The Gemini Agent

by Rick Barba

  And for good reason.

  Two huge, life-changing events loomed just ahead for Starfleet Academy freshmen that week—well, three, actually, if you included cadets like Pavel Chekov, who sought to put their stamp in the Academy’s athletic record book at the year-end Academy Games.

  First, of course, came the exams—yes, important for all cadets, lower- and upperclassmen, but especially important for freshmen. Freshman term-end examinations marked the class’s first major shakeout. Poor performers would be encouraged to explore options outside of Starfleet: in one of United Earth’s planet-side military academies, for example, or in the Global Guard. This “encouragement” was very effective: The class could shed up to a fourth of its size after finals.

  This fact was well known. Starfleet wanted it that way.

  Meanwhile, freshmen anxiously awaited assignments for the second life-changing event: the annual Zeta Fleet Training Exercise. Technically, this two-day event—known simply as “Zeta”—was a component of term-end exam week; its official culmination. Yet Zeta was a separate proving ground. A freshman cadet’s performance in the exercise was considered equally (if not more) important to his or her final exam results.

  Zeta was a massive, fleet-size tactical combat exercise conducted in the Academy Flight Range near Saturn. Cadets were assigned to fully commissioned starships in active service, including ships of all classes: everything from two-man fighter crafts to mammoth ships of the line. These were then divided into two opposing fleets, Blue and Gold. Sometimes a third force was secretly deployed to introduce a surprise variable. Cadets were responsible for all aspects of ship operation, including navigation and weaponry. However, each onboard station had active-duty Starfleet personnel as overseers, ready to step in. This made for two days of crowded quarters. But a great deal of hands-on knowledge was passed down this way.

  Riding massive tonnage into a high-stakes war-game scenario … mastering your onboard station … meshing as a crew … all the while knowing that your future in Starfleet depended on it—that was the easy part of Zeta. It was pure excitement. It was the reason many cadets joined Starfleet in the first place.

  The hard part was waiting for the assignment list to be posted outside the Commandant of Midshipmen’s office door.

  Everybody knew that the plum positions in every Zeta exercise were on the two opposing Constitution-class heavy cruisers, the USS Farragut and the USS Valiant. Only the most promising cadets were assigned to these big boats. And the cream of the crop, the top two freshman cadets from the Command College roster, were assigned to the two captain’s chairs for the Farragut and the Valiant.

  So Zeta had everybody fired up.

  You’d have to hate the very idea of spaceflight itself to not be excited.

  CH.3.13

  The Ambassador's Daughter

  “Bones, you look sick.”

  Cadet James T. Kirk approached a figure slumped on a bench in the plaza near Hawking Hall. The four buildings of the Academy sciences complex were arrayed around this central square.

  “Don’t bother me, Jim,” said the figure, raising his head. Medical Cadet Leonard H. McCoy, MD, looked miserable. He added, “I’m trying to enjoy breathing air while I still can.”

  Kirk grinned.

  “Careful,” he said. “If it gets to be too much fun, you’ll want to do it all the time.”

  “Very funny,” said McCoy.

  Kirk sat down next to his good friend. With a sly look he said, “Say, did you know that they post the Zeta assignments on Friday?” He stared openly at three passing female cadets.

  McCoy just glared at Kirk.

  “You’re over that aviophobia thing, right?” asked Kirk distractedly.

  “You mean the fear of dying in something that flies?” said McCoy. “No.”

  “Ah, so that explains your surly demeanor.”

  “I’m always like this.”

  “True,” said Kirk. “But today I sense … something more.”

  “I’m not happy about this damned Zeta thing,” said McCoy.

  Kirk nodded. “I figured.”

  McCoy waved his hands testily.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ve managed to make it through the entire first year without actually going out there.” He looked up. “I hate space. The very concept of its nothingness gives me nightmares.”

  Kirk, eyes still fixed on the female cadets, suddenly leaned forward and frowned.

  McCoy noticed.

  “Something wrong, Jim?”

  “I just realized I don’t know those girls,” said Kirk.

  “So?”

  “So I know all the beautiful girls.”

