Collision Course

by William Shatner

  Mallory got up from the official visitor’s chair, an antique wingback Otago had had recovered in an exuberant tropical print—not the usual sedate choice for a Starfleet judge’s office.

  “It’s not illegal, Mahina. There’s nothing in the UCJ that prevents us from using deception to penetrate a criminal conspiracy.”

  “Except that those two civilians aren’t part of the conspiracy, and they aren’t even part of Starfleet. They’re innocent bystanders.”

  “That’s what makes them perfect for this.”

  “Perfect spies, you mean.” Otago smoothed her shimmering jacket to compose herself. “Because, of course, they don’t know they’re spies, right?”

  Mallory had worked with the judge long enough to understand the dilemma she faced. “I told you this morning, they’re in no danger. My department would not put innocent civilians in harm’s way. My oversight committee wouldn’t allow it, and neither would I.”

  Otago sat behind her desk. She reached down and pulled off her regulation black boots, inspecting her swollen ankles with a sigh. “So how does this end?”

  “It ends well.”

  “Details, please.”

  “Tomorrow morning, those two will be back in your courtroom, and they will choose to enlist in Starfleet.”

  “Right!” Otago exclaimed in disbelief. “No Vulcan has ever joined Starfleet as an enlisted recruit, and I guarantee you their ambassador will raise hell in the Federation Council before one of theirs is forced into a decision like that. The comm lines will already be burning up. Spock is most certainly not going to be here tomorrow morning.”

  “If that happens, it happens. I’m prepared to lose one.”

  “Which leaves you with Kirk?”

  “He’s already involved with what’s going on. He’s the one I really want.”

  “Yet from his record it appears this Kirk kid has such animosity toward Starfleet that if I gave him the choice, he’d rather serve ten years in an Andorian ice prison than one year in the service.”

  “Look into his earlier records. If anyone was born to be in Starfleet, this one was. He’s just forgotten, that’s all.”

  “How do you ‘forget’ something like that?”

  Mallory said nothing.

  Otago wasn’t happy, but she understood. “The silent treatment. That means we’re talking something classified.”

  Mallory remained mute.

  Otago rolled her eyes. “Something so classified, you can’t even tell me it’s classified.” She massaged her tired feet. “If it’s that critical, how do you know they’re not in danger?”

  Mallory found his voice again. “We’ve had their biosignatures under constant satellite surveillance from the moment they were released from custody.”

  “That doesn’t strike you as a violation of their civil rights?”

  “As civilians, perhaps. But as witnesses under protective custody, completely legal.”

  “Did your ‘witnesses’ consent to be followed by an all-seeing eye in the sky?”

  Mallory pointed to her padd. “It’s in the case file. They and their guardians signed off on Starfleet surveillance as a condition of release.”

  “That was for the tracking modules.”

  “We, uh, we might have neglected to be that specific in the forms. They just include boilerplate descriptions of generic surveillance methods.”

  Otago paged through the case file on her padd, found the forms, scanned them. “You really know how to cover your backside, don’t you?”

  “Everything’s been done by the book.”

  Otago tapped her padd off as if she were wielding her gavel. “Well, all I can say is good luck to you and your Machiavellian schemes. Because I don’t think those two boys have read that particular book, and I guarantee you this isn’t going to work out the way you planned.”

  Mallory held out his hand with a challenging smile. “Dinner on the shores of Lake Armstrong?”

  “You know I hate the Moon.” But she shook his hand, taking the bet. Then her deskscreen chimed. It was her yeoman. The legal attaché from the Vulcan Embassy was calling.

  “So it begins,” Otago said. “Do you take this, or do I?”

  But Mallory was already on his way out the door.

  29

  “Do you understand what I just told you?” Commander Bearden asked.

  Spock was sitting across from the legal officer in the familiar interrogation room. It was now being used as a private conference area for prisoner and advocate. “Yes, I do,” Spock said.

