by Greg Cox
The frenzied crowd hammered on the hull of the flyer, trying to smash their way in. A metal trash bin was hurled at the tinted cockpit window, causing spidery cracks to spread across the transparent material. Bricks, rocks, and naked fists banged against the closed hatch, the ferocious blows reverberating inside the besieged flyer. Kirk felt like they were being buffeted by photon torpedoes.
“Maybe we should get a move on,” he suggested.
“Allow me a moment to disable the tracking system,” Vlisora said, flinching as a flung vase shattered against the windshield. She hurriedly fiddled with the controls. “So that the Crusade cannot remotely shut off our engines again!”
Probably a good idea, Kirk acknowledged. Provided that the determined mob were willing to grant her that moment. Their bellicose shouts penetrated the abused hull of the flyer.
“Seize the infidels! The God-King demands it!”
The dashboard controls went dark, then reignited.
“Done!” Vlisora declared. Antigrav engines keened to life as the flyer began to lift off from the curb. “Hang on!”
The crowd threw themselves on top of the flyer to weigh it down. Their fingers scrabbled for purchase on the dented hull. They climbed over each other, kicking and scratching, to get onto the flyer.
“I gather,” Spock observed calmly, “that ordinary citizens such as these are not equipped with the gravity weapons employed by the Crusaders?”
“That is correct,” Vlisora confirmed. “Such arms are granted only to the priesthood and the military, which are now one and the same.”
The flyer sagged briefly under the weight of its unwanted passengers, but Vlisora revved up the engines and the flyer angled up from the street. Unlucky Ialatl slid off the hull, falling to the pavement below. One determined member of the lynch mob hung on to the roof with wild-eyed persistence, but Vlisora banked sharply to the right, throwing him off the flyer. He called out to his ancestors as he fell.
“That antigrav safety net you mentioned before,” Kirk said. “Is it in effect even in a neighborhood like this?”
“I’m not sure,” she confessed.
Kirk looked down, but the flyer was rising too fast. They had already left the unsavory area behind.
Troubled, he turned his gaze ahead. Their ultimate destination, the huge floating pyramid, loomed in the distance, hovering over the city like an immense mirage.
“Straight ahead,” he told her. They couldn’t take the chance of being apprehended before they shut down the rift.
Next stop, the portal.
ELEVEN
Captain’s Log. Stardate 6013.0. Lieutenant Uhura reporting.
I remain in temporary command of the Enterprise. We’ve had no word from Captain Kirk and the landing party for hours now, and Mister Scott is still incapacitated. My concern for our missing captain and crewmates grows, even as our own situation has taken a new turn for the worse. . . .
Back in the days before artificial gravity, Earth astronauts returning from extended tours of duty in space often had trouble adjusting to standard gravity again. Uhura now knew how they felt. She could have sworn she had gained over fifty kilograms during the last few hours. Just sitting was exhausting.
“We’re not imagining it,” Charlene Masters reported. Her battered engineering station wasn’t pretty, but it was up and running again. “The environmental gravity on all levels is steadily increasing. We’re currently at two hundred percent standard gravity . . . and rising.”
“No wonder I feel so heavy,” Chekov said. “It’s like I’ve got a mugato sitting on my shoulders.”
“You’re not alone,” Uhura said, hoping that was the right thing to say. “We’re all feeling it.”
Sokis was trying a more subtle approach, she realized. Instead of threatening to crash the Enterprise, he intended to wear them down by gradually increasing the gravity aboard the ship.
“This is a siege tactic,” she explained. “Sokis is trying to break down our resistance.”
“Like the Muunian sand torture,” Chekov said, getting the idea. “Slow, but effective.”
“Let’s hope not.” She turned toward Masters. “What about our own artificial gravity systems? Can you compensate?”
“Already on it,” Masters said, “but I’m afraid that I’m fighting a losing battle. They’re raising our gravity faster than I can lower it.” She shook her head. “They’ve got the technological edge here. It’s like I’m trying to outrace a warp-capable starship on impulse.”
