Star Trek Into Darkness

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Hello,” Scott offered.

  Khan did not waste time on pleasantries. “They’ll know we’re here. Marcus will have all approaches to the bridge secured if only as a precaution, but I know another route.”

  The two men regarded each other wordlessly as Kirk removed phasers from his backpack and handed one to each of them. “They’re locked to stun.”

  Khan pursed his lips. “Theirs won’t be.”

  Kirk responded with a wan smile. “Then try not to get shot.”

  * * *

  Though it was confirmed that Kirk and Khan had successfully boarded the warship and made contact with Mr. Scott, everyone on the Enterprise knew it was far too soon to take anything, including hope, for granted. The three men were out of harm’s way, but only for the moment. At any time, with a single wrong turn or move, they could be swept up by the warship’s roaming security personnel.

  As Spock was trying to analyze all possibilities, a loud acknowledgment sounded from the Communications station. Uhura looked back at him.

  “Incoming message from New Vulcan, Captain. That call you had me try to place? The necessary relay links finally fell into position and it went through. You have the transmission you requested.”

  Spock acknowledged the exceptional technical achievement with a precise nod. “On screen, please. I would acclaim you a wizard at your specialty, Lieutenant, except there are no wizards.”

  “The correct term is ‘sorceress,’ Mr. Spock—and thank you. Putting through visual.”

  All eyes on the bridge turned to the main viewscreen forward, where an ancient and wizened visage appeared without preamble or fanfare. Behind the familiar figure could be seen signs of extensive activity. An old civilization was rising afresh on a new world, and the figure who gazed back at those on the bridge was a critical part of that resurrection.

  “Mr. Spock,” declared the image matter-of-factly.

  “Mr. Spock,” the science officer responded.

  * * *

  The security escort seemed excessive for a single woman, even one who had been beamed aboard the warship unceremoniously and involuntarily. Aware of Carol Marcus’s identity—and what the consequences would be for each of them if anything happened to her before she could be delivered—the guards treated her with the utmost care. Although none of them showed it, they were very much relieved when they finally arrived on the bridge. The leader of the security team advised Marcus of their arrival.

  “Admiral.”

  Through the hive of activity, as sweating technicians strove to restore full power and service to every corner of the massive warship, father and daughter locked eyes. When he finally spoke, Alexander Marcus’s words weighed like lead on his offspring.

  “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

  Carol had other ideas. Stepping forward and away from her escorts, who were hesitant to intercept her while in the admiral’s presence, she drew back a hand and smacked her father across the face. He mutely stared at her, eyes wide.

  “I’ve been trying to prepare what to say at this moment,” she snapped at him. “I thought of a lot of things and discarded them. Hateful things, sad things, words grounded in moments and times past. What it all finally comes down to is fairly simple, however. I’m ashamed to be your daughter.”

  Spotting an empty seat at an unutilized station, her escort took her aside. She sat there in silence, glaring at him.

  Whatever the admiral had in mind was forced to take a backseat to a sudden report from one of the other officers on the bridge.

  “Sir, we just recorded an unscheduled opening and subsequent closing of an outer door on deck thirteen. It appears to have been initiated manually.”

  Marcus looked resigned, not surprised. “Khan.”

  The officer eyed him uncertainly. “Sir? I don’t understand.”

  “Hope that you won’t.” Marcus proceeded to let fly a string of orders directed at ship security. Now that Khan was here, the admiral intended to be ready for him. Despite being fully aware of the revived warrior’s talents and abilities, Marcus was not afraid of him. At the same time, he intended to take every precaution possible.

  Where Khan was concerned, hubris could prove more lethal than any gun.

  * * *

  “They’re gonna have full power and we’re walking,” Scott was whispering as he trailed Kirk and Khan down yet another corridor.

  Pausing at a control console, Khan quickly entered a series of brief commands. “This path we’re taking runs adjacent to the engine room. They know they won’t be able to use their weapons here without destabilizing the warp core, which gives us the advantage.”

