The Antares Maelstrom

by Greg Cox

  Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine. No ships are in danger.

  If only, Sulu thought.

  “Sir?”

  Knox’s voice broke his reverie. “Yes, Ensign?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but, with all due respect, you looked like you might be zoning out again.”

  “Less so than before, I think, but good job keeping me on my toes.” He fully realized just how awkward a situation he had placed Knox in; it couldn’t be comfortable having to babysit a superior officer whose mental faculties weren’t entirely up to snuff. “Thoughts, Ensign? Am I overlooking anything?”

  “The lockdown, sir? Should we reinstate it?”

  “Absolutely,” he decided right then and there. A lockdown was possibly unnecessary now that the saboteur had been, well, neutralized, but Sulu was inclined to play it safe until he was certain that there were no more unpleasant surprises ahead. He needed to interrogate Tilton further once M’Benga judged it safe to do so, and Grandle as well as soon as her memories could be relied upon with confidence. Was there any point in trying to get Naylis to talk? He could threaten to extradite the man back to Troyius, where he was apparently none too popular with the powers that be.

  The office intercom chimed urgently.

  “Sulu here,” he said in response. “What is it?”

  “Bad news, sir,” Alvarez reported. “We managed to hail the Ali Baba . . . and they’re in trouble, sir. Their artificial gravity is out of control, powering up at an accelerating rate so that they can barely move. They can’t disengage the gravity, they can hardly operate the ship, and, at this rate, they’re going to be crushed to jelly if we can’t get help to them in time.”

  Damn, Sulu thought. Tilton’s guilt-ridden words came back to him: “If you knew all I’ve done—!”

  “Inform them we’re dispatching emergency assistance immediately,” Sulu said. “Stand by for specific orders.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Switching off the intercom for the moment, Sulu turned to the computer terminal in search of relevant data.

  “Computer, show me Ali Baba’s current location relative to station.”

  “Processing.”

  A star chart appeared on the terminal’s visual display. Sulu winced at the picture it presented. Even if a rescue mission departed at once, the Ali Baba was three hours away. That might be too late for the endangered crew and passengers, but perhaps there was another ship closer to the Ali Baba that could be drafted into service?

  “Computer, identify nearest other vessel to Ali Baba.”

  The answer came in a matter of seconds. “Allegra, currently patrolling border of Antares Maelstrom.”

  Sulu hesitated. He was reluctant to divert Allegra from guarding the border, lest an impatient vessel risk the Maelstrom in hopes of getting out ahead of the competition, perhaps counting on finding the mythical Passage. The last thing they needed right now was another ship in jeopardy.

  “Lieutenant?” Knox asked.

  “Nothing to be concerned with, Ensign. Just taking a moment to weigh our options.”

  But a moment was all he could take if they wanted to save the lives aboard the Ali Baba. He made the only possible choice and switched the intercom back on.

  “Sulu here. Hail Allegra. Inform them of the situation and order them to set course at maximum warp to render assistance to the Ali Baba as fast as prudently possible.”

  “Aye, sir,” Alvarez said. “Hailing Allegra now.”

  “Keep me informed. Sulu out.”

  He assessed the situation. As he recalled, crew members Finch and Kumar were presently assigned to border patrol. They were good people, but the task before them was a tricky one. They would have to find a way to repair or disable the sabotaged gravity plates from outside the ship or else somehow evacuate the Ali Baba without also getting trapped by the super gravity aboard the ship, as well as administer whatever emergency medical treatment might be required. Sulu made a mental note to alert the infirmary that they could be expecting casualties.

  Everything is . . . fine? There is . . . nothing . . . to be concerned with?

  Even the Voice wasn’t buying that line anymore. Its soothing assurances lacked conviction. Sulu chose to take that as a good sign.

  “What now, sir?” Knox asked. “Do we just sit back and wait?”

  “As Mister Scott likes to say, we can’t defy the laws of physics, Ensign. Even today, with our warp drives and transporters, we can’t be everywhere at once.”

