STAR TREK: TOS - Final Frontier

by Diane Carey

  “Are you almost finished?” George asked. “We’ve got to get cracking.”

  “Yes ... I guess ...” Sarah looked at the test results on the medicomp, her brow furrowing and her eyes getting small.

  “What’s wrong?” George approached slowly, contemplating knocking her away from the medicomp and messing up the information she’d collected.

  “Nothing’s wrong ... exactly. These instruments must need recalibrating or something.”

  George eyed t’Cael as Sarah slipped her hand-held mediscanner into a slot in the main medicomp, punched a read pattern, and watched the screen again. A faint blue-white light played across her features. She frowned at what she saw. She repunched the pattern, slower this time. She frowned again. She glanced at t’Cael.

  George held his breath.

  She entered data yet another time, with a few careful modifications. Another frown. With a glint of suspicion to keep it company.

  Sarah snapped off the computer and yanked the mediscanner out of its cubbyhole. She folded her arms and twisted around.

  “All right, Kirk, what gives?”

  George stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  She wagged the mediscanner. “Close, but no Vulcan.”

  Both men stared widely at her, but she wasn’t buying it.

  She approached them in a decidedly threatening manner. “Skin tissue variants, blood content inconsistencies, same story on the metabolic table, not to mention the encephaloscan. Can you explain that?”

  They stared at her some more, but it still didn’t do any good.

  George said, “Diet.”

  T’Cael said, “Illness.”

  George. “He’s been sick.”

  T’Cael. “Deathly.”

  Sarah. “Claptrap.”

  She slammed the mediscanner onto her desk and snapped off the diagnostic monitor above t’Cael evidently realizing she wasn’t going to get any acceptable stories out of them. “Get out of my sickbay.”

  T’Cael slid from the table and pulled his jacket back on, his lips clamped tight, and George couldn’t tell if it was tension or amusement that kept him quiet.

  [226] “Can you move around all right?” George asked.

  T’Cael proved it by heading for the door. “Adequately.”

  In the corridor, the two men paused.

  “That didn’t hold for long,” George complained.

  “I told you,” t’Cael said with a shrug. “We could go back and explain to her.”

  George thought about it. “I’d rather go back to the werewolves.”

  The ship felt barren and dangerous as they made their way to the bridge. The trip through the corridors toward the main turbo-lift was interrupted only once, and only for a fleeting moment, when they turned a corner at the same moment the red-eyed fugitive animal came around the next turn. George and t’Cael drew up short, and George was about to bring up his weapon when the animal, wide-eyed and crouching, skittered to a halt, glared at them, then scratched the deck in a frantic effort to turn around. In an instant it was gone. But that instant had opened a terrible empathy in George; the animal, no longer on familiar ground, was terrorized. Here, it had no bearings, no idea that it was the stronger.

  Like t’Cael. George glanced at his companion. Reluctant companion, he recalled now, with sudden clarity. T’Cael was alone too, separated from his pack, rejected by those closest to him, those he needed to survive, but he was handling it. Unlike the animal they’d just seen, t’Cael was burying his fears. The Romulan had preferred death on the planetoid to the conflicts he would face and would cause if he came here. Now that he was here, though, he seemed to be accepting the situation. A profound courage, certainly.

  If only there was time to appreciate it. George felt his blood running hot as the turbo-lift swung up through the starship toward the bridge. Pulse point.

  The lift doors parted.

  For t’Cael, the starship was a city in space. So much room, so much resource—unthinkable that something so big could function as a battleship. As the lift doors opened and Kirk bolted out instantly, t’Cael remained behind, taking in his first view of a Federation bridge from the sanctity of the turbo-lift. And what a bridge it was. Though obviously unfinished, the area was lush with color and efficiency. There was room to walk freely on two levels, room to pace, to watch each other. Humans understood the psychological as well as the practical value of color. And the captain’s place was strategically situated in the center, [227] where all others had to have their backs to him. It gave him many advantages. There was no place here for Ry’iak’s kind to lurk.

  T’Cael stepped slowly from the turbo-lift onto the carpeted circular walkway, wondering if any of these people were here to watch and judge and report on this captain’s performance.

  Below, George gripped the arm of the command chair.

  April sighed with relief and murmured, “George ... you’ll never be hanged for apathy, my friend.”

  “April, you English twitch, what are you doing up?”

  The captain simply gazed at him, grinning. It took all his willpower to keep from mentioning George’s battered appearance and his distinct limp.

  “We tried to strap him, Geordie,” Drake said, “but he chewed his way out, and poof, here he is.”

  George looked at Drake and snapped, “I can’t believe you actually got us out of there.”

  “All in a day’s panic, m’lad,” Drake muttered, but too softly to hide his own relief.

  April touched George’s arm and asked, “What’s all this about an intruder alert?”

  George started to answer, but suddenly no one was interested. Everyone was looking at the back of the bridge. Slowly, April got up, stricken by the elegant stranger who made such an ornament on their bridge.

