"CAPTAIN KIRK?" said Potemkin.
Kirk turned in his command seat.
"I have Captain Ascher on the Potemkin."
"Up on the screen, please, Mister Paultic."
"Aye, sir."
Ascher was normally pretty stone-faced, a square-jawed man who kept his emotions to himself. This time, however, he couldn't help but register his surprise and confusion.
"Damn it, Jim. How the hell did you wind up on the Hood? And what happened to Martinez?"
"It's a long story, Seth. And I haven't figured it all out myself yet. Suffice it to say that Joaquin is probably dead—and one of those who engineered his murder has taken my place on the Enterprise."
Ascher's brows came together. "I don't get it. How did he … ?"
"He's an android—an exact duplicate of me. Just as there were duplicates of Joaquin and members of his crew."
Ascher took a deep breath, let it out pensively. "I've got a funny question, Captain. How do I know that …"
"That I'm the genuine article?" finished Kirk. "You want some proof that I'm not the impostor myself."
The captain of the Potemkin half nodded. "Something like that, yes."
Kirk gave it to him.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
Ascher nodded. "Quite. But what if your doppelgänger comes up with the same information?"
"He won't. That is, if I'm right about where he came from."
Ascher grunted. "Fair enough—for the moment. But what about the business at hand? Whose side is the Enterprise going to be on—assuming, of course, that it even shows up?"
"My guess," said Kirk, "is that the android will have to show up—if he's to continue his charade. And having shown up, he'll have to work with us. He has no more desire to become space debris than we do."
"Three minutes until we reach the Mayday coordinates," announced the navigator. "And counting."
"Any idea how you want to handle this?" asked Ascher. "I mean, yours was supposed to be the lead vessel. I don't think that should change just because you've exchanged one vessel for another."
"Thanks, Captain," said Kirk. "I think it's best to play it by ear until we feel out the Romulans. There's always a chance that this thing can be resolved without bloodshed."
"Agreed. Ascher out."
And his image blinked away, replaced by a rush of stars. Kirk leaned back in his command chair, ordering his thoughts for the impending confrontation.
I hope you are there, mon frère semblable. I have a score to settle with you.
There was no reason that Uhura should have felt any warmer than usual at her communications station. The backup systems were doing an adequate job of life support; the temperature should have been the same as always.
It must be the tension, she told herself. She looked around, saw perspiration beading on the brows of some of the other crewmen. We're all feeling it.
The Romulan ships had come steadily closer, for all the indirectness of their approach patterns. It was only a matter of time before they decided the Enterprise was helpless and opened fire.
Her gaze fell on the captain, leaned forward in his command seat, intent on the forward viewscreen.
He must be wound up the tightest of anyone, she thought. It's his game to win or lose. If he waits too long, we'll be dead meat. And if he jumps the gun, we'll forfeit what little time we might have had left.
Maybe that's why the captain had laced into Spock a few minutes ago. Because the tension had been too great a burden.
On the other hand, they had been in spots as bad as this one before—and Uhura had never seen Kirk abuse his first officer that way.
There had to be more to it. An extended disagreement before they came up onto the bridge? A recent tragedy in the captain's life that the crew knew nothing about?
Something. James T. Kirk doesn't just fly off the handle every day.
Uhura took a closer look at the captain. At his shoulders, at the exposed skin of his neck. Interestingly enough, there were no signs of tension at all. No bunching of the shoulder muscles—not even a bead of sweat.
Hmm.
She touched her own neck, came away with perspiration on her fingertips. She shrugged.
Maybe he's not as wound up as I thought—or at least, not anymore. Could be that brief outburst did him some good.
Spock, standing at the next station over from Uhura, showed no signs of anxiety either. Of course, one didn't expect perspiration from a Vulcan.
Chekov turned away from his navigation console, looked back toward the captain. "Shield three hes just failed, sir. The demmage must hev been worse then we thought."
That's funny, she realized. Chekov's not sweating either. And neither is Sulu.
In fact, there was no sign of tension about them—no sign at all. Their postures, their expressions seemed relaxed, completely unruffled.
Like machines, she noted—then stopped herself. Now there's a strange thought.
Abruptly, she realized that it wasn't one she'd come up with entirely on her own.
Wasn't someone talking about machines the other day? About …
She might have pursued the notion a little further if she hadn't been interrupted by a flashing light on her board. Instantly, she did what was necessary to tune into the signal.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Could it be …?
The voice of her opposite number on the Hood was about the sweetest sound she had ever heard.
"Captain," she said, her own voice vibrating with excitement, "I have the Hood."
A cheer went up on the bridge.