  Bearden frowned. “Then what’s the problem? You can be out of here in an hour.” He pushed a thin folder across the table to his client. The notational staff of the Vulcan Embassy was embossed on the cover. “Just sign.”

  Spock stared at the folder, didn’t touch it.

  “What am I missing, Mr. Spock?”

  Spock thought about that. “Nothing of which I am aware, Commander.”

  Bearden took out a small white cloth and mopped his brow. “There are two consular agents in the reception area waiting to escort you back to your embassy, where you will transport up to the starship T’Klass. Three days later, you’ll be home and enrolled in the Vulcan Science Academy. Starfleet’s Judge Advocate General has already signed the agreement that accepts your enrollment there as meeting the terms of Judge Otago’s sentence to enlist in Starfleet.”

  “All of this arranged in less than two hours,” Spock observed.

  “I gather your father’s an important man in diplomatic circles.”

  “Indeed.”

  Bearden’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Spock, excuse me if this is too personal a question, but do you and your father get along?”

  Spock knew the answer, but it was not something to be discussed with anyone outside the family, let alone an alien.

  He did not get along with his father, and the fault was entirely Sarek’s. His refusal to explain to his own son why Vulcan artifacts were allowed to be stolen from the embassy’s collection was evidence enough.

  Spock knew his father was somehow connected to the thefts, just as he knew the human Abel Griffyn was lying when he implied that Sarek was seeking sexual favors as recompense. There was, however, no logical path he could find that would unite those two facts. Yet, it was obvious that Sarek, by brokering this deal with Starfleet, was only doing so to prevent his son from continuing his own investigation of the thefts.

  Spock could not allow his father to control his life so blatantly.

  He was nineteen, now, an adult. He was fully capable of accepting responsibility for his actions. Especially, Spock thought, when his actions were logical and correct.

  He’d decided to accept the judge’s offer of enlisting in Starfleet. That was the best way to continue his investigation, because the Starfleet Training Center was just across the bay. Even after one week of basic training, he’d learned he’d be given weekend liberty, and for that week he’d have access to library computers during his personal time.

  His mother had correctly said there would be consequences, and he welcomed them now, affirming his new maturity.

  “My father and I enjoy a close relationship,” Spock lied, “as fathers and sons do.” He moved the embassy folder back across the table to Bearden.

  “You’re enlisting in Starfleet, then.”

  “It is the most logical decision,” Spock said.

  There was another truth that Spock was not sharing with the commander or anyone else: As he contemplated the prospect of living his own life without parental guidance, of never again being shuttled from one diplomatic compound to the next, under constant surveillance from his mother, his father, the embassy’s staff and their agents—the small, hidden, human part of Spock found that prospect…thrilling.

  “I know it’s unfair,” Lieutenant Commander Norse said to her client. “But my request for an appeal was denied until you’ve chosen a sentence. Then I can protest it.”

  Kirk paced the length of the inter
rogation room, back and forth. He was furious that he’d been trapped so easily. The consequences of his stupidity were enormous. If he didn’t return to the docks with details of Mallory’s dilithium-theft investigation, his brother would be killed. And without proof of the real thieves, Elissa would be drummed out of Starfleet at her honor board hearing.

  “I’ll protest it,” Kirk raged. “I’m going to tell that judge—”

  “Sit down!” Norse ordered. “You will not tell the judge anything. Do you understand, mister?”

  Kirk stopped pacing but refused to sit. No one was going to tell him what to do. Never again. “What I understand is that you and the commander lied to me.”

  Norse was incensed. “We did not. We presented the best option available.”

  “And it turned out to be the wrong one, didn’t it?” Kirk felt like throwing his chair at his advocate. “What a surprise—Starfleet geniuses make a mistake and I’m the one who pays for it!”

  “We did not make a mistake!” Norse said. “The judge is completely out of line—the appeal will succeed.”

