by Greg Cox
“Aye, sir!”
The Enterprise targeted Jackpot City. Twin beams, blazing azure, burned through Baldur III’s atmosphere to converge on the surface of the planet. The rays sliced through buildings, pavement, foundations, and bedrock to carve a deep trench more than twenty meters deep and fifty meters across directly in the path of the voracious fire spreading across the city. The beams traced the perimeter of the blaze, racing to enclose an area several city blocks in diameter—and perhaps prevent the fire from spreading any farther.
Or so Kirk hoped.
He leaned forward in his chair, visualizing the phaser beams converging on the planet hundreds of kilometers below. As a young lieutenant posted to the U.S.S. Farragut, he’d once witnessed firsthand a phaser strike on a planetary target, so Kirk could easily imagine the sky-high plumes of vaporized matter rising up in the beam’s wake, the pungent smell of ozone and burning rubble, and the fearsome sight of the immense beam itself, blasting down from the heavens like the wrath of an angry god, so bright and hot that you had to look away for fear of being blinded. Kirk didn’t envy anyone still in the target zone, which cut through a swath of residential and business districts surrounding the burning park. He hoped Uhura was right about certain neighborhoods being thoroughly evacuated, and reminded himself that her data had gibed with official reports provided by Mayor Poho and her staff. Nevertheless he winced inwardly as he imagined the large-scale destruction being wrought by the phaser beams. Those were people’s homes and businesses being disintegrated, along with familiar streets and landmarks.
Which probably would have been destroyed anyway, he thought. With the blackout and earlier evacuation still impeding the Baldurians’ ability to combat the fire on the ground, Kirk’s top priority had been to contain the massive blaze before it could grow any larger. The more of the city they could save now, the less they would need to rebuild later when the conflagration finally burnt itself out.
“Firing pattern almost complete,” Painter said. “Closing the circle now.”
Sensors tracked the path of the trench on the viewscreen. Despite the helmsman’s announcement, the outline of the vast firebreak was no more a perfect circle than the blaze itself, which bulged and bended in places, reflecting the urban terrain. Kirk had to admire Painter’s aim, however; the steady progress of the phasers matched up to the lines already charted on the map in anticipation of the operation. In other words, the beams were going where they were supposed to, plus or minus a meter or so.
“Keep at it, Mister Painter. You’re doing fine.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Within moments, the end of the firebreak met its beginning like a serpent swallowing its tail. The phasers stopped firing.
“Pattern complete,” Painter said. “Phaser batteries powering down.”
Kirk nodded in satisfaction, but did not relax just yet. The firebreak had been dug; it remained to be seen whether it would be effective.
“Current weather for Jackpot City?” he asked.
Unlike Earth and other more advanced worlds, Baldur III was not yet equipped with a working weather-control network. Although the trench had been carved wide by design, Kirk still worried that a heavy wind could blow flames, sparks, or cinders past the firebreak, allowing the blaze to escape containment. Even in these modern times, nature’s whims could be a firefighter’s worst enemy.
“Sensors report light winds blowing southwest away from the city,” Lieutenant Lee Faust reported from the science station, which he’d been manning during the third watch. He had a solid scientific background, having recently transferred over from a research vessel, the Pretorius. “No appreciable effect on the fire predicted.”
Kirk was glad to hear it. “About time things break in our favor.”
“You can say that again, Captain,” Scott said. He was posted at the engineering station nearby, the better to monitor the effect of the major phaser usage on the ship’s batteries and power systems. “It’s been one bloody thing after another, if you’ll pardon me language.”
A touch of profanity was the least of Kirk’s worries. Contemplating the map on the screen, he deeply regretted having to sacrifice the portion of the city within the red zone, which had included the colony’s historic Town Hall, among other structures, both old and new. Judging from the sensor results displayed on the map, however, the firebreak appeared to be working. The blaze was not spreading beyond the gaping trench. Kirk allowed himself to hope that the worst was over.
