Star Trek: Discovery: Desperate Hours

by David Mack

  His calmness was maddening. “Are you serious? Once we split up, that’s it. We’re done, Spock. If we can’t communicate, we can’t collaborate. If neither of us even knows what the other is looking at, how are we supposed to make the right choice?” She shook her head and let her shoulders slump to signal her admission of defeat. “This might look like a fork in the path, Spock, but that’s just a disguise. What this really is? Is a dead end.”

  22

  * * *

  Burnham’s quiet desperation struck Spock as premature. “It is too soon to concede failure,” he said, hoping to bolster her morale. “As long as options remain, we have a duty to persevere.”

  His attempt to mitigate her frustration seemed only to worsen it. “I’d hardly call charging blind into a tandem test a viable option.”

  “I concur,” Spock said. “But that is not what I am suggesting.” An ominous pulsing shook the oval corridor, whose bulkheads brightened to yellowish-white. “All of the trials to which the Juggernaut has subjected us have been designed to test knowledge and abilities it knows we possess. I suspect this challenge to be no different.”

  Her manner was incredulous. “And do you have any idea what ability or knowledge this was designed to test? Because if Starfleet Academy actually has training that addresses this, I might finally have reason to regret not having studied there.”

  “I do not think it was my Starfleet experience that this obstacle means to assess, but rather a talent of a more personal nature.” He debated with himself over what would be the most politic way to broach this topic with a non-Vulcan. He knew that Burnham had spent much of her life on his homeworld; perhaps that called for a more direct approach. “You lived among my people for many years. You studied in our learning centers, attended our Science Academy—”

  “Get to the point, Spock.”

  “Many Vulcans have telepathic abilities. Some possess exceptional gifts, while others, such as myself, are primarily touch-telepaths, with minimal range absent physical contact.”

  Her apprehension became revulsion. “Tell me you’re not suggesting—”

  “A mind-meld,” Spock said. “It would enable me to maintain a tenuous link with your mind after we split up into the parallel corridors.”

  Burnham paced and shook her head, as if in denial. “No, there has to be another way.”

  “I do not believe there is. At least, none that are viable in the limited time we have left.”

  Her anger gave way to fear. “What about a less-invasive approach? Maybe you could read my mind without the meld. Or send me telepathic suggestions.”

  Spock shook his head. “My talents are not strong enough. Perhaps, with more training, I might affect a weak mind from a short distance. But your mind was disciplined on Vulcan, and we will be separated by over a dozen meters. Those complications, coupled with the complexity of the puzzles favored by the Juggernaut, suggest we will need a strong psionic bond if this plan is to succeed. For me to create and maintain such a bond, you must join me in the mind-meld.”

  His argument left Burnham in a state of distress. “No. I just—I can’t. Just . . . no.”

  “I understand feeling a measure of resistance to the proposal,” Spock said, thinking he might reason with her. “The mind-meld is an extremely intimate form of mental communion, not something to be entered into lightly. But given the severity of our crisis, and the fact that we are not so much strangers to each other as—”

  “That’s part of—” She cut herself off, as if there was a terrible truth waiting to break free of her, one she refused to let go. “Look, I know what a mind-meld is.”

  Her defensiveness aroused his curiosity. “Have you been part of a mind-meld before?”

  Burnham turned away from him, as if fighting to preserve some shred of privacy in spite of their close quarters and shared jeopardy. Then she faced him, her demeanor still unsettled but clearly doing her best to present a rational front. “It’s a subject I’d rather not discuss.”

  “Why not? Forgive me for prying, but under the circumstances, I feel I must.”

  She closed her eyes, and only afterward did Spock realize she had done it to conceal her involuntary wince at his question. With her eyes still shut, she said, “The memory has . . . painful associations for me, Mister Spock. Sensations I’d much prefer not to relive.”

