Star Trek: Duty, Honor, Redemption (4 page)

She was leaning forward with her fingers clenched around the back of a chair in the next row.

“You feel strongly about this, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

She straightened up, and her fair skin colored to a nearly Vulcan hue.

“That is my opinion on the subject, sir.”

Kirk smiled for the first time during the meeting: this was the first time he had felt thoroughly pleased in far too long.

“And you make an elegant defense of your opinion, too, Lieutenant. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that problem quite so effectively turned turtle.”

She frowned again, weighing the ambiguous statement. Then, clearly, she decided to take it as a compliment. “Thank you, sir.” She sat down again.

Kirk settled back in his chair and addressed the whole class. “This is the last of the simulation exams. If the office is as efficient as usual, your grades won’t be posted till tomorrow. But I think it’s only fair to let you know…none of you has any reason to worry. Dismissed.”

After a moment of silence the whole bunch of them leaped to their feet and, in an outburst of talk and laughter, they all rushed out the door.

“My God,” Jim Kirk said under his breath. “They’re like a tide.”

All, that is, except Saavik. Aloof and alone, she stood up and strode away.

Spock watched his class go.

“You’re right, Spock,” Kirk said. “She is more volatile than a Vulcan.”

“She has reason to be. Under the circumstances, she showed admirable restraint.”

The one thing Spock did not expect of Lieutenant Saavik was self-control as complete as his own. He believed that only a vanishingly small difference existed between humans and Romulans when it came to the ability to indulge in emotional outbursts. But Spock had had the benefit of growing up among Vulcans. He had learned self-control early. Saavik had spent the first ten years of her life fighting to survive in the most brutal underclass of a Romulan colony world.

“Don’t tell me you’re angry that I needled her so hard,” Kirk said.

Spock merely arched one eyebrow.

“No, of course you’re not angry,” Kirk said. “What a silly question.”

“Are you familiar with Lieutenant Saavik’s background, Admiral?” He wondered how Kirk had come to pose her the particular problem that he had. He could hardly have made a more significant choice, whether it was deliberate or random. The colony world Saavik had lived on was declared a failure; the Romulan military (which was indistinguishable from the Romulan government) made the decision to abandon it. They carried out the evacuation as well. They rescued everyone.

Everyone, that is, except the elderly, the crippled, the disturbed…and a small band of half-caste children whose very existence they denied.

The official Romulan position was that Vulcans and Romulans could not interbreed without technological intervention. Therefore, the abandoned children could not exist. That was a political judgment which, like so many political judgments, had nothing to do with reality.

The reality was that the evolution of Romulans and Vulcans had diverged only a few thousand years before the present. The genetic differences were utterly trivial. But a few thousand years of cultural divergence formed a chasm that appeared unbridgeable.

“She’s half Vulcan and half Romulan,” Kirk said. “Is there more I should know?”

“No, that is sufficient. My question was an idle one, nothing more.” Kirk had shaken her, but she had recovered well. Spock saw no point in telling Kirk things which Saavik herself seldom discussed, even with Spock. If she chose to put her past aside completely, he must respect her decision. She had declined her right to an antigen-scan, which would have identified her Vulcan parent. This was a highly honorable action, but it meant that she had no family, that in fact she did not even know which of her parents was Vulcan and which Romulan.

No Vulcan family had offered to claim her.

Under the circumstances, Spock could only admire the competent and self-controlled person Saavik had created out of the half-starved and violent barbarian child she had been. And he certainly could not blame her for rejecting her parents as completely as they had abandoned her. He wondered if she understood why she drove herself so hard, for she was trying to prove herself to people who would never know her accomplishments, and never care. Perhaps some day she would prove herself to herself and be free of the last shackles binding her to her past.

“Hmm, yes,” Kirk said, pulling Spock back from his reflections. “I do recall that Vulcans are renowned for their ability to be idle.”

Spock decided to change the subject himself. He picked up the package he had retrieved before coming into the debriefing room. Feeling somewhat awkward, he offered it to Kirk.

“What’s this?” Jim asked.

“It is,” Spock said, “a birthday present.”

Jim took the gift and turned it over in his hands. “How in the world did you know it was my birthday?”

