Star Trek®: A Choice of Catastrophes

by Michael Schuster

  McCoy and Chapel promptly started treating Huber’s wounds.

  “At least you just didn’t give up on him,” David McCoy said reproachfully. “That’s very determined of you.”

  The first step was the careful removal of the burnt dermis, large whitish-brown patches, leathery to the touch. McCoy drew his laser scalpel along the affected area, lifting the dead flakes with tweezers, while Chapel applied lab-cultured pseudoskin onto the raw flesh and deftly sealed the wound with her protoplaser.

  It was slow work, due to both the nature and the size of the injury. The longer it took, the more McCoy found himself returning to the conundrum of the sedative-resistant pain. What could be the cause for this? Was it really possible that there was a connection to the distortions and, by extension, to the comas?

  The Farrezzi holding Kirk down had started to emit strange shrieks that the UT couldn’t translate. If it was a call for help, Kirk had to act now.

  The Farrezzi’s size and strength were its advantages, so the captain had to use them against it. He couldn’t throw someone so big from his present position, but perhaps he could force it to come closer. The Farrezzi’s tentacles were wrapped around his upper arms, leaving his hands relatively free, so he grabbed the tentacles and pulled with all his strength in one quick move. It was difficult to tell how heavy the alien was—at least twice his weight. The immense effort of throwing it off balance caused searing pain throughout Kirk’s body, as overtaxed muscles and tendons complained.

  The sudden force made the Farrezzi fall toward Kirk, and with no other option, the captain slammed his head into its abdomen. It fell sideways, landing on the deck. The weight constricting his chest immediately lightened. He could breathe now.

  The grip on his arms and legs was still there, but now he had a fighting chance. It was lying on its side, all its limbs occupied, with no way of stabilizing itself or even getting up again—except by letting go of Kirk.

  It didn’t. Instead, it kept its grip on him while emitting more of those unsettling shrieks. They made Kirk think of animals in distress. Determined to put an end to this, he kicked and punched. His foot connected with a soft spot in the Farrezzi’s abdomen. The alien emitted an ear-piercing wail, but it still wouldn’t let go. Another kick had the desired effect: two appendages released him, the one around his throat and the one holding his left arm at the wrist.

  Where was his phaser? In the melee, he’d lost track of it. It had been close before, but now he had no idea where it was. Kirk gave the Farrezzi another kick, then risked a quick look. Thinking back to where he’d seen it before, he remembered that the phaser had been just out of reach of his right hand, which was still underneath the whimpering Farrezzi.

  He brought his left arm around to grope underneath the slaver’s body. The Farrezzi didn’t let him do that unhindered. It tried to grab him again.

  He repeatedly punched with his left hand—at the alien’s abdomen, its upper body, its head. The wailing increased, as did the intensity of its grip. His right hand was tingling, the tentacle-like fingers impeding his blood flow.

  However, his opponent moved just enough for him to shove his hand in between body and floor. Kirk felt something wet and sticky and could only hope that it was the alien’s blood. He thought his fingers had touched the phaser, but then the Farrezzi moved again.

  Its eyestalk-like visual organs were—like those of most beings—bound to be highly sensitive. Kirk directed his next punch at the nearest one.

  Another series of shrieks and wails followed, so loud that Kirk felt everybody on board could hear them. The tentacles on his legs retracted as the Farrezzi waved them at his hands to ward off further attacks. Kirk could see the phaser, still half-buried beneath the Farrezzi’s bulk. The captain made a quick, carefully aimed grab and then held his weapon once more.

  If Kirk fired the phaser on a high setting while touching the Farrezzi, he’d be stunned too, but as he dialed the power down, the injured slaver hit him on the upper arm, making him drop the phaser.

  Kirk reached for it, and when he finally had his fingers clasped around it, fired.

  The alien let go of him, unconscious. Kirk took a couple of deep breaths.

  Celebration would have to wait. First he had to find his two men.

  When Scotty woke up, he felt like he’d been hit by a caber. His legs wouldn’t move, his head was fuzzy, and breathing was painful. Even worse, he had only the vaguest idea what had happened.