  After a moment, George poked the captain. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  April started toward the steps. “I should think so,” he uttered. He moved past George, gesturing toward the turbo-lift. George followed, but only after getting a good grip on Drake’s uniform and hauling him after.

  As they hurried up onto the walkway after April, Sanawey leaned toward him and whispered, “A Vulcan?”

  George lowered his voice. “We rescued him. Don’t make him self-conscious.”

  Sanawey snapped his eyes back to his board. “No, sir.”

  “And spread the word, will you?”

  “Yes, sir, sure will.”

  April and t’Cael were already inside the turbo-lift, eyeing each other. George pulled Drake inside with him, pushed the button that closed the doors, and put the lift on standby.

  [228] “I see we have a situation even thornier than I imagined,” April said.

  “I guess you could call it thorny,” George answered with a nervous sigh. “Captain, this is the commander of that ship out there.”

  April raised his brows.

  “Former.” T’Cael made a little bow. “My name is t’Cael Zaniidor Kilyle. Until a short while ago, I was Field-Primus of the Second Imperial Swarm. I wish I could officially convey greetings of my government, but since I no longer represent it, the only greetings I can bring you are my own.”

  April nodded. “I see. Not a pleasant way to meet, Commander. Or what do they call you?”

  “What they call me,” t’Cael admitted, “I’ll never hear again. T’Cael will do.”

  “I’m very sorry if our presence here has compromised you,” April said, his tone sympathetic. “We’re dealing with a mutiny, then?”

  “More precisely, others are dealing with the mutiny. You are dealing with the tantalizing prize your ship will make if you allow yourselves to be taken. I see technologies here that my science has only guessed at, things our intelligence has no reports of. Since our intelligence is respectable, I conclude these technologies must be very new, even to you.”

  “You’re right on the mark with that. It’s all quite new stuff. I hope the transporter didn’t give you too awful a jolt.”

 
; T’Cael tilted his head and smiled. “Yes, I received a jolt.”

  “Well, it did the job, at least. I’m glad we had it working. Not everything is.” April smiled too.

  “He says there are more ships coming,” George blurted.

  “Oh?” April responded. “How many, specifically?”

  “Five,” t’Cael said. “I suggest you repair your systems and leave the area. I assume this ship has lightspeed.”

  George glared at him. “Of course it has light—”

  “Our warp drive is broken down at the moment,” April said. “We’re working on repairing it.”

  “If you can do so,” t’Cael continued, “you’ll have no problem outrunning the Swarm and should be able to clear the area. I suggest you do that. The Swarm is made up of small ships, but we concentrate on firepower and they’ll be able to disable you sufficiently.”

  Drake muscled his way between April and George. “We’ve got a [229] little firepower of our own, Booboorah,” he announced, pointing a finger in t’Cael’s face.

  George pressed him back. “Why don’t we try lighting a match under Dr. Buzzard in engineering and get the star drive going so we don’t have to deal with—” All at once he paused, blinked at Drake, and demanded, “What did you say?” He looked at April. “What did he say?”

  “I suppose you should be briefed,” April said. “After you left, Drake blocked a couple of punches from the Romulan ship, but of course we couldn’t leave the area until we’d retrieved you.” He looked at t’Cael then and concluded, “I suppose we know now why they started getting hostile as soon as you two met on the planetoid.”

  T’Cael nodded. “Mutiny usually involves hostility,” he agreed.

  “Yes ... well, at any rate, I came up and saw what was going on, and ... I’m ashamed to admit that I agreed to fire on the ship—”

  “Good for you!” George interrupted.

  “I’m not particularly proud of it, George,” April said.

  “I am,” George said.

  April waved a dismissive hand. “Since we retrieved you, we’ve been heading out of the area on impulse power. We should have full impulse very soon, and from that we’ll be able to draw shields and better weapons capacity. Not as extensive as we would have if we could draw from warp power, but it’s something. The Romulan ship hasn’t made any more overt moves against us. They’re keeping their distance. We know we damaged them to some degree, because we’ve been getting readings of leakages, but they’re still keeping pace with us. I’m not sure why.”

  “To keep the Swarm apprised of your location,” t’Cael said, pained by the conduct of his fleet. The real pain he felt, though, was caused by something else. If he had coddled a single hope that Idrys might not be dead, that hope was gone. If the order to attack the Earth ship had been hers, the attack would never have ceased simply because the Earth ship fired back. The attack would have been completed, to the death if necessary.

  No, this hovering behind—this was Ry’iak’s version of bravery. Ry’iak would lag back until the Swarm arrived, then he would let the Swarm do his job for him and claim the victory for himself.

  Ry’iak didn’t deserve victory. The Supreme Praetor didn’t deserve possession of this vast ship, which he would use to dominate the galaxy. These humans ... to them t’Cael was an enemy alien, yet they [230] trusted him. Even Kirk, with his innate suspicions and militaristic bent, was too trusting in having brought t’Cael to the bridge itself, to the command hub itself. What if all this had been a trick?

  T’Cael looked at the faces near him in the turbo-lift. If the humans had behaved like enemies, he would have remained silent and let events play themselves out. But their honesty, their trust made him want to help them. Preserve them.

