by Judith
Sytok looked at the woman again, as if he had suddenly recollected the presence of the young human at Spock’s side. Her baby blinked back at him.
“And which of these humans is your associate, Spock?” The [226] ambassador’s sarcasm was uncharacteristic and Spock took it to be a reflection of the deep anger that Sytok must be controlling.
“Ambassador Sytok, may I introduce Marita Llorente.”
Though Sytok had not recognized her face, he did know her name. Once again, his mouth drew down almost imperceptibly.
“Spock, I cannot allow this. The organization which this woman heads has a long history of attempting to disrupt Council meetings and the legitimate work of the Federation. She cannot be admitted to a Council meeting. Even I cannot authorize that.”
Marita looked calmly at the ambassador, unruffled by his rejection of her.
“But you can authorize me,” Spock said. “Whom I chose to have accompany me is my own right and responsibility.”
Sytok adjusted the collar of his robe and stared past Spock and the woman. Alexander burbled into the silence and Marita gently bounced him in her arms.
“What is the nature of the address you wish to make to the Council?” Sytok asked with reluctance.
“It has to do with certain legal implications of the events at Talin IV which I believe have not been satisfactorily addressed by Starfleet or the Federation.”
“The events at Talin were dealt with completely within Starfleet, Spock. You of all people should know that. The Federation was never involved.”
Alexander gave a small shriek, which both Vulcans ignored. Marita began rocking from foot to foot, whispering softly to the child.
“Which is precisely why I desire to address the Council, Ambassador. I wish to point out to them that there are other legal concerns at stake than simply Starfleet’s jurisdictional liability for its personnel failing to uphold the Prime Directive.”
Sytok shook his head decisively. “There are no other legal concerns, Spock.”
“Ambassador, if you are not aware of them, then it is all the [227] more compelling that the members of the Council who do not share your expertise in the law also are informed of those concerns.”
Sytok seemed to grow impatient as Marita paced back and forth across the hard granite slabs that lined the floor of the chamber, talking to her baby. “Are you going to tell me what those mysterious, other legal concerns are?” he asked.
Spock slipped his hand into his tunic and withdrew a folded-over sheaf of printed notes. “I prefer to keep the details confidential. If I revealed the core of my argument now, then I fear I might risk insulting the Council by taking up their time in reciting information which they could already have received second hand.”
“It might be faster,” Sytok suggested.
“But not as accurate,” Spock said. “However, these notes should enable the staff member you assign to help me in preparing the proper preliminary documents.”
Sytok accepted the papers Spock held out but didn’t look at them. “Why should I upset the business of this embassy by rushing through your request to speak in five days, rather than allowing it to go through normal channels?”
“If you process my request through normal channels, then I will not be able to address the Council for more than a standard year. I am aware of the usual waiting periods.”
“Have you also forgotten patience, Spock? It is one of the most important lessons your father taught me.”
“For myself, and my career, I have no need to rush. ‘For life is long and there is much to be learned in unhurried contemplation,’ ” Spock quoted. “However, my concern for speed is on behalf of others.”
Sytok glanced at the woman. She held her baby up and blew kisses at the child. Sytok closed his eyes and sighed. “Humans are always so agitated and in too much of a hurry.”
“Indeed, the life of a human is short compared to ours,” Spock observed. “But the others I refer to are those survivors who still live on Talin IV.”
Sytok allowed a private, ritual expression of shared remorse [228] to appear on his face, though none but a Vulcan could recognize the difference between it and a face of repose. “Nothing can be done for them, Spock.”
“On the contrary, I believe something can be done. Please, Ambassador, read my notes.”
Sytok unfolded the sheaf of papers and rifled through them in seconds. “There is nothing in here that the human woman’s organization has not said before. It is merely another attempt to introduce a radical and ill-thought plan to circumvent the Prime Directive. They would force the Federation to offer aid to every known world, contacted or not, which is not as developed as the existing member worlds. Such a policy would clearly lead to tragedy and chaos.”
Marita came back to the two Vulcans as Sytok spoke. Her eyes flashed with anger. “You’re wrong, Ambassador. The Federation has more than enough resources to share with less developed worlds. The Prime Directive is a morally indefensible attempt to keep the wealth of a thousand worlds safely within the hands of a few powerful planetary governments.”
Sytok turned frostily to Spock. “I do not have time to debate this with a child,” the ambassador said. “Spock, since it appears you have more time than I, please explain to ... your associate that the Prime Directive is the foundation upon which the Federation is built.”
“Marita Llorente is correct,” Spock said.
Ambassador Sytok blinked once in the Vulcan equivalent of a gasp of shock. “What?”
“A case can be made to support the proposition that the Prime Directive is morally indefensible and must be stricken from the laws of the Federation,” Spock said.
Sytok blinked twice. “Spock ... that statement goes against every principle of peace and equality the Federation is sworn to uphold ... that statement is a complete abandonment of the ideals in which Vulcan joined with other worlds to form the Federation. It denies history. It—it is not logical, Spock.”
“Nevertheless, I believe it to have merit.”
Sytok looked long and hard into Spock’s eyes and Spock [229] found himself readying his mental defenses against a sudden attempt at melding. The ambassador seemed that unsettled by Spock’s position.
