“Bishop to Thyner.”
“Thyner here.”
“What’s your status?”
“Everything is running according to sequence. Just a few more seconds.”
They all turned and looked through an observation port at the generator satellite. A ring of deep pink light circling its equator blossomed. Then a vertical ring, girdling the poles, appeared. These were then crossed by more pink rings until the sphere resembled the classical representation of an atom.
Spock knew that the rings were an optical illusion caused by the plasma coils becoming charged, but it was not until the beams rapidly grew away from the station that the illusion was fully shattered. Now he could see that they were straight lines. Twenty-four individual plasma lines, like so many spokes from the center of a wheel, stretched out toward an as-yet-nonexistent rim.
In just a few seconds, the lines flew past their station.
“Won’t those be a navigational hazard?” asked Kirk.
Miyazaki said, “They are each only one meter in diameter. At the generator satellite, there, as you can see, they are rather close together. Anyone arriving to perform repairs will have to be careful—”
“And when are we not?” said Bishop.
“—but as they radiate out toward the surface of the Sphere, they grow quite far apart.” He walked over to a wall monitor and pressed a few buttons. On the screen, they could now see the beams continue to stretch beyond them and into space.
Then the beams stopped: solid light.
“Excellent work, Spock,” said Bishop. “Excellent.”
The pink began to crackle with tendrils of blue, yellow, and red, which raced along the plasma beams in twisting, fiery helixes.
Like a sun whose gases are slowly drawn off across space into a nearby black hole, the tendrils reached out to each other, stretching and becoming thinner and thinner. Within two minutes the stars were no longer visible. The shell was complete. The beams themselves provided a remarkable amount of illumination, and the inner surface of the Midnight Sphere was the purest white that Spock had ever seen.
Bishop said, “An accomplishment worthy of any of the ancients, wouldn’t you say, Captain Kirk? A true pantheon to house the galaxy’s treasures!”
The enclosure effect called to mind the time Spock had stood inside an empty, ancient blimp hangar at Moffett Field, just south of San Francisco. What had appeared to be simply large from the outside had become unfathomably huge when viewed from within, where Spock had seen its support struts and buttresses.
Bishop spoke into the intercom. “Thyner, what do you see?”
“Everything is running according to protocol. All within expected norms.”
Bishop’s tail swished faster now. “Wonderful. I will be in communication shortly with our liaison, and we can have the rest of the artifacts in storage brought here as soon as possible. I understand they have something new for us from the Lagoon Nebula.”
Spock stepped up to the viewscreen. “That,” he said, “is highly unusual.”
“What?” asked Bishop.
“Computer,” said Spock, “increase grid seventeen by two hundred percent.”
“Working,” came the clipped female voice found throughout Starfleet, as a close-up of one of the beams filled the screen.
Spock pointed to the center of the monitor. “This point, where the beam touches the gas shell, should have a blue tinge denoting termination.”
“That’s where the plasma ‘support beam’ stops,” said Kirk.
“Correct, Captain.”
“But there is no tinge,” said Miyazaki, now standing next to Spock. “It hasn’t stopped.”
Bishop said, “We saw the beams stop. It’s not possible they are continuing beyond the shell. Computer, show us the same area on the other beams.”
“Working.” The screen split into twenty-four equal sections. None of the beams had a blue edge where it touched the Sphere.
“I believe,” said Spock, “that what is continuing beyond the surface of the shell is an invisible form of the plasma, undetectable by standard sensor scans.”
Bishop said, “The surface of the shell would not affect things leaving it. It cannot make something invisible as it passes into space.”
“It is not. This is an entirely different matter.”
“Those beams,” Miyazaki said, “could cut in half anything that crosses them.”
“Beyond the influence of the Sphere and the computer controls, the beams would begin moving in random directions, buffeted by cosmic radiation,” added Spock.
