Star Trek: Both Hands Full - Fourth Edition by John Erik Ege - HTML preview

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given the chance. As Garcia moved out of the way, he hit the Captain on his damaged

 

arm.

 

In avoiding another thrust from the Captain’s dagger, Garcia had unintentionally

 

put his back to the Guard with the wounded neck. This Guard, enraged that he was about

 

to die and had not even yet touched his enemy, let go of his neck and rushed Garcia,

 

gripping him in a bear hug. The Captain rushed in, thinking he would take advantage of

 

Garcia being immobilized. Garcia used the hold he was in to bring both of his feet to

 

bear. He kicked the Captain and sent him staggering backwards. As soon as Garcia’s

 

feet hit the floor again, he slipped out of the bear hug and tossed the Klingon to the floor

 

as easily as shrugging off a kid in play. The Klingon hit the floor hard, practically

 

already unconscious due to the loss of blood. This body of the last Klingon made it

 

difficult for the Captain to step in for a good killing blow, but he scored a hit. Thrusting

 

the knife for a gut wound, he drew blood as Garcia maneuvered out of the way. His shirt

 

was literally shredded and soaked with his own blood from maybe a half a dozen strikes. The Captain laughed. “MRocK!” he said.

 

Garcia good hand was torn by the emerging spikes, but he was able to dodge the

 

dagger again. Garcia cupped his hands together, allowing the blood from both hands to

 

pool as the Captain maneuvered in for the final kill. There was no doubt in Garcia’s

 

mind that the Captain had every intentions of killing him, but he didn’t retreat. “Good! Die like a Klingon,” the Captain said. “And I will see to it that you are

 

ushered into Sto-vo-Kor with honors.”

 

Garcia spied a batleH on the floor, but it would be difficult to wield in the best of

 

circumstances, but with one hand holding a ball, and both hands now damaged due to the

 

spike penetration, it would be impossible for him to properly grip and wield. “Captain to First Officer Crael,” the Klingon said. “Report to the training room.

 

Now! You see, Garcia, there is no escape. Die nobly, like a Klingon.”

 

Garcia nodded, as if he were compliant. When the Captain stepped in for the

 

killing blow, Garcia tossed the blood that had pooled in his hands into the Captain’s face,

 

scoring a direct hit to his eyes. Consequently, the Captain’s strike was off and Garcia

 

managed to maneuver around the dagger, with only a minor wound. He punched the

 

Captain in the side of the head, using the hand with the ball in it. The captain staggered,

 

dropping his dagger, still blinded with blood. Garcia hit the Captain again and again.

 

When the Captain knew he was losing, he let out a final berserk scream and grappled

 

blindly at Garcia. The Captain captured Garcia in a massive hold, and ran him towards

 

the wall, using Garcia as a battering ram.

 

“MRocK!” Garcia yelled, and as the spikes launched out, Garcia hit the Captain

 

with the spikes on the back shoulder.

 

The Captain staggered back, screaming.

 

“MRocK!” Garcia yelled again, withdrawing the spikes and hitting the Captian in

 

the forehead, but the captain didn’t go down. “MRock!” he said again, and punched the

 

Captain in the Chest with the spikes.

 

The Captain fell back, coughing up blood. “MRock!” Garcia said, hitting the man

 

in the face again. This time the Captain went down. The door to the training room

 

opened and the first officer came to an uneasy halt, sliding on blood. Garcia dove for the

 

Captain’s disruptor and retrieved it just in time to fire at the first officer as the first officer

 

fired at him. The first officer went down. Garcia staggered to both knees, activating his

 

personal communication’s badge, touching it with his wrist.

 

“Medical Emergency. Ten to beam to the nearest medical facilities. Security

 

requested. Stat!” Garcia said.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

The closest Star Fleet approved medical facilities, relative to the training room

 

onboard the cloaked Klingon vessel just happened to be the Enterprise. No sooner than

 

the transporter coordinates were registered, a whole slew of alarms went off. First and

 

foremost, an alert went out that there was a cloaked ship in Earth’s orbit. The transporter

 

chief on duty that had accepted the emergency call, engaged the transporter locks, but

 

then smartly delayed the re-materialization process, allowing security to be present when

 

the nine Klingons and the one human ended up in Sickbay. Worf and a security detail

 

came running. The highest levels of security protocols on Enterprise, on two other Star

 

Fleet vessels in orbit, and on Earth started to be implemented. All of which meant more

 

attention was being drawn to the situation than Admiral Eric Pressman had anticipated or

 

even wanted. He quickly went about covering his tracks and directed an Admiral Singer

 

to transport immediately up to the Enterprise to take care of business.

