McCoy straightened up and spun around, some biting retort or another on his lips. But, rather than the expected eruption of emotional outrage, what the doctor said was, “How sure are you about the accuracy of these readings?”
“We’re in the process of gathering what additional data we can in the available time frame,” Spock answered, considering the doctor’s use of restraint with interest, “but I have no cause to believe these readings are anything but accurate.”
“Well, then, we have a pretty amazing find here,” McCoy said, showing the same excitement Frank had earlier. “But what do you mean by ‘available time frame’?”
“The subject will be beyond sensor range in approximately twelve minutes,” Spock explained. “And given the nature of our current joint venture . . .”
“. . . we can’t change course to go after it,” McCoy completed the statement, and sighed. “Damn, it’s a hell of a missed opportunity.”
Before Spock could agree with McCoy’s sentiment, they were interrupted by Ensign Frank, reporting, “Sir! We just lost signals from sensor arrays two, three, four, and five.”
Spock stepped up from the command well again and leaned over Frank’s shoulder to check on those systems. Running a quick diagnostic, he discovered that the data feeds from those four arrays were being disrupted by a forced feedback loop.
“Those wouldn’t be the same arrays our Goeg friend was so adamant about you realigning, would they?” McCoy asked.
“In fact, they would be.” Spock moved back to the command chair and activated the companel again. “Enterprise to Sulu. Situation report, please.”
“Sulu here. Situation nominal, Mister Spock. Why?”
“It appears that the Domain ship is interfering with our sensor systems.”
“What?” Sulu reacted in shock. “I saw the exchange between you and Satrav, but once he realized you weren’t going to reset the sensors, he just gave the order to have that data filtered out from their navigation computers.”
“I assume that was not the precise order he issued.”
“Well, no, what he said was ‘code 5-61.’ If I had realized . . .”
“You are not to blame,” Spock told him. That particular code, from Spock’s understanding, should only have applied to the 814’s own sensors. “Is Captain Kirk still aboard?”
“He and Commander Laspas were headed back to the Enterprise. That was about ten minutes ago,” Sulu said, just as the turbolift opened again, revealing both the ship commanding officers, who were laughing at some shared private amusement.
“Thank you, Mister Sulu. Spock out.” Spock closed the channel and moved around the command chair to intercept the pair as they stepped onto the bridge. “Captain, Commander Laspas. We appear to have a conflict between the two ships.”
“A conflict?” Kirk was the first to ask. “What is it?”
“We had redirected four of our long-range sensor arrays for use in a scientific study. Second Commander Satrav protested this, and has now caused them to be disabled.”
“What?” Laspas tapped his ear-mounted communication device. “814, code 8-0!” After a brief pause for the connection to be made, he said, “Second Commander, I am on the Enterprise bridge. First Officer Spock claims you had their sensor systems disabled. . . . Clarify.”
Laspas listened for several seconds, during which an expression of pronounced annoyance spread over his face. “And how often in your long career, Satrav, have you traversed this particular spaceway? . . . And in all those excursions, how many times have you ever encountered any navigational hazards or other spatial anomalies? Whatever risk there might be in allowing the Enterprise to use their own scanners for their own purposes would be negligible, wouldn’t it?” Laspas paused to listen again, then raised his hand to his communicator and pressed what Spock assumed was a mute button. “Mister Spock, what is the status of your scanners now?”
Spock in turn looked to Ensign Frank, who checked and reported, “All affected arrays now operating normally.”
Laspas nodded and pressed the same button again. “Code zero, Second Commander. Out.” He touched another button on his earpiece, and then turned to the captain. “I apologize, James. The standardized protocols don’t really apply in this current situation and . . . well, the Corps, by its nature, doesn’t lend itself to easy adjustment to unique circumstances, I’m afraid.”
“Not to worry; it was a simple enough matter to resolve,” the captain told him, and turned expectantly to Spock.
The Vulcan did not mention how much valuable and fleeting time had been lost, or how much potential data. “Yes, simple enough,” he replied.
