Handholds were simple things, really. But having them installed all over the ship had saved every life aboard as various disasters unrelated to the sudden attack struck home. As air briefly left one deck, collapse did not lead to broken heads. As gravity failed on another, a jolt did not lead to flailing bodies striking one another pell-mell. Doctor Phlox was most thankful for the handholds, though. A deckful of strained and broken arms beat the hell out of what could have been a deckful of pulped crew. Local inertial dampener failure was, as has been said, deucedly ugly.

But perhaps they were too simple a thing. Jonathan Archer took them entirely for granted, and thought about them not at all. Then again, this could be forgiven. A ship that looked very much like a vulture and armed with phase cannons waited hundreds of meters away from his own, firing away without let. Only the same targeting miasma that kept missiles from being truly accurate kept the withering fire from chewing Enterprise up, bolt by soldered bolt. The news would only get worse.

"They're who?"

The Andorian and the Tellarite, despite their own progress and the learning chip in the text-voder, said what they had to say to Hoshi, and then let her translate.

"Captain, our guests say that this ship's scanned shape matches the configuration of the ships used by 'Those Who Strike And Strike Only'."

All started at that. Tucker voiced a general opinion.

"I say we send these scouts home with a real story to tell."

Archer breathed in. The exploration of space as he and his father had envisioned it could not involve these unknown attackers. The tales their guests had given them had been too lurid, too cannily frightening. Too colonialistic, with all that long word implied.

"I say we don't. Mister Mayweather, prepare for ramming speed. The tales told by a ship are one thing, even if we beat them back. They'll go and interpret what we let them have. The tales told about a ship that's never seen again, though? They send tales of dragons."

Mayweather, perhaps by virtue of his having joined the crew late, did not question his Captain.

"Aye, sir. Ramming speed."

No one else questioned the order, either. They were too stunned to believe it had actually been given. On-screen, the enhanced CGI of the other ship's probable look showed it pulling away, this time without firing. Reed nodded.

"Their phase cannon is good, but its long-range. These people seem to like to be snipers, rather than Vikings."

Mayweather breathed audibly. A willingness to follow a ramming order never really translated into joyfully carrying it out.

"Sir, suggest we let them go. I know four trading ships that go along their probable route of escape. We could gain some valuable intelligence."

Vikings, Reed had called them, albeit by saying that is what they were not. But they could become Vikings, if permitted to. Archer could not permit this.

"From what our honored guests have said, 'Those Who Strike And Strike Only' have ridden on a wave of victory since entering this region of space. My guess is they're braggarts. Even a defeat is likely pumped up in their records. So we're not going to defeat them. Mister Reed--load seven warheads into one missile. I want a mountain-buster, like used in the later stages of the Terror War on Earth."

Tucker raised an opened hand.

"Sir, we are awfully close in!"

Archer turned and yelled, feeling the other ship slip away.

"AND WE ARE GOING TO GET EVEN CLOSER!!!"

He felt a story told by a friend of Native American descent, about a remote ancestor who sighted the first European ship to hit the Americas. The ancestor later wished he'd had a knife handy. Jonathan said that he had heard too many tales of Mayflower to understand. The friend responded that the ancestor had lived around the year 1000--and that the ship had been Viking.

"Mister Reed, fire the missile in dead-on. Mister Mayweather, you handle pulling us back and fast. Trip--let us be thrown. Do not immediately attempt to stabilize. Hoshi--pray to God in every language you know, and in every name God has."

Sato was the only one to answer.

"I can handle that."

The missile struck, incinerating the ship that would have answered so many questions about what really lay out there in space. As Enterprise pulled and was hurled away by the shockwave, Jonathan Archer no longer took the handholds for granted. The Vikings had their good points, he knew. But to the Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Native Americans, and Celts in their path, those points were moot.

"I wonder if those people have some form of Valhalla."

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CAPTAIN'S LOG

*With the attack and the attackers all done with, our guests have already begun to speak of very surprising reports from their homeworlds. 'Those Who Strike And Strike Only' have largely withdrawn back to whatever space they call their own. For how long, and for what purpose, I obviously cannot say. But maybe this isn't a species that can handle setbacks, or at least can't handle having their armor pierced. Doubtless that will someday change. Hopefully, by the time it does, humanity's presence out here will not be an experiment, but a fact.*

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Anfo, the Andorian diplomat, spoke for himself and the Tellarite, Bavmet, who still found the human speech patterns too primate-derived as yet. The voder was in use, but Anfo was making a valiant effort to supplement it with his own English.

"You Captain. You were expected to take the warrior's test at the warrior's moment, and pull back to his advantage. You ignored what even civil-less Tellarites called the warrior's moment, when the foe-warrior has won, and this is known and seen by all."

Archer let the voder and his own brain decipher this well before responding.

"Well, Mister Ambassador, I could never tell myself to accept that the other guy had won because everyone knew he was going to win. For good or bad-Humans just aren't built that way."

Anfo bit his lip, and tried one last time.

"On this day--it was for good."