“The date is not difficult to ascertain.”

“I mean, why—? No, never mind, another silly question. Thank you, Spock.”

“Perhaps you should open it before you thank me; it may not strike your fancy.”

“I’m sure it will—but you know what they say: It’s the thought that counts.” He slid his fingers beneath the outside edge of the elegantly folded paper.

“I have indeed heard the saying, and I have always wanted to ask,” Spock said, with honest curiosity, “if it is the thought that counts, why do humans bother with the gift?”

Jim laughed. “There’s no good answer to that. I guess it’s just an example of the distance between our ideals and reality.”

The parcel was wrapped in paper only, with no adhesive or ties. After purchasing the gift, Spock had passed a small booth at which an elderly woman created simple, striking packages with nothing but folded paper. Fascinated by the geometry and topology of what she was doing, Spock watched for some time, and then had her wrap Jim’s birthday present.

At a touch, the wrapping fanned away untorn.

Jim saw what was inside and sat down heavily.

“Perhaps…it is the thought that counts,” Spock said.

“No, Spock, good Lord, it’s beautiful.” He touched the leather binding with one finger; he picked the book up in both hands and opened it gently, slowly, being careful of its spine.

“I only recently became aware of your fondness for antiques,” Spock said. It was a liking he had begun to believe he understood, in an odd way, once he paid attention to it. The book, for example, combined the flaws and perfections of something handmade; it was curiously satisfying.

“Thank you, Spock. I like it very much.” He let a few pages flip past and read the novel’s first line. “ ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ Hmm, are you trying to tell me something?”

“Not from the text,” Spock said, “and with the book itself, only happy birthday. Does that not qualify as ‘the best of times’?”

Jim looked uncomfortable, and he avoided Spock’s gaze. Spock wondered how a gift that had at first brought pleasure could so quickly turn into a matter of awkwardness. Once again he had the feeling that Jim Kirk was deeply unhappy about something.

“Jim—?”

“Thank you, Spock, very much,” Kirk said, cutting Spock off and ignoring the question in his voice. “I mean it. Look, I know you have to get back to the
Enterprise.
I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone.

Spock picked up the bit of textured wrapping paper and refolded it into its original shape, around empty air.

He wondered if he would ever begin to understand human beings.

D
UTY
L
OG
: S
TARDATE
8130.4:
MOST SECRET

Reliant—better known to its crew, not necessarily fondly, as “this old bucket”—plowed through space toward Alpha Ceti and its twenty small, uninhabited, undistinguished, unexplored planets. Pavel Chekov, on duty on the elderly ship’s bridge, finished his log report and ordered the computer to seal it.

“Log complete, Captain,” he said.

“Thank you, Mister Chekov.” Clark Terrell leaned back in the captain’s seat. “Is the probe data for Alpha Ceti on-line?”

“Aye, sir.” Chekov keyed the data to the viewscreen so that Captain Terrell could display it if he chose. For now, the screen showed Alpha Ceti VI. The planet spun slowly before them, its surface smudged blurrily in shades of sickly yellow. Nitrogen and sulfur oxides dominated its atmosphere, and the sand that covered it had been ground and blasted from its crust by eons of corrosive, high-velocity winds.

Alpha Ceti VI was a place where one would not expect to find life. If the crew of
Reliant
was lucky, this time their expectations would be met.

And about time, too,
Chekov thought.
We need a little luck.

At the beginning of this voyage, Chekov had expected it to be boring, but short and easy. How difficult could it be to find a planet with no life? Now, several months later, he felt as if he were trapped in a journey that was boring, unending, and impossible. Lifeless planets abounded, but lifeless worlds of the right size, orbiting the proper sort of star, within the star’s biosphere, in a star system otherwise uninhabited: such planets were not so easy to discover. They had inspected fifteen promisingly barren worlds, but each in its turn had somehow violated the experimental conditions’ strict parameters.

Chekov was bored. The whole crew was bored.

At first the ship had traveled to worlds at least superficially documented by previous research teams, but
Reliant
now had begun to go farther afield, to places seldom if ever visited by crewed Federation craft. The computer search Chekov had done on the Alpha Ceti system turned up no official records except the ancient survey of an automated probe. He had been mildly surprised to find so little data, then mildly surprised again to have thought he had ever heard of the system. Alpha Ceti VI had come up on the list of Genesis candidates for exactly the same reason no one had bothered to visit it after the probe report of sixty years before: it was monumentally uninteresting.

