The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

  “Aye, sir,” Palmer replied, with a hint of a smirk. “I’ll do just that.”

  Kirk got back online with Scott. “That bottle you mentioned is waiting for you, Scotty. Come and get it.”

  “I’ll drink to that, Captain. On our way.”

  * * *

  Spears came rushing onto the bridge in her hazard suit. A door slid shut behind her. “Are we ready for takeoff ?”

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” Scott said. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have insisted on running several more tests and diagnostics before launching an antique spacecraft on short notice, but life in Starfleet was seldom ordinary. “Take the communications station, lass, and strap in tight.”

  The captain’s seat was empty, because everyone was needed elsewhere. Galligan was planted at engineering, the better to monitor the newly resurrected impulse engines and the dying warp core, while Scott had the helm, since he knew more about flying a starship than the other two combined. He wondered if either Galligan or Spears had ever been to space before.

  Talk about diving into the deep end, he thought.

  The viewscreen before him showed a nocturnal view of the park and the buildings beyond. The bright lights of Jackpot City were already flickering out as Thunderbird severed its connections to the colony’s power relays. Backup generators and batteries were not going to be enough to keep the lights on, but that was the least of Scott’s worries at the moment. Better a blackout than a blackened ruin, he judged.

  “Approximately five minutes to warp core detonation,” the computer said.

  Scott used his communicator to keep Kirk apprised. “Scott to Enterprise. It’s now or never.”

  “You are cleared for takeoff, Mister Scott,” Kirk answered. “Launch at will . . . and good luck.”

  “I won’t be refusing that, Captain. Scott out.” He put away the communicator and faced the helm controls. It was a shame, he reflected, that Sulu was not at hand; the helmsman would have relished the opportunity to pilot the vintage starship—and was probably better suited to the task. “Brace yourself. This could be a rough ride.”

  “Engines powered and ready, Mister Scott,” Galligan reported.

  “Crossing my fingers,” Spears added.

  “You keep doing that, lass.”

  The push-button helm controls were less sophisticated than the Enterprise’s, which was a blessing in this case. No fancy flying was required; they were just going up and out. He vectored the director coils for a forty-five-degree-angle ascent, while thanking his lucky stars that Jackpot City had yet to erect any serious skyscrapers; even without Sulu at the helm, they should be able to clear the tops of the nearest buildings without too much difficulty.

  “Approximately four minutes to warp core detonation.”

  “I hear ye, I hear ye,” Scott said. “On my count, three, two, one . . . engage!”

  Thunderbird’s impulse engines awoke from hibernation. Pure Newtonian physics came into play as the thrust of the engines’ exhaust pushed against the planet’s gravity, not to mention the sturdy steel bolts nailing it to the surface. The battle rattled the bridge even as the rumble of the old engines made Scott feel like an old-time astronaut riding a shuttle into a whole new frontier. For a few rapid heartbeats, the park refused to let go of the historic ship. Scott increased the intensity of the thrusters, hoping to melt or shatter the concrete foundation beneath the former museum. His efforts were rewarded as, with a bone-jarring wrench, Thunderbird broke its bonds and took off into the sky like its mythical namesake. Scott felt a sudden surge and affection for the dying ship.

  There’s a fine old gal, he thought. Going out in a blaze of glory.

  Spears whooped in exhilaration or fear or some combination thereof. Galligan shuddered and closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over. Pressed back into his seat by the sudden acceleration, Scott held his breath as Thunderbird zoomed out of Baldur’s atmosphere into space. On the viewscreen, thinning wisps of vapor gave way to the comforting familiarity of the empty vacuum Scott had traversed for most of his adult life. He eyed the screen anxiously, primed to take evasive action should another vessel suddenly appear in their path, but it appeared that Captain Kirk had indeed cleared the way for them just as he’d promised. Scott held to his course: out and away from Baldur III.

  “One minute to warp core detonation,” the computer nagged, no longer hedging its bets. “Warning: warp core breach imminent.”

  Scott breathed a sigh of relief. No matter what happened next, Jackpot City was safe.

