by Greg Cox
The guard dove towards his weapon.
Septos dove for the guard.
Septos got there first, reaching underneath the golden helmet to grab the guard’s neck between his fingers and squeeze down hard on a certain vital nerve cluster. The guard stiffened, his eyes wide with shock, then dropped face first onto the floor. Exhausted by his exertions, Septos almost collapsed on top of him.
Slowly pulling his hand away from his foe, Septos clambered to his feet, breathing heavily. His ribs still ached where the soldier had kicked them. Using the hem of his merchant’s robe, he wiped the blood from his eyes, then employed his fingers to probe the gash on his forehead. To his relief, it felt fairly shallow, although it bled profusely, in the manner of many minor head wounds. No time to worry about that now, he thought. Dellas or her subordinates could return at any moment. I have to get to the command center, alert the others.
Salvaging the disruptor from the comatose body of the guard, he limped over to the doorway. As expected, Dellas had sealed and locked the exit when she departed. No matter, he thought. He wobbled uncertainly upon his feet, feeling slightly lightheaded. Why does the floor feel so cold? I must be in shock. He could not grant himself time to recover, though, not with all that was at stake. Fortunately, he knew another way out of the cell, one whose existence Dellas had never even guessed at.
Shivering uncontrollably within his robes, Septos approached the far end of the cell. The wall opposite was bare and unadorned, so as to be conducive to the meditation that had once taken place here, but its appearance, he knew, was deceptive. Certainly neither Dellas or Vithrok had ever guessed at the true nature of this particular room. And why should they have? This quadrant was still a century away from developing genuine holoform technology. “Expose control panel,” he croaked, his throat still sore and dry from his captivity.
Concealed holographic projectors complied immediately. The stark white veneer of the wall disappeared, revealing a set of manual controls. Had he chosen, Septos could have converted the walls of the holocell to resemble cloud drifts, waterfalls, flickering firelight, or sparkling meteor showers. Osiris had particularly enjoyed a holographic hunting program that Septos had installed. Septos ignored those options. Instead he activated the emergency transporter system. Did Dellas really think, he thought, that I would seal myself in here with no way out in the event of a fire or earthquake? We value life too much to be that careless.
The emergency transporter was designed to function independently of the rest of the compound’s systems. In theory, it would continue functioning even if all other power supplies were shut down—or if, for instance, the base fell under the control of the Romulan secret police. The emergency system didn’t have the interplanetary range of the primary transporters, but it was sufficient to get one safely to the surface—or elsewhere within the complex. That is all I require, he resolved. That and a few minutes at the communications console.
He keyed in the proper coordinates on the manual control panel, then stepped back as the entire wall faded away, consumed by a swirling cloud of incandescent blue vapors. The billowing azure patterns were strangely hypnotic, especially in his dazed and weakened state. He had to shake his head violently to regain his focus. Taking a deep breath, he raised the stolen disruptor and stepped into the fog.
Just give me a chance, he prayed. Just a minute or two.
Chapter Twelve
THE TEMPERATURE inside the installation was almost as hot as the jungle outdoors, although considerably less humid. Set for Romulan standards of comfort, not human. The air was as hot and dry as a Vulcan desert and smelled faintly of orchids. Must be near the hydroponics lab, Gary Seven guessed. He recalled that 146 was an avid gardener in his spare time. Too bad his fellow Romulans had invaded his sanctuary.
Once more into the breach, Gary Seven thought as he followed Osiris through the corridors of Deployment Base Alpha. All this covert infiltration reminded him of that time he and Isis had attempted to liberate a former British intelligence agent from the artificial village where he was being held captive as part of an elaborate psychological conditioning experiment. That mission had ended badly, he remembered, primarily because he had underestimated the forces arrayed against them. He hoped he wasn’t making the same mistake here.
Twenty-third century Romulans were certainly more dangerous adversaries than most of the threats he’d dealt with in his own time. Clearly, they had taken 146 by surprise; according to Osiris, neither he nor 146 had known their cover was exposed until they found themselves at the wrong end of several disruptor rifles. Osiris had managed to escape, mauling a few Romulan soldiers in the process, but, unfortunately, the cat had no idea what had occurred within the complex since the Romulans took control. He had not seen 146 since, and feared for the agent’s life.
