The Kobayashi Maru Read online

Chekov scurried into the office on all fours, spinning about to close and lock the door before anyone could be attracted by the noise. The mechanism refused to lock. Chekov jammed it manually; he could always force it open again later.

  The Oriental sprawled across the top of the administrator's desk, his face silhouetted against an activated desktop computer screen. Chekov took the young man's phaser, and was just dragging the body out of the chair when he caught sight of the dark yellow screen.

  >TERTIARY ACCESS ACCEPTED

  >LOCKOUT OFF

  >DECODE OFF

  >

  >

  >WELCOME, USER 293724443A

  Chekov nearly dropped his victim. The son of a bitch had broken into Aslan's main computer. Sinking slowly into the chair, he read and reread the screen in awed admiration.

  >WELCOME, USER 293724443A

  "Computer…" he finally summoned. He wanted desperately to make use of this opportunity, especially since the break-in was something he could never duplicate on his own. "Computer, respond."

  Nothing.

  Chekov ducked under the desk to retrieve the keyboard from where it had fallen during his attack. Fitting it across his knees, he considered for a moment before typing:

  >VOICE ON

  The screen flashed once.

  >DO YOU WISH AUDIO OR MANUAL INPUT (A/M)?

  Chekov smiled. An admin computer, designed for non-tech users; deciphering such a helpful system might not be as difficult as he'd feared. He chose the audio function, then addressed the computer again.

  "Good afternoon, User 293724443A," a sedate contralto voice replied. "How would you prefer to be addressed?"

  Chekov searched the other man's uniform until he came up with a tech-rating card (a stunning tech level IX). "Gregory L. Jao," he told the computer, wondering if he pronounced the name correctly.

  "Please input your identification manually," the computer requested.

  Chekov tapped out Jao's name.

  "Thank you, Gregory L. Jao. How may I help you?"

  This is it! "I'd like to access your main operating system."

  "Main operating system accessed for alteration as of 18:27."

  Good. That meant Jao had broken all the security, and not just the user code.

  "Do you wish to alter my programming?"

  For the space of a heartbeat, Chekov wondered who would be accountable if he crashed Aslan's system; he was willing to take the blame himself, but doubted Jao would be pleased to find out how his tech-rating was used. Remembering Kramer's face after the mess left in the Kobayashi Maru test chamber, he doubted the commodore would be pleased, either. Chekov decided it was all part of the risks in the scenario, however, and pushed onward despite the lingering image of Kramer's angry visage. "Yes," he told the computer. "I'd like to alter your programming."

  "Please present proof of tech-rating IV-B or higher."

  He slipped Jao's card into the reader. The green scanner light flashed, and the computer answered simply, "Thank you."

  Faced with all the options a detailed map and a main computer offered, Chekov wasn't sure where to start. There had to be a way to meld both advantages, if only by cross-referencing one against the other. Pulling the map out of his uniform, he spread it across the desk top. "Computer, do you possess schematics of the Aslan Station's circuitry and layout?"

  "Yes, Gregory L. Jao."

  "Display them, please."

  The screen shifted, and a series of blueprints identical to those in the map paraded by. Even the grid referencing was the same. "Can you scan the number of life forms at…"—he chose a location at random from his map—"…coordinates 273-185-55?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't have scanner capabilities."

  "Damn…" Chekov thumbed through the schematics in his map, hoping for inspiration. There seemed to be nothing consistent from map to map, not even from level to level. The only thing all the displays had in common were red coordinate highlighters at some of the circuit junctions. "What is the indicator at coordinates 45-633-33?"

  "The red coordinate highlights indicate communication outlets."

  He frowned. "Intercoms?"

  "Yes."

  This had some potential. "Can you monitor the intercom channels on Aslan?"

  "I can access all forms of communication on the Aslan Station."

  Chekov clapped his fist into his hand in triumph, then remembered that someone might still be outside the door to hear him. "Monitor all intercom outlets," he said, more sedately, "and report the coordinates of any outlets where you hear activity."

