by David Mack
Turning her head, she sees Lieutenant Sontor, a young Vulcan officer from the sciences division. He offers her his hand.
“Let me teach you a better way to cope with your anger,” he says.
Captain Clark Terrell, commanding officer of the I.S.S. Sagittarius, reads a coded subspace communiqué from his old friend and ally, Captain Zhao Sheng.
Zhao voices a lot of faith in the Vulcan admiral. More than Terrell has ever heard Zhao lavish upon anyone. Even harder to believe, Zhao says he has followed Spock’s example, abolishing the use of agonizers on the Endeavour.
Terrell is fascinated and frightened. He sees potential in a man like Spock, but he also sees tremendous danger.
If enough of us rally to his banner, he could make a real difference, Terrell muses. But if we take his side and he fails, we all fall as one.
After ten years of service in the Taurus Reach, Terrell is no stranger to risk. He has never let fear guide his decisions before, and he doesn’t want to start now. But he has only just inherited the captain’s chair of the Sagittarius, following his former CO’s promotion to the Admiralty.
Risk is a lot to ask of him during this time of transition.
Then he thinks of Carol Marcus and her son.
I could do them a lot of good if I had Admiral Spock for a friend, he thought. He seems like a man who can do the impossible. Maybe he can help Carol and David get off that station and away from that monster Reyes.
It seems too much to hope for, too much to believe in. Not that Terrell has ever believed in much of anything, or anyone. But if what Zhao tells him is true, maybe it’s time to start.
Terrell has a report about Operation Vanguard and Commodore Reyes he has been compiling in secret for the past few years. He has never shown it to anyone. In his experience, the truth never sets anyone free—most of the time, it just gets them killed. But the truth isn’t doing anybody any good sitting in my personal log, he decides. It’s time to take a stand.
He calls up the file. Attaches it to a coded subspace message addressed for Admiral Spock’s eyes only. Composes a brief greeting.
His finger hesitates to press the button that will send the message.
Terrell has walked the line for so long that he balks at having to choose one side of it on which to stand. Trying to make an ally of Spock will certainly make an enemy of Reyes, he reminds himself. Once I choose a side, there’s no going back.
He sends the message.
I’ll probably regret this, he tells himself.
His prediction proves correct.
19
The Name of Action
Marlena moved in swift strides down the corridor to her quarters. The Vulcan guards posted outside the door saluted her as she approached. She returned the salute as the door slid open and she passed between them.
The door shut behind her. She searched the compartment for her husband. Spock was seated at a computer terminal in a small space beyond a smoked-glass panel with an arched doorway. The lights were dimmed, and a faint haze of vaguely citrus-scented incense smoke lingered overhead.
She took a few hesitant steps toward him. “You said it was urgent.”
Beckoning her closer, Spock said, “Join me.”
Marlena crossed the room, acclimating easily to its slightly higher gravity and warm, dry air. Neither environmental detail matched the intensity of Vulcan’s natural climate because Spock had tempered them for her benefit. Positioning herself behind his shoulder, she asked, “What’s happened?”
He gestured to the monitor on his desk. “Watch and listen,” he said, initiating the playback of what appeared to be a classified subspace message.
The visage of a human man with dark brown skin, a broad nose, and close-shorn, graying hair appeared on the screen. He wore the uniform of a Starfleet captain. “Admiral Spock, my name is Clark Terrell. I’m the commanding officer of the Sagittarius, currently assigned to recon duty in the Taurus Reach, under the command of Commodore Diego Reyes.
“The file I have sent you contains extensive documentation of the classified mission being directed from Starbase 47, known out here as Vanguard. Whatever the original purpose of Operation Vanguard might have been, I think the evidence I’ve sent will convince you it’s gone off the rails, and that it poses a genuine threat to the security of the Empire, and maybe the safety of the galaxy at large.
“Whatever you choose to do with this intelligence, I’d like to ask for your help in getting a transfer for a civilian scientist named Carol Marcus and her teenage son, David, off that station.
“I’m sure you understand I’m taking a tremendous risk by sharing this information with you. Captain Zhao of the Endeavour assures me you’re a man who can be trusted. For his sake—and mine—I hope he’s right.”
Terrell leaned forward and pressed a button. The image on the screen changed to a slide show of written reports, ships’ logs, sensor data … and a molecular map of the most complex string of genetic data Marlena had ever seen.
Spock looked up at her. “Ten years ago, in the Taurus Reach, then-Commodore Matt Decker and his crew found a complex genome in what appeared to be a simple life-form. That discovery led to the rapid deployment of a Watchtower-class starbase hundreds of light-years from Earth, well outside the normal bounds of the Empire’s territory.”
“What is that genetic string?” Marlena asked.
“Unknown,” Spock said. “However, the logs provided by Captain Terrell suggest the personnel attached to Operation Vanguard have made other discoveries in that contested region of space—and that Commodore Reyes is abusing the station’s resources and remote location to amass personal power.”
