The Joy Machine 16 - Escape Tactics
Title: The Joy Machine
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the secondary index page
Author’s notes:
In case you’re interested in the Articles of the Federation, you can read them in "The Star Fleet Technical Manual" by Franz Joseph. The spelling of Chekov's speech is intentional, based on his accent.
CHAPTER 16 - ESCAPE TACTICS
Governor Marouk was sitting contentedly in his large office, behind a desk of true wood that would have put a barge to shame by the sheer size of it, and he was sipping sorbet from a tall glass. At least it looked like sorbet. In truth, his drink would certainly not match the regulations every faithful Muslim was expected to follow, as it had a fairly high percentage of alcohol. But Marouk alFaisal ibn Haziz had long decided that alcohol prohibition was one of those rules of the Faith had weren’t necessarily binding for him.
Of course, he was careful enough to keep these little escapades of his hidden from everyone, even from his own wives. Especially from his own wives, who were devoted traditionalists and would report him to the authorities on Medina. Not that the community would have any means to punish him - after all, he hadn’t lived on Medina anymore - but they could have declared him a renegade, and that would not bode well for his business interests. Most of his associates still lived on Medina, and even within the Free Merchant’s Guild, it was often an advantage to be known as a deeply religious man. People - even those who should’ve known better - tended to trust him, due to his reputation.
That didn’t mean, however, that he’d have been willing to give up the small niceties of life when no one from the community could watch him. Or that he’d give up on his meticulously worked-out plans, just because a young fool like Willard Decker wanted to stick his snotty nose into things that were none of his business.
He should have known from the beginning that Danielle DuMolin would be nothing but trouble. But the girl’s father had been his business associate, back on Rigel VI, and in Marouk’s family business associates were considered as close as family members... if not closer. He did feel a bit sorry for Danielle, who was apparently very unhappy in Aeropolis, but he couldn’t afford to be brought off course, not even by compassion. Things were developing promisingly; this was not the time to become weak. Not even towards a young girl whom he loved like his own flesh and blood.
Marouk’s visitor, a thin, sour-faced, middle-aged man with thinning, smoothed-back dark hair and the strong resemblance to a steward with a tooth-ache, saw their situation in a less than rosy light, though.
“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake, Marouk,” he said, ill-humoured. “It’s not just any ship circling around your planet. It’s the Enterprise, with Kirk in the command chair. And while he might be an arrogant bastard - hell, he actually is an arrogant bastard - he’s not a fool. You won’t be able to mislead him for too long.”
Marouk sent a quick prayer to the Prophet, asking for patience. He’d bitterly regretted (several times, in fact) during the last years that he’d been forced to use Nilz Baris for the realization of his plans. The Federation undersecretary for agrarian affairs might have had the influence needed for the further development of Marouk’s vision, but as a person, he was completely useless. And he chafed on Marouk’s nerves. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get rid of him now. The... accident of such a high-ranking and widely known bureaucrat would have caused unwanted interest and a thorough investigation, both things that Marouk couldn’t afford. Not yet, anyway.
“You’re full of nerves, Baris; that’s your problem,” he replied in a bored tone. “Don’t get into epileptic fits just yet. It doesn’t matter what Kirk does - or doesn’t - believe, as long as all workers will swear that they’re happy here and want to stay here for the rest of their lives, out of their own free will. And they will swear, trust me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Baris wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Of course I am,” Marouk answered calmly. “Firstly, they firmly believe it themselves. Secondly, they’d all die without their regular doses of stimulation, so what’s the matter? Besides, we still have Kirk’s people in our hands as bargaining chips.”
“Yeah, we have them now, but after you’ve given them back?”
“I won’t… not right away, that is. I’ll send them after the Enterprise, once she’s left the entire sector. Our Orion trade associates will deliver them to an appointed place, far, far away from here… all of them but one. One I’m going to keep.”
“You’re gonna do… what?”
Nilz Baris stared at the governor like someone who apparently didn’t believe his own ears. Like all moderately intelligent bureaucrats who were disappointed with their career that hadn’t turned out according to their dreams, he, too, was more than willing to take part in more or less illegal business activities, accept bribes and misuse his influence in order to get what, according to his unreal expectations, was his due. But like most bureaucrats, he, too, was basically a coward, and kidnapping - not to mention eventual murder - was beyond the amount of risks he would have taken voluntarily. Unfortunately for him, though, he was already as dependant on Marouk as the governor was dependant on him. Neither of them was in a position to quit this forced cooperation. And Baris - unlike Marouk - didn’t even have the means to get rid of his now way too powerful and uncomfortable partner in crime through a well-orchestrated accident in a later time.
The governor shrugged and poured him another shot of “sorbet”.
“This Mohammed Jahma; I’m going to keep him. He’s the first man Jasmine has ever shown interest in, and she’s ay beyond the age our daughters usually marry. The man is intelligent, a trained security officer… and he’s served in Starfleet for thirteen years. He certainly knows a lot of things that can be useful for me. Besides, he’s a practicing Muslim - a perfect match. After proper conditioning, I’ll marry off Jasmine to him and make him the chief of security in Aeropolis. Then I’ll arrange for his other two wives and their children to be moved here from Earth and integrate their family business into mine. That way, I’ll get access to Terran trade contracts.”
“And you really think you’ll be able to trust him?” Baris asked doubtfully. Marouk gave him a thin, icy smile.
“What other chance would he ever have than to be loyal? That is the beautiful thing with our joy machine - it always works.”
“Yeah, but what if Starfleet decides to make a tactical sacrifice in order to defend Federation interests?” Nilz Baris asked anxiously. “I know Kirk wouldn’t like it, but there’s the one or other admiral who wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice a few pawn to win the game.”
“Things like that take time,“ Marouk replied unshakably. “Headquarters must assemble a meeting to discuss possible actions against us. Sanctions must be authorized… and investigation has to be commissioned… I’ve studied the Articles of the Federation to the last iota, so I know how long it takes. Until they get to the point where Starfleet is allowed to take any action, we’ll have already declared our independence. And we’ll have our fighter squadrons from the Orions to defend that independence, too.”
“The Federation won’t let you get away with that,” Baris warned. As a long-time Federation official, he knew that bureaucracy might work slowly, but in the end, it worked very thoroughly.
Marouk waved off his concerns impatiently.
“The Federation won’t have any other choice,” he said with arrogant self-confidence. “Thimsel isn’t an Earth colony any longer. The majority of our population hails from Ardana and from Orion, respectively. And should it come to a legal conflict, Ardana will defend our interests before the Federation Council. After all, we buy them off the superfluous zienite as well as the superfluous Troglytes. High Councillor Plasus is in no position to… Hey, what was that?”
