The Trellisane Confrontation

by David Dvorkin

  McCoy thanked the man absentmindedly and walked toward the Sealon ship, scarcely noticing the crowd of Trellisanians parting respectfully for him.

  He had never seen a spacegoing vessel this large down on the surface of a planet before. The largest vessels he had seen on the ground in previous experience were shuttles, such as those of the Enterprise. This enormous mass of metal, resting quietly on the ground, had the indefinable aura of deep space about it, that place where he had already spent so much of his life. The ship sat lightly, as if it were ready at any moment, at any hint of a command from its masters, to leap joyously back into space, its proper home. McCoy had spent the days on Trellisane immersed in the details of his grim duty—body counts and hospital beds, limited manpower and nonexistent medicines—and until this moment had not thought about space. It was his proper home, too, he realized, and the ship was a magnet to him. Did the Sealons love space, too? Was that why their ship spoke so eloquently of the beauty of the great blackness? Why, then, he had some things in common with them, after all, perhaps more than he had with that crowd of jellyfish muttering nervously behind him. He walked forward slowly. Veedron called out to him: "Doctor, please be careful!" And then louder: "Doctor!" But McCoy ignored him and kept walking toward the Sealon ship. Matabele: there must be a man—no, a being—he could admire and respect, certainly more so than he could feel anything of such emotions toward Veedron or the other gemot leaders.

  At the base of the ship, a door slid open, eliciting a gasp from the Trellisanians. McCoy stopped moving, overcome himself, at last, with the realization that he had not behaved with prudence in exposing himself this way. He was well away from the crowd, alone in the space directly before the Sealon ship, and he would be the obvious first target if Sealon warriors should emerge from that silent facade and launch an attack.

  A ramp slowly extended itself from the bottom of the doorway, covering the short drop to the ground. A man could have jumped down with no trouble, as could a Klingon. This, McCoy realized, was an adaptation so that Sealons, whose bodies he had already examined carefully, could slide to the ground without injuring their small, weak legs. At last he would meet some live Sealons, perhaps Matabele himself. So what if he was about to die? He would at least go bravely, even adventurously, perhaps in combat with the great Sealon king himself.

  The sunlight was bright, while the space beyond the doorway was quite dim. A figure appeared in the opening, but McCoy could not make it out. Then it stepped forward onto the ramp and descended calmly to the ground to stand before McCoy, and the doctor opened his mouth in astonishment but found himself unable to speak.

  "I trust you are well, Doctor, and that your speechlessness has no pathological cause?" Mr. Spock asked.

  The negotiations were taking place in a large room onboard the Sealon ship, and they were not going well.

  A raised platform had been constructed near the door for the Trellisanians' use and provided with comfortable chairs and a small table. The sunken floor of the room was covered with a meter and a half of water, and it was here that the Sealons relaxed during the discussions. Their great shapes, far more fluid and graceful in the water than on a dry surface, flowed swiftly back and forth across the room. Against a far wall, Matabele rested on the surface of the water, huge and silent, raising himself occasionally to stare at the Trellisanians with his penetrating, discerning, discomforting gaze. Sealons normally squint in sunlight, but here in the gloomy, humid interior of the ship, Matabele's eyes were wide open, huge, black, and impenetrable. The Sealon negotiators would carry the words of the Trellisanians to him, receive his instructions, and then dart back across the room to the platform to resume the bargaining.

  Spock, drawing on knowledge gained during the intimacy of the mind-meld, had managed to reprogram both his and McCoy's translators to handle the fluid, whistling speech of the Sealons. Thus communication was possible through the medium of the two Star Fleet officers even though none of the few Trellisanians who knew the Sealon speech was available. Matabele had already sent messages to his forces in the seas to halt their interference with Trellisanian communications; thus Veedron and the other gemot leaders were once again in contact with those of their equals who survived on the other continents. However, it had proven far easier for Spock to work out such practical details of communication than it was to design a settlement acceptable to both Trellisanians and Sealons.

