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Chapter 20
The Final Countdown
"That's another negative, sir," Sulu reported, glancing up from the scanners. "Nothing in orbit, nothing in the vicinity."
"Any tachyon emissions?"
"No, sir."
"Damn," Kirk swore. "They gotta be here, somewhere. How many more of those do we have till our rendezvous with the Enterprise?"
"Another two systems, Captain. Faruzah and Teleron."
"Fine, set a course to the closest. Ahead best possible speed."
"Aye, sir."
Kirk leaned back in his chair, fuming in frustration. The thought that this was the final assignment of his five-year mission made his teeth whine. Couldn't they have a first contact mission? Or, an exploratory survey of a new sector? This chase for terrorists was nothing but disappointment and failure, with a good prospect of growing casualties list. Kirk closed his eyes tiredly.
He should have refused. But how could he? It was never even an option. They had been targeted, after all, not the other way around. Other starships didn't have Nailers' saboteurs aboard. Nor did they have one Pavel Chekov.
Nor Spock.
He gritted his teeth. This was getting tiresome. Not only did he have a constant headache, he also couldn't get Spock out of his mind.
Why don't you order me to surrender?
One of them had to make a decision.
Whoever that would be, they'd better make it fast, before either of them exploded. Kirk could not remember the level of tension between him and Spock ever rising so high. If his physical condition was any indication, this intensity could not be tolerated for much longer. Someone had to make a decision.
Why not him?
After all, Kirk had been a decision-maker all his life. His mother used to complain that he was the most willful and independent child she had ever seen. But the moment he realized he was getting onto somebody's nerves, he charmed his way out of it, with his compelling smile and innocent shiny eyes. He didn't remember much about being a toddler, but he had no reasons not to trust his mother on that one.
With his predilection toward assuming responsibility already in place, he had the misfortune to go to Tarsus. To this day, he had no idea why he was picked up to be marked as a survivor. The blue cross on his forehead was his ticket to safety. To life.
He didn't want to take it.
Not when his great aunt Marina got a red one. Not when Zdenek received the same. His neighbor was thirteen, just like Jimmy. There wasn't really enough time for them to become friends. Not that Jimmy Kirk was in any mood to do so anyway, having just lost his father. But when the guards came to take Zdenek away, Jimmy stunned them, and helped the other boy escape.
It wasn't long till he joined some sort of a crude resistance cell, helping the others. It wasn't long, also, till he got caught. He was brought to Kodos and expected to be executed for his actions. The Governor looked him in the eye for a very long time, and when he couldn't stare him down, he told the guards that this one was going to live.
'I am never wrong in my choices,' he had said. 'This one's genome is worthy of preservation.'
There wasn't anything to be happy about, for he got his punishment nonetheless. Day after day, he was forced to watch the executions. Until the day came when his team was caught to the very last person. That day Jim Kirk could never forget.
They weren't tortured like the others. But they died, looking into his eyes. The leader of the cell was the last one to go. He smiled at him, somewhat apologetically.
'I guess I didn't do that well, Jimmy. Maybe you should have been the captain after all.'
Yes, Jimmy thought vehemently. He should have. It was the end of an old debate between them, and the victory tasted sour.
'I could have saved them,' he thought then, his anger flaring. 'I wouldn't have done the same mistakes.'
How he could have been so sure, he didn't know. In retrospect, he knew any resistance was doomed. And most certainly, if a thirteen-year-old boy would have done better than a forty-year-old man, that would have been mostly due to some unpredictable fluke of chance, nothing else. But there and then, he had understood one thing with absolute certainty.
He had to be the one making decisions.
It was the only way to diminish the pain that was devouring him. This was the way to grasp what small measure of control over his own life was humanly possible to achieve. This was the way never to be forced to watch other people suffering, helpless to save them, helpless to even die with them. Even that decision was no longer his, and that was intolerable. He would not have it.
Never again.
Several years later, as he entered Starfleet Academy, there wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind about what field to choose. He showed certain inclination towards Engineering, but declined the option with resolution rarely encountered among cadets-to-be.
