Star Trek - Pandora Principle

by Pandora Principle

  "You mean-I can learn this? I can find this Kolinahr in me?"

  "It is a path, Saavikam, a way of life. And those who seek it must leave everything behind, all emotion, all attachment. Only then will the mind be truly free to reason clearly, to see things as they are, not as we wish them to be. Only then do we learn the true meaning of our existence, our own. reason for being born. Kolinahr is. Enlightenment. A deeply private experience."

  "I never knew-you mean, more private even than Pon-"

  "Yes, even more than that. We do not write or speak of this. The meaning comes to each person differently, the Masters say. But its truth cannot be taught. Its peace cannot be shared. It cannot be given to another. It can only be lived. You have known the desire. But even that must be given up in order to attain it. You must give up everything, everyone."

  Your answer lies elsewhere, Spock... and Vulcan's sun burned bitter that day on the ancient stones of Gol. It still did.

  "But it is possible?" Saavik's eyes were shining. "If I study and learn everything and stop being angry? Even a half-Vulcan-"

  "I do not know, Saavikam. I thought so, once. And if that is the path you choose, on Vulcan, with the Masters, it may be possible for you. But not for me. I tried. I. failed."

  "But-" Saavik couldn't believe it. "-you are never angry! I have never seen you angry! Not even that time I broke your new computer, or that time I watered your memory crystals, or-"

  "You were only a child, Saavikam, you never gave me cause. And my failing." the words came slowly, ". was not anger."

  "Then what-" She frowned at him, troubled. Spock waited for the inevitable question, knowing he must answer, wondering how. But the question never came. "-what I think," she whispered, suddenly unsure of herself, "is that this is a very Vulcan thing, and I do not understand it at all. But perhaps you didn't really fail, Mr. Spock. Perhaps, for half-Vulcans, it just takes a little longer. Don't you think that must be it?" She watched him anxiously.

  Spock could not have said why failure should grow easier in the telling, but he was grateful all the same. He had never known her to deny herself a question. Saavik was becoming kind.

  The intercom whistled. He went to his desk, then paused to look back at her curled up in her chair. "Saavikam, I believe you may be right," he said. ". Spock here."

  "Mr. Spock." Sulu had the conn, and his face was worried. "We're picking up a ship's distress signal. It's a Mayday, sir. On heading 038, mark 7. Do we respond?"

  "Are any other ships on scan?"

  "No, sir, nothing out here at all. We'll have to go sublight in twelve minutes or we'll overshoot on intercept. And it's still off the grid. We don't even know what it is."

  "Estimate of time loss if we divert?"

  "Our arrival on planet will be delayed at least one and one-half solar days, and that's only if. Mr. Spock," Sulu hesitated, "Uhura says it's an automatic beacon. It doesn't vary, sir."

  Which meant all aboard could be dead. Breaking radio silence so close to the Neutral Zone might divulge Enterprise's presence to Romulan surveillance probes. That they could not risk. And time was of the essence on this mission; investigating a dead ship would squander it. But there was more to the equation: What if Enterprise reached Hellguard to find the weapons already gone, while people died because their Mayday went ignored? Less than two days away in Federation space. In flagrant violation of Federation law. By a Federation starship. That signal was strong enough to intercept at this range, indicating a large vessel. There could be hundreds of people on that ship.

  "Mr. Sulu," he sighed heavily, "we will be going sublight. Plot your referent, and maintain radio silence. I am on my way." He switched off, frowning. "A complication, Saavikam-and no," he anticipated, "you may not. You may conquer the dimensional tangent instead."

  "Yes, Mr. Spock," she followed him to the door, "but I would like to ask a question. This Kolinahr. It is very difficult?"

  "Yes."

  "And this is what it means to be a real Vulcan?" She waited, but he didn't answer. "This. is everything a Vulcan can be?"

  "No," he said with sorrow in his voice, sorrow and old longing. "No, Saavikam, it is only the beginning. Study well."

