Star Trek - Pandora Principle

by Pandora Principle

  "Encoded, Captain. But about our shore leave assignments, sir? With all those shuttles docking-"

  "Yes, Uhura, I'll go straight to my quarters and do my homework." He snatched the tape and escaped into the lift.

  Uhura stood with her hands on her hips; the beginnings of a nasty headache lurked somewhere between her temples. This whole night was going to be a mess. Shuttles stacked up, people at the wrong airlocks, everybody complaining. she sat down, thoroughly irritated, and flipped a switch. "Bridge to all decks! The shore leave roster will be posted-when it becomes available. Consult your displays. Do not call the bridge! Repeat! Do not call."

  Spock cast a watchful eye around the bridge, grateful that instrument dockings were unaffected by emotional homecomings. Not so the crew. Personnel at engineering were recounting a very old, very improper anecdote, so convulsed with mirth that they couldn't utter the punch line. Misters Sulu and Chekov were conducting an elaborate wager on their respective tolerances to toxic amounts of ethanol, which they planned to consume before the night was out. The chief medical officer was leaning over the command chair and, despite the fact that no one was listening, proceeded to air his views on transporter repairs-and transporters in general.

  Uhura glared at the blinking lights on her panel and vowed revenge on all who assumed that "do not call the bridge" couldn't possibly apply to them. She drew a finger across her board, wiping all the calls away, and looked up to find Spock standing over her. "If it's important they'll call back!" she fairly snapped at him. Promptly her board lit up again. "See? They'll even call back when it isn't!" Her headache no longer lurked; it throbbed in time with the winking lights. "It's been like this!" she moaned. "'Fascinating'-right?"

  "Not in the least." Spock studied her blinking panel with overt distaste. Then it squealed, the way it always did when the captain leaned on the button.

  "I WANT SPOCK! NOW!" The channel cut off.

  "Now that is somewhat more interesting. In your opinion, Commander, does the captain seemed perturbed?"

  "Nooo, Mr. Spock," she sighed. "In my opinion, sir, the captain is having a fit. Sir, can you get that shore leave roster away from him? Until people know what's going on-"

  "Understood, Commander. You have the conn. No one is dismissed."

  "Yes, sir." Uhura glared at his retreating back; getting the conn in Spacedock just made her whole day.

  "Uhura, what's wrong?" McCoy watched her, concerned.

  "I-I don't know," she confessed. "I mean, I have a headache, but-" Immediately McCoy produced a hypospray and began adjusting it. "Now, watch it, Doctor, I also have the conn."

  "So? Who needs two headaches?" The spray hissed against her arm, and like magic the pain began to recede. Within moments she felt refreshed, brighter. wonderful.

  "What is that stuff? Do you carry that around all the time?"

  "Of course, Uhura. I'm a doctor. Now listen." McCoy leaned forward confidentially, patted her hand, and turned on the charm. "Can you do me just one little favor?"

  "He's conning you," Sulu warned. "We're only going dockside."

  "What kind of favor, Doctor?" she asked, fearing the worst.

  "Can you find me just one little shuttle?"

  In Spacedock shuttle bay #27, Lieutenant Robert Harper stepped through an open airlock into the waiting travel pod as the Romulan ship tracked past its curving viewport. Fred DiMuro was already there, his ebony face pressed close to the window.

  "Hi, Fred. Look at that monster we'll be working on! Some job, huh?"

  "I'm looking, Bobby. Security's really squeezing on this one. Wouldn't tell me a thing."

  "All they told me is we report to Commander Dorish. But something's going on. I had to ID to even get in here."

  "Yeah. Bet it's some new kind of weapon. Why else would they bring it. hey, where's the kid?"

  "Fixing a drink dispenser in the bar. Shouldn't take long. Some jerk tried to reprogram it for doubles." Harper began a routine check of the flight panel. At the Academy it was always Harper-with his sandy hair, freckles, mild manner, and razor-sharp mind-who'd been at the top of everyone's list.

  "I hear you turned down another assignment," DiMuro said critically. "That's crazy. Nobody turns down the Enterprise."

