Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  Arens repeated Zihl’s gesture. “I hope you enjoyed the tour, such as it was.”

  “The fastest five minutes you’ll ever spend,” Hebert replied, reaching up to brush a lock of her dark hair away from her eyes. As though attempting to decipher the meaning of the first officer’s words, Zihl’s expression changed to what Arens thought might be a look of confusion.

  “What she means is that because our ship is so small, such tours often don’t take that much time,” he said, before offering another smile. Starfleet linguistic experts had done a phenomenal job creating a database from which universal translation protocols assisted in communicating with the Dolysian people, using more than one hundred of their known languages. Despite such an achievement, bridging the gap with respect to odd turns of phrase unfamiliar to one party or the other would always present a challenge.

  Boma added, “On the other hand, it’s easy to keep clean.”

  Archer-class scouts were designed for speed, their missions entailing getting in and out of places in a hurry and often working in stealth. Their size made them ideal for clandestine surveillance duties, such as monitoring activities along borders separating Federation territory from that of rival powers such as the Klingon and Romulan empires. The Huang Zhong, like her sister vessels of this type, possessed few frills or creature comforts for its fourteen-person crew to enjoy. Commander Hebert, like the ship’s other female crew members, wore the female officer’s version of uniform tunic and trousers rather than the skirt variant. Given the vessel’s lack of turbolifts, the uniform choice made for traversing the ship’s ladders and crawl spaces in a more dignified manner.

  Even billet space aboard the Huang Zhong was at a premium, with only the captain and first officer entitled to a private cabin. As for the rest of the ship’s complement, though each of them was formally assigned to one of the four remaining crew compartments, each room only possessed one berth, necessitating the practice of “hot-bunking,” or sharing the beds by virtue of working and sleeping during different duty shifts. Given the often fluctuating nature of life aboard ship, any open bunk was fair game to anyone when their off-duty shift came around. The situation was tolerable, because most of the Huang Zhong’s missions were of limited duration and were interspersed with rotations at the ship’s home station, Starbase 23. That the crew was one of the most tight-knit groups with which Arens had ever served also went a long way toward defusing any problems that might arise from being stuffed into such a compact vessel for lengthy periods of time.

  Remember that, Arens warned himself, when Hebert sticks you with the bar tab our first night back in port.

  Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, Zihl nodded. “As I said, the commander is an excellent guide. Your technology is wondrous, particularly your engines which allow you to travel faster than light.” She paused, glancing toward the viewscreen. “Such feats are only fodder for stories to my people. Our attempts at interstellar travel must seem so quaint to you, but I hope that one day we too will be able to move among the stars as you do.”

  “You will,” Hebert replied, “one day.”

  Zihl said, “We have been told by your diplomatic envoys that it is atypical for your Federation even to interact with a weaker species such as mine until after we have reached that technological milestone.”

  “Not weaker,” Boma countered, his tone light and respectful, “just less advanced. Our laws prohibit us from revealing ourselves to such a culture, or to interfere with it, except in very special circumstances.”

  When Zihl’s expression once again conveyed her lack of understanding, Arens added, “We believe that every society has the right to develop on its own, without influence from outside parties such as ourselves.”

  “That seems like a noble sentiment,” Zihl replied, “though I suspect such a philosophy would be problematic from time to time, such as with my people. I am grateful you chose to make an exception on our behalf.”

  Though the budding relationship between Dolysia and the Federation was continuing to grow and prosper since formal first-contact protocols had been initiated fourteen months earlier, the initial meeting between the two almost did not come to pass. Only fortunate happenstance had seen to it that the U.S.S. Resolute, a Starfleet border patrol ship on assignment several sectors away from the Kondaii system in Federation space, crossed paths with a Dolysian cargo freighter adrift in space.

  “It was a pretty bold experiment,” Boma said, “converting that old freighter into a sleeper ship.”

  Zihl nodded. “I imagine you find such notions rather simplistic, given your ability to travel faster than light itself.”

