by Dayton Ward
In response to his order, Ciluri activated the portable scanner he had carried slung over one shoulder and aimed it in the direction of the approaching ship. “I’m detecting two life signs which aren’t familiar to me. They must be Dolysian.”
“What is that?” Mylas asked, pointing to one of the scanner’s indicators. “A power reading?”
“Yes,” the centurion replied. “Their engines are putting out far more energy than should be needed for propulsion.” Shaking his head, he added, “I am at a loss to explain it, sir.”
Looking away from the scanner, Mylas watched as the Dolysian transport slowed its approach, shedding altitude as it began to pivot on its axis.
“Come with me, Ciluri,” Terius said, bringing his disruptor rifle up and stepping away from the Nevathu’s landing ramp. Ahead of them, the Dolysian craft had completed its turn. Doors on its underside parted and a quartet of landing gear lowered into position. At the same time, a hatch on its aft end started lowering. A cloud of dust and dirt was thrown into the air as the ship made its final descent. When it made contact with the ground, its landing gear flexed as the craft’s weight settled and the aft hatch continued lowering.
Mylas was the first to see the barrel of the massive weapon. “Wait!” he shouted, but by then it was too late.
A brilliant blue beam of energy erupted from the cannon or whatever it was, accompanied by a piercing shriek as it chewed into the ground in front of Terius and Ciluri. No sooner had the first barrage concluded than a second followed, ripping another gouge into the soil. Mylas felt Daprel’s hand gripping his arm before the junior engineer, his disruptor drawn, began backpedaling and pulling Mylas with him toward the ramp.
“Return fire!” Terius shouted, dropping to one knee and taking aim at the craft. A third salvo spat forth from the weapon inside the ship, sending the centurion diving to the ground for cover. Ciluri mimicked his movements, throwing himself toward a slight depression and whatever meager protection it might offer.
How is this possible? The question screamed in Mylas’s mind as Daprel continued dragging him up the ramp. Where had the Dolysians obtained such weaponry? Though it was not as advanced as Starfleet phasers, the technology had to be related, of that Mylas was certain.
His suspicions were confirmed when he saw multiple figures, each wearing black trousers and either gold, red, or blue tunics that could only be Starfleet uniforms.
“Now!”
The instant the rear loading hatch cleared the laser drill’s muzzle, Kyle gave the order, Christine Rideout hit the firing control, and the weapon responded by belching forth its powerful beam. Thanks to the chief engineer’s inspired tinkering, the drill had been converted from a simple tool back to something resembling its original purpose. Though not as powerful as it once had been, it was still enough, judging by the way the laser beam shredded the ground in front of the Romulan ship and sent two armed centurions lunging for cover.
“Let’s go!” Kyle shouted, jumping with phaser in hand from the open hatch to the ground. No sooner had his boots touched the soil than he was running forward, weapon arm extended and sighting down on the two Romulans who were scrambling to bring their own disruptors to bear. To either side of him, Bill Hadley and Donovan Washburn fanned out so as to approach the Romulans from different angles. Other members of the salvage team were following him, also spreading out and forming a skirmish line as the team advanced on the enemy scout ship.
Light reflected off something near the vessel’s landing ramp and Kyle saw the two Romulans, one much older than the other, making their way back into the ship. The younger of the two soldiers was holding a weapon, and Kyle wasted no time aiming his phaser and firing at the potential threat. The single beam lanced across the open space separating him from the Romulans, striking the centurion in the chest and causing him to collapse onto the ramp. Beside him, the older Romulan moved to help his companion rather than brandish his own weapon, leaving Kyle to see to the more viable threats.
One of the centurions on the ground was fast—damned fast. He was on his feet and pulling his large, ugly disruptor rifle to his shoulder when Hadley, cradling his phaser in both hands, fired. The beam hit the soldier in the shoulder and he sagged, the stun effect already washing over him as he fell backward to the ground.