  The Trellisanians in fact had nothing to bargain with, and they knew it, and this had elicited in the gemot leaders a sudden and surprising stubbornness founded on wounded pride. Matabele demanded that the seas of Trellisane, most of its small island chains, and certain inlets along the continental coasts be given to his people. In fact, all of this and far more was already his for the taking, if he chose that route. In return, Matabele offered extensive fishing rights in what would become, under the agreement, sovereign Sealon territory on Trellisane and even in the oceans of Sealon. The oceans of the two worlds were the only territories attractive to the Sealons; as far as Matabele was concerned, large land surfaces, including the moons of the system and whatever other planetary surfaces Trellisanian technology could make habitable, were free for Trellisane to take. Above all, the increasingly technological Sealons would become trading partners and peaceful allies of Trellisane.

  The agreement proposed by Matabele was so balanced and logical that McCoy was sure he saw a Vulcan mind behind it. He leaned toward Spock and whispered to him, "You've been a busy little boy, haven't you, Spock? Just what have you been up to since I saw you last?"

  Spock cast a short glance of annoyance at him and turned his attention back to the Trellisanian gemot leaders. It was clear to him that it was the very magnanimity of Matabele's offer that offended them. If they had shown this sort of backbone earlier, he reflected, they might not be in this situation now; as it was, their argumentativeness was little more than petulance. "I think, sir," Spock said calmly to Veedron, "that the Sealon terms are more than generous."

  Veedron glared at him. "How do we know we can even trust these animals to keep their word? Agreements don't mean the same to them as they do to you or me."

  Part of the Trellisanian anger, Spock realized, was a way of masking a particular and peculiar fear: to survive under the proposed agreement, Trellisane would have to move outward into its system aggressively, expand rapidly and with determination, colonizing moons and planets wherever possible. Veedron and his colleagues feared this prospect more, perhaps, than they feared annihilation. Indeed, perhaps their fear-filled, retiring souls would welcome destruction as the ultimate escape from challenge and responsibility. "Sir," Spock said firmly, in a tone that made it clear that even Vulcan patience has its limits, "you do not speak for all the people of Trellisane, but only for those who are members of gemots. There are fishermen and other slaves, as I know quite well, who belong to no gemot and who would welcome total control of this world, even under Sealon terms."

  "Yes, indeed," McCoy chimed in, scarcely able to keep a grin off his face. "And for that matter, why aren't they represented here?"

  "You're quite right, Doctor," Spock said gravely. "A serious oversight on my part. I should have arranged for the presence of a member of the slave class."

  The Trellisanians all began talking at the same time. McCoy was finally able to impose silence on them and gain their attention by pounding his fist on the light table, which jumped off the floor in response, and shrieking, "Shut up!" at them at the top of his voice. They obeyed him largely because they were stunned that someone they had recently grown to respect as an equal could be guilty of such a breach of etiquette. Spock stared at McCoy with a hint of amusement on his almost expressionless features. The high-pitched communications at the far end of the room ceased and Matabele and his subordinates turned their dark eyes and froglike faces toward McCoy.

  "Well," McCoy said, affecting heartiness, "now that you're listening, I think I'd better point out a few things to you." He drew a deep breath. "The
re are two facts you of the gemots need to consider. First of all, you need our protection—the Federation's, I mean—whether or not you decide to become members, and you must have realized from what I've already told you that you won't be able to get it with your present governmental setup. You'll have to rearrange things so that the yegemot have a voice.

  "Second, as Mr. Spock has already pointed out, the yegemot themselves won't accept the status quo. They've fought the Sealons. They've tried to defend this world, and you can bet they didn't risk their lives—lose them, in too many cases—just to save your privileges. You know, I've been a busy little boy. Removing brain implants, for instance … Face it, gentlemen: you have no choice."

  Veedron licked his lips and looked around at his fellow gemot leaders, but they all looked down at the table, refusing to meet his eyes. At last, convinced his colleagues would not offer him any support, Veedron spoke. "Doctor, I know those arguments," he said reluctantly. "I've used them with myself. I suppose I—we—would be willing to accept a small degree of participation in the government by the yegemot, since we seem to have little choice, were it not for one insurmountable difficulty." He stopped, his evident distaste for the subject seemingly making it almost impossible for him to say more.