Seven had done his best to reassure the cat. He knew for certain that 146 had survived long enough to send an SOS back across the centuries to Seven’s headquarters in Manhattan. Assuming I’ve timed this correctly, he thought, Septos should be still alive. Here and there, though, Seven spotted scorch marks and disruptor burns on the solid granite walls of the base, evidence that the Romulan takeover had not been accomplished without some fighting. He just prayed they were in time to rescue his Romulan counterpart—and stop his captors from assassinating Spock in the future.
Part of him wished he could explain to Captain Kirk the full nature of his mission; surely Kirk would be more cooperative if he knew his friend’s life was at stake. But then he’d have to explain about Khitomer and Pardek, the Klingon peace initiative, and its long-term impact on Romulan-Vulcan relations, and that was more of the future than Kirk could ever be allowed to know. It was bad enough that the Romulans who had captured the base had apparently learned enough about the future to want to change it. A little knowledge can indeed be a dangerous thing, he thought, especially in the hands of a Romulan.
The sound of rushing bootsteps, echoing throughout the sturdy stone edifice, interrupted his musings. Osiris’s ears perked up and he growled a low warning before turning around and retreating back towards the last corner they had rounded. Seven followed the cat’s lead, signalling Kirk with his hand.
Back behind the corner, he flattened himself against the wall so tightly that he could feel the grain of the stone against his cheek, then leaned his head out just enough that he could peer down the corridor they had abandoned. As expected, he saw several Romulan soldiers in full uniform tromping through the intersection at the opposite end of the hall. Joining the hunt for Sulu and Chekov?
Keep going, he urged them mentally. Don’t turn down this way. He glanced back at Kirk and held up his hand again to indicate that they needed to wait a bit longer. Kirk nodded, his phaser gripped tightly in his hand. Seven admired Kirk’s persistence and determination. Too bad I can’t warn him about Soran, either.
The rhythm of the bootsteps soon died away. Osiris started to hurry forward, but Seven restrained him for a few more seconds. The last thing he wanted to do now was run headfirst into one or more stragglers, not while Kirk was still hanging on to his servo. He counted to ten—slowly—before tapping the big cat on the shoulder. Osiris padded around the corner and was halfway down the next hall when his ears perked up again.
This time the cat and Seven and Kirk barely had time to duck back behind the corner before more guards passed through the intersection ahead of them. This isn’t going to work, Seven realized. There’s too much activity in this part of the bunker. He knelt down and whispered into Osiris’s ears. “We need to take a detour. Is there an alternative route to the command center?”
The cat growled in reply.
“I don’t care if it’s the long way around,” Seven answered. “We have to take it.”
Osiris assented silently, turning around to lead them back the way they’d come. Seven watched the cat’s tail flick irritably as he retraced their steps. He couldn’t blame the cat for his impatience. He was anxious to get to Septos as wel
l. This is taking too long, he thought. Time was running out.
“You seem to have a remarkable rapport with cats, Mr. Seven,” Kirk commented, coming up alongside Seven. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain it.”
“It’s . . . complicated, Captain. Now is not the time.”
Kirk sighed theatrically. “Just as well, I suppose. I was always more of a dog person myself.”
* * *
The guards were not expecting the fog—or the individual inside it. Then again, they never expected that anyone else would obtain access to the transporter controls. Septos fired his disruptor as soon as he was fully materialized, stunning one of the two soldiers Dellas had left standing guard in the command center. The Romulan crashed to the floor, his golden helmet clanging against the stone tiles. The other guard had faster reflexes; he drew his own weapon and fired even as Septos turned his disruptor on him. Septos felt a blast of searing heat and agony strike him above his left hip. Biting down on his lip against the pain, fighting not to let go of his weapon, he clutched this latest injury with his free hand, feeling the cauterized flesh through a newly burned hole in his robes. The exposed skin was still so hot it burned his palm, forcing him to yank his hand away after less than a second. Ignore it, he ordered his traumatized nervous system, even though the heat had felt like a hundred onkians or more. Just keep me going for a few more minutes.
