The Fire and the Rose

by David R. George III

  In the distance hung the rusty globe upon which the Guardian of Forever stood. Spock brought the shuttlecraft Columbus from the hangar and along the starboard flank of the Enterprise. The roughly cylindrical secondary hull—battered by Klingon disruptors and torpedoes—passed from sight, and then so too did the dorsal connector atop its forward end. The great disk of the primary hull loomed in the shuttle’s viewports as it climbed. The narrow edge of the saucer appeared, a paired set of running lights blinking there, one below, one above.

  Spock adjusted the course of the Columbus, turning it farther to port. The shuttle angled in that direction and then straightened. Ahead lay the upper circular span of the Enterprise, and its center, the bridge module.

  Or what remained of it.

  As the Columbus glided forward, Spock looked away, gazing instead at the rest of the Enterprise’s saucer. Across its gray-white surface, bursts of blackened hull marked the places where Klingon weapons had reached their targets. Overall, he didn’t know if he’d ever seen the ship in such a distressed state. As badly damaged as the Enterprise appeared, though, Spock marveled at how the captain had once more managed to extricate the ship and its crew from the most dire of circumstances.

  Spock peered forward to see that the Columbus neared the ruins of the bridge. He programmed the shuttle’s course to pass slowly above it. Situated at the top of the ship, in a superstructure that rose above the surrounding hull, the control center had always seemed oddly—and perhaps foolishly—placed to Spock. Arguably the ship’s most important location, from which the captain and his command crew piloted and directed the operation of the vessel, it need not have been positioned where it would be so vulnerable, even with the added shielding that protected it. Buried deep within the heart of the ship, the bridge could just as easily have fulfilled its purpose, while at the same time being far less susceptible to external attack.

  In this case, Spock told himself, it wouldn’t have mattered. The Klingon transporters could have reached anywhere inside the Enterprise, and an explosion amidships could have torn out massive sections of multiple decks, doing far more harm than had been done here. Spock found arguments on both sides compelling, but he felt… muddled… his normally well-honed mind unable to cut through to the core of the issue.

  But that didn’t matter either, because Spock knew that none of those concerns had driven the placement of the bridge on Starfleet vessels. Symbolism had been of more significance to the Federation organization that held as its mandate exploration and scientific investigation first, and keeping the peace second. And never—never—would they be the aggressors in any conflict. Captain Kirk had often referred to Starfleet as “an instrument of civilization,” and civilized peoples did not launch wars.

  Below the Columbus, the shattered remnants of the bridge came into view. Spock operated his panel and stopped the shuttle. He stood and peered through the forward viewports.

  The bridge had been completely opened to space. Spock studied the inner edges of the devastation, attempting to identify the various control stations, but he could discern none of them. The entire interior of the bridge had been blackened by the heat of the explosion, and much of what had been there had either been vaporized or blasted out into space. The helm and navigation console and the outer railings had been shorn from their mounts and could be seen nowhere. The command chair had also gone. Of the white dome that had covered the bridge, only a few scorched, twisted fragments had been left behind. A deformed section of rounded bulkhead marked where the turboshaft had once risen. The hull that had surrounded the rest of the bridge had exploded outwards, fracturing, leaving only charred, mangled slices of metal, like the fingers of some burned robotic claw reaching futilely for the stars.

  As Spock surveyed the wreckage, one detail seemed utterly clear: nobody on the bridge could have survived the detonation. Although the icy depths of space would have subsequently dispatched anybody who had, Spock could not envision any of the crew enduring long enough for that to happen. The explosion must have killed them all—quickly, he hoped, and without pain.

  Though he felt no motivation to move, Spock knew that he had to get back to the ship. As the acting captain of the Enterprise, the crew needed him. With an effort, he sat back down at the main console and engaged the shuttle’s thrusters. The Columbus began forward, over the bridge and out beyond the saucer section, and then he aimed it to port.

