Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

  Pippenge opened his mouth a moment, then closed it and remained silent. He had no answers to those questions.

  For her part, Zhatan seemed almost as uncertain as Pippenge. Her eyes darted from Kirk, to the Maabas ambassador, to Spock, and back again. What kind of battle was going on within her, and which of several factions would win out?

  The captain held out his hand, both figuratively and literally. “This is what treaties are for. We may not be able to work out the details in one meeting, but over time an agreement can be forged—without violence. Without bloodshed.” He looked into Zhatan’s eyes and tried to connect with all the minds she harbored. “Let the Federation mediate. Let us help.”

  Kirk’s attempt at persuasion was seemingly lost on her. “We’re not sure that is agreeable to our comrades both within and without,” she admitted. “Tell me, Captain.” Turning fully to Kirk, Zhatan met his eyes. Perhaps she was trying to discern his true intentions—as if he wasn’t being forthright. “Will you stand in our way if we take back what is ours? We have no quarrel with the Enterprise or your Federation.”

  This question was exactly what Kirk hadn’t wanted to hear. How could he answer? He didn’t know the extent of the Kenisian fleet, their alliances, their resources.

  At the same time, the Federation would not sign a treaty with the Maabas, then abandon them. While the agreement didn’t make them a member of the Federation, it promised them protection. The Maabas were not some pre-warp civilization that couldn’t be interfered with. They were, in fact, on the path to Federation membership.

  “We don’t want a quarrel with you, either.” Kirk decided to walk an ambiguous line with Zhatan, rather than directly answer her question. “Take our proposal for mediation back to your people. All of them.” He opened both arms as if the offer sat between them. “Discuss it—thoughtfully—knowing that both your cultures and peoples would benefit from a lasting peace.”

  Hesitating for an uncomfortably long time, Zhatan finally nodded to herself—or perhaps to one of the multitude of minds within her—and reached out her hand to Kirk. “Your words will be considered.”

  He took her hand, ready to forge an agreement based on a meeting of the minds. The captain felt good about it and his concerns melted away. He was sure an accord could be reached. The Maabas would make an agreement with the Kenisians, and if they didn’t, it would be their loss.

  But the Federation shouldn’t take sides, Kirk decided. Not only were the Maabas intruders to this system, but the Federation was as well.

  In fact, it would likely be best if Enterprise left. Yes, he should leave and never return.

  I should tell Chekov to set a course back to DS5, Kirk thought. That would be the best option. The Maabas aren’t worth our blood. Nothing is.

  He let go of Zhatan’s hand and moved to the intercom on the table.

  The captain hesitated, his thumb hovering over the control. Set course, Kirk thought. Leave this system.

  It’s the right thing to do. Wasn’t it? Let the Maabas handle their own affairs. Who are we to force ourselves into this dispute?

  The treaty had a protection clause, but the decision to take action could be left up to Starfleet Command.

  I can recommend to Command that we don’t get involved; that the treaty with the Maabas was a mistake. A new treaty with the Kenisians would be just as fruitful. More.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Kirk said softly. “We must leave.”

  Spock leapt from his seat and stepped between the captain and Zhatan. “Release him.”

  Kirk blinked several times. “Spock, what’re you doing?”

  Motioning the guards forward, Spock had them take Zhatan in hand. Each security officer took an elbow and drew her back.

  “Release him,” Spock repeated, and the words seemed foggy to Kirk—distant. “Now.”

  The captain looked at Zhatan and she returned his gaze. She smiled brilliantly, friendly and peaceful.

  And yet, it seemed out of place. Wrong, even. As if no one should be smiling just now, but for a reason Kirk couldn’t quite remember.

  The Vulcan stepped toward Zhatan and the guards. Pulling his hand back, he slapped her across the face—twice.

  “Sp-spock?” Kirk blinked again. What’s happening?

  “Spock, what the devil are you doing?” McCoy rushed to make sure Zhatan was okay, but the Vulcan blocked his attempt.

  “Stand back, Doctor.”

  Spock struck her again, Zhatan grunted in pain, and Kirk felt his knees collapse.

