by Greg Bear
"How old were you?"
"Oh, I hadn't even been born then. But my parents told me all about them. Some people would have starved if it hadn't been for Starfleet rescue ships."
"My father served on a rescue ship," Uhura said. "Maybe he came to Yalbo."
"Accepting charity was hard. My people were Hippies, you know. They wanted to be self-sufficient, to get away from the Galactic government and set up their own commune. Most came from the Martian mining towns originally. They needed the rescue ships, but they weren't glad to see them. We never have approved of military venturing."
"I thought Hippies were from the 20th century."
"Communes on Mars started them up again. People on Yalbo changed a lot of things. We're Humanists. We believe that everything in the Galaxy centers on human beings, and that all other species are subordinate."
Uhura made a face. "Doesn't sound like a very useful philosophy."
"It works well enough on a planet where there aren't any other species. And you have to admit, somebody like Spock takes a little getting used to."
Uhura stood and folded her arms. "Rowena, I don't suggest you try to apply Yalbo philosophies on a starship. We've been too many places, seen too many things. If you really want to know what we're all about, you might spend some time going through the ship's open log." She paused, then bent over the reporter. "I've met non-humans who make us look like worms. We crawl into their sight, and crawl out again, and the only reason they don't step on us is they aren't at all like us. Humans aren't the center of anything."
"I'm sorry," Mason said. "I don't have anything against other species, but I do believe humans are important."
"Important, yes. More important, no. Now let me get down off my soapbox and fix us some dinner. What would you like?"
They ate quietly, a little wary of each other. When the sleep period was over, Uhura rose and sprayed on her uniform in the cabin sonic shower. She stood by the door as Mason dressed. "I have the bridge watch until 1800 hours. Come by just before then and I'll show you what I do. Then we can catch dinner in the mess and watch some entertainments in the wardroom."
"Uhura," Mason said as the lieutenant was about to leave.
"Yes?"
"Do you have trouble sleeping during warp?"
"Heavens, no. Why?"
"Just wondering." Perhaps it was being away from Yalbo, away from the smells and company of the compounds. She felt so alone, so very much among strangers. If she let it, her isolation could easily depress her and begin to affect her work, and she would never stand for that.
And she was angry. Uhura was human; whatever her experiences, surely she felt more allegiance for humans than for other species! How would any species survive if it didn't feel more allegiance for its own kind? Did everyone on the Enterprise think Humanists were backwater reactionaries?
She checked over her equipment. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea to do some research in the ship's open log. She had fifteen more days before the Enterprise reached the Black Box, time in which to steep herself in the lore of Starfleet, in the history of the Enterprise—time in which to find a chink in all that self-righteous military armor.
Chapter Eight
WARNING! YOU ARE ENCROACHING UPON SECURITY SECTOR! UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY MAY RESULT IN PROSECUTION—
Spock sat before the monitors console in the computer control center and regarded the message on the screen with mild distaste. As far as he and Veblen had been able to tell, there was nothing against Starfleet regulations—or even against the monitors' codes—in what he was about to do. Still, the human designers had studded every aspect of the monitors' programming with warnings and ambiguous threats. He knew a way around the warning—a path was charted in the system instructions themselves—so he erased the screen and proceeded into the heart of the system, the memory banks which contained the experience memories of six Starfleet commanders.
Of the six, four were now dead and two had retired from active duty. One of the dead was a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever reach command rank in Starfleet, Admiral Harauk. Spock was very interested in Harauk's thoughts on certain matters, and from what he could tell, the monitors were perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to a certain degree. So long as Spock did not attempt to change the memory or tamper with the system in any way which would affect its function, the worst he was doing was affronting the monitors' sense of dignity—which was how he characterized the intent behind the messages. (Machines as complex as the monitors were often best dealt with in terms of quirks and personalities, especially when they had been designed by human beings.)
WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN—
Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over his head. He heard a distant hissing noise—not interference but the carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda Grayson of Earth. I am science and first officer aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise."
"Live long and prosper, Spock," came the reply. Harauk's voice was steady and even, though a little tinny. "Have the monitors been activated?"
"No, sir, they have not. I am asking questions of my own initiative."
"To what end, Spock?"
"The Admiral is well aware that the first concern of a Vulcan is his duty. My commanding officer is a human, Captain James T. Kirk. The humans have created and installed the monitors aboard Starfleet vessels, but I am not convinced they have used the greatest wisdom in doing so."
"Still, it is your duty to follow Starfleet regulations, as I do."
"And I will. But I also have a duty to my captain, a duty to discover whether or not the monitors will hinder his performance. And … I am interested in a Vulcan's response to the monitors."
"I cannot communicate to you as Vulcan to Vulcan, Spock. I am not alive in this system, I am merely an advisory program."
"It is advice that I have come for."
"Humans have been known for erratic behavior. At their best, they are less disciplined than even an inadequate Vulcan. They have created the monitors to circumvent possible difficulties with their own kind. I see nothing wrong with the idea in principle."
"But in execution?"