Terrell displayed the probe data as a corner overlay on the viewscreen, and added a companion block of the information they had collected on the way in.

“I see what you mean about the discrepancies, Pavel,” he said. He considered the screen and stroked the short black hair of his curly beard.

The probe data showed twenty planets: fourteen small, rocky inner ones, three gas giants, three outer eccentrics. But what
Reliant
saw on approach was nineteen planets, only thirteen of them inner ones.

“I’ve been working on that, Captain,” Chekov said, “and there are two possibilities. Alpha Ceti was surveyed by one of the earliest probes: their data wasn’t always completely reliable, and some of the archival preservation has been pretty sloppy. It’s also possible that the system’s gone through some alteration since the probe’s visit.”

“Doesn’t sound too likely.”

“Well, no, sir.” Sixty years was an infinitesimal distance in the past, astronomically speaking; the chances of any noticeable change occurring since then were very small. “Probe error is a fairly common occurrence, Captain.”

Terrell glanced back and grinned. “You mean maybe we think we’re headed for a ball of rock, and we’ll find a garden spot instead?”

“Bozhemoi!”
Chekov said. “My God, I hope not. No, sir, our new scans confirm the originals on the planet itself. Rock, sand, corrosive atmosphere.”

“Three cheers for the corrosive atmosphere,” Mister Beach said, and everybody on the bridge laughed.

“I agree one hundred percent, Mister Beach,” Terrell said. “Take us in.”

Several hours later, on orbital approach, Chekov watched the viewscreen intently, willing the ugly little planet to be the one they were looking for. He had had enough of this trip. There was too little work and too much time with nothing to do. It encouraged paranoia and depression, which he had been feeling with distressing intensity on this leg of their voyage. On occasion, he even wondered if his being assigned here was due to something worse than bad luck. Could it be punishment for some inadvertent mistake, or the unspoken dislike of some superior officer—?

He kept telling himself the idea was foolish and, worse, one that could become self-fulfilling if he let it take him over and sour him.

Besides, if he was being punished it only made sense to assume others in the crew were, too. Yet a crew of troublemakers produced disaffection and disillusion: the ship was free of such problems. Or anyway it had been until they pulled this intolerable assignment.

Besides, Captain Terrell had an excellent reputation: he was not the sort of officer generally condemned to command a bunch of dead-enders. He was soft-spoken and easygoing; if the days stretching into weeks stretching into months of fruitless search troubled him, he did not show the stress. He was no James Kirk, but…

Maybe that’s what’s wrong, Chekov thought. I’ve been thinking about the old days on the
Enterprise
too much lately and comparing them to what I’m doing now. And what I’m doing now simply does not compare.

But, then—what would?

“Standard orbit, Mister Beach,” Captain Terrell said.

“Standard orbit, sir,” the helm officer replied.

“What do we have on the surface scan?”

“No change, Captain.”

Chekov got a signal on his screen that he wished he could pretend he had not noticed.

“Except…”

“Oh, no,” somebody groaned.

Every crew member on the bridge turned to stare at Chekov with one degree or another of disbelief, irritation, or animosity. On the other side of the upper bridge, the communications officer muttered a horrible curse.

Chekov glanced down at Terrell. The captain hunched his shoulders, then forced himself to relax. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something,” he said. He rose and came up the stairs to look at Chekov’s data.

It
is
getting to him,
Chekov thought. Even him.

“It’s only a minor energy flux,” Chekov said, trying to blunt the impact of his finding. “It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s biological activity down there.”

“I’ve heard that line before,” Terrell said. “What are the chances that the scanner’s out of adjustment?”

“I just checked it out, sir,” Chekov said. “Twice.” He immediately wished he had not added the last.

“Maybe it’s pre-biotic,” Beach said.

Terrell chuckled. “Come on, Stoney. That’s something we’ve been through before, too. Of all the things Marcus won’t go for, tampering with pre-biotics is probably top of the list.”

