Star Trek: That Which Divides (37 page)

Rather than feeling disheartened about his appearance and the prospect of the time needed to clean himself once his work was done, Mylas instead relished the evidence of his hard work. Though he had tried to instill this attitude into the impressionable minds of the apprentices Fleet Command and Commander Vathrael saw fit to assign to his mentorship, he had come to realize as he grew older that such effort, more often than not, was a waste of time for all involved.

Is it the young officers who are so inflexible, or perhaps someone else?
Not for the first time, Mylas considered that notion, and came away thinking that it had to possess at least an element of truth. He knew that his days serving as the engineer even of a small ship such as the
Nevathu
were coming to a close. Fleet Command could not afford the luxury of allowing senior officers with little or no prospects of advancement to linger within the ranks, not when so many promising young candidates were entering the service. His superiors had been tolerant of Vathrael’s insistence that he serve under her command, but he suspected that their patience would be at an end once Vathrael made her report about the failure of the mission here. Vathrael herself would almost without question be sanctioned in some manner, and Mylas knew that Fleet Command would use this incident as an excuse to send him to retirement. If he was fortunate, he might be granted an instructor’s position at the military academy’s engineering school. Barring that, there were numerous
learning institutions on Romulus that would welcome his skills and experience.

You concern yourself with matters which have no immediate importance
, he reminded himself.
Better to concentrate on the problems at hand
.

Moving out of the way so as to allow Daprel to restore the section of deck plating to its proper place, Mylas had set to the task of returning various tools to his kit when he heard heavy footfalls coming in his direction from the engineering section’s forward area. There were, at present, only four people aboard the
Nevathu
, and he did not have to look up to know that the heavy, measured footfalls belonged to Centurion Terius. It was not until Mylas had placed his laser seal in the kit’s proper storage slot that he looked up to see the weapons officer standing at the corridor junction. Mylas could not help noting that Terius was wearing a disruptor pistol on his hip.

“What is it?” Mylas asked as he closed his tool kit and retrieved his hand towel.

The centurion said, “Our sensors are detecting the approach of an unidentified craft. It does not appear to be moving on a direct course toward us, but that does not alleviate my concerns.”

Daprel, his eyes wide, asked, “One of the Starfleet transports?”

“No,” Terius replied, shaking his head. “It’s too large, and its construction too primitive. Most likely, it’s a craft belonging to the indigenous population.”

“That seems unusual,” Mylas said, continuing to clean his hands. “From what Commander Vathrael told us earlier, their primary settlement is some distance from here. Is the vessel armed?”

“I don’t believe so,” the weapons officer answered. “Even if it is, nothing these people might bring to bear has any chance against our shields or even our hull plating.”

Mylas eyed the centurion. “You do realize that the defensive shields and the cloaking field are off line at the moment, yes?” He had been forced to deactivate both systems in order to effect repairs to the power conduits running beneath the engineering deck. “Without them, we might still be vulnerable to some form of projectile weapon or explosive.” That the efforts he and his Daprel had expended and the systems they had labored to repair might be at risk of further damage from some primitive attack by the natives of this tiny planet was not a comforting thought, to say the least.

“Why would they even be in this area?” Daprel asked. “We were told the inhabitants were conducting mining operations on the other side of the planet.”

Terius said, “The obvious conclusion is that they are searching for us.” Looking to Mylas, he asked, “Is it possible they were able to detect our descent from orbit, even while we were under cloak?”

“Possible?” Mylas considered the question. “Given our condition at the time, the ship may have been emitting some energy reading our cloaking field was unable to conceal. I won’t know unless I conduct another review of our systems.”

Waving away the suggestion, Terius replied, “There’s no time for that. The ship is here, now. That is our primary concern.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” Mylas asked. “The commander’s orders are that we maintain stealth. We’re not certain these primitives can even locate us.”

Daprel added, “And even if they can, we still outmatch them so far as weaponry is concerned.”

