Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

  wrong attitude," Scanner insisted. "When Captain

  Kirk asked me ff I knew where there was a ship for a

  covert mission, I jus' naturally suggested this one. I

  got my pocket money when I was at the Academy by

  doing Federation construction jobs on this rig."

  "You're responsible for this being my first command

  ship?"

  37

  "Yeah! It's got cutting lasers, it's got tractor beams

  tied fight into the warp engines, it's got pinpoint

  disruptors for demolition, it's got a presser beam, it's

  got a containment field, it's got grapples, it's got a hull-

  tool bank, it's got passenger quarters, and it's got

  state-of-the-art computer capabilities that yours truly

  helped put in. It's got a full architectonics library and

  . . . and it's got Star Fleet registry." He poked his

  finger into the hollow of my shoulder with each of the

  last three words. "Federation-wide clearance."

  "With Kirk's name all over it," I muttered.

  He squared off in front of me, staging himself

  against the construction rig, and struck a dramatic

  pose, his brown eyes expressive and intent. "Remem-

  ber the First Federation's giant tug? Doc, you remem-

  ber!"

  "Oh, yes," McCoy droned, rolling his eyes as the

  memory flooded back in. "The commander of that

  ship took a real fisk. He bluffed us down and we fell

  for it. We could've bypassed his shutdown of our

  systems and blown that ship to bits with a few phaser

  shots. It didn't even have any shields or weapons. Just

  an incredibly powerful tractor beam." He shook his

  head and clasped his hands behind his back thought-

  fully. "Jim was impressed by the theatrics."

  "Right," Scanner said. "It was a supervessel de-

  signed to yank asteroids out of orbit and haul 'em in

  for mining purposes. All that power, and it turned out

  to be a giant space-faring truck. But think what we

  learned from it! Think of the mining boom after we set

  up relations with the First Federation! That's what this

  is!" He swung both hands endeafingly toward the

  ship. "It's a Fesarius!" "It's a barge!"

  My head started to throb.

  I backed off a few steps to see if the rig looked any

  better, and was greeted with yet another---as though I

  needed one--surprise. From the main air lock ap-

  38

  peared a second familiar face, one which confirmed

  my guess that I'd been set up. I watched in silent

  astonishment as the slim young woman caught sight of

  me, narrowed her slightly tilted almond-shaped eyes,

  the only suggestion that she might be other than hu-

  man, and strode down the long ramp toward us. Her

  short beige-blond hair was a shade or two lighter than

  the last time I'd seen it, a gift from Earth's relentless

  sun. My hair, too, bore a few streaks of extra gold

  after so long at the schooner's helm, but it would never

  reach the pearl shade of hers.

  "Merete," I breathed, almost a groan, confirming

  what I saw as she came down the long ramp and

  approached us.

  "Hello, Piper," she said. Her tone of voice told me

  that she knew exactly what was going through my

  mind. She reached for McCoy's hand. "Dr. McCoy,

  how are you?"

  He took her narrow palm in subdued greeting.

  "Well, I'm just fine, Dr. AndrusTaurus. What are you

  doing here?"

  She shrugged. "Medical duty. Or so I was told. I

  only recently started to doubt it."

  That was enough formality for me. I rounded on her.

  "Do you know what's going on? All I've got so far is

  Scanner, this bizarre excuse for a space vessel, and a

  pile of unanswered questions. And I hope this thing

  really can fly, because I'm guilty of assaulting Star

  Fleet officers to get to it."

  Merete pressed her delicately colored lips into a line

  and gave me a look of intense sympathy, but she

  plainly had no answers for me and, knowing that,

  declined to complicate my mood. As she had in the

  past, Merete AndrusTaurus gave me her best prescrip-

  tion a steadying presence.

  Scanner shook off my words and recalibrated.

  "Piper, it's a good ship. It's got heart. Here... look

  over here. See that dent? That happened when they

  39

  built the very first outersystem communications relay

  station. And this patch over here? That's from the

  superstructure for the Martian Colonies' Orbital Medi-

  cal Center. And up yonder, that's what happened when

  they built the new docking bay for Star Fleet Com-

  mand itself. I was there." He poked his own chest.

  "There's my name. See? Judd Sandage, light-etched

  right in. And there--see that name? Liex Muller? He

  died on that job. Piper, this ship... this is a memorial

  to construction projects all over the Sol system. It's an

  archive of local history! And it's all yours!"

  His enthusiasm was almost pathetic. I backed away

  a few steps and leaned toward Dr. McCoy while

  Scanner waited anxiously near his prize.

  "He loves the ship," I whispered to the years of

  experience beside me. "What do I do?"

  Dr. McCoy folded his arms and rocked in contem-

  plation. ,Give him the benefit of the doubt. The ship is

  innocent until proven obsolete."