For Jackpot City, he thought, if not for Sulu . . .
“Lieutenant Uhura, are you still in contact with the Lucky Strike?”
“Affirmative, Captain. The ship is still holding together, but they’re taking a lot of damage from the Maelstrom.” Her worried expression and tone conveyed the severity of the situation. “They’re running out of time, sir.”
“Understood, Lieutenant.”
Kirk gazed at the map before him, wondering when he dared turn his back on the fire to go to Sulu’s aid. It could take hours or days for the blaze within the red zone to burn out completely, but perhaps it was enough to have the fire contained for now?
“We’re being hailed by the mayor, sir,” Uhura said, juggling frequencies.
“Pipe her through,” Kirk said, “but don’t lose that signal from Sulu.”
“Not a chance, sir.”
Poho replaced the map on the viewscreen. She looked tired, but perhaps somewhat less stressed than earlier.
“Good work, Kirk,” the mayor said. “At the risk of counting my chickens too early, our scouts and drones are reporting that we may have the fire under control at last. Shame we had to carve up the city to do so, but I’ll take a few scars over cremation any day.”
“I’m sorry you lost Town Hall.” Kirk recalled the historic wooden structure he had visited when he first beamed down to the planet. “There was no way to save it.”
“It had a good long run,” Poho said. “We can rebuild it . . . after we finish dealing with more immediate priorities.”
“About that,” Kirk said, “we’ve received an emergency distress call from inside the Antares Maelstrom. A passenger ship, caught in the vortex, is in immediate jeopardy. Now that the fire is contained, the Enterprise needs to respond as quickly as possible.”
“Hold on there, Kirk!” Poho peered unhappily from the screen. “We’re not done here yet. We’ve got hundreds of people displaced, large portions of the city in flames or in ruins, little or no power, not enough security people or technicians, maybe even the possibility of looting, and you want to go flying off to rescue a ship that was reckless enough to try to take a shortcut across the Maelstrom?” She shook her head even as her voice softened to a degree. “Look, I feel for those people, Kirk, I really do, but we still need your help here on Baldur III. If you fly off now, how are we going to manage on our own?”
Kirk wished he knew. He understood the mayor’s position, but the recovery effort on Baldur III was going to take time. Time that Sulu and the Lucky Strike did not have.
“I’m sorry, Mayor, but I can’t simply ignore—”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Uhura said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you should know that I’m getting flooded with hails from all the civilian ships in orbit and approaching the planet. They want to know what else they can do to assist in the disaster relief efforts.” She beamed at Kirk. “Andorians, Tellarites, humans, Rigelians . . . they’re all offering to help out. It’s remarkable.”
Kirk experienced a surge of hope and optimism.
“No,” he corrected her. “It’s what the Federation is all about. It’s what we’ve built and are building together. Why we’re out here in the first place.”
Pergium fever may have obscured that for a time, even brought out the worst in some people, but humanity, along with many other species, had progressed since the gold rushes of earlier, more barbaric eras, as evidenced by the many shiploads of prospectors now volunteering to come to Jackpot City’s aid
. Doctor McCoy was currently tied up in sickbay, looking after all the new patients who had been evacuated from the planet, but Kirk wished that Bones was here on the bridge to experience this moment, if only to relieve his sometimes jaundiced view of humanoid nature. People today might not be perfect, but when push came to shove, they could still surprise you.
“Mayor Poho, Margery, it occurs to me that we’ve been thinking of all these new ships and new arrivals as a challenge, but they’re also a resource. We have a veritable fleet on hand to help you through this crisis. You just have to take full advantage of that . . . and work together to everyone’s benefit. After all, natives and newcomers alike, you all have plenty of incentive to get past this disaster and get the pergium flowing again.”
The mayor looked uncertain. “I don’t know. I can barely get my own advisors to agree sometimes, although, come to think of it, there hasn’t been any political wrangling since Thunderbird started melting down. We’ve been too busy trying to keep all our people alive.”
