Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations Page 3

  Maritime Registry vessel Edith Keebler, as issued by

  Supreme Congressional Judge Michael Riley, stardate

  4720.2."

  Kirk bristled. "It's Keeler," he said, taking a nip at

  what little flaws he could find in Lieutenant Alexan-

  der's efficiency. Alexander had been handpicked, no

  doubt. Most security people would have been more

  intimidated by the monumental assignment of con-

  fronting the captain of the Enterprise.

  "If you don't mind," Alexander continued. "Lieu-

  tenant Harsch and I will take a look underneath."

  "Below," Kirk corrected. "And I do indeed mind,

  20

  Lieutenant. My privacy has been ruptured. No matter

  how stringent your orders., I doubt they included

  beaming without notice onto private property. Be

  assured I'll have a discussion with your superiors

  when we return to Command."

  "Nevertheless, sir, I'm going to have to search the

  boat."

  Rushing back into the forecabin, I spun around

  frantically. No, not the head--they'd look there. The

  galley cabinets were too small . . . the berths were

  military-neat, without any convenient piles of blankets

  or clothing to hide under. I might have been able to

  hide in or under a sail bag, but I couldn't get on deck

  without being seen... unless the fo'c'sle hatch was

  open...

  Alexander and Harsch finally picked their way

  through Kirk's stubbornness and started their search

  of Keeler. In my mind, supplemented by careful listen-

  ing and imagining how I would do it, I saw the Security

  men investigate the ship's tight little hold, the engine

  room where the now-quiet engine---of course, an old

  restored dieseltsometimes throbbed, the supply

  shelves in the aft hatchway, both heads, the forecabin

  closet, and every other nook they could find. I wished

  desperately for Vulcan ears as their slow footsteps

  scraped on the upper decks. Poking the sail bags,

  peering around the sea sides of the fores'l and jib, then

  finally the walking and poking and opening and closing

  stopped. There were voices, but I could barely hear

  them. My hands were cold, sweating. I bunched them

  up under my chin and tried to make sense of this. Was

  Kirk being framed? Had someone pinned these

  charges on Sarda in order to entrap Kirk? Or to

  distract from other crimes surfacing during the purge?

  A half-dozen members of the Admiralty had come

  under suspicion--two had been court-martialed, one

  actually jailed. Captains of other starships had been

  21

  dismissed--four of them! I'd made myself ready to

  accept almost any change at Star Fleet Command--

  but not this.

  My skin tingled. The air around me vibrated ever

  so faintly My ears buzzed for a long instant, then

  everything settled again. Only the sea wind hummed

  now.

  I burst out of the larder, shoving upward against the

  wooden board that made a lower berth and a seat

  behind the madiera table in the forecabin. The seat

  cushion bounced off as I climbed out. I unfolded my

  legs and winced at the creases left in my thighs and

  sides by cartons and tins of stored food. I'd been on

  board Keeler weeks before I even knew that compart-

  ment was there.

  I quietly gained the top of the forecabin ladder and

  peeked out, past the mainmast, rigging, and sails, to

  the helm. Yeoman Philotoff was at the wheel, scanning

  the blue sky. Looking for the low-at tug, no doubt.

  McCoy stood near the aft hatch, hanging onto a block-

  and-tackle, scanning the deck. He spied me. His head

  craned forward and his brows shot together; but he

  clamped his lips tight. With a roll of his eyes he told me

  to stay hidden. He, too, evidently understood Kirk's

  efforts to stall the search. Hide Piper, give her a

  chance to act. But act how? What did Kirk want me to

  do? Sarda was no thief, certainly no traitor, and if

  anyone knew it, I did. Kirk was giving me some kind

  of advantage. The captain knew what he would do if

  Mr. Spock were in this position. Now I had to figure

  out what that was, so I could do it too. That was all.

  The low-atmosphere tug appeared on the distant

  horizon, approaching rapidly. I ducked deeper into the

  hatchway. The tug was a flattish aidspace vehicle with

  bumpers all around its turtle-shaped hull just below

  Star Fleet insignia and call letters. Typical of Security,

  the vessel had no aesthetic catalog name.

  ArthurJan . . . Culloden . . . Pioneer... Corinthian

  22

  . . Versailles, America, Proxima---could I name a

  ship before I'd even seen it? I wouldn't want anyone to

  impound my ship; I wasn't going to stand by while

  Keeler was trussed up under Fleet red tape. She was

  going to the port her captain wanted her in.

  My hands shook now as I heard the low throb of the

  tug's engines whine down t idle beside the schooner.

  I scoured my brain for some memory of the crew

  complement of a low-at--two or three, no more. Plus

  Yeoman Philotoff, above decks. I'd wait. I'd let them

  take us in tow. Then . . . phasers. There had to be

  phasers on board somewhere. Jim Kirk was a cautious

  man. Any sailor learned to anticipate pirates. I

  wouldn't leave my ship or crew without some kind of

  tangible protection; I guessed he wouldn't either. They

  had to be aboardrebut where?

