Star Trek: The Original Series - 082 - Federation (19 page)

Cochrane felt electrified with hope. Thorsen reached for his net phone. Monica, for some reason Cochrane didn’t understand, immediately leaned over and ripped at the heel of her boot.

“This is Thorsen,” the colonel barked into his slender phone.

“Get me—” And then Sir John was in the doorway again, cheeks flushed, the few strands of hair he had standing straight out to the side, and he was aiming his cane at Thorsen as if it were a rifle.

“Put it down, Colonel,” Sir John commanded, only a bit out of breath.

“Get me Operations!” Thorsen shouted.

A spike of red light lanced out from the tip of Sir John’s cane and swept across Thorsen’s chest. The red fabric of his jumpsuit was unharmed but the interlinked triangles of the Optimum Movement he wore on his chest exploded in a spray of molten metal. his net phone burst into blue-white flames, and white smoke burst from the back of his hand as Cochrane heard the sizzle of burnt flesh.

Thorsen grunted in pain but made no other sound. He clutched his injured hand to his stomach. “You will never survive,” he panted. “You are unfit.” Then Monica was at him, the black plastic of her heel in her hand. She jammed it against Thorsen’s arm as he tried to avoid her and this time he did scream.

His swinging fist sent Monica back. He started for her, snarling something incomprehensible. Cochrane could hear a capacitor
hine from Sir John’s cane. Whatever system powered its laser
asn’t ready to fire. Someone had to act.

“77zor.sen’” Cochrane yelled in challenge.

Thorsen s~’un around, his arm still raised to strike Monica. His narrow face was twisted in animalistic fury. Cochrane matched it.

The scientist charged the soldier, ignoring the pain of his own nose and ribs. He heard the alarming sound of grinding bones below his lungs, but he would not let Thorsen win. No matter what it took.

Cochrane slammed his head into Thorsen’s chest and howled in pain as the shock of impact tore through his own chest. Thorsen’s fist crashed down on his back but the counterblow was too late.

The two men flew back into a wall, shattering the glass over an old baseball photograph, then slid to the floor. Cochrane pushed himself off Thorsen, feeling shards of glass dig into his hand.

Thorsen kicked at him, tried to get up, then shivered, arms stiff at his side. His heavy boots thumped at the floor for a moment, then were still.

Cochrane caught his breath, staring at Thorsen lying on the floor. The madman wasn’t unconscious. His pale blue eyes remained wide with hatred and still bored into him. Then Monica was at Cochrane’s side, holding out her hand. In the other, she still carried the heel of her boot.

“We have to hurry,” she told Cochrane as she helped him to his feet. She smiled at him as if he were an old friend, a trusted ally.

Cochrane felt an unexpected warmth in his chest. He hoped it didn’t mean he was bleeding to death from internal injuries.

“What happened to him?” Cochrane asked. Thorsen still stared unblinking at him.

Monica held up her boot heel. Cochrane could see three silver needles arranged in it, stained by blood. “Selective neural inhibitor,” she explained. “Shuts down the section of the brain responsible for physical movement. Same process that keeps us motionless when we dream we’re moving.” She tugged on his arm and Cochrane winced. “Sorry, but there’re more zombies at his Rover. We have to leave.” Cochrane looked back at Thorsen’s hate-filled stare. “Why not kill him?” “Tempting,” Monica said. “But then we’d become him, wouldn’t we?” Cochrane saw something in Monica’s eyes that brought the warmth back to his chest again. Perhaps he wasn’t mortally wounded after all.

“Come along, you two, our ride will be waiting,” Sir John t]rged.

Cochrane turned away from Thorsen. “Nice shooting, by the way.” he said.

“Optics are optics,” Sir John answered with satisfaction.

“Though I must say they never went into this at Cambridge.” He tapped his cane against the floor. It was buzzing now with a constantly resetting capacitor hum, ready to fire at any time.

The three of them headed for the corridor. Cochrane found he had to limp to keep his ribs from grating. In the office doorway, he stopped. then turned back to Thorsen’s fallen form as he suddenly thought of a way to get the final word. u ‘Don’t you even think of leaving Earth,” Cochrane told him.

“The colonies are the future of humanity and people like you have no place in it.” Cochrane noted with appreciation the way Thorsen’s whitened face began to redden.

“And if you do come after me,” he added, unable to resist doing so. ‘Tll use my warp bomb on you.” At that. Thorsen groaned, mouth half opening. Whatever was in him was wearing off. The scientist turned his back on his pursuer and stepped out of the office.

