Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  That’s a stupid thing to think, now, isn’t it?

  As he started to stand, M’Ress held out a hand, smiling at him as she indicated for him to remain seated. “At ease, Mister Chekov. I noticed your expression as I was walking past. Are you ill?”

  Eyeing his eggs, Chekov replied, “Not yet, but I’ll let you know.”

  M’Ress laughed at the joke before gesturing to the empty chair opposite his. “May I join you?”

  “By all means.” Chekov gestured toward the chair with his free hand. “Be my guest, Lieutenant.” Now self-conscious, he looked about the officer’s mess, though no one seemed to care that M’Ress was taking a seat at his table, even though there were chairs available at other tables occupied by officers of rank commensurate to hers. Watching her fluid, graceful movements even as she performed the simple act of sitting seemed only to heighten his sudden bout of anxiety. For her part, the lieutenant seemed more preoccupied with her data slate than anything or anyone else. No sooner had she sat down than she pushed her tray to one side, giving herself more room for the tablet.

  “I was under the impression that humans usually consumed eggs during their breakfast meal,” M’Ress said, waving toward his plate. “You do not?”

  Chekov smiled. “I do, but sometimes I also like eggs with a steak for dinner.” It was a favorite meal of his, going back to his childhood. He, along with his stomach, was happy to know that while the Enterprise food processors might not always do well preparing eggs, they made up for it with their steak choices.

  The explanation seemed to satisfy M’Ress, who nodded in understanding. Then, rather than picking up one of the utensils on her tray, she opted instead for her data slate’s stylus. After a moment, she said, “I understand that you’ve been busy studying the energy barrier.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Chekov replied, before reaching with his free hand for the chair to his left and holding up his own data slate, along with a trio of computer data cards. “I’m not supposed to go on duty for another hour, but I can’t stop thinking about the field. How it’s generated, why it opens and closes, what the Kalandans had in mind when they created it.” He shook his head. “Even the way it reacts to the presence of other ships; there has to be a reason it does that. Is it defensive? Only the Kalandans can tell us, assuming they left the answer somewhere on that planet.” He sighed. “It’s amazing, and I wish I was with the landing party, having a look at that outpost for myself.”

  In truth he had worked a double shift on the bridge, examining the Enterprise sensor logs of the energy field as well as the data from the Huang Zhong’s distress buoy. The field itself was unlike anything on record, including the immense barrier at the edge of the galaxy, which the Enterprise had encountered three times. That it was an artificial creation made it all the more compelling a mystery. It was Chekov’s hope that Mister Spock would see fit to request his assistance with the research currently being conducted on and beneath the surface of the Gralafi planetoid, so that he could see the technology responsible for the field’s generation. Unless and until that opportunity presented itself, Chekov had enough to do just examining the energy field surrounding the planetoid and perhaps learning what might have happened to the Huang Zhong as well as the Romulan vessel. To that end, he had immersed himself in his studies, becoming so preoccupied that Commander Scott had seen fit to order him from the bridge, not to return for duty until he had slept for at least four hours and eaten a decent meal.

  “Don’t overextend yourself, Ensign,” M’Ress said, her tone quite soothing, Chekov decided. “We may be here a while, and if that’s true, you’ll likely get your chance to see the outpost. In the meantime, you would do well to conserve your energy. You never know when you’ll need it.” Her eyes lingered on him a moment before she returned her attention to her data slate.

  Nodding, Chekov replied, “Your words to Mister Spock’s ears. Until then, I have plenty to keep me busy.” He scooped another bite of pseudo-eggs from his plate, and as he did so he noted M’Ress watching him, her eyes narrowing as though curious or perhaps confused.

  “Is that a pew?” she asked.

  Pausing as he was in the process of taking his next bite, Chekov glanced to his right hand, feeling a sudden rush of blood to his face as he realized for the first time what he was using to eat. Had he actually carried the thing from his quarters? Only then did he notice that the cutlery that he had taken from the dispenser near the food synthesizers remained untouched on his tray.

  Talk about preoccupied.

  Chekov hoped his forced chuckle covered the sound of his clearing his throat as he held up his “personal eating utensil,” or “PEU,” as it was known in Starfleet vernacular. Essentially a spoon with the end of its scoop molded to feature a trio of fork tines, the implement was a standard equipment item issued to cadets at Starfleet Academy. Though generally used only during training missions on Earth or off-planet locations where even rudimentary dining facilities often were not provided, the “pew” was a vital component of a cadet’s field gear. “I’ve had it since the Academy,” he said, smiling at the memories the utensil evoked. “During a training mission on Andor, a fellow cadet broke three fingers on her right hand. We were in the middle of a ground combat exercise and no medical equipment was nearby, so I used this as a field-expedient splint.”

  Smiling in obvious appreciation—and perhaps a small bit of amusement—M’Ress nodded. “Its titanium construction would make it quite suitable for such a purpose. Very resourceful, Ensign.”

  “It was enough to immobilize her hand until help arrived,” Chekov said, holding up the pew as he finished his story. “Once the exercise was over and we were on our way back to Earth, I decided it was a sort of good luck charm, and I’ve had it ever since.”

