by S. D. Perry
“That doesn’t make any sense. Did they say why, Captain?” the engineer asked.
“No, but as soon as this meeting is over, I’m going to find out—a private communication link with the closest HQ station, so I can hear it for myself,” Jim said, nodding at Uhura. “And since it appears I’m going to have to sell them on the idea of letting us continue, I was hoping one of you might recognize the ‘thirty-one’ reference. Anything I can use to convince them would be helpful, since our good record doesn’t seem to be enough.”
The captain controlled himself well, but the anger was there, barely hidden. McCoy knew from experience that Jim had already heavily invested himself in solving the mysterious tragedy—not necessarily his healthiest trait, getting emotionally involved so quickly, but it was also one of the things that made him an inspired captain.
There were a few guesses as to what “thirty-one” might mean, a brief update from each department, and the meeting was over. Jim said he’d let everyone know Starfleet’s final decision as soon as he heard it, and excused himself from the room with a curt nod. Uhura left with him, shooting an uncertain glance back at the rest of them as they stood up from the table.
“What’s this all about, Mr. Spock, do you have an idea?” Scotty asked worriedly.
Spock hesitated before speaking. “I wouldn’t care to speculate at this juncture, Mr. Scott.”
“In other words, no,” McCoy jabbed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He still felt tired. The one consolation was that Spock seemed even less inclined to go the rounds.
“Gentlemen,” Spock said, and left without another word. Sulu shrugged at them and quickly followed.
“Care for a bit of dinner, Doctor?” Scott asked, but McCoy shook his head, wiggling his sore toes.
“Actually, I think I’m going to go soak my feet,” he said, and smiled a little. He was off-duty until morning, and all he had to look forward to for the next several days was logging patient numbers and test results for a large group of basically healthy people. He abruptly decided that his own physical results could wait until he got a good night’s sleep.
“I think I’m finally starting to figure out that I’m not as young as I used to be, Mr. Scott.”
Scotty smiled ruefully. “Aye; ain’t it a bugger?”
* * *
He asked Lieutenant Uhura to connect him with the nearest command base, only a sector away, and pipe it straight to the private office closest to the bridge. It had occurred to him that security considerations might have played a part in Starfleet’s decision not to use the Enterprise, perhaps something they would reveal to him on a secured line.
Kirk stood next to the office’s small wall screen, his arms crossed as he waited for Uhura. The room was cool and seemed obnoxiously bright, though he knew his anger and impatience tended to make him irritable and hypersensitive, another fine combination of emotions. Starfleet didn’t want them to conduct the investigation? Fine—but he’d know why, he deserved as much after the hoops they’d jumped through to save the Sphinx.
Through the speaker beneath the screen, Uhura informed him that a Commodore Jefferson had been reached at Starbase 27, and that the connection was being relayed through a DS transmitter. Kirk thanked her and dropped his arms as he turned to face the screen, not wanting to come across as overly confrontational before hearing the whole story.
There was a toneless stutter of sound and the blank screen became a picture, the head and shoulders of a distinguished older man, his silvering hair slicked back from a well-lined brow, a friendly expression on his tanned face.
“Captain Kirk, I presume,” he said, in a light voice that matched his polished demeanor. “Carl Jefferson. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though you’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands.”
Surprised, Kirk smiled, in spite of his intentions. He hadn’t heard that one before. “The pleasure’s mine, sir. You’ll forgive me if I come straight to the point, Commodore—have you been apprised of our current situation?”
Jefferson nodded. “I believe so, Captain. We received a copy of your report filed, ah, 5462.1, 1500 hours, from Starfleet Command, and their response. You’ve been asked to continue on to your next destination, Deep Space Station M-20, with the U.S.S. Sphinx in tow. There will be an inquest team waiting to receive the ship, though I don’t know who has been officially appointed to lead the investigation, not at present. Does that describe your current situation?”
“Yes, sir,” Kirk said, studying the man’s open, pleasant face, withholding judgment for the moment on his sincerity.
“Is there a problem, Captain? Were the orders unclear?”
“The orders were clear, sir, but not the reason for them,” Kirk said, throwing as much diplomatic charm as he could into the words. “We have the ship with us . . . and having already begun an exploration into the loss of the crew, and the near-destruction of the ship itself, I’m wondering why we haven’t been asked to continue.”
Jefferson sighed. “Of course. I’d wonder the same thing, in your position. I hope you understand, it’s not a question of your competence, or the abilities of your crew. . . . Captain, did you know Jack Casden?”
“No, but I’ve read his file,” Kirk said. “Several commendations, a solid record . . . he appeared to be well thought of as an officer.”
“He was, throughout most of his career,” Jefferson said. “Nine years since his first command. But what wasn’t noted in his file were his political leanings. Captain Casden was a strong proponent of the Federation making peace with its enemies, Romulans and Klingons, among others. Practically an activist. He thought the Federation should disarm, to set the example of pacifism and nonviolent confrontation.”
Kirk frowned, crossing his arms. “I don’t know that I agree with his proposal, but it’s a noble sentiment. There are a number of Federation societies that oppose the use of force, except in the most extreme circumstances.”
