XIV
Funny thing about acceleration, Kirk thought as he and his companion were shot out of the refuse tube: Though wholly an external stimulus, it has powerful effects on the mind. While being unceremoniously blasted out of a garbage chute lacked the aesthetic of tromping on the accelerator of an antique sports car, both generated similar feelings. He would much preferred to have been in that car now, powering across the flat Iowa landscape instead of . . .
But that was a long time ago, and that bitch reality kept poking him in the side with the ugly stick of immediacy.
Looking to his right, he could see Khan speeding along beside him as together they rocketed toward the looming warship. Rapidly changing light and reflection made it impossible to clearly make out the other man’s face. What was this warrior from the past thinking? Was he excited, energized, afraid, indifferent? On more than one occasion, Kirk had tried to read him, and failed. Having murdered Christopher Pike and too many others, Khan was now assisting Kirk in trying to save the Enterprise and its crew. Did a damaged psyche reside in that remarkable body? If McCoy couldn’t tell, how could he, Kirk?
One thing at a time, he told himself.
The heads-up inside Kirk’s helmet showed their destination. At first absurdly tiny, the faint outline of the hatch was growing steadily larger as they drew nearer. He addressed his suit pickup, hoping that communications on board the warship were still sufficiently jumbled by Scott’s efforts to prevent anyone from intercepting his short-range tight-beam sending.
“Scotty, we’re there real soon! You good?”
Alone within hangar seven, Scott was lamenting the number of readouts on a console that was only half familiar. The control he sought ought to be there, high up on the right side, but it was not. Why move it to another location, his engineer’s mind wondered, when high-up-right-side was perfectly adequate? Searching, searching, he ran the fingers of his right hand along the board. He could of course try a verbal command, but if the console was programmed to respond only to specific voices, then it would refuse his request—or worse, lock itself down until local security could unfreeze it.
“No, I’m hardly good,” he muttered into his communicator. “Good is not what I am. . . .”
On the Enterprise bridge, Spock and everyone else who could spare a glance observed the progress of the captain and Khan as they approached the warship. An anxious ensign spoke up the instant Kirk’s projected trajectory turned from green to red.
“Sir, their path isn’t clear! It was when they launched, but much of the remaining debris is still in motion and they’re now on course to intersect! The captain is headed for collision at point four-three-two.”
Spock hit the command chair comm. “Captain, you have debris directly ahead and immediately in your path.”
“Copy that.” Bad luck the chunk of metal was right in front of him, Kirk thought wildly. Good luck that it was large enough to see.
Firing his backpack, he just managed to veer away from certain death from a ragged fragment of the damaged Enterprise. Surrounded by hundreds of drifting shards of metal, plastic, and torn construction fiber, Kirk fought to stay on course while avoiding certain doom. As he pondered the details of his close call, McCoy’s voice echoed in his helmet.
“Whoa, Jim, you’re way off course.”
“I know, I know—I can see that!”
At the Academy, he had spent far more time learning how to maneuver a multi-ton starship than a body in an EV suit. While the heads-up in his forward view continued its inexorable countdown ’til arrival, he gently adjusted the firing controls on his pack until he was back on course.
Inside the hangar, Scott continued his desperate attempt to unscramble the controls on the console. Was he even standing before the correct console, he asked himself? A rapid check of the hangar’s interior had shown him no other likely candidates, but that didn’t mean he might not have missed something. The warship was brand new, after all. Maybe the manual override was located somewhere else. Or worse, that particular control had been entirely eliminated from the massive starship’s design. In which case . . .
No, the override had to exist. Right here in front of him, if only he could identify it. Hadn’t Kirk’s companion said as much?
“Very close now, Mr. Scott,” came Spock’s voice over the communicator.
Damn, but Vulcans could be annoying! he thought. Even the most well-meaning ones.
“Uh, just having a slight issue opening the door.”
