Spock looked over at Rrelthiz, who was visibly trembling as she stood there, tail whipping back and forth. “How could Carreon genetic material get into our new synthesizers?”
“Rrelthiz … your hand,” Saavik said softly. “That day the beaker broke …”
The Carreon wrung her slender black digits and let out a sound somewhere between a wail of anguish and a hiss. There was such agony in her cry, such distress, that Spock moved towards her, his hand out. She skittered back, away from him, and began to speak, her standard even more fractured than usual. “Sorry! So sorry, I am, terrible, my fault … cut my hand that day … the synthesizer activated … blood splashing, pushed the cancel … the synthesizer reassimilated the material … my blood … splashed everywhere … mixing with emollient, hormonally based, bioextracts … combining with animal-based proteins….”
Spock realized what she meant, despite her garbled words. “Doctor Rrelthiz … you are saying that when you programmed the synthesizer to produce your special skin emollient, you cut your hand on a beaker, and it bled? And then, when you pushed cancel, the synthesized material was reabsorbed back into the new systems … along with some of your blood?”
“Yes!” she hissed. “Fine Healer am I, betrayer of my oath! My blood caused this! I am to blame for all that has happened!” The little alien was hysterical with grief and guilt.
“Doctor Rrelthiz, there is no way you could have known,” Spock said. “Do not blame yourself. This was an accident.”
“The nutrients in the emollient must have somehow combined with the living cells, then over a period of a day or so, they mutated,”
Saavik said. “Rrelthiz, Spock is correct. Nobody could have predicted this.”
“Three humans dead … my fault …” Rrelthiz was not listening. “I am responsible. And to think I was concerned for the possibility of my own illness. I have broken the Healer’s most important rule—I have caused death, and terrible harm.”
Quite suddenly, she stopped trembling, and her tail ceased its thrashing. “I am responsible. I must make reparation.”
And then, with a swift, scuttling motion, she skittered past them and was out the door.
Saavik stared after her, and Spock saw her features twist in distress. “No!”
“What is it, Saavik?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide and frightened. Spock moved over until he was beside her. “Saavik … let me help. What is it?” Concerned, he put his hand on her shoulder.
Spock had touched Saavik only a few times during their association. Vulcan telepathy usually required physical contact, so his people tended to be wary of touching others—especially other telepaths. As his fingers rested against her shoulder, Spock was conscious of how easy it would be to do a true mindlink—even a bonding—with Saavik. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her uniform.
Hastily, Spock lifted his hand, wondering whether Saavik had shared that moment of sudden physical and mental intimacy.
But she was too concerned about her friend to notice her mentor’s reaction. “I must go after her,” she whispered. “Carreon notions of honor are similar to Romulan ones. Rrelthiz sees only one path to her honor … but…” she swallowed, and suddenly looked very young, “but what if I fail? What if I say the wrong thing?”
Spock gazed at her, forcing control … and succeeding. “Saavikam, you are more than you know,” he said, holding her eyes with his own. “You will not fail. You have learned a great deal on this voyage. You will say the right things, I know you will. Now … go.”
Whatever Saavik saw in his eyes made her straighten her shoulders in determination. She gave him a faint, grateful smile. “Thank you, my teacher.”
Then she was gone, out the door, and there was only the sound of her boots, running….
Spock sat down in the seat he’d abandoned, his mind filled with that final image of Saavik … brave, determined … and grown up. No longer a child. A female grown … of marriageable age … strong and intelligent … and beautiful…
He stared at the doorway, and it was an effort to regain his equanimity….
Saavik ran down the corridor, her heart pounding, forcing herself to think logically. Where will she go to say good-bye to life, to make her “reparation?” she wondered.
And then she knew…
The observation lounge appeared deserted, which was hardly surprising, given the circumstances. At first Saavik thought she’d been wrong in her deduction. But then she caught a faint shimmer of neon blue in the dimness.
