Constellations

by Marco Palmieri

  Kirk took his usual seat. “It was a bonehead screwup. I expect better out of kids with his Academy record.”

  “Oh, and you never made any mistakes?” McCoy parried as he sat at the end of the table. “I happen to know—”

  “We’re not talking about me, Bones. You still think I was too harsh on him.”

  “Nobody’s perfect. Nobody got hurt. It could’ve been worse.”

  “Tell that to Scotty.”

  “Jim, the point is, this boy’s really down on himself. Every time he’s on duty, he’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Now, I’m not sayin’ you pat him on the head and say, ‘Good dog.’”

  “Doctor,” Spock interrupted, “your metaphorical presentation loses cogency when you mix species.”

  McCoy paused for a half second as he flashed a withering glance in Spock’s direction. “All I’m sayin’ is, if you think he’s got any future at all in Starfleet, now’s the time to get him out of this funk.”

  Before Kirk could respond, the briefing room door opened and Chekov entered—and froze. Kirk felt a twinge of sympathy for his young officer, who’d been expecting to deliver his report to Spock for review and referral to the captain. Instead, Chekov found himself facing a roomful of senior officers. Kirk had a pretty good idea what Chekov must have been thinking at that moment: Not only are my captain and first officer here to judge my competence, but the ship’s CMO is here to judge my sanity, too.

  And that, in fact, was correct. They were together to evaluate the young man, but there was something else brewing, about which Chekov had not a hint. No matter. Kirk waved him in. Chekov swallowed, and Kirk knew the kid’s mouth must be feeling as dry as Vulcan. As Chekov edged into the seat across from Kirk and Spock, McCoy kindly slid a cup of water within his reach. Chekov took a careful sip.

  “Ensign,” Spock prompted, “your report, please.”

  Chekov slid the data card into the computer, started speaking from memory, and delivered a flawless recitation on Tenkara, complete with graph, chart, and photographic backup on the viewscreen. Tenkara was one of the few planets in its sector with abundant (though not easily extracted) natural resources, including some exceedingly rare and treasured dilithium deposits and a wide variety of minerals and ores needed by other inhabited worlds nearby. When the Tenkaran government initially asked for help developing those resources, the Federation saw an opportunity to build regional stability and block Klingon expansion, and provided civilian technical assistance to get Tenkara’s backward mining industry up to modern standards.

  After two years, some Tenkarans started to resent the presence of outsiders, and dissident native miners began sabotaging operations. The government begged for a low-profile, short-term Starfleet security presence, just to get things stabilized. Despite its reluctance to get drawn into civil conflicts, the Federation Council decided that Tenkara’s strategic importance warranted a measured effort to get things under control—and to send a message to the Klingons.

  That small Starfleet detachment had been on Tenkara for the past year, with limited success. But the diplomats and brass still believed the potential strategic benefits outweighed any misgivings and rumblings about corruption within the Tenkaran government. So the Starfleet force remained in place, trying to do the increasingly difficult and unpopular job of maintaining the planet’s critical mining and processing operations while training the local military to take over all security tasks as expeditiously as possible.

  Tenkara’s development status corresponded roughly with that of mid-nineteenth-century Earth. And as with many less-developed planets that had been exposed to interaction with far more advanced civilizations, Tenkaran society was a potentially volatile mix of traditional tribal culture and modern technology—and weapons. In short, the government’s uncertain claim to power and pursuit of stability depended on its capacity to project strength and authority sufficient to override age-old clan allegiances and hostilities. As a result, the government’s desperate desire to avoid appearing dependent on the Federation led in turn to tight limits on Starfleet’s presence there, in both size and scope of operations.

  “Ensign,” Spock said, “do you agree with current Federation policy?”

  The question plainly caught Chekov off guard. “Well, sir…” He licked his lips. “Benefits rarely come without risks. Given a period of some stability and prosperity, it’s quite possible the Tenkarans who now oppose Federation involvement will end up appreciating their planet’s enhanced position of importance in the sector, the advantages of economic development, and their eventual ability to run their own affairs. Logically speaking, that is.”

  “Good lord,” McCoy snorted, “he hasn’t even been on board for three months and he already sounds like Spock.”

