“Oh, come now, Skon,” said Iloja. “This Kir’Shara of yours is not just any neutral historical document. It’s the very work on which your civilization was founded, in your greatest prophet’s own hand!” He chuckled. “For centuries, you’ve had only secondhand translations and apocryphal texts, and now the real thing comes along and tells you how much you’ve had wrong all these generations. On most worlds, that would have provoked a holy war by now.”
“Vulcans are a rational, orderly people,” Surel replied. “When faced with the truth, we accept it and amend our errors. There is no logic in clinging to a discredited belief.”
Another voice spoke sharply from behind Tobin, making him fumble the remaining half-pastry, which fortunately fell back onto his plate this time. “Is there logic in blindly accepting the validity of alleged new evidence?” The new speaker was another male, this one middle-aged, yet with a crisp, military bearing.
“Not this again, Zadok,” said Surel. “The authenticity of the Kir’Shara has been verified by numerous tests.” Tobin scarfed down the remainder of his pastry so that he wouldn’t risk dropping it again.
“All performed under the supervision of the Syrannites who profited from their findings,” the man named Zadok countered.
T’Rama spoke to Tobin, perhaps in an attempt to defuse the tension between the two Vulcans. “Doctor Tobin Dax, this is Commander Zadok of the Vulcan Space Service. It was his vessel that brought Master Iloja to Vulcan.”
“Uh, pleased to meet you,” said Tobin, almost extending his sticky-fingered hand before he realized that would be a faux pas for at least two reasons.
But Surel and Zadok barely seemed to notice. “The three independent studies that have confirmed the Kir’Shara’s authentic age and provenance fall short of impartiality only in the rhetoric of Anti-revisionists and their ilk,” Surel countered. “And recent events have demonstrated that the Anti-revisionists were far from impartial themselves.”
“One group that was compromised by offworlders. Much as the alleged Kir’Shara was discovered by a human starship captain,” Zadok said with some distaste. “One who even claims to have carried the disembodied spirit of Surak. It astonishes me that rational Vulcans would take such fancies seriously.”
“Jonathan Archer merely assisted the Syrannites in their retrieval of the Kir’Shara,” Surel riposted. “The Syrannites have always been dedicated to the purest form of Surak’s logic. How can you call us more emotional than the aggressive, paranoid, even warlike faction that dominated the High Command prior to its dissolution?”
“Those of us who served with distinction in the High Command acted with dispassion,” Zadok insisted. “To a rational mind, the use of force is often the most efficacious response to a threat. The pacifism of the Syrannites is rooted in sentiment—the emotional attachment to the sanctity of life overriding the practical need to employ violence when necessary.”
“What is rational about falsifying evidence of an Andorian military buildup in order to provoke an unnecessary war, as Administrator V’Las attempted to do?”
The commander stood his ground. “The late administrator made some . . . unwise choices toward the end. But only in the name of what he believed was the security of Vulcan and the value of our traditional ways.”
“Our traditional ways were lost for centuries. Only now have they been rediscovered.”
Iloja laughed. “I think I spoke too soon. Maybe this is what a holy war looks like among you Vulcans.”
Indeed, Tobin noted that Surel and Zadok had squared off, an undercurrent of aggression faintly visible beneath their courteous veneer. But T’Rama interposed herself smoothly, her manner instantly dominating the guests’ attention. Even though she was much daintier of build than her husband—and much more pregnant—stepping between two large, aggressive men to head off conflict somehow seemed a more natural move for her than for Skon. “My guests, perhaps this discussion is better suited for a more appropriate venue. We are here to pay tribute to Master Iloja, not to embarrass him with our political arguments.”
“Oh, no need to stop them on my account, my lady!” Iloja crowed. “Politics is a fundamental force of the sentient universe, shaping the interactions of living beings as surely as the electromagnetic field shapes the interactions of charged particles. I’ve devoted most of my life, my work, to its study. And I find this debate quite . . . fascinating, to borrow a phrase. Trust a Cardassian on this; you should all be grateful you have the freedom to express such dissenting views openly without fear of reprisal.”
