PERCHED WITH THE OTHERS atop the lattice-work catwalk in the space station's engineering section, Pavel Chekov listened with McCoy and Spock to the sounds of the Enterprise putting the Vulcan's theory to the test. It would take time to assemble all the crew personnel and get them where they needed to be, and probably longer still for the buffer action of their bodies to work any change on the ship's engines, but if there was a way to make it work, Mr. Scott would find it. Chekov had a fleeting thought that they were going to be cutting this one awfully close.
They had climbed back up here to put some small distance between themselves and the creature but still retain the ability to use that backwash of energy Mr. Spock had been so certain of. He'd been right, of course, which hadn't particularly surprised the Russian. In all his years aboard the Enterprise, he'd kind of gotten used to the Vulcan being correct in most of his assumptions.
It had done them all a world of good to hear Captain Kirk's voice again. Chekov and McCoy had stood close together, protecting the generator as best they could with the barrier of their bodies while Spock filled the captain in on what had occurred and how best to proceed. Now it was only a matter of time.
So they waited.
Standing with his arms cocked atop the railing, one boot toe sticking between two of the spires supporting the banister, Chekov stared across the vastness of the big room without really seeing it. The static of the open channel they maintained to the Enterprise crackled in the background. Every now and then, he thought he recognized a voice—Kirk giving a command, Uhura or Sulu responding. Once he even thought he recognized Estano's voice, and he wondered how the ensign was holding up in his role as security chief for a day.
His foot jiggled with excess energy. He wanted to pace and burn off some of his frustration, but Mr. Spock had stressed that they needed to stay near the generator and strive to maintain the open channel as long as possible, or until the Enterprise could take over with a stronger, clearer signal. As Chekov understood it, if they could be successful in blocking the creature's ability to feed off the ship, it would look elsewhere. Unable to find anything in the vicinity (or so they hoped), it would go into stasis, adding to the ease of their escape.
His gaze drifted downward to settle on Hallie's silent, inert body beside the slightly pulsating form of the creature. Sorrow tugged at Chekov's heart.
The young Russian had gained a wealth of knowledge in the years since he had first come aboard the Enterprise. Time and missions clocked drove home a plethora of lessons during his climb to the coveted position of security chief. When he began, he thought it would be best if he didn't form lasting attachments to these men and women who had pledged to give up their lives in the defense of ship and crew. It would make losing them that much easier to bear, when the inevitable end came. (The old adage was only too true—there were old security guards and bold security guards, but no old, bold security guards.)
He learned in a fairly short length of time that it was impossible to put that theory into practice. His people were more dear to him because of the role they filled aboard the ship. More than anyone else, they were in danger every day of losing their lives in service to Starfleet and its ideals. One did them a great disservice in not becoming close, in not squeezing every last ounce out of the friendships coined like precious currency.
He turned his eyes toward Spock. Protected in the e-suit as he was, the Vulcan was still feeling the depredations of the creature's feeding. More like a Romulan than a Human, Spock's physiology was more familiar to the creature, hence it could drain energy from him far easier than it could from Chekov or McCoy. Spock was beginning to look awful, his skin pallid, his movements lethargic. If things didn't turn around for them in the next couple of hours, it would all be moot as far as the Vulcan was concerned.
"What the hell?"
McCoy's exclamation brought Chekov out of his reverie and he realized he hadn't been listening for some time. He blinked and turned all the way around. The doctor and Spock were staring at the console. "Did he say something about a Romulan ship?"
Chekov stepped closer. "What was that, Doctor? What did you say?"
"It appears the Enterprise has an unwelcome visitor," Spock supplied.
"Yeah," McCoy growled. "Seems like the Romulans have shown up looking for their garbage."
They listened closely, catching through the interference of the channel enough snatches of Kirk's end of the conversation to know that they were all in big trouble.
Kirk's voice rose, strident, demanding, and incredulous—"Murderer?!"—and they shared a silent look of concern. What did that mean? Had Kirk been accused of murder, or was he doing the accusing? Had another of their company been killed?