  “Eject warp core!” he ordered Galligan. “Now!”

  The other man did not hesitate. He pounded on the engineering buttons like a concert pianist building to a crescendo. “Ejecting!”

  There was a split second of suspense as Scotty half expected the emergency ejection procedure to malfunction as well, but for once the crucial safety measure functioned exactly as it had been designed to do: the bridge vibrated as, several decks away, Thunderbird vomited its combusting entrails into the void. The ejection was not visible on the viewscreen, but Scott could easily visualize the blazing warp core lighting up the dark as it tumbled through space in its final moments of existence.

  “Warp core ejected,” the computer confirmed. “Alert canceled.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Galligan said. “We did it. I’m going to see my wife and kids again. Just wait until they hear about this!”

  “Did my job just get sucked into space?” Spears joked. “ ’Cause if not, I want a raise!”

  Scott was too busy to join in the jubilation. He ramped up the engines, wanting to put as much distance as he could between Thunderbird and the disgorged warp core before—

  A shock wave struck Thunderbird, sending the ship tumbling end over end.

  Twenty-Six

  Deep Space Station S-8

  “Are you certain you’re up to this, Lieutenant?”

  Doctor M’Benga eyed Sulu watchfully as he escorted his patient out of the examination room where Sulu had been recovering from his ordeal in the neutralizer chamber. Knox, who had been sitting outside the door, rose to join Sulu, who was glad to see that she appeared none the worse for wear after being sucker-punched by Grandle hours ago. As Sulu understood it, he had been out for some time, while Grandle remained under sedation. According to M’Benga, the security chief’s violent rejection of her brainwashing had taken its toll on her system; she needed an induced rest to recover from the physical and psychic trauma. Sulu could believe it.

  “I have to be,” he replied.

  Truth to tell, he was still feeling shaky. Fighting the beam had been excruciating, and his grip on his mind and memories was not as firm as he might have liked. The Voice kept echoing inside his skull, undercutting his resolve and reality, making him question his every thought.

  Everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about . . .

  No, Sulu thought, that’s a lie. The sabotage was real, committed by Tilton, under the control of Naylis, who was now cooling his heels in the brig, while the trashed neutralizer equipment was locked up tight as well. But, wait, that can’t be right . . .

  There was no saboteur, Naylis said so. Trust Naylis.

  Sulu grimaced. He shook his head to clear it. Get out of my brain!

  “You all right, sir?” Knox gave him a worried look. M’Benga looked concerned as well.

  Sulu was tempted to tough it out and pretend he was back at one hundred percent already, but he owed Knox and M’Benga more honesty than that. He lowered his voice and glanced around the crowded infirmary to make sure no one was listening in.

  “Just feeling a few aftereffects from my session in the chair.” Sulu liked to think that the Voice was gradually fading away, as though disappearing into the distance, but it wasn’t quieting fast enough for him. He paused to confer with Knox. “You have a new duty, Ensign. Until I’m fully myself again, you’re my reality check. I start to get fuzzy on our mission, or look as though I’m not entirely certain
of my facts, your job is to remind me that the echoes in my head can’t be trusted. You think you can do that?”

  Knox gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry to dump this on you, Knox, but that beam did a number on me. Going to need a little time to get over it, that’s all.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Sulu,” M’Benga said, frowning, “if you feel you’re not ready to be discharged—”

  “Appreciate the thought, Doctor, but taking it easy is not an option right now.”

  He strode decisively through the infirmary, weaving his way through the bustling waiting area until they reached the private examination room where Tilton was recuperating. Johann remained posted outside, ensuring that the manager’s condition stayed on a need-to-know basis. The security officer acknowledged Sulu’s arrival.

  “He’s been asking to see you, Lieutenant.”

  “So I hear.” Sulu hoped Tilton had some more answers for him. “I need to talk to him too.” He turned to M’Benga. “What shape is he in?”