“A modern Medusa,” said Kirk. “The Sphere is her head, and the plasma waves are the serpents, writhing and striking in all directions.”
“An apt, if fanciful, metaphor, Captain,” said Spock.
“How far out can they extend?” Kirk asked.
“Unknown. But their power should dissipate appreciatively the farther from the Sphere they travel.”
“At what point will they no longer pose a threat?”
“Approximately sixteen-point-one billion kilometers,” said Spock.
Kirk opened his mouth, but Bishop interrupted. “Actually,” she said slowly, as she steepled her topmost fingers, “this could prove to be a useful security measure.”
“Any ship that comes near enough could be destroyed!” yelled Kirk.
“We are in the middle of nowhere, Captain. No uninvited ships should be anywhere near us. And those that are, deserve what they get.”
“What about the invited ones that ferry your artifacts?”
“Spock,” asked Bishop, “is it possible to tune sensors so that they can detect those outside beams?”
“A ship’s sensor would have to look in a very specific band. But if it knew exactly where to look, it would find them.”
“Good. We will transmit that information to our own ships when they approach and they will be able to navigate around them.”
“Bishop,” said Spock, “this indicates that there is a further error in the relays. This cannot be sustained.”
“Do they pose a danger to the Yard itself?”
“Not that I know of. But without—”
“Then we can leave it. Captain Kirk, I’ll have someone pass the information on to your helm, and you’re free to go.” She turned to Spock. “Have you made—”
“‘Free to—’!” Kirk began.
“Shahar to Bishop.” A female voice came over the intercom.
“Bishop here.”
“We’ve just received a message from our Starfleet Intelligence liaison: There are Klingons on the way.”
“Invasion?” asked Bishop.
They stood in the station’s operations center, a bridge-sized area with multiple, large viewscreens that encircled almost the entire room. It was the most crowded part of the Yard that Spock had seen. There were six science stations in the small space, and each was manned. Spock, Kirk, Bishop, and Miyazaki were joined by Lieutenant Shahar. She had the high cheekbones and bald head typical of a Deltan and wore a rust-colored, wraparound jumpsuit.
“No,” Shahar said. “It’s apparently a lost Klingon ship: the Heart of Qo’noS. It was found wandering in sector two-zero-one. Starfleet has guaranteed it safe return along a specified route. It will come this way in two hours.”
“Why here?” Bishop asked.
“You said so yourself,” said Spock. “There is nothing here. Starfleet must have sent them this way so that they would not encounter any of our ships.”
“Nor any planets,” said Kirk. He turned to Bishop. “Apparently the Yard’s location is too good a secret: Starfleet’s left hand doesn’t know what its right hand is hiding.”
Bishop asked Shahar, “Who sent this message?”
“The…um.” She looked first at Kirk, then Spock, then Bishop. “The Admiral, as usual.”
Spock wondered if distrust of everyone, even starship captains and first officers, came with the inherent secrecy of such an installation, or if Bishop
somehow encouraged such an atmosphere.
“He must have just learned of it,” said Bishop. “And, for whatever reason, could not order the path changed.”
“That would have raised a lot of suspicions,” said Miyazaki. “Why would anyone object to a path that takes the Klingons through the middle of nowhere?”
“I’m suspicious of this whole situation,” said Bishop. “What are Klingons doing this deep into Federation space?”
“Navigational array overload,” Shahar said, looking down at her data slate.
“Unlikely,” Bishop sneered.
“Actually,” said Spock, “that may not be as implausible as it sounds. Consider the number of times our ships have accidentally wandered into their space. It is a wonder that it does not happen more often. How close to us will the Klingons’ course bring them?”
Bishop took the data slate from Shahar and looked at it. “Right past us.” She handed it to Spock.
“We must deactivate the camouflage system,” said Spock. “If they come this close, there is a ninety-six point two three percent chance that the errant beams will destroy their ship.”
