by Peter David
Kebron carefully scanned the park from west to east and familiarized himself with its layout. It was just before dawn. The chill of night vanished as the sky shifted quickly from the last traces of indigo to the washed-out flare of sunrise. The park came alive with the chipper chirps of birdsong.
Far from Kebron, at the north end of the park, one of the automated gates slid open. Half a second later, a jogger, a young humanoid man, turned and bounded through the open gate into the park. The man circled the park four times, then exited through the east gate and continued away, past the planetary parliament building.
Within an hour, the city was awake. The park teemed with bird-watchers, joggers, and people who apparently had nowhere better to be first thing in the morning. Kebron observed their comings and goings with mild curiosity, but he devoted his concentration to waiting for the spy G’Doh and his unnamed Cardassian handler to reveal themselves.
Minutes later, a flock of orange-and-white birds fluttered noisily to a landing on his shoulders and head.
Before Kebron could delude himself with some Vulcanesque “infinite diversity” claptrap about the beauty of life’s many forms, the flock festooned his pristine polymer shell with excrement. He thought the stench seemed unusually powerful until he realized that the dirty squabs squatting on his head had deposited their cloacal products on the statue’s face, beneath his breathing vents.
Kebron wanted to shout a string of Brikar obscenities to disperse the feathered pests, but he remembered at the last moment that if he spoke he would crack the polymer shell that hid him from his quarry.
While the birds went on marking their territory, Kebron stifled a deep growl and silently concocted no fewer than a dozen recipes that all entailed roasting small birds alive over white-hot coals.
Several hours later, Kebron began to suspect that something was amiss. By his estimation it was late afternoon, yet the sun had barely risen more than a few degrees above the horizon. The picnickers had departed, leaving the park mostly empty. An Atrean man played an uninspired game of fetch with his huge, long-furred dog on a broad knoll in the middle of the park.
Kebron’s com transceiver crackled to life, painfully loud: “Ensign Kebron, this is Lieutenant Commander Sotak.”
Aside from the transceiver’s output being magnified by its proximity to his ear, Kebron could tell from the distortion that someone had left it turned up to full volume. Unfortunately, there was no way to adjust it or to tell Sotak to lower the gain on his own transmission without blowing his cover. He winced as Sotak’s squawking voice drilled a hole through his brain.
“We’ve had a minor delay,” Sotak said.
No kidding, Kebron thought.
“The meeting’s still on for today, but we’re not sure of the exact time. We need you to hold position until further notice,” Sotak said.
Kebron was ready to chalk up the delay to a run-of-the-mill snag until Sotak added one final comment: “By the way, I’m sure this was covered in your mission briefing, but I just want to remind you that one day on Iban lasts sixty-four-point-one standard Federation hours. So hang in there. Sotak out.”
No, Kebron noted glumly, that wasn’t in the briefing.
Kebron passed the next few hours observing the Atrean man playing fetch with his dog, and trying to discern a pattern in the severely curtailed meanderings of the koi in their pond.
“New reports just came in,” Sotak said. His voice, rendered shrill by the distorted transceivers, was like a nail being hammered through Kebron’s eardrum. “We’ve confirmed that G’Doh is making the drop in the next few hours. Stay sharp.”
The day had grown sunny and hot, and the park was packed with a new wave of visitors. Beyond the park perimeter, a nonstop flow of hovercars and shuttlecraft arrived and departed from the main entrance of Iban’s parliament building.
Staring at traffic was mind-numbingly boring, but Kebron preferred it to witnessing the revolting public display of affection that had, for the past two hours, been transpiring on the bench in front of him. He assumed that either the young couple had nowhere else to go or they wanted to show off.
The Brikar envied the park visitors who, when they rounded the curve to this isolated bend in the park and saw the near-pornographic wrestling match on the bench, had been able to avert their eyes and walk away.