"Can you give me a visual?" asked Kirk.
She could and she said so.
"Then put it through, Lieutenant."
A moment later, the viewscreen filled with the image of the other ship's captain. But it wasn't the image they had expected to see.
Uhura heard herself gasp, saw the startled looks that passed from one bridge officer to the next.
"Attention, Enterprise. This is Captain James Kirk—the real Captain James Kirk. The being now sitting in your command seat is an impostor."
The captain—their captain—was up in a flash.
"I don't know who you are, mister, or what this is about. But I want to see Joaquin Martinez—and I want to see him now."
"Captain Martinez is dead," said the other Kirk. "As you well know. And those responsible for his murder—your compatriots on the Hood—have either been destroyed or incarcerated."
The screen-sized face turned in Mister Spock's direction.
"He's an android, Spock. Like those Roger Korby created on Exo III. And he's trying to finish what Korby started."
Spock cocked an eyebrow, addressed the image transmitted by the Hood.
"While I must admit that you resemble James Kirk quite closely … I am as certain as I may be that our captain is who he says he is. Therefore, I must conclude that you, sir, are the impostor."
The face on the screen seemed taken aback by that. Then, slowly, realization seemed to dawn.
"Spock," said the other Kirk, in a voice tinged with dread. "You've got him too—haven't you?" He glanced from crewman to crewman. "And how many others?"
Uhura, meanwhile, was trying to sort out the truth. And the mention of androids had jogged her memory. Brought back to mind what she'd heard the other day—about machines.
You haven't noticed anything funny about the captain lately, have you? It was McCoy who had asked.
Can't say I have, Doctor. Why?
But he'd ignored her counterquery and gone on.
Say, something cold … or distant? Or, well, machinelike—for lack of a better word to describe it?
And then, before she could respond, he'd provided an answer himself. No. Of course you haven't. He'd snorted in his characteristic way. Just forget I asked, Lieutenant—all right?
Whatever you say, sir.
At the time, it hadn't meant much to her. But now, it seemed to connect with her other observations.
The way the captain had ignored McCoy's pleas for help … the way he had ordered her to cut the doctor off …
The fact that some of her fellow officers didn't sweat …
The tone of Spock's voice just now—colder and more calculating than was customary even for him …
And, finally, the accusations coming from the Hood. The idea of androids running the Enterprise …
Of course, she couldn't be certain. But it appeared that the screen Kirk was the true Kirk.
And that the captain whose orders she'd been following …
"You're a good actor," Kirk told the face on the screen. "But not good enough. We see through you. And as soon as this is over, you're going to pay for whatever crimes you've committed."
He sat down heavily, looked around. Scowled.
"In the meantime, we are hardly in what you'd call a position of authority. We need help. And I have to assume you've come to fight the Romulans as we have—or else why would you be there?"
The other Kirk—the one Uhura now believed to be the real Captain Kirk—had by now recovered from his shock. He eyed his double.
"Yes," he said. "We're here to confront the Romulans. And we have the Potemkin with us." He paused. "What exactly is your position?"
Kirk—the one Uhura now believed to be the fraud—imparted the details of their disability.
"I see," said the face on the screen, grimmer even than before. "But you say the Romulans don't know that your weapons still work?"
"No," said Kirk, "they don't—though we can't wait much longer to use them."
"Wait as long as you can," said the captain on the Hood. "Kirk out."
And suddenly the screen showed nothing but Romulans again.
T'bak feigned patience while Centurion T'ialla labored over the communications board.
On the main screen, the one called Kirk mouthed a garble of sounds that would have taken much too long to decode. It was plain, however, that he was making contact with one of his allies; while the words themselves could be disguised, there was no way the Enterprise could conceal the fact of their tight-beam transmission. Or prevent the Ka'frah from determining its direction, and therefore the location of the receiving vessel.
Finally, the communications officer looked up, waited for T'bak's nod before he reported. T'bak nodded.
"The transmission is not being intercepted at any point within sensor range, Commander. But neither is it merely a general distress call. Someone is answering."
T'bak stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. Stranger and stranger, he thought. The Enterprise does have allies—but it seems they have yet to arrive.
"So the allusion to cloaked ships was a ruse," observed T'ouru. "Only a delaying tactic after all."
"Can you pick up the other vessel's transmission?" asked T'bak.
"Of course, Commander."
T'ialla made a few adjustments. For a moment, the image in the screen flickered, and when it came back, it seemed Kirk had shifted his position slightly.
But otherwise, nothing had changed.
"I asked you to show me the incoming transmission," said T'bak.
The centurion frowned. "I thought I had, Commander. Obviously, there has been a malfunction."
