Star Trek - Pandora Principle

by Pandora Principle

  "Excuse me," said Saavik, pointing toward the inept thrower. "Am I allowed to do that?"

  "You tryin' out for the team?" The human with pink, spotty skin looked depressed. The brown one buried his face in his hands. Saavik didn't know what The Team was, but she wanted to throw that ball. And she didn't know a breeze had blown her hair away from her ears.

  "Yes," she said.

  "What? Are you crazy?"

  "Uh, Joe." The pink human administered a swift kick to the brown one. "Sure, you all get a chance. That's the rule. Name?"

  "Saavik. With two A-letters. May I know your names?"

  "Huh? Oh, I'm Tommy. That's Joe, the coach. Hey, Joe," he muttered, "you want I should catch this?"

  "Naw," Joe groaned dismally, "I'll do it." He went to replace a player who wasn't quite getting the hang of things. Saavik was at a loss to account for his disapproval; her uniform was neat and correct, which was more than could be said for anyone else present.

  "Don't mind Coach," said Tommy, as they walked to a circle of dirt in the center of the white lines. "He's got problems. Now here's the ball, Saavik. You just throw it all the way to Joe there, hard as you can."

  "Are you sure?" she asked doubtfully.

  "Sure, I'm sure! Only. try to aim it, okay?"

  "I understand," said Saavik.

  "Oh yeah? Then you're way ahead of everybody else today. Hey, you!" he shouted to the person waiting to swing the stick. "Back off. This'll only take a minute."

  Saavik's fingers closed over the ball, feeling its skin-like texture, the way it fit right into her hand. The sun beat down on her head, and she smelled the dust beneath her feet. But it was the heat of other suns, the smell of other dust that filled her mind. And something comfortingly familiar, something she knew how to do. shape and weight were different. easier, really.

  "Aim for this, kid!" Joe held up his hand covered with thick brown padding. "Ya ready? We don't got all day!"

  "I am ready," Saavik said-and threw the ball.

  Before it left her hand (swore everyone who saw it happen) Joe was flat on his back, the ball embedded in his mitt. Shouts and whistles of approval went through the crowd. After a moment he rolled over and got to his knees, clutching his hand and grinning from ear to ear. "Are you injured?" Saavik called, alarmed; the shouts changed to hoots of laughter.

  "Naw, naw! Hey, kid, what's-yer-name," he ignored an offered icepack and started toward her, "can ya do that again?"

  "Saavik. And it does not seem advisable. Are you certain-"

  "Naw, dammit," he growled, "quit askin', will ya? Hey, Koji! Get in there an' catch!" A large, husky cadet lumbered out and, with theatrical flourish, began donning the protective gear over his uniform. The crowd applauded wildly. "Okay," said Joe, "ya don't gotta kill him. Just toss a few."

  She threw the ball again and again with smooth economy of motion, picking it neatly out of the air with her bare hand when it was thrown back. The crowd cheered each pitch. When players began taking turns at swinging the stick, she asked, "Shall I do it more slowly, so they can hit it?"

  "What, are you crazy? I call the pitches, kid, you just throw the ball! Say, can you put a curve on that? Know what I mean?"

  "Vary its trajectory? Interesting. I believe so."

  "Yeah, well, it's not as easy as it. hot damn, that's a slider!" An hour later he muttered, "Okay, don't wanna wear out your arm," and looked her up and down in grudging acceptance. "You be here, 0800 hours, tomorrow. I guess you made the team, uh. what's that name again?"

  "Saavik. But what does it mean, to Make The Team?"

  "Means ya gotta work, kid. Ya gotta play the game. Ya gotta get tough-and beat the pants off the midshipmen in three weeks. Think ya can do that?"

  "Yes," said Saavik, though the reference to clothing puzzled her. "May I throw the ball again tomorrow?"

  "What, are you crazy? Oh, yeah, kid-you'll throw the ball!"

  "Very well," she said, handing it back to him, "I shall attend. I would like to ask a question."

  "Uh, what's that, kid?"