Kebron, who often was repulsed by humanoids’ frenzied pursuit of such fevered liaisons, couldn’t even close his eyes, lest he fail to see the conspicuously absent traitor, G’Doh. So he focused his attention past the sweaty, moaning couple on the bench and took solace in the quiet dignity of the koi pond.
Fish never embarrass anyone like this, he thought. They mind their own business. They’re quiet. They don’t run away.
The birds that perched on his shoulders and head relieved themselves in unison, as if in response to some silent cue. The couple on the bench carried on, oblivious of both Kebron’s presence and his plight. The young Brikar realized then what he liked best about fish, as a life-form: They’re clean.
The Iban sun was at midheaven, shining down on the capital city. If it’s high noon, Kebron thought, this must be Thursday.
Commander Sotak’s voice squawked in his ear.
“I know this must be frustrating for you,” Sotak said.
The transceivers had developed a slight feedback loop, and Kebron was quickly growing accustomed to the high-pitched ringing tone that now haunted his every conscious moment.
“Our sources indicate the meeting is about to start,” Sotak said. “You’ll be out of there before the park closes.” Kebron did not believe a word Sotak said. The shadows that Kebron had watched shorten from morning until noon had long since lengthened and stretched away in the opposite direction.
In the middle of the park, the Atrean man threw a stick. His shaggy dog retrieved the stick. The Atrean threw the stick again, and again, and again, to the dog’s unending delight.
Kebron tuned out the cooing of the despicable flying feces machines that had made his head and shoulders their home. Only the perfect tranquility of the koi pond spared the innocent citizens of Iban the rampage of a Brikar pushed beyond the fragile edge of his sanity.
He had taken the liberty of naming the four fish, since no one else seemed to have bothered. The even-tempered one he dubbed Vladimir, and he named the melancholy but proud one Estragon. The serenely inscrutable one he called Sam, and the aggressive one was now known to him as Pozzo.
By narrowing his vision until all he saw was the bliss of the koi pond, Kebron was able to endure Sotak’s latest vague excuse for the failure of G’Doh to appear.
A few hours later, the park gates slid closed.
“We’ve learned that G’Doh and his contact intend to meet tonight, while the park is closed,” Sotak said. Kebron recalled every parentage-disparaging obscenity in the Brikar language.
The park was illuminated by dozens of antique glow-globe lamps along its walkways. Elegant towers of duranium and transparent aluminum surrounding the park darkened one window at a time, until only a scattered pattern of lighted offices remained. Overhead, Iban’s twin moons slowly made their joint transit of the night sky.
The yelp of a dog caught Kebron’s attention. His eyes pierced the darkness. In the middle of the park, on the knoll, the Atrean man had concealed himself beneath some shrubbery and huddled with his pet against the chilly night air.
Doesn’t this guy have a home? Kebron wondered. How can such an advanced society still have people living on the streets? Kebron despised elitist thinking, but he was certain that such a state of affairs would never be ignored on a Federation world.
During the night, he made up names for constellations he had never seen before, and he witnessed a hovercar accident outside the park’s north gate. What he did not see, however, was any sign of G’Doh or his accomplice.
The sun rose again—thirty-two hours, two minutes, and eleven seconds after it had set. Moments later the park gates slid open, the humanoid
jogger loped into the park, and the Atrean and his dog resumed their game of fetch. Within an hour of sunrise, the park once again bustled with visitors.
“Sotak to Kebron.” Kebron clenched his jaw in response to the all-too-familiar jabbing pain that the faulty transceiver caused in his ears. “I have some, uh…interesting news,” Sotak said over the com.
Please let him be brief, Kebron prayed. From beyond the east wall of the park, he heard the high-pitched whine of six medium-sized official shuttles approaching the parliament building from the south.
“We just received word that, um….” Sotak paused. He sounded extremely embarrassed. Outside the park’s east gate, the shuttles descended in unison. The park visitors stopped to gawk at the arrival of some local celebrity politician. “It seems that, um, G’Doh was arrested on Deneva by Starfleet Security.”
Kebron hoped he had heard Sotak incorrectly. Did he just say Deneva? Tell me he didn’t just say Deneva.
