by Rick Barba
She looked him over. “You’re a Starfleet cadet, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes I am,” said Kirk. He glanced down at himself. “How can you tell?”
“I dated a cadet last year,” said the girl.
“Ah, so you’re an expert on cadets.”
She nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“Okay, well, I’ll be at the corner table, Hannah. Just give me a holler when that delicious brew is ready.”
“I’ll call your name,” she said.
“Good plan,” said Kirk, walking away.
“Of course it would help if I knew what it was,” said Hannah.
“Come join me and I’ll tell you,” he said.
Hannah laughed. “How about I just call ‘cadet’?” she replied with a wink.
An hour later, Kirk was hip-deep in his studies.
It felt good, even therapeutic. With Starfleet’s science directives open on his reading pad, he highlighted and dragged key passages over onto his linked notepad, then scribbled notes furiously. Pondering the core purpose of Starfleet’s mission was finally wiping his mind clean of Team Delta’s loss to Tikhonov’s Alpha, and of his surreal brush with a serial killer the night before.
Kirk was suddenly aware of a black-clad figure to his left—the new barista, Hannah. She was wiping down a table.
“What are you studying, Cadet?” she asked without looking at him.
Kirk tilted up the reading pad. “Science,” he said.
“What kind of science?” she asked.
“Cadet science,” replied Kirk.
Hannah turned to face him. She put her hands on her hips.
“You’re funny,” she said with a dry look.
“I’m hilarious.”
“Maybe I can help you,” she said. “I like science. In fact . . . I’m a scientist.”
Kirk nodded. “What kind of scientist?” he asked.
“I’m a botanist,” she said with pride.
Kirk tilted his reading pad back down on the table. Suddenly he didn’t want to study anymore. “Hmm . . . a botanist.” He was impressed. Gorgeous and smart, he thought.
“Well,” she said, shrugging, “actually, I’m a graduate student.”
“Ah, so you’re a near-botanist,” said Kirk. “Where at?”
“San Francisco State,” she replied.
“Cool,” said Kirk.
Hannah looked at him again for a few seconds without speaking. Her gaze drove him crazy. If she continued looking at him like that, he was going to need a cold shower. Then she turned and started wiping down another table.
Kirk opened his mouth to speak several times as she polished the old-fashioned linoleum surface, but he reconsidered each time. This girl did something to him that no girl ever did—she made him nervous.
Finally he tried, “So I’ve got this big science test Monday.”
Hannah kept working on the table, but she was listening.
“Most important exam of my entire career,” said Kirk. “Much at stake. All hangs in the balance.”
She picked up a wadded napkin. “Over one test?”
Kirk smiled, happy to have her attention again. “It’s a simulation, actually.”
Then he described what little he knew of the Tanika Station scenario. It was a competition, but not head-to-head. The two away teams, Alpha and Delta, would deploy into the same alien environment at different times. The task was to carry out basic science directives that every Starfleet officer and enlisted man was expected to execute in any “discovery setting.”
“Basic science,” said Kirk. “Observation. Run a few scans. Take samples. That sort of thing.”
“You’re supposed to discover things,” said Hannah.
“I guess,” said Kirk. He shrugged. “What do you think? As a scientist, what’s your take? Any advice?”
Hannah eyed him and bit her lip as she thought. Kirk tried not to squirm.
“Okay,” she said. “First off, I despise the term ‘discovery setting.’”
Kirk’s eyes widened. “Why?” he asked.
“When a botanist goes out in the field,” she said, “it’s like being invited into someone’s house, except you’re not really invited. That’s the first thing to remember.”
Kirk nodded. “That makes sense,” he said, kicking out the other chair at his table, inviting her to sit down.
