Crisis of Consciousness (24 page)

“Indecent!”

“Intruder!”

“Violence!”

“Vul-kuhn?”

“Blood.”

“Open your mind,” Spock whispered.

“No! Leave us!”

“We move together. Our minds sharing . . .”

“Alien!”

“Violator!”

“Savior.”

Sciver grunted, and Spock felt a fraction of resistance. Less than he expected.

“Our thoughts merge.”

“
Kill him!”

“Kill the Vul-kuhn!”

“Get him out!”

Sciver’s free hand wrapped itself around Spock’s throat.

“Repress him!”

“Embrace him!”

“
Save us!”

Ever conflicted, the Kenisian didn’t apply the strength needed to choke the life from Spock. The Vulcan encouraged and bolstered the side that supported his meld.

“Who are we?” Spock asked. A rush of emotions flooded toward him. Some had names, others just a wave of feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Ashnu!”

“Hutindra!”

“Oaebint!”

“Costre! Enict! Podor!”

“Histet! Bidras-eta! Colost!”

Dozens of names, titles and identities, pushed forward. Desires and passions inundated them. This is what Sciver felt all day, every day. This was his existence.

“Know us!”

“Be us!”

“Help us!”

“Calm,” Spock said.

Sciver repeated in a whisper, “Calm.”

“We are Sciver,” Spock said through gritted teeth. “I am Spock.”

“We are Spock,” the Kenisian added, “
I
am Sciver.”

Within the blizzard of personalities, there was a physical being named Sciver. An “I” and not a “we.” To release it from submission, its individuality would need to be awakened.

“Others have taken our identity.” Spock rearranged his fingers at Sciver’s temple and pressed in again. “We must reassert.”

“
No!”

“Control!”

There was an inherent contradiction in the concept of a melded Spock and Sciver fighting for individuality. Despite that, Spock was succeeding, and the panicking mass of consciousnesses within struggled to retain their domain.

“We must live!”

“Help us!”

“Be with us!”

“
Isolation!”

“Leave us!”

One hundred and forty-seven unique individuals swirled around them. Thousands of years of memories, confused and churning, folding in on each other until they couldn’t distinguish one from another.

“Chaos!”

“Control!”

“Help us!”

“
Noooo!”

There were ancient disciplines that could filter the voices and govern the minds within him. Sciver knew they existed because Spock knew of them. The Vulcan had shown him how it could be done. But now, Spock had to break the meld.

“Disparity,” Sciver cried.

“Order! We need order!”

“Our minds, separating,” the Vulcan whispered harshly. “Parting.”

“No!”

“Come back!”

“Return!”

Releasing Sciver’s wrist, Spock quickly pulled his fingers from the Kenisian’s head as well.

Sciver began to shake uncontrollably, blathering. “Nuuhhhh—nuuuuhhh.”

The torrent of personalities had been shown control could be imposed, then Spock left. With time all the minds could find coordination again, but Sciver was in shock from the experience and unable to do it on his own.

Guiding the man to a chair, Spock lowered him into the seat. “Sleep,” he whispered, “is preferred.” He pinched the proper nerve in Sciver’s neck until he lost consciousness.

For Sciver, the internal torment would continue. But in the meantime he wouldn’t be a danger to himself or others.

Recoding the components they had placed in the prototype mine took only moments. Should all other efforts fail, the
na’hubis
was now useless.

When he finished, there was no way for Spock to contact the Kenisian engineers, so he left the lab.

Pippenge and the host of technicians were waiting in the adjacent corridor.

“You’ve been in there for some time,” the ambassador said cautiously. “Are you well?”

Spock hesitated to answer. What he’d done was distasteful, no matter the necessity. He’d taken an individual who struggled to incorporate too many personalities into a functioning being and left him in disarray. By showing Sciver that control was possible, then taking it from him, Spock knew what he’d done was a violation. Necessary to save millions, but the remorse he felt—which Sciver had also felt—was difficult to control.

