Star Trek: Into Darkness: film tie-in novelization Page 4

  As he spoke, air gurneys driven by hospital attendants drifted quietly past them while nurses moved from room to room. His calm but unyielding words were, unfortunately, nothing new to both of them. Occasionally they nodded without comment as they listened, long since numbed to what had become a sorrowful, unyielding litany. No change. No improvement. There being nothing more he could do, the doctor left them to their grief. There is a point in medicine when more words become not only useless, but counterproductive. Experienced as he was, the doctor knew that point had been reached.

  The girl on the bed was eight years old. Cocooned by the most up-to-date equipment at the disposal of modern medicine, she lay motionless, breathing slowly and evenly, her eyes closed. Her skin was soft and the color of fine cocoa. What remained of her long black hair was combed neatly away from her face. The disease that was devouring the raven strands along with the rest of her body had rendered her even more slender than usual. She was barely clinging to life. She would not see her ninth birthday.

  Her mother lifted the little girl’s too-thin arm and slipped the bunny underneath it, willing herself to believe that her daughter could feel the touch of synthetic softness. She looked for a smile, a twitch, a reaction of any kind. There was none—only the soft hum and occasional beep of the attentive but emotionless devices that were keeping her daughter alive. Bending, she gently stroked the girl’s left cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead while with her left hand she tightly grasped the delicate fingers of the girl’s right hand. As always, there was no response. Having held back as long as she could, the mother began to cry. Outside the hospital room window, a country breeze stirred the leaves in trees that kept watch.

  Unable to keep it together any longer, her grief-stricken father turned and fled the room.

  It was peaceful on the old stone deck outside the hospital. In the distance, the towers of Greater London pierced the horizon. Here and there, patients sat alone in chairs, enjoying the fresh air. Nurses and attendants wordlessly pushed less mobile patients from place to place across the carefully landscaped yard, sliding them among rows of flowers and shrubs like ships between green waves. Birds called—against all odds, wild birds still dwelled in the English countryside. Even that cheerful chorus could do nothing to impact the man’s misery. Complete, utter, and overwhelming, his despair was matched only by his sense of powerlessness. His daughter was being taken from him, her life draining away as surely and steadily as liquid from a punctured bottle, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.

  “I can save her.”

  Startled and uncomfortable at having been observed in such a vulnerable position, the young man turned.

  “What did you say?”

  The stranger who had spoken looked to be about the same age as the distraught father, though it was difficult to tell for certain. His hair was neatly combed, his body beneath the unremarkable clothing svelte and solid. His face was narrow, his eyes remarkably penetrating. Grief-stricken father and enigmatic visitor stood eyeing one another. At the moment, there was no one within earshot—they were alone with the grounds, the hospital, and each other.

  “Your daughter. I can save her.”

  There had been no hesitation in the stranger’s voice, no uncertainty. It hinted at an unshakable confidence that would extend to everything upon which it might choose to comment. The stranger had been stating a fact, one his tone suggested was incontrovertible.

  A ridiculous claim, Tom Harewood knew. All the best doctors had been consulted. International specialist sites had been queried. There was nothing more that could be done for his daughter. And yet . . . and yet . . . there was something about the oddly imposing stranger that deserved, if not confidence, at least a question.

  “Who are you . . . ?”

  He broke off. The stranger’s expression was one of silent, unspoken presumption. Harewood struggled to focus on it, but it was difficult to see anything save the face of his wife, and of an eight-year-old girl whose condition had degenerated beyond anything resembling encouraging.

  Those faces and not the words of the stranger kept Harewood from simply turning and walking away.

  III

  Like many finely crafted antiques, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge only grew more beautiful with age. Indifferent to humans and their steadily advancing technology, fog still rolled in from the cold Pacific. Easily pierced by modern communications and perceptors, it remained as lazy and soft in appearance as when its climatic magic had first been encountered by wandering sailors whose most advanced tech back then consisted of discs of ground glass slapped together inside a metal tube.

  Constructed farther inland, the section of Starfleet Headquarters whose grounds two officers were presently traversing was contrastingly bathed in warm sunshine. Attired in gray dress uniforms, the pair drew appreciative glances from lower-ranking personnel and civilian visitors. James Kirk expanded under the admiring stares while his companion stolidly ignored them. Vanity, Spock reflected as he noted his friend’s reaction to the sometimes envious looks, was among humankind’s least estimable characteristics. Having pointed this out to his friend on more than one occasion and receiving only laughter in return, the science officer had ceased to comment on the widespread cultural defect.

  “This is it,” Kirk said confidently. “I can feel it.”

  “Your ‘feeling’ aside,” the Vulcan responded sardonically, “I consider it highly unlikely that we will be selected for the new program.”

  Kirk feigned hurt. “Why else would Pike want to see us? Forget about seniority—this isn’t about procedure. It all adds up. Consider: They gave us the newest ship in the fleet. Who else are they gonna send out? Who’s better prepared or better equipped?”

  The science officer did not hesitate. “I can think of numerous possibilities.”

