Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Suddenly, the android remembered.

  One of the early confrontations with the Klingons. Three Federation vessels facing greater odds. One crippled almost immediately.

  And in the end, the Federation ships had all been destroyed.

  It had been required reading at the academy. For months, a young Jim Kirk had puzzled over it, seeking a way out for the Federation ships. And finally, late one night, he'd vaulted out of bed with the answer.

  Of course, that had been a long time ago. Being human, he might have forgotten.

  If the Enterprise carried out its part of the plan—without the other ships carrying out theirs—Kirk's ship would be left a sitting duck. And, suddenly, a destroy priority for the Romulans.

  "Sir?" prodded Spock. "Shall I alert the weapons room?"

  Kirk scowled. He saw his allies starting to leave the viewscreen, passing him on either side. He saw the Romulans growing larger as they came on in pursuit.

  "Captain?"

  His teeth grated as he made his decision.

  "Yes, it was a clever maneuver, T'ouru. But one that achieved nothing. They are still the hunted. See—our ships have them in their sights once more. And this time, they have herded the Federation vessels back to us." T'bak allowed himself a thin smile. "We will crush them between us."

  For the first time, the commander felt confident of victory. He had doubted himself at every juncture, second-guessed his own instincts. But in the final analysis, his instincts had been correct. Or correct enough.

  And the elder factions in the Praetorate had been wrong. The Federation could be beaten. Their technology was sufficient.

  Nor had the Kirk clone changed matters substantially. All he could do was run from their superior numbers—like any other Federation dog.

  T'bak looked up at his subcommander. "You are silent, T'ouru. Savoring the victory?"

  But it was not eager anticipation T'bak noted on his officer's face. T'ouru's brow was deeply furrowed, his eyes slitted with concentration.

  It annoyed T'bak to see his subcommander so distracted. So pensive. The time for that was past.

  "What is it, T'ouru? Speak."

  For a time, the older man remained silent, watching the viewscreen, his eyes glinting with reflected light. Then those same eyes widened with a cold, crawling dread.

  "The ships must veer off," he cried, his voice rising in intensity. He locked T'bak's shoulder in an iron grip—a grip born of desperation. "Order them to change course!"

  T'bak glanced from T'ouru to the viewscreen and back again. Yet he saw nothing that could have alarmed his subcommander.

  "I don't understand," he said. "We have a clear advantage over—"

  "The Enterprise," T'ouru growled. "It's a trap!"

  T'bak rounded on the screen again, halfway out of his command seat. Realization tasted like bitter metal in his mouth.

  He leaned over past T'ialla and slammed down on the communications console—instantly opening channels to the other ships. They were already well within the range of the Enterprise—but perhaps there was still time.

  Three faces sprang up on the auxiliary monitors—the curious, slightly surprised faces of those who commanded the other ships.

  "Veer off!" bellowed T'bak. "The Enterprise is armed. I repeat, veer. . . ."

  But it was too late. As he watched in horror, his birds-of-prey cruisers were enveloped in sheets of close-range phaser fire. Photon torpedoes ripped into their smooth, polished hulls.

  All three ships emerged from the web of deadly fire. But in the next moment, the M'sarr—its shields already weakened from its earlier skirmish with the Enterprise—showed that it had not emerged unscathed. First, its engine deck blew up in a flare of red light. Then a larger explosion tore the battle cruiser to bits.

  T'bak swallowed.

  No …

  "Commander," came an anguished cry from the Brak'makh. "The hull has been breached. We are losing life support."

  "Heavy losses on all decks," groaned the subcommander of the Ar'kalid. "Impulse power cut in half."

  T'bak lowered himself back into his seat. He felt numb, disoriented.

  And the two remaining Federation starships were bearing down on the Ka'frah.

  "Take evasive action," advised T'ouru. "Now, Commander—while we still can."

  Slowly, a red rage boiled up inside T'bak. It drowned out the wisdom of T'ouru's words. But it steadied him—enabled him to act.

