“What do you mean?” Williams challenged.
“Think about it,” Sangupta went on. “With Mars in now, half the full members of the Federation are human worlds. The others, they have a few colonies and outposts here and there, but all still under their homeworld governments. But us, we’re expansionists by nature. We spread out, we diversify.” He pointed a little bit to the east of their current course, and they adjusted their descent accordingly. “And really, what’s so bad about that? It’s not like humans are all one bloc. Look at us. A Terran, a Centaurian, a space boomer,” he said, gesturing to Williams, himself, and Mayweather in turn. “We’re all human, but we’re not all agreeing on this.”
“That’s a good point,” Mayweather said. “I’m not sure other species would see it that way, though.”
“All the more reason to give as much power as possible to the planets instead of the central government,” Sangupta went on. “They’ll be less likely to see humans as a single political unit.”
“But look at what a mess the government already is,” Williams countered as they reached the bottom of the slope. The savanna stretched out before them, a vast field of high, green-gold reeds flexing subtly in the breeze. It was punctuated at wide, fairly regular intervals by small copses of exotic pseudo-trees, multiple bamboo-like trunks spreading out from a common base to support wide, round photosynthetic caps like spongy chartreuse parasols. “Too much compromise, too many different institutions trying to represent every world’s vision of government. The Council, the Commission, the Ministerial Conferences . . . I mean, it took them six months even to decide we should have a president at all!”
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Sangupta said. “That’s a relic of the days before modern communications. I say open-source the decision process. Give it to the people. For any problem, there are going to be dozens of experts out there with fresh and innovative ideas for how to fix it. Concentrate the decisions in the hands of a few politicians and those great ideas won’t get heard.”
“Just what I’d expect a colonial to say,” Williams countered.
Sangupta bristled. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Easy, Lieutenants,” Mayweather cautioned. “We’ve got some apes to find. Anything, Rey?”
The science officer sulked for a moment before lifting his scanner. Like most Centaurians, Rey Sangupta took considerable pride in his colonial identity. Alpha Centauri III hadn’t been an easy planet to tame; at first, UESPA’s colonization board had written it off as too inhospitable, still suffering from a centuries-old impact winter and at too great a risk from future asteroid bombardment. That’s why they’d chosen a more temperate world more than four times as distant for Earth’s first extrasolar colony, Terra Nova—which had ironically fallen prey to an impact event itself after just five years. After Terra Nova had gone dark, a group whose leaders had included Zefram Cochrane himself had defied the United Earth government and founded an independent colony on Centauri III, and over the past seventy-five years had proven they were capable of taming the harsh world, though not without significant losses. By now they had large, populous cities, an active terraforming industry, outposts established on the other borderline-habitable worlds around all three of Alpha Centauri’s component stars, and enough of a space infrastructure to deflect any future asteroids—plus a strong, independent spirit and intense national pride. The same pride that had made them insist on joining the Federation as a full member, rather than a UE protectorate, also made them wary of surrendering too much of their sovereignty.
“They seem to be on the move,” Sangupta reported after a moment. “And there are other mammals hidden in the reeds—maybe predators lying in wait. I figure the apes generally shelter in the copses—the reeds don’t grow in the shade, so they have some open ground and something they can climb if they’re attacked.”
Williams’s hand rested on her phase pistol butt. “So we have to get close enough to get a look at them without them seeing us . . . and without getting stalked by an alien lion pride while we’re at it.”
The science officer pointed to their right, still studying his scanner. “That copse over there looks empty. Might make a decent observation post.”
“Okay,” Mayweather said. “Be on the lookout for anything coming through the reeds.”
“Good thing the captain isn’t here,” Sangupta said as they pushed their way through the neck-high ground cover. “How could we tell him apart from the rest of the Reeds?” Mayweather and Williams both groaned, though the latter chuckled a bit despite herself. “On second thought, I know—he’d be the one that never bent.”
Williams stopped laughing. “Hey, watch it. You may not like authority much, but you’re an Academy graduate. You should know how to respect it.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” Sangupta protested.