  M’Ress seemed to think about this for a moment before Chekov heard her emit a low purr. “I understand the concept of keepsakes and other talismans which their owners believe are imbued with special properties they hope will bring favorable fortune. I find it to be a quaint notion, though one to which I do not subscribe.”

  Once again feeling self-conscious as he considered the prized utensil in his hand, Chekov stammered before replying, “I don’t really believe that. It’s more a memento of that day.” Then, remembering what his Academy instructor had told him upon learning of the incident, he added, “It’s also a reminder that, sometimes, when you’re faced with a complicated problem, the best solution is the one that’s right in front of you.” He shrugged, “Or, in this case, my field pack.”

  “Is that why you seem to carry it with you wherever you go?” M’Ress asked, and when she smiled, Chekov knew that the lieutenant was teasing him in good-natured fashion, and he laughed in response.

  “No. I have it because for some reason, it was on top of my data slate when I left my quarters this morning.” In truth, he had carried it with him on numerous occasions over the years, and even used it when eating in his cabin. It was not the first time he had brought it with him to the officer’s mess; chances were good it would come with him again at some point. For now, however, he felt no pressing need to share that information with his dinner companion. Instead, he gestured with the utensil toward her data slate. “What are you working on?”

  “I just finished decrypting the last message sent from the Romulan ship,” M’Ress replied, punctuating her answer with a low growl from the back of her throat that was only just audible to Chekov’s ears. “Even with the computer’s help, I still struggled with it. When I first started looking at it, I could see that it was using a new encryption algorithm, different from anything we have on file. I had to write a new procedure for the computer to use for decoding the message, but it worked.” Using her stylus, she tapped the data slate again. “Part of me wishes I had not been so successful.”

  Frowning, Chekov asked, “So, it was a call for help?”

  M’Ress stared at the tablet before nodding. “It’s as we expected. They included a distress call
with their most recent sensor data. The records show that their ship was attacked by the Kalandan defense system, but the commander seemed to believe that they were being fired upon by the Dolysians. That was the final entry in the buoy’s memory banks.” She paused, her eyes widening in concern. “What if the Romulans think the Dolysians are responsible for the attack on their ship?”

  “They won’t be happy,” Chekov replied, staring at his tray. “They’ll send ships to investigate, or worse.”

  Tapping her data slate with the stylus in her hand, M’Ress said, “Commander Scott has already advised Captain Kirk of that.” She paused, studying once more the information on her tablet. “The next day or two should prove to be anything but boring.”

  Such unpleasant news seemed to have become commonplace in the wake of Captain Kirk’s report from Gralafi of the Romulan vessel appearing to have survived the attack on it by the Kalandan defense system. Though it was likely that the ship had sustained at least some damage, perhaps even on a scale comparable to what happened to the Huang Zhong, at present there was no way to confirm that theory. Were there Romulans on Gralafi, and if so, where were they and what were they doing? The landing party might be in danger, and though the captain’s instructions remained explicit in that the Enterprise was not to enter the rift at the cost of deactivating its warp drive, Scott and his team of engineers were still searching for a means of shielding the starship’s engines against the energy barrier’s harmful effects. Chekov had volunteered to assist in that effort but was overruled by the chief engineer, citing his earlier order of food and sleep. Though he knew he was doing the correct thing by following orders, which in turn would aid in maintaining his alertness for his next duty shift or the next emergency, that knowledge did little to alleviate his guilt at sitting idle while others worked.

  Relax, he reminded himself. You’ve earned a little rest. Besides, Scotty will kill you if you disobey him.

  Finishing the remainder of his meal, he looked up to see that most of the other officers who had been making use of the dining facility had left, either heading for their stations or somewhere else to while away their precious few hours of off-duty time. He then noticed that M’Ress had yet to take even the first bite from her plate. “Are you not hungry, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “Please, call me M’Ress,” she said as she glanced at her tray. “I thought I was, but in truth, I guess I’m still distracted with my work.”

  Chekov smiled, recalling Scott’s final words to him before ordering him from the bridge. “You should eat, M’Ress. You wouldn’t want to have your stomach growling while we’re at Red Alert.”

  “So, you were listening to Mister Scott.” M’Ress reached for the fork on her tray and began picking through the meal she had ordered. When she spoke again, her voice was lower and softer. “If you have nothing more interesting to do, you’re welcome to stay. To be honest, I prefer not to eat alone.”

  Something about the way she said the words gave Chekov pause. Was she flirting with him? He had never been good at reading such signs. Further, he did not know M’Ress that well. When she had come aboard the Enterprise and had begun serving as a junior communications officer, he was immersed in a series of duty rotations orchestrated by Mister Spock as part of a mentoring program designed to provide him with educational and practical experience in a variety of disciplines. Under the Vulcan’s watchful eye, Chekov had completed disparate assignments ranging from working with the ship’s science teams to training with the security cadre. Such work had for several months limited the time he spent on the bridge as a navigator and even a backup science officer. While he had missed the excitement to be found while working in the starship’s command center, he believed the time invested in such cross-training had not been wasted.

  But, it didn’t help you with this kind of thing, did it?

