by Diane Carey
“After that we’ll do something else.”
The answer was accompanied by a shriek of mechanical strain—metal against metal.
Carlos let his head fall back against the wall and murmured, “He’s not going to listen, is he, sir?”
With a glance back at the work going on, Robert April said, “Not if we’re lucky . . . ”
Sitting nearer to them than he wanted to be, Jimmy Kirk couldn’t resist an urge that nipped at him when he heard that. He leaned toward them and kept his voice down.
“What’s so lucky about it?” he asked.
Captain April pressed a dirty cloth against Florida’s forehead and tried to mop up some of the sweat pouring off the helmsman.
“Those individuals in that other ship have their hands full,” he said. “They did it to themselves when they turned us toward that Blue Zone. That’s what changed everything.”
He turned then, and watched as George Kirk cranked down on a bolt with both hands and double-barreled rage. Elbows shuddering. Muscles knotted beneath the red uniform tunic.
“A commander with nothing to lose,” Captain April added, “is a very dangerous man.”
* * *
“’Ey! Bobbysox! Wot about them shields?”
“When I’m ready . . . I’ll tell you.”
Roy Moss lay lengthwise across the bridge floor, working upward like Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The work was almost as exacting and twice as hard on the arms.
“Well, wot’s the rush?” Angus Burgoyne insisted.
Twisting until he could see the captain’s face, Roy stopped working, let his hands and tools rest on his chest, and paused to speak as though addressing a kindergarten class.
“These shields,” he said, “are not for rushing. They’re not a wall against anything and everything. They take very delicate constant adjustment against anything trying to get through second by second.”
He lay back and gazed up at his microcircuits. For a moment he was a poet regarding a lake, a young man in passion.
“What we must look like to them . . . to anyone seeing us come out of the Blue Zone alive . . . our witnesses are nothing but primitive tribesmen watching in awe as a man in underwater equipment rises from the sea . . . he is a god. He is a sign. He is all-powerful. He is astonishing and indestructible. Yet . . . they can’t possibly realize how delicate, how vulnerable, he is. They don’t understand that he can kill himself in four feet of water if he’s not very . . . very . . . careful. That’s what we are . . . the delicate diver.”
He touched both forefingers to the specialized maze above his eyes and thought about what it all meant to him. How long it would take to build up the revenue he needed for his long-term plans. Thought about how efficiently he was using these moronic toad pirates to his own purposes, and they were too stupid to realize it. Too stupid to see real threats coming. Too stupid. Period.
“These shields,” he uttered softly, “these are not a shell. They’re a mirror. They reflect the danger of the Blue Zone, but they can be so easily smashed.”
Angus Burgoyne licked his mustache, used his tongue to pull the end into his mouth, and started chewing on it.
“Dreamy tail-headed runt,” he said. “Some genius. Talkin’ like a bloke on smoke. Just get’m goin’ agin.” He shoved out of his command seat and went to yell down the shaft to engineering. “’Ey, Dazzo! Cut the tractor beam a hundred percent. What is this ‘eighty percent’ bilge, anyway? We got that Sta’fleet rumrunner up to speed by now, don’ we?”
Coming instantly out of his prayer, Roy wiped his bare brow with a wrist and cast mental disparagement onto Burgoyne, who was now bent over at the waist, yelling down the hole at the Klingon.
Roy raised his aching arms and got back to work with a final mutter.
“Deserves to drown.”
“Here you go. Time to stop being a passenger.”
Carlos Florida was still weak, but wide awake as he placed the last of eight mismatched monitors on the deck in front of Jimmy.
Jimmy frowned at the monitors lying cockeyed on the deck, and the wires and cables connecting all eight to different parts of exposed machinery in the torn-apart walls. Now there was a sea of cables and connections that everyone had to step through.
“You watch these,” Carlos said. “Everything here is measuring something about that ship out there. That’s your job, understand?”
“But I don’t know what these are,” Jimmy protested. “I can’t read them.”
He fanned both hands across the field of little screens and graphics and numbers, all flickering, flashing, distorted, competing for sparse power.
“We don’t have automated equipment down here,” Carlos said, “so we have to do it ourselves. This is the graphic image of the ship itself. That one is the distance from us and speed. Over there is energy flux by wavelengths . . . this one is the macrodiagnostic . . . this one is power-to-mass. . . . Over there is the energy measure—”
He stopped, read the display crystals on the monitor, and called, “Mr. Kirk?”
“Yeah?” George called from somewhere inside the forward wall.
“The tractor beam! Sir, they’ve shut it down completely!”
“Great. Thanks.”
“That’s the opportunity we need, George,” Robert called from behind some crate somewhere.
Carlos shrugged and turned back to Jimmy. “The round one shows what I think is their intermix—listen, you know what? Forget what they’re for. Doesn’t matter. If any of them change, just tell us. Simple.” He straightened up, obviously still uncomfortable. “You saw that ship first. You watch it. If nobody claims it in ten days . . . it’s all yours.”
He turned, winced, braced a sore hip with the heel of his hand, and picked his way between the cables.
