by S. D. Perry
The navigator tapped at his console. "Yes, Captain. One mining colony, one science outpost, Tanaris IX and Outpost 771. Both on class-M planets. The field will reach the innermost one, Tanaris IX, in ... nine minutes."
Damn. He tried to remind himself it could be much worse. It came as no comfort. "Lieutenant Uhura, I want you to send out a broadband message to both facilities, alerting them to the situation. Tell them that if the worst-case scenario occurs, we'll start sending messages immediately at conventional light speed ... but that it may be years before contact can occur."
Uhura nodded, her voice tight with concern. "Yes, Captain."
Kirk resisted an urge to call engineering again, aware that it had been all of three or four minutes since the last time he'd called. Telling Spock and Scotty to hurry one more time might make him feel like he was taking action, but one of them would have to stop what he was doing to report.
All he could do was keep his fingers crossed that they would be able to pull off one more miracle.
Watching the ghost-image of the energy field continue to swell reminded Sulu of a story his grandfather had once told him. Kikani Sulu had been a shuttle pilot on Earth for most of his life, and had collected cultural legends and anecdotes from his stays all over the world. It was one of those vague childhood recollections that he could only partially recall, sitting across from his grandfather at the dinner table one afternoon, the old man telling the myths he'd heard describing the end of time or the universe, he couldn't remember exactly. What he did remember was something about a goddess giving birth to shadow, the shadow growing up to be darkness. When its mother died, the darkness would strike out in grief and everything would end, forever.
Sulu shuddered and wondered about Dr. Kettaract as he looked again at the spreading dead zone, about the mind that had accidentally given life to such darkness.
Scotty worked as fast as he could, somehow finding a way to link a Federation energy converter and subspace transceiver to the base of the cloaking device. Mr. Spock was manipulating the last of the tiny filaments that were webbed through the globe of the Romulan machine, regularly consulting a propped up tricorder to montior its patterning sequence.
Scott understood the theory behind Mr. Spock's plan, and knew a lot about coaxing ordinarily incompatible technologies into working together. But he wouldn't have known enough to do this on his own. He'd hardly understood the cloaking device when he'd first hooked it up to the Enterprise, and was privately astounded at the time that it had worked at all. But this ... They were turning the cloaking device into a lightning rod, one that would attract free gravitons through subspace, essentially compressing them into a force field shell against the expanding Omega field. The trapped kinetic energy was supposed to amplify the cloak's effect, creating enough feedback to force a subspace implosion. If the device lasted that long.
Scott finished his end only a minute after Mr. Spock resealed the top of the device. Scott flipped a switch, and indicator lights on the transceiver glowed green.
"Scott to bridge. It's finished, captain. Mr. Spock says it should work, but if it doesn't..."
"There's no choice, Mr. Scott," the captain said, the stress clear in his voice. "Get it ready to transport immediately, and tell Spock to report to the bridge."
"Aye, sir," Scott said, knowing from the sound of it that it had gotten bad out there while they'd been working. He only hoped that it wasn't about to get much worse; if the graviton lightning rod didn't work, there'd be none of them left to worry about it.
Kirk had Sulu drop out of warp, far enough from the pursuing energy field to allow them a twenty second countdown. After the seemingly endless and agonizing moments spent watching the swelling destruction, waiting helplessly, Kirk could still only wait and watch. With the lives of his crew now on the line, the seconds felt too short, his thoughts too fast.
"Nineteen... eighteen ..." Spock began, and with the strangely rippling space suddenly tearing toward them, Kirk abruptly remembered his first officer's last countdown only days before--twenty seconds before Sulu had jumped into warp.
To save the Sphinx. The cleanup of a different kind of disaster, less consequential than minimizing the effects of this current force of destruction, maybe, but no less appalling. All those people's lives, and for nothing greater than the barely cloaked cause of aggressive patriotism, fear and greed dressed up as loyalty.
"Thirteen..."
The lights of the bridge dimmed significantly as Scotty diverted power from all over the ship to work the transporter, the incredible draw taking its toll. The cloak was already on, but until it began siphoning power from the field, turning the energy against itself, its effectiveness wouldn't be known. If it didn't work, there wouldn't be time to register failure.
"Nine..."
The field had grown immense, its curves and far reaching tangents already engulfing two worlds with hundreds of Federation citizens. They were watching the formation of a scar that would last forever.
Come on' Four ... three ..."
"Energizing." Scotty.
Two .. . one .. .
"Warp speed, Mr. Sulu!" Kirk ordered.
Sulu's hands moved--and suddenly the ship lurched, battered and tossed as the field overtook them. The force knocked Chekov out of his seat, sent Kirk slamming into the railing near Spock's station. On the other side of the bridge, stations sparked and blew out as the hull groaned against the strain. Spock fought to keep his eyes focused on his viewer Too late. We were too late Then suddenly, all was calm. The AG and inertia! dampeners reasserted stability. Chekov picked himself up, apparently unharmed, and the bridge crew as one began checking the ship's systems. Uhura's voice called for damage and casualty reports throughout the ship.