  "No," he snapped. "We will meet them—and destroy them." He darted a glanced at his helmsman. "Full thrust," he ordered. "Dead ahead—seven-three-four-mark-nine-two."

  "Yes, my lord," said the officer, complying.

  The Ka'frah leaped forward, closing with the Federation ships at dizzying speed.

  "Weapons," T'bak said, punching the proper stud on his armrest, never taking his eyes off the viewscreen.

  "My lord?"

  "Prepare to fire on our enemies."

  "Ready, Commander. We have range."

  T'bak gripped the arms of his command chair, letting the rage carry him, consume him. Blind him.

  "Fire!" he roared.

  Phasers and photon torpedoes carved furrows of light into the star-pricked blackness. A number of them found their targets, shattering against deflector shields.

  Then the Federation vessels retaliated. The viewscreen erupted with an image of raw, destructive force.

  But the image was nothing compared to the reality that followed.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  IMMEDIATELY AFTER THEIR RUN, the Federation ships looped around to stand by the Enterprise. After all, when the Romulans gathered themselves, the disabled ship was their most likely target.

  But there was no counterstrike—at least, not right away. Two of the three remaining birds-of-prey—including the Ka'frah—seemed hardly to be moving at all. And the third had only positioned itself to provide cover for the first two.

  It was something of a stalemate, it seemed to Kirk. He and Ascher couldn't leave the Enterprise defenseless. But neither could the Romulans leave each other.

  "Mister Paultic," said the captain. "I'd like a word with Commander T'bak."

  "Aye, sir."

  A few seconds later, the screen filled with an image of the Ka'frah's bridge. It was in frenetic disarray. Sparks rained from ruined circuitry overhead. Officers rushed this way and that, shouting orders, directing the removal of the injured.

  Nor was the figure in the command seat that of T'bak. It was that of an older man, doing his best to ignore a bloody gash in his cheek.

  "This," said the Romulan, "is Subcommander T'ouru."

  "Where's T'bak?" asked Kirk.

  "He has been incapacitated. I am command now." He paused to listen as a fellow officer bent to whisper in his ear. Then he addressed the captain again. "What is it you want?"

  "What I want," said Kirk, "is to end this. Certainly, there's been enough blood spilled to satisfy everyone concerned."

  "That there has," agreed T'ouru. "But if you are asking me to surrender, it is a waste of time. I will not."

  Kirk eyed him. This T'ouru was a more experienced officer than T'bak, he judged. Possibly, he could be reasoned with.

  "Then I won't ask for surrender," said the captain. "What about a different sort of agreement—a truce? A mutual cessation of hostilities?"

  The Romulan grunted. "You were always free to leave," he said. "Go—we will not stop you."

  Kirk shook his head. "We can't go—not yet. The Enterprise is adrift, as you can see for yourself. But you can leave. None of your ships has lost engine power completely."

  T'ouru frowned. "There is still the matter of the freighter. It is our duty to bring it back with us."

  Kirk shrugged. "As you have no doubt noticed, the freighter is slowly making its escape now that it is free of your tractor beam."

  "Yes," said T'ouru. "We are aware of that. But it is still within range of our weapons—as you have no doubt noticed."

  "A
re you also aware," asked Kirk, "that the freighter is in Federation space now?" He leaned back. "Or that you yourselves are?"

  T'ouru's eyes narrowed. He consulted with his navigator. And found Kirk's claim to be the truth.

  "It was the flow of battle that drew us this way," said the subcommander. "A battle that would have been unnecessary were it not for the trespass of your freighter."

  "Nonetheless," said the captain, "your position violates the provisions of the treaty. So even if I concede, for the moment, that the freighter may have ventured into Romulan territory … it seems we now have two violations."

  T'ouru grunted again. "One may say so. Are you suggesting that two such violations may cancel each other out?"

  Kirk nodded. "Something like that. What do you think?"

  T'ouru thought about it for what seemed like a long time. "Yes," he said at last. "I am in agreement."

  "Then you will leave peacefully? Return to Romulan space?"

  "We will. And you vow not to fire on us as we do so?"