  She sat down again, trying to concentrate, then remembered something. She accessed Linguistics, spoke a word, and frowned at the definition on the screen: HIJACK (COLLOQ.): TO UNLAWFULLY APPROPRIATE PERSONS, GOODS, OR SERVICES (ESP. TRANSPORT) TO AN UNSCHEDULED DESTINATION BY

  MEANS OF THREAT, WEAPONRY, OR FORCE.

  Well, that doctor was irrational! Or more likely he misused his own word. Humans often did that. Yes, that must be it, she decided, and turned her mind to a far more puzzling question:

  What, in all the Universe, had caused Spock to. fail?

  Kirk couldn't sleep, except in exhausted, fitful dozes from which some internal alarm would clang him awake, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins until the sight of Renn or Kinski on his screen told him Earth was still alive and he was not alone. He grew tired. So tired that shadows turned to people at the edges of his vision, so tired they sometimes spoke in clear, familiar voices, so tired the Vault became Enterprise's bridge from one blinking of an eye to the next, and he ached to surrender to illusion-but that way lay madness. So he plotted his ship's course every hour, exercised until he sweat, explored passages and living spaces, switching on monitors as he went to banish empty silence with the sounds of life. Time passed slowly in the Vault.

  And one by one, experiments failed. The virus resisted all attempts to poison it, neutralize it, or disrupt its molecular structure. Research centers from Earth to Vulcan were on link with Starfleet over coded channels; theories were discussed, experiments set up, and now robots wheeled along HQ's corridors, carrying out instructions by remote control. Hopes rose with the release of each cylinder of oxygen-and fell again. Analyses and lengthy consultations followed, leaving Renn and Kinski with little to do but eat or sleep.

  At the moment, Nogura was on the line, and Renn was reporting the day's disappointments.

  ". and the second try didn't work either, Admiral. We haven't begun to crack its genetic code. The Vulcans are working on a method of molecular gene-splicing to make it vulnerable, but what they're doing is over my head, I'm afraid."

  "Thank you, Doctor. Anything further?"

  Renn hesitated. "Just speculation, sir. Mine."

  "Then I'd like to hear it," Nogura said kindly, and Kirk felt a rush of affection for the old man. Renn was obviously upset, and trying not to show it. The strain was getting to her, too.

  "This virus, Admiral. We've been assuming there's some designed weakness-or some antidote. But I think the Romulans built something worse than they knew. When it can't breed it just goes dormant, and so far nothing affects it, not even total vacuum. Sir, that means it could survive beyond the atmosphere, be carried by ships or solar winds. If it got loose, I think it could contaminate a whole star system. And I don't think they planned on that. I think this may be the first use on a planetary target. Sir, I think maybe they just wanted to see if it worked."

  Nogura listened intently. "That is very interesting, Doctor. I want your speculations on the record. Send me a report, append the data. And try not to be discouraged, Dr. Renn. You're doing good work." He turned to Kirk. "A moment of your time." Kirk found that an ironic choice of words. "Jim," Nogura asked when they were alone, "how are you getting on?"

  "Oh, just great," Kirk said dryly. "What's the word?"

  "We should hear from Enterprise tomorrow. But nothing so far from the Empire, and Council's at a standstill. Komack briefed the delegates. Sarek's held the floor for six hours now, and he's not about to yield. A vote's a long way off, but he won't compromise: they will assist in life-saving measures, but Vulcan will not accept our preparations for war; it's simply not an option. He and some of the others are going at each other, and the time it's buying us could tear the Federation apart. Member worlds are in an uproar, say Starfleet's supposed to protect th
em-and no one's putting any faith in scientific solutions."

  "But why the hell is Komack doing the talking? Heihachiro, why aren't you there? Don't they understand that-"

  "You're the one who doesn't understand, Jim! The delegates are scared. I need that report from Dr. Renn because there's some talk going around in Council that the Federation should develop this virus. Everyone needs to know that kind of research could kill us all in the process."

  "But. you can't let it happen!"

