Star Trek - Double Helix, page 41
“Jeremy! You’re covered! About face!”
White tried to turn, but was caught in the neck by a vicious blow and tumbled to the brick at Stiles’s feet. Stiles stepped over him, aimed his rifle, and fired.
A burst of bright energy engulfed four of the teenagers, so close that Stiles felt his skin go numb even under the protective gear.
“Get up!” he ordered, kicking White uncharitably. “On your feet! Board the ship!”
White rolled out from under him, possessing the presence of mind to keep a grip on his weapon, because they sure didn’t dare leave it here, and stumbled to the ramp. Perraton skidded down and caught him, then shoved him into the coach and shouted, “All clear, Stiles! Stiles! Eric!”
“Acknowledged! Power up!”
“Aye aye!”
“Nuts, Oak One, power up for liftoff!”
“Copy, Oak One.”
Instantly the fighters began humming with power buildup. Perraton disappeared back inside, and Stiles was two steps behind him, scrambling up the ramp on two feet and a hand, his weapon clutched in his other hand. Perraton was there to yank him inside, and backhanded the ramp control. The ramp whined upward and clacked shut, then the hatch bolts slammed into place.
Inside, Bill Foster was collecting the phaser rifles and slamming them back into their wall rack while the other men dumped their helmets into the reception locker.
“We’re secure,” Perraton reported. “Dan’s powering up for you.” He hit the hatch lock for takeoff, turned to Stiles and shrugged. “Wasn’t so hard.”
“It wasn’t?” Stiles gasped, scanning the crowd of frightened evacuees. “Is anybody hurt?”
They all looked at each other, but no one spoke up. They were bruised, dirty, coughing, no longer the prim bunch he’d seen in the embassy, and one woman was sobbing, but most of them were in their seats and belted in. Now he saw that Ambassador Spock was buckling up two of the family members. So Spock was responsible for the organization. No surprise there.
Stiles dumped his helmet on the carpet and peeled out of his flak vest. “Where’s Jeremy?”
“I’m over here.”
Jeremy White’s lanky form, smeared with dirt now, was sprawled in one of the crew seats, pressing a hand to his neck. His helmet was off too, and his uniform was still smoldering. Stiles stuffed his vest into Perraton’s hands and hurried forward to Jeremy White.
“You all right?” he asked.
White blinked up at him. “Affirmative, more or less.”
“Why’d you break formation?”
White’s glare roughened. “Gosh, Eric, I got this irresistible crush on a girl way over there and figured to ask her out if I could just get through those terrorists with the hot irons and broken bottles—what the hell kind of a question is that?”
“You follow orders from now on, have you got that?”
Slumping back a little more, White grimaced. “Put a leash on it, will you? We’re doing everything you say!”
Stiles almost snapped a reprimand, but what good would that do? And all the dignitaries were looking at him. Should he throw a tantrum?
Instead he surveyed White’s dirt-flecked face and sandy hair, and decided on a better choice.
“You’re all right, though?” he asked. “Not burned?”
The anger flowed out of White’s heat-blotched cheeks. “Except that now I have to tell my mother I scratched the little body she cooked for nine months.”
“Then take the portside defense guns. Let’s get off this planet.”
“Aye aye.” White pushed out of his seat and made sure his neck wasn’t bleeding.
“Girvan, starboard gun.”
“Starboard, aye.”
“Travis, navigate. We got a mountain range in our liftoff path.”
“Right.”
The three men went in three different directions, two to the defense pods and Perraton to the cockpit. A second later, Dan Moose came out of the cockpit and said, “We’re powered up. I can’t pilot this thing, though. You’re the only one who can fly it in an atmosphere.”
“I know, I’m coming. Sir, are you comfortable?” He paused before the ambassador on his way to the cockpit and asked a silly question. What difference did comfort make?
“I’m sorry about the trouble out there, sir,” Stiles babbled. “If it were up to me, we’d sweep the whole courtyard with wide stun. Why do people have to behave that way?”
Spock straightened from helping Edwin buckle up. “Those people are frightened, Ensign, and disheartened. The political situation here is volatile. This was our last chance to evacuate Federation personnel. Prudence dictated that we get out while we can. The Pojjana have abandoned any over-tures toward Federation membership, despite our efforts to help them protect themselves. This is an interplanetary squabble between them and the Bal Quonnot now, lacking clear rights and wrongs. Federation policy will now be hands off. The sector will be declared ‘red.’”
“Then why were they trying to stop us from leaving? If they don’t want us here—”
“A number of factions on this planet may find advantage in preventing our leaving. I should warn you,” Spock added, and lowered his voice, “they never attacked the embassy itself because that would have been an act of war according to the Articles of Confederation. The embassy building is Federation soil. However, once we’re in the atmosphere, they can shoot us down and claim any number of scenarios. We must be on our guard and ready to fight.”
“We’re ready, sir! I’ve got five fully armed fighter escorts, and this coach has two defense guns and a detachable midwing utility jump-plane.”
