Worlds in Collision (58 page)

McCoy was more forthright. “Those ignorant fools.”

“It's not their fault, Bones,” Kirk said. “It's a massive equipment malfunction. They trusted too much to their computers. Or maybe—”

“Captain Kirk, all radio frequencies are jammed, sir.” Uhura jabbed at her controls in frustration. “Nothing can get through. Not even the Talin's own messages.”

“Can you broadcast on subspace and phase down to radio frequencies once you're past the jamming boundary?” Kirk asked.

Uhura looked at Spock. “Mr. Spock, I'll need your help to—”

“I will begin the proper sensor alignment,” Spock said.

Kirk stared at the screen, willing the miniature suns that grew silently on it to disappear. On the planet's nightside, the arc of atmosphere already glowed red from the firestorms that had erupted.

“Where are those phasers, Mr. Chekov?”

“Sir, targeting modes are not working. I can't lock on to anything.”

Kirk was out of his chair. “What do you mean not working?”

“I am not getting a target-acquisition return signal. Perhaps it is the jamming….” Chekov kept trying to reset his weapons systems, over and over.

“But those signals go over subspace,” Kirk protested, going to Chekov's station. “Uhura said the jamming was in the electromagnetic spectrum.”

Then Spock called for the captain. “Subspace frequencies are jammed as well.”

“What? That's impossible! The Talin don't have the technology.”

Spock looked up from his scope. “Nevertheless, subspace is jammed, sir.”

“Could it be an effect of all the fusion explosions?” There were still more of them. The planet looked as if its core had exploded and was bursting through its shell.

“Perhaps, Captain, but our sensors are useless.”

“What if we went in closer? Boosted power to all subspace systems and punched through the interference.”

“That could work,” Spock decided.

“Sulu! Take us in past the jamming layer.”

Sulu hesitated for an instant. “Sir, that will take us through the ionosphere and into the atmosphere proper.”

“Won't be the first time,” Kirk said, fists clenched. “Take us in.”

The
Enterprise
fell for the planet.

Within seconds, the rough buffeting of atmospheric flight shook the bridge.

“Chekov, try those phasers again.”

The whine of the phaser capacitors echoed through the bridge.

“They're working!” Chekov cried triumphantly. “Limited range but they're working!”

“Uhura, try the self-destruct signals again.”

“Yes, sir. Getting some response, sir.”

Then Chekov screamed and flew from his chair as his navigation board erupted in sparks and flame. McCoy ran to him. Richter kept muttering to himself.

“Subspace feedback through phaser targeting system,” Spock said.

Cardinali and Mallett broke out oxygen eaters from the emergency lockers and began spraying the sputtering console to help the automatic damage-control systems. Sulu stayed at his post, blackened with soot, breathing smoke. The ship bucked wildly.

“Shock waves from multiple explosions,” he said, hands moving feverishly over the controls. “It's like flying through water, sir.”

Uhura gasped and pulled her earpiece from her ear.

“Subspace feedback on all com channels,” Spock said. “This is not a natural phenomenon. This is a deliberate attempt to—”

“Incoming missiles!” Sulu shouted.

“Impossible!” Kirk answered.

“We have been targeted,” Spock confirmed. “Missiles are locked.”

“They can't do this!” Kirk said. “They don't have the capability.”

The com page sounded. Scott's voice came over the line. “Scott to bridge. If ye don't mind me asking, what the hell's going on up there?”

“Five seconds to impact,” Spock announced.

“Full power to shields, Scotty! Now! Now! Sulu, get us out of—”

The viewscreen flared brilliant white until the visual compensators cut in. The ship shuddered as if it had smashed into solid rock. Uhura fell from her chair. Spock slammed over the railing. Richter cried out. And all Kirk could hear was every bridge alarm screaming at him in betrayal.

“Captain!” Sulu cried. “Impulse is gone. We're in free fall. Impact on planet's surface in one minute.”

The rush of air outside the hull rose in a frantic wail.

Kirk felt his heart stop. There was only one way out. But it was madness. Madness.

“Warp us out,
Sulu. Warp us out!”

Scotty shouted over the intercom. “Captain! We're within the Danylkiw Limit. Too deep in the gravity well. We won't survive the transition.”

