Double Helix_ Red Sector Part 3

"There's somebody outside," he spoke up. "Something just landed near me... it's got to be them! They're here-they found me!"

"Yes, we have them on sensors. A Pojjana jump-jet just settled on the mountain near you."

Stiles's mouth went suddenly dry. "How long... do you think they'll take to get through to me?"

Spock didn't answer him. Maybe he was busy up there, steering that coach into s.p.a.ce, avoiding the three Pojjan moons that looped the planet so far away, so much farther than Earth's moon.

"I didn't know the coach could take that much stress;' he sighed. "You put a lot of angle on it. Why didn't it stall? How do you do that?"

"Simply, but the Academy prefers not to teach the trick. I forced the P/T levels over tolerance so the thrusters had more power." "Why didn't the tanks blow from the extra pressure?" "Tolerance levels are standardized at point of safety. Going over tolerance only means that measurement becomes unreliable." "You mean you were just taking a chance?" "Exactly." "Wow ..."

Listening to thumps and thuds from the deep outside, Stiles saw a picture in his mind of the transport coach, piloted by Spock instead of himself, angling more steeping into the late day sky than Stiles thought it possibly could. He never guessed a s.h.i.+p like that could take so much lift stress. He wouldn't have known to take the chance of added stress, wouldn't have been able to get the coach up fast enough to make use of the eleven seconds.

"I can hear them outside." He gazed up, only seven inches, to the snowed-over canopy. 'They're looking for me in the snow. They're digging through... I hear the shovels... Maybe they're putting explosives on me. Maybe they're not going to dig me out at all. Why should they?" "Steady, Ensign. You will not be killed." "Respectfully suggest you don't know that, sir"

"Of course not. Ensign, this sector is now red. Some time may pa.s.s before the Federation can negotiate for your release. Do you understand?"

A tremor ran down Stiles's spine. "You mean... it might take a couple of months?" "Or longer."

"Well... six months?" His hands chilled even beyond the cooling temperature in the c.o.c.kpit. Sweat broke out on his brow in spite of the chill.

Spock didn't answer him. That meant something. Longer than six months? "Sir, tell my family... tell them I didn't... or just say..." "I will, Mr. Stiles. Be a.s.sured of that."

With a sudden groan, Stiles shut his eyes. His request suddenly seemed silly, melodramatic. But more than anything else it was pointless. He reviewed in his mind the faces of his father and grandfather, his aunts and uncles, the wide extended legacy of Stiles service to Starfleet and several other notable planetary corps within the structure of the Federation. Wherever they lived, wherever they were, the Stiles family made a show for themselves.

He s.h.i.+fted this way and that, but there was no room for movement. He was denied even that pitiful comfort and was forced to sit here and look back.

"Sir," he began again, "never mind about my family. Don't tell them anything. Just tell them I'm... not around anymore."

There was a brief silence, heavy and notable, like the pause between movements of a symphony. The baton remained in the air, the audience didn't applaud, the instruments were up.

"I shall tell them you performed your duty most admirably, young man," Spock slowly promised. "You rose to an unforeseen challenge."

A mirthless chuckle broke from Stiles's chest. More charity. Good words for a pathetic slob, so he wouldn't feel so pathetic. Too late.

"Rose to it? I caused it. It was only unforeseen because I didn't foresee it." He s.h.i.+vered deeply, to his bones. "Don't bother with my family. Starfleet'll send them the official report. Don't tell them anything else... they won't be impressed. This story isn't that good. Doing duty's not enough for them. I'd be better off just lost at sea. No stories."

"Ensign," Spock began again, "you needn't cheat yourself You fit into an age-old tapestry of military valor. Even the small deeds are knightly."

"Oh, please, sir, I've heard that since I was six. We take an oath... we wear uniforms... we take action... when there's trouble, we go toward it instead of away from it. We're military. Can't argue with that. It's got to mean something. if it means I stay here, then that's what it means."

A mechanical whine, m.u.f.fled by the snow, found its way down to him. Drilling. Or cutting, maybe. He must be trapped under rocks or-were there trees up this high? He hadn't bothered looking.

His cold face cracked with a sorry smile as he reviewed the last few seconds. "I hope the other guys can't hear you talking to me this way." Spock's voice crackled. Growing more faint. Distant. "I sent Ensign Perraton to tend to the pa.s.sengers. I have no need of a navigator. We are quite alone."

Overhead, the scratching sound was louder now, more deliberate. The diggers weren't searching anymore. They were purposefully digging. They'd pinpointed this spot. Maybe a fin or wing was sticking out of the snow. Or maybe they had sensors that had caught him. They'd sure found him fast. Things sure could change suddenly.

