Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity (6 page)

“I didn’t know what they were when I accepted,” the leader countered. “We don’t know
anything about these people. Plus we have our own casualties to take care of.”

“Our worst casualty suffered nothing more than a concussion, because they’re using
nonlethal weapons,” Deeshal said, refusing to back down. “Knowing that about them
is by itself enough for me to trust them.”

The two men considered one another wordlessly for several seconds before the alien
commander finally dropped his restraining hand and gestured for the doctor to go on
ahead. Deeshal came running up the incline, pulling off his helmet as he did. The
captain was somewhat surprised to see that he
was not of the same amphibian species they had encountered in the clearing. Rather,
Deeshal somewhat resembled a Caitian, though with a longer muzzle and a thick mane
of pale yellow fur circling his face. “Where is your injured soldier?” he asked as
he reached Kirk.

The captain gestured to where D’Abruzzo lay on the ground, with O’Reilly and Frank
kneeling beside him wearing expressions of helplessness. The medic quickly moved to
his side and knelt as well. “What is his familiar name?” he asked as he pulled a small
handheld device from a pouch on his belt.

“Joe,” Frank answered.

“Hello, Joe. My name is Deeshal,” he said in a soft, soothing tone as he began to
move his scanner over D’Abruzzo’s torso and shoulder. As he watched the physician
go about his examination, Kirk was taken by his bedside manner, and how humane—how
human—his behavior was. It was a marked contrast from being chased and shot at, to
say the least.

And as if to remind him that the danger had not yet passed, Spock and Farah suddenly
raised their phasers, aiming behind Kirk. He spun, and saw that the alien leader had
moved about three paces closer while his back had been turned.
Stupid
, he berated himself. “We didn’t say anything about anyone other than your doctor
coming up here.”

The alien leader, now frozen in his tracks, said, “Of course. I have no intention
of violating our
truce, Captain James T. Kirk.” He held his rifle out to his side, pointed to the sky,
and with his free hand, he detached the faceplate from his helmet, revealing himself
to also be a leonine alien like Deeshal. “My name, by the way, is Laspas, Commander,
of the Goeg Domain Defense Corps. I do regret mistaking you for the criminals we’ve
been tracking, and the injury to your soldier, as well.”

The man’s apology sounded sincere to Kirk’s ears. “I appreciate that, Commander Laspas,”
he acknowleged, and then decided to take a step forward himself, further closing the
gap between the two of them. “And I do hope that now the Federation and the Goeg Domain
will be able to move beyond this misunderstanding to a more positive interaction.”

Laspas’s lips pulled back in a wide smile. “I would be very happy if that were to
be,” he replied. Kirk returned the smile, his hope for a positive outcome to this
mission rebounding.

That hope was dampened when he noticed Spock and the alien doctor, wearing a dour
expression, coming his way. “How is he?” Kirk asked them both.

“He is in very poor condition.” Deeshal’s head tipped as he spoke, his jaw touching
his chest. “But I’ve done what I can for now, and I believe I should be able to forestall
any serious permanent damage.”

“Forestall it for how long?” Kirk asked.

The doctor put his hands out in a gesture of
helplessness. “I can’t say. There are some similarities between our species, but also
far too many differences. I don’t have enough knowledge of your species.”

“Your ship . . .” Kirk turned back toward Laspas, who continued, “I assume you have
medical facilities aboard. Is it nearby?”

The captain was momentarily taken aback by the question. Were their captors really
considering letting them go? “It’s in orbit,” he answered.
Or, it’s supposed to be,
he added silently to himself. At this point, he could only hope that if these soldiers
did permit them to go, they would still have a way to leave.

“Then you have a shuttlecraft?” Laspas asked.

“No. We—” He cut himself off before getting sidetracked into an explanation of the
transporter, and instead asked, “May I try contacting our ship?”

Laspas nodded. “You may.”

Even though Laspas was no longer brandishing his weapon at him, Kirk made sure to
move slowly as he reached for his communicator and flipped the grille into its open
position. “Kirk to
Enterprise
.
Enterprise
, come in.”

