Crisis On Centaurus

by Brad Ferguson

Kirk paused. "The defense minister is here, too. Will this decision involve him?" Perez's ears picked up at the mention of his title.

  "Yes, Captain, it will."

  "Hold on." Kirk turned to Erikkson. "Mr. President, is it possible for you to put this call on a speaker? Mr. Spock tells me he has something to say to all of us regarding the defense system."

  "I think there's a button here somewhere," Erikkson said. He pushed it, and there was a howl of feedback. "I think you have to disconnect the handset," Perez said helpfully. The president did so, and the howling ceased.

  "Gentlemen, are you still there?" came Spock's voice from a speaker in the ceiling.

  "We're here, Spock," Kirk answered. "Go ahead."

  "Very well, Mr. President, Mr. Minister, Captain … it would take several hours for me to justify it to you in terms of diagrams and logical approaches, but I believe there is but one way to stop the attacks by the defense system on ships approaching this planet. I feel I need your approval before I begin."

  "What do you want to do, Mr. Spock?" Erikkson asked. "I think we'll all take your word for it that, whatever it is, it's necessary."

  Spock paused. "Very well."

  The Vulcan briefly described what he wanted to do. First Perez, and then Erikkson, objected loudly—and, Spock felt, without much logic. But Captain Kirk defended Spock, and after more than an hour and a half of argument and appeals to reason, Erikkson and Perez acquiesced. They, at last, saw the necessity for what Spock was planning. It was radical, and it had never been tried before. It was the stuff of nightmares—but Erikkson gave the order.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  The Defense Center

  SPOCK STUDIED THE output indicator of the portapack connected to the command center's standby generator. Thirty-eight point six percent left, he thought. It will have to do.

  "Mr. Chekov?" the Vulcan called. "I will require your assistance. Come here, please."

  "Yes, Mr. Spock?"

  "I understand you have some facility with the portapack?"

  "Vell, yes, sir. Ve used to use them in remote areas on the collective farm, back vhen I vas a ciwilian."

  "Very well. Please watch this one and keep it working. Its continued functioning will be critical."

  "I can believe that, Mr. Spock. I vill vatch it most closely."

  "Miss Iziharry, please assist Mr. Chekov … thank you. Now, gentlemen," Spock said, addressing Rawlings and Hudson, "you will have to follow my lead in every particular. Much depends on your skill today. At the least sign of something going wrong, call out sharply and I will abort. I cannot emphasize this too strongly. The safety of many people on this planet rests on it."

  The two computer technicians nodded their understanding.

  Spock checked the time. "All right. By now, the captain should have notified Lieutenant Uhura of our intentions; the Enterprise should be ready. Fortunately, the captain is in a much better position to communicate with the ship than we are. We approach zero hour. Beginning the count, Mr. Rawlings—now."

  Rawlings hit the ENTER button, and a series of codes—all previously typed in laboriously by Spock—disappeared off his NUMBER TWO console screen. New numbers and codes began to appear on the screen at the WATCH COMMANDER station. Rawlings swallowed nervously. What they were about to do had, indeed, never been done before, not even on Earth … thank the stars.

  "Countdown to missile launch, sixty seconds," Rawlings reported. "All nominal."

  Hudson merely said, "Confirmed. Fifty-five seconds."

  Chekov watched with Connie Iziharry. Spock stood behind the chair at the WATCH COMMANDERstation, his gloved hands clasped calmly behind him. Is this vhat it vould have been like, if Earth had committed suicide vith these veapons long ago? the Russian wondered. So calm, so surgical? Or vould there have been tears, or shouts of anger, or cries of joy, or anything?

  Chekov could not see it, but Spock was swallowing nervously. It was something that Spock did sometimes; the Vulcan was never aware of it and so did nothing to control it. The only one who had ever noticed it was Kirk, and he had never said anything to Spock about it.

  "Thirty seconds, Mr. Spock," Rawlings reported. "Everything's go."

  "Power reading, Mr. Chekov?" Spock called out.

  "Thirty-four point zero, falling slowly."

  "Mr. Hudson, recheck the launch communications lines for clarity of signal, please."

  "All's well, Mr. Spock. Response one hundred percent. All birds check out, all systems go. We're ready, sir."

