Gemini (31 page)

“How can you ‘decide' something like that?” asked McCoy, disposing of the toxic lubricant. “What did you do, draw straws?”

“We flipped a coin,” said Abon, pointing to a golden circlet on the counter before them. “But we forgot something.”

Another tremor shook the ship as McCoy picked up the coin. Despite the tension, he smiled.

On one side of the coin was the face of Prince Abon—or was it Prince Delor? On its obverse was the face of Prince Delor—or was it Prince Abon?

The door hissed open and McCoy looked up. “Doctor,” said Spock, “I have come to assist you.”

“With these two,” said McCoy, “even you may not be enough.”

* * *

“Are you ready, Mr. Sulu?” asked Kirk, over the protestations of the ship as it was struck anew.
She can't take much more of this,
thought Kirk.
None of us can.

“Aye, sir,” said Sulu, in a baffled tone. “Phasers are ready.”

“Fire,” said Kirk. A phaser beam snaked onto the screen, barely perceptible, narrowed as it was to a beam of pinpoint accuracy.

“Keep us steady,” said Kirk. “Keep hammering the same position on their shields.”

“We're through, sir,” said Sulu, a few seconds later.

“Kirk to cargo hold—activate cargo transporters
now.
Sulu—
drop all shields!”

Sulu touched the deflector shields' override button on his console, his finger trembling only a little in the process.

Deprived of shields, the
Enterprise
shook even worse under the dual hammerings from the storm and the enemy's weapons. On the screen, Kirk could see both foes before him, as if deliberate allies, united in a single cause.

Then, suddenly, it happened. Another bunch of energy tendrils shot out from the storm, almost lazily, past the Nadorian ship, toward the
Enterprise
—

—then stopped, and doubled back, striking Docos's ship dead center.

“Captain,” said Chekov, with a gasp. “What—?”

“We've got the advantage for once,” said Kirk, “let's not lose it. Keep pounding them. Sulu, raise shields.”

“Aye, sir.” They were still reeling a little from the weapons of Docos's ship, but having that storm off their backs was a big help. Now the
Enterprise
used the psionic storm as an ally, hammering the Nadorian ship between bursts from the roiling mass behind it.

“Their shields are down, sir,” said Sulu, seconds later.

“About time,” said Kirk, punching a button on his console. “Transporter room, scan the enemy ship and lock on my nephew.”

“Can't, sir,” crackled back Kyle's voice. “Too much radiation from the other ship.”

“Understood, Kirk out.” He thought for a moment, then turned to the console again. “Bones, we're paying a visit to the other ship—uninvited. Join the party.”

“But … the storm is still active, Jim.”

“I know,” Kirk replied grimly. “And tell Spock to pull some miracle out of his ears, quickly. We're going to be right on the bull's-eye.

“Ship to ship,” Kirk said, tersely. “Counselor Docos, this is Kirk. Surrender or prepare to be boarded.”

The image on the screen rolled and popped in and out before finally focusing on Docos. Had it not been for the voice, Kirk wouldn't have recognized him; his features were taut and grim, his face streaked with blood and smoke.

But the old defiance was there. “Go to hell, Kirk. Earth or Nadorian—I don't care which.” Then the screen went dead.

“Sir,” said Sulu, “he's activated a self-destruct device. I read a five-minute fuse on it.”

“Then we'd better do this quickly,” Kirk said, matter-of-factly. “Uhura, you have the conn. Sulu, you're with me.”

This time it was Chekov who gave Sulu a sympathetic glance.

* * *

“Damage report, Sinclair?” asked Lieutenant Kevin Riley.

“Only my pride,” replied Sinclair, glumly.

“I heard,” Riley said sympathetically, leaning against the console in the cargo hold. “Kirk benched you just as you were about to suit up, huh?”

“If that means what I think it does, yes,” said Sinclair. “It wasn't so much that he did it, it was that he didn't have any reason for doing it. And in front of the others … ” She shook her head and shrugged helplessly. “If I just knew what it is I'd done. A fine career with Starfleet I've got.” She sighed. “Just once, I would have liked to sit at the helm.”

