V
Purposefully muted, the light in the conference room was dimmer than in the corridor outside, throwing the faces of the still-assembling group into sharp relief. Except for admirals Pike and Marcus, it consisted entirely of captains and their first officers. The absence of any lower ranks, even to monitor the meeting, signified the seriousness of the moment.
As Kirk sat down beside Pike, he noted those present. Some he recognized from personal encounters, others he knew from scanning records: at least two dozen in total. Whatever was going on must be more than a little significant to demand the presence of so many active Starfleet officers in person instead of virtually. Especially at this hour. So caught up was he in the gravity of the moment that he paid no attention to the fact that Spock had taken a seat beside Captain Abbott.
Whispered conversation ceased the instant Admiral Alexander Marcus began speaking. He launched into what he had to say before anyone could so much as salute or offer a greeting.
“Thank you for convening on such short notice. By now all of you have heard what happened in London. The target was a Starfleet ‘data’ archive. Now it’s a damn hole in the ground and forty-two men and women are dead. One hour ago, I received a message from a Starfleet officer who confessed to carrying out this attack, and that he was being forced to do it by this man.
“Commander John Harrison,” Marcus continued as the image of the individual in question appeared on each screen in front of the assembled officers. “And he was one of our own.” Plainly, the admiral was struggling to repress the full strength of his feelings. “He is the man responsible for this act of savagery. For reasons unknown, John Harrison has just declared a one-man war against Starfleet.”
This revelation prompted the expected murmurs of disbelief and uncertainty on the part of the assembled. There was nothing about the accused individual’s appearance to suggest hidden homicidal tendencies, a proclivity for mass destruction, or for that matter repressed madness. If anything, he looked ordinary, younger than his actual age, both his face and bearing competent but undistinguished.
Kirk studied the image intently: registering the man’s features, memorizing his physical details, intent on fixing in his mind a permanent image of who was ultimately responsible for the tragedy that had taken place in London. There was something about the aspect of this officer, though, something in his gaze that hinted at much more than a tendency to rebellion. Kirk couldn’t identify it, but it was there.
Automatically he glanced across the table at Spock. The science officer was likewise locking away the appearance of the disaster’s instigator for future reference, but otherwise the Vulcan betrayed no reaction.
A new image appeared before the assembled and now wholly absorbed group of officers. Kirk recognized it immediately as a still lifted from a security recording. Though taken from a distance, it had been magnified and enhanced so that the result looked as if it had been shot from an optimum angle. It showed the individual the admiral had identified as John Harrison in the process of entering a Starfleet jumpship. He carried no visible accoutrements other than a pair of duffel bags.
“Five minutes after the explosion in London, Harrison commandeered the jumpship that you see and made a run for it. Despite the confusion attendant upon the destruction, security was able to locate him only moments after his departure. We had him on our scanners until he entered orbit, then—”
“Any idea where he might be headed, sir?” inquired one of the assembled officers.
Marcus shook his head. “The natural assumption is that he’s not operating alone. You are all aware that there are numerous entities human and otherwise who would be delighted to see Starfleet’s operational capabilities impaired. Whether Harrison is doing this for reasons of his own or on behalf of as-yet-unknown forces, we have no way of knowing. Until individually eliminated, all possibilities must be considered. Bearing that in mind, under no circumstances are we to allow this man to escape Federation space.” Harrison’s image was now replaced by a dimensional map of the immediate stellar vicinity.
“You here tonight represent the senior command of all Starfleet vessels in the region, whether for R&R, refurbishment, or other reasons. As of now, your ships are recalled to full active duty. Those whose crews are presently aground will recall them immediately, and in the name of those we lost, you will run this bastard down. This is a manhunt, pure and simple, on a scale and of an importance unmatched in recent Starfleet history. So let’s get to work. Captain Ford, you’ll stand off and monitor Quadrant 11C. Captain Delcourt, Yorktown—you’ll take Quadrant 12D. Captain Evans, Vasquez—you’ll take . . .”
As Marcus continued doling out individual marching orders, Kirk examined the security still of the fleeing Harrison. The smaller but no less detailed image appeared directly in front of him, enigmatic and uninformative. Using the controls on the monitor in front of him, he was able to enhance it. His gaze traveled over specific sections of the image, seeking details that might not have been immediately apparent at first sight. Frowning, Kirk zoomed in further on the figure of Harrison, rotated it, turned it to and fro. What finally drew his attention was not the fleeing man, but the fact that he carried clean luggage that apparently had not been damaged in the extensive destruction. It suggested the two bags had been stored elsewhere. It also suggested forethought, preparation, and perhaps something more. He turned toward Pike.
