Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  Ignoring the side commentary as he listened to the static engulfing the channel, Kyle said, “We’re getting a lot of interference, Captain.”

  “We think the Romulan ship may be jamming our frequencies,” Kirk replied. “Mister Spock and Lieutenant Uhura were able to punch through that, but I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

  “What can we do, sir? Do you need us to come and help get you out of there?” As he asked the questions, Kyle was looking to Washburn and motioning for him to start alerting the others about the change in the current situation.

  “No,” the captain snapped. “Stay away from here. Whatever happens when this place goes up, it’ll be powerful enough to take out the entire complex, and it might damage the colony, too. Your help might be needed there if we can’t stop it. For now, though, I need you to find that Romulan ship.”

  Now confused, Kyle frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “I need you to find that ship, and stop whatever they’re using to jam us,” Kirk said. “If we can do that, we may be able to use the Kalandan equipment to reopen the rift and contact the Enterprise.”

  “Find a Romulan ship, sir?” Kyle was not sure he could believe what he was hearing. How could he, with two shuttlecraft and less than twenty people, do anything of use against a Romulan vessel?

  “Lieutenant Kyle,” a new voice said, “this is Mister Spock. The ship you are seeking is a scout-class vessel, lightly armed and with a small crew. Based on the strength of the jamming signal, I believe the ship is somewhere on the planet’s surface. You should be able to use sensors to track the signal to its source.”

  That part seemed easy enough, Kyle conceded, but that still left one very large and very unexplained part of Captain Kirk’s plan. “And if we find the ship, sir?”

  Kirk’s voice, punctuated by bursts of static, now held a new edge. “Do whatever you have to do, Mister Kyle, but stop that signal.”

  After wishing him good luck, the captain terminated the communication, leaving Kyle to stare with mounting anxiety at Rideout, Washburn, and Ceeda.

  “Just when you think it can’t get any weirder,” Rideout said.

  Washburn nodded. “Amen to that, Chief.”

  Stepping forward, Ceeda held out his hands toward Kyle. “We stand ready to assist you, Lieutenant.”

  Appreciating the unsolicited offer, Kyle shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that, Ceeda. If this goes according to the captain’s plan, then it’s liable to be dangerous.”

  “I understand,” Ceeda replied, his tone firm, “but these Romulans threaten my people, too. That cannot stand, and neither can we stand and allow you and your people to accept risk on our behalf. Let us help you.”

  Uncertain as to how he might proceed with the aid of the Dolysian miner and his companions, Kyle surveyed the crash scene. Enterprise crew members and Dolysians alike were gathering, waiting for their next instructions. What was he going to tell them?

  Tell them that the race is on, in more ways than one.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Scott shifted in the captain’s chair on the Enterprise bridge, as always feeling self-conscious about occupying the most powerful position on the ship. In truth, he had never been comfortable assuming command, no matter how short the duration. He did not like sitting and watching while others performed their assigned duties, waiting for those same fellow crewmates to report to him as circumstances required. Instead, he preferred to preside over the vessel’s inner workings from the welcoming environs of the engineering decks or, if circumstances warranted, the network of crawlways and Jefferies tubes that gave him unfettered access to the ship’s most sensitive systems. There, he could put his hands directly on the source of a problem and solve it through the measured application of knowledge, experience, and—in some rare instances—even blunt force if the situation called for such action. It was there that Scott was in his element.

  Here and now, however? He never failed to feel as though he were casting about, searching for the proper solutions to problems better addressed by those more competent than he. Whereas training and experience had taught him how to lead the engineers and technical specialists he oversaw as part of his primary duties, such skill was not a natural aspect of his character. Other officers, James Kirk in particular, harbored within them an innate ability to seize command of a situation and guide with unwavering confidence any who would follow them. Scott, on the other hand, had always found such demands a struggle. Indeed, he recalled with some amusement the first time Captain Kirk uttered to him the most frightening words the engineer had ever heard on the bridge of a starship: “Mister Scott, you have the conn.” Once he had pushed past his own anxiety, Scott realized on that first occasion that Kirk would never leave him in command of his ship so long as he possessed any doubts about his chief engineer’s ability to carry on in his absence.

  So, carry on, then.

  Drumming the fingers of his right hand on the arm of the command chair, Scott leaned back into the seat as he studied the main viewscreen and its image of the roiling sphere that was the energy field encircling the Gralafi planetoid. At this moment, the field was indeed a barrier in every possible sense, not only separating the Enterprise from Captain Kirk and the rest of the landing party, but also preventing Scott from contacting them, as well.

  Then there was the much larger issue of the impact the closing of the rift was having on Dolysian shipping traffic. Reports from the Jtelivran Mining Conglomerate as well as the Unified Leadership Council were coming at regular intervals, each one more anxious than the last. Given the limited window of opportunity to transit the Pass, every shipment was critical, and the schedule to move ships through the rift in both directions was coordinated to an exacting degree. Any delay carried with it the potential to disrupt the schedule for hours or days at a time, increasing the risk of needed personnel and matériel not making it to Gralafi. If the rift could not be reopened, the planetoid’s mining colony would be denied equipment and other supplies it needed in order to sustain itself for the nearly three years it would be cut off from the Dolysian homeworld. Further, what if whatever had closed the rift in the first place had done so in such a manner that it could not be reopened? What would that do to the Dolysians?