  “Not at all,” Hebert replied. “Hibernation ships are a normal first step when developing interstellar travel. Our planet did the same thing, hundreds of years ago.”

  “Ours was an experiment,” Zihl said, “testing whether long-term cryogenics would be a feasible means of traveling to the other planets in our system. I am not familiar with the specifics of the mission, but I do not believe interstellar flight was a goal, at least not so early in the process.”

  Arens recalled what he had been told of the Dolysians’ initial forays into long-duration spaceflight. A trio of scientists had volunteered to be placed in hibernation for a period of several years while the vessel transited the Kondaii system. During the flight, an error in the ship’s onboard computer system caused an unplanned ignition of the vessel’s engines, sending the freighter on a trajectory that eventually sent it out of the system and into interstellar space. Engineers on Dolysia remained in contact with the ship for a time while frantic plans were considered in order to attempt a retrieval. Though contact with the vessel was sporadic, a minor update to the computer’s software allowed the computer to extend the crew’s planned hibernation cycle. As the ship continued to travel farther away, a more extensive update to alter its course and redirect it back toward Dolysia failed, taking with it any hope—realistic or otherwise—of rescue.

  Several years later, the Resolute’s sensors had picked up the ship, registering its low, battery-generated power readings and what was determined to be a distress signal. Upon intercepting the stricken vessel for closer investigation and then detecting life signs aboard, the Resolute’s captain made the decision to render assistance, resulting in the first Federation-Dolysian meeting. After the captain made her report to Starfleet Command, a decision was made to send a Federation first-contact team with the Resolute when it towed the freighter back to the Kondaii system.

  “Captain,” a female voice called out from behind him, and Arens turned to where his helm officer, Lieutenant T’Vrel, sat at her station. “Sensors are registering a vessel emerging from the rift.”

  “One of the ore freighters?” Arens asked, redirecting his attention back to the main viewscreen.

  The Vulcan did not reply at first, leaning forward in her seat to peer into the scanner that had extended upward from her console. Then, she said, “Affirmative, sir.”

  “I’ve been waiting to see this,” Boma said, moving back to his own station. “I want to monitor the energy readings from the rift as a ship passes through.”

  “So,” Arens said, unable to resist the opening his science officer had provided him, “we’re calling it a rift again?”

  “Quiet, sir,” Boma replied. “People are working here, and you’re distracting them.”

  Hebert smiled. “I assume that was said with all due respect?”

  “If it makes you feel better.” As he bent over his console and looked into his station’s scanner viewport, Boma’s face was bathed in the soft blue glow emanating from the instruments.

  Arens turned back to Zihl. “Advisor, how many of these cargo runs do your freighters make while the rift is open?” He glanced over his shoulder at Boma as he asked the question, but the younger man either had not heard him or was choosing not to react to the gentle needling.

  “Each season is different,” the Dolysian replied, “and we always endeavor t
o establish and maintain a safety deadline, after which no ships are permitted to transit the Pass. For as long as my people have known about the energy field and Gralafi, we have been able to predict within a margin of error when the Pass will open and close.” She paused, then added, “Of course, there have been a few miscalculations, as well, but those were long ago, and infrequent.”

  Hebert asked, “You’ve had ships in transit when the rift’s closed?”

  The advisor nodded, bowing her head. “A few times, yes. On those occasions, the ship making the journey was destroyed.”

  “And nothing can penetrate the field after that?” Boma asked.

  “That is correct, Lieutenant,” Zihl replied. “When my people first perfected space travel, we sent automated probes to the energy field, followed by larger ships piloted remotely from ground stations on my planet. In every case, the vehicles were lost. So far as our technology can determine, the field is impenetrable except for when the Pass is open.”