  A shift in the Juggernaut sent them both stumbling toward the same bulkhead, and Spock caught Burnham just before she would have made impact. The vessel righted itself and jostled them again, all the while increasing its ambient roar of ancient machinery surging back to full capacity. Spock made sure Burnham had her balance, then let her go. “With all respect, what you want is no longer relevant. You and I need to reach the core of this vessel if we are to complete our mission, and a mind-meld appears to be our only remaining means of doing so. If we do not, we and many other people are going to die.”

  Burnham clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, as if she were in physical pain. “I know what you’re saying is true,” she said, her voice strained. “I know it’s logical. But dammit, Spock . . . I just can’t. I can’t open my mind like that.”

  She looked at him; tears shone in her dark eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to absolve her of blame, to tell her she owed him no apology, owed the world no remorse. But beneath his Vulcan logic, the part of Spock that was human knew he could not. Despite all of Burnham’s many admirable qualities, her failure to master her fear was about to spell not only her doom and his, but those of their shipmates and over three hundred thousand civilians, as well as an entire planet—and that was a crime of weakness Spock could not forgive.

  * * *

  The countdown timer projected onto the center viewport of Shenzhou’s bridge flipped from 12:00 to 11:59. Georgiou wiped the sweat from her palms across the pant legs of her uniform. She felt acutely aware of time’s passage, as if it were a weight pressing on her chest. Outside the transparent-aluminum viewport, Sirsa III looked placid, with its blanket of clouds wrapped around the vast expanse of open ocean that dominated more than half its surface. Absent a miracle, all of that beauty was minutes away from being consumed by fire.

  Denial had enabled Georgiou to postpone the inevitable, but the time for delay was over. She stood from her command chair and moved to stand over Gant’s and Narwani’s duty stations. “Mister Gant, what is the status of our shields?”

  “Back to full power, Captain. Damage-control teams report all major systems restored.”

  “Good. Energize shield emitters, have them ready for quick response.”

  Gant nodded. “Already done.”

  “Then start charging all phasers, and instruct the torpedo bays to load all tubes and to prepare for fast loads and snap shots.” She tried not to show her unease at addressing Narwani, whose VR helmet made her look to Georgiou like a human with a snail for a head. “Plot a firing solution for a full-power bombardment of the Juggernaut. Be prepared to adjust that solution on the fly if the vessel becomes mobile.”

  Narwani’s small nod was magnified by the mass of her metallic helmet. “Aye, sir.”

  Pivoting back to Gant, Georgiou continued, “If the Juggernaut shows signs of movement, target torpedoes in a tight spread. Direct hits are the goal, but don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. When it comes to photon torpedoes, close is often good enough to do real damage.”

  This time Gant balked. “Are you sure you want to risk torpedoes, Captain? In the planet’s atmosphere, I mean?” He looked toward Narwani as if expecting support, but found only his own reflection in the gleaming metal of her VR helmet.

  “I understand your reservations, Mister Gant,” Georgiou said, “but this has to be done.”

  Saru stepped away from his station to stand near Georgiou. “Does it? Are we sure?”

  “Yes, Saru, we are.” A slow turn confirmed what Georgiou already suspected: every member of her bridge crew was watching her exchange with Gant and Saru, thei
r faces taut with anxiety at the prospect of committing ecocide and mass homicide in the name of duty. She raised her voice as she returned to the middle of the bridge. “Listen up. We have been given explicit orders by Starfleet Command. These are some of the most difficult orders I have ever received. But they are lawful, and they were not issued carelessly or out of malice. I have done all that I can to prevent this outcome, to find a better way . . . but sometimes bad solutions are the only ones we have left. So when that countdown ends, if the Juggernaut remains a threat, I expect every one of you to do your part to ensure that it is destroyed, no matter the cost.”

  Far from galvanizing her officers, her address seemed only to deepen their concerns. Troke, usually content to avoid drawing attention to himself, stood from his post. “Captain, I don’t question the need to confront a threat such as the Juggernaut. But to obliterate an entire planet . . . I would consider that a crime against science.”

  “As would I,” Saru said. “Excusing ecocide in the name of tactical advantage offends me as a scientist, and as a Starfleet officer. It betrays every value the Academy taught us to revere.”