Marouk jumped to his feet when hearing the hum of the transporter beam, but too late. Six Starfleet officers materialized in his office, led by a grim-looking Pavel Chekov who seemed as angry as only a very disappointed Russian could be.
“That, Governor,” Ilia said in a deceivingly friendly manner, “was the end of your grandiose schemes. You’ll accompany us to the Enterprise, where we’ll give you the chance to see the picturesque holding cells.”
“You have no authorization for that,” Marouk protested. “You can’t arrest me on my own planet. I am the highest legal authority on Thimsel!”
“Maybe; but I’ve got a phaser set to ‘kill’ and aimed directly at your head,” Ilia replied lightly. “And I’m still very upset about the fact that your gorillas tried to break into my quarters. We Deltans take the break of our privacy very personal. I advice you to follow these friendly security guards voluntarily, before I get even more upset and my hand begins to tremble.”
The demonstration of Ilia’s trembling finger on the trigger of the phaser was so convincing that Marouk indeed found it better not to resist. Still sputtering about the indignity of the whole action, he nonetheless endured without resistance to be grabbed and handcuffed by two burly security officers. They held on both his arms, then one of them hit his belt buckle, and all three of them vanished in columns of sparkling energy.
“Aah, Meester Baris!” Chekov said happily, when he finally could turn his attention to the other occupant of the office. “Hov kind of you to have vaited for us! I vas afraid that ve’d have to search all five hundred levels for you. That vould have taken a lot of time, and my keptin hates it if his people lag behind. Vould you also have the courtesy to tell me vhere ve can find Commander Decker, Lieutenant Xon and Yeoman Jahma?”
“You have no authorization for this,” Baris couldn’t think of anything better than to echo Marouk’s former protest. “I refuse to deal with officers of lower ranks. You should better be careful; I still have influential friends in the Federation Council.”
“I see you’re not in most cooperative mood,” Chekov shook his head with false regret. “Bad for you, but it von’t hold us back for too long. You see, ve have our own vays vith computers. Ensign Sdan, if you vould like to demonstrate?”
The pointy-eared Rigelian took Marouk’s abandoned place behind the desk and began to call up security protocols as if he’d worked here all his life. Like most representatives of Vulcanoid species, Sdan was very skilled at dealing with computers, and Starfleet’s security training had ensured that such an older model wouldn’t cause him any problems.
However, Marouk’s central computer was equipped with firewalls and aggressive booby traps, so that the Rigelian had to be awfully quick to avoid alarming the entire security of Aeropolis by mistake. Fortunately, he’d been an A6 level computer specialist already before he joined Starfleet - he’d used to be a so-called Free Agent of the Federation, thank to his extraordinary skills - and having worked for the transport coordination center of the Rigel system had honed his reflexes properly. He detected the virtual ‘guard dogs’ every time soon enough to be able to override them.
“That’s it, Chief,” he showed Chekov the security roster. “Our people are being held in the high security cells on Level 443, section 47C.”
“Can ve beam in directly?” Chekov asked, his mind working on possible assault strategies already. The Rigelian shook his head in apology.
“Afraid not, Chief. This area is heavily shielded. We have to get there on the pedestrian way, if I may say so.”
“Vhere’s Team tvo?” Chekov asked.
“Lieutenant Rowe has just reported in from Level 450,” Sdan told him. “They’re almost through to the shielded area.”
“Have they met any resistance?”
“So far none, Chief. However, they still have to get down another seven levels…” Sdan didn’t finish the sentence but Chekov got his meaning anyway. He activated his wrist communicator.
“Chekov to Enterprise,” he called.
“Kirk here,” the far-away voice of his commanding officer came through the tiny loudspeaker. “Any news, Mr. Chekov?”
“Keptin, ve have a problem here,” the Russian reported. “The maximum security cells in the holding area are shielded, and Team two is still seven levels away. Can you beam us down from here, as close to the shielded area as possible? They might need our help.”
“Give me a moment, I have to check that with Mr. Kyle,” after about half a minute of static noise, Kirk spoke again. “Well, Mr Kyle says there shouldn’t be any problems with that. He’s gonna beam first Team two down to Level 443, and then yours. Stay ready. Kirk out.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lieutenant Commander Decker had the feeling that he’d get crazy in the deafening silence of Aeropolis’ prison. Shortly after his capturing, a team of security guards - also wearing the grey tunics, knee-high boots and bizarrely ridged helmets of Ardanan police - had brought in Lieutenant Xon and Mohammed Jahma as well. All three of them had been put into separate cells, and considering that there were always guards present, talking wasn’t really an option.
An hour or so later, the guards entered Mohammed Jahma’s cell. They dragged him out and forced him into one of those man-shaped niches in the wall that were everywhere in the building, even in the security area. The Nigerian tried to resist, but the guards had been apparently chosen for strength, before everything else. As soon as they stuffed him into the nice, the automated cuffs snapped closed around his wrists and ankles, rendering him completely immobile and helpless. The guards then placed the metal headband around his forehead and the machine switched on automatically.
For a while, Mohammed Jahma had visibly struggled against the hypnotic effect of the city-wide broadcast, but then his will broke from one moment to another. His entire body went slack, hanging on his restraints like a rag doll. His usually so animated face became that for the people of Aeropolis so customary, expressionless mask. Decker was gnashing his teeth in helpless anger, but he knew that with protesting he would only achieve to be put into that cursed machine himself.
During all his time - and during the following two hours - Xon had been kneeling on the floor of his cell, hands folded, index- and middle fingers pressed together. It had to be some sort of meditative stance, if his unseeing eyes were any indication; Decker had never seen anything like that. It seemed as if the Vulcan had turned his entire being inward, on a level of utter concentration no mere human could ever home to understand.
Nonetheless, previous experiences with the telepathic “units” of the “New Mankind” had enabled Decker to realize that the Vulcan was up to something. Of course, said previous experience wasn’t enough for him to even guess what Xon was planning, and he knew better than break the Vulcan’s concentration with something as trivial as simple asking.
All of a sudden, one of the guards began to sway, and then collapsed noiselessly. A second one followed suit shortly thereafter. Then a third one. The fourth one moved from his post, approaching the energy barrier in front of Xon’s cell with uncertain, reluctance steps. The Vulcan withdrew into himself completely, and though he showed no viable sign of the effort it took him to keep the Troglyte under control, even a telepathically “deaf” person like Decker could feel the faint echo of the incredible mental power that was being unleashed in that very moment. The Troglyte guard, trained to follow orders, never had a chance to resist. He could either shut down the energy barrier or burn to ashes in it.
