Author's note: Unlike the other chapters in this story, this one is 4,000 words long. Just a friendly warning if you wonder why boredom is starting to set in half-way through. Hopefully that won't happen.
10
Jonathan Archer was amazed to be alive. Yet he suspected that death would be preferable to the vile fate he knew Grievous would have in store for him.
Archer's droid captors had escorted him to a detention cell that was straight out of a sci-fi horror movie. Completely circular, like the arena of a futuristic coliseum, the room was as large as the mess hall on Enterprise and about as comfortable as a homeless shelter in Hell. The entire surface of the ceiling shone with dazzling white light, which made it impossible for a prisoner to rest his eyes. Hundreds of elaborately wrought steel spikes protruded from the curved walls, their wickedly hooked blades a stark reminder that extreme suffering was not merely a product of advanced alien weaponry. Dark bloodstains formed morbid patterns upon the cold metal floor. It appeared that Grievous's reputation as a sadist was well-founded.
A transparent red force field divided the circular room into two clear halves. Unfortunately, Archer's side of the room didn't have an exit door, but perhaps that would've been too much to ask.
Beyond the force-field wall, two broad-chested, humanoid droids brandishing long electric staffs flanked the door. Archer had the impression they were Grievous's elite guards. The captain had actually tried to speak to them a couple of times, but skilled warriors or not, their conversational prowess – or lack thereof – made R2-D2 seem like a sixteenth century poet.
On a low equipment trolley near the guards sat Archer's confiscated possessions: his phase pistol and hand-held communicator, the latter of which seemed to be mocking him.
He suspected the thick walls of his cell were in some way preventing Enterprise from beaming him to safety. If he could just reach his communicator, there was a slim chance that the transporter would be able to isolate his bio-signature …
His key to freedom was mere meters out of reach. But taking into account the force field and the robotic chuckle twins watching over him, it might as well have been on a distant planet. The whole situation was maddening!
Just when Archer was considering making fun of the droids' mothers for the sheer hell of it, slow, heavy, clanking metallic footfalls sounded from the cell's connecting corridor.
Archer stopped pacing and glanced up, his fingers curling into fists, his heart pounding despite himself. This was it. There would be no further reprieves, no more quick let-offs. He felt like an inmate on death row waiting to be lead to the slaughter.
General Grievous was so tall that he had to stoop to avoid banging his armored skull as he strode boldly into the bright detention chamber.
"Captain Archer," he said in his harsh, drawn-out rasp of a voice. "How nice of your to drop by. What do you think of your … accommodation?"
He chuckled at his own weak joke. It sounded like a car engine struggling to start.
"I've seen better," said Archer, casually appraising his surroundings. "It's a bit uncomfortable, I have to admit. A plasma-screen TV, a leather recliner and a fridge wouldn't go amiss."
Grievous stopped laughing and drew closer to the force field. "I am glad to see your spirits are still high. It will make breaking you all the more entertaining." He put a strong accent on every syllable of the word "en-ter-tain-ing".
Archer's instinct was to back away, but he didn't. Instead, he said, "I can feel myself starting to crack already. Just listening to you speak is like torture."
It was one gag too many. Grievous narrowed his watery yellow eyes until they were knife-like slits in the holes of his facemask.
"Insolent slime," he snarled. He spun to one of his elite guards. "Deactivate the force field."
Without hesitation, the obedient drone moved to a flashing control panel, which was set into an area of the wall where there were no jagged spikes. He keyed in a password that Archer could not see. The room-length red barrier flickered for a moment before dissolving completely.
Now there was nothing to separate Archer from the exit, the communicator he so desperately yearned to reach – or Grievous.
For half a heartbeat, freedom beckoned – but Archer's hopes were suddenly and painfully crushed, along with his nose, when Grievous lashed out with a violent forearm uppercut. The attack was so powerful that it sent Archer staggering five feet back into his cell, where his knees gave way, blood trickling over his upper lip as he sank to the ground.
Feeling as though he'd gone ten rounds with a world champion boxer, Archer wiped the blood away, looked at it, then hauled himself back to his feet. He gave his head a shake to banish the strange ringing in his ears.
"Is that the best you can do?" he taunted. "My grandmother hits harder."
The monstrous cyborg's wrath was fierce. Massive claws curled into deadly cudgels, he went to work on the captain like an interstellar prizefighter, punching and kicking with maniacal glee. Archer tried to fight back, but his brave efforts were futile in the extreme. Flesh and bone were no match for armor-plated alloy.
