Crisis of Consciousness (15 page)

The ambassador’s jaw gaped open. “I—I have feigned nothing,” he said in a low voice. “I truly don’t know how to do it.”

Spock pulled in a long breath and released it slowly. Speaking in an equally hushed tone, he said, “That, Mister Ambassador, is a problem.”

DNA-based computers were known to Federation science, but when the Vulcan attempted to help the ambassador in his task, solutions did not immediately present themselves.

As he investigated, Spock was acutely reminded why the Federation saw a benefit in scientific exchange with the Maabas. The computer they had designed was straightforward, but after attempting to compromise its security, a program was triggered which modified its genetic code. Now, it could not be accessed, except by a particular Maabas individual. Ambassador Pippenge was indeed unable to unlock the console. The only individual who could was likely the technician who originally set up the computer.

“We need,” Spock told Pippenge, “for you to be a different person.”

Eyes wide, the ambassador seemed very unsure what to make of his statement. “I beg your pardon?”

“A person’s genetic code is much the same as that of anyone else of their race. Genetically speaking, most differences between individuals are on a superficial level.”

Pippenge flattened his lips. “Yes, this I know. On our native homeworld, a small tree-dwelling creature no bigger than your hand is an evolutionary precursor to Maabas. Genetically, I believe it is a ninety-three percent match to any living Maabasian.”

“You,” Spock said, tilting his head toward the ambassador, “are better than a ninety-nine percent match to whomever established the baseline for this computer.”

“But it takes one hundred percent, does it not?”

“Yes,” Spock replied. “But computers only do as they are told. Without access, we cannot instruct it to work differently, but we might use its own strict adherence to protocol against it.”

“How?” Pippenge was truly interested, and in his excitement, his anxiety faded.

“By masking the discordant portion of your DNA from the scanning instrument of the computer.” Using the Kenisian tricorder for its intended purpose, rather than covert coded messages, Spock scanned the ambassador. “What will remain, as far as the computer is concerned, will be a one hundred percent match.”

After recording Pippenge’s genetic code, Spock then scanned the Maabas computer console. Another problem presented itself. Apparently, despite his default attempt to not express such disappointment visually, the ambassador knew they’d encountered a problem. “What troubles you now?”

“There is no DNA sample within the computer itself. It’s likely an encoded file.”

“Which we cannot access.”

Spock nodded. “Correct.” Working the tricorder again, the science officer set up a connection to the Maabas computer. “However, we can attempt to feed versions of your genetic code into the system. When one matches, we shall be alerted.”

“Will that not take a great deal of time, Mister Spock?”

“It may.” Setting the Kenisian tricorder to its task, Spock lowered it carefully to the corner of the console.

At their next progress report, Sciver listened quietly to Spock’s explanation of what he was doing to help Pippenge, then without comment had a guard escort the Vulcan to the room where Commander Zhatan was waiting.

Presumably, this was her office, but it showed no signs of decoration other than benign and neutral walls.
Perhaps
, Spock thought,
it was a common area used for impersonal interviews and one-on-one discussions.

Spock sat in the only chair available, which was directly in front of the desk behind which Zhatan was seated. Like the chair in the cell, this too shaped itself to meet his contours.

Without prompting, Spock explained to her exactly what he’d told Sciver.

When he was finished, she nodded her approval. “Our medical team was working on a gene-therapy to change his genetic code,” she said, amused.

“Unnecessary,” Spock said. “One can more easily block a scan than alter what is being scanned.”

She smiled again, but mirthlessly. “Yes, of course.”

“You are troubled?” Spock took his hands off the arms of the chair and placed them elegantly on his lap. He hoped to suggest a more open demeanor.

Studying his visage for a long moment, Zhatan tilted her head in curiosity. “What would you know about the realm of feelings?”

Raising a brow, Spock demurred. “I?” He shook his head. “Only that—as a Vulcan—I deal with very strong emotions which by necessity must be kept in check. I may be more informed on the topic of feelings than you assume.”

A trace of understanding touched her expression, and either she lost her tenuous grasp on it, or one of Zhatan’s many personalities thrust it away.

