by Greg Cox
“Engineering.”
Sixteen
Chief Engineer Caitlin Barry was already having a rough day.
It was bad enough that most of her crew was out sick, and she felt like maybe she was coming down with something herself, but the Cyprians’ laser cannons had really done a number on the deflector grids. Holding down the fort in main engineering with just a single green technician to assist her, she ran a hand through her disheveled auburn hair as she studied the damage reports and tried to prioritize the repairs, given the ever-shrinking manpower at her disposal. Exasperation and fatigue were written all over her freckled face.
And then the intruder alarms went off. Captain Pike’s voice rang out over the shipwide address channel, warning that a Klingon boarding party had invaded the Enterprise.
“Seriously?” Barry asked. “On top of everything else?”
Main engineering consisted of a large chamber accessible by a single entrance. A long bank of control panels lined one side of the room, across from a row of glowing blue standby power units. A wall-sized metal grille occupied the rear of the chamber, shielding it from the thrumming warp manifold assembly beyond. As the ship was currently cruising on impulse power, the warp engines were merely idling, but could be fired up on a moment’s notice. Barry looked up abruptly from the damage reports, which were displayed on a monitor at her desk by the front entrance. Unlike the captain, she had little use for hard copies, which struck her as messy and inefficient.
“Chief Barry?” the young technician blurted over by the power relay station he had been working on. Anxiety tweaked his pronounced British accent. An antigrav lifter, loaded with fresh stem bolts and transfer coils, floated beside him. “Are we under attack again?”
It took her a moment to recall his name. Collier, that was it.
“Just a minute.” The alarm had startled her too, but she knew what to do. The door to the corridor swished into place as she locked it shut. Repairs to the deflector grid would have to wait. Protecting the engineering room from intruders had just hit the top of her to-do list. “There we are. Locked up tight, like the crown jewels on Sadmi Prime.”
Her breezy assurance masked some serious worry. Locks or no locks, she couldn’t defend engineering indefinitely, especially if the worst occurred and the captain lost control of the ship. Just off the top of her head, she could think of far too many ways to break into the sealed-off chamber, like lasering through a bulkhead to get at the wall circuits. Granted, that would take some time to do safely, but she doubted that the Klingons worried much about safety factors when they pillaged an alien ship.
Collier hefted a wrench defensively. A scrawny blond Englishman with a baby face and no chin to speak of, he looked vaguely ridiculous holding the tool like a weapon. He was a tinkerer, not a fighter. “What do you think is happening out there, Chief? With the Klingons?”
“Let me find out.”
But before she could hit the intercom to hail the bridge, a bosun’s whistle sounded, alerting her to an incoming transmission. She leaned over the comm unit. “Engineering here. Talk to me.”
“Heads up,” Pike warned. “We have reason to believe the Klingons are heading your way. Needless to say, we don’t want them gaining access to the main engineering controls.”
Even over the intercom, the captain’s voice sounded hoarse and strained. Barry guessed that the captain was under the weather like so many others, but refrained from commenting on that. “You can say that again, Captain. Don’t worry. I’m not about to let any Klingon vandals get their grubby hands on my engine room.”
“Security teams are en route to you,” Pike promised. “Hold tight.”
He signed off abruptly, without any wasted words, but Barry didn’t begrudge him the curtness of the communication. They both had better things to do than chit-chat. She sprang from her desk and darted over to the primary control banks. Skilled fingers expertly manipulated the dials and toggles as she called out to Collier.
“Quick!” she said. “Help me transfer control of the main systems to the bridge.”
Collier responded promptly, hustling over to one of the auxiliary stations to her right. His fair complexion looked even paler than usual. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as though trapped beneath alternating magnetic poles. “But couldn’t the Klingons override the bridge from here?” he asked. “If they capture engineering, that is?”
Barry rolled up her sleeves.
“Not if I can help it.”
