by Greg Cox
“I see,” Dellas said, appropriating a fresh disruptor from the centurion. She casually set it on kill. “Very well. You and your men may leave us now. Continue to monitor the Federation vessel and alert me if there is any change.”
“Are you sure, Commander?” The centurion gave Vithrok a scornful look; clearly he did not consider the scientist adequate protection for Dellas. “Perhaps I should stay.”
“This is not for your ears, centurion, nor for any of your men’s.” She raised the disruptor confidently. “I can defend myself if necessary.” She took Kirk’s phaser from another soldier and placed it on a counter next to the computer controls. “Now, go.”
Dellas waited until all of the soldiers had left the control room, leaving her alone with Vithrok and the two prisoners, before giving Kirk further consideration. She eyed him suspiciously as she paced slowly around him and Seven. “What I most want to know,” she stated, “is why are you here? How much do you know about our purpose here?” An ugly sneer appeared on her burnt face. “I refuse to accept that your presence on this world is a mere coincidence.”
“Er, Commander,” Vithrok interrupted. “Now that the soldiers have departed, I want to show you this.” He lifted the servo from his pocket, rolling the silver cylinder nervously between his fingers. “The centurion found it on Captain Kirk, but it’s not Starfleet issue. Citizen Septos had something similar before we confiscated it, as I’m sure you must recall,” he appended swiftly.
“I do indeed,” she stated, taking the servo from Vithrok. “An admirably compact and lethal device, at least when employed effectively.” She dangled the servo before Kirk’s eyes, the light from the overhead lamps glinting off the argentine sheen of Seven’s weapon. “Now why would a Starfleet captain be carrying a piece of alien technology identical to one we captured from the former occupant of this base? Curiouser and curiouser, as I believe one of your native fairy tales goes.”
You’re talking to the wrong person, Kirk thought, sneaking a sideways glance at Seven. The enigmatic time traveller remained silent, paying close attention to Vithrok’s activities at the computer station. So far, Commander Dellas had not paid much attention to Seven, perhaps misled by his borrowed Starfleet uniform. She doesn’t realize Seven is the one who made all the travel arrangements for this little jaunt. He didn’t see any reason to fill her in on the real story.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re up to instead,” Kirk said defiantly. “We both know that you don’t belong here.”
Dellas laughed, a sound that was anything but infectious. She tucked the servo into one of her boots. “I suppose such displays of bravado impress Klingons, but a Romulan commander is less easily swayed.” Swinging the muzzle of her disruptor back and forth between Kirk and Seven, she faced the Starfleet captain. “I’m very familiar with your record, Kirk, and not just your past. I know you have a long history with the Klingons. Tell me, have you ever experienced their mind-sifter?”
* * *
“You know, I don’t like the looks of this,” Dr. McCoy said, shocking no one with this revelation, least of all Spock. To his mind, the nature of the threat hardly required explication.
Gladiator hung in the blackness, a emerald dagger poised to stab at the heart of the Enterprise as soon as it came within firing range, which Spock estimated would occur within approximately 2.5 seconds. “Lieutenant Rodriguez, prepare to execute evasive maneuvers,” he instructed. “Take us out of this solar system.” A moment later, the first disruptor blast shook the Enterprise. Spock felt the vibration all the way through to his bones. He clenched his jaws to avoid biting down on his tongue by accident. All around the bridge, red alert lights dimmed momentarily before coming back on again.
“Boy,” Roberta Lincoln exclaimed from her perch at the science station once the shaking stopped. She brushed her disheveled blonde bangs away from her eyes. “Those Romulan guys aren’t kidding!”
“Apparently not,” Spock agreed, briefly wondering why humans always seemed to require assurance that a situation is not intended as humorous. Were practical jokes that pervasive an aspect of their culture? “Evidently Commander Motak does not intend to waste his time with further rhetoric or threats.” He established an intercom link with engineering. “Mr. Scott, what is the status of our defenses?”
