Spock Messiah

CHAPTER TWO

As the turbo-lift doors hissed open, Kirk stepped onto the bridge. Sulu, vacating the command chair, reseated himself at his helmsman’s position.

“Report,” Kirk ordered as he sat.

Helman, a tall, thin officer with close-cropped blond hair and a protuberant Adam’s apple, straightened from the science console and turned toward the starship’s captain.

“The radiation front has jumped to intensity 2.4 in the last hour, sir. At first the increase looked like a random fluctuation; but when the computer had enough data to run a curve, it reported a possible condition red, which is when I recommended a yellow alert to Mr. Sulu.” Helman gestured at the science console upon which glowed several red lights. “The front has all the characteristics of a nova, but the local sun is still perfectly normal.”

Captain Kirk frowned. “You can’t have a radiation front without a source. Have you backtracked along its course?”

“Aye, sir,” Helman replied. “The only star the coordinates fit is Epsilon lonis, the black-hole binary we checked out last month. But how a nova shell could increase in intensity so rapidly… It’s got me stumped, Captain, and there isn’t enough applicable data in the computer to come up with a working hypothesis.”

“You will continue to try to pin down that source, but right now I’m more concerned about the possible danger to this ship. We’ve got to get a more precise reading on the projected radiation increase.

“Lieutenant Leslie,” Kirk said, swinging his chair around to face the stocky engineer.

“Sir?”

“You and Mr. Sulu will tie in your banks with the science console. I want exact data on the nature of that front.”

A chorus of “aye, ayes” sounded, and the officers turned to their consoles to feed in requests, collate incoming data, and to coordinate the operations of their stations.

“Ready, sir,” Helman said finally.

“Project,” Kirk ordered.

The image of Kyros disappeared from the great screen and was replaced by a grid on which each radiational component of the strange shell of energy was plotted on the ordinate against the abscissa of time.

Helman touched a button and, like glowing worms, the component projection lines began to creep across the screen, crawling forward through tune and upward in intensity.

“What a hash,” Sulu muttered. “It’s almost as if we’re running into a solar prominence.”

Kirk watched intently as the ship’s computers continued the projection.

“That readout is getting too complicated,” he said. “Blank everything but the hard radiation and high-energy particles, and give me a horizontal on hull shielding safety limits.”

The second science officer made a few adjustments and the confusion of the screen began to clear as, one by one, the lines representing the lower frequencies and slower moving particles began to disappear leaving only those charting lethal radiation, high energy protons, alpha particles, and heavy nuclei.

The narrow red line marking the maximum limits of the shields’ tolerance flashed on the screen. There was a dead silence on the bridge as the projection track of each component continued an unbroken climb toward the red line.

Suddenly, each of the lines bent sharply and shot upward vertically, slashing the red line in dozens of places and continuing almost to the very top of the grid before peaking and beginning an equally sharp decline.

The ship computer chimed softly and the emotionless voice began to speak to the silent crew. “Deflector shield activation necessary in eight days, thirteen hours, and twenty-four minutes or radiation penetration will exceed 100 rad.”

“And that’s enough to put half the crew down with radiation sickness,” Kirk muttered.

“At the rate those curves peak,” Helman said, nodding agreement with Kirk. “A few more hours’ exposure would kill us all, right?”

“Is a response required?” the computer asked.

“We aren’t going to be here long enough to make the answer more than academic,” Kirk said. “But as long as you have one, let’s hear it.”

“Data indicates that, unless corrective measures are taken, all crew members, with one exception, will receive a lethal dosage by twenty-three hundred hours, stardate 6728.5.”

“Who might be the exception?” Kirk asked. “As if I couldn’t guess.”

“Commander Spock,” said the computer. “Vulcans are twice as resistant to radiation as humans. If an exact prediction of Commander Spock’s resistance is desired, a tissue sample must be secured for molecular analyzation.”

