STAR TREK - TNG - Relics

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A Novel by MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Based on the Television Episode

Story and Teleplay by RON MOORE

POCKET BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living

or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York,

NY 10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license

from Paramount Pictures.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-86476-9

First Pocket Books printing November 1992

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

For little Jared,

the newest addition to the crew

Acknowledgments

It's funny how these things work out.

It's only recently that I've begun attending Star Trek conventions. So while some of my fellow writers are

like that with some of the stars we've come to know and love, I've only had occasion to speak with one

or two of them.

At Toronto Trek VI, however, I had the pleasure of meeting Jimmy Doohan. (I'd normally be inclined

toward the more respectful "James," but "Jimmy" seems to fit him a whole lot better.)

The con chairpersons had thrown a little party to kick off the weekend-long event. When I arrived, I

scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Doohan. No sign as yet, though.

Then there was a commotion at the door, and in bustles Jimmy with a pouchful of flexible refrigerator

magnets-looking for all the world like Santa Claus in the off season. The magnets had a cartoon image of

our beloved Montgomery Scott-laying back in an easy chair, feet up, a big smile on his face-while the

intercom system blasts "Beam me up, Scotty! There's no intelligent life down here!"

In my experience, few media personalities live up to their billing. Jimmy Doohan, on the other hand, was

everything I'd heard he was-a man of inexhaustible charm and wit, an actor's actor and one hell of a nice

guy. And in an age when performers like to distance themselves from their roles, Jimmy embraced his

Scotty persona like an old friend.

Shortly after I got home, I got a call from another man who lives up to his billing Dave Stern, Pocket

Books' Star Trek editor. "How'd you like to do a novelization?" he asked. And since I'd been lobbying

to do one for some time, I said, "Sure. What's it about and when's it due?"

What it was about was Scotty's appearance in a Next Generation episode ... as you know by now,

having seen the cover of this book. Great, I thought. It's kismet. I meet Jimmy Doohan and then I write a

book about his best-known role. I'd been doing research that whole weekend in Toronto without

knowing it.

As for when it was due ... I had a whole month. Four and a half weeks. Thirty-one long, leisurely days.

Seven hundred and forty-four hours, only some of which I would have to devote to sleep. To write a

book. Gee, I wondered, what was I going to do with all that time on my hands?

My first impulse was to say it's impossible. Absolutely impossible. I mean, I can only write so fast.

There wasn't enough time, plain and simple-and I couldn't change the laws of physics, now could I?

Then I realized this book was about Scotty. Of course it was going to have an impossible deadline. And

somehow, some way, it was going to get published on time-even if I had to work my poor wee fingers

down to the first knuckle.

Along the way, I found myself grateful to a few people. First and foremost to Ron Moore, for his

thoughtful and moving script. Next to Mike Okuda, for advice and generosity past, present and future.

And finally to Carla Mason, without whose insight and cooperation this project could never have

materialized from the ethter.

I hope you have half as much fun with this story as I did.

Prologue

MONTIE SCOTT was flying free. The wind, cold and bracing, stretched the skin of his face over his

young cheekbones, making him grin like a hyena. His hang glider bucked once and then again under the

influence of an especially strong gust, reminding him of how weary his arms were.

But he was far from even thinking about a landing. Tired as they were, Scott's arms had plenty of life left

in them. And he wasn't about to give up a single, blessed second of the breathtaking view hundreds of

meters beneath him.

Great buttresses of gray rock. Long, green sweeps of hillside. Deep, dark cuts in the earth, breathing a

scent of mystery that he could fairly smell all the way up here in the clouds.

Away off in the north, there was a steel-gray line of storm clouds bearing down on him. But they wouldn't

force him out of the sky either. Experience had taught him that weather from that quarter took a while to

arrive.

Freedom. It was better than anything, better than a hundred-year-old scotch, better even than the

mournful song of the pipes in the dusky highlands. When one came right down to it, it was freedom that

made a man feel alive . . .

"Captain Scott?"

