Текст книги "The Art of the Impossible "

Автор книги: Keith R. A. DeCandido

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter 32

I.K.S. Sompek

“Sir, we are receiving a distress call.”

At last, a call to battle,Kang thought. For the past week, he had been given the “honor” of conducting several members of the High Council—including Kravokh—on an inspection tour. The Sompekwas one of the new Vakk-class ships that had been constructed as part of Kravokh’s ship construction initiatives, and now the Council, in their infinite bureaucracy, wished to see them in action.

Except, of course, Kang knew that there was no action to be had as long as such important personages were on board. The tour was as much to show the people how much interest Kravokh and the Council took in the defense of the Empire, and so not only did everyone know that they were present, but they had a virtual armada for an escort. All the ships assigned to this sector served as protection, as well as Qo’noS Oneand three of the Council’s own strike ships. This collection of vessels could no doubt conquer several small inter-planetary governments without too much difficulty. No one would be foolish enough to challenge them.

As a result, Kang had spent a week observing. Worse, what he observed were Kravokh and the assorted councillors observing. A scientist, his mate Mara appreciated the value of such tasks, but Kang had no use for them. He was a warrior, one of the most renowned soldiers of the Empire. That made his choice as the captain to lead this nonsensical “tour” as inevitable as it was frustrating.

Now, however, the monotony may be broken.“Specifics,” he instructed the operations officer who gave the report.

“It is coming from the Morska system, sir. The I.K.S. Konmatis under attack by three Galor-class vessels.”

“Cardassians.” Kang almost sneered the word.

Just as he spoke it, the rear door to the bridge slid open to reveal Kravokh and three of the five councillors who accompanied him—as well as their entourage of bodyguards—came onto the bridge.

“What Cardassians?” Kravokh asked.

Kang turned to the operations officer. “Report to the chancellor.”

The officer seemed surprised at first, but recovered quickly and spoke in a far more respectful tone than Kang had ever heard the young officer use to Kang himself. “Sir, according to this signal, the Konmatis under attack by three Galor-class ships, but—” He hesitated.

“But what?” Kravokh prompted.

The officer looked quickly at Kang, who cried, “Speak!”

“I—I am not sure that the distress signal is genuine, sir.”

Kang’s lips curled. The officer was too intimidated by the presence of such exalted warriors to be anything other than truthful. If anything, he had probably understated his case. Kang looked at the pilot. “Time to Morska?”

Without hesitation, the pilot spoke, meaning she had wisely already calculated it. “Three hours, ten minutes at warp eight, sir.”

Turning to the chancellor, Kang said, “With respect, we should send two ships—I recommend the Aktuhand the Gowlak—and—”

“No.” Kravokh strode to the area between the command chair and the forward viewer. “I grow weary of these Cardassian invasions of our space. Instruct the convoy to set course for Morska.”

Kang seethed. Bad enough that an entire garrison of vessels were being wasted on a glorified publicity exercise, but this…“We do not even know that there isa Cardassian invasion of our space. And to send a dozen ships on such an errand is akin to using a disruptor cannon to hunt a single lIngta’.”

To Kang’s irritation, that prompted a smile from the chancellor. “In the end, though, the lIngta’is dead. Give the order, Captain.”

Any other captain might have jumped at that point. To even question the Supreme Commander of the Klingon Empire was courting death. But Kang had lived far too long to be so easily intimidated. He had been leading troops into battle when Kravokh’s father was too small to hold a bat’leth.

Still, challenging his authority for more than a few seconds would cause more problems than it would solve. For one thing, the other councillors—not to mention their bodyguards—would probably cut Kang to ribbons. Normally he would expect at least some loyalty from his crew, but based on his operations officer’s stammering, perhaps this was not a normal situation. Nor did he wish to force his crew to make that decision.

So, finally, he said, “Instruct the convoy to set course for the Morska system, warp eight.”

“Course laid in, sir,” the pilot said almost immediately. This time, Kang did not welcome the woman’s efficiency.

“Execute.”

Chapter 33

Khitomer

Mogh exited the control room with a combination of glee and regret. The former was because the shield tests went better than expected. If they were attacked by Romulan or Breen disruptors, Federation or Cardassian phasers, or even Kinshaya pulse blasts, they’d be ready.

