Star Trek: The Original Series: No Time Like the Past

by Greg Cox

  Less than a fraction of the original boarding parties had found refuge in the inhospitable cargo bay, and even fewer were still combat-worthy. Wounded raiders, too weak to aid in bolstering their defenses, huddled on the floor behind a wall of containers. A single medic, himself sporting a tourniquet on one arm, struggled to tend to a surfeit of injuries. Bandages and anesthetics were already in short supply. Painful cuts and burns elicited equal quantities of groans and curses from the casualties. An anguished gunner bit down on the ivory hilt of his dagger as the medic roughly reset a broken limb. The sound of splintered bones grinding against each other set Chotto’s pointed teeth on edge.

  Perdition! Chotto despaired. This was not how this raid was supposed to go. Captain Habroz had promised them easy pickings and rich rewards if only they captured the female from the future. Chotto and his fellow boarders had expected only feeble resistance from the oh-so-civilized Federation weaklings. Who knew these Starfleeters would put up such a fight?

  The last container was hauled into place. Plasma torches welded the front entrance of the cargo bay shut, buying them a bit more time. Chotto was a realist, however. He had no illusions that such impromptu fortifications would keep out the Starfleeters for long. He and his men were sorely in need of rescue and reinforcements.

  “Famrac?” he barked at a signalman. “Any word from the Navaar?”

  “Not a whisper, Mister Chotto.” Famrac fumbled with his wrist-communicator. His front teeth had been knocked out by the butt of a Starfleet phaser rifle. “I can’t get through to the ship. The damn humans are jamming the signal!”

  Turnabout is fair play, Chotto conceded grudgingly. Kirk’s crew members were fast learners, he’d give them that. “Keep trying!”

  He slumped against a looming cargo container. The ultratestosterone was wearing off; adrenaline and artificial stimulants could only keep one going for so long. Exhaustion and blood loss sapped his vitality. If the Starfleeters were to burst in right now, he wasn’t sure he still had the strength to fight them.

  The cold metal drum propped him up. The damn storage container didn’t even contain any useful arms, food, or medicine. Cracking one open, the men had been disappointed to find only several cartloads of self-sealing stem bolts. Nothing they could use to defend themselves.

  Unless they wanted to throw the worthless trash at their foes’ heads!

  “Orion boarding parties!” A stern voice blared from the ship’s intraship system. A pink face appeared on a large screen mounted over the space doors; Chotto guessed that it was usually employed for docking operations. “This is Captain Kirk, the commander of the ship you have failed to seize for your own.” The human captain, whose youthful face lacked any proper scars or piercings, also flashed onto smaller communications screens throughout the cargo bay, so that it felt as though he was surrounding them singlehandedly. “Listen to me carefully. Captain Habroz has abandoned you. The Navaar has activated its cloaking device and fled back to the Neutral Zone. Your first mate, K’Mara, is a captive aboard the O’Spakya, which has also abandoned this sector. Your fellow boarders are either dead or in custody. The battle is over. You’ve lost.”

  “Rubbish!” Famrac jeered. “He’s bluffing. The captain would never desert us.”

  Chotto knew better. Any good captain knew when to retreat to fight another day and that rank-and-file crewmen were expendable. Such were the fortunes of war and piracy. If the Navaar had truly departed, then Captain Habroz must have had sound reasons to do so.

  “I repeat,” Kirk said, “your attack on the ship is over. Our sister ship, the Bellingham, is prepared to transport you to the nearest Federation starbase, where you will face justice for your crimes. If you lay down your arms and offer no further resistance, I promise you a fair trial under Federation law.”

  “A plague on Federation law!” Famrac spat upon the deck; a piece of broken enamel clattered onto the floor. He looked to his superior for direction. “What now, Chotto? What do we tell that lying pus-rag?”

  Famrac wasn’t the only raider expecting answers from Chotto. Confused eyes, full of fury and frustration, turned to the reluctant leader, who wished wholeheartedly that Vaen hadn’t been fool enough to get himself blown up. Conscious of the men’s scrutiny, Chotto stopped leaning against the drum. He forced himself to stand up straight, like a commander should. His head swam dizzyingly. His broken arm ached like plasma fire.

