Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

  “Coolant leak, deck seven, section ten.”

  “Circuit overloads, propulsion baker-one, alpha; linear section five-nine. Repeat, Circ-O-L, P-B-one-A, L-five-nine.”

  “Auxiliary engaged.”

  “Responding.”

  “System status?”

  “Null.”

  “Intercooler?”

  “Stand by.”

  “Fail-overs in tolerance.”

  “Phaser systems?”

  “Active.”

  “Photon control?”

  “Nominal.”

  The din of a starship during damage control. Training takes over, duty becomes paramount, and a captain hears and distinguishes it all.

  The engines still whined, so Kirk knew they were moving. The sizzle of sparks from above had decreased, and the fans worked to pump out the acrid smoke. The lights were on, if a bit dimmer. Enterprise was alive and kicking.

  The captain helped Sulu return to his seat at the helm, then noticed Chekov was already back at navigation. Behind them, Uhura stood, working her console, her chair tipped onto the deck at her side.

  “Could be worse,” Kirk heard Chekov murmur.

  Sulu shook his head. “Really?”

  An engineering tech had fallen from the upper bridge onto the steps. She was bleeding from the top of her head, and Kirk called to Uhura as he helped the woman up. “Medical team to the bridge.”

  “Th-thank you, sir.”

  Her elbow shaking in his hand, Kirk sat her on the upper deck and looked at the gash that ran across her hairline. “That doesn’t look too bad.”

  “I’m fine, Captain, it’s just a scalp cut.”

  Returning to the command chair, the captain studied the tactical display on the main viewer. It confirmed what he knew—they weren’t out of danger.

  “Multiple shockwaves overloaded our shields,” Jolma yelled to be heard over the din.

  “Systems stabilizing,” Forbes said from the engineering station. “Shields holding at sixty-eight percent.”

  Not enough.

  “Hostile missiles still in pursuit,” Chekov said.

  Retaking the center seat, Kirk scanned the tactical situation more closely. Several of the spheres had fallen into the planet, just as the captain had hoped. Too many were following them. Those they’d torpedoed had not only damaged the Enterprise, but sent some of their brethren to their demise.

  The captain leaned forward toward navigation to make sure he was heard. “Mister Chekov, I need a torpedo spread as far back as you can. Try to thin the herd.” Kirk looked to the helm next. “Sulu, orbit close as possible.”

  Enterprise dove down again, and the missiles followed. Shields sizzled against the thickening planetary atmosphere.

  “External view,” Kirk ordered, and the main viewer tactical display disappeared, while the image of the gas giant filled the rest of the screen. It roiled beneath them, an inhospitable place for a vacation home.

  The captain moved to the edge of the command chair. “See that moonlet, Sulu?”

  The helmsman looked up and nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Use it,” Kirk ordered.

  That was all Sulu needed to hear. Under his hands, Enterprise looped up and around the moonlet. His fingers pressed harshly at the controls, and yet moved elegantly at the same time. At his touch, the ship dove sharklike through a turn around the rock. The pilot-fish missiles followed. When Sulu pulled the ship harshly away, several more of the spheres slammed into the moonlet and other ring debris.

  “Phasers, fire!” Kirk ordered. Enterprise connected blue threads to the closest, weakest targets.

  One pursuer lost its engine and swiftly succumbed to the planet’s gravity. Another’s navigation sensors were scrambled, and it spiraled out of control until it hit three others and they all exploded into a massive ball of energy.

  “Shockwave,” Jolma called, and they braced for the impact.

  Sheets of energy slammed into Enterprise’s shields, rattling the ship. More dust fell from above, but nothing collapsed, and sparks didn’t fill the air as they had before. No one was tossed from their seats, only shaken in them.

  On the main viewscreen, despite having turned away from the planet, an orange glow diffused across the screen from the starboard side.

  Sulu glared down into his tactical display. “Another set of missiles struck the surface of the planet, sir.”