Hannah tossed her towel onto the table. “You’re intruding, uninvited, into somebody’s home, the place they’ve lived their whole lives, the place they love. It means everything to them, this place.” She looked at Kirk and sat down. “So are you discovering it? It’s been there a long time. Centuries. Longer, maybe. But now your very presence is changing it. Maybe just by walking through a discovery setting you are disturbing things, altering them permanently. Maybe you’re even destroying something. Something beloved and sacred to somebody else.” Her cheeks glowed as she spoke. She was clearly very passionate about the subject.
“I see what you’re saying,” Kirk said. “But you know, Starfleet doesn’t just pull on the heavy boots and stomp around in every habitat we find.”
“Right,” said Hannah, rolling her eyes. She stood up from the table.
“Look, Starfleet General Order Number One,” Kirk said, speaking quickly, “generally known as the Prime Directive, puts us under the strictest orders to make no attempt to alter the natural course of any prewarp society. I assume you’re familiar with the Prime Directive?”
A dark look passed over Hannah’s face.
“The Prime Directive is a joke,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s a smoke screen,” she said.
Kirk was perplexed. “How so?”
She sighed and began to wipe down another table.
“Let’s just say that I’m pretty cynical about Starfleet’s so-called mission,” she said wearily.
Kirk got the feeling he’d just tapped in to a vein of conversation that Hannah had already deeply mined . . . perhaps in her previous relationship with the Starfleet cadet. But Kirk couldn’t just drop the subject. Despite his blatant disregard for many Starfleet rules and regulations (especially those governing a cadet’s personal life), he was actually a true believer. He believed in Starfleet’s core mission of exploration, discovery, and peaceful contact. And right now he felt very compelled to garner Hannah’s approval and respect.
“You think we’re just a bunch of gun-toting thugs, right?” he asked.
Hannah folded her arms. “You’re taking this a little too personally, Cadet,” she said.
“The name is Jim,” he said.
“Okay, Jim,” she said. And then she finally smiled at him, and the tension was gone. When she smiled, Hannah was absolutely stunning.
“Jim Kirk,” said Kirk, dazzled. He was blatantly staring now.
“Listen, Kirk, I’m sure you believe in your mission,” she said. “I’m not cynical about Starfleet cadets. Most of you, anyway.”
Kirk braced himself for criticism. “So what’s the objection?” he asked.
“I think you’re tools,” she said.
“Ouch,” said Kirk.
Hannah sighed. “The United Federation of Planets was formed as a result of a brutal, bloody war that almost wiped out two civilizations,” she said. She pointed at the sky outside the coffeehouse window. “The Romulans are out there, just one light-year beyond Federation space. The Neutral Zone is nothing to them. They’re building up, biding their time. You know they are. They’ll come at us again soon. Meanwhile, we’re in a race for allies and resources. We want our side bigger and stronger than their side when the time comes. Thus Starfleet was born.”
“So you’re saying Starfleet is all about alliance and conquest?” said Kirk.
Hannah sat down across from him and leaned forward, an intense look on her beautiful face. “You know it is,” she said.
Kirk broke her gaze. He looked down at his reading pad.
“And so these science dir
ectives are just . . . some sort of sham,” he said.
Hannah noted Kirk’s reaction. She sat back and took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m passionate about this issue. Obviously.”
Kirk waved a hand. “Hey, it’s cool,” he said. “It’s good to get perspective. You know, see how regular people think.”
Hannah laughed. “So you think I’m regular?” she said in mock horror.
Kirk grinned. “Compared to the people I’m surrounded by every day, you are, like . . . extraregular.”
“My mother would be so proud,” she said.
Kirk pointed over at the counter. Two ratty guys in leather were examining pastries in the display case.
“Customers,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, I have a job,” said Hannah. She stood up. “I haven’t fully gotten my mind around that yet.”
“I can tell,” said Kirk.
“Funny, Kirk,” she said.
As Hannah went back to the counter, Kirk thought about what she’d said.
