Collision Course

by William Shatner

  43

  Reaching the Starfleet levels of Spacedock was deceptively simple. Kirk and Spock merely walked up a sloping pedestrian ramp and held their IDs at shoulder level as they passed through two of twenty-one sensor stations. To Kirk, the sensor stations looked like nothing more than empty doorframes.

  “That’s it?” he asked as he saw Spock attach his ID back on the equipment belt he wore under his gray midshipman’s shirt.

  “Yes,” Spock said. He looked ahead, pointed to the left. “The viewing levels lead to the airlock decks.”

  Kirk attached his own ID to his belt. All around them, walking purposefully, were uniformed men and women in a surprising variety of Starfleet uniforms and civilian clothes. Kirk saw none of the crowding and pushing of the exotic public levels of Spacedock, yet the sense of charged excitement here was even more intense than it had been below.

  “Can I ask how you managed to collect all this?” Kirk gestured so Spock would know he meant the uniforms and the passes and the IDs.

  Spock began walking forward quickly, moving just as decisively as everyone else on this level. “Apparently, there are times when Vulcan diplomatic staff and political appointees need to travel to various Starfleet facilities, yet, because of security issues, do not wish their visit to be part of the public record. To aid such classified visits, Starfleet provides the embassy with documents and uniforms.”

  Kirk kept his eyes front as he matched Spock’s pace. “So what you’re saying is, you stole these disguises?”

  Spock risked a glance at Kirk, broke stride. “I am an employee of the embassy. Therefore, I have the full right to use its facilities. Admittedly, I might have erred when I submitted my request for these items to the office of a clerk who has since returned to Vulcan. However, I am certain that the request will be forwarded to the proper clerk by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “And they’ll turn it down, right?”

  “Who can know the future?”

  They passed through a large doorway and had just turned the corner when Kirk glanced ahead. He almost stumbled, caught himself. “Oh…” he said, or thought he said. He was vaguely aware that his voice sounded hoarse, but not much else registered as he stared at what lay before him.

  An unending row of viewports, three decks high, looking into the vast technological cavern of Spacedock’s largest berthing area.

  And just outside those viewports, the spotlit, blue-white majesty of a legend. She was almost 300 meters long, almost 75 meters tall. Her saucer-shaped primary hull racing forward even at rest, exquisitely balanced by her soaring warp nacelles that rose up to either side like outspread wings. To carry her through the infinities.

  She was beautiful.

  He knew her shape intimately, from countless images, but never—never—had he seen her like this, alive, in person, so close he could almost touch her.

  “The Enterprise,” he breathed. And somewhere in the distant reaches of his memory, he heard Joe Kirk proclaiming the names of the stars in just such a voice, as an old dream he had all but forgotten reawakened within him.

  Kirk heard Spock’s voice as if from afar. “We should hurry. There is much we must do.”

  “I know,” Kirk said, and together they rushed on.

  The main personnel umbilical tunnel from the first airlock level of the drydock facility joined the Enterprise at an airlock in the lower aft section of her primary hull. And whatever majesty the ship possessed as seen from her exterior, on the interior there was none. At least, not in the cargo bay beyond that airlock.

  A red-shirted security officer stood at the open pressure door, arms folded imposingly. Kirk noticed at once that he had one of the newest tricorder models with the sensor apparatus further miniaturized and now part of a single main unit. One good thing about Starfleet—it always gave its people the best toys.

  Spock came to a stop at the ridge of the docking-collar pressure seal marking the line where the umbilical tunnel ended and the starship began. “Midshipmen Newman and Jones request permission to come aboard, Lieutenant,” he said.

  The officer took Kirk’s and Spock’s IDs, activated them. “Here for the seminars?” he asked.

  Kirk didn’t know what to reply. What seminars? he thought. But Spock seemed to know what to expect and said, “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant clearly approved of the way Spock had responded, as snappy and crisp as any new recruit.

  “Which one?”

  Kirk saw Spock blink behind his lenses. Apparently, that was a question he wasn’t expecting.