  The deck came up to greet him and then diffused into nothingness. He tried to push himself up, but wasn’t sure the thought could connect to an actual movement. There was no sensation outside his last, fleeting thought, I am alone.

  SICKBAY.

  Jim Kirk could smell it—that air-scrubbed aroma that was less a scent than a lack of one. He could feel the light on his eyelids as he tried to pull them open. The overwhelming brightness wouldn’t allow it, but he was able to partially open one eye. Above him stood a blurry McCoy.

  “Neck . . . hurts,” Kirk managed to croak out, and he seemed to announce it at the same time he realized the sharp pain.

  “I’ll get you something for that.” McCoy’s tone was warm, laced with concern.

  “No,” Kirk said, his voice a slow syrup. He would use the pain—let it be the sensation that pulled him back to reality.

  At the same time, his muscles were weak. The captain struggled to move, as if a force field were pushing down on him. Kirk inched himself up against it, and McCoy helped by grabbing an extra pillow and placing it underneath his head and neck.

  Once propped up, Kirk relaxed into it and the light became a bearable glare. The neck pain, while still throbbing, spread itself in all directions, becoming a head-and-upper-back ache.

  To McCoy’s right stood Spock, hands behind his back. Past him was Nurse Chapel, who was biting her lower lip, a hypo grasped in her hand.

  “What happened?” Kirk’s voice scraped like gravel.

  “You were assaulted,” Spock said matter-of-factly. “A type of Kenisian mind-meld. It began when she touched your hand and continued after physical contact was broken.”

  Kirk felt his jaw slacken, and his mouth opened in shock. He noticed it was dry. “After?”

  “Ambassador Zhatan is an extremely strong telepath.” Spock said “ambassador” as if the title was dubious. “She’s being held in the brig.”

  The captain swallowed hard. “Water.”

  Chapel moved to get him a cup and was back with it quickly. He took a sip, held its coolness on his tongue for a long moment, then let it drift down his parched throat.

  When Kirk spoke again, his voice was near normal. “How long was I out?”

  “About twenty minutes.” McCoy glanced at the medical scanner readout above the biobed.

  “What exactly did she do?”

  Looking to Spock, McCoy deferred to the Vulcan’s expertise.

  “When she touched your hand, Zhatan initiated a mental link. I sensed it in your hesitation from that moment on. Subconsciously you were fighting the meld.”

  “You sensed it?”

  Spock nodded slowly, once. “I am familiar with the body language, for lack of a better term, of such an encounter.”

  Pulling in a deeper breath, Kirk took one more sip of water and sighed. He was feeling more himself again. “You struck her.”

  “To break her concentration,” Spock said. “After Zhatan refused my demand that she release you.”

  Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, Kirk sat up. While his head swam a bit and a wave of nausea washed over him, he used the pain to steady himself.

  “Jim, I’m not sure—”

  Kirk waved off McCoy’s concern. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He placed his feet on the deck and stifled the urge to buckle at the knees. Standing shakily he looked at Spock. “We need to confirm she’s out of my head.”

  With tacit acknowledgment, Spock kept one
hand behind his back and placed the other on the captain’s face.

  The Vulcan’s fingers pressed lightly against the left side of Kirk’s head: near his ear, at his temple, his cheek, his nose, and his jaw. In a sudden jolt Kirk had felt before, the pressure to these areas increased—as did the pain in his head and shoulders as he held his head in place against Spock’s touch.

  As if from afar, Kirk felt Spock’s presence in his mind. It was only for an instant, then the Vulcan pulled away and the sensation was gone.

  “Zhatan is not present,” Spock said, his right hand returning to his left behind his back.

  Kirk nodded his thanks. “Then let’s go talk to her.”

  On the way to the brig, the captain’s anger broiled in his belly. By the time Spock and he arrived, Kirk had to keep his voice from being a snarl. After years of diplomatic missions, he was well practiced at that.

  The captain stood in front of the brig’s force field and motioned to the guard to turn it off.

  With a sizzle, the field was gone, and Zhatan stepped into the corridor to greet Kirk and Spock.

