MCCOY KNEW THE OLD ADAGE "Hours can seem like days." In his personal experience, it was more like "Microseconds can seem like years," especially when the blasted transporter was involved.
As the mechanism kicked in, he was cut off in the middle of what he felt would have been an utterly brilliant riposte to Kirk's snide, sour-grapes remark about sightseeing. A tremor of disorientation started at the tips of his extremities and thrummed inward through his discorporeating body, making him feel profoundly nauseous. His vision swam sickeningly and darkened to black as sensory input cut off entirely, as if he had suddenly been confined to a deprivation tank.
No one McCoy had ever compared notes with seemed to have the same reaction as he did to using the transporter. Jim had told him more than once that the intense response was probably rooted entirely in the doctor's well-known dislike for the machine.
While McCoy was grateful for his friend's concern, he didn't appreciate Kirk playing junior psychologist with him, even if there probably was some very sound basis to the diagnosis. The rational, medically-and psychologically-educated part of McCoy's mind knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the transporter procedure was rated safer than any other mode of transportation ever known to mankind, including walking, and that the entire process lasted only as long as it takes the human heart to pulse three beats. Even knowing all this, the rest of his psyche was screamingly confident not only that the trip took an eternity and was fraught with dangers he couldn't even see, but that it also gave him the closest thing to an out-of-body experience he could ever have without actually dropping dead. No one, not even Kirk, was ever going to convince him otherwise. For McCoy, stepping onto the transporter was almost as bad as stepping into deep water.
But three heartbeats later, his senses returned as promised, and he blinked rapidly, focusing on the shades and contours of a dimly lit, unfamiliar room. His skin crawled with a transporter aftereffect shiver, which Kirk had tried to convince him didn't exist except in his own mind.
"You were saying, Doctor?" Spock questioned politely.
McCoy turned around. The eerie lighting from the emergency lamps overhead cast a most peculiar aspect to the Vulcan's saturnine features, suggesting that Scotty had erred and transported them to Hades instead of the space station. The doctor fought down a strong desire to ask Spock to display his pointed tail and pitchfork—he was afraid Spock might just do it. "What, Spock?" he asked guardedly, his breath condensing in the air. The temperature felt about as cool as a brisk, autumn afternoon, chilly but not unpleasantly cold.
"You were in the process of saying something when Commander Scott initiated the transporter procedure. I merely thought you might wish to complete your statement."
"Yeah, I'll just bet you did." McCoy shook his head and waggled a finger at the Vulcan. "Nice try, Spock, but you can just forget it. You're not going to goad me into making a fool of myself this time."
One eyebrow did a slow rise. "I wasn't aware you required goading, Doctor," the Vulcan remarked calmly.
McCoy wished that just once his angry glare would make somebody, preferably Spock, burst into flames. He turned his back on the first officer. "Spock's in rare form. Did everyone else make the trip in one piece? No extra appendages? Nothing important missing?"
They were all fine and, at Chekov's nod, spread out in a perimeter guard around the senior officers.
Spock flipped open his communicator with a deft flick of the wrist. "Spock to Enterprise."
"Enterprise here." Kirk's strong voice sounded clearly over the tiny speaker, affording a measure of comfort. Clarity meant no undetected or unexpected interference and a clear passage back home, even if it was via the transporter.
"All personnel have arrived safely, Captain, and we are about to initiate exploration."
"Affirmative, Spock. Keep me apprised of your situation. Mr. Scott is locked onto your team's coordinates. If there's any sign of trouble, I want you all back aboard the Enterprise immediately. That's an order. I don't want heroics. Lieutenant Chekov?"
The security chief raised his voice. "Here, sir."
"That goes double for you and your squad."
There was no arguing with that tone of voice, even had Chekov been so inclined. "Aye, sir," he replied.
"That's all then. Good luck. Kirk out."
