The next class they visited was an introductory engineering course. The instructor, Lieutenant Commander Longo, assigned the class to break into several groups, each of which was given a standard kit of components and a randomly drawn card specifying what kind of device they needed to build from them. This was a test of the cadets’ creativity and problem-solving skill as well as their engineering knowledge.
The youthful-seeming Warborn cadet called Benedick threw himself into the exercise with enthusiasm, meshing smoothly with his study group. It seemed to Kirk that he was more outgoing than the other Warborn, possessing a guileless openness that made him easy to get along with. He experimented gamely with the components and went along readily with the suggestions of other group members. He didn’t seem to have much insight into the principles behind the components, but he was eager to explore the possibilities and learn from their outcomes. Kirk found himself reminded of a young Pavel Chekov.
Conversely, the other Warborn cadet in the class, a female called Viola, struggled with the assignment, appearing frustrated and lost. She contributed no useful suggestions, though she followed instructions gamely when the others encouraged her to contribute her dexterity and steady hands to the work. Still, she made mistakes, struggling to understand how the components should fit together. When Janith-Lau spoke to her afterward, seeking to understand her perspective, Viola replied with stiffly controlled frustration. “Give me instructions to follow and I’ll do it. I can field-strip and reassemble any weapon you put in my hands. I’m trained at that. I understand that.”
“It’s more of a challenge to create than to destroy,” Janith-Lau told her gently. “But that means it takes more strength, more courage. Don’t you think so?”
Viola scoffed. “I’m not a hero. I just do my duty. That’s my place.” She looked around. “But this duty, this place… I may be the wrong choice for it.”
When Janith-Lau returned to Kirk’s side, she bore a wistful smile. “One thing this visit has made clear—the Warborn are as individual as anyone else. I’m embarrassed at myself for expecting otherwise.”
Kirk was not able to accompany the doctor to every class she visited, for other Academy duties intervened for much of the day. He had to meet with Professor Blune and several faculty members to finalize the parameters for next semester’s starbase work-study program for the second-year cadets; afterward, he needed to attend a disciplinary meeting to determine punishment for a trio of third-year cadets who had attempted to revive an infamous, long-banned hazing practice known vernacularly as “the Finnegan.” Kirk struggled to compartmentalize his humiliated memories of falling prey to it in his own first year, so as not to penalize them more harshly than they deserved. Admiral Chandra would surely frown on keelhauling.
Eventually, he was able to rejoin Doctor Janith-Lau for a rather different classroom experience: Unarmed Combat under Lieutenant Commander Vandenecker. Kirk arrived in time to see the two Warborn cadets in the class, Portia and Bertram, engaged in a fierce, ruthlessly efficient sparring match against each other while the rest of the class looked on with expressions of admiration and intimidation. Even knowing that these Arcturians had been bred and raised as soldiers, Kirk was startled by their display of skill and aggression, having become accustomed to the notion that their studies at the Academy would be oriented toward peace. Bertram had a clear advantage of size and bulk, but the leaner Portia made up for it with her agility and sheer drive. It was a truly impressive sight, and if anyone had been taking wagers (and if he had been willing to overlook such a violation of Academy rules), he would have put his credits on her.
This time, Janith-Lau was not impressed. “This is just the sort of thing my people are concerned about,” she said to Commander Rakatheema, who bore a proud look on his face as he observed the combatants. “Shouldn’t the Warborn be exempt from the requirement to take combat-oriented courses? Isn’t that against Arcturian belief?”
“They are exempt,” Rakatheema told her. “These two chose to enroll anyway. Who are we to forbid them? After all, it’s only training.”
“The purpose of which is to prepare cadets to do the real thing. Will you train them in phasers too? In shipboard weapons and combat maneuvers? Will you teach them these things and then not expect them to use them?”
“Starfleet officers are never expected to use force, except as necessary in defense of self or others.”