The United Federation of Planets was originally formed in 2161 as a peaceful alliance between Humans, Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites. It had grown since to include many more star systems. But she was right: Interstellar unity didn’t happen because scientists wanted to hold hands and explore stuff together. The impetus for the Federation Charter was the Battle of Cheron, a nuclear exchange that capped four brutal years of war between Earth and the Romulan Star Empire that nearly decimated both sides. The original members certainly joined together for security purposes—defensive, military purposes—with an eye on the expansionist Romulans, and, later, the Klingon Empire.
But did that mean Starfleet’s mandate for peaceful exploration was just a clever cover story for darker goals?
Wasn’t the acquisition of knowledge a good thing?
Or was Starfleet just a tool for conquest and economic expansion?
Kirk gazed down at the science directive document open on his reading pad.
2.1 The primary role of all Starfleet personnel is that of ambassador. A secondary purpose is field research.
2.2 When encountering new life-forms, regardless of their level of sentience, the default Starfleet posture is one of benign greeting.
2.3 Once trust is established, scientific research may begin.
2.4 In the case of a hostile response, all Starfleet scientific activity will be suspended until diplomacy establishes or re-establishes trust.
2.5 Trust between observer and observed is the bedrock of good science.
Trust, he thought. Interesting.
He looked over at Hannah. Yes, she had a few sharp edges. But like a good botanist, she was treating the two specimens at her counter with total respect.
To kill time until she returned, Kirk grabbed his notepad, inserted earbuds, and punched up some old media accounts of the Doctor killings from eighteen years ago. They described him as cold, clinical, calculating, and relentless. Speculation ranged from rumors that he was everything from a surgeon to an unknown alien to a vampire. The SFPD was very tight-lipped about crime scene details and autopsy results, so reporters were frustrated. They spent their time whipping up dread. One favorite angle was: He could be anybody! That nice guy sitting next to you on the shuttle? Maybe that’s him. Maybe he’s your neighbor. Your real-estate guy. Your accountant—yes, even your accountant fits the profile.
Fear of the unknown always drives us to create a profile, thought Kirk. But in all that profiling, none of the experts ever suggested the Doctor might be a seven-foot-tall dude wearing a voice-filter mask.
Kirk clicked a button on his reading pad and watched a few man-on-the-street interviews. People had been really afraid. Restaurant and club owners complained about empty floors on foggy nights. Nobody was going out. Home-security companies made a killing.
Kirk wondered, Are we in for another summer of this insanity?
Out of curiosity, he checked the latest news. Interestingly, he found no report on last night’s attacks. SFPD and Starfleet were locked down, for now. Earlier, as Kirk and Uhura had left the commandant of midshipmen’s office, the admiral issued a direct order in no uncertain terms: Speak to nobody—not family, not friends, not anybody—about the incident. Of course, Detective Bogenn briefed the Starfleet medical team treating Gaila, so Kirk had already discussed the matter with McCoy. But nobody else was in the loop.
Kirk knew it was only a matter of time before word leaked out.
He looked over at Hannah again. When did she get off work? Would she walk home alone through the district? Word had to get out soon. You didn’t want public panic, of course, but then again you didn’t want drunken fools stumbling down dark, foggy alleys like Gaila had done last night.
Finally Kirk clicked on a news link that brought up a cheesy special report, aired in July of 2247, ten years after the “Summer of the Doctor,” as the report garishly called it. It was standard media melodrama, but Kirk was struck by some of the facts—in particular, the wide variety of victims. The Doctor didn’t appear to have a preferred type. One of them was a young woman, Emily Karcher, a student at USF. She was walking back to her dorm late from her work-study job in the campus sandwich shop when she was attacked. . . .
Hannah suddenly appeared at his side.
“Have you studied the Starfleet directive about pillaging yet?” she asked, grinning and trying to peek at his screen.
Kirk jumped. He popped out his earbuds and closed down the screen.
“Whoa,” said Hannah, holding up her hands. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t hear you coming,” said Kirk.
“I tend to move silently,” she replied. “I’m kind of like a cat. Well, except I don’t like fish parts.”
