Mere Anarchy Book 1: Things Fall Apart

by Dayton Ward

  “Gary?” Kirk asked, his ears still ringing from the explosion as he pushed his wounded friend into the command chair. “Are you all right?” Though worried about Mitchell, and indeed the growing number of wounded people literally at his feet, the captain knew he could not focus on one person right now. The ship was still in immediate danger.

  Intending to take the helm himself, Kirk turned around in time to find Lieutenant Sulu hunched over the console. Next to him, Alden had abandoned the communications console and taken up position at the navigator’s station, a duty he often performed in relief of Mitchell while on the bridge.

  “Engineering!” Sulu snapped as he pressed the intercom control on his console. “We need lateral power!”

  “We’re workin’ on it, bridge!” shouted Scott’s voice over the comm speaker.

  Leaning over the helm console, Kirk asked, “Lieutenant, are you sure you can handle this?” He knew that the astrophysicist had been training in other departments—including starship operations—for the past several months as a way of fueling his seemingly unending desire to learn new things, but had no idea how far he had progressed in his studies.

  Sulu nodded. “I’ve got it, sir.” He spoke without looking up, his fingers moving as though of their own volition over the helm console. Kirk looked from the station’s array of status indicators and lights to the image on the main viewscreen, which showed a computer-generated representation of the Enterprise beginning to arc away from the pulsar. Already he could feel the shaking in the deck plates ebbing as the ship put distance between itself and the rogue body.

  “Nice work, Lieutenant,” he said, patting the younger man on the shoulder. “Notify sickbay that we need emergency medical teams up here on the double,” he ordered before turning to where Spock was now working at Cameron’s station. “Spock?” he asked, a single anguished word pushing past his lips.

  The Vulcan turned from the console, his eyes hard and focused as he provided the cold, merciless facts. “The pulsar has moved past the point of intersection with Mestiko, Captain. While the compromised deflector grid was able to redirect 74.893 percent of the emitted X-rays, what was able to get through was still sufficient to cause significant damage to the planet.”

  “Oh dear God,” Cameron said from where she still lay on the deck near Kirk’s chair. The captain could not help but notice that the professor’s voice seemed even weaker now than just a few moments earlier.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Kirk asked. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

  Drawing himself into a ramrod posture, his hands clasped behind his back, Spock locked eyes with Kirk. “The effects are quite unavoidable now, Captain.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Kirk heard Mitchell say, and turned to see his friend still slumped in the command chair, holding a part of his tunic’s torn left sleeve to the wounds on the side of his head. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Every person on that planet could die, and we can’t do a damned thing to stop it!” There was no mistaking the dulled expression on the navigator’s face and the slurred speech. Mitchell was slipping into shock.

  His mind still on the more immediate problems, Kirk turned to his first officer, certain he caught a hint of remorse in the Vulcan’s features, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. For a moment, the captain thought Spock might even offer an apology.

  “Spock,” he said, forgetting all of that, “how long until the pulsar’s emissions hit the lunar colony?”

  “Eight minutes, thirty-seven seconds, Captain,” the Vulcan replied.

  There was still time! Looking over his shoulder toward the helm, Kirk ordered, “Sulu! Lay in a course for the colony. I don’t care what you have to do, but get us there with enough time to transport those people to the ship. Go!”

  As he spoke the words, he saw the already stressed lieutenant turn to the task of carrying out his latest orders. That accomplished, Kirk turned and knelt beside Professor Cameron. Tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her face, though the captain knew she was not crying due to the pain she suffered.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” she whispered, her voice faint and barely audible.

  Shaking his head, Kirk patted her on her shoulder. “You did everything you could, Professor. No one can blame you for anything.”

  Even as he spoke the words, his imagination began to fill with visions of a world in flames, enveloped in chaos, death, and destruction; city streets running red with the blood of millions falling victim to the wrath of nature and its unrestrained fury. As he raced to save a small segment of Mestiko’s population, he wondered about the wounds being inflicted upon the planet itself. What would they find when the Enterprise returned there?

