Which, as you can imagine, Phlox, is disappointing to me for more than medical reasons. The Saurians are a remarkable race biologically, with an incredibly robust physiology: a quadruply redundant circulatory system, a respiratory filter that cleanses toxins from inhaled air like our livers cleanse blood—and don’t get me started on the amazing efficiency of their actual livers. And their adaptations to nocturnal existence are fascinating. But more than that, they’re a lively, passionate people with a rich, ancient culture. I relish the opportunity to get to know them and explore their world, but their fears of disease have made it difficult.
Still, I’m making the best of it. My team and I have been lodged with the Federation mining consultants—since their lodgings have been equipped with bright lights, thermal controls, and other amenities we fragile mammalian types require—and the lot of them have been welcoming to us, probably as grateful for friendly company as we are. And a few of them have managed to hold on to the trust of the friends they’ve made among the Saurians, though it’s tenuous in some cases. One fellow in particular, Antonio Ruiz, has made a number of friends at the local taverns, and he and his clique have treated us to a few memorable nights on the town. I think his gregariousness has helped balance out some of the fears and propaganda that . . .
“Doctor? Doctor Lucas! You need to come quick!”
The urgency in the voice coming through the door of his hotel room—and the repeated chimes of the door annunciator that accompanied it—distracted Jeremy Lucas from his letter. Heaving his portly frame out of the chair and twisting his walrus-mustached lip in annoyance at Sauria’s high gravity, Lucas made his way to the door and opened it, recognizing the Filipina woman on the other side. “Laila, what is it?”
Laila Alindogan pulled on his arm. “Come on, something’s happening outside! The police are here!”
Lucas followed her out into the corridor carved from the igneous rock of the city. Once they reached the hotel entrance, they found the Narpran police arrayed around it in sizeable numbers, with several offworlders including Antonio Ruiz facing off against them. “Look, are you gonna tell us what’s going on?” Ruiz asked. “What have we done to get evicted?”
The local police chief, Densri, responded in a patient voice with a hint of apology. “It’s the new policy, sir,” she said. “Due to the . . . concerns of infection, we’re asking offworlders to leave as a precaution.”
“Come on, that’s ridiculous!” Other voices raised in protest alongside Ruiz’s.
Lucas strode forward, putting all his authority into his voice and bulky presence. “Excuse me!” The crowd subsided, turning to him. “Chief Densri, I can assure you, my people have found no evidence that this disease is being caused by non-Saurians. We need to be allowed to work closely with your people if we’re to help you find a cure.”
“That will not be necessary,” came another voice. A wiry, violet-skinned Saurian male strode forward. “Colonel Kurvanis, M’Tezir Royal Command.”
“Doctor Jeremy Lucas, Interspecies Medical Exchange. What are you saying, Colonel?”
“I am saying that a remedy for the disease has already been discovered—in M’Tezir.”
“What? How can that be?” It would be wonderful news if true, of course. But Saurians had so little experience with illness that it seemed doubtful their medical science could crack this problem faster than the Federation’s or the IME’s—particularly given that the M’Tezir nation had historically devoted its sciences more to military applications than medical ones.
“Perhaps,” the colonel said loudly enough to be audible to the crowd accumulating along the boardwalk and peering out the windows in the adjacent rock face, “your people have been reluctant to find a cure lest it prove your culpability in bringing alien diseases to our world.”
“I’ve already explained that that’s not the case.”
“And we have confirmed that it is.”
“How? M’Tezir kicked the offworlders out almost as soon as the disease appeared, even though none of the cases were on their soil. If we were causing the disease, how could you identify and cure it without studying us?”
“Doctor,” Chief Densri said as if breaking bad news, “the medicine is real. I have seen it work.”
“Then isn’t that all the more reason to work with us to administer it to your people?”
“It is all the more reason to keep you away from our people,” Kurvanis told him. “It is a treatment, not a vaccine. It does not preclude re-infection from further exposure.”
It still sounded fishy to Lucas. “I’d like to study your research. There’s no point in doing anything rash.”
Chief Densri spread her hands in a Saurian gesture of negation. “Doctor Lucas, the government’s decision has already been made. M’Tezir has agreed to mobilize their military for a medical relief mission. But the only way their troops can set foot on our soil without it constituting an act of war against the Global League . . . is if we sever ties with the League. And its allies.”
“That’s crazy,” Ruiz protested. “Why not just send in civilian doctors?”
“Only the military has the resources, numbers, and efficiency to get the job done,” Kurvanis declaimed with pride. “And they are already on their way. The decision is final. We are doing you a courtesy by allowing you to stand here and argue at all. But it is best if you are gone by the time the troops arrive. They are . . . dedicated to protecting their people from all threats.”
Laila Alindogan turned to Densri. “So this is it? All we’ve taught you, all the generosity and welcome you’ve shown us . . . it ends at the point of a gun?”
“So long as you cooperate, there will be no need to make this . . . unpleasant,” the chief said, though she clearly did not wish it to be this way.
