Star Trek_ A Choice of Catastrophes - Michael Schuster [114]
Gathering every ounce of strength, McCoy sat up and waited a bit before he tried to stand. His head was still fuzzy. It took a while, but eventually he was able to wake Chapel. Her eyes snapped open. She ran her hand over her face. “Doctor, what… what happened?”
“Our patients objected to our actions.” McCoy’s eyes flicked to the nearest monitor—Petriello’s. The man’s levels were improving steadily. Their plan had worked! For Petriello to rally so quickly could only mean one thing: they had put the distortions behind them.
McCoy inspected the others’ readings. Fraser was improving, her readings climbing back toward normal. Santos, on the bed to her left, was doing the same, though not as quickly. Salah, too. And Bouchard—
Bouchard’s were sinking. Fast.
“No, no, no, no!” McCoy shouted, hurrying over to the phaser control officer. Not now. Not after all this.
“Dalaphaline!” he shouted. Christine was already pressing a hypospray with the stimulant into his hand.
He’d have to inject it directly into the brain. The hypo-spray hissed as it released the chemicals.
“Come on, come on!” McCoy’s eyes ran back and forth between Bouchard’s blank face and the medical monitor.
Nothing happened. Bouchard was bottoming out.
His mind ran through all the ideas he’d had for saving the espers. Now that they were out of the distort-zone, maybe one of them would work, he just had to figure out which one—
The medical monitor gave one last bleep and then every readout was at zero: no heartbeat, no respiration, no brain patterns.
Bouchard was dead.
They’d moved the ship, but it had been too late.
Chapel grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“Computer, time of death: 0921 hours, Stardate 4758.4. Name: Olivier Bouchard, ensign. Cause: the Nothing.”
SEVENTEEN
Stardate 4758.4 (0915 hours)
All Scotty could do was watch as the landing party positioned the phaser rifle. He was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was M’Benga’s. “Relax,” the doctor said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Scotty merely nodded. There was a bright flash, then belching black smoke, which was swept away by an intense jet of air to reveal the remnants of the door. An alarm began beeping on his tricorder. “Commander, are you seeing this?” Scotty asked, as he was running a scan to make sure.
“Yes, Mister Scott.” Spock’s voice was grave. “The power emanating from the tower is fluctuating rapidly. If we do not succeed in shutting it down shortly, it will explode, possibly forcing open a subspace disruption within the planetary atmosphere.”
“Mister Spock, we’ve only got seventeen minutes,” Scotty said, his voice rising in alarm.
“I am aware of the situation, Mister Scott. We are moving with alacrity.”
Captain Kirk’s plan was simple. The ships were still close to the planet. If he reprogrammed the satellites, he could use them to overwhelm the fleeing slavers.
“A very ingenious idea, Captain,” said Chekov.
“Let’s see if it works,” Kirk replied.
“I think it will, Captain.” Chekov, working with Giotto, had connected his tricorder to a partially dismantled communicator that had been wired into the controls of their commandeered ship. “I’ve reprogrammed the control circuits for the Farrezzi satellites, allowing us to transmit to all of them at once. Their reaction control thrusters are under our command.”
“Well done. Transmit now.”
“Aye, sir,” Chekov said. He began keying commands into his tricorder. “Captain, did you know that we are continuing a proud Russian tradition?”
“Do you think this is the time for that?” Kirk asked.
“Ah… no, sir.”
Tilting his head back, Kirk could see that the satellites’ thrusters had activated. “Horr,” he called across the command deck, “can you pull the image back? And follow the satellites’ progress?”
“Affirmation, James-Kirk-Enterprise,” answered the Farrezzi teacher. “Intention