Spock shut the communicator, snugged it back onto his belt, and stepped forward. He said nothing, but quirked an eyebrow when Markson stepped up beside him. For his part, McCoy was grateful for Hallie's diminutive but staunch presence at his side. He'd seen her work out in the gymnasium and knew what kind of damage she could inflict upon an adversary when she chose to. Hell, he'd repaired her opponents more than once in the short time she'd been aboard the Enterprise. Chekov and Leno covered the rear.
It took them only a moment to realize that Scotty had set them down in the Reltah's own transporter room. It was darker than the one aboard the Enterprise, and it didn't help that only the emergency lights shone, throwing everything into a murky, reddish relief.
Ten elliptical transporter pads covered the deck, which was set flush into the floor. Unlike Scotty's streamlined station, the operator's console was a massive, bulky contraption set behind a transparent protective wall. The room was utterly austere and functional in appearance, with no overt signs of having been recently used.
Leno wrinkled her nose. "It smells funny in here."
"That's no surprise if systems are down to minimal." Chekov inhaled deeply through his nose and shook his head. "I can't place it. Can anyone else?"
Markson and Hallie were equally confused. Even Spock was unable to suggest a possibility. McCoy inhaled deeply, held it a moment to savor the scent, exhaled, and repeated the process. A faint, not-quite-unpleasant odor tickled his nostrils and coated the back of his tongue.
"Peaches?" he wondered aloud. The others stared at him as though he were crazy, but there was no help for it. He nodded. "Yes, that's it. That's exactly what the smell reminds me of. Rotten peaches in my grandfather's orchard."
"What would peaches be doing aboard a Romulan space station?" Hallie queried confusedly.
"Not a damn thing," McCoy agreed. "I don't think there are any, but that's what it smells like."
"Is there something else that would cause that same smell, Doctor?" Chekov asked.
"You've got me, Lieutenant. The only thing I know of that smells like rotten fruit is rotten fruit. Any thoughts, Spock?"
"No, Doctor. Perhaps further investigation will provide a solution." Spock unslung the tricorder from around his shoulders and clicked it on with his thumb. "Scanning produces the same results we garnered aboard the Enterprise—low power, support systems on minimal, and no life signs. Let us proceed." Markson at his side, the Vulcan stepped behind the partition separating the transporter module from the rest of the room. He scanned the console with his penetrating gaze and ran his hands above, but not on, the controls. "It appears this unit has gone into some type of standby mode, probably due to the drop in power. It is impossible to determine when the last transport took place."
"You weren't planning on using it, anyway, were you, Spock?" McCoy asked uneasily. He wasn't relishing another trip by transporter, particularly one of alien make, and in any case, where would they go?
"Hardly, Dr. McCoy. But I was hoping to learn how long ago this station had been unmanned, and the transporter might have been able to provide such information. In addition, I was hoping my inspection would produce computer access." Spock's eyebrows dipped—the closest he ever came to a frown. "Unfortunately, there seems to be no linkup of any kind at this terminal. Most unusual. I find that hard to accept at such an inherently integral portion of the station."
"Integral to us, Spock, but this is the Romulans, remember? Go figure them. Maybe it's their idea of security." McCoy leaned his shoulder against the partition. "Remember what this thing looked like from the outside? I haven't seen anything so plug-ugly in all my life. Maybe the haphazard layout is their idea of security, too."
"Perhaps. In any event, we will not be able to extract any information on the station or its crew from this point. I suggest we proceed in our exploration and find a computer relay access."
McCoy waved a hand. "Ready when you are, Gridley." He stepped aside and let Spock and Markson past, then he and Hallie took up their places in the center of the line, with Leno and Chekov again bringing up the rear.
Fortunately, the low power to systems did not impede their exit from the transporter room. The wide double doors were fully open and afforded them access to the rest of the station.
One hand raised in a cautionary gesture, Markson peered around the doorjamb and looked back and forth. "All clear," he reported and stepped into the corridor, motioning for the others to follow. "Which way, sir?"