As expected, basic survival instinct proved to be stronger than any conditioning. With desperate effort, the guard reached out to the control panel, barely able to touch it with his fingertips, and shut the barrier down. After that, he lost balance and fell to his knees with a loud thud. But Xon still had to bridge the four metres between the corner of his cell and the exit, and the guard’s conditioning must have been without doubt excellent. Even during his fall, he grabbed for his phaser pistol to bring the fleeing prisoner down.
He was only a second or two late, but that little tardiness proved fatal against Xon’s lightning-fast Vulcan reflexes. All the guard could see was a blurred shadow, before iron fingers grabbed the point where his neck met his shoulder, and everything went dark. There was no defence against the notorious Vulcan nerve pinch, if executed properly.
Xon let the guard’s slack body slide to the floor and shut down the energy barrier of Decker’s cell, too, unerringly but efficiently.
“Keep an eye on the entrance,” he said, pushing the guard’s phaser pistol into Decker’s hand. “I must get Yeoman Jahma out of the machine. Being subjected to the broadcast on a permanent basis can make someone develop an addiction in a very short time, or so Commander Uhura said.”
He only stopped to collect the weapon of the other guards, then he was at the niche already. He tried to disrupt the cycle, but that didn’t seem possible. The machine was apparently programmed not to stop until the “payday” had been fully received. Of course, he could have reprogrammed the whole sequence, given enough time. Unfortunately, time was something they didn’t have to waste at the moment.
“I shall have to take some risks here,” he said to Decker, “and I cannot even calculate the chances for possible success. Too many unknown factors. But I have to get Yeoman Jahma out of here. He has already been under too much influence.”
“Shoot the control panel to pieces,” Decker suggested.
“That is exactly what I am planning,” Xon replied. “I must point out, however, that the violent interruption of the cycle could send Yeoman Jahma into deep mental shock. There is even an uncalculated chance that he would end up brain dead.”
“Better than ending up vegetable than the rest of Aeropolis,” Decker said. “At least I’m sure he’d prefer it that way. Do it; I’ll take responsibility for the outcome.”
“No, Commander,” Xon said calmly, “this is one responsibility you cannot take from me. However, I agree with your judgement about the situation. There is simply not enough time to try anything else.”
He set the phaser pistol at the highest energy level and fired at the control panel. The acid smoke of burnt plastic and circuitry filled the small room, but the restrains remained firmly in place. Nonetheless, Xon considered the results as partial success, as he couldn’t receive the faint vibration of the machine any longer. At the very least, the circle was interrupted.
“The broadcast is disrupted,” he said to Decker, “but we shall have to cut him out of the restraints.”
“That will be tricky,” Decker gave the clumsy, old-fashioned phaser pistols a doubtful look. “I mean, phaser burns on wrists and ankles aren’t too dangerous, but I wouldn’t like to come anywhere near his head with these weapons. They aren’t exactly precision tools.”
“Let us free his hands and legs first,” Xon suggested. “Perhaps we shall be able to pull him free of the headband then.”
That seemed as good an idea as they could think of under the circumstances, so Decker nodded in agreement. Bundling the phaser beam as tightly as possible, they used the pistols as they would have used a regular welder, and cut through the restrains with relative ease. Granted, they gave poor Mohammed Jahma the one or other phaser burn, but that couldn’t be helped. As Decker had pointed out, old-fashioned phaser pistols weren’t exactly precision tools. But that was what dermal regenerators were for. Once they got back to the Enterprise, those burns would be easily healed in sickbay.
Besides, unbroken skin would be of little use for Mohammed Jahma if he was dead. And in order to keep him alive, they needed to escape Aeropolis.
“All right,” Xon grabbed the slack body of the security officer, holding him upright with superhuman strength that nobody would have expected from such a slender youngling. “Try to move the headband upright, and I shall try to pull the yeoman downward. Careful, small movements; the band sits tight. Begin now!”
It took them quite a bit of pushing and pulling and dragging, but after a few minutes Mohammed Jahma was finally free, if still unaware of the fact. The abrasions on his forehead, where the headband of the machine had been, were bleeding a bit, but not badly. It was nothing a dermal regenerator couldn’t deal with. What concerned Xon a lot more was the yeoman’s still unresponsive state.
“I shall have to perform a mind-touch, or we shall never be able to get him out of Aeropolis,” he said in concern, after having laid the unconscious man onto the cot in his cell.
“We could try to hack into the city’s comm system and have the Enterprise beam us out,” Decker suggested, but the Vulcan shook his head.
“We cannot; this area is heavily shielded. I have managed to get a look at the controls when they dragged me down here. We need to get into a different sector, where the transporter can get a lock on us; but for that, we shall need Yeoman Jahma on his feet. We cannot carry him all the way. That would slow us down and make us vulnerable to attacks.”
Decker nodded. “Very well. How can I help?“
“Pluck the communicators of the guards and shut them into the holding cells before they regain consciousness,” Xon said. “Also, keep an eye on the door while I am… occupied.”
“By the way, what have you done with the guards?” Decker asked, while doing as he’d been told.
“I blocked their consciousness telepathically,” Xon replied as if that had been the most mundane task in the world. “As they are conditioned not to think independently, it was a fairly easy thing to do.”
“In that case you’ve taken your sweet time to make your move,” Decker commented sarcastically, switching on the forcefields in front of the holding cells where he’d placed the unconscious guards.
“I had to consider all other possibilities before forcing myself into the mind of another intelligent being,” Xon replied seriously. “Such actions are diagonally opposite to everything I have been taught and trained all my life. This is a philosophical taboo - the inhibition level of Vulcans is very high in such cases.”
Decker wasn’t entirely certain that he’d really understood the problem, so he thought it would be good to clarify things.
“You mean you needed more than three hours to overcome your inhibitions toward a mental technique that you’re capable of performing without breaking a sweat?” he asked incredulously.
“That is correct,” the Vulcan replied dryly. “However, I do not expect you to understand the extraordinarily high demands that are made while shaping and training a Vulcan’s character. If you will excuse me now… I have to concentrate.”
Decker turned away, partly to keep an eye on the door and partly to give them some privacy. Xon sat down on the edge of the cot, seeking with his fingertips the nerve endings in Mohammed Jahma’s face and temples. The skin of the Nigerian was surprisingly warm for a human, and slightly rough, as it is often the case with the sons of desert tribes. His dark eyes were open but glared at the ceiling with an empty, lifeless look, unblinking.
Xon steeled himself for the encounter with chaotic, undisciplined human feelings, and slowly lowered his mental shields, seeking out for the human’s consciousness.