“Yet you keep finding situations where it is ‘necessary.’ So tell me, Commander, what is the real goal here? I’m having trouble seeing just where you’re drawing the line between Starfleet responsibilities and Arcturian doctrine on when and why the Warborn can fight.”
Rakatheema answered slowly. “Finding a balance between doctrine and a changing reality is not simple. A healthy doctrine may need to evolve to remain relevant.”
Janith-Lau’s eyes narrowed as if her suspicions had been confirmed. “That sounds very much like you’re hoping the Warborn will fight for the Federation after all.”
“I just think it’s important to be open to all possibilities. One can fairly argue that defending the Federation is defending Arcturus. And it hardly seems fair to ask these young people to remain passive if their very lives are threatened, or those of their comrades for whom they feel responsible.”
The peace activist’s expression showed very little peace. “This is what I was afraid of. You’re just trying to do what the Arcturians have always done—use the Warborn to serve the interests of their leaders, no matter the cost to themselves.”
Portia and Bertram had stopped their match some moments earlier, and they and the whole class were focused on the argument. Noting this, Janith-Lau turned to address the two Warborn. “Are you really okay with being used like this? Defined as living weapons with no other purpose than to fight and die for a higher power?”
Portia took a couple of loping paces toward her. “Is that what you see? Us being asked to fight?” She shook her head. “We’re being asked to do everything but that. Everything but the one thing that makes us who we are. And now you ask us to deny that last bit of ourselves.”
Janith-Lau shook her head. “You don’t have to be bound by the role your creators designed you for.”
The lanky Warborn female scoffed. “Them? I have no loyalty to people who made me to die.”
“Then why cling to this warrior role?”
“Because why they made me this way doesn’t matter. It’s mine now, and I do what I choose with it. I will fight to be who I am, whether it’s with words or with weapons. We have the right to fight for our existence, on our own terms.”
The two strong-willed females faced off, silently sizing each other up. Bertram just looked confused and troubled, as if he’d rather not face these complicated questions.
Finally, Janith-Lau spoke. “I respect your conviction, Portia. I was wrong to assume you were blindly following. But I hope in time you’ll learn that there are better things to live for than fighting.”
Portia smirked, but respect showed in her eyes. “Take a look at yourself. You’re more of a fighter than you admit.”
* * *
Kirk was uneasy as the tour came to an end. He had hoped that observing the Warborn at their studies would assuage Janith-Lau’s concerns about their possible exploitation and the increased militarization of Starfleet. Instead, it seemed to have deepened her concerns—and raised some questions in Kirk’s mind as well. Was Janith-Lau right that Rakatheema hoped to loosen Arcturian doctrine to allow the Warborn to fight for Starfleet? And if so, how did Kirk feel about that? As a military man, he was keenly aware of the potential advantages for Federation defense. But he was not blind to Janith-Lau’s arguments, or Spock’s, about the sentient-rights issues it raised or the dangerous precedent it could set.
The other cause of Kirk’s unhappiness was simply that his time in Janith-Lau’s company was coming to an end. His admiration for her had only grown as he had watched her demonstrate her compassion, her openness t
o learning, and the strength of her convictions. He would welcome the chance to spend more time in her company, with or without a professional reason.
As he escorted Janith-Lau to the edge of the Academy grounds where her colleagues awaited, Kirk contemplated whether to invite her to dinner. Normally he wouldn’t hesitate, but under the circumstances, he was concerned that she might misconstrue it as an attempt to influence her stance on the Warborn. He considered what the best way would be to broach the offer.
Yet Janith-Lau broke the companionable silence first. “Admiral… I’ve been meaning to ask you something. It’s… not a professional question.”
Kirk turned to her, his pulse quickening. Was she going to beat him to it? “Certainly—if you call me Jim.”
She smiled. “All right, Jim. And you can call me Ashley.”
“I’m honored, Ashley. Ask away.”
“Well… I was wondering…” She took a calming breath, then girded herself. “Jim… Do you know if Leonard McCoy is seeing anyone?”
