[Star Trek Logs 01] - Log One

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Doesn’t look real, does it?” murmured Kirk. “It belongs more properly to the imagination. This material used to be the unicorn of atomic physics.” He glanced abruptly at his chief engineer and his tone turned urgent. “Scotty, we’ve got ten minutes left.”

  Scott was checking the small instrument he held.

  “Just wanted to make sure there was no oscillation in field strength, Captain. It’s holding fine. Let’s go.”

  He clipped the tiny rectangle to his belt. Then he and Kirk moved to stand on opposite sides of the cube. They gripped the handles and lifted. A tractor beam would have been easier, but riskier, too. Scott didn’t want to use one field to move another. Funny things could happen sometimes when energy fields of different properties and function intersected.

  Theoretically, the cube was full of nothing. There should be only the weight of the force-field box itself. But dammit, it seemed heavier!

  Dropping it would have no effect on the field inside, of course. Nevertheless, they walked very, very carefully. Certain sections of the human mind were sometimes reluctant to believe what another part might tell it.

  When the elevator doors dilated and they stepped into the main engineering room again, it seemed like the whole technical section was waiting for them. No one offered greeting. No one made idle conversation. They knew what was in the cube.

  Still moving cautiously, Kirk and Scott angled towards the door marked:

  ACCESS ROUTE-ANTIMATTER CONTROL.

  And underneath!

  ABSOLUTELY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—Starfleet Reg.E-11634.”

  One of the engineers operated the automatic safety door, and they entered the small service lift thus revealed. Neither man said anything as the lift carried them down and forward. It was a short ride. The door slid back.

  They were in the antimatter nacelle.

  A narrow walkway led down the middle of the chamber. Like the lift exit it glowed faintly with its own unceasing, permanent force-field.

  If everything else on the Enterprise was to shut down, all power including life-support systems to fade—phasers, lights, engines—the small prelocked power supply that maintained this most vital function of the starship would remain activated and functioning.

  If the entire crew were killed and every instrument on board destroyed, the starship would still be salvageable.

  The field was necessary because nearly everything in the huge, cavernlike chamber except the lift exit and walkway—and themselves, of course—was composed of antimatter. This was the greatest accomplishment of Federation technology—engineering in negativity. The maintenance walkway they were on was suspended from walls, floor, and ceiling by force-field insulators.

  Cell-like bins lined the walls like the inside of some enormous insectoid hive. Each had simple red, yellow, and green indicator lights on the outside. Everything in here was simple and functional. Antimatter was difficult to work with, and there was no room for extraneous detail. It would have been too dangerous.

  Red lights gleamed on all of the bins—except for the one closest to the lift-exit door. As they passed it, this single remaining green light faded out. At the same time, the middle indicator began to glow a bright yellow.

  Scott glanced quickly at it and then ahead down the walkway.

  “Well, that gives us two minutes.” They moved as fast as they could, almost running now. They had to be careful. Normally the force-fields surrounding the walkway formed impenetrable barriers even a ground-car couldn’t break through.

  But now, as the main engines of the Enterprise began to die, the separate power supply that maintained the protective fields started to shift over to salvage mode. That meant using only enough power to keep the matter of the walkway, say, from contacting the antimatter of the chamber.

  If they slipped and fell, they’d never feel the final impact, never know the moment of death. Because touching the floor here would mean destroying the instrument of touch, the attached you, and the entire ship.

  It was a place for people with the patience and manipulative skill of surgeons. That’s why the personality profile requirements for antimatter engineers were among the highest in the Federation.

  At the far end of the walkway, which had seemed kilometers away, was a huge, unspectacular-looking circular chamber. Tubes radiated from it in all directions. An insulated instrument panel was set into the walkway nearby. Scott used his free hand to trip the comm switch.

  “All right, Davis, we’re here. Open it.”

  The single door of the chamber slid back with agonizing slowness. They carefully put the box inside the inner antimatter acceptance alcove. The door slid back automatically. There was a pause while the field cube was transferred to the inside of the main chamber.

  Spock and Kirk hadn’t waited to check on the automatic process. They’d dashed back to the lift door. Once there, Scott took the small control device from his belt. There was no time for a precheck, no time to see if the automatic partitioning device would dissolve the matter of the field cube in time.

  A thumb descended at the same time as the yellow light on the nearby bin faded out.

  A loud crackling noise like a ton of tin foil being crushed came from the area of the main chamber. There was a breathless pause. Then, a gentle violet hue appeared around it, seeming to issue from the chamber wall. Another crackling, softer, and suddenly the myriad webbing of tubes and lines extending from the central sphere also shone with violet radiance.

  The luminescence reached to the bins. Rapidly, the indicator lights began to change—from red, to yellow, to bright emerald green, winking on in a reassuring fugue of color.

  Even more reassuring was the steady hum of energy that had been nearly absent when they’d entered. Now it filled the antimatter nacelle.

  “Scotty.” breathed Kirk slowly, too exhausted to feel satisfied, “you’ve just given the Enterprise and Mantilles a chance to live.”

  Scott looked totally drained. “Thank you, sir. I don’t think I want to go through this sort of thing very often. I’d much rather do it in theory.”