  "Aw, mind your own business, Fred. You don't know-"

  "I know your little buddy isn't going anywhere, so you're still on the ground. A career won't wait forever. There's such a thing as losing it, you know."

  "Well, a Dock assignment's not exactly on the ground. I like it. If I want other worlds, I can always go home."

  It had been fun growing up in a museum. Life City sprawled in the blistering California desert under its glittering biodomes. The huge xenoculture project was the largest in the Federation, a galactic tour in artwork and holo displays. Bobby Harper spent his childhood stalking the caves of Epsilon Indi V, playing with the raincats of Menkar VII, building castles in the purple sands of Beta Algenib III, and helping his mother catalogue the artifacts of over a thousand cultures within and beyond the Federation. She was the museum's director. Her office walls were plastered with degrees and awards, so many she'd lost count-and she'd never told him he was "losing it."

  "They'd never let the little guy join Starfleet, Harper. Face it."

  "You don't know that. That 'little guy' is tougher than-"

  "I do know, Bobby. There's just no room for someone who can't take it-even a whiz with machines."

  Harper's jaw set stubbornly. "So, Mr. Academy Goof-off, now you're the authority on who can take it and who can't?"

  "You can't even keep a girlfriend with the kid tagging along!"

  Tired of the argument, Harper turned to watch the view.

  The Romulan ship was out of sight. Along the curving expanse of docking bays, Enterprise settled on her moorings. Harper imagined streaking through the stars, imagined being aboard her. And he'd be aboard right now, except for one little-

  "Bbbobby?" A gurgling cry sounded from the corridor.

  "In here!" he called.

  DiMuro started shaking his head. "Sounds like a talking water cooler! Hey, I'm sorry, Bobby, but that is what it sounds like."

  "Yeah, I know." Harper grinned. A scuffling in the hall was followed by a soft thud against the door and a plaintive sigh.

  "Wwwoops, Bobby!"

  "Ya gotta ID. Put your hand up."

  "Oookay, Bbbobby!" With a soft chime the door whooshed open.

  A Belandrid padded in, blinking its neon-yellow eyes. Barely one meter tall, weighing only 12 kilos, it moved on delicate webbed feet, waving its fragile webbed fingers at Harper in greeting. The species was classified as "humanoid": two arms, two legs, and bilaterally symmetrical. But its skeleton was composed of cartilage; it possessed both gills and lungs; its toes and fingers (seven on each limb) ended in filament-like tips, which performed tasks with equal efficiency. Its head was egg-shaped and hairless, its eyelids vertical, and its mouth made a tiny round O. Even on land, its voice gurgled when it spoke. As it climbed through the airlock, its translucent, pale-blue skin began to blush pink with delight, and it reached out to pat Harper affectionately.

  "Hhhiya, Bbbobby!"

  "Hiya, Obo." Harper patted it back, thinking how little he knew about his friend, including how to spell its real name.

  All Belandrids looked alike, but only this one had left its ocean planet Belandros and returned to Earth with the Federation contact team. No one knew why. Or why its uncanny knack for machinery went unnoticed until it encountered a new officer on Spacedock: engineering Lieutenant Robert Harper.

  Clad in a tiny suit of coveralls, Obo had followed Harper around his first day, offering to hold things, making itself useful. Harper assumed it belonged there. And when Commander Dorish stood over him, chewing him out because a set of relays wasn't on line yet, Obo said "Eeeasy fix," reached bare fingers into the circuitry, and synched the entire panel in a matter of seconds.

  Word got around. Obo's scheduled departure day came and
went. No one questioned talent. Obo was so sought-after that even the higher-ups-certainly Commander Dorish-just naturally assumed this small presence was somehow authorized by Starfleet. Truth to tell, no one wanted to learn otherwise. So Obo stayed. And Harper stayed-and hoped no one would dig too deep.

  Because DiMuro was right: Obo could never serve in Starfleet.

