To Boldly Go Once Again-Ch 18

To Boldly Go Once Again

By Eratta

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Chapter 18

Archer’s first thought when he came to was, how bruised up am I going to get before something kills me? Deep blue eyes stared into his in the darkness of Columbia’s bridge, and he shut his own in an attempt to stem the pain that throbbed through him. The ship shuddered, but less violently than before.

“Status.” He said, slowly coming into a crouch.

“T’Pol just went to see if she could find out what’s happening out there, and to see if shuttles were working.” Mayweather answered. He was across the room at the comm. station, face close to the keys. Emergency power was not on, and it this rate, it wasn’t going to be. Archer wondered how much air they had left.

“Did she say when she’d be back?”

“No sir.” That was Baker, already bracing his arm so they could crawl away from the view screen and back to the semi-circle of command positions. Back in the captain’s chair, the commodore tried to marshal his thoughts. They needed options. Right now. But the pain from his last knock sent concentration skittering away just as he was about to grab hold of the critical facts. Some time for a concussion.

“You think Enterprise might be out there?” Alanna asked. She hovered near her idol, peering into his pupils and trying to ascertain the extent of his injuries. The third woman, Seltzer, was crouched on his other side. The two of them had decided without words to protect the commodore.

“We haven’t had a good blast in a few minutes. Someone friendly is shielding us.” Baker replied. But Alanna wanted reassurance from Archer. He did his best to smile at her.

“I’ll take that possibility with open arms.”

Seltzer gave her friend a tiny smile of her own and methodically switched her phase pistol’s safety off and on. She was keeping a keen eye on the stunned Suliban piled in clear view, ready to shoot again at the slightest twitch.

To their left, Travis gave a growl of frustration.

“I think the last big one knocked out most of the comm. array. I can’t get a verbal message out.”

“How about non-verbal?” Archer pressed.

“I don’t know if it’ll go out.”

“Try. You know Morse?”

Boomer pride lit Mayweather’s face as he nodded.

Archer knew Hoshi understood the ancient code, and hoped against hope that she’d be able to pick it out. Assuming that Travis could actually get the message out. And assuming that Enterprise was outside. Two too many assumptions than he’d like.
A series of four hits struck the dilapidated ship in rapid succession, but at this point there little more damage that could be done. Braced in their seats, the shocks jarring through their bones, the team waiting in silence as Mayweather tapped out the message once, twice, three times.

“If anything can get out, it’s out.” He told them.

“How long before the Suliban get in here?” Seltzer fretted.

“It has been awfully quiet.” Baker agreed.

No one needed to elaborate further. Accessing the armrest computers, Archer was about to punch the internal comm. button. He stopped short as he realized that, assuming the miracle of the thing still working, alerting their enemies to T’Pol’s presence outside the bridge would not be one of his better ideas. The commodore clamped his jaws together, then winced as nerves fired pain down to his neck.

“If she’s not back in five minutes, I’m going after her.” He informed his crew.

“Sir,”

“You heard me.”

He pointedly ignored the fact that he was functioning well below capacity, as his favorite Vulcan would put it.

Another blast hit Columbia, this one far too close to the bridge. Ceiling panels rained down on them, exposing more wiring and ducts and dislodging more of the few remaining conduits. Baker and Mayweather sought refuge beneath their consols. Archer had instinctively moved to one side, in order to protect one of the women. Instead he bumped against an abdomen, as both Alanna and Seltzer had jumped up and put their heads and arms together over him.

“Thanks,” He said amusedly, despite himself. When they parted, he took advantage of the moment to stand and cross to the open panel from where their party had entered the bridge in the first place. He was nearly under it before anyone could form words of protest.

“Commodore!”

“Stay here. I’ll be back when I’ve got T’Pol.”

And with that he was gone. Archer had half expected more of a fight from them, or at least an escort from one of his new self-assigned protectors. But when no one followed, he dismissed the concern to concentrate on creeping as quietly as he could to the launch bay. Unbeknownst to him was the fact that just as he’d disappeared from view, his would-be followers had been transported aboard their sister ship.

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“Malcolm?!”

Trip had to shout to be heard over the tremendous din in engineering. Between the engine, compromised systems, alarms and personnel rushing about, it was a wonder he could hear himself think.