What had the captain seen and felt when melded with her? Spock couldn’t help but wonder. Having been connected to a collective consciousness before, he’d known the telepathic touch of more than one mind. But that instance was unique, where a single will dominated those linked to it. Zhatan’s situation was drastically different, with fewer personalities, but perhaps none truly in control.

Spock had chosen the path of the ill-considered mind-meld before. He didn’t wish to repeat past mistakes. But he was admittedly curious.

He pressed, “What specifically troubles you?”

For a few seconds, Zhatan seemed to be on the cusp of a reply. Looking away, she merely asked her next question, “How long do you expect before you have access to the Maabas archives?”

“Unknown,” Spock said. “The process ends when the correct combination of genes is blocked. I haven’t enough data to make a prediction.”

“How long
could
it take?” she asked.

Spock was only as frank as necessary. “Given the number of protein-coding genes within Maabas DNA, the process of elimination could take years.” Technically, that was correct, but didn’t account for that fact that Spock had programmed the tricorder to try only viable combinations. In actuality, the sequencer could run its course in four days.

“We don’t have years,” Zhatan told him.

“Would it be inappropriate to ask why?”

Once again she hesitated, and the machinations within were obvious. “The situation is . . . multifaceted,” she said finally, and very quietly, as if nervous that she might hear herself.

“Most situations seem complex from within. An external, impartial view can offer clarity.”

“Is that what you are?” Zhatan laughed. “Impartial?”

“I am not your enemy.” Spock was careful to say “I” and not “we.” He would not speak for the Federation, or even Starfleet, because aligning himself with others would not gain her trust.

“And we are not yours,” Zhatan said, but the answer was more perfunctory than meaningful.

“You seek to harm your conquerors,” Spock said. “Clearly, whatever war you fought with them was, at some point, won. Why pursue retribution in such haste?” Thinking it futile to convince her against revenge, he hoped first to hear why the Kenisian had a stringent timetable.

“Haste?” she scoffed. “This has been hundreds of years in the planning.”

“Would hundreds of years
and a day
be too long?”

A sneer curling her lips, Zhatan was roused to anger. “It would!”

Spock maintained his Vulcan calm, which he knew could be a risk. “Why?”

The commander answered without hesitation. “Because they rouse! We beat them back to the point where they had
no
ships,
no
cities! We crushed them back to the stone age, and in seven hundred years they have pulled themselves back to the warp age.”

“You did not commit genocide,” Spock said. “That was an admirable choice.”

“It was our ‘admirable’
mistake
!” She mashed her fist hard onto the desk in front of her. “We watched, oh we watched.” Zhatan launched to her feet and began to pace the room, pent-up tension venting itself through her gait. “After the war, to save their lives, and those of their children, we sentenced them to technological oblivion. They agreed. But within two generations they’d broken the pact. Ignored it! But we were watching.” She wagged a finger at Spock, as if she were lecturing him. “There was a time when, like you, we were a peaceful people. We decided not to obliterate them. So we merely destroyed their industrial base—again—and went on our way.”

Deducing the next part, Spock nodded. “But they rebuilt a third time.”

“Every fifty or sixty years,” she said, exasperated. “We would monitor from afar, and make visits when we had to . . . but we grew complacent. Their homeworld is far from where we settled, and we were swayed by their pleas. With time, we allowed basic technology.”

“But one innovation led to the next.”

“Yes. Now, they are ready to touch the stars again. Our probes show a highly active warp travel. A large fleet—and the building of a starbase.”

“And you believe they will use this base to launch an attack on you.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” She leaned down, palms flat against the tabletop, and looked him in the eye. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Spock said.

“Of course,
you
wouldn’t,” she sneered. “But any being who understood fear
would
.”

Pulling his hands across his chest, Spock interlocked his fingers and made his posture as impassive as he could. However, what he said he meant to sting. “I know fear, Commander. I’ve experienced it, and its negative ramifications. I’ve seen it force others to either condone or commit horrific acts. It is
your
fear, in fact, that would ask me to be complicit in a holocaust.”

He expected her to rage at him. Instead, Zhatan straightened and then dropped herself back into the chair. “I
am
afraid.” Eyes closed, she sounded exhausted. “There is no way back from this course.”