  A moment of silence followed, then the screen displayed a long list of coordinates corresponding to the precious map. Chekov entertained visions of closing off accessways and bulkheads based on the computer's reports, confining groups of cadets for later disposition. It would limit the amount of physical space he would have to cover, and would greatly simplify his job.

  But none of those plans would matter if someone else with an adequate tech-rating (like Cecil) broke into the computer and undermined his plans. Thinking of Cecil reminded him that he was supposed to have gone straight to the hub in search of Sasha and the others; a gust of guilt distracted his tactical strategies. He would only be a bit longer, he promised himself—just long enough to verify his suspicions, and to protect his claim on the main operating system.

  Returning his attention to the amber screen, he queried, "Computer, do you speak Russian?"

  "Muscovite High Russian, Georgian, or Modern?"

  "Modern."

  "I speak Modern Russian at a level fifteen fluency."

  Chekov folded the map and sat back with a smile.

  "As of this override, reconfigure your communications system to send and receive exclusively in Modern Russian. All other accesses should be denied."

  "As you wish, Gregory L. Jao. Please wait."

  Almost immediately, the complex schematic leapt away from the screen, replaced by the message prompts that had originally greeted Chekov. Only this time the prompts were in Cyrillic. "Pokonchyl."

  Chekov smiled and switched off the screen. "Prekrasneya," he replied softly. "Excellent…"

  Despite the thundering white noise of Aslan's sleeping generator, the hub was maddeningly quiet. The rumbling was a soothing, subliminal presence coursing like a heatbeat through a great ship's deck, palpable everywhere you stood. It was a vibrant, vital sound, as deep as the Earth; it meant the ship and her crew were cared for, and alive.

  Chekov paused to place one hand on the hub's outermost door. If he'd realized the decibel level behind these doors, he wouldn't have instructed the computer to lock the exits. On his way to the hub, it occurred to him that Sasha and Cecil might grow impatient with his tardiness and desert him as a casualty. He ordered the computer to eavesdrop on the area; it reported no success at discerning human activity. He didn't consider that the computer's failure might be because of other noise.

  He'd sealed the bulkheads because he didn't want the others to leave him behind. No—because he didn't want them to think he had failed. The admission embarrassed him a little, but he would rather they thought he'd abandoned them than know they thought him incapable of joining.

  Thumbing the intercom by the huge double door, he leaned close and intoned in Russian, "Computer."

  "Da, Gregory L. Jao?"

  Hearing the machine answer in Russian still made him smile. Using the same language, he replied, "Open bulkheads at my coordinates."

  The computer complied.

  Sound poured out at him in a frothing white gale. Chekov stepped through the doors to approach the singing machinery with care. Crannies and cubbyholes littered the ragged room. He couldn't even hear his own breathing above the generator; he only knew the outside door had closed when the ambient light in the room dimmed by half. Sasha and the others were nowhere to be seen.

  Pausing by a shunting engine, he eased one of the phaser power packs off his belt and tossed it toward the middle of the room.

 
; It clattered against the gray decking, then lay still.

  "You're late!"

  Chekov wheeled, phaser drawn. Sasha scowled at the weapon as she stepped from behind the loud generator. Cantini and Gugin peeked out after her, but didn't venture forth. All three cadets were bugheaded with noise-reducing headsets. "Where the hell were you?" Sasha demanded at the top of her lungs, pushing Chekov's phaser away from her with one hand. Chekov returned the weapon to his belt.

  "I was attempting to be surreptitious."

  She frowned irritably and tapped at her headset. Chekov threw his hands up to indicate that he had no suggestions for better communication. Then he tugged his belt about to let her see the phaser packs there.

  She adjusted her headset, but didn't smile. "It's better than collecting scalps, I guess."

  Chekov chose not to hear the comment.

  Sasha led him around the generator assembly, motioning for Gugin and Cantini to join them. They startled Cecil and Westbeld at the back entrance, and were nearly shot for it. Once everyone was calmed again, Sasha pushed them into the numbing quiet of the corridor beyond.