Marlena frowned. “Why are Decker and the Empress letting Reyes get away with this?”
“Starfleet is overextended,” Spock said. “Reyes has fortified his position by forging an accord with a foreign power or some other political actor, or perhaps both. And whatever he controls from Starbase 47, it is sufficiently dangerous that neither the Empress nor the grand admiral wish to challenge him directly.”
“Wonderful.” She perused the on-screen data and noticed several gaps. “Didn’t Terrell send any data on Reyes’s allies or resources?”
“He may have,” Spock said. “However, the transmission was jammed before it was completed. Terrell’s message was intact, but the data file was not.”
“Can we ask him to resend it?”
“The Sagittarius was destroyed by a warp core breach ten minutes after he sent his message to me.”
Marlena began to form a more complete mental picture of the situation. “You think Reyes jammed the message and then took out the Sagittarius.”
“That would be consistent with the facts in hand.”
She folded her arms. “Much as I hate to open another front in our war on the status quo, I think we need to move against Reyes.”
“Agreed,” Spock said.
She sat on the edge of Spock’s desk. “Where do we start?”
“We will investigate the situation in the Taurus Reach and assess its threat potential to the Empire and the galaxy at large,” Spock said. “Next we will need to cultivate an ally inside Reyes’s command staff. Preferably someone with access to the inner workings of Operation Vanguard.”
Shooting her husband an incredulous look, Marlena replied, “Tall order. That could take months—or longer, depending on how tight Reyes’s security is.”
“Perhaps,” Spock said. “But men like Reyes inspire treachery. I’m confident that with perseverance, we can turn one of his officers into a spy for our cause.”
She admired Spock’s optimism even though she did not share it. “All right,” she said. “And then what?”
“Then,” he said gravely, “we will send T’Prynn.”
2276
20
A Shell of a Man
Waves broke against jagged rocks and churned into foam. Marlena stood up nude in the gloriously warm pounding surf and waded toward the b
each, imagining herself a modern-day Venus, rising from the sea to stride an alien shore.
She and Spock were on their third full day of leave on Risa. Most of Enterprise’s crew was on the planet’s surface, at a resort location on the mainland of the largest continent. She and Spock had the privilege of a private island, complete with a luxury cabana and a pair of antigrav-equipped robots programmed to bring them food or drinks anywhere they went.
A skeleton crew manned the ship in orbit. Also still on board was a cadre of Vulcan operatives recruited by Spock to serve as his personal guard. During the admiral’s absence, his sentinels kept watch over his and Marlena’s quarters, to prevent unwanted intrusions, searches, or insertions of surveillance technology.
Marlena squeezed the excess water from her raven hair as she padded ashore. She savored the moment. The soft crashing of waves, a gentle tropical breeze of salt air, the warmth of the sun, powdery hot sand beneath her feet—it was all she had ever dreamed heaven might be.
Spock, true to form, lingered on dry land, just beyond the touch of the sea. As Marlena walked toward him, he crouched and sifted handfuls of sand through his fingers. The last grains fell away, revealing a pale shape in his palm. It was a seashell shaped like a miniature conch. Spock held it between his thumb and forefinger and studied it with a scientist’s keen gaze.
Standing over her husband, Marlena struck a seductive pose. “See anything you like, my love?”
He brought the shell closer to his eyes. “It is fascinating.”
She reached down, clasped his free hand, and tried to pull him toward the water. “C’mon,” she said. “The ocean’s calling!”
It felt as if she were trying to tug a mountain. Even leaning sharply and throwing her weight into the effort, she couldn’t make Spock budge. He was too strong and too balanced to be moved against his will.
Relenting, Marlena let herself fall to the sand beside him. She waved over one of the antigrav service bots, which was holding her margarita. She liberated her lemony libation from a nook on the floating disk and took a sip. Its tartness made her lips pucker. After she swallowed, she squinted against the tropical sun and saw Spock still eyeing the seashell in his hand.
“What’s so captivating about that shell?” she asked.
He lowered his hand as he lifted his brow in a pensive expression.
“I respect the patience it represents,” he said. “It is a product of a simple intelligence, but able to withstand the inexorable forces of nature.” Turning it slowly, he continued. “Formed by a slow accretion of calcium carbonate into a shape both durable and aesthetically pleasing, it is a triumph of engineering and efficiency, a formidable armor composed of that which it found in abundance.”
Leaning forward against Spock’s arm, Marlena replied, “Not that it did much good.” Recoiling from Spock’s stare, she added, “I mean, whatever made it is dead, and it either rotted away inside its useless shell or got chewed up by scavengers. The shell might be pretty, but what good did it really do?”
A deep, thoughtful silence fell upon Spock. He stared at the shell in his hand, as if he were prying the secrets of the universe from its spiral cavity. When at last he broke his silence, he said only, “Indeed.”
