by Greg Cox
“A reasonably accurate description,” Spock confirmed. “In any event, they are not known to be hostile and should, in theory, pose little threat to a Constitution-class starship.”
Kirk wondered if Spock had pulled this information from the ship’s computer or his own formidable memory. “Thank you, Mister Spock. Always useful to know who we’re dealing with.”
He signaled Uhura to restore the audio.
“Please hurry!” Papa Yela pleaded. “Our ship is falling apart . . . and my mate is about to give birth to our litter! Our babies are in danger,” Papa Yela insisted. “They may not live to take their first breaths!”
“That’s not going to happen,” Kirk said forcefully. “Trust me.” His face hardened into a portrait of resolve. “Enterprise out.”
The alien’s bewhiskered countenance vanished from the viewer, replaced by the starry void ahead. Kirk couldn’t see the border of the Neutral Zone nearby, but he knew it was there—beyond the point of no return.
“A word of caution, Captain.” Santiago leaned over the rail surrounding the command circle. “I’ve learned from hard experience that alien races cannot always be trusted, especially those in bed with Klingons. We can’t rule out that this is a deliberate attempt to manipulate us.”
“I am well aware of that, Commissioner,” Kirk assured him. “This isn’t my first distress call.”
He regretted that Santiago’s aide was not around to keep his boss in line, but Cyril Hague was apparently back in his quarters, buried under in administrative work. Kirk couldn’t help wishing that Santiago also was pushing paper at the moment, instead of second-guessing him in the middle of an emergency. In general, Kirk had little patience with pushy bureaucrats who interfered with the running of his ship.
“Captain?” Uhura said. “The Mavela are getting more anxious. What shall I tell them?”
Kirk didn’t need long to think about it. “Mister Sulu, plot a course for the O’Spakya.”
“In the Neutral Zone?” Santiago asked. “Do you really want to do that?”
Kirk crossed over to the science station to consult with his first officer. “Spock, your thoughts?”
“The risk of provoking a confrontation with the Klingons is undeniable,” the Vulcan said. “But, as a certain starship captain once said, risk is our business.”
Kirk chuckled. “I like the way you think.” Treaty or no treaty, he wasn’t about to abandon a ship in distress just because it might be a trap. There were too many lives at stake to play it safe. “Lieutenant Uhura, inform the Mavela that we’re on our way. Mister Chekov, raise shields.” He nodded at Sulu. “Warp factor six.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sulu said dubiously. “Into the Neutral Zone we go.”
“This is on your head, Kirk,” Santiago said, “if something goes wrong. And if Seven falls into the hands of the Klingons.”
Tell me something I don’t know, Kirk thought.
Twenty
Stars zipped past at warp speed.
“Crossing into the Neutral Zone,” Sulu announced. He glanced back at Kirk, as though giving the captain one last chance to change his mind. This was a risky move, of the sort that could cost an officer his career. Everybody knew Sulu hoped to command his own ship someday. Breaking major treaties wasn’t generally considered a plus on one’s resume.
“Hold her steady, Lieutenant,” Kirk said. Having made up his mind, he wasn’t going to waste time second-guessing himself. Nearly two hours had passed since they had first received the O’Spakya’s distress signal, and he was eager to reach the endangered ship. The icy vacuum of space could be cruelly unforgiving for a damaged vessel. Every minute counted. “Yellow alert.”
Caution lights lit up the helm and navigation stations. Throughout the ship, emergency systems were placed on standby. Routine sensor sweeps increased in frequency. Additional personnel reported to their posts.
“Wouldn’t know this was the Neutral Zone,” McCoy drawled. The doctor had hurried up from sickbay to check out the situation. He contemplated the starry gulf upon the viewer. “Looks just like ordinary space to me. Cold, black, and empty.”
“What were ye expectin’?” Scotty asked him. He was manning the engineering station, while his protégé, Lieutenant Charlene Masters, held down the fort in engineering. “A picket fence with a grand big ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign posted on it?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” McCoy said. “Back home, where I grew up, we used to say that good fences made good neighbors.”
Chekov’s alert eyes scoured the screen. “I think the Klingons prefer dead neighbors.”
