The lab was empty and the lights dimmed. Kirk crossed
quietly to Spock's office and found the Vulcan looking
expectantly at the doorway, hands steepled before him.
"Did you hear me come in?" Kirk asked.
"I estimated the time it would take you to get here from
the bridge based on the current shift and the latest
reports on turbolift efficiency, Captain." Spock said as
Kirk sat down. "And, of course, I heard you come in.
Computer, close door. Engage privacy locks. End all
security monitoring."
"You don't have anything to 'demonstrate', do you?"
"No, Captain. What I do have is nine missing Starfleet
vessels."
"Nine?" Kirk said.
"Nine certain disappearances. Most involve smaller
vessels, scout class. Five further probables. Two
possibles."
"That's sixteen." Kirk said.
"Yes." Spock folded his hands. "Of those sixteen,
all the certains, four of the probables, and one of the
possibles occurred in sectors 36, 35, and 34. As did
all the civilian and merchant incidents I have previously
described."
Kirk sat back and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.
"That's fairly convincing." He took a deep breath. "What
else?"
"Rumours of unusual transmissions originating from
Klingon space - in the area bordering sectors 36 and
35. Security flags on every one of the Starfleet files,
and lock outs that I have, as yet, been unable to
covertly subvert. There are also, to anyone with the
skill to see, clear traces of security wipes on several of
the civilian incident reports." Spock paused. "And
something else. Computer, playback file Spock twenty
nine Alpha seven A."
"Security authorisation required."
"Security authorisation Spock Alpha Einstein Hawking
Bork."
"Security authorisation confirmed. Voiceprint confirmed.
Playback commencing."
A long pause. The hiss and crackle of static. And then -
"What do you want? What do you want? What do you
WANT?"
The woman's voice seared out of the speakers and crashed
around the room, bringing Kirk instinctively to his feet,
the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
"The last known transmission of the civilian transport
Fortune of Furness." Spock said into the humming silence that
followed. "She failed to make scheduled berthing at
Starbase 18 one hundred and fifteen hours ago. I have identified
the voice, to ninety eight percent probability, as that of
Captain Mary Furness."
"God help her." Kirk murmured.
"Indeed." Spock said. "Mary Furness has been awarded
the civilian Bronze Star for bravery, Jim. She stared down
three Klingon warships with her finger on a self- destruct
button. I find it difficult to conceive of a situation or a
foe that would cause her to panic."
"But there's one out there." Kirk said. "Isn't there?"
"That conclusion," Spock said, "is unavoidable."
"We have to move in fifteen minutes," Rand said some
hours later. Larssen had made it up to the bridge for
the first time since boarding, and leaned against the
back of the centre chair. "At best speed, we have to
move in fifteen or we won't get out beyond the
perimeter by the deadline."
"Give me allcall." Larssen said. "All hands, all
passengers, this is Lieutenant Larssen. Prepare for
manoeuvres in ten minutes. Larssen out." Close that
channel, open another. "Bridge to Chief Madison, please
respond."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"We have to get ready to run her out."
"Run, no fucking way." he said. Over the comm.,
without the steady angry intensity of his eyes, his voice
only sounded dull and tired. "Walk, probably not.
Crawl, I can do."
"In ten minutes, we'll be crawling out."
"What time is it?" he asked her.
"Minus three hours."
"Found your watch, lady?"
"Larssen out."
She hung there against the chair, vision coming and going.
"N'o, ready to undock."
"Ready aye." he said.
"Loose grapples."
He worked at his board for a moment, and then his head
snapped up.
"Grapple, inconsistent, recalcitrant." he said. "Port four,
handling, indigo."
"Lukewarm stinking rotten festering garbage," Larssen
said, "Lukewarm stinking rotten festering organic -" she got
her breath and swallowed bile, swallowed and swallowed until
the nausea faded . "Larssen to Brand, Larssen to Brand, come
in please."
"Yes'm." Brand said, tinny and crackling over the jury-
rigged main comm.
"Brand, the port four grapple won't release. Get an EVA
suit, go out there and cut it free."
A very brief pause. "Yes'm." Brand said solemnly.
That would put him on the hull, twenty feet from any
airlock when the ship started to move. Not likely
he could drag himself back to safety against the
force of the ship's speed. Not likely he could hold
on even until his air ran out. Larssen wanted to
say something about what a good officer he was, about
how much she liked him even if his fidgeting drove
her mad, but she bit it back. Unnecessary. Not even
useful, at this point.
She clung on to the back of the chair until her fingers
cramped and ached, eyes on the display. Port four grapple
showing red, seconds ticking down. Port four grapple
showing red, three minutes left of the fifteen. Port four
grapple showing red, clock moving to zero.
Port four grapple green.
"Take us out, Mr N'o." she said hoarsely.
"Aye, ma'am." he said, and the ship started to move.
It would have taken a far better pilot to compensate for
the irregularity in the ship's engines flawlessly, but N'o
managed to keep them on course with a constant
jockeying of manoeuvring jets and impulse engines.
Burn, nudge, correct, burn. Space dock slid past.
Burn, nudge, nudge, burn. The doors loomed up.
Burn, burn, nudge. Something clanked against the hull
and then scraped along it, setting everyone's teeth on
edge - except N'o's, of course. Scrape, nudge, burn,
scrape, burn.
Space dock behind them.
"Mr N'o, take up out along heading Delta Seven Fourteen
at best possible speed."
"Yes, ma'am." he said.
Larssen reached for her comm.. "Brand." she said.
"Brand, are you there?"
Silence. Switch frequencies. "Madison? Madison, report."
Silence.