  The flickering of the lights was the first indication to Raya that something was wrong, a suspicion only strengthened when the overhead illumination failed altogether and plunged her small office into total darkness.

  Cries of surprise and fear echoed in the corridor beyond her door even as the lighting almost immediately returned, though Raya noted its lesser intensity now, telling her that the underground shelter’s primary power generation systems had been disrupted or compromised in some fashion.

  Rising from her chair, Raya made her way into the corridor to find Blee weaving around other evacuees as she maneuvered up the passageway toward her. “What has happened?”

  “The Pulse,” replied the young aide as she came closer. “It is beginning to affect power and communications systems. We just lost the news broadcasts.”

  Raya knew that whatever her most nightmarish imaginings of how the planet might be ravaged by the effects of the rogue object, they would not compare to the images conjured by those now cut off from the rest of their world and forced to wonder just what was happening far above them.

  As they approached one of the shelter’s larger common rooms, Raya caught sight of the larger, elliptical monitor suspended from the ceiling near one corner, which now displayed nothing more than colorless static. She knew that the shelter and its counterparts situated within the Convocation grounds were supported by power generators as well as communications and other equipment, which were shielded against electromagnetic interference such as that being inflicted by the Pulse—a consequence of preparations made long ago in paranoid anticipation of a global nuclear conflict which, thankfully, had never occurred. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the vast majority of those systems utilized by the populace at large.

  All around the common room, Raya observed the reactions of those gathered there. Some impulsively shouted out questions and remarks to no one in particular, while others dissolved into tears and held tightly to a friend or family member.

  And then she heard the rumbling, sounding much like the rising and ebbing of an approaching thunderstorm; a slow, throaty roll echoing through the building and bringing a moment of silence to the room. Then a second clap of thunder—as loud as the first—seemed to rock the flooring beneath Raya’s feet.

  “Everyone, go to your emergency stations now!” she called in a firm voice as people started to shriek in alarm. As the dulled yet still raucous sounds of furious thunder echoed through the thick walls of the underground shelter, other evacuees began heeding Raya’s call to action, echoing her command and passing it on to others beyond the common room.

  As she moved into the corridor and made her way toward the communal dining area on this level of the shelter, Raya noticed Blee keeping pace with her rather than heading for her own emergency station. The young woman already had made her own decision to stay here rather than seek out her family, and Raya’s assent to that request made her feel implicitly responsible for her aide’s safety. It was a charge she intended to honor as best she could.

  Another shock rocked the building and Raya felt herself stumble into Blee. Shrieks of fear filled the air and the lighting flickered as dust filtered from the overhead fixtures. Blee grabbed on to Raya and held her for a moment, until everyone realized that t
he shock to their surroundings had subsided.

  “It is not safe here!” yelled a voice from the congregating throng of people, followed by a series of shouts and cries echoing throughout the corridor. Raya wrested herself from Blee’s clutches, dashing down the passageway and past several citizens toward the source of the commotion. Turning a corner, she found herself at a stairwell and watched in horror as a line of panic-filled Payav was trying to ascend it.

  “What are you doing?” Raya called over the shouts ringing within the bare-walled, confining space, but to no avail. Instead, the crowd flowed upward—toward the exit leading to the surface. Certain that whatever circumstance lay outside was more dangerous than any injuries to be sustained within the shelter, Raya struggled to be heard among the fleeing refugees.

  “Stay here!” she called back to Blee before dashing into the stairwell—practically buoyed along with the surging crowd—only to be greeted by acrid-smelling air and the deafening roar of thunderclap upon thunderclap. By the time she reached the door, several dozen Payav had already made their way outside, but as she stepped to the threshold she turned to face those people still behind her in the stairwell.

  “You will die out there,” she pleaded, seeing the fear in the refugees’ wide-eyed, ashen faces. “Go back downstairs, please!”

