Battlestations!, page 7
The engineering circuit-boards to the steering mechanisms on the transport were spread around me as I lay on my side before an open access-chamber, drowning my insecurities in snapping voltage, when I became aware of a second presence. I didn’t feel guilty, so it couldn’t have been Scanner. I didn’t feel any waves of sympathy, so it wasn’t Merete either.
“Feel better now?” the tolerant voice began.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
There was a shuffle beside me, and Dr. McCoy slipped into view as he sat down near me. I continued working. The beleaguered circuits crackled their fatigue.
“Are you going to tell me I’m behaving irrationally?” I asked him.
He shrugged, one brow raising into an arch. “Irrationally? Not yet. Obsessively … maybe.”
“And obsession isn’t irrational, sir?”
“Depends on who’s displaying the tendency,” he said casually. “Question is, do you think you’re acting irrationally.”
It might have been in question form, but something about it wasn’t a question at all. I paused in my circuit junctioning and looked at him. “Defiance is a perfectly rational process,” I said, hoping it sounded reasonable.
Now both brows went up. “New one on me,” he muttered. Then he looked directly at me and asked, “Are you sure, really sure, that you want to break the captain’s programming?”
I settled back to work, rather as a buffet around my answer. “Yes, I do.”
“We’ll be at Argelius in twenty-eight hours,” he pointed out. “Maybe your answer will be there.”
“And maybe it won’t.” I tried not to sound flippant. “Sir, you know Captain Kirk. You know he’d never allow this to happen to him. I can’t help but think he expects the same from me.”
He tipped his head calmly. “You’ll tear yourself apart if you keep comparing yourself to him.”
My hands, now scored with a dozen tiny electrical burns, felt hot and clammy inside the access chamber. I pulled them out, knowing I was fooling myself about gaining entry into the system by any mechanical route. I scooted out and leaned up against the bulkhead.
“I’m comparing myself to me,” I told him.
McCoy pursed his lips and said nothing more about it, though I could see and sense him thinking deeply, possibly analyzing my mental state with his years of experience with deep-space psychology. Actually, I’d have relished the chance to talk to him, to sift out my conflicting feelings, perhaps even to ask his advice, but there wasn’t time.
“Sir, you know Commander Spock. How would he program a system if he wanted it to be impermeable by anyone but himself?”
McCoy spread his hands out. “You’re asking me? I don’t even know how he makes the computer play chess with him. He’d do it logically, of course … one by one eliminating every possible flaw. He’d probably get the computer to help him set up the system in the first place. Double indemnity.”
“But there’s a way into any system,” I persisted. “It’s just a matter of—” I scouted for a better word, but there wasn’t one. “Odds,” I said.
He puzzled for a moment, then held up a finger. “Oh. You mean like if you fire an infinite number of shots at an infinite number of monkeys …”
“You’ll eventually kill Shakespeare.” A grin broke my frown and some of the tension flowed away.
“But you’re overtaxing your resources, Piper,” the doctor suggested. “There isn’t the technical knowledge on board this ship to outguess a computer expert of Spock’s level. From what I can see, you’ve already tried every possible way of getting into that system. You’ve exhausted your options.”
As we sat on the floor, leaning up against opposite bulkheads, Dr. McCoy’s untechnical presence and his obvious emotional empathy for my situation gave me a portal to slip through. In that quiet, sequestered place I found a clarity of purpose that had eluded me, no matter how directed my goals seemed, and a simplicity that just might be my salvation.
“All the options,” I murmured on a sigh. A sigh of surrender, perhaps.
He too had been lost in thought, and now looked up. “What? Oh. Yes. At least, looks that way to me.”
I stared into the access chamber. The circuits snickered back at me.
Scanner appeared, or shall I say peeked, through the narrow doorway, his fatigue-drawn face wearing its most puppyish expression. “Permission to come aft?”
I peered at him for a moment, then felt myself relax. “Granted.”
He crouched near Dr. McCoy in the cramped area and sighed, hanging his head and not looking at me until he absolutely had to. “I thought about trying to cross-connect the spiral circuits into the computer bank, but I thought I’d better get your okay before I blow up the ship.”
I dropped my gaze for a moment of private amusement, realizing the lengths I’d pushed poor Scanner to in his attempt to satisfy me. He seemed completely serious. He was that desperate. A faint shudder passed through me. Cross-fed spiral circuits. Brrrrr.
“Sit down, Scanner,” I said. “Take a break. Believe it or not, I’m not out to wear you down.”
He slumped onto his haunches against the bulkhead and waved a weary hand. “Nah, s’okay. I’m just the comedy relief.”
McCoy shifted his legs on the cool metal floor and said, “I think we should all get some rest.” Then he paused and regarded me soberly. “Assuming we’ve admitted we’re going to Argelius.”