  He understood her frustration, though. He was used to being at the helm of a starship, heading into the unknown, not being stuck in an office far from the action. He expanded the star charts on the terminal display, watching intently as Allegra sped away from the Maelstrom, leaving its border worryingly unguarded. He tried to reassure himself that this opportunity wouldn’t tempt any reckless travelers. Surely nobody would be so rash as to brave the Maelstrom just to find a shortcut to Baldur III?

  “Computer, display the positions and courses of the other vessels currently en route from the station to Baldur III.”

  “Processing.”

  The charts shifted on screen. Colored lines tracked the progress of the other vessels. All but one were wisely taking the long route around the Maelstrom. The Lucky Strike, however, had just abruptly altered course—and was now heading straight for the Maelstrom.

  Twenty-Seven

  Yurnos

  “Halt, in the governor’s name!”

  Wearing matching uniforms dyed forest green, the riders charged down the road toward Spock and Chekov, who were still paused at the intersection above the hidden beach. Spock assumed these were the revenue agents Eefa had worried about earlier; it seemed her fears that they were abroad hunting smugglers were well founded. The secret cove was no longer as secret as she had hoped.

  “Mister Spock?”

  “Evasive action, Ensign.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Chekov released the brake. The alarmed marmots needed no urging to speed away from the charging tax agents, who were less than half a kilometer away and closing fast. Chekov gave the frightened animals free rein as they took off to the right, sprinting down the main road ahead of their pursuers. They screeched and chittered as they ran, their bushy tails waving wildly.

  Escape was imperative, Spock realized. They could not allow themselves to be apprehended by the authorities. Exposure of his Vulcan nature, green blood and all, could fundamentally challenge the Yurnians’ understanding of their place in the universe, centuries before they were prepared to cope with the reality of intelligent life and civilizations beyond their world. Spock was acutely aware that he had lost both his hat and his bandanna over the course of their captivity; at the moment, only distance and darkness shielded his ears from scrutiny, but neither would suffice if and when the riders caught up with them. His brain sorted through possible explanations he might offer, none of which struck him as particularly convincing.

  “Hold on, Mister Spock! We’re in for a rocky ride . . . for as long as it lasts!”

  Their headlong flight was indeed turbulent. Bumps and ruts in the unpaved road impeded their speed while jarring the wagon and its passengers. A wooded slope, congested with brush and shadows, rose up to their left, while the right shoulder of the road dropped away sharply toward the crashing surf below. A crescent moon provided barely enough illumination to navigate by. Under ordinary circumstances, he would urge Chekov to slow down for safety’s sake—it would not do to lose control of the wagon—but that was obviously not an option. Adrenaline flooded Spock’s metabolism, priming his heart and muscles for action, yet his Vulcan training prevented it from overwhelming his judgment. He held tightly to a rail to avoid being thrown from the bouncing wagon.

  “Do not worry about me, Ensign. Simply concentrate on keeping the wagon on the road, and ahead of our pursuers.”

  A pistol fired behind them, rather too close for comfort. Spock heard the bullet whiz over their heads. A frown marr
ed his stoic expression; he’d had quite enough of firearms being directed at them.

  “Halt, or find yourselves targets!” the lead rider hollered at them. A plumed hat, dyed bright red, possibly signified that she was in charge of the squad. “You can’t escape us!”

  “Don’t shoot!” Chekov shouted back at them. “I’ve lost control of the marmots! They’re running wild!”

  Spock looked at Chekov. “A deception?”

  “An exaggeration . . . sort of.”

  Spock did not ask him to elaborate. Instead he let go of the rail long enough to tune Eefa’s communicator to a different, more familiar frequency. He lifted the device to his lips, hoping to be heard over the tumult.

  “Attention: this is Commander Spock. We are in distress and require immediate assistance. I repeat: we are in immediate distress.”

