by Greg Cox
Seven sighed wearily. A growl rumbled in the big cat’s throat. “I know, I know,” he murmured to Osiris. “I suppose there isn’t any choice.” He fixed his gray eyes on Kirk and took another deep breath before speaking again. “Now that we’ve come this far, you need to know something of the facts.”
Finally, Kirk thought. He retrieved his phaser from beneath a leafy fern. It was a bit muddy, but looked still in working order.
“It all started,” Seven began, “back in 1969. . . .”
Chapter Ten
“DAMNIT, SPOCK, you can’t just abandon Jim!”
Dr. McCoy’s face reddened as he spoke; Spock found it singularly unflattering, even for a human. He was quite accustomed to the doctor’s volatile nature, however. At times he even found it amusing, on an intellectual level. This was not one of those times.
“The captain’s orders were quite clear,” he observed. He kept his gaze fixed on the viewscreen, where the unnamed planet slowly rotated before his eyes. It looked deceptively innocuous and ordinary. “Should anything happen to him, I was to use my best efforts to return the Enterprise to Federation space.” It was not by his choice that Spock now occupied the captain’s chair on the bridge. Indeed, he would have preferred otherwise, but with the captain missing there was no other alternative. His duty was clear.
I am sorry, Jim, Spock thought, permitting himself a rare moment of regret. You will be missed. He was aware of a greater sorrow, caged behind the wall of his intellect, yet he was cautious not to let it demand too much expression, lest it break free and overpower his logic just when his duty most required a clear and unencumbered mind.
“Lieutenant Rodriguez,” he said, addressing the crewman who had taken Sulu’s place at the helm, “prepare to depart orbit.”
“But we lost contact with Jim and the others only an hour ago!” McCoy said, his tone growing even more vehement. He grabbed the armrest of the captain’s chair and spun Spock around to face him. “You have to give him a chance to turn things around. God knows Jim’s gotten out of stickier situations than this.”
There was some validity to the doctor’s argument, Spock conceded. In the past. Captain Kirk had demonstrated a consistent ability to extricate himself from seemingly hopeless circumstances. Indeed, Spock could immediately recall numerous instances where the captain had defied odds that Spock had calculated at ninety percent or higher, including his triumphant encounters with the Gorn, the Horta, and the so-called Squire of Gothos. The odds were against him doing so again, but the captain had always managed to defy the odds before. To believe otherwise, in the face of the documented evidence of past events, would be illogical.
“Lieutenant Uhura,” he asked, “have you been able to reestablish contact with the landing party?”
“I’m trying,” she insisted, making minute adjustments to her instrumentation even as she spoke, “but I can’t get past the force field, no matter what frequency I use.”
“Acknowledged,” Spock said. “Continue your efforts for as long as we remain within communications range of the planet.” He intended to give the captain every chance to contact the ship in the time remaining, but he could not delay their departure indefinitely. By his own estimation, it was extremely unlikely that the captain would be able to elude capture by those responsible for the sudden appearance of the force field, although the involvement of Mr. Seven, an unknown factor of a distinctly unpredictable nature, made it impossible to calculate the odds precisely.
The Romulans, on the other hand, were quite predictable. They would show the captain no mercy if they apprehended him. On some level, Spock privately admitted to himself, he always found it . . . unsettling . . . to deal with Romulans, more so than during comparable interactions with such adversaries as the Klingons or the Tholians. In many ways they were more similar to him than any human, yet their aggressive militarism and negative emotions made them each a living repudiation of the Vulcan ideals to which Spock had devoted his life. If even the Romulans, who are genetically indistinguishable from Vulcans, cannot live according to the teachings of Surak, what hope does a half-breed such as myself have to attain a state of perfect logic? The Romulans were a mirror that offered him only the most disturbing reflections.
Nor had his last encounter with the Romulans left his mind untroubled; although his duty to Starfleet had been clear, he regretted the deception he had been forced to practice upon the Romulan commander, whose trust he had both won and betrayed. It had felt much like deceiving another Vulcan. The incident, although undeniably necessary, still plagued his conscience.
I must be careful, he thought, not to let such concerns cloud my reasoning in this instance. “Mr. Rodriguez, plot an evasive course that will put as much distance as possible between Gladiator and ourselves.”
“Aye, sir,” Rodriguez answered. The crewman was new to bridge duty and looked verifiably nervous. Next to him, on the other side of the astrogator, Ensign Sheryl Gates filled in for Chekov at the navigation console. She, too, looked concerned and anxious. Spock found such naked emotional distress unseemly and vaguely embarrassing; he wondered if humans realized how obvious their emotions were, or if they even worried about that.
Dr. McCoy, certainly, was not one to hide his feelings. “Spock,” he whispered hoarsely, “Jim will find a way to get back to us. You know he will.”
“I wish I could share your certainty, Doctor, but that would not be logical.” It would be unwise to make such a decision without considering all available data, but no new information appeared to be forthcoming. “Lieutenant Uhura?”
She shook her head. “Still nothing, sir.”
