CHAPTER 16

"What the hell were you thinking, Spock?"

The doctor's question is not unexpected. It is, however, at this juncture rather more difficult to answer than should be the case.

What were you thinking when you stepped onto the transporter platform and saw your frozen captain vanish from your vision? When you close your eyes the image residue lingers in patterns of yellow dust.

It has been your experience that rational thought is not possible during the transportation process. Yet, on this occasion, the hiatus between the lurch of disassembly and the fractured burn of materialization has produced an impression that in fact several minutes of lucid thought have occurred. It is... fascinating.

"Whoa there, Spock. I think you'd better sit down."

The doctor's voice is suddenly gentle. But when you open your eyes he seems determined to confuse your senses by swaying at least thirty degrees from the vertical and refusing to remain stationary.

You decide to ignore him and instead focus on the figure in red behind the transportation console. You step down from the platform and close the space between yourself and the Commander. That space appears to have widened since the last time you transported on board the Enterprise. An alternative theory is that the process of transport has inadvertently decreased either the length or the muscular integrity of your legs.

"Mr. Scott, the captain is in immediate danger. Please assemble a security team and initiate... command protocol..." The exact sequence of protocols escapes you momentarily. You have the sense you are unreal. The unfocused outline of your thoughts blurs as if each is superimposed upon another beneath.

"Aye sir. But the doctor's right. You need to sit down."

"I can assure you I am perfectly well, Commander."

It proves necessary to emphasize this point by extending a hand and placing a firm grip on the edge of the console. Which feels unexpectedly reluctant to retain its current position and slides between your fingers as if on castors.

"You will be in a moment, Mr. Spock. But that was a rough transport. We had to leave your pattern in the buffers for longer than I'd have liked."

"Damn fool, Vulcan. You might at least have given us some warning you were about to fling your molecules around the universe." But there is warm relief in the doctor's tone. And now the man in blue and his humming tricorder is by your side. The distant hiss of the hypo seems unrelated to the pressure in your upper arm.

"How do you feel, Spock?"

How do you feel? The reply that presents itself is inappropriate.

How do I feel? With every nerve ending, Dr McCoy.

A joke? Really? Now?

An alternative reply surfaces, equally inappropriate.

How do I feel? That is none of your concern. Why must you humans continually dissect the emotional affairs of others?

You dismiss the flapping thoughts and lift your fingers to the bridge of your nose reaching for the familiar safety net of mental control. Which, on retrieval, appears alarmingly elastic.

"Am I correct to assume, Mr. Scott, that you have successfully modified the Enterprise transporter?"

"Aye, Mr. Spock. And that was a canny thing you did there, sending that data burst from the colony control room. But the transport took me by surprise. You took a hell of a risk, sir. How did you know we'd intercept your pattern?"

"I did not, in fact, know you would be successful."

Actually you had calculated the odds of a duplicate or corrupted pattern outweighed a possibility of a successful intercept by a factor of five point seven to one. Yet you did not hesitate. The thought process that both preceded and apparently accompanied the transport is...both an irrelevance and an unnecessary distraction.

The doctor's hypo is beginning to take effect, the internal blur to focus and resolve. You straighten and move behind the console to stand alongside the engineer, barely registering the whoosh of opening doors.

"The Captain has been incapacitated," you say. "He occupies a space some 1.7 meters from the transportation platform. In addition there is a child. A hostage from the Demeter. He too is in danger."

Doctor McCoy is incredulous. "Jake? Jake was there with you?"

Mr. Scott points at the console readings. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. We're still unable to scan that far down with any precision. As I said it's a bloody miracle we were able to grab your pattern from the colony buffers."

"Then I return to my original order, Mr. Scott. It is imperative to assemble a fully armed security team with medical support. I will brief the team myself as I have the most recent data on both the colony layout and the probable location of hostile forces -"

"- Are you sure about that, Commander Spock?"

The cool clear voice from the doorway is unfamiliar. For an instant the blur of command gold confuses. As do the engineer's next words.

"Captain. I wasnae expecting to see you down here."

The woman who steps into the transporter room is a stranger. Yet there is something familiar in those sharp blue eyes. And a weariness too.

She offers a ta'al in salute. "Apologies, Mr. Spock. I'm Captain Glover. Until recently in command of the Demeter. Did I hear you say you've had the dubious pleasure of meeting my son?"

-oOo-