Stiles let his head fall against the high seat back. "So... how'd you know I wanted to be alone? All my life I've heard how Vulcans don't have intuition... y'know, no... hunches. No emotional anchors, like us fallibles do." "And you have believed the stories," Spock said.

Stiles touched a swelling on the side of his head and laughed minimally. "Oh, you're making fun of me now."

"With you, Ensign," the amba.s.sador offered gently, "not of you." "Everybody always says Vulcans can't joke." "Of course not. Nor do we love, fear, lie, or doubt."

Stiles laughed again. Strange that he could laugh... strange that this particular person could make him feel better when none of his friends had been able to.

The shovels, diggers, drills... getting closer now. Something scratched the nose of the Frog. Stiles saw a finger of golden sunlight appear in front of his left knee. They were almost here. In minutes, he'd be in the hands of the enemy. Would they kill him?

They had a lot of options. He had none. Here he was, trapped in his capsule, probably about to die, and even though his mission was successful, he crashed because of his own lack of foresight. His family was going to be disappointed in him... all those commanders, captains, lieutenants, heroes of the Romulan Wars-and one kid who never made it past ensign because he made a mistake on hits first mission and got himself shot down.

He'd blown it. Allowed himself to be distracted. Put all his fighters behind him and figured n.o.body would think to come up in front. He was ashamed that Spock had been forced to point out something so obvious. That's what would go in the report, and on top of it all, after everything else, Spock was seeing that he was afraid. "It's hard to breathe," he wheezed. Life support off?.

"The blue marker dot on the upper left of your emergency grid, ensign. Push it upward." "Blue dot... oh. Got it-I hear the fan now. That's better.. :' Fresh air, siphoned from outside. Not warm, though. In fact, the incoming air was frigid. But air was air and it cleared his head.

At the very least, he'd be captured now. Maybe tortured. Maybe killed. Would it be better to get killed fight now, here on this mountain?

A crawling aneurysm of mortal fear moved through his brain, infecting his body until he was cold and shuddering. He felt it working on him even as he tried to keep it in check. It tightened his throat and changed the timbre of his voice. Could Spock hear that in his voice? Hear that he was afraid?

The sound of shovels scratched the top of his packed snow prison. "It's getting cold...."

Stiles shuddered through a sigh and this time saw his breath, as the chill from outside permeated the c.o.c.kpit.

Another scratch-broader, brighter. They'd have him in a minute or two. Now he could hear voices above. Bootsteps. Shouts. "Sir..." "Yes ?" "I don't know... how well I'm going to do," he admitted.

"This is hardly routine for you," Spock offered. "You are twenty-two."

'Twenty-one." Miserable now, beginning to feel the pain in his shoulder through fading numbness, he tried to s.h.i.+ft his feet but failed even to do that. What did Spock mean? So he was twenty-one. So what?

Old enough to control simple fears. Old enough to put fear aside. What was a veteran like Spock really thinking of him?

He sank more deeply into his seat, let his legs go limp, flexed his good hand, and touched the frosted canopy near his face. "I guess this is where you tell me everything'll be all fight eventually, and I'm brave and ought to be proud of myself."

"I hesitate to quote poetry," Spock said, and Stiles could almost see the hint of a smile.

So he smiled too. "Sir, I wouldn't know what to do with it if you did. I don't even read the insides of my birthday cards."

For a moment there was no sound from the now-distant coach, no response, no coddling. The comm unit crackled, struggling to pull in the s.p.a.ceborne signal through systems that were probably broken or fried. "I'm losing you, sir," Stiles said. "Yes, your reception signal is thready." "Should I try to boost?"

"Distance is a factor. No need to strain yourself I'U boost from here."

Stiles's hand fell back to his side and he let himself go limp, trying to ease the ache in his head. A little shaving of frost fell from the canopy where he'd touched it. The flakes landed on his fight cheek and stuck there, like a frozen tear. His face was too cold even to melt it.

"The Federation will negotiate for your freedom," Spock told him placidly. "I'll see to it personally."

"Don't make a spectacle," Stiles grumbled. "I don't want to be known as the little goof with the big rescue. Then somebody else'll be the hero and I'll just be the jerk who crashed in enemy territory and cost a mint to get back. I don't need that... G.o.d, my shoulder hurts... think they know how to set a human arm?" "Yes, they know how."

Spock's voice was small now, but clear of static, patient and gentle, laden with understanding of what he was feeling. How could that be?