Suddenly, the craggy, green vistas below him seemed to melt away. Scott blinked once, twice, and saw

the long, narrow face of Matt Franklin looming in front of him, his straw-yellow hair plastered tight to his

skull in the fashion of the day.

"Huh?" said Scott. It took him a moment more to get his bearings-to realize that he was in a ship's library,

and that there was an active monitor in front of him. And that he'd dozed off.

Unfortunately, he was doing more and more of that these days. And it annoyed the hell out of him.

Ensign Franklin smiled. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb your nap."

"I was nae takin' a nap," Scott protested. And then "What brings ye down here, anyway? Is somethin'

wrong?"

Franklin shook his head reassuringly. "Nothing serious, sir. It's just that there's a little problem with the

warp drive, and we're going to have to drop down to impulse in a few minutes. The captain thought all

the passengers should know-so you won't be alarmed when you feel the deceleration."

Scott looked at Franklin askance. "A little problem? Are ye certain o' that?"

The ensign nodded, his smile broadening. "Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a slight overload in one of the

plasma transfer conduits."

The older man started to get up. "Well, I suppose I could take a look at it. .."

Franklin laid a gentle hand on Scott's shoulder. "No need, sir. Really. I know you used to be an engineer

yourself, but Lieutenant Sachs has it under control."

Scott's enthusiasm subsided as he noted the firmness in the ensign's eyes. "All right, then," he sighed. "As

long as he feels he can handle it."

In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Franklin pointed to the monitor. "Anything interesting, sir?"

Scott shrugged. "Just an' old text-very old, in fact. I came across it when I was at the Academy."

The ensign bent closer to the screen to read the title of the thing. "The Laws of Physics," he said out loud.

The older man nodded. "Aye. The Laws o' Physics. Came out shortly after Einstein published his Theory

of Relativity. A remarkable book-if only as a historical artifact. No mention of gravitons, subspace or

antimatter." He shook his head. "We've come a long way since the twentieth century, laddie."

Franklin chuckled. "No question about that. Anyway, I'll let you get back to it, sir."

Scott grunted. Truth to tell, he wasn't all that eager to return to the screen. Hell, he'd read the bloody

thing about a dozen times already. He practically knew it by heart.

His daydream, on the other hand, had been exciting as all get-out. He'd forgotten how exhilarating it

could be to soar over the shaggy hills of his homeland.

"Ensign," he said abruptly, freezing Franklin just shy of the door. The younger man turned around.

"Aye, sir?"

"Have ye ever been hang glidin', Mister Franklin?"

The younger man shook his head-a little sadly, Scott thought. "No, sir, I haven't." And then "Have you?"

Scott sat back in his chair. "Since ye ask, yes. Not lately, mind ye. I'm talking forty years ago or more,

before I even got accepted at the Academy."

He gestured at a chair not more than a meter away. For a moment, Franklin hesitated, and Scott scowled

inwardly.

Ye're a crazy coot, Montgomery Scott. This lad's got things to do on this ship-important things. An' no

time to listen to an old man spin his yarns.

But the ensign surprised him. Crossing the room, he grabbed the proffered chair, turned it around and

straddled it.

If the lad wasn't genuinely interested, Scott mused, he sure didn't let on to it. Either way, Scott was

grateful.

"Ye see," he began, "I was born and reared in Scotland-as if ye couldnae tell. And my uncle-on my

mother's side, that is-was a hang glider from way back..."

Twenty minutes later, Scott was still regaling the younger man with tales of his airborne exploits. But he

didn't realize it until he happened to glance at the digital timekeeper at the bottom left of his monitor.

"Damn," he breathed. "I've kept ye a mite longer than I meant to."

Franklin grinned. "That's all right. I'm off-duty."

Ah. Well, that explained why he hadn't made tracks yet.

"And besides," said the ensign, "I'm really enjoying myself." He leaned forward over the backrest of his

chair. "But what I'd really like to hear about is the Enterprise. You know-what it was like to be on the

most famous vessel in the fleet."

