Spock’s inner eyelids blinked in surprise. He did not often doubt his own senses, but the sheer improbability of the orderly’s statement made him wonder if he had indeed heard correctly.
“Merata? Merata foiled the incursion?”
“So they say,” the man said. “Go figure.”
Spock recalled leaving Merata in Doctor Boyce’s care. He glanced around, but did not immediately see either individual. “The doctor? Where is he?”
Howell gestured toward the surgical ward. “He’s performing an operation right now.”
“On whom?”
“The Cyprian woman.The one with the crystal eye. She’s supposed to be pretty messed up.”
Soleste, Spock thought. In surgery once more?
Despite the urgency of his mission to obtain the sedative, concern drove Spock to investigate. Proceeding swiftly to the surgical ward, he was confronted by an ominous and rather unlikely tableau. As reported, an unconscious Soleste was being operated on by Doctor Boyce, with the assistance of Nurse Carlotti. A surgical support frame fitted over Soleste concealed her torso while generating a sterile field in which the doctor could work. Insulated sheets protected the patient’s lower limbs. A steady blue glow from the interior of the frame lit up Boyce’s haggard face as the nurse handed him a calibrated autosuture. Focused on his labors, Boyce did not immediately acknowledge Spock’s arrival.
“All right,” he said to Carlotti. “I think we’ve staunched the bleeding from her lower abdominal organs, but I want to run a complete circulatory scan just to make sure.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She handed him a specialized scanner before consulting a diagnostic monitor. “Blood pressure low, but within acceptable safety margins, at least according to the recorded baselines for her species.”
“If we can trust those,” Boyce muttered. “It’s not like I’ve operated on a whole lot of Cyprians before, although I’m getting much more familiar than I’d like with the insides of this particular specimen.”
All of this was to be expected, Spock noted, given the data provided by the orderly. What surprised him was the sight of Merata lying in the adjacent bed, obviously donating blood to her sister. Orange plasma flowed through clear tubing from a micro-stent in Merata’s bare arm to an intake in the solid-steel exterior of the surgical frame. After serving alongside red-blooded humans, Spock paid little heed to the peculiar orange hue of Cyprian blood, but it was certainly striking, and strangely moving, to see the sisters’ blood connection reestablished so literally.
Merata, who had been watching the doctor intently, took note of Spock’s entrance. She turned her weary gaze toward him. “Vulcan.”
He noted, upon closer inspection, that she too was under restraint. In addition, a grim-faced security officer stood watch nearby, keeping a close eye on the proceedings. It seemed her apparent cooperation with the medical procedure had not dispelled a reasonable degree of distrust on the part of Boyce and the others.
“You are not in your quarters,” Spock observed. “As I instructed earlier.”
She shrugged, resting her head on a silver cushion. “Fate deemed otherwise.”
Boyce snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” He looked up from the operation. “Can I help you, Mister Spock?”
The needs of the ship outweighed his personal curiosity regarding the drama in sickbay.
“I am in need of a sizable quantity of concentrated anesthizine,” he informed the doctor, “as well as the facilities required to produce an aerosolized form of the same.”
“Anesthizine?” Boyce gave him a puzzled look. “For medical purposes?”
“Tactical,” Spock replied. “I would explain further, but time is short and my mission imperative.”
To his credit, the doctor took Spock at his word and did not waste precious minutes interrogating him.
“Fair enough. I’m going to guess you know what you’re doing.” Boyce nodded at the nurse. “I can close up here, Gabrielle. Show Spock to our inventory and help him use my lab.” He turned his attention back to his comatose patient. “But I’m going to want a full explanation somewhere down the road.”
Spock contemplated the fraught scene in sickbay. He was still not entirely certain how matters here had come to such a pass in the short time since he had left for the bridge.
“As will I, Doctor.”
He followed the nurse out of the ward.
* * *
Disruptor pistol in hand, Kaln was the first through the breached entrance into the engineering room. Whether he was trying to make up for his earlier lapses or simply intent on revenge against whoever had electrified the door, Guras neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was that victory was at hand, provided they encountered no further delays.
