Crisis On Centaurus

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-1979-0

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For Linda,

  who read it first during a very special time

  Chapter One:

  The Spaceport

  AS BEFIT THE capital of an old, successful colony planet, New Athens had built for itself the biggest (and, local boosters said, the best) spaceport on Centaurus—or anywhere else in the Federation.

  The main concourse of New Athens Spaceport hummed and bustled with the gentle roar of twenty thousand travelers, each intent on getting to his (or her, or its) departure gate as quickly as possible. Not much had changed since the nineteenth century on Earth, when the locomotive had introduced humans to mass transportation; all that had been added was four hundred years of so-called progress in passenger handling. Perhaps one day the technology of the transporter would become advanced enough to allow cheap point-to-point transfer on the surface of a planet at no more risk than, say, getting there by shuttlecraft, or even airplane … but not yet. Until that welcome day, there would be a need for monster facilities such as New Athens Spaceport.

  Most of the travelers hurrying on their way through the concourse were humans—but by no means all were. A sharp-eyed observer could easily pick out several individuals from virtually every member race of the Federation among the thousands of humans. There was even a pair of Klingon traders heading quickly from one of the local gates to an interstellar flight bound for a neutral treaty port. New Athens was a cosmopolitan city, in the literal sense: Beings from everywhere lived in New Athens and did business there.

  Souvenir stands lined the concourse. They did a brisk business in the traditional knickknacks bought by vacationers who, when home, knew better than to buy such junk. One small stand had been doing very well for years, selling overpriced replicas of the Statue of Liberty with SOUVENIR OF CENTAURUS and I LOVE NEW ATHENS stickers on their bases, even though the real statue still stood in New York Harbor—a mere 4.3 light years away—and had no sister on Centaurus.

  Snack bars inadequately fed the hungry. These places, sometimes called "refreshment centers," depended on high volume, quick turnover, and the nimble wits of their human cashiers, who needed no computers to quickly translate Federation credits, Cygnian gold pieces, Vulcan work units or French francs into Centaurian pounds platinum, or to give the correct change in whatever currency the traveler desired—subject to a service charge, of course.

  Snack bars, five-sensory computer games, boot-shine parlors, and other facilities for private and more personal forms of amusement—all were open, and all were doing a brisk business.

  But the most interesting attraction of the hour was to be found in Passenger Lounge B2 of Pan United Spaceways. About fifteen vending machines lined the walls of the lounge, stocked with everything from Coca-Cola to disposable shirts. A group of onlookers had formed around an American Express Travelers' Cheque Dispenser. The center of attention was a burly Tellarite businessman, who was arguing with the balky machine.

  "Machine, I address you directly!" grated the Tellarite. "I am Gar, chief of the Knock tribe and with Gold Card number 02551-09334-97372, with suffix Delta-Zebra-Oscar! Satisfaction is what I demand! Satisfaction is what I will get!"

  The machine remained silent.

  "Give card back, you damn dumb machine!" roared Gar, flailing his arms. The watching humans inched away.

  The machine flashed a hologram in Gar's eyes:

  PLEASE CONTACT

  YOUR LOCAL AMERICAN EXPRESS OFFICE

  FOR ASSISTANCE.

  USE THE VIDEOPHONE TO YOUR RIGHT.

  WE APPRECIATE YOUR PATRONAGE. THANK YOU.

  * * *

  WHEN IN NEW ATHENS,

  STAY AT THE SHERATON CENTAURUS.

  COURTESY FLITTERS ARRIVE AT GATE HG26

  EVERY TEN MINUTES.

  "What?!?" exploded Gar. "Commercials?!? No more will I take; this I swear, by honor of Knock tribe!"

  With a battle cry evocative of his porcine evolutionary path—a prejudiced human observer might say the Tellarite bellowed like a stuck pig—Gar smashed a meaty fist into the brittle plastic console of the American Express machine. It shattered, sending pieces flying into the air; the machine began to smoke and emit sparks. The Tellarite tore off what remained of the console's surface and quickly found what he was looking for: his American Express card, held firmly in the jaws of the machine's computer scanner.

  With both his thumbs, Gar bent back the jaws and neatly extracted his card. Still facing the now-ruined machine, Gar assumed the Posture of Victory and gave out a mighty Tellarite victory howl, waving his slightly singed card in the air. Those watching Gar were silent for a moment.

  Then they began to applaud and cheer.

  Gar turned, startled, but recovered quickly. "Gar has won battle with machine," he announced. "You all go away now." But those in the lounge were now in no mood to leave and, in truth, Gar appreciated the presence of an audience. So Gar did not insist that anyone leave; he merely kept his desire at request level, continued to wave his American Express card in triumph, and drank in the approval of those around him.

  But Gar's sharp, predator's eyes soon spotted two spaceport cops making their way quickly through the throng on the concourse. The Tellarite hurried into the crowds, there to lose himself among scores of other Tellarites, who were themselves lost among many thousands of beings from other races. The others in Lounge B2 had predator's eyes only slightly less keen; they spotted the approaching cops a few seconds later and scattered.