  "What is this game called?."

  Saavik decided not to explain. "Base Ball, Mr. Spock. This game is called Base Ball, and I am the person who throws it. I also observe their emotional responses," she insisted, "and their verbal exchange consists entirely of idioms. There is no reason to disapprove of this, Mr. Spock, because the game is one of strategy, quite logical and complex. It depends upon mathematical progressions of-"

  "I grasp the basics, Saavikam." Spock held up his hand to forestall the coming lecture. "And although I do not share the humans' enthusiasm for the pursuit of the ball, in its various forms it has pervaded most of the galaxy. Given your fondness for projectiles, I am not surprised that you succumbed to its allure. I trust you will maintain a sense of perspective."

  "Oh, yes!" she promised instantly. "Later. But tomorrow is The Big Game. Cadets play the midshipmen, and have always lost. But this time," her eyes narrowed grimly, "we are going to win."

  Spock had no doubt of it. "Consider their ancient proverb, Saavik: It is not winning or losing, but how one plays the game."

  "Oh. Well, that must be very ancient, Mr. Spock, because they do not believe it anymore. Humans want to win all kinds of games. They even argue about which has the most merit. But I belong to The Team now, so of course I must want to win too."

  "Of course. And when does this momentous event take place?"

  "At 1400 hours, tomorrow."

  "Then I shall attend, unless you prefer that I do not."

  "Oh, by all means, Mr. Spock." Best not to mention how around campus they were calling her "The Photon Torpedo." In fact it was best not to mention anything more at all. Desperately, her eyes strayed again. "I would like to ask a question, Mr. Spock, if it is not too personal. What are those figures on the stand?"

  Spock seemed to brighten. "That is a chess set, Saavik. When the pieces are in play, they are moved from one level to another on the boards. An interest of mine. Someday I shall teach you."

  "In play? Then this is. a game?"

  "Yes. A very different sort of game, however," Spock said loftily. "Chess is considered mental exercise."

  "Oh. Pieces move on small squares? And that is all?"

  All? Spock closed his eyes, as if banishing some momentary twinge of pain. "Hardly 'all,' Saavik. This may disappoint you, but they are not hurled through the air. Chess is a contest of strategy. Pieces are moved in logical progressions, based upon mathematical." He paused. Saavik tilted her head, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for him to go on. Her eyebrows rose in a look of tolerant, quizzical appraisal, which reminded Spock of something he could not quite place. ". so do refrain from using them to practice your baseball."

  "That would damage them," she pointed out. "I don't damage things anymore. And I practice Base Ball at dawn each morning."

  "A fascinating order of priorities," Spock said. "Tell me, does your curriculum encompass skills beyond baseball and idiom? Have we abandoned physics and astronomy? Does the Academy now send its graduates into Starfleet armed only with baseballs and a working knowledge of colloquial speech? One might think the causal sciences had been declared obsolete."

  Saavik frowned at him severely. Sometimes Spock went on this way, then watched to observe her response. Long ago she'd decided it was some sort of test. "Nothing like that has occurred. And I have told you all about my classes. At times, Mr. Spock, you say some very strange things."

  "An occasional weakness," he admitted. "You may attribute it to the human half of my nature."

  "Oh. Well, I wasn't going to mention that, Mr. Spock. I am trying to be correct tonight."

  "And your efforts have not gone-" The intercom whistled softly. "-excuse me. Spock here."

  "Mr. Spock, I have your call from Starfleet now."

  "Thank you, Commander Uhura. I can take it here."

  "Do you wish me to wait elsewhere?"

  "Not necessary, Saavik. This will only take a momen
t. Feel free to examine anything you wish. ah, Dr. Goldman. I am pleased you are on duty tonight."

  Glad of any excuse to move about, Saavik rose from her chair to admire the glittering mosaic on the wall with its intertwining circle and triangle. She decided that Base Ball at Starfleet Academy was a case in point of Infinite Diversity-particularly if Spock were to attend.