He wanted to be in command, he needed to be in command. This was the only way he knew how to live. The only way he could ensure the safety of those he cared for. He had to be the one making decisions. His career was skyrocketing in its success, because the combination of knowledge, experience and intuition enabled him to make correct decisions most of the time. And when he happened to make an error, no one was more aware of it than he was. He could do anything, as long as the decision was his to make.
Why didn't he want to be the decision-maker now?
His career aside, even his personal relationships came as a long history of conquest. He was never the slow one, never the waiting one. He was always prepared to fight for what he wanted with any means available. True, he never missed an opportunity when it came down upon him, but even then he made sure everyone was perfectly clear on who was the leader.
And now, for the first time in his life, he didn't want it.
He didn't want to push, he didn't want to press, he didn't want to force.
He didn't want to order Spock to surrender.
For that matter, he didn't want him to surrender. He didn't want him to have to surrender. He didn't want this to be a battle at all. He didn't want this to be a fight.
What he wanted was a Spock who would come to him freely. By his own choice, made without any kind of influence. He wanted to create an environment of safety, of peace. He wanted to be a candle on a windowsill, not a tractor beam.
He wanted, against every experience he had ever had, against his very nature, against every fiber in his body, he wanted Spock to make the decision for both of them. But, that being true, he didn't want him to make the wrong one. And, knowing Spock, as he knew him, he had every reason not to trust him with the right choice. So often in the past, the Vulcan demonstrated that he didn't know what was good for him...
The conflict appeared to be irresolvable, and so Kirk couldn't stop fighting.
He was fighting because he was scared. Deep inside, he suspected Spock had very similar reasons. The Vulcan must have been feeling very vulnerable, very exposed, if he was fighting Kirk this fiercely. His Captain was usually the one person he could put his trust in without reservations...
What have I done wrong, Spock? What have I done to make you doubt me? Why can't you just—
"Captain."
Kirk snapped his eyes open, startled. Sulu was watching him with a frown of concern.
"I'm sorry, sir. You were groaning. Are you in pain, Captain?"
"No."
Yes.
He shook his head to clear it.
"I'm fine, Mr. Sulu, thank you for your concern," he sounded a bit more dryly than he intended.
"Yes, sir," the Helmsman returned his gaze to his board. After a pause, he noted cautiously, "I suppose you'd prefer another traveling companion, Captain."
"Why do you say that?" Kirk asked sharply.
"Well, sir..." Sulu went slightly red. "It's just that it's a long time to spend in a shuttlecraft with nothing to do, before we enter another system. I just thought it would have been easier for you if Mr. Spock were here, or Doctor McCoy."
Kirk stared at him intensely for several long seconds, before finally stretching his lips in a mildly relaxed smile.
"And I suppose you'd prefer Mr. Chekov's company to mine?"
Sulu grinned.
"Not necessarily. There were certain things I wanted to ask you about, if you don't mind?"
"Go ahead," Kirk nodded amiably, determined to rectify his earlier slip.
"Captain... The Academy Command training. What am I to expect?"
Kirk's smile widened.
"A lot of unexpected, Mr. Sulu. You're up for a two-year course, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, last I heard Lambielle was still reading Advanced Strategy, and Dikun is the Chief Field Training Instructor this year. I'd say you're gonna lose a lot of sleep, but you're gonna love every minute."
Sulu grinned ruefully.
"Every minute, sir?"
Kirk glanced at him shrewdly.
"I see you've heard about Commander Dikun."
"Yes, sir," the Helmsman confessed reluctantly. "They say he's... well..."
"Ruthless?" Kirk nodded. "That he is. But he's also the best Field Training Instructor the Academy has known for years. Pay attention to everything he says. Half of the valuable information about the mission would come in small talk and rambling, which most cadets automatically dismiss."
"He's doing this on purpose, sir?"
