by Judith
“I know that, Mr. Kyle. But the Enterprise is more than a ship, and right now I could do a lot more for her by being away from her.”
Kyle didn’t move. “Do you think the Captain’s all right?”
“Of course he is, lad,” Scott said, wondering if he could believe it as much as he wanted Kyle to. “But if I could get off this ship, I could find out for sure.”
Kyle nodded. The blue glow of his circuitplaser flared from the console as he readjusted the reassembly timing delays. This was another conversation they had had many times.
Scott decided he had better report to the hangar deck to make sure the pressure doors were working properly. He still couldn’t forgive Carole Mallett and Mario Cardinali for what they had done to the doors after the Enterprise had been set adrift. But before Scott could leave, in walked a young female ensign in services red and a Starbase 29 insignia, waving a simple, unicorder tracker in front of her.
“Pardon me, sir,” the woman said seriously. “But have you seen a scavenger drone in this area? We appear to have lost one nearby.”
“Aye, certainly,” Scott said cheerfully. “We did see one of the little fellas around here. Seemed to have a small malfunction or somesuch.”
The woman nodded with a knowing frown. “Ah, a small malfunction. That does happen from time to time.” She kept her gaze on Scott, though the engineer said nothing. “And excuse me one more time if I may, sir. But can you tell me where the…little fella is?”
“Why, he’s right over there, lass.” Scott pointed toward the transporter pad. “And I hope ye brought a broom.” Scott watched the ensign stare in disbelief at the tiny mound of drone components, no doubt wondering how the chief engineer would define a major malfunction. Then Scott left for the hangar and his next attempt to convince Vice Admiral Hammersmith that there was no place in Starfleet for such a willfully disobedient chief engineer as Montgomery Scott.
The huge curved doors of the ship’s hangar bay only opened halfway now. Their elegantly engineered folding segments had been deformed by the shuttle that had smashed through them, then further degraded by the thick sealant baffles that the starbase mechanics had roughly attached to repair the damage until the doors could be replaced.
Scott still couldn’t understand what had driven the two FCO managers to do what they had done. Approximately thirty minutes after the Enterprise had been blasted out of the timeslowing grip of Talin IV’s gravity-well wormhole, she was powerless and adrift. But even when Scott had taken command of the ship, he had not been concerned about the crew’s eventual rescue. After all, the hull was secure. Local battery networks could easily keep the air circulating and the gravity functioning for weeks. And once the FCO outpost picked up the Enterprise’s emergency beacon, the rescue shuttles from Starbase 29 were only four days away at maximum warp. So why had Mallett and Cardinali risked their careers in Starfleet—and the safe evacuation of the Enterprise’s crew—by virtually destroying the hangar deck?
Scott remembered passing Mallett and Cardinali in the ladderways as he and the medical technicians climbed their way to the bridge. The FCO pilot and communications manager had told Scott that everyone on the bridge was alive with no serious injuries, and then had said that they had to salvage their equipment. In the confusion of dealing with the crippled vessel, Scott had thought nothing of their apparent panic. He certainly had not suspected that they were both determined to abandon ship. But that was exactly what the two managers had done.
The three Wraith shuttles which had been stowed on the hangar deck were specifically designed to provide as few clues as possible about advanced technology should any of them crash, so except for their heavily armored antigrav generators and a sub-miniature subspace radio, there wasn’t a transtator in them. Whatever had rendered the Enterprise a drifting hulk had left the Wraiths’ major components untouched.
As far as Scott had been able to determine, Cardinali and Mallett had donned environmental suits, then rigged one Wraith to fly on autopilot straight through the inoperative hangar bay doors. Without deflector shields in place, the middle segments of the doors had shattered, explosively decompressing the bay. Cardinali and Mallett had then taken a second Wraith through the gaping hole and flown back to the FCO outpost on Talin’s moon. A few weeks later, after the outpost had been sealed and all personnel transferred back to Earth, Scott had heard that the two FCO managers had claimed they had been trying to get word back to the outpost to send for rescue ships as quickly as possible. That explanation just didn’t seem reasonable to Scott.
In the end, after his anger had cooled, he decided that they had just been frightened. But because of the damage they had caused to the hangar bay, shuttle evacuation had been impossible and it had taken more than a day for the rescue ships to beam the Enterprise’s crew to safety. Fear was one thing, but endangering lives was another. Scott hoped to one day tell them just what he thought of them and their cowardice. But in the meantime, he prepared himself to tell Vice Admiral Hammersmith exactly what he thought of a certain Starfleet vice admiral who wouldn’t accept resignations.
Scott watched from the hangar bay’s upper observation gallery as the vice admiral’s shuttle eased slowly through the partially opened doors and settled gently on a section of the deck where most of the debris had been cleared away. As the doors jerkily slid shut again, Lieutenant Styles joined him.
“What are you doing here when you should be repairing the transporter?” Styles snapped.
Scott no longer even made a pretense of being civil to Styles. He obeyed the man’s orders because the vice admiral had given Styles temporary command of the ship, he did his job as best as he was able; but he would be damned if he would pretend to respect the fool.
