RRRAAASSSP.
James Kirk stirred in his sleep.
RRRAAAASSSSSPPP!
Kirk's eyes opened, and as they did a sensor-linked relay turned his bunkside lamp on to DIM. Whuzzat noise? he thought confusedly, slow to awaken. Wherezit from?
RRRAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZ … CRACK!!!
At that last, sharp sound, the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise came fully awake. It's from the vent! he realized quickly. The air circulators! As he threw his bedcovers aside and the lights in his quarters came up full, Kirk felt a chill. Temperature's down, too. We've got big problems.
No sooner had Kirk's bare feet hit the deck than he was sent sprawling by a huge and sudden increase in his body weight.
Flat on the floor, Kirk grunted; he felt as if two men of his own size had jumped on him and pinned him to the deck. Lucky, he told himself. My head just missed the bunk support. The captain tried moving his arms and legs; it was difficult, but nothing seemed to be broken. He estimated his apparent weight at something like 250 kilos, or more than 550 pounds in what Bones McCoy usually called "Grandma's kitchen system." That meant there had been a sudden surge of at least two G's in the usually even-tempered one-G output of the ship's artificial gravity generators. Heat, air, gravity—the whole environmental section's gone out, Kirk thought as he gathered his strength to get up from the floor. I've got to contact the bridge. . . .
Kirk dragged his arms toward his chest and placed his palms flat on the deck. Carefully he pushed himself up—
—and found himself rising quickly toward the overhead. Gravity's cut out entirely! Kirk thought with a shock.
Reflexively, Kirk twisted in mid-air so that his feet, and not the back of his head, struck the ceiling. As his momentum bounced him back toward the floor, Kirk somersaulted and landed on his feet; he allowed himself to collapse on the deck to soak up as much of his velocity as he could. Kirk bounced again, but much more slowly this time; he reached out his right hand and grasped the edge of a small table, jarring it. The table's legs were bolted to the deck, but several objects, put into motion by Kirk's spent momentum, began to rise off the tabletop and bobble around the cabin.
The hell with it, thought Kirk. He steadied himself, carefully judged the distance to his desk, and pushed away from the table with a slow, steady thrust. The captain floated across his quarters. As he slowly approached his desk, he saw the intercom begin to bleep for his attention—just as the soft green light on the status board over Kirk's bunk changed to a harsh yellow and an electronic alarm began to beep insistently.
"Alarm off," Kirk ordered as he flew through the air.
The alarm continued to beep.
Kirk repeated his verbal order to the computer; again it was ignored. So we have an order-interpretation problem on top of everything else, Kirk thought, annoyed.
At last Kirk had floated close enough to his desk to grasp it. He pulled himself in, hooked his left foot under the center drawer, and pulled himself down. The Eagle has landed, Kirk thought as he pushed himself into the chair. Kirk's bathrobe hung loosely on the back of the chair; the captain shrugged the robe on as best he could—Sure is getting cold in here, he thought—and thumbed the intercom on.
The face of Pavel Chekov, the nightwatch duty officer, swam onto the screen, floating in and out of pickup range. Kirk could see a bloody cut just over Chekov's left eye—an eye, Kirk thought, that looked like it had a good chance of becoming a full-blown shiner before long.
"Report, Mr. Chekov," Kirk snapped.
"Ve are on yellow alert, Captain," answered the young Russian ensign. "Zero grawity conditions obtain throughout the ship. Air circulation and temperature control systems are out. Ve have lost some computer functions, mostly in housekeeping. Specifically, the computer vill not respond to werbal commands, nor vill the computer run any of its galley or plumbing subroutines—"
"Yes, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said impatiently. "Security status?"
"Sensors are fully operational and show no wessel, friendly or othervise, vithin range. Ve do have injuries; there are a number of medical cases on the bridge, but none appears to be serious. I have not yet had a report from the medical officer on duty. I am trying to locate Dr. McCoy as veil. Our computer problems are making some intraship communications difficult." Chekov turned away from the pickup and spoke to someone for a moment, then turned back and said, "Captain, Mr. Spock has reported in and is making his vay to the bridge. You also need to know that Mr. Scott is already in Engineering, and Chief MacPherson is the Engineering officer presently on bridge duty. He vas here vhen ve got into trouble."
"Very good, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said. "Maintain yellow alert. Priority one: Get all hands up and moving. Everybody out of bed, now. Remind Sickbay to get air circulating somehow around sleeping patients, even if the head nurse has to wave a magazine around the room. And I want a full security sweep of all sections to pick up any unconscious or immobile injured."