The latter was due to his inability to root out the Romulan spy. L’Kor and Gi’ral both expressed admiration for certain characteristics of Romulans, but neither of them showed any outward indication, and the computer searches had turned up nothing suspicious.

On the other hand, Ja’rod was looking more promising. Mogh was still unable to eavesdrop on the man’s residence, and there were several anomalies in his service record. None of it was hard evidence, but it was enough to encourage a deeper digging. That would be more Lorgh’s task than mine.

As he exited the control room and headed for the exit, he was greeted by Kahlest and Worf. The boy was, of course, holding the family bat’leth,as he had been when he triumphantly returned that morning with what would become the evening meal for the Defense Force troops.

Mogh noted with pride that the weapon was clean. Knowing how to maintain the weapon was as important as knowing how to wield it—at least that was what Mogh always believed, especially given how much better at the former he was than the latter—and he was glad to see that Worf had taken that lesson to heart.

“How was your day, my son?” Mogh asked.

“It was all right, Father,” Worf said, sounding bored. “I want to go hunting again. Next time, I will catch the beast’s father!”

Mogh smiled. “I am sure that you will, Worf.”

“Have you found him yet?”

Again, Mogh felt pride at his son’s good sense. He knew that Mogh’s mission was secret, and so never spoke openly of it outside of their cabin. “Not yet, but I have a suspicion. Now, however, is not the time for—”

“Husband!”

Mogh looked up to see Kaasin entering. She still wore her mok’barashirt and pants, covered with a long maroon coat.

“I was hoping to find you all here,” she said. “My class has ended, and I thought we should eat with the troops in the mess hall—partake of the feast our son has provided.”

Worf’s eyes grew wide. “Can we, Father, please?”

As if I could say no to either of you.“That is an excellent idea, my love.”

“Of course it is.” Kaasin smiled, her gray eyes almost glowing. Mogh felt his heart sing, as it always did in her presence.

He still recalled the day he brought her to the seat of their House, in the sitting room under the Qam-Chee tapestry and the same bat’leththat Worf now carried with him everywhere. There, Mogh’s mother gave her blessing to their union. His father, Worf’s namesake, had been on a mission, but he gave his own blessing in due course. Mogh would always serve the Empire, always do his duty, but nothing pleased him more than simply being in Kaasin’s presence.

As they proceeded toward the mess hall, an alarm sounded.

“Alert status. Alert status.”

Mogh immediately ran to a workstation, and called up the current display on the tactical monitor in the control room.

It showed several Romulan warbirds decloaking in orbit.

Such an attack is more possible than either of us dreamed, L’Kor,he thought sourly.

Then the display showed that the outpost shields—the same shields he had just spent the day testing—had gone down.

Slamming his fist onto an intercom channel, he cried, “Mogh to control room! Commander Moraq, come in!”

There was no reply from the outpost commander, nor any of his crew.

“Engineering, this is Captain Mogh, respond!”

Again, nothing. This is not simply an attack—we are sabotaged.

But Mogh’s first thoughts were for his family. “Kahlest, take Worf to the sub-basement.”

Holding up his bat’leth,Worf said, “I wish to fight beside you, Father!”

“No!” Mogh closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I need you to protect Kahlest. No harm must come to her, Worf, understood?”

“I understand, Father. I will die before I let anyone harm her.”

Let us hope it does not come to that,Mogh thought, now more grateful than ever that he had allowed Lorgh to talk them into leaving Kurn behind. “Good,” he said. “Go!”

Before he could say anything to his mate, she spoke. “We have been sabotaged by whoever it was Lorgh sent you to find.”

Mogh shook his head. I knew I loved this woman for a reason.“Yes. I do not know who to trust—except you. Go to the engineering section, see if you can re-establish the shields. I will go to the control room and see if anyone there still lives.”

The entire complex was then rocked with a tremendous impact. Mogh lost his footing and fell to the ground, which seemed to buck and weave beneath him despite being made from the strongest rock available.

Kaasin, of course, had maintained her footing. She moved toward him, concern for her mate overriding a warrior’s preference not to be helped in any way. Mogh waved her away. “Go to engineering! Quickly!”

Nodding, she turned and ran toward the access ladder.

Clambering to his feet, Mogh ran in the opposite direction toward the control room.

The base shook twice more during his sojourn, and Mogh fell over one of those times. Plasma fires erupted all around him. The stench of burning plasti-form and damaged equipment only served to get his blood boiling. The Romulans will pay for this—and so will the traitor.

