by Judith
“I still can’t believe they want me fired,” Starfleet Chief Technician Mira Romaine said. “Can you, Sal?”
Sal’s answer dissolved in the rush of the transporter effect as the two of them disappeared from the main pad of the interface staging room and reappeared twelve kilometers deeper into the asteroid that housed Memory Prime.
Transporter beams, guided through the normally impenetrable mass of the asteroid by a monomolecular-wave guide wire, were the only way for people to go into or out of the central core area. The scientific community still had not totally recovered from the destruction of the Memory Alpha cores. Current data from the more established planets had been easily reassembled. Historical data, especially that collected from the innumerable lost probes sent out during the initial haphazard expansion of the Federation, were still being tracked down on a hundred worlds, from antique databanks and collections of actual physically printed materials, for reintegration into the central dataweb. The reconstruction project was years from completion, and librarian technicians such as Romaine feared that some data had been lost forever.
“Yes, I can believe it,” Sal answered with a cough. He hated the feeling he got if he was transported while moving. Even talking was enough to make his jaw muscles and lungs feel as if they were full of microscopic feathers.
He followed Romaine over to the scan panels by the entrance door. The whole transfer room they were in was a transporter pad. If their palm prints didn’t match the patterns stored in the security banks, they’d be automatically transported to a holding cell.
“Look at it from the interface team’s point of view,” Sal continued as the security door slid open. “You’re an outsider. Most of them have been happily tending the Pathfinders for years on Titan, on the Centauri worlds, the HMS Beagle, and wherever else they were stationed. Some of them are the third and fourth generation of their family to interface. And then along comes some hotshot from Starfleet who refuses to have the implant operation that defines their lives. Of course they don’t want you around.”
Romaine stopped in the tube-shaped tunnel with all its conduits and power guides exposed for easy servicing. Her aquamarine eyes narrowed as she stared at Nensi.
“ ‘Some hotshot from Starfleet’! Is that what you think I am?”
“No no no,” Nensi said, holding up his hands in defense. “I said look at it from their point of view. That’s what they see.”
“What do you see?”
“That depends. Sometimes I see the eight-year-old troublemaker who never could learn to take enough oxygen along for her ‘strolls’ outside the habitats—” Nensi jumped back as Romaine poked him in the stomach. “And other times I see a brilliant technician who’s probably going to have her father’s old job at Fleet headquarters someday.”
“Better, Uncle Sal. Much better.” Romaine started back down the tunnel again. Two maintenance workers carrying a modular circuit junction board nodded to Nensi and Romaine as they passed in the tunnel. Strict safeguards against sabotage meant that even associates were not allowed to be beamed down into the central core area. “Provided I don’t get fired from this posting,” Romaine finished after the workers had gone on.
“You can’t get fired. The Federation has given Starfleet jurisdiction over the Pathfinders. More importantly, the Pathfinders have accepted that jurisdiction. The interface team has to learn to live with that.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You’ve changed, Mira. Ever since Alpha. And I’m saying this as a coworker, not just as a good friend of your father’s. You have to slow down a bit.”
Romaine shook her head as they approached the security field at the end of the tunnel. “Ever since Alpha I’ve realized that I’ve been waiting for things to happen all my life, Sal. I’ve been too passive, too compliant. I want to start making things happen, instead.”
Nensi stood with his closest friend’s daughter before the glowing frame of the invisible security field as the sensors conducted one final identity scan. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Mira. Just remember to think about how others perceive a situation. If any of the interface team thought you were wandering around the Syrtis desert without enough oxygen, I doubt any of them would rush to join the search party. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The field frame darkened. Romaine stepped through into the main interface chamber. “Yes, Uncle Sal,” she said, like a schoolchild acknowledging a lesson. Then she added quickly, “Unfortunately.”
