Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

  He stopped, halting the whole line of us, and I

  squirmed past the others into the lead.

  "Stay behindme," I told him. Leading with my

  shoulder and a good dose of nerve, I peeked into the

  lab. Nearly stripped bare, the lab held only a few

  engineering consoles, a computer outlet, and a few

  empty metal crates. There weren't even any chairs

  left, if there had ever been any in the first place. I

  motioned the others inside. Scanner nudged the door

  shut.

  There was only a little more lighting in here than in

  the corridor, though these lights were electrical rather

  than the diogen filament torches that ran through the

  hallways for function rather than for close work. Evi-

  l86

  denfly Captain Kirk's handiwork with the electrical

  system had depleted the power leading to the labs. But

  that didn't matter any more. There wasn't anyone left

  but ourselves. The work done in these labs was omi-

  nously complete.

  Sarda appeared beside me. "The communications

  board should be near the mainframe outlet. They

  would have no reason to take it with them." As he

  spoke, he hunted through the piles of discarded equip-

  ment and storage crates. "Yes, here it is. Partially

  dismantled."

  The two of us lifted the portable console up onto a

  nearby cabinet. It looked like a computer board with a

  hangover.

  "Can you fix it?" I asked, grimacing in empathy

  with the mangled board.

  "They likely did not intentionally dismantle it,"

  Sarda said, "but merely cannibalized some parts. We

  may be able to bypass those and create enough signal

  to trigger your ship's transporter." "Scanner, what do you think?"

  He moved in between us and thoughtfully twisted

  his mouth. "Doesn't look too bad. You want me to

  try?"

  My shoulders drooped. I gave him a deadly glare.

  "Okay, I'll try," he said, and put his hands on the

  console.

  The doctors and I spent several minutes gathering

  the bits and pieces that fit Scanner and Sarda's

  descriptions of what they needed, and the communica-

  tions console quickly began looking more like its own

  kind. Scanner pulled up a crate and sat down before

  the tilted mechanism, and began attempting to contact

  the automatic pilot aboard Rex. "He's up there, I

  know he is," he muttered self-consciously.

  "Can you boost your gain?" I asked.

  "Rex'11 answer, don't worry."

  I couldn't help it. I still had trouble trusting a ship

  187

  that looked like the remains of a brewery explosion. I

  leaned over his shoulder, trying to make sense of the

  red blips on the tiny screen as they ran through white

  cross hairs, seeking matched waves. "Maybe you

  need more power. There's got to be a--"

  Nonregulation bulldozers hit us from behind. We

  never even heard them coming. Only their vicious

  warning growls preceded the impact, and only by a

  fraction of a second. I was struck hard in the middle of

  my back with just enough balance of force and re-

  straint that I was momentarily stunned but still quite

  conscious. The room spun, a whirl of pain and faces.

  My legs withered under me as the pain in my back took

  hold and my nervous system responded. Something

  gripped my arms and pulled me up and around, then

  crushed me back against a pile of crates, and a gnarly

  hand cupped my throat. For an instant I almost tried to

  strike back. Mercenaries were only human, after

  all--

  But these weren't Mornay's hired guards. These

  faces hated us well beyond the value of a credit

  payment.

  A Klingon disruptor brushed my cheek. Stale breath

  wreathed my face.

  His head at a menacing tilt, Gelt snarled his satisfac-

  tion. "Dance with me."

  With great effort I pulled my eyes from his and

  confirmed the nightmare four Klingons at attack

  stance held disruptors cleanly on Sarda and the others.

  "Where is it?" Gelt demanded. "The science you're

  making here."

  "We're not the scientists," I choked past his grip. I

  tried to keep the pain out of my voice for the sakes of

  my friends. "As you can see, they took their equip-

  ment and left. We're not even sure what they were

  doing."

  Nary a flicker of belief damaged his anathema.

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  "Transwarp," he whispered. Well, so much for that

  bluff. "Where is it?"

  All right, if he wanted answers; I'd give him an-

  swers. "About 35,000 kilometers away from here by

  now, I'd say."

  His grip at my throat tightened, clawing inward

  under my ear. My carotid artery pounded, and I had to

  drag in what little breath he let me have. Starved for

  oxygen, my lungs began to ache and the pain in my

  back throbbed enough to make me dizzy. "Straight up, I'll wager," Gelt said.

  His smugness enraged me, as it had once before. I

  bumped my arms against his hard chestplate just to

  show him how I felt, and forced my voice to rasp past

  his grip. "That's right, fossil face, and there's nothing

  you can do against a starship."

  There was something intensely satisfying about be-

  ing despised by a Klingon. Not particularly pleasant,

  but satisfying anyway. If my mouth hadn't been rock

  dry, I'd have spat at him. Past his ugly face, McCoy

  and Scanner were refining the art of astonishment.