  That just won’t happen. Captain Kirk won’t allow it. Not while there’s breath in his body.

  “Are we ready to launch the buoys?” Scott asked.

  “I believe so, sir,” replied Ensign Chekov as he rose from his seat at the science station. “Lieutenant M’Ress has completed her modifications and is on her way back to the bridge.”

  Scott nodded, satisfied with the report. While he had been the one to suggest the use of a subspace relay buoy to enhance the strength of any signal broadcast via the ship’s communications system, it was M’Ress who had figured out the necessary modulation requirements for the device’s transceiver array. The Caitian officer also had been the one to figure out that using two such buoys, each programmed to broadcast via different yet complementary oscillating frequencies, might provide the variations in signal strength and clarity necessary to punch through the energy field. M’Ress had likened the idea to harmonizing different musical instruments, about which Scott at first had expressed skepticism. The lieutenant’s computer models had convinced him of her idea’s merits, and she set to work making the necessary modifications to the pair of buoys Scott had ordered pulled from cargo storage. It was a lot of effort, he knew, but without any other means of contacting the captain or the other members of the Enterprise crew on Gralafi, he saw no other alternative.

  We might as well try every crazy idea anyone can come up with, Scott mused, because I’m not leaving here without the landing party.

  He heard the doors to the turbolift opening behind him, and he swiveled his chair to see M’Ress emerging from the car.

  “All modifications are complete, Mister Scott,” the lieutenant reported by way of greeting. “We can proceed whenever you’re rea
dy.”

  “Excellent work, Lieutenant. Thank you,” Scott replied, letting his chair return to its normal forward-facing position. “Seems like now is as good a time as any. Let’s see if all our jury-rigging has bought us anything. Mister Arex, transfer navigational data to the buoys and stand by to launch.” While M’Ress saw to the tasks of making the physical modifications and software configuration changes for the subspace relays, it had been up to the navigator, with Chekov’s assistance, to plot the best placement of the relays in proximity to the energy field.

  As he tapped a series of controls on his console, Arex nodded without looking up from his station. “Aye, sir. Coordinates have been fed to the buoys. Standing by.”

  “Lieutenant M’Ress?” Scott prompted, looking over his shoulder to the communications station. “Ready?”

  The Caitian turned in her seat. “Yes, Mister Scott. All monitoring systems are on line, and I’ve established the link to both buoys’ frequencies.”

  “Send them on their way, Mister Sulu,” Scott ordered. As he watched the helmsman carry out the order, he imagined the pair of compact devices leaving the Enterprise from their launch tube on the underside of the secondary hull, careening away from the ship as they followed their prescribed courses toward their designated positions near the energy field’s outer boundary.

  Arex said, “Both buoys on course. Estimate reaching final positions in twelve seconds.” The Triexian pressed another control, and the image on the main viewscreen changed to a computer-animated representation of the energy field and the pair of buoys as they described independent arcs toward their prescribed coordinates.

  “Is the field reacting to their approach?” Scotty asked, frowning as he eyed the viewscreen.

  Hunched over the hooded scanner at the science station, Chekov replied, “I’m not picking up any new fluctuations, sir.”

  “It could be that they’re too small to attract any attention,” Sulu offered.

  “That could be,” Scott replied. He had not thought to consult any of the reports regarding Dolysia’s space exploration efforts as submitted by the Federation first-contact team. Perhaps there was something in there detailing the Dolysians’ initial studies of the energy barrier with unmanned probes and the field’s reactions to those attempts.

  It’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?

  An indicator tone sounded on Arex’s console, and the lieutenant said, “The probes have reached their designated positions and are now station-keeping.”

  “M’Ress, open a channel to Captain Kirk,” Scott ordered.

  “Aye, sir,” the lieutenant replied, entering the necessary commands to her console. With her left hand, she reached for her Feinberg receiver and inserted it into her ear. “Frequency open. Sending the hail now.”

  Instead of a response from the captain, there was only the sound of a wailing alarm. Scott flinched as it bellowed from recessed speakers around the bridge, loud enough to make him grit his teeth.

  “Turn that thing off!” he snapped, rising from the captain’s chair and looking to Chekov. “What’s happening?”

  The ensign was dividing his attention between the scanner and the science station’s other status displays. He dropped into his seat, both hands moving across the rows of controls as he worked. “Some kind of fluctuation in the buoys’ communications relay, sir. It’s like the signal’s being reflected back, but at an increased strength.” Then, Scott saw the younger man’s entire body tense before he shouted, “M’Ress, cut the signal!”

  Though she moved with startling speed, the Caitian’s response still was not quick enough. Just as she was reaching for her own console to sever the communication, status indicators at her station changed from green to red, and a litany of alert tones clamored for attention. M’Ress ignored them as she tapped several controls, and a moment later the annoying warning signals fell silent. As he moved around the captain’s chair and stepped toward her station, Scott was still able to see several of the status displays flashing in alternating shades of harsh crimson.