  ". an interesting object, is it not?" he was saying. "I assume the delay was due to transport difficulties?"

  "Well, no. Things have been a little. jammed up tonight, Mr. Spock," Goldman said smoothly. Out of sight her fingers teased the silky hair on Rakir's arm. He imprisoned them, then moved beyond their reach while she stared guilelessly into the screen.

  "Of course. I shall be there in the morning. If time permits I would appreciate preliminary data, composition of the casing and so forth. But I have no wish to burden you, Doctor. You seem overtaxed as it is. This is simply a matter of curiosity."

  "No problem, Mr. Spock. It's set up under the scanner." She switched the viewer's angle to show him. It appeared unchanged: a transparent box on the transparent platform of the high-beam Infrascan, its sparkling lights weaving their designs, expanding and contracting. "Do you want more than the initial readout?"

  "No, that will be sufficient. But you may report tonight on what you find. The lateness of the hour will be of no importance. Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Goldman. Spock out."

  "Certainly, Mr. Spock." His face faded from the screen. "Overtaxed!" she snickered and began calibrating the scan. "Sorry, Dorn, this won't take long. I'm kind of curious myself."

  "That is normal for your species, my Janet, is it not? And for Vulcans also, though they seldom admit to it. You might learn from Mr. Spock's regard for the truth. You implied that we were working hard tonight, when you know that such was not the case."

  "Oh no? Speak for yourself, my love!"

  "I shall speak for us both and complete our duty log while you are occupied," said Rakir with great dignity. "If you allow me to concentrate, it will not take long either."

  "Kiss me quick!"

  "No, my Janet. I shall do that later-and thoroughly." He removed himself to a nearby console and began to work.

  "It's a date," she laughed as she switched on the scan.

  Twin beams from above and below pierced the box with a radiant blue-white light, so bright it seemed to wash out the patterns and colors inside. no, that wasn't it-

  They were gone. And down the center, in the wake of the narrow scanning beams, ran a tiny, hairline crack. It grew.

  Then with a sound like bursting glass, the box broke.

  Uh-oh, Spock won't like this! Goldman tried to turn off the scan, but her hand wouldn't move. not right, not feeling well. Terrible white-hot pain stabbed into her. Heart attack? But I'm too young! This isn't fair! Dorn! She couldn't make a sound. Pain radiated down her arms and legs, burning in her throat, shrieking in her ears. This was no heart attack-every cell in her body was afire. Her vision blurred. Across the room, in another universe, Rakir was turning from his screen. She tried to take a step, felt herself falling. Something in that box! GET OUT OF HERE, DORN! her mind screamed at him. Tell Spock! Tell them all.

  The pain became a wave carrying her away. She was lying on the floor, hearing the soft rush of air through an open vent. That was wrong, but she couldn't remember why. The edges of her vision were turning dark, closing down to a faraway point of light. And in that light were her mother and her father, her brothers and her friends, every day she'd ever lived, every thought she'd ever had-and Dorn. So this is what it's like, she thought quite clearly, but I can't die now. just isn't. fair. Then in the light she could see herself. Herself seeing herself. Leaving herself. Dorn. should've kissed me. but I'm already.

  Rakir blinked his eyes. Pain exploded in his chest, seared down his arms and legs, hammered in his head. So hard to breathe, as if the air were solid, made of wax. So hard to turn around. He saw the scanner's light, the broken fragments shining under it. And Janet was falling to the floor, brown eyes open, staring, her face all twisted in pain, a mottled flush darkening over her skin. And El-Idorn Rakir knew that he was dying. He did not fear death, but no one ever told him it would be so sad. Wait for me, my Janet! I am coming with you. first, must do.

  Red letters on the wall swam before his eyes. He forced himself to think only of the word: CONTAM-ALERT. A button sealed behind a pane of glass, a striker too many inches away. He closed his fist, smashed the glass himself. The edges of his vision were turning black. The shards of glass slid over his fingers, but the effort was in vain. Before he could push the button, he was sliding down the wall, knowing he had failed.