  With a surrendering little nod, I tried to change the

  look on my face to give the impression I might be

  having second thoughts. "I... I see what you mean,

  Scanner," I said. "It does have a certain... unique-

  ness."

  He nodded so hard his hair flopped over his eyes.

  The massive blue hull, patched with vari6us colors

  of coiiplate, scored with Scanner's precious chroni-

  cles, stretched out across the hangar, begging for

  approval. Even the silly carnivorous teeth somebody

  had painted onto the bridge hull seemed to be trying to

  smile. I licked my lips, gazing across the veteran

  fibercoil. I had to clear my throat before I could speak.

  "Does it have a name?"

  Scanner puffed up and squared his shoulders. With a

  nod he announced, "Tyrannosaurus Rex."

  My nerves jarred against each other. I felt Dr.

  McCoy shift beside me, moving away. Must have been

  the steam coming out of my ears.

  40

  In a feeble attempt to shield my disappointment, or

  perhaps to shield Scanner from it, 1 ignored his hopeful

  expression and stepped past him, tersely stating, "Not

  anymore."

  "This is U.F.P. Construction Transport S.S. Ba-

  nana Republic requesting clearance for space access."

  "This is Star Fleet Planetary Patrol, Banana Repub-

  lic. Specify your registry code."

  "MTK 4247, Patrol. It's a new code."

  "We copy. That's not a new code, Banana Republic,

  it's a reissue. Please confirm and specify the old

  code."

  "All right, confirmed. Scanner, take over."

  Scanner leaned forward in the mate's seat beside


  mine as we sat in front of a slapdash control cockpit

  which bore the scars of having been overhauled and

  added to with each new phase of engineering science

  over its disturbingly long life. He tied his console into

  the communications link and said, "Patrol, this vessel

  was formerly registered as Construction Tug 87, S.S.

  Tyrannosaurus Rex, registry number MKT 1187." He

  leaned back as far as the newly installed command

  lounge would pivot. "You sacka wet socks."

  I shushed him with a glance. "I don't want any more

  delays!" I hissed at him. "If we can get atmospheric

  clearance we can be at Star Fleet headquarters in

  fifteen minutes." Leaning closer to the corn system, I

  asked, "Patrol, are we clear for space access?"

  There was an annoying silence. They had no reason

  to hold us back but their own petty show of power

  over civilian vehicles. After a moment the same voice

  returned "Affirmative, 4247. Take a heading of point

  five seven seven by two six two. Have a good trip."

  "No thanks to them," Dr. McCoy commented from

  the passenger couch behind us. The foreman's cabin

  had been refurbished, storage compartments removed

  and altered for passenger seating. The renovations

  41

  were considerably more pleasant to look at than the

  conglomerated hull, with its damage repairs and its

  added chunks of hardware that had been tacked on

  with each new technical innovation. The construction

  transport looked less like any kind of ship than a

  collection of odd-shaped containers somehow welded

  together. Dr. McCoy had wasted no time in settling

  back into the cushions of the new pivot chairs and

  acquiring a professional slouch. Beside him, Merete

  AndrusTaurus gazed thoughtfully out the observatory

  gaps in the coilplate casing of the ship. Beside us,

  coasting through the clouds, flew a Star Fleet Plane-

  tary Patrol Cruiser. Merete waved at them, her slim

  eyes narrowing as she smiled in an attempt to smooth

  out anything they might have overheard. Merete

  wanted nothing more than peace of mind--my peace of

  mind.

  "Well, Commander Piper," McCoy said. "Once we

  clear the atmosphere, you're officially the captain of a

  space-faring vessel. Quite an accomplishment, consid-

  ering you've hardly been aboard a space-faring vessel

  long enough to change uniforms. If you don't watch

  out, Jim Kirk'11 think you're upstaging his dazzling

  career." He was smiling, both arched brows raised in

  amusement.

  I blushed, but not from pride. "Doctor, this wasn't

  my idea," I reminded him, burying my humiliation in

  adjusting a navigational mapping beam.

  "Ah, but that's usually how it happens, Com-

  mander," he pointed out in his wise drawl.

  Scanner nodded. "Sir's right, Piper. You know, in

  all the years ol' Rex has been alive, all the uncounted

  projects this ship hauled on, she's never had a captain

  before. She's had crew chiefs and construction bosses

  and foremen, but never ever a captain. You're the first

  one!" He slumped back in his chair, raised one foot

  high on the other knee, and stared at the mangled

  42

  ceiling circuitry. "Captain Piper. Has a kind of a nice

  ring to it."

  Perhaps the designers put too much pivot into the

  pivot chairs. I stood up, shoulders bunched beneath

  the cotton flight suit, and placed my hand on Scanner's

  chair. It gave a satisfying groan when I pushed it, and

  it reeled backward. Scanner yelped, hit the floor on his

  side, and rolled over, his face plastered with astonish-

  ment.

  "What'd I do?" he bellowed. "What'd you do that

  for?"