Scott grinned back. "What it was like?" He shook his head. "It's hard to describe, actually . I mean, what

we did is in the computer records-the missions we carried out, the civilizations we visited. But what it

was like . . . that had more to do with the men and women who served alongside me. And o' course, the

ship herself."

"Captain Kirk?" Franklin prodded.

"Finest man I ever met, bar none. The finest commanding officer, the finest friend. And a fair hand with

the ladies, to boot."

"Commander Spock?"

Scott chuckled. "Like any other Vulcan-but more so. If ye're in the jaws o' hell, and ye can only choose

one man to pull ye out. .. Spock's that man."

"Dr. McCoy?"

"A real crabapple . . . until ye get to know him, and then ye'd walk through fire for him. Saved my life

more times than I've got fingers and toes."

Scott took a breath of memory, savored it and let it out. Those were the days, all right. There were

adventures before and since that time and some fond remembrances from those times as well. But the

Enterprise.. .

"Captain Scott?"

He'd almost forgotten that Franklin was sitting in front of him. "Aye, lad?"

"This is going to sound funny, but..."

"Spit it out, Ensign. No need to mince words with me."

Franklin straightened, a little surprised by the sudden authority in Scott's voice. "Well, sir, pardon me for

saying so, but-"

"Ye're mincin' words again, laddie."

Finally, it came out "You don't seem like the type to be headed for the Norpin Five colony, sir. I mean,

I've served on this transport for more than a year now, and I've seen my share of retirees. And

somehow, you just don't fit the bill."

"Ahh." Scott dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "It's nice o' ye to say so, Mr. Franklin. But ye're

wrong-dead wrong. I've worked my fingers to the bone on Starfleet's behalf for four decades and more.

No one's earned a peaceful retirement more than Montgomery Scott has. And no one's looking forward

to it more, either. In fact-"

Suddenly, he felt a shudder in the deck plates below his feet. "We're droppin' out o' warp," he judged.

The ensign nodded. "Probably not for long, though."

Scott looked at him. "Because Lieutenant Sachs has everything under control."

Franklin nodded again. "That's what he said, sir."

The older man tapped his fingers on his armrest And then, unable to contain himself any longer, he got to

his feet.

"I dinnae care what Lieutenant Sachs said. I was tinkerin' with warp engines before he was old enough to

walk. An' I'll be damned if I dinnae at least take a look at what's goin' on down there."

The ensign shrugged as he got to his feet as well. He had a look of mock resignation about him. "I tried to

stop you, sir. But you were just too insistent."

"Ye're bloody right I was," said Scott, heading for the exit and the corridor outside.

Captain James Armstrong sat in his command chair, scanning the starfields ahead of the Jenolen courtesy

of his forward viewscreen, but he wasn't exactly thrilled to be there. He'd envisioned better things when

he applied for admission to Starfleet Academy some twenty years ago.

It wasn't fair, he mused. He'd studied as diligently as anyone else. He'd worked hard, scoring high in

every phase of cadet training. He'd held up his end of the bargain.

Sure, he'd flubbed the Kobayashi Maru test-but so had everyone else. Only one man in the annals of the

Academy had beaten the no-win scenario, and that had been decades earlier.

Like the other cadets, Armstrong had hoped for adventure, for the excitement of discovery. He'd looked

forward to plumbing the depths of the unknown. What he'd gotten was a transport vessel, whose only

mission was to ferry Federation citizens from one world to another.

Where was the justice in that?

Here he was pushing forty, his wavy, light-brown hair graying at the temples, and all his old classmates

had passed him by. Lustig was in the command chair on the Hood, Barrymore on the Lexington,

DeCampo on the newly commissioned Excalibur-every last one of them a success.

Except for him.

And why? He couldn't say. Bad luck, maybe. A failure to be in the right place at the right time.

Sighing, he looked about his operations center-a cramped complex, which on a larger ship would have

been at least three and possibly four separate facilities. This wasn't just his command center, where he sat

daily, bemoaning his fate as he stared unimpressed at the viewscreen. It was also the place that housed

the Jenolen's warp-drive access-a crowded array of engineering consoles manned by a crowded array of

engineers-and a modest, two-man transporter platform.

