STAR TREK: TOS #83 - Heart of the Sun

by Pamela Sargent

  Suicides, Spock thought, are usually beyond thinking of what might happen to anyone around them.

  “Are you on your way to the shuttlecraft?” Kirk asked.

  “I will make my way there presently.” Spock glanced at his tricorder reading. “The reading for life-forms is now stronger than ever, Captain. Moving ahead for a look.”

  He went slowly up the jagged black passageway. He was sure that his perceptions had been affected by the alien construct; several times, when he had been in the more open areas of the mobile, he had reached out with his hands toward a jagged pyramid or strange green shape, thinking that it was within reach, only to discover that it lay far beyond his grasp. Once he had come up against a wall that he had not been able to see clearly in the intensity of black and green. He was losing his sense of perspective.

  Suddenly he realized that he was lost in this corridor.

  “Spock,” Kirk said more insistently, “the rate of acceleration is continuing to increase. There is no longer time left for exploration. Get out now.”

  “Yes, Captain.” He hurried forward and made one turn, then another. The corridor grew tighter. He seemed to be having more trouble breathing, [129] and imagined the walls suddenly closing in on him and crushing him; that was part of the sensation that human beings called claustrophobia. A third bend in the hallway brought him into a narrowing that he could not push through; his shoulders caught between the walls. He saw a way through up ahead, but he could not reach it even if he took off his protective suit.

  Farther up the corridor there was life, registering clearly on his tricorder display, without revealing what sort of life it might be. It frustrated him to think that a control area for the mobile might be just ahead, where he might be able to alter the alien vessel’s course, and that he could not reach it.

  “Mr. Kyle,” Spock said, “can you increase power for a moment, lock on, and beam me forward of my present position fifty meters?”

  “Negative,” Kyle replied. “I wouldn’t try to lock on through the field even if I could see your position.”

  Fifty meters, Spock thought, might make all the difference to save the mobile. Even if he was transported imperfectly, all that would matter would be the completion of the task. One life—

  “Is there a chance the field might lift for a moment?” Kirk’s voice asked.

  “Negative!” Scott shouted from his station. “The field’s intensified, and the mobile’s rate of acceleration is still increasing. That field is obviously part of its drive system.”

  [130] “Spock, come out,” the captain said. “Get out now”

  Spock backed out of the tight passageway. “Heading toward the shuttle now,” he said.

  It was taking Spock longer than he had expected to get back to the lock where he had left the shuttlecraft. The twisting black pathways and black and green corridors were taking their toll; twice he had taken a wrong turn, even with his tricorder to guide him.

  Very well, he told himself; if his vision could not aid him, then he might have better luck by not relying on it.

  He closed his eyes, feeling his way along the corridor with his hands. As he moved, the sensations of disorientation and dislocation eased a little. At last he came to a turn that felt oddly familiar, and opened his eyes.

  “Captain,” Spock said slowly, recognizing the area, “I am now at the air lock.”

  “You don’t have a moment to lose,” Kirk replied.

  The lock was a flat, ebony surface surrounded by a metallic border of green, irregular in shape, resembling a distorted pentagon. Spock ran his hands along the border, looking for a button or panel, but found nothing. Perhaps the air lock’s controls were not physical ones.

  “There seems no way to trigger the lock,” Spock [131] said. “Mr. Kyle, can you beam me into the shuttlecraft now?”

  “No, Commander Spock.”

  “That damned field’s still up,” Scott added wearily, “and it’s growing stronger.” Spock could not tell if Scott was still in engineering or had returned to the transporter room. “We can’t beam you out.”

  “Use your phaser,” Kirk said. “That’s an order—you have no choice.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Spock was already reaching for his phaser, he set it to the proper intensity, then aimed it at the doorway. “Firing now.”

  The beam shot out with its familiar hissing whine of ionization and stood like a bright drill against the black surface—

  —without effect.