  “I will help you,” he said, the words catching in his throat. They all looked at him. Quietly he added, “I know how they think.”

  The captain gazed at him for several moments, as though hoping to see through his skin and into his mind. He looked at his first officer.

  George nodded simply. “I believe him.”

  Even Robert April couldn’t arbitrarily hand out trust to an enemy, but he did trust George, and for the time being that would have to be enough. With a little shake of his head, he sighed. “Well, all right ... do you have a suggestion?”

  T’Cael nodded tightly. “You’ll have to turn and destroy my ship.”

  April looked dubious. “Now, I don’t think I can—”

  “If you don’t,” t’Cael insisted, “they’ll continue to send transmissions for the Swarm to triangulate upon. If you destroy my ship, you may be able to leave the area in enough time to get away.”

  April appeared pained at the whole idea. He glared at the floor of the turbo-lift.

  “Let’s ... think about something else before we think about that,” he said finally. “If we can get warp drive in time, we can get away. You already said your ships don’t have hyperdrive, didn’t you?”

  “The Swarm ships are mounted only with pulse power, that is true.”

  “All right, let’s try that channel first then. Please—” With a graceful gesture he invited them all back onto the bridge.

  Since nobody on the bridge looked around this time, George assumed Sanawey had told everyone present about the Vulcan prisoner they’d liberated and to keep him comfortable by not making an issue of it. It wasn’t an ironclad story, but it had a better ring than telling everyone they were about to hand themselves over to the commander of the ship that had tried to knock them out of space.

  Only a little stumble on his way back down to his command chair gave away the fact that April was still injured. He recovered on his own and tapped on the command intercom. “April to engineering. Dr. Brownell?”

  A technician answered. “One minute, Captain.”

  [231] The uncomfortable silence went by slowly.

  “Brownell here. What’d you want?”

  “Doctor, the situation has changed somewhat. We desperately need that warp drive.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so? What’d you think, we just replace a spring and a belt and it’s working again?”

  The four men crowded around the command chair shared a grimace. T’Cael’s was particularly fraught with curiosity—what was the chain of command on this vessel?

  April tried another tack. “Have you at least discovered what’s wrong with it, doctor?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  This time Brownell actually hesitated. “Look, I think you’d better come down here for this.”

  “Can’t you simply tell me?”

  “It’s not the kind of thing that ought to be broadcast over the system.”

  “Really ...” April glanced up at the image of the Romulan ship tailing after them. “Very well. We’ll be right down.” He snapped off the intercom and took in George, t’Cael, and Drake with a wave of his hand. “All of you, come with me. Carlos, we’ll be in engineering. If anything happens—”

  “Yes, sir,” Florida anticipated.

  Engineering seemed cooler than the bridge. Or maybe it was just that George knew what kind of reception they’d get from Dr. Barnacle. Sure enough, he came up from behind a magnetomic feed cylinder, saw them, grumbled something, then looked straight at t’Cael through his smudged eyeglasses and said, “Where’d you get the bunny?”

  Drawing up short, t’Cael stared in puzzlement, as though he wasn’t sure whether he’d been insulted or not. April ignored it and grasped the cylinder for extra support, trying to control his breathing after the jog through the ship. “The warp drive?”

  “Yeah,” Brownell said with a nod. “We’ve been looking for something wrong with the warp engines.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s a waste of time. There’s nothing wrong with ’em.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s in the computer master system. The warp drive program is gone.”


  [232] April gasped. “What?”

  Brownell shrugged his thin shoulders. “Gone. The program itself. No trace of it. Not a hint that it was ever programmed into the system at all. The warp engines are fine. There’s nothing to tell the ship how to use them.”

  “But how can that be?”

  “Somebody must’ve fed in a predator program.”

  As though stricken, April gripped the rim of the cylinder. “What’s a predator program?”

  Even George was a little surprised when it was he who answered instead of Brownell. “It’s a program that eats the previous program. One of the hardest things to track with conventional security procedures.”

  Brownell nodded. “And it’s impossible to run warp engines manually.”

  “But this is unthinkable!” April choked out. “When was this done?”

  “Could’ve been months ago. Could’ve been yesterday. A program like that is designed to be dormant until it’s triggered.”

  “What could trigger it?” George asked.

  Brownell glared at him. “Hell, almost anything! Use your imagination. At a guess, I’d say it was the ion effect on the outer hull. That must’ve been the trip switch. The drive was keyed to overload when it came in contact with the ion storm, and that caused the warp jump and dinked around with the gravitational matrix. Since we’re not dead, there must’ve been an abort mode too. Soon as the predator program ran out, the whole drive system was crashed. And here we are. But I’d say it was put into the system before we left.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, pepperhead, there are only two drive-computer masters on board now, that’s why. Me and Woody.”

  April collected himself. “How do we turn it back on?”

  Brownell turned to him and pursed his lips. “August, you are the luckiest bastard this side of hell. Under normal circumstances, there’d be no chance in hell of fixing it.”