Surefoot 33: Maelstrom

Jacobs looked at him with some suspicion, but then leaned across and touched a certain area on the adjacent screen. "Commander Klahnargh of the IKS Vrirroch is leading the search here."

C'Rash turned back to Hrelle. "Done, Sir. They should reach the point recommended by Admiral Jacobs in an hour."

"Thank you. Now, follow me."

"Sir?"

"If you'll excuse us, Admiral?"

Jacobs grunted and focused on the work, as Hrelle motioned for C'Rash to follow him over to Zawati, the female Caitian protesting, "Sir, I-"

He cut her off again, his voice a murmur. "Admiral Tattok gave us an additional assignment. While the Kittens are on their way, I want you and Lt Cmdr Zawati to locate the Tesla's recorder marker in the wreckage out here, retrieve it and store it securely. And I want you to do it without Admiral Jacobs knowing about it."

The Wakandan woman frowned. "Sir? Is there- is there something wrong with the Admiral?"

"Yes. He lost a ship, a traumatic event in itself for any commanding officer. And if I read between the lines from Tattok's orders, then there may be some measure of culpability on Jacobs' part. But that's not for us to judge, that'll be for the Board. And we want to keep the Admiral busy with this assignment, not distracted with what happened with the Tesla. He's more useful to Starfleet doing this than sitting in his quarters wallowing in guilt and doubt."

"Really?" C'Rash asked. "You think that old fart can still help us?"

Hrelle looked at her sharply. "That old fart is a superior officer, and fluent in six dialects of Klingonese - without a Translator. And he was breaking codes and protecting the Federation when you were still in your Mama's womb making her ass ache instead of mine. Remember that, Lieutenant."

The female's tail drooped with genuine regret. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

He nodded to the women, before returning to Jacobs. "Sorry about my Chief of Security's attitude, Sir."

Jacobs made a sound. "Damn brats. I have socks older than her! Why do they have to be so... young?"

Hrelle smiled. "I'm sure she'll grow out of it."

The Admiral looked to him again, relaxing. "Tattok ordered me to apologise to you for my earlier behaviour. I refused to do so."

"I understand, Sir."

"So now you'll know... this apology is now freely made."

Hrelle smiled again. "And happily accepted." He indicated the display. "What would drive the Klingons to focus away from the business to war, to... whatever they're doing here?"

Jacobs shrugged, though Hrelle could see he was studying the display again with intensity. "It's not an easy question to answer. Most people only know the warriors. They barely know about the sectarian castes, the T'Kuvma and So'Ran movements, and those races they conquered centuries ago who forgot their old identities and now called themselves Klingons... Klingons can be as varied as the races of the Federation." He shook his head. "Maybe you should ask someone who hasn't been retired for almost twenty years?"

"I'm asking you, Admiral," Hrelle reminded him, before patting the man on the shoulder. "But first, dinner; you've been at this for almost ten hours. And I haven't eaten in almost as long."

Jacobs looked the Caitian's belly.

"Really," Hrelle insisted with a smile.

*

Hrelle only half-ate his chicken salad sandwich, focused more on the distracted look on Jacob's face. "If that doesn't appeal to you, Admiral, we can order you something else-"

Jacobs grunted. "Have you found it yet?"

"Found what?"

"The Tesla's recorder marker. I'm sure that little gnome Tattok would have ordered you to find it while we were out here, and not tell me. Keep the old guy busy and out of trouble, right?"

Hrelle felt himself blush under his fur. "Uh, something like that, Sir."

He cradled his coffee cup, as if accepting its warmth into his spindly fingers. "Probably afraid I'd tamper with the evidence before the court martial."

"Court martial? Admiral, I'm sure it won't get to that-"

"I screwed up, Hrelle."

The Captain blinked. "Uh, Sir, you don't have to say anything without legal-"

Jacobs shook his head. "It'll all come out soon enough. I screwed up. When the Bird of Prey dematerialised, I froze. I looked out at that vessel, focused on the lines and markings on its hull, listened to the frantic cries of my crew for orders, felt the leather padding of my chair... in fact, everything but prepare my ship for an attack, like a competent Captain would have. It was like it was my first time in the chair.

"By the time I recovered, it was too late for the Tesla. I gave the order to abandon ship, and set the vessel to ram the Klingons when they made the final approach. And I... was prepared to go down with my ship. It seemed fitting, her and me, together. I never married, never had any partner; Starfleet had been my life. And I'd had a longer relationship with the Tesla than with anyone of flesh and blood.

