Scott ordered the red alert siren turned off, though the lights continued to flash urgently. He turned, hands on his hips, to Chekhov and Sulu.
"All right you two conspirators, what are you conspiring about now?" he demanded.
Sulu waited, listening to the last few words that Chekhov was whispering. He swallowed hard but looked Scott straight in the eye.
"We have several cases of photon grenades on board, in the weapons locker," he said.
"Aye," Scotty nodded, his brogue thick. "But if phasers aren't affective against these villains, the photon grenades won't be either."
"Not as regular photon grenades, no sir," Chekhov agreed," But we know how to rig them to explode, and they are portable."
Scott winced. His strong Gaelic features betrayed the pain he felt at the thought of such explosions in the corridors of his beloved ship.
"Sir!" Uhura said, "We've lost contact with a second security detail. All lower decks reporting intruders….." She paused and then finished in a soft trembling voice, "No injuries. All those left behind were killed instantly."
Scott held Uhura's dark, steady gaze for a moment and then nodded again, almost to himself. Whether they wanted it or not, the Enterprise was at war. He looked back at Sulu and Chekhov and wondered if he was about to give them permission to walk off to their deaths.
But the two of them were acting as if they were sitting on live wires, strung tight with the need to act. Chekhov's face was vivid with tension. Men like that didn't sit calmly on the Bridge at a time like this.
"All right lads," he said, softly, "I can see there won't be much to stop you from going, so you might as well do it with my blessing. Truth be told I'd rather be going w' ye. Take phasers"
"With all respect, sir," Sulu said, already on his feet and hurrying behind Chekhov for the still-open hatch on the floor, "If phasers worked we wouldn't be going to jerry-rig the photo grenades."
The truth of that sat bitterly on Scott, even as he watched Ensign Riley and Lt. Arex slip into the vacated seats at the helm with trained Star Fleet discipline. "Aye, but ye can put them on overload if worse comes to worse."
The Ensign and the Lieutenant paused and shared a look, then reluctantly took the belts and phasers Lt. Osbourne, the sole remaining Bridge guard, handed them. After securing the belts around their waists, they disappeared down the hole like Alice after the Rabbit, leaving everyone wondering if they would ever be seen again.
"More reports coming in, sir," Uhura said, dismally, "The intruders are splintering into smaller groups and coming into the mid decks now."
"On audio, Lt," he said, flatly.
For several long somber moments Scott listened to the sounds of the Enterprise being gutted of her crew. Phaser fire followed deafening explosions. Silence followed screams. He finally signaled to shut off the audio. There was little they could do but continue to hold the Bridge. The war was internal, not out in the cold heartless expanse of space. He knew this crew. They'd not go down without one hell of a fight.
If they could not stop and defeat these relentless murderers, Scott knew he had no choice but to destroy the Enterprise. He could not- he would not - allow them to use her as a vessel to attack the Federation. The knowledge weighed like death on his soul.
His grim thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice coming from the hole in the floor,
"Do not fire! It is me!" This was followed by a rather savage, but also familiar, feline growl as M'Ress hauled herself up out of the duct and then reached down to rather unceremoniously drag Lt. Palmer out after her.
"Did ye not hear the orders that the Bridge was sealed, Lt?" He snapped, glaring at the bristling Caitan and the rather disheveled Human.
"Yes, sir, and we know the problem we are facing. Uhura has all of us monitor the Bridge channel at all times. We have information," M'Ress said, flattening her ears against her russet mane, "and we came to get Uhura.'
Uhura stood, with controlled grace and extreme dignity in the face of the current situation, and faced the two females who served under her in Communications.
"What information and why do you need me?" she demanded.
M'Ress stood nearly at attention, balanced on her toes.
"Sir!" M'Ress replied, addressing her Superior, "They are communicating with each other at decibels that are outside the range of normal Human hearing."
Uhura digested the information quickly, "But you heard them?"
"Yes," M'Ress continued to report, "I can, possibly Mr. Spock could as well," here she faltered for a moment, looking distressed. Then she shook it off visibly, her mane rippling and the claws on her toes digging into the carpet, and went on, "I was on Deck 13 when I heard them coming. It is a language of hoots and whistles and long single notes drawn out until they fade. I climbed up into the ducts as they went by. The Universal translator isn't set to detect sounds at their level. So I went to Auxiliary Control and reset it. But it still can't make out what they are saying. There are not two words it can string together coherently. That is why I came to get you." M'Ress ended with a growl instead of her customary breathy purr.
