Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

by Diane Carey

  returned to his voice. Somehow he had gotten it back.

  Even emptied of its human elements, the bridge

  came alive. The computer systems fought the damage

  and sucked energy into themselves to do their jobs.

  Diagnostic readouts of the ship in tiny skeletal duplica-

  tion, all done in computer blues, greens, and reds,

  were constantly shifting across the upper display

  boards, giving visual reality to the damage I'd done.

  And on at least two dynoscanners loomed the configu-

  ration, distance, and approach data on a pair of

  Klingon warships. Bigger than birds of prey, these

  were of the older, sturdier design, engineered for

  firepower and engine thrust. My throat closed as I

  watched the actual ships growing nearer in the main

  viewer. Because of me, Enterprise was helpless.

  I wiped a trickle of sweat from my chin and pecked

  at the helm control board, trying to think my way

  through unfamiliarity with these controls. "Only half-

  screens available, sir," I told him.

  "They certainly didn't waste any time finding us,"

  Kirk said to no one in particular. That was me, that no

  one.

  In a fit of self-deprecation, I grumbled, "Klingons

  are stupid, but they're not that stupid."

  Still dressed in cape and tunic, Mr. Spock shot out

  of the turbolift, cast one glance at the main viewer, and

  rounded on his library computer station. It started

  spewing data at him the instant he touched it, like a

  child jumping up and down to tell a parent about its

  troubles. "Captain, we're being scanned," he said

  immediately.

  "Jam their frequencies," Kirk ordered. His scowl

  told how much he resented the invasion. "Let them

  guess."

  Able to tie into many divisions of the bridge from his

  board, Spock fed the order through and prevented the

  Klingons from knowing the details of our damage.

  Anything more complicated would have to be done

  from the home consoles in each division. "Their weap-

  ons are armed, Captain, but they're not coming within

  firing range. They are separating... coming about to

  flank us on either side."

  As he spoke, the scenario took place on our viewer.

  The two ships peeled away from each other and disap-

  peared out opposite corners of the screen. The captain

  circled his command chair, his eyes narrowed like a

  fox in a hunt. Prey or predator? Which role would he

  take, and why?

  "Do we have phasers, Spock?"

  "Nonoperational, sir." Spock was quiet and termi-

  nal about it. He knew perfectly well what he was

  saying and, Vulcan or not, made no attempt to hide the

  heaviness he felt. A basic hopelessness was evidenced

  230 231

  by his lack of explanation. Phasers weren't working,

  and they weren't going to be working any time soon.

  Not soon enough.

  Was there anything on this starship that we hadn't

  destroyed?

  The captain prowled the bridge. He was trying to

  think like the Klingons, and I was trying to think like

  him. I caressed the helm's edge, feeling very, very

  small. This was my fault. If I hadn't jumped to conclu-

  sions, assumed Kirk couldn't handle Mornay--if I

  hadn't crippled the ship-

  Spock turned to us, a communications hook in his

  ear. "Sir, the Klingon commander is hailing us."

  Kirk acknowledged it with a wry look. I felt a snide

  comment coming, but he repressed it and said, "Vis-

  ual, Mr. Spock."

  Velvet space dissolved, replaced by craggy Klingon

  features. It wasn't Gelt, I noted with some relief,

  though there was little doubt about how Klingon Cen-

  tral had found out about us. Once again I cursed

  myself for my common altruism. I'd left Gelt and his

  crew alive when I had the chance to put them out of

  my misery. As I watched, aching inside, the Klingon

  captain spoke. "Commander, Enterprise, this is your

  captor. Your ship is disabled. We will take her in tow

  and return to the Klingon annex on the opposite side

  of the Federation Neutral Zone. As soon as we touch

  Klingon space, you will be classified as salvage."

  Kirk grew rock still. "Captain, you draw this ship

  into Empire territory and it'll be the last thing you do.

  I'll detonate her the second we leave Federation

  space, and you with her."

  His words chilled me to the marrow. I believed

  those words, that tone. He would. And I would help

  him. I no longer felt death lurking at my door. I'd kick

  the door open and go in style, along with the finest ship

  in the universe and her captain.

  The screen wobbled and turned to space again. Kirk

  232

  looked over his shoulder; Spock frowned and shook

  his head. "They've cut us off," he said.

  Kirk bent over his command console. "Kirk to

  sickbay."

  "McCoy here."

  "Bones, what condition is Scotty in?"

  McCoy took his time answering. "Still unconscious.

  But his metabolic rate is increasing and he's respon-

  sive. Why? Are we the only ship in the quadrant

  again?"

  Captain Kirk sliced through what sounded like a

  private joke. "I've got to have him on the job. You've

  got to bring him around."

  McCoy's tone changed. "Jim, I don't know if that's

  possible," he insisted. "A direct dose of this stuff

  could kill him."

  "Can't you try--"

  A crunch of energy shuddered through the ship.