“Apparently, they, uh…took him into custody two days ago.”
Kebron imagined what Sotak would look like after he finished making origami out of him.
In front of the parliament building, the shuttles landed. Their gull-wing doors opened with a low hiss. Two dozen bodyguards piled out of the shuttles and flanked a lone dignitary as he climbed the steps of the parliament building.
In the middle of the park, the Atrean man dropped his stick and whistled for his dog. The canine galloped toward him, its tongue dangling from the side of its mouth.
“Obviously, we don’t want to make a scene by beaming you out while the park is full,” Sotak said, “especially since the Iban government doesn’t even know we’re here.”
The dog lurched to a stop next to its Atrean master, who knelt beside the shaggy animal and placed a hand on its back.
He’s never petted that dog once, Kebron realized. And if he’s a homeless person, why doesn’t he beg for food or money?
Kebron scrutinized the Atrean, whose attention was fixed on the politician ascending the parliament steps.
“Just be patient,” Sotak said, his volume-distorted voice scrambling Kebron’s already overtaxed auditory nerve. “We’ll beam you out tonight after the park closes.”
The Atrean grabbed a fistful of fur on the dog’s back and pulled it upward. Instead of tearing out a clump of fur, he lifted away a fake-fur drapery to reveal a compact, collapsible plasma rifle strapped to the animal’s shorn flank. The Atrean plucked it from its holster. With fast, expertly smooth motions, he extended its shoulder stock and targeting sight, then lifted the weapon to his shoulder.
Kebron leaped forward and exploded from his shell.
The enormous Brikar hit the ground with an earthshaking impact. Everyone in the park turned instantly toward him. A few hundred people screamed.
Kebron swatted a tree out of his way and marched in a straight line toward the Atrean sniper.
“Drop your weapon!” Kebron shouted. His voice boomed over the screeches of terrified civilians. The Atrean aimed his rifle at Kebron and fired. The plasma burst scorched Kebron’s uniform but failed to stop his approach.
Across the street, the Iban dignitary’s bodyguards hustled their client inside the parliament building to safety. Three squads of local police charged into the park through the east, west, and north gates.
The Atrean made a run for it. Kebron plodded after him.
The sniper dodged a crossfire of police blaster shots as he ran from one part of the park to another seeking an escape route, but he found them all blocked. He stumbled into a dead-end path that terminated at the south cliff wall, and turned to see Kebron behind him.
Kebron, eyes gleaming with menace, shambled toward the Atrean, who fired blast after blast of charged plasma at him. Kebron wasn’t injured by the blasts, but he grew irritated as the charged plasma burned away what was left of his uniform.
He reached out, grabbed the plasma rifle, and mangled it. The Atrean sank to his knees and cowered on the ground, shrinking in terror from the gigantic, nude Brikar towering over him. Kebron nabbed the sniper and lifted him off the ground, then heard footfalls behind him. He turned to see a dozen Iban police, their weapons aimed at the Atrean.
“He’s all yours,” Kebron said as he tossed the Atrean to the cops.
The officer in charge stared at Kebron. “Who are you?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Zak Kebron,” the Brikar security officer said, “and this has been the longest day of my life.”
Captain Danilov sat at his desk in his ready room aboard the Ranger, reading Kebron’s mission report with raised eyebrows. Kebron stood at attention on the other side of his desk.
Lieutenant Commander Raka stood next to Kebron. The Trill security chief wore a disapproving scowl but had said nothing since the Brikar had entered the ready room.
Danilov looked up at Kebron, then shook his head and resumed reading. Finally, he turned off his viewscreen. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at the ensign.
“Sotak wants me to reprimand you for disobeying his order to remain undercover,” Danilov said. “On the other hand, Iban’s Prime Minister Niad wants to honor you with a parade for saving his life. Frankly, I’m torn.”
“I’d prefer the reprimand,” Kebron said.