“The Klingons are rather more complicated than that,” Seven commented as she stepped from the turbolift onto the bridge. “But it is true that they are not known for taking prisoners.”
Her arrival caught Kirk by surprise. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“In light of the present crisis, Doctor McCoy thought it best to wake me,” she explained. One hand held on to the pack containing the fragments, which she was understandably reluctant to part with. She placed herself at the auxiliary science station, next to Spock. “And I confess that I have grown weary of sickbay. No offense, Doctor.”
“None taken,” McCoy said. He lowered his voice to confide in Kirk. “Figured she ought to be up and about in case things go south in a hurry. Stuck in artificial hibernation, she’d be a sitting duck if we had company . . . and something happened to the rest of us.”
“Understood,” Kirk said, approving of the doctor’s decision. He wouldn’t want to be out cold during an unauthorized jaunt into the Neutral Zone either. “Lieutenant Uhura, any signs that the Klingons have noticed our incursion?”
“Not yet,” she reported. “I’m not picking up any unusual activity or alerts. Of course, they could be communicating on an encrypted channel. Or maintaining audio silence.”
“True enough,” Kirk agreed. The absence of any obvious alarms was no guarantee that the Klingons were unaware of their arrival. “Keep your ears open, Lieutenant.”
“I always do, sir.”
Kirk knew he could count on Uhura to keep him posted on what the Klingons were up to. He reminded himself that the Neutral Zone extended for light-years across the quadrant; not even the Klingons could patrol every centimeter of it every second of the day, or get an armada to this sector at a moment’s notice.
If we’re lucky, he thought, we can get in and out without a fight.
When had things ever been that easy?
“Never mind the Klingons,” Scotty said. “Personally, I’m more worried about the Orions. My gut tells me we have not seen the last of those brigands.”
“Gut feelings are rarely scientific,” Spock observed.
Scotty shrugged. “Would ye care to make a wee wager on the subject? Fifty credits say we run into the ruffians again.”
McCoy stared at the doughty engineer incredulously. “Good God, man. Are you seriously taking bets on whether we’ll be attacked by pirates?”
“And why not?” Scotty asked. “Might as well make things interestin’.”
“The question is academic,” Spock said. “Vulcans do not gamble.”
Besides, Kirk thought, it’s a sucker bet. Captain Habroz and his crew weren’t going to give up after one failure. Annika Seven, and the knowledge she possessed, were too valuable a prize, as Commissioner Santiago surely agreed. Kirk noted that Seven was maintaining a polite distance from Santiago, who was watching her like a hawk. She chose to focus on the auxiliary science displays instead.
“I suppose that figures,” Scotty said. “Can’t blame a fellow for tryin’, though.”
Kirk chuckled at Scotty’s audacity. If nothing else, the exchange had helped lighten the atmosphere on the bridge, despite (or perhaps because of) McCoy’s indignant reaction. Kirk caught Sulu and Chekov exchanging amused grins.
If ever we need a morale officer, Kirk thought, I think I know the right man for the job.
“What about you, Doctor?” Scotty ask
ed, pressing his luck, as he often did his engines. “Are ye a bettin’ man?”
Before McCoy could reply, Spock got back to business. “The O’Spakya is within visual range, Captain.”
“On-screen,” Kirk ordered. “Full magnification.”
Half-expecting to see a Klingon warbird, or perhaps the hostile Orion marauder from before, he was relieved to discover a much less intimidating vessel up ahead. As it turned out, the O’Spakya was more gaudy than imposing. A gilded masthead, in the semblance of a noble bloodhound, adorned the tapered prow of the merchant ship, whose hull was liberally decked out with garish neon-colored tiles and an excess of shiny gold filigree and trim. Rows of bright yellow running lights lit up every angle of the ship. The gaudy trappings might have been intended to distract the casual viewer from the generally ramshackle appearance of the ship, which Kirk judged to be at least a generation old. Its outdated configuration consisted of a long tapered cylinder with a bulging sphere halfway down its length, so that it looked as though the ship was trying to digest an oversized melon. A pair of dormant nacelles, jutting out at angles from the tail of the cylinder, appeared purely decorative at the moment. The merchanter was drifting rudderless through space, just as Papa Yela had described. Vapor vented from a crumpled Bussard collector. Kirk noted that the O’Spakya was only a third the size of the Enterprise. In theory, they would be able to evacuate the smaller ship’s entire crew if necessary.
