Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

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Chapter Four

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER MONTGOMERY Scott checked the matter/anti-matter pods methodically; though there were no fluctuations on the hand-held tricorder, something caused the hair to raise up on the back of his stocky neck. He shook his head, glancing around the engineering section. Nightshift had already come on; and three technicians remained busy at their posts. But one, Scott noticed, seemed unusually distracted. The engineer's bushy brows furrowed as he rechecked the critical balance between the matter and anti-matter … and received precisely the same readings as before.

Still … as long as he'd served on the ShiKahr, something felt out of place … eerie.Mentally, he shook himself, trying to chase away the feeling of paranoia. He looked at the technicians once again, wondering if they were even aware of his presence. Donnelly and Anderson appeared at ease—almost bored, in fact. But Reichert seemed downright itchy, the chief engineer thought.

Scott moved behind a jutting bulkhead and took a moment to secretly observe the man in question. He knew little about the ensign, other than the fact that he'd been on board for approximately six months; he seemed stable enough, and his work had always been above average. Never late for a shift, never sick … and he liked Scotch almost as much as his boss.

Scotty smiled to himself, but the amusement quickly faded when he saw Reichert blink, waver on his feet, and catch himself with one hand on the engineering panel which jutted out from the wall at waist level. The other technicians were positioned so that Reichert's actions went unobserved; Scott alone witnessed the incident—which seemed remarkably similar to the episode he'd seen Captain Spock battling the day before. But before he could move from his position to assist the technician, Reichert righted himself, glanced guiltily about, and continued with his work for a moment as if nothing at all had happened. Then he turned from the panel, and Scott thought briefly that his presence had been discovered.

But the young ensign merely walked past his hiding place, over to Donnelly and Anderson. He slapped Donnelly on the back. "Think I'll take a break, you guys," he said congenially. "Watch the flow-board for me?"

Donnelly smiled. "Sure thing, Carl." He walked to the other panel, then impulsively called over his shoulder, "Hey, Carl! Bring me a cup of coffee and a doughnut, will ya?"

Reichert stopped at the door, saluting mock-seriously. "Sure thing, Admiral," he replied, and quickly slipped into the corridor.

As soon as the ensign had gone, Scott moved out from the jutting bulkhead, feeling uncharacteristically guilty as he moved to stand over Donnelly's shoulder. He peered at the energy-flow panel which Reichert had been monitoring, and felt a deathly chill crawl into his stomach.

"Don't tell me yae don't seethat, man!" he exclaimed. "The whole damned flow's bein' interrupted by somethin'."

Donnelly looked more closely at the panel and the digital readings. "Reichert said it was a panel malfunction," he explained, glancing curiously at his supervisor. "Said you knew about it—and that Anderson and I shouldn't mess with it." But his eyes suddenly widened as the connection came clear.

A feeling close to death gripped Scott's heart, and he jumped across the room, thumbing the communication switch. "Scott to bridge! Captain Spock respond!"

"Spock here," came the calm response.

"Captain!" Scott barked into the panel. "Ye've got tae shut down all nonessential power immediately!" He glanced nervously at Donnelly, at the pale face, the horrified eyes. "Turn off everything that's not absolutely critical to life support!"

Before he could even begin to explain the problem, he heard the order being given on the bridge, and a certain amount of pride swept through him with the knowledge that Spock—a Vulcan sworn to logic and precision—could trust him on such sparse knowledge.

"We've got a problem down here," the engineer continued, almost feeling the giant starship shutting down, going to sleep. "And a serious one at that, Captain."

"What is the nature of the problem, Mister Scott?" Spock's filtered voice wondered without alarm or emotion.

Scott swallowed hard, absently noting the cold sweat which had broken out like a rash on his forehead. "The flow-valve to the matter/anti-matter pods has been left open. We'll have to keep power to a minimum—and shut down the warp drive completely—until I can verify exactly where the problem's located."

