by S. D. Perry
As he’d expected, the clamor doubled, everyone wanting to know what his “sources” had given up. It was a calculated risk—Starfleet would surely want to know about Redpeace’s contacts, as well—but the benefits far outweighed the hazards. He could always cite anonymous tips. And in the hours to come, the story of Kraden’s experiment—their use of atom-altering substances in rented soil, which truly was an outrage and an insult to the Martian public—would unfold like a direct-dial soap opera. Redpeace would be remembered as a source of knowledge and reason amid the chaos.
“The truth will out,” Kent said finally. “In any case, I want to make it perfectly clear that organizations that use violence to make their point are no better than the companies that fund these dangerous studies in the first place. It is our responsibility—not just as activists, but as people, as beings who care about life and the environment—it is our responsibility to educate and to inform, to teach. Not to disrupt. I don’t feel that Whole Earth has a right to make that decision for all of us, just as I feel that Kraden has no right to change this planet—or any other—without the consent of all its inhabitants.”
He put on a careful smile. “That will be all for now, thank you. Our netsite is open and operating, and I’ll be available again for comment later this afternoon, at fifteen hundred hours.”
“Mister Kent! Over here! What about Josh Swanson, do you know him? Is he the masked man?”
“Mister Kent, is it true that you personally attacked the lead researcher of Kraden’s team?”
“Mister Kent, have you been in contact with any members of Whole Earth?”
Kent backed away, smiling, satisfied with his performance. Their netsite was ready for big numbers, and if he hadn’t managed it already, his afternoon statement would hold enough carefully crafted insinuations to incite millions of drop-ins by the end of the day.
He had turned to step off the low platform when the room fell almost silent, the sudden lull almost as startling as a shout. A number of the net reporters had touched their hands to their ears, their faces going blank almost simultaneously. Incoming report, no doubt. Probably a big one if so many of them were receiving it at once. Kent hesitated, curious, as the first of them began to report to the hovercam in front of her, her voice the first in a growing swell of sound and activity.
“I’ve just received a report from our correspondents at Kraden’s press conference,” she said. “Stand by for footage.”
Kent was besieged by a new round of questions. He ignored them, searched for the nearest live netlink monitor. He located one mounted in the far corner, surrounded by a growing pack of onlookers. Kent tapped at the podium controls, channeled an audio feed to himself.
The screen displayed a tall young man in a loose-fitting suit, talking in the quick, oily tone of a salesman. A line running across the bottom of the monitor identified him as Teague Williamson, a public relations exec for Kraden Interplanetary Research. He stood in a small and basically featureless room, presumably the dome airlock for the lab where Doctor Marcus and her team were working.
Where they were trying to work, Kent thought, unable to help a tingle of smug satisfaction. No matter what had happened, this had to be an embarrassment for Kraden, and for Carol Marcus personally.
“? is under control—was never, in fact, beyond the control of the researchers here,” Williamson was saying. “Starfleet has simply been called in to assist in maintaining the highest standards in the investigation of this matter, as expected by every Federation citizen. Again, I’d like to emphasize that there is no danger. The situation is being managed.”
A shorter, younger man appeared behind Teague Williamson, his expression just short of absolute terror—drawing Kent’s attention. Kent wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. An unseen reporter identified himself, threw a question at the agitated young man.
“Excuse me, sir, can you tell me who you are and why you’re here?”
His voice was high and uncertain. “I’m Troy Verne, and I represent Kraden.”
Williamson actually stepped in front of him. “Mister Verne was assigned to accompany the researchers to the lab, to ensure that all safety standards were being observed,” he said. “He is not authorized to speak on Kraden’s behalf.”
The net reporter ignored Williamson. “What can you tell us about what’s happening at the lab, Mister Verne?”
Verne’s anxious face appeared from behind the PR rep’s shoulder. “There’s too much nitrilin, the force field can’t—”
Williamson’s voice rose over Verne’s. “As I already said, Mister Verne is not authorized to speak for Kraden. The situation is under control. A full report will be released shortly. I thank you for coming.”
“Can you tell us what Mister Verne means when he says ‘too much nitrilin’?”
“Mister Verne, what is nitrilin?”
“Is there an issue regarding the force field in use?”
Williamson backed away, crowding Troy Verne from the limelight, repeating his empty assurances. The screen went to text. Kent tapped numbly at the audio panel on the podium as the reporters in front of him began to shout with renewed interest, demanding answers he didn’t have.
Kent kept his expression neutral, not sure how to react to what he had just seen. Too much nitrilin sounded threatening. It sounded dangerous, and dangerous was not supposed to be on the agenda.
“I’ll deliver another statement at fifteen hundred hours,” he repeated, backing away from the insistent questions just as Kraden’s spin doctor had, doing what he could to quell his worry as he made his way out of the room.
