Crisis of Consciousness (5 page)

In reality, it might not matter. Kirk often had to negotiate with more than one person—a council, a prefect on a short leash, a ship’s commander who answered to higher ranking officials. Perhaps this would be no different.

Ambassador Pippenge seemed to come to the same conclusion. “If I may, Ambassador Zhatan, you are both intelligent and, most certainly, learned in many areas.” Palms down on the table, he spread his fingers wide and pressed down slightly, releasing his tension physically rather than through his voice. “Why did you attack us?”

Even though the attack was on the
Enterprise
, Pippenge said “us,” Kirk noticed.

So did Zhatan. “Us?”

“Once in our star system, the
Enterprise
is our guest,” Pippenge explained.

True, though with the treaty already signed,
Enterprise
was an aligned vessel.

“At the time, we thought it a Maabas warship.” Zhatan dismissed the attack with a wave of her hand, as if her perception that the
Enterprise
was the enemy justified the attack.

Pippenge pursed his lips. “We have no warships.”

At that statement, the Kenisian ambassador and war commander grinned. She seemed to smile a lot, Kirk thought, and he wondered if it was a smile from Zhatan, or if it was a variety of consciousnesses that turned her lips upward. Could he ever know who was behind the ominous grin? How, he wondered, did her . . .
condition
work?

“No warships. Isn’t that interesting,” she said, staring at Pippenge, and though it was phrased as a question, it clearly was not.

“We’re prepared,” Kirk said, pulling their attention back to him, “to negotiate a peace between your two peoples.”

“What is your interest in this planet?” Zhatan asked the question, but Kirk sensed a different tone than before. Again, he wondered just who within her was doing the asking.

“Cultural and scientific,” Kirk replied. “The Federation’s treaty with the Maabas fosters that exchange.”

“One doesn’t need a treaty to exchange ideas. One only needs a method of communication.” Zhatan nodded slightly, as if she’d won some point in a debate. “What else does your treaty cover?”

Kirk was no fool, and now
he
smiled to let her know that. “You’re asking if Federation protection is part of the agreement.”

Still smiling, she nodded.

“It is,” Kirk said, a bit more coolly, and gave Pippenge the briefest of supportive glances.

“Protection from?”

“Threats.” Kirk’s one-word answer hung there, and as Zhatan considered it, her smile faded.

She leaned back a bit in the chair and steepled her fingers in a manner that Spock often had. “Will you fight a war for them?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Kirk felt his face tighten again, and he knew his smile had long faded as well. “Will it?”

THREE

“We do not wish war with you.”

The captain could see Zhatan was hesitant. The phrasing bordered on equivocation. She might not want war, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to fight one.

“She” was perhaps an inappropriate pronoun. Were there different sexes within this woman?

“No one
wants
war,” Kirk said. “But wars are still fought.” He looked squarely at Zhatan. Her high cheekbones were devoid of makeup, but he noticed a natural, healthy green tinge. “The question isn’t if you
want
war, it’s will you
make
war?”

Zhatan let that question sit for quite a long time, and it was an uncomfortable moment. She blinked at Kirk a few times, then said, “As you might imagine, we are of more than one mind on that question.”

It sounded like a pun, and Kirk thought he heard Scott snort, but there was no humor in Zhatan’s expression.

“Some,” she continued, “are strongly in favor of talking with the Maabas—and the Federation.” Zhatan leaned back, frowning. “And some are very adamantly against that course.”

“How do you balance all those different personalities?” Uhura asked in a gentle, forgiving tone, as if she knew it was a difficult task and was sympathetic to it.

“There
is
some effort involved in keeping us all working with each other rather than against,” Zhatan admitted.

“Since the time of Surak, Vulcans have established certain mental disciplines to control their emotions. The Kenisians may have developed something similar,” Spock said.

Zhatan—or one of the personalities within her, at least—disagreed, but leveled her comment to Uhura, who’d asked the original question. “Kenisian mental controls do not struggle with the emotions of one mind, but a far higher number. Spock compares the gripping of twigs by a small primate to the intricate construction of a musical instrument by a master craftsman. Hardly apt.”

Eyebrows arched, Spock looked at Zhatan with some intent. Had he been insulted? If so, he’d not rise to the bait.

It was difficult to look at the Kenisian and not think “Vulcan,” but that would be a mistake. Whatever genetics they might share, Zhatan’s demeanor was not like that of any Vulcan Kirk had ever met. Culture and philosophy weren’t inherited but learned, and a Vulcan who was without an adherence to reason was a disconcerting thing.

And Zhatan did unsettle Kirk. Her initial demeanor had been far more thoughtful, he noticed—even somewhat demure at times. Now her voice was anything but.

“So, you’re not hampered by this? It’s not difficult?” McCoy asked.

“Not in the least.”

“The whole is greater than the sum of the parts,” the captain murmured.

Zhatan seemed pleased with that phrasing, and she nodded her approval.