The question was directed toward Spock, who stood in the center of the hallway, head pivoting to take in a 180-degree view. There were no marks on the walls to give them any clue as to where they were within the immense station, or to where they might best proceed to get answers to their questions.
"The most common figure found in nature is the spiral," Spock said, "moving from left to right in a sunward, or clockwise, direction. It seems to be a universal, though largely unconscious, truth from race to race. I suggest, then, that we proceed down the left-hand corridor." He started off. Markson had to hurry to catch up and overtake him, whereupon the Vulcan fell in at the security guard's heels, a tall, cranelike figure in the subdued lighting.
McCoy trotted to keep up with the long-legged Vulcan, Hallie padding along at his heels. "You know," he said quietly when he once again walked at the first officer's elbow. "You're making quite a leap of faith in assuming the Romulans have adhered to the same rules that have guided so many cultures. Who's to say they didn't do just the opposite just to be contrary?"
"You make a valid point, Dr. McCoy," Spock concurred, his eyes flicking briefly toward the physician. "Indeed, at this time, I have nothing on which to base my conjectures except my knowledge of the Romulan people from their relation to the Vulcans. However, I must base my theories upon something, even if it is just the observation of other cultures, if we are to proceed at all. Rest assured, I will modify my speculations as soon as I am presented with concrete evidence to the contrary. Until then, I must proceed as best I can."
"Hmmm." McCoy lessened his stride, letting Spock draw ahead, and looked over at Chekov. "Pragmatists irritate the hell out of me," he commented, voice pitched low so as not to reach the Vulcan's supersensitive ears.
The corners of the Russian's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Pragmatists have their place in the world, Dr. McCoy," he replied magnanimously.
"So do body lice, but I wouldn't want to share my office with them."
Hallie bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing, and Leno grinned. "Better pragmatism in a situation like this, sir, than screaming hysteria," Leno said.
"Now, that paints an interesting picture, Ensign," McCoy drawled. "I always thought there was a place in this world for a good, old-fashioned, screaming hysteric." He attempted to look annoyed. "And did I ever tell you that pragmatic security personnel annoy the hell out of me, too?"
Chekov's expression was irritatingly innocent. "You have very good taste in your irritants, Dr. McCoy."
Leno bobbed her head. "Thanks, Chief."
McCoy shot a look at the Russian. "You worry me, Lieutenant," he said gravely.
"How so, sir?"
McCoy made a face, as though a bad taste were taking a crawl up his throat. "You're starting to behave more and more like Spock every day. Come see me in sickbay when we get back to the ship. I think you need a thorough going-over."
"Yes, sir," the security chief agreed seriously, but his eyes shone with humor.
"Lieutenant Chekov! Dr. McCoy!" Spock's voice hailed them from far ahead. "If you would join us, please."
"Coming!" The others hurried ahead, nearly colliding with Spock and Markson where they waited beyond a turn in the corridor.
"What is it, Spock?" McCoy asked.
"Nothing specific, Doctor, beyond my desire that we keep together during the exploration. I do not think it would be to our advantage to split up at this time."
"Well, if you hadn't run off like one of those guides on a 'See Eleven Planets in Three Days' tours, we could have!"
Spock didn't bat an eye at the doctor's habitual rancor. "I am merely trying to facilitate the exploration process, per Captain Kirk's orders."
McCoy couldn't argue with that. Much as he liked to bait the stoic Vulcan, even he knew when it wasn't the correct time and place. "You're absolutely right, Spock, and I apologize if I contributed to detaining us in any way. Lead on."
If he hadn't known Spock better, the doctor could have sworn he saw surprise flash through those unbreachable, dark eyes. He felt a tingle of delight. Could it be that the best way to irritate and annoy the Vulcan was to do the unexpected? That was a theory he would have to test more thoroughly once they were back aboard the Enterprise.