  “Better,” the doctor reported. “Over the last few years, modern medicine has made significant progress when it comes to treating victims of neural neutralizers. We’ve found that a careful regimen of neurosynaptic therapy, augmented by certain specific medications, can eventually reverse the effects of the beam in all but the most severe cases. Brain scans indicate that Tilton was more extensively programmed than either you or Chief Grandle, possibly over repeated sessions in the chair, so he’s going to require ongoing treatment to fully recover from what was done to him, but he’s already much better than how you last saw him.”

  Sulu was glad to hear it, and not just because he had to interrogate the man further. He recalled that Captain Kirk was back on his feet in no time, despite a close encounter with the neutralizer, which Sulu found very encouraging.

  If the captain can get over this, so can I.

  The door slid open to admit Sulu and his companions to the room beyond, where he found Tilton sitting up in a biobed, sipping on a drink. The older man still looked rather haggard, but he appeared considerably less apathetic or deranged than before, while the diagnostic monitor above him also painted a less dire picture of his health. He looked up as Sulu and the others entered. A pained expression hinted at the guilt he had to be experiencing now. Sulu didn’t envy him.

  “Lieutenant Sulu, I’m so sorry!” Tilton put aside his drink. “You have to believe me, I would have never betrayed my duties to this station, endangered so many ships and people, if Naylis hadn’t—”

  “No need to explain or apologize.” Sulu held up a hand to cut off the man’s apologies. “Trust me, I understand. You weren’t responsible for your actions.”

  Sulu’s reassurances failed to assuage Tilton. “You don’t understand. If you knew all I’ve done—!”

  “About that.” Sulu took pains to avoid an accusatory tone. “How much do you actually remember about the . . . the . . .”

  He struggled to complete the sentence, the words eluding him. The more he tried to complete his thought, the more slippery it became. What did he want to ask Tilton about again?

  “Sabotage,” Knox prompted. “We need to find out more about the sabotage.”

  There was no sabotage. You proved that. Everything is fine.

  Negative, Sulu thought, trusting Knox more than the Voice. “Right.” He grabbed on to the word and forced it out through his lips. “Sabotage. Tell me about it, Tilton. What did you want to see me about?”

  “It’s not over,” Tilton said, visibly distraught. “Before you caught me, before Doctor M’Benga helped me, I sabo . . . interfered . . . with another ship that was undergoing maintenance here at the station. Abusing my privileges and access, I . . . tampered . . . with various replacement parts before they were beamed over to the ship to be installed aboard the vessel.” He snorted ruefully. “Did quite a clever job of it, actually. My . . . alterations . . . were all but impossible to detect unless you knew what to look for.”

  He buried his face in his hands. “What have I done?”

  Tilton’s life signs reflected his agitation. M’Benga shot Sulu a warning look.

  “What ship?” Sulu demanded anyway. He felt his own pulse speed up, despite the inner Voice assuring him there was nothing to worry about. There is no sabotage. “Which ship, Tilton?”

  “The Ali Baba,” the manager said, his voice cracking. “A repurposed Coridian scout ship out of the Talbot system.” He grasped Sulu’s arm, desperate to get his warning across, no matter the strain to his system. Cords bulged in his neck. “They’re not safe, Sulu! Not the crew, not the passengers!”

  His diagnostics climbed toward the yellow zone.

  “Steady there, George.” M’Benga stepped forward to calm the man, applying his best bedside manner as he gently pried Tilton’s fingers away from Sulu’s arms. He eased the man back down onto the biobed. “We hear you. Mister Sulu will see to it, won’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “Right this minute,” Sulu said, and not just to humor Tilton. He crossed the room to the nearest intercom. “Sulu to Starfleet Security Team B. Secure a vessel called the Ali Baba. Evacuate the crew and passengers immediately.”

  A voice, which Sulu recognized as belonging to Carlos Alvarez, another crewman on loan from the Enterprise, answered immediately.

  “Sir, Ali Baba departed for Baldur III hours ago.”

  Sulu didn’t understand. “Despite the lockdown?”

  “Rumor has it that you and Mister Tilton and Chief Grandle are . . . otherwise occupied,” Alvarez said diplomatically. “A few ships, like the Ali Baba, saw a chance to defy the lockdown and break orbit . . .”

