Pike touched Spock’s arm, jerked his head toward the trees at the edge of the oasis. The other two lieutenants followed them as they drifted away from the busy group of traders still hovering around the displayed merchandise. Quietly, unnoticed, the four officers reached the far side of the grove. When they were safely screened by the trees, Pike brought out his communicator and flipped it open. “Pike to Enterprise.”
“Enterprise here,” came the immediate response.
“Four to beam up.”
“Aye, sir.”
There was a moment’s wait as the order was relayed down to the transporter room. Then the familiar hum began to sing in the air, and the men froze as the atmosphere around them began to sparkle. The glittering transporter beam covered them completely as the hum rose to a whine, and then they were gone.
Number One was waiting for them in Transporter Room 3 when they beamed in. As soon as transportation was complete and the men moved off the platform, the executive officer stepped forward. Pike knew from her face that there was more trouble.
[211] “Number One?”
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s been another murder on board—the same method as the first.” She looked pityingly at Spock. “The victim was Lieutenant T’Pris.”
Chapter Twelve
SPOCK’S FACE WAS IMMOBILE; although he wanted to cry, he refused to let the tears form. His body trembled violently. “Where is T’Pris?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Her body was removed to sickbay,” Number One said kindly.
Both Pike and the exec were watching him closely. Spock didn’t care. He moved toward the transporter-room door, weaving uncertainly, staggered by his grief. “I must see her.”
“Dr. Boyce will show you where she is.”
“Alone,” Spock snapped. The doors slid open before him.
“Call Boyce and tell him,” Pike ordered quietly. Number One moved to the intercom on the transporter console as Spock exited and the doors swished closed.
T’Pris’s body had been removed from the lab where she had been found and placed in a private alcove of sickbay. Boyce had folded her hands over her breast [213] and closed her eyes. When Spock saw her, it was easy to think for a moment that she was merely asleep. The illusion lasted only until Spock reached out to touch her lovely face and felt the coldness of her flesh.
The doctor had retreated to his office when Spock entered, shutting the door behind him. Spock dimly realized he was alone and was grateful no one heard the chest-wrenching sobs that broke from him as he bent over T’Pris’s body. He took her hand in his and held it while he leaned down to kiss her one last time. A teardrop fell and dampened her gentle face. Spock released her hand and straightened his shoulders. He had to use his sleeve to wipe away his tears, and as he did so his face changed.
Hardened.
A cold rage and desire for revenge rose in Spock. The woman he had loved was dead, and her murderer had also killed Spock’s hope that he might find happiness. He felt he would never know another woman to whom he could give himself so completely.
Later in his quarters, Spock sat motionless before the ancestral figure from his family shrine. He should have been meditating, but he found his grief was too great for his mind to focus on a mantra or the riddle of a Vulcan koan. The only image that filled his mind was T’Pris—alive, smiling at him, her face and body flushed with lovemaking, full of the deep and unspeakable joy of mental and physical bonding that only Vulcans could feel.
Meditation should have brought him peace, but the anger and need for revenge would not release its hold on him. Finally, he gave it up, pushed to his feet, and went to seek out the captain.
[214] Pike sat with Number One in the briefing room, going over what they knew, which the executive officer had to admit was not much. “She was murdered in exactly the same way as Meadows,” Number One said. “With the right hand and with what the Vulcans call lan-dovna technique—one-handed strangulation.”
“The Vulcans on board?” Pike asked quickly.
“All of them were under house arrest, observed to be in their quarters at the time, sir.”
“Then who in hell could possibly have done it?”
The door slid open, and Spock entered. “I beg pardon for the intrusion, Captain.”
“You’ve been relieved from duty for the time being, Spock,” Pike said. He glanced across the table at Number One, recalling what she had told him about Spock and T’Pris’s personal involvement.
“Again, I beg pardon, sir, but I believe I would be more valuable to you in the investigation of these murders if I were on duty. In fact, it is my belief that I should have been pursuing the investigation all along, and Lieutenant T’Pris should have gone to the planet surface to assist you there.”
He blames himself for her death, Pike thought. And I’m not going to let him get away with that. “No, Mr. Spock. I needed you there, and the lieutenant was perfectly suited to the task here. No one could have known the murderer was not one of the suspects we had in hand.”
“I would not have been such easy prey,” Spock said harshly. “Captain, I wish to continue this investigation with you.”
[215] “I see no reason why Lieutenant Spock’s request should not be granted, sir,” Number One put in.
Pike traded a long look with his executive officer. They both knew this would mean a great deal to Spock. If he was blaming himself for putting T’Pris in line of danger, assisting in the search for her murderer would be an expiation for that guilt. “I agree.” Pike gestured to a seat next to the first officer. “Number One was just filling in the details for me.”
