by Dayton Ward
“Then it is fortunate that part of the system is compromised,” said Spock.
Canderon’s hands paused above his workstation, and he turned to regard the Vulcan. “Yes, it is most fortunate.”
“The happenstance will have more meaning if we are able to completely disable the protocol,” said Mestral. “Detonation in four minutes, forty seconds.”
“Are you always so precise in your measurements of time?” asked Canderon.
Mestral replied, “I endeavor to be accurate in all such measurements.”
Returning to his work, Canderon said, “Neither of you is a human, and I am unfamiliar with your species.”
“We are Vulcans,” replied Spock, “though in point of fact, I am half human. My mother is from this world.”
“How long have you been here?”
Mestral said, “I arrived here twenty-eight years ago. Like you, my ship crashed while my crew and I were surveying this world. I have been living in secret since then.”
“The rest of your crew died in the crash?” asked Canderon.
“Our captain perished, but three of us survived. Two were rescued after a short time, but I elected to remain behind.”
This made Canderon turn from his station. “You chose to stay here?”
“Yes. I wished to observe humans as they continue to advance both technologically and sociologically. So far, it has been a most interesting experience.”
Canderon seemed to appreciate this. “I have similar thoughts about the time we have spent here. We have observed many great strides in technological advancement, but also far too much that is not to be celebrated. War, poverty, social injustice—these are many of the same issues that have plagued the Iramahl, even without Ptaen influence or subjugation. I have often wondered how my people have carried on in the time since we made our escape.”
Spock exchanged glances with Mestral, who now was regarding him with a quizzical expression as though expecting him to contribute to the conversation. Before he could formulate a reply, an alert indicator sounded in the cockpit, and he pointed to his workstation. “I do not recognize this reading.”
His statement was punctuated by a series of flashes and sparks erupting from a wall-mounted workstation module. Smoke seeped from around its edges, and Canderon pushed himself from his seat to press a control at an adjacent station. In response to his action, Spock heard a powerful vacuuming sound from behind the bulkhead, and the smoke and small licks of flame emanating from the damaged console receded. He next heard a fan activating within the wall itself.
“At least the fire-suppression systems are still functional,” said the Iramahl. Turning, he moved to stand next to Spock and peered at the workstation monitor. “That overload was within a hub of our ship’s network of optical data pathways. In this case, it was the hub transferring information from the central core to the ship’s subordinate processes. The diagnostic routines have detected a fault in the optical data pathways leading to and from the hub, which is interfering with our ability to properly access the computer core and the data storage cells. I am unable to route the proper commands to the subprocessor overseeing the destruct protocol.”
“Can we access the subprocessor directly?” asked Mestral.
“No. Any attempt to do so in its current condition would be interpreted as a hostile penetration of the system and immediately trigger the protocol.
Spock said, “Then we must repair the pathways.”
“That would be an option if we had more time,” replied Canderon. “With the interval remaining to us, it will not be possible.”
His right eyebrow rising, Mestral asked, “You are saying the protocol cannot be avoided?”
His expression turning somber, the Iramahl shook his head. “I do not see how.”
“There is a way,” said Spock. “Abandon ship.”
After ensuring that Canderon and Mestral evacuated ahead of him, Spock emerged from the Iramahl craft and moved to the worktable. On the desktop computer’s monitor was a schematic of the ship, along with a clock he recognized as counting down the time until detonation, blinking with each passing second. Sitting on the monitor was Roberta Lincoln’s green cube, the interface for the Beta 5.
“Computer,” he said, “are you able to transport the craft from this location?”
“Affirmative, but doing so will trigger detonation upon arrival at its destination.”
Canderon asked, “Why did you not just do this before, when the protocol was activated?”
“We feared doing so would trigger detonation,” replied Spock. “From the beginning, we have been trying to preserve the craft.”
Mestral said, “That appears to be academic, at this juncture.”
“Agreed,” replied Spock. “Computer, scan the surface coordinates of the Atlantic Ocean corresponding to the Laurentian Abyss. Verify that there is no shipping traffic in the immediate vicinity.”
The Beta 5 said, “Scanning. No indications of shipping vessels at that location.”
“Lock onto the craft and transport it there immediately. Place the ship at a depth of one hundred meters below sea level.”
In response to his command, a high-pitched whine emitted as though from the air around them, and Spock looked up to see the first tendrils of a blue fog coalescing into existence around the Iramahl ship. Within seconds, the field had enveloped the craft, and Spock could feel its energy playing across his exposed skin. The whine of the transport beam escalated as the effect grew larger and more powerful, before the fog and the vessel it contained faded from the room.
“Computer,” Spock said, “report from the site of transport.”
On the desktop unit’s monitor, a monochrome map was drawn in rapid fashion, and Spock recognized a portion of the east coast of the United States dominating the image’s left side. The remainder of the screen was dominated by the ocean east of Nova Scotia. An icon near the boundary between land and ocean was blinking, with another, larger indicator flashing at a position in the water. The scale depicted in the map’s lower right corner indicated a distance of five hundred miles between the two points.