Jimmy watched him, marveling that Carlos could joke at a time like this, after what he’d been through.
“What are you going to do?” Jimmy asked him.
Carlos gestured to a cracked-open panel a few paces from where the others were working. “We’re trying to get maneuverability into our hands down here. There’s no auxiliary control on a boat like this. We’ll have to do everything from under the hood.”
“Why do you call it that?”
“Beats me.”
With a fatigued shrug, Carlos moved away.
They were all working, except Jimmy. He was supremely aware of that, and was glad to finally have something to do. He looked at the monitors one by one, and tried to rationalize what each one was telling him.
And might as well have been trying to read Egyptian. All at once he wished he’d paid more attention in advanced computer science class. He’d always figured the basics would be enough, and hadn’t bothered paying attention to anything more complicated. Just as he could pilot a vehicle but not build one, he could make a computer go but didn’t know why or how it went.
Suddenly he wanted to know how and why.
Across the deck Veronica Hall let out a yip of victory. “Mr. Kirk? I’ve think I’ve got most of the power diverted.”
George wriggled out of a very tiny hole and grunted, “Percentage?”
“I’d say fifty-five percent of combat intensity.”
“Fifty-five, fifty-five,” George muttered, thinking. “Won’t destroy them, but they’ll be good’n shook.”
He picked through the cables and wires, and knelt to look into the maze of machinery where Veronica was working.
“Show me.”
“Here’s where I got a connection through to our warp engines’ power core. And up . . . there . . . ”
“I see it. Don’t strain.”
“—is the utility laser housing—”
“Damn, is that ever small. Are you sure that’s the right thing? Look at that little sucker.”
“Yes, sir. If you follow this up to . . . right here, this is the trickle of power to the energy-focus matrix. We can do our beam-force heat adjustment from this. At le
ast, I think we can. But I don’t have any predictions about what it’ll do to us.”
“We’re disabled,” George said. “If they’re disabled too, then at least we’ll be on even ground with them. We might be trying to have a swordfight while we’re up to our elbows in quicksand, but at least they’ll be in the quicksand too.”
Veronica accepted his help in slithering out of the hole—and Jimmy winced when he saw his father grab the girl’s prosthetic hand to pull her up. He expected it to pop off and start running around the deck on two fingers.
“Okay, huddle,” George said. “What do we shoot at?”
They collected around Carlos Florida, who was on his side, crouched in the exposed machinery inside another of the ripped-out pieces of hull sheeting, working on something.
Jimmy almost got up and left his gauges, until an overwhelming sensation pressed him down. He wasn’t wanted over there. He wasn’t welcome. He wasn’t a member of the crew. They not only didn’t want him . . . they didn’t need him.
He drew his knees up tightly to his body, ducked his head a little, turned back to his gauges, and listened.
“What do we hit?” his father was asking. “Suggestions?”
“What about their warp engines?” Veronica said. “If they go to warp, we’ll never get our shot.”
“No good. We knock out their warp, they figure out we’re still here, they turn and kill us, and duck into the Blue Zone to hide. Doesn’t get us anything. Gimme this—”
He made a long reach, snatched one of Jimmy’s monitors, and dragged it back to the huddle. Jimmy scowled at him possessively, but had no time to think of anything to say.
His father, Captain April, and the others peered at the monitor, which showed a flickering graphic of the spider ship. They were pointing at it and trying to identify what was what.
“Where can we hit that’ll foul them up most smartly?” Robert April murmured, following Veronica’s finger on the graphic display.
“An impulse hit?” she said. “Wrecks their maneuverability.”
Robert nodded. “But nothing else, my dear. They could still turn on us.”
Next Jimmy heard his father’s voice. Very quiet. Not the usual grumble or roar.
“What’s on the outside that affects the inside? Come on, people. Think.”
“Sir,” Veronica said, “I remember something from my Intro to Propulsion Engineering . . . ”
“Well, don’t make me tickle it out of you, Ensign. Shoot.”
“Coolant? Isn’t that right? Without coolant they can’t run anything.”
Robert clapped George on the back. “Coolant, by God.”
George was gaping back at him. “Coolant compressors! That’ll shut down everything!” Then he paused. “If we can shoot through their shields. That’s the big question. Those shields can keep them alive inside the Blue Zone.”
“Then what’ll we do?” Carlos asked.
“We’ll assume they think we’re dead so they don’t think they need shields.”
“That’s a devil of an assumption, George,” Robert warned.
George flung his hands wide. “What d’you want? Shields like that have got to be a hell of a drain. I wouldn’t run them all the time, would you?”
“No, I suppose not . . . but they’re a complete mystery,” the captain added. “We’re guessing about how they do something they simply can’t do. Heaven’s sake, how do you fight something that’s utterly impossible?”
“Don’t confuse me. Okay, let’s find that duct.”
The finger-pointing on the monitor started again as they eliminated possibilities one by one and questioned others, while behind them Jimmy shifted his haunches on the cold floor and felt left out.
