Shaw drummed his fingers on the table, weighing the offer. “Who’s your backup in case I say no?”
“There’s no backup, Barney. There’s only you.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of strategic planning is that?”
“Will you do it?” Barstowe asked, cutting to the chase.
Her friend took a while before answering. “On one condition,” he said at last. “That you stay here on Earth and help me out.”
She hadn’t expected that. “I’m an ambassador,” she pointed out. “I can’t be of any use to anyone if I stay here on Earth.”
Unexpectedly, Shaw leaned forward and took her hand in his. “You can be of use to me,” he said softly.
It was only then that the ambassador realized what he was talking about. Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe. It was only with great effort that she found the words to fashion an answer.
“Where did this come from?”
He smiled. “It was always there. You just never noticed it.”
“Barney,” Barstowe began to protest, “I can’t—”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “If you want me to represent Earth, you’d better stick around. I’m adamant about it.”
She reached for her water glass and slid some of its contents down her throat. It helped.
All her life, she had made her way by convincing other people to do what she wanted. It was strange that when someone else came at her with the same approach, she found herself so unprepared.
So defenseless.
Nor was this an easy answer, the kind she might toss off and never have to worry about. It was an answer the ambassador would have to live with for some time to come.
But when she considered it, considered what it might lead to, she found—much to her surprise—that she wasn’t so adverse to it after all. In fact, in a funny, nervous kind of way, she found herself looking forward to it.
And while it was true that her talents would be best applied on other worlds, there would also be a need for people of her talents here on Earth. At least, that was the way things seemed to be shaping up.
Barstowe looked at Barney Shaw. She had always liked him, hadn’t she? How much, she couldn’t say. But maybe this was the time in her life when she needed to find out.
“Well?” he asked. “Do we have a deal?”
She managed a smile. “You’re going to love Sedrik of Vulcan.”
T’pau was the highest-ranking official in the Vulcan planetary government. She was also one of the loveliest females Sammak had ever seen. He was reminded of both those facts as he entered her soaring, sandstone audience chamber in the city of ShariKahr and beheld her on her seat of ancient seekasa wood.
“Sammak,” T’pau said, acknowledging his presence. Though she spoke softly, her voice echoed in the chamber.
“T’pau,” he replied, his voice echoing as well.
If one had regarded T’pau from a distance, one might have said that she was girlish in appearance. Indeed, she was shorter in stature and smaller-boned than most females her age.
But even from a distance, she was a striking figure in her dark, sleeveless gown and traditional Vulcan headdress. In ancient days, warriors would have fought to the death for the right to possess her.
“Approach,” she instructed him.
He crossed the white flagstone expanse that separated them and inclined his head out of respect. “I am grateful that you were able to see me on such short notice,” he told her.
“I understand that this is a matter of some importance.” In the light from torches set into the walls, her dark eyes seemed to glitter beneath delicate, upswept brows.
Youth, beauty, and an ability to command respect, Sammak reflected. A rare combination indeed.
“It is a Federation matter,” he explained.
T’pau didn’t comment on the relative importance of the Federation in the scheme of things Vulcan. She merely said, “I am listening.”
“As you know,” Sammak proceeded, “the Federation has called on all of its member worlds to present candidates for service in its Starfleet.”
“A request we have respectfully declined,” she remarked.
“That is true,” Sammak said. “However, the Federation is again calling on us to present candidates—this time for its Starfleet Academy, where it will train the future officers of its vessels.”
T’pau considered the request. “Is the Federation unaware of the existence of the Vulcan Science Academy? Or the honor that attends those students who are granted admission to it?”
“I have made mention of the Science Academy personally,” he informed her. “Though even before that, the administrators of the Federation were aware of our Academy and its virtues. Nonetheless, it has been pointed out to me that the Federation Academy will provide a different range of opportunities, some of them beyond the scope of any planetbound institution.”
T’pau cocked an eyebrow at his response. “The opportunity to leave Vulcan, I suppose?”
“And to experience other worlds,” he added. “To do so firsthand, rather than to be restricted to the information available in computer files.”
“And you believe our young people will find this alternative appealing?” she asked, her voice tinged with incredulity. “Would you?”
Sammak shrugged. “Of course not.”
“Then perhaps we should advise the Federation that Vulcan declines in this instance as well.”
“Perhaps we should,” he allowed. “But then, would we not be closing a door it is just as easy to leave open?”
T’pau’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“It may be,” Sammak said, “that a very unusual Vulcan will surprise us and express a wish to join Starfleet after all.”
“And in that instance,” she concluded, “we will wish we had made it possible for him to do so.”
“Precisely,” he replied.
T’pau gave the matter some thought. Finally, she spoke. “I find it unlikely that any Vulcan would wish to make use of Starfleet’s Academy. But as you say, it is not difficult to leave this door open.”
Sammak inclined his head again. “You are most wise, excellency.”
“And you are wise to say so,” she returned. “But you need not flatter me, Sammak. You will always be welcome in my audience chamber.”
