by Gene DeWeese
And the death and destruction would begin. And continue, often long after the entity perished or retreated into the nexus system.
But now, now that the truth was known—
With no reservations remaining, logical or otherwise, Spock threw himself fully into the amalgam that was himself and Ansfield.
Together, then, they reached out for that third, alien mind.
And touched it.
And allowed themselves, literally, to be absorbed, for, as Spock had realized during that brief, earlier contact, absorption by the entity was the only way that any real communication could ever be initiated.
The entity had no name, nor any need for a name. It had never before conceived of the existence of any living thing separate from itself.
But slowly it began to understand, at least as much as such a being ever could understand when confronted with something as utterly alien as the concept of individual, separate beings.
Through the Spock-Ansfield amalgam of minds, it "saw" a universe where matter and energy existed, where intelligence was invariably imprisoned in some form of matter or dependent on some form of physical energy for its very existence.
Through the entity's mind, Spock and Ansfield "saw" a universe where neither matter nor energy existed, a universe where the only thing that existed was pure intelligence, an entire universe that was a form of intelligence.
They saw a gate to that universe ripped open, sucking a fragment of that universe through, into the extradimensional limbo where the nexuses whirled through their violent cycles. They saw the beginnings of its desperate search for its home universe, a search for what was, literally, the rest of itself.
They saw fragments of the entity split off and recombine and split off again as it continued its search. They saw it, after what must have been millennia, learn to maneuver through the twisting energies of the nexus and the limbo surrounding them.
And they saw it emerge, finally, into other universes.
And they felt the sudden terror caused by the alien laws of those universes, a terror that smothered it every single moment.
And they saw, filtered through their own distorting mental lenses, how those other universes had appeared to the entity: boundless wastelands, virtually empty of intelligence except for occasional, flickering firefly glows that either fled or were extinguished whenever it approached. Tiny, transient glows which the entity had never until now realized were anything other than detached fragments of itself. For, until now, in this amalgam with Spock and Ansfield, it had simply had no concept of individual, separate intelligences, just as it had had no concept of matter or energy.
Over the millennia, fragment after fragment had approached ship after ship, world after world, never able to make contact except for deluges of terror and utterly incomprehensible images and desires, but still it had not realized the truth. These things it encountered were simply fragments of itself, it thought, fragments that had lost the ability or the desire to recombine. Fragments that had, in effect, been driven insane by millennia of constant terror.
But then it became aware that certain of these aberrant fragments possessed a knowledge that allowed them not only to maneuver through the energies of the nexus system but to find specific universes, possibly even to find its own home universe. But it could not communicate with these fragments any more than it could with the others. It could only attach other, still-sane fragments of itself to any that might possess this knowledge and continue to try to communicate, to try to influence them to return to within the nexus system, where the terror was less, where the possibility of communication might be greater.
And then one of the fragments had encountered the fragments that were the crew of the Enterprise.
For the first time in millennia, it was able to establish at least the beginnings of contact with one of the aberrant fragments.
And it had done everything it could to draw those fragments into the nexus system and reestablish that contact without driving them away or extinguishing them, as it had done with so many before.
But then it had become aware that one of the other fragments—one with which it had coexisted for millennia but with which it had until that moment never been able to establish even the slightest contact—was about to destroy the nexus system. And it had gathered itself together and pursued that fragment into the nexus system, where it still remained, not extinguished but unable to function, unable to carry out its mission of destruction.
And it had returned to the fragments that were the Enterprise.
And, at last, there was communication.
But now, as virtually all the fragments were gathered together and recombined, as the entity's growing mind merged ever more completely with that of Spock and Ansfield, the entity finally realized that these countless glows were not simply aberrant fragments of itself, traumatized by prolonged exposure to the terrors of one alien universe after another.
Each one was a complete being like itself, but somehow indivisible and incredibly fragile!
They were beings that, it realized with horror, it had destroyed—by the billions!
And as the realization of the immensity of what it had done flooded the entity's mind, it drew back from the merging, not in terror but in overwhelming remorse and sadness.
And then it began to fade.
Like a human who is unable to face an intolerable burden of guilt will allow himself to die, the entity simply allowed its life force to drain away.
But the Spock-Ansfield amalgam would not let it go, for by then they had realized that this entity was their only hope for saving themselves and the Enterprise—even the Federation.
For what seemed like forever, somehow controlling their reaction to its alienness, they refused to release it, kept its life force from fading completely while they merged with it ever more completely.
Until, at last, it comprehended what they wanted, what they needed.
And it began to grow stronger. And sadly eager. It saw that, in what would undoubtedly be the last act of its existence, it had some small chance to make up for the millennia of death and destruction for which, all unknowing, it had been responsible.
It drew back from its own extinction.