“Just how many ‘people’ are in ya?” Scott spoke for the first time during the meeting, and the Kenisian commander paused to examine the engineer before she answered. Was she giving the several different personalities within her enough time to evaluate him and decide their answer?

“Four hundred thirteen,” she replied simply, and seemed to enjoy Scott’s quiet gasp.

“That’s . . . almost the crew complement of this vessel.” Kirk tried to wrap his mind around the concept. It was difficult enough commanding that number of people—what if their thoughts were merged with his own? How would he cope?

Did hundreds of personalities decide what Zhatan said? Who she loved? What she wore? Did one like stripes while another liked polka dots? Was one a rash commander while another was more cautious? Who was “she” and what part did “they” play?

“Are they all deceased?” McCoy asked.

She paused, and her expression turned sad for a moment before recovering. “Most are long decayed. Some are merely infirm, however, and unable to abide their physical forms any longer.” Zhatan motioned down her trunk, indicating her body. “Kenisian culture breeds selectively for this purpose.”

Did Zhatan see her body as her own, or was it given to whatever personality needed to live on through it? What happened if she were struck by disease and there were two possible treatments, and the incorporated minds disagreed as to which course to take? Was there a vote?

Zhatan seemed amused at his obvious confusion. “For you it is an alien concept, we can see. But this method allows past generations to live on.”

“Logical,” Spock said.

“Is it?” Dr. McCoy leveled a sideways glare. There was something in Zhatan’s description that had ruffled McCoy’s feathers.

The Vulcan’s brow furrowed for a short instant as he explained his reasoning. “The Kenisians reduce their drain on resources while keeping alive the knowledge and culture of a far larger population.”

“Death, Mister Spock, is a natural part of life. Cheating that could make a person—or a people—arrogant.” McCoy turned to Zhatan and added a softer note. “I mean no offense, Ambassador.”

There was something to what McCoy was saying, Kirk thought. If an entire people were immortal, they might look down upon beings with one natural life span.

“We are not offended,” she said, and smiled at the doctor with the same electric connection Kirk had felt leveled at himself and Spock. “There
is
difficulty, at times, reconciling the values of the older generations with my own.”

So was there effort to control her situation, or wasn’t there? She had now offered each a separate explanation.

“Which of the generations within you,” Kirk asked pointedly, “want Maaba S’Ja back?”

“All of them,” she replied without hesitation. “We understand that the Maabas have considered this their home for thousands of years, but it was ours far longer.”

“Then why did you abandon it?” Pippenge’s voice was low and thick with emotion. Since he was hunched over the table, the ambassador’s height wasn’t evident, and he looked like an already defeated man.

Kirk noticed he didn’t say “leave,” but chose the word “abandon.”

In contrast to Pippenge’s tone, Zhatan’s was smooth and strong. “We were invaded and driven from our world. But having survived, despite our oppressor’s attempts to end our lives, we are ready to return home.”

Pippenge looked as if he’d tasted something sour. If the Kenisian vessel was but one of a fleet—or even if it was alone—the Maabas were at an extreme disadvantage. “We are a peaceful people—”

“As were we,” Zhatan said, but in her eyes Kirk saw no sadness, despite what her voice tried to impart. “The ravages of war transformed us. It’s not a change we care to visit on you, but we want what is rightfully ours.” This last sentence sounded more threat than anything else.

“Perhaps we . . .” Pippenge began so quietly that Kirk instinctively leaned a bit closer. “We could . . . share this system.”

Zhatan seemed to consider it, and then, in a flurry, asked Pippenge several questions. “Divided how? What if you’re living on a piece of land that was once ours? Perhaps one of your people now owns a farming valley that belongs to another and that individual wants to see it tilled by his progeny? What if we don’t care for certain technological developments you’ve introduced into our ecosystem? What have you done with our buildings and artifacts? In what museum or under what microscope have you spirited away our culture?”

Pippenge opened his mouth a moment, then closed it and remained silent. He had no answers to those questions.

For her part, Zhatan seemed almost as uncertain as Pippenge. Her eyes darted from Kirk, to the Maabas ambassador, to Spock, and back again. What kind of battle was going on within her, and which of several factions would win out?

The captain held out his hand, both figuratively and literally. “This is what treaties are for. We may not be able to work out the details in one meeting, but over time an agreement can be forged—without violence. Without bloodshed.” He looked into Zhatan’s eyes and tried to connect with all the minds she harbored. “Let the Federation mediate. Let us help.”

Kirk’s attempt at persuasion was seemingly lost on her. “We’re not sure that is agreeable to our comrades both within and without,” she admitted. “Tell me, Captain.” Turning fully to Kirk, Zhatan met his eyes. Perhaps she was trying to discern his true intentions—as if he wasn’t being forthright. “Will you stand in our way if we take back what is ours? We have no quarrel with the
Enterprise
or your Federation.”

This question was exactly what Kirk hadn’t wanted to hear. How could he answer? He didn’t know the extent of the Kenisian fleet, their alliances, their resources.

