by Dayton Ward
“Captain,” the Vulcan said, “even with full impulse, I am unable to maneuver against the beam.”
Over the comm speaker, Rideout shouted, “Impulse engines are starting to overheat! Either we break away or power down, or we lose everything!”
His eyes glued to the planetoid, which now filled the viewscreen and was continuing to come closer, Arens gritted his teeth at the report. “T’Vrel! What’s the story?”
“The beam is too powerful, sir,” replied the helm officer while keeping her attention on her console.
“Bridge!” Rideout’s voice was tight with strain. “We’re at critical!”
Clenching his fists in mounting anger, Arens snapped, “Reduce power!” No sooner did he give the order than he could hear the whine of the impulse engines begin to subside as the Huang Zhong stopped its futile struggle against its unseen attacker. Was it his imagination, or did he feel the ship accelerating toward the planetoid? The image on the screen certainly seemed to be growing larger at an increasing rate.
“I think I’ve got something,” Boma called over his shoulder, and before Arens could respond he added, “I’m tracking the beam to its origin point. Whatever it is seems to be masked from our sensors, but there’s no mistaking the beam’s coming from there.”
“Is that where we’re being taken?” Commander Hebert asked.
Boma shook his head. “I don’t think so. As far as I can tell, the beam’s main purpose seems to be just yanking us down from orbit.”
“Our speed is increasing,” T’Vrel reported. “At our present angle and rate of descent, we will crash on the planetoid’s surface.”
From where she still sat at a workstation adjacent to Hebert’s, Advisor Zihl said, “It cannot be anything belonging to us. We possess no technology capable of such feats.”
In truth, Arens did not believe the Dolysians to be capable of an assault of this nature on his ship. Every briefing he had read or received on the civilization and its level of technological advancement supported that contention. Not that such things mattered at the moment. Struggling to maintain his composure, he asked, “T’Vrel, time to impact?”
“Fifty-eight seconds,” the Vulcan replied.
Enough of this! If they were going down, Arens decided they would go down swinging. “Engineering, stand by for maximum thrust to the impulse engines! Transfer all remaining power to structural integrity and inertial damping!”
“Aye, sir!” Rideout acknowledged.
T’Vrel said, “Forty seconds to impact.”
“Helm,” Arens continued, “target the beam’s origin point with full phasers. On my mark, fire the full spread and then take us at full impulse on a lateral course away from the beam.” Heartbeats seemed to stretch into eternity as he waited for the helm officer to complete her preparations, finally turning from her console long enough to meet his gaze.
“Standing by, Captain.”
Hebert called out, “Twenty seconds!”
“Fire!” Arens ordered, leaning forward while gripping the arms of his chair. “T’Vrel, full power breakaway, now!” Subtle tremors vibrated from the deck plates into his boots as the phaser batteries released their first barrage. On the viewscreen, two glowing spheres of energy sailed out ahead of the ship, arcing down toward the surface of the planetoid, which was now much too close for the captain’s comfort. Two more phaser salvos followed, and seconds later the strikes registered on the screen as brilliant plumes of orange-white heat. Arens had only an instant to see the results of the attack before the Huang Zhong’s trajectory shifted with such abruptness that he could feel everything shift as the inertial damping systems struggled to compensate.
“We’re free!” Boma shouted. “The beam’s gone!”
Arens ignored the report, his attention riveted on the movements of T’Vrel at the helm. Her fingers were a blur as she fought the console, and from his vantage point the captain saw several status indicators change from yellow to red just as new alarm sirens began to sound.
“T’Vrel, what is it?”
“The helm is slow to respond,” the Vulcan replied. “I am having difficulty arresting our speed.”
On the screen, Gralafi’s surface was now highlighted by a reddish-purple sky occupying the image’s upper third. The ground continued to rush past, and terrain features now were clearly visible, growing larger and more ominous with each passing second. A single thought echoed in Ronald Arens’s mind.
We’re not going to make it.