  "Fifteen seconds, sir," Rawlings said. "Telemetry checks out."

  "Power reading now thirty-two point nine," Chekov said.

  "Ten seconds, Mr. Spock."

  Spock of Vulcan, thoughtful being of peace and culture, was about to order the launch of a full-scale nuclear strike.

  Rawlings was watching the clock. "Five … four … three … two … one … mark!"

  "Fire all missiles," Spock said quietly.

  Rawlings and Hudson input one last series of prepared commands.

  "Ignition across the board, Mr. Spock!" Hudson called out seconds later. "Missiles heading up!"

  Chekov noticed a severe drain on the portapack. Tventy-six point four and falling more rapidly now, he told himself. I do not think this is the time to bother Mr. Spock, oh, no.

  "There they go," said Uhura on the bridge of the Enterprise.

  The main viewscreen showed an entire hemisphere of Centaurus. All over the globe, tiny pinpoints of light appeared … and began to move.

  "I get seven eighty-four in this hemisphere, five sixty-eight in the other, Lieutenant," Pete Siderakis called from the helmsman's station. "Jeez, look at all that tax money going up in smoke." It was a cemetery watchman's joke, the kind told nervously in the dead of night when one is filled with fear and surrounded by unknowns. No one laughed.

  Thirteen hundred and fifty-two missiles, total, Uhura thought. It checks: Spock got them all off. God, did they really need all those missiles?

  The pinpoints of light kept climbing. Dossie Flores, still at the navigator's station, kept an eye on her readouts. "All missiles still heading up, and none coming this way. Phasers standing by, ma'am."

  Uhura smiled. "Okay, Deadeye." The new nickname for Flores had stuck immediately, bestowed by an appreciative crew after her quick and flawless interception of the incoming missile a few hours before.

  "Missiles approaching atmospheric limit, Lieutenant. All on track."

  Now comes the tricky part, thought Uhura. Will they keep on going … or will they re-enter?

  As he'd told Kirk and the others in McIverton, Spock had seen but one solution to the problem of the defense system. Since it was intent on attacking everything in sight and could not be dissuaded from doing so, Spock probed to find something the computers could be persuaded to do.

  They could be persuaded to attack the planet's star, Alpha Centauri. It was a target in space; all Spock had had to do was redefine the outer limit of the Centaurian "neighborhood," and tell the computers that one of the local suns had become a military threat. It was insane … but so were the computers. They only knew what Spock told them, and Spock had told them nonsense. The computers, being computers, believed every word.

  If everything worked, the missiles would head directly for the sun—and, after several weeks in flight, would coast into its photosphere and be destroyed. They would in all probability never get the chance to detonate—but even if they did, their combined megatonnage would be the barest fraction of Alpha's output in any given microsecond. Alpha Centauri would chew on the terror of an entire world, grind it up, and swallow it whole.

  Or so Spock hoped.

  "Sixty percent of the missiles have reached escape velocity, Lieutenant," Siderakis reported. "We can forget those. Still nothing headed this way."

  "Good. Deadeye, keep an eye on the rest of them."

  "Aye, aye, ma'am."

  Chekov was hunched over the portapack. He was beginning to worry. The supply
was down to less than eighteen percent of capacity; the defense system was making heavy power demands for telemetry and course guidance requirements. Without that data, those missiles which had not yet achieved escape velocity would fall back to Centaurus. Damn! thought Chekov. Vhy does the system not use its own independent supply? It vas doing vell enough vithout a portapack vhen it vas shooting at us! Then the ensign realized that the demands on the system at that time were much, much less than they were now. The system's own backups must have been exhausted early in the mass launch … which also accounted for the accelerated drain of the portapack supply.

  "Mr. Spock?" Chekov called out. "Power supply down to fifteen percent and falling more quickly."

  Spock turned. "Do what you can, Ensign."

  Chekov looked up at Connie and shrugged; she laid a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. Do your best, Pavel, she seemed to be saying. Chekov thought back to the days on the collective, when the days grew longer and the exhaustion of a portapack threatened to ruin an entire day's work. There was a trick. It always ruined the portapack, but the canny Russian farmers knew the government would be good for another one.

