by Dayton Ward
“All but impossible,” Spock replied matter-of-factly. “Mestiko’s space travel capability is equivalent to that of mid-twenty-first-century Earth. The Payav have completed automated exploratory missions to four of their system’s other six planets as well as several of those worlds’ respective moons. They’re incapable of evacuating themselves, and there is insufficient time for any Federation effort to succeed in rescuing more than a fraction of the planet’s population. Indeed, it would not have been possible to complete an evacuation even if we had begun the process six months ago.”
Cameron said, “A large portion of our task is covert in nature. If knowledge of the pulsar reaches the populace—which we have to assume it will at some point if it hasn’t already—we have to make sure our diversion of its X-ray emissions cannot conclusively be connected to extraterrestrial action.”
Looking to Spock, Kirk asked, “What about our team on the surface? Where are they now?” He had seen the reports about Dr. Nathan Apohatsu and his people being discovered by Payav government leaders.
“According to Apohatsu’s reports, which Starfleet continues to receive,” the first officer replied, “they remain with the leaders of the Gelta nation-state, who have taken measures to ensure their secrecy as well as that of the pulsar and the existence of beings from other worlds. Such knowledge would likely result in widespread panic among the populace.”
When Spock paused, Kirk noticed the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of the half-Vulcan’s jaw. Though the captain was still learning how to read his normally unflappable first officer—a task made all the more difficult by Spock’s strict observance of his father’s people’s cultural mandate to keep their emotions suppressed beneath a veneer of logic—he recognized uncertainty when he saw it.
“Something else on your mind, Mr. Spock?” Kirk asked.
Folding his arms across his chest, the science officer turned to regard Kirk. “I was merely considering the implications of our mission here with respect to the Prime Directive, sir.”
“Seems to me,” Piper said, “that went out the window the minute our people on Mestiko contacted the Payav scientists.”
Kirk had read the transcripts of the messages received from the team of Federation pre–first contact specialists, embedded on Mestiko for nearly a year at that point, in the days and weeks following the discovery of the pulsar. He was struck by how the world’s leaders had elected to conceal that information. Realizing that nothing could prevent the catastrophe, they evidently had decided that a swift end to their civilization was preferable to the months of chaos and anarchy that certainly would result when the reality of looming disaster became public knowledge.
That might well have been the way of it, save for the actions of the cultural observation team.
Starfleet Command had received an urgent message from them, requesting assistance for the Payav in dealing with the pending crisis. The team, already in close contact with a cadre of trusted scientists and other high-ranking officials from the planet’s largest provincial state as well as a handful of that nation’s allies, had revealed much knowledge regarding the Federation and its dozens of member worlds, each of them possessing technology far beyond that of the Payav, and had held out the possibility that aid in dealing with the coming calamity might be available.
“The Payav achieved warp drive, Mr. Spock,” Kirk added. “According to the observation team’s reports, they were recommending an accelerated timetable for formal first contact protocols even before the discovery of the pulsar.”
Spock nodded. “That is true, of course, but the fact remains that according to regulations, the observation team undertook considerable risk by divulging to Payav leaders that we might be able to render assistance.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Scott said, his brow furrowing in irritation as he leaned across the table. “Are you actually suggesting we leave these people to their fate and go about our merry way?”
Though the engineer’s tone and expression conveyed his rising ire, Spock’s features in contrast remained composed. “I was simply attempting to convey the complete context of the situation we face, Mr. Scott.”
Because formal first contact protocols had not been enacted with the planet, lawyers had argued that revealing the Federation’s presence to the population at large and attempting to render aid would also be in violation of the Prime Directive. While the policy was intended to protect societies that had not yet ascended to a level of technology allowing them to travel to other worlds and interact with other space-faring races, more cynical minds tended to view the decree as a means of allowing the Federation to soothe its conscience while remaining blissfully unengaged in the affairs of those who might genuinely benefit from so-called “interference.”
For weeks after the receipt of the observation team’s message, the semantics of the situation with the Payav—the letter of the law versus the spirit it was meant to foster—had consumed legal experts. A number of other factors had also been considered, not the least of which was the Mestiko system’s proximity to territory claimed by the Klingon Empire. Given that reality, having an ally in this part of space would be of no small value.
Assuming the Payav survived the coming days, of course.
Ultimately, it was determined that the Federation could not in good conscience stand by and do nothing while Mestiko faced certain annihilation, a decision for which Kirk was thankful. While he understood and respected the purpose of the Prime Directive as a means of preventing the contamination of a fledgling civilization, debating the policy’s merits in a classroom setting and applying its principles in situations when real lives hung in the balance were two entirely different matters.
“The Prime Directive still applies to the balance of the planet’s population,” Kirk said, “and Dr. Apohatsu and his team are upholding it by ensuring their presence remains a secret except to the parties they approached as part of the normal pre–first contact protocols. It’s too late for second-guessing those decisions, and now we’ve got a job to do.” To Cameron, he added, “I’ve no illusions that this is a simple task, Professor. What do we do next?”