Kirk knew that, in zero gravity and with no air movement, exhaled breath tends to accumulate in an invisible, deadly globe around a person's head. An unmoving, sleeping member of the crew could smother in carbon dioxide while surrounded by a sea of fresh, good air. Kirk knew that, even without air circulation, there was just enough air in the ship to sustain life for about three hours; that made fixing the air problem his top priority.
"While you're talking to Sickbay," Kirk continued, "tell them I want a medico designated for bridge duty. You get your eye attended to. I'll be up there as soon as I can."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Kirk out." The captain clicked the intercom off. Now all I have to do, Kirk said to himself, is try to get dressed while floating around the cabin.
The door to Kirk's quarters squeaked open and the captain coasted on through and into the corridor, fetching up against the opposite wall. Kirk glanced off it at an angle and managed to send himself floating down the hall in the direction he wanted. The corridor was beginning to fill with people; Chekov had, indeed, awakened everyone.
Along with his concern for his ship and crew, some part of Kirk's mind came up with a snatch of song he'd heard as a child, back in the American Midwest. Oh, he floats through the air with the greatest of ease, dum-dum dee dee dum-dum the flying trapeze—now just what was the rest of that? Kirk wondered as he floated down the corridor toward the turbolift.
The captain rounded a bend by scrabbling across a wall, killing little of his momentum.
"Watch out!!! Hot water!!!"
Kirk looked ahead toward the source of the shout—and saw a translucent glob surrounded by a cloud of steam rolling and pitching toward him. People in the corridor were dodging this way and that, zooming wildly and sometimes crashing with thuds against a wall or a door. The amoeba-like blob looked alive as it floated down the corridor.
Kirk quickly reached out and grabbed a doorframe, stopping his forward motion. He dragged himself down the frame and pushed himself against the deck. There was nothing for Kirk to hook his feet into, so the captain concentrated on making himself as small as he could; he drew his knees toward his chin and rolled himself into a ball.
The glob wobbled on, narrowly missing Kirk. From the deck he felt the heat on his face as he watched the weirdly shimmering thing pass over his head. I have to get someone to take care of that, Kirk told himself. He shouted, "Corridor! Mid-air glob of hot water! Watch out!" But that was merely a precaution; the captain could see that the corridor behind him had been cleared.
The captain heard a thump nearby. He turned his head and saw Lieutenant Sulu, his best helmsman, one-handedly holding onto a wall intercom panel. Sulu was wearing nothing but a towel and was holding several others in his free hand. The trailing end of Sulu's towel floated along with everything else; Kirk decided that zero G was no aid to modesty.
Sulu looked worried. "Captain, are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
Kirk nodded. "No harm done." He pushed himself easily off the deck. Keeping his grip on the doorframe, Kirk asked, "What happened, Mr. Sulu?"
"Well, sir," the lieutenant said, "I was taking a shower—"
"A hot shower."
"A very hot shower, sir, and all of a sudden—"
"—the gravity went off."
"The gravity went off, sir, and all this water came out of the shower head and splashed around all over the washroom—"
"—and gathered itself into a ball and wandered out into a public corridor."
"Yes, sir, and I've been chasing it around and trying to soak it up with these towels—"
"—and you haven't been having much luck," Kirk finished.
Sulu considered it. "Yes, sir, that's about it—except that the shower wouldn't turn off when I ordered it to, and the emergency shut-off system didn't work, either. The thing just shut off by itself, eventually."
"Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Carry on."
"Uh, sir?" The lieutenant seemed hesitant.
"What is it, Mr. Sulu?"
"Sir, the, er, facilities did about the same thing."
"You mean the toilets?"
"Uh, yes, sir. There's flying water all over the place. But it's cold, sir."
Kirk tried not to smile. "I'm sure whoever gets hit by those particular globs will appreciate that. Get after yours, now."
"Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir." Sulu pushed away from the intercom panel and began sailing off after the glob of hot shower water. I wonder how much water I've got floating around inside my ship, Kirk thought as he watched the ensign drift away, and how many other problems have I got, ones I can't even guess the nature of yet? Well, Jim, that's why they gave you the fancy gold shirt. . . .
Kirk thrust himself away from the doorframe and made for the hatchway of the turbolift. About halfway there he saw its doors part; the turbolift was empty. Chekov must have sent it for me, Kirk thought. He's on the ball, as usual. Kirk saw no need to alter his course; he simply shouted "Gangway!" Then he somersaulted in mid-air and sailed feet-first into the turbolift, softly landing on the wall.