Kirk stared at her. Even as his hopes sank, he felt laughter at his own expense rise up and burst from him.
“What? What’s so funny?”
He controlled himself. “Nothing. Sorry. I’m just… pleased on Doctor McCoy’s behalf. He’s very lucky to have such a remarkable woman interested in him.”
“So is he available?”
“Oh, definitely. If you want to ask him out, I say go right ahead.”
“Great! I’ll do that.” She clasped his hand warmly. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate your openness and your efforts on my behalf. I wish we could’ve come to a more satisfactory resolution.”
Kirk raised his eyebrows wistfully. “So do I.”
She gave him one last smile and headed off. He watched her go, letting out a heavy sigh and then a chuckle. It was a good feeling to turn the tables on Bones in the matchmaking game.
More seriously, though, he hoped it would work out for McCoy. As much as he would have liked to pursue something with Janith-Lau himself, he’d be content to see his old friend find happiness with her.
Chapter Seven
Starfleet Academy
Zirani Kayros frowned at Vekal in disbelief. “You’re kidding,” she said over the background chatter of voices in the dining hall. “Rakatheema didn’t really say that, did he?”
“I was present at the time,” the Vulcan youth replied. “The commander did indeed indicate that he was open to broadening the traditional role of the Warborn to include combat on behalf of the Federation as a whole.”
Nearby, Targeemos shifted uneasily in her seat, glancing across the room at the tables where the Warborn sat, still keeping apart from the other students. “I can’t believe that. It would defeat the whole purpose of them being here.”
“Or perhaps you were misled about what that purpose was.”
Next to Kayros, Michael Ashrafi smirked and peered at Vekal. “What were you even doing in a combat class? I thought you were this committed Vulcan pacifist.”
Vekal narrowed his eyes in annoyance that was not as well contained as he probably thought it was. “The core curriculum is mandatory. Taking that course in my first semester happens to be part of the most efficient allocation of the core courses for my purposes.”
“Nah—if you ask me, you wanted to keep watch on the big Warborn and his scary lady friend. You’ve been giving them the evil eye from the start.” Ashrafi chuckled. “Or maybe you’re interested in Portia for another reason, huh?”
“I will not dignify that sophomoric insinuation with a reply.”
“Sophomoric is next year. I’m just freshmanic.” He shrugged. “And if I flunk my exams, I’ll be freshmanic-depressive.”
Vekal ignored him. “We should file a protest. Recruiting the Warborn to serve in combat is incompatible with Starfleet ethical principles. They should be expelled before this goes further.”
“Hey!” Kayros protested. “Don’t blame them for it. If Rakatheema does want that, it’s on him.”
“She’s right,” Targeemos said. “This is meant to be for their benefit, to offer them a constructive role. At least that’s how Rakatheema sold it to the public back home. We wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise.”
Kayros stood. “In which case, I say we go over and hear their side. This is about their future, so their opinions matter more than ours.”
Vekal was skeptical. “They will follow where they are ordered to go. That is their conditioning.”
“You assume. Where’s the logic in refusing to find out?”
Not waiting for his reply, the Tiburonian cadet strode over to the Warborn’s tables, ignoring the stares that followed her. Ashrafi hopped up from his seat and tagged along behind her, and Vekal grudgingly followed a moment later. Targeemos stayed in her seat. Kayros was aware that she preferred to avoid the Warborn, for their existence reminded her of uncomfortable truths of her people’s history.
The youthful-seeming Warborn, Benedick, rose to greet Kayros with a smile, seeming oblivious to the surrounding tension. “Zirani! Good. I was hoping you could go over my physics notes with me.” He greeted the others amiably as well. “Michael. Vekal.”
Portia sized Kayros up with a clinical gaze. “She’s not here for a study session, Benedick. She’s here for the same reason as everyone else.”
Horatio, who seemed to have appointed himself the leader of the group, stood as well, taking a mediating pose between the groups. “I understand that many of the students have concerns about the dialogue last night between Commander Rakatheema and Doctor Janith-Lau. I’m happy to help assuage your concerns.”
