The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

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  To our old home in Oxford, Pennsylvania, where I began working on this book, and our new city of Lancaster, where I finished it.

  Historian’s Note

  The events in this story take place in the latter years of the U.S.S. Enterprise’s five-year mission (2265–2270).

  Prologue

  Baldur III

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Gimme a minute. I’m getting some screwy readings.”

  Pierre Fremont squinted at the readouts on his secondhand Starfleet-surplus tricorder, which, honestly, had seen better days. His partner, Belinda Sharikh, sat in the driver’s seat of the mobile phaser drill they had leased for the day in order to dig a new well for their homestead. Looming evergreens bordered the clearing as he walked ahead of the drill, methodically scanning the ground for a suitable aquifer to tap into. Moss, rocks, and old stumps, the latter waiting to be dug out, carpeted the outdoors. Sweating beneath the afternoon sun, Pierre cast a longing glance at the shady forest before turning his gaze back to the squirrelly readings on the tricorder’s display panel. The data on the screen kept fluctuating. Visual static obscured the graphics.

  “Screwy how?” Belinda asked. Like him, she was wearing a practical coverall suitable for a hard day’s work. Heavy-duty treads supported the open cab of the drill conveyor while the actual phaser mechanism was suspended on a crane in front of her. A transparent aluminum windshield failed to conceal her worried expression.

  “I’m not certain,” he confessed. “I’m getting some kind of interference that’s making it hard to get a precise reading, or maybe this old piece of junk is just on the fritz again.” He smacked the device with his palm in hopes of knocking it back into proper working order. “I swear, I’m tempted to trade this thing in for an old-fashioned dowsing rod.”

  “A what?”

  “An archaic bit of Earth folklore.” He recalled that offworld history, let alone superstitions, were hardly among Belinda’s interests. They were both third-generation colonists, born and raised on Baldur III. Earth, and the Federation, for that matter, were about as remote from their daily lives as Romulus was. They were Baldurians, through and through. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Just tell me where to drill,” she insisted. “We need get this monster back to town before nightfall or we’ll be charged another day.”

  “Trust me, I’m well aware of that.”

  Ever since their old well had gone dry, they’d been reduced to hiking a quarter mile to the nearest creek just to keep themselves properly hydrated. A new well would make their lives much easier and free up more time to concentrate on building their fledgling lumber business, maybe even work up enough funds to get one of those fancy plasma-powered, automated sawmills. Belinda had big dreams of going into handcrafted custom carpentry as well.

  Assuming we don’t have to spend half our time toting water.

  Despite the annoying (and inexplicable) interference on the tricorder, he kept probing beneath the surface until he was almost at the edge of the clearing, about twelve meters from their rustic log cabin, which was composed of equal parts timber and thermoconcrete. Solar paneling shared the roof with a chimney and a bare-bones communications array. Erratic though they were, the tricorder readings indicated that the water table was relatively accessible at this location, plus or minus a reasonable margin for error.

  This will have to do, he decided. As Belinda had reminded him, they needed to get the drill back by nightfall and the town was a good fifty kilometers away. We don’t have time to search for the ideal spot to drill.

  He unclipped a paint canister from his work belt and sprayed an X on the moss, marking the spot. “Here you go.”

  “Right on it.”

  She positioned the drill directly above his mark and donned a pair of protective goggles to protect her eyes from the glare of the phaser beam. Pierre did the same, backing away from the site as she fired up the drill, slowly at first to avoid digging too deep. The last thing they wanted to do was punch a hole in the bedrock for the water to drain away into.

  A ruby-red beam issued from the tip of the drill, burning down through the rocky soil toward the water table, forming a hole approximately fifteen centimeters in diameter; they could widen the hole later once they were certain they were in the right spot. A high-pitched whine accompanied the beam, which steadily increased in intensity, going from red-hot to blue to a brilliant white that, despite the goggles, made his eyes water if he looked directly at it for too long. He could feel the heat from the beam even from several paces away. Smoke and steam rose from the pit as the beam drilled through dense layers of dirt, clay, and stone. Pierre grinned. So far, the drill was worth every credit.

  This is saving us hours, maybe even days, of heavy labor.

  “How am I doing?” Belinda shouted over the whine of the phaser as well as the hissing steam. Gloved hands worked the control panel.

  “Right on track!” He monitored her progress with the tricorder. “Just a few more meters . . . hang on, what the—?”

  A sudden energy spike, coming from deep beneath the surface, registered on the device, blanking out the data on the screen. A warning siren sounded. A red light flashed.

  “Watch out!”

  An underground explosion rocked the ground beneath his feet. A shock wave burst from the pit, sending rocks, Pierre, and other debris flying. Barely missing one of the nearby trees, he landed flat on his back on the forest floor, the wind knocked out of him. He lay there dazed for a moment, catching his breath, before adrenaline—and concern for Belinda’s safety—gave him the strength to scramble to his feet.