  Spock thought that he could have expected to feel the sadness he did, and that he might have even been able to accept it. He also understood his rage, but he would never have anticipated the extent to which his remorse had grown. Being so close to the Guardian of Forever seemed to strengthen the memories of it, and of what its existence had allowed to happen. Spock’s guilt had begun a year ago, after he had used the Guardian to save his own life and that of his mother, and then truly realized how much he had failed the captain with Edith Keeler. Spock had been right in his evaluation of her importance to the history of Earth, but he should have tried to find some other way to restore the timeline—some way that would have permitted Captain Kirk his happiness. Now, with Jim dead, with any chance for him to find a lasting love gone, that regret seemed almost unbearable.

  Alone with his thoughts, Spock worked the controls, heading the Columbus back toward the hangar bay.

  McCoy sprinted toward the turbolift, his fatigue replaced by the rush of adrenalin. He carried a medical pouch in one hand and a tricorder in the other. After everything that had happened today, he almost couldn’t believe what he’d just been told.

  Earlier, McCoy had thought that he would remember this day for a long time, even if he attempted to forget it. The Einstein research station, destroyed. Two Starfleet vessels and their crews, also gone, and now four Klingon ships and their complements, with Korax plunging the Gr’oth through the atmosphere of the planet and directly into the Guardian of Forever. Considering the nature and obvious power of the Guardian, McCoy had been relieved when its destruction hadn’t sent the entire galaxy into some sort of temporal instability.

  The red doors of the lift parted and McCoy hurried inside. “Deck three,” he said, hanging the tricorder over his shoulder and then activating the control wand. “Port of the central turboshaft.”

  After the lift eased into vertical motion, he let go of the wand and reached up to the intercom. “McCoy to M’Benga,” he said. At the time DeSalle had contacted sickbay, McCoy had been checking on the condition of the crew members wounded today. Immediately after he’d spoken with DeSalle, he’d left sickbay so quickly—pausing only to grab up a medical pouch and a tricorder—that he hadn’t even been able to inform the rest of the staff about what had happened.

  “M’Benga here,” responded the doctor. He sounded weary, and McCoy didn’t wonder why after all of the casualties they’d had to treat today.

  “Jabilo,” McCoy said, unable to contain his excitement, “they found the bridge crew. They were trapped—”

  “Wait. What?” M’Benga said. “You mean they were found alive?”

  “Yes,” McCoy said. “They managed to get off the bridge before the explosion, but the force of the blast jammed the turbolift they were in sideways into the shaft. They’ve been stuck between decks, unconscious. All but two of them are alert now, but they’re all alive. I’m already on my way now, but we’re going to need a medical team.” As McCoy spoke, the lift slowed, then began to glide along horizontally.

  “I’ll arrange it,” M’Benga said. “Where are they?”

  “The central turboshaft on deck three,” McCoy said. “DeSalle’s shut the gravity down and they’re floating them out.”

  “We’ll be there as quickly as we can,” M’Benga said. “Out.”

  McCoy thumbed the intercom channel closed. As he waited for the lift to complete its journey, he thought about Spock. McCoy had never seen the Vulcan as haggard as he had today, and he suspected that Jim’s apparent death had pushed Spock to the brink of grief—and perhaps beyond. The
news that the captain and the others had been found alive could only ease his burden.

  The lift eased to a stop, and when the doors opened, McCoy exited onto deck three. He raced through the corridors until he reached the one that led to the central turboshaft. DeSalle and several security guards moved about in front of the open doors, seeing to the needs of the four bridge officers on the deck. Uhura, Haines, and Leslie all sat with their backs against a bulkhead, while Chekov lay supine.

  McCoy ran over, and all eyes turned to him. He kneeled beside Chekov, who at a cursory glance seemed to have suffered the worst injuries. Blood coated the right side of his gold uniform, and he cradled one arm with the other. McCoy quickly retrieved a portable scanner from his tricorder and began to take readings. “I’m fine, Doctor,” Chekov said.

  “Now you let me be the judge of that,” McCoy said, but already he saw the truth of what the ensign had claimed. Chekov’s forearm had suffered a simple break, and the blood flowing from the gash in his shoulder had already been stemmed, likely by one of the security guards using a first-aid kit.