“Maybe it’s
pre-
pre-biotic,” Beach said wryly.

This time nobody laughed.

“All right, get Doctor Marcus on the horn. At least we can suggest transplantation. Again.”

Chekov shook his head. “You know what she’ll say.”

On the Regulus I Laboratory Space Station, Doctor Carol Marcus listened, frowning, as Captain Terrell relayed the information
Reliant
had collected so far.

“You know my feelings about disturbing a pre-biotic system,” she said. “I won’t be a party to it. The long range—”

“Doctor Marcus, the long range you’re talking about is millions of years!”

“Captain,
we
were pre-biotic millions of years ago. Where would we be if somebody had come along when Earth was a volcanic hell-pit, and said, ‘Well,
this
will never amount to anything, let’s mess around with it’?”

“Probably we wouldn’t care,” Terrell said.

Carol Marcus grinned. “You have it exactly. Please don’t waste your time trying to change my mind about this, it simply isn’t a matter for debate.”

She watched his reaction; he was less than happy with her answer.

“Captain, the project won’t be ready for the next stage of the test for at least three months. There’s no pressure on you to find a place for it instantaneously—” She stopped; the unflappable Clark Terrell looked like he was about to start tearing out his very curly, handsomely graying black hair. “Wrong thing to say, huh?”

“Doctor, we’ve spent a long time looking for a place that would fit your requirements. I’d match my crew against any in Starfleet. They’re good people. But if I put them through three more months of this, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands. They can take boredom—but what they’ve got is paralysis!”

“I see,” Marcus said.

“Look, suppose what our readings show is the end of an evolutionary line rather than the beginning? What if some microbes here are about to go extinct? Just barely hanging on. Would you approve transplantation then?”

“I can’t do that,” she said. She chewed absently on her thumbnail but stopped abruptly.
You’re a little old to still be chewing your nails, Carol,
she thought.
You ought at least to have cut it out when you turned forty.

Maybe when I hit fifty, she replied to herself.

“Don’t you leave
any
room for compromise?” Terrell asked angrily.

“Wait, Captain,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It isn’t that I wouldn’t give you a go-ahead. It’s that finding a species endangered by its own environment is a fairly common occurrence. There are established channels for deciding whether to transplant, and established places to take the species to.”

“A microbial zoo, eh?”

“Not just microbes, but that’s the idea.”

“What kind of time-frame are we talking about?” Terrell asked cautiously.

“Do you mean how long will you have to wait before the endangered species subcommittee gives an approval?”

“That’s what I said.”

“They’re used to acting quickly—if they don’t it’s often too late. They need documentation, though. Why don’t you go down and have a look?”

“We’re on our way!”

“I don’t want to give you false hopes,” Marcus said quickly. “If you find so much as a pre-biotic spherule, a pseudo-membranous configuration, even a viroid aggregate, the show’s off. On the other hand if you have discovered an evolutionary line in need of preservation, not only will you have found a Genesis site, you’ll probably get a commendation.”

“I’ll settle for the Genesis site,” Terrell said.

His image faded.

Carol Marcus sighed. She wished she were on board
Reliant
to keep an eye on what they were doing. But her work on Genesis was at too delicate a point; she had to stay with it. Clark Terrell had given her no reason to distrust him. But he was obviously less than thrilled about having been assigned to do fetch-and-carry work for her laboratory. He was philosophically indifferent to her requirements for the Genesis site, while she was ethically committed to them. She could imagine how
Reliant
’s crew referred to her and the other scientists in the lab: a bunch of ivory-tower eggheads, test-tube jugglers, fantasy-world dreamers.

She sighed again.

“Mother, why do you let them pull that stuff on you?”

“Hello, David,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her son joined her by the communications console.

“They’re lazy,” he said.

“They’re bored. And if they’ve found something that really does need to be transplanted…”

“Come on, Mother, it’s the military mentality. ‘Never put off tomorrow what you can put off today.’ If life is beginning to evolve there—”

“I know, I know,” Carol said. “I’m the one who wrote the specs—remember?”

“Hey, Mother, take it easy. It’s going to work.”

“That’s the trouble, I think. It
is
going to work, and I’m a little frightened of what will happen when it does.”