"But I hadn't counted on the stubbornness of First Officer Melrose, practically forcing me into an escape pod. That idiot kid... he ended up hurt when our pod barely escaped the detonation range of the Tesla." He shuddered. "So many of them hurt... because of me..."

Hrelle regarded him, seeing things in a different light. "That's why you tried to order me to help your crew first, over the Klingons. You felt guilty, seeing them on the floor around you, being treated for their wounds."

"Yes. I'd have given anything to be anywhere else but there."

"I thought you hated the Klingons, wanted them dead for what they did."

Jacobs shook his head. "I've studied them, their histories and cultures, their tactics... I know them too well to hate them. I know they started this War, but I also know they're doing this because they feel betrayed by the Federation, for not supporting them in their actions against the Cardassians and the Dominion." He shrugged. "They may be right, in the end." He rubbed his forehead. "Melrose should have left me on the Tesla's Bridge."

"No, he shouldn't have," Hrelle told him sympathetically. "No one would have wanted you to die. We're stronger with you than without you."

"You don't understand, Captain- I lost my ship-"

"So have I, over a decade ago: the USS Furyk. And unlike you, none of my crew survived. 137 lives lost. I was judged not at fault for the events that led to it, but you and I both know that doesn't matter; their deaths will be with me for the rest of my life.

"And at the time, I wanted to die, for their lives... and others I felt were lost because of my actions, my mistakes. But I kept going. Sometimes I didn't know why, but I kept going. And ultimately, I accepted that I was right to keep going, both because I didn't have the right to seek an end to that guilt, and because I could do far more to counter the mistakes of my past by staying alive, than if I'd eaten a phaser shot."

Jacobs stared at him for a silent, unsure moment. Then he nodded back. "Thank you, Captain. Nice to know even a hundred-year-old can still learn something."

Hrelle smiled. "I'm sure you knew it already; you just needed reminding-" When his combadge chirped, he tapped it. "Hrelle here."

Zawati's voice carried between the two senior officers. "Sir, we're getting telemetry from the Kittens. And we've found and retrieved that item you were looking for."

Hrelle smiled at Jacobs, who offered a hint of amusement at the attempt at obfuscation. "Thank you, Commander. I'll get the Admiral and return to the Bridge; and remember, not a word to the old man."

"Aye, Sir."

*

The ship was large, long, with sectioned, segmented pieces that jutted up, reminding Hrelle of the spinal cord of some long-dead creature stretched out; its green-grey hue, matching that of most Klingon ships because of their preference for duratanium in their hulls, marked its affiliation.

"A Klingon passenger transport ship," Zawati reported, continuing to read the telemetry. "According to the Kittens, approximately 800 onboard."

Hrelle nodded distractedly, focused on where the transport ship was: caught in a whirlpool of energy, colours of emerald and ruby and turquoise, swirling downwards into a black funnel. "What is it?"

"A subspace sinkhole," Lt. Neheru corrected, the Operations Officer taking over the role of Science Officer from the appropriate station. "A rare, naturally-occurring phenomenon capable of producing an extremely strong gravity well, which can pose a potential hazard to any spacecraft unfortunate enough to get caught in one. Much like quantum singularities, subspace sinkholes are monodirectional, and the extreme gravimetric shears they produce prevent the formation of a stable warp field or use of transporter beams. But they possess almost no mass, making them extremely difficult to detect until you're almost upon them."

Jacobs stared at the visual display. "The funnel... where does it lead to?"

The Kelpien straightened up, his noseless, apricot-coloured face blanching as he faced the Admiral. "Nowhere, Sir. It's not a wormhole; the forces at the bottom of the sinkhole simply crush anything that reaches it."

"It is like a Logh'boqrat," Hrelle murmured. "A monster in space, devouring ships. But why not this one, Lieutenant?"

"I suspect it's caught in an eddy, Sir, and its impulse engines can keep it in place -- but not for long now, if these power readings from it are any indication."

Hrelle watched the outer displays, seeing the other Klingon ships, still running search patterns, their sensors -- and good luck -- not up to Starfleet standards. "Can it be freed?"

Neheru returned to his displays. "Theoretically, yes, Sir: a vessel with a strong enough tractor beam array can approach close enough -- just -- to get a lock onto it and drag it out. But it's a massive vessel, and the gravimetric shears will be fierce."

"Send one of the Kittens down to it."