  “No word from the Navaar?”

  Famrac shook his head. “Nay, sir. The jamming’s gone, but I can’t reach the ship. It’s as though she’s long gone.”

  Chotto feared that was the case. In his heart, he knew Kirk had spoken the truth. The campaign was lost, and the Navaar had sought out safer harbors. They had been left behind.

  Which left only one acceptable course of action.

  “What shall we do?” Famrac repeated.

  “Do?” Chotto sneered at the foolish gunner. Drawing his disruptor pistol with his good hand, he took aim at Kirk’s vile countenance. An emerald blast reduced the intrusive monitor to a smoking ruin. Blackened shards rained down onto the floor. If only, he thought, I could fry the real Kirk’s insipid human face so readily. Throwing out his chest, he roared loud enough to be heard all the way back to the Orion system. “We do as our pride and manhood demands. No surrender, not to the likes of these soft-bellied Starfleet scum!” He limped over to a control panel by the aft space door. Less than a meter of molded steel and ceramic plating separated him from the cold comfort of the void. “Are you with me?”

  To their credit, not a single man called out for him to stop. That alone, he judged, should earn them all coveted berths in a heavenly seraglio, ruled over by some irresistible green goddess. A savvy Orion techmaster already had hacked into the control panel. Chotto needed only to press a single button. It blinked upon the panel like a winking temptress from beyond this mortal realm.

  “Do it, Mister Chotto,” Famrac urged him. “We’re ready!”

  The other men shouted their assent. “No surrender!”

  His finger jabbed the button.

  The enormous space door slid open. A tremendous gale filled the cargo bay as its contents, living or otherwise, was swept out into space. Massive steel drums barreled past Chotto as his failing body escaped the starship and Kirk’s insulting offer of mercy. A defiant scream gushed from his lungs along with his last breath. Closing his eyes, he saw only an eternity of sultry jade eyes and olive flesh.

  The icy blackness froze his hot blood.

  Thirty-two

  “Keptin!” Chekov said. “The Orions . . . they’ve opened the space door.” Shock reduced his voice to a hush. “They were sucked into space!”

  “My God,” McCoy exclaimed, appalled. “They didn’t have to do that. You offered them a chance to surrender.”

  “It was their choice, Bones.” Kirk regretted the raiders’ mass suicide, and he would have prevented it if he could, but he wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Good people already had paid the ultimate price for the pirates’ greed and brutality. He wondered if Habroz would mourn his men.

  Probably not.

  “An unfortunate, but sadly predictable, outcome,” Spock said. “You will recall that the Orions who attempted to disrupt the Federation conference on Babel also chose self-destruction over surrender.”

  Kirk remembered the incident well. “As did the sleeper agent they had planted among the delegates.”

  “Speaking of which,” Scotty said, “in all the tumult, there’s been nary a minute to bring this up, but I’m afraid I have distressing news for you, Commissioner.” He looked mournfully at Santiago. “Seems your man, Hague, was workin’ with the Orions.”

  Santiago stared at him in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “He was an Orion spy, plottin’ against us,” Scotty revealed. He quickly briefed Kirk and the others on what sounded like a tense encounter in the ship’s cargo transport facility. “Last I saw him, before Kyle and I managed to beam
me directly from the cargo transporter to the main transporter room one step ahead of some unruly Orions, that wolf in sheep’s clothing was sleeping off a stun blast on the deck of the cargo bay. I immediately alerted security to his true allegiances, so I imagine he’s already in custody, assuming a confused Orion didn’t dispose of him for us.”

  Kirk was stunned by the news, which had escaped his notice while he’d been dealing with the Navaar. The possibility that Hague might be the mole had never even crossed his mind, although Kirk was relieved to discover that the traitor had not been among the ranks of his crew. He could only imagine how Santiago felt at having his trusted aide betray him.

