Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

Sarda held true. I buried my anger and remembered

  Think Vulcan.

  "Piper!" the faint crackle of the receiver buzzed in

  my ear.

  I twisted the two metallic fibers that would engage

  my transmitter. "Here."

  "Piper, do you copy?"

  I twisted the fibers tighter and brought the mangled

  unit to my lips. "Affirmative. I copy. Where are

  they?"

  115

  "I have spotted Gruegen and his teammate. Take a

  course bearing point-five degrees south. They are

  roughly 200 yards from you. Be on guard."

  "Moving."

  He kept me apprised of their shifts in position as I

  made my way through thorny, steamy jungle toward

  my prey. Finally, in spite of torn clothing and leftover

  needleplant spines, I spied the two blond heads, gath-

  ered my legs under me on a small moss mound, and

  drew my mock phaser.

  In my ear came the faint sizzle of warning. "Piper,

  they're turning toward you."

  I nodded to myself, not taking time to engage the

  transmitter. The fronds in front of me started rustling.

  They were coming.

  I raised my weapon.

  "Piper! Vesco and his Skorr are behind you!"

  My skin prickled. Behind me! Damn.

  "They're closing on you from both directions,"

  Sarda warned, his concern coming through strained

  circuits. "You must retreat---quickly! Piper--"

  I could feel them now. That unmistakable, indefin-

  able sensation of warning ran up my arms as I tucked

  the mock phaser to my chest and hunkered down on

  the moss hill, glancing behind me at the bobbing heads

  of Vesco and the Skorr. Close enough to see. Not

  good.

  "Piper!" Sarda hissed, his desperation breaking

  through that fragile Vulcan shell.

  I tore the receiver from my ear and stuffed it into a

  pocket, then lay the mock phaser down on the moss

  beside me. Folding my legs, I sat down and arranged

  my hands in the most unthreatening position possi-

  ble-hanging over my knees.

  Vesco and his teammate broke through the ferns

  first. They stopped short when they saw me, frozen in

  astonishment for an instant. I made good use of that

  116

  instant; I shrugged despondently at them, then put one

  elbow on my knee and rested my chin in my hand.

  Vesco's brow knitted. He glanced at the bird face of

  his companion, then grinned in a sort of deflected

  victory. As I hoped, he didn't bother to check me for

  dye-dart stains.

  The jungle rustled like stiff taffeta. Vesco dropped

  his grin and stared. He drew his weapon. The Skorr

  took his cue and sank into a shadow, careful of huge

  golden wings.

  Dark green jungle ptterns gave birth to the muscle-

  man shape of Gruegen, soon followed by his shapely

  scientist. The Norwegian spied Vesco and drew his

  weapon with a shout just as a dye dart flashed between

  him and the woman. Everyone ducked for cover,

  except me. I sat quietly on my moss hill, head in hand,

  as dye darts whined in from four directions. It took

  every ounce of control I had in me to keep from

  reacting. I sat still, tense as drawn string, ignoring the

  whistles of darts ringing around me and splattering on

  the foliage and rocks. In my pocket, the muffled buzz

  of Sarda's frantic calls vibrated faintly.

  A howl from my left accompanied the thud of a dye

  dart against a human form. Gruegen rose from the

  ferns, his shoulder and the right side of his face bathed

  in purple dye. His teammate came out from her own

  hiding place, staring at him. In a silent chorus, their

  expressions sank.

  Misery crumpling his face, Gruegen wordlessly

  drew his locator and signaled to be beamed up. Vesco

  emerged from the bushes near me, followed soon by

  his scientist, and beamed his unabashed victory as

  Gruegen and the woman dissolved into bands of light

  and disappeared.

  In his rush of triumph, Vesco never bothered to

  wonder why I too hadn't been beamed up yet. His

  shoulders straightened and he puffed up, believing

  117

  himself the ultimate winner of the Outlast. He rubbed

  his hands around his mock phaser, rather lovingly, I

  thought, and grinned at his teammate. Striding fully

  into the clearing, he looked at me and opened his

  mouth to say something.

  That's how he got ultramarine dye all over his teeth.

  He blinked, and his eyes widened. Then widened

  some more. Arms spread, he dropped his gaze to the

  splotch of blue on his uniform. He stared at it. The

  Skorr stared at it. They both stared at my mock

  phaser, now firmly back in my hand.

  I continued to sit rather sheepishly on my moss hill,

  my lips pressed tight. Ali's fair in the Outlast, after all.

  Vesco started to shake. Pure rage rumbled up

  through his body. His fists balled up tight. Only the

  stern rules of the Outlast kept him from tearing into

  me.

  Great golden wings drooped in despair as the Skorr

  scientist drew its locator and went to stand beside the

  rosy and rabid Vesco. Their last sight of the Outlast as

  they were beamed up was little old me sitting on my

  moss lump, quietly being the commander of the cham-

  pion team.