“I am adequate,” Spock finally told Pippenge.

“Sciver?”

Glancing toward the door to the laboratory, Spock said, “Indisposed.” He turned to the nearest lab tech and placed the fingers of his right hand on the upper left quadrant of her face.
My mind to your minds
.

Peripherally he saw the two other techs who were waiting look at one another and then move forward.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Pippenge said. “It may harm them both.” There was truth to that, but the ambassador probably thought it a clever lie.

“What are you doing?”
the technician’s minds wondered. This one was more curious than Sciver, who knew quite well what Spock had done.

This one was fascinated by the Vulcan and embraced the meld.

“You are different.”

“You are similar.”

“We would know you.”

And then the tide turned and the chorus began to fight back.

“No! Stop!”

Sifting through the dozens of minds, Spock isolated the individual who was the form. “You are Murlit,” he said. “Be Murlit.”

After a brief struggle and an instinctive resistance to change, Murlit accepted the calm the Vulcan offered. And when he had, Spock left it, just as he’d done with Sciver.

Released from his mental grasp, she began to cry softly as he leaned her against the bulkhead. He reached for the next Kenisian, who flinched away in protest, but Spock caught the man by his arm and pulled him close.

My thoughts to your thoughts.

“We are Burgee,”
the man thought.

“No,” Spock told him, and he distilled out the seven others who had survived within Burgee’s body.

One had been a chemist, who gave the Kenisian his love of science. Another had been a musician who’d passed on his love for mathematics and song. They’d been with Burgee as long as the individual could remember. They’d helped mold who he was. And Spock was now giving them the tools to coexist in a sustainable way.

Burgee was content. He was grateful to Spock.

Until the Vulcan removed the barriers, and chaos began again—except worse than before.

Collapsing, the Kenisian man became catatonic.

Obviously seeing a pattern emerge, the last technician turned to run. Pippenge grabbed him, his long, gangly arms wrapping around the Kenisian. The ambassador’s thumbs tightly interlinked, locking the man in place.

Applying his hands to the technician’s head, Spock melded with the last of the three as Pippenge held him.

Our minds are one.

“A new consciousness.”

“I am Spock.”

“We are the undying. We are within Talar.”

“Where is Talar?”

“We
are
Talar.”

“Release him.”

“Impossible. Who are you? Get out!”

“Let Talar control Talar.”

“No, he needs us! Leave us!”

“He does not need you. You need him.”

“Yes, we need him. Leave him to us.”

“No. He is an individual. He must live his life.”

“He is us. We are him. Stop blocking us.”

“No,”
Spock told them.
“No.”

Talar, the individual, was alone. Spock felt his others, but Talar did not.

“We are Spock?”

“We are Talar,”
Spock corrected, but then pulled himself back so that the Kenisian could feel what it was to be singular. So he might remember who he was.

“I am Talar,” the man mumbled aloud, and smiled faintly.

“No,” Spock whispered, and let the others come flooding back.

Talar groaned and slackened.

“What exactly did you do?” The ambassador released the lab tech to Spock’s grip, and the Vulcan gently lowered the now-sobbing man to the deck.

“I removed the inhibitions of their many minds. I showed them themselves, then returned them to their chaos.” His voice was soft and scraped like gravel. There was emotion churning within that was difficult to process and suppress. “And, in doing so, incapacitated them.”

SIXTEEN

The
Enterprise
limped. Or at least that’s the way it felt to her captain. She’d been traveling at maximum warp for too long. With many systems on bypass, the best Scott could offer was warp factor six but only for one more hour.

Would that be fast enough?
It should be, but how much progress had the Kenisians made while
Enterprise
was being repaired?

Since communications had been restored, Uhura had tried to raise Spock, but to no avail. Nor had the Sahntiek replied to repeated hails.

“Are they receiving us?” The captain was hovering near the communications station, as he had off and on for the last twenty minutes.

