Ensign Valeris listened intently, hanging on the man’s every word. There was a polite mutter of applause from some of the BonHomme Richard’s senior officers, and she noticed the young executive officer, Commander Mancuso, nodding and smiling. Perhaps he had been the cadet Kirk spoke of.
The captain’s gaze crossed the assembled group. Like Valeris, many of the assembled officers and noncoms were new graduates from Starfleet Academy, fresh from training and ready to take on their first deep-space assignment. The sense of anticipation in the air was palpable. The BonHomme Richard had recently completed a series of refits and upgrades at the Utopia Planitia yards, and her new crew marked the beginning of a new lease on life for the starship.
“I remember when I served my tour on this ship as a junior officer. It was almost three decades ago . . .” Kirk grinned. “I’m dating myself. But I stood where you do now, and I heard another visiting captain say something similar. And it is as true now as it was then.” Valeris saw her commanding officer, Captain Pollard, return the man’s respectful nod.
“You will be challenged,” he told them. “Have no doubt about it, you and your shipmates will be tested in ways you cannot begin to prepare for. But I have every faith in you, and I have no doubts each and every one of you will rise to meet whatever comes. You’ve been trained by the best instructors in the galaxy. Your ship is state-of-the-art. All you need do is to have faith in yourselves. Look around you, at the officers and crewmen who stand shoulder to shoulder with you. Trust them. Learn by doing.” He gave a nod. “And I know you’ll make us proud.”
The applause came again, and this time Valeris joined in, as it was expected of her. Captain Kirk’s words were simple and direct, exactly what she had anticipated from the man, and yet they clearly stirred the hearts of the men and women who stood with her. She was forced to admit that Kirk’s charisma was more than evident; he seemed every bit the legend.
Respect, especially for non-Vulcans, did not come easily to Valeris, but James T. Kirk had impressed her. At first she had doubted that the reality could match the myth that surrounded the captain of the Enterprise—but truth was often stranger than fiction. Kirk talked of challenges, and he knew whereof he spoke. This was an officer who had stood toe-to-toe with the Federation’s greatest enemies in the Klingon Empire and defeated them on many occasions, who had lost his son, his friends, his ship, in battle with them and yet never faltered. Valeris considered her admiration for him to be fully deserved and not at all rooted in emotion.
Pollard and Mancuso stepped up to speak, shaking Kirk’s hand as the formal part of the launch ceremony approached its conclusion. Valeris listened at a distance to their words of encouragement, instead watching Kirk as he took his seat and nodded to the captain’s speech.
As she watched him, the ensign could not let go of the disappointment she felt at where she found herself, the lingering dissatisfaction. The BonHomme Richard was a fine ship, but it was not the flagship. Not Kirk’s Enterprise.
It was not what Valeris wanted.
The tone of the gathering changed as Captain Pollard gave the order to stand easy and the assembled crew broke up into smaller groups, grazing at the tables of finger foods or sampling glasses of synthehol wine. Valeris accepted a flute of the sparkling liquid only for reasons of social convention, leading with it as she quickly and carefully navigated across the recreation deck, toward the area near one of the light-cube tables. She could see only the back of Captain Kirk’s head. He was already surrounded by a cluster of younger officers, all of whom wanted a moment of his time.
Valeris wanted the same. Listening to Kirk speak was one thing, but she wanted to truly meet the man, to gain some sense of him. She considered what she might say to him as an opening conversational gambit; it should be something he would respond to, something that would impress him—
“Valeris.”
She felt the ghost of a familiar aura and turned to find Spock standing nearby, his hands folded behind his back. He seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere. “Captain.” She nodded coolly to her teacher. “I was not aware you were a guest at this ceremony.”
Spock inclined his head toward Kirk. “I am the captain’s . . . plus-one.”
“Of course.” Valeris deposited her untouched glass of wine on the tray of a passing server and turned all of her attention on the other Vulcan. “It has been some time since we spoke,” she went on. A gossamer trace of ill mood gathered in her. In truth, Spock had been distant for some time, his attention lessening toward her as other duties took up the bulk of his time. She understood the reality of the situation—that as a seasoned senior officer his expertise was often in great demand—yet, there remained a small kernel of dissatisfaction within her. Spock had done much to mentor her admission to Starfleet at the start, but recently contact between them had lessened to almost nothing. She went on, the question pressing at her: “You were not present at my graduation ceremony at Starfleet Academy . . .”
“I was detained. A secure conference with the Klingon ambassador,” he noted. “A regrettable absence. I was gratified to learn that you passed at the top of your class. Well done, Valeris.”
“In no small part, I have your guidance to thank for that,” she admitted. “But it appears that I have not done well enough.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “You are the first Vulcan to achieve such a position of academic excellence. That merit in itself is a valuable achievement.”
“Some would not agree.” Even after hundreds of years, there were still many Vulcans who considered Starfleet to be a human-centric organization of lesser value than the more esoteric, academic pursuits of the Vulcan Science Academy and other, similar institutions. Valeris came from a family that shared such a viewpoint. She continued: “I must also question the validity of my . . . achievement. For all its apparent value, it did not earn me the posting I requested.”
