Black Fire Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-1959-6

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For Theodore Sturgeon,

  my mentor and a loving friend

  Introduction

  Once upon a time there was a tiny plump Jewish mama who knew how to make kreplach from scratch, and whose chicken soup so terrorized the local disease bacteria that you hardly had to eat it; you just mentioned it.

  I knew a lady, the wife of a famous nuclear physicist, who, during a long tenure in New Mexico, turned with compassion and boundless energy to the plight of the Native Americans. It was more than study; she legally adopted a days-old Pueblo child, later became an honorary Blackfoot, and wrote a novel about Indians as they were and are.

  There was a writer who decided for the first time in her life to write a novel. She did, and a publisher gave her a handsome advance and a sheaf of requests for editorial changes. Being new to the business, "Oh!," she said, and sat down and wrote another novel instead (and did it damned fast, too). A lot of strange things happen in publishing, but this was unprecedented. The only course the publisher could think of was to tell her to keep the money and forget the contract. Indignantly she refused to take money she felt she had not earned, and bashed away at her typewriter, rewriting the first book from beginning to end.

  Hollywood has its share of glittering glamor-goddesses and magnetic sexpots; it came to me that none of these would ever be heard of were it not for the support of the dozens and sometimes hundreds of faces-in-the-crowd, spear-carriers, waitresses in the background. I realized this upon meeting an actress who had been in a great many movies in functions such as these. You have, if your eye is quick, seen her often.

  We are all familiar with the phenomenon of fandom—baseball and football fans, crewel, dirt-bike, science fiction, Macedonian dirk-hilt fans. Did you know that the word "fan" in this context derives from "fanatic"? Well, there's one species of fan in whose light all others fade to the status of mild interest, and that's the Trekkie. It's the Trekkie who has kept Star Trek on the tube all over the world for (at this writing) thirteen years after network cancellation—something achieved by no other show in the history of television. I know a Trekkie so ardent that she has taped all 73 Star Trek episodes. She is so involved in Trekdom that she can pick up the phone just once and contact I don't know how many meticulously organized Star Trek fan clubs. Captain James T. Kirk's personal manager is a Trekkie. (He's otherwise known as William Shatner.)

  I have a friend in the Bay area who owns a bathtub. You probably do too, but I doubt it's like this one. It stands on a pedestal like an altar; it's black; it's big enough for four people without crowding. It has two sets of gold faucets (his and hers, one presumes), and on command, water showers down from the living greenery hung overhead.

  You must by this time be aware that all these paragraphs concern the same person, the author of this book. This small timid-seeming dynamo with her little-girl voice and her sofa-cushion aspect is in truth an irresistible force. There have been times in her life when she has had nothing to do, and she has gotten sick—very seriously so. The one therapy that works is for her to relax by doing eight or ten people's work and doing it all well.

  This book begins with one hell of a bang, literally, and whizzes its way from there on through a surprisingly complex plot, in which it sets up an irresolvable situation and then, equally surprisingly, resolves it. The author treats certain of the laws of the universe cavalierly, but then so does Star Trek on the screen and Sonni Cooper in real life. When they're inconvenient she simply nods politely to them (she's not ignorant) and goes on. The really significant thing about the book is that it's real Star Trek.

  Star Trek has had many imitators, and all have failed to reach the altitude of its original. Clearly there is a secret ingredient that has eluded the followers who are really a knowledgeable lot and know their trade and are especially adept in the techniques of following a trend. Yet none has been able to find that magic something that makes Star Trek capture the fans and endure.

  The answer is (as somebody once said about Einstein's Theory) not at all difficult to understand; it's just impossible to believe. It is simply that the show comes straight from the basic convictions of its creator, Gene Roddenberry. These convictions are Mom and apple-pie convictions in the equality of the races and of the sexes; of faith in the dream of American democracy; of loyalty, the bondings of friendship and other kinds of love, like loyalty to personal commitment, and especially to duty. Most of the suspense in the episodes derives from the conflict between this last and all the others. And so it is with this story.

  One other thing is very much worth mentioning: Sonni Cooper writes with her ears. Unlike so many authors of Star Trek novels, Sonni has captured the intonation of each of these familiar voices. Partly this comes out of the skill of an accomplished actress; mostly from the compulsions of the archetypical Trekkie.

  So read, and enjoy.

  Theodore Sturgeon

  San Diego, 1981

  Chapter I

  The Attack

  1

  "Oh, my God," Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott shouted as he was hurled against a bulkhead as the ship lurched, and his eardrums resonated painfully as the sound of a massive explosion echoed throughout. It was the sound of an internal blast, the shock waves pulling the Enterprise off her course into a spiral at warp speed. He watched his engineering crew spring into action, as he directed them to compensate for the erratic spin. He then raced to auxiliary control to get the ship back on course. All communications from the bridge were cut off; he was on his own.