Apparently satisfied at the direction the discussion had taken, Cameron said, “The effectiveness of the deflector field will be dependent on getting accurate sensor readings of the pulsar. The only information we’ve gotten to this point was taken from long-range scans. I’ll require more detailed readings—the intensity of its X-ray emissions, rate of rotation, and so on. The probes will need that information as a baseline in order to more effectively make automated course-corrections while in flight. I’ll also be able to better estimate how long the shield will need to be active.”
Kirk frowned. “That means we need to get close enough for Enterprise sensors to make an intensive sweep.” He turned to Spock. “Can we do that safely?”
“We will have to take precautions, sir,” the Vulcan replied. “Our own deflector shields will provide some measure of protection, and we should remain free of danger so long as the ship avoids the pulsar’s X-ray emissions.”
“That’s why I have a top-flight helmsman,” Kirk said, offering a smile. Then he asked Cameron, “How much time do we have?”
Pausing to look at her data slate and review her notes, the professor replied, “The pulsar entered the Mestiko system about five days ago. Its trajectory will take it past the planet in twelve days, sixteen hours.”
“If we proceed at our maximum safe cruising speed,” Spock added, “we can be in a position to conduct the requisite scans in approximately sixty-five hours.”
Kirk nodded in approval. There would be plenty of time to study the pulsar and allow Cameron to complete her work in preparation for deploying the deflector drones. “Flash the bridge, Spock. Order Mr. Mitchell to lay in an intercept course and engage at warp six.” He already could anticipate the reaction his navigator and close friend would have when he learned of the potential danger they faced in bringing the ship so cl
ose to the pulsar and its hazardous effects. Gary Mitchell thrived on the thrill of the unexpected, and this mission promised to deliver that in no small portion.
After dismissing his officers and making his way from the briefing room into the corridor, Kirk could not help feeling the same way. With no more questions or items to consider—for the moment, at least—and with orders issued, it was time for action. If good fortune chose to smile upon him and his crew, that action would result in the salvation of an entire world.
A damn sight better than sitting in a meeting.
CHAPTER
4
Her mind still clouded from a half-day session on changes to regulations governing the construction of public housing, Raya elMora groaned aloud as she pushed past the doorway of her small office. Her first act upon entering her private workspace was to relinquish the weight of assorted binders and folders she carried onto her already overburdened desktop. Letting her lithe arms drop to her sides, she sighed and turned back to her door to swing it closed, only to hear a loud, ruffling clatter behind her, a sound that could be only that of once neatly stacked and sorted papers cascading from the desk to a significantly less orderly state on the floor.
Raya brought one hand to her bare forehead and let her thumbs lightly massage her temples as she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the pressure might scrub away her memories of the last few moments or, better yet, the entire morning.
Despite all of the advances made in communications and electronic data storage, why does the Convocation still insist on committing the bulk of its information to print?
She entertained the thought of proposing the elimination of hard-copy records for the entire national government of Larenda, until it occurred to her that she would likely be put in charge of an entire subcommittee to research the idea.
“And print the whole cursed proposal onto more stacks of paper,” Raya finished her thought aloud.
“Servant?”
Raya’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice, and she looked up to see her aide, Blee elTorno, standing in the now-open doorway, the sounds and sights of a bustling hive of interconnected office spaces spilling around her small form. Blee’s soft features carried a look of puzzlement and some concern as she peered inside.
“Is something wrong?” the young woman asked. “I thought I heard a crash.”
Raya allowed her aide a small smile, knowing she should have expected the typically overfunctioning Blee to follow her into her office despite anything the aide might have overheard. “Just making more work for myself,” she said as she turned to her desk to survey the damage. “Apparently, someone thinks I do not have enough to do already.”
Blee stepped into the office and bent to the task of collecting the spilled folders and scattered papers. “Perhaps they simply observed the lone area of your office not otherwise occupied with documents, and wished to alleviate that oversight.”
Laughing as she moved to assist with the cleanup, Raya smiled not only at her aide’s zealous enthusiasm to help, but also her sense of humor. The younger woman displayed the typical energy of a recent graduate from schooling for governmental service, particularly those students fortunate enough to receive appointments as Convocation aides.
As for herself, Raya admitted that her seven seasons as a Servant—one selected by the people of her province to join the three-hundred-member Larendan Convocation—had been long enough to allow the reality of the governmental process to dull some of the shine from the allure of national politics.
“So, what happened in the meeting?” Blee asked. “Did they really think we might fail to notice such a severe relaxation of the codes for construction materials?”
The comment elicited a small laugh from Raya as she returned some of the spilled papers to her desk. “We? Blee, you were the one who read through that huge proposal and wrote the brief to oppose it. To be honest, except for my showing up at the meeting, the only ‘we’ this time around was you.”