  Spock lowered the phaser for a moment, raised it to the maximum setting, then opened fire again. The beam stood bravely against the alien hull, whining until the power pack drained and died.

  “Captain,” Spock said, “I cannot cut myself free. My phaser is exhausted.”

  “And we still canna’ beam you out,” Scott said with dismay in his voice.

  “Stand by,” Kirk said, and Spock already knew what the captain had in mind. “Mr. Spock, move back from your position. We’re going to recall the shuttle, to get it out of the way, then use the ship’s phasers to open the mobile and get you out. We’ll send the shuttlecraft back for you after that.”

  [132] Spock left the entryway and made his way back down the passage.

  McCoy was about to say that he had a feeling it wouldn’t work, that it would be too easy, that Jim had waited too long, that he should have kept Spock from going into the mobile in the first place. But he kept silent, knowing that any remarks he made now would accomplish exactly nothing.

  The alien mobile seemed to be waiting on the screen as the Enterprise readied to bore away with its phasers.

  “Spock, brace yourself,” Kirk said.

  “Ready, Captain,” Spock replied.

  Myra Coles had come forward to stand near McCoy; he saw the doubt and fear in her face.

  “He’s very trusting,” she murmured. “Spock, I mean. It’s in his voice. He so obviously believes that James will get him out of there.”

  He was about to say that she was reading too much into Spock’s usual expressionless tone, but restrained himself. “I suppose he does,” McCoy said at last. It was nothing new.

  “And James won’t let him die.”

  McCoy was silent. He knew that the captain would make the right decision if Tyrtaeus II was in danger, he would not risk imperiling millions of lives for Spock’s sake. But, as usual, Jim would do everything he could to find another way, to bend the rules. He’d blackmail God or the Devil if he had to, McCoy thought, to get his own way; it was [133] the kind of persistence that wore away mountains with drops of water.

  “Open fire, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk ordered.

  Sulu’s hands moved over his console. “Phasers locked on target, Captain.”

  The beam reached out across the silence of space and splashed against the alien.

  “Cease fire,” Kirk said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The beam winked out, and the screen view pulled in for a closer look. There was no sign of an opening, no sign of any damage.

  “Fire again, Sulu,” Kirk said, “and hold on target for thirty seconds.”

  “Yes, sir. Engaging now.” The beam shot out and stood against the moving worldlet as the Enterprise stood off in its position.

  “Captain,” Tekakwitha called out from her station aft, “the object’s velocity is increasing. It’s at half our impulse-power speed right now—it’s extraordinary.”

  “Only six hours from the sun’s corona,” Massoud added.

  “Confirmed,” Scott said from engineering.

  “Fire again,” Kirk commanded, raising his voice. “Hold for two minutes this time.”

  Again the beam lashed the alien. Myra Coles leaned forward, her eyes wide. McCoy was certain that everyone on the bridge had probably guessed the implications of what they were seeing. If full power from the ship’s phasers was having so little [134] effect, then striking with photon torpedoes might not do any better. The alien would not be easily destroyed.

  As the
beam shut down again, with no effect, Spock said, “You must fire photon torpedoes within the next hour to have any hope of diverting the object’s course ... or of destroying it in time.”

  The Vulcan might be pronouncing his own death sentence. McCoy lowered his eyes for a moment, wondering if Jim would be capable of acting.

  No one on the bridge spoke for a long time. At last Kirk said, “Keep pace and ready the torpedo spread.”

  I should have known better, McCoy told himself. James Tiberius Kirk would sacrifice Spock, if necessary, to do his duty. What that would do to his innards, McCoy did not want to know, but the captain would meet his responsibility to the people of Tyrtaeus II. He glanced at the Coles woman and saw that her gray eyes were glistening, as if filling with tears at the prospect of what was coming. Reserved as she was, she would still weep for her people—and, he suspected, she would also shed a tear for Spock.

  Kirk looked toward McCoy, then back to the viewscreen. “Spock,” he said, “we’re going to fire the barrage.”