"I have worked with many humans in my lifetime. There is great comfort for me among them, and much to admire. Above all traits, ! believe, I most admire their resilience. Be pliant, Eric. Once you survive this, you'll be a more valuable officer. And a better man."

Stiles heard the words, but it was as if he were listening to wind. Substantial, effective... but he didn't understand what made it happen. An instant later he could barely remember what Spock had just said-all he remembered was the sound of his own name spoke so adaptably by that famous voice.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked simply. His throat was raw now. There were fumes in here. "If they don't kill me... what do I do to change? I already try so hard... how can I be better?"

Now that the question was asked, he steeled himself to listen, to remember a long sermon, the kind his grandfather used to lay on him when there was some lesson to be learned or some grave social gaff to be corrected. All the way home from wherever they were, talk, talk, talk, preach, preach, preach.

And that was why he was surprised. As sunlight broke through above his face and the snow was sc.r.a.ped away from the c.o.c.kpit's canopy, as he saw the faces of Poijana soldiers peel back the rocks and crud from his Starfleet coffin, Stiles absorbed Spock's final word. Only one word... it echoed and echoed, rolled and settled, it chimed a resonant bell tone. He would hear it for the rest of his life. "Relax."

Chapter Four.

HARD TO BREATHE. STUFFY.

Metal banging against metal. The whine of mechanical treads. Lower pitch than the aircraft. A hatch breaking open-and Stiles fell inelegantly forward and landed on a stone floor.

His head throbbed, his left shoulder and arm ached... at least the paramedics, or whatever they were, had bandaged the arm before stuffing him into the brig box on their plane. He'd thought it might've been broken, but it wasn't. His shoulder had been jammed into the side of the c.o.c.kpit, numbing his whole arm. They'd given him a drug he thought might be poison, but turned out only to be a pain pill. For some reason, probably leverage, they didn't want him dead. Not yet.

Now he was here. He knew a prison cell when he saw one. Unlike Starfleet's fancy bright brigs, this one just had the old~ fas.h.i.+oned t.i.tanium bars. Sure. Why use expensive energy beams to hold prisoners in when plain metal would do the same job and couldn't be shorted out?

Pressing his right hand to the stone floor, Stiles pushed himself from his knees to a sitting position. Tile, not stone. Big squares of rough-glazed tile. What was it his mother had called that color? Terra cotta.

Over his shoulder, the oval door or hatch or whatever it was that he'd come through clanked shut and barked loudly as it was locked from outside. n.o.body had talked to him, n.o.body had counseled or advised him, n.o.body had told him what was going on or how long he would be here, or what the legal process would be. Did the Pojjans even have a legal process? How much of a coup was going on here? Was there a government in place at all?

Ashamed of his failure to do simple mission homework, Stiles realized he had no idea what to expect or any way to judge what had happened to him. The Pojjan soldiers had pulled him off the top of the mountain, bandaged his arm, put some kind of scanner over him, flown him back and dumped him into this cell. Was this a prison? Or just a holding cell? Would he be here for six months, or moved to a trial, a sentence, a hotel room'?

"I'm not a criminal," he murmured, trying to sort all this out. "Not a rebel or terrorist... so what am I?"

With notable effort, he stood up on shaky legs. His head throbbed relentlessly. The cell was dry at least, and warm enough. Well, at least they weren't barbarians. And there was light. Not much-enough to see by, not enough to disturb sleep. All the lights were outside his cell, beyond the t.i.tanium bars. Probably they had learned that light fixtures could be cannibalized into lock-blowing bombs. He remembered that from the Academy alternative-energy course. A bunk and mattress, a woolly blanket, a toilet, a sink.

"Welcome to Alcatraz," he grumbled with a sigh. "Hope they feed me." "You'll be fed." Stiles flinched back a step. His heart drummed. "Who's talking?" he yelped. "Where are you?" "In the next cell."

Stiles pressed against the bars, trying to see, but the cells were side by side and there was no doing it. The bars were cold against his cheek. "Are you a prisoner?' he asked. "Seems obvious."

A male voice. Sounded young. Not old, anyway. Sounded like it could be one of his own team. "Are you a criminal?" "My incarceration is political."

"Political... so's mine, I think. What're they going to do to us? Have they got courts on this planet? Are there laws?" "Yes, they have laws." "How soon will they-"

"Not soon. They're in turmoil here. The Federation is leaving." "Yeah, I've heard that rumor..."

This was getting him no where. He couldn't see the other guy, and if he asked too many questions, that guy would be justified in asking questions also and Stiles would feel obliged to answer. Then again, why not? "Who are you? What's your name?" "Zevon." "Just 'Zevon' ?" "Yes. Who are you?" "Eric Stiles." "Human?" "Uh-huh." "Starfleet, then." "How do you know that?"