  I don't know. Three words a Vulcan hates. And I

  hated them too when they referred to Sarda's life. That

  friendship had been won on the Outlast, lost when I

  found out about Sarda's talent for weaponry and un-

  knowingly humiliated him by making it known to Star

  Fleet, then finally won back when we had stood to-

  gether against Admiral Rittenhouse's power-seeking

  campaign. I fought to absorb the idea that our relation-

  ship might have been cut off before its chance to grow.

  I fought not to be jealous of Spock as I stood near him

  on Rex's bridge. Spock had had years with Kirk to

  cultivate their unique mutual understanding. It seemed

  unfair that Sarda and I might be denied the same

  chance.

  118

  For all the pain it brought me when I recalled the

  Outlast, the privileges and honors and parties and

  advantages it gave Sarda and me at Star Fleet Aca-

  demy, the vividness of that episode brought with it a

  glimmer of hope, a faint star of chance to brighten

  Rex's dim bridge and sweeten my determination. If

  Sarda was dead, I would make sure he hadn't died for

  nothing.

  If he was alive, I now knew how we could find him.

  I moved a few steps forward, to where Mr. Spock

  was tensely scanning the energy readouts of the fast-

  fading transwarp flux. "Sir," I began.

  He turned his head. "Commander?"

  "About locating Mornay and the others..."

  Sensing something even I, in my numbness, didn't

  feel yet, Spock stood up and faced me. When he

  spoke, I knew he understood.

  "You have a plan?"

 
; 119

  Chapter Seven'

  "How fallible of me."

  --The Squire of Gothos

  "RAmo? You MEAN like... radio?"

  "That's right, Scanner. Old CalTier waves. Go

  ahead. Do it."

  He gawked at me a moment longer, waiting for the

  punch line no doubt, then faced his sensor equipment,

  altogether dubious. He touched the console plain-

  tively, and gave up before even beginning. Twisting

  around, he accused, "You say 'do it' as though all it

  takes is spittin' on a twig. I'm not even sure this kind

  of equipment can be tuned down that far. You're

  talking about a frequency that's lower than a hog in a

  waller, you know that?"

  I pointed at the console's transmitting panel and

  said, "Try to aim them in the general vicinity of the

  transwarp flux, and when we beam down, we can

  continue to track them with tricorders." "But I'm tryin' to tell yawl--"

  "Lieutenant Sandage," Spock interrupted fluidly,

  "if you set your frequency balance at submedian, then

  gradually adjust the energy level according to the

  correct bands, you may find carrier waves accessi-

  ble."

  "It'll all have to be manual, sir." Scanner sounded

  apologetic. "Otherwise the computer'11 tell us it can't

  be done."

  "That's all right," I told him. "Just don't listen to it.

  120

  It's like flying an atmosphere craft and keeping altitude

  with throttle instead of wing angle."

  Spock nodded. "Correct. If those frequencies are

  accessible with these sensors, it will be through energy

  power rather than actual adjustment of the wave

  bands."

  Scanner threw up his hands. "Okay, okay. S'worth

  a shot." He settled down to the tricky adjustments,

  which had to be recalibrated every few seconds. "Do I

  have any idea what I'm waiting for?"

  "Response," I told him. "If Sarda's alive and in a

  laboratory of some kind and picks up those waves,

  he'll know who's sending them."

  "That's a 1otta if's." Scanner sighed and wiggled his

  fingers before hunching over the sensor console and

  searching for the delicate balance of energy and wave

  output. So low they were affected even by our move-

  ments in the ship's orbit, those waves had to be chased

  by hand and eye. A starship's sophisticated computer

  sensors could have kept up with them, but Rex's

  ragtag system could not do anything so refined. Scan-

  ner sat the re for an exhausting two hours, painstak-

  ingly sending low-gain waves toward the location of

  the transwarp flux. As the time passed, I grew more

  respectful of Scanner's talents with the sensor equip-

  ment as he made adjustments with his fingers that were

  even too tiny to show up on the screen. I soon gave up

  trying to follow what he was doing and simply sat back

  in amazement.

  Below us turned the outskirts of Yelgor City. I was

  dying to get there, to get things going, to find Sarda

  and rescue him, or, if he was dead, to begin dealing

  with his death. Kirk would be along soon, ready to

  deal with Dr. Mornay, yet Spock and I hadn't even

  been able to begin our mission of separating her from

  Perren and Sarda. Time began to sit on me, smothering

  and prickly with responsibility. I'd expected the ap-

  pearance of Spock to siphon the weight of that respon-

  121

  sibility, but it hadn't. Less and less was I able to shift

  away the pacts I made with myself when I accepted

  the stone of command.