To Mogh’s confusion, the door to the control room was closed. It had never been closed in all the weeks he had been here, and did not understand why it was shut now. Worse, the privacy seal had been engaged.

His own code overrode that, of course, but in the time it took him to enter it, the base was rocked yet again.

When the door rumbled open, a stench like rotting meat assaulted Mogh’s nostrils. He recognized it instantly as SIp,a gas that rendered one comatose—if left untreated, it could easily lead to death. It was part of the control room’s security system, meant to provide the option of incapacitating intruders to leave them alive to be interrogated.

SIp’s dense green color also resulted in reduced visibility if used in an enclosed space. Covering his nose and mouth with his hand, Mogh made his way through the jade miasma to the environmental control console in order to clear it. He almost tripped over the prone forms of L’Kor and Gi’ral. Saboteurs were, in Mogh’s experience, unlikely to gas themselves, so the two of them were no doubt innocent.

Worry about that later,he thought. As soon as he activated the scrubbers to clean the air of the SIp,he sent out a distress signal and ran a diagnostic on all systems.

To his horror, the Romulans themselves lowered the shields. They had the access codes!

The base had also stopped shaking, and Mogh was now reading multiple transports to the surface. The Romulans had sent down ground troops to take care of whoever was left.

That number was small. Sensors registered very few life signs, and several were in this room. Mogh turned around and looked over the unconscious forms. He recognized most of the regular staff, but conspicuous by his absence was Commander Moraq—he wasn’t in his office or the control room. Could he be the traitor after all?

The base shook again, but this was not from disruptor fire. On one of the security viewers, Mogh saw a massive explosion from one of the secondary laboratories in one of the smaller compounds near the base. From the looks of it, the compound’s generator overloaded.

Based on the reduction in life-sign readings, two hundred Klingons died in that explosion alone.

Unfortunately, sensors, environmentals, and communications were all Mogh could get to operate. All tactical systems, from the shields to the ion cannons, had gone offline, and nothing Mogh could do would reactivate them. The saboteur did his work well.

Mogh was no longer sure if it was Ja’rod or Moraq or someone else entirely who was responsible for this treachery—for this murder—but Mogh swore he would not rest until the deaths of all these good people were avenged. This was nota good day—or a good way—to die.

Then he heard a humming sound behind him. Mogh whirled to see half a dozen Romulans materialize in the room. Mogh had his disruptor out before they could coalesce into their natural form, and killed two of them before he felt the heat of one of their disruptor beams slice into his torso.

As he fell to the ground, his final thoughts were of Kaasin and his son Worf, and of Kurn, who would be the only one left to carry on the family name.

Centurion Tokath shook his head as he looked at the three corpses—the two antecenturions the Klingon had killed before Antecenturion Belear cut the Klingon down. “Senseless. The control room was supposed to be gassed.”

Belear knelt down over another Klingon body. “This one is not dead.”

“Neither are these others,” said another antecenturion.

“That one probably entered after the gas. Senseless,” Tokath repeated. He had served loyally in the Romulan military for decades, but as he grew older, he found that he had less and less taste for death. Perhaps it is time I retired.He had hoped that with the insanity of Praetor Dralath’s regime a thing of the past things might improve, but governments were, he had decided, inherently insane. What is madder, that the Klingons would develop a biogenic weapon or that our response would be to murder four thousand Klingons?

Either way, Tokath had lost his taste for combat.

Aloud, he said, “No doubt he is responsible for the distress signal we detected.”

The young antecenturion snorted. “As if that matters. The Klingon ships in this sector have been led to the Morska system. We have nothing to fear from—”

“Centurion!”

That was Belear, who now stood at one of the control room consoles. “What is it?” Tokath asked.

“Sensors are detecting a ship approaching at high warp!”

Damn those fools in the Tal Shiar, they assured us that Kang’s fleet would be distracted!

Tokath walked over to the display—only to see that the configuration of the ship was all wrong, as was its course. The ship wasn’t coming from the Morksa system, it was coming from the Federation. “It’s Starfleet,” he said after a moment. “They must have been near the border and picked up the distress signal.” More foolishness. The commander had not bothered to jam the signal when it began to broadcast, just before Tokath was sent to the planet. The commander had faith in the Tal Shiar’s information, forgetting that Starfleet had a tendency to come to the aid of—well, anyone, truth be told. The Federation’s desire to help people was as pervasive as it was predictable, and that it wasn’t anticipated as a possibility distressed Tokath. Have I lost the taste for combat, or merely for those who run it?

