STAR TREK: TOS #86 - My Brother's Keeper, Book Two - Constitution

by Michael Jan Friedman

  The second officer turned his gaze on Lieutenant Medina. “Take us in, helm. Three-quarters impulse.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Medina, carrying out the order.

  Before Mitchell knew it, they were bearing down on the aggressors’ ship, targeting whatever weak points Masefield might have discovered in her shield architecture. The navigator bit his lip, wondering how the enemy would respond to their approach.

  As it turned out, he didn’t respond at all. His sensors must have showed him the Constitution’s flight pattern and the status of her weapons batteries. Still, the alien vessel just sat there and continued to fire at the capital, as if her commander weren’t the least bit concerned.

  It wasn’t a promising sight, the navigator remarked inwardly. The aliens were either very stupid or very confident. He was afraid it would turn out to be the latter.

  “Range,” Masefield reported.

  Mitchell couldn’t turn around to see the look on his friend’s face, but he could hear the tone of Kirk’s voice. There was nothing tentative about it anymore. It had the hard certainty of duranium in it.

  “Fire phaser beams!” commanded the second officer.

  Twin shafts of phased energy sliced through the black of space, spearing the alien ship. The navigator [212] thought he saw the aggressor shudder with the impact, but it was difficult to be sure.

  “Direct hit!” Masefield noted.

  “Her shields are starting to buckle!” added Medina.

  It was true. They had made some progress. Mitchell could see it all on his red and black tactical monitor.

  But before Kirk could give the order to unleash another barrage, the enemy returned fire, filling the viewscreen with a wave of crackling, white fury. They could have tried to elude it—except it wasn’t just the mother ship that was firing back at them, but the satellites as well.

  Mitchell felt the deck pitch and tremble and make noises like someone in pain. But he couldn’t do anything about it. All he could do was hold on to his console and ride out the storm.

  Kirk’s voice cut through the groaning of the bulkheads like a knife. “Report!” he ordered.

  “Shields down thirty-two percent!” the navigator barked back.

  “Damage to Decks Seven, Eight, and Ten!” Wooten announced.

  The second officer considered the viewscreen, where the enemy vessel was looming larger and larger every second. “Fire again!” he called out. “Phasers and photon torpedoes!”

  “Aye, sir!” cried Masefield.

  As Mitchell looked on, the Constitution released a combination of red-orange phaser beams and bright yellow torpedoes. They traveled straight and true and found the mother ship.

  [213] This time, there was no mistaking it. The alien vessel was jarred by the Constitution’s assault.

  “Direct hit again, sir!” the weapons officer told Kirk.

  But, as before, the enemy wasn’t taking the attack lying down. The navigator saw another surge of blinding-white chaos fill the viewscreen, the collaborative effort of both the enemy ship and its orbital satellites. He barely had time to grab his console again before it tried to jerk its way out of his grasp.

  Along the perimeter of the bridge, the engineering station exploded, showering the crew with white-hot sparks and sending a plume of black smoke into the air. Fortunately, the station had been unoccupied at the time, or its operator would certainly have been killed in the blast.

  This time, the second officer didn’t have to call for reports. They came to him freely, without his asking.

  “Shields down fifty-eight percent!” Masefield bellowed.

  “Damage to Decks Thirteen and Fourteen!” Wooten chimed in.

  “But we’re getting somewhere,” Mitchell observed, ignoring the harsh, acrid stench of the smoke. He consulted the sensor data pouring into his monitors, one crimson graphic after another. “One more strike like the last one and we’ll have a hole big enough for a transport.”

  “Good,” said Kirk. He glanced at Masefield. “Fire again, Lieutenant—and this time, give it everything you’ve got!”

  “Aye, sir!” the weapons officer called back.

  [214] Masefield took the second officer at his word. This time, four fully loaded photon torpedoes accompanied the Constitution’s phaser beams as they stabbed at the steadily nearing mother ship.

