by David Stern
“We will reroute here and here.” Vlasidovich’s index finger stabbed at the flimsy in front of him. “More power for the main weapons batteries.”
“Yes, sir,” said Number One. “I’ll bring these to Chief Pitcairn.”
“Thank you. I would like this accomplished by ship’s dinner. Chief is to tell me if that is a problem, yes?” Vlasidovich smiled, handing her the top flimsy.
Another rumor Spock had heard, now proven to be true. Vlasidovich had a very thick accent.
Enterprise ’s new commanding officer was from Nova Vestroia, a small colony on the edge of the Alpha Centauri system, one of the first asteroids Starfleet had successfully terraformed. It was settled exclusively by emigrants from what had been part of old Russia. Vlasidovich’s grandfather was the leading political figure in Nova Vestroia’s history; the list of his accomplishments, of the crises he’d managed to resolve without resorting to violence, was an impressive one. His son, Captain Vlasidovich’s father, had been an accomplished politician as well. Enterprise ’s new commander had a legacy to live up to. Spock hadn’t had the time to review Vlasidovich’s files in detail, but from what he’d seen, the man was well on his way to doing just that. Youngest captain in the fleet, battlefield promotions on two separate occasions, a commendation from Starfleet intelligence …
“If that’s all, sir …” Number One said.
“Yes, yes, dismissed, Number One.” Vlasidovich waved a hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Number One walked past Spock without meeting his eyes.
Over the last two days, since Magellan ’s destruction, the two of them had not spoken more than half a dozen words. It seemed to Spock that the ship’s first officer had gone out of her way to avoid him. They were not close, but still …
He found her behavior puzzling for a human.
“So.” Vlasidovich stood. “You will forgive me, please, for being unable to speak with you earlier, Mr. Spock? This is how you prefer to be called, yes?”
“Yes.” Spock nodded. He had tried, immediately upon Vlasidovich’s assumption of command, to meet privately with the captain and had been rebuffed. Other than at the services yesterday—a few, brief, inconsequential words—this was the first chance the two of them had had to speak.
Vlasidovich smiled. “I have been reviewing your file”—he pulled another flimsy off the pile and quickly scanned it—“and noticed an alternative possibility.”
“Indeed.” The Vulcan raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. Indeed.” Vlasidovich smiled again—he did a lot of that, Spock noticed, very different from Captain Pike in that regard—and then spoke, flawlessly, all syllables correctly accented and pronounced, Spock’s family name, which included consonant sounds that human beings supposedly were incapable of making with the physical structures contained within their bodies.
Spock couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was, quite frankly, astonished.
Vlasidovich laughed, a sound that surprised Spock once more.
Captain Pike, to his recollection, had never laughed.
“As a young man, I have been three years on Vulcan,” Vlasidovich said. “Studying at Science Academy, an exchange program, between our peoples.”
“Your pronunciation is letter perfect.”
“Thank you. Of course, I am showing off. Not all crew will want to call you this name—yes?”
“Not all crew will be capable of calling me by that name.”
“To be sure. Perhaps we can discuss Academy further, yes? Tomorrow evening?”
“Tomorrow evening?”
“Dinner I am giving. Senior staff. Enterprise, Excalibur, Hood . You will attend, yes?”
A rhetorical question, obviously.
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent.” The smile disappeared from Vlasidovich’s face. “So. To business. You have been researching Klingon weapon capabilities, I am told.”
“That is correct.”
“I am awaiting your report.”
“I have routed a preliminary draft to you for approval.”
“And I appreciate that. But …” Vlasidovich gestured to the stack of flimsies. “As you may notice, I have preference for hard copy.”
“I will have a member of my department bring you flimsy within the hour.”
“Thank you.” Vlasidovich sat back down at his chair and turned his attention to the printout next to him. “I look forward to seeing it. In the meantime, I would like a short summary, your own words, of your findings.”
Short. The word gave Spock pause. Its meaning was imprecise. To his instructors at Shi’Kahr, short had meant two thousand words. To Admiral Pranang, aboard Orpheus, it meant a few hundred words. To Captain Pike, ten seconds or less. “Compress the information,” he had said repeatedly. “Give me the essentials. Don’t try to impress me with what you know. With the work you did. Tell me what I need to know. Make my job easier.”
Many of Enterprise ’s human crew felt Pike was unnecessarily brusque at times. Spock did not agree. Brevity was indicative of careful, concise thought—a trait to be admired, in his opinion.
“In brief, the report is largely speculation, Captain,” Spock said.
“That is hardly a report, Mr. Spock. Elaborate, please.” Vlasidovich spoke without looking up.
So much for brevity.
“The report consists largely of rumor and innuendo, secondhand conversations. There is scant independently verifiable data.”
“There is image of cloaking device. This Black Snow. That is primary source, yes?”
“Yes. We have nothing else, however, from what would be considered primary sources. Data from weapons laboratories, experimental procedures, statements by Klingon scientists—”
“Difficult to obtain, primary source material. From within Klingon Empire.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Next to impossible, I am told. Klingons are quite—what is word?—paranoid about their weapons. Quite passionate. Question is, is secondary intelligence reliable?”