Together, the six companions traversed the empty, featureless corridors. Not a single door broke the blank expanse of wall. Spock's tricorder continued to emit the same readings. There were several cross-corridors, and at each one the company turned to the left. Sometimes this proved to be to their advantage, letting them progress further on. More often than not, though, it would lead to an unexpected dead end and they would have to backtrack to their point of departure and go forward from there. Spock briefly contacted Kirk once more to report nothing new. The signal between the station and the Enterprise continued to be strong and clear.
The landing party progressed along the empty passageways. After yet another dead end in a blank corridor with no doors, McCoy came to the decision that the station was the most oddly put together structure he'd ever been in. Maybe it was just him (and he didn't think so, if the frustrated sighs of his companions were any indication), but the layout seemed singularly inefficient, with no rhyme or reason to many of the corridors. It was as though they branched out because someone thought it would be a good place to put a corridor, without an eye to the overall productivity of the station as a whole, like hive insects on some sort of hallucinogenic drug.
"Mr. Spock!" Chekov's voice hailed them from a little way ahead. He and Leno had split up, he taking point and she riding shotgun at the rear of the group.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Spock called, leading the others forward.
The Russian sounded relieved. "I've found a door!"
"At last!" McCoy enthused. "I was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that we were nothing more than rats in a maze," he said to Hallie.
She rolled her eyes. "I know exactly what you mean, sir."
Chekov stepped to one side when the others arrived, and indicated the partially open entryway with a wave of his hand. "It appears to have been forced."
The door and frame were bent as though with a pry bar or some other such object. The first officer wedged his lean body into the dark, narrow opening before Markson beat him to it. He flicked on his handlamp and flashed it around the interior of the room in precise, rapid movements.
Standing on his toes to peek over Spock's shoulder, McCoy was unable to pick up any clear images at all. "What is it?" he questioned.
In lieu of a reply, Spock placed his hands against the edge of the door and pushed hard. His Vulcan strength, so much greater than that of his human companions, stood him in good stead. The door grated a little further into its wall slot with a sound of protesting metal that set McCoy's teeth on edge. Spock took one step and paused as Markson's arm blocked his way.
"This is my job, sir," he said firmly and with a confidence that earned him extra points in McCoy's book. "The chief's orders. I have to go in first."
If Spock considered arguing the point, he gave no indication. "Correct, Ensign." He moved out of Markson's way.
Moving carefully, the security guard wheeled around the door frame with a modicum of movement and disappeared into the protective shadows against the inner wall. His light flashed about the interior in a pattern understandable only by someone versed in the mysteries of working security. A moment later, his hand emerged and motioned the others inside.
No emergency lights pierced the darkness before the combined illumination of the six handlamps, which lit the interior like day. The small room was obviously an office of some kind. The walls were bare of decoration. Cabinets along one wall were empty when Leno opened one door to peer inside. A harsh-angled desk and a chair that looked almost impossibly uncomfortable to sit in were stationed directly opposite the door. The furniture was in keeping with what little McCoy knew about Romulan psychology. They were fierce and unyielding with themselves when it came to work.
Spock stepped further into the room and flashed his light behind the desk. "Most intriguing …"
McCoy crowded at his shoulder, eager to see, and was aware of Ensign Hallie beside him trying to put herself in a position of defense should whatever Spock had discovered turn out to be less than friendly.
It was far from life-threatening. The desk drawers were flung open, some halfway, some overturned with their contents spilled across the floor. The random collection of effects showed nothing noteworthy. They had evidently been gone through quickly, but by whom and for what purpose? Were these the remnants of thievery or expediency?
Spock's light held steady on something of even greater interest, a computer terminal. "Lieutenant Chekov, please bring the generator." He swung around the desk and settled into the chair. Chekov set the generator on the desk beside the terminal and waited while the Vulcan tried several different ways to access the computer system. "Just as I surmised," Spock finally said. "We shall need to use the generator to boost power in order to enter the system." For the next few moments, he and Chekov conversed quietly, determining how to best set things up. Then they started hooking the generator into the terminal. Finally, Spock turned, once more placed his hands on the computer keyboard, and set to work.