  "Connie," Chekov asked, "could you dig into your medikit and perhaps find for me a conductive metal object about so long?" He held his hands apart about twenty centimeters. Iziharry paused in thought, and then selected a stainless steel surgical probe. "Will this do, Pavel?"

  "Fine, fine! Stand back, now, and I vill show you one of the original Russian inwentions."

  Chekov looked at the power reserve dial. Six point one! he thought frantically. Carefully, he laid the probe across a positive and a negative contact atop the portapack. There was a bright spark, at which Spock spun around. "Ensign? What's happening?"

  "Emergency recharge, Mr. Spock." It had worked! In shorting the portapack terminals, Chekov had forced it to yield up everything it had, including the seed current it kept for recharging. The pack could never be recharged now—but it was delivering more than nineteen percent of capacity. Impulsively Chekov rose and hugged Connie; even through a pressure suit or two, she felt very good.

  And she hugged back.

  Chekov touched helmets with her to transmit sound; he did not want what he had to say broadcast over the intersuit communicators. "Connie? Forgive me for saying it … but I wery much vish ve vere alone now."

  She looked up at him. "Pavel … oh, God, so do I. Soon."

  Chekov grinned broadly. "Think I love you, Connie. Do you mind this thing?"

  "Not if you don't, you crazy Russian." She squeezed him harder.

  "Mama said vatch out for girls like you. I did, and finally found vone." He grinned even more widely. "Back to vatching output meter now."

  Siderakis stretched. "Lieutenant Uhura, boss, I have the distinct pleasure of telling you that all missiles have reached escape velocity, and all are on course for Alpha Centauri, to arrive there eventually. You can tell Deadeye over there to relax now."

  Uhura laughed. "Mr. Spock does it again."

  "His legend grows by th' hour," agreed MacPherson from his engineering station. "I ken Spock's approach ta things. He's direct. Th' missiles bother ya, then get rid o' th' bloody things. No foolin' around wi' thot one. I don' know anyone thot coulda done better. 'Cept perhaps Deadeye over there, o' course. But wee Deadeye's a legend in her own right."

  "'Wee,' is it?" fumed Flores. "Keep to 'Deadeye,' you hunk; I kinda like it."

  "Ah, lass, but 'Wee Deadeye' it'll be. You'll see."

  Rawlings and Hudson leaned back in their chairs. "All missiles away, out of the atmosphere, heading at better than escape velocity toward Alpha Centauri," Rawlings said. He sighed. "Man, I never want to do that again. It's like every old apocalypse movie I ever saw." Hudson, for his part, had nothing to say.

  "Thank you both for your efforts," Spock said. "Mr. Chekov, you can shut down the portapack and strap it for carrying."

  "Oh, that von't be necessary, Mr. Spock," the ensign replied. "I had to wreck the portapack to increase the yield. It is finished, sir. Junk."

  "Then I suppose you might leave it behind here, Ensign, if you're in the mood to do so."

  "Yes, sir."

  Spock allowed them all to relax for a few minutes while he picked up the command phone and called the president's conference room in McIverton to report to Kirk, Erikkson and Perez. It was a short conversation, during which Erikkson shakily congratulated the Vulcan on a job well done.

  Then Kirk got on the line. "Mr. Spock, well done."

  "Thank you, Captain," Spock said politely. "We are now about to commence the second part of our mission here."

  "Very good. I understand there are survivors in the northern part of the city, where the effects of the spaceport blast were less severe. You might try there first."

  "An excellent idea, Captain. I will, of course, report to you at the earliest opportunity."

  "Thank you again, Spock. Kirk out."

  Chapter Sixteen:

  McIverton

  IT WAS ABOUT a half hour after second sunset, and nightlife in McIverton—such as it was—was in full swing. There was a thin crowd of couples in the streets, and a bright glow from restaurants and advertising signs washed against the sky. What ground traffic there was—mostly motorcycles and a few automobiles—found it slow going on the streets, and horns were appropriately honked.

  Kirk watched the scene from his hotel window, all of three stories up; he had never in his life seen a traffic jam. He was fascinated by the chaos. Noisy out there, he thought.

  Kirk and Sulu had been assigned separate but adjoining rooms in McIverton's one luxury hotel, the Hilton Inn West. It wasn't all that luxurious, either, but it was comfortable. There was a nice, big bed, which Kirk had already tried out for ten minutes or so of deep meditation—the kind accompanied by loud snores. The covers were still slightly mussed.

