Stuart Moore
Stuart Moore has been a writer, a book editor, and an award-winning comics editor. His recent and upcoming comics work includes Firestorm, Nightwing, and JSA Classified (all for DC Comics), Wolverine (Marvel), and Stargate Atlantis (Avatar Press). For Games Workshop’s revived Dark Future series, Stuart has written the original prose novel American Meat and its upcoming sequel, Reality Bites. Other recent comics include Lone, The Escapist, Justice League Adventures, Para, and Western Tales of Terror. Of his graphic novel Giant Robot Warriors (AiT/PlanetLar), Steven Grant of Comic Book Resources said, “Stuart Moore’s turning into one of the best comics writers in America. Buy this.”
At DC Comics, Stuart was a founding editor of the acclaimed Vertigo imprint, where he won the Will Eisner award for Best Editor 1996 and the Don Thompson Award for Favorite Editor 1999. From late 2000 through mid-2002 Stuart edited the bestselling Marvel Knights comics line, before turning to writing full-time. Upcoming works include a comics adaptation of the bestselling novel Redwall (Philomel/Penguin), the original graphic novel Earthlight (Tokyopop), and more Firestorm.
Stuart lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife-and two cats who really don’t know the first thing about logic.
“Mr. Salak. Mr. Spock.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
“Take your places and begin.”
Spock rises from his chair, steps up to the raised podium. The room is bright, harshly lit, unlike the antiseptic classrooms he has experienced before. Multicolored lights flash and strobe at irregular intervals along the walls: green, yellow, violet. Subsonic pulses hum through the room, raising the pressure in his sensitive inner ear.
This place, he realizes, is designed specifically to test one’s logic.
Spock positions himself on the podium, facing his adversary. The Teacher stands between them, on a higher level. Despite himself, Spock shifts nervously. The other students notice; a ripple of murmured disapproval runs through them.
“Quiet!” the Teacher says.
As though a switch has been thrown, the students go abruptly silent.
The Teacher turns to Spock’s opponent. “Mr. Salak?”
“Sir.”
“Begin!”
Salak cocks his head, smirks slightly at Spock. “Logical thought is lacking in lower life-forms. All humans are lower life-forms. Therefore, logical thought is lacking in humans.”
Again, the murmuring laughter. Spock feels the words like a knife in his gut. Salak has chosen an opening gambit that strikes directly to the heart of his opponent’s being.
A green light flashes on the far wall, then a sharp yellow one-directly in Spock’s eyes. The subsonic hum rises, becoming almost audible.
“Spock?” the Teacher asks harshly.
Spock clears his throat. “Fallacy.”
“Explain.”
“Fallacy of presumption.”
“Specify. Quickly!”
“Fallacy of accident. The first statement is true in general, but not as a universal. Logical thought is lacking in many lower life-forms, but not all. Therefore the conclusion is invalid.”
“Correct,” the Teacher says.
A bright light pulses from red down to yellow. Salak flinches slightly. The boys murmur, eyebrows raised.
Spock tries not to take satisfaction in his opponent’s discomfort.
“Mr. Spock. Begin!”
Spock opens his mouth…
… and his mind goes blank.
He glances up, sees Salak half concealing a smirk. Then he turns to the class-and sweeps his gaze along a dozen more pairs of eyes, all fixed intently on him.
They have combined forces against me, he realizes. They’re acting in concert telepathically to disrupt my thought processes. They want the half-human to fail at this crucial class exercise.
The old anger and frustration rise within him. The feelings… the unwanted, alien sensations he has tried all his life to deny. If he fails this exercise, he will not be passed forward!
Spock closes his eyes, tries to banish the thoughts. I am a Vulcan, he thinks. A Vulcan—
Then the Teacher is at his elbow. “Mr. Spock.” His tones are even, cold, yet somehow soothing. “These are deliberately adverse conditions for logic. Focus; recall your techniques of Chaotic Response Suppression.”
Spock jumps; for some reason, the phrase-Chaotic Response Suppression-provokes an emotional response. Why? Is he thinking of something else… somewhere else entirely?
No. There is no time for this. Spock quickly calms himself, eyes still closed. The Teacher, he realizes, knows what the other boys have done, and is allowing him the opportunity to compensate. Any other student would have been eliminated for such hesitation.
“Half the secret of logical thought,” the Teacher continues, “lies in cultivating a garden where it may bloom.”
Spock concentrates, forcing himself to begin Phase One of Chaotic Response Suppression. In a millisecond, he calms his mind. Then he proceeds to Phase Two, sorting the stimuli assaulting him into categories and dismissing them one by one. The lights: He banishes them from his consciousness. The sounds: They are nothing to him. The pressure on his mind: mere noise. Deliberately, meticulously, he pushes each of these distractions to the corners of his mind.
Then he opens his mouth and begins to speak.
“Mr. Salak believes that only purebred Vulcans should be admitted to the Science Academy,” Spock says evenly. “But we all know that Mr. Salak desires a spot in the Academy for himself-a purebred Vulcan. Therefore, admittance to the Academy should be open to all.”
The Teacher frowns; briefly, Spock wonders if he has gone too far. But then the Teacher turns to Salak. “I will allow the proposition. Mr. Salak?”
Salak’s eyes light up. “Fallacy of relevance.”
“Specify.”
“Ad hominem reasoning. The conclusion rests on the fact that a single person believes the opposite proposition. But the opinion of an individual is irrelevant to truth.”
“Correct.”
I made that one too easy, Spock realizes. That is the trouble with this exercise: Every statement must contain a flaw, or else it is invalid as a test of the other student. But if the flaw is too obvious, the test is too simple. I have hurt my own cause.
“I must caution both students,” the Teacher says gravely. “Personal attacks have no place in these proceedings. Employ your Chaotic Response Suppression techniques rigorously; banish such petty motives from your mind. Logic is all that matters here. It is your birthright, your salvation, your heritage. As Vulcans… it is your duty.”
Spock and Salak nod as one.