Tobin nodded sagely, even while advising himself not to attend any more Vulcan receptions. They were just too depressing. Although the pastries were good.
5
April 3, 2165
Smithsonian Orbital Annex, Enterprise NX-01 exhibit
REED TOOK CAUTIOUS STEPS into Enterprise’s mess hall, looking around uneasily. Not because of the setting itself, which was comfortable and nostalgic; indeed, invoking that nostalgia was how Reed had persuaded the museum staff to permit this private, after-hours tour of his old ship. The museum kept the mess hall configured as it had been on Enterprise’s weekly movie nights, so that visitors could watch educational presentations and docudramas about the starship’s pioneering voyages into the unknown and its achievements in the Romulan War—including some simulations that Reed knew to be entirely fabricated. He had almost expected to be faced with one of those when the doors had first opened and he had heard a movie playing.
But no, the feature was an older production, one of those twentieth-century films that had been so popular among Enterprise’s crew. Reed was sure he recognized the heavyset, middle-aged man who was being led into an ornate penthouse by a large dog whose jaws were clamped around his wrist—hadn’t he been in that movie about the arguing jurors?
Deciding that the scene represented some sort of invitation, Reed moved forward to his preferred seat in the second row. The middle-aged man had now been greeted by a younger, narrow-featured man in a dressing gown, a man he didn’t seem to like much but clearly needed something from. Recognizing the visitor’s discomfort with the nude artworks adorning the penthouse, the younger man activated a control that caused them to retract into the walls and be replaced by more abstract pieces. Reed was beginning to get the idea that this was a spy movie, or even a satire of the spy movies of its era. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
Another man slipped into the seat beside Reed so silently that the captain almost missed it. Still, he controlled his reaction. If this was how his contact wanted it, he could play the game too. “Good evening, Mister Tucker.”
The man whom Malcolm had once known as Charles Tucker III met his gaze evenly, his expression showing nothing. “Malcolm.”
Reed had been hoping for a warmer reception. “It’s . . . good to see you, Trip. It’s been too long.”
“One or two lifetimes.”
“At least.” Reed averted his eyes back to the screen, where the gray-suited man, evidently the chief of an intelligence agency, was struggling to persuade his reluctant former agent to accept an assignment of world-shaking importance, while a pair of beautiful women—no, now it was a trio—pampered the casually attired agent and tended to his every need.
“In case you’re wondering,” Tucker said, “my job isn’t quite like that.”
“More’s the pity,” Reed said, the feeble attempt at humor dying stillborn. “Look . . . I get the feeling you didn’t come here to watch a movie with me. Perhaps we could discuss my proposal with fewer distractions?”
“All right. Let’s walk.” Onscreen, the chief, having grown increasingly frustrated with the agent’s cavalier attitude, stormed out just as a fourth odalisque materialized.
Tucker led Reed out into the corridors, where they began walking with no apparent destination in mind. “I assume you’ve been briefed on the incident that damaged Pion
eer,” Reed said.
The sandy-haired man nodded. “More of those automated stations. I always figured there must be others out there.”
“They’re known as the Ware. And from what the locals told us, there are quite a few of them in that sector, and perhaps beyond.”
“And warships too. You don’t have to sell me, Malcolm—this could be a future threat to the Federation. Just the sort of thing my employers like to keep an eye on.”
“Good. Because I could use you out there, Trip.”
Tucker looked him over with eyes that were steelier than he remembered. “It’s not as simple as that, you know. Undercover work in uncharted space isn’t easy. It takes time to identify and assess local humanoids, learn enough about their culture to create a convincing cover story—”
“No,” Reed said. “That’s not what I’m asking for. This is a technological problem we’re up against. Trip—I need an engineer.”