  “Ensign Chekov is merely making a rational evaluation,” Spock said.

  “Is everybody forgetting? Without dilithium in the mix,” McCoy argued, “the Federation wouldn’t be here, and neither would we.”

  “Doctor,” Spock countered, “you fail to grasp the strategic logic of preventing Klingon incursion into a sector where no planet has the strength to resist them.”

  “So you think it’s logical for us to be galactic policemen!”

  “Captain,” Chekov blurted, “the Tenkarans have managed to create a global council to manage interplanetary trade and resource wealth for the good of the entire planet. Such profit-sharing arrangements are rare in mistrustful tribal cultures, and do tend to promote unity.”

  Kirk glanced pointedly from Spock to McCoy. “A salient point, Ensign. Thank you. So, it’s ‘in for a penny, in for a pound.’”

  “Which,” McCoy added, “is a good way to lose the penny and the pound.”

  “The fact is,” Kirk said, “they do have dilithium…and we have our orders. If this goes well, then we build a region full of allies able to deter Klingon invasion—and they might even appreciate our effort.”

  McCoy rolled his eyes. “Fat chance. No good deed goes unpunished.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Kirk said as he stood, “our mission to Tenkara is simple: deliver a shipment of medical supplies to the Starfleet outpost and a Tenkaran clinic in the capital. The government council has requested that we keep our visit as low-key as possible. To meet that request, the Enterprise will spend the next two days doing resource surveys of nearby solar systems. We’ll be sending Dr. McCoy and these supplies via shuttlecraft. Mr. Chekov, you will be pilot and mission commander.”

  Chekov blinked as Kirk’s last few words rattled around inside his head. “E-excuse me, sir?”

  “Did I not make myself clear, Ensign?”

  “Uhh, no, sir. I—I mean, yes, sir. It’s just that…I thought…after what happened…”

  McCoy guided Chekov toward the door. “Don’t look a gift-captain in the mouth, Ensign,” McCoy murmured in Chekov’s ear. “Just say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Y-y-yes, sir,” Chekov said uncertainly to McCoy, then immediately repeated the same words, with gusto, to Kirk. “Yes, sir! Thank you, Captain. I won’t let you down, sir!”

  As Chekov marched out with a grin on his face, Kirk couldn’t help smiling a bit himself. McCoy was probably right…the kid needed a confidence boost, and this mission seemed idiot-proof. What could possibly go wrong?

  The unfortunate answer to Kirk’s rhetorical thought would come, but not right away.

  En route, Chekov and McCoy reviewed the record of Captain Irene Kwan, commander of the Starfleet detachment. About Kirk’s age, she was a fifteen-year veteran of combat missions ranging from skirmishes to wars, and she’d earned the nickname “Ice” for her tranquil grace under pressure. In view of that reputation for sturdy and stoic composure, her increasingly emphatic warnings to her superiors that this mission would fail without more personnel and fewer restrictions demanded to be taken seriously. Unlike some officers who scrupulously avoided uttering a discouraging word, Kwan consistently delivered in his reports what she be
lieved to be the unvarnished truth. And McCoy and Chekov both wondered: Is Starfleet listening?

  It was midmorning local time when the shuttlecraft banked over a rolling landscape resembling the dusty frontier of the American Southwest or Australian outback. From their altitude over the largely treeless plain, they saw the main mining and ore processing facility twenty miles outside the capital city of Kurpol, a patchwork of irrigated farm fields, and a sparse web of narrow roads leading to the city. The capital itself sat in a verdant valley beside a broad river that flowed down from distant mountains. It was large enough to have distinct districts, including a bustling riverfront port, mansions in the scenic foothills, and slums to the south. Scattered factories smudged the sky with billows from their smokestacks. The downtown commerce district included stone and brick buildings between two and six stories tall. In a central plaza, a soaring white temple gleamed in the sun.

  Starfleet’s outpost squatted on a vacant bluff on Kurpol’s outskirts. McCoy watched through the window as Chekov brought the loaded shuttle in for a feather-soft landing within the garrison’s secure confines. Captain Kwan was there to greet them as they opened the hatch. “Welcome to Fort Fed,” she said with a nod and a smile. Tall and lean, with short black hair falling across her brow, Kwan gave them each a firm handshake as they climbed out.