Spock looks down, attempts to focus his thoughts. But somehow, the lights seem to shine even brighter than before.
“Mr. Salak. Begin.”
Salak fixes Spock with a hostile, laserlike stare. “Humans are illogical beings. Mr. Spock is part human. Therefore, Mr. Spock is an illogical being.”
Spock’s hand quivers, just slightly.
The Teacher glares at Salak. “Final warning, Mr. Salak.”
Salak nods, looks down with feigned contrition.
“Mr. Spock?”
Spock stares his opponent straight in the eye. “Fallacy of ambiguity-division. The conclusion rests on an improper inference. The premise may be true of the human species as a whole, but that says nothing of its truth when applied to any individual member.”
“Correct.”
Spock realizes he is shaking. Salak knew just how to attack him, even at the risk of another rebuke from the Teacher.
Suddenly Spock knows: I’m going to lose.
“Mr. Spock. Final proposition.”
Spock begins to speak. But again, his senses begin to overload. The lights, blinding now. The aching thrum in his ears. The sounds of the other boys’ thoughts, more hostile than ever.
He forces himself to concentrate. Phase One, he thinks: Calm the mental… the mental…
It is no use. His techniques fail him; he cannot suppress the chaos. His mind is a disordered, unclean thing.
But he must say something.
“All… all Vulcans realize that the so-called ‘purity’ of the Science Academy is nothing but rank bigotry dressed up in the guise of academic standards…”
He pauses, eyes darting about nervously. Salak looks like a feral sehlat; the boys, like carrion birds awaiting their meal. The Teacher glares at Spock with open hostility.
“… therefore… the Academy must change,” he finishes.
The Teacher shakes his head, turns to Spock’s opponent. “Mr. Salak?”
“Fallacy of relevance.” His eyes widen hungrily as he stares Spock down. “Appeal… to emotion.”
The word strikes like a blow to Spock’s head.
Emotion. The bane of his existence; the unwanted heritage of his human mother. And now, he thinks, I’ve dragged it into this test of pure, impartial logic.
With a sick, creeping dread, he glances at the Teacher. As he feared, the Teacher is nodding approvingly at Salak’s rebuttal.
“… the overblown language of the premise disguises the fact that it has no relevance to the conclusion…”
Spock tunes Salak out. He has lost; he knows this now. Worse, he has proven the other boys correct. He cannot compete with them. He is less than them.
The thrumming sound fills his mind; the lights leave painful after-images in his vision. He can no longer block any of it out. Chaotic Response Suppression has failed him. He will not pass this course; he will not attend the Vulcan Science Academy. Ever.
A thought passes through his mind like a communique from another world, a foreign star. But I don’t want to go to the—
Then, in the midst of the brightest, whitest spot of light, a figure in blue and black begins to form. A slim, craggy man with an analyzer device strapped over his shoulder. As he approaches, the rest of the room-Salak, the Teacher, the students, even the blinding lights-seem to recede to the corners of Spock’s awareness. As in a Chaotic Response technique, he thinks idly.
The man reaches out a quivering, human hand.
“Mr. Spock,” McCoy says. “You annoying Vulcan. Take my hand already, will you?”
The phaser blast struck the Enterprise, and Kirk pitched forward out of his command chair. He lurched past Sulu, then caught himself on a handrail. He shook his head to clear it, then looked around hurriedly.
“Everybody all right?”
General noises of assent. The red-alert siren continued, a grim backdrop to the chaos all around. Kirk crossed back to his chair, glancing briefly at Sulu’s helm console.
“I still have full helm control,” Sulu confirmed.
“Damage reports coming in now,” Uhura said. “Minor hull breaches, decks seventeen through nineteen.”
“Aft shields down to… 32 percent.” The navigator, a young woman named Sanchez, sounded nervous.
“Hangar deck temporarily depressurized,” Uhura continued. “No casualties- “
“Just a second, Uhura.” Kirk stabbed a button on his command chair. “Scotty, how’re we doing down there?”
A brief pause, then the Scotsman’s filtered voice filled the bridge. “We took a pounding, Captain. I’m gonna need an hour or so to get warp drive back online.”
“Life support? Essential systems?”
Scotty sighed audibly. “We should be okay as long as those Klingons keep their distance.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that, Mr. Scott.” Kirk looked up at the viewscreen, which showed the two D7-class Klingon battle cruisers. They were still moving away… but they were starting to circle around.
“Mr. Spo- ” Kirk turned to his right, then stopped. “Mr. Chekov. Can you analyze the Klingon ships’ energy output?”
Chekov looked up from the science station, his face lit bright blue. “Sir?”
“Their coil emissions. I need to know if we did them any real damage.”
“Ah.” The young Russian turned back to his work. “One moment, Captain.”
Ensign Chekov had only been a bridge officer for three weeks. For a brief moment, Kirk wondered if he’d promoted the young man too quickly.
“Captain,” Scotty’s voice said. “I’m getting a nasty cascade reaction in the dilithium chamber. I’m gonna need to stop and reconfigure pretty soon.”
“You’ll have to wait a bit, Scotty.” Kirk rose, stepped forward, put a hand on Sulu’s shoulder. He pointed up at the viewscreen. “They’re coming around?”
“Aye, sir.” Sulu consulted the astrogator. “Converging in a vee formation.”
“How long till they’re back in phaser range?”
Sulu frowned. “Ninety seconds or so.”
Kirk strode back to his chair, pressed the comm button. “Kirk to sickbay.”
“M’Benga here.”
“Doctor, I could really use my science officer up here. Any progress?”
“None, sir. They’re both still inside.”
Kirk hesitated. “Keep me posted.” He glanced up at the screen, which showed the two cruisers headed back toward the Enterprise. “Mr. Chekov?”
“Ah, sir… the lead ship shows coil emissions vithin normal tolerances. The other one…” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
Chekov looked up, shrugged helplessly. “It’s… fluctuating.”
