In the meantime, there was still the murderer to be dealt with. “Drop your weapon!” Kirk shouted, aiming once more at the woman, but she ducked down behind the back of the couch. Damn, Kirk thought. He was severely tempted to set his phaser on kill and burn right through the couch and the woman behind it, but his Starfleet oath stayed his hand. Only as a last resort, he vowed, risking a glance at Seven, who was now kneeling beside the dead Romulan, confirming the awful truth. “Are you all right, Mr. Seven?” he called out.
“No,” Seven answered brusquely, “but I am still functioning, if that’s what you mean.” Rising from the side of his murdered colleague, he inspected the damaged control panel. Occasional sparks still flickered across the surface of the panel. “You keep the commander busy, and I’ll see if I can activate the self-destruct mechanism.”
Easier said than done, Kirk thought, although he found himself reassured that Seven remained coolly intent on his mission, despite the deaths, within minutes of each other, of two of his allies. At least he didn’t have to worry about Seven falling apart on him, just keeping one step ahead of a well-armed Romulan warrior. No problem, he thought, circling cautiously towards the plush black couch.
A disruptor blast tore through the back of the couch, missing Kirk by mere centimeters. That was too close for comfort, he thought, backing away from the couch as quietly as he could so as to not alert the woman to his location. The near miss left his heart pounding, but his mind fell back on his Academy training, carefully assessing his strategic situation: one armed foe out of my line of sight, with potential reinforcements due at any minute. Not good.
He glanced quickly at the transporter pad the woman had apparently used to enter the command center. He considered destroying it, but decided against it. He and Seven might need the transporter to escape once Seven engaged the self-destruct system. Better to just keep an eye on the pad, as well as on the turbolift entrance and on the woman behind the couch. Too bad I’m not a Triclopian, he thought wryly. I could use three eyes right now.
Another blast blazed through the couch, this one hissing past him about a meter above his right shoulder. Every time she fires, Kirk thought, she’s destroying a piece of her shelter. Unfortunately, she still had the edge as long as her disruptor was set on kill and his could only stun. He wasn’t sure what exactly that couch was made of, but it might be dense enough to blunt a phaser set on stun. I’m outnumbered and outgunned, he mused, his finger brushing the setting controls on his phaser. There may be no way out of this place except through deadly force. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to that, though, especially since, technically, he was the invader on this side of the Neutral Zone. “Seven!” he shouted, then swiftly moved to one side. Sure enough, another disruptor beam shot through the space he had just occupied. The black couch was starting to look like a piece of Swiss cheese, but there was still enough of it to hide his opponent from sight. “How are we doing over there?”
“Patience, Captain,” Seven replied. “The commander’s disruptor bolt damaged many crucial components. I believe I can compensate by reconfiguring the circuitry, but it may take a few minutes.”
“With all deliberate speed, Mr. Seven,” Kirk urged, then dropped to his knees as a brilliant green beam incinerated the air above his head. He wondered why the Romulan had not fired at Seven yet. Could it be that she was reluctant to damage the control room equipment any further? According to Seven, this was all about technology, advanced alien technology that Seven wanted to keep out of the hands of the Romulans. Sounds like a plan to me, Kirk thought, if I can just stay alive long enough to give Seven the time he needs. He felt like he was playing a game of Romulan Roulette; one of these times, the disruptor beam was going to strike home.
For an instant, he thought he glimpsed a piece of gray fabric, the same color as a Romulan uniform, through one of the holes in the couch. He fired his phaser at that tantalizing glimpse of gray, but failed to hear the hoped-for sound of a stunned body hitting the floor. Tough luck, he thought, watching carefully for another chance at his foe. We’re both shooting blind, and neither of us is making any lucky shots.
“Seven?” he called again. Yet another beam sizzled overhead, leaving a meter-long scorch mark across the ceiling.
“Not quite, Captain,” Seven answered. “This task is proving more difficult than it first appeared.”
Great, Kirk thought. He took a moment to wonder how the Enterprise was faring. He hoped that Spock and the others were in a better position than he was at this point.
