Star Trek: The Original Series - 148 - The Weight of Worlds

by Greg Cox

  “That’s better.” She signaled Palmer to mute the audio so that Sokis couldn’t listen in as she conferred with Fisher. “Can you get us out of orbit, too?”

  Fisher tried to steer the ship around, away from Ephrata, but the view on the screen remained the same. The engines thrummed unhappily.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “This is as far as we go, at least without ripping the ship in half.”

  “The gravity beam is still there,” Ferrari verified. “It’s just stabilized at its previous intensity.” He lifted his gaze from the scanner. “We’re back where we started, stuck in place above the Institute.”

  Beats crashing into the planet, Uhura thought, or being boarded by hostile aliens.

  “I can live with that . . . for now.” She turned toward Palmer. “Put Sokis back on.”

  The alien commander reclaimed the better part of the viewer, as well as his voice.

  “Behold our mercy,” he said grandly. “We have given you more time to recognize the error of your ways.”

  “Uh-huh,” Uhura said skeptically. “I have your number now. You want this ship too much to destroy it.”

  Sokis did not deny it.

  “That may be, but there are other avenues of persuasion available to me.” A cruel smile exposed gleaming black incisors. “Or have you forgotten that I hold your comrades hostage?”

  Her heart sank.

  You’re not about to let us forget, are you? she thought.

  • • •

  “Hang in there, Scotty! Don’t you even think of dying on me!”

  Assisted by the two security officers he had conscripted on the bridge, McCoy rushed Scotty into sickbay. The unconscious engineer was laid out on an antigrav stretcher, the better to keep him from being bumped or jostled. An olive green thermal blanket was draped over him to combat shock. A respirator was in place over his face, which looked alarmingly pale and clammy. McCoy was worried; Scotty hadn’t looked this bad since Nomad had “killed” him a few years ago, and this time there was no renegade space probe to resurrect him if his injuries proved too severe. Scotty’s fate was in the hands of plain old twenty-third-century medicine.

  Let’s hope that’s enough, McCoy thought.

  Unfortunately, sickbay was even more crowded and overburdened than he remembered. Nurse Christine Chapel was already performing triage on crew members injured during the recent ruckus, although, at a glance, McCoy didn’t spy anything more serious than some minor burns, sprains, and fractures. Nothing comparable to Scotty’s critical condition. There were also still some Therbian fever sufferers in the recovery ward who were not quite ready to be discharged to their own quarters. A few of the sick crew members had actually gotten out of bed to assist Chapel in processing the newly injured. McCoy was grateful for their help and initiative. Starfleet churned out good people.

  Like Scotty.

  “Oh my!” Chapel exclaimed as the men hustled the stretcher through the automatic doors. She looked up in dismay while applying a fast-setting splint to Yeoman Greenberg’s right arm. “Is that Mister Scott? What happened to him?”

  “What didn’t?” McCoy rasped impatiently. There was no time to give her a full rundown on Scotty’s accident. “We need to get him into surgery right away.” He glowered at the overrun facilities. “Clear a biobed, stat!”

  The primary biobed, located in the main examination room, was presently occupied by a red-robed technician with a freshly bandaged head. McCoy guessed that Chapel had been scanning the man’s brain for any deeper traumas, just to be safe. The patient hopped off the bed without prompting, surrendering it to Scotty, who was deftly transferred from the stretcher to the bed. Despite their care, the motion still pained Scotty, who moaned feebly beneath the respirator.

  “Those burns—” Chapel murmured.

  “We can treat those later,” McCoy said. “Right now I’m more worried about his insides.”

  The biofunction display panel mounted above the bed immediately reset itself. Illuminated graphics charted Scotty’s pulse, respiration, blood pressure, neural activity, and other vital signs. McCoy frowned at the readings, which only confirmed what the portable med scanner had told him on the bridge. Scotty’s vital signs were ebbing fast.

  “He’s bleeding internally from the liver and spleen,” he diagnosed. “We need to open him up.”

