by Greg Cox
What a curious simile, Spock thought. “Transfer the coordinates to the targeting mechanisms at once,” he said, hoping that Roberta had absorbed enough of his technical skills to accomplish this rather elementary task. If not, precious seconds could be lost.
“No problem,” she replied, a grim expression on her face. Ensign Gates’s jaw dropped as the necessary data was instantaneously fed into the weapons controls. “Sock it to them!”
“Sir?” Gates asked, looking back over her shoulder. She looked more apprehensive than hopeful.
“You heard Miss Lincoln,” Spock said. “Fire torpedoes.”
Each wrapped in a polished metallic casing, five gleaming projectiles hurled across the vacuum in search of the concealed battle cruiser. Concentrating intently on the scene upon the viewer, Spock waited for the inevitable explosions that would occur when the photon torpedoes found their target. He hoped that Gladiator was not so close to the Enterprise that their ship would incur further damage from the resulting shock waves, although, in the ship’s present state, that was hardly the greatest of their concerns.
As expected, the torpedoes converged on a single location. The sheen of their dark surfaces captured the far-off starlight an instant before all five projectiles were consumed in a savage matter-antimatter reaction, yielding a blinding white light that lasted for only a fraction of a nanosecond. Spock’s inner eyelids dropped briefly into place to protect him from the brilliant flash; even still, the explosion left faint blue spots in his vision that lingered for several seconds. He noted automatically that Gates, Roberta, and Uhura were blinking, too. Only McCoy, engrossed in his efforts to preserve Lt. Rodriguez’s life, seemed oblivious to the torpedoes’s highly visible demise. As the rest of the bridge crew held their breaths, Spock heard the hiss of the doctor’s hypo-spray at work.
Behind Spock, the turbolift doors slid open and two medical personnel ran onto the bridge. They appeared taken aback by the smoke and debris, but only for a moment, quickly joining McCoy at the unconscious Rodriguez’s side. The doctor barked orders at both medics while continuing to treat the helmsman’s burns. “We need to stabilize him now,” he instructed them, “before we get him to sickbay. You, Greenburg, administer eight-point-six-five cc’s of cordrazine, stat. Clark, apply the EMR neutralizer. We have to deGauss those metal fragments . . . !”
Confident that the medical situation was under control, Spock scrutinized the screen in front of him for some evidence of Gladiator’s status. He hoped that the massive battle cruiser had not been completely destroyed by the devastating impact of the torpedoes, but was merely incapacitated. To his surprise, however, the starlit void upon the screen held neither a wrecked Romulan vessel nor any visible traces of debris. Surely, he reasoned, without shields, the cruiser’s cloaking machinery could not have survived an attack of such severity and remained in working order?
The obvious conclusion was inescapable: The photon torpedoes had merely destroyed each other, not Gladiator. “We appear to have missed our target,” he announced.
Gates and Uhura both turned their eyes toward Roberta, who looked both indignant and embarrassed. She draped one hand protectively over the luminescent cube. “That’s impossible!” she insisted. “I know I had that sucker in my sights.”
Spock considered all the possibilities before replying. “The time delay,” he deduced within seconds. “Despite the speed with which we proceeded, there was nevertheless too great an interval between the time Miss Lincoln identified the exact location of the cloaked vessel and the moment when the torpedoes arrived at their preprogrammed destination. During that interval, however brief, Gladiator had sufficient time to vary its speed and/or its trajectory, thus evading our torpedoes.”
“Oh.” Roberta gave her cube a dubious look. Spock believed she grasped his explanation. “So what do we do now?”
He had already anticipated her query. “The most effective solution would be to use your technology to enhance the onboard sensors of the torpedoes themselves.” He inspected Roberta’s face carefully, making certain that she understood completely what he was proposing. “That would necessitate placing your device within the scanning mechanism of an individual torpedo.”
Her voice quavered slightly as she replied. “But, umm, wouldn’t that mean blowing it up when the bomb goes off?”
He was relieved that she fully comprehended his intention. “That is precisely the sacrifice I am asking of you, Miss Lincoln. It may be our only chance to escape defeat.”
