The Fire and the Rose

by David R. George III

  “Yes, sir,” Cleary said.

  Scott stepped away from the main console, and Spock followed. “We’ll have to change the couplings here first,” he said. They walked past the large impulse cyclers—four meters tall and nearly as wide and deep—that marched along one side of the compartment. They moved into the narrow passage between the cyclers and the bulkhead beyond, out of view from the rest of main engineering. There, several control stations sat interspersed with numerous access panels. In the far corner, Scott stopped and operated a console, calling up on a display a graphic representation of the phaser internals. He paged through several screens of information before finding the one he wanted. “Here we are,” Scott said. “We’ll need to replace these two couplings, as well as both of these.” He ran his fingers across the display, first along one pair of connections, then another. “But I’ll have to verify the condition of the hookups before we do.”

  “Understood,” Spock said.

  Scott then walked along the bulkhead, found the access panel he wanted, took hold of its two handles, and pulled it free. As he set the plate down, smoke wafted from within the bulkhead, carrying with it the scent of seared circuitry. The engineer waved it away, then peered inside. “The first seating doesn’t look too bad,” he said. He slid open the door of a neighboring equipment niche, from which he pulled out a Feinberg tester and a pair of insulated gloves. After verifying his observation, he set the tester aside, slipped on the gloves, and reached inside. A moment later, he pulled out a long metallic cylinder with dual prongs at each end. Much of the phaser coupling had been charred black. “We’re lucky the power surge didn’t fuse this in place,” Scott said.

  “Indeed,” Spock said.

  Scott set the coupling down, then found a replacement for it within a nearby equipment hold. As he worked to install it, Spock operated the control station to access the firmware insertion program, informing the engineer when he’d done so. Once Scott had fit the coupling into place, Spock uploaded the computer instructions into its memory. “Firmware transfer complete,” he said. “Bringing up the calibration program.”

  “All right,” Scott said, retrieving the Feinberg tester. “Let’s start with a tenth of a percent variance.”

  “Setting one tenth of one—” Spock began, but he halted abruptly.

  “What is it?” Scott asked, looking up from the tester. A second later, he answered his own question. “The impulse engines,” he said. “They’ve stopped.”

  “Affirmative,” Spock said. “The ship is no longer moving under directed power.”

  Scott strode back to the control station and deftly operated it. The calibration program disappeared from the display, replaced by a sequence of gauges. “We’re not adrift,” Scott said, pointing at the screen. “We’re at station-keeping. The impulse engines are still online. They’re just not being used.”

  “Perhaps we have been victorious in our engagement with the Klingons,” Spock surmised.

  “Let’s hope so,” Scott said.

  Spock reached for the intercom above the panel and pushed its activation button. “Spock to—” Once more, he stopped in mid-sentence. This time, he heard a new sound, a hum pitched so low that it was nearly inaudible. To Scott, he said, “Klingon transporter.” From their position in the passage behind the impulse cyclers, he and Scott could not see the invaders materializing.

  Suddenly, the ship shook hard, sending Spock and Scott sprawling onto the deck. “What was that?” Scott whispered urgently as both climbed back to their feet.

  “I am unsure,” Spock replied. It made no sense that the Enterprise had taken a weapons strike from the Klingon vessels. They wouldn’t be firing on the ship after they’d sent over a boarding party—and likely more than one.

  Spock listened and heard sounds of confusion, and an instant later, the pulse of disruptor fire rose within the compartment, joined quickly by the whine of phasers. Klingon and Starfleet officers yelled, their voices accompanied by the rush of footsteps and the sounds of falling bodies.

  Though unarmed, Spock edged toward the side of the nearest impulse cycler, intending to peer out from behind it to take stock of the situation. As he advanced, though, he saw a shadow on the deck ahead of him, and then a Klingon backed into the narrow passage, apparently looking to conceal himself behind the cycler. Spock lunged quickly forward and reached for his shoulder, found the proper spot, and applied pressure with his fingers. The Klingon tensed briefly, then slumped. Spock caught him and settled him to the deck, pulling the disruptor from his hand.

