CHAPTER 23

“Get up,” the guard said.

Spock, who was still cradling his injured student, lifted his chin in passive defiance. “I cannot,” he responded. “This one is hurt. He needs help.”

The guard had obviously been pushed to the limits of his tolerance by the escape attempt. He extended his weapon until its barrel was pointed right at the Vulcan’s face.

“I told you to get up,” he said, “and get up you will— or 1 will burn down the two of you right there on the ground.”

Spock had no doubt of it. But then, he didn’t expect to live very long as it was. More than likely, he would perish with the rest of the prisoners.

The Vulcan clenched his teeth. It had all been for nothing. But at least he would provide an example for his followers as he died.

The guard must have realized what he had in mind, because his mouth twisted with anger. “I warned you…” he snapped.

Spock braced himself for the shrieking agony of the weapon’s disruptor energies. He could almost feel them thrilling through his body, tearing apart cell after cell, reducing him to primal elements.

But it never happened.

Because suddenly the Romulan guard had disappeared. And that wasn’t all. The entire courtyard was gone, replaced by what looked like the transporter room of a Federation starship—and an outdated one at that.

Certainly that was enough of a shock. But when Spock saw who was operating the transporter, he stared in openmouthed amazement, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

And yet, the man behind the transporter console was no figment of the Vulcan’s imagination. He was substantial. He was solid.

He was real.

“Mister Scott,” said Spock, struggling to maintain control of his human emotions. “The last I had heard, you were lost in space.” He tilted his head as he tried to make sense of the situation. “But that was seventy-five years ago.”

“Aye, sir,” said Scotty, not one iota less animated than the Vulcan remembered. “Ye’ve got that right. Unfortunately, there’s nae time for an explanation now. I’ve a few more passengers to take aboard—though that was nae exactly our original intention. And without that broadcast t’work with, I’ve got to rely on existing transporter locks.”

Spock was still puzzled, but not to the point that he didn’t understand what the engineer was talking about. Stepping down from the transporter platform, he gestured for the others to follow. They complied, though it was clear they were uncertain of their surroundings.

“You are safe,” Spock told them. “At least, for the moment. This is a Federation vessel.”

That seemed to calm them. The Vulcan’s ability to mask his own disorientation was a help in that regard. A big help.

Seventy-five years, he mused. If anyone could survive that amount of time unchanged, it would be Montgomery Scott. But Spock burned to know how he had done it. What seeming miracle had he pulled out of his bag of tricks this time?

He watched his old comrade work the control panel with the consummate mastery of a Vulcan sand-sculptor. Moments later, the ambassador noticed the shimmer in the air that always preceded the materialization stage of the process.

Sure enough, a moment later, a second wave of prisoners took form. And Skrasis was among them, stretched out on the transporter platform, a bloody splotch in the vicinity of his ribcage bearing testimony to the damage he’d sustained.

Returning to the platform, Spock placed his arms underneath the Romulan’s limp form. Straightening, he lifted him and hurried through the doors, which parted at his approach. If there was still time to save Skrasis’s life, he would try his best to do so.

Unfortunately he was no surgeon. A scientist, yes. And more recently a diplomat. But never a physician.

The human portion of Spock was filled with annoyance. Of all the times to be without Leonard McCoy …

Commander Hajak shifted in the center seat and glanced back over his shoulder. This would not be a pleasant scene, he told himself.

As Eragian emerged onto the bridge of the Vengeance, his face was a dark and dangerous green, and his eyes were bulging under disheveled locks. Looking angry enough to strangle the first person who spoke to him, he spat out a string of curses that would have burned the ears of the toughest old centurion.

As a result, Hajak didn’t speak to him. He merely stood and turned in the proconsul’s direction, ready to respond to the man’s wishes with as much alacrity as he could muster.

“My entire escort,” Eragian growled, his voice hoarse with all the shouting he’d done for a transport. “And Lennex as well. Dead, at the hand of Tharrus’s mongrels. I was lucky to get out of there alive!”