“Now, Sulu! There's no other—”

The hull metal shrieked and the ship twisted as another flight of missiles detonated against her shields. Spock pulled himself back to his feet. Green blood flooded his eyes from a gash on his forehead. Mallett sat beside Sulu, trying desperately to bring any of Chekov's nav controls back on line.

“Thirty seconds to impact!” Sulu cried. “Going to warp…now!”

It was like death.

The viewscreen went to black. The lights cut out. Gravity failed and there was only a long endless fall into utter darkness. Then the emergency lights flickered back on and Kirk saw everything before him blur in a highspeed vibration.

“Emergency systems on line,” Spock said, voice distorted. Partial gravity returned. Color trails flickered from every object as local time slowed down.

Scott's voice was plaintive, slow, and warbling over the commlink. “Warp generators are runaway. Linked to singularity on runaway.”

“Jettison nacelle s!” Kirk felt trapped in thick liquid. The
Enterprise
had to cut her warp space link to Talin IV's gravity well or they would become trapped in an endless moment of time.

“Crew evacuation complete!” Spock rumbled. “Starboard nacelle away!”

Kirk felt stretched like rubber. The viewscreen flickered to show the infinite fractal nightmare of the gravitational wormhole that loomed hungrily before them. He felt a part of him wrenched away as the long white graceful form of the starboard warp nacelle flew down the maw of the beast—distorted in dizzying eddies of higher dimensional realities.

Gravity failed and they fell again. His hands gripped the sides of his chair. His feet hooked under the seat to hold him in place. Someone flew through the air beside him. Equipment consoles flared and sparked.

No!
Kirk thought.
I won't let you go. I won't let you go alone.

“Port nacelle locked in position!” Spock said. “Cannot jettison!”

Only one more chance,
Kirk thought.
Worse than the last.

He ordered Spock to eject all matter and antimatter into the wormhole. Spock didn't argue. If the singularity won, they would not even know death—only the torment of being forever trapped in the instant just before the end.

Kirk saw the twin ionized jets of matter and antimatter stream down the wormhole with agonizing slowness. Then at last they met and interacted.

The screen went blank. Time stopped.

Kirk fell into oblivion.

He awoke to the sound of a spray hypo. McCoy stared down at him. The doctor's face was haggard and bloodsmeared. “Good,” he said. Then he moved on.

Kirk pushed himself from the floor of the bridge. He did it on a lean because the gravity field was out of alignment, placing the floor on a relative five-degree angle. Smoke filled the air. He heard moans. Half the station displays were out. The other half flickered with gibberish. Only a few battery lights were working, making the whole area dark and murky.

Spock staggered to Kirk's side, a greensoaked bandage covering a gash on his forehead. “It worked,” he said hoarsely. “The matter-antimatter explosion pushed us past the Danylkiw Limit into normal space.”

“But what else did it do?” Kirk asked. His ship was dying around him. “How long have I been out?”

“Three minutes, eighteen seconds,” Spock said. He seemed weak, distracted. “Every transtator circuit in the ship appears to be fused. The subspace energy pulse directed at us was…incredible.”

“But from where?”

“Unknown, Captain.” He coughed roughly. “Unknown.”

Kirk saw a shape move onto the viewscreen. It was Talin. The planet was on fire. The entire planet. It floated across the screen, then disappeared. The
Enterprise
spun slowly, adrift in space.

“We are quite powerless,” Spock said before Kirk could ask.

Kirk heard a dull thudding noise and then one of the kick-in panels by the turbolift popped out of position. Scott appeared holding a hand light that sent a solid shaft of light through the smoke. He was followed by two medical technicians. Oddly, the kick-in panel on the other side of the lift was also open.

“Ah, thank heavens you're all right, Captain. I couldn't know that any of you had survived. The com system's out. The turbolift's…” He saw Talin pass by the viewscreen again. “Och, no…how did it happen? And what happened to the ship?”

“We were attacked by Talin missiles,” Spock said flatly.

Kirk watched Scott's reaction to that. The fact that the Talin had attacked the
Enterprise
meant that without a doubt they had known the ship was in orbit around their planet—in direct and flagrant violation of the Prime Directive. Scott was a good officer. He'd know what he would have to do next under those circumstances.

