"Mr. Sulu," Kirk said. He paused. Sulu turned, waiting. "Maintain course, steady as she goes."
"Sir, we will pass within range of their formation," Yimasa said.
"I assumed as much, Mr. Yimasa. Any signals, Uhura?"
"None, Captain."
"Steady, then. Steady." He sounded as if he were reassuring a horse, Mason thought. Kirk patted the chair arms and stared intently at the forward screen. Veblen stood to one side, trying to look chastened and not entirely succeeding.
It was at a time like this that Kirk felt he was almost in telepathic communication with Spock. The science officer's mere presence was enough to make Kirk believe that, somehow, he was doing what Spock would suggest.
"Fifty-seven light minutes."
"Status report."
"All stations manned and ready, Captain."
"Conditional red alert." Again the sirens, and the ticking off of acknowledgements on his command console.
Always the rush of adrenaline, which the caveman had used to prepare for the wolf or cave bear … and which Kirk was now using to prepare himself for a fleet of high-technology battle cruisers, deep between the stars, between dimensions.
Veblen swallowed audibly. His first time, Kirk thought. Good for him. Mason hadn't moved. She kept glancing between Kirk, Spock and McCoy.
"No reply, Captain," Uhura repeated.
"Spock, are we tapping their ship-to-ship?"
"Yes, Captain. They do not appear to be in a state of great alarm. Other than that, I cannot read the signals clearly. They may be false."
If that Kshatriyan son of a bitch was making him put his crew through a conditional red, just to get his jollies …
"Two light-minutes," Yimasa said. "Within range."
"Warp-E shearing and closing," Chekov said.
"Full red alert," Kirk ordered.
"Impulse ships going to warp minimum," Chekov said.
"Formation closing on us, sir," Sulu reported.
"Prepare for combat, damage alert imminent."
"Captain!" Uhura held her hand to her ear. "A message from the Prime Commodore. He wishes us the best of Creator's luck, and acknowledges receipt of our permission to pass through the neutral zone …"
Kirk, McCoy and Mason let out their breaths at almost the same time. Kirk looked at the computer officer with a wry grin. "Well, Mr. Veblen?"
"Captain?"
"What did the monitors suggest?"
"That we shouldn't worry, sir. The Kshatriyans are unable to engage in a full-scale war at this time, have no need to do so and are renowned for enjoying testing their adversaries. The monitors concurred down the line with your actions, sir."
"Very glad to hear that, Mr. Veblen. Why was the message so urgent, then?"
"Why, sir, I felt there was no need for tension, if all was to go well. Wasted energy."
"Quite, Mr. Veblen," Kirk said, glancing at Mason. "Quite."
When Mason entered Uhura's quarters, the communications officer had just come off duty and was changing into a flowing orange and red robe, decorated with a fringe of leopards stalking through jungle grass. Uhura smiled at her and offered a glass of wine from the cabin autochef.
"That was really something," Mason said, sitting on the edge of her bunk. "I'm not sure I've ever been more scared."
"It was a bluff," Uhura said. "I think most of us were aware of that. I'm sorry there wasn't more time to prepare you."
"The captain didn't behave like it was a bluff."
Uhura laughed. "Poker face."
"And everybody seemed relieved when it was over."
"Well, you can never tell what a Kshatriyan might do. Do you know much about them?"
Mason shook her head. "Only what I've read in my schoolbooks and picked up from the subspace bulletins. The dailies."
"They're quite an admirable race, actually. Very tough, very defensive … and well they should be. They remind me of the Zulu. They're an old race, surrounded by the Romulans and the Federation, threatened by the Klingons … and still they hold their own, even against better technologies."
"They're the same basic stock as Commander Spock, aren't they?"
"They're part of the third octant Dakhrian migrations, if that's what you mean. The Vulcans, Romulans, Klingons and Kshatriyans are all related if you go back far enough."
"And Spock doesn't feel funny, siding with humans against his own blood?"
"I'm afraid the ties go too far back for any of them to feel much kinship. Besides, who knows what Spock
feels
?"
"I don't understand."
Uhura gathered up her gown and pulled a chair near to Mason's bed. "He's a Vulcan. They have very rigid codes governing emotions."
"Yes, I know that." She felt slightly irritated. "We're not
that
isolated on Yalbo. But doesn't he hold opinions?"
"Not unless there's a lot of evidence behind them. Personal opinions are anathema to a Vulcan. In fact, anything having to do with petty personal traits is subdued during Vulcan education. But enough talk about Spock. I'd like to learn more about you."
