Star Trek

by Alan Dean Foster

  “We’re gonna need neurogenic stimulators and”—he made a face as his scanner locked onto a small dark shape pressed tightly against the captain’s spine—“cord sheath protection. Let’s prep him for surgery. We’re gonna have to do repair, rejuve, and an extraction at the same time.”

  As the other two just-transported arrivals headed for the bridge, the briefest of glances was exchanged between the Enterprise’s science officer and its communications chief. No one noticed it but Kirk. Varying from the sly to the snide, several suitable comments took shape in his mind. Ultimately, he voiced none of them.

  Like lightning, maturity can strike anyone unexpectedly and at the most peculiar moments.

  On board the Narada the situation was degenerating with a rapidity that made it impossible for its personnel, dedicated and highly skilled as they were, to keep up. It was not their fault. Confronted with not one but two potentially deadly unexpected events, even the best of crews could not have coped any better.

  Unfortunately for those on board the Romulan warship, rapidly worsening circumstances suggested their best was not going to be good enough.

  Another phaser blast struck home, jolting the bridge violently. Vital instrumentation began to go dark, only some of which was compensated for by the activation of auxiliaries or backup. Discharges flared from consoles even as their operators sought to sustain their functions. On one side of the bridge, fire broke out, consuming not only instruments but precious atmosphere.

  “Captain,” the communications officer shouted, “it’s the Enterprise!”

  “Activate all weapons systems and raise shields!” Nero directed.

  The officer fought to stay seated at his station, his eyes widening as he struggled to reconcile the information his console was providing with the Narada’s rapidly shrinking list of options.

  “Engines using all our power, sir!” As he turned toward his captain, his expression was one of desperation and despair. “If we divert to shields we’ll be drawn into the new singularity.” Checking his readouts, he saw numbers that continued to fall steadily despite the best efforts of the Narada’s drive. “We’re barely maintaining position as it is!”

  The instant Kirk and Spock reappeared on the bridge, the acting science officer moved away from his post and Sulu surrendered the captain’s chair to return to his own post at the helm. Chekov was reporting excitedly even before Kirk had resumed his seat.

  “Keptin! The enemy ship is losing power and…its shields are down!” He looked toward the command chair. “All of them! They’re defenseless.”

  All eyes turned toward Kirk. There was no uncertainty in them now, no qualification in those glances. They no longer hoped for him to render decisions—they expected it.

  Would he issue the directive to resume firing on the Romulan craft whose commander was responsible for so much death and destruction? Or…?

  “Hail them,” Kirk snapped. “Now.”

  It took longer than usual for contact to be established, and when the screen finally produced a picture, it was not the best. Static occasionally distorted the image and it shifted or doubled unpredictably. The commander of the Narada took a moment to try and stabilize his own pickup. Despite the continuing disruption, there was no mistaking the identity of the human who was presently gazing back at him.

  “This is Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Your ship is compromised. You are sacrificing power fighting a losing battle against a growing gravitational anomaly. The closer to it you fall, the more inexorable its pull becomes and the less the likelihood that you or any of your crew will survive. In the absence of full warp power there is no possible way you can attempt to escape by utilizing the anomaly to attempt a time shift—you have no maneuverability. None of you will survive without assistance—which we are willing to provide.”

  Of all the possible responses to the current state of affairs Kirk could have articulated, this was one none of his fellow crew members had anticipated. Spock’s reaction was no different.

  “Captain—what are you doing?”

  “We show them compassion. It may be the only way to secure a permanent peace with Romulus. It’s logic, Spock. I thought you’d respond positively to such an offer.”

  The science officer measured his words even more carefully than usual. “Captain, he destroyed my home planet. As a human might say—to hell with logic.”

  As it turned out, further discussion and possible dissension was obviated by an unequivocal retort from the Narada’s commander. Pushing his face toward his pickup, Nero glared unapologetically across space at his human and Vulcan nemeses.

  “I would rather suffer the death of Romulus a thousand times than accept assistance from you!”

  That was all Kirk needed. No, he told himself—it was more than he needed. When the history of this encounter was written, no one would be able to say that he had not acted with consideration and forbearance.

  He was much relieved.

  “You got it,” he shot back as he turned toward Chekov. “Lock phasers. Fire everything we’ve got!”

  Swinging around in a wide arc, the Federation starship unloaded a massive burst in the direction of the struggling Narada. Already weakened by previous attacks, its shields down, and succumbing to the relentless pull of the anomaly, one detonation after another began to tear the huge ship to pieces. As it lost what remained of its drive it began to disintegrate, collapsing into the singularity. The main bridge screen offered a final glimpse of the Romulan commander they had known as Nero: defiant, half-mad, and ultimately frustrated as he joined his ship in being crushed down into his subatomic components.

  The Narada, Nero, and everyone else on board who had taken part in the destruction of multiple Federation starships and the planet Vulcan—were gone.

  There no longer being any need to address tactical, Kirk directed his attention and his command elsewhere. “Kirk to engineering—get us out of here, Scotty!”