“It’s okay,” the first officer said. “Just let it go.” He couldn’t really blame either of them for their attitudes. Captain Reed had been trying his best to be accessible to his crew, but it didn’t come easily to him, not with this new group. The former armory officer had hit it off easily with Val Williams, but the rest of the crew was still a work in progress.
“You’ve both got good points about the government,” he went on, trying to change the subject. “But they’re based on human experience. I’m just saying, what worked for humans won’t necessarily work for everyone else. I think we should be open to other possibilities.”
“Maybe,” Williams said. “But I’m thinking of it from a Starfleet point of view. We need to know we have a commander-in-chief we can trust. How can that happen if we don’t even know who that’s going to be from one year to the next? Sure, I’d like to see presidents from the other worlds. But I don’t just want to cycle through councillors. The people should elect the president. And four-year terms worked fine for the United States—the first modern democracy on Earth, remember.”
“Except when they didn’t,” Mayweather replied, softening it with a smile. “You’re not saying you want political parties back, are you?”
“No,” Williams said, holding her hands out protectively. “Anything but that.”
“God, no,” Sangupta chorused.
As if just mentioning the idea provoked wrath from on high, it was at that moment that the first spear hurtled toward them. “Incoming!” Williams cried before Mayweather realized what the whooshing sound was, and a moment later he was on the ground with Williams’s weight atop him.
“Thanks,” he said as she rolled off, drew her phase pistol in a smooth, almost unconscious motion, and surveyed their surroundings. Mayweather checked to make sure Sangupta was safe; the science officer crouched to his left, and started as a second spear flew just over his head, thrown from a different direction.
“They’re hemming us in!” Williams hissed. She risked poking her head up to look around. “Must be hiding in the reeds. I can’t get a shot.”
“So much for clandestine observation,” Sangupta moaned. “They must’ve smelled us coming, or something.”
“Or we just made too much noise,” Williams snapped at him. “Commander, I recommend retreat.”
“No argument there.”
Mayweather let her lead them back the way they came, but a heavy rock fell in their path, forcing them to change direction. These ape-things were small enough to hide in the reeds, but evidently quite strong. And fast; Williams fired some best-guess stun shots into the waving reeds, and one provoked a roar, but the rain of rough wooden spears and hurled stones didn’t abate. “I think you’re making them madder!” Sangupta said.
It soon became clear the anthropoids were herding them, but they couldn’t do much about it. To Mayweather’s dismay, the reeds gave way to reveal a high-walled notch in the hillside they’d just descended. They’d have to climb to get out, and that would mean exposing themselves to the anthropoids’ barrage. “Cover us,” he ordered Williams, and she laid down fire to try to keep the apes at bay while Mayweathe
r drew his communicator. “Mayweather to Pioneer!”
U.S.S. Pioneer NCC-63
“Captain!” came Mayweather’s voice over the speakers. “We’re under attack by the natives and we can’t get to the shuttle. You know how they said the transporter’s for emergencies only now? I think this qualifies!”
Malcolm Reed hesitated. “Sir?” Mayweather asked after a moment.
He shook himself. “Are you sure there’s no other option?”
“We’re boxed in, Captain, and they’re too well-hidden to hit with phase pistols. The transporter’s sounding pretty good right now!”
“Stand by.” He paced the deck, thinking. Once this decision would have been so easy. But now they knew better. In theory, any single transport wasn’t dangerous, but the effects were cumulative. How many times had Mayweather been beamed over the years?
“Sir?” Ensign Grev asked from the communications station.
Reed circled to the starboard side of the bridge. “I have a better idea. Kemal,” he ordered the crewman at tactical, “target their position with a low-yield photonic torpedo, atmospheric burst. High enough to frighten off the natives without harming anyone.”
The tall enlisted man worked the console for a moment. “Ready, sir.”
Reed circled to where he could see the tactical readout. “Travis, all of you, on my mark, get down and cover your eyes, acknowledge!”