  Frustration of this caliber, this feeling of sitting at

  the core of a storm yet being completely impotent to

  take action, drove me to confront Spock when other-

  wise I never would have. He was still trying to pin-

  point the transwarp flux origin, even though the waves

  had long since dissipated, leaving only the faintest

  traces of disruption in the fabric of space. Speaking in

  a low voice so as not to bother Scanner, I began, "Mr.

  Spock?"

  "Yes, Commander?"

  "Where is Captain Kirk, sir? Is he on his way? Do

  we have any clues?"

  Spock's honesty, both of word and expression, was

  easy to appreciate. "He may be," he said, swiveling to

  face me. "Even he was unsure of his moment-to-

  moment plans. I know he was reticent to bring Enter-

  prise to Argelius at the outset. He did obviously intend

  to join us at some point, but he himself didn't know the

  point. Beyond that, I cannot say."

  I nodded, staring at the floor, contemplating.

  "Thank you," I said slowly then. "That leaves me free

  to move."

  At this, McCoy elbowed his way between us. "How

  does it do that?"

  "It gives us two choices," I explained. "Either we

  sit and wait for the captain to show up, or we take

  action according to what we already know. The cap-

  tain wanted us to do one of those, and it can't be the

  first choice because he apparently didn't know when

  he'd be able to get here. I don't think he'd expect us to

  make a decision based on an unknown, so we'H act

  based on what we do know." McCoy's brows went up.

  Spock pursed his lips. "Logical."

  From the passenger seat on the port side, Merete

  122

  said, "Then it's our move. But what move do we

  make?"

  She had to ask, didn't she? I licked my lips, hoping

  some revelation would slide out. "Well . . . make

  ourselves indigenous to the planet, I guess. Get down

  there and start looking. We're not getting very far

  sitting around in orbit. Sir, you said you have Argelian

  costumes for us?"

  "Yes, aboard my shuttle," Spock said. "Mr. San-

  dage and I will remain aboard and continue broadcast-

  ing the signal. In the meantime, I shall use connections

  in the government of Argelius to arrange for a base

  from which you'll be able to prowl the area. The

  prefect is already advised of the situation. You should

  have no trouble."

  The Argelian prefect's idea of a base was a squalid

  little alley cantina deep in Yelgor City's north quarter.

  Spock had also arranged jobs for us, so no one would

  wonder what three strangers were doing there. At least

  we would have a central core to start from.

  I led the way, feeling conspicuous, as Merete and

  McCoy followed me through the streets according to

  Spock's directions once we'd beamed down in an

  unpopulated dock area. Through the narrow, foggy

  streets we walked, flanked closely by scowling Gothic

  buildings of wood and stone, passing natives and their

  guests, the latter consisting of Star Fleet personnel on

  shore leave, Klingons and Romulans likewise, and

  even the occasional nonhumanoid, though those were

  rare. Argelius simply wasn't conditioned to make itself

  comfortable to a wide range of life forms. Of course,

  even the serene atmosphere couldn't dissolve military

  preju
dices, much less racial ones. The Fleet people

  watched the Klingons and the Romulans, the Klingons

  watched the Fleet people, and the Romulans watched

  everybody. I felt everyone watching us. It might have

  been my imagination. It might have been the veils and

  123

  the beaded curly-toed slippers. Or the plume pants. Or

  the feathers. Purple and chartreuse just weren't my

  colors. Somehow I got the feeling the clothing didn't

  completely hide our foreignhess.

  "I'll get Spock for this," McCoy vowed, glancing

  over his shoulder at a passing group of Argelians who

  had just given him the curious eye. Self-consciously he

  tugged at the tight brocaded vest and cummerbund.-

  Purple wasn't his color either, especially under the

  bright orange fez. He looked like an animated piece of

  tapestry as he adjusted the shoulder bag that carried

  our tricorders.

  "I hope we're not far from this cantina we're sup-

  posed to go to," Merete said. "It's damp in the

  streets."

  "Don't complain," I told her, briefly scanning her

  ankle-length blue robe. "You're the only one of us

  who's not dressed up like a tropical bird." I clutched

  the wad of flight suit and boots under my arm. Spock

  had suggested I leave them behind, but I couldn't

  reconcile the idea of staging a phaser raid on extortion-

  ists while wearing feathers and veils.

  "This is it," I said, turning down a loud alley and

  into a low-slung doorway. Acrid and dim, the cantina

  was crowded with laughing patrons. Sagging curtains

  decorated each of five walls, then' colors and fringes

  faded by smoke and time. The patrons squatted on

  cushions or lay on long, low couches, munching con-

  fections I wouldn't have touched with a field prod.

  Squeaky music twanged from one corner, where a

  clutch of musicians wavered to their own questionable

  melody, and on a velvet podlure a young girl twisted

  and spun in some kind of dance.

  We were barely inside the door when a fat, surly-

  looking man approached us, babbling in Argelian, and

  grabbed my elbow to drag me farther into the cantina.

  "What?" I blurted. "What do you want?"

  He shook his head in disgruntlement and switched