Controlling its ever-present terror with a new, unbreakable determination, it detached fragments of itself to join these strange, delicate creatures and to guide them to their destinations. At the same time, other fragments returned to the paralyzed shell of that other creature, where, slowly and deliberately, they took control.
In an instant, Kremastor's world had turned inside out.
His hopes of finally completing his mission, so high one moment, had been totally crushed the next.
One second, he had been driving toward the gate, determined that the moment he emerged from the central nexus, he would initiate the destruction of the entire nexus system.
The next second, even as the ghostly energies of the gate enveloped him, the creature had struck.
And this time he had no chance to resist. The attack he had fended off only seconds before was feeble by comparison. This time, the moment the creature struck, Kremastor was lost, control of his ship gone.
And he was trapped.
In limbo.
With the creature.
It swarmed about him, violating his mind, driving him farther and farther toward the insanity that, he now feared, would provide his only relief.
Mentally, as long as he was able, he screamed for release, but it was as if the creature didn't hear.
Or simply enjoyed Kremastor's raging terror.
There was no response of any kind, only the continued, smothering presence.
But then, as abruptly as it had come, the creature was gone.
Once again, Kremastor was alone.
But even then, he could not act. He could only cringe in the nothingness, terrified that if he attempted the slightest action, the creature would return.
Forgotten was his mission.
Forgotten were the millennia he had waited.
Forgotten were his ancestors, the billions who had died.
Forgotten were his own people, who had sent him on this impossible task, hoping desperately that he could save the billions that remained.
Forgotten were the newcomers and their own tales of the creature's depradations.
Forgotten was everything but the literally paralyzing fear that the creature would return.
And then, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, it did return.
But nothing changed for Kremastor.
Cowering in the nothingness of limbo, he could still do nothing but wait, hoping desperately that his renewed torture would soon end, that somehow he would be allowed to end his existence.
But then, although he hadn't believed it possible, the terror began to intensify.
Slowly, with great deliberation, the creature entered Kremastor. Now, apparently not satisfied with simply enveloping him, it merged with him.
His last sanctuary, his own mind, was lost to him.
And then, as the possession became complete, he felt the creature moving within him, altering his mind, devouring his consciousness, turning him into a hollow shell in which it would take up permanent residence.
And still he remained fully aware, unable to suppress even the tiniest fragment of the horror and revulsion that consumed him.
And his ship began to move.
The creature now had full control.
Kremastor could only observe, helpless, as the ship abruptly emerged from the nexus, its maelstrom of energies once again vivid and tumultuous in his sensors, not pale and ghostly as they had been in that other place.
Without hesitation, the ship turned.
And the device Kremastor had waited all these millennia to use suddenly came to life.
An irregular pulsing spread almost instantly across the nexus as the energies that drove it began to oscillate in the deadly feedback the device had initiated.
And as the pulsing grew stronger, Kremastor's mind finally was able to focus on something besides the paralyzing terror that still gripped him.
He could focus on the fact that, though he could not himself complete his mission, the creature was, impossibly, completing it for him.
And in the midst of the terror, a kernel of exultation began to grow as he saw the pulsing of the nexus continue to grow stronger, its energies being driven deeper and deeper into the oscillatory pattern that would soon destroy it.
And as the exultation grew, the nexus, like an increasingly variable star suddenly going nova, erupted outward in one final, all-consuming pulse.
And then he and the creature and the nexus were gone forever.
Chapter Twenty-six
ANSFIELD WAS GONE.
Spock was alone with the entity, and he was moving, streaking through a limbo that was no longer featureless but filled with shapes and colors, the shapes and colors that his mind produced as a feeble analogue for the chaotic nexus energies that the entity somehow perceived and navigated through.
And then, abruptly, the motion ceased.
And the shapes and colors twisted and faded and became a phantom image of the Enterprise helm controls.
And his own body, wispy and translucent, took shape as well, somehow sharing the space before the helm with an equally insubstantial Sulu.
And the amalgam that was Spock and the entity knew the course that had to be laid in.
His translucent fingers touched the controls.
And as the course was entered, his phantom body and the controls began to fade.
But barely were they gone when the bridge of the Enterprise leaped into existence around him, solid and real. The stars of the Sagittarius arm filled the viewscreen. Only inches in front of him, Sulu, precisely where his phantom image had been a moment before, lurched slightly as the material world made itself felt.
"Mr. Sulu," Spock said instantly. "Take us away from here, maximum impulse power, now! Ten million kilometers, minimum!"
"But warp drive—"
"Impulse power, Mr. Sulu. Now!" And then, as Sulu's fingers tapped in the commands, "The Devlin's warp-drive engines, I suspect, are not currently functional, and I do not believe it wise to leave them behind. The nexus is about to be destroyed."
And they were moving.
And next to them was the Devlin. Ansfield and the fragments of the entity that had remained merged with her had guided it out of limbo just as the others had done with Spock and the Enterprise. Its impulse engines throbbing on emergency power, it kept pace.