  Fortunately, it appeared the officer had had some experience with confused midshipmen. “Leadership or Engineering?”

  “Engineering!” Kirk and Spock said it together. Main engineering was where the dilithium was stored, so that’s where they’d wait for Griffyn to make his move.

  The officer nodded, handed back the IDs. “Midshipman Newman, Midshipman Jones, welcome aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise.” He pointed past a forest of scaffolding where workers were installing conduits in the exposed overhead, two decks up. Welding sparks cascaded down to bounce off the polyduranium decking and stacks of tarp-covered hex crates. “The turbolift’s outside the main doors over there—look for the silver doors. Get in, tell the computer to take you to Deck Eighteen. You’ll want Briefing Room Seven, halfway along the corridor on the left.”

  Then Kirk took his first step aboard the Enterprise.

  The tunnel had had a bit of a bounce to it, as the artificial gravity field of Spacedock overlapped that of the starship, but once Kirk took that first step, the gravity that held him was solid and certain.

  Kirk felt his chest relax. It felt like home.

  The new turbolift control panel was smaller than the old one, and so was kept in place by gray tape. Handwritten notations were scrawled on the wall, indicating where new mounting holes were to be drilled.

  “This ship isn’t even five years old,” Kirk said wonderingly.

  “Starfleet policy,” Spock explained. “No starship is ever completely finished. Upgrades are constant as technologies are refined.”

  Kirk considered that statement as Spock told the computer which deck they wanted. He’d always thought of Starfleet as a hopelessly moribund organization, mired in the past. It appeared their starships weren’t.

  There was a slight sway as the lift car began moving to the side, then another as it began to drop. Kirk visualized their location based on his mental picture of the exterior. He reckoned the car had taken them directly aft through the saucer section, and that they were now traveling straight down the angled support pylon connecting the primary and secondary hulls. Somewhere in his mind’s memory files, he retrieved the information that Deck 18 was one of the uppermost ones in the secondary hull. That could pose a problem. “I don’t think Eighteen’s the engineering deck,” he told Spock.

  “Correct. Main engineering is one deck down. There will be ladders.”

  “Ladders,” Kirk said as the turbolift hummed to a stop and the doors puffed open. “Advanced technology. Of course.”

  Kirk’s attention was on full alert as they stepped into the corridor. He noted that this section of the vessel, at least, looked as if the refit had been completed. The walls and traction carpet were new and unworn in an artfully blended range of monochromatic grays. The corridor felt slightly cramped to him, with its series of narrow, A-frame emergency pressure seals every few meters. But considering that the ship could carry a crew of two hundred, he conceded that space, even in a vessel as large as this, had to be at a premium.

  Spock started walking to the left.

  “Wait,” Kirk said. “We’re not really going to the seminar, are we?”

  Spock’s serious expression indicated he had no intention of wasting any additional time. “There will be an interdeck ladder at the end of this corridor. We will use it to descend to Deck Nineteen.”

  “How do you know so much about this ship?”

  “I studied the deck map.” />
  Kirk had seen a deck map posted outside the umbilical tunnel entrance, but they had passed it in seconds. “When?” he asked.

  “When we passed it at the entrance to the umbilical tunnel,” Spock answered.

  Kirk walked the rest of the way beside Spock in silence, telling himself he had to stop underestimating the Vulcan. Probably, all Vulcans.

  The corridor took them past Briefing Room 7, where some sort of engineering seminar was being held for mids. But Kirk and Spock kept eyes front. Neither slowed down or looked in.

  Which is why they didn’t notice the seminar leader notice them.

  Midshipman Zee Bayloff was on her personal communicator in seconds.

  44

  The curving corridor on Deck 19 looked like a war zone—the refit here was still in progress. There was no carpet. Kirk’s and Spock’s boots rang on the only deck surface: gleaming bare antigrav plates of splotchy anodized blue-gray. The corridor’s starboard bulkhead was missing for most of its length, revealing an impenetrable wall of densely packed pipes and wires that Kirk never would have suspected existed. And the corridor’s uneven lighting issued from a string of plasma globes haphazardly hanging from overhead supports. A few of the globes were flickering, their charges running out.

