Star Trek: The Original Series: No Time Like the Past

by Greg Cox

  That possibility had already crossed Kirk’s mind.

  “In that case,” Kirk said, “I want my resident miracle worker here . . . and not abducted as well.”

  Twenty-one

  McCoy hated beaming.

  Even though he was well-versed in the literature on the subject, and he knew that the process had been approved for human subjects for more than a century now, the very concept still made his skin crawl. Being dismantled on an atomic level, then reassembled like some sort of molecular jigsaw puzzle? The prospect was about as appealing as going through another nasty divorce. If I wanted to be taken apart bit by bit, he thought, I would have stayed married.

  Maybe the Mavela had the right idea after all.

  The three-man scouting party materialized deep within the O’Spakya, where the ship’s bridge was apparently located. McCoy exhaled a sigh of relief; once again, his atoms had not been strewn across the galaxy. As usual, he resisted an urge to pat himself down to make sure all his parts were still there . . . and in the right places. A quick glance confirmed that Spock and Lieutenant Tang had arrived intact as well. The short, compact security officer had one hand on the grip of his phaser, just in case. A medkit was slung over McCoy’s shoulder.

  “Welcome!” Papa Yela greeted them. The Mavelan patriarch was taller than McCoy expected, standing more than a head above his visitors. A fresh robe and turban rendered him somewhat more presentable than before. His tentacles nervously fondled a showy jeweled medallion. “Would that we poor, unlucky souls could bestow upon you the lavish hospitality you deserve!”

  McCoy glanced around. The dimly lit control room of the O’Spakya looked more like a temple or a fortune teller’s lair than the bridge of a starship. Instead of a forward viewscreen, a large crystal orb floated at the center of the star-shaped chamber. The luminous orb held a three-dimensional display of the surrounding space. Mavelan crew members, their backs turned away from the scouting party, squatted before blinking control panels tucked away at the points of the star. Their loose-fitting beige robes were less elaborate than their leader’s. Plush cushions served in lieu of seats. Gilded filigree adorned the bridge’s railings and decorative molding. Glittering constellations, composed of glowing crystals, sparkled across the high-domed ceiling. The same celestial patterns were reflected upon the ornate tile floor. Burning incense failed to exorcize a smoky odor left behind by the fires earlier. Scorched bulkheads and cracked tiles also testified to the beating the ship had apparently taken. Damaged conduits and cables showed evidence of having been hastily patched together. A charred crystal gemstone, which had presumably fallen from one of the ersatz constellations overhead, crunched beneath McCoy’s boot.

  “That is not necessary,” Spock stated. “We are here to render assistance.”

  Papa Yela eyed the scouting party quizzically. “Captain Kirk is not joining us?”

  “Perhaps later,” Spock said, before introducing himself and the rest of the party. “Our captain instructed us to conduct a preliminary inspection of your situation. Additional Enterprise personnel will be beamed aboard as necessary.”

  “Of course! Whatever your noble captain deems best.” Papa Yela looked askance at Tang’s phaser. “But, please, there is no need for weapons. We are a peaceful people who wish only to live in harmony with the all-seeing spirits of the stars.”

  “A precaution only.” Spock’s own Type-1 phaser remained hidden beneath his uniform. “The Neutral Zone is not without its hazards.”

  Papa Yela nodded somberly. “As we have had the misfortune to learn. A pity our ship’s own defenses could not avert the calamity that befell us.”

  The man’s flowery patter reminded McCoy of a politician or snake oil salesman. “Speaking of which,” he interrupted, eager to cut through the chit-chat, “where is my patient?” He looked around the bridge, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. Although a handful of other Mavela could be seen at their posts, chanting softly to themselves, there was no sign of a woman in labor. Was she elsewhere on the ship? McCoy was surprised that Papa Yela was not at his spouse’s side. Then again, perhaps their culture required fathers to keep their distance from the actual birth. McCoy had run into similarly squeamish males before. “I understood that your mate requires my attention.”

  “The midwives are attending to her in the infirmary,” the alien explained. “Let me inform them that you have arrived.”

  A bejeweled tentacle pressed a stud on his amulet. McCoy figured Papa Yela was simply contacting their version of sickbay.