“Think of that as a silver lining,” Kirk told her. “You have scores of new constituents in orbit with ships and resources to call upon as you need them. You can get by without the Enterprise . . . at least long enough for us to save a ship that is running out of time as we speak. Kirk out.”
He cut off the transmission before Poho could prolong the discussion, while hoping that he was making the right call. Matters were not, in fact, quite as simple as he had made them out to be; the Enterprise still had to unload all the evacuees it had taken on before it could venture into the potentially perilous reaches of the Maelstrom, but now that Jackpot City was not facing total destruction, it would be safe to begin beaming refugees back down to safe havens outside the city or onto other ships.
“Damn it, Jim!” McCoy burst onto the bridge, exasperation overcoming Starfleet etiquette as he fulminated vociferously. “My sickbay is more crowded than a tribble’s family reunion! Burstein and Chapel and I can barely keep up. I need you to reassign more personnel to sickbay just on a temporary basis.” He snorted in annoyance. “Of all times for M’Benga to take a busman’s holiday with Sulu.”
Kirk had other ideas.
“Funny you should mention that, Bones. How fast can you relocate your patients to another ship or to the surface?”
McCoy’s startled expression would have been comical under less dire circumstances. “Are you out of your mind? We just got all those patients stowed away. Why in blue blazes would I want to move them again?”
“To save Sulu’s life . . . if it’s not too late.”
Thirty-Four
The Antares Maelstrom
The Lucky Strike was losing its race against time.
“Shields down to twenty-three percent and falling fast,” Fass reported. “At this rate, our hull is going to be naked in no time.”
Sulu recalled Fleetness crumpling around him as its shields failed beyond the point of no return. The Lucky Strike was larger and more solidly built, but he doubted that would make a difference in the long run. He wondered if the gliders were taking into account the conditions outside as, in theory, they guided the ship out of the Maelstrom.
“How much longer until we’re clear of this gods-forsaken morass?” Dajo fished a flask from a compartment in his chair and took a restorative swig of spirits, not caring who was watching. “I hope our new friends aren’t taking us on the scenic route.”
“I doubt it,” Helena said. She and Sulu had swapped posts again, putting her back at comms. “They’re as anxious to be rid of us as we are to put them in our ion trail.”
“Then ask them if we’re almost there yet,” Dajo said. “Are we getting close to the border or not?”
“I’ll try.” She hailed the gliders via subspace. “Hello? Are we almost out of your home? How much longer is the way?”
“Leave home soon. Quickly.”
Was that an answer or a demand? Sulu couldn’t be sure. The universal translator had yet to become fully fluent in the gliders’ language, keeping their exchanges with the beings at a rudimentary level. Did they even grasp humanoid concepts of time and distance?
“Quickly.”
The gliders gained speed, making it harder for Sulu to keep up with them as he piloted the faltering ship. The helm controls were getting increasingly sluggish while the warp engine was losing power. He wasn’t sure how much longer the Lucky Strike could maintain its warp field before it popped like a soap bubble.
“Speed up!” Dajo ordered. A translucent green beverage sloshed from the mouth of his flask. “We can’t lose them! They’re our only guides out of this soup!”
“Tell me about it,” Sulu shot back. “But the speed’s just not there. I can manage warp four at most.”
“Blast it!” Dajo stabbed the intercom button on his chair. “Captain to engineering. We need more warp power!”
“Wish I could oblige you,” a male voice answered. “But our circuits are all but fried at this point. We’re running on backup systems as it is. If I push it too far, we could lose warp capacity altogether.”
“Faster!” the gliders urged.
“Caution be damned!” Dajo said. “Give me warp five, Dawson. That’s an order!”
“If you say so, Captain, but I have to warn you—”
“Just do it. Unless you want to live out the rest of a very short life being tossed like a salad!”
