Chapter Eleven: Waking
Disclaimer: Some of these characters are mine, but most of them are not. They don't seem to mind.
"Lieutenant," Dr. McCoy says to Nyota as he moves his scanner across the chest of the red-haired man sprawled near the door, "you did a number on this guy. He's still out."
From where she is sitting on the floor beside Spock, Nyota breathes out heavily.
"His own fault," she says without looking at the doctor, "for getting in the way of my phaser."
"I'm not complaining," McCoy says, turning off his scanner and moving to stand beside her. "It was a lot easier getting him to talk this way."
Both he and Nyota glance across the room to where T'Nara is sitting on a large wooden box, her back resting against the wall. Nyota feels a twinge of guilt that she quickly sets aside. The mind meld had been swift and seemingly painless—and valuable.
As she had assumed, the attackers—five of them—are members of Earth United, the anti-alien group that has claimed responsibility for the Leiden bombing. After they had used their one sonic detonator, they had moved their captives to a large storage room in the rear of the facility.
Initially they had intended to free all of the humans and keep the Vulcans as hostages, hoping to negotiate the release of their leader on trial in The Hague. Capturing Starfleet personnel, however, has been a game changer that has thrown the attackers into a quandary.
On one hand, if the Federation is reluctant to be drawn into negotiations over a few Vulcan civilians, they will be more likely to cooperate to get Starfleet officers back.
On the other hand, if Starfleet is reluctant to use force to free the Vulcan civilians, they will not hesitate to use whatever necessary to recover their own people.
At least, that is the thinking of the attackers. Nyota grits her teeth in anger at their xenophobic assumptions.
She feels a spark skitter across her palm and she looks up. Spock's eyes flutter open, though his gaze is cloudy and unfocused.
"Dr. McCoy," she calls, and McCoy is by her side in a moment, his scanner in his hand.
"Spock," he says, but Spock doesn't respond. "Dr. M'Benga, do I need to—"
Dr. M'Benga moves around to Spock's side and peers at him intently.
"Hold off," he tells McCoy, and Nyota feels Spock's hand grip her own tightly. She can tell that he is trying to speak, and she leans her ear close to his face.
"The students?" he says.
She looks up at McCoy and exhales loudly.
"He's…." She struggles to put into words what Spock needs for her to say, what he is telling her through the timbre of his voice and the pressure of his touch. She feels how torn he is between needing to sink into a healing trance and the more pressing need to be fully conscious and in command.
She looks around at McCoy and M'Benga waiting patiently for her to speak, and from the corner of her eye she sees that T'Sela and Saril and even T'Nara are watching her.
"He's…better. But we have a lot to do to get ready."
"Here, help me get him up," Dr. McCoy says, and a medical technician stoops over and gingerly slips his arm under Spock's shoulder. With McCoy on the other side, they work in tandem until Spock is leaning upright against a makeshift pillow of backpacks and jackets.
Nyota can see how the effort tires him—but she also senses an urgency in his manner that puts her on guard.
"Have the attackers contacted us yet?" he says, his voice a thin wheeze, and she shakes her head.
"Nothing—not since I stunned their guy. He's not awake yet. Jamieson's watching him."
She waves her arm vaguely to where the younger security officer stands, the Klingon disruptor in his hand.
The other security guard is positioned by the door, holding Nyota's phaser. He makes eye contact when she looks in his direction—and Spock says, "Any communicators?"
"It's set to homing," Nyota says, handing her comm to Spock. With his thumb he presses against the tiny access panel on the back and exposes a small readout screen.
"The last time it recorded a signal from the ship was 13.44 hours ago. If the Enterprise keeps to schedule, it should be returning from the supply pick up in another 20 hours."
He pauses to take a shallow breath, and Nyota holds herself back from reaching to him—not that she thinks he would object, but she doesn't want to break his concentration.
"Wait to reset your communicator for two-way until an hour before their scheduled return," he says, and Nyota understands immediately what he is suggesting. This transport station has weekly arrivals and departures only—mostly ore freighters but transfer ships as well.
Unless the terrorists have alerted the media to the situation, no one knows about their capture—and the Enterprise will have no reason to stop here again as it passes through this shipping lane on its way back from Eris Four.
Unless something catches their attention.
Nyota's communicator—registered with an Enterprise ID number—will be like a lighthouse beacon.
Briefly Nyota fills Spock in on the other pieces of information T'Nara was able to discover, and he sits motionless, listening intently.
"They'll come for their man," Nyota says, and Spock closes his eyes for a moment before answering.
"The terrorists are more likely to change their tactics than their strategy."
"You mean that they will leave him here—with us—rather than give up the idea of taking hostages?"
Spock closes his eyes and for a moment Nyota wonders if he hears her. He blinks his eyes and takes a ragged breath. Clearly, talking is becoming difficult, and Nyota scoots closer and picks up his hand and presses it between her own.
As always she is infused with a warmth that she associates with his affection for her—and a kind of light-headedness that makes her feel giddy as she slides into his consciousness and feels him reaching back towards her.
His worry about the Vulcan passengers is foremost—the terrorists' plan to take them hostages informs every calculation he makes now.
The faces of the students and their teacher shift into several scenarios as Spock considers what the terrorists may do next. To maximize their use as hostages, the terrorists may try to broadcast images—and to do so they will have to open the door and remove the students.
The Starfleet officers could, in that situation, rush the door and either try to disarm the attackers or force them back. Either way, injuries are likely.
Or the attackers could try to remove them from the storage room by setting a controlled fire, or rigging another sonic disruptor, or sealing the room and shutting off the air.