He grabbed the handrail and told the computer, "Bridge."
Nothing happened. Kirk swore to himself and grasped the handle for manual override. The turbolift doors slid closed, and Kirk was finally on his way.
The bridge looked to Kirk like a human aquarium.
Mr. Spock was at his station—squatting placidly in mid-air, his legs folded under him as if he were in meditation. But Kirk knew from the set of the Vulcan's shoulders and the aura of concentration he projected that the science officer was communing not with the unseen, but with the ship's ill computers. Lieutenant Uhura was sitting at her communications station, held in her seat by a tied length of fabric. Her nightgown, I think, thought Kirk. Why didn't they install seat belts in this ship? A medico—Nurse Constance Iziharry, Kirk recalled—was tending to Chekov's eye; both the ensign and the nurse seemed to be doing an aerial pas de deux about a meter above the navigation console. The nightwatch helmsman—Lt. Peter Siderakis—had slaved the navigator's board to the helm and was running both stations.
Somehow, somewhere, Siderakis had procured a sweater and was wearing it against the chill. Kirk envied him the sweater—a silly, garish thing with I LEFT MY CASH IN SAN FRANCISCO emblazoned on it—but it looked warm.
"Course, Mr. Siderakis?" Kirk asked.
"Captain, our course remains three forty-five mark five, warp two. No glitches in our navigation and guidance systems, at least."
"Fine. Steady as she goes, then. Lieutenant Uhura, what's our communications status?"
"I've gotten several audio lines through to belowdecks, Captain," she replied. "Video is impossible at present; I can't get the computer to give me enough signal to push through."
"Good enough, Uhura. Thank you." Kirk continued his quick visual inspection.
To Kirk's left, at the Engineering station, was Chief Alec MacPherson, perhaps the biggest Scotsman Kirk had ever met. If genetic engineers were ever given a contract to design the ultimate, essential Scot, they might come up with something like MacPherson—two meters tall, broadly built, red-haired and red-bearded, with the blood of mighty Celtic kings in him.
MacPherson was a fierce-looking man with the gentle and appreciative soul of a poet—gentle and appreciative, that is, unless he were confronted by incompetence or stupidity.
But he hardly ever hit anybody.
MacPherson was a relatively new arrival aboard the Enterprise. He had worked with Scott on a scout-class ship, the U.S.S. Gagarin, years before. Scott had eventually been assigned aboard the Enterprise and had quickly risen to chief engineer; MacPherson had risen to chief engineer on the Gagarin about as quickly.
About a month back, the Gagarin had been decommissioned and her crew thrown into Starfleet's reassignment pool. MacPherson had sent his friend Montgomery Scott a short subspace message—NEED WORK. GOT ANY? CHEERS, MAC.—and Scott had requested Kirk to get Personnel to assign MacPherson aboard the Enterprise as Scott's new number two. "He's th' only mon I really trust t' watch me engines while I sleep, Cap'n," Scotty had said. "He's a good 'un, take me word for it."
Kirk had never before heard Scotty admit that someone else in Starfleet might be qualified enough to tighten a bolt on the Enterprise without the chief engineer's personal supervision; impressed, the captain had put the Enterprise's request for MacPherson through Starfleet repple-depple marked with a PERSONNEL PRIORITY ONE code.
Scotty's word had been good. In the past few weeks the Engineering section's efficiency rating had risen substantially. Kirk found Scotty's habit of calling MacPherson "lad" and "laddie" amusing—MacPherson was less than three years younger than Scott—but the two worked superlatively well together. Most of the ship's personnel had taken to calling Scott and MacPherson "the twins." It was as if there were two Montgomery Scotts aboard; each man had a sure knowledge of the skills and engineering approaches the other might take in a given situation. If a problem needed solving, and an engineer could choose from among fourteen equally valid but different ways to solve it, Scott and MacPherson were each likely to avail themselves of the same solution, without consulting each other—and neither man would find the coincidence strange or unusual. "Thot's just good engineerin'," Scotty might say.
And MacPherson clearly liked working for Scott. The Enterprise was considered good duty in Starfleet; she was a ship whose captain brought his crew back home safely from exciting missions which had more than a whiff of adventure and danger. Also, going from number-one engineer aboard a scout ship to number two aboard a cruiser was a good career move in the fleet; MacPherson saw working aboard the Enterprise as a challenge, and working with Scott again a pleasure.
