Where was she? Seven’s anxiety grew by the second. Dellas was here, he knew, with his own stolen weapon, no less. He tried not to visualize what the servo could do to Spock at its maximum setting.
Kirk said something up front, and the entire assembly rose to its feet, making it even harder to see across the entire hall. Seven arched his feet to peer over and around the tawny mane of a regal Klingon delegate. Something about the Klingon’s profile was strangely familiar. Oh, right, he realized, Colonel Worf. The roar of the applause was deafening, but it was not loud enough to drown out the insistent question that clamored within Seven’s mind.
Where is she?
* * *
“You’ve restored my father’s faith,” Dellas heard the Klingon leader say. The ridges on Azetbur’s brow were less pronounced than those of many of her warriors. Dellas wondered briefly if the chancellor had a trace of human blood in her. That would certainly explain her distressing adherence to her father’s doctrine of peace between the Federation and the Klingons. As if the Klingons could ever be trusted . . . !
Wrapped in her all-concealing robe, the brim of her hood pulled down to hide the disruptor burns upon her face, she crept through the packed assemblage to get a better shot at Spock. The troublesome Vulcan, his somber face creased with age and concern, kept a watchful eye on a Vulcan woman, much younger than he, whose expression held only defeat. Fear not, Valeris, Dellas thought. Your failure shall be avenged within moments.
It was possible, she realized, that she might never return to her own time, now that Kirk and his unknown ally had taken possession of the control room back in another time and place. There was always a chance that her centurion might reclaim that battlefield, thus providing Vithrok with an opportunity to call her back from the future, but she could not count on that. She stared at the revered Starfleet captain conversing with Azetbur, so very different and yet so very much the same as the youthful human she had dueled with only hours before. She had learned from that experience that Kirk was nothing if not unpredictable. He might yet manage to strand her in this era permanently.
Worse yet, either Kirk or his enigmatic ally might try to use the alien time travel apparatus to undo what she was about to do, in which case she might have to travel through time yet again to kill Spock once more, and so on ad infinitum. Or else she would simply have to kill the accursed Vulcan at some later point in his life. Certainly, she had time; Spock would not devote his efforts to reunification until some seventy-five years from this date. One way or another, Spock would die.
It doesn’t matter what Kirk tries, she affirmed. All she could do now was complete her mission and hope for the best. Spock would never meet Pardek. The cause of Romulan-Vulcan reunification would die in its cradle, consigned forever to the realm of unrealized possibilities. She felt the weight of the intruder’s alien weapon lodged securely against her calf.
“And you’ve restored my son’s,” Kirk said softly. In one of the outer pews, a middle-aged human diplomat wearing a green sash began to clap slowly. Soon the entire room emulated his lead, rising up like a surging wave to join in a standing ovation for the heroic crews of the Enterprise and the Excelsior. Even the ranks of the Klingon soldiers, their scarlet sashes stretched tightly across their dark leather armor, applauded Kirk and the others. Dellas shook her head in amazement; no matter how many times she had witnessed this scene on Citizen Septos’s monitor, she still couldn’t believe it. Klingons cheering for Kirk? Astounding.
She refused to let herself be distracted by the spectacle, however. Clapping herself, to avoid notice, she gently elbowed her way through the mob of delegates until only a single row of applauding dignitaries stood between her and the platform occupied by honored Starfleet heroes. Ironically, she found herself standing just behind Sarek of Vulcan, her target’s distinguished father, and a certain young Romulan delegate. Pardek, Dellas thought with scorn. Was her knowledge of the future coloring her perceptions, or was the senator-to-be already contemplating Spock with a treacherous expression on his face?
She glanced to the left and right to see if anyone was watching her, but, no, all present remained fixated on Kirk and Spock and their fellows as they humbly accepted the assembly’s display of respect and affection. Excellent, she thought. There would never be a better opportunity. Pausing in her applause, she bent down to slide one hand within her boot and drew out a slender silver cylinder. The compact weapon felt cool in her hand.
