The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [33]
The Klingon literally snarled. “You’re outgunned, Archer. Come about and prepare to be boarded. If you don’t obey my orders, I’ll—”
Archer made a chopping motion with his hand; Hoshi immediately pressed a control, and the viewscreen darkened, then changed to the image of the deadly birds-of-prey nestled in the clouds. The Captain was in no mood to listen to Duras’s threats; he had a ship to save ... otherwise, Earth was doomed.
“The perimeter clouds are dissipating.” T’Pol pressed a series of controls at her console, then brought her gaze back to her viewer. “I’m detecting clear space ahead ...”
“That’s why Duras wants us to come about,” Archer murmured to himself. “He’s afraid of the Expanse.” More loudly, he told Mayweather, “Increase speed, Travis.”
* * *
Aboard the bird-of-prey, the Klingon first officer turned to face his commander; on his face was a look of concern—not so much for the situation, but for the effect his words would have on Duras. “The other ships are signaling. ... They’re going to turn back.”
It was clear from his tone that the first officer was suggesting they turn back, too—a notion that so enraged Duras, he would have struck the officer dead, had he not been working with a skeleton crew.
“Cowards!” he screamed at the viewscreen, where the image of the other two Klingon ships hovered. Spittle flew from his lips. He no longer cared whether his ship survived to report Archer’s death; Duras was prepared to fight to the death, even though he had strict orders to bring himself and his prisoner back to the Klingon homeworld alive.
He became aware once again of his two crewman staring at him; clearly, they awaited an order to follow the other ships, to break off and return home.
Home, to defeat and utter shame, not just upon him, but upon his entire House.
Duras looked on them both with contempt. “We’ll do it ourselves,” he muttered darkly.
The tactical officer blinked in disbelief, his face a mask of cowardice. “We’re too close to the Expanse ...”
Before he could utter another word, Duras bolted to his feet and threw the crewman from his chair. He took the helm himself, hatred burning in him like an unquenchable flame.
* * *
Archer watched as the bridge viewscreen revealed one of the birds-of-prey veering away from the others, back into the thick column of thermobaric clouds. A second ship soon followed. ...
The Captain held his breath, waiting. But the third ship—he knew instinctively it had to be Duras’s—held its course.
“Only one left, sir,” Reed reported from tactical, the same relief Archer felt in his tone.
He scarcely uttered the words when the bridge shuddered violently again beneath a volley of blasts from the remaining vessel.
“Keep firing,” he ordered Reed.
T’Pol reported from her station, her tone curt, clipped. “The Expanse is less than five minutes away.”
“Maybe he’ll turn around, like his friends,” Trip volunteered hopefully.
Archer’s tone was grim; he knew Duras too well. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
A fresh series of booms echoed in Archer’s ears; the Enterprise reeled under the shock. Archer leaned forward and said swiftly to Reed, “Your new torpedoes aren’t having the same effect as last time.”
Reed’s hands flew over his controls; he glanced down at a readout, then answered just as quickly, “Duras transferred his aft shields forward. Our weapons can’t penetrate them.”
The ship convulsed again—this time, harder than before. Archer instinctively sensed damage, even before Trip turned to him from his station. The engineer’s tone was high-pitched with tension. “We just lost three antimatter injectors, Captain! Any more, and we’re in big trouble!”
Archer understood Trip’s concern—without the warp engines, their mission would fail before it had even begun—but could spare no time to acknowledge it; Reed’s last statement had prompted an idea. Moving unsteadily because of the repeated jolts courtesy of Duras, the Captain stepped over to T’Pol.
“If he’s transferred his shielding forward,” Archer asked the Vulcan, “what’s protecting his stern?