“Captain,” Uhura said. “Hangar deck just lost pressure again. Repair crews dispatched.”
“Aft shields failing,” Sanchez said. “Down to 22 percent.”
Kirk waved them both off. He surveyed the bridge: Sanchez looked frightened, grimacing as she plotted possible sublight vectors. Sulu was frowning, making small course corrections calmly, deliberately. Uhura’s hands were a blur as she coordinated damage control reports from a dozen departments. Finally, Kirk’s gaze rested on Chekov, who seemed to be struggling with the science station controls.
Kirk thought: I need Spock.
“Back us off, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said. “See if you can buy us a minute or two.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And ready phasers.” Then Kirk rose, moved to stand next to Chekov. “Mr. Chekov. That damaged ship-the trailing one. Give me precise coil emissions and shield strengths on its two nacelles.”
Chekov looked up. “Sir?”
“Now.”
“Aye, sir.” He grimaced. “T-together or separately?”
“Aft shields down to 16 percent.” Sanchez’s voice was grim.
“Separately!” Kirk felt the pressure building. “Sulu-the ships are coming around in formation, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Sulu looked down briefly. “Phaser range in forty seconds.”
“Captain,” said Scotty, “I can’t divert any more power to the aft shields- “
“Understood, engineer.” Kirk whirled toward Chekov. “Science officer-your report!”
Trembling, Chekov read off a series of numbers.
Kirk listened, then strode down toward helm control. “Mr. Sulu. Move us in toward the damaged ship. Heading: 185 mark 28.”
Sulu glanced at the captain. “Mark 28. Aye, sir.”
Ahead of them, the two ships nearly filled the viewscreen. Their front sections glowed bright against the stars.
Chekov said, “They are charging phasers- “
“I know.” Kirk pointed at a display, spoke urgently to Sulu. “Lock our phasers on that nacelle there.”
“Phasers locked.”
“Enemy ship is firing!” Sanchez exclaimed.
The ship shook. Kirk staggered backward but kept his balance.
“Forward shields holding.”
“So we just have to keep them from getting behind us… till we can pull this off.” Kirk lowered his voice, practically hissing in Sulu’s ear. “Do you have a lock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Steer us in a little closer.” On the screen, the image tilted, and the one ship drew closer. “Just one minute more…”
“Captain- “
“Not now, Sanchez.”
Kirk stood, watching the numbers fly by on Sulu’s console. All around him, voices chattered: damage control, shield strength, phaser power, casualty reports. Spock would have sorted it all out, cut through all this mess-all these voices-and told him exactly what he needed to know.
But Spock wasn’t here. Might never be here again.
And McCoy…
“Enemy ship firing again!” Sanchez said. Her voice was frantic.
“Captain?” Sulu prompted.
With a sick feeling, Kirk realized he’d waited too long.
The bridge shook. Kirk pitched forward, catching himself on the astrogator console next to Sulu. “Fire!” he yelled.
Sulu pressed the firing button.
Energy stabbed out from the Enterprise, sparking and flashing as it struck the enemy ship’s left nacelle. On the viewscreen, the Klingon vessel lurched, tilted sideways.
“Captain,” Chekov said, “the other ship is- “
“Maintain fire. Hold that lock!”
Kirk reached out a hand, thumbed the viewscreen magnification back a notch. Both ships were visible now. The Enterprise phasers continued their assault on the damaged cruiser, which was beginning to veer off course. The other ship glowed with energy; clearly it was about to fire again.
“Casualty reports coming in,” Uhura said.
“We’re almost through their shield,” Sulu said. “But our phaser power is fading.”
“Hold on,” Kirk replied. “Ready photon torpedoes.”
The blue energy-stream sliced into the Klingon ship’s warp nacelle. Then, abruptly, the nacelle broke apart. The cruiser pitched, sparked, fires dissipating off into space from its exposed warp engine. It lurched, pitched sideways…
… and grazed the other Klingon ship’s shields. Sparks flew into space, and the second ship’s phasers fired wild, into the void.
“Photon torpedoes, fire,” Kirk ordered.
Bright pulses of destruction shot out of the Enterprise, bombarding the twin ships. As Kirk watched, they struck the healthy Klingon cruiser, detonating harmlessly against its shields. The other one wasn’t so lucky; explosions and fires dotted its surface.
“Five… six direct hits,” Sanchez said.
“Damaged cruiser’s shields are at near zero strength,” Chekov said. “She is heading off.”
Kirk whirled, sat down in his chair. “Uhura, open a channel to the remaining Klingon vessel.”
“Channel open.”
On the viewscreen, a dark, furrowed face in black and silver appeared, surrounded by the smoky, regimented bustle of a Klingon imperial bridge.
“This is Captain Kirk to the Klingon ship,” Kirk said. “It’s one on one now, Commander. Do you want to make the first move, or can we resolve this peacefully?”
The face stood, glaring, for a long moment. The Klingon said nothing.
Then the screen flickered, returned to forward view. The Klingon cruiser turned, began a slow arc away.
“They’re moving off.” Sulu smiled. “Taking refuge with the other ship, behind that large moon.”
“The Klingons like to fight in close quarters. We were able to turn that against them-this time. But they’ll be back.” Kirk could sense the admiring gazes of his bridge crew, but he felt no sense of triumph. He shook his head.
“Uhura. Damage report?”
“Seven casualties on lower decks, sir. None fatal.”
Kirk grimaced, pressed the comm button. “Engineer. Time to warp drive?”
“Should still be about an hour, sir. Repairs already under way.”
Kirk rose, and once more his disapproving gaze swept across the bridge. “That was sloppy all around,” he said. “The Klingons will probably be back before we can depart this area. Let’s do better next time.” He looked pointedly at Chekov, then strode to the lift.
“Sulu, you have the conn. Run continuous drills. If anything happens, call me immediately.”
The lift doors hissed shut, and he was alone.
Kirk exhaled heavily. The turbolift hummed, waiting for his command.
“Sickbay,” he said.