* * *
Kutth was the first Klingon to reach the engineering deck. Taking point, he stepped off the maintenance ladder and poked his head around an alcove wall to scope out the curving corridor beyond. To his surprise, and disappointment, no Starfleet targets immediately presented themselves; aside from the blaring alarms and flashing alert lights, it was starting to feel as though they had boarded a ghost ship.
“All clear,” he grunted, signaling the rest of the squad, who quickly climbed up the ladder and onto the deck. Kutth hefted his disruptor rifle. “I don’t like this. Where are this ship’s defenders?”
“Patience,” Guras said. “They’ll be here soon enough.” He consulted his tracking device before gesturing to the right. “Engineering is this way. Kutth, secure the corridor. All others, with me.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” Kutth gripped his rifle. “None will pass except over my dead body!”
“I should hope not,” said Guras, whose tongue was known to be as sharp as his blades. He marched the rest of the troops away at a brisk pace, leaving Kutth behind to guard their backs, while the other rifleman, Tras, hurried ahead to secure the other end of the corridor. Kutth heard his comrades’ heavy boot steps recede behind him as he assumed a defensive post within the alcove, which served as excellent cover. He kept his rifle raised and his vigilant gaze fixed on the empty corridor, like a hunter hidden behind a blind, awaiting his prey.
New footsteps and grating human voices heading toward him alerted him to the arrival of three Enterprise crew members in gold and blue uniforms, rushing down the hall on errands both unknown and irrelevant. As they were unarmed, and therefore not worthy of his marksmanship, he fired above them at the overhead lights, which exploded in a shower of sparks and jagged transparent shards, eliciting startled gasps and exclamations from the humans, who turned and fled around the curve of the corridor. Rather than chase after them, he held to his post.
Excellent, he thought. That should bring some real foes my way.
His finger, poised expectantly on the trigger of his rifle, was not idle long. Peering around the corner of the alcove, Kutth spotted a team of Starfleet security officers rushing toward him down the now dimly lit corridor. He opened fire immediately, blasting the few first humans before they spotted him. Ducking back into the alcove, he grinned as blood-red laser beams shot harmlessly past him. No one, least of all Starfleet, had yet to invent an energy weapon that could shoot around corners, not without literally bending the laws of physics.
Go ahead, he thought. Waste your fire.
He could not rest easy, however. Before the enemy could regroup, he plucked a concussion grenade from his belt and hurled it around the corner into the hallway. He ducked for cover, shielding his ears as the bomb exploded gloriously. The deafening echoes of the explosion accompanied the shrieks of battered metal and humanity. Risking a peek around the corner, Kutth saw that the grenade had achieved the desired effect. Smoke and debris and groaning bodies filled the murky corridor, obstructing the path of any reinforcements. Kutth looked forward to picking off the next wave of human soldiers as they tried to get through the rubble-strewn corridor. He smiled coldly as he patted the remaining grenades on his belt. He still had several more bombs—and a fully charged disruptor rifle.
What more did any Klingon need?
Aside, that was, from worthy foes and the sweet promise of victory?
Come, Starfleet. Try to get past me. I dare you!
He heard a second explosion go off at
the other end of the corridor, beyond engineering. Clearly, Tras was doing his part to secure the deck as well, taking advantage of the fact that, unlike their opponents, Klingons would not hesitate to wreak havoc on a Starfleet vessel.
He readied another grenade.
* * *
“Captain! The Klingons have seized control of deck nineteen,” Garrison reported. “Our people have engaged the enemy, but the intruders are dug in outside engineering and are firing back at our security officers.”
Pike could readily imagine the stand-off. A couple of good snipers, positioned correctly, could probably secure a single corridor for a time. He remembered holding off a whole tribe of cannibalistic mutants from a narrow gorge in the Sepeth Mountains year ago, during a rather eventful visit to Yortob IV. It was all about sight-lines, positioning, and narrow passages.
“A logical strategy,” Spock observed. “Capturing the engineering room would allow them to shut down power to the ship’s shields, leaving the Enterprise defenseless.”