True enough, thought Hajak. His transporter operator had found it nearly impossible to pick out the proconsul, what with bodies and directed-energy beams flying everywhere, and no subspace broadcast to guide them.

It was only when a distraction presented itself at the far end of the courtyard that they’d been able to identify Eragian and extract him.

As for Lennex, the commander felt no personal loss on that count. He had never liked the Tal Shiar. But then, he supposed, the Tal Shiar were not recruited for their congeniality.

The proconsul suddenly pointed a finger at Hajak. “Start transporting Tharrus’s men into our cargo hold. Quickly—before they kill the Vulcan!”

The commander frowned. “All of them, Your Eminence?”

“All of them,” Eragian rasped. “Do it now!”

“As you wish,” replied Hajak. Turning to his second in command, he said, “See to it the proconsul’s orders are carried out immediately. I do not want a single guard left standing down there. And bring up Tharrus as well, while you are at it.”

The man nodded. “Right away, Commander.”

But as he left the bridge, Hajak’s sensor officer called out. “Commander, our instruments have picked up a transporter beam. And it did not originate from this vessel—or either of the others.”

“Then where did it originate?” he snapped, crossing the bridge to join the woman at her station.

She pointed to one of her monitors. “This quarter, sir. I was unable to pinpoint exact coordinates.”

Hajak looked at her. “A vessel under cloak?” he muttered. There was no other explanation, he remarked inwardly.

“But who could it be?” railed Eragian. “And what were they doing here, lurking around unbeknownst to me?”

The commander shook his head. What in the name of the homeworld was going on here?

“Gods,” bellowed the proconsul, crossing the bridge. Grabbing hold of the sensor officer’s tunic near her shoulder, he twisted and half-lifted her out of her seat until his face was mere inches from her own. “That could have been Spock they transported!”

Hajak glared at the proconsul. No matter what had happened to him or his watchdog, he couldn’t allow his officers to be manhandled in such a manner.

It took Eragian a moment or two to realize why he wasn’t getting any response. Finally, he released the woman.

Only then did Hajak peer over her shoulder at her instruments. “Keep a watch, Andarica. See if you can detect another transport. And in the meantime, review your sensor logs. If a transport took place, the ship that effected it must have dropped its cloak for a fraction of a second.”

The woman nodded. “Of course, Commander.”

As she turned back to her duties, Hajak again confronted the proconsul. “It will take time to locate the transporter device,” he explained calmly.

“How long?” Eragian demanded.

“I cannot say,” the commander told him. “They may not even attempt another transport, if they have got what they wanted. But even if they do attempt one, they will almost certainly be a moving target. It may take several transports before we can pinpoint them with any accuracy.”

“And what if they depart before then?” asked the proconsul.

Hajak shrugged. “Then we will have to rely on our ability to identify and track their ion trail.”

He glanced at the forward viewscreen, which showed him only a rounded section of Constanthus. There was no interloper to be seen.

“If it is a more sophisticated vessel,” he went on, “that will be difficult. If it is somewhat primitive—at least by our standards—we will have an easier time of it.”

Eragian cursed again. “Should we not contact the others?”

The commander thought a moment, then shook his head from side to side. “No. We do not want to alert the intruder by allowing him to intercept intership communications. The longer the enemy remains in the dark, the better it will be for us.”

The proconsul eyed him. “Make sure this mystery vessel does not get away, Hajak. Because if it does, I will have little to lose by stripping you of your command— and a good deal more.”

The commander nodded soberly. “I understand, Your Eminence.”

As Geordi sat at the Yorktown’s helm, he could feel the perspiration making hot, wet trails along the skin by his hairline. He had finished charting a course back to the Neutral Zone several minutes ago. Now he was just waiting for the go-ahead from the transporter room.

Looking back over his shoulder, Geordi saw that Commander Riker was perspiring, too, in the captain’s chair. Maybe the Yorktown’s life-support systems were starting to break down. It wouldn’t have come as any surprise, he mused. With all the old girl had been through, it was a wonder they hadn’t broken down long ago.