  “They’re fast, but not that smart,” Kirk said.

  As if to punish the captain for his brief moment of celebration, the engines complained with a whine which suggested the ship was losing power.

  He glanced to Forbes at the engineering station.

  “Structural integrity fields are down sixty percent, sir.”

  The captain jammed the end of his fist onto the comm button. “Kirk to Scott.”

  “Scott here.” The engineer was out of breath and sounding haggard. “Between the gravimetric pull of the planet and the force of the shockwaves, structural integrity field generators are overloaded.”

  Kirk had known the engineer long enough not to haggle with him. “How long?”

  “Keep her on an even keel for ten minutes,” Scott said. “And by ten, I wish I meant five, but I mean ten, sir.”

  “Understood, Mister Scott. Ten minutes, but not a minute more. Kirk out.” He thumbed the button to close the channel and wondered how he would carve that long of a lull into an ongoing battle.

  “Sulu, continue evasive. Move around the rings for now, in and out. Lose as many as possible, but keep us steady as you can.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Alert lights still flashing, but the klaxons thankfully muted, Kirk moved toward the science station. “Jolma.”

  The captain noticed that the ensign instantly tensed when he said the young man’s name.

  “Sir, one moment.”

  The captain motioned to the screen above the station. “At ease, Jolma. Punch up the data on this star system.”

  With a nod, Jolma worked quickly and diligently. He tried to stifle a cough, his lungs probably still smarting from the smoke.

  Kirk realized his own throat stung and turned for a moment to Uhura. “Lieutenant, have someone bring us all some water.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I have it, Captain.” Jolma gestured to the screen and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his uniform cuff, all in one awkward movement.

  On one screen scrolled the relevant data. On the other, a graph of the system, an orange circle representing the K-type star and its planets.

  Kirk leaned over and hit a few buttons, changing the scope of the data. “What about an Oort cloud?”

  On the screen above them, the graphic of the system zoomed out until a multicolored, hazy ovoid shape appeared, encapsulating the star.

  “There is a lot of mass out there, sir,” Jolma said.

  “Yes. And just waiting for us.” Kirk strode back down to the command chair, briefly taking notice of Chekov’s confused expression as the navigator turned from his station.

  “Waiting for us?” Chekov asked.

  “Waiting for us, Mister Chekov.” The captain returned to the center seat.

  “Make for the Oort cloud. Gentlemen, find us the biggest comets, rocks, or other planetesimals you can, and plot a circuitous route.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Come along for the ride, the captain thought as his ship sped away. The tactical display showed the missiles tracking and trailing her. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “Follow us down the rabbit hole.”

  At maximum impulse, the travel time to the system’s Oort cloud was less than what Scott needed. The Enterprise tacked back and forth, forging a path of zigs and zags. The structural integrity fields were needed to supplement the ship’s structure, but the stress Kirk had placed on those systems when in close orbit around a gas giant and dodging missiles was far greater than what was needed for the simple maneuvers they used now. It
would give the engineers a chance to make their repairs.

  Damage control teams fanned out across the ship to clear debris, reroute power where possible, and replace circuits when needed. Support teams also came with small bars of nourishment and thermoses of water. The captain waved off the protein supplement but was grateful for the drink. “Thank you, yeoman,” he told the man who handed him a cup.

  The bridge continued to be a hub of activity as Sulu and Chekov worked to keep the Enterprise on an “even keel” and the missiles at bay.

  As one closed on them, a twist starboard or port and a well-aimed phaser shot would knock the sphere off course. They didn’t need to destroy the missiles—disabling them was enough.

  Three more closed, and all were dispatched with a mixture of phasers and torpedoes.

  “They are very stubborn, sir,” Chekov said.

  “So are we,” Kirk assured him, but the captain was as frustrated as the navigator. Every moment they spent in this system was one they lost in their pursuit of the Kenisian vessel.

  After nine and a half minutes, Kirk called down to his engineer.

