The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

  “You won’t be disappointed,” Kirk promised. “In fact, I’ve been in touch with the brass back home, just in case you decided in our favor, and they’re prepared to fast-track Baldur III’s admission to the Federation, which will make it easier to dispatch more ships and personnel and resources to help you rebuild and recover.”

  “In exchange for our pergium?” Cahill asked.

  “I won’t lie,” Kirk said. “Baldur III’s value as a major source of pergium certainly makes it in everyone’s best interests to ensure that you have everything you need to get up and running again . . . and to keep you thriving for years to come. On a practical level, that means more engineers and doctors and nurses and administrators and relief workers to help you cope with not just the aftermath of the fire but with your expanding population and interstellar importance as well. Once you’re formally part of the Federation, the powers that be will move heaven and earth to make certain that Baldur III lives up to its full potential, for the mutual benefit of all concerned. You can count on that.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly done right by us so far,” Poho said. “And we can certainly use all the help we can get at the moment, particularly when it comes to our energy crisis.”

  Power shortages remained an issue, Kirk knew. Portable generators provided by the Enterprise and the other ships were helping to keep vital services operating, but severe conservation measures were in effect in the meantime. Sunlight poured through the windows of the cabin in place of artificial lighting, although Kirk heard the mayor’s personal computer terminal humming. Power was being strictly rationed.

  “I’m told the first hydroelectric generator should be able to go into limited operation soon,” the mayor continued. “In the meantime, a passenger ship from Deneva has been drafted to replace Thunderbird as a temporary power plant. A local philanthropist, Oskar Thackery, shelled out a fortune to purchase the ship on behalf of the community.”

  “Another ship turned generator?” McCoy said. “Is that wise?”

  “This ship is not the ancient relic Thunderbird was,” Poho assured the worried doctor, “and your own Mister Scott is personally overseeing the conversion to make sure it’s done properly. I understand that he’s being quite demanding when it comes to insisting that no corners be cut and that every possible safety precaution be taken.” She smiled ruefully. “After what happened last time, I’ve instructed our own technicians to see to it that everything is done to his satisfaction, which is apparently a very high standard to meet.”

  “That’s our Scotty, all right.” McCoy relaxed visibly. “If he’s got his eye on things, you should be okay.”

  “I understand that you and Doctor Burstein have the city clinic operational again?” Poho asked.

  “More or less,” McCoy reported. “We’re getting a welcome amount of help and supplies from the doctors and infirmaries on the arriving ships, but we’re still stretched pretty thin, so if you folks could just avoid having any more accidents or disasters for a while, that would be dandy.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind, Doctor,” Kirk quipped. “Make a note of that, Landon. No more disasters, per the doctor’s recommendation.”

  Landon smirked. “Duly noted, sir.”

  “Very funny,” McCoy said. “Seriously, anything we can do to get more doctors, nurses, and medicine here needs to be done yesterday.”

  “Well, Starfleet frowns on time travel,” Kirk joked, “but that’s where applying to the Federation is going to solve a lot of Baldur III’s problems before too long. The Federation is not going to let its latest member lack proper health care facilities. It will be taken care of, even if Starfleet Medical has to dispatch a hospital ship to the system.”

  “Still couldn’t hurt to light a fire under some people,” McCoy suggested.

  “Consider it ignited,” Kirk said. “I’ll call in some favors.”

  McCoy smiled slyly. “Now we’re talking.”

  Bureaucratic politics aside, Kirk had faith that better days lay ahead for Baldur III. The “gold rush” had pushed the planet and its people to their limits, but when disaster hit, most people’s better angels had prevailed, despite the lure of riches and the heated passions they’d aroused.

  He wondered if Spock would find that “logical” or not.

  * * *

  Yurnos

  “Releasing final satellite,” Spock announced.