  The crowd lurched forward—forcing her outside.

  Pushed aside as her fellow citizens emerged from the shelter’s entrance, Raya looked up to see that the light of the sun was almost scrubbed out by an orange-brown haze suspended in the sky, almost but not quite obscuring the line of storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Wind whipped at her clothing, and the stark white brightness of bolt after bolt of lightning illuminated the clouds, their surreal energy making her exposed skin tingle with their power. All around her, the Payav who had escaped the shelter’s confines were all but mesmerized by the scene, shouting and crying in fright as they beheld the hellish scene surrounding them.

  Above that din, however, Raya heard a piercing, desperate cry, and looked about her to see a young girl, one who had been swept up in the exodus, not unlike herself, standing alone and abandoned as people rushed past her. Apparently not knowing what else to do, the girl could only stand frozen and scream in abject terror.

  “Over here! Come over here!” Raya shouted as loudly as she could muster over the crowd and wind, prompting the girl to regain her senses and dash toward her. Raya greeted her with outstretched arms, though the girl seemed to cry even harder as she fell into the woman’s grasp. “You are safe now,” Raya said, hoping her words were more convincing to the child than they were to herself. “What is your name?”

  The girl sputtered several unintelligible words between sobs before finally offering something Raya could understand. “Theena. Theena elMadej. I cannot find my parents!”

  Raya held the girl more tightly as she cried. “We will find them, but first we have to go back inside. Come with—”

  The words caught in her throat as another cacophonous blast of lightning pulled her attention toward the center of the Convocation courtyard, where she now saw fire engulfing the revered noggik trees, flames licking at their trunks and reaching up to consume the entire canopy. Her eyes welled up with tears yet again as the living symbols of her people burned.

  Forcing her gaze from the distressing sight as she gripped young Theena’s hand and guided her back to the shelter, Raya could only think of the dying trees as nothing more than a dreadful omen of what was to come.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Poured into a squat, octagonal-shaped glass with a thick base, the Saurian brandy sat untouched atop Kirk’s desk. Though he had come to his quarters for a short reprieve from the burdens of command and the current situation with the full intention of drinking from his bottle of preferred spirits, he now found he had no taste for the liquor.

  Instead he merely stared at it, as though by some miracle it might actually provide him with the answers he sought.

  To his left, perched on the edge of his desk, his computer terminal continued to display the latest status reports on the catastrophe currently enveloping Mestiko. While new information was still hard to come by from the planet itself, the Enterprise’s sensors were performing an admirable job of conveying the simple, harsh reality.

  Mestiko was dying.

  It would take time, Kirk knew, as he stared at the viewer and beheld the image of the wounded planet before him. He watched with tired eyes and a heavy heart at the process that already was well under way as the once serene planet descended into what was fast becoming a stark vision of hell. A veil of sickly brown haze roiled across the sky, all but covering the entire hemisphere currently visible to him. Thick storm clouds crossed the central region of the largest continent, the dark sky broken only by frequent discharges of lightning.

  “Sensors are registering spikes in ultraviolet radiation across the planet,” reported the voice of Spock as the image on the viewer shifted to depict the first officer at his station on the bridge. “Average surface temperatures have increased twenty-six degrees over the past two-point-four hours. Thunderstorms and tornadoes are still active across the three largest continents as well as flash flooding in many low-lying regions. Two hurricanes have formed, each in different oceans. Average sustained wind velocities are at one hundred kilometers per hour and rising.”

  “Any word from Dr. Apohatsu or his team?” Kirk asked, running a towel through his hair to dry it after the short but much-needed shower he had taken—part of Dr. Piper’s prescription of rest, recovery, and a meal after the captain had spent nearly three complete duty shifts on the bridge observing the unfolding situation on the planet.

  The image on the viewer shifted again, this time to display Lieutenant Alden. “No, sir, nothing. I’m not picking up their transponder signal or any of their individual communicators.”

