by Greg Cox
At the doorway, Seven peeked cautiously around the edge of the door, then withdrew his head back into the chamber, looking around speculatively. “There must be a manual control,” he murmured, either to himself or to Isis. “Ah, here it is.” He slid the smooth metal door back into place.
Roberta quickly assessed their surroundings. The stateroom consisted of a bedroom, a work area, and a private bathroom with a weird-looking shower. Pretty cozy, she decided; frankly, it was bigger and cleaner than her apartment in the East Village. And I bet they don’t get cockroaches, too. Was this strictly the VIP quarters, or did everyone aboard get one of these nifty little compartments? If so, she thought, where do I sign up?
Seven dropped Isis onto the bed, then removed his jacket. “I’m going to borrow the ensign’s uniform,” he said. He gestured towards what looked like some sort of futuristic closet. “See if you can find an appropriate disguise for yourself.”
“What are the odds of that?” she asked out loud, turning her back while Seven changed. “Just how sexually integrated is the future anyway?”
“You may be surprised,” Seven commented from somewhere behind her. “I estimate there must be over a hundred humanoid women serving aboard the Enterprise. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a uniform for you. If not in this cabin, then perhaps one nearby.”
“A couple hundred?” she blurted. This was one big ship. To her relief, though, Roberta discovered that the current occupant of the stateroom apparently wore dresses. Retrieving a bright red outfit like the ones she’d seen on some of the female space-travellers, she disappeared into the bathroom while Seven contemplated what looked like a small, portable television set. “Computer,” he addressed the machine, “display interior schematics of U.S.S. Enterprise, highlighting the most efficient route from this location to main engineering.”
“Working,” the machine replied in a feminine voice that Roberta thought sounded rather warmer and more human than the Beta-5’s artificial voice. Maybe because it was actually programmed by humans?
“That little thing is a computer?” she asked a few minutes later, emerging from the bathroom. The red uniform was snug in a few places, but it seemed to fit enough to pass casual inspection, or so she hoped. The boots squeezed her toes as she walked, making Roberta pine for her comfy sneakers. She sighed. Nobody said being a time-travelling secret agent was going to be easy.
Seven did not look up from the illuminated screen, which cast a bluish glow upon his face. Although Chekov’s golden shirt and black trousers barely fit him, he looked very much at home in this era. “A computer terminal, to be precise,” he explained, “but it’s told me everything I need to know. The ship’s engineering section is just a turbolift away.”
Isis was curled atop Seven’s neatly folded pile of twentieth century garments. “Let’s go,” he said, and the cat leaped from its newfound bed to rendezvous with Seven in front of the door. “Are you ready, Miss Lincoln?”
“I guess so,” she replied. Ready for what, exactly? She often wished Seven wasn’t so secretive by nature. “What should I do about the purse? It doesn’t really match the uniform.”
Seven squinted at the brightly colored Peter Max design on Roberta’s handbag. “I see what you mean.” He scanned the compartment until his gaze landed upon a black leather bag resting on a shelf above the computer station. “What about that?” he suggested, pointing at the bag.
She hurried over as fast as her ill-fitting boots permitted and lifted the bag from its shelf. There was a shoulder-length black strap attached to the bag and a folded-over flap held closed by a snap. She unfastened the flap and peeked inside, spotting a piece of metal hardware about the size of a small record player. “What’s this?” she asked, lifting the device from the bag. It was surprisingly lightweight.
“A tricorder,” Seven declared. Observing the puzzled expression on her face, he added, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later. For now, just transfer the multipurpose controller to the black bag.”
Roberta nodded. She knew he meant the green cube that had sunk to the bottom of her handbag; she didn’t think he’d want her to leave it behind. She dug through the scattered contents of her bag, overturning pieces of wadded-up kleenex, a spare set of keys, a pack of spearmint gum, loose change and subway tokens, tickets to an upcoming Bob Dylan concert, nail clippers, and a paperback copy of Stranger in a Strange Land before she finally located the polished crystal cube. Pacing back and forth in front of the sealed doorway, Isis hissed impatiently.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Roberta said, dropping the cube into the tricorder bag, then slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Keep your fur on, okay?”