Worried she might have upset him or quashed what little enjoyment he was taking in their holiday, she turned her energies toward seduction. She planted small kisses up the side of his arm to his shoulder, and then into the space between his clavicle and neck—all while tracing the lines of his torso with her wandering fingertips. “Forget the shell,” she whispered. “Let me intrigue you with some other new wonders I’ve learned.”
He caressed the side of her face and stroked his fingers through her hair, but then he pulled away. “This is not a good time,” he said.
Flustered, Marlena made an exaggerated show of pivoting to one side and then the other, to emphasize their isolation. “No ship, no crew, no orders,” she said with a coquettish smile. “It seems like the best time we’ll ever have.”
“Our locale is conducive to romance,” Spock said. “However, I am overdue for my contraceptive injection.”
Rolling her eyes, Marlena replied, “So what? Your last injection can’t have completely worn off yet—and even if it has …” She stroked his face with her palm. “Would that really be such a bad thing?”
“Admittedly, the risk of conception at this time is low, but it would be best not to leave such matters to chance.” He reached for a communicator on the blanket behind him. “Doctor M’Benga is on shore leave, but Nurse Chapel should be able to beam down a hypospray containing the injection I require.”
Marlena reached out and held his arm. “Spock, please. Isn’t it time?”
“Time for what?”
“For us to start a family?” She sighed. “We’ve been married for nine years already, and I’m not getting any younger.”
Wrinkling his brow momentarily, Spock replied, “With hormone therapy, there is no reason you could not safely bear children for at least another—”
“You’re missing the point, Spock. I want us to have children. Not someday. Not in a few years. Now.”
The hint of a frown darkened Spock’s countenance. “That would be a very dangerous choice,” he said. “A starship is no place for children, even under the best of circumstances, and our current situation is far from ideal. Furthermore, a man in my position cannot afford to sire offspring. Our enemies would use them against us.” With surprising tenderness, he cupped his palm against her face. “When our position is more secure, then we can discuss starting a family.”
“Fine,” she said, far from mollified. “We’ll wait. For now.”
As Spock flipped open his communicator and asked Nurse Chapel to beam down a hypospray of male contraceptive, Marlena willed herself to be patient, for the sake of her husband and the task that lay before them.
But as she drank in their paradisiacal seclusion, in her heart she suspected she was being offered a glimpse of their future—bright, barren, and lonely—and that no matter how long she waited, Spock’s answer was never going to change.
2277
21
The Dark of Reason
Spock stood near the back of the instructors’ control room behind a bulkhead of the Academy’s starship-bridge simulator and observed the main viewer in silence. On-screen, his protégée, Saavik, now a midshipman first class, occupied the simulator’s center seat as she endured the infamous “Kobayashi Maru” test.
“Captain,” said a cadet manning the communications post, “we’re receiving a distress signal from inside the Neutral Zone. Audio only.”
Saavik nodded at the other cadet. “Put it through,” she said.
A male voice, faint and distant-sounding, scratched from the overhead speakers. It cut out intermittently, replacing parts of words or sentences with static or silence. “… the Terran freighter Kobayashi Maru. Our nav … puter malfun … drifted into enemy territory, and we need immedi … Please respond. Repeat, this is the Terran freighter Kobayashi Maru …”
“Enough,” Saavik said to her communications officer. “Hail them.”
“We’ve tried, Captain,” said the other cadet. “No response. Their message is automated, running on a loop.”
Swiveling her chair forward, Saavik asked, “Helm, do we have a fix on the Kobayashi Maru’s coordinates?”
“Aye, sir,” replied the Andorian chan at the helm. “Ninety seconds away at maximum warp.”
“Plot an intercept course, but do not cross the Neutral Zone,” Saavik said.
“Course laid in,” answered the Andorian.
“Engage. All decks, Red Alert, battle stations.”
On the simulator’s viewscreen, stars streaked past, and even through the control-room bulkhead Spock heard the imitated hum of warp engines in overdrive and felt the thrumming pulses through the deck. The Red Alert klaxon whooped three times inside the ersatz bridge, and a palpable tension emanated from the cadets gathered insi
de its claustrophobic confines.
“Dropping out of warp in five seconds,” reported the helmsman. “Three … two … one.” He pressed a button on his console, and the image on the simulator’s viewer reverted to one of stars and darkness.
“Tactical, report,” Saavik commanded.
At the sensor post, a Caitian female peered into a hooded display. “The Kobayashi Maru is directly ahead, Captain—just inside the Neutral Zone.”
A male Tellarite, whose role in the simulation was to serve as Saavik’s first officer, stepped beside her chair and suggested in a low voice, “We could reach the Kobayashi Maru in ten seconds at warp five, lock on a tractor beam in five seconds, and pull her back to our side in fifteen seconds. In and out in thirty seconds flat, Captain.”