The Kobayashi Maru Read online

Scott's grin looked weak and sad against his pale face. "No more heroics, Doctor—that I can promise you…"

  "Did you sever the nacelle?" Kirk wanted to know.

  Scott nodded. "I was hit at a good time—just when I was ready to go. She's severed and on her way." He chuckled. "She ought to produce a bonny fireworks display when she hits home, too."

  "Well done, Mister Scott," Kirk told him, smiling. "I'll get you a promotion for this."

  "I'd settle for a week off with pay," the engineer replied.

  "Done."

  "Sir…?" Sulu stirred slightly, but didn't open his eyes. "Do you really think the Enterprise will see the flash?"

  Kirk sighed, afraid to hazard a promise. "I don't know, Mister Sulu," he admitted at last. "We'll just have to wait and see."

  White-blue light bathed the shuttle nearly an hour later, blinding Kirk and Chekov, who happened to be watching out the starboard windows for the event. "Do you think that did it?" McCoy wanted to know.

  "It did something," Chekov replied cynically. "We just have to hope it hit the right asteroid."

  Scott stretched out to rest in a row of rear seats; when a lightning show of sparks and flashes commenced precisely a half hour following the explosion, the engineer only commented, "I'd say we hit the right asteroid," and went back to sleep.

  An hour of tense inactivity followed, but the Enterprise didn't appear. "Maybe Spock wants to be sure before he commits to coming this close to the planet," McCoy suggested halfheartedly.

  Scott was the only one moved to respond. "More likely, not enough of the explosion's energy made it through this system's gravitational mumbo jumbo to register as noteworthy on the Enterprise's sensors," the engineer explained sadly. "We didn't look any different than anything else that's going on out here."

  "Meaning?" McCoy pressed.

  "Meaning nothing," Scott told him. "Nothing at all."

  No one else cared to speculate further on the Enterprise's absence. Kirk's stomach embarrassed him by occasionally punctuating the silence with voluble grumbles; he soon gave up apologizing. They were all hungry, and tired, and depressed. He tried not to remind himself that all these conditions would end far too soon.

  "How are you feeling, Scotty?" he asked, just to break up the silence.

  Scott looked up from his impromptu couch and rubbed at his bandaged left arm. "Good enough," he said. "But I'm not going EV again!"

  Kirk smiled. "I don't think you'll have to."

  "Do you have a Kobayashi Maru story?" McCoy wheedled from the front row. "We still have time to fill."

  Scott pushed himself upright with a sigh, wincing when his injured arm brushed against the back of the seats. "I suppose I could take up a wee bit of time with the story."

  Chekov looked honestly surprised. "You took the Kobayashi Maru?"

  Scott scowled at him. "No, they just let any engineer take the bridge when the captain is gone!" He softened his words with a smile. "I had my share of command school. I just didn't take to it so well."

  "With the destructive tendencies the rest of this crew has displayed," McCoy commented, "I would think anything you did as a cadet would be exemplary."

  Scott shook his head and settled in for the tale. "Doctor, when it comes to destructive tendencies, these bairns have nothing on me…!"

  Chapter Eight

  IN THEORY

  "IF THIS WERE GRADE SCHOOL, Mr. Scott, I'd have to take those drawings away."

  Scott hastened to conceal his papers beneath splayed hands, scratched a meaningless line along the left-hand margin of his diagram in the process. Admiral Howell smiled indulgently from the front of Scott's desk; that's when Scott realized the rest of his classmates were long gone. He felt his face begin to warm. "Oh…Sorry, Admiral, sir…"

  "Somehow," Howell commented with a sigh, "I doubt you are." He plucked the bottommost paper from Scott's pile and turned it about for study. Scott tried hard to withhold a wince when Howell frowned at the drawing, rotated it another ninety degrees, then lifted one eyebrow in uncomprehending curiosity. "Schematics?" he finally queried, glancing at Scott.

  The young Scotsman knotted his hands together in his lap. "Aye, sir…"

  "Mister Scott, this is history class, not design!"

