The Trellisane Confrontation

by David Dvorkin

  McCoy was trying without success to find someone who could and would assume responsibility for food distribution. None of this fell within the scope of the duties McCoy had volunteered for, but what little government Trellisane had had seemed to have entirely disappeared, and he knew he couldn't just ignore matters and let starvation creep up on them. There must be someone—or some gemot—who dealt with food storage and so on, and if he could only find them, he could perhaps talk them into trying to forestall the inevitable. Was it the Food Provenders he'd heard references to? But no one he questioned seemed to know or care who had the responsibility. Much as he admired the humane attitudes of Trellisane—at least, during peace time—and what little of their art and culture he had happened to see, McCoy was beginning to have strong doubts whether this world could be saved. Surely the natives must contribute to the effort too!

  It was while he was pondering this mixture of practical and abstract problems that Veedron stalked into his small office and confronted him. This was a face of Trellisane McCoy had not seen before: angry and imperious, and chastising. "Those friends of yours," Veedron snapped. "They've done something to anger the Sealons!"

  McCoy's astonishment gave way to an anger of his own. "Anger the Sealons! What are you talking about? They're invading your world, killing your people! Whatever Jim and Spock are doing against them is what you should be doing."

  "No!" Veedron yelled. "You're wrong! If we don't do anything to fight back, they'll realize how foolish they're being to do this, and they'll stop and go home."

  "Do you really believe that? Even after what they've already done to your world?"

  "Yes, Dr. McCoy. Yes, I do. They'll leave, and then everything will be the way it was, the way it should be. Everyone on Trellisane will settle back into his rightful place and be happy with it."

  For the first time, McCoy became aware of the terrible fear underlying Veedron's bluster. He spoke calmly, gently to the Trellisanian, trying to ease that fear. "I'm sure Jim and Spock know the dangers. We've dealt with interplanetary wars before, Veedron. You simply can't try to win by letting your enemy destroy your world. That never has—"

  "Your friends are destroying this world!" Veedron interrupted. "It won't matter even if the Sealons leave. After what those two have started, things will never be the same again."

  "There's a great deal of destruction to repair, of course," McCoy said soothingly, feeling puzzled by Veedron's near hysteria, "but if we can just end this war and get back in contact with Star Fleet, the Federation will help you rebuild."

  "But it's not the destruction, not the buildings." Veedron's voice cracked. "It's our society they're breaking down. After this, the slaves … the slaves will swallow us whole."

  "The slaves!" The real cause of Veedron's fear began to become apparent at last. Things he had seen during the last two days but had ignored began to coalesce for McCoy. "I think I've been too preoccupied," he muttered.

  Veedron flopped into a chair. "Oh, you offworlders just don't understand how things are here, how things have to be in order to have a civilized planet! You have all those other species from all over your domains, who look so different from you, to do your work for you. You don't have to face the moral and ethical burdens we have running this world."

  McCoy burst out laughing. "If you only knew how much you sound like some very old relatives of mine back home! Sit still, my good man. I've got a lot to tell you about how the Federation operates. I don't think you're going to like all of it."

  Veedron looked at him with distaste, but he made no move to escape.

  The pressure on Kirk's body increased steadily. He yawned desperately, stretching his jaws inside the flexible breathing mask the Sealons had fitted over his face, hoping he was avoiding damage to his eardrums. Only after he had been doing this for some minutes did he realize that the paralysis was wearing off. He jerked his arms free of the hands holding them and kicked in what he thought was the direction of the surface. He couldn't spare the time to take his mask off so that he could see the light of the surface. Something hard hit him on the back of the head, stunning him and stopping his escape. Strong hands gripped his arms and legs again and started pulling him along once more. Another heavy blow to the back of the head, and his consciousness faded.

  When Kirk recovered consciousness, he was first aware of a grotesque headache and next that he was lying on a hard, dry surface and was surrounded by warm air rather than cold water. He couldn't quite focus his eyes.

  "Captain." Spock's voice. Nearby, and full of concern. "Jim. Are you functional?"

