11 months. How did that happen? I've never had a gap of 11 months between updates. Grovels Thank you for the nagging. It finally worked.
-oOo-
For a moment, standing in the dazzle after so many black hours buried underground, Kirk thinks Scotty has disobeyed orders. That he's back on board his own ship. But the moment lasts no longer than it takes for the sparkle to fade and for the lines to sharpen at the edge of his vision. James Kirk knows the hum of his Enterprise as well as he knows the sound of air in his own lungs and this ship, for all its harsh light, smooth curves and recycled air, isn't breathing. It is a dead thing; cold enough to mist his breath, but not too cold to mask the stench of decay. The scale is wrong too - corridor curving too soon, ceiling too low - and on either side run doors in gunmetal grey not red.
He takes a step and underfoot the floor is sticky. When he looks down he realises. He's standing in blood. Dried brown spatters paint a path of past horror in fading footprints. Brown not green he thinks and shuts off a rush of feeling that in another time and place might have been relief.
Another few paces takes him round the curve and within sight of a doorway helpfully emblazoned Shuttle Bay 2. There's a hiss as the pressure changes in his ears and it's enough of a clue to tell him what's happening beyond the bulk head. So Rawlson's shuttle has survived the journey. He's barely made it in time.
In time for what? Suddenly he wonders what exactly he thinks he's doing here, still dizzy from a drug administered not long enough ago and with every breath an uncomfortable reminder that his cracked rib cage would prefer not to expand thank you very much. But somewhere on board the Demeter his First Officer is in trouble. His chief medical officer might disagree – Oh really, Captain. You think? -but every instinct tells him this is where he needs to be.
He thinks back to the overheard conversation in the control room - to the disembodied voice of his First splintered by sub space interference. And fractured by a corrupted transporter pattern? Impossible to tell. It's enough to know Spock's here. Alive. Possibly in duplicate.
Large as life and twice as natural, his tired brain supplies in sing song voice. Where's that from? Lewis Carroll he thinks. Through the looking glass. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Chess and monsters and mad dictators. And here he is, Captain Alice, trying to make sense of it all.
Where's Giotto? Scotty said he had a team here but there's no sign of him. Right now he'd give a great deal to see the solid bulk of his chief of security appear around the curve of a corridor. He needs a plan and he needs a phaser. Not necessarily in that order. Actually, Bones, what he really needs right now is a drink.
He stops and leans on the doorframe. Closes his eyes for a few deep breaths. The knife in his chest helps clear the fog from his focus. Think, Kirk.
The security team will be waiting on the shuttle deck. Out of sight. Standard procedure with madmen and hostile shuttles. And Spock must be there too. That's what he'd said on the comms link. But which Spock? When he opens his eyes for a moment he sees the scenarios stretch away, reflected down a hall of endless mirrors and trap doors. Enough. Time to shatter the glass.
-oOo-
"You did what?"
Sometimes Scott thinks the doctor's default setting is controlled fury but, judging by the bulging eyes and flushed cheeks, 'controlled' may be about to climb the scale to 'unrestrained.' At least one of them can stay professional. He keeps his voice even in the vain hope it will have a calming effect.
"The Captain insisted, Dr McCoy. I did tell him you'd want to see him first but-"
"Damn it, man. You have no idea what sort of state he's in. Was he even lucid? Does he know what he's walking into over there?"
Scott thinks back to that soft voice from the console speaker and straightens his shoulders.
"Aye, he was lucid. He sounded like...well, he sounded like the Captain." And my commanding officer, he adds silently. The man who gives me orders I've learned to trust over the past five years, even when they seem daft; even when they asked the impossible. He clears his throat. "And he knew where Mister Spock was. He knew about that Rawlson fellow too. That he was heading for the Demeter. I'd say he was fully briefed." He tries to ignore the whisper of doubt, the nudge of 'something missing' even as he meets the furious gaze of the ship's CMO.
The doctor snorts. "Fully briefed, my ass. Who by? Last we heard the man had been poisoned and paralysed. God knows how he even got hold of a communicator." He turns to the console. "So have you told the away team? Have you told Spock?"
Scott shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. His mouth is dry. "Not yet. They're on silent running. Communication's down ship to ship until the shuttle docks."