Uhura trusted that Masters was doing her best. “Understood.”
The intercom whistled for attention. Palmer took the call.
“It’s sickbay,” she reported. “Doctor McCoy.”
Uhura braced herself for more bad news. “Pipe him through.”
The doctor’s raspy voice issued from the speakers:
“McCoy here. What’s wrong with the blasted gravity?”
He sounded even more cantankerous than usual. Uhura guessed that the extra gravity had not improved his temper any.
“Just our friends on the planet making life a little more uncomfortable for us.” She quickly explained the situation to the doctor. I probably need to address the entire crew at the first opportunity, she decided. Inform them of the nature of the problem . . . without making the situation sound too hopeless.
It was a tricky balancing act. She marveled at how often Captain Kirk must have walked the same tightrope.
“Well, can’t you do anything about it?” McCoy groused. “The strain is taking a toll on my patients, especially Scotty.”
She remembered the engineer’s burnt and blasted body being carried off the bridge. “How is he, Doctor?”
“Not good,” he said bluntly. “He came through surgery well enough, no thanks to that roller-coaster ride we took, but he’s still in a coma. He needs a chance to heal, but this extra gravity is putting even more strain on his body. He needs some relief . . . or we could lose him.”
The weight on Uhura felt even heavier than before.
“I understand, Doctor. Uhura out.”
She shut off the transmission and consulted Masters again. “About the gravity . . . prioritize sickbay as much as feasible. Forget the rec rooms and gym and personal quarters. Try to normalize the gravity on only the most crucial decks, including the medical facilities.”
To be honest, she wasn’t sure how much flexibility the shipboard gravity system allowed, but at least she could give engineering some general priorities. The rest was up to them.
“Gravity triage,” Masters said, nodding. “I’ll do what I can, sir, for as long as I can.” A weary sigh escaped her lips. “I won’t lie to you, though. I really wish Mister Scott could lend us a hand right now.”
Don’t we all, Uhura thought, but kept it to herself. She knew she had to keep up a brave front, despite the growing weight, both real and figurative, trying to beat her down. She lifted her chin and gazed at the stationary planet on the viewer. Her voice summoned up all the strength and authority it could muster.
“I’m worried about Scotty, too,” she admitted, “but I know you can handle it, Charlene. Just stay focused on the big picture.” It was clear by now that more than the ship or the landing party was in danger. “We can’t allow the Crusade to escape Ephrata IV and menace the rest of the Federation with their gravity cannons.”
Nobody disagreed. She knew the entire bridge crew had families and loved ones scattered across the quadrant.
“I hate to say it,” Chekov said, “but maybe we need to start planning for some worst-case scenarios.” He paused briefly before finding the nerve to continue. “Perhaps even General Order Twenty-four?”
The suggestion provoked gasps around the bridge. Everyone knew what Chekov was proposing: using every weapon at their disposal, from the ship’s phasers to photon torpedoes, to “sterilize” the planet below, eliminating the threat completely.
Just like a Russian to expect the worst, Uhura thought, then dismissed t
he thought as unworthy of her. Truth to tell, the same ghastly option had already occurred to her.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said.
Especially since they still didn’t know what had become of Captain Kirk and the rest of the landing party. She hated being cut off from both the captain and Starfleet. The lack of communication was maddening.
But there was still one possible source of information available to her.
“The prisoner,” she stated. “Bring him back to the bridge. Under heavy guard.”
Palmer looked at her in surprise. “Sir?”
“You heard me,” Uhura said. “I think it’s past time I had a talk with our uninvited visitor.”
“Yes, sir,” Palmer said.
Ideally, she would conduct the interview in the brig, but Uhura wasn’t about to leave the bridge at a time like this. Besides, why should she have to hike all the way down to the brig in this gravity?
Maxah would have to come to her.