  Gelt's lips peeled back in hatred as he fanned his gun

  arm outward and barked at his nearest fellow taran-

  tula, "Hlch Qorch.t Toogh!"

  As soon as his hand was free, Gelt ripped open his

  belt guard and pulled out the kind of dagger that's so

  mean looking it draws blood with appearance alone.

  And it was still in a sheath! Gelt wanted to see the

  blade, though. With a snapping motion, the sheath

  struck the floor and bright silver glinted between his

  face and mine. "Your friends are corpses," he said.

  "But you... you are what we call bortas choQ. Do

  you know the words?" His hand pressed tighter on my

  throat. His teeth were gritted, his whisper one of

  hunger. Only his lips moved. "Revenge meat."

  The blade rasped wide. Now there were claws on it.

  Never let it be said that Klingons had no sense of

  drama.

  189

  I tensed, waiting for the impact. Die with a Klingon

  blade between my fibs?

  The room erupted into flaming lances. From a hid-

  den alcove came a burst of phaser fire. First one

  Klingon, then another were blasted across the room

  into heaps. Not really understanding, I reacted first

  and thought about it later. I jammed my knuckles hard

  into Gelt's right eye as he turned to look. He howled,

  and lost his grip on my throat.

  Two more Klingons were sighting down at that

  alcove, exchanging disruptor fire for phaser bolts

  while trying to ta
ke cover behind a table and a lighting

  stand. Sarda dropped back onto a counter and brought

  his legs up, and nailed one of the Klingons in the side

  of the head with both heels. The Klingon went down,

  but roBBed over and staggered up again, to be caught by

  a phaser shot. He skidded into Gelt's legs, and both

  went down.

  Free now, I fought to stay up on thready legs. Gelt

  was trying to get up from an awkward position, tan-

  gled with his unconscious cohort, and I knew I had

  only seconds. I reached upward, grasped a heavy air-

  conditioning unit from a newly carved wall outlet,

  braced my feet on the wall, and heaved. It stuck. With

  an inelegant shift of my weight, the unit jolted loose

  and I pulled it down on Geit's head, adding what

  strength I had left to the already weighty object. Gelt

  convulsed once, and went limp.

  I slumped against the waft, gasping. My vision dis-

  solved into a black tunnel before I could assimilate

  what was happening with the last Klingon. My ears

  roared, then whined, then began to accept the gift of

  blood and air again. I hung a hand on the open collar of

  my flight suit, glad it wasn't a turtleneck.

  I hadn't realized I was slipping down the wall until

  Dr. McCoy's voice beside me was accompanied by

  firm support from both sides. "Are you all right?"

  Scanner was there too. "Did he cut you, Piper?"

  790

  I shook my head and blinked down at the fuzzy

  shape of a Klingon disruptor, still clenched in its

  owner's hand. "How come," I rasped, "we're the

  only ones obeying... Argelian law?"

  A sigh of relief fell from Scanner. He looked first at

  the inert form of Gelt, then at me. He shook his head,

  struck by my raw invertebrate-level hatred of

  Klingons. "You know, I think you must have some

  tribble in you," he observed.

  My vision was starting to return now that I could

  breathe. I coughed once, mostly to make sure I

  wouldn't make a fool of myself when I answered them.

  With an indelicate shove, I straightened up. "Scanner,

  get back to work."

  "You all fight, though?"

  "Sure . . . go on." I pushed him back toward the

  communications console. Not very convincing; I was

  still leaning on Dr. McCoy, surprised at the strength in

  his slender form.

  What had happened? Had I been imagining it when I

  saw Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock being beamed away?

  Were they here? Had the cavalry come in again?

  I blinked and took deep breaths, willing my vision to

  clear.

  But the form in the alcove was neither Kirk nor

  Speck.

  Perren moved somberly from the archway. The

  phaser was still held upward, but he was looking down

  at the last of the Klingons, now a quivering lump at his

  feet. He was carrying a nondescript metal case by the

  handle, which left his right hand free for the phaser.

  Now he looked up and made a fleeting eye contact first

  with Sarda, then me. Clutching the metal case tightly,

  he moved out of the alcove, keeping his back to the

  wall and the phaser firmly raised.

  I moved away from McCoy. Walking was an effort.

  My back throbbed where Gelt had bludgeoned it. I

  didn't stop until my own crew were all behind me.

  797

  Sarda came up at my side, though, and I knew there

  was nothing that would wave him back. "Thank you," I said.

  Perren nodded a single, simple nod. "You're quite

  welcome."

  Disturbing moments shuttled past as we wondered

  if we were captive again. Five of us against one Vulcan

  and a phaser... incalculable odds indeed.

  Perren, perhaps sensing that, provided the answer.

  "I have no intent of challenging you," he said, not

  quite able to mitigate the edge of warning in his tone.