  "And that difficulty is?" Spock prompted.

  Veedron forced himself to continue. "They are animals, beasts." Anger flared in him again at the thought. "They serve us because they were bred up from bestiality for that purpose only! We can't—"

  "Just a moment," McCoy cut in, his face stern. "You tried that one on me before, and this time I can't just let it go by. As soon as you confirmed that you and the yegemot are cross-fertile, I knew the story about their ancestry was rubbish. If your medical men weren't as prejudiced as the rest of you, they'd have drawn the same conclusions as I did. It could be proved easily enough with tissue samples in a lab, but that's not even necessary: you have to have common ancestors, and fairly recently, you have to still be the same species—by definition—to be able to breed together."

  The Trellisanians were speechless. McCoy wondered whether the cause were confusion or outrage. He became aware for the first time of Matabele and his Sealons watching the scene with a calculating silence. One of the Trellisanians finally found his voice. "But your colleague, the Vulcan … I was told he's half Earthman. What you said is obviously not true." The rest of the group nodded vigorously and muttered their agreement.

  "Sorry to destroy your last defense," McCoy said, feeling like a hypocrite because he wasn't sorry at all, "but Vulcans and Earthmen are both descended from an ancient race who colonized most of the known Galaxy. Almost all the humanoid races we know of are descended from them, and that probably includes you. Of course there has been genetic drift and adaptation to extreme conditions, producing anomalies like the Vulcans. The races who don't have those common ancestors are precisely those races who are not cross-fertile with humanoids from other worlds."

  Veedron said, "This is a great deal to ask us to accept, Doctor. To overturn the ways of generations on your word …" He shook his head.

  "Damn it," McCoy flared at him, "Im not asking you to take just my word! When you first told me that cockeyed theory about the yegemot being bred up from domestic animals, I went right out and collected tissue samples from various corpses, victims of the bombardments, both yegemot and your own kind. The results are all available for your biologists, well documented, genetic analyses and everything. You could have done that yourselves at any time. Now I've done it for you. Now you'll have to face the truth!" McCoy realized he was on his feet and shouting. Feeling suddenly foolish, he fell silent and sat down.

  Spock's almost-smile was even more apparent to McCoy. "Well?" he snapped at the Vulcan. "Do you have something to add on the subject?"

  "Not at this moment, Doctor." Spock added in a low voice, "Implants? You must explain that to me later." He turned to the Trellisanians. "I don't think you'd be wise to put off your decision much longer, gentlemen. I've come to know Matabele quite intimately," he paused, darting images of chasing small prey in the dark, deep oceans of Sealon surfacing in his memory, "… intimately, and I believe that despite his pragmatism and magnanimity," he emphasized the word, "the usual Sealon impatience is very much a part of him. If you delay any longer, he might withdraw his offer and launch the final attack. His followers in the seas must be chafing at the delay as it is."

  Perhaps it was the thought of murderous Sealons swarming out of the seas, slithering across the beaches to kill and destroy, perhaps it was the cumulative effect of Spock's well orchestrated attack; whatever the cause, defeat was evident on the faces of the Trellisanians. Even though they performed the ritual of discussing their reply among themselves and with the invisible host of other gemot leaders linked to them mind-to-mind, the result was clear long before they announced it. At last, with a deep sigh, Veedron said to Spock, "Please tell the king we accept his terms."

  Before Spock could say anything to the expectant Sealons, who were now swimming back and forth impatiently near the platform, McCoy raised his hand to stop him. "And what about our terms concerning the yegemot?"

  An expression of great distaste crossed Veedron's face. "Yes, we agree to your terms as well."

  Spock turned toward the Sealons and spoke a few words quietly in Vulcan. His voice was drowned out by the fluting, whistling sounds that came from his translator and sent the Sealons gliding swiftly across the room to tell Matabele that the oceans of Trellisane were his.