“Stop right there!”
Washburn was yelling at the remaining Romulan, who also had recovered his rifle and was bringing it to bear, but the lieutenant fired his phaser first. The centurion dropped to his knees, his rifle falling from his hands before he pitched face-first to the dirt.
“That should be all of them,” Hadley barked as he moved to verify that the two fallen Romulans were unconscious. At the same time, Washburn retrieved their weapons as Kyle, flanked by other members of his landing party, ran toward the landing ramp leading up into the Romulan scout ship. The older Romulan was still there, kneeling next to his companion. When he saw Kyle approaching him, he held out his hands to show they were empty before pointing to the other fallen centurion.
“He’s injured,” the Romulan said. “His head struck the railing when he fell.”
Wary of deception, Kyle kept his phaser trained on the Romulan as he stepped closer for a better look. Seeing the thin line of green blood streaming from the open gash on the side of the fallen soldier’s head, he asked, “Do you have some kind of emergency medical kit nearby?”
The Romulan nodded. “At the top of the ramp.”
Motioning toward Hadley, Kyle said, “This officer will accompany you to retrieve it.” As they moved up the ramp, he turned and saw that Washburn, Rideout, and the others had completed the process of securing the other two Romulans. A tricorder in her hand, Rideout was using it to scan in the direction of the scout ship.
“I think I’ve found whatever they’re using to jam communications,” Rideout said. “It shouldn’t take much to disable it.”
Kyle held up his free hand. “Not so fast.” Indicating the older Romulan who was being escorted by Hadley back down the ramp, he asked, “We’re sure that’s all of them?”
“Four life signs total,” Rideout said. “That’s still checking out.”
“We’ll sweep the ship, anyway, just to be sure,” Kyle said. “Washburn, get a boarding party organized for that.” As the lieutenant and Rideout set about preparing to enter the scout ship, he turned his attention to the Romulan as he set to work treating his unconscious companion. “Will he be all right?”
“I believe so,” the Romulan said. “His injury does not look severe.” Pausing, he turned from his work to regard Kyle. “Thank you.”
“Your other men are only stunned,” Kyle replied. “They’ll be fine in a little while.”
Nodding in apparent approval, the Romulan resumed hovering over his friend, extracting items from the medical kit. “How were you able to deceive us? We did not detect your human life signs aboard the ship.”
“Just an old trick I learned,” Kyle said. By having the transport’s pilot, Liadenpor Ceeda hu Novi, increase the output of the craft’s engines to their full capacity—something required to provide power to the laser drill, anyway—one of the resultant effects was masking the life signs of anyone standing in proximity to the ship’s generators. As for using the drill, it had been Rideout’s idea to mount the implement inside the ship’s rear cargo area, giving Kyle and his team an extra advantage against the Romulan disruptors.
The Romulan seemed to process Kyle’s remark before nodding. “I see. Well, where would we be without our little secrets?” He glanced to his friend before adding, “I suppose that we are your prisoners, now.”
“That’s for my captain to decide,” Kyle replied. He could only guess as to the political ramifications of the Romulans sending ships here, endangering the local inhabitants and taking aggressive action against Starfleet personnel. Whatever discussions were to be had or decisions to be made, they would take place far from here, and likely involve no small amount of teeth gnashing from a
nyone unfortunate enough to be involved. For now, he had plenty to keep him busy.
He looked up to see Rideout descending the ramp, holding her tricorder against her left hip. Eyeing the Romulan, she said, “I’ve disabled their jamming hardware. You should be able to contact your captain now.”
“Fantastic, Christine,” Kyle said as he reached for his communicator and flipped it open. “Kyle to Captain Kirk.”
There was a short burst of static before the captain’s voice replied, “Kirk here. Since we’re talking, I guess that means you were successful. Excellent work, Lieutenant. Any casualties?”
“None, sir,” Kyle replied. “One Romulan sustained a treatable injury, and we have them all in custody. What do you want me to do with them?”