Quickly, Number One outlined the steps that had been taken to discover the murderer and the fact that truth detectors had failed to uncover any lie in the Vulcans’ stories of innocence. “T’Pris noticed that Meadows’s computer had no files or notes of any kind on the Glory, and he most certainly would have made some. She thought the murderer had erased any information Meadows had recorded. We found the same situation in T’Pris’s library-computer link after her death. She had been pursuing a line of information she had found in the personnel files. She thought the most viable suspect—if Vulcans were in the clear—would be someone at least familiar with Vulcan and its martial defense arts. I saw her working at her computer link. I know she was making notes. When we found her body, I checked the computer myself. Any files or records she had made were gone, erased.”
Spock eagerly leaned toward her. “Tell me what she said, any reference at all to her line of investigation, her reasoning. Can you recall it, Number One?”
“Of course.” Number One looked slightly miffed. She had an eidetic memory. “We spoke of possible [216] suspects, and T’Pris said, ‘I believe humans have a saying, “Never assume.” It appears to me we have all been guilty of assuming only a Vulcan could or would use the lan-dovna technique to murder Meadows. I admit it seems so obvious, but perhaps that is what the killer meant us to assume. Our traditions and rituals are not secret on this subject. As Spock pointed out to you, it is a self-defense technique that is taught. There are many who have studied our philosophy and combat techniques, though it is seldom that a non-Vulcan has the strength to carry out many of them. Still, if we allow for the strength, a non-Vulcan could very possibly execute lan-dovna. I wish to follow a theory that our criminal is not a Vulcan. If we take that assumption, what other candidates on board do we have?’ Then, when she was following up on the library-computer link, she said, ‘I ordered up detailed personnel records on every crew member. Not just the service jackets—personal history. The kind of thing Starfleet has in depth on every member of the fleet.’ It was in those records that she seemed to have found something that was leading her somewhere. She said it was ‘something promising,’ but she didn’t have all the facts yet. I believe she was following that trail when she was murdered, and the murderer erased all information she had compiled.”
When she finished, Spock nodded thoughtfully. “I see.” He paused a
moment, then looked at the captain. “May I see where T’Pris died?”
Orloff had sealed off the biology lab, but Pike broke the seals without hesitation and allowed Spock to precede him into the room. It was a small but efficient [217] office adjoining the larger lab area where specimens were examined and scanned. The computer screen still glowed, but it showed only a dull, blank face to them as they examined it.
“Are any other files missing?” Pike asked Number One.
“None that we can determine. All routine duty reports by the science officer on duty were logged. The other lab technicians and biologists say there was little to do on this leg of the mission except pursue theoretical work. Some of T’Pris’s research is in the computer. But her line of inquiry regarding personnel records is totally gone.”
“Not totally, Number One.”
Pike and Number One looked around at Spock as he seated himself at the computer console.
“Lieutenant, I assure you we ran a full scan of all records in the library computer, and T’Pris’s are not there, except for the biological research in which she had been engaged.”
“I agree they have been erased. But not as thoroughly as our murderer would like to have had them.”
“Explain,” Pike said.
“I am an A-5 computer expert, Captain.”
Pike smiled wryly, recalling Number One’s briefing on Lieutenant Spock. The best most officers attain is an A-3 rating, Pike had observed. Precisely, sir. Number One had made her point with those two words. Their new Vulcan lieutenant had exceptional qualifications. It was unfortunate they would be called on to find his loved one’s murderer. “Go on,” Pike said.
“What most people, including Starfleet officers, do not fully appreciate is that any thorough investigative [218] probe into computer records can reveal what may be referred to as footprints, even in the case of an erased record or one that apparently has been completely destroyed. The computer memory retains at least the ghost of an imprint of that record. Therefore, no file is ever totally lost. I need only to follow the trail of footprints to recreate the records T’Pris was investigating.”
“How soon can that be done?”
“Ah,” Spock sighed. “I did not mean to make the task appear easy. It is a process of reconstruction, of hunting out the faintest of signs and symbols among the many tracks available in the library computer. It will take a while, captain. I cannot speculate on the number of hours.”
“Then I believe you should get started.”
Spock nodded briskly. “Yes, sir.” He turned to the library-computer link and began work without another look at the captain and Number One.
Scott had left the various pieces of the still in the engineering service closet for more than forty-eight hours. Brien was urging him to get the distillery in operation again, but Scott was wary of an unexpected sweep of the engineering section.
“We have customers to please, Scotty,” Brien pleaded. “They won’t wait forever.”
“They’ll have to, won’t they?” Scott retorted stubbornly. “Won’t do them a bit of good if security confiscates it all, will it? Do you know what they’ll do if they find out who’s the owner of that little piece of piping? They’ll reduce me and you to ensigns all over again. They’ll put us in charge of the engineering shift [219] on a scow collecting the bits and pieces of space junk in Earth orbit. We’ll get a leave maybe in twenty-five years, if we’re lucky. No, man. Let it alone a while. There’s no one will miss a jug or two, and as ye said yourself, this is a drop of the stuff worth waitin’ for.”
Caitlin Barry was conducting a routine inspection of the dilithium crystal in the central core. While they maintained standard orbit over Areta on impulse power, the warp engines were cut back to the minimum operating level, and it was a good time to run all the standard checks. It was midshift, and Bob Brien was assisting her as they ran through the routine.
