by John M. Ford
Above the skyline behind van Diemen, a small ship was rising on gravs, marker lights strobing. Krenn reached for his communicator. “Special Communications, Commander Kelly,” he said.
“And finally there are those,” van Diemen said, “who claim the Federation is unresponsive to the needs of its members. I could give several answers to this; casually say ‘the Federation is its members,’ callously say ‘the members get the Federation they deserve.’
“Instead, I will mention some events of Federation history. The halting of Rigellian Fever. The evacuation of entire planets doomed by supernovae. Peace with the Romulans—peace forged with blood and iron, certainly, but a real peace nonetheless. Concessions won from the Klingon Empire, which not ten years ago was thought to be beyond the reach of reason—”
In the Inspirational Theatre aboard Mirror, there were several comments from the officers listening on translator. Krenn only smiled.
Van Diemen said, “The truth is that we do not, from one day to the next, know what our needs will be. Medical aid, disaster relief, united defense against an unimagined new enemy or a resurgent old one—these have been our needs, and who can say what will follow them?
“As a great Human said centuries ago, at the joining of another great Union, ‘We must all hang together, or we shall assuredly all hang separately.’ ”
Krenn heard more comments from the Theatre audience, and wondered how the translator had converted the hanging line.
“Delegates to Babel ... until we meet ... good night.”
Krenn kept his seat as the others filed out of the [211] Theatre. Shortly Kelly came in, holding two clear-prints. Krenn took one; the film was still warm from the printer. The image showed the spacecraft he had seen behind Admiral van Diemen, enlarged so that its markings were clearly visible. “Cargo tug?” Krenn said. “About a kilometer altitude.”
Kelly nodded, handed Krenn the second print. It showed San Francisco from Mirror’s orbit; the city was easily identifiable by the bay and bridge. Krenn held the print to the light of the Theatre screen, flexed it for maximum depth effect. A ship a thousand meters up should have stood out clearly, floating above the landscape. But there was nothing but a few wisps of cloud.
Krenn checked the reference strips along the prints’ edges; they were simultaneous exposures.
“So it was a recorded message,” Krenn said. “Was the window real, or a display?”
“It seems to have been real. The resolution matches that of van Diemen’s image. But the analysts are still working. We may be able to find out when the tape was made, from light cues in the city and the angle of the moon.”
“Kai Special Communications.”
Krenn’s communicator chimed. “Captain. ... Yes, Auloh. I’ll be there.” He switched off, said to Kelly, “He’s almost ready. Shall we go?”
“I’d ... rather not, Captain.” She held very still: Krenn realized it was to keep herself from trembling. Involuntarily, Krenn looked at the ceiling, though he knew very well there were no watchers on this voyage. Sometimes death is better, he thought, death is the end. But the thought did not improve his feeling.
Krenn said, “No reason why you have to. Finish assembling the Red File, and put these into it.” He handed back the clearprints.
“Section One or Two?”
“Section One. Then do a full sort, and download a copy of One.”
“Affirm.” Kelly went out, walking cautiously, [212] holding her arm to herself. After allowing her time to get a lift car, Krenn left the Theatre and rode up three decks to Sickbay.
A male Klingon lay naked on the surgical bed, strapped down securely, still half-surrounded by thermowave projectors and scanning gear. An empty cold-sleep capsule stood against the wall.
Surgeon Specialist Auloh pulled a contact away from the body, cleaned off the conductive paste. “You were right about the tape,” he said to Krenn. “If I’d gotten these neural readings on anyone else, I’d have figured he was a candidate to go back in the freezer, not on duty. And some of these ‘recommended procedures’ aren’t recommended by any authority I know of.” He picked up a pressure injector. “This is one.”
Krenn said, “What is it?”
“Masiform-D, Tri-Ox, and four times the therapeutic dose of Cordrazine.”
“Lethal?” Krenn said, looking at the body on the bed. The sleeping Klingon appeared to be about Krenn’s age; in a way, that was right, but it was also very, very wrong.