The tapestry hanging above and behind the disruptor-scarred couch rustled again, indicating movement beneath it. Kirk gave the tapestry a closer look. Gold and silver needlework traced designs like cat’s eyes upon the black fabric. An idea occurred to him. . . . Adjusting his phaser to generate heat rather than force, he fired at the tapestry. The velvety fabric burst into flames, then burned free from its hangers, falling down onto his opponent’s place of concealment.
An angry scream came from behind the couch, and the woman threw herself into the open as if propelled by an atom-smasher. Smoke rose from her uniform where it had caught fire at over a dozen different locations. She batted at the darting orange and yellow flames with her bare hands, snuffing them out as quickly as she could. Fury contorted her features; beneath the ugly scar on her forehead, her eyes blazed with hatred.
I think I’ve made an enemy, Kirk thought. The rage on the woman’s face looked almost Klingon in its intensity. He prided himself on being a quick judge of character—a vital skill for a ship’s captain—and he didn’t like what he saw in this particular Romulan’s eyes. There was something almost pathological about the fury on display here, he thought, as he watched the Romulan woman battle the flames licking at her clothing.
For better or for worse, her uniform appeared to be at least partially flame-resistant. She quickly extinguished the fires upon her person and seemed more or less unscathed, although Kirk detected the smell of burning hair in the air. “Don’t try anything,” Kirk said, aiming his phaser directly at the woman. “Let me see your hands.”
The Romulan assassin glowered at him, but did as he instructed, raising her empty hands palms up. Her disruptor was nowhere in sight. Kirk glanced quickly at the couch. Fortunately, the burning tapestry had not ignited the adjacent furniture and the blaze already appeared to be dying down. Good thing the Romulans are so fond of stonework, he thought. Less chance of setting this place on fire.
“You’re as resourceful as they say, Captain Kirk,” the woman said. Her words were complimentary, but her gaze was anything but. Despite her vulnerable position, she stared at Kirk with undisguised scorn.
“You recognize me?” Kirk kept his phaser on her, discreetly switching it back to stun. “I’m flattered.”
“You’re historically significant, Kirk.” A smirk appeared on her face. “More so than you know.”
What does she mean by that? “Nice to hear it,” he replied. “I suppose you intend to make your mark as well?”
For someone facing the wrong end of a phaser, she seemed remarkably confident. “Oh, I’m going to do more than make history, Captain. I’m going to change it.”
Gary Seven looked up from his efforts at the control panel, visibly disturbed by the woman’s words. How much does he know about her plans? Kirk wondered. What isn’t he telling me? He risked a glance at the turbolift entrance. There was still no sign of reinforcements, but he couldn’t help feeling that they were pushing their luck. The woman’s apparent confidence worried him. “If I were you, I’d hurry,” he instructed Seven. “For all we know, I may have set off a silent alarm.”
“You did,” Seven responded coolly. “I shut it off.”
Now he tells me, Kirk thought. He was getting damn tired of being in the dark all the time. He waved the phaser in front of the woman. “Why don’t you tell me who you are and what this is all about?”
Seven gave the woman an anxious glance. He seemed more worried about the Romulan r
evealing her secrets than she was. There’s definitely something he doesn’t want me to know, Kirk deduced. Maybe several somethings.
The woman sneered at him. “My name is Commander Dellas of the Romulan Star Empire, and you, Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise, are far from home, badly outnumbered, and hopelessly out of your depth. You may have had some small success outwitting thick-skulled Klingons over the years, but you cannot begin to grasp the full subtlety of the Romulan mind.”
“I haven’t done so badly so far,” Kirk quipped. “And I’ve figured out enough to realize that this entire operation is very hush-hush and very important, which makes me extremely curious about what you’re planning here. And my associate over there,” he cocked his head towards Seven, “has his own stake in stopping whatever you’re up to.”