  "This is Gavelan calling Keeler. Jim, is there some

  problem aboard?"

  My heart took a dive. "Damn it!" I hissed. The com

  unit in the aft cabin! Ambassador Shamirian had no

  idea what he was doing if Philotoff decided to come

  below.

  I was trying to crawl back into the compartment

  under the bench when I froze, hearing voices.

  "Do you mind," McCoy was saying, "if I go down

  there and answer that? Our sister ship over there

  wants to know what's going on."

  "Go ahead, sir," Philotoff replied. Her voice had a

  rough texture, but her tone was almost conciliatory

  The vision appeared before me of McCoy's brow

  rising in indignation. He grimly uttered, "Thank you."

  Caustic bitterness was uncloaked in the doctor's tone.

  I met him in the aft cabin, but waved him to silence

  and motioned to the corn unit. He picked up the

  transceiver and responded, "Ambassador Shamirian,

  this is Leonard McCoy."

  "Yes, Doctor. What's happening? What has the tug

  come for?"

  23

  "We're... well, we're being impounded, Ambassa-

  dor. Captain Kirk's been called back to Star Fleet

  Command for, uh, administrative reasons."

  "Ah. I'm not surprised. Do you need help?"

  McCoy shifted the question to me with a look. I

  shook my head, wide-eyed.

  He swallowed, then spoke into the transceiver.

  "Not right now, Ambassador. We'll let you know."

  "We'll be here, Doctor
."

  "Apparently so will we. McCoy out."

  He replaced the transie and started to say something

  to me, but I pressed a finger against my lips. I opened

  my palms in an encompassing gesture and whispered,

  "Phasers?"

  The sharp blue eyes grew huge. He stared at me as

  though I'd grown cauliflower ears. With a paranoid

  glance up the hatchway, he exaggerated a shrug and

  his eyes got even wider. Evidently it hadn't occurred

  to him to rupture the flow of events planned for us by

  Star Fleet security.

  Above decks, we heard voices

  Someone hailing from the low-at "You know how

  to steer this fossil, Yeoman?"

  Philotoff answering "I can keep it on course, but I

  don't know how to change course. It's a museum-

  quality relic, but it sure is slow."

  "Can you fold up those membranes?"

  "They're called sails, Vallo. And... we could try it.

  I'll need help. I've never seen anything like this be-

  fore. I'm used to automatic sail furlings." "Stand by."

  Keeler rumbled as the low-at pulled up alongside,

  hovering at a pace so slow as to strain the heavy-duty

  tug engines. We heard a "thunk" as the tug officer

  dropped onto the aft deck. "All right," he began,

  "how do we do this?"

  "Doctor!" I hissed from the bottom of my throat.

  "Phasers!"

  24

  McCoy touched his mouth in thought, paused

  through a few long moments, then whispered, "If I

  know Jim, they'll be near his own bunk." He pointed

  broadly to the captain's berth.

  We went through every drawer and cubbyhole, ex-

  panding our search away from that focal point, until

  McCoy stifled a little yelp of victory; sure enough

  there were phasers--hidden nicely in a dull wooden

  box in the aft cabin head. In the head, of all places.

  Knowing Kirk, he probably asked himself where any-

  body who knew him would guess he might keep phas-

  ers, and he went immediately in the opposite direction.

  I crossed the cabin in one step. Mceoy watched,

  wordless, as I separated the gun-handle unit from the

  power pack of one phaser and stuffed it into the pocket

  Of my flight suit. Good thing it had been a little chilly

  during my wheel watch this morning, or I might have

  been wearing a water suit or shorts and not been

  prepared for this at all. As it was, I could barely

  assimilate what had happened and what to do about it

  in the time I had.

  "What do you--"

  "Shhh!"

  He lowered his voice considerably. "What are you

  going to do with that?"

  "I'm taking this ship, sir," I told him. "The captai n

  had something like that in mind... do you have any

  idea?"

  "Me? I'm a doctor, not a spy. Nobody tells me

  anything. It does look like he left the ball in your

  court, though."

  At that, I stared at him and gushed, "What ball?"

  "Are you going to take over the tug?" the doctor

  asked.

  "And leave it behind, yes."

  "Wouldn't it be faster than Keeler?"

  I nodded, struggling with shaky fingers to set the

  phasers on heavy stun, and explained, "But they can

  25

  track the tug. Once we're in crowded Bahamian wa-

  ters, the schooner becomes just another ship in the

  flotilla. Stay here," I told him. With a second phaser,

  the complete gun, wrapped in my clammy fist, 1

  slipped through the ship's innards to the fo'c'sle, a

  dark and cramped quarter in the pointed bow. Above

  me was an open hatch, with no ladder. Beyond that,

  bobbing high aloft, was the foremast. I would have to

  climb out just right if the sail was t hide me. The

  dangerous moment would come just as I surfaced, for I

  would have to balance myself and had little option of

  ducking to one side or the other. Turbulence . . .

