Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

  hand caught the edge of the canvas. The sail started to

  luff.

  Philotoff snapped the sail out of her way. The boom

  waggled. I moved--fast. I caught a glimpse of the

  phaser bolt as it struck out and sizzled into the sea

  beyond the starboard rail, and I was pinched with a

  sniggering little regret that I didn't hang around to see

  the look on Philotoff's face. I heard her scrambling

  around on the deck as she searched frantically for me,

  heard her drop into the fo'c'sle through the open

  hatch, and heard her shuffle through the galley, the

  forecabin, the main cabin, and finally up the aft hatch-

  way, but by then I had the advantage. When she

  popped up through the aft hatch and the sun turned her

  dun hair to umber, I was there and so was my phaser.

  A second later, Yeoman Philotoff was heaped over the

  hatch stairway, twitching and numb.

  29

  She wasn't alone; I was numb too. My arms ached

  from the stiffness as I held them locked before me,

  joined at the phaser in a tangle of fingers. I stared at

  Philotoff's !imp form, and at Vallo still crumbled be-

  yond her. If only I could know this was right...

  "Freeze right there, lady."

  By the time the new voice cut through me, I'd

  already lowered my phaser, and my guard. I'd forgot-

  ten the tug. I looked over my shoulder, toward mid-

  ships. The tug hovered just above the chop off our port

  side, casting a jade shadow on the water. A burly

  guard hung his arms over the bumper rail, his shoul-

  ders hunched, and a phaser trained square at my heart.

  "Don't turn," he said. "Drop the phaser."

  Defeat swarmed over me. Evidently being at sea for

  so long had dulled my thinking processes more than I

  realized. I would have to remember this---for future

  shore leaves. My phaser thunked to the polished

  wooden hatch-top at my feet. Only then did the guard

  climb carefully onto the tug bumper and hop from

  there to Keeler's rail, and finally onto the deck just

  port of the foremast. I stood on the aft hatch, helpless,

  my back still to him. I didn't turn, but I was watching

  the guard as he kept the phaser firmly raised. He knew

  better than to trust me. Kirk's face passed by in the

  shadows cast by the guard's bulk as he slowly crossed

  the green deck. What was I supposed to do? What did

  the captain want of me? Should I take these people

  down--that was out of the question now; the guard

  had a solid drop on me.

  High above me, the mainmast groaned in a stern

  gust of wind over the ship, echoing my feelings. The

  guard was big; I'd have a hard time taking him physi-

  cally, if he ever gave me the chance. Not likely. He

  was very cautious, approaching me with suspicious

  slowness. A few more steps and he would have my

  phaser.

  All at oce, the fores'i boom, with the sail sloppily

  30

  bracketed between it and the lowered gaff like a rum-

  pled bedspread, swung hard over from the starboard

  side where Vallo and Philotoff had left it. The guard

  threw his hands up when he saw the heavy tangle of

  wood, rope, and canvas swinging toward him, but he

  was no match for the sheer weight. The boom and gaff

  thudded into his chest and knocked him hard into the

  blocks and tackles of the rigging that supported the

  mainmast. He howled his pain and anger, and the

  expression on his face told me he wanted nothing more

  than to have my right arm in his gritted teeth. His big

  body shuddered and recovered in spite of the deadly

  blow. Somehow he stayed on his feet and shook the

  boom off with a mighty heave. Swinging freely, the

  boom wobbled back over the forehatch.

  But I hadn't waited. The phaser was back in my

  hand. I leaped from the hatch onto the deck for a clear

  shot, and took it. The stun beam caught the guard in

  the shoulder and raced through his body, its energy

  force knocking him onto the rail. He pivoted over it,

  his eyes wide with shock, and tumbled into a mild

  white froth.

  My shoulders shook with tension as I straightened. I

  broke my stare from the floating guard as his body

  bobbed under the blue surface. I looked to starboard.

  Dr. McCoy was just getting to his feet, leaning on the

  raised deck amidships.

  "I forgot all about you!" I blurted on a gust of relief.

  He crawled under the lobbing boom and reached

  over the rail to catch the stunned guard's left arm as

  the body bobbed to the surface. I tucked the phaser

  into a pocket and rushed to help him. Using the loose

  jib halyard, I tied the guard to the side of the ship,

  ensuring that he wouldn't go under anymore. "What are you doing?" McCoy asked.

  I looped the rope under the guard's armpits two

  more times for good measure and said, "I'll be right

  back." I stepped up onto the polished rail and made a

  31

  crazy leap for the tug--it was farther away than it

  looked. The bumper squeaked under my deck shoes

  and keeping my balance was a fight to be remembered.

  I wasn't going to be surprised again. In moments, the

  tug had been thoroughly searched and I could stop

  worrying about having another face pop up behind me

  when I wasn't looking. I climbed back onto the tug's

  turtle-backed deck and called, "All clear. Help me get

  those three on board the tug."