She slipped into the lounge. “Rrelthiz,” she said, quietly.
The little alien was crouching before the viewport, and there was something formal, ceremonial about her posture. Placed before her, on the carpet, was a long, slender object. It resembled a thin tube with a sharp, pointed end. In the starlight, it glittered silver and deadly.
“Friend Saavik,” the Carreon said. “Please … go away. Respect me, and my customs.”
Saavik drew a deep breath. “Rrelthiz, you cannot do this. I am your friend, and I will not allow you to make reparation for something that is not your fault.”
“It is my fault. No denying that, friend Saavik. My blood, my fault.”
“Rrelthiz, it was an accident. You intended no harm.”
The Carreon reached out, picked up the weapon. “Reparations must be made. Honor ritual demands.”
“Rrelthiz, listen to me,” Saavik said, tightly. “I was raised Romulan. That world I told you about, the one I watched be destroyed, while I rejoiced? It was a Romulan colony. I was raised Romulan, on Hellguard. Then, later, they abandoned us, as a failed experiment. We had nothing, not food, not shelter. I killed my own kind in squabbles over a bit of food. I even…” she swallowed, her gorge rising at the memory, “I even ate my own kind, once, when it was that or starve. I killed … but…” she had to stop a moment, fighting for control. She could feel tears threaten at the memory, and forced them back, forced herself to stillness. “I have never spoken of this to a living soul, not even to my teacher. Are you listening, Rrelthiz?”
The little alien turned her head, the silver killing implement gleaming faintly amidst her dark, taloned digits. “Listening … yes, friend Saavik. But you should not—”
“Spock found me on Hellguard. I was more animal than anything, Rrelthiz, but I have since learned different ways. If I could learn, you can, too. Rrelthiz, your ‘solution’ will harm us all. We require your help. If you make your traditional reparation, you will hurt the trainees who are ill … because, logically, you are the one most capable of helping us to isolate a vaccine, or an antidote … some kind of cure for the poison.”
Rrelthiz sat still, and Saavik plunged on. “Here in the Federation, we work together to solve problems. We don’t leave our friends behind to struggle without us. We don’t abandon people who need us in an empty pursuit of ritual ‘honor.’ Rrelthiz, my friend … we need you.”
“You need me,” Rrelthiz repeated, no inflection in her voice.
Her slender talons turned the ceremonial weapon over and over, and Saavik watched it, hardly daring to breathe. What more can I say? What can I do! Should I try to restrain her? But her respect for Rrelthiz’s rights as a free, sentient being would preclude that. This was the Carreon’s decision to make….
“Friend Saavik … you do not blame me for this?” Rrelthiz asked, at last. “I am told that Vulcans cannot lie.”
“I am only half Vulcan,” Saavik reminded her. “But I am telling you the truth. I do not blame you. Nobody will. What happened … happened by chance. An unfortunate set of circumstances combining at the wrong time. Logically, you are not to blame, since there was no volition on your part. Rrelthiz, we need you. That, also, is the truth.”
The weapon stilled in the slender talons. Saavik froze, bracing herself to see the Carreon die. Then, slowly, carefully, Rrelthiz laid the weapon down. “Very well, friend Saavik. If I am needed … let us go back to the lab. We have work
to do.”
“Captain Spock, we’re being hailed by the Lancet, Sir. We’ll be in visual range in five minutes.”
“Onscreen, Trainee.”
The Enterprise’s viewscreen filled with familiar, craggy features. “Spock! What’s this I hear about you playing doctor and finding a cure for this bug?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Doctor McCoy. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Don’t give me that innocent look—” McCoy broke off, grinning. “You found the cure? I guess all that Vulcan logic is good for something … occasionally.”
“It was a group effort, Doctor,” Spock said. “Doctor Rrelthiz, Cadet Saavik, and myself. I am having the formula transmitted to your ship, and ask your help in preparing sufficient quantities to treat my crew.”