  In a worst-case scenario, Jord or Vankov were not on hand to receive his signal at present, in which case his odds of escaping capture were extremely limited. He briefly considered throwing himself off the cliff if need be, but considered that an option of last resort, particularly since there was no guarantee that his body would not be recovered by the authorities afterward. Any adequate examination of his remains would swiftly turn up anatomical deviations exposing his non-Yurnian origins.

  “We read you, Spock,” Jord responded almost instantly. “We’ve been standing by, wondering what happened to you and Chekov. It’s been hours—”

  “A full account of our experiences will have to wait,” Spock said. “We have a more pressing situation.” He concisely briefed them on their current predicament. “Despite our best efforts, it is unlikely that we will be unable to evade our pursuers for much longer.”

  “Understood. What do you need from us?”

  “Galileo,” he replied.

  If he and Chekov could not get to the shuttlecraft, Spock reasoned, Galileo would have to come to them, preferably in a timely manner.

  “Home in on us by this signal, but do not delay. It is to no one’s benefit for the authorities to have a Vulcan in custody.”

  “Gods, no!” Jord agreed. “That would be a disaster. You mustn’t let them catch you!”

  “That is precisely what we are endeavoring to prevent . . . for as long as we can.”

  “We’re on our way! Jord out.”

  Spock lowered the communicator, clipping it to his simple leather belt, but kept the frequency open so Jord and Vankov could track the signal. He hoped their piloting skills had not grown too rusty during their long sojourn on Yurnos.

  “Help is on the way,” he informed Chekov. “We need only prolong the chase until aid arrives.”

  “Easier said than done, Mister Spock.”

  He was not wrong in his estimation. Peering back over his shoulder, Spock saw that the riders continued to gain on them, so that they were now less than ten meters behind the wagon. As the Yurnians’ mounts were not burdened by pulling a wagon behind them, he saw little chance that he and Chekov could pull away from them. It was only a matter of minutes before the riders caught up with them.

  More bullets flew past their heads, accompanied by loud shots and the distinct odor of gunpowder on the wind. It was unclear if the riders actually intended them harm at this point or if the shots were simply meant to encourage their surrender. He and Chekov ducked low to present less tempting targets.

  “Please, no more shooting!” Chekov called out again. “I can’t slow down! My rodents are out of control!”

  His performance, if it was a performance, was most convincing, but was it enough to deter the riders from further gunfire? Spock feared that each agent was armed with multiple single-shot pistols. How far were they willing to go to apprehend a pair of likely smugglers? It occurred to Spock that the only actual contraband remaining in the back of the wagon was a single crate of Antarian glow water.

  An idea struck him.

  “Do not slow down,” he instructed Chekov. “I will attempt to delay our pursuers.”

  Despite the roughness of the ride, he clambered into the bed of the wagon. Keeping his head down, he tore open the wooden lid of the crate with his bare hands, exposing a dozen bottles of the luminous beverage. The effulgent green radiance that gave the glow water its name and novelty shone in the shadows, illuminating Spock’s features. Beyond Yurnos, where it was certainly rare and exotic, Antarian glow water was an inexpensive soft drink of little economic or nutritional value. Spock had never seen any purpose to it until this very moment.

  Not exactly stun grenades, but I will have to make do.

  Crouching in the bed of the wagon, he seized a bottle by its neck and hurled it overhand into the riders’ path. It arced through the air before crashing into the road, where it shattered in a spray of broken glass and incandescent liquid that glowed all the brighter in the dark of night.

  “What under the stars?!” the lead rider exclaimed.

  The radiant spray startled both the riders and their mounts. The marmots reared up on their hind legs, all but throwing their riders, who had to urge them onward. Angry shouts and curses and confusion accompanied the screeches of the skittish rodents, which gave the spilled glow water a wide berth even as they reluctantly dropped back down onto all fours to resume the chase. Theirs tails twitched unhappily, while some of the riders struck Spock as more hesitant as well.

  “It’s just a trick,” the lead rider shouted to rally the others. “Keep after them!”

