“Oh, yes. The ones I was always most fond of as a child were the ones about Porthos,” Vleb said, with a nostalgic smile. “Denobulans don’t keep pets, you know, but hearing Phlox’s stories about Captain Archer’s beloved beagle made me wish for a dog of my own.”
Hedford smiled and nodded as Vleb related this story. Archer’s love of dogs was legendary, and from the logs she’d read of the Enterprise’s officers, one would almost believe Porthos was just as much a member of the crew as any of the others.
“There was this one story in particular,” Vleb continued. “Porthos had caught a nasty pathogen on the planet Kreetassa. Captain Archer was so aggrieved, he spent the entire night with Porthos in sickbay, obsessing over the poor animal. Meanwhile, the Kreetassans were demanding a ritual apology for a grave offense Porthos committed, but Archer refused. He was so upset about his animal that he was willing to endanger Earth’s relations with this newly encountered alien race out of pure stubborn spite, until Phlox managed to get him to see sense.”
Vleb shook his head in a bemused manner. “Fascinating, isn’t it, how even the greatest of heroes can be so different from the way historians depict them, hmm?” Vleb chuckled again, while Hedford felt any hint of amusement being sapped out of her. Vleb must have noticed, and asked, “Are you feeling unwell, Ambassador?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I just…I should mingle a bit more.”
The Denobulan gave her another of his smiles. “Oh, yes, by all means. You should ‘work the room,’ as they say.” Hedford was already several meters away as he finished that thought, and still moving.
The alien aimed his hors d’oeuvres directly between Christopher Pike’s eyes. “All our engines were running at full reverse,” he told the Starfleet captain, “and still, we were accelerating forward toward nothing. Well, since everything else in this void had seemed completely counterintuitive, I ordered engines full forward.”
“And that moved you in reverse,” Pike said, shaking his head in wonder.
“Exactly.” Coalition Fleet Commander Ra-ghoratreii pulled the small cheese pastry backward, away from Pike’s face, and popped it into his own mouth. “Or, at least, it slowed our forward motion enough for us to catch our breath,” he continued, brushing the crumbs from his long white mustache, “and to investigate the specific physical laws of the region.”
“Fascinating,” Pike said, imagining what it must have been like to have made a discovery like that. Or like any that the tall, impressive-looking Efrosian had regaled him with over the past half hour.
“Oh, that’s nothing compared to what we found at the center of the dark zone,” the fleet commander said, snatching another topped cracker from a nearby table. “At the void’s core, actually generating this null region around itself, was a single-celled organism.”
“What? Like an amoeba, you mean?”
“Yes, but an amoeba big enough to swallow this entire planetoid.”
“The hell you—” Pike blurted before stopping himself, realizing how undiplomatic that particular response was.
Ra-ghoratreii seemed not to take offense. “You disbelieve me,” he said with a grin.
“Well,” Pike answered sheepishly, “it does seem rather incredible.”
“Well, of course it is! I’d probably think you a gullible nivak if you had taken such a thing on faith, without having seen it yourself,” the Efrosian said with a wink.
“I wish I could,” Pike said, with a trace of wistfulness in his voice.
“I’d share my visual logs with you if I could. However,” the fleet commander continued, bitterness entering his tone, “my superiors have decided to classify the material.”
“Oh? Why?”
Ra-ghoratreii shrugged. “Maybe the Grand Council thinks it will start to multiply and eat the entire galaxy. More likely, they have an even more ridiculous concern.”
Pike grinned as he recognized a kindred spirit. “Tell me, what does ‘Babel’ mean to you…?”
T’Pol had attracted a sizable crowd around her, all of whom were clearly fascinated by the only nonhuman among them ever to have visited Earth. “Why would you have stayed for so long, under such conditions?” asked the aide to the Ktarian ambassador.
“‘Why’ is obvious, isn’t it?” interjected the Caitian ambassador. “It was love.”
“Love?” a Coridanite man scoffed. “You forget we’re talking about a Vulcan?”
“Vulcans feel emotions; most only choose to suppress them.” The Caitian turned directly toward T’Pol. “Isn’t that true?”