“Do you hate Starfleet that much, Spock? Do you have such bitterness for what they’ve done to you that you would strike out against the Federation so senselessly?”
“I do not hate the Federation, nor do I hate Starfleet. I simply wish to improve them.”
Sytok crushed the papers in his hands. “I will not allow you to dishonor the Council with such general and ill-conceived charges.”
“They are not general. I intend to bring specific civil charges against Starfleet and those of its personnel who destroyed Talin by attempting to uphold the Prime Directive.”
Sytok’s lips actually trembled. “Is this your idea of a human joke? You intend to bring charges against yourself?”
Spock nodded. “Logically, I have no other choice.”
“Logic?” Sytok almost sputtered. “You dare to speak of logic in connection with this absurdity? If you do this, Spock, you will be announcing to all the worlds that you have forsaken your Vulcan heritage. Don’t you remember the controversy that arose at home when you decided to join Starfleet? Don’t you remember how the elders said you would become less than Vulcan by being in such close proximity to humans. If you go through with this senselessness, you will prove them right.” Sytok held the papers out to Spock, asking him to take them back. “As a friend of your father’s, I request you reconsider. Think what will be said of you.”
Spock kept his true thoughts and feelings well shielded. “I did not care what others thought when I applied to Starfleet. I do not care now.” He placed his hands behind his back, refusing the papers. “Ambassador Sytok, will you or will you not prepare my credentials to address the Council as a citizen of Vulcan and the Federation, as is my right?”
Spock saw Marita smile triumphantly at Sytok. She
knew so little. But her unbridled display of emotionalism helped Sytok compose himself.
[230] “Yes, Spock,” the ambassador said blandly, no trace of the hidden passion which had threatened to surface moments ago. “I shall authorize your credentials, as a citizen, to address the Council in five days’ time. I must warn you though, if I place Marita Llorente’s name on the forms as your associate, the Council will be likely to postpone its meeting in order to prevent her from disrupting it.”
Perfect, Spock thought. The plan had worked. Sytok had become distracted by his emotions and ignored the logic of what Spock was maneuvering him to do.
“Ambassador,” Spock said, “may I suggest then that you have your staff simply prepare the forms without naming Ms. Llorente directly. I believe you are able to issue a blanket credential for myself and ‘others to be named later.’ ”
“Yes,” Sytok said. “I can do that because no Vulcan has ever misused the system in the way in which you intend.”
“Please believe me, Ambassador, I have no wish to misuse the system.”
Sytok held the papers up in his fist. “And yet you give me this.”
Spock stepped back and held up his hand to offer the salute of leaving. “Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sytok. I shall return in four days to receive my credentials.”
Sytok did not offer a salute in return. “I warn you, Spock, after what happened at Talin IV, if you disrupt a Council meeting they will deport you as an undesirable.”
Spock shrugged. “I will have had my say in the proper forum.” He turned to go.
“And Vulcan will not take you back,” Sytok said.
Spock shrugged again as if he didn’t care.
And Sytok saw something in that. Spock knew it instantly. The ambassador had detected a telltale hint of deception.
Sytok glanced thoughtfully at the papers again. “This is not like you, Spock. This is not like Sarek’s son at all.” He looked up. “You have planned something else.”
Spock knew he had to act quickly. The ambassador must be [231] diverted again. He held out his hand to Marita, index and middle finger extended, the rest folded back.
“Marita,” Spock said, “attend me.”
The woman smiled seductively and matched Spock’s gesture, touching her two fingers to his in the intimacy of the Vulcan ritual embrace.
Spock heard the paper rustle in Sytok’s fist as he crushed it even more. The ambassador was speechless in his outrage. Spock’s tactic had worked.
Still joined with Marita, Spock walked toward the chamber’s exit. The carved granite doors swung open silently.
“Spock!” Sytok’s voice echoed in the hall.
Spock stopped to look back at the ambassador.
Sytok shook his head. “What would your father say?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “I believe he would wish me good luck.”
TWO
Lieutenant Kyle stuck his head out from beneath the control console in transporter room four. His blond hair and pale skin were smudged with insulation dust and blue coolant.
“I think that’s got it, Mr. Scott.”
Scott stood to the side of the console, using a transtator tester on the wiring circuits exposed beneath the flipped-up surface panel. He hadn’t expected to hear from Kyle for at least another hour. “That’s fast work, lad.” He was afraid he knew why.
Kyle wiped at his face, then pulled himself out from the access opening under the console. “It was just the main node, Mr. Scott. The secondary circuits weren’t touched.”
Scott swung the panel down until it clicked into place. “Just like the phaser banks,” he said, and he didn’t like it.
“And the torpedo couplings,” Kyle added. “And the main sensor sequencers.”