  McCoy glanced after the women. A thin smile spread across his face.

  “Do you think they’re Romulan spies?” he asked.

  “It’s very possible,” said Kirk. “Maybe we should tail them.” He grinned.

  “Right,” said McCoy. “The key word being ‘tail.’” He slumped back against the bench.

  Kirk turned to face him.

  “Buddy,” he said, “I’m worried about your focus and energy level. I’m going to need you functioning at full throttle on my bridge during Zeta next week.”

  “Your bridge?” said McCoy with a laugh. “Which one is yours?”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” said Kirk casually. “Farragut or Valiant, I’ll win regardless.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” muttered McCoy. “And those other thousand cadets in your fleet will be so grateful.”

  Kirk grinned again. “They’d better be,” he said.

  McCoy said, “What makes you so sure you’ll get the chair on a big boat?”

  “Bones, come on,” said Kirk. “Look at my peers. It’s going to be Tikhonov versus me, and everybody knows it.” He leaned back on the bench, draping his arms across its backrest. “You know that Captain Pike and the brass want to see another showdown.”

  McCoy nodded.

  “Yes, the faculty does seem to enjoy your little duels with Viktor.”

  Viktor Tikhonov was Kirk’s bitter rival in the Command College. A rugged, even brutal competitor, Tikhonov was a truly formidable foe. Like Kirk, he was a natural leader. The big Russian seemed to get paired against Kirk in almost every classroom and simulator training exercise, which was surely no coincidence. Their teams had battled to a titanic stalemate in the Advanced Tactical Training scenarios earlier in the year, with Kirk’s crew pulling out a narrow victory in the end.

  “There’s certainly a dark poetic quality to the notion of you and Viktor playing chicken in heavy cruisers,” said McCoy.

  “We’ve done it enough times in the simulators,” agreed Kirk.

  Kirk had great respect for his rival. He knew Tikhonov was the stronger man in the physical sense and was more relentless in pressing his tactical advantages. But Kirk had a knack for finding good people, building a team, and letting them work. He trusted his crew, and they responded with loyalty and undying effort.

  “Look, nobody puts in more simulator hours than I do,” said Kirk.

  McCoy had to nod at that.

  “And, Bones, nobody loves it like I do,” Kirk went on. “It’s only fair, right? I would eat, drink, sleep, and do everything else on a ship’s bridge if I could.”

  Another female cadet walked past and smiled shyly at Kirk. Kirk smiled back and added, “Well, except for that.”

  McCoy blasted out a laugh.

  “I’m not so sure,” said the doctor with amusement. “I think you love that new starship even more than you love women.”

  Kirk’s eyes glowed. The Command College had just acquired a bridge simulator for the USS Enterprise, a new Constitution-class heavy cruiser under construction at Starfleet’s Riverside Shipyards in Iowa.

  “Bones,” said Kirk, getting animated. “When that girl is ready to fly in three years … I mean, have you seen her specs?”

  “Yes, Jim, I have,” said McCoy. “You keep showing them to me, remember?”

&nb
sp; “The Enterprise will be Starfleet’s flagship, my friend,” said Kirk. “I guarantee you that. And I’ll be aboard on her maiden voyage, even if I have to sneak on as a galley cook.”

  Suddenly he noticed a small wasplike insect hovering quietly near the ground, not far from the bench. McCoy saw it too. He pointed at it.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  Without warning, Kirk sprang from the bench and then stomped hard on the thing. It made a sickening crunch. Then he picked up the crushed remains with his thumb and forefinger. Tiny wires and circuitry hung like entrails from the “bug.”

  “Gosh, will you look at that?” he said with a grim smile.

  McCoy glanced up and spotted four big cadets crossing the plaza toward them.

  “What’s going on, Jim?”

  “Not sure,” said Kirk as the cadets approached. He raised his voice, then said, “Maybe these guys know. Hey, did you boys lose something?” He waggled the smashed device and held it up higher.

  The lead cadet just stared and said, “Kirk.”

  “Yes?”

  The cadet held out his hand. Kirk dropped the bug into it.