  He was wrong.

  An agonizing sonic attack assaulted McCoy’s eardrums, dropping him to his knees. He clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block the piercing siren, but it was no use. Blood dripped from his ears; he lost all sense of balance. A scream tore itself from his lungs but was drowned out by a high-frequency whistle shrill enough to make his teeth hurt. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Spock and Tang reeling from the attack as well. Spock teetered, but he amazingly managed to stay on his feet. Tang struggled to hold on to his phaser. Through the pain, McCoy guessed that the brutal noise was no accident.

  It was a trap . . . and they had beamed right into it!

  The Mavela, on the other hand, appeared completely unaffected. Papa Yela backed away from the flailing scouting party. Waving tentacles made a protective gesture.

  Then, all at once, they were not alone. Green-skinned Orion raiders sprang from hidden trapdoors in the floor, propelled upward like a stage ghost or demon making a spectacular entrance. All that was missing was flash pots, smoke, and a theatrical clap of thunder. Like the Mavela, the Orions seemed immune to the sonic barrage. Olive-colored fists gripped bludgeons and disruptor pistols.

  They fell upon the stricken Starfleet officers. Tang, a squat fireplug of a man, tried to fight back, despite the debilitating siren. He succeeded in getting off a wild shot with his phaser, but with Tang unable to concentrate on his aim, the beam went astray, zipping past Papa Yela’s turban to harmlessly “stun” an embossed bulkhead. The Orions didn’t give him a chance to shoot again; before he could fire another beam, a snarling pirate smacked him across the back of his head with the butt of a disruptor pistol. The cold-cocked security officer collapsed onto the floor. His phaser flew from his grip to land at Papa Yela’s feet. The treacherous alien recoiled from the weapon as though it were unclean. A nearby Orion claimed the phaser instead, tucking it into a black leather bandoleer.

  Like the bandits didn’t already have enough weapons!

  Another Orion snatched Spock’s own phaser from his belt. His sensitive hearing overwhelmed by the blaring siren, Spock was unable to stop the Orions from disarming both him and McCoy. Weapons drawn, the raiders surrounded the rescue party. McCoy counted at least five Orions, all unfazed by the excruciating noise.

  Did they have eardrums of steel or something?

  The apparent leader of the raiders was, surprisingly, an Orion woman who hardly resembled the seductive “animal women” of salacious legend. Instead of being barely clad in diaphanous silks, she was dressed for action in heavy-duty boots, trousers, and a black leather vest that exposed only her verdant midriff. Shimmering purple hair tumbled past her shoulders.

  The woman signaled Papa Yela by drawing a finger across her throat. McCoy hoped she was referring to the sonic assault and not the scouting party. As a doctor, he knew how quickly a slashed throat could bleed out, especially when a heart was beating as fast as his was.

  A nervous-looking Papa Yela fumbled with the control gems on his amulet. Merciful silence replaced the blaring siren. McCoy gasped in relief, despite their dire predicament. At least his brains didn’t feel like they were leaking out of his ears anymore. He briefly worried that he might have been rendered deaf by the attack, but then he heard the pirates celebrating their victory.

  “Success, First Mate!” an Orion gloated. He waved his pistol triumphantly at the prisoners. “The Starfleeters are ours!”

  “Not so
fast,” the woman cautioned her underling. She removed a pair of miniature filters from her ears. “These are only pawns in a larger game. We have yet to capture our prize.”

  Spock lowered his hands from his ears. Green blood trickled from the pointed organs. Regaining his equilibrium, he assumed his usual dignified posture, appearing neither perturbed nor intimidated by the Orions. He subjected Papa Yela to his austere scrutiny.

  “It seems your hospitality leaves something to be desired.”

  “Forgive me, my ill-starred guests,” Papa Yela whinged. Deft tentacles extracted his own ear filters. “But Captain Habroz and his crew gave me no choice. Take my word for it, they are not individuals you can safely refuse.” He looked sheepishly at the Orion woman. “Pardon me, Mistress K’Mara, I get the credits you promised me, yes?”