  Undeterred, his fellow officer looked meaningfully skyward. “A five-year mission. Five years! Just think what that would be like. No proscribed patrol responsibilities, no spending months and months on standard maneuvers. Five years doing nothing but exploring deep space. An extended mission devoted to science and discovery. We could really get out there.” He lowered his gaze. “As a science officer, I can’t imagine anything that would be more appealing to you.”

  “In that opinion, I most heartily concur. However, I estimate the odds of our being chosen for the project at less than three-point-two percent.”

  Eyeing his companion, Kirk could only shake his head in wonder. Spock was his friend, but sometimes . . .

  “So you’re saying that our odds of being chosen are more than three-point-one percent?”

  As usual, the captain’s carefully crafted sarcasm was utterly wasted on his first officer. “Obviously.”

  “Where do you even get those numbers? We are for certain getting chosen. Why wouldn’t we? Don’t be such a pessimist, Spock.”

  The science officer looked over at him as they turned a corner on the open quad. “Realistic and considered analysis of a given situation is not pessimism. It is reality. My life is firmly grounded in reality. Something of which I believe yours could do with a more frequent injection.”

  For a second time, Kirk shook his head sadly. “Shoot me if I prefer excitement and happiness over stability.”

  One eyebrow rose. “I find more than adequate happiness in a firm appreciation of reality. As for excitement, in my capacity as your science officer, I experience a surfeit of that particular quality without having to seek it out. I would venture to go so far as to say that I experience it to excess.”

  “Ah, yes,” Kirk murmured. “Moderation in all things. How typically Vulcan.”

  “It would not hurt you to try it,” Spock shot back. “It might even benefit your captaincy.”

  Kirk drew himself up, suddenly stiff and formal. “All right, I will.”

  His first officer evinced genuine surprise. “You will?”

  “Absolutely.” He gestured ahead. “We’re here. When Pike t
ells us we’ve been selected for the mission, I promise to exercise moderation by saying ‘I told you so’ only one time. Per day. For no more than several weeks, whose absolute number shall remain indeterminate until you express contrition.”

  As they started up the stairs, Spock did not comment. Knowing Kirk as he did, he realized there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the discussion—least of all, a sensible, mature reaction. It was not so very long ago that attempting to discuss similar matters had resulted in a physical altercation between the two men, not to mention a raft of violent arguments. All had eventually been resolved, and without hard feelings. But the memories certainly remained—as did their often radically different ways of approaching a problem.

  For a long minute after being admitted to the admiral’s office, the two younger officers encountered no reaction at all. Having not been instructed to seat themselves, they were left standing to ponder in silence as Pike stood staring out the window behind his desk, his back to them. The view of the city beyond was impressive and, on this especially beautiful day, engrossing. But not so much as to engender the continuing silence, Spock thought. Exchanging a glance with Kirk, he saw the same bemusement in his friend’s expression.

  After what was entirely too much time to qualify as reassuring, the senior officer finally spoke.

  “Uneventful.”

  Though Kirk had to strain to hear it, the single word was perfectly intelligible. As to what it signified, he had not a clue. “Admiral? Sir?”

  Reluctantly abandoning the view, Pike pivoted and seated himself at his desk. The silver-headed walking cane he set aside was smooth and functional, engraved. A new one, Kirk noted with interest. The admiral had amassed an impressive collection. Waving a hand, Pike activated the readout before him and spent a moment studying it. Eventually his gaze rose to meet Kirk’s.

  “That’s how you described, in your captain’s log, your survey of the world its inhabitants call Nibiru. Uneventful.”

  His attention on the admiral, Kirk missed the look cast in his direction by his science officer. It was as close to an expression of pure astonishment as a Vulcan could muster. With barely a shrug, Kirk indicated the readout.

  “You know me, sir. I like my reports to be concise. Senior officers are confronted with so much information these days that I’d be the last to overload a captain’s log with excessive detail. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time going over—”

  Pike interrupted the younger officer’s amiable disquisition. “That’s all right, Captain. I’m not put off by detail. I tend to find much of it more enlightening than excessive. Some of it proves to be quite interesting, in fact.” He waved a forefinger at the readout. “Take the report’s subsection on planetary geology, for example. Tell me more about this supervolcano. Supervolcanoes are very interesting structures. According to the data, this one was situated directly above a conjoining of three continental plates, a unique geologic nexus that was further destabilized by a number of proximate major earthquake faults. A very unstable tectonic situation; one might even say volatile. Sufficiently volatile, one could conclude, that if the volcano were to advance to a highly eruptive state, it might set off a series of quakes that in turn could severely jostle the relevant trio of continental plates. The resulting catastrophe could wipe out all life on that part of the planet. Certainly all higher life.” His gaze narrowed. “If it were to erupt.”

  Kirk smiled understandingly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t, sir.”

  The admiral did not smile back. “Something tells me it won’t.”

  “Well, sir,” Kirk demurred, “‘volatile’ is a relative term. Far from scientifically specific. Anything is possible in such a situation. Maybe our data was off. We weren’t at Nibiru long. Under such circumstances, a lot of data has to be gathered as quickly as possible and refined later. Information needs to be adjusted in light of additional study. Even data relating to a supervolcano that might at first glance appear to be on the verge of a violent eruption.”

