Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [44]
At the time, there had been audible gasps of surprise from everyone in the class, including Scott himself.
“But, sir,” a cadet had asked, “what if that costs lives?”
The instructor had answered without thinking. “There is nothing you can do about that. If you’ve been captured by someone like the Klingons, you no longer have any control over the situation. No matter how tough you are—or think you are—you will eventually tell them what they want to know.
“If you do it without subjecting yourself to debilitating or even lethal torture,” the man had said, “then you will be preserving a valuable Starfleet asset: yourself. If you remain alive, then there is the possibility of escape or a negotiated release. But if you allow yourself to be killed protecting secrets you are going to give up anyway, you will not have done Starfleet, or yourself, any favors.”
A shocked silence had descended over the room as the students absorbed the professor’s surprising—but coldly logical—advice.
After a long moment, Scotty’s own hand had gone up. “But, sir,” he’d asked plainly, “how would we live with ourselves afterward?”
For the first and only time since Scotty had known him, the old man had been speechless.
Right now, the memory offered the engineer no comfort. He had no illusions about his own ability to withstand the calculated precision of a full-bore Romulan interrogation.
Not as Montgomery Scott, anyway. Not as the clear-thinking, often ingenious officer who’d come within a hair of making it to Constanthus.
No, if he was going to be of any use to his friend Spock, he was going to have to present a different persona to his interrogator. After all, the act had worked on the Romulan warbird commander. Why not trot it out again?
Hell, it was just about the only card he had left.
***
Spock knew that the time was very near. Of course he had not been a part of the escape plans, nor had he spoken about them with Belan since the Constantharine excused himself from his studies.
However, he had overheard enough of the discussions to know the basic scheme—another product of the hybrid’s improved hearing. It would take place during the afternoon mealtime, when the soldiers delivered food to the unificationists through the only entrance into the compound.
The Vulcan himself had seen the soldiers’ vulnerability during these intervals. Undoubtedly, they had come to view the unificationists as pacifists, and they had become more and more lax in their attention to the minutiae of security. Though not covered in the teachings of Surak, Speck’s Starfleet training required him to make such observations.
At the moment, there were two groups of prisoners, one on each side of the entrance. Each group was assembled as if it were engaged in academic dialogue on the principles of logic—something it had done day after day, in the same place at the same time.
As a result, doing it now would arouse no suspicions. It was a precaution that was both logical and practical.
In fact, the Teacher was impressed with the entire plan. It was an admirable effort. Unfortunately, it also seemed doomed to failure.
Clearly, the first phase would have a good chance of success. Spock had no doubt that his former students would be able to overpower the guards who entered the compound and make it into the command center of the detention complex.
After that the prospects were much less certain. The prisoners would be entering a highly fortified facility that was no doubt full of soldiers and security systems.
The chances of getting out of the complex were virtually nonexistent. But then, those involved in the escape attempt already knew that.
“Teacher,” came a voice from beside him.
He turned and faced D’tan. Looking down at his charge, one of eleven in a semicircle before him, Spock realized that he had for a few moments allowed his mind to wander during a lesson. It was something he