“Wonder what’s in the bags?” he murmured speculatively. “Where’s he going?”
Pike quickly chided him. “Keep your mouth shut.”
If the younger man’s words escaped Marcus’s notice, those of his commanding officer did not. “Chris? Everything okay there?”
Within the conference room, conversation suddenly ceased as all eyes turned toward the two men who had been whispering.
“Yes, sir,” Pike responded. “Mr. Kirk is just acclimating himself to his new position as my first officer.”
It wasn’t enough for Marcus. “You got something to say, Kirk, say it. Tomorrow’s too late.”
Kirk swallowed. “I’m fine, sir. My apologies for the interruption. I was thinking out loud.”
“Not loud enough, Kirk. I didn’t hear you. Last chance to share your thoughts with the rest of us. Spit it out, son. Don’t be shy. If you have something worthwhile to say, then say it. Speak up.”
There was only one man in the room, perhaps on the planet, to whom Kirk would have deferred, and that man was seated next to him. He glanced questioningly at Pike. With a diffident wave of one hand, Pike peremptorily gave his protégé permission to bury himself. It was all Kirk needed to plunge onward. Looking on, a couple of the other officers shook their heads incredulously. But most were attentive, if dubious; curious to see what the recently demoted captain might have to say with regard to a complex situation that was painfully devoid of facts.
“I was just wondering,” Kirk began, “why the archive? All that information is public record. If he really wanted to damage Starfleet, this could just be the beginning.”
Marcus stared across the conference table at the younger officer. “The beginning of what, Kirk?”
“And then there’s the question of what was in the bags he’s carrying, sir. He obviously came prepared for the consequences of his actions. What really has me puzzled is, if he went to all the trouble of somehow convincing someone else to do the bombing for him, and if the bombing is then traceable back to him—which it obviously is, since you just told us as muchwhy would he be anywhere near London when the event occurred, much less on a Starfleet base, where his presence could be recorded? Couldn’t he just as easily monitor its progress and ‘success’ from, say, Cape Town or Ushuaia, and then manage his getaway from there?”
Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Maybe he suffers from an overriding urge to observe his handiwork in person. Maybe it’s because he’s a psychopath. Maybe it’s because he—”
“If I might interject, Admiral . . .”
Attention swung from the byplay between Kirk and Marcus to the only Vulcan in the room. Next to him, his new commander struggled to keep himself under control as he admonished his recently assigned first officer. “Mr. Spock, first officers speak when spoken to, especially during a conference that is charged with—”
An irritated Marcus gestured impatiently. “It’s all right, Captain Abbott. Let him speak.” His tone was dry. “I’ll resume when everyone else has had their say.”
Whether or not the science officer discerned this most recent example of human sarcasm, it was impossible to tell, but in any event it did not dissuade him from continuing.
“It is curious that Harrison would commandeer a jumpship with no warp capability if his intention was to escape. Presuming the latter, one would expect him to try to reach a transporter-equipped orbiting station. I would think our efforts to interdict him would be better focused here rather than farther out, no matter whom he might count as possible allies. Unless, of course, his immediate intention is not to escape.” At which point the science officer directed his gaze not at the listening admiral, but at Kirk.
His thoughts already accelerating down the same horrible, unavoidable path, his friend needed no prompting to voice his corollary feelings.
“Sir,” Kirk said quickly to Marcus, “in the event of a terrestrial-based attack of the magnitude of the one London has just suffered, protocol mandates that if possible, senior command gather all available captains and first officers at Starfleet headquarters so that subsequent directives can be discussed and delivered in person. Right here. Right now. I’m of course familiar with security procedures for Starfleet in general, but at this moment I’m especially concerned about this one particular conference room.” He glanced meaningfully at his immediate surroundings. “Is this area secure?”
The admiral’s communicator beeped for attention. As he reached for it, Marcus nodded reassuringly at Kirk. “I’m well ahead of you. Standard perimeter automatics are on high alert and patrols with live personnel have been activated.” He addressed the open communicator. “This is Marcus.”