Mason shrugged. "I'm a reporter. I come from a very small, isolated planet. What else is there to say? Besides, I'm not important. Only the story."
"I'm sorry none of us could get down to Yalbo," Uhura said. "I like to visit all sorts of planets, even small ones."
"It started out as a mining colony," Mason said, one hand stroking the back of the other. She looked down at her hands and clasped them. "Full of metals, rare earths … We can't drink the groundwater. It would poison us. The atmosphere is filled with nitric acid vapor. When we go outside the compounds, we have to wear full body suits. It's not what you call a paradise."
"Still, I bet you like it." Uhura leaned forward, her dark eyes glittering. Mason grinned and shook her head.
"We all like something about where we grow up."
"The people, maybe?"
"Sure. There are good people on Yalbo."
"You're proud of Yalbo. Admit it."
Mason considered. "Of course. We've done some really remarkable things there. Like, we stayed alive until the Federation chose us for an outpost. That wasn't easy. Yalbo became productive just when there was a metals glut in the second octant. We'd have had to ship our output a thousand parsecs to even begin to be competitive. Those were hard times."
"How old were you?"
"Oh, I hadn't even been born then. But my parents told me all about them. Some people would have starved if it hadn't been for Starfleet rescue ships."
"My father served on a rescue ship," Uhura said. "Maybe he came to Yalbo."
"Accepting charity was hard. My people were Hippies, you know. They wanted to be self-sufficient, to get away from the Galactic government and set up their own commune. Most came from the Martian mining towns originally. They needed the rescue ships, but they weren't glad to see them. We never have approved of military venturing."
"I thought Hippies were from the 20th century."
"Communes on Mars started them up again. People on Yalbo changed a lot of things. We're Humanists. We believe that everything in the Galaxy centers on human beings, and that all other species are subordinate."
Uhura made a face. "Doesn't sound like a very useful philosophy."
"It works well enough on a planet where there aren't any other species. And you have to admit, somebody like Spock takes a little getting used to."
Uhura stood and folded her arms. "Rowena, I don't suggest you try to apply Yalbo philosophies on a starship. We've been too many places, seen too many things. If you really want to know what we're all about, you might spend some time going through the ship's open log." She paused, then bent over the reporter. "I've met non-humans who make us look like worms. We crawl into their sight, and crawl out again, and the only reason they don't step on us is they aren't at all
like
us. Humans aren't the center of anything."
"I'm sorry," Mason said. "I don't have anything against other species, but I do believe humans are important."
"Important, yes. More important, no. Now let me get down off my soapbox and fix us some dinner. What would you like?"
They ate quietly, a little wary of each other. When the sleep period was over, Uhura rose and sprayed on her uniform in the cabin sonic shower. She stood by the door as Mason dressed. "I have the bridge watch until 1800 hours. Come by just before then and I'll show you what I do. Then we can catch dinner in the mess and watch some entertainments in the wardroom."
"Uhura," Mason said as the lieutenant was about to leave.
"Yes?"
"Do you have trouble sleeping during warp?"
"Heavens, no. Why?"
"Just wondering." Perhaps it was being away from Yalbo, away from the smells and company of the compounds. She felt so alone, so very much among strangers. If she let it, her isolation could easily depress her and begin to affect her work, and she would never stand for that.
And she was angry. Uhura was human; whatever her experiences, surely she felt more allegiance for humans than for other species! How would any species survive if it didn't feel more allegiance for its own kind? Did everyone on the
Enterprise
think Humanists were backwater reactionaries?
She checked over her equipment. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea to do some research in the ship's open log. She had fifteen more days before the
Enterprise
reached the Black Box, time in which to steep herself in the lore of Starfleet, in the history of the
Enterprise
—time in which to find a chink in all that self-righteous military armor.
WARNING! YOU ARE ENCROACHING UPON SECURITY SECTOR! UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY MAY RESULT IN PROSECUTION—
Spock sat before the monitors console in the computer control center and regarded the message on the screen with mild distaste. As far as he and Veblen had been able to tell, there was nothing against Starfleet regulations—or even against the monitors' codes—in what he was about to do. Still, the human designers had studded every aspect of the monitors' programming with warnings and ambiguous threats. He knew a way around the warning—a path was charted in the system instructions themselves—so he erased the screen and proceeded into the heart of the system, the memory banks which contained the experience memories of six Starfleet commanders.
