Double Helix_ Red Sector Part 23

A bright white blast blew from the other s.h.i.+p, looking as if somebody had fired talc.u.m powder out an exhaust port-but when it hit them it didn't feel like powder. The CST shuddered violently but did not turn off her course. Rather than striking them with a single impact, the powder-beam slathered all over the s.h.i.+p as if they'd plunged into a gla.s.s of milk, was.h.i.+ng along from the prow to mids.h.i.+ps before dissipating, snapping systems all the way back.

"Hold course!" Stiles called over the shattering of circuits all around them. "Intentions?" Spock asked. "Do you mean to ram them?" "We've got an asteroid-cutter prow" Stiles told him. "If they want to try it, I'm game. We can't outrun them. All we can do is make them flinch."

Spock straightened from watching the science panel. "Do you know this man well enough to predict his response?"

"Orsova? Sir, we're willing to die for a cause. Orsova isn't. All we have to do is stand him down."

"Yes, Mr. Stiles, but remember-Orsova has little or no s.p.a.cefaring experience. It's unlikely he's piloting that s.h.i.+p." Stiles looked at him. "Who do you think is?" "I should say whoever provided him with the tighter." "Oh, good, I love unknown quant.i.ties."

Annoyed with himself for not realizing that Orsova couldn't possibly be driving that s.h.i.+p, that he was in fact fighting somebody he'd never met in a s.h.i.+p he didn't recognize, with weapons he'd never seen before, Stiles dealt with a tumbling stomach and a dry mouth as the s.h.i.+ps drew speedily closer.

He struck the nearest comm link. "Jeremy, blow that trigger out the hatch right now." "Ready... it's away!"

They waited as the octagonal warp trigger box drifted out into s.p.a.ce, visible on a side monitor at starboard, floating lazily out there, brainless to what else was going on. "Distance?"

"Eight hundred kilometers," Spock ticked off. "One thousand... twelve hundred..." "Ignite it."

Before his words were even out, s.p.a.ce at their side blew bright with disruption and the whole s.h.i.+p was swept sideways away from it. Half the crew was thrown down. Stiles kept his feet only by hanging onto the command chair with both hands. He found himself looking at Dr. McCoy and thanking all the lucky stars out there that the old doctor had been sitting down. Travis was also holding McCoy in place with one hand, himself with the other.

Over the crackle and fume of their own damage, Spock reported, "His s.h.i.+elds are losing integrity. They're flickering." "Ours are down completely" Travis announced, taking the gloss off their victory. "Whatever happens now, we'll feel it hard."

"Enemy vessel is slowing down," Spock announced briskly. There was a clear ring of win in his voice. "You've called their bluff"

"Either that or they're not willing to die for whatever we represent to them," Stiles said. "Doesn't mean they won't keep trying to kill us." "Incoming!"

Stiles gritted his teeth as they rode out another hit of the powder-beam. Damage reports came chattering in from all sections, none of them good. Stiles ignored them. "Travis, are the grapples ready?" "Ready, aye."

"Keep up speed until we're at proximity range. Let me know when we get there-" "We're there!" Travis said. "We can reach now."

On the main screen, the dark blue enemy s.h.i.+p drew up its braking thrusters and surged upward so they could see its underbelly, just as a rowboat surges up on a swell before settling into the sand. They really didn't want to get hit by the Saskatoon's cutting prow.

Stiles couldn't help a little snicker. "Magnetic grapples two and four-launch!" wheeeeeeeeeeeCHUNK-CHUNK "Got 'era!" Travis yelped. "Both grapples are on their hull. Now what?"

"Let you know soon as I think of it" Stiles muttered. "He can't blow us up if we're riding him. Pull up as close as you can, Travis. Zack, heat up the welding phasers? "Where do you want me to cut him?"

"Any place you can reach. I want you to connect those white dots into my initials. Right there where I can see."

The Bolt brothers both laughed in spite of the moment's heat.

Heat-yes, it was getting hotter on the bridge, proof that systems were damaged and the s.h.i.+p's computers were selectively saving what they could and sacrificing what they couldn't while waiting for repair. The CST's welding phasers lit up under the viewscreen and scored the blue body of the other s.h.i.+p, leaving trails of white-hot melted metal and snapping circuits exposed to open s.p.a.ce. Still... how much of this could they do?

As the two s.h.i.+ps danced in their locked-together waltz, Spock peered into his monitor. "Reading a power buildup." "Weapons?" Stiles asked.

"No, sir. Routing s.h.i.+eld power, I believe...." He didn't sound sure at all.