Spock stood not more than seven meters away from Dellas, a few steps to the left of his captain. His calm, impassive face offered no clue to his feelings at this moment. Odd, she thought, she had never realized before how much the older Spock resembled her father. To her surprise, she felt a pang of regret at what she had come to do.
She raised the silver instrument and pointed it at Spock. Her thumb caressed the minute firing mechanism set into the device’s gleaming surface. An instant’s pressure and the deed would be done. Now, she thought.
Suddenly a hand fell over her own. A voice spoke through the hood covering her ears. “We don’t want to disturb any of these important people. They’re making the future.”
He gave the silver device a precise twist just as Dellas pressed down on the button.
* * *
The beam fired, but the target evaporated. So did the entire assembly hall. The blue fog swallowed them up instantly, and Dellas’s death-ray disappeared into a chaotic void outside time and space. She let out a cry of frustration.
That was close, Seven thought. Good to know the servo’s automatic recall function was still working. It had saved him several times in the past, although never quite in this manner. He struggled to restrain the hooded figure in his grasp, holding on tightly to both her wrists. Thanks, too, for that all-concealing hood; that was how he had spotted her in the end. Most of the dignitaries at this event, including all of the Romulans, had not seen it necessary to cover their heads indoors. Only Dellas, compelled to conceal the injuries she’d received from the overloaded disruptor, had hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.
He wrenched the servo from her clutch even as the blue haze began to thin. Seven reclaimed the device with more than a little satisfaction; it struck him as quite appropriate that, in the end, Dellas’s insane scheme was undone by the very technology she had twisted to her own purposes. Poetic justice, of a sort. He hoped that Supervisor 146 would have approved. And the faithful Osiris as well.
Through the fading mist, he glimpsed the control room he and Dellas had left behind not long ago. The sound of disruptor blasts rang in his ears. Out of the frying pan into the fire, he thought.
We’ve saved Spock’s future. I only pray I haven’t doomed Kirk’s present.
Chapter Twenty
Romulan Star Empire
Stardate 6021.6
A.D. 2269
“FIVE MINUTES to self-destruct.”
Thanks for the update, Kirk thought wryly.
It wasn’t the first time he’d raced a time bomb, but it looked like he might be around for the final tick of the clock this time. Outside the control room, an undetermined number of Romulan soldiers were crowded into the turbolift shaft, eager to charge into the chamber and vaporize the upstart human who had penetrated the nerve center of their new base. So far, Kirk had managed to keep them back with the frequent application of some well-placed disruptor bolts.
Another shining helmet poked cautiously from behind what was left of the turbolift doors. A blast of corrosive energy from Kirk’s disruptor sent the helmet ducking back into the dimly lit shaft. Kirk leaned forward on the edge of the hover-chair’s seat and waited for the next brave soul to dare the doorway. At least he didn’t have to worry about pulse grenades; he could just imagine what Commander Dellas would do to any of her subordinates who even risked destroying the precious equipment in the control room. He didn’t blame them for being cautious.
“Four minutes to self-destruct.”
The base had to be destroyed, he kne
w. Its advanced technology, now exposed within Romulan borders, was a threat to the Federation—and the future itself. If he had to go up in flames with it . . . well, that was only his duty. At least, Spock is here to witness my last stand. The Vulcan’s face, looking far more grimmer than normal, watched him from the monitor. Funny, Kirk mused, I always thought I’d die alone. He fired another shot at the entrance just to keep the Romulans on their toes.
“Three minutes to self-destruct.”
He sneaked a peek at the transporter platform. No Romulan sneak attack beaming in, but no sign of Gary Seven either. “Spock,” he began, suddenly feeling strangely tongue-tied. How did you say good-bye forever to your best friend? “It’s beginning to look like I’ve finally used up all my nine lives.”
On the screen, Spock’s arched brows shot upward like old solid fuel rockets. “Captain!” he said hoarsely, his voice choked with uncharacteristic emotion. “The cat!”