"Sir, the probe won't have the power to escape-"

"I don't need it to, I just want more readings on the vessel, its occupants and contents."

"Aye, Sir."

As Neheru complied, Zawati looked at Hrelle. "Sir, I must remind you that Admiral Tattok sent us to discover the reason for the Klingon activity here. We've done so. We should return and report immediately."

"She's right, Captain," Jacobs added. "Don't make the same mistakes I've made."

"Noted, both of you." He looked to C'Rash. "Do any of the Klingon ships in the area possess sufficient tractor capabilities to pull it out?"

The Caitian female glanced down at her screens. "Commander Klahnargh's ship the Vrirroch is Korshech-class; it's powerful enough, but his ship is too massive to enter the sinkhole without collapsing it."

"What are you up to, Hrelle?" Jacobs asked him suspiciously.

"I have the probe readings, Sir," Neheru announced. "Klingon transport ship, Nunmihk-class, designated the IKS Borha'l... 824 occupants... male, female... children, Sir!"

"No weapons or armaments?"

"Nothing large detected."

Hrelle looked around at the officers. "That's why they're so frantic to find it. Any military vessel would have been written off long before now as a casualty of war with the occupants sent to Sto-Vo-Kor. Helm, set a course for the sinkhole, maximum warp!"

As he heard the Helm officer comply, he saw the senior officers around him draw closer, Zawati asking, "Sir? We're going to assist the Klingons?"

"Yes. Send a Priority Update to Tattok on the Triton, informing him of our intentions."

"You're going to disobey Admiral Tattok's orders?" she asked in disbelief.

"He wasn't aware of this situation. They're civilians, Olivia, non-combatants. It's our duty to assist them."

"Then, Captain, Sir," C'Rash suggested. "Why not just send a signal to the Klingon ships informing them of the location of the transport?"

"Because even if they believed us, and got there in time, you already confirmed they would be unlikely to rescue it. We can."

"We might, Sir," Zawati amended. "We might also be walking into a trap."

"Really? It seems a very elaborate scheme just to trap little old us."

"Sir," Neheru interrupted. "Starfleet security records confirm the Borha'l left Forlar III three weeks ago, with 824 crew and passengers being repatriated to the Klingon Empire; drive trouble delayed their departure, but they were given an extension because their passengers were all civilian."

Hrelle nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant; that confirms my belief that this is genuine. Have Chief Grev prepare the primary and auxiliary tractor arrays, along with power reallocation protocols." He looked to Zawati, who still appeared unhappy at his decision. "Is there a reason that message to Tattok hasn't been sent yet, Lieutenant Commander?"

The woman looked ready to protest further, but bit her lip and moved to her station.

Hrelle looked to C'Rash now. "We'll go to Yellow Alert, ready phasers and torpedoes, but do not arm them. When the Klingons detect us, they need to see we're not coming in with all guns blazing. This is a rescue mission, after all, not an attack."

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then I expect to haul our asses out, while all of you no doubt will spend considerable amounts of time saying I Told You So." When she still didn't move, he shooed her away with a gesture.

He leaned back, allowing his body to present a relaxed, resolute facade. One he did not share inside. They all had valid points -- though he knew that at least in the case of Zawati, her opinion might be coloured by the recent news about her brother. Still, this could possibly be a trap, or could end up one. And even if it wasn't, there was no guarantee that they would get away.

And maybe there was something to the notion that this could be construed as aiding and abetting the enemy.

He thought of his actions with the Klingons who had boarded the Surefoot following the rescue of the Tsukuba. The ones he killed and maimed with his bare hands, in a rage over how they had desecrated the bodies in the morgue. He had felt immense guilt over that. Was he trying to make up for that now? And putting his ship, his crew at risk because of it?

Mother's Cubs... Damn it, Kami, get here soon. I need you.

*

"Helm, ETA?"

"Five minutes, Sir."

He nodded. "Lt Shall, status of the other Klingon ships?"

He didn't look, but he could smell the agitation from his niece as she replied, "We've not been detected yet, Captain."

"Mr. Neheru, send the following message to all Klingon ships in the area-"

"Sir?" Zawati exclaimed.

He ignored her. "'Attention, Klingon vessels: this is Captain Hrelle of the USS Surefoot. We are an ambulance ship listed in the Interstellar Aid Registry as a noncombatant. We have located the transport ship Borha'l and are here to assist it. It is trapped in a subspace sinkhole; we are sending you the coordinates and telemetry. Once it has been rescued, we will leave the area, and you will be free to escort the Borha'l back to your space. Surefoot out." He nodded to Neheru, who complied.