  He tried to sit up. The pain told him he should reconsider. All right, then. Best to find out more.

  “Hello?” he said. “Anybody there?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow move somewhere off to his left. With everything so blurred and out of focus, it was impossible to say who it was. The person was wearing a blue uniform.

  “Don’t get up,” a male voice said. “You’re not ready for that yet. Let me do my job first.” Doctor M’Benga.

  “Doc, I dinna remember much of what happened.”

  “That’s only natural,” M’Benga said. “You suffered a concussion, coupled with numerous fractures to bones in your legs. Memory loss is the least of your worries.”

  “Thanks for your concern, Doc.” The little Scott could see told him he was in the Hofstadter. Despite his blurry vision, there was no mistaking the repositioned power nodes of a G-class. “So, what happened?” he asked.

  “We were attacked.”

  “What?” Despite everything, Scotty was sure he’d remember an attack. “How—” A loud rumble interrupted him. Everything shook. “It sounds like the world’s ending.”

  “Right now, we’re dodging three fighter craft as we try to find a gap in the storm pattern so we can get up into space,” M’Benga said. “Mister Spock says that before they located us, they flew all over the city, taking random shots. That’s what got the roof.”

  “Well, I need to get up there!” shouted Scotty. He had to do something.

  “Mister Scott,” Spock’s voice interjected, coming from the shuttle’s bow, “we are aware of the situation’s requirements. I suggest you let Doctor M’Benga take care of you.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Scotty. “Why canna we get up above the clouds?”

  “The problem is twofold,” replied Spock. “The Columbus’s phasers are still inoperative, and the Hofstadter’s shields are still impaired.” Scotty could hear the whine of phasers.

  “What?” That didn’t make any sense. “I fixed the shields. My countermeasures—”

  “—were an effective remedy,” interrupted Spock, “and are contributing to our shield strength. Unfortunately, the intensity of the interference continues to increase.”

  Scotty sighed. There was just no winning. Three enemy craft and two shuttles, both of which were impaired—it would be nearly impossible to get through any gap in the cloud cover. One fighter could harass each shuttle while the third could block off any escape route. “Are Rawlins and Seven Deers going to make it?” he asked the doctor.

  “Seven Deers is fit for duty. Her temple was just grazed, thankfully. But it’s Rawlins and you that I’m worried about. I’m doing the best I can with what I have, but what I really need is a fully equipped sickbay.” The deck rumbled, some of the energy of the Farrezzi weapons reaching the shuttle through its weakened shields.

  “Doc, is there something you’re not telling me? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Commander Scott, when the ceiling fell on you, your legs were very badly injured. Most of your bones from the femur on down are broken, a lot of tendons are torn. Your knees… I’ll have to rebuild them.”

  Scotty tried to take in what M’Benga had said. Why wasn’t he feeling any pain? M’Benga must have shot him full of suppressant—a staggering amount. No wonder he was feeling woozy.

  Another rumble, much stronger this time. “How are our shields?” Scott asked.

  Spock spoke up. “At the current rate of fire, they will fail in ten minutes.”

 
“What’s your plan?” asked Scotty.

  “Ensign Seven Deers is working to repair the Columbus’s phaser system, at which point we will not need to fly cover for them.”

  Another boom, louder this time. The whine in the background, which his trained ears told him was coming from the shield generator, increased in intensity for about two seconds. “We need to get out of range. Let me help Seven Deers. Doc, do you not have to look after poor Rawlins?”

  M’Benga said nothing, but his face spoke volumes. In a way, Scotty understood how the doctor felt. He’d feel the same way if his engines started complaining about the way he’d repaired them.

  “Mister Scott, I appreciate your eagerness to be of assistance,” Spock said. “Do you have an idea?”

  “Mister Spock, I’ve got two of them. Link me up to the ensign.”

  Christine Chapel held her breath as Doctor McCoy glanced back and forth between Specialist Huber and the medical monitor above his bed. The surgery had gone well so far, and they were almost done. Just a few more patches of dead skin.

