by Greg Cox
“That’s not what this is about,” Pike insisted, all the while suspecting that he was wasting his time trying to allay the general’s suspicions. He straightened his posture and put plenty of iron into his voice, the better to conceal his debilitated state. With any luck, Krunn would mistake his raspy delivery for a guttural growl. “We’re just going to pick up some of our own people.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you? What’s to stop you from beaming my daughter down to those weaklings?”
“Captain!” Tyler interrupted. “The Fek’lhr is still following us down toward the planet. The Cyprians are opening fire on the Klingons!”
Sure enough, the image on the viewscreen shook violently as the battle cruiser apparently came under attack from the Cyprians’ orbital defenses. Tossed about in his seat, Krunn barked commands to his subordinates. Smoke and dust added to the already murky atmosphere of the cruiser’s bridge before the image blinked out completely. Cypria III, looking closer than ever, returned to the screen.
“Status of the Fek’lhr?” Pike demanded.
“Still in one piece,” Tyler reported, “but they’re taking a walloping. The Cyprians aren’t holding back, sir.”
Silver linings, Pike thought. If nothing else, the Fek’lhr was probably drawing plenty of fire away from the Enterprise. Certainly the colonists had better reason to fear the Klingon ship than the Starfleet vessel and considerably less incentive to moderate their fire. Whether he intended to or not, Krunn was possibly doing Pike a favor by providing the Cyprians with a much more tempting target.
A Cyprian defense satellite came into view directly ahead. The unmanned orbital weapon resembled a cactus, with remote-controlled laser cannons bristling like spikes from an armored core that was approximately ten meters in diameter. Coruscating white energy crackled within the barrels of the satellite’s annons as it rotated toward the Enterprise, preparing to unleash another salvo at the trespassing space ship while firing at the Fek’lhr with its other weapons.
“Evasive act—” Pike began, but before he could finish the command, twin disruptor beams bombarded the satellite, sending it spinning wildly out of orbit and control. Moments later, a photon torpedo delivered the coup de grâce, blowing the vulnerable satellite to kingdom come, or whatever the Cyprian equivalent was. It exploded into a fireball of blazing plasma and debris that spread out harmlessly in all directions before flying out of view.
“Let me guess,” he said. “The Klingons firing back at the Cyprian defenses?”
“Affirmative,” Tyler said. “They’re shooting at each other now.”
Figures, Pike thought. Unlike us, Krunn has no reason not to retaliate when fired up by the laser satellites. Naturally, he’s going to respond in kind.
“Works for me,” he said. “As long as it keeps both of them busy while we’re doing our job.” He turned toward the helm. “Mohindas?”
“Coming within transporter range,” she reported. “Four thousand kilometers and counting.”
“And none too soon.” Pike took a deep breath, or tried to at least. He was getting shorter and shorter of breath. “Here comes the tricky part.”
Lowering the ship’s shields while caught between the Klingons and Cyprians was a calculated risk, to say the least, but there was no way around it if they were going to beam the landing party to safety. They just needed to be quick about it and not keep the shields down any longer than absolutely necessary. Split-second timing was the order of the day.
“Transporter room, get ready to lock onto the landing party. Mister Tyler, prepare to lower shields at my command.”
“Aye, sir.” Tyler’s hoarse voice was barely a whisper. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tunic while wheezing loudly. “Wait . . . incoming!”
A third blast proved that the Cyprians hadn’t forgotten the Enterprise entirely, which made lowering the shields still a dicey proposition, particularly with the Fek’lhr closing in on the Enterprise as well. His head throbbing, Pike racked his brain for a way to discourage any further attacks for just a few precious moments.
“Garrison!” he said sharply. “Open channels to the Klingons and Cyprians. Let me talk to both of them.”
“Aye, Captain.” Garrison flipped a switch on his console. “You’re on, sir.”
“Attention all parties. This is Enterprise. Hold your fire! Our primary warp manifold has fractured. One more blast and we’ll go up like an exploding star!”