“The Enterprise . . .” Spock said, sounding out the name of the ship. His gaze drifted to Kirk, who stood telling some story, the captain’s hands forming shapes in the air; then he looked back. “You are unsatisfied with your position aboard the BonHomme Richard, but your tour aboard this vessel has yet to commence. Do you have an issue with Captain Pollard that I should be aware of?”
She shook her head. “No. Captain Pollard and his crew are all adequate officers. I respect their skills.”
“Do you?” Spock asked, without weight.
Valeris went on, ignoring the implication. “Given my graduation performance, I can only assume there is some factor I did not consider that prevented my assignment to the Enterprise as a helm officer. Perhaps you have knowledge of why my request was denied?”
She let the question lie between them. It was almost an accusation. Valeris had performed exceptionally well; she had assumed—no, she had expected—that she would be rewarded with a posting aboard the flagship. A chance to serve directly with Kirk, with some of the best officers ever to wear the uniform. It seemed right. But instead she was here, on a ship about to embark on a mission to map supernova remnants in a backwater corner of the Beta Quadrant.
“My sponsorship of your application to the Academy is a matter of public record, Valeris. As with Saavik before you, I saw the potential in you to become an exceptional Starfleet officer.”
A tiny flash of irritation registered at the mention of the other woman. Valeris dismissed it immediately. She had first met Spock’s protégée on Vulcan some five years ago, in the province of Raal. At the time, Valeris had been considering the direction of her life; her parents were steadily propelling her toward a future that followed in their footsteps as part of the Diplomatic Corps. But her frustrations with what she saw as the slow pace and weak manner of the Federation’s handling of the affairs of state made that course less and less attractive to her.
It was only after crossing paths with Saavik that Starfleet had seemed like a viable career choice. After all, if a woman rescued as a feral child from the ruins of a desola
te prison world could garner a commission in the fleet, then it was clearly well within Valeris’s capability.
It seemed obvious that a full-blooded Vulcan would be able to improve upon the performance of a half-Romulan. It had always been her opinion that, unlike Spock, Saavik had never truly been able to grow beyond her non-Vulcan traits.
“For you to reach your potential, you must do it alone,” he concluded.
“I have,” she told him. “I will.”
Spock nodded. “I have never doubted so. But it is important that your career be free of any suggestion of . . . partiality.”
Valeris stiffened. Was he saying that he turned down her application to the Enterprise ? Had Spock denied her what she wanted, what she deserved , for the sake of reputation? “Of course,” she replied woodenly. The realization struck her hard. On some level, it felt like a betrayal.
The ensign heard a peal of human laughter and her gaze flicked back to Kirk. He was shaking hands with Pollard and Mancuso, saying his farewells, and as she watched, he stepped away, heading toward the turbolift bank.
When she turned back, Spock was watching her intently. “If I were human,” he ventured, “I would say I was proud of your accomplishments, Valeris.”
“But you are not,” she told him. “And I do not require such platitudes to bolster my sense of self-worth. I believe I am quite capable of measuring that myself.” Valeris continued before Spock could respond. “I will be assigned to the Enterprise in due course,” she said, as if the statement were already undeniable fact. “And from there I will take the first steps to a command of my own.”
“An admirable goal,” Spock replied, “and a good challenge to any new officer.”
“As Captain Kirk said, it is our duty is to be challenged.” She matched his gaze, daring him to question her words.
But instead he only nodded. “It was agreeable to see you again. I must depart, as my duties require me once more.” Spock paused. “I will leave you with a few words of advice, if I may.”
“Go on.”
“Do not allow your reach to exceed your grasp. The captain was correct in his definition of the nature of duty, but he also said that it supports many others—and one of those is service . Always remember that the Starfleet oath means we serve the good of others. Our own wants and needs must always be subordinate to that.”
“Of course,” she replied, but her answer was rote and without conviction.
Spock raised his hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Valeris.”
“I intend to,” she told him, returning the gesture.
12
Xand Depot
Deep Space
Klingon Border Zone
The bright, sodium-white beam cast by the Klingon flashlight threw a pool of stark color over the frost-coated walls of the metal corridor. The air was thin, enough to carry a wisp of vapor from the exhalations of their lungs but not enough to support sustained breathing. Like the rest of the landing party from the Chon’m, Valeris wore a breather mask over her face, with a hose that snaked to a weighty support pod on her belt. The mask reeked of old sweat and polymers, but she ignored the smells, focusing her will to expunge them from her thoughts. There were far more serious concerns that required her full attention.
She picked her way across the freezing deck plates, careful to avoid the patches of black ice that could rob her boots of all traction. At a rough estimate, Xand Depot had been occupied sometime within the last ten Standard days. After their departure, those who had been here had left the extant life support mechanisms to cycle down to a dormant state. With only the light of distant stars touching the patched and barely functional solar arrays, the power running through the station was next to nothing.
Valeris held her tricorder out in front of her, the purring of the sensor oddly loud in the creaking metal spaces. A steady train of null data scrolled down the screen of the sensing device—nothing but one empty, abandoned compartment after another, sections left open to the void or cut to the bare bones by salvagers. Xand Depot was empty.