Spock announced the result calmly. "The energy field has imploded."
Chekov and Sulu both let out held breath, and he could hear some of Scotty's people cheering over the intercom. Uhura reported mostly minor injuries and no fatalities, with minimal damage to the ship. The Enterprise had weathered the storm well. Kirk tried to focus on that, and the fact that his crew had survived. They were safe.
And dead in the water.
"The cloaking device did not achieve our purpose as quickly as I'd hoped," Spock offered. "We were overtaken by the field before it could be contained."
Kirk nodded grimly, resigned to years, perhaps decades of sublight travel until they cleared the dead zone. "How long until we can use warp drive again?"
Spock frowned, considering. "Assuming Mr. Scott cannot increase the efficiency of the impulse engines, we will be unable to clear the dead zone for at least nine days."
Kirk felt his eyes widen, fighting and failing to control the grin spreading across his face. "Nine days," he repeated.
Spock nodded as he looked at Kirk, his eyes almost smiling back.
Kirk shook his head and laughed, then turned and settled into his chair, his smile fading as the strain caught up with him, grimly knowing that Bendes Kettaract and Jain Suni would always be remembered for their work, just as they'd wanted.
"Mr. Chekov," he said, "kindly set a course for Deep Space Station M-20. Mr. Sulu .. . best speed."
Chapter Nineteen
Christine knew that something was definitely wrong and four days into the journey out of the Lantaru sector, she was starting to fear that it might be serious.
The doctor hadn't been himself lately, even before he'd lost his friend on that station--that early morning she'd walked in on him, for example, when he'd seemed so evasive. He'd definitely withdrawn further into himself in the days since the Omega affair, though, and while she could understand the pain of losing someone, she thought it went deeper than that. It was as though he was going through the motions of his life, doing the same things he always did but without actually doing them. She'd known him too long not to notice his unhappiness, and though she'd always felt that it was rude not to respect other people's privacy, enough was enough.
Since she wasn't
a manipulative person by nature, she gave the approach careful thought, well aware that the doctor rarely gave anything up without a fight. With the crew physicals finally finished and correlated, only the final report left to be turned in, they had a fair amount of unoccupied time; still, she waited until they were both about to go off shift before approaching him. It would keep him from feeling trapped, she hoped, providing him with a fast escape. And when she finally spoke up, she did so with her hands on her hips, ready to drag it out of him with what tools she had.
"Dr. McCoy, you've hurt my feelings," she said sternly, and was glad to see a look of genuine surprise on his face, very different from the slightly dazed look he'd been wearing lately. It was a start.
"I'm--sorry," he fumbled. He obviously had no idea what he was apologizing for, but for as grouchy as he could get sometimes, he was also a gentleman at heart.
"I thought we were friends," she said, hoping she sounded properly wounded.
The doctor blinked. "Ah, I thought so, too."
"And here you've been walking around for days with your chin practically on the ground, and you don't think enough of me to tell me what's wrong," she said.
He finally got it, and the scowl that crossed his face was as real as his surprise had been. She was glad to see that, too.
"Nurse, I don't believe that you're entitled to know about my personal affairs," he said acidly. "That's why they're called personal." "
"You don't trust me," she accused, crossing her arms tightly. "After all this time, all we've been through together, you still don't trust me."
She had him. He had the same look he'd worn when he'd forgotten her birthday two years before.
"Now, don't be like that."
"Then tell me," she said, finally letting her real concern show through. "Tell me what's wrong, so I can help."
He stared down at the floor. "There's nothing you can do."
"Let me try."
He looked up at her, and after a moment, he nodded. "Let's sit down."
He told her everything. The diagnosis and the prognosis. Remembering his friend Dr. Patterson, and asking Chekov to find her, and then what happened on the station. Christine felt tears welling up early on but managed to hold them back, knowing that if she cried he'd be sorry he told her.
When he was finished, she reached out and took his hand, holding it firmly in hers. "You have to tell the captain," she said. "And not because he needs to know, but because he's your friend."
He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought I might wait..."
Christine squeezed his hand. "I do know. You need the support of your friends right now, more than anything."
He didn't look convinced but she knew how important it was, knew that she had to push. "Doctor, promise me you'll tell him."
"Of course I'll tell him," he grumbled. "I don't exactly have a choice." "Soon," she said. "Promise me you'll do it soon. You could tell him when you turn in the physical report."
He sighed, and his sincere sarcasm was back, too. "Fine. Now, if you're finished telling me what to do, would it be all right with you if I left?"
Christine nodded, afraid to speak, knowing her voice would break. He stood up from the chair he'd pushed next to the desk, and watching him put his cantankerous face back on like a mask, she managed a smile for him.
Dr. McCoy didn't say anything, either, but before he left he rested his hand on her shoulder for just a few seconds, and she knew that he was thanking her as well as he could.
