Captain's Blood

9

S.S. CALYPSO, STARDATE 57483.4

Even on this sorry excuse for a bridge, Kirk could feel the excitement and the challenge of how moments like this once played out on his Enterprise.

On one of the three forward screens, the familiar contours of the Neutral Zone glowed, with a small blue dot of color almost touching the once inviolable boundary, indicating the Calypso’s current position.

On the far side of the boundary, four green triangles—the best this ship’s navigational computers could do in terms of representation—moved toward that same boundary, on what was clearly an intercept course. The triangles represented Romulan vessels. One lone bird-of-prey acting as scout, a few light-hours ahead of three warbirds traveling in attack formation.

Kirk stood on the raised deck at the aft of the bridge, back to the commander’s office, feeling the adrenaline rise. Scotty and Bones were with him on the main level of the bridge below, ready to face whatever challenge would unfold in the next few minutes, the next few seconds. If he closed his eyes, he could see them all, miss them all: Chekov and Sulu, Uhura, even Spock watching the main screen with the pale blue glow of his science viewer washing up over him.

Then Kirk opened his eyes, and instead of the past, he was immersed in his new and unexpected present. Geordi La Forge manned the engineering stations with Scotty. Beverly Crusher sat at communications, with McCoy beside her at life-support. Jean-Luc Picard had his hands resting on the navigation console, whose glowing panels and switchplates hid the controls for the Calypso’s disguised weaponry. And at Kirk’s side, his son, his child, Joseph, watching everything with his own unique combination of wide-eyed wonder and calculation beyond his years.

“And we are through the Zone,” Picard announced. “Entering Romulan space.”

Kirk became aware of Joseph looking up at him. “Dad, I didn’t feel anything.” Joseph seemed puzzled, as if he had expected the ship to shudder as it had passed through a physical barrier.

“It’s just a line on a map,” Kirk said. To himself he added, One that’s cost thousands of lives over the centuries since it was first drawn.

Then the bridge speakers hissed as the Calypso’s communications system prepared to relay a transmission. Kirk had no doubt what the source of that transmission was.

“This is Commander Roil of the Praetor’s Vengeance to unknown vessel. You have entered Imperial space. You will drop from warp and prepare for boarding, or you will be destroyed.”

Kirk felt Joseph’s hand seek his, hold it tight. Kirk smiled at his son. “Nothing to worry about. That’s just how they say hello. Remember how we’ve talked about how the same words have different meanings to different people?”

“Like Klingons being rude?” Joseph said.

Kirk gave his son’s hand a squeeze. “The Klingons think we’re rude when we don’t get to the point as quickly and as bluntly as possible.” Then Kirk spoke to his bridge crew. “Jean-Luc, take us out of warp and drop all but navigational shields.”

The Calypso lurched and the stars on one of the other forward screens slowed, then stopped.

“Do they really not know who we are?” McCoy complained. “Or are they being obnoxious on purpose?”

“Standard Romulan military protocol,” Picard explained. “It doesn’t matter that they’ve been told a hundred times who we are and why we’re coming. Because we’re a civilian ship, until they’ve officially challenged us and we’ve acquiesced, we’re the enemy, and they maintain the right to blast us out of…” Picard abruptly stopped speaking, glanced back over his shoulder at Joseph. “Uh, the right to treat us harshly. Nothing to worry about, though.”

Kirk silently thanked Picard for his valiant attempt to avoid talking death and destruction around Joseph, but from the way Joseph gripped his hand, Picard’s efforts were too little, too late.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Kirk whispered to his son. Then the forward screen with the map of the Neutral Zone flashed once to present a visual image of Commander Roil.

The Romulan was much younger than Kirk would have expected for his rank, likely a sign of the turmoil the Imperial Fleet was experiencing in the aftermath of the coup, so that only inexperienced officers untainted by the politics of a naval career remained eligible—and alive—for promotion. Picard had told Kirk that virtually the entire military diplomatic team Riker had opened talks with six months ago had been replaced. Some officers had apparently “retired” to farms on Romulus. Others, like Commander Donatra, who had helped save Picard’s Enterprise from Shinzon’s last, desperate attack, had simply disappeared from the diplomatic lists and the participants’ memories. No news of her whereabouts, or even continued existence, was available. For all the upheaval Romulan society had undergone in the past half-year, Romulan intrigue, it seemed, was alive and well.

“Identify yourself,” Roil commanded from the screen.

Kirk’s response to the Romulan’s threatening manner came from a lifetime of facing down belligerents. There was no fear, no hesitation, no indication that Kirk thought Roil was anything other than a speck of space dust to be pushed out of the way without thought.

“I’m James Kirk. This is my private vessel, the Calypso. If you do not already have that information, which has been provided to your Fleet command through several sources, and which is being broadcast by my navigational beacon, then may I assume that your communications systems are in disrepair and you require my assistance?”

Kirk saw the Romulan actually flinch at his insulting reply, a sign of his inexperience. But he quickly recovered, a sign of his expert training.