"After so many years, I should hope so," Kirk grunted. His voice changed as he imitated the Commander, "'Details, Mr. Kirk. All the little, subtle, inconspicuous details that you missed. If you'd be wondering at any time, it was your inattention to details that made you fail the test.'"
Sulu stared at him.
"You—failed a test, sir?"
Kirk looked at him sternly.
"Just this one. And you're not allowed to tell anyone."
"Yes, sir," Sulu grinned. "I also wanted to ask you—"
The shuttle suddenly gave a violent shake, as if hit by a meteor.
"What happened?" Kirk demanded, grabbing the panel for support. The readings were in total havoc.
"I don't know, sir! Looks like someone's caught us with a tractor beam."
"How's that possible? You said there weren't any ships in the vicinity?"
"I don't know, but we're being pulled off course by a cloaked vessel. Maybe it's a different kind of cloak?"
"Send a message to the Enterprise—"
"I already tried, Captain, they're jamming all frequencies."
"Great," Kirk spat, as the shuttle continued its bumpy ride. "This thing doesn't even have weapons. Can't we break free?"
"No, Captain," Sulu's hands were flying over his console. "I've tried every trick in the book, but they're blocking me on every turn."
"Well," Kirk drawled darkly. "It appears we're up for a ride."
Sulu glanced sideways at him and nodded.
"All we can do is wait."
--
It was her first duty shift since Uhura had returned to the Alpha watch roster, and she would have preferred it to be quiet and smooth, just to get back on the main track. As a wide wave of red lights splashed across her board, she realized that her wish would not be granted.
"Mr. Spock!" she couldn't keep anxiety out of her voice completely. "I'm receiving a transmission from Lericon II. It's coming on all Federation channels."
Spock, who had been deep in a discussion with Scott at the Engineering station, turned to her, an eyebrow on the rise.
"An emergency?"
She frowned, as she listened further to the message. Her eyes widened and she gasped.
"You could say that."
"On screen."
It was the sound that attacked them first. A high-pitched, wailing screech, like someone was scratching the gigantic glass, was so loud and full of desperation, it made them grab their ears. Only then, the image registered. The screen was filled by flames engulfing a living creature, a humanoid, bound to a pole.
It was being burnt alive.
The Bridge crew stared at the horrific show in stupefied silence. Many were clasping their hands to their mouths. A young Yeoman dropped the padd she was carrying and bumped into Scott, who steadied her automatically, without sparing her a look. Spock stepped down to the command chair, apparently without realizing he did that.
"Lieutenant, block audio," he ordered briskly.
She winced, lost in the terrible view, and rushed to obey the command. Her hands were quivering slightly.
The ensuing silence was more deafening than the scream itself. The eyes of the crew remained glued to the viewscreen, but now they were able to extract themselves from the unimaginable nightmare.
"This is coming from Lericon II?" Spock asked. When there was no immediate reply, he turned to the Communications station and snapped, "Lieutenant. I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir," she jerked back, as if he slapped her. "I'm sorry, sir. The transmission originates from the main settlement."
"Mr. Chekov," Spock spun around towards Navigation. "ETA at our current speed?"
"Three hours twenty-four minutes, Mr. Spock."
"Mr. Scott—"
"Aye, I can give ye more speed," the Engineer nodded before Spock finished. "But not much more, Mr. Spock, and I wouldn't recommend it. It'll save us about twenty minutes maybe, and there's no way to tell what it'd do to the engines."
The turbolift doors swished open, and McCoy came into the Bridge looking pale and shaken.
"My God, Spock. What in blue blazes is going on there?"
"I believe we are about to find out, Doctor."
The image changed suddenly. There were now not one, but five death-fires, and the camera was carefully taking shots of the five burning figures. Uhura was grateful beyond words that Spock made her block the audio, for all of them were clearly crying out unceasingly in their agony.
"Two Vulcans, an Andorian, and two humans," Spock said in an unnaturally calm voice. "I would say we have found the Nailers."
