Roget spat a nearly inaudible curse before replying. “We are here on a diplomatic mission at the invitation of First Protector Ruardh, the head of this world’s duly elected government. On whose authority have you attacked us?”
“Had we attackedyou, you would be dead,” came the reply. “You are in the custody of the Army of Light. If you attempt to resist or flee, we will not hesitate to destroy your vessel.”
Roget made a slashing gesture, and Zweller responded by temporarily interrupting the audio.
“Make best speed for the capital, Mr. Zweller,” Roget said. “There are bound to be official patrols there who can drive these characters off.”
Zweller shook his head emphatically. “They’re right on top of us, sir. We’ll never make it.”
The shuttle lurched again and the hull braces groaned. Zweller watched the structural integrity telltale dip into the red. A near‑miss,Zweller thought; a direct hit probably would have breached the hull and blown everyone out of the shuttle. The lights flickered as the batterypowered backup life‑support system kicked in.
Roget’s frown could have curdled milk. “You don’t seem to be trying very goddamned hard, mister.”
Raising an eyebrow, Zweller ignored the comment. “I don’t think our welcoming committee enjoys being kept waiting, sir.”
After pausing to glare at Zweller, Roget tapped a command into the console, relinquishing control of the shuttle’s navigational computer to their captors. He turned toward the somber group in the seats behind him.
“Looks like we’re taking an unscheduled detour, folks.”
“Never a cop around when you need one,” Gomp muttered. Nobody laughed.
The Archimedesabruptly banked and descended even farther. The shuttle barely cleared the hills beyond the sprawling city’s nightward side as she continued into utter blackness, flanked by her “escorts.”
Chiaros IV had no natural satellites and possessed a thick cloud canopy, conditions that made Nightside quite dark, except when the clouds were riven by lightning and auroral fireworks. The Archimedes’trajectory, however, stayed mostly within the swirls of the clouds blown in from Dayside, cover that made the auroras–and therefore the ground–difficult to see from the shuttle’s windows. The few flashes of light that did enter the cabin merely served to prevent the crew’s eyes from adjusting to the darkness. To the hapless occupants of the Archimedes,Nightside appeared more tenebrous than the inside of any tomb.
After crossing the terminator into night, the Archimedesflew for more than an hour, changing directions sharply several times, banking and spiraling. Whether because of atmospheric effects or damage sustained in the attack, the onboard instruments couldn’t determine the shuttle’s location or even its altitude. Sitting behind his useless control panel, Zweller realized that he might as well have been blindfolded.
Roget and the department heads somberly discussed their options, including whether or not they ought to open the weapons locker and put up some real resistance after landing. Though Gomp was the loudest proponent of the “stand‑and‑fight” notion, Zweller suspected that it was all rhetoric; he’d never met a Tellarite who didn’t prefer a loud, abusive argument to actual combat. After everyone had spoken his piece, Roget announced that they were to forget about fighting their way out of this situation; after all, they had come to conduct diplomacy, not warfare.
They received a hail, and the crew cabin fell silent. “Prepare to land,” said the harsh voice of their captor over the background of static.
A pattern of lights appeared on the ground, perhaps a quarter of a kilometer below the shuttle. Roget tried to turn the landing over to the computer, but it again failed to respond. Zweller tripped the manual override and began bringing the craft down, aiming for the center of the landing pattern.
A moment after the shuttle came to rest, the ground itself began to sink. Enormous mechanisms groaned as the surface beneath the shuttle lowered into a dimly illuminated subterranean chamber. Zweller watched on the viewer as a metal roof quickly rolled into place about eight meters overhead, shutting out what could be seen of the obsidian sky.
“I’ll bet this place is completely invisible from the air,” Gomp said, sounding impressed. “Very neat.”
A bank of bright lights flared to life along the chamber’s ceiling, revealing its enormous size. Several small fighter craft of the same type as their attackers were parked nearby. Perhaps twenty large, armed humanoids were taking up positions surrounding the Archimedes.
Kurlan and Tuohy both gazed significantly at the weapons locker, and then back at Roget, as if to say, This is our last chance.
“No phasers,” Roget reiterated, and the rest of the human officers nodded their assent. Gomp spat a monosyllabic Tellarite curse.
Roget fixed a steely gaze on Zweller, but Zweller met it unblinkingly. “Commander Zweller and I will go out first,” Roget said. “Unarmed.”
Hearn opened the shuttle’s hatch manually, then stepped aside. Roget walked through it to meet their captors. Zweller followed, the planet’s slightly higher‑than‑Earth‑normal gravity making his feet feel leaden.
From what Zweller knew of Chiarosans, the soldiers of the Army of Light were fairly typical representatives of the species. A robust people, none of them were shorter than two meters. Zweller was immediately struck by the strangeness of their eyes, which were the color of iridescent cobalt, and had an almost crystalline appearance. Though broad in the shoulders, the Chiarosans were whipcord lean, their bare arms striated with muscles like steel cables, and half‑covered with a fine, brown fur. The hairless portions of their skins resembled burnished copper, and shined almost as brightly as the long, curved blades that hung from the sashes of their gray uniforms. Their obvious strength was complemented by a fluid grace of motion, as though their musculoskeletal systems were capable of an impossibly wide range of motion.
If one of these guys had helped us against those Nausicaans back in ’27, old Johnny Picard never would have needed that artificial heart.
The troops wasted no time escorting everyone off of the shuttle. After taking the Starfleet officers’ combadges and searching them for weapons–as well as confiscating the phasers they had left aboard the Archimedes–the Chiarosans manacled the wrists of each of their six captives. The soldiers then frog‑marched them out of the hangar complex, down a lengthy, narrow corridor, and then into a second large chamber. Several slim ceilingmounted illumination panels bathed the room in a dull white light. Zweller’s gaze took in the room’s bare stone walls and floor, which were adorned with edged weapons, as well as paintings and sculptures depicting what must have been important battles and revered war heroes from the annals of Chiarosan history.
A pair of bare‑chested Chiarosan males faced one another in the center of the room, neither of them acknowledging the presence of the Starfleet prisoners. The larger and more striking of the pair was yellow‑haired; the smaller, darker Chiarosan appeared no less formidable, however. Both of them held long, curved blades in each of their hands, and were in the midst of sparring, their graceful, triple‑jointed movements reminding Zweller of Japanese kata.Their limbs moved with unbelievable control and precision, almost faster than the eye could follow. Though their weapons clanged together forcefully, often striking sparks, both men obviously were exerting tremendous discipline over both blade and sinew. It occurred to Zweller that the trio of guards standing behind them were largely superfluous, present only to provide additional intimidation.
Stepping inside the guard of the darker, smaller swordsman, the yellow‑haired fighter suddenly trapped his opponent’s thick neck between his blades. Though both men abruptly froze in place, Zweller half‑expected the victor to snip the other man’s head off, like a gardener trimming a shrub. Instead, the winner sheathed his blades after a moment, and the other man followed suit. The fighters bowed to one another.