THEY WERE AN EVEN DOZEN—an ideal number, by Kirk's estimate, for the task before them. it was important to play it close to the vest for as long as they could, and a larger group would have attracted too much attention.
Unfortunately, everyone in security was suspect, or they might have gotten access to the weapons room. As it was, Transporter Chief Berg had been able to slip a half-dozen phasers out of the shuttlecraft.
While Berg distributed the phasers, there on the lower level of engineering, Kirk listened to the familiar hum of the impulse engines. Even on another ship, in a situation like this one, it was a comforting sound.
"All right," he said, when the last weapon had been accepted and put away. "You all know who I am, and you've heard what's happening on the Hood. If we're to regain control of the ship, we've got to take our adversaries out one at a time." He paused. "We'll operate in pairs; each pair will have a target." He watched each face as he handed out the assignments, noting the trepidation in some.
At the end, Genti scowled, glancing up at the entrance to his section. "It feels a little funny," he said, "conspiring like this. Planning the overthrow of the command staff—as if we were terrorists or something."
"It feels funny to me too," said the captain. "I run a ship just like this one. But we've no other choice."
"Are you sure about all of this?" asked a petite, redheaded engineering officer. "I mean, we're going to have a tough time explaining ourselves if we're barking up the wrong tree."
Chin smiled grimly. "In that case, Roseann, I'll take full responsibility. After all, I'm the one who saw what was inside Captain Martinez."
"No," said Paultic. "We're all in this together." He eyed the others. "If we have any doubts, we should leave them here."
Berg voiced his support for this idea, and a couple of engineering people chimed in too.
"Absolutely right," said Kirk. "We're to hit our targets fast—and hard. Any hesitation will give them the edge." He waited a moment for that to sink in. "Besides," he added, "our phasers are all set on stun. So if it turns out that we've made a mistake in some isolated instance, the worst we'll have inflicted is a headache."
He looked around again.
"Any questions?"
Silence, but for the droning of the engines.
"Then let's go," he said.
The door to Bodrick's cabin slid aside.
"Greetings," said the navigator, smiling his customary smile. "What can I do for you?"
Paultic didn't answer. With a coolness that surprised him, he raised the phaser and fired.
Bodrick was thrown backward, finally crashing into one of his desk supports. He lay still.
"All right," said Paultic, just loudly enough to be heard out in the corridor. "He's out."
Jacobi followed him into the cabin, shut the door behind them.
Paultic gave the phaser to the other man—just in case—and took out the laser-scalpel Chin had given him. He knelt by Bodrick, took the navigator's hand in his, and applied the surgical beam to the index finger.
"Well?" asked Jacobi.
Paultic shook his head, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. It was one thing to talk about androids—and another to see the proof of it.
Filled with loathing, he let Bodrick's hand drop to the floor.
"It's exactly as we thought," he said. "He's an android."
He stood and extended his hand toward Jacobi.
"I'll do the honors," he said. "I'm the officer here."
The engineer didn't hesitate. He handed over the phaser.
But it wasn't as easy to complete the job as Paultic had thought it would be. Even though this monster had been in on Vedra's murder, and those of the personnel who'd been replaced. Even though, if their situations were reversed, he'd have killed Paultic without a second thought.
After all, he looked like Bodrick. And if the navigator hadn't been his closest friend, he'd been a lot more than an acquaintance. They'd spent many an hour together on the bridge of the Hood, shared some tense moments and some happy ones.
Then Paultic saw the android's eyes snap open, and it was all the motivation he needed.
The phaser beam enveloped Bodrick in its glow just as he started to raise himself off the floor. Before their eyes, he vanished.
Paultic turned to look at Jacobi. The engineer was doing his best not to look rattled.
"Come on," said the communications officer. "Before the others start to worry about us."
The engineer nodded a little too quickly. "Aye, sir."
The doors to sickbay opened and First Officer Stuart stepped through them. He headed straight for Chin's office.
The doctor looked up from her pretended study of her monitor. She waved curtly to Stuart, got up as if to greet him.
Nor did he show any signs of suspicion. Why should he?
There was nothing unusual about the chief medical officer needing to consult with him on one matter or another.
So when Ensign Zuna dropped him, there in the center of the sickbay floor, the only sound was that of Stuart's body hitting the deck.
But as Zuna emerged from hiding, she was nervous. Chin could see it in the way she looked at her victim, in the way she held her weapon.