Scott stared at the coils of power-harness cables that hung down from the openings in the room’s ceiling. The starbase mechanics had done long baseline scans of the Enterprise and determined that every centimeter of translator circuitry in her had been hopelessly burned out. But by actually poking and prodding their way through her, Scott and Kyle had discovered that less than twenty percent of her circuitry had actually been [233] destroyed. Normally, that would be good news because, if the repair order were ever given, the wiring drones would only require a fifth the time to install replacement circuits throughout the Enterprise. But what worried Scott was that virtually all of that twenty percent of destroyed circuitry had been master control nodes. He knew that powerful subspace pulses could inflict erratic damage on a ship, but he had never heard of the damage being confined just to the most important circuits.
“I tell ye, lad,” Scott said, “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
Kyle brushed the dust from his blue technician’s jumpsuit. He looked as if he shared Scott’s concern. They had had this conversation many times in the two weeks since the shipwright drones had been installed onboard to salvage damaged equipment. The drones’ controllers had been surprised to find how little equipment there had actually been to salvage. But while the damage had been far less than expected, it was specific enough to render the ship useless.
“I still don’t know how anything could focus a subspace pulse so precisely that it would only affect the main nodes,” Kyle said. “I think it really does have to be a coincidence, sir. Or something about the way the pulse traveled through the circuitry. Maybe destructive interference built up at the main nodes because that’s where the pulse signals met each other ... maybe.” His voice trailed off into uncertainty.
Scott shook his head. “Mr. Kyle, remember who you’re talking to. And I’ll not be swallowing any of that first-year engineering student yammer. Whatever kind of pulse hit this ship was aimed at us. And whoever aimed it knew exactly what it was they were doing.”
Kyle looked pained. “Are you going to try to explain that to Lieutenant Styles? Again?”
“I know what I’d like to explain to that sli—” A discordant paging whistle shrieked from the companel and Scott cringed. “What the devil have they done to the power settings on that blasted—”
[234] “Bridge Communications Center to Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott.” It was Styles. It could only be Styles.
Scott leaned against the transporter console and rolled his eyes at Kyle. “Aye, Lieutenant Styles, Scott here.”
“Vice Admiral Hammersmith’s shuttle is arriving, Mr. Scott. Is that transporter working yet?”
“All the circuitry is back in place, Lieutenant, but we haven’t had a chance to test it yet.”
“Well hop to it, man. I told the vice admiral that I would have him beamed aboard. You’ve got ten minutes. Bridge Communications Center out.”
The companel crackled with static, then went dead.
Kyle went over to the storage locker and broke out a box filled with various transporter test modules. They were essentially empty boxes made from metal only a few molecules thick. Any alignment or focus problems in a transporter would cause the intricately etched, reflective surfaces of the boxes to change to a dull and mottled appearance when they reformed. They were usually the first objects to be sent through any transporter that had been subjected to repairs.
Kyle examined the test modules carefully. “You know, Mr. Scott, these look to have been banged up pretty badly. We’ve got some dents and bends here that could affect the diffraction patterns. Make them look perfect when they’re not. I don’t think they’ll do.”
Scott thought for a moment. There was no possible way he would authorize human transmission in a transporter that hadn’t been properly tested. Then he held up his hand. “Just a minute, Mr. Kyle. I think I’ve got it.” Scott left the room through the doors he had jammed open with an old circuitplaser. The few sliding pocket doors which had been brought back online throughout the ship were behaving about as well as the companels. Everyone on board could be seen hesitating by closed doors and rushing through open ones to avoid being sandwiched by them. Scott had taken the easy way out by simply disabli
ng the doors to any room he happened to [235] be working in. He found it odd that none of the starbase mechanics had figured out the same thing, and so far he had noticed three of them with eyes blackened from walking into doors. Seeing them like that was one of the few things that made getting up in the morning easier these days. Especially because of what Hammersmith had done to him.
When Scott came back to the transporter room, he carried a small mechanical scavenger drone under one arm. The device’s treads whirred uselessly and its manipulator stalks waved wildly. It and two hundred and twenty-two other shipwright drones on board were controlled by a portable repair computer installed in engineering. They had spent the past two weeks crawling through the ship, beeping and bumping and getting on Scott’s nerves. He was going to enjoy this.
Scott carried the drone over to the transporter platform and plopped the machine down on the center pad. It rocked back and forth for a moment, then spread its manipulators all around itself, tracing the circumference of the transmission crystal.
Scott stood back. “All right, Mr. Kyle, before its control computer figures out where it is, would ye energize the wee thing.”
The small machine squealed once, then faded away in a sparkling mist.
“Holding the pattern,” Kyle said as he studied the board. “Carrier storage is one hundred percent. Power consumption following normal curves.” He looked up at Scott and smiled. “Seems to be perfect, Mr. Scott.”
“If ye say so yourself.” Scott watched the platform. “All right then, bring the little beastie back.”
The transporter chime grew louder, but then was overpowered by the metallic tinkle of small machine parts raining down on the pad.
“Aww,” Scott said happily.
“Um, there appears to be a realignment problem,” Kyle offered.
[236] “You think so?” Scott walked over to the companel. “Myself, I don’t think it’s ready for a vice admiral, but I think it should work just fine for a certain lieutenant.” He toggled the paging switch. “Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott to Bridge Communications Center. I’m afraid the transporter is going to be needing a wee bit more work. You better tell the vice admiral that he should park his shuttle in the hangar bay.” Scott winked at Kyle.