  “I understand, Captain.”

  “Fire!” Kirk shouted, almost as if cursing at himself.

  The photon torpedoes shot out like swift electric [135] eels through the black of space, and struck the mobile’s rocky surface. McCoy tensed, expecting to see the rocky surface wounded and the mobile pushed off its course.

  But the asteroid was still on the screen, seemingly immovable and invulnerable. McCoy heard Kirk’s stifled sigh of relief precede his own. Sulu turned for a moment to look at the captain, his face betraying his relief; he would not be Spock’s executioner after all.

  “Wait!” Massoud shouted from his station. “The torpedoes had some effect after all! We have a course change that will put the mobile into a solar orbit.”

  “What?” Myra Coles said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her.

  Kirk was very still. “Spock, are you there?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yes, Captain. I felt some vibration from the torpedoes, but the area around me seems unaffected. Tricorder readings indicate no damage to this section of the mobile.”

  “Captain.” The low-pitched voice over the communicator had the sound of resignation and despair. It was Scotty’s voice, and McCoy suddenly knew what the engineer did not want to say. “The damned thing is correcting its course again. Heading back into the sun.”

  “Oh, no,” Myra Coles said softly, “oh, no.” Again McCoy wondered if she was thinking of Spock’s fate or of what might now happen to her [136] world. He wanted to believe she was thinking of both

  Wellesley Warren came to her side, looking concerned. “It will be so terrible for him,” McCoy heard her whisper to her aide, and he wondered if she was speaking of Spock or of the captain.

  Kirk got to his feet. “It’s not over yet,” he said, staring coldly at the screen. McCoy felt the captain’s determination move through the bridge like a force of nature.

  “But what can you do?” Myra Coles moved past McCoy and toward Kirk. “If the torpedoes couldn’t stop it—”

  “I was prepared to do what had to be done,” Kirk said in a toneless voice, “even if it meant the death of ... of one of my crew. That ought to convince you that I also had the interests of your people at heart.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that, James. I never doubted that you did. How I wish ...” She bowed her head. She would be thinking, McCoy thought, that if Jim had listened to her, he might not now be facing this dilemma. Maybe he had provoked the thing into defending itself by going inside it in the first place. Maybe he should have acted earlier.

  “Spock,” Kirk asked, “how can the mobile resist phaser fire and photon torpedoes?”

  “Unknown, Captain. Its hull would have to be carbon neutronium at the very least, but with mass and inertia completely neutralized, to move as it does. I am speculating, of course.”

  [137] “Jim,” McCoy said then, “you’ve got to get him out of there. That thing’s going into the sun, and nothing can stop it.”

  “Spock?” Kirk asked. “Any suggestions?”

  “The only possibility for changing its course now,” Spock answered, “is still to find some controls aboard this vessel.”

  But there weren’t any controls, McCoy thought, realizing that Spock would probably be lost after all. He had been shielded from the photon torpedo barrage, but there was no way that he could survive the hell of the sun.

  Chapter Nine

  HE HAD FAILED his friend. Kirk knew that he would carry the burden of that knowledge for the rest of his life. Unjustly, for him it would outweigh the bitterness the Tyrtaeans would feel if their world and environment were irretrievably damaged or lost, and the almost inevitable court-martial if that happened. His will remained strong, but he wondered if he would have the heart to defend himself, to make the case that his actions had been justified. He thought of the court-martial that had been instituted against him not long ago, when he had been unjustly accused of causing an Enterprise crewman’s death. He had thought that might be the end of his career. Spock had saved him that time, by discovering that the starship’s computer programming had been altered, and that the crewman, [139] who was working out a grudge against Kirk, was still alive, hiding aboard the starship.

  “I am sorry, James.”

  He turned and looked into Myra Coles’s face.

  “About Commander Spock,” she continued.

  “It wouldn’t have happened if I’d followed your advice,” he said.

