Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

  By destroying one, they’d damaged the other—and themselves.

  “Damage report.” Kirk turned to Scotty, who was now standing behind the assistant engineer who worked the main engineering station. Just now, one hand wasn’t enough.

  The status screen above the engineering station was discouraging. “Shields are weakened. Down to thirty-seven percent. Torpedo launch systems are out. Only one phaser bank is responding. We can’t take much more and walk away, sir.”

  “Understood, Mister Scott.” The captain huffed out a breath. “Scotty, I want ten torpedoes moved to the hangar deck.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Have them set with delayed proximity fuses.”

  The chief engineer nodded and smiled. “Aye.”

  “Come about, Mister Sulu,” Kirk said as he returned to the command chair. “Show them our aft.”

  “THEY’RE TURNING to run.” Martish laughed as he smeared the soot off his sweaty forehead.

  Debarr spat a bloody tooth onto the deck. “Did you notice that my face was crushed into my console?”

  The admiral looked at him blankly. “No. Why did you do that?”

  “Because you fell on me,” Debarr yelled.

  “That was Gorm’s fault for getting his ship destroyed. I told you to turn us into the shockwave.”

  “If I slice open your fat gut, do you think turning into my blade would save your spleen?”

  Martish waved him off and wedged his body tightly back into the command chair. “Never mind that. Enterprise is weakened. Hail them again, and we will discuss terms of their surrender.”

  Cupping one hand over his mouth so that blood didn’t drip onto his controls, Debarr hailed the Federation ship.

  As they waited, the admiral took another drink. He relished the image on their main screen. A powerful ship, running from them. “Look at that,” he said pointing to the image. “They fear us.”

  “Not enough,” Debarr said. “They still don’t reply.”

  “Get back in range. We need to disable them.”

  Moving to comply, the lieutenant glanced at the distance indicator for weapons lock acquisition. “Rueft?”

  “What?”

  Debarr leaned back, turning, but raised a finger toward the screen. “They’re not moving away. They’re moving toward us.”

  Martish demanded, “Why would they do that?”

  “I—I don’t know,” the lieutenant said as he scrambled to aim the disruptors. “Wait.” He checked the console and then rechecked it. “They’ve stopped. Still just outside weapons range.”

  Martish blinked at the screen, and Debarr gulped down a mouthful of blood.

  “Could they be dead in space?”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “No, sensors say their propulsion systems are online.”

  “Perhaps their bridge has a breach and their captain is dead,” the admiral mused. “That would explain their silence.”

  “It wouldn’t explain their odd maneuver.”

  Waggling a finger at the Federation ship, Martish had made his decision. “Close to weapons range. We will spur them to move or determine their motive.”

  “I do not think this a wise course,” Debarr said.

  After another sip from his flask, Martish said, “I didn’t ask what you thought. I am in command.”

  “Fine.” The lieutenant, who was once an admiral, smacked the controls and they sped forward. “Be in command!” He got up and turned toward the door. “You can fly the damn thing too.”

  “Come back here, you ingrate. This is mutiny!” Martish struggled to get to his feet.

  When he looked forward, several black orbs filled the screen. By the time he realized they were topedoes, it was too late to reach the controls.

  ONE EXPLOSION after another blanketed Martish’s vessel, hiding it from Enterprise’s view. Kirk’s chest tightened with anticipation and when the explosions cleared, the Grepund ship was listing to one side.

  “Jolma?” The captain looked up expectantly.

  “She’s disabled.”

  “And the other one?”

  “In retreat,” the ensign said, “returning to the Sahntiek system.”

  The captain turned to his chief engineer. “Scotty, what kind of speed can you give me?”

  “No more than warp three, sir. She just can’t take more.”

  Let’s hope it’s fast enough.

  EIGHTEEN

  “You’re welcome.” Zhatan lowered herself slowly into her command chair as she motioned for the guards to bring the prisoners forward.

