Star Trek: The Original Series: The More Things Change (3 page)

He lowered his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. As we have long established that we are, as the saying goes,
just friends
, I thought the demarcations of the relationship were more . . . precise. Could you elaborate?”

Only Spock could make this sound scientific.
“Yes, we’re just friends, but we’ve shared experiences far more intimate than the average friendship. I bared my heart to you while infected with the Psi 2000 virus, and I’ve never regretted it.” The crew had been exposed to polywater, which broke down inhibitions, letting Chapel tell Spock her true feelings, something she never would have done otherwise. “And then there was what happened with Henoch. We never talked about sharing minds. Maybe it was too much for either of us.”

Spock went back to looking at his console, clearly embarrassed by the memory.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it now. I only bring it up to show you that we don’t have a black-and-white friendship. We’ve gone into a gray area, and, given everything else you’ve been through, I’m not surprised if you have some confused feelings about me. You need to take your own advice: Worrying is always unnecessary. We’ll always be friends.”

Spock looked back up. “Thank you, Christine. That was—”

He was interrupted by a chime. Glancing at his console, he frowned. “This is disconcerting. I have confirmed that our communications are being jammed artificially.”

Just as Spock finished the sentence, weapons fire rocked the shuttlecraft.

Chapter 3

Chapel went airborne. As she landed, the inertial dampers caught up with the sharp jolt delivered to the
Copernicus
. She found herself on the deck with her back against the port-side hatch behind the pilot’s seat. She got up quickly as the shuttlecraft stabilized, the deck again feeling more like the floor than a wall. Alarms blared, and there was a faint smell of smoke and burning circuits in the air. She needed to check on Dax, but if the shuttle didn’t survive the next few minutes, that would be moot. Starfleet doctors faced choices a civilian doctor never had to worry about.

Spock had kept his seat, his hands now a flurry of tapping across his panel. “We have dropped from warp. Shields down.”

Chapel hurried into the copilot’s seat. Through the forward port she caught a glimpse of movement, a dark ship larger than the
Copernicus
arcing away from them. “What can I do?”

“Monitor for overloads on secondary systems while I reroute power.”

She brought up a power display on the second attempt, glad she hadn’t had to ask Spock for help. Her knowledge of operations had faded during her years as a nurse, and being in the dark about what was going on during ship emergencies was a powerful incentive to take refresher courses. Even as she studied for her medical degree, Chapel had brushed up on all the new hardware. She didn’t want to feel lost on her own ship after the refit.

“Sensors and communications damaged.” Spock called out updates as he worked. “Engines off-line but powering back up.”

Only once in the next minute did an indicator go red-line, and Chapel was able to manage the situation on her own while Spock kept at the primary systems. Thirty seconds later, with a glance and a nod, Spock indicated she could go aft.

Chapel hurried. Dax had been alone for two minutes since the attack. At first the door to the cabin didn’t open, and she nearly collided with it. With a sinking feeling she checked cabin pressure and was relieved to see a nominal reading. She tapped in an override code and the door slid open. Rushing through, she found Dax on the deck, tangled in the bedclothes, pale and trembling.

“Commissioner, what’s wrong?” Chapel kneeled beside Dax and grabbed one of her hands, which now felt warmer than a human’s.

Dax mumbled an unintelligible response without opening her eyes. Chapel doubted the Trill knew she was talking out loud. After a moment of silence—Spock had finally shut off the alarms—Dax spoke again, and this time Chapel thought it was in a Trill language. Then, very clearly, she said, “No, no.”

Chapel thought about getting a universal translator in case Dax continued speaking in Trill, but she didn’t want to leave her patient. She sat all the way down, trying to find a more stable position. The artificial gravity had been knocked out of sync, and the deck still felt like it was at an angle. “Audrid, listen. You’ve got to tell me what to do. I can’t just sit here.”

Spock’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“The hostile ship is coming about and deploying a universal docking ring.”
Chapel gritted her teeth. If they were forcibly boarded, would she be allowed to do anything for Dax?

Dax’s eyes finally opened, and she clutched at her abdomen. “Is that a rescue ship?”

Chapel shook her head at Dax’s confusion. “No. We were just attacked minutes ago. You fell out of bed, which must have aggravated your condition.” Dax looked like she was going to ask something, but Chapel kept on talking. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, so, please, tell me what I can do right now.”

“You can’t do anything.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m a damn good doctor.”

Dax managed a faint smile. “I’m sure you are. But . . . let’s just say I don’t think we’re at the last resort yet.”

