Star Trek Into Darkness

by Alan Dean Foster

  “That is unacceptable, Mr. Chekov. In the course of our approach, the shuttle we employed was concealed within the ash cloud and subsequently within the volcano itself, but the Enterprise is too large to employ such methods. If utilized in a rescue effort, it would invariably be revealed to the indigenous species.”

  “More referencing of the Prime Directive,” McCoy muttered. “To hell with the Prime Directive.”

  Fully aware that such an observation would be utterly ignored by his science officer, Kirk tried a more logical tack. “Spock, nobody knows rules better than you. So you must know that depending on the circumstances, there has to be variance allowed. There must be some exception to—”

  Through heat, distance, and looming apocalypse, Spock cut him off.

  “There are none, Captain. Not in this instance. Revealing the superior technology represented by the Enterprise would constitute an action that unequivocally violates the Prime Directive.”

  So much for logic and reason. Kirk knew there was no time to indulge in the kind of elaborate debate favored by his science officer. “Spock, we’re talking about your life.”

  The response was calm and unrelenting. “The rule cannot be broken under any circumsttssssss . . . ”

  Kirk did not have to hear the rest to know that his plea had no more effect than his argument. But he wanted to hear the rest of his science officer’s words, if only because as long as the Vulcan’s voice echoed through the bridge, he knew that his friend was still alive.

  “Spock?” Whirling, he addressed his chief communications officer. “Try to get him back online.”

  There was no one on the Enterprise who desired that more than Nyota Uhura. No one who would have given more to hear the familiar measured, assured tones of the ship’s science officer. So when she turned to shake her head once, slowly, the full measure of the loss struck everyone on the bridge.

  Speaking with difficulty, Chekov looked up from his readouts and broke the silence. “Ninety seconds until detonation, sir.”

  Kirk stared ahead, gazing at something that lay somewhere beyond the now-imageless forward screen. “If Spock was here, and I was down there, what would he do?”

  When no one offered an immediate reply, he turned to once again eye Uhura. She started to speak, paused, said nothing. Her anguished expression told him what she wanted him to do, but as a Starfleet officer she could not say it, and the contradiction threatened to tear her apart.

  In the end, it is always physicians who seem to address such questions. The doctor did not consciously seek to imitate the science officer’s manner, but Spock would surely have approved.

  “He’d let you die,” McCoy said without hesitation.

  McCoy’s words, Uhura’s expression. There are times when being captain of a noble ship is grand, times when it is confusing, times when it is troublesome.

  At that moment in time, for James T. Kirk, it was hell.

  * * *

  Though very real, the fear left Spock quickly enough. He had been trained to deal with it. Fear was, after all, nothing more than another emotion. Possibly it was not really “fear” he had been experiencing at all. More of a disquiet at the certainty of approaching immolation and the subsequent lapsing of consciousness. That, and a looming sense of loss. Of things as yet undone, of experiences unfulfilled, of a certain relationship left unfinalized . . .

  In its wake, there was peace.

  It came to him with surprising ease, as much due to who he was as to any formal teaching he had received. Regrets cast aside, he readied himself for the ending. Spreading his arms in a gesture any Vulcan would have recognized, he closed his eyes, tilted back his head, and prepared to embrace emptiness.

  * * *

  They had vanquished the interlopers who had stolen the sacred scroll. The gods would be pleased. Some of those who had participated in the successful recovery ululated ecstatically before the recovered relic. That the gods were happy with their subjects was given additional proof when the temple was destroyed, for providentially, none had been trapped within when the molten rock had come downslope. The loss of the temple itself was not important. What mattered were the scroll and the words inscribed thereon. When queried about the destruction of the temple compound, the priests had avowed that it was the only way the gods could convince their subjects that it was time to raise a new temple, one grander and more impressive than its predecessor. This the people would surely do.

  Further proof of the gods’ satisfaction soon manifested itself in an entirely unprecedented fashion—one for which even the most loquacious priest had no explanation.