She noticed a grayish cast begin to spread across Bree’s pale features. It seemed obvious that the remarks had begun to embarrass her aide.
“I was only doing my duty, Servant,” Bree said, and Raya noted the humility in her voice. “So,” she added as she straightened a handful of folders, “what did happen at the meeting?”
Raya shrugged as she made her way back to her chair. “That depends on whom you ask. Either I once again raised my voice against the threats of profiteering and greed to speak for the unsuspecting masses, or I provided yet another example of my reactionary whining to demonstrate once more just how uninformed I really am.”
“It could not be both?” Blee asked, keeping her expression neutral as she collected the last of the scattered papers.
Chuckling at the remark, Raya replied, “In any event, I said just enough to get the proposal pushed back into review. We won’t have to worry about code changes again anytime soon. So, you did good this time but we will do even better next time.”
Blee smiled as she placed the final collection of papers atop Raya’s desk. “Yes, we will, Servant.”
Glancing toward the ornate timepiece positioned above her office door, Raya realized for the first time that she had missed her morning meal. Given her appointment calendar for the remainder of the day, she knew it was unlikely that she would have a chance to eat anytime soon, and her stomach already was beginning to announce its annoyance at this fact.
Ignoring the protests, Raya instead looked to the schedule on her handheld computer interface. “As far as doing better goes, did we ever hear back from Umeen on those air-quality reports?”
“I connected with the Atmospheric and Astronomic Council office three times this morning,” Blee said. “I left two voice messages for Councillor Umeen personally, and a third with the council clerk. I am sorry, Servant.”
Raya knit her brow. “He is late with that data we need, and he is never late. Something else must be going on. Try him again this afternoon, and if he has not connected by the end of the day, you will have to go to the AAC to meet with him personally. I cannot let the pollution proposal slip past me like I did with the construction codes.” Tapping a control on her portable keypad, she asked, “What is next on the agenda?”
Looking to her own personal computer interface, Blee replied, “Con orStapa with the Convocation news feed wants your comments on the poll—”
“The pollution proposal, yes,” Raya finished. “That can wait until after I review Umeen’s reports. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Blee said, her mouth fighting a smirk. “Two connects from your elor.”
Raya felt a pang of guilt as she realized that she could not easily recall when she had last spoken with her father’s mother, the woman whom she had affectionately addressed as Elee for as long as she could remember.
“I hope she was not too short with you,” Raya said, “and kept any editorial comments about my lack of communication to herself.”
Typically, not even a full schedule of Convocation duties could keep Raya from taking a few minutes to contact her, even if only by mobile link as she made the commute to and from the Convocation complex. Despite that, for uncounted reasons—none of which sounded valid to her at this moment—Raya had forsaken that routine, and now she would have to answer to her elor, who of course would take no small amount of amusement from that act.
“She was polite as usual,” Blee replied, “and I told her you happened to mention to me just today that you intended to sit down to a nice long talk with her this evening.”
“Oh, nicely done,” Raya said, nodding in appreciation at her aide’s deft handling of the situation. “And with that settled, I suppose I need to—”
“Servant Matthi stopped by to invite you to midday meal,” Blee said, tapping her keypad.
Raya sighed, her stomach again rumbling with the thought of food as she consulted her schedule for the remainder of the day. “As much as I enjoy his company, I just don’t have the time to meet with him
.”
“You’ll be of no help to me at the review meeting if your mind is on your grumbling belly,” a deep voice echoed through the small office.
Looking up, Raya smiled as Matthi orJurbes strolled into the room, his richly colored robes of blue and red—a display of wardrobe other Servants cited as much too casual for the atmosphere of the Convocation—adding a warm hue to his pallid skin. After sixty seasons of public work, Raya figured, the man had earned the right to wear anything he pleased, and he had said as much to anyone risking an audible comment about his apparel in his presence. His adherence to his convictions despite any resulting clash with long-standing convention, and his vocal defense of anyone else willing to shake up the status quo in similar fashion, warmed the two to each other almost instantly upon their initial meeting, when Matthi was assigned as a mentor during Raya’s first season as a Servant. She found herself particularly pleased that he had chosen today to call on her.
Noting the small bundle he carried in his left hand, Raya asked, “Dare I ask what gifts you have brought me this day?”
The elder statesman craned his thin and quite wrinkled neck in an evident expression of pride, offering the paper-wrapped parcel with a dramatic wave. “Spiced curd spread and greens, just the way you like it.”
“And that is my cue to go…somewhere. Anywhere,” Blee said, her expression one of mock disgust as she turned for the door. “Servant, if you need me, I will be eating a meal fit for actual consumption.”
“Good taste is wasted on the young,” Matthi said to the departing aide, with the two exchanging knowing smiles before she disappeared through the closing door. Now alone with Raya, he moved without invitation to the chair situated before her desk and handed her what apparently was to be her midday meal.