“Understood,” Mayweather replied, though the captain could hear his skepticism and concern.
“Fire,” he ordered. Kemal loosed the torpedo, and Reed watched its track toward the surface, counting down in his head until . . . “Travis, mark!”
On the main viewer, a brilliant pinprick flared for several seconds. “Commander, report!” Reed called after a moment.
“That did it,” Mayweather announced, to the captain’s relief. “The apes are running for cover. I think you scorched some of the tree things, though. That was a little close for comfort.”
“When have you ever known my aim to be off, Travis?” Reed asked with a grin. “Get back to the shuttlepod, fast as you can.”
“Gladly.”
—
“What were you thinking?”
Doctor Therese Liao didn’t mince words when she confronted Reed outside Pioneer’s decon chamber, where the landing party now waited for clearance to exit. “How are they, Doctor?” Reed asked.
“Lucky,” replied the doctor. She was a small but stocky middle-aged woman whose short black hair was lightly frosted with gray. Her normally cheerful round face could become forbiddingly stern when she was upset, as she was now. “They got away with a few scrapes and bruises—plus a nasty case of sunburn. Or torpedo-burn, to be more accurate. Was setting off an antimatter warhead over their heads the best tactic you could think of? Really?”
Reed blinked. Liao’s bluntness was difficult to get used to after years serving with the easygoing Phlox. “It was minimum yield, Doctor.”
“But it would’ve been a lot faster just to beam them aboard.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you the risks of that.”
“What about the risks from the torpedo’s radiation? The odds of genetic damage are a wash either way. And the delay didn’t do them any good, not when they were under attack from a horde of spear-throwing gorillas. There’s a venerable medical principle you may have heard of that sticks and stones can break people’s bones.” She took a breath, continuing more softly and with strained patience. “I understand your reasons for being reluctant to use the transporter, Captain Reed.” Naturally, he’d briefed the doctor on his medical condition. “But is it possible you let your personal issues get in the way of your judgment?”
In truth, he’d been asking himself that same question. But he wasn’t prepared to admit that to his subordinates, except maybe Mayweather, with whom he’d probably talk about it later. Instead, he replied, “This isn’t about any one person, Doctor, myself or the landing party. Starfleet’s overdependence on the transporter was the cause of the larger problem in the first place. Those days are over now, and we need to get accustomed to finding more creative alternatives. I recognize there may still be emergencies where the transporter is the only solution, but in my command judgment, this was not one of them.
“Now, are the landing party cleared for duty or not, Doctor?”
Liao glared a moment longer. “They’re fine. I’ll tell them to get dressed and then you can debrief them to your heart’s content. Sir.”
Liao walked back to the intercom to deliver the good news, and Reed pressed his lips together, reflecting that the conversation could have gone better. He believed he’d made the right call, but he wasn’t having much success at winning his crew’s trust.
February 25, 2163
Sauria (Psi Serpentis IV)
“Are you all right, Soval?” Bryce Shumar asked. “You look greener than usual.”
The distinguished commissioner clutched the railing of the Saurian Global League’s administrative barge and strove to keep his eyes on the horizon. “Few Vulcans are accustomed to sea travel, Captain,” Soval replied tightly. “Particularly in nocturnal conditions where visible landmarks are difficult to spot.”
In truth, Shumar was feeling a bit queasy himself. But before he could confess as much to the ambassador, a cool Saurian chuckle interrupted him. “And here I thought Vulcans were the strong ones in your Federation. Have we finally uncovered your weakness, Soval?”
“All races have their own unique balances of strength and weakness, Basileus,” Soval replied as he turned to face the speaker, controlling himself tightly. “This is why we are all better off combining our complementary strengths for the common good.”
“Or amplifying our complementary weaknesses—if the Global League is any example.”