“All right,” Dawson said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Sulu listened to the exchange, uncertain whom to side with. He feared that even warp five might not be enough to get them out of the Maelstrom in time. A status board announced an increase of available power to the helm, so he ramped up the speed to chase after the gliders. His unfamiliarity with the Lucky Strike troubled him; back on the Enterprise, he’d developed an instinctive grasp for just how far the ship and its shuttles could be pushed, and could always count on Scotty to make sure that the engines exceeded even Starfleet standards when it came to care and maintenance, but Dajo’s ship was still a question mark. Sulu didn’t truly know what the Lucky Strike was capable of.
“Warp five,” he announced, “and holding.”
Dajo grunted in approval. “That’s more like it.”
“Holding” proved to be overly optimistic. The ship managed at warp five for maybe ten minutes, tops, before the status board crashed and the ship fell abruptly out of warp, testing Sulu’s seat belt as he was thrown forward by the sudden decrease in velocity. He hastily switched propulsion over to impulse, hoping against hope that they hadn’t lost that too. The ship kept flying forward, albeit much slower than before.
“What the devil?” Dajo bellowed. “What just happened?”
“Looks like your Mister Dawson in engineering knew what he was talking about,” Sulu said. “We pushed the warp engines too far.”
He watched in dismay as the gliders pulled farther away from them, beginning to vanish into the churning plasma many kilometers ahead. It would be all too easy to lose them in the swirling polychromatic miasma.
“Quickly!”
The gliders had obviously noted that the ship was falling behind. Sulu hoped they wouldn’t take that the wrong way. “Answer them, Helena. Let them know that we didn’t slow down on purpose.”
She nodded and addressed the swarm.
“We want to go faster. We want to leave, but we are too weak, too hurt, to go faster. We are very sorry, but we can only go slowly now. Please keep showing us the way.”
“Quickly! Follow faster!”
“We are following as fast as we can,” Helena replied. “We want to leave quickly, but we had to slow down.”
“Not fast enough!”
The translator was granting the gliders’ voices more inflection now, enough so that Sulu could tell they were losing patience. Were they about to resume the attacks again?
“Dawson!” Dajo reached out to his engineer via intercom. “What’s going on down there? I need warp power back immediately!”
Not a lot of wiggle room there, Sulu noted. Or grounds for hope.
Now what were they supposed to do?
“Hikaru! Captain!” Helena called out. “We’re being hailed!”
Sulu looked at her, puzzled by the excitement in her voice. “The gliders?”
“No, it’s the Enterprise!”
His mood instantly rocketed from bleak to jubilant. He should have known Captain Kirk would arrive in the nick of time. Defying the odds when all hope seemed lost was Captain Kirk’s trademark move.
“Took his own sweet time about it,” Dajo said, “but better than never . . . I hope!” He gestured at the main viewer. “On-screen!”
Helena shook her head. “Audio only, Captain. Best we can manage through the Maelstrom.” She looked across the bridge at Sulu. “Captain Kirk is asking for you, Hikaru.”
He imagined Uhura opening the channel and felt a pang of homesickness before addressing Dajo. “Mind taking the helm, Captain, while I answer this call?”
Dajo threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why not? It’s not like I’m the captain of this ship or anything.” He unbuckled his seat belt and surrendered the chair to Sulu. “Make yourself at home.”
Don’t mind if I do, Sulu thought. He turned over the helm to Dajo and claimed the captain’s seat. He activated the intercom, not wanting to keep Captain Kirk waiting.
“Sulu here, Captain.”
Kirk’s voice rang out across the bridge, loud enough for all present to hear.
“Good to hear your voice, Lieutenant. Sorry to keep you waiting, but we’re on our way to you. What’s your current situation?”
“Not good, sir.” Sulu quickly brought Kirk up to speed. “At the risk of plagiarizing Mister Scott, the Lucky Strike can’t take much more of this.”