Star Trek - Log 10

by Alan Dean Foster

  "You saw Kumara's first expression, Bones. He wasn't expecting us to show up at all. Thought the pulsar would finish us." Kirk smiled grimly. "Well, we've a few more surprises we can spring on him."

  "The important thing is that we're here," McCoy pointed out. "We'll outmaneuver Kumara at the conference. Klingons have a bulit-in aversion to diplomacy that will eventually undo their standing in the eyes of the Briamosites. That's for sure."

  "Not entirely sure, Doctor," Spock cautioned. "One must realize that this Kumara is not a typical Klingon. He appears capable of subtlety and even courtesy. Furthermore, there is the unsightly condition of the Enterprise. The damage we have sustained has already given the Klingons the first few points with the Briamosites."

  "I still can't buy that, Spock."

  "If you have studied the recordings of the lectures given at Starbase Twenty-Five, Doctor, you will recall that the Briamosites attach a good deal of importance to personal appearance." He indicated the main screen, which once again showed a view of the gleaming Klingon cruiser. "A detail to which Captain Kumara and his crew have clearly paid much attention. The contrast between his vessel's appearance and that of our own can only be to his benefit. Remember," he added after a pause, "humans originated the ancient saying about the importance of first impressions."

  "Mr. Spock, even the Briamosites will pay most attention to the last impression. That will be the critical one, and we have something very impressive to demonstrate the power of the Federation with. That." He pointed to the corner, where the empty Slaver stasis box rested unobtrusively.

  "The artifact, Captain? You still intend to employ trickery to convince the Briamosites that the box is unopened and untouched?"

  "I do, Mr. Spock. Toward the Briamosites and the Klingons. You know firsthand what a Slaver stasis field looks like. Surely you and Mr. Scott can build a small device which can fit inside the box and simulate such a field?"

  "As I mentioned once before, Captain, that should not be too difficult." Spock still didn't appear enthusiastic about the idea.

  "No one will test the field," Kirk pointed out, seeking to convince his first officer, "because the only sure way to do that would be to open the box, and none of the Klingon delegation is likely to be lugging a nullifier around."

  "You really think the box will be that impressive to the Briamosites, Jim?" a dubious McCoy asked.

  "I do. Not just the presence of the box, Bones, but the fact that we would bring it down to an alien world with us, just to demonstrate our friendship. The Briamosites are very sophisticated, remember. We can't risk thinking of them as an inferior race. In straight intelligence they're likely to be the equal of any member race in the Federation. They have everything but warp-drive technology.

  "I'm sure they know about Slaver stasis boxes, if only by reputation. So I'm expecting them to react toward our box exactly as we'd react if some strange people came to negotiate with us, carrying an unopened stasis box like a loaf of bread, purely for us to admire.

  "It'll be even more impressive," he went on enthusiastically, "because we've brought a stasis box knowing that Klingons will be present. That fact should impress the Briamosites more than the presence of the box itself. A lot more than a shiny ship!" He smiled expectantly. "Kumara will be even more impressed and surprised than the Briamosites—just as I would be if he'd brought an unopened stasis box with him."

  "We have no formal treaty as yet with the Briamosites, Captain," Spock reminded him. "What certainty have we that they will not attempt to take the box for themselves? Revelation of our prevarication when they find the box is empty and its field a fake could drive them into the Klingon orbit permanently."

  "If they steal the box, Mr. Spock, I'm not sure they're the type of people the Federation would want as fellow citizens anyway. But I don't see that happening. Too many imponderables. For one thing, I don't think they have enough familiarity with stasis fields to construct a stasis nullifier."

  "Klingons do," McCoy observed. "They could simply ask the Klingons for help in opening the box."

  Kirk grinned triumphantly. "And there's the catch, Bones. Just because they steal the box from us doesn't mean they'd want an alliance with Klingon. Furthermore, in order to gain Klingon aid in opening the box, the Briamosites would have to trust it to Kumara's care more or less.