“Now listen here, my fine colleen,” said Riley, ratcheting his Irish accent up a notch or two. “The same thing happened to me last year. I found myself ordered to report to the depths of the ship, and I spent half my time wondering if it was my fault.”

Sinclair looked up at his narrow face inquisitively. “But didn't Kirk do that because—?”

“Because he wanted me out of the way,” said Riley, “that's right. And I'll bet it'll turn out he's got a good reason for the way he treated you, too. Believe me, Kirk wouldn't discipline one of his crew without letting them know why.”

“Maybe so,” she said, with a slow nod. Then she looked up and smiled. A rather wan smile, but better than nothing. “Thanks for coming down, Riley.”

The accent was back when he asked, “Could I do anything less for my favorite blonde?”

Sinclair eyed him critically. “I thought Sherwood was your favorite blonde.”

“Ah, she's my favorite
strawberry
blonde,” said Riley, with a twinkle in his eye, “but you're my favorite blonde.”

Sinclair chuckled and went back to her damage report, her efficiency somewhat impaired by trying to determine why the captain had ordered those specific contents of the cargo hold beamed over to the enemy ship.

* * *

“Has Spock found a way to stop that storm yet?” asked Kirk, as McCoy entered the transporter room.

“Not yet,” said McCoy, strapping on a weapons belt and taking his place on the pad. “Maybe with us over there, it'll give him a little incentive.”

“Four minutes, thirty seconds, sir,” said Sulu.

“It's almost like Spock never left,” said McCoy, dryly.

“Scotty, keep a lock on us at all times. Be ready for immediate retrieval.”

“I'll try, Captain,” said Scotty, who was waiting in the transporter room when Kirk arrived, “but with all that radiation flyin' around, I canna make any promises.”

“I wish you'd lie about our chances, just once,” said Kirk, with a sigh. “Energize.”

The interior of Counselor Docos's ship was consistent with Nadorian architecture, Kirk noted. Not that it was of much help.

But the halls had an unfinished look; some of the walls were bare of paneling, leaving conduits and wiring exposed, indicating that this model had been brought online perhaps before it was quite ready.

“What do they power this ship with, coal?” asked McCoy dryly. The hand he drew through the air left a trail behind it. “I don't think there's supposed to be this much smoke in the air.”

“They're going down and fast,” said Sulu. “This ship might not even make it through the self-destruct count-down.”

“Then the need for haste stands,” replied Kirk. “Bones, anything on the tricorder?”

“At this close a range … yes, I'm getting something,” said McCoy, peering at the instrument. “Down the corridor, deeper into the ship.”

“Watch out for the crew,” said Kirk, cautiously edging his way down a hall. “They won't be in any mood to receive visitors.”

But as they rounded a corridor, the first thing they saw were four crew members, both of the hard-bitten sort that made such effective thugs. “Hands up,” said Kirk.

They whipped around to the unfamiliar voice and saw the Starfleet personnel, hands beginning to bring weapons to bear. Kirk was prepared for a fight, until he saw their faces, which reflected an amalgam of uncertainty and spacesickness. It occurred to Kirk that they might never have been off-planet before.

Their hands continued rising, over their heads. “We surrender,” said one, in a liquid tone that indicated that he had either recently been sick to his stomach or soon would be.

“Weapons on the deck,” said Kirk, “then we'll talk.”

“You've got to take us with you,” said the other. “This ship can't last much longer.”

They probably don't know about the self-destruct mechanism,
thought Kirk.
So much for only the captain going down with his ship.

“We'll do what we can,” said Kirk. “No promises.”

The first made a sound of outrage that was somewhere between a roar and a gurgling noise, diving for his weapon as he did so. The boarding party brought their own weapons up, just as the ship was shaken from side to side by a fresh tantrum from the storm. Kirk was thrown to the deck, Sulu, McCoy, and the crew with him.

* * *

“Mr. Spock!” gasped Nurse Chapel. “Can you stop the—?”

“I am aware of my responsibilities, Nurse,” replied Spock, entering the surgical room behind McCoy's office. There sat the Princes Abon and Delor, uneasily riding out the storm and, from their expressions, not much liking it.