In the quickness with which she moved the phaser setting up a notch, ready to use it again.
"Wait," called the doctor, bolting out of her office.
Zuna turned to look at her. She seemed surprised, as if she had forgotten all about her.
"Don't you remember?" she asked the ensign, lowering herself to a kneeling position at Stuart's side. "First we've got to make sure."
Zuna swallowed. "Right," she said. "Sorry."
The doctor muttered something reassuring as she removed the laser-scalpel from her pocket. Deftly, she rolled up Stuart's sleeve and made a tiny incision in his forearm.
The flesh—not flesh at all, really, but some synthetic material—curled back to reveal that intricate mesh of gears and wires she had seen in Martinez's face.
Chin sat back on her haunches, satisfied and a little revolted by the burning smell. "All right," she said as she started to get up. "You can—"
But before she could finish, a hand shot out and grabbed her by the ankle. The pain was terrible, crushing. She screamed.
Zuna cried out too, threatening to use the phaser. But she couldn't—not on this setting, with Chin in the android's grasp. The beam would destroy both of them.
Zuna must have realized this, because she started fumbling with the setting. But at the same time, the android twisted Chin's foot around, and she came crashing down on top of him.
"Sorry, doctor," said Stuart, his voice unreasonably calm. "But I need a shield."
Holding her before him, he started to get up. His grip was viselike, irresistible.
"Let her go," said the ensign, still struggling to restore the setting to stun. It seemed to be stuck.
"No chance," said Stuart. "I need her to get to you."
Zuna took a step back.
The android half dragged, half carried the doctor across the room. Eventually, he would maneuver Zuna into a corner and disable her. Then he'd kill them both.
There was only one thing Chin thought she might try—one strategy that had any chance of working.
If the androids were such precise replicas of human beings, they probably had human reflexes as well. After all, they had to be programmed to blink, didn't they? To take in and expel air so as to give the appearance of breathing?
"Go ahead," said Chin. "Shoot. Don't worry about me." And as she said it, she winked.
The ensign noticed, though she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But she understood well enough to extend the phaser in Stuart's direction.
"You won't do it," said the android. "You can't just kill her. She's flesh and blood. She's human."
The words were barely out of his mouth when Chin kicked backward with all her might—catching Stuart just below the kneecap.
Sure enough, the patella reflex was there. The android's leg buckled for just an instant, causing him to lose his balance—and his grip on her.
She twisted free, rolled to one side.
Nor did Zuna wait for the order Chin barked at her. Depressing the trigger, she activated the phaser—still locked in at its highest setting.
That nimbus of coruscating energy played about the android for a moment. Then it was as if he had never existed in the first place.
According to the duty roster, Michaux was scheduled for continuing education. Since the helmsman was one of the few crewmembers who preferred to study in the library rather than in his own cabin, Genti knew where to look for him.
"You just watch my back," he told Obobo as the turbolift carried them down to the library level. "There may be another of them in the place, and I'll need some warning."
The Nigerian nodded. "Don't worry, sir. I'll—"
He cut himself short as the lift stopped—one level shy of their destination.
When the doors opened, they revealed Jason—the security officer who'd come to check the dilithium supply. The one, Genti reminded himself, who left the damned door open and got the whole section sick. And maybe, just maybe, the one who also killed Vedra.
Jason inclined his head slightly. "Gentlemen," he said, and entered the turbolift.
Nor did he punch new instructions into the lift computer—which meant he was headed for the same level they were.
The doors closed.
Until now, Genti's stomach had been churning at the thought of shooting Michaux—Michaux, who barely weighed in at a hundred and sixty pounds.
Now, strangely, the trepidation was gone—replaced by the heat of anger. I don't like this bastard, he decided.
So when the lift stopped again and the doors opened to let them out, Genti pulled out his phaser. Unaware, Jason stepped out into the corridor.
He never knew what hit him. The phaser blast sent him sprawling almost to the opposite wall.
Obobo cursed beneath his breath, glaring at Genti as they emerged from the turbolift. "What are you doing, sir? This wasn't our assignment."
"It is now," said the engineering chief. With liquid quickness, he got out the scalpel, used it on the base of Jason's neck.
And saw all he needed to see.
Without a moment's hesitation, he adjusted the phaser setting and activated it. Watching Jason blink out of existence was one of his most satisfying experiences since the day he joined Starfleet.
