by Judith
“Give me the error code, lad,” Scott asked softly. There was no need to rush now. Whatever, whoever, had been in the matrix when the wave collapsed was irretrievably lost. And Scott didn’t want to think about who might have been in the matrix. They were still in orbit around Centaurus. The captain had some property there…and had planned to visit it.
“Error code, Mr. Scott?”
“Below the locator grid, Mr. Sulu.” Where was Kyle?
“Uh…one-two-seven,” Sulu read out tentatively.
Even Scott had to stop and think to remember that one. When he did, he was relieved and angry at the same time. At least no one would have been lost in transit and there would be no more danger to the ship until he manually reset the carrier-wave generator.
“Mr. Sulu, I dinna know what it is ye think you’re doing at the main transporter station, but I strongly suggest ye call up the operator’s manual and look up a code one-two-seven shutdown on your own. I’ll be down right away and in the meantime, Mr. Sulu…”
“Y-yes sir?”
“Don’t touch anything!”
Scott broke the connection to the transporter room, then opened a new link. “Scott to security. Have a team meet me in the main transporter room, alert the captain if he’s on board, and find me Mr. Kyle!”
Then the chief engineer straightened his shirt in the mirror, smoothed his hair, and stormed out of his room to find out who had just tried to scuttle the Enterprise.
Sulu began to apologize the instant Scott stepped through the door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Scott. I only have a Class Three rating on the transporter. The simulator never took me past error code fifty.” Sulu stepped quickly out of the way as Scott took his place behind the transporter console.
The doors slid open again. Four burly, red-shirted security officers rushed in, followed by Captain Kirk.
“Scotty, a malfunction?” Kirk looked at the transporter pads. Scott could hear the captain exhale with relief when he saw they were empty.
“An automatic shutdown, Captain. Error code one-two-seven.”
Kirk’s eyes widened. He knew them all. “Somebody tried to beam an accelerator field on board?”
“Aye, while our own warp engines are on line, too. If the computer scan hadn’t recognized the accelerator signature in the matrix and automatically reversed the beam, the chain reaction between the field and our dilithium crystals would have fused every circuit in the Cochrane generators, released the antimatter…occh.” Scott worked at the panel to reconstruct the readings of the aborted beam-up.
Kirk noticed Sulu standing in the corner by the viewscreen. “Isn’t this Mr. Kyle’s tour?”
“Well, yes, Captain. But when Doctors T’Vann and Stlur beamed up with their transporter-based surgical equipment, Kyle, well…he asked me to cover while he—”
“—helped them calibrate their equipment?” Kirk suggested. “Or was it check their figures? Or link up to the ship’s computer?”
“Actually, set up their equipment in his transporter lab, sir,” Sulu completed.
Kirk shook his head. “I don’t know, Scotty, but it seems that ever since the prize nominees started coming aboard, my crew is playing hooky from their work to go back to school.”
“ ‘Hooky,’ Captain?” Spock had entered the transporter room and joined Scott behind the console.
“An inappropriate leave of absence, Mr. Spock, usually from school.”
Spock arched an eyebrow. “Why should anyone wish to do that?” He realized the captain was not about to enlighten him, so he turned to Scott. “What does the problem appear to be, Mr. Scott?”
“It doesn’t appear to be anything. Some addle-brained nincompoop just tried to beam up an operating accelerator field and I’m trying to trace the coordinates.”
Spock reached over and punched in a series of numbers. Scott read them on the locator grid.
“That’s the Cochrane University of Applied Warp Physics,” Scott said.
“Yes,” Spock concurred. “I believe you’ll find that the ‘addle-brained nincompoop’ you are searching for is the professor emeritus of multiphysics there. Professor Zoareem La’kara.”
Scott narrowed his eyes. “Of all people, surely he’d know what happens when ye bring an accelerated time field within interaction range of aligned dilithium?”
“Of course, Mr. Scott. Which is why he is a nominee for the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize in multiphysics.”
A paging whistle sounded. Uhura’s voice announced, “Bridge to Captain. I have a message from the Cochrane University, sir. Professor La’kara says he is still waiting to beam up with his equipment.”
“Thank you, Uhura,” Kirk answered. “Tell him we’re working on it.” Then to Spock and Scott he added, “Well, are we working on it?”
“Captain, an accelerator field is a tricky beast. If a fourth-dimensional arm of dilithium impinges upon a domain of artificially increased entropy, why all the power our engines produce would be sucked back three and a half seconds, rechanneled through the crystals, and then sucked back again. The feedback would be infinite and…” Scotty shuddered as he contemplated the resultant destruction of the ship’s warp generators.
“The fact remains, Captain, that Professor La’kara has devised a prototype shielded accelerator field that reduces the interaction range with aligned dilithium to a few meters instead of kilometers. The ship’s systems will be in no danger.” Spock turned to Scott. “The published literature is quite extensive.”
“In theory I’ll admit it sounds good, but I’ve nae read any results of a stable shielded accelerator and there’ll be nae more than one fast-time field on board this ship while I’m chief engineer, and that will be my dilithium crystals.” Scott folded his arms across his chest. Spock did the same. Kirk sighed. He realized a command decision was clearly called for.