“Tactical status?” Kirk asked.
Chekov scanned the becalmed vessel. “Shields down. Phaser banks inactive. Not much in the way of weapons, actually. Just some rudimentary phasers for self-defense and blasting away obstacles.” His tone was dismissive. “It’s a circus wagon, not a fighter.”
That fit with Spock’s description of the Mavela, yet Kirk wasn’t taking anything for granted. “Appearances can be deceiving. Update your firing solutions.”
“Aye, Keptin.”
Kirk inspected the battered merchanter, which looked as though it had been dragged through an asteroid field or two. Many of its running lights were shattered, while a lateral sensor array was a mangled wreck. Color ceramic tiles had flaked off across its hull. He recalled the Mavela’s supposed powers of clairvoyance. Guess they didn’t see this one coming.
Just as well. He already had one reluctant oracle on his hands. Seven refrained from comment as she silently observed the image on the viewer. Her inscrutable expression offered no clue as to what she knew—or didn’t know—about this incident . . . if it had even happened in the time line she came from. Having a tight-lipped time traveler aboard, he reflected, could drive you nuts if you thought about it too hard.
He turned toward Santiago instead. “Tell me, Commissioner. In your travels, have you ever encountered the Mavela before?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain. We’re in murky territory here . . . in more ways than one.”
“Best not to waste any time, then,” Kirk said. “Mister Scott, what do you make of the damage to the O’Spakya?”
The engineer squinted at the screen. “Hard to say without gettin’ up close and personal, but it looks genuine to me. Ye can see traces of scorched duranium through the rips in the outer plating. Sensors confirm they’re venting deuterium. That sorry lassie’s definitely seen better days.” He scratched his chin. “Then again, it’s still in one piece. That’s something, at least.”
“Fixable?” Kirk asked.
“Everything’s fixable, Captain,” Scotty boasted, “if ye know what ye’re doin’. Give me a little time, and I ought to be able to get the poor girl patched up again. If the engines aren’t bollixed enough, I might even fix it so they can limp to the nearest starbase on their own power.” He tinkered with the visual display to examine the O’Spakya from another angle. “From the looks of things, they’re goin’ to need plenty of repairs in spacedock once they make it to a safe harbor.”
“Time is at a premium,” Kirk reminded him. “I don’t want to linger here any longer than absolutely necessary.”
Scotty nodded. “I hear ye, Captain. We wouldn’t want to outstay our welcome.”
“Maybe we can lock onto the O’Spakya with a tractor beam,” Chekov suggested, “and tow it back across the border?”
Scotty shot down that idea. “I can’t recommend that, Captain, not until I’ve had a chance to check out the structural integrity of their hull. A tractor beam could exert undue stress on any compromised bulkheads.”
“And let’s not forget about the passengers,” McCoy said. “Never mind the bulkheads. Are we picking up any life signs?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Chekov answered. “Multiple life-forms. A full crew’s worth.”
The report did little to placate McCoy. “They could need medical assistance now, not ninety minutes from now. If their life-support is failing, they might not last until we’re safely clear of the Neutral Zone.”
Kirk agreed. It had taken the Enterprise too long to get here already. They couldn’t afford another long trek back to Federation space.
“Excuse me, Captain,” Uhura interrupted. “Papa Yela is hailing you again.”
Kirk wasn’t surprised. No doubt the Enterprise’s arrival had registered on the O’Spakya’s sensors.
Papa Yela’s face appeared on the main viewer. Although the bridge behind him looked somewhat less smoky than before, the alien skipper was, if anything, even more agitated. Sweat drenched his face. Pink eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. Panting hard, he waved his tentacles in the air.
“Enterprise! Praise the star-spirits you are here at last! Our air is growing thinner! My mate gasps for breath even as our unborn offspring near their nativity!”
