by Diane Carey
And even worse, what's the excuse for denying that
training to someone who was born to need it? Why
would they do that to him? A half-trained Vulcan could
go mad just trying to fill in the gaps."
She looked at me, and I could see her mind working
as she tried to slowly reassess the information that had
flashed by us in truncated form. Years and years of
relentless mind training encapsulized on a computer
screen, yet every bit as burdensome as those big
words and wide concepts implied. Merete tipped her
head, feathery brows lowering. "Is that what you
think might have happened to Sarda?"
Silence this time was a noisy answer.
"Piper, you saved him from it," she said. "You set
him up with Mr. Spock, and Spock arranged for a
Vulcan teacher for him. It's only a matter of time
BOW."
"No, not now," I snapped. "Now is the whole
issue. Now, he's in some kind of trouble, and it
doesn't make sense. Espionage? That's not Sarda. Not
a healthy Sarda, anyway. Maybe . . ." I paused,
hunting for the hurt, "maybe I was too late. Maybe,
when he went back into training with another Vulcan,
it was too much. Maybe he snapped."
Instantly Merete got up and stepped out into the
skinny corridor to the food dispenser and came back
with two cups of steaming coffee, sweet, with cream.
She pressed my fingers around one of the cups, then
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sat down very slowly, taking every last possible sec-
ond to let time slide between me and my paranoia.
"Piper, listen to me," she said. "You could be right."
I looked up. "What?"
"You could be right." Her tone was tolerant, not
patronizing. "But don't rule out another possibility.
There are still many things about this that we simply
don't know yet. And one run through the computer
library about Vulcan training doesn't make either of us
experts on Vulcans. We're not Vulcans. It may be as
normal for them as learning to fly a skimmer is to us."
"Then why was it tearing him apart?" My palm
connected with the bulkhead. In my other hand, the
coffee sloshed. "What's he doing in the middle of this,
Marete? Did he snap?"
She shrugged one shoulder and sipped her coffee.
She swallowed deliberately, stalling for more time.
Her rotten tactic was working too. I was starting to
realize the truth in her words, and the damning fact
that I would just have to wait.
"What do you think?" Merete asked after several
long moments. "What do you really believe?"
More moments. They were beginning to sap me dry.
Kill me, but don't make me wait anymore.
"I don't know," I murmured, staring. Coffee steam
wreathed my face.
I was rescued from myself by the intercom whistle,
and Scanner's voice coming on before I could re-
spond.
"Piper, we've got a ship on scope. Approaching
rapidly, no identification, no signals, won't answer a
hail, and the design is unfamiliar. You want me to slow
down?"
I dived for the intercom button and mashed it. "No!
Don't touch anything. Does Rex have shields?"
"Kinda. Enough to put off maybe one phaser shot.
We just didn't figure--"
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"Put them up. Don't alter course or speed. I'll be
right there !"
Whoever it was, they had a fast ship. In the few
seconds it took Merete and me to skim through the
Rex's walkways, the triangular gold and red shuttle
had pulled alongside and was matching our speed.
"Anything?" I asked.
Dr. McCoy, who had been lounging in the captain's
chair, wheeled out of it and out of my way in the same
movement. "Not a peep. Yet."
"No classification on that design, Scanner?"
He looked nervous. "Nope." The communications
receiver hung in his ear as he stared, shoulders
hunched, out the portal at the large shuttle. "Beats me
what it is."
"What they are," I corrected. Anticipation hung on
me like sweat. No... that really was sweat. Sticky. A
captain shouldn't be sticky. Damn. "Ship to ship."
"Channel open. Fire away."
I cleared my throat. "This is the S.S. Banana Re-
public requesting your identification and purpose.
Translator is tied in. Please respond."
The board crackled on my echo. The massive gold
wing dwarfed our main viewing portal, making us all
strain upward to see it. It was imposing, and we felt
adequately imposed upon.
Scanner stiffened. "Something .yeah. . .
static..."
"Pull it in." I knew he was trying, but I still had to
say it.
Merete and Dr. McCoy huddled together near the
port viewing slots, peering out at the unidentified
vessel, their silence an ominous reminder of the un-
avoidable dangers humankind had given to ourselves
when we first ventured out into space. We could live in
space, we could keep ourselves alive with the most
75
basic of methods, but we could never be completely
safe.
Scanner listened, lightly touching the audio receiver
in his ear. "They're requesting visual contact."
I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.
"Visual on."
The screen flickered, an ominous instant of seeing
the screen superimposed against the unidentified ship
that hung half-visible beside our bridge portal. Then it
settled down to a somber, elegant face, familiar in its
saturnine reserve.
