by Gene DeWeese
According to Garamet and her brother, however, their world of Narisia had been noticed about three hundred years ago by the so-called “Wise Ones,” an otherwise anonymous race or group that either hadn’t heard of—or had no use for—the Prime Directive. Whoever they were, they obviously preferred aggressive meddling to the inconvenience of having to stage an actual invasion and occupation. That could qualify, Scotty supposed, as a perverse sort of wisdom.
“And you have no idea who they really were?” Scotty wondered. Such apparently “covert” operations hardly seemed in character for either the Romulans or the Klingons, both of whom would’ve leaned much more toward open invasion. There were, however, any number of other less “honorable” enemies to cope with these days. The Cardassians, covered extensively in the Goddard’s briefing program, came instantly to mind. And the blue-skinned Andorians: Even though they had been a founding member of the Federation, there apparently were rogue factions that still went in for the same kind of underhanded tactics they had been known for in pre-Federation days. And there were of course the hive-minded Borg, seemingly roaming the Delta Quadrant at will in near-indestructible ships that looked suspiciously like massive compacted cubes of scrap metal.
From what Wahlkon and Garamet told Scotty, however, he doubted that the Borg or any of the others were the ones masquerading as the “Wise Ones.” Narisia, a pre-technological M-class planet, had been co-opted several generations ago, or at least its leaders had been. Or perhaps “tempted” was a better term. No invasion force had descended on the planet. No armada had appeared in the sky, threatening fiery destruction from above, although it was understood from the start that such things were far from impossible—if they were ever needed.
Instead, a few leaders from various parts of Narisia had been secretly snatched up by what Garamet was now convinced was something very like the Goddard’s transporters, something she personally had never before experienced. On board what apparently were starships in high orbit, too high for them to be seen from the surface as anything but moving dots of light, these leaders were “given” a series of technological advances that not only helped them to remain leaders but helped them and their heirs to expand their domains until eventually all of Narisia was under their control.
That had been less than three centuries ago. With the help of these off-worlders, these so-called “Wise Ones,” generation after generation of the now-hereditary leaders, calling themselves Proctors, had lived in comparative luxury while Narisia itself went from farming and wood fires to mass production and warp drive in record time. And even now the general population was unaware of the existence of the off-worlders. The only ones who knew were the Proctors and the select few who were involved in developing an understanding of the technological gifts. This included those like Garamet who had been, in effect, a test pilot for Narisia’s gift-wrapped space program.
“And there’s no danger any of them will let the secret out,” Garamet said, grimacing as her fingers went reflexively to the wound at her temple, now almost invisible as a result of Scotty’s clumsy but effective ministrations with a medical tricorder and a few items from the Goddard’s first aid kit. “Everyone who gets let in on the secret is also ‘given’ an implant. You can’t see it or feel it but you know it’s there. And don’t ask me what it does or how it does it. All I know is, until mine was accidentally disabled, the very idea of telling any ‘outsiders,’ even my own family, about the Wise Ones made me physically sick. Literally! Even thinking about them, never mind talking about them, gave me the shakes. And I was luckier than most. When I was recruited, I learned that my grandmother Balitor had once been a recruit as well, so I at least had someone to talk to now and then.”
“I don’t suppose you still have the wee thing you extracted?”
Garamet shook her head with a shudder. “Once Wahlkon managed to pry it loose from my skull, we smashed the bloody thing and ejected it into space. But you’ll see one soon enough if the Proctors catch us. They’ll have new ones implanted in all three of us before we even get taken back to Narisia.”
Scotty repressed a disappointed sigh. Garamet’s action was understandable, but it would’ve been a help to have the device to analyze. He might even have been able to recognize the technology. At least then he’d have a better idea of who and what he was up against, who these so-called “Wise Ones” really were. And he could inform Captain Stratton, now twenty hours away, of the situation.
“And you’ve never seen these ‘Wise Ones’ yourself?”
They both shook their heads. “No one has, so far as I know,” Garamet said and went on to explain that even the Proctors, the people actually taken into the ships, had never actually seen anyone. Each had just found himself in a plain, metal-walled room, being talked to by a disembodied voice. After the voice had explained—without really explaining—why they had chosen to help Narisia in general and these leaders in particular, objects began appearing on the floor in front of them, along with explanations of how to use the objects. When the voice was finished, the leaders found themselves back on Narisia, right where they’d been when they’d been picked up. Only now they had little treasure troves of weapons and other goodies, along with the information needed to eventually manufacture them themselves, assuming they were bright enough to either understand the information or seek out and control people who were bright enough.
The mottled fur on the sides of Garamet’s head rippled momentarily, something Scotty had come to recognize as the Narisian equivalent of a shrug. “That went on until about a hundred years ago,” she said. “Each new generation of Proctors would get more and more advanced gifts, but then the gifts stopped. So far as I know, no one has heard from the Wise Ones since then. There’s been no contact at all. Whoever they are, they must have gotten bored with whatever game they were playing.”
“Or they completed their plan for us when they gave us a rudimentary warp drive,” Wahlkon said. “Once they did that, we were apparently on our own. Unless,” he went on, eying Scotty suspiciously, “they secretly send someone in every so often to take a look and see how we’re doing.”