“That figures,” said a familiar voice sardonically. “While the rest of us are heaving and watching our hair fall out, Spock and the computer will be playing three-dimensional chess.”

Kirk swung his chair about.

“Bones,” he asked, “what are you doing up here? I thought you had our sexpot in surgery.”

Dr. McCoy laughed. “I had her on the table, just ready to give her a local when the yellow alert came through. I thought I’d better report to the bridge to see if I was needed, so I told her to report back in the morning. I imagine she’s hanging around the transporter room on the odd chance she might get lucky when Spock is beamed up.”

He paused and gestured at the visual monitor dominating the front of the bridge.

“Looks like some nasty stuff is on the way in.”

“‘Nasty’ is an understatement,” the captain said. He gazed at the screen thoughtfully for a moment. “In order to weather what will be coming in a few days from now, we’d have to put the shields up, and at the rate that storm is peaking, we’d have to put them on maximum before too long. Twenty hours of that, and the power reserves would be exhausted. If we didn’t pull out before then, we’d fry. Buying a few more hours would be pointless anyway. The transporters won’t operate while the shields are up, and we’ve already gathered all the data on Kyros that can be obtained from orbit. There’s nothing urgent about the survey, it’s mainly a field test for the implants.”

Kirk swung his command chair to his right. “Lieutenant Uhura, we’re getting out of here. Open a channel to Starfleet, give them our situation, and tell them we’re leaving Kyros until things quiet down.”

“Aye, sir,” Uhura replied. She placed a hypertronic earphone in one ear and turned toward her console.

“In the meantime,” Kirk was saying to McCoy, “Spock and his department can pin down the reason for that intensity increase…”

Suddenly, he was interrupted by an exclamation from the communications officer.

“Captain, I’ve lost contact with Starfleet,” Uhura said. “I sent out the standard signal, but when I listened for their recognition call, a blast of QRM nearly blew out my eardrum.”

“Malfunction, Lieutenant?” Kirk asked.

“Checking now, sir,” she replied. Hesitantly, she replaced the earphone and bent over her panel. After a full five minutes of rapid checking, she straightened. “Negative, sir. Everything is in order, but there is something interfering on the sub-space bands.”

“That’s impossible,” Kirk said. “Helman, scan sub-space.”

The tall science officer bent over his console and moments later snapped upright with a look of surprise. “Computer!” he snapped, “check antenna and sensor circuits for malfunction.” He swung toward Kirk who had come out of his chair at Helman’s order to the computer. “Captain, you won’t believe this…”

“All sub-space sensors fully operational,” the computer said after a small pause.

“Put it on the main screen,” Kirk ordered.

As Helman complied, it was Kirk’s turn to feel surprise. The main screen showed a cloud-like formation, vast, pulsing, and ominous. It seemed to swell visibly toward Kirk, expanding outward evenly in all directions. Throughout it, hot spots and radiation peak points flared with rapidity and in close proximity to one another; it seemed as if the bridge crew was peering into the heart of an exploding sun.

“What is that?” Kirk asked.

Helman, looking puzzled, tried to answer. “It’s radiation, sir, and it must be a sub-space aspect of the front we’ve been tracking, but what it’s doing down there is beyond me.”

“Captain,” Chekov said, “it’s moving toward us at Warp Ten!”

Kirk stared at Chekov for a moment. “Warp Ten?” He glanced back at the visual monitor. “Whatever it is, Mr. Helman, it’s beyond me, too.” Looking at Chekov, Kirk said, “Prepare a course, Ensign, 246, Mark 347. Mr. Sulu, we’ll move out at Warp Factor Six as soon as the survey party is aboard. Uhura, once we’re out of this hash, contact Starfleet, give them a position report, and transmit full information on this radiation.”

As the navigator and the helmsman began laying in the course necessary to take the Enterprise out of harm’s way, Kirk stabbed a button on the arm of the command chair.

“Transporter room,” someone replied.

“This is the captain. Has the survey party been beamed up yet?”