“Mr. Scott, you will beam aboard Professor La’kara and all his equipment except for the accelerator-field device, right away.” Scott smiled smugly. “Mr. Spock, you and Professor La’kara will then provide Mr. Scott with a complete description of the accelerator and answer all his objections to having it on board. At which time, Mr. Scott, you will beam the device on board and we will continue on to Starbase Four to pick up our last group of nominees. Understood?”
“Captain, if I may—”
“But, Captain, surely ye canna—”
“Fine. Glad to hear it. Mr. Sulu, I believe your station’s on the bridge.” Kirk and Sulu headed for the door. Scott tapped a finger on the control console. Spock raised an eyebrow. Kirk turned at the door.
“Should I leave security here to keep an eye on you two?” the captain asked.
“ ’Twillna be necessary,” Scott said.
Kirk waved the security team out and left with Sulu. Scott uncovered the carrier-wave reset switch, entered his security code, then guided the beam to lock on to La’kara’s coordinates on the grid, filtering out the accelerator-field signal. “As the poet said, Mr. Spock, ‘Today I shoulda stood in bed.’ ”
“I fail to see how that would be a comfortable position.”
Scotty’s moan was hidden beneath the rich harmonics of the transporter effect. He could already tell it was going to be one of those missions.
Three
Starfleet blue, Starfleet blue, gods how he hated it.
Chief Administrator Salman Nensi stared at the wall across from his desk and wished he had a window, or even a decent viewscreen, anything to break the monotony of that damned expanse of regulation wall covering. But whatever shortcomings Starfleet had when it came to interior design, at least it tried hard to learn from its mistakes.
The chief administrator couldn’t have a window because his facility, Memory Prime, was one of the most secure installations the Federation had ever constructed. Since the Memory Alpha disaster, the entire concept of libraries being unshielded and fully accessible repositories of freely available data had been rotated through four dimensions and come out b
ackward. Nensi doubted that even the soon-to-arrive-Starship Enterprise could make much of a dent in Prime’s dilithium-powered shields, let alone penetrate the twelve kilometers of nickel-iron asteroid to reach the central Interface Chamber and the Pathfinders before the photon batteries blasted the ship to atoms. No wonder Memory Prime had been chosen as the site of the quadrennial Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies, where one well-placed implosion device could plunge the Federation into a scientific dark age. Nensi reluctantly decided security was a small price to pay for not having a window.
The intercom screen on his desk flashed and his Andorian assistant appeared onscreen. His blue antennae dipped in sympathy and his thin, almost nonexistent lips attempted to form a sympathetic frown. “Your ten-hundred appointment iss here, Sal.”
“Give me a minute,” he said to H’rar, “then send him in.”
“Ah, Sal, I’m afraid thiss time it’ss an it.” H’rar winked out.
“Oh gods,” Nensi moaned. Three more months and he would retire, head back home, and do some serious fishing. Mars had never seemed so enticing. He sat up straight and forced a smile as his door slid open and his ten-hundred rolled in.
It was a standard research associate, essentially no more than an oblong box, two meters by one by one, with a sloped front end that made it resemble a general service shuttlecraft. Hundreds of the associates trundled through the dome corridors and underground tunnels of Memory Prime, carrying supplies in their manipulator appendages or hauling equipment in their carts, carrying out maintenance work and research assignments, efficiently freeing both the staff and the visiting scholars for more creative work.
Of course, the associates were painted that same damned powdery blue. Too many Vulcans on the design committees, Nensi thought. Logical, cost effective, and boring.
The associate stopped on its treads in front of Nensi’s desk and extended an eyestalk from the appendage bay on its top surface. A ready light blinked on and off.
“I had expected a negotiator from the interface team,” Nensi began.
“This module is authorized to present the requests of the interface team and to relay the administration’s response.” The associate’s voice was surprisingly natural, without the deliberately programmed mechanical abruptness of regulation conversant machines. Someone was patching in unofficial reprogramming. A dangerous situation if carried to the extreme.
“I’m concerned that by being forced to have this meeting with an associate, no conclusion can be reached in the ongoing dispute,” Nensi said diplomatically, though he knew he didn’t have to worry about hurting the machine’s feelings. It wasn’t as if he were dealing with one of the Pathfinders.
“A conclusion can be reached. You may agree to the interface team’s requests.”
“And am I to take it that you are, in return, authorized to agree to my requests?”
The machine had to process that one for a moment. Evidently the answer was no, for it simply repeated its opening statement.
Nensi resigned himself to the fact that nothing was going to be accomplished today and asked the associate to state the team’s requests.
“One: All direct-connect Pathfinder interface consoles are to be replaced with the new designs as previously presented. Two: The attendees of the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies are not to be allowed any primary access except that which accredited delegations have already applied for. Three: The Starfleet chief technician is to be replaced immediately with an enhanced member of the interface team. Candidates’ names have been placed in your correspondence circuits.” The machine hummed to itself for a moment. “What is the administration’s response?”
