The Kobayashi Maru Page 5

  Kramer angled his head to stare up the length of the auditorium at the young cadet. His mouth twisted slightly, as if he'd just bitten into a particularly tart lemon. Chekov recognized the expression as what Kramer paraded as a smile. "I'd feel more comfortable speaking to you if I could see you."

  Chekov slid out of his chair before Cecil could surreptitiously nudge him beneath the desk. Cecil apparently feared suffering from the fallout of Kramer's ill-humor; if Chekov didn't leap whenever Kramer commanded, Cecil felt the need to impel him, which frequently led to more embarrassment than Chekov cared to deal with. While disobedience was not something the young Russian would ever consider, Cecil's impatience had still managed to increase his response time a little.

  Once Chekov was standing, Kramer linked hands behind his own broad back and said, "Cadet Chekov, you have just reviewed the video record of your Kobayashi Maru test. Yes?" His words were rounded by a lyric Rhineland accent, the soft tones a sharp contrast to his hard, unimaginative personality.

  "Yes, sir," Chekov replied civilly, his own voice accented and firm. "I have."

  "And how would you rate your performance on that test?"

  Chekov's hesitation was nearly imperceptible. "I feel my performance was quite satisfactory, sir."

  Kramer nodded, pacing the podium with slow, measured strides. "A starship captain is sworn to the protection of his ship and crew. Yes?"

  "Yes, sir." Chekov tried to ignore the unease dancing about in his stomach.

  "And a captain is sworn to uphold and defend the peaceful relations we enjoy with our Klingon neighbors," Kramer continued. "Yes?"

  "The Klingons attacked first—!" Chekov interjected.

  But before the cadet had a chance to protest further, Kramer pulled to a stop and insisted firmly, "Answer my question, Mister Chekov."

  The young Russian clenched his fists at his sides and resigned himself to the verbal beating. "Yes," he finally returned, "he is."

  Apparently content with that small victory, Kramer folded his hands across the lectern and didn't resume his pacing. "You violated the Klingon neutral zone. You engaged three Klingon patrol vessels in combat while there was still the potential to retreat. You willfully destroyed a Federation starship worth several billion credits, and killed that starship's crew. All to rescue a fuel carrier you cannot prove was indeed in distress at those coordinates! So tell me—what about your performance do you consider so 'satisfactory'?"

  "If I may, Commodore…?" The politeness was stiff and hard won.

  Kramer threw his arms wide in mocking invitation. "By all means, explain! I'm very interested."

  Chekov tried to ignore the smattering of laughter that passed around the hall. He succeeded only partially. "It is also a starship captain's duty to protect the rights and lives of the civilians in his area of patrol. That includes civilian fuel transports and their crews. We did inform the Klingons that we were in the area on a nonhostile rescue mission—they offered no such explanation for their own breach of the Neutral Zone."

  "Just because the Klingons violate the rules," Kramer broke in, "does not mean we do."

  "I realize that, sir," Chekov allowed. "I only indicate that any large-scale repercussions are unlikely, as the violation was mutual."

  Kramer inclined his head, gesturing his consent with one hand. "That being the case," he acknowledged, "we shall only discuss the possibilities of your posthumous court-martial." There was laughter again, louder this time.

  Chekov held his tongue for a count of three before continuing. "In addition, sir," he went on, "I did not kill the Yorktown's crew."

  "You," Kramer interjected, "are going to argue that your crew survived because you evacuated the vessel before destroying it, aren't you?"

  The sudden perception caught Chekov unprepared. He hesitated before he could instruct himself not to. "Well…yes, sir…"

  Kramer heaved a sigh so deep, Chekov marveled at the older man's lung capacity. "You physically collided a Constitution-class starship with a squad of Klingon cruisers," the commodore spelled out with painful patience. "That means you obliterated four—do you understand me?—four antimatter drive vessels, each with a full battery of photon torpedoes and plasma devices! The Federation will be lucky to transmit radio messages through that sector of space in the next hundred years, much less move people through it!"

  Chekov felt a blush spread from the collar of his uniform upward.

  "You didn't think of that, did you, Cadet?"

  Lying was not even an option. His face still burning, Chekov shook his head shortly, and said in as firm a voice as he possessed, "No, sir…I did not."