McCoy lifts eyes and hands to implore an inoffensive ceiling tile, "Lord save us from military protocol. Someone's got to sort this mess out," then takes a firmer grasp on the med-kit that appears to have been welded to his shoulder since the Enterprise received its first casualties and strides towards the transporter platform. "Get me over there, Scotty. Before it's too late."
It is not a good time, the ship's chief engineer judges, to further outline the transporter restrictions imposed by the order for silent running. And in any case, a few minutes spent fussing with the console will make little difference in the long run.
-oOo-
Lieutenant Commander Barry Giotto is patient, unimaginative man. It must be true because it says so, right there in his Starfleet psyche profile, alongside his service record and the long list of commendations for leadership and calmness under fire. The second part of this evaluation he has no quarrel with. He's proud of his record - all of it - and takes no offence when he reads the gently guarded remarks from successive commanding officers about a certain lack of creativity in his thinking. Leave the blue sky stuff to the James T Kirk's of this galaxy. It's been his experience that, for those who enlist in the Fleet's security service and wear a red shirt with pride, a vivid imagination leads only to trouble.
And so, although instincts honed by long training mean he does not miss the movement in the doorway of shuttle bay two, any inclination to imagine that the shadow had, for a brief moment, coloured itself in command gold is easily dismissed as a trick of the changing light and shifting air currents produced by the slow descent of a battered sub orbital shuttle still steaming from its recent transit through the stratosphere of Deneb III.
See - the shadow's gone in a hiss of condensing gas. No, he's comfortable with unimaginative. It's the patient part of the description that's giving him trouble today. Another man might be angry about the day's events. A man who hadn't been through the years of Fleet training, the endless exercises in discarding an emotional response in favour of effective action, a man who lacked the planetside experience of losing in minutes a dozen trusted and trusting men… Well, that man might be mightily peeved by the sights he's seen today. But anger clouds clear thinking, and plays merry hell with a trigger finger.
So it must be impatience that's pressing an invisible hand in the small of his back, impatience that's creating the faint sheen of moisture in the palm that cradles a warm phaser, and impatience that tickles an itch in the toes of his boots currently standing in the shadow of a cargo net as the shuttle sighs towards its moorings and the bay doors hiss shut. His focus is on the occupants of that shuttle and on the unpredictable nature of their upcoming interaction with the Enterprise's First Officer who now stands as rigid as any bulkhead and awaits the green light that will signal the shuttle bay's secondary forcefield has reached full strength.
This is almost over. As the hull comes to rest on its supporting cradle he can see the 'almost' shrink with every millimeter.
-oOo-
It is inconvenient, Spock thinks, that Vulcan ethics will not countenance the employment of a mind meld without consent. Since the Captain and Jake are evidently not on board the shuttle it is therefore incumbent upon him to persuade Rawlson and his team to reveal the necessary information by...other means.
As the shuttle steps unfold with a hiss of frozen gas condensing in response to the relative warmth of the dock, he summons up a persona he has never met but about whom he has read in exhaustive detail in the mission logs of the four crew members who experienced events precipitated by a magnetic storm in the stratosphere above Halcon.
The grubby figure who appears at the hatch appears in no hurry to descend. Eyes narrowed, Paul Rawlson scans the shuttle deck then fixes both his gaze and his phaser on the figure waiting below.
"Well, Mister Spock. So here you are. We thought we'd misplaced you." That high pitched laugh, another scan and a tentative first step before, "I confess we are still at a loss as to why our transporter decided to deposit you here rather than at the originally programmed co-ordinates. But..." that laugh again, "it's an ill wind as they say. This may work out rather well for all concerned."
Another step. And behind Rawlson a figure appears in the shuttle doorway. Miller mutters something in his commander's ear. Who frowns and looks from one end of the shuttle deck to the other. "Are you quite alone, Mister Spock?"
Spock, noting with some relief the absence of a tricorder, inclines his head. "I am, Commander." When Miller scowls Spock understands the full implications of the query and continues with what he hopes is a suitably meaningful tone. "I was... accompanied on arrival. My counterpart has been...taken care of."
The phaser does not waver but the figure descends slowly, breathing more heavily than should be necessary given atmospheric conditions on the shuttle deck. For the first time Spock notes the black case gripped in the commander's other hand.
"Good, good. And am I to assume you are capable of piloting this vessel? At warp?"
Spock makes a swift assessment of the likely extent of knowledge of transport vessels possessed by the man before him, the glimmer of desperation in those pale eyes. "Indeed." He folds his arms. "But I am currently unpersuaded that I should aid your attempt to escape from Starfleet jurisdiction."