"Spock!" McCoy blurted. Yet I could tell he wasn't
altogether surprised.
While Kirk's face was built on curves and McCoy's
on squares, Spock's features were a montage of trian-
gularities framed by trim black hair and those orna-
mental Vulcan ears. The flush of comfort I felt at the
sight of him was banked by fresh thoughts of Sarda.
"Permission to come aboard, Commander," he re-
quested.
"By all means, come aboard," I said.
"Thank you. I shall arrange hookup and be there
momentarily. Spock out." The screen went blank.
Merete reached over for a generous squeeze on my
forearm. "Time for answers," she said quietly.
Scanner grunted. "Good, 'cuz we sure got the ques-
tions."
We waited with false patience as Spock organized
his shuttle to dock with Banana Republic. His ship
moved out of our main view, now visible only through
the ribbed portals on the side of the ship. Rex moaned
and bumped hollowly as the ships joined and the
breezeway was sealed off and pressurized. By the time
the starboard loading-dock door slid open, we were
already there, waiting.
The doors parted. Commander Spock stepped in.
We gaped at him. He no longer wore his usual Star
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Fleet colors. This was an altogether different Spock. A
dun-colored cowl framed his jaw
line, his shoulders
broadened by a burgundy thigh-length cape. His lean
form was even further elongated by dark azur e vel-
vet--a belted tunic. Those, simple leggings, and calf-
wrap boots made him look like a planet-traipsing ven-
dor or someone out of a medieval story, depending on
who was doing the imagining. Only his fluid dignity
reminded us that he was who he was. That and the fact
that he carried a handful of computer cartridges--
cookies to feed Rex's new main frame library.
"Sir," I began, "you're..."
"Out of uniform," McCoy supplied boldly.
Spock looked at him with an almost quizzical twin-
kle in his eyes. "Astute reckoning, Dr. McCoy," he
drawled. He strode onto my bridge, the cape swinging.
"A gift from the Organians some time ago."
"Thought that getup looked familiar," McCoy re-
plied.
"It proved convenient," Spock said. He obviously
didn't care for his current apparel in lieu of Star Fleet
issue. "Once on Argelius, we must not divulge our
military attachments. Our mission there requires that
we travel incognito."
McCoy frowned. "You mean I'm going to have to
dress like that?"
Spock had been scanning the bridge controls as
though to refamiliarize himself with them, but now he
straightened and natled the doctor with his gaze again.
"Doctor, I am actually anticipating the spectacle."
I felt my eyes widen, and ridiculously squinted in an
attempt to curb it. McCoy folded his arms and cocked
his head, but said nothing more about Spock's unlikely
raiment.
Spock deposited his computer spools on Rex's main
navigational board and turned to me, markedly casual
in spite of the circumstances. His presence, entirely
unforeseen as it was, had a pronounced effect on mo--
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a rush of apprehension, curiosity, the sense of teeter-
ing on some tightly stretched wire just about to fall into
a pile of very spiny answers. I might know soon what
was going on, but I was ready to bet I'd come out with
bruises.
"Sir," I began, "can you tell me what's going on?"
He frustrated me and entertained McCoy with a
thoroughly Vulcan response "Yes."
My palms started to get moist. I rubbed them
against the ivory fabric of my flight suit and licked my
lips. McCoy surveyed me, rolled his eyes, and mur-
mured, "You'll get used to it."
"Thank you, Doctor," Spock said tersely. "I shall
explain fully once I've released the navigational pro-
gramming to Commander Piper's control. It will be
necessary to have manual control to maneuver into
orbit."
Scanner coughed and hid behind Merete.
I didn't have anybody to hide behind. Although I do
confess to a quick glance around the bridge for any
handy camouflage.
McCoy came once again to life, approaching Spock
with a noticeable swagger. "Don't bother, Mr.
Spock."
Spock rewarded him with a perplexed gaze and
waited patiently for the explanation McCoy was bub-
bling to give. I think my feet were sweating by then,
too, but they were too numb to tell.
"The controls are all freed up," McCoy said. A grin
tugged at his lips.
Spock's brows lowered. "I... beg your pardon?"
"Free. Unlocked. Piper did it."
Any previous beliefs that a Vulcan couldn't be
stricken speechless were quickly flushed. Spock held
his gaze on McCoy for a moment of incredulity, then
turned to the controls, spidering one square-fingered
hand over them, and ran headlong into one of the
snags of being Vulcan. Surprise flared, tempted him,
78
pushed up one Panish eyebrow, then fied. "Remark-
able," he uttered. When he turned to face me, he was
in control again.