  Horrified, Scott realized that the bridge was the source of the explosion. The turbolift was useless, and the emergency repair crew was frantically working to clear the debris away from the stairway to the bridge. Scott joined the crew, torch in hand, working along with them—and praying.

  He inched his way up the cluttered stairway and, with a strength he did not know he had, pushed against the unyielding hatch. He recruited two burly crewmen, and with their combined strength exerted against the resisting hatch, they managed to open it slowly. Scott raised himself onto the demolished bridge.

  "My God," he whispered as he looked around. He observed that the blast had occurred in the center of the bridge. It was a vision of hell; the pattern of destruction radiated from the center of the blast to
the outer walls. The inner sheathing of the hull was destroyed by the violence of the blast, and Scott soon detected a weak spot in the outer hull.

  "Better get the injured out o' here quickly," he ordered. "That outer sheathin' will go any minute."

  He checked the crewman nearest him—dead. Scrambling over the wreckage, he looked for the captain. What was left of the navigation console was scattered toward the darkened view-screen. He found Sulu first. The helmsman, pinned under the wreckage, was clawing at the floor trying to free himself.

  Scott found the captain, his tunic covered with blood and as torn as the body within it. The entire area was spattered with blood and strewn with twisted metal. The body of the young navigation trainee was mangled almost beyond recognition. Beside him lay Chekov, whose condition was unknown; he was almost hidden under debris. A group of crewmen grimly started freeing him.

  Spatters of green led Scott to the prone figure of Spock, lying face down near the smoking, blackened science console. A jagged piece of metal was protruding from his back. Lt. Uhura lay unconscious; Scott could see she had been slammed into the communications panel, which was now a sputtering, flaming mass of twisted wires.

  All of his years of training and control, all of his years of experience, had not prepared Scott for this scene of mayhem. Unshed tears stung his eyes as he worked along with the crew, carrying the injured and dead from the completely demolished bridge.

  "Concentrate on the living!" he shouted, watching the bulge in the outer hull enlarge.

  McCoy stood in the corridor below the bridge, quickly evaluating the extent and nature of injuries as each bridge crew member was carried out and put on a stretcher to be taken to sick bay. A full disaster alert was sounding; the emergency medical team was assembling quickly.

  "Everybody clear?" Scott asked as the last of the injured was being brought down the stairway. He sprang against the hatch, closing and securing it tightly. The rush of displaced air and the shattering of over-stressed metal combined into an awesome roar as the entire dome of the bridge broke off with a sudden tearing wrench, sending the ship into another series of erratic dips and spins.

  McCoy, now in sick bay, was too intently absorbed for his usual complaining. The entire surgery was being utilized; each surgical team was working quickly and efficiently to repair the most life-threatening injuries.

  Dr. M'Benga, more qualified than McCoy to cope with Vulcan anatomy and special problems, was applying his skills and experience to Spock's critical wounds.

  Thank God we stocked some T-negative blood for Spock last time we took on supplies, McCoy thought. At least we can meet any of his blood needs.

  But the doctor's main concern was on the severe condition of the captain; he hadn't yet assessed all of Kirk's injuries and McCoy entered surgery not knowing exactly what he would find. At least he's alive—barely.

  It took all of McCoy's professional detachment to suppress his despair when he fully examined his patient and his friend. There were just so many organs one could transplant, just so much one could patch and mend in a human body. Kirk's wounds pressed that limit. He needed massive amounts of blood. The hard-pressed medical teams had exhausted the supply before Kirk's surgery started. A ship-wide plea for donors soon created a line in the corridor outside sick bay. Any crewman with the proper blood type was relieved of duty until the blood was drawn; yet since the ship needed her entire crew to deal with the emergency, as soon as the blood was taken they returned to their stations foregoing the normal period of recuperation.

  Scott grimly and dispassionately assessed the damage to his beloved ship. The strain suffered when the bridge sheared off was too much for the Enterprise, and he knew the entire primary hull would have to be jettisoned or the resultant stresses would rip the ship apart. This would necessitate a complete evacuation of the primary hull—a systematic and thorough movement of personnel and supplies as rapidly as possible. But the emergency surgery could not be rushed. All but the medical team was shifted to the lower hull, and Scott was counting the minutes, then hours, anxiously hoping that the ship would hold together until all the vital surgery was completed and the patients could be safely moved.

  McCoy grudgingly accepted the fact that his patients, no matter how critical their condition, would have to be moved immediately following surgery. He worked on relentlessly, hour upon hour, backed up by his proficient staff, losing all track of time as he worked to save the life of Jim Kirk.