After her call to Jim, Carol did what she could to keep her team focused, to keep panic and confusion from reigning. She assigned everyone a task, demanded updated reports every two minutes—and waited, well aware that there was very little they could actually do until help arrived. She only hoped that Jim would get here before Starfleet did; she was in grave need of an ally.
She had Mac contacting every university and private lab on Mars, anyone who might have access to phelistium. Alison and Leila were in an adjutant research room, reviewing any and all material on the nitrilin-oxygen reaction that they could find. Two of her grad students were watching the front hall, trying to keep both Williamson and Verne from venturing back into the lab, and she’d sent a tearful Tam to do another compound inventory. J.C. was still watching the force field density meter, and Dachmes was running diagnostics on the main reads; the discrepancy between the two remained. The Inception process had already continued twenty centimeters into the permafrost and showed no signs of slowing, let alone stopping. She supposed she should be thankful that the time frame from the simulated runs wasn’t applicable to the altered colloid’s effects; the cold was slowing things down.
Sabotage, her mind repeated, her arms folded tightly. Insanity. If this Whole Earth meant to “save” Mars from Inception, they’d done exactly the wrong thing. Although how they’d managed to alter the chemical compound—if that was what they’d done—was beyond her. The nitrilin, all of the preparations they had used had been under at least one team member’s watch since before they’d left for Mars.
It has to be a computer affliction, she thought, sensor bug, something in the reads. No matter what Dachmes kept insisting about the mainframe diagnostics, there was simply no other option. But she kept watching those members of her team still in the main lab, watching them closely, aware that holding any one of them above suspicion might be a mistake. One among many, it seemed.
“Doc?”
She nodded at Mac, seated at the communications station. He looked like she felt—dazed and fearful. “Yes?”
“No line on the phelistium, locally,” he said. “Nowhere near what we need, anyway.”
She wasn’t surprised. Phelistium’s applica tions were generally agricultural, and Mars’s dome gardens were largely hydroponic.
“Could we piecemeal it?” Carol asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “It coul
d take a little while, though—”
A call from the transporter room interrupted him. “We’ve just received Starfleet’s transmission. The engineers are transporting in now.”
Carol pressed her lips together. She knew Starfleet’s reputation for stepping in, for taking over. Her authority, such that it was, was about to be taken away. It was almost certainly for the best. Starfleet had the resources to deal with the problems they were facing, but she and her team knew the material, knew the science. She couldn’t help worrying that Starfleet wouldn’t let her people do what needed to be done, that in their efforts to help, they might end up hindering, making things infinitely worse.
Now would be a good time, Jim.
In the Enterprise’s main designated recreational area, Spock sipped a cup of hot tea and watched three of his shipmates engaged in a Terran game that involved a stack of cards. After observing several runs of the game, he had calculated the odds against each player and now formulated that Number One would almost certainly emerge victorious in the “hand” being played. The nature of the game was such that a statistical anomaly could occur—adding the element of “luck” for the humans involved—but the probability was solidly in the first officer’s favor, at least in this particular round.
“Beat that,” said Yeoman Colt, scarcely able to contain her excitement. She fanned out her cards in front of her, displaying two pairs of matched numbers. The player to her right, a security lieutenant, dropped her own cards on the table with an expression of irritation.
“I believe I will,” said Number One. She laid her five cards neatly on the table, the corner of each marked with the same small shape. A spade, Spock believed it was called.
Spock took note of the reactions of each player. Yeoman Colt smacked her hand on the table in a particularly vibrant show of human petulance. The security officer appeared amused by Colt’s antics and began to gather up the cards and return them to their stack. Number One was an exceptionally even-tempered human, generally displaying a very low degree of excitability, but Spock saw that even she was compelled to display her satisfaction as she handled the multicolored plastic pieces on the table, pulling them toward herself with a restrained smile.
Spock drank from his cup, noting that human emotional characteristics had been of great fascination for him in the weeks since the Enterprise had returned to the Sol system. Only logical; Earth was considered by most to be the cradle of humanity. It had always been a topic of interest for him, of course, but more so since his involuntary exile to Earth’s surface. Which led him to wonder if there was a definitive measurement for the increase in his absorption. It seemed too ethereal to categorize, at least in a life-form that did not cognate in linear patterns. He decided that it would be something worth researching, perhaps when he’d finished his tea. Since he wouldn’t be returning to active duty for another twelve hours, he had ample time to engage in leisure activities.
Doctor Boyce walked into the room, smiling and nodding when he saw Spock. He nodded back at the doctor. Boyce made his way to where Spock was sitting, greeting the cardplayers as he took a seat across from Spock’s.
“Doctor.” Yeoman Colt nodded and rose to leave the room. Spock theorized that she preferred to be alone while her sensibilities continued to be volatile. He might have expected some other reason for her distress, had he not seen similar reactions to the game in the past. Interesting that so much emotional disturbance could be caused by a game of poker.