When Kirk was gone, the bridge crew seemed to exhale all at once. Sanchez looked over at Sulu expectantly. The helmsman shook his head, sighed.
Uhura raised an eyebrow. “Rough day.”
Chekov stared into the science station viewer, his head in his hands. “I think my career is over.”
Sulu stood up and crossed to the young ensign, put a hand on his shoulder. “My first week aboard, I accidentally pressed an active plasma torch against the matter/antimatter reaction chamber. Nearly blew up the ship.” He smiled. “The chief engineer taught me a few… exotic Scottish expressions. But I got over it.”
Chekov looked up, smiled back sadly.
Then Sulu straightened, looked around. “Okay, you all heard the captain,” he said. “Battle stations.”
“This is very odd,” Spock says. “And yet… strangely logical.”
He gazes around at his surroundings. A neatly trimmed mass of green vegetation rises to a height of twelve feet in all directions, with an opening dead ahead. Through the hole, Spock can make out another wall… and, past that, yet another.
They have been walking through this huge, sunny garden for an indefinite period of time, and Spock has determined that it forms a maze. The bushes, all meticulously squared off, seem to be leading them to some unpredictable destination.
A phrase comes to his mind, half remembered: … lies in cultivating a garden where it may bloom.
“Of course it’s logical,” McCoy replies. “We’re inside your brain.”
Spock looks at him sharply. He knows this man, but he cannot remember exactly how. When he looks at McCoy, he feels a strong sense of friendship… but also a guardedness. A vague memory of attacks, of challenges to his intellect.
“I should… return to the classroom,” Spock says, fighting down a sudden stab of panic. “If I lose the challenge, I will not be passed forward into the Science Academy.”
“Spock. Listen to me.” McCoy grabs the Vulcan’s shoulders, turns to face him directly. “You’re not on Vulcan. You’re on the Enterprise. You are first officer and science officer there-you have been for years. Do you remember?”
Spock shakes free, turns away. A mockingbird screeches, breaking his concentration.
“The Klingons captured you-subjected you to their mind-ripper,” McCoy continues. “They tortured you mentally, and you retreated into your mind using Vulcan mental disciplines. You retreated here.”
Again, the panic. A burst of images: fiery combat in space. Cruel, bearded men in metal mesh vests. A machine with arms like snakes, cold and metallic and unstoppable, violating his mind.
Then pain. And the questions:
Fleet strength. Federation expansion plans. Starship deployment.
No, Spock recalls thinking. I will not answer.
More pain. And the snake-machine, hissing and probing his innermost thoughts. Pain. Chaos. Pain. No escape, no solution. The only option: draw on his training.
On Chaotic Response Suppression.
“… got you out,” McCoy is saying. “And we grabbed the mind-ripper, too. I’m using it right now, Spock. You’ve got to listen to me.”
Spock shakes his head, looks around. This McCoy… he knows he should trust him. But what if it’s another attack… another manifestation of the snake?
“You’re in too deep, Spock. Only you can get yourself out of this.” And McCoy reaches for him…
The mockingbird screeches; the sky darkens. Thunder roars from the sky.
Spock looks up, knowing what he will see. The hedges have turned brown, gnarled-dying. As he watches, they stir, come to a sick semblance of life. They reach out toward him, like thorned claws.
“Spock!”
Then the maze is upon them, pricking their skin and coiling around their throats. McCoy grabs at the branches, his eyes wide. As Spock watches, they cut into the doctor’s hands. McCoy winces, crying out in pain.
Spock stands stiff, still, trying to evoke Chaotic Response techniques.
“This is illogical,” he says quietly to himself. “I will push it aside; I will not be distracted. Phase One- “
McCoy struggles to speak. “Of course it’s… illogical, Spock.” He pulls free of a branch. “Humans are illogical beings, right? But need I remind you-you are half human.”
And Spock hears Salak’s voice, taunting, echoing: Mr. Spock is part human. Therefore… Mr. Spock is an illogical being.
The branches pull them into the hedge, gathering and squeezing them tight, smothering them against the brown, dying mass of vegetation. Steel-like vines tighten around McCoy’s throat, stronger than ever, and he makes a strangled sound. But Spock barely hears. His suppression techniques have failed; his mind is closed off. He cannot help himself. He cannot help his friends. Beyond any doubt, beyond any logical calculation, he knows: He will die here.
Then, just ahead of him, a section of the hedge begins to glow. It burns red-hot, sprouts tiny flames, and incinerates from the center outward. And in its wake-
“Spock! Bones!” Kirk yells. His phaser is still raised, ready to fire again.
“Jim.” The word comes oddly to Spock’s lips. It sounds strange, like a language he has not spoken for a long, long time.
Kirk wades through the snaking, coiling vegetation, firing off short bursts at the errant branches. Then he holsters his phaser and reaches out one hand each to Spock and McCoy, pulling the vines from their throats. McCoy gasps, staggers a bit.
Then Kirk fixes Spock with a steely gaze. “Mr. Spock. You have to break free of this. We need you.” He pauses. “You must return to duty.”
Spock recalls the Teacher’s voice: Logic is your duty.
Kirk’s eyes are like lasers… like alien snake-machines, crawling and snaking into his brain. Like manifestations of chaos itself.
“Chaotic… Response…”
Spock closes his eyes, willing the snakes, the vines, the bloody thorns away. He pushes them aside. The pain, he tells himself, is a foreign object, a snapshot in another man’s album. An other.
His shipmates fade away; the garden fades away. All is pure, white light. And he is alone, with his failure and his fear and his pain and his logic.
Alone.
“Is he comin’ around, Doc?”
“Yes, Mr. Scott. They both are.”
Kirk’s eyes snapped open. He took in, first, the bright lights of sickbay, then the concerned faces of Scotty and Dr. M’Benga, peering at him. M’Benga leaned down, placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy, Captain. Take it slow.”