The blue haze disappeared entirely. Despite the pain, he felt a surge of satisfaction as the remaining guard crashed down on top of his companion. He scanned the chamber rapidly, assuring himself that there was no one else. Good, he thought. He was in no shape to take on another soldier. To be honest, he admitted to himself, even a mere technician could disarm me at this point.
The command center occupied the entire bottom level of the base. It was a diamond-shaped chamber dominated by a massive Beta-7 computer terminal built into the northeast wall, its generous display screen stretching all the way to the ceiling. A gliding steel chair rested in front of the terminal, while a tiger-sized couch was shoved up against the southwest wall, beneath the velvety black folds of a hanging tapestry. He saw Romulan tricorders and data padds spread out atop the couch and felt a surprisingly strong sense of violation. How dare these invaders clutter up his office with evidence of their prying? Osiris belonged on that couch, lounging contentedly as he had in the past, not these invasive instruments.
Osiris, he thought. Where are you now? What are you doing? He prayed that the cat would not try anything too reckless. Be careful, old friend. Don’t waste your life for me. The pain in his side burned like a supernova. There’s not enough of me left to worry about. . . .
He stepped off the transporter pad, located at the southern tip of the diamond, and staggered towards the computer. It was less than a dozen paces away, but the distance stretched before him like a continent. The two stunned guards lay like mountains between him and the computer. He took a long step over them and dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. His vision blurred. He felt foggy, light-headed. The disruptor almost slipped from his grip, but he locked his fingers tightly around its handle. No, he thought desperately, blinking his eyes and clutching again at his side, I can’t pass out now! He stumbled forward on legs that felt far too limp and rubbery. He kept his eyes on the computer. Everything seemed to be growing dimmer, but he could still see the Beta-7 at the end of what looked like a long, dark tunnel. I have to hurry, he thought. Dellas will discover my absence soon. She’ll come looking for me.
He stumbled and fell, his knee smashing against the reinforced steel floor. His weapon escaped his fingers, sliding across the floor away from him. The new pain was almost a relief, distracting him momentarily from the disruptor burn over his hip. Grimacing, he lifted himself up and lurched forward until he was able to grab onto the back of his chair for support. Hovering above the floor on a few microns of compressed air, the chair started to glide out from beneath him, but he locked it in place by pressing the brake controls on the right armrest. He leaned against the back of the chair, letting it support his entire weight for a few moments. I made it, he thought, his lungs laboring painfully, his head sagging. I made it.
The darkness threatened to overcome him. His eyes closed and, for a heartbeat or two, he was tempted to retreat into the beckoning void. I can’t possibly survive this, he thought. I hurt too much to live. He wanted to shut down his mind and sleep forever.
But he wasn’t done yet. He still had to send a warning, stop Dellas. He willed his eyes open and lifted his head up. He stared at the lighted display screen above the computer control panel, trying to make sense of the image on the monitor: some sort of ceremony taking place in a spacious, well-lighted chamber. There were Klingons there, and Vulcans and humans. Septos stared at the frozen image, focusing all his remaining powers of concentration on the task of deciphering the meaning of the scene. It must be important to Dellas if she keeps it preserved here. What was she up to? What was this all about?
Although the image was crowded with people, one face dominated the foreground of the image: a dignified Vulcan who looked to be of early middle age. One eyebrow was raised slightly higher than the other in what appeared to be an expression of ironic amusement. The face and the expression seemed familiar to Septos, but also strangely wrong. I’ve seen that face before, he thought. Who is it? Think!
It was getting harder and harder to focus. Loss of blood, lack of sleep, shock, physical trauma . . . Septos could diagnose his condition better than he could endure it. He was breathing hard. He felt sick and nauseous. His arms trembled as he clung to the chair. The pain in his side seemed to be screaming at him, sending jolts of agony through him so that every other thought was of the pain. Ignore it, his brain screamed back. The gash above his eyes had started bleeding again, sending a trickle of green blood down his face. Forget it, he told himself. The face. Focus on the face.