“Transport complete,” reported the Beta 5. “Detonation occurred at coordinates forty-four degrees, zero minutes north, fifty-six degrees, zero minutes west, and at a depth of one hundred meters.”
Despite custom and a life spent mastering his emotions, Spock permitted himself a small sigh of relief.
Looking at the empty space where his ship had sat mere moments earlier, Canderon said, “The technology needed to accomplish such a feat is astounding.” He turned toward Spock and Mestral. “We have been here so long, it seems our people have forgotten us, or perhaps they no longer have need for us.” The Iramahl offered a small smile as his gaze seemed to drift toward something in the distance that only he could see. “That actually would be satisfactory.” Holding out his arms, he regarded the Vulcans. “Perhaps this world was meant to be our home, after all.”
Spock replied, “On the contrary, your people still have great need of you. Where I come from, they have fought back against Ptaen oppression and are now a free people. However, they have never been able to replicate a response for the genetic condition the Iramahl continue to endure. You and your companions are their salvation, Canderon.”
The alien’s expression clouded with confusion. “Where you come from? I do not understand.”
Nodding, Spock replied, “Yes, I know. As it happens, it is a rather lengthy yet fascinating story.”
• • •
They were running out of options.
Crouching low and staying close to the side of the building, Drevina and Glorick used the darkness to mask their movements, watching and listening for signs of their pursuers, who seemed to multiply with each passing moment.
“Wait.” Glorick’s warning was almost inaudible, but Drevina did feel
his hand on her arm and she stopped, holding her breath and listening. The military helicopter that had been pursuing them had left the immediate area, but she could still hear its engine somewhere in the vicinity, likely closer to the water, where there were fewer obstacles to landing. Her weapon had inflicted some damage to the craft, but Drevina suspected it was not serious. It was more likely the helicopter had landed so that its occupants could continue their pursuit on the ground.
“We need to keep moving,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder at Glorick. He was standing with his back pressed against the building’s wall so that he could keep watch back the way they had come. The alley between this building and its neighbor at least prevented anyone from approaching from their flanks, but that did not rule out the possibility of them becoming trapped as pursuers blocked both ends of the passage. They could not remain here.
How many people were chasing them now, representing how many factions and interests? At least the Ptaen had a clear agenda, but Drevina could not be certain about any of the others. Even the humans, who had expressed an apparent desire to help her and the others, brought with them more questions than answers. How they had come into possession of the ship remained unexplained, as was their command of technology far beyond the capabilities she had observed from this society. The two males with the very much nonhuman ears were another mystery. Who were they? From where had they come to be here? Were they a potential ally to the Iramahl, or an enemy? They had not mistreated her and her companions, despite being on the defensive end of an assault on them.
What had the human male said, about having traveled a great distance to find them, and that he wanted to help her help her people? Did he somehow understand their plight, and the salvation she and her companions carried within them? How could he know? Despite the tense nature of the confrontation, a part of Drevina had felt compelled to believe and trust the human, but after all this time, was it still possible to find a true ally here?
Approaching the mouth of the alley, Drevina stopped, pressing herself against the wall and listening for signs of movement. Ahead of her was a thoroughfare, a road linking the numerous deserted buildings surrounding her. Other streets linked to this one, offering several avenues of possible escape, but only one mattered to her. From her vantage point, she could see the building housing their ship. From the outside, it looked as vacant as its neighbors, which Drevina now realized was by design. Its owners—whoever they were—had chosen ideal camouflage for their activities in this isolated, neglected area of an otherwise immense, thriving city. On foot, it would take her and Glorick several minutes to return to the building. Where was Canderon? Had he made his way back inside, and was he assisting the humans to disable the destruct protocol? How long until detonation? In the chaos of the pursuit, Drevina had lost track, but she knew that time had to be running short.
A flash between two buildings across the street caught her attention, and instinct made her squat closer to the ground and extend her weapon arm in that direction. Immediately recognizable was the report of the Ptaen weapon, but so too was the blue energy beam she saw piercing the darkness in response. The humans at the warehouse had wielded such weapons and now appeared to be engaging the hunters.
“Come,” she said, rising from her crouch and sprinting across the road. With Glorick following behind her, she remained in the shadows and avoided the pools of weak illumination offered by the security lamps. Ahead of her, she heard more weapons fire as well as indistinguishable shouts of warning. The building they approached was a square, three-story construct, situated at a point where two streets intersected. Like many of the other buildings, its interior was dark and its exterior had fallen to neglect, with wood covering many of its windows while others remained open to the elements.
From behind that building emerged a figure, lithe and muscled and wearing a formfitting dark garment. Its hair flowed freely around its head as it backpedaled, firing its weapon at a target Drevina could not see.
It was a Ptaen hunter.