He pauses. His next words must achieve the twin goals of continuing to maintain his current alter-ego subterfuge while persuading the man in front of him to reveal the whereabouts of the two missing hostages. Only then can he give the signal that will bring the security team from the shadows.
Avoiding the temptation to steal a glance at what, for a moment, had appeared to be a slight movement in those shadows, he fixes a gimlet stare on the descending figure. "Our odds of successfully evading Starfleet pursuit would be substantially altered if we were in possession of...an effective weapon."
Rawlson has reached the hangar deck with a clang. "A weapon, Mister Spock? I am not sure I follow you. You're surely not suggesting a stand-off with the flagship of the fleet." He huffs a nervous laugh. "I had in mind the employment of a suitable distraction tactic followed by a swift and stealthy exit."
Spock wastes little time on the fleeting incredulous thought that the man before him seriously believes that the bridge crew of the Enterprise would either be taken in by a feint or fail to track the distinctive signature trail of the Demeter.
Instead he continues. "Negative. I refer to your two hostages, Commander. The Captain and the young man formerly of this vessel." The boy you were willing to kill. The man you poisoned. "Their presence would considerably improve our odds of a successful... I believe the term is 'getaway.'
Rawlson gives a sideways glance towards his two companions now fanning out behind him on the hangar deck, phasers, Spock notes uneasily, swinging unsteadily. Both men have deteriorated markedly since their last meeting. The younger of the two - Barker, Spock remembers from a recent close encounter between a knee and an Adam's apple in Rawlson's office - is scanning his surroundings with panicked, jerky movements. Meanwhile, the Lieutenant formerly known as Miller is moving as if underwater. He stumbles as he rounds the tail of the shuttle and reaches up to steady himself, breathing heavily.
Before Rawlson can answer, Barker turns red-rimmed eyes on the waiting Vulcan.
"I suggest you forget about the hostages, Spock." His voice is harsh, painful. "They're gone. Gone for good."
For a fraction of a second something twists in painfully in Spock's chest. He chooses to ignore it and to focus on Barker's exact words.
"Gone," he repeats. "If you would clarify-"
But before he can finish there's a clang from behind the shuttle. The pair of horizontal boots emerging from the supporting struts suggest Miller has succumbed to unconsciousness. Barker swears softly and takes the few steps needed to kneel by his side.
"Marcus," He grasps the man's shoulders and shakes the prone form in a manner unlikely, in Spock's view, to produce a response. "Damn." He looks over at Rawlson still standing indecisively on the shuttle ramp. "He needs a boost. Give me one of the hypos."
Rawlson shakes his head and grasps the case protectively. "No, there's no point. He's had the full dose."
Barker glowers. "What are you talking about? You said you had plenty... a new batch. You said the others only went down 'cos..."
"I know what I said. And you're not listening. He's had the full dose." Rawlson's dismissive. "Leave him. We don't need him. We're here now." He shifts the briefcase under one arm and gestures toward Spock. "And we have the very capable Mister Spock to take care of us."
Shifting numbers on a screen that flickers, a memory lit by a sparking power conduit. A column marked G and a chronology that did not - quite - adhere to logical progression. So that is how the Commander kept the loyalty of a selected few. With a compound that slowed the inevitable deterioration and the empty promise of a future.
Spock watches as realisation hits. Barker stands, and takes a step towards his former commanding officer, face contorted with rage, phaser shaking.
"You lied. You bastard. You lied. Give me that case." Barker is aiming at Rawlson but he is in no condition to shoot straight. "Kirk was right, wasn't he. He was telling the truth. I'm dying. We're all dying."
This will not do. If Rawlson disappears now in a burst of phaser fire it will, Spock thinks, be no loss to Starfleet. But with him will die information which could be crucial to finding the Enterprise's missing Captain.
Spock takes a step forward. Sees Giotto in the shadows reach the same conclusion at the same moment. And sees Rawlson wide eyed and furious back away swinging his phaser between three targets.
And it is of course at this moment that the missing Captain chooses to put in an appearance.
-oOo-
You've no reason to believe me. But I have in fact written a section of the next chapter so have high hopes of updating this in rather less time than 11 months. Do not blame you if you're a tad sceptical. But thank you to those who are sticking with me.