However, that didn't stop his expression from freez-
ing my blood.
"I'm impressed, Commander, though mystified," he
admitted. "How did you manage it?"
"She outhumaned you, Spock," McCoy crowed,
delighted.
Spock appeared annoyed--and I use the word ten-
derly. He looked one more time at the navigation
board, as one looks at a pet who suddenly turned wild.
After a steadying moment, he breathed deeply and
said, "Obviously there was some element I failed to
consider. I shall anticipate your giving me a full
description, Commander, once our mission is com-
pleted."
Whew! Lifted off the hook by the Vulcan sense of
priority. I started to feel my feet again. "Yes, sir.
Won't you sit down?"
It was clearly an invitation to do more than relax.
Spock knew that, and swiveled his chair to face us all.
I settled into the helm chair beside him, while the three
others took passenger seats, and we became---pardon
the punwall ears.
"Captain Kirk was apprised of the current situation
by Dr. Boma," Spock said, typically direct, "who,
you'll recall, was involved in the science behind the
dreadnought project."
"Believe me," I said with guttural inflection, "I
remember."
"Doubtless." Spock nodded, and not without empa-
thy. He spoke to me with an easy clemency he could
only have learned from humans, and only have
learned to express without Vulcan shame after years of
hard experiences among humans. As he spoke, I was
the one to be impressed. "Those involved with the
dreadnought project were a select few," he went on.
"The late Vice Admiral Rittenhouse used only people
he trusted or people whose expertise he could not do
without. He tried to keep his choices to a minimum."
"And the minimum included Sarda?" I guessed.
"Yes," his voice rumbled, giving away his inner-
most regrets. "Lieutenant Sarda's innovative skill
with weapons technology made him indispensable to a
man who was trying to trigger a galactic conflict.
Rittenhouse wanted Sarda's image projector. Along
with Sarda, there were three others in the dread-
nought's special science team who were not killed
aboard Rittenhouse's ship when it exploded." He
slipped one of the library cookies into the slot and
touched the controls lightly. A picture blinked
onscreen, a dignified black man with a iongish face and
cutting eyes, his age shown only by a frost of silver at
his temples. "Dr. Samuel Boma, of course, who devel-
oped the dreadnought's actual hull material and struc-
tural design. Charges of conspiracy against him have
been greatly reduced due to his cooperation with Star
Fleet of late." Spock tapped the controls again and the
face changed. A woman this time, human, midfifties.
Her hair was pitch-black, short but shaggy, framing a
translucent complexion and small blue eyes. She
looked like she could be many things, none of them
scientific.
; "Professor Ursula Mornay of the University of Tar-
rigor, Altair Six," Spock introduced. "She perfected
the theory for transwarp, and is one of the top theo-
rists in the Federation. Professor Mornay is known for
her unscrupulous behavior. We believe she is the key
agent. The determinant." "Of what sir?"
He swiveled his chair to face me again, shifting our
attention from the viewscreen to his words. Every-
thing he did, every movement, smacked of poignance
for us who had been waiting. "The transwarp technol-
ogy has been stolen."
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He said it so simply that its full implication didn't hit
any of us at first. Seeing that, he went on. "Mornay
contacted Boma with an ultimatum. She said she and
the 'others' were appropriating all information about
transwarp and evacuating their lab."
McCoy leaned forward. "But why?"
Spock had anticipated the simple question and was
right there with an answer. "Mornay is a subversive.
She has never displayed loyalty to any system or
person, and has accepted funding from dubious
sources, intent only on her own personal advance-
ment. She is known for her contempt of governmental
systems."
"The Federation government?" McCoy asked.
"Any government, Doctor. She is not particu-
lar."
"Then why was she working on a top project like
this?"
"Because, Doctor, she developed the theories."
"And nobody watched her more closely?"
With a Vulcan version of a sigh, Spock carefully
outlined the reason. "Until now, she has done nothing
overtly threatening. Therefore, she has enjoyed safe
haven as a Federation citizen and scientist. She was,
however, openly committed to Rittenhouse and his
plan to aggregate the galaxy into one ideology. She
fears for her life and status now that Rittenhouse is
dead. This is her attempt to preserve that status."
I leaned forward, barely able to keep from clawing
the arms of my chair. "She means to ransom the
transwarp technology?"
"Virtually. And more. The scientists intend to
throw it open for purchase by any bidder, knowing the
galactic powers will welcome such opportunity and
that the Federation dares not allow itself to be outbid.
Unfortunately, Professor Mornay's understanding of