It was agony, not being able to hear clearly the other end of the conversation from the unseen Romulan. What was he saying? More importantly, what was he going to do? It never occurred to Chekov that the Romulans wouldn't do anything.
Chekov clenched his teeth and swore the most vile Russian oath he could conjure, damning the channel for not being clearer, damning the creature, damning the whole situation. He looked at the others. They were no happier than he. Spock leaned forward, listening intently, perhaps divining more from the conversation because of his superlative hearing. McCoy stood, tense and strained, hovering between the generator and Spock, and looking as though he wished he could squeeze himself through the connection and end up on the Enterprise. Chekov could sympathize with that desire only too well.
Kirk's voice came through at them again, growing louder on a rising tide of anger, then subsiding as he listened to whatever it was the Romulans said. "Oh?" he inquired softly, and it was quiet again. They tensely waited for more.
When it came, it sent the three of them rocking to their feet. Kirk's voice yelled, "No!", followed immediately by the annoying, rising, insectlike whine of a transporter in use.
"Someone's coming aboard!" Spock warned.
"Is it Scotty?" McCoy asked, turning as the air above the catwalk began to shimmer. It moved like heat off Death Valley's famous salt flats. Granules of light and color careened within four confined spaces. There was an instant in which to recognize the stonelike, serious faces of the Romulan warriors before the transporter beam flared in a blindingly brilliant flash of light. Chekov threw a hand up to shield his eyes, then blinked beyond his upraised arm, nose wrinkling at the stench. A single young Romulan crewman, looking very alone and extremely startled, stood near them on the catwalk. He stared around him in momentary confusion, then looked down at the marbled lump of steaming flesh near his feet. Revulsion rippled his features, and he stepped aside quickly, then turned and saw the Enterprise crew for the first time. For an instant, they stared at one another, the tableau frozen in time. Then, with an oath and the smooth movement of a man well trained to arms, the Romulan raised something in their direction.
"DOWN!" someone roared. Later, Chekov couldn't be certain if it was he, Spock, McCoy, or all three of them together. They each scrambled for what meager cover was available, just as an explosion rocked the station, throwing them all off-balance. The Romulan rocked like a ship on unsteady seas and stumbled a few steps sideways.
Behind Chekov, McCoy cried out, his voice a sharp wail of terror. The security chief spun in the doctor's direction, and a blast from the Romulan's weapon nearly lifted the Russian off his feet, spinning him back around the way he'd come. Pain bloomed and rushed pell-mell for his brain. He clutched the wound, and sagged to his knees on the floor.
Legs wide and braced, the Romulan lifted his weapon again and aimed it not at Chekov but beyond him. "Let him go, Vulcan," he hissed.
Chekov blinked hard against the pain and turned, and his sweat turned icy cold.
When the unexpected explosion shook the station, McCoy was hurled off-balance. He grabbed at the catwalk's narrow banister, trying to catch himself, but his hand slid along the surface made slick by the creature's residue. Unable to gain a solid hold, he hit the banister hard and flipped over the side.
To McCoy, it seemed like slow motion. Black-clad fingers grasped like claws, clutching for a hold and sliding along the damp metal uprights. As he fell free, twisting, a hand shot out from between the uprights and snatched him by one wrist. The doctor came up short, gasping, pain tearing through his shoulder as it wrenched backward by the pull of his full weight.
It was Spock. The Vulcan's fingers dug tightly, painfully, into McCoy's wrist, and hauled back. The doctor twisted in the first officer's grasp, his own fingers clawing for purchase on Spock's wrist and lower arm, securing a frenzied hold around the narrow limb with both hands. McCoy looked up, eyes swimming with tears of pain and fear. Far above the tiny life-saving thread of their joined hands, Spock's face was contorted with effort, his pallid cheek pressed tightly against the railings.
"Let him go, Vulcan."
Spock turned toward the voice, strain etched deeply into the ascetic lines of his face. "I cannot do that," he answered simply, as though it were the most logical thing in the world to say. His fingers tightened around McCoy's wrist in silent reassurance. If he had anything to say about it, Spock would not let the doctor fall, but he was weakened by the creature's draw on his energy reserves. How long could he hope to hold on?
