouths," still bearing dark red scales.

            "Mr. Tomy, send an advisory to Starfleet and our support ship.
       Tight-beam, you know the drill," spoke the Commander, still narrowly
       viewing the Frillian.  "Place us on red alert while yer at it."

            "Aye Sir," she said as the Commander moved next to Mr.  Spitt
       at the weapons console and readied it.  The inbound ship was just
       far enough away to keep the targeting computer from getting a
       positive lock.  But since the Commander was not going to blast the
       ship with the first volley, only fire a warning shot, he allowed
       the computer to continue the sequence with the inaccuracy variance,
       and fire.

            "Torpedo away," O'Hara said calmly, as this was a very
       routine procedure.  At least twice a week they would get a stray
       ship with communications problems, or once and a while a contraband
       smuggler, never anything worth worrying about.  Everyone knew the
       Neutral Zone Laws and the consequences of crossover.  Klingons do
       not fire warning shots, and their patrol is two-fold the
       Federation's.

            "Sir, scans show the vessel is going sub-light,"
       Lieutenant Tomy said.  "Their scanners must have picked up our
       warning volley.  I'll tell them to prepare to be boarded."

            "Do that, lassie.  How far is our support ship?"

            "I have the Schwarzkopf's ETA at seven minutes," she said
       confidently.

            "Bring us back down to yellow then, and get another officer up
       here to replace Spitt, will ya?"

            The ruby lights around the station signalling red alert
       stopped flashing and were replaced by amber... for about a second

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       and a half...  Then the red came on again.

            "Sir, we are being fired on!" she said with an understandable
       bit of excitement.

            "Shields up," the Commander said, maintaining his calm, "and
       don't worry, me darlin'.  The Schwarzkopf is on its way.  And
       remember our scanners are the best in the Federation and we
       couldn't achieve a weapons lock at this distance.  I doubt they're
       likely ta come close enough ta hit the planet behind us."

            The torpedo sped towards them rapidly, closing the gap between
       the inbound craft and the outpost.  True to the Commander's words,
       it was far from its target.  Then it detonated.  The brilliance
       rivaled, then overcame, that of their local sun and still grew in
       intensity.

            Before Delta Gamma 13's crew could know what was transpiring,
       they, like much of the planet behind them, were gone.






































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