  XI

  Kirk was feeling rather optimistic—unreasonably so—when he resumed his position on the bridge. They had coped with a seemingly impossible power situation; they could cope with anything else. He spoke to his left.

  “Situation update, Mr. Spock?” Spock looked up from the computer again. As usual, the recent emergency had had no visible effect on him. His expression was neither elated nor discouraging—only neutral.

  “The cloud is now only forty-two minutes, fourteen seconds from Mantilles, Captain. And while you were with Mr. Scott in the antimatter nacelle, I was able to ascertain an important fact. I might venture to say, even, a vital fact.” His eyebrows went up, and as usual Kirk’s attention intensified at that inadvertent signal. Something significant was up.

  “This creature does have a brain.”

  If the creature had a brain, that implied the chance that—no, no—it was too much to hope for. Mad, in fact.

  But then, this whole situation was mad.

  Why mightn’t it be consistently mad?

  “Could… it possibly be intelligent, Spock?”

  “It is far too early to guess, Captain. We really have no basis for such a supposition. Our information thus far is of purely anatomical nature. It has made only one action which might conceivably be interpreted as intelligent. It changed course from Alondra to move towards Mantilles.”

  Kirk shook his head frustratedly. “Not enough. We can’t go by that. It might just have been an involuntary response to a new source of food.” What now?

  “Let’s see what the computer cartographic sensors have put together, Mr. Spock.”

  The first officer adjusted controls. A diagram of the cloud’s interior appeared again on the screen. It was much enhanced since the last time he’d seen it. Considerable information had come in since then.

  “A great deal of electrical activity emanates from that big, ir
regular-shaped object at the top of the core, Captain. Dr. McCoy has been studying that activity and I believe he has something to add.”

  “That’s right, Jim. The impulses fall in regular patterns to an extent that would seem to preclude random generation. They might be normal for where this thing comes from, but… I’m inclined to regard those patterns as similar to those I’ve seen before.”

  “Before? Where, Bones?”

  “Everywhere—whenever I take a cranial check on any crew member. They sure look like intelligent brain waves.”

  “It’s so big,” Kirk muttered. “Hellishly big.” He paused thoughtfully. “But if we can reach it before the creature reaches Mantilles, we might be able to save the planet. Whether it’s intelligent or not.”

  “Jim? I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “I’m not surprised, Bones. You’re a physician. Your mind, your thoughts, your instincts are geared towards preserving life. You wouldn’t think of using photon torpedoes to destroy a living mind.”

  “Captain,” interrupted Spock, “this is as you say, a living creature. I am compelled to mention that Starfleet regulations—” But Kirk had no time to listen to a lecture on regulated morality.

  “Sometimes, Mr. Spock, through no conscious fault of your own, your recourse to logic in every matter makes you sound something of an idiot. I am aware of the regulations regarding the killing of intelligent life-forms.

  “But as you yourself admit, we don’t know that this life-form is intelligent. When I have to balance that remote possibility against the lives of eighty-two million Mantillians—well, how long would you hesitate?”

  “Of course, you are correct, Captain,” replied Spock quickly. In moments like these he was reminded that he was a Vulcan speaking to humans. In such emotional moments it was often better to say nothing to them than to be logical. “I did not mean to imply that—”

  “I know, I know, Spock,” admitted Kirk tiredly. “You really had no control over what you said.”

  “Are you implying, Captain, that my reaction was emotional?” Even tempered or not, Spock managed to sound outraged. Tense moment or not, there were some things that couldn’t be permitted to go unquestioned.

  “No, no, no, Spock! You could only say the first logical thing that—this being—oh hell, let’s drop it.”

  “A most logical decision, Captain.”

  Kirk started to retort, then remembered that Spock had no emotional need to resort to sarcasm. Faced with disaster after disaster he was beginning to retreat into inanities. That was no way to inspire the confidence of his crew.

  Kirk stared resolutely at the screen—and thought.

  Eventually they reached the borders of the area the computer had labeled a brain. The new sector turned out to be made up of deep yellow cloud crisscrossed with pulsing white cables and lines that vanished in all directions. Spock and Uhura were using the sensors to prepare a detailed chart of the brain interior so that the Enterprise’s powerful torpedoes might be used to best advantage.

  Scott was still keeping a close watch on his precious engines, so Uhura was handling the basic programming. McCoy remained on the bridge. He always felt—though Spock would have considered it absurd—completely useless in such moments.

  At the same time McCoy hoped fervently his talents wouldn’t be required. This constant paradox in tight situations was rough on even a well-balanced individual. That was one reason he made so many jokes. Laughter’s therapeutic value was vastly underrated. But he wandered aimlessly about the bridge, trying to stay out of everyone’s way and for the most part, succeeding.

  In fact, this kept him free for one of his primary functions.

  “Am I doing the right thing, Bones?” Kirk asked him quietly. “Starfleet prime directive number two prohibits the taking of intelligent life. I once said myself that man would not rise above primitiveness until he stood up and vowed, ‘I will not kill today.’”

  “You also said you couldn’t let this thing wipe out over eighty million lives,” McCoy countered gently. “Certainly that takes precedence over the second directive.”