"Captain," C'Rash snapped finally. "Was that wise?"

"We've declared our intentions in this area, before they detected us. That has to count for something."

"You hope," she muttered.

"It will count," Jacobs suddenly said, looking at Hrelle with regard. "They'll know that we'll know the odds are against us, but we made ourselves known to them. Klingons tend to admire such gall."

Hrelle nodded in appreciation at the support. "Thank you, Admiral."

"We're here," Velkovsky said at the Helm as they dropped out of warp -- the ship shuddering as if in illustration.

Onscreen, the starfield suddenly shifted, as space warped and swirled, and ribbons of energy spiralled downwards into an unseen funnel. Like most space phenomena he had encountered or only even read about, it was beautiful... and deadly.

"Keep us above the shears, Irina," he ordered. "Circle overhead until we locate the Borha'l. Olivia, liaise with Engineering, prepare them to divert all available power to the tractor arrays."

"Captain!" C'Rash barked now. "Six Klingon vessels on an intercept course from all around us! First one will be here in less than five minutes!"

"Acknowledged-"

"There, Sir!" Neheru reported. "The Borha'l!"

Hrelle looked up, as the dizzying visuals of the sinkhole were replaced with clearer graphics detailing the gravimetric whorls and swirls -- and a rectangular vessel, jammed unceremoniously between two whorls, like a nail badly driven into a post.

He glanced up at the funnel, a tunnel sharply narrowing into Oblivion, and shuddered; even as a graphic of lines and curves rather than an actual image, it was unnerving. "Navigate the eddies, Irina, take us within tractor range. Carefully."

"Aye, Sir." Velkovsky's fingers danced over the controls, and Hrelle's own fingers gripped the arms of his chair, watching the delicate operation, resisting the urge to take over or even restate the obvious -- Velkovsky could fly a ship through the eye of a needle, and didn't need his huge clunky paws and Papa Cat kibbitzing and kvetching.

Minutes later, they were almost there, when Zawati reported, "Captain, we're receiving a signal from Commander Klahnargh!"

"On audio."

A gruff, snarling voice filled the air. "Starfleet! You dare attack a civilian vessel? Where is your honour, you filthy petaQs? Leave them, or you and your descendants will suffer for it for ten generations! I swear it!"

"Commander Klahnargh, this is Captain Hrelle of the Surefoot. As we already told you, we are not here to attack the Borha'l, we are here to assist in rescuing it. We are an ambulance ship, a noncombatant listed in the Interstellar Aid Registry, which your people retain access to and can confirm-"

"Liar! You are the ror vIghro' who destroyed three of our proud battle cruisers!"

Hrelle looked back at at C'Rash, mouthing ror vIghro'?

She glanced down at her board, before looking up and translating it as Fat Cat.

He faced forward again. Cheeky bastard... "Commander, those three vessels attacked us while we were on a rescue mission; we had the right to defend ourselves... and we'll do so again if we must. If we were after the Borha'l, we wouldn't very well announce our presence, now would we?"

"Bah! This is some devious Federation trick! We will not countenance it!"

The transmission ended.

"Well," Hrelle commented dryly. "That was something."

"Yeah," C'Rash murmured, "I didn't think a Klingon would know a word like 'countenance'."

"Belay that," Hrelle snapped, looking to Neheru. "What's our status?"

"We've stabilised the transport." As if in illustration, a steady shudder ran through their own ship, as the Borha'l's struggle to remain out of the maw of the vortex became the Surefoot's as well.

"One-tenth impulse, Irina," Hrelle ordered. "Slow but steady increase. Ops, keep those tractors balanced, compensate if the mass shifts, before either ship gets torn apart."

The Bridge went silent as the interminable task continued over several minutes, and Hrelle constantly checked their progress against the effects their presence had on the sinkhole itself. The shuddering increased. This wasn't working... "We need to do better!"

"We can't at current levels, Sir," Zawati reported. "Chief Grev reports he can push the tractor arrays past their safety ratings, but they'll burn out in minutes!"

"If we don't make progress in minutes, it won't matter. Tell the Chief to get it done!"

"Sir!" C'Rash snapped. "The Klingons are here!"

The viewscreen changed images, from the transport below to the mouth of the vortex above, as a Korshech-class destroyer and several smaller Birds of Prey appeared overhead, looking remarkably like carrion circling a dying animal and waiting to feast.