"I said, let him go," the Romulan repeated. "Or this one dies."
"Spock …" McCoy grunted. And then all hell broke loose.
From above McCoy's head came the sound of battle, as two bodies collided and fell, hitting the floor hard enough to make both combatants grunt with pain. Voices yelled, but he couldn't make out the words through the red haze of pain in his arm. Something skittered across the floor, and flesh struck flesh with so solid a crack that it made the doctor's wince in sympathy.
Then, suddenly, Leno's face was beside Spock's, cheek against metal as she sprawled on the floor beside the Vulcan, thrust her right arm between the railings, and stretched downward. "Give me your other hand!" she demanded.
Pain raged in McCoy's shoulder, a living thing with tearing teeth. Biting his lip against the agony, he gingerly released his hold on Spock's forearm and clutched at the rescue promised by Leno's outstretched hand. Flailing fingers brushed with an agonizing sweetness. Leno drove herself hard against the railing, and her thick, strong fingers closed around McCoy's wrist in a tight grip.
"Now!" Spock grunted and McCoy felt a lurch as they hauled back on his screaming arms. Using their free arms for leverage, and then their feet as they swung around on their rumps, they pulled McCoy in like a prize catfish out of the Mississippi.
It seemed to take forever until McCoy felt the stability of metal under his hands. He grasped for it feverishly, sweaty face against his arms, willing his fingers to close tightly over the slick uprights.
"Hang on!" Leno encouraged. "We've almost got you!"
McCoy didn't know if he could, didn't know how he did, but he managed long enough for them to reach over the banister together and gain new purchase. The doctor clutched them in a death grip and, inch by weary inch, the Vulcan and the security guard brought him back from the brink.
McCoy toppled over the railing, landing hard and bruisingly. He didn't care that it hurt, didn't care that his arms were numb while his shoulders bleated pain like a terrified sheep. It was wonderful to feel the pain and to know he was alive!
Gasping, he raised his head and focused on the others through a fall of sweat-soaked hair. Spock was ashen against the black cowl of his e-suit, his chest heaving for breath.
"I may have arms like a neanderthal from now on," McCoy panted. He reached for Spock's hand, unable to tell whether or not he squeezed it as hard as he hoped. "Spock …" He swallowed hard, working up saliva. "If I ever again say anything nasty about you …" He licked his lips. "… and I probably will … I don't mean it."
Spock's breathing was a rough rasp. "I shall endeavor to remember that," he replied quietly, and his other hand rested briefly on the doctor's shoulder.
"And you!" McCoy focused on Leno. He had never in his entire life seen anyone so dirty. Her cowl was pushed back, her hair free and wildly tangled. The right sleeve of her e-suit was torn almost free of the shoulder. Head to toe, she was smeared with grime. "I never thought …!" He shook his head. "Come here." Leaning forward, he surprised her by hugging her fiercely. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you I'd meet you here," she reminded him, her voice quiet in his ear. Her hands pushed gently at his arms. "Careful, Dr. McCoy. I'm pretty dirty."
"Pretty dirty!" He sat back and looked at her. "You look and smell like you crawled through a sewer to get here!"
Her small smile was cockeyed and not quite happy. "That might have been one of the places."
Only then did he notice the dried blood under her fingernails and the blotches of it on the knees of her e-suit. "Leno!"
Her hands caught him, keeping him away. "I'm all right, Dr. McCoy," she assured him. "It's not mine." Her eyes became hooded, distant. "When I got out of the turbolift car, I had to come around to the first shaft we climbed and go down the rest of the way from there. I, uh … I had to move Markson's body in order to get past the wreck of the turbolift car."
Ohmigod … McCoy sat back on his heels, shaken. "Well, what happened?" He looked up, focusing on the room beyond for the first time, and saw Chekov holding a weapon on the unconscious Romulan, who lay sprawled at the security chiefs feet.
Chekov gestured with the plasma gun. "He happened. But not for long, thanks to Leno."
She shrugged. "I showed up at the right time, that's all. But I can't take all the credit. We make a good team, Chief."