Heavy-legged with damage and with the weight of the other s.h.i.+p pulling on the ~apples, the Saskatoon lumbered around, pushed by the pointless power of the two s.h.i.+ps exerting force on each other while going absolutely nowhere. "Jeremy, can you still hear me?" Stiles called. "You're breaking up. Boost your signal."

"Forget it." Stiles stalked to the aft hatch, cranked the handle, yanked the hatch open, and yelled through the body of the s.h.i.+p. "Turn on the external hoses! Seal up their impulse ports! Got it?" "I like that !"

Stiles turned back to the main action, grumbling. "Yeah, I like it too."

Within seconds, the CST's external hoses clacked on. Clear on the main screen, attached to them so closely that they could've touched it if the screen hadn't been there, the blue enemy s.h.i.+p cranked and yanked against the magnetic grapples, trying to break the hold. Now tons of semiviscous compound spewed from the hose nozzles and splattered all over the aft section of that s.h.i.+p, totally clogging the impulse exhausts as if the G.o.ds were spewing milkshakes into goblets.

Except this wonderful composite milkshake stuck like glue and hardened chemically within four seconds of contact. "What's that stuff?." McCoy asked.

"It's chemical fiber bond," Stiles told him. "We use it to coat repairs before putting the hull plates back on. Nasty stuff."

"Their impulse ports are clogged," Spock noted. "They're attempting to fire impulse engines anyway."

On the screen, in the upper comer, they could just see the impulse ports turning yellow, orange, then red with backed-up energy. Volcanic spurts of power blasted through the fiber bond, only to be almost instantly sealed up again. Another kind of battle was going on-between the power of the engines and the strength of a resealing compound that wouldn't take no for an answer.

Flash... flash... sizzle... flash... The constellation s.h.i.+p fought with itself, spitting and surging, taking the CST with it on every blurting ride.

The whole CST then began to shake furiously, as if it would break into a billion pieces around them. The sound was horrible, terrifying, the kind of sound that made Stiles wonder what the h.e.l.l he was doing here in the first place, why anybody would want to come to s.p.a.ce when he could stay on a nice solid planet somewhere. Suddenly all the screens flashed a nasty yellow light. A snap of electrical surge flailed through the s.h.i.+p, popping everybody's ears. "What happened!" Stiles called.

"Feedback along the magnetic lines!" Spock called back. "They've thrown us off-power surge is running up the grapples!" "d.a.m.n !" "What do we do now?" Travis cried. "Surrender?"

"Not since Gabriel's last tea party in h.e.l.l! Full about! Make some speed!"

McCoy finger nailed Spock in the arm and pointed at Stiles. "I like the sound of that, don't you?"

Still spitting fire every few seconds as the impulse engines coughed through the clinging fiber bond, the enemy s.h.i.+p wheeled clumsily around to face them with its main weapons ports.

"Uh-oh..." Stiles' whole body went cold. "Doesn't look like they want to take us alive anymore .... "

Spock straightened and watched the s.h.i.+p out there. "Your logic is impeccable... we are in grave danger." His memory nerve tingling, Stiles looked at him. "What?" "Just a bit of nostalgia. I suggest we distance ourselves." "Travis, disengage! Jason, full impulse!"

At point-blank range the other s.h.i.+p opened up on them in what could only be described as a fit of anger. Its weapons cut into the CST's uns.h.i.+elded body, blowing systems all around the bridge and all the way through the s.h.i.+p. Stiles agonized as he heard the screams and shouts of his men and knew they would have to see to themselves for now. He hated that-the urge to go back there nearly crushed his chest. "Speed, Jason," he implored. "Doing my best."

"Reading power-up on torpedo launchers," Spock warned. "We cannot possibly gain enough distance."

No distance and no s.h.i.+elds. No weapons worth spitting back at that s.h.i.+p. Stiles felt his heart sink. He'd bought time, but there was nothing more to do with it. He'd stopped them from maneuvering in s.p.a.ce-normal, but the CST couldn't get away fast enough to take advantage.

"Shoot," he ordered. "Fire at will, whatever we can throw at them. At least we'll go out shooting."

The CST's internal systems crackled and complained. His men fired what little working phasers they had left. But they weren't a stars.h.i.+p-what could they do? Go over there and rebuild the enemy to death?

As Stiles watched the enemy s.h.i.+p on the screen, pursuing them in fits and bursts with those clogged impulse tubes, he knew that despite its falling behind they couldn't possibly outrun its firepower.

The whole main screen and two lateral ones-the two still working-blasted bright white with incendiary drama. Stiles crimped his eyes, but refused to close them. He wasn't going to die with his eyes closed. Then he didn't die-couldn't even do that right.