  Arens could not help imagining the Huang Zhong in such a situation. Not liking where his musings were taking him, he returned his gaze to the viewscreen, watching as the freighter emerged from the energy field and into normal space. Having been born into a family of low-warp, long-distance cargo haulers with a history going back to the earliest days of the Federation more than a century earlier, it was easy for him to see that the vessel had been constructed with function and practicality taking a priority over aesthetics. The ship was comprised of a forward section, which likely held the navigational and other control areas as well as crew berthing, and an aft segment from which protruded a quartet of engine bells that provided the ship’s propulsion and expended waste products from whatever it used as a propellant. The two sections were linked by a long support pylon that Arens figured must contain crawl spaces and other work areas, and beneath which were connected six modular containers of differing colors. Even from this distance, Arens could see that the ship and its components were well-worn, with missing paint or no paint at all, replaced hull plates, and other signs of age and constant use.

  “By the time the Pass closes again,” Zihl said, “enough erinadium will have been obtained to supply the energy needs of my entire planet for one of your years. Combined with the other mining facilities we have operating on our planet’s two moons as well as other sources of production on Dolysia itself, we are able to meet our energy requirements with ease.”

  Arens nodded. “It’s an impressive operation, that’s for sure. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything like it; not on this scale, and certainly not with the added wrinkle of only being able to get the ore to your planet every three years.” Then, he shrugged. “On the other hand, I suppose you’ve had plenty of time to iron out all the wrinkles.”

  Seeing the renewed look of confusion on Zihl’s face, he was about to explain the idiom when Boma called out from his science station.

  “Captain,” he said, lifting his face away from his scanner’s viewfinder. “You should have a look at this. Based on what we’ve been told about how stable the conduit is and how it doesn’t seem to react to ships passing through it, I didn’t expect to pick up any sensor fluctuations, but that’s exactly what I’m seeing here.”

  Frowning, Arens asked, “You caught something as the freighter was coming through?”

  Boma nodded. “The rift does react to the passage of ship traffic, but not in any way that’s immediately noticeable. Look.” He tapped a series of controls on his console, and one of the overhead screens began to display what Arens recognized as a computer-generated graphic of the energy field. “I don’t know how to describe it except to say that it was sort of a rippling effect. I was able to pick it up on this side of the rift, but then our sensor beams scattered again. From what I can tell, the effect started from the other side and worked its way in this direction, tracking with the freighter’s course. It’s only a minor deviation from the readings I’ve collected to this point, but it was still enough to catch our attention.”

  “Advisor,” Hebert said, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Has this sort of thing ever happened before?”

  “Not that I know of, Commander,” Zihl replied. “Though our monitoring devices possess nothing approaching the ability of your equipment, no probe we have ever dispatched to study the Pass has ever discovered anything which might hint at its being unstable.”

  “This probably sounds like a stupid question,” Hebert said, “but could any disruption or whatever you want to call it be caused by our sensors?”

  Boma replied, “I don’t think so, Commander. We’ve been conducting full sensor sweeps since we got here. This is the first indication of anything out of the ordinary.” He shrugged. “To be honest? I don’t think it’s an instability. It’s almost as if the field was . . . I don’t know . . . sweeping over the freighter as it passed.”

  “Like some sort of scan?” Arens asked. “But that would mean . . .”

  “It’d mean the field isn’t a natural phenomenon,” Boma finished. “If that’s the case, then it’s not like anything on record. Captain, we need to check this out.”

  Arens nodded. “Agreed.” What might such a revelation mean, particularly for the Dolysians? As interesting as chasing down this mystery sounded to him, the captain knew he needed to proceed with care. Prudence was a fine watchword, at least for the moment, but that did not mean sitting idle. “Would it help if we got you a little closer?” Arens asked.

  “It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” the science officer said. “We were planning to take a look at the other side, anyway.”

  Turning to Zihl, Arens said, “Advisor, would you be able to obtain the necessary permissions to allow my ship to enter the Pass?”

  Zihl replied, “Certainly.”

  Arens nodded, his anticipation at the thought of getting to see firsthand whatever might lay beyond the rift tempered with concern over what Boma’s sensor readings might be trying to tell them. Could he and his ship be responsible—without malice but through simple ignorance—for introducing some new, random element into whatever mix had conspired to create and sustain the enigmatic energy field before them? Had they endangered the planet it shielded, along with the resources that world possessed and upon which the Dolysian people had come to depend?