Spock raised one eyebrow and drawled, “Yes…of course it does.”
Now what did that mean?
Stiles was about to ask, then realized that all these innocent civilians were looking at the two of them, hanging on every word. From the ambassador’s expression, Stiles got the idea he wouldn’t get any answers even if he did ask. He shouldn’t have asked anything. Gum stuck on your shoe doesn’t ask, “Where are we going?”—it just sticks to the shoe.
Spock, having been around humans all his life, seemed to recognize the look. Stiles was instantly mortified that the ambassador had read the questions in his eyes. Why hadn’t he taken the time to study the political climate here? Wasn’t that his job as mission leader? Thirty-five diplomatic persons including the famous adventurer Ambassador Spock—killing them would send vibrations across the quadrant. Kidnapping them would be an even bigger coup—for somebody. A shipload of diplomatic hostages, and Stiles had to make a fool of himself by needing the most elementary facts explained to him.
Shriveled like a prune, he glanced around at all the people watching him, judging him, and croaked, “Prepare for lift-off.”
“Very well.” Spock simply took a seat in the first row, next to Miss Theonella and Edwin.
Feeling completely shrunken, Stiles threw off his gauntlets and stepped through the hatch to the cockpit and into the pilot’s seat. Stinking of garbage, his jaw swelling up like a melon, he kicked the foot controls and threw the coach into antigrav so abruptly that the fighters were left below. Too bad. They’d catch up.
On his cockpit screens he noted all five Nuts coming up quickly on his flanks.
“Nuts, Oak One, I want some maneuvering room out of the city. Spread out. Attempt Emerald formation.”
They each acknowledged with a green light, and he knew he was free to maneuver the bulky craft out over the countryside and toward the mountains. It would take the coach about five miles to reach escape velocity and make it up to an altitude at which they could veer up and out of the atmosphere. Soon the city pulled away beneath them, and he steered around two water towers and a radio antenna and was clear. Now for the mountains.
Since the mountain range surrounded the city on all sides, there was no way to avoid them. Coming in for a landing was less of a problem than accelerating to escape velocity, especially since they had to get up to speed as quickly as possible. This planet had an air force. He knew that much.
“Several Pojjan fighter aircraft just scrambled on an intercept course, Eric,” Perraton reported.
“Behind us?”
“Angle two-five zero, port side and closing. Spreading out across our aft flanks.”
“I’m increasing speed. As the atmosphere gets thinner, we’ll get faster. They’ll never catch us.”
“Don’t you want some defense back there?”
“Yes—yes, I do. Nuts, Oak One. Take up Diamond formation. Guard our aft flanks. Fall back, repeat, fall back. Acknowledge as you take position.”
In his side ports he saw Pecan and Brazil fall away toward the aft, and soon all five green lights flashed in acknowledgement.
“Nothing’ll get by our guys,” he muttered with satisfaction.
“The Pojjan planes are trying to come around, Eric,” Perraton warned. “All four of them coming around on the starboard side.”
“Moving to port,” Stiles accepted, and steered the coach out of the way so the nuts on the starboard flank could deal with the encroaching Pojjan fighters. “I don’t know why they’re even trying. In two minutes they won’t be able to catch up with space-ready vessels.”
“Oak One, Chestnut.”
“Oak One. Go ahead, Zack.”
“The Pojjans aren’t firing on us yet, but they’re trying to slip by us. Don’t they know what our weapons can do?”
“Maybe not,” Stiles said. “They don’t have a space fleet.”
“I don’t know—it’s like they’re touring or something here. Should we open fire?”
Determined not to ignite a situation the ambassador already described as volatile, Stiles tried to use reserved judgment. He’d looked idiotic enough already. He had to make Spock proud of him.
“As long as they’re not shooting,” he said, “just stay between me and them. They can’t catch me now.”
“Understood.”
“Ensign?”
Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the chilling sound of that voice. Ambassador Spock stood at the hatchway, gripping the rims and peering through to the wide forward screen.
“Yes, sir?” Stiles responded. “Is there a problem? We’re almost to flank speed. The mountains are coming up under us. We’ll be in space in about ninety seconds. I’ve positioned all my fighters in a rearguard, between us and the pursuit fleet, just in case the bad guys have more speed than they seem to. Nobody can catch us now, sir.”
“Unlikely,” Spock accepted, deliberately not stepping into the cockpit. “Ensign, may I make an observation?”
Stiles almost fainted with the depth of that question. An “observation” from Science Officer/Captain/Ambassador Spock? A Starfleet superior for as long as Stiles and his whole team had collectively been alive? That was virtually a direct order!
Stiles steered the coach through the first mountain peaks that reached toward them from a skirt of low snowclouds. “Of course you can, sir!”
Spock now stepped through the hatchway and knelt beside Stiles to get a better view of the mountains.
Why was he looking at the mountains?
“As I am sure you know,” Spock began, “it is unlikely those planes pose any danger to us.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”
“And it is likely that the Pojjana know their planes cannot overtake us.”