“Four, Captain. Hold on down there!”

Obediently, Trip took hold of the waist-high railing at his back to keep from falling over it at the ship shook. The firefight was winding down, but the remaining cell ships were still inflicting damage.

“And the other two?”

There was no reply from the bridge, and Trip swore colorfully. Reed had his hands full, and it didn’t matter if they got the other two if Enterprise died. Hold together for me, baby, he begged. Don’t let me down now.

“Bridge to Tucker,” the comm. barked.

“What?”

The noise in the depths of the ship was so saturating that Trip nearly missed the split-second pause.

“Power is down to twenty-six percent.” Malcolm’s voice was low, causing Trip to have to put his face close to the comm. It can’t be any worse. It just can’t. We broke Murphy’s Law on this one, he thought grimly.

“And?”

The captain didn’t need Reed to give him figures. The impulse engine was running mostly on good faith, now that so much power had been diverted to life support and hull plating.

“There was a malfunction with the transporter—“ The armory officer’s voice died as Enterprise took a particularly last hit to the starboard side of her saucer section. Bodies went flying through the already confined space, crashing into the unforgiving metal skeleton of engineering. Trip lost his balance and went tumbling down the steep stairs to the desk. He landed with an ‘oof’, the wind knocked out of him and several flares of white-hot pain radiating outwards from the places his body had bounced against the metal slats.

In the daze that immediately followed, he very clearly processed one train of thought. ”Transporter malfunction. Two people lost. Jon. T’Pol. And we’re all going to die.”

Before he knew it, he was being roughly hauled up by some man, who forced his face into Trip’s and shouted, “You all right sir?”

Tucker steadied himself by grasping the man’s arms, waiting until his swimming vision cleared.

“Going to the bridge. Comm’s down?”

The crewman nodded.

“I’ll be back.”

And with that, Trip stumbled away towards the turbolift.

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Not for the first time that day-- or night. Who knows how long we’ve been here—T’Pol thanked her instructors at the Academy for insisting she be trained in espionage and reconnaissance. As she crept from shadow to shadow behind the plating of the corridors down toward the launch bay, it was that focus that propelled her forward. Without it, she would have given in to the powerful desire to curl up in a ball and hide like a child, to wait for death. The fear and adrenaline pumping through her limbs fuelled her momentum, but she was close, so close now, to her breaking point.

A brief glance at a porthole outside the bridge confirmed a firefight was going on outside. Brief streams of colored light indicated several cell ships, at least. She had not seen any sign of Enterprise, and skeptically assumed the Suliban were battling Tholians for the prize of this vessel. But she was not certain. Enterprise could be out there, shielding her sister ship from the worst of the fight. T’Pol clung to that possibility as she crept closer to her destination. It was taking longer than she’d like; emergency bulkheads had closed to seal off hull breaches, and that left her few options.

Pausing to check her location against the schematics in her PADD, she noted that the transporter bay was near. It would be worth checking out, in case it still worked. She slid down another tunnel, this one taking her beneath the deck plating across the corridor. It was tight, and she could feel her clothing tear as it caught on the heads of bolts and sharp corners. Inhale, exhale, she told herself, breathing slowly through the dust. Calm. Focus. The butt of her phase pistol dragged along the ground against her hip, reassuring with its weight.

When she judged that she was just below the transporter control consol, T’Pol froze. Focusing all her attention to sound, she could hear nothing other than the sounds of her own heart. The air was getting thinner, and fast. It was not yet uncomfortable for her, but she slowed her heartbeat anyway, pushing it away as she put all attention to her sensitive ears. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Where are they?, she wondered. Transported back to their own ships, or in the shuttle bay, or trying to gain access to the bridge? She had passed no one since leaving Archer and the other four humans. It was…suspicious. The Vulcan would have liked to wait a few more minutes, but time was urgent. Snaking one had down, she released the phase pistol from its holster. The other hand went to her pocket for the tiny wrench to dislodge the deck plating.