Chapel sighed. “You’re quite the optimist.” The seriousness of the situation didn’t seem to have really gotten through to Dax. “Well, let’s get you back in bed at least. If we have company, I don’t want them to find me with my patient on the floor.”

Dax struggled to her feet with Chapel’s help and climbed back into bed, still clutching her abdomen with one hand. Just as Chapel got her tucked in, Spock announced,
“Hold on.”

Chapel felt her stomach flutter as the artificial gravity cut out.
I could have used a little more warning
, she thought, knowing it was unfair to Spock, who was now trying to do the work of at least two people by himself. She hurried to strap Dax into the bed, adjusting the restraints so they didn’t lay across her patient’s tender abdomen. Chapel lost her footing from the inertia of her hurried movements. She leaned into the bed and then rebounded from it, her feet leaving the floor. Trying to grab something to stabilize herself only sent her spinning. The lights flickered and went out as her head bumped against something—the overhead, maybe. She was completely disoriented. The emergency lighting finally kicked in, and Chapel realized her head was near Dax’s feet, her own feet pointing at the open jump seat on the port bulkhead. She was looking straight up at the overhead. Chapel couldn’t picture how she had gotten into that position, but she pushed her confusion aside and tried to remember her zero-g training. Making slow, careful movements, Chapel got control of her momentum, grabbed an overhead handrail, and propelled herself across the cabin to the door, which, thankfully, slid open without hesitation.

The air had cleared in the cockpit. Spock danced his fingers across the controls, and as Chapel hovered closer, she could see that he had finished rerouting systems to make up for damage.

“Strap in and brace yourself.” His voice was sharp, almost harsh. She was still getting settled in the copilot’s seat when he said, “Going to warp . . . now.”

She clipped the restraints together just as the
Copernicus
lunged forward, the warp transition rough, like a bumpy ride in a surface vehicle. She lurched to one side, the edge of the seat digging into her ribs.
There’s another bruise
, she thought. After a few seconds of rough and tumble, things settled down, but it didn’t take Scott’s senses to know that something was off with the warp drive.

Chapel sat up straight and rubbed her sore rib cage. “What the hell was that?”

Spock continued adjusting the warp field on the fly while he briefed her. “I powered down key systems to give our attacker the impression they had damaged us more seriously than they had. They proceeded with their apparent plan to board us. When they came alongside, I engaged warp engines while they were just within our forming warp field. They received the worst of the resulting gravimetric displacement, although it did affect us as well. I was able to compensate, but unfortunately I do not know how long my patchwork rerouting will keep our engines on-line. If you could assist me again?”

Chapel turned toward her panel, where the power levels of various systems were still displayed. Over the next few minutes she called out readings to Spock as he continued rerouting subsystems and programming new subroutines to keep primary systems in sync despite the hodgepodge nature of his field repairs. Chapel could barely follow much of the work, but overall she understood the concept. Rerouting around damage seemed simple enough, but with so many systems that needed to be highly integrated in order to work effectively—artificial gravity and inertial dampers being the most significant example—the process could be exceedingly intricate, often requiring computer assistance to manage properly.

Finally Spock brought the artificial gravity back on-line and switched from emergency to normal lighting. He leaned back in his seat and let his hands drop into his lap. He sighed deeply. If she hadn’t still been strapped in, Chapel felt like she might have fallen out of her chair. It had been a long time since she’d seen such a—for lack of a better description—human reaction from him. She was about to say something when he spun to face her, and the look of anger on his face made her pull back in her seat and keep silent.

“I will
not
”—and he slammed his hand on the armrest—“lose you, the commissioner, or this shuttle.”

As quickly as this rage had surged to the surface it was gone, and he slumped down, his expression worn and tired. Chapel realized he was thinking of the loss of the shuttlecraft
Galileo
on a mission seven years ago—and the death of two crew members under his command.

“Spock?” Chapel watched him closely. “You did everything you could back then, just as I know you’ll do now.”

“Everything was not enough.”

“Sometimes it’s not. But in the end you brought home more than you lost. That’s cold arithmetic, I know, but it is . . . logical.”

“Yes.” He straightened up. “There are still times logic can be a source of comfort.” Spock glanced her way. “I must apologize for my outburst. It was unbecoming.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” She undid her restraints. “I know you’ll do whatever it takes to get us out of this situation, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you? You know I’m not just talking about this mission, right? I mean I’ll help you in this transition you’re going through. After we get back to the
Enterprise
, any time you need to talk, you call me. That’s not a doctor’s order, that’s a friend’s request.”