  Chapel was already prepping for surgery. While McCoy cut away Scotty’s scorched uniform, she slipped on a pair of sterile gloves before laying out a tray with all the usual apparatus: laser scalpels, hypos, a trilaser connector, reader tubes, and so on. Then she guided a surgical support frame into place above Scotty’s torso. Activating the frame generated a sterile field to keep the surgical area free of infection. Her transparent gloves were merely an extra safety precaution, but McCoy approved of the measure; they’d learned the hard way that standard decontamination procedures were not always effective against unknown alien bacteria and viruses. Better to play it safe and go the extra mile to keep their patients disease-free.

  She applied an anesthetic to ensure that Scotty remained out cold during the procedure; the drug would also help relieve his pain. The security team cleared any unnecessary personnel from the examination room. McCoy regretted displacing the other patients, but there was nothing to be done about it; he needed to give Scotty his full attention.

  Too bad M’Benga is still attending that xenopathology conference on Samaritan Station, McCoy thought. We could use another MD at the moment.

  “He’s ready for you, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Nurse.” McCoy stepped toward the biobed, only to experience an inconvenient bout of dizziness. Fever and fatigue caught up with him at the worst possible moment. He reached to steady himself against the wall, his head swimming. A ragged cough tore itself from his lungs. He clasped a hand over his mouth to keep the effluvia from spraying.

  Chapel eyed him with concern. “Doctor?”

  Damn it, he swore silently. I need to be a doctor now, not a patient!

  “Get me a hypo. Point-five cc’s of cordrazine.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “For Mister Scott?”

  “No, for me!” He needed something to keep him alert and on his feet long enough to get through the operation. “And get me one of those old-time surgical masks from the medkits.” He felt another cough coming on. “Steri-field or no steri-field, the hell if I’m going to cough and sneeze into Scotty’s chest cavity!”

  Chapel responded immediately to his unorthodox requests. She pressed the hypospray against his shoulder. The hypo hissed as it injected the powerful stimulant right through the fabric into his bloodstream. His foggy head cleared at once and he felt an instant burst of chemically induced energy. The inevitable crash would hit him hard later on, but, in theory, not until after he had saved Scotty’s life.

  “Is there any word of the landing party?” Chapel asked as she helped him don the surgical mask. The fabric masks were kept on hand primarily for landing missions to planets where advanced medical technology might be unavailable and/or overly conspicuous. Her voice caught briefly in her throat. “What about the captain . . . and Mister Spock?”

  He shared her concern for Jim and the others, but they couldn’t think about that now. Their patient deserved their full concentration.

  “That’s out of our hands, Nurse.” His hoarse voice was slightly muffled by the mask. “Unlike Mister Scott.”

  Despite his admonition, he couldn’t help worrying about the ship’s prospects as well. Uhura looked as though she had a lot on her plate, and the invaders on the planet weren’t making things any easier for her. He prayed he wouldn’t have more casualties soon—and that the landing party could take care of themselves.

  I knew I should have beamed down with them, he thought irritably. Or maybe it’s a good thing that I didn’t.

  The steri-field cast an orangish glow on McCoy’s worried features. He glanced up at the biofunction display. Arrows were sinking all across the board. Scotty d
idn’t have much longer, unless they could stanch that internal bleeding at the source.

  He held out his palm. “Scalpel.”

  She slapped the tool into his hand.

  Funny, he thought. It feels heavier than usual.

  NINE

  At the moment, Sulu felt more like the Man in the Iron Mask than d’Artagnan.

  “Praise the Truth,” he murmured, trying to sound convincingly brainwashed. He racked his brain for the right words. “I was blind, but now I see.”

  “The Truth and nothing but the Truth,” Yaseen chimed in beside him. A silver mask hid her true feelings. “So help me.”

  Their Crusader escorts led them across the conquered campus, which was also undergoing a conversion of sorts. Masked converts, chanting in unison, were hard at work, using the accumulated rubble to construct a large, multitiered pyramid around the shimmering triangular rift. Other zealots were dismantling damaged buildings to provide more raw materials for the pyramid. Gravity rays, wielded by Crusader overseers, rendered massive steel beams and cornerstones all but weightless, so that they could be readily moved into place. Sulu was startled by how much progress had been made since the last time he had crossed Pearl Square.

