Day Three
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco Bay
THE ORIGINAL MESSAGE from Excelsior—a simple statement that eleven Excelsior officers had been taken hostage aboard the Sundew, a star freighter presumed to be from the city of Archnos in the Beta Promethean star system—had flashed to Starbase 499 on an Urgent, Highest Priority channel. It was read by the commander of the starbase and immediately passed on to Starfleet Communication Headquarters on Earth, where it arrived in San Francisco via subspace radio seconds later. It spilled across the chief of communications' monitor automatically as it came in coded Highest Priority. He read it at once, then reached out to his console and entered his personal password. He rerouted the message directly to the central office of Starfleet Command.
The commander in chief of Starfleet heard the warning beep and looked up at the screen from his seat in the conversation pit, where he had been conducting a meeting. He read it over to himself twice.
"Oh, shit."
The other officers present had also read the brief message.
"The Beta Prometheans are not members of the Federation," the admiral said.
One of the younger officers spoke up.
"No, sir. They don't belong to any political entity, they're entirely on their own. They're principally traders. We get a good deal of our dilithium crystals from them, but they trade it through intermediaries, or on our starbases, and they have never allowed Federation Starships to visit their planets."
"Why the hell would they do something like this?"
There was no answer. Finally one officer ventured a suggestion. "They are not very stable politically. This Maldari might be a renegade ship of some sort."
"Do they have an ambassador to the Federation?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"All right, never mind. See that at least three Starships are at the nearest starbase as soon as you can get them there. This is one for the politicians, I'm afraid."
He stood up, and the other officers hurried to their own offices. The admiral walked to his desk and touched his computer. It read his fingerprint. He asked to be connected with Federation Headquarters on the mainland.
"The President's Office," a voice intoned.
"This is Admiral Belzie. Where is he?"
"He's just down the hall in the cabinet room, sir."
"Tell him I'll be in his office in five minutes. Tell him it's Federation security. He'll probably want his team there too. Tell him there's a problem outside Federation space, on the frontier."
The admiral turned away. Then he walked across his office and through glass doors that opened automatically. He walked onto his private terrace. The shuttlecraft navigator snapped to attention.
"The President's Office."
"Yes, sir."
They stepped into the small craft and almost at once floated up to local traffic level. The commander in chief relaxed back into his seat and gazed out the window at the waters beneath him.
This is going to be a serious problem, he thought. This could be anything from a strategic assault to a full scale war on the frontier. The Federation hasn't fought a war since the Romulans in 2160. They don't want one now.
* * *
Thirty minutes after the meeting in which the Starfleet commander in chief briefed the president of the Federation on the message from Excelsior, a press release left the President's Office on all public transceiver channels. That evening monitors throughout the Federation carried the brief story. Activities beyond the borders in far space did not concern too many of the Federation citizens.
But right there on Earth, in San Francisco, in living quarters high on Telegraph Hill, one communication monitor had been set to sound an alarm when certain information appeared in the daily news stories. The name Sulu, as captain of the Excelsior, had been given a priority warning flag, and when it appeared in the file story, that monitor beeped throughout the apartment's rooms.
James Tiberius Kirk, who happened to be home that evening, heard it.
He walked to his monitor and uploaded the story that contained the names Sulu and Excelsior. He read it through twice, to be sure of what he was receiving. He attempted to call up more information, but there was nothing else on the wire that night.
Walking to his bookcase, he took down a disk, and inserted it into his computer. He called up Beta Prometheus and read a short essay on the unfamiliar civilization. They were space traders and smugglers, they had refused an offer to join the Federation half a century earlier, and their record on humanoid rights was abysmal.
Kirk walked to the big picture window that faced the bay. A full moon lit up the night and sparkled off the waters. Shuttlecraft of all sizes—small taxis, buses, freighters—flew back and forth, servicing the twenty-four-hour spaceport city. He stared across the water to where the gleaming towers of Starfleet Headquarters rose above the pine-tree-covered hills. Moonlight bounced off the mirrored one-way walls. In the illuminated reflection he could see the hills of the city and the shuttlecraft floating by. He stared at the thirty-seventh floor where, six months earlier, he had been toasted, roasted, and retired by a handful of officers in the commander in chief's private conference room.
I don't miss the place, he thought. The byzantine bureaucracy, the by-the-book bureaucrats, the hours at the computer monitor, the staff meetings where officers droned on about supplies, requisitions, promotions, and discipline, officers whose entire experience of the galaxy amounted to a few trips to the Earth's moon for weekend seminars in management training, and a year stationed on a Starbase well within the Sol system. The gleaming desks and the cushy armchairs and the Starfleet gossip. I don't miss that at all.
But I miss the Enterprise. I miss the company of the Starship crew, the eccentric men and women who spent their lives traveling deep space together. I miss the galaxy, the starfield just outside the observation ports. I miss the alien civilizations, the emergencies in space. I ought not to admit it, but I miss the danger. I miss Spock, and Scotty. And Sulu.
Sulu. He was the best helmsman Kirk had ever known. He had stayed with the Enterprise loyally, long beyond the time he had a right to be promoted. He had, at last, reluctantly left the Enterprise and advanced to his own command. As captain of his own Starship, he had stayed in space when Kirk and the others had been sent down. And now he was a prisoner of some alien pirates. What, Kirk wanted to know, was Starfleet Command doing about that?