* * *
Chief Engineer Scott was in the primary transporter room, waiting anxiously for the shields on the planet below to falter for just a moment so he could beam the captain to safety, when Isis arrived. His eyes widened in confusion as the door slid open a crack and the cat slipped inside. “Say there!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here?”
His expression grew even more astounded when, before his very eyes, the black cat vanished and she materialized instead. “Saints preserve us!” he gasped.
She was a humanoid female of striking appearance, clad in a revealing two-piece outfit that contrasted shimmering black silk against pale, alabaster flesh. Equally black was the lustrous dark hair that fell below her shoulders. Two velvet hairpieces, shaped like the ears of a cat, decorated the top of her scalp, while a strangely familiar silver collar sparkled around her throat. Golden eyes, dwelling beneath long black lashes, considered Scotty with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. She waved a languid arm toward the transporter controls. “May I?” she purred.
He staggered backwards, taken aback by the unexpected transformation and profoundly grateful that there was nothing wrong with his heart. His eyes, though . . . now, that was another thing altogether. Keeping his sights on the seductive figure, and unable to do otherwise, he reached out and activated the intercom unit on the wall. “Mr. Spock,” he exclaimed, “you’re not going to believe this, but Mr. Seven’s wee kit is here, and she’s just changed into a full-sized lassie!” The exotic cat-woman stepped forward, rustling the sheer black fabric of her skirt, and inspected the transporter controls. “And, Mr. Spock, I think she wants to use the transporter.”
To his surprise, Spock took his startling news in stride. “Understood, Mr. Scott. Please allow your visitor to proceed.”
Scotty couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Spock?”
“This individual may be the captain’s last hope,” Spock stated emphatically. “And time is of the essence.”
“If you say so, Mr. Spock.” Scotty remained dubious. He could only hope that someone would explain it all to him eventually. He nodded at the lady in question. “All right, lassie. It’s all yours.”
Costumed more appropriately for a night spot on Argelius Two than for the primary transporter room of the starship Enterprise, the woman confidently took her place behind the podium containing the transporter controls. Her hands deftly worked the equipment, adjusting this, realigning that. Scotty tried to keep track of what she was doing, but she moved too quickly for his eyes to follow and, besides, what he did see didn’t seem to make sense. “Whoa there,” he blurted at one point. “You can’t do that. The Heisenberg compensation ratio is all wrong. You’re going to bollix the quantum spin regulators. . . .”
The woman ignored him. Just like a cat, Scotty thought. She continued to wreak havoc on the transporter’s carefully maintained settings and parameters. The chief engineer felt like an expert driver stuck in the back seat while a lunatic sat behind the wheel. What was Mr. Spock thinking? Why put the captain’s life in the hands of a bloody pussycat?
Or whatever this baffling creature was.
* * *
“Two minutes to self-destruct.”
The Romulans were growing more desperate to recapture the control room. No doubt they could hear the countdown as well, Kirk realized, especially with those keen Vulcanlike ears. He was impressed by their discipline and determination; lesser forces would have already evacuated the installation in anticipation of the devastation to come. They’re not going to stop, he thought, until all of us are dead.
A ferocious hail of disruptor fire came from the phaser-carved doorway into the turbolift shaft, forcing him to abandon his comfortable seat to take a more defensive posture behind the overturned couch. To avoid an accidental fatality, he had already shoved Dr. Vithrok’s insensate form up against the wall adjacent to the doorway, out of the line of fire. Keeping his head low, Kirk shot directly into the barrage and was rewarded with the sound of a Romulan body striking the floor. The assault barely slackened, though. Beams of destructive energy zipped above his head, so close that he could feel the heat of the disruptor rays. He had no illusions that they were set on stun.
His own disruptor was running low on power, but that hardly mattered. Whatever form of conflagration destroyed the compound would end the standoff long before either side ran out of ammo.
“One minute to self-destruct.”
This is it, he thought. I just hope the Enterprise makes it back home in one piece.