She waited until he was gone, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
McCoy went to his quarters. He carefully poked around the edges of how he was feeling for a little while, not quite sure what he was going to find ... but when he realized he wasn't going to have some sort of melodramatic breakdown, he cut straight to the point.
Karen Patterson was dead, and he was probably going to die soon, and that was a hard truth, but he wasn't going to run from it. He didn't think he was quite ready to embrace it, but maybe that was something a person worked up to, gradually. There were people he didn't want to leave, who he knew would think of him and miss him, and that was more than a lot of people had.
There. Dr. McCoy suddenly realized that he was hungry, damned near famished, in fact, and decided he'd go get himself something to eat. No point in starving himself to death.
Spock was unable to find his focus.
Usually, he would perceive his lack of concentration as a reason to pursue a deeper meditation, but there were times he recognized as more difficult than others. He opened his eyes and stood, walking to his desk where he sat again, temp ling his fingers.
It was the thought of his last discussion with the captain that had intruded on his meditation, for what he'd told Spock and what he'd avoided speaking about. Both disturbed him.
First, the captain's report to Starfleet, the report extensive but the gist of it simple. The Omega molecule was too dangerous to be studied. The destructive, long-term consequences for a spacefaring civilization were too great. Two Lantaru-sector colonies had essentially been cut off from the Federation by the damage to subspace, now years away from any kind of contact with anyone, and for that they'd been most fortunate, considering what might have happened. The captain had then recommended that Starfleet Command strongly consider banning any and all future Omega research.
Spock understood the captain's reasoning, and could not disagree with it--as he'd told the Romulan commander himself, the sanctity of life was preeminent in his tenets. But he could not support it, either, and thus an intellectual conflict he'd long struggled with had further defined itself--between his sworn duty, to serve and protect the Federation, and his personal ideology, to faithfully seek knowledge in all its forms. How could he comfortably accommodate both, in consideration of what the Omega molecule had brought to light?
He considered the Romulan commander's understanding of his commitment to duty, reflecting on her perceptions of him when they had been joined. She'd found the disharmony over the theft of the cloaking device, and it had given her relief to know that he struggled still, duty or integrity. Her perception was that without a struggle, without some depth of internal strife, neither held meaning; that to be whole, one had to continually challenge the decisions one made. It was an interesting viewpoint, and he had not yet rejected it.
Ex Astris Scientia. From the stars, knowledge. It was the Starfleet motto, emblazoning the very flag of the Academy, and it had always appealed to him in its simplicity and truth, for the concept it represented. A concept that could very well be betrayed by the Starfleet mechanism--because although he was certain their decision would not be made lightly, Spock thought it highly probable that a prohibition would be issued against Omega research. If they chose to implement the captain's suggestion ... how could Spock continue to serve without question? If he couldn't have faith that the Federation's most basic article would not be violated, how would his commitments change?
The conflict wasn't new. The Omega impasse simply epitomized it by its extremity, but Spock did not see a logical means to work through it, unless it was by choosing the lesser of two evils. Unfortunately, he didn't know which it was.
What the captain had not discussed--logical conclusions from evidence that had presented itself throughout the SpfaVir/Kettaract situation--indicated only that he was not yet prepared to broach the subject. It was quite clear that Jim was wrestling with a loss of certitude in the things he held dear, and although there was the possibility for most in those circumstances, that evidence would be ignored in favor of tranquility, Spock knew that he would not falter. The captain's consistency of character required that he would always choose truth over peace of mind.
Spock himself recognized that everything changed, and that some incidental results were inevitable.
Chapter Twenty
The captain sat in his chair gazing at the main screen, his thoughts far away.
He thought about all that had happened in recent days, about
the decisions that were sometimes made, when someone couldn't accept that what they had was enough. He thought about the implications of a few things Jain had said, and about the message his old friend had tried to get to him. He could feel himself fighting against the conclusion that he was slowly coming to, that perhaps the two were connected, fighting it as much by reflex as by choice. He knew he would lose.
He watched the freezing dark slip by, knowing that things were different for him now, that there'd been a fundamental shift in how he perceived things, and that he could never go back. He was deeply immersed in an unsettling scrutiny of himself and what he was trying to protect, so much so that he didn't notice either his first officer or the ship's doctor when they stopped by to see him, both of them troubled with reflections all their own. Each man lingered next to him for a moment or two before slipping away, leaving him be.
The soft, lulling sounds of the bridge soothed his tired mind a little, but not quite enough to let him rest easy.
Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER.
When Kirk finally arrived at the tavern, they were all there, waiting. Five men in civilian clothes, inhabitant's clothes, just like his, sitting at a scuffed wooden table in the back room. The tavern he'd chosen was nowhere special, a town that no one had ever heard of on a planet no one ever visited. It was exactly the right place to have a meeting that didn't exist, a meeting that had taken weeks to bring about.
Kirk sat down, smiling, glad to see them all regardless of the circumstances. "Gentlemen. Have introductions been made?"
Phil Waterston, captain of the U.S.S. Constitution, shook his head. "I don't know about everyone else, but I just got here."