  It was as if the air itself had become an instrument. Steady and throbbing, the strange high whine made itself known even above the consistent roar and rumble of the volcano. Then the god appeared before them, in shape unforeseen, in majesty mind-blowing.

  Seawater falling from its central deck and nacelles, native aquatic arthropods scrambling to abandon their suddenly motile surface, the sleek bulk of the Enterprise rose from the water below the cliff face. It continued to rise above ocean, cliff, and openmouthed indigenous bipeds until it could turn toward the erupting volcano in the distance. As it accelerated steadily, water from its sides spilled onto the dumbfounded onlookers below. Moaning and writhing, they willingly drenched themselves in liquid that could only be most holy.

  * * *

  00:15 . . . 00:14 . . .

  It was genuinely astonishing, the kneeling Spock mused, how much longer a second seemed to take to pass when one had only a few of them left. Around him, the lava lake continued its inexorable rise. At least when the Rankine nullifier, which had cost him so much difficulty and now ultimately his life, finally went off, he would feel no pain. It was better than burning to death, though for a limited time, his exosuit would keep him alive even if submerged in lava before its systems finally failed or its integrity was compromised.

  So bright and intense now was the expanse of molten rock that it started to affect his vision even with the photosensitive visor set to maximum dark. The diffused orange glow became pure white and seemed to tug at his optic nerves, taunting his eyes. No matter. If he was destined to go blind, it was a condition he would not be required to suffer for long. His natural curiosity chafed at the thought of being unable to observe the final moment preceding his passing.

  There was a moment of disorientation. For the onset of death, it felt oddly familiar. Almost as if . . .

  His vision began to clear. Responding to the decrease in the surrounding illumination, his visor now allowed him a more expansive field of sight. The heat that had begun to overwhelm the exosuit’s advanced cooling systems did not simply begin to fade; it vanished.

  He could see shapes coming toward him that were neither molten nor rock. He recognized his surroundings. He was alive. He was not pleased.

  * * *

  Kirk was first into the transporter room, with McCoy close behind. Reflecting his excitement, the doctor was breathing hard. He had been forced to do entirely too much running this morning. Halting near the entrance to the transporter room, he rested one hand on the doorway as members of one of the ship’s relief and rescue teams rushed past him.

  An anxious Kirk immediately focused on the figure in the center of the transporter platform. The smoke and steam that rose from the exosuit encasing the science officer made it impossible to tell if it was intact, just as it prevented Kirk from ascertaining the condition of the individual within. Even if the Vulcan was still alive, he might be burned beyond recognition: his skin peeling away, his lungs seared, his . . .

  “Spock—you all right?” Unable to help and desperately wishing to do so, Kirk could only gaze worriedly, as the suit was still too hot to embrace.

  For a terrible moment there was no reaction from the armored shape. Then the first officer of the Enterprise stood. Scanning the team that had assembled in the transporter room, he finally focused his attention on Kirk. When he spoke, his tone was disbelieving.


  “Captain, you let them see our ship.”

  Standing next to Kirk, McCoy raised a hand and allowed himself to relax. “He’s fine.”

  Ignoring both his science officer’s admonition and his chief physician’s sarcasm, an immensely relieved Kirk flashed a wide smile. “Good to have you back.” He would have continued, but for an interruption from the room’s speakers.

  “Bridge to Captain Kirk.”

  Uhura’s voice. Kirk kept his tone wholly professional. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Monitors indicate transporter function is complete. Is . . . Commander Spock on board, sir?”

  “Safely and soundly,” Kirk reported. Then he added, “The commander’s principal concern of the moment is not for himself, but for the possibility that our ship may have been observed by the natives.”

  “ ‘Observed,’ indeed,” Chekov murmured to no one in particular. “We passed right over a bunch of them.”

  Uhura responded to Kirk in an equally cool, professional voice.

  “Please notify Commander Spock that his device has successfully detonated.” Emotionally overwhelmed, she terminated the communication from the bridge.