“I” again. There was most surely an individual within, even if it were in constant conflict with her other selves.

“There are alternatives to fear,” Spock told her quietly. “One can have an emotion without acting on it. One can use it to inform their feelings, but nothing more.”

“But we, Commander Spock, are not
merely
one,” Zhatan said. Her eyes opened suddenly, and once more they had grown cold.

ELEVEN

The sound of impact was a slow-motion crunch, as if someone had put the vessel in a vise and tightened it.

Dust and debris shook from overhead. Cables fell, insulation dropped, consoles spasmed.

Lights crackled off, and the red glare of backup lighting flicked on, then off again.

“Coolant leak, deck seven, section ten.”

“Circuit overloads, propulsion baker-one, alpha; linear section five-nine. Repeat
, Circ-O-L, P-B-one-A
, L-five-nine.”

“Auxiliary engaged.”

“Responding.”

“System status?”

“Null.
”

“Intercooler?”

“Stand by.”

“Fail-overs in tolerance.”

“Phaser systems?”

“Active.
”

“Photon control?”

“Nominal.”

The din of a starship during damage control. Training takes over, duty becomes paramount, and a captain hears and distinguishes it all.

The engines still whined, so Kirk knew they were moving. The sizzle of sparks from above had decreased, and the fans worked to pump out the acrid smoke. The lights were on, if a bit dimmer.
Enterprise
was alive and kicking.

The captain helped Sulu return to his seat at the helm, then noticed Chekov was already back at navigation. Behind them, Uhura stood, working her console, her chair tipped onto the deck at her side.

“Could be worse,” Kirk heard Chekov murmur.

Sulu shook his head. “Really?”

An engineering tech had fallen from the upper bridge onto the steps. She was bleeding from the top of her head, and Kirk called to Uhura as he helped the woman up. “Medical team to the bridge.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”

Her elbow shaking in his hand, Kirk sat her on the upper deck and looked at the gash that ran across her hairline. “That doesn’t look too bad.”

“I’m fine, Captain, it’s just a scalp cut.”

Returning to the command chair, the captain studied the tactical display on the main viewer. It confirmed what he knew—they weren’t out of danger.

“Multiple shockwaves overloaded our shields,” Jolma yelled to be heard over the din.

“Systems stabilizing,” Forbes said from the engineering station. “Shields holding at sixty-eight percent.”

Not enough.

“Hostile missiles still in pursuit,” Chekov said.

Retaking the center seat, Kirk scanned the tactical situation more closely. Several of the spheres had fallen into the planet, just as the captain had hoped. Too many were following them. Those they’d torpedoed had not only damaged the
Enterprise
, but sent some of their brethren to their demise.

The captain leaned forward toward navigation to make sure he was heard. “Mister Chekov, I need a torpedo spread as far back as you can. Try to thin the herd.” Kirk looked to the helm next. “Sulu, orbit close as possible.”

Enterprise
dove down again, and the missiles followed. Shields sizzled against the thickening planetary atmosphere.

“External view,” Kirk ordered, and the main viewer tactical display disappeared, while the image of the gas giant filled the rest of the screen. It roiled beneath them, an inhospitable place for a vacation home.

The captain moved to the edge of the command chair. “See that moonlet, Sulu?”

The helmsman looked up and nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“Use it,” Kirk ordered.

That was all Sulu needed to hear. Under his hands,
Enterprise
looped up and around the moonlet. His fingers pressed harshly at the controls, and yet moved elegantly at the same time. At his touch, the ship dove sharklike through a turn around the rock. The pilot-fish missiles followed. When Sulu pulled the ship harshly away, several more of the spheres slammed into the moonlet and other ring debris.

“Phasers, fire!” Kirk ordered.
Enterprise
connected blue threads to the closest, weakest targets.

One pursuer lost its engine and swiftly succumbed to the planet’s gravity. Another’s navigation sensors were scrambled, and it spiraled out of control until it hit three others and they all exploded into a massive ball of energy.

“Shockwave,” Jolma called, and they braced for the impact.