Whatever answer the captain might have provided disappeared in a hiss of static loud enough to make Kyle wince. Pulling the communicator away from his face, he regarded the device with confusion. “What the hell is this about?” He looked to Rideout. “You’re sure you disabled the jamming?”
The chief engineer nodded. “Absolutely. No question.” She held up her phaser for emphasis. “I used my favorite tool to turn it off.”
Scowling at the seemingly useless communicator in his hand, he grunted in irritation. “Maybe the Romulans in the complex are giving the captain and the others trouble.”
“That is a sensible hypothesis,” the Romulan said, and he seemed unfazed by Kyle’s withering stare. “My commander is quite resourceful in that regard.”
Kyle nodded. “Well, then I feel sorry for your commander, because no one makes trouble the way Captain Kirk does.”
TWENTY-NINE
Uhura’s eyes burned with the sting and grit of fatigue, and not for the first time did she reach up to rub them. The array of information being fed to the control console’s seven display screens was starting to become one large, unending blur, she decided. Bracing her hands against the console, she arched her back, reveling in the sensation as she stretched and worked the kinks from her tired muscles. That accomplished, she drew a deep breath before returning her attention to the swirl of data before her. Was she really that tired, or had the ancient Kalandan text become even more difficult to read than just five minutes earlier? She reached up to stifle a yawn, aware once more of the mounting strain beneath her temples and at the base of her skull.
In less than an hour, none of that will really matter, right?
“You okay?”
It took her a moment to register the question, and when she did she turned to see Boma regarding her from a nearby console, concern evident in his eyes. She cleared her throat before replying, “Why do you ask?”
Boma pointed to her hand. “Because you look like you’re about to punch something, or someone.”
Glancing down, Uhura realized that her right hand was clenched and shaking as it rested atop the flat, polished console. Releasing the fist, she flexed her hand and felt the tingle and rush of warmth as blood flow returned to her fingers. “Sorry,” she said, offering a sheepish expression. “It’s been a long day.”
“I know how you feel,” Boma replied, closing his eyes as he reached up to rub the bridge of his nose.
“How are you feeling?” Uhura asked.
Leaning against the console, Boma crossed his arms and released a tired sigh. “All things considered, I guess I’m doing okay.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Sometimes it’s hard not to think about Captain Arens and the others. I try to keep busy, but that doesn’t always work.” He paused, wincing as he rubbed his right bicep.
Uhura pointed to his arm. “Still hurts?”
“A little,” Boma replied. “It’s more irritating than anything else. Doctor McCoy told me it’d be like that for a couple of days. Beats wearing a sling, though.” He indicated their console with a nod of his head. “This is tough enough with two hands.”
“Amen to that,” Uhura said. The struggle to access and understand the Kalandan computer system, as well as their run-in with the Romulans and now the stress of trying to abort the underground complex’s self-destruct protocols, was beginning to wear her down. Her latest discovery, that the Kalandan computer system had initiated a new protocol blocking all communications to and from the complex, was but the latest in a long string of obstacles thrown in their path. What other tricks might the ancient technology still have waiting in reserve?
After abandoning the original operations chamber, they had made their way to this counterpart control room, after which Spock—without using the explosive charges they had confiscated from the Romulans—had managed to work past the damage inflicted by Captain Kirk on the room’s door access panel in order to open the portal. The downside to his achievement was that he was uncertain as to how he might reseal the door or, if necessary, open it yet again. This left no other choice than to station Lieutenant Johnson at the open hatch in order to guard against Romulan intruders. So far, and for whatever reasons, the Romulans had seen fit not to attack them while all of this was going on, leaving Spock and the rest of the landing party to once again work at regaining control of the ancient Kalandan technology in the hopes of aborting the destruct protocol. Despite the obvious need for urgency, Uhura found she was having trouble settling back to the tasks at hand.