On the Potemkin, where he'd served as ensign, the transporter room alone was bigger than this. Hell, the

closets were bigger than this.

"Ready to drop out of warp," announced tall, dark-haired Ben Sachs from his position behind the main

engineering console. There were two other engineers working alongside him-the full complement of Ops

center personnel.

Again, Armstrong had occasion to reflect on the inequities of his situation. On the Potemkin, there'd been

a crew of more than four hundred. On the Jenolen, all he had were thirty-six-and he could probably have

made due with even fewer in a pinch.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," he told Sachs. "As we discussed, we'll proceed at full impulse while we effect

repairs."

"Aye, sir," said his chief engineer-in a vaguely annoyed tone, Armstrong thought. There'd been no need to

remind Sachs about maintaining impulse power; they'd only talked about it a few minutes ago.

Unfortunately, the captain wasn't required to give a whole lot of orders on the transport ship Jenolen- and

sometimes he felt that he had to say something.

The vessel vibrated slightly as its warp bubble dissipated and it re-entered relativistic space. Armstrong

grunted. He could almost have wished that something had gone wrong-that alarms were going off all over

the place, and that it was up to his quick, resourceful mind to get them out of a situation no starship

captain had ever faced before.

Not that he wished to endanger anyone- particularly the bunch of older folks headed for Norpin Five.

But just once, he wanted to feel like a real commanding officer.

"Sir?" said Sachs, interrupting Armstrong's reverie.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" He turned to his chief engineer.

The man looked perplexed. "We're picking up a considerable amount of gravimetric interference," he

noted.

His curiosity aroused, the captain got up and crossed the Ops center to stand at Sachs's side.

"Gravimetric interference?" he echoed.

The engineer nodded. "And I think I've pinpointed the source of it."

"Can you give me a visual?" asked the captain.

Sachs consulted his monitors. "Yes," he said. "I believe I can."

A moment later, the image on the viewscreen changed from that of a gently flowing river of stars to

something a good deal more ominous. What Armstrong and his engineers saw was a dark, featureless

ball, one that would have been difficult indeed to discern with the naked eye if not for the stars it

displaced. It almost completely filled the dimensions of the screen.

Now it was the captain's turn to be annoyed. "I didn't ask for maximum magnification, Ben. Don't

anticipate."

Sachs turned to him, his heavy brows raised in indignant response. "I didn't, sir. This is the lowest

magnification setting we've got."

The lowest. . . ? But for the sphere to fill the viewscreen at that kind of distance .. .!

"My god," said Armstrong. "Is that thing as big as I think it is?"

The engineering chief nodded soberly. "Nearly the size of Earth's orbit around Sol."

The captain was in awe as he took a couple of steps toward the screen. It wasn't listed on any of his

navigational charts.

Suddenly, a grin crossed his face. It had been a long time since he'd grinned this way; it felt strange and

wonderful.

"Any idea what it is, Captain?" asked Sachs.

"None," said Armstrong. But inwardly, he knew exactly what it was ...

His ticket to a real command.

As the turbolift doors opened, Scott got a view of the Jenolen's operations center. Strangely, everyone

seemed to be standing around, staring open-mouthed at the viewscreen.

"Remember," Ensign Franklin whispered. "I tried to talk you out of it."

"That you did," agreed the older man. But he was already craning his neck to see what everyone was so

fascinated by.

It was a perfect ball hanging in space. Not a planet, but something artificial. Walking over to the nearest

unoccupied engineering console, he activated it.

And saw what had the crew so intrigued. According to the numbers displayed alongside the sphere's

digitized image in tire console, the bloody thing was twice the size of the Sol system-and then some.

"Composition?" asked Captain Armstrong, a stocky fellow who had greeted Scott personally when the

older man boarded the ship. Armstrong hadn't seemed to like his job very much-until now.

"Carbon-neutronium," responded Sachs, the engineer. "That means our sensors can't penetrate the

surface. Too bad." He straightened to his full height, which made him nearly a head taller than the captain.