“Lieutenant Masters, do you still have the intruder’s weapon?”
“Yes, sir.” She retrieved the polished black baton from a force-shielded compartment under her console. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to examine it yet.”
Well, it’s not like we haven’t been busy, Uhura thought. “Hang on to it, but keep it out of sight.”
The last thing they needed was the prisoner somehow getting hold of his weapon again, but maybe there was a way to turn the Crusaders’ technology against them?
She could only hope.
“Gravity at two hundred fifteen percent,” Masters reported. “And rising.”
Despite the oppressive weight, security made good time escorting their prisoner to the bridge. Within minutes, the tall, silver-skinned alien was standing before Uhura, watched carefully by four scowling security guards who didn’t appear inclined to cut the intruder much slack after his earlier rampage through the Enterprise. Maxah’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Uhura assumed he had been thoroughly (and uncomfortably) searched for any hidden weapons or communicators. He did not appear to be putting up a fight. If anything, he struck Uhura as more defeated than hostile. His spines drooped limply.
“You asked to see me?” he said.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced before,” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Uhura, currently in command of this starship.” She didn’t volunteer that she was the one who had walloped him with the data slate; that probably wouldn’t be conducive to a civilized discussion. “And you are?”
“Maxah, formerly of the Crusade.” He cracked a rueful smile. “I suspect I am no longer in the good graces of my esteemed brothers.”
Uhura recalled that he had urged Scotty to flee Ephrata right before the gravity cannon snagged the ship. Could it be that he was actually on their side?
“Why would you go to such lengths to keep your ‘brothers’ from capturing the Enterprise? Why choose us over your own kind?”
He chuckled to himself. “Your comrades down on the planet asked me much the same questions, before I did what I could to protect them.”
Uhura leaned forward eagerly, excess gravity be damned. “Our landing party? You’ve been in touch with them?”
“Briefly. Before I tricked my way aboard your vessel.”
“What do you know?” She kicked herself for not interrogating him earlier. “What’s happened to them?”
“Your captain and first officer were sent on to our own universe, where my allies hope to make common cause with them. The two others, the ones you call Sulu and Yaseen, were still on Ephrata IV when last I saw them. Their minds were then their own, but I know not how they have fared since.”
Uhura was relieved to find out that the captain and the others were still alive, at least as far as Maxah knew, but the rest confused her.
“Hold on,” she said. “What was that about your ‘own universe’?”
“There is much to explain.”
“Then keep talking, mister, and make it snappy.” She slumped back into her chair, feeling as though she had gained five kilograms in as many minutes. “We’re not getting any lighter.”
She listened intently as Maxah explained that the Crusade had invaded this universe by means of some sort of dimensional rift, but that he was actually affiliated with a resistance movement opposed to the apocalyptic religious mania that had consumed his people, the Ialatl.
“Not long ago, we were a peaceful, enlightened people,” he insisted. “Our spiritual beliefs enhanced and deepened our lives, imbuing them with meaning, but they did not drive us to convert others—or to lash out at anything that did not readily fit into our Truth. We believed in the future as well as the past, progress as well as tradition, reason in concert with religion. Nor did we eagerly anticipate the destruction of everything we had built.”
“I would hope not,” Uhura said. The Enterprise had prevented doomsday on occasion. “I’m kind of fond of survival myself.”
“As am I,” he insisted. “Trust me, unlike my more fervid brothers and sisters, I am in no hurry to witness the end of creation. Reality may indeed die and be reborn someday, as our oldest legends maintain, but, for my part, the end of the universe can take its time. There is still too much to see and explore in our universe—and in yours as well.”
His passion was convincing. Uhura found herself inclined to believe him. It was a risk, but she was running out of alternatives. She could practically feel herself getting heavier by the minute, gaining weight without gaining mass. She was sweating like a targ just sitting in the captain’s chair. I must be at least 120 kilograms by now, she estimated. A far cry from my usual forty-eight or so.