But he doesn't seem to be having a very good time right now, thought Kirk.
The big Scot was, incredibly, standing upright at his station. Then Kirk noticed that MacPherson had doffed his boots and hooked his toes under the lip of the Engineering station's console runner. MacPherson's left hand kept a grip on the station, while his right hand gripped a personal communicator—into which MacPherson was bellowing.
"Aye!" MacPherson was shouting. "An' next I suppose you'll be tellin' me there's no reason whatsoe'er why th' gravity controllers aren't functionin', so we're all floatin' aroun' here just for th' sake of it! Aaaaggh! Put Scotty back on, ye moron!" The big Scotsman snorted in disgust.
MacPherson turned slightly and saw Kirk floating in the entrance to the turbolift. "Cap'n on the bridge," MacPherson said formally, and nodded politely. "Good mornin', sir."
Kirk nodded back. The captain planted a foot against the turbolift wall, sighted himself carefully, and thrust himself toward his command chair. He sailed through the air and stopped himself by reaching out a hand against the back of the chair.
"Good navigatin', Cap'n," said MacPherson approvingly.
"What's our status, Chief?"
"Oh, things are still up in th' air, so t'speak, sir," MacPherson answered. Before Kirk could respond, the chief hurried on, "Mr. Scott has got his secondbest man with him down in Engineering, and th' first thing they'll be goin' after is th' air circulation problem."
"Second-best man?"
"Aye, sir," MacPherson said, surprised. "I'm up here, after all."
"Oh. When do we get our gravity back?"
"Soon, sir—very soon. 'Tis a matter o' pinnin' down th' original problem and patchin' it. Th' problem is, th' gravity generators are puttin' out a zero-G' field in default mode because th' poor babies were beginnin' to run wild. It's not thot th' generators are out, y'understand, sir; it's thot th' controllers are out o' whack …"
"Fall to, Chief."
"Aye, aye, sir." MacPherson put the communicator back to his ear and said quietly, "Scotty, are ye there? Ach, good. . . ."
Kirk spun around and faced Spock's sciences station. Am I crazy, thought Kirk, or does Spock look a little, er … greener than usual? The captain got his bearings and launched himself toward Spock's position.
"Mr. Spock?" Kirk said softly when he had arrived and steadied himself. "Are you all right?"
Spock looked at Kirk. "I am quite able to function, Captain." He does look ill, thought Kirk. What's the matter?
Kirk hesitated. "I don't mean to pry, Spock, but I must know—are you, er, feeling unwell?" I've got to be careful of his feelings on this, Kirk thought. Lord knows Vulcans are closemouthed about such things …
Spock hesitated. "Captain, I assure you that my … physical condition … is quite manageable."
Kirk looked Spock in the eye. "Spock, forgive me—are you spacesick?"
The science officer hesitated, then said, "Yes, Captain. I have rarely experienced weightlessness, and have never liked it. I find that I am affected adversely by a lack of gravity. You would term it 'motion sickness'—"
"Something like that."
"—and I am handling the problem with such discipline as I am able to muster. I am fully able to man my post, with no loss in personal efficiency. That is why I have answered your questions in the manner I have. Of course, I would not mind a return to normal gravity and temperature status as soon as Mr. Scott and Chief MacPherson can effect such."
Kirk smiled wryly. "I wouldn't mind that very much, either. Very well, Mr. Spock. Thank you for your candor."
Spock nodded. "Of course, Captain." The Vulcan turned back to his close consultation with the ship's computers, and Kirk launched himself back to his command chair.
I hadn't thought of space sickness, thought Kirk. He kicked himself mentally. If standard figures hold, half the crew must be down with it.
More than a century before Kirk had been born, all types of spacecraft—humble orbital tugs and majestic starships alike—had begun carrying gravity generators as standard equipment. In fact, artificial gravity, along with inertial control and other byproducts vital to modern spaceflight, had come wrapped in the same neat package in which the great Zefrem Cochrane had given the Federation the secret of warp drive. Any pilot working in Federation space—legally, that is—had to pass a zero-G proficiency test to get his license, and zero-G fields were used routinely in medicine, entertainment, professional sports and a host of scientific applications. But nobody had to live or work in zero G anymore. Starfleet Academy demanded that its graduating cadets demonstrate proficiency in zero-G maneuvering, just as it demanded that cadets know how to conn a sailboat, fly a glider and master other ancient skills.