  “Mister Scott, give me the good word.”

  “We’re just finishing, sir.” Scott sounded restored, refreshed—as if making repairs to his engines caused a similar rejuvenation in the engineer. “We’ve replaced the primaries and bolstered the shielding on the secondary.”

  “As usual, Mister Scott, you’ve earned your pay. Kirk out.” He hit the arm of the chair, closing the channel, and inched forward in his chair. “Now, Mister Sulu, we pull them into the cloud.”

  The helmsman smiled. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  An Oort cloud wasn’t a tight asteroid field, although this one had more mass than Kirk had seen in any other planetary system. Piloting between icy planetesimals wasn’t difficult, and none of them would have enough gravity to be a problem for either the Enterprise or her pursuers.

  “A nice big rock, Mister Chekov.” The captain smiled, reveling in the fresh idea. “We’re going to play some billiards.”

  Kirk could tell the navigator was grinning. “Yes, sir.”

  The ship swerved toward the first rock within range. The Kenisian missiles followed. Chekov and Sulu worked in concert, meticulously operating their consoles.

  Nodding at the small planetoid on the main viewer, Kirk twisted toward Jolma. “Ensign, plot fissure points on that planetoid and feed information to the targeting sensors.”

  “Aye, sir.” His voice steady, Jolma seemed pleased there was something proactive he could do.

  Certainly the captain was.

  The object wasn’t as large as many Kirk had seen or even landed on with a shuttle. But that was good. He needed a smaller body—one that could be cleaved.

  “Get it between us and them, Sulu.”

  The captain didn’t have to worry about turning it into rubble and the possible ramifications to planetary life. Debris was exactly what he wanted.

  Sliding over and then in front of the huge rock, Enterprise spat torpedoes at very specific points.

  Chemical flame and plasma fire erupted as they sped away.

  “Reverse angle on viewer,” Kirk ordered. As the small planetesimal shrank away from them, molten rock burst in all directions. One missile after another spiraled off course. Some exploded upon impact with the white-hot ejecta, causing shockwaves which disabled or destroyed others behind them. But many were agile enough to avoid the destruction and continue pursuit.

  The captain watched for changes on the tactical display. The number of hostile contacts had dropped, but not enough.

  “On to the next one, gentlemen,” Kirk said, releasing a long pull of breath.

  And the next one went much the same, and more enemy missiles were destroyed.

  Enterprise rounded yet another planetoid, this one much larger than the first two.

  Was it too large to break up easily? The captain didn’t think so, just a little more.

  “Give this one a little extra, Mister Chekov.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jolma did his part, feeding the targeting computer with the best locations to strike the mass to cause it to fracture. Chekov and Sulu handled their tasks as well, maneuvering the ship and firing on the mega-asteroid. The captain thought the extra salvo would be enough.

  He was wrong.

  PIPPENGE WAS AFRAID. He rocked nervously back and forth, and Spock assumed it was a Maabas custom to ameliorate anxiety. It did not seem to be working.

  “Ambassador.” When Pippenge didn’t reply, Spock leaned over and gently whispered again. “Ambassador?”

  While continuing to rock, he angled his head toward the Vulcan and seemed attentive enough.

  “I understand your apprehension,” Spock said. “But we must acquit ourselves as rationally as possible if we’re to achieve our goals.”

  Pippenge nodded, but did not cease his movement.

  James Kirk excelled in at least one area Spock did not: the ability to act impulsively—based on what the captain called his “gut”—and somehow attain his sought-after goal.

  If rash action was called for, Spock was at a loss on how to determine just what act that should be.

  Was it possible to dispose of the prototype mines before they could be used? Unlikely. At least not in a way that they could not be easily regained. And the consequences could be severe enough that he’d be helpless to act further.

  Could he destroy the Kenisian vessel? Perhaps. But Spock’s access to essential systems was severely limited, and should he manage it, the na’hubis could be catalyzed, rendering the reason for his sabotage moot.