Operating the manual controls, Seven slid the door open. He stepped furtively into the hallway, then beckoned for Roberta and Isis to join him. His servo was tightly gripped in his other hand, she noted. Once Roberta and the cat were in the corridor, Seven carefully closed the door behind them, concealing the dormant bodies of McCoy and Chekov from any stray passersby. “This way,” he said. Isis jumped into his arms.
They had almost reached the nearest elevator—turbolift, Roberta corrected herself—when a pair of crewmen, one tall, one short, came around a corner, walking directly toward them. Roberta gulped. Would their borrowed uniforms fool these two? It was hard to imagine that the Enterprise was so big that a couple of unfamiliar faces could go unnoticed, but maybe it was. I should probably think in terms of the Queen Mary, she thought, and not an old-fashioned Saturn rocket. Her heart pounding, she glanced over at Seven, but he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead of him. His face betrayed no sign of anxiety.
Chatting casually, the two men drew nearer to Seven and Roberta. They seemed to be paying no attention to either she or Seven, and, for a second, Roberta experienced a surge of relief. They were going to get away with it! Then the tall man halted in his path and stared at Seven. “Hey,” he said, and Roberta felt her mouth go dry, “where’d you get that cat?”
Figures, Roberta thought. I always knew that damn cat was going to get us in trouble someday.
The man came closer, peering at the sleek black animal in Seven’s arms. “I used to have a cat just like that, named Midnight, but I left her with my sister in the Andromeda system.” He leaned his face in toward the cat’s. “Hello, girl. Are you friendly?”
“That depends,” Roberta said. Just our luck. We have to run into a cat-lover. The man reached out to pet Isis’s head, but the cat backed away, nestling in against Seven’s chest.
“Now, now, Isis,” Seven chided her. “Be good.” The cat snorted, then grudgingly allowed the man to stroke the top of her head. Maybe we can still bluff our way through this, Roberta thought.
The other man wandered over to join his buddy. Roberta noted that the tall man had a yellow shirt, while the short man wore red; she wondered what the significance was. Some sort of military ranking, or simply a fashion statement? There was still too much she didn’t know about this future society. She felt like she was flailing around in the dark. Can’t they tell, she fretted, that I don’t belong here?
“I’ve been tempted to get a new cat,” Isis’s admirer said, “but I heard that the captain isn’t too keen on having pets aboard, especially after that tribble business.”
Tribble? Roberta wondered. What’s a tribble?
“Isis and I have been together a long time,” Seven volunteered. “I can’t imagine going anywhere without her. Isn’t that right, girl?”
Tell me about it, Roberta thought ruefully. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could fake all this friendly chitchat. Her smile was feeling more and more forced with each passing second. What did they do to spies in deep space, she wondered. Toss them out an airlock? “Say, shouldn’t we be checking on that . . . tricorder?” she improvised.
“Tricorder?” the other crewman said. He glanced at the bag hanging from her shoulder. “Looks like you got one already.”
“Er, it’s not working right. We’re taking it in
for repairs,” Roberta said, kicking herself mentally. Tricorders, tribbles . . . how was she supposed to keep up with all this kooky future jargon?
“Here, let me take a look at it,” the short man offered, reaching for her bag. “I’ve got a knack with tricorders.”
“He does,” his friend confirmed, still stroking Isis’s fur. “I once saw him recalibrate a medical tricorder to detect subspace vibrations—and in three minutes, no less.”
“No!” Roberta said, holding on tightly to the strap of her bag and trying not to look too alarmed. “I mean, thanks a lot, but you really don’t need to bother. It’s not an emergency or anything.” Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw an almost imperceptible scowl appear on Seven’s face. They were rapidly losing control of the situation, and losing time as well. Was anyone expecting them in sickbay? How long could they remain at large before the captain realized they were up to something? Her free hand drifted toward the ray gun stuck in her belt. Like I really know how to use it, she scolded herself.
“It’s no problem,” the overly helpful crewman insisted. Maybe all these future people were just a little too friendly and hospitable, Roberta decided. Why couldn’t they be more like New Yorkers? He reached again for the bag. “What sort of trouble is it giving you?”
