The Kobayashi Maru Page 19

  Most of all, he wished he could tell Walgren just how much that one decision had meant to his life. "The difference between living and just hanging around," he would have told the admiral. "You understand that, don't you?"

  Scott couldn't help but believe the admiral did. Any real engineer would have.

  Chapter Nine

  HALLEY

  SCOTT SMILED AT KIRK from across the shuttle's narrow aisle. "It has been grand," he sighed with a placid smile. "Hasn't it, sir?"

  The captain nodded, pained and warmed by all the memories he and the engineer shared. "Yes, Mister Scott, it certainly has…" There was nothing more to say, and volumes left unspoken. Kirk closed his eyes, listening to Chekov reconstruct the radio from Scott's hastily wired alarm in the front hatch.

  "Come on," he heard McCoy cajole the engineer softly, "lie back and get some sleep. We've had enough yarning for one day."

  "There's no such thing as enough tale-telling, Doctor," Scott replied, but there was no real protest in his voice. "We still have the whole realm of fiction to address!"

  McCoy must have pulled some spectacular face, because the next thing Kirk heard was Scott's deep chuckle. "Save it for some other time, Scotty," the doctor chided. "You need your rest, and so does our brave leader."

  "Aye, Doctor."

  McCoy knows, Kirk thought, without any great alarm. He knows Spock didn't see us. He knows not to hope anymore. Kirk had come to this realization an hour after the severed nacelle's explosion; sharing that knowledge with his old friend lifted some of the burden from his own conscience, but didn't help him to accept the defeat. Some part of his mind still rooted for a solution, like a terrier after a particularly wily fox. He felt as though he were only digging at stone now, though; there was nowhere else to look for that fox within the confines of the real world. Still, the terrier wouldn't stop trying.

  A touch on his knee brought his attention back to the present.

  "How're you doing?" McCoy asked when the captain opened his eyes. Kirk suspected the question probed for information on more than just his knee.

  "As well as could be expected," he replied, truthful on all accounts. "How about Sulu?"

  Aborting a glance over one shoulder, the doctor shrugged and continued loading a hypo. "Asleep. He'll be all right, I think. I've done everything I can." The hypo filled, he injected the contents into Kirk's swollen knee. "That should dull the worst of the pain," he explained with professional detachment as he returned the last of his gear to his pouch, "although it might tend to make you a little sleepy. Just try to be comfortable, and call me if you…" The doctor's hands hesitated in stowing the equipment away. "…if you need anything."

  Kirk caught McCoy's wrist, switching his grip to the doctor's hand when the older man looked up to meet his gaze. "Thanks, Bones…" He hoped McCoy would understand all the other things he didn't have the words to say.

  The doctor only smiled wanly and squeezed the captain's hand. "No charge," he said softly. "Now go to sleep." McCoy dimmed the overhead lights on his way back to his own seat.

  Dancing on that dividing line between emergency lamplight and darkness, rest proved too elusive for Kirk's agitated state of mind. The pain in his knee, just as McCoy promised, dampened to nonexistence, but only a dryness in his mouth and a muzziness in his head hinted at the sleep that should have accompanied that respite. One by one, all movement from Scott and McCoy stilled, both men's breathing drifting into the childlike susurrus of exhausted sleep. Sulu's harsh, strained breathing blended with the quiet white noise from the damaged radio up front.

  I've done it, Kirk thought, oddly fascinated by the realization. I've failed. He tried to reject the thought, but couldn't; so far, the only way they'd kept themselves safe was by exhausting every available avenue. Now, there was nothing left to hope for. Nothing left but the waiting.

  I WON'T give up! Kirk insisted. He valiantly wanted to dig for just one more try, but exhaustion crept in too close, and he felt his eyes begin to close. I don't believe in the no-win scenario! Still, try as he might, he sank into a restless sleep to the melody of the radio's distant static.

  And awoke in a fever, certain of what they must do.

  Kirk pushed himself upright, delighting in the swell of anguish that engulfed his knee, in the giddy, dizzy darkness that lingered all about him. Only one emergency lantern still burned—in the main cockpit, where it illuminated only the front quarter of the passenger area; Kirk could just make out the somnolent forms of his four crewmen as he rolled over and started to rise.