So there were few aboard the Enterprise who had more than a nodding, long-ago acquaintance with zero-G conditions. Kirk thought of all the accidents that could—and probably would, and probably had—happened aboard his ship, and he shuddered inwardly. That hot-water glob was just the beginning, he thought. Never mind all the water and trash that must be floating around and getting into the ship's most vulnerable places. The captain looked around the bridge; he saw people, trash, a few writing styli, an empty coffee cup and other flotsam meandering in the air.
And it was still cold, and getting colder.
Kirk fretted. Come on, twins, he said to himself. He shivered again, but told himself it was merely the chill on the bridge. Kirk again envied Siderakis that sweater; he wondered if hot coffee was possible, despite the problems with the computers' galley subroutines.
"Cap'n?" MacPherson called out. "Would ye please talk t' Mr. Scott on th' communicator band? That'd be frequency three, sir."
"Thank you, Chief." Kirk thumbed a button on the armrest of his command chair. "Yes, Mr. Scott? What can you tell me?"
"Some good news, I hope," the chief engineer replied. "We've rigged emergency fans at all th' main vent outlets, so ye should be gettin' air circulation back in a moment. We've also installed space heaters next t' th' fans, so ship's temperature ought t' be headin' up nearer normal very soon now. Still workin' on our gravity problems, Cap'n, but I think Chief MacPherson kens a temporary solution. Any orders?"
"None. Uh, what are we doing about all the debris and liquid floating around?" Kirk asked. "Won't that stuff get into the works?"
"Aye, I'm glad you mentioned thot," Scotty said. "Not t' bother you wi' it, but I've got short circuits and things blowin' out all over the ship, thanks t' water gettin' inta th' wirin'. Nothing the apprentices canna handle, and I'll be doin' a thorough inspection later—but for now we've rigged submicronic filters in th' main air channels. They'll catch just about anythin', includin' th' water. I just hope th' filters catch everythin' afore the wirin' does. Ah, and there's th' air fans, goin' on now."
"Very good, Scotty," Kirk said. "Anything you need, just ask; I'll stay out of your hair."
"No problem, then, Cap'n, and thank ye."
"Don't mention it. Kirk out." He thumbed the communications channel to DISENGAGE and said over his shoulder, "Lieutenant Uhura, have we heard from Dr. McCoy yet?"
"He's just calling in now, sir; please stand by." Uhura said something into her lip mike, then turned to the captain. "The doctor's on frequency four, sir."
"Bones!" Kirk greeted. "What's going on?"
"Busy down here, Jim," came the gravelly voice of the ship's chief medical officer. "I've got a sick list that's seventy-three names long so far—almost all trauma cases. Most of those are from that wallop we took when the gravity first went haywire, but some people are down here with typical zero-G problems: muscle strains, bumps, bruises, space sickness and so forth. I've even got a crewman who damn near drowned in the water from his own sink. No dead, though, and no one in any real trouble. Glad you got the air moving again, Jim; Nurse Chapel looked pretty silly waving those medical charts around in here."
Kirk smiled. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. If you could release Iziharry from bridge duty, I could use her down here."
"Done. Kirk out." The captain looked up in the air over the navigation console again; Nurse Iziharry was still poking at the flinching Chekov's injured eye. "Nurse?"
Iziharry, all concentration, did not respond.
"Ahem! Nurse?" Kirk repeated.
With a start, Iziharry looked down toward Kirk. "Oh! Yes, Captain?" she said.
"Miss Iziharry, if you're finished up here, Dr. McCoy needs you in Sickbay."
"Oh, I'm done. Thank you, Captain." Constance Iziharry turned back to Chekov. "Now, Pavel," she lectured, "stay away from sharp corners and swinging doors for at least aweek. You've got the pain medication, but I'm not going to give you anything for the swelling. It'd just make you drowsy, and you don't really need it anyway. Just tie some ice in a rag and hold it against your eye; that's what Grandma would have done. Okay?"
"Hokay, Connie," Chekov replied. "Sorry for the trouble."
"No trouble," Iziharry answered, and smiled. God, she is gorgeous, thought Chekov. Vhy did I never notice before?
From his chair Kirk watched Chekov and Connie Iziharry orbiting slowly around each other. The captain hid his smile. It's an ill wind, thought Kirk as Iziharry pushed off Chekov and headed for the turbolift; Chekov, automatically sent in the opposite direction, headed toward the ceiling, came up against it with his hands, and pushed himself toward the deck. The ensign landed neatly by the navigation console, grasped it with a hand, and lithely swung himself into his seat. "Thank you, Peter," he said to Siderakis. "I'm ready now." Siderakis smiled, nodded, and unslaved Chekov's board from his own.