At the same time, the Federation would not sign a treaty with the Maabas, then abandon them. While the agreement didn’t make them a member of the Federation, it promised them protection. The Maabas were not some pre-warp civilization that couldn’t be interfered with. They were, in fact, on the path to Federation membership.

“We don’t want a quarrel with you, either.” Kirk decided to walk an ambiguous line with Zhatan, rather than directly answer her question. “Take our proposal for mediation back to your people. All of them.” He opened both arms as if the offer sat between them. “Discuss it—thoughtfully—knowing that both your cultures and peoples would benefit from a lasting peace.”

Hesitating for an uncomfortably long time, Zhatan finally nodded to herself—or perhaps to one of the multitude of minds within her—and reached out her hand to Kirk. “Your words will be considered.”

He took her hand, ready to forge an agreement based on a meeting of the minds. The captain felt good about it and his concerns melted away. He was sure an accord could be reached. The Maabas would make an agreement with the Kenisians, and if they didn’t, it would be their loss.

But the Federation shouldn’t take sides, Kirk decided. Not only were the Maabas intruders to this system, but the Federation was as well.

In fact, it would likely be best if
Enterprise
left. Yes, he should leave and never return.

I should tell Chekov to set a course back to DS5
, Kirk thought.
That would be the best option. The Maabas aren’t worth our blood. Nothing is.

He let go of Zhatan’s hand and moved to the intercom on the table.

The captain hesitated, his thumb hovering over the control.
Set course,
Kirk thought.
Leave this system.

It’s the right thing to do.
Wasn’t it? Let the Maabas handle their own affairs. Who are we to force ourselves into this dispute?

The treaty had a protection clause, but the decision to take action could be left up to Starfleet Command.

I can recommend to Command that we don’t get involved; that the treaty with the Maabas was a mistake. A
new
treaty with the Kenisians would be just as fruitful.
More
.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Kirk said softly. “We must leave.”

Spock leapt from his seat and stepped between the captain and Zhatan. “Release him.”

Kirk blinked several times. “Spock, what’re you doing?”

Motioning the guards forward, Spock had them take Zhatan in hand. Each security officer took an elbow and drew her back.

“Release him,” Spock repeated, and the words seemed foggy to Kirk—distant. “Now.”

The captain looked at Zhatan and she returned his gaze. She smiled brilliantly, friendly and peaceful.

And yet, it seemed out of place. Wrong, even. As if no one should be smiling just now, but for a reason Kirk couldn’t quite remember.

The Vulcan stepped toward Zhatan and the guards. Pulling his hand back, he slapped her across the face—twice.

“Sp-spock?” Kirk blinked again.
What’s happening?

“Spock, what the devil are you doing?” McCoy rushed to make sure Zhatan was okay, but the Vulcan blocked his attempt.

“Stand back, Doctor.”

Spock struck her again, Zhatan grunted in pain, and Kirk felt his knees collapse.

The deck came up to greet him and then diffused into nothingness. He tried to push himself up, but wasn’t sure the thought could connect to an actual movement. There was no sensation outside his last, fleeting thought,
I am alone.

SICKBAY.

Jim Kirk could smell it—that air-scrubbed aroma that was less a scent than a lack of one. He could feel the light on his eyelids as he tried to pull them open. The overwhelming brightness wouldn’t allow it, but he was able to partially open one eye. Above him stood a blurry McCoy.

“Neck . . . hurts,” Kirk managed to croak out, and he seemed to announce it at the same time he realized the sharp pain.

“I’ll get you something for that.” McCoy’s tone was warm, laced with concern.

“No,” Kirk said, his voice a slow syrup. He would use the pain—let it be the sensation that pulled him back to reality.

At the same time, his muscles were weak. The captain struggled to move, as if a force field were pushing down on him. Kirk inched himself up against it, and McCoy helped by grabbing an extra pillow and placing it underneath his head and neck.

Once propped up, Kirk relaxed into it and the light became a bearable glare. The neck pain, while still throbbing, spread itself in all directions, becoming a head-and-upper-back ache.

To McCoy’s right stood Spock, hands behind his back. Past him was Nurse Chapel, who was biting her lower lip, a hypo grasped in her hand.

“What happened?” Kirk’s voice scraped like gravel.

“You were assaulted,” Spock said matter-of-factly. “A type of Kenisian mind-meld. It began when she touched your hand and continued after physical contact was broken.”

Kirk felt his jaw slacken, and his mouth opened in shock. He noticed it was dry.
“After?”

“Ambassador Zhatan is an extremely strong telepath.” Spock said “ambassador” as if the title was dubious. “She’s being held in the brig.”

The captain swallowed hard. “Water.”

Chapel moved to get him a cup and was back with it quickly. He took a sip, held its coolness on his tongue for a long moment, then let it drift down his parched throat.

When Kirk spoke again, his voice was near normal. “How long was I out?”