 

Captain Picard arrived at sickbay simultaneously with Worf and the security

 

detail. The transport completed, leaving nine scattered Klingons bodies, dead or

 

unconscious, and in their midst was Garcia, on his knees, about ready to collapse from

 

exhaustion and from his wounds. Doctor Crusher moved towards him almost

 

instinctively.

 

“Wait,” Garcia said. “Don’t touch me. Wake Admiral Sheaar. That one.” Doctor Selar immediately began treatment on the Klingon Garcia had indicated. “Captain, I recommend we do as he says,” Worf said. “He is holding a MRocK.” Garcia cursed as the spikes erupted once more. “Bloody hell, Worf! Did you have

 

to say that?!”

 

“What is it?” Picard asked.

 

“Depending on the rule structure implemented for its use, it could be just a

 

weapon, or it could be a bomb,” Worf said. “Under no circumstances should the ball

 

touch the floor decking. Further, the fewer people who touch it, the better.” “Garcia? What is going on here?” Picard demanded.

 

Admiral Sheaar woke up. “Where am I?!”

 

“You’re on board the Enterprise,” Doctor Selar said.

 

Sheaar roared and pulled away from the Doctor’s care. Several weapons,

 

including Worf’s, were instantly trained on him.

 

“You will cease the hostilities,” Worf said.

 

“Excuse me,” Garcia said. “I passed. Now disable this.”

 

Sheaar orientated himself, slowly began to chuckle, and then roared with laughter.

 

“You didn’t drop it.”

 

“He cheated!” Captain Maht said, breathing better now. “He did drop the ball.” “No, he threw the ball,” Sheaar said. “English is very precise.”

 

“My first officer is dead,” Maht complained.

 

“And what was your first officer doing in the training room?” Sheaar demanded. “I called him to be a witness,” MaHt said. “I also lost three honor guards. And

 

he attacked you!”

 

Sheaar laughed. “Indeed,” he said, crossing closer to Garcia. “Tell me, Garcia

 

the Great. Why did you attack me first? Why did you attack me at all?”

 

“You told me to defend myself. Naturally, if presented the opportunity, one

 

should always eliminate the biggest threat first,” Garcia said. “I figured I could handle

 

the Captain and his men.”

 

“I’ll kill you,” MaHt challenged, shrugging off the medical aid’s attention. He

 

was well aware of Ensign Kelloggs phaser trained on him. Worf moved a little closer. “You should be nicer to me, especially since, by Klingon law, I am now legally

 

entitled to your warship,” Garcia said. “And having spared your life, you’re now my first

 

officer.”

 

Admiral Sheear almost died with laughter as Captain MaHt screamed with rage.

 

Captain MaHt jumped up off the bed to attack Garcia, but Worf interceded, putting his

 

elbow into the Captain’s neck, dropping him back to the bed. He went silent, choking. “Worf! I just healed the man,” Crusher snapped.

 

“Heal him again,” Worf said. “So I can knock him down again.” “You can even ‘talk smack,’ like a Klingon,” Sheaar praised Garcia. “Admiral Sheaar, I would like to know the meaning of this,” Picard demanded. “I will tell you everything you need to know, Captain Picard,” Admiral Singer

 

said, stepping through the armed security force. “Admiral Sheaar, may I escort you back

 

to your ship?”

 

“You may. Have my men beamed back as well,” Admiral Sheaar said. He

 

walked over to Garcia. “Hand me my toy.”

 

Garcia surrendered the MRocK ball back to its rightful owner. Sheaar shut it off

 

with a single command. Garcia memorized the word just in case he ever came upon

 

another MRocK ball in the future, even though he knew that each ball was probably

 

programmed with its own set of words.

 

“Well?” Singer asked Sheaar.

 

“He’ll do,” Sheaar agreed. “Patch him up and send him back to me.” “Captain Picard,” Admiral Singer said. “Fix Garcia up and transport him back to

 

the Klingon ship. And no questions, Picard.”

