by Greg Cox
So she attacked instead. Knife in hand, she lunged at Krunn, going for his heart. It was a valiant effort, but, of course, she was no match for the full-grown Klingon warrior, who effortlessly grabbed her by the wrist and wrested the knife from her grip. Even still, Elzy refused to surrender. Fighting tooth and nail, she threw herself at the laughing Klingon, kicking and scratching and biting. Appearing amused and/or impressed by the girl’s spirit, Krunn tucked her under his arm and carried her off like a trophy of war. Elzura was still thrashing wildly, desperate to break free, as the Klingons continued on their way, taking the helpless child with them.
With a blink, Soleste froze the image, so that it hung motionlessly in the air between the sisters like an accusation. The frantic look on little Elzy’s face was preserved for posterity.
“That’s who your new family is,” she said bitterly. “That’s how they ‘adopted’ you . . . over the bodies of our dead.”
Merata looked away from the projection, unable to face this jagged fragment of yesterday. The expression on her face defied easy interpretation. Spock could only wonder what turbulent thoughts and emotions were churning behind Merata’s troubled eyes. He doubted that even a mind-meld would bring much clarity to this moment; delving into her psyche here and now would likely be akin to diving head-first into a seething matter/antimatter reaction—and just as dangerous.
“Shut it off,” she said, half-pleading, half-demanding. “Shut it off now!”
Thirteen
“Captain!” Garrison called out. “There’s trouble on the planet. I’m picking up reports of an attack on the Envoy House in Sapprus.”
“What?” Pike asked. A jolt of adrenaline combatted the fatigue and fever wearing him down. He sat up in his chair and called out hoarsely, “Who is attacking? What’s happening?”
Garrison adjusted his earpiece. “Details are sketchy, sir, but it’s sounding like a crowd of angry demonstrators have invaded the residence. There are scattered reports of violence, vandalism.” He looked up from his console. “It doesn’t sound good, sir.”
Damn, Pike thought. He’d been afraid of something like this, especially after the incident earlier. I knew I should’ve have gotten them off that planet, despite Number One’s stubborn insistence on completing her mission.
Granted, that might have been easier said than done.
“What about the Cyprian authorities? Are they protecting our people?”
Garrison looked like he wanted to give the captain a different answer. “That’s . . . unclear, sir.”
“Understood,” Pike replied. “Get me Number One, if you can.”
“Aye, sir!”
Moments dragged on like eons, as though time itself was warping, as Pike waited tensely for Garrison to get in touch with the landing party. For all Pike knew, Number One and the others had already been taken hostage, injured, or worse. His head throbbed with each interminable tick of the chronometer. His chest ached.
“I’m running into some interference, sir.” Garrison cupped a hand over his ear to filter out the ambient noise on the bridge. “It appears somebody is attempting to jam communications from Envoy House.”
Pike clenched his fists. “The authorities or the protestors?”
“Impossible to tell, sir. It appears to be a localized effect.”
To keep the landing party from calling for help, Pike wondered, or to give the Cyprian authorities an excuse not to respond promptly to the threat? Pike couldn’t be sure, but this reeked of plausible deniability to him. But who was behind this and why didn’t matter at the moment, only finding a way around the obstacle in time to reach Number One and the others.
“Can you get past the interference?” he asked.
“I think so,” Garrison said, “if I can boost the signal by narrowing the frequency.” His arm stretched across his console to reach the external communications panel. “Just give me a few seconds.”
“A lot can happen in a second, Mister Garrison. Make every one count.”
“Yes, Captain! Boosting the signal now.”
Pike crossed his fingers.
“Got her, sir!” Garrison announced with visible relief. “Putting her through.”
There was no visual, but Number One’s voice echoed across the bridge. “Captain? I was just about to contact you.” She sounded admirably cool and collected under the circumstances. “I’m afraid things have taken a turn for the worse, sir.”