There! At an experimental brush of his hand, a number of previously invisible readouts sprang to life. Not perceptible until they’re needed, he realized. Now that it had made itself visible, the control he had been frantically seeking plainly stood out. To ensure that it was functional, he adjusted it ever so slightly, intending to crack the hangar door as little as possible.
Nothing happened.
Frowning, he pushed against the control a little harder, then more forcefully. Still nothing. It struck him that it, and possibly this entire console, had been affected by his own hand—by the sabotage he had inflicted shipwide. Now that power was coming back online throughout the vessel, it was likely that certain elements would have to be manually reactivated and reset—perhaps this console among them?
Well, if he had caused the console controls to shut down, he could damn well get them back online again. Ducking down, he probed beneath the console board, moving cables around until he could get at the solid-state components he sought. The designer portion of the engineer in him automatically took over.
Let’s see . . . power in here, overflow there, emergency interrupt should be here . . . Bending down while holding his open communicator between his teeth, Scott began wrapping one end of a loose length of thick binding strap around one of the console’s supports and the other end around his left wrist. In seconds, he was once more standing up and facing the console. A few last preparations and all would be ready. He didn’t have time to be pessimistic.
A voice sounded behind him: cool, confident, controlled.
“Don’t move.”
“Use your display, Captain,” Sulu told him anxiously. “You must correct precisely thirty-seven-point-two degrees.”
“Got it,” Kirk told him as he dodged still another chunk of floating debris. “I’m working my way back. Scotty, you’re gonna be ready with that door, right?”
There was no response.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
Dammit. Trying to keep his left hand out of sight, the chief complied, keeping his back against the control board while letting his communicator fall to the deck. The uniformed security officer glanced at it, his gaze narrowing as he returned his attention to its owner.
“What the hell are you doing?” The pistol the new arrival wielded was pointed directly at Scott’s chest.
The chief smiled engagingly. “Wee bit o’ maintenance on the airlock console. You’re big.” His expression brightened. “Poch Mahon, right?”
The officer blinked. “What?”
“Sorry,” the chief replied. “Thought you were someone I knew. Fellow named Poch Mahon.”
Time, Scott knew. Unless he could do something, it was a quantity the captain and his companion would very soon be out of.
“Mr. Scott, where are you?”
Uhura’s voice sounded in his helmet. “Captain, he can’t seem to hear you. I’m working on getting his signal back. Stand by.”
They were very close to their destination now, Kirk saw. Almost close enough to . . .
Crack.
Generating a sound all out of proportion to its minuscule size, the impact startled Kirk. Traveling at full velocity, he had struck the seemingly insignificant particle head-on. Neither the Enterprise’s sensors nor those built into his suit had managed to detect its presence in time. The spiderwebbing cracks that had suddenly appeared on the front of his helmet were spreading in multiple directions in uneven jerks and bounds.
Dammit.
The warship lay just ahead, beckoning. Unable to see anything except the diffusing cracks in his faceplate, he hardly heard Spock’s words as they reached him from the Enterprise.
“Captain, what is it?”
“My helmet faceplate was struck. Uhura, tell me you have Mr. Scott back!”
“Not yet—I’m still working on a signal.”
From the communicator Scott had dropped onto the hangar deck, Uhura’s voice sounded plainly.
“His communicator’s working—I don’t know why he isn’t responding.”
His attention drawn toward the voice, the security officer glanced sharply down at the communicator. “What the hell is that? Who the hell is that? What’s going on here? What are you up to, mister?” His gaze shifted back to Scott. “I don’t know everyone on this mission, but I sure don’t recall seeing you in the line when we boarded.”
Scott smiled. “I’m in general maintenance. We’re not very memorable, we’re not. Not like you brave caileags up front. Are you private security? Because you sure look like private security.”
“Imminent collision detected,” Sulu declared sharply.
“Khan,” Spock informed Kirk’s companion, “use evasive action. There is debris directly ahead.”
“I see it,” came the prompt reply.
On the forward screen the words “Transmission Lost” appeared.
“Mr. Sulu,” Spock inquired, “did we lose Khan?”