  “W-welcome?” Pippenge’s nerves, which had been steady, reemerged

  “We didn’t kill you,” the Kenisian commander said, but seemed displeased with her own decision. “Yet. So, you’re welcome.” Finished with the Maabas ambassador—perhaps for the last time—she looked to the Vulcan. “Tell me what you’ve done.” She wasn’t asking. Safe on her own bridge, guards holding weapons on them, Zhatan was in command.

  Spock would have to do something about that.

  “You will have to be specific, Commander. I have done many things.”

  Behind her coal-black eyes, he could see her fume. “Silence!” Zhatan snapped. “Tell us what you’ve done to Sciver and the mine!”

  Deliberately trying to provoke her, Spock maintained his unemotional demeanor. “You’ve given two conflicting orders. Which shall I give priority?”

  Her eyes glazed over. Yet another Kenisian internal debate, he assumed. Eventually, Zhatan recovered herself. “Tell us now how to fix the mine, or we will end you.”

  Spock raised a singular eyebrow. “Indeed? Since detonation of the mine would include that outcome, your threat is hollow.”

  The Kenisian commander stood and motioned for the guards to aim their weapons at Pippenge, which they quickly did. “And if we order the ambassador’s death? What then?”

  “Logically, if the mine kills us all, that includes Ambassador Pippenge.” Spock bowed his head slightly at the Maabasian. “You’ll forgive me, sir.”

  “I— Yes, of course.”

  Fists balled at her sides, Zhatan swallowed hard. She stood there, shaking, saying nothing until finally she unleashed a torrent of angry words on Spock. “You are a liar and have stolen our precious time! If you truly understood us, you would know why we must take these actions.”

  The Vulcan found himself at a loss for how to proceed. The captain could talk his way out of the most difficult of situations using a mix of logic and passion, the formula for which had eluded Spock.

  His orders were to disable the crew and leave the ship intact, because anything else could set off the na’hubis. His efforts, so far, had been fruitful.

  While he might not admit this to either the captain or Doctor McCoy, Spock asked himself, What would James Kirk do?

  “You are correct. I do not understand,” he told her. “I’d like to, but cannot fathom the depth of destruction you seek to cause.” As Spock stepped toward her the guards tensed, but she waved them off. “Explain it to me, Zhatan. Elucidate.”

  She shrank down into her seat as he took another step toward her, but she didn’t order the guards to stop him. Likely, Zhatan was thinking that the answer to fixing the prototype mine was in his mind, and she would have the solution if she melded with him.

  Or, perhaps the arrogance of some personalities within her thought they could subdue him. Whatever the reason, Zhatan was drawn to Spock’s tacit offer to meld, though she didn’t move toward him.

  Holding out his hand, Spock pulled the Kenisian commander up, close enough that his elbow had to bend for his fingers to meet her cheek and temple.

  “My mind to your—” Spock grunted in pain. Unlike the other melds, this was an uneven connection with coarse edges that bit at his psyche. He dove into the whirlpool of her minds, and she pushed into his thoughts as quickly.

  “We . . .” he rasped.

  “Are . . .” she whispered.

  “Of Kenis,” they said
together.

  They drew one another close, and Zhatan’s fingers wrapped themselves around Spock’s head as he brought up his left hand to press into the other side of her face.

  “We . . .” he moaned.

  “Have . . .” she continued.

  “Been decimated,” they voiced.

  Hate—pure, white-hot hatred—crushed into Spock, boiling his blood and knitting agony down his spine.

  “We . . .”

  “Are . . .”

  “Tibis!”

  Tibis. A singular among the many, but not Zhatan. She fed them moments, memories that sliced through their minds, slivers of recollections that burned as they burrowed into him: children watching their parents die, families burned alive, hospitals vaporized, ships destroyed, starvation, radiation . . .

  “We—”

  “Are—”

  “Vengeance!” Tibis screamed through their lungs.

  “Your vengeance,” Spock accused. “Not Zhatan’s.”

  “We are Zhatan.”

  “We are?” the Kenisian woman asked.

  “You are not,” the Vulcan compelled.

  “She would not live if we had not survived,” Tibis said.

  “She lives,” Spock choked out. “Let her live.”