The main interface chamber was the largest natural bubble of the hundreds scattered throughout the asteroid, frozen in place eons ago when the planetesimal had coalesced from the gas and dust of what once had been a young star, and now was nothing more than a burned-out dwarf. Artificial gravity gave the chamber a floor of equipment and an arching vault of a ceiling that disappeared into darkness. The walls resonated with the low pulse of self-contained fusion generators and the whirr of recycling fans. Its dim light and exposed natural walls reminded Nensi of Novograd on Mars, the theme-park reconstruction of the first permanent human habitation on that planet in modern times.
Garold, the Prime interface for Pathfinder Six, waited for them in the chamber. He was a tall, black, Terran humanoid who wore his long dark hair in the fashion of Veil: the left side of his skull hairless and glistening, the other half producing a wide, shoulder-length braid that hung like a partial helmet. He gestured to Nensi and Romaine, the metallic implants that had replaced his fingernails gleaming beneath the constellation of status lights that ran across the towering banks of computer equipment.
Like most of his team, Garold was reluctant to talk, as if that real-time act was somehow beneath the dignity of a Pathfinder interface. More and more, the interface team was delegating its interaction with the rest of the Memory Prime staff to associates, as had happened to Nensi this morning. Later, after the outlogicked associate had replayed its recording of the meeting to its programmers, Nensi had almost enjoyed the discomfort he had heard in Garold’s voice when the Prime interface had called to arrange this access. The chief administrator wondered if Garold was what all of humanity might have become by now if the Federation hadn’t outlawed enhancement, with only a handful of exemptions, more than a century ago. Even Vulcans with their finely honed minds displayed more personality, and more life, than these machine-wired humans. Nensi did not feel comfortable around them. But, he reminded himself, no doubt they felt the same way around him.
Even without Garold’s words, Nensi and Romaine found their way to the large interface booth, one of a dozen that ringed the multistoried central equipment tower of the chamber. Before he left them, Garold motioned them to sit on a padded bench away from the console with its screen of flashing, floating, blurring colors that presumably meant something to those who knew how to read it, but was like nothing Nensi had seen before.
“Do you recognize the design?” he asked Romaine.
“Mostly Centauran. Native, not colonist.” She pointed to the abstract shapes of color that intermixed on the black background of the screen. “I’m out of practice, but a trained operator can read numerical data from the fringe effect of the colliding data sets. If you’re good at it, it’s much more rapid than reading data a single symbol at a time in alphanumerics. I believe it was the preferred interface method with the Pathfinders before enhancement was perfected. Difficult, and not easily understood by observers.”
“It’s odd that Starfleet doesn’t insist on standard instrumentation. They’re paying for all this, after all.” Starfleet was almost maniacal about ensuring that its technology was accessible to all beings who served within it. Nensi had read that a horta recently enrolled in Starfleet Academy. He liked to imagine the hoops the instrumentation committees were jumping through as they attempted to adapt controls for beings shaped like boulders, with minuscule manipulative cilia that could squirt out the most powerful natural acid yet discovered.
“Remember the Pathfinders were a bit of an embarrassment
to the Federation way back when,” Romaine said. “The Klingons still like to bring them up whenever a condemnation vote against slavery goes through the council. The unofficial policy is: If it keeps the Pathfinders happy, the interface team can do what it pleases. So”—she waved to the console—“nonstandard instrumentation.” Romaine looked around for Garold. “Is this going to take long?” she asked.
“I hope not.” Nensi smiled. “Why, is there someplace else you’d rather be?”
“Well, yes. I’ve got a few personal things to attend to up top.” Romaine returned the smile, a particular kind that Nensi recognized.
“That sounds intriguing. Anyone I know?”
“Unlikely. He’s not here yet.”
“The Enterprise?” Nensi asked with a sad sinking feeling.
Romaine nodded with the secret, happy smile of someone anticipating a grand reunion.
Nensi couldn’t believe it. This woman’s father had served at Fleet headquarters. She knew the stories. All the stories. How could she do this?