  "Of course not." And Kramer took up his notes as if that ended the matter.

  "But if I may, sir…?"

  The commodore paused with his hands full of paper, his head still bent as though studying something astonishing amidst the lecture notes.

  "I still believe that destruction of the Yorktown was a viable alternative to capture," Chekov pressed when Kramer finally raised his eyes again. "Even if the crew was forfeit, sir. Retreat was not feasible. The Klingons had already fired upon us, and our warp drive and our weapons systems were inoperative. It's difficult enough to outpilot a Klingon war cruiser in a functional vessel, commodore—the Yorktown didn't stand a chance."

  Kramer, studying him across the distance, didn't interrupt, so Chekov went on. "The possibility of the Yorktown, with or without her crew, being taken by the Klingons also existed. Rather than allow them access to our top-of-the-line designs, I opted for destruction of the vessel."

  "I see," the instructor said coldly, his tone of voice making it clear he did nothing of the kind.

  The flush burned again in his cheeks, but this time not from embarrassment. "I did what I could for the crew," Chekov insisted. "They would have been captured and questioned had any of the Klingon vessels survived." He swallowed hard, and considered briefly not finishing his thought. But anger won out over common sense. "I've read accounts of what goes on during Klingon torture, Commodore. I believe that my crew would rather have died."

  No one was laughing now. Kramer's voice, almost too calm to carry across the tall lecture hall, questioned slowly, "Are you quite through?"

  Chekov suddenly wanted very much to sit down and direct attention away from himself again. "Yes, sir…That's all."

  The commodore rounded the lectern with stiff, short strides. "Mr. Chekov," Kramer said, in a tone as devoid of color as his stare, "I will not tolerate another such disruption of this classroom. In the future, if your explanations are required, I will ask for them. Is that clear?"

  "Aye, sir."

  Chekov held Kramer's gaze with as impassive and hard a stare as he could command, then his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He asked, "May I return to my seat, sir?" in a tone that sounded more subdued than he liked.

  "You may." Chekov felt the commodore's eyes track him as he took his seat. Then, without warning, the commodore asked, "Mister Chekov, do you play solitaire?"

  Chekov heard another meaning in the question, but the sense of it eluded him. "I know how," he admitted warily. "But, no, sir, I don't play."

  Kramer shook his head. "I thought not." His eyes danced away to take in the rest of the class; Chekov recognized it as the dismissal it was. "Would anyone else like to add something regarding Mister Chekov's performance?"

  The first volunteer, of course, was Alan Baasch. "Will the entire class grade be based on Mister Chekov's actions, Commodore?"

  Kramer smiled thinly. "Of course, Mister Baasch! A captain speaks and acts for his entire crew. Or had you forgotten?"

  "But that isn't fair!" Baasch retorted indignantly. "I wouldn't have kamikazed the Klingons!"

  The commodore shrugged. "But you also were not the captain. Anyone else?"

  Chekov had spent enough of his Academy time studying up on Klingons and their war tactics—too much time to care very much about advice offered from station-bound cadets. Instead, he brooded a
t the back of the room, arms folded perhaps too tightly across his chest, and stared at Aldous Kramer, all the while wondering what a disinterest in solitaire had to do with anything.

  The siren tore Chekov out of sleep like a cold hand about his heart. On some distant speaker, a woman's voice lilted calm instructions; Chekov struggled upright in bed, trying to remember if the ship had been on yellow alert when his watch retired. He was still disentangling himself from his bedclothes when the sound of sleepy voices and equipment locker doors penetrated his dream-fuddled panic. Not a red alert siren, but a wake-up call. Suddenly aware that he'd only dreamed about being on board a starship, he heaved a slow, unsteady sigh.

  "…Cadet Bloc G, report to Shuttlepad 7…Cadet Bloc G, report to Shuttlepad 7…"

  Cecil, already stepping into his scarlet-and-black cadet uniform, grinned at his friend as Chekov kicked the blankets to the foot of his bunk. "Do you know what time it is?" Chekov was still attempting to shake the sleep from his eyes when Cecil supplied, "0400. They're sending us to the shuttlepad at 0400! Here…"

  Chekov caught the, singlet Cecil tossed at him. His hands still shook as he pulled on the uniform and fastened the front; the dream-need to race for a starship bridge and report didn't fade, even after they hurried into the corridor that led toward the shuttlepad.