  "Who the hell are you to tell me that?" The anger Nogura had held in check for days came boiling to the surface. "Jim, you play your career like a game! You think Enterprise is your personal property, and you want to make the clock stand still! 'Send me your best minds,' our President said-and mine's stuck four hundred feet down because of some schoolboy prank! But you signed on to serve where you were needed, Jim-and I need you here. I want you to think about that!"

  "Dammit it, I have!" Kirk said angrily. "I'm just not your man! Sooner or later, I'd punch someone out."

  "Grow up, Jim," Nogura sighed. "You don't punch people out. You keep them on a short string-where you can watch them."

  "And that's why I don't belong in your office! I don't work on a short string! I took back my ship because it's what I'm good at doing-and I'll do it again if I ever get out of here. But we know the odds on that, don't we! You might win yet, Admiral. Too bad you're not a betting man." Kirk heard himself sounding petty and exhausted, and hated himself for it.

  "You are so wrong. Admiral!" Nogura said, and hung up.

  "Damn you, Nogura!" Kirk swore at the empty screen, furious, sick at heart. His words rang in the velvet silence of the Vault, where there was no one to hear them. No one at all.

  Chapter Nine

  "ONE ABOARD, Mr. Spock, life signs low." Chekov frowned from his scan to the screen, where a ship hung motionless in space.

  Black on black, a silhouette against the Universe, wealth and power were evident in every sweep of its light-absorbent lines. Wing tips spun out in filigrees of sensor webs; two needle-like nacelles streamed behind. Its sleek, expensive hull was bare of name, planetary registry, or Federation ID-and that sent Spock to his library computer, searching for a clue to its design.

  "And one utility phaser, high-power," Sulu reported, "but it's not targeted or locked, not even on line. Sir, all systems have been cut to minimum. It must be cold in there."

  "Ship-to-ship, Commander Uhura, tight beam."

  "Yes, sir. this is starship Enterprise. Are you able to respond?. Enterprise to craft in distress, do you copy?." She finally shook her head. "Nothing, sir. Mr. Scott says we can't dock with it. Transporter room's standing by."

  "No, Commander. Inform Mr. Scott we are bringing that craft aboard! Medical and security personnel to the hangar deck. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn." Spock left the bridge looking ominous.

  Chekov restrained himself until the coast was clear. "But it is too small, Sulu, for us to have heard its distress call."

  "And too much power and too many sensors for its size. We've spent all this time rescuing a smuggler! Did you see Spock's eyes?"

  "I did, Sulu. Not a happy Wulcan."

  At the hangar deck's observation window, the medics waited. Security personnel quietly drew and set their phasers. McCoy twiddled with his tricorder, and Scott gaped in admiration at the ship. It tracked in, settling in the landing bay, and its matte-black surface reflected no glare from the floodlamps. And even before the hangar deck repressurized Spock was on intercom to the bridge, giving orders that put Enterprise back on course for Hellguard.

  "I advise caution, gentlemen," he said as they crossed the deck, their breath frosting in the thin, space-cold air. They stopped at the ship's single airlock, and Scott moved to try its wheel. As he reached for it, the wheel began to turn from inside. With a hiss of vapor the hatch swung down, came to rest forming an exit ramp. A tall figure stood in the doorway, wrapped in a voluminous black cloak and hood against the cold.

  "I am grateful," said a deep, male voice in perfect English, "I thought I was in for a long, long." He swayed, then pitched forward in a billow of black cloth. Hands caught him, lowered him to the deck. The cloak's hood fell back from a chiseled, weathered face that looked sinister even in repose, a head of silvery hair, and a pair of prominent, elegantly pointed ears.

  "He'll be all right." McCoy eyed his scans as medics lifted their patient onto a stretcher. "Probably thought he'd be stuck here awhile and took some Metabonil. I want him on monitors before I bring him out of it. He won't be talking tonight."

  "Very well, Doctor. Mr. Scott, search that craft. Thoroughly. I want to know where it came from, what went wrong, and what it carries. Report to me whatever the hour."