That was stretching things a bit, but what was a little exaggeration between armed combatants? With any luck, the deception would make both sides think twice before taking another shot at the Enterprise—at least for a few minutes.
“Are we within transporter range?” Pike asked urgently.
“Aye, sir!” Mohindas said. “In synchronous orbit above Sapprus.”
Here goes nothing, Pike thought. “Lower shields.”
“Uh-huh . . .” Tyler reached groggily for the controls, only to collapse at his post. He tumbled from his seat onto the deck, moaning in distress. He writhed upon the floor, clutching his stomach as though gripped by severe pains. His face was gray and clammy except for the discolored yellow veins bulging across his face and neck. Straining lungs labored audibly. He was sweating profusely.
“Transporter room to bridge,” Yamata piped in via the intercom. “Standing by.”
Pike lurched from his chair, desperate to get to the shield controls, but Colt beat him to it.
“I’m on it, sir!” she declared as she dived into Tyler’s seat and took over the console. “Shields down, Captain!”
Grateful for her quick thinking and initiative, Pike sagged back into his chair and leaned into the intercom receiver. “Transporter room . . . now!”
He prayed they weren’t already too late.
Fourteen
Their second barricade lasted no longer than their first. With a resounding crash, the door to the roof broke apart and the Cyprian rioters shoved their way past the heaped obstacles meant to delay them. The furious mob stormed onto the rooftop, undaunted by the sweltering heat and humidity. Their wild eyes and murderous expressions reminded Number One of the barbaric Kaylar warriors who had massacred three of her fellow crew members not too long ago. These assailants brandished broken bottles, bricks, and chains instead of swords and spears, but the intent was the same.
This was Rigel VII all over again . . .
“There they are!” one of the ringleaders shouted, pointing at the outnumbered Starfleet personnel. “We’ve got them now!”
Number One and the rest of her team were backed up against a rail at the far side of the rooftop garden. Behind them was nothing but a five-story drop to the pavement below. Number One silently cursed the planet’s Class-M gravity. What she wouldn’t give for a few pairs of jet boots right now.
“Keep back!” she warned. Her hands gripped the shaft of a shovel she had liberated from a nearby tool shed. It was no lirpa or bat’leth, both of which she was fully trained in the use of, but it would have to do. “You don’t want to do anything rash. We’re here as guests of your government!”
“Never mind the politicians!” the ringleader said. He had shoulder-length blond hair, a ruddy complexion, bad skin, a potbelly, mean little eyes, and a construction hammer gripped in one hand. A patch bearing the iconic portrait of Little Elzy was affixed to his vest. Saliva sprayed from his lips. “You’ll answer to the people now, for holding a Cyprian child hostage!”
A chorus of hostile voices echoed the sentiment, accompanied by a disturbing variety of suggestions as to what was to be done with the trapped landing party. “Throw one of them off the roof,” a red-faced woman called out. “Show that human captain we mean business!”
“You do that,” Number One said sternly, “and you’ll likely never see your precious Elzura again. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”
“Shut your lying mouth, human!” the ringleader snarled. “We’ve had enough of your stalling and excuses. Your captain
will give us Elzy back all right . . . or he’ll get you and your friends back in pieces!”
“Actually, I’m Illyrian,” she corrected him. “So you should know better than to think you can frighten me.”
Her bravado was at least partially an act, of course. Despite her composure, she was genuinely concerned for the safety of her team. Unless the Enterprise extracted them from this situation momentarily, bloodshed—or worse—was all but inevitable.
“Human, Illyrian . . . it makes no difference!” the ringleader shot back. “You have no right to keep a Cyprian child from her family!”
“You tell her, Tofrum!” a woman’s voice called out. “We know how to deal with Klingons and anybody who sides with them!”
A rock came hurtling out of the crowd like a speeding meteoroid. Number One’s superior reflexes came to her rescue as she deflected the missile with the blade of her shovel, sending it back the way it came. Tofrum grunted as the stone hit him in the gut, knocking him back onto his rear. That the rock had conveniently struck the mob’s leader was no coincidence; Number One silently thanked all the hours she’d spent playing null-G lacrosse and racquetball in the Enterprise’s gymnasium. Calculating angles came easily to her.