She approached the inspection scope hole which would afford her a view of the underside of the crystal hanging in its cradle in the core. “Ready?” she asked over her shoulder.
Brien acknowledged he was, bringing up the clipboard he carried. Caitlin flipped open the inspection port and levered the close inspection lens in front of her eyes. The end of the lens which scoped the underside of the crystal had a series of mirrors built into it so that the maneuvering of a toggle enabled the viewer to see all areas of the crystal from this angle. Caitlin put her eye to the lens and worked the toggle slowly so that the system gave her a series of close-up views one after the other.
“Hold it,” Caitlin said suddenly. She froze the lens where it was and magnified the image. “Got a crack.”
“How bad?” Brien asked, stylus poised over the clipboard.
“Simple hairline fracture. Lucky we spotted it now, though. If it had gotten any bigger, it could have [220] cracked in midwarp, rupturing the whole crystal.” She looked back at him pointedly. There was no need to discuss what would happen if the crystal ruptured. The carefully aimed streams of matter and antimatter would have mingled directly without the controlling medium of the dilithium between, and the Enterprise would have been blown to space dust in microseconds. “All right, let’s get it out of there.”
The section on duty could handle it, although removal and replacement of a crystal wasn’t simple. First, all warp functions had to be shut down. Then the damaged crystal had to be lifted out of its cradle using waldos manipulated by two people, carefully edged to the loading chute, eased into that, and dropped into the protective cartridge that would carry it away for disposal. The replacement crystal had to be lifted into the core, boosted slowly into the catching manipulators of the waldos, and then gently maneuvered into the main cradle. Once there, it would be precisely aligned and tested, and finally the warp engines could be run up again.
Caitlin supervised the shutdown of the engines and decided to allow the duty team to remove the crystal under Brien’s supervision. She went to the observation scope to watch the removal. Opening the scope hole, she casually glanced along the length of it before applying her eye to the lens. There was a peculiar little mark on the side of the scope hole which she hadn’t noticed before—circular and definitely out of place. Frowning, she slid the lens up and out of the way and reached in to run her fingers over the marred surface. Her nails caught on the far edge of the circle and lifted a flat lid, revealing the small hole cut into the metal.
[221] “What in the world?”
Bob Brien was too busy supervising the crystal removal team to notice that the chief engineer had found something odd in the inspection scope hole. He didn’t see her get a probe and run it down that mysterious opening. The probe end ran a little way and then reappeared, dangling among the irregular latticework of pipes that decorated the bulkhead about four feet away. Caitlin studied it thoughtfully. The still would have been beautifully camouflaged in the eye-deceiving tangle. When you knew where to look, it was easy to see where it had been, but she knew she had passed by without seeing it countless times.
Caitlin was no stranger to the existence of engine-room hooch. She was also aware of the fact that someone had been diligently brewing up batch after batch on this voyage—with some detriment to off-duty personnel, according to Boyce and Number One. She had not been able to figure out where the still had been located—until this moment. The thing must have been removed during the engine-room search for the Glory, but where was it now?
Caitlin retired to her small office off the main engineering section, put her feet up on her desk, and leaned back to think about it a while. No one had offered the chief a sample of the contraband alcohol—she seldom drank—but she had heard it had a dynamic quality. Number One and Dr. Boyce had informed her the day before that it was potentially dangerous. The engine-room searches had obviously cut off production, and the culprits were lying low for the moment. If she were making the hooch, she would [222] want the equipment nearby so she could resume activity as soon as possible. She brought her b
oots down to the deck with an easy jackknife of her knees. A likely place had occurred to her.
She asked no one to accompany her. The duty crew was busy with the dilithium crystal replacement in any event. The first three service closets Caitlin investigated held no more than the expected tools and supplies. She mentally noted that the supply shelves were fully stocked and efficiently arranged. Good housekeeping, she thought approvingly. Service Closet 4 was different. It contained an additional several pipes, two of them curled and rippling and two short and straight—definitely nonstandard equipment—and a tool kit that should not have been there. Caitlin bent and flipped open the kit, revealing a neat arrangement of tools, pipe fittings, and two small catch jars. The tool kit had no identifying marks; it was standard Starfleet issue. Whose?
Spock rubbed his tired eyes, trying to ignore the burning sensation and the heaviness of his lids. He had been seated in front of the library-computer screen in the biology lab for almost twenty hours, and fatigue had begun to drag at him, dulling his mental perception.
T’Pris had been examining the complete personnel records of all crew members—the lives of two hundred three people, including family histories that traced three and even four generations. Many of the crew came from fleet families—service that dated back to the pioneer days of space exploration and the beginnings of Starfleet. Others had been drawn into [223] the service by the romance and adventure promised by the drive to push back the known boundaries of space. The galaxy was so vast only a small percentage of it had been mapped and explored; the Milky Way was a treasure house of unknown worlds and civilizations. Some might prove friendly, some hostile, but all would be endlessly fascinating.
STAR TREK: TOS #44 - Vulcan's Glory Page 17
