Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  “Take cover!” Spock called out, and Uhura felt Boma dragging her toward the floor before the entire room vanished in a brilliant white light. No sooner had she thrown up an arm to shield her eyes than a piercing shriek assaulted her senses. The whine seemed to stab directly into her brain, and she pulled her hands to cover her ears as she curled into a fetal ball on the floor.

  Some . . . kind of . . . sonic . . . pulse . . . ?

  Though the effect lasted only seconds, the ringing sound continued even as the light faded and Uhura rolled onto her side to see that the room itself seemed to have been affected by the blast. The overhead lighting was flickering in mad fashion, while displays and control panels on various consoles around the room were blinking on and off. Even the cube hanging from the center of the ceiling seemed to be reacting to the attack, its multihued swirl of incandescent illumination now a flashing and stuttering frenzy.

  Looking toward the door, she saw dark figures charging into the room. She heard a dull, droning hum and looked up to see one of the Romulans firing his disruptor at the turret high on the wall, his targeted strikes successfully neutralizing the automated weapon. White spots continued to dance in her vision as she reached for the phaser on her hip, but the motion was arrested by a hand on her wrist. She looked up to see the face of a Romulan centurion scowling down at her from beneath a heavy gold helmet.

  As she was hauled to her feet, she saw Boma struggling with another Romulan. He was no match for the soldier’s greater strength, as the centurion twisted the lieutenant’s arm up and behind his back before slamming him face-first into a wall console. Boma grunted in pain as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

  Fighting against her own captor’s hold, Uhura jerked her head around to see McCoy already under guard. Johnson was faring better as he engaged a centurion in hand-to-hand combat. He blocked the enemy soldier’s punch before grabbing the Romulan’s arm and lashing out with his foot, kicking his opponent just below the right knee. Even with her compromised hearing the soldier’s cry of pain was still audible to Uhura, and she saw him stagger away from Johnson as another centurion moved in behind the security officer.

  “Watch out!” was all Uhura was able to say before the Romulan struck the back of Johnson’s head with the butt of his disruptor. The lieutenant collapsed, falling against a nearby console before dropping to the deck.

  On the other side of the room, Spock fought with another Romulan. The soldier was fast but Spock was faster, ducking under his opponent’s attack and reaching for the centurion’s exposed neck and shoulder. As the Romulan’s body went slack and Spock allowed him to sag to the floor, Uhura saw another figure approaching him from the doorway, weapon drawn and aiming it at him.

  “Spock!”

  As he turned toward the new threat, the Romulan, a female with short black hair, pointed her disruptor pistol at the first officer’s face, and he halted in place.

  “The automated systems within this complex may still react if I shoot you,” she said. “Please don’t force me to test their effectiveness.” She gestured to Spock with the muzzle of her disruptor. “You are the leader of this group, yes?”

  Holding his hands out and away from his body to demonstrate his surrender as one of the centurions relieved him of his phaser, Spock nodded. “I am. Commander Spock, first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise.”

  Her features softening as she smiled, the Romulan said, “Yes, of course. I should have recognized you, given how prominently you, your captain, and your vessel factor into so many of the reports I receive from my superiors. As it happens, I also failed to recognize your captain when I encountered him in the tunnels. Kirk, is it not?”

  “That is correct,” Spock said. “Is he injured?”

  Vathrael shrugged. “I do not know, nor do I care.” Raising her voice, she added, “I am Commander Vathrael, and I claim this facility in the name of the Praetor of the Romulan Empire. You and your party are my prisoners. Conduct yourselves like the proper Starfleet officers you are supposed to be, and you will be treated well.” She looked around the room at the centurions who had accompanied her, and her eyes locked on Uhura’s for a moment before she said, “Collect them and put them in that other room.”