  Kirk suppressed a mad urge to giggle. "Yes, Mr. Spock," he said, the words coming out in a slur. He could hardly control his tongue, and he could still make no more than a blur out of his surroundings. "I'm adequately functional."

  "Here, Captain," Spock said. "Have some of this."

  Kirk's head was raised and something was placed against his lips. He sipped a hot liquid, acrid both to taste and smell. He forced a few sips down, and his headache faded and his vision cleared. He could see Spock leaning over him, looking at his face with concern. As soon as Spock realized his captain could now see him, the look of concern disappeared, quickly replaced by the normal impenetrable Vulcan stolidity.

  From Kirk's right, a harsh voice spoke. "Captain Kirk. You're lucky they didn't crush your skull. A Sealon is very strong, and it isn't wise to make them angry."

  Kirk pushed himself shakily to his feet and squinted in the direction of the voice. A Klingon stood there, trying to mask his arrogance and hostility behind an assumption of polite interest. "Aha," Kirk said. "At last we find the puppet masters."

  The Klingon flushed, his false politeness vanishing. He growled, the sound of a beast, the strange, almost instinctual hatred between Klingons and humans nearly overmastering him. With an effort, he assumed his mask again. With an even greater effort, he smiled at the two Star Fleet officers. "We know who you are. Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and the ship's science officer and first officer, the Vulcan, Spock. We could tell from what our other captives … uh, revealed to us that you two were behind the sudden eruption of resistance. We advised the Sealons to capture you so that the resistance would end."

  "You 'advised' them, you said?" Kirk said. "Wouldn't 'ordered' be the right word?"

  The Klingon smirked. "I think you're missing the whole point, Kirk. We're here merely in an advisory rôle. It's obvious to us which of these two races is the more qualified to rule this star system. It must be obvious to you, too. If we're doing anything, it's only to help the Sealons in their natural progress to mastery. It's they who expressed the natural and proper desire to expand and conquer; we only provided the means. You have no right to complain if we chose to back the stronger faction and your faction loses."

  "Sir," Spock said, in that dry tone that alerted Kirk to the beginning of a theoretical disquisition, "the distinction you have drawn is surely moot. The Trellisanians provided the Sealons with space flight, it is true, but they did not teach them to arm their ships. Nor did they provide them with phasers; indeed, that is a device the Sealons, as an underwater culture, would surely not have originated on their own and would not have desired or known how to use. It was not until your own intervention that the possibility of attacking and invading Trellisane arose. By creating that possibility, you in effect led the Sealons into their present path. Klingon must be held accountable for the present war—if not in the eyes of the Organians, then in the view of the Federation Council. There will surely be retribution."

  The Klingon officer laughed at Spock. "Vulcan, in a few days, it won't matter what rôle we played. When the Sealons move onto the land, your weak friends will be killed off, and then it will be too late for the Organians or the Federation government to do anything about it."

  "Correction," Kirk said. "In a few days, you can expect a Romulan fleet to arrive and take over this system."

  The Klingon whirled on him, his hand dropping to
the phaser on his belt. "What? What lie is this? Speak quickly, Kirk, or you're dead!"

  Kirk grinned at him, deliberately goading him into losing his temper. They were alone in the office with the Klingon, and if he could force the officer into acting hastily, moving within range of them, he and Spock could surely disarm him. But the Klingon seemed to realize his danger, and he stepped back again, drew his phaser, and held it aimed at a point in the air midway between Kirk and Spock. "Now, Kirk," he said in a voice held deliberately calm, "explain what you mean."

  Kirk hesitated. There was no longer any security reason for not telling this Klingon the whole story; it was rather that he felt a great reluctance at admitting how he had lost his ship. "A group of fanatics have managed to take over the Enterprise, and they're on their way right now to the Romulan Neutral Zone, hoping to attack a Romulan vessel or base and start a war between them and the Federation."

