Day of Honor 01_ Ancient Blood - Diane Carey [29]
“Then we should do something else!” Worf bellowed back.
Ugulan came halfway out of his chair. “We are not stupid! That is Starfleet!”
Worf cast him a glare. “Frightened children!”
Mortash, the nearest Klingon behind Ugulan, shouted,
“A penal institution is better than dead!”
“How would you know?” Worf tossed over his shoulder. He shoved Ugulan away from the helm and took it himself. “Filth!”
Instantly Ugulan came to his feet again, and his phaser pressed into Worf’s cheek. “I command this ship,” he said.
On the same breath, the Starfleet patrol vessel blew a direct phaser shot in what might have been a crippling attack had Worf not tilted the freighter and caused the blow to glance. The Klingons shuddered, but everyone stayed upright.
“Under your command, the ship is dead and so are we.” Worf went on piloting as if Ugulan’s weapon were nothing but a stick pressing his face. “I can force that ship’s shields to flutter.”
Ugulan changed his stance to accommodate the slight tilt of the deck. “How can you?”
“I know the Starfleet prefix codes.”
“How can you know that?”
Worf piloted the freighter in a clumsy elliptical course back toward the underbelly of the Starfleet patroller. “I stole them before I left.”
Ugulan stared at him and growled, “You can make the shields drop?”
“Not drop. But I can make them shift. Long enough to drive one shot in. Sit down here and fly directly at it.”
His mind obviously boggled, Ugulan glanced at Goric, Mortash, Gern and the other slime. Worf saw a bizarre anxiety crawl through their expressions, as though only now realizing they might not be forced to the wall after all. Hairraising excitement charged them all suddenly.
Ugulan’s phaser fell away. “You had better leave no traces, lunatic! I will not pay your price for you!”
The head Rogue made a quick motion, and Worf gave him the helm, then shifted to the weapons and tactical board to do what he said he could do.
“They are firing!” Mortash shouted, and his words were eaten in a pounding uproar from outside.
Malignant electricity bolted through the freighter, its plates shrieking, funnels of lubricants and gases spitting from a dozen places in the inner frame. Suddenly the whole cabin was twenty degrees hotter. Worf felt his uniform become an oven as he furiously played the controls, tapping in the complex codes. On the screen, the Starfleet patroller no longer looked small. They were on collision course, and the freighter was making no return shots.
Mortash clutched his console and shouted, “Veer off!”
He plunged forward and swiped Worf’s head with his armored cuff.
Worf’s brain wobbled, and for a few moments his eyesight blurred. He felt blood drain down the back of his neck, but before he could lash out, Ugulan did it for him.
“Down, maniac! A chance is a chance!” the Rogue leader smashed Mortash back, and Worf was free to clear his head and continue feeding the codes.
“Stay on course,” he ordered, and Ugulan resentfully complied, maintaining the collision heading. “Ready … ready …”
From the sensor grid console, Goric shouted, “Their shields are shifting! Now! Now!”
With his left fist, Worf hammered the firing controls. Half-power defense-only phasers bolted from the body of the freighter—nothing near the power of Starfleet phasers, but formidable enough if they could be fired on a ship without shields.
“This is Commander Riker! Ceasefire immediately or we will target your engines!”
“Did it get through?” Ugulan gasped, staring at the screen. “We are still on collision! They did not explode! Did the shot get through?”
“They are not dead, are they?” Mortash roared from behind Worf. “Do you see them dying?” He pointed at Worf. “This one has killed us! We are damaged! Veer off!”
“Shields are stabilizing,” Gern called over the crackle of their own damage. “Starfleet’s, not ours.”
Ugulan shot a piercing glare at Worf. “I will cut your throat myself just to hear the sound!”
“Do it while you steer!” Worf spat back. Animals, pathetic animals!
Ugulan leaned hard to one side, and the