“Consider it done,” Danilov said. “We’re lucky the Iban government believed you were there to stop the assassin, instead of on a covert Starfleet mission. You do grasp the importance of the chain of command, don’t you, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir,” Kebron said. “But I would do the same thing again.”
Raka arched his left eyebrow and glared at Kebron, who stared back and loomed above the slender Trill man.
“And why is that, Ensign?” Raka said.
“Saving lives is more important than saving face.”
Raka held his ground for a moment; then the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.
“Spoken like a true security officer,” Raka said. “I assume that’s why you’ve withdrawn your transfer request?”
“Transfer request?” Kebron said.
Raka blinked. “The one you asked for before you—”
“Never requested a transfer,” Kebron said ominously. Raka leaned backward, away from the hulking Brikar, and glanced at the captain.
“Of course you didn’t,” Danilov said. “I’m sure the commander must be thinking of someone else…. Now what’s this about you requisitioning half a dozen live fish from Earth?”
“Koi. They’re soothing,” Kebron said. A few seconds later he added, “And they’re clean.”
“Mm-hmm,” Danilov said. “Bit large to keep as pets aboard a starship, don’t you think?”
“I don’t have furniture,” Kebron said. “Wastes space.” Danilov scratched his chin pensively. He picked up his mug of coffee and leaned forward as he took a sip of the scathing beverage and swallowed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Start off with something a bit easier to manage—goldfish, let’s say—and see how that goes, before we gut your quarters. Sound acceptable?”
Kebron considered the captain’s proposal for a moment before he replied, “Okay. Goldfish.”
Danilov nodded. “All right, then. I’ll have Commander Krueger take care of it.” He reclined his chair and took another sip of coffee. “Dismissed, Ensign.”
Kebron turned and lumbered out of the ready room. His every step sent shudders through the deck. As he stooped and turned sideways to shimmy out the door to the bridge, his last step toppled the books on a shelf next to the door. The leather-bound tome at the end tumbled to the deck with a leaden thump as the door swished shut behind Kebron.
Danilov listened as the enormous ensign’s thudding steps receded. He looked at Raka, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You look unhappy, Commander,” Danilov said.
“Four days ago I was sorry to lose him,” Raka said. “Now I’m worried I might not be able to control him. He’s strong, tough, and smart
, but stubborn. I’d hate to see him ruin a promising career before it gets started.”
Danilov chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about his career,” the captain said. “He’s idealistic, eccentric, and has a head like a rock. What’s more, he exhibits selective memory and he’s capable of not moving for days at a time.” Danilov sighed. “If you ask me, I’d say he’s on a fast track to the admiralty.”
ROBIN LEFLER
Lefler’s Logs
Robert Greenberger
During her days at Starfleet Academy and as an engineer on the U.S.S. Enterprise, Robin Lefler was known for her “Lefler’s Laws.” Those laws, and much of Robin’s personality, grew out of her odd experiences growing up the child of Charles Lefler and his wife Morgan—a woman who is much more than she seems. “Lefler’s Logs” takes us through the childhood of the future operations officer of the U.S.S. Excalibur.
Robert Greenberger
Robert Greenberger is a senior editor at DC Comics in their collected-editions department. Additionally, he has extensive writing credits ranging from nonfiction books for young adults to a smattering of original fiction to lots of Star Trek. In 2004 he will contribute to Star Trek: Tales of the Dominion War and pen two Star Trek: The Next Generation novels, A Time to Love and A Time to Hate. His Star Trek: S.C.E. eBooks, Past Life and Buying Time, are both available for download. Foolish mortal, he is a lifelong Mets fan. He makes his home in Connecticut with his wife Deb and children Kate and Robbie.
LEFLER’S LOG, Stardate 31345.3
We’re on Tantalus, wherever that is. It’s kinda weird since it’s always so dark. Daddy says we won’t be here for long since the plasma studies are scheduled for only a month or two. He keeps trying to explain what plasma is and all I think is that it sounds like a gooey sauce to go over my chicken.