  But there was someone else in Lounge B2 watching the progress of the spaceport police.

  He was a nondescript, middle-aged human, wrapped in an ill-fitting and stained trenchcoat of standard Centaurian manufacture. There was nothing at all conspicuous about him. He was seated in a chair across the lounge from the ruined American Express machine. He had a small box on his lap. He treated it carefully.

  He had been sitting t
here for seven hours, undisturbed.

  At times he had pretended to doze, but sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. That business with the Tellarite had made it impossible now to feign sleep; that swinish fool had simply made too much noise. The man regretted that; no one ever disturbed a dozing passenger waiting for a flight. It was a good cover. But now the pig-faced Tellarite had created all that commotion, and now everyone in the lounge—except, glaringly, for himself—had left quickly afterward. The man's anonymity had evaporated with the crowd.

  Forty-five minutes past the deadline and still no word, the man thought fretfully. Has the organization been penetrated? Did we have a spy in our midst after all?

  Perhaps they're looking for me even now, he worried.

  The security guards arrived at Passenger Lounge B2 and looked around. The older of the two shook his head sadly. "Third vending machine we've lost this month," he grumbled to his partner. "We never find these guys."

  "So what do we put on the report, Sarge?"

  The sergeant shrugged. "We interview witnesses, try to get a description. Then the spaceport authority can issue an interstellar warrant for a misdemeanor charge, if it wants to."

  "They wouldn't be that dumb, would they?"

  "Nah. But the lieutenant wants reports. He loves reports. So we'll give him a report." The sergeant pointed to the man with the box. "That guy looks like he's been here for a while. Ask him what he saw; I'll look at the machine. Damn, I wish they'd fix these things so they stay fixed. Then people wouldn't bash 'em." The sergeant trudged off; his partner, notebook in hand, walked toward the man with the box.

  Oh, no, thought the man. He's coming over. Dammit—be calm!

  "Excuse me, sir," the younger cop said politely. "I'm Corporal Schmidt, of Spaceport Security."

  The man looked up blandly. "How do you do, Corporal?"

  "Fine, sir. I'd like to know if you saw or heard anything concerning the wrecking of that machine over there …?" The cop pointed over to the smoking, sparking wreck.

  The man looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Corporal Schmidt. I was dozing and was awakened by this, uh, bellow. I looked, but there were too many people in the way to see anything. Everybody then headed for the concourse, I think."

  "Yeah." The corporal frowned. "I can believe it." He whipped out a notebook. "If you don't mind, I'd like your name, please."

  The man shifted the box on his lap. He smiled. "Uh, why, Corporal? I've told you I didn't see anything—"

  "Just routine, sir. Your name, please?"

  The man paused. "Gregory Lebow."

  "Residence?"

  "Second Try. That's in New Europe."

  The corporal smiled. "Really? My mother's from the southern continent, too. Aquinasville. Ever been there?"

  "Uh, no, Corporal. I don't get to travel as much as I'd like to."

  "Oh. That's a shame. Well, what's your business in New Athens, Mr. Lebow?"

  "Pleasure. I was visiting my sister here."

  "Well, I hope you had a good time, sir. Uh, got an address in Second Try?"

  The man made up something that sounded likely; he'd never been in Second Try. Corporal Schmidt scribbled down the address.

  "It's not likely we'll ever bother you about this incident, Mr. Lebow," the cop said. "Just a lot of nonsense, if you ask me." He smiled. The man smiled back, conspiratorially; inwardly he relaxed the merest fraction. It's going to be all right, he said to himself.

  The sergeant came back from his brief inspection of the ruined machine. "Total loss. We'll call this in from the Pan United courtesy desk." He nodded in greeting to the man with the box, and smiled briefly.

  But the sergeant's smile soon faded.

  Oh, no, thought the man with the box.

  The sergeant drew his phaser and held it on the man. "Don't move a millimeter," the sergeant ordered. "Schmidt, call this in. Tell 'em we've got Holtzman."

  "Holtzman?" The corporal's mouth hung open.

  "Move, dammit!" the sergeant growled.

  "Yeah, Sarge, uh, sure. Right away!" The corporal hurried off as the sergeant held the phaser steadily on the man with the box.

  "You stay still, now," the sergeant said. "I don't want any trouble outa the likes of you."

  The man managed to look scared and astonished at the same time. "But, Sergeant, really—I mean, what is this all about? Who is Holtzman? My name is Gregory Lebow! I'm a retired teacher from Second Try. I've been in your city visiting my sister Emma! I have lots of identification and all the proper papers—" He began to reach into his pocket for them.

  "Freeze, Holtzman!" the sergeant ordered. The man did. "Hands on your head." The sergeant paused. "You and your kind, always causin' trouble, as if we didn't have enough to go around already …"

  "But, Sergeant—"

  "That's enough!"