Nothing happened. There was no sound, no run of lights across the computer's face. Nothing. Spock kept working, without results.
"It's dead, isn't it?" Hallie asked dismally.
Spock shook his head. "I don't think 'dead' is the proper phraseology, Ensign. The terminal is receiving low power from the station, but I cannot seem to access the correct programming to allow me to boost the power with the generator. This terminal behaves much as the transporter did, as though a fail-safe of some kind has been thrown."
"Well, that's just wonderful," McCoy groused. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to warm them. "Any recommendations, Spock?"
"We need to find another computer outlet. If we discover that auxiliary computer stations cannot be accessed, our only alternative is to find the bridge and attempt log-on from there. In any event, locating the bridge would no doubt help our investigation of why this station is in Federation space. In all likelihood, much of the information we need will be there."
"Well, it's too bad we couldn't have had Scotty beam us right onto what passes for a bridge around here."
"I endeavored to do just that, Doctor. I theorized that the station's central command area would be located at the centermost juncture of the station, to facilitate access by all personnel. That seemed the most logical locale."
"I agree. It's worked on our space stations. So?"
"Evidently, that was not the case, since Mr. Scott beamed us into the transporter room."
"I wonder where the bridge is, then?" Chekov shook his head. He looked around the room. "You know, Mr. Spock, I've been thinking about something Doctor McCoy said earlier. Maybe the weird layout of this place does have something to do with security measures. Perhaps it's a way to lead unfriendlies astray and shut off specific areas. Not knowing what the Romulans planned to do with this thing, it might have been to their advantage to be able to isolate specific areas of the station at will. Like the bridge, maybe?" He turned in a circle. "For all we know, the bridge is stuck out on the end of one of the arms, just so no one can find it."
"Or so it breaks away if there's fighting," Hallie added.
"An interesting theory, Ensign," Spock concurred. "But until we are able to access a computer terminal and find a map or schematic for this station, we cannot turn in any direction with specific surety." He disengaged the generator, packed it back into its sling, and stepped into the corridor with the others behind him.
A vague uneasiness crawled around McCoy's insides, and he gestured back toward the vacant office. "Shouldn't we close the door again?"
"What for?" Hallie asked, genuinely confused.
The doctor shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I feel like I'm leaving the door open on a tomb." He knew by her expression that it was no explanation at all. She had no clue to what he was getting at.
"It can hardly be called a tomb when the body, if there was one, is no longer here," Spock pointed out.
"Tell that to the Egyptians," McCoy said edgily. "Look, forget I said anything. Let's just get this show on the road. I want to get back to the ship." They fell into formation again and continued down the corridor. Around them, the station remained silent and devoid of life.
As time passed, they began finding more and more rooms, all of them offices of a spare, utilitarian nature. Spock made two more attempts at accessing a computer, without success. Both rooms appeared locked into the standby mode he had discovered in the transporter room, and he came to the conclusion that auxiliary systems were, indeed, inaccessible, and that their best chance of getting into the system was from the bridge. If they could find it.
Each of the offices showed signs of having once been occupied. A black jacket hung over the back of one chair. In another, computer discs lay scattered in a random spray across the floor. In a third, a small meal sat untouched and molding on the edge of the desk.
McCoy ran a sensor over the food. "This is several weeks old."
Hallie nudged Markson sharply in the ribs. "Just like the Mary Celeste, huh, Dan?" she said with a wicked grin.
He wasn't happy with the comparison. "That's not funny, Suze."
"That's enough, Ensign Hallie," the doctor ordered. "We don't need bogey-men on our minds. Thanks all the same."
She had the good grace to look abashed. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Mr. Spock!" Chekov's voice was strident, and it was only then that McCoy realized he and Leno had moved out of the room and down the corridor. "Dr. McCoy!"