  It was as Kirk had expected, of course. The nation of Gelta, where Nathan Apohatsu and his team had made their home for more than a year, had been in the hemisphere facing directly toward the pulsar. When the drones’ shield grid was compromised, that portion of the planet was subjected to the full brunt of those X-ray emissions not deflected by what remained of the shield. The entire continent was among those places hardest hit, where the bulk of the casualties would be recorded.

  That included Dr. Apohatsu and his team, who had upheld their pledge to remain with their Payav friends until the end.

  As for the rest of the planet? The pulsar’s X-ray emissions had only washed across its surface for less than two minutes, but the duration and intensity of the radiation still had been enough to cause damage on a global scale. In addition to the immediate effects on the atmosphere, the lingering, cumulative consequences would continue to plague Mestiko for generations.

  And it’s our fault.

  The thought echoed in Kirk’s mind, ate at his gut, had tortured him from the moment he had first heard the reports of the shield grid failing. Wallowing in the nearly overpowering feelings of guilt was tempting, but he could ill afford such selfish indulgences now.

  “I am picking up a few scattered broadcasts, sir,” Alden continued. “Probably from military-grade equipment hardened against electromagnetic pulses. The signals are fairly weak and have hardly any range, though. They’re probably operating from batteries and using small antennae, but somebody is talking down there.”

  Kirk nodded at the report as he finished dressing. News from the surface would be sketchy at best for quite some time, in large part due to the damage inflicted upon any unshielded electronics by electromagnetic disruption. Adding to that issue was the loss of dozens of communications satellites that had fallen victim to the pulsar’s radiation and already were beginning to drop from their orbits. While it was disheartening to observe the calamity currently gripping the planet, it also was encouraging to hear that survivors already were reaching out and looking for others.

  “Stay on that, Lieutenant,” Kirk said after a moment as he
smoothed wrinkles from his newly donned uniform tunic. “Any information you can glean will be helpful to the rescue ships when they get here.” He was about to ask for Spock again when he heard his door chime. “Come.”

  The door to his quarters slid aside to reveal Gary Mitchell, leaning against one side of the threshold with his arms folded across his chest. A white rectangular dressing was affixed to the left side of his neck, along with a somewhat smaller bandage placed above his eyebrow. Otherwise, he appeared as fit as ever.

  “Probably a bad time to ask if you’re up for a game of racquetball,” the navigator said, his expression somber.

  Kirk took the comment in what he knew was the intended spirit, releasing a tired chuckle. His friend’s presence already was having a calming effect, and he could feel the tension in his muscles easing, if only a small bit.

  Entering the room without invitation, Mitchell made his way to the chair on the other side of Kirk’s desk and took a seat. “I know that look,” he said, reaching for the unmolested glass of brandy and taking a swallow. “You’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, Jim. One world in particular, at any rate.”

  Kirk reached for the bottle of brandy on the shelf behind him. “If you read more poetry,” he said as he poured himself a new glass of the liquor, “you’d know how truly bad that sounded just now.”

  “You know I never was one for that sort of thing,” the navigator replied before taking another sip from his own drink, “but we’re not talking about me, are we?” Setting the glass back down on the desk, Mitchell turned to regard his friend. “Tell me you’re not hell-bent on blaming yourself for what’s happening down there.”

  Though he released an exasperated sigh, Kirk said nothing in reply and instead sipped from his brandy. While he was frustrated about a great many things at this particular moment, adding to that level of his strain was his knowledge that Mitchell was right. Of course he blamed himself. Who else was there? The actions of everyone and everything under his supervision were his responsibility, regardless of the outcome. While he never would have considered taking credit for the work of Professor Cameron and those members of his crew who had assisted her had everything gone as planned, the failure of the operation could only be laid at his feet. That was the price of command, the cost of obtaining and keeping the trust of those who swore oaths to follow and obey individuals placed into positions of leadership. It also was a philosophy in which Kirk had believed his entire adult life, for which he had spent his career training and preparing to undertake.