Star Trek_ A Choice of Catastrophes - Michael Schuster [21]
He waited a couple of moments, and realized that he could make out shapes now. His eyes were adjusting, the emergency lights providing just enough illumination to see. Apparently even they were affected by the damned space distortion’s effects. He’d have to exchange a few words with Scotty about them when he got the chance. Now, he had other problems to worry about. Time for another attempt at getting back on his feet.
Not a good idea. He’d landed pretty hard, and now he was discovering exactly how hard. His eyes widened in reflex at the new pain that momentarily took away his breath. But viewed objectively, he’d been hurt worse.
McCoy looked around, trying to make out who was there, but without much success. A moan rose from nearby, causing him to call out, “Do you need help? It’s Doctor McCoy.”
Somebody answered, but from elsewhere in the room. “I’m fine. But I’m afraid to move…”
“It’ll be all right. Keep talking, I’m coming over.” McCoy advanced tentatively toward the voice, trying not to stumble, and worried that the deck would rumble again at any moment. Were the lights coming back to full power or what?
His left foot came down on something; it snapped. What had he done?
“What was that?” asked the voice.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” It had been an object, not someone’s body part. He leaned over, and his eyes finally picked up what had been a three-dimensional chessboard.
“What’s the deal with the lights?” demanded a new voice, in a far corner of the room.
The emergency lights shouldn’t be so dim. Something had to be wrong with the backup power systems.
“I need help over here!” called another voice, quivering with pain. “I think my legs are broken.”
This was bad, but more worrying to McCoy were the number of people who weren’t calling out. There had been about twelve other people in the rec room before the distortion had hit.
“Count off!” he called out as he looked around, trying to orient himself. “One!”
“Two!” That was the voice he’d heard earlier, the man who’d said he was fine.
“Three.” Another man.
“Four.” A woman’s voice, the one with the broken legs.
There was a long pause.
“Five.” Another woman.
No more? Hell. “Anyone else?” called McCoy.
Someone moaned, but no one answered. The deck chose that moment to rumble once more under McCoy’s feet, but nowhere near enough to do any harm, merely a gentle reminder of the straits the ship was in.
“How close are you to the intercom?” asked Two.
McCoy turned around. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could probably make it safely. There was one next to the food slots, and he’d almost made it there before the distortion had hit. But the intercom wasn’t as important as what was next to it: the emergency kit. All large public areas on the ship had a cubbyhole in the bulkhead that contained medical supplies and other emergency paraphernalia.
Stepping cautiously to avoid fallen hazards on the floor, McCoy worked his way to the speaker grille of the intercom. He hit the activation switch. “McCoy to sickbay.”
There was no response.
“McCoy to bridge.”
It wasn’t even hissing with static or interference, it was just dead.
“Intraship’s out,” he called to Two. “You don’t happen to have a communicator on you, do you?”
“Not today,” Two replied. Not good, because neither did McCoy.
McCoy felt to the left of the intercom, locating the release for the emergency pack. He gave it a hard push, and a panel sprang open, revealing an inset in the bulkhead, faintly illuminated by an emergency glowstrip. He grabbed the medical kit and slung it over his shoulder.
Next to it was a flashlight, which McCoy grabbed and flicked on immediately—promptly sending blinding light right into his face. Blinking, he turned it around and cast it over upturned tables and toppled chairs, until he saw someone. A lone man sitting at a table by himself, the same one that McCoy had seen eating mashed potatoes