  Out in the main section of the engineering compartment, the number of phaser and disruptor blasts began to diminish. Spock examined the Klingon weapon he’d just taken, searching for a stun setting. He could find none. He did not wish to shoot to kill, but if forced do so in order to protect his crewmates-

  Spock heard the scramble of footsteps behind him, and he whirled to see that, behind the far cycler, another Klingon had taken cover. Scott turned as well, and when he saw the enemy soldier, the engineer reached down for the failed phaser coupling, evidently wanting to use it as a weapon. As he did so, though, the Klingon saw him and aimed his disruptor.

  Spock did not hesitate. He raised his hand and squeezed the firing pad. A bolt of bright green energy flashed past the engineer and struck the Klingon full in the chest, sending him crashing backward onto the deck.

  Scott stood back up, the coupling now held in his hands. “Thank you, Mister Spock,” he said.

  Spock nodded, then turned and stepped up again to the end of the row of cyclers. Now, though, the weapons fire seemed to have ceased. He waited a moment, then peered around the edge of the cycler.

  He saw several members of the crew collapsed on the deck, either unconscious or dead. He looked around and spied other security officers partially hidden behind consoles and pillars. “All clear?” asked a female voice calmly, and Spock recognized it as belonging to a security officer, Ensign Labdouni.

  “Clear from the second level,” said another security officer, Crewman Lemli.

  “We’re clear by the main doors too,” said a third voice, a tremor in it. Spock looked over and saw that the speaker had been Lieutenant Singh, an engineer and not a member of ship’s security.

  Slowly, the Enterprise personnel began emerging from wherever they’d taken cover, their phasers held at the ready. Spock stepped out from behind the cycler, the disruptor still in his hand but lowered to his side. Scott followed him.

  All around the engineering compartment lay bodies—dozens of them. Spock counted ten Klingons and three or four times as many Starfleet officers. The boarding party had possessed the advantage of surprise, but they appeared to have been beaten back by sheer numbers.

  Spock kneeled beside the first person he came to: Lieutenant Masters, a woman on his own staff and an expert on dilithium crystals. Her blue uniform had been singed black along her right shoulder, and blood had pooled in an open wound. Spock placed two fingers on the side of her neck, feeling for a carotid pulse. He found it, faint but there.

  At a nearby console, he heard Labdouni calling for a medical team. Before him, he saw some of the other security guards performing basic triage on the fallen Enterprise officers, while still others disarmed and then checked the Klingons. His presence here obviously not needed, he stood and paced over to the nearest console. Scott, knowing his own duty, moved back over to the main engineering panel. Some of the equipment, Spock saw, had been damaged during the attack, likely necessitating the rerouting of some functions to auxiliary control.

  At the console, he opened an intercom channel. “Spock to bridge,” he said. When he received no response after a few seconds, he tried again. “Spock to bridge.”

  Still nothing.

  Thinking that perhaps the intercom had been hit during the firefight, Spock tested it by attempting to contact another destination. “Spock to security.”

  “Security,” came the immediate response. “Delant here, sir.”

>   “What is the ship’s status, Lieutenant?” Spock said.

  “We’ve been boarded in two places,” Delant said. “The bridge and main engineering.”

  “I am in engineering now,” Spock said. “The boarding party has been overcome. What is the situation on the bridge?”

  “Sensors show that ten to twelve Klingons beamed in, and then there was an explosion,” Delant said.

  Spock recalled when the ship had quaked just after the Klingons had transported into engineering, and he and Scott had been thrown from their feet. “The bridge crew?”

  “We think they may have initiated the blast, sir,” Delant said. “There don’t appear to be any survivors.”

  Spock knew at once that Delant must be mistaken, that the bridge crew could not all have been killed. In the next moment, he realized that his denial would not change whatever had happened. He felt fury, but fought to push it away. He still had a duty to perform, a responsibility to the lives of the hundreds who would look to him for leadership if the captain had in fact been killed.