  Slapping at the lighting control as he hobbled past, Kirk even reveled in the sleepy confusion that reigned as the others struggled into wakefulness.

  "Jim, I—"

  "I've got a plan," Kirk interjected, cutting off McCoy's protest. "I think we can still get out of this."

  No one said anything for a heartbeat. Sulu stirred slightly; Chekov placed a protective hand on the helmsman's shoulder as Sulu asked faintly, "What's all the excitement about?"

  "You'd better be damn sure about this," McCoy warned the captain grimly.

  Kirk turned instead to Chekov; he couldn't promise McCoy certainty, so he wouldn't promise anything at all. "Mister Chekov—the navigation computer's permanent memory keeps track of Halley'ss location in relation to all the pertinent beacons and markers. Correct?" The security officer only nodded. Kirk shot the next question at Scott: "Is there anything wrong with that permanent memory?"

  "Not a thing," the engineer replied.

  "Then we know precisely where we are." That was hurdle number one. "All right," Kirk continued. "Sulu, can you recall the Enterprise's coordinates when you left the bridge?"

  "Yes, sir. 896-448-009 mark 24, and holding."

  "So we know where the Enterprise is," McCoy picked up. "But I still don't understand."

  Kirk grinned at him. "You don't have to." Shifting position on his good leg, he braced himself more firmly against the bulkhead. "The problem with waiting for the Enterprise," he addressed them all, "is that the Enterprise doesn't know where to look. It doesn't help that the sensors are half-blinded by what's going on in the system around us. You said it yourself, Scotty—we don't look any different than everything else the Enterprise can read. So what we need to do is make ourselves look different, then aim that difference at the Enterprise so she can't help but notice."

  Delighted by the prospect of rescue, Scott's face still betrayed some reservation. "How?" he wanted to know. "We've barely got life support!"

  "But we've got the radio." Kirk waited until he saw understanding begin to dawn in the engineer's eyes. "Can you make it receive everything aimed in our direction—radio transmissions, light, sensor scans, the works?"

  "A portable black hole…" Scott muttered distantly.

  Kirk nodded. "That's the idea."

  "Well, aye…but what good does that do us?"

  "That's where Chekov comes in." The young lieutenant stiffened in his seat, immediately wary and insecure. "Let's presume Spock started running a logical, by-the-book search pattern as soon as the Enterprise lost track of us…"

  "That should be a safe assumption."

  Kirk ignored the doctor. "I want you to use that assumption, and the coordinates Sulu remembers, to plot out where the Enterprise is now—in relation to us." He returned his attention to Scott. "If we can direct your black hole at the ship, a routine scanner sweep should pick it up. I'm trusting Spock to do the rest."

  Scott nodded absently, his fingers twitching on nonexistent circuits as he plotted through his construction. "We'll have to coax that remaining engine into action," he mused, not fully turning his attention away from his thoughts. "With the bad converter, we'll have to suck off all our life support and lighting power if we want to beat this tumble long enough to do any good." Then his eyes focused abruptly, and he shot an anxious glance at Sulu. "Assuming we've got a pilot, that is…"

  A brave but weak smile tugged at Sulu's lips. "That's where I come in," he croak
ed. His dark eyes flicked to one side in search of McCoy. "Better get me off these drugs, Doc," he advised blithely. "It's going to be bad enough trying to pilot when I can't turn my head!"

  Blue eyes clouded with apprehension, the doctor shook his head. "Jim can do it."

  Kirk almost laughed. "No, Jim can't."

  Before McCoy could protest further, Sulu explained, "The captain can pilot a fully functional ship all right, but this isn't the same thing. It would be kind of like trying to ride a unicycle when you only know how to ride a bike. Same principle, different skill." He tried to flash McCoy a reassuring grin. "I'll be okay."

  "Sulu, you start messing around with that shoulder, you'll…" McCoy's voice trailed off as he saw the look on the lieutenant commander's face.

  Kirk nodded.

  "We have a problem…" Chekov's dismal voice brought everyone's attention back to him. He stared up at Kirk in mixed amazement and dismay. "The equations we need," he explained, looking at the others as though in apology. "Mister Spock might be able to do that kind of mathematics in his head, but I can't. Not without a computer."