Beyond Riker, Data was sitting at the bridge’s science station, observing the workings of the Yorktown’s cloaking device. Needless to say, the android was not sweating—not in any sense of the word.

Riker cast a glance at Data. “How’s our cloak?” he asked.

The android turned to face his commanding officer. “Still functioning,” he reported. “Though it appears to be flickering each time Captain Scott attempts a transport.”

Riker frowned. “That’s to be expected, I just hope the Romulans don’t notice. It’d be inconvenient to have to—”

His remark was cut short by a now familiar bellow, barely diminished by the vagaries of the ship’s intercom system.

“We’ve got the last of ‘em,” Scotty cried. “I’m on my way up to the bridge.”

In a release of pent-up energy, Riker brought his fist down on the armrest of his chair. Geordi saw the man’s eyes glitter purposefully.

“Engage, Mister La Forge. Get us the hell out of here.”

“You’ve got it,” the man in the VISOR replied.

Fortunately he’d piloted all sorts of ships in his day, from the quirky little Mars shuttle to the mammoth and powerful Enterprise. And even if he wasn’t quite used to the Yorktown’s antiquated control panel, he’d already logged a few hours on it.

Deftly he brought the ship about. Then, engaging the impulse engines, he took them out of the planet’s gravity well at the speed of light. Any faster, he knew, and he would have been inviting structural damage.

Before long they’d escaped orbit. Geordi alerted the others to the fact.

“Engage warp drive,” Riker responded. “I’ll take the best speed you can wring out of these old engines.”

“Looks to me like warp eight,” said the chief engineer.

“Make that eight-point-one-five, laddie.”

Geordi turned and saw Captain Scott emerging from the open turbolift. Coming up alongside the captain’s chair, the older man eyed Riker.

Out of deference, the first officer began to stand—until Scotty stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Stay where ye are,” he told Riker. “This time, the bridge is yers. After all, ye’re the one with all the combat experience.”

Clearly Scotty had had some combat experience of his own. But it seemed to Geordi, the man felt he was needed more elsewhere.

“Aye, sir,” the first officer returned, sitting back down again. He smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Ye’re welcome,” Scotty remarked.

Then without another word, he negotiated a path around the captain’s chair and took up a position at the aft engineering console.

“Eight-point-one-five it is,” Geordi conceded. After all, Scotty had had a bit more experience with the Yorktown than the rest of them.

Pushing the warp drive just a little harder, the younger man scanned his monitors. The engines seemed to be handling the additional load—just as his colleague had predicted.

“Told ye so,” called Scotty, unable to conceal an impish grin.

Geordi cast a look back at him and chuckled. “So you did.”

He eased himself back into his seat. With luck, the hardest part was behind them. All they had to do now was keep the Yorktown in working order until—

Geordi’s thoughts were interrupted by an explosive curse from Captain Scott. “We’ve got company, lads!”

Checking the tactical monitors on the navigation side of the console, Geordi saw what he was talking about. A moment later, Scotty made it easier for him by placing the image on the forward viewscreen.

“Three Romulan warbirds,” the older man said out loud, describing the threat that they could all assess for themselves now. “They must be trackin’ us by our ion emissions.”

“But there was only one warbird in orbit around Constanthus,” Geordi complained. Then he amended his own statement. “That we could see.”

It seemed they weren’t the only vessels circling Constanthus under cloak. They should have thought of that, the engineer lamented. But it was no good second-guessing themselves—not when every moment was crucial now.

“We’re not going to outrun them,” Riker concluded.

“Maybe not,” Scott agreed. “But they’re nae going to take us without a struggle, either.” He turned to Geordi. “I trust ye’ve got some evasive maneuvers up yer sleeve, laddie?”

“A few,” Geordi responded.

But even as he worked the helm controls to execute the first of them, he knew it wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. He didn’t have enough tricks up his sleeve to keep them in one piece all the way to the Neutral Zone.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

Geordi looked back over his shoulder to see who’d spoken. From the outset, he knew it couldn’t have been Commander Riker or Data. Neither of them had a voice so deep, and yet so devoid of inflection.