"Yes, we do," Chekov responded and winced.
"You're hurt!" McCoy struggled to his feet and, making a wide circuit around the snoozing Romulan, hurried over to inspect the Russian's arm.
"It's not bad, Doctor," Chekov said stoutly. "It was meant to debilitate, not to kill."
"I don't care what it was meant to do!" McCoy took a few moments to tend the wound. "What was that explosion?" he demanded.
"And where's Hallie?" Leno asked, looking around. Their expressions told her all she needed to know, and she shut her eyes with a world-weary sigh.
"I believe the station was fired upon," Spock answered the doctor.
"Jim wouldn't do that," McCoy argued. "Not with all of us still aboard."
"The captain may not have had any choice in the matter, if the Enterprise's weapons systems are malfunctioning as is the rest of the ship," Spock reminded them.
McCoy curled his lip. "How convenient. We can be blown up by our own ship. We're damned lucky it wasn't a photon torpedo."
"Very lucky, Doctor. Given the unanticipated appearance of our visitor, we must consider the possibility that the Romulan ship may have opened fire on the station."
"With one of their own men aboard?" Leno demanded. "That's sick!"
"Not if they would rather lose the station than see it fall into Federation hands," Chekov reminded her. "We came pretty close to our own version of that." He quickly filled her in on how close the Enterprise had been to self-destruct. The news made her fall silent, her expression troubled.
McCoy grunted. "Well, why did that Romulan weapon work when ours have been drained?"
"I surmise that the immediacy of the situation worked in the Romulan's favor," Spock replied. "He had just beamed aboard. The creature would need at least a few moments to recognize the food source, even were it already familiar. As he fired his weapon so soon after his arrival—"
"Time was on his side," Leno finished. She eyed the weapon in Chekov's hand. "Do you suppose it still works?"
"Unknown, Ensign."
Her expression was grim. "Can we try it out on him and see for ourselves?"
"I think it would be more to our advantage to wake our friend and see what he has to tell us," Chekov suggested. He nudged the prone body with his toe and raised his eyes toward McCoy. "Doctor?"
"I think that's a splendid idea, Lieutenant."
Spock shifted. "While you do that, I shall endeavor to contact the Enterprise and learn what has transpired. I am concerned that if the Romulans fired on the station, they may likewise have fired on the ship. And she is without shields."
"But if your idea is working, Spock, and they're able to raise power—"
"I doubt very much if the ship has had time to raise adequate power to shield against a direct attack, Doctor."
"Wait a minute," Leno interrupted. "The ship has power now? When did that happen?"
"It's a long story, Ensign," Chekov replied.
Spock tiredly got to his feet, and McCoy rose with him. "Spock, we have to get you out of here soon," the doctor said quietly. "Your reserves are being depleted by the creature." He didn't need to use his mediscanner to see how badly the Vulcan was doing.
"We cannot leave the generator so long as it offers us a tenuous contact to the Enterprise, Doctor," Spock said quietly. "And moving me will gain us little. If we are not rescued or effect an escape on our own, it will not matter shortly."
McCoy wanted to swear, wanted to argue with the Vulcan's logic but, as usual, there was no point to it. Spock was right. "I don't have any of the stimulant left, Spock," he apologized. "I pumped it into Hallie when I tried to resuscitate her."
"As you should have. No regrets, Doctor."
McCoy met the Vulcan's eyes in a look of deep understanding. "No regrets, Spock." He cleared his throat. "Now, go see if you can get in touch with Jim and let him know we're all right. We'll take care of this guy."
"Thank you, Doctor." Spock turned away and settled again before the generator, his hands on the console controls.
McCoy turned back toward the others. "Leno, if you'd be so kind as to assist me?"
"Gladly, Dr. McCoy." She lifted the Romulan by his armpits and knelt behind him, securing her arm firmly under his chin in a headlock. When she was settled and sure of her hold, she nodded.