“A bad case of tribbles?” she guessed. Both men looked surprised by her response. “Subspace vibrations?” she tried again.
Seven sighed loudly. “Go ahead, Isis,” he murmured. “Say hello to the nice man.”
Without warning, the cat leaped from Seven’s arms, hissing and striking out. “Hey!” the cat-lover cried out, staggering backwards as Isis sunk her extended claws into the man’s golden shirt, hanging on to the man’s chest with all four paws. The man tried to pull the enraged cat away from his body, but Isis snapped at his hands, drawing blood. Now you’re seeing that cat’s real personality, Roberta thought. Nasty, isn’t she?
“Hey!” the other crewman shouted. He lunged for the cat, but Roberta tripped him by sticking out her leg. The man stumbled forward, almost losing his balance. The distraction gave Seven time to pluck his servo from inside his boot and zap the short man with a powerful dose of the tranquilizer beam. A beatific smile replaced the anger on the man’s face as he slid peacefully onto the floor.
Seven instantly turned his attention to the remaining crewman, still grappling with Isis. So far, the cat had succeeded in leaving five bloody scratches down the man’s cheek. “That’s enough, Isis,” Seven barked, and the cat sprung away from her opponent, landing on all fours several meters away. Seven pointed the servo at the other man and fired. Midnight’s proud owner slumped to the floor beside his friend. “Hurry,” Seven said to both Isis and Roberta. He rushed to the turbolift entrance and pressed the call-switch.
Roberta ran after him. “Shouldn’t we dispose of the bodies?” Listen to me, she thought. We sound like Bonnie and Clyde.
“No time,” Seven declared. The turbolift arrived almost immediately. The doors slid open with a hiss, and Roberta followed Seven inside. Isis was the last one in; the automatic doors almost closed on her coiled black tail. While Roberta looked unsuccessfully for a button to press, Seven grabbed onto a handhold position at waist-level. “Main engineering,” he requested.
The turbolift started moving without even the tiniest bump. Compared to some of the creaky, bouncy, jerky elevators Roberta had ridden in Manhattan and elsewhere, the turbolift’s progress felt almost motionless. Roberta couldn’t tell if they were travelling horizontally, vertically, or both. “Pretty neat,” she commented. Isis squawked back, perhaps irked by the close call with her tail.
They arrived seconds later, coming smoothly to a halt. “Here we are,” Seven announced, turning to face Roberta. He retrieved Chekov’s ray gun from her belt. “Create a distraction,” he instructed.
Sure, she thought sarcastically. No problem. The doors slid apart and she stepped out into what she assumed was the ship’s engineering section. Isis trotted between her legs.
Roberta’s eyes widened in amazement. Engineering was more impressive than anything she had seen on the ship so far. It was at least two stories high and as large as an airplane hanger. Computer banks adorned with all sorts of flashing lights and monitors lined the walls, except at the far end of the chamber where a huge pane of tinted glass or plastic offered a breathtaking view of several huge turbinelike structures. Those have to be the ship’s engines, she thought. She hadn’t seen anything like them since she’d toured the gigantic hydroelectric generators at Grand Coulee Dam as a child.
At least a half-dozen men, most of them clad in red or brown jumpsuits, scurried back and forth, attending to the vast machines. They seemed too busy to notice her at first, then a stocky, dark-haired man wearing a red shirt and black trousers noticed her standing in front of the turbolift entrance. “Hello there, lassie,” he called out with a thick Scottish brogue. “What can I do for you?”
A distraction, Roberta recalled. What in the world—whatever world—did Seven have in mind? Surely he couldn’t zap all these people before somebody sounded an alarm. “Uh, hi,” she said. “I was trying to find sickbay, but I think I got lost.” At her feet, Isis added a chorus of meows. That’s right, she thought, giving the cat a hostile glare, upstage me, why don’t you?
“Looks to me like you need a vet more than a doctor,” the Scottish man said. He walked toward her. “If you don’t mind, lassie, I like to keep wee animals away from my engines.” He gestured at the turbolift—just as Gary Seven stepped out from behind the curved walls of the turbolift. He seized Roberta by the waist and held Chekov’s stolen ray gun to her temple.
