Constellations

by Marco Palmieri

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Steer us in a little closer.” On the screen, the image tilted, and the one ship drew closer. “Just one minute more…”

  “Captain—”

  “Not now, Sanchez.”

  Kirk stood, watching the numbers fly by on Sulu’s console. All around him, voices chattered: damage control, shield strength, phaser power, casualty reports. Spock would have sorted it all out, cut through all this mess—all these voices—and told him exactly what he needed to know.

  But Spock wasn’t here. Might never be here again.

  And McCoy…

  “Enemy ship firing again!” Sanchez said. Her voice was frantic.

  “Captain?” Sulu prompted.

  With a sick feeling, Kirk realized he’d waited too long.

  The bridge shook. Kirk pitched forward, catching himself on the astrogator console next to Sulu. “Fire!” he yelled.

  Sulu pressed the firing button.

  Energy stabbed out from the Enterprise, sparking and flashing as it struck the enemy ship’s left nacelle. On the viewscreen, the Klingon vessel lurched, tilted sideways.

  “Captain,” Chekov said, “the other ship is—”

  “Maintain fire. Hold that lock!”

  Kirk reached out a hand, thumbed the viewscreen magnification back a notch. Both ships were visible now. The Enterprise phasers continued their assault on the damaged cruiser, which was beginning to veer off course. The other ship glowed with energy; clearly it was about to fire again.

  “Casualty reports coming in,” Uhura said.

  “We’re almost through their shield,” Sulu said. “But our phaser power is fading.”

  “Hold on,” Kirk replied. “Ready photon torpedoes.”

  The blue energy-stream sliced into the Klingon ship’s warp nacelle. Then, abruptly, the nacelle broke apart. The cruiser pitched, sparked, fires dissipating off into space from its exposed warp engine. It lurched, pitched sideways…

  …and grazed the other Klingon ship’s shields. Sparks flew into space, and the second ship’s phasers fired wild, into the void.

  “Photon torpedoes, fire,” Kirk ordered.

  Bright pulses of destruction shot out of the Enterprise, bombarding the twin ships. As Kirk watched, they struck the healthy Klingon cruiser, detonating harmlessly against its shields. The other one wasn’t so lucky; explosions and fires dotted its surface.

  “Five…six direct hits,” Sanchez said.

  “Damaged cruiser’s shields are at near zero strength,” Chekov said. “She is heading off.”

  Kirk whirled, sat down in his chair. “Uhura, open a channel to the remaining Klingon vessel.”

  “Channel open.”

  On the viewscreen, a dark, furrowed face in black and silver appeared, surrounded by the smoky, regimented bustle of a Klingon imperial bridge.

  “This is Captain Kirk to the Klingon ship,” Kirk said. “It’s one on one now, Commander. Do you want to make the first move, or can we resolve this peacefully?”

  The face stood, glaring, for a long moment. The Klingon said nothing.

  Then the screen flickered, returned to forward view. The Klingon cruiser turned, began a slow arc away.

  “They’re moving off.” Sulu smiled. “Taking refuge with the other ship, behind that large moon.”

  “The Klingons like to fight in close quarters. We were able to turn that against them—this time. But they’ll be back.” Kirk could sense the admiring gazes of his bridge crew, but he felt no sense of triumph. He shook his head.

  “Uhura. Damage report?”

  “Seven casualties on lower decks, sir. None fatal.”

  Kirk grimaced, pressed the comm button. “Engineer. Time to warp drive?”

  “Should still be about an hour, sir. Repairs already under way.”

  Kirk rose, and once more his disapproving gaze swept across the bridge. “That was sloppy all around,” he said. “The Klingons will probably be back before we can depart this area. Let’s do better next time.” He looked pointedly at Chekov, then strode to the lift.

  “Sulu, you have the conn. Run continuous drills. If anything happens, call me immediately.”

  The lift doors hissed shut, and he was alone.

  Kirk exhaled heavily. The turbolift hummed, waiting for his command.

  “Sickbay,” he said.

  When Kirk was gone, the bridge crew seemed to exhale all at once. Sanchez looked over at Sulu expectantly. The helmsman shook his head, sighed.

  Uhura raised an eyebrow. “Rough day.”