Auloh said, “This wouldn’t just kill you; you’d explode.” He gave the injection. “I’ll be in my office. I need a jolt of something strong, too. Call if he goes over the lines.”
After a few minutes, the body began to stir. The bed displays ticked higher, many of them into the yellow critical ranges; Krenn saw that Auloh had marked new lines onto the display with a wax stylus, and the indicator bars hovered near the marks.
The Klingon on the bed twitched. A wrist tore through the heavy plastic of the restraint as if it were wet paper. Then the arm stopped moving, lowered again. The eyes opened; Krenn imagined he heard a click.
[213] “Welcome aboard, Zharn,” Krenn said. “I am Krenn, Captain of the Mirror. Are you well?”
“I am indeed so,” Zharn said. “You have a mission for me, Captain?”
“I do,” Krenn said, and began unfastening the bed restraints.
“You are Captain ...”
“Krenn.”
“Captain Krenn. Have I acted for you before?”
“Not I. But I know your record.”
“Is it a good record?” The question was almost absurdly eager.
“It is full of glory.” Krenn released the last strap. Zharn began to sit up; Krenn started to assist him.
“Do not touch me, Captain. I have a reflex to attack anyone in physical contact, and I might become distracted and fail to suppress the reflex. You would die.”
“I ... understand. This was in the background tape.”
“It is a thing I always remember,” Zharn said. “Do you have my target briefing?”
“Yes. But we have a little time. Would you like anything—food? Something else?”
“I will need to eat. ...” Zharn stood up. He moved like oiled machinery; naked, he seemed not at all vulnerable. “And of course I appreciate your hospitality.” He smiled vaguely. “But after the mission, I will be more ... able. And I will ... remember it longer. The sleep damages memory.”
“As you wish, zan Zharn.”
“You are gracious, Captain ... Krenn. Are you ... certain I have never acted for you?”
“It is not impossible that we have met. Perhaps long ago. In the Year Games?”
“I was in the Year Games. Perhaps then. Was it long ago, that you were in the Games? For me it was not.”
Krenn looked casually at his chronometer. In Federa-Terra, on the Earth below, it was 03:14. “I have [214] your equipment ready,” Krenn said. “And your target briefing.”
“How did you get such precise coordinates?” Krenn asked Kelly, as they rode the lift to the transporter room.
“We tapped into their public communications grid at an open microwave link. It’s a very easy system to use, there are any number of directories. I called the University of Emory, and they connected me directly to his office: we locked on the call impulse.”
“You spoke to him?”
“He wasn’t there. But a secretary told me when he would be.”
They stepped out of the lift. They were wearing long hooded cloaks over their dress uniforms: Krenn’s was black velvet, Kelly’s a metallic gold.
In the transporter room, she handed Krenn a computer cassette. “These are the settings for Antaan’s transmission technique. We’ve held lock on Maktai’s focal referent since you beamed up ... don’t let Antaan try to set the transporter manually.”
“Why?”
“Because the Captain’s transport is my responsibility,” she said, and began working at the console. “Energizing,” she said, an
d stepped onto a disc next to Krenn’s.
They flickered into an office with wood-paneled walls, and wooden furniture with the dark tone of age. Along the walls were glass cases, holding peculiar devices of glass and wood and metal; Krenn saw a few that were similar to Auloh’s instruments, and supposed they were a collection of medical tools. A pendulum clock’s hands pointed to 10:25.
On the wall above the office desk was a large framed document, with script so ornate Krenn could not read most of it: he made out DOCTOR OF MEDICINE and THOMAS JACKSON MCCOY.
[215] Beneath his credentials, Dr. McCoy was seated, staring, hand frozen in midair on its way to a stylus plate. After a moment he said, “That’s quite a trick, gentlemen ... excuse me, sir, madam.”
“Doctor McCoy, I am Captain Krenn ... we met some years ago, at Maxwell Grandisson Ill’s table. This is Commander Kelly, my Communications and Executive officer.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” McCoy said.
“Do you remember, Doctor ...”
“I’m not likely to forget that breakfast,” the Human said, and stood up. “Won’t you all please sit down?”