When he saw who it was, he almost smiled. “If you’ve got any ideas,” Riker told the Vulcan, “I’m sure we’d all be glad to listen to them.”

“In that case,” said Spock, advancing to a point midway between the captain’s chair and the forward stations, “I recommend that we stop all engines immediately.”

Geordi was about to balk at the idea—until he saw the sense in it. Apparently Riker saw it, too.

“All stop,” bellowed the first officer.

The Yorktown shuddered as it dropped abruptly out of warp, taxing the century-old inertial dampeners to their limit. Hanging onto his console, Geordi resisted the feeling of being thrown forward.

But the maneuver had the desired effect. Unable to anticipate the Yorktown’s move, the warbirds were hard-pressed to keep themselves from smashing into her as they shot past at several hundred times the speed of light. As it was, they only missed by a couple of dozen meters.

Geordi could only tell that from his instrument panel. On the viewscreen, even at top magnification, they were nothing more than elongated streaks of light.

“Target photon torpedoes,” Riker commanded. “Let’s go for the one in the middle, Captain Scott.”

“Targeted,” said Scotty.

“Fire!” barked the first officer.

A moment later, twin packets of photon fury erupted in the direction of the Romulan vessels. While Geordi couldn’t actually see any more than that, his instruments told him that both of them struck their mark.

And at this all too intimate range, the enemy’s shields didn’t stand a chance.

“Report!” cried Riker.

“Direct hits on their starboard weapons bank,” Data announced. “Damage is isolated, but considerable.”

“They’ll nae be firing at us with those wee bairns,” Scott elaborated with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

Spock looked only vaguely satisfied with himself. But then, from what little Geordi knew of him, it was typical for him to make such a contribution and then gloss over the value of it.

“Ahead impulse engines,” the Vulcan suggested.

But Riker seemed to know what Spock was thinking. “Full impulse, Mister La Forge. On my mark, accelerate to warp eight-point-three. And come as close as you can to one of the warbirds.”

Geordi sensed that Scott wasn’t comfortable with that rate of acceration, but the older man kept quiet nonetheless. If they were to have any hope of getting out of this, they’d have to take some fair-sized chances.

The surge to impulse speed wasn’t bad, especially for an old ship like this one. In fact, Geordi barely felt it. But going to warp would be a different story entirely. In preparation for it, Spock made his way to the navigation console and sat down beside the engineer.

On the viewscreen, the Romulans were nowhere to be seen. Then, suddenly, they appeared as specks in the distance. And before Geordi knew it, they were filling the parameters of the screen.

“Target photon torpedoes!” the first officer ordered.

“Targeted,” Scotty assured him.

They’d better make them count, Geordi thought. After this, they’d only have a couple left.

“Engage warp engines!” Riker roared.

As the engineer activated the faster-than-light drive, the Yorktown leaped forward with the abandon of a rogue planet, thrusting him back into his seat with bone-breaking force. Geordi could feel the inexorable tug of too many G-forces pulling the skin of his face tight as a drum.

But not before he directed them to within a whisker of one of the warbirds. Any closer, in fact, and their hulls would have scraped together.

Geordi winced, anticipating a massive impact from the Romulans’ torpedoes. But the barrage—a sudden and devastating one—missed the Yorktown entirely. In fact, he could only see it as a flare of energy on his monitors.

“Fire!” thundered Riker.

As before, the Yorktown sent a pair of photon torpedoes after the warbirds at point-blank range. As before, the torpedoes nailed one of them, caving in its shields in the process.

“Direct hits,” Data declared. “We have incapacitated another weapons bank.”

The first officer nodded. “Good shooting, Mister Scott.

“Without turning, Scotty smiled to himself. “Glad to be of help, sir.”

But they weren’t out of the woods. Not by a long shot.

Sure, they’d bought themselves a head start with their bold and unpredictable maneuvers. But the warbirds were still faster than the Yorktown—and now that they’d been burned twice, they’d be more calculating in their next attack.

Just as Geordi was thinking these things, the situation got worse. Much worse.