“Helm control is failing,” T’Vrel reported, and this time even her stoic demeanor seemed to be cracking around the edges. “Captain, I cannot prevent a crash landing.”
Without hesitation, Arens once more hit the intercom switch with his fist. “All hands, this is the captain! Crash protocols! Brace for impact!” Then, looking to Hebert, he said, “Launch the buoy.”
As the first officer moved to comply with the order, Arens could do nothing except watch as the last sliver of sky disappeared from the top of the viewscreen, leaving only the barren, uninviting surface of the planetoid to draw ever closer.
FOUR
Leonard McCoy hated waiting.
“All right, that’s it,” he said, reaching for the control to deactivate the computer terminal on his desk and swinging the tabletop unit so that its display screen faced away from him. “I’m now officially bored.”
Entering the room from the doorway leading to the sickbay’s adjacent laboratory area, a data slate tucked into the crook of her left arm, Nurse Christine Chapel regarded him with a look of amusement. “You’ve finished reviewing the Huang Zhong crew’s medical records?”
“Three times,” McCoy replied. “It’s easy when they only have fourteen people.” He had spent the better part of the past two days preparing for whatever might be found once the Enterprise was finally able to rendezvous with the Huang Zhong. “Where are we with the trauma team?”
Chapel consulted her data slate. “Everything you requisitioned has been staged in Cargo Bay Two,” she replied.
Nodding in approval, McCoy recalled the hour he had spent earlier in the day, reviewing the details of the manifest he had prepared for the trauma team. It was one more endeavor that had kept the doctor’s mind from envisioning ever more dire scenarios with respect to the Huang Zhong and its crew. By far, the worst thing that might happen upon the completion of the mission would be having to put every item he had requested back into ship’s stores, unused because no one remained for him to help.
Always the optimist, aren’t you?
Still consulting her data slate, Chapel looked up and said, “Oh, and I forgot to tell you earlier, but Doctor M’Benga has volunteered to lead the team.”
Shaking his head, McCoy said. “I appreciate that, but tell him I’ll be taking this one. I’ve got more field medical experience than he does, and this might end up being a tricky situation. According to her record, the first officer has a rare blood condition that might require an organic surrogate if she’s lost a lot of blood or was exposed to some infection.” Based on his review of the geological and climatological reports pertaining to the Gralafi planetoid, he did not expect to find anything like that when he finally had the chance to diagnose and treat the Huang Zhong’s first officer, but he felt better preparing for such eventualities.
On the other hand, any medical aid she might be receiving from Dolysian doctors, despite their best intentions and given their understandable lack of knowledge in the areas of space medicine and xenobiology, might end up worsening an already delicate situation. Broken bones could be set and lacerations could be sutured easily enough, McCoy knew, but from what he had read, physiology varied widely between the Dolysians and any one of the four distinctions of humanoid aboard the Huang Zhong. Ministrations of anesthetics or even simple pain relievers, let alone other medications deemed necessary by Dolysian physicians, would at best be pharmaceutical guesswork. Transfusions would be risky, assuming anyone else among the crew was a compatible donor, or i
f there were sufficient quantities of the right blood types in the ship’s stores, and surgeries nearly impossible. Once there, he knew that he and his trauma team would act quickly and skillfully to aid those in need, but the thought that any one of Huang Zhong’s crew might be enduring pain or even dying without appropriate care unsettled him.
Of course, that’s assuming there are survivors in the first place.
Irritated with himself over the errant thoughts intruding on his consciousness, McCoy eyed the empty cup sitting abandoned near the corner of his desk. Deciding that his mood might be improved in singular fashion with the introduction of fresh coffee into the mix, he retrieved the cup and moved from behind his desk. He was halfway to the food synthesizer on the other side of his office when the door leading to the corridor outside sickbay slid aside to reveal Ambassador Dana Sortino.