  Kirk had checked in with Uhura earlier, over Erikkson's shortwave transceiver. He'd felt vaguely apprehensive about not spending the night aboard the Enterprise, but Uhura had assured him that all was well, and that Spock and his party had decided to camp for the night in a wooded area some distance outside the New Athens radiation zone. She'd finished her report by telling Kirk to get some sleep. "Yes, Captain," he'd said, and cleared. Actually, he liked the idea of staying in McIverton overnight; it was a long flight back up to the Enterprise, the break in his routine was welcome, and he had the time, for once.

  Everything that could be done had been done. Uhura had sent a subspace signal to Starbase 7, with the welcome news that the code 710 had been lifted and that Centaurus was once again approachable. Seven would relay that word throughout the Federation. Kirk knew that ships from all over the UFP would be coming now, loaded to the overheads with the people and supplies needed to help the victims of the New Athens bombing.

  Kirk rubbed the back of his neck as he wandered into the bathroom. He felt a bit ill from the cumulative effects of tiredness and sustained effort. He opened the medicine chest, hoping to find something appropriate for the weary traveler. All he found were complimentary razor blades (Kirk used a depilatory every week, so the blades were useless to him and, besides, there was no razor to put them in), a small roll of dental floss, a couple of bars of wrapped soap, a tube of shampoo, and a toothbrush (but no toothpaste). Kirk sighed, and settled for a splash or two of cold water on his face. Perhaps there's a drugstore or something in the lobby—oh, hell! I don't have any money on me. Well, I didn't know I'd be here so long. Maybe Sulu brought some cash.

  Kirk left his room and went next door to Sulu's. He knocked; no answer. Damn, he thought. He went back to his own room and spotted the telephone. Kirk's experience of hotels was so close to zero as not to matter, but he knew you could ask any old question of the person at the front desk, and you might even get an answer. He'd seen it in dramas.

  PUNCH "90" FOR FRONT DESK, a sign said. He did, and the phone's small screen lit with the face of a young blonde woman. Cute, Kirk told himself. "Front desk.
May I help you?"

  "Hello, Miss. This is Captain Kirk in room, uh, three forty-one, I think." The woman smiled. "I was wondering if it would be possible to get something for a headache … ?" Kirk felt ridiculous. It was much easier talking to Bones McCoy about such things.

  "Of course, Captain," the young woman said brightly. "I'll have room service send something up right away."

  Kirk mentally kicked himself. Room service! Damn, I'd forgotten about that. Starfleet doesn't have room service; how the hell am I supposed to know? Jim, you'd make a lousy civilian.

  The woman paused. "Anything else you need, Captain, just ask for Madeleine. That's me." She smiled again.

  Kirk smiled back. Well, why not? he thought. "Have you had dinner yet, Madeleine?" he said in a certain tone. It's been a bad and busy time, Madeleine, and all I'm looking for is some pleasant company.

  Madeleine smiled even more. "I'll have room service send that up, too. For one. Good night, Captain." Kirk looked at the blanked screen. I must be losing my touch, he thought. Then he shrugged it off.

  There were a few magazines on a reading rack in the bathroom, and Kirk thumbed through them: dog-eared copies of National Cosmographic, Newsweek, McIverton Today!, and Analog. The latest of them was eight months old. He sat on the bed and read the Analog until there was a knock at the door. "Room service," came a voice.

  "Coming." Kirk tossed the magazine onto the bed and walked to the door. He opened it. There was a small, balding man standing there, tray in hand.

  Kirk recognized him. "I will be dipped," he said flatly.

  "Hello, Jim," said Sam Cogley. "It's been a while.

  May I come in?"

  Samuel T. Cogley was one of the great ones: A lawyer with both dramatic style and an instinctual sense of the law. He had argued cases before virtually every major Federation court, and won most of them.

  He was also the first human lawyer ever to plead a case before a Klingonese court. A Federation citizen had been accused of smuggling, and there was no way anyone could get a verdict of "not guilty" from a Klingon jury—but Cogley had tried, and had managed to get the man's sentence reduced to expulsion from the Empire. The Klingons had even let the smuggler keep his hands.