“I don’t know, Commander.” Used to tracking the movements of other ships, the helmsman was more than a little frazzled trying to maintain contact with two fast-moving but extremely tiny objects as they darted in and among thousands of individual scraps of ship debris.
Kirk glanced to his right, but he might as well have been trying to spot a bullet flying through a barnyard. “Was Khan hit?”
“We’re trying to find him now,” Spock reported.
“Captain,” Sulu interrupted, giving Kirk no time for further contemplation, “you need to adjust your course to target destination to one-eight-three by four-seven-three degrees.”
Kirk complied. The complex instructions didn’t trouble him. Concentrating on Sulu’s instructions helped to keep him from noting that his faceplate continued to crack and splinter.
“Mr. Spock, my faceplate display is down. I’m flying blind.”
“Captain, without your display, hitting your target destination is mathematically impossible.”
“Mr. Spock, when I get back, we really need to talk about your bedside manner.”
Sulu whirled in his chair. “Commander—he’s not gonna make it.”
Another voice; one not heard for a while.
“I see you, Kirk.”
Khan.
“My display is still functioning. You’re two hundred meters ahead of me at my one o’clock. Come to your left at two degrees and follow me.”
In a couple of seconds, the other man was in view, and soon Kirk was flying along almost parallel to him.
There remained the small matter, however, of whether or not they were about to smash themselves into the unyielding flank of the massive ship directly in front of them.
“Scotty,” Kirk declaimed into his still-functioning helmet pickup, “we’re getting close. We’re gonna need a warm welcome. Scotty, do you copy—Scotty! ”
“If you can hear us, Mr. Scott,” Spock commanded, “open the door in ten . . .”
“Scotty!” a desperate Kirk yelled.
“. . . nine . . . ,” Spock continued to count down.
On board the warship, Spock’s voice continued to spill from the open communicator on the floor. A nervously innocent Scott gazed pleasantly at the man holding the phaser on him while the chief’s free hand slid back and down to steady himself against the console.
“That person counting down,” the man demanded, “what is that?”
“What?” Scott feigned ignorance. “I don’t hear anything.”
“. . . seven . . . ,” Spock’s voice declaimed clearly from the device.
“Mr. Scott, where are you?” Kirk queried as the distance between himself, his companion, and the warship continued to shrink rapidly.
“. . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Now, Mr. Scott,” Spock said tightly.
Eyeing the security officer, Scott shook his head slightly. “Sorry about this.”
Frowning, the guard gestured slightly with his phaser. “Sorry about what?”
Even Spock could not keep his voice from rising slightly. “I said, Scott, open the door!”
“Open the door!” Kirk shouted.
Spinning sharply to his left, Scott slammed his right hand down on a very large yellow-tinged button near the center of the console behind him, putting all his force into the gesture.
At the far terminus of the hangar, a small door snapped open. Instantly, a substantial quantity of air was sucked outward into open space—taking the unfortunate security officer along with it. With his left arm strapped to the console, a grimacing Scott found himself stretched out full-length, like a flag in a hurricane, in the direction of the open port.
Kirk barely saw the wide-eyed figure go sailing past him as he entered backward, both he and Khan having reversed position at the last moment so that their full-firing backpacks could slow their momentum. As they crossed the outer boundary of the now-gaping hangar, they also entered the warship’s artificial gravity field.
Flailing with his right hand, Scott quickly hit the control again, repeating in reverse the gesture he had made a moment earlier. He fell flat on his front side as the hangar’s outer door slammed shut and was all but out of breath when the ship’s automated life-support systems rapidly filled the open space around him with atmosphere. Air pressure in the hangar swiftly returned to normal. Thankfully, the atmospherics were one component of the warship’s life-support system that did not require a manual reset in order to operate.
Dropping to the deck, Kirk and Khan skidded, rolled, and tumbled down its length, slowing steadily—though not fast enough for Kirk. They came to rest close to where a gasping Scott was now sitting up.