 

Admiral Singer departed with Admiral Sheear. Captain Picard looked to Garcia

 

for an answer but Garcia, now free of his obligations, gave into his desire to pass out. He

 

went down face first into the floor. Ensign Kellogg was at side before Crusher or Selar

 

could get there.

 

“Put him in bed seven,” Crusher said.

 

Worf and Picard moved Garcia to a bed, while Crusher moved to another

 

Klingon. “Selar, we can still save this one. We need to get the blood out of his lungs and

 

patch the neck wounds. Allyssa, cut Garcia’s shirt off and start work on the chest

 

wounds. I’ll be with you shortly. Security, get these other Klingons to beds and then

 

make some room for us to work.”

 

An hour after the chaos dissolved, Sickbay was empty, except for Garcia, still

 

sleeping, Doctor Crusher, Lt. Worf, and Captain Picard. The latter three were engaged in

 

a discussion about the event. Subdued lighting made many of the bed diagnostics seem

 

brighter than usual with Garcia’s bed the only active display. The surviving Klingons

 

and the dead had been transported back to their ship. As Garcia began to come around,

 

he heard a bit of their talking, which ceased the moment Crusher became aware of his

 

stirring. She went to him and proceeded to scrutinize him. He smiled faintly up at her. “You still have some minor bruising to heal,” Crusher said. “But I wanted to wait

 

until you were conscious. Can you sit up?”

 

“Yes,” he said, but he accepted her help none the less. He looked at Picard and

 

Worf. He wondered if they noticed his shoulders slumping or heard his sigh. “I know your records say that you are trained in the Combat Ki form of martial

 

arts, which makes you resistant to injuries, but you’re not immortal,” Crusher said.

 

“Klingons are effectively twice as strong, on average, than a human being, especially if

 

they were born and raised on Kronos, where the gravity is slightly higher than Earth’s.

 

You can be hurt, maybe not by your average human, but you can be hurt.” “I know,” Garcia said, and winced suddenly. “Ow. That’s not supposed to hurt.” “Be still,” Crusher said.

 

“Garcia, how is it that if there is any intrigue to be had, you seem to be at the

 

center of it?” Picard asked.

 

“Just lucky, I suppose,” Garcia said.

 

“What were they interviewing you for?” Worf asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Garcia said.

 

“You don’t know, or you’re not saying?” Picard asked.

 

“I actually don’t know,” Garcia said.

 

“Who set this up? Admiral Singer?” Picard asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Garcia said. No need to drag Pressman into this, Garcia thought.

 

Had Pressman wanted a piece of this, he wouldn’t have sent Singer up to clean up the

 

mess Garcia had made.

 

“I don’t know,” Picard echoed, not hiding his sarcasm. “That just doesn’t cut it,

 

Ensign. I had four dead and five incapacitated Klingons in my sickbay, and you were

 

literally cut to threads. There’s a cloaked Klingon war ship in Earth’s orbit, which is also

 

highly unusual, and I want to know why I shouldn’t put you under arrest right now.” “Captain, have you ever been asked to keep a secret?” Garcia asked. Captain Picard’s eyes blazed with furry and his jaw muscles clenched, but he

 

reigned it in. Crusher could tell Picard was holding back. She finished her job and put

 

the tools of her trade away. She took a step back, arms crossed in front of her chest. “My patience with you has worn a bit thin, young man,” Picard said, when he

 

gained enough composure to speak. Picard wondered why he allowed Garcia, more than

 

anyone, to work him up so badly. Was it the fact that Garcia reminded him of himself

 

when he was younger? Reckless, arrogant, and stubborn. Picard had to ignore his

 

phantom heart pains. “Have you been given orders that require secrecy?” “Have you been ordered not to ask questions?” Garcia asked.

 

Worf nearly hit Garcia but Captain Picard stayed his hands. “Get him off my

 

ship,” Picard said.

 

“With pleasure, Captain,” Worf said.

 

Garcia was yanked up and out of sickbay so fast he didn’t have time to thank the

 

Doctor for healing him, once again. Not that she was probably receptive to his thanks

 

considering the trouble he had been to her. The walk to the transporter was brief, with

 

Worf practically shoving him all the way there. Garcia pulled free to climb into the

 

transporter alcove on his own power.