  "While the Briamosites have a lot of firepower ringing both the Enterprise and Kumara's ship, it's still possible that either of us could outrun them before they could seriously damage us. And I don't think the Briamosites are naïve enough to trust Kumara with a stasis box, either stolen or one of their own.

  "Besides, theft of a stasis box from us would be tantamount to an excuse for war on the part of the Federation. As advanced as their civilization is, I don't think the Briamosites are ready militarily to take on either Klingon or the Federation, and I believe they're realistic enough to know that.

  "No, their best bet is to be truthful and straightforward throughout the entire conference, to play fair with both sides and not risk their whole future on something silly like stealing an archaic alien artifact. They might envy us the stasis box, but I don't see them chancing all their hopes on a single theft."

  "Kumara won't feel that way, Jim," McCoy continued.

  Kirk shook his. head. "Yes he will, Bones. Consider: If he tries stealing the box, he'll have to do so in front of, or at least with the knowledge of, the Briamosites. That would constitute a breach of Briamos's neutrality, not to mention an insult to every high Briamosite official attending the conference. The result would be to drive Briamos into the Federation."

  "I see now." McCoy nodded slowly. "You're planning this whole incident with the box, half hoping the Klingons will steal it."

  "That's the idea, Bones. Of course, once Kumara discovers that the box has long since been opened and emptied, he'll come running back to Briamos squealing in outrage about the treachery of the Federation and its deceitful minions—that's us. But by then it'll be too late, if I read the Briamosites correctly. If I've learned anything about them from all those lectures, it's that they're basically a decent, honorable people. Once offended by the Klingons, I sincerely believe they'd remain firmly allied to the Federation, no matter what Kumara might claim after the fact."

  "Which makes it all the more important for us to convince them to join with the Federation, Captain, in the event that Kumara does not try to steal the stasis box," Spock reminded them both.

  Kirk turned in the command chair. "I'm not arguing that, Mr. Spock. How long will it take for you and Scotty to concoct something to put inside the stasis box that will simulate a Slaver field?"

  "In our spare time, Captain?"

  "No, this is a priority assignment, Mr. Spock. You should begin immediately."

  "Very well, though the entire idea still strikes me as tending too much to the childish . . ."

  "So was the Trojan Horse, Spock."

  The first officer didn't reply as he walked over and picked up the box of Slaver metal. After a brief examination to refamiliarize himself, he turned to Kirk and said, "I estimate three hours to plan the device and design the schematics and another three or four to build and install it in the box."

  Kirk looked satisfied. "Fine, Spock. Go to it."

  Spock headed for the turbolift.

  As events developed, it was fortunate that the first officer's estimates about the time required were accurate. Colonel-Greeter Pliver called now to inform them that the first meeting of the conference had been scheduled to take place at 0900 ship-time the following morning.

  Later, when the device had been designed and computer-tested, Spock was able to leave the details of construction to Scott and his engineering staff and head for his cabin—to sleep, and with worried thoughts about the critical conference ahead . . .

  XIII

  The Federation delegation consisted of four smartly dressed officers: Kirk, Spock, Sulu, and Uhura. They met in the main transporter room the following morning.r />
  "This first meeting will probably consist mostly of introductions," Kirk was saying as the four walked toward the transporter alcove. "You know: 'Captain Kirk, meet the esteemed president of Briamos's second stellar system. Esteemed President, First Officer Spock. Captain Kumara, greet Captain Kirk,' and so on. Everyone says much, means little, and generally uses the opportunity to size up his counterparts. But just because no vital issues are likely to be discussed doesn't mean this opening meeting isn't important, Mr. Sulu." The helmsman, who had been sunk partly in his own thoughts, looked startled.

  "Your collar is folded in on the left side, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said sharply. "Straighten it."

  "Yes, sir." Sulu hastened to do so. "Do you think the Briamosites care enough about appearances to have researched our uniforms so they can check on our individual appearances?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said easily. "They might not know a Starfleet dress uniform proper from an engineer's work coveralls. But," he added quietly and meaningfully, "I do."

  The helmsman double-checked his straightened collar.

