Disclaimer: I don't own anybody or anything. Really.
Did I mislead the poor readers? Y'know, I think it's possible…All I can say is, expect the unexpected…well, read on before I give it away.
Oh yeah, I meant to post Xanth, honest I did. But then I had a surge of inspiration for this story. I'll get to Xanth next, really. In the meantime…
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite the direness of the situation, business proceeded with order and a minimum of hysteria. But that was only to be accepted as logical. After all, by default, Spock was in command.
The words of the Sharks' leader echoed through the bridge. They were not well received by the bridge crew.
"They cannot do that!" Chekov insisted, outraged. "Ve are a starship! They cannot board us!"
"By that reasoning, I assume they also cannot defeat us in battle?" Spock asked rhetorically.
Chekov fell silent, and bent over his console. Spock had made his point. He didn't dwell on the matter. He had too many other things to think about.
Spock bent over his own console. Behind him a medical team arrived and took charge of Lowell. Uhura insisted she was fine and they let her be. Sulu and Chekov, not sure what else to do, dealt with any consoles still sparking. Spock ignored all of it.
First, he needed to determine if there was any possibility that Chekov could in fact be correct. Could they prevent boarding? He objected on principle to the inexactness of the figures he was reading. In practice it mattered little. There were no means available.
He calculated it would take the pirates 31.4873 minutes to dock their ship and disembark. He would have sufficient time to determine the exact status of the ship. Whether he would be able to do anything about it remained to be seen.
* * *
Things were tense on the bridge, and harried in Sickbay. Doctors and nurses moved through the rooms in a controlled state of chaos, as crewmembers with varying degrees of injuries came, or were brought, in for medical attention.
Dr. McCoy ran his scanner over the engineer he was checking. There must have been an explosion of some kind in engineering, probably not too large. So far three engineers had come in with burns. The one he was checking was the worst, with burns down his right side and leg. No internal injuries though, and no signs that the man was going into shock. His condition looked—and probably felt—worse than it really was. With the right treatment, and regeneration later on, there probably wouldn't even be scars.
McCoy put the engineer at the top of his list of people who needed attention as soon as possible, but weren't suffering from life-threatening injuries. He used a hypo to inject something for the pain, and told him, "You're going to be just fine."
The engineer nodded, biting his lip. "I know, Doctor."
McCoy, starting to move on, stopped and turned back, looking at the engineer, a kid of twenty-three. His eyes narrowed. "Now wait a minute, no, you don't know. You said you know, but you think I'm just saying that because I don't want to tell you that you're going to die. If you were going to die, I would tell you that you were going to die. You are not going to die. Now say 'yes, Doctor,' and say it like you mean it."
The engineer nodded more vigorously this time. "Yes, Doctor."
"That's better," McCoy said gruffly, and clapped the man on his good shoulder. He turned, and headed across the room. By pure chance he was passing the comm unit when it buzzed insistently. A quick glance around the room showed that everyone was occupied. McCoy sighed and slapped the comm. "What?"
"Dr. McCoy, I presume?" a dry voice said.
McCoy stifled a groan. Talking to Spock was always a sure-fire way to improve his day. "You presume correctly, Mr. Spock," he said with exaggerated politeness. "What can I do for you, we're a little busy here."
"Do you have the numbers of casualties?"
Casualty numbers. He'd been too busy trying to keep them down to bother counting what they actually were. "I'm not sure, hang on."
There was a pause. "Hang on to what?"
McCoy rolled his eyes and didn't answer. He scanned the busy room. "Hey, M'Benga, the bridge wants casualty numbers, have you got 'em?"
"Sure, Doc." M'Benga tossed him a PADD and kept walking.
McCoy frowned. Would've been nice if M'Benga would've taken the call entirely. But you can't have everything. He looked at the PADD. "Well, numbers aren't good, but not as bad as they could've been. The worst hull breaches were in empty areas—"
"Doctor, I do not have an overabundance of time. Just the numbers, please."
"Nine dead, twelve critical, twenty-nine injured," McCoy snapped. "Anything else?"
Spock's sense of duty recalled another question. "How is Captain Lowell?"
"Lowell?" Oh, right, the bridge had called for a medical team. He'd been in surgery when that call came in. Then there'd been a security guard with the cracked ribs and the punctured lung. And then the engineer with the burns. The long and the short of it was that Lowell had slipped past his notice. And he prided himself on knowing everything in his Sickbay. Well, it had been a hectic last hour. Anybody can be forgiven for missing one patient. "Hang on, Spock…no, don't say it!" Let's see, Nurse Chapel had been on that medical team… "Hey Chris, how's Lowell?"
Chapel, walking by, paused, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Captain Lowell? He's in bed four. Concussion. I gave him some cortrazine. Hopefully it'll prevent a coma. Can't be sure, but there's nothing else to do. A wait-and-see case."
"Thanks, Chris. You hear all that, Spock?"
"As superior as Vulcan hearing is, no, I did not."
"Oh. Well—"
"The condensed version, please."
"Concussion! Treated to prevent coma, but we can't guarantee anything, so you'll have to give it some time," McCoy snapped.
"Thank you. Bridge ou—"
"What are you in such an all-fired rush about?" McCoy demanded. "The battle's over, nothing's happening!"
"On the contrary, Doctor. I estimate that we will be boarded in 15.219 minutes."