There was a momentary silence, as if the Vulcan was thinking, then: "Is it not correct that the matter/anti-matter flow system is computer monitored at all times, Engineer, and that any discrepancy should have been noted in your routine check?"

Scott glanced at Donnelly again, sharing the tension with his young technician. "Aye, Captain. That's what I'm tryin' tae tell yae! In order for this tae happen in the first place, it hadtae be deliberate!" He shook his head, struggling with words which didn't want to come out past the sudden thickness of his own tongue. "Whoever did this made damned certain that it wouldn'tshow up on the tricorder scan." Unconsciously, he lowered his voice; it was a hefty accusation. "It's just a miracle o' the saints that we didna blow ourselves into atoms! Ten more minutes and …" His voice drifted off.

Again, the silence. "Very well, Mister Scott," the Vulcan responded at last. "All nonessential power has been suspended. Warp drive is also terminated; we have transferred to impulse engines." The captain paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was considerably quieter as well. "In addition, I suggest you seal off the Engineering section long enough to determine precisely who could have made such an error."

Scott felt his stomach hit the floor. "Ah … Captain," he said quietly, "the main suspect left Engineering about a minute ago—said he was going down tae the lounge to grab a bite tae eat."

"Indeed," the Vulcan's voice responded, sounding somewhat surprised. "I shall have Security detain him there. Upon completion of your repairs, Engineer Scott, please notify the bridge. Also, I request that you meet me in Sickbay following solution to the current problem. I wish to interview you and any technicians on duty during the incident."

Scott took a deep breath. It could've been worse. "Aye, Captain. Scott out." He looked at Donnelly again, saw the color drain from the young tech's face. He managed a smile before returning to the energy-flow monitoring board. "Don't worry, lad," he said amiably. "The captain doesna bite—and if annaone can get tae the bottom of this, he's the one tae do it."

Donnelly seemed skeptical, but nonetheless nodded. His eyes settled on the board, on the so-called "malfunction" readings. "Why would Reichert dosomething like that, Mister Scott?" he asked at last.

Scotty felt the shiver dance along his backbone. "Now that'sa question best left for the psyche specialists, lad. Why annaone would want tae blow up the ship—and themselves along with it—is beyond my ability to comprehend." He winked, feeling a little more at ease, and moved into the dimly lit corridor which would lead to the Jeffries tube. The damage had to be somewhere in that region. "Here, lad," he said, indicating a belt-attachment filled with intricate tools. "Hand me that flow-sensor kit." He hoisted himself up into the catwalk, accepting it from the young ensign's hands—which, the engineer noted, were trembling. "Now get yourself back over tae that board and give me a yell when those readings start tae stabilize."

Donnelly moved quickly, but chanced a look at Anderson as he returned to the main room. His partner's eyes were wide, disbelieving.

"Just how close did we come, Dave?" Anderson wondered once Scott had disappeared into the shadows and catacombs of engineering.

Donnelly shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Don't ask," he said, eyes on the board. Within a few moments, the readings began to stabilize, to approach normal. "There, Mister Scott," he called into the communication panel. "That seems to be it."

Within another few minutes, Scott reappeared, a wide grin of relief playing on the rugged features. He walked over to Donnelly, slipped one arm warmly around his back. "Yae can tell your heart to start beating again, lad," he said. "Luckily our friend didn't have the experience to send us up in one big bang."

But he went to the flow-board, checking it and rechecking it himself … just to be sure.

On the bridge, Captain Spock rose and went to stand at the science station, looking briefly over First Officer Chekov's shoulder. For some reason, the computer facility beckoned him, calling him in a way which was scarcely natural; the gentle hum of the circuits and microprocessors felt far more "right" than the harsh reality of the command chair. But he dismissed the illogical thought nearly as quickly as it presented itself. After being a starship captain in the Alliance for nearly seven years, now was a poor time to consider a major career alteration.