  “Aye, Captain!” came the immediate report. A slight quiver ran through the length of the Enterprise as her weapons systems and shields were drawn down so that all power could be directed to the engines.

  On screen and behind them, the last vestiges of the warship Narada collapsed inward and upon themselves as they passed the gravitational point of no return and vanished into the mini–black hole. Seated squarely in the captain’s chair, Nero had less than a second to let out a final defiant scream as his life, body, and fanatic’s hopes were compacted out of existence.

  On board the Enterprise full power was directed to ram her into warp. Dilithium gave up its incredible matrix in ever-increasing quantities in response to the command from engineering central. And…

  Nothing. The ship’s position relative to the system-departing anomaly did not change. It did not fall inward in the wake of the Narada, but neither was it able to pull away. The fabric of the ship itself began to vibrate as it threatened to succumb to the enormous gravitational forces that were clawing at its superstructure.

  On the bridge, Kirk stared at the main monitor. The view aft showed the all-devouring monster to which Red Matter had given birth.

  “Why aren’t we at warp?”

  “We are!” Sulu reported even as he struggled with a recalcitrant helm.

  “Captain!” Scott’s voice resounded over the bridge speakers. “We’re caught on the edge of the gravity well! It’s got us!”

  “Go to maximum warp! Push it, Scotty!”

  From deep within engineering, Scott raised his voice to a shout in order to make himself audible above the straining whine of the engines.

  “I’m givin’ ’er all she’s got, Captain!”

  “All she’s got isn’t good enough!” Kirk shot back. “What else have you got?”

  Scott’s thoughts were a whirl. “If we eject the core, the wave front when it detonates against the singularity might be enough to kick us clear—if it doesn’t kill us. And if that fails, then we’ll be without drive power! We’ll b
e sucked in for certain!”

  Kirk looked over at the helm. “Mister Sulu! Status!”

  “Still holding position relative to the anomaly, Captain, but we can’t break the impasse. If we don’t break free soon, we’ll begin to lose ground incrementally until we pass the gravitational point of no return!”

  Kirk didn’t need to hear anything else. “Do it, Scotty!” he yelled into the command chair pickup. “We’re dead anyway!”

  In engineering Scott slammed a series of controls, unkeyed a protective security cover, entered the catastrophe code all chief engineers are required to commit to memory in the course of their initial studies, and then struck simultaneously two parallel and now flashing deep-set switches. The entire central engine compartment shook once, violently, as the warp core was expelled from the stern of the ship.

  Ejected at speed, the activated core sped backward. Impinging upon the singularity, it released all of the energy contained within it in a single titanic explosion. Light too bright to look at directly illuminated a tiny corner of the solar system and flared outward. There was no sound.

  That was not the case within the Enterprise. The shock wave enveloped the ship that was now fleeing as fast as possible in the opposite direction on impulse power alone. On multiple decks, anything not fastened down was jolted loose. Artificial gravity was momentarily disrupted, sending airborne anyone not strapped in place or failing to grab onto something fixed. The instant gravity was restored, bodies fell to the floor or onto surrounding furniture or equipment. A collective moan of pain seemed to wash over the ship as nearly every crew member suffered bumps or bruises. Paradoxically, those who came through without injury of any kind were the patients confined to sickbay, who were secured in their beds. In a single instant the entire crew had been battered and beaten. So had their ship.

  But it had not come apart.

  And in spite of the pressure, the pain, and the threat of near annihilation of themselves, their ship, and the world whose survival had ultimately rested entirely on them, neither had they.

  EPILOGUE

  It is astonishing how quickly people can go from imminent catastrophe to the boredom of daily routine. Back on the ground, back at Starfleet, there was still much to do. Final courses so rudely and urgently interrupted still required completion. Personal matters left unfinished demanded the attention of the hastily dispersed. Seminars paused in a convulsion of emergency were resumed. At the Academy, orders of mundanity swiftly and smoothly replaced the desperate attempt to save a planet.

  The individual upperclassmen and-women who had been hastily assembled to crew the Enterprise were no exception. Having gone from students to saviors and back to students again in the space of days, certain leeways and dispensations were granted when one newly promoted officer was a little late completing an assignment, or another pleaded a date with a counselor as an excuse for missing a simulation.

  No such handicaps affected Spock. As on previous mornings the science officer was busy in the main Academy hangar supervising the allocation of supplies. Any demons tormenting his soul were held tightly in check, forced down into the darkest depths of his psyche, where only he would have to deal with them. Inwardly as well as outwardly he was in complete control of himself.

  Or so he thought, until a glance across a delivery path revealed the presence of another Vulcan in the hangar.

  The man’s dress was unusual, more affected than practical. An odd choice for a Vulcan, especially for one as elderly as this individual appeared to be. Heading toward the figure who stood quietly surveying his surroundings, Spock knew of only one person who might logically be so clad as well as present in the hangar at this moment in time.

  Still, as he drew nearer, something about the shape was not quite right. Familiar, yes, but not quite right.

  “Father?”