"It would have been nice to know what's going on in there."

Armstrong frowned thoughtfully. "Then let's survey what's on the outside as closely as possible. And

before we're done, if we're lucky, we'll at least be able to venture a guess as to what's inside."

"Aye," said Scott. "Though ye'll want to approach 'er with caution, lad. Ye never know what her makers

might've had up their sleeves."

The captain must not have known Scott was there until he spoke-because when he turned to face the

older man, he seemed surprised by his presence. Immediately, his eyes sought Franklin, who just

shrugged helplessly.

Finding Scott again, he said "To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?"

In other words, thought Scott, what the devil are you doing here? He put on his most casual air.

"I thought ye might need my help," he replied plainly. And then, with a gesture to the viewscreen "And

now I'm sure of it."

Armstrong's gaze locked onto Scott's. " We can handle ourselves just fine," said the captain. "As Mr.

Franklin no doubt informed you."

"Aye," said the older man. "He informed me, all right. But that was before ye ran into a Dyson Sphere."

That got Armstrong's attention. "A Dy ... I beg your pardon?"

"A Dyson Sphere," Scott repeated. And in fifty words or less, he described the theory behind such a

construct. "O' course," he finished, "I cannae guarantee it's what I think it is. But it's certainly got all the

earmarks of it."

"I see," said the captain. He glanced at Lieutenant Sachs. "You're familiar with such a thing?"

The engineer smiled ruefully. "Frankly, sir, I'm not. Under the circumstances ... it might not be a bad idea

for Captain Scott to remain in the Ops center. As a sort of, er ... consultant."

Armstrong's facial muscles went taut. It was plain he didn't like the idea of needing help from a civilian

-even one with a half-century's experience in Starfleet. But if his chief engineer wasn't objecting, how

could he?

"All right," he acquiesced. "Make yourself at home, Captain Scott."

"Scotty," the older man amended. "That's the name I answer to in an engineering room-and this is pretty

near that"

Armstrong looked at him appraisingly. "Scotty it is, then."

Scott grinned. "Good. Now that we understand each other, let's get to work."

Matt Franklin felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up from his engineering console, he saw Captain Scott

peering affably at him from beneath his bushy, gray brows.

"How's our orbit, lad?"

The ensign nodded, feeling a twinge in his neck- but resolving not to complain about it. Thanks to Scott,

who'd dubbed the younger man his personal assistant in their scan of the Dyson Sphere, Franklin was the

envy of every nonofficer in the crew. Sure, five straight hours of close analysis had taken their toll on him.

But a couple of aches and pains were a small price to pay for an opportunity that might never materialize

a second time.

"Fine, sir," he replied, pointing to the relevant figures in the upper right-hand corner of his screen. "I

haven't had to make a course correction in hours."

"Good," said Scott. "Nae that I would've expected otherwise; being a perfect sphere, that thing shouldn't

present any magnetic aberrations. But no news is good news, I always say."

Squeezing the ensign's shoulder paternally, the older man stalked off to see how the rest of the

engineering cadre was doing. Slowly but surely, he seemed to have supplanted Sachs as the individual in

charge of the operation-though to Sachs's credit, he was being a good sport about it.

Just a few days ago, Matt Franklin hadn't known very much about the man called Montgomery Scott-

other than what he had read. The passenger manifest had showed that Scott was a lifetime officer in

Starfleet, who had served nearly all fifty-two years of his career on the fabled Enterprise.

He'd boarded the ship as a young engineer under Captain Pike, reached the rank of lieutenant

commander under James T. Kirk and remained to train others after his captain was given an admiral's

braid. In the intervening time, he'd been reunited with Kirk and his former Enterprise colleagues on and

off, sometimes for years at a time.

All that was in the computer records. All public knowledge.

But now Franklin had had a chance to meet the man behind the career. And he was glad of it. Very glad

of it.

Montgomery Scott was the kind of man you met only once in a lifetime. Someone whose capacity for

invention seemed almost limitless ... whose love for knowledge was so strong, so fierce, it sometimes

seemed to be a force of nature.