  "Oh, I'm not designing it, Admiral!" He leaned halfway across the desk, bending the edge of the paper back to peer at the scribbling upside down. "I'm redesigning! See, it's part of a defective coolant system at my cousin's station. I was helping her trace a fault, and we got as far as here—" He tapped one complex tangle of lines and symbols. "—before I had to leave for command school." His attention caught on a mismatched circuit reference; the stylus was in his hand, scribbling at the paper before he took the time to consider that Howell probably wasn't interested in the drawing's accuracy. "What I can't figure out," he went on, returning the stylus to his desk, "is how this coupling—" He circled yet another portion of the sketch with one finger. "—fits into it all. I mean, it fits—right here—but it doesn't fit in, if you see what I mean. And I think that's the problem. See, if you look right here—"

  "Mister Scott…"

  "—you can see where the current—"

  "Mister Scott!"

  Scott clamped his mouth closed on his blathering, forcing his mind to shut down all technical thought. Stopping thinking was never easy for him, but it was something he figured he'd have to get used to. Captains were supposed to depend on other people for cleverness. That's why they were captains.

  Howell kept glancing from the paper, to Scott, to the paper again. "You drew this from memory?" he asked, brown eyes busy with thought. "All of it?"

  "Well…" Scott pulled down the corner of the sheet again, just in case they'd somehow begun discussion on another sketch without his knowing it. The same drawing filled the crumpled sheet. It was no wonder Howell felt the need to verify the blueprint's authenticity; Scott was ashamed of his own sloppy handiwork. "I only tore the system down the once," he was forced to admit abashedly.

  Howell snorted once with amusement, then dropped the schematic back among Scott's other things. "What's your major area of study, Mister Scott?" he asked as Scott shuffled his drawings into some order.

  "Engineering, sir." He wished Howell would excuse him before remembering to turn this talk into a formal reprimand.

  "And you studied engineering before the Academy?"

  "Yes, sir…" Smoothing his crumpled drawings with one hand, Scott tried to ignore the despair slowly twisting his stomach. "I've always studied it."

  "I see." Howell leaned back against another desk and folded his arms. "Why are you here, Mister Scott?"

  "I…" Scott cursed aloud when he realized it was 11:13 and he was more than just a little late for his next class. "I don't know!" he cried. "I was due in tactics—"

  "No, Scott…" The admiral caught at Scott's arm as the engineer pushed to his feet in a flurry of books and loose paper.

  "But, sir, I—"

  "I mean what are you doing in command school?"

  Scott's mind shied away from all thoughts of captaining a starship; he didn't want to give fear another chance to tear up his peace of mind. "I… I'm learning to be a starship commander."

  "Do you want to be a commander?" Howell asked him, still holding on to his arm.

  Scott shrugged (a bit stupidly, he thought), all the while wishing his mouth hadn't gone so dry. "I don't know, sir."

  Howell nodded. "I take it that means no?"

  "Yes, sir," he admitted timidly. "I guess it does."

  "So why are you here?"

  Scott sighed and sank back into his seat. "My family, sir…" He spent a moment casting about for words that wouldn't misrepresent the situation back home. "I've been helping my cousin, who's a bonny engineer," he finally sighed. "But the rest of them…well, they think I'm being wasted by not being in command…I got tired of fighting them, that's all…"

  "Didn't your cousin have anything to say?"

  Scott laughed as he reme
mbered the string of voluble profanity Cheryl had launched at the family when she heard of Scott's "decision." "Aye, she had plenty to say. But the folks figure you can buy fine engineers through the mail." He caught a flash of disapproval in Howell's eyes, and leaned forward to insist, "They mean well, Admiral—they truly do! They're good folks, and good people. They just don't understand the calling—they most of them don't know what it means…!"

  "But it's your life, Mister Scott." Howell tugged at Scott's diagrams but didn't pull them free again. "It's your career! If you really don't want to be a starship captain, tell me! I'll go to Admiral Walgren and see if I can have you transferred to Engineering School."

  The very thought made Scott's stomach wrench with worry. "Please, sir, don't do that." Pushing to his feet, he pulled all his books to his chest and hoped they would hide his unsteady breathing. "I got in here, after all, so I must have something. If I've really got the ability Starfleet seems to think I do, I figure it would be a crime not to use it. Besides, it would break my poor mother's heart if I just walked out now."