Having been caught up in Kirk’s line of thought, Captain Abbott leaned toward his colleague. “So let’s say that you’re right and this renegade doesn’t try to get off-world. Let’s say that’s just what he wants us to think he’s going to do. But why? Why would he engage in an elaborate misdirection like that . . . ?” His eyes widened slightly. “You’re suggesting this Harrison wants all of us here? While he’s still on Earth?”
Kirk nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, all of us, right here, right now.”
“Kirk, you heard the admiral. We’re completely secure here. Just because Harrison somehow managed to pull off one monstrous act of sabotage doesn’t mean he’d be foolish enough to try and build on that by—”
“And this happened when . . . ?” an alarmed Marcus was saying into his communicator even as Abbott was finishing his thought.
First there was a whine, high-pitched and rising. Before it could be identified, it was accented by a blinding refulgence that flooded the conference room.
Kirk quickly got out of his chair and took a couple of steps toward the window that comprised one wall. Seconds later, he whirled and yelled:
“Clear the room!”
The conference room was located on the eightieth floor. Automated weapons systems mounted higher up normally would have targeted the intruder and let loose. Instead they remained inert, their internal programming having been interdicted . . . as the alarmed Marcus had just been informed. As if that were not enough, the intruding craft was now hovering so close to the tower’s exterior, all but touching it, that the building’s roof-mounted defensive weapons would have been unable to depress far enough to draw a line-of-sight on it even if their programming was suddenly restored.
Seated forward in the nearly transparent cockpit, John Harrison took note of the bipedal thermal images within the otherwise shielded conference room. He could have left the task of isolating them to the jumpship’s automatic targeting software. It was not in his nature, however, to permit machines to intervene on his behalf. Not when he could take personal control of an action. There was no pleasure in flying an aircraft on autopilot, no satisfaction for a chef in cooking with a timer. For that matter, a few indiscriminate blasts from the jumpship’s weaponry could quickly have destroyed the building’s entire eightieth floor. But this was not London and he was not the pitiable, easily manipulated Thomas Harewood. This was much more intimate, much more personal. Where would be the terror for those impacted in perishing from a few quick, all-consuming bursts?
He found it much more satisfying to pick them off one by one, swinging the jumpship back and forth just outside the tower, unleashing its weaponry in a controlled, precise, and wholly enjoyable manner.
As the room around him disintegrated piecemeal, one violent explosion following close upon another, Kirk threw himself over a table and flattened himself against the floor. On the far side, Pike was talking rapidly into his communicator, sounding an alert and calling for help.
A cadre of security officers came pouring into the room, firing through gaps in the damaged walls at the jumpship hovering outside. The distraction forced the attacker to momentarily swing the jumpship out of range and then back again so he could deal with them, giving several of the senior officers in the room time to escape the flaming, blinding carnage.
Captain Abbott was pinned beneath a collapsed support beam, screaming in pain. Only Vulcan strength allowed Spock to free his commanding officer and drag him toward the door. Medical personnel who had accompanied the first rush of security brought the injured man down the corridor outside, toward the elevator and safety. No one would have said anything had Spock chosen to go with them. Instead, he hurried back into the room to try and help those who remained within.
The metallic gleam of a pulse rifle that had fallen from the hands of a dead security officer caught Kirk’s eye. Snatching it up, he scrambled from the room. Unlike his colleagues who had successfully managed to flee, instead of racing for the elevator, Kirk turned and ran a short distance down the cross corridor.
Turning a corner, he pushed his way into an empty suite of offices. Through the transparent wall, he could see the raging jumpship hovering almost directly outside, still darting back and forth as it dodged defensive shots from the security officers inside the building. Its own armament continued to pour fire into the ruined conference room. Raising the rifle, Kirk let loose a single shot that brought down the thick safety glass in a shower of glistening shards. Rushing in from outside, a blast of cool moist air immediately struck him. Clutching the rifle tightly, Kirk took careful aim and began firing at the undamaged jumpship.
Rising, Pike made a break for the hallway. Damaged legs failed him and he didn’t make it, taking a glancing blow from one of the dozens of bursts that were being unleashed by the jumpship. He went down hard, and tried to pull himself along the floor as the room continued to disintegrate around him.
Kirk soon saw that his shots were doing little if any harm, producing nothing but sparks on the flanks of the armored jumpship. Staring into the darkness, he could clearly make out the figure of the pilot seated in the cockpit. For a moment, John Harrison was staring directly at him. There was no anger in the man’s expression, no unrestrained fury. For all the emotion he was showing as he continued raining mass murder on the interior of the tower, Harrison might as well have been a machine. In the brief instant he locked eyes with the desperate Kirk, there was no sign of strain, no indication of stress. No humanity.