"How can you be so blasted calm about it?" McCoy snapped, trying to extinguish his utter terror with anger. "These are living people—"
The image changed again before he had a chance to finish. The flames were gone. They were now looking at a somewhat darkened room, which appeared to be one of the colony's administrative facilities. The men occupying it were undoubtedly rubindium miners, judging by their uniform. But the man standing in front of the group was definitely not one of them.
He was short and somewhat crumbly, with a big bald head. His features were a bit blurry, as if a painter had a moment of indecision when creating his face and projected this indecisiveness onto the canvas. His eyes were big, round and black, and they looked at his audience with an air of some superior power hidden under the surface. The man was dressed in some dark, crudely made clothes, and wore no insignia.
Spock signaled Uhura to turn the audio back on the moment before he started to speak.
"My name is Heinrich Kramer. We are the Nailers. What you have just seen were the first eradicated spawns of infestation that consumes the human race. There are three hundred more on this planet."
The image was switched to a different room, where about fifty prisoners were held. Most were representing different nonhuman Federation species, but there were humans, too, by the looks of it, the colony officials.
"Spock, there're children there," McCoy whispered in horror.
The image returned to Kramer.
"We demand that all human colonies start evacuating immediately and proceed back to the Solar System. Humans have no business going into space. We have operatives everywhere. If they tell me that no movement to fulfill our demands had been made within the hour, we will fry another five of these beasts. And then another. Humans must stick to their roots and reject the poison of aliens. We must decontaminate ourselves. Only then will humans be safe. One hour countdown starts now."
The transmission ended.
"Sweet heavens protect us," McCoy muttered in the ensued silence. "What are we going to do, Spock?"
The Vulcan appeared to be deep in thought.
"We are the only ship in the vicinity. We are going to act. Lieutenant Uhura, contact Starfleet Command, apprise them of our situation. Tell them we are changing course for Lericon II. Mr. Farrell, if you please."
"Yes, sir," the helmsman on duty nodded.
"Mr. Spock, what about the Captain?" Uhura asked, frozen in mid-action. "We have about four hours till the rendezvous."
"It appears we will be late," he replied evenly. "Is it possible to signal the shuttle?"
She checked several channels and shook her head.
"They're either out of range, or the communications are being disrupted."
"Or they may be in trouble," Scott noted.
Spock didn't react at once. A deep frown crossed his forehead, and his hands, lying seemingly loosely on the railing, turned almost white. McCoy stepped closer to him.
"There are three hundred people in trouble there, Spock," he reminded quietly. "We don't know what happened to Jim, but we do know that they will die a horrible death if no one helps them. I don't think the Federation will start any evacuations. Do you?"
Spock glanced at him, but the Doctor got a distinct impression that the Vulcan hadn't heard a word he'd said. His eyes were a void.
Taking another step to him, coming to point blank range, McCoy said, even quieter.
"I know what you're going through, Spock, but you are the captain. You can't afford it right now."
Spock stepped away from him abruptly. Only then did he notice the unnatural silence on the Bridge, with everyone's attention drawn to him. Automatically, he stood a little straighter.
"Mr. Farrell, execute the change of course. Mr. Scott, Mr. Chekov, Doctor McCoy, please join me in Briefing Room 2. Lieutenant Uhura, page Commander Giotto to meet us there. Signal Yellow Alert and continue attempting to raise the shuttlecraft. You have the conn until further notice."
"Aye, sir."
As they entered the turbolift cabin, Scott contacted Engineering, demanding more power. Spock thanked him with a silent nod. Chekov was staring at the wall, shell-shocked with what he'd seen. McCoy was watching Spock, allowing his worry for one person obstruct his own horror at what had happened. Scott remained quiet and grim.
Giotto was waiting for them already, and the look on his face was a clear indication that he had seen the transmission. Spock gestured for them to take seats.
"Gentlemen, we require a plan of actions," he said, steepling his fingers. "Opinions."
"We need to set up our objective first, Commander," Giotto noted reasonably. "Are we to free the hostages? Or is our main purpose to apprehend the Nailers?"
