by Greg Cox
“No!” Pogg pleaded, buying them precious time. “Hold your fire! I beg you!”
“I repeat, surrender at once. This is your final warning.”
Were the Pavakians bluffing? Spock had no desire to find out. “Mister Scott?”
“I hear you!”
A burst of acceleration shoved Spock roughly back into his seat. Scott was hardly the pilot Sulu was, but what was needed now was speed—not precision flying—as well as an instinctive knowledge of just how far the shuttle’s engines could be pushed without burning out. Under the circumstances, Spock could not have asked for a better pilot at the helm.
But would that be enough?
“Cross your fingers, buckos,” Scott said. “I’m giving it all we’ve got.”
Within moments, Galileo exited the planet’s atmosphere, heading out into space. Spock experienced a very human sense of relief as Scott went to full impulse and they left Pavak behind.
“Is that it?” Scott asked. “Did we make it?”
“I suspect so,” Pogg said, looking no less relieved than the escaped Starfleet officers. “You two were valuable as bargaining chips, but not so much so as to warrant a full-scale chase across the solar system. Plus, I imagine that the saner heads in our government are reluctant to provoke a major confrontation with the Federation and Starfleet . . . or so I gambled.”
Spock wondered if that same reluctance had also inhibited the Pavakian military from shooting down the shuttle when they had the chance. It was one thing, after all, to detain a pair of Starfleet weapons inspectors indefinitely; it was another thing altogether to blast them from the skies when they attempted to depart the planet.
“It seems your instincts were correct then,” Spock observed. “Which was fortuitous for all our sakes . . . and perhaps two worlds as well.”
“Setting course for Sumno,” Scott announced. “Estimated time to arrival: four-point-two hours.”
Outward Six, bearing Major Takk, and perhaps the missing warhead, had a substantial lead on them, but Spock drew some comfort from the knowledge that Starfleet shuttles were significantly more advanced and capable of greater speeds than their Pavakian counterparts. He could only hope that advantage would increase their odds of recovering the warhead before it could be put to horrific use.
“I must thank you, Brigadier-General,” he said, “for going to such lengths to liberate us. I know that could not have been an easy decision for you.”
“It was not,” Pogg said. “I would have much preferred to turn this matter over to my superiors, had I only known how far up the chain of command the corruption went. But, under the circumstances, I could trust nothing but my own judgment—which I don’t mind saying was a very uncomfortable place to be.”
Spock sympathized. He had, on rare occasions, disobeyed orders himself, as when he had “borrowed” the Enterprise to return Christopher Pike to Talos IV. He understood full well how difficult a conflict between conscience and duty could be. . . .
“I believe you made the only logical decision,” he said. “And I commend you for having the courage to see it through.”
“Easy for you to say,” Pogg grumbled. “You didn’t just toss your career out the airlock.”
“Unless we can prove ye had good cause,” Scott offered. “Saving the peace—and preventing a disaster—might well restore your reputation and standing.”
“Then we had best find that missing warhead,” Pogg said, “or your captain may have another fugitive seeking asylum aboard his ship.” He sighed in weary resignation. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose you have any more of that ‘Scotch whiskey’ of yours?”
The Galileo sped toward Sumno.
Twenty-Three
“You asked to see me, Captain?”
Colonel Gast entered the briefing room where Kirk, Chekov, McCoy, and Riley awaited. Security officers, including Lieutenant Banks, were posted outside in the corridor. Hours had passed since the Copernicus had returned to the Enterprise, bringing the former hostages to safety, but that time had been well spent. Kirk was running on little sleep, but this meeting couldn’t wait.
“That’s correct,” Kirk replied from the head of the table. “Thank you for responding so promptly.”
“I have little else to do while the peace talks remain stalled.” She gave Kirk a salute. “My congratulations, incidentally, on the success of your rescue mission. Your reputation is obviously well-deserved, Captain.”