  Spock squinted into his graphic readout. "Tractors,

  Captain, from both sides."

  "Can you feed back their energy?"

  "Not without overloading our impulse field flux. In

  our present condition, the firing chambers would over-

  flow into the magnatomic tubes." "Heading?"

  Spock straightened so abruptly that it hurt my back

  to see him do it. "The Neutral Zone. They're taking us

  home." His statement rang of the cryptic.

  Behind Spock, framing his caped form, the string of

  graphic schematics and bar charts across the rim of the

  bridge was nothing less than beautiful, in spite of their

  data. The Red Alert glow made them shine brightly

  against crisp geometrical insets. Who ever had the

  chance to contemplate the beauty of a ship's bridge

  while in Alert condition? The klaxon had stopped,

  having done its job of waking the dead, leaving only

  the red glow and wildly flashing CONDITION AL-

  ERT signs. I suddenly wondered about Sarda. Had

  233

  Mornay snatched the opportunity of the call to battle-

  stations and somehow overtaken him? Taken him by

  surprise? Sarda knew humans better than Perren did,

  but Mornay was clever and abrupt in her methods. l

  pushed my thoughts through the deck platings and

  deep into the ship. Don't trust her.

  "Spock," the captain asked, "how long till they can

  take us into warp?"

  The first officer tilted his head, p
iercing me once

  again with a contagious confidence. "It will take them

  approximately seven minutes to adjust their tractors,

  compensate for our bulk, and balance their combined

  engines for warp speed."

  Behind me, the captain sp oke urgently. "Bones,

  I've got to have Scotty on the job. I don't care how

  you do it."

  McCoy sounded strung out. "Jim, what do you want

  me to say? It'd take me half a day to calculate the

  right dosage of this antisomnial for a man Scotty's

  age, weight, and physical makeup. Now, I'd love to

  put him on the bridge, but it's not going to happen

  because nothing, nothing is going to make me pump

  this explosive into his system."

  "I'll be right there. Kirk out. Spock, take the con.

  Keep me posted on those ships." He said all this on

  the fly to the turbolift, and I got the distinct impression

  that nothing was bloody well going to get in his way.

  Not all crucial starship decisions, it seemed, are made

  from the bridge.

  "Mode of resistance, Captain?" Spock asked at the

  last minute.

  "None till I get back. Get on those repairs. I want

  full shields and photon torpedoes." The lift panel whispered shut.

  Spook turned to me. "Switch to forward visual."

  I punched buttons. The screen melted and solidified

  again to show us the fantails of both Klingon cruisers,

  coordinating their energy to tow us along. Spock nod-

  234

  ded thoughtfully, but said nothing about it. Instead he

  moved around the gangway toward the weapons con-

  sole.

  "Commander, if you will assist me, please," he said.

  He swung onto his back under the defense subsystems

  monitor and peeled off the panel.

  To get to him I had to step past Perten. The young

  Vulcan's face was sallow as he stared at those Klingon

  ships. He wasn't even aware of me as I passed him. As

  much as Enterprise was disabled because of me, those

  Klingons were out there because of him. Come to

  think of it, everything was because of him. He knew it,

  too. It shone in his eyes and the set of his lips. Not

  exactly regret, though. Perren wasn't the kind to re-

  gret too much. Had his plans gone as he intended,

  transwarp would not have been at such risk. The

  Klingons knew we had it, no doubt. Gelt would have

  told them. And even if he hadn't, information like that

  spreads faster than Troyan bullet-bacteria. NOW

  wasn't the time to be searching for blame.

  Take your own advice, girl, my inner guardian

  warned.

  "As I feed these synchrotron pulsors through the

  system," Spock was saying, "confirm connectivity

  with the graphics on the scanner above."

  "Aye, sir. Go ahead." One by one, we fed and

  confirmed each patch in, trying to cram a week's

  repairs into a few minutes. The end result would be

  power for just a few photon shots, but those were

  better than nothing. Small talk kept trying to squeeze

  out of me, and I kept mashing it down. All I needed

  now was to be asking Spock a gaggle of stupid ques-

  tions. My nerves were whining like the Keeler's rig-

  ging. My hands were cold, and I had to use the head

  oh no! Not now. Please, not now. Heroes never go to

  the bathroom! Horatio Hornblower didn't, Superman

  didn't, Cyrus Centauri didn't--but I did. Which

  proved who was a hero and who wasn't. As Spock

  235

  worked under the console, I finally asked, "Uh, sir?

  Permission to step updeck?"

  He paused, then resumed working. "Certainly."

  I dashed into the bridge head, and by the time I

  dashed out again, the Romulans had arrived.

  Yep, there they were. I knew I should never have

  gone to the head.

  Red Alert was whooping again, signaling intrusion

  into our immediate space, and Spock was clawing for

  the intercom. "Spock to Captain." "Kirk here."

