Crisis On Centaurus Page 5

  With the ship reasonably secure and well under way, I now feel free to hold a formal briefing regarding our mission to Centaurus.

  At Kirk's summons, those department heads who would be working in the Centaurian rescue effort gathered in Briefing Room B. Spock, in his dual role as first officer and science officer, was there, of course; Alec MacPherson represented Engineering, since Montgomery Scott could not be spared from his watch on the warp engines; Dr. M'Benga, Bones McCoy's chief assistant, represented Medical; Uhura was there for Communications; and a bandaged, black-eyed Pavel Chekov was there for Navigation and Ship's Systems. Their initial shock had been replaced by numbness at the scope of the horror in New Athens. Kirk could see that numbness in their faces—except, of course, for Spock's; the Vulcan was—outwardly, at least—unperturbed. Such loss of life, such waste, must sicken him, Kirk thought. How does he control himself? I've never understood it—and sometimes, like now, I envy him that control. So might Bones, I think. Oh, Joanna. . . .

  With a conscious effort Kirk broke that train of thought. Standing at the head of the briefing table, he looked over the expectant faces of those waiting for him to say something, to give them some guidance. It was clear to Kirk that none of them knew, or cared, that he knew nothing more at this point than they did. They needed the captain now, the superman in the gold shirt—not the vulnerable Jim Kirk who was aghast at the tragedy in New Athens and almost sick with worry about what might have happened to Joanna McCoy. They didn't want, or need, the human Jim Kirk who bled for his friend Bones, Joanna's father, who was working like a dog in Sickbay to keep his grief from overwhelming him.

  The captain took a breath and began.

  "Thank you all for coming," Kirk said. "I wanted to go over with you just what I've been told about the situation on Centaurus, what I propose to do about it, and what help we might expect."

  Kirk had brought with him the printout of Bull Buchinsky's long third Alpha-Red message; he took a quick look at it again. "Communications with Centaurus are out. The first indication we had of the disaster at New Athens was a total loss of routine communications with the Starfleet office at the spaceport. At the same time, the Federation Foreign Office lost touch with its consulate in the downtown section of the city itself. A trade group—the Amsterdam and New Athens Precious Metals and Stones Consortium—reported a loss of its private subspace communications lines at the same instant. Other loss-of-signal reports are still coming in.

  "At about the same time, Starbase Seven, located a little less than six light-months from Centaurus, noted large tachyonic readings from the direction of the planet, indicating that there had been an explosion caused by annihilation materials—that is, the uncontrolled merging of matter and antimatter. This flood of tachyons was our first indication that something terrible had occurred on Centaurus. If the ship's computers had been up to par, we'd have noticed it ourselves. That burst of infinitely fast particles crossed the universe from one end to the other, instantly.

  "Tracing back, and given the reports of communications losses by Starfleet, the Foreign Office and that trade group, it was determined that the radius of total destruction was between six and ten kilometers. Subsequent reports have confirmed this. A computer simulation of what must have followed indicates that the city of New Athens itself, although located at some distance from the spaceport, was largely destroyed by heat and blast effects."

  Kirk paused.

  "Starfleet estimates the number of dead at more than nine hundred thousand," he said bluntly. There was a sharp intake of breath around the table. Spock closed his eyes.

  The captain continued. "The number of injured is probably less … if only because most of those affected by the blast were killed outright. Radiation will be a problem. I must also point out that tachyonic interference is blocking all subspace communication with Centaurus. Starbase Seven reported getting a weak, almost incoherent signal from the planetary government office at McIverton—that's a coastal city three thousand kilometers west of New Athens—but the signal faded completely as tachyonic levels rose. Starfleet notes that a lightspeed signal—radio, for instance—will easily penetrate a tachyonic blanket. However, no ship is close enough to Centaurus to have received such a lightspeed signal yet. As we approach, we'll monitor all lightspeed radio frequencies for Centaurian traffic. Lieutenant Uhura, they might be using some pretty old stuff: AM, low-band shortwave, ham operator bands, laser and so forth."