My mind to your mind… my thoughts to your thoughts…
There was no need for words in the intimacy of the mind-touch, nor for complicated forms of social encounters. The two-poled world of ME-YOU gradually expanded to create the shared level of US. Xon didn’t aim for a complete mind-meld; he simply tried to reach Mohammed Jahma in that far-away corner of the mental landscape where the human had fled from the aggressive influence of the manipulative broadcast. Tried to lure the man back to reality.
It seemed, though, that that hiding place was very far away indeed. In his desperate self-defence, the human had fled beyond the usual borders of hiding, so that the integrity of the conscious structure that had identified himself as Mohammed Jahma had already begun to come apart. Xon realized that if he didn’t act quickly, the human would spend the rest of his physical existence in a self-induced catatonia.
It made things even more complicated that Xon wasn’t a trained healer, and that he didn’t know the human well enough to build a mental bridge to the man’s hiding place based on their personal relationship, which was practically nonexistent. He only knew that Mohammed Jahma hailed from Earth, from a place called Nigeria, and that he was a practicing Muslim who took his faith very seriously.
Xon had never heard more than a few statistics about Nigeria, so waking the man with mental images of home was beyond his possibilities. Nor did he know anything about the man’s family or personal interests. The only remaining factor was the religion. Fortunately, while the majority of Vulcans didn’t follow any religion as humans would understand it, Xon had studied the Koran in philosophy class, together with other so-called holy books of Terra, and was now searching his eidetic memory for a matching quote that might reach Mohammed Jahma in his deep hiding.
It wasn’t an easy thing, but after a while, a few lines from the eighty-sixth sura came to his mind. They seemed to have a vague connection to the current situation, so Xon gathered all his mental strength and projected the message towards the hiding one as if he would release a burning arrow.
For a very long time - it seemed eternity in the timeless intimacy of the mind-touch - there was no answer, and Xon began to fear that he wouldn’t be able to reach the human at all. Perhaps they would have to drag the yeoman through the corridors, regardless of his state, and try it again aboard the Enterprise, with T’Pel’s help, whose ESP-factor was much higher. He was just about to give up and withdraw, when weakly, as if coming from a great distance, he finally “heard” the Nigerian’s mental sigh.
Allahu akbar…
Xon sent his mental tendrils across that huge, black emptiness, and now he could reach the man who was hovering on the threshold of his hiding place.
Mohammed, this is me, Xon… Come back with me, the peril is over!
The machine…
You are not in the machine any longer. We have got you out. Come back with me, we must leave this place as long as we still can.
There was no answer, but the eyelids of the human fluttered briefly, and the light of understanding returned into his glance. He looked at the young Vulcan, who was leaning over him and now slowly pulled back, with amazement.
“You’ve taken a great risk to bring me back, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “I was nearly gone already.”
“I know,” Xon replied calmly. “I could barely reach you.”
“But why have yon done so?” the Nigerian asked in awe. “I thought Vulcans don’t like to touch alien minds.”
“Believe me, it was not very… pleasant,” the Vulcan replied dryly. “But I could not leave you like that. It was an emergency.”
Mohammed Jahma slowly got to his feet, and before Xon could have hindered him, he took the Vulcan’s hand and touched it to his forehead in the ancient gesture of gratitude.
“I am in your debt; and so are my sons and their sons till the seventh generation,” he quoted the ritual words.
“You owe me nothing,” gently but firmly, Xon freed his hand and turned away to regain his inner balance. “I have only done what simple logic dictated me to do.”
Mohammed Jahma grinned at this typical Vulcan answer; Decker, though, was getting impatient.
“I hate to interrupt your moment of brotherly bonding,” he said, “but we must leave here, now! Pick up the weapons and let’s find an escape route.”
Still a bit shaky on his feet, Mohammed Jahma accepted a phaser pistol from his commanding officer. Xon did the same, right before stepping to the holding area’s central control panel and studying the duty roster.
“According to security layout, there must be four more guards in the antechamber,” he told them. “We shall have the element of surprise on our side, but not longer than for the first few seconds. The guards are thoroughly trained; with a probability of ninety-six point five two per cent, we shall not have the chance for a second shot.”
“We won’t have to,” Mohammed Jahma said with a shrug. “I’m ambidextrous and well able to shoot in two directions at the same time.”
“You’ll have to, if we wanna get out of here alive,” Decker murmured. “All right, people, let’s do it; it’s not so as if we’d have any other choice. Yeoman Jahma, you and I will take up position on both sides of that door. Lieutenant Xon, you will open the door and take cover immediately, so that the guards won’t be able to shoot you on the spot. They must not be allowed to call in reinforcements or set off the alarm. Ready? Then go!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The outbreak happened so quickly that the guards could barely realize what was happening. In one moment, thy were sitting comfortably behind their consoles; in the next moment, the door leading to the holding cells swooshed open, and before they could have reacted, they were sprawled all over the floor, unconscious.
“Do we need to lock them away at all?” Mohammed Jahma asked. “The phasers are set to heavy stun; they’ll be out like a light for at least three hours.”
“Nonetheless, I prefer them behind a forcefield,” Decker replied. “Who knows how long it will take us to reach the Enterprise? Lieutenant Xon, can you tell me how far the shielded are reaches?”
“Yes, Commander. If we can believe this display here - and I see no reason why we should not - is this entire sector shielded, probably for the very reason to keep captives from escaping via transporter. We can either try to get to the next level, or to the neighbouring sector. It is your decision, sir.”
“I am for the next sector,” Decker said after some thought. “Should the Enterprise had sent a rescue team already, they will look for us on the level where they’ve lost our transponder signal.”
“Yeah, but we were still on level 456 when we last reported in to Lieutenant Ilia,” Mohammed Jahma warned. “That is thirteen levels above us!”
“Have you been able to set of transponder alarm?” Decker asked.
“Yep,” the Nigerian nodded, “but the guards realized what we were doing and took our belt buckles.”
“Fortunately, they didn’t think of that by me,” Decker touched his pre-scan device, “but it won’t help us much. One signal is not strong enough to reach the Enterprise through all this shielding material in the very walls. We can only hope that Captain Kirk has already sent out that search-and-rescue team.”
“I suggest that we find a place in the next sector where we can at least defend ourselves for a while,” Xon said. “Then we activate your transponder signal and wait for help. That is the only logical solution.”
“Perhaps we’ll be able to find a comm station somewhere, so that we can contact the Enterprise directly,” the executive officer said hopefully. But the Vulcan shook his head.
“The communications system of Aeropolis is one monstrous unit,” he said. “If we tried to use any comm station, the militia would localize us within seconds and send the guards after us. We are only three people with an additional phaser, Commander. Our choices are limited.”
That was only too true, and so Decker agreed that they should move on. Phaser pistols ready, they carefully left the holding area, in search for a proper place where they could hold out until the cavalry arrived.