McCoy came up beside Kirk. “Everyone here will be all right, Jim. But I can't find Mallett or Cardinali.”

Wilforth limped up the rise of the deck. “But they were here,” he coughed. “They were here when…”

“It's all right, sir,” Scott said. “We passed them in the ladderways heading down to check on their equipment. But Mr. Spock, are ye sure that the Talin missiles were directed at the
Enterprise
herself?”

Kirk put his hand on Scott's shoulder. “They were, Scotty. The Talin knew we were here. They came after us.”

Scott looked at the screen. He looked at Talin dying in the heat of a thousand killing suns. Already more than half the planet was enshrouded in brown and black clouds.

“Och, Captain Kirk,” he said weakly. Kirk saw the knowledge in the engineer's eyes. Scott had not been on the bridge. That made him untainted, and the next in line.

“It's all right, Scotty,” Kirk said gently. “You know what you have to do.”

“But, Captain, I…”

Kirk couldn't look at his chief engineer. “Damn it, Scotty. You're a Starfleet officer. You
know
what you have to do.”

Scott nodded. The funeral fires of Talin filled the bridge with their hideous glow. “Aye,” he said. “That I do.”

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott faced his captain.

“James Kirk, as per Starfleet Command Regulation 7, Paragraph 4, you must now consider yourself under arrest, unless in the presence of these fellow officers you give satisfactory answer to the charge which I now bring.” Scott faltered, but only for an instant. “Sir, I charge you with knowingly and willfully contravening Starfleet's Prime Directive as set forth in General Order One. Can you answer that charge, sir?”

Kirk shook his head. There was nothing more that could be done. He had destroyed his ship.

He had destroyed a world.

“James Kirk, you are relieved of your command.” Scott looked toward the viewscreen.

Talin burned.

“And whatever gods there are,” he whispered, “may they have mercy on your soul.”

The subtle incense that lingered in the air of the embassy's waiting hall reminded Spock of his childhood. The scent had been one of his mother's favorites at the time and he was surprised at the memories that were so suddenly unlocked without effort. He realized then that he did not know when he would see Vulcan again and that the thought of never returning troubled him. He knew that reaction was not logical and decided that he would meditate on it later that evening to understand whatever had brought that feeling to him, and to control it. But in the meantime, he smelled the fragrance of kevas and trillium and in his mind he saw his mother's smile.

Beside him, Marita's baby snuffled sleepily. Spock wondered if the child, when grown, would have any recollection of his visit to the Vulcan Embassy on this day. Perhaps when the child smelled the incense again, Spock decided. The ancient structures of the Vulcan and human brain were almost identical, and scent was a key to the deepest of their memories. Spock found the linkage between scent and memory to be an interesting problem. Mentally, he began to manipulate three-dimensional images of airborne molecules to picture how they would fit within Vulcan and human olfactory nerve receptors. At the same time, he reviewed his arguments for the discussion that would follow in the next few minutes. Behind him, past the doors of the harshly lit, black granite–tiled chamber, he heard footsteps approaching, perfectly measured.

“He is coming,” Spock said.

Sitting beside him on the carved rock bench, Marita looked up, puzzled. She had heard nothing but, refreshingly for a human, she did not question him. Spock had concluded it was because she was younger than most other humans he usually dealt with—only twenty-two. And despite her involvement in politics, she was still in college, still learning about her world and open to new experiences—including having a Vulcan staying with her and her partner in their small student flat.

Marita brushed a lock of long brown hair from her face and adjusted the position of her child as he snuggled into her arm. Alexander Llorente was five months old and thus far had observed proper decorum for his surroundings.

“I don't know if this is correct in the circumstances,” the young woman said, “but good luck, Mr. Spock.”

If she had been another person, and this had been another time, Spock might have tried to correct Marita. But he understood the cultural conventions which made her offer the superstitious wish and he accepted it as the gesture of support it was meant to be.

“Thank you. But in the affairs of Vulcan diplomacy, luck is seldom a factor.”

“Then for the Talin,” Marita said, not wishing to give offense.

“Yes,” Spock agreed. “For the Talin.”

The chamber doors swung open on perfectly balanced hinges constructed without metal. Spock rose and Marita followed. She smoothed her long skirt where her blanket-wrapped child had caused it to bunch up.