Sheets of energy slammed into
Enterprise
’s shields, rattling the ship. More dust fell from above, but nothing collapsed, and sparks didn’t fill the air as they had before. No one was tossed from their seats, only shaken in them.

On the main viewscreen, despite having turned away from the planet, an orange glow diffused across the screen from the starboard side.

Sulu glared down into his tactical display. “Another set of missiles struck the surface of the planet, sir.”

“They’re fast, but not that smart,” Kirk said.

As if to punish the captain for his brief moment of celebration, the engines complained with a whine which suggested the ship was losing power.

He glanced to Forbes at the engineering station.

“Structural integrity fields are down sixty percent, sir.”

The captain jammed the end of his fist onto the comm button. “Kirk to Scott.”

“Scott here
.
”
The engineer was out of breath and sounding haggard.
“Between the gravimetric pull of the planet and the force of the shockwaves, structural integrity field generators are overloaded.”

Kirk had known the engineer long enough not to haggle with him. “How long?”

“Keep her on an even keel for ten minutes
,
”
Scott said.
“And by ten, I wish I meant five, but I mean ten, sir
.
”

“Understood, Mister Scott. Ten minutes, but not a minute more. Kirk out.” He thumbed the button to close the channel and wondered how he would carve that long of a lull into an ongoing battle.

“Sulu, continue evasive. Move around the rings for now, in and out. Lose as many as possible, but keep us steady as you can.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Alert lights still flashing, but the klaxons thankfully muted, Kirk moved toward the science station. “Jolma.”

The captain noticed that the ensign instantly tensed when he said the young man’s name.

“Sir, one moment.”

The captain motioned to the screen above the station. “At ease, Jolma. Punch up the data on this star system.”

With a nod, Jolma worked quickly and diligently. He tried to stifle a cough, his lungs probably still smarting from the smoke.

Kirk realized his own throat stung and turned for a moment to Uhura. “Lieutenant, have someone bring us all some water.”

“Aye, sir.”

“I have it, Captain.” Jolma gestured to the screen and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his uniform cuff, all in one awkward movement.

On one screen scrolled the relevant data. On the other, a graph of the system, an orange circle representing the K-type star and its planets.

Kirk leaned over and hit a few buttons, changing the scope of the data. “What about an Oort cloud?”

On the screen above them, the graphic of the system zoomed out until a multicolored, hazy ovoid shape appeared, encapsulating the star.

“There is a lot of mass out there, sir,” Jolma said.

“Yes. And just waiting for us.” Kirk strode back down to the command chair, briefly taking notice of Chekov’s confused expression as the navigator turned from his station.

“Waiting for us?” Chekov asked.

“Waiting for us, Mister Chekov.” The captain returned to the center seat.

“Make for the Oort cloud. Gentlemen, find us the biggest comets, rocks, or other planetesimals you can, and plot a circuitous route.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Come along for the ride
, the captain thought as his ship sped away. The tactical display showed the missiles tracking and trailing her. “That’s it,” he said quietly. “Follow us down the rabbit hole.”

At maximum impulse, the travel time to the system’s Oort cloud was less than what Scott needed. The
Enterprise
tacked back and forth, forging a path of zigs and zags. The structural integrity fields were needed to supplement the ship’s structure, but the stress Kirk had placed on those systems when in close orbit around a gas giant and dodging missiles was far greater than what was needed for the simple maneuvers they used now. It would give the engineers a chance to make their repairs.

Damage control teams fanned out across the ship to clear debris, reroute power where possible, and replace circuits when needed. Support teams also came with small bars of nourishment and thermoses of water. The captain waved off the protein supplement but was grateful for the drink. “Thank you, yeoman,” he told the man who handed him a cup.

The bridge continued to be a hub of activity as Sulu and Chekov worked to keep the
Enterprise
on an “even keel” and the missiles at bay.

As one closed on them, a twist starboard or port and a well-aimed phaser shot would knock the sphere off course. They didn’t need to destroy the missiles—disabling them was enough.

Three more closed, and all were dispatched with a mixture of phasers and torpedoes.

“They are very stubborn, sir,” Chekov said.