Of the six, four were now dead and two had retired from active duty. One of the dead was a Vulcan, the only Vulcan to ever reach command rank in Starfleet, Admiral Harauk. Spock was very interested in Harauk's thoughts on certain matters, and from what he could tell, the monitors were perfectly capable of replicating Harauk to a certain degree. So long as Spock did not attempt to change the memory or tamper with the system in any way which would affect its function, the worst he was doing was affronting the monitors' sense of dignity—which was how he characterized the intent behind the messages. (Machines as complex as the monitors were often best dealt with in terms of quirks and personalities, especially when they had been designed by human beings.)
WARNING! MONITORS NOT DESIGNED TO OPERATE WITH INPUT OF ONE EXPERIENCE-MEMORY ALONE. MAY RESULT IN—
Spock cleared the screen again and placed the direct com earphones over his head. He heard a distant hissing noise—not interference but the carrier signal for the memory frequencies of Admiral Harauk. At this point, there was no need for a machine language interface. Spock pressed a button actuating voice communication and said, "Live long and prosper, Admiral Harauk. I am Spock, son of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda Grayson of Earth. I am science and first officer aboard the U.S.S.
Enterprise.
"
"Live long and prosper, Spock," came the reply. Harauk's voice was steady and even, though a little tinny. "Have the monitors been activated?"
"No, sir, they have not. I am asking questions of my own initiative."
"To what end, Spock?"
"The Admiral is well aware that the first concern of a Vulcan is his duty. My commanding officer is a human, Captain James T. Kirk. The humans have created and installed the monitors aboard Starfleet vessels, but I am not convinced they have used the greatest wisdom in doing so."
"Still, it is your duty to follow Starfleet regulations, as I do."
"And I will. But I also have a duty to my captain, a duty to discover whether or not the monitors will hinder his performance. And … I am interested in a Vulcan's response to the monitors."
"I cannot communicate to you as Vulcan to Vulcan, Spock. I am not alive in this system, I am merely an advisory program."
"It is advice that I have come for."
"Humans have been known for erratic behavior. At their best, they are less disciplined than even an inadequate Vulcan. They have created the monitors to circumvent possible difficulties with their own kind. I see nothing wrong with the idea in principle."
"But in execution?"
"I am not aware of the actual functioning of the system. Vulcans were involved in its creation, and the very best human designers worked hard on it for years. Still, it must be obvious that I approve of the idea in principle, since I agreed to be part of the system."
"And if a situation should arise which is outside the experience of the monitors—outside of the experience of the advisory programs?"
"That possibility has surely been taken into account. It is obvious that a starship commander will encounter unfamiliar situations."
Spock thought for a moment. "I am worried. The system has never proven itself in actual use, and I do not believe we are going into an ideal situation for such a test."
"Then there is only one thing for you to do."
"Yes?"
"Your duty is foremost."
"I am well aware of that, Admiral."
"Your duty is foremost."
No matter how Spock phrased and rephrased his questions, that was the only answer Harauk's experience memories could give. This was far from reassuring. Which duty was Harauk referring to—duty to captain, ship, Starfleet? Duty to obey the monitors?
No Vulcan supported a creed that bound him to self-destruction without purpose, or the destruction of others for the sake of duty alone. Obviously, Harauk's experience memory was trying to impress upon him the necessity of a hierarchy of duties. Among Vulcans, such a hierarchy was seldom necessary. But among humans, in this situation—
WARNING! THE CORRECT USE OF THE MONITORS DEPENDS UPON THE INTERACTION OF THE SIX EXPERIENCE MEMORIES CONTAINED WITHIN THE SYSTEM.
Spock returned the monitors to their normal mode and removed the direct com headphones. The door to the computer control center beeped and Veblen entered with a notepad in hand, busily making calculations. "Mr. Spock! You might be able to answer a question—"
"And you, Mr. Veblen, might be able to answer one as well."
Veblen stopped and stared at Spock, obviously nonplused. "Anything you wish, Mr. Spock."
"Your question first."
"Oh, it'll wait." Veblen was intrigued by the very possibility that the science officer would have a question to ask of him.
"I have not yet had an opportunity to study the monitors' failsafe operations. If they should malfunction, in the estimation of the officers and crew of a vessel, can they be disengaged?"
"Such a failure is highly unlikely, sir."
"That does not answer my question."
"I … don't know myself, sir."
"Then it is time we studied the failsafes in more detail, wouldn't you say?"
Veblen regarded Spock shrewdly. "Sir, if I may ask another question entirely—what is it you expect us to find in the Black Box?"
"I am like the Federation Interstellar Scouts, Mr. Veblen. I believe it is necessary to be prepared."