Before she could demur from answering, a Rhaandarite official interjected, “Love is all well and good, but even the greatest love ever could hardly stand against the degree of hatred humans directed at non-Terrans during that period.”
T’Pol found herself agreeing with the Rhaandarite. Terra Prime, rather than dying when Paxton did (having given up his hypocritical use of Rigelian gene therapy to counter his Taggart’s Syndrome while imprisoned, and thus making himself a martyr), only became stronger. Six years after the strike on San Francisco, Nathan Samuels was forced from office when the newly formed Isolationist Party won a plurality of seats in Parliament, and the draconian Extradition Acts were quickly enacted, barring even the most innocuous dealings between humans and nonhumans.
Phlox returned to his family, but since the death of T’Les, T’Pol’s only family were the people she served with, and in particular, the father of her cloned child. And she did not care to leave him.
“So don’t,” Trip told her.
T’Pol showed him a completely emotionless mask. “If you are intent on returning to Earth with the captain”—which of course he was, and T’Pol would have insisted he do so if he wasn’t—“then I have no other choice.”
“Actually, you do,” he said, and then, for some unfathomable reason, he kneeled in front of her. “Marry me, T’Pol.”
T’Pol furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been studying up on this,” Trip told her. “The Extradiction Acts don’t say nothing about marriage. And United Earth law about marriage as it stands has a lot of antidiscrimination language in it, giving couples a whole lot of rights. A planet-sized loophole that says if we get married, they have to let us stay together.”
T’Pol felt her breath quicken even as she continued to doubt this idea. “And who would perform this ceremony?”
“The captain.”
T’Pol narrowed her eyes at him. “I was unaware Captain Archer was a justice or a clergyman.”
“The captain of a ship in international waters—or interstellar space—can perform a marriage and have it be totally legit.” At T’Pol’s skeptical look, he added, “It’s a tradition, from back to the days of the first wooden sailing vessels.”
T’Pol considered the man before her—friend, confidant, frequent sparring partner, and partner in other pursuits. “You are not a lawyer, Trip. And even if your interpretation of the law is correct, I am not at all confident, given the current political climate on Earth, that the legal system would feel compelled to uphold my rights.”
Trip sighed. “This scheme is a little harebrained, isn’t it?”
T’Pol nodded slowly. “I believe so.”
Trip dipped his head, then looked back up at her. “Marry me anyway.”
“…Lady T’Pol?”
She snapped out of her reverie and back to the present. “Excuse me,” she said, quickly masking her embarrassment and other close-to-the-surface emotions, “what were you saying?”
“Why agree to join Commander Tucker on Earth at the worst time an offworlder could choose to do so?”
T’Pol flashed back to the look in Trip’s eyes as he smiled and got off his knees to embrace her. “It seemed the logical thing to do.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting these stories from,” Tarses said, and drained the last of his martini. “Our partnership with the Halkans is a peaceful one, and one that is extremely ben
eficial to both sides.”
“You mine their dilithium without their permission,” Ambassador Shras of Andoria charged, baring his teeth.
“We have the permissions we need…”
“Not from the Halkan Council,” piped in the Kazarite ambassador.
“No,” Tarses allowed as he waved down a server and swapped his empty glass for a fresh one. “From the occupants of the land in question.”
“So, you circumvent their rightful government,” Shras said, “in the process violating their pacifist beliefs…”
“And we’re to accept that the government can dictate the moral beliefs of all its citizens?” Tarses answered heatedly. Though he’d concentrated on the Vulcans for most of his career, he couldn’t help but pick up a few things about the Andorians as well. They were a passionate people, as prone to violence as early humans had been—not just early humans, he admitted in the privacy of his own thoughts—and tended to appreciate when others expressed their passion. “Not every Halkan is as absolutist in their interpretation of ethics. Some understand that Earth wants peace, and that we depend on dilithium to maintain the peace—”
“Peace for Earth, you mean.”