“I’ll inform Captain Therenn,” McCoy said. “It’s good to see you, Spock, even under these circumstances.”
Spock nodded. “Agreed, Doctor. It is good to see you, too.”
After the transmission had been broken, Spock looked over at the science station, where Saavik was busily putting the finishing touches on the formula for the cure before transmitting it. He’d succeeded in regaining his former demeanor with his protégée, but the Vulcan could not, try as he might, forget that moment in engineering. She is still so young, he thought. Saavik is barely beginning her career. She will not be ready to think about taking a bondmate for a long time … perhaps years….
The Vulcan leaned back in the captain’s seat and let out his breath, allowing himself to relax for the first time since this crisis had begun. Patience, he counseled himself. Only time will tell what will happen….
He closed his eyes….
“Captain…” came a familiar voice, close to him.
Spock sat up straight and regarded the trainee. “Yes, Cadet Saavik?”
“Sir, I want you to know that during the past few days, I’ve been thinking about what you said … and I’ve decided to switch over to command training, as well as science. I will lose a year, having to catch up, but I think I understand what you were trying to tell me before. I can command, Sir. I have learned to work with aliens, as well as humans.”
Spock raised an eyebrow at her. “Really, Saavikam,” he said, quietly, speaking in Vulcan, but allowing a glint of humor to surface. “And what about the Kobayashi Maru test?”
Saavik returned the glint and raised her own eyebrow back at her mentor. “I am not concerned, my teacher. After all … how could the Kobayashi Maru be any worse than the past week? I endured that … I can endure the Kobayashi Maru. I have learned … much.”
Spock looked at her, and his voice was very soft, very serious. “Indeed, Saavikam…” he said quietly. “We have both learned … much … on this voyage.”
Captain John Harriman
U.S.S. Enterprise-B
“…a starship captain is not manufactured—he, or she, is born from inside—from the character of the individual….”
Sirna Kolrami, Star Trek: The Next Generation
PETER DAVID
The self-proclaimed “writer of stuff” has the distinction of being the only author who has written original material to feature John Harriman, the seemingly hapless captain of the Enterprise-B. As introduced in Star Trek Generations, Harriman appeared unable to handle the stress of an emergency during a short cruise for the new starship. He was clearly in over his head which seemed designed to show the different shades of being a starship captain, with Harriman looking the poorer compared to either Kirk or Picard.
David rehabilitated Harriman in The Captain’s Daughter and returns to continue burnishing the captain’s legacy. After all, he is a captain of the Enterprise, and they are, as a class, a cut above the rest of Starfleet’s finest. Additionally, David takes a look at the Romulan mind, a race he has not used much in his countless novels scattered throughout the Star Trek universe.
In addition, David created the Star Trek New Frontier series of novels, which have been well received and will be back in the fall of 2OOO with the first New Frontier trilogy.
When not writing Star Trek, Peter writes a weekly column in The Comics Buyer’s Guide, plus the monthly adventures of Captain Marvel (Marvel), Soulsearcher and Company (Claypool), Spyboy (Dark Horse), Supergirl, and Young Justice (DC Comics). He somehow also finds time to write other novels and has written the occasional screenplay for films and television.
An avid New York Mets fan, David resides on Long Island.
Shakedown
Rokan the Relentless, the greatest questioner in all of the Tal Shiar, was not a morning person.
That was why the renowned Romulan examiner—he who had broken the will of Zeblon the Formidable of Tellar, he who had reduced Gul Shenob, Cardassian strongman and slaughterer of billions, to tears—that was why Rokan left standing instructions never to be rousted from bed before at least 1100 hours. No exceptions, no two ways, nothing to be discussed. Rokan despised the sensation of blinking sleep from his eyes, or having to make some sort of coherent sense before at least two cups of steaming glakh had been poured down his throat.
Having demands made of him first thing in the morning … well, it simply did not suit his style. And to Rokan, style was a very important consideration. Rokan did not ask for much from the Romulan government to which he gave so much, but this, this was one of his few immutable laws: leave him alone in the morning.