The door to the office opened, and a woman came in, carrying a stack of note plates. She was wearing eyeglasses on a cord around her neck; she stopped short, and the glasses fell off.
“Not just now, Lucy,” Dr. McCoy said. “I think I’m in consultation.”
The woman put back her glasses, took a very long look at the two Klingons, and another at Dr. McCoy. Then she smiled. “Of course, Doctor. Hold your calls?”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
The woman nodded to Krenn and Kelly, still smiling. “Since I’ve already barged in on you folks, can I get you something? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be most pleasant, thank you,” Krenn said.
Dr. McCoy said, “Bring the pot, Lucy. And I hope to Lucius Beebe there’s something strong for it.”
Krenn thought of Auloh, and smiled to himself.
When they were supplied and seated, Dr. McCoy said, “Now what can I do for you?”
Krenn explained briefly.
Dr. McCoy was sitting back in his chair, stroking his square gray beard. He said, “I assume this isn’t a professional referral?”
“I don’t understand,” Krenn said.
[216] “The legally constituted authorities don’t know you’re here. And if they find out you are, it’s gonna make the Last Trump sound like a tin whistle.”
The phrase was bewildering, but its tone was clear enough. “The Federation will not be pleased,” Krenn said.
Dr. McCoy said, “And if even some of what I hear about your culture is true, they won’t be any too happy either.”
Kelly said, “This is true.” She began to stand up.
“Good!” McCoy said. Kelly dropped back into her chair. McCoy said “I won’t play anybody’s politics. But for the lady, that’s just fine.” He picked up the communicator handset on his desk. “Lucy? Get me Dr. Nesheim in the path lab.”
Krenn had never seen any being but Dr. Tagore smile so warmly.
Krenn took out his own communicator. “I have to meet other appointments,” he said. “The Commander will call for transport when you are finished.”
“You understand, this’ll take a few days,” Dr. McCoy said. “We’ll have to use some of our research gear, and do a little midnight requisitioning.”
Cargomaster Keppa had used exactly that phrase in klingonaase. “I understand, Doctor.”
“Then don’t worry, Captain. We’ll take the best care of her.”
Kelly said, in klingonaase, “Use the control cassette.”
“All right, Kelly.”
“And use caution.”
“Affirm.” Krenn pushed the call key. “Zan Kreg, this is the Captain ... ready to beam up.”
Krenn materialized in the hotel room, took a few steps, and sat down hard on the bed. He put down the pouch containing the Red File, Section One.
“You look terrible,” Maktai said.
“It is a good thing to be so cared for,” Krenn said. [217] “The interviews?” Maktai’s laugh was enough answer. “Good,” Krenn said, and looked at the bedside clock. 11:18. He had been nonexistent for eight minutes since leaving Mirror. “Turn on the monitor. ... news channel.”
The screen showed the dedication of a housing unit in a place called Antarctica: Krenn remembered Dr. Tagore saying that was the planet’s south polar cap. He felt cold just looking at the pictures. Maktai was rubbing his three-fingered hand, and had a rigid expression.
The screen changed abruptly to a sign reading URGENT BULLETIN. The next image was of a crowd of Humans, some of them armed soldiers in the Earth Forces and Starfleet Military uniforms. The picture shook, evidently taken by a hand-held camera; the camera seemed trying to go forward, and the troops were holding it back. In the background, a concrete pillar was just visible. Then the soldiers pressed in again, and the picture retreated.
A Human wearing a headset dodged into view. “This is Judith Rozmital, in ... where? ... Byron, Georgia, USA. We have word that Admiral Marcus van Diemen’s train has been attacked. ...” An insert appeared in the corner of the screen, with a still picture of van Diemen. The cordon of soldiers continued pushing outward.
“We’re trying to get some pictures ... there’s no official statement yet.
“Admiral van Diemen was on his way to Federa-Terra, where he is to be Chairman of the Babel Conference. He left San Francisco this morning ...” The reporter turned her head sharply, said in a low voice, “Jack? This line doesn’t go to Frisco ...” Rozmital turned back to the camera. “I’m told we’re about to get an official statement.”