Behind them, visible through the modified sensors, were the nexus and all the jagged leakage gates. Lightning bolts of energy radiated cancerously from virtually every one of them, as if space itself were on the verge of breaking up.
And the gates were pulsing now, all in unison, flaring into new brilliance, then fading.
Suddenly, the Devlin began to fall behind.
Spock, as if he had been expecting—or fearing—just such a development, spoke instantly. "Lieutenant Uhura, get Captain Sherbourne on the Devlin, now! On the screen!"
Hesitating only for a sideways glance toward Kirk, who sharply nodded assent, she complied.
An instant later, almost before Spock had finished transferring the pulsing images of the chaos behind them to a secondary screen, the Devlin's bridge shimmered into view. Captain Sherbourne, his face even more haggard and intense than before, stood near the helm, using both hands to pull someone from the controls.
It was Commander Ansfield.
"Whatever you do, Captain Sherbourne," Spock's voice shot across to the Devlin, "don't stop your ship now! If you don't trust Commander Ansfield to work the controls, work them yourself, but keep moving! You must be at least ten million kilometers from the nexus or any of the related phenomena as soon as possible." And then, to Sulu: "Be ready with a tractor beam if it becomes necessary, Lieutenant."
Sherbourne, his grip on Ansfield only tightening, glared at the screen. "Kirk! I don't know how you and that Vulcan managed to get this woman on board my ship, but—"
"Do as he says, Sherbourne!" Kirk snapped. "I don't know how it was done, either, but I do know that if my first officer says that something needs to be done fast, it needs to be done—fast!"
"The nexus system is being shut down, Captain Sherbourne, permanently," Spock interposed, speaking rapidly but steadily. "It is not, however, an orderly shutdown, and damage to anything in the immediate vicinity is virtually inevitable. Simply look at the nexus yourself, and you will see the convulsions it is undergoing."
Abruptly, Sherbourne looked to one side, apparently toward an auxiliary screen, and snapped an order. His eyes widened, as if seeing the full magnitude of the chaos for the first time.
"What the devil—" he began, but he cut himself off almost immediately. For an instant, he returned his glare to the main screen and the Enterprise bridge that he saw there, but then, thrusting Ansfield to one side, he lunged to the unoccupied helm.
Once again, the Devlin's impulse engines surged into life, dimming the bridge emergency lights with their power drain.
"Put the tractor beam on them, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said. "Just as a precaution, in case they start falling behind again."
"Aye-aye, sir."
But the Devlin kept pace.
At five million kilometers, one of the leakage gates exploded outward, drowning everything else in its momentary brilliance.
At eight million, the now jagged, misshapen nexus itself expanded in a single pulse to enclose all the other gates, not just obscuring them with its momentary brightness but enveloping them, like a gasoline-doused flame will flash out and engulf a hundred smoldering embers scattered around it.
At ten million, the screens were filled with undifferentiated brilliance.
At twelve million, as if the film of a nuclear explosion were being run in reverse, the brilliance began to shrink and fade simultaneously.
At fifteen million, it shra
nk to a single point and, with one last searing spark, vanished.
For another moment, the stars beyond wavered, as if distorted by waves of heat in an otherwise transparent atmosphere.
Then all was still, as if the nexus had never existed. And the last fragments of the entity in this universe, the fragments that had guided Spock and Ansfield through limbo to the ships and had helped to guide the ships themselves out of limbo, withdrew and allowed themselves to fade from existence.
It took Scott and a half-dozen engineering officers from both ships nearly two days to get the Devlin's warp drive back in working order.
Throughout the operation, on all watches, Uhura's communication equipment was set on automatic, trying to establish contact with Starfleet Headquarters. Periodically, despite the fact that, except under the most favorable and unusual subspace circumstances, only Starfleet Headquarters was capable of picking up a starship signal at these distances, she scanned through every starbase and starship channel.
Finally, at a sedate warp five, in deference to the jury-rigged nature of the Devlin's repairs, both ships got under way, heading back for the Federation.
If the Federation still existed.
On the third day, Starfleet Headquarters responded.
It was Admiral Noguchi, voice only.
"Jim?"
There was a restrained cheer from both bridges at this evidence that at least part of the Federation had survived.
"Yes, Admiral. And Captain Sherbourne of the Devlin. We're on our way in."
"Sherbourne, Admiral. What happened? Earth was being threatened—"
"Earth is still here," he said. "For reasons we can only assume had something to do with the activities of the two of you, the gate that was threatening Earth—and all the other gates, at least the ones we knew about—put on a fireworks display to end all fireworks displays and then vanished."
Noguchi paused, drawing a breath. Then: "Jim? Will they be back?"
"They're not coming back, sir," Kirk said, and then added, glancing toward the science station, "thanks in large part to the actions of Commanders Ansfield and Spock."