  "I'll be looking everywhere for them, Captain," Uhura said.

  Kirk gathered his thoughts. "That's all we know about the situation at this moment. Our orders are to provide whatever relief we can to the civilian population and investigate the circumstances of the accident. If arrests are warranted, Starfleet's ordered us to bring any suspects back to Earth for trial before a Federation court. Federation law supersedes planetary authority in cases involving the possession or use of annihilation materials. As for why we've gotten the job—well, while Centaurus is not in our assigned quadrant, of course, the Constitution is in drydock for resupply and renewal of her warp engines; we were the next closest ship."

  "Captain?" MacPherson broke in. "Beggin' yer pardon, but ye know we've got problems belowdecks. Will Starfleet be sendin' any help our way?"

  Kirk nodded. "That's my next point, Chief. Starfleet is sending the Hood to Centaurus as soon as she can be released from her current mission; the Hood will also be taking over the Constitution's patrol duties once she's gotten a handle on the tragedy in New Athens. Unfortunately, the Hood won't be available for at least a week, perhaps two. No other cruisers are available."

  MacPherson shrugged. "An' I say, who needs 'em, anyway? Don't wurry, Cap'n; me 'n Scotty'll hold things together for ye."

  "Thank you, Chief," Kirk said, amused—despite the circumstances—by the big Scot's show of confidence. "Let me add that private agencies are dispatching aid to Centaurus. The first vessel is due there by stardate 7514.0—a Red Cross rescue ship, the Sakharov—"

  "Ah!" came Chekov's pleased voice. "Russian!"

  "Well," Kirk said, "Eurasian Union, anyway—and manned by doctors and nurses from most Eurasian countries, under Federation auspices. Also on the way are the British Confederacy's Edith Cavell and the USA's Thomas Dooley. Those two will arrive soon after the Sakharov. We'll pull in soon after the Dooley. Unfortunately, it seems the Federation has no ships of its own capable of delivering medical aid on a massive scale, such as will be needed on Centaurus—but some of Earth's remaining national governments do, as do nations on other Federation worlds. Earth, of course, is the closest major Federation planet to Centaurus, so Earth ships will get there first."

  "It is a matter of nationalistic pride, Captain," Spock observed. "Although all Earth nations are now members of the Federation and are subordinate to it, there still remain points of national honor. One of these points is a nation's ability to deliver humanitarian aid when and where needed. I must say it is a constructive outgrowth of the old nationalism. It will certainly serve the people of New Athens."

  "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "That leads me to ask you, Dr. M'Benga, just what kind of aid the Enterprise herself can give to Centaurus."

  The tall African shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm afraid the Enterprise can't do much in the way of patient care," the doctor said regretfully. "We simply aren't equipped to handle more than a few serious cases at any one time. We'll work hard—but there are only a certain number of patient beds aboard. Perhaps our biggest contribution might be to transport the more severely injured to competent health care facilities, perhaps on Earth and the Jovian satellites; we must assume Centaurian health care facilities will be swamped with the injured. But, Captain, we may be talking about treating hundreds of thousands of burn and radiation cases. I don't know what we can do about all of them." M'Benga suddenly looked miserable.

  "How many do you think we can transport?" Kirk asked.

  "Perhaps eleven or twelve hundred at a time," M'Benga replied, "
if we crowd them into the corridors. I would not hesitate to do that, Captain, if it would save lives—but some patients will certainly require stasis fields to keep their conditions from deteriorating. How can we provide so many field generators—and even if we could, how are we to monitor them without perfect computer control? I fear we would be killing those we are trying to save. If I might, Captain, I'd like to ask a question of Mr. Chekov."

  "Please go ahead."

  "Thank you," M'Benga said. "Mr. Chekov, at our fastest safe speed, how long would it take for us to go from Centaurus to Sol?"

  Chekov thought about it. "A little over four light-years at warp six, if Mr. Scott can hold our speed—"

  "He can!" MacPherson said emphatically.

  "Then I would say not more than two days, Doctor."