  “Doesn’t look repairable,” said Kirk, shaking his head. “That’s too bad, because I know how incredibly expensive those things are.”

  At this, all four cadets jumped Kirk. McCoy jumped right into the fray.

  “What the hell?” shouted McCoy, ducking a punch. “Who are these guys?”

  Kirk, grinning wildly, spun so he was back-to-back with McCoy. “Don’t know, don’t care,” he cried. “I just know it’s dead week, and I am not getting pranked!”

  Yes, dead week.

  Everything on the line.

  Intensity so thick, you probably couldn’t cut it with a quantum-resonator laser diode.

  Hence, stress-reduction activities.

  So far: Coordinated, campus-wide midnight screams on Monday. A full-fledged musical number by four snorting Tellarite cadets in the middle of a stellar cartography lecture. Campus statues of famous admirals dressed in lingerie stolen from an Orion cadet. Reversed peephole scopes on dormitory doors. Waterslides down residence hallways. A Ping-Pong gunfight carried out with insane tactical precision.

  Parties. More parties. Parties ending in complicated sleepovers.

  Plus the occasional fistfight.

  “Take a break, Cadet Uhura,” said Commander Spock through the headset.

  Uhura took a slow breath. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “That one was difficult, I am afraid.”

  “It was, sir.”

  “I have some cross-checking to do,” said Spock. “Please shut down and then go get some dinner. I will meet you later in my office. We can review the transcripts.”

  Uhura smiled.

  “Sounds good, Commander,” she said.

  Translating these recordings was indeed difficult, just as Spock had warned. Military intelligence scanners had picked up plenty of Romulan combat chatter during the Battle of Cheron, a decisive victory for United Earth. Like most people on Earth, Uhura had grown up with propaganda images of the pitiless Romulan “warrior”—always a foul, inhuman beast with a lust for blood. This was tempered a bit by Uhura’s advanced studies of the Earth-Romulus War at the Nairobi Girls Academy. There she learned that Romulans made sensible, intelligent decisions after their defeat at Cheron. Indeed, their input into the subsequent cease-fire and Neutral Zone Treaty was not just reasonable, but even enlightened.

  Still, the Romulan military had a reputation for ferocity and cold cruelty. So hearing the obvious confusion and fear and pain in the Romulan voices at Cheron was surprising, even heartbreaking at times. The pilots were young; many were female. They clearly had camaraderie. They cared for one another. Some sounded cocky; some calm and professional; some emotional, even elated; some nervous and unsure. But once their ships took damage and the void rushed into hull and cockpit and bridge, most of these Romulan voices just sounded terrified.

  “Listening to ghosts?” said a voice just to her left.

  Uhura plucked off her headset. It was the Vulcan girl at the next station.

  “In a sense, yes,” said Uhura.

  “Well, you look haunted,” said the girl. “Here.” She handed Uhura a small bottle of spring water. “Take it, I brought a six-pack today.”

  “Thanks,” said Uhura. She cracked the cap and then took a swallow.

  “Thirsty work,” said the girl.

  “Are you translating too?” asked Uhura, nodding at the girl’s workdesk.

  “No, my stuff is much more mundane,” she replied. “I’m analyzing hull scans. Not very exciting.”

  Uhura smiled. “I’m Uhura, first year,” she said.

  “T’Laya,” said the girl, reaching out her hand. “First year also.” As they shook hands she added, “Until they kick my butt out.”

  Uhura gave her an amused, skeptical look.

  “Right,” she said, glancing at T’Laya’s security badge. “Sketchy types like you always get Level Four Alpha clearance around here.”

  T’Laya glanced down at the badge. “I stole this off a dead guy,” she deadpanned.

  Uhura laughed. She liked this girl. She clapped a hand over her mouth as other researchers in the room glanced or frowned at her.

  “Sorry,” she whispered with a wave.

  “Anyway, you know what I mean,” said T’Laya.

  “Finals?”

  “No way. I’ll ace those.”

  Uhura nodded. “You mean Zeta, then,” she said.

  “I’m going to make demands,” T’Laya said with a nod, a conspiratorial tone to her voice. “It could get ugly.”