Nyota feels Spock dismissing this possibility as unlikely—that the terrorists haven't already implemented it suggests they lack the technical skill to do so.
He is also surprised that the attackers have not communicated since Nyota convinced them to open the door earlier. This may indicate that they are waiting for instructions from another group—perhaps one higher in the Earth United hierarchy.
If that is the case, then the group may be orchestrating multiple attacks to coincide with the trial. That might explain why a relatively remote outpost—although one traveled by earth-going aliens—might have been targeted. Nyota's head spins suddenly with a rush a data as Spock considers the other possible targets and comes up with a list of two dozen.
She jumps when she hears a loud clanging outside the door. The closest security guard steps aside and trains the phaser forward.
Spock pulls back his hand and Nyota is alone again in her own head. She stands and looks across the room at the Vulcans—most are also watching the door, but T'Sela is looking at her. Nyota gives her a little nod of acknowledgement.
The clanging again—sharp and loud—and then Nyota realizes that the terrorists are connecting a digital speaker to the metal door. Sure enough, she hears a squawk of static and then a tinny voice begins to speak.
"Move away from the door or you will be harmed."
To her surprise, Nyota feels Spock to her side—tottering slightly, but standing up without support. He brushes her arm with his hand to stop himself from swaying as he calls out, "Open the door. You are in violation of Starfleet regulations determining the treatment of captives. I am willing to negotiate on your behalf to the authorities if you release us now without harm."
"Move away from the door," the voice calls again. Spock motions to the security officer and says, "Mr. Hill, step back."
Then he turns to Jamieson, the other security guard, and says, "Gentlemen, on my mark only—"
Dimly Nyota is aware that T'Nara and the Vulcan students have gathered behind her and the medical crew have grabbed their medical kits. Everyone is tensed, ready to leave the stuffy room—though Nyota knows that Spock is uncertain that they will be able to force or negotiate their way free.
"Move away from the door," the voice says once more, and Spock says, "The door is clear."
With another bang the bolt shimmies loudly and the door cracks open and stops. From her place beside Spock, Nyota can see one of the heavily-armed attackers, his phaser rifle pointed into the room.
Spock walks immediately to the crack in the doorway, his elbows bent and his hands held up palm out.
"Throw out your weapons," the attacker says, but Spock answers, "I am unarmed."
"What did you do to Arix?"
Spock looks back toward the red-headed attacker. He is awake—barely. Lt. Jamieson pulls him to his feet and stands waiting.
"We will return him to you after you allow the passengers to leave. I will remain to negotiate with the authorities on your behalf," Spock says, and Nyota feels a catch in her throat. This is the kind of sacrifice she has been trained as a Starfleet officer to make—but it is much harder to hear Spock offer it for himself.
The man outside the door seems to be considering Spock's offer. He presses a tab on his earpiece and speaks softly. Is he communicating to the other attackers—or, Nyota wonders, is he being instructed by someone off-planet on what to do next? That doesn't bode well. She instinctively braces herself.
The armed man says, "We agree to your terms. The aliens can leave if you stay."
Nyota feels a warm hand tap her shoulder and she turns to see T'Sela.
"Go," Nyota says to the young girl. "Help the others get out. We'll be okay."
She gives what she knows is a rueful smile and then she says, "Hurry, before they change their minds."
One of the smaller Vulcan girls is already at the door, the security officers standing on either side. T'Nara follows closely behind, and T'Sela joins the line as the door creaks open just enough to allow the students to begin to walk through.
A sound like thunder echoes down the hall as the door opens a fraction more, and the Vulcan students recoil. The armed man in the doorway lowers his rifle and aims toward them.
And then all hell breaks loose—Nyota hears Spock yelling and Lt. Hill leaps forward, simultaneously pulling the students out of the way and shoving the door partially closed. Lt. Jamieson holds the Klingon disruptor up and shoulders his way forward, shooting toward the armed attacker before doubling over, hit twice by rifle fire.
"No!" Nyota yells, but Jamieson collapses through the doorway into the hall.
Blasts of plasma energy ricochet into the room and Hill and Spock lean heavily into the door, shutting it as rifle fire hammers it. One of the Vulcan students nurses her bleeding arm and a medical technician pulls a pressure bandage from her kit. Nyota looks around frantically—T'Sela and Saril are unhurt, though both look rattled.
"What the hell was that all about!" McCoy says, but Spock ignores him.
"Lieutenant," he says to the remaining security officer, "give me the phaser."
Lt. Hill hands the phaser to Spock immediately.
"Station yourself by the door," Spock says, sitting heavily on the floor, cradling the phaser in his hand. "If you hear anyone attempting to open it, alert me immediately."
"What will you be doing, Sir?" Lt. Hill asks, and Spock flips open the phaser and says quietly, "Making a bomb."
A/N: On the morning before I wrote this chapter, I knew I had to decide whether or not poor Lt. Jamieson was going to bite the dust. It is Star Trek, after all, and one can't be too sentimental about red shirts (unless, of course, you're talking about Montgomery Scott).
I'm a pretty logical person, so naturally I decided to leave the fate of the red shirt to…fate. My commute to work is reasonably short, involving 4 stoplights. If I counted 20 red cars on my morning ride, I would have to off the red shirt.
To help the poor guy, I discounted weird red colors—no burgundy or maroon cars—and no trucks or SUVs. Just candy apple red cars—bright lipstick red cars—and if I could get to work without counting 20, the red shirt would beat the odds and survive.
He was a goner by the second light.
Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter! Catch her story "The Native"-it's coming to a grand finale soon!