  Although its vocabulary was limited and childlike, Obo could speak English; it could understand and follow orders. But it had no concept of rank or discipline. It was incapable of defending itself or anyone else. It did not comprehend deceit or anger or malice. It fainted or burst into tears when criticized harshly; when praised it hugged its supervisor. (Harper had explained about that, over and over, but sometimes Obo forgot.) So people were grateful, but they made little jokes and dismissed Obo with a pat on the head, which was all it seemed to want out of life: to be loved and to fix things and to be with Bobby Harper. Obo didn't mind if no one took it seriously. Only Harper minded that. Only Harper believed there was more to Obo than met the eye and that someday everyone would realize it. Meanwhile, he wasn't going off without his friend. And if a girl didn't like Obo "tagging along"-then she was the wrong girl for Bobby Harper.

  "People getting their drinks okay now?"

  Obo nodded vigorously. "Eeeasy fix! Verrry quick! Gggood, gggood Ooobo!"

  "And what've you been drinking tonight?"

  "Wwwater! Mmmy fffavorite!"

  DiMuro grinned. "You're a cheap date, Obo, ya know that?"

  "Yyyes, Fffred."

  The display on the panel came to life with a visual of their position, destination, and designated traffic lane. The flight computer relayed instructions. "DOCK CENTRAL TO POD 27: PROCEED TO REPAIR DOCK 4. YOU ARE CLEARED FOR DEPARTURE. DUTY OFFICER, CONFIRM FOR VOICEPRINT AND ENTER SECURITY CODE."

  "Acknowledged, Central. Lieutenant Robert Harper. Code 8121."

  "See what I mean?" DiMuro whispered. "We can't tell anyone what we're doing up here!"

  "Sssecret, Bobby?" Obo's eyes elongated and blinked in amazement. "Secret for mmme?"

  "Big secret-especially for you," warned Harper. He worried about secrets. Sometimes Obo forgot those too.

  DiMuro guided the pod out into the streams of traffic, and Harper watched the Enterprise as they approached. Lights played across her shining hull, and her call letters NCC-1701 fell away beneath them as they climbed into their programmed flight path.

  "Nnnever tell! Oookay, Bbbobby?"

  "Okay, Obo. Now you be good tonight. You do what I say. Don't wander off, and don't fix anything without permission."

  The pod accelerated as it flew along the curving labyrinth of docking bays into the constant twilight of Spacedock's harbor.

  "Perhaps it is merely routine, Captain," said Spock, frowning at the decoded message on Kirk's screen. Kirk shook his head.

  "Routine? You don't believe that, do you?"

  "Difficult to say, Captain. The lack of clarity with which-"

  Kirk wasn't listening. "Damn that Nogura!" He looked at the message again himself, in case somehow the words had changed. They hadn't: ADMIRAL JAMES T. KIRK, CMDR., U.S.S. ENTERPRISE: RE: DISCOVERY/ RECOVERY OF ROMULAN SHIP: FILE INCIDENT REPORT IN PERSON BY 0800 HRS, THE 15TH. ADMIRALTY SENDS REGARDS AND HAS SOME GOOD NEWS. HOW ABOUT LUNCH?. HEIHACHIRO NOGURA.

  "The 15th-that's the day after tomorrow." Kirk slapped the flat of his hand down on the desk. "I beat him, you know, when I ducked out on the Admiralty, and he can't stand it!"

  Spock stood patiently, hands behind his back, waiting for his captain's temper to cool. "I more than justified my command out there! We brought home a Romulan warship!"

  "Which further enhances your reputation," Spock pointed out, attempting to interject some perspective. "But to conclude-"

  "That's just it, don't you see? Now he can pin a medal on me, stick me behind a desk again-and congratulate me while he does it! So all along I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't. I should've seen this coming."

  "I am not certain that I follow-"

  "It's the fundamental principle of bureaucracy-to rise to the level of one's own incompetence."

  "Surely not, Captain. That would be absurd."

  "It happens all the time. Here's how it works. There's this guy, see, and he makes-oh, say, widgets."

  Not wishing to interrupt, Spock tilted his head and tried to look well-informed.

