McCoy guffawed. “Well if it’s any consolation, David, Jim Kirk would never have asked for directions. Go left out the door to the first corridor. Turn right. There’s a turbolift at the end. The bridge is on level one.”
“Thanks,” he replied, a bit sheepish. His mother stifled a giggle. David nodded and, again, marched out of sickbay.
He reached the turbolift without incident, but found the door wouldn’t open for him. He thumbed the button repeatedly but received no response or satisfaction. “Damn, what’s wrong with this thing?” he said aloud.
“All the lifts are out below C deck,” a voice said behind him.
David turned to see a group of equipment-laden engineers, clad in thick, white radiation suits, scamper past. “So, how do I get to the bridge?”
One of the young engineers called over his shoulder, “You’ll have to climb. Take the emergency access tube up four levels to C deck. You can take the turbolift from there.”
David nodded his thanks, but the group was already around a corner and out of sight. He looked around him and quickly spotted the red emergency hatch, flush to the bulkhead to the left of the turbolift door. It opened with a quick jerk of the release handle.
Air hissed into the tube as the seal was broken, then sighed back at him with a stale breath. He climbed through the hatch and reached for the ladder mounted to the tube’s opposite wall. A large number 7 was painted on the tube wall to the right of the ladder. David glanced down and was instantly awash with vertigo. He flattened his body against the ladder and clutched the rungs with frantic strength. The dark tube stretched the depth of the saucer section, both upward and downward, broken only by light bars spaced every two meters or so. The bars disappeared into the vast distance below him. He swallowed and drew a long, raspy breath.
David screwed his eyes shut and fought down the nausea. An unbidden image of Kirk sliding down the ladder with graceful, insolent ease swam into his thoughts. He opened his eyes and gritted his teeth, now determined, then slowly ascended the ladder, one rung at a time. Bile teased his throat, but if he didn’t look down, he would be okay.
The tube was stuffy, dry, with the dusty odor of neglect. Sweat beaded on his forehead and in the creases of his palms. One rung at a time.
The number 6 was painted in a huge block letter next to the ladder. He had started on level seven. Okay, what the hell was this—a deck or a level? Why couldn’t these warmongers be consistent? He needed to get to C deck. He counted backward from level one, which must be A deck, to C deck. That would be level three then.
He squinted his eyes and looked upward, focusing on the bulkhead above him and next to the ladder. A pearl of sweat dribbled into his right eye, stinging it and momentarily blurring his sight. He tightened his grip with one hand and rubbed his right eye with the other. He could make out the elongated appearance of another number. It had to be five. Okay, he had an idea how far it was between decks. It wasn’t that far to go.
Slowly, he pulled himself up the long ladder.
Level five. A careless grip—he slid down to his arms full length with a grunt of pain and panic. He clutched the rungs with sweatsoaked and aching hands, his heart hammering to escape.
Level four. Each breath and footfall echoed up and down through the narrow tube, whispering, it seemed, “Kirk. Kirk. Kirk.”
Finally—level three. C deck. Trembling from exertion and anxiety, David awkwardly turned to the hatch behind him, grasped the quick release, and pulled. Cool, rich air swept in, caressing his face, then drew itself back out into the crimson-lit corridor of C deck. David pivoted on the rung and arched his leg out the hatch and into the corridor, then pushed off the ladder. He secured the hatch, then leaned against it for several moments, fighting to catch his breath.
The turbolift was, indeed, operating at this level. The ride was jerky, but short, and when the turbolift arrived at the topmost point of the Enterprise, it opened to the bridge. He recoiled from the pungent odor of sweat, burnt materials, and ozone. The lighting was a deep red. Red like blood. Like the blood of his dead friends. And there, sitting in the center of the bridge, his back to him, was the man responsible for their deaths. David Marcus felt his chest tighten.
He stepped onto the bridge, and surveyed the circular command area. He recognized that Vulcan woman—what was her name? Lieutenant … Saavik? That was it, Saavik—sitting at a station in the sunken center area of the bridge. An Asian man sat to her left. Both were focused on the flashing screens and dials in front of them.