“Damn,” he blurted, staring at his instruments in disbelief.

“What is it?” Riker inquired.

“We’re losing warp speed,” Geordi told him. “Looks like a problem with the power transfer conduits.”

“We can fix it,” Captain Scott determined. He was already half out of his seat, no doubt headed for the turbolift.

“No,” said Geordi, stopping the older man in his tracks. “It’s not just one conduit, Scotty. It’s all of them. The strain of that last maneuver took too much out of them.”

In other words, the Yorktown just wasn’t built for such stress—not even when it was new. Even Scotty, the twenty-third-century miracle worker, had to accept that.

“Aye,” said Scott, taking his seat again. He uttered the word as if it were a curse. “But,” he suggested, “we can at least reduce power to nonessential systems. That’ll allow us to keep goin’ a wee bit longer.”

“Agreed,” replied Geordi.

“Cloak first,” called Riker. “Then weapons.”

He didn’t sound happy. But like it or not, those were nonessential systems right now. Particularly the cloaking function, which consumed a great deal of power and wasn’t fooling anyone anyway.

“The cloaking device has been disengaged,” Data remarked.

“Cutting power to the phaser banks,” Spock called from the bridge’s science station.

“And I’ve got the photon torpedoes,” Scott responded.

It wasn’t going to help, thought Geordi, peering at his monitors. At least, not enough to make a difference.

“We’re still losing speed,” he said. “Warp seven. Warp six. Warp five-point-five.” He shook his head. “Warp five.”

“The Romulans are decreasing the distance between us,” Data told them. “Estimate that at the rate we are slowing down, they will be in torpedo range in fifty-four seconds.”

“Mister La Forge,” the first officer intoned, “give me a rear view. And take the shields off-line—everything except deflectors, fore and aft.”

Geordi nodded. “Aye, sir.” He did as he was told.

A moment later, the image on the viewscreen changed. Instead of open space, they were looking at the approach of the still distant warbirds.

“We continue to decelerate,” Spock announced. “The Yorktown is now traveling at warp four-point-four.”

“Forty seconds,” the android reminded them.

There was a pause, during which Geordi couldn’t hear anything but the subtle hum of the failing generator coils and the urgent tapping of control padds. Then he heard another, even more desperate sound—from Commander Riker.

“Cut power to life-support,” the first officer said.

Geordi shook his head. That would only save them an infinitesimal portion of what they were losing. It was like trying to put out a sun with a mouthful of water.

But it might buy them another second or two. And to Riker, that was obviously worth it. Besides, they could live without life-support for a while—and it wouldn’t be needed if the Romulans caught up to them.

Geordi made the necessary power-net adjustments. “Eliminating life-support,” he advised.

“Warp three-point-eight,” the Vulcan reported. “Warp three-point-three. Warp two-point-nine.”

“Thirty seconds,” Data warned them.

Geordi looked to Scotty. There was nothing more they could do, and both of them knew it. Silently they acknowledged the value of each other’s efforts. And each other’s courage. And each other’s company, at what might well be the end.

“Twenty seconds,” said Data. “Fifteen. Ten.”

“Brace yourselves,” Riker told them.

Geordi held on to the console in front of him. He had no doubt that the Romulans would fire as soon as they were in range.

“This exhibit is now closed,” commented the ship’s computer, in a strangely strained and polyphonic voice. “Please watch your step on the way out.”

“Five,” said the android. “Four. Three. Two.

“One.”

Abruptly, Geordi felt something slam into them from behind, rattling his teeth. His control panel showed that they’d sustained a torpedo hit.

It happened again, except the impact was even greater. And again.

Behind Geordi, the communications panel exploded into flame, sending up twisting ropes of black fumes. He heard someone cry out, but he couldn’t make out the words with the deck plates groaning in his ears.

The air filled with smoke. Geordi fought to breathe, to stay conscious, but it was an uphill battle. As the ship jerked again, sparks erupted from the science station, driving Data backward against the rail.

The Yorktown was dying, the engineer realized. Really dying. And they were going to die along with her.