by Greg Cox
“Aye,” Scott agreed, looking happy to have come in from the cold. He craned his head back to take in the imposing structure. “Ye’ve put a lot of quality work into this facility, I can tell.” He rapped a riveted support beam with his knuckles. “And sturdy, too.”
“I am pleased that it meets with your approval.” Pogg’s flat tone made it difficult to determine if he was being sarcastic or not. He guided them toward a waiting elevator. “This lift will take us to the primary control room, where you will be able to oversee the operation as agreed.”
“All in good time, Brigadier-General,” Scotty said. “If ye don’t mind, I’d like to make a hands-on inspection of the first missile before we get fully under way.”
“That hardly seems necessary,” Pogg protested. “All the documentation will be made available to you.”
“I have no doubt,” Scott said. “Just the same, I’d prefer to conduct a physical inspection myself. In my experience, paperwork and sensor readings are no substitute for checking things out with your own eyes. After all, we wouldn’t want people to think that maybe a counterfeit or decoy had been destroyed instead, would we?”
Pogg bristled indignantly. “Are you suggesting deception on our parts?”
“Not at all,” Spock insisted. “But there is an old Vulcan saying: Trust, but verify.” He spoke calmly and diplomatically. “No accusation is intended, but it is vital, for all concerned, that there be absolutely no room for doubt. We must avoid even the possibility of fraud or the exercise is pointless.”
Pogg mulled this over. “So be it, if you insist. How do you wish to proceed?”
Scott peered up at the looming gantry. “Let’s start with the first warhead, shall we?”
“Very well.” He led them into the elevator, which was of the cage variety, and pulled the door shut behind them. “I will accompany you to the appropriate level, although I assure you that this degree of scrutiny is unnecessary.”
“Let us be the judge of that,” Spock said. “A preliminary physical examination is indeed advisable before we relocate to the control room, where I will naturally wish to familiarize myself with your transporter mechanisms and displays.”
Full access to the transporter data was also essential to their mission. It was still necessary to confirm that any “disintegrated” missiles had not instead been beamed to another location. Spock declined to spell out his specific concerns, however, in order to avoid provoking Pogg.
“Naturally,” Pogg said sourly. “Perhaps we can also provide you with a complete list of all our military codes and passwords, as well as the home addresses of all our top commanders?”
“I do not believe that will be necessary,” Spock replied. “Shall we proceed to the inspection?”
The elevator carried them to the top of the gantry, where they stepped out onto a platform that Spock estimated to be approximately sixty-point-five-eight meters above the reinforced transporter pad below. Vulcans were not notably subject to an irrational fear of heights, and Spock himself had spent much of his childhood exploring Vulcan’s steep hills and mountains, but the vertiginous drop caused Spock to briefly think of the thruster boots he had worn while visiting Earth’s Yosemite Park with Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy. Such boots would be a useful safety precaution at this altitude. Pavak’s gravity was no less forgiving than that of any other Class-M planet.
It was, as they said, a long way down.
No missile occupied the gantry at present, although a small team of Pavakian technicians was already present on the upper platform. They regarded the Starfleet visitors with various mixtures of curiosity, suspicion, and resentment, which Spock chose to studiously overlook. It was clear, however, that he and Scott were not universally welcome here—which came as little surprise. Military personnel seldom approved of outsiders taking away their weapons.
“Time passes and there is much to accomplish,” Spock observed. “Shall we commence?”
“By all means.” Pogg raised a wrist-communicator to his lips. “Begin procedure.”
“Affirmative,” a voice from the control replied. “First unit arriving.”
The pad below lit up and the familiar whine of a transporter in operation filled the silo. A shimmering pillar of light, some seventy meters high, appeared atop the pad. The glare was bright enough that Pogg and Scott averted their eyes, but Spock’s inner eyelids protected him from the intense brilliance. The towering matter stream solidified before his eyes and, as the glare faded, the first missile appeared on the pad.
Spock recognized the weapon from its specifications. Precisely sixty-six-point-five-zero meters in height, the gleaming black missile consisted of a pointed warhead mounted atop a huge impulse booster capable of delivering the missile’s formidable payload to Oyolo in approximately thirty minutes, depending on the position of the planets relative to each other. Spock noted that the reinforced transporter pad supported the missile’s considerable weight without buckling. Pavakian engineering continued to impress.
Despite his Vulcan reserve and emotional discipline, he felt something of an inward shudder at the sight of the weapon. Just one such missile, he knew, was capable of raining unimaginable devastation down upon Oyolo, enough so that the crude photonic missiles that had already wreaked havoc on the planet would seem like a gentle rain by comparison.
Serial numbers in Pavakian script were embossed on the missile’s glossy ceramic casing. Pavakian technicians read off the numbers, checking them against the records on their data slates.
“Unit PMTT-1000000-3XV-001,” a young tech called out. “Verified.”
“Not so fast, laddie.” Scott came forward to inspect the newly arrived missile, which had theoretically been beamed to the site from its original location. “Aye, that looks like the real McCoy,” Scott said, “with all due respect to a certain chief medical officer.”