"What kind of question is that?" McCoy snapped explosively. "The hostages must come first! There are children there, for heaven's sake!"
"Doctor," Spock shot him a warning glance. "Kindly control your outbursts. I understand that the situation is difficult for your moral imperatives. However, little can be gained by losing one's temper," he turned back to Giotto. "Our objective should be cleared with Starfleet Command first. Until such clarification arrives, our main goal is the safe release of the hostages. Commander, in your estimate, does the number three hundred appear accurate?"
Giotto frowned.
"There's no reason not to trust him, sir. Lericon II is an old mining colony. There were about two—two and a half thousand people in the main settlement. Mostly miners who'd signed long-termed contracts."
"Why so many nonhumans?" McCoy asked.
Giotto glanced at him gravely.
"Lericon also has the only Federation-type hospital in the system. One would assume—"
"Oh my God," the Doctor shook his head in disbelief. "This is getting better and better."
"Mr. Spock," Chekov's voice sounded strained and somewhat weak. He knew he was here as a resident expert on the Nailers, and his discomfort was palpable. "The Nailers' ship that we destroyed at Miraxine only carried a complement of one hundred and forty. Even if both other ships are at Lericon, even if they beamed every last person down, they wouldn't have enough people to take control of the colony."
McCoy looked just as perplexed, but Spock, Scott and Giotto exchanged a rather grim glance.
"The message that we watched, Ensign," Spock reminded him. "Haven't you noticed the miners flanking Mr. Kramer?"
"You're saying they're on his side?" McCoy asked aghast. "But why?"
Scotty sighed in exasperation.
"It's clear that ye don't have the slightest idea what it's like to be a long-termed miner, Doctor," he said. "They're underpaid, overworked, they live in barracks, and the management usually doesn't give a damn. Ye can't imagine the kind of scum that signs up for this kind of work."
"Plus, there have been some reports of disturbances," Giotto added. "Beluska is very far from Earth, Doctor. The mining companies have their hands free to do what they want with their personnel. There's no regular transportation; communications are expensive and restricted. News travels slow here. It wouldn't surprise me if the Federation Council hadn't heard a thing about any of this yet."
"Aye. I bet when Kramer turned up there, telling that everyone should go home, they greeted him like their own brother," Scott grunted with disdain. "Who wouldn't want to fry up a boss who mistreats ye?"
"But the Nailers are sadistic, evil... What they did on Miraxine..."
"I'm not certain those miners had even heard of Miraxine," Giotto said. "It's not like they have a vid in every quarters. And even if they did, the transmissions are not exactly uncensored."
"We have no allies in that colony," Spock concluded. "We need to free the innocent and prevent the guilty from escaping. We cannot afford to wait for reinforcements."
"As if they'd do any good," Scott muttered. "Unless ye want to eradicate the colony."
"I agree," Spock said. "Which brings us back to the starting point. We require a plan of action. I suggest—"
The whistle of the comm interrupted him.
"Mr. Spock," Uhura's face appeared on the monitor. "An incoming message from Starfleet Command. Priority One, sir."
"Relay," Spock nodded.
The image of Uhura faded, replaced by a familiar, though far less enjoyable visual of Admiral Nogura.
"Commander Spock," Nogura didn't waste any time on a 'hello'. "Where's your Captain?"
"He is not on board, sir. He is away on a reconnaissance mission."
"Isn't that your job?" Nogura barked. "Or is he covering for you again? To hell with it. You heard the transmission."
"Yes, sir."
"In case you were wondering, there will be no evacuation of Earth colonies."
"I assumed as much," Spock said, shooting a glance at McCoy.
"Your orders, Commander, are to proceed to Lericon II, best possible speed, monitor the situation closely and prevent the Nailers from escaping by any means necessary."
"What about the hostages, Admiral?"
"You will demand their safe release."
"I do not believe the Nailers will comply, Admiral."
Nogura stared at him, as if he was raving.
"Of course they won't comply. When were you born, Spock? Yesterday?"