  Zhatan and Spock pressed harder into each other. His hands felt as if they had melted into her temples. Hers felt like they’d become a part of his forehead and jaw.

  Tibis was a force. She may have been a person at one time, or just an amalgamation of several like-minded consciousnesses which banded together to control Zhatan. Either way, Tibis held sway over her to a great degree and was ready to wield it.

  “Release us,” Spock said.

  “Help me,” Zhatan murmured.

  There were sounds around them, calls from the one named Nidal and chirps and bleeps from equipment, but they were pushed aside. There were odd-but-familiar feelings, an electricity that buzzed nearby them, tickling their collective skin. They disregarded that too. Only their anger was important. Only their rage.

  THE KENISIAN SHIELDS were down just when Spock said they’d be. That didn’t mean the Enterprise could fire on the vessel—they dared not—but it granted them access. In six pillars of light, Kirk, McCoy, and four security guards beamed directly to Zhatan’s bridge.

  Pippenge gasped, looking shocked and relieved as the Starfleet security guards stunned their Kenisian counterparts.

  The woman at the helm stood, but had no weapon. When Kirk pointed his phaser at her and nodded for her to move away from her console, she did. Oddly, she too looked a mixture of surprised and relieved.

  With his free hand, Kirk pulled out his communicator and flipped it open. “Kirk to Enterprise.”

  “Enterprise. Scott here, sir.”

  “Bridge is secured, Mister Scott. Begin transporting boarding parties. Secure the na’hubis mines.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The captain snapped his communicator closed, and returned it to his belt as he moved toward the command chair.

  Entwined in a mind-meld, Spock and Zhatan looked catatonic. McCoy immediately had his medical tricorder out and was running it over them.

  When he scanned them for a third time, Kirk prodded, “Bones?”

  “I don’t know, Jim.” The doctor snapped his tricorder shut. “Spock could be in trouble. Zhatan’s an incredibly strong telepath.”

  “Stronger than Spock?” the captain asked. “Can we pull them apart?”

  McCoy shook his head. “That’s not a good idea.”

  VOICES HE RECOGNIZED, McCoy’s, Kirk’s. She feared them. Some respected them. They all knew them and were curious. Tibis hated them.

  “Are they fighting one another?” Pippenge’s voice.

  The ambassador, a vile man, a brave man, an insipid man, an honorable man, a curious man, a frightened man.

  “I can’t tell.” Kirk’s voice.

  The captain. Stubborn. No, determined. Clever. Too clever. Wise. No, naïve. Experienced. Frustrating. A survivor.

  “Zhatan, listen to me. Let Spock go.”

  We are Spock.

  We are Zhatan.

  We are Tibis.

  We are many.

  We are survivors.

  We must endure.

  “We are Kenisians. We will have vengeance.”

  “Spock isn’t a Kenisian,” Kirk said.

  Captain? The captain is here.

  “He may be lost in there, Jim.”

  The doctor. McCoy is here.

  “But he’s still there, somewhere.”

  We are Spock. We are Zhatan. We live.

  “Understand us, we want revenge,” Spock and Zhatan said in unison.

  “There is no revenge!” Captain Kirk said.

  Frustrated. Angry. Passionate. But so are we. We are Tibis. We are Zhatan. We are Spock.

  “There will be revenge,” Spock and Zhatan said in unison.

  “Zhatan, listen to me. The Sahntiek are gone. Obliterated by another race. The fleet you found isn’t theirs. It belongs to their conquerors.”

  “Lies.”

  “No, the captain is honest.”

  “No, he is deceitful. He is not Kenisian.”

  “Spock is not Kenisian.”

  “The Vulcan can be controlled.”

  “The Sahntiek?” Pippenge again. “Are you certain, Captain? They were our conquerors.”

  STILL MELDED TO SPOCK, Zhatan turned to the Maabas ambassador. Something in his voice pulled her. “Y-you understand us?”

  “I believe I do.” Pippenge stepped toward them. “We had a common enemy.”

  “You hate them? You want them dead.” Zhatan was sobbing now. She and Spock were melded; still grasping each other, the Vulcan looked on the verge of tears.