“Well, Mister Spock,” Doctor Boyce said, motioning at the teacup Spock held. “What is it this time? Some sort of miracle brew, no doubt? Everything that baffles the modern Terran physician can be easily put to rest by the introduction of these phenomenal herbs, is that right?”
Spock was aware that the doctor was making an attempt at humor. Presumably, he was referring to Spock’s recent interest in different blends of Earth’s tea, brought about by his meeting with Leila Kalomi on Earth. Miss Kalomi had mentioned that the concoctions of herbs and spices were often used in a medicinal capacity. In the brief time since his return to the Enterprise, Spock had researched and sampled a number of the established mixtures. He found the taste of most to be quite pleasant, although much of the research regarding the definitive effects appeared to be anecdotal.
“I believe it is called chamomile,” Spock informed the doctor. “It has the proposed effect of serenity upon the imbiber. However, I have not been able to detect any such reaction.”
Doctor Boyce smiled widely. “I sincerely doubt that any herbal concoction could make you any more serene than you already are. Unless it kills you.”
Spock hesitated, considering the statement. From what he already knew of the doctor’s character, it was probable that Boyce was still amusing himself, playfully jibing at Spock’s established demeanor. Therefore, he found no immediate purpose in pointing out that there were, in fact, any number of herbal concoctions that caused measurable sedation, on Earth and elsewhere.
Spock took another sip, decided it best to ignore the comment. “Perhaps it is my genetic makeup that renders me immune to its effects.”
The doctor nodded. “A logical conclusion.”
Yeoman Colt reentered the room, her voice tinged with excitement as she spoke. “Has anyone heard about what’s happening on Mars?”
Number One raised her eyebrows expectantly. “I haven’t.”
Colt strode to the monitor that was mounted to the far wall and switched it on. She browsed across a few links until she found the one she wanted, its report in midprogress. Two men standing in an airlock, surrounded by media members. One of them was speaking rapidly, his expression distressed.
“? too much nitrilin. The force field can’t—”
Another man spoke over the one already speaking. “As I already said, Mister Verne is not authorized to speak for Kraden. The situation is under control. A full report will be released shortly. I thank you for coming.”
Nitrilin. “Yeoman Colt, would you cue this from the beginning, please?” Spock asked.
“Yes, sir.” The yeoman quickly tapped a command into the monitor’s control panel, starting the report over again.
Spock watched carefully, collating the facts and doing his best to read the inferences. An act of deliberate sabotage had transpired, at the very laboratory where Miss Kalomi was working. The Inception experiment had not been a success. The correspondent who spoke for the company that funded the experiment, Kraden, was attempting to reassure the public that there was no danger present, but there was much, it appeared, that had been left unsaid.
Too much nitrilin. Spock rose from his seat, picked up his cup to return to the recycler.
“Where are you off to, Mister Spock?” Boyce asked.
“To my quarters, Doctor. I must review all of the materials relating to this incident.”
“Really? Is Mars of particular interest to you?”
“Everything is of particular interest to me, Doctor,” Spock said, nodding at the physician and the cardplayers before turning away, already formulating initial probabilities. Depending on the actual ratio of nitrilin to the other compounds involved in the Inception process, Miss Kalomi and her team could be in very deep trouble indeed. Not to mention the rest of Mars.
Twelve
Upon arrival at the Kraden lab, the Starfleet officer sent to oversee the operation—one Lieutenant Almanza, a solemn-faced engineer who looked remarkably like Carol’s own father—had wasted no time in sequestering most of her team in one of the larger common rooms while his accompanying trio of engineers worked on the force field. He’d also brought in a security detail, presumably to keep an eye on the scientists, and a lone science officer—a research chemist, barely out of the Academy, by the look of him—to go over their research data. Only Dachmes and Mac had been “allowed” to remain in the lab, along with Carol herself. Almanza was polite enough, but already in the few endless moments since he’d arrived, he’d tried twice to coax her into a “one-on-one” discussi
on about Whole Earth’s interference, away from the main lab floor. Carol was not about to let Starfleet dismiss her from her own project. She stalled for time, watched the reads over Dachmes’s shoulder, hoping that Jim would show up before she too was carted off for questioning.
And it looks like my time just ran out, she thought, stepping back from the mainframe monitor as Almanza moved to join her. His expression made it clear that he wouldn’t be brushed off a third time.
“Doctor Marcus, if you don’t mind, we need to ask you to join the rest of your researchers in the common room,” Almanza said. “Your men here can coordinate with our engineers for now, and—”
“I do mind, Lieutenant Almanza.” Despite their scientific aims, Carol could not forget that the Federation’s “enforcement” branch was structured as a military hierarchy, and they behaved accordingly. It was something she’d long heard about but had never personally experienced. “And I’m surprised you’re still asking me. You need me here, where I can actually be of some help.”
