Crisis of Consciousness

by Dave Galanter

“GIVE ME YOUR ARM.” In one hand Kirk held the splint he had gotten from sickbay. In the other he held the companion bone-knitter.

  Scott hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” The captain looked to Palamas, then back to his engineer. “Is it the pain?”

  “Oh, no, sir. The hypo did its job.” Scott glanced from the splint to Palamas.

  “I see.” Kirk handed everything to Palamas. “Lieutenant.”

  Smiling slightly, Palamas took both tools as the captain hovered close by.

  “The splint just clicks on,” Palamas said as she gingerly placed it around Scott’s arm. “I’ll rotate the wrist slowly until it beeps, which means it’s properly set and ready for the bone-knitter.” She slowly adjusted his wrist, ever so delicately. “Don’t worry. I’ve used one before.”

  Kirk heard the beep of the splint and then the whine of the bone-knitter.

  Several engineers rushed by, some glancing over toward the three officers, but moving on. There was no time to linger. They knew that Mister Scott was counting on them. The captain remembered being that green, an ensign so focused on his duty that whatever else was happening didn’t matter, thinking that it must be so much easier at the top. The senior officers always had the answers, were always so cool, so calm and collected. If it wouldn’t undermine the chain of command, he’d love to take one of his junior officers aside, say Jolma, and tell them how he felt right now.

  The whine of the bone-knitter stopped. The captain turned back toward them. A wave of relief descended over Scott’s face as Palamas locked the splint and returned the tools to the medkit.

  “That’ll take some time to heal, but the knitter gave it a head start. Does it feel better?” she asked.

  Scott wiggled his fingers. “Aye. Thank you, lass.” He stood up saying, “Now I need to work on that emergency bulkhead.” The engineer motioned up the corridor. “Hull breach just beyond, so I’ll need to get force fields in place before opening ’er up. Beyond that is the area I’ll need to access.”

  “Scotty, we’re not only blind, but deaf,” Kirk said.

  “We’ll see to it, sir.” The engineer motioned to Palamas.

  “We?” she asked.

  The chief engineer held up his splinted wrist. “Well, you’re not going to abandon your patient now, are you, Lieutenant? I’ll need someone to help.”

  “Captain?” Palamas looked expectantly to Kirk for help.

  “She’s had engineering experience, sir.”

  “I see.” Kirk felt as if he was missing something. “If my chief engineer needs you, who am I to disagree?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Scott grabbed a large toolkit with his good hand, and they exited to the corridor.

  “How long?” the captain asked. He’d feel better about their plan if he could contact Spock again, to be sure things were properly timed. And none of it would happen unless the Enterprise was warp capable.

  “Once we get that force field up, it won’t be long, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mister Scott. Keep me informed. I’ll be on the bridge.”

  Kirk headed toward the turbolift as Scott and Palamas moved toward the emergency bulkhead that had dropped to seal a hull breach.

  “Where do we start?” she asked eagerly.

  “Jefferies tube just before the emergency bulkhead.” The engineer led her to it and used the toolkit as a pointer. “You’ll have to go up. I’ll hand you what you need.”

  Without hesitation, Palamas climbed in.

  “You sure you don’t mind getting your hands dirty?” Scott asked as he opened his kit and took out a circuit meter.

  She stopped and looked down at him over her shoulder. “Scotty, I’m an archaeologist.”

  He smiled. “Aye. I forgot.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me.” Palamas stopped at the end of the tube where the top opened onto relays, circuits, and conduits that twisted this way and that, all labeled with numerical or color codes.

  “Steady yourself,” Scott said.

  Palamas placed one boot firmly on a narrow step and her other on the one below it. “Should I describe what I see?”

  “I could describe what you see,” the engineer pointed out. “To your left is a small, yellow node labeled 45D9. Do you see it?”

  She found it, then peered down, saying, “I have it.”

  He took the circuit meter and placed it under the arm with the splint and grabbed a new circuit module from the kit, then pulled himself up the Jefferies tube. Halfway up, Scott handed her the meter. “Take this.”