  Galileo orbited Yurnos, having returned to the planet after reporting back to Enterprise in preparation for this procedure. Spock watched via his display globe as the last of four defensive satellites was launched from a modular mechanism temporarily installed on the roof of the shuttlecraft. Like the launcher, the satellites had been procured from the Enterprise, where they had been prepared by Lieutenant Charlene Masters and her engineering team, per Spock’s instructions. Sensors tracked the satellite as it fell into a polar orbit around Yurnos that would have it crossing over each of the planet’s poles every 17.5 hours. Spock watched carefully to confirm the launch had been executed successfully.

  “Satellite positioned,” he reported. “Orbital trajectory verified.”

  “That’s four for four.” Chekov grinned from the helm. “We’re on a roll.”

  “Simply a matter of applied physics, Ensign. No lucky streaks required.”

  Both men were back in their standard uniforms, as well as at their now-accustomed places in the cockpit. Despite his confidence in his calculations, Spock relaxed slightly as the final satellite came into view through Galileo’s forward ports.

  Approximately 50.55 centimeters in diameter, the matte-black orb had been shielded against the oscillating electromagnetic interference from Yurnos’s polar auroras and calibrated to compensate for the same. An automated phaser array gave the satellite enough teeth to defend itself and/or discourage any casual visitors, but, along with the three companion satellites Galileo had already launched, its primary function was to sound an alarm at any unauthorized attempt to trespass on Yurnos. The satellites also functioned as warning buoys broadcasting a very clear message regarding the planet: Do Not Disturb.

  “Do you think the satellites will be enough, Mister Spock?”

  “They will do for the present,” he replied, “until stronger measures can be implemented.”

  Now that the Federation was establishing a larger presence in this sector, the long-term plan was to discreetly establish a permanent watch station on the dark side of the planet’s moon, where the Yurnians would not be able to see it for centuries. In the interim, the satellites’ opaque black exterior would suffice to hide them from whatever crude telescopes the Yurnians might develop in the immediate future. With Baldur III only a system away, Starfleet would be in a position to respond to any new incursions with relative alacrity.

  “Shall we inform Jord and Vankov of our success?” Chekov asked.

  “I am hailing them now.”

  The anthropologists appeared on the display globes, thanks to upgrades to their hidden nerve center on Yurnos, which would also make it easier for the pair to contact Starfleet in the event of another emergency. In addition, Spock had provided them with instructions on how to recalibrate their sensors in order to better contend with the camouflage provided by the polar aurorae. Between the automated satellites, the observers’ new-and-improved sensors, and, eventually, the covert watch station on the moon, the odds of any spacefaring intruders arriving undetected had become vanishingly small.

  “So, Misters Spock and Chekov,” Vankov greeted them. “Is your task done?”

  “Affirmative,” Spock replied. “Yurnos is now fully under the Federation’s protection, until such time as its residents are ready to venture out into the galaxy on their own.”

  “Thank goodness,” Jord said with visible relief. “Talk about a load off our minds.”

  “And how are matters on the planet?” Chekov asked. “There has been no fallout from that incident with Galileo?”

  Vankov shrugged. “The tale is making
the rounds of the alehouses, and has a few of the more skittish folks on edge, but if there are no recurrences, it’s likely to become nothing more than a colorful local legend, especially after a few generations have passed.”

  “Not ideal,” Jord said, frowning briefly, “but not a disaster either.”

  Spock agreed with her assessment. He regretted adding to the planet’s superstitions, but it would not be the first time that a stray alien had inspired a myth or two. Other worlds, including Earth, had weathered similar incidents.

  “And Eefa?” Chekov asked.

  “We quietly left her wagon and rodents outside her home in the wee hours of the night,” Vankov said, “with none the wiser. She’s still dealing tea from her shop, but only to Yurnians as far as we can tell. No fresh contraband has surfaced since you chased those smugglers away.”