  Might he be able to slow the vessel’s progress? That was a distinct possibility. How? Would he be able to protect himself and the ambassador from retribution should his sabotage be discovered? That option needed considerable thought.

  Turning to his console, he sent another message to Pippenge’s computer implant. “I shall attempt to contact the Enterprise again.”

  Apparently stunned by receipt of the communication, the ambassador froze in place for an instant, then turned and looked at Spock hopefully.

  There was no reply to his first message. Spock sent another, and after an appropriate amount of time passed, another.

  With each attempt that went unanswered, Pippenge appeared more distraught.

  Anticipating what the ambassador might ask him, Spock attempted to comfort his companion. “They’re likely out of range.”

  Pippenge was visually displeased with that answer.

  “Or,” Spock added, “they are maintaining communication silence for a specific purpose.”

  The ambassador’s eyes widened, and Spock inferred he was being asked why Captain Kirk would do that.

  “There are many possibilities.”

  Some of them, Spock thought, are unappealing.

  Hearing the Kenisian tricorder chime, Spock lifted the unit from his console and examined the readout on its small screen.

  “A change?” Pippenge asked.

  Spock pursed his lips a moment, both instinctively and because that was the accepted Maabas mannerism indicating the affirmative. “A genetic code match has been formulated. We now have access to your people’s computer archive.”

  The ambassador was unsure how to process that news. “This is a good thing? Or not?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Calling up the data Maabas scientists had gathered on the Kenisian installation and the na’hubis compound, Spock got to work.

  After a minute or two, Pippenge leaned toward the Vulcan and asked in a hushed tone, “Is there anything I might do to help?”

  Spock sensed the question was of the type often asked by those who wanted to offer their assistance but hoped such aid would not be accepted. “Not at the moment.”

  The ambassador nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose with the thumbs of his left hand. “If you do need me, please let me know.” His head lolled to one side, as if suddenly asleep.

/>   “Ambassador?” Snapping his fingers twice, the Vulcan tried to rouse Pippenge, but there was no reply. Apparently he’d entered some sort of self-induced meditative state.

  Appreciative, Spock continued his work.

  The Maabas scientists, he found, were very thorough in their study of the na’hubis compound. They didn’t call it that, merely referred to it by exhibit number and date code, which catalogued when it was found and by whom. There was something refreshing about the tone of the documentation. It was logical, well-ordered, and as complete as possible.

  Still, they did not grasp the destructive power of the material. Had they, their tests would have been performed off-planet—or not at all.

  While absorbing all the material he could find regarding the na’hubis, Spock contemplated his plan to slow down the Kenisian vessel. Sabotage was not a tack he wished to take just yet, for several reasons, including it might end in their deaths. A hostage was only valuable to a certain point, and his and Pippenge’s value would be severely compromised if he acted so covertly against Zhatan.

  No, his version of a “rash” act would be to talk. And in this case, to lie.

  “YOU ASKED to see us.” As Zhatan strode across the laboratory toward them, she noted Pippenge’s meditation, shook her head with some disdain, then focused solely on Spock.

  “I did.” Spock leaned to one side and showed her his computer console’s monitor. “We have had access to the Maabas scientific archive for the last seventy-six minutes.”

  “We?” Her eyes darted to Pippenge.

  “The ambassador is in a meditative state which assists him in coping with the twin stresses of abduction and overt physical threat.”

  Zhatan’s lips thinned into a genuine smile. “You have a sense of humor, Mister Spock.”

  Choosing not to reply, he gestured to the console again. “You will be interested in my findings.”

  Her smile evaporated. “Proceed.”

  Spock called up a forged Maabas findings document he’d created just minutes before. He felt assured that should Kenisian experts check, they’d deem it legitimate. Computer records could be forged with some ease, at least for one with his experience. “The Maabas scientists were puzzled by the na’hubis and its properties. However, they did manage to initiate a partial catalyzation for three hundredths of a second.”