“And if it was just a sentiment, I’d agree completely,” Jefferson said. “But for Casden, it was more than that. It appears that he may have been in unauthorized contact with the Romulans. About two weeks ago, HQ Admin was running a routine check of stored computer logs from a number of star-ships—and someone noticed that some of the Sphinx’s assignment reports had been tampered with. A more intensive search turned up computer evidence that over the past two years, the Sphinx has made three separate excursions into the Neutral Zone, from the Lantaru sector.”
“Computer records aren’t that difficult to falsify,” Kirk said slowly. An image of Ben Finney flashed through his mind and was gone, leaving a whisper of sorrow in its wake.
“No . . . but three days ago, just as an investigation into Casden’s activities was being put together, the Sphinx disappeared,” Jefferson said, his expression grim. “No contact at all until you found them—”
“—coming out of the Lantaru sector,” Kirk said, all the pieces falling into place. A meeting with the Romulans would explain the graviton field . . .
. . . and the unidentified man could have been a spy for the Romulans. Maybe they decided they didn’t want Casden around anymore. Or maybe Casden decided he couldn’t live with the depth of guilt that his treasonous behavior had inspired, and decided to take his Romulan contact down with him.
Along with his crew? No, it had to be the Romulans . . . except how did he get his own men to go along with crossing into the Neutral Zone, not once but three times?
“The unknown person you discovered was undoubtedly Casden’s contact,” Jefferson continued. “And as for the graviton reading, it’s simply not possible that the Sphinx came about it innocently. Starfleet Intelligence has just opened a research facility to study cloaking technology, but that’s on one of Neptune’s moons. Nereid, I believe.”
The commodore was apparently unaware of the Enterprise’s involvement in obtaining the Federation’s only cloaking device, though Kirk wasn’t surprised. The assignment had been highly classified . . .
. .
. and maybe that’s how Casden explained it to his crew—a secret Intelligence mission. If they trusted him, they might have gone along with it.
“So. As I’m sure you now understand, Starfleet is planning a thorough investigation into all of this, one that could take weeks or even months to complete,” Jefferson said. “As I said before, your qualifications to handle the inquiry are not in doubt—rather, it’s a matter of time and resources.”
“I understand,” Kirk said, “and I appreciate your candor, Commodore. I’ll send our final summary along to Starfleet Command.”
“Fine, that’s fine,” Jefferson said smoothly, smiling. “Was there anything else, Captain Kirk?”
“Actually, there is. My first officer found a data chip that apparently belonged to the unidentified passenger—”
“Oh?” Jefferson sat up straighter, his smile fading. “That wasn’t mentioned in your report. Is there anything on it?”
The commodore’s casual, friendly air suddenly seemed forced, and for a half second, Kirk felt a tiny stir of doubt—but it was gone just as quickly. The news about Casden’s seditious activities had obviously affected him, making him unaccountably paranoid. Jefferson was a Starfleet commodore, for God’s sake.
“Not really,” Kirk said. “The chip was badly damaged, what we did get could mean anything—two words, ‘from thirty-one.’”
The commodore shook his head, his smile returning. “You’re right, that could mean anything. Well. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Captain, but I’m afraid I have some other business to attend to. . . .”
“Of course,” Kirk said. “Thank you for your time, Commodore.”
Jefferson leaned forward, reaching toward the screen, and the picture dissolved. Kirk stood for another moment, thinking about Jack Casden, about pacifistic zeal carried too far. The ideals of peace were worth working toward, certainly, but reality wasn’t ideal . . . something that Casden hadn’t discovered until it was too late.
The road to hell . . . It was sad, but it made him angry, too. Regardless of politics, right or wrong, a captain was responsible for the lives of his crew. Leaders had to hold themselves to a higher standard than most; men made mistakes, and a man who led others had to do better than that, even if that sometimes meant denying his own humanity.
Like R. M. Merrick. Or Garth of Izar . . . or Ron Tracey, or Matt Decker—
He frowned, dismissing the disturbing train of thought, not liking where it was headed. They had a science conference to get to. Kirk headed for the bridge, turning his focus to ship’s business—but try as he might, his focus kept wandering back to the reality of Jack Casden and how common it was, that well-meaning people could become so very lost.
Chapter Five
From a deep and peaceful place of being, Spock allowed his consciousness to rise, observing the changes within as the colorless layers fell away. No awareness, then his own deep breathing, his heartbeat and the sensation of returning from abstract to form; no time or activity, then an understanding of movement and acknowledgment of the inevitable.
Alone in his quarters, Spock remained just below the surface of his individual reality, allowing streams of unmolded thought and feeling to enter his mind. Thoughts and feelings that he would note but not participate in, observe and let pass. This simple meditation was taught to Vulcan children, a part of the training process that most discarded before reaching physical maturity . . . but because of his mixed parentage, Spock regularly included the meditation as part of his morning study.