"Sir?"
Genti looked up, saw the concern in Obobo's face.
"Can we get moving now?" the man asked.
The chief engineer nodded. "Sure."
"Do you want me to watch for a while?" asked Calabrese, careful to keep her voice to a whisper.
Berg leaned away from the hairline crack between the door and the jamb—a crack created when he'd slipped his transporter key in the path of the closing door panel—and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
"Maybe soon, Roseann. I'm good for a few more minutes."
"The hell you are," she told him, hunkered down just behind him in this unused utility room. "You know how tired your eyes get."
It was true. In fact, the condition had almost kept him out of Starfleet. As it was, it had limited him to the role of transporter chief—a post far below his original aspirations.
"No, really," he said. "I'm all right for now."
"Just don't be a hero," she rasped.
He smiled. "Yes, dear."
It got a chuckle out of her, breaking the tension a little.
Then he heard the footfalls. He held his hand up for silence and pressed his eye to the crack again.
Nothing yet.
The footfalls got louder, closer. The palm that cradled the phaser felt damp with sweat. Suddenly? Or had it been that way all along?
A squeeze of his muscular shoulder. Calabrese's way of saying she was right behind him, her own phaser at the ready.
The footfalls became louder still, echoing along the corridor. The pace was that of someone with a destination, a purpose.
And then he saw the maker of the sounds—almost close enough now to reach out and touch. Simmons came to a halt before the door across the corridor from them, knocked on it.
No answer.
Of course not. Neither Martinez nor Kirk were inside any longer. The cabin was empty.
They had known that someone from security would come by eventually—to see what was taking the captain so long. And to make sure that nothing untoward had occurred.
What they couldn't have predicted was that it would be the chief of security himself.
Simmons knocked again. Still no response from within.
He drew his phaser, just as Berg heard a distinct creak behind him—the sound of Calabrese's knees working as she stood up. The transporter chief held his breath, but Simmons seemed not to have noticed.
How acute was an android's hearing, anyway? Could he have heard them breathing as he approached? And now be playing possum, waiting only until their door opened?
Berg didn't have to look to know Calabrese's hand was hovering over the door control. As soon as he gave the signal, she'd press it—exposing Simmons to their fire.
And vice versa.
The key to the whole trap was the element of surprise. But if Simmons was aware of their presence here …
He put the thought from his mind.
Outside in the corridor, the security chief opened a tiny compartment beside the door and punched in his override code. Almost immediately, the panel slid away.
For a moment, Simmons just stood there, surveying the cabin beyond the threshold. Then he took a cautious step inside.
Berg gave the signal. As the door opened, he fired.
The phaser beam hit Simmons in the shoulder, spun him about. He fell out of Berg's line of sight.
An instant later, Calabrese was bounding past him—across the corridor and into the cabin where Simmons had fallen.
"No!"
The warning was barely past his lips when he saw the sudden burst of phaser fire. In its glare, he saw Calabrese go down.
"Roseann!" he cried, darting across the corridor and launching himself after her. He landed on his side, ready to fire at anything that moved.
But Simmons lay stretched across the bunk, his head dangling off the side of it. And his phaser lay on the floor beneath his empty hand.
"Thanks anyway," said Calabrese.
Berg turned around and saw her lying behind him, wedged against a bulkhead. It made him want to laugh.
As their job wasn't over yet, however, he contained himself. Taking possession of Simmons's phaser, he flipped the setting to off and put it in his belt. Then he took out the laser-scalpel.
Calabrese, standing behind him now, cleared her throat rather noisily. He looked up at her.
"You want me to do that?" she asked.
He offered her the scalpel.
"Sure," he said. "I think my eyes are getting a little tired."
When he entered the library, Genti was still pumped up on adrenaline. His muscles were loose, relaxed, and the phaser felt remarkably comfortable in his hand.
Destroying androids wasn't half as difficult as he'd expected.
He scanned the rows of partitioned study units as Obobo came in behind him. No sign of Michaux. For that matter, no sign of anyone—an unusual situation here. The place was usually full to capacity.
Obobo tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. The Nigerian pointed to a small pocket of study units partially concealed by a structural bulkhead. In the ship's original design, the area had been set aside for some sort of storage—but as the demand for library use exceeded expectations, it was opened up as an annex.
And it could be reached from either side of the bulkhead.