Kirk clicked off the video report. “Hey, listen,” he said. “What time do you get off work?”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she asked.
Kirk was flustered. “No, uh, that’s not . . . I’m not . . . this isn’t, like, asking because . . . uh,” he said, and then stopped.
Hannah’s teasing smile reappeared. “Smooth recovery, Jim.”
“Look, just never mind, okay?” he said.
“I don’t get off until after your curfew,” she said simply.
“Okay, well, it’s not foggy tonight anyway.”
She looked quizzically at Kirk and was about to speak when his communicator beeped. He looked at the incoming number. It was McCoy.
“I should take this,” he said.
Hannah gestured to go ahead. She grabbed a nearby spray bottle and started squirting the front window.
“Kirk here,” he said into his communicator.
“Jim, get your tail over here to the pathology lab at Medical, immediately,” said McCoy with urgency. “And I mean right now. We got some very interesting results on Gaila’s samples.”
“On my way,” said Kirk. He turned to Hannah at the window. “Big, big meeting,” he said, pointing at his communicator. “Very important.”
“See ya,” she said quickly.
“Hannah, there’s something I need to tell you,” said Kirk. “But I can’t yet because I’m . . . under orders not to.”
“Right,” she said.
“Listen, just . . . be careful tonight,” he said. “Going home, I mean.”
“I’m always careful,” she said. Behind her, newly sprayed cleaning solution was smeared in a translucent sheen on the window. It looked like a weird aura behind her.
Kirk quickly packed his things and headed for the door. On the way out, he said, “I’ll be back.”
Hannah glanced over at him from the window. “That is a vintage Starfleet cadet line,” she said.
Kirk smiled and pointed at her. “I mean it,” he said. “I’ll be back. When do you work next?”
“Thursday,” she said with a nonchalance that pierced Kirk’s heart.
Kirk kept pointing at her as he stepped through the doorway out onto Union Street. “I’ll be back,” he sai
d again.
“Whatever,” she said.
This girl is gonna kill me, he thought.
Starfleet’s medical college complex was an adjunct of the main academy, and was located in the northeast corner of the sprawling campus. On the way, Kirk jogged past the gorgeous but eerie Palace of Fine Arts. In the dark, it looked like a haunted castle. The cypress trees that clumped around the glimmering palace pond looked stately and graceful by day, but now they just looked spooky.
Then he saw it: a tall, dark figure.
It seemed to float through the shadows of the big stone arches lining the palace walkway near the pond. Kirk slid to a halt. The figure halted. Kirk started to jog again. The figure started moving again.
He’s following me, thought Kirk.
“Hey, you!” he yelled. He started running toward the figure. Kirk had no weapons of any kind. But he had a feeling about this guy.
And he was right. The dark figure darted around a stone pillar, then bent down to duck under an arch. When Kirk reached the arch, his head cleared it with two feet to spare.
Okay, he’s huge, thought Kirk, sprinting hard.
But he stayed on the figure’s tail as the big guy glided past the palace and onto the dark streets north of the parking lot. Then Kirk saw him duck between two rows of houses.
Great, another alley, he thought.
He skidded to a halt at the alley entrance. The figure stood stock-still just thirty feet away, facing him. Instinctively Kirk flipped his communicator open and punched the record button. He held it up.
Go ahead, he thought. Speak, fool.
And the figure spoke. It was the same creepy, low-pitched metallic voice. But this time, Kirk had no problem deciphering the phrase.
The voice simply said: “James T. Kirk.”
Then he turned away, moved impossibly fast down the alley, and darted lightly up the street.
By the time Kirk got through the alley, the Doctor was long gone.
CH.6.12
Smart Dust
In 2255, Mount Zion Hospital boasted the best Level-1 cardiopulmonary center in the Bay Area. So when the paramedic team found a woman in the Transamerica Pyramid suffering from acute respiratory failure, Mount Zion was the logical choice for delivery. It was close by, and it was a good place to take someone whose lungs were ripped to shreds.
