Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

  “Reach as low as you can into the stellar atmosphere,” the captain told him, then looked to the helm. “Sulu, you’ll help him. Push in as far as she’ll take it and then reverse at max impulse, plotting a tight spiral at Z plus zero-one-zero degrees.”

  A bead of sweat slid down Sulu’s cheek as he punched the commands into the controls. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain noticed the back of his own neck was wet. The bridge felt like a sauna. The K-type star now filled the main viewer in its entirety. “Reverse angle. Zero magnification.”

  As Enterprise pressed farther into the corona, Kirk watched the missiles behind them spinning and tumbling against the friction of the stellar atmosphere. A few lost their navigation systems and spiraled off, burning as they fell into the chromosphere.

  “Reduce speed, Mister Sulu. One tenth.”

  Sulu nodded and the Kenisian spheres grew closer on the main viewscreen. They were catching up.

  “Hull temperature rising. It’s at ninety-two percent of tolerance, sir,” Forbes reported.

  “Internal temps thirty-three degrees and rising, Captain,” Jolma complained.

  “Stand by.” Kirk slowly inched forward in the command chair. As the spheres wobbled on the viewscreen, the captain wasn’t sure if the missiles were quivering from their own structural difficulties or if it was because the Enterprise was experiencing turbulence.

  “Tractor beam now, Forbes. Sulu, go!”

  Fingers of energy reached down, gripped a giant swath of solar atmosphere and pulled it back toward them.

  Under Sulu’s control, Enterprise twisted, curled upward, then gathered itself and sped away. The tractor beam hadn’t the range to continue, but the streamer of fire and plasma it had pulled up coiled into a funnel that engulfed the missiles.

  The coronal tornado whipped several bright prominences into the pursuing missiles. A peppering of explosions dotted the orange disk that filled the screen. Kirk watched the explosions expand and disappear as the Enterprise sped away. The tactical display confirmed it; the threat was gone.

  “Hull temperature dropping,” Jolma reported with an exhausted chuckle. “No hostiles in pursuit.”

  “No casualties, Captain,” Uhura said. “Crew cooling down.” She smiled and waved a hand in front of her own face.

  Kirk returned the smile, wiped his brow with his tunic sleeve, and though he felt a tug of unease even after their victory, he told the bridge crew, “Good work.” He turned fully toward Uhura. “Secure from red alert. All hands to repair stations as needed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Course, Captain?” Chekov asked, and that bit of unease grew in Kirk’s gut again.

  “That, Mister Chekov,” he said as he leaned forward, “is a very good question.”

  “IMPOSSIBLE.” Sciver closed the panel and twisted a magnetic lock. “There are systems we shall not allow you to access.”

  “Understandable.” It was not in Spock’s best interest to actively antagonize the Kenisian scientist. Which didn’t mean he could not do so passively. “If you will be kind enough to present a list of all restricted systems, I’ll be delighted to redesign my experiments to conform to your limitations. Please inform your commander I’ll have a revised time estimate within two days.”

  “No,” Sciver huffed quickly, clearly irritated. “We . . .” Whatever he planned to say, he stopped himself and paused to consider his next words carefully. “You will make a list of the systems you’ll need to access, and we will seek Zhatan’s approval.”

  As if the Kenisian had just uttered the wisdom of Surak himself, Spock nodded diffidently. “Of course.”

  Dithering as he turned, Sciver twisted right back. “Zhatan trusts you.”

  There was no question, so Spock merely gazed at him.

  “If you seek to join her thoughts to yours, we warn you, she’s incorruptible.”

  Spock nodded. “I’ve no doubt.”

  Curtly nodding back, Sciver spun and walked away.

  Returning to his console, the Vulcan considered Sciver’s statement and attitude.

  Pippenge, whose brief meditation had refreshed him significantly, watched from his chair. “What is wrong, Mister Spock?” the ambassador asked.

  Articulating that list, Spock thought, would take a great deal of time. But he knew Pippenge had referred to whatever incident had surely left some sign on his face. “An interesting conversation with Mister Sciver.”