  “What of the two remaining Klingon vessels?” Spock asked.

  “The Goren has been destroyed,” Delant reported, “and the Gr’oth is badly damaged. They’ve suffered heavy casualties, and most of their systems are down, including warp and impulse drive, weapons, and shields, and their life support won’t last much longer.”

  “How many Klingons left alive aboard the Gr’oth?” Spock wanted to know.

  “Not more than a handful, sir,” Delant said.

  “Are their transporters still operative?” Spock asked.

  “Indeterminate,” Delant said. “But they did manage to send the boarding parties over, so it’s possible. We’re monitoring for any transporter activity.”

  Spock’s attention wavered as he considered what more information he required, and what action he needed to take next. The specter of the dead bridge crew hung in his mind, and again, he had to consciously struggle to get past it. “Have bridge functions been transferred to auxiliary control?” he finally managed to say.

  “Command and control functions redirected there automatically when the bridge was destroyed,” Delant confirmed. “Lieutenant DeSalle called in a couple of minutes ago and was headed there until we could determine…” Delant faltered for a moment before continuing. “Until we could determine the status of the chain of command.”

  “Understood,” Spock said. Fifth in line to captain the Enterprise, DeSalle occupied that position behind Captain Kirk, Spock himself, Chief Engineer Scott, and Lieutenant Sulu. With Kirk and Sulu presumed dead on the bridge, and Spock and Scott under Klingon attack in engineering, DeSalle had made the proper decision in assuming command. But Spock knew that he must now do the same himself.

  “Inform Mister DeSalle that I’m on my way to auxiliary control now,” he said.

  “Aye, sir,” Delant said. “Right away.”

  “Spock out.” He moved to close the channel, but ended up striking the intercom so hard with his fist that its casing cracked. I am in control of my emotions, he told himself and then tried to will it to be true. He looked up to see if anybody had witnessed his lapse in self-control, but he saw nobody’s attention directed toward him. Those present concentrated either on the wounded or on the ship’s drive systems. Doctors McCoy and Sanchez had arrived, along with other medical personnel.

  As Spock headed toward the main doors, McCoy glanced up and saw him. For just an instant, their gazes met, and Spock knew that they both thought the same unimaginable thing: Jim is dead. Spock looked quickly away and continued out into the corridor, on his way to take command of the Enterprise.

  Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott sat in a chair at the center of auxiliary control, anxious to return to engineering, or even to work here on the many improvised relays that would be needed to repair the Enterprise enough just to get her to the nearest base. But with Captain Kirk gone and Spock temporarily off the ship, he’d been left in command. And before Spock had headed down to the shuttle-bay for his short journey, he’d made it clear that Scotty would have to remain on the makeshift bridge and keep himself available for immediate command decisions, rather than climbing into a Jeffries tube somewhere.

  Scotty knew his position in the ship’s hierarchy, of course. He wouldn’t have jeopardized the crew by staying down in engineering when he needed to be in auxiliary control. At the same time, he had to admit that he would’ve much preferred to be there than here.

  Then again, he thought, the last time I was there it was a bloodbath.

  Scotty still had trouble wiping the images from his thoughts. A dozen Klingons had transported into main engineering and had begun firing their disruptors. They’d all been stopped, more a function of good fortune than anything else, Scotty thought. The extra security guards Spock had ordered down to engineering to provide extra hands had helped limit the harm the Klingons had done. The boarding party had nevertheless managed to kill eleven of the Enterprise crew and wound another twenty-seven. They’d also damaged a number of engineering controls that, coupled with the destruction of the bridge, had taken many systems off-line, including the impulse drive.

  Around Scotty, the second-shift bridge crew worked to keep the Klingon vessel Gr’oth under observation and to direct repairs aboard the Enterprise. Auxiliary control did not match the exact design of the bridge, but complete command and control of the ship could be effected from here. A series of workstations along the outer bulkheads surrounded a wide, curving console that stood at the center of the space. In a neighboring compartment, separated from the main control room by a grillwork partition, a long panel allowed access to engineering functions. Forward, a large viewscreen dominated the scene and currently displayed an image of the Gr’oth, its fractured hull partially penetrated by a fragment of the demolished research station.