“Who’s on the Enterprise?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. What could he say to Jacques the next time he asked how Mira was getting on?
“Montgomery Scott,” Romaine said, as if she were reciting poetry.
Nensi blinked in surprise. “Wonderful!” he said. “Delightful!”
Romaine looked at her father’s friend oddly. “You know Scotty?” she asked.
“No. Never met him,” Nensi said happily. “But I do know the reputation of Captain James T. Kirk.”
Romaine laughed. “So do I.”
Their relaxed mood vanished two minutes later when Garold silently returned, slid his finger implants into the circuitry, and the interface began.
Four
“You there, steward, have you seen the captain around anywhere?” McCoy had to speak up to be heard over the din of the reception on the hangar deck.
“Don’t you start, Bones.” Kirk sighed, fingering the tight collar of his shimmering green dress tunic. He was leaning against the nose of a shuttlecraft, as far away from the buffet tables as he could get, trying to be inconspicuous.
“Sorry, Jim. It’s just that there seem to be a few more gaudy decorations on that thing since the last time you had it on.” McCoy leaned against the shuttle beside Kirk, watching the colorful crush of bodies enjoying one of the largest out-and-out parties the ship had ever seen.
Kirk looked down at his chestful of decorations and shrugged. “We keep saving the galaxy, Starfleet keeps giving me medals. What’s a starship captain to do?”
McCoy eyed the captain’s tight collar. “Get a bigger tunic? Or perhaps—”
“Save it for my medical,” Kirk warned. “I’m in no mood for lectures today.”
“Too bad. There’s enough opportunity on board.”
Kirk looked to the left, then right, making sure no one was paying him any attention. Then he bent down and pulled a thin green bottle out from beneath the shuttle’s nose. It was already uncorked and half empty. Kirk straightened up and surreptitiously held it out to McCoy’s glass.
“Straight from Centaurus,” Kirk whispered. “New California Beaujolais. Very smooth.”
McCoy grimaced and held his hand over his glass of what the ship’s synthesizer called bourbon. “Why not offer some to the scholars?”
“They’ve already taken my crew. Let me keep something for myself.” Kirk filled his wineglass and stashed the bottle beneath the shuttle again.
“Are they really that bad, Jim?”
“Look at them. What do you think?” Kirk gestured to the reception, so large that it couldn’t be held in any of the recreation lounges. Usually on a ship this size, there were few events that could appeal universally to all crew members. But the chance to meet some of the most brilliant scientists in the Federation was one of those exceptions to the rule. Consequently, the Enterprise was approaching Starbase Four with a skeleton operations crew. The other 385 of them were crowded onto the hangar deck with fifty bemused and delighted scientists, their assistants, and their travel companions. Only the fact that the Enterprise was warping through Quadrant Zero space, deep within the Federation’s securest boundaries, permitted such minimal crew standards. Out in uncharted space, having thirty crew members at the same gathering was considered a major event.
“What I think is, if this were a sailing vessel, she’d capsize,” McCoy said, marveling at what was going on at the buffet line. He used to think that the security crew could pack it away. He had forgotten what university types were like when faced with free food and drink.
“And look up there.” Kirk pointed to the starboard operations control booth eight meters above the deck. Some industrious techies had hung long strands of official UFP blue-and-white bunting from it. Ten pages of regulations would be breached by trying to launch a shuttlecraft with loose debris like that on deck.
“I’m just as honored as anyone else on this ship, Bones. But why me?”
“Look at the light show you’re wearing on your chest,” McCoy suggested. “It’s not as if you don’t deserve it.”
“This ship was made to be out there,” Kirk said softly. “At the edge, at the boundaries, exploring, getting these scientists the raw data they need to do their work. She doesn’t deserve to be used this way. A…a holiday liner in safe waters.”
“The nominees are valuable cargo, Jim.”
“The Enterprise is valuable, too.” Kirk narrowed his eyes at his friend. “I can see it in you, too. It’s like being in a cage, isn’t it?”