In the seventeen hours since Mr. Scott’s announcement of the cloak-specific graviton field around the Sphinx, Spock had reflected on the Enterprise’s mission to obtain the Romulan cloaking device multiple times. The connection of recent past to present was certainly understandable, there being the common element of the cloaking device . . . but his memories of the Romulan commander, and his inability to entirely suppress those memories, was the reason for this morning’s observance meditation. It had been weeks since he’d considered her, but his belief that he had excised her from his deeper self had been in error.
Thought without form, feeling transformed into thought. The sound of her voice. He remembered, recalling the physical sensations when she had whispered her name in his ear. The powerful lilt of promise beneath her words. The internal discord aroused when she’d questioned his betrayal, pain and anger roughening her inflection, pain and anger that he had caused.
Observed and released. The touch of her hand. Inflamed senses, and a creation of conflict by physical contact. The creation of hunger, of wistfulness, her own emanations feeding his—and his private displeasure. Knowing what the immediate future held, the knowledge robbing him of a full connection to her; the displeasure of knowing that he had allowed the erosion of his discipline . . . and the acceptance that at the time, at the shock of her warm fingers against his, he had not cared.
Thoughts moving past him, away from him. The final understanding of the disharmonious duality—that he had achieved success through the manipulation of an officer of the Romulan Empire . . . and had wounded a woman who’d made herself vulnerable to him. The final personal outcome, that both of them had returned to the comforts of individual and cultural identity, finding solace in the self-assigned roles each had chosen long before their meeting. She was probably back with her people by now, presumably having branded their interaction a mistake.
Observed. Excised, surely. To maintain the Vulcan discipline, to truly control oneself as an extension of intellect rather than emotion, it was often necessary to recognize the existence of the alternative. Because of who and what he was, it would likely always take some effort to recognize emotion without yielding to it . . . and judging himself harshly for his failures was an emotional indulgence in and of itself. He must observe and learn, recognize and allow to pass.
The difficulty he encountered when considering the Romulan commander and the theft of the cloaking device was that he could find no rationalization for his emotional or intellectual behavior—nor could he rationalize Starfleet’s involvement in such blatant espionage. As officers of Starfleet, he and the captain had been following orders, orders to deceive and to steal, justified by the promise of an end that would outweigh the means. Their objective had been met, but he couldn’t support Starfleet’s choice to employ such treacherous methods . . . and he couldn’t convince himself that he’d had no options, regardless of his commitments and loyalties. There were always options.
Enough.
He had considered all of the key elements; at present, further contemplation would likely prove ineffectual.
Spock closed the meditation, releasing the thoughts and restating the essence of his discipline before taking the last step back to full awareness. He opened his eyes and was again connected to himself as Spock, a man of science and of strict self-control, first officer of the Enterprise.
His shift began in less than an hour. Spock rose from his knees and went to prepare.
* * *
Although Christine Chapel arrived early for her shift, Dr. McCoy had beaten her there. The doctor was sitting at his desk, a stack of file disks in front of him, staring at the computer screen with a perfectly blank expression. And since he wasn’t scheduled to come on until half an hour after her shift began—and was notoriously grumpy first thing in the morning, besides, which was why he was never early—she immediately assumed the worst.
He found something. One of the physicals.
“Doctor?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. Christine took a few hesitant steps toward him, increasingly disturbed by that blank expression. He seemed pale, too.
“Dr. McCoy,” she said, her voice made strong by concern as she walked quickly to his side. He finally looked up just as she reached him—and she saw that the computer screen wasn’t even turned on.
“Hello, Christine,” he said mildly, unsmiling, his eyes dazed and distant, and her worry escalated into fear. The doctor never looked like that.
McCoy blinked, his gaze refocusing—and then scowled at her, the familiar expression instantly lifting a weight off her chest.
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” he grumbled. “It’s morning, that’s what’s wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling in relief, inwardly calling herself all kinds of fool. A real goose, her grandmother would have said. “You just seemed so far away for a moment, and when I saw the files, I thought—well, never mind what I thought.”
The doctor cocked an eyebrow at her. “You saw the files and thought . . .?”
She hesitated, not sure if he actually wanted to know or if he was just looking for something to tease her about. Probably both—except he still seemed pale, his expression strangely unguarded.
“I thought maybe you were upset by something you saw in the physical results from yesterday,” she said uncertainly. “I was planning on looking them over before you came in . . . did you find something wrong, Doctor?”
McCoy stood up as she spoke, answering her over his shoulder as he walked across the room, a laugh in his voice. “Are you kidding? I’m surprised we’re still in business.”
That’s not an answer. Something was wrong, she could feel it, and it wasn’t like him at all to be so evasive with her—
Christine had a sudden and terrible thought, too terrible to keep inside.
“Have you looked at my test results?” she asked, the hollow, carefully neutral sound of her own voice giving her a chill.
McCoy had stopped at the far counter and was digging through a drawer for something. At her question, he looked up—and whatever he saw on her face made him smile and shake his head, his eyes sparkling with good humor.
“Yes, and I’m sorry to tell you this, Nurse, but you’ve lost weight.”
“Oh?” Inside, she jumped up and down, clapping her hands; all those salads were finally paying off. “Well, that’s—that’s fine.”