Most of the workstations were positioned around the raised circumference of the bridge and most of these were manned by men and women who looked younger than he was. Cadets. This was a training ship, he remembered. He studied their angled profiles and could see the fear there, barely controlled and desperately hidden, but fear nonetheless. Every so often, one of the cadets would glance at the man in the center seat.
Kirk sat there, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the arm panels, his hands clasped in front of him, as relaxed as if he were watching a vid. What arrogance. David balled his fists and planted them on his hips, trying to match Kirk’s insolence with his own.
“One minute to nebula perimeter,” said a cool voice at his right. David glanced at the voice and recognized another Vulcan, Mr. Spock, sitting at a monitor-laden workstation.
David knew something of Spock. Also a scientist, Spock’s name and field research had made its way into a number of textbooks and journals. He was a respected man in many disciplines, including David’s own molecular physics. In fact, David had sat through one of Spock’s guest lectures at the Daystrom Institute some years ago, and been impressed with Spock’s grasp of molecular mechanics and the Vulcan’s open respect for those who sought to learn from him.
Spock glanced toward Kirk. “They are reducing speed,” he said. Kirk sat back. “Uhura, patch me in.”
“Aye, sir,” said a voice that exuded both confidence and melody. Not one of the children, then, David thought. And she wasn’t. Uhura was an exotic woman, perhaps the most exotic he had ever seen. Her dark skin was smooth, fresh. Her hair was ebony and coiffured with an African elegance. David could see only a portion of her face, but enough to relish her subtly painted eyes and full lips. And that voice … “You’re on, Admiral.”
David turned his attention back to Kirk.
“This is Admiral Kirk. We tried it once your way, Khan. Are you game for a rematch?”
What the hell was he doing? Was he goading that madman? Why doesn’t he just get out of here?
“Khan,” Kirk said, his tone a mocking challenge. “I’m laughing at the superior intellect.”
David felt chilled. He glanced back at Uhura. A cadet was looking at her as well, his face drawn with apprehension. She smiled at the cadet with reassurance and whispered something David couldn’t hear. But when she nodded in Kirk’s direction, the cadet’s face visibly relaxed.
On the forward viewscreen, the image of the captured U.S.S. Reliant suddenly sped toward them. David knew the Reliant. It was the ship Khan had commandeered, then used to gain access to the Regula I space station, steal the Genesis Device, and murder his friends.
“I’ll say this for him,” Kirk said evenly. “He’s consistent.” Kirk was leaning forward in his seat again, appearing no more aroused than if he were waiting for a meal. How could anyone be so cool under such conditions? Just look at the frightened cadets.
David rested his hands on the rail that separated the upper and lower levels of the bridge and leaned forward, looking over Kirk’s shoulder to the forward viewscreen. The view now showed a swirling of chaotic colors, flashes, and densities. It was a maelstrom and they were headed right for it. A plug of apprehension knotted his gut.
“We are now entering the Mutara Nebula,” Spock said.
The ship lurched, as if it had flown into a thick gel. David fell forward, his grip on the rail the only thing keeping him from tumbling over it. Saavik fell onto her console and to David’s
right, a cadet lost his footing and crashed to the deck. Kirk didn’t even flinch.
The lights flickered and went out. The only illumination came from the display and controls and the static chaos on the viewscreen.
“Emergency lights,” Kirk said, and a second later the control room was bathed in cool light again. It did little to relieve David’s mounting fear. He clasped his arms together over his chest and sought to ignore the dryness in his mouth.
Tension thickened the air. Time drew itself into endless moments. It was a game of cat and mouse, now. Fox and hound. Neither Kirk nor Khan could know where the other was in the mixture of gases and electrical discharges that made up the nebula. They hunted each other, each bent on vanquishing the other.
David silently smacked his lips, hoping to draw moisture. He ran his chalky tongue over the roof of his mouth. My God, I’ve never felt this way. Despite the stuffiness of the air around him, David felt the skin of his arms rise. He rubbed the goose bumps until they disappeared, glancing around and hoping no one saw his anxiety.
