by Greg Bear
"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.
"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch your language."
"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.
"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she wants to do a story on the new sickbay."
"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with his arm. "Except my doubts."
Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister Mason … no, make that Miss Mason … at the captain's table in the officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."
"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost indetectable.
Chapter Three
The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment and not redecoration.
Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly, tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely sensitive skin of a Deltan—a chair which was sheer heaven for a human. Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betrayed Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic modern African ebony carvings.
Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the invitation to the captain's table for dinner. There was little time for anything beyond a quick cleanup.
She greatly appreciated the Enterprise's lavatory facilities. They were perhaps ten years more modern than the general run of bathrooms on Yalbo. She wondered how she'd adjust when they returned her to her home. Perhaps … and it was just an idle fantasy … perhaps this story would be her ticket to better things.
In the officer's mess, she seated herself at the end of the six-place table, where her name was illuminated in ghostly green beside a setting of ship's stainless and a dimpled plastic plate. It wasn't her style to be early, but she had miscalculated the time it would take her to get to the mess. The elevator—also called a "turbolift," she reminded herself—was very fast.
A few minutes later, officers began to come in.
From the pictures Uhura had shown her, she recognized the chief engineer, Scott; the chief helmsman, Sulu; the science and first officer, Spock, and the computer officer in charge of the monitors, Veblen. Seated at another table was an Andorran lieutenant, an expert in navigation, like many of his race. The sight of the Andorran and Spock made her stiffen. There were no aliens on Yalbo, only humans—no indigenous life forms, no visitors or advisors or tourists. She had heard stories from her mother and father about aliens carrying strange diseases, preaching strange and perverse philosophies … and while she had rejected much of that during her years in school, enough of it had taken to make her uneasy.
There was, first and foremost, Spock's severe handsomeness and his ears. The color of his skin—a warm, light brownish-green—was disconcerting, but not that unusual. She had met humans from other star systems who hadn't looked much different. But she knew. He was half human … half Vulcan. And he was seating himself at the same table, in the seat next to Kirk's on the right, directly across from her. While she examined Spock, Scott sat on her left. To Spock's right was a stocky, boyish-looking lieutenant who introduced himself as Jan Veblen.
Next came Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy sat at the end opposite Kirk's place, greeting her with a nod and a warm smile. "Welcome aboard," he said. She took to McCoy right away. He reminded her of her father—or rather, of her father on one of his better days. "I hope you're finding everything to your satisfaction."
"I haven't been aboard very long," she said. "It seems fine."
"The food here is quite tasty," McCoy said. "But I wouldn't order whatever Mr. Spock is having." Spock surveyed Mason coolly.
"Dr. McCoy is well aware I take my meals in my quarters. I am here purely for the social aspects of dinner with one's fellow officers."
"Spock is a very social fellow," McCoy added. Spock raised one eyebrow but said nothing more until the arrival of the captain. As Kirk approached the table, everyone in the mess rose. She slowly followed suit. Kirk approached her and held out his hand. "On behalf of the officers and crew, may I extend a formal welcome aboard the Enterprise?"
"My pleasure," she said. Kirk was roguishly handsome, perhaps forty-five or slightly older. He seemed fit and looked perhaps eight years younger. He took a seat at the head of the table. The rest of the officers resumed their seats and a mechanical steward began carrying a column of stacked plates from table to table, starting with theirs. "Tonight," McCoy said, "we have the boon of the ship's best New Orleans chicken gumbo. One of my favorites, if I must choose."
"We regret not having the time to visit your planet or allow any sort of liberty," Kirk said. "We've been quite pressed. Our last mission was a difficult one, and we'd have enjoyed the time off."
"Well, there's really not that much on Yalbo," she said. She so hated that name. As a girl, she had called it Yellow, which at least had the virtue of being descriptive. "For tourists or visitors, I mean."
"Just very fine engineers and excellent drydock facilities," Scott said enthusiastically.
"Yes, well, we're just about the only spacedock for a hundred parsecs. I imagine that's why you were instructed to come here."
Kirk nodded. "How long have you been a reporter?"
"Three years. On staff, that is. I'm also finishing my doctorate at Yalbo University of the Humanities." That sounds so provincial, she thought.
"The only FNS reporter on Yalbo?" McCoy ventured.
"There's my boss," she said. "His name's Evanric. He used to be …" She hesitated. "He's a very good reporter. He used to be a demolisher … ran a B and B machine … uh, Boring and Blasting. He's my taskmaster here. I mean, on Yalbo. He taught me most of what I know."
"We plan to spend a week on shakedown," Kirk said. "Though I imagine Mr. Scott would rather we spend a month."
"A week should do it this time, Captain," Scott said, taking a spoonful of the savory soup. "They didn't tear the guts out of her and make us stuff them back in. Only minor modifications."
"Minor if you stayed out of sickbay for three weeks," McCoy said.
"I assume you were briefed on what's happened to the Enterprise," Kirk said.