“I guess I’m just not used to this sort of excitement,” she said. “It’s a long way from my station on the bridge.”
“You wouldn’t know it to watch you work,” Boma said. He nodded to where Spock was working at a console on the other side of the room. “I mean, Spock understands this stuff because his brain’s wired to. I’m running as fast as I can just to keep up, but you? You’re a natural.” Pointing to the console and the screens of streaming data, he shook his head. “Everything we’ve been able to figure out so far is because of something you saw in there, or even thought you saw.”
Frowning, Uhura countered, “That’s not true. We’ve been working together all day. You’ve been right here with me the whole time.”
“I may have seen one or two things here and there,” Boma said, “or helped you finish a thought, but that was only in response to something you said, or started to say. The fact is, we’re where we are right now because you’re here.” He paused, then released a small chuckle. “That didn’t come out quite the way I intended.”
Uhura smiled. Despite the current situation, she found herself buoyed by the unexpected compliment. “That’s all right. I was able to translate the meaning, and I appreciate it.” Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to relax and to will away the aches in her back and neck. This mission had provided her with a rare opportunity to work beyond the technical demands of her primary duties and employ some of the skills and natural aptitude that had guided her to joining Starfleet in the first place. Thanks to the wonders of modern, computer-driven universal translation protocols, her innate talent for recognizing and adapting to alien languages—spoken and written—was tested only on rare occasions in her capacity as the Enterprise’s chief communications officer. Though the universal translator had proven useful here, as well, what it often failed to discern was the context and intent behind the words being interpreted. Insight into the mind of the speaker or writer also was necessary, and was part of the mystery and challenge of decoding an alien language. It was just such a test that Uhura relished.
So, get on with it.
Turning back to her console, she said, “Here, look at this.” She waited until Boma moved to stand next to her before pointing to one of the station’s displays. “I managed to get back into the security system. What do you see?”
Leaning closer to get a better look, Boma tapped his fingernails on the console as he studied the scrolling data. “That’s code from the master control processes, right?”
“Yes. It oversees and instructs everything else, based on information sent to it by the other hubs in the security system network.” Uhura reached for the console and tapped several illuminated controls on the flat panel, and one of the display
s shifted its image to show a series of nine status indicators. Each was labeled with its name in Kalandan script and a blue icon except for the next to last marker, which was yellow. Pointing to that icon, she said, “See this? It’s the environmental control system.”
Boma shook his head. “I don’t understand. The system’s inactive?”
“The system itself is fine,” Uhura said. “But the computer process overseeing it isn’t. Remember the firefight in the other control room?”
“Of course,” Boma replied. “The control banks for the environmental system were damaged, but why would that affect the software? Those processes were active in the central network, right?”
“It would appear something was interrupted by the loss of the system console,” said a new voice, Spock’s, as the Vulcan and Doctor McCoy emerged from an adjoining room and walked up behind them. “Either as a consequence of the physical damage or perhaps a design feature or flaw in the system itself, that process has been compromised.”
“Not just compromised,” Uhura said, again pointing to the display, “but it’s waiting for a diagnostic to be executed against it. That’s what this indicator means. Until a corrective action is taken, it’s operating in a standby mode.”
“I know the feeling,” McCoy said. “Where the hell’s Jim when you need him? If anybody can convince a computer to do something it doesn’t want to do, he can.” Uhura stifled a smile, amused by the doctor’s observation, which even garnered a raised eyebrow from Spock.
“Despite the captain’s unusual proclivity in that regard,” replied the first officer, “this computer system lacks the sort of interactive voice response technology to which we are accustomed. Indeed, interfacing with this system requires—”
“Mister Spock!”
Everyone turned at the sound of Lieutenant Johnson’s shout, and Uhura saw the security officer moving back from the open doorway where he had been standing guard. He was pointing his phaser in that direction when something small and dark flew through the opening and bounced toward the center of the room.
