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The door opened onto a short platform protruding into the wide cylindrical area of the shaft where the turbolifts traversed the span between the decks of the secondary hull. Stepping onto the platform and turning to his left, he gripped the rungs of the vertical access ladder running alongside, and began a quick descent to the engineering section seven decks below.

Knowing he was in a race against time, he skipped over every other rung, and his hands simply slid along the outer frame of the ladder. He was forced to count the decks as he passed them, for they were not labeled on the interior of the shaft, although he noted with annoyance that the designers had elected to number the numerous individual turbolift landing decks-each level having several turbolift stops along its breadth-as he passed a sign misleadingly indicating “Deck 52.”

Thelin’s voice rang out from the communicator, still active, hanging on Kirk’s belt. “Jim…We estimate less than one minute before antimatter containment becomes critical. After that, the only option is to eject the pods from the warp core.”

“Acknowledged, Captain,” Kirk replied. “I’ve reached the upper engineering level. Stand by.” He swung from the ladder onto the platform and forced his way through the access door.

Instantly his senses were assailed by the lingering effects of an electrical firestorm. Clouds of smoke bellowed forth, and his lungs protested as he waved his hands in front of his face, waiting for the polluted air to vent into the turboshaft behind him. His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus on the scene laid out before him.

To his left, a gaping hole in the hull provided an accidental window to the starfield outside, with emergency forcefields in place to hold in the pressurized atmosphere. To his right, he looked down on the lower deck of main engineering, where every console was little more than a burned-out shell-some smoking, some still shooting forth electrical sparks. The torpedo’s explosion had triggered a raging inferno throughout the engineering section, and without any damage-control teams on board, no one was available to put out the blaze.

The warp core itself, while blackened from the effects of the fire, appeared to be uncompromised. However, the characteristic hum of the warp drive seemed much louder and more high-pitched than what would be expected from a ship at full stop. Without sufficient coolant to stem the reaction, a failure of the antimatter containment could be imminent.

“Scotty, are you reading me?”

“Aye,” came the response from the communicator still strapped to Kirk’s belt.

“The engineering section is gutted…it’s a total loss. We have no computer control over anything.”

“You’ll have ta manually close the valves on the vertical intermix chamber,” Scotty said. “On the lower level, there’s an access panel in the floor on the aft side of the warp core, beneath the horizontal chamber. Right in front o’ the junction.”

“I read you, Scotty. Stand by.” Kirk swiftly shimmied down the ladder to the lower level. Aided by the ever-increasing light from the warp plasma in the core directly before him, he threw aside the floor panel and gripped the spokes of the wheel for the cut-off valve. He twisted it rapidly, despite a new awareness that he was growing quite fatigued.

“Jim,” Thelin broke onto the comm channel. “We’re reading an awful lot of radiation leakage throughout that section. It’s approaching dangerous levels.”

“Acknowledged,” Kirk replied as the wheel came to a halt in the closed position. “Intermix valves are closed.” He stood up, but perhaps too abruptly-his vision suddenly clouded, and his knees buckled. He dropped back to one knee. He found himself longing for some fresh air, as it seemed that he could not catch his breath.

The sounds of random chatter began to stream forth from the communicator. “No effect,” the voice of Thelin said. “The magnetic bottles are too far weakened. Containment is still failing.”

“Aye,