“Eyes open!” Guras ordered as he and Dograk charged in after Kaln, leaving the two riflemen in place in the corridor to guard their backs. Their boots clanged atop the twisted remains of the fallen door. Swirling fumes from the explosion fogged their vision even as Guras searched for the cornered Starfleet engineers, who were bound to attempt to defend their domain. He sniffed the air, but smelled only the ionized residue of the photon grenades. “Arms at the ready!”
He knew they could not be alone, but, to his frustration, he could not immediately detect any lurking foes. He turned about slowly, sweeping the barrel of his disruptor pistol through the smoky air before him. The layout of the chamber bore a certain similarity to the Fek’lhr’s own engine room, although the bland, tasteless air lacked the pungency of that found on a proper Klingon vessel. The lights were irritatingly bright and colorless. No weapons or trophies adorned the walls.
Fine, he thought impatiently. Let the human technicians hide, as long as they stayed out of his way. He had better things to do than track down cowards who chose their own safety over defending their post. He was starting to wonder if Starfleet’s reputation as a force to be reckoned with had been woefully exaggerated. So far he was not impressed.
“Shut down power to the shields!” he ordered. “I’ll stand watch!”
Disabling the Enterprise’s shields took priority above all else. Even if Wragh had failed to rescue Merata, a defenseless Enterprise would be in no position to refuse General Krunn’s demands. Nor would the humans be able to stop the boarding party from beaming back to the Fek’lhr once Pike finally surrendered Merata. Success was still within Guras’s grasp.
Reluctantly lowering his weapon, Kaln commandeered a control panel. Guras waited impatiently to hear that the shields were indeed down. He wondered what was taking so long.
“Well?” he growled.
“I’m trying, Lieutenant!” Kaln fought the machinery as though it were an enemy, trying to pound it into submission. “I’m locked out of the controls!”
Guras felt like shooting the man. “Then unlock it!”
“I’m doing my best, Lieutenant! It’s resisting me!”
Guras saw the cunning hand of a Starfleet engineer at work. It seemed the chamber’s defenders were not completely worthless. He was tempted to shove Kaln aside and try the controls himself, but suspected that would be an exercise in futility. Mastering technology was not his strength; he left that to lesser warriors like Kaln, whose technical prowess was sharper than their blades. If Kaln could not overcome the humans’ computer trickery, it was doubtful that Guras could.
“Show me how strong your brain is,” he challenged Kaln, “unless you want to spend the rest of your days in a Starfleet holding cell!”
“I can do it!” Kaln vowed. “Just give me time!”
“Request denied! Time is the one thing we cannot spare!”
The smoke began to clear, offering a better view of the engine room. Guras noted an odd rectangular shadow moving across the floor before him. Tilting his head back, he peered up at the ceiling . . .
“Hah!” Kaln laughed triumphantly. “I see it now! The trick is to—”
A wrench flew like a missile from above, smashing into the man’s skull. Kno
cked unconscious, he collapsed over the control panel even as Guras spotted the underside of an antigrav lifter cruising just below the engine room’s high ceiling. The lifter banked to one side, and he glimpsed a flame-haired human female stretched out atop the device, riding it like a sled. She brandished a gleaming metal cylinder like a club. It took Guras a moment to identify the weapon as an EPS control rod.
“Keep your hands off my controls!” she threatened. “And you owe me for that busted door. Like I didn’t have enough repair jobs on my plate!”
“Insolent she-devil!” Dograk raised his disruptor and fired at the flying sled. A blazing green blast barely missed its target, scorching the ceiling instead. He spun about, trying to catch the lifter in his sights, but Guras angrily knocked his arm aside.
“Fool!” Guras cursed him. “Firing a disruptor next to the warp core? Do you want to kill us all?” Holstering his own disruptor, he drew a dagger from his belt. The razor-sharp d’k tahg had tasted the blood of many a foe, both Klingon and otherwise. “I’ll deal with the human. See to the shields!”