“Welcome aboard,” the chief wheezed, delighted and more than a little surprised to find that he was still alive.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. Scott.” Kirk found he was in no hurry to stand.
The chief smiled. “Don’t you maybe mean ‘relieved’ to see me, Captain?” The engineer looked questioningly at the other arrival, who was in the process of rising to his knees. “Who is that?”
Having managed, with difficulty, to get onto his knees, the heavily breathing Kirk performed cursory introductions. “Scotty, Khan. Khan, Scotty . . . best engineer in Starfleet.”
“Hello,” Scott offered.
Khan did not waste time on pleasantries. “They’ll know we’re here. Marcus will have all approaches to the bridge secured if only as a precaution, but I know another route.”
The two men regarded each other wordlessly as Kirk removed phasers from his backpack and handed one to each of them. “They’re locked to stun.”
Khan pursed his lips. “Theirs won’t be.”
Kirk responded with a wan smile. “Then try not to get shot.”
Though it was confirmed that Kirk and Khan had successfully boarded the warship and made contact with Mr. Scott, everyone on the Enterprise knew it was far too soon to take anything, including hope, for granted. The three men were out of harm’s way, but only for the moment. At any time, with a single wrong turn or move, they could be swept up by the warship’s roaming security personnel.
As Spock was trying to analyze all possibilities, a loud acknowledgment sounded from the Communications station. Uhura looked back at him.
“Incoming message from New Vulcan, Captain. That call you had me try to place? The necessary relay links finally fell into position and it went through. You have the transmission you requested.”
Spock acknowledged the exceptional technical achievement with a precise nod. “On screen, please. I would acclaim you a wizard at your specialty, Lieutenant, except there are no wizards.”
“The correct term is ‘sorceress,’ Mr. Spock—and thank you. Putting through visual.”
All eyes on the bridge turned to the main viewscreen forward, where an ancient and wizened visage appeared without preamble or fanfare. Behind the familiar figure could be seen signs of extensive activity. An old civilization was rising afresh on a new world, and the figure who gazed back at those on the bridge was a critical part of that resurrection.
“Mr. Spock,” declared the image matter-of-factly.
“Mr. Spock,” the science officer responded.
The security escort seemed excessive for a single woman, even one who had been beamed aboard the warship unceremoniously and involuntarily. Aware of Carol Marcus’s identity—and what the consequences would be for each of them if anything happened to her before she could be delivered—the guards treated her with the utmost care. Although none of them showed it, they were very much relieved when they finally arrived on the bridge. The leader of the security team advised Marcus of their arrival.
“Admiral.”
Through the hive of activity, as sweating technicians strove to restore full power and service to every corner of the massive warship, father and daughter locked eyes. When he finally spoke, Alexander Marcus’s words weighed like lead on his offspring.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute.”
Carol had other ideas. Stepping forward and away from her escorts, who were hesitant to intercept her while in the admiral’s presence, she drew back a hand and smacked her father across the face. He mutely stared at her, eyes wide.
“I’ve been trying to prepare what to say at this moment,” she snapped at him. “I thought of a lot of things and discarded them. Hateful things, sad things, words grounded in moments and times past. What it all finally comes down to is fairly simple, however. I’m ashamed to be your daughter.”
Spotting an empty seat at an unutilized station, her escort took her aside. She sat there in silence, glaring at him.
Whatever the admiral had in mind was forced to take a backseat to a sudden report from one of the other officers on the bridge.
“Sir, we just recorded an unscheduled opening and subsequent closing of an outer door on deck thirteen. It appears to have been initiated manually.”
Marcus looked resigned, not surprised. “Khan.”
The officer eyed him uncertainly. “Sir? I don’t understand.”
“Hope that you won’t.” Marcus proceeded to let fly a string of orders directed at ship security. Now that Khan was here, the admiral intended to be ready for him. Despite being fully aware of the revived warrior’s talents and abilities, Marcus was not afraid of him. At the same time, he intended to take every precaution possible.
