The Gemini Agent

by Rick Barba

  “No, I keep hearing things about you,” she insisted.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, how jealous most people are of you,” said T’Laya. “That’s my take, anyway.”

  Kirk laughed. “Jealous of me? I can’t even use chopsticks,” he said, waving them awkwardly in front of him.

  “And some of the Command College people think you cheat,” she said quietly.

  Kirk’s smile faded quickly.

  He said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not.” She leaned back on the bed. “I mean … let’s face it, you’re the only one who beats Viktor Tikhonov regularly.”

  Kirk looked puzzled. “So?”

  T’Laya just looked at him, then shrugged.

  “Hey, I beat him in the simulators,” said Kirk, irritated. “But he’s beat me a few times. Viktor beats everyone else, always. Do they think he cheats?”

  “Like I said, it’s jealousy,” replied T’Laya.

  “Why aren’t they suspicious of Tikhonov?” complained Kirk.

  “Because he’s not you. He’s intense,” she said. “He’s scary. He’s relentless. He makes opponents feel like they’re supposed to lose.” She pointed at Kirk. “But you kick everyone’s ass and look like you’re not even trying.”

  Kirk was agitated now. “Maybe because I spend half my waking hours in the Command simulators,” he said.

  “Do you?” asked T’Laya.

  “Do you think I’m lying?”

  “No,” she said. She looked thoughtful. “But why do you? Are you afraid of failure?”

  Kirk was annoyed now. “Are you joking?”

  T’Laya held up her hands. “Easy there, big boy. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  It was true: Kirk hated to lose. But the other truth was that he never thought about failure. It just wasn’t on his list of options, so fear of failure wasn’t a motivation. There was a more essential reason why he spent so much time in the Command College training environment labs.

  “I love the simulators,” he said. “That’s why.”

  “You love them?”

  “Yes,” said Kirk.

  T’Laya was indeed fascinated. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “Surely you can extrapolate my meaning,” said Kirk, still a little irritated. “Don’t you love anything?”

  T’Laya looked a little defensive. “Of course I do,” she said. “There are things I’m very passionate about.”

  “Like what?” asked Kirk.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” she replied. “When I get to know you better.” She was aiming for flirtatious, but Kirk was too distracted to notice. He stood up, pacing.

  “People think I cheat?” he muttered.

  T’Laya observed his distress and searched for the right thing to say. “If it makes you feel any better, everyone always wants to be on your team,” she said after a moment.

  Kirk looked over at her. “Now you’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “Apparently, you’re a born captain. People may be jealous of your success, but they desire your leadership.” She rolled over onto her side and propped her head up on her hand. “Let’s analyze why, shall we?”

  Kirk stopped pacing. “I’m starting to feel like a research project.”

  T’Laya smiled, happy to see that some of the tension had drained from his face. “I have theories, Kirk,” she said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Here’s one,” she said. “Have you seen that barefoot cadet always running around campus?”

  “He’s a cadet?” said Kirk, surprised. “Wow. I figured he was a faculty member’s kid.”

  “No, that’s Pavel Chekov,” she said. “He’s a brilliant Russian kid who is laying waste to his astrogation and stellar cartography classes.”

  Kirk nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Another growing legend.” He was about to make a crack about her being a legend groupie but thought better of it. He sat on the bed. “So … what’s your theory?”

  “I think it’s a Tarahumara thing,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of them?” she asked. When Kirk shook his head no, she went on. “The Tarahumara are a native tribe in the Copper Canyons of northern Mexico. They’re incredible athletes. They can run through the mountains for literally hundreds of miles nonstop. And they do it barefoot. You know, all of you Humans evolved from running forebears. And those ancestors … they ran barefoot. Your species was shaped by genetics to run great distances—your feet are marvels of evolution. The Human foot is the perfect load-bearing locomotive mechanism.”

  Kirk shook his head. “I’m not following your famous Vulcan logic here,” he said.

  “Bear with me,” she said.