"I am not aware of the actual functioning of the system. Vulcans were involved in its creation, and the very best human designers worked hard on it for years. Still, it must be obvious that I approve of the idea in principle, since I agreed to be part of the system."
"And if a situation should arise which is outside the experience of the monitors—outside of the experience of the advisory programs?"
"That possibility has surely been taken into account. It is obvious that a starship commander will encounter unfamiliar situations."
Spock thought for a moment. "I am worried. The system has never proven itself in actual use, and I do not believe we are going into an ideal situation for such a test."
"Then there is only one thing for you to do."
"Yes?"
"Your duty is foremost."
"I am well aware of that, Admiral."
"Your duty is foremost."
No matter how Spock phrased and rephrased his questions, that was the only answer Harauk's experience memories could give. This was far from reassuring. Which duty was Harauk referring to—duty to captain, ship, Starfleet? Duty to obey the monitors?
No Vulcan supported a creed that bound him to self-destruction without purpose, or the destruction of others for the sake of duty alone. Obviously, Harauk's experience memory was trying to impress upon him the necessity of a hierarchy of duties. Among Vulcans, such a hierarchy was seldom necessary. But among humans, in this situation—
WARNING! THE CORRECT USE OF THE MONITORS DEPENDS UPON THE INTERACTION OF THE SIX EXPERIENCE MEMORIES CONTAINED WITHIN THE SY
STEM.
Spock returned the monitors to their normal mode and removed the direct com headphones. The door to the computer control center beeped and Veblen entered with a notepad in hand, busily making calculations. "Mr. Spock! You might be able to answer a question—"
"And you, Mr. Veblen, might be able to answer one as well."
Veblen stopped and stared at Spock, obviously nonplused. "Anything you wish, Mr. Spock."
"Your question first."
"Oh, it'll wait." Veblen was intrigued by the very possibility that the science officer would have a question to ask of him.
"I have not yet had an opportunity to study the monitors' failsafe operations. If they should malfunction, in the estimation of the officers and crew of a vessel, can they be disengaged?"
"Such a failure is highly unlikely, sir."
"That does not answer my question."
"I … don't know myself, sir."
"Then it is time we studied the failsafes in more detail, wouldn't you say?"
Veblen regarded Spock shrewdly. "Sir, if I may ask another question entirely—what is it you expect us to find in the Black Box?"
"I am like the Federation Interstellar Scouts, Mr. Veblen. I believe it is necessary to be prepared."
Mason had spent her life in the compounds of Yalbo, and did not find the corridors and spaces of the Enterprise completely unfamiliar. Still, there was something about the size of an enclosed, self-contained ship like the Enterprise which was awesome. There were few areas of the ship off-limits to her, and even fewer reaches where she was not allowed to go for reasons of safety, at least with an escort, so exploring became one of her favorite past-times.
Even as a child, she had been fascinated by the recesses of the compounds, places where unused equipment was stored, or where the automated processing plants hummed and chugged in lonely efficiency. When Ensign Chekov procured a plastic map of the ship for her, she looked forward to days of walking, crawling, climbing. With the story foremost in her mind, however, she visited the sickbay first.
Nurse Christine Chapel—an efficient, somewhat spinsterish woman still firmly holding on to her classic beauty—showed her the diagnostic beds, both older and newer models, and explained the organ farm. The organ farm—official name, the Genotype Conservancy Center—was a large bank of shiny gray cabinets at the rear of the sickbay. "It's the forerunner to the TEREC unit," Chapel explained. "We have genetic records on hand for every member of the crew. In case of injury, we can grow a new replacement for any body part—except, of course, those which are deeply personalized, like the brain. We can grow a brain, but it will be quite blank. The major advancement in the TEREC is that we can replicate the present individual. And while you're here, you might as well make your contribution …"
With her fear of needles, it took some self-control not to protest when Chapel brought out a biopsy tomer. The nurse deftly and painlessly removed a section of cells from the inside of her cheek and closed the tiny gap with an electronic suture.
"We'll put this in the organ farm, and—heaven forbid!—if anything unfortunate happens, you'll have some insurance on file."
Chapel thought it would be best if McCoy gave her a tour of the TEREC itself, and McCoy was busy "playing poker with the monitors," as Chapel described it. "He's like a cardshark with a new victim. He should be human again in a few days."
Is it possible the Enterprise personnel are taking delight in finding ways to circumvent the monitors? Mason wrote in her notepad.
On some of her sojourns, she brought along the FNS recorder and made short documentaries of various ship activities. She expended an entire fifteen minutes of recorder file time on games played by the crew in the gym. Highly competitive, she noted, the Enterprise crewmembers take delight in testing each other, and exhibiting their own prowess. While there is little braggadocio, per se, there is a firm commitment to doing one's best in all circumstances. In team activity, the degree of cooperation is impressive. Teams can be reshuffled at will, and yet the players mesh instantly and seamlessly, as if they have been mates all their lives—as indeed they have, where shipboard lives are concerned.
