“Let’s hear it,” Alexander said.
The transmission’s cacophony filled the bridge.
“The universal translator—” Chitirih-Ra-Dreii said. He abruptly cursed again, using an epithet far up the hierarchy of Deltan curses. Deltans did not even bother with minor curses. “Overloaded, Captain. Useless.”
The gibberish bucked and broke over the speakers.
Alexander felt more excited than angry. This might make the months of patrol worthwhile. Every starship captain possessed the ambition to make a first contact: an encounter with something new, something unknown.
“I want to see our guest, Lieutenant Sgeulaiches,” Alexander said. “And send out a universal greeting. Let them know we’re here.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Alexander detected no change in the wailing noise, no indication that the transmission’s source detected her transmission, no acknowledgment of the Saratoga’s presence.
“Found it, Captain! Maximum magnification.”
An object caught starlight and flung it out again. All the information the sensors could glean about the object—damned little, Alexander noted—appeared in a stat window in the corner of the viewscreen. Alexander whistled softly. Whatever the object was, it was big.
“Evidence of Romulan ships?”
“None, Captain.”
Alexander frowned. “They should have seen that thing. They ought to be pursuing it. They ought to be accusing us of sending intruders into their territory. Where are they?”
The object approached.
“Helm—wait for it.” This whole business reminded Alexander a little too strongly of the Kobayashi Maru test.
“Aye, Captain,” the helm officer said. The Saratoga’s impulse engines countered the ship’s momentum.
“Overlay.”
An information overlay dimmed the primary image on the viewscreen.
If the object remained on its current course, it would intersect the system of an average yellow star, Sol, the system of Alexander’s homeworld, Earth.
“Cancel,” she said stiffly. The overlay dissolved. The intruder was much closer now.
The surface of the long, cylindrical construction erupted here and there with antennae. The construction’s metallic skin bore a brushed finish. Or…a shiny finish had been dulled by eons of space travel, touched by micrometeoroids or stroked by stellar winds perhaps once a year, once a century, till a uniform pattern of microscopic scratches created its velvety skin.
“What do you make of it?”
“It appears to be a probe, Captain,” the science officer said. “From an intelligence unknown to us.”
“Continue transmitting,” Alexander said. “Universal peace and hello in all known languages. And get me Starfleet Command.”
“Starfleet, Captain.”
“Starfleet Command,” Alexander said, “this is the Starship Saratoga, patrolling sector five, the Neutral Zone. We are tracking a probe of unknown origin on apparent trajectory to the Solar system. We have attempted first contact on all frequencies. We have received no intelligible response and no acknowledgment.”
“Continue tracking, Saratoga. We will analyze transmissions and advise.”
“Roger, Starfleet,” Alexander said. “Relay transmissions.”
The science officer relayed a copy of the probe’s transmissions back to Starfleet. His sardonic smile as much as said, “Analyze away, and see what you make of it.”
“Saratoga out,” Alexander said.
“Range four hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”
The ship reverberated with the probe’s transmission. The bridge lights faded.
“Mister Ra-Dreii, what’s causing that?”
“Captain, their call is being carried on an amplification wave of enormous power.”
“Can you isolate the wave?”
“Negative. It’s affecting all our systems—”
The dim half-intensity illumination flickered as the probe’s cry plunged through the Saratoga and overwhelmed it.
“Red alert,” Alexander said calmly. “Shields up. Helm, reduce closing speed.”
“Captain, our impulse engine controls have been neutralized!”
“Emergency thrusters.” This was going the Kobayashi Maru test one better. Or one worse.
“No response, Captain.”
The probe plunged toward them. The volume of its transmission increased, as if the probe could grip the fabric of matter and space-time itself and force it to vibrate to its will. Saratoga quivered.
All power failed.
“Emergency lights!” Alexander shouted over the impossible scream of the probe.
In the feeble scarlet glow, the officers wrestled to win some reaction from deadened controls. The viewscreen wavered into a blurry half-intensity image.