  Palamas reached down. “This will tell me if the circuit is live.”

  “Aye. Place it near 45D9 and if it’s green it’s live. But it won’t be.”

  The A&A officer followed Scott’s instructions and when the meter neared the circuit, it flashed amber. “Yellow.”

  “Yellow means it’s working but degraded. But that’s the same as not working when push comes to shove.”

  Nodding, Palamas reached down to hand him the meter.

  “Keep it,” he said. “There’s a little ledge to your left where you can stow it for now. You’ll need it again.”

  Palamas eventually found it. Just a small outcropping from the tube that was probably an alternate hand-hold. It fit the meter perfectly.

  “Take this one now.” Scott reached up and held out a tool. She’d seen this one before. It would pop the circuit out without her needing to touch it as it was likely to be hot.

  After she removed the bad circuit, there was an audible warble in the hum of the tube around them.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t you worry, lass. She just wants her circuit replaced.” He handed up the fresh one. “But it’ll get hot. Pull away the moment it’s in.”

  Palamas stretched down and their hands met. Scotty passed her the new circuit and she smiled down at him. His forehead was damp with perspiration, and she noticed she was quite warm as well.

  Swapping out the circuit module was as easy as he said, and the hum around them actually seemed happier than before.

  Shifting one foot down, ready to leave the Jefferies tube, Palamas noticed Scott hadn’t moved. “We’re not done yet. That was just the circuit. Now we have to reroute the power that was routed away.”

  Pulling herself back up, the lieutenant settled in. “I suppose I should have realized if it was this easy someone else would have taken care of it.”

  Scott directed her to three conduits which needed to be passed to the previously failed circuits. It was as if he was reading from a technical manual, he knew just what she was looking at. He warned her off touching something before she even reached for it.

  “Working on a starship is different than repairing a starbase,” Palamas said as she manipulated the connections at his direction.

  “It is,” Scotty said. “You’ve got to see her as a living creature to really know her. And when she’s in starbase, and all her systems are down, it’s like she’s having an operation under anesthetic.”

  “You never refer to the Enterprise as a thing, do you?” she asked. “Only ‘her’ or ‘she.’ ”

  “Lots of people do that.”

  “But you feel it,” Palamas said, and found it quite endearing. “She’s alive to you.”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re a passionate man,” Palamas said.

  “The best engineers are.” He smiled back. “Tell me about your uncle.” He passed her another component. “Then fit this over the N131 cable and route it to the A544 receptacle. It fits but snugly.”

  “My Uncle Elias. I only got to see him when he was in port, which wasn’t often. But when he was, we’d go everywhere together. He’d tell me about an engineering problem he had, or the interesting ship they had encountered. And he always brought me gifts.”

  “Working a cargo vessel, he must have had his pick.”

  “He was an engineer,” Palamas reminded him. “He made the gifts for me.” She struggled with the connection, but after putting
some shoulder into it, Palamas managed to attach the cable. “That’s how I came to Starfleet with some engineering aptitude.”

  She looked down at Scott and found him smiling. He said, “You love him.”

  Palamas nodded. “Loved, yes. He’s passed.”

  “I’m sorry,” the engineer said.

  “Thank you. I never forget how dangerous this life can be. He knew it too, and he always said that he couldn’t even think of doing anything else.”

  “How old were you?” Scotty asked. “When you lost him?”

  “It was only four months ago.” Her voice wavered and trailed into a whisper.

  For a while, they said nothing. Finally, Scott told her, “I think he must have been quite proud of you.”

  Palamas nodded, and for the next few minutes, they worked silently. When they finished, the Enterprise officers were both tired, covered with sweat and coolant gel.

  Scott backed out of the tube and Palamas slowly climbed down. Near the bottom, she lost her footing and with his good hand he steadied her.

  “Thank you. Not my usual duty,” she said, nodding up toward the top.

  “Ach,” he scoffed. “You’d get used to it in no time.”