“The ship’s weapons only matter if we’re in flight,” Terius snapped, glowering at the junior engineer with disdain. “Sitting here on the ground like a wounded animal? They’re useless. We need to get the cloaking field back into operation.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a series of three tones sounding from the intercom system. Terius looked up as the pings were followed by a click and a short burst of static before the voice of Ciluri, the lone centurion on duty on the Nevathu’s bridge, called out, “
Terius, the Dolysian ship is changing course! It is now heading directly toward u
s!”

Muttering what Mylas recognized as a very old and even anachronistic Reman profanity, Terius smacked the nearby bulkhead with the flat of his hand. “It seems the ‘primitives’ can track us, after all.” He pointed to Mylas and Daprel. “Arm yourselves, and move to the landing ramp.”

“You’re suggesting we attempt to repel them with hand weapons?” Mylas asked.

“I’m not
suggesting
anything,” Terius answered. “We will defend this ship, no matter the cost.”

With the weapons officer shouting like one of his old military academy instructors to move ever faster, Mylas and Daprel each retrieved their personal weapons from a locker near the engineering deck’s forward compartment. As they neared the still-open hatch leading to the landing ramp, Mylas saw that Terius and Ciluri were already there, both of them brandishing disruptor rifles, which of course were much more powerful than the standard-issue sidearms they all carried. They, along with Mylas and Daprel, comprised the entire crew left aboard the
Nevathu
, with Commander
Vathrael and Subcommander Sirad off the ship and both having taken sizable scouting parties with them.

“I don’t understand,” Mylas said as he followed Terius down the ramp. “Our cloaking field has only been deactivated for a short while. They could not possibly have tracked our location—not this quickly.”

Terius did not look back at him as he replied, “Maybe they’re benefiting from outside aid.”

“The humans?” Mylas shook his head. “That is not their nature.”

“We can argue this later,” the centurion barked, reaching for his disruptor as he approached the edge of the ramp.

Stepping down onto the ground, Mylas offered a nod of encouragement to Daprel and Ciluri, both of whom were allowing their fear and inexperience to affect their composure.

“Look,” Ciluri said, pointing toward the horizon. “There.”

A small black shape had come over the mountains in the distance, and was now growing larger with each passing moment. To Mylas’s practiced eye the craft was an ungainly creation, with straight lines and bulky components attached seemingly at random to the transport’s wide, boxlike primary hull.

“Scan them again,” Terius said.

In response to his order, Ciluri activated the portable scanner he had carried slung over one shoulder and aimed it in the direction of the approaching ship. “I’m detecting two life signs which aren’t familiar to me. They must be Dolysian.”

“What is that?” Mylas asked, pointing to one of the scanner’s indicators. “A power reading?”

“Yes,” the centurion replied. “Their engines are putting
out far more energy than should be needed for propulsion.” Shaking his head, he added, “I am at a loss to explain it, sir.”

Looking away from the scanner, Mylas watched as the Dolysian transport slowed its approach, shedding altitude as it began to pivot on its axis.

“Come with me, Ciluri,” Terius said, bringing his disruptor rifle up and stepping away from the
Nevathu
’s landing ramp. Ahead of them, the Dolysian craft had completed its turn. Doors on its underside parted and a quartet of landing gear lowered into position. At the same time, a hatch on its aft end started lowering. A cloud of dust and dirt was thrown into the air as the ship made its final descent. When it made contact with the ground, its landing gear flexed as the craft’s weight settled and the aft hatch continued lowering.

Mylas was the first to see the barrel of the massive weapon. “Wait!” he shouted, but by then it was too late.

A brilliant blue beam of energy erupted from the cannon or whatever it was, accompanied by a piercing shriek as it chewed into the ground in front of Terius and Ciluri. No sooner had the first barrage concluded than a second followed, ripping another gouge into the soil. Mylas felt Daprel’s hand gripping his arm before the junior engineer, his disruptor drawn, began backpedaling and pulling Mylas with him toward the ramp.

“Return fire!” Terius shouted, dropping to one knee and taking aim at the craft. A third salvo spat forth from the weapon inside the ship, sending the centurion diving to the ground for cover. Ciluri mimicked his movements, throwing himself toward a slight depression and whatever meager protection it might offer.