  Kirk felt his hope slip away.

  "Can you work out the equations by hand?" Scott called from the rear; the engineer had already bounded out of his seat to begin collecting various equipment and tools.

  Chekov considered for a moment. "I could," he allowed. "But—"

  Grinning smugly, Scott reappeared in the doorway with a slender rod in one hand. "How about on deck plates?"

  Frowning as Chekov rose to study the offered tool, Kirk asked, "What is that?"

  The engineer pulled the rod down the wall by his head, leaving a shiny dark streak behind it. "A deck marking tool," he explained. "You use them for marking circuit information on bulkheads and decks." He handed the little tool to Chekov with a triumphant flourish. "Where do you want to start?"

  Thinking ahead, Scott tore up all four rear seats while Chekov was still occupied on the back wall. The seats Scott jettisoned out the airlock; the Russian carried his figuring down onto the floor without pause.

  Excitement built in Kirk like a coiled clock spring, ticking away at his patience with every line of equations scribbled across the scuffed deck and walls. Across the aisle from him, Sulu's bright humor slowly faded as more and more of McCoy's pain-killing drugs washed out of his system. "I'm going to be okay," he kept assuring no one. "We're all going to be okay."

  McCoy paced until Chekov explained (somewhat irritably) that he was going to have to start writing on the doctor's feet if they weren't kept out of the way. The suggestion moved Sulu to laugh, but McCoy was somewhat less amused; he retreated sullenly to his front-row seat—tucking his feet protectively beneath him as he watched Chekov work along the floor. Kirk did his best to encourage everyone to remain calm, despite the fact that he'd have outpaced McCoy if his damaged knee allowed. Only Scott gave the captain no headache throughout the planning; however, watching the engineer disappear into the back with an increasing amount of the forward hatch finally caused Kirk to quip, "Leave Sulu something to pilot with, Scotty!"

  The burly Scotsman laughed with pleasure. "The toilets go before the helm does, Captain! Don't you fret!"

  But Kirk fretted anyway.

  McCoy kept an equally worried eye on his patient, occasionally reaching across the seats to touch Sulu's uninjured shoulder. "You all right?" he asked, time and time again.

  "Sure," Sulu always assured him, adding the last time: "I need to be clear-headed if I'm going to pilot this wreck."

  The doctor snorted. "Are you going to be clear-headed while you're in this much pain?"

  Sulu made a tiny sound that reminded Kirk more of a sob than a laugh. "More than I would be on your drugs," he replied thinly. Then, after a minute pause: "Just keep talking to me…okay?"

  "Sulu!" Chekov called from the rear of the shuttle; he was out of sight behind the remaining seats, guarded over by a wall of navigational graffiti. "What are the Enterprise's last coordinates?"

  "Pavel," the helmsman sighed, "didn't you write them down?"

  "Tell me!"

  "896-448-009 mark 24."

  Chekov finally sat back on his heels with a weary sigh. Cramped black writing sketched a cobbled path down the length of the main aisle. He stretched, stood, and stretched again, then turned and jotted several lines of numbers on one of the front walls. "Pry this loose for me," he instructed Scott on one of the engineer's trips.

  "All finished?" Scott asked with a smile.

  Chekov nodded, not exuding quite the same level of optimism. "That's our course."

  "I'm ready to fly," Sulu insisted. His voice was stretched as thin as fine wire. "But I need help getting up front."

  Scott paused by the helmsman's seat. "We don't need you yet," he told Sulu, displaying the increasingly complex device in his hands. "I've got to get this outside first. Hang on a while longer."

  "I'm fine," the helmsman answered faintly. "I love my job."

  Scott smiled. "I know you do, lad…I know."

  The extravehicular duty fell to Chekov this time. Scott double-checked every seal on the lieutenant's suit, clucking and scolding like a maiden aunt as he pressed the hodgepodge contraption into Chekov's hands. "Belay to the lock before we crack the doors," he stressed sternly. "And keep this thing tied fast to you—lose it, and I'll see you busted lower than you've ever dreamed!"

  Chekov tugged at the cable fixing Scott's device to the suit. "I won't lose it," he assured Scott. Then he pulled on his helmet before the engineer could harangue him further.