  "Aye, sir. I've never seen the like of this ship! I didn't know Vulcans were buildin' 'em like this. Come along, lads." He ran a gloved hand over the hull, then climbed into the airlock. The security team followed him inside. The medics were on their way across the hangar deck with the stretcher, and McCoy stood shaking his head, still frowning at his readouts.

  "But he's not a Vulcan, Spock. He's Romulan. Now that's one helluva coincidence, isn't it?"

  The following morning the patient was awake, alert, and pronounced fit for questioning. He appeared at ease, but his dark eyes were watchful, and behind them Spock sensed a keen, powerful intelligence. He answered questions freely: the ship, he said, was his own; he was a businessman, and his name was Achernar.

  These preliminaries were interrupted by a weary, disgruntled Scott, who trundled in a sample of the ship's cargo on a floating cart: a ceremonial Vulcan chalice, bloodstone from the Klingon Empire, kegs of Romulan wine, cases of Romulan ale, and two ancient Orion sculptures considered long-lost religious relics. All of those items were illegal for trade. McCoy goggled at the ale, and as Scott tendered his report, his gaze kept swerving to several old, dusty bottles of something labeled "Glenlivet."

  ". no proper cargo bay! It was more like a hidey-hole under the deck, which took a day of lookin'-the deck plates were scan-proofed, and this is only a small piece of what we found." He eyed the Glenlivet morosely. "That ship's a regular palace inside and it's got warp drive, a single-unit transporter, and sensors that would do a starship proud. Flight data says he came out of Romulan space, but why he sent a distress-"

  "My stabilizer was malfunctioning, gentlemen," Achernar said with a smile. "Invalidated my guidance system. Navigation input couldn't compensate. I was traveling in very large circles, you see. It might have been weeks or years before help came, out here on the edge of nowhere. Or never. So I cut power, set my beacon, took some-Metabonil, I think you call it-and settled down to-"

  "Wait for some other rascal dodgin' the spacelanes?" snapped Scott. "One ye could buy off with a wee dram of-"

  "Mr. Scott. Doctor." Spock motioned them outside and waited until the door slid closed. "His medical condition?"

  "Metabonil," McCoy confirmed, "saves a lot of lives when ships get stranded. He must've just been going under. Says when he heard our hail, we were already bringing him aboard. Typical. That stuff slows reaction time as well as metabolism. He'll be weak and wobbly for a few days. Needs to move around."

  "In the brig!" Scott opined. "He's a smuggler, sir, no mistake. And we'll see about that stabilizer of his."

  "An investigation should confirm or refute his claim?"

  "Aye. But the ship, Mr. Spock. Will ye want us to fix it?" Scott flushed as Spock raised an eyebrow. "I don't mean for him, sir! He's a bad one, but his ship's a beauty. Custommade. Those engines cost a pretty penny, an' to leave 'em. well." Scott's voice trailed off. Spock frowned thoughtfully.

  "Very well, Mr. Scott. Effect repairs, but inventory and impound his cargo. It will be required for evidence."

  "Aye," Scott sighed. "That'd be. all of it then?"

  "Yes, Mr. Scott, all of it." Spock reentered the inner room and considered the man who called himself Achernar. He carried contraband from two hostile em
pires, a neutral planet and two Federation worlds, one of them Spock's own. What he carried in his head might be more useful. The subject of these musings was sitting up in bed, regarding Spock with sardonic good humor. Intelligent, potentially dangerous, not to be underestimated.

  "So," Spock said, "you are a smuggler."

  "Please. a businessman." Achernar smiled. "If you like. It does not mitigate your circumstances. You transport restricted goods in Federation space without permits; you navigate without proper ID or assigned subspace codes. You violate the Neutral Zone, and you divert a Federation starship, for a reason we have yet to verify."

  "I regret the inconvenience," said Achernar solemnly.

  "Believe me, I do. Perhaps we could. work something out?"

  "I hardly think so," said Spock. "You are Romulan. Are you also an agent of the Empire?"