“I’m glad to have lived up to your expectations,” Kirk replied. “In any event, I promised to keep you apprised of our investigation of the murders. As it happens, some provocative new evidence has arisen.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“Why don’t you sit down first?” Kirk suggested, indicating an empty seat next to Chekov. “You look tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
In fact, the Pavakian delegate was showing signs of wear. Her tawny fur was not as lustrous as when she first arrived on the Enterprise but looked rather dry and lifeless instead. Her eyes were bloodshot and somewhat bleary, while even her pristine white uniform was uncharacteristically rumpled, its creases hardly as crisp as before. Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Once again, Kirk got the impression that she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
“Thank you, Captain.” She dropped into the chair with obvious relief. “I confess to feeling a trifle fatigued. The strain of the last few days no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Kirk said.
In no time at all, Chekov began to sniffle. He pinched his nose, stifling a sneeze, while making use of the medication he had on hand. Another tablet brought him immediate relief.
“Excuse me,” he apologized. “Again.”
“You should take care of that, Commander,” Gast advised. “It appears to be a recurring condition.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to be concerned with,” McCoy said. “Just a simple allergic reaction.”
Gast expressed polite interest. “To what, may I ask?”
“Funny you should ask,” McCoy said. “It took me a little while to isolate the allergen, especially with everything else going on, but I got a match eventually. Turns out it was merely dander . . . from Pavakian fur, to be exact.”
“Pavakian?” Gast stiffened. “Should I be offended?”
“No offense intended or warranted,” McCoy said. “This is no reflection on your personal hygiene, which I’m sure is impeccable. It’s just a random biological quirk, and hardly without precedent in medical literature. Some people are simply allergic to cats or rabbits or shellfish . . . or Pavakians. It happens.”
“Trust me, it’s hardly without diplomatic precedent as well,” Riley said, joining the discussion. “Speaking from experience, you never want to seat a Therbian next to a Kazarite at a state dinner, not unless you want the Therbian hacking and coughing before the entrée is even served.”
“Fascinating,” Gast said in a tone that implied anything but. “My apologies for any personal inconvenience, Commander Chekov but”—a distinct note of impatience crept into her voice—“I believe, Captain, you were about to update me on the investigation. . . .”
“The investigation and Mister Chekov’s allergy go hand in hand,” Kirk stated. “You may recall him having some difficulty in General Tem’s stateroom the night of the assassination.”
“So?” she asked. “I fail to see the relevance. It’s hardly surprising that one would encounter Pavakian dander in the general’s quarters.”
“True,” Kirk conceded. “But Chekov also got the sniffles in Minister A’Barra’s stateroom after his murder.” Kirk’s voice grew harder and more confrontational. “Why would there be traces of Pavakian dander in A’Barra’s quarters?”
Gast bristled. “What are you implying? Is this a briefing . . . or an inquisition?”
“That remains to b
e seen,” Kirk said. “Now, in itself, the dander is not conclusive, but it did open up some intriguing new lines of investigation. New information has been uncovered, which is provocative to say the least.” He turned to McCoy. “Your findings, Doctor?”
A data slate rested in front of McCoy, but he barely needed to look at his notes. “I conducted a thorough postmortem and tox screen on Minister A’Barra’s remains, which confirmed that the poison in his system was indeed zetaproprion.”
“The very medication prescribed to Miss Karidian to curb her homicidal tendencies,” Gast said. “Or so I am informed.”
“To assist in maintaining her mental equilibrium,” McCoy corrected. “But here’s the thing: There are different variants of the same medications, tailored to the specific physiologies of various humanoids. Again, as with the allergies, this is to be expected. Different species have different tolerances, metabolisms, chemistries, and whatnot, and don’t get me started on Vulcans and that green, copper-based stuff they call blood . . .”
Gast drummed her fingers upon the table. “The point, Doctor.”