“Damage report!” Alexander snapped.
“Captain, all systems are failing,” Chitirih-Ra-Dreii said. “We are functioning on reserve power only.”
The enormous bow of the probe plowed toward them. Its body stretched back endlessly.
“Saratoga is out of control,” Alexander said. “Secure for collision.”
The probe’s immense length flashed past, just above the upper curve of Saratoga’s hull. It left them behind in a sudden silence and dimming scarlet light.
It headed toward Earth.
“They’ve finished us,” Chitirih-Ra-Dreii whispered, his voice hoarse. “And we don’t even know why, we don’t even know what they want.”
“Give me whatever you’ve got on the emergency channel,” Alexander said. “Mister Ra-Dreii, prepare stasis.”
The signal strength hovered at such a marginal level that Captain Alexander might drain the last of Saratoga’s reserves and never get through to Starfleet. But she had no choice.
“Starfleet Command, this is Saratoga,” Alexander said. “Can you hear me? Come in, please. Starfleet Command, come in.” She paused, hoping for a response but receiving none. “Any Federation ship, Mayday, Mayday. Please relay this message to Starfleet. Earth is in danger. Repeat—”
The air grew heavy with exhaled carbon dioxide. Chitirih-Ra-Dreii and Engineering struggled to restore the life-support systems, but failed. Alexander ordered the rest of her crew into stasis and repeated the message of danger till the signal strength fell to zero.
The Federation did not reply.
Sarek of Vulcan stepped from the transporter center into the cool, damp brightness of Earth. He could have beamed directly to Federation headquarters, but he preferred to make his way on foot. On any world where conditions permitted, he chose to walk in the open air and on the open ground. In this way he could make himself familiar with a new environment. This was something Amanda had taught him. He often wondered why Vulcans did not habitually do the same thing, for it was quite logical.
Sarek had expected never to return to diplomatic service after his retirement. He had never expected to visit Earth again. But now, two journeys in three months disarranged his contemplative existence. He had made his first voyage to accuse James Kirk. He made this voyage to defend him.
The planetary government of Vulcan had come perilously close to forbidding the second voyage. Sarek had to delve deep into his reserves of logic and persuasion to win their agreement. Many members of the government claimed no interest in James Kirk’s fate; they offered Sarek the hypothesis that since Kirk had neutralized a series of events that he himself had begun, a balance had been reached. Kirk must face the consequences of his actions alone. If Vulcans acted, the balance would be destroyed.
Perhaps, Sarek thought, the charge Representative T’Pring made is correct. Perhaps I have spent too much time on Earth. I have certainly, in the eyes of other Vulcans, spent too much time in the company of human beings, or at any rate in the company of one human being. Yet I cannot imagine following any other path for my life, and, at the end of our debate, even the flawlessly logical sword-edged blade of T’Pring’s mind finally turned to my pe
rsuasion. She argued on my behalf.
As he walked, he reaccustomed himself to Earth’s low gravity and weather conditions. Fog, gathering beneath the catenaries of the Golden Gate Bridge, crept through the streets and flowed around the hills. Sarek drew his cloak around him, marring the fine pattern of condensation that collected on the heavy fabric.
Sarek arrived at Federation headquarters moments before he was scheduled to speak. In the foyer, Commander Christine Chapel hurried to meet him.
“Sarek, thank you for coming.”
“I left Vulcan as soon as I was able after your message arrived. Do the findings of the inquiry still go against James Kirk and his shipmates?”
“It isn’t going well for him. For any of them.” She sounded worried. “He’s made a lot of friends in his career. But a lot of enemies as well. There are people—outside the Federation, and in it too—who would like to see him brought down.”
“But he saved Spock’s life, and the life of Lieutenant Saavik,” Sarek said. “Furthermore, he acted on my behalf and at my request. It is preposterous that he should be punished.”
“Sir,” Chapel said, “you’ve made enemies too.”