  “Was it a useful discussion?” Pippenge asked.

  “I am not certain.”

  “WE DON’T LIKE HIM.” Sciver stood before his commander, arms held tensely behind his back.

  “ ‘Don’t like,’ ” Zhatan said with a sneer. “We don’t remember asking for a list of your likes and dislikes.”

  Opening his mouth to speak, Sciver instantly reconsidered, perhaps remembering to whom he spoke. “Commander, forgive us—”

  “Stop.” Zhatan put up a hand. “You are not insubordinate for expressing this opinion. Many hold the same.”

  He relaxed a bit, his stance softening, but his hands remaining behind his back. “He is too polite. Too genial. We feel he still delays us purposely.”

  “Of course he does.” She looked out her office port into the dark, unmoving starscape. “But he is of Vulcan. He understands us better than an alien. We are of like blood.”

  “Blood, yes. But are we of like goals? We think not.”

  Zhatan nodded. “We agree, of course. Our goals are not the same, but his needs merge with ours rather nicely, would you not agree?”

  “Hmmm,” Sciver grunted, presumably considering that notion. But his next question was unrelated. “If he cannot limit the destructive radius of the na’hubis, will we still use it?”

  The query shattered across her desk like a piece of jagged glass.

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course.”

  “We can’t.”

  “We must,” Tibis said.

  “Horrible.”

  “Necessary.”

  “Insanity.”

  “Vengeance!”

  “We should.”

  “We cannot.”

  “Mustn’t.”

  “We will,” Tibis assured them.

  Zhatan stared hard at Sciver, but said nothing for a very long time. Finally, she turned away and again looked out into the coolness of space. “Give Spock what he needs.”

  “AGAINST OUR BETTER JUDGMENT, you have been granted the access you requested.” Sciver’s expression was twisted into what Spock believed was thinly veiled scorn.

  Did “our better judgment” mean those consciousnesses within Sciver or Zhatan as well? If anyone’s judgment was in question, it was all the Kenisians. Wanting to deploy this powerful weapon was a poor decision. Spock suspected all Kenisians suffered from the same mental disorder.

  Attempting to reason with such individuals—multividuals—was not an easy task.

  “Thank you,” Spock said simply, and he waited for Sciver to hand him the magnetic lock.

  When the Kenisian held it out, Spock took it with a grateful nod and turned nonchalantly toward the panel he’d previously wanted to access.

  Sciver left, seemingly uninterested in monitoring the Vulcan. Or perhaps merely satisfied with the electronic surveillance already in place. Spock understood such limited observation when working at a computer, but now he had access to the vessel’s power systems. He couldn’t help but wonder if some of the consciousnesses within the crew were trying to covertly help him avert the weapon’s completion. Was Sciver’s apparent disdain a reaction to those within that urged him to trust or help Spock? It was a possibility Spock might be able to use.

  Opening the panel, Spock considered if the better option was to meld with one of the Kenisians. Sciver’s warning that Zhatan could not be corrupted by such a joining indicated to Spock that it was possible.

  Forcing someone to mind-meld was highly unethical. Zhatan did it to Captain Kirk, and had Spock allowed him
self to have a feeling about the incident, it would have been rage. He could assume that a high number of the consciousnesses held within either Sciver or Zhatan would be equally irate should Spock attempt such a violation. It was possible the combined mental strength of the Kenisian might overwhelm him and cause permanent damage.

  For now, Spock needed to focus on the task at hand. Within the access panel was a power conduit. With the warp power offline, he would be able to route power to the lab testing equipment he’d requested. The first of these tests would allow him to manipulate the smallest possible amount of the na’hubis compound with high-energy plasma. When contained properly, it would not develop a chain reaction.

  Was there a way to successfully attain the experiment’s data without stopping the Kenisian vessel? Yes. But because neither Zhatan nor Sciver knew an alternative test, they had to agree to his recommendations.