  "Romulans in the area, Captain, three ships. Light

  fighters 2'

  "Maintain Alert status.. Enable the Engineering

  control board. We've got partial staff back in engi-

  neering, Mr. Spock. Put them to work impulse-drive

  integrity. I'm on my way."

  He would never know how much his last four words

  meant to us, or at least to me. Spock rose to his full

  height, eyeing the viewscreen with Vulcan fierceness.

  We watched, unable to take action, as three Romulan

  ships looped in front of the Kiingon cruisers and fired

  on them. Lancets of red energy cut hard into the

  Klingon screens. Without a pause the Klingons re-

  turned fire, cross-secting space with blue beams. Sev-

  eral of those missed entirely, but a few hit the Romu-

  lan birds and scored damage. Smaller ships had

  smaller shields, and the Romulans were vulnerable

  that way, in spite of superior maneuverability at sub-

  light. They veered off and circled for another attack.

  "Why are they firing on each other?" I wondered.

  "They're allied, aren't they?"

  Spook raised a brow. "Transwarp is bigger than

  their alliance," he said.

  Like animals protecting their kill, the Klingon ships

  turned in space to keep between the Romulans and us.

  Even as they did, I caught a glimpse of color in the

  236

  high left side of the viewscreen and pointed ridicu-

  lously at it. "Mr. Spock, look!"

  He stared for an extra moment, then moved to his

  scanner and shook his head. "Unidentifiable. We have

  no cataloguing of that configuration." He straightened

  and watched the new ship reel in to fire on the Romu-

  lans, then attempt to cut the Klingons off from us. "I

  daresay," Spock murmured, "we are in scramble."

  Cosmic scramble. An intragalactic, military feeding

  frenzy. The phrase had come a long way since, in

  Rex's quiet cockpit, I'd first heard it glide out on

  Spock's resonant voice. Once, it had meant little to

  me. Now it spelled gruesome danger. This kind of

  battle would be far from neat, far from a simple two-

  sided dispute. And we were sitting in the middle of it,

  stark helpless. We were the nested egg about to be

  fought over by every form of alligator.

  The feeling was devastating--to be put on hold like

  this, to be an ignored piece of torn meat, while others

  fought around us. Shots of light energy in bright colors

  splintered around us. Enterprise rocked in the ebb of

  energy bolts that passed too near us. The Klingon

  ships continued to tug us along, distracted now by the

  other ships, bolts of enemy fire keeping them from

  launching into warp speed. For the moment, at least. It

  bought us time.

  The unidentified ship cut across our bow, giving us a

  sharp, shocking view of its forked hull and fierce

  colors. We hardly had time to blink before two Romu-

  lan birds sliced by us so close that I stumbled back into

  the command module, and Perren swayed backward
>
  into the bridge rail.

  "Take your helm, Commander," Spock said, his

  tone rising and lowering as though he was reading a

  fairly interesting caf6 menu. His eyes strayed reso-

  lutely on the screen action.

  237

  I maneuvered in that general direction, letting my

  hands lead me along the command module, unable to

  pull my stare from the battle. I winced as the Romu-

  lans sliced through the screens of one Klingon vessel

  and disabled it, only to dodge into green plasma blasts

  from the unidentified ship. The Klingons then took

  their own revenge, firing hard on the nearest Romulan

  wing.

  The turbolift opened behind me, stealing my atten-

  tion. The captain appeared, then Sarda, on either side

  of a gray-faced apparition of Mr. Scott. I held my

  breath in empathy. Scott looked iH and in pain, proba-

  bly the effect of whatever the doctors had to do to

  wake him up and get him on his feet. The captain and

  Sarda supported him heavily, brought him across the

  bridge, and eased him into the chair at Engineering.

  Mr. Scott pressed his hands hard on the console. I

  could almost feel the effort going into his concentra-

  tion as he assessed the ship's available energy.

  Sarda moved across the upper deck until we were

  side by side, but on different levels. A brief glance told

  me he was all right. It felt good to have him here. Until

  now, I hadn't let the emptiness take hold.

  Kirk pressed ScoWs shoulder in mute reassurance

  and looked at tl.te viewscreen. "Situation, Mr.

  Spock?"

  "Unchanged. Three Romulans, two Klingon cruis-

  ers, and one unidentified vessel, all counterattacking.

  One Klingon cruiser is damaged but functional. They

  have not as yet fired on us."

  Kirk nodded. "Piper, have you got an opinion?"

  I blinked. Piper who?

  His asking constrained me to find an opinion even if

  I didn't have one. So I invented one. "I'd say . . .

  concentrate on the Romulans and the unknown ship."

  "Based on what?"

  "Based... on Klingon tendencies."

  "Explain."

  238

  Deep breathe, let out slowly, start talking.

  "Klingons are like grizzly bears. They attack straight

  on, with sheer brute force. Even though they're a