  Kirk finally sat down at the conference table. “How long will it take?”

  “A week…maybe two.”

  “And meanwhile?”

  “You’ll be over at the STC. You’ll live.”

  “Forgive me for not having much faith in your legal judgment.”

  The lieutenant commander was clearly nearing her limit of tolerance. “You are not making this easy.”

  “Me?!” Kirk said bitterly. “I’m the one who did what you said and lost two years of my life! And now…now you’re telling me what to do again and how do I know the appeal judge won’t say, Oh, the first judge went too easy—let’s add another two years to the sentence?”

  Norse gripped the back of her chair, and Kirk could tell she was close to throwing it at him now.

  “There is no legal basis for extending your sentence,” the officer insisted. “There is no legal basis for the sentence the judge gave you today. Do you understand what I’m telling you? The appeal will succeed because the law is on our side—your side.”

  “Starfleet law. I don’t think so.”

  Norse suddenly came to some decision. She sat back down at the table, all tension gone. “Then I take it you’d like another advocate to represent you.”

  “Yes,” Kirk said. “Like someone who knows what he’s doing. A real lawyer, not someone in uniform.”

  “I will put in that request,” Norse said evenly. “But you will still need me to be with you tomorrow when you give the judge your decision.”

  “I’m not going to give her one.”

  Norse shook her head. “You have to. You can’t appeal the sentence until it’s been pronounced. Give her a decision, then your new lawyer can start to work on the appeal right away.”

  “New Zealand.”

  “That’s halfway around the world.”

  “So?”

  “The Starfleet Training Center is ten minutes from here.”

  Kirk put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “My point exactly.”

  Norse made a note on her padd, then got up, padd tucked under her arm. “I hope you don’t regret your decision.”

  The moment the door closed behind her, Kirk regretted everything.

  The 511 Lounge was one of the pleasanter public areas on Spacedock, and Mallory always enjoyed an excuse to sit at one of its tables. Out the main viewports that stretched up three decks, the vast interior of the facility’s main drydock could be seen. Right now, two starships were in port for replenishment—the Exeter and the battered science vessel Endurance. Several other, smaller vessels filled the lesser berths, but the center of attention, closest to the lounge windows, was the starship berthed for major upgrading—the magnificent Enterprise. The Constitution-class beauty had been in Spacedock for five months now, and her refit was almost complete.

  Mallory studied her, as an artist might gaze at an old master. He could see shipwrights working on her port engineering hull, sputter-sealing plates so that it was no longer possible to tell which were originals and which were replacements for those damaged during the failed boarding attempt by Orion pirates.

  Mallory guessed that one of the small, environmental-suited figures was probably Chris Pike himself. The ship’s new captain had been a familiar figure on Spacedock these past five months, taking a literally hands-on approach to the refit. Rumor was that Pike had spent four days actually doing welding on the new bridge, and had even been seen with his shirt off, unloading supplies from the cargo transporters. True or not, the refit of the Big E was running three weeks ahead of schedule, a tribute to the expertise and enthusiasm of her crew and her captain.

  “Mr. Mallory.”

  The crisp enunciation of his name summoned Mallory from his reverie. He stood to greet his guest. “Representative T’Rev, thank you for meeting with me, off the record, as it were.”

  The distinguished Vulcan gave a small nod of acknowledgment. But what he was thinking, as usual, Mallory couldn’t judge.

  As they took their chairs at the small table, a server arrived with a service of ginger tea. T’Rev had been on the DGS Steering Committee long enough for Mallory to know the official’s preferences, if not his thought processes.

  Mallory politely poured for his guest. “This extract is from the new greenhouses in Utopia Planitia. They can be opened to the martian atmosphere during summer days, now. Apparently, the taste is quite distinctive.”

  T’Rev savored the scent of the tea. “I have heard that. I appreciate the chance to experience it for myself.”