Or your own foul-up, thought T'bak.
"Try again," he said.
Once more, T'ialla turned dials on the control board. And Once more he failed to pick up the answering transmission.
"I … I don't understand, Commander. The board is not responding."
"But it is," said T'ouru. He pointed to the screen. "Note the figures in the background. One is a Vulcan—see, he is speaking now. He was standing in that position before T'ialla made the first adjustment, but not after. And now, with the second adjustment, he has reappeared."
T'bak regarded his subcommander. "What are you saying, T'ouru?"
"That the same man commands both ships—or seems to. More to the point, that the Federation must somehow have created a clone of its clever Captain Kirk."
T'bak felt a pit grow in his belly as he considered the possibilities. None of them was comforting.
"Call our ships off the Enterprise," he decided suddenly. "It is helpless anyway." He struck his armrest with a gloved fist. "Turn them loose on the newcomers instead."
T'ouru inclined his head. "As you wish, Commander."
Kirk knew there was no way to get the jump on the Romulans. Their light sensors were too powerful, too farranging to miss anything as big as a starship—much less two of them.
Even if he had been able to surprise them, he would have refrained—tried to talk instead. Something had set the Romulans off—and part of his responsibility was to discover what is was.
But neither did he wish to let the Romulans get a jump on him. So when their ships started to move against him, without so much as an exchange of insults, he did three things.
He called for battle stations.
He authorized engineering to put up the shields.
And he had Paultic open a channel to Ascher on the Potemkin.
The Romulans came at them in a triangular configuration—one high and off to starboard, one low and off to starboard, and one wide to port. It was a simple strategy, but a good one, giving each bird-of-prey room in which to operate.
The textbook reaction was to spread out—to make one's own ships more difficult targets. But given the odds, that would only postpone the inevitable.
"Helm," barked Kirk. "Heading three nine-zero-mark-four-two. Do you read me, Potemkin?"
"Loud and clear, Hood. I just hope it works."
"Full thrust," said Kirk. A second later, he heard his order echoed by Captain Ascher.
The starships catapulted forward—right down the throat of the Romulan attack. Instinctively, the captain's finger went to a stud on his armrest.
"Aye, sir?" came the response from the weapons room.
"Ready phasers and photon torpedoes."
"Ready, sir."
Kirk watched the Romulans loom larger and larger on the screen, waiting until he was certain they were in range. Finally, the moment came.
"Fire!" he ordered.
The Hood's phaser beams lanced the speckled blackness of space, headed for the enemy ships. Its photon torpedoes burst forth—
—just as the Romulans let loose with their own blinding barrage.
Suddenly, the viewscreen boiled over with white light. And a heartbeat later, the Hood shuddered under the impact of the enemy's firepower.
But Kirk had experienced worse—much worse. He didn't need a damage report to know they had come through in decent shape.
So had the Potemkin. In a couple of clipped phrases, Ascher communicated as much.
And the Romulans were past them now, speeding in the wrong direction, away from the confrontation.
Of course, it would only take moments for them to turn around and pursue. Romulan ships had a well-deserved reputation for maneuverability.
But then, he was counting on that. And just in case the Romulans had suffered more damage than they had, he gave the order to cut speed by ten percent.
"Jim!" came Ascher's voice. "What are you doing?"
"You'll have to trust me, Seth."
There was a muttered curse, but nothing more.
"Potemkin cutting speed too," observed the acting science officer.
Kirk leaned forward, concentrating on the viewscreen. They were on a course for T'bak's flagship and the freighter—a fact the other Romulans would pick up right away. Almost on the same vector, however, and much closer, was the Enterprise.
That fact, Kirk hoped, was something the Romulans wouldn't pick up on. After all, they had already determined that the Enterprise was defenseless—hadn't they? Why even take it into account?
Nonetheless, he couldn't risk contacting the crippled ship. That would certainly draw attention to it—perhaps alert the Romulans to what he had in mind.
"The enemy ships have come about," reported the science officer. "They're following us, sir."
Good, the captain told himself. Now let's see if the android really does have all my memories.
From his command chair, Kirk watched the rapid approach of the Federation vessels. On their present courses, they would pass just to either side of the Enterprise.
Nor could he help but notice the Romulan ships as they maneuvered into pursuit formation. They moved quickly, gracefully.
What is the human doing? he asked himself. Why is he bringing them my way?
He must have asked the last question aloud—for Spock was in the process of answering almost before he knew it.
"I believe," said the first officer, "that this is the reason we were asked to refrain from firing earlier."
Suddenly, the android remembered.
One of the early confrontations with the Klingons. Three Federation vessels facing greater odds. One crippled almost immediately.