  Howell sighed and partially turned away. "Have you thought about what you're going to do when they finally push you up to your own command?"

  Scott stepped past Howell and headed hastily for the door. "I'll make do," he assured the admiral. "I always do."

  Scott rubbed at his eyes and slouched lower at his workstation. The coupler he'd been designing rotated slowly through all three dimensions on the computer screen in front of him. He paused it wherever he felt necessary, but there were few alterations to make at this stage; he'd been working on the coupler for several hours.

  At three in the morning, the computer lab was predictably empty. Scott didn't mind the solitude; in fact, he preferred it to the noisy, pointless evenings enjoyed by his fellow cadets. Listening to the others speculate on their future careers, their future commands, ate at Scott's already fragile sense of self-worth; his own lack of ambition hung around his neck like a stone, marking him as unworthy of the attention and encouragement he'd already received in Starfleet. He felt guilty that he'd allowed himself to be pressured into coming to command school—guilty that he didn't want to be here at all. Scott would have been happy repairing and designing ships' systems forever, and, for some reason, he felt guilty about that, too.

  Stopping the coupler display's rotation, Scott leaned forward to speak into the computer. A few notes to Cheryl, then he'd batch the entire design off to her before cutting off to bed. He'd already have a rough time slipping into the barracks unnoticed; he wished he worried about curfew violations as much as he worried about his future.

  The technical notes to Cheryl only took a few seconds. Scott hesitated briefly over whether to include personal hellos to the family; he decided against it when all he could think to say was, I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE! over and over and over again. And then, I MISS YOU ALL.

  He'd only just sent the transmission on its way when the computer screen flashed black and the coupler design vanished. Scott paused, his hand hovering over the power switch, wondering who he would report a malfunction to at this time of night. Of course, he could always pry the equipment apart and track down the problem himself. Before he could slide the terminal about and set to work, an amber trail of print danced across the screen.

  I THOUGHT THIS MUST BE YOU. NICE DESIGNING, 'SCOTTY'.

  "What in…?" He pulled his hands down into his lap, not sure if he should power down the terminal or encourage this peeper by responding. The fact that some computer wizard had managed to "peep" into the Academy's system at all troubled Scott mightily. There were more important data than Scott's engineering designs in the Academy computer; all it took was one careless peeper, and the whole system could come crashing down. Then it occurred to him that the peeper might very well be within the Academy, and not an outside source at all. That calmed his mind a little. "Where are you?" he asked. "Don't you know it's after curfew?"

  AMUSING. I NEEDN'T WORRY ABOUT CURFEW. BUT YOU SHOULD—IT'S AFTER 03:00. WHY RISK SO MANY DEMERITS FOR SUCH A SILLY PROJECT?

  Labeling Cheryl's coupler "silly" wounded Scott's pride. He'd promised Cheryl a finished design before he left; he was delivering nearly three months late, but he was confident enough in his abilities to believe she'd think the wait well worth it. He wasn't about to try and explain his affection for design to some peeper whose very hobby made clear that he didn't give a damn about the pride people took in their systems. "Who are you?"

  PERHAPS I'M YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER. I AM WILLING TO GRANT YOU ONE WISH.

  Send me home! Scott thought, all unbidden. He shook his head to scatter such dreams, afraid to even mention them, much less wish for them.

  YOU ARE A FINE ENGINEER, BUT AN UNHAPPY CAPTAIN. IF YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER WERE TO OFFER YOU A CHANCE TO LEAVE COMMAND SCHOOL AND RETURN TO ENGINEERING—WITHOUT SHAMING YOUR FAMILY OR REQUIRING YOU TO BE REMISS IN YOUR DUTIES—WOULD YOU ACCEPT?

  Scott touched the screen with wondering fingers. The coupler design sprang up beneath them, rotating a slow, silent waltz.

  YES OR NO, MISTER SCOTT?

  the peeper pressed impatiently.

  THE ANSWER IS THAT SIMPLE.

  "Yes."

  It was done. He couldn't take the word back now, no matter what happened. The genie was out of the bottle and promising his fealty.

