by Jerry Oltion
"But—but—"
"Okay," Mudd told the Grand General, "each time he says 'but,' we take a step. When we get to ten—"
Laughter drowned out whatever else he said.
All right then, if this was how he wanted it, who was Kirk to stop him? It was Harry's responsibility, after all. It was just such a shock to see him actually admit to it. Kirk waited for the laughter to die down, then said, "Ready? One…two…three…"
Mudd and the Grand General took slow, even steps. When they got to ten they turned, and everything seemed to freeze for a moment as they eyed one another across twenty yards of space. Then both men raised their weapons and fired. Kirk flinched as Mudd's shot went wild and blew more tile off the wall just over his head, but the Grand General's aim was true: Mudd fell to the floor with a smoking hole in the center of his chest.
"Harry!" screamed Stella. She ran to him, bent over his inert body, and said, "Oh, my poor Harry, oh, my dearest—"
Harry raised his head, struggled to speak, managed to croak, "Goodbye, cruel world," then fell back to the tile.
Everyone rushed forward, but before they could reach him he shimmered into a column of light and was gone.
"Something has happened," Spock said through Kirk's communicator. "I'm reading massive memory transfer out of the buffers."
As he spoke, there was a splash off to Kirk's left, and a Nevisian woman appeared in the water. Another splash, and a man appeared just beyond her. Then another and another beyond them.
A babble of voices broke the silence that had followed Mudd's death, but Stella's shout overrode them all. "You idiots!" she screamed. "You let him get away again!"
Kirk looked at her, then at the spot where Harry had been. Of course she was right; in their fear of the worst-case scenario they had overlooked the most likely outcome of all this. Everyone but Harry, who was no doubt reappearing in a tub of his own somewhere. Not on Prastor, either, Kirk suspected. This was Mudd's third time through the system, and though his second time hadn't been heroic enough to send him to Arnhall, this one certainly qualified.
And from there Mudd could beam to any planet he wanted to, no doubt taking as many secrets of Nevisian technology with him as he could carry. Kirk really should try to stop him, but there was just one problem with that: he had no idea where Arnhall was. And he really didn't want to die again to find out. Too many people in the Nevis system had already died trying to reach Arnhall.
Epilogue
The soft blue and white clouds of York III shone brightly out of the viewscreen, lighting the Enterprise's bridge like sunlight through a large bay window. The familiar sounds of the crew at work were also a comfort, as was the presence of Captain Kirk in his command chair again. Everything seemed to be in its proper place at last; even, Spock reluctantly admitted to himself, McCoy standing beside the captain's chair.
The intercom whistled, and Ensign Vagle said, "Transporter room one. Stella Mudd is away." He sounded considerably relieved to be delivering the news, as well he might. Stella had been rather unhappy with the outcome of things on Distrel, and had made sure everyone on the Enterprise knew it. Spock felt sorry for her employees in the hotel when she returned, but he was glad to have the last remnant of this whole situation off the ship. Harry Mudd's influence spread chaos wherever it went, and Spock was eager to put it all behind him.
Captain Kirk's thoughts evidently paralleled his own. He sighed loudly, then said, "Well, gentlemen, I hope that's the last we'll see of either Mudd for a while."
McCoy nodded. "Forever would be just about long enough for me. But somehow I doubt we'll be that lucky. Harry has a way of popping up just when you need him the least."
"Indeed, Doctor?" Spock asked him. "Ignoring the mysticism and psychotic sense of individual persecution inherent in your argument, a look at the facts of the matter show that his influence in this case was, in fact, of considerable benefit."
"Only you would defend Harry Mudd," McCoy said. "All right, I'll bite. What good did he do us?"
"He provided the Federation with three prospective new member worlds."
Both Kirk and McCoy looked at him in surprise. "Did I miss something in the confusion?" Kirk asked. "I thought Distrel and Prastor were still independent. Defiantly so. And as for Arnhall, one crochety old lady on the Council of Heroes isn't exactly a revolution."
"Yes," said Spock. "But how long do you imagine the current situation can continue? The leaders of Distrel and Prastor both know the truth about their 'gods' now, and a growing number of citizens have also learned the secret. I do not believe the current system can survive that knowledge. And when the Nevisians begin looking for a new direction, the Federation will be there to welcome them."
"I don't know," said McCoy. "People are reluctant to change. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if they kept right on fighting with each other even if they do know what's behind their afterlife."
Spock nodded. "Perhaps. If history is any guide—or for that matter, if personal experience is any guide—then people will always fight. But generally they make up again. Harry Mudd reminded the Nevisians that they can make peace if they want to, and the complications that arose from the android proved to them that they can make peace when they need to. I believe that is an important lesson for anyone to learn, and one which will eventually lead them to a less violent way of life."
McCoy shook his head. "I hope you're right, but you've got more faith in human—or should I say humanoid—nature than I do."
"Perhaps it is not entirely faith," said Spock. "There is one other detail I failed to mention while I was in the caverns below the palace."
"What?" Kirk asked.