Genti signaled for Obobo to approach the area from the left. He would take the longer way around—from the right, through the greater number of study units.
As the chief engineer walked, phaser palmed against his thigh, his footfalls seemed unnaturally loud. But that, he knew, was only the product of his heightened awareness.
And besides—the sound of footfalls was common enough in the library. Michaux couldn't know the intent behind them.
Could he?
Was it possible he'd gotten wind of what they were up to? And was hiding behind one of the partitions now, ready to twist someone's head off?
Genti shrugged off that last thought.
You're giving these androids too much credit, he told himself. Remember how easily Jason went down?
He was little more than halfway through the mass of study units when he heard the sound of voices.
One was Obobo's. The other he recognized as Michaux's.
It took an effort not to hurry his steps. But the voices sounded casual, not strained. And any undue haste on his part might have attracted the helmsman's attention—aroused his suspicions.
No, he told himself. Take your time. Obobo's fine—you can hear him.
One of the voices fluted into laughter. It was the Nigerian's.
See? He's okay.
A few more steps, and again a few more. The conversation went on—something about the number-two impulse engine. More laughter.
And then, finally, Genti reached the end of the partitions. Shifting the weight of the phaser in his hand so that he could fire instantly if he had to, he came around the side of the bulkhead.
Sure enough, there was Michaux. His head, barely visible over the top of his study unit, was turned toward Obobo, who stood just beyond him.
Genti would have fired then, but he didn't have a clear shot. And besides, he might have hit his own man.
He gestured for Obobo to move out of the way. Then he could come up and fire over the back of the study unit.
Michaux must have noticed something in the Nigerian's eyes, however, because he whirled about.
And saw Genti, his hand full of phaser pistol.
And moved quicker than anyone had a right to.
A moment later, Obobo seemed to leap into the outer bulkhead. There was a terrible crack, like the splintering of a thick branch in a dead tree. And then he came crashing down again.
Nor was Michaux anywhere to be seen. He had darted out of harm's way—most likely headed for the exit.
Genti's first impulse was to try to launch himself over the top of the study unit—but it would have taken too long. The quicker way was to double back the way he had come.
His heart pounding, he raced down the aisle between the partitions. Up ahead, past the study units on his right, there was a scuffling—as of someone fleeing. But Michaux must have been bent over, because Genti still couldn't catch a glimpse of him.
No! He can't get away, damn it!
One slip would wreck their whole plan. If even one of the androids got by them, alerted the gang of them in security—they would be outnumbered. And by beings who had years of physical-conflict training in their memories.
I won't let it happen!
Just as Genti neared the door, it slid aside and something flashed through the opening. Something small and wiry, skidding on all fours.
For a moment after the something was gone, the door remained open. Then, slowly, it began to slide back again.
Genti managed to reach it just before it could close altogether—managed to wedge his arm and shoulder into the narrowing space.
Pressure—but just for an instant, until the door's feedback circuits could tell it there was something stuck there. Then the safety mechanism cut in and the door began to release him.
Pushing himself through, he scanned the corridor—first in one direction, then the other.
There. Michaux had gone in the direction of the shorter passageway—was just now turning the corner.
Genti took off after him, making no attempt to conceal the phaser anymore. The pounding of his boots on the metal decking crammed the corridor full of noise—but it was only a backdrop for the drumbeat of blood in his temples.
I can't let him get away. I can't.
The corner loomed and he slowed down to negotiate it.
Skidded a little to the outside, unable to control his momentum.
Almost too late, he saw Michaux spring from concealment—almost too late, depressed the trigger.
Suddenly, there was a bolt of scarlet light between them. Michaux bounced back from it and hit the bulkhead, crumpled.
Genti found himself on the floor as well—propped up with his free arm. But his phaser was still aimed at Michaux.
He got to his feet cautiously, never taking his eyes off the helmsman.
No—the android. The damned, stinking, murdering android. The sound of Obobo's body breaking came back to him, made him shiver.
And I thought it would be so easy.
He didn't need to use the scalpel this time. He just adjusted the setting and fired.
When he was done, he restored the setting to stun and wiped the wetness from his face.
How many times had Joaquin Martinez ridden this turbolift to the bridge of the Hood? Thousands? Considering that Martinez had served under the ship's previous captain, perhaps tens of thousands.