  Chekov stared into the science station viewer, his head in his hands. “I think my career is over.”

  Sulu stood up and crossed to the young ensign, put a hand on his shoulder. “My first week aboard, I accidentally pressed an active plasma torch against the matter/antimatter reaction chamber. Nearly blew up the ship.” He smiled. “The chief engineer taught me a few…exotic Scottish expressions. But I got over it.”

  Chekov looked up, smiled back sadly.

  Then Sulu straightened, looked around. “Okay, you all heard the captain,” he said. “Battle stations.”

  “This is very odd,” Spock says. “And yet…strangely logical.”

  He gazes around at his surroundings. A neatly trimmed mass of green vegetation rises to a height of twelve feet in all directions, with an opening dead ahead. Through the hole, Spock can make out another wall…and, past that, yet another.

  They have been walking through this huge, sunny garden for an indefinite period of time, and Spock has determined that it forms a maze. The bushes, all meticulously squared off, seem to be leading them to some unpredictable destination.

  A phrase comes to his mind, half remembered: …lies in cultivating a garden where it may bloom.

  “Of course it’s logical,” McCoy replies. “We’re inside your brain.”

  Spock looks at him sharply. He knows this man, but he cannot remember exactly how. When he looks at McCoy, he feels a strong sense of friendship…but also a guardedness. A vague memory of attacks, of challenges to his intellect.

  “I should…return to the classroom,” Spock says, fighting down a sudden stab of panic. “If I lose the challenge, I will not be passed forward into the Science Academy.”

  “Spock. Listen to me.” McCoy grabs the Vulcan’s shoulders, turns to face him directly. “You’re not on Vulcan. You’re on the Enterprise. You are first officer and science officer there—you have been for years. Do you remember?”

  Spock shakes free, turns away. A mockingbird screeches, breaking his concentration.

  “The Klingons captured you—subjected you to their mind-ripper,” McCoy continues. “They tortured you mentally, and you retreated into your mind using Vulcan mental disciplines. You retreated here.”

  Again, the panic. A burst of images: fiery combat in space. Cruel, bearded men in metal mesh vests. A machine with arms like snakes, cold and metallic and unstoppable, violating his mind.

  Then pain. And the questions:

  Fleet strength. Federation expansion plans. Starship deployment.

  No, Spock recalls thinking. I will not answer.

  More pain. And the snake-machine, hissing and probing his innermost thoughts. Pain. Chaos. Pain. No escape, no solution. The only option: draw on his training.

  On Chaotic Response Suppression.

  “…got you out,” McCoy is saying. “And we grabbed the mind-ripper, too. I’m using it right now, Spock. You’ve got to listen to me.”

  Spock shakes his head, looks around. This McCoy…he knows he should trust him. But what if it’s another attack…another manifestation of the snake?

  “You’re in too deep, Spock. Only you can get yourself out of this.” And McCoy reaches for him…

  The mockingbird screeches; the sky darkens. Thunder roars from the sky.

  Spock looks up, knowing what he will see. The hedges have turned brown, gnarled—dying. As he watches, they stir, come to a sick semblance of life. They reach out toward
him, like thorned claws.

  “Spock!”

  Then the maze is upon them, pricking their skin and coiling around their throats. McCoy grabs at the branches, his eyes wide. As Spock watches, they cut into the doctor’s hands. McCoy winces, crying out in pain.

  Spock stands stiff, still, trying to evoke Chaotic Response techniques.

  “This is illogical,” he says quietly to himself. “I will push it aside; I will not be distracted. Phase One—”

  McCoy struggles to speak. “Of course it’s…illogical, Spock.” He pulls free of a branch. “Humans are illogical beings, right? But need I remind you—you are half human.”

  And Spock hears Salak’s voice, taunting, echoing: Mr. Spock is part human. Therefore…Mr. Spock is an illogical being.

  The branches pull them into the hedge, gathering and squeezing them tight, smothering them against the brown, dying mass of vegetation. Steel-like vines tighten around McCoy’s throat, stronger than ever, and he makes a strangled sound. But Spock barely hears. His suppression techniques have failed; his mind is closed off. He cannot help himself. He cannot help his friends. Beyond any doubt, beyond any logical calculation, he knows: He will die here.