"Then I am to plan a rescue operation? We are currently—"
"You will do no such thing," Nogura cut him off sharply. "No rescue operation, no diplomacy, no decoys. Starfleet doesn't negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Spock."
"Then the hostages will most certainly die."
"You don't know that," Nogura said. "You never know how a terrorist's mind works. They might decide to surrender, if we guarantee them life. You can offer them as much."
"Admiral, this is not—"
"I will not risk a trained and valuable crew for a hopeless cause, Commander," the Admiral's voice was steeled. "We've been running calculations here in HQ. Any attempt of rescue on your part will only lead to more fatalities. You are to monitor the situation and await the special task force that will reach your sector in a week."
"A week?" McCoy gasped. "That's—"
But Scott had already pulled him away from the table, preventing another outburst, though he, too, was shaking with rage.
"Admiral," Spock looked openly alarmed at the prospect. He made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. "This is hardly acceptable. One of the fundamental duties of every Starfleet officer is to defend civilians. We cannot simply forsake those people."
"Commander, that's enough," Nogura would clearly have none of it. "I don't have time to give you a lecture on the subject of terrorists' psychology. You of all people should understand that we can't afford to appear weak. The Nailers aren't the only ones out there, waiting for us to make a wrong step. If we cave now, we'll lose not only those three hundred lives but numerous others. Any rescue operation is doomed. If we undertake one and lose, we'll appear even weaker. So save your humanitarian notions and act like a Vulcan and like an officer. You have your orders."
"Yes, sir," Spock replied tightly.
"I will expect hourly status reports, Commander," the Admiral shot a parting blast. "Nogura out."
The screen went blank.
"I don't believe it!" McCoy exclaimed, shaking Scotty off at last. "Monitor the situation? Monitor the situation? I've monitored enough incineration of living tissue to last me a lifetime! How can they be so cruel?"
"Please, calm yourself, Doctor," Spock said sharply, his own anger slipping through his shields. "Logically the Admiral is correct. We cannot concede to terrorists and our chances of completing a successful rescue on our own are not promising."
"So we're just going to sit here and do nothing?" McCoy slammed his fist into the table. "Dammit, Spock! I can't sit tight and watch children die!"
"Perhaps you will not have to," Spock reflected somewhat calmer. "The Admiral is wrong."
"Damn right, he's wrong! We should be able to save—"
"No," Spock objected. "He is correct in his assessment of our chances. But he is wrong in his belief that Kramer is a terrorist."
Four pairs of eyes stared at him in confusion.
"Come again?" McCoy slumped back into his chair, enervated. "Are you saying he's not a terrorist?"
"I am saying," the Vulcan was speaking slowly, as if voicing his immediate thoughts, "that I now know why the symbol of the Nailers is a hammer."
"That's your revelation?" McCoy stared at him incredulously. "That you need a hammer to pin down a nail?"
"No, Doctor," Spock lifted his eyes on McCoy slowly, as if seeing him for the first time. "Commander Giotto can tell you that the Nailers were not using this particular pictogram prior to Kramer's arrival."
Giotto nodded, frowning.
"Kramer," Spock repeated pensively. "Heinrich Kramer. I should have seen that earlier. Does not that name mean anything to you?"
"Of course it does," McCoy snapped impatiently. "He's a murderer and a sadist, and he's holding hostage three hundred people."
"And," Spock added, "Heinrich Kramer is a fifteenth century inquisitor who wrote the tractate—"
"'Hexenhammer'," Chekov gasped suddenly, his eyes going wide with shock. "'The Hammer Against Witches'."
"Also known as Malleus Maleficarum," Spock nodded. "A detailed guide of how to hunt down, torture and eliminate witches."
"Witches?" Scott repeated, perplexed. "But those were just superstitions."
"Indeed," Spock said. "Those superstitions were made almost a state religion in medieval Europe. A lot of intelligent, different in some way or simply unfortunate people were—incinerated, I believe is the term you used, Doctor—because of those superstitions. Kramer, our Kramer, believes he is eradicating the galactic evil. He is not a terrorist. He is a fanatic."