“The signal is making it there, sir. We’re not being jammed.” She worked her console, trying a different frequency range. “I’m monitoring for any outgoing transmission from that system. Nothing, but they may be under some kind of comm silence.”

That didn’t bode well.

“Any telemetry from the probe, Mister Jolma?”

“Not yet, sir.” The ensign turned to the left and flipped a series of switches. “Probe is still at warp.”

The probe was limited. It was basically a ball of sensors with a powerful transmitter and a compact warp engine. But the captain hoped the probe could tell them something, anything.

As he waited, Kirk anxiously moved from the command chair, to the science station, to Uhura, then over to the engineering station to see how the
Enterprise
was doing. Scott was manning the station on the bridge as his people continued to work to shore up the systems.

“She’ll hold together, sir,” Scott said as the captain surveyed the displays.

Kirk nodded his approval and stepped down into the command well.

“Getting telemetry,” Jolma reported.

“On-screen,” Kirk ordered.

The starscape was replaced by a data display showing the star system they were approaching augmented with a graph pinpointing planets and satellites and artificial space structures. The fourth planet was inhabited. There was evidence of starship movement, and in orbit there was a fleet. The probe was still tallying the number of ships.

The Federation had no quarrel with the Sahntiek. Kirk did not want to make first contact this way, but he had no choice. What he preferred was stopping Zhatan before she even got to the Sahntiek system. He’d need to talk to Spock to know if that was possible.

“Reduce magnification,” the captain ordered.

The image shifted to a wider view. The
Enterprise
was fifty-five minutes from the system. If Zhatan’s ship maintained their current speed, they were two hours away. “We’ll be cutting it close.”

“They could detonate their weapon where they are now,” Chekov said. “Wipe themselves, us, and the Sahntiek out in one explosion.”

Kirk pushed out a breath and shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He motioned behind him. “They don’t want their enemy to just disappear—alive one moment, gone the next. They want to explain the reason. Personally.”

Intently studying the telemetry that flowed across the main screen, the captain leaned forward.
An hour doesn’t leave a margin for error
.

Pushing himself out of the center seat and toward the engineering station, Kirk leaned into the rail.

“Mister Scott, we need to increase speed.”

As he turned toward the captain, Scott’s expression was carved with warning. “We can push the engines, sir, but the ship herself isn’t up to much more. We’ve still got structural integrity problems.” He shook his head. “I canna guarantee she’ll hold.”

Kirk had learned that being in command wasn’t just figuring out when to make which decision. It was knowing how to inspire the people under him—encouraging them to do what they could, so he could do what he must. Would Scott ever push the ship as hard as Kirk needed?

No. That’s why a captain had to ask the impossible of his chief engineer.

“I have confidence in your skills, Mister Scott.”

Scott nodded his relenting acceptance of his orders. “Aye, sir. I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Kirk smiled. “You? Never.” He pivoted back to the command chair. “Mister Sulu, warp factor seven.”

“Warp seven, aye.”

THERE WAS
an alarming simplicity with which Spock was now able to enter a Kenisian mind and pull on the proper threads to undo them. The ease was of a technical nature, but the emotional ramifications were far reaching. How could he justify his actions? They’d kidnapped him and the ambassador, threatened the lives of billions, perhaps trillions. And yet, it did not feel right.

Feel.

He and Pippenge had encountered several of the crew since leaving the laboratory deck, and all of them had fallen with relative alacrity.

The Vulcan had now touched hundreds and hundreds of minds held within dozens of bodies. He’d pushed his way into the ship’s auxiliary control room, where the ambassador stood guard as Spock configured a timed sabotage that would allow them to make their way to the bridge before it was noticed.

“What are you doing here?” A Kenisian guard forced his way past Pippenge and brought a weapon up toward Spock. “You are not cleared for access to this location.”

“My apology,” the Vulcan said as he nonchalantly sauntered toward the door.