  The mounting resistance started to trouble Georgiou. “We have a duty to—”

  “To who?” interrupted Ensign Fan. “Starfleet? What about to our shipmates being held hostage down there? What about Doctor Nambue? And Lieutenant Burnham?”

  Oliveira said, “What about the colonists? Three hundred sixty thousand civilians.”

  Detmer added, “That’s a lot of collateral damage to have on our collective conscience.”

  It galled Georgiou to be put in the position of defending the very tactic she had fought so hard against, but there was no more time for moral equivocation. “You all know what’s at stake if the Juggernaut gets off that planet,” she said, her manner quiet but grave. “You heard me have this very same argument with Captain Pike. And you probably all know I made this case to Admiral Anderson. I was overruled, every time. And I didn’t like it any more than you do now.”

  Exhausted, she rested her hands on the back of her command chair and bowed her head while she collected her breath and her thoughts. “I joined Starfleet for the same reasons many of you did. All my life, I’ve thought of myself as a scientist first, an explorer second, and a diplomat when I needed to be. But we don’t always get to choose the role we play. The price of serving in Starfleet is that there are times when we need to be soldiers. That’s why each of you wears a uniform. It’s more than just a piece of clothing. It has to be earned. To wear it is to tell the universe that you are part of something greater than yourself. The reason we all wear the same uniform is to remind us that we’ve all sworn to put aside our egos—our wants, our needs, our personal beliefs—and faithfully carry out all lawful orders given to us, no matter how terrible they might be. That is the burden we all vowed to accept.”

  A dark melancholy settled over the bridge of the Shenzhou.

  No one met Georgiou’s steely gaze; no one raised their voice in protest.

  One by one, her officers turned back toward their consoles and resumed their duties. The last to abandon his stand of principle was Saru, but even he remained respectfully mute as he returned to his console.

  From the tactical station, Gant said in a subdued voice, “Phasers charging. Torpedo room reports all tubes loaded, all teams standing by for fast action and snap fire.”

  “Well done, Mister Gant. Ensign Narwani, coordinate our attack with the Enterprise, to maximize the impact of our combined firing solutions.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Narwani said, her voice filtered through her helmet’s speaker.

  As Georgiou took her place once more in the center seat, Saru approached and stood beside her chair. “Captain,” he said, his voice discreetly quiet, “I want you to know that I intend to note my objections to these orders in my official log.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Georgiou said, secretly proud of Saru for not being willing to surrender his principles without protest. All the same, caution was in order. “But when you do, you should keep in mind the millions of lives that will be jeopardized if we fail to act here and now. It’s a numbers game, Saru.” She glanced at the countdown as it shrank from 10:00 to 09:59 and continued to diminish. “And ours are running out.”

  Saru frowned at the countdown timer, then returned to his post.

  Alone in the center of the bridge with only her conscience for company, Georgiou hoped that in spite of the distance between them, Burnham might hear her silent plea:

  This is it, Michael. Time to do or die. Please don’t let us down.

  * * *

  Three minutes of silence had felt like forever. Stalled with Spock at the fork in the passage, all Burnham could think about was how profoundly disappointed Sarek would be if he knew what she had just done—or, to be more precise, what she had just refused to do, out of fear.

  Spock, in typical Vulcan fashion, had not pressed his case or even said a word since her refusal of his invitation to a mind-meld. Repression masquerading as courtesy, Burnham stewed, secretly ashamed that she was committing the same emotional fraud, masking guilt with anger. All her thoughts for the past three minutes had been evasions, distractions to keep her from facing the intractable logic of Spock’s proposal. A mind-meld represented their best chance for overcoming the Juggernaut’s next and hopefully final obstacle.