“This phaser is set on kill,” Seven said grimly. His tone was so icy that Roberta actually felt a bit nervous for a second. “Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll fire.”
“You!” the engineer exclaimed. He obviously recognized Seven from before, although Roberta didn’t remember him. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Never mind that,” Seven barked. “Where are the controls for the warp engines?”
“Just put the phaser down, mister,” the engineer said. By now, the apparent hostage drama had attracted the attention of the entire engineering section. The other men stood by helplessly, a few of them producing phasers of their own and occasionally glancing at the man in the red shirt. Roberta couldn’t be sure, but she got the impression that the Scottish guy was in charge.
“Please, sir,” Roberta pleaded, playing along with the gag. What do I call him? Officer? Lieutenant? Sergeant? “Don’t let him kill me. Ohmigod, I’m too young to die!”
“Don’t overdo it, Miss Lincoln,” Seven whispered in her ear. “Remember, you’re a Starfleet officer.”
Everyone’s a critic, she thought, half-expecting Isis to put in her two cents worth, too.
“The warp controls,” Seven repeated. He pressed the muzzle of the ray gun—scratch that, phaser— against her skull. Roberta hoped he knew what he was doing. “Now.”
The head engineer hesitated, clearly unsure what to do. “Blast it,” he muttered, “I should have recognized the bloody kitty.” He stared at Roberta, perhaps trying to identify her place in the crew. He’s onto us, she thought suddenly, convinced that the Scottish guy had seen through their ruse. Without removing his gaze from Seven and Roberta, the man addressed his staff. “Someone hail the captain,” he ordered. “Let him know what’s happening.”
Bad idea, Roberta thought. Kirk would guess who the “hostage” was instantly.
Seven shook his head. “Don’t try it.” Roberta let out what she hoped was a heartrending moan.
The engineer still looked suspicious, but apparently he decided not to call Seven’s bluff. “Over there,” he said gruffly, indicating a bank of computer controls on the left. Keeping his hold on Roberta and his eyes on the engineering staff, Seven sidled over to the controls. Isis kept pace with him, eliciting a puzzled expression from the Scottish guy, who was obviously trying to figure out how the ca
t fit into all this craziness. Join the club, Roberta thought.
Isis sprang from the floor to land atop the control panel. She mewed happily, as if she’d just discovered the mother lode of catnip. “Yes, Isis,” Seven said, scanning a row of sliding knobs. “A very basic system. It shouldn’t be too hard to adapt at all.” He withdrew his hand from Roberta’s waist, although he kept the phaser aimed at her with his other hand. He adjusted one of the knobs, then glanced at a monitor positioned at eye level. Looking at the same monitor, Roberta was faintly distressed to see a thin black arrow moving into a bright red area of the display clearly labeled DANGER. “Good,” Seven murmured. “All we need to do now is invert the matter/antimatter ratios, then factor in a negative compensation . . .” Isis squawked in response and slunk toward a large white lever with a highly visible warning label affixed to its handle.
“Wait! Stop that!” the Scottish engineer cried out, clearly horrified by what he could see of Seven’s actions. Throwing caution to the wind, he snatched a phaser from the hand of one of his subordinates and fired at Seven without hesitation. A brilliant burst of energy struck Seven in the back, who stiffened suddenly, then collapsed against the console. Chekov’s phaser dropped from his fingers, striking the floor with a harsh metallic clang. “Thank heaven,” the engineer gasped, thinking the danger past. “Please step away from those controls, miss,” he instructed Roberta.
Isis shoved her body against the white lever, pushing it all the way down.
A violent vibration shook the floor almost immediately, sending Roberta staggering away from the controls, nearly tumbling head over heels. Seven’s unconscious body was thrown to the floor, while Isis’s claws scratched futilely at the polished steel surface of the control panel as the cat tried to keep from sliding from its perch. A shrill siren started blaring as, all around the engineering sections, circuits began to pop and explode. Tottering uncertainly, Roberta happened to observe the head engineer’s shocked expression. To her dismay, she saw that the man’s face looked utterly white.