“Gravity at two hundred fifty percent,” Masters reported. “I’m losing ground here.”
Uhura decided that they had discussed philosophy and religion long enough. It was time to get down to brass tacks.
“You hear that?” she said to Maxah. “You feel that? Your Crusade won’t be happy until we’re all too heavy to move—or until we let them board this ship.”
“No!” he protested. “You must not do that. If the Crusade spreads beyond this meager world, into the heart of your civilization, you will have no chance!”
“Then help us,” Uhura said. “If you’re serious about saving us from your own people, then show us how to combat that gravity cannon. We have that weapon you used before. Can we use that to break free?”
He laughed bitterly at the notion. “Might as well deploy a rowboat against a battleship. My mace is a hand weapon, intended for personal defense, but it lacks even the power of the High Brother’s spear. To pit it against a mighty gravity cannon . . .”
“Is like pitting a hand phaser against the Enterprise’s phaser banks,” Uhura finished for him. “Yes, I get it.” She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. “But you still understand this technology better than we do. That has to count for something.” She indicated Masters at engineering. “Our own people are doing their best to fight back, using our own artificial gravity systems, but your people have the edge on us. Can’t you do anything to help us hold our own?”
He looked down at the deck, unable to meet her eyes.
“Maybe for a time,” he hedged. “But it’s no use. You cannot overcome the gravity cannon forever. Better that you crash your ship into the planet than let your minds and worlds be enslaved by the Crusade!”
That wasn’t what Uhura wanted to hear.
TWELVE
“Find the heretic!”
All work on the temple in the square had ceased as the masked Ephratans conducted a house-by-house, building-by-building search of the campus. Hours had passed since Sulu had escaped the observatory, but the hunt continued. The search parties were armed with sticks, bricks, knives, ropes, and other ad hoc weaponry, the better to subdue their elusive prey.
All that’s missing is pitchforks and torches, Sulu thought.
He marched along with the crowd, shouting just as vociferously as the o
thers. He had exchanged his telltale Starfleet uniform for a conservative gray suit he had “borrowed” from a locker in the gymnasium, while his silver mask made it possible to blend in with the mob. He was glad he had decided to hang on to it.
Unfortunately, he was still lacking a phaser or communicator. His only weapon was a fencing foil he had also lifted from the gym. While it felt good to have a sword in his hand, he would have preferred a phaser, especially considering the odds against him. The foil’s safety cap had been removed, baring its point.
Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.
He had been keeping one step ahead of the Crusade and its overzealous converts ever since escaping the observatory. A lynch mob had almost caught up with him at the locker rooms, but he’d managed to slip into the mob’s ranks undetected . . . at least so far.
“Find the heretic!”
Sulu was amused to note that he’d apparently been promoted from “infidel” to “heretic,” presumably because he had rebelled after professing to accept the Truth, as Yaseen had.
Fawzia . . .
He frowned, concerned about his missing crewmate. He had not laid eyes on Yaseen since that dustup at the observatory. Had she gotten away as well, or had the Crusade caught up with her? He could only hope that she was still on the loose and that they would somehow succeed in linking up again. If only there was a way to contact her without giving himself away . . . !
• • •
“All clear!”
The leader of the search party pronounced the science building free of heretics. Sulu followed the mob back out onto the lawn outside, the pockets of his borrowed suit bulging slightly. One good thing about taking part in the manhunt: it had given him an opportunity to reconnoiter, do a little foraging, and plot his next move. Just evading capture wasn’t enough. If he was stuck here on Ephrata IV, behind enemy lines, he was damn well going to do something.
Namely, a little old-fashioned sabotage.
As the search party moved on to a vandalized art gallery, he discreetly broke away from the crowd and slipped off down a narrow side passage. Sticking to the shadows and avoiding the more frequented paths, he made his way across the sprawling campus and adjoining woods to his chosen target: the Institute’s main fusion generator complex.