She quickly briefed him on the landing party’s perilous situation. Pike was relieved to hear that she and the other crew members had not been harmed yet, but “yet” appeared to be the operative word. Straining his ears, he thought he could hear lots of noise and commotion in the background. Number One had to raise her voice to be heard above the din.
“We could use a lift, sir,” she concluded. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Copy that, Number One.” Pike made the decision without a moment’s hesitation. “We’re on our way. Hold on as long as you can.”
“We’re not going anywhere, sir. At least not willingly.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. Expect us soon. Enterprise out.” Pike coughed and cleared his swollen throat. It hurt just to breathe, let alone issue commands. “Helmsman, take us into a lower orbit . . . within transporter range.”
“Aye, sir,” Mohindas replied, sounding healthy enough for now.
Pike trusted Mohindas to do her job. He hit the intercom button on his armrest. “Transporter room, prepare for an emergency beam-out. We’re going after our landing party and time is of the essence.”
Sam Yamata responded at once. “Message received, sir. We’ll be ready.”
Pike had expected to hear Pitcairn’s voice instead. “Is Chief Pitcairn on hand?”
“The chief has taken ill,” Yamata explained. “But we can handle this, sir. Don’t worry about it.”
“No worries, Mister Yamata,” Pike said, even as he regretted hearing that one of his senior officers had been taken out of commission by the implacable fever. “Stand by.”
Pike kept the line open to the transporter room. He sat back in his chair and watched Cypria III draw nearer upon the viewscreen. Ryetalyn or not, he was developing a serious dislike for the planet. Painful breaths tortured his breathing. His eyes felt like they were being speared by lasers.
Colt approached his chair. “The Cyprians aren’t going to like this,” she said quietly, not as a criticism but merely as an observation. “They wanted us to keep our distance.”
Tell me about it, Pike thought. “Then they should’ve taken better care of our people.”
“That’s telling them, Captain,” Tyler said. “We can’t just—”
The rest of his remark was lost to a vicious coughing jag that sounded as though he was trapped on a Class-L planet without a respirator. His face was pale and sweaty and looked like death warmed over. He gripped the edge of his console with shaking hands.
“You all right, Joe?” Pike asked.
“I’ve felt better, Captain.” Tyler managed to bring his coughing fit under control, mostly. He clipped his words, obviously short of breath. “But I can manage.”
Pike hoped that was the case. He probably should have had Tyler relieved earlier, but at this point there were few crew members well enough to take the navigator’s place. The Enterprise was already close to running on a skeleton crew. If I dismiss every crew member who’s looking under the weather, Pike thought, we’ll be down to bare bones.
“Yeoman,” he addressed Colt. “I think Mister Tyler could use a cup of that restorative tea of yours.”
She jumped to it, albeit not without a worried backward glance at Pike.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised, starting toward the turbolift.
“Captain,” Garrison interrupted. “We’re being hailed by the planet. They’re ordering us to return to our previous orbit.”
That was fast, Pike thought, impressed by the Cyprian’s orbital defense monitoring. Too bad they coul
dn’t respond to the attack on Envoy House so promptly.
“Tell them this is a rescue mission. Remind them our landing party is in danger.”
“Yes, sir.” Garrison spoke in a low voice to whoever was at the other end of the transmission. “They’re not buying it, Captain. They insist that they can deal with any unrest on the planet.”
“Like they have so far?” Pike shook his head, which just made it throb all the worse. He felt like he was on the receiving end of a Klingon agonizer. “That’s not good enough. Tell them we’re coming in . . . with or without their permission.”
Garrison gulped. “Yes, sir.”
This may vaporize our chances of ever getting our hands on that ryetalyn, Pike realized, but what else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t about to let the landing party face death in the performance of their duty. Not after what happened on Rigel VII . . .
“Incoming, Captain!” Tyler blurted. “They’re targeting us with their laser satellites!”
“Shields at maximum!” Pike ordered. “Red alert!”