  “Fort Fed?” McCoy said.

  “That’s because it’s the only place we’re totally safe,” Kwan explained. “We tend to get shot at with increasing frequency every time we’re out on patrol. But the rules of engagement limit our ability to take offensive measures and go after the dissidents before they go after targets—or after us. On top of that, the Tenkaran security ministry leaks like the Titanic. The dissidents seem to know where we’re going before we do. So we’re pretty much stuck in defensive mode.”

  “Which must be great for morale,” McCoy said.

  “In the short run, we can manage it. But I’ve been telling Starfleet Command for months—this situation is not sustainable.”

  While her people unloaded the medical cargo, Kwan took McCoy and Chekov on a brief tour of the drab, bare-bones compound, which consisted of six modular buildings housing barracks, offices, mess hall, sickbay, and brig, surrounded by a perimeter stockade force field. Along the way, they were joined by Kwan’s exec officer, Lieutenant Commander Joe Wilder, a towering mountain of an officer in his late twenties. As he trotted up to them, his shaved head and fierce eyes instantly radiated his self-image: soldier. Instead of the colorful uniforms found aboard a starship, he and everyone in Kwan’s company wore drab utilitarian fatigues. After introductions, as the tour continued, McCoy noted with some concern that all of Kwan’s people looked tired and stressed.

  “That’s the nature of this mission,” Kwan shrugged. “We’re either cooped up here most of the time, or we’re out there doing a job some people don’t want us doing.”

  “It’s a gritty life,” Wilder added, “compared to flying above it all like you starshippers get to do.”

  Chekov’s face twitched; he knew that some planet-based Starfleet personnel like Wilder tended to use starshipper as an insult, and he didn’t like it one little bit. Before he could think of a comeback, a female lieutenant approached them. “Captain, supplies are loaded in the truck and ready to deliver to the clinic.”

  Kwan nodded. “Commander Wilder, get the convoy saddled up.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Wilder jogged off.

  “Doesn’t he ever just walk anywhere?” Chekov muttered to McCoy.

  The convoy wasn’t much—just a pair of bulky armored transport vehicles, one carrying the medical supplies, the other carrying McCoy, Chekov, Kwan, Wilder, and eight combat-ready personnel, complete with body armor, helmets, personal electronics, and phaser rifles. Chekov felt naked with just a tiny hand phaser hiding on his hip, tucked under the hem of his tunic.

  “Is all this really necessary?” McCoy asked as the two TVAs rolled down the switchback road leading from Fort Fed down to the city.

  “Preparation, Doctor,” Wilder said. “Like the book says, ‘Prepare, and take the enemy unprepared.’”

  “The book?” McCoy looked confused.

  “Sun Tzu’s The Art of War,” Chekov replied with intentional haste, beating Wilder to the punch.

  Wilder looked down at Chekov, both literally and figuratively. “Surprised you know that, Ensign. Being a starshipper an’ all.”

  “We went to the same academy,” Chekov said.

  “I’d say we learned different things.”

  “Then you’d be wrong…sir.”

  “Boys,” Kwan chided. “Ensign, you’ll have to forgive Commander Wilder. He forgets that starships are how we grunts get places. And ‘the book’ tends to be his bible.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, more or less. When they arrived at the clinic, on a narrow cobblestone street of shops and apartments, the hatch swung open and they were immediately assaulted by the pungent musk of livestock and manure. “The stockyards are two blocks away,” Kwan explained as they clambered out.

  “Remind me not to buy real estate here,” McCoy said.

  A motorized trolley rumbled by and belched an ear-splitting backfire from its exhaust pipe. Chekov and McCoy both flinched and ducked, Chekov’s hand went to his phaser—and Wilder said, laughing: “You’ll know when someone’s shooting at us.”

  The clinic’s director, Dr. Davaar, came out to greet them. Tenkarans were generally smaller than Terrans, but even by native standards, Davaar was reed-thin and barely up to Chekov’s chin. He bowed to McCoy and Chekov as Kwan introduced them, and his nonstop chatter overflowed with gratitude for Federation assistance and supplies. “In just a few short years, yes? You’ve advanced our medical practice by decades,” Davaar said with a clap of his hands. As Kwan’s troopers moved the crates into the clinic, Davaar gestured for his visitors to follow.