  “Doctor McCoy,” Uhura said, and when he looked over at her, she fixed him with a serious expression. “All of us are all right,” she said, motioning to include all four of the bridge crew. “The captain and Sulu need you.”

  McCoy peered over at Haines and Leslie, in turn, and they both nodded their agreement. When he looked farther down the corridor, to where the empty turboshaft showed beyond the open doors, DeSalle waved him over. McCoy stood up and told the injured officers, “Doctor M’Benga will be here shortly with a medical team.” Then he padded over to DeSalle.

  “Doc,” he said quietly, turning toward the shaft, “Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Sulu are still unconscious. The others seemed well enough to move, but we didn’t want to do anything with the captain and the lieutenant until you had a chance to examine them.”

  “You did the right thing,” McCoy said, patting DeSalle on the side of the arm. “Is anybody down there keeping an eye on them?”

  “Ensign Stevenson,” DeSalle said.

  McCoy nodded. Stevenson primarily worked security, he knew, but she’d also done several rotations in sickbay. “Good choice,” he said. He then stepped toward the end of the corridor and peered down past the deck. Emergency lighting had been turned on, and only a few meters below, he saw a car hanging at an angle, wedged into the sides of the turboshaft. It appeared precarious, but then McCoy recalled that they’d shut down the gravity in the tube.

  “We cut through one side of the lift,” DeSalle said at his shoulder, and indeed, McCoy could see into the car through the roughly rectangular opening. He spied part of a gold uniform, though he couldn’t tell whether it belonged to Jim or Hikaru.

  “I’d better get down there,” McCoy said. He peered at the side of the shaft beside the doors, to the access ladder. He put his scanner back in his tricorder, tucked his medical pouch into the back of his waistband, then reached out and took hold of a rung.

  “Careful, Doctor,” DeSalle said. “Remember that the gravity’s off.”

  “Right, thanks,” McCoy said. He swung his foot onto a rung, then pulled his whole body onto the ladder. He gave himself just a moment to acclimate to zero gee—his stomach at once felt aflutter—and then he began to descend. As he’d been taught to do at the academy, he moved slowly and deliberately, keeping his focus on his movements. When he reached the car, he peered into the opening. “Ensign Stevenson?” he said, and although he hadn’t spoken loudly, his voice echoed up the shaft. “It’s Doctor McCoy.”

  “I’m here,” Stevenson said. “I’ll give you a hand climbing into the lift.” A moment later, her face appeared in the opening.

  McCoy stepped slowly from the rung. Just as he pushed himself onto the side of the car, he realized that in null gravity, the force he exerted on the lift would send it drifting in the other direction—in this case, down. Stevenson must have seen his startled look because she said, “It’s all right. The car’s wedged in pretty tightly, but just in case, we’ve also anchored it to the sides of the shaft.”

  “You thought of everything,” McCoy said.

  “We like to put the secure in security,” Stevenson quipped. “Now, give me your hand.” With one hand still on the ladder, McCoy reached down with the other. The ensign took hold with a firm grasp and said, “Just let go of the ladder and I’ll guide you in.” McCoy did so, and Stevenson conducted him expertly into the lift.

  Once inside, he saw Jim and Hikaru. Both men lay in heaps at the lowest point of the car, where the floor met one of the walls. The small translucent window, through which riders could see the progress of the turbolift on its journey, had been cracked. An electric scent, like that of burning metal, filled the enclosed space. Patches of blood could be seen in several places, but not on either of the men.

  Of the two, Sulu appeared in worse condition. His complexion had paled considerably, and his arm extended at an unnatural angle from his body. His respiration came in shallow, rapid breaths, and his skin felt moist and cool to the touch. While Stevenson steadied McCoy in the weightless environment, he took out his scanner and began examining the helmsman.

  “He’s in shock,” McCoy reported. “He’s bleeding internally. We need to get him to sickbay immediately.”

  McCoy heard the sound of a communicator being activated. “Stevenson to DeSalle.”

  “DeSalle here,” came the reply.