  The Klingon laughed uproariously. "The great Captain Kirk has lost his ship!" he shouted. "Wonderful! Why should that worry us, Kirk? You've destroyed your career, and now your stupid Federation and the Romulans will destroy each other. That's good news for us—the best possible. With both of you eliminated, there'll be no one to stand in our way."

  Spock said, "Sir, you underestimate the Romulans. They will quite possibly manage to capture the Enterprise without destroying it, and then they will find out from the crew what has been happening here. Even if they do destroy the Enterprise, they will surely wonder why the Federation would initiate a war with them by sending a lone ship to attack their empire. In that case, they will surely become suspicious that something quite different is underway and will explore the star systems in the neighborhood of the Neutral Zone to try to determine what it is. In either case, they will be greatly angered to find that Klingon is trying to encroach in this area, which they regard as something of a no-man's-land between the three spheres of influence. That is precisely why the Federation has moved so cautiously here. Klingon has made a serious mistake by not emulating us. I doubt that your empire is prepared at this point to undertake a war against the Romulans and the Federation—or more properly, the Organians—at the same time."

  The Klingon glared at Spock for a moment, obviously wanting to find the words to destroy the Vulcan's argument but unable to do so. "Why should I believe any of this?" he asked finally.

  Before Spock could generously explain why, logically, he was not obliged to believe it, Kirk broke in. "You can check on the whereabouts of the Enterprise quickly enough."

  The Klingon thought for a moment, then called in a guard from outside, another Klingon, and left the room quickly. After some minutes, he returned looking shaken. "The base on Sealon verifies some of what you've said," he told them, his manner almost friendly. "The Invasion Commandant wants you both sent to him on Sealon so he can discuss what to do next. If it were up to me, I'd kill you both instead of cooperating with you."

  "And me without my swimsuit," Kirk said. Invasion Commandant, he thought. At least they're being honest with themselves about what they're doing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As if completely unaware of the Assassin looking over his shoulder, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, chief engineer of the U.S.S. Enterprise, pulled his head from the crawl space beside the main warp reactor and muttered, "Well, Scotty my boy, that's probably the best you can do without replacing those parts." Shaking his head, he walked across the open space in the center of Engineering Section to the warp reactor monitoring computer and stood in front of it clucking his tongue.

  The Assassin had followed, moving soundlessly. "What's wrong?" he asked, outwardly unperturbed but in fact disturbed by Scott's obvious worry.

  "Hmm? Oh, it's you. Well, y'see, I've done the maintenance your boss so kindly permitted me to. Now at least we won't blow up when the drive fails. But it'll still fail unless I'm allowed to remove some parts from the reactor and completely replace them. And he won't allow me time for that."

  "How long before it gives out?"

  Scott shrugged elaborately. "No way of knowing—until it happens. No one tests the things that way, because a real starship captain knows enough to let his chief engineer have his way where the engines are concerned."

  The Assassin said impatiently, "Just so they last long enough to get us to the Romulans."

  Scott forced his anger down. The thought that his beloved engines—and the ship itself—were only tools to these madmen infuriated him. They would let his ship be destroyed, and for no purpose other than their own madness! Still, he could tell that if he attacked this man he would accomplish nothing except to get himself crippled or killed. He could do the ship and the Federation more good by keeping himself in working condition until some sort of opportunity presented itself.

  One of Scott's assistants strolled into the room at that moment, his arm cradling a clipboard on which he was checking off various status points as he verified proper operations. He stopped in surprise when he saw his chief. "Sir, I thought you went off duty a couple of hours ago."

  "Just finished the warp engine maintenance, Bill," Scott told him, hoping the young man would have the wit to accept that explanation for now.

  Instead, the young engineer frowned and looked over the papers on his clipboard. "But none of that was scheduled, sir. I thought I remembered that we took care of that last week."

  "Right. That was the regular maintenance. We had bad problems because of the shaking up the engines took during that attack at the beginning of the Red Alert."