  “What’s next?” Already cooling off, the lieutenant was ready for their next task.

  The chief engineer motioned toward where the emergency bulkhead had been. It was now gone and the corridor beyond was revealed to them. “Doin’ what the captain needs. Let’s give the Enterprise back her voice and ears.”

  “I don’t see a breach,” Palamas said as they stepped into the corridor.

  “Probably several micro fissures. Force fields will hold it until I have one of the lads come through with something more permanent.”

  Ducking into a vertical access hatchway, Scotty handed her the toolkit and took a ladder rung with his good hand, letting his splinted one hang to the side.

  “Up or down?” Palamas asked.

  “Down. Here’s where the real work begins, Lieutenant. If you’re up for it.” Smiling again, the engineer seemed energized.

  “I am if you’ll stop calling me lieutenant. It’s Carolyn.”

  “Carolyn,” Scotty said, easily lowering himself one-handed down the ladder as if he’d done it a million times, “follow me.”

  “SIR, SENSORS ARE back online,” the chief engineer reported. “The main communication relays will be online in two minutes. It won’t take long to get under way.”

  “Excellent work, Mister Scott. Kirk out.” They weren’t far from their destination, but getting there before the Kenisians was only part of the plan. The captain wondered how they would be received. The Sahntiek had been conquerors, and Spock’s report said the Kenisians knew they’d rebuilt their fleet.

  Before losing communications, Enterprise had been hailing the system, but without reply. The only thing Kirk knew they would find when they reached the Sahntiek was the fleet of starships Zhatan feared. Long-range scans had confirmed their existence.

  After thousands of years—and much of it under Kenisian oppression—there was no telling what the attitude of the Sahntiek would be to outsiders. Would they refuse contact, as the Maabas had? Would they attempt to strike the Kenisians first, and in doing so destroy Zhatan’s ship—along with Spock and Pippenge—which might also spark the na’hubis devastation that Kirk had hoped to avoid?

  If Spock did his part, Kirk had time to warn the Sahntiek before Zhatan’s ship arrived. He might be able to resolve this without bloodshed. If they would listen to reason.

  “MY THOUGHTS to your thoughts.” The fingers of Spock’s left hand pressed into Sciver’s cheeks and temple. His right pushed Sciver’s wrist tightly up toward his own chest.

  “Indecent!”

  “Intruder!”

  “Violence!”

  “Vul-kuhn?”

  “Blood.”

  “Open your mind,” Spock whispered.

  “No! Leave us!”

  “We move together. Our minds sharing . . .”

  “Alien!”

  “Violator!”

  “Savior.”

  Sciver grunted, and Spock felt a fraction of resistance. Less than he expected.

  “Our thoughts merge.”

  “Kill him!”

  “Kill the Vul-kuhn!”

  “Get him out!”

  Sciver’s free hand wrapped itself around Spock’s throat.

  “Repress him!”

  “Embrace him!”

  “Save us!”

  Ever conflicted, the Kenisian didn’t apply the strength needed to choke the life from Spock. The Vulcan encouraged and bolstered the side that supported his meld.

  “Who are we?” Spock asked. A rush of emotions flooded toward him. Some had names, others just a wave of feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Ashnu!”

  “Hutindra!”

  “Oaebint!”

  “Costre! Enict! Podor!”

  “Histet! Bidras-eta! Colost!”

  Dozens of names, titles and identities, pushed forward. Desires and passions inundated them. This is what Sciver felt all day, every day. This was his existence.

  “Know us!”

  “Be us!”

  “Help us!”

  “Calm,” Spock said.

  Sciver repeated in a whisper, “Calm.”

  “We are Sciver,” Spock said through gritted teeth. “I am Spock.”

  “We are Spock,” the Kenisian added, “I am Sciver.”

  Within the blizzard of personalities, there was a physical being named Sciver. An “I” and not a “we.” To release it from submission, its individuality would need to be awakened.

  “Others have taken our identity.” Spock rearranged his fingers at Sciver’s temple and pressed in again. “We must reassert.”