McCoy shook the Romulan, who stirred groggily and opened his eyes. When he saw the two Federation officers staring down at him, and his own weapon pointed at his chest, he tried to lunge to his feet, but Leno held him firmly against her, her upraised knee against his spine. "Give me an excuse," she murmured quietly in his ear. "Please." She pulled him back toward her, letting him feel the pressure of her knee against his backbone and the surety of her hold. "You know I can do it, and you know that I will if you give me just cause."
"That's enough, Ensign," Chekov said lightly. He kept the weapon pointing at the Romulan's stomach in the silent threat of a gut shot. "You don't need to harass the prisoner just yet."
"Prisoner?!" The Romulan spat like an angry feline and struggled against Leno's grip. "You have no right to—"
"We have every right!" Chekov snapped, and Leno tightened her hold. "You beamed aboard this station armed—"
"To protect what is ours! To put an end to your depredations aboard a Romulan station! Reltah is not your property! What have you done with her crew?"
The doctor leaned forward. "Seems to me, son, that we're the ones in the position to ask questions. Suppose you tell us what a Romulan space station is doing in Federation territory?"
"The Federation is peopled by thieves and liars! You stole this vessel from the Romulan Neutral Zone and murdered its crew to gain our secrets! You will not succeed in your bid for dominion over us!"
Chekov leaned over and pressed the business end of the weapon he held up against the Romulan's chest. "Shut up," he said tiredly, and didn't look at all surprised when the alien closed his mouth with a nearly audible snap. The Russian looked up at the others. "Do we have any way of tying him up?"
"Well …"
"This e-suit material is pretty strong. We can use what's left of my sleeve to tie his hands and ankles together."
"That sounds fine, Ensign," Chekov said. "Remind me to give you a commendation when we get back aboard the ship."
"You're on, Chief." She freed the binders from the Romulan's waist and handed them to the security chief, who quickly fit them around the alien's wrists. "Must stink, being confined by your own gear," she purred in his ear and grinned. She held out her arm for McCoy to tear away the rest of her sleeve. Only when the Romulan was adequately bound did she release her hold on his neck and scoot back. She massaged her arm and surveyed their handiwork with pride, then looked up. "So, did you ever find any sign of that creature we saw?"
Chekov and McCoy exchanged looks, and the security chief reached out a hand to pull Leno to her feet. "You might say that, Ensign." He drew her toward the edge of the catwalk and the view of Engineering.
McCoy watched the strong play of emotion that washed over the ensign's face when she got her first real look at the creature. She tried several times to say something but fell silent before each attempt bore fruit. Finally, she turned and cocked her head at the watchful Romulan. "Has he seen this thing yet?"
"In all the hubbub of his arrival, I don't think he noticed," McCoy replied.
"Oh, this I gotta see!" Leno walked over and snagged the Romulan's arm. He bucked under her touch, but she held on and dragged him toward the edge. "I'm not going to throw you over," she assured him, though McCoy thought the idea might appeal to her. "I just want to prove to you that the Federation isn't at fault here." She hefted him up and turned his face outward. "What do you think of that?"
The Romulan's reaction was every bit as good as Leno's had been. His eyes widened, and he stared as though unable to comprehend the sheer size of the creature. "What is this thing?" he murmured finally.
"We're not certain," McCoy supplied. "All we know is that it drained this station of its power."
The Romulan turned hollow eyes toward the ship's doctor. "Is the station crew dead?"
McCoy paused, weighing the factors in imparting this piece of information, and decided it didn't much matter. "Yes."
"Killed by that creature." It wasn't really a question.
"It drained them of energy," McCoy said. "Just as it's draining Spock. Just as it will drain all of us."
"There must be a way to destroy it!"
"We don't want to destroy it, and if we did, I'm not sure we could," the doctor snapped.
The Romulan had the temerity to laugh. "Leave it to Starfleet to protect its murderers!"
"Hey!" Leno admonished, yanking the binders and bruising his wrists. "Are you serious, McCoy? Is there a chance we'll still get out of this?"
"If all goes as Mr. Spock plans," he assured her. "Scotty's working on changing the energy patterns on the ship's engines often enough that the creature can't realign to them so readily and feed. If that works, we'll get out of here." He patted her shoulder. "Don't worry."
Famous last words, Leonard. Famous last words.