“I am grateful,” he told her.
Of course, Sammak hadn’t told T’pau of another opportunity the Federation was likely to extend to them. He had been informed that she would be offered a seat on the Federation Council in the near future.
No doubt, T’pau would turn the seat down, and it would again be Sammak’s job to convince her to reconsider her position. But he would deal with that matter when it became necessary.
For now, he had achieved something of a victory. He believed his friend Doreen Barstowe would be pleased.
“If there is nothing else...?” T’pau prodded. After all, there were other matters that required her attention.
“There is but one other subject to be discussed,” Sammak said. “That of Skon and T’lara, whom you know. I have been asked to inform you that T’lara has given birth to a male child.”
T’pau absorbed the news. “That is pleasant news indeed. What have Skon and T’lara decided to call the child?”
“His name is Sarek,” Sammak told her.
“Sarek,” she repeated. She nodded approvingly. “Perhaps he will be the youth who makes use of the Federation’s invitation.”
It was an ironic remark. But then, even the highest official in Vulcan’s planetary government could lean toward sarcasm now and then.
“Perhaps,” Sammak replied.
It didn’t matter if a score of generations passed and no one availed himself of the opportunity to enter Starfleet Academy. Logic dictated that one prepare oneself for all eventualities.
No matter how unlikely they might seem.
Chinua Abute was cautiously pleased with the way his briefing had g
one.
The Starfleet Commission could have handed him six fat, juicy lemons. Instead, they had given him six very capable individuals, a foundation for success if he was any judge of such things.
Of course, it was difficult to assess a man’s character on the basis of a single meeting, much less six men all at once. They might yet turn out to be lemons of one kind or another. However, as Abute closed the door to his office at Earth Command and desposited himself in a chair by his workstation, it seemed to him that the Federation’s fleet had made a good start.
Now he was curious to see how the morning’s other meeting was going. Tapping out the requisite commands on his keyboard, the director opened a closed-circuit link to the Earth Command Executive Chamber, a stately, golden-walled room with a high ceiling and a black oval table at its center.
There were eight people seated around the table. Seven of them were denizens of other worlds. The lone Earthman was a prominent San Francisco attorney named Barnett Shaw.
At the moment, Shaw was addressing the group, his hands pressed together in front of him. Large and full-bearded as he was, he made an impressive figure, and his voice was no less commanding than his appearance.
“If there’s no further comment pertaining to Guarantee Six,” he said, “I would like to make a suggestion with regard to Guarantee Seven.”
The others exchanged glances, then turned to him. “Please do,” replied Ducheddet of Andor, inclining his white-haired head so that his antennae drooped in front of his blue-skinned face.
“Thank you,” said Shaw.
He consulted his note padd for a moment. The other delegates waited patiently for him to speak—even the Tellarite, whose people were notoriously short on the virtue of patience.
“In our society,” he said, “we grant each of our citizens the right to refrain from any action or statement that might identify him as the perpetrator of a criminal act. I propose that we embrace this right by making it our constitution’s seventh guarantee.”
The others looked at him with unconcealed skepticism. “The right to... refrain from self-incrimination?” said Erendi, the black-and-white striped representative from Dedderai.
“That’s correct,” Shaw told her.
“But why would we grant such a right?” asked Ducheddet, his head cocked to one side.
The Earthman looked uncomfortable, Abute thought. Perhaps he hadn’t expected his proposal to meet with resistance.
“Why?” Shaw echoed. “For any number of reasons. For one thing, confessions can be coerced. For another, they can be made falsely, perhaps in the interest of protecting someone else. But mainly because self-incrimination sidesteps the other rights we’ve granted.”
“What you earlier referred to as due process,” observed Sedrik of Vulcan, a lean and thoughtful specimen.
Shaw nodded. “A person deserves a fair trial, my friends. No one should be able to take that away from him.”
“But are we not depriving the accused of another right?” asked Odronk the Tellarite. “The right to admit the commission of a crime and have one’s guilt expunged through punishment?”
“A good question,” Erendi noted. “If this suggestion were to be codified as a guarantee, such an individual would have to resort to other forms of proof to identify himself as the guilty party.”
“Also,” said Aspartha of Rigel IV, whose people had been the last to join the Federation, “why should we provide a shield for those who seek to avoid punishment? If someone has committed a crime, he should be revealed as a criminal by any means possible.”
“Even when his testimony may be needed as proof against someone who has committed a greater crime?” Shaw asked.
Ducheddet made a sound of disbelief deep in his throat. “Are you saying that we must tolerate injustice in one instance in order to ensure justice in the other?”
Clearly, that’s what Shaw had suggested. “That’s the way it works sometimes,” he was forced to concede.
Before Ducheddet could press his point, Tirontis of Vobilin added his two cents. “I find it difficult to believe,” he said, his protruding jaw-tusks moving as he spoke, “that an individual would refrain from identifying a murderer simply to protect himself.”
Odronk snorted with amusement. “A Tellarite would,” he said with a sneer. “In a heartbeat.”