A klaxon sounded and annunciator lights flashed crimson all around the bridge as the Enterprise came under fire from Cypria III’s orbital laser cannons. White-hot beams lit up the void, narrowly missing the ship. Pike blinked, surprised that they hadn’t taken a hit from the lasers.
“Are those satellites near-sighted?” he asked aloud. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
An explanation was not long in coming.
“Those were warning shots,” Garrison reported. “They’re saying that the next blasts won’t be.”
Colt returned to the command circle, calling off her tea run in light of the red alert. She clearly had her priorities straight. “Guess they don’t like people getting too close.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” Pike said, “considering their history with the Klingons, but they’re not giving us any choice.” He turned toward Garrison. “Remind them that Elzura is aboard, along with the entire Mursh family.”
“Right on it, sir!” Garrison said.
“Should I stay on course, Captain?” Mohindas asked. “Despite the Cyprians making a fuss?”
“Absolutely,” Pike replied. “Don’t even think about slowing down.”
“Figured you’d say that, sir,” Mohindas said as the Enterprise continued her descent into a lower orbit. “Just checking.”
Pike knew that disregarding the Cyprians’ warnings would have consequences. They weren’t long in coming.
“Brace yourself!” Tyler croaked. “We’re under fire!”
A blinding white flash lit up the viewscreen, momentarily overwhelming the brightness filters, as a powerful laser blast slammed into the Enterprise’s shields, rocking the bridge. Comparable in punch to the Klingons’ disruptors, the white-hot energy beams ricocheted off the spaceship’s deflectors, but the impact was still felt inside the ship. Colt staggered and grabbed on to the safety rail to keep from falling. Pike gripped his armrests and gritted his teeth. The massive jolt hadn’t done his aching head any good. A thunderous din hurt his ears.
“Status,” he demanded.
“Shields holding,” Tyler said weakly, swaying slightly in his seat. He hugged himself as though chilled. “But down to seventy-nine percent.”
“Receiving damage reports,” Garrison added. “Nothing major yet. Mostly burned-out control circuits and transfer coils, coolant leaks, and a few small fires, all being brought under control.” He paused to absorb more data from the comm board. “Sickbay is objecting to the disturbances.”
I’ll bet, Pike thought. He took comfort in knowing that sickbay was one of the most heavily protected areas on the ship. At least Boyce and his patients weren’t taking the brunt of the attack, such as it was. The captain guessed that the Cyprians hadn’t unleashed their full firepower yet, due to the presence of Elzura and the others aboard, but things had obviously progressed beyond warning shots. The Cyprians were serious about defending their orbital borders.
Too bad he was just as serious about rescuing his people.
“Should we retaliate, sir?” Tyler asked. “I could try to target their defensive satellites.”
“Belay that,” Pike said. As tempting as it was to strike back, that was a line he wasn’t going to cross. Encroaching on the planet’s airspace without their permission for the sake of the endangered landing party was one thing; opening fire on Cypria’s defense forces was something else altogether. “We’re Starfleet, not the Klingon Empire.”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler said between coughs. “Understood, sir.”
A second blast shook the Enterprise, testing Pike’s resolve not to fire back. The bridge shuddered and sparks erupted from an overloaded sensor station, forcing an ensign to jump backward to avoid being shocked. Pike was impressed by the woman’s reflexes, as well as the way she quickly diverted power to a secondary relay. Loud booms, echoing across the bridge, made it sound like the Enterprise was flying through a minefield. Pike suddenly understood why the Klingons hadn’t raided Cypria in years.
“Shields at seventy percent, sir!”
Pike turned toward Garrison. “The Cyprians aren’t backing down, I take it.”
“Not yet, Captain.”
“Talk faster.” Pike looked to the helm. “Time to transporter range?”
“Two minutes,” Mohindas reported. “Almost there.”
Pike nodded. Hold fast, Number One. Here comes the cavalry . . . assuming the Cyprians don’t blow us out of the sky first.