  McCoy’s blood pressure spiked. “Damnit, man! We offered you our help. And you sold us out for filthy lucre?”

  The alien Judas shrugged beneath his robes. “Destruction or profit. What other choice was there?” He rubbed his tentacles together in anticipation of the payoff to come. “A small charitable donation should be sufficient to lift the stain from my soul.”

  “And your mate?” McCoy challenged him. “The one who’s supposed to be giving birth any moment now?”

  “Alas, I am a widower at present,” Papa Yela admitted. “But with the bounty the Orions have promised me, I shall be able to afford several new wives.”

  McCoy’s face soured. “Well, bully for you.”

  Now that his ears were no longer ringing, he noted that the trick doors in the floor had closed up again. Were they ordinarily used for smuggling, he speculated, or for staging phony séances? Either fit with what Spock had said about the Mavela.

  “The more intriguing question is,” Spock added, “who is paying the Orions?”

  “Mind your own business, Vulcan!” K’Mara thrust her own disruptor into her belt. She raised a wrist-communicator to her lips. “We have them, Captain!”

  McCoy realized that he and the others had just gone from rescuers to hostages.

  Remind me to think twice about making any more house calls!

  Twenty-two

  “Keptin!” Chekov announced in alarm. “The O’Spakya has raised its shields!”

  Kirk sat up straight. His pulse quickened. “What? I thought they were supposed to be damaged?”

  “Apparently not, sir.” The young ensign looked mortified at being caught unawares. “They just snapped into place . . . without any warning.”

  Kirk punched open a line to the transporter room. He leaned into the audio pickup in his armrest. “Scotty, beam them back, pronto!”

  “I cannae do it, Captain!” Frustration exaggerated the engineer’s familiar brogue. Kirk visualized him frantically working the transporter controls. “It’s too late!”

  Uhura gazed anxiously at the main viewer. “What’s happening to them?”

  Kirk wished he knew. “Any word from the scouting party?”

  “No, sir,” she reported. “I’m trying every frequency, but I can’t get through to them.”

  Anger ignited inside Kirk. “Hail the O’Spakya!”

  “Already tried, sir,” Uhura stated. Her fingers stabbed her control panel. “They’re not responding.”

  Kirk mentally blasted Papa Yela with an imaginary phaser. He knew a double cross when he saw one. The unctuous Mavelan patriarch had clearly played them for suckers, right down to that whole business about his wife going into labor. Kirk kicked himself for not seeing through such a transparent attempt to manipulate his emotions.

  And now three of his men were in jeopardy.

  “You see, Kirk,” Santiago said. “I told you this was a mistake!”

  Kirk figured the commissioner was entitled to an “I told you so,” but he didn’t have time to acknowledge it. “Mister Sulu, be ready to pursue the O’Spakya if it tries to get away. I wouldn’t be surprised if their engines are suddenly in working order, too.”

  Spock obviously had been on target about the Mavela being con artists. No doubt all that eye-catching “damage” to the O’Spakya’s exterior was just fancy window dressing. Nothing but smoke and mirrors.

  “Yes, sir!” Sulu responded. “No way am I letting that ugly ship abscond with our people.”

  Good man, Kirk thought. “Mister Chekov, power phaser banks and arm photon torpedoes.”

  “Aye, Keptin!”

  Kirk was reluctant to fire upon the O’Spakya while his crew was still aboard, but he might have to take out the other ship’s warp nacelles to keep them from escaping. And maybe a few warning shots across their bow would get Papa Yela’s attention.

  “Lieutenant Uhura, inform the Mavela that continued silence on their part will have serious consequences.” His fist pounded the armrest. “I want answers and I want them now.”

  Santiago wheeled about to confront Seven. “Did you know about this? Could you have warned us?”

  “No,” she stated flatly. “I had no prior knowledge of this incident.”

  Kirk believed her. “Uhura?”

  Before the communications officer could respond, Chekov spoke up urgently. “Keptin, another ship is decloaking . . . directly ahead!”

  What the devil? Kirk glared at the screen, where a ripple effect distorted the empty space beyond the O’Spakya. He recognized the telltale signature of a Klingon or Romulan vessel deactivating its cloaking field, most likely in preparation for an attack. Given their proximity to the Klingon border, he wasn’t worried about Romulans.