Pogg did not ask him to clarify that last remark. “Well?” he asked impatiently. “Are you quite satisfied, Commander Scott?”
“Not yet.” He scanned the nose cone with his tricorder. “Everything seems to be in order, but I still need to take a peek under the hood.” He gestured at the nose cone’s outer casing. “Open her up.”
Pogg fumed visibly, but assented. “Do as he says,” he instructed the technicians, who complied by unlocking a seal to reveal the warhead within. An opaque containment vessel shielded the protomatter core of the weapon, but the mechanics matched the specs unearthed by Oyolu intelligence and provided to Starfleet for the purposes of this inspection. Spock conducted his own scan of the warhead and found the readings consistent with the presence of protomatter . . . to an unsettling degree.
The Genesis effect relied on protomatter, he recalled. He owed his own resurrection, in part, to the very substance that made this warhead such a dreadful instrument of annihilation. It seemed a waste that such a remarkable material was so readily subverted to warlike ends, but, as he’d observed in the past, historically it had always been easier to destroy than to create. More’s the pity.
Scott seemed to share his aversion.
“Aye, that’s the genuine article,” he said with obvious distaste. “Nasty stuff, that.”
“But you are satisfied that the warhead is authentic?” Pogg pressed.
Scott nodded. “Aye.”
“And you, Captain Spock?” Pogg asked.
“Affirmative,” Spock said. “You may proceed with the disposal of the weapon.”
“Good,” Pogg said curtly. He spoke into his wrist-device again. “Continue.”
The transporter operator responded with admirable speed. The transporter fired up again and the missile dissolved into atoms, which quickly dissipated to leave an empty pad behind. Spock experienced a very human sense of relief as the weapon—and its malignant warhead—vanished from existence. He reminded himself to conduct a thorough review of the transporter’s memory ban
ks later.
“One down,” Scott said. “And a good many more to go.”
“Then let us waste no further time.” Pogg contacted the control room. “Receive the next unit.”
“Affirmative.”
This time, the men availed themselves of tinted safety goggles as a dazzling pillar of energy delivered another missile to the pad. Aside from its serial number, it appeared identical to the missile that had just been disintegrated. The technicians once again checked and double-checked the serial numbers on the weapon’s casing. Satisfied, Pogg raised his communicator to order the missile’s destruction.
“No,” Scott said. “Let’s check this one’s innards as well.”
“What?” Pogg said, raising his voice. “This is intolerable.”
“Is it?” Scott asked. “And how are we to know that ye didn’t try to pull a fast one by making sure that the first missile to be inspected was genuine . . . but slipping in a dummy missile later on?”
Spock had to concur with Scott’s reasoning. He’d had enough experience with humanoids such as the nefarious Harry Mudd to be familiar with the concept of a “shell game.”
“But do you realize how much time this will take?” Pogg asked, growing steadily more vexed. “There are over a thousand missiles to be destroyed. Are you intending to personally inspect every one?”
“No. Just a random spot check, every now and then, to keep us all honest.”
This clarification did little to mollify the indignant Pavakian.
“And precisely how many spot checks do you have in mind? Every fifth missile? Every tenth?”
Scotty took the other man’s choler in stride. “Ah, that would be telling.”
Pogg unhappily consented to another physical inspection, which yielded results identical to the first. As the second missile dissolved into nothingness, Spock allowed himself to hope that perhaps the lengthy disarmament process could be carried out without significant complications or obstructions. A third missile materialized upon the transporter pad. Pogg challenged Scott with a surly look.
“Well? Must we waste time opening up this unit as well?”
“No,” Scott replied. “I suppose we can speed things up a wee bit, as long as we reserve the option to conduct random checks without warning.”
The engineer’s stubborn persistence on this point clearly tested Pogg’s patience, but he was more than willing to keep the process moving. Hours passed and the system proceeded like clockwork, pausing irregularly so that Spock and Scott could again verify that the warheads were genuine. Spock was about to suggest that they relocate to the control room when a Pavakian colonel rushed onto the platform, accompanied by a half-dozen soldiers armed with phaser rifles.
“Brigadier-General!” she said urgently. “We’ve just received word. General Tem has been assassinated . . . aboard the Enterprise!”
“What?” Pogg reacted in shock. “Is this confirmed?”
“Affirmative, sir! The news comes straight from High Command.”
Hostile eyes turned toward Spock and Scott as the tense atmosphere took a sudden turn for the worse. Rifles were pointed in their direction and Spock found himself acutely aware of the precipitous drop surrounding them. That both he and Scott were completely unarmed added to the probability of this unexpected development having adverse, and possibly fatal, consequences.
Pogg wheeled about to confront them. “What do you know of this?”
“I possess no more information than you do,” Spock insisted. “This regrettable news surprises me as well.”
Indeed, even as he assessed the difficult position he and Scott now faced, his mind was already considering the larger ramifications of General Tem’s apparent assassination. The killing of the Pavakian delegate—aboard the Enterprise, no less—had the potential to throw the entire peace process into jeopardy, if not terminate it abruptly. Despite his own predicament, he did not envy Captain Kirk or Ambassador Riley.