Chapter 17 - The Silence of the Sirens
Author: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the secondary index page
Author’s notes:
In case you’re interested in the Articles of the Federation, you can read them in "The Star Fleet Technical Manual" by Franz Joseph. The spelling of Chekov's speech is intentional, based on his accent.
CHAPTER 16 - ESCAPE TACTICS
Governor Marouk was sitting contentedly in his large office, behind a desk of true wood that would have put a barge to shame by the sheer size of it, and he was sipping sorbet from a tall glass. At least it looked like sorbet. In truth, his drink would certainly not match the regulations every faithful Muslim was expected to follow, as it had a fairly high percentage of alcohol. But Marouk alFaisal ibn Haziz had long decided that alcohol prohibition was one of those rules of the Faith had weren’t necessarily binding for him.
Of course, he was careful enough to keep these little escapades of his hidden from everyone, even from his own wives. Especially from his own wives, who were devoted traditionalists and would report him to the authorities on Medina. Not that the community would have any means to punish him - after all, he hadn’t lived on Medina anymore - but they could have declared him a renegade, and that would not bode well for his business interests. Most of his associates still lived on Medina, and even within the Free Merchant’s Guild, it was often an advantage to be known as a deeply religious man. People - even those who should’ve known better - tended to trust him, due to his reputation.
That didn’t mean, however, that he’d have been willing to give up the small niceties of life when no one from the community could watch him. Or that he’d give up on his meticulously worked-out plans, just because a young fool like Willard Decker wanted to stick his snotty nose into things that were none of his business.
He should have known from the beginning that Danielle DuMolin would be nothing but trouble. But the girl’s father had been his business associate, back on Rigel VI, and in Marouk’s family business associates were considered as close as family members... if not closer. He did feel a bit sorry for Danielle, who was apparently very unhappy in Aeropolis, but he couldn’t afford to be brought off course, not even by compassion. Things were developing promisingly; this was not the time to become weak. Not even towards a young girl whom he loved like his own flesh and blood.
Marouk’s visitor, a thin, sour-faced, middle-aged man with thinning, smoothed-back dark hair and the strong resemblance to a steward with a tooth-ache, saw their situation in a less than rosy light, though.
“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake, Marouk,” he said, ill-humoured. “It’s not just any ship circling around your planet. It’s the Enterprise, with Kirk in the command chair. And while he might be an arrogant bastard - hell, he actually is an arrogant bastard - he’s not a fool. You won’t be able to mislead him for too long.”
Marouk sent a quick prayer to the Prophet, asking for patience. He’d bitterly regretted (several times, in fact) during the last years that he’d been forced to use Nilz Baris for the realization of his plans. The Federation undersecretary for agrarian affairs might have had the influence needed for the further development of Marouk’s vision, but as a person, he was completely useless. And he chafed on Marouk’s nerves. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get rid of him now. The... accident of such a high-ranking and widely known bureaucrat would have caused unwanted interest and a thorough investigation, both things that Marouk couldn’t afford. Not yet, anyway.
“You’re full of nerves, Baris; that’s your problem,” he replied in a bored tone. “Don’t get into epileptic fits just yet. It doesn’t matter what Kirk does - or doesn’t - believe, as long as all workers will swear that they’re happy here and want to stay here for the rest of their lives, out of their own free will. And they will swear, trust me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Baris wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Of course I am,” Marouk answered calmly. “Firstly, they firmly believe it themselves. Secondly, they’d all die without their regular doses of stimulation, so what’s the matter? Besides, we still have Kirk’s people in our hands as bargaining chips.”
“Yeah, we have them now, but after you’ve given them back?”
“I won’t… not right away, that is. I’ll send them after the Enterprise, once she’s left the entire sector. Our Orion trade associates will deliver them to an appointed place, far, far away from here… all of them but one. One I’m going to keep.”
“You’re gonna do… what?”
Nilz Baris stared at the governor like someone who apparently didn’t believe his own ears. Like all moderately intelligent bureaucrats who were disappointed with their career that hadn’t turned out according to their dreams, he, too, was more than willing to take part in more or less illegal business activities, accept bribes and misuse his influence in order to get what, according to his unreal expectations, was his due. But like most bureaucrats, he, too, was basically a coward, and kidnapping - not to mention eventual murder - was beyond the amount of risks he would have taken voluntarily. Unfortunately for him, though, he was already as dependant on Marouk as the governor was dependant on him. Neither of them was in a position to quit this forced cooperation. And Baris - unlike Marouk - didn’t even have the means to get rid of his now way too powerful and uncomfortable partner in crime through a well-orchestrated accident in a later time.
The governor shrugged and poured him another shot of “sorbet”.
“This Mohammed Jahma; I’m going to keep him. He’s the first man Jasmine has ever shown interest in, and she’s ay beyond the age our daughters usually marry. The man is intelligent, a trained security officer… and he’s served in Starfleet for thirteen years. He certainly knows a lot of things that can be useful for me. Besides, he’s a practicing Muslim - a perfect match. After proper conditioning, I’ll marry off Jasmine to him and make him the chief of security in Aeropolis. Then I’ll arrange for his other two wives and their children to be moved here from Earth and integrate their family business into mine. That way, I’ll get access to Terran trade contracts.”
“And you really think you’ll be able to trust him?” Baris asked doubtfully. Marouk gave him a thin, icy smile.
“What other chance would he ever have than to be loyal? That is the beautiful thing with our joy machine - it always works.”
“Yeah, but what if Starfleet decides to make a tactical sacrifice in order to defend Federation interests?” Nilz Baris asked anxiously. “I know Kirk wouldn’t like it, but there’s the one or other admiral who wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice a few pawn to win the game.”
“Things like that take time,“ Marouk replied unshakably. “Headquarters must assemble a meeting to discuss possible actions against us. Sanctions must be authorized… and investigation has to be commissioned… I’ve studied the Articles of the Federation to the last iota, so I know how long it takes. Until they get to the point where Starfleet is allowed to take any action, we’ll have already declared our independence. And we’ll have our fighter squadrons from the Orions to defend that independence, too.”
“The Federation won’t let you get away with that,” Baris warned. As a long-time Federation official, he knew that bureaucracy might work slowly, but in the end, it worked very thoroughly.
Marouk waved off his concerns impatiently.
“The Federation won’t have any other choice,” he said with arrogant self-confidence. “Thimsel isn’t an Earth colony any longer. The majority of our population hails from Ardana and from Orion, respectively. And should it come to a legal conflict, Ardana will defend our interests before the Federation Council. After all, we buy them off the superfluous zienite as well as the superfluous Troglytes. High Councillor Plasus is in no position to… Hey, what was that?”