  “Unprovoked violence,” the captain began, his tone tighter than he’d wanted, “is unworthy of an ambassador in the middle of negotiations.”

  “We are sorry, Captain.” She bowed slightly, and Kirk couldn’t tell what was in her eyes. There were hundreds of people behind that gaze. How was he to know which were sincere and which were subversive?

  “Are you?” he asked.

  “We’re afraid there are times when the disparate personalities within force an action which some do not desire.”

  Kirk nodded. Overtly, he had to accept that excuse—mainly because doing anything else would not be useful. What he really wanted was to tell Zhatan to get the hell off his ship.

  Instead, he reiterated Ambassador Pippenge’s offer. “The Maabas are interested in pursuing peace. The Federation is happy to mediate in order to find a way for both your peoples to coexist—if not in harmony, then at least civilly. We’ve done this for many opposing factions, and I have no doubt that with time, a proper accord can be reached. One that is agreeable to all.” Kirk couldn’t smile, as he normally might. Instead, his speech was pro forma. “We urge you to take this proposition to your people—all your people, as I said—and consider it as the best path for all involved.”

  “Yes,” she said simply—even sadly. “We shall do so.”

  Kirk motioned toward the guards. “These men will escort you to the transporter room. We’ll inform your ship to expect you.” He then looked to the security team. “Mister Baumgartner, make sure neither you nor Lieutenant Sentell touch the ambassador.” On that note, Kirk gave Zhatan a final polite bow.

  When she and the security men were gone, Kirk just stood there, looking after her.

  “Captain?”

  Kirk shook his head. “I’m fine, Spock.” He began moving down the corridor, and his first officer followed. “What did you find in Skent’s device?”

  “Nothing sinister,” Spock said. “Notes on his journey, holographic images of the delegation at various locations, including the Enterprise. None were a risk to security.”

  “Good. Where’s Pippenge?” Kirk turned and headed for the turbolift. “I want him on the bridge.”

  The Vulcan nodded, and before they entered the lift, he contacted security to have them escort the ambassador.

  When they arrived, Sulu was in the center seat. With a nod, he relinquished it to Kirk and replaced the substitute helmsman at his own station.

  “Standard orbit, Mister Sulu.” Moments after Kirk lowered himself into the command chair, Pippenge and his escort stepped from the lift. The guard took up post at the lift doors while the ambassador stepped down into the command well, an excited chitter emanating from his throat. “Oh, you’re uninjured! I am very glad, Captain. Very glad.” He grasped Kirk’s right hand in both of his, and the four-thumbed grip was noticeably tight.

  Still a bit weary from his ordeal, the captain could only manage the slightest of polite smiles. He was concerned, and Pippenge could likely tell. Certainly the ambassador’s own anxiety was etched into his pale pink features.

  “The Kenisian vessel has retreated from the Maaba S’Ja system,” Spock reported from the science station. “They’re holding position at the edge of our sensor range.”

  Kirk nodded and motioned Spock toward him.

  The Vulcan stepped down, flanking the captain on his right as Pippenge did on his left.

  “Maybe they’ve estimated our scanner range incorrectly.” Kirk stroked the edge of his chin with a forefinger and looked toward the viewscreen. On it, the Maabas homeworld spun slowly. Correction, adopted homeworld.

  “Or,” Spock offered, “they understand the scope of our sensors and are sending us a message.”

  “What message?” Pippenge asked.

  “ ‘We’re not done here,’ ” Kirk said.

  “Perhaps they are showing respect, leaving the system while they contact their leaders to discuss our terms.” Pippenge looked hopeful at the prospect of such a conclusion, but one could tell he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

  “Maybe.” Or maybe not. Kirk wasn’t ready to believe the Kenisians were so amiable. The forced mind-meld told him that. “Why this planet?” he asked, nodding toward the globe on the viewscreen.

  “Perhaps a cultural or emotional reason which escapes logic,” Spock offered. “Being Vulcanoid doesn’t assure one a rational philosophy.”

  “Neither does being Vulcan.” Kirk smiled playfully. He was feeling more himself with every moment.