Spock held his hand up in the ritual salute. “Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sytok.”

Vulcan's ambassador to Earth was magisterial in his poise and the elegant simplicity of the black robes he wore were matched in tone by Spock's own somber brown tunic and leggings. Though he did not react, Spock was disappointed that Sytok was not garbed in his ambassador's robe and jewels of office. This discussion would have had more of a chance to forward his cause if the ambassador had chosen to treat it as a formal meeting.

Sytok raised his own hand to return the salute. His face was perfectly expressionless and the short fringe of graying hair which lay across his forehead was crisply trimmed. “Live long and prosper, Spock? Have you so forgotten the ways of your home that you must speak in this alien tongue?”

Spock hadn't expected to be insulted and quickly reformulated a new and more forthright strategy for the meeting. “My associate is not experienced in the subtleties of the diplomatic dialects,” Spock explained, nodding toward Marita. In truth, she barely could manage to say hello in the primary Vulcan language.

“I am pleased to meet you, your Excellency,” Marita said.

Sytok glanced at her as if seeing her for the first time. He said nothing and Marita was uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.

The ambassador turned back to Spock without acknowledging the young woman. “What is the purpose of your request for this audience?”

“I had thought it would be apparent,” Spock said innocuously, returning his own insult to Sytok.

“Your actions and motives have passed beyond the bounds of logic, Spock.”

“Logic can be subtle. Patterns can be difficult to see if one's own vision is clouded,” Spock countered. He watched as Sytok calculated the time remaining until his next appointment. How long was the ambassador willing to spend in the exchange of purposeless barbs? However long it was, Spock knew Sytok would not be able to wait him out. The ambassador was busy and Spock had nothing but time.

“Debates are best left to students,” Sytok said. “I presume you wish aid in returning to Vulcan. Therefore, the embassy will provide—”

“No,” Spock said. He hid his surprise completely. Could it be that Sytok had not deduced the reason for his visit, even with Marita at his side? But then, Sytok had not deigned to be introduced to the woman. Perhaps he hadn't recognized her.

“There was a fifty-five percent chance you would be seeking financial aid for a return ticket to Vulcan,” Sytok said impassively. “There is a further thirty percent chance that you are, instead, seeking passage to a Vulcan colony world.”

Spock could not resist. “What is the calculated chance that I do not wish to leave Earth at this time?”

Sytok hesitated, but only for an instant. “One point five percent.”

Spock angled his head condescendingly. “I do not wish to leave Earth at this time.”

Sytok was silent. Spock deduced that the ambassador or his staff had not bothered to devise a response for something that had seemed so improbable.

“I require the help of the Vulcan embassy,” Spock began.

“You are still a citizen of the Federation. You require no consular help to stay on Earth.”

Spock was astounded that Sytok still hadn't realized what it was he planned. The ambassador was one of Vulcan's finest.

“There is a meeting of the Federation General Council in five days,” Spock continued.

Sytok remained impassive, even though Spock knew there was no doubt that he had at last surmised what Spock wanted.

“I wish to address it,” Spock said.

“That is quite impossible.”

“No, it is not.”

Marita looked from the ambassador to Spock and back again. Neither Vulcan moved nor blinked as each stared into the other's eyes. Alexander opened his eyes as if he, too, were aware of the intense argument that raged in the subdued fashion of the Vulcans.

“This embassy will not help you,” Sytok finally said.

“You do not have a choice,” Spock stated. “You must.”

“Spock, you have been trained as a scientist. I cannot expect you to know the intricate legal restrictions involving interstellar law and—”

“I know the law,” Spock interrupted. “We had the same teacher.” Spock's father, Sarek, was Vulcan's most senior ambassador and in an earlier time, before their bitter estrangement and eventual reconciliation, he had hoped his son would follow in his career path.

For the first time, Sytok allowed an expression to come to his face. He frowned, the corners of his mouth moving down a fraction of a centimeter, and spoke stiffly to Spock.

“I acknowledge that I came up through the corps with your father's guidance and instruction. I was his assistant at three Babel conferences. I both respect him and I honor him. It is because of that respect and that honor that I agreed to this unorthodox meeting.”

“By law, I am a Vulcan,” Spock pressed on. “By law, you are required to grant my request for an audience. Respect and honor have little to do with it.”