He frowned at them. They hadn’t even congratulated Veronica on coming up with the coolant idea. Didn’t anybody in Starfleet care how a person felt?
He watched coldly as they mumbled and pointed, using their fingers to follow the design, trying to eliminate the places where the duct couldn’t be, then trying to conclude where it could be.
“That’s got to be it.”
“Starboard side, on the aft quarter?”
“What else could it be?”
“Mmmmm . . . I dunno . . . ”
“It’s got to be something important . . . ”
“C’mon, it could be just an exhaust port—”
“Could be food storage. We’d be shooting at their dinner.”
“A food port with signal lights for repair workers to see?”
“I don’t see any lights.”
“Right there. And there.”
“That’s static on our monitor.”
“Steady static?”
“Listen, we’ve got to make a decision.”
“No, we don’t.”
They all looked up, and Jimmy held his breath as his father’s voice took on a sharp finality. His father was getting up and pulling Carlos up with one hand and Robert with the other.
“I’m the one who has to decide,” he said. “On your feet, everybody. We’ll knock out that port and hope it’s their cooling system, then we’ll move away.”
Carlos struggled up and sighed, “If we can still move.”
“We’ll move if I have to get out and push. I intend to still be here when the Enterprise comes looking, and I want those greedy bastards to be here too.” George stood to his full height in spite of the low ceiling, squinted in raw rage, and gritted his teeth. “I want to arrest them with my own bare hands.”
Way, way down on the floor, down underneath the big red giant erupting at close proximity, the little yellow son blinked up and wondered if that was really his father talking. He was used to a scowling fellow who didn’t have enough to occupy himself on leaves.
This wasn’t the same man.
Lately it didn’t seem so hard for Jimmy to keep quiet. He hadn’t made a nasty crack for well over an hour. Not since that one he couldn’t forget.
He saw it rolling in every one of his scanners. You got me into it. You got me into it. You got me into it.
“Shut up,” he muttered, and raked both hands over his hot face. Since when did guilt have sweat glands?
“Robert,” his father asked, turning.
Captain April looked up. “Yes, George?”
“Before it’s too late, do you see any implications in this that I’m not seeing?”
“None at all, my friend,” the captain said. Sad clarity swam in his eyes, which had long ago forfeited their sparkle for the reality he had to accept. “There is no excuse for piratical acts, and should be no leniency. We must . . . fight.”
“Positions, everybody.”
Jimmy watched from his seclusion inside the semicircle of monitors as the Starfleet people scattered to different parts of the exposed machinery.
“Oh, my friends!” Captain April said then. “We’re forgetting one detail. We haven’t the power to overtake them, and we can’t strike that port from astern of them. How shall we entice them to turn and present the port to us?”
Immediately Jimmy cranked around to see what his father would say to that.
George Kirk was bent on one knee near the torn-apart access caves where Carlos was buried in the guts of the ship.
“You just said it. We’re going to make them present it to us. Carlos? In position? Hall?”
Their responses were muffled inside the caves.
“Aye, sir.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
“Quite ready, George.”
With a false steadiness George said, “Carlos, take a fix on that portal.”
“Fix, aye.”
“Robert, can you steer from in there?”
“I can do some lively guessing and generalizing, certainly, George.”
“What?”
“I said I’ll do my best!”
“Okay, this is it, folks. Robert! Turn us forty degrees to starboard and let’s move! Full speed!”
“Turning.” Robert’s voice came
up from back there. “Best speed is point zero zero four of sublight.”
“Well, full crawl, then! Jimmy! Watch that monitor!”
Holding on to his skin somehow, Jimmy jolted up onto both knees. “Which one!”
Swinging toward him, his father bellowed, “That one! That one right there! Is it doing anything?”
“No—yes!” His mouth dried up and he choked, “They’re turning!”
“They’re coming about to fire at us!” Carlos confirmed. “I can see their starboard side! Sir, their laser ports are heating up!”
George swung away again. “Target that starboard compressor, Ensign!”
“I’ve got to eyeball it,” Veronica warned, her voice muffled.
“Do your best. Funnel your power through the system. Give it everything!”
“Funneling, Mr. Kirk. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven—”
“Get ready—”
“Five . . . four . . . ”
“Aim—”
“Two . . . one . . . full power!”
“Fire!”
THIRTEEN
“They’re alive!”
Angus Burgoyne, without even leaving his captain’s chair, reeled out to his right and smashed Okenga across the face so hard that the Andorian engineer went down on the deck, rolling. Electricity vomited all over the ship. The bridge was lit like the Fourth of July, and the ship was rocking and spinning off its course. Around him, members of his sparse crew were hanging on as the deck pitched. Sirens whined and sparks flew everywhere, on everyone.
“They’re alive! You said they’d be dead! Damn your face, Okenga, you said they’d be dead! They’re not dead! They’re frackin’ alive!”
Around them their ship rocked and tilted against its own artificial gravity as all systems went haywire. Alarms rang and rang, as if the living things on board didn’t know they’d just been hit, and hit hard.