  Counterattack... Identity Crisis . . . the S.S. Nerve

  Pinch...

  I straddled the fo'c'sle, one foot on each bunk, and

  hoisted myself up and out in a single motion, my head

  low, coming out straight up so the mast itself would

  hide me for a moment.

  I crawled forward, squirming along the green deck,

  keeping the big sail between myself and the invaders.

  The ship shuddered and faltered. A loud scraping

  noise filtered forward through the wind. I couldn't see,

  but I felt the mains'i drop, felt the slackening of

  control over the wind. I winced, thinking of those two

  security clods trying to furl the main. Getting it to drop

  was easy enough once the ropes were tracked back to

  their sources, but folding up all that yardage of sail-

  cloth was something I hadn't come close to mastering

  even under Captain Kirk's tutelage. Not unex-

  pectedly, Philotoff started yelling obscenities, both at

  the sail and at the tug crewman.

  The phaser pistol was warm in my hand. Within its

  power pack, restrained compressed energy kept the

  whole weapon warm even when not in use. It doubled

  the sweatiness of my palms as I arranged it in police

  position, one hand holding the phaser, the other

  steadying that wrist. I backed as far to the schooner's

  bow as I could get--right up against the jib--braced

  26

  my buttocks on the rail, and aimed at the position

  where one of the men would have to stand in order to

  drop the fores'l.

  "It's good enough," Philotoff was calling. "We can

  fix it later."

  "I dunno... you really want to leave Captain James

  T. Kirk's float looking like that?"

  "I'm not so sure it isn't supposed to look like that.

  And it's a boat, not a float." "Okay, okay."

  It's a ship, my tense mind corrected. Typical secur-

  ity inertia for brains.

  Several more seconds I went on like that, brewing

  up animosity for them, for their churlish intrusion, and

  their offhanded treatment of Keeler. I gathered every

  last annoyance into a lump and sat on it until my teeth

  gritted and my finger itched on the phaser trigger. By

  the time the fores'l began to drop, I hated security

  people from the bottom of my... bottom.

  The sail dropped. Wooden hoops scraped the mast.

  Sailcloth luffed and piled up on the boom. The ship fell

  out of the wind altogether. Soon the gaff was at my

  eye-level. I tightened my grip on the phaser.

  The gaff settled as two sets of hands pulled it down

  from the other side. Thenmtwo faces.

  They gaped at me for an instant. Then Vallo went for

  his phaser.

  I hunched my shoulders, and fired.

  27

  Chapter Three

  "Sailor's luck, Mr. Spock."

  --Amok Time

  A PHASER IN full fire is a hot thing. All that energy so

  tightly contained causes flushback into the phaser

  casing, making it warm to the touch. The weapon

  reminds the user of the power in hand. A weapon with

  a conscience. My hands sweated as t
he beam pro-

  pelled Vailo backward down the deck. He collapsed

  against the rail, then tumbled to the deck. I didn't mind

  using the phaser, but using it without a clear reason

  took me down with my prey.

  Perhaps it was guilt that made me hesitate. Caught

  in the complexity, I held my breath as Vallo crumpled,

  and gave Philotoff the time she needed to react. I saw

  her phaser come up in my periphery, even saw the

  infinitesimal glow as the beam gathered inside the tiny

  muzzle perforation, and I would have loved to take

  credit for the response of my nerves. Maybe Star Fleet

  trained me better than I remembered or maybe prime-

  val responses took over, but I found myself shoulder

  down on the deck as the blue beam lanced over me.

  Footsteps vibrated through the deck wood and I

  knew she was coming around to find me. Scrambling

  like a puppy on ice, I somehow made it to the foredeck

  and hid behind the jib, the only sail still flying. The

  schooner's forward movement had slackened to al-

  most nothing when the fores'l luffed and went down,

  28

  and the jib was doing little more than providing some

  stabilization as we bobbed in the choppy lapis seas.

  "You're just making things harder on yourself,

  Commander," Philotoff called as she circled the fore-

  mast and carefully came toward the bow. "Come on. I

  know who You are. Kirk cooperated, so why don't you

  do the same?"

  I didn't answer. I held my phaser close to my chin

  and stepped carefully in the tight deck area on the

  pointed bow. There was no place to go but overboard.

  On a ship this size, even that wouldn't hide me. The

  rope netting under the bowsprit provided no solutions

  either. I would have to stay on board.

  On the canvas sail I saw the ominously clear etching

  of Philotoff's silhouette kindly provided by Earth's

  vulgar yellow sun. She wasn't built so much differ-

  ently from me, except that she was a little shorter and

  her hips were rounder. She looked well trained and

  strong in that silhouette, a uniform-bound power pack

  just like the phaser she carded. She was about to come

  around the sail. Her phaser was preceding her. Her