  His attention still on the safely returned Vulcan, Kirk did not dwell on the abruptness evident in his communication officer’s response. “Congratulations, Spock. You just saved the world.”

  “Captain. You violated the Prime Directive.”

  “So they saw us.” The commanding officer of the Enterprise shrugged. “Big deal.”

  Before the science officer could respond further, Kirk signaled to the members of the emergency response team. Any further deprecating comments disappeared beneath a whoosh of coolant gas and sprayed decontaminant.

  * * *

  In a way it was a miniature, if technologically far less sophisticated, version of what at that moment took place within the fracturing supervolcano. As the separate elements within the Rankine case Spock had delivered to the mountain’s throat merged, the resultant physiochemical reaction sent a wave of blue energy blasting in all directions. The case and its physical contents disintegrated, but they were no longer necessary. The self-propagating reaction they had initiated spread and expanded, sending waves of force not only throughout the volcano but down into the rapidly expanding magma chamber far below. The effect was to slow molecular motion within the molten rock. In other words, to cool, with remarkable speed and extraordinary efficacy.

  Around the rocky pinnacle where Spock had prepared to meet his demise, the lava solidified. Racing down into the depths, the reaction continued to work its magic. The throat of the volcano turned to solid basalt while the vast magma chamber below ceased to boil. Its energy stilled, its anger calmed, the violent eruption that had been building within the supervolcano was aborted. Still farther below, the three continental plates that had been on the verge of shifting catastrophically continued to grind away slowly against one another. The danger of a major quake devastating this portion of the planet and casting its rapidly maturing indigenous intelligence back into the darkness of the primitive hunter-gatherer receded. It might be hundreds of years, thousands, before such a danger to the planet’s rising intelligence raised its threatening white-hot head again.

  In the jungle outside, the already overawed natives looked on in astonishment as the sacred mountain belched forth not fire and fury, not flame and destruction, but a mile-high blast of rapidly cooling and perfectly harmless steam. Nor was this to be the last miracle, for truly the surprises of the gods were forever forthcoming. This final marvel was no less startling than the suppression of the looming volcanic eruption or the appearance of the enormous airborne deity. It was something even the simplest villager could reach out and touch.

  Around the villagers, on their buildings and children and vegetable gardens and bemused domesticated animals, it had begun to snow.

  II

  Like the clock itself, the muted cry of the alarm verged on the antique. The ancient digits on its primitive face read 5:00.

  The beeping woke a tired man who had long since ceased to be concerned about the latest, the newest, the most technologically advanced version of anything material. His entire world, his entire existence, had collapsed around him.

  Unconcerned by such considerations and now equally awake, the dog clambered joyfully over him and the woman who had been sleeping next to him. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, she was more beautiful than the day they had married. She watched as he rose quickly. They did not speak. Speaking would invariably lead to the subject that concerned them most, that had all too swiftly come to dominate their lives: a shared heartbreak they could scarcely handle.

  The pain that shone in his eyes did not arise from his back or any other part of his body. The ache that circumscribed his existence came from elsewhere. It could not be assuaged by medicine old or new, by physical manipulation traditional or unconventional. He only knew that he could not live with it. There had to be a fix. There had to be. Otherwise he knew that while his body might live on, his spirit would die.

  Under normal circumstances, the silence that now filled the bedroom would have been comforting. That was no longer the case, and had not been so for some time now. Only one thing would now comfort the man. Maddeningly, that one thing was completely outside his control. He was a spectator to the slow, agonizing demise of his own soul, and could do nothing about it.

  The knowledge of his own helplessness in the face of the tragedy that loomed over him tore at his gut every waking hour of every day.

  Turning, he found himself gazing into the face of his wife, his life partner. They had been through everything together. Despite the anguish that now consumed them, their love held strong. If love could fix the present situation, all would have been well and done with months ago. But what they faced could not be healed by love.

  It’s all in the hands of others, he thought morosely.