As Kirk rode the lift now, he felt like an intruder. A pretender. The Hood wasn't his ship, as much as it had been cut from the same cloth as the Enterprise. It didn't feel right to be taking command of her.
But, of course, it was the only way.
The lift indicator was approaching bridge level. Kirk balanced the phaser pistol in his hand, looked at Averback beside him.
"Ready?" he asked.
The redheaded crewman smiled. Just that, no other answer. He had an interesting face—lots of childish freckles, yet more than its share of care lines as well.
It was a face one could trust. Or so Kirk hoped. After all, anyone in engineering could have pushed a few buttons. But Kirk needed more than mere button pushing. He needed credibility.
The indicator showed bridge. A moment later, the doors parted with a slight exhalation.
And as if they were there for something as mundane as a levels check, and nothing more than that, they came out to take their prearranged positions.
Banks was stretched out in the command chair. He took no notice of them. Nor did anyone else, for that matter, until Averback got to the engineering board. When he started the procedure for isolating security section, one of his fellow crewman let out a yelp.
"Hey! What d'you think you're doing?" The man rose, moved to stop him.
"That's far enough, mister," said Kirk, holding up his phaser where everyone could see it. The crewman stopped dead in his tracks, though it took a second or two before he realized that the weapon was pointed at him.
Without a word, Averback returned to his assignment.
Completed it.
Banks turned in the command chair, eyed Kirk. "I don't know what you think you're doing," he said, his voice calm and controlled. "But if I were you, I'd give it up. Quickly."
Kirk spotted someone moving off to his right, turned the phaser on her. She stopped halfway to an alarm button.
"What I'm doing," he said, watching as the woman backed away again, "is exposing you for an impostor—an android replica of Jamal Banks, no more human than this phaser pistol."
That gave rise to a few startled looks.
"And if there's anyone who doesn't believe me," he went on, "you can ask Averback here."
All eyes seemed to shift to the redhead. Averback nodded.
"This is Captain Kirk," he said, "of the Enterprise. And it's a long story, but he's telling the truth. There are androids on the ship—infiltrated among us—and we have reason to believe that Lieutenant Banks is one of them."
The science officer regarded Averback as if the crewman were disturbed. Then he turned back to Kirk.
"You've really got him believing that," he said. "Don't you, Kirk?" He looked around the bridge, from one wondering face to another. "This man," he said, "is dangerous. The reason we came to Tranquillity Seven was to pick him up—after he'd been apprehended by the local authorities." He shook his head, spoke as if to Kirk alone. "I don't know why you went AWOL," he said. "Perhaps you don't either. But this won't solve anything." He stood, extended his hand in Kirk's direction. "Now, give me the phaser pistol."
Of course, Banks knew he wouldn't do that. But it was exactly the way Kirk would have acted with an armed madman on his bridge. And the performance seemed to have had the desired effect. There were furtive looks on the faces of the bridge crew—glances from one to another as they tried to think of a way to disarm the intruder.
The captain would have stunned Banks then and there, but it was hardly advisable to use a phaser on the bridge of a starship. Too many sensitive instruments at hand, too much potential for disaster.
"All right," he told the android, trying to head off the boneheaded stunt that someone was bound to pull before long. "You say you're human? Prove it. Anybody got something sharp?"
"He's trying to confuse you," countered Banks. "To distract you from the truth."
"Wait," said Averback. "I've got something." He reached into a pocket, produced an antique penknife. The engineer looked at it for a moment. "My mom always said it would come in handy."
He tossed it in Banks's direction. The android snatched it out of the air with some disdain.
"There you go," said Kirk. "All you have to do is cut your finger. Show us some blood."
Banks shook his head slowly from side to side, made a clucking sound. "Certainly," he said, the voice of reason incarnate. "If that's all it will take to expose your little gambit."
For a fraction of a second, Kirk had the feeling that he might have made a mistake. Was it possible, he wondered, that not everyone who beamed down to Exo III had been duplicated?
Then, in a flurry of motion, Banks reached down and tore the armrest off the command seat.
Sparks geysered from electronic ruin. And before anyone could move, could react, the heavy armrest was hurtling toward Kirk's head.
The captain ducked, feeling the thing graze his shoulder before it smashed into the closed doors of the turbolift. Before he could take another breath, Banks had vaulted over the rail and was lunging for him.
Kirk resisted the urge to fire and whirled out of harm's way. There was a chunk in the space he had just vacated as the android's fist plowed into the bulkhead, collapsing the metal surface all around it.