“Acknowledged,” Spock said. His mind weighed the probabilities concerning the captain’s possible survival, trying to establish logical criteria by which he could judge how long a delay might be too long. It was difficult, he admitted, to balance the equations; Captain Kirk’s resourcefulness—what he called his “luck”—was a variable that was difficult to quantify. The safety of the entire crew outweighed that of any single individual, but what about when that individual was Jim? He turned his head away from McCoy and contemplated the screen ahead of him. “Is our course plotted, Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Yes, sir.” The crewman looked back over his shoulder at Spock. “Shall I engage the engines?”
Spock hesitated. I cannot decide Jim’s fate with so many variables undetermined. More data is required, but where can it be found? What would Jim himself do under these circumstances? He doubted that the captain, whose actions were often more admirable than logical, would ever leave any member of his crew behind, least of all Spock.
The captain’s orders were clear, but Spock had disobeyed orders before, had once even risked a court-martial and the death penalty for the sake of another captain. Logic and loyalty, he had learned, sometimes took precedence above the chain of command, but what was he to do when logic and loyalty pointed him in opposite directions?
“Captain?” Rodriguez asked again, reminding Spock that more than Kirk’s life was at stake here. The lives of everyone aboard the Enterprise depended on Spock’s decision. There seemed only one logical decision he could make, no matter how hard he searched for a plausible alternative. Deep within his soul, he felt a terrible sorrow struggling to break free.
“The captain must be abandoned,” he announced, his voice holding only the icy coolness of his irrefutable logic. “Set course for the Neutral—”
“Whoa there!” a female voice called out. “Wait just one minute.” Spock turned around to see Roberta Lincoln emerge from the turbolift at the back of the bridge. She hurried toward him, clutching a translucent crystal cube in one hand. The cube, Spock observed, emitted a faint green glow.
“Nobody’s going anywhere just yet!” she declared.
* * *
“A base of operations?” Kirk said.
Seven nodded. “For the entire Romulan Star Empire and beyond. My Romulan counterpart initiates all his activities from here.”
Green-tinted searchlights, inactive now, were mounted on each corner of the building’s roof. Additional lamps, sitting atop elevated posts, were situated at regular intervals around the clearing. Obviously, there was no point in waiting for the sun to go down; the bunker and the surrounding area would be thoroughly illuminated at night.
Romulan soldiers, armed with disruptor rifles, patrolled the perimeter of the bunker. Their golden helmets were streaked by raindrops, but the guards appeared oblivious to the weather. Their thick, padded uniforms seemed ill-suited to the tropical climate until Kirk remembered that Romulans, if they were as much like Vulcans as they looked, probably preferred hot environments. Besides, he thought, those uniforms probably keep out all the rain. He ducked lower behind the bushes as a guard marched past them, about four or five meters from their hiding place. So far, Kirk had counted at least four guards.
“As I recall,” Kirk whispered to Seven after the guard had passed, “all you needed was an apartment in New York City. Why cloak this entire planet?”
“The Romulan Empire is essentially a police state,” Seven explained, “and one equipped with far more advanced surveillance techniques than I ever had to worry about. There’s no way Agent 146 could conceal this base in the midst of a Romulan population center.”
That had the ring of truth to it, Kirk thought. Certainly modern-day Romulans were harder to spy on than ancient humans; Starfleet Intelligence would attest to that. “But I thought your people were leaving us alone in this century?”
“The internal affairs of the Federation no longer concern us,” Seven clarified, “but the Romulan Empire will remain a threat to galactic peace for at least a generation beyond your own time.”
There’s discouraging news, Kirk thought. He would have liked to have seen peace in his lifetime, as unlikely as it seemed where the Romulans or the Klingons were concerned. “Even still, a whole planet?”
“There were other considerations,” Seven admitted. “We hoped to preserve this world’s natural treasures, its abundant forests and wildlife, for future generations. The Romulans of this time would not hesitate to despoil this planet to further their military agendas.”
“I didn’t realize your people went in for that sort of environmental campaign,” Kirk said, glancing at the green-striped tiger lurking beside them in the underbrush. He noticed that both Sulu and Chekov were keeping a safe distance from Osiris, a reasonable enough strategy given the big cat’s formidable-looking fangs and claws.
Seven gave Kirk a wry smile. “There are other ways of protecting the future besides sabotaging nuclear satellites.” His smile vanished as he contemplated the guards stationed around the bunker. “In any event, it appears that even the cloaking field was not sufficient to hide this base from the Romulans forever. 146 must have made a crucial mistake, alerting the Romulans to his activities. Captain, we cannot allow the Romulan Empire to retain control of the technology employed in this complex. That would . . . severely alter . . . the balance of power throughout this quadrant.”
Is that all? Kirk thought. He suspected that, as usual, Seven wasn’t telling him the whole truth. He was tempted to ask Seven exactly what technology he had in mind, but he doubted that Seven would give him a straight answer anyway, so all he could do was speculate—and worry. What could the Romulans do with Seven’s super-advanced equipment? Remembering Seven’s ship-shaking, galaxy-hopping transporter beams, Kirk could all too easily imagine worse-case scenarios that ended with the total conquest of the Federation. “All right then,” he asked, “what are our options?”