As he passed the guard, Spock turned quickly and jutted out his hand, melding with the man.

Our minds are one.

“We are Chith’gol. Who are you?”
The Kenisian didn’t know of Spock, only that he shouldn’t be where he was.
“What are you doing?”

“I am Spock,”
the Vulcan explained telepathically.
“Your commander has abducted us, in an effort to extort cooperation.”

“Why?”
Chith’gol asked.

“She wishes to harness an ancient devastation, but it is not possible. Her error will destroy innocent lives,”
Spock told him.

“This is true?”

“You are in my thoughts. You know the verity of it.”

“We did not know,”
the Kenisian said.
“This outrages us.”

“How many are within you?”

“You meld with Chith’gol and Twibe, both of the clan Vomla.”

Spock was surprised.
“There are but two of you?”

Chith’gol smiled.
“You are in our thoughts. You know the verity of it.”
He pushed Spock’s hand away, and the Vulcan allowed it. The meld was broken.

“Chith’gol and Twibe, you are one.”

“We are integrated,” the Kenisian said with a nod. “You must be the Vulcan. There have been rumors. We were not to bother you if we saw you in the corridor.”

“Why?” Spock asked.

“We were told,” Chith’gol said, “you did not wish to be disturbed. That you were a special envoy.”

“A lie,” the Vulcan told him, gesturing toward Pippenge. “This is the Maabas ambassador. We have been held against our will and forced to act against our interests.”

“It is distasteful to us,” the Kenisian said, looking down at the deck and shaking his head. “Zhatan ordered this?”

“Orchestrated and ordered,” Pippenge said.

Chith’gol bowed to the Maabas ambassador. “You have our apology, sir.”

How many more like these?
Spock wondered. Here were two individuals, in one body, that had managed to incorporate into a single being. Were the majority of Kenisians like Chith’gol? Seeing how conflicted those like Zhatan and Sciver were, how could their society function if the majority weren’t like this man?

“We are attempting to stop this vessel before it reaches its destination,” Spock explained, and Pippenge seemed taken aback by the admission. “Will you assist us?”

Staring at Spock a long moment, Chith’gol finally smiled. “I shouldn’t,” he said, “but I will.”

“Why?” the ambassador asked, perplexed.

“The connection we have shared,” Chith’gol said, motioning to Spock, “is difficult to explain. I know and understand his motives, and he is familiar with mine. I cannot, in so brief a connection, know all about his Starfleet or his friend named Kirk, but I can understand his character, and his moral code.” Chith’gol told Spock, “For that I am sorry.”

The Vulcan bowed his head. “We must act with haste.” He explained to the Kenisian his plans and the modifications he made to the auxiliary control systems.

“My peer will be here soon.” Chith’gol looked to the door, concentrated a moment, then turned back. “I’ve locked him out but he will countermand it,” he explained. “When he enters, he will see what you’ve done and undo it.”

“We shall wait.”

Spock could have left the Kenisian man to handle his shipmate, as he trusted him to not betray them. But there was no guarantee that Chith’gol would be the victor in a conflict.

Despite the uncomfortable delay, Pippenge, ever curious, asked the Kenisian, “Why do you have but two consciousnesses within you? Why not more?”

As if this was a frequent inquiry from strangers, Chith’gol was ready with an answer. “I am from a small clan, and we do not believe in accepting non-kin
ka’atrehs
.”

“Why do the others?”

The Kenisian answered honestly. “Others see a high number of consciousnesses as a matter of prestige. Commander Zhatan is master of this vessel as much for that as for her skill.” Chith’gol shook his head and looked past Pippenge. “After the civil war, individual
ka’atrehs
that lived on within others acquired a vote in the assembly. That is when we took the darkest turn.”

“How?” Spock asked.

Chith’gol’s gaze was marked with deep regret. “The past became more important than the future. Fear and hate of our enemies outweighed love.”