Tarses nodded emphatically. “Yes, peace for Earth, which extends to Halka, Canopus Planet, Benecia Colony, and all the rest of the worlds within our sphere. Unlike, I would add, Eminiar and Vendikar.”
The Andorian’s antennae went rigid at that comment; he was no doubt surprised by the human’s knowledge of the Coalition’s recent disastrous contact with those two worlds. “Watch yourself, Earther,” he warned in a low tone. “You can hardly blame the Coalition for what, technically, is just the continuation of five centuries of bloodshed…”
“Five centuries,” Tarses repeated. “How many billions does that total? And how many more billions will die because of the Coalition’s policy of noninterference?”
The Andorian seethed silently for a moment before saying, “I cannot defend every policy of the Space Command. Just as I’m certain you wouldn’t wish to be asked to defend the actions of Kodos on Tarsus IV.”
Ah, now the gloves are off, Tarses thought to himself, secretly relishing the opportunity to knock the almighty Coalition down a peg or two. “Or the actions of Coalition commanders who refused to allow the Trill relief ships across the border.”
Shras’s retort to that was lost, however, as a deep, booming voice from the far end of the hall shouted, in flawless and un-translated English, “No! I don’t…Get away from me!”
Commander Kirk stood with his back against a wall, glaring at the bald-headed Deltan ambassador, Arlia. Time seemed to freeze as everyone in the hall turned to stare at him in alarm—except for Arlia, who wore a look of sadistic amusement on her face. Time unstuck as Ambassador Hedford crossed the room and grabbed Kirk by the arm. “What is going on here?” she demanded through clenched teeth.
Kirk’s mouth opened and closed, but no words formed. The smooth-scalped Deltan stepped up then and said, “A misunderstanding. It is my fault. Apologies to you, Commander,” she said, looking not the slightest bit contrite. She gave him a wisp of a smile, and then turned and headed for the other side of the room.
The gazes of the crowd around him also turned quickly elsewhere. Once Hedford was convinced no one was minding them anymore, she leaned in close again and hissed, “Goddammit, Mister Kirk, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry, Ambassador,” he muttered back. “I didn’t mean…”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” she snapped angrily. “Now listen: this is my mission. You are here as support for that mission. If you cannot do that, then you can go and sit in the shuttle until it’s time to return to the ship.” Without waiting for him to reply, Hedford spun away, pretending to ignore the several stares aimed her way, while at the same time trying to decide which witnesses needed to be approached and assured this was atypical human behavior.
Kirk held back the urge to scowl at Hedford’s backside as she walked away. Instead, he scowled at the bottom of his half-empty glass of bourbon, and at himself.
Kirk had never cared much for aliens. Almost nobody he knew of in Starfleet did; aliens were at best impediments to human use of the planets they lived on, and at worst…well, at worst, they ripped permanent scars across the Earth’s crust, killing millions in the process. But ever since his chat with Doctor McCoy the other day, he’d forced himself to take a good hard look inside himself. And he had to admit, a lot of what he found bothered him.
One of his first missions out of the Academy was to a planet called Neural, where Starfleet had negotiated for mining rights. There, he was forced for the first time to interact directly with nonhumans, though Tyree and his fellow tribesmen were almost completely indistinguishable from humans. And still, despite the open, hospitable nature of the primitive cave-dwellers, Kirk had developed an instant aversion to them. Was McCoy right? Was he as wrong in his attitudes toward non-Terrans as those who opposed Doctor King? Or his own hero, Abraham Lincoln, a hundred years earlier?
When Pike ordered him to join the reception on Babel, he resolved to put his personal feelings aside. And he managed to handle himself rather well, if he did say so himself: he had a very cordial chat with the Catullan ambassador and one of the Tiburonian aides.