"All sensors monitoring nothing but empty space, Captain," Chekov provided automatically. "No Romulan vessels even near the edge of the Neutral Zone."

Spock nodded almost to himself. "And Mister Scott's present status with engine repairs?"

Chekov activated a series of controls, monitoring the engineering computers and comparing the information to ship's normal. "Matter/anti-matter energy flow now stable, sir," the first officer responded. "Engineer Scott signals that his repairs are now complete and that he is en route to Sickbay as per your orders."

"Very well, Commander Chekov," the Vulcan replied. "Notify Doctor McCoy that I shall be there presently." He turned and strode toward the doors; but before reaching the lift, his ears detected the faint whine on an incoming communication. He glanced at the communication panel, saw Uhura place the subspace decoding nodule in her ear, and waited. The standard morning's transmission had contained nothing out of the ordinary; if FleetCom was attempting to contact them now …

Presently, Uhura turned from the panel, automatically placing the nodule into the recording slot on the main board. From there, the message would be permanently inscribed into the ShiKahr's records.

"Lieutenant?" Spock asked when the communications officer made no effort to relay the message. He noticed that the woman appeared shaken, eyes wide.

Uhura's brows furrowed as she met her commanding officer's eyes. She eyed the nodule carefully. "I … I'm not sure, sir," she responded at last. "That message—it couldn'thave been correct."

The Vulcan moved to the communication panel instinctively. Something felt wrong. The dizziness was there again, but he fought it, drove it away with sheer willpower alone. "Precisely what was the message, Lieutenant?" he inquired, momentarily annoyed at having to ask a second time.

Uhura shook her head, glancing around the bridge. No heads turned; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. "It's on a priority code, Captain," she said quietly. "I think you'd better hear it yourself." Her eyes locked with the Vulcan's once more. " Privatelymight be best, sir."

A slanted brow rose. "Indeed?" But he trusted the communications officer implicitly. "Very well, Lieutenant Uhura. Have the message transferred to Doctor McCoy's private office and instruct Mister Scott that I shall meet with him in my quarters later this evening." He continued holding Uhura's gaze for a moment longer, wondering what could have brought such fear to her eyes. But he turned from the bridge and stepped into the waiting lift.

He would know soon enough.

Captain Spock entered Sickbay to find the lights already dimmed for night; approximately ten patients lay sleeping on the diagnostic beds, and save for the gentle hum of the medical computer, all was silent. He quickly passed by the beds, taking a moment to study the sleeping faces. Some he recognized, others were strangers; yet he experienced a peculiar affinity for each of them. A young female Rigelian lay peacefully on her side, and for an instant, the Vulcan wondered how she had risen to starship posting at such an early age. She could have been no more than nineteen Rigelian years of age. Curiously, the captain looked at the panel above her, mentally summoning a text-book accurate recollection of what her symptoms represented. The answer came almost without effort: hemoatrophia. Minor, he deduced, judging from the stabilized readings. She would soon recover; and for that, the captain was grateful. Regardless of all of Sarek's teachings, he still felt compassion—particularly for his crew, his ship, and for the few lifeforms he called friends. If Vulcan wished to consider him T'kaul'amafor that fall from logic, it was a sentence he would willingly accept.

He paused at the foot of the Rigelian's bed for only a moment longer, then moved on toward Leonard McCoy's office. But before reaching the door, it opened of its own accord and Lieutenant Christine Chapel stepped out, almost bumping into him in the darkened area.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, nonetheless careful to keep her voice lowered. "Captain Spock."

The Vulcan inclined his head. "Nurse Chapel," he replied formally. "I trust you have been well."

The nurse smiled warmly. "Yes, Captain. Thank you." She held out a mini-comp for the Vulcan's inspection. "Doctor McCoy has Ensign Reichert sedated at the moment. He was … quite violent when Security brought him in."