  “Cyril . . . a spy?” Santiago was obviously shaken by the revelation. He dropped into a vacant seat beside Scott. “I don’t understand. Cyril’s been my right-hand man for years now. I trusted him without reservation. How could I have not seen who he really was?”

  “Trust me,” Kirk assured him, “you’re not the first person to be taken in by a clever spy operating under an assumed identity. We ran into a similar situation during the Babel Conference, as I said, and again on Deep Space Station K-Seven.” In both instances, Kirk recalled, the sleeper agent had been surgically altered to disguise his true origins; he imagined something similar had been done to Hague. “Never underestimate the length a determined adversary will go to infiltrate the opposition.”

  Like being surgically transformed into a Romulan to steal a cloaking device, come to think of it . . .

  Spock consulted the ship’s computer. “I can confirm that Mister Hague is currently occupying our brig,” he reported. “I recommend that he be placed under suicide watch, given the Orions’ unfortunate predilection for self-destruction.”

  “Good idea, Mister Spock. See that it’s done,” Kirk instructed. The Orion spy during the Babel conference had taken poison prior to being exposed; Kirk didn’t want a repeat of that scenario. “There’s been enough lives lost over this affair.”

  Santiago gasped as the extent of Hague’s treachery sank in. “I told him all about Seven . . . where she came from, how valuable she was.” Guilt transfigured his ashen features. “This is all my fault.”

  Kirk went easy on him. “Hague was the traitor, not you. Don’t ever forget that.” His face hardened. “He was the one who brought down the Orions on us, both on Yusub and later on, and who got Seven and the others killed.”

  “That poor, brave lass,” Scotty said. “She deserved better.”

  “Yes,” Kirk agreed. “She did.”

  • • •

  Hours later, Kirk felt himself winding down. Dealing with the aftermath of the battle and the invasion had been almost more exhausting than the fight itself, and without the adrenaline rush to keep him on his toes. He fought back a yawn. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d only managed to grab a bite or two on the run. Briefings with damage control units had consumed his day, although he had found time to pay his respects to Captain Greer and drop in on the wounded crew members in sickbay, including Lieutenants Pierce and Robbins, who, according to Scotty, had been instrumental in getting him and Seven safely to the cargo bay. To Kirk’s relief, the casualties had proven lighter than expected, which he chalked up to first-rate Starfleet training and discipline. He intended to recommend a full round of commendations for the crew serving under his command. They had certainly earned their stripes this time around.

  And then some.

  Still, it had been a long day. By the time Kirk finally found himself wandering down the corridors of the ship’s executive quarters, it was well into the graveyard shift.

  Appropriate, he thought.

  He nodded at diligent technicians working to patch up the ship’s war wounds. It was tempting to turn in for the night, maybe catch a few extra z’s before starting up again, but he had one last call to make. Arriving at the door to Scotty’s personal quarters, he buzzed to be let in. The engineer’s distinctive burr emerged from the intercom.

  “That you, Captain?”

  “More or less,” Kirk said. “Am I too late for the wake?”

  “Nae, sir.” The door slid open and Scotty beckoned him inside. “We’re just gettin’ warmed up. Make yourself at home.”

  Kirk entered the engineer’s chambers. An antique bagpipe, hanging on a peg, personalized the suite, as did the tartan kilt mounted on one wall. A well-stocked bar made it clear that he had come to the right place. Mounds of data slates, no doubt loaded with technical journals and engineering reports, were piled haphazardly atop a desk, threatening to topple over at any minute. An open bottle of Scotch, a pot of tea, a couple of glasses, and a tray of sandwiches occupied a small coffee table. Despite the lateness of the hour, Scotty was not alone. Seated around the table were Spock, McCoy . . . and Annika Seven.

  “Good evening,” he greeted her. “You’re looking remarkably hale for a dead woman.”

  “I have Mister Scott to thank for that,” Seven stated. “As planned, he successfully locked onto my combadge and beamed me off the Galileo II an instant before the Navaar reactivated her deflectors, and after I had already rigged the shuttle to self-destruct.”