“I’m just making sure that the vice admiral isn’t sucked screaming out into space because the trained chimps ye have working the pressurization controls have confused the colors on the all-clear board.”
Styles slapped his swagger stick against his open palm a few times. “Mr. Scott, I am at a loss to understand why you continue to address me in this insubordinate manner. What have I ever done to you to deserve such insolence?”
It’s not what you’ve done to me, ye bandy-legged, spineless excuse for a starship captain, it’s what you’ve done to my ship. “I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you’re referring to, Lieutenant. Perhaps we veterans of a long space voyage are just a wee bit crustier than you’ve come to expect after your three short months on the Monitor.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent many years in space, Mr. Scott, and I have yet to hear highly trained Starfleet engineers refer to other highly trained Starfleet engineers as ‘trained chimps.’ ”
“Well, it just goes to show ye, sir…even the likes of you can learn something new every day.”
Styles slapped his stick into his hand and held it there. “Mr. Scott, I have tried to be patient with you. I understand what you must have gone through, serving on this ship for so many years, only to watch her nearly destroyed by some madman’s delusions of grandeur. But I—”
“Don’t you ever—I mean ever—talk about my captain like that again.” It was all Scott could do not to throttle Styles. “Lieutenant Styles, sir, I am a Starfleet officer and you are my commander, and I am sworn to obey you to the best of my ability. But a man has his limits, sir, and I canna stand by any longer and listen to you insult a man who is my friend. As one officer to another, sir, I ask that ye please keep your opinions to yourself so I can continue to do my job.”
As soon as Scott had said the words he knew they had been a mistake. Styles wasn’t a complete buffoon. Incompetents would never survive to his rank in Starfleet. He had just been remarkably insensitive. But now Scott had let him know exactly what it was that upset him so—he had revealed his weakness and Styles jumped on it instantly.
“Mr. Scott, while your misplaced admiration for a man who used to be your captain might be considered honorable by some, I want you to understand on
ce and for all that James Kirk is a traitor to Starfleet and the Federation. And we will not honor traitors aboard my ship.”
Scott gave up. There was no sense in continuing the fight against someone so closeminded. Let it be his ship, he thought. And welcome to her. One more drone to crawl around beeping and bumping with the others.
“I apologize for speaking out of turn, sir,” Scott muttered through gritted teeth. But even he knew the words meant nothing.
“That’s better, Mr. Scott.” Styles flipped his stick jauntily under his arm. “Now don’t you think you should be getting back to that transporter?”
“With all respect, sir, I do have business with the vice admiral.”
Styles rubbed the side of his face with the large end of the stick. The ready lights glowed green and red against his skin. “What business is that, Mr. Scott?”
“He has repeatedly turned down my resignation and I would like to discuss his reasons with him.”
“Resignation?” Styles said. “Why would you want to resign? You had nothing to do with what happened on Talin.”
I am a Starfleet officer, Scott told himself. I am a Starfleet officer. “And neither did James Kirk, sir. Nor Mr. Spock, nor Uhura, nor Chekov, nor Sulu, nor Dr. McCoy.”
“If you leave Starfleet, mister,” Styles said, punctuating every word by tapping Scott’s chest with his stick, “you’ll be saying that you’re no different from any of the Enterprise Five.”
Scott felt a wave of sudden inspiration hit him. “Aye, sir,” he said with a terrible smile, “that’s exactly what I’m saying.” And then he reached out and grabbed Styles’s swagger stick and snapped it over his knee.
Styles’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened and closed in shocked silence as he stared at the two pieces of his treasured memento on the deck.
But Scott felt free for the first time in months. He wondered if this was how McCoy had felt when he had swung on Hammersmith—filled with the certain knowledge that an irrevocable decision had been made. “And now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have business with the vice admiral who’s been standing around on the deck for the past five minutes wondering where his welcoming committee is.”
Scott smiled fiercely again as he saw the ready lights wink out on the stick, then left. He was sure he heard Styles sob behind him.
Vice Admiral Hammersmith was a powerfully built human with skin darker than Uhura’s. His gold shirt was pulled tightly over bunched muscles and Scott was impressed that McCoy had actually gone so far as to hit him. But perhaps that was why the doctor had chosen Hammersmith and not some other officer. It wasn’t as if McCoy could ever have hoped to actually hurt the man.
The vice admiral smiled as Scott approached him on the hangar deck. “Ah, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, I presume.” His voice was deep and he held out a massive hand.
“Vice Admiral Hammersmith,” Scott said, pumping hands vigorously with him. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise.”
Hammersmith stepped away from his shuttle as three of his staff began offloading equipment cases and supplies. He motioned for the chief engineer to follow him and glanced around the cavernous hangar bay, assessing the damage still un-repaired. “Mostly superficial,” he said. “Pocket ruptures from the explosive decompression, but serviceable.”
Scott was impressed. “Aye, that’s true.”
“See?” Hammersmith said. “I read everything you send me. Not just your resignation requests.” He looked around again. “Where is Lieutenant Styles?”
“I have just broken a piece of the lieutenant’s personal property,” Scott said matter-of-factly. “And I believe he is too upset to make an appearance at this time.”