“Gather up the prisoners—him, too,” he added, pointing at the Klingon they had shot. “The doctor might be able to revive him.” He contacted the mother ship. They were going to need to leave sooner rather than later if they didn’t want to risk a confrontation with Starfleet. Tokath doubted that the commander wished a repeat of Narendra III, after all…

Kaasin arrived in the engine room of the Khitomer Base just in time to see Commander Moraq cut down by a disruptor fired by Ja’rod.

The engine room housed all the control systems and power for the entire base—with the exception of a few of the compounds holding the secondary laboratories, which had their own power sources. She carried only one weapon—a disruptor pistol that Mogh had given her years ago. It had gone unfired, aside from the occasional bit of target practice, for all the time she’d owned it, as Kaasin always came armed with her best weapon: herself. Besides mok’bara,she had mastered several martial arts forms, including some from the Federation. She had every faith in her ability to take on even an armed foe with just her hands and feet and teeth.

However, right now she needed more than faith, she needed surety. Hence the disruptor.

“Kaasin! I’m glad you’re here!” Ja’rod indicated Moraq with his weapon. “This animal betrayed us to the Romulans! We must raise the shields, quickly, before we are destroyed!”

As Ja’rod moved over to the console, Kaasin looked at the prone form of Moraq. He lay in the midst of the wreckage of a console that had exploded in the attack. In fact, the entire room smelled of burning conduits. The base commander struggled to move, but it was obvious that the disruptor had done its job well. He would be dead in moments, and until then he would be unable to make his limbs function properly, the deadly beam having all but destroyed the function of his nervous system.

But he was able to lock eyes with Kaasin. His body was failing, but Moraq’s black eyes burned with the intensity of a warrior.

All her life, Kaasin had heard warriors—mostly old, fat ones—talk about tova’dok,the moment of clarity when warriors spoke to each other without words. She had always given those stories the same level of respect and belief that she did all their other exaggerated tales of mighty prowess—to wit, none whatsoever.

Until now. Because when she locked eyes with Moraq, she knewthat Ja’rod was lying and Moraq died trying to stop the very traitor Mogh had been sent here to find.

Then Moraq’s eyes shut.

“Leave him be, Kaasin! You must aid me in bringing the shields back up.”

She turned and aimed her disruptor at Ja’rod’s back. “Face me, traitor.” Even one such as Ja’rod deserved to look his killer in the eye.

Ja’rod did not do so, however, instead ducking behind a console and firing his own disruptor wildly. Kaasin was able to avoid the beam easily, then she too took cover behind one of the damage-control consoles.

“And to think I thought I had you fooled,” Ja’rod said. “After all, Mogh was finally starting to leave me alone. A pity that none of us will live to see how futile his efforts were. It’s only a matter of time, you know.”

Kaasin was still barefoot from her mok’baraclass. She moved slowly and silently across the room, ignoring the mild pain of the sharpened edges of metal from the damaged consoles as they ripped into the callused soles of her feet. She did not speak, did not breathe, did nothing to give any indication of her position. Only her scent would give her away, but the burning-conduit stink that permeated the room would mask that.

Besides, she somehow doubted that a Romulan-lover like Ja’rod was much of a hunter.

“Soon our people will see the wisdom of a Romulan–Klingon alliance. Together we will conquer the Federation, the Cardassians, the Tholians—all the galaxy will be ours for the taking!”

Keep talking, fool.She only had a little farther to go and she’d be around the other side of the console from where he was crouching.

“You still have a chance, Kaasin—you and your husband, if he’s still alive, can lead the vanguard! Think of it! The House of Duras and the House of Mogh united! The wonders we can accomplish would be—”

Kaasin stood behind Ja’rod and blew his head off.

For a moment, Kaasin was concerned that she had dishonored herself and her mate by killing without showing her face—but the moment passed. He already knows what I look like.

Stepping over the corpse without giving it another thought, she walked back to Moraq’s body, knelt next to it, pried open his eyes, and then screamed to the heavens.

At least I was able to avenge you, Commander—I will see you inSto-Vo-Kor.