How is this possible?
The question screamed in Mylas’s
mind as Daprel continued dragging him up the ramp. Where had the Dolysians obtained such weaponry? Though it was not as advanced as Starfleet phasers, the technology had to be related, of that Mylas was certain.

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw multiple figures, each wearing black trousers and either gold, red, or blue tunics that could only be Starfleet uniforms.

“Now!”

The instant the rear loading hatch cleared the laser drill’s muzzle, Kyle gave the order, Christine Rideout hit the firing control, and the weapon responded by belching forth its powerful beam. Thanks to the chief engineer’s inspired tinkering, the drill had been converted from a simple tool back to something resembling its original purpose. Though not as powerful as it once had been, it was still enough, judging by the way the laser beam shredded the ground in front of the Romulan ship and sent two armed centurions lunging for cover.

“Let’s go!” Kyle shouted, jumping with phaser in hand from the open hatch to the ground. No sooner had his boots touched the soil than he was running forward, weapon arm extended and sighting down on the two Romulans who were scrambling to bring their own disruptors to bear. To either side of him, Bill Hadley and Donovan Washburn fanned out so as to approach the Romulans from different angles. Other members of the salvage team were following him, also spreading out and forming a skirmish line as the team advanced on the enemy scout ship.

Light reflected off something near the vessel’s landing ramp and Kyle saw the two Romulans, one much older than the other, making their way back into the ship. The younger
of the two soldiers was holding a weapon, and Kyle wasted no time aiming his phaser and firing at the potential threat. The single beam lanced across the open space separating him from the Romulans, striking the centurion in the chest and causing him to collapse onto the ramp. Beside him, the older Romulan moved to help his companion rather than brandish his own weapon, leaving Kyle to see to the more viable threats.

One of the centurions on the ground was fast—damned fast. He was on his feet and pulling his large, ugly disruptor rifle to his shoulder when Hadley, cradling his phaser in both hands, fired. The beam hit the soldier in the shoulder and he sagged, the stun effect already washing over him as he fell backward to the ground.

“Stop right there!”

Washburn was yelling at the remaining Romulan, who also had recovered his rifle and was bringing it to bear, but the lieutenant fired his phaser first. The centurion dropped to his knees, his rifle falling from his hands before he pitched face-first to the dirt.

“That should be all of them,” Hadley barked as he moved to verify that the two fallen Romulans were unconscious. At the same time, Washburn retrieved their weapons as Kyle, flanked by other members of his landing party, ran toward the landing ramp leading up into the Romulan scout ship. The older Romulan was still there, kneeling next to his companion. When he saw Kyle approaching him, he held out his hands to show they were empty before pointing to the other fallen centurion.

“He’s injured,” the Romulan said. “His head struck the railing when he fell.”

Wary of deception, Kyle kept his phaser trained on the
Romulan as he stepped closer for a better look. Seeing the thin line of green blood streaming from the open gash on the side of the fallen soldier’s head, he asked, “Do you have some kind of emergency medical kit nearby?”

The Romulan nodded. “At the top of the ramp.”

Motioning toward Hadley, Kyle said, “This officer will accompany you to retrieve it.” As they moved up the ramp, he turned and saw that Washburn, Rideout, and the others had completed the process of securing the other two Romulans. A tricorder in her hand, Rideout was using it to scan in the direction of the scout ship.

“I think I’ve found whatever they’re using to jam communications,” Rideout said. “It shouldn’t take much to disable it.”

Kyle held up his free hand. “Not so fast.” Indicating the older Romulan who was being escorted by Hadley back down the ramp, he asked, “We’re sure that’s all of them?”

“Four life signs total,” Rideout said. “That’s still checking out.”

“We’ll sweep the ship, anyway, just to be sure,” Kyle said. “Washburn, get a boarding party organized for that.” As the lieutenant and Rideout set about preparing to enter the scout ship, he turned his attention to the Romulan as he set to work treating his unconscious companion. “Will he be all right?”