And in the end, the Federation ships had all been destroyed.
It had been required reading at the academy. For months, a young Jim Kirk had puzzled over it, seeking a way out for the Federation ships. And finally, late one night, he'd vaulted out of bed with the answer.
Of course, that had been a long time ago. Being human, he might have forgotten.
If the Enterprise carried out its part of the plan—without the other ships carrying out theirs—Kirk's ship would be left a sitting duck. And, suddenly, a destroy priority for the Romulans.
"Sir?" prodded Spock. "Shall I alert the weapons room?"
Kirk scowled. He saw his allies starting to leave the viewscreen, passing him on either side. He saw the Romulans growing larger as they came on in pursuit.
"Captain?"
His teeth grated as he made his decision.
"Yes, it was a clever maneuver, T'ouru. But one that achieved nothing. They are still the hunted. See—our ships have them in their sights once more. And this time, they have herded the Federation vessels back to us." T'bak allowed himself a thin smile. "We will crush them between us."
For the first time, the commander felt confident of victory. He had doubted himself at every juncture, second-guessed his own instincts. But in the final analysis, his instincts had been correct. Or correct enough.
And the elder factions in the Praetorate had been wrong. The Federation could be beaten. Their technology was sufficient.
Nor had the Kirk clone changed matters substantially. All he could do was run from their superior numbers—like any other Federation dog.
T'bak looked up at his subcommander. "You are silent, T'ouru. Savoring the victory?"
But it was not eager anticipation T'bak noted on his officer's face. T'ouru's brow was deeply furrowed, his eyes slitted with concentration.
It annoyed T'bak to see his subcommander so distracted. So pensive. The time for that was past.
"What is it, T'ouru? Speak."
For a time, the older man remained silent, watching the viewscreen, his eyes glinting with reflected light. Then those same eyes widened with a cold, crawling dread.
"The ships must veer off," he cried, his voice rising in intensity. He locked T'bak's shoulder in an iron grip—a grip born of desperation. "Order them to change course!"
T'bak glanced from T'ouru to the viewscreen and back again. Yet he saw nothing that could have alarmed his subcommander.
"I don't understand," he said. "We have a clear advantage over—"
"The Enterprise," T'ouru growled. "It's a trap!"
T'bak rounded on the screen again, halfway out of his command seat. Realization tasted like bitter metal in his mouth.
He leaned over past T'ialla and slammed down on the communications console—instantly opening channels to the other ships. They were already well within the range of the Enterprise—but perhaps there was still time.
Three faces sprang up on the auxiliary monitors—the curious, slightly surprised faces of those who commanded the other ships.
"Veer off!" bellowed T'bak. "The Enterprise is armed. I repeat, veer. . . ."
But it was too late. As he watched in horror, his birds-of-prey cruisers were enveloped in sheets of close-range phaser fire. Photon torpedoes ripped into their smooth, polished hulls.
All three ships emerged from the web of deadly fire. But in the next moment, the M'sarr—its shields already weakened from its earlier skirmish with the Enterprise—showed that it had not emerged unscathed. First, its engine deck blew up in a flare of red light. Then a larger explosion tore the battle cruiser to bits.
T'bak swallowed.
No …
"Commander," came an anguished cry from the Brak'makh. "The hull has been breached. We are losing life support."
"Heavy losses on all decks," groaned the subcommander of the Ar'kalid. "Impulse power cut in half."
T'bak lowered himself back into his seat. He felt numb, disoriented.
And the two remaining Federation starships were bearing down on the Ka'frah.
"Take evasive action," advised T'ouru. "Now, Commander—while we still can."
Slowly, a red rage boiled up inside T'bak. It drowned out the wisdom of T'ouru's words. But it steadied him—enabled him to act.
"No," he snapped. "We will meet them—and destroy them." He darted a glanced at his helmsman. "Full thrust," he ordered. "Dead ahead—seven-three-four-mark-nine-two."
"Yes, my lord," said the officer, complying.
The Ka'frah leaped forward, closing with the Federation ships at dizzying speed.
"Weapons," T'bak said, punching the proper stud on his armrest, never taking his eyes off the viewscreen.
"My lord?"
"Prepare to fire on our enemies."
"Ready, Commander. We have range."
T'bak gripped the arms of his command chair, letting the rage carry him, consume him. Blind him.
"Fire!" he roared.
Phasers and photon torpedoes carved furrows of light into the star-pricked blackness. A number of them found their targets, shattering against deflector shields.
Then the Federation vessels retaliated. The viewscreen erupted with an image of raw, destructive force.
But the image was nothing compared to the reality that followed.