Chapter Seven

After the turbolift doors closed behind Kirk, there was a lull on the bridge before work was resumed. It was as if his presence had left an electric charge lingering there. Chekov was surprised to find that he had been holding his breath for some reason.

“He wanted her back,” said Sulu. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be in his way when he went after her!”

Uhura nodded. This was exactly what she had just felt in Kirk, too. He had also had that look which comes into some men’s eyes when they’ve just won a woman and she lies there ready to be taken. Uhura was not unacquainted with that look, but she was troubled at the amount of hunger she had seen there too.

One of the new relief crew members spoke up, perturbed. “And Captain Decker? This ship was given to him—he’s been with her every minute of refitting.”

Uhura’s doubts evaporated as she turned to Kirk’s defense, her tone brittle. “Ensign, our chances of getting back from this mission may have just doubled!” Privately, she wondered if that would prove good enough. From what she was overhearing on communications, Uhura could piece together a fairly accurate picture of what they faced, and she was surprised to find herself wondering if today’s Jim Kirk could handle that emergency as well as the captain she remembered. There was no denying that he had been three years Earthbound in a job he should never have accepted.

Montgomery Scott stood in the midst of what to many would have seemed pandemonium. The engine’s intermix chamber, extending three ship levels above him and four more below, did not yet show the blinding hellfire look it would have when delivering warp power, but even at this low setting, the flare of the wave-energy collectors gave everything an unearthly appearance. But Scott had long ago learned how to ignore all this. Any other way of working here would have been impossible, although not nearly as impossible as it would have been to him to work elsewhere.

Scott had no dream of one day commanding a starship of his own. Indeed, he would have considered it a foolish waste of his talents. He could conceive of no higher honor or greater glory than was already his as chief engineer of a starship, and particularly of this one.

The last three years of redesigning and rebuilding her had been the happiest time in Scott’s life—and it was being marred now by the fact that they were improperly hurrying his vessel into service. The new-design engines had yet to be warp tested, and these engines were six times as powerful as anything ever carried into space before—most emphatically, they were not things to be hurriedly or carelessly used.

“Ready, Engineer. Let’s compare mag-patterns.”

The words came from a well-muscled young torso which, at this moment, appeared to be headless. Actually, Will Decker had managed to work his blond head completely into the tiny access hatch of the auxiliary power console—which was fortunate, since it had enabled the young captain to see the nearly microscopic quadister burn-out which had kept the ship’s transporters out of action. It had been a message to this effect which had brought Scott hurrying here from the cargo deck boarding area—and he was now impressed all over again by Decker’s resourcefulness in tracking down and locating the trouble.

Their test patterns compared perfectly, but as Decker carefully worked his head free, his eyes still carried a worried look. The transporters would now begin beaming personnel and cargo up to the ship again, but Decker wished they had time for further overload tests. Why had this particular burn-out occurred, and why hadn’t it shown up in the tests? Scott, with some of the same doubts, started to suggest that they investigate further—and then suddenly realized Decker would soon be gone. He found himself feeling increasingly sickhearted over the shattering disappointment in store for this young man, whom he had come to like and to respect.

As he saw Kirk come in and move toward them, Scott felt his face flushing in embarrassment as he realized that Kirk was going to say it to Decker here. He wondered if he himself should have given the young captain some warning. But no, it would have been improper coming from anyone but Kirk. And in view of their near impossible schedule, Kirk was undoubtedly right in doing it here, immediately and cleanly. If Enterprise was to be ready in only eleven hours now, none of them could let anything take an unnecessary minute of their time.

“Admiral Kirk,” said Captain Willard Decker, pleased, reaching out for a handshake. “We’re getting a top-brass sendoff.” The young captain’s self-assured grin reminded Scott of another young Enterprise captain he had once known. “She’ll launch on schedule if we have to tow her out with our bare hands. Right, Scotty?”

“Aye, sir,” Scott said lamely. “That we will.”

Kirk broke in, firmly: “Will, let’s step over here and talk.” He indicated a bulkhead corner and Decker looked back at him, puzzled. Then he turned to Scott. “Let me know when the backups are in place.”

“Aye, sir,” Scott said glumly to their backs as the two walked away, Decker almost too handsome, some said, moving with the loose easiness of youth; Kirk more seasoned, with a controlled grace, looking grimly but determined to do what he must now do. A simile came to Scott’s mind, but he brushed the absurd comparison away immediately—he saw no reason to be reminded of the herd bull returning to find a young usurper rutting there.

“All due respect, sir, I hope this isn’t a Starfleet pep talk; I’m just too busy.” Decker said it pleasantly but still firmly. As much as he admired and owed this man whose protégé he had been, his friendship with Kirk had to come second to his own responsibilities here.

“I’m taking the center seat,” Kirk said. “I’m sorry, Will.”

“You are what . . . ?” Decker was certain that Kirk must have said something else.

“I’m replacing you as captain of the Enterprise.”