  “You have Zeta demands?”

  “See, my deal is, I won’t fly on little spaceships,” explained T’Laya. She pointed at her workscreen. “I spend all day identifying structural weak points where their hulls crack open. You wouldn’t believe how many there are on a typical Romulan Talon-class scout.”

  “Fortunately, Starfleet doesn’t fly Romulan scouts,” said Uhura, grinning.

  “Your ignorance is charming, Cadet,” said T’Laya with a wink. “I promise you that every Starfleet scout and runabout and shuttle has at least seven hull points that I could easily breach with a single stray meteorite or photonic micro-torpedo.”

  “So that’s why you’ll fly only on big ships,” Uhura concluded.

  “Correct,” said T’Laya. “If I don’t get a spot on the Farragut, the Zeta assignors will have a big problem on their hands. They might need to take out a legal restraining order.”

  Uhura marveled at how funny this Vulcan girl was. Vulcans weren’t known for their senses of humor. She took a few sips of water and discreetly gave T’Laya a once-over. She seemed like the kind of girl who got exactly what she wanted. Smart, outgoing, funny. It didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous.

  “I don’t want to sound racist,” said Uhura, “but you seem awfully peppy for a Vulcan.”

  “No worries, I get that a lot,” said T’Laya with a smile. “My father was an embassy guy,” she explained, “so I spent very little time on Vulcan as a girl. My mother died when I was an infant and he never remarried, so I had a succession of nannies, all native to the planets where my father was assigned.”

  Uhura listened with great interest. So T’Laya was indeed a full-blooded Vulcan, yet she acted human. Uhura was fascinated.

  “That’s just … an amazing way to grow up,” said Uhura. “Cultural crosscurrents like that, as a real part of who you are, how you were raised. Not just stuff you read or studied or even observed. It must give you a different perspective on a lot of things.”

  T’Laya shrugged.

  “I guess,” she said. “I actually spent my miserable teenage years here on Earth. We started at the Vulcan Embassy in Berlin. Then they reassigned Father to San Francisco.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Uhura.

  T’Laya tapped at her screen. “He died when I was fourteen,” she said.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” said Uhura quickly.

  “It’s okay,” said T’Laya. “It happened here. He died suddenly, from an embolism. I ended up getting placed with a Vulcan family over in Marin County. They were very humanized, I guess you’d say. So I had a very unusual upbringing for a Vulcan.”

  “Wow,” said Uhura.

  Her frankness was so unlike the standard Vulcan demeanor, Uhura thought. But it made sense.

  “So the Zeta list goes up Friday,” said Uhura.

  “Yeah,” said T’Laya.

  Her Vulcan gaze darted rapidly over the images on her screen. She quickly expanded windows with thumb and forefinger, scanning entries with her odd micro-flitting eyes. Then she expertly dragged a few data bits into a save folder. She was amazingly quick and knew exactly what she was doing. Uhura was impressed.

  “Well, good luck,” said Uhura, tucking her headset back into its cradle.

  “Thanks,” replied T’Laya. “You too!” She paused for a moment and then added, “If I can’t get the spot I want, then I’m going to find a boyfriend with the spot I want.”

  Uhura raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking there, Uhura. We’re Starfleet cadets. We’re better than that, right?”

  “Nothing wrong with boyfriends,” said Uhura cautiously.

  “Do you have one?”

  Uhura paused. Then: “No.”

  “Same here,” said T’Laya. “Anyway, we seek equal partners these days, not boyfriends, right?”

  “Right,” said Uhura.

  T’Laya nodded in agreement. “Inferior works too,” she said, tapping the screen again.

  “God knows that’s not hard to find,” said Uhura in a low voice.

  T’Laya laughed. It was funny and small, almost a giggle … and it struck Uhura that she’d never heard a Vulcan laugh before, despite knowing several at the Academy.

  T’Laya said, “The only thing worse than inferior is superior.”

  “Superior males are insufferable,” agreed Uhura. She glanced quickly over at Spock in his work pod. “Mostly,” she said.

  T’Laya’s laser eyes caught Uhura’s glance. She looked over at Spock.