“After the pounding we got before,” Scotty replied, “it’s a miracle that we have any screens at all.” Spock heard the sounds of vigorous activity in the background of Scotty’s transmission; it seemed that extensive work was being performed even as he conversed with the chief engineer. “We’re doing what we can down here, but the screens aren’t going to hold out for long, I can promise you that!”
“Deflectors down to forty-one percent,” Roberta confirmed, “which sounds like pretty bad news to me.”
“Less commentary, please, Miss Lincoln,” Spock requested as, despite the helmsman’s best efforts, another salvo jolted the bridge, provoking a flurry of profanity from Dr. McCoy and a startled gasp from Lt. Uhura. The red alert signals went out entirely this time, and did not light up again. Scanning the ring of duty stations that circled the bridge, Spock saw warning lights and damage alerts blinking on at almost every station, from environmental to engineering. As unnecessary as Roberta’s remarks seemed, he could not fault her evaluation of their situation; the Enterprise was growing increasing vulnerable, while Gladiator had yet to receive any damage. Their only chance was to attempt to balance the equation. “Return fire, Ensign Gates.”
“Yes, sir,” Ensign Gates acknowledged, her hands manipulating the phaser controls. A beam of scarlet energy flashed across the void to strike against the Romulan warship’s deflector shields. Spock spotted the distinctive blue flash of discharged Cerenkov radiation as the shields absorbed the phaser burst, dissipating the destructive energies back into the vacuum of space. Gates fired again and shimmering fire outlined the portside nacelle of the battle cruiser.
Gladiator flickered like a mirage, then disappeared entirely. “Yikes, you disintegrated it!” Roberta exclaimed, sounding both relieved and appalled. “Just like that!”
“I wish,” McCoy muttered darkly. He held on tightly to the painted red handrail around the command module, standing directly behind the captain’s chair.
“That is far from the case,” Spock stated, fully aware that Motak’s ship had simply activated their cloaking device, rendering Gladiator invisible to all their sensors. The only consolation, he knew, was that the battle cruiser could employ neither its weapons nor its shields while cloaked, guaranteeing the Enterprise at least a momentary respite. He doubted it would endure for long.
“Shall I keep firing, sir?” Gates asked. Caught up in the heat of the battle, she seemed eager to strike back at the Romulan cruiser.
“Fire where, Ensign?” Spock said, contemplating the empty starscape on the viewer. The battle cruiser was nowhere in evidence. “We cannot afford to waste our remaining energy shooting blindly.”
“I hope you have a better idea,” McCoy commented, lowering his voice so that only Spock could hear him.
The doctor was free to hope, Spock thought, not that it was likely to do much good. Strategically, Motak had the advantage. Not only did the commander have fresh shields and a cloaking device to hide behind, but he could count on reinforcements eventually. Even if both vessels were ultimately incapacitated, left drifting helplessly in space, it was only a matter of time before the Romulans sent more warships to apprehend the Enterprise. A temporary stalemate would eventually provide Commander Motak with final victory.
“Uh-oh,” Roberta blurted, working the ship’s sensor array. “They’re back . . . behind us!”
Seconds later, a violent shudder rattled the floor beneath their feet, dramatically confirming Roberta’s report. The image on the main viewer shifted as the rear sensors automatically switched the perspective, but Spock caught only a fleeting glimpse of Gladiator before it faded from sight once more. Gates released another phaser blast in
retaliation. The beam pierced the darkness, continuing on in a straight line that apparently encountered no resistance. “Missed him!” Gates cried out, smacking her fist against her knee in frustration.
Sparks flew from the ceiling as a wounded Enterprise suffered the effects of this latest blow. A burning ember landed on the back of Spock’s hand. He brushed it away methodically, his mind examining the battle just as he would approach a game of tridimensional chess. The cloaking device was the key, he realized. If he could eliminate that advantage, the Enterprise’s own firepower could be brought to bear. Regrettably, however, Starfleet military research had yet to discover an effective counteragent to the cloaking device he and Captain Kirk had removed from the Romulans on an earlier mission. Spock himself had not previously applied himself to the problem, but it was unrealistic to assume that he could provide a technological breakthrough in the midst of battle.