Concerned for his patient, McCoy took charge. “How far along is her labor?”
“I . . . I’m not certain,” Papa Yela stammered. “The litter may drop at any minute.”
Kirk didn’t like the sound of that. He looked at McCoy. “Maybe we should have her beamed directly to the Enterprise?”
“Beamed? No!” Papa Yela was visibly appalled by the suggestion. “Forgive me, Captain, but my people reject the dangerous temptation of transporting living beings. The body can be broken apart and reassembled, yes, but the soul is forever lost!”
“Even in an emergency?” Kirk asked. He didn’t wish to disparage the man’s beliefs, but did Papa Yela really want to risk his family over some abstruse philosophical dilemma? “Your mate—and the babies—might be safer in our sickbay.”
Papa Yela shook his head. “Not at the cost of their irreplaceable souls. What materialized aboard your ship would not be my cherished ones, but only false copies. Mere soulless simulacra. They would be my family in matter only.”
“I see,” Kirk said tightly. This was a complication he had not anticipated. He looked to McCoy to back him up. “Perhaps our ship’s doctor can convince you of the urgency of the situation.”
“Actually, Jim,” McCoy said, “he may have a point.”
Come again? Kirk was surprised to hear McCoy agreeing with Papa Yela. He knew the doctor wasn’t exactly a fan of having his atoms beamed from place to place, but he’d never thought of him as a total Luddite where transporters were concerned, especially when an expectant mother’s life was at stake.
“Bones?”
“To be honest, Jim, I’m reluctant to transport a woman in mid-labor, particularly without knowing more about how her species copes with the physiological demands of beaming. Most humanoids can be transported safely, but there are exceptions. The Bixoxi need to be placed in an induced coma first, while the HoSo tend to split into their male and female halves without warning. And the Solem implode if transported during their larval stage.” He sounded like he could easily rattle off a dozen more cautionary examples if necessary. “We have no idea what the side effects of transporting a pregnant Mavelan female might be.”
Kirk got the message. “Point taken, Doctor. Looks as though you’re going to have to make a house call.” He addressed Papa Yela. “Very well. Plea
se transmit the precise coordinates of your bridge. Help will be on its way shortly.”
“Bless you, Captain!” The alien fluttered his tentacles in benediction. “May the star-spirits reward your compassion and generosity!”
“Your safety is the only reward we require. Kirk out.”
At his signal, Uhura cut off the transmission, restoring their view of the O’Spakya. He rose from his chair, his mind made up on how to proceed. “All right, I’ll lead a small scouting party over first, just to get the lay of the land, before we mount a full rescue-and-repair operation.” He marched briskly toward the turbolift. “Bones, you’re with me.”
He expected Spock to take the captain’s chair in his place, but the Vulcan had other ideas. “Perhaps you should reconsider, Captain. I understand that it goes against your instincts to stay behind, but these are special circumstances. Given our present location, and the recent engagement with the Orion raiders, prudence dictates that the captain remains on the bridge for as long as we are in the Neutral Zone.” He stood to accompany McCoy. “Permit me to lead the scouting party instead.”
Kirk thought it over. As much as he preferred to take a hands-on approach to most missions, Spock was right; now was not the time for him to leave the ship—or for Seven to leave. He needed to keep a close watch on both.
Besides, he thought, what’s the point of having the best first officer in the fleet if I don’t take his advice once in a while?
“A very logical argument, Mister Spock.” Kirk reluctantly returned to his chair. “The mission is yours. Take a security officer with you, just in case the Mavela are less harmless than they appear.”
“Captain, shouldn’t I tag along to inspect the damage to the ship?” Scotty asked.
“Not just yet,” Kirk said. “I’m certain Mister Spock can make an initial assessment of what repairs are needed. In the meantime, Scotty, I want you personally manning the transporters. We need to be ready to beam the entire scouting party back to the Enterprise the minute the Mavela even look at them funny.”
“Aye, sir,” Scotty replied. Worry furrowed his brow. “And if the O’Spakya isn’t really as damaged as she appears and she should warp away with our people first?”