Chief Engineer Scott was only too glad to show off the engineering decks. During an hour off duty, he took her on a single-minded "spelunking expedition" (his term) through the access tubes and maintenance corridors of the ship's impulse power plant. She held her hand, at his insistence, on the outer shield of one of the huge, oblate "bottles" where matter and antimatter were precisely mixed, and felt the indescribable tingle of controlled total destruction. She recorded—though she knew it would never pass FNS muster—his technical description of power plant theory, but was more interested in his summing up. "We could travel from one end of the universe to the other, if we could only fine tune our understanding of what we already have …" He shook his head and smiled. "She's a lovely engine, but I've seen engines on alien ships which make her look like a bicycle chain, and I'm the monkey pedaling. What a wouldna ha' gi'en just to peek at the manuals o' one of those!"
When McCoy finally got around to showing her the TEREC, she was somewhat disappointed. The doctor explained the basic operation of the unit, and touched briefly on how it was integrated with the monitors, but smiled when Mason asked if he believed the monitors would cause him difficulties.
"I'm working on it." he said, and would say no more.
While Spock and McCoy tried to understand the function of the monitors, and while Mason toured and took notes, the starship Enterprise rode a shock-wave of warped spacetime above and through ribbons of stars and interstellar gas clouds, across galactic arms and obscured abysses, at speeds too great to be entirely real. Through the mysteries of advanced physics, she shed her natural tardiness in scattered, dissipating ghosts and sleeked across realms incomprehensible to the minds of most of those inside her hull.
Within two weeks, sensors could easily reconstruct the looming shape of the Black Box Nebula, no longer entirely dark. Mason, looking at the nebula on the screen in Uhura's cabin, thought she detected a sinister resemblance in the nebula's new aspect.
Where the light of the protostars shined through, it outlined three distinct, clawed talons. As the Enterprise approached, hour by hour the talons seemed to spread wider.
Then the reaches of the nebula closed around them, and the Enterprise and her crew were drawn back to genesis itself.
Chapter Nine
Station One was now embedded in a twisted strand of gas and dust at the nebula's perimeter. The Enterprise advanced through the clouds at less than one quarter lightspeed; any faster, and the buffeting of the diffuse nebula material would be dangerous. Uhura attempted to contact the station numerous times, without result. The nebula's brilliant shapes and patterns, seen from several dozen light years out, were now reduced to a constant transparent glow which bathed the Enterprise in dreamlike purple light.
Kirk examined the readouts on the forward screen, not at all happy with what he saw. Spock stood at his side. The Enterprise was on alert and the bridge was fully crewed. Mason stood near the elevator, recorder hovering nearby. "It looks like we've come here for nothing," Kirk said. Spock did not disagree. Graphs laid over the display of the tiny planetoid which had once held Station One showed no signs of life whatsoever, and the Enterprise had scanned the world from all sides.
"Unless there was a failure in the life support systems of the station itself," Spock said, "the condition of the planetoid gives us no reason to suspect any further harm could have come to them."
"Then maybe they're shy," McCoy said.
"Serious suggestions are what I need now, Bones." He glanced at Mason and was annoyed to find her noting his words on her pad. He was annoyed, in fact, that he was being recorded at all, but as McCoy had said often since their journey began, he alone was to blame for Mason's presence. He could have defied Starfleet; it probably would have resulted in a fracas, hard words here and there, but he would have prevailed. No; he strongly suspected that he had an
ulterior motive for wanting her aboard. If the monitors failed miserably, an objective observer would record the failure.
And if he failed miserably—
McCoy was in the middle of a sentence when Kirk resumed listening. "—so I concur with Spock. There's no evidence the environment in the nebula was any harsher after the ignition than during."
"Mr. Veblen," Kirk said. The computer officer stepped forward smartly. "What do our computers say?"
"If you're asking for the results of the stochastic algorithm—"
"I am."
"I haven't had much time to enter these findings, sir. I can do so, and the algorithm can be reselected."
"I'm curious to know what the algorithm came up with before we arrived."
"Sir, three possibilities were presented. Two were clearly in error—"
"Oh? Spock?"
"Mr. Veblen is referring to deviants which the computers themselves later rejected as unlikely. One referred to the take-over of the station by an outside force. The other considered the madness and suicide of all the station members. Neither of these possibilities were taken seriously in the final selection."
"The third scenario is quite interesting, Captain," Veblen said. "One or more of the Vulcan researchers aboard the station has been affected by the Ybakra radiation—"
"Vulcans are less capable of adapting to heavy doses of Ybakra," Spock said, "just as they are not as well suited to cold as humans are. Still, the differences are minor."
"—and has suffered a mental breakdown. The scenario diverges at this point. Either the other members of the team have been imprisoned, or—and this could be more likely, if we adjust the algorithm to the new findings—they have been murdered."
Kirk frowned. "I'm not sure I like your algorithm, Mr. Veblen. Spock, let's sweep the planetoid again. After that, a boarding party will assemble with full environmental gear and portable shields in the main transporter room."