  The Romulan guarding Uhura pulled her phaser from her belt and prodded her toward the adjacent chamber’s doorway, where she looked down to see Boma still unconscious on the floor. For the first time since the attack, it occurred to Uhura to look around the room until she saw the weapon turret, which had not been there before, having emerged from behind a wall panel above the bank of control consoles on the far side of the room. The cube hanging from the center of the ceiling was glowing brighter now, its swirling light patterns having grown more agitated. On the far wall, the torched remnants of the weapon turret sat, smoking.

  Why had the weapon not responded to the Romulans’ assault on the room? It took Uhura only a moment to realize that the enemy soldiers had refrained from using their disruptors at the outset of the surprise attack, relying instead on the flash grenade they had tossed into the room. That act had been enough to trigger the chamber’s security system and bring the turret out of hiding, but why had it not evoked a more aggressive response?

  “They tricked it,” she said, keeping her voice low. The sonic grenade, she decided, somehow must have impaired the turret’s sensors, preventing it from taking action once it was deployed. She wondered if the Romulans could have anticipated that effect, and might instead have benefited from a minor yet still decisive stroke of luck.

  Why can’t we get that kind of break?

  “I’m a doctor! Let me check Johnson and Boma!”

  Uhura turned to see McCoy eyeing the soldier guarding him with a menacing stare. He was looking past the centurion to his commander before indicating the centurion Johnson had wounded. “I can treat your man, too, if you’ll let me.”

  “See to my centurion first,” Vathrael replied.

  McCoy shook his head. “His leg is injured, but I doubt it’s life-threatening. Our people have head wounds. I need to determine their condition.”

  “Tell your physician to treat the centurion,” the Romulan commander said to Spock, “or I will order your officers killed.”

  Spock shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Commander.” Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “Doctor McCoy, please see to the centurion’s injuries.”

  Mumbling something under his breath that Uhura could not hear, McCoy moved past the Romulan guarding him to where the wounded centurion was sitting on the floor near one of the control consoles. The soldier eyed him with suspicion as the doctor knelt beside him.

  “Don’t worry, son,” McCoy said, his voice low. “I promise I’m not here to hurt you.” He held up his tricorder for Vathrael to see before opening its storage compartment and retrieving the small diagnostic scanner housed there. Activating the unit, he began waving it over the centurion’s leg. As he worked, other centurions collected Johnson and Boma and dragged them to the room, leaving them at Uhura’s feet. There was no door to close, but one of the Romulans took up station outside the room, positioned so that he could watch his charges while still keeping an eye on Spock and Vathrael. Kneeling beside Johnson, she reached for his neck to check for his pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the gentle throbbing beneath her fingers. The same was true for Boma, though there was a thin line of blood oozing from the back of his head.

  “Commander,” Spock said, “you need to be aware that a self-destruct protocol has been initiated. This entire facility is scheduled to be destroyed in fifty minutes and nineteen seconds.”

  Her eyes narrowing in doubt, Vathrael replied, “You will abort that protocol.”

  “I cannot,” the Vulcan said. “At least, not at present. We were in the process of determining how to do that before your arrival.”

  “Then you will continue that effort,” ordered the Romulan.

  Uhura saw Spock’s right eyebrow rise, his expression’s on
ly concession to the commander’s directive. “And what, precisely, will you do if and when we succeed in canceling the destruct protocol?”

  Stepping closer so that the tip of her disruptor was mere centimeters from the science officer’s face, Vathrael answered, “Whatever my praetor orders me to do.”

  “The Federation will not stand by while you attempt to annex the Dolysian people into your empire,” Spock said.

  “What the hell are you babbling about, Spock?” McCoy barked from where he continued to examine the injured Romulan. “If this place goes up, it could kill who knows how many Dolysians at the colony!”