“The Imperial Fleet is well aware of the ship and crew the Federation claims is to visit our space. We are also well aware of the spies and enemies who would seek to capitalize on the empire’s generous permission for that ship and crew to continue their journey in Romulan space. You will now drop all shields and allow your vessel to be scanned.”

Everyone on the lower deck of the bridge looked back at Kirk, except for Picard.

“Lower shields,” Kirk said.

It was time to find out how well Starfleet had managed to disguise the presence of the Calypso’s distributed phaser system, overpowered warp engine, and other hidden armaments.

“We’re being scanned,” La Forge announced.

“Aye,” Scotty confirmed. “Nothin’ special. Single sweep…och, they’re boosting power on the engine room. Comin’ back for another scan.”

Kirk betrayed nothing, knowing that even though the sound from his bridge was not being transmitted, his image was. A powerful warp engine on a small private ship could be easily explained. The ship’s sophisticated weapons could not.

“Sweep is complete,” La Forge said.

On a forward screen, Commander Roil looked over to the side, obviously listening to a report from his own bridge crew, whose voices were also blocked from transmission. Then he settled back in his chair, and Kirk could sense that the Romulan was controlling his reaction to what the sensor sweep had discovered as much as Kirk had controlled his own.

“Your warp engine seems outsized for such a small vessel,” Roil said.

“Life is short,” Kirk replied, making it seem as if he were annoyed by this interruption. “I prefer to spend as little of it as possible traveling between destinations.”

Roil considered that statement for several long moments, then seemed to reach a decision. “Understandable.” Another one of his bridge crew, unseen except for a single arm, handed Roil a small green padd that appeared to be badly scuffed. He read it, then spoke again. “Mister Kirk, you and your vessel will remain at these coordinates until your escort arrives to take you the rest of the way.”

Kirk didn’t have to feign annoyance as he responded. “Our charts are up to date. I don’t need an escort to Romulus.”

Roil stared across space, from his bridge’s visual sensors to Kirk’s screen, as if he didn’t care what Kirk needed. “No,” the Romulan enigmatically agreed. “You don’t need an escort to Romulus. And none will be provided.” He held up a hand, about to give an order. “Fair warning. If you leave these coordinates, you will be destroyed.” He brought his hand down, and the communication ended, his image instantly replaced by the schematic of the Neutral Zone boundary, showing the Praetor’s Vengeance withdrawing at warp speed.

“Does anyone know what he was talking about?” McCoy muttered. “We’re supposed to wait for an escort they’re not providing?”

“There are still three more Romulan ships approaching,” Picard reminded everyone on the bridge. According to the schematic, the warbirds were only a few minutes away from rendezvous, well within subspace range. “We could be witnessing the results of fractured lines of communication within the Fleet. But I believe it’s more likely that we’re being subjected to some type of test.”

Kirk had been thinking the same, but had one key objection. “Jean-Luc, the way we’re being treated doesn’t play like typical Romulan tactics. At least, not the kind I’m familiar with. It’s almost…” Kirk shrugged, tried to think of a species this pattern of delay and obfuscation might fit. “I don’t know…Tholian?”

“This Commander Roil’s attitude is certainly unusual,” Picard agreed. “But then, these are unusual times for the empire.” He turned in his chair to look back at Kirk. “However, this is your mission, and your call.”

Kirk grinned. “I’m supposed to ignore the advice of a captain of the Enterprise?”

“I haven’t given any advice,” Picard said.

“I know how to read between the lines, Jean-Luc. We’ll hold this position. But raise navigational shields.”

Picard nodded and with a faint hum of circuitry, the navigational forcefields were reestablished, offering the ship protection from random dust and the occasional molecule of interstellar hydrogen, but not from weaponry.

Kirk felt a tug on his shirt, looked down at his son. “Are we in trouble again?” Joseph asked in a quiet voice.

Kirk shook his head, and hoped Joseph could sense his lack of concern over their present situation. “The Romulans have special rules for visiting their space, and we don’t know all of them. So we’re just going to wait until we find out more about what rules we have to follow.”

Joseph accepted that, nodded sagely. “And then you’ll figure out how to change them,” the youngster said.

Kirk heard the echoes of someone else’s words coming through his son, reminding him of the time Joseph had spent several weeks with the learning programs in the holosuites on Deep Space 9. The dabo girls working the bar there had taken Joseph under their wings—and in the case of one female, a Velossian, those wings were literal. After leaving Bajoran space, Kirk and Joseph had had many discussions concerning the appropriateness of certain words and phrases, and under which circumstances, if any, they could be used.

“Who says I change the rules?” Kirk asked.

The child stuck out his lower lip and held up his empty hands as if expecting something to drop into them. “Every-body?”

Kirk could see there was another topic he’d have to craft some careful discussions around. “I don’t change rules all the time. Some rules shouldn’t be changed at all.”

“Uncle Scotty says you keep trying to get him to change the rules of physics.”

“That’s only because Scotty can change the rules of physics…if you ask him the right way.”

Joseph looked down the length of the bridge at Scott, working at his engineering station. “Wow…” the child said with respect.