  Where his eyes flashed impotent rage, hers revealed a lack of sleep. Plainly she had been awake much of the night. Watching him, perhaps. Or staring off into the distance, hoping to see a savior and finding instead only four walls on which was painted nothing but desperation.

  He shambled slowly to the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was modern yet comfortable, clean of line without being stark. He performed the usual ablutions. He treated his teeth. In the mirror, a half-dead man stared back at him.

  Have to do better than this, he told himself. For her, if not for yourself. Appearances. Morale. Pull it together, man.

  He splashed water on his face, and the cold shock helped. So did the attentive presence of the dog that watched and wondered and, by his casual canine indifference, helped to remind his master that the world outside had concerns that went beyond his own.

  A glance through the window restated the dog’s assertion. The towers of London soared skyward in the soft light of early morning. Some were of recent vintage, reflecting advances in building materials as well as shifts in architectural taste. Others lingered from earlier eras, refurbished to contemporary standards or preserved as structures of historical importance. Aircars both public and private soared between the towers. The Celts would not have recognized the skyline, nor would the Romans or the Vikings or any of their successors. London was every bit as much an eternal city as Athens or Rome. Bustling with triumphs and tragedies, it would go on no matter what.

  As he headed back to the bedroom and to his waiting, silent wife, the man was not at all sure the same could be said of himself.

  * * *

  The rural thoroughfare down which the sleek silver hovercar hummed was not equipped with a guide strip embedded in the surface, thus forcing the man to do his own driving. The effect of the lush English countryside through which he and his wife were speeding did everything to try and improve their mood, and failed. Actually there were three passengers, if one counted the plush bunny that reposed in his wife’s lap. The gentle permanent smile on its fuzzy face was not replicated on the visages of the two huma
n passengers. In the distance behind them, loops of suburban London sprawl curled across the green hillsides.

  By now the turnoff among the trees was all too familiar to them, as was the sign they whipped past: ROYAL CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL.

  The original Victorian estate was well preserved and the extensive modern additions indistinguishable from their architecturally important predecessor. After parking underground, the couple made their way up to a corridor with which they had also become far too familiar. Alerted to their arrival, Dr. Ainsworth was waiting for them. He glanced at the bunny that the woman clutched to her chest like a plate of medieval armor, and began to speak. Softly, knowingly, but not reassuringly. He desperately wanted there to be a surrogate for the truth. That was something all physicians had wished for since the beginning of time. For this couple, he had none. No substitutes for a harsh and uncaring reality.

  As he spoke, air gurneys driven by hospital attendants drifted quietly past them while nurses moved from room to room. His calm but unyielding words were, unfortunately, nothing new to both of them. Occasionally they nodded without comment as they listened, long since numbed to what had become a sorrowful, unyielding litany. No change. No improvement. There being nothing more he could do, the doctor left them to their grief. There is a point in medicine when more words become not only useless, but counterproductive. Experienced as he was, the doctor knew that point had been reached.

  * * *

  The girl on the bed was eight years old. Cocooned by the most up-to-date equipment at the disposal of modern medicine, she lay motionless, breathing slowly and evenly, her eyes closed. Her skin was soft and the color of fine cocoa. What remained of her long black hair was combed neatly away from her face. The disease that was devouring the raven strands along with the rest of her body had rendered her even more slender than usual. She was barely clinging to life. She would not see her ninth birthday.

  Her mother lifted the little girl’s too-thin arm and slipped the bunny underneath it, willing herself to believe that her daughter could feel the touch of synthetic softness. She looked for a smile, a twitch, a reaction of any kind. There was none—only the soft hum and occasional beep of the attentive but emotionless devices that were keeping her daughter alive. Bending, she gently stroked the girl’s left cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead while with her left hand she tightly grasped the delicate fingers of the girl’s right hand. As always, there was no response. Having held back as long as she could, the mother began to cry. Outside the hospital room window, a country breeze stirred the leaves in trees that kept watch.