  Kirk leaned a bit closer. “I’ll try,” he said. “But I’m a little distracted.”

  T’Laya tossed a pillow at him. Kirk caught it deftly.

  “Nice motor skills,” she said with a sly smile.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “But finish your theory,”

  “Okay,” she said, looking momentarily distracted herself. “So … sociologists and evolutionary biologists and college track coaches studied the Tarahumara tribe for years. … You know, looking for their secret, the thing that makes them such great runners. Were they born with some special quality, some genetic quirk that nobody else had? Turns out, not really, although running barefoot gave them an edge. It kept the Tarahumara in touch with these ancient, powerful physical tools that most Humans have left behind.”

  Kirk leaned back on his elbows. Her voice was almost hypnotic.

  “So what was it?” he asked.

  “Love,” she said.

  Kirk smiled. “Love?”

  “That’s it. Love.”

  Kirk nodded, thinking. “They love to run,” he said.

  “Exactly!”

  T’Laya was very animated now. Kirk suspected that this topic was one of her passions. She sat up now, clutching Kirk’s other pillow to her chest.

  “The Tarahumara once sent a team of their best runners to an ultramarathon in Colorado,” she said. “A day-long, hundred-mile race on mountain trails above ten thousand feet. Runners consider it a lonely, grueling endurance test. Some runners barely survive it. But observers along the route noticed something crazy about the Tarahumara team. First they ran together much of the race, flowing along the trails in their bright, ceremonial robes. Second they passed every checkpoint smiling, chatting, and even laughing as they ran. Most other runners ran alone … grim islands of pain, pushing along in stoic silence. For the Tarahumara the entire experience was like a day in the park. It wasn’t a test of will, nor was it a proving ground. It was just a thing that they love to do.”

  Kirk reached carefully to touch her hand. She let him grasp her fingers.

  “That’s your secret,” she said. “A great starship captain loves his crew, loves his ship, and loves every aspect of his mission.” She looked into Kirk’s eyes. “That’s my theory, anyway.”

  “I like it,” said Kirk.

  “So the question becomes, how does passion develop?” she continued. “Is it the product of a unique childhood? Is it a random accident of personality or neurology? Or is it something you can replicate? What if we could train future starship commanders to be like you, Kirk?”

  Kirk grinned. “Then Starfleet would be a barking madhouse full of loose cannons.”

  Now T’Laya’s face moved toward his. She put her hand lightly on his neck.

  And once again: a loud knock on the door.

  “I believe I’m going to ignore that,” said Kirk, sliding his arms around T’Laya.

  But T’Laya looked uncomfortable as the knocking insistently continued.

  “Sounds like business,” she said, pulling away reluctantly.

  Kirk rolled his eyes.

  “Unbelievable,” he said.

  He got up to activate the door. It slid open to reveal a beauti
ful woman in a black Starfleet jumpsuit. Her eyes were like blue neon.

  “Mr. Kirk,” she said with a nod.

  Kirk pointed. “I know you,” he said.

  “I’m surprised that you remember,” she replied. “I’m Lieutenant Caan, Starfleet Intelligence. And this is Ensign Collins, Security.”

  Kirk glanced past her at a stout man wearing a red Starfleet Security uniform. He nodded at Kirk. Kirk nodded back.

  “Am I under arrest?” he asked with a smile.

  “Not exactly,” said Lieutenant Caan.

  Now Kirk frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “You have orders to appear in the Commandant of Midshipmen’s office at 1300 hours.” She glanced at her watch. “That would be in seven minutes.” Her eyes darted past Kirk to Cadet T’Laya, who still sat on the bed, as she added: “I’ve been ordered to provide you with a security escort.”

  “Gosh, Lieutenant,” said Kirk. “That’s sweet of you.”

  Lieutenant Caan looked him over. With the shadow of a smile, she said, “Since you’re fully uniformed, Mr. Kirk, I suggest we leave immediately.”

  Kirk nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Say, I don’t suppose you know what this is about?”

