The Kobayashi Maru Page 6

  "Are there any further questions?"

  When no one volunteered anything, Kramer called the order to begin on-loading, and disappeared through the shuttle's hatch.

  "Honest," Cecil murmured as they performed a smooth left-face, "I don't think he hates you!"

  Humiliation burned at the back of Chekov's throat. He growled a simple, "Shut up!" before following Cecil inside.

  "So, are you with us?"

  Chekov glanced away from the viewport at Sasha Charles's whispered question. "With you in what?"

  "This station thing." She was in the seat directly to Chekov's left, her head tipped back against the headrest and her weapons belt left in a jumble on her lap. "Me, Cece, Westbeld, Cantini, and Gugin are going to try and stick it out together—you know, a cooperative collective. We figured we'd have a better shot at survival that way."

  Chekov didn't answer immediately, taking the opportunity to admire the cloud of loose, amber hair that framed Sasha's youthful face, the delicate upward tilt of her aquamarine eyes. While he'd spent more than just a little time with Sasha since arriving in San Francisco (some of it very private), the prospect of teaming up seemed weak; he wasn't certain he wanted to relinquish his solo status so easily, even for her. "I don't know…"

  "What's there not to know?" Cecil pressed from Sasha's other side. "Either we band together and watch each other's asses, or we sit up all night trying to keep from getting killed." He paused to focus a scholarly frown on something in his phaser. "It's not a hard decision," he continued, apparently dismissing whatever in the weapon had distracted him. "Unless you've got a death wish, or something."

  Chekov smiled. "I don't have a death wish. I'm just aware that none of this will be real."

  "We're supposed to pretend that it is," Sasha pointed out.

  Chekov shrugged her qualifier aside. "I just don't think we're supposed to band together," he countered, hoping that would end the discussion.

  "Baasch and his cronies are," Sasha argued. "And Kramer never said we couldn't."

  "He also didn't say we could. It's a test of individual skill, he said—we're to survive on our own."

  Cecil shrugged and affixed his phaser to his belt again. "So why can't we survive on our own together?"

  A swell of annoyance gnawed at Chekov, and he turned abruptly back to the viewport. Because I don't NEED you! he didn't tell them. Because I can score higher on my own! Almost immediately, guilt smothered the flames of those feelings; Chekov was embarrassed by his lack of faith in his friends, but no less determined. "What if one of you is the assassin?"

  They both laughed. "If either of us were the assassin," Sasha volunteered, "we wouldn't band up with the others."

  Chekov looked at her frankly, no laughter in his own dark eyes. "And what if I am?"

  Sasha searched his face for something—even Chekov wasn't sure what—then pulled away to sink back into her own seat. "You aren't, are you?" Her voice and eyes were now hooded with uncertainty.

  Chekov looked back out the viewport without answering.

  "You wouldn't kill us in our sleep or anything, though, right? Not if you were working with us."

  It's a scenario, he wanted to say as he watched Earth slide by in marbled, blue-green brilliance. "No," he sighed finally, "I wouldn't." Even that admission seemed weak-willed and unfair.

  As the shuttle bumped gently against the Aslan Station's lock, Sasha caught his face in both hands and kissed him briefly. It was her sign that she didn't hate him for being stubborn, even if he drove her crazy every now and again. "Then you're with us?"

  Chekov tried to keep the displeasure out of his voice. "I'm with you." It only increased his annoyance when the others reacted with such thrilled disbelief.

  Sasha flopped back into her seat, relieved and satisfied. "We'll meet at the station's hub," she announced as Kramer began counting off the groups that would exit. "This level. You think you can find it?"

  "I can find it," Chekov told her, then added, "and you'd better wait for me," even though he half-hoped they wouldn't.

  Sasha smiled and offered him a secretive wink. "Always."

  Kramer made him stay until last.

  The cadets, armed with nothing but their phasers, disappeared into the station at irregular intervals. Kramer indicated who could leave apparently at random, sometimes dismissing individuals, sometimes groups as large as four; Sasha's entourage left in three separate migrations. During the next hour and a half, Chekov entertained himself with speculations as to which of them would make it to the rendezvous, then experienced a gnawing dissatisfaction that he'd allowed himself to be chained to them for the next three days.