Vekal raised a skeptical brow. “So Rakatheema did not say he was open to a combat role for the Warborn?”
Portia scoffed. “Of course he did. He’s just like all the other Arcturians—they made us to fight and die so they don’t have to.”
The Vulcan’s confrontational gaze shifted to her. “You sounded perfectly willing to go along with that yesterday.”
“I’m willing to fight—but for my reasons.” Her tone sharpened as her eyes held Vekal’s. “I’m done being defined by others—the commander or you. We have a right to define our own path.”
“I don’t know.” The big one, Bertram, looked upset and confused. “How could we know better than our makers? We’re their tools. They made us to fight for the motherworld. That’s as valid a reason to exist as any.” He shook his head. “All the rest… We shouldn’t even be here. This isn’t our purpose.”
Horatio put a hand on his burly shoulder. “It is our purpose to protect Arcturus. From ourselves, if necessary. That is why we are here.”
He turned to take in Portia and Vekal, who still faced off tensely. “I’m sure Commander Rakatheema didn’t mean what either of you imagined. From the start, he’s only had the best interests of the Arcturian people in mind—the Warborn included.”
“Has he told you that?” Kayros asked. “Or are you making assumptions the same as the rest of us?”
“I have faith in his commitment to our principles, and to our welfare. Remember, we have known him much longer than you have. He has guided us through this process from the start. I know where he stands.”
Vekal looked the others over. “Not all of you agree with that assessment, however.”
Horatio smiled. “I’m sure we will all find common ground and understanding in time. That is what Starfleet is all about, after all.”
Neither Vekal nor Portia seemed mollified by his diplomatic efforts. Deciding there was no point in further confrontation, Kayros sighed and grabbed Benedick’s arm. “Come on, kid. Let’s go review those physics notes.”
“Gladly!” Benedick deftly snatched up his data slate while allowing himself to be led away from the table. “I’ve been following up on the discussion we had in class about the vacuum flares. I’m still confused about how quantum fluctuations work. I’d love to hear more from someone who witnessed the very first documented flare.”
Oh, boy. Kayros wondered what she’d let herself in for. “Witnessed” was an overly mild word for that harrowing experience. She’d be perfectly happy if she never had to think about a vacuum flare again.
Midoren City, Denobula
Iota Boötis system
Daibak-oortann-daruum had always been fond of offworlders. His mother, Vaneel, and his first-tier grandfather, Phlox, had raised him with an appreciation of diversity and a fascination for exotic cultures and points of view. Daibak had not inherited their wanderlust—the desire to leave the homeworld was a rare trait among Denobulans—but luckily, he had lived most of his hundred and two years in a time when Denobula had been a member of the Federation and a welcoming port for travelers from dozens of different species.
Most of those species were unlike Denobulans in that they needed to sleep during the night. Which meant they needed a regular place to stay while on-planet. Hotels for offworlders, equipped with the beds, hammocks, nests, or other sleeping facilities that they required on a regular basis, had been a lucrative industry even before Federation membership, and xenophiles like Daibak were a natural fit for it. The mature, pale-haired, round-bodied Denobulan had been one of the more successful hoteliers in Midoren City for several decades, and he had generally found it an enjoyable, educational profession.
Part of the charm, though, was that most visitors stayed only a few days or weeks at a time, long enough that the novelty of their company didn’t wear off, and that they stayed by choice, as interested in what Denobula had to offer as Daibak was in the stories they had to tell. These past two days, things had been different. Starfleet had somehow managed to predict that Denobula was the next probable target for the space storms they were calling vacuum flares, and so the planetary government had imposed a no-fly order, grounding all nonessential space travel within the system. Not only had the hotel’s guests been forced to prolong their stays, but a number of other itinerant travelers had found themselves unexpectedly in need of rooms, filling the hotel nearly to capacity and putting an unexpected demand on its staff and resources.
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