  Calling the ambassador to assist him, Spock began his work. Pippenge walked over, seemingly happy for the distraction. Spock had been sure to inform the ambassador that considerable effort had been made to avoid the Kenisians blaming Pippenge for any of the Vulcan’s actions.

  “How may I help, Mister Spock?” Since his self-induced meditative rest, Pippenge had embraced a remarkable calm. He even sounded mildly cheerful. Doctor McCoy would be interested to study the physiological part of the process. Spock was curious himself.

  “I will need the instrument displays monitored and certain tools handed to me.”

  “I am gratefully at your service, Commander.” The ambassador bowed slightly.

  Reaching into the panel, Spock worked while Pippenge talked.

  “You know, I never thought—even as the ambassador to alien worlds—I would be on a journey such as this. Our ancestors, of course, were deep-space travelers, but no Maabas has left our current home system for many years. Centuries, at least. Not until our negotiations with the Federation began in earnest. And now look where I am.”

  Pippenge was just talking, and Spock had tasks to perform, so therefore he did not reply.

  The ambassador continued unprompted. “We search within rather than without, you see. That’s why we have more deep-sea vessels than orbital ones. Did I tell you my niece was fourth in command of a ship? An ocean vessel. I speak to her at least twice a week.” His voice began to waver a bit. “Though I have not since we . . . left, and she is likely quite worried by now.”

  “Will your government have informed her of your disposition?” Spock asked.

  Pippenge puckered his lips. “Doubtful. How could they? If they told her the truth, it could spread and panic would ensue.”

  Handing the ambassador one tool and asking for another, Spock continued to work as Pippenge chattered on.

  “I must tell you, despite the façade, I am quite frightened.”

  Pulling his arm out of the access panel and turning to face the ambassador, Spock was uncertain how to reply.

  While humans seemed to like baseless assurances at such a time, and he had even indulged in that with Pippenge to some degree, the Vulcan didn’t wish to lie to the ambassador. He would rather be forthright. As always, Spock had to walk in a middle-ground.

  “Fear need not be an irrational emotion,” Spock said. “Under the circumstances, your anxiety is warranted.”

  From the ambassador’s expression, the Vulcan could tell he had not ameliorated his dread. What had McCoy once told him? Pep talks aren’t your strong suit, Mister Spock.

  What would Captain Kirk say in such a circumstance? How would he hearten Pippenge’s mood? Perhaps a reasonably upbeat comment might spare the ambassador some angst.

  “You can use fear to prepare yourself for useful action, or you can allow it to cripple you into inaction. Having spent time with you, I believe you are prepared for the former.”

  His flattened lips becoming a smile, Pippenge grabbed Spock’s hand to shake it heartily, then dropped it and quickly changed to the Vulcan salute. “Of course, you are right. Thank you, Commander. I trust we will both prosper long and live happily.”

  The Vulcan returned the obligatory salute and set out to continue his work.

  They toiled silently for some time. When Spock was done rerouting the power, he made sure to disable certain fail-safes he thought might prove useful. One of his alterations would cause the vessel to slowly vent plasma that could be identified by the Enterprise’s sensors.

  If they knew where to look.

  THIRTEEN

  The captain’s plan had been to backtrack through history and study all records on whoever had gone to war with the same foe as had attacked both the Maabas and the Kenisians. There were a dozen worlds who’d seen conflict with the same aggressor. Now Kirk had to pinpoint their origin. He believed Zhatan was taking Spock and Pippenge to that location, so that was where the Enterprise needed to be.

  “Anything, Lieutenant?” Kirk asked Uhura. He’d tasked her with contacting all the systems they’d known to have been previously attacked. Most had replied, but two had refused once the topic was explained. The captain had hoped he could send a message that both assured them and implored them for help sufficiently.

  Uhura was sure they were receiving Kirk’s personal message, but he had not persuaded them. “I’m sorry, sir. The two remaining worlds refuse to reply.”

  The ten other civilizations that had survived this foe’s attacks and still existed had been more open. Some had offered access to their historical archives for Palamas and Jolma to pore over. A few had said no record existed from that time. But the data the Enterprise had been given access to led to their first lead: a name.