  The Sealons erupted into wild gyrations of triumph, flashing across the room and leaping out of the water in front of the platform, whistling shrilly, and splashing the Trellisanians as they crashed back into the water.

  A new Sealon arrival darted in through the doorway, looked around for a moment until he spotted his king, and then glided swiftly to Matabele. At first the Trellisanians and the two Federation officers on the platform didn't notice the new Sealon, partly because all Sealons looked alike to them, and partly because the Trellisanians were too busy wiping water off themselves and rearranging their robes. Those on the platform finally realized that something important had happened when the Sealons, Matabele in the lead, churned through the doorway and vanished, leaving behind a trail of bubbles and foam that slowly dissipated.

  "I think, Veedron, that we'd better return to your headquarters," Spock said. He rose and led the way to the exit, using the narrow ledges that ran along the walls just above water level. The Trellisanians followed spiritlessly, defeat heavy upon them, as if nothing they did mattered any more.

  Outside, it was already dark and the crowd had drifted away. The group made its way as quickly as possible to the headquarters building of the Protocol Binders gemot. The building gleamed in the dark, every light on, and people hurried in and out. The illusion of organized pandemonium was shattered when they entered: there was no organization, only pandemonium.

  Spock tried unsuccessfully to stop passersby to find out what had happened. Veedron finally succeeded when one of the hurrying functionaries recognized him. "Sir," the man said breathlessly, "I'm glad you're back. We've all been worried—"

  "Never mind that. What's caused this excitement?"

  "You don't know?" He looked at the impatient faces before him and explained quickly. "A fleet of ships just arrived. Klingons, Romulans, the Federation—combined. They're in orbit now, demanding that we and the Sealons surrender to them!"

  Chapter Twenty

  Captain's Log: Stardate 7532.8

  The Enterprise will be leaving Trellisane orbit for Starbase 28 in a matter of moments. Upon arrival, I will deliver our surviving prisoners. I will also dump to the Starbase diplomatic computer the full details of the accord I have signed with the Romulans and Klingons.

  Kirk raised his thumb from the log recorder button and let his mind drift for a moment. Would Star Fleet Command and the Federation Council accept the new treaty with only minor quibbling? Or would his actions be condemned as an overreachin
g of his authority? He shrugged and pressed the log recorder on again.

  "Perhaps this is the beginning of the cooperation between us and the Klingons forecast by the Organians. It goes beyond that forecast by including the Romulans as well." Kirk hesitated, then, grinning, added, "This is surely one of the most significant opportunities for peace we have had in this century, and I sincerely hope we will not fail to grasp it." He released the button to off and sat back, feeling satisfied. "Helm, initiate new course on this orbit."

  "Aye, Captain."

  Back in control, Kirk thought with satisfaction. Giving orders again, the orders that moved this enormous machine and its 400-odd crewmen—a different kind of machine—sending it across the Galaxy if he, James T. Kirk, simply desired it. The surge of power from the engines, the faint vibration under his feet: it was all in obedience to his will; the ship and its amazing energies were virtually extensions of him.

  McCoy had come to the bridge a few minutes earlier and now stood beside Kirk's chair, watching the main viewing screen with him as Trellisane receded rapidly. The planet dwindled to a point of light, which was joined on the screen by the much brighter point of the system's primary. Both disappeared into the field of stars.

  "Warp speed, Captain."

  Kirk nodded his acknowledgment.

  The first officer left his station and crossed to Kirk's chair, taking up his familiar position on the side opposite to that chosen by McCoy. "Captain," Spock said thoughtfully, "it has occurred to me that under better circumstances Hander Morl could have made a fine Star Fleet officer, perhaps even a ship's captain."

  Spock's eyes were on the screen, and he couldn't see the flash of anger that crossed Kirk's face, then quickly vanished. "How so, Mr. Spock?"

  "Considering his lack of training, Captain, he managed the Enterprise remarkably well under most difficult conditions."