  "You have my word, Subcommander."

  T'ouru snorted. "Good. See that you keep it."

  And with that, the Romulans terminated the transmission.

  For a moment, there was silence on the bridge. Then Captain Ascher cut in.

  "Good work, Jim."

  Kirk nodded to the bodiless voice. "Thanks, Seth. But the tough part is still ahead of me. Stand by."

  Kirk got up and came around his chair, headed for the communications station.

  "Sir?" asked Paultic.

  The captain leaned over the control board, one hand on the back of Paultic's chair. He took a deep breath.

  This had better work, he thought.

  "Get me Lieutenant Uhura on the Enterprise. And only Lieutenant Uhura. If anyone else answers, abort the communication."

  Paultic nodded. His hands traveled expertly over the console. And in a matter of seconds, he looked up.

  "Got her," he said. "It's her operating code."

  "Ask her not to report our signal," said Kirk. "Say it's of the utmost importance."

  The lieutenant nodded again, did as he asked. "She's signaling compliance," he said after a moment.

  "Good. Now let me speak to her."

  "I know you can't say anything, Uhura, so just listen. I need your help—and I'm gambling that you'll give it to me."

  Uhura looked around the bridge. So far, no one had noticed her preoccupation with the control console. They were too busy trying to figure out what the Romulans would do next.

  "The accusations I made earlier were true—though I don't dare try to prove them. At first, I thought there was only one android, but I see now there are a number of them. Exposed for what they are, they'd stop at nothing to preserve themselves—wreck the entire ship, if need be. So I can't stage a confrontation."

  A pause.

  "All I can do, Uhura, is ask you to listen to your heart. Weigh what you saw of me on the viewscreen against what you've seen of my double."

  Another pause.

  "Will you help me, Uhura?"

  She tapped out a response in the affirmative.

  "Good. Damned good. Now, in order for the androids to be created, our people had to be beamed down to a duplication site. Was there a landing party dispatched anytime after you left Tranquillity Seven?"

  She signaled that there had been.

  "All right. Anyone that went planetside could have been duplicated and replaced. Can you tell me how many people that represents?"

  Uhura thought for a moment, input the information into her console.

  She heard Kirk curse on the other end.

  "Spock is one of them, isn't he?"

  Yes.

  "And Sulu? Chekov?"

  Yes. And yes again.

  "What about Scotty?"

  No.

  "Doctor McCoy?"

  No.

  "Damn," said Kirk. "There's got to be a quicker way than this."

  There was. And she didn't wait for the Dunkirk's communications officer to suggest it. Hooking up a line to the computer, she called for the list of all those who'd gone out in the shuttlecraft.

  "Uhura—Paultic here says you can transmit a—wait, we're getting it now. You're one step ahead of us, Lieutenant."

  She scanned the list at the same time they did. It chilled her to see all those names amassed one on top of the other. It gave weight to them. Solidity. Reality.

  She glanced at the captain again—the android duplicate of the captain, she reminded herself—and saw that he was still distracted. This time, by a call from someone on the ship. Doctor McCoy, pleading again for assistance? Or Scotty, trying to convince Kirk to change his mind about the hull repair?

  "Blast it all, Uhura, this is exactly what we need." The captain's enthusiasm came through loud and clear. "Now, you can do one thing more—spread the word. Talk to people you can trust. Let them know the situation—and that there will soon be a chance to do something about it."

  Affirmative.

  "Just take care you don't get caught—and I mean that. Be careful, Uhura."

  She couldn't help but smile to herself.

  Aye, sir.

  "Lieutenant?"

  She looked up, her spine suddenly turned to jelly. Spock was looming in front of her, his eyes seeming to bore into her consciousness.

  "Yes, Mister Spock?" She forced the words out even as her fingers flew, breaking the connection with the Dunkirk. . . .

  "The captain," said Spock, "asked you to contact the Potemkin. Did you not hear him?"

  "I …" She steadied her voice. "I was trying to listen in on the Romulans, sir. Hoping that they would fail to scramble their messages."