  “This is no way to treat this ship,” Kirk said as he stepped around antigrav work platforms and equipment carts.

  “I am sure the Enterprise is not aware of how she is being treated,” Spock countered.

  “That’s not the point.” Kirk straightened a work order sheet that was clipped to a cable that’d been pulled out of a conduit. Then he had the jarring realization that that was something his father might have done. He made a mental note not to repeat his action. It was bad enough he had his father’s haircut.

  The silver door to engineering was not much larger than any of the others they’d passed, so Kirk guessed there must be other ways into it—how else to install the equipment that must be inside? Then he wondered if the fact that it was closed meant that he and Spock would need some kind of additional clearance to enter.

  “Do we just walk up to it?” Kirk asked.

  “I am aware of no special security measures in effect,” Spock said.

  Kirk walked up to the closed door, and at the last moment, it slipped open and he stepped into the heart of the Enterprise.

  The first thing that struck him about the facility, other than its double height overhead, was that it was staffed. In a manner of speaking.

  Two plebes were working at a section of the long, black control console that ran along the starboard side of the room. From the tense way they spoke to each other, they had a problem to solve and weren’t solving it. But as if in counterpoint to the tension between them, a second classman with the metallic shirt and longer hair that marked his year, leaned against a nearby stair rail, arms folded, with a delighted grin plastered across his face.

  That grin widened as he saw Kirk and Spock. “Ah,” he said in a lilting Irish brogue that Kirk suspected was not how the mid usually spoke. “Fresh victims!”

  Kirk and Spock exchanged a look. They had expected workers to be present, not trainees.

  “Shaun Finnegan,” the smiling mid announced as he approached the newcomers. “And you would be…?”

  Spock stood at attention and Kirk realized he should follow suit: They were wearing third-classman uniforms, indicating they were about to begin their second year in the Academy. But Finnegan was a second classman, beginning his third year, so according to the Academy’s code of conduct, they should report to him as they would any superior officer.

  “Midshipman Newman,” Spock said.

  “Midshipman Jones,” Kirk said.

  Finnegan made a face, disappointed. “Newman and Jones? You’re not scheduled for any tests here.”

  “Our scheduled seminar has been delayed,” Spock said promptly, and Kirk was impressed with how easily he concocted that story on the fly. “So we have elected to undertake an orientation tour.”

  “On your own? That’s not quite Starfleet procedure. Which company would you be with?”

  Kirk took up the explanation, ignoring the question. “A ship in this kind of shape, there’s a lot of confusion.”

  Before Finnegan could repeat himself, one of the plebes at the console called to him in a voice of despair. “Mr. Finnegan, we can’t rectify the input signals.” The plebe was at least a head taller than Spock and had auburn stubble and broad features. In centuries past, his soft accent could only have been labeled Russian, but Kirk heard the slightly clipped compression of his vowels. The plebe was someone who had grown up in the Martian Colonies.

  The second plebe turned from the console. Her strong but balanced features conveyed strength more than beauty, but only slightly more. Her eyes were the same gray as her uniform, and her stark black hair had been cut stylishly like a skin-tight cap with delicately feathered bangs. It was well within regulation length, but it most certainly was not the work of a Starfleet barber. She was holding up a single-unit tricorder. “But this says we’ve done everything right and the circuit is perfect.”

  Finnegan made a show of rubbing his chin in thought. “Hmm, y’don’t say. Then might I make a tiny suggestion?”

  “Please,” the martian plebe said.

  “In a case like this,” Finnegan continued with utmost sincerity, “you’ll find it’s vital to double-check the interior connections of the duotronic ports.”

  The Martian and the striking young woman looked at each other as if Finnegan had just given them instructions in Klingon. The Martian spoke first. “We don’t know how to do that on this equipment.”