“Captain!” Tyler blurted. “The Klingons . . . they’re closing in on us!”
Blast it, Krunn! Pike thought. Not now!
* * *
A red alert disturbed sickbay, interrupting the highly emotional confrontation between Merata and Soleste. Spock was almost grateful for the distraction.
“What is it?” Soleste exclaimed. The hologram emanating from her ocular implant blinked out. “What’s happening?”
Merata instinctively looked for a martial explanation. “Is that a call to arms? Is the ship going into battle?”
Excellent questions, Spock thought. Before he could attempt to ascertain answers, the ship was jolted by an unknown force. The deck listed beneath Spock, and he braced himself against the nearest bulkhead to keep his balance, while Merata gripped the foot of her sister’s bed. The diagnostic monitor above the bed shorted out briefly before rebooting itself. A forgotten data slate slid off a counter to crash onto the floor. A rolling chair toppled over. Confusion and commotion sounded in the adjacent wards. Spock’s keen ears heard Boyce and his staff scrambling to cope with the aftermath of the tremor. Keeping a close eye on Merata, lest she take advantage of the chaos to flee or fight, he hurried over to a wall-mounted intercom unit.
“Spock to bridge,” he said. “What is the nature of the emergency?”
The most probable explanation was that the ship was under attack, but from whom? The Klingons? The Cyprians? Both? Too many equally plausible scenarios flashed through his brain as he waited for additional information to dispel any uncertainty. As a scientist, he was reluctant to jump to conclusions without sufficient data. As a Starfleet officer, he needed to know how much danger the Enterprise was in and what he could do to defend both ship and crew.
“Repeat: Spock to bridge. Please advise.”
To his frustration, which required some effort to suppress, the bridge did not respond immediately to his query. He suspected that the comm station was preoccupied with whatever crisis was at hand; under ordinary circumstances, auxiliary personnel would have been available to handle the overflow, but the Rigelian fever outbreak had apparently taxed the ship’s resources. Backup personnel were few and far between.
Accepting reality, he used the comm unit to summon assistance instead. Doctor Boyce responded with commendable alacrity. “Yes, Spock?” he asked brusquely, looking and sounding like a man with rather too much on his hands. A filter mask covered his nose and mouth; Boyce lowered the mask and peeled off a pair of protec
tive gloves. “What is it?”
“I am needed on the bridge. Please look after our guests.” He handed his laser pistol to the startled doctor, who accepted it without thinking. “I recommend that you summon a security officer to escort Merata back to her quarters.”
“Hold on there, Spock,” Boyce protested. “Do I look like a prison guard to you?”
“I do not have time to debate the matter, Doctor. Feel free to delegate the task to a nurse if you prefer, but I cannot remain here while the ship is in jeopardy and the captain may require my services.” He turned to Merata. “Can I trust you not to give the doctor cause for concern?”
“I make no promises, Vulcan.”
Spock found her response worrisome, if not unexpected. Boyce retreated a few steps and raised the pistol. Normally unflappable, he looked as though he would’ve rather been performing dental surgery on an Uttrian razor sloth. “Retirement is sounding better and better,” he muttered.
“Go, Spock,” Soleste said from her bed. She unscrewed her ocular implant and returned it to its original orientation. “I can keep an eye on my sister.”
“We’ll see about that,” Merata said ominously. Her gaze followed Spock as he headed out of sickbay. “Is it my father, Vulcan? Has he come for me at last?”
Spock wished he knew.
* * *
“The Klingons are hailing us!”
“Of course they are,” Pike said irritably. As if the Cyprians weren’t posing enough of a threat at the moment, both to the Enterprise and to the landing party, the Klingons had to raise a ruckus too. “On-screen.”
Krunn’s glowering countenance took over the viewscreen. “What are you up to, Pike? I warned you not to deliver Merata to the Cyprians!”
“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.”