  At the sound of his voice the figure turned. Expecting Sarek, Spock was more taken aback than at any time in his life. The circumstances were understandable.

  “I am not our father,” the visitor replied gravely.

  Spock found himself staring at…himself. Only older, much older. Older than he would care to be, except he self-evidently was. Thoughts rose and fell with the speed and force of wave crests in a storm. What to say? Then he wondered why he was worrying. Obviously, whatever he said would be the right thing.

  “Fascinating.”

  His senior self nodded agreement. “There are so few Vulcans left—in this time frame. We cannot afford to ignore one another. The knowledge each of us carries must be treasured and shared, not only with each other but hopefully for generations yet to come. Especially the knowledge that I, unwillingly but unavoidably, hold. I intend to devote the remainder of my life—not yours—to committing for posterity everything that I know.”

  His younger self was plainly puzzled. “If you know so much, then why did you send Kirk back onto the Enterprise when you alone could have far more persuasively explained the truth to its crew? To me?”

  The elder Vulcan turned reflective. “Because of so many things that happened and so much that transpired in a future that you will now—perhaps for the best—never know. A future that will remain forever closed to you, now that the past has been altered. In that future, James T. Kirk and I developed a personal and working relationship that resulted in many achievements, in the doing of great things. All such now lies open before you, in ways and along paths neither of us can imagine.

  “But one thing I do know for certain. To perform at your highest level and achieve your full potential, you and James Kirk will need each other. You boast opposing yet complementary personalities and minds. When pooled, when set to solve a problem or face a difficult situation together, you will invariably accomplish far more than either of you could separately. It was that balance between us that often made the impossible possible.” The barest suggestion of a smile tweaked one corner of the elder’s mouth. “This I know from often fractious experience.”

  “So forcing me to learn how to deal with Kirk, how to function beside him, how to…trust him—it was a test?” the younger Spock concluded.

  “Nothing so formal. But I felt it was the best way. Had I imposed myself on the two of you, with my knowledge and experience, you could not possibly have developed the working relationship that has resulted. Such an understanding between two disparate personalities cannot be imposed from without. It must occur, it must happen, naturally. I will not deny that there was risk in such an approach. I am happy to see that my assumptions were justified.” He turned away from his younger self.

  “I am in no position to pass judgment on anyone for anything. As I said, my actions have robbed you of much if not all of the future that I know. Please understand when I say that I could not also deprive you of the revelation of all that the two of you can accomplish together. Of a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize. If I have proceeded wrongly, I beg your forgiveness. After my capture and marooning at the hands of Nero, I did not think I would have a chance to redeem myself.”

  The younger Spock regarded his elder self in surprise. Explanation he had expected. Such a naked expression of emotional vulnerability was something of a shock. He tried to shift the conversation elsewhere.

  “How did you persuade Kirk to keep your secret? The knowledge of your existence in this time frame?”

  “I implied universe-ending paradoxes would ensue should he break his promise.”

  “But that did not turn out to be even remotely true.” The young science officer spoke with conviction. “Perhaps if the displacement had taken place much farther in the past, yes, but not in the course of so recent a period. No such paradox occurred, nor was likely. You lied.”

  Spock senior shrugged.

  “A gamble,” his younger self surmised. “Many things could have happened to change or interfere with the course of events. I nearly killed him, for example.”

  “Call my actions an act of faith. Or if you prefer, one of tru
st. One I hope you’ll repeat in the future. I came to trust implicitly the James Kirk of my time frame. I felt, I believed, that despite your initial differences you would come to do the same here.” He paused for emphasis. “I still feel that way.”

  The response of his younger self was not entirely positive. “I can foresee such a development, though perhaps one devoid of the modifier ‘implicitly.’”

  “All good things come only through the passing of time,” the elder Vulcan replied. “A subject with which I have been forced to become more conversant than ever I thought possible.”

  “Good things?” Spock queried.

  “No—time.” The elder paused, studying the much younger face of himself, and then gave a nod. “Ah. I see. You essay an attempt at humor. Your half-human side coming out. A mildly commendable attempt.”

  “I appreciate your restrained approval.”

  They regarded each other for another long moment before the younger Spock once again broke the contemplative silence.

  “The future clearly is not what it used to be. In the face of possible extinction it is only logical that I resign my Starfleet commission in order to contribute all my efforts into helping to rebuild our species.”

  His elder self looked thoughtful. “And yet, you are in a unique position. You can be two places at once. I urge you to remain in Starfleet. In discussion with other Federation science departments I have already located a suitable uninhabited world on which to establish a Vulcan colony.”

  “I believe I understand you,” declared the younger science officer. “My future cannot be determined by your past. We are one, but not the same. I must make my own future independent from yours. Yet, I hope that from time to time, should circumstances allow, that I may call on you for advice.”

  “Why not?” his senior self replied. “Who better with whom to debate decisions affecting yourself than yourself? The society you’ve inherited lives in the shadow of incalculable devastation—but there is no reason you must face it alone.” Pivoting on one foot, he strode purposefully toward the nearest exit. Only there did he halt and turn for a last look back.