Spock realized he had to back up a bit to make his point. "The lights were not on when I beamed in the first time. They responded automatically to my presence, and presumably turned off again when I and Scotty and the Grand General and Harry Mudd beamed away. In any case, they were off when I went back alone, and they again turned on automatically upon my arrival."
"So the lights are automatic," McCoy said impatiently. "So's everything else in the Nevis system. What's the point?"
"The point, Doctor, is that everything is also old. The computer was designed for longevity, but the lights apparently were not, and they have lost a great deal of their original efficiency. They now generate nearly as much heat as light, and the heat they produced the first time we were there apparently loosened a fixture, for the light over the central processor was hanging a bit askew. I would never have noticed it had I not heard a somewhat ominous creak from overhead while I was scanning the computer with my tricorder."
"You're saying the light is going to come down on the computer?" Kirk asked. "The main processor?"
"That seems likely," Spock replied. "Perhaps not immediately, but soon. Within another three or four visits, I imagine. And I did not see a template for another one among the items stored for duplication, so I suspect the main computer is irreplaceable."
Kirk said, "You know the Grand General won't be able to resist going down for a peek once in a while. Why didn't you tell him?"
Spock had the attention of the entire bridge crew now. He felt a bit uncomfortable under their scrutiny, for he knew that humans could react unpredictably when he explained a logical decision, but the captain had asked for his reasoning so he forged ahead. "I decided that informing him of the imminent failure would have violated the Prime Directive."
"How could warning him that the whole computer system is in danger violate the Prime Directive?" asked McCoy. "When that light falls, it'll change everything."
Spock nodded. "Indeed it will, provided they have not changed already. But the light fixture was old before we arrived, and would almost certainly have failed within a few hundred more years even if we had not activated it. Therefore, I reasoned that by alerting anyone to the danger and giving them the opportunity to repair it, I would have artificially extended the amount of time the resurrection system dominated their society. So I remained
silent."
So did the bridge crew for a few seconds. Then Chekov could contain himself no longer. He snickered, then Sulu chuckled, which set Uhura into a fit of giggles, which in turn brought out McCoy's patented goofy grin, all of which made the captain shake his head and laugh out loud.
"Spock," he said when he could catch his breath, "that's the most amazing line of doublethink I've ever heard."
Perplexed as usual around displays of mirth, Spock said, "Then you disapprove?"
"Disapprove? Of course not. It's perfect. It's just so…so devious. I think you've been spending too much time around Harry Mudd."
"The association was entirely involuntary, I assure you," Spock told him.
"I'm sure it was. But just this once, I think it was a good thing." Kirk sat up a little straighter in his chair. "And now I think it's time we left the Nevisians to their own devices, and Harry Mudd to his. We're late for our rendezvous with the O'Halloran. We wouldn't want Spock to get into trouble for dereliction of duty, now, would we?"
"That would be unfortunate," said Spock, relieved that his logic hadn't gotten him in trouble this time.
"Indeed it would. Plot a course for the Duval system, Mr. Chekov."
"Laid in, sir."
"Mr. Sulu, take us out of orbit. Ahead warp factor seven."
"Aye, sir."
Spock watched the viewscreen as the planet slid aside and the distant stars filled the view. When Sulu engaged the warp engines they turned to streaks, but Spock shivered as an entirely different picture flashed before his eyes. For just an instant it had looked to him as if someone had reached out and stirred the stars. He knew it was illogical, the product of an overworked brain and nothing more, yet for that moment he had even known who had done the stirring. Harry Mudd, of course, who was once again free and no doubt dreaming up his next bit of mischief somewhere out there in the vastness of space.
Coming Next Month from Pocket Books
STAR TREK®
VOYAGERTM
#11
THE GARDEN
by
Melissa Scott
"This is Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager," Janeway said, pitching her voice to carry to the communications relays. "We come in peace, and would like to establish trade relations with the inhabitants of this planet. Please respond."
Paris fixed his eyes on the main screen, waiting for it to dissolve into the familiar larger-than-life figures of full communications. Instead, the complex of buildings remained on the screen, empty of life and movement. Their surfaces shone in the local sun's pale light, an odd, oily brilliance that was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Stone or metal, the shapes were graceful, weirdly beautiful—they looked, he thought, like the city sculptures he'd seen once on Delphis IV, celebrations of the Delphians' crowded, transurban world.
After a moment, Kim said, almost apologetically, "There's no response, Captain."
"Keep trying." Janeway pushed herself out of her chair, stood hands on hips, staring at the screen with narrowed eyes. "And carry on with the science scans."
"Yes, Captain."
"Check for any sign of recent fighting, too," Chakotay said, and came to stand beside Janeway.
She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Surely if the Andirrim had done enough damage to prevent the Kirse responding to our hail, we'd be able to see signs of it from space."
Chakotay shrugged. "We don't know how large a population the Kirse actually have. One good reason for spending resources on an automated defense system as elaborate as this one could be a small or a declining population."
"It's possible," Janeway said, but shook her head. "And right now, Mr. Chakotay, we've got too many possibilities to be useful."