“Witch! Child-snatcher!” Tofrum clutched his stomach as his cohorts helped him to his feet. His face flushed with anger. “You aliens don’t care who you hurt, do you?”
The sheer hypocrisy of his accusation was rather breathtaking. Number One had dared to hope that a vigorous show of self-defense might give the mob pause when it came to attacking a team of highly trained Starfleet personnel, but it seemed she’d sadly underestimated the crowd’s desire to lash out at the landing party. They were not to be deterred.
“Get them!” Tofrum bellowed. “For Elzy!”
The mob charged at them, surging forward like an avalanche. Number One counted a couple dozen hostiles, with more pouring through the breached door onto the roof, and still there was no sign that Cyprian security forces had any intention to intervene. The landing party was going to have to rely on one another and no one else.
“Close ranks!” she ordered. “Stick together!”
They contracted into a tight circle, back to back to back to back. Giusio and Jones staked out positions flanking Number One and Olson. The paired security officers wielded their knives defensively, keeping the crowd at bay with skillful combos of feints, thrusts, and slashes. Jones lobbed her knife back and forth between her hands, just to keep her attackers guessing, while Giusio used his intimidating height and build to full effect. They drew blood, but took pains to avoid killing or maiming; they sliced rather than stabbed, inflicting only shallow cuts on arms and chests and scalloped ears. Bleeding orange, a few chastened rioters fell back, but for every Cyprian who retreated, two more seemed to shove forward to take their place, while the minor injuries only seemed to madden some of the protestors more. It was like a feeding frenzy—and the landing party was the chum.
“Back off!” Jones flaunted her dazzling knife-work. “This is all a misunderstanding! We can work this out!”
“Save your breath,” Giusio said gruffly. He absorbed a punch with his knife arm, then delivered a crushing uppercut with his left. “We’re past talking now.”
And then some, Number One thought. So much for this garden of tranquility.
She spun the shovel before her like a battle staff, striking with both ends of the tool. The metal blade blocked a broken bottle thrust at her face, shattering it to splinters; a heartbeat later, she jabbed the handle at the opposite end into the shin of a charging Cyprian bruiser, who dropped to the rooftop whimpering and clutching his leg. Number One kicked him away from her before he got the bright idea to grab her leg instead, and the next wave of rioters tripped and stumbled over the fallen man, nearly trampling him. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet.
Remind me not to fall, she thought.
She took a second to firm up her grip on the shovel. Between the tropical climate and the ongoing melee, she was working up a sweat. Her palms were damp and slippery. Perspiration gleamed upon her face and dripped down her back, gluing her tunic to her skin. Her stamina was in the ninety-ninth percentile, but even she was wearing down. Her human comrades had to be tiring too.
“They just keep on coming!” Olson said, panting. “There’s no end to them!”
She glanced briefly at him over her shoulder. Sweat drenched his face and hair. Bulging eyes were wide with fear. He waved the surgical laser before him like a talisman, trying to ward off the crazed Cyprians and succeeding to a degree. The red-hot tip of the laser could not fire a beam like a pistol, but it traced blazing patterns in the space between Olson and his foes, who looked inclined to give the scalpel a wide berth. Apparently, surgical instruments scared people more than knives or shovels.
Probably old news to Doctor Boyce, Number One thought. “Keep it together, Olson. The captain is on his way.”
“But what if . . . ?”
“Speculation does not help us,” she said bluntly. “Stay sharp.”
“Yes, Number One. It’s just that—”
A determined Cyprian, gripping a crooked wooden cane with both hands, swung the cane at Olson’s legs, but Olson swiped the scalpel down in time to counter the attack. The laser sizzled through the cane at an angle, cleanly slicing it in two. The curved top half of the cane flew over the edge of the roof, where the clatter of its landing was drowned out by the tumult of battle and the shouting of the crowds remaining below. Left holding only a fraction of cane, the rioter stared aghast at her bisected weapon. She froze, uncertain if she still had enough of a club to fight with.