Marouk jumped to his feet when hearing the hum of the transporter beam, but too late. Six Starfleet officers materialized in his office, led by a grim-looking Pavel Chekov who seemed as angry as only a very disappointed Russian could be.
“That, Governor,” Ilia said in a deceivingly friendly manner, “was the end of your grandiose schemes. You’ll accompany us to the Enterprise, where we’ll give you the chance to see the picturesque holding cells.”
“You have no authorization for that,” Marouk protested. “You can’t arrest me on my own planet. I am the highest legal authority on Thimsel!”
“Maybe; but I’ve got a phaser set to ‘kill’ and aimed directly at your head,” Ilia replied lightly. “And I’m still very upset about the fact that your gorillas tried to break into my quarters. We Deltans take the break of our privacy very personal. I advice you to follow these friendly security guards voluntarily, before I get even more upset and my hand begins to tremble.”
The demonstration of Ilia’s trembling finger on the trigger of the phaser was so convincing that Marouk indeed found it better not to resist. Still sputtering about the indignity of the whole action, he nonetheless endured without resistance to be grabbed and handcuffed by two burly security officers. They held on both his arms, then one of them hit his belt buckle, and all three of them vanished in columns of sparkling energy.
“Aah, Meester Baris!” Chekov said happily, when he finally could turn his attention to the other occupant of the office. “Hov kind of you to have vaited for us! I vas afraid that ve’d have to search all five hundred levels for you. That vould have taken a lot of time, and my keptin hates it if his people lag behind. Vould you also have the courtesy to tell me vhere ve can find Commander Decker, Lieutenant Xon and Yeoman Jahma?”
“You have no authorization for this,” Baris couldn’t think of anything better than to echo Marouk’s former protest. “I refuse to deal with officers of lower ranks. You should better be careful; I still have influential friends in the Federation Council.”
“I see you’re not in most cooperative mood,” Chekov shook his head with false regret. “Bad for you, but it von’t hold us back for too long. You see, ve have our own vays vith computers. Ensign Sdan, if you vould like to demonstrate?”
The pointy-eared Rigelian took Marouk’s abandoned place behind the desk and began to call up security protocols as if he’d worked here all his life. Like most representatives of Vulcanoid species, Sdan was very skilled at dealing with computers, and Starfleet’s security training had ensured that such an older model wouldn’t cause him any problems.
However, Marouk’s central computer was equipped with firewalls and aggressive booby traps, so that the Rigelian had to be awfully quick to avoid alarming the entire security of Aeropolis by mistake. Fortunately, he’d been an A6 level computer specialist already before he joined Starfleet - he’d used to be a so-called Free Agent of the Federation, thank to his extraordinary skills - and having worked for the transport coordination center of the Rigel system had honed his reflexes properly. He detected the virtual ‘guard dogs’ every time soon enough to be able to override them.
“That’s it, Chief,” he showed Chekov the security roster. “Our people are being held in the high security cells on Level 443, section 47C.”
“Can ve beam in directly?” Chekov asked, his mind working on possible assault strategies already. The Rigelian shook his head in apology.
“Afraid not, Chief. This area is heavily shielded. We have to get there on the pedestrian way, if I may say so.”
“Vhere’s Team tvo?” Chekov asked.
“Lieutenant Rowe has just reported in from Level 450,” Sdan told him. “They’re almost through to the shielded area.”
“Have they met any resistance?”
“So far none, Chief. However, they still have to get down another seven levels…” Sdan didn’t finish the sentence but Chekov got his meaning anyway. He activated his wrist communicator.
“Chekov to Enterprise,” he called.
“Kirk here,” the far-away voice of his commanding officer came through the tiny loudspeaker. “Any news, Mr. Chekov?”
“Keptin, ve have a problem here,” the Russian reported. “The maximum security cells in the holding area are shielded, and Team two is still seven levels away. Can you beam us down from here, as close to the shielded area as possible? They might need our help.”
“Give me a moment, I have to check that with Mr. Kyle,” after about half a minute of static noise, Kirk spoke again. “Well, Mr Kyle says there shouldn’t be any problems with that. He’s gonna beam first Team two down to Level 443, and then yours. Stay ready. Kirk out.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lieutenant Commander Decker had the feeling that he’d get crazy in the deafening silence of Aeropolis’ prison. Shortly after his capturing, a team of security guards - also wearing the grey tunics, knee-high boots and bizarrely ridged helmets of Ardanan police - had brought in Lieutenant Xon and Mohammed Jahma as well. All three of them had been put into separate cells, and considering that there were always guards present, talking wasn’t really an option.
An hour or so later, the guards entered Mohammed Jahma’s cell. They dragged him out and forced him into one of those man-shaped niches in the wall that were everywhere in the building, even in the security area. The Nigerian tried to resist, but the guards had been apparently chosen for strength, before everything else. As soon as they stuffed him into the nice, the automated cuffs snapped closed around his wrists and ankles, rendering him completely immobile and helpless. The guards then placed the metal headband around his forehead and the machine switched on automatically.
For a while, Mohammed Jahma had visibly struggled against the hypnotic effect of the city-wide broadcast, but then his will broke from one moment to another. His entire body went slack, hanging on his restraints like a rag doll. His usually so animated face became that for the people of Aeropolis so customary, expressionless mask. Decker was gnashing his teeth in helpless anger, but he knew that with protesting he would only achieve to be put into that cursed machine himself.
During all his time - and during the following two hours - Xon had been kneeling on the floor of his cell, hands folded, index- and middle fingers pressed together. It had to be some sort of meditative stance, if his unseeing eyes were any indication; Decker had never seen anything like that. It seemed as if the Vulcan had turned his entire being inward, on a level of utter concentration no mere human could ever home to understand.
Nonetheless, previous experiences with the telepathic “units” of the “New Mankind” had enabled Decker to realize that the Vulcan was up to something. Of course, said previous experience wasn’t enough for him to even guess what Xon was planning, and he knew better than break the Vulcan’s concentration with something as trivial as simple asking.
All of a sudden, one of the guards began to sway, and then collapsed noiselessly. A second one followed suit shortly thereafter. Then a third one. The fourth one moved from his post, approaching the energy barrier in front of Xon’s cell with uncertain, reluctance steps. The Vulcan withdrew into himself completely, and though he showed no viable sign of the effort it took him to keep the Troglyte under control, even a telepathically “deaf” person like Decker could feel the faint echo of the incredible mental power that was being unleashed in that very moment. The Troglyte guard, trained to follow orders, never had a chance to resist. He could either shut down the energy barrier or burn to ashes in it.