Her open hands still poised in the air, Commander Dellas inspected Gary Seven for the first time. The scar above her eyes wrinkled in puzzlement as she examined the stranger at the control panel. Kirk didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that Dellas, who obviously knew Kirk’s background by heart, clearly did not recognize the time traveller from the twentieth century. At least that gives us an edge, he thought, one we’re probably going to need.
His free hand fingered the slim, metallic servo in his pocket. He wondered if Seven’s repairs would go any faster if he gave Seven back his device. Maybe now was the time to trust the man with his weapon again. “Seven,” he began, “what if—”
“Captain Kirk,” Dellas interrupted loudly. “Under the terms of the Treaty of Algeron, I demand that you surrender to the local authorities, namely myself. Furthermore, we will demand restitution for all damage inflicted upon this installation and its personnel, not to mention your complete cooperation in apprehending any and all Federation nationals currently at large in this sector, which you have illegally and inexcusably invaded with full premeditation and hostile intent. . . .”
Her voice rose as she continued her litany of legalistic objections, seemingly oblivious to the phaser that was even now threatening her at point-blank range. For a second, Kirk wondered if the commander had snapped—there was a slightly crazy sheen in her eyes—then the truth hit him. She’s stalling, he realized, but what for? Listening carefully, he became aware of a faint ringing in his ears, an almost inaudible hum that was nearly drowned out by Dellas’s breathless rant. It was growing louder, though, gaining strength and urgency not unlike—the comparison occurred to him instantly—a phaser set to overload.
“No!” Kirk gasped. He glanced again at the smoldering couch. Her disruptor! “Seven!” he shouted. “Watch out! It’s going to blow!”
He never knew if Seven heard his warning. The hum turned into an ear-splitting screech and there was a sudden, overwhelming flash of light and force that picked him up and threw him across the room.
He was unconscious even before he hit the wall.
Chapter Fifteen
“I . . . I,” SPOCK MURMURED, obviously shaken. “I, Spock.” His hands pulled away from Roberta and explored his own features. His face was pale, without its usual greenish tint. His limbs trembled. He staggered beside the captain’s chair, and McCoy rushed forward to assist him. The doctor pulled Spock’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around the Vulcan’s chest, holding him up as best he could.
“Good God, man!” McCoy blurted. “You look like you’re in shock! What happened? Are you all right?”
“I . . . am well, Doctor,” Spock replied, regaining his composure through sheer force of will. He planted his feet squarely upon the floor of the bridge and let the trembling subside. He regulated his breathing to attain a more focused state of mind. “The experience was more . . . disturbing . . . than I had anticipated, but I believe I will recover.”
In fact, the shock of Roberta’s revelation—that he was to be assassinated at some point in the future—had jolted him out of the meld far more abruptly than was advisable. Concerned for Roberta’s welfare, he looked for the young woman. She stood a few meters away, blinking rapidly, her face flushed and startled-looking. Her wide eyes locked on Spock’s and she gasped out loud, her hands springing to her cheeks.
“Ohmigod, Spock. I should have realized . . . I never thought . . . !” Clearly, Spock deduced, she had underestimated the full extent of a mind meld, as well as the impact of her own memories concerning himself. She stumbled toward him, tripping slightly on the step in front of the captain’s chair. “They’re going to kill us! I mean, you!”
“What?” McCoy said, confusion written on his face. “Who’s going to kill you? What is she talking about?”
“It is a long story, Doctor,” Spock stated. With as much dignity as he could muster, he extricated himself from McCoy’s grasp and stepped aside. “I require a few moments to process the data myself. Perhaps if you tend to Roberta . . . that is, Miss Lincoln?”
“What?” McCoy said, disoriented. Events appeared to be moving too fast for him, a not uncommon state of affairs, Spock reflected. The doctor’s penchant for reacting emotionally to each new event clearly interfered with his ability to immediately comprehend those events. “Yes, of course.” McCoy retrieved his tricorder and quickly scanned Roberta’s vital signs.