Where Khan was concerned, hubris could prove more lethal than any gun.
“They’re gonna have full power and we’re walking,” Scott was whispering as he trailed Kirk and Khan down yet another corridor.
Pausing at a control console, Khan quickly entered a series of brief commands. “This path we’re taking runs adjacent to the engine room. They know they won’t be able to use their weapons here without destabilizing the warp core, which gives us the advantage.”
Moving closer to Kirk, Scott readily expressed his bewilderment. “Where’d you find this guy?”
“It’s a long story,” Kirk muttered as he hurried to keep up with Khan.
Empirically, Spock had grown used to conversing with his elder self. Philosophically and, dare he think it, emotionally, there were still moments of uncertainty. None of those were apparent in the ensuing conversation, of course. He had no more wish to unsettle his colleagues on the bridge than he did himself. “I wish I were contacting you under better circumstances, but . . .”
The older Spock took over. With time (in multiple senses of the term), his appearance had come to match his voice: sage, knowing, almost comforting, etched with more lines than any Rembrandt drawing.
“Given our unique relationship, it would be illogical to make such contact unless the situation were grave enough to demand it. And since you find yourself in the captain’s chair, I can only assume that it is. I am aware that a most complex alignment of multiple relays was necessary in order for this present exchange to take place. Am I correct in assuming that Lieutenant Uhura continues to be responsible for such Communications expertise?”
“You are.” From her position at the Communications station, she smiled at the image of the famous savant.
“Your conclusions are both correct,” the younger Spock confirmed to his elder self. “Therefore I will be brief, so as not to waste time neither of us has to spare. In your many travels and experiences, did you ever have occasion to come across a man named Khan?”
While his face could not show shock, certainly not to a degree any human could detect, a slight shiver seemed to pass through the elder Spock’s entire frame. He paused for a long moment, plainly composing his intended response. Unusual for him, it was prefaced by an exception. “As you know, I have made a vow never to give you information that could potentially alter your destiny. Your path—whatever it may be, wherever it may lead you, and however it may differ from the one I walked—is yours to walk and yours alone. I can and should have no influence over it. I always felt that way would be best for you.”
“As do I,” admitted his younger self.
“That being said, I have to tell you that the individual called Khan is the most dangerous adversary the Enterprise and her crew ever faced.”
Not only young Spock but everyone on the bridge was now attending upon the words of the older Spock to the exclusion of all but the most inescapable tasks.
“He is a psychotic despot,” the senior Spock continued, “whom we—I and my chronologically pertinent colleagues—once made the mistake of trusting. He is brilliant, ruthless, and will not hesitate to kill every single one of you in the pursuit of whatever personal goal he has set for himself. Nor will he spare others, including innocents and unknowing civilians. Wherever he is, I urge you to stay as far from him as humanly possible. And if you do not? I can all but guarantee you—lives will be lost.”
The subsequent silence on the starship’s bridge was complete. Nothing could be heard save the automated beep and hum of instruments.
“Did you defeat him?” the younger Spock finally asked.
A nod from a distant place and an even more distant time. “At great cost, yes.”
The acting captain of the Enterprise stared forward, his voice and posture fixed, as he uttered a single word in reply.
“How?”
“I don’t mean to tempt fate here,” Scott muttered as they moved quickly along the newest corridor in Khan’s wake, “but where is everybody?”
“The ship was designed to be run by a minimal crew,” Khan told him. “One, if necessary.”
“One!” Scott blurted. “I don’t see how—”
The three boarders took the oncoming security team equally by surprise.
With bodies slamming into one another, there was no time to make use of phasers. All the rules of hand-to-hand combat Kirk had studied at the Academy were brought into play. Caught in high, constricted corridors, he also made use of earlier, less academic techniques he had acquired in the course of too many less-disciplined fights in too many bars.