My next words tasted bad coming up, but I let my pride slide away long enough to say them, for the sakes of the people I was responsible for. It wasn’t desperation that was driving me, after all; I didn’t have the excuse of trying to save lives or the success of my mission. It was, as Scanner had muttered at me a day ago, “plain cussed mulishness.” Lacking any honorable excuse for my behavior, somewhat deflated by Dr. McCoy’s accuracies about trying to imitate Kirk, I sank into remission and said, “We’ve done our best. Even Kirk couldn’t ask more of us. We’ve tried every normal way of breaking the programming.”
Scanner rubbed his eyes. “Everything but voodoo conjurin’ .”
My neck ached as I wearily nodded. I stared with unfocused eyes past my arms as they rested on my knees, past the circuit cleaver still hanging from my fingers. Aware of everything, I saw nothing. Voodoo, he’d said.
“Every normal way,” I mumbled. I continued to stare.
Vague movements in my field of vision, McCoy and Scanner shared a glance, then looked at me again.
“Uh-oh,” Scanner moaned. “Lookit that. I’m scared of that smile.”
Maybe I was smiling. I wasn’t sure. My fatigue-stiffened cheeks did feel tighter, but I wasn’t paying attention. Inside my head a tiny schooner suddenly came hard about in the face of its enemy and slashed a new course across Impossible’s bow. My fingers began to tingle.
“We’ve been going about this all wrong,” I said. Scanner’s head drooped between his knees. “I knew it, I knew she was gonna say that … I knew it .. .”
“Come on!” I got up and led the way back to the bridge, hardly aware of my own movements and the aches of strain and fatigue. They followed me, probably as much out of curiosity as to follow my order, and even Merete, who could sleep through a supernova, was awakened by the electric anticipation in the air. She came out of her cubicle and followed, groggy but aware that something was happening. We emerged onto the bridge amid the scattered mechanical debris of Scanner’s second attempt to reroute the computer program through the main guidance system. I settled into the command chair.
“We’ve been sailing the wrong tack,” I said. Scanner shook his head, and his bangs fell over tired eyes. “What’s a tack?”
McCoy and Merete crowded near us as I continued. “Instead of thinking about the programming, we should have been thinking about who programmed it.”
Scanner grimaced in perplexity. “Spock programmed it.”
“Of course. A perfectly rational program, impossible to break by rational means.”
“What are you getting at?” McCoy asked.
“I’m going to force the machine to be irrational.”
“You can’t do that,” Scanner argued. “This is a computer. You can’t fool a computer.”
“It’s a machine, Scanner. Machines are idiots. They’re marvelous tools, but they’re stupid. You know why they don’t put legs on computers? Because they’d walk off a cliff if you told them to.”
Drained and now confused, Scanner dropped into the nearest seat and slumped. “Okay,” he resigned, “but the only one who knows what’s going on inside that machine is the machine itself.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I settled into the command chair and punched into the computer link. “Computer, identify my voice pattern.”
“Working. Lieutenant Commander Piper, Star Fleet identification—s”
“Now identify the commander of this vessel.”
The instruments quietly hummed. “Lieutenant Commander Piper, command status authorized Star Date 3374.4.”
“Verify my personal authority to engage Class A-l priority command under master’s voice pattern.”
The humming took a little longer this time. “Verified.”
“Good,” I murmured. “Computer, establish Class A-l priority command as specified.”
“Working. Priority established. Please go ahead.”
“Question: is there a way to countermand current navigational program?”
“Negative.”
No surprises there. I pressed on. “Is there a way to bypass current programming and engage a new program in its place?”
“One moment, please.” Click, buzz, whirr. “Affirmative.”
“How?”
“Under Star Fleet Regulations for Emergency Command, Section Z-12, subparagraph B, current authorized command must declare critical emergency computer activation.”
“Ah. Computer, this is Lieutenant Commander Piper. As commander of this vessel, I now declare critical emergency computer activation according to specified Star Fleet regulation.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Compute method for overriding current navigation programming and engaging a new program in its place,” I said nervously, taking great care with my words. “Specify how to free helm to manual control.”
“Immediate answer is not available. Will advise upon completion of circuit analysis.” With that, the computer board settled into a happy whirr.
Scanner’s lips fell open. “I’ll be danged!”
It took the computer only four minutes to figure out a way around its own programming. Before any of us dared break the expectant silence, the pleasant female voice returned, rife with directions which Scanner and I carefully followed.
“Reroute navigational circuitry through CKC-Bank, sections 72R through 197X, via Dexter-Nelson noncontiguous file cluster. Arrange file allocation along following index pattern.” A long list of number bunches appeared on the readout screen. Scanner wordlessly, even numbly, fed them into the appropriate systems, one by one. It was clear by the way he did it, slowly and with nervous care, that he didn’t really understand what he was doing.
“What’s happening?” Merete asked quietly, as though she might disturb the computer’s concentration if she spoke too loudly.
“It’s telling us how to get helm control,” I said simply.
McCoy shifted forward eagerly, with a strange enthusiasm that I didn’t quite know how to interpret. “You’re actually breaking Spock’s programming?”
“No, not breaking it,” I answered. “It can’t be broken or stopped. He knew that’s what we’d try to do, if we tried anything.”
“Then what—?”
“It can’t be stopped. But it can be replaced.”