The Basileus—who by tradition was known only by his title—was the hereditary monarch of M’Tezir, the midsized kingdom that was the largest holdout to Sauria’s global unity movement. He was a bit shorter than the norm for Saurians, about Shumar’s height, and his smooth hide was more purplish than the pinkish or greenish-brown shades of the majority of Saurian races. As with most Saurians, his bulging eyes and the shape of his mouth and protruding snout gave him a perpetual mien of amused surprise, but Shumar had learned this was deceptive. Many Saurians were as cheerful and accessible as their appearance implied, but the Basileus was calculating, prideful, intensely competitive, and altogether too fond of pointing out the weakness of other species relative to Saurians. His people had been shaped by the excesses of their planet—gravity a fifth above Earth’s, a hot climate producing intense weather and forcing most higher life-forms to be nocturnal, active vulcanism that spewed toxic gases in the air and triggered unpredictable shifts in temperature. It made them an extremely robust species that could survive in conditions that would kill most humanoids. Even natural aging took a couple of centuries to overcome them.
Their one weakness, however, was a sensitivity to bright light, requiring negotiations with them to be conducted in relative darkness; hence the nighttime conferences aboard the administrative barge, which had the added bonus of quieter weather and calmer seas than daytime would bring. Shumar, Soval, and the other Federation representatives had night-vision eyepieces if they proved necessary, but the Saurians had obliged them to the extent that their own huge, dark-adapted eyes could tolerate, festooning the barge with larger-than-usual quantities of the dim, bioluminescent lanterns and wall paints they used to light their dwellings—based on microbes the Saurians had bred to glow in a rich variety of colors, making the barge quite a beautiful sight. And that was even without the insect tamers whose trained and selectively bred firewasps danced overhead in choreographed, multihued patterns.
“The League has brought prosperity to all Lyaksti’kton,” came another voice. Shumar turned to see Presider Moxat of the Global League’s Executive Council—an elderly female whose green-bronze hide was weathered with age but who was still quite strong and vital.
“And it could do the same for the people of M’Tezir if you would only allow it, Basileus.”
“Perhaps it has eluded your attention that M’Tezir is now the richest kingdom on N’Ragolar,” the monarch countered, pointedly using his own people’s name for the planet.
“I spoke of the people, not the kingdom. We do not allow ours to starve so that the privileged few can live in luxury.”
“My people are deprived because of the way your nations have oppressed and marginalized us for centuries! You’ve always dismissed us as worthless and weak. Little did you know of the vast trove of precious metals and crystals beneath our feet.”
“Don’t talk as though you were hoarding some great secret,” Moxat chided. “That dilithium and tritanium were as useless to you as to us.”
“But they are of immense value to the galaxy, Presider. More value than your decadent art and music and liquor.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Shumar put in. “Saurian brandy is already in demand throughout the Federation.” Shumar had been sure to purchase a few cases of the horn-shaped brandy bottles on each of his visits here over the past few months. It had lived up to the Silk Road crew’s hype, a potent spirit with a superb flavor balance and an impressively long, complex finish. Even without M’Tezir’s mineral riches, Sauria would surely become wealthy in trade from their spirits alone.
“And Saurian music has gained much admiration among the Vulcans and Andorians,” Soval added. “Not to mention the rich pharmaceutical resources of your tropical rain forests. All the nations of your world have much to offer in trade.”
Shumar appreciated Soval’s efforts to shore up the Federation’s egalitarian stance toward Sauria’s nations, but it wasn’t easy in the face of the intense rivalry between the Global League and M’Tezir. Before contact, most Saurians had considered the M’Tezir a largely irrelevant throwback to an era of warring monarchies, a people too aggressive in their values and customs to fit into modern civilized society, but too small and poor as a nation to pose any real threat. But once it had been discovered that the rare minerals crucial to interstellar technology had been concentrated primarily on M’Tezir’s small continent, suddenly the weak, backward kingdom had become a power player, possessing a commanding advantage that the Basileus had not hesitated to parlay into a seat at the negotiating table. It had been a challenge for Soval to avoid any sign of favoritism in his negotiations for mining rights.
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