Putting down the useless rifle, Kirk retreated into the building. There had to be something else he could use to put an end to the massacre. Something, anything. He looked around wildly. There was nothing in the offices he had entered that could be used to take down a flock of seagulls from the Farallons, much less a Federation jumpship. Desks, projection units, personal effects—he was about to give up and race back to check on Pike’s condition when he spotted the fire panel in the far wall.
Fashioned of an unyielding carbon fiber designed to withstand the enormous pressure it had to contain, the thin fire hose coiled in the wall recess could fill a burning suite of offices with retardant in a matter of seconds, smothering an incipient blaze before it had a chance to spread. Unspooling it, Kirk frantically wrapped it around the rifle. That the weapon was still perfectly functional was evident when he used it to blow out the section of wall that framed the broken window.
Spock raced over to the severely wounded Admiral Pike; their eyes met in recognition an instant before yet another lethal burst from the jumpship struck both the floor of the room and the crawling Pike, sending him spinning to one side.
Marcus, to his credit, had not fled the room. Standing by the entrance to the hall, he fought to direct the activities of an increasing rush of personnel, waving and gesturing frantically. “Get those people out of here!”
As the jumpship was forced to dodge ever wider to evade the increasing stream of defensive fire from inside the building, Spock managed to reach Pike. Already in shock, mouth agape, the admiral now focused his gaze on something distant and unseen. Grabbing him under his arms, the science officer dragged his limp body out of immediate danger.
Rushing to the edge of the now-windowless gap and sliding to his knees, Kirk clutched the tied-off rifle. Eighty stories below, the main quad beckoned. Lights everywhere swept the sky as they tried to focus on the jumpship, whose weaponry continued to pour death and destruction into the tower. As ground-based defenses began to gather around the base of the tower, Harrison kept his craft bobbing and weaving like a prizefighter. He would dart upward, then down at a sharp angle, cut around one flank of the building before returning to let off another burst at the interior.
Forcing himself to bide his time, Kirk waited until the jumpship came closer. Then he rose and flung the pulse rifle as hard and far as he could in the direction of the deadly craft’s starboard cylindrical air intake. One of the office desks would have served his purpose even better had he been able to tie it to the fire hose, but though strong, he was no Vulcan. The rifle would have to do.
Striking the jumpship’s intake, the weapon was immediately sucked inside. Its arrival presented no difficulty to the craft’s sophisticated propulsion system. Neither did the slender fire hose that remained fastened to the weapon. The considerable section of wall to which the sturdy end of the high-tech hose was secured, however, was a different matter entirely. As the massive chunk of free-pour polycrete and reinforcing metal mesh was ripped from its place, Kirk had to dive to one side to avoid it. Just missing taking off his head, the irregular mess whooshed past, ripping through office furniture as if it were made of cardboard.
Following the pulse rifle and the coil of hose, the heavy chunk of building slammed into the jumpship’s critical intake. This was followed by an eruption of light, flames, and a thunderous explosion. Belching smoke, the fatally stricken ship shuddered, lost power, heeled to one side, and started to spin uncontrollably, picking up speed as it did so.
Rushing to the open edge of the building, Kirk looked out. A single figure was discernible through the transparent cockpit. For the second time, the two men locked eyes: one staring downward with satisfaction, the other peering upward through the transparent canopy and—unreadable.
Swirls of white light from the cockpit grew so intense that Kirk was forced to momentarily glance away. When he managed to look back, there was no sign of the jumpship’s pilot. Kirk was still pondering that when the crippled craft smashed into the side of the building. Flames erupted from within. For an instant, he thought it might hang there, eighty stories above the ground. Then it broke free of its temporary perch to plunge to the paved quad far below. When it smashed into the ground, it sent up gouts of flame and debris that fell far short of reaching him. Clinging to dangling cables for support, Kirk gazed hard at the remnants of the ruined jumpship.
For a long moment there was no sound but the wind whipping in off the bay. That, and the distant cries of wounded officers and security personnel seeping out from the battered conference room nearby.
Within that scene of fire and destruction, an intent Spock gently laid a hand on Pike’s face and commenced to do what he could. Too late. Not even a Vulcan meld could retrieve and heal that which was no longer present.