  “Belinda?”

  “Over here!”

  The shock wave had toppled the drill platform and thrown her from the cab, but, to Pierre’s relief, she appeared to be okay as she got up from the ground. If anything, she looked more concerned with the damage to the drill. The windshield was cracked, while the phaser itself had broken loose from the crane and was now an inert mass of mangled steel that, for better or for worse, was no longer capable of firing a beam. Probably just as well, he thought, given that it’s not pointed at the ground anymore.

  “Damn it,” Belinda swore. “There goes our deposit!”

  “At least we’re still in one piece,” he pointed out.

  “There’s that,” she conceded, brushing herself off. “But what just happened?”

  Pierre wanted to know that too. He glanced around the clearing, which was now strewn with dirt and debris. He noticed that certain rocks appeared to be glowing faintly, as though permeated with some kind of luminous material. He scanned one such fragment after reco
vering and resetting his tricorder. His eyes bulged as the device identified the targeted substance.

  “Ye gads. These rocks are laced with pergium!”

  The rare mineral was valued throughout the quadrant for its ability to power life-support systems. Pierre assumed that the phaser beam had accidentally energized a deposit of raw pergium, setting off a chain reaction, but just how big a deposit were they talking about?

  A different kind of excitement kept his heart racing even as the initial jolt from the explosion subsided. He cautiously approached the gaping pit forged by the explosion.

  “Careful there!” Belinda said.

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, but his gaze remained glued to the tricorder’s readouts. No longer set to detect the presence of water, the device scanned for pergium instead.

  His jaw dropped at the results.

  “Yikes, this is trashed.” Belinda circled the capsized drill platform, shaking her head in dismay. “You don’t think they’re going to expect us to replace the whole thing, do you?”

  “Forget the drill.” A grin stretched across his face. “Forget the well. Forget the whole darn lumber business. Turns out we’re sitting on top of a huge vein of raw pergium, just waiting to be mined.”

  She turned away from the battered drill as the full implications of their discovery sunk in. “You mean . . . ?”

  “We’re set for life . . . and then some!”

  He realized then and there that their lives were never going to be the same.

  This changed everything.

  One

  Captain’s Log, Stardate 6162.1 The discovery of vast quantities of pergium on a previously obscure frontier planet has set off an old-fashioned “gold rush.” Would-be prospectors from across the quadrant stampede toward Baldur III in hopes of striking it rich, resulting in a crisis situation as neighboring planets and way stations are ill-equipped to cope with the flood of ships competing to get to the planet in time to stake their claims. Although Baldur III is not technically under Federation jurisdiction, being an independent colony, the Enterprise has been diverted to respond to the crisis and render whatever assistance it can to overwhelmed local authorities, such as those running the nearest deep space station . . .

  “Well, I’ll be,” McCoy said. “Talk about no room at the inn.”

  “An apt allusion, Doctor,” Spock stated, contemplating the startling image on the viewscreen. “For once, I must agree with you.”

  At least a dozen spacecraft of varying sizes, designs, and origins swarmed Deep Space Station S-8, which was clearly never intended to accommodate so many visitors at once. A few of the smaller vessels were docked at the station itself, but most were orbiting the structure or were jockeying to get into position to do so, approaching the station from every conceivable angle and orientation. The overcrowding posed an obvious hazard in its own right; just watching from his chair on the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise, Captain James T. Kirk witnessed at least one near collision when an impatient Arcturian cruiser tried to squeeze in front of a slower Therbian transport, which wasn’t about to make way for it. The former “blinked” and decelerated only moments before the ships would have plowed into each other.

  “Remind me to raise our shields before we get too close to the station,” Kirk said. “Looks like they’re badly in need of a traffic cop . . . or twelve.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Sulu said from the helm. He shook his head at the crush of competing vessels ahead of them. “You’d think it was Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.”

  “Or St. Petersburg in springtime,” Ensign Chekov chimed in. The young Russian was seated beside Sulu at the navigation station.

  Both of which destinations, Kirk reflected, could easily accommodate such crowds, unlike the besieged space station. Gazing at the chaotic scene, he understood more fully why the Enterprise had been dispatched to deal with the situation. And this was just a rest stop on the way to Baldur III; Kirk could only imagine what things were like on the planet. Tales of the lucky strike on Baldur III—some more exaggerated than others—had been spreading across subspace for weeks now. “Pergium fever” had broken out in sector after sector.

  “Lieutenant Uhura, hail the station. Notify them of our approach.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  McCoy leaned on the cherry-red guardrail surrounding the command circle. “Any idea where we’re going to park?” he asked wryly.