  “I know, I know! Viewed objectively, or logically, as Spock would prefer—there is no choice. But I’m the one who has to live with the decision to kill.”

  Spock spared him further introspection. “Captain, I’ve completed the analysis of the target area. I am afraid your initial estimation of the destructive capability of the ship’s photon torpedoes was badly overrated. According to my calculations, our entire offensive armament is insufficient to insure the creature’s destruction, let alone incapacitation.” He paused.

  “However, there is one other possibility. The brain could be completely destroyed if we aimed the Enterprise at its center and then converted the entire ship to energy. Such a single overwhelming strike should prove mortal. It would certainly cripple the creature and remove its ability to hunt out specific worlds.”

  “That sounds like you’re telling us to blow up the ship,” guessed McCoy incredulously.

  “I believe that is what I just said, Doctor.” McCoy had no argument to counter with. Like the rest of them he’d been caught completely unprepared for the science officer’s words.

  Only Kirk wasn’t shocked.

  “I expect those figures on the limits of our photon torpedoes are accurate, Mr. Spock?” he queried. “You’ve checked and rechecked them, no doubt.”

  “Naturally,” Spock replied. “I do not profess to be enamored of the idea of destroying ourselves, Captain. I have no more wish for self-destruction than anyone else. I merely report the facts as they exist and suggest alternative lines of operation for your consideration.”

  “But that is your recommendation?”

  Spock nodded. “We seem to be left with no other alternative.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Spock.” Kirk drummed fingers on the arm of the command chair. Spock was right. They’d run out of options—and were rapidly running out of time.

  Even so, he hedged.

  “You’re sure it would do the job?”

  “Yes, Captain. Quite sure.”

  Kirk leaned over and spoke into the communicator grid. “Kirk to engineering.”

  “Engineering,” came the distant voice. “Scott here.”

  Kirk composed himself and rehearsed the words in his mind. He wanted Scott to get it right the first time.

  He remembered the last time he’d uttered the words, when they’d battled the strange energy-being in orbit around the bulk of a dead star. But in his mind he’d known that was a feint. A desperate one, but still a feint. A trick to frighten their unwanted passenger away. It had worked.

  This time, however, it was different. He had no tricks in his mind, no hidden surprises to spring on this lumbering, alien entity. It was to be a kamikaze strike, plain and simple.

  Idly, he wondered where that strange-sounding word had come from.

  “Mr. Scott, prepare the self-destruct mechanism in the engines. Computer control for triggering the device will be here, on the bridge. Rig it with Lt. Uhura.” There was a long pause at the other end. “Mr. Scott?”

  “Aye, sir.” Kirk clicked off and sat back. The following comment turned the atmosphere in the room topsy-turvy. It was typical of McCoy.

  “Well, gentlemen, that’s one decision you won’t have to live with.” Even Kirk smiled.

  “Wait til you hear the next one, Bones. It’ll kill you.”

  “What on Vulcan is the matter with you two?” queried Spock blankly.

  “Nothing, Spock,” McCoy was quick to counter. “You’re right, as usual. As a comedy act, we’re dying.”

  Kirk chuckled. “Stop it, Bones. That’s an order.” He paused, grinned even wider. “You’re killing me.”

  Spock shook his head wonderingly. “Humans!” There was no contempt in the friendly exclamation. A little pity, perhaps.

  Kirk’s smile faded. They didn’t need pity right now. They needed miracles.

  Meanwhile, Uhura had nearly
finished programming the cerebral diagram. A light flashed on her console as she was setting the schematic for display. She checked it, then swiveled around in her chair to look over at Kirk.

  “Incoming communication, sir. It’s Governor Wesley on Mantilles.”

  Kirk considered retreating to his cabin again to take the call, immediately squelched the idea. By the time the information reached the rest of the crew, the fate of the Enterprise and the eighty-two millions on Mantilles would already have been decided.

  “Put it on the viewscreen here, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” She made the necessary connections. “Go ahead, Governor.” Wesley’s image strengthened on the screen.

  Very little time had passed since his last conversation with Kirk, but he seemed to have aged years, not hours.

  “Hello, Jim.”

  “Bob, is the evacuation proceeding?” Wesley nodded wearily. His words were delivered in a flat, even tone, interspersed with long sighs. The fresh attitude of determination that had gripped the Enterprise had no such counterpart on Mantilles.

  Yes, it’s started. We’re doing as well as we can. Oh, there was some hysteria at the beginning. But the government’s been very candid with them and they appreciate that. They’ve taken it well, all things considered. Damn well. Much better than we had any right to expect.

  “I think the announcement that we’re going to take only children made the potentially dangerous ones sit down and do some serious thinking. The few real nuts we were ready for.” His face was a study in frustration.

  “But it’s only five thousand, Jim. Five thousand, out of millions.”

  “I know,” Kirk murmured compassionately. It sounded woefully inadequate, even presumptuous—but Christ, what else could he say?

  Wesley’s frustration found release in a burst of anger. “The hell you do! You sit up there safe in your starship and—” He caught himself right away. The anger vanished as quickly as it had come and he slumped in his seat.