  Then, just ahead of him, a section of the hedge begins to glow. It burns red-hot, sprouts tiny flames, and incinerates from the center outward. And in its wake—

  “Spock! Bones!” Kirk yells. His phaser is still raised, ready to fire again.

  “Jim.” The word comes oddly to Spock’s lips. It sounds strange, like a language he has not spoken for a long, long time.

  Kirk wades through the snaking, coiling vegetation, firing off short bursts at the errant branches. Then he holsters his phaser and reaches out one hand each to Spock and McCoy, pulling the vines from their throats. McCoy gasps, staggers a bit.

  Then Kirk fixes Spock with a steely gaze. “Mr. Spock. You have to break free of this. We need you.” He pauses. “You must return to duty.”

  Spock recalls the Teacher’s voice: Logic is your duty.

  Kirk’s eyes are like lasers…like alien snake-machines, crawling and snaking into his brain. Like manifestations of chaos itself.

  “Chaotic…Response…”

  Spock closes his eyes, willing the snakes, the vines, the bloody thorns away. He pushes them aside. The pain, he tells himself, is a foreign object, a snapshot in another man’s album. An other.

  His shipmates fade away; the garden fades away. All is pure, white light. And he is alone, with his failure and his fear and his pain and his logic.

  Alone.

  “Is he comin’ around, Doc?”

  “Yes, Mr. Scott. They both are.”

  Kirk’s eyes snapped open. He took in, first, the bright lights of sickbay, then the concerned faces of Scotty and Dr. M’Benga, peering at him. M’Benga leaned down, placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Easy, Captain. Take it slow.”

  Kirk leaned back, turned his head to the left. There, on the next bed, lay Spock…completely unconscious. No signs of life beyond the steady thrumming of the diagnostic instruments above his head. And past Spock: the device. Black and silver, a mass of coiled, glowing metal and thick, barely insulated wiring.

  The mind-ripper.

  “Your vitals were fluctuating dangerously.” M’Benga reached down and gently disconnected the leads from Kirk’s forehead. “I took a chance…waited till you hit normal levels, briefly, then pulled you out. I had no choice.”

  Scotty turned to the ripper, shook his head. “Blasted Klingon engineering. It’s a miracle that thing didn’t rip your head apart, sir.”

  Kirk sat up slowly. “Feels like it did.”

  To his right, McCoy groaned, sat up. He ripped the leads off his own head.

  “Bones,” Kirk said softly.

  “We blew it, Jim,” McCoy said. “And you took a damn-fool chance going in there after me.”

  “I wasn’t about to lose two of my senior officers.” He pointed to Spock’s prone body. “Any change?”

  M’Benga consulted the diagnostic bed readings. “None,” he said. “His brain activity spiked, a minute or two before we brought you out. Now it’s dropped back down again.”

  Nurse Chapel hurried in. “Doctor.” She stopped, glanced at McCoy. “Doctors. The casualties from the attack are stable. They’re all resting quietly.”

  “Thank you, Nurse.” McCoy grimaced, lurched to his feet. He staggered over to Spock’s bed, studied the indicators. “Those are the same readings we got when we first rescued him.”

  “Yes,” M’Benga agreed. He was an expert in Vulcan physiology, Kirk recalled. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say he was engaged in some kind of internal healing procedure. But the damage to Mr. Spock’s brain is severe—I’m worried about the lack of progress.”

  Nurse Chapel cast a quick, worried glance over at Spock’s unmoving body. “I’d better tend to the…wounded…” And she left hurriedly.

  “Scotty,” Kirk said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to report, sir,” the engineer replied. “Repairs are well under way—my lads are on the case. We’ll be ready to leave the area in approximately thirty minutes.”

  “But.”

  “But. Mr. Chekov has picked up strong long-range energy signals from the Klingon ships. He suspects they may be back before then.”

  Kirk frowned.

  “Sir,” Scotty continued. “We need you on the bridge.”

  Kirk looked down at Spock. The Vulcan’s body was completely still: no blinking, no muscle twitches, no facial movements. He barely breathed.

  “I need him on the bridge,” Kirk replied. “And you’ll forgive me if I don’t take Mr. Chekov’s judgments as gospel.”

