Maker - Michael Jan Friedman [35]
Pushing his chair out, he left the mess hall and made his way through a sea of mineral deposits to a lift. In a matter of moments, he had reached the bridge level, and in a few more he came out onto the bridge.
Beyond the silhouette of the alien and his attendant projections, the viewscreen was filled to its limits by the visage of an Ubarrak captain. He was thick-necked even for someone of his species, his slitted yellow eyes blazing with impatience in the cavernous sockets defined by his brow ridges.
“I repeat,” he rasped, “this is Commander Goshevik of the Tenth System Defense Fleet. Come to an immediate halt, disengage your engines, and prepare to be boarded. Otherwise, you will be destroyed.”
Of course, the battle cruiser hadn’t communicated her business in advance. That would naturally make her the object of concern, if not outright suspicion.
And Brakmaktin didn’t do a thing to allay it. He just stood there watching the screen—entertained, no doubt, by the seriousness of the Ubarrak’s warning.
Nikolas guessed that the visual communication was only one-way. Had Goshevik been able to see who was manning the bridge of the battle cruiser, he would certainly have fired already instead of persisting in his warnings.
As it was, his patience seemed to be coming to an end, if the lowering of his brow ridge was any indication. “This is your last warning,” Goshevik croaked officiously. “Disengage your engines or die.”
Brakmaktin laughed harshly, neither replying nor altering the cruiser’s course.
Abruptly, Goshevik’s face vanished from the screen, to be replaced by an image of three state-of-
the-art warships. Each was as big and powerful as the one Brakmaktin had commandeered.
And they would be in the defenders’ weapons range at any moment. But Brakmaktin didn’t seem deterred in the least. In fact, he appeared to be looking forward to the encounter.
Nikolas knew better than to counsel him to turn back. The alien hadn’t heeded his advice before. It was unlikely that he would start doing so now.
Suddenly, the viewscreen was crammed full of azure light. Obviously, the Ubarrak had had enough.
Nikolas grabbed the console beside him and braced himself, wondering how much time would elapse before he felt the impact. Not much, he thought. And he was right.
He was jerked off his feet and slammed to the deck, reopening the cut above his eye. When he raised his head and got his bearings, he saw that a control console had exploded and was spraying hot, red sparks.
As he started to get up, the ship was rocked by a second volley, and then a third. An emergency siren went off as if the ship were crying out in pain.
Nikolas was surprised. Back on the Iktoj’ni, Brakmaktin hadn’t let matters go so far. He had fended off the Ubarrak’s first volley and then made sure they didn’t release a second one.
It made the human wonder what was different this time. Was Brakmaktin allowing the cruiser to absorb this punishment for a reason? Or had he somehow underestimated the power the Ubarrak would bring against him?
As the viewscreen cleared, Nikolas saw the defenders wheel and come back for another pass. As before, a ball of blue radiance grew as it pursued them. Then the deck bucked once, twice, and again, and a second console erupted.
Nikolas had been in battles before, and had always hoped like hell that his ship would come out on top. It wasn’t just a matter of wanting to survive. He had always believed that Starfleet was the side of the good guys.
But this time, Starfleet wasn’t part of the equation. He was on an enemy ship, chained to a madman who had more power than anyone Nikolas had ever known.
More than anything else, Nikolas wanted the Ubarrak to tear them apart—to destroy the warship and pound Brakmaktin into subatomic particles. And if that meant Nikolas’s dying as well, he had no problem with that.
It was a damned sight better than living with the knowledge that