Fists and the occasional leg flew, taking down first one of his opponents and then another. Nearby, Scotty was giving a vibrant if slightly more desperate account of himself. Their tight surroundings actually worked to the chief’s advantage, as his better-trained opponents had less room in which to operate. Elaborate martial-arts techniques gave way to sharp elbows and simple punches.
Meanwhile Khan was demolishing everyone with whom he came in contact. The ease with which he dispatched members of the security team was at once impressive and disconcerting. One moment a blur, the next an implacable and irresistible force, Khan paid only minimal attention to whatever was being brought against him.
Two of their opponents tried to jump him simultaneously. Khan slammed one into a far wall, then turned and lifted the other before throwing him down the corridor. At no time in the course of the confrontation did he break a sweat. Indeed, Kirk saw, the former prisoner did not even appear to be breathing hard.
The fight was over much sooner than the captain expected. Every member of the security team was down: unconscious or too badly hurt to offer further resistance. Arms of certain individuals had been twisted absurdly far behind their backs, breaking them at the shoulder. Khan’s work. As efficient as it was brutal.
And speaking of their guide . . .
“Where’s Khan?” Scott managed to gasp out.
Tension on the Enterprise bridge was palpable as everyone awaited a word from their acting captain. Spock did not acknowledge their apprehension. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that all eyes were on him, he sat quietly in the command chair, thinking.
Dammit, man, McCoy thought, say something. You’re in command: Act like it. Issue an order, present an analysis, make a statement. Had Spock said anything as soon as Uhura had terminated the complex exchange with New Vulcan, it would have reassured everyone on the bridge.
It was what Kirk would have done.
But Spock was not James Kirk. He was not like anyone on the bridge—a fact that was reflected in his continuing quiet contemplation of what his elder self had told him, combined with the facts as they presently existed.
But perhaps the Vulcan’s patience stood in direct contrast to Kirk’s tendency to act immediately.
With a start, the doctor reflected on what a perfect team this made the two of them. Except that one half of that team was not here. He was on that warship, no doubt in deadly danger. Which made Spock’s ongoing lack of action all the more frustrating.
When the science officer finally spoke, his first words were for Uhura. “Lieutenant, I need you to assemble all senior Medical and Engineering staff who can be spared from critical positions and have them gather in the weapons bay.”
Her expression twisted. “The weapons bay, Mr. Spock?”
A curt nod. “Weapons bay. At haste, if you please.”
“All right.”
With an uncertain shake of her head, she moved to comply. As soon as she did so, the science officer turned to the watching McCoy.
“Dr. McCoy. You inadvertently activated a torpedo. Do you think you would be able to replicate the process?”
McCoy gaped at the Vulcan. “Even assuming that I could, why the hell would I want to do that?”
As always, Spock’s lack of expression offered no clue as to what he intended. “Can you or can you not?”
McCoy wasn’t sure whether he was more stunned or outraged. “That thing almost ate my arm. And I wasn’t even trying to arm it. Dammit, man, I’m a doctor, not a torpedo technician. Why would you want me to have anything to do with a torpedo of any kind, much less something new, untried, and partially cannibalized for another purpose entirely?”
Spock was, if anything, understanding. “Believe me, Doctor, I both recognize and sympathize with your concerns. However, the fact that you are a doctor is precisely why I need you to listen very carefully . . .”
“Where is he?” Scott murmured as he and Kirk made their way forward. Surely he hadn’t been taken down?
“Shit,” Kirk mumbled as he searched one side corridor after another. Then, from behind them . . .
“This way.”
Khan’s voice had come from farther up the branching corridor, his tone impatient, as if he expected them to be fully recovered and ready to go. He did not appear winded or stressed in the slightest. As soon as he received an acknowledging nod from Kirk, their guide resumed the way forward.
Hanging back slightly, the captain murmured to his chief engineer. “The minute we get to the bridge, drop him.”
Scott was understandably confused. “Khan? I thought he was helping us.”
Despite some lingering uncertainty, Kirk had no hesitation in explaining: “On the contrary, Scotty, I’m pretty sure we’re helping him.”