  The sergeant's shouted orders had attracted the attention of a growing group of the curious. Members of the crowd stared at the man with the box.

  The people were buzzing with the news:

  "Did the cop say that guy was Holtzman?!?"

  "I'm from off-planet. Who the hell's Holtzman?"

  "Jeez—he doesn't look like much, does he?"

  "Most-wanted man on Centaurus, pal. Scientist, he is. He's a political weirdo. Strictly warp zero, if ya know what I mean."

  "Lookit his little beady eyes."

  "Escaped from prison three years ago. I think he was doing time for agitation. Or was it sabotage? Maybe it was some other guy."

  "He don't look dangerous …"

  "I wonder what's in the box. Secrets?"

  "That looks like one tough cop, all right. I wouldn't mess with him."

  "I wonder if they got Holtzman's friends, too?"

  The cop and his prisoner were able to hear most of what was being said. The sergeant smiled humorlessly. "Those are the people you're trying to 'save,' Holtzman. Whaddaya think?"

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, Sergeant. Believe me, when all this is straightened out—"

  The sergeant glanced at the box. "What's in the box, Holtzman? More hate literature? Poison for people's minds? Lessee." He gestured with the phaser. "Open it up, Holtzman."

  That's it, the man told himself. There is nothing I can do. I am gone.

  "Very well, Sergeant," the man said calmly. "I don't mind opening the box."

  But, instead, he poked the box in a certain spot in a very particular way.

  Carry on the struggle, my friends was Holtzman's last thought.

  A specially designed magnetic field collapsed inside the box—and a small chunk of antimatter was allowed to touch the cheap cardboard.

  New Athens Spaceport and everything else for eight kilometers around vaporized in the barest fraction of a second … and a terrible fourth sun rose high into the beautifully blue Centaurian sky.

  Chapter Two:

  The Enterprise

  RRRAAASSSP.

  James Kirk stirred in his sleep.

  RRRAAAASSSSSPPP!

  Kirk's eyes opened, and as they did a sensor-linked relay turned his bunkside lamp on to DIM. Whuzzat noise? he thought confusedly, slow to awaken. Wherezit from?

  RRRAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZ … CRACK!!!

  At that last, sharp sound, the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise came fully awake. It's from the vent! he realized quickly. The air circulators! As he threw his bedcovers aside and the lights in his quarters came up full, Kirk felt a chill. Temperature's down, too. We've got big problems.

  No sooner had Kirk's bare feet hit the deck than he was sent sprawling by a huge and sudden increase in his body weight.

  Flat on the floor, Kirk grunted; he felt as if two men of his own size had jumped on him and pinned him to the deck. Lucky, he told himself. My head just missed the bunk support. The captain tried moving his arms and legs; it was difficult, but nothing seemed to be broken. He estimated his apparent weight at something like 250 kilos, or more than 550 pounds in what Bones McCoy usually called "Grandma's kitchen s
ystem." That meant there had been a sudden surge of at least two G's in the usually even-tempered one-G output of the ship's artificial gravity generators. Heat, air, gravity—the whole environmental section's gone out, Kirk thought as he gathered his strength to get up from the floor. I've got to contact the bridge. . . .

  Kirk dragged his arms toward his chest and placed his palms flat on the deck. Carefully he pushed himself up—

  —and found himself rising quickly toward the overhead. Gravity's cut out entirely! Kirk thought with a shock.

  Reflexively, Kirk twisted in mid-air so that his feet, and not the back of his head, struck the ceiling. As his momentum bounced him back toward the floor, Kirk somersaulted and landed on his feet; he allowed himself to collapse on the deck to soak up as much of his velocity as he could. Kirk bounced again, but much more slowly this time; he reached out his right hand and grasped the edge of a small table, jarring it. The table's legs were bolted to the deck, but several objects, put into motion by Kirk's spent momentum, began to rise off the tabletop and bobble around the cabin.

  The hell with it, thought Kirk. He steadied himself, carefully judged the distance to his desk, and pushed away from the table with a slow, steady thrust. The captain floated across his quarters. As he slowly approached his desk, he saw the intercom begin to bleep for his attention—just as the soft green light on the status board over Kirk's bunk changed to a harsh yellow and an electronic alarm began to beep insistently.

  "Alarm off," Kirk ordered as he flew through the air.

  The alarm continued to beep.

  Kirk repeated his verbal order to the computer; again it was ignored. So we have an order-interpretation problem on top of everything else, Kirk thought, annoyed.

  At last Kirk had floated close enough to his desk to grasp it. He pulled himself in, hooked his left foot under the center drawer, and pulled himself down. The Eagle has landed, Kirk thought as he pushed himself into the chair. Kirk's bathrobe hung loosely on the back of the chair; the captain shrugged the robe on as best he could—Sure is getting cold in here, he thought—and thumbed the intercom on.