“So are we,” Kirk assured him, but the captain was as frustrated as the navigator. Every moment they spent in this system was one they lost in their pursuit of the Kenisian vessel.

After nine and a half minutes, Kirk called down to his engineer.

“Mister Scott, give me the good word.”

“We’re just finishing, sir.”
Scott sounded restored, refreshed—as if making repairs to his engines caused a similar rejuvenation in the engineer.
“We’ve replaced the primaries and bolstered the shielding on the secondary
.”

“As usual, Mister Scott, you’ve earned your pay. Kirk out.” He hit the arm of the chair, closing the channel, and inched forward in his chair. “Now, Mister Sulu, we pull them into the cloud.”

The helmsman smiled. “Aye, aye, sir.”

An Oort cloud wasn’t a tight asteroid field, although this one had more mass than Kirk had seen in any other planetary system. Piloting between icy planetesimals wasn’t difficult, and none of them would have enough gravity to be a problem for either the
Enterprise
or her pursuers.

“A nice big rock, Mister Chekov.” The captain smiled, reveling in the fresh idea. “We’re going to play some billiards.”

Kirk could tell the navigator was grinning. “Yes, sir.”

The ship swerved toward the first rock within range. The Kenisian missiles followed. Chekov and Sulu worked in concert, meticulously operating their consoles.

Nodding at the small planetoid on the main viewer, Kirk twisted toward Jolma. “Ensign, plot fissure points on that planetoid and feed information to the targeting sensors.”

“Aye, sir.” His voice steady, Jolma seemed pleased there was something proactive he could do.

Certainly the captain was.

The object wasn’t as large as many Kirk had seen or even landed on with a shuttle. But that was good. He needed a smaller body—one that could be cleaved.

“Get it between us and them, Sulu.”

The captain didn’t have to worry about turning it into rubble and the possible ramifications to planetary life. Debris was exactly what he wanted.

Sliding over and then in front of the huge rock,
Enterprise
spat torpedoes at very specific points.

Chemical flame and plasma fire erupted as they sped away.

“Reverse angle on viewer,” Kirk ordered. As the small planetesimal shrank away from them, molten rock burst in all directions. One missile after another spiraled off course. Some exploded upon impact with the white-hot ejecta, causing shockwaves which disabled or destroyed others behind them. But many were agile enough to avoid the destruction and continue pursuit.

The captain watched for changes on the tactical display. The number of hostile contacts had dropped, but not enough.

“On to the next one, gentlemen,” Kirk said, releasing a long pull of breath.

And the next one went much the same, and more enemy missiles were destroyed.

Enterprise
rounded yet another planetoid, this one much larger than the first two.

Was it too large to break up easily? The captain didn’t think so, just a little more.

“Give this one a little extra, Mister Chekov.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jolma did his part, feeding the targeting computer with the best locations to strike the mass to cause it to fracture. Chekov and Sulu handled their tasks as well, maneuvering the ship and firing on the mega-asteroid. The captain thought the extra salvo would be enough.

He was wrong.

PIPPENGE WAS AFRAID.
He rocked nervously back and forth, and Spock assumed it was a Maabas custom to ameliorate anxiety. It did not seem to be working.

“Ambassador.” When Pippenge didn’t reply, Spock leaned over and gently whispered again. “Ambassador?”

While continuing to rock, he angled his head toward the Vulcan and seemed attentive enough.

“I understand your apprehension,” Spock said. “But we must acquit ourselves as rationally as possible if we’re to achieve our goals.”

Pippenge nodded, but did not cease his movement.

James Kirk excelled in at least one area Spock did not: the ability to act impulsively—based on what the captain called his “gut”—and somehow attain his sought-after goal.

If rash action was called for, Spock was at a loss on how to determine just what act that should be.

Was it possible to dispose of the prototype mines before they could be used? Unlikely. At least not in a way that they could not be easily regained. And the consequences could be severe enough that he’d be helpless to act further.

Could he destroy the Kenisian vessel? Perhaps. But Spock’s access to essential systems was severely limited, and should he manage it, the
na’hubis
could be catalyzed, rendering the reason for his sabotage moot.