  “Red alert!” he barked. “Shields at maximum.”

  They had lowered their shields in order to beam the scouting party over to the O’Spakya, but now the missing men were doubly cut off from the Enterprise. In response to Kirk’s command, mounted annunciator lights flashed crimson. All over the ship, every crew member and department assumed a heightened state of readiness. Level 4 diagnostics were run on all crucial systems. Phaser banks, photon torpedo launchers, and shuttlecraft were energized to standby mode. Deflectors were raised to tactical levels, far beyond that needed simply to repel random space dust. Non-essential scientific and recreational pursuits were suspended for the duration of the alert.

  Damn, Kirk thought. Of all times for the Klingons to show up!

  But instead of the warbird he was expecting, an Orion marauder shifted into view, looking transparent at first, like a badly rendered hologram, but rapidly taking on mass and opacity. Kirk immediately recognized the Navaar from recordings of the Enterprise’s earlier encounter with the ship, when it had beamed down those murderous pirates to Gamma Trianguli VI. The captain didn’t need to call for a sensor report to see that the marauder was easily within firing range. It faced the Enterprise across the void, assuming the same vertical orientation as the two other vessels.

  “Huh?” Sulu blurted. “Since when do the Orions have cloaking devices?”

  “I was wondering that myself,” Kirk said.

  “Keptin,” Chekov reported. “The Orion vessel is arming its weapons.”

  Naturally, Kirk thought. Why else would it decloak? Thankfully, nobody yet had figured out a way to safely fire disruptors or photon torpedoes while cloaked. At least not in this century; he wondered if things were different whenever Seven came from.

  All the more reason not to let the Orions—or anybody else—get their hands on the castaway from the future.

  “Now do you see, Kirk?” Santiago said. He was gripping the handrail hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “The Orions are a menace. We should have delivered Seven to a secure location when we had the chance!”

  Seven bristled. “Even against my will, Commissioner?”

  “See how much your will matters when the Orions get hold of you!”

  That’s not going to happen, Kirk vowed. “Stand by to open fire if necessary.” Throughout the ship, he knew, his crew was rushing to battle stations. Too bad the Enterprise now found itself outnumbered and far from home. It truly was the K
obyashi Maru all over again.

  Uhura adjusted her earpiece. “The Navaar is hailing us.”

  This should be interesting, Kirk thought. “Put it through.”

  Captain Habroz appeared upon the viewer. Kirk remembered the pirate commander from the conflict on Gamma Trianguli VI. Metal spikes jutted from his scalp. A prosthetic hand gripped a silver goblet. The burly Orion sat atop a sumptuously upholstered throne. The skull of a horned animal was mounted on the bulkhead behind him. The lighting on his bridge had a greenish tint.

  “Greetings, Kirk,” he said gruffly. “We meet again.”

  Kirk maintained a steely expression. “Captain Habroz, I take it.”

  “Commander and owner of this fine vessel,” the pirate boasted. “I confess I am very proud of it. Not quite a Federation starship, but it’s won me a fair share of plunder over the years . . . and defeated many an enemy.”

  Kirk was in no mood to trade war stories. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Kirk. This is the Neutral Zone, after all. You’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

  “We’re here on a rescue mission,” Kirk stated. “An errand of mercy.”

  Habroz laughed harshly. “Or so you thought!”

  Kirk didn’t like being made fun of, especially when his crew’s lives were at stake. “No more games. What do you want?”

  “The woman from the future,” Habroz said. “The one you call Annika Seven.”

  Startled gasps escaped several of the bridge crew, who had been unaware of Seven’s true origins. Curious eyes turned toward the time traveler, who appeared unruffled by the attention. She sat stiffly at the auxiliary science station. Kirk resisted an urge to glance in her direction.

  “The future? I don’t know what you mean.” Kirk scratched his head in mock confusion, stalling for time while he tried to figure out how to deal with the Orions and the Mavela. He wondered if he was dealing with two separate adversaries or if the hostile ships were in cahoots. He strongly suspected the latter. “Perhaps there’s been some kind of misunderstanding?”