Kirk nodded, pleased that the matter was closed. “Well, if there’s nothing else, Mister Spock?”
“Nothing that should require your immediate attention, sir,” he said.
“Very well. You have the bridge.” He turned back to Laspas and gestured to the turbolift. “Are you ready for another go at three-dimensional chess?”
“Lead the way, James,” the Goeg commander answered, and they both left the bridge.
“Is something wrong, Spock?”
Spock turned from the turbolift doors to face McCoy. “Why do you ask?”
McCoy fixed him with an intent, blue-eyed stare. “Because we’ve served together long enough that I can tell, even behind that cold stoic mask, that something isn’t sitting right with you.”
“Is that so, Doctor?” Spock asked, and turned away, calling up the long-range sensor readings at the auxiliary science station.
“Yes, that is so,” McCoy said, standing as close as he could without making actual physical contact. “And I know there’s something stuck in your craw, because you still haven’t told me that there isn’t anything wrong. You’re worried about something more than the Domain ship futzing with our sensors, aren’t you?”
“I would be negligent in my responsibilities as first officer if I did not concern myself about such matters,” Spock replied, still not looking at the doctor.
“Have you talked to Jim about these concerns?” McCoy asked.
The spaceborne life-form was at the very edge of their sensors’ range now, and more and more warp space noise was appearing in the data. Spock began to formulate a program to extrapolate whatever additional information they could to fill in the gaps. As he worked, he told McCoy, “There has been little opportunity for me to talk to the captain outside of Commander Laspas’s company.”
McCoy’s eyes widened as he considered the first officer, and his lips twisted into a mocking grin. “Why, Spock, you’re not jealous, are you?”
Spock finally turned his full attention to the doctor. “I see you have decided to resume your typical use of insult. Would you care to explain what twists of illogical reasoning led to that pronouncement?”
McCoy’s smile dropped. “Spock, you don’t honestly believe Jim’s judgment is being impaired because of the friendship he and Laspas have struck up, do you?”
“If I did, I would have acted on that belief,” Spock said.
“Then what’s the problem?” McCoy asked. “From what I saw just now, it seems that friendship resolved a conflict before it got out of hand.”
Spock considered that perspective, and then allowed, “My concerns may, perhaps, be unfounded. Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” McCoy said. “And . . . I’m sorry for that wisecrack about you being jealous.”
“An apology is unnecessary,” Spock said wearily. “You are, after all, an illogical human.”
McCoy stared silently at Spock, blinked, and then answered, “Well, then, I retract my apology, you green-blooded hobgoblin.”
Spock nodded and turned to head back to his place in the command chair, but still caught a glimpse of McCoy’s wide, amused smile out of the corner of his vision.
* * *
Pavel Chekov’s head jerked as the signal chime from his cabin door sounded, and he realized that he had nearly dozed off.
While standing upright.
In his sonic shower stall.
He muttered a Russian curse under his breath as he deactivated the cleansing head and rushed to the bedroom, where he’d laid out a fresh uniform. By the time Sulu signaled again, Chekov was hopping to the door on his right foot, tugging the left boot on at the same time. He cursed again as he tipped and fell against the doorframe, and righted himself just before the chime sounded for a third time. “Pavel, come on,” Sulu said, as the door opened. “If we’re late relieving Graham and Reynolds at the end of their double shift, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“They’re not the only ones working long shifts,” Chekov said, sounding a bit more petulant than he would have liked. With the crew stretched as thin as it was with repairs, in addition to having observers assigned to the 814 bridge, a lot of the Enterprise crew were pushing themselves to their limits, and beyond. Today would be Chekov’s third day in a row of working alpha shift aboard the 814, then reporting to the Enterprise for a second shift, before dragging himself back to his cabin to collapse.
“I know,” Sulu commiserated as they moved down the corridor to the turbolift. “But it’s what needs to be done. And as senior bridge officers . . .”