  Without shifting his gaze from Vathrael, Spock replied, “I am aware of that, Doctor. Please keep your focus on your patients.” Then, he gestured to where Uhura knelt next to Johnson before saying to the Romulan commander, “Despite my own misgivings regarding your motivations, I cannot refuse to act when so many lives are at risk. Nor can I allow the loss of the irreplaceable information and technology contained within this facility.” Uhura saw the first officer pause, knowing he was weighing the lives of everyone in danger against the potential of losing the Kalandan outpost to the Romulans. If this were a Starfleet facility, the choice would be easy, made so by the fact that anyone wearing a uniform would know and have accepted the risks associated with their choice of career. The Dolysians, on the other hand, had made no such decision, but instead were at the mercy of a situation in which they had played no role. Beyond the potential for loss of life here on Gralafi, there was no way to predict the impact on the Dolysian homeworld. While there were tactical considerations so far as allowing the Romulans a chance to obtain and study the Kalandan technology, Uhura knew Spock, and was therefore certain how he would decide.

  “I will require Lieutenant Uhura’s assistance,” the Vulcan said.

  Uhura saw the skepticism in the commander’s eyes as she considered Spock’s request. Was she wondering what sort of trickery he might be attempting? That made no sense; surely the Romulan knew that Spock, like most Vulcans, would not employ deceit. On the other hand, Uhura had seen the first officer carry out what might be charitably described as misdirection. Might he be doing something like that now? She doubted it. There were just too many lives at stake, and Spock knew the best course of action, at least for the short term, was to continue the effort to override the destruct protocol and take that threat out of the equation. As for whatever strategy or other bold move might come next? To that, Uhura had no clue, and hoped Spock, at least, was thinking that far ahead.

  And that was when the situation, already complicated and uncertain, looked as though it might be ready to begin careening toward total chaos as Captain Kirk and Ambassador Sortino stepped into the room.

  THIRTY

  Standing just inside the control room’s entrance, the Starfleet captain and his female companion held their hands out from their sides, their empty palms demonstrating that they held no weapons. They made no attempt to reach for the phasers on their hips, though as he met her gaze Vathrael saw the determination in the captain’s eyes. The human’s audacity was, in a word, astonishing.

  “Commander,” he began, “my name is—”

  “Captain James Kirk,” Vathrael said, cutting him off even as Centurion Drixus moved toward him. “Fabled commander of the Enterprise.”

  Kirk said nothing as Drixus relieved first him and then the female of their phasers, though Vathrael noted how the captain watched the centurion’s movements as though gauging vulnerabilities or other openings to exploit. This one was dangerous, Vathrael decided. Prudence demanded she place both humans in custody, or even kill them. On the other hand, the information Kirk possessed on any number of subjects would be of certain interest to Fleet Command and even the Praetor himself. Delivering him as but one trophy of a successful mission could not help but elevate her standing in the eyes of her superiors.

  An interesting notion, she mused, assuming you survive the day.

  “Your reputation does indeed precede you, Captain,” she said. “Fleet Command’s file on you is rather extensive and illuminating, not to mention quite entertaining.”

  “I’m flattered,” Kirk replied as Drixus stepped away from him, still covering the captain and his companion with his disruptor. Vathrael watched his eyes scan the room, lingering at a point behind her, where she knew his subordinates were being held. Glancing in that direction, she saw that the other human female, one of Kirk’s crew, was kneeling beside the fair-skinned male in the red shirt, while the second male, darker-skinned and dressed in a blue uniform tunic, was pulling himself to a sitting position and holding one hand to the back of his head. Outside the room, the human doctor continued to hover over Centurion Sipal, and when he looked up from his work Vathrael saw him exchange glances with Kirk. The silent communication was evident even to her. No doubt the doctor and his captain were troubled over the welfare of their subordinates, and her theory was confirmed when Kirk spoke again, this time to his own first officer.

  “Spock,” he said, worry obvious in his tone and his features, “how are Johnson and Boma?”

  “Unknown, Captain,” replied the Vulcan.

  Returning his attention to Vathrael, Kirk said, “Commander, your injured soldier seems to be okay, thanks to my doctor. May he now treat my officers?”

  Vathrael considered the request, and saw no need to deny it. So long as his focus was solely on the safety of his people, Kirk would be resistant to any demands she placed upon him. Better to alleviate at least some of his concerns, and perhaps earn a small degree of trust. With that in mind, she looked to Centurion Betria and nodded. The doctor’s expression turned to one of gratitude as he eyed her.