  “Ah,” Finnegan said, as if the mystery of the universe had just been revealed to him. “What you’ll need to do first is to unlatch the M-4 module to the right, there, then swing it open, and that’s where you’ll see it, sure as I’m standing here.”

  The plebes nodded, turned back to the console. Kirk heard several clicks as contact points were released, and then both plebes jumped back with cries of startled shock as giant alien worms erupted from the console to attack them.

  Kirk reflexively started forward to help the plebes fight the creatures, but Spock’s hand gripped his shoulder and kept him from making a fool of himself.

  As peals of Finnegan’s laughter echoed in the engineering hold, the alien worms bounced and skittered across the deck, revealed as nothing more than springs wrapped in brightly colored cloth.

  The plebes were embarrassed and, Kirk could easily see, angered. But they said nothing, and even attempted good-natured smiles as Finnegan extolled the virtues of always expecting the unexpected in space.

  Finnegan picked up one of the spring snakes, a particularly lurid purple and pink monster. He admired the way it flopped around as he came back to Kirk and Spock. “Now, where were we?” he asked. “Ah, yes, you were avoiding my very simple question. Which company would you be with?”

  Kirk waited to hear what story Spock was going to come up with this time when the main door puffed open behind them. At first, Kirk was thankful for the interruption. Then he saw who had entered and realized the time for stories was over.

  “Jimmy,” Zee said from the open doorway, almost purring, “what a surprise.” She looked at Spock. “Who’s the alien?”

  “Alien, is it?” Finnegan asked. He walked around Kirk and Spock to stand near Zee as she stepped forward and the door behind her closed.

  Kirk could see that Spock understood there was no more reason to remain in disguise. He took off his modulator headpiece.

  “A Vulcan?” Finnegan said in surprise. Then he smiled. “In a midshipman’s uniform when the Academy has no Vulcans at all, at all.” He turned to Zee with no attempt to conceal his pleasure. “Would you happen to be knowing these two, then? Newman and Jones they called themselves.”

  “Meet Jimmy Kirk and Mr. Spock,” Zee said. She seemed just as pleased as Finnegan.

  Kirk stepped forward. “I can explain. Th
e people who stole the dilithium from the Academy—they’re going to try to steal the dilithium here.”

  Zee shook her head. “Nice try, Jimmy, but Elissa confessed. She’s left the Academy, and last I heard she was buying a ticket back to Risa.”

  “She left…? But she didn’t do anything.” Kirk had an idea and acted on it swiftly. He pointed to the two confused plebes who hadn’t budged from the booby-trapped console. “You two, what’re your names?”

  “Naderi,” the Martian told him.

  The young woman said, “Del Mar.”

  “Okay,” Kirk said, “Naderi, Del Mar, use your tricorders on…” He looked around the engine room, saw the accelerator chamber stretching into the distance behind its wall of safety screen, the modular power converters lined up on the port side, then found what he was looking for in the forward section. “That!”

  “Dilithium storage?” Naderi asked.

  “Check the security function. Look for a signal-jamming circuit.”

  “No!” Zee ordered. “Don’t listen to him.”

  Kirk saw the plebes automatically respond to the chain of command. Zee wore her third-year uniform and on that basis outranked them.

  Zee gave Kirk a smug smile of triumph, pulled out her communicator.

  But Finnegan interrupted. “Close that thing for a moment, would you. There’s something not right here.”

  Zee hesitated. Finnegan’s Irish brogue faded a bit as he took control of the situation. “I gave you an order, Midshipman. Your uniform tells me you’re a third classman—” He waggled a finger at Kirk and Spock. “—just like these two imposters, it seems.”

  Kirk could see that Zee disliked being compared to him and Spock. “I’m Zee Bayloff. Company Twelve.” She held out her communicator. “You can call administration and confirm.”

  Finnegan took the communicator, kept it shut. “Now that that’s settled, may I ask a question?”

  “Call administration,” Zee urged.

  Finnegan’s smile disappeared completely. “I’m the ranking mid here, so I’ll give the orders. Now why don’t you want the dilithium vault scanned? Seems suspicious to me.”