Or was it? His gaze fell upon the green crystal cube Roberta had used to usurp control of the Enterprise. “Miss Lincoln,” he called out, “is it possible that your computer interface device might be of use in this situation?”
“My what?” Roberta asked. “Oh, you mean this thingie.” She held the cube out at roughly eye level. “What the heck do you have in mind?”
Spock recalled that Seven claimed a thorough mastery of cloaking technology on the part of his anonymous sponsors. “If given access to the Enterprise’s sensor array, might not your computer be able to penetrate our adversary’s cloaking field?”
“Huh?” McCoy said. His confusion was evident. “But you can’t detect a cloaked ship, Spock. That’s the whole point.”
Spock would not be deterred by the doctor’s dour attitude. “Just because we lack the knowledge to do something, that does not mean it cannot be done, perhaps even with the tools at hand.” He braced himself as Gladiator materialized once more out of the ether. “Miss Lincoln, establish the link immediately. Ensign Gates, arm photon torpedoes, but hold your fire until our foe resumes a cloaked state.”
In a simple shooting match, Spock knew, Gladiator’s shields would outlast the Enterprise. Logically, their only hope was to accomplish the impossible, striking against the battle cruiser while its deflectors were rendered inoperative by the cloaking effect. The only variable was, would the Enterprise hold together long enough to give Roberta a chance to apply Gary Seven’s alien technology to the task of locating a cloaked ship? Spock started to calculate the odds of their survival, then, on an impulse, abandoned the effort.
As Captain Kirk had repeatedly demonstrated, the odds weren’t everything.
* * *
The casualties had begun streaming into sickbay, just as Christine Chapel had feared. Three already, one from Deck Sixteen and two from the shuttle landing bay. They came in carried and/or assisted by their fellow crew members, whom she immediately set to work loading hyposprays and sterilizing wounds. Fortunately, none of the injuries were life-threatening yet—just fractures and second-degree burns—but the battle appeared far from over. The yellow alert lights had been replaced by flashing red warnings. Doctor McCoy must be on his way, she assumed, unless he had encountered another medical emergency en route—or worse. That was the worst part of holding down the fort like this; she never knew when the doctor himself might be carried into sickbay, wounded or dying, leaving her on her own to cope with the inevitable victims of war.
The floor suddenly dropped out from beneath her feet as a devastating force slammed into the ship. The entire sickbay lurched downward and Chapel stumbled forward, smacking sideways into one of the biobeds. One of her conscripted “orderlies” lost hold of a tray full of medical instruments, which crashed to the floor with a ringing metallic clang. Surgical scalpels, heartbeat readers, med scanners, and anabolic protoplasers rolled across the floor as desperate crew members scurried after them.
Out of the corner of her eye, Chapel saw a specimen cage slide off its shelf and smash onto the floor. Oh, no, she thought, the poor cat! But there was nothing she could do about that now. “Strap the wounded to the beds!” she ordered, to protect them from any future jolts. “And watch out for yourselves.” Part of her wished she knew how the battle was faring, whether the Enterprise was giving as good as she was getting, but, in a way, that had nothing to do with her. Let Mr. Spock and the others fight for the ship. Her job was to care for the injured for as long as she was able.
The door to the corridor whished open and two more casualties staggered in. Radiations burns and a head wound, she diagnosed on the run. Performing triage automatically, she handed off the burn victim to an ensign for first aid while she scanned the head injury with her medical tricorder, looking for signs of serious cerebral trauma and praying she wouldn’t find any.
She didn’t even notice a sleek black shape slip out through the open door.
Chapter Seventeen
DISRUPTORS BLAZED amidst the silence of space. Spock saw an incandescent flash an instant before he felt the impact. McCoy gasped behind him, thrown against the very handrail he had depended on to keep himself upright. For a second it felt like the Enterprise was going to flip end over end, but the ship’s artificial gravity kept everyone more or less in place. Electrical fires sparked all around the bridge, suffusing the room with smoke. When the automatic fire suppression system failed to activate, Uhura sprung to action immediately, retrieving an emergency fire extinguisher from a shelf beneath the communications console and dashing around the bridge, putting out the blazes wherever they flared up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Spock,” she called out, coughing loudly and waving away the haze with her free hand, “I think I have things under control.”