How long would they grope through the immense cloud, hunting each other this way?
Suddenly, a rapid series of tones permeated the air. David’s heart pounded.
“Target, sir,” some cadet said.
The Asian man next to Saavik looked over his shoulder at Kirk and said, “Phaser lock inoperative, sir.”
“Best guess, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said evenly, almost casually. So casually David felt his tension ease. “Fire when ready.”
Sulu studied the forward viewscreen with the intensity of a surgeon. David could see nothing but static, occasional bursts of broken color, and shadows. The seconds ticked by and David’s apprehension grew. He looked at Kirk, as the cadets occasionally did, and felt subtle reassurance, even though the man did nothing but sit there. In command.
Movement on the viewscreen drew his attention back to it and David saw the hint of a shape amid the static. A shadow, nothing more. But he sensed what Sulu obviously knew. It was Reliant.
Sulu’s fingers danced over his console and a series of energy spears shot out from the Enterprise toward the Reliant, grazing the other vessel. A thrill passed through David Marcus, an anticipation of victory. A second later, an energy sphere burst from the Reliant and sped toward them, growing and puttering with deadly destructive force.
His breathing stopped as his eyes fixated on the approaching torpedo.
Closer. Closer. His head swam; his muscles went slack. For a brief instant, he thought of his mother and wished she were there, next to him.
The torpedo passed beneath them, low and away. It had been an unaimed shot in the dark and it had missed. David let out his breath in a ragged expulsion, and nearly giggled in relief. A smile warmed his face and he looked at Kirk again. The man had not even moved his arm from the arm panel. He sat there, totally in control.
“Hold your course,” Kirk said.
And it began again.
Circling.
Searching.
The tension was palpable. Out there was the man who had killed his friends. Murdered them, and would have murdered him as well. And his mother. Except he and his mother had fled the station with the Genesis Device to protect it from—
Oh my God.
It finally dawned on him. Khan had Genesis. David had watched the device he helped create disappear in a transporter beam that had pierced the cave where they had taken refuge. Khan had stolen the device. The ramifications of that fact hadn’t registered until just now. Khan was a murderous dictator consumed with vengeance and power-lust. And he had in his possession the single most potent source of power ever created by man—a source of power meant for creation and peace, but so easily perverted into a weapon of horrible, unimaginable destructiveness.
Khan had Genesis.
At that moment, David Marcus understood why Kirk so relentlessly pursued Khan. Why he risked his own life, and the lives of his trainee crew. Kirk wasn’t intent on fighting and beating Khan for sport. It wasn’t a game, a contest at all. Kirk was committed to preventing the rampage of death Khan would surely wreak. No matter what it might cost him.
David felt his throat tighten and his breath catch as he looked at Kirk. This man, whom he had loathed by reputation all these years, whom he had just recently discovered was his father and had begun to hate because of that … This man …
“Phasers starboard!” Kirk suddenly shouted.
David cringed at the godless image on the viewscreen. It was the Reliant. Dead ahead. Shoot. Why don’t we shoot?
Too late!
Spears of light-fire shot from the monster’s ship. The Enterprise bucked as the deadly shards ripped into the unshielded skin of the vessel. David sank to one knee and gripped the rail for support, his own trembling rivaling the ship’s.
“Fire!”
David Marcus heard Kirk command and sensed rather than felt the return fire. It was a brief volley as the ships passed beyond each other’s reduced sensor capabilities. He had no way of knowing whether the shots found their mark. David rested his head on the rail for a few silent moments, gathering his wits from his thundering heart.
And the hunt began again.
David Marcus pushed himself to his feet and tried to appear unrattled. His awareness blurred to the events around him. He was numb. Only hours before he was safe in his lab. Safe from danger and safe from that knowledge his mother had, for all his life, protected him from.
Now he was amid chaos and death and the man he had loathed. He had assumed much and had been wrong and he didn’t quite know when he had come to realize that.