  Scoping out the scene from behind his mask, he failed to spot any Starfleet uniforms among the work crew. If Captain Kirk and Mister Spock had been converted, there was no evidence of it . . . yet.

  He chose to take this as a good sign.

  “Work on the new temple proceeds apace,” the lead Crusader observed to his companion. “Our adopted kin are tireless in their efforts.”

  “Indeed, Brother Tabus,” the other Ialatl said. “The Truth lends strength to both body and spirit.”

  A solid meal wouldn’t hurt either, Sulu thought. He wondered if he and Yaseen were destined to join the labor crew. That might not be a bad thing, especially if it gave them an opportunity to slip away and search for the rest of the landing party, or maybe even find a way to contact the Enterprise. He regretted that Maxah had not had time to tell them where the captain and Spock were. And where did Maxah head off to anyway?

  The construction project dominated the center of the square. To Sulu’s surprise, and slight disappointment, their guides veered away from the pyramid-in-progress and led them instead to a tall domed building on the outskirts of the campus. Purple ivy covered the structure’s walls. A mammoth subspace telescope, which was big enough to hold a full-sized turbolift, projected from the roof of the dome. Unfamiliar hardware, of alien design, was grafted to the outer casing of the scope, spreading across it like an invasive creeper. A steady emerald beam, over five meters in diameter, shot from the top of the scope toward the heavens. The beam, which was the same green hue as the enemy’s gravity weapons, widened as it ascended into the sky for as far as the eye could see—and beyond.

  That can’t be normal, Sulu thought. The Crusaders seemed to be putting their own stamp on the Institute and its facilities. I’m guessing that’s not just a telescope anymore.

  But what exactly was the gravity beam aimed at?

  The Enterprise?

  He hoped the ship’s shields were holding.

  An elevator brought them to the top floor of the observatory, which had also undergone a serious makeover. Ialatl technicians fussed over an array of exotic new equipment at the base of the converted subspace telescope. The alien add-ons had been married to the telescope’s original controls in what Sulu suspected had been a shotgun wedding. Humming cables crisscrossed the floor, feeding power to the modified scope. A wall-sized viewscreen, intended to display distant quasars, nebulas, and space-time anomalies, currently held an image of the Enterprise. An emerald beam enveloped the trapped starship.

  Yep, Sulu thought. Definitely not just a telescope anymore.

  He wished he could confer with Yaseen, and pick her brain on what they were seeing, but they had to appear devout and complacent for the time being. Too much curiosity could raise unwanted suspicions on the part of their newfound “brothers.”

  “More power!” an imperious Crusader demanded. His cape and lance marked him as the commander of the aliens. Sulu recognized him from Yaseen’s description. “Divert more power to the gravity cannon!”

  “But we have already tapped into the Institute’s main generators, High Brother,” a technician replied. “Be assured that the cannon has more than enough power to hold the infidels’ vessel in place . . . or bring it crashing down from the heavens, should you desire.”

  Sulu’s mask concealed his dismay. Things were worse than he thought. He and Yaseen exchanged a worried look, which went unnoticed in the general hubbub. The Enterprise was possibly in more trouble than they were.

  “High Brother Sokis,” Tabus addressed his commander. He led Sulu and Yaseen forward. “We have brought the new adoptees as you requested.”

  Sokis turned away from the technician to inspect the masked newcomers. Sulu’s gaze was drawn to the warrior-priest’s obsidian lance. Yaseen had told him all about how Sokis had employed the lance to subdue the landing party after Sulu had been stunned.

  I’d like to get my hands on that, Sulu thought, and not just because he was an enthusiastic collector of archaic weapons. And maybe do something about that “gravity cannon,” too.

  “And have you both embraced the Truth?” Sokis asked.

  “Yes, High Brother,” Sulu said, imitating Tabus. “The Truth has set us free.”

  “Amen,” Yaseen added. “Hallelujah.”

  Sokis nodded in approval. “It is well. I welcome you both to the Crusade.” He gazed up toward the purple sky, which could be seen around the edges of the colossal telescope-turned-cannon. “Sadly, your crewmates stubbornly reject the Truth, but we shall deliver them from ignorance regardless.” He lowered his gaze toward the “adopted” Starfleet officers. “Perhaps concern for your well-being will cause them to rethink their foolish defiance.”