“Not so fast!” Olson said, savoring his narrow escape. He drove his would-be assailant back with the business end of his scalpel. “I know how to use this and—”
A chain whipped out of nowhere, wrapping tightly around his wrist. He cried out in pain, and the laser slipped from his fingers. The chain yanked him forward, away from Number One and others.
“Olson!”
Engaged with too many opponents of her own, she could not immediately rush to his aid. She could only watch out of the corner of her eye as a large, muscular Cyprian grabbed Olson and hurled him to the floor. Snatching up a heavy potted plant from the garden, the man raised it high above his head, clearly intending to crush the nurse’s head with it. Olson threw up an arm to shield himself, but gravity was not on his side. Number One saw at once that Olson had only seconds to live.
Calculating quickly, she took the only action available to her. Flipping the shovel in her hand, she threw it like a javelin with the blunt end of the handle leading. The shovel struck the big Cyprian in the chest, knocking him backward into the garden. The raised pot tumbled away from Olson to crash into a flowering bush instead. Nearby rioters jumped out of the way to avoid being hit by an explosion of flying soil and jagged ceramic shards.
Good news, Number One thought. Olson is still alive.
Bad news, I just tossed away my only weapon.
“Guisio! Jones! Cover me!”
She moved to get behind the security team, but not quickly enough. A rock hit her forehead, barely missing her right eye, and she staggered to one side, momentarily dazed. A wooden board, swung by an anonymous rioter, struck her in the side and sent her reeling away from Jones and Guisio. She slipped on a loose clod of damp soil and tumbled to the floor, the jarring impact leaving her stunned and vulnerable. Someone grabbed her ankle and dragged her across the roof. Her aching head banged against the floor.
“Over the edge for you,” a harsh voice gloated. “Let’s see if Earthers can fly!”
Not Earth, Illyria, she thought irritably. How many times do I have to explain that?
Her back scraped against the floor of the garden as she was dragged toward the edge, unable to shake her leg free of her captor’s grip. Her fingers groped for something to grab on to. Her head was still ringing from being hit by the rock, not to mention being bounced around; it would be a mi
nor miracle if she didn’t have a concussion, but that inconvenience paled in comparison to being thrown off the roof. Her bruised cranium wouldn’t matter once it was shattered all over the sidewalk. If she could just get back on her feet . . . !
“Lieutenant! Catch!”
Olson’s voice penetrated the fog around her brain. Turning her head toward him, she saw a small silver object arcing through the air toward her. It took her a second to place it.
The hypospray!
Her brain swiftly calculated its trajectory. She reached out and plucked it from the air even as her captor reached the low guardrail at the edge of the roof. He looked around for assistance. “Somebody help me toss out the trash!”
I beg to differ, she thought. Muscles honed to perfection by rigorous exercise, including daily sit-ups, allowed her to sit up far enough to apply the hypospray to the Cyprian’s thigh. A pneumatic hiss accompanied the act, which proved just as effective as a Vulcan nerve pinch. Whatever sedative Olson had loaded in the hypo knocked out the Cyprian in the space of a heartbeat. His fingers lost their grip on her ankle, and she rolled out of the way just in time to avoid having his limp body land on top of her. Another Cyprian, who had been rushing to help throw her off the building, froze briefly in his tracks. Number One rocked backward, slamming her heels into his lower body, before somersaulting back onto her feet. A third Cyprian, a woman this time, ran toward her, holding a sharp metal trowel like a dagger.
“No more!” the woman yelled as fiercely as any Klingon. “You’re not going to get away with—”
Number One threw the empty hypo, nailing the trowel-wielder in the face and halting her charge. Joining up with Olson, she darted back to Jones and Giusio, who formed a defensive line between her and the crowd. Both security officers had taken some hits themselves. Their uniforms were torn and their faces roughed up. Jones had a split lip and a gash across her shoulder. Giusio spit out a broken tooth. Number One probed her own forehead with her fingers. There was no blood where the rock had hit her, but she could feel a nasty bump beneath the skin. It smarted unpleasantly.