  “I wasn’t going to say that.” She looked away. “If our sun is affected, and my world suffers because of that, my people will look for someone to blame. They know that Starfleet will deal with you, but my fate will be in their hands. They’ll remember that Aristocles and I insisted that one of us be here to help in exploring the mobile, and that I was here to advise you. Many will remember how I always defended our ties with the Federation. That you didn’t listen to me and didn’t follow my advice may not be enough to redeem me in their eyes.”

  Kirk said, “You’ll lose the next election, I suppose.” He said it as gently as he could.

  Wellesley Warren stepped closer to her. “That would be the least of Myra’s problems, Captain,” the young man said. “When a Tyrtaean commits a grave offense against society—and, believe me, it happens rarely—the punishment is exile.”

  “Exile?” Kirk asked.

  Warren looked uncomfortable. “The accused is tried in a public place before a jury of sixteen Tyrtaeans.” He spoke in a monotone. “He must make his own case and speak in his own defense. Anyone who wishes may come forward to offer [140] evidence, either for or against him. If a majority on the jury votes against him, the offender is taken to our northern continent, where the climate is extremely harsh, and given only a few tools, weapons, and some provisions. Anyone who can survive alone there for five years will have his offense forgiven, and is welcomed back into society. Only one person has ever survived exile.” Warren paused for a moment. “You see, we Tyrtaeans are a practical people, and such a punishment is much simpler than building a prison or devising original forms of execution—practical also in that anyone who survives exile has demonstrated his self-reliance, earned forgiveness, and proven his worth to the rest of us.”

  “There’s nothing about such a punishment in your public records,” Kirk said.

  “Of course not. What would be the point? If the offender is exiled, it’s best to forget him. If he lives and is forgiven, why keep a record of his offense? There again, we are practical.”

  “Some offenders choose not to struggle on,” Myra said softly. “There are rumors that several committed suicide in the early months of their exile. Suicide would have been their final act of self-determination.”

  “Myra,” Kirk said softly, and put his hand on her shoulder for a moment, but he could not speak.

  Spock would perish and the solar output might be affected. Even a tractor beam at full power would not be able to stop an object accelerating to [141] well beyond
two hundred kilometers per second. The best that could be hoped for would be that the star would swallow the alien artifact and there would be no further consequences. He would escape his court-martial and Myra would not be punished by exile. She would still lose much—the next election for sure, and perhaps also the debate with those who wanted to found an independent Tyrtaean colony, but at least she would have her life; and all he would lose was whatever knowledge the mobile might have yielded, and his closest comrade.

  No, Kirk told himself, I refuse to accept even that.

  He sat down at his station again. “Spock, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Tell me what you think of this wild supposition. If this thing can resist photon torpedoes and phaser fire, and is made of the kind of materials we think it is, is it possible that it could resist this sun’s interior?”

  “Perhaps, Captain. But this vessel’s interior will reach extreme temperatures unless there are systems in place of which we know nothing as yet. I doubt that I could survive even if the object maintains its integrity for a time. At best, if it could resist heat and pressure indefinitely, I would still be trapped inside without provisions and little prospect of escape.”

  “Yes, of course,” Kirk said, feeling the [142] hopelessness creep back into him once more. He was useless; he could do nothing; there was nothing to be done. No, he told himself. To admit defeat now would only ensure that he lost in the end.

  “I will attempt one more stratagem,” Spock said, “in the time I have left. I propose to go back to the narrowing passage without my utility suit and attempt to push through to the forward section of the mobile. There is still a slight chance of finding controls there and altering the alien vessel’s course.”

  “Do it, then.” Any course of action was preferable to doing nothing at all. “In the meantime,” Kirk continued, “we’ll give the mobile another shove with our impulse booster. It’s worth a try. Scotty, do you hear me?”

  “Aye, Captain. Ready to do it now.”

  The people on the bridge were silent, waiting through long minutes as the booster gave the mobile its invisible push.