Roberta winced at the very thought, squinching her features together tightly. She lifted the cube from its resting place atop the scanner controls and held it close against her chest. Spock realized that he had asked her to give up what might well be her only link to Gary Seven. “Miss Lincoln . . . Roberta, we do not have much time.”
“Ohhh, okay!” she said decisively. She held out the cube to Spock. “Where does it have to go?”
“I can run it down to the forward torpedo bay, Mr. Spock,” Uhura volunteered. Spock swiftly surveyed the bridge; everyone else was injured or occupied, except Roberta, who could hardly be expected to know the shortest route to the torpedo launchers.
“Very well,” he addressed Uhura. “Refrain from using the turbolifts. They may have been damaged by the hostilities.”
“I can manage,” she assured him with a confident grin. “Didn’t you know I won the Jovian Triathalon back in ’59? I’ll be back before the Romulans have a chance to sneeze.”
Roberta reluctantly handed over the cube to the other woman. “Be good,” she whispered to the gently glowing crystal. “Do as you’re told.” Spock found her willingness to anthropomorphize an advanced cybernetic instrument animistic and rather shockingly primitive; then again, he reminded himself, she was from the twentieth century, and a human at that. Uhura snatched the cube from her hands and raced for the emergency exit to the left of the main viewer. Spock heard her steps ring on the gangway to the lower levels of the Enterprise. He estimated it would take her approximately 6.3 minutes to arrive at the forward torpedo bays, six decks below, and another 0.8 minutes to explain to the weapons engineers what had to be done. It was probably just as well that Chief Engineer Scott was presently at work in the Engine Rooms; he imagined that the proud and outspoken human engineer would not approve of placing the safety of the ship on an unknown and untested piece of alien technology.
But would Gladiator give them time to implement their plan? “Monitor the surrounding space carefully,” he directed Roberta, one small portion of his consciousness continually intrigued at the ease with which their anachronistic visitor had adapted to the rhythms of the bridge. “I wish to know the minute the enemy vessel uncloaks.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Spock,” she agreed, recovering from the loss of her cube with admirable haste. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
Under Dr. McCoy’s direction, the two medics cautiously lifted Lieutenant Rodriguez’s supine body from the floor. A portable stasis field generator kept their patient rigid and immobile, forestalling further injuries. “He’ll recover,” McCoy informed Spock, following behind Clarke and Greenburg, “if he gets half a chance. God only knows what’s waiting for me in sickbay . . . !”
“I shall endeavor to ensure that you arrive there safely, Doctor,” Spock said as McCoy passed by him on the way to the turbolift entrance. The medical team apparently wanted to at least give the turbolift a try before taking the long way around.
“See that you do,” the doctor drawled, then looked back at him with concerned, compassionate eyes, “and, Spock, good luck.”
Luck was not what he required, the Vulcan thought, only time. Why had Gladiator not yet attacked once more? Perhaps, he speculated, Commander Motak remained puzzled by the Enterprise’s near miss with the photon torpedoes. It seemed logical to assume that, given that unexpected development, Motak might be maintaining a wary distance from the Starfleet vessel while he attempted to discern to what extent his battle cruiser’s cloaking effect
had been compromised. In that case, Spock reasoned, I must give the commander more to think about.
“Ensign Gates,” he ordered. “Fire phasers at maximum possible dispersion. A full 360 degree sweep from every angle of orientation.”
“But, sir,” Gates protested, “we haven’t got much phaser power left to begin with. If we spread the beam that thin, it won’t have any punch at all.”
“I am aware of that, Ensign,” Spock replied. “Knowing that, do you find my command puzzling?”
“A bit, sir,” she admitted.
“Excellent. That is exactly the effect I intend.” He leaned back against his chair. “Fire as instructed.”