"I was given an outline. I'm here to fill in the rest."
"Perhaps Mister Veblen could help," Spock said. Before him on the table was carafe of cloudy water. He poured a glassful and sipped it reflectively.
"Certainly," Veblen said. He was a short, chunky man with blond hair cut shorter than regulation length, a bulbous nose, and penetrating, elfishly-upslanted green eyes. He had come aboard the Enterprise the year before to coordinate the upcoming monitor installation, serving first as Spock's assistant and chief computer officer. Though Veblen didn't look like the most representative Starfleet Academy graduate, Kirk had come to respect him—grudgingly, and with a healthy list of reservations. "The Enterprise is now outfitted with a Federation monitoring system. The Federation has been worried for years about the power of Starfleet vessels, and the possibilities of gross misuse, and not without justification … even within the captain's experience, as I've learned. There have been safeguards in the past, but nothing like these. The monitors are planned to eventually oversee all of ship operations. For this voyage, there are two basic systems—command, the largest, and medical, to oversee the new TEREC."
"Terec?" Mason asked.
"Transporter Emergency RECovery unit," McCoy explained.
"If and when the monitors decide that a Starfleet vessel is operatin
g in a manner not beneficial to the Federation's interests," Veblen continued, "they will take over until the situation has been normalized, or until the Enterprise has withdrawn from her difficulties. The command monitors contain the experience memories of six past Starfleet commanders whom the Federation regarded as superior in all categories. These surrogates are now machine combinatorial personalities, checking and rechecking with each other—"
"Bridge to Captain Kirk. Uhura here, Captain. We have an urgent message from Starfleet."
"Is there any other kind?" McCoy grumbled.
"They request an immediate answer."
"I'll be right up, Lieutenant." He pushed his chair back from the table. "Excuse the interruption. Please proceed."
Mason felt a little shiver of anticipation. "They can't leave us alone even for the space of a good meal," McCoy said, shaking his head.
Chapter Four
In the time it took Kirk to reach the bridge—less than two minutes—Uhura had a heads-up projector ready, aimed at the captain's chair, and scrambled channels on subspace open for his reply. Kirk took his seat. In less than a second, he was deep into the dispatch. The heads-up display projected an image into his eyes alone, and bone-resonance speakers in his neck brace fed him audio.
BuUnexTerr HighPri Message, Relay Starbase 19, Capt. James T. Kirk ONLY. "Kirk."
He recognized the voice of Admiral Hiram Kawakami, in charge of Starfleet's Bureau of Unexplored Territory.
"Captain, we've received a status geometry message from Octant 7, Black Box Nebula Station One. It took ten years for that message to reach the nearest Federation automatic relay buoy."
"I thought the Black Box station had been written off years ago," Kirk muttered.
"The message is partly visual. Here it is, Jim."
A strong-featured Vulcan face, with the deeper greenish-tan caste common to a purebred member of one of the old families, appeared before him, surrounded by what looked like an orderly communications center aboard a slightly under-funded research station. The display identified the Vulcan in bright red letters as Grake, a physicist, husband to T'Prylla. T'Prylla was well known, one of the finest Vulcan physicists and, Jim believed, related in some way to his own science officer—though precisely how, he couldn't remember. Vulcan family ties could be very complicated.
Grake was speaking High Vulcan, which the language implant at the base of Kirk's skull translated, matching Grake's intonations perfectly.
"Had we not a strong suspicion of something amiss, we would not be sending this preliminary message. With three protostars entering the main sequence within the Black Box Nebula, all subspace communication has been disrupted. Nevertheless—"
The signal faded and Kawakami's voice returned.
"We have high-speed equipment transmission, along with the interrupted visual. Science channel on that MC is very interesting. We now have a great deal more information on which to base our opinion of the ultimate fate of the Black Box station. Switch to high-speed ingest, Captain."
Kirk mentally adjusted his implant. His mind was immediately flooded with information. He cringed slightly; in some ways he was more afraid of technology than McCoy, especially technology which messed with the inside of his head. The ache left by high-speed information absorption didn't endear the process to him. Nevertheless, in a few seconds he was able to sort out the key facts.
The conversion of the Black Box Nebula from a dark cloud to a starwomb had not been sufficiently violent to destroy the research station. The sudden silencing of the station, and the fusion ignition of the infant stars, had inevitably been associated. Failure to re-establish contact had led Starfleet to send an unmanned rescue vessel to the nebula. When it disappeared without a trace, Starfleet deemed it inadvisable to mount a full-scale rescue mission—a decision Kirk personally had disagreed with. Still, he disliked second-guessing his superiors.
Grake's message was incomplete, but from his tone and manner, it seemed reasonable to assume that most of the station personnel—if not all—had survived. Still, there were unexplained problems. After the protostar ignition had run its course, the station should have been able to use sub-space. While there was a reference to high levels of Ybakra radiation in the science data, that couldn't interfere with sub-space unless there were previously uncharted sub-spacial mass anomalies in the area. It appeared the science data was incomplete, as well.