Scotty almost laughed at the idea that he could be an agent for such interstellar meddlers, but after a moment he realized, uneasily, that he couldn’t guarantee that the off-worlders had not, in fact, been from a Federation world—or at least a world that would someday become a part of the Federation. When the meddling had started, the Federation was in its infancy and the Prime Directive was neither fully defined nor fully accepted. Even so, no one involved in such a massive and long-term violation would want to be found out. They would, as the off-worlders had done, keep their identities and world of origin a secret. And once they had given Narisia the key to star travel, eventual contact with Federation worlds became virtually inevitable. Hence, the meddlers would have to pull back or have their secret exposed.
Scotty very much hoped his speculations were wrong, but he feared they were not. Back in his own dim past in the Academy and occasionally since then, he’d heard rumors of various do-gooder groups—often academics with a bent for social science—who wished they were allowed to “guide” fledgling civilizations through critical phases rather than being forced to sit back and watch the newcomers bumble through on their own, making the same sometimes disastrous mistakes that others had already suffered through. Some, it was rumored, had even gone so far as to advocate using primitive worlds as laboratories, nudging various groups of natives this way and that to see which actions had the most desirable results.
And under the right—or wrong!—circumstances no one was immune to the temptation. Even Jim Kirk and the Enterprise itself had been drawn into violating the Prime Directive by engaging in a primitive arms race with the Klingons on Neural.
Vehemently denying any connection with the off-worlders, Scotty checked the sensors again and was relieved to see that the Goddard was nearing the end of its arc and was approaching the far end of the previous shuttlecraft’s warp trail. T
here was still no hint of the Proctors except for a faint and fading warp trail that was almost obscured by that of the shuttlecraft it had been following.
Racing back along the glaringly obvious warp trail at a hair under warp three, Scotty pushed the Goddard’s sensors as far as he could and then pushed them even further by abandoning the standard pattern and focusing them directly ahead like a phaser burst. If the Proctors had already caught up with the shuttlecraft, had immediately figured out the deception, and were even now bearing down on the Goddard’s unseeing aft, there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t push the Goddard any faster than he was already pushing it, and there was certainly no way he could fight back with an essentially weaponless shuttlecraft, warning or no warning. They would either catch him or they wouldn’t.
On the other hand, if the sensors could reveal the nature of the abandoned ship ten minutes—or even a single minute—earlier than they would when scanning a normal pattern, it could help. Once the sensors revealed what kind of ship it was and what condition it was in, he could start planning, perhaps even start replicating parts he would need, if the Goddard’s replicator had the necessary—and necessarily obsolete—patterns still in its library. An extra minute with that kind of knowledge in his possession could conceivably give him the edge he needed. It could mean the difference between being captured by the Proctors and making a safe rendezvous with the Yandro.
Abruptly, a single line of data appeared on the screen, then another.
At least, Scotty thought as he squinted at the screen, the ship was still there. Almost invisible in the shadow of a kilometer-wide cometary ball of ice and rock and organic compounds, it hadn’t been towed away or blasted into scrap metal by the Proctors as they’d passed by.
And it was a fairly large ship, he saw with relief, though far from big enough to be the Constitution-class he’d been hoping for. One of those he could field strip and reassemble blindfolded. But he could do almost as well with any ship of the line of that era, and surely—
He blinked, frowning in disbelief as another line appeared on the data screen, then a whole string of them as the sensors locked onto the ship’s systems one after another and transmitted the data back to the Goddard.
Then the viewscreen lit up with an image, fuzzy at this distance but unmistakable. Scotty gasped even though the sensor readings had already told him what the image almost certainly would be. He had simply been unable—or unwilling—to believe that the readings were right and that there was no alternative explanation for them.
But the readings had been right and the explanation was the obvious, if near impossible, one. If he’d been startled when he’d first seen the ancient NCC-1951 shuttlecraft, he was dumbfounded now.
The ship was nearly as old as the shuttlecraft it had carried, but it wasn’t a Federation starship, Constitution-class or otherwise. It wasn’t a Federation ship of any type or age. But it was, for him, the next best thing.
It was a vintage Klingon bird-of-prey.
For a long moment, Scotty just stared at the image. If nothing else, it at least explained why the damaged controls in the shuttle had been replaced by what had looked like Klingon substitutes. But how the two had ever gotten together in the first place…
He turned to Garamet, who was also watching the viewscreen. “Is that the ship you abandoned?” he asked, trying to keep the utter puzzlement out of his voice.
“Of course,” she said. “Is there some reason it should not be?”
Scotty shook his head. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but there wasn’t time. Later, when they were safely away from the pursuers, would be time enough.
He squinted once again at the sensor readings, now beginning to come in at full speed, revealing more and more detail, filling screen after screen. The warp core, he saw with relief, was sealed and functional, its containment fields at better than ninety percent. And there was no shortage of anti-matter. Even the Klingon no-frills version of an environmental control system hadn’t deteriorated greatly. It wouldn’t keep them comfortable, but at least it would keep them alive while he made whatever repairs proved necessary.