  Cool air from the dimly lit station leaked in through the shuttle's open hatch. Chekov studied the grayblack repair to Aslan's sloping hide through the shuttle's rear viewport; the chill and the dull half-dark within the station were undoubtedly attempts to simulate the eerie symptoms of a distant hull breach. As always, Chekov began unconsciously tallying the errors in the fine details of this command scenario: no "spaceman's breeze" sighing down the empty corridors; no ghost frost hungrily licking the moisture from his lungs; no sirens, no screaming, no distant, desperate cries; no angelic spray of crystal dusting the space just outside a shattered hull; no ice-black eyes crying scarlet from the wrong side of an environmental suit's visor.

  The images wrenched up memories from news clips he'd seen of a ruptured deep space passenger liner that a starship had tried unsuccessfully to rescue some years ago. That was the real world, he realized suddenly. That's what serving on a starship was really like. Like a bolt of electricity through his insides, Chekov remembered everything about that frosted panorama in a single blinding instant; he pivoted in his seat until the view of the station was out of sight behind him, no longer interested in criticizing accuracy.

  Kramer stood guard in the shuttle's empty cockpit. His back was to the twin navigation-helm console, his hands resting on the abandoned chairs, when he caught up Chekov's dark gaze with his own. "You think I keep you here as punishment, don't you?"

  Chekov stopped himself before turning to look at the station again.

  "Is this the hubris James Kirk inspires?" the commodore went on. "The conviction that every environment you inhabit adapts to encompass your needs, your actions, your beliefs?"

  Chekov's hands closed on the weapons belt draped across his knees, and he returned Kramer's gaze with grim propriety. "Captain Kirk is a brilliant officer—there isn't a finer commander in Starfleet."

  Kramer came forward three steps—not threatening, but only closing the long distance between them. "I never said he wasn't. I simply questioned the effect he has on cadets who haven't been around him long enough to counteract his charms."

  The comment struck deeper than Chekov liked. He felt the warm coil of anger in his chest that sometimes moved him to say things he shouldn't. Standing, he busied himself with the weapons belt so Kramer couldn't see his eyes. "You wouldn't understand…"

  "Why? Because you don't like me? Because I'm too old?" Chekov shot a startled look up at his commander, and Kramer snorted. "You may hate me now," he told Chekov calmly. "But I can guarantee, by the end of this weekend, you'll hate no one but yourself."

  Chekov stared at Kramer without speaking. He experienced a moment's discomfort when a search of the older man's eyes revealed only a dim, painful disappointment, and not the jealous rancor Chekov expected to see. He looked away to finish fastening his weapons belt. "Should I enter the scenario now, Commodore?"

  Kramer paused only slightly, then stepped between the narrow seats, and waved Chekov down the aisle. "Go on," he said. "Both of us have wasted enough time."

  Chekov estimated Aslan's ambient temperature at just under fifteen degrees centigrade; cool enough to chase away a light sweat, as well as make sleeping on the decking a problem. Whether the others would reach the same conclusion couldn't yet be ascertained—Chekov would have to wait until "evening" to see which ones tried sleeping w
herever they could find cover, and which ones sought out couches and tables in the labs.

  Aslan's corridors proved not as featureless as Chekov expected; works from several artists clung to the sloping walls, and more than one viewscreen reflected gray distortions of his image as he slipped silently past. Damn Kramer for holding him until the end! If Sasha hadn't conspired to ambush him, surely someone else had thought to lay in wait along this central corridor—if not for him, specifically, then merely to eliminate the students forced to travel this route leaving the shuttle. Chekov trailed one hand nervously along the cool metal hull, wondering where the corridor would branch, and how much warning he might have.