"Romulan bird-of-prey on our starboard stem!" Travis called, horrified. "It's fired on that blue s.h.i.+p! It's driving them off!"

Spock bent over the science station. "Confirmed. Romulan standard warbird... in battle mode." "Now what?" Zack cranked around. "Fire on that one too?" "No!" McCoy rasped.

"Don't shoot!" Stiles countered at the same time. "Give me s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p!" "You've got s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p."

Stiles leaned over the arm of his command chair's comm. "Dr, Crusher, I a.s.sume that's you inside that ugly thing."

"It's me, Commander. Everyone all right? Mission accomplished, I hope?"

"Accomplished so far, Doctor" He blinked at the bronze war wing hovering on their flank. "Ugly or not, I'm glad to see that big-eyed bug !"

"It worked." Spock's announcement was reserved, but victorious. "Enemy is moving off at emergency warp one on a retreat vector."

"They're moving off, Commander Stiles. What do you recommend we do? Chase them down?"

Stiles sucked a long breath and heaved it out with a shudder. "No, no, don't chase them. Let them go, Doctor. And... stand by." "Standing by," Crusher acknowledged.

"Do they show any signs of turning back?" he asked his own crew. "None," Spock congratulated. Jason's hands shook on his controls. "Think we beat 'era !" Looking around the deck, Stiles had a hard time believing they'd beaten anybody at all, considering all the wreckage and mess and sparking components. He hadn't even noticed the parts and pieces blowing around him and now cluttering the deck. But the rush of victory was undeniable on the bruised faces of his crew. "What's that whine?" somebody asked.

"What whine?" Stiles wasn't even sure who asked, and didn't hear anything at first. Then he did.

"Transporter? Spock called over the noise that suddenly filled the bridge.

They pressed back, not knowing what was happening until a band of energy crackled into formation in front of the helm and coalesced into humanoid shape. As they stared in amazement, the sparkling form hardened into Orsova.

Stiles opened his mouth to shout an order, but Orsova was already moving, leaping like an attacking lion at Zevon. Stiles didn't see a weapon until the last second before Orsova and Zevon's bodies collided. A flash of metal, as if he were watching a scene from a swashbuckling movie-unmistakably a blade.

For just a flash this made no sense-why would Orsova, who had at his disposal every weapon on a whole planet, use a blade?

Sykora cried out some unintelligible protest, but Spock and Travis managed to hold her back. Zack and Jeremy sprang from their posts, dove forward over the helm and s.n.a.t.c.hed at Orsova's clothing. It took both of them to pry him off Zevon. By then, Stiles was there.

"Hold him back!" he shouted. He clutched Orsova's left wrist and the metal weapon in it-some kind of spike, polished to a silk finish, with a wooden handle like an ice pick. It's silver surface was s.p.a.ckled with Zevon's blood.

As Jason Bolt joined the effort to hold Orsova, Stiles handed the weapon to Travis and rushed to Zevon. He grasped Zevon by both arms and held him up. Was he hurt? Was he dying?

"Zevon?" Stiles held him and looked for a wound. He found it under Zevon's right hand, pressed to his left side. Pulling Zevon's hand away, Stiles cajoled, "Let me look, let me look."

As Zevon stiffened in pain against him, he found the entry wound, and blessedly an exit.

"It's just a flesh wound, I think." Weakened by relief, he grinned at Zevon. "You just got a good poke!"

Fighting the shock of having been stabbed, seriously or not, Zevon winced and nodded but couldn't manage to let go of Stiles just yet.

Stiles had other ideas. He twisted around and glared at Orsova. "You missed, you filthy ox!"

Orsova slammed an elbow into Jason Bolt and smacked Zack in the face, driving him back. After that, though, he didn't attack anybody, instead crossing to the port panel where the longrange scanner was showing a clear picture of the constellation s.h.i.+p getting smaller and smaller as it ran.

"Voice! Voice, save me!" he cried. "Beam me away, Voice! I did what you wanted! Where are you! Come for me! Voice!" But n.o.body came to rescue him. "Pathetic," Stiles commented.

Apparently just now realizing he was in deep trouble, Orsova cranked around and glared as if trapped in a box. He could do nothing as Stiles closed on him, pressed his fingers into the flesh at Orsova's throat, backed him tight up against the portside scanner panel. "I was afraid of you? You're just a quivering little coward when you're standing alone, aren't you?"

"You better not hurt me!" Orsova pressed backward against the panel. "The Voice is coming back for me!"

"Not soon enough." Letting loose a dozen years of frustration-and even anger at himself, that he'd been haunted for a third of his life by the face now crimping before him Stiles bent Orsova back over the panel until he could push no more. Orsova choked and gagged as Stiles's knuckles kneaded into his throat.