“Never,” said Bishop. “The Klingons would see us. Now that the Sphere is up, no one—certainly no Klingons—must know that we are here nor what we possess!”
“There could be hundreds of people aboard that ship!” said Kirk.
“This is a matter of Federation security, Captain. The integrity of a top-secret facility versus…a handful of the enemy. No, these walls will not come down!”
Spock stared at Bishop. To condemn the Klingon crew to death was beyond any question of politics; it was illogical. Clearly, Bishop was putting her love (that was the only word for it, encapsulating as it did all that was the opposite of logic) of the objects kept at the Yard before any common sense. Captain Kirk sometimes behaved illogically, but it usually resulted in a greater good. There was no greater good to be found here. Whether or not Bishop was treating the Yard as her personal playground, Spock was not certain. But he was now convinced that she had distorted views of the value of her artifacts and the use of knowledge. Bishop had changed in ways that were untenable.
“You were wrong, Bishop,” said Spock. “I do not prize science above all else. There are lives aboard that ship. Not ideas, and not secrets waiting to be uncovered. Real lives. To kill them would be an act of inhumanity. Shut down the Sphere.”
“But we’ll be visible,” said Bishop. “All the stations, all the artifacts.”
“That,” said Spock, “is exactly what I am counting on.”
Spock could see Bishop’s pupils grow smaller, as if she were focusing on something far away. Then her arms, which for a while had appeared to be locked at her sides, slowly rose and gracefully crossed themselves in front of her.
“It isn’t working, is it?” she said quietly.
“No, Bishop,” said Spock, “it is not.”
“And you are right,” she said. “I have…apparently lost some perspective. What do you suggest we do, Spock?”
“To begin with, instruct Mr. Thyner to prepare to deactivate the Sphere. I would prefer that our Mr. Scott join him. Since we do not really know what went wrong, his expertise could be invaluable.”
Bishop casually pointed to Miyazaki, who replied, “Acknowledged,” and turned to a comm panel.
Spock said to Kirk, “Captain, for my purpose, it will be necessary to hide any recognizable objects from the Klingons. Aside from the various space stations here at the Yard, which are generic in their design, there is only one thing—”
“The Enterprise,” said Kirk.
“Yes. We must conceal the Enterprise in the one place here capable of containing the ship.”
“The doomsday machine,” said Kirk.
“Correct. I believe Mr. Scott’s departure will leave Mr. Sulu in command.”
“No, Spock, I’ll go back, and I’ll take her in there.” Kirk flipped open his communicator. “Kirk to Enterprise. Mr. Scott, we are no longer under dark running.”
Spock watched as the light within the Sphere faded. The plasma beams dimmed just a little, and immediately the gases began to dissipate. Obviously, they were just barely held in place by the beams.
As the gases dispersed, the stars quickly returned to view, and Spock felt reassured—no, not felt, he corrected himself. He appreciated their presence.
The last time Kirk had approached the planet killer, he had stared into its fiery core and seen what he imagined the very flames of hell must look like.
Now its insides were dark. He could just make out a small research station—one tiny raft inside this leviathan—down toward the center of the machine. Its red safety lights were on and its work bee was docked. Someone was studying the device that had killed Captain Decker, the crew of the Constellation, and possibly millions more.
“Steady as she goes,” Kirk said as he led his ship slowly forward.
It was strange how, now, deactivated and laid out for cold scientific examination, it was just a machine. It had been a killer, but now it was little more than a problem in close-quarters piloting. Robbed of its power it was…robbed of its power.
Kirk was almost curious to know what had made the thing tick himself.
Almost.
“Commander, something’s just appeared on our scanners,” said Shahar. “It’s a Klingon D7.”
Miyazaki looked at the chronometer on the wall. “Right on schedule. Good for them.”
Spock closed his eyes for a moment. “Open hailing frequencies. Audio only.”
“Undoubtedly they will be under orders to maintain communications silence,” said Miyazaki.