“Most of the complex is located underground,” Seven said. “The nerve center is located on the lowest level, about four stories beneath the surface. If we can get there, I can activate the self-destruct system. After it detonates, there won’t be any equipment left for the Romulans to analyze.”
“What about the force field controls?” Kirk asked. As long as the field was in place, there was no way Spock could beam them back to the Enterprise, assuming the Enterprise was even in transporter range. In the best of all possible worlds, the ship was halfway through the Neutral Zone by now. Maybe we can hijack a Romulan vessel to escape in, Kirk thought, or use one of Seven’s super-transporter beams to get home. There had to be some way to come out ahead in the end; he didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.
“I should be able to disable the force field as well,” Seven answered, then turned his head to address Kirk face to face. “Captain, I want to make my intentions perfectly clear. Destroying this complex is my primary responsibility. If I can ensure a safe escape for all of us, I will be happy to do so, but not if it means endangering my mission. If I have to destroy us along with the complex, then I am willing to make that sacrifice.”
Kirk shook his head. “You’re not in charge of this mission, Seven. If it comes to that, I’ll make the decision, not you.” He wasn’t afraid to die. He’d accepted that possibility the instant he’d decided to beam down to an uncharted planet behind enemy lines, but he’d be damned if he’d let Seven turn this into some sort of kamikaze run without his permission. I’m going to beat the odds and get us all back to safety, whether Seven likes it or not. He owed that much to Chekov and Sulu at least; he owed them a captain who refused to give up.
Still, he prayed that his earlier decision had not doomed his two crewmen. If I’d known I would have Seven and Osiris on my side down here, he thought, maybe I wouldn’t have brought along Sulu and Chekov for backup.
But it was too late for second thoughts now.
“I assure you, Captain,” Seven declared, “I don’t have a death wish, but there might not be any other choice.”
I wonder if that’s why he left Roberta and the cat behind? Kirk thought. Was this what he was planning all along? “We’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it,” Kirk said, preferring to focus on the task at hand. “So how do we get past the guards?”
Seven patted the green cat’s massive skull. “I think Osiris has some ideas concerning that.”
* * *
“Mr. Spock,” Lt. Uhura stated dryly, with more than a trace of humor in her voice, “Ensign Cho reports that Miss Lincoln has escaped from her quarters.”
“That fact is self-evident, Lieutenant.” Spock rose from the captain’s chair to face the young human who had just dashed out of a turbolift. She was panting slightly, as though she had just sprinted a short distance. “Miss Lincoln, I must ask you to leave the bridge.”
“No way, Mister Martian.” Hopping down into the command module, she walked around him and quite confidently planted herself in the seat Spock had just vacated. She leaned against the padded black vinyl back of the chair, holding the glowing crystal cube in the palm of her hand. Spock noted that she had exchanged her Starfleet-issue boots for a pair of antique tennis shoes. “Like I said, no one is going anywhere until I hear from Mr. Seven.” She glared at Lt. Rodriguez at the helm controls. “And that means you, buster!”
Had he been human, Spock would have been surprised by her audaciousness. As it was, he was slightly taken aback by her unexpected behavior. Dr. McCoy, standing on the other side of the captain’s chair, looked positively dumbfounded—and maybe a bit amused.
“Mr. Sp
ock?” Rodriguez asked, glancing from Roberta to Spock and back again.
“Remain at your post, Lieutenant. You will have your orders shortly.” Spock approached Roberta. Although he would never admit it, he experienced what a human might term a distinct sense of relief. Roberta’s intervention had provided a temporary reprieve from his dilemma concerning the captain’s fate. Indeed, it occurred to him, the young woman might possess information regarding Seven’s mission that would help Spock evaluate their situation. He recalled the captain’s suggestion of a mind meld. . . .
Before he could address her, however, Roberta raised the cube in her hand until it was level with her face. “Computer,” she said decisively. “Maintain orbit.”
The cube blinked in response. “Warp engines at ready. Cancel previous command?”
“If that’s what it takes,” Roberta answered. “Do it.”
“Commander Spock,” Rodriguez called out. He stared with alarm at the systems status board at his station. “I’ve lost control of the helm. The warp engines are powering down!”
“Wow,” Roberta breathed. “I wasn’t sure that was going to work.” A grin broke out on her face. “Cool.”
Spock gave the cube a closer inspection. Searching his memory, he recalled seeing the same object, or its exact duplicate, in Gary Seven’s offices in twentieth century Manhattan. At that time it had seemed of little significance, but obviously that judgment had been mistaken. The voice emerging from the cube he identified as identical to that of the highly advanced computer Seven had employed to take control of an orbital nuclear weapons platform. Fascinating, he thought, despite their dire circumstances. Either the cube provided a remote link to Seven’s central computer, he theorized, functioning across the gulf of time, or else it served as a piece of advanced cybernetic hardware in its own right. Either way, the cube was apparently capable of overriding the command functions of the Enterprise’s own computer systems.