“Don’t worry, your Federation won’t lose its precious minerals,” Kurvanis said, misreading Alindogan’s concerns. “M’Tezir will continue to honor its deal with the Federation, but it will now be managing Narpra’s resources instead of the Global League . . . as soon as the terms of alliance are finalized.”
“Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Ruiz asked.
“I need not justify myself to you. Your only concern at this point is packing your belongings and leaving. That is a government order.” He turned to Chief Densri. “Which you will now enforce. Correct?”
Densri glared at him. “I know my job, Colonel. Even if I don’t take the pleasure in it that you do.” She turned to Lucas. “Please, Doctor. On behalf of Narpra, I thank you for your service. But I now require you to leave.”
Lucas looked around at the police troops—big, strong, incredibly durable Saurian police troops—and knew there was nothing he could do. He still had nightmares about that horrible day a decade ago when a band of genetically enhanced human Augments had held him hostage at Cold Station 12, torturing him and threatening the lives of others—even killing Deputy Director Iyer before his eyes—to force him to hand over the hundreds of Augment embryos stored there. He had done his best to be brave, only to ultimately succumb in order to save his friend Phlox’s life . . . rendering Iyer’s sacrifice essentially meaningless, a guilt that had stayed with him ever since. As much as he wanted to stand up to this intimidation and redeem his shame, he knew he couldn’t bear to risk any more lives if he could avoid it. His fellow offworlders were better off cooperating with the Narpran police than they would be if they waited for Colonel Kurvanis’s forces to arrive.
So with a heavy sigh, he turned to Ruiz, Alindogan, and the others. “We have to do as she says.”
“But, Doc—”
“It’s their decision, Antonio,” he said, nipping the young Cuban’s tirade in the bud. “We have to respect it even if we don’t agree with it. That’s part of being a good guest.”
“So . . . so where will we go?”
“There are still other countries in the Global League where we should be welcome.” He tilted his head back and took one more lingering look at
the beautiful lava-tube city. The sun was just rising, and the light filtering through the plant canopies above gave the city a verdant glow like the depths of a rainforest. He lamented that his stay in Narpra had been so brief. “But there’s nothing more we can do here.”
May 12, 2164
U.S.S. Pioneer, orbiting Kaferia (Tau Ceti III)
Malcolm Reed smiled at the familiar face appearing on his ready room monitor. “Admiral Archer! To what do we owe the pleasure, sir?”
“Good to see you, Malcolm,” the admiral said. “And you, Travis,” he added to the man who stood on Reed’s left.
“Always good to see you, sir,” Mayweather replied.
“So . . . any luck with the Kaferians?”
“No, sir,” Travis reported. “They’re grateful for our offer to help shore up their planetary defenses, but they’re still not interested in Federation membership. They hardly even have any kind of government to negotiate with.”
“I understand. I guess I’m not surprised.” The insectoid natives of Tau Ceti III had never had a problem with the erstwhile human colony on the neighboring fourth planet (confusingly called Outer Kaferia, with the third being Inner Kaferia; the system’s first explorers and settlers, the Kaferi family, had lacked both imagination and modesty when it came to naming things). Far from the stereotype of the insect hive mind, the Kaferians were fervent individualists content to let everyone, even alien colonists, go their own way so long as they stayed peaceful. But when the Romulans had conquered Tau Ceti IV and destroyed the NX-class vessel Atlantis, the Kaferians had offered safe haven and medical care for the starship’s survivors—including one Lieutenant Travis Mayweather. After the Starfleet crew had been evacuated, the Romulans had invaded Inner Kaferia in retaliation. Luckily, the Kaferians had evolved the ability to hibernate underground to survive the frequent asteroid impacts the system was prone to, so most of them had managed to sleep out the four-year occupation undetected. Otherwise, the Romulans would probably have exterminated their entire race as they had the human colony.
Now, Pioneer had been sent to the sole remaining Kaferia in the hopes that Mayweather could build on his past relationship with the natives and find some basis for a higher-level partnership. But while the Kaferians had been as friendly as ever, they were still just as determined to stand alone. “They’ll be good trading partners, Admiral,” Mayweather concluded, “but a formal alliance is too much to ask.”
“Then that’ll have to do,” Archer said with a sigh. “I have no doubt you did your best, Travis.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Fortunately, I have some better news on another front. The Rigelians have finally issued a formal petition for Federation membership.”
Mayweather beamed. “That’s great!”
“Excellent news, sir,” Reed added. “Congratulations. I take it the next step is an ambassadorial conference?”
“That’s the next step for me,” Archer said. “T’Pol will be escorting Commissioner Soval and myself to Babel aboard Endeavour. But I have something a little more interesting in mind for Pioneer.” The admiral paused before continuing in the deliberate, almost lecturing tones he sometimes adopted. “I’ve realized that there’s still a lot we don’t know about the Rigel system, both its planets and its peoples. And there’s still a lot they don’t know about us, too. If we’re going to become partners, it’s a good idea to have a cultural exchange. You know, get to know the new neighbors.”
Mayweather chuckled. “I’ll tell the steward to get started on a green bean casserole for ten billion.”
