Star Trek - Relics. Part 2

Sachs shook his head. "I'm afraid not. There's too much damage-and not enough time." He looked to Scott for confirmation-and got it in the form of bleak silence.

Montgomery Scott had pulled his share of rabbits ou t of his hat. But for once, even he was at a loss. There were lots of ways he could think of to pull the Jenolen's engines together. But any of them would have taken many more hours than they had left.

The captain licked his lips. "You mean there's nothing we can do? We're just going to crash?"

It went against the older man's grain to admit it, but as he'd told Jim Kirk time and again, there was no changing the laws of physics. "Aye," he conceded. "That's about the size of it."

Armstrong's brow creased as he wrestled with the enormity of Scott's statement. "How long before impact?"

His chief engineer supplied the answer "Seventeen minutes, thirty-five seconds, sir."

Ben Sachs was a man with modest ambitions, the product of a long line of men with modest ambitions. Sure, he'd wanted to get into s.p.a.ce, to tinker with a warp drive and feel the joy of having it respond to his tinkerings. But unlike his peers, he'd never aspired to serving on a Const.i.tution-cla.s.s vessel.

So when the a.s.signment came down to replace the chief engineer of the transport s.h.i.+p Jenolen, Sachs had been happy to accept it. More than happy, in fact.

Let the other fellows work under unrelenting pressure, he'd told himself at the time. Let them walk their daily treadmills, eat their meals in a blinding hurry, lie awake at night wondering if there was some gauge they might have misread. Let them strain their brains trying to remember what attracted them to this life in the first place.

I'll be content swimming in a smaller pond, where I can take time to enjoy the view without feeling guilty about it. I'll be just fine on the good s.h.i.+p Jenolen.

Up until now, Sachs's prediction had been right on the money. He had been fine. He'd found the perfect, uneventful niche for himself.

And more than that, he'd found love-the perfect love only an engineer can feel for his s.h.i.+p. Ben Sachs had fallen head over heels for a transport vessel that no one else would have given a second look.

But in a flash, that had all changed. Now he was riding the Jenolen down to the dark and featureless Dyson Sphere below. And the odds of his idyllic life going on in its idyllic way-h.e.l.l, going on at all-seemed more and more remote with each pa.s.sing second.

Strangely, that didn't inspire fear in him-not really. It didn't even inspire regret. Sachs had never married, had never had children, and his parents were long gone. He wasn't leaving anyone behind.

He was going to die alongside his one true love. The romance of it appealed to him, so much so that it overshadowed the grisly fate awaiting him at the bottom of the gravity well.

"Mr. Sachs!"

The chief engineer shook his head and sought out the source of the shout. He found himself gaping at a narrow-eyed Montgomery Scott.

"Are ye with me or nae, lad?" asked Scott.

Sachs swallowed. "With you on what?"

The older man cursed beneath his breath. "Have ye nae been listening to a word I've said? We cannae prevent ourselves from cras.h.i.+ng into the Dyson Sphere, but we can keep casualties to a minimum. That is, if we can find a half-dozen crewmen willing to stick it out here in the Ops center."

Sachs's mind raced, making up for the time during which he was distracted. After a second or two, he saw what Scott was getting at.

There were turbulence-berths in the pa.s.senger section. Strapped into them, a body would have at least a shot at survival. But here in the Ops center, where there was nothing to cus.h.i.+on them against the impact ... the odds of living through the crash were a lot longer.

And yet, someone had to remain here. To use what impulse thrust was left in an attempt to slow them down. To boost the s.h.i.+elds at just the right moment. And to maintain the s.h.i.+p's att.i.tude lest it fall on its side, where structural support was the weakest.

Sachs nodded. "I get it," he said.

"Now ye're payin' attention, lad." The older man's s.h.a.ggy brows knit. "The only question is who's goin' to stay and who's goin' to go."

Glances were exchanged. Feet were shuffled. Breaths were expelled.

"Well," Scott announced, "I guess I'm the most expendable one here. It makes sense for me to stick around." He looked to Sachs.

"Me too," said the engineer, drawing stares of admiration from the others. No doubt, they thought he was being brave.