“That is an emotional conclusion, not a rational report of a historical event,” the Vulcan said.

Smiling, Chith’gol didn’t disagree. “I suppose so. But what of the
na’hubis
and its destructive purpose? Is that not evidence of fear and hate above all else?” His expression was suddenly worried, and Chith’gol moved toward the door. “Djow approaches.”

Spock moved to the doorway and waited to one side. When the Kenisian entered, Spock stepped forward and grabbed Djow’s shoulder with one hand and his forehead with the other.

“My mind to your minds, Djow.”

Their thoughts swirled quickly together.

“Intruder!”

“The Vul-kuhn!”

“Calm us!”

“Leave us!”

“Join us!”

It was much the same as the previous Kenisian melds. Within moments Djow was mumbling softly to himself.

Gently, Spock lowered him to the deck as Chith’gol watched.

“Was that the fate meant for me?”

“Yes,” the Vulcan admitted. “He will recover. But it will take time.” He took the man’s weapon and gave it to Pippenge. “Do you know how to use this?”

Examining it, the ambassador seemed to recognize it. “I think so. I’d rather not have to use such a thing. I am a man of peace.”

A man of peace.

Chith’gol showed Pippenge the settings. “This stuns,” he said, “and this kills.”

The ambassador set it to stun.

“We must get to the bridge.” Spock turned to Chith’gol. “Live long and prosper.”

They returned to the corridor, leaving Chith’gol with his unconscious crewmate.

As they ran hastily along, Spock noted that the other Kenisians they’d previously encountered were gone.

The ambassador motioned to the areas of the deck where the Kenisians had been left. “Where did they go?”

“I assume they’ve been taken to their sickbay.”

“Yet no one tasks us? Why has there not been an alert?”

Spock shook his head. “There may have been, but silently, communicated to implants much like your own. We were, in fact, interrupted just minutes ago.”

“Chith’gol would have mentioned it.”

“Perhaps.” It was also possible, Spock thought, that the Kenisians were aware the crew was being disabled, but didn’t understand why. “They may think there is a disease spreading. All they are finding are crew members in various states of unconsciousness or emotional disarray.”

Hearing someone heading down the corridor, Spock moved the ambassador into a dark alcove to hide. Spock preferred to limit the number of crew with which he had to engage.

Unwittingly, the Vulcan exhaled after the crewman had passed quietly on.

“Are you unwell, Mister Spock?” Pippenge asked. “You seem quite adept at whatever you’re doing with the Kenisians, but I sense it is taking a toll on you.”

“
Doing with
”
was not accurate
, Spock thought.
Doing
to. “I am not under any physical strain.”

As they continued up the corridor, the ambassador pressed, “Mental, then?”

“Mental” wasn’t the right word to describe Spock’s state, but he didn’t wish to share that with Pippenge.
Philosophical
strain was perhaps the best way to quantify his anxiety. That he
felt
anxiety suggested that his emotional control was insufficient.

“There is a task at hand,” Spock said eventually, temporizing. “Personal discomfort is of no matter.”

After a few more detours into alcoves, and once into what was likely someone’s empty cabin, they found themselves at a lift. According to the schematics Spock had seen, it would lead to the bridge.

“Why do we hesitate?”

Spock gestured to the door. “There is no external panel. Like the doorways we’ve seen, this is telepathically controlled, likely for security purposes.”

“Wise,” Pippenge said drily. “Can you open it?”

“I shall try.” The Vulcan closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He brought his left hand’s fingers to his own temple and thought about the door. He wasn’t asking some unseen force to open it, but visualizing it open. He imagined what the space looked like, tried to imagine every aspect: the curve of the floor, the very white walls, and the very dark gray carpeting.

When the lift doors parted for them and Spock’s eyes opened, it was just as he’d imagined. Every line, every detail. For the picture he had in his mind to be that exact, there must have been a mechanism that accessed his thoughts and fed him the image. Again, he appreciated the technology.