He gave me an amusing frown. “Sounds like rhetoric to me.”
“Ah, yes, but Rex has never been taught the art of rhetoric. It can’t tell the difference, so it just does what it’s told. The computer has no reason not to help us override the programming, so that’s what it’s doing. Didn’t I tell you? Stupid!” My delight actually squeezed a giggle out of me, but I was too pleased to be embarrassed.
“That’s it.” Scanner sat back. Fine beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip. “Now we wait.”
We settled down. The computer console did everything but spit bubbles. Lights glowed, then flickered, then changed intensity. Numbers on the readout screens flashed by faster than human eyes could assimilate them, backgrounded by jangles, grinds, and general electronic braying.
Soft lights played across our faces. Faces of humanity itself, reestablishing the true wonder of our own power. Think of a machine … design a machine … build a machine … be carried into the farthest reaches of space by a machine … yet still rule over it. Still outthink it. Quite a partnership, quite a symbiosis. Our lives were in the hands of the machine, and its in ours.
The patterns of lights grew pale. The clicking fell away, leaving only a whirr and hum. The whirr stopped. The hum faded. The readout screen went blank.
Then, three simple words, flashing calmly, outlined in red:
HELM IS MANUAL
The computer’s firm voice echoed the words, once, in simple punctuation, then fell silent.
My eyes drifted closed. My head drooped on aching shoulders.
Behind me, Dr. McCoy and Merete shifted, sharing looks of disbelief that confirmed our success.
Even Scanner, in his silence, radiated bone-deep amazement. One hand reached for the readout screen and tenderly touched it, in a silly human gesture. After a moment, his face, bathed in the gently flashing light, turned to me. “Well … you got control, Commander. I never woulda bet on it.” He clapped his knees to renew the moment. “So, it’s all yours. Where do you want us to go?”
I forced my eyes to focus and stood up slowly, gazing out over the beautiful elegance of space as we cruised along at warp three.
“To Argelius,” I said. “But on my order.”
Chapter Five
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
—The Changeling
I THINK SCANNER was plotting to have me assassinated. Merete was contemplating my mental condition, and Dr. McCoy was shaking his head a lot. So, after another smooth escape disguised as a dramatic exit, I spent much of the next day’s travel tucked safely in my quarters, gazing into the computer access screen.
I’d been in there alone for three hours before anybody missed me during the next day-cycle. No surprise it was Merete who finally opted to peek in.
“Disturbing?” she asked.
My eyes flipped up from the computer screen—my only movement. My preoccupation held for a long moment as I gazed at her, then I moved my hand from its parking place against my lips and said, “No. Come on in.”
She invited herself into the chair beside the bunk and looked at the screen. “Tech manuals?”
“Look at this,” I said flatly, punching the controls on the side of the access screen. The screen went blank for a moment, then flickered with new data. “I’ve been through this a dozen times already and I still can’t fathom it.”
“What is it?”
“Vulcan training.”
She inhaled, held it, and sighed. “Oh. Sarda’s still on your mind. Any particular aspect this time?”
“Sarda’s clan.”
Her delicate eyes narrowed. “Sarda’s clan specifically? How did you ever find data that obscure?”
I made a guttural sound to double the impact of her question. “Obscure is right. The Vulcans are notoriously secretive. However, Doctor dear, the Federation’s liaison committee to the Confederation of 40 Eridani isn’t without its muscle. They convinced the Vulcans to loosen their grip on cultural secrets at least enough that off-worlders could understand enough about them to respect them at a little less distance. I’ll bet that day saw logic fly.”
“Even so,” Merete countered as she sat at the end of my bunk, “Sarda’s clan isn’t exactly the visible elite of ShiKahr City, like Mr. Spock’s. Isn’t Sarda from somewhere below the Vulcan equatorial zone?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. I’ve been hunting through the library systems for weeks. Before I put out to sea on the Keeler, I left a search worm in the mainframe library computer at Starbase One. It’s been picking through its indices, looking for information on Sarda and his tribe, or whatever they call themselves. All I had to do was key into that system from here to get the results of the search.”
“So Mr. Spock’s new computer for this ship is coming in handy.”
“Sure is.”
“What have you found?”
“I found,” came the answer, “the Lyr Zor.’
My revelation was lost on her. “Clan or region?”
Self-consciously, I clarified. “Clan. The region is called Lyr T’aya, as closely as the computer can put it into English alphabet. It’s way south, in the Vuldi Gorge. The nearest city is Jia’anKahr. Does that mean anything to you?”
She nodded, eyes widening. “It means remote. I knew Sarda wasn’t from the city clans who usually gravitate to Star Fleet, but I had no idea …”
I leaned forward. “Can you imagine the pressure it would take to force a Vulcan from a clan that remote to venture away from the planet? Do you realize how alone he must have been? And he knew he’d stand out at Star Fleet too. We don’t exactly see fair-haired Vulcans every day.”
“And all this is teaching you something,” Merete prodded gently, probably thinking my state of mind was as delicate as Sarda’s.