  The result was evident on Mitchell’s monitors. The bombardment had opened a gap in the enemy’s shields, just as he had predicted. He spun in his seat to face Kirk.

  “Now!” he cried out.

  The second officer tapped a stud in his armrest. “Energize!” he told the ship’s transporter technician, who had been waiting for the order in the transporter room on Deck Seven.

  Just then, the aggressor vessel and its satellites retaliated—and at closer quarters than before, their power was even more devastating. The navigator attempted to take hold of his console again, but he might as well not have bothered. Before he could anchor himself, before he could do anything at all, the deck seemed to spin about beneath him and whip him savagely out of his chair.

  Mitchell had the feeling that he was flying. Then something smashed him in the ribs, sending shoots of pain through his chest and knocking the wind out of him.

  As he gasped for air, darkness playing at the edges of his vision, he felt a pair of hands grab him and pull him to his feet. Looking up, he saw that they belonged to his friend Jim.

  “Are you all right?” Kirk asked, blood oozing from an angry cut over his left eye, black smoke billowing behind him.

  [215] Even as he pulled in fire-seared air to fill his lungs again, Mitchell nodded. He couldn’t speak yet, but he did his best to assure the second officer that he was still fit for duty—that he was still Kirk’s best bet when it came to the navigation console.

  After all, the junior officer thought, he had come this far. He wasn’t about to let himself get dragged off the bridge now, when things were just starting to heat up.

  The second officer turned to Medina, who was just crawling back into his seat. “Evasive maneuvers!” he commanded. “But make sure to stay well within transporter range!”

  “Aye, sir!” the helmsman shot back.

  Turning to the viewscreen, Mitchell saw the mother ship fire again and braced himself. But as the energy assault blossomed in their direction, it began to slide toward the edge of the screen. The closer it got, the faster it slid—until finally, it left their sight altogether.

  Inwardly, Mitchell rejoiced. They had eluded the aggressors’ beams, thanks to Medina’s deft piloting. But the helmsman would need help if he was going to keep on eluding them.

  The navigator pushed his friend away and returned to his post. “I’m fine,” he rasped as he plunked himself down in his seat, anticipating a repeat of Kirk’s question.

  The second officer frowned, but accepted Mitchell’s claim as the truth. “What’s our situation?” he asked.

  The navigator took a look at his monitors. “Shields are down eighty-eight percent,” he reported. [216] “Nineteen casualties, but none fatal. Damage to nearly half the decks on the ship. However, all operating systems appear to have remained intact.”

  Thank heavens for that, at least, Mitchell thought. But what about the landing party? Had they made the transport despite the last attack?

  A moment later, Kirk turned to Wooten and asked that very question. The communications officer, who had been listening to an open intercom channel, smiled with a bloodied mouth.

  “They made it, sir,” said Wooten. “Chief Gaynor and the others are on the alien ship.”

  The second officer didn’t wait to be told twice. Turning to Medina, he said, “Get us out of here, Lieutenant.”

  The helmsman didn’t need any further encouragement. Executing a gut-wrenching turn, he brought the Constitution about. Then he sent them retreating at full impulse, lighter by five crewmen.

  At the same time, the alien juggernaut left the viewscreen. After all, the screen had
been programmed to scan the area ahead of the starship.

  Kirk glanced over his shoulder at Wooten. “Rear view!” he demanded of the communications officer.

  A moment later, the mother ship swung back into the center of the screen. But from its diminishing image, Mitchell could tell it wasn’t offering pursuit. It was circling back to join its satellites.

  And why not? the junior officer wondered. As far as the alien vessel’s commander was concerned, he had beaten off the Sordinians’ only discernible defender. [217] The battle for the planet was over and, from all appearances, the invaders had won.

  But then, he didn’t know yet that Kirk had deposited a squad of saboteurs on his ship. And by the time he discovered what had happened, it would be too late for him to stop them.