The hum of a transporter grabbed her attention—and that there wasa hum meant that it couldn’t be a Klingon transporter, since they were silent. She raised her disruptor—

–only to have a Romulan soldier knock it out of her hands as he materialized. The Romulan then smiled, thinking her helpless before him.

The smile fell as she grabbed his left arm, yanked it around behind his back hard enough to break it in three places, and then broke his neck. She did not let the body fall to the floor, however, as there were three other Romulans who had come with him, and she needed the corpse of their comrade as a shield.

Backing toward the wall, she grabbed her victim’s disruptor and started firing. But the other three fired as well. While two of the shots hit the dead Romulan, one struck Kaasin’s leg.

Pain seared through her shin, clad as it was only in mok’barapants, and she found herself sprawled on the floor, her Romulan shield in front of her. She tried to raise the disruptor to fire it, but another Romulan, a female centurion, did as her comrade had, and knocked it from her grip. Kaasin’s attempt to grab her in a hold did not succeed, as she simply brushed it off.

Instead she leapt backward in what might have been an excellent flip were she not burdened by an injured leg. Still, even though she landed awkwardly, it got her out of reach of the Romulan and the pain only served to focus her rage.

“You will not take me, Romulan,” she hissed.

“A pity,” one of the antecenturions, a male, said, his eyes scanning the shape of Kaasin’s body. “You might actually be worth taking.”

Nausea spread through both of Kaasin’s stomachs at the very thought. “I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,” the female centurion said as she shot Kaasin.

Fire spread through her veins as the disruptor did its work. Her penultimate thoughts were glee that she had, at least, killed the traitor, as well as one of those Romulan petaQ.

Her final thoughts were of Mogh and her son Worf, and of Kurn, whom she would never see again…

As he materialized in what was left of the research outpost on Khitomer, Chief Sergey Rozhenko’s entire face scrunched as horrible odors assaulted his nostrils.

Not all the smells bothered him. As a Starfleet engineer of many years’ standing, he was well used to the olfactory clues pointing to melted conduits, burnt chips, and fried consoles. That only bothered him insofar as the stench generally led to his having to put together a repair detail.

No, what caused his nostril hairs to scream in protest was the smell of burning flesh.

Rozhenko remembered stories that his aunt Lilya told growing up on Gault, about their ancestors back on Earth in the days before the Federation—indeed, before first contact, before the planet was even united—who had been hunted down and slaughtered, or put in work camps and thenslaughtered after they had been worked almost to death. Uncle Isaac would usually then interrupt the story and say, “For God’s sake, Lilya, that was four hundred years ago on another planet! Things are different. That couldn’t happen now.”

To which Aunt Lilya would always reply: “That’s because we remember what happened then.The only way to avoid it is to never forget.”

Right now, Rozhenko wasn’t particularly heartened by the knowledge that something a twenty-fourth-century human like Uncle Isaac could dismiss so easily was happening literally under his nose in the Klingon Empire. It made him think that his decision not to re-enlist when his term was up in a month’s time and return home to Gault—and to his wife Helena and their son Nikolai—was most definitely the right one. The only massacres we have on Gault are of the vegetables during the harvest.

“I’m picking up transporter traces. They’re not Federation or Klingon,” said Lieutenant Tobias, the chief engineer of the Intrepid,Rozhenko’s commanding officer, and leader of this damage-control team. Captain Deighan had sent down several teams to different parts of the base to assess the damage and look for survivors. Given that the Intrepid’s sensor readings indicated no life signs, this second was a vain hope, but the captain was not about to rule out the possibility that somebodysurvived this mess.

Besides, based on the damage, it was quite possible that some life signs were unreadable. That,Rozhenko thought grimly, is, at least, as good a rationalization as any.

For his part, the chief went over to look at the generators to see if he could coax some life into them. It wasn’t quite his specialty, but Tobias, the chief engineer, had made it clear that everyone was to pitch in on this one. The attack on Khitomer was even worse than the one on Narendra III two years earlier—totally unprovoked, and leaving an estimated four thousand dead. I think I like Romulans better when they are quiet,Rozhenko thought.

He examined one of the consoles, stepping over the bodies of two Klingons, a man and a woman. The man was missing most of his head; the woman was wearing something that looked to Rozhenko like a martial arts gi.A third corpse lay on the ground across the room. All three were obviously the victims of gunfire.