  M'Benga sighed; he waved his lithe hands. "Do you see, Captain? It is the mathematics. Figure a day, if not longer, to get a load of patients aboard and make them comfortable. Two days' journey to the Sol system and its fine hospitals, and two days back. Then we do it all over again. If we estimate five hundred thousand people injured severely enough to require hospitalization—and I think that is a conservative estimate—then it will take six years to transport everyone to Sol. And that assumes we are at work every day. I believe this morning's unfortunate events with the ship's computers proves we cannot rely on being operational day in and day out for six years."

  "I'm afraid you're right," Kirk said. "Your conclusions?"

  M'Benga sighed. "Captain, we cannot deliver aid to everyone on Centaurus who will need it. No one can. The logistics of the problem are insurmountable. There is not enough transportation in the Federation to bring all the patients to the hospitals quickly enough—and there are not enough hospitals in the Federation to handle all the patients. As hard as it may be, we and the Red Cross ships must limit aid to those we can help the most. When these patients are well, they can assist us in helping the next group of patients, and so on. I see no other way."

  Kirk said, "But some of the ones we skip over will die."

  "Yes," M'Benga said. "Some will die without treatment. God help us. Captain, it is all just so overwhelming!" M'Benga sagged wearily in his seat. "I will be up many nights because of this—and not because of the work I will do on Centaurus, but because of the work I will not do." The doctor fell silent and stared at the overhead.

  No one knew quite what to say, except Spock.

  "Dr. M'Benga," the Vulcan began, "I speak as one who has had sufficient reason to appreciate your medical skills. I consider it fortunate that a specialist in Vulcan medicine is assigned to the Enterprise. That fact has saved my life at least once."

  M'Benga stopped gazing at the ceiling and looked at the Vulcan. This was the closest Spock had ever come to thanking him.

  "Permit me, on that basis, to ask you a question," Spock continued. "Do you allow yourself to dwell on the patients you have not saved during the course of your career?"

  M'Benga looked surprised. "No, Commander. I regret losing a patient—but I must keep my mind clear so that I may treat the next. If I did not have such an attitude, I could not function."

  Spock nodded. "Precisely. I would expect the same answer from Dr. McCoy, if he were present at this meeting. Without considering the number of victims who are sure to need treatment on New Athens, Doctor, are you certain you could do your duty toward those patients you could treat?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Spock."

  Spock gestured slightly. "I do not see that you have a moral dilemma here, Dr. M'Benga. You cannot possibly treat half a million people. This ship cannot accommodate that many. Yet this ship is bound for Centaurus, and she will do her best once she is there. You must come to realize that a healed, healthy patient is just that—a healthy patient, one who has benefited from your skill. He does not represent a number of patients you could not help; he represents only himself. If all of us do not see the situation in this light, then there is no reason for this ship to go to Centaurus at all."

  M'Benga looked down at the table. "Mr. Spock," he said, "I thank you for your words. They make a good deal of sense. I will do my best, we all will—yet I am still frightened, if you will pardon me, of the magnitude of the job we must do."

  Spock nodded. "But if we are dissuaded from our duty by the size of our task, then we are beaten. I do not propose to be beaten—particularly by a group of mass murderers."

  Captain Kirk looked at Spock. "'Mass murderers,' Spock? What makes you say that? We have no word on that."

  Spock said, "I have been considering the circumstances of the explosion, Captain. It could not have been accidental. There are no antimatter power plants on Centaurus, and none are under construction. The Centaurians have breeder reactors using a uranium-plutonium cycle. We can also dismiss the possibility of a ship accident at the spaceport. While ships equipped with warp drive store antimatter aboard for fuel and weapons, no warp-capable ship ever lands on a planet. Even if a warp-drive ship were to crash into a planetary surface at terminal speed, its antimatter supply would be protected from contact with matter by an unbreachable series of magnetic fields; the antimatter can always be recovered safely. We have had such cases happen. Impulse-only craft, such as shuttlecraft, do land—but such craft do not use antimatter for fuel or weapons. Further, spaceports do not store antimatter; starbases do, for reasons of safety. There was no antimatter 'fuel depot' at the spaceport. Therefore, I conclude that any antimatter at the spaceport had to have been brought there on purpose, for use in an annihilation device."