Then Ambassador Arlia approached him. Again, Kirk was very cordial toward the Deltan, which was made easier by her close resemblance to a human woman. A very attractive human woman, even without a single hair on her head—somehow, that only heightened her exotic beauty. They fell into a very easy and open conversation, and just being close to this woman, Kirk felt things stirring within him that had been missing and presumed dead for six months…
And then it all came back to him: not only Carol, who, he was ashamed to realize, he had actually momentarily forgotten, but also the knowledge that Deltans gave off especially strong pheromones, which were known to affect the brain chemistry of other species, leaving them defenseless. The alien flashed a seductive, predatory smile, and suggested showing him her suite of rooms where they might initiate “private negotiation,” while she ran one fingertip lightly across the back of his hand…
“No!” he shouted at the inhuman alien, backing away, “I don’t…Get away from me!”
Kirk sighed and drained the rest of his bourbon. He wondered if he had done any real damage to Hedford’s mission here, to bring about some kind of unification between Earth and the Interstellar Coalition. He wondered then if he honestly cared…
“Commander Kirk.”
Kirk turned, and stiffened when he saw the person who had addressed him: a Vulcan male in a formal slate-gray outfit. “Yes?” he said, trying mightily to keep his voice even.
“Please accompany me,” the Vulcan said, then turned and started walking away before Kirk could even form the response, “What?”
The Vulcan stopped about five paces away, turned, and stared at Kirk, as if he were a dog expected to come to heel. Kirk’s first instinct was to just stand there and ignore the pointy-eared demon. But as he looked away from the Vulcan, he found himself looking in the direction of Captain Pike, still chatting with the Efrosian captain, smiling and laughing. The captain’s eyes found Kirk, and with that, he realized standing around doing nothing as he was would not pass muster. Warily, he moved after the Vulcan.
Kirk followed the alien out a service entrance in a dimly lit corner of the room, and then down a gleaming white corridor. The sounds of the reception hall faded, replaced with the clattering of plates and glasses and trays being set up in the kitchen area. Soon, even the sounds of the facility’s staff grew fainter as Kirk was led farther into the building, around a couple of corners, and then through a set of doors into a large storage area. Rows of metal shelves piled with cases and cartons and barrels split the room into about six narrow aisles, with ill-placed ceiling lights casting shadows onto the green-tiled floor. Kirk guessed this was the conference hall’s main pantry, though he didn’t recognize any of
the alien labels, or even the graphic depictions of the containers’ contents.
His guide moved down one aisle, and just as Kirk was beginning to wonder if following him had been such a good idea after all, the doors clapped shut behind him. He turned with a start and threw both hands against the solidly secured exit. He slapped at the panel set in the wall to the side of the doors, and he was unsurprised when it did nothing. Then, he heard a pair of footsteps approach from behind, a bit slower and heavier than those of the Vulcan he’d followed. Kirk spun around again, and this time, was surprised.
The Vulcan councillor, Sarek, stopped at the edge of the room’s shadows, holding his hands before him with just the fingertips touching, and nodded slightly. “Councillor,” Kirk said, battling the crazed jumble of emotional reactions stirred up inside him.
“Commander James Tiberius Kirk,” the Vulcan answered, in a tone that was as dry as the planet where its speaker originated.
“What is this all about?” Kirk demanded. “Sir?” he then amended.
Instead of answering, Sarek continued, “Born to Winona Kirk and George Samuel Kirk, in the city of Riverside on Earth, in the year 2233 of the Gregorian calendar. Commissioned as an officer of the United Earth Starfleet in the year 2254. Wed to Carol Marcus in the year 2255, and sired a son, David Samuel Kirk, in the year 2261. Widowed in the year 2264, when—”
“All right, you’ve done your research,” Kirk said through clenched teeth. “May I ask why you find me fascinating enough not only to bring me here, but to memorize my biography?”
“—when the transport vessel Galileo was mistakenly destroyed by the I.C.V. Vanik, by Captain T’Prynn of Vulcan. Among the seven humans killed were your wife and your son.”
Kirk had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the tears at bay, refusing to be provoked into an undisciplined emotional display.
“I grieve with thee, Kirk.”
“The hell you do!” Kirk spat back. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word!” He knew he was finished right then and there, but he’d decided that he just didn’t care. Goddamned Vulcans and their goddamned emotionless pro forma apologies, it just wasn’t worth it. No matter what it meant to his career or the mission or Winston Carter or whoever, it just wasn’t—
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