  Oh, hell, Sulu thought. He’s going to use us as hostages to try to force the Enterprise to surrender. His jaw set behind his mask. Forget it. That’s not happening.

  “Restore contact with the captured vessel,” Sokis commanded his underlings. “Let that arrogant female look upon our latest adoptees.”

  Female? Sulu was puzzled by the remark. Who has Sokis been dealing with? What happened to Mister Scott?

  In any event, he couldn’t let the Crusaders turn him and Yaseen into bargaining chips. They needed to do something.

  His gaze zeroed in again on Sokis’s lance. He risked a peek at Yaseen, who nodded at him subtly. “Wait for it,” she whispered.

  A heavy-duty duranium wrench rested on a counter nearby, ignored by the Crusaders tending to the alien machinery. Yaseen sidled toward it, then “accidentally” tripped over one of the many cables snaking across the floor. Stumbling forward, she snatched the wrench from the counter.

  “One for all and all for one!” she shouted before hurling the wrench at the viewer with all her strength. The heavy tool shattered the screen. Sparks burst from the ruptured circuitry. Broken shards flew like shrapnel. Startled Crusaders ducked for cover. She yanked off her silver mask, exposing the defiant brown face beneath it. She flung the mask away from her. “Take your Truth and shove it!”

  “Heretic!” A furious technician lunged at Yaseen, underestimating her Starfleet training. She deftly flipped him over her shoulder into his dumbfounded colleagues. A Crusader swung his baton at her, but she cartwheeled out of the way, landing at the base of the cannon, where she swept a dumbstruck Ialatl’s legs out from under him with a scissor kick that demonstrated exactly why she had been assigned to security. He tried to scramble to his feet, but she stomped on his ankle to keep him down. Bones crunched. The man let out a high-pitched screech.

  “No!” Sokis gasped. “How is this possible?”

  Recovering from surprise, Tabus and the other Crusaders drew their batons and aimed them at Yaseen.

  “Stop her!” Tabus ordered. “Weigh her down!”

  �
�Wait! Hold your fire!” A frantic technician rushed between the Crusaders and their target. His eyes widened in alarm. Agitated tentacles wriggled around his panicked face. “You’ll disrupt the cannon!”

  Sulu guessed that would be bad. With all eyes on Yaseen, and Sokis still frozen in shock, unable to comprehend how Yaseen had unTruthed herself, Sulu took advantage of the distraction to make his own move. Lunging at Sokis from behind, he grabbed the High Brother’s lance arm, twisting it savagely, and wrenched the weapon from the Ialatl’s grasp. Sokis spun around in fury, only to find the tip of his own spear at his throat.

  “You dare?” he thundered.

  “And then some,” Sulu said. The length of the lance made up for the height difference between them. He cast a warning look at the other Crusaders. “Stay back . . . or I’ll see just how sharp this spear is!”

  “Come on, d’Artagnan!” Yaseen called out to him. She scrambled up the side of the cannon as nimbly as a Rukiltosi lizard-monkey, using the alien encrustations as hand and foot holds. She tried to yank some of the modifications free, no doubt hoping to sabotage the cannon, but they were welded too securely to the original apparatus to dislodge. Nearing the top of the cannon, she hung to its side, her lithe figure silhouetted against the purple sky and the emerald beam above her. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “You go!” he shouted back. “I’m not done here!”

  She hesitated atop the cannon, then nodded and reluctantly sprang from the cannon onto the rooftop, vanishing from sight.

  Tabus and his fellow Crusaders paused as well, uncertain whether to pursue Yaseen or rescue their leader. Sulu held the soldiers at bay by keeping the point of the lance lodged against the High Brother’s throat.

  “Surrender my weapon!” Sokis demanded. For the first time, his stentorian voice quavered. “You know not the power you wield!”

  That’s for sure, Sulu admitted silently. As an old-time weapons enthusiast, he had handled spears and lances before, but not one that could control gravity as aggressively as Yaseen had described. His fingers cautiously explored the control rings girding the shaft. Judging from Sokis’s reaction, and the worried expressions of the other Crusaders, the lance packed plenty of firepower.