They've probably never been in such danger,
Chapel realized.
An assassin after you is one thing. That's a definable menace. But a storm like this one, a sample of the universe's fury
… Yet they were trying not to show what must have been their quite real terror.

“Your Serene Highnesses,” said Spock, half-bowing to the monarchs in a way that seemed abbreviated, yet fully respectful.

“Mr. Spock,” said Delor, giving a smile that more closely resembled a rictus, “I fear we have not yet had a chance to have our chat concerning Nadorian logic.”

“I may still have the pleasure of such a discussion,” said Spock, “once these circumstances have reached their conclusion.”

“Provided Delor and I are around to see that conclusion,” said Abon, in a small voice.

“Your Highness, I am under orders to see that just that event occurs,” replied Spock. He moved a chair to a position not far from Prince Delor's. “Will you please be seated?”

Abon slowly began to lower himself into the chair, never taking his eyes off Spock. He nearly stumbled as the fury of the psionic storm lashed out at the
Enterprise
anew, but regained his bearings quickly.

“Sickbay's stores are at your disposal, Mr. Spock,” said Chapel, from the doorway. “Dr. McCoy thought you might want to fashion a new kind of neural depressant, or—”

“Unfortunately, Nurse, there is no time for such experimentation,” replied Spock. “However, you may be of service by assuring Their Serene Highnesses and I are undisturbed—”

“Of course, Mr. Spock.”

“—even by yourself.”

“Of course, sir.” Chapel pulled a seat to her and sat down. After all, he hadn't said anything about leaving. From her vantage point, Spock's back was to her, Prince Abon to his left, Prince Delor to his right. He had a plan—he always had a plan—but what it was, Nurse Chapel had no idea. Spock seemed to be gathering himself, to be meditating, his hands raised before him, as if …

Suddenly, Spock's left hand, fingers splayed, neared the face of Prince Abon with a speed that nearly defied description, but a self-assuredness that did not startle the monarch.

“Prince Abon—my mind to your mind, your thoughts to my thoughts,” he began.

Chapel began to gasp, but caught it. She wanted to remain, now more so than ever, as she realized the strategy he was undertaking—and its risk.

“Prince Delor,” said Spock, his voice ringing stoically in the walls of sickbay, “my mind to your mind … your thoughts … to my thoughts … ”

Chapel always worried when Spock performed the Vulcan mind-meld, knowing there was a chance, however small, that the mind he entered might become inextricably mingled with his own, rendering both subjects permanently demented—or worse.

But to meld with two subjects at once? Chapel had never heard of it being done and had certainly never seen such a thing done. Yet as Spock's fingers touched the faces of the young princes, seemingly joined to their flesh, as their minds were being joined, she realized their only chance lay in Spock's ability to … to “reconjoin” the princes mentally, as they had been once conjoined physically, using himself as the conduit.

* * *

Rather than scrabble around for his phaser, which was what they expected him to do, Kirk simply launched himself at the crewmen, sprawling into the four of them at once. Sulu and McCoy took the hint, joining the ungainly fray as the ship's deck danced under them from the storm's fury.

Kirk had his hands around one thug's wrists, holding him back, though not for long. The thug's struggles slowly relaxed, as if exhausted. Kirk released his grip slightly, then threw himself to one side. As expected, the crewman, thinking he had caught Kirk off-guard, lunged toward him, trying to hammer Kirk's forehead with his. Instead, the thug's forehead collided with that of another crewman who was sneaking up behind Kirk, causing a sharp crack that was audible even over the groaning of the ship.

The two sank to the floor as Kirk rose, to see Sulu and McCoy dusting themselves off, their foes unconscious at their feet. “I'm getting too old for this,” said McCoy with a grumble.

Sulu glanced at his tricorder. “Not unless we're gone in one and a half minutes, you won't.”

They tore down the hall, McCoy and his medical tricorder in the lead.

“Here,” said McCoy. “Peter's in here, Jim.”

The door to the cabin was swinging back and forth as the ship convulsed, a sign Kirk didn't like. He edged toward it from the side, pushing it open. “Peter?” he asked.

His instincts saved him again; he dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding a beam of controlled force. Kirk thrust his phaser forward and said, “Drop it, Docos.”