As expected, basic survival instinct proved to be stronger than any conditioning. With desperate effort, the guard reached out to the control panel, barely able to touch it with his fingertips, and shut the barrier down. After that, he lost balance and fell to his knees with a loud thud. But Xon still had to bridge the four metres between the corner of his cell and the exit, and the guard’s conditioning must have been without doubt excellent. Even during his fall, he grabbed for his phaser pistol to bring the fleeing prisoner down.
He was only a second or two late, but that little tardiness proved fatal against Xon’s lightning-fast Vulcan reflexes. All the guard could see was a blurred shadow, before iron fingers grabbed the point where his neck met his shoulder, and everything went dark. There was no defence against the notorious Vulcan nerve pinch, if executed properly.
Xon let the guard’s slack body slide to the floor and shut down the energy barrier of Decker’s cell, too, unerringly but efficiently.
“Keep an eye on the entrance,” he said, pushing the guard’s phaser pistol into Decker’s hand. “I must get Yeoman Jahma out of the machine. Being subjected to the broadcast on a permanent basis can make someone develop an addiction in a very short time, or so Commander Uhura said.”
He only stopped to collect the weapon of the other guards, then he was at the niche already. He tried to disrupt the cycle, but that didn’t seem possible. The machine was apparently programmed not to stop until the “payday” had been fully received. Of course, he could have reprogrammed the whole sequence, given enough time. Unfortunately, time was something they didn’t have to waste at the moment.
“I shall have to take some risks here,” he said to Decker, “and I cannot even calculate the chances for possible success. Too many unknown factors. But I have to get Yeoman Jahma out of here. He has already been under too much influence.”
“Shoot the control panel to pieces,” Decker suggested.
“That is exactly what I am planning,” Xon replied. “I must point out, however, that the violent interruption of the cycle could send Yeoman Jahma into deep mental shock. There is even an uncalculated chance that he would end up brain dead.”
“Better than ending up vegetable than the rest of Aeropolis,” Decker said. “At least I’m sure he’d prefer it that way. Do it; I’ll take responsibility for the outcome.”
“No, Commander,” Xon said calmly, “this is one responsibility you cannot take from me. However, I agree with your judgement about the situation. There is simply not enough time to try anything else.”
He set the phaser pistol at the highest energy level and fired at the control panel. The acid smoke of burnt plastic and circuitry filled the small room, but the restrains remained firmly in place. Nonetheless, Xon considered the results as partial success, as he couldn’t receive the faint vibration of the machine any longer. At the very least, the circle was interrupted.
“The broadcast is disrupted,” he said to Decker, “but we shall have to cut him out of the restraints.”
“That will be tricky,” Decker gave the clumsy, old-fashioned phaser pistols a doubtful look. “I mean, phaser burns on wrists and ankles aren’t too dangerous, but I wouldn’t like to come anywhere near his head with these weapons. They aren’t exactly precision tools.”
“Let us free his hands and legs first,” Xon suggested. “Perhaps we shall be able to pull him free of the headband then.”
That seemed as good an idea as they could think of under the circumstances, so Decker nodded in agreement. Bundling the phaser beam as tightly as possible, they used the pistols as they would have used a regular welder, and cut through the restrains with relative ease. Granted, they gave poor Mohammed Jahma the one or other phaser burn, but that couldn’t be helped. As Decker had pointed out, old-fashioned phaser pistols weren’t exactly precision tools. But that was what dermal regenerators were for. Once they got back to the Enterprise, those burns would be easily healed in sickbay.
Besides, unbroken skin would be of little use for Mohammed Jahma if he was dead. And in order to keep him alive, they needed to escape Aeropolis.
“All right,” Xon grabbed the slack body of the security officer, holding him upright with superhuman strength that nobody would have expected from such a slender youngling. “Try to move the headband upright, and I shall try to pull the yeoman downward. Careful, small movements; the band sits tight. Begin now!”
It took them quite a bit of pushing and pulling and dragging, but after a few minutes Mohammed Jahma was finally free, if still unaware of the fact. The abrasions on his forehead, where the headband of the machine had been, were bleeding a bit, but not badly. It was nothing a dermal regenerator couldn’t deal with. What concerned Xon a lot more was the yeoman’s still unresponsive state.
“I shall have to perform a mind-touch, or we shall never be able to get him out of Aeropolis,” he said in concern, after having laid the unconscious man onto the cot in his cell.
“We could try to hack into the city’s comm system and have the Enterprise beam us out,” Decker suggested, but the Vulcan shook his head.
“We cannot; this area is heavily shielded. I have managed to get a look at the controls when they dragged me down here. We need to get into a different sector, where the transporter can get a lock on us; but for that, we shall need Yeoman Jahma on his feet. We cannot carry him all the way. That would slow us down and make us vulnerable to attacks.”
Decker nodded. “Very well. How can I help?“
“Pluck the communicators of the guards and shut them into the holding cells before they regain consciousness,” Xon said. “Also, keep an eye on the door while I am… occupied.”
“By the way, what have you done with the guards?” Decker asked, while doing as he’d been told.
“I blocked their consciousness telepathically,” Xon replied as if that had been the most mundane task in the world. “As they are conditioned not to think independently, it was a fairly easy thing to do.”
“In that case you’ve taken your sweet time to make your move,” Decker commented sarcastically, switching on the forcefields in front of the holding cells where he’d placed the unconscious guards.
“I had to consider all other possibilities before forcing myself into the mind of another intelligent being,” Xon replied seriously. “Such actions are diagonally opposite to everything I have been taught and trained all my life. This is a philosophical taboo - the inhibition level of Vulcans is very high in such cases.”
Decker wasn’t entirely certain that he’d really understood the problem, so he thought it would be good to clarify things.
“You mean you needed more than three hours to overcome your inhibitions toward a mental technique that you’re capable of performing without breaking a sweat?” he asked incredulously.
“That is correct,” the Vulcan replied dryly. “However, I do not expect you to understand the extraordinarily high demands that are made while shaping and training a Vulcan’s character. If you will excuse me now… I have to concentrate.”
Decker turned away, partly to keep an eye on the door and partly to give them some privacy. Xon sat down on the edge of the cot, seeking with his fingertips the nerve endings in Mohammed Jahma’s face and temples. The skin of the Nigerian was surprisingly warm for a human, and slightly rough, as it is often the case with the sons of desert tribes. His dark eyes were open but glared at the ceiling with an empty, lifeless look, unblinking.
Xon steeled himself for the encounter with chaotic, undisciplined human feelings, and slowly lowered his mental shields, seeking out for the human’s consciousness.
My mind to your mind… my thoughts to your thoughts…
There was no need for words in the intimacy of the mind-touch, nor for complicated forms of social encounters. The two-poled world of ME-YOU gradually expanded to create the shared level of US. Xon didn’t aim for a complete mind-meld; he simply tried to reach Mohammed Jahma in that far-away corner of the mental landscape where the human had fled from the aggressive influence of the manipulative broadcast. Tried to lure the man back to reality.