  “What went wrong?” he prompted, leaning past her and punching several controls as he called up a series of diagnostic protocols.

  M’Ress said, “Some form of feedback loop, sir.” She pointed to one of the status monitors. “The signal was refracted when it came into contact with the barrier. It generated a feedback pulse that almost overloaded our entire communications array. I was able to sever the connection, but it still managed to damage some of our systems.”

  Able to see that much just from his scrutiny of the console’s status monitors, Scott replied, “It doesn’t look too bad. Mostly circuit burnouts, but I guess we shouldn’t try broadcasting through the barrier again.” He shook his head. Though the damage from the signal surge was for all intents and purposes minor, it still would impede the ship’s communications abilities. His eyes lingered on the status message notifying him that long-range transmissions via subspace were compromised, preventing him from dispatching status updates—or requests for help—to Starfleet. “Notify engineering to assign a team to the repairs, Lieutenant. You take charge, and keep me informed.”

  “Aye, sir,” M’Ress acknowledged. She turned back to her console, and Scott heard her contacting Lieutenant Palmer, one of the Enterprise’s junior communications officers, to report to the bridge as her relief.

  Moving back to the command chair, Scott rested his left hand on its armrest, pondering whether he should retake the seat. With repairs—even minor ones—about to get under way, he knew he did not want to sit idle. His instinct was to put Sulu in charge so that he could oversee and perhaps accelerate the mending of the beleaguered communications system, but he dismissed the notion. He could justify leaving the bridge for an emergency, but his duty at the moment was here, and he would have to trust in M’Ress and his own staff to carry on without him looking over their shoulders.

  Easier said than done.

  The alert indicator at the center of the helm-navigation console flared red, accompanied by its dull beeping tone, at the same time that both Sulu and Arex looked over their shoulders in his direction.

  “Deflector screens just went up,” Sulu reported.

  Scott looked to Chekov, who was already manning the sensor viewer at his station. “Long-range sensors are detecting vessels approaching,” he said. When he twisted his body to look away from the viewer, Scott saw the apprehension on the ensign’s face. “Three ships, sir. Romulan.”

  “Birds of Prey?” Scott wondered aloud. “Or Klingon D-7s?”

  Chekov took an extra moment to study the sensor readings before answering, “Definitely not Klingon design, sir. Most likely Birds of Prey.”

  That was something of a relief, Scott decided. Though the Enterprise had already encountered Romulans crewing Klingon battle cruisers as the result of a technological exchange pact between the two powers, the most recent intelligence reports indicated that only a small number of the larger, more powerful vessels had been included in that trade. Given a choice, Scott would rather face the Romulans’ own warships.

  Well, maybe not three of them.

  “They’re not cloaked?” Arex asked.

  “No, sir,” Chekov replied, “and they’re definitely heading in this direction. I estimate their arrival within the hour.”

  Sulu added, “Probably looking for their missing ship.” He shook his head. “They’re not going to be very happy when they get here.”

  “Aye,” Scott said, “you can be sure of that. Lieutenant M’Ress, signal our liaisons for the Dolysian leadership council and the civilian mining company. Alert them to the current situation, and advise them that they should restrict all space traffic until further notice.”

  M’Ress said, “Acknowledged, but even such a short-distance communication will have some loss of signal clarity.”

  “Just make it clear enough to be understood,” Scott replied. “We’ll worry about the formalities and proper explanations later.”

  “T
hey’re not going to like that,” Chekov noted.

  Nodding, the engineer said, “I know, but the last thing we need is to offer up any easy targets.” Dolysian spacecraft would be susceptible to damage from Romulan weapons fired at even a minimal setting. He did not want to think about the results should one of the approaching warships elect to fire on an unshielded civilian freighter with the full might of its offensive weapons.

  He frowned as he once more regarded the energy field on the viewscreen. Somewhere beyond that barrier, Captain Kirk and the rest of the landing party waited, perhaps needing help from the Enterprise, and there was nothing Scott or anyone else could do at the moment to help them. Likewise, Scott himself was without the guidance he might have sought from the captain. Even if he could call for assistance from Starfleet, there was no way such aid would arrive in time to be of any practical use. Whatever happened in the next twelve minutes, it would fall to him to lead the way, and Captain Kirk would be counting on him to carry out that duty to the best of his ability.

  Releasing a small sigh of resignation, Scott moved to the command chair and sat.

  He had the conn.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  His lungs beginning to burn from extended exertion, Kirk sprinted down yet another stretch of underground tunnel, searching for threats. Despite the cool air permeating the complex, he still felt sweat beneath his clothes and running down the sides of his face. Slowing as he approached the next turn in the passageway, he pressed himself against the rock wall and peered around the corner. Perhaps ten meters away and mounted just beneath the ceiling at the corner of a three-way junction was another of the automated weapons placements. Unlike the last turret he had dispatched moments earlier, Kirk saw that this one was operational. The faint glow of its multidirectional motion sensor cast a faint crimson glow across the rock of the nearby walls. As for the weapon itself, it swiveled in a ninety-degree arc from left to right and back again, scanning the three segments of passageway before it.