“One must consider the source.”
“Exactly. And source in this instance is …”
“Starfleet Intelligence.”
“And … your opinion of this secondary intelligence?”
Spock hesitated a second before answering.
Vlasidovich had not stopped reading—his eyes continued to scan the page on the table before him—and yet Spock sensed the captain’s attention focused on him at least as much as on the flimsy.
Vlasidovich’s service record for the two years immediately following his commendation from Starfleet Intelligence was surprisingly bare; the record of his movements—from border system to galactic hotspot, from isolated outpost to Starfleet Command and back again on multiple occasions—much less so. Those movements suggested to Spock a strong connection to Starfleet intelligence had been forged in the wake of the commendation; the Vulcan suspected, perhaps, that the Captain had spent those two years working for Intelligence. That kind of thing, though, would never show up in an unclassified service record.
Nonetheless, Spock had little doubt as to Vlasidovich’s own opinion about the veracity of the information they were now discussing.
The Vulcan cleared his throat and spoke.
“I see no inherent contradiction between intelligence and espionage, sir.”
A deliberately neutral response. One that avoided the question more than answered it.
The captain looked up and smiled. “Well, speculation or not, we must take everything in report into account. Particularly cloaking device. Black Snow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could change balance of power between our forces. If it is real.”
“Regarding the device’s existence—it is, of course, logical to err on the side of caution, sir.”
“Agreed. We do not know what Klingons are up to exactly. Luckily for us, they are in same boat, yes? Regarding our own weapon developments?” He moved one stack of flimsy aside
and reached for another. “Thank you, Mr. Spock. I will review hard copy of report as soon as I have it. Dismissed.”
He turned his attention back to the page. Spock didn’t move. It took the captain a good five seconds to realize that.
He looked up again and frowned. “There is more?”
“There is. I would like your permission to examine Captain Pike’s logs, sir.”
“His personal logs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask why?”
“I have been considering the totality of Captain Pike’s actions since the attack on Starbase Eighteen. His words and his deeds. He seemed singularly inclined to the belief that the Klingons were not involved in that attack.”
“Ah, I see. You suspect logs may contain reasons for this belief.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vlasidovich sighed and pushed back his chair from the table. “Mr. Spock. Christopher Pike and I, we are in same class at Academy. He has told you stories, I am sure. Myself, Loman Stocker, Michaela Harrari …”
“No, sir.”
“This is fact? No stories?” Vlasidovich smiled slightly. “Ah. Of course he has not. Christopher Pike—he was private man. Very private. Never could you tell exactly what he was thinking. Always at Academy, teachers are telling him, speak up, speak up. Explain yourself. But he was man of few words, Captain Pike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Few words but well-chosen ones. Chris Pike was brilliant man.” Vlasidovich sighed again. “Before we arrive— Excalibur, Hood —he has sent message to us. Myself, Michaela, Captain Harrari.”
Hood’s commanding officer. Spock had yet to meet her or Commander Nolan, Vlasidovich’s former first officer, who was now captaining Excalibur.
“ ‘I have reason,’ Captain Pike says, ‘to believe Klingons not involved in attack on Starbase Eighteen.’ So, when I am transferred here, to Enterprise, first thing I try to do is examine these logs. The same ones you wish to see.” Vlasidovich shook his head. “You will note I say ‘try.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am unable to do so. Records have already been transferred to custody of Starfleet Archives.”
“Such transfer is not unusual,” Spock said. “You should be able to request copies—”
“I am familiar with procedure, Mr. Spock. Request was made immediately. And denied—just as fast.”
“Were you able to ascertain why?”
“I was able to ascertain nothing. No explanation was given.” The captain pulled a stack of flimsy toward him, straightening its edges. “Now, please. We both have considerable work to do. Klingon fleet is continuing to gather in Adelson. Lexington and Potemkin are en route to join us. I need flimsy of weapons report. I need you to consider strategies coordinating ship’s processing power with Science Officer Radovitch on Excalibur …”
Spock understood. He was being dismissed.
“Yes, sir,” he said, turned on his heel, and left without another word.
There was indeed, as Vlasidovich put it, considerable work to do. But Spock was Vulcan—in truth, only half Vulcan. Nevertheless, he had the ability to adjust his metabolism so that he could function without sleep for a considerable length of time. Long enough both to accomplish the tasks required of him by his station aboard Enterprise and to find out why access to Captain Pike’s logs was restricted. What could they contain? Vlasidovich was unable to help him discover that.
Fortuitously enough, though, Spock knew someone who could.
The science officer worked through the rest of his shift. And beyond. Discussed his report on Klingon weapons development at length with Pitcairn and Lieutenant Hardin, who, in lieu of any more senior officer, was now Enterprise ’s security chief (temporarily, Spock hoped—the young woman displayed an unseemly eagerness for battle, in his opinion). Transmitted a suggested processor-sharing protocol to Hood and Excalibur, assisted his staff in arranging for suspension of all unnecessary scientific experiments, attended a service for Lieutenant Hoto—the second one in as many nights—and then, and only then, returned to his quarters and had Ensign Janoth, C Shift communications, open a channel for him to Earth—San Francisco—at which point Spock activated an encryption protocol of his own design and waited for response.