“. . . we’re expected to set the example, yes, I know.” The turbolift doors opened, and once the pair had boarded, Sulu took hold of the control throttle and ordered the car to Ventral Airlock 2. “It wouldn’t be so bad if one of those two shifts wasn’t aboard the other ship, though.”
Sulu didn’t argue with that sentiment. Nine days into their joint mission, it was becoming clear not only that the constant, high-pressure working conditions were the norm for the Domain ship, but that it was intentional on the part of their senior commanders. On the Enterprise, the Domain crew who were given liberty to visit and enjoy the larger ship’s amenities had proven to be personable and pleasant. Earlier in the week, Chekov had been able to take a short meal break in the Enterprise mess, and had been treated to the sight of a quartet of Liruq engineers performing some sort of folk dance, while accompanied by science officer Rob D’Amato on violin. The exuberance they’d displayed there, Chekov now understood, was due to the fact that any behavior of that sort would have been unthinkable aboard their own ship.
It took several minutes for the turbolift to complete its course from the crew quarters in the saucer section, across to the engineering hull, and then down to the ship’s lowermost deck. From there, Chekov and Sulu lowered themselves into the open airlock hatch, then climbed down the metal rungs that lined the short duranium tunnel that formed the primary link between the two vessels, into the Domain vessel, and through a set of heavy doors. On the other side, an annoyed-looking Abesian security guard wordlessly thrust a small data slate toward them, and they both in turn placed their thumbprints on its glasslike surface. The device gave two beeps, and the guard, still annoyed, gestured for them to keep moving. “Thank you, and you have a lovely day, also,” Chekov told him as they moved out of the security area.
“Pavel . . .”
“What?” he asked Sulu innocently. “I’m only trying to be a goodwill ambassador.”
The 814’s command center was located near the core of the ship, and Chekov and Sulu had to climb down four levels of stairs, squeezing by other crew members going on or coming off duty, to reach their destination. Once there, Ensigns Graham and Reynolds relinquished their posts with grateful, exhausted nods, handing off the data slates they used for duty logs as they headed for the door at double-time pace.
Sulu sidled down the row of stations by the center’s rear bulkhead, while Chekov moved to the first row and assumed the position behind the navigational sensor officer. The second lieutenant currently on duty, a Goeg woman named Asmar, looked back over her shoulder at Chekov and gave him a cold and wordless glare. “Good morning,” he told her. She replied with a low subvocal growl before turning her attention back to her instruments. Chekov sighed and resigned himself to what looked to be another long, tense, and uneventful shift.
Just over two hours into that long shift, Chekov noticed Asmar stiffen in her seat as she monitored her screens. “Second Commander,” she called out to Satrav, at his usual position standing before the array of viewers at the front of the room. “Code 4-77, oh-one-seven-five mark eight-oh-six-three.”
“Code 4-10,” Satrav answered, as Chekov punched a search command into his data slate. Meanwhile, Satrav spouted a series of numerical procedures, which registered only as a long string of seemingly random numbers in the ensign’s consciousness. How do these people keep all these damned numbers straight? he wondered. After a moment, the meaning of code 4-77 displayed on Chekov’s screen: Apparent high-energy-yield event or events detected in or near primary space lane. But what was a “high-energy-yield event”? Did that mean an exchange of weapons fire? A ship with a warp core breach? A subspace radiation burst? Why can’t they communicate in plain language?
Chekov dropped the slate to his side, and refocused his attention on the computer screens Asmar was monitoring. Stepping in closer to get a better look, he placed a hand on the back of her seat as he loomed over her shoulder. She flinched only slightly at the invasion of her space, but maintained her own rapt attention on the information coming in from the ship’s long-range navigational sensors. Chekov immediately spotted the “event” that had caught the Domain officer’s attention; he studied the readings that scrolled up the screen. These numbers—representing measurable data—he had no trouble interpreting: it was a matter/antimatter explosion, about two light-years distant, just off their current course heading.
“Second Commander,” came a voice from one of the stations behind Chekov. “Indications that Civil Transport Class I/043 is in the vicinity of the 4-77.”
