STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  The Siberian forest cat leaped from the bunk where Stephen lay sleeping. The cat’s huge fur-tufted paws thudded on the deck in the Vulcan gravity. It plopped itself down and licked its shoulder with two quick strokes.

  Stephen had wrapped himself in the bedclothes so nothing of him showed but locks of his blond hair.

  Spock said Stephen’s name—his true name, not the Terran name he had adopted to accentuate his perversity.

  Stephen slept on.

  “Wake up.”

  Ilya rubbed against Spock’s leg. It meowed piteously, complaining of inattention or hunger or the universe in general. Spock picked it up.

  “You should choose your traveling companions more carefully,” Spock said to the cat. “Especially if one is going to lead you to a life of petty burglary.”

  [183] “What are you trying to do, Spock?” The bedclothes muffled Stephen’s voice. “Incite my crew to mutiny?”

  “If I thought I could have any effect, I might do precisely that.” The forest cat rubbed its forehead against Spock’s hand, kneaded his arm with its long curved claws, and stretched its neck to let him scratch beneath its chin. Its sharp fangs projected beyond the lower curve of its jaw. “I see you retain your preference for dangerous pets.”

  “That’s an interesting comment, coming from someone who used to have a full-grown sehlat.” Stephen pulled the blanket down. “Lindy said you kept a Vulcan environment. I came in to get warm. And earth gravity makes me lightheaded.”

  Spock had perceived the same effects that Stephen described, but he refrained from complaining about them or even acknowledging them.

  “I would have thought,” Spock said, “that your years on earth, your preference for human beings, would have accustomed you to earth-average conditions.”

  Stephen sat up and rubbed his eyes like a sleepy child. Many of his reactions resembled those of a child. But children grew and learned and increased their discipline. They did not strive to overcome it.

  “You lose your tolerance after a while,” Stephen said. “Good of you to leave your cabin open for me.”

  “It had nothing to do with you. I do not use locks.”

  “I thought you might not. You’re the stubbornest person I ever met, when it comes to sticking with customs that don’t fit the circumstances.”

  “How did Ms. Lukarian know I keep a Vulcan environment in my cabin?” Spock said.

  “I was going to ask you that.” Stephen put his hands behind his head and lounged against the wall.

  “I have no idea,” Spock said.

  “A few years ago, I might have gotten a satisfying reaction out of you with that insinuation. You’ve been practicing.” He shrugged. “It’s good to know at least that you’re speaking to me again.”

  “It would be difficult to ask you to leave if I were not speaking to you.”

  “Leave your cabin or leave your ship?”

  [184] “The former will suffice. The latter would be preferable.”

  “You’re mad at me about this afternoon, aren’t you? You thought I’d tell them your personal name.”

  “First, I do not get angry,” Spock said. “Second, nothing you do could surprise me. Third, few on board this ship would understand the significance of my personal name, in the unlikely event that they could remember it and in the even more unlikely event that they could pronounce it.”

  Stephen chuckled. “You really are angry.”

  “I have better things to do,” Spock said, “than listen to your ravings. If you do not leave, I will.”

  Stephen threw aside the blankets, grumbling. “It wouldn’t hurt you to let me nap.” He rose sulkily and gestured toward the meditation stone. “You won’t even use your bunk. You’ll prove to yourself how worthy you are by sleeping on that damned thing.” He stalked toward the door. “Ilya—come on, kit.”

  The forest cat purred in Spock’s arms, kneading his sleeve with its long, sharp claws, and made no effort to move. Spock had been stroking the creature during the entire conversation.

  Spock detached Ilya from the velour. “Why do you persist in this fraud?” he said to Stephen as he handed the cat over. “It does not become you.”

  Stephen’s expression suddenly hardened into impassivity. His blue gaze turned icy. But in an instant he flung off the Vulcan calm.

  “I’m not the only fraud in this room,” he said with an easy grin.

  Spock let the accusation slip past him. His lack of reaction should prove Stephen’s accusation false.