For the first time, Tucker’s control slipped. He stopped walking and stared for a moment, the initial shock on his lean face giving way to uncertainty. “I haven’t exercised those skills in a long time, Malcolm.”
“So you’re a little rusty. It’s your instincts I need, Trip. That intuition that made you the best damn engineer in Starfleet. The rest will follow. You just need to get back on the horse. Or is it the bicycle?”
Tucker almost smiled. They began walking again, Reed pacing himself to match the intelligence agent’s absent, ambling stride. “Be an engineer again,” Tucker drawled. “Might be nice to do something clean and simple for a while. Something constructive.”
“We could help a lot of people, Trip. And not just in the Federation.”
“My employers are only concerned with the Federation. Anyone else . . .” He bit off his words, and Malcolm wondered what motivated the glimpse of bitterness he caught.
“There is a complication,” Tucker said after another moment. “I can disguise myself well enough to fool people who never met me. But Travis Mayweather is another matter.”
“Then I’d say it’s time to bring him into the circle of confidence. I can understand excluding those with no need to know, even friends and family. But now Travis has a need to know. And frankly it’ll be a relief to stop lying to him at last. Won’t it?”
Tucker gave him a sullen look, but after a moment he closed off again. “I’ll consider it.”
“There’s no rush. Pioneer will still be in drydock a little longer, and Admirals Archer and Shran are still putting the task force together.”
“Sure. And if—if I choose to accept this mission,” he went on with a faint smirk, “I can think of a resource or two I’d like to corral.”
“Such as?”
“I know hardware, sure, but what we’re facing is artificial intelligence. Machines that think.”
“I’m not so sure. All they do is parrot a few preprogrammed responses.”
“But they’re clever enough to adapt, to improvise attacks, to create elaborate deceptions. And they need to hijack all those living brains for something. I think they play dumb just to hide what’s really goin’ on. And if so, we need help from an expert in artificial intelligence.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“There’s a . . . potential resource we’ve been aware of. Now might be a good time to make use of him.”
A door opened before them, and Malcolm realized that Tucker’s meanderings had led them to Enterprise’s engine room. Trip seemed to be just realizing it himself as he looked around. Some of the tension left his frame as he took in the large chamber. The warp core may have been a replica, but it was a convincing one. The engine room had actually gone through considerable refitting in the years after Tucker had faked his death, but the museum had restored it to its original configuration, the one Tucker had known during the four years he’d served as Enterprise’s chief engineer.
Reed cleared his throat after a few moments. “Pioneer’s core is a little smaller,” he said, “but more advanced. Doctor Dax is overseeing the latest upgrades before he stands down. I daresay we’ll be leaving drydock with the most state-of-the-art engine in Starfleet.”
The look Tucker gave him was . . . complicated. “Don’t oversell it, Malcolm. I don’t need any more persuading from you.”
Reed responded warily, trying to focus on the positive. “Then you’ll do it?”
Tucker faced the replica core, not Reed, as he responded. “Pioneer will have its engineer.”
“Wonderful!” Reed wanted to clap him on the shoulder, but the forbidding aura around the man held him back. “It . . . it’ll be great to have you back, Trip. I mean it.”
“That’s one thing,” Tucker said. “You’ll have to get out of the habit of calling me that.”
“Of course,” Reed said after a moment. “I understand.”
That part was untrue. He wasn’t sure how to reconcile Tucker’s attitude with his memories of the man. Had his years in the spy game changed him that much?
And if so, Reed asked himself, whose fault is it for introducing Trip to Section 31 in the first place?
April 6, 2165
Amsterdam, European Alliance
Willem Paul Abramson looked young for his age. Though his hair and beard were silver, his high-browed, aquiline features were those of a man in early middle age—yet as Charles Tucker watched him from a shadowed corner of the industrialist’s laboratory, he imagined he could see glimpses of a world-weariness far beyond the man’s apparent years. One might wonder what the founder of the Federation’s most advanced cybernetics firm had to look so careworn about—if one didn’t have the resources of Section 31 to divine the answer.
