Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

  And even worse, what's the excuse for denying that

  training to someone who was born to need it? Why

  would they do that to him? A half-trained Vulcan could

  go mad just trying to fill in the gaps."

  She looked at me, and I could see her mind working

  as she tried to slowly reassess the information that had

  flashed by us in truncated form. Years and years of

  relentless mind training encapsulized on a computer

  screen, yet every bit as burdensome as those big

  words and wide concepts implied. Merete tipped her

  head, feathery brows lowering. "Is that what you

  think might have happened to Sarda?"

  Silence this time was a noisy answer.

  "Piper, you saved him from it," she said. "You set

  him up with Mr. Spock, and Spock arranged for a

  Vulcan teacher for him. It's only a matter of time

  BOW."

  "No, not now," I snapped. "Now is the whole

  issue. Now, he's in some kind of trouble, and it

  doesn't make sense. Espionage? That's not Sarda. Not

  a healthy Sarda, anyway. Maybe . . ." I paused,

  hunting for the hurt, "maybe I was too late. Maybe,

  when he went back into training with another Vulcan,

  it was too much. Maybe he snapped."

  Instantly Merete got up and stepped out into the

  skinny corridor to the food dispenser and came back

  with two cups of steaming coffee, sweet, with cream.

  She pressed my fingers around one of the cups, then

  73

  sat down very slowly, taking every last possible sec-

  ond to let time slide between me and my paranoia.

  "Piper, listen to me," she said. "You could be right."

  I looked up. "What?"

  "You could be right." Her tone was tolerant, not

  patronizing. "But don't rule out another possibility.

  There are still many things about this that we simply

  don't know yet. And one run through the computer

  library about Vulcan training doesn't make either of us

  experts on Vulcans. We're not Vulcans. It may be as

  normal for them as learning to fly a skimmer is to us."

  "Then why was it tearing him apart?" My palm

  connected with the bulkhead. In my other hand, the

  coffee sloshed. "What's he doing in the middle of this,

  Marete? Did he snap?"

  She shrugged one shoulder and sipped her coffee.

  She swallowed deliberately, stalling for more time.

  Her rotten tactic was working too. I was starting to

  realize the truth in her words, and the damning fact

  that I would just have to wait.

  "What do you think?" Merete asked after several

  long moments. "What do you really believe?"

  More moments. They were beginning to sap me dry.

  Kill me, but don't make me wait anymore.

  "I don't know," I murmured, staring. Coffee steam

  wreathed my face.

  I was rescued from myself by the intercom whistle,

  and Scanner's voice coming on before I could re-

  spond.

  "Piper, we've got a ship on scope. Approaching

  rapidly, no identification, no signals, won't answer a

  hail, and the design is unfamiliar. You want me to slow

  down?"

  I dived for the intercom button and mashed it. "No!

  Don't touch anything. Does Rex have shields?"

  "Kinda. Enough to put off maybe one phaser shot.

  We just didn't figure--"

  74

  "Put them up. Don't alter course or speed. I'll be

  right there !"

  Whoever it was, they had a fast ship. In the few

  seconds it took Merete and me to skim through the

  Rex's walkways, the triangular gold and red shuttle

  had pulled alongside and was matching our speed.

  "Anything?" I asked.

  Dr. McCoy, who had been lounging in the captain's

  chair, wheeled out of it and out of my way in the same

  movement. "Not a peep. Yet."

  "No classification on that design, Scanner?"

  He looked nervous. "Nope." The communications

  receiver hung in his ear as he stared, shoulders

  hunched, out the portal at the large shuttle. "Beats me

  what it is."

  "What they are," I corrected. Anticipation hung on

  me like sweat. No... that really was sweat. Sticky. A

  captain shouldn't be sticky. Damn. "Ship to ship."

  "Channel open. Fire away."

  I cleared my throat. "This is the S.S. Banana Re-

  public requesting your identification and purpose.

  Translator is tied in. Please respond."

  The board crackled on my echo. The massive gold

  wing dwarfed our main viewing portal, making us all

  strain upward to see it. It was imposing, and we felt

  adequately imposed upon.

  Scanner stiffened. "Something .yeah. . .

  static..."

  "Pull it in." I knew he was trying, but I still had to

  say it.

  Merete and Dr. McCoy huddled together near the

  port viewing slots, peering out at the unidentified

  vessel, their silence an ominous reminder of the un-

  avoidable dangers humankind had given to ourselves

  when we first ventured out into space. We could live in

  space, we could keep ourselves alive with the most

  75

  basic of methods, but we could never be completely

  safe.

  Scanner listened, lightly touching the audio receiver

  in his ear. "They're requesting visual contact."

  I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

  "Visual on."

  The screen flickered, an ominous instant of seeing

  the screen superimposed against the unidentified ship

  that hung half-visible beside our bridge portal. Then it

  settled down to a somber, elegant face, familiar in its

  saturnine reserve.