  Why does that have to be the solution? she raged. When she imagined some coldly rational artificial intelligence guiding the creation of the Juggernaut’s challenges, she could conceive of it accessing their tricorders, and through them learning of their respective species—including the Vulcan talent for psionics. Perhaps the test had been intended only to gauge the strength and precision of Spock’s telepathy, as a metric by which to judge the potential of his species. After all, nothing the Juggernaut could have gleaned from their tricorders could have betrayed how passionately Burnham would resist the suggestion of a meld.

  No, that’s just icing on the cake, she brooded.

  So many memories, so much pain . . . all of it tucked away, into parts of Burnham’s mind she had hoped never to visit again. But she knew what a mind-meld could do, knew what it would mean to reopen old emotional wounds. It would take her to parts of herself she had hoped never to confront again. To the alien shores of her childhood and adolescent selves.

  But what’s the alternative? Give up? Let thousands of innocents die because I don’t want to show my wounded inner child to the man I’ve measured myself against for most of my life?

  She imagined what Georgiou would say if she saw her like this.

  “Get over yourself.” That’s what Philippa would say. Burnham conjured the disapproval she knew would infuse the captain’s words. “You’re a Starfleet officer. Act like one.” Bitter tears stung Burnham’s eyes. Putting my pain ahead of others’ lives. She’d be so ashamed of me.

  Her rational mind retorted, You’re ashamed of yourself. So do something about it.

  Burnham sleeved the tears from her eyes and face, then turned toward Spock. “You’re right,” she said. “A mind-meld is the only way. I apologize for my reluctance.”

  “No apology is necessary,” Spock said. “A meld is not to be undertaken in haste.”

  She was grateful for his understanding, and she suspected a word of caution was also in order. “I should say up front that you might find a meld with me to be . . . difficult.”

  “I might offer you the same warning.”

  Burnham waved off his caveat. “I’m not talking about the volatility of emotions. Those I was taught to control long ago. What you need to know is that my previous experience with the meld was linked to a trauma—one that continues to haunt me despite years of guided meditation. You might not be prepared for the intensity of that experience.”

  If Spock was concerned by her admonition, he didn’t show it. “I am prepared to contend with, and hold in confidence, any secrets you harbor. But I would be remiss if I did not counsel you wi
th regard to my own emotional turmoil. Rather than mitigate the violence of my Vulcan emotions, the human side of my nature seems to have amplified them. Even if you think you know what it means to meld with a Vulcan mind, this experience might prove very different.”

  That’s not what I expected, Burnham thought, and for a moment she wondered whether going ahead with the meld might be a mistake. Then she recalled all the lives that were in danger of being lost forever if her courage failed. If the risk in front of me was a charge into enemy disruptor fire, I’d have acted already. Time to stop living in fear.

  She drew a deep breath. “I’m ready. Let’s begin.”

  “We should sit,” Spock said, gesturing toward the deck.

  They both squatted, then sat facing each other, both of them cross-legged, their knees almost touching. He leaned toward her, and she reciprocated. As he looked into her eyes, she felt her pulse start to race, and beads of sweat traced chaotic paths down the back of her neck.

  His baritone was as calm as a windless sea. “Are you ready?”

  Her only honorable response was a lie.

  “Yes.”

  23

  * * *

  “My mind to your mind . . .”

  Burnham had to let her barriers fall. Spock’s fingertips were points of warmth upon her cheeks, against her temples. He held her face in both his hands, the pressure of his fingers as delicate as the shy exploration of his telepathy. Not even joined yet, and I feel his reluctance. It surprised her to think that Spock feared melding with her as much as she did with him.

  To fight the meld would only prolong the pain. Surrender was the quickest route to peace. Yet her subconscious resisted, erected barricades, fogged the path to unity.

  Spock’s voice was steady and sure, a beacon of courage on which Burnham could focus. “My mind to your mind. Our thoughts are merging . . .”

  Time slowed, like molten glass cooling and becoming trapped in one shape. The shifting of colors inside the bulkheads of the Juggernaut stopped; the tides of Burnham’s respiration grew so deep that their roar became endless, like the breath of an abyss. Then the distractions of the world around her and Spock dimmed and faded away, lost and forgotten, figments of shadow.