  Ignoring the jibe, Spock merely agreed. “Indeed. Reason at all levels is a volitional act, not one of instinct.”

  “You’re a war-weary people,” Kirk mused, trying to understand the Kenisian mind-set. Or was it minds-set? “You’ve been living on another planet for thousands of years. You learn another people now inhabit the world you were pushed from—which wasn’t your own world to being with . . .” Kirk looked at Pippenge and continued. “No offense, Ambassador, but what’s so special about your planet?”

  Head rolling around in a Maabas-style shrug, Pippenge began his answer slowly. “Maaba S’Ja is temperate and fertile in many areas, especially the largest northern continent. Water and natural resources are not overly plentiful but it is surely not a lifeless husk. We did, as you noted, have to terraform one of the natural satellites, due to our increasing numbers.”

  Sulu had obviously been paying attention, and he turned toward them from his helm. “There are at least three other planets in this sector equally as habitable.”

  Kirk nodded and considered that. He appreciated input from his senior officers, and Sulu knew that such commentary was valued. Having been an astrophysicist, the helmsman could often be called upon for the kind of assessment he’d just offered.

  “Mister Spock?” Kirk swiveled toward his first officer. “Let’s assume there’s something more to this story that we’re missing.”

  Spock nodded.

  “Of what do you speak, Captain?” Pippenge asked.

  Kirk turned back and smiled, and then looked to Spock again, still holding his playful expression. “I don’t know. But if there is something, I’d bet Mister Spock can find it.”

  Both of the Vulcan’s eyebrows rose, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. “If,” he began slowly, “I may have access to the Maabasian databanks, I shall endeavor to investigate.”

  “Of course, of course.” Pippenge bowed. “I shall see to it immediately.” He clenched his jaw tightly, then released. “Chifger? This is Pippenge. Commander Spock from the Federation Starship Enterprise will communicate with you regarding Maabas Central archives. Please see to his every request.”

  Kirk knew they used implanted communicators, and while he understood the privacy it afforded them, he’d never liked the idea. Starfleet had experimented with them for a time, but rejected their use when they were found to be no more secure than communicato
rs and far more painful when an enemy sought to remove or destroy them.

  After a pause, the ambassador puckered his lips. “No, he is to be given full access. Yes, yes, on my authority.” Pursing his lips, Pippenge thanked Chifger and clenched his jaw again. “If you will contact my associate on subspace channel five-five-two, he will grant you access and answer any questions you may have.”

  Spock bowed his head in acknowledgment and retreated to the upper bridge. Once at his station, he picked up an earpiece and initiated the transmission.

  Placing his left hand on the captain’s forearm, Pippenge delicately pinched Kirk with his two thumbs, drawing his attention. “Captain, may I speak with you privately?”

  This was Kirk’s bridge, and those within earshot were in his strictest confidence and held his inalienable trust. Of course, Pippenge didn’t know this, and that he trusted the captain of an alien starship was impressive for someone from a previously xenophobic culture. Still, the captain didn’t want to abandon the center seat. The Kenisians were sitting out there, just at the edge of sensor range, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Stepping up to a more private section of the bridge was the most he was willing to do.

  “Certainly.” Kirk led Pippenge toward the viewscreen.

  Pippenge whispered, “I must know, Captain, will you help us if the Kenisians refuse to come to an accord?”

  That’s the question of the day, isn’t it? Kirk thought.

  When he didn’t answer immediately, the ambassador pushed on. “While we have a defensive force, it’s not interstellar. However large or small the Kenisian fleet is, we can’t rebuff a full-scale attack.”

  Feeling the urge to bite his lower lip, Kirk studied the ambassador. He hoped he wasn’t outwardly expressing the real concern he felt. Logistically, the Enterprise may have been able to defend the planet from a ship such as Zhatan’s. But they certainly couldn’t hold out against several more of them.

  The nearest Federation starship was the U.S.S. Farragut, but it was at least ten days away at maximum warp. If the Kenisians brought a fleet—or even a small squadron of ships—they would outgun the Enterprise, and there would be massive loss of life before reinforcements could arrive.