This time, through the wash of electronic interference, he faintly heard what he thought
was Uhura’s voice, and underneath that, the unmistakable sound of the Red Alert klaxons.
“Uhura! What’s happening up there?” If Uhura answered, her reply was lost in the background
noise. “Dammit!”

Kirk turned and looked back at Spock, who also now had his communicator out. He was
attempting to adjust the device’s settings, but having no luck. “There appears to
have been a marked increase in interference from the nystromite, Captain,” he said.
“I am having difficulty counteracting it.”

“ ‘Nystromite’?” Laspas asked.

“The crystalline substance that envelops this system,” Kirk explained. “Keep trying,
Spock.”

“And you say the levels have suddenly increased?”

Spock gave the alien leader an appraising look. “That would seem to be the case, yes.”

An oddly triumphant expression came across Laspas’s face as he reached up and touched
the side of his helmet. “
814
: status codes 1-7 and 1-25. Directive 1-42, execute.”

Kirk was nearly knocked off his feet then, as the ground began to vibrate violently.
A near-deafening rumble rolled over and through their hillside, and when Kirk turned
to look up over the top of the ridge above them, he saw a large, heavily armored gray-green
space vessel lifting off and up into the pale blue sky. It measured about seventy
meters long, with an angular, almost boxy shape, and two arching wings extended out
from either side, supporting heavy warp nacelles. It was clearly not intended primarily
as an atmospheric craft, and lacked any of the elegant curves of the
Enterprise
,
yet it ascended with a smooth grace and confidence Kirk found he could admire. “Your
ship?” Kirk shouted over the roaring engines at the alien leader, as it rose higher
into the sky.

The other captain nodded proudly. “The Goeg Domain Starvessel Class III/
814
. Finest ship in the fleet.”

Kirk grinned. “That’s a coincidence. My ship is the finest ship in our fleet as well.”

“Well,” Laspas said, giving Kirk a simpatico smile in return. “Imagine that.”

*   *   *

Even without the flood of reports being routed to the bridge, Sulu knew the
Enterprise
was damaged, and badly. He could sense the way the impulse engines were struggling
to push them away from danger, sending unattuned vibrations up along the deck plates,
through the seat of the command chair, and all the way up his spine.
When Captain Kirk gets back, he’s going to have my hide
.

“
Engineering to bridge,”
Scott’s voice cut through his private moment of gallows humor.
“How much longer are ye planning to let this poor girl get knocked around like this?
I’m trying my best to keep everything running down here, but you’re not making it
easy.”

“It’s not me, Scotty, I swear,” Sulu answered him. “How bad is it?”

“It’s not good,”
he answered.
“Warp engines are off line, and impulse power is under seventy percent. I’ve got damage
control teams all over the ship—”

“Sir!” Chekov shouted. “There’s another ship incoming from the planet surface!”

Sulu felt his stomach tighten into a knot. “An actual ship, or another of these asteroids?”
he asked.

“A ship,” Chekov confirmed, “with real weapons systems, running hot.”

Sulu realized there was no more putting off his next order. “Helm, break orbit.”

Stevenson pivoted in her chair, looking back at him in alarm. “But, the captain—”

“We can’t do the landing party any good without a working ship,” Sulu said, cutting
her off sharply. “Set a course toward the third planet, full impulse.” Stevenson turned
reluctantly back to her console and executed his command. The ship was still handling
sluggishly, and once the other ship was close enough to be seen on the viewscreen,
it became clear that they weren’t going to be able to outrun them.

“Ready all phaser banks and photon torpedo launchers,” he ordered.

As the rest of the bridge braced for possible battle, Lieutenant Rogers pulled his
face away from the science station’s hooded viewer and reported, “Sir, I think . . .
it looks like the asteroids . . . are retreating.”

There’s a sentence you’ll never hear uttered anywhere other than the bridge of the
Starship Enterprise, Sulu told himself. “Retreating?” He turned to look the science
officer’s way.

“They’re showing us their tails, sir, see?” he answered, pointing to the overhead
display above his station. Sulu looked up, and just as the lieutenant said, the engines
that they’d only caught quick glimpses of before were now shining clear and bright.