  McCoy glanced at the waterlogged form of the

  guard, then back at Philotoffand Vallo, both still safely

  under stun on the aft deck. "Pull closer, then," he

  called in a frustrated tone, waving his hands in surren-

  der.

  By the time the doctor and I had wrestled the three

  security people onto the tug and dismantled the navi-

  gational beacon so the tug couldn't be tracked too

  soon, yet another forgotten presence had pulled along

  our starboard rail.

  "What's happening?" Ambassador Shamirian

  called as three of his crew held the two ships together.

  Gavelan's bumpers were over the side, squeaking with

  effort between the vessels. The ketch's sails were

  being dropped and her movement soon stopped alto-

  gether. We were adrift.

  "Oh ...."I buried the phaser deep in my flight-suit

  pocket as I followed McCoy back onto Keeler's boa-

  green deck. Quickly I crossed to the port rail and

  stepped up onto it, holding the rigging. "Ambassador,

  I need your help."

  Shamirian was a barrel-shaped man with a scruffy

  black beard and ink-spot eyes, his swarthy complex-

  ion softened by the gentle way in which his features

  came together. A collarless yellow shirt flapped

  against salt-and-pepper hairs on his massive chest as

  he inhaled thoughtfully. He was an adventurous sort,

  as he had aptly proven in the constant tournaments

  32

  with Captain Kirk over the past few weeks, but the

  adventurer
was always hidden behind an innate father-

  liness. Lacking Kirk's presence, I needed someone

  like that right now.

  He squinted his eyes in expectation, even a touch of

  amusement.

  "You name it," he said.

  We sailed for days and I counted every hour. My

  only respite came in the dream-dogged sleep Dr. Mc-

  Coy forced me to catch while I could get it, and there

  was little more to do while sailing a straight course.

  Ambassador Shamirian led the way in Gavelan, while

  two members of his crew and I shared constant wheel

  watch in his wake. Four hours on, four hours off.

  Frustration nagged at me, as well as the dreams that

  jarred my sleep, dreams of James Kirk nodding at me

  to follow him into a very black void. I keenly missed

  his easy gestalt with the ocean, that gourmet blend of

  sea and eye. For a while 1 thought I might be losing my

  high sense of trust for him, and that frightened me. If 1

  couldn't trust Kirk, then who?

  Frustration .... If we had the facilities and the

  cooperation, we could have beamed to our destination

  in a matter of seconds. Instead we plodded tediously

  up one swell and down the other, creeping along the

  Earth's wet surface like insects and there seemed no

  end to it. I plied Dr. McCoy with questions, suspecting

  that Kirk would have told him what was going on if he

  told anyone, but all I got was various versions of "I'm

  a surgeon, not a secret agent." After a while I began to

  believe him. Perhaps even Leonard McCoy was kept

  from certain information. That made me more ner-

  vous; what could be so touchy that Kirk wouldn't tell

  McCoy about it?

  Shamirian's crew members aboard Keeler set my

  mind at ease more than anything. I hadn't wanted to

  33

  admit to him that Earth's wind patterns sometimes

  deceived me, and the ambassador's offer to lend expe-

  rienced crew had taken at least one of the rocks out of

  my stomach. Captain Kirk had told me I should be

  able to feel the wind's direction on my face. I never

  could. I wanted to.

  By the time we swung into the quiet Caribbean cove

  at Man-o-War Cay in the Abaco Islands of the Baha-

  mas, I felt like an old woman. I took no time to breathe

  in the pure air or enjoy the mixed scents of the

  settlement, or even to marvel that the tiny semitropical

  island had managed to avoid the touch of the dilithium

  age. This was Keeler's home port, the place where she

  had been rebuilt and rerigged, a place where small

  sailing vessels had been built for centuries, as far back

  as the American Revolutionary War, Ambassador

  Shamirian told me. Blond settlement natives, still car-

  rying the fair coloring of ancestors centuries removed

  who had been shipwrecked here, and a strain of Hai-

  tians still made up the population. Since space travel

  had become common and the discovery of marvelous

  off-world resorts whetted Earth folks' appetites, the

  tourist trade had fallen off to a trickle in the Caribbean

  side-islands. Now, Man-o-War Cay shuffled along her

  own peaceful way, serving passing travelers and re-

  pairing water vessels as she had for generations. So

  what was I doing here?

  "What now?" Dr. McCoy asked as he straightened

  from helping me take the main halyards down.

  My spine clicked as I straightened. "The captain

  said there would be a ship here for me. A space-going

  ship. There can't be that many of those on a dot of land

  this small."

  He shrugged. "Let's find it."

  I was glad he suggested that. I didn't want to seem

  like I was giving orders to Leonard McCoy. Though he

  was technically my superior, he was not an officer of

  the line---and he liked it that way. Captain Kirk had

  34

  left me holding the bag, and evidently McCoy was

  happy to let me keep it. The doctor seemed to under-

  stand how much I needed to get that bag by the throat

  and shake it.