  Scotty admired the shiny Starfleet insignia pinned to her chest. “Who would have thought that badge of hers is actually a working communicator, with a stronger signal than our own handheld models? I don’t mind saying, I’d like to get a pick at its innards.”

  “Perhaps in due time, Scotty, the future allowing.” Kirk sat down at the table. “I’m just glad to see it all worked out.” Although he had been privy to Seven’s plan all along, he’d known that the split-second timing involved was going to be tricky. When the shuttlecraft had exploded inside the marauder, a part of him had worried as to whether Seven had truly escaped their high-tech Trojan horse in time. “So you’ve been hiding out here all this time?”

  “Mister Scott beamed me directly to his quarters, despite the significant risks and challenges involved,” she replied. “I am grateful for his accuracy, as well as his hospitality. We judged that my own guest quarters on the Enterprise might pose a temptation to the Orion boarding parties still at large aboard the ship.” She helped herself to a finger sandwich. “I regret that we must let the rest of your crew believe that I perished aboard the shuttle, but it is safer that way. Habroz may not be the only hostile party who would consider me a valuable prize.”

  Kirk had to agree. “The galaxy is a safer place with you dead, no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Dark circles under her eyes, as well as a slight-but-perceptible tremor in her hands, suggested that she was badly in need of some artificial rest. Kirk wondered if Spock could rig up an ad hoc “regeneration” apparatus in Scotty’s quarters or if it would be easier to smuggle her back into sickbay and keep her in isolation from the other patients. One way or another, he was determined to do what he could to preserve her health until they reached the Beta Niobe system—and found the final component of the time-travel device.

  A buzz at the door interrupted his musings.

  Puzzled, Kirk looked at Scotty. “You invite somebody else to this party?”

  “No, Captain. Nary a soul, aside from those already in the know.”

  Kirk approached the door, on guard and apprehensive. Chances were, it was just a member of the engineering crew coming to seek Scotty’s advice on some particularly thorny technical issue, but after all they’d gone through, he wasn’t taking any chances. How could they be sure Hague was the only Orion spy aboard?

  He hit the intercom. “State your business.”

  “Good evening, Captain,” Commissioner Santiago addressed him from the other side of the door. “I trust Seven is well.”

  Kirk was taken aback. He opened the door to admit the diplomat. “How did you—?”

  “Come now, Kirk, I’m not completely guileless, despite the way my Judas of an aide played me for a fool. I suspected a ruse early on.” He strode over to the table where the others were gathered. “As I mentioned befo
re, I know your reputation, Kirk, and you usually have a trick up your sleeve . . . and Seven doesn’t exactly strike me as the suicidal type.”

  “Survival is preferable,” she conceded, “in most instances.” Despite her obvious fatigue, she rose to her feet to confront Santiago. “And do you intend to expose our deception? Perhaps in hopes of turning me over to the Federation for interrogation?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, I’ve learned my lesson. You were right all along. You and your inside knowledge of the future are too dangerous, not just to the time line, but to peace in our time as well. You’re a destabilizing element and incentive to violence. It’s better that that the galaxy thinks you’re gone.”

  “I was just saying the same thing,” Kirk said. “Glad to hear we’re all on the same page now.”

  Despite the commissioner’s change of heart, Kirk suspected that they could not keep Seven’s continued survival a secret indefinitely. All the more reason to get her as quickly and discreetly as possible to the Beta Niobe system.

  And to a planet that no longer existed.

  Thirty-three

  “Approaching shock wave, Keptin,” Chekov reported. “Impact in approximately one minute.”

  Two years after Beta Niobe’s explosive demise, a bubble of super-heated plasma was still expanding through space at about one-tenth light speed. At this point, the wave front was diffused enough that Kirk wasn’t anticipating any serious hazards. They had already passed through similar waves of gamma radiation and high-energy particles expelled by the supernova, but Kirk didn’t feel like taking any chances, especially after the battering the Enterprise had taken lately. “Shields on high, Mister Chekov.”

  “Aye, sir.”