If he could indeed determine quickly enough what repairs were necessary. Unfortunately there were literally thousands of malfunctions that could cause a ship to drop out of warp as precipitously as Garamet said this one had. And only a small percentage of them would show up on a remote sensor scan. Pinpointing the problem would probably require hands-on access to the drive.
But at least he was thoroughly familiar with the ship. He had virtually rebuilt one just like it, the Bounty, which had then transported him, Kirk, McCoy, Uhura, Chekov, and the newly reconstituted Spock from Vulcan to Earth, after which it had taken them on a round trip through time to the twentieth century to pick up a pair of whales. And this one, the sensor readings showed, obviously had far more working systems than that other one. And whatever repairs he needed to make, he wouldn’t have to cope with the sulfurous heat of Vulcan, its great red sun daily turning the ship’s interior into an oven. Of most immediate import, however, was the fact that a ship like this could leave Garamet’s warp-five bloodhounds in the interstellar dust.
If he could get its drive working soon enough.
Despite a faint shiver that ran up and down his spine as he wondered just how close the Proctors were getting, Scotty for the first time began to feel they might actually all survive this impromptu little adventure.
Five
SCOTTY WAS finishing his work on the Klingon ship when the idea that could give him back his life exploded in his mind.
It instantly overwhelmed his every other thought, like a nearby supernova blotting out a sky full of normal stars. It hit him just as he slapped the bulkhead panel back into place after bypassing the last of the burnt-out couplers that routed the helm’s commands to the bird-of-prey’s computer. He froze for just a moment as his mind, unbidden, began converting the idea into at least the skeleton of a plan. Racing back toward the bridge—no effete luxuries like turbolifts here in Klingon territory—he marveled at his own thickheadedness even as the plan gained further form and substance. How could it have taken so long for such an obvious idea to occur to him? He should have thought of it the moment the Klingon ship appeared on the Goddard’s screen like the godsend it was.
His only excuse was that his mind had been focused totally on what the Goddard’s sensors told him needed repair and how he could do the work in the shortest possible time. But now—now that the repairs were completed—
If they were indeed completed.
He would know soon enough, he told himself sharply as he careened onto the dimly lit, cavernous bridge, moving faster than he had in years.
Garamet and Wahlkon watched, wide-eyed, as Scotty ran the computer through its paces with the bypassed couplers and pronounced the ship—the Bounty 2, he had just silently christened it—fit for duty. Moments later, a long-range sensor scan showed a ship—presumably the Proctors’ warp five bloodhound—following the Goddard’s arcing path and nearing the point at which it rejoined the destroyed shuttlecraft’s warp trail. Apparently the Proctors’ sensors weren’t quite as primitive as he had hoped, nor the Proctors as unobservant. They had picked up the Goddard’s warp trail and guessed what it meant. Worse, he realized a moment later, they had somehow managed to boost their speed to almost warp six.
But they still would arrive too late to stop him.
If the coupler bypasses held, if there weren’t other problems he hadn’t found, if his on-the-fly tune-up, adjusting the matter-antimatter mix to what should be an optimal ratio, had been successful.
Gingerly, hoping he wasn’t simply asking too much of the ancient vessel, he routed nearly ninety percent of the output of the anti-matter generators to the warp cores. He could feel the deck vibrate beneath his feet as he watched the readouts to see if everything was, if not optimal, at least within acceptable limits.
The Proctors were two minutes away, their sensors
repeatedly scanning the Bounty 2, when the warp engines finally shuddered into life. Hastily, with one eye on the approaching ship, he made one last check to be sure that the Goddard was firmly secured in the cargo bay.
Pointing the Bounty 2 in the general direction of the nearest starbase, a course that would take it nowhere near either the pursuing Proctors or the approaching Yandro, he engaged the warp drive and carefully eased it up to just enough above warp six to keep out of range of the Proctors’ weapons. He thought the Klingon shields would hold, but he’d be much happier if he didn’t have to put them to the test.
Moving from one station on the bridge to another, checking every readout and status light again and again, Scotty at last decided that the ship, ancient as it was, really was going to hold together. Klingons might be nasty pieces of work, but they did know how to build a sturdy ship. He wasn’t at all sure that a comparable-sized Federation ship, burdened with several tons of whales and water, would have held together during the slingshot run past the sun that had brought the original Bounty back to the twenty-third-century. Even structural integrity fields had their limits.
Boosting the speed to nearly warp seven, Scotty put the Bounty 2 on automatic pilot and returned to the cargo bay and the Goddard and initiated a one-way subspace link with the Yandro. The message he sent was intentionally vague, indicating that the emergency he thought he had fallen into had in reality been little more than a misunderstanding. Everything was under control, he assured Captain Stratton. The Goddard no longer needed assistance, and he would submit a full report when the exigencies of his long-delayed but finally-achieved retirement allowed.
Ignoring Stratton’s attempts to open a two-way link, Scotty set the Goddard’s comm system back to standby and returned to the Klingon bridge, where Garamet and her brother were watching the viewscreen with fascination as the stars streamed past at a rate they had probably never before experienced.