  Spock kept up the barrage. His intent was not to strike the riders or their mounts, but to slow them down sufficiently. Bottle after bottle smashed into the road, agitating the marmots while creating an obstacle course of glass shards and luminous green puddles, the latter of which yielded a distinctly unearthly effect.

  “Bane-fire!” a rider cried out with what sounded like genuine superstitious awe. “These are no mere smugglers!”

  “All the more reason to bring them to justice!” the leader shouted. “After them!”

  Spurring her marmot onward, she chased after the wagon, with the rest of her troops close behind her. Both riders and rodents were obviously well trained and disciplined, as Spock concluded to his regret. Within minutes, the leader was only a few meters behind the wagon. Spock reached for another bottle to discourage her pursuit, only to come away empty-handed.

  He was all out of glow water.

  It was a measure of how frenetic the chase was that he had actually lost count of the glowing bottles. In a last-ditch effort, he hurled the empty wooden crate at the oncoming rider, but her agile marmot deftly avoided the missile and kept on coming until it was practically gnawing on the end of the wagon.

  “That’s far enough!” The rider leapt from her rodent into the back of the wagon, where she nimbly sprang to her feet and drew a fresh pistol from a bandolier across her chest. She menaced Spock with the pistol as she held on to one side of the wagon to keep her balance. “Halt this wagon!” she ordered Chekov. “Lock the wheels at once!”

  “With all due respect,” Chekov called back, “I do not think that would be wise.”

  “He is correct,” Spock said. “Considering our current speed and momentum, braking too abruptly would likely flip this wagon end over end.”

  “Use the reins, then!” she barked. “Do whatever you have to, but bring this wagon to a halt. And you,” she addressed Spock, “what gives you the audacity to—”

  She got her first good look at Spock and his ears. Shock and bewilderment registered on her face.

  “What manner of man . . . ?”

  “Ill met by moonlight, it appears,” Spock said, not expecting her to recognize the quotation. “I could attempt to explain, but—”

  A blinding white spotlight enveloped the wagon. Spock’s inner eyelids protected him from the glare as he squinted up to see Galileo swooping down from the sky. Its landing lights pierced the night.

  Jord and Vankov had arrived—and none too soon.

  The shuttlecraft’s dramatic entrance awed the riders, who
gasped and gaped in amazement as they struggled to control their panicky mounts. The shocking spectacle proved too much even for their determined leader, who suddenly lost interest in capturing two unusually troublesome smugglers. Abandoning her mission, she threw herself out of the back of the wagon in her haste to get away from Galileo. She hit the ground, rolled, and scrambled to her feet a few meters ahead of the other riders, some of whom opened fire on Galileo, peppering it with lead, which bounced harmlessly off the shuttlecraft’s deflector shields. Galileo flew over the speeding wagon toward the riders, who turned around and fled in disarray, scampering away as fast as their terrified rodents could carry them. A single rider maintained the presence of mind to swing around to pick up his fallen commander before taking off after the others.

  “Retreat!” the leader shouted unnecessarily. “Retreat!”

  Spock watched them ride away into the night. He was pleased to see them depart.

  “You may slow down, Mister Chekov. Our pursuers appear to have had a change of heart.”

  Chekov struggled with the reins. “I may need a minute or so, Mister Spock.”

  Galileo did not pursue the riders. Once it became obvious that they had been routed for the time being, the shuttlecraft turned around in midair and headed back toward the wagon. Spock used Eefa’s communicator to hail the shuttle.

  “Spock here. Your timing was impeccable. You have our gratitude.”

  “We aim to please,” Vankov’s voice replied. “Just glad we got here in time.”

  As it happened, Chekov needed more than just a few moments to bring his team of screeching marmots under control, or perhaps the galloping rodents simply wore themselves out. Either way, the wagon eventually slowed to a stop. Chekov sighed in relief as he locked the brake.

  “For the record, sir, I think I would like to go back to navigating a starship, if it’s all right with you.”

  “All in due time, Ensign. We still have a mission to complete.”