McCoy nodded. For all his complaints and protestations, he had long ago learned that the call was in him, too. He didn’t belong in Quadrant Zero any more than Kirk and the Enterprise did.
“So what are we doing here?” the doctor asked. “Have you made enemies in the mission planning section? Or just a bureaucratic foul-up?”
The captain smiled wistfully. “Computer error,” he said. “In which case Spock should have us heading back where we belong within the hour.”
The Enterprise dropped into normal space like a silent ghost, pale white and spectral against the frosty brilliance of the galactic arch. Starbase Four was thirty light-minutes away.
“ETA Starbase Four forty-five minutes, sir.” Chekov signaled engineering to close down the antimatter feeds and simultaneously engaged the impulse engines. Their waves of spatial distortion encompassed the ship and all its mass, setting up an almost subliminal vibration as they harmonized with the ship’s gravity generators and served to propel the Enterprise toward the starbase, without action or reaction. The transition from warp to three-quarters sublight passed without a tremor.
In the command chair on the nearly deserted bridge, Spock looked up from his supplementary log pad. “Well done, Mr. Chekov.” He swung the chair slightly to his right. “Lieutenant Uhura, inform Starbase Four of our ETA.” Spock checked off the final procedure notation on the log.
Behind him, Uhura, the only other officer on duty, toggled the switches that would transmit the standard approach codes. She was on the bridge to save up her off-duty hours until they docked at Memory Prime. She had told Chekov that he might have to send a security team to get her back on board once she gained access to the language and music labs there.
“Starbase Four acknowledges, Mr. Spock. Commodore Wolfe coming on screen.”
The main viewscreen flickered as the sensor system replaced the enhanced image of the forward starfield with a subspace visual signal.
“It seems everybody’s having a party but us,” Chekov said as the image resolved, showing a convivial get-together in the officers’ club instead of the expected formal transmission from the commodore’s office.
“Welcome back to civilization, Kirk.” Commodore Wolfe raised her glass to the camera sensor, raising her voice over the background noise of the party behind her. She was a handsome woman in her midsixties, with dark, intelligent eyes that narrowed in suspicion when she saw who appeared on her own screen. “You mu
st be Kirk’s science officer.” Her voice had suddenly become cold and precise. She was not an officer who tolerated surprises.
“I suppose I must be,” Spock answered. Chekov bit his lip. He didn’t approve of officers making fools of themselves any more than Spock did, but at least the ensign kept a sense of humor about it.
“Where’s the captain?” the commodore continued, as if she might be starting a formal interrogation.
“I suspect he is doing much what you are doing at this moment. Attending a reception in honor of the prize nominees already on board.”
“What a waste of—watch it!” The commodore swayed to the side as a Tellarite waddled into her. He stopped to steady her, peered into the camera sensor, wrinkled his snout and waved with a grunt, then continued on. In all the comings and goings in the background, Chekov could see one knot of celebrants who didn’t seem to move. He stared at them closely. Vulcans, of course.
The commodore stepped back into the scene, obviously annoyed at the Tellarite’s intoxication. “I haven’t been subjected to parties like this since the Academy. Not that old straight-arrow Kirk would know anything about that. Well, Mr. Science Officer, I formally grant you and your crew liberty of the base. Maybe your party will be able to meet my party. And tell Kirk I’m still looking to collect for that top percentile rating I gave him in his final administration course.”
“I shall inform the captain at the first opportunity.”
“You do that. Starbase—”
“Excuse me, Commodore Wolfe,” Spock interrupted the signoff. “May I ask if Academician Sradek is in attendance at your party?”
“The historian? What is he? A friend? Relative?”
“A former instructor.”
“It’s like a second-level school reunion all around,” the commodore grumbled. “I suppose you want to talk with him. He was just here, someplace.”
“If he is there, please tell him that Spock would be honored to exchange greetings.”