Kirk leaned back, turned his head to the left. There, on the next bed, lay Spock… completely unconscious. No signs of life beyond the steady thrumming of the diagnostic instruments above his head. And past Spock: the device. Black and silver, a mass of coiled, glowing metal and thick, barely insulated wiring.
The mind-ripper.
“Your vitals were fluctuating dangerously.” M’Benga reached down and gently disconnected the leads from Kirk’s forehead. “I took a chance… waited till you hit normal levels, briefly, then pulled you out. I had no choice.”
Scotty turned to the ripper, shook his head. “Blasted Klingon engineering. It’s a miracle that thing didn’t rip your head apart, sir.”
Kirk sat up slowly. “Feels like it did.”
To his right, McCoy groaned, sat up. He ripped the leads off his own head.
“Bones,” Kirk said softly.
“We blew it, Jim,” McCoy said. “And you took a damn-fool chance going in there after me.”
“I wasn’t about to lose two of my senior officers.” He pointed to Spock’s prone body. “Any change?”
M’Benga consulted the diagnostic bed readings. “None,” he said. “His brain activity spiked, a minute or two before we brought you out. Now it’s dropped back down again.”
Nurse Chapel hurried in. “Doctor.” She stopped, glanced at McCoy. “Doctors. The casualties from the attack are stable. They’re all resting quietly.”
“Thank you, Nurse.” McCoy grimaced, lurched to his feet. He staggered over to Spock’s bed, studied the indicators. “Those are the same readings we got when we first rescued him.”
“Yes,” M’Benga agreed. He was an expert in Vulcan physiology, Kirk recalled. “Under normal circumstances, I’d say he was engaged in some kind of internal healing procedure. But the damage to Mr. Spock’s brain is severe-I’m worried about the lack of progress.”
Nurse Chapel cast a quick, worried glance over at Spock’s unmoving body. “I’d better tend to the… wounded…” And she left hurriedly.
“Scotty,” Kirk said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to report, sir,” the engineer replied. “Repairs are well under way-my lads are on the case. We’ll be ready to leave the area in approximately thirty minutes.”
“But.”
“But. Mr. Chekov has picked up strong long-range energy signals from the Klingon ships. He suspects they may be back before then.”
Kirk frowned.
“Sir,” Scotty continued. “We need you on the bridge.”
Kirk looked down at Spock. The Vulcan’s body was completely still: no blinking, no muscle twitches, no facial movements. He barely breathed.
“I need him on the bridge,” Kirk replied. “And you’ll forgive me if I don’t take Mr. Chekov’s judgments as gospel.”
Scotty hesitated. “He’s a sharp lad, Chekov.”
“But inexperienced.”
A sharp pulse came from Spock’s diagnostic bed. Kirk turned in alarm.
Shakily, McCoy crossed back to Kirk’s bed. “Jim, Spock’s readings are starting to deteriorate. I’m goin’ back in there.”
“No.” Kirk reached for the mind-ripper’s connecting leads. “I’ll go.”
McCoy glared at him. “That’s not appropriate.”
“It’s necessary.”
“You are the captain of a starship in an ongoing combat situation. It’s not merely foolish for you to risk your life like this-it’s irresponsible to those around you.”
Scott stepped forward. “I must agree, Captain. The Klingons outnumber us, and there’s no other Federation ships in the sector. We barely escaped with our lives before.”
“And those Klingons are still pretty mad about us stealing their little toy here,” McCoy continued. “What was it you said to Spock? ‘You have duties.’”
Kirk put a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. He turned to the others. “Gentlemen… give us a moment?”
Frowning, Scotty and M’Benga moved to the far corner of the room.
“I’ve got to save him, Bones.”
McCoy grimaced. “Jim, he’s my friend, too. I- “
“No-you don’t understand.” Kirk looked down. “Scotty’s right-we barely beat the Klingons before. They have us outnumbered and outgunned. I managed to slap them down once, but they’ll be back. And you’ve got wounded down here who shouldn’t be wounded.”
McCoy cocked his head. “You said yourself they outnumber us.”
“That’s not the point. If Spock had been up there, we’d have gotten out of that battle clean.”
“You don’t know that. And we’ve had scrapes that turned out much worse.”
“I’m not kicking myself, Bones. I did my job. But next time… the Klingons are going to be better prepared.”
McCoy frowned.
“Scotty’s right-Chekov’s a good junior officer. But he’s not Spock.” Kirk frowned, remembering. “During combat, there are a dozen voices chattering away all the time, on the bridge. The communications officer relays damage reports. Scotty provides updates on engine status. The helmsman monitors phasers and ship movements. The navigator handles shield strength. They’re all background noise to me-because one man always feeds me the exact information I need at the exact moment I need it.”
“Spock,” McCoy said tonelessly.
“Normally, I can compensate for his absence. But the Klingons have us at a severe disadvantage. I’m a good captain, but I don’t have Spock’s ability to filter through a thousand bits of information, screen out superfluous data, and zero in on the most crucial point-all in a millisecond.”
McCoy smiled wryly. “I suppose part of being ‘a good captain’ is knowing one’s own limitations.”
“Exactly. That’s why it’s not irresponsible for me to try and rescue Spock. It’s actually the only responsible thing to do.” Kirk paused. “It might mean life or death for the entire crew.”
McCoy crossed to the mind-ripper, and together he and Kirk stared at it for a moment. It was an unknown, alien device; M’Benga barely understood its controls, and they all knew its use could prove fatal at any time. Kirk recalled the feel of its electric probes, reaching tendrils into his brain. He shivered.
“All right,” McCoy said. “But I’m going back in with you.”
Kirk frowned. “There’s no sense in both of us- “
“I screwed up in there, Jim.” McCoy turned to him, and there was honest pain in his face. “I tried to prod Spock out of his stupor-I reminded him he was half human. And it backfired. That’s when his mind-garden, whatever it was-went all haywire.”
Kirk glanced over at Spock’s bed. M’Benga stood before it now, looking at the diagnostic readouts and shaking his head slowly.