“It is illogical,” Sarek said. “But it is true.”
“Mister Ambassador, has Spock recovered?”
“He is recovering. However, the experience is not without effect. He has undergone changes, but he is Spock.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
Sarek followed Chapel into the surprising darkness of the council chamber.
A harsh glare flashed over the stepped ranks of seats and turned the councilors’ varied complexions a uniform scarlet. The floor, the very air, shook with a subsonic rumble. On a holographic screen above the chamber, a violent explosion roiled and rumbled.
A thunderous voice filled the room. “All the members of the boarding party perished horribly in this Federation trap. All but one of Commander Kruge’s heroic crew died by a devious hand, and Commander Kruge himself was abandoned, to perish on the surface of an exploding planet!”
The holographic image faded. The only light remaining radiated upward from the witness box, illuminating the flushed and angry heavy-featured face of Kamarag, the Klingon ambassador to the United Federation of Planets. Sarek had encountered Kamarag before. He knew him as an obdurate opponent.
A great starship appeared above Kamarag: the Enterprise, bright against a background of black space and multicolored stars. A second explosion filled the chamber with the actinic light of warp engines gone critical. Beside Sarek, Commander Chapel gasped. The nictitating membranes flicked across Sarek’s eyes, protecting him from a glare that caused most of the sighted beings in the chamber to blink and murmur. When their vision cleared, they saw what Sarek observed: the destruction of the Enterprise. The battered ship struggled against its death, fighting to stay in the sky, but another explosion racked it, and another, and it fell from space into atmosphere. It glowed with the friction of its speed. It burned. It disappeared in ashes and in flames.
Distressed, Chapel turned away.
How very like a human, Sarek thought, to grieve over a starship.
“But one fatal error can destroy the most sinister plan,” Kamarag said. “The mission recordings remained in the memory of our fighting ship! Officer Maltz transmitted them to me before he, too, died. Did he die, as the Federation claims, a suicide? Or was it convenient to eliminate the last objective witness?”
The image of a small band of humans appeared. The mission recorder focused on the face of James Kirk.
“There!” Kamarag shouted. “Hold the image! Hold!”
The image froze: James Kirk gazed at his dying ship.
“Observe!” Kamarag said in a low and dangerous voice. His brow ridges pulsed with anger; his heavy eyebrows lowered over his dark, deep eyes. “The quintessential devil in these matters! James T. Kirk, renegade and terrorist. He is responsible for the murder of the Klingon crew and the theft of their vessel. But his true aims were more sinister. Behold the real plot and intentions!”
One image of James Kirk dissolved into a second. The new image, uniformed, calm, well groomed, gazed out at the audience.
“To fully understand the events on which I report,” Kirk said, “it is necessary to review the theoretical data on the Genesis device.”
A complex diagram glowed into being.
“Genesis is a procedure by which the molecular structure of matter is broken down, not into subatomic parts as in nuclear fission, or even into elementary particles, but into subelementary particle-waves.”
The diagram solidified into a torpedo, and the torpedo arced through space to land on a barren world. The effect of the device spread out from the impact like a tidal wave of fire, racing across and finally covering the rocky surface of the planetoid. When the glow faded, stone and dust had become water and air and fertile soil.
“The results are completely under our control,” James Kirk said. “In this simulation, a barren rock becomes a world with water, atmosphere, and a functioning ecosystem capable of sustaining most known forms of carbon-based life.”
Sarek knew about the Genesis device. He did not need to watch its simulation. Instead, he observed the councilors. Most had known little if anything about the secret project. They reacted with amazement or shock or silent contemplation, depending on their character and their culture.
“Even as the Federation negotiated a peace treaty with us, Kirk secretly developed the Genesis torpedo. This dreadful weapon, disguised as a civilian project, was conceived by Kirk’s paramour and their son. It was test detonated by the admiral himself!”