“The alien vessel is going after them,” Chekov reported. Sure enough, when Sulu turned
to the main viewscreen again, he saw the vessel veer off. Whipping his head to the
right again, he watched the other vessel launch pulses of energy at the asteroid-mounted
engines, which then exploded in huge blossoms of light that quickly disappeared into
the black invisibility of their nystromite masses.

Sulu suppressed the urge to cheer, but he knew he couldn’t assume that the enemy of
their enemy was truly their friend. His caution proved justified as the alien ship
swung around in a wide arc and came back toward the
Enterprise
. “Stand ready, weapons,” Sulu told Chekov in a low voice.

Then Uhura announced, “We are being hailed, Mister Sulu.”

Sulu let the breath he had been holding out in a long hissing exhale, then answered,
“Put them through.”

On the screen, the image of the planet was replaced by that of a leonine alien on
the bridge of the other ship.
“NCC-1701. My name is Satrav, Second Commander of the Goeg Domain Defense Corps Starvessel
Class III/
814
. You are saved now.”

“Thank you,” Sulu said, though there was something in the way he said this that made
the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Your help is appreciated.”

“I should imagine it is,”
Satrav said, curling his lips up in a smile, flashing a mouthful of sharp-looking
teeth.
“Welcome to the Goeg Domain.”

“Of all the times for Jim to decide not to drag me along on one of these damned landing
parties . . .” McCoy muttered under his breath as he, Nurse Christine Chapel, and
orderly Morgan Gannon hustled down the ship’s corridors from sickbay to the main transporter
room.

“I could swear I heard you tell the captain you didn’t want to beam down to the planet
with the team,” Chapel said.

The doctor shot her a mock-angry look and said, “Nurse, don’t ruin a perfectly good
rant by bringing up facts.” Had he known at the time that someone in the landing party
would end up seriously injured . . . well, then, he would have argued that much harder
with Jim to call his excursion off. McCoy wished now he had sucked it up and beamed
down with them to ensure the landing party was properly cared for. Now, they had to
rely on some alien doctor who had never seen a human being before. McCoy had been
in that position himself, having to treat a patient of a species he had
no actual knowledge of, too many times before. Although he always managed to maintain
a confident front, inside McCoy felt like a first-year medical student who’d napped
through his classes. It was a nightmarish situation to be caught in, and he could
only hope this Goeg doctor had the smarts and skills to help a human patient.

They reached the transporter room, and McCoy nodded to the young woman manning the
station. She nodded back in response while at the same time pulling down the trio
of control sliders, activating the device. Two pillars of energized particles appeared
on the platform, forming a semicircle around a third form lying stretched out flat
at its center. As the figures solidified, McCoy looked from the injured security officer
to the alien doctor and noticed the look of disorientation on his feline face. Once
the transporter cycle was complete, he nearly swooned, before Spock stepped up from
his spot on the transporter pad to steady him. “Doctor Deeshal, I presume?” McCoy
said.

The alien jerked himself upright again and blinked a couple of times at McCoy before
answering, “Yes. Sorry. This transporter of yours . . .” He shook his head and forced
himself to focus. “You’re Doctor McCoy, then?”

“That’s me.” Under other circumstances, McCoy might have commiserated with the new
arrival about the experience of being transported. But he
brushed right by Deeshal as he stepped up onto the transporter stage, tricorder open
and active, and knelt down to examine D’Abruzzo.

“He’s lost much of his blood,” Doctor Deeshal reported unnecessarily. “Your people
were able to stanch the hemorrhaging, and I provided an injection of an oxygenation
enhancer, in hopes of preventing any serious deterioration of the brain or other major
organs.”

McCoy noted a high concentration of tri-ox compound—or at least a close variant—in
D’Abruzzo’s system. McCoy was heartened to learn that the gap between Goeg and human
medicine wasn’t all that wide after all. “That may well have saved him,” he said.
D’Abruzzo was in rough shape, but he was still treatable. That certainly wouldn’t
have been the case, though, had Deeshal not ensured the little blood he had left was
carrying a greater supply of oxygen to his brain, and keeping it viable.