  With his token bribe offered and accepted graciously, Mallory went straight to the reason for the meeting. Vulcans weren’t known for small talk. “I need a favor.”

  T’Rev raised no objections, merely sipped his tea and drew in a breath of air with a delicate slurp.

  “The son of a member of the Vulcan Embassy staff has been charged in a petty offense against Starfleet property.”

  T’Rev gazed at the small pottery cup in his hands. “Spock, son of Sarek.”

  Mallory nodded, unsurprised that the Vulcan representative already knew what this meeting was about. His own office had been flooded with calls.

  “Apparently, an agreement has been reached between your authorities and Starfleet to have Spock’s sentence served on Vulcan, as a student at the Science Academy.”

  “If I may interrupt to bring your preamble to its logical conclusion…?”

  “Of course,” Mallory said.

  “There is no need for you to ask me to intercede, as inappropriate an action as that would be. Spock has rejected the agreement.”

  Mallory was honestly taken aback. “Really?” Then he remembered that that wasn’t the sort of question to ask a Vulcan—why would they say anything that wasn’t accurate? “I mean, I find that an unusual decision. For a Vulcan.”

  “Spock is an unusual young man.”

  Mallory contemplated the delicacy of T’Rev’s statement. “May I ask in what way?”

  T’Rev put down his tea cup, positioning it just so in relation to the serving pot, the serving dish of honey, the spoon, and the crisply folded linen napkin. “He has a unique family background which I am not at liberty to discuss.”

  “Ah,” Mallory said. He had a good idea what “unique” might mean in this circumstance. Somewhere in Spock’s family background, alien DNA had joined his bloodline. Having seen the young man up close, he’d have to guess the alien ancestor, in Spock’s case, was a human.

  As a rule, Mallory knew, alien hybridization was a difficult undertaking. However, to the ongoing bafflement of researchers, most humanoid species in the quadrant shared intriguing genetic similarities. And there was much ongoing debate about the implications of those similarities. One school argued that there was some thus-far undiscovered principle of nature that meant that independently arisen carbon-based life-forms could evolve only along certain specific paths. A more radical outlook maint
ained that the humanoid species in this region of space shared an ancient and mysterious ancestor. Nothing had as yet been determined.

  But, whatever the reason, human-Vulcan hybridization was not impossible. Yet given the historic Vulcan sensitivity to human emotions, Mallory appreciated why a Vulcan family would not be eager to share the news of a human ancestor.

  “I understand,” Mallory said, letting T’Rev know he would not pry.

  “Of course,” the Vulcan said, “Spock’s unique background in no way impairs his judgment.”

  Mallory suppressed a smile. To a Vulcan, that comment was no doubt a necessary clarification. To a human, though, it could be seen as an insult.

  “In fact,” T’Rev continued, “the reason the agreement between the authorities and Starfleet was so quickly arranged is because the Science Academy had been expecting to receive Spock as a student.”

  “He was already accepted there?”

  “Not formally,” T’Rev explained. “However, Spock is well known to the governors. Even at his young age, he has authored several significant scientific papers in a variety of subjects, from archaeology to Klingon literature.”

  “Eclectic interests,” Mallory said amiably.

  T’Rev nodded gravely. “Which is why Spock’s father arranged Spock’s acceptance at the Science Academy, to help channel his son’s as yet unfocused intellect into a single field. Astrophysics. The science specialty of his father and his grandfather.”

  “A family tradition.”

  “An Earth term, but in this instance correct.”

  Mallory realized he now knew why Spock had rejected the sentence arrangement. However many generations removed, there was a human side to him, and it was rebelling against authority. It was clearly time to move off this particular topic.

  “Would you happen to know which of the judge’s two options Sarek’s son will choose at his sentencing?”

  “I regret that Spock is not acting in a logical fashion, and so I find myself unable to predict his decision.”

  “I understand,” Mallory agreed, knowing full well there was only one decision that would be suitably rebellious.