replacements, ensigns Pauli and Wah Ching, then called the Enterprise to be beamed back on board. As the transporter effect began, he saw Radak watching from the storage dome hatch. Parallel red lines crossed his vision as the beam disassembled his visual cortex; there was nothing unusual in that. But the expected reverse effect, and the appearance of the transporter room on the Enterprise, did not follow. Instead, Ensign Pavel Chekov found himself in a very dark, very lonely place, filled with a multitude of precisely phrased questions …
"Transporter interrupt!" Shallert punched the engineering alert button and immediately brought the backup systems on line. The transporter hummed a deep bass tone, which began to rise in frequency until it was a sweet, high whistle. Then the bass tone repeated.
"What is it, Mr. Shallert?" Scotty asked from the main engineering control deck.
"There's a delay in Ensign Chekov's assembly," Shallert said. "I have the backups—"
"Is he in form memory?" Scotty asked.
"I don't know, sir. The transporter isn't reporting anything."
"I'm on my way."
Just as Scott left the com, a single transporter effect began on the assigned disk. Shallert watched in amazement as Ensign Chekov assembled on the transporter deck—precisely forty seconds after he had been disintegrated on Station One.
* * *
"There's nothing wrong with the equipment," Scott repeated. He stood between McCoy and Kirk in the transporter room, his short black hair hanging in strands across his forehead, his uniform smudged and his hands clutching a pair of engineering diagnostic tricorders.
"Well, until you find out what is wrong," McCoy said, "I'm decertifying that monster." Scott turned to Kirk, his face betraying the most extreme anguish.
"Sir, if there had been ennathin wrong, Chekov wouldna' ha' come back at all!"
"Scotty, there was a delay. He wasn't beaming through solid steel, he was coming up through vacuum. There has to be some explanation. I believe the transporter is operating correctly, but I must go along with Dr. McCoy. Until we find out what caused the anomalies, we will take the shuttle and avoid transporting personnel."
Scotty agreed with a nod, but his shoulders slumped. "I'll take enna suggestions you have, gentlemen."
Chekov surveyed his quarters with wide-eyed interest. He picked up the glass artifact he had purchased from an Andorran crewmember two years before; it scintillated in his hands, appearing as spiky as a sea-urchin, but feeling like a smooth sphere to the touch. "Glass with the same index of refraction as air," he said to himself, in his own voice, though he did not do the talking. He turned to the screen and touched the keyboard beneath hesitantly.
"Perhaps I should speak to the ceptain," he said. "This does not feel right. I should not feel like this." He forced himself to reach out to the wall com, but his hand slowly withdrew before touching the button. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "I only wish to be left alone, and to feel well," he said. The presence interfering with his actions, and using his voice, did not respond.
Mason finished composing her dispatch and handed the data pack to Uhura on the bridge. Uhura plugged it into her console and asked, "Are we making the grade?"
"It's a very tame report, if that's what you mean," Mason said. "I can't get close enough to the action."
Kirk and Spock came on the bridge. "Rowena, we're taking a shuttle to the station," Kirk said. She stared at him expectantly.
"Dr. McCoy doesn't like the idea, but you're invited."
"I'll go," she said firmly. "I'll go, and thank you."
Chapter Fourteen
Very early in his life, McCoy had learned to disguise his deepest emotions. He had reached the conclusion that most other people did not feel as he did, or hid themselves even more effectively; either way, it was best not to demonstrate the extremes he often felt. The best disguise, he had discovered, was camouflage—hence, the brusque exterior
"Transporter interrupt!" Shallert punched the engineering alert button and immediately brought the backup systems on line. The transporter hummed a deep bass tone, which began to rise in frequency until it was a sweet, high whistle. Then the bass tone repeated.
"What is it, Mr. Shallert?" Scotty asked from the main engineering control deck.
"There's a delay in Ensign Chekov's assembly," Shallert said. "I have the backups—"
"Is he in form memory?" Scotty asked.
"I don't know, sir. The transporter isn't reporting anything."
"I'm on my way."
Just as Scott left the com, a single transporter effect began on the assigned disk. Shallert watched in amazement as Ensign Chekov assembled on the transporter deck—precisely forty seconds after he had been disintegrated on Station One.
* * *
"There's nothing wrong with the equipment," Scott repeated. He stood between McCoy and Kirk in the transporter room, his short black hair hanging in strands across his forehead, his uniform smudged and his hands clutching a pair of engineering diagnostic tricorders.
"Well, until you find out what is wrong," McCoy said, "I'm decertifying that monster." Scott turned to Kirk, his face betraying the most extreme anguish.
"Sir, if there had been ennathin wrong, Chekov wouldna' ha' come back at all!"
"Scotty, there was a delay. He wasn't beaming through solid steel, he was coming up through vacuum. There has to be some explanation. I believe the transporter is operating correctly, but I must go along with Dr. McCoy. Until we find out what caused the anomalies, we will take the shuttle and avoid transporting personnel."
Scotty agreed with a nod, but his shoulders slumped. "I'll take enna suggestions you have, gentlemen."
Chekov surveyed his quarters with wide-eyed interest. He picked up the glass artifact he had purchased from an Andorran crewmember two years before; it scintillated in his hands, appearing as spiky as a sea-urchin, but feeling like a smooth sphere to the touch. "Glass with the same index of refraction as air," he said to himself, in his own voice, though he did not do the talking. He turned to the screen and touched the keyboard beneath hesitantly.
"Perhaps I should speak to the ceptain," he said. "This does not feel right. I should not feel like this." He forced himself to reach out to the wall com, but his hand slowly withdrew before touching the button. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "I only wish to be left alone, and to feel well," he said. The presence interfering with his actions, and using his voice, did not respond.
Mason finished composing her dispatch and handed the data pack to Uhura on the bridge. Uhura plugged it into her console and asked, "Are we making the grade?"
"It's a very tame report, if that's what you mean," Mason said. "I can't get close enough to the action."
Kirk and Spock came on the bridge. "Rowena, we're taking a shuttle to the station," Kirk said. She stared at him expectantly.
"Dr. McCoy doesn't like the idea, but you're invited."
"I'll go," she said firmly. "I'll go, and thank you."
Chapter Fourteen
Very early in his life, McCoy had learned to disguise his deepest emotions. He had reached the conclusion that most other people did not feel as he did, or hid themselves even more effectively; either way, it was best not to demonstrate the extremes he often felt. The best disguise, he had discovered, was camouflage—hence, the brusque exterior
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