“Doctor McCoy,” she said, smiling as she stepped into the room. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her attire, a light-gray skirt and modest top paired with a mellow purple jacket, was formal without making her appear stiff or unapproachable. McCoy suspected it was a conscious choice on her part, her wardrobe seemingly selected to put at ease those with whom she might interact even in the most decorous setting.
Holding up the cup for her to see, McCoy replied, “You’re hardly an interruption, Ambassador. I was just getting myself a cup of coffee. Care for some?”
Sortino shook her head. “No, thank you.”
As he pressed the controls beneath the food slot and waited for the device to process his request, he said, “You’ve kept a pretty low profile since the poker game.”
“I’ve been going over my briefings on the Dolysians,” the ambassador said, sighing. “I think those files keep growing when I’m not looking.”
The food slot’s door slid up, revealing McCoy’s coffee, and he retrieved it as he turned to regard Sortino. “I used to cram before a big test all the time, too. Not sure if it helped, but for some reason it always managed to put my mind at ease.”
“Lucky you,” Sortino countered. “All it does for me is put my mind to throbbing, and thus, the reason for my visit. I was hoping you might remedy that.”
McCoy crossed back to his desk, setting the coffee down next to his computer terminal. “Congratulations. You’ve just been promoted to my most challenging case of the day.” He gestured for her to follow him. “Follow me, Ambassador, and we’ll have you fixed right up in no time.” He led her into the laboratory area and toward the storage cabinets where he kept those curatives that were most often requested by his walk-in patients. Opening the cabinet containing mild analgesics and other low-dose medications, he selected a small vial and dispensed a single, small blue tablet into Sortino’s open and extended palm.
“It’ll dissolve as soon as it hits your tongue,” he said. “Doesn’t taste too bad, either, but I can get you some water if you like.”
Sortino shook her head. “This’ll be fine, thank you.” Swallowing the pill, she closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. After a moment, she said, “Is it supposed to work so fast?”
“Oh, yes,” McCoy replied. “It’s no mint julep, but it gets the job done.” Replacing the vial in the cabinet and closing the unit, he asked, “So, what now? Back to reviewing briefing packets?”
“Nope,” Sortino said. “Captain Kirk called down to my cabin a few minutes ago. Mister Spock has finished his analysis of the Huang Zhong’s recorder buoy, and is ready to brief me on his findings. I’m on my way to the bridge.”
Considering the ambassador’s statement, he asked, “The bridge? That has to be more exciting than anything going on around here. Would you mind if I shared a turbolift with you?”
Sortino frowned. “You can just do that? Go up to the bridge?”
“I have clearance throughout the ship,” McCoy replied. “One of the fringe benefits of being something of a counselor as well as the chief medical officer.” He shrugged. “Not the job I trained for, but I guess it helps that I have a knack for reading people. So, I wander around the ship from time to time. It gives me an opportunity to observe the crew in their work spaces, rather than formalizing the process by bringing them in here and making them self-conscious about talking about whatever might be bothering them.” Then he smiled. “Mostly, I just like snooping around.”
Leaving sickbay, they navigated around other members of the Enterprise crew as they made their way through the curved corridor. A pair of crewmen dressed in maintenance coveralls, whom McCoy recognized as part of the engineering staff, were waiting at the turbolift doors as he and Sortino approached. Both men stepped aside, allowing him and the ambassador to enter the lift.
“Going up?” McCoy asked when the men remained standing in the corridor rather than stepping into the car.
One of the crewmen shook his head. “We’ll get the next one, Doctor.”
“Suit yourself.” The doors closed, and McCoy reached for one of the grips mounted inside the lift. “Bridge.” He felt the gentle push beneath his feet as the car vibrated and whined to life before moving on a lateral track. As it continued to accelerate, he noted for some inexplicable reason that the light bands scrolling past the turbolift’s motion indicator caused a strobe effect across Sortino’s face. It was an odd, soothing sight, and it was not until Sortino turned to face him that he realized he was staring.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling a wave of sudden embarrassment. “I was . . . lost in thought for a second.”