Kirk was conferring with Spock at the science station. Their voices were low, and David couldn’t hear what was being said. But after a moment, Kirk briskly strode back to the center seat.
“Full stop,” Kirk ordered.
Sulu repeated the command and made adjustments to his controls. Kirk ordered some maneuver David didn’t understand. And then one he did.
“Stand by photon torpedoes.”
David watched the viewscreen as intently as everyone else, finding himself hoping he would be the one to first see the Reliant, so that it could be his warning Kirk would hear.
The waiting continued.
The tension never slacked.
There! He saw it. On the screen. Reliant.
He opened his mouth but before he could utter even a syllable of warning, Kirk had seen it, recognized it, formulated his next move, and initiated it in a one-word command.
“Fire.”
A slight shudder as the Enterprise spat a photon torpedo toward the point-blank target. David’s breathing quickened.
“Fire.”
Phaser beams sliced into Khan’s ship as if it were cheese. David’s pulse raced.
“Fire.”
More photon torpedoes. More phaser blasts.
The Reliant fled, limping away askew and crippled, atomic sparks bleeding from a ruptured nacelle. It was a helpless, wounded animal, desperate to escape. It was at his mercy. Would he finish it?
Would he?
No. Even before Kirk issued his next command, David Marcus knew his father would not—could not—do what David had always believed.
“Uhura, send to commander Reliant. Prepare to be boarded.”
David Marcus felt something unexpected inside him—a subtle swelling of pride.
It was over. Khan had been beaten and soon the Genesis Device would be safe. His father had done it.
“Admiral,” Spock said. David glanced at the Vulcan scientist and felt his euphoria wane. “Scanning an energy source on Reliant. A pattern I’ve never seen before.”
Spock displayed the pattern on a dynoscanner and whatever trace of elation David possessed vanished. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It couldn’t be. But he leaned over the console and saw, in icy horror, there was no doubt.
“It’s the Genesis wave,” David said. “They’re on a buildup to detonation.” Suddenly his father was at his side.<
br />
“How soon?”
“We encoded four minutes.”
“We’ll beam aboard and stop it,” Kirk said, and turned to go into action.
The determination in Kirk’s face struck David Marcus like a blow. Without regard for his own personal safety, his father was going to go over to that ship and try to do what no sane man would attempt—deny Armageddon its day.
David’s throat tightened so he could barely speak. He reached for his father and grasped his arm. Not tightly, just firm enough to convey to Kirk the futility of his intent. “You can’t,” David whispered.
Their eyes met for a split second that connected them for the first time. It was the defining moment in David Marcus’s short life.
Kirk hesitated a mere moment, allowing the connection to linger, then returned to action. He leaned past David and keyed the intercom.
“Scotty,” he said, strength emanating through his natural charisma. “I need warp speed in three minutes or we’re all dead.”
“No response, Admiral,” Uhura said.
“Scotty!” Still no answer from the intercom. “Mr. Sulu. Get us out of here. Best possible speed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Moments blurred, as the weight of what was happening pressed in on him. He barely noticed Kirk gallop back to the command chair. He was scarcely aware of Mr. Spock leaving the bridge.
Genesis was about to detonate.
Dear God, what would happen to them? Certainly they’d be killed as the matrix created by the Genesis wave overwrote the old. But there was scarcely enough matter available for the new matrix to stabilize. A dense planetoid was required to enable a successful conception—to birth a new world.
Perhaps the entire Mutara Nebula had enough mass, but scattered as it was, David had no idea if the wispy space could be manipulated into a cohesive body. But then, there was the mass of the two starships and their own frail bodies to form the embryo that Genesis would conceive.
The Enterprise pivoted away from the sputtering Reliant, but there was no way they could put enough distance between them at sublight speed. None.
Kirk bounded back to the science station and stared intently at the dynoscanner, as if personally challenging the Genesis wave. He turned back to the bridge, his face taut with determination. David could see in that face what, perhaps, the others could not—a hint of fear.
Strange New Worlds IV Page 3