He released another blast at the gaping breach in the turbolift doors, then was jolted by the sound of the transporter pad humming back to life. His gaze darted quickly from the control room entrance to the transporter platform, where he saw that same incandescent haze taking form once more. This is bad, he thought. There was no way he could hold off incursions from two directions.
Was there any way the Romulans could halt the countdown at this point? Kirk vowed not to give them a chance, no matter what it took.
He did his best to maintain a close watch over both fronts of the battle. Lethal energy bolts scorched the bare stone wall behind him while two humanoid outlines gradually formed within the churning blue fog. Kirk fired at the door again, just to keep the Romulan troops occupied, then swung his weapon around to target the new arrivals. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Don’t shoot, Captain,” Gary Seven called out, and Kirk pointed the disruptor toward the ceiling. The time traveller emerged from the haze, pushing a cloaked figure ahead of him. Kirk recognized Commander Dellas at once. She glared at him from beneath her hood with baleful, unforgiving eyes. “Fire!” she shouted at her troops. “Kill him! Kill them both!”
Seven used the commander as a human shield, while Kirk covered Seven and his prisoner with a blistering cascade of disruptor beams until they were safely beside him behind the couch. He cast an urgent look at Seven. “Spock?”
“The future is as it should be,” Seven assured him. He kept his servo pointed straight at Commander Dellas. She started to open her mouth again, but Seven flicked a switch on the silver device and she drooped onto the floor. Even tranquilized, the look on her face was bitter and angry.
“Ten seconds to self-destruct,” the computer announced. Seven looked to Kirk for confirmation.
“You called it a bit close,” Kirk acknowledged. He glanced at the transporter pad. Disruptor fire from the doorway struck home against the platform, dispelling the luminescent mist and causing showers of sparks to erupt from the base of the platform. “Maybe too close.”
“I see,” Seven said quietly. At the control panel across the room, blue electric fire crackled across the array of lighted buttons and exacting gauges as Supervisor 146’s futuristic computer prepared to consume itself. On the imposing screen above the controls, Spock’s alert visage flickered, then disappeared as the monitor went blank. Kirk thought he heard Spock mention Scotty’s name just before he was cut off.
“Five seconds to self-destruct, four, three, two . .
.”
Kirk closed his eyes instinctively and braced for the inferno to come. Would he feel the shock wave, he wondered, or simply a single second of all-consuming heat and agony? Every nerve ending of his body anticipated the searing pain. Instead, he felt an unmistakable tingle rush through him from head to toe. He was being beamed out! But how? he wondered. The shields . . . ?
He opened his eyes to find himself crouching on a transporter pad aboard the Enterprise. Dellas and Gary Seven and Doctor Vithrok had also materialized, although both Romulans lay unconscious upon the floor of the transporter.
With a sigh of relief, followed by a deep breath of the Enterprise’s pressurized atmosphere, Kirk rose to his feet and saw Scotty standing several meters away from the transporter controls. The chief engineer had one hand on the intercom and an absolutely flabbergasted expression on his face. “Mr. Scott?”
Apparently quite speechless at the moment, Scotty nodded at the transporter controls. Kirk followed the engineer’s gaze until he spotted the sleek black cat sitting atop the controls, casually scratching one ear. Purring loudly, the cat leaped from the podium to Gary Seven’s waiting arms.
“Good girl, Isis,” he cooed at the animal, tucking her against his chest and affectionately stroking her head. “That’s a good girl.”
Chapter Twenty-one
THE PLANET DUWAMISH hung in space upon the main viewer. Judging from the heavy amount of cloud cover encircling the world, Kirk wasn’t surprised that they were having trouble with flooding. He couldn’t even see the southern continent, where most of the colonists lived, through all the turbulence in the atmosphere. “Begin transporting emergency medical supplies immediately,” he spoke into the intercom receiver on his starboard armrest. “Contact the leaders of each settlement and determine what their most pressing needs are.”