Several yards farther on, before a half-seen corridor juncture made murky by shadows, Chekov and Leno knelt on the floor. Between them, lit by Chekov's handlamp, was a spill of oddments—a cloak, some type of hand tools, a blanket, and several trinkets that had no meaning to the visitors from the Enterprise.
"What's all this?" McCoy bent to look more closely.
Spock stooped and sorted gently through the detritus of someone's passage. "Merely more fuel to the mystery, Doctor. Let us proceed."
"Wait!" Leno held up her hand and inhaled. "What's that smell?"
Hallie made a face. "Ugh! That doesn't smell like rotten peaches."
"I don't know—" Chekov turned, still on his heels. The beam of his handlamp played haphazardly across the corridor, illuminating the floor and walls in an abrupt spray of light. Unexpected movement caught their eyes as something startled in the sudden brightness and flashed out of sight around the distant corridor juncture.
Like a hound upon the scent, Chekov was on his feet, phaser at the ready, and led the rush down the long corridor and around the corner.
The smell hit them hard here, rancid and randy. Chekov plowed to a stop so abruptly that the others almost careened into him. He played his light over the floor.
A figure sprawled halfway down the hall, slender limbs akimbo, its head cocked oddly against the juncture of wall and floor. Hallie held a hand over her nose and made a sick noise. "I thought there were no life signs aboard," she whispered.
"There are no signs, if no one's alive," McCoy said grimly. He slowly approached the decomposing body and knelt on one knee, staring down at the scanner he'd slipped into his hand. "Romulan female. Young." He'd smelled worse. Just keep telling yourself that, Leonard. He ran the unit in a slow sweeping motion over the corpse's entire length, interpreting the sounds emitted by the equipment. When he was done, he stood, returned the scanner to the medipouch, and turned, wondering if he looked as gray as he felt. "She's been dead several weeks, Spock."
"Cause of death?" the first officer inquired.
McCoy reached out with one boot and gently toggled the corpse's head back and forth. "Spinal fracture and concussion. What they call a hangman's fracture."
"What do you think happened, Dr. McCoy?" Leno asked quietly. In this lighting, her eyes appeared almost black. "Did someone murder her?"
He shrugged. "Let's not jump to any conclusions, Ensign. I don't know what happened here. She could have just fal—"
"Wait a minute," Markson interrupted, staring down at the corpse with an odd expression in his eyes. "If she's been dead several weeks, what did we just see moving?"
"Good point," Chekov agreed with his team member, voice low. As though commandeered by a single thought, every handlamp in the group flicked on and played around the corridor. The hallway ran arrow-straight for several meters, apparently unbroken by door or hallway juncture. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, nowhere anyone could have escaped to where they wouldn't be seen.
"There was something there," Leno stated firmly. "I saw it. I don't know what it was, but I know it was there." She turned toward Chekov, her eyes almost pleading. "You saw it, too, Chief, didn't you?"
The Russian's dark brows furrowed over his eyes. "I saw something, Ensign," he acknowledged. "But I don't—"
"I believe I know what you saw, Lieutenant. Please extinguish your lights, everyone." When they did as he asked, Spock waved the single beam of his handlamp around the corridor. The walls caught a sheen of light, a strip of metal meant for decoration or direction, and flashed it in their eyes as the light traced its length and disappeared into the darker reaches of the corridor.
Leno sighed with disgust. "I guess your eyes can really play tricks on you." Chekov nodded but didn't look so convinced.
"Yes, they can, Ensign, especially when you're keyed up," McCoy said soothingly. "This place is eerie enough in its own right without this." He gestured at the dead Romulan.
"Are you sure there wasn't anything there, Doctor?" Markson asked hollowly. "Light or no light, something killed this Romulan."
"Now, Ensign, we don't know—"
Before McCoy could say anything more, the emergency lights and Spock's handlamp went dead without a warning flicker and plunged them into total darkness.