The console was functioning, barely. Rozhenko examined it, and saw that several key components had been destroyed—and several more had been removed altogether. A saboteur, perhaps? Or the work of whoever killed these three?Many of the interfaces were also burned with what the tricorder identified as residue from an energy weapon—specifically a disruptor. That meant Klingon—unlikely, given that it was their base—Breen—unlikely due to Khitomer’s rather distant location from the Breen Confederacy—or Romulan—extremely likely, since the Intrepid’s sensors picked up ships whose configuration matched those of the ships that attacked Narendra III. To Tobias, he said, “Sir, it would seem that the Romulans beamed down ground troops.”

“To finish the job, maybe?” one of the other engineers said with disgust. “Can’t believe that even the Romulans would do this.”

“Unfortunately,” Tobias said with a long sigh, “the evidence is pointing that way. Hell, that’s allwe need.” He looked at Rozhenko. “What about the generator?”

“It is functioning at minimal output. There is no way to repair it without replacement parts, and there is little we have on the Intrepidthat would do the job. I doubt it will function for much longer.”

“How long?”

Rozhenko considered. “Two hours.”

“Enough time for us to search for survivors, then. With luck, some actual Klingons will show up by then, and theycan figure out whether to salvage the base or scrap it.” He looked at the rest of the team. “Scan for life signs. We’re not leaving anyonebehind to die here.”

Adjusting his tricorder to scan solely for Klingon life signs, Rozhenko was surprised to find two indications. “Lieutenant! I am picking up two Klingons, directly below us!”

“You two, stay here,” Tobias said to the rest of the team as he ran toward the exit. “You’re with me, Chief.”

They went into the hallway and searched for some kind of access to anything that might be below them. Setting his tricorder to examine the signs on the doors and translate them, Rozhenko found that one of them said SUB-BASEMENT right over a rectangular seam in the wall that could easily have been a hatch. “Sir, over here.”

Despite their years of training, the two engineers found themselves unable to determine which of the assorted buttons, levers, and switches on the door next to the sign actually would open the hatch—if hatch it truly was, as it had no handhold of any sort.

“This is ridiculous.” Tobias sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. “Let’s see if we can find another way down.”

Instead of responding, Rozhenko decided to test a theory. He placed his hand against the hatch.

It started to roll inward and then down, revealing a small vertical tubular shaft, just wide enough to accommodate one person, with a ladder on the back part.

Tobias regarded Rozhenko. “Chief, remind me, why did I bother spending four years at the Academy?”

Rozhenko smiled for the first time since beaming down to this charnel house. “That, Lieutenant, is one of many questions I ask myself every day. As soon as I have an answer, I promise to let you know.”

Shaking his head, Tobias climbed into the shaft and started down the ladder. Rozhenko followed the officer a moment later.

The ladder emptied into a relatively small room whose nature Rozhenko found himself unable to properly determine, as most of the floor was covered with parts of the ceiling—the latter had broken and fallen in many pieces, large and small, to the floor.

Panic welling in his gut, Rozhenko did a quick structural scan of the room, which verified what his eyes were telling him.

Before he could voice his concerns, Tobias said, “This room’s gonna collapse and take half the building with it in about fifteen minutes.”

“Twelve, according to the tricorder, sir.”

Tobias smirked. “That’swhy I went to the Academy, Chief—I’m not so dependent on gadgets. Trust me, this room’ll hold for three more minutes. Still, I’d rather not risk it. Let’s find our life signs and—”

He was interrupted by the sound of something moving. Rozhenko followed the noise to a small pile of rubble.

Then he noticed the tiny hand sticking out.

It must be a child!Rozhenko thought as he and Tobias ran over and started throwing pieces of debris off the hand, which soon revealed an arm, and then an entire body.

It was indeed a child, who clutched one of those Klingon swords for dear life. He was only a little bigger than Nikolai…

Tobias practically beat his chest, he hit his combadge so hard. “Tobias to Intrepid.”He then removed the combadge and placed it on the boy. “Medical emergency. Lock onto my signal, and beam directly to sickbay!”

“No…” That was the boy, who had somehow found the strength to speak. “Must…protect…Kahlest…”

Then the transporter beam took him to the Intrepid.

“Kahlest is probably the other life sign,” Rozhenko said.

“Let’s find her, then. We’ve only got ten minutes…”