  Sulu kicked himself for not being on top of this, even though he’d been out cold in the infirmary for hours. Then again, the Voice kept telling him that he had nothing to worry about, that the station was perfectly safe. No wonder he hadn’t seen this coming.

  Everything is fine.

  “Hail Ali Baba,” he ordered. “Inform them that we have reason to believe that the ship’s systems are compromised. Instruct them to turn back immediately, as their lives may be in jeopardy.”

  “Aye, sir,” Alvarez replied.

  “Keep me informed. Sulu out.”

  He stepped away from the intercom to return to Tilton’s bedside. Exhausted by his confession, Tilton rested against the biobed, which was tilted upward slightly so that he could maintain a sitting position.

  “The Ali Baba?” he asked. “Safe?”

  “We’re taking care of it,” Sulu said, “but is there anything else we need to know? A danger to another ship or the station?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so. But my memory is . . . confusing. Parts of it are missing, or don’t match up with other memories. It’s still hard to tell which are real . . . and which were beamed into my brain, tricking me, making me do things I’d never do if only I knew what I was thinking . . .”

  Sulu knew the feeling, but he had to keep pressing Tilton. They couldn’t let another impending disaster slip through the cracks in the manager’s skewed memories.

  “Try to sort them out,” he urged. “I know it’s not easy—believe me, I know—but we have to know everything you did while under the neutralizer’s influence. Not to blame you or prosecute you, but simply to ensure that there are no further threats to avert.”

  “I know!” Tilton was getting worked up again. “I’ll never forgive myself if another person gets hurt . . . or worse. I want to fix this, but . . . my brain . . . I can’t trust my brain!”

  “Sulu,” M’Benga interrupted. “That’s enough for now.”

  “I appreciate your concern for your patient, Doctor, but this is a matter of security. More lives may be at stake.”

  “I understand that, Sulu, but I can’t in good conscience put Mister Tilton’s health and recovery at risk simply because of a hypothetical risk. Tilton’s mind and body both need time to heal. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m putting my foo
t down. You’ll have to resume this interrogation later. Doctor’s orders.”

  M’Benga had clearly made up his mind, so there was no point in arguing. Sulu wondered if Captain Kirk ever found Doctor McCoy just as stubborn.

  All the time, I’m guessing.

  “Your call, Doctor,” Sulu conceded, while deciding on his next move. He didn’t intend to sit back and wait for Tilton—or Grandle, for that matter—to be up to talking. There were still measures he could take in the meantime. “Mind if I borrow the computer station in your office?”

  The office Sulu shared with Grandle was on the other side of the habitation cone and a few levels away. He didn’t want to risk another emergency happening while he was en route in a turbolift.

  “Help yourself,” the doctor said. “I need to do my rounds anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Sulu headed out the door. “Knox, you’re with me.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Relax, the Voice whispered. Everything is fine.

  Sulu didn’t believe that for one second.

  * * *

  M’Benga’s temporary office, which he was sharing with the station’s regular doctor, resembled McCoy’s office back aboard the Enterprise, just a bit more cluttered at present. Sulu seated himself at a desk, facing a computer access terminal. Knox pulled over a chair to look over his shoulder.

  “Computer,” Sulu said. “How many vessels have defied the lockdown and departed the station today?”

  “Five vessels have left the proximity of the station,” the computer replied.

  “List them.”

  “The vessels were, in order of departure, the Celestial, the Industry, the Gamma 337, the Ali Baba, and the Lucky Strike.”

  That last name caused his heart to skip a beat.

  Helena’s ship?

  He was less concerned with the fact that she had left without saying good-bye than with the possibility that the Lucky Strike might have been compromised as well, endangering Helena and everyone else aboard her ship. And the same applied to at least three other vessels, not counting the Ali Baba, which was already known to have been sabotaged. Sulu fought the urge to demand that M’Benga allow him to run the names of the other ships past Tilton, no matter how fragile the recovering manager might be.