  He moved sideways, toward the door, the rich green

  quilt of his tunic making a shock of color against the

  gray stone. "I am sorry our goals cannot harmonize.';

  "Neither do yours and Professor Mornay's," I told

  him, also moving slowly toward the door, hoping he

  wouldn't feel threatened yet. "Mornay intends to use

  Enterprise as a test ship for transwarp. She doesn't

  care about the safety systems or the lives of the crew."

  "The crew will be beamed down when we reach our

  destination," Perren said. "They will live."

  "They may already be dead," Dr. McCoy spoke up

  forcefully, a distinct blade of professional experience

  giving credence to his statement. "Mornay's either

  lying or fooling herself about how easy it is to provide

  an antidote. Narcotic gases shouldn't be played with,

  and to her it's all a game." He nailed the words to

  Perren's chest with a hammering truthfulness.

  "She's finished with safety, Perren," I carried on.

  "If transwarp fails, she'll take over 500 people with

  her into interdimensional hell, and if it doesn't fail, the

  crew of Enterprise is already forfeited. She's fooling

  you. Don't let her."

  Doubt flickered on his fine Vulcan features, but only

  a flicker, and soon controlled. He swallowed stiffly.

  "Ursula has planned carefully. The narcotic is not

  lethal."

  192

  "She's a theorist," Merete interrupted in the tough-

  est tone I'd ever heard from her. "She's not a medical

  specialist. No one can learn how to handle hypnoge-

  neticides overnight. It takes months just to isolate

  correct dosages. Are you going to believe her or Dr.

  McCoy?"

  Perren wrapped his arm around the metal case, and

  I was stricken with the undeniable image of a child

  clutching a stuffed toy. For many seconds he never

  moved, nor even blinked. The inner battle slimmed his

  eyes and drew his blade-sharp brows together. Beside

  me, Sarda tensed with a kind of empathy only Vuicans

  could understand, a remote kind of blending in which

  the integrity of personal privacy was constantly at

  risk.

  The wild, impossible victory against a sister ship

  recurred in my mind, and Captain Kirk fed me one of

  his favorite tactics from the reaches of my memory.

  Push, push, push till it explodes in your face.

  "You're being used," I insisted. "She'll turn on

  you. Hundreds of lives will be the cost."

  "Piper is right, Perren," Sarda said. "I entreat you,

  believe her."

  He hadn't used the word "correct." He had said

  "right." A subtle difference; a moral difference.

  Perren stepped.over one of the unconscious Kling-

  ons and reached the doorway, then hesitated. He

  seemed unwilling to leave us until he had made his

  conclusions and then explained them to us. That alone

  showed me his unsureness. His need to explain proved

  to me that we were breaking through.

  'I must tread a center course," he said finally, and

  not without some diffidence. "I must stand by my

  calculations and my har
dware. I am willing to do so

  for the sake of my goals. This---" He waved his phaser

  once over the fallen Klingons. "--is the sort of event

  I am trying to stop." The twitching bodies of our ene-

  193

  mies, still caressing their weapons, illustrated his point

  neatly. "Ursula underestimates Vulcans. It is a perfect

  cloak for me to wear."

  Sarda stepped toward him, now standing slightly to

  one side between me and Perten. "It is illogical to

  sacrifice the lives of an entire starship crew," he said,

  reverting to simple didactics.

  "It is illogical to sacrifice all I have worked toward

  on the basis of a danger that is only theoretical."

  Perren's voice jumped a shade toward that irritation

  I'd heard before. "If the starship crew is already dead,

  then they are no longer a factor. You are free now. I

  shall neither help nor hinder you. There is nothing

  your ship can do against a starship." He looked from

  me to Sarda, the change evidenced by only the barest

  tightening of his mouth. "I regret that we must

  part."

  Sarda remained absolutely still. Only I, standing so

  near to him, perceived the advance of his tension and

  his efforts to hold himself back. "We need not part,"

  he said.

  Older and fully trained in his Vulcan controls, Per-

  ren had less trouble subjugating his regret. Having

  been caught up in the rare experience of human-

  Vulcan friendship, I'd wondered for a long time now

  what friendship would be like between two Vulcans, if

  indeed this was friendship and not merely that strange

  training bond necessary between mentor and pupil. As

  Spock had pointed out to me, Perren and Sarda had

  much in common from the beginning--mostly the fact

  that each had had trouble fitting in to current Vulcan

  conformity. It must have been comforting for Sarda to

  find another Vulcan who understood his awkward

  place, someone of his own race that he wasn't obli-

  gated to explain himself to. I wished I had thought of

  these things earlier. I'd have been more prepared for

  what was coming.

  Perren nodded, but not in agreement. It was some-

  194

  thing different entirely. "Then I regret that we part

  before our objectives can be shared. It remains only