They were wrong, of course. He was just caught up in his romantic madness. But he wasn't going to tell them that. If they wanted to remember him as a hero...what the h.e.l.l, why not let them?

Captain Armstrong cleared his throat. "I'm staying as well. I'm no engineer, but I've worked closely enough with them over the years. And I can follow orders as well as anyone."

Scott smiled. "Glad to have ye aboard," he told Armstrong.

The captain smiled back, though without quite so much gusto. "Thank you, Captain Scott."

They looked around. "Any other takers?" called Sachs.

No one answered. He didn't blame them. And then, after what seemed like a long time, one hand went up.

It was Franklin's.

"I'd like to remain also," he told the chief engineer. He looked to Armstrong. "If it's all right with you, sir."

The captain regarded him for a moment, no doubt thinking of the ensign's youth. But then, most every crewman on the Jenolen was young. And they needed every hand they could get.

"It's all right with me," agreed Armstrong. "And thank you, Mr. Franklin."

Turning to the others, the captain looked benevolent-understanding. When he spoke, there wasn't even a hint of recrimination in his voice.

"The rest of you should make your way to the pa.s.senger deck as quickly as possible. You don't have much time to secure yourselves."

Looking grateful, they departed into the turbolift. Sachs watched them go, envying them just a little. But there was no turning back now. He'd thrown his lot in with Captain Scott; he'd see this through to its conclusion.

"Time to impact?" asked Armstrong.

Sachs consulted his monitor again. "Twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds," he replied. "We'd better get started."

"Aye," said Scott. He addressed the chief engineer. "I hope ye dinnae mind if I direct things from here on in. After all, I've had a wee bit more experience at crash landings."

"Not at all," Sachs told him honestly. "She's all yours, sir."

Scott looked a couple of inches taller as he took charge. "Very well then. Mr. Franklin, ye've got the helm. Bring us down straight and true."

"You can count on me, sir" said the ensign.

"I'm glad to hear that," Scott remarked. He turned to Sachs. "Plot a curve with exponentially increasing thrust. But dinnae use everything we've got; we'll need some power for life support if... I mean when we make it."

"Aye," answered Sachs, never one to mince words.

Finally, Scott regarded the captain, who had come down from his command chair to stand behind one of the engineering consoles. "There will nae be a whole lot for ye to do right now," said the older man. "But when I give ye the signal, ye're to reconfigure the deflector s.h.i.+elds-to give us maximum protection at the point of impact."

Armstrong nodded. "Standing by," he replied.

Scott took a deep breath and let it out. "No doubt," he went on, "ye're all curious as to what I'll be doing."

"Building up our power reserves?" ventured Franklin.

"Begging, borrowing and stealing from peripheral systems," Sachs expanded. "Cleaning out every last nook and cranny."

The older man glanced at them, deadpan. "It was sort of a rhetorical question, gentlemen. But thank ye for your help nonetheless."

Over the next few minutes, they all applied themselves to their respective tasks. Sachs found his mind remarkably clear, remarkably facile, as he first plotted and then began to execute the impulse thrust curve Scott had asked for.

When he had occasion to look up, he saw that the others were similarly absorbed in what they were doing. There were no signs of panic. The engineer smiled, glad that what were probably his last moments would be in the company of professionals.

Abruptly, the s.h.i.+p began to slip its axis. Franklin muttered a curse.

"Ease her back, Ensign," said Scott, his voice calm as a tree-shrouded pond. "We're in no hurry."

Responding to the older man's demeanor as much as his advice, Franklin made the necessary corrections. On Sachs's screen, the Jenolen righted herself.

"Well done," Scott observed. "Now steady as she goes."

Two and a half minutes. Two. One and a half.

Sixty seconds.

As Franklin held the s.h.i.+p upright, Sachs applied thrust in ever-increasing amounts. Nonetheless, they were accelerating, drawn to the sphere by its uncommonly strong gravitational field.

"All right," said Scott. They were approaching the thirty-second mark. "Bring those s.h.i.+elds around, Captain."

Armstrong did as he was told. "s.h.i.+elds in place," he confirmed. "We're as protected as we'll ever be."