“True, but we must be proactive if we are going to guarantee the illusion of reality.”
“Spoken like a true Vulcan.”
Shahar said, “Hailing frequencies open.”
Spock said, “Greetings, gentlebeings. Welcome to Sorel’s Salvage. I am Sorel, proprietor of this establishment. I offer you the finest in reconditioned propulsion systems and surplus torpedoes. Or perhaps you’re looking for something in a used ship. We have several in stock. Yours looks a bit rickety. Would you care to upgrade? Impress your superiors! I can offer you a generous trade-in credit.”
To Spock the Yard was an invaluable collection of alien devices: ancient artifacts and examples of the very latest technologies—some perhaps even from the future—from a hundred worlds. These were irreplaceable treasures that would provide years of research and could lead to discoveries that might benefit all of the beings who lived within the Federation.
But in his imagination, Spock could see the Yard as the Klingons saw it. Here was a wrecked spaceship, and there what looked like a very dirty comet. And all about them floated warped and twisted pieces of metal. If the Klingons’ passive scans did detect anything unusual, they were sure to interpret it as just so much veQ. Garbage.
Over the comm came a brief grunt that was unmistakably a sign of offense from the Klingons. But still their ship continued on at its steady pace…and passed them.
“Hailing frequencies closed,” said Shahar.
Miyazaki, who had been holding his breath, exhaled deeply, then asked, “Mr. Spock, have you ever worked in commerce before?”
“Once, while undercover, I attempted to pass as a dealer in kevas and trillium.”
“And how did that go?”
“Poorly,” said Spock.
“Well, your technique must have improved.”
“How so? They did not stop to purchase anything.”
“No,” said Miyazaki, “but they bought the lie.”
“I’ve got Mr. Thyner helpin’ me,” said Scotty over Kirk’s communicator, “but the others are nearly hopeless. It’s not their fault. They just aren’t engineers. Most of them can’t tell dilithium from duotronics.” Scotty sighed. “Frankly, Captain, I’m not sure this can be fixed.”
Kirk, Spock, and Bishop stood outside the Nasat’s office.
“Recommendations, Mr. Scot
t.”
“It really is a well-designed system, Captain. The ideas behind it are perfectly sound. It’s just the execution. I can think o’ three or four engineers that ought to come down here from various parts o’ Starfleet and have a look. Maybe they can offer a few pointers.”
“Acknowledged. Kirk out.” He flipped his communicator closed and turned to Bishop. “Time to crank up the cloaking device, Commodore?” he asked with a grin.
“No, Captain. Our liaison has offered us a different sort of protection. It’s only temporary, but it will serve until we solve the problems. Or come up with something else.”
Spock said, “Naturally, you cannot tell us anything more.”
Bishop smiled. “That’s Yard thinking. Are you sure you won’t stay after all, Spock?”
“No.” Although Bishop seemed to have regained her perspective, Spock was not yet ready to exchange the stars for the Yard. There was still too much to discover. Perhaps he would revisit the question again in a few decades. “I will be returning with Captain Kirk.” He spread the fingers of his right hand. “Live long and prosper, B6 Blue of Nasat. Once again, you have shown me my true path.”
“And you have returned me to mine. Good-bye, Spock of Vulcan and of Starfleet. May our paths intersect again.” She turned and walked into her office.
“Well, Spock,” said Kirk, “I never doubted you’d stay with the Enterprise.”
“Really, Captain? Your prescience surprises me. There were times when I was unsure myself.”
Kirk grinned. “As much as I admire the…museumlike qualities of the Yard, it’s really not the place for adventurers like you and me.”
“Adventurers, Captain?”
“To be the first, Spock. The first to see it, to touch it. Adventure.”
“I view my time aboard the Enterprise as an opportunity not for adventure, but for discovery.”
“Which is…?” prompted Kirk.
“Discovery is the combination of intellectual exercise and—”
“Random chance?”
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