  "Who, then, Mr. Spock? Who did it?" Uhura asked.

  "Unknown, Lieutenant. Annihilation weapons can be created quite easily once one has the antimatter, which, I must point out, is quite difficult and costly to make. No individual or terrorist group is capable of manufacturing antimatter. This effectively limits the possession of antimatter to military organizations under strict Federation security. Also, no theft of antimatter has been reported; I would venture to think no theft is likely to have happened. But the construction of an annihilation device, once antimatter has been obtained, is not difficult. We ourselves built one with comparative ease to destroy the cosmic cloud on Tycho IV—and, of course, we routinely load antimatter for use in our photon torpedoes. But I believe I can partially answer the question of who did not bomb New Athens."

  Kirk had a thought. "The Klingons didn't."

  "Correct, Captain," Spock said. "The Klingons could not have been responsible. Any attack by the Empire against us would fall under the list of actions proscribed by the Organian Peace Treaty. We do not know how the Organians enforce the treaty they imposed on us and the Klingons; we know only that they do. I presume they would not have allowed an attack on New Athens. The Klingons would have been stopped."

  "The Romulans, then?" Chekov suggested.

  "Unlikely, Ensign," Spock said. "The Romulans are certainly capable of building and delivering an annihilation device to Centaurus—but what would it gain them? There are far more likely targets—the Federation capital at Geneva, for instance, or Starfleet headquarters in San Francisco. New Athens is—was—merely the capital of a successful colony. It had little or no military importance. The Romulans must also realize that any such attack would bring a quick Federation response—one that they would find devastating. The Federation has many more ships and much more firepower than do the Romulans."

  "Well, then, Spock? Who did it?" Kirk prompted, echoing Uhura's question.

  "There is not enough data yet to place the blame for the attack, Captain," Spock said. "I said only that I know who did not bomb New Athens. But I must note that this is the first attack on a civilian city with a weapon of mass destruction since Earth's Eugenics Wars. Through all history, such weapons have been in the hands of military forces alone."

  Spock paused. "Now it appears that, despite all safeguards, someone else has them."

  Chapter Five:

  The Computer Room

  MR. SPOCK HAD spent a small par
t of his very busy day getting reacquainted with his personal set of microsuitable tools. He had paid top credit for them some years ago in a specialty shop on Orion; Spock had no idea where the Orionites might have gotten them. But the tools had served the Vulcan in good stead. They weren't Starfleet issue; they were far better. Spock would never admit it—he wouldn't see the point—but some of the more observant people aboard the Enterprise had noticed long before that Spock was, at heart, a tinkerer.

  It suited the Vulcan to improve the instruments with which he worked every day. The original designers of Spock's science station on the bridge would no longer recognize some of its innards; Spock had streamlined here and double-circuited there, always improving, changing and reworking things for his benefit. For instance, the chattering of the computer—the trinary code in which parts of the computer "spoke" to other parts—was never meant by its designers to be audible. Spock had changed that; he preferred to hear what was going on. The ship's humans were at first amazed, and then amused, by Spock's ability to understand that computer chatter as if it were a language—which it was, in a way. Similarly, Spock had tinkered with his standard-issue tricorder, improving it until it did things never intended, or imagined, by its makers. Spock had also had an idea or two about improving warp engine performance to a point where a starship could achieve a consistent and safe cruising speed of warp fifteen—but those were just ideas; Spock had nothing practical to present to the captain … yet.

  Tinkering gave Spock a very personal pleasure—something to which he would never admit, and would barely admit to himself—but he justified it by telling himself that any improvement of the ship's instrumentation allowed the ship to do its job better and was, therefore, beneficial to the ship and the service: a logical and desirable outcome. The Vulcan preferred not to notice that the logic of his reasoning was precisely human and the subject of many Starfleet regulations written to encourage personal initiative for the benefit of the service.