Kirk glanced ahead at Scotty, too, grateful for the kindness and forbearance the engineer showed his son, happy that he was shaping up to be a considerable influence on the child. And then he noticed the middle screen on the forward bulkhead flash from its display of the boundary schematic to an extremely dark visual image, again from what appeared to be the bridge of a Romulan ship. The warbirds had arrived.

“The demand is made: Where is Kirk?” a rough voice growled over the bridge speakers. It apparently belonged to the figure who was little more than a dark silhouette on the screen, backlit by a dim cluster of ready lights.

“Which ship is that coming from?” Kirk asked. He needed to know if he was speaking to the commander of all three Romulan vessels, or to another intermediary. “And can we do anything about the image quality?”

“No hailing frequencies,” Beverly Crusher said from her communications console. “They just started transmitting.”

“Tholian courtesy and Klingon manners,” McCoy said. “Reminds me of a Vulcan I know.”

Kirk refused to think Spock, reminded himself he was on, essentially, a diplomatic mission, and replied appropriately. “I’m James Kirk of the private vessel, Calypso. Whom do I have the honor of—”

The commander on-screen didn’t bother to wait for Kirk to finish. “The demand is repeated. Where is Kirk?”

Kirk looked ahead to communications. “Doctor Crusher, are our transmissions getting through?”

“You have ten seconds to comply,” the commander snarled.

“Wonderful,” McCoy said. “On top of everything else, they took diplomacy lessons from the Borg.”

“Put this on all channels, Doctor Crusher,” Kirk said, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. “The demand is met. I am Kirk.” And then, in what he hoped was an appropriate tone, he added, “Who are you?”

“No indication that weapons are powering up,” La Forge said.

“But th’ three of them are still in attack formation,” Scott added.

“Adjust that image, please,” Kirk said. “I’d like to see who’s threatening us.” Then he felt Joseph’s hand tugging his shirt again, and he regretted his word choice. He looked down at his son, mouthed the words It’s okay, then held his finger to his lips to signal silence. Joseph was well trained and immediately pressed his lips together.

Static lines flickered across the small forward screen, and for a moment the background of ready lights seemed to flare up as if they had exploded. But the speaker, if indeed he was the speaker, remained a silhouette.

“That’s the best I can do,” Crusher said. “They’ve stripped the visual information out of their signal. There’s nothing there to enhance.”

“Jean-Luc?” Kirk asked, trying to decide on his next step. “Could this still be part of a test?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Picard said. “But in the final analysis, keep in mind that we can always outrun them.”

The last thing Kirk wanted to do was to close the door on finding justice for Spock. But he also had a responsibility to the people on this ship, and to his son. He made his decision.

“Jean-Luc, full power to shields. Mister Scott, Mister La Forge, prepare for full warp on my order, on a reverse course back into the Neutral Zone.” Then Kirk addressed the screen again. “The demand is repeated. Who are you? You have ten seconds to comply.”

For eight seconds, the only sounds in the bridge of the Calypso were mechanical. Then the speaker answered.

“Our demand is not met. You are not Kirk.”

Kirk didn’t understand, called out to McCoy. “Bones, prepare to transmit my complete medical records, including DNA sequence.”

McCoy began working with the medical tricorder on his belt.

Kirk spoke to the screen again. “I am transmitting my full medical and genetic profile, proving that I am—”

“Not you,” the speaker interrupted angrily. “Your blood. T’Kol T’Lan Kirk. The demand is repeated for the third and final time.”

Kirk felt a sudden disconnect with his surroundings, as if a holodeck had suffered a brief programming hesitation in its recreation of an ancient event. For a moment, he told himself he couldn’t possibly have heard what he thought the speaker had said. But then he saw that everyone else on the bridge had turned to look at Joseph.

As carefully as if he were defusing an antimatter bomb, Kirk took control of the situation. “Scotty,” he said quietly, “I want those engines ready to go instantly.”

The chief engineer nodded once, his expression grim, and turned back to his board.

“Jean-Luc, prepare to coalesce distributed phasers.”

Picard didn’t object, even though the instant the widely dispersed sections of the Calypso’s disguised armaments slipped along the hull rails to assemble themselves into functional phaser cannons, the ship’s usefulness and her mission would be at an end. “Standing by,” he said.

Kirk prepared himself for the split-second decisions he knew he would have to be ready to make. He didn’t risk looking at Joseph beside him. Then as arrogantly as he could, he replied to the speaker.

“By what right do you dare make this demand of my blood?”

There was no delay in the response. “By the right of all Imperial subjects to reclaim their birthright and their heritage.” There was a slight, though distinct, change in the speaker’s inflection, then, as if it had suddenly come to his attention that he was addressing an alien unaware of the topic under discussion. “Your line is honored, James Kirk. Your blood is welcome. As consort to Teilani of the Chalchaj ‘qmey. As sire of T’Kol T’Lan…”

And then the speaker on the viewscreen leaned forward, slipping into a pale band of illumination on his bridge, at last revealing his features and the answer to so many questions.

Tholian courtesy. Klingon manners. Borg diplomacy. All in Romulan space.

The commander of the warbird was a Reman.

“James T. Kirk, we welcome your child as our own….”