Decker found himself staring at Kirk blankly. He saw Kirk reach tentatively, as if to clasp a hand on his shoulder, fatherly, brotherly . . . but then Kirk’s expression seemed to harden and he drew back. “You’ll stay aboard as executive officer . . . a temporary grade reduction to commander.”

Decker found his voice. “You personally are assuming command?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Kirk nodded. “My experience—five years out there dealing with unknowns like this; my familiarity with the Enterprise, this crew.”

“Admiral, this is an almost totally new Enterprise. You don’t know her a tenth as well as I do.” And you won’t have time to get acquainted with her! In thirty hours we could be at battle stations.

“That’s why you’re staying aboard,” Kirk answered evenly. “I’m sorry, Will.”

“No, Admiral,” Decker flared, “I don’t think you are; not one damned bit. I remember when you recommended me for this command. You told me how envious you were, and how painful it was to have no way to get a starship command again. Well, sir, it looks like you found a way!”

“Report to the bridge, Commander,” Kirk said flatly. “Immediately.”

Decker’s eyes remained locked with Kirk’s for a moment. Then he turned stiffly and left.

Kirk watched Decker go and stood collecting his own composure for a moment. He was less dissatisfied with Decker’s reaction than with his own handling of it. He felt that he should have been able to make it clear that envy had played no part in taking command of Enterprise again. It had nothing to do with envy. . . .

What the hell?! He had just started across to Scott when he saw the flare of cross-circuiting. It was from the panel that Scott and Decker had been working on.

A technician had pounced on the omnicon switch: “Transporter room, come in! Urgent!” he shouted, turning to Scott. “Redline on the transporters, Mr. Scott!”

Scott was white-faced, sending the same warning by intercom: “Transporter room, do not engage! Do not—”

The technician pointed to a reading. “Too late. They’re beaming up someone now!”

Kirk and Scott raced for the nearest turbolift.

Transporter Chief Janice Rand had never felt horror like this. Out on the transporter platform there were fluttering swirls of black ugliness where two crew arrivals should be materializing. Had she made some foolish mistake with her energy-convert setting?

“Go to emergency power source,” she snapped. Her transporter assistant made the switch-over smoothly.

Through the protective shielding, Rand could see the two shapes that seemed to try to materialize, but the patterns were still fluttering—were they also becoming slightly distorted? What was wrong? She could see now that every control was properly set; all instrument readings were perfect. Why were warning lights flashing there? Her transporter assistant was as perplexed as she was! Damn an untested ship!

“Starfleet!” She was snapping into the transceiver, “Override us! Override. Yank them back!”

“Unable to retrieve their patterns, Enterprise,” Starfleet was answering.

The two forms were materializing more solidly now. One was a male, a Vulcan, apparently. This would be Commander Sonak, whom Rand knew was due aboard. The other was younger, an attractive female—Rand felt a new wave of horror as they fluttered from sight again, then reappeared, their bodies clearly misshapen now.

Kirk entered at full run. Scott, only a few steps behind, took over from the transporter assistant as Rand made room for Kirk, who began a fast polarity check of the master controls. She felt some faint relief over the certainty that Jim Kirk would do whatever was possible.

“Damn!” This from Kirk, who had reached for the pattern-enhancement boost and had discovered its position changed on this new panel.

“We’re losing the pattern!” Scott said it rapidly.

Kirk found the pattern-booster control, pushed it to full emergency as he turned to the transceiver: “Starfleet, boost your matter gain down there; we need more signal!”

Starfleet’s response was immediate; there was a flutter of greater solidity on the transporter platforms. The two figures almost fully patterned for an instant—and Rand heard the sound of agony, a disbelieving moan from someone. On the platform? No, here! It was the captain!

Kirk fought to keep from screaming obscenities. It was Lori! Sonak, too—but what was Lori doing up here? She was dying. And he was helpless to stop it.

“Oh, no! They’re forming again” Rand recognized this as her own voice. Shapes were materializing on the platform again—but frighteningly misshapen, writhing masses of chaotic flesh with skeletal shapes and pumping organs on the outsides of the “bodies.” A twisted, claw-like hand tore at the air, a scream came from a bleeding mouth . . . and then they were gone. The chamber was empty.

“Oh, my God.” Rand recognized the voice again as coming from Kirk. “Starfleet, do you have them?”

Starfleet came in. The voice was unsteady, but quiet. “Enterprise, what we got back . . . didn’t live long. Fortunately.”

Another moment of stunned silence. Then Kirk hit the button, fighting to control his voice. “Starfleet . . . Kirk. Please . . . express my condolences to Admiral Ciana’s mother and father; say I’ll visit them when . . . when circumstances permit. Commander Sonak’s family can be reached through the Vulcan Embassy.”

Kirk turned and saw in Rand’s face the torment inside. Had she killed them?

“There was nothing you could have done, Rand. It wasn’t your fault.” Then he turned and left the transporter room.