  "I was hoping you would wait," Chekov said when Sasha removed her headset and rubbed at her ears. "I was detained."

  "We didn't have a choice." Cecil massaged his own scalp with one hand, twirling the headset on the fingers of the other. "Somebody jammed the doors—we tried to leave almost an hour ago."

  Chekov considered explaining the predicament, but decided against it. "Well, I'm here now. We should probably get going before someone finds us in the hallway."

  Westbeld laughed once, sourly. "Where are we going to go?" she wanted to know. "What's wrong with just staying here?"

  "It isn't secure enough," Chekov informed her. "And it's too loud. We'd never sleep."

  "But nobody could ambush us here," Sasha pointed out. "The entrances are easy to guard from the inside. And we've got the headsets." She presented hers to him as though he hadn't noticed them before now.

  Chekov pushed the headset back at her. "There are other defensible places—most of them with better acoustics."

  Only Cecil looked interested. "Such as?"

  "The administrative offices."

  Even half-deafened by the generator, Chekov heard Sasha's low laugh. "Sure, us and everybody else in this man's army! Pavel, that's the first place everybody will head!"

  Chekov flashed her a smug grin. "Of course it is. But I've been there already, and I booby-trapped the doors so only I can get back in."

  The other five stared at him. Westbeld grinned with delight, but the others only toyed with their weapons or headsets and said nothing.

  "Is that legal?" Gugin finally ventured.

  Chekov tried to mask his annoyance. "Is it illegal?" he returned. "They told us that we could do anything, so long as we survived. I had spare phasers from three other people I took out of the scenario." He knew now that not mentioning his relationship with the computer had been a wise decision. "Securing administration seemed a prudent course of action," he finished.

  "Yeah," Cantini sighed. "I suppose so…"

  Gugin finally shrugged and tossed her headset back into the supply cabinet by the door. "If you've got it secured already, I guess we may as well use it. Anybody else mind?"

  No one voiced an objection. Chekov plucked Gugin's headset out of the cabinet, holding a hand out to stop Cecil from depositing his headset as well. "Take it," Chekov insisted. Then, looking about at the others. "Take all of them—let anyone else who comes here have to fight the noise."

  Cecil sighed roughly in frustration. "Why?"

  "It'll distract them," Cantini explained, nodding at the headset in his hands. "They'll be easier for somebody else to pick off." He grinned at Chekov. "Good plan." Chekov smiled in reply.

  Sasha fidgeted with her headset. "What does making somebody else miserable gain us?" she asked. "I mean, why do we care?"

  Chekov shrugged. "If someone else stuns them, that's better odds for us."

  Everyone but Sasha took the headsets; Chekov hesitated only briefly, then picked up hers without comment.

  Simulated twilight tugged the already inadequate lighting into cold, warped shadows along the reflective floors and walls. Distant phaser fire startled Chekov more than once, pricking him to the alertness of prey for the first time in the scenario; the deck seemed shot through with electricity, making each step both dreadful and exhilarating. He was glad when they finally reached the admin offices.

  Jao's body was gone, but a Tseyluri cadet sprawled in the hallway in almost the same position as Chekov had left Jao. He tossed a victorious smile over his shoulder at Sasha as he eased up to the door; she glanced at the Tseyluri and didn't smile back.

  Chekov snapped a protractable probe off the clip on his belt and extended it toward the floor. "What are you doing?" Cecil whispered in his ear.

  Chekov glanced back at his friend, then returned to his work. "Unboobying the trap," he explained, glad for the distraction after Sasha's obvious displeasure. "Keep everyone away from the door."

  The probe was just under a meter in length at its greatest extension. Chekov pressed flat against the bulkhead, placing his feet uncomfortably close together along the wall, and flicked the probe across the sensor governing the access.

  The door sighed open and a short, triplicate burst of phaser fire sparked against the far wall. Chekov kicked forward with one foot, propping the door open with his toe, and waited for the barrage to cease.