“No sir,” the transporter officer replied. “They’re waiting for Commander Spock. Lieutenant Dawson just checked in and said he’s had no word from Mr. Spock all day. I was about to call you, sir.”

Kirk frowned at the news. Such behavior was completely uncharacteristic for the precise, punctual science officer. Kirk immediately was afraid something had happened to his Vulcan friend.

“Activate his tingler circuit. Send him the emergency recall signal,” Kirk ordered. “I’ll keep the communicator open. Let me know as soon as he acknowledges.”

“Tingler circuit?” Uhura asked curiously. “What’s that?”

“Another idea of the Cultural Bureau,” Kirk replied. “An audible signal on the communicators might create a problem in a crowded place, so they came up with a tiny implant that’s hooked into a branch of the wearer’s sciatic nerve. When activated, it causes a tingling sensation. The wearer then finds a private place and answers the call. If that would take time, the communicator also includes a new circuit. By pushing a button, the wearer can at least acknowledge receiving the signal. But so far Spock has done neither,” Kirk finished on a worried note.

“Gadgets in the head, gadgets in the body,” grumbled Dr. McCoy. “By the time Survey gets through tucking gadgets inside of us, we’ll all be walking machines. I think…”

The surgeon was interrupted by the urgent voice of the transporter officer.

“Rogers, again, sir,” the officer said. “There’s been no reply from Mr. Spock.”

Kirk glanced at McCoy. The doctor’s eyes were wide. “Home in on his communicator, Lieutenant,” Kirk ordered tightly. “Then notify Dawson of the coordinates. I want him to get his party to wherever Spock is on the double.”

Kirk punched another button, not even acknowledging Rogers’ “Aye, sir.”

“Security, Kirk here.”

“Commander Pulaski, sir,” replied the security officer.

“Get a security team to exosociology. Have them outfitted in Kyrosian clothing and issue phasers. Double-check to be sure they’re set on low-intensitystun. We may have to beam down for a rescue operation, and I want a minimum amount of force.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Pulaski replied, switching off.

“Do you think that will be necessary, Jim?” McCoy asked.

“I hope not, Bones, I hope not,” Kirk replied.

Kirk forced himself to relax as he waited for word of his science officer. McCoy placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Jim. Old Spock’s indestructible. He’s never walked into a situation he couldn’t handle.”

“Captain!” It was the transporter room again.

“Yes?”

“I have Lieutenant Dawson on, but I think you’d better speak to him directly. Mr. Spock wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”

“Put him on the main visual monitor, Lieutenant,” Kirk said. He turned to Uhura. “Pick up Dawson’s transmission and patch into the visual on his tricorder.”

The communications officer nodded. Pressing several buttons, she picked the transmission up from Kyros. The graph of the radiation storm that was bearing down on the Enterprise with increasing intensity disappeared from the screen. There was a flicker and a picture of the inn room below (that served as a rendezvous point and transporter pick-up location for the survey party) appeared. In the center of the picture was a weirdly masked figure. Underneath the mask, Kirk knew, was a young dark-haired lieutenant. He was dressed as a hillman of Kyros.

The most arresting aspect of his costume of leather vest and short cape was the hood, which fitted over the wearer’s shaven head. Dawson’s was dark blue-dyed leather with white, slanting lines under narrow eye slits. Only his lips were exposed between similar slits. Two small holes let air into his nostrils. A thicker leather cap was sewn onto the hood and slotted, triangular flaps extended below Dawson’s nape. Small strings dangled where the hood was laced together along the temples.

“Report,” snapped Kirk.

“I must have been given the wrong coordinates, sir,” Dawson began. “On our grid map of the city, according to the bearings I was given, Mr. Spock, or at least his communicator, was in a small square not far from here. We went there, but it was completely deserted. I took a chance and called the transporter room to check the coordinates. Rogers gave me the same coordinates but, sir, Mr. Spock wasn’t there. What should we do now?”