“Yes, Lieutenant!”
Dograk hurried to take Kaln’s place at the controls, roughly shoving the unconscious soldier aside. Kaln’s limp form landed in a heap upon the deck.
“Oh, no you don’t!” the human engineer protested. She swooped down toward Dograk, swinging the metal rod with clear intent to brain Dograk before he could finish what Kaln had started. “Keep away from those controls!”
Guras saw his chance. Placing his knife between his teeth, he sprang onto one of the standby power batteries and from there launched himself at the diving sled. If he missed, he was in for a hard tumble.
But he did not miss.
Tackling the human in midair, he landed atop the lifter, which went into a spin. Biting down hard on his knife, he grappled with the woman as the out-of-control sled crashed to the deck and went skidding toward the EM shield grating at the far end of the engine room. Sparks flew as the lifter scraped against the metal deck. For a heartbeat, Guras feared that the sled would crash straight thought the grille into the warp core, but the grating proved to be more solidly constructed than that. The skidding lift slammed to a stop against the grille, spilling its jarred passengers onto the deck, where neither human nor Klingon could take a moment to recover.
“Ouch,” the female said. “I’m going to feel that later.”
Her club had hit the deck a few meters away. Shaking off the jolting crash with admirable speed, she scrambled to her feet and dived for the lost weapon, but Guras was on her even more quickly. Knife in hand, he lunged for the fleeing engineer, only to be tackled from behind by another human, who burst out of a cramped storage compartment beneath one of the secondary control stations. Puny arms attempted to restrain Guras.
“Leave the chief alone!” demanded a boyish voice. “You have some nerve, barging in—”
Guras rammed the back of his skull into the human’s face. The impact loosened the male’s already meager grip and sent him tumbling backward, clutching a bleeding nose. Annoyed by the interruption, Guras spared a moment to spin about and deliver a backhanded blow with his fist that dropped the youth to the floor, where he lay dazed and moaning. Guras debated whether he was worth finishing off.
“Forget him!” the female shouted. “It’s me you need to worry about.”
She gripped the metal rod with both hands as she faced off against him while keeping one eye on Dograk as well. Despite the breached doorway behind her, she made no effort to flee but stood her ground instead. Her face was bruised and sooty. She spit a mouthful of crimson onto the deck. Guras wondered if she had any Klingon in her blood.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Caitlin Berry, chief engineer of the Space Ship Enterprise, and you’re trespassing on my turf, mister.”
Under other circumstances, Guras might have enjoyed engaging her in combat, but duty and expedience prevailed. He placed his boot over the throat of her downed male subordinate. “Drop your weapon, or I’ll crush his windpipe.”
A trace of fear appeared in her eyes. “You wouldn’t!”
“I am Klingon,” he reminded her. “Why would I not?”
She glanced briefly back over her shoulder, as though hoping that reinforcements were on the way. The furious exchange of energy weapons could be heard out in the corridor. Clearly, the battle for control of the deck waged on and would for at least some time more.
“Help will not arrive to save him.” He ground his heel into the boy’s throat, just enough to make the human gasp for breath. “Drop the weapon. I will not ask again.”
“Hellfire,” she swore. The rod fell from her fingers onto the floor. “Guess you think you have the upper hand now, don’t you.”
“I know I do.”
As she had fought bravely, he honored his offer of mercy. He lifted his boot from the boy’s neck.
“Sorry, Chief,” the youth squeaked. A broken nose distorted his speech, making it even more grating to Guras’s ears. “I thought I had him . . .”
“It’s okay, Collier,” she said. “You did good.”
“Enough!” Guras strode across the chamber to place his dagger at Barry’s throat. He snarled at her, his fierce countenance barely a hand’s width from hers. “Unlock the control panel at once.”
Barry met his gaze boldly, as though death was not only a short length of steel away. A smirk lifted her lips. “Sure you want to get so close? I’m contagious, you know.”