A rather long silence ensued, as they were contemplating this.
"What a twist," McCoy muttered, nonplused. "But I don't see how that helps us, Spock."
"I do," the Vulcan steepled his fingers again. A sure sign of his confidence returning. "A terrorist is usually a healthy person who experiences a severe emotional distress. They believe in their cause. They acknowledge their own brand of logic. They can be reasoned with, if their demands are fulfilled. Fanaticism, on the other hand, is an illness of the mind," Spock lifted his eyes and looked squarely at McCoy. "And the mind, Doctor, can be controlled."
It took a moment for McCoy to realize what Spock was suggesting, and as the realization came, he turned pale as ashes.
"No, Spock," he forced out with difficulty. "You can't do this."
"I must," Spock objected calmly. He appeared to have regained his composure in full. "It is the only way."
"You'll never get to him!" McCoy wailed. "And even if you do, it's against every rule in the book. You'll be in violation of Nogura's standing orders!"
"The Admiral ordered me not to organize a rescue attempt and not to negotiate," Spock returned blandly. "This will not be either."
"What about Vulcans, Spock?" McCoy was grasping at straws, but he couldn't help it. There had to be a way to stop this madness. "Isn't what you're planning something strictly forbidden by your people's laws?"
"I do not have a choice, Doctor. I do not intend to stand idly by and watch three hundred people being murdered. And that," he raised his voice slightly, getting to his feet, "is final."
"This is insane!" McCoy rose up, too, not willing to give up an inch of ground. "In case you haven't noticed, Spock, you aren't human! All this crazy plan of yours is going to accomplish is make Kramer's three hundred hostages three hundred and one! I have no intention of watching you being burnt alive, and that's exactly what's going to happen if you beam down there! Dammit! Scotty, Giotto, tell him he's lost it!"
"That is enough, Doctor," Spock said coldly. "You have duties to perform. Attend to them. Commander Giotto, I shall require your assistance with preparation. Mr. Scott, assume command. Your first priority will be returning Captain Kirk's shuttle," he glanced around the room pointedly. "These are my orders, gentlemen. Dismissed."
Scott was the first one to budge. He came to his feet, looking grave and solemn. He walked over to the First Officer and looked him in the eye unblinkingly.
"Spock. This isn't gonna work."
Spock returned the stare firmly.
"You have your orders, Commander."
"Aye, and I will follow them. But what ye're planning is suicide. Yer death isn't gonna help these people a bit. And when the Captain learns that I let ye do it, he's gonna shove me outta the nearest airlock, and I'm not so sure he'll be all that wrong."
"And if you do not 'let me' do it, I will have you court-martialed for insubordination. I will do it, Mr. Scott. Make no mistake."
The corner of Scott's mouth twitched in a shadow of a smirk.
"Ye might repeat it another couple of times, it's not gonna make me believe it. Ye're not a very good liar."
Spock considered briefly arguing the point, but he could see the faux pas. He changed the tactics.
"The Captain will know that the responsibility and the decision were mine. I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but unless you can offer another option, I suggest you report to the Bridge." And, as Scott showed no signs of rushing to obey, Spock added, "I know what I'm doing."
I doubt it, Scott's eyes told him. Aloud, the Engineer said only, "Aye."
And then, he did something that unintentionally evoked a surge of overwhelming gratitude from the Vulcan. He walked over to McCoy, took him firmly by the elbow and steered him out of the room, like a tow-boat. The action was so unexpected, that the Doctor was surprised into silence. Confused and utterly shaken, Chekov followed them out, not looking back.
Spock rubbed his forehead, without realizing he was doing it. He knew that every word of their warnings had been true, and yet he saw no other option. He wondered vaguely if Jim would forgive him, if he would understand.
At the moment, however, those concerns seemed irrelevant. Spock suppressed a sigh, and sat back down, in order to discuss the plan of the operation with the Security Chief. They did not have that much time, after all.