  Stephen laughed at him and left him in peace. Spock lay on his meditation stone. For the first time in a long while, he experienced difficulty in relaxing toward deep trance.

  His bunk remained as Stephen had left it, rumpled and empty.

  The director of the oversight committee owned efficient spies.

  One of his best operatives, a veiled Rumaiy whose [185] namelessness the director chose to respect, dragged in a creature of complete inelegance. The Rumaiy bowed, stiffly and with minimal civility. He flung his captive to the bone tile floor and jammed his boot against the back of the captive’s neck when he tried to rise.

  “Salute your betters,” he said, his voice no less dangerous for being muffled by three layers of iridescent gauze. The captive pressed his face to the polished floor.

  “Let him up,” the director said.

  The Rumaiy obeyed. The director congratulated himself on holding his loyalty—or at least his service.

  Trembling, the young captive raised himself to his knees. He dressed in the manner of a merchant of minor status.

  “His tale gives me no pleasure to bring you,” the Rumaiy said. “No pleasure for you, or for me.”

  “Nevertheless, I will hear the tale.”

  The captive’s brow ridges contracted in fear, and he raised his shackled hands in supplication.

  “Sir, if I tell you the true tale you will kill me, though there are many other witnesses and you cannot hope to find them all. But if I tell you a lie, you will find some of the witnesses and discover that I lied, and you will kill me. So my only choice is which tale will give me the quicker death. Perhaps I should hold my tongue altogether.”

  The director gestured abruptly for the spy not to use his boot on the young merchant’s ribs.

  “Silence is the worst of your choices, I assure you,” the director said. “Tell the truth. If my operative confirms your story and I find it necessary to kill you, I promise you a painless death.”

  The captive’s shoulders slumped as he gave up hope of gaining his life through bravado. Still, the director had to offer him grudging admiration, for physical courage was not fostered among the merchant classes.

  “Tell your tale,” the director said.

  The story was the worst he feared: a squalid narrative of his son’s debauchery.

  “—and then, sir, when he knew he had lost his ship, sir, he attacked her from behind. She defended herself. And then instead of killing him, she offered him a duel. She said she [186] wanted to take his life-disk fairly. She chose blood knives. Hers is dark. The depth of the color frightened the officer. And then instead of fighting when the signal came, he threw his knife. He reached inside his vest—he had a power sling. But she deflected his blade, and then she moved so quickly he never launched a point at her before he died. Sir, I am sorry, sir.”

  “What happened to this duelist afterwards?”

  “She took his disk and showed it to the crew of his ship. They submitted their allegiance to her.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Sir, I don’t know, sir, but ...” He took a long unsteady breath. “Before the game, before the duel, we spoke together. She found me ... amusing. She offered me advice. She said good pickings and little interference were to be had near the Federation Phalanx. She said Starfleet and the Empire ignore what happens there, so as not to come into conflict over disputed territory—”

  “Silence,” the director whispered. “An astute observer, your renegad
e.” He considered the information for a moment. “This duel—it had witnesses?”

  “Sir, yes, many, sir.”

  “So how is it that you are here, and not one of those others?”

  “I didn’t know any better,” the youth said, downcast.

  “Explain.”

  “It was my first visit to Arcturus. I hoped for a quick arrangement, a quick profit. I thought I could not afford to leave without some ... commerce. The others fled. So now my bones will decorate your floor.” He essayed an expression of resigned amusement, but failed.

  “So.” The director turned, paced to one wall, and stared at a dark painting for a long time. “My spies are everywhere. Your presence here proves it.” The director faced the merchant again. “Do you understand this?”

  The youth made a sign of abject acceptance.

  “Stand up.”

  He obeyed, trembling violently.

  The director coded open the wrist shackles. “I will make it a point,” he said, “to keep a spy somewhere near you. If [187] you ever speak of this incident, I will know it. I will be sure to give you a long time to die.”