  Before they could enter, another explosion erupted and Chekov knew instantly from the ground-shaking roar and pulsing heat that this was no trolley backfire. Roiling, acrid smoke filled the street, and mayhem broke out around him at impossible speed while he felt himself frozen in time and space. Kwan shouted orders and her troopers rushed out of the clinic. Wilder set them in a defensive perimeter on the far side of their transport vehicles. Pedestrians screamed and scrambled for safety. Two more blasts boomed in quick succession, one farther down the street and one right near the clinic. Choked and blinded by smoke and heat, Chekov tripped and fell to his knees. He rubbed his stinging eyes, then wiped them with his sleeve. Through blurred vision, he could see only a cloud of chaos. Amid the shouts and clatter, he heard three short shrieks of phaser fire. He steadied himself, grabbed his own phaser, jumped to his feet, and bumped into Kwan, who squinted into the clearing smoke, trying to figure out what was going on. Wilder trotted back from across the street, with an unconscious Tenkaran man slung over his shoulder.

  “Captain, whoever they were, they all got away, except this one,” Wilder said. “No damage, either, other than some broken windows. We suffered no wounded or injured.”

  “What the hell were they doing?” Kwan looked around at residents stepping gingerly out of doorways where they’d scurried for shelter, and cautious clinic personnel scanning the scene to see if anyone needed help. “I don’t get it. Chekov, go get McCoy out of the clinic. I think we’d better get you two back to Fort Fed.”

  Davaar came up to them. “Captain, Dr. McCoy isn’t in the clinic, yes? Isn’t he with you?”

  Kwan cursed through gritted teeth. She ordered half her troops to finish unloading the remaining supplies in a hurry, while she sent Wilder, Chekov, and the others on a sweep of the block, hoping to find McCoy in some safe haven. When they came up empty, Kwan’s entire squad withdrew. As the TVAs rumbled back up to the outpost, grim reality set in: McCoy was gone, and the cuffed prisoner riding with them seemed to be their only lead.

  Back at the outpost, Chekov felt very much like a child trespassing on
adult turf as he trailed Kwan and Wilder to the brig where the prisoner had been taken directly. “Just so you know,” Kwan told Chekov, “it is my intent to retrieve McCoy safe and sound. But this was the first time we’ve been engaged by the dissidents without provocation, on a public city street and not on a military maneuver. They’ve upped the ante: McCoy was the target, and we don’t know why.”

  Chekov had no idea how he was supposed to act, what he was supposed to do, or what anyone expected of him. On the one hand, he was an ensign of twenty-two, with barely two months of starship duty under his belt. On the other hand, Captain Kirk did say he was “commander” of this mission…but what did that mean? Was Kirk going to hold him responsible for McCoy’s disappearance? And what about here and now? Was Kirk’s designation a card worth playing? If he tried, would Kwan just laugh in his face? For the moment, Chekov opted to observe and listen. Improvisation was not his strongest attribute, but he was starting to realize it was a skill he’d better develop if he planned on staying in Starfleet.

  When they reached the cell, the Tenkaran prisoner was under guard, bound hand and foot, and seated on a hard chair. Still groggy from being stunned by phaser fire, he’d gathered his wits sufficiently to stand up to Kwan’s questioning and reveal nothing beyond his name and profession: “Apek. Free miner.”

  For two hours, Kwan tried every interrogation technique—ranging from affable appeals to harsh threats, and back again. Chekov was no expert, but he detected an intentional rhythm and modulation in Kwan’s approach. Even when she grabbed Apek by the collar and throat and looked like she was about to snap his neck, she was in total command of the room and herself. Unfortunately, nothing rattled the prisoner out of his professed ignorance of the attack at the clinic, McCoy’s abduction, or any dissident missions of sabotage against mining facilities. Then, suddenly, Apek refused to speak at all. Kwan’s fury flared and, for a second, Chekov was sure she was going to slug him. Instead, she turned and stalked out. “Wilder, Chekov, with me,” she growled.