Spock nodded, studying the sparse information contained in the recording mechanism. Basically, it identified the patient, listing his symptoms as: paranoia, self-destructiveness and hallucinations. The Vulcan lifted a brow, then turned back to Chapel, unable to completely dismiss his own incident of the previous afternoon. "Nurse," he began, "have there been any … additionalcases of … hallucinations?"

Chapel frowned as she considered the question. "No …" she finally replied. "Not directly, anyway." She indicated one of the diagnostic beds with a quick nod of her head. "The closest is Yeoman Devoran. She came in this afternoon, complaining of migraines and dizziness." Chapel laughed somewhat uneasily. "She also mentioned something about … well … seeing … ghosts."

"Ghosts, Nurse Chapel?"

The nurse shrugged. "She didask me to keep it confidential, but … what with Reichert going a little crazy, I thought you might need to know."

Captain Spock nodded, glancing at Yeoman Devoran's sleeping form. He'd seen her only briefly, recognized her as being from Security Division. "She did not mention precisely what these … ghosts … looked like, did she, Nurse?"

Chapel shook her head, brows narrowing. "No … No she didn't." She paused, checking the readout above Devoran's head. "Doctor McCoy examined her completely, and wasn't able to find anything of a physical nature to account for the anomaly. He prescribed a mild tranquilizer and suggested she remain here for observation. I believe the doctor's also scheduled a full psyche exam first thing in the morning."

The Vulcan considered that—and realized it was precisely hisreason for not having reported his own incident. If FleetCom heard rumors of a starship captain experiencing hallucinations … His half-human blood had already caused enough mayhem with the High Council; no point feeding prejudices.

He nodded curtly. "Thank you, Nurse. That will be all."

As Chapel turned to leave the Sickbay, the Vulcan strode to the doctor's inner office, waiting for a moment as he gazed quickly at Yeoman Devoran.

Reality wavered, but he chased the ghosts away with some silent incantation. Logic prevailed.

Doctor Leonard McCoy studied the readout above Reichert's head for the hundredth time, still not able to fully believe what every medical test confirmed: dual encephalograms—two distinctly different sets of brain waves. And even in the most pronounced cases of schizophrenia, McCoy had to admit that he'd never witnessed anything quite as bizarre … or impossible. It was as if Reichert's brain functioned on two different levels—each independent of the other.

His brows drew closer together, blue eyes squinting in thought as he looked down into the young man's face. The eyes which stared back at him were wild—trapped-animal wild and haunted; and even under the heavy sedation, the once-handsome features were twisted into a grimace which was both pitiable and frightening.

McCoy smiled warmly, ignoring the uncanny caterpillar-shiver which skittered up his spine. "Feeling any better now, Carl?"

Reichert merely stared at him, green eyes hardening dangerously. He did not speak.

Absently, McCoy reached out, touching the young ensign's arm in a reassuring gesture. "Don't worry, kid," he said. "We'll find an answer and have you out of here in no time." But even as he spoke the words, he wondered if they were a lie. In the entire history of the Alliance, no one had ever attempted to destroy a starship. For himself, McCoy wondered how this would affect the future of humans on board interstellar cruisers; the Vulcan High Council had been reluctant enough to accept Terrans in the first place … and something like this wasn't likely to go unnoticed.

But his attention was diverted as the gentle bell chimed on the sealed entrance to the security office.

"McCoy here," he responded automatically. "That you, Spock?"

"Affirmative, Doctor," the Vulcan's filtered voice responded.

Going to the small panel on the wall, McCoy keyed in the proper coded sequence which would open the door. He grinned broadly as the Vulcan entered. Despite the fact that he'd been on board nearly as long as the captain himself, he wondered if he would ever get used to the psyche games they always seemed to play. He looked at the Vulcan for a long moment, studying the familiar maroon command silks, the gold tie belt, and pants which fell to the top of knee-length black boots. Somehow, suddenly … it looked out of place—and he thought of Spock as a misplaced sheep in pirate's clothing. The only thing missing was a big gold earring in one pointed ear. Now thatwould be just about right! But he shook the image away, motioning toward a chair as the doors closed and sealed automatically behind the Vulcan.