  The youth stared at him, unbelieving.

  “Mercy is unfashionable,” the director said. “I am not a fashionable man. I will spare you.”

  “Sir?”

  “I say, I am adding no bones to my floor today!” He waited until his reprieve penetrated the youth’s fear-stunned mind. “But someday, I may come to you and demand repayment for your life. Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes. Yes.” The youth’s voice failed him.

  “Get out. Go home. You weren’t made to be a smuggler.”

  The youth backed from the chamber, his sandals scraping across the tiles. As soon as he disappeared beyond the doorway, he fled. His footsteps echoed and faded.

  The director looked at his spy. The layered veil revealed nothing. “And why does this tale bring you so little pleasure?” the director said.

  A less honorable man, a more tactful man, would have offered false condolences for the dishonor and death of the director’s son.

  “The renegade,” the director’s spy said, “is named Koronin. She shows her face to the world. She is Rumaiy.”

  Jim tossed in his bunk. He sat up in the darkness and squinted at the chronometer. Thirty minutes to go. He thought he should lie down again and sleep—or at least pretend to sleep—rather than fidget just because his ship was nearing the Phalanx. No official craft of the Klingon oligarchy had attacked a Starfleet vessel in the Phalanx since the completion of Starbase 13. They were unlikely to begin now. Even raiders confined themselves to sneak attacks on undefended traders. At the very worst, one of the raiders might swoop in for a look. Even if some fool did attack a constellation-class starship, Jim would have plenty of warning from the sensors, plenty of time to get up and dress at leisure and go to the bridge.

  For all those reasons, Jim had decided not to change the Enterprise’s normal routine.

  Now, though, he had second thoughts. Suppose the [188] bandits—unlikely as the possibility sounded—formed an alliance against Phalanx traffic? Suppose—one time out of a million—the oligarchy attempted a surprise attack?

  He gave up trying to sleep, threw aside the bedclothes, dressed, and headed for the bridge.

  Most of the time, unless emergency conditions prevailed, the Enterprise worked on a regular diurnal rhythm. Jim had chosen to maintain it for the entry into the Phalanx. Most of the crew served the high watch; a skeleton staff worked middle and low watches.

  Jim arrived at the dim and quiet bridge. The glow of screens provided an eerie light; the pulse of gossiping machines provided the only sound.

  A single ensign stood low watch, ready to recall the full staff at any unusual occurrence. The ensign glanced back when Jim stepped from the lift.

  “Captain!” The ensign vacated the captain’s seat.

  “Good morning, Ensign—?”

  “Chekov, sir. Pavel Andrei’ich Chekov.”

  Jim felt as if he ought to explain his presence; on the other hand, he was the captain. He was not required to justify his actions to his subordinates. He settled into his place, while the ensign took the navigator’s position.

  Jim inspected the tactical display on the viewscreen. The Enterprise headed straight into the concentric circles that led down the perspective of the Phalanx.

  “What’s our ETA into the Phalanx, Ensign Chekov?”

  “That depends, captain. Display is most misleading, sir. Starfleet Command, Federation Survey, Klingon Empire—all choose different borders.”

  “Starfleet borders will serve our purpose.”

  “Yes, sir. Starfleet borders overlap Imperial claim; territory is in dispute. ETA 0619. Ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chekov.”

  The bridge doors slid open. Commander Spock paused.

  “Good morning, Mr. Spock.”

  “Good morning, captain.”

  He took his place. Screens lit up around him.

  “What are you working on, Mr. Spock?”

  “Nothing specific, captain.”

  [189] “Are you ready to run the gauntlet?”

  “We are unlikely to encounter harrying, captain; the local bandits prefer easier targets.”

  So Commander Spock is no more ready to admit he’s nervous about going in there than I am, Jim thought. But if he thinks I ought to have called an alert, he’s not about to say so—tactless he might be, and indifferent to other people’s feelings. But he’s neither stupid nor indifferent to his own interests. Telling your captain you think he’s a fool would not be ... logical.