“Yes,” McCoy said, “it seems the zetaproprion that killed A’Barra was a variant specifically tailored for Pavakians. Among other things, it’s being used on your planet to treat both soldiers and civilians for post-traumatic stress brought on by the war.”
“Is that so?” Gast said warily.
“You fought in the war,” Kirk said. “Doing your duty to defend Pavak and its interests. I imagine you had some fairly harrowing experiences.”
“Who did not? War is an ugly business at the best of times, and the Oyolu can be savage and unrelenting foes—as you surely saw for yourself.”
“I’m sure we only got a small taste of what you must have endured in the war,” Kirk said. “Right there in the thick of things for all those years.”
“I don’t ask for your sympathy.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Kirk said. “But surely it must have been . . . traumatic?”
“Or perhaps we Pavakians are made of sterner stuff than you give us credit for.” Her face and expression hardened. “Let us stop fencing. It’s obvious where you are going with this, but it seems to me that you are grasping at straws, perhaps in hopes of creating reasonable doubt where Miss Karidian’s guilt is concerned? My own wartime experiences are irrelevant to this discussion.”
“Perhaps not,” Riley said. “I still have some diplomatic contacts in your government, patriotic Pavakians with a sincere interest in seeing the peace talks succeed, and they allowed me to look at your official military record.”
Gast leapt to her feet. “You had no right!”
“That’s a matter of interpretation,” Riley argued. “Your private medical records are confidential certainly, but your military record is more of an open book. It’s no secret that you survived an ambush on Oyolo three years ago, while doing undercover demolitions work behind enemy lines. Your entire squad was slaughtered and you were the only survivor.” He glanced down at his own notes. “Your record also states that you were injured and underwent treatment at a Pavakian military hospital before resuming duty and being assigned to General Tem’s personal staff.”
Kirk felt a twinge of sympathy for the soldier, given what she had gone through, but asked the hard question anyway. “You weren’t prescribed zetaproprion, were you?”
“My medical history is not on trial here!”
Kirk kept up the pressure. “I don’t suppose you would allow us to search your quarters aboard the Enterprise?”
“My personal effects are protected by diplomatic protocol, as well you know.”
“Making them off-limits for inspection, yes.” Kirk recalled that Gast had made a point of inquiring about the handling of her luggage when first beaming aboard. “Not a bad way to smuggle a disruptor aboard.”
Gast gave him an icy smile. “You have a devious mind, Captain, and a suspicious one, it seems. But you are wasting our time. Even if, hypothetically, you could establish that I have been treated with zetaproprion at some point, I’m hardly the only individual who might have access to that particular drug.” She rattled off the possibilities. “The refugee camps, the black market, an unguarded hospital cupboard. Karidian, or anyone else, could have obtained the drug in any number of ways. Why, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if quantities of zetaproprion were included in the medical supplies you’ve so generously supplied to the relief efforts on both planets.”
“That’s true enough,” McCoy said.
“Let me remind you, gentlemen, that Lenore Karidian had access to the GRC’s medical supplies and that she remains the only known assassin aboard this ship.”
“That’s another thing,” Kirk said. “Who leaked Lenore’s true identity to the press? It had to be someone familiar with her history . . . or mine. You mentioned before, that night in the corridor, that you were a great admirer and very familiar with my career. Indeed, you mentioned my ‘reputation’ just a few moments ago when you first arrived.”
“You flatter yourself, Captain,” she replied. “And perhaps you mistake a bit of diplomatic exaggeration for sincere admiration. With all due apologies to your ego, you are not of that great interest to me.”
Kirk didn’t buy it.
“Even after the Enterprise was assigned to the peacekeeping mission? It seems to me that an intelligent and conscientious officer such as yourself would want to thoroughly research the principals involved in the upcoming peace talks. You could have easily stumbled onto Lenore’s story while familiarizing yourself with my career; the death of Kodos the Executioner, at the hands of his only daughter, was big news at the time . . . and has been a matter of historical record for two decades.”