  Right now, the crew remained somber—as did Scotty’s own mood. Under the direction of Captain Kirk, they had managed to survive, but at a terrible cost. The battle they’d come through had seen the destruction of two Paladin-class Starfleet vessels, and three top-of-the-line Klingon heavies had been destroyed, while a fourth Klingon D7 and the Enterprise had nearly suffered the same fate. The Einstein space station had also been reduced to rubble, but not before the seventeen researchers and security personnel had been transported to safety. Oddly enough, the Enterprise had suffered the same number of casualties: seventeen—eleven in engineering and six on the bridge.

  All because of that blasted Guardian, Scotty thought. The enigmatic device—he had never believed that it could actually be alive—had been the reason for the construction of the research station, as well as for the constant vigil that the Clemson and the Minerva had maintained within the system. But the Klingons must have detected the vortex’s temporal emanations and discovered Starfleet’s presence here, because when they’d come, they’d come in force. The Empire likely didn’t know it, but in keeping them from gaining access to the Guardian of Forever the way he had, Captain Kirk hadn’t simply saved the lives of the research station personnel and those of the Enterprise crew; considering the capabilities of the time vortex, he’d probably preserved the very existence of the Federation.

  Even now, Spock had taken excessive precautions to prevent the Klingons from approaching the Guardian. Although only a handful of the Gr’oth’s crew remained alive aboard the broken warship, and although most of their systems—engines, shields, weapons—had failed, the status of their transporters proved impossible to determine. As a result, Spock had ordered the Enterprise out of the Gr’oth’s transporter range—they’d had to use thrusters in order to do so—and then had sent two shuttlecraft down to the planet surface to keep the Guardian under surveillance.

  “Spock to auxiliary control,” came the voice of the ship’s first officer, now the acting captain.

  Scotty peered over at Lieutenant Palmer, who sat at a secondary station set up for communications. He nodded to her, and she opened a channel. “Scott here,” said
the chief engineer. “Go ahead, Mister Spock.”

  “The shuttlecraft Columbus is ready to launch,” Spock said. “Please open the hangar bay doors.” During the Enterprise’s continuing red alert status, the doors had been locked down and their control routed to the bridge—or at this point to auxiliary control.

  At one of the secondary stations, Lieutenant Hadley glanced back over his shoulder at Scotty. “Go ahead,” the engineer told him.

  “Yes, sir,” Hadley said, and he set to working his panel.

  “Thank you, Mister Scott,” Spock said. “I will not be long. Spock out.”

  As Palmer closed the channel, Scotty thought again that Spock shouldn’t be leaving the ship at all, not in the current circumstances. The engineer knew that a survey had to be done of the damage done to the bridge, if only to verify that nobody could have survived the blast that had destroyed it. When it had been opened to space, emergency bulkheads had sealed and locked into place. With the transporter presently off-line, that meant sending some members of the crew out onto the hull in an environmental suit or out in a shuttle. Spock had chosen a shuttle, but Scotty thought he should’ve chosen somebody other than himself to pilot it—though he did understand the first officer’s need to see the devastation for himself.

  And that need is very real, Scotty thought. In all the years he’d served with Spock, the engineer had never seen him in his present state. He still wore a calm Vulcan guise, but it barely covered the strong emotions he obviously felt. Scotty knew the commonly accepted phases of grief for humans—he’d been experiencing them himself—and he could see at least two of those in Spock: anger, bordering on rage, along with a deep sadness. Jim Kirk hadn’t just been Spock’s commanding officer for five years; he’d been his best friend.

  “The shuttlecraft Columbus is away,” Hadley reported from his station.

  An ancient Gaelic blessing occurred to Scotty, and in a whisper that only he could hear, he offered it up. “Deep peace of the shining stars to you, Mister Spock.”