  Praying with each word that he would not stammer, Chekov answered, “I have no better plans and I don’t mind at all.”

  M’Ress seemed very pleased with that response. “Excellent, Pavel,” she purred. “May I call you Pavel?” When she smiled this time, Chekov realized that he had no trouble reading that particular sign.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Captain,” said Chancellor Wiladra Pejh en Kail as she regarded Kirk from the small display screen on the Galileo’s cockpit console, “please understand that I pose the following question with utmost respect, but have you lost all connection to reality or sanity?”

  On any other occasion, Kirk might have laughed at the query, and even now he could sympathize with the chancellor’s concern. After all, it likely was not every day that someone told her she needed to interrupt one of her planet’s vital industries based solely on the advice of an alien.

  “You wouldn’t be the first person to ask me that, Chancellor,” Kirk said, hoping to ease the Dolysian leader’s anxiety, if only the slightest bit. “Believe me when I tell you that I don’t make such a request lightly. Based on the information currently available to us, the Romulan Empire knows about the Kalandan installation here, and they’ll want to send other ships to investigate it.”

  Sitting next to him, Dana Sortino added, “At the very least, they’ll almost certainly attempt to prevent us from examining the facility for ourselves, but it goes without saying that once they find out the potential this technology represents, they’ll want to do everything to secure and exploit it for their own advantage.”

  “Exactly,” Kirk said. The report Commander Scott had given to him after Lieutenant M’Ress’s decryption of the encoded Romulan message only served to strengthen his suspicions and worry so far as the empire was concerned. For all he knew, another Romulan ship was on its way here even as he spoke to the chancellor. Unfortunately, the Enterprise, beyond launching additional shuttlecraft—which Kirk already had forbade—was not in a position to render assistance here on the planetoid. Sensors would not penetrate to this side of the rift, hampering any search for the lurking Romulan vessel. Scotty was working on a means of shielding the ship’s warp engines from the effects of the barrier without having to deactivate them, but so far the chief engineer was having no success.

  On the viewscreen, which made her seem small and distant, Wiladra’s expression was one of helplessness. The effect seemed amplified by the quality of the connection, which was a result of interference from the rift. Most of the signal noise was being reduced by linking the Galileo’s communications system with that of the Enterprise, which in turn was relaying the signal to Chancellor Wiladra’s office on Dolysia.

  “I can only defer to your experience and judgment with respect to these Romulans, Captain,” she said, “but I must consider the needs and safety of my people. While we can and do continue to mine erinadium from our two moons, the simple fact is that those operations, even when their numbers are combined, do not match the output from Gralafi.” She paused, leaning closer to the visual pickup of whatever communications device she was employing in her office back on Dolysia. “As you are aware, we are coming to the end of the interval in which we will be able to transport the ore shipments through the Pass, and if we fail to meet our quotas, then the effects on our planetary infrastructure both here and on the moons as well as the Havreltipa colony will be severe.”

  Kirk fought the urge to release an audible sigh, and it required physical effort to maintain his neutral expression. For the first time, he noticed that the air inside the shuttlecraft, even with its hatch open, was growing thick and uncomfortable in stark contrast to the slight breeze that had been blowing across the plateau as he and Sortino emerged from the hidden Kalandan complex. Glancing to where the ambassador sat in the shuttle’s co-pilot seat, he noted her own impassive features as she leaned forward so that Wiladra would see her image transmitted over the communications frequency.

  “Chancellor,” she said, “we are very much aware of the situation. I have no doubts that if there were any other available option, Captain Kirk would be advocating it. The action he proposes would a
ctually serve to protect the mining colony, as it would protect your people from undue harm, as well.” Clearing her throat, she added, “The Romulans would have no reservations about forcing your people into servitude if they thought it might serve their needs here. I’ve seen firsthand the results of imperial conquest, and trust me when I tell you it is not a pleasant experience.”

  Though he nodded in agreement, Kirk said nothing. He had seen Romulan subjugation, himself, and while it did not approach the brutality of rule under the banner of the Klingon Empire, it was still a far less desirable alternative to simple freedom and self-determination.

  Wiladra said, “Ambassador, forgive this next question, but my duty to my people demands that I ask it: Though you say you are acting to prevent our possible exploitation by the Romulans, how do we know that you are not simply acting out of your own self-interests? You’ve said before that if we asked, you would leave us in peace. Does this still hold true?”

  Pausing as she glanced to Kirk before answering, Sortino replied, “If that is your genuine wish, Chancellor, then we will leave, never to return until and unless you call upon us again. I would hope you wouldn’t do that, though, as the threat to your people from the Romulans would still remain. While they are our adversaries at this time, we believe they will avoid direct confrontation with us if at all possible.”

  “But you cannot be certain of that,” Wiladra said.

  Kirk answered, “No, we can’t be certain. However, I am certain that if we leave, the Romulans will step in.” Leaning forward, he held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Chancellor, our people have been living and working within your society for more than a year now. You said it yourself: with our technology, we have no need to stage such an elaborate pretense in order to gain your trust. We’re calling on that trust now, in order to help you. Let us do that.”