“You’ve found me out, Captain,” she said sarcastically. “Yes, I did conduct a thorough background check on you prior to the commencement of the talks, and on Ambassador Riley as well.” She turned toward Riley. “Tell me, Ambassador. Is it true that you once took over the Enterprise’s engine room while in a state of intoxication?”
Riley refused to be baited. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand, shall we?”
“Very well.” She sat back down at the table. “In any event, Captain, the fact that I researched your illustrious career is hardly damning. As you said, the death of Kodos is public knowledge. Anyone with an interest in galactic history might be familiar with it.”
Perhaps, Kirk thought, but the galaxy is a big place with plenty of history. He found it unlikely that the average Pavakian or Oyolu would know that much about a historical tragedy affecting another species in another part of the quadrant decades ago. They’d had their own bloody history to occupy them, unlike Gast, who had every reason to acquaint herself with the subject.
“I’m curious,” he said. “When exactly did you recognize Lenore? At the reception that night? You couldn’t have known that I would run into her on Oyolo, let alone bring her back to the Enterprise, so I’m guessing that was just a happy accident as far you were concerned. Was framing her a last-minute addition to your plot?”
“Who says that I recognized her? Or that I was involved in some manner of plot?” Her nostrils flared. Scorn dripped from her voice. “Your ridiculous theory falls apart on even a narrative level. Why would I want to assassinate General Tem?”
“To sabotage the peace process,” Kirk suggested. “The general struck me as genuinely committed to making amends with the Oyolu. You, not so much.”
She did not deny it. “Even if that were true, surely murdering A’Barra would have sufficed, without any need for killing my own superior officer. Or are you also entertaining the notion that I only murdered A’Barra, perhaps in retaliation for the general’s death? That, I admit, is a slightly more plausible scenario.”
Chekov jumped on her comment. “So you’re confessing to A’Barra’s murder at least?”
“Not in the slightest,�
� she said. “This is all just pointless speculation.”
“Then how do you explain the presence of Pavakian dander at the second crime scene, in Minister A’Barra’s quarters?” Kirk asked. “There have only been two Pavakians aboard the Enterprise, and General Tem was already dead at that point.”
“I have no idea,” she said. “Perhaps it was the general’s ghost, seeking revenge?”
She was being facetious, of course, but the thought had occurred to Kirk that General Tem might have faked his death and gone into hiding aboard the ship. A Constitution-class starship had plenty of nooks and crannies and Jefferies tubes where a “dead” man could lurk undetected. Ben Finney had proved that decades ago. It was remotely possible that Tem was the actual killer, but Kirk’s gut said no. Tem had struck him as being sincerely intent on ending the bloodshed, perhaps to assuage his own guilty conscience. There had been a haunted, brooding quality to the man—not unlike Anton Karidian. Kirk found it hard to believe that Tem would go to such lengths to sabotage the peace talks.
Gast, on the other hand . . .
“And if we collected samples of your dander from your quarters,” Kirk asked, “and compared it to samples collected from A’Barra’s stateroom, would we find a match?”
Kirk had already consulted with Riley. They had both agreed that diplomatic rights hardly applied to biological ephemera left behind in her guest quarters aboard the Enterprise. And given that dander was essentially sloughed skin cells, Kirk had no doubt that McCoy would be able to isolate distinctive genetic markers and proteins.
“I . . . that is . . . ,” Gast said hesitantly. For the first time, she seemed without a ready response, as though this possibility had not occurred to her. “I’m not sure.”
“And why is that, Colonel?” Kirk pressed.
She paused again before reaching a decision. “Upon reflection, I see how certain misleading irregularities may be having the unfortunate effect of sending your investigation in the wrong direction. Therefore, in the interests of clearing any confusion, let me confess that I did visit A’Barra’s quarters on at least one occasion, in order to conduct an ‘unofficial’ diplomatic overture. Strictly off the record, naturally.”