“Or was,” Chekov said just under his breath, prompting a look from Asmar that was equal parts annoyance and horror at the transport’s apparent fate. It dawned on Chekov that his comment, as out of place as it was in this highly structured setting, could well have been taken as cold and compassionless. But Asmar had turned her face sharply away from him before he could apologize or offer any expression of sympathy.
Satrav turned to the display wall. Chekov noted that he was looking at one of the small perimeter screens, which was displaying the same feed as Asmar’s station. He studied the data for several seconds, and when he turned back, Chekov was surprised to see that an unmistakable expression of sorrow had now washed over the man’s normally gruff face. He looked to one of the rear stations and said, “Communications: 8-1.” Chekov assumed, without referring to his slate, that this order was to attempt comm contact with the transport, though from Satrav’s tone, he clearly expected this effort to be futile. Chekov looked at the data screen again, hoping he might find something there that could relieve the pessimistic mood now sweeping through the command center.
Then he saw it. “How large is a Class I transport?” Chekov asked Asmar.
She didn’t immediately respond, and when the Goeg turned her head, she seemed confused by the idea that she was being asked a direct question. “How large?”
But Chekov had already raised his data slate and accessed the Domain’s ship identification files. The Civil Transport Class I was slightly smaller than the Federation’s Whorfin-class of ships, measuring 110 meters in length, with a mass of just under 150,000 metric tons. Chekov looked from his handheld device back to the readings on the navigator’s screen. “They’ve ejected the warp core.”
“Mister Chekov!” His head snapped up at the thunderclap-like voice of Satrav, who fixed him with a curious expression and said, “Clarify.”
“The yield of the explosion is too low,” he explained. “With a ship of that size, a containment breach within the ship’s hull would have caused—”
“The energy output is greater than it would be for an isolated reactor detonation, though,” Asmar said, though she did not sound too certain.
“But not that much greater,” Sulu countered, as
he joined Chekov behind Asmar’s station and examined the data as well. “Look at this spike here, and the drop-off here,” he said, pointing to the readouts. “If you boost sensor resolution, I’ll bet you find out there were multiple explosions happening simultaneously: the warp core, ejected antimatter, and then one or more lesser secondary explosions.”
“Negative result to code 8-1,” the communications officer reported. The command center suddenly went quiet, and a dark dolor fell over its entire crew.
The silence was broken by Asmar, who said, “Second Commander, I believe the human may be right.” From the looks that statement drew from Satrav, he was even more surprised to hear that opinion voiced than Chekov was. She continued, “The available evidence does indicate only partial damage to the transport. It could be the communications systems were damaged.”
“Could there be survivors?” Satrav asked, his voice now dropping to an uncharacteristic whisper.
It wasn’t until Asmar turned to look at Chekov that he realized the non-coded question had been directed at him. “It’s possible, sir,” he answered, “but there’s no way of telling, not at this range.” The Goeg officer took a moment to absorb that, his eyes going distant in thought. Chekov turned to look at Sulu, who shrugged back at him.
When Chekov looked at Satrav, he saw that the hope that had briefly sparked in his eyes had vanished. “Code 2-45,” he said to the helmsman.
Chekov knew 2-45 was the order to resume their previous course. The sense of sad resignation that the rest of the Domain crew now exuded because of the executive officer’s decision was palpable. “That’s it?” Chekov demanded. “We’re not even going to investigate?” The ensign knew the odds that there were survivors on the transport were slim, but he found it beyond belief that the Second Commander would simply disregard that possibility.
Satrav, who had begun to pace away, turned back. “You just told us that you didn’t know if there were survivors or not.”
“Yes,” Chekov said, “but there is the chance—”
“And there is the chance your interpretation of the data is wrong, and they all died in an instant,” Satrav cut him off. He scowled and shook his head as he said, “Our current mission is to convey your vessel to Wezonvu, as Commander Laspas agreed to do. That mission is not altered because of speculation and wishes.”
Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity Page 11