Shrugging her shoulders, as if resigned to the fact that the ship’s commanding officer had gone insane, Gates pressed down on the firing controls. At once a wave of crimson energy spread out from the Enterprise on all sides, briefly encasing the Federation starship at the center of an expanding sphere of phaser light that grew to four times the volume of the ship itself before fading away into the surrounding blackness. Aboard the bridge, the starfield on the forward viewer took on a pinkish tint for only a heartbeat, then reverted to ebony and silver. Once again, Spock detected no sign of a wounded Gladiator, but this time he had not expected to. Although visually impressive, the phaser burst had been so diffuse that it was scarcely more dangerous than ordinary background radiation. Even an unshielded vessel, such as the cloaked battle cruiser, could have withstood the discharge; its duranium hull alone would have protected the ship from any phaser damage.
But Spock had never intended to inflict significant harm on Gladiator with the showy-but-ineffectual blast. His only target had been Commander Motak’s peace of mind. If all went as planned, Motak would waste precious moments attempting to decipher his adversary’s seemingly senseless tactic, especially in the context of Gladiator’s close call with the photon torpedoes only minutes before. It struck Spock that a short period of contemplation and reevaluation would be a plausible response for Motak to take under the circumstances; unfortunately, he remembered, Romulans did not always behave as logically—or as predictably—as their Vulcan cousins.
“Mr. Spock!” Roberta called out. She jerked to attention at the science station. “They’re back—behind us!”
“Onscreen,” he ordered. “Fire rear torpedoes.”
“Yes, sir!” Gates said with enthusiasm. Spock was grateful that his command could not interfere with whatever operations Uhura was now supervising in the forward torpedo bay. He consulted the chronometer located behind the astrogator. By his calculations, the lieutenant should have almost completed her task.
The image on the viewer flipped to show Gladiator bearing down on them from behind, swooping through space like one of the birds of prey the Romulans both admired and emulated, its disruptor beam outpacing the cruiser to strike like lightning against the lower hull of the Enterprise, whose weakened shields flickered like fireflies beneath the onslaught. Spock felt the force of the attack all the way up in the forward saucer section. Warning lights blinked and sirens screamed. Above the science station, a decorative illustration of the Milky Way galaxy melted and bubbled away. “We’ve lost the shuttlecraft hanger doors,” Roberta reported, then wrinkled her brow. “What exactly is a shuttlecraft anyway?”
Apparently the mind meld was not one hundred percent effective, Spock noted. He experienced a distinct sensation of relief.
Two black photon torpedoes rocketed away from the Enterprise to intercept the flight path of Gladiator. They exploded upon contact with the Romulan vessel’s deflectors, flooding the prow of the cruiser with light but failing to even scratch its shining green hull. Uncloaked, Gladiator’s shields appeared formidable.
The intercom whistled loudly. Spock pressed a switch on his armrest. “Spock here,” he said.
Uhura’s voice emerged from the speaker. “The cube has been installed in a torpedo, sir. We’re ready when you are.”
“Good work, Lieutenant,” Spock answered. “Hold until my command.” There was no point in firing the augmented torpedo until their enemy was once more cloaked and unshielded. He had to put Commander Motak back on the defensive. “Return fire, Ensign Gates. Rear torpedoes only.”
Motak’s disruptors struck before Gates could carry out Spock’s orders. The entire bridge rattled and dipped sharply to starboard. Spock heard Roberta use a colorful metaphor of a scatological nature, then Ensign Gates was thrown from her seat, tumbling over the astrogator and landing flat on her back near the torn and twisted remains of the helm controls. Electrical sparks sputtered perilously close to her hair and limbs. Gates rolled over, away from the exposed circuitry and tried to drag her way back to the navigation station, but she could barely manage more than a few centimeters at a time. Gladiator would cut the Enterprise to pieces, Spock realized, before the battered crewman made it back to her post.
He shot out of the captain’s chair, lunging for the weapons controls only a few meters away. His right shoulder collided with Roberta, who must have had the same idea. “Sorry ’bout that,” she blurted, backing away. “After you.” Spock fired the rear torpedoes.
Gladiator dropped out of sight.
Now was the moment he had been waiting for. He dropped back in the captain’s chair. “Lieutenant Uhura,” he shouted into the intercom, “release the torpedo.”