  I stood over him, one foot on either side of his

  sprawled left leg. For long moments I glared down at

  him, so intently that he dared not get up. McCoy and

  Merete were frozen to their chairs.

  "Don't call me that," I said. I stepped over him.

  "Notify me when we're over San Francisco."

  "Is it gone yet?"

  The soft voice was consummately feminine. Noth-

  ing about it suggested its source might be other than

  human. There wasn't much about Merete that couldn't

  be human if she wanted to give up her Palkeo citizen-

  ship or heritage. The Palkeo Est people of Altair Four

  were one of the independently evolved cultures closest

  to humans so far discovered, at least in their habits and

  attitudes. Only physiological exceptions set them

  apart, such as genetic code differences, blood com-

  pounds, and certain nucleoplasms or some other bio-

  technical terminology that I could throw around.

  Merete's similarity to a human, spiced with that ves-

  tigial hint of aiienness, comforted me somewhat, but

  unfortunately also reminded me of Sarda.

  Sarda--a cultural foundling. A Vulcan, displaced by

  his own people, trying to dig a trench that would lead

  him back to the main river of Vulcan tradition from the

  separate pool fate had eddied him into. Had he broken

  43

  under the pressure, the sorrow?.Could a Vulcan deal

  with that kind of humiliation in the midst of personal

  honor and pride? Or would he reach a snapping point?

  "Is your headache gone?" Merete asked again with

  her customary patience.

  An added pressure on the heat cloth over my eyes

  let me know I was being touched.

  I thought about giving her an answer and waited to

  decide ff the pounding in my skull had receded.

  "Nope," was my conclusion.

  Merete's weight tipped the edge of my bunk mat-

  tress. "I don't want to medicare you ff I can avoid it."

  "It's only a headache, Merete," 'I said. "I'll live." I

  puffed the heat cloth from my eyes and blinked into the

  dim light of the foreman's cabin. My cabin, now. It

  was a cramped and inglorious place. Constructags

  simply weren't bu'flt for comfort, and room remained

  at a premium even when renovations were attempted.

  "It'll go away as soon as I get to talk to the captain. As

  soon as he tells me what's going on."

  "You don't have any idea?" she asked, diminishing

  the seriousness by casually arranging the heat cloth in

  her medikit.

  "I know sarda's in trouble." I sat up, scooting back

  against the cold metal wall. "It's got to have some-

  thing to do with that. Kirk deliberately made sure

  those security officers didn't find out I was on board

  the schooner. And I think he knew how I'd react once

  I found out Sarda had gotten caught up in espionage."

  I pulled at her wrist, forcing her attention away from

  the medildt. When she looked up, I asked, "Are you

  sure, absolutely sure, Mr. Spock didn't say anything

  about this so-called mail run?"

  In deference to me, she took the time to think about

  it for a moment. Finally she shook her pale head and

  shrugged. "Not a word. He provided instructi
ons for

  the ship, and for a while there were several Star Fleet

  technicians and engineers down here working on it.

  4

  Scanner and I didn't even know the ship was intended

  for you until a week ago, when the last of the Fleet

  crew left. I thought I was here to tend to injuries in the

  tech crew. I certainly didn't understand orders to stay

  behind. Then Mr. Spock told Scanner that you'd be

  coming. We assumed you'd beam in any minute after

  that. What were you doing on that sailing boat?"

  I dropped back. Good question, Doctor. "It's Kirk's

  private ship. He offered to authorize shore leave for

  me aboard the schooner if I was willing to crew the

  ship during the Annual International Battle at Sea

  Flotilla for Masted Ships. War games. A collection of

  sailing buffs get together and try to outmaneuver each

  other. I thought it was a little primitive and silly until a

  couple of ships actually went over in the fervor for

  victory points. Smaller ships than Keeler, of course,

  but even we carne close to being rammed a few times.

  They're pretty serious about it." I stared at my knees,

  suddenly unblinking, aware of little more than my own

  heartbeat. "Few more serious than Jim Kirk. I never

  saw such intent to win. He's a bedeviling man,

  Merete. He leaves me in awe . . . confused .... He

  tries to force me to figure out what he's thinking. He

  pushes the odds. This time, he miscalculated. Some-

  thing went wrong. He meant to tell me what was going

  on, but he got pulled off the schooner before he could

  do it. I've got to find him, Merete," I told her, lost in

  conviction. "I've got to know what to do."

  If she was unsettled by my intensity, she did a prime

  bedside job of concealing it. She nodded slowly, mak-

  ing sure I knew she had been listening. "You will," she

  assured. "We'll be there soon. It may all turn out to be

  much simpler than you expect. Just a mix-up of some

  kind. It may even be fixed by the time we arrive at Star

  Fleet."

  "I hope so," I said. "I don't mind a struggle, but I

  can't stand not knowing."

  An unfamiliar whine interrupted our conversation,

  4S