  Scott caught the lieutenant's helmet in both hands just before Chekov turned away. "Be careful!" He stared hard through the thick face plate. "You hear me?"

  Kirk saw Chekov nod once, then the lieutenant stepped into the waiting lock and was swallowed by the closing doors.

  No radio chronicled Chekov's progress along the shuttle's hull. Scott tried to reassure Kirk: "He's only going a little way—not even as far as the nacelle. There's a service hook-up that the gadget will fit right nicely." It didn't help. Kirk finally insisted McCoy and Scott move Sulu into the front hatch just so there would be something else to do.

  Every step proved agony for the young Oriental; as the pain increased, so did his breathing, which only tore at his damaged shoulder more. By the time they situated him at the front console, his sobbing gasps had almost torn Kirk to shreds.

  The captain hobbled into the front doorway to find McCoy kneeling by the helm. "Let me just give you something!"

  Sulu couldn't even command the breath to object, he simply clutched at McCoy's wrist with his good hand and refused to let go.

  "Damn it, Sulu—!"

  "No…!" the helmsman whimpered. "…Doc, please…I'll be okay…"

  The doctor clung to his hypo as though afraid to try and cope without it. "You're sure?"

  "…sure…"

  McCoy retreated into the passenger area without even commanding Kirk to sit down.

  Chekov returned less than five minutes later, flushed with excitement over the successful placement of the beacon. Stripping off his helmet and gloves, he joined Kirk and Sulu in the front hatch as Scott went aft to fire up the engines. "You have the course?" Chekov asked Sulu as he stepped out of his e-suit.

  "Sure," Sulu whispered. He pointed shakily to the marked bulkhead plate before him on his panel. "But…why don't you read them off to me?…So I can just think about piloting…"

  Kirk plucked the square of metal off the console and handed it back to Chekov. The security officer took it with a wan, worried nod; but his voice was calm and confident as he reported to Sulu, "Bring us about to heading 896-448-887 mark 3…"

  "…aye, aye, Mister Navigator…"

  A resonant clunk…clunk…clunk… clunk passed down the length of the shuttle as Scott killed the main lighting. Kirk heard McCoy rise wordlessly in the passenger cabin and begin snapping on the emergency lamps once again; the captain clicked on the inset lantern above the main console without in
terrupting Sulu and Chekov's dialogue.

  "I'm slipping!…Are we slipping off course?"

  Chekov leaned over Sulu's shoulder to look, touching the helmsman reassuringly. "You're fine—right on course."

  No lights, no air, no heat…Kirk whirled the tally around in his head as he studied Sulu's pain-creased face. Back to exactly where they'd started, their lives depended on the performance of Scott's tiny construction outside, on Chekov's hastily prepared navigational equations, on the viability of Kirk's original plan. If any part of the complex structure failed, they would all die, just like in the Kobayashi Maru.

  But we all BEAT the test! Kirk's mind insisted. We proved you don't have to accept defeat gracefully! You could reroute it, like Kirk; or carry on despite it, like Chekov; or avoid it, like Sulu; or fight it to the last like a Scottish bulldog. They would do all those things before giving up now, if Kirk had to sacrifice his own soul in the process. "Heading, Mister Sulu?" he requested in his most composed captain's voice.

  "…896-449-678 mark 89…"

  "Very good…" He glanced up at Chekov for verification; the Russian simply nodded. "Carry on."

  Almost precisely an hour later, Sulu collapsed. He simply didn't respond to Chekov's course correction, then slid slowly sideways until Kirk was forced to lunge out of his own chair to catch him. Chekov and Scott carried the helmsman back to the passenger cabin. This time, they laid him gently in the center aisle, atop a layer of heavy uniform coats; Chekov spread his own jacket across his friend's torso.

  "Do you think it worked?" the Russian asked quietly as McCoy administered a series of injections to Sulu's lifeless form.

  "If the black hole worked," Scott tendered glumly. "There was really no way I could test it."

  "And if Spock happened to search in this direction," Kirk added.

  "And if my equations were correct…"

  "Listen to all of you!" McCoy grumped crustily. He stomped back to his own place and seated himself with determined confidence. "It worked. Now shut up and wait."