  The conquerors who worked their way across the sector during the time period the Kenisians were displaced had been called many things—the marauders, desolaters, decimators—all very dark and horrible as they likely were. They all had records suggesting it was the same race: archives showing the same vessel types, the same weaponry, and the same methods. But most never named the attackers. Only two had mentioned “the Sahntiek.”

  Whether that was a race name, or a cultural designation, no one knew.

  “It could be their word for warrior,” Uhura offered.

  “Or a political designation,” Palamas said from the alternate science station where she’d been reviewing records. “On Rigel IV, inhabitants of the Argus valley call themselves J’fren, which is the name of an ancient political party that seceded from the hill society.”

  It didn’t much matter to the captain. He wanted to call them something other than “those who conquered the Kenisians.”

  “Sir, none of these archives talk about a planet of origin for the Sahntiek.” Frustrated, Jolma pinched the bridge of his nose tightly then mopped his brow with a tunic sleeve. The bridge hadn’t been warm for quite some time, but the young ensign was being asked to perform beyond his experience.

  “Take a break, Jolma.” Kirk nodded toward the turbolift.

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  The captain cut him off, his tone somewhere between concerned father and commanding officer. “How long has it been since you slept? You stayed on an extra watch already. You’re no good to me tired, Ensign. Rest. That’s an order.”

  Looking defeated and more than a bit dejected, Jolma trudged to the lift.

  “Nice bedside manner,” McCoy muttered. Kirk hadn’t noticed the doctor enter the bridge.

  The captain motioned to Uhura. “Lieutenant, take over for Mister Jolma.”

  Gliding easily from her seat to the science station, she winked at McCoy. “I’m on my third watch. But I’m not annoying the captain with my youth and inexperience.”

  That stung a bit, because Kirk didn’t want to discourage Jolma, but experience did matter, and Uhura had more than the ensign.

  The doctor replied with a wink, “I manage to annoy the captain without the benefit of youth.”

  “Let’s assume,” Kirk began, “that the Sahntiek attacked planets in the order they found them. Where would that place their point of ori
gin?”

  “Hmmm. Let’s see.” Uhura ran the calculations. Her hands glided as gracefully over the science station console as they did her communications controls. Eventually she motioned to the screen above her. “Here we go, sir.”

  The captain stepped over to the rail. The display showed a series of planetary systems in this sector and listed the dates of conflict. A curved line charted a backward trajectory to three possible star systems of origin.

  “That narrows it down,” Kirk said, thoughtfully running a finger on his lower lip. “But we don’t have time to investigate each system.”

  “We’re going in the right direction.” Uhura’s encouraging smile was still vibrant after all they’d been through. She had the confidence of an experienced officer. The young ensign would get there, but not everything could be learned in a double watch. Some things had to be lived.

  “Probes, sir?” Chekov asked. “One in each possible direction.”

  Kirk turned toward the ensign. “We need to pick directions to go in, and by the time we get telemetry back that indicates we’re on the wrong track, we’ll have wasted too much time. Maybe more than we have.”

  “So what now?” McCoy asked. “Eeny meeny miney moe?”

  Kirk responded quietly. “No.” He stepped up to his chair. “Spock knows we’re looking for him. Even if we’re not in communications range, he’d leave us a trail to follow.”

  “I’m sure he will if he has the means, sir,” Palamas said. “But how do we know he does?”

  “He’s Spock,” Kirk said matter-of-factly as he twisted toward Uhura. “You’re still trying to make contact?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. An automated message is repeating on his last known frequency. We’ll know if he responds.”

  “When he responds,” McCoy said.

  The captain nodded and motioned toward Uhura. “Continue a full long-range sensor sweep.”

  Sliding into place behind the sensor cowl, she nodded. “Aye, sir. What am I looking for?”

  “A sign.”

  If Spock were alive, he would signal the Enterprise. The captain was certain of it. No matter the odds, Kirk wouldn’t allow himself to believe his first officer and friend was dead.