It seemed, though, that that hiding place was very far away indeed. In his desperate self-defence, the human had fled beyond the usual borders of hiding, so that the integrity of the conscious structure that had identified himself as Mohammed Jahma had already begun to come apart. Xon realized that if he didn’t act quickly, the human would spend the rest of his physical existence in a self-induced catatonia.
It made things even more complicated that Xon wasn’t a trained healer, and that he didn’t know the human well enough to build a mental bridge to the man’s hiding place based on their personal relationship, which was practically nonexistent. He only knew that Mohammed Jahma hailed from Earth, from a place called Nigeria, and that he was a practicing Muslim who took his faith very seriously.
Xon had never heard more than a few statistics about Nigeria, so waking the man with mental images of home was beyond his possibilities. Nor did he know anything about the man’s family or personal interests. The only remaining factor was the religion. Fortunately, while the majority of Vulcans didn’t follow any religion as humans would understand it, Xon had studied the Koran in philosophy class, together with other so-called holy books of Terra, and was now searching his eidetic memory for a matching quote that might reach Mohammed Jahma in his deep hiding.
It wasn’t an easy thing, but after a while, a few lines from the eighty-sixth sura came to his mind. They seemed to have a vague connection to the current situation, so Xon gathered all his mental strength and projected the message towards the hiding one as if he would release a burning arrow.
For a very long time - it seemed eternity in the timeless intimacy of the mind-touch - there was no answer, and Xon began to fear that he wouldn’t be able to reach the human at all. Perhaps they would have to drag the yeoman through the corridors, regardless of his state, and try it again aboard the Enterprise, with T’Pel’s help, whose ESP-factor was much higher. He was just about to give up and withdraw, when weakly, as if coming from a great distance, he finally “heard” the Nigerian’s mental sigh.
Allahu akbar…
Xon sent his mental tendrils across that huge, black emptiness, and now he could reach the man who was hovering on the threshold of his hiding place.
Mohammed, this is me, Xon… Come back with me, the peril is over!
The machine…
You are not in the machine any longer. We have got you out. Come back with me, we must leave this place as long as we still can.
There was no answer, but the eyelids of the human fluttered briefly, and the light of understanding returned into his glance. He looked at the young Vulcan, who was leaning over him and now slowly pulled back, with amazement.
“You’ve taken a great risk to bring me back, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “I was nearly gone already.”
“I know,” Xon replied calmly. “I could barely reach you.”
“But why have yon done so?” the Nigerian asked in awe. “I thought Vulcans don’t like to touch alien minds.”
“Believe me, it was not very… pleasant,” the Vulcan replied dryly. “But I could not leave you like that. It was an emergency.”
Mohammed Jahma slowly got to his feet, and before Xon could have hindered him, he took the Vulcan’s hand and touched it to his forehead in the ancient gesture of gratitude.
“I am in your debt; and so are my sons and their sons till the seventh generation,” he quoted the ritual words.
“You owe me nothing,” gently but firmly, Xon freed his hand and turned away to regain his inner balance. “I have only done what simple logic dictated me to do.”
Mohammed Jahma grinned at this typical Vulcan answer; Decker, though, was getting impatient.
“I hate to interrupt your moment of brotherly bonding,” he said, “but we must leave here, now! Pick up the weapons and let’s find an escape route.”
Still a bit shaky on his feet, Mohammed Jahma accepted a phaser pistol from his commanding officer. Xon did the same, right before stepping to the holding area’s central control panel and studying the duty roster.
“According to security layout, there must be four more guards in the antechamber,” he told them. “We shall have the element of surprise on our side, but not longer than for the first few seconds. The guards are thoroughly trained; with a probability of ninety-six point five two per cent, we shall not have the chance for a second shot.”
“We won’t have to,” Mohammed Jahma said with a shrug. “I’m ambidextrous and well able to shoot in two directions at the same time.”
“You’ll have to, if we wanna get out of here alive,” Decker murmured. “All right, people, let’s do it; it’s not so as if we’d have any other choice. Yeoman Jahma, you and I will take up position on both sides of that door. Lieutenant Xon, you will open the door and take cover immediately, so that the guards won’t be able to shoot you on the spot. They must not be allowed to call in reinforcements or set off the alarm. Ready? Then go!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The outbreak happened so quickly that the guards could barely realize what was happening. In one moment, thy were sitting comfortably behind their consoles; in the next moment, the door leading to the holding cells swooshed open, and before they could have reacted, they were sprawled all over the floor, unconscious.
“Do we need to lock them away at all?” Mohammed Jahma asked. “The phasers are set to heavy stun; they’ll be out like a light for at least three hours.”
“Nonetheless, I prefer them behind a forcefield,” Decker replied. “Who knows how long it will take us to reach the Enterprise? Lieutenant Xon, can you tell me how far the shielded are reaches?”
“Yes, Commander. If we can believe this display here - and I see no reason why we should not - is this entire sector shielded, probably for the very reason to keep captives from escaping via transporter. We can either try to get to the next level, or to the neighbouring sector. It is your decision, sir.”
“I am for the next sector,” Decker said after some thought. “Should the Enterprise had sent a rescue team already, they will look for us on the level where they’ve lost our transponder signal.”
“Yeah, but we were still on level 456 when we last reported in to Lieutenant Ilia,” Mohammed Jahma warned. “That is thirteen levels above us!”
“Have you been able to set of transponder alarm?” Decker asked.
“Yep,” the Nigerian nodded, “but the guards realized what we were doing and took our belt buckles.”
“Fortunately, they didn’t think of that by me,” Decker touched his pre-scan device, “but it won’t help us much. One signal is not strong enough to reach the Enterprise through all this shielding material in the very walls. We can only hope that Captain Kirk has already sent out that search-and-rescue team.”
“I suggest that we find a place in the next sector where we can at least defend ourselves for a while,” Xon said. “Then we activate your transponder signal and wait for help. That is the only logical solution.”
“Perhaps we’ll be able to find a comm station somewhere, so that we can contact the Enterprise directly,” the executive officer said hopefully. But the Vulcan shook his head.
“The communications system of Aeropolis is one monstrous unit,” he said. “If we tried to use any comm station, the militia would localize us within seconds and send the guards after us. We are only three people with an additional phaser, Commander. Our choices are limited.”
That was only too true, and so Decker agreed that they should move on. Phaser pistols ready, they carefully left the holding area, in search for a proper place where they could hold out until the cavalry arrived.
Chapter 17 - The Silence of the Sirens