  “Five minutes, captain,” Chekov said.

  Jim busied himself at his own place. He glanced over his schedule for the day—which was fortunate, since he had forgotten his morning class. The recreation director had noted the athletic abilities of everyone on board, including the captain, and had suggested that Jim teach a judo class. Jim had agreed, and left a slightly apologetic note for Rand to work the class into his day. Somehow, she had done so.

  Jim took a look at the ship’s efficiency reports, opened a log entry, and closed it again, empty, when he could think of nothing more to say than that the Enterprise approached the Phalanx, sensors showed no other ships in range, and the captain felt bored.

  If I’m so bored, he thought, why is my pulse rate so high?

  “Entering the Phalanx, sir.”

  Even Spock turned his attention from his console.

  But nothing happened.

  The Enterprise flew on, as peacefully as if it traveled in the Federation’s heart instead of on the farthest fringes.

  Jim laughed at himself, amused by his own feeling of relief: the Phalanx grew more dangerous along its length, not less. If Jim were setting an ambush, he would attack at the midpoint of the line, far from any possibility of Federation reinforcements. His current nerves had more to do with the psychological aspects of leaving the main body of Federation space than with any real danger.

  As he took the stairs one at a time to the upper level of the bridge, his knee twinged faintly. He was sure it would be all [190] right if he was more careful. If he could hold McCoy off for a day or two he might avoid another course of treatment or, worse, another bout of regen.

  Spock had returned to his computer. Jim leaned against the console beside him, deliberately nonchalant.

  “Mr. Spock.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Every ship I’ve ever served on has gravity anomalies,” he said casually. “Is this true of the Enterprise?”

  “Certainly, sir. It is unavoidable.”

  “Where are they?”

  Spock brought up a technical diagram that looked like five amoebas doing rude things to each other. Eukaryote pornography, Jim thought, and had to stifle a grin.

  “Where the fields intersect, nodes occur.” Spock touched the screen at several points.

  “Yes, Mr. Spock. But exactly where are the nodes?”


  “Here, here, and symmetrically—do you mean in relation to the physical layout of the ship?”

  “Yes, Mr. Spock. I want to ... make certain they’re correctly posted. For safety.”

  Spock brought up an overlay of the Enterprise. “The major zero-g anomaly is congruent to the zero-g laboratory, as planned. Another node occurs at the base of the saucer section. The symmetrical pair occur on either side of the main hull, two decks below the physical joining of the struts. The port node is a cabin occupied by a being who finds gravity fields most uncomfortable.”

  “I see. And where’s the starboard node?”

  Spock consulted the chart. “In the arboretum, sir.”

  “The arboretum.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, commander.”

  The lift doors slid aside. Stephen sauntered in, yawning, his cat riding his shoulder. Jim wished Stephen had performed his docking maneuver less flamboyantly, less dangerously. After Spock’s comments, Jim had been prepared to like the anomalous Vulcan. Stephen had made that difficult. Jim leaned idly against the console, a motion that conveniently took him farther from Ilya’s claws. Rocking to [191] the motion of Stephen’s walk, the cat swiveled its head to keep Jim within its suspicious green gaze.

  Stephen raised an eyebrow at Spock. “Sleep well?” he asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “I had no intention of sleeping; I needed peace and privacy for meditation.”

  “Don’t you get bored being so perfect all the time?”

  Spock ignored the comment.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Jim asked Stephen. “It’s a little late to be wandering around on an unfamiliar ship.”

  “Is it late?” Stephen yawned again. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Pazhalsta, sir,” Chekov said. “Is he Siberian forest cat?”

  “Yes.” Stephen joined Chekov by the navigation console. “His name’s Ilya.”

  Chekov gingerly extended his hand. The big cat sniffed him, approved, and deigned to be scratched.

  “I have only seen Siberian forest cat in Russia,” Chekov said. “My cousin Pavi has one as pet.”