He blinked in confusion. “Contagious?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? There’s a nasty bout of Rigelian fever going around.” She coughed in his face. “Nasty way to go, they say.”
A shudder ran through him. Like all Klingons, he dreaded disease. To die in battle was a glorious end, but to die in bed, sickly and weak, was every warrior’s worst nightmare. He had to fight a sudden urge to retreat from the woman and flee her presence at once.
“You’re lying,” he insisted, as much to himself as to her. “You think to distract me.”
“Take my temperature if you don’t believe me. Trust me, I’m running hotter than my engines . . . and not in a good way.”
Was she trying to taunt him into killing her before she could betray her captain? Or was she simply stalling for time? Either way, he refused to be baited any longer.
“Curb your tongue!” He dragged her over to the control panel, dislodging Dograk, and spun her around so that she faced the frozen mechanism. Trying his best not to think of germs or sickness, he came up behind her and placed the edge of the blade against her neck. “Release the controls to us, or you won’t have to worry about your fever any longer!”
Twenty
“Excuse me, sir,” Garrison said. “It’s the Cyprians. They’re still upset about us defying their orders and coming within transporter range of the planet.”
“I’m sure they are,” Pike said irritably, “but I’ve got a Klingon boarding party running amok on my ship at the moment.” As far he was concerned, smoothing the Cyprians’ ruffled feathers could wait. “Tell them to file a formal protest—in writing—but clear that board, mister!”
“Message received, Captain.” Garrison kept any Cyprian signals confined to his own station. “Loud and clear.”
Number One sighed ruefully. “I’m sorry, Captain. Rescuing me and the others is not going to endear you with Prime Minister Flescu.”
“Belay that, Number One,” he replied. “Don’t even think of apologizing. The way I see it, Flescu owes me a favor. Thanks to our unauthorized detour, he doesn’t have four dead Federation citizens on his hands. Now that would be a diplomatic incident.”
Any trace of guilt vanished from Number One’s features as she considered the captain’s reasoning. “That’s certainly one way to look at it, I suppose, but I wouldn’t expect any thank-you notes from the prime minister in the immediate future.”
I can live with that, Pike thought. He activated the intercom via his chair. “Pike to e
ngineering. How are you holding out?”
Worryingly, no one responded.
“Repeat: Pike to engineering. Barry, are you there?”
The engineer’s failure to reply suggested various possibilities, none of them good. His heart pounded inside his aching chest. “Garrison?”
He shook his head dourly. “I’m trying to reach engineering, sir. No luck.”
Pike would have hit something in frustration if he had the strength. Had the Klingons already seized control of the engine room? If so, then the Enterprise could be losing power to her shields and engines at any moment, which would leave the ship a sitting duck. Krunn wouldn’t even need to wait for his reinforcements to take the ship.
Spock’s plan had better work, he thought, and soon.
* * *
Spock wriggled through the Jefferies tube to reach the central air conduit servicing deck nineteen. Navigating the cramped access tunnel while transporting a pressurized tank of concentrated anesthizine gas posed a challenge; Spock was grateful that he was still relatively young and limber and that his half-human genetics had not significantly impaired his upper body strength. He had every reason to believe that he possessed the strength of a full Vulcan, which made it easier to carry the heavy tank under one arm while pulling himself along with the other. Given that the tank weighed 10.4 kilograms and was approximately 46.8 centimeters in length, he doubted that anyone else aboard could have made better time through the tube.
Nonetheless, he remained all too conscious that time was elapsing at an unsettling rate. Despite his haste, procuring and preparing a sufficient quantity of the gas had taken longer than anticipated. It was a pity, he reflected, that the Enterprise did not already have a gas-based security system in place to deal with such eventualities. Something to consider, perhaps, the next time the ship was due for refit, some years hence. He resolved to recommend consideration of such an innovation in his log entry on this incident, assuming that he survived to compose one. The ability to painlessly subdue intruders by pumping a tranquilizing gas into selected areas of the ship might well prove a boon to future starship captains and crews in years to come.