The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [12]
The screen filled with blinding light; the bird-of-prey convulsed under the attack.
“Earth vessels!” the first officer shouted.
Duras was filled with venom; so great was his hatred that, had he been able to reach out into space and pommel the vessels with his own hands, he would have. How dare they interfere now, when victory was so close! “Return fire!” he roared.
But the bird-of-prey was no match for the relentless fire of three ships. The bridge began to shake as if it were trying to tear itself apart; Duras lifted a hand to shield himself from the rain of sparks as first one, then two consoles exploded.
“Shields are failing!” the tactical officer called.
The ship reeled; Duras held on to the arms of his chair as he responded, “Are they offline?”
“No, sir.”
“Then keep firing!” Duras insisted. He had not come this far to give up so easily.
The bird-of-prey continued to vibrate so fiercely that Duras’s teeth chattered; the vessel began to groan like a wounded targ.
The first officer turned to direct a meaningful stare at Duras. “We’ve lost disruptor banks three and four!”
In other words, the ship had no way of protecting herself or continuing the attack.
For an instant, fury so blinded Duras he could not see his first officer’s face, or the viewscreen beyond, where the Earth ships continued firing. His warrior’s heart yearned to stay, to do whatever desperate act necessary to capture Archer. ...
And yet, his mind was forced to admit that there was no way to capture Archer. Not now, at least. He was forced once again to bide his time.
Duras slammed his fist so hard against a console that the metal was dented.
“Withdraw,” he growled, bitter. “Go to warp speed!”
On the bridge of the Enterprise, Archer struggled to sort out an odd mix of emotions: relief that Duras had called off his attack and disappeared, gratitude that Earth ships had come to his aid, and both gladness and sorrow to be home.
“It’s Captain Ramirez, sir,” Hoshi announced from her console. “On the Intrepid.”
Archer nodded.
A new image appeared on the viewscreen—that of Carlos Ramirez, a captain in Starfleet and an acquaintance of Archer’s. Carlos was, like Archer, in his early forties, a fit, olive-skinned man with smooth dark hair. At the moment, his lips curled upwards in a genuine smile, revealing small, even teeth.
“Captain Archer ...”
Archer smiled faintly, and replied, his tone grateful. “It’s good to see you, Carlos.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Ramirez asked, referring to the encounter with the bird-of-prey.
Archer shrugged. “A Klingon named Duras ... He’s not very fond of me.” Nor, Archer reflected, was he particularly fond of Duras at the moment. The Klingon had tried several times to kill him ... and was responsible for having Archer’s advocate, an old Klingon lawyer named Kolos, sent to Rura Penthe, the unspeakably brutal penal colony. Kolos had actually been a compassionate, decent sort, interested in helping Archer—but had paid for his concern. Archer wondered whether the old Klingon was still alive.
“Welcome home, Captain,” Ramirez said, drawing Archer from his reverie. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”
The first time Archer had seen Earth from low orbit, he’d thought it the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen: now it was one of the most painful.
As much as he hadn’t wanted to direct the Enterprise to hover over the area of the attack, it was impossible—as impossible as staying away from a loved one’s funeral. Mayweather had silently guided the ship to the coordinates, and now, Florida and Cuba filled the bridge viewscreen.
The peninsula and island were still green, as Archer remembered, lightly obscured here and there by wisps of clouds, and the Gulf of Mexico a turquoise blue ... But a series of long, black, diagonal lines strafed both land and water. Each one several miles wide, Admiral Forrest had said. ‘Fire from the sky,’ survivors called it. It just incinerated everything in its path, leaving lifeless craters behind.
Not a word