“And Krunn free to reclaim his daughter.” Number One looked apologetically at Pike. “And all because you lowered the shields long enough to beam me and the landing party back to the ship.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Number One,” Pike said. “That was my call, and I’d make same one in an instant.” A thought occurred to him and he turned toward Spock. “But speaking of Krunn’s daughter, where is Merata during all this?”
“In good hands,” Spock said, “I believe.”
* * *
“Where the devil is that security guard?” the doctor grumbled.
Merata could not blame Boyce for his impatience. Some time had passed since Spock had left her in the doctor’s keeping, yet no guard had arrived to escort her from sickbay to her quarters. No doubt the Enterprise’s soldiers were otherwise occupied.
“Stay where you are and don’t try anything,” Boyce cautioned her as he made his way to the wall intercom unit while gripping Spock’s laser pistol uncomfortably. As a physician, he no doubt preferred a scalpel or hypo to a firearm. “Sickbay to security. I need an armed escort here. Stat.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” a voice replied. “We’re short-handed as is, and all forces are needed to deal with the intruders. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for that escort.”
“For how long?” Boyce asked. “I’ve got patients to attend to.”
“Sorry, Doctor,” the voice repeated. “In any event, the captain has ordered the corridors kept clear. Just sit tight until we have things under control. Security out.”
“Blast it.” Boyce stepped away from the comm, visibly displeased. “I’ve got better things to do than babysit a teenage Klingon.” He shrugged apologetically at Merata. “No offense.”
She paid little heed to the old man’s grousing, having far more urgent matters on her mind. Her fingers toyed with the pendant at her neck as she silently rejoiced at the news of the ongoing intruder alert. At last the liberation she had been waiting for had arrived.
I knew my father would come for me, she thought. He would not leave me in the hands of an enemy.
“Looks like we’re stuck together for the time being,” Soleste observed from her sickbed. “Might as well take advantage of it.”
Perhaps for not much longer, Merata thought. To her surprise, she felt a slight pang at the prospect of abandoning her one-time family. Misguided and maddening as they were, they wanted only their lost Elzura back. She regretted that their foolish dreams would be crushed once more, and hoped, for their sakes, that her imminent departure would not wound them too deeply.
“Why didn’t you stop looking for me?” she asked. “Why not just mourn and move on with your life?”
“Because you’re my sister,” Soleste said bluntly. “Wouldn’t a Klingon do the same?”
Once again, Merata found herself with no ready answer. My father has not abandoned me.
“That would . . . depend on the circumstances,” she hedged. “As a rule, Klingons fall in battle. They do not go missing or permit themselves to be taken captive. We honor our dead, but believe life is for the living.”
“On Cypria, we don’t give up on family,” Soleste said, “and we look out for each other, no matter what.” She gestured toward a cardboard box resting on a nearby counter. “Do me a favor and fetch me that box if you don’t mind.”
Merata saw no harm in the request. “Doctor?”
“Go ahead,” he said, “but keep your hands where I can see them.”
Merata was amused by the doctor’s wariness. “You are not a trusting soul, old man.”
“How do you think I got to be so old,” Boyce replied. “Clean living?”
A canny response, she decided, and one she could respect. Gray hairs, like scars, were the emblems of a survivor. Crossing the ward, she retrieved the box and handed it to Soleste. The paper container struck Merata as notably flimsy, but she recalled that the Cyprians were overly attached to nature and vegetation. Organic materials appealed to them.
Soleste opened the box to reveal an assortment of small frosted cakes, each the size of a biscuit. Icing of various colors hinted at a variety of flavors. A pleated paper cup kept each cake separate from the rest, which Merata thought was unnecessarily extravagant. Klingons did not require such frills.
“Homemade nutberry cakes,” Soleste explained. “Mother brought them up from the planet as a taste of Cypria.” She bit into a cake, which clearly met with her approval. A satisfied sigh spoke highly of the treat. Selecting another cake, she offered it to Merata. “Care for one?”