  Despite his conflicting and troubling thoughts, Arens could not help the mounting excitement he felt as he regarded the main viewscreen and the image of the anomaly. “Okay, then. Let’s go have ourselves a look.”

  TWO

  James Kirk stared across the table, schooling his features to match the implacable expression on the face of his first officer. Spock, as always, offered no overt clues, but Kirk also could discern no subtle hints or unconscious facial tics or eye movements; nothing that offered the slightest insight into what the Vulcan might be thinking. The best Kirk could do was match his friend’s unreadable expression, and see how the next moments played out.

  “What do you want to do, sir?” asked Montgomery Scott from where he sat to Kirk’s left, eyeing him with unrestrained amusement. On the table before him was a partially depleted deck of playing cards, on top of which the Enterprise’s chief engineer had placed a blue poker chip.

  Staring at Spock over the five cards he and the first officer each held in their hands, Kirk did not move his eyes as he replied, “Don’t rush me.”

  “I think he’s bluffing,” Scott said, offering a mischievous grin.

  Sitting across the table from the engineer and holding cards of his own, Leonard McCoy snapped, “You had your chance, and you folded. Now give the man time to think, why don’t you?” Then, he reached toward Kirk and tapped the table next to his friend’s elbow. “I don’t mean to rush you, Captain, but would you mind hurrying the hell up?”

  “What happened to giving me time to think?” Kirk asked, unable to resist a small smile even though he did not direct his gaze to McCoy.

  The ship’s chief medical officer cleared his throat, then reached for the glass of bra
ndy sitting on the table near his right arm. “That was until you decided to make a career out of this. I’ve performed operations that didn’t take this long.” He punctuated his statement by raising his glass in mock salute before sipping the brandy. After the current hand’s opening round of betting and drawing of cards from Scott, who had volunteered to be the dealer for the evening’s session, Spock had with no hesitation bet a few of the blue chips stacked before him on the table—the equivalent of twenty Federation credits—and McCoy had matched the wager. Though the chips had no real monetary value, in keeping with standing policy aboard ship prohibiting actual gambling, Kirk still remembered the physician’s blunt opinions regarding the matter on the first occasion the officers had assembled for poker: “You can’t play poker without poker chips. That’s against the law, and if it’s not then it damned well ought to be.”

  “I thought you said patience was a virtue, Bones?” Kirk said, reaching for his own stack of chips and selecting a few without taking his eyes from Spock.

  McCoy snorted. “I never said that.”

  Across the table, Scott countered, “I’d stake my life on having heard you say that very thing, Doctor.”

  “Keep it up, and a hearing test will be only the first stage of a very prolonged, uncomfortable physical for the both of you.” The comment was loud enough to elicit laughter not only from Kirk and Scott, but also from other crew members seated at nearby tables or standing near the recreation room’s bank of food synthesizers. For the first time, Kirk realized that their friendly game had acquired a bevy of curious onlookers.

  McCoy’s conduct might have him in trouble with the captain of just about any other ship in Starfleet, and though Kirk himself had on occasion been required to rein in the doctor, the truth was that he enjoyed his friend’s often cantankerous nature—a good deal of which was exaggerated for one reason or another, depending on the situation. The doctor’s utter fearlessness when it came to questioning authority had come in handy more than once; indeed, one of McCoy’s greatest virtues was that he was unmoved by whatever professional fallout might come his way should his behavior be viewed with less tolerance by an admiral, government official, or anyone else. Anyone who knew Leonard McCoy knew the man’s primary motivation was providing quality care to his patients, along with the opportunities Starfleet afforded to increase his knowledge and understanding of medicine and how it was practiced by the various cultures he might encounter in his travels. Beyond that, McCoy had little use for just about everything else pertaining to the service, its rules, or most of the people who occupied its upper command echelons, and Kirk derived great enjoyment from the thought that his friend was only humoring him by consenting to wear a uniform at all.