by Greg Cox
Finally, just when he was starting to feel like the Loch Ness Monster, whose deep-water breeding grounds had been discovered late in the twenty-first century, the sound of marching boots charging away from the pool penetrated its depths. Noisy echoes receded into the distance before fading away entirely.
Had the Orions finally moved on?
Scotty counted to a hundred, just to be safe, before signaling Seven to scan the area above with her tricorder. A waterproof casing protected the sturdy instrument from contamination as she probed for life-forms. She reviewed the readouts before gesturing that it was safe to get out of the water. Phaser in hand, Robbins insisted on confirming the results with her own eyes. She handed Scotty the rebreather and peeked above the surface, keeping low in the water like a crocodile on the prowl. A thumbs-up signal gave Scotty and Seven the go-ahead. Robbins extended her hand to help them out of the pool.
Despite her assurances, Scotty searched the shifting shadows, half-expecting a lurking Orion to lunge from hiding. But there was no trace of the raiders, who must have gone in search of greener pastures, no pun intended. Scotty wondered briefly how the bridge and engineering were faring before focusing again on his own mission.
First things first, he thought.
His uniform was drenched; his boots sloshed as he walked. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. Seven and Robbins were equally soaked. Seven removed her backpack long enough to briskly strip off her soggy suit to reveal a skintight blue outfit complete with a metallic Starfleet emblem pinned to her chest. Robbins placed the rebreather back in the pocket of her flak jacket.
“Good thing ye had that on ye, lassie,” Scotty said. “Or we would’ve had to choose between drownin’ and throwin’ ourselves on the mercy of those barkin’ ruffians.”
“Just good tactics.” Robbins patted her well-supplied jackets. “Always be prepared.” She winked at Scotty. “Remind me to tell you about the time I had to evac some kidnapped Za’Huli scientists from an undersea terrorist base on Ricou Four.”
“It’s a date,” Scott promised. “But first we need to dry off.”
Time was running out, but their water-logged uniforms were just going to slow them down, not to mention leave a trail of puddles behind them. Scotty crossed the floor to the nearest high-speed drying booth. He stepped into the humanoid-size alcove, which was built into the side of the wall. A toasty red glow dried him out to a passable degree. His hair and socks were still a wee damp, but he no longer felt as though he’d just swum across the Firth of Forth.
“That’s more like it,” he declared, emerging from the booth. He wrung a few stubborn drops of moisture from his sleeve, even as Seven and Robbins followed his lead. Within minutes, the trio was ready to resume their interrupted dash for the transporters. Exiting through the men’s locker rooms this time, they crept steadily toward the gym and the hall. A fallen door, blasted off its track by enemy disruptors, lay on the floor before a breached doorway. “Here’s hoping the lot of them moved on a few decks. . . .”
No such luck.
Robbins cautiously poked the muzzle of her rifle out the door. An emerald beam nearly zapped it out of her hands. She darted back inside. Phaser fire from farther down the corridor greeted the Orions’ blast. The ensign shook her head. “It’s still a battle zone out there. There’s no way we’re going to get to the transporters that way.”
“What about the Jefferies tubes,” Seven suggested, referring to the network of service tunnels crisscrossing the ship. The narrow crawlways ran above, below, and between the various decks and bulkheads.
“No,” Scotty said. “The tubes are automatically sealed off if a ship is overrun by hostiles, to prevent access to vital areas. Like the transporters, say.”
“A sensible, if inconvenient, precaution,” Seven acknowledged, “which I had hoped had not yet been instituted in your era.” She contemplated her left hand, which was graced by a sophisticated exoskeleton. Despite her aloof manner and expression, you could practically see the wheels turning beneath her bonny blond locks. “It may be, however, that I can remedy this situation.”
Scotty heard the melee outside growing nearer. “I’m not sure you’ll get the chance.” He glanced back toward the pool, hoping they wouldn’t have to take refuge beneath the water again. That ploy may have worked once, but they could hardly spend the rest of the invasion hiding in the pool; that wasn’t going to get Seven where she needed to be. “Sounds like we’re about to have some more company.”