Cochrane, Sir John, and Monica moved through the dimly lit corridor three levels below the playing surface of the Battersea Stadium. Sir John moved slowly with the cane that was just as necessary for his support as it was for their defense. Monica stumbled along awkwardly because of the missing heel of her boot. Cochrane could only shuffle because of his breath-stealing injuries. They were in sorry shape. But they had won. So far.

“Ix there such a thing as a warp bomb?” Monica asked in a low voice as they began to ascend a pedestrian ramp. The sliding pathx~av beside it had long since ceased to function. Old advertis-ing posters for beer and suborbital airlines studded the drab walls.

“Utterly impossible,” Cochrane said.

‘
So you just said that about the bomb to annoy him?” Monica asked.

“I had to do something to him.” Cochrane was surprised at the vehemence he heard in his own voice. But he loathed people like Thorsen, the strong preying on the weak with no other reason than that they could.

“I, uh, I liked what you said back there,” Monica told him, still whispering as they came to the last level of the ramp. “About people like Thorsen being created by people like, well, like you and my grandfather. Not on purpose, of course, but as… a sort of by-product.” Cochrane didn’t have the strength to get caught up in a philosophical discussion, but he felt gratified by the fact that she had paid attention. He had taught students like Monica Burke on Alpha Centauri, thoughtful, capable, and he had always enjoyed doing so. But for now, all he said was “I liked what you did back there. Sometimes I worry I don’t do enough.” “You’re joking,” Monica said. She spoke aloud.

Sir John turned around and shushed her. “This isn’t over, you two. Adrik Thorsen does not travel alone.” His old voice shook with exhaustion.

Cochrane whispered to Monica. “Should I go ahead of Sir John? I mean, your grandfather’s been through a lot.” “You should take a look at yourself,” Monica said. She gingerly touched the gash on her cheek. “We’ve all been through the stareper.” She looked ahead. Sir John had reached the top of the ramp where it exited into a main lobby. All the lights were out, creating a cavern of darkness, but a white glare streamed in through the large entrances leading to the lower level seats around the playing field. The astronomer motioned to his granddaughter and Cochrane to stay where they were.

“Grandfather’s been through things like this before,” Monica said softly. “After the elections, when the Optimum dissolved the Royal Academies, it was all we could do to keep him from flying his car into Parliament.” “We?” Cochrane asked. He suddenly wondered if Monica was married, or at least involved with someone. Whoever the lucky person was, Cochrane was surprised to discover he was envious.

Confused by his new and unexpected emotion, he kept his eyes on Sir John, who looked carefully around ahead.

But Monica said, “My father and I.”

Cochrane heard it in her tone, in her hesitation. Monica’s t’zthcr. Sir John’s son or son-in-law, was no longer alive.

Monica confirmed his guess. “The Cambridge Riots,” she said.

-.~,Vhen the Optimum sent zombies in to close it down. Father was
botanical engineer. He knew nothing of politics. He was part of the group who sat down on the commons, expecting to be arrested and get carried off.” ‘Tin sorry,” Cochrane said. The news of the shredderbomb :lssaults on England’s universities had made it to Alpha Centauri.

“Come along, come along,” Sir John whispered loudly to them.

.\s Cochrane and Monica joined him at the top of the ramp, Cochrane could hear the stuttering pops of distant plasma pulses.

There was a firefight somewhere near. Probably out on the playing field.

“It doesn’t sound like we should go out there,” he said.

“On the contrary,” Sir John said. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for. We have some associates clearing the landing site.” The astronomer stumped off toward the entrance to the lower level scats. Monica followed. Cochrane followed also. He didn’t have much choice.

The playing field was still brightly lit from the banks of light channels that ringed the stadium. Sir John’s Rolls-Royce was parked out past second base, and Cochrane could see the dark tbrm of a Fourth World mercenary stretched out on the artificial turf beside it. For a moment, he thought the zombie was staying low for cover, but then he saw the dull metal of a fistgun lying a meter away from the zombie’s hand. He had been shot. But by x h om’?

“Stax’ low. children,” Sir John said. He handed his cane back to (‘ochrane. “The trigger’s under the cap,” he explained. “There’re only two more discharges left. You know what energy density is like For these contraptions.” “:\ren’t we staying together?” Cochrane asked. He wouldn’t allow the old astronomer to sacrifice himself for them.