The URGENT BULLETIN sign appeared for a moment. Then the unsteady camera showed a group of civilians, all wired in some way, around an Earth Forces officer in [218] field uniform. Lines of superimposed type read COL. WALLACE DUQUESNE and EGF SECURITY. Krenn was glad it was not Colonel Rabinowich.
“I regret to announce,” the Colonel said, “that Admiral Marcus van Diemen ... is dead.”
The reporters crowded in. Someone screamed in the distance.
“The cause of death ... is unknown at this time.
“Attack? No ... no, the train was not attacked ... heart attack, someone may possibly have said, and if so it was totally without authorization, or responsibility.
“No, other than that I don’t ... We’re looking into the route. ...
“No, there is no evidence of an attack. Not by aliens, not by Humans, not by killer bees. There is ... Oh, that concludes the goddamn statement.” Colonel Duquesne turned, drew a finger across his throat.
The screen went white.
“Him I understand,” Maktai said.
Marcus van Diemen appeared on the screen, frozen-framed, standing in front of San Francisco by night. A voice said, “For the benefit of our viewers who did not see the original broadcast, we present again Admiral van Diemen’s last message ... once again, Starfleet Chief of Staff Marcus van Diemen is dead at 67. More details as they become available.”
Krenn turned off the sound, but not the monitor. He picked up the hotel communicator, watching the screen. On the bed, Maktai was dismantling the transporter referent..
“Good afternoon,” Krenn said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with the Deputy Conference Chairman, Admiral Douglas Shepherd. ... Yes, I am certain he is very busy. Tell him this is Captain Krenn sutai-Rustazh of the Klingon Empire.
“Thank you. Tell him also that one other Human must be present at this meeting. His name is ...” Krenn reached into his tunic, produced a small plastic [219] card. “... Carter Winston, delegate to Babel from the planet Deneva.
“Yes, I shall be pleased to have the Ambassador there, but it is not required. Mr. Winston’s presence is required.
“It is indeed related to that. I suggest a place more secure than my suite. I suggest the most secure place Admiral Shepherd can arrange.
“Thank you.”
&n
bsp; Krenn broke the link. He flexed the card with Winston’s name between his fingers, cracked it across, and dropped the pieces into a metal wastebasket. They glowed orange as they fell, and were burning whitely before they touched the bottom.
On one wall of the conference chamber, a display panel showed colored wave patterns, continuous proof that the room’s electronic defenses were functional. Overhead, a circular ventilator moved cold, damp air with a continuous rush.
Krenn supposed all security meeting rooms looked alike: all blank and bare, as if any hint of warmth or comfort were an entrance for the enemy. This room even had access by transporter only, like Meth’s window on the Council: but there were three discs on the stage, and of course it was the screeching Federation device. Krenn listened to the irritating sound of the ventilator and wondered if, should the power fail, they would all suffocate, sealed inside the Starfleet Tower. He had no disrupter to burn an exit.
Krenn sat at one long side of the long black table. The Red File rested near his left elbow. At the narrow end to Krenn’s right was Douglas Tancred Shepherd, for the last forty minutes the Acting Chief of Staff for Starfleet. At the other end Dr. Tagore sat, a little back from the table, fingers interlaced in his lap.
The door hissed open, and another Human came in: he wore a narrow-waisted suit of purple velvet, with a [220] white silk scarf at his throat. There was a silver ring on his left hand, of simple and elegant design, mounting a red-gold stone. His hair was a medium brown, long, caught at the back of his neck with a plain silver band. His face would have been smooth, except for the lines of worry in it.
“I understand that the situation is difficult, Admiral Shepherd,” he said, firmly, not angrily. “But I don’t appreciate being rousted from a business lunch in a public place by rude men in cheap suits. We don’t do that on Deneva, and I certainly didn’t expect it on Earth. I’m going to—” He turned, saw Krenn. “—Oh, my stars.”
“We apologize for any embarrassment that may have been caused, Mr. Winston,” Admiral Shepherd said, “but I doubt that troops in uniform would have been any less so, and the matter is very important.