  The sophisticated medical technology of the day had made such extensive time in surgery unusual, but McCoy was essentially rebuilding a man. Another surgeon would possibly have given up, but McCoy continued diligently, repairing the body of the man he both admired and loved. Only when he had done as much as he believed he could, and his endurance would no longer sustain him, did he conclude the operation and retreat to the quarters assigned him in the cramped lower section of the ship. And then he quietly wept—for his friend, for his lack of skill—in his weariness, and with despair greater than any he had ever felt. Always before, when he thought Jim was dead, it was a quick realization that had to be accepted. The hours he had spent in rebuilding the man, the strain he had put upon himself, the acceptance of his limitations as a physician, the as-yet-unknown prognosis—all built up to this release of emotion and tension.

  The buzzer to his quarters sounded and McCoy, regaining his composure, pushed the button that admitted his visitor. A young medic carrying his possessions entered. "Doctor Jonah Levine, sir." It was clear that the young man was as surprised as McCoy at being assigned bunk-mate to the head of the medical section.

  "There must be an error. I haven't shared quarters in years," McCoy wearily protested.

  "I wrote down the cabin assignment, sir. Seventeen B-O three."

  The intercom signal interrupted them. McCoy answered promptly.

  "Doctor, you're needed in sick bay—immediately." Nurse Christine Chapel sounded extremely agitated.

  "Jim?" he asked.

  "No, Doctor M'Benga has to see you right away."

  "Spock," he said aloud, leaving young Dr. Levine to sort out the problem of room assignments.

  "You look exhausted, McCoy. I know you're beat, but I've come across a problem with Spock I don't quite know how to handle," M'Benga said tiredly.

  "You're the authority on Vulcan medicine aboard this ship, M'Benga. It must be really serious if you want my input."

  "It is. Spock is not entirely Vulcan, remember? There seem to be some irregularities in his recovery patterns. He shouldn't be, but he is conscious. He seems to be fighting to keep from falling into the Vulcan healing mode. He is controlling the pain—but barely. I can't get him to relax. I knock him out with a hypo, and in the minimum time he's awake again. He keeps asking for Mister Scott."

  The chief medical officer nodded grimly. "I'll check on him. Maybe I can get him to relax so that he can get on with that self-mending process. I don't entirely understand what it is, but it works and we've done all we can for him medically. You take a break, M'Benga. You need the rest. I'll stay with Spock."

  Gratefully, M'Benga sank down into the lounge. It had been a marathon for the medical teams, both physically and mentally. He, like McCoy, was completely exhausted.

  Spock was lying stiffly on his back, his face contorted by pain. McCoy heard the barely audible murmur of the Vulcan's litany of mental control: "I am Vulcan; there is no pain."

  "But there is pain, Spock. Why are you fighting the natural healing process?"

  Spock was startled into alertness by McCoy's voice. "No time, no time … ," Spock said hoarsely. "Mister Scott. I must see Mister Scott." He summoned all his discipline to suppress the pain in his back as he struggled to rise. McCoy gently pushed him back down.

  "You must stay flat and immobile. That piece of metal came very close to your spinal cord. There's still a small sliver embedded in your back which we can remove only when you're more fully recovered from the initial surgery. Until then, you must let your natu
ral healing process work."

  "Get Mr. Scott … ," Spock insisted, the words weakly but precisely uttered.

  Seeing he would get nowhere until Spock had relaxed, McCoy relented. "Okay I'll get him. Now, rest."

  "The captain … how is he?

  McCoy shook his head. "Not good," he answered quietly. "Now rest until Scott gets here. I'll stay with you until he arrives."

  Spock closed his eyes. The Vulcan's brow was wet with the effort. McCoy ran a dampened cloth over Spock's forehead, taking note of the Vulcan's clenched fist, and shook his head in frustration as he watched the monitor above his patient's head register the inner battle Spock was waging.

  In a very few minutes Scott arrived. He was running on sheer willpower, expending his last to keep the ship operating. As far as the engineer knew, this was the first time a starship had been forced to shed its upper hull. Decisions had to be made quickly and efficiently, and he had had no time to rest.

  "Well, Doctor, make it fast. I've a ship ta hold together," he blurted out as he entered the room.

  "Slow down, Scotty. You can't hold it together in that state. I'd recommend at least a few hours' sleep," McCoy advised.

  "Is that why ye called me ta Sick bay, Doctor? I don't ha' the time to rest now."

  "No, Scotty. It's Spock. He wants to speak with you, and won't rest until he does. Try to calm him down."

  Spock opened his eyes. Speaking deliberately, and with great effort, he addressed the engineer. "Mister Scott—sabotage—it had to be an act of sabotage—a bomb—nothing on the bridge could have caused an explosion of that magnitude—must be an intruder on board …"