Chapter Twenty-One
U.S.S. Enterprise, in battle over Aeternus
Stardate 3956.85
Captain Kirk was thankful, oddly enough, for the fact that the lights dimmed for a space of three seconds before kicking back on again, because the darkness effectively concealed the grimace that twisted his face when he was thrown out of his chair, striking his arm with a sharp crack on the edge of the step leading up to it (why Starfleet had never padded the railings and other sharp corners on starship Bridges, he had no idea).
Within two seconds he had scrambled back to his seat along with the rest of the Bridge crew, ignoring the klaxons wailing and the damage reports leaking in behind him to Uhura's calm direction. The ship was already listing dangerously to port.
"Matthews, inertial dampers to six percent – get us straight again! Scotty, get those shields up now!" he shouted into the intercom, as another blast rocked the ship. The lights flickered but remained on, thank heaven, as the ship slowly righted itself, responding sluggishly to the Ensign's frantic commands as he was directed surreptitiously by Sulu.
"I can't, not right now, sir!" the Scotsman called back frantically. "They just took out our warp engines, Captain, and systems are failin' all over the ship!"
Uhura whirled toward him, he heard the chair creak from behind. "Captain, Sickbay reports still functional, but decks eight through eleven are completely without power. Life Support is on reserve, and all turbolifts are either jammed or out of control."
Something twisted in his gut. "Scotty, emergency stop on all turbolifts. And divert all power to the shields if you have to, but –"
Another hit bathed the Bridge in blinding red light, and this time the power dimmed noticeably.
"But get those shields up!" he finished, hand clenching on the arm of his chair as his opposite finger depressed the shipwide comm. "Mr. Spock, report." The crew watched surreptitiously, those who could spare their gazes for a moment from their consoles, as no response was heard. Kirk's jaw tightened minutely. "Mr. Spock, if you are within reach of a communications unit, report to the Bridge."
Silence.
Sulu recognized that cold glint that suddenly drove the usual warm sparkle from the Captain's eyes, and his hands were moving even before Kirk gave the order.
"Photon torpedos, Mr. Sulu. Full spread."
"Aye, Captain."
"Captain, radiation leak on deck nine. Emergency bulkheads in place now. Minor casualties; most of our people got out in time. Shield five buckling."
Kirk toggled the comm again. "Mr. Spock, report." Nothing.
"Dracone circling, sir, returning on same course. Phasers locked on Engineering."
"Hold steady, Mr. Sulu. Scotty, are those shields up?"
"Aye, Captain, but not full power – and if our impulse engines take a hit we're not goin' anywhere for months!"
"Understood. Keep those shields at maximum if you can, and compensate on shield five with auxiliary power. And Scotty?"
"Aye?"
Kirk automatically turned toward the science station to his right, accustomed to bouncing his ideas off the usual occupant of said station. At the sight of the blue-garbed, squat Ensign nervously manning the equipment, his jaw tightened and he swerved back to face the viewscreen. "I may need you to find a way to transport through the Dracone's shields if they drop them enough."
"Impossible, Captain…"
"You've done the impossible before, Scotty. Get on it immediately."
"Aye, sir."
"Dracone within firing range, sir, powering up their phaser banks," Sulu reported quickly.
"Fire torpedoes, Mr. Sulu. I don't care where you hit them, just hit them."
Dr. John Watson raised an eyebrow at the colorful expletives that exploded from the other physician's mouth as they squeezed through a set of doors that were stuck half-way open.
"Dang it," McCoy muttered, holding his breath before finally popping through. "I'm a doctor, not a contortionist…ooof."
Had the situation not been so dire, the Englishman would have laughed. But he knew all about battle mode, and did not bother to even smile at his grousing companion. The flashing red lights and scurrying personnel were a sobering enough sight, but the knowledge filtering over the communications systems that half the ship's functions were down made things even more serious.
"I don't like the fact that the Captain keeps comm-ing Spock," the physician muttered uneasily as a third call came through the unit they passed in the hazily-lit corridor.