  Moving closer to Kirk, Scott readily expressed his bewilderment. “Where’d you find this guy?”

  “It’s a long story,” Kirk muttered as he hurried to keep up with Khan.

  * * *

  Empirically, Spock had grown used to conversing with his elder self. Philosophically and, dare he think it, emotionally, there were still moments of uncertainty. None of those were apparent in the ensuing conversation, of course. He had no more wish to unsettle his colleagues on the bridge than he did himself. “I wish I were contacting you under better circumstances, but . . . ”

  The older Spock took over. With time (in multiple senses of the term), his appearance had come to match his voice: sage, knowing, almost comforting, etched with more lines than any Rembrandt drawing.

  “Given our unique relationship, it would be illogical to make such contact unless the situation were grave enough to demand it. And since you find yourself in the captain’s chair, I can only assume that it is. I am aware that a most complex alignment of multiple relays was necessary in order for this present exchange to take place. Am I correct in assuming that Lieutenant Uhura continues to be responsible for such Communications expertise?”

  “You are.” From her position at the Communications station, she smiled at the image of the famous savant.

  “Your conclusions are both correct,” the younger Spock confirmed to his elder self. “Therefore I will be brief, so as not to waste time neither of us has to spare. In your many travels and experiences, did you ever have occasion to come across a man named Khan?”

  While his face could not show shock, certainly not to a degree any human could detect, a slight shiver seemed to pass through the elder Spock’s entire frame. He paused for a long moment, plainly composing his intended response. Unusual for him, it was prefaced by an exception. “As you know, I have made a vow never to give you information that could potentially alter your destiny. Your path—whatever it may be, wherever it may lead you, and however it may differ from the one I walked—is yours to walk and yours alone. I can and should have no influence over it. I always felt that way would be best for you.”

  “As do I,” admitted his younger self.

  “That being said, I have to tell you that the individual called Khan is the most dangerous adversary the Enterprise and her crew ever faced.”

  Not only young Spock but everyone on the bridge was now attending upon the words of the older Spock to the exclusion of all but the most inescapable tasks.

  “He is a psychotic despot,” the senior Spock continued, “whom we—I and my chronologically pertinent colleagues—once made the mistake of trusting. He is brilliant, ruthless, and will not hesitate to kill every single one of you in the pursuit of whatever personal goal he has set for himself. Nor will he spare others, including innocents and unknowing civilians. Wherever he is, I urge you to stay as far from him as humanly possible. And if you do not? I can all but guarantee you—lives will be lost.”

  The subsequent silence on the starship’s bridge was complete. Nothing could be heard save the automated beep and hum of instruments.

  “Did you defeat him?” the younger Spock finally asked.

  A nod from a distant place and an even more distant time. “At great cost, yes.”

  The acting captain of the Enterprise stared forward, his voice and posture fixed,
as he uttered a single word in reply.

  “How?”

  * * *

  “I don’t mean to tempt fate here,” Scott muttered as they moved quickly along the newest corridor in Khan’s wake, “but where is everybody?”

  “The ship was designed to be run by a minimal crew,” Khan told him. “One, if necessary.”

  “One!” Scott blurted. “I don’t see how—”

  The three boarders took the oncoming security team equally by surprise.

  With bodies slamming into one another, there was no time to make use of phasers. All the rules of hand-to-hand combat Kirk had studied at the Academy were brought into play. Caught in high, constricted corridors, he also made use of earlier, less academic techniques he had acquired in the course of too many less-disciplined fights in too many bars.

  Fists and the occasional leg flew, taking down first one of his opponents and then another. Nearby, Scotty was giving a vibrant if slightly more desperate account of himself. Their tight surroundings actually worked to the chief’s advantage, as his better-trained opponents had less room in which to operate. Elaborate martial-arts techniques gave way to sharp elbows and simple punches.