  “They are dead.” The ambassador looked to Kirk, who nodded his agreement. “As are those of my people whom they killed.”

  “The past is the past, Zhatan,” Kirk said.

  “Our dead are at peace,” Pippenge whispered.

  “Peace,” Spock groaned. “Send Tibis away, Zhatan. Send her away.”

  “You have within you the memories, the anger, of hundreds of people wronged by a people long since turned to dust.” Kirk lowered his phaser and came within a meter of the Kenisian commander and his first officer. “The Maabas are at peace because they knew when to let go of their past. They’ve buried their dead. Yours are still holding on to you.”

  “Holding us back,” Spock and Zhatan said in unison.

  “Yes. Their hatred doesn’t have to be yours.” Kirk slowly placed one hand on Spock’s elbow and pulled him away from the Kenisian as far as he could without breaking their connection. “Those acts weren’t done to you—but to people who should have said goodbye when their physical forms were gone.”

  “We must survive,” Spock whispered and Zhatan spat.

  “Survive,” Kirk said. “But don’t demand the deaths of others to fuel your hate.”

  “Find peace,” Pippenge said. He moved to Zhatan and pulled one of her hands off Spock and cupped it in his own. “Have the courage to move on. Don’t burden your progeny with your pain.”

  “Spock,” Kirk said, “help her.”

  “Help them,” Pippenge said.

  Zhatan turned to Spock, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Help me. Please. Help me.”

  The Vulcan pulled her close again and reached deep into her minds.

  THERE WERE HUNDREDS of consciousness within her, but a large mass of them called themselves Tibis.

  “You will not silence us, Vul-kuhn,” they told Spock. “We are Zhatan more than Zhatan is.”

  “You are most certainly not,” Zhatan protested. For the first time she was angry at herself. Angry at Tibis. “You have perverted us. You have manipulated us with your hate to the point where we can no longer love!”

  “Who made you what you are?” Tibis questioned her. “Your love of asab nectar comes from where? Your ability to command. Your desire to join t
he fleet and be a soldier. From what well do those needs spring? From us.”

  Spock saw this was true. As with Burgee, some of the katras within had molded the individual whose brain was being shared. Burgee was encouraged toward the academic. Zhatan had been pushed toward war and hate.

  But how different was this from a child listening and learning from their parents or the others they revered? For good or ill, the young heard many voices. How much they listened and heeded should have been a personal choice.

  “This will not help you, Zhatan. We are not only Tibis, and without us our entire race would have died at the Sahntiek’s hands.”

  “She is an individual,” Spock said. “And you are not.”

  “We were,” Tibis spat bitterly. “Now she is our individual.”

  That was the key. Tibis was clearly not one mind. As Spock had suspected, they were a political ideology. Not a set of emotions or memories, they were a philosophy given voice within the minds of others.

  This was the root of all Zhatan’s hesitation, all her internal debates and constant confusion. Tibis was not content to be within Zhatan. They wanted to be Zhatan.

  “I am not yours,” Zhatan said, fighting for herself. “And you will be silent. You will finally be silent, Tibis, or I will make you so.”

  “You haven’t the ability,” Tibis told her. “And your Vul-kuhn friend cannot help.”

  “That is untrue,” Spock informed the commander. “I can help you, and you can help yourself.”

  “Teach me, Spock,” Zhatan asked. “Free me.”

  THEY STOOD SILENTLY for several minutes, barely moving. McCoy shook his head when the captain suggested separating them.

  Suddenly, they parted.

  Head bowed, a shaken Spock stepped away and nearly collapsed into McCoy’s waiting arms.

  Zhatan, lips quivering, turned to the woman who stood before the helm. “How goes the ship, my love?”

  “Unabated,” the woman answered, her voice wavering hopefully. “Ever unabated.”

  EPILOGUE

  Captain’s log, supplemental.

  The na’hubis has been disposed of in a safe manner. Commander Zhatan, exercising her authority as Kenisian Ambassador, has returned to the Maabas homeworld to negotiate a good faith agreement.