Abramson was currently huddled in conference with a strongly built, short-haired woman Tucker recognized as Olivia Akomo, his chief cybernetic engineer. They leaned over a slab containing the skeletal, metal-and-plastic framework of an automaton—but instead of the usual geometric shapes of Abramson Industries’ maintenance drones, sensor probes, and other such devices, this one had a decidedly bipedal form. So that’s Project Aedilis, Tucker thought. He had to wonder why Abramson was devoting so much of his wealth and resources to a project unlikely to have much commercial popularity. But then, he was known as a man of old-fashioned sensibilities.
Tucker heard the whine of a small lift rotor behind him and turned to see one of those geometrically shaped drones, a metallic sphere with a hover-drive module on the bottom and a lurid red sensor eye on the front. It closed on him slowly but menacingly, extending a phase weapon emitter. He heard another one closing from the other direction. The two of them herded him out into the light. Akomo looked up, eyes widening in her rounded, dark-hued face. “What the hell? Who are you, what are you doing here?” Her tone was one of outrage rather than alarm, her bearing assertive and sturdy.
But she still deferred to the man beside her, who studied Tucker with no sign of surprise or anxiety, though his disapproval was manifest. “You are not welcome here, sir. This is private property—though I would not expect the likes of you to respect such a concept.” His eyes roved up and down Tucker’s black uniform.
“Then you know who I represent?” Tucker asked.
“I know the type. Uniforms like yours, eyes like yours. Men who lurk in shadows, who spy on those they pretend to protect. Answerable to no one, obedient to nothing but their own power and secrecy.”
“Well, I can see we got off on the wrong foot,” Tucker said.
“What did you expect,” Akomo shot back, “breaking and entering the way you did?”
“I’m afraid Mister Abramson is a hard man to get an appointment with.” He took care to pronounce it the way the man preferred, with an initial “ah” sound. “But I have an urgent matter to discuss with him.”
“Everything is always urgent with people like you,” Abramson said. “You see only the little span of
days before you and imagine that its events will change the world for all time. You fail to realize how little actually changes in the grand scheme.”
Tucker met his eyes pointedly. “Well, I can see how a man such as yourself would have a different perspective on time, sir. But I assure you, what I need from you won’t take up much of yours. Not when you take the long view of history, I mean.”
“Willem, what is he implying?” Akomo asked.
For the first time, Tucker saw a trace of anxiety in the man’s eyes. “Olivia, I suggest you let me tend to this man. I need you focused on the neural growth rate analysis.”
“I don’t appreciate being cut out of the loop.”
“Please, Olivia. If there is anything you need to know, I will tell you. But that analysis is important to both of us.”
She threw a smoldering glare toward Tucker. “Very well. But I won’t be far.”
As she left the lab, Tucker strolled closer to the work area, looking over the automaton with a trained eye. “Are you working on some kind of neural circuitry?”
“A revival of an old theory,” Abramson replied. “My mentor in cybernetics called it ‘bionic plasma,’ but I prefer ‘bio-neural gel.’ ”
“Neural computers. And in a humanoid body, too. What are you tryin’ to do, build the perfect girlfriend?”
Abramson was far from amused. “Spare me your disapproval, Mister . . .”
“Call me Collier.”
“Mister Collier,” he echoed with skepticism, though Tucker knew the industrialist had no moral high ground where assumed names were concerned. “I have heard all the objections before. Humans have feared Frankenstein’s monster for generations—though in so doing, they misunderstand what poor Mary intended by her tale.”
“I think they’re more afraid of autonomous drones running out of control, android assassins, all those fun things that cropped up in the twenty-first century. You remember World War Three, right? I’m sure you read about it in history class.”
Star Trek: Enterprise - 017 - Rise of the Federation: Uncertain Logic Page 7