  "Spock!" McCoy blurted. Yet I could tell he wasn't

  altogether surprised.

  While Kirk's face was built on curves and McCoy's

  on squares, Spock's features were a montage of trian-

  gularities framed by trim black hair and those orna-

  mental Vulcan ears. The flush of comfort I felt at the

  sight of him was banked by fresh thoughts of Sarda.

  "Permission to come aboard, Commander," he re-

  quested.

  "By all means, come aboard," I said.

  "Thank you. I shall arrange hookup and be there

  momentarily. Spock out." The screen went blank.

  Merete reached over for a generous squeeze on my

  forearm. "Time for answers," she said quietly.

  Scanner grunted. "Good, 'cuz we sure got the ques-

  tions."

  We waited with false patience as Spock organized

  his shuttle to dock with Banana Republic. His ship

  moved out of our main view, now visible only through

  the ribbed portals on the side of the ship. Rex moaned

  and bumped hollowly as the ships joined and the

  breezeway was sealed off and pressurized. By the time

  the starboard loading-dock door slid open, we were

  already there, waiting.

  The doors parted. Commander Spock stepped in.

  We gaped at him. He no longer wore his usual Star

  76

  Fleet colors. This was an altogether different Spock. A

  dun-colored cowl framed his jaw
line, his shoulders

  broadened by a burgundy thigh-length cape. His lean

  form was even further elongated by dark azur e vel-

  vet--a belted tunic. Those, simple leggings, and calf-

  wrap boots made him look like a planet-traipsing ven-

  dor or someone out of a medieval story, depending on

  who was doing the imagining. Only his fluid dignity

  reminded us that he was who he was. That and the fact

  that he carried a handful of computer cartridges--

  cookies to feed Rex's new main frame library.

  "Sir," I began, "you're..."

  "Out of uniform," McCoy supplied boldly.

  Spock looked at him with an almost quizzical twin-

  kle in his eyes. "Astute reckoning, Dr. McCoy," he

  drawled. He strode onto my bridge, the cape swinging.

  "A gift from the Organians some time ago."

  "Thought that getup looked familiar," McCoy re-

  plied.

  "It proved convenient," Spock said. He obviously

  didn't care for his current apparel in lieu of Star Fleet

  issue. "Once on Argelius, we must not divulge our

  military attachments. Our mission there requires that

  we travel incognito."

  McCoy frowned. "You mean I'm going to have to

  dress like that?"

  Spock had been scanning the bridge controls as

  though to refamiliarize himself with them, but now he

  straightened and natled the doctor with his gaze again.

  "Doctor, I am actually anticipating the spectacle."

  I felt my eyes widen, and ridiculously squinted in an

  attempt to curb it. McCoy folded his arms and cocked

  his head, but said nothing more about Spock's unlikely

  raiment.

  Spock deposited his computer spools on Rex's main

  navigational board and turned to me, markedly casual

  in spite of the circumstances. His presence, entirely

  unforeseen as it was, had a pronounced effect on mo--

  77

  a rush of apprehension, curiosity, the sense of teeter-

  ing on some tightly stretched wire just about to fall into

  a pile of very spiny answers. I might know soon what

  was going on, but I was ready to bet I'd come out with

  bruises.

  "Sir," I began, "can you tell me what's going on?"

  He frustrated me and entertained McCoy with a

  thoroughly Vulcan response "Yes."

  My palms started to get moist. I rubbed them

  against the ivory fabric of my flight suit and licked my

  lips. McCoy surveyed me, rolled his eyes, and mur-

  mured, "You'll get used to it."

  "Thank you, Doctor," Spock said tersely. "I shall

  explain fully once I've released the navigational pro-

  gramming to Commander Piper's control. It will be

  necessary to have manual control to maneuver into

  orbit."

  Scanner coughed and hid behind Merete.

  I didn't have anybody to hide behind. Although I do

  confess to a quick glance around the bridge for any

  handy camouflage.

  McCoy came once again to life, approaching Spock

  with a noticeable swagger. "Don't bother, Mr.

  Spock."

  Spock rewarded him with a perplexed gaze and

  waited patiently for the explanation McCoy was bub-

  bling to give. I think my feet were sweating by then,

  too, but they were too numb to tell.

  "The controls are all freed up," McCoy said. A grin

  tugged at his lips.

  Spock's brows lowered. "I... beg your pardon?"

  "Free. Unlocked. Piper did it."

  Any previous beliefs that a Vulcan couldn't be

  stricken speechless were quickly flushed. Spock held

  his gaze on McCoy for a moment of incredulity, then

  turned to the controls, spidering one square-fingered

  hand over them, and ran headlong into one of the

  snags of being Vulcan. Surprise flared, tempted him,

  78

  pushed up one Panish eyebrow, then fied. "Remark-

  able," he uttered. When he turned to face me, he was

  in control again.