  “Actually, I do,” said Lieutenant Caan. “I was informed that you’ve been charged with fifteen separate violations of the Cadet Honor Code.”

  Kirk turned his head a bit, narrowing his eyes at her.

  He said, “This is a mistake.”

  “For your sake, I hope so, Mr. Kirk,” said Lieutenant Caan. “Code violations apply only to your Academy status. I’d be more concerned about the two alleged offenses that fall under jurisdiction of the Punitive Articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. As a Starfleet cadet, you’re considered military personnel and may be required to face a court-martial proceeding.”

  Now Kirk’s face morphed to disbelief.

  “What?” he said. “This … this is not right.”

  T’Laya rose from the bed and quickly moved beside Kirk.

  “Don’t say anything more,” she said quietly. “Not until you can meet a JAG.” JAG was the acronym for Judge Advocate General, a military lawyer familiar with Starfleet legal code.

  Lieutenant Caan turned to her, nodding.

  “Good advice, Cadet,” said Lieutenant Caan. Then she turned back to Kirk. “If this issue continues beyond the meeting we are about to attend with the commandant, you will be assigned counsel. For now, I’m required by UMCJ Article Thirty-One to inform you that coercive self-incrimination is prohibited. You do indeed have the right to remain silent.”

  Kirk strode past her to Ensign Collins in the hall.

  “You don’t have to cuff me, do you?” he asked.

  Collins shook his head.

  “Are you fast?” asked Kirk.

  Collins said, “Very fast.” He held up a phaser. “And I’m armed.”

  “Okay.” Kirk nodded. “I’ll go quietly.”

  Collins grinned. “We can talk about the Giants, if you want.”

  “Nah,” said Kirk. “The way they’re hitting right now, I’d only get depressed.”

  As Kirk and Ensign Collins headed down the corridor, T’Laya and Lieutenant Caan exchanged a glance.

  “Are you a friend, Cadet?” asked Lieutenant Caan.

  “We just met,” said T’Laya. “But the answer is yes.”

  “Let’s hope he’s innocent,” said Lieutenant Caan with a thin smile as she turned to go.

  “Mr. Kirk may not be guilty of these particular charges,” said T’Laya, returning the smile. “But innocent? Not a chance.”

  CH.8.13

  Code of Conduct

  The first time Spock hit a racquetball, it splintered into jagged chunks of blue rubber. Uhura had to crouch and cover as the shards ricocheted around the court. Spock watched the pieces bounce.

  “Do I get points for that?” he asked.

  “You do in my book,” said Uhura with a grin.

  “What book is that?” asked Spock.

  Uhura laughed. Spock just looked at her, waiting for more.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  “I assume that was a defective ball,” said Spock as he started to pick up pieces.

  “I don’t think so, Commander,” said Uhura. “I forgot about Vulcan strength. You’ll just have to swing a little easier.”

  She stepped outside the court to pluck a new ball from her sports duffel. As she did so, she sneaked a peek at Spock as he crouched to pick up chunks of rubber. He was fit, but didn’t look particularly “athletic” in the Human sense. But Uhura knew all about Vulcan physiology, thanks to some database research that she hoped Spock would never find out she’d conducted. She knew homeworld-raised Vulcans were roughly three times stronger than Humans. She knew they rigorously practiced various forms of martial arts. And she knew they were fully Humanoid in every important physical aspect.

  As Uhura stepped back into the court, Spock was closely examining the rubber pieces.

  “Can you fix it?” joked Uhura.

  “On Vulcan, we synthesize a carbolitic polymer that exhibits superior isotropic hyper-elasticity,” he said. He looked at her with an ironic gleam in his eye. “I believe it would make a better ball.”

  “Would it be Vulcan-proof?” she asked.

  “Nothing is Vulcan-proof,” he replied.

  Her eyes lit up. “We’ll just see about that,” she said. “My serve.”