  “Thank you,” he said, before Betria directed him to the room with his injured companions. That left Atrelis to guard Spock while Vathrael stepped closer to Kirk. Stopping several paces from him, she holstered her disruptor.

  “My name is Commander Vathrael, Captain. In all honesty, and though I say this with full knowledge that such comments might well be viewed as treasonous by at least some of my superiors, I have wanted to meet you for some time. Your Fleet Command file describes you as being quite intelligent and resourceful, if not impulsive and even a bit arrogant.” Of course, such adjectives routinely were employed when describing the commanders of Starfleet’s most powerful vessels, though Kirk’s name seemed to be the one most often associated with such behavior. “Even knowing that, I still wouldn’t have expected you to simply walk in here. You are either very brave or very stupid.” Pausing, she smiled. “I suspect it is actually some mixture of the two.”

  Kirk shrugged. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. Come to think of it, you’re not even the first person to tell me that today.”

  The comment raised an important question, and Vathrael forced herself not to curse as she realized it was something about which she should already have inquired. Her suspicion mounting, she said, “You weren’t skulking about the tunnels all alone. Where is the rest of your party?”

  “My security officer was killed during a firefight with some of your people,” the captain replied, and Vathrael observed how his jaw clenched and his eyes hardened as he spoke. “I think I may have injured your first officer. He’ll be okay, but his head’s probably going to be hurting for a day or so.”

  Her eyes narrowing in skepticism, she studied Kirk’s face and came to the conclusion that he was not lying. Despite any concern she felt for Sirad and the other members of her crew, Vathrael had no intention of giving the human any satisfaction from an emotional display. Still, the death of Kirk’s subordinate was not something in which she took pleasure.

  “I apologize for what happened to your officer, Captain. Though duty sometimes requires us to take life, it is not something I pursue with any enthusiasm.”

  Kirk appeared unconvinced by her apology. “Look, Commander,” he said, his voice turning hard and demanding, “we’re here because, by now, I’m sure Mister Spock’s informed
you that this entire facility is about to be destroyed.”

  “He has,” Vathrael replied, more than a bit taken aback by the captain’s sudden shift in demeanor, “and I’ve directed him to continue his efforts.” Looking to where Spock still stood, covered by Drixus, she said, “You may proceed.”

  “Spock, don’t,” Kirk snapped, and when Vathrael turned back to face him she saw the raw determination, even defiance, in the man’s eyes.

  Unable to resist a small smile, she asked, “Captain, surely you’re concerned for the safety of your crew, to say nothing of the people living on this planet?”

  “Of course, I am,” Kirk replied, “but living under Romulan rule isn’t exactly paradise, is it? Maybe I’m doing them a favor by not stopping this detonation.”

  He was being aggressive for a purpose, Vathrael concluded, perhaps to distract her from some other gambit he was attempting, but what could that be? “Drixus,” she called out, not taking her eyes off Kirk as she drew her disruptor and aimed it at Spock, thereby freeing her centurion for a new task. “Since the captain appears to be uncooperative, kill one of his subordinates.”

  “You do that,” Kirk said, “and you might as well kill us all, because I’ll stand here until the clock ticks down to zero or you shoot me, whichever comes first. Surrender now, and we’ll do what we can to abort the self-destruct. Refuse, and we all die.”

  Considering his brash demand, Vathrael shook her head. “Captain, please don’t confuse any admiration I have expressed with stupidity. Humans are notoriously weak-willed when it comes to such sacrifice.”

  “Don’t believe your propaganda,” Kirk snapped. “For the right reasons, we humans are more than capable of sacrificing ourselves, but we’d rather live. But if the difference between possibly living and certainly dying means doing something bold or even crazy, then so be it.”

  His expression changed, and he even shook his head as he regarded her with what Vathrael thought might be a small, grim smile of resignation. Only then did she comprehend the full meaning behind his words, and by that point Kirk’s hand was moving as though to reach for something.