She glanced over her shoulder to where Lieutenant Vaughn and Kaj’s Orion thug followed in her footsteps. Urkoj wore a set of low-light goggles and a heavy survival mask; Vaughn had the same gear as Valeris, but the beam from his flashlight made only desultory progress along the ground near his feet.
“Lieutenant?” she said, the mask muffling her words. “Any readings?”
He glared at his tricorder, the light from the display playing on his grim expression. “Nothing. Same as the last time you asked me.” Vaughn fixed her with a look. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but this place is abandoned. The Thorn aren’t here. We can’t be sure they ever were.”
“I am sure,” she told him. It had been some time since Valeris had come to this place, but the memory of the journey—moving through cutouts and blinds, her covert orders from Cartwright erased from all records, her passage to the border zone kept secret—was strong.
Seeing the derelict station from the bridge of the Chon’m had immediately brought it back to her; on some level she had been concerned that Xand Depot would not be where she expected it to be, or perhaps destroyed by the Thorn after the collapse of the Gorkon conspiracy, to cover their tracks. There had been a good chance she would be wrong about the location. Finding the old Kriosian hideout was the last card she had to play, and Valeris had no doubt that Major Kaj would cut short what little liberty she had, if this lead proved worthless.
That still might occur, she thought. As soon as the bird-of-prey closed to sensor range, it became clear that nothing lived on Xand Depot. Vaughn suggested that a scanner blind might be in use, but Valeris suspected otherwise; she kept that to herself, however. She did not wish to give Kaj additional cause to exercise her ire.
They transported across in four teams of three, Kaj sending Urkoj to watch Vaughn and Valeris closely, and they began a deck-by-deck survey of the station. The major’s second, the helmsman D’iaq, had called in some twenty minutes earlier to report a find: remnants of Klingon fleet-issue ration packs and other detritus, but nothing else.
The Thorn had been here; she was certain of it. But they were long gone now, and with them any chance for Valeris to prove her worth to Kaj and Vaughn. The Klingon would want to wring her mind for every last piece of information and then discard her, and the Vulcan wondered if Vaughn would do anything to stop that. The lieutenant was morose and sullen over the brutal killing of Commander Miller, and he appeared more concerned with his own circumstances than anyone else’s. He was now the ranking Starfleet presence on this mission—such as it was—and Vaughn appeared to be in over his head. Valeris’s thoughts turned again to possible escape ploys.
Ahead, the corridor ended in a hatchway that had been left in the open position. Beyond the threshold, Valeris’s flashlight passed over dull steel shapes like the limbs of a robotic insect. They were manipulators, designed for carrying and handling hazardous cargo; but it was clear from the bright scars of recent welds they had been modified for different duties.
The tricorder in Valeris’s hand ticked and she glanced at it. As Vaughn drew level with her, his scanner emitted the same tone.
Urkoj immediately brought his weapon up, but the lieutenant waved him away. “Take it easy, big man.” He looked at Valeris. “You getting that?”
She nodded once. “Exotic particle traces, from inside that chamber.”
“Dangerous?”
She gave another nod. “With extended exposure, quite so. I estimate we can remain inside for no more than fifteen-point-six-two minutes at a time.” Valeris entered the room, and Vaughn followed gingerly after her. The Orion hesitated at the hatchway, kneading the grip of his plasma gun and frowning.
Inside, the dynamics of the room became clearer. There were locations where force field generators had been emplaced, others where thick barriers of radiation-dampening metals stood around workstations and the tables beneath the manipulat
or arms. Valeris took it all in; her immediate impression was one of a manufacturing center.
Vaughn saw it too. “What were they building in here?”
The tricorders were humming now, the readings peaking. The deeper they ventured into the chamber, the stronger the particle density became. Valeris took a few steps and held up a hand to halt the lieutenant. “That is far enough. Beyond this point there exists a viable risk of tissue damage.”
The human turned in a slow circle, letting the sensors sample the cold air. “I’m reading decay signatures from tetryons and verterons. Those are by-products of subspace effects . . .”
“Agreed.” Valeris adjusted the sensing envelope on her tricorder and mapped the dispersal of the emissions.
“Was there some kind of radiation surge in here?”
“No. The particle spread has left traces in the hull and the deck. It is not the remnants of a detonation or a spatial tear . . . It is a slow stream, something that built up over time.”
“A leak?” Urkoj volunteered, the low rumble of his voice echoing from the doorway. He still had not followed them in.
“Correct,” said Valeris. “Lieutenant, do you recall Commander Miller’s hypothesis about the isolytic devices?”
“The detonations were stifled because the Thorn botched their construction.” She saw the understanding strike him. “And this is where they did it . . . ” He looked around. “It makes sense. A remote location, all the equipment needed for the assembly could fit in here . . . And the particle traces prove it.” Vaughn gestured around. “We’re standing in the middle of their bomb factory.”
“What the traces prove,” Valeris replied, “is that whoever worked in this chamber exposed themselves to high levels of subspace radiation over a sustained period. There are very few life-forms that could experience that without suffering major systemic damage.”
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