  Pike nodded slowly, pausing a long moment before responding. “Or—maybe it won’t erupt because Mr. Spock detonated a meticulously crafted and custom-designed counterthermal Rankine wave device inside it right before a civilization that’s barely discovered the concept of the wheel happened to see a starship rising out of their ocean.” His gaze shifted to the science officer. “My apologies for the somewhat condensed summary of your report, but that is the way you describe it, is it not?”

  Sudden understanding hit Kirk like a chunk of falling meteorite as he whirled on his first officer. “You . . . filed a report?”

  “Following exploration of a new or lightly contacted world, all individual starship sections are required to file a full report.” He favored the familiar figure seated beside him with an unblinking stare. “Why would you assume Science would not do the same?”

  “I thought you would, of course, but I assumed you’d run it by me first. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His voice flatter and more machine-like than usual, the science officer responded in a tone that only slightly mimicked the voice pattern of his friend.

  “I incorrectly assumed you would tell the truth in your report.”

  Kirk’s expression tightened. “I would have if not for the inconvenient exception I had to make in order to save your life. Or did you decide to omit that from your report because you considered it an ‘excessive detail’?”

  “On the contrary,” the science officer responded, “I took care to include it along with all related information. It is something for which, on subsequent reflection, I am immeasurably grateful, and the very reason why I felt it necessary to take responsibility—”

  Kirk would have none of it. “And that would be so noble,” he broke in, “if I wasn’t the one getting thrown under the bus, Pointy!”

  Both eyebrows rose. “‘Pointy’? Is that an attempt at a derogatory reference to my—?”

  “Gentlemen.” The admiral’s legs might not work as well as they once had, but there was nothing wrong with his voice. Both younger officers went silent as the senior officer rose from the seat behind his desk, utilizing his cane for support. “As you’ve clearly forgotten, please allow me to remind you: Starfleet’s mandate is to explore and observe, and if necessary, to defend. Not to interfere. The Prime Directive is the first thing new cadets memorize—not the last. No matter how stressful the circumstances, I find it difficult to believe it could be forgotten. Or worse, overlooked.” He eyed them meaningfully. “The Prime Directive supersedes everything, gentlemen. Even initiative.”

  Spock responded. “Had the mission that we set ourselves gone as planned, Admiral, the indigenous sentient species of Nibiru would never have become aware of our interference. Or our presence. The operation was designed from the outset to preserve every aspect of the Prime Directive.”

  “That’s a technicality.” Pike was plainly displeased by the science officer’s response.

  “I am Vulcan, sir. We embrace technicality.”

  “Sir, if I can be allowed to explain—” Kirk hurriedly injected.

  Not hurriedly enough, as Pike glared hard at the Vulcan. “Kirk, shut up. Are you giving me attitude, Spock?”

  Unfazed, the science officer continued. “I am expressing multiple attitudes simultaneously, sir, each one of which can be differently parsed. To which are you referring?”

  Sitting back in his chair, the admiral began tapping the fingers of one hand on the desktop. “Logic should serve to illuminate, not complicate. Your attempt to substitute ambiguity for clarity is misguided. Out. You’re dismissed, Commander.”

  Spock hesitated, cast an indecipherable look at his friend and superior officer who had not been summarily dismissed, and wordlessly departed. Behind him, he left a quietly furious Kirk and a thoroughly exasperated admiral of the fleet.

  Pike started to say something, paused, chose to reload with different ammunition. “Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass you are?”

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p; Kirk kept his reply as even as possible. “I think so, sir.”

  The admiral nodded slowly. “Good. That’s progress, I suppose. Now, tell me what you did wrong. What’s the lesson to be learned here?”

  Without glancing back at the doorway or cracking a smile, Kirk replied stone-faced. “Never trust a Vulcan?”

  Pike’s frustration as well as his irritation came through plainly in his reply. “You can’t even answer the question without injecting impertinence. Despite what it says on your record, I have to keep reminding myself that you’re actually a starship captain. If not for your last-minute heroics in saving Earth from . . .” His voice trailed away, momentarily lost in memory of a recent near-catastrophe. Then he straightened in the chair. “What it boils down to is that you lied. You lied, Kirk, on an official report.”

  The younger man’s reply was impassioned. “The intent was to observe the relevant rules to the letter, sir. Which we did. Had we not proceeded with the designed mission, it is highly likely a developing intelligent species would have been wiped out. Or at least had their maturation set back hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Even worse, there was a distinct possibility that if we had held back, there would have been no interference with the Prime Directive, because you can’t interfere with a species that’s been rendered extinct. The decision to chance revealing our presence was wholly mine. Mr. Spock disagreed, and was ready to disagree to the death.” His expression twisted. “My saving his life caused him no end of anguish, or the Vulcan equivalent thereof. Though I believe he has since come to terms with still being alive. With a Vulcan, one can never be sure of such things.”