Didn't Scott fix those overloaded plasma transfer circuits faster than anyone in the Ops center had

believed possible-Lieutenant Sachs included? Without him, they'd still be thinking about approaching the

sphere, not hours into the analysis already.

In a way, the man was like the Dyson Sphere itself-an anomaly, an oddity. A gem of rare quality, not to

be missed on pain of great regret.

Abruptly, even as Franklin was finishing his thought, the lift doors opened and the captain stormed in.

Nor did he look any happier than when he departed.

"Civilians," Armstrong muttered. "Why did I think they might actually understand? Why did I think they

might be willing to tolerate a small delay for the sake of science?" He shook his head as he sat down

wearily in his command chair, his voice drifting off into muttered invective.

Suppressing a smile, Franklin turned back to his monitor and scanned yet another portion of the artificial

globe. Not that he expected to see much of anything, but-

Wait. His mouth went dry. What was that?

"You'd think we were fooling around out here," said Armstrong, his voice rising to an audible level again.

"You'd think we were wasting time, not making one of the great scientific discoveries of our-"

"Captain?"

It took Franklin a moment to realize that it was he who had spoken up, interrupting the captain's soliloquy

and drawing everyone's attention. He swallowed uncomfortably, his mouth drier than ever.

"Yes, Ensign?" asked Armstrong.

"Sir," Franklin went on, "I've found something that looks like a communications antenna."

Scott was by his side in an instant. "Aye," he confirmed. "So it does, lad." He made some adjustments in

the scope of the scan. "And look-here's another. And a third. No-four. Four o' them." Turning to the

captain, he said "They look intact, too. I wouldn't be surprised if they were in working order."

A smile spread over Armstrong's face, making him look like a man who'd just gotten his heart's desire.

He nodded.

"Then by all means," he said, "let's open hailing frequencies."

At one of the other engineering consoles, Communications Officer Kinski followed the captain's orders.

"Hailing frequencies opened," he confirmed.

They waited. No response.

Looks were exchanged between crew members .. . between Captain Armstrong and Mr. Sachs .. .

between Franklin himself and Captain Scott. The sense of expectation was almost suffocating.

And still no reply from the Dyson Sphere.

"Try again," said Armstrong, his voice a little more subdued.

"Trying," reported Kinksi.

Again, there was that expectant silence. It stretched on for too long. Franklin shook his head,

disappointed.

"Damn," said the captain.

"Ye can say that again," Scott sympathized. "Fer a moment there, I really thought we might be able to

raise them."

"Maybe we're giving up too soon," Sachs offered.

"The fact that they're not answering doesn't mean that they can't-or that they won't. Maybe they're just

being cautious."

Scott sighed. "I dinnae think so, Lieutenant. Call it a sixth sense if ye will, but I'll bet ye a bottle o' scotch

that if ye hailed from now till doomsday, ye'd have no more luck than ye're havin' now. Plain and simple,

there's nobody in there."

"He's right," Armstrong joined in. "Anybody who's got the technology to build a Dyson Sphere has

nothing to fear from us. If there were sentient beings inside that sphere, we'd have heard from them by

now."

How could they be so sure? Franklin looked from Scott to Armstrong and back to Scott. How could

they know beyond a doubt?

The ensign had barely finished the thought when the deck lurched beneath him and he went sprawling

across it. He felt someone lifting him up as someone else spat out a question.

A second later, still a third person cried out the answer "The power coils, sir! They've blown!"

Fortunately, Scott had been in a position to get a good grip on the engineering console when the

explosion rocked them, or he'd have gone tumbling across the Ops center like Sachs and Franklin.

Hanging on tight against the prospect of a second blast, he worked at his keyboard until he'd confirmed

Sachs's conclusion.

The aft coils had blown all right. But how? There were half a dozen fail-safe systems to prevent

something like that. And even if none of them had been working, they should have had plenty of warning

from the diagnostics.

"Damage report," Armstrong called out, hanging on grimly to his command chair. And then, almost as an

afterthought "Any casualties?"