  They proceeded to whack the ball around for a solid, sweaty hour. Uhura was a fluid athlete and had played competitive racquetball in school, so she enjoyed a teacher-student role reversal. Spock mastered the court geometry quickly, figuring out shot angles. His superb agility was surprising too. And of course his swing was powerful. But Uhura’s deft touch was unbeatable.

  “That’s match,” she called as Spock lunged and missed yet another of her crafty low lobs that dinked off the front wall.

  Spock, who had spoken little during the match, picked up the ball and handed it to Uhura.

  “You are quite good,” he said, smiling.

  Uhura hadn’t seen a full smile from Spock in weeks. She felt a little weak in the knees.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  They sat on a bench outside the court. Uhura handed Spock a towel and a hydro-protein drink, then packed their racquets into her duffel. The indoor racquetball courts were part of the Academy’s Sports Complex. Many cadets were using the facility that day. With finals and Zeta assignments coming up, a lot of stress hormones needed metabolizing.

  “I met someone interesting in the Romulan Archives the other day,” said Uhura casually.

  Spock drank thirstily. Then he carefully wiped his mouth and said, “How so?”

  “Do you remember the girl at the next station?” she asked.

  Spock arched an eyebrow, thinking. Then he shook his head.

  Uhura said, “She was Vulcan.”

  “Really?” said Spock. “I did not notice her.”

  Good, thought Uhura. But she held out her right arm and said, “She was right next to me.”

  Spock shook his head again. “I was not at your station long enough,” he said apologetically.

  Uhura smiled. She couldn’t help it.

  “Well, this girl—her name is T’Laya—she’s full-blooded Vulcan,” said Uhura. “But she grew up on other planets, including here, on Earth. In fact, she sounded more like an Earth girl than … well, than I do.”

  “Vulcans, like Humans, are quite adaptable, both physically and culturally,” said Spock.

  “I found it interesting,” said Uhura.

  “Would you like some lunch?” asked Spock suddenly.

  “Uh, sure,” said Uhura.

  “I discovered some anomalous fricatives in the Romulan phonology database we are building from the Cheron recordings,” he said. He stood up. “I would like to discuss them with you. Have you ever been to the faculty dining hall?”

  Uhura raised her eyebrows.


  “No!” she said. “That’s an honor for which I feel … unworthy.”

  Spock smiled again. That’s two smiles, counted Uhura. He’s almost giddy today.

  “I assure you, it is no great honor to eat there, as the food is rather ordinary,” said Spock. “But if it were, you would be more than worthy.”

  Now Uhura smiled.

  “I’m starving,” she said.

  “As I said, the food is not gourmet, but the top-floor view of the bay and the city skyline is quite striking.”

  As they strolled across campus, Uhura noticed a few male cadets eyeing her. Then she remembered that she’d hiked up her racquet skirt a bit higher than usual for today’s match. She discreetly unrolled the waistband and tugged the skirt lower.

  “Commander, I’m going to ask you something that may not be entirely ethical,” she said.

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yes,” said Uhura.

  “Will it violate the Code of Conduct?” asked Spock.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Uhura. “But I have to ask anyway.”

  “Well,” said Spock. “If you must.”

  She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “You have input into the Zeta starship assignments, correct?”

  Spock nodded gravely.

  Uhura started to speak again, then felt a wave of guilt.

  “Never mind,” she said, pulling back. “I’m sorry.”

  Spock stopped walking, turning to her.

  “Cadet,” he said. “Are you asking me to exert influence in your favor for a particular ship assignment?”

  “No!” replied Uhura, aghast.

  Spock just looked at her. They stood now in the entry courtyard of the main building, site of most Academy administrative facilities, including the commandant’s suite and the faculty dining hall.

  Distressed now, Uhura began, “Commander, I—”

  “Nyota, listen to me,” he said firmly.

  Uhura literally froze. It was the first time he had ever used her given name.

  “The faculty senate has appointed me the primary starship assignor,” said Spock. “I am in charge of the posting committee. My decisions on personnel assignments for the Zeta exercise are final.” With a puzzled look he added, “Nobody is supposed to know this. Yet somehow, everybody does.”