If she saw through his weak fib, she had the grace and decency not to call him on it. Instead, she said, “Doctor, you mentioned your ability to read people. I’d like to think that I’ve acquired a similar gift.”
McCoy nodded as he felt the lift slowing before the lights in the motion indicator switched to scrolling in a vertical pattern, signifying the car’s ascent. “Given your chosen profession, I can imagine something like that coming in pretty handy.”
“I’m not really sure what we’re getting into out here with the Dolysians,” Sortino said, “but I feel better knowing it’s the Enterprise that’s here with me. Your ship and crew have quite the reputation, you know.”
Unable to resist a small chuckle, McCoy said, “You are most definitely nothing like any diplomat we’ve ever had aboard.”
Sortino had time only to share a laugh at his comment before the turbolift slowed to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the bridge. The familiar sounds of activity filled the air as intercom voices relayed status reports from other areas of the ship, control panels beeped either to request their users’ attention or in response to bridge officers’ commands. As he and the ambassador stepped from the car, McCoy looked to the main viewscreen and the brilliant energy field displayed upon it.
“Wow,” Sortino said, her attention also on the screen. “That’s really something.”
Nodding, McCoy replied, “You can say that again.” He directed her away from the turbolift alcove. To their left, Montgomery Scott sat at the engineering station, and he nodded in greeting as he noted their arrival. Guiding Sortino to the right along the bridge’s upper deck, McCoy glanced at Lieutenant Nyota Uhura as she looked up from her communications console. While Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu and Ensign Pavel Chekov manned the helm and navigation stations at the center of the room, the command chair behind them was empty. Its normal occupant, Jim Kirk, instead was leaning against the railing that separated the bridge’s perimeter workstations from the command well. The captain’s hands were clasped before him as he conversed quietly with his first officer, Mister Spock, who was seated at the science station. Looking up at their approach, Kirk straightened his posture and pulled down on his uniform tunic.
“Ambassador, thank you for joining us,” he said, the casual manner he had displayed at the poker game two nights previously now replaced by a straightforward demeanor, or “command mode,” as McCoy liked to call it. “As I told you earlier, Mister Spock has finished his review of the Huang Zhong’s distress buoy.”
The buo
y had been intercepted within moments of the Enterprise’s arrival in the Kondaii system less than three hours earlier. According to the preliminary information Kirk had shared with him, McCoy knew that the device had been found maintaining station outside the mysterious energy barrier surrounding the Gralafi planetoid, and was the only clue as to the current status of the Archer-class scout ship. Much to the doctor’s relief, no debris or ship wreckage had been found.
“Does it offer any details about what happened?” Sortino asked.
His expression grim, Kirk nodded. “I’m afraid so. Spock?”
Folding his arms across his chest, the first officer said, “The data contained in the buoy’s memory banks reports that the Huang Zhong sustained damage during its transit of the rift. Based on the sensor telemetry provided by the science officer, the energy field possesses properties similar to a passive sensor net, not unlike those used to protect sensitive ground-based installations. Further, the field reacted to the presence of the ship’s warp engines, or perhaps the energy generated by the engines. The ship then encountered further difficulty after assuming orbit over the Gralafi planetoid. Information at this point in the record is somewhat incomplete, but there are indications of some sort of attack from the planet’s surface.”
“Attack?” McCoy repeated. “By whom? Surely not the Dolysians?”
Spock shook his head. “No, Doctor. The Dolysians do not possess the level of technology required to launch an assault on an orbiting space vessel. As to the identity of the responsible party, there is no data at present to support any preliminary conclusions.”
“How about a guess, Spock?” the captain asked.
Though his face of course registered no outward emotional reaction, the Vulcan’s voice seemed to lower an octave as he replied, “I would prefer to review the available information in greater detail before putting forth a hypothesis, Captain.”
“Of course you would,” Kirk replied, smiling. Then, he added, “But, even your initial analysis tells you it’s probably not safe for us to enter the rift?”