“It’s my fault he’s dying,” McCoy said.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s what I know.” He sat back on his bed, looked distastefully at the machine’s leads. “I’ve got to make this right. Understand that, Jim.”
Kirk locked eyes with McCoy for just a moment. Then he nodded.
“Scotty. Come here a minute.”
Scott walked over to him.
“Dr. McCoy and I are going in again. If all goes well, we shouldn’t be long.”
Scott frowned. “Sir.”
“Here’s what you need to do. Get that warp drive fixed as quick as you can. The second you do, get us out of here. If the Klingons attack, don’t try to be a hero. Hide behind the moon, slingshot around the sun, do whatever you have to do to get away.”
“Aye, sir.”
“If you think you can negotiate with the Klingons, by all means try it. But I don’t hold out much hope there.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “They don’t seem too big on the Organian Peace Treaty.”
“We’re a long way out, Doctor.” Kirk turned back to Scotty. “Get the crew home safe.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I know you will.”
Kirk turned to look at Spock. In all the time Kirk had been awake, the Vulcan hadn’t moved an inch. He looked paler than usual, like a corpse prepared for viewing. Not a comforting thought.
Kirk glanced at McCoy, who flashed him a tight smile. Then he looked over at the alien device that held all their lives in its cold, metal grasp.
“Dr. M’Benga,” Kirk said. “Send us back in.”
Kirk’s first impression is of a rush of bright red and blue, hazy yet familiar. Then the fog clears, and he and McCoy are standing on the bridge of the Enterprise.
But not, he realizes quickly, my Enterprise.
The alert tones sound different: longer, less sharp, more dissonant. The bridge stations sport an older, gooseneck style of personal comm screens. Star charts display an entirely different sector of the galaxy.
And in the center chair…
McCoy nudges Kirk. “Is that- “
“Yes. Chris Pike.”
Not only is it Christopher Pike, Kirk’s predecessor, but a younger Pike than Kirk has ever seen before. Younger even than in the Talos IV record-tapes. Pike sits, frowning at a padd, oblivious to Kirk and McCoy’s presence.
Kirk looks around. The bridge is fully staffed-and no one else seems to notice him or McCoy, either. A young helmsman turns to Captain Pike.
“Space warp engaged, Captain. On course to Delta Aurigae III.”
“Mmm.” Pike doesn’t look up.
“Jim. Look.”
Kirk follows McCoy’s gaze to the science station. A young Spock-again, younger than Kirk has ever seen him-is engaged in deep-voiced conversation with a handsome, dark-haired woman.
“Number Five,” Spock says. “That is what the crew calls you?”
“That’s right.” The woman smiles tightly. “Because I’m fifth in command. Sixth, actually, counting the Captain.”
“That is logical.” Spock hesitates; he’s not used to being around humans, Kirk realizes. “And you do not object to this appellation?”
Number Five shrugs. “It reminds me how far I have to go.”
Spock raises an eyebrow.
Kirk and McCoy move closer to them, fascinated. Spock, Kirk notices, is an ensign.
“This is the main science station,” Number Five says. “Just remember: When the captain asks for something, give it to him fast and to the best of your ability. You’re only stationed here temporarily, till we pick up Science Officer Yu at Delta Aurigae.”
Spock nods, studies the controls.
“Bones,” Kirk says softly. “I think we’re seeing a memory… of Spock’s first day aboard the Enterprise.”
McCoy smiles. “You don’t need to whisper, Jim. They can’t hear us.”
Suddenly the scene freezes, and the sounds stop. Pike stares, unmoving, at his padd; Number Five halts in mid-gesture. Only Spock moves, turning to face the two visitors.
“I can hear you, gentlemen.”
“Mr. Spock.” Kirk smiles, reaches toward the Vulcan. “Do you know us? Do you know who we are?”
Spock’s eyebrows narrow. He frowns and flinches away, toward the science console. “Captain Kirk,” he says slowly. “Dr. McCoy.”
McCoy nods. “That’s right.”
“Spock,” Kirk continues. “Do you realize what this is? Where we are?”
Spock glances around, and a brief flash of fear crosses his impassive features. He looks so young, Kirk thinks. Untouched, as yet, by the scars of the Psi 2000 virus, by the agonies of the Denevan parasites, and most of all, by the violation of the mind-ripper.
“The Enterprise,” Spock says. “The United Starship Enterprise.” His pronunciation is odd, accented. As though, Kirk realizes, he’s never said the word Enterprise before.
“No,” Kirk replies. “This isn’t the Enterprise. It isn’t real.”
But Spock is moving away from them, pacing the bridge with powerful, nervous steps. “The Enterprise,” he repeats. “My first posting in Starfleet. And I don’t know how to do this.” He pauses, looks fearfully from Number Five to the unmoving, frowning Captain Pike. “Too many humans. Too much chaos-too much illogic.”
“Spock- “
“Jim.” McCoy touches his elbow. “Let me try something.”
Kirk nods.
“Mr. Spock,” McCoy says. “You say there is too much illogic here?”
Spock nods. His face is impassive now, but his movements are still jerky, frightened. “Illogic-yes. And more. Danger.”
“Well, what you want to do is take it one step at a time.” McCoy smiles now, the very picture of a friendly country doctor. “You’ve been trained in how to deal with illogic, right?”
Spock does not answer. He looks up at the ceiling, then down at the science console. “Danger,” he repeats. “Danger from within.”
“Now, never mind that,” McCoy continues. “Just use your training, Spock. You mentioned a technique before-what was it? Chaotic Response- “
“No!” Spock turns to them, panicked now. “Danger from within. Now!”
Suddenly, across the bridge, the engineering console explodes. A junior lieutenant flies backward, screaming, and sparks rain down across the bridge. Pike stands quickly, and alert sirens begin to blare.
The bridge has come to life.
“Phaser control reports overload!” the helmsman says.
Number Five is already at the engineering station, fanning away smoke and squinting to read the remaining active controls. “Radiation leak,” she says. “Contamination, deck five.”