The face towered above him, magnified ten times larger than life. That ironic eyebrow arched across the screen like a blackened lightning bolt frozen in time. I know you, Septos thought. Where have I seen you before? Why don’t I recognize you?
Suddenly, as though a box had suddenly sprung open in the pain-ravaged confines of his mind, the name came to him. Spock. Septos’s eyes widened in recognition. It was Spock, the Vulcan first officer on the Enterprise, but looking much older than he had in the last intelligence update Septos had seen. Time travel, he remembered. Dellas had mentioned time travel. Was that why the Enterprise was in orbit at this very moment? Had Kirk and Spock travelled backwards in time for some reason?
Using Spock as the key, he swiftly identified the other faces in the scene: Kirk, Sulu, Sarek, Azetbur . . . Azetbur? A chill ran through him as his mind pieced the puzzle together. The trick was remembering what was supposed to happen. “By the aegis,” he whispered in the empty room, “Khitomer!”
The truth sunk in, dulling even the fierce burning in his side. Somehow Dellas had used the Beta-7 to discover what was going to happen at Khitomer over twenty years from now. He had to stop her, even if he was too weak to do so on his own.
Call for help. That was the only answer. It seemed probable that the Enterprise was here to stop Dellas as well, but they might just make a bad situation even worse. Time travel was too dangerous for twenty-third century humans to meddle with, especially humans with a personal stake in the future. He needed someone he could truly count on.
If I have to, he decided, I can activate the self-destruct mechanism, and destroy the entire base. But someone else had to be informed of the danger, just in case Dellas stopped him before he could accomplish anything else.
He took a deep breath, then unlocked the chair and pulled it away from the computer so that he could drop his weary body onto it. Once more he had to fight the urge to sink back against the support of the chair and let his consciousness slide away. Shaking his head and grimacing, he reached for the control panel, clearing the screen and activating the transwarp transmitter. Supervisor 194, he t
hought. Code name: Gary Seven. He was the nearest active agent, spatially and chronologically. Seven is my best and only hope.
The transmitter needed a few seconds to warm up. He set the power flow at seven-point-five kolems and waited for the verification prompt. He tried to calculate how long it would take the message to reach primitive Earth, but adjusting for the time warp made his head spin. His eyelids began to droop once more. He couldn’t stop shaking he felt so cold.
Dellas at Khitomer! The very thought enough to freeze his blood.
* * *
The ventilation shaft was a tight squeeze, but Gary Seven managed to advance through the narrow tunnel, using his knees and elbows to worm forward. Despite the dark, his eyes could still make out the vague outline of a sinuous green tail bobbing in front of him, only centimeters away from his nose. In the cramped confines of the tubular shaft, Seven could smell the musky odor of Osiris’s glossy coat. His own breath seemed to echo off the seamless, smooth metal walls of the tunnel. A cool, air-conditioned breeze blew past him, emanating from the lower levels of the base. “How are you doing, Captain?” he asked in low tones. The shaft was probably soundproofed, but he didn’t want to take that chance.
Kirk’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “I think I prefer turbolifts,” he answered, “but I’m keeping up. Don’t worry about me.”
Actually, Captain, Seven thought, I have plenty of other things to worry about: namely, the present whereabouts and safety of Supervisor 146, and the urgency of destroying the base’s transporter capabilities before these mysterious Romulans could successfully alter the future. If they haven’t already done so, he thought grimly. How long have the Romulans controlled this base? Once again, he wished that it had been possible to beam directly from his own base on Earth to this location, but so far 146’s transporter pad remained in enemy hands. Hence, here he was, taking the long way around through a maze of interconnecting horizontal and vertical tunnels. Fortunately, Osiris seemed to know the route, leading them onward without hesitation. Running into the cat in the jungle had been a stroke of good fortune, he reflected; he just hoped they still had a little luck left to spare.