  Meanwhile Khan was demolishing everyone with whom he came in contact. The ease with which he dispatched members of the security team was at once impressive and disconcerting. One moment a blur, the next an implacable and irresistible force, Khan paid only minimal attention to whatever was being brought against him.

  Two of their opponents tried to jump him simultaneously. Khan slammed one into a far wall, then turned and lifted the other before throwing him down the corridor. At no time in the course of the confrontation did he break a sweat. Indeed, Kirk saw, the former prisoner did not even appear to be breathing hard.

  The fight was over much sooner than the captain expected. Every member of the security team was down: unconscious or too badly hurt to offer further resistance. Arms of certain individuals had been twisted absurdly far behind their backs, breaking them at the shoulder. Khan’s work. As efficient as it was brutal.

  And speaking of their guide . . .

  “Where’s Khan?” Scott managed to gasp out.

  * * *

  Tension on the Enterprise bridge was palpable as everyone awaited a word from their acting captain. Spock did not acknowledge their apprehension. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that all eyes were on him, he sat quietly in the command chair, thinking.

  Dammit, man, McCoy thought, say something. You’re in command: Act like it. Issue an order, present an analysis, make a statement. Had Spock said anything as soon as Uhura had terminated the complex exchange with New Vulcan, it would have reassured everyone on the bridge.

  It was what Kirk would have done.

  But Spock was not James Kirk. He was not like anyone on the bridge—a fact that was reflected in his continuing quiet contemplation of what his elder self had told him, combined with the facts as they presently existed.

  But perhaps the Vulcan’s patience stood in direct contrast to Kirk’s tendency to act immediately.

  With a start, the doctor reflected on what a perfect team this made the two of them. Except that one half of that team was not here. He was on that warship, no doubt in deadly danger. Which made Spock’s ongoing lack of action all the more frustrating.

  When the science officer finally spoke, his first words were for Uhura. “Lieutenant, I need you to assemble all senior Medical and Engineering staff who can be spared from critical positions and have them gather in the weapons bay.”

  Her expression twisted. “The weapons bay, Mr. Spock?”

  A curt nod. “Weapons bay. At haste, if you please.”

  “All right.”

  With an uncertain shake of her head, she moved to comply. As soon as she did so, the science officer turned to the watching McCoy.

  “Dr. McCoy. You inadvertently activated a torpedo. Do you think you would be able to replicate the process?”

  McCoy gaped at the Vulcan. “Even assuming that I could, why the hell would I want to do that?”

  As always, Spock’s lack of expression offered no clue as to what he intended. “Can you or can you not?”

  McCoy wasn’t sure whether he was more stunned or outraged. “That thing almost ate my arm. And I wasn’t even trying to arm it. Dammit, man, I’m a doctor, not a torpedo technician. Why would you want me to have anything to do with a torpedo of any kind, much less something new, untried, and partially cannibalized for another purpose entirely?”

  Spock was, if anything, understanding. “Believe me, Doctor, I both recognize and sympathize with your concerns. However, the fact that you are a doctor is precisely why I need you to listen very carefully . . . ”

  * * *

  “Where is he?” Scott murmured as he and Kirk made their way forward. Surely he hadn’t been taken down?

  “Shit,” Kirk mumbled as he searched one side corridor after another. Then, from behind them . . .

  “This way.”

  Khan’s voice had come from farther up the branching corridor, his tone impatient, as if he expected them to be fully recovered and ready to go. He did not appear winded or stressed in the slightest. As soon as he received an acknowledging nod from Kirk, their guide resumed the way forward.

  Hanging back slightly, the captain murmured to his chief engineer. “The minute we get to the bridge, drop him.”

  Scott was understandably confused. “Khan? I thought he was helping us.”

  Despite some lingering uncertainty, Kirk had no hesitation in explaining: “On the contrary, Scotty, I’m pretty sure we’re helping him.”

