Star Trek Into Darkness by Alan Dean Foster
Spock silently digested Kirk’s rant before making an effort to respond supportively. “Captain, it was not my intention—”
A bitter Kirk cut him off. “Not Captain!” There was no humor in his sardonic smile. “Let’s keep the new ranks straight, shall we? By the book, as it were. I saved your life, Spock. I suppose I should be glad you mentioned that. Maybe that’s why I’m still in Starfleet.” He waved a dismissive hand as the lift door started to open. “It all boils down to one thing, Spock. You wrote a report, and as a result I lost my ship.”
They encountered fewer personnel in the upper level walkway. Intent on their assignments, none paused in their grim-faced hurrying to acknowledge the arrival of the two other officers.
“I see now,” Spock murmured, “that I should have alerted you about the report I submitted.”
Taking a deep breath, Kirk tried to explain. “This isn’t about the report! You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Please enlighten me, Captain— Please show me where I am failing to ‘get it.’ ” They turned a corner.
“Look,” Kirk began, “what’s done is done, okay? Nothing’s going to change that. I made a decision to do certain things on Nibiru, and you made the decision to file a formal report. That’s all over with, finished. I’m talking about afterwards. I’m talking about now. I respect your subsequent discipline or whatever it is, your decision to act but not to feel anything about the consequences of your action, but I can’t react like that. So, yeah, I’m a little pissed off. What I’m trying to say is that it would be nice to see a little compassion for what’s happened.” Kirk changed his mind and rejected Spock with a wave. “Forget it. This is like trying to explain a kid’s reaction on Christmas morning to a computer.”
Spock was about to request a detailed explanation of this analogy when, probably fortunately, they were confronted by an approaching captain who chose to engage them. Or at least one of them. With a perfunctory nod at Kirk, the newcomer directed his attention to the science officer.
“Commander Spock. Captain Frank Abbott, U.S.S. Bradbury. Guess you’re with me.”
“Yes, Captain. I was only recently informed that I had been reassigned.”
Continuing on the way the two other officers had come, the captain receded down the corridor. Both officers stood watching until Abbott had disappeared around the last corner. Kirk was still mad, but more than anything, he was unimaginably frustrated.
“The truth, Spock . . . ” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m gonna miss you.”
No response was forthcoming. There was only that mildly quizzical Vulcan stare. Shouldn’t expect him to understand, Kirk thought. The science officer hadn’t understood before: There was no reason why he should now. Waste of time trying to make him see things from my point of view. From a human point of view. Without another word, Kirk turned and resumed heading toward his destination.
Spock watched him go. His expression, as usual, was quite unreadable. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed quietly.
He regretted very much that there must be appropriate words he did not know how to utilize in such situations.
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 t
“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 much—why 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
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.