The administration’s response is to take early retirement, Nensi thought. But his reply was responsible, and truthful. “One: The existing interface consoles are less than a standard year old and I don’t have it in the budget to authorize another replacement so soon. Two: The interface team would be wise to consider having all the attendees discover the full potential of this facility, despite the disruption to normal services that might entail. Remember that when those scientists go home, they’re all going to want to run projects through here and that will create pressure for increased funding and corresponding improvement of facilities. And three: I am a Federation appointee and the position of chief technician does not come under my jurisdiction. The interface team will have to take that up with Starfleet. I will arrange to have the proper forms placed in your correspondence circuits.”
The team had obviously anticipated Nensi’s response because the associate did not even hum for an instant. “This module is authorized to announce that beginning at twenty-six-hundred hours, the interface team will commence an unscheduled emergency core dump as an essential test of the system’s backup integrity. All projects will be suspended at that time until further notice.” The eyestalk began to descend.
Nensi felt a large mass lift from his shoulders. He had been a Federation administrator for more than thirty years. Bureaucratic blackmail was an arena he knew well.
“I have not finished,” Nensi announced.
The eyestalk instantly reversed and slid back into the raised position. The ready light was blinking more rapidly now, indicating that the machine was probably in the throes of a programming conflict. It had concluded that Nensi had made his response and then delivered the ultimatum as it had been instructed. However, it had just been informed that it had acted improperly. In the old days, Nensi thought nostalgically, smoke would have been pouring out of its cooling vents by now.
“Continue,” the machine finally said.
“I have only stated the official administration response. However, my job function is to provide for the smooth running of this facility, and therefore I’m authorized to make deviations from official policy provided I believe it is in the best interests of all who work at this facility. Do you concur with my job description and responsibilities?”
The associate hummed. Nensi guessed it was requesting procedural files from the personnel databanks. “You have stated an accurate synopsis,” it said.
“Then you must also concur that I cannot deliver my response until I have conferred with representatives of all groups who work here.” Nensi tried not to smile as the noose tightened.
“This module has stated the requests of the interface team. You have represented the policies of the administrative staff. There are no other groups with which to confer. Clarify your response, please.”
“I have to know what the Pathfinders think of all this.”
The machine hummed for a good three seconds. “The Pathfinders are not a working group as defined in the Federation Standard Labor Codes.”
“I’m not suggesting the Pathfinders are standard. Check their status at this facility. But don’t bother searching the equipment databanks. Search personnel.”
It took eight seconds this time.
“This module reports a programming conflict and has logged it with central monitoring. This module withdraws the announcement of an emergency core dump at twenty-six-hundred hours. When will you be prepared to deliver your response to the interface team’s requests?”
“When may I confer with a Pathfinder? And before you tell me the waiting list is already more than two years long, search Memory Prime’s emergency procedures regulations. As chief administrator, I can claim access at any time during an emergency. And I hereby declare this an emergency.” Nensi couldn’t resist adding, “Authorize that, you little pile of transporter twistings!”
It took twelve seconds this time. Nensi thought that might be a new record for associate access time. Most planetary histories could be transferred in fewer than thirty seconds. “A member of the interface team will meet with you this afternoon to clarify the situation.” Nensi thought he detected a note of defeat.
“Tell the team that’s what I thought we were supposed to accomplish in this meeting in the first place.”
The ready lights winked out and the eyestalk descende
d with a sigh. “This module is withdrawn from service.” Its treads weaved unsteadily and it bumped against the wall as it rolled out the door. Unfortunately, Nensi couldn’t tell if any of its Starfleet-blue paint had rubbed off on the Starfleet-blue walls.
H’rar appeared in the open doorway. “It iss fortunate that they only arm the associatess with stun prodss in the biolab,” the Andorian said in his whispery voice. “Do you wish to consume coffee while you plot your revenge?” All of life was a life-or-death conspiracy to an Andorian. After three decades in Federation bureaucracy, Nensi found it an endearing trait.
Nensi nodded at the offer of coffee. “Please. And get me the chief technician’s office.”
“I point out that you typically only wish to reminisce about Marss when you are having a bad day,” H’rar said. “I thought you were victoriouss in thiss encounter.”
“That was just round one,” Nensi said, leaning back in his chair to stretch his spine. “If I’m finally going to get a chance to talk with one of those things down there, I’d like to go in with someone who knows what she’s doing.”
H’rar pushed a handful of fine white hair from his forehead. “I wass not aware that the interface team would allow her to talk with the Pathfinderss after she decided she would not undergo enhancement.”
“They may not like it,” Nensi agreed. “But she’s the top expert in these systems. If the team does try to shut us down during the prize ceremonies, she’ll be the only one who can keep us going.”
“It will be what you call a ‘tough job.’ ”
“She’s a tough person, H’rar. Only survivor of the Memory Alpha disaster.”
H’rar nodded respectfully and stepped back to his desk. In less than a minute Nensi’s intercom beeped.
“Mira Romaine on line, Sal.”
Here goes, Nensi thought as he reached for the accept button at the base of the screen. If this scheme doesn’t work out, I’ll be back home fishing on the grand canals so fast they’ll have to name a warp factor after me.