"No deaths, sir," returned Kinski, consulting his monitors. "But widespread injuries, especially in the

passenger quarters."

"Extensive damage to the power conduits," announced Sachs. The man looked shaken, white as a ghost.

But then, things like this didn't usually happen to transport ships. "Attempting to compensate by diverting

power to the ventral relays. Give me a hand, Mr. Franklin."

That was just what Scott would have done. As young Franklin took up a position at the next console, he

followed their efforts on the computer screen.

Come on, he cheered inwardly. Carry the load, ye bloody beasties.

But it only took a minute or two for Scott to see that it wasn't working-and another few seconds to see

why. The damage had been more extensive than Sachs had guessed. The explosion had backed up into

the warp drive-though the magnetic bottle showed no signs of giving way.

"Well?" asked the captain.

Sachs shook his head. "No response, sir. The warp engines are down." He called up another screen and

cursed beneath his breath.

"What now?" prompted Armstrong. "Don't tell me the impulse engines are dead too."

"Not quite," said Scott, who'd been tracking the status of the propulsion systems along with the chief

engineer. "But they've suffered collateral damage from the coil explosion. There's nae enough power

there to keep us in orbit."

The captain glared at him. "What are you saying?"

"The Jenolen is losing altitude," Scott explained as calmly as he could. "We're caught in th' bloody

sphere's gravity well and we cannae get out."

"That can't be," insisted Armstrong. "Surely the engines can be fixed."

Sachs shook his head. "I'm afraid not. There's too much damage-and not enough time." He looked to

Scott for confirmation-and got it in the form of bleak silence.

Montgomery Scott had pulled his share of rabbits ou t of his hat. But for once, even he was at a loss.

There were lots of ways he could think of to pull the Jenolen's engines together. But any of them would

have taken many more hours than they had left.

The captain licked his lips. "You mean there's nothing we can do? We're just going to crash?"

It went against the older man's grain to admit it, but as he'd told Jim Kirk time and again, there was no

changing the laws of physics. "Aye," he conceded. "That's about the size of it."

Armstrong's brow creased as he wrestled with the enormity of Scott's statement. "How long before

impact?"

His chief engineer supplied the answer "Seventeen minutes, thirty-five seconds, sir."

Ben Sachs was a man with modest ambitions, the product of a long line of men with modest ambitions.

Sure, he'd wanted to get into space, to tinker with a warp drive and feel the joy of having it respond to

his tinkerings. But unlike his peers, he'd never aspired to serving on a Constitution-class vessel.

So when the assignment came down to replace the chief engineer of the transport ship Jenolen, Sachs

had been happy to accept it. More than happy, in fact.

Let the other fellows work under unrelenting pressure, he'd told himself at the time. Let them walk their

daily treadmills, eat their meals in a blinding hurry, lie awake at night wondering if there was some gauge

they might have misread. Let them strain their brains trying to remember what attracted them to this life in

the first place.

I'll be content swimming in a smaller pond, where I can take time to enjoy the view without feeling guilty

about it. I'll be just fine on the good ship Jenolen.

Up until now, Sachs's prediction had been right on the money. He had been fine. He'd found the perfect,

uneventful niche for himself.

And more than that, he'd found love-the perfect love only an engineer can feel for his ship. Ben Sachs

had fallen head over heels for a transport vessel that no one else would have given a second look.

But in a flash, that had all changed. Now he was riding the Jenolen down to the dark and featureless

Dyson Sphere below. And the odds of his idyllic life going on in its idyllic way-hell, going on at all-

seemed more and more remote with each passing second.

Strangely, that didn't inspire fear in him-not really. It didn't even inspire regret. Sachs had never married,

had never had children, and his parents were long gone. He wasn't leaving anyone behind.

He was going to die alongside his one true love. The romance of it appealed to him, so much so that it

overshadowed the grisly fate awaiting him at the bottom of the gravity well.

"Mr. Sachs!"

The chief engineer shook his head and sought out the source of the shout. He found himself gaping at a

narrow-eyed Montgomery Scott.