Alexander Marcus was smart and aware enough to know that the immediate danger to his health and intentions came not from the Enterprise or even from the fact that Khan had somehow managed to get himself aboard the warship, but from his rising blood pressure. This dropped immediately the instant the warship’s main systems began to snap back online, one at a time. Full illumination, scanners, internal sensors: All he needed to do was swing around in his command chair to see them flare to life. Even so, he was glad when a senior ensign confirmed the informal visuals.
“Power coming online, sir.”
“Excellent.” Marcus once more felt secure in directing his full attention to the forward screen. “Retarget the Enterprise now.” From her seat nearby, a helpless Carol could only continue to glare futilely at her father.
“Weapons charging,” a second ensign reported calmly.
Marcus nodded to himself. It would all be over soon. Then even the presence of Khan on board the warship would be nothing more than a minor annoyance to be dealt with.
“Fire all weapons, phasers, and torpedoes—on my order.”
The doors to the turbolift snapped open and the three men who burst from within were firing before anyone on the bridge could react.
First to go down was the ensign in control of the warship’s weapons systems, struck in the back of the head by a stun blast from Kirk’s phaser. Throwing himself to one side, the captain brought down another crewmember before he could draw his sidearm. As the crewman looming over Carol moved to engage the intruders, she put him down with a precisely placed elbow to his chin.
Though intense, the melee on the bridge did not last long. With all three men firing rapidly and Khan dealing with those who managed to avoid the phasers, it was only a matter of moments before the trio had gained complete control of the ship.
Before Khan could say or do anything else, Kirk nodded to the chief. Scott fired once. The stun blast hit Khan square in the back, and he went down. Moving to the body, Scott knelt to feel it, looked up, and nodded at Kirk.
“Breathing’s regular. I hit him hard, like you said. He’s alive, but he should be out for a while.”
“Make sure he stays down.”
Keeping his own phaser aimed at the admiral, Kirk now moved to stand closer to Carol Marcus. The two men regarded each other across the open space of the bridge: one behind his weapon, the other behind his ire.
“Admiral Alexander Marcus, by authority granted me under the relevant Starfleet regulations governing the use of unauthorized and excessive force, I hereby relieve you of command and place you under arrest.”
Marcus sounded more exasperated than upset. It was plain that he was not about to go quietly. “You’re not actually going to do this, are you? Do you still really think Starfleet is about exploring ‘strange new worlds’? That’s a fantasy, Kirk. The galaxy is wide, dark, and dangerous, populated by sentients who are collectively paranoid, warlike, and sometimes both. Their quest for species superiority has nothing to do with stealing other worlds’ resources or enslaving an entirely different populace—it’s all about bragging rights. About who is superior and who should bow down. If you think Starfleet was put together as a scientific enterprise, that’s another fantasy. There are plenty of other organizations based on Earth and its colonies capable of exploring and studying. Fortunately, there are some of us who believe that all the do-gooding, glad-handing scientists might need a little protection while they’re out there—not to mention that there’s a need for defending the species itself. That’s what Starfleet really is about.”
Kirk considered the admiral’s words before replying quietly. “Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m the last person on the planet to back away from a fight, but . . . that’s your Starfleet, Admiral. It’s not mine. It’s not what I signed up for, not what I vowed to defend, and not the philosophy I plan to use in guiding my career.” He glanced to his right. “Scotty?”
More than a little astonished to be asked to comment on such a philosophical difference of opinion, the chief engineer responded with a smile. “Dinna ask me, Captain. I just keep things running. But I’d rather be workin’ with engines than with weapons.” He shifted his gaze to the hard-staring Admiral Marcus. “You kinna make friends with others, Admiral, if you focus your energies on blowin’ ’em up. As you say, the galaxy’s a big place. Folks with whom you can share a few drinks are few and far between. Meself, I believe in doin’ all we can to encourage that.”
Kirk gestured at Marcus with the phaser he was holding. “Get out of that chair.”