"Captain, most of the personnel aboard the station were kept in deep freeze. Our physicists say there's a strong possibility that Ybakra radiation from the vicinity of the collapsed protostars has degraded the myelin sheathing on the nerves of all frozen "sleepers" … and the Enterprise is the only starship presently equipped to deal with such a medical emergency."
Emergency! Not much of an emergency after ten years, Kirk thought. Still, if the sleepers hadn't been revived …
"Your orders are to proceed to the Black Box at maximum warp, relieve survivors—if any—and do a complete procedural and scientific investigation. All prior assignments are postponed. The Romulans and Kshatriyans have given permission for Enterprise to cross neutral zones in their vicinity, up to star date 4386.5, after which time Enterprise will be regarded as hostile and fired upon."
Cutting it close, Kirk thought. Even at Warp eleven, maximum without giving Scotty severe angina, it would take them two weeks to cross the galaxy into octant 7.
"Representatives from the Vulcan Spyorna have made their concern quite clear. T'Prylla is an extremely valuable Vulcan, Jim, even if something of a renegade."
The Admiral gave his formal sign-off as Kirk ordered all senior watch officers to the briefing room. He suggested Mason should be present. "Mr. Sulu to the bridge," he concluded, "and rig for prolonged warp maximum."
Mason took a seat in the corner of the room, watching the officers file in and making notes about their physical appearance and apparent mental states. One of the two FNS mobile recorders assigned to her for the story floated beside her, sensors and lenses extended. The recorder was an older model, a flat rectangular prism about fifty centimeters long and twenty wide.
When the senior watch officers had absorbed the information from the transmission, they sat attentively around the consoles and briefing table. Spock had lifted one eyebrow, seemingly for good, and intently examined a science display. McCoy made notes on his electronic scratchpad, while Scotty—much as Kirk had expected—shook his head and muttered.
"Any comments, gentlemen?" Kirk asked.
"Captain," Scott began.
"I am aware of condition of engineering, Mr. Scott," Kirk said. Then, softening, "But … I would appreciate an update."
"I was not expecting a prolonged warp maximum, Captain. E'en with our time in spacedock, we need at least a day at warp two for a Jeffries refit, or we could blow an entire bus in bottle seven. I've been nursing that one along until we could log travel time—it cannot be done stationary."
"Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where will we be when the refit becomes necessary?"
Scott looked distinctly uncomfortable. "We are seventeen days from the Black Box at maximum warp. If we go all out for the first part of our trip—"
"Which we will," Kirk said.
"Then we'll be right in the middle of the Kshatriyan neutral zone."
"Do what you can now. I'll give you four hours at warp two. We won't have the luxury later."
Scott knew better than to offer further argument. He nodded and stared darkly at his work forms.
McCoy was next. "The crew has been ridden hard, Jim. Our last mission was no piece of cake. Even with a month in drydock, we haven't had opportunity for liberty."
"So what can we do about it, Bones?"
McCoy shrugged. "Keep a stiff upper lip, as usual."
"Can we handle it?"
"Of course we can. But—"
"That's what I need to know. Mr. Spock, you're looking pensive."
Spock glanced up, eyebrow still raised. "The captain must be aware that I am a blood relat
ive of T'Prylla."
"Yes. I'd like that clarified, Spock."
"She is my father's second brother's daughter by his fourth trilya marriage. She is married to a former pupil of my first discipline master. This situation presents an interesting dilemma, Captain. By now, both T'Prylla and Grake have been ceremonially interred and their social positions refilled. If they are alive, they will have to compete for a new social position—"
"Were they mourned, Spock?" McCoy asked sarcastically.
Spock raised his other eyebrow. "That is not the dilemma. Why should the Spyorna have any further interest in a Vulcan they have officially decreed to be akspra—the follower of an inadequate philosophy? It is my guess the Spyorna is about to recognize T'Prylla's kind of logic as useful. This could be very important to Vulcans, Captain; moreso if she is still alive and can guide us in our progress."
"That's very interesting, Spock, but I'm really interested in your assessment of the difficulties involved in reaching the station."
Spock assented with a nod to one side. "The Black Box Nebula is one of seven hundred collapsing nebulae accessible to us, Captain. It is by far the largest and most complex, principally because of the extreme turbidity within the nebula proper. The three newly created stars are likely to become hot, middle-size B-class stars. If, as surmised, there are sub-spacial mass anomalies nearby, in their early years they will have released a tremendous amount of Ybakra radiation. Such radiation operates in a fractional space and is not dangerous to normal carbon-based life forms—unless they are in a frozen state associated with suspended animation. Bodily defenses are then incapable of making the minute but constant repairs necessary to the myelin sheaths which act as insulation in both human and Vulcan nerves."
"Which is where I come in," McCoy said. "If the sleepers haven't been revived, the new equipment in the sick bay might be able to save them. But there's a problem, Jim—"
"Was that all, Spock?"