Tirontis looked at him with horror in his eyes. No doubt, he was reconsidering the wisdom of entering an agreement with a culture that accepted such perfidy.
“A Vobilite would not,” Tirontis said.
“Nor would a Dedderac,” Erendi added.
“We have incorporated your other suggestions into the constitution,” said Cabbol of Osadj, his dark, recessed eyes fixed on Shaw. “We have stipulated that the accused must be judged by a jury of his peers, that he must be granted an opportunity to confront his accuser, and that he must be allowed to see the evidence brought against him. However, I am inclined to dismiss this notion.”
“As am I,” Ducheddet added.
“It simply makes no sense,” Aspartha concluded, his hands held apart in an appeal for reason.
But Shaw didn’t seem inclined to take no for an answer. “If you don’t see this as a critical element in our constitution,” he said calmly, even contritely, “it’s only because I’ve failed to explain its value. Please allow me to try again.”
None of the other representatives objected. However, the expressions on the aliens’ faces told Abute that Shaw would have an uphill fight on his hands—not only over this matter, but perhaps over others as well. Now that an atmosphere of moral outrage had tainted the negotiations, it would be difficult to obtain a consensus on anything.
The director broke the comm link, that much more determined to hold up his end of the bargain.
CHAPTER
10
ALONIS COBARYN GRUNTED SOFTLY TO HIMSELF AS HE studied the scale hologram of the Daedalus-class prototype. Somehow, the two-meter-long hologram had looked more impressive in the darkened briefing room where he had seen it the day before.
Here at the center of Earth Command’s primary conference room, a grand, solemn amphitheater with gray seats cascading toward a central stage from every side, the hologram seemed small and insignificant. And with two dozen grim, lab-coated engineers occupying a scattering of those seats, already making notes in their hand-held computer pads, the Rigelian had to admit he was feeling a little insignificant himself.
He saw no hint of that insecurity in the other captains standing alongside him. But then, Hagedorn, Stiles, and Matsura were used to the soberness of Earth Command environments and engineers. And while neither Shumar nor Dane could make that claim, they were at least Earthmen.
Of all those present, Cobaryn was the only alien. And while no one in the facility had done anything to underline that fact, he still couldn’t help but be aware of it.
For some time, the Rigelian had been fascinated by other species. He had done his best to act and even think like some of them. However, after having spent an entire day on Earth, he was beginning to wonder if he could ever live as one of them.
Cobaryn’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud hiss. Turning, he saw the doors to the amphitheater slide open and produce the slender form of Starfleet Director Abute.
As the dark-skinned man crossed the room, the engineers looked up from their pads and gave him their attention. No surprise there, the Rigelian reflected, considering Abute was their superior.
“Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,” the director told the lab-coated assemblage, his voice echoing almost raucously from wall to wall. “As you know, I have asked the six men who are to serve as captains in our new fleet to critique your work on the Daedalus. I trust you’ll listen closely to what they have to say.”
There was a murmur of assent. However, Cobaryn thought he heard an undertone of resentment in it. Very possibly, he mused, these engineers believed they had already designed the ultimate starship—and that this session was a
waste of time.
Abute disagreed, or he wouldn’t have called this meeting. The Rigelian found himself grateful for that point of view, considering he was one of the individuals who would have to test the engineers’ design.
The director turned to Matsura. “Captain?” he said. “Would you care to get the ball rolling?”
“I’d be happy to,” said Matsura. He took a step closer to the hologram and pressed the flats of his hands together. “Let’s talk about scanners.”
It seemed like a reasonable subject to Cobaryn. After all, he had some opinions of his own on the matter.
Matsura pointed to a spot on the front of the ship. “Without a doubt, the long-range scanners that have been incorporated into the Daedalus are a big improvement over what we’ve got. But we can go a step further.”
Abute seemed interested. “How?”
“We can devote more of our scanner resources to long-range use,” Matsura answered. “That would allow us to identify threats to Earth and her allies with greater accuracy.”
The engineers nodded and made notes in their pads. However, before they got very far, someone else spoke up.
“The problem,” said Shumar, “is that additional long-range scanners means fewer short-range scanners—and we need that short-range equipment to obtain better analyses of planetary surfaces.”
Cobaryn couldn’t help but agree. Like his colleague, he was reluctant to give up any of the advantages Abute had described the day before.
Matsura, on the other hand, seemed to feel otherwise. “With due respect,” he told Shumar, “you’re equating expedience with necessity. It would be nice to be able to get more information on a planet from orbit. But if we could detect a hostile force a fraction of a light-year further away . . . who knows how many Federation lives might be saved someday?”
Shumar smiled. “That’s fine in theory, Captain. But as we all know, science saves lives as well—and I think you would have to admit, there’s also a tactical advantage to knowing the worlds in our part of space.”
Matsura smiled, too, if a bit more tightly. “Some,” he conceded. “But I assure you, it pales beside the prospect of advance warning.”
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