Grievous stoutly blocked or brazenly ignored every listless punch directed his way. Archer felt like a child fighting a fully-grown man. Summoning all the strength he had left, he made a lurch for Grievous's protective metal chest-plates, trying to tear them apart with his bare hands to get to the live beating heart within. Enraged, Grievous pinned Archer's arms to his sides and heaved him ten feet through the air, where he skidded to a stop inches shy of the barbed wall, a bloody, beaten pulp.
As Archer lay still, his breathing labored and his eyes swollen, he stared up at the bright lights overhead, wondering if he was halfway to heaven. But the acidic pain attacking every cubic centimeter of his battered body seemed to rule out that cheery notion.
In his delirium, something Obi-Wan had told him earlier came floating back to him on the delicate currents of his subconscious …
Once you can sense the Force flowing through you, around you … your environment will reveal itself in far greater detail than your other five senses ever could combined.
The unexpected memory triggered the smallest spark of hope in Archer's mind. His body may have been broken, but his will – his resolve – compelled him not to quit. And where there was a will, there was a way. It was a cliché, but one that had always rung true with Jon.
Calling on every ounce of strength he had left, Archer rolled over and pushed up onto his hands and knees. Even hoisting his head to look at Grievous was an almost impossible challenge. It seemed to weigh a ton, and his neck muscles were on fire.
When his vision cleared, he saw that Grievous was lazily removing one of four lightsabers from the hip-harness beneath his cloak. The green blade made a noise like a high-pitched laser blast as it was activated, glowing evilly a couple of feet in front of Archer's bloody, sweat-streaked face.
Towering over him, Grievous's voice was pure venom. "You were a fool to challenge me, Captain. I am not accustomed to losing."
Aboard Enterprise, Obi-Wan positioned himself before the bridge's wall-sized viewscreen.
Nostrils flared, the Klingon captain stared down at the Jedi as if he were something slimy and unpleasant stuck to the sole of his boot. The captain was clearly a strong-willed individual, but Obi-Wan had earned his status a Jedi Master for good reason. It would work in his favor that the Order's reputation didn't precede him in this galaxy. The Klingon would not suspect trickery.
"Greetings, Captain. My name is –"
"– irrelevant!" the Klingon countered. "This conversation is over!"
"Wow, he's good," Reed whispered sarcastically to Travis.
Pretending he hadn't heard, Obi-Wan discretely waved the fingers of his right hand through the air and made a second attempt at civil discourse.
"This conversation is not over," he said firmly. "On the contrary, you are extremely interested in everything I have to say."
The Klingon looked furious – then angry – then slightly confused.
"Yes …" he said, on closer consideration. "Perhaps you're not as ridiculous as you look. I am extremely interested in what you have to say."
Obi-Wan would have preferred not to be insulted again, but at least he was making progress.
"We are not your enemy," he continued, repeating the discrete hand motion. "We are your good friends and you would never wish to attack us."
"Yes, you are good friends." The Klingon looked unsure as to why he hadn't realized it earlier. It was so obvious. "We would never attack you. Never."
"Did I miss something?" said Malcolm, possibly wondering if he'd blacked out and failed to hear a chunk of the conversation.
"If you did, I missed it, too," said Travis, looking equally bemused.
"Now, you must believe everything Sub-commander T'Pol says to you," Obi-Wan was saying. "After all, she is a remarkably trustworthy young woman. Sub-commander?"
T'Pol, who looked as baffled as the rest by the Klingon's sudden agreeability, took a few seconds to respond. Turning to the viewscreen, she said, "Captain, the alien ship which trailed us into your territory is not our ally. Its goal is to destroy us, a task it is more than capable of accomplishing. We would appreciate it if—"
"I believe you," the Klingon interrupted, nodding attentively. "You seem very trustwor—"
"Yes, yes. That's quite enough, thank you," said Obi-Wan impatiently.
Mystified, T'Pol tried again. "We would appreciate it if you allowed us to proceed unharmed. By remaining stationary we are inviting disaster."
As T'Pol spoke, Obi-Wan leant his elbow on Malcolm's workstation. "How well armed is this Klingon fleet?" he asked quietly.