“Well…they might know it, sir….”
“Then perhaps you should consider,” the ambassador quietly advised, “that while the Pojjana do not possess strong spacefaring, their atmospheric capabilities are formidable. Those planes behind us could be diversionary.”
Stiles heard the words, but for a moment they made no sense. Then, gradually, the picture of reality crystallized in his mind and he abruptly understood the ugly mistake he was making.
“Oh…oh!” Stiles’s mouth suddenly went completely dry, and he gripped his controls. “Oh, God!”
Suddenly Travis Perraton tensed at his own console. “Tactical display shows something in front of us! Coming up through the clouds! It’s an A/I! They’ve got an A/I blocking our way! There are mountains on both sides! Eric, can we climb?”
By not taking any chances, by pretending to be a topnotcher who knew how to do his job and going for finesse instead of humility, Stiles had left everything wide open. Eric Stiles, man about town, citizen of the galaxy, had left the ship without forward protection. No vanguard!
Now he was coming into the targeting sights of whatever the Pojjans wanted to throw in his way—he’d let those planes steer him into its firing range, and all his defensive fighters were five miles behind him, guarding him from planes that couldn’t catch up. The Pojjan planes didn’t have a chance of catching him, but they sure had a chance of steering the coach toward an assault net hidden in the mountains!
Stiles felt his throat close up around the realization that he’d been completely duped. Spock hadn’t interfered until it became obvious that Stiles was being suckered into a vulnerable position.
And no, he couldn’t climb yet. Not that high—not yet.
He stared at the forward screen as a huge, nasty-looking assault/interceptor moved merrily through the mountain pass, essentially a giant gun platform, on an intercept course with the coach. And certainly that would happen, because in this short space there was no way to gain enough velocity to rise any higher, and there were mountains funneling them on both sides. All that Pojjan A/I had to do was move toward them in the sky and let the cricket fly into the web.
There were only moments left before the two craft would intersect. Seconds—
Stiles bolted to his feet, driven by a rash decision.
“Ambassador, can you pilot this coach? Ah—what am I saying! I’m so—I’m such—of course you can!”
As Stiles stepped through the hatch, Spock stood aside as if he were clairvoyant about Stiles’ intentions.
“I understand, Ensign,” the ambassador said as he slid into the pilot’s seat. “You know your nominal weapons will be ineffective against an assault/interceptor.”
Stiles yanked open the equipment locker and pulled out an air mask and gloves. Dry-mouthed and ashamed, he rasped, “It’s my duty to try, sir.”
“Commendable.”
Perraton twisted around in his seat. “What’s going on? Eric? What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?” Then his blue eyes flashed with shock. “You’re not going out in the Frog!”
Harnessed by his failure to master the savoir-faire of command, Stiles didn’t respond. He yanked on his gloves and slipped the air mask’s strap over his head.
“Oh, no!” Thrusting to his feet, Perraton grasped Stiles’s arm, forcing Stiles to shake him off in order to yank on a thermal jacket. “Eric, you’re not serious!”
“As you were, Mr. Perraton,” Spock advised, steering the coach masterfully through the angry mountains.
Perraton shrank back into his seat, cold with astonishment, his lips working as he tried to think of something to say.
Spock adjusted his pitch controls, but continued speaking to Stiles. “The midwing is unlikely to be able to divert a craft of that mass,” he attempted again.
Was he trying to talk Stiles out of going?
“I know that, sir,” Stiles said. “But by my calculations you only need an additional fifteen seconds to get up enough speed to break out of the atmosphere over that thing.”
“Eleven seconds.”
“Oh…well, I’ll try to get it for you. Good luck, sir.”
Even in the midst of piloting the heavy coach, Spock bothered to turn and give him the gift of eye-to-eye contact, a deeply meaningful effort that Stiles didn’t miss.
“And to you, Mr. Stiles,” he said.
Stiles closed his thermal jacket around his chest as he ran down the aisle through the glances of frightened passengers. He wanted to forget about the jacket, but training had kicked in. If he didn’t have the jacket, he’d been too cold to be effective inside the uninsulated midwing.
As he passed the side-gunner pods, Jeremy White cranked around with surprise. “Eric, where do you think you’re going? Who’s piloting?”
Stiles ran past him. “Mind your gun, Jeremy.”
Spock hadn’t tried to stop him. Why not? Travis was right—this was hopeless. A twelve-foot one-man defense plane against a hundred-foot assault/interceptor?
As Stiles crawled into the Frog, the smallness of the utility craft struck him like a club. The little detachable was a holdover from previous technology, just something people expected to see on a transport coach and could be used now and then to scout a landing area or as a spotter. It had phasers, yes, but hardly more powerful than a hand phaser, and not very useful against large targets. It was amphibious, hence its nickname, but was almost never used in water; mostly it gave passengers the illusion of safety and options which it really couldn’t deliver. It hung from the belly of the big coach, more of a wart than anything useful in a battle situation.