“Leave that to me,” Robbins said. Hefting her rifle, she raced out the door and opened fire on the approaching Orions. She was out in the open before Scotty even realized what she was up to. “Heads up, greenies!” She fired another beam and took off down the hall. “Tag, you’re it!”
She is luring them away, he grasped, to give us a chance to get into the tubes.
It was too late to stop her. Scotty and Seven could only hide alongside the open doorway as a mob of shouting raiders stampeded past the gym, hot on Robbins’s trail. Scotty held his breath and prayed that the intrepid young ensign was as fast as she looked and could link up with the Starfleet forces before the Orions caught up with her. The pirates didn’t sound like they were in the mood to take prisoners.
“Godspeed, lassie,” he whispered. “And thank ye.”
He was not about to let her daring go to waste. “Come with me, Doctor Seven.”
She waved away the honorific. “ ‘Seven’ will suffice, Mister Scott.”
“If ye say so.”
That this remarkable lass was from the future had not escaped his memory. He wondered what time and place she came from and how much she truly knew about the shape of things to come. Part of him still wanted to pry a few hints about the future of starship engineering out of her, perhaps over a bottle or two, but he knew the captain wouldn’t approve of it, what with the bloody “Temporal Prime Directive” and all.
Instead Scotty focused on the task ahead: getting into the Jefferies tubes. The nearest access panel was in the ceiling, directly above the climbing wall. An unobtrusive metal ladder, mounted to an adjacent wall, offered an easier route up, but it wobbled in an unsettling fashion when he took hold of it. He figured that it had been shaken loose when the ship had been fired on earlier. No doubt the Enterprise was going to require a thorough inspection, and plenty of repairs and maintenance, when they got out of the Neutral Zone.
He let go of the unstable ladder. A weary sigh escaped him; things were not exactly going their way. Craning his head back, he gazed up at the daunting face of the mock-granite climbing wall, which stretched several meters above their heads. Its rugged face was constructed of pliable pseudo-concrete that could be adjusted to various levels of difficulty. He glanced over at Seven. “Ye up for a climb?”
“I can adapt,” she informed him, although she looked as though she’d just come off a five-day bender at Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. Swaying slightly, she approached the wall. “After you, Commander.”
“Call me Scotty.”
More intent on speed than exercise, he dialed the wall’s difficulty level down to beginner’s level. Its rough, uneven surface reconfigured itself. New holds, more generously distributed, bulged outward, while deepened hollows offered more purchase for their fingers and feet. It still looked like a strenuous climb, fit for Starfleet personnel, but he saw no need to make it harder than it had to be. Their mission was tricky enough as is.
Centimeter by centimeter, hold by hold, he scaled the wall. Don’t look down, he thought as, huffing and puffing, he left the floor of the gym behind. In theory, an emergency anti-grav field would catch him if he fell from too high up, but he didn’t feel like testing the safety protocols at the moment. Just his luck, the anti-grav plates had been knocked out by the Navaar’s attack.
His left boot, which was still a bit wet from the pool, slipped off an annoyingly small bulge in the wall. Gravity ambushed him and he found himself dangling precariously over a deck above the mat-covered
floor. Only five remaining fingers held him in place, so that his arm felt as though it was being tugged from its socket as his hanging feet searched for purchase. The foothold he’d been using before seemed to have vanished. He grunted through gritted teeth. His fingers ached horrendously. He couldn’t hold on much longer. . . .
“To your left,” Seven advised him from below. If he fell, he would surely hit her on the way down, which may have contributed to the emphasis with which she delivered her instructions. “At approximately seven o’clock.”
Doing his best to stay cool and listen to her directions, he swung to the left. At first he couldn’t find the promised foothold, but then . . . eureka! Gasping in relief, he planted his slippery boot squarely on a narrow outcropping, barely more than four centimeters across. The bulge supported his weight, taking the pressure off his fingers. Exhausted, he sagged against the pebbly surface of the wall, catching his breath. Sweat dripped down his face.