  At least, that was the plan.

  The navigator saw that his friend was looking at the screen as well. By then, the flesh around his cut had begun darkening into a nasty bruise. Kirk turned to Wooten again. “Assign repair teams to all damaged decks,” he ordered the communications officer.

  Wooten nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Finally, the second officer looked to Mitchell. They had done it, he seemed to say. The rest was up to Gaynor.

  The navigator took a deep breath, let it out. Waiting, he thought. It was by far the worst part of the job. More than ever, he wished Kirk had made him part of the landing party.

  Chapter Fourteen

  GAYNOR LOOKED AROUND and saw he was no longer on a Starfleet transporter platform, his phaser in one hand and his tricorder in the other. He was standing in a narrow, high-ceilinged corridor near a metal door, bathed in an eerie green light.

  And he was alone.

  For the space of a heartbeat, he had the feeling it would remain that way. Then Borrik materialized on one side of him and Polcovich materialized on the other. And a moment later, they were joined by Chafin and Reboulet, the security guards he had chosen to accompany him.

  There must have been some trouble with the transport, Gaynor concluded. Interference from the energy bombardments or something. We’re lucky we all arrived in one piece.

  [219] Using gestures alone, because he didn’t know if his voice might set off some kind of internal sensor alarm, he positioned Chafin and Reboulet at either end of the corridor. Then, glancing at the others, he indicated the door behind them.

  On the other side of it was the ship’s communications center. They knew that from the alien data they had downloaded from the satellite, which had conveniently included information on any number of things—ship schematics among them.

  If they could disable the communications center, the aggressors’ entire cybernetic system would become useless. The vessel would lose its ability to coordinate with its satellites.

  For a short time, anyway. What was the estimate Kirk had given them? Anywhere from fifty seconds to five minutes. And then a backup system would cut in, rendering whatever the team had accomplished there null and void.

  If they had had more time, Gaynor might have tried to decipher the pad set into the bulkhead beside the door. As it was, he simply raised his phaser and blasted the thing with an angry, orange-red beam. The pad sparked for a moment, then went dead.

  By then, Polcovich and Borrik were tugging at the door, trying their best to slide it open. The security chief put his phaser and his tricorder down and gave them a hand. After a second or two, he felt the panel budge. Then, as if they had snapped some kind of lock, the door slid free and unhindered into a slot in the bulkhead.

  Recovering his tricorder and his weapon, Gaynor [220] got up and peered inside. The communications center was empty. It was also quite small—barely big enough for three of them to occupy at once—which was why they hadn’t beamed into it in the first place.

  It had the same high ceiling and the same pale green illumination the chief had seen outside. But the bulkheads weren’t smooth—far from it, in fact. The place was lousy with raised circuitry, all of which seemed to radiate from a half-dozen rounded nodes.

  Taking a couple of steps inside, Gaynor used his tricorder to confirm that the nodes were tiny power cells—boosters that allowed the ship to speak with the satellites over long distances. So far, their intelligence was right on the money.

  At this range, the mother ship couldn’t have needed more than one of the cells to communicate. But without at least one, she couldn’t send a message around the corner—which was why Gaynor and his team would make sure to disable all the cells.

  The tricky part would be up to Borrik and Polcovich. If they did their job right, the backup system wouldn’t be triggered until they took out the last cell—and when the clock started ticking, there would be ample time for Kirk to beam the landing party off and destroy the mother ship.

  “All right,” the chief whispered to the science officer and the Dedderac, “let’s get started.” Pointing his weapon at the ceiling, he stood aside so they could enter the comm center.

  But they had barely gotten inside before he heard the sound of footsteps from down the corridor. For a [221] moment, they all froze. Then Gaynor gestured for Borrik and Polcovich to start working.

  As they followed his order, he put away his tricorder and moved to the entrance. Then he peeked out into the corridor, where Reboulet was glancing anxiously at Chafin. As the chief established eye contact with the man, he saw Chafin point to the junction of passageways up ahead of him.