He could not, however, criticize Dr. McCoy too freely in this instance, Spock conceded. He too felt a need to adequately respond to what he had just learned before moving on. It was not purely logical, but it was necessary. His proper functioning required the assimilation of all that the mind meld had revealed.
The Romulans intend to assassinate me several years from now, thereby changing future history. Flatly stated thus, the information lost some of its power to disturb his thought processes. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Roberta knew little more about the incident, except that the assassination was to occur in the year 2293, approximately twenty-four years from the present. This fact was not preordained, though. As temporal theory and his own experience testified, the flow of history could be extremely malleable under the right conditions. Indeed, it was apparently the intent of unknown forces to effect precisely such a change to his own destiny, just as Gary Seven intended to prevent that change.
We are faced then, Spock concluded, with at least three possible future timelines. One, the future as it will proceed without the interference of either Gary Seven or his antagonists. Two, the future as it will be if hostile forces intervene. And, three, the future that may result if Gary Seven attempts to correct or compensate for whatever changes his enemies succeed in bringing about.
Three possible futures. From a strictly philosophical perspective, that seemed like more than enough for any mortal being to ask for. Furthermore, it was only logical to assume that all timelines must inevitably lead to his death, the only variable being whether that event would occur sooner or later, therefore it would be irrational to let the revelation of one possible demise interfere with his mission or his reasoning. He admitted to some curiosity about what future action he might take that would be so significant that anyone living today would go to such lengths to avert it, but he could see why Gary Seven would wish to conceal that information. Time travel had its own prime directives, as the Guardian of Forever had once taught them.
“Spock?”
It was McCoy again. Evidently he had assured himself that Roberta had survived the meld in good health, and now wished to do the same for Spock. Without asking for the Vulcan’s consent, the doctor scanned Spock with his medical tricorder, his gaze intent on the readout as he swept the device up and down, parallel to the length of Spock’s body. “Hmmm,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “slightly elevated levels of neurotransmitters, at least by Vulcan standards; heartbeat and blood pressure disgustingly regular; no evidence of biochemical side effects . . .” He lowered the tricorder, then snapped its lid shut, apparently convinced that Spock was not likely to expire momentarily. His weathered face took on a suspicious cast. “Okay, Spock, what’s up?”
Spock saw no need
to conceal the truth from the doctor. “Apparently, Mr. Seven does indeed have strong reason to believe that unknown parties are attempting to alter the future, a future that somehow requires my death in the year 2293.” He explained to McCoy about the message Seven and Roberta had received in the twentieth century.
“And you think the message came from that planet down there, where Jim is?” McCoy asked. Spock noted that Lieutenant Uhura and the rest of the bridge crew were listening intently to their conversation. This was as it should be, he decided; it was good for the crew to be well-informed regarding their situation, although he resolved to say nothing that might serve to lower their morale. He had learned from hard experience, especially during his ill-fated expedition to Taurus II, that it was necessary—regrettable, but nonetheless necessary—to take into account the emotional responses of human beings when occupying a command position over them. Fortunately, Starfleet officers seldom let their emotions get the better of their training. Except, perhaps, for Dr. Leonard McCoy.
“Apparently Gary Seven believes this planet to be the source of the transmission,” Spock stated, “and we have no reason to doubt him.”
“Of course not!” Roberta exclaimed. Her voice was hoarse with emotion. Her eyes were embarrassingly moist. “How could you possibly doubt any of us, after what you and I just went through?” She grasped Spock’s hand and squeezed it. “That was incredible. I lived your life, I really did. What a trip! I mean, at first I thought you were just this strange, spooky alien, but now . . . ! You know, we actually have a lot in common. My dad didn’t really understand me either, especially when I dropped out of school and hit the road. It was just like you with Sarek. We were both so scared—”
“Thank you, Miss Lincoln,” Spock interrupted, gradually extricating his hand from her grip. Roberta’s highly emotive response to the aftermath of the meld was becoming uncomfortably personal, particularly in front of McCoy and the others. “I am grateful that you found the experience illuminating. Perhaps now, however, we should concentrate on the matter at hand.”