  "Oh, yes, sir, I see." Diligently and scrupulously, the young man wrote a few remarks on his check-off list. "In that case, sir, I'd better look it over so I know what to tell the man who relieves me." And before Scott could think of the right words to stop him without making the Assassin suspicious, the engineer had stuck his own head into the crawl space, still uncovered, that Scott had vacated only minutes before.

  Scott stole a quick glance at the Assassin. The man was watching the younger engineer and flexing his hands unconsciously. Scott sensed immediately that his assistant was close to death, and he said, in a cheerful tone, "We'd better get back to the bridge, now, and tell them that we're done down here." But the Assassin motioned him to silence.

  The young engineer came out of the crawl space frowning. "But, sir—"

  "Yes, yes, lad, I know," Scott cut in. "Those parts need to be replaced, or they'll give out soon. But with this alert on, the bridge just won't give me the time to do that." Star Fleet engineering did such a fine job of recruiting young men and women of high technical competence, he thought bitterly. Why couldn't they manage to send him some who were also quick on their feet in the nontechnical aspects?

  The younger man was obviously not reassured. "Yes, but sir—"

  "Damn it, laddie," Scott said, the anger in his voice quite real and based on his fear for the young man's life. "I know that's not good engineering practice, but we just don't have a choice. Now, don't you mess around with what I've done in there. It's all just on the verge of not holding together, and I don't want you sticking your mitts in there and spoiling what little I was able to do."

  The other engineer looked hurt, but he said only, "Yes, sir," and passed on, sedulously checking things off on his clipboard. Scott couldn't tell if he had at last got the message that all was not what it should be or if he had been browbeaten into silence. Either way, he had escaped a brutal death that had been, for some minutes, closer than he could have realized.

  The Assassin grasped Scott's upper arm in a grip of iron. Scott kept the pain from showing. The Assassin stared down into his face for a long moment, perplexity mixed with anger in his expression. Whatever he might suspect, his suspicions were clearly not precise enough for him to act on them. At last he shoved Scott toward the doorway and growled, "Back to the bridge. Move."

  Scott moved, releasing the breath he had been unconsciously holding. He knew how close to death he had been, but he told himself with some smugness that it h
ad been worth the risk: in the end, the chance he had taken might entirely save his beloved engines and ship from this gang. Suppressing the cocky grin that kept trying to break out on his face, he headed for the elevator.

  It could have been called a data exchange, but that does not convey the deeper interchange that was taking place. Christine Chapel sat quietly in a chair in Medical Section, her eyes closed, looking as though she were napping briefly to recover from the rush of wounded. A meter or two away from her, also unmoving, the Onctiliian rested on the floor. Now it was a three-part creature; the once-gaping wound of the dead member was healing rapidly. The three and the new fourth member were reliving each others' lives.

  Simultaneously puzzled and entranced, the three Onctiliians experienced Chapel's upbringing on Earth, her academic career, her early professional triumphs, and then the personal loss that had led her to become a nurse in Star Fleet. They ached and wept with her when she found the lover she had thought lost, only to discover that he was even more irretrievably lost than she had known. They comforted her, supported her, wept with her, loved her.

  And she lived their childhoods in the marshes of Onctiliis, growing through the many stages of life of that watery world's highest life form. Each life story was repeated three times, though each time differed from the others in some details. Hauntingly, through the memories of the three survivors, she lived the life of the fourth, the one who had died but would never be forgotten or fully relinquished. She relived their meeting in the fern forest that was their tribal mating ground, and then she relived their inexpressibly joyous physical union into a four-part adult. Finally, with them, she lived through their discovery of interplanetary politics, the United Expansion Party, and Hander Morl and his small party of fanatics, and the near-fatal trauma of the death of a member.

  Each member contributed something to the personality of the whole. The one who had died had been the most aggressive of the four, and the one most given to sudden and extreme enthusiasms. The being which now included Christine Chapel was not only more intelligent than any other four-part Onctiliian, because the human woman was far more intelligent than any single Onctiliian, but was also more introspective and pacifist. This creature would not have followed Hander Morl. Its memories of what had happened, and the part it had played, horrified the being it had become.