"Before we begin, Doctor," Spock said, sitting gracefully on the edge of the chair, "I find it necessary to review a transmission from FleetCom."

McCoy nodded, easily detecting the tone of irritation in the deep voice. He also wondered why Spock was bothering to tell him. But he motioned generously toward the communication panel. "Help yourself, Spock," he said with a grin. "Care for a brandy?" he asked, proceeding to unlock the "medicine cabinet" and withdraw a dusty bottle.

The Vulcan's brow climbed as he thumbed the correct button on the communication panel. McCoy's nonchalant approach to any given situation never ceased to amaze him. Such complete adaptability. Within twenty-four hours, the doctor had treated at least fifteen patients—the majority for minor bruises and abrasions following the competition tae kwan dotournament in the gym; the ship was operating on minimal power due to the engineering incident; and an ensign—who now lay less than twenty feet away in a security-restricted area—had attempted to obliterate the entire vessel.

The Vulcan pondered that information, then slowly allowed the brow to resume its normal position. "Yes, thank you, Doctor," he conceded at last. "That would be appreciated."

McCoy stared at the Vulcan, then looked at the bottle in his hand. Very slowly, a wide grin manifested in the blue eyes. He hurried back to the cabinet and withdrew two fat-bellied snifters. Then, as an afterthought, he replaced the first bottle back on the shelf and grabbed another—slightly more dusty than its companion.

"When youcondescend to take a drink, Spock," he explained filling the two glasses, "it's time to break out the good stuff. Vintage Antarean brandy," he boasted. "Guaranteed to put hair on your chest and raise welts on women and children!"

The Vulcan studied the doctor curiously. "Precisely why would one wish to imbibe a substance which would essentially alter the individual's entire metabolism, Doctor?" he asked, but nonetheless accepted the glass which McCoy shoved in his direction.

McCoy shrugged. "Consider it a human weakness, Mister Spock," he replied, not noticing that he'd addressed his commanding officer by a less-than-fitting title for his rank. "Now what's this transmission all about? I thought we got FleetCom transmissions on morning shift."

The Vulcan nodded agreement. "Apparently," he replied, waiting for the computer to load and replay the message, "this is of some importance." But before he could further explain, the green light on the panel signaled readiness with two flashes and a gentle beep-tone. The screen, however, remained blank as the message began.

"Admiral S't'kal to Alliance Starship ShiKahr," a very Vulcan voice intoned with almost mechanical precision. "As of this stardate, all Alliance vessels are hereby ordered to prepare for full operational battle readiness.

"After lengthy debate by Vulcan High Council and Human League of Planets, it is our joint decision to subdue any potentially dangerous invaders before hostilities arise. ShiKahrtherefore ordered to continue mission at Neutral Zone, and await arrival of two sisterships. ShiKahrfurther instructed to stand ready as flagship for initial trespass into Romulan territory. Captain Spock, you are authorized to organize initial assault. Other Alliance captains ordered to obey your commands completely in this matter. Details of strategy and attack vessels to follow."

The voice ceased abruptly, but the small computer screen on McCoy's desk suddenly flickered to life, showing a series of graphs and grids—which, when viewed in perspective, Spock realized, represented an intricate battle plan—one which called for deliberate invasion into a territory which had been outlined by Vulcan/Romulan treaty nearly a century ago.

The graphs continued to change very quickly, and the Vulcan could partially interpret the printed scramble-code line which ran along the bottom of the screen. When broken down into its millions of individual characters, the code would contain the details Admiral S't'kal had mentioned. Details for war.

He looked up, meeting McCoy's eyes, which were suddenly wide with something bordering closely on horror.

On the bed across the room, Reichert's body seemed to be wracked with a series of spasms … but when the Vulcan looked more closely, he realized—with an uncharacteristic chill—that the spasms were actually laughter.