Which was why he was so incensed when he found himself being rousted from a sound sleep at a time which he knew, instinctively, was far too early to have demands put upon him.
“Rokan,” came a low voice again, practically in his ear. “Rokan, we have need of you.”
Rokan blinked several times, trying to focus on the soon-to-be-dead man looking down at him. He knew the little bastard instantly; his name was Berza, and he was third or fourth in command on the praetor’s vessel Talon. “Rokan?” said Berza, squinting, trying to determine whether or not Rokan was actually awake.
“I hear you,” Rokan said, making no effort to hide his displeasure. “You know my strict instructions.”
“It is not up to me,” Berza said. “The orders came from above.”
“Orders. What orders?” Rokan hauled himself to sitting, rubbing the vestiges of sleep from his eyes.
“We have a new prisoner. My superiors desire that you begin working on him immediately.”
Rokan considered it a moment. “When was this prisoner taken?”
“A short while ago.”
“Species?”
“Human. A Starfleet captain.”
“Ah.” Rokan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And it is your desire that I question him about Starfleet’s plans for the outer rim invasion.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very well.” He thought a bit more and then, in a conspiratorial voice, he said, “I have need of your assistance, Berza.”
Berza was clearly flattered to be a part of the Great Man’s plans. “Whatever I can do to serve, Rokan. I have long desired to aid an examiner in his great mission. Tell me what to do, and I shall be your servant.”
“Very well. Here it is, then: bring the human to an examining room.”
“He is already there.”
“Excellent. Then turn off all the lights … and leave him there.”
“In the darkness?”
“Yes,” affirmed Rokan. “He is to remain there, with no effort made at communication, for the next…” He checked his chronometer.
“Four hours. During that time, you see, the dread of what is to happen to him will build, greater and greater, in his head. It will escalate to such heights that by the time the true examination begins, his imagination will have weakened his will tremendously, and our task will be that much easier.”
“Brilliant,” breathed Berza.
“Do not,” Rokan said with much gravity in his tone, “let me down, Berza.”
“I will not, Rokan,” Berza assured him. He turned on his heel and walked out.
R
okan settled back onto his pillow and, with a smile of contentment, went back to sleep.
His first view of Captain John Harriman was somewhat less than impressive.
Rokan naturally made sure that the lights in the room came up full, hard and abruptly, giving Harriman no time to shield his eyes. The result was exactly what he expected; Harriman blinked furiously against the incandescence in his face. He would undoubtedly have raised his arm reflexively to block the light out, but his hands were tied securely to the armrests. So he had no choice but to slam his eyelids shut in pain and then open them slowly, by measures. He squinted at Rokan and frowned.
Rokan was aware that he should not underestimate this Harriman, particularly since he himself wasn’t especially threatening at first sight. He was middle-aged, which was an impressive enough feat for a Romulan. His people had a fearsomely high mortality rate, with the primary cause of death being the traditional dagger in the back. His hair was thinning on the top, graying on the sides, and his eyebrows were thick and dark. His most telling feature was his eyes, which could harden to a flinty grayness when he was truly angry. At the moment, though, they were cool and placid. Even friendly. It always helped to give a subject the impression that somehow he was going to be on the subject’s side. A ludicrous notion, of course, but those in dire straits were always eager for the slightest hint of alliance, from anyone.
Harriman had a pale complexion, a long, narrow face, and thick brown hair. He looked young and nervous, but to his credit he made an effort to cover it when his vision focused on Rokan. Rokan held no notes. There was no need for it. He had gone over Harriman’s file before setting foot in the room and had memorized it instantly. It was one of his more minor, but useful, talents.
“So,” he said calmly, “you are my latest client.”
“Client?” Harriman looked at him uncomprehendingly. But then he smiled grimly. “Is that the Romulan term for ‘prisoner’ these days?”
Star Trek: Enterprise Logs Page 21