Merata regarded the sugary-smelling pastry with disdain. “Klingons do not eat . . . cakes. And I have had enough unappetizing fare these last few days to last a lifetime.”
That was an understatement. As she had discovered since being brought aboard the Enterprise, Starfleet cuisine was quite literally lifeless; she hadn’t eaten anything squirming for days. And despite what Spock had claimed was an extensive menu, the ship’s galley had been unable to provide her with bloodwine, gagh, skull stew, or anything else remotely palatable. She’d been forced to consume burned meat, cooked not nearly rare enough to her taste, merely to keep her strength up.
“You sure?” Soleste held out the cake. “You couldn’t get enough of these as a child. We used to fight over who got the last one.”
“I told you before. I am not that girl anymore.”
And yet . . . the aroma coming off the cakes was oddly tantalizing, awakening memories long dormant: A toasty kitchen with golden sunlight pouring in through the windows. Freshly baked cakes hot from the oven. Sitting at the kitchen table with her mother, who smiled warmly at her. Licking the extra frosting from a bowl while waiting for the cakes to cool. The smell of the treats filling her senses . . .
Merata’s mouth watered. She licked her lips.
“Go ahead,” Soleste tempted her. A knowing smirk indicated that she felt confident that she was succeeding. “Just a bite. Try it.”
“Fine,” Merata snarled. She snatched the sticky pastry from the other woman’s hand. “If you insist.”
She bit into the cake—and was taken aback at how delicious it was.
It was much sweeter than proper Klingon fare, true, leavened by both a fruity tartness and a nutty undercurrent that complemented each other more effectively than one might expect, but the taste, both strange and hauntingly familiar, landed pleasantly on her tongue, even as it triggered yet more memories and feelings from her vanished childhood.
A picnic in a park, beneath the shade of a leafy canopy tree. Sunlight reflecting off the shimmering azure waters of a nearby swimming hole. The intoxicating fragrance of freshly bloomed spring flowers perfuming the air. Song lizards chirp in the branches overhead. A cool breeze brings added relief from the heat. A band is playing music somewhere in the distance.
A man is there, with long brown hair, a warm smile, and kind silver eyes. It’s Father—her dead, Cyprian father—then very much alive. He sits peacefully, res
ting his back against the trunk of the tree, while he shares the lovely afternoon with her and Mother and Soleste and even bratty little Junah, who keeps trying to grab up handfuls of grass and dirt and throw them at people. Mother gently swats his hand and tells him to behave. He sulks and pouts, as usual.
Mother unrolls a wicker mat atop the lawn. Opening a cooler, she lays out an enticing feast: merry plum cider, ivy butter sandwiches, and, best of all, her favorite dessert . . .
Soleste watched her expectantly. “Well?”
“It is . . . not disagreeable,” she conceded, before taking another bite.
“I knew it!” Soleste grinned triumphantly. “You may call yourself a Klingon now, but your taste buds are still Cyprian at least.” She offered Merata a second cake. “Here. Have another.”
Merata cursed her treacherous sweet tooth. The tale of Kulara, who was trapped on the Barge of the Dead forever after she was tricked into feasting on shadows, suddenly made sense to her. Disgusted with herself, she spit a mouthful of half-eaten mush onto the floor.
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Hey!” Boyce protested. “That’s my sickbay you’re—”
A sudden uproar in the adjacent ward cut off the doctor’s objections. Shouts and screams could be heard, along with the unmistakable sizzle of a Klingon disruptor pistol firing. Merata’s hand went back to her pendant, all thoughts of enticing Cyprian pastries driven from her mind. Her heart thrilled at the sound of the blasts.
This is it, she realized. Freedom has found me at last.
“What in blazes?” Boyce blurted. Startled and alarmed, he spun toward the commotion in the next room, turning his back on Merata, who knew that she would never have a better chance to seize control of her destiny once more.
My apologies, Doctor, she thought. But my path is clear.
She struck swiftly and without hesitation.
Seventeen