"Are ye with me or nae, lad?" asked Scott.

Sachs swallowed. "With you on what?"

The older man cursed beneath his breath. "Have ye nae been listening to a word I've said? We cannae

prevent ourselves from crashing into the Dyson Sphere, but we can keep casualties to a minimum. That

is, if we can find a half-dozen crewmen willing to stick it out here in the Ops center."

Sachs's mind raced, making up for the time during which he was distracted. After a second or two, he

saw what Scott was getting at.

There were turbulence-berths in the passenger section. Strapped into them, a body would have at least a

shot at survival. But here in the Ops center, where there was nothing to cushion them against the impact

... the odds of living through the crash were a lot longer.

And yet, someone had to remain here. To use what impulse thrust was left in an attempt to slow them

down. To boost the shields at just the right moment. And to maintain the ship's attitude lest it fall on its

side, where structural support was the weakest.

Sachs nodded. "I get it," he said.

"Now ye're payin' attention, lad." The older man's shaggy brows knit. "The only question is who's goin' to

stay and who's goin' to go."

Glances were exchanged. Feet were shuffled. Breaths were expelled.

"Well," Scott announced, "I guess I'm the most expendable one here. It makes sense for me to stick

around." He looked to Sachs.

"Me too," said the engineer, drawing stares of admiration from the others. No doubt, they thought he was

being brave.

They were wrong, of course. He was just caught up in his romantic madness. But he wasn't going to tell

them that. If they wanted to remember him as a hero .. .what the hell, why not let them?

Captain Armstrong cleared his throat. "I'm staying as well. I'm no engineer, but I've worked closely

enough with them over the years. And I can follow orders as well as anyone."

Scott smiled. "Glad to have ye aboard," he told Armstrong.

The captain smiled back, though without quite so much gusto. "Thank you, Captain Scott."

They looked around. "Any other takers?" called Sachs.

No one answered. He didn't blame them. And then, after what seemed like a long time, one hand went

up.

It was Franklin's.

"I'd like to remain also," he told the chief engineer. He looked to Armstrong. "If it's all right with you, sir."

The captain regarded him for a moment, no doubt thinking of the ensign's youth. But then, most every

crewman on the Jenolen was young. And they needed every hand they could get.

"It's all right with me," agreed Armstrong. "And thank you, Mr. Franklin."

Turning to the others, the captain looked benevolent-understanding. When he spoke, there wasn't even a

hint of recrimination in his voice.

"The rest of you should make your way to the passenger deck as quickly as possible. You don't have

much time to secure yourselves."

Looking grateful, they departed into the turbolift. Sachs watched them go, envying them just a little. But

there was no turning back now. He'd thrown his lot in with Captain Scott; he'd see this through to its

conclusion.

"Time to impact?" asked Armstrong.

Sachs consulted his monitor again. "Twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds," he replied. "We'd better get

started."

"Aye," said Scott. He addressed the chief engineer. "I hope ye dinnae mind if I direct things from here on

in. After all, I've had a wee bit more experience at crash landings."

"Not at all," Sachs told him honestly. "She's all yours, sir."

Scott looked a couple of inches taller as he took charge. "Very well then. Mr. Franklin, ye've got the

helm. Bring us down straight and true."

"You can count on me, sir" said the ensign.

"I'm glad to hear that," Scott remarked. He turned to Sachs. "Plot a curve with exponentially increasing

thrust. But dinnae use everything we've got; we'll need some power for life support if... I mean when we

make it."

"Aye," answered Sachs, never one to mince words.

Finally, Scott regarded the captain, who had come down from his command chair to stand behind one of

the engineering consoles. "There will nae be a whole lot for ye to do right now," said the older man. "But

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ANovelbyMICHAELJANFRIEDMANBasedontheTelevisionEpisodeStoryandTeleplaybyRONMOOREPOCKETBOOKSNewYorkLondonTorontoSydneyTokyoSingaporeThisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeitherproductsoftheauthor'simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,...

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