The first two torpedoes, fired automatically from the rear torpedo launchers, zeroed in on Gladiator’s former location, then exploded uselessly against each other. Operating the command functions panel, Spock instructed the viewer to track the third torpedo, the one Uhura and the weapons engineers had fired manually from the forward torpedo bay, the one containing an inexplicable bit of crystalline technology that surpassed even the considerable scientific resources of the United Federation of Planets, the one that held their last, best chance at survival.
“C’mon!” Roberta urged the screen as the gleaming projectile accelerated against the backdrop of—apparently—empty space. “You can do it! Show ’em what a good, old-fashioned Beta-5 can do!”
Less vocally, but with equal concentration, Spock focused on the torpedo’s path. At first it seemed completely random, then it reversed course and jetted towards a completely different patch of vacant space. A moment later, the glare of a matter/antimatter reaction exposed nothing less than the sight of a Romulan battle cruiser spinning out of control. Ensign Gates expelled a very human sigh of relief.
Spock preferred to take no chances. “Direct our remaining phaser power against Gladiator. Target warp nacelles only.”
Gates nodded and took aim at the floundering spacecraft. With seconds, a crimson beam of energized light struck with surgical precision at first one, then the other nacelle at the stern of the battle cruiser. The beam sliced away at the warp engines without encountering even a single blue spark of resistance. Gladiator’s shields were down completely. “Miss Lincoln,” Spock asked after the phasers had done their work, “what is the status of their warp capacity?”
She inspected the impressive assortment of gauges and displays at her disposal, tweaked a knob or two, then looked over at Spock with a wide grin upon her face. “As nearly as I can tell, they’re dead in the water!”
“That is quite satisfactory.” With Uhura away from the bridge, Spock activated the communications system himself from the vital function override panel at the captain’s chair. He hailed the disabled vessel on the screen. “Commander Motak, this is First Officer Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise. We are prepared to accept your surrender. Do you require assistance?”
In the past, the commanders of Romulan warships had been known to destroy their own vessels to avoid capture. Spock sincerely hoped that Commander Motak would not feel compelled to do so within the safety of his own borders. That would be a tremendous waste of life and materials.
His misgivings grew as Gladiator failed to respond. Was Motak determined to commit suicide or had their communications equipment simply been rendered inoperative b
y the destructive effects of the photon torpedo? “Repeat: This is the Enterprise. Do you surrender?”
Scanning various known frequencies, including those employed by Gladiator earlier, he detected a return signal containing both visual and audio components. He immediately transferred the reply to the primary viewscreen.
Commander Motak glared at Spock from the bridge of his crippled warship. His dark hair was in wild disarray and there was an ugly olive bruise upon his forehead. A trickle of watery green blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Behind his head and shoulders, wisps of smoke and bits of broken machinery drifted through what was left of the cabin. Although the life-support systems appeared to function at an acceptable level, it was obvious that the ship’s artificial gravity had been knocked out of commission by the Enterprise’s attacks. As Spock looked on, part of a melted circuit board floated between Motak and the source of the transmission. The Romulan commander batted it away with an angry swipe of his hand.
“Where is Kirk?” he demanded, looking less like a serene, unemotional Vulcan and more like an enraged Klingon warrior. “Does he consider me no longer worthy to speak with him directly?”
“No offense is intended,” Spock stated calmly. “The captain is otherwise occupied.”
“I hope that means he is dead,” Motak snarled, spitting out a piece of a broken tooth. Spock did not correct him. If Motak preferred to think that Captain Kirk was dead, rather than isolated and vulnerable on a nearby world, then Spock was certainly not inclined to dissuade him.
“The captain is unavailable,” he repeated. “Do you surrender?”
“Hah!” Motak laughed. “Do you think you’ve won just because you’ve defeated me? You’re hundreds of light-years from the Federation, First Officer Spock. I have already transmitted a report of your presence here to the Imperial High Command. More warships are warping toward this sector at this very moment. A veritable fleet of some of the finest ships and commanders in the Empire.” He wiped a dab of blood from his chin. Spock noted that Motak’s hand was wrapped in fresh white bandages. A burn, most likely, he speculated, or perhaps a deep cut. The pain could not be helping to improve the commander’s disposition.