“The waiting list for such audiences is more than seven Earth months long, Spock. It has been only three days since your request to see me.”

“I thank you for your speed in complying.”

Sytok frowned again. “But this is all the time I can allocate to you. I—”

“Ambassador Sytok, I wish to address the Federation General Council,” Spock repeated formally. “And you have the authority and the obligation to allow me to do so.”

Sytok said nothing. To Spock, it was acknowledgment that his argument was correct.

“I will also require the assistance of a junior member of your staff in order to file the proper briefs with the Council recorders,” Spock added. “Of course, temporary civilian accreditation will also be necessary, for myself and my associate.”

Sytok looked at the woman again, as if he had suddenly recollected the presence of the young human at Spock's side. Her baby blinked back at him.

“And which of these humans is your associate, Spock?” The ambassador's sarcasm was uncharacteristic and Spock took it to be a reflection of the deep anger that Sytok must be controlling.

“Ambassador Sytok, may I introduce Marita Llorente.”

Though Sytok had not recognized her face, he did know her name. Once again, his mouth drew down almost imperceptibly.

“Spock, I cannot allow this. The organization which this woman heads has a long history of attempting to disrupt Council meetings and the legitimate work of the Federation. She cannot be admitted to a Council meeting. Even I cannot authorize that.”

Marita looked calmly at the ambassador, unruffled by his rejection of her.

“But you can authorize me,” Spock said. “Whom I choose to have accompany me is my own right and responsibility.”

Sytok adjusted the collar of his robe and stared past Spock and the woman. Alexander burbled into the silence and Marita gently bounced him in her arms.

“What is the nature of the address you wish to make to the Council?” Sytok asked with reluctance.

“It has to do with certain legal implications of the events at Talin IV which I believe have not been satisfactorily addressed by Starfleet or the Federation.”

“The events at Talin were dealt with completely within Starfleet, Spock. You of all people should know that. The Federation was never involved.”

Alexander gave a small shriek, which both Vulcans ignored. Marita began rocking from foot to foot, whispering softly to the child.

“Which is precisely why I desire to address the Council, Ambassador. I wish to point out to them that there are other legal concerns at stake than simply Starfleet's jurisdictional liability for its personnel failing to uphold the Prime Directive.”

Sytok shook his head decisively. “There are no other legal concerns, Spock.”

“Ambassador, if you are not aware of them, then it is all the more compelling that the members of the Council who do not share your expertise in the law also are informed of those concerns.”

Sytok seemed to grow impatient as Marita paced back and forth across the hard granite slabs that lined the floor of the chamber, talking to her baby. “Are you going to tell me what those mysterious, other legal concerns are?” he asked.

Spock slipped his hand into his tunic and withdrew a folded-over sheaf of printed notes. “I prefer to keep the details confidential. If I revealed the core of my argument now, then I fear I might risk insulting the Council by taking up their time in reciting information which they could already have received second hand.”

“It might be faster,” Sytok suggested.

“But not as accurate,” Spock said. “However, these notes should enable the staff member you assign to help me in preparing the proper preliminary documents.”

Sytok accepted the papers Spock held out but didn't look at them. “Why should I upset the business of this embassy by rushing through your request to speak in five days, rather than allowing it to go through normal channels?”

“If you process my request through normal channels, then I will not be able to address the Council for more than a standard year. I am aware of the usual waiting periods.”

“Have you also forgotten patience, Spock? It is one of the most important lessons your father taught me.”

“For myself, and my career, I have no need to rush. ‘For life is long and there is much to be learned in unhurried contemplation,' ” Spock quoted. “However, my concern for speed is on behalf of others.”

Sytok glanced at the woman. She held her baby up and blew kisses at the child. Sytok closed his eyes and sighed. “Humans are always so agitated and in too much of a hurry.”

“Indeed, the life of a human is short compared to ours,” Spock observed. “But the others I refer to are those survivors who still live on Talin IV.”

Sytok allowed a private, ritual expression of shared remorse to appear on his face, though none but a Vulcan could recognize the difference between it and a face of repose. “Nothing can be done for them, Spock.”

“On the contrary, I believe something can be done. Please, Ambassador, read my notes.”