Kamarag waited for silence among the agitated councilors. Sarek gathered his own energy. The holographic screen contracted upon itself, squeezing its image to nothingness. The chamber’s lights rose.
“James Kirk called the result of this awesome energy the ‘Genesis Planet.’A gruesome euphemism! It was no more and no less than a secret base from which to launch the annihilation of the Klingon people!” He paused again, letting his outrage affect the council chamber. He drew himself up. “We demand the extradition of Kirk! We demand justice.”
“The Empire has a unique point of view on justice, Mister President,” Sarek said. He strode into the chamber and descended the stairs. “It is not so many years past that the Empire recognized James Kirk as a hero, and honored him for preventing the annihilation of the Klingon people. One must wonder what political upheaval could have changed their opinion so precipitously.”
“It is Kirk who changed!” Kamarag clamped his fingers around the edge of the lectern and leaned toward Sarek, fixing him with an expression of hatred and fury. “From concealing his treachery to exposing it, as Genesis proves!”
“Genesis was perfectly named,” Sarek said. “Had it succeeded, it would have meant the creation of life, not death. It was the Klingons who drew first blood while trying to possess its secrets.”
“Vulcans are well known,” Ambassador Kamarag said coldly, “as the intellectual puppets of the Federation.”
“Your vessel did destroy U.S.S. Grissom. Commander Kruge did order the death of David Marcus, James Kirk’s son. Do you deny these events?”
“We deny nothing,” Kamarag said. “We have the right to preserve our species.”
“Do you have the right to commit murder?”
The councilors and the spectators reacted to Sarek’s charges. Sarek stood in silence, unaffected by the noise rising around him. The president rapped the gavel.
“Order! There will be no further outbursts from the floor.”
After quiet returned, Sarek mounted a dais and faced the council president. This put his back to Ambassador Kamarag. It was an action both insult and challenge.
“Mister President,” Sarek said, “I have come to speak on behalf of the accused.”
“This is a gross example of personal bias! James Kirk retrieved Sarek’s son.” Kamarag’s voice grew heavy with irony. “One can hardly blam
e Sarek for his bias—or for letting his emotions overwhelm a dispassionate analysis.”
Sarek ignored the retaliatory insult. His attention remained on the council president. He refused to be distracted by Kamarag’s outbursts or by the whispers and exclamations of the councilors. During his many years away from Vulcan, Sarek had learned that such reactions to an altercation did not necessarily indicate the intention to interfere. However high the technologies of their worlds, however polished their educations, most sentient beings could easily be diverted from important issues by the promise of entertainment. And a fight between Ambassador Kamarag and Sarek of Vulcan would be entertainment indeed.
Sarek greatly preferred the Vulcan way. Perhaps the council president had also studied Vulcan methods, for he remained calm until the uproar subsided.
“Mister Ambassador,” the president said to Kamarag, “with all respect, the council must deliberate. We will consider your views—”
“You intend to let Kirk go unpunished,” Kamarag said, his tone low and dangerous.
“Admiral Kirk has been charged with nine violations of Starfleet regulations—”
“Starfleet regulations!” Kamarag snorted with disgust. “This is outrageous! There are higher laws than Starfleet regulations! Remember this well: there will be no peace as long as Kirk lives.”
He swept down from the witness box and strode from the council chamber. In the shocked silence that followed his ultimatum, the heels of his boots thudded loudly on the polished floor. His security guards surrounded him; his staff snatched up their equipment and hurried after him.
Disturbed, finally, by Kamarag’s reaction, the president turned his attention to Sarek. “Sarek of Vulcan, with all respect,” he said. “We ask you to return Kirk and his officers to answer for their crimes.”
The president’s request told Sarek much. The inquiry would find that charges were justified. James Kirk and his friends would face court-martial.
Kirk and the others had risked their careers and their lives at Sarek’s request. They had willingly gone through an ordeal that most of the beings in this chamber could not even imagine. This was their reward.
Duty, Honor, Redemption Page 49