“Are you secure, Mister Scott?” Seven inquired.
“Aye.” He wiped his brow with his free hand. It struck him that they were in an unenviably vulnerable position should the Orions happen upon them again. Short of flying, there was no way they could avoid being blasted off the wall. That dismal prospect was all the motivation he needed to get to the access panel as soon as possible. Taking a deep breath, he started climbing again. “Don’t ye worry about me.”
A few grueling moments later, they reached the access panel in the ceiling. He attempted to open it, but, as feared, it was sealed shut for security reasons. Not even the override code worked; it was locked up tighter than a Quefian pilgrim’s chastity belt.
He made the mistake of glancing down at Seven, who was clinging to the wall about half a meter below, and caught a glimpse of the vertiginous drop awaiting them if they lost their grip. He gulped and turned his attention back to the stubborn access panel.
“I don’t suppose you have a crowbar on ye, or maybe a plasma torch?” He fingered the phaser pistol on his belt. He hated the idea of vandalizing his own ship, but he supposed he could melt a hole through the hatchway eventually. Scraped knuckles rapped the unyielding metal, producing a hollow sound. He set his phaser on full power. “Excuse me while I make some more work for my repair crews.”
“That might not be necessary,” Seven said. “Permit me.”
Climbing higher, she squeezed past him to lay her augmented left hand on the uncooperative locking mechanism. He gaped in surprise as flexible steel tubules extended from her exoskeleton to penetrate the mechanism and interface directly with the circuitry beneath. The lock hummed softly, as though cycling through multiple settings, until Scotty heard a distinctive click on the other side of the hatch. He tested the doorway, and it slid open manually with only a little pressure.
“Well, I’ll be a mugato’s uncle,” he exclaimed. “How the devil did ye do that?”
“As I said earlier, I can adapt.”
“A handy talent,” he marveled, wishing he had the specs for her various implants and attachments. He suspected that the gewgaws on her face were more than decorative as well. “Ye could have a whole new career as a safecracker.”
“Not one of my aspirations,” she said, “but I will take it under advisement.” She nodded at the now-open hatchway. “Shall we proceed?”
“Absolutely!”
Twenty-six
They wasted no time climbing into the Jefferies tube, which stretched diagonally toward the decks above. The service tunnel was so narrow that they had to crawl forward on their hands and knees, keeping their heads down to avoid banging them on the low ceiling. Thankfully, claustrophobia was not among Scotty’s weaknesses; one could hardly be a ship’s engineer unless you were comfortable squeezing into tight spaces. Cables and conduits, color-coded by function, lined the curved walls of the tube, which lacked the glossy sheen of the other walls. These crawlways weren’t supposed to be pretty, just convenient. Track lighting provided enough illumination to see by. Blinking subprocessors guided their way. Cables hummed in their ears. Scotty spotted some burnt-out circuitry that would need to be replaced later, fortune willing. Redundant backup systems kept things running, more or less. Warning labels identified potential hazards. Sparks drizzled down from a severed conduit.
“Watch yourself,” Scotty advised, his voice echoing off the tunnel walls. “Seems we’re not exactly shipshape.”
“Duly noted,” Seven said, somewhat irritably.
Single file, with Scotty in the lead, they headed in what he judged to be the right direction. Blueprints and schematics scrolled before his mind’s eye as he navigated the tubes. Numbered panels and directional signs made his task easier. They had only gone about ten meters, however, before their progress was blocked by a sturdy steel barrier, supplemented by a charged energy field. For the first time ever, Scotty found himself annoyed by the thoroughness of the ship’s security measures. Unlike that clueless Orion earlier, he knew better than to touch the crackling field. His much-abused fingers didn’t need a painful zap.
One again, his command codes proved ineffective.
Figures, he thought. When it rains, it pours.
He scooted to one side to give Seven access to the port. “If ye don’t mind . . .”
Her cybernetic extensions once again came to their rescue, picking the lock with alarming ease. Prying open the panel, Scotty allowed himself a smidgen of hope. Maybe this hare-brained scheme was going to work after all. Certainly they were overdue for a lucky break or two.