  However, that didn't stop his expression from freez-

  ing my blood.

  "I'm impressed, Commander, though mystified," he

  admitted. "How did you manage it?"

  "She outhumaned you, Spock," McCoy crowed,

  delighted.

  Spock appeared annoyed--and I use the word ten-

  derly. He looked one more time at the navigation

  board, as one looks at a pet who suddenly turned wild.

  After a steadying moment, he breathed deeply and

  said, "Obviously there was some element I failed to

  consider. I shall anticipate your giving me a full

  description, Commander, once our mission is com-

  pleted."

  Whew! Lifted off the hook by the Vulcan sense of

  priority. I started to feel my feet again. "Yes, sir.

  Won't you sit down?"

  It was clearly an invitation to do more than relax.

  Spock knew that, and swiveled his chair to face us all.

  I settled into the helm chair beside him, while the three

  others took passenger seats, and we became---pardon

  the punwall ears.

  "Captain Kirk was apprised of the current situation

  by Dr. Boma," Spock said, typically direct, "who,

  you'll recall, was involved in the science behind the

  dreadnought project."

  "Believe me," I said with guttural inflection, "I

  remember."

  "Doubtless." Spock nodded, and not without empa-

  thy. He spoke to me with an easy clemency he could

  only have learned from humans, and only have

  learned to express without Vulcan shame after years of

  hard experiences among humans. As he spoke, I was

  the one to be impressed. "Those involved with the

  dreadnought project were a select few," he went on.

  "The late Vice Admiral Rittenhouse used only people

  he trusted or people whose expertise he could not do

  without. He tried to keep his choices to a minimum."

  "And the minimum included Sarda?" I guessed.

  "Yes," his voice rumbled, giving away his inner-

  most regrets. "Lieutenant Sarda's innovative skill

  with weapons technology made him indispensable to a

  man who was trying to trigger a galactic conflict.

  Rittenhouse wanted Sarda's image projector. Along

  with Sarda, there were three others in the dread-

  nought's special science team who were not killed

  aboard Rittenhouse's ship when it exploded." He

  slipped one of the library cookies into the slot and

  touched the controls lightly. A picture blinked

  onscreen, a dignified black man with a iongish face and

  cutting eyes, his age shown only by a frost of silver at

  his temples. "Dr. Samuel Boma, of course, who devel-

  oped the dreadnought's actual hull material and struc-

  tural design. Charges of conspiracy against him have

  been greatly reduced due to his cooperation with Star

  Fleet of late." Spock tapped the controls again and the

  face changed. A woman this time, human, midfifties.

  Her hair was pitch-black, short but shaggy, framing a

  translucent complexion and small blue eyes. She

  looked like she could be many things, none of them

  scientific.

 
; "Professor Ursula Mornay of the University of Tar-

  rigor, Altair Six," Spock introduced. "She perfected

  the theory for transwarp, and is one of the top theo-

  rists in the Federation. Professor Mornay is known for

  her unscrupulous behavior. We believe she is the key

  agent. The determinant." "Of what sir?"

  He swiveled his chair to face me again, shifting our

  attention from the viewscreen to his words. Every-

  thing he did, every movement, smacked of poignance

  for us who had been waiting. "The transwarp technol-

  ogy has been stolen."

  80

  He said it so simply that its full implication didn't hit

  any of us at first. Seeing that, he went on. "Mornay

  contacted Boma with an ultimatum. She said she and

  the 'others' were appropriating all information about

  transwarp and evacuating their lab."

  McCoy leaned forward. "But why?"

  Spock had anticipated the simple question and was

  right there with an answer. "Mornay is a subversive.

  She has never displayed loyalty to any system or

  person, and has accepted funding from dubious

  sources, intent only on her own personal advance-

  ment. She is known for her contempt of governmental

  systems."

  "The Federation government?" McCoy asked.

  "Any government, Doctor. She is not particu-

  lar."

  "Then why was she working on a top project like

  this?"

  "Because, Doctor, she developed the theories."

  "And nobody watched her more closely?"

  With a Vulcan version of a sigh, Spock carefully

  outlined the reason. "Until now, she has done nothing

  overtly threatening. Therefore, she has enjoyed safe

  haven as a Federation citizen and scientist. She was,

  however, openly committed to Rittenhouse and his

  plan to aggregate the galaxy into one ideology. She

  fears for her life and status now that Rittenhouse is

  dead. This is her attempt to preserve that status."

  I leaned forward, barely able to keep from clawing

  the arms of my chair. "She means to ransom the

  transwarp technology?"

  "Virtually. And more. The scientists intend to

  throw it open for purchase by any bidder, knowing the

  galactic powers will welcome such opportunity and

  that the Federation dares not allow itself to be outbid.

  Unfortunately, Professor Mornay's understanding of