"The only humans on this planet are either Starfleet personnel or Federation diplomatic corps workers. The Poijana would never put diplomatic staff in prison."

"Ah... they'll hara.s.s the ..military but not the civilians. There's brainy."

"The military understands that capture is part of the job. The Pojjan know that."

Stiles shuffled to his cot and sat stiffly down, then sank back against the wall. "Are you saying that if I weren't Starfleet, they wouldn't put me wherever we are7"

"That's correct. They wouldn't have captured you at all. The Federation would be hostile if civilians were made political p.a.w.ns. Starfleet is fairer game." "Oh, that's great .... "

Lying back as he was, Stiles gazed at his uniform, at the black field of s.h.i.+rt and pants, the ribbed waistband, and the poppy-red shoulder band under his chin. It looked strange with the combadge missing. They'd taken it. So they knew it wasn't just jewelry.

"But wait a minute," he began. "I was guarding a coach full of civilians and the Pojjana tried to shoot us down Why would they do that? Isn't that making them political p.a.w.ns?"

"The Pojjana could have claimed the coach crashed. If they gained possession of the civilians alive, they probably would have put them back in the emba.s.sy and claimed some delay or other." "Buying time?"

"Most likely. The Pojjana are clumsy with politics. They do things without knowing why." "Just hedging their bets?"

"Perhaps. The lingering of a thousand civilians is easier to justify than the disappearance of one soldier."

Stiles flexed his legs and winced at the stiffness. "What you're saying is that I'm small potatoes."

"I would suspect so," Zevon confirmed quietly. "If that means what I infer." "Yeah.. ? mmm... ow..."

From the other cell, the man called Zevon quietly asked, "Are you injured?"

"My s.h.i.+p crashed. I got knocked around. I thought my shoulder was broken, but it's not. Mission was simple... if headquarters... if they'd just cued me in to the situation, none of this would've happened. They should've briefed me. I'm just an ensign. I'm not supposed to know everything. Somebody should've known this would happen... so they can have it. They don't come and get me? Fine. I'll stay here I don't need Starfleet if they don't need me." Staring at the floor files between the frame of his bent knees, he sighed. "I have a date tomorrow night .... "

Prison. Prisoner of war? But there was no war. why was he a prisoner? Did a cold war have prisoners? How long?

Amba.s.sador Spock hadn't told him how long this might last. Now Stiles understood-the amba.s.sador had just not known. He had deliberately evaded answering. The answer was bad. More than six months?

How long would it be before his hair got long enough to braid? How much longer before he actually started braiding it, just for something to do?

Staring ahead at the next few minutes, with an aching shoulder and a throbbing head, somehow the concept of months eluded him. Right now even the concept of lunch was eluding him. How long before he got hungry? Would they feed him? Was deprivation part of the torture regime? How much did this Zevon really know about Pojjan habits? If Zevon himself was Pojjan, he might not really know how they'd treat a human prisoner. I'm on my own.

"I wouldn't be here if I'd had a better team;' he complained. "Travis was the only one with any off-station experience. It's not my fault what happened." "You were in command of a landing party?" "It wasn't my fault!"

The other prisoner fell to silence. Stiles's own protest echoed briefly, then died. Ashamed and angry, he sat up and stared at the floor tiles, memorizing the grout. As if framed in each octagonal file, scuffed and scratched, he saw his teammates' faces.

"Sorry..." he whispered. The faces all merged into one face, his own-scarred and shriveled like the picture of Dorian Gray sitting in the attic, hidden, corrupted with excesses.

He pressed a moist palm to his forehead, brushed back his hair, now gritty and sweat-matted, closed his eyes. Thoughts tumbled. Blames and guilts blended into a single nauseous ma.s.s. "I shouldn't ...."

His voice pierced the tomblike quiet, then dissolved. He clamped his lips shut before he lost control of what popped out of them. Didn't know whether Zevon could hear him. Hoped not.

Hot in here. It hadn't been hot when he'd been dumped here Was somebody playing with the temperature controls? Trying to break him down?

"It won't work!" He vaulted to his feet, skidding on the tile. When nothing changed, he paced across the cell, around the perimeter, along the bars, to the toilet, back to the bunk. There, he faced himself again.

He turned and continued pacing. His arms and legs ached. Why was he hurting more now than when he'd crashed? "Do you feel anything?" "I feel insulted. I feel like I'm being laughed at. ! feel-"

"That's not what I mean. Do you feel anything unusual-anything physical?"