"We'll be what?"
"I am hopeful of facilitating a peaceful and mutually beneficial line of communication."
"Facili—! Peacefu—! Mutually beneficial…!"
McCoy was beginning to attract stares, even in the noisy Sickbay. He ignored them.
"Excuse me, Doctor, I have other business to attend to. Bridge out."
McCoy stared at the silent comm unit. There was no doubt in his mind. They were damaged fairly badly. They were being boarded by pirates in 15-point-whatever minutes. And Spock was in command. No, there was no doubt in his mind.
They were doomed.
* * *
Fourteen-point-twelve minutes later, at the docking bay. The pirates' ship had docked alongside their saucer section, and within moments (1.199 minutes) the airlock would be opening and the Sharks would be boarding. True to his determination to facilitate peaceful communication, Spock was not meeting them with phaser fire, but with something resembling a delegation, composed of himself, Sulu, and Chekov. One might have expected more than one member of the senior crew, but Captain Lowell was incapacitated and Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott were both busy in their respective areas. And as one person's business was repairing the ship and the other's was repairing the crew, it seemed wise to leave them to their jobs.
31.51 minutes following their original announcement, the pirates boarded the Enterprise. The airlock opened with an audible hiss, revealing shadowed figures behind. The figures stepped forward into the light of the airlock, going from shadowy half-forms to ordinary people. The pirate leader was in front, and Spock obtained his first view of this man who'd beaten a starship.
Spock didn't know how he knew that this was the pirate leader; he simply knew. Anyone looking at him would have known; the rest of the bridge crew knew. He was outwardly no more remarkable than the three men behind him. Human, average height and weight, brown hair, flashing hazel eyes. At a cursory glance, the only thing that stood him apart from his friends was his black coat of preserved animal skin—Spock remembered that they were called leather jackets. But even a slightly closer glance would have revealed the man's other coat, the one that didn't exist but was there nonetheless, and once spotted almost more obvious than the leather one. The metaphorical cloak of command, which a pirate had no business having but somehow had anyway. This was a man who would naturally take charge of a situation, and not have his right to do so questioned. Spock realized with faint surprise that he had seen something of the sort before. Christopher Pike had had a similar air. He would not have expected to find similarities between this man and Captain Pike. Spock drew himself up sharply at that. There were no similarities here. There were no comparisons to be made. Christopher Pike was a starship captain, a respected member of Starfleet. This man was a pirate, a raider, someone who preyed on defenseless merchant ships, worse than a simple thief. Here there was no honor, and no respect deserved.
The pirates were watching the Starfleet crew just as warily as the Starfleet crew was watching the pirates. Except their leader, who was looking around the bay with more interest than caution, more confidence than concern. Spock would not respect him, but he would have to be careful not to underestimate him either.
Spock stepped forward from the small cluster of officers. "You are the leader of the Sharks?" He knew the answer, obviously, but it was as effective an opening as the other seventeen he could think of.
He nodded, studying Spock. "Funny, I could've sworn there were no Vulcan starship captains in Starfleet," he drawled.
Bigotry? Perhaps. An idle comment? Perhaps. Either way, Spock didn't even blink. "I am second in command. The captain is injured."
He actually looked a trifle regretful. "Too bad, I wanted to meet a starship captain." He dismissed the regret quickly. "Of course, he obviously can't be half as impressive as they say. Considering how our little fight went."
There was a rumble of laughter from the pirates behind him. Spock could think of no appropriate responses, and so made none. A moment passed. The pirate leader continued glancing around the bay, and finally looked back at Spock.
"So…what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't."
He waited a moment, with no further response. "And…you gonna tell me what your name is?"
"I am Spock, first officer and science officer of the starship Enterprise. And your name is?"
He flashed a grin. "I'm Jim Kirk. Leader of the Sharks."
I never quite said he wasn't, you know…
Katharos: I misled you, didn't I? I know. It was deliberate. It was just that you were catching on to every miniscule clue I threw out (which actually I was rather impressed by) and I didn't want you to give it away before I could! : ) And you know, if you read it carefully, all I said was that it was an interesting thought (which it was, because it was true) and asked if you could picture it. Obviously, the answer is yes, I can. And you really understood Lowell; he's great with signatures and diplomats, but space battles…? Nope.
Whatshername: As I'm sure you've caught on, there were obvious reasons why I didn't answer your question regarding Kirk. Well…now you know. And yeah, Lowell is nice…but!
WedgeAntilles: Thank you! I haven't written many space battle scenes…and as to the red-shirts, well, they might survive. After all, Spock is hoping for a mutually beneficial line of communication…
Silverfang: What can I say? Lowell has issues with the shields.
RadarPLO: I suppose dunderhead is one way to describe him…
Emp: I may have killed the idea of Kirk being the pirate leader, but I didn't bury it!
Kiri: Now aren't you glad I needled you into reading this? Even if you didn't (don't) like certain aspects of it?
Mzsnaz: I know. He's the anti-Kirk. And poor, poor Spock…
Beedrill: Y'know, I think you're Lowell's first vote of sympathy. I'm glad someone feels sorry for him. He needs it. But don't worry, he doesn't feel lousy right now…he's unconscious, remember? As for how the ordeal will affect everyone…well, that's a major theme that we'll be getting into soon…
For now though, review!