As Orsova's face flushed from copper to almost beet red with strain, quite abruptly, even absurdly, the satisfaction meter began to fall. Stiles glared into the hated face, saw the panic and desperation, and snarled as if looking into a garbage pit. But he stopped pus.h.i.+ng. He even let go a little.

"d.a.m.n," he uttered. "You're just a toothache! You're not even worth hitting!"

To the obvious amazement of everybody around him, he pulled Orsova back to his feet and let him reel.

Stiles found himself strangely amused and pleased at Orsova's pitiful display. Over there, Travis was smiling at him in some kind of ironic pride. That felt good.

Shaking his head, he leaned one hip against the helm and commented, "At least I was worth beating up!"

His crewmen rewarded him with a laugh and a round of applause that made him feel like-well, like royalty.

"Just stay there, you puscup;' he said to Orsova. "You're as imprisoned as I was. Dr. McCoy, would you have a look at Zevon, please? Zack, escort the doctor around the other side of the helm, away from this mulchy moron."

Playing out his win, he freely turned his back on Orsova as if his former guard were hardly more than a bug on the wall. For the fast time, he turned his back on his greatest fear, the ghost of all his nights, and completely dismissed him.

He turned instead to Zevon, as Dr. McCoy probed the Romulan's wound. "How is he?"

"Superficial," the elderly doctor confirmed. "Hardly raising a welt. Punched through the skin, scored the intestines-no ruptures, though. Let me have a better look...."

He drew around his medical tricorder and a scanner and started taking readings.

"All right, Zevon," Stiles began firmly, "you can have what you want. In fact, you can have more than you want. I'm going to take you back to that stupid planet and dump you there with your wife, just like you want. And then I'm coming back into s.p.a.ce and demonstrate to you exactly what a Federation promise means." Leaning forward with theatrical flair, he announced, "I'm going to build your barricade." "You, yourself?." Zevon challenged.

From the other side of the bridge, Sykora gasped, "Zevon, can he do it?"

"NOV' Her husband flinched as McCoy scanned him. "He certainly cannot possibly do it. The barricade needs raw materials, infrastructure, parts, support-.Federation interest will fade before the barricade is built." "Its not going to fade," Stiles boasted. "I won't let it."

Zevon gazed at him in something like disappointment. "And you have so much influence, Eric?"

"I don't need influence. I have a CST" Stiles swept his hand wide to ill.u.s.trate the s.h.i.+p around him, and the suddenly proud crew. "We can build it. A combat support tender is a movable starbase, a flying factory!"

"Of course!" Spock breathed. Even he hadn't thought of it, and that gave Stiles a particular zing of pleasure.

"Impossible," Zevon argued. He pointed at Spock, but spoke to Stiles. "You're saying this to get what he wants, because you wors.h.i.+p him!"

A rumble of frustration rose in Stiles throat. Better let that one go. "My crew is packed with trained technicians, mechanics, and engineers. We can build almost anything, darned near anywhere, all by ourselves. And even though you're refusing to help us, we're going to go back there and build it."

Zevon squinted with doubt. "But we have no treaty! Starfleet will not give you permission-"

"I don't need permission," Stiles recklessly sparked. "I'm not even going to ask for it. And on top of that, I'm going to use a few other resources available to me right here and now. For instance, Dr. McCoy over there is going to treat whatever's making your wife sick. I don't have to let him do that, y'see, because I'm in command here and he has to do what I say. But I'm going to tell him to do that anyway, Zevon, because not everything in life is a tradeoff. And then we're going to fly away and leave you alone with your planet and your wife and your barricade, and we'll see if you can forget who did for you what you couldn't do for yourselves." He jabbed Zevon in the arm. "You and everybody on that stupid planet are going to find out what real freedom means."

Across the bridge, Amba.s.sador Spock settled back against the science station and looped his arms into that casual appreciative fold that Stiles had seen so many times on the historical tapes. Stiles got a rush of delight at seeing Spock fold his arms like that, right here on Stiles's bridge, just as if he liked being here.

Astonished, Zevon could do nothing but stare at him with a thousand emotions pus.h.i.+ng at him. Stiles did not turn away from that gaze, determined to show that nothing would stop him from doing what he said he could do, exercising both the power of his command and the industrial might of his s.h.i.+p.

Dr. McCoy looked up then, and clicked off his medical tricorder. His face was stiff, his voice rough.

"He's not going to find out any time soon. There must've been something on the spike." He looked first at Stiles, then at Spock. "It's all over, gentlemen. He's infected."