  They were among the first in G Bloc to leave the bunkard. "I wonder where they're taking us?" Cecil didn't interrupt his efforts to finger comb order into his ash blond hair, even as he and Chekov caught up with the fifteen women already on their way to the shuttlepad. "It could be anywhere, I suppose—that kind of seems the point of being a cadet."

  Chekov scanned the people ahead of them for the distinctive flash of Sasha Charles's red-gold hair, spotting her just as Cecil reflected, "God, this might even be important, Pavel!"

  Cecil's tone said it was a joke, but the very thought jolted Chekov into breathlessness too reminiscent of his earlier anxiety to make light of. "Don't worry," he encouraged, for both Cecil's benefit and his own. "They'd probably send for real officers if it were…" It didn't quiet his reawakened nerves.

  Sasha Charles glanced back at the sound of their voices. When Chekov and Cecil both hailed her with waves, she stepped against the bulkhead to allow the cadets between them to filter by. She slipped into step with them as they approached and fitted an arm possessively around Chekov's middle. "So what gives?"

  "We were speculating," Cecil told her, grinning. "The current favorite is an atmosphere breach on Luna."

  A rude noise bespoke Sasha's disbelief. "So what's runner-up?"

  When Cecil—for the first time in Chekov's memory—didn't immediately suggest an alternative, Chekov stated simply, "I think it's Kramer."

  Sasha briefly cinched her arm tighter about his waist, but didn't reply. It was Cecil who cuffed him on the shoulder and complained, "You Russians make me nuts sometimes, you know that?"

  Chekov pulled away from the other man's swat, swallowing a harsh comment with some difficulty. Cecil's pale eyes glittered in annoyance both too friendly and too sincere to interrupt. "You get a bug up your nose about something, and it's like trying to reason with the rain!"

  Cecil was from Ohio, in North America, and frequently said the most incomprehensible things. "What's that supposed to mean?" Chekov demanded.

  "It means Kramer barely knows you exist," Cecil said. But he'd lowered his voice so no one else could overhear. "It means not everything he does is some direct reflection of his attitude toward you!"

  "I didn't say it was." Chekov was distinctly ill at ease with this subject—the fact that he couldn't discern if embarrassment or indignation made his face burn only heightened his discomfort. "But you can't tell me he doesn't enjoy pointing out my errors."

  "He's trying to make you a better officer."

  Chekov scowled. "Better than whom? He's an academician! What does he know about being a line officer besides what he's read in a book?"

  "That's your problem!" Cecil ducked back against the wall, dragging on Chekov's elbow until the other cadet grudgingly halted as well. Chekov, in turn, caught Sasha's hand when she would have continued, staggering the three of them down the hall at irregular intervals. "We're going to be late," he reminded Cecil testily.

  A dismissive wave was Cecil's only acknowledgment of that fact. "Remember I wanted to go look up the service records on our instructors at the beginning of the year?"

  Chekov nodded; he hadn't seen anything to be gained by Cecil's search at the time, and still didn't. "I remember."

  "Well, Kramer's got a record as long as your name! He was weapons defense officer on the Farragut for fourteen years, and assistant to the Starfleet Chief Administrator for another seven before he started teaching."

  Chekov blinked, honestly surprised. "Who would have guessed?"

  "I would have," Sasha volunteered. When Chekov tossed an inquisitive glance in her direction, she shrugged and moved back to stand with them. "I just assumed anybody teaching in command school would have to have some experience."

  "Why?" Chekov asked her. "Ninety percent of the cadets will never serve on board a starship." The fact that Chekov confidently maintained that he would get such an assignment, and on the Enterprise no less, had at first earned him jeers and then suspicious looks.

  "That's not all." Cecil caught their attention again just as the last of their bloc passed by. "Kramer also knows your hero Kirk. They go way back, as it were. I'll bet he's the one who convinced Kirk to come give that talk last month."