  "It would be easier," Cecil suggested, after Chekov had crossed the threshold to maintain the opening for the others, "to just jam the lock."

  Chekov tried for an air of nonchalance as he shrugged the suggestion aside. "I'm not a tech," he rationalized. "I'd probably be unable to open it again." In reality, he'd simply thought the trap a better way to stop Baasch in case the other cadet should follow him here.

  Cantini flopped onto a wall-length divan. "Well, it's gonna be more comfortable than the generator room!" He crossed his arms behind his head with a contented sigh.

  "As though creature comforts were all that matters to life." Sasha clapped her phaser down on a desktop, then waved off Gugin when the other woman started to speak. Chekov watched as Sasha paced to the other end of the room and stared at the wall.

  "Hey, Pavel…?"

  Chekov turned to find Cecil bending over the desk that housed the computer terminal. Cocking his head as though trying to read something written there, Cecil asked, "Is this a mainframe terminal?"

  "It's down." Cecil frowned at him, and Chekov hoped the answer hadn't come too quickly. "I tried it earlier," Chekov elaborated with a shrug. "The ready screen wouldn't even come up. I guess they've deactivated the system."

  Cecil made a face Chekov couldn't interpret at the blank screen. "I guess…"

  "I'm hungry," Cantini announced abruptly. "Anybody else want to scare up some food?"

  Westbeld raised her hand from where she sat in a desk chair across the room. "I will. I haven't eaten since breakfast!"

  "See if you can find a rec hall," Sasha instructed without turning around. "They'll have food service there."

  "And be careful of traps," Cecil added.

  Chekov shot a startled look at the computer tech, but didn't comment. "You can't be the only one to have thought of it," Cecil pointed out, sinking into the desk chair. "We should all be careful."

  More careful than you know, Chekov thought, turning back to the others. Whether another cadet practiced trapping or not, Chekov had rigged most of the food processors and bathrooms between the administrative offices and the hub; bathrooms and commissaries were the only two places that everyone eventually had to visit. "There's a food service station down that way about four hundred meters," Chekov informed them, pointing. "I think it's the closest." It was also the one he'd left unsabotaged for his own use.

  Both cadets nodded understanding before ducking out the door.

  Chekov used Westbeld and Cantini's departure to instruct
Cecil and Gugin in how to deactivate the door; Sasha, now seated, watched them without interrupting, her displeasure painfully apparent. Chekov was suddenly sorry that they were even involved in this scenario, sorry he'd kept quiet about his involvement with the computer, sorry about his surreptitious bombings. Mostly, he was sorry that this apparently mattered so much to Sasha when it was little more than an elaborate game to him. Her state of pique annoyed him, but he didn't want to alienate her over something that was barely real.

  Leaving Cecil to modify the booby trap, Chekov went to sit on the edge of the desk next to Sasha. When she didn't talk to him for a full minute, he asked, "Are you angry with me?"

  "I don't want to talk about it here." But her eyes said something different, something furious.

  Chekov tugged her to her feet. "There's another office," he said, nodding toward a door at the back of the room. "Let's talk in there."

  Cecil looked up in query as they passed; Chekov conveyed his uncertainty with a hopeless shrug, then followed Sasha into the next room.

  She crossed to the long, lacquered desk dominating the far wall, and picked up an amorphous ornament in one hand just to toss it into the other. Chekov watched her fluid movements with attached fascination. Sasha was trained in more forms of barehanded combat than he even knew names for; she could probably kill a Barbarbaar 'yoat assassin a hundred times over with that paperweight alone before the assassin even knew Security was in the room. Well, perhaps she wasn't quite that fast. But she was talented, and tempered by a family tradition of martial arts. Chekov had never known her to be timid or circumspect in any aspect of their relationship, professional or personal.

  She didn't disappoint him now. "You've turned into a regular Babin the Butcher, haven't you?"

  Chekov crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means I saw your face in there! It means you booby-trapped the food service centers, probably most of the lifts, and maybe even some of the sleeping quarters." She returned the paperweight to the desk with a startling clunk.