  When the corridor flared ahead, Chekov noticed the slight whitening of the light long before the opening yawned into view. He eased himself to the floor and belly-crawled the last ten meters. Heat leeched through his uniform to disappear into the decking, reminding him that hypothermia would be a very real danger this weekend. Still, he crawled as far as the entrance to the courtyard, then continued hugging the floor as he listened for an adversary.

  No sound filled the alcove but the gentle hum of the kinetic sculpture at the center of the space. The twisted, polished mass of blue-green metal swung slowly on its canted base, strobing the walls with pastel light. Chekov watched the sculpture turn, trying to decide if the constant movement could provide adequate cover for someone plotting an ambush from one of the courtyard's three other exits. He had almost decided it would be more hindrance than help when a pale, blurred face winked at him from one of the sculpture's convex wings.

  Chekov held his breath, waiting for the surface to come round again. The smeared reflection sprang into existence just as the sculpture came perpendicular to Chekov's line of sight; it was halfway up the metal leaf, almost too distorted to be recognizably a face. Chekov waited through a third slow rotation to be sure: the reflection didn't move. That meant a fourth exit, barely two meter's to the left of Chekov's current position, with at least one armed cadet securing it.

  Chekov drew both arms up under his chin and studied the sculpture as he considered. It was doubtful the other cadet could see him—the angle was in Chekov's favor, and the reflection so meaningless Chekov himself had almost overlooked it. Still, any attempts to move beyond this doorway would doom him, and the sculpture itself prevented a valiant dash for another corridor. He watched the face smear slowly past again.

  Slowly, carefully, lifting his boots clear of the floor so as not to scrape against the decking, he rotated himself until he lay lengthwise across the wide doorway. Nearly five minutes were required to gingerly ease himself up onto his knees, another three to silently dog-walk to halfway between his own doorway and the next. All the while, the abstract face winked at him with each passing of the sculpture. His own face had joined it on the bottom quarter of the panel, but the quarry didn't seem to have noticed; that would be his undoing.

  Still on one knee, Chekov pressed his left shoulder tight against the bulkhead, held his breath, and raised his arm until he thought it approximated standing-level. Then he gripped his phaser tightly, and eased it around the corner as though probing ahead before turning.

  Another phaser flashed into view, also at standing-height, and fired. The beam passed above Chekov's head and spat against the far wall, wasted. Chekov caught the cadet's wrist with his free hand and knocked the phaser free with a single sharp rap against the bulkhead; he was on his feet and around the corner before the other cadet had a chance to do more than swear.

  The cadet turned out to be a female—Pamela Spurlock, an engineering/command student who'd be spending time as engineer's assistant on an Earth-based station. Chekov was impressed when the thin, big-eyed woman didn't try to beg for her life.

  "How did you know I was here?" she demanded, her voice incredulous and annoyed. "A lucky guess?"

  Chekov grinned his apology as he nodded back over his shoulder. "The sculpture." Then he moved back a step to let her see.

  Spurlock's mouth twisted with wry displeasure. "Well, that's real close to brilliant. Damn…!"

  "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged, apparently not holding her failure against him. "Yeah, me too," she sighed congenially. Then she brightened. "Oh, well! I guess I'll see you when the scenario's over?"

  Chekov nodded. "I'll see you then." He was just about to stun her when another phaser fired.

  They both hit the floor together, instinctively seeking a low position as weapons fired from the three surrounding exits. Chekov didn't even dare raise his head to identify their attackers. "Friends of yours?" he asked Spurlock.

  She laughed dryly. "Not hardly! I left alone, and they must have left ahead of me…I've killed everybody else that came through here."

  Another barrage of fire answered Spurlock's comments, followed by Baasch's strident voice: "I know you're with her, Chekov!"

  Chekov groaned. "Oh, marvelous…"

  "Get out here and get killed!" Baasch continued. "I'm not going to let you louse up my grade again!"

  "He certainly is holding a grudge about this grade average thing," Spurlock commented, apparently not too concerned. "You want to blow him away?"

  Chekov tried to remember if Sasha had mentioned how many people Baasch had recruited, or how many he'd seen leave with Baasch. "I think they have us outnumbered," he said at last. "There are at least three of them."