  A month ago, Chekov thought Kirk's visit to the Academy would be his only chance to meet the man in person—and it took less than a half hour for him to decide he would follow Kirk into hell without question. Thinking that Kirk might know—and possibly even like—Kramer butted a stubborn fist of rejection against Chekov's opinion of his instructor. "That can't be correct," was all he said aloud.

  "When Kirk was a lieutenant," Cecil explained, "he saved nine people after a premature weapon detonation that took out most of the Farragut's starboard pod. Kramer was one of those nine! Kramer recommended Kirk for conspicuous gallantry, and then presented the citation when Starfleet granted it."

  Sasha nudged Chekov with her elbow. "I'm impressed—you certainly intend to serve with the best!"

  "I know…" But thinking of Kramer in association with Kirk troubled Chekov's perceptions of both men. Perhaps that explained the commodore's hounding—not jealousy or rancor toward Chekov, but toward Kirk, with Chekov the only convenient repository. The realization kindled new anger and frustration, enforcing what he already knew: that he was being treated unfairly.

  "We should hurry." He ended the discussion by nodding down the hall, then following his gesture. "Whatever Kramer thinks of Captain Kirk, or of me, won't help us if we're tardy."

  Chekov watched a string of emotions chase each other across Cecil's mobile face, but turned away before Cecil could object.

  A damp, gusty San Francisco wind skated across the bare shuttlepad, weaving sea salt and winter throughout Chekov's clothes and hair. Waiting beneath the white moonlight was a scarred intrasystem shuttle. Kramer stood at the foot of its hatch, a blue-shadowed sculpture with wild, windswept gray hair; he nodded vague satisfaction as the cadets assembled before him.

  "As many of you know," the commodore began, his cool voice in perfect harmony with the seasonal weather, "the Aslan Industrial Station has been abandoned for the past seven months due to bulkhead repairs."

  Sasha sputtered a laugh, and Cecil gasped, "I knew it!" in a loud, half-serious whisper. Chekov hissed him into silence.

  "Aslan does not intend to reclaim the station until after the beginning of the year," Kramer went on. "Until that time, the station has been leased to Starfleet for the use of our officers' training school." He smiled thinly. "That's you."

  Cecil made a small, strangled sound. "But is there air?" he whispered between his teeth.

  Kramer's smile flickered away, and he darted an icy glare at Cecil
and Chekov. "Yes, Mister Cecil, there is air." Cecil pulled even more severely upright, his eyes locked on the distance in blind embarrassment. "I was not assigned to this Academy to kill my cadets."

  I had wondered, Chekov's mind supplied against his will. He was rewarded by a wash of mixed humor and resentment, and hoped Kramer wouldn't see his expression through the darkness.

  If the commodore noticed, he continued without commenting. "For the next three days," Kramer explained, "you will be involved in a training scenario designed to test your aptitude at individual achievement." He didn't direct his attention toward Chekov, but the Russian could almost sense the shift of Kramer's thoughts. "Something of a three-dimensional solitaire, if you will—yourself against yourself.

  "In the Kobayashi Maru scenario, you were a starship commander; in this test, you are simply a Starfleet officer, stranded on a station that has suffered a crippling hull breach at the hands of an assassin committed to killing you. The goal of the scenario is simple: You must stay alive."

  No one said anything for a time, then a woman at the front ventured, "Sir, who is the assassin?"

  Kramer's smile was somehow particularly aggravating as he sketched an elegant shrug. "One of you. It would defeat the purpose to tell you who, as that is a step on your path of discovery, as well. I think you will all be surprised." An enigmatic expression softened his entire face for an instant, then vanished so completely Chekov wasn't sure what he had seen.

  "You will be outfitted with phasers, unalterably set for stun, and transmitters to inform a neutral monitor of when you have been 'killed.' You can also trigger the transmitters if a problem develops. Food can be obtained through the processors on the station, and sleeping and bathroom facilities are available." Kramer paused to smile at Chekov in paternal condescension. "And, Mister Chekov, much as it may distress you to learn it, destruction of the station is not an acceptable solution to this scenario. So, please—endeavor to contain yourself."

  G Bloc dissolved into laughter. Chekov tilted his chin fractionally higher, and stared across the bay at nothing as he waited for the jocularity to die.