  We left the schooner in Ambassador Shamirian's

  care, took his good wishes, and went ship hunting.

  Indeed it was a banana republic. There was even a

  doddering Haitian native bent over a wheelbarrow

  filled with bananas, hawking his island fruit. So there

  were we, Star Fleet officers both, meandering along

  the sand-crusted dock area, each carrying a bunch of

  bananas. We questioned our way across the island to

  another cove, where we were told there was a hangar

  used for space hoppers and air transport vehicles.

  Indeed Man-o-War Cay did have its area of modern

  contamination, despite first impressions. The hangar

  was large enough for several space-going shuttles.

  When we first walked into the square blue building we

  saw four Federation shuttles being worked on. Beyond

  them were two private hover-cars, and beyond those a

  huge, ugly, patched-up wreck probably being salvaged

  for parts. It took up most of the hangar area and

  prevented us from seeing beyond it.

  "Maybe it's behind that wreck," I mentioned.

  "We could just be in the wrong place," McCoy said.

  "I'm not sure the fellow who directed us here was

  actually speaking English. Or maybe Jim's connec-

  tions didn't hook up."

  "Let's at least look."

  My heart sank as we stopped to get under the

  wreck's twisted nose, taking care not to be cut by

  jutting pieces of metal and fibercoil hull. From here on,

  the hangar was empty. I strode a few paces into the

  area, and sighed. Would the pieces of this puzzle keep

  backing out of my reach?

  "Nothing," McCoy commented as he came to my

  side. "Maybe we should just contact Star Fleet and

  see if we can reach Jim."

  35

  My lips pressed tight. "Not yet. I assaulted Fleet

  Patrol officers to get here. I'm not leaving until I'm

  sure there's no ship here meant for me." I continued

  glaring, unseeing, into the empty space of the hangar

  as though to clear my head and let revelations pour in,

  but none came. The only interruption was a drawling

  voice of someone singing, and the corresponding clank

  of tools from inside the wreck behind us. At least

  somebody was enjoying himself.

  "Hello rha baby, hello ma honey, hello ma ragtime

  gaaaaaaaal. Send me a kiss by wiiiire ....Baby ma

  heart's on fiiiiiiire. Hello ma baby, hello ma

  honey..."

  I closed my eyes and moaned. "Oh, no. No."

  McCoy moved beside me. "What?"

  My head drooped. "I know that voice." Collecting

  every bit of self-control I owned, I turned around and

  soaked in the panorama of dented, mangled, patched,

  time-battered hullscape. With a deep breath and grit-

  ted teeth, I bellowed, "Scanner!"

  There was a bump from within the coilplate under-

  belly and an illustrative "Ow! Goddang it." A face

  bloomed from a hatch in a place whe
re no sane life

  form would put a hatch. The familiar boyish features,

  brown eyes, and sloppy brown hair at once relieved

  and enraged me. "Piper!" rolled the Tennessee pro-

  nunciation of my name. "Ya'll're late!" He crawled

  out of the hatch head first, and I was there to catch him

  by the--orange and blue floral?--collar. Ignoring the

  tropical shirt where a Fleet uniform usually lived, I

  rammed him up against the scored hul l.

  "Why are you here?"

  Scanner's smile dropped and he pressed back in my

  grip. Though I didn't have a man's strength, I had

  three things that worked on Scanner Sandage five feet

  nine inches, a full clip of impatience, and his respect.

  "Now, whoa, Piper," he began carefully. "Don't cold

  36

  start your warp engines. I know what you're think-

  ing."

  "Then tell me."

  "Mr. Spock said you might be surprised to have

  your own command all of a sudden, but I figured--"

  "Spock was here?"

  "Well, sure, for a while... when we installed the

  warp engines and the computer bank."

  I let go of him to step back and stare in sinking

  disbelief at the ship. It was a piled design, but the

  original hull shape was lost in additions and modifica-

  tions, each with its own shape and color. Only the

  original blunt nose and some of the starboard hull

  remained unfettered by extra equipment. It looked like

  a displaced prehistoric lizard, and the observation slits

  engineered into the sides looked like gills left over

  from a bad stint of evolution. I held my breath. "This

  lumbering, obsolete junkyard has warp speed?"

  He touched his heart, flexed his knees, and uttered,

  "Oh, yeah! She'll go warp four!" He glanced help-

  lessly at Dr. McCoy, then back at me. "Aw, Piper,

  have a heart. A ship hasn't even got any personality

  till it's at least twenty years old."

  "Oh?" I shot back. "And what part of this ship is

  only twenty years old?"

  Dr. McCoy followed, wordless, as Scanner took my

  elbow and escorted me slowly along the rutted hull.

  Names of people and projects were illegibly etched

  into dents and over patches, cut or burned in by

  whatever tool was being used at the time. "You got the