  All four officers looked splendid in their dress uniforms as they stepped up into the transporter. Spock carried the Slaver stasis box in both arms. The box was bathed in a delicate blue aura; in appearance it was indistinguishable from the cerulean halo the originally unopened box had been enveloped in when Spock had first seen it back on Gruyakin VI.

  Second Engineer Dastagir was manning the transporter console. Kirk turned to him. "Engineer, you have the coordinates for setting down which the Briamosites provided for us?"

  "Yes, sir," came the ready reply. "Already programmed into the computer, sir. Ready when you are."

  Kirk nodded once. The four officers assumed a waiting stance on four separate disks in the alcove. As soon as they were properly positioned, Kirk signaled to Dastagir. The second engineer initiated transport.

  Gradually the four stiff figures were replaced by four pillars of flickering metallic iridescence. The figure-pillars began to fade . . . and coalesce . . . and fade again. And coalesce again.

  Startled, Engineer Dastagir hurriedly checked dials and readouts. Everything read normal, all instrumentation reported proper functioning, yet . . . the four columns of energy had still not vanished. There was such a thing as abnormally slow transport, affected sometimes by a surge-delay in the transporter equipment, sometimes by localized planetary effects. But as the seconds slid away, Dastagir could rule out either of those possibilities.

  Something sparked from the console. A nervous, crackling sound filled the room. Fragments of multi-hued energy broke from the four fluctuating pillars and appeared to drift between them, filling the transporter alcove with an illusion of rainbow snow. Pops and snarls filled the room as confused mechanisms growled in frustration at one another.

  Within the alcove the four figure shapes were oscillating wildly now. At the strongest point of coalescence the four officers were discernible down to individual characteristics. At the weakest, when they had become amorphous cloud forms, they seemed almost to blend into a single glittering sphere.

  Frantically Dastagir threw switches, overrode, backed up, compensated for. Oscillation intensified but transportation did not take place.

  Faced with a disaster of frightening proportions, Dastagir did the only remaining thing he could. He threw the emergency control which would freeze energy levels within the transporter alcove in their present mode. Additional power flowed on request into the transporter mechanisms to lock the four fluttering, uncertain figures within the alcove in place, together with the indistinct swirl of energy surrounding them.

  Once the control had been cut in, nothing changed. The four figures neither coalesced nor grew any dimmer. Energy levels held suspended. That gave Dastagir time to do what any intelligent engineer in his position should have done: call for help. Sweating, fumbling at the intercom control, he waited anxiously for a reply.

  It came promptly, its calmness contrasting violently with his own excited, anxious self. "Bridge here. Commander Scott speaking."

  "Commander, sir, this is Dastagir Engineer Second, down in the main transporter room, sir."

  "Slow down, Dastagir." Scott had immediately detected something in the usually imperturbable engineer's voice. He sat a little straighter in the command chair. "Trouble?"

  "Yes, sir, I've locked them on emergency hold and—"

  "Calm down! Exactly what's the matter?" A horrible suspicion was forming in the chiefs mind. "Did the captain and the others get down yet?"

  "No, sir, that's just it. And I don't know what's the matter. I've double-checked everything and the transporter insists it's functioning properly and it's not—" Dastagir stopped, caught his breath, rambled on rapidly. "I had the Briamosite coordinates programmed in and was beaming-down Captain Kirk and the other officers when something went haywire."

  "Haywire's not an acceptable engineering term, Mr. Dastagir," said Scott sharply. "Elaborate."

  "As near as I can make out there's something producing a field distortion in the transporter, sir. I couldn't beam them down and I can't pull them out of it, so I threw in the emergency lock. They're field-frozen now. And there's something else happening I've never seen before, some kind of energy-matter interaction taking place on the transporter itself."

  "So you threw the field lock?"

  "Yes, sir." Dastagir sounded desperately unhappy. "It was all I could think of to do."

  "Don't . . . do . . . anything . . . else," Scott ordered Dastagir, spacing the words out for extra impact. "I'll be right there." The chief engineer hit the off switch on the intercom, spoke toward the navigation-helm console. "Mr. Arex?"