  “Speaking of whom,” Spock said, “you may be pleased to know that the individuals in question did not get far. Firing upon a Starfleet vessel is not something the Federation takes lightly, let alone brazenly violating the Prime Directive, so the entire fleet was on the lookout for their distinctive vessel, which had secured a place high on the quadrant’s most-wanted list. Venus, Mercury, and Mars were apprehended by the Potemkin three solar days ago, while attempting to trade their spacecraft for a new vessel at an asteroid trading post near the Klingon border.” News of their capture had reached Spock and Chekov on their return trip to Yurnos. “Unsurprisingly, it turns out that the smugglers’ names were not actually Mars, Venus, or Mercury.”

  “Imagine that,” Vankov said dryly.

  “Given the severity of the charges against them,” Spock said, “it is unlikely that they will be resuming their smuggling operations for some years to come.”

  “I hope they throw the book at them,” Jord said, scowling.

  “More like an encyclopedia,” Chekov said. “With large print.”

  “In any event,” Spock said, “they no longer pose a threat to the Yurnians’ cultural development, and we now have measures in place to alert us should anyone attempt to emulate them.”

  “Works for me,” Vankov said. “With any luck, this world will never know what you did for them, so we’ll just have to thank you on their behalf.”

  “What he said,” Jord added.

  Spock saw no logical need to be thanked simply for performing their duty, but he accepted the anthropologists’ gratitude in the spirit in which it was intended.

  “You are most welcome. We are pleased to have brought this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “What about you?” Chekov asked the pair. “Are you still staying on here? We could give you a lift to Baldur III if you wish to return to modern times and technology.”

  Vankov shook his head as the couple put their arms around each other.

  “We appreciate the offer, Chekov, but, unlike you two, our work isn’t done here. History is still unfolding on Yurnos and we’ve got a front-row seat. Not giving that up anytime soon.”

  “I look forward to following the progress of your studies in the years to come,” Spock said sincerely. He had found time to review their published work over the course of his recent travels. “Your insights into Hodgkin’s Law are most intriguing.”

  “Just wait,” Vankov said. “We’re only getting started.”

  A few more pleasantries ensued before Spock and Chekov bid farewell to the scientists and terminated the transmission. Galileo turned back toward Baldur III and the Enterprise, leaving Yurnos behind.

  “An interesting world to visit,” Chekov said. “Do you expect that the Yurnians will someday advance so far that they will be ready to join the Federation?”

  “That is difficult to predict with any certainty,” Spock replied. “There are too many variables with regard to the future of both Yurnos and the Federation. Only time will tell, but at least the Yurnians can now forge their own future . . . without any outside interference.”

  The Prime Directive had been upheld.

  * * *

  Hanging lanterns and candles illuminated the Pergium Palace, adding to the popular nightclub’s romantic atmosphere as Sulu checked the place out for the first time. A vocalist working a traditional piano was taking advantage of the building’s natural acoustics to entertain the guests without any artificial amplification. According to Uhura, this was the local hot spot, with or without electricity. Unlike several other saloons and eateries, it had survived the fires with only some minor scorch marks and smoke damage. Sulu was not too disappointed to have missed that action; he’d had his hands full in the Maelstrom at the time.

  “Sulu, over here!”

  Uhura waved to him from a crowded booth where she was socializing with a group of locals. She beckoned for him to join them. “Come on over. We can make room.”

  “Another time,” he said affably. “I’m meeting someone.”

  He found Helena holding a seat for him at a table for two. Candlelight suited her much better than the blinding energy pulses they’d endured in the Maelstrom. He wondered where she’d found such an amazing dress on this rustic frontier planet, but chalked it up to her usual ingenuity and talent for scrounging up whatever vital part suited her needs at any given moment. That she’d gone to the effort of dressing up for their much-delayed date both flattered and encouraged him. He was glad he’d changed into a fresh Starfleet uniform.

  “Right on time,” she said warmly as he sat down across from her. “So, are we finally going to have that drink at last?”