She sounded almost Vulcan as she said that, and Paris hid a grin, imagining Tuvok's startled approval. He realized that Chakotay was looking at him then, and hastily fixed his attention on his own controls, running an unnecessary diagnostic just to have something to do. The navigation sensors were as empty as the rest of the sensor screens, only the phaser platforms moving in their careful orbits, chattering to themselves, apparently oblivious of the ship hanging just outside their range. Or I hope we're outside their range, Paris amended. At least they don't seem all that interested.
"I'm not picking up any tracks of recent phaser fire," Kim said. "Or anything else that could mean a recent attack."
"The defense platforms do not seem to have fired recently, either," Tuvok said. "Their current configuration suggests that they have been on standby for some time."
"The preliminary science scan shows that nearly ninety percent of the land in the temperate zones is under cultivation," Kim said, "and we haven't even begun to classify everything. It looks as though there are plenty of plants carrying hexuronic acid, though, so we ought to be able to get everything we need. I am picking up what might be lower life-forms, but my readings are inconclusive. It could be sophisticated organic-based machinery."
"What about the citadel?" Janeway asked.
Paris could almost hear the shrug in Kim's voice. "I'm not picking up anything there, Captain. There is power in some kind of storage cell, but it's very low level. No life-forms at all."
"Captain, the pattern of power use suggests that the building may be on standby," Tuvok said. "Its condition is similar to that of the platforms."
Janeway was silent for a long moment, so long that Paris ventured another glance over his shoulder, to see her staring at the screen, a faint, thoughtful frown on her face. "Very well," she said at last. "We'll give the Kirse another chance to show themselves. Mr. Paris, put us into orbit outside the optimum range of those platforms, and, Mr. Kim, set up an automatic contact transmission. We'll give them twelve hours to respond, and then we'll see. In the meantime, keep scanning. Let's get as complete a picture as possible of this planet."
"Aye, aye, Captain." Kim's response was still Academy-perfect, and Paris knew his own acknowledgment sounded even sloppier by comparison. He felt his cheeks burning, and turned his attention to his console, fingers moving easily over the complex controls, setting up the optimum orbit. At least I know how to do this, he thought, and there's not an Academy graduate who can match me. The bravado rang a little hollow even in his own mind; he made a face, and touched the controls again.
"Moving into orbit now, Captain."
"Excellent, Mr. Paris," Janeway said. "Twelve hours, gentlemen. Let's see if we can find the Kirse."
Not entirely to Janeway's surprise, the twelve hours passed without any further sign of life from the surface. In part, she thought, it was a good thing—she had been able to get a full eight hours' sleep for once—but all things considered, it would have been simpler if they had made some sort of contact. She pushed Neelix's latest effort at breakfast aside and concentrated on her datapadd. The reports flashed past as she scanned through them, all monotonously the same, except for the doctor's. More than half the human crew were seriously affected by the deficiencies, and the level of supplemental dosage needed to stave off problems for the rest of the crew was approaching toxicity—and even that would be impossible to sustain without using the replicators. At least the news from the science scan was good. The Kirse world was lovely, filled with vegetation that would almost certainly supply their every need, but there was no sign of the inhabitants, no sign of the sophisticated culture that had built the citadel. She touched controls on the datapadd to recall the report that covered the massive structure, and the image filled the little screen. Towers rose from a central hexagon, each one different from the rest—one topped with thin structures like old-fashioned radio antennae, another glittering as though sheathed in ice or glass, still another sporting a bulbous, gold-washed shape that looked vaguely familiar, if only from holograms—and dozens of outbuildings spread from that center, creating a pattern like a slanted spider's web or early frost on a windowpane. It was strikingly beautiful, an artificial structure as lush as the flourishing plant life, and obviously the work of ski
lled engineers, the same skilled engineers who had created the network of defense platforms—who were nowhere to be found.
She shook her head, leaving the image on the screen, and addressed herself to the plate in front of her. Neelix had done his best to create something both palatable and nutritious that didn't use too much of the defective foodstock, but his best efforts still left much to be desired, and she regarded the grainy mess—roughly based, she suspected, on Tom Paris's unenthusiastic description of oatmeal—without pleasure. Still, it was carbohydrates, and she took a careful bite. It was less sweet than she had expected, and bland to the tongue; she swallowed hard, almost wishing for some of Neelix's more dramatic spices, and reached for the vitamin supplement the doctor had provided from his dwindling supplies. It was orange, a failed attempt to mimic a natural juice, and she drank it as quickly as she could, putting aside the glass with a grimace of distaste. Here in the privacy of her quarters, she could at least indulge her own dislike without worrying that she was setting a bad example, and she tossed the glass into the collection bin with more force that was strictly necessary. Even taking into account the fact that the doctor was a hologram, without taste buds and not yet used to full-time interaction with human beings, it simply tasted bad. She drew a glass of water to wash away the bitterness, and turned back to her desk.
"Computer, contact the duty officers, and tell them I want them in the ready room in—" She glanced at the nearest chronometer. "—fifteen minutes."
"Confirmed," the computer answered, and Janeway reached for her datapadd. She glanced at her image in the mirror beside her cabin door, making sure that she looked as collected—as unaffected by mere human frailties—as a Starfleet captain should be. Especially now, it was a necessary illusion.