  The doctor was working intently, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He hadn’t said a word during the past hour, apart from requests for surgical tools. It was as if he couldn’t afford even the slightest distraction. Chapel decided not to ask him what was wrong. Once the surgery was completed, she’d get it out of him.

  The last of the damaged skin was gone, and artificial skin had taken its place. Chapel ran the protoplaser over the new skin on Huber’s arms, stimulating its growth. Once Huber woke up, he’d find himself healed, and in a few weeks’ time, there would be no trace of the accident whatsoever.

  The doctor put away his tools, then turned off the surgical arch. “Good work, Doctor,” Chapel said, smiling encouragingly at him.

  McCoy mumbled, “Thank you.” He was clearly preoccupied.

  “Can you clean this up?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the life-sign monitor above Huber’s head.

  “Yes, Doctor.” There was little to do besides disinfecting the medical devices. Huber was no longer in critical condition, although he would require at least a couple of days of supervision.

  “Good,” McCoy said. “Good.” He disappeared into the ward to check on Bouchard, Petriello, Santos, Fraser, and Salah. Their condition had not improved, but at least it hadn’t gotten any worse. The doctor’s treatment was keeping their brains’ deterioration at bay.

  What if the espers never came out of the coma? What if they remained in this state until their bodies gave up?

  The doctor doesn’t know what to do. He always makes up things as he goes along, but now it’s not working. He’s rapidly reaching the end of his knowledge—maybe he’s already exceeded it. Maybe you should stop idolizing him.

  That wasn’t true. She didn’t idolize him… why would she think that? And she was sure he still hadn’t tried everything he could come up with. There had to be something he could do to save these people. There had to be.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Huber’s sudden scream. She almost dropped the protoplaser. What was going on here? During surgery, he’d been calm, just like every other sedated patient. Was he regaining consciousness? He shouldn’t be, not so soon.

  “Doctor!” she shouted, to be heard in the ward. “Doctor McCoy!”

  By the time he arrived, Huber had started to spasm, so violently that he was in danger of falling off the biobed. Luckily, the surgical arch over his chest kept him sufficiently restrained. Chapel couldn’t imagine what the cause was.

  “Just what I feared,” McCoy said, his lined face grim as he studied the biosigns. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “He shouldn’t be experiencing any pain. The readouts tell me that he isn’t. Not pain, at least. He’s clearly experiencing something, though. Readings indicate high neural activity.” He shook his head. “It’s almost as if his body doesn’t know it’s sedated.”

  “Mister Scott.” Spock cast a quick glance backward at the supine engineer. “Are you ready?”

  “Just a moment,” Scott replied. He was checking his tricorder, as he spoke into his communicator. “Did you switch the couplings, Ensign?” M’Benga hovered nearby, keeping an eye on him and the still-unconscious Rawlins.

  “I hope luck is on our side,” said Jaeger, manning the navigation console. “We’ll need it.” With his right hand he worked the scanner controls, and with his left he kept a tight grip on the bottom of the console. The geophysicist had never been in a firefight before.

  “We do not require luck, Lieutenant,” replied Spock, “only efficiency and aptitude.” He swerved the Hofstadter to avoid weapons fire from a Farrezzi fighter. The fighters were more agile in the wind.

  “All the same, I’m going to cross my fingers.” Spock noted that Jaeger did not actually do so.

  “All done, Commander,” the voice of Seven Deers came through Scott’s communicator. “Ready when you are.”

  “Good to go, sir,” Scott said.

  “Acknowledged.” Spock’s attention was devoted to the controls, as he worked to keep the Hofstadter from suffering any more hits. The shields were nearly depleted. It appeared that the fighters knew, because they were becoming bolder. The Farrezzi pilots had also realized the Columbus had no weapons, as they crossed in front of the other shuttle.

  Spock activated the shuttle’s comm to contact Kologwe on the Columbus. “Lieutenant, prepare to match my course.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Spock looked at the scans of the cloud layer. There was a gap in the storm, being blocked by one of the Farrezzi ships. This was exactly what they needed. “Now.”