  “Is the medical team here yet?” she asked.

  “Yes,” DeSalle said. “Doctor M’Benga just arrived with several nurses and orderlies.”

  “Have a stretcher sent down here at once,” Stevenson told him.

  “Will do,” DeSalle said.

  “Stevenson out.”

  As the security guards had spoken, McCoy had turned his attention toward Captain Kirk. Unlike Sulu, who’d suffered a dislocated shoulder and two broken bones in addition to his internal bleeding, the captain’s body seemed intact. Initially McCoy could find no reason for his loss of consciousness, but then he saw it: a slight swelling of the brain stem. McCoy ran a quick series of scans to confirm his diagnosis.

  He turned to Stevenson. “Make that two stretchers,” he said. “The captain is in a coma.”

  Spock strode through a wide, dimly lighted corridor on Starbase 10. Deep in the simulated night of the orbital station, few base personnel moved about, and even fewer visitors. Since exiting the quarters he’d been assigned here, Spock had seen only a small number of people, and not a single member of the Enterprise crew. After all that they’d experienced during the last several days—beginning with their battle against the Klingons and ending with their patched and barely functioning vessel limping here, to the nearest starbase—he assumed that they’d all retired to their guest cabins.

  All of them, that is, but Dr. McCoy.

  As Spock paced along, he considered what he himself had endured since the deadly encounter with the Klingons. The rapid flow of emotions—from grief to elation, from concern to hope—had been difficult to bear, partially due to their unexpectedness, partially to their volatility, but primarily because of the remorse underlying it all. In the hours since arriving at Starbase 10, though, he’d finally been able to recapture a sense of control that matched his outward composure. After seeing to the needs of the crew—rest being chief among those needs—and participating in an initial debriefing by the station’s commander, Commodore Stocker, Spock had visited the infirmary. Captain Kirk and the other Enterprise wounded had been transferred there, where Dr. McCoy would continue to treat them, aided by Dr. Orondella, Starbase 10’s chief medical officer.

  Since the explosion of the bridge, the captain had remained in a coma—or at least he had until just a short time ago. Within the last hour, he had woken from three days of unconsciousness. According to Dr. McCoy, who had contacted Spock with the news, Captain Kirk appeared to have suffered no permanent damage to his brain.

  Spock reached a T-shaped intersection and turne
d into a corridor that ran along the outside of the starbase. To his right, the transparent outer bulkhead provided a view of several ports that circled the biconic space station at its midpoint. He saw two Starfleet vessels—the U.S.S. Diversity and the S.S. Selma—and a Frunalian science scout currently berthed. Just visible around the curve of the station, the Enterprise floated in the pair of omegoid frames, set at right angles to each other, that formed the dock. Half a dozen power tethers had already been strung from the dock to the ship, but right now the Enterprise remained still and dark, like an injured animal that has wandered off to die.

  But dead or not—and surely the ship would return to active duty once it had undergone extensive repairs—it had at least held together long enough to carry the crew to safety. After the captain’s command decisions had resulted in the defeat of the Klingons, Lieutenant Commander Scott and his engineering staff had managed to restore the warp drive sufficiently for the ship to reach Starbase 10. Its five-year mission completed, the Enterprise had been on its way here prior to receiving the distress signal from the Einstein research station, but it did not seem fitting to Spock that it should end like this, with an exhausted, wounded crew and a vessel barely spaceworthy.

  A few moments later, Spock reached another T. He turned left into the intersecting corridor, then right through a pair of green doors and into the base’s infirmary. Inside, a long office reached both left and right, with quite a few workstations on the outer bulkhead. Opposite those, several entryways opened into diagnostic, surgical, and recovery bays, while to the left, a pair of sealed doors led to intensive care. Though still subdued, the lighting here had not dimmed as much as that out in the corridors.

  The only individual in the office sat at a workstation to the right. An Andorian, he peered up from a data slate in his hands. Dressed in a blue Starfleet medical uniform that nearly matched the color of his skin, he wore the rank of ensign and the insignia of a nurse. “Are you Mister Spock?” he asked.