He rewarded her with a soft smile. “I understand.”

“You better. Now . . .” Chapel peered through the forward port. “Who attacked us? And why?”

“Unknown. Sensors remain off-line, but as the ship maneuvered around us I was able to see it clearly. It was a nondescript civilian vessel approximately twice our size, with many illegal weapons upgrades. I have no way of knowing their motives for the attack.” He paused thoughtfully. “They could have easily destroyed us but instead tried to dock. Clearly they wanted to take us alive.”

“Or capture the ship intact.” Chapel frowned at her own grim insight.

“True. Whatever their reasons, I can only hope that sentiment remains after my defensive measures.”

“But we left them behind. You kicked their ass with your warp-field trick.”

“Any so-called ass kicking would have been minimal. We must assume that they will quickly effect any necessary repairs and pursue us. Our warp trail will be easy to track. Given the vessel’s size, they will be able to maintain a higher warp factor. They will overtake us before we reach the rendezvous point.”

“That was not comforting.”

“No.” Spock turned back to his controls to monitor the systems and made some minute adjustments. “We are back on course for the rendezvous, for now. I was able to get the navigational sensor subsystems operative, fortunately. But we will eventually need to take further evasive measures to elude our attackers.”

“That could be a problem. Commissioner Dax’s symptoms are worsening. I don’t know if we can safely delay the rendezvous.”

Spock nodded. “Nevertheless, I cannot realistically guarantee that we can safely make it to the rendezvous as scheduled.”

They sat quietly together for a few minutes, contemplating the no-win scenario that seemed to be developing. Finally Spock broke the silence. “I will take all these variables into account as I develop strategic options. But . . .” He hesitated. Chapel waited, but before Spock could finish his thought, Dax called out.

Chapel was out of the copilot’s seat and headed aft without any further thought about Spock’s unfinished sentence. In the seconds it took her to get to Dax’s bedside, her patient had lost consciousness.

“Dammit.” Chapel felt for a pulse at Dax’s neck, her fingers looking pale compared to the Trill’s spots. Dax’s pulse was faint but steady, her breathing even if a bit shallow. There seemed to be no reason for Dax to have lost consciousness, but, of course, Chapel knew nothing about what was causing the symptoms in the first place. For all she knew, this loss of consciousness could be unrelated to whatever was causing Dax’s abdominal pain. Chapel suddenly felt her stomach lurch as she thought,
I’m an idiot—she could have just hit her head during the attack
.
Are Trill at higher risk for hematomas than humans?
Chapel had no way of knowing.

Although she tried to feel better by telling herself that Dax would have surely told her about such an injury, Chapel examined the woman’s head closely and carefully. She turned Dax’s head left and right, then gently lifted it from the pillow as she ran her hands through the Trill’s long black hair. She found no external signs of injury, no blood in the hair, no swelling. She opened Dax’s eyelids. Her pupils were equal and responsive. Chapel took one of Dax’s hands in her own, felt a palm that was almost back to its usual coolness. Checking the pulse at Dax’s wrist, Chapel was relieved to find it had gotten a little stronger. She arranged her patient’s arms comfortably and tucked the covers back into place.

Chapel paced back and forth in the small cabin. Her patient seemed stable for now, but overall Dax’s condition had been worsening since leaving the
Enterprise
. Now that the commissioner was unconscious—and the shuttle had barely escaped from their mysterious attackers—Chapel decided that “the last resort” Dax had spoken of had arrived. She had to break the rules.

She didn’t activate the bed’s built-in diagnostic scanners but opted for a more narrowly focused handheld scanner, which she networked with the bed’s monitor.
I’ll just eliminate the possibility of head injury. That seems least intrusive. For now.

The doctor expected to simply confirm no signs of hematoma, but as soon as she ran the scanner over Dax’s forehead, odd readings popped up on the monitor. It was almost like the Trill’s brainwaves had echoes.
Maybe a malfunction in the scanner, something out of sync?

Setting the handheld scanner aside, Chapel grabbed a medical tricorder and ran the scan again. The higher resolution of the tricorder made it clear the secondary brainwaves weren’t echoes; they didn’t always mimic the primary waves but sometimes went off on their own. That triggered a memory, and Chapel realized that the overlapping brainwave patterns resembled scans taken of a Vulcan and another person during a mind-meld.