"Exceedingly," said Malcolm despondently. "It's a full garrison. Close to thirty vessels, all shielded, some with cloaking devices, and enough photon torpedoes to render Enterprise officially extinct."
Obi-Wan smiled, running his fingers through his wavy auburn hair. "Excellent."
Malcolm's black eyebrows met in the middle. "No, not excellent. Bad. Perhaps you misunderstood."
"No, I understand perfectly, thank you, Lieutenant," said Obi-Wan, waving him off, then returning to T'Pol's side in the middle of the room.
"Excuse me, Captain. I have request to make," he said.
The Klingon now wore a perpetual scowl, the ridges on his forehead like deep gashes of malcontent, as though he knew something shifty was going on, but couldn't quite place what it was.
"The Empire does not take requests from cowardly Startfleet p'tak such as yourself," he barked at Obi-Wan, "… but – but you are our good friends, so … so I suppose …"
Obi-Wan called strongly on the Force now, making yet another passing motion with his hand as he said, "Yes, and to protect your good friends, you would like to launch a full-scale attack against the enemy ship that is trying to destroy us."
Travis sat up so straight, and his eyes grew so wide that he looked like a meerkat poking his head out of a burrow. Hoshi's hand slipped off her control console. Blushing furiously, she righted herself and started fiddling with her silky black hair. The request was so far fetched … None of them had ever heard anything like it.
Even the Klingon seemed to have finally cottoned on. He leapt from his seat and pounded his chest with a clenched fist, the epitome of warrior pride.
"I … I am a son of the Klingon Empire!" he bellowed.
Reed sighed, his head drooping. It had been a good try.
"I do not follow your orders, human! And I certainly do not take directives from Starfleet! I will launch a full-scale attack against the enemy ship that is trying to destroy you whether you like it or not! Is that clear?"
Obi-Wan afforded the crew a self-satisfied smile, then, with a small bow, re-addressed the Klingon in a polite and deferential tone. "You are a brave and wise leader, Captain. We shall humbly observe your decision."
The transmission went dead.
As though he suspected his data might be faulty, Malcolm said, "The Klingon warships are moving away. They're heading straight toward the Invisible Hand, cloaks and shields raised."
The collective sense of relief didn't last long.
"Master Kenobi," said T'Pol. "Captain Archer, Commander Tucker and Jedi Skywalker are still aboard the general's ship."
Obi-Wan wasn't unduly worried. "I doubt they'll be in any serious danger if they return quickly. Meanwhile, the Klingons should provide a useful distraction."
"How did you do that?" Travis asked Obi-Wan abruptly. "Some kind of telepathy?"
Obi-Wan adopted a guileless expression. "My, my, no. Good manners go a long way."
"How's it goin' over there!" yelled Trip Tucker over the constant wail of surrounding blaster bolts.
R2-D2's tootled response came from somewhere on the opposite side of the hyperdrive structure. They couldn't see each other, yet they had to somehow work in tandem; otherwise, one of several backup generators would kick in, making their efforts worthless.
"Great," said Trip, who might as well have been speaking to a brick wall. He didn't understand a thing the droid was saying. "Glad to hear it. Tell me when you're ready to deactivate the fail-safe switches. We have to do it at exactly the same time."
R2-D2 emitted a sequence of notes like a broken keyboard.
"Fantastic," said Trip, feeling his temperature rise. "Now if you're ready to start talking English, I might not have a nervous breakdown over here! All this computer talk is fryin' my brain! You sound like a demented budgie!Can't you beep once for 'yes' and twice for 'no' or something? If you hadn't noticed, we're gettin' shot at!"
Artoo made a single clear bleep that lasted three seconds. A "yes".
"Good, that's better. I'm gettin' tired of talkin' to myself," Trip grumbled, going back to work on his circuit board. "What am I, a mental case?"
Artoo produced another singular beep, this time lasting five seconds.
"Ah, ha – very funny … so you're a comedian now? And don't make another noise until you're done. I'm nearly finished."
R2-D2 beeped a third time. Just once. For seven very disgruntled seconds.
Trip glanced up, surprised. "What, you're done already?"
This time Artoo's high-pitched beep went on and on and on until Trip shouted tetchily, "Right, I get the point! Just give me a few seconds, okay! I'm gettin' there!" Then, to himself, he muttered, "I really hate that droid."