From the corner in the ceiling, two yellow compound retinas watched as the female cautiously exposed herself. The soldier remained absolutely still, not even lifting his lips into a smirk. Blended into the grey of the sheet metal, he was surprised her scanner didn’t pick him up. Useful things, those new stealth enhancements. And when the female—a Vulcan, he noted with interest—turned her back to him, he launched himself at her head.

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Soon after he’d entered the crawlspace, Archer knew he needed to get out. Moving slower than T’Pol and with less room to maneuver, he’d never catch up with her. So he used his phase pistol to cut a hole in one of the corridor panels and proceeded cautiously, but quickly, toward the launch bay. Rounding one section, he spied the turbolift. It was dead quiet all around him. Much too quiet. Out of instinct, he looked up and around, remembering the Suliban tendency to crawl on walls and ceilings. Finally, he scuttled across to the lift doors. They were sealed shut, powered off. Naturally, he thought in resignation. Again, he used the pistol’s kill setting to melt a decent sized hole in the door.

The commodore peered down the pitch dark shaft. Working up the saliva, he spat, then counted the seconds until far below he heard the soft sound of a landing. The launch bay shouldn’t be more than four or five decks down, he reasoned. One last glance over his shoulder, and he was in the shaft gripping tight to the emergency ladder. The thin cylindrical rungs slipped in his warm hands, and his speed caused more than a few slips.

Keep moving, Jon. Just keep moving, he told himself. At least the firing has stopped. And immediately as he thought it, he wished he hadn’t. Looking back up the shaft to the tiny circle of light from his entry point, he more than half expected a whole squad of Kabal soldiers to come down after him.

Instead, an alarm sounded. At least, Archer assumed it was an alarm. It was more pleasant, less urgent than any Starfleet alarm he’d heard before.

“Attention,” a neutral, midrange androgynous voice commanded. It echoed around him, growing louder as he passed a door to a new deck.

“Reactor overload in twelve minutes.”

The commodore fought the intense urge to bash his already bruised head into the metal rung directly in front of it. We’re going to die in a classic scifi cliché, he despaired, double-timing his speed now. He prayed this deck was had the launch bay. Either that or we’ll stop the clock at one minute to overload.

Cutting a hole in the door and squeezing through it, his gut to him to go right. Archer took off running, pistol ready in his hand.

Self-parody. I hate you, Daniels.

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It took Trip entirely too long to reach the bridge. It was bad enough having to cling to the walls, but dodging crew in the already narrow corridors made the engineer feel like a rat in a maze. Not that he didn’t trust Malcolm to make command decisions, but Archer had left him in charge. The ship was his responsibility, and he was going to make those decisions.

At last, he reached the bridge.

“Tell me something good.” He ordered. The command went un-obeyed. Heads were bent, and with a quick sweep Tucker could see that Hoshi had torn the prosthetics from half her face, in order to more securely press her earpiece to her head. And then he saw the view screen, which showed him empty space. And that Enterprise was heading deeper into said empty space. Trip frowned as he strode to the captain’s chair. Once there, he did not sit, but stood by its side.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“Sensors show a warp reactor overload in six minutes. All factions have departed.” Came Reed’s quiet, mournful voice.

Trip cursed under his breath. So that was what had ended the battle. “We get those last two aboard?”

When no one answered, Trip’s blood ran cold. A mass welled up in his throat, nearly choking him.

“Malcolm?” he demanded.

“Transporter’s down,”

Trip’s body moved of its own accord when he smashed his jaws together, refusing to howl. His knees buckled, shoulders pull up tight, and his face contorted.

“And even if it was functioning, there’s interference with sensors. All the data is scrambled.”

“The Commodore and T’Pol?” It forced its way out his throat, low and dark and terrible in anger and despair. But he needed to know. Needed to hear it said.

“Yes.” Hoshi replied. Twin tear tracks welled from her eyes and dripped to her chin.

“Prep a shuttle for me.”

“You can’t do anything to help them.”

“I said prep a shuttle.” Tucker barked.

Reed was calm, nearly polite, when he said “No.”

Trip’s mouth was open, but the words died on his tongue when the dark-haired ensign at the helm called out, “Two minutes.”

Cruelly, time chose that moment to slow for the original crew of Enterprise. Unable to move, even to flit their eyes away or down from the doomed scene. They kept vigil as Columbia, drifting helplessly, burst into a spectacular ball of light, and just as quickly evaporated into the cold nothing of space.