  VERY WELL. SIMPLY BE YOURSELF, SCOTTY. LEAVE THE REST TO ME.

  The coupler vanished, along with the glowing words, leaving Scott all alone in an empty computer lab. He thumbed the power switch with one numb hand, then sat for a long time after the faint hum of the machinery faded.

  Early the next morning, as Scott pulled on his boots in a crowded, brightly lit barracks, he realized it all must have been a dream. You just didn't get second chances of such magnitude—Cheryl would get her coupler design, Scott would get his captain's stripes, and all these silly wishes would be left far behind. Unknown peepers just didn't come in and fix everything without being asked. That just wasn't how the real world worked.

  He tried not to let the incident bother him anymore.

  "Tell me again—how did I get to be in command of this scenario?"

  "Computer selection. I always thought the computer picked the best commander for any scenario based on student records." The other cadet glanced Scott quickly up and down, shrugging more to himself than to his companion. "I guess it's just random draw, though."

  Scott was inclined to agree. In a previous scenario, he'd been assigned the position of chief engineer, and the annoyance of having to tell a half-dozen other cadets what to do (as if engineers couldn't think of enough duties for themselves) nearly killed him. Now the computer was saying that Montgomery Scott was the best it could do for a starship commander from this class; if that were the case, Scott was heartily concerned about the rest of Starfleet.

  The simulation chamber—so startlingly like a real starship's bridge that Scott kept expecting the real captain to chase him out of the command chair—rumbled shut like a monstrous clam. How could they lock him in here like this, responsible for so many people? It was only make-believe, true, so any decisions he made couldn't really affect the whole Federation. Still, no one had even asked Scott it he wanted to be the captain, and he most emphatically didn't! Oh, Admiral Howell had asked, "Are you ready?" just before steering Scott off for the bridge, but Scott knew that was only a polite question, not a real question wanting a real answer. So Scott had replied, "I'm ready," in a voice whose steadiness lied about his trembling hands. Smiling a little sadly, Howell had clapped him manfully on the back and sent him on his way. Scott would rather the admiral had banished him to the outer Pleiades.

  The first part of the scenario passed in a haze. The U.S.S. Saratoga didn't appear to be doing anything important in this simulation—just a routine training cruise to Gamma Hydra, without even supplies to drop off or passengers to coddle. Scott mouthed meaningless course changes, responded woodenly to questions and comments. He couldn't completely divorce kn
owledge of the simulation's falseness from everything that happened, so he tried to convince himself that nothing impressive would be expected from him. When asked about rescuing a damaged neutronic fuel carrier, Scott responded with an automatic affirmative, then turned back to the discussion he'd been conducting with Saratoga's nonexistent engineering staff.

  The red alert siren startled him out of a dissertation on circuit rerouting and energy dispersal. "What's the matter?" he asked, realizing belatedly that he probably should have directed that question to his exec.

  "Three Klingon cruisers, dead ahead," the science officer reported, just as helm exclaimed, "They're readying their weapons!"

  Scott's stomach turned to hot water and started to crawl about his insides. "Communications," he summoned evenly, "try to explain to these…" Mindful of the monitoring officers, he tempered the label he'd intended to employ. "…people that we're here on a rescue—"

  "Incoming!"

  "Full power to screens!" The command had barely cleared Scott's lips when the first barrage of disrupter fire expended itself against Saratoga's deflectors. Scott's teeth clacked together as he was flung back into his seat by the impact.

  "Screens four, seven, and eight are down," the executive officer, bent over his viewer, reported stonily. "Screens three and sixteen are damaged. They won't last another round, sir."

  Scott stared at the exec in stunned disappointment. "Were our deflectors up?" he sputtered. Intellectually, he knew they were; instinctively, he just couldn't believe a simple disrupter could wreak that much havoc, even through only partial shielding.

  "We've also got premature detonation in four of our six torpedo tubes," the exec continued.

  "What?!"

  "And a complete loss of power in the starboard warp nacelle." The young officer raised his head from his viewer like a doctor pulling away from a dying patient. "We're just about done, sir."

  Scott would have been less confused if the man had started speaking in tongues. "That much damage…?"