Anakin was beginning to tire. An avalanche of severed metal limbs and crackling, twitching droid torsos crunched under foot as he dove and flipped, ducked and parried, thrusted, sliced, kicked and slashed …
A one-man wrecking machine, but just one man nonetheless.
The droids' reinforcements seemed endless. Each time Anakin's flashing blue blade separated a head from a neck, a blaster arm from a shoulder joint, another two fully assembled droids would appear to take the place of those he had turned to scrap. The harder he resisted, the faster his opponents seemed to multiply.
His arms were aching and he needed to rest, but he couldn't, wouldn't … not while his friends were in danger.
Only by giving himself completely to the Force would he be able to survive, emerge victorious. If he stopped to think, to assess his tactics, to take a breath, he was dead.
Defend, react, attack – defend, react, attack –
This simple chain of cognitive commands had become his whole world. The clanking and grinding machines of the engine room were mere hallucinations. Only the enemy was real.
To his left, a droideka unfurled its spindly limbs while Anakin was busy deflecting laser blasts coming from the opposite direction. With no alternative, he released his left hand from the hilt of his sword, calling on his rage as he snapped his fist closed in the droid's direction. The Force-crush was a forbidden Dark Side technique, but a potent one. The destroyer's broken limbs seemed to screech in pain as they folded in on themselves, leaving the droid permanently paralyzed.
One down, only a dozen, a hundred, a thousand more to go …
"Okay, I'm done!" shouted Trip. "Deactivate the fail-safes on three! One – two –"
Artoo yowled.
"What's wrong?" yelled Trip.
When no response was forthcoming, Trip raced around to R2-D2's side of the hyperdrive, ducking the occasional blaster bolt that Anakin was unable to deflect.
Thrusters ablaze, the little droid was hovering five feet off the ground like a mini rocket-cum-hovercraft. A rake-thin battle droid dangled from Artoo's squat torso, trying to drag him back to earth.
Trip leveled his phaser, took careful aim and fired. The beam drilled a molten hole right through the battle droid's chest, and he stumbled sideways into a huge gear-shaft that crushed him like a recycled tin can.
"Are you all right?" said Trip as Artoo landed with a bump.
The droid bleeped once for 'yes'.
"Damn," said the chief engineer with a roguish grin. "I need to work on my aim."
Crouched low, hands over his head, he sprinted back to own circuit board. "Okay on three, then … One – two – three!"
For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Trip worried they'd made a miscalculation somewhere – but suddenly, the shrill whine of the hyperdrive began to decrease rapidly in pitch and volume, and the orange coils at either end faded to black.
"Yeh-ha!" cried Trip. "Good work, Artoo. Now let's get the hell out of here before Grievous realizes we've castrated his thousand-meter-long substitute for masculinity."
Tucker dipped his hand into the pocket of his jumpsuit and retrieved his communicator. Time to call home and arrange a ride.
Anakin, Trip and R2-D2 re-materialized on the transporter platform moments later. Anakin's long blond hair was dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his robes torn, singed and frayed in various places.
"Is the Cap'n back yet?" Trip asked the young female technician on transporter duty.
She shook her head forlornly. "No, Commander. I'm afraid we lost all contact with him thirty minutes ago."
Trip could only stare at her in disbelief, the news sapping all joy out of their mission's success. Jonathan Archer couldn't be dead. He was the heart and soul of the ship. And nothing could survive without a heartbeat – not even Enterprise.
Grievous wrapped a giant, taloned hand around Jonathan Archer's throat, and in an act of pure brute strength, lifted the battered captain clean off the ground so that his feet hovered in mid-air.
"Any last requests, Captain?" Grievous mocked, preparing to run Archer through with the lightsaber in his other hand.
"Yeah," gasped Archer, his face turning blue through lack of oxygen. "Surrender now … and I won't have to … kick your ass again …"
The general's scornful laugher became a wheezing cough. Tightening his grip to stop Archer wriggling, the cyborg butcher drew back his blade for the final killing plunge …
But then, at that very moment—
"General!"blared the panic-stricken voice of a droid over the ship's intercom. "We are under attack from a fleet of unidentified ships."
Momentarily caught in two minds, Grievous decided to release his vice-like grip on Archer's throat. He wanted to savor the look in the human's eyes as the lifeblood drained out of him. The captain collapsed to the ground on one knee, gasping and rubbing his neck.
Grievous snatched a small com-link from his belt and paced away from Archer, deeper into the detention cell. His elite guards would watch over him, ensuring the feeble human caused no problems. Besides, he was half-dead.