  "Laudable," said the first officer. "But now you have other orders."

  She nodded, set about establishing contact with the other ship. She could almost feel Spock's scrutiny as she worked. Then, midway through her call sequence, she stopped—closed her eyes and allowed herself to slump in her chair.

  "What's going on there?" It was Kirk's voice.

  "Uhura seems to have fainted," answered Spock. She could feel his fingers closing about her shoulders. He shook her a little.

  "Lieutenant?"

  She opened her eyes, feigning disorientation.

  "Mister Spock? What happened?"

  "Obviously," he said, "your injury has caught up with you. Call for a replacement and report to sickbay."

  Uhura nodded, still pretending to be groggy. "Aye, sir. Right away."

  By the time K'leb reached sickbay, he was tired and sore and out of breath. But he had vowed not to put his friend down until it was on one of Doctor M'Koy's tables.

  The doors were wide open. Along with half a dozen others—a couple with burdens like his and the rest themselves injured—he made his way through them.

  Inside, all was chaos. The lights were dim and flickering, a result of the damage inflicted by the Romulans. There were medical personnel rushing every which way, armed with devices that K'leb couldn't even begin to guess the use of. He shifted K'liford's weight on his shoulder, found that it didn't help any, and tried to pick out an empty examining table.

  But there weren't any empty ones to be found. At least, not here in the basic-care area. Doing his best to suppress a groan, K'leb lumbered through the press of bodies, past a series of empty, darkened offices, to the place where M'Koy himself had been cared for. It was two rooms down and to the …

  Just as he came through the shadowy entranceway, he bumped into someone—someone tall and solid. It was all he could do to keep from dropping K'liford.

  K'leb looked up—into the face of K'risteen Chap'l. He was about to ask her for help in his broken English … when he felt that same void in her that he had sensed in the captain. That same, cold emptiness where her emotions should have pulsed.

  In that first fraction of a second, he knew her for what she was.

  Nor did it escape her notice that he knew.

  Possibly, he could have
dropped K'liford and escaped her. But he hung on to his friend as he tried to whirl away—and it proved his undoing.

  Chap'l grabbed his upper arm in a grip stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. It was like metal come to life.

  K'leb tried to cry out, but her other hand came down over his mouth. And in the confusion, the cacophony of pain that permeated sickbay, no one noticed.

  Slowly, inexorably, she began to drag him deeper into the critical-care area. Deeper into the shadows …

  The P'othparan struggled, but he couldn't pull free. And now, when he tried to drop K'liford—hoping to spare him whatever fate Chap'l intended for them—the demon caught the crewman by the wrist.

  And dragged both of them into the recesses of the half-darkened enclosure.

  With his free arm, K'leb beat at her. Tried to pull loose the hand that covered his mouth. Kicked at her legs, attempted to hook a foot around the base of a diagnostic fixture.

  It gained him nothing. They were enveloped in darkness now, where their bodies might go undiscovered for some time. Until the rest of the injured filled sickbay to capacity …

  … and even then, they would be written off as casualties of war …

  Suddenly, Chap'l dropped K'liford—leaving her two hands to deal with K'leb. He felt the bones of his wrist threaten to break as she raised him up into the air.

  Then, letting go with one hand, she found purchase for it around his throat. And as her fingers tightened, cutting off his breath, making his pulse thunder in his ears, he wished he'd been left to die back on P'othpar … in a place he knew … and not on some strange vessel that traveled among the stars. . . .

  But before the demon could choke the life out of him, before the strength left his limbs altogether—something happened. And before he knew it, K'leb was coiled up on the floor, gasping to fill his lungs with air, suffering the agony of its passage through his tortured windpipe.

  When he looked up, he saw two familiar faces through the tears that had filled his eyes. One was Dok'tor M'Koy himself.

  The other was U'hura. And she held something in her hand that he thought he recognized. Wasn't it the device that the security officers carried?

  "Damn it to hell," breathed M'Koy, staring down at the crumpled form of K'risteen Chap'l. "You were right, Uhura."