  “No!”

  “Control!”

  There was an inherent contradiction in the concept of a melded Spock and Sciver fighting for individuality. Despite that, Spock was succeeding, and the panicking mass of consciousnesses within struggled to retain their domain.

  “We must live!”

  “Help us!”

  “Be with us!”

  “Isolation!”

  “Leave us!”

  One hundred and forty-seven unique individuals swirled around them. Thousands of years of memories, confused and churning, folding in on each other until they couldn’t distinguish one from another.

  “Chaos!”

  “Control!”

  “Help us!”

  “Noooo!”

  There were ancient disciplines that could filter the voices and govern the minds within him. Sciver knew they existed because Spock knew of them. The Vulcan had shown him how it could be done. But now, Spock had to break the meld.

  “Disparity,” Sciver cried.

  “Order! We need order!”

  “Our minds, separating,” the Vulcan whispered harshly. “Parting.”

  “No!”

  “Come back!”

  “Return!”

  Releasing Sciver’s wrist, Spock quickly pulled his fingers from the Kenisian’s head as well.

  Sciver began to shake uncontrollably, blathering. “Nuuhhhh—nuuuuhhh.”

  The torrent of personalities had been shown control could be imposed, then Spock left. With time all the minds could find coordination again, but Sciver was in shock from the experience and unable to do it on his own.

  Guiding the man to a chair, Spock lowered him into the seat. “Sleep,” he whispered, “is preferred.” He pinched the proper nerve in Sciver’s neck until he lost consciousness.

  For Sciver, the internal torment would continue. But in the meantime he wouldn’t be a danger to himself or others.

  Recoding the components they had placed in the prototype mine took only moments. Should all other efforts fail, the na’hubis was now useless.

  When he finished, there was no way for Spock to contact the Kenisian engineers, so he left the lab.

 
Pippenge and the host of technicians were waiting in the adjacent corridor.

  “You’ve been in there for some time,” the ambassador said cautiously. “Are you well?”

  Spock hesitated to answer. What he’d done was distasteful, no matter the necessity. He’d taken an individual who struggled to incorporate too many personalities into a functioning being and left him in disarray. By showing Sciver that control was possible, then taking it from him, Spock knew what he’d done was a violation. Necessary to save millions, but the remorse he felt—which Sciver had also felt—was difficult to control.

  “I am adequate,” Spock finally told Pippenge.

  “Sciver?”

  Glancing toward the door to the laboratory, Spock said, “Indisposed.” He turned to the nearest lab tech and placed the fingers of his right hand on the upper left quadrant of her face. My mind to your minds.

  Peripherally he saw the two other techs who were waiting look at one another and then move forward.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Pippenge said. “It may harm them both.” There was truth to that, but the ambassador probably thought it a clever lie.

  “What are you doing?” the technician’s minds wondered. This one was more curious than Sciver, who knew quite well what Spock had done.

  This one was fascinated by the Vulcan and embraced the meld.

  “You are different.”

  “You are similar.”

  “We would know you.”

  And then the tide turned and the chorus began to fight back.

  “No! Stop!”

  Sifting through the dozens of minds, Spock isolated the individual who was the form. “You are Murlit,” he said. “Be Murlit.”

  After a brief struggle and an instinctive resistance to change, Murlit accepted the calm the Vulcan offered. And when he had, Spock left it, just as he’d done with Sciver.

  Released from his mental grasp, she began to cry softly as he leaned her against the bulkhead. He reached for the next Kenisian, who flinched away in protest, but Spock caught the man by his arm and pulled him close.

  My thoughts to your thoughts.

  “We are Burgee,” the man thought.

  “No,” Spock told him, and he distilled out the seven others who had survived within Burgee’s body.

  One had been a chemist, who gave the Kenisian his love of science. Another had been a musician who’d passed on his love for mathematics and song. They’d been with Burgee as long as the individual could remember. They’d helped mold who he was. And Spock was now giving them the tools to coexist in a sustainable way.