“Send the others out to search for him,” Kirk said. “His hood is green and yellow, isn’t it?”

“Aye, sir,” Dawson replied.

“He should be easy to spot, then. You stay at the inn as liaison. I’m going to the transporter room to see if something is wrong with the locator board. If it’s not malfunctioning, I’ll be down shortly to direct search operations. Kirk out.”

Dawson faded off the main screen. Kirk’s inner worry didn’t show on his face as he rose swiftly from his command chair. He strained to keep his emotional responses bottled up at all times; so, for the benefit of those around him, he seemed to meet even the most desperate situation with an air of confident composure. That’s why Kirk so enjoyed his occasional hours with Dr. McCoy, when he could unbend and become a mere human.

“Sulu, take the con. I’ll be in Transporter Room One, if you need me. McCoy, come with me.”

When Kirk and McCoy entered the transporter room, it seemed empty. The circular transporter stage with its six personnel plates was on his left. The main control console was to his right and ahead of him. From a door in a niche next to the transporter stage, he heard a familiar Scots’ burr.

“Itcannabe!”

“What can’t, Scotty?” Kirk asked, stepping up to the compartment where much of the transporter’s equipment was.

Scott and Rogers looked up from a partially disassembled electronic module.

“Look,” Scott said, pointing to a junction box. “Someone has tinkered with the locator circuit tuned to Mr. Spock’s communicator in such a way that the readout on the board seems perfectly normal. That shunt, there, and the one right next to it,” he pointed to two tiny connections with his synchronic meter, “give a coordinate readout on the board that looks perfectly normal, but actually the tight beam connection between the ship and the communicator has been cut. It’s a braw piece o’ work. We’d have had nae reason to suspect anything was wrong if Mr. Dawson hadnae checked the coordinates and found nae’an there. But why would anybody want us to think Mr. Spock was in one place when actually he was someplace else?”

“I wonder if…” The transporter officer’s voice trailed off and he shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense, either.”

“What?” Kirk demanded.

“Yeoman Jenkins was on duty here the night before last. He mentioned that Mr. Spock came in about oh-two-hundred, and sent him to check something in the Jeffries tube—the tight beam antenna, that was it. Anyway, when Jenkins came back, about a half-hour later, he found Mr. Spock gone. It seemed strange to him that Mr. Spock would leave the station unmanned, even though no one was down at Kyros at the time. He was bothered by it and by Mr. Spock’s manner. He said there was something almost furtive about it.” Rogers fell silent.

“Well, whatever his problem is, we’ve got to get him up here at once,” Kirk said. “But before we can do that, we have to find out where he is. Scotty, how long before you can straighten out the locator circuit and get Spock’s coordinates?”

For an answer, Scott put down the synchronic meter, removed a small disassembler from a repair kit, and removed the shunt.

“Ready now, sir,” he said. “We’ll snap this module back in the locator board an’ have the answer in a second.” He picked up the component gently, carried it to the transporter room console, crawled underneath the console, and replaced the unit. He replaced the inspection plate, came out from under, pressed a button for a circuit tester and nodded in satisfaction as green lights appeared.

“Now we’ll find him,” Scott said. He checked a display for the communicator frequency assigned to Spock. “If it were anyone else but our Vulcan friend, I’d guess he had a lassie down there and didna want us to ken where he was, during his more loving moments. It must be sair hard to mate once every seven years. Whatever his reasons were for his tinkering, if it was he, they weren’t the usual ones.”

“The coordinates, if you please, Mr. Scott,” Kirk demanded impatiently.

“Coming up, sir,” Scott said. He pressed a button.

The locator board remained black.

“I thought you had the circuit straightened out!” Kirk said.

Scott swore softly and his fingers punched button after button. The green lights continued to come on. Finally, the engineer threw up his hands in baffled discouragement.

“Well, Scotty?” Kirk asked.

“It’s no good, sir. The circuits are all right, but Mr. Spock has vanished!”