  ". and he makes widgets-real good widgets-which he loves doing. So he's always on time, and he works real hard, even finds ways to make better widgets. So, what do they do?"

  Spock shook his head, mystified.

  "They make him a vice-president! Which he knows nothing about! Which he's no good at doing! And they train someone else to make the widgets, which was all this guy wanted to do in the first place." Kirk looked around at his cabin, as though he were seeing it for the last time. "All I've ever wanted was to command a starship, Spock. This ship. It's what I do best. Nogura doesn't need me. Why can't he just leave me alone?"

  Spock thought a moment. If the captain had wanted sympathy, he would have summoned Dr. McCoy. While he didn't begin to fathom the irrationale of bureaucracies or Admiral Nogura's intentions, he had an uneasy sense his friend was probably correct about both.

  "Can you not simply decline a ground assignment?"

  "Theoretically." Kirk was glum. "On paper, maybe, but to his face." Not a second time. The worst moments of Kirk's career, worse than Klingon disrupters and alien entities, were spent in Nogura's office in a battle of wills to regain command of the Enterprise. He won that one, because some unidentified power was bearing down on Earth and Nogura had to admit that Kirk's experience in dealing with the unknown just might improve the odds, which were then too slim to even calculate. Kirk beat them anyway. In the rosy afterglow of public gratitude, he found he could write his own ticket, and he did. But that was a long time ago.

  There was no emergency now, no lever Kirk could think of to use. Enterprise nestled snugly in her dock; Earth turned safely beneath them, and Kirk felt himself being manipulated by a hand he could no longer control.

  "Well, then. so be it." His anger began to give way to depression and a cold inner voice, telling him that he might not be able to get out of this one. Spock didn't know Nogura the way he did. Spock couldn't be expected to read between the lines. What did I expect Spock to do, anyway? Pull a rabbit out of his hat? Ashamed of himself, Kirk realized that was exactly what he'd expected-and aside from being impossible, it wasn't fair to Spock. He recovered himself abruptly. "Sorry, Spock, not your problem. You go on. We'll talk about this later."

  "As you wish, Captain, but. would you satisfy my curiosity on one small point? Why do you feel that you must meet with Admiral Nogura on the 15th?"

  Kirk stared at him; it wasn't like Spock to miss the whole point. "Because those are my orders!"

  "No, Captain. I do not wish to seem presumptuous, but those are not your orders." Kirk's mouth hung open, and he stared at his screen in disbelief. "As I previously indicated, the wording is imprecise and therefore open to interpretation."

  Finally, Kirk saw it. He began to grin.

  "You're right, Spock-you are right! 'By' 0800 hours!"

  "Which could mean that you must be prompt, or-"

  "A deadline!"

  "You must file the report in person, that much is clear. Lunch, however, seems optional. This sort of error does not occur among Vulcans. Perhaps the inherent ambiguity of your language-"

  "Or perhaps," laughed Kirk, "I'd better go file that report right now."

  "Tonight?"

  "Well. why not? Nogura won't be around. Hardly anyone will. The brass'll be in the officers' lounge." Kirk began to pace again; the pieces were falling into place: a quick trip down and back, irrefutable proof he'd been there-they wouldn't find his entry until the 15th, and by then.

  "Spock. We're shipping out at 2300 tomorrow night. Inform the department heads. This ship has a mission to complete!"

  "
Ah. Indeed. And will you be granting shore leaves, Captain?" Spock asked pointedly.

  "I'll have a mutiny on my hands if I don't. But let's keep it simple. Two twelve-hour rotations, half the crew each. oh, damn." Kirk noticed the padd and stylus lying untouched on his desk.

  "Allow me, Captain," offered Spock, deftly taking possession of the elusive document. "Shall I call for a shuttle?"

  "Right away. Want to come along? Dabble a bit in conspiracy?"

  "Really, Captain," Spock did his best to look affronted, "I am unaware that any conspiracy exists. I plan a visit to HQ tomorrow, but tonight I am expecting a guest on board."