  Scotty hesitated. “He’s a sharp lad, Chekov.”

  “But inexperienced.”

  A sharp pulse came from Spock’s diagnostic bed. Kirk turned in alarm.

  Shakily, McCoy crossed back to Kirk’s bed. “Jim, Spock’s readings are starting to deteriorate. I’m goin’ back in there.”

  “No.” Kirk reached for the mind-ripper’s connecting leads. “I’ll go.”

  McCoy glared at him. “That’s not appropriate.”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “You are the captain of a starship in an ongoing combat situation. It’s not merely foolish for you to risk your life like this—it’s irresponsible to those around you.”

  Scott stepped forward. “I must agree, Captain. The Klingons outnumber us, and there’s no other Federation ships in the sector. We barely escaped with our lives before.”

  “And those Klingons are still pretty mad about us stealing their little toy here,” McCoy continued. “What was it you said to Spock? ‘You have duties.’”

  Kirk put a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. He turned to the others. “Gentlemen…give us a moment?”

  Frowning, Scotty and M’Benga moved to the far corner of the room.

  “I’ve got to save him, Bones.”

  McCoy grimaced. “Jim, he’s my friend, too. I—”

  “No—you don’t understand.” Kirk looked down. “Scotty’s right—we barely beat the Klingons before. They have us outnumbered and outgunned. I managed to slap them down once, but they’ll be back. And you’ve got wounded down here who shouldn’t be wounded.”

  McCoy cocked his head. “You said yourself they outnumber us.”

  “That’s not the point. If Spock had been up there, we’d have gotten out of that battle clean.”

  “You don’t know that. And we’ve had scrapes that turned out much worse.”

  “I’m not kicking myself, Bones. I did my job. But next time…the Klingons are going to be better prepared.”

  McCoy frowned.

  “Scotty’s right—Chekov’s a good junior officer. But he’s not Spock.” Kirk frowned, remembering. “During combat, there are a dozen voices chattering away all the time, on the bridge. The communications officer relays damage reports. Scotty provides updates on engine status. The helmsman
monitors phasers and ship movements. The navigator handles shield strength. They’re all background noise to me—because one man always feeds me the exact information I need at the exact moment I need it.”

  “Spock,” McCoy said tonelessly.

  “Normally, I can compensate for his absence. But the Klingons have us at a severe disadvantage. I’m a good captain, but I don’t have Spock’s ability to filter through a thousand bits of information, screen out superfluous data, and zero in on the most crucial point—all in a millisecond.”

  McCoy smiled wryly. “I suppose part of being ‘a good captain’ is knowing one’s own limitations.”

  “Exactly. That’s why it’s not irresponsible for me to try and rescue Spock. It’s actually the only responsible thing to do.” Kirk paused. “It might mean life or death for the entire crew.”

  McCoy crossed to the mind-ripper, and together he and Kirk stared at it for a moment. It was an unknown, alien device; M’Benga barely understood its controls, and they all knew its use could prove fatal at any time. Kirk recalled the feel of its electric probes, reaching tendrils into his brain. He shivered.

  “All right,” McCoy said. “But I’m going back in with you.”

  Kirk frowned. “There’s no sense in both of us—”

  “I screwed up in there, Jim.” McCoy turned to him, and there was honest pain in his face. “I tried to prod Spock out of his stupor—I reminded him he was half human. And it backfired. That’s when his mind—garden, whatever it was—went all haywire.”

  Kirk glanced over at Spock’s bed. M’Benga stood before it now, looking at the diagnostic readouts and shaking his head slowly.

  “It’s my fault he’s dying,” McCoy said.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s what I know.” He sat back on his bed, looked distastefully at the machine’s leads. “I’ve got to make this right. Understand that, Jim.”

  Kirk locked eyes with McCoy for just a moment. Then he nodded.

  “Scotty. Come here a minute.”

  Scott walked over to him.

  “Dr. McCoy and I are going in again. If all goes well, we shouldn’t be long.”

  Scott frowned. “Sir.”

  “Here’s what you need to do. Get that warp drive fixed as quick as you can. The second you do, get us out of here. If the Klingons attack, don’t try to be a hero. Hide behind the moon, slingshot around the sun, do whatever you have to do to get away.”