  * * *

  Alexander Marcus was smart and aware enough to know that the immediate danger to his health and intentions came not from the Enterprise or even from the fact that Khan had somehow managed to get himself aboard the warship, but from his rising blood pressure. This dropped immediately the instant the warship’s main systems began to snap back online, one at a time. Full illumination, scanners, internal sensors: All he needed to do was swing around in his command chair to see them flare to life. Even so, he was glad when a senior ensign confirmed the informal visuals.

  “Power coming online, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Marcus once more felt secure in directing his full attention to the forward screen. “Retarget the Enterprise now.” From her seat nearby, a helpless Carol could only continue to glare futilely at her father.

  “Weapons charging,” a second ensign reported calmly.

  Marcus nodded to himself. It would all be over soon. Then even the presence of Khan on board the warship would be nothing more than a minor annoyance to be dealt with.

  “Fire all weapons, phasers, and torpedoes—on my order.”

  The doors to the turbolift snapped open and the three men who burst from within were firing before anyone on the bridge could react.

  First to go down was the ensign in control of the warship’s weapons systems, struck in the back of the head by a stun blast from Kirk’s phaser. Throwing himself to one side, the captain brought down another crewmember before he could draw his sidearm. As the crewman looming over Carol moved to engage the intruders, she put him down with a precisely placed elbow to his chin.

  Though intense, the melee on the bridge did not last long. With all three men firing rapidly and Khan dealing with those who managed to avoid the phasers, it was only a matter of moments before the trio had gained complete control of the ship.

  * * *

  Before Khan could say or do anything else, Kirk nodded to the chief. Scott fired once. The stun blast hit Khan square in the back, and he went down. Moving to the body, Scott knelt to feel it, looked up, and nodded at Kirk.

  “Breathing’s regular. I hit him hard, like you said. He’s alive, but he should be out for a while.”

  “Make sure he stays down.”

  Keeping his own phaser aimed at the admiral, Kirk now moved to stand closer to Carol Marcus. The two men regarded each other across the open space
of the bridge: one behind his weapon, the other behind his ire.

  “Admiral Alexander Marcus, by authority granted me under the relevant Starfleet regulations governing the use of unauthorized and excessive force, I hereby relieve you of command and place you under arrest.”

  Marcus sounded more exasperated than upset. It was plain that he was not about to go quietly. “You’re not actually going to do this, are you? Do you still really think Starfleet is about exploring ‘strange new worlds’? That’s a fantasy, Kirk. The galaxy is wide, dark, and dangerous, populated by sentients who are collectively paranoid, warlike, and sometimes both. Their quest for species superiority has nothing to do with stealing other worlds’ resources or enslaving an entirely different populace—it’s all about bragging rights. About who is superior and who should bow down. If you think Starfleet was put together as a scientific enterprise, that’s another fantasy. There are plenty of other organizations based on Earth and its colonies capable of exploring and studying. Fortunately, there are some of us who believe that all the do-gooding, glad-handing scientists might need a little protection while they’re out there—not to mention that there’s a need for defending the species itself. That’s what Starfleet really is about.”

  Kirk considered the admiral’s words before replying quietly. “Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m the last person on the planet to back away from a fight, but . . . that’s your Starfleet, Admiral. It’s not mine. It’s not what I signed up for, not what I vowed to defend, and not the philosophy I plan to use in guiding my career.” He glanced to his right. “Scotty?”

  More than a little astonished to be asked to comment on such a philosophical difference of opinion, the chief engineer responded with a smile. “Dinna ask me, Captain. I just keep things running. But I’d rather be workin’ with engines than with weapons.” He shifted his gaze to the hard-staring Admiral Marcus. “You kinna make friends with others, Admiral, if you focus your energies on blowin’ ’em up. As you say, the galaxy’s a big place. Folks with whom you can share a few drinks are few and far between. Meself, I believe in doin’ all we can to encourage that.”