“Very funny, Travis. But there’s more at stake here. A lot of Rigelians still have doubts about us, questions about what the Federation’s really like. And, let’s face it, a lot of people in the Federation have doubts and misconceptions about Rigel—ones that the presidential campaign isn’t doing much to clear up.”
Reed nodded. “And you want us to bring more facts to the table. Let people see what Rigel’s really like.”
“That’s right. I’ve only seen parts of the system myself. We’ve all been to Rigel X more than once, but that’s an independent port run by the Xarantine. And I’ve been to Rigel V a couple of times now, done the tourist thing when I had the chance . . . this last time I got around to visiting the cabarets on Rigel II.” He gave a conspiratorial grin. “We’ll . . . talk about that sometime when we aren’t on an official channel.” Reed and Mayweather exchanged an intrigued look.
“Still, Admiral, since you called on me for this mission, I assume you’d like us to be more than just tourists.” Pioneer may have been a ship of exploration, but there were other captains better suited for pure science or diplomacy. Reed was still a soldier and defender at heart.
Archer grew more serious. “That’s right, Malcolm. There are some security concerns worth exploring. For instance, the First Families of Rigel IV. They’re not part of the trading community, and they’re basically pirates and gangsters. But they have a strong influence on much of Rigel II and the Colonies. I’d like to know if their corruption spreads even farther, and how much of a threat it poses to bringing Federation law to Rigel.”
“Understood, sir.”
“There are also some lingering questions about the Trade Commission. They say they do have some mechanisms for regulating commerce—and despite appearances, their methods can’t be completely hands-off or the system would be in chaos. But they’re reluctant to go into specifics, and nobody else seems eager to talk about it either. Whatever it is they’re doing, I think it’s important to know about it before we invite them in the door.”
Reed nodded. “Of course, Admiral.”
“Also . . . there’s the mystery of Rigel VII.”
“Still no luck getting the Rigelians to tell us about its natives, sir?”
“That’s right. I’d like you to look into it—but discreetly. If we’re treading on some cultural taboo, then we need to approach it with care. But we still need to find out if there’s anything going on there that could affect the Federation’s decision about granting membership.”
“I understand, Admiral.” Federation membership entailed certain ethical standards. If the Rigelians had some reason for being ashamed to talk about the Kalar, then it would be incumbent upon Pioneer’s crew to find out.
“But don’t get the wrong idea, Malcolm. Your main mission, as always, is exploration. True, this time you’re exploring a system where humans have gone before, but it’s such a large, complicated system that there’s still plenty left to discover. And there are plenty of people there who are eager to learn more about us.”
Reed straightened. “Sir. I’m honored that you’re entrusting Pioneer with such an important responsibility. However . . . to be honest, sir, I’m concerned that a diplomatic assignment of such delicacy is . . . well, a little outside my wheelhouse.”
“I have confidence in you, Malcolm. You know the sector, you’ve got a good crew, and you’ve been by my or T’Pol’s side for many diplomatic missions. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think you were the best captain, and crew, for the job.”
Reed’s chest swelled at Archer’s praise. “Thank you, sir. We won’t let you down.”
May 15, 2164
Trykar Palace Hotel, Kefvenek, Rigel II
Dular Garos gazed out the tinted panoramic window of the hotel suite, taking in the view from the fortieth story of the massive pyramidal structure that was the Trykar Palace. The garish Kefvenek Strip below was festooned with blinding lights, a compensation for the generally dim daylight in the terraformed polar regions of the planet. Not only did Raij never rise very high above the horizon, but the fierce white sunlight that baked most of the planet’s surface was blocked here by the edges of the valley in which the city was ensconced, by the dense, high rainforest of imported Rigel III vegetation beyond, and by the near-perpetual clouds and mist in the sky above—a mist supplemented by the thousands of tall, chimney-like seed-particle launchers arrayed around the re
gion when evaporation off the rainforest was insufficient.
Even so, a few vivid sunbeams had managed to push their way through the obstacles and shine down on the Strip, casting unexpected and no doubt unwelcome light on the sordid activities it hosted. Casting his brown eyes skyward, Garos saw extraordinary beauty . . . but it wasn’t enough to efface the sleaziness of what lay below.
But then, that’s always the way, isn’t it? As much as one aspired to heights of purity and light, the ugly business in the trenches was an unavoidable fact of the universe, and accepting it was usually necessary to get anything done.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?”
Case in point, Garos thought as he shifted his gaze to the man beside him. Vemrim Corthoc was a Zami Rigelian, and his ornate robes and the elaborate, jeweled coiffure of silver-blond hair atop his head (largely concealing the blunt points of his ears) marked him as a member of the elite First Families of Rigel IV. Any fleeting illusion that Corthoc was appreciating the same view as Garos was quickly dashed, for his proud gaze was directed toward the casinos and fleshpits below, toward the garish, flashing signs and wall displays whose shifting, multicolored lights did more to obfuscate the actions of the Strip’s patrons than to illuminate them. “Just look at all those tourists down there just waiting to be fleeced. This was a desert just a few centuries ago—now it’s a fertile, umm, plain where we can farm . . . well, harvest the riches of the galaxy.”
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