“Of course we are,” Sir John answered. “But when we’re craxvling between ,he seats, I’m afraid this old back won’t let me pop up with the abandon of my youth. It will be up to you to cover Our withdrawal, as it were.”

Cochrane hefted the cane in his hands, trying not to jar his chest with sudden movement. “Withdrawal to where?” Sir John pointed up toward the ragged hole in the roof of the stadium. The dull orange glow of low clouds over London shone through it. “You’re going home, young fellow. Just as we promised.” They were a Few meters from the entrance. Sir John motioned them to the side, then down to their knees. “Heads down, follow me.” Plasma fire continued to echo in the stadium, but it seemed far enough away not to be directed at them. Sir John crawled behind a row of seats, and Cochrane followed, awkwardly keeping the cane in front of him, with Monica close behind.

Suddenly, a bright flare flickered around them, followed a second later by a thunderclap. After that, there was no more plasma fire.

“Keep down,” Sir John called back to them. “It’s just a temporary respite.” They came to the end of the row and Sir John started down a wide aisle. Cochrane got to his feet, remaining crouched over.

“Where are we headed?” “Home plate,” Monica said, squeezing his hand. “Almost there.” Now she ran directly after her grandfather, head ducked.

Cochrane did the same. He began to hear a strange pulsing in the air. Not gunfire, but something else.

A distant voice yelled out through the stadium. “Mr. Bond/ Casino Royale/” Sir John waved Cochrane and Monica to a stop by the next to last row before the low wall separating the seats from the field.

“Our associates,” he wheezed. “Right on schedule.” “Who’s Mr. Bond?” Cochrane asked.

Monica smiled fondly as she patted her grandfather’s shoulders. “Grandfather is a devotee of twentieth-century literature.

For some reason known only to him, his code name is ‘Mr.

Bond.’” “And we only have two minutes to wait,” Sir John added, apparently explaining the rest of the enigmatic message.

“Code name?” Cochrane asked.

Monica had a serious expression as she stared up at the opening in the roof. “No matter what Thorsen thinks of it, the resistance is quite real, Mr. Cochrane. And quite well organized.” “Her Majesty’s Royal Resistance Force,” Sir John said proudly.

Before Cochrane could ask any additional questions, the pulsing that he had heard intensified to the point where he would have to shout to say anything. The sound was coming from overhead.

Then a blinding flash of light shone through the roof opening.

Retlexively, Cochrane looked away, covering his eyes with his arm. When he squinted back at the playing field, a craft had landed. but what kind, he couldn’t tell. It was circular, a flattened disk shape with a gently elevated center, top and bottom, with no obvious markings or registry numbers. No landing legs had extended fi’om it, yet there was no sign of a fan effect on the turf beneath it. either. It was, however, the source of the pulsing sound he heard.

“Move along,” Sir John said urgently. “Move along.” Monica pushed ahead to the low wall, straddled it, then held out her hand to Cochrane. Gingerly, Cochrane sat on the wall, moved one leg over, then the other, and dropped the five feet to the turf, losing his grip on the cane. Dark spots sparkled in his vision with the pain of the landing. He coughed and tasted blood again. He felt and heard gurgling with each breath he took and knew a lung had been perforated.

\ moment later, Sir John dropped beside him, but landed far more professionally, rolling from his feet to his knees to his side, absorbing the Force of impact along the entire length of his body.

Sir John blinked up at Cochrane with delight. “Just like in the blood) paratroopers,” he said. Then he awkwardly got to his hands and knees as Monica leapt lightly down beside them.

Cochrane retrieved the cane. It was still humming and resetting it,elf. He doubted the batteries or whatever it used could last much longer even if it wasn’t discharged.

In the center of the field, not far from Sir John’s Rolls, the circular craft wai’ed; two brilliant searchlights were deployed From its far edge and swept the distant stadium seats in a search pattern.

“What is that thing?” Cochrane asked, though he had a good idea. He just couldn’t believe it.

Monica stared at it, as if waiting for a signal.

“Plan B,” she said. “A lunar transport disk. Inertial gravity drive.” Cochrane decided he’d believe it when he saw it take off.

Inertial gravity drive couldn’t take anything from the earth to the moon in any reasonable length of time. Maybe someday it could be used to generate artificial gravity fields, but as a propulsion method, it had proved inefficient except for landing and surface maneuvers.