They'd done all they could, Sachs mused. The rest was in the lap of the G.o.ds. He held onto his console.

Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.

Sachs found it hard to swallow. Good-bye, Jenolen.

Five. Four. Three. Two ...

One.

For a second or two, Scott didn't know what had hit him, or even where he was. Then consciousness came swarming back like a thundering river in flood.

The Ops center was a flaming, sparking inferno. Smoke was everywhere, making it almost impossible to see. He coughed painfully.

But he was alive. He was bruised and battered and there was an aching tenderness in his left arm, but despite the odds he'd come through. And if a man his age could survive, there were probably others who'd survived as well.

Scott winced. There was something in his eye. Dabbing at it gingerly, his fingers came away with a sticky film of blood on them.

b.l.o.o.d.y, he remarked inwardly, but unbowed-just like the poem. His mind started to drift back to the highlands, and a la.s.s who liked nothing better than poetry... except him...

No, he told himself firmly, shaking himself out of his reverie. None o' that. I may have suffered a concussion, but I cannae let that stop me. I've got to focus on the task ahead-that being to see who else might be alive and then a.s.sess the damage to the s.h.i.+p.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. A man's hand, not more than a meter away... moving ever so slightly? Or was it just his imagination? He pulled himself over to it as best he could.

"Laddie?" he said tentatively. He could barely hear himself over the popping sound coming from a ruined console.

No answer. He crept a little closer-past the hand to the shoulder. He shook it. Nothing. No response.

And the man's head was turned away from him, so he couldn't tell how badly he'd been hurt. Scott shook a little harder.

Still nothing. "Come on, laddie," he said hopefully. "Wake up. I dinnae have all day."

Finally, his shaking finally had an effect it made the man's head loll around to face him. And suddenly there was no doubt in Scott's mind who this was, or why he didn't answer.

It was Chief Engineer Sachs. And half his face had been shorn away in the crash.

"My G.o.d," whispered Scotty. "My dear G.o.d."

Turning away from the spectre of death, he crept toward the base of an engineering console. Hanging onto it as best he could, he got one leg underneath him, then the other. And finally, with a gargantuan effort, he straightened up.

For an awful moment, his head swam and he felt as if he were going to be sick. The moment pa.s.sed.

Unfortunately, the pain in his arm was mounting, getting worse. It felt for all the world as if it were on fire. Ignoring the terrible ache for the moment, he peered through the stinging smoke, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Suddenly, a geyser of sparks erupted from somewhere nearby, throwing the immediate vicinity into stark relief. Scott saw at least one more body-b.l.o.o.d.y, inert, lying on the deck in an impossible position.

Was he the only one who'd lived to tell the tale, then? Could his luck have been that good?

Again, the pain came was.h.i.+ng over him, making his knees weak ... challenging him for control of the flesh that was Montgomery Scott. But hanging onto the console, he beat it back by force of will.

And noted that the engineering station was still working. Its screen was still alive-dusted with soot from the smoke, but still functional. Wiping away a thin layer of soot with his hand, Scott called up a bioprofile of the Jenolen.

It wasn't good news that confronted him there. It wasn't good news at all.

Besides himself, there was only one other survivor. Scott shook his head in disbelief. Only one?

How could that be? Brows knit, he checked to see that the station wasn't malfunctioning-but it pa.s.sed the diagnostic review with flying colors.

Scott ma.s.saged one of his temples with a forefinger. Out of all those pa.s.sengers and crew members... only two had survived? It wasn't possible. If he had come through the crash, surely the men and women abovedecks, in their nice, secure turbulence-berths, should have fared even better.

They had to be alive. They had to- And then he saw it a flas.h.i.+ng light in the screen's hull-integrity field. Scott moaned in sympathy.

That's why the others hadn't made it. The impact had created a tiny rupture in the hull-probably no larger than his palm, but big enough to suck out all the air on the pa.s.senger deck.

The force of the crash hadn't killed them. They'd b.l.o.o.d.y well suffocated.

Scott wanted to cry out. He wanted to howl at the injustice of it, at the loss of life.