 

“Beam him back to where you found him,” Worf instructed Robinson. Robinson was very serious about her job, except when Worf wasn’t looking

 

directly at her. She passed Garcia a quick smile. Garcia smiled back. She transitioned

 

right back into her stern look, as if she were appropriately angry with him, just as Worf

 

glanced back to her.

 

“You better hope we don’t meet again,” Worf told Garcia.

 

“Or…” Garcia said on the Enterprise. “What?” he finished on the Klingon

 

transporter pad.

 

Captain MaHt glared at Garcia. “nuqneH” Klingon for Hello which translates

 

into “What do you want?” was the appropriate Klingon greeting for Garcia to give, but

 

“what” sufficed. MaHt nodded. “Follow me,” MaHt said.

 

kjº

 

Captain MaHt brought Garcia back to the training room and at Admiral Sheaar’s

 

word, departed, leaving the Admiral and Garcia alone together. MaHt did not leave

 

without engaging Garcia in eye contact and posturing. Garcia ignored the challenge

 

which angered MaHt to no end. The door shut and Admiral Sheaar approached,

 

shrugging off his cloak.

 

“Do you know what you’ve been recruited for?” Admiral Sheaar asked. “No,” Garcia said.

 

“Are you in?” Admiral Sheaar asked.

 

“I go through all that trouble to pass a test and you wonder if I am in?” Garcia

 

asked. “Yes, I am in. What is all of this about?”

 

“The primary reason Admiral Pressman and I got together was to devise a defense

 

against the greatest potential threat our nations have ever faced, the Borg,” Admiral

 

Sheaar said. “To that end, we developed a weapon that could annihilate them and the

 

platform necessary for the delivery of that weapon. The platform is the first starship to

 

be built on a joint Federation Klingon commission.”

 

“A new weapon system?” Garcia asked.

 

“Do you know how many Federation ships were lost defeating that one Borg

 

ship?” Admiral Sheaar asked.

 

“Yes,” Garcia said. That one Borg ship nearly decimated the entire fleet. A total

 

of 40 ships were destroyed at Wolf 359; the Buran, the Ahwanee, the Liberator, the

 

Rosevelt, the Melbourne, the Firebrand, the Saratoga, the Bellerophon, the Kyushu, the

 

Princeton, the Bonestell, the Tolstoy, the Chekov, the Gage, the Yamaguchi… He had to

 

force himself to stop the count, because with each ship named a tree branched off in his

 

mind delineating the names of the dead. It could be overwhelming if he allowed it. “If the Federation falls at this time, so the does the Klingon Empire. As much as I

 

hate it, we need each other,” Admiral Sheaar said. “There is an immediate Borg threat

 

that needs to be eliminated. We dispatched a Starship, but something went wrong.

 

Pressman believes there was a mutiny and the crew was killed. The ship’s advanced

 

security system was engaged, it eliminated the threat, and returned the ship to its base, as

 

it was programmed to do. Unfortunately, only Pressman knows how to disengage the

 

security system and he refuses to budge on that unless we have a Federation

 

representative as Captain of this joint venture. You have passed the interview and will be

 

made Captain of the Federation Klingon vessel, the Path Finder. Your crew will consist

 

of seventy five Klingons and twenty five Star Fleet Officers.”

 

Garcia didn’t know what to ask next. “What sort of ship?”

 

“The Path Finder is a prototype, Starburst class,” Admiral Sheaar said. “It’s

 

small, fast, and its primary function is for surveillance and intelligence gathering. When

 

not actively engaged to an assignment, you are to be silent running, looking for mutual

 

threats to the Federation and Klingon Empire.”

 

“How fast?” Garcia asked, knowing full well that mission objective of “looking

 

for threats” could make a person paranoid.

 

“Trans-warp capable,” Admiral Sheaar said.

 

“I know the Federation has dabbled in trans-warp, but I’ve not heard of any

 

stories of sustained success,” Garcia said. “How have you managed to work out the

 

quirks?”

 

“We have shortened the transwarp cycle to the minimum burst of warp necessary

 

to relocate the ship,” Admiral Sheaar said. “It takes tremendous amounts of computer

 

processing power to make it happen, but the end result is that your ship can jump almost

 

instantaneously from one point to another. In theory, the distance is unlimited, but we

 

have yet to have an effective demonstration of that theory.”

 

“So it does still have quirks,” Garcia said.

 

“All warp endeavors have risk associated with them,” Sheaar said. “You’re avoiding my question,” Garcia pointed