Spock took her at her word. Uhura was a logical choice to assume this duty; Commander Motak seemed to have no interest in sending transmissions to the Enterprise. Spock peered at Roberta through the white trails of smoke. Her translucent cube blinked rapidly atop the ship sensor controls. “Are you making any progress, Miss Lincoln?” he asked.
“I think so,” she shouted over the crackling fires and minor explosions that broke out almost as fast as Lt. Uhura could contain them. “It thinks your sensor gadgets are awfully primitive, but it might be able to work with them.”
“Let us hope so,” Spock answered, finding it intriguing and more than a little remarkable that the fate of the Enterprise—and perhaps that of future history—depended on the unlikely abilities of a twentieth century Earth woman and a mechanism of unknown origin. Captain Kirk was prone to “gambling on long shots,” as he called it. Spock could not help wondering what the captain would think of this particular gamble.
“Here they come again!” Ensign Gates warned as another flash of energy lit up the forward viewer and the subsequent shock wave tilted the entire bridge starboard, sending them all lurching to one side. Knocked from its setting, the bronze plaque mounted to the left of the turbolift doors crashed to the floor, producing a ringing metallic clang. The hull remained intact, though, Spock noted; the shields were still holding, if just barely. The intercom whistled at his side and he heard Chief Engineer Scott reading off damage reports through a cacophony of static and electronic distortion. He did not need to identify every word to understand that circumstances were dire in the extreme. We do not have much more time, he concluded.
Suddenly, the floor buckled only a few meters away, spraying Rodriguez with shards of metal and released plasma. The helmsman let out a single frantic scream before being flung from his seat, landing hard at the base of the main viewscreen. “Good Lord,” McCoy whispered hoarsely and hurried forward. He had his medical scanner out and ready even before he reached the injured man’s side. “Talk to me, Arturo,” he urged his patient, using a spray applicator to treat Rodriguez’s visible burns and lacerations. “Don’t die on me, man!”
Throwing an empty fire extinguisher onto the floor, Uhura rushed back to the communications station and hurriedly inserted her receiver into her ear. “Uhura to sickbay. Dr. McCoy requires assistance on the bridge . . . well,
send whomever you can!” She turned toward Spock. “Nurse Chapel reports more casualties coming into sickbay. No fatalities yet, but they’re running out of room for the wounded.”
Ensign Gates rose to assist the doctor, but Spock restrained him with a sharp command. “Maintain your post, Ms. Gates.” Although Rodriguez’s injuries were apparently severe, he could not concern himself with the fate of a single crewman; that was in Dr. McCoy’s able hands now. Tapping the vital functions override panel on his port console, he transferred helm control to the navigation station, knowing all the while that simply maintaining their present course was not enough. They had to go on the offensive, force Gladiator to go to cloaked mode at least one more time before Commander Motak came in for the kill. “Hold the torpedoes, but fire phasers at will.”
Gates stared at her wounded comrade for one more heartbeat, then dropped back into her seat and depressed the firing controls with a vengeance. A volley of phaser beams, one after another, detonated against Gladiator’s shields, sending cascades of rippling blue energy around the outline of the warship. Spock watched the enemy vessel with keen interest. Would Motak respond in kind or take the better part of valor, going to cloak before attacking the Enterprise again? Much depended on what next transpired.
Spock’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as the image of the battle cruiser rippled like a reflection upon the water before vanishing entirely. Now is the time, he thought. We will not have a better opportunity. “Miss Lincoln, can you identify the location of the hostile vessel?”
“Almost . . . sort of . . . Got it!” she rejoiced, staring at the sensor displays. Looking across the bridge, Spock did not recognize any of the patterns he could discern. The cube atop the instruments maintained a steady chartreuse glow. “He’s standing out like a sore thumb!”