Mason had spent her life in the compounds of Yalbo, and did not find the corridors and spaces of the
Enterprise
completely unfamiliar. Still, there was something about the size of an enclosed, self-contained ship like the
Enterprise
which was awesome. There were few areas of the ship off-limits to her, and even fewer reaches where she was not allowed to go for reasons of safety, at least with an escort, so exploring became one of her favorite past-times.
Even as a child, she had been fascinated by the recesses of the compounds, places where unused equipment was stored, or where the automated processing plants hummed and chugged in lonely efficiency. When Ensign Chekov procured a plastic map of the ship for her, she looked forward to days of walking, crawling, climbing. With the story foremost in her mind, however, she visited the sickbay first.
Nurse Christine Chapel—an efficient, somewhat spinsterish woman still firmly holding on to her classic beauty—showed her the diagnostic beds, both older and newer models, and explained the organ farm. The organ farm—official name, the Genotype Conservancy Center—was a large bank of shiny gray cabinets at the rear of the sickbay. "It's the forerunner to the TEREC unit," Chapel explained. "We have genetic records on hand for every member of the crew. In case of injury, we can grow a new replacement for any body part—except, of course, those which are deeply personalized, like the brain. We can grow a brain, but it will be quite blank. The major advancement in the TEREC is that we can replicate the present individual. And while you're here, you might as well make your contribution …"
With her fear of needles, it took some self-control not to protest when Chapel brought out a biopsy tomer. The nurse deftly and painlessly removed a section of cells from the inside of her cheek and closed the tiny gap with an electronic suture.
"We'll put this in the organ farm, and—heaven forbid!—if anything unfortunate happens, you'll have some insurance on file."
Chapel thought it would be best if McCoy gave her a tour of the TEREC itself, and McCoy was busy "playing poker with the monitors," as Chapel described it. "He's like a cardshark with a new victim. He should be human again in a few days."
Is it possible the
Enterprise
personnel are taking delight in finding ways to circumvent the monitors?
Mason wrote in her notepad.
On some of her sojourns, she brought along the FNS recorder and made short documentaries of various ship activities. She expended an entire fifteen minutes of recorder file time on games played by the crew in the gym.
Highly competitive
, she noted,
the
Enterprise
crewmembers take delight in testing each other
,
and exhibiting their own prowess. While there is little
braggadocio, per se,
there is a firm commitment to doing one's best in all circumstances. In team activity, the degree of cooperation is impressive. Teams can be reshuffled at will, and yet the players mesh instantly and seamlessly, as if they have been mates all their lives—as indeed they have, where shipboard lives are concerned.
Chief Engineer Scott was only too glad to show off the engineering decks. During an hour off duty, he took her on a single-minded "spelunking expedition" (his term) through the access tubes and maintenance corridors of the ship's impulse power plant. She held her hand, at his insistence, on the outer shield of one of the huge, oblate "bottles" where matter and antimatter were precisely mixed, and felt the indescribable tingle of controlled total destruction. She recorded—though she knew it would never pass FNS muster—his technical description of power plant theory, but was more interested in his summing up. "We could travel from one end of the universe to the other, if we could only fine tune our understanding of what we already have …" He shook his head and smiled. "She's a lovely engine, but I've seen engines on alien ships which make her look like a bicycle chain, and I'm the monkey pedaling. What a wouldna ha' gi'en just to peek at the manuals o' one of those!"
When McCoy finally got around to showing her the TEREC, she was somewhat disappointed. The doctor explained the basic operation of the unit, and touched briefly on how it was integrated with the monitors, but smiled when Mason asked if he believed the monitors would cause him difficulties.
"I'm working on it." he said, and would say no more.
While Spock and McCoy tried to understand the function of the monitors, and while Mason toured and took notes, the starship
Enterprise
rode a shock-wave of warped spacetime above and through ribbons of stars and interstellar gas clouds, across galactic arms and obscured abysses, at speeds too great to be entirely real. Through the mysteries of advanced physics, she shed her natural tardiness in scattered, dissipating ghosts and sleeked across realms incomprehensible to the minds of most of those inside her hull.
Within two weeks, sensors could easily reconstruct the looming shape of the Black Box Nebula, no longer entirely dark. Mason, looking at the nebula on the screen in Uhura's cabin, thought she detected a sinister resemblance in the nebula's new aspect.
Where the light of the protostars shined through, it outlined three distinct, clawed talons. As the
Enterprise
approached, hour by hour the talons seemed to spread wider.
Then the reaches of the nebula closed around them, and the
Enterprise
and her crew were drawn back to genesis itself.