The admiral tried again. “I want you to stop and think about what you’re doing, Kirk. Not about some imaginary future confrontation. About right now. Think about what you did on Qo’noS. Are you sure you weren’t identified? That the Klingon patrol you wiped out—yes, I was able to access the preliminary report—didn’t pass along the word that they had contacted and been forced into combat with humans? You were on their homeworld illegally, unauthorized. Not only did you not have permission to land on Qo’noS, you arrived and departed by stealth, having done nothing except resist interrogation and commit murder. That’s how the Klingons will see it—as murder, not as resisting arrest and questioning.”
Kirk smiled thinly. “If so, the K’normians will have some awkward questions to answer.”
Marcus was shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter who they blame, or if they blame anyone. It doesn’t matter if you managed to make an incursion onto a hostile world without leaving a single trace of your visitation in your wake. Nothing changes the fact that war with the Klingons is coming. If your visit was discovered and reported to the authorities on Qo’noS, it will only hasten the inevitable. If it was not, then we have gained a little more time before the cataclysm arrives. And who’s going to lead us? You?”
The admiral’s tone changed to one of furious desperation.
“If I’m not in charge when that happens, our entire way of life, not to mention the very survival of our species, will be at risk. So I ask you, I beg you, one more time: Lower your gun. Report back to your ship. You have my word I’ll allow the Enterprise to depart unharmed, or if you prefer, remain on station here in lunar space until such repairs have been completed as will allow you to transfer to Earth orbit.”
He nodded in the direction of the prone body sprawled on the deck close by Kirk’s feet.
“All I ask is that you leave him with me. The fact that you had him stunned shows that you don’t trust him any more than I would. I used him and his knowledge; I admit that. Now you’ve used him to recover your ship. You and I are even. I’ve said from the beginning of this confrontation that it’s him I wanted all along. Leave him with me so I can deal with him, and let’s pretend none of this happened.”
Scott made a disgusted noise. “Two Federation ships engage in near-fatal combat with one another, and we’re to pretend none o’ it happened? I’d like to see the final report on that one!”
Admiral Marcus favored the chief with a faint smile. “You would be surprised, Mr. Scott, on what can be made to disappear through the use of appropriate language. Obfuscation is the primary weapon of bureaucrats. What has happened here will be put down to mistakes in communication, deficient electronics, and whatever other scapegoats can be fabricated. It will not be the first time in human history that armed vessels engaged in accidental combat. If you are not familiar with the ancient term ‘friendly fire,’ I suggest you educate yourself when you have some free time.” He turned back to Kirk. “That is my proposal. I suggest you think it over carefully in light of what you may have to do. Because if you think I’m abandoning this ship and leaving quietly with you, you’re going to have to kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you, sir.” Neither Kirk’s determination nor the muzzle of the weapon he held had wavered. “But I could ignore everything you’ve said, stun your ass, and drag you out of that chair, but I’d rather not do that in front of your daughter.” He looked toward her. “You all right?”
Though shaken, she replied immediately. “Yes, Captain.”
For an instant, Scott had taken his eyes off the figure on the floor. It was more time than Khan needed. A single blow put the chief on the deck.
“Jim!” Carol shouted.
It would not have mattered how fast Kirk reacted; Khan was so much faster. A leap, a grab and squeeze, and a body slam put Kirk down. He tried to avoid the punch that followed and could not. Lifting the captain as if he were weightless, Khan threw him against the far wall.
Carol Marcus scrambled to intercept him. “Listen . . . wait!”
Contemptuously, Khan threw her to the floor. Though he pulled the kick he delivered to the right thigh of the prone science officer, it was enough to bring forth a high-pitched scream of pain. Advancing steadily, he cornered Admiral Marcus.
His lips tightened ever so slightly as he placed an open palm on either side of the admiral’s head and began to squeeze. “You—you—should have let me sleep.”
The snapping sound that followed was overwhelmed by Carol Marcus’s horrified scream. On the deck, a stunned Kirk could only look on—and listen.