  As the Hofstadter began to climb toward the hovering fighter, Columbus slipped underneath it, bringing the shuttles as close as was safe. “Engage on three,” Spock ordered. “One. Two. Three.”

  Spock flicked off the Hofstadter’s shields. The gap in coverage was less than a second. Columbus’s shields extended out to cover the beleaguered shuttle. Spock turned the Hofstadter’s shield power back on, its power reinforcing the Columbus’s shields.

  The other two fighters came up from below, firing at the two shuttles, but their weapons had little effect on the combined power of both shuttles’ shields.

  The Vulcan returned his attention to the third fighter. It was still hovering in position, apparently unconcerned. Its pilot knew one shuttle did not have phaser power.

  “Fire,” Spock ordered. He activated the weapons system. A bright blue beam lit up the darkened sky, striking the Farrezzi fighter, which shuddered under the impact.

  He waited for a second phaser beam to join it from below, but nothing happened. Under Scott’s direction, Seven Deers had replaced the Columbus’s damaged emitter crystal with one from a phaser rifle. It should now be capable of firing. “Lieutenant?” Spock asked.

  “Something’s wrong, sir.” Kologwe’s voice evidenced a nearly imperceptible rise.

  As Scott began barking orders into his communicator, Spock glanced at the navigational plot. They were twenty-one seconds from reaching the hovering fighter, which showed no signs of damage.

  “Mister Jaeger,” said Spock as he considered their options, “it appears we have a situation which calls for your crossed fingers.”

  McCoy was at his wits’ end. Specialist Huber was yet another mystery. Would Huber also be experiencing pain like Haines’s, pain that didn’t go away? Would others be affected before long? Would he?

  The thought made his knees tremble. Death had never been an issue. Dying was an essential part of life.

  Since his father died, McCoy had feared pain. In the final weeks of his father’s illness the agony had overwhelmed the painkillers.

  “Doctor? What’s wrong?” Chapel asked.

  Glad for the interruption, McCoy looked her in the eyes. “Nothing, Christine, except that I’m getting older. I can’t see what’s in front of me.” Something was eluding him, a link between Huber’s state and everything else that was going on.

  “We need to get Huber�
�s brain to calm down. Right now, there are fireworks going off in there. I need a neural suppressant.”

  Chapel had the hypospray ready for him in the blink of an eye, and he injected it in Huber’s neck. The effect should have been instantaneous, but it took half a minute. It was as if every fiber of Huber’s body was fighting unconsciousness. Eventually, his thrashing ceased, and his breathing leveled out. McCoy glanced at the readings, which were returning to normal.

  “Well done, Doctor,” Chapel said.

  A small victory, but he was still glad about it. “Thank you.”

  Aware that work was waiting for him in his office, McCoy decided to leave Huber in Chapel’s capable hands. When he got there, the research was all still on his computer screen, but he checked on the medical computer first. Nothing yet. It concurred that there was a possible connection between the espers and the distortions, but it hadn’t figured out what the connection was.

  “Damn it all,” McCoy grumbled. “There’s too much uncertainty for my taste.”

  “Nice to see you recognize your limits. Makes a change.” McCoy didn’t look up. He could tell that Jocelyn was hovering over his shoulder, reading his reports, not that she’d understand them herself.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, annoyed.

  “You always thought you could do everything, heal every single one of your patients, but you can’t. While we were together, you’d always complain and moan about your inadequacy—or worse, aim your anger at me,” she said. “I’m not the problem—you just don’t know how to deal with stress.”

  “I know perfectly well how to deal with it,” McCoy replied pointedly, trying to tune her out as he sifted through the medical computer’s data. “This starship has seen worse, and so have I.”

  “Is that really true?” asked Jocelyn. “Is yelling at your wife really an effective way of dealing with stress?”

  “I don’t yell!” he snapped, looking up from his screen. There she was, her face drawn into a taut frown. Arguing about arguments. As absurd as it seemed, it was a fight they’d had one too many times. “If you wouldn’t stick your nose in when—”