Watson nodded, clenching his hand in his pocket unseen by the other. "More so because Holmes was with him, according to Mr. Scott," he added softly.
"I'm sure they're fine, just climbing up the turbo-shaft to the Bridge," McCoy ventured reassuringly, though the optimism was not only out-of-character but obviously not even half-heartfelt. "Or they might not have been in the lift, and are usin' a Jefferies tube."
"A what?"
"This, Doctor, " the other man indicated, yanking the door off the small opening.
"You cannot possibly be serious…all the way down to Sickbay?"
"Would you rather take the ventilation system?" McCoy demanded. "I've gotta be in Sickbay; casualties are going to be coming in from all over the ship. You can't make it up five decks to the Bridge, not climbin' all that way with that bad shoulder, until the lifts start working. So you're coming with me; 'least you'll be doing something useful. You do know how to slow and stop bleeding at least, don't you? Don't even bother to look at me like that – I've been the target of Vulcan death-glares meaner than snakes and let me tell you, yours is nowhere close. Now move it, and watch your step."
It was fortuitous for both of them that the First Officer had been standing in a relatively balanced and stable position when the lift had malfunctioned; rather than being thrown headfirst into the wall as it plummeted he instead was able to remain on his feet by holding to the handle inside, and he managed to pound the override command into the console by his right hand before they had dropped more than six decks.
"Emergency stop initiated," the mechanical monotone droned, as this time he was flung headlong by the nearly-instant cessation of motion. Inertia was not governed by emergency stops, unfortunately, and so it took him all of two-point-seven seconds to reorient himself in the darkness of the stationary lift.
Not even the emergency lights were working within the lift, and when he attempted to contact the Bridge he received only dead silence; obviously communications were out as well as all but stop functions.
He was about to push open the emergency hatch in the ceiling of the lift when a weak moan brought his attention flying back from the condition of the ship – what was happening up there? – down to the sprawled, limp figure of the man he had been sharing the lift with when it malfunctioned.
Crouching beside the dim shadow that his sharp eyes could detect as a lighter shade of black than the rest of the lift's space, he reached out tentative fingers and brushed the odd fabric the Englishman's coat had been made of – tweed, it was called, if he remembered his ancient textiles correctly. "Mr. Holmes. Are you injured?"
He received no immediate answer, and his brows knitted in lieu of what humans would call a frown. He shook the man lightly, and this time received a grunt and a quiet groan. "Mr. Holmes."
Under his grip, the man suddenly struggled up to a sitting position, and he instantly released the detective's arm as consciousness brought a wave of sensations flooding into his suddenly overwhelmed senses.
"Mr. Spock?" came the uncertain mutter.
"Yes, sir. The lift malfunctioned, Mr. Holmes. Apparently the Dracone fired upon us accurately enough to impair many vital ship functions."
"Moriarty always was a crack shot," the Englishman grumbled rebelliously.
"Mr. Holmes, are you injured too badly to be moved?" he asked, looking up toward the hatch even though in the pitch-blackness he could not see the outline of the door. "We must reach the Bridge, if the Enterprise is under attack."
"I've a headache…but other than that, I believe I am relatively unharmed," Holmes observed, slowly rubbing his temples under cover of the dark.
"Then I suggest we make our way out of this lift; there is always the possibility that the emergency stop mechanisms may malfunction, and we would not survive falling to the bottom of the shaft. A thoroughly undesirable outcome."
A wry snort. "I concur entirely."
He heard a small scuffle as the Englishman staggered to his feet, followed by a barely-suppressed grunt of pain. "Mr. Holmes?"
"I am fine, Mr. Spock," came the answer, somewhat stronger now. "Exactly how do we get out of here?"
"All turbolifts carry emergency escape hatches in their ceilings; as long as the magnetic latch has not fused closed we should be able to extricate ourselves shortly." The Vulcan ran his sensitive fingers along the border of the panel until encountering the latch. It was the work of five-point-three seconds to unlock the panel and push it upward, where it clanged loudly on the roof of the lift.
"And how, pray, are we both going to get out there?" Holmes muttered testily from across the enclosed space.