  "I counted four phasers," Spurlock added. Then she smiled and elbowed him playfully. "But we're clever! You did a pretty good job with that sculpture, and I had a pretty kick-ass trap set up in the first place. Why don't we try to convince them we're coming around either side of the sculpture, then only round on one. We could clear at least one doorway, I'll bet."

  Chekov chewed his lower lip and waited for the latest volley of phaser fire to die. "We'll round on the right," he decided finally. Baasch's voice had come from the left. "You fire that way, I'll cover this way." He flashed her a smile, and added, "We'll worry about killing you later."

  "Thanks loads."

  They fired together, spraying the walls to either side of the sculpture in a futile effort to drive back Baasch's people. The maneuver bought them enough time to dart into the sculpture's cover, then the enemy phasers sounded again; this time, fire was split between the two walls.

  Someone poked his head briefly into view from behind the closest doorway. Spurlock took the man down with a single shot, then shouted, "Let's go!" without turning to see if Chekov followed.

  Covering their escape with a flurry of rapid shots, he stayed as close to Spurlock as possible. It seemed they'd almost make it—that Baasch would have to wait until later to exact his revenge for Chekov's destruction of the Yorktown—then Spurlock staggered and her phaser skittered ahead of her into the body of the man she'd brought down.

  Chekov had run into her before he realized she'd been stunned. Looping one arm around her waist, he only just kept her from falling. She was his shield as he stumbled into the hallway and over the body of the "dead" man.

  Easing Spurlock to the ground so she wouldn't hit her head on the decking, Chekov stunned another of Baasch's cadets when the woman dared a glance around the doorway to verify his presence. Then he heard someone swear violently, followed by the stealthy sounds of retreat.

  Collecting the fallen man's phaser, Chekov quickly patted down the other ensign's body. He wasn't sure what he expected to find, but he knew he'd found it when the man's stomach clacked.

  Chekov rapped his knuckles against the front of the other man's singlet, just to make certain, then carefully undid the front of his uniform. Strapped to the man's abdomen with four strips of surgical tape was what looked to be a thin plate, about ten centimeters square. Chekov gently removed the article, refastened the front of the cadet's uniform, and sat back against the wall to examine his prize.

  After only a few moments of investigation, Chekov deduced how to unfold the plate into a four-paneled screen that he recognized as a read-only memory display. The
activator ran along the right-hand edge; caressing the plate with his thumb immediately produced a sharp, intricate schematic on the face of the screen, complete with reference codes and keys. Chekov smiled, then started to laugh.

  A map! A circuitry and layout blueprint for the entire Aslan station! He thumbed through the various screens, taking a quick stock of what information the little device made available. Circuit and computer junctions only took up one subcategory; administrative routing, hub-to-hub referencing, and maintenance access paths were among the others. Chekov was dizzy with all the advantages this blueprint could give him, not to mention the advantage he'd just stolen from Baasch. No wonder his adversary had been willing to risk another soldier to try and retrieve this body. Baasch wasn't the only one who could seek and destroy, however; Chekov intended to make as good a use of this map as Baasch had—probably even better. Referencing the administrative map one last time, he folded the screen to its portable dimensions and fitted it down the front of his own singlet. Then, retrieving the phasers left by Spurlock and Baasch's two comrades, he bid Spurlock a grateful farewell and trotted for the closest stairwell.

  The administrative offices were seven levels higher than the docking bay. Chekov traveled the conventional routes long enough to acquire six more phasers, then located a maintenance shaft that took him within two meters of administration. Pausing at the top of the long climb, he waited for his breathing to steady and the corridor to clear before quietly easing himself back into the battlefield.

  The door to the administration office was closed, but the jimmied lock was still lodged on the OPEN setting. Inspired by his success with Spurlock, Chekov approached the doorway on his knees, waiting until the last possible moment to key open the door. As the hatch hissed aside, a wild bolt flashed above Chekov's head; the young Oriental at the administrator's desk had only enough time to bark a frustrated curse before Chekov's shot caught him full in the chest.