Recovering, realizing he had missed, he turned and advanced on Kirk.
The captain backed off. "You see?" he said. "Is this your Lieutenant Banks? Could he have done this?"
The android no longer bothered with a rebuttal. But Kirk's words did seem to have an effect on him—to trigger an awareness of the position he'd put himself in, the degree to which he'd exposed himself.
Kirk wondered at that. Banks had acted irrationally in coming after his antagonist. After all, it had still been something of a stalemate at that point.
Had he simply panicked? Was there a flaw in his manufacture—or in his programming—that allowed him to crack under pressure? That permitted blind anger to take over, suddenly and tumultuously?
"Give it up," he told the android. "They're onto you now. We're all onto you."
By then, Banks had regained his composure. He smiled.
And laid his hand on the plate that opened the lift doors. Even as they began to part, he darted inside.
Kirk didn't hesitate this time—not when it looked as if Banks might escape to warn the other androids. He launched himself sideways before Banks could shut the doors with the emergency override. As he hit the deck, sprawling, he sprayed phaser fire into the lift.
In the next moment, the doors closed. The captain cursed, scrambling to his feet.
But there was no need anymore for urgency. The lift wasn't going anyplace. Though its doors screened Banks from their sight, the indicator beside them showed that the lift was still on bridge level.
Cautiously, phaser still at the ready, Kirk opened the doors again.
The android was crumpled in a corner of the enclosure. Obviously, one of those wild shots had found its mark.
Kirk put the phaser back on his belt. He turned to the bridge crew, saw the varying degrees of astonishment on their faces.
"Anyone still have his doubts?" he asked.
No response.
"There are things like this all over the ship," said Averback. "And we need your help to do something about them."
Murmurs of shock gradually turned into promises of aid. Slowly, the bridge contingent came around.
"Good," said Kirk. "Now let's put this android away—somewhere where he won't get loose. If possible, I'd like to preserve him for—"
He was interrupted by an insistent beeping at the communications console. The communications officer on duty—a petite blonde—moved to answer it.
"What is it?" asked Kirk.
"It's Admiral Straus," she said after a moment. "From Starbase Three. But … he's not coming in very clearly."
"We've had trouble with transmission reception in this sector," said one of the other bridge officers. "Especially long-range transmissions."
"Can you put him up on the screen?" asked Kirk.
"I … I think so, yes," said the blonde. She twisted a few dials and the admiral's face abruptly filled the forward viewscreen, distorted by wave after wave of interference.
"Captain Martinez?" bellowed Straus. "Can … hear me?"
"I hear you, Admiral," answered Kirk. "But this isn't Martinez. It's Jim Kirk, and—"
"Damn it, give me some kind … response, Hood! What the blazes … going on there?"
"He isn't receiving our transmission," interjected the communications officer. "He can't hear you, sir."
Kirk pounded his fist on the rail before him. "Isn't there anything we can do? Give him some sort of signal that we can hear him?"
"Only on a subspace band," came the reply. "But he won't receive that for some time."
"… what's the matter," Straus continued, "but I hope to hell … gets through to you somehow. It's time … rear ends in gear. The Romulans … a freighter. And they've … in force … more firepower than we expected. We need you there, Joaquin. There's no one else close enough to …" The admiral scowled. "… coordinates, just in case. But … can't hear me, then God help the others. Straus out."
Silence for a moment.
"Did you get those coordinates, Lieutenant?" asked Kirk.
"They're coming through now, sir. And pretty clearly."
"When you've got them, give them to the navigator."
The navigation officer swiveled in his seat and faced forward—an indication of his readiness. The helmsman too assumed a position of alertness.
A good crew, Kirk mused. Your captain trained you well. "Mister Averback," he said, "you're in charge of the android's disposal. Then get back with the others. Let them know we've regained the bridge."
"Aye, sir," said Averback, and moved to comply.
Kirk came around the half-destroyed command chair and sat down. For better or worse, it was where he belonged now.
Something on the floor caught his eye—something small and shiny. He picked it up.
"Mister Averback …" he called.
The engineer stopped in front of the open turbolift.
"Sir?"
Kirk turned and tossed him the penknife. Averback caught it a little awkwardly.
"You might need that again sometime."
The engineer grinned. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it," said Kirk. And he turned his attention to the task ahead of them.