Ultimately, Seven had to override at least five security seals on their way to the cargo transporters. They crept through the tubes as quietly as Lermossian voles, keeping chatter to a minimum and their voices low to avoid being detected by the raiders overrunning the ship. More than once, they heard the Orions rushing through the decks above and below them. At such times, Scotty held his breath and froze until the pirates moved on. The keening of energy blasts and the cries of the wounded made it clear that the battle for control of the Enterprise was far from over. Scotty wished the ship’s defenders luck, taking pride in the fact that his valiant crewmates weren’t making it easy for the invaders. Even still, it seemed like forever before he and Seven got where they were going. His knees, back, and neck ached from crawling through the cramped tunnels. He couldn’t wait to stretch his legs again.
Seven was breathing hard, too.
“End of the line.” He halted before a sealed hatchway in the floor of the tube, then paused to double-check his bearings. “By my reckonin’, we ought to be right on top of the cargo transporters.” He pressed his ear to the hatch door, praying that he wouldn’t hear any inconvenient Orions below. After all their obstacles and detours, the last thing he wanted to discover was that the raiders had already captured the cargo bay. “Sounds clear to me, but I wouldn’t want to stake my life on it.”
Seven employed her tricorder. “I am detecting a solitary life-form.” She gave Scotty a reassuring nod. “Human.”
Saints be praised, Scotty thought. Just the same, he slid the panel open only a hair at first and peered down furtively into what was indeed the main cargo transporter complex. Twin platforms, each large enough to accommodate a standard Starfleet cargo module, were operated from a central control room. Three humanoid-sized transporter pads were installed on each platform for use by personnel overseeing the transport of sensitive items. Scott was pleased to see that the complex appeared undamaged by the commotion elsewhere on the ship. In theory, he could use the personnel transporters to attempt to beam Seven directly to the shuttlebay, although that was going to be a tricky business to be sure. One miscalculation, and she could easily end up beamed into a bulkhead instead!
As Seven had foretold, a single humanoid figure could be seen pacing restlessly between the platforms, his phaser pistol raised and ready. His gaze fixed on the entrance to the facility, the man failed to notice Scotty peering down at him from above. A dark business suit, as opposed to a Starfleet uniform, instantly pegged h
im as Commissioner Santiago’s aide. What was his name again?
Hague, Scotty recalled. Cyril Hague.
“Ye were right,” he said, grinning at Seven. “He’s one of ours.”
Convinced that their luck was finally turning, Scotty tried to slide the panel all the way open. Warped metal resisted his efforts. “Bloody thing’s stuck,” he grumbled. Putting his full weight into it, he gave the stubborn panel a hefty shove, and the whole hatch came loose beneath him. He tumbled headfirst through the opening. “Oh, hell . . .”
He landed on his rump in the middle of the central control room. His clumsy entrance did not go unnoticed by Hague, who spun toward the thudding noise. Scotty found himself staring into the muzzle of the man’s phaser. Wincing, he threw up his hands before the startled diplomat did something rash.
“At ease, lad! It’s just me.”
Hague blinked in surprise. He stepped toward the fallen engineer. “Mister Scott?”
“In the bruised flesh, lad.” Scotty clambered to his feet, his posterior still smarting from his crash landing. The treacherous hatch rested on the floor less than a meter away. Lowering his hands, he greeted Hague. “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, I must say. Holding down the fort, are ye? Good man.”
Truth to tell, he suspected that the civilian aide merely had been hiding in the cargo bay, but he chose to give the man the benefit of the doubt as well as a chance to save face. He noted that Hague had yet to lower his weapon, while Scotty’s own phaser was still hitched to his belt. “Er, ye mind pointin’ that phaser elsewhere, lad?”
Hague smirked. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mister Scott.”
Without warning, he squeezed the finger of the trigger. A scarlet bolt shot from the weapon at short range, striking Scotty’s phaser. The engineer yelped in surprise as he felt a sudden burning sensation against his hip. The phaser turned red-hot for an instant, then dissolved into atoms.