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T’Pol regained consciousness with pain. Someone was slapping her across the face.

“Wake, Vulcan.” Someone growled in a horrible accent. But it was her native tongue, and despite herself her eyes flew open in surprise.

“Good. You should be awake for you death.” her assailant informed her. He was the largest Suliban she’d ever seen; well over six feet in height and of proportionate girth. Someone called to him, and he turned away for a moment. It was enough time for the Vulcan scientist to discover she was bound hand and foot, that several Suliban were in the chamber, and that they were in the shuttle bay.

So the shuttles must still be operational. That was good news, if anything. But not if these aliens made off with them first.

“You want the temporal device.” She said loudly. The giant’s attention snapped back to her.

“I know where it is,” she gambled. It was sloppy, too fast an admission—it would have been better to let them beat her a little more—but the ship was too quiet. No blasts came from the outside, and it worried her.

“That must be a comfort to you.” The giant told her. He leaned his face in close, and she could smell the reek of his breath as he bared his teeth at her.

“You’ll die knowing your mission to keep it from us succeeded. Although I must confess,” He drew one beefy hand across the curves of her chest. T’Pol’s skin roiled, but her bonds didn’t give as she flexed against them.

“Warp reactor overload in three minutes. All hands abandon ship.”

“If I’d known you were aboard all this time, I’d have looked harder.”

If she had been human, now would have been the time that T’Pol spit on the wretched being. Rather, her nostrils flared as the most expression of anger a Vulcan should allow. She took care to keep her eyes focused on those of the giant, rather than allow them to try and locate Archer, who was definitely near. His scent was enriched with pheromones, and she tried to will him not to do anything foolish.

The giant took his leave of her, mounting the steps to the launch bay’s controls. His compatriots, T’Pol saw, rushed toward the shuttlepods. From the corner, a phase pistol shot each one in rapid succession. The Commodore’s grimy head peered from behind a bulkhead, trying to locate the exact position of the last soldier.

Overload in sixty seconds. The androgynous voice began a steady countdown.

Archer crossed to T’Pol, ducking now and again to check on the huge Suliban. He was nowhere to be seen.

“You all right?” he asked his science office.

“Fine. The others?”

Their eyes met, the sorrow and dejection matched evenly in both blue and brown eyes. Archer looked away first, back to the job at hand.

“I’m getting you out of here.” He told her, setting the pistol to a grade that could burn through her bonds.

T’Pol looked up sharply, hit all at once with an onslaught of fear.

“Me?” she demanded. She caught her commander’s eye. “You’re coming with me.” The Vulcan insisted.

The look he gave her, she could not interpret. He was closed off, detached…and suddenly she knew.

“You can’t.”

Pistol ready in his hand, Archer met her eyes one last time.

“Take care of yourself.”

He shot at her feet and arms, severing the connection to the pillar behind her but still she wasn’t free. He hauled her bodily off to the open shuttle pod. T’Pol was too stunned to protest, only digging her heels into the ground until he lifted her and stuffed her inside the pod, slamming the hatch after her.

“No!” she shouted, straining now with all her strength. She craned her neck against the porthole on the hatch, trying to see what was happening.

Archer crouched down behind the pod, using all senses to discover the hiding place of his last opponent. Not on the ceilings. Not that I can see, anyway, he noted, not on the bay doors. Probably still holed up in the launch center.

Forty-six, forty-five, forty-four… the voice continued.

Now or never, Jon.

He stole to one of the stairwells, clicked the pistol to kill. Up the stairwell he went, ending with his back pressed up against the sealed door of the center. Archer peered inside. His chest heaved, sucking in whatever was left of the thin air in the chamber. The center was empty to all appearances. He set his jaw, opened the door, and took an experimental shot at the ceiling.

A body fell with a crash to the ground. The commodore’s grin was grim. In the final seconds of his life, he opened the bay doors and ignited the pod’s thrusters, sending it at full speed away from the doomed ship.

Six, Five, four….

Jonathon Archer closed his eyes, and thought of his father.

Continued in Epilogue

Epilogue

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