  He had heard the footfalls, too, he was saying. And they were coming from the direction he was indicating.

  As Gaynor listened, he could hear the sounds getting louder. And closer—there was no mistaking it. He scowled. This wasn’t good, he told himself. This wasn’t good at all.

  It was possible that this was a single alien on some routine errand. But it was also possible that they had tripped some internal sensor alarm despite their caution.

  If he was right, their mission was in grave jeopardy. Once the aliens confirmed that there were intruders aboard, they would activate their backup comm system manually—and that window of opportunity Kirk had counted on would never open.

  Chafin held his hands out and shrugged, seeking guidance from his superior. The chief gestured for him to hold his ground and be patient. After all, they needed time, and there was no sense engaging in a confrontation sooner than they had to.

  Then Gaynor turned to Reboulet, who was awaiting his orders as well. He was tempted to move her to Chafin’s side to give the man some support, but he [222] thought better of it. After all, an alien might approach them from the other direction next.

  Poking his head back into the communications center, the chief saw that Borrik and Polcovich had pried the cover off one of the power cells and were starting to work on it.

  Hurry, Gaynor urged his colleagues with silent intensity. You may not have much time.

  Ensconced in the captain’s chair, his forehead throbbing around the cut he had suffered in his fall, Kirk glared at the image of the aggressor vessel on the bridge’s forward viewscreen. The aliens were still battering the capital with their powerful energy beams, looking as if they would be content to do so for the rest of eternity.

  And there was nothing he could do about it. Or, to look at it another way, he had already done everything he could. He had sent over Gaynor and the others to even the odds.

  Let’s go, the second officer urged them. Let’s get the job done so I can bring you back home. Every second that the landing party remained on the mother ship felt like another stone piled on his neck and shoulders, weighing him down with guilt and uncertainty.

  What if he had made the wrong choice again? he wondered. What if Gaynor’s team had already been detected? What if they had been caught and killed for their audacity?

  Not having received the aliens’ entire database, he couldn’t be sure the vessel didn’t have an internal sensor network capable of identifying intruders. But [223] even if there was no such network, the odds of the team going unnoticed on the mother ship got worse
and worse with each additional minute they spent there.

  No, Kirk told himself. I’m not going to think that way. I’m going to maintain a positive outlook. I sent a squad of highly trained people over to that ship. They’ll succeed because they have to.

  Behind him, the turbolift doors opened with a hiss, admitting Dr. Velasquez in a white lab coat. The woman was all business.

  “All right,” she said to everyone on the bridge, “I’ve got plenty to do in sickbay, thanks to your shenanigans, so let’s save some time. I can scan you all with my tricorder, or you can simply tell me how you feel. If you’re hurt, say so. If you’re not sure, let me know that too. And if you’re all right, just stay the hell out of my way.”

  Kirk turned to her and pointed to the wound over his eye. Frowning, the doctor approached him and ran her tricorder over it, then reached into her pocket. Producing a plastiskin seal, she applied it to the damaged area.

  “That’ll do for now,” Velasquez judged. “Who else?”

  No one said anything.

  The doctor turned to the second officer. “Well?” she asked.

  Kirk shrugged. “That’s about it.”

  Velasquez grunted. “It’d better be. The way you folks drive this thing, I may not get a chance to make another house call.”

  [224] She glanced at the viewscreen and the alien vessel for a moment, her eyes narrowing with apprehension. But she didn’t linger there. After all, as she had said, she had plenty to do in sickbay.

  With a last glance around the bridge, as if to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, Velasquez turned and headed back to the turbolift. A few seconds later, the doors closed behind her and the woman was gone.

  The distraction over, the second officer considered the screen again. “How much time?” he asked his navigator.

  His friend Gary looked back at him. “Two minutes and twenty seconds, sir. By now, they ought to be pretty far along.”