“Warp drive has cut out,” the navigator reports.
“Science officer!” Pike turns urgently to face Spock. “Report!”
They still can’t see us, Kirk realizes.
Alert klaxons blare. Number Five coughs, recoils as her hand touches a burning switch on the engineering station. Medics exit from the turbolift, kneel down to attend to the wounded lieutenant. And backed up against the science station, looking around with wide eyes, stands Ensign Spock.
Frozen with fear.
The deck shifted violently, and a few instruments clattered to the floor. M’Benga grabbed onto Kirk’s diagnostic bed to steady himself, almost yanking one of the Klingon machine’s connector leads off the captain’s forehead. He swore.
The intercom bleeped. M’Benga crossed to the desk.
“Dr. M’Benga here. What’s going on?”
“The Klingons are back for another round, Doctor.” Scotty’s voice sounded tense-understandably, M’Benga thought. “How are things down there?”
Another blast shook the ship. M’Benga gripped the edge of the desk, glanced over at his unmoving patients.
“Shaky.”
“I could use the captain and Mr. Spock.”
“Hang on.” Grimacing, M’Benga ran to Kirk’s bed, examined the diagnostic for a minute. He shook his head, then returned to the desk.
“Their synaptic movement has plateaued at a wildly accelerated level, Mr. Scott. I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I don’t dare bring them out now. The shock would probably kill them.”
Another impact, even greater than before. McCoy’s unmoving form shifted, moved dangerously close to the edge of the bed.
Through the intercom, M’Benga could hear cross-chatter on the bridge. The new ensign’s heavy Russian accent, alternating with Mr. Scott’s clipped burr.
Then Scott’s voice came through again. “It’s your call, Doctor. But if they don’t come out soon, we may not have a ship for them to come back to.”
“Understood.”
M’Benga cut the connection. He glared at the Klingon mind-ripper, glowing with dark, electric energy. Even if I understood that thing, he thought, I wouldn’t dare adjust its settings. The amount of energy coursing through the three men’s minds was recklessly high.
M’Benga’s eyes swept from Kirk’s unmoving form to Spock, whose hands were twitching now, just slightly. Then he walked over to McCoy, spoke softly.
“Physician, you better hurry up and heal yourself,” M’Benga said. “And your friends.”
Outside, in the cold of space, the Klingons circled around for the kill.
Spock’s mind is a welter of chaos. Flashing red lights. Shouting people. Smoke, small fires. Illogical human minds, pelting and assaulting him with their panic and their flaring, emotional thoughts.
“Science officer!” Captain Pike says again. “I said, report!”
For just a moment, Spock sees two Klingon cruisers, arcing around toward him with phaser turrets glowing. No, he thinks. That’s not right. Not Klingons; this is a phaser control emergency. An internal problem with the newly refitted ship, a malfunction. That’s how it happened before.
Before…?
The two men are still here, too. His friends.
“Jim,” one says. “I think something’s going on outside-on the Enterprise. Our Enterprise, I mean.”
“We’d better deal with this problem first, Bones.”
Stop, Spock thinks. Go away. Leave me alone. I cannot deal with this; no Vulcan could. This is too much.
Again the thought flashes through his mind: I will die here.
Then one of the men-Kirk- has him by the shoulders. “Spock,” Kirk says. “Listen to me. We have to get out of here-all of us. Your mind has retreated into this fantasy. But we’re staring right down the barrel of reality now-and it’s charging full phasers, locked straight on us.”
The man’s eyes are probing, knowing. Spock turns away.
“Your logic training,” Kirk continues. “Use it. Use it to get yourself out of this.”
McCoy steps forward. “For God’s sake, Spock… if you were ever a Vulcan, be a Vulcan now.”
Captain Kirk’s eyes stare imploringly. Past him, Captain Pike’s glare is just as steady, and much more hostile. A yeoman hovers over Pike’s shoulder, staring at Spock along with the rest of the bridge crew.
Once more, Spock hears Salak’s taunts: Mr. Spock is part human.
Logical thought is lacking in humans.
And then, the Teacher:
These are deliberately adverse conditions for logic.
Recall your techniques of Chaotic Response Suppression.
Focus.
Spock turns to the science station. “Contamination is limited to deck five; damage control reports four casualties,” he says. “Recommend sealing off deck five, port side, including emergency battery room and officers’ lounge. All personnel, decks four through six, should be issued rad treatment packs.”
Pike stares at him and begins to nod slowly.
“Do it,” he says to the yeoman. She nods and moves off.
The crew move about, carrying out their tasks. Spock ignores them. The smell of smoke, the clamor of alert sirens: all these, he pushes to the side of his consciousness. He closes his eyes.
“Spock- “
He holds up a hand, and Kirk falls silent.
“There are two phases of Chaotic Response Suppression,” Spock says aloud. “Phase One is the calming of mental processes. This plants the garden where logic may bloom.”
The bridge sounds fade around him. All is calm; all is logical. The garden is green once more, and he stands within it. Gathering strength from its pure, ordered serenity.
Kirk and McCoy are still with him in spirit. He can feel Kirk’s mind, in particular, close to his. Lending him strength.
He continues speaking aloud, to focus himself. “Once the mind is calm,” he says, “Phase Two may commence. The employment of logic; the cold weighing of variables, of priorities. The strict code of controlled, emotionless judgment that saved my people from destruction, millennia ago.”
“Yes,” Kirk says.
Spock studies the green, healthy vegetation, feels the calm air. The sun shines warm, but not hot, on his back. This is a good place… a peaceful place. A place of logic.
“When the mind has been trained to remain calm at all times, the student has achieved Kolinahr… the state of total, eternal logic.”
“Ugh,” McCoy says.
“I have not achieved that state. Perhaps I never will. And yet… at this moment, my mind is calm.”
Kirk nods. “Stay with it, Spock.”
Spock looks around. He is alone here, and yet…
“All else has receded,” Spock continues, “yet you persist. The two of you remain in my mind.”