"Welcome back to duty, Mr. Chekov," said Kirk.
"Happy to be back, Captain."
Just then, Spock called out, "Captain! Shut down the warp engines immediately!"
"Do it, Siderakis!" Kirk yelled. The helmsman's hands blurred across his board; Kirk heard the subtle whirl of the Enterprise's powerful warp drivers die away quickly.
Kirk turned his head to face the science officer. "What's happening, Spock?"
"Another system failure, Captain," Spock answered. "The matter-antimatter balance in our warp engines was suddenly disrupted—by what, I do not yet know—and the computers did not order a protective shutdown. Had this not been noticed, we would have undergone an involuntary self-destruct sequence with no warning. Captain, we can no longer trust the computers to do anything for us. I suggest we convert to manual operations until the computers can be overhauled and reprogrammed."
Kirk frowned. "Thank you, Mr. Spock." Spock nodded in acknowledgment, once. The captain addressed Uhura over his shoulder. "Lieutenant, get me Starfleet Command. Message: 'Am diverting to Starbase Nine for emergency repairs to Enterprise computer complex. See Appendices A and B for details.' Uhura, stick a list of our problems at the end of this; stick Mr. Spock's recommendation at the end of that. Uh, 'Our ETA at Starbase Nine is'—Mr. Chekov?"
Chekov consulted his board. "At best speed on impulse power only, Captain, ve vill arrive not earlier than stardate 7516.7."
"'—7516.7, subject to delay.' Sign it and send it, Lieutenant. Mr. Chekov, lay in a course for Starbase Nine—best speed under impulse power, just as you said."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just then the lights on the bridge began to flicker and dim.
"Shorted wires throughout th' main pylon," MacPherson called out. "We're losin' current up here. Switchin' t' bridge batteries, Captain." The chief thumbed a button, but the lights continued to dim.
"Switchin's nae good," MacPherson reported to Kirk. "Lemme work on 't for a while." The big Scot pulled himself down and scrambled under his engineering console.
Uhura's communications board emitted a distinctive—and foreboding—audio signal.
"Captain," she said worriedly, "we're getting a priority Alpha-Red message."
Kirk was startled. "Is it genuine, or just another computer foul-up?"
"Genuine, sir. Confirmed. I can't print out the message for you in code, Captain, because the main computers aren't paying any attention to me today—but I can give you a printout in the clear."
Kirk considered it, and shrugged. "Nothing we can do about it, regulations or no. An uncoded printout will be fine, Uhura."
"Yes, sir." Uhura did things to her board, and a tongue of paper began unrolling from the right arm of Kirk's command chair. He tore it off and began reading.
MESSAGE BEGINS
MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND STOP
BREAK PRIORITY ALPHA-RED STOP
BREAK STARDATE 7513.2 STOP
BREAK EYES ONLY CAPTAIN JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK
SC 937-0176 CEC COMMANDING USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 STOP
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE FOLLOWS
BREAK PERMISSION TO DIVERT TO STARBASE 9 DENIED REPEAT DENIED STOP STAND BY FOR COMMAND ORDERS STOP SECOND ALPHA-RED MESSAGE FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY STOP SIGNED BUCHINSKY CINC STARFLEET
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE ENDS
Bull Buchinsky? Starfleet's commander-in-chief? With an Alpha-Red? Now just what the hell does Bull have in mind? Kirk wondered.
Uhura's board made that insistent, foreboding sound again. "Second message coming in now, Captain," she reported. "Printing it out now …"
MESSAGE BEGINS
MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND STOP
BREAK PRIORITY ALPHA-RED STOP
BREAK STARDATE 7513.3 STOP BREAK EYES ONLY CAPTAIN JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK SC 937-0176 CEC COMMANDING USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 STOP
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE FOLLOWS
BREAK CODE HELLFIRE REPEAT HELLFIRE STOP SUBJECT IS NEW ATHENS CENTAURUS REPEAT NEW ATHENS CENTAURUS STOP THIRD ALPHA-RED MESSAGE FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY STOP SIGNED BUCHINSKY CINC STARFLEET
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE ENDS
There was an expectant, worried silence on the bridge.
"Mr. Chekov," the captain quietly said at last, "belay that course change to Starbase Nine, and stand by for new orders."
Kirk crumpled the printout and let it float away.
Joanna McCoy, he thought miserably. Oh my dear God.