The protocol was based on imagery rather than a numeric sequence. Images drawn from a shared heritage—a variant of the Vulcan script, a series of lines and circles that he had been told by more than one human resembled musical notation.
This particular sequence of symbols represented Spock’s family name, written as it had been written thousands of years ago, before the Awakening, before the time of Surak, who had led his people from the brink of catastrophic, planet-destroying war onto the path of peace. There were four symbols missing from the script now displayed on the monitor in his quarters.
As Spock watched, those missing symbols began to appear, one by one, traced onto the screen by the person at the other end of the scrambled transmission he had initiated.
A Vulcan female, of late middle age, her hair gone completely white and pulled back from her face by a decorative annahk —a headband meant to mimic the ceremonial circlet worn by the priestesses of old—appeared on the screen.
There was a faint, barely audible beep, and the symbols disappeared.
“Greetings, T’Koss,” Spock said.
“Greetings, Spock.” She seemed, to his eye, somewhat agitated.
“I have caught you at an inopportune moment, I fear.”
“No. I have been expecting your call.”
“Something is amiss?” he said. “Sarek?”
T’Koss was his father’s cousin. His source for news about Sarek, since father and son had disagreed over Spock’s decision to forgo further training at the Vulcan Science Academy in favor of joining Starfleet. Spock’s one great fear, never voiced, rarely even contemplated, was that the two of them would not have the chance to reconcile in this lifetime. That the admiration he felt for Sarek—the honor and respect for the diplomacy his father had made his life’s work—would go forever unvoiced.
“On the contrary. Your father is quite well,” T’Koss said. “He has been named ambassador to Earth.”
Spock nodded. “You will pass on my congratulations, should you have occasion to see him.”
“I am on my way to see him now. The humans are giving a reception.” Which explained the fact that she was in civilian garb, rather than a Starfleet uniform. But not her obvious agitation.
“I will be brief, then,” Spock declared. “Starfleet has taken custody of Captain Pike’s personal logs, which I believe might contain information critical to resolution of the current crisis.”
T’Koss nodded. “I am aware of this development.”
Spock was not surprised. T’Koss was a senior archivist; there was little that occurred within the facility that she was not aware of.
“Can you assist me in obtaining copies of these logs?”
She shook her head. “Regretfully, no.”
“May I ask why?”
“They have been encrypted by order of Admiral Noguchi.”
Now Spock was taken aback. If Noguchi was involved in this, clearly, the logs contained something of considerable import.
“T’Koss,” he said hesitantly. “Under normal circumstances, I would not ask such a thing, but—”
“The logs are encrypted, Spock. As I said. Even if I were to supply you with the raw data—”
“It is likely I could break the encryption.”
“Spock.” She shook her head and regarded him affectionately.
This was the one drawback to his communications with T’Koss, the Vulcan thought. She tended to treat him sometimes like the little boy he had been when they first met.
“You may not be aware, but recently I received level A7 certification, which—”
“I am aware,” she interrupted. “And I am remiss in not passing on my congratulations. However, Admiral Noguchi has utilized the Daystrom
protocol to encrypt Captain Pike’s logs.”
“Daystrom?”
“Yes.”
“As in Richard Daystrom.”
“Yes.”
Spock frowned. In all of Starfleet, he had been the fourteenth person to receive the level A7 certification. Daystrom had been the first. The man was now said to be within reach of the A8 level. He would be the first organic being to achieve such a distinction.
Logic suggested that Spock had little chance of breaking any code Daystrom had designed. At least for this mission.
“Copies of the logs would do me no good, then,” he said.
“That is correct.”
So he would have to obtain the information he sought in a different manner. One possibility occurred to him immediately: the method he had used to recover the station logs from Starbase 18. It was possible that within Enterprise ’s own data buffers—
“Now. In reference to your previous query,” T’Koss said.
Spock frowned. “My previous query?”
“Regarding Starbase Eighteen?”
“I made no such query.”
T’Koss was silent a moment before responding. “An errant assumption on my part. The request came from Enterprise. I had thought you behind it. Forgive me.”
Spock’s curiosity was piqued. “What is this query you speak of?”
“It is a trivial matter.” She glanced down and tugged at the sleeves of her gown. “I shall respond through standard channels.”
Spock was about to probe further when T’Koss looked up, and their eyes met for a brief second before she turned away.
What he saw there gave him pause.
It was a myth that Vulcans could not lie, a commonly held misconception. Vulcans could, in fact, lie with the best of them. It was simply that the path of logic they had chosen to follow led them, almost inevitably, to speak the truth, except on the rarest of occasions.
Spock saw instantly that this “trivial matter,” as T’Koss had put it, was one of those occasions.
Not so trivial at all, perhaps.