Hammersmith shook his head. “What is it about you Enterprise people?” He held up his hand. “No, don’t answer. Believe it or not, Engineer, I do understand why you want to submit your resignation. And I am prepared to accept it.”
Scott had expected anything but that. “Why, thank you, sir.”
“But not quite yet.”
Naturally, Scott thought in frustration. “Then could you tell me when, sir?”
“Well, that’s up to you, Engineer. How soon can you get this ship operational again?”
If Hammersmith were about to commission another feasibility study, Scott thought he would scream. He was supposed to work with machines, not paper. “Have you made your decision about her repair, then, sir?”
Scott was surprised again when Hammersmith nodded. “That’s why I’m here. We’re going to tow her out of system tomorrow and detach the port nacelle.”
“And what if the warp reaction is still linked to the planet’s gravity well?” Scott asked. “What if she slingshots?”
Hammersmith’s eyes sparkled. “The experts who have been studying what they call the dimensional evaporation of the nacelle tell me that there is an eighty-five-percent chance that that is exactly what will happen. The instant the port nacelle is detached, they say that it will be drawn completely into the Cochrane subset at about warp eight point seven. At the same time, the remainder of the ship will also be accelerated to the same velocity in the opposite vector, but in normal, three-dimensional space where such velocities are against all the laws of nature.” Hammersmith chuckled. “The experts tell me that the Enterprise will spread herself out over a spectacular starbow effect about a light-minute long, then explosively transform herself into…well, neutrinos or tachyons, depending on which day of the week it is and which expert’s name comes first.”
Scott was tired of this nonsense. “And do you believe them?”
“I believe in specialists doing the work they specialize in, Engineer. And I also believe in being prepared.”
“Sir?”
“At this moment, the Exeter is en route from Earth at warp six. She is rigged with a cargo sling and carries the two Constitution-rated warp nacelles that were intended for the Intrepid II.”
Despite himself, Scott felt a rush of excitement. Those nacelles could make this ship whole again. “That’s quite a trip for the sake of a ship that might be a handful of neutrinos by the time the Exeter gets here.”
“In addition to the experts’ reports, Engineer, I’ve also read yours. I forget the technical details, but there was something about it being a cold day in Hades the day there would ever be a partial warp transition.”
“Aye, that it would, sir.”
Hammersmith’s expression became intent. “I will confess that committing the Exeter to this run—and completely disrupting the construction schedule for the Intrepid II—is a gamble. Because I really don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow when we blow that nacelle.”
“That’s all right, sir, I do. And it’s not a gamble.”
“That’s one of the things I’ve been looking forward to discussing with you. Why do you have the presumption to think you know something that twenty of Starfleet’s best scientists refuse to consider?”
Scott shrugged. “Because they’re scientists, sir, and I’m an engineer. I’ve worked with this ship every day for almost the past five years, sir. I can tell what’s going on inside her generators just by listening to them. And I was onboard the Enterprise when she was attacked.”
“Now that I do know something about, Engineer. Nuclear detonations—even in an atmosphere—don’t do this to a ship.” Hammersmith waved his hand at the debris and exposed coils of power harness poking through ruptured wall plates.
“The Enterprise was attacked by more than just nuclear warheads, sir.” Why not tell him the rest? Scott asked himself. It was probably the first and last time he’d be able to discuss his theory with an intelligent superior officer who had no vested interest in personally commanding the Enterprise.
Hammersmith chewed on his lower lip. “More than nuclear weapons? You haven’t put that in any of your reports, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, because I don’t recall having heard that before. What else was the Enterprise attacked by?”
Hammersmith closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “As I understand it, such an attack would be completely beyond the technological capabilities of the Talin. Is that correct?”
“Aye, sir, it is.”
“And furthermore, such an attack would be completely beyond our technological capabilities. Is that also correct?”
“Aye, sir. I believe that is true.”
Hammersmith walked back to his shuttle. His three staff members had finished stacking the cases they had offloaded. Now they were talking to a group of starbase mechanics who were supposed to be working on repairs to the shuttle elevator and turntable so that the undamaged shuttles in the maintenance shops below the hangar deck could be returned to active duty. But as was typical, Scott saw, the temporary workers had none of the urgency of the Enterprise’s real crew.
Hammersmith waved to his staff to let them know that he didn’t require them at the moment, then opened a small case on the top of the stack to bring out a portable terminal. “Why wasn’t this subspace ‘attack’ mentioned at the board of inquiry hearings?” the vice admiral asked.
“Because no one knew back then,” Scott explained. “With the master nodes fused, the general scans of the ship gave the same results as if every circuit had gone. It was only when the shipwright drones came aboard and started trying to remove damaged equipment that we realized that the damage wasn’t as extensive as we thought—just precisely selective.”
“We?” Hammersmith asked. “Does Styles know about this?”
“No, sir. He doesn’t seem to care too much about what has happened in the past. He’s only interested in taking command of this ship sometime in the future.”
“Nothing wrong with ambition, Mr. Scott. Now who’s this ‘we’?”
“Lieutenant Kyle, sir. Chief transporter technician. One of the original crew.”