"Intensify shields," Grievous instructed his droid commander. "Return fire. I will return to the bridge shortly."
"Sir, our shields are not holding. There are too many enemy fighters; their weapons are more advanced than the human vessel's. We're taking heavy damage."
As Archer stubbornly dragged himself to his feet, a sudden salvo of torpedoes caused the whole interior of the ship to shudder and quake.
Grievous growled his displeasure at this latest unthinkable turn of events. In a violent temper tantrum, he snapped one of the jagged blades from the cell wall and flung it to the ground.
"Very well … go to lightspeed!" he roared. "We will return for the Jedi when I have devised a counter-strategy!"
The droid sounded suddenly terrified. "The, er … hyperdrive is not responding, sir. I … I don't understand it. We've done everything we can, but …"
It was then, as Grievous spun around in a vengeful rage, that Archer took action. Keeping his swollen eyes closed against the light, he cleared his mind of all thought, all fear, all doubt – he focused only on the small cylindrical object dangling from Grievous's belt – and, astonishingly, through the Force it came to him, whipping through the air and settling into his waiting two-handed grasp as easily as if he performed miracles on a daily basis …
Archer's thumb found the correct switch; the resulting buzz as the lightsaber's neon-blue blade flared to life sounded like a gunshot in the stunned silence.
Grievous's elite guards where on him in a flash, but Archer was ready for them; reinvigorated, he turned, swinging the saber like a baseball bat and cleaving the head of the first clean off his stocky shoulders. The second guard brought his pulse-tipped staff down with such vigor that it would have crushed Archer's skull into bone-dust – but Archer was not there. He had rolled to the left, eluding death by a narrower margin than he dared contemplate.
The droid, possibly confused by Archer's unorthodox dueling style, took a full nanosecond to adapt. It was all Archer needed. As he rose, he slashed up, severing the droid's weapon-arm at the shoulder joint. The amputated limb clanged to the floor with a hiss of scolded metal. His bright green eyes ablaze, Archer thrust his lightsaber straight through the droid's chest; then, leaving the weapon lodged in place so that it roasted his adversary's internal motors, Archer kicked out with the heel of his right boot. The afflicted droid staggered back into the spiked wall, impaling itself. Live electricity flared from every joint and flames burst from its eyeholes. The tang of burning oil was caustic, but to Archer it smelled as sweet as freshly mown grass.
"Shock" was too weak a word to describe the bland disbelief in General Grievous's eyes. Not only was the human Force-sensitive, but he had just demolished two droids who had killed many fully qualified Jedi. Impossible!
Producing a second lightsaber, Grievous roared like a wild rancor and charged headlong at Archer—
With no time to spare, no time to think, Archer snatched his phase pistol off the equipment trolley, took aim at the control panel on the wall and fired. It was a crazy gamble, but it paid off.
The room's giant red force-field shimmered back into existence.
At full speed, Grievous crashed into it like a sixteen-wheeler hitting a brick wall, his raised arms absorbing the brunt of the collision. Quickly regaining his footing, he rammed the force field with his shoulder, swatted it with his lightsabers. Bright bursts of light flared like mini solar explosions at the point of each strike. But nothing worked. The captor had become a captive in his own prison cell.
Every muscle in his body trembling, Archer grabbed his communicator. "Archer to Enterprise."
The silence seemed to last a lifetime. When it finally came, Hoshi's voice sounded like glorious harp music.
"Captain, you're alive!"
"Just about," said Archer, wincing as he touched his bruised jaw and glancing at Grievous, who was still hammering the force field like a lunatic in an asylum. "Can you get a transporter lock?"
"I can now, sir," Hoshi half-laughed, half-sobbed in relief.
As Klingon cannon-fire rocked the walls around him and strident sirens wailed from afar, Archer lowered his communicator, staring at Grievous for what he hoped would be the last time.
Grievous had given up trying to escape. Drawing painful, abrasive gasps like an exhausted rhinoceros, he managed to focus on the insufferable human who had somehow bested him.
"By the way, General …" said Archer, "I'm not accustomed to losing, either."
Then, staring his conquered foe right between the eyes, he raised his communicator and said, "Energize."
As another thunderous volley of Klingon missiles shook the ship, smashing the bright lights overhead and plunging Grievous into darkness, Jonathan Archer vanished.