“You don’t act surprised,” Pogg accused him.
“I am Vulcan,” he reminded Pogg. “We are not known for noticeable displays of emotion. But I assure you that I find this tragic news most distressing.”
“Aye!” Scott said, much more emotively. “This is a bad business, which we most certainly did not see coming!”
Pogg eyed them dubiously as he pressed the nameless colonel for more information. “Has the assassin been apprehended or identified?”
“I do not believe so, Brigadier-General,” she stated. “Reports are still coming in. Details are sketchy . . . but it must have been the Oyolu! Who else could it be?” She glared at Spock and Scotty. “Unless Starfleet was conspiring with our enemies to kill the general!”
Judging from the vengeful looks on the faces of her fellow soldiers, she was not alone in her suspicions—and perhaps her desire to act upon them. Spock perceived the odds of his and Scott’s survival shrinking by the moment. One trigger-happy soldier, or perhaps an “accidental” plunge from the gantry, and this peacekeeping mission would end in a distinctly less than satisfactory manner.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scott said. “I have no idea who killed the general, but I give ye my word that Captain Kirk and Starfleet had nothing to do with it!”
“And yet Tem was killed aboard your ship,” Pogg said harshly, “while under your protection.”
“I can offer you no explanation at this juncture,” Spock said evenly. “But I urge you not to react in haste or emotion. We are in perilous waters here, and it behooves us to proceed with caution.”
Time itself seemed to warp as a worrisome moment stretched subjectively for what felt like a much longer interval. Spock realized that their future was in Pogg’s hands now, provided the Pavakian officer was able to maintain control of his aggrieved troops. Spock’s short acquaintance with Pogg did not provide sufficient data to predict the other man’s behavior under these circumstances with any degree of reliability. Spock could only wait to see how events would play out.
I must have faith, he thought, that the universe will unfold as it should.
Pogg himself seemed uncertain as to how to respond. He deliberated longer than Spock would have preferred before brusquely reaching a decision.
“Escort our guests back to the officers’ barracks,” he ordered. “These inspections are done for the day.”
Spock had to wonder if they would ever resume.
Nine
“Are you sure you and your people are safe on Oyolo?” Kirk asked Tamris via a long-distance link to the planet. “Perhaps it would be prudent to bring you aboard the Enterprise for the time being, at least until tensions have died down a little?”
“Thank you, Captain, but I must decline your generous offer.” The Andorian’s careworn face occupied the viewscreen on the far wall of the briefing room. “We cannot abandon our work here. Too many suffering people require our assistance.”
“Are you quite certain of that?” Kirk asked from his seat at the conference table, facing the viewer. Riley sat across from Kirk, his chair also toward the screen. “The situation on both planets has become much more volatile, to say the least.”
It was the morning after General Tem’s apparent assassination and the news had already reached Oyolo and Pavak, causing considerable uproar. Tem’s mutilation and death had provoked riots and demonstrations on Pavak, along with formal protests from the Pavakian High Command, while jubilant public celebrations on Oyolo had only exacerbated the crisis. Accusations were flying back and forth like missiles. Kirk had planned to make a courtesy call on Pavak today, but things had obviously changed.
“I appreciate your concern,” Tamris replied, “and I’ll grant that we’re all a bit on edge today, much more so than when you visited us yesterday, but my decision stands. My people understand that our work often puts us in potentially dangerous environments.” She shrugged philosophically.
“If we pull up stakes every time there’s a security issue, we might as well stay home.”
“I understand.” Kirk nodded, respecting her decision. “Risk is your business. But please don’t hesitate to call for help if you think you need it. There’s a fine-but-crucial line between courage and foolhardiness, as Doctor McCoy is often quick to remind me.”
Tamris chuckled. “Have no fear, Captain. I haven’t lasted in this game this long by not knowing when to cut and run when needs be. If our situation becomes untenable, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Just try not to call it too close. We’re not within transporter range after all.”
“Point taken,” she said. “In the meantime, might I ask when Lyla will be returning to Oyolo? I understand that you have many other things on your mind right now, but I feel a responsibility to keep tabs on my volunteers.”
Kirk felt Riley’s baleful gaze upon him.
“We’re still conducting our investigation of last night’s tragic events, so we’ve asked Miss Kassidy to remain aboard until we can take her statement,” he replied. This was the truth, more or less, although the situation was a good deal more complicated than that. “I’ll let you know when she is free to resume her duties on Oyolo.”
“Of course, Captain,” Tamris said. “You can count on Lyla to cooperate fully with your investigation. She’s a very dedicated and responsible person, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
Riley coughed skeptically, but otherwise refrained from commenting. Kirk admired his restraint. Diplomacy was clearly his proper line of work.
“Miss Kassidy’s singular qualities are well known to me,” Kirk said. “But I won’t keep you from your work any longer. Please take care and keep your eyes and ears open.”
“And my antennae as well,” she promised. “And good luck with your investigation . . . for everyone’s sake.”
The screen went blank as she cut off the transmission at her end.
“Well, that’s that,” Kirk commented. “I hope we don’t regret not evacuating those people. Not to mention Spock and Scotty.”