• • •
The large green container on wheels carried a putrid smell, but Kirk ignored the offensive odors as it absorbed the brunt of the Ptaen’s weapon. Another energy pulse slammed into the container, rocking it on its wheels and nearly toppling Kirk to the cracked asphalt, and he saw the gash sliced along its metal flank as the energy pulse tore through it.
Hunkering next to him, Roberta Lincoln flinched as sparks and bits of hot metal peppered her. “Okay, I’m getting really tired of this. I do not want to get killed hiding behind a dumpster.”
They had almost walked into the Ptaen attack. Kirk, following the Iramahl life readings with his tricorder, had led Lincoln down a narrow passage between two dilapidated warehouses, straining to listen for the sounds of footsteps or other movement between the constant lapping of water against the nearby seawall. For a second time, the tricorder readings had become scrambled for a fleeting moment, which Kirk realized was some byproduct of whatever cloak or stealth field was employed by the Ptaen. The trouble with this revelation was that it was only helpful when they came within proximity to the seemingly invisible hunters.
As they just did.
Kirk looked for his tricorder, which he had dropped during the scramble for the dumpster. He could not see it within easy reach, and another round from the Ptaen energy weapon made him give up the search. Instead, he leaned around the dumpster—as Lincoln had called it—aiming his phaser at where he thought the shot had originated. He fired the weapon in a sweeping motion, hoping to catch one or more Ptaen with the beam, but he saw nothing.
These guys are good.
Another shot, from a different position, shattered the darkness and slammed into the dumpster, and this time Kirk did fall backward to the ground. Hearing footsteps to his left, he aimed his phaser while still lying on his side and fired, and this time he saw a figure skirting the circle of light provided by a lone lamp. Then another report crackled in the air, and the lamp’s bulb shattered, casting the area into greater darkness. There was some visibility thanks to the ambient light cast off by the surrounding city, but there were far too many shadows in which to hide.
“Stay down,” Lincoln snapped, using her free hand to hold him on the ground as she leveled her servo and fired once, then a second time. She then grumbled a rather vile Klingon oath under her breath before pushing herself to her feet. “Come on. We can’t stay here.”
“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” Kirk asked, rolling to a kneeling position before standing up.
“Ask me later.” She was studying their current position. To the west was another alley separating a pair of delapidated brick buildings. Any thoughts that there might not be any innocent civilians to catch in a crossfire vanished when he saw a trio of men, dressed in worn, soiled clothing, jump through an open first-floor window of the closer building before stumbling and running away.
“Homeless people,” said Lincoln. “Drifters, people down on their luck. I can’t believe we haven’t run into more of them.”
“Maybe they’re being smart and keeping their heads down.” Kirk gestured toward the alley. “That way?”
Lincoln nodded. “Beats staying here.”
As though agreeing with her, another salvo from a Ptaen weapon struck the wall behind her, prompting Kirk to grab her hand and dash for the alley, firing his phaser in a sweeping arc behind them as he moved. The tactic must have had at least some effect, because there were no more shots aimed at them before they reached the passage. The alley’s entrance was consumed by shadow, and Lincoln aimed her servo ahead of them as though searching for potential targets. They reached the darkness and Kirk pressed himself against the wall, debating the merits of running inside one of the buildings for cover. He decided against it, considering he did not know where the other two Ptaen were and not wanting to be trapped if the hunters tried to approach from multiple directions.
&n
bsp; “There,” Lincoln said, her voice low as she aimed her servo out of the alley and across the street to where Kirk now saw a figure darting toward the dumpster.
Then another bolt of energy from his right made him flinch as it drilled into the green metal container with enough force to push it several meters to one side. The Ptaen using it for cover scrambled out of sight, just before Kirk felt a hand on his shoulder. Whirling around phaser up, he found himself staring into the face of the Iramahl female. She held her hands away from her body, her weapon aimed in the air.
“Come with me.”
As they started to move deeper into the alley, Kirk heard something new. It was a whine, faint but growing louder. At first, he thought it was another aircraft, but his gut told him that could not be correct.
“That is a Ptaen ship,” said the Iramahl. “It is coming for us.”
Thirty
Rijal felt his irritation growing with each passing moment. The situation was evolving beyond his grasp. It was useless now to question how or why it had had happened. His only concern was to halt this descent toward chaos and reassert control. The humans who had involved themselves were not a concern. Bystanders were not an issue. Only the Iramahl mattered.
“The ship is on approach,” said Noceri, who carried the scanning unit. “It will be here momentarily.”
Even as he nodded in acknowledgment, Rijal could hear the soft whine of the scout craft’s engine growing ever louder as his apprentice used remote guidance to bring it there.
“Good,” he said, gesturing for Noceri to follow him. The humans and at least one of the Iramahl had chosen this darkened passage in their latest attempt to flee, but Rijal was beginning to understand the area’s topography. The water ahead limited the options for escape, as did a nearby collection of buildings. Upon exiting the passage at its far end, his quarry would have fewer options from which to choose. He had anticipated this maneuver.