  The Edoan looked back at him. "Yes, sir?"

  "Assume command. We're experiencin' a malfunction with the transporter the captain's usin'."

  "How bad?" asked Arex, worried.

  Scott was already racing past communications and a curious M'ress on his way to the turbolift. "It doesn't sound good. I canna tell for certain until I see for myself."

  Once inside the lift car, Scott pressed the emergency override. This sent the car directly to the transporter room, bypassing all other demands on the car's service and producing puzzled stares from several waiting crew members scattered about the ship as their anticipated lift went racing past their respective call stations without stopping.

  As the chief entered the transporter room his gaze went first to the alcove. He saw the flickering silhouettes of sparkling wavicles fluttering on the four transporter disks, noted the energetic abnormality coloring the air around them.

  Those observations were superficial. The real definition of what lay within the alcove would be found in readouts and dials on the instrument console. He was checking them out immediately, balancing their stubborn readings against the impossibilities registering visually within the alcove.

  Dastagir stood helpless to one side, watching, ready to assist if he was needed.

  "Any sign of any unusual activity in the mechanisms before the trouble became apparent, Mr. Dastagir?"

  "No, sir," the distraught engineer replied, hands clenched tightly at his sides. "I tried readjusting the matrix, canceling the initial input—everything I could think of. Nothing worked. They just continued to oscillate." He licked his lower lip, gazed at the alcove. "It's the blurring of the field parameters that has me really worried, sir."

  "Probably nothing to get excited about," Scott lied. "Get Dr. McCoy and a medical team up here." He nodded in the direction of the alcove. "They might need some dressin' up when we bring them back."

  If we bring them back, he added silently to himself. Better not even consider that.

  He took a handful of tools no less intricately formed than McCoy's surgical instruments and dropped to a prone position, on his back. Once the base panel in the console was off, he slid his head inside, reached in and up with boths hands, and set to work on circuitry no less sensitive than the organic variety McCoy operated on.

&nb
sp; At Dastagir's request, and explanation, Dr. McCoy, Nurse Chapel, and several meditechs arrived in the transporter room several minutes later. All of them stared dumbfounded at the particulate storm suspended within the alcove.

  "Scotty, what happened?" asked an anguished McCoy.

  "Don't know for sure, Doctor," Scott told him, his voice tinged with strain. His head did not emerge from the bottom of the console. "I'm tryin' to find out now."

  "But Jim, Spock, the others—"

  "They're no worse off now than they were when this started, Doctor," replied Scott. "Engineer Dastagir had the sense to throw a lock on the entire system when he couldn't figure out what was happenin'."

  McCoy's thoughts were running down predictable paths. "The Klingons," he began furiously. "They've done something to—!"

  "I dinna think so, Doctor," Scott's cautious voice broke in. It reverberated faintly inside the console. A couple of moments later he emerged, holding several strange-looking, gleaming tools in his right hand. Both hand and tools looked damp with a transparent fluid thicker than water and McCoy knew the engineer had been adjusting fluid-state switches.

  "Damaged wavicle rectification system," Scott said tightly, wiping his wet palm on his pants. "I hope that's all it was. Those switches shouldn't ever bust, but once in a while they do. Our luck these took a bad moment to rupture." He turned to the console, put his tools down, and glanced briefly at Dastagir. "Let's bring 'em back, mister."

  "Yes, sir." Dastagir moved to stand alongside the chief and assist, while McCoy, Chapel, and the rest of the medical team stood aside and looked on anxiously.

  Dastagir threw a switch and Scott's hands moved simultaneously on familiar controls. The wavering, banshee whine of the transporter abruptly softened, steadied, and then strengthened. The background field of waltzing energies vanished, leaving only four cylinders of fire. Crackling and sputtering no longer issued from the console.

  The four pillars in the alcove, intensified, melded into four recognizable, well-dressed figures. Scott meanwhile kept his attention fixed on one particular gauge. When its luminescent pointer reached a certain number, he threw a large switch.