Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [92]
Back in the center of the courtyard, in the shadow of the gallows, some semblance of order had been restored. The unificationists were being herded into a tightly massed group by the remaining guards.
There was no sign of either Eragian or his men. Either they had been cut down or they’d found the means to escape. Judging from the pitch of Tharrus’s voice, the Vulcan guessed it was the latter.
“Save yourself,” urged his student.
“That is no longer an option,” the Vulcan advised him, glancing at the approaching guard. The man seemed uncertain about what to do with them.
“Then we will … we will both die,” Skrasis grunted.
“I believe you are correct,” Spock observed.
CHAPTER 23
“Get up,” the guard said.
Spock, who was still cradling his injured student, lifted his chin in passive defiance. “I cannot,” he responded. “This one is hurt. He needs help.”
The guard had obviously been pushed to the limits of his tolerance by the escape attempt. He extended his weapon until its barrel was pointed right at the Vulcan’s face.
“I told you to get up,” he said, “and get up you will— or 1 will burn down the two of you right there on the ground.”
Spock had no doubt of it. But then, he didn’t expect to live very long as it was. More than likely, he would perish with the rest of the prisoners.
The Vulcan clenched his teeth. It had all been for nothing. But at least he would provide an example for his followers as he died.
The guard must have realized what he had in mind, because his mouth twisted with anger. “I warned you…” he snapped.
Spock braced himself for the shrieking agony of the weapon’s disruptor energies. He could almost feel them thrilling through his body, tearing apart cell after cell, reducing him to primal elements.
But it never happened.
Because suddenly the Romulan guard had disappeared. And that wasn’t all. The entire courtyard was gone, replaced by what looked like the transporter room of a Federation starship—and an outdated one at that.
Certainly that was enough of a shock. But when Spock saw who was operating the transporter, he stared in openmouthed amazement, scarcely able to believe his eyes.
And yet, the man behind the transporter console was no figment of the Vulcan’s imagination. He was substantial. He was solid.
He was real.
“Mister Scott,” said Spock, struggling to maintain control of his human emotions. “The last I had heard, you were lost in space.” He tilted his head as he tried to make sense of the situation. “But that was seventy-five years ago.”
“Aye, sir,” said Scotty, not one iota less animated than the Vulcan remembered. “Ye’ve got that right. Unfortunately, there’s nae time for an explanation now. I’ve a few more passengers to take aboard—though that was nae exactly our original intention. And without that broadcast t’work with, I’ve got to rely on existing transporter locks.”
Spock was still puzzled, but not to the point that he didn’t understand what the engineer was talking about. Stepping down from the transporter platform, he gestured for the others to follow. They complied, though it was clear they were uncertain of their surroundings.
“You are safe,” Spock told them. “At least, for the moment. This is a Federation vessel.”
That seemed to calm them. The Vulcan’s ability to mask his own disorientation was a help in that regard. A big help.
Seventy-five years, he mused. If anyone could survive that amount of time unchanged, it would be Montgomery Scott. But Spock burned to know how he had done it. What seeming miracle had he pulled out of his bag of tricks this time?
He watched his old comrade work the control panel with the consummate mastery of a Vulcan sand-sculptor. Moments later, the ambassador noticed the shimmer in the air that always preceded the materialization stage of the process.
Sure enough, a moment later, a second wave of prisoners took form. And Skrasis was among them, stretched out on the transporter platform, a bloody splotch in the vicinity of his ribcage bearing testimony to the damage he’d sustained.
Returning to the platform, Spock