Palmer spoke up, "I can run the Bridge Communications. Anyone can monitor the channels and send distress signals. But M'Ress knows that Translator inside and out. She could probably make it sing and dance if she wanted; and you," she looked pointedly at Uhura, "are the best linguist we've got. If the Translator can give you the words, you should be able to figure out what it is they want, and maybe stop this mess."
Uhura looked anxiously at Scott, "Permission to leave the Bridge," she said. "We can work best from Auxiliary Control. There's no background noise there."
"At this rate, I'll be up here all alone!" Scott grumbled.
"Scotty, we've got to figure out what it is they want. They may not realize we can't hear them. They may be unable to hear or understand us."
Her dark chocolate eyes pinned him straight through the heart. They both knew there wasn't a choice.
"Aye," he said, with resignation and reluctance heavy in his brogue, "Palmer, take over Communications. Uhura, you should take weapons."
"They will not be useful," M'Ress replied, a snarl deep in her voice, "or needed." To emphasize her statement, M'Ress bared her sharp teeth and unsheathed the lethal claws on her hands and feet.
Scott would have given a lot at that moment to think of another way this could be done. But M'Ress was right. Uhura was the best chance they had at deciphering a language and M'Ress had to be within hearing distance of the aliens to pick them up on the Translator. He watched, feeling frustrated and helpless as the two women vanished as surely as one did into a black hole.
Sulu and Chekhov moved as silently as possible through the maze of ducts that moved artificial atmosphere through their ship; relying on each other to remember the way down to the weapons lockers, crouching like prey hiding from a predator when their invaders would run down the corridors below them, holding each other's gaze and seeing the anger and horror reflected back at the carnage they could see when they crawled over each vent. They were grim and tight-lipped, moving past the bodies of their crewmates and the blood stained halls.
At one point Chekhov had to stop and close his eyes, purging his mind of the images of the dead and of the blood. Sulu paused with him, trying to stay close.
"Chekhov," he whispered urgently, "Pav…."
The Russian opened his eyes and rage had burned the youth and spirit out of them. Sulu could only nod.
"Keep moving," he said, knowing it would be too easy to get lost in grief and anger, "We have work to do."
He took the lead, squeezing past Chekhov and crawling forward determinedly. He navigated a tight intersection and came up short, stopping so abruptly Chekhov slammed into him. Sulu had nearly run head first into Janice Rand.
"Janice! You scared the hell out of me!" he snapped, "What are you doing crawling around in here?"
"Same as you," she snapped back, feisty as ever, blue eyes flashing in the dark, "Trying to get past those armored fiends long enough to do my duty."
Sulu tried not to moan with exasperation, "Janice, go to your quarters and stay there. Don't make me make it an order."
"Don't make me disobey you," she answered, "The Captain's logs have to be jettisoned. It's protocol. Regulations."
Now Sulu did groan. At the moment, they had nothing but their sense of honor and duty. He was marching… well crawling, off to do his with Chekhov on his heels. Short of dragging Janice to the Brig, which was impractical at best under the circumstances, he had no chance of making her go hide somewhere.
"Sulu, let her go," Chekhov hissed from behind him. "We are Star Fleet. This is what we do. Don't make her hide in the dark."
Sulu shook his head, resigned. Supporting his weight on one hand he released the phaser belt and passed it to her. She took it but confusion was plain on her face even in the dim light.
"I thought phasers weren't doing any good against them?"
"It will if you overload it. You remember how?" His dark eyes bored into hers as if to drag the memory out of her.
"I remember," she replied, awkwardly securing the belt around her waist.
"Janice," his voice was ice coated, "For God's sake be careful….." he paused, swallowed, "If anything happens to me I need someone to take care of Gertrude."
"Beauregard," she said, stubbornly.
"She's pink!" Sulu said.
"Cultural bias," she said, dismissively, "I know a man when I see one."
"Can you two continue your argument about that plant later? Please?" Chekhov asked, as if they had made him pause over a nest of live hornets.
With great reluctance, Sulu plastered himself against the wall so Janice could squeeze past them. He watched her go until she melted into the dark like snow.
"Sulu!" Chekhov urged, as the sounds of new artillery fire and shouting began coming towards them from below.
"Come on," Sulu said, and surged forward once again.