  Good question, Kirk thought. He hoped the station’s manager, one George Tilton, would have some suggestions regarding that. He swiveled his chair toward the communications station behind him. “Uhura?”

  “My apologies, Captain, but I’m having trouble getting through to the station. Between S-8 trying to communicate with the other ships, and those ships also hailing each other, the channels are jammed.” She fiddled with her earpiece. “And from the sound of things, I’m not the only one encountering difficulties. People are frustrated . . . and tempers are getting frayed.”

  “I see.” Kirk appreciated her assessment of the climate they were flying into. “Use the priority channel. Starfleet override.”

  “Aye, sir,” she replied. “Transmitting override now.”

  That should do it, Kirk thought. He was not above pulling rank when the circumstances called for it. They had not come all this way, diverting from their ongoing survey of the Enkidu Nebula, just to be put on hold. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  In theory, Tilton was expecting the Enterprise after appealing to Starfleet for assistance. The remote space station had been established to serve as an all-purpose rest stop for travelers crossing what had been a relatively untrafficked region of space. Seen from head on, it resembled any number of other deep space stations scattered throughout the quadrant. Holding a fixed position in space, as opposed to orbiting any star or planet, it rotated on a vertical axis. A habitation cone at the “top” of the station held most of the living and leisure facilities. The cone rested above the core of the station: a large saucer that consisted primarily of storage and engineering compartments holding most everything visiting ships might need for repairs or refueling. Three tubular arms radiated from the core, with docking facilities and smaller habitation cones at the end of each arm. A fully equipped shuttlebay was located at the bottom of the station, beneath the central saucer. Interior lights, shining through multiple viewports, indicated that the station was very much occupied at present.

  “Looks like a feeding frenzy,” Kirk said. “With S-8 at the middle of it.”

  “Indeed,” Spock said from his science station. “The discovery of pergium on Baldur III is a welcome development, given its utility and relative scarcity, but I confess I find this disorderly rush to profit from the development somewhat unseemly, not to mention uncivilized. All this tumult simply because of naked avarice?” His stoic Vulcan features and level tone managed to register his disapproval nonetheless. “I would have thought that even humans would have evolved beyond such primitive motivations by now.”

  “And you’ve lived among us for how long now?” McCoy said with a smirk. “Never underestimate the human desire to get rich quick, no matter the era. And before you lecture us from your high-and-mighty perspective, what’s that Vulcan salutation you’re so fond of ? ‘Live long and prosper,’ isn’t it?” He nodded at the screen. “Those folks are just looking for a little prosperity, that’s all. Can’t really fault them for that.”

  As ever, Spock rose to the debate.

  “Prosperity and profit are not necessarily the same thing, Doctor, particularly once a society has developed to the point that material need is no longer a matter of survival. When you have eliminated poverty and hunger, the pursuit of wealth becomes illogical.”

  “Logic.” McCoy snorted. “Only a Vulcan would expect people to behave logically when there are fortunes to be made.”

  “You, Doctor, are a cynic.”

  “No, just a realist,” McCoy insisted. “Particularly when it comes to the less ‘civilized’ corne
rs of the galaxy.”

  “He has a point, Spock,” Kirk said, joining the discussion. “You’re right that on Vulcan or Earth or any of the more advanced worlds at the core of the Federation, people are less likely to succumb to ‘gold fever’ because their lives are already rich and satisfying in different ways, but out here on the frontier? That’s a whole other story. Existence can be much rougher around the edges this far out, so you still have plenty of hardscrabble miners, colonists, adventurers, and, yes, opportunists who might be tempted by the prospect of a big score.”

  “Even if there is no guarantee of riches?” Spock asked. “It stands to reason that many of those en route to Baldur III are already too late to capitalize on the discovery, and may not achieve enough profit to justify the expense and effort of their expedition.”

  “A reasonable prediction,” Kirk said, “which is probably why I’m not spotting any Vulcan vessels in that traffic jam ahead, but never underestimate the allure of a treasure hunt. It’s not logical, but it’s potent regardless.”

  “I confess,” Chekov said, “if I was not in Starfleet, I might consider striking out for Baldur III.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is that so, Ensign?”

  Chekov gulped and began to backpedal furiously. “If I was not in Starfleet, and was not, of course, fully committed to my duty as a Starfleet officer, which I absolutely am, to the very marrow of my being . . .”

  “At ease, Ensign.” Kirk let Chekov off the hook. “No need to explain why an adventurous young soul might be tempted to seek his fortune on a far-off world of riches, especially if everyone else seems to be doing so.” He chuckled indulgently. “It may seem like a primitive impulse, Spock, but it’s a natural one, and we’re a long way from more ‘civilized’ climes.”

  Spock looked unconvinced. “Perhaps, Captain, but—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Mister Spock,” Uhura said, “but I have Mister Tilton for you, Captain.”