  He glanced around the dimly lit club as though scanning for hostile life-forms. “Unless a Romulan bird-of-prey decloaks in the next five minutes, I think we’re good.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” she said.

  A pretty blond server approached. “Hi, there. My name’s Flossi. What can I do for you? I’m afraid the ovens and protein sequencers are down until the power is restored, so our menu is limited, but maybe I can start you with some drinks?”

  “You must be a telepath, ’cause you’re reading our minds,” Sulu said. “Maybe a bottle of a good local wine?” He looked at Helena. “That all right with you?”

  “Perfect. Not too strong, though,” Helena added. “This thin air already has me light-headed.”

  “You get used to it,” the server said. “I’ll be right back with that wine. And don’t even think about trying to settle up afterward. Drinks are on the house for Enterprise crew and their friends. This place wouldn’t still be standing if not for you folks.”

  Sulu considered pointing out that he hadn’t personally been involved in saving the city. “Actually—”

  “No ‘actuallys,’ ” she insisted. “Your credits are no good here. Any crewmate of Nyota Uhura drinks for free.” She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “I’m going to be Starfleet myself someday, just you wait.”

  Uhura had obviously made a big impression on the girl. “I’ll save a berth for you on my ship . . . when I’m a captain, of course.”

  “I may hold you to that,” Flossi said. “Be right back.”

  The server wandered off, pausing to check on Uhura’s booth, before disappearing from sight. Sulu returned his attention to Helena, who was well worth his regard. Since being rescued from the Maelstrom by the Enterprise, they had been too busy assisting their respective captains, crews, and passengers to have any quiet time together, let alone compare notes on how they’d been doing since.

  “So what’s new?” she asked. “Aside from the fact that, miraculously, we both survived crossing the Maelstrom.”

  “I touched base with the space station today,” Sulu said. “According to Doctor M’Benga, Tilton and Grandle are both recovering from the effects of the neural neutralizer, although it seems Tilton is retiring from his post as station manager after everything that happened.”

  “Probably inevitable,” Helena said. “I know it wasn’t his fault, but there’s no way he could stay on after being outed as the saboteur. Might be just as well too. The old guy look
ed like he could use a nice, long rest.”

  Sulu couldn’t disagree. “Word is Grandle has the job if she wants it. She got her brain messed with too, but she broke the conditioning in time to save me and everyone else, so her career isn’t likely to be hurt by the incident. It’s just going to be an isolated blip on her record.”

  “What about you?” Helen asked. “How is your noggin doing after getting zapped by that gadget back on the station?”

  “Honestly, I think I’m okay. Doctor McCoy has me scheduled for some follow-up exams and treatments, but I haven’t heard any deceitful voices whispering at the back of my head since before we escaped the Maelstrom. Hard to concentrate on your brainwashing when you’re being swarmed by hostile gliders in a deadly cosmic vortex.”

  He spoke more lightly than maybe the question warranted, but he wasn’t lying. He was confident that he would get past his ordeal in the neutralizer chair. After all, he’d been mind-controlled before and kept on going afterward. And here he was, having a candlelit dinner with Helena, while Naylis was facing serious criminal charges back on S-8.

  I can live with that, he thought.

  “Meanwhile, the Maelstrom has been officially declared off-limits now that we know that it’s inhabited by a sentient species that doesn’t want us trespassing on their turf. Knowing Starfleet, we’re going to want to try making contact with them again at some point, as we did with the Melkotians and other reclusive peoples, but only on their terms and at their own pace.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Helena said. “But you really think that people aren’t going to dare the Maelstrom again?”

  “After what happened to the Lucky Strike?” he asked. “For better or for worse, I like to think we debunked the notion that there’s a safe passage through the Maelstrom, proving that it’s still safer to take the long way around. Which means S-8 is likely to remain a major hub for some time, so the Federation is treating it accordingly by making plans to seriously expand the staff and facilities there. The Yorktown has already been diverted to relieve the Enterprise crew still stationed there.”