“Like bad pennies.” He can feel McCoy’s wry smile.
“Therefore… logic suggests…”
Spock hesitates. Kirk’s consciousness hovers nearby, merged partially with his own. Supportive, but not intrusive. Watching, carefully, the process that will hopefully save all three of their lives.
Something shakes, violently. Pike’s Enterprise? Kirk’s? Spock’s own mind?
“… that only you two, out of all of this…”
“Spit it out, you blasted Vulcan!”
“… are real.”
Then Kirk and McCoy are there, shining mental constructs standing tall and proud in Spock’s garden of logic. They reach out and take Spock’s strong hands in their own.
“I understand,” Kirk says.
Together they look to the sky, as they have always done, as they will always do. And together they rise, up and out, toward the bright star above and the unknown reality beyond.
Kirk’s eyes flew open. He sat up, immediately alert.
To his right, McCoy groaned, rubbed his head. Kirk turned to the left, saw Spock lying still, his eyes wide open. Those eyes looked tired, but Kirk could see that they were taking in every detail of the scene, every piece of information available.
And so am I, he realized.
“Was that… a mind-meld?” McCoy asked.
“Of sorts,” Spock replied. The Vulcan struggled to rise, then slumped back on the diagnostic bed.
Dr. M’Benga eyed them each briefly, then moved to the Vulcan. “You’d better take it easy, Mr. Spock. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Indeed,” Spock murmured.
Kirk’s mind was spinning. Yes, the Klingon machine had merged their minds together. Spock had drawn strength from him and McCoy, enough to reassert his Vulcan disciplines and pull them all out of his mindscape.
And Kirk? Had he also taken something from the merge…?
“Captain. Doctor.” Spock’s voice was raspy, his head almost perfectly still on the bed. “My thanks.”
McCoy sat up, pulled the leads off his head. “It was worth it, Spock. Now you owe me one.”
Kirk looked at his first officer, weak and unmoving on the bed. He recalled the way Pike had barked at the Vulcan, the trauma it had induced in Spock’s mindscape.
Maybe I have been a little hard on Mr. Chekov, Kirk thought.
The ship shook with a harsh impact. Kirk looked up in alarm. He recognized the distinctive vibration of a phaser attack.
As if on cue, the intercom blipped.
“Any progress, Doctor?” Scotty’s voice said.
Kirk tested himself, swung his legs around, and climbed to his feet. He crossed to McCoy’s desk, pressed the intercom button. “Kirk here, Scotty. I’m on my way.”
“Glad to hear it, Captain.”
McCoy stood with M’Benga now, over Spock’s body. Kirk hesitated, remembering his own words to McCoy a short time ago. He moved to their side.
“Mr. Spock,” Kirk said slowly. “I could really use your help.”
Spock nodded, tried to rise. “Just… one moment, Captain…”
He slipped, fell back onto the bed. McCoy and M’Benga grabbed him together, rolled him onto his back. Spock lay still.
“I’d advise against it,” M’Benga said.
“Absolutely not, Jim. Not possible.”
“Bones…”
I need Spock, he started to say. I need his guidance, his ability to sort and evaluate information. I need his talent for-
- Chaotic Response Suppression.
The moment the phrase popped into Kirk’s mind, he saw the whole process laid out before him. Phase One: Calm the mental processes. Allow the garden to bloom. Push all external stimuli to the side. Phase Two: Employ logic. Evaluate all variables dispassionately, emotionlessly—
Kirk had never realized before just how rigorous Vulcan logic training really was. Spock had studied all his life-years, decades-to train his mind to this peak. And now…
Now, he realized, I’ve absorbed it all from him in a matter of minutes.
Those skills would fade, he knew. That was the nature of a mind-meld. Like a dream, the particulars would melt away, while the core memory of the experience remained.
But right now, Kirk possessed all the mental discipline of a Vulcan.
He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and employed Chaotic Response Suppression. He saw the possible scenarios on the bridge, all the various ways the battle against the Klingons might play out. He inserted himself, with his new abilities, into the scenarios, one by one. All in the space of a millisecond.
And something else, too. His own human intuition-the unquantifiable, illogical talent that made him a starship captain-became part of the process. He could not only see the various scenarios, not only sort the necessary data. He could also pick and choose among those scenarios, zeroing in on the actual outcomes of each possible action. He could see which way the Klingons would jump if prodded. How far he could push the engines beyond their specs. How each of his officers would respond under pressure. How much pounding his ship could take, and how much the Klingon cruisers would withstand.
Beyond any doubt, Kirk knew: I can do this.
He looked over at Spock, who was struggling to rise again. McCoy and M’Benga protested, holding his arms.
“Captain,” Spock said weakly. “If you will just allow me a minute…”
“Not necessary, Mr. Spock. As you were.”
“It is my duty to assist you- “
“You already have.”
Spock raised an eyebrow questioningly. McCoy and M’Benga turned to face Kirk as well, their expressions equally curious.
Kirk smiled. “I value your presence on the bridge, Mr. Spock. I want you back at your post as soon as possible. But right now…” He tapped his own head. “I got this one.”
Then he sprinted for the door. When he reached it, he stopped, turned back briefly.
“Oh, and Mr. Spock… when you’re better, perhaps we can have a bit of a discussion about Phase Two. Is it a necessary precursor to Kolinahr, or are there other paths?”
Spock’s eyebrow rose again, higher than Kirk had ever seen it before.
“Jim,” McCoy said, “if you’re turnin’ Vulcan on me, let me know so I can transfer to another ship.”
The deck shook again, and Kirk ran for the turbolift.
All around him, in the corridor, red-alert lights flashed. Men and women in life-support suits hurried by. Intercoms crackled with urgent orders. Whole decks were being evacuated, and emergency protocols enacted on the warp core. Four hundred thirty officers and crew scrambled to perform their duties, not knowing if they’d live to see another day.
But despite the chaos, Kirk smiled.
This battle, he knew, was already won.