Returning to the scene of the attack, Kirk found Spock peering helplessly down at Pike’s limp form. The admiral’s eyes were still open. While there was no expression on the Vulcan’s face, there was bereavement in his eyes as he removed his right hand from the dead admiral’s head. Kirk put the tips of his fingers against Pike’s throat. The gesture only confirmed what the science officer did not say. Both survivors—one fully human, the other only half—exchanged a wordless glance. As Spock looked on in silence, Kirk lowered his head and fought to stem the rush of emotion that surged within him.
Christopher Pike was dead. The man who had not only stimulated Kirk to enter Starfleet, but who had quietly mentored him, encouraged him, chastised him when necessary, and grudgingly praised him when possible, would no longer be there to provide advice, suggestions, consolation, and yes, discipline, when needed. Another father lost. Another of the very, very few with whom Kirk could reveal himself, with whom he could be open and straightforward and . . . innocent . . . was gone. Wordlessly, he rose, resting a hand on the science officer’s shoulder for support. Spock did not object.
Relief and medical teams were pouring into the conference room. Hasty organization was taking the place of chaos. The injured were being evacuated, the dead placed to one side. Kirk might have assisted, but his heart wasn’t in it. Given his present state of mind, it was more likely he would have simply been in the way.
That’s what Pike would have told him.
Kirk did not get much sleep that night. His mind was filled with the sights and sounds of destruction and of men and women dying. Every time he would start to drift off, a face would catch his attention. It was that of John Harrison, shrinking away from him, trapped in the crippled jumpship, falling toward his death eighty floors below, and utterly, voicelessly, indifferent to his apparently imminent destruction. Falling—and vanishing, in spirals of white luminance. What had happened, there at that moment fraught with death and devastation? A brilliant flare, and then nothing. Was the man dead? Kirk doubted it. There had been too much purpose in that burst of luminosity—and in that preternaturally calm upward-gazing stare.
His communicator demanded attention, shattering his contemplation. “Yeah?” he said toward the unit.
The instant he heard who was on the other end, Kirk was fully attentive.
“Jim,” Scotty was saying, “I searched the wreckage of the jumpship. You’re not gonna believe what I found. You’ve got ta come, right away.”
“D’you have any idea what we’re dealin’ with here, man?”
Belying the bedlam of the previous night, the day had dawned clear and sunny. Only the presence of crews working atop the headquarters’ tower and around the crash scene at its base indicated that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. Repairs were being made to the eightieth floor, and the wreckage of the shattered jumpship was being hauled away. Not far from the damaged headquarters, oceangoing commerce on the bay moved normally.
Waiting for Kirk and Spock near the building’s undamaged entrance, Montgomery Scott was cradling a piece of debris.
Kirk arrived out of breath. “Scotty. I got your message.” He frowned at the mangled lump of metal, metallic glass, and synthetics. “Please tell me that you’ve got something that’ll help us find who did this.”
The Enterprise’s chief engineer hefted the mass of battered and fused material. Within its depths, like spots of color in a pointillist painting, could be seen individual components that were still recognizable. Most were shocked and scorched, but some stood out as nearly intact.
“This was recovered from the crashed jumpship.” Turning, Scott nodded at where the salvage team was still picking apart the remaining wreckage. “Nobody was quite sure what it might be, so images were flashed around. As soon as I saw it, I came down and requested possession. Close inspection confirms that I saw what I thought I saw . . . I think.”
Kirk cocked his head to one side. “So what is it you saw that you say you think you saw? Something worth saying?”
“I’ll say.” Scott turned serious. “If I’m right, and I’d bet ’alf the contents of the best back bar in Aberdeen that I am, this is the remains of a portable transwarp beamin’ device. No wonder the scrap iron boys cuttin’ apart that mess o’ a jumpship didn’t recognize it!”
Kirk stared hard at the engineer. “You know what happened here?”
The chief nodded somberly. “Makes no sense. Word is it might be some kind o’ personal vendetta or somethin’.”
“We’ll learn the motivation when we find the perpetrator.” Reaching out, Kirk tapped the ruined transporter. “Do you think there’s enough math left in this thing’s memory for you to trace where he went?”
“I already did, sir.” Scott’s tone was unusually grim. “And you’re not gonna like it.”
Though the device Scott cradled showed ample evidence of the damage it had suffered, one readout was intact. It showed only a simple number:
2314-3456
Kirk knew what it signified, and it only confirmed what the chief engineer had said.
He did not like it at all.