  Only pain now, pain and bitter, welling regret. His icy homeworld, its blowing snows, even this failure faded from his mind. But his heart cried out for Janet, for all the kisses she should have, the one he refused a moment ago-and the distance that lay between them now: ten feet, ten light-years he could never cross. He prayed for time, began to pull himself across the floor, inch by inch. So sorry, my Janet. never kissed you enough. but I would have learned. for you. All his life dwindled down to one tiny light, one cruel truth: he would never touch her, never again. He lifted his hand anyway-and reached-as the light went out.

  Ten seconds later, because no one had canceled the sequence that triggered automatically when a seal on a Contamination-Alert was broken, an alarm began to sound in the empty halls of Starfleet Headquarters. Ten seconds after that, because no one told it otherwise, the maintenance computer took over, dropping safety doors at every entry to the science level, bypassing all access by turbo lifts, shutting down air vents that fed the 18th floor to isolate the contamination at its source. And because no one came to turn it off, the alarm went on ringing.

  ". and equipped with a redesigned cloaking screen, which my chief engineer and science officer believe will function over long distances in. Computer, what the hell is that?"

  ALERT ALERT ALERT ALERT ALERT. With its voice mode still disengaged, the words flashed in red across Kirk's screen.

  "Identify!"

  ALERT: CONTAMINATION EXO-SCIENCE

  "Status! Nature of contamination?"

  UNKNOWN

  "Safety status!"

  CONTAINMENT IN PROGRESS

  All right then. He hit the intercom's audio.

  "Richards! Kirk here. My screen shows a problem up in Exo. What's your status?. Richards?" The only answer was the hiss of empty air. In the background an alarm was ringing. Left his post, dammit! Probably went to check. He touched another key.

  "Exo, report! What's your status?" A deafening alarm blared through his speaker. Kirk leaned on the button. "Report, Exo! A Contam-Alert is in progress. What is your status?" Must be bad. Why weren't they- "Science level! Anyone!" Nothing.

  "Officers' lounge, this is Admiral James T. Kirk. We've got a problem in the Exo lab. Is everything under control up there?" When someone gets around to it, he thought, they'll want to know where the hell I am! But no one did.

  "Richards!" Kirk tried again. Maybe he was back. Maybe something went wrong with the comm. maybe- "Operations calling HQ. Security check! Report immediately-any department!" Kirk felt an icy chill run down his spine. This was impossible. Even late at night, most departments had someone on duty up there. "Anyone, report! Is anyone able to answer? Anyone at all?"

  Nothing. Except-

  Kirk whirled around at a sound not from the intercom: a faint, pneumatic hiss and distant clang, followed by a loud metallic click from the giant, shielded door of the Vault. New words flashed across his screen.

  *FAILSAFE*FAILSAFE* THIS LEVEL IS SECURE. CONTAMINATION-FREE.

  "Who gave that order, computer?" he heard himself shouting. "Who sounded that alert?"

  CONTAM SEQUENCE INITIATED EXO-SCI 20:52:32.07

  NO INTERRUPT. NO ALL CLEAR.

  PROCEDURE IMPLEMENTED ALL LEVELS

  "Visual." Kirk was holding his breath. His heart was knocking against his ribs. He ha
d to look, no matter how much he didn't want to. The words on the screen dissolved into a view of the main entrance from a point behind the curving information desk.

  Richards hadn't left his post. A head of curly hair rested on an outstretched arm. The fingers that still gripped an open book were turning dark and mottled. The alarm was still ringing. in the Exo lab, a woman lay dead on the floor; a co-worker had died trying to help her, his hand only a few inches away.

  The officers' lounge was littered with cards, backgammon pieces, spilled drinks. and dead bodies. They sprawled across tables, slumped in chairs, faces contorted in agony, skins dark and mottled. Most of them had been his friends. What could happen that fast? Bradley had almost reached the intercom before he died, and Conklin-it looked like Conklin tried to claw his way out the window. Poor Conklin. That window wouldn't open anyway.