Kirk knew that if he visited Starfleet Headquarters in the morning, he would be treated politely. He would be welcomed at the security gate, given an ensign escort to the admiral's floor, and Starfleet admirals, even the C in C himself, would stop what they were doing and shake his hand warmly. They would ask him how he was doing, bring up all the old complaints about Starfleet bureaucracy, pretend to envy him in private life. But after twenty minutes he would wear out his welcome. They would be alerted to a meeting, told by their assistants that someone was waiting, or called back to their monitors for priority messages. The business of Starfleet would grind inexorably on all around him, and he would not be a part of it. He would feel awkward, as people hustled by and shouted "Good to see you, Commander," and kept on their busy way.
And if he reported to the public-relations section, they would be glad to give him a private briefing. They would roll out the red carpet and fill him in on the situation at Beta Prometheus. Which would tell him nothing more than exactly what he had just read about on the news.
Not only did he not relish the feeling of being a white elephant, a grand old man on display, but he was impatient for news and did not want to wait until the next morning to find out what Starfleet was going to do. And he wanted to know what they were really going to do.
So he spun away from the window, walked to his closet, put on his jacket, and left his apartment to go drinking.
The Flag and Grog was a Starfleet officers' hangout on Kirk's side of the Bay, tucked away among the shuttlecraft docks, freight warehouses, and administr
ation offices on Starship's Wharf. By this hour at night it would be packed.
Kirk walked along the waterfront and, as always, admired the small starcrafts that hung gracefully in the air just above their titanium docks. Although the big starships, like Sulu's Excelsior and Kirk's old Enterprise, docked in space, the freight carriers and the huge variety of smaller shuttlecraft that could pass through the atmosphere and land on the Earth's surface were equally as beautiful to him. They were trim and taut and graceful, and they spoke to him of the space they had navigated. But Kirk hadn't left the ground since his retirement. Climbing into a small Starship or shuttle would be like trotting on a pony after he'd had a thoroughbred to race.
A revolving yellow light pierced the dense night fog in the distance. As he drew closer he recognized the insignia of Starfleet, which the bar had appropriated, modified, and turned into its logo. He smiled at the small sign in laser lights that glowed next to the front door: HUMANOIDS AND ALIENS MUST WEAR SHOES AND SHIRTS. He swung the door open, stepped into the turbolift, and ascended to the second-floor establishment. The doors parted and he walked into a steamy loft, packed to the walls with a combination of off-duty Starfleet personnel, and the riffraff of the galaxy.
An electronic wall of music washed over the scene, and the inhabitants had to shout at each other to be heard. Barrel-shaped robotic devices rolled around with trays of exotic drinks. An Octoan perched its squat body on a stool behind the bar, its twelve three-fingered tentacles rapidly filling drink orders. It was a busy scene. Even the ferns that decorated the bar were roaming around the room on their root tentacles.
Kirk went to the bar and ordered a glass of Saurian brandy. The Octoan bartender nodded, and delivered it. Kirk turned away from the bar to survey the room.
He spotted several tables of Starfleet personnel. Not wanting to appear anxious, he waved and smiled at a few acquaintances who spotted him, but stayed where he was for the time being. He saw that Admiral Caius Fesidas was sitting with a much younger Starfleet bureaucrat he didn't recognize, and decided to try them for information. But not just yet. The admiral and his friend only had one drink in front of them. Kirk was patient. He had all night. And the Flag and Grog was not an inhospitable place to wait.
A burst of starlight and red, white, and blue lasers flashed in the giant mirror above the bar. It reflected activity throughout the large room. Low tones thundered out of speakers overhead. The surface of the mirror turned to glass, and behind it Kirk could see two humanoid forms. Then the glass turned to smoke, lights dimmed throughout the bar, and the smoke began to clear, leaving the two figures standing on a mirrored stage floor, bathed in a red-orange glow.
They made a handsome couple. The woman wore only a white satin G-string featuring the Starfleet insignia, spike-heeled glass shoes, and a string of Martian pearls around her neck. The man wore a black G-string pouch in the same shape, and knee-high leather boots. Both were Deltan, Kirk knew. The most erotic people in the galaxy. They were six feet tall, with long muscular legs. The female's breasts were firm and round and small, her nipples erect. The male was lithe and muscular. Both were completely hairless. They held hands as they faced their audience. Their bodies undulated slowly to a primitive beat set at precisely the normal pulse rate of a resting heart.
A Kartoan dwarf appeared at the side of the stage, his sleek bald head glistening with sweat, his large round eyes sparkling. His mouth split in a wide grin and he shouted over the intense music.
"Males and females, Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians and Centaurians, Denebian slime devils and Aldebaran Shellmouths, Betazoids, Chemizoids and Humans! Welcome! Tonight the Flag and Grog is proud to present, for the first time on any stage on Earth, from the distant Delta Triciatu system, dancing to music by the Trendoids, please welcome: Silky Way and Puss-in-Boots!"
The music pounded and the couple began to dance. They separated, worked their way down a short flight of stairs on either side of the stage, and began working different parts of the room. They slid in and out of the tables, gyrating for the males, the females, and the androgynous equally. A husky reptilian bouncer followed them discreetly, making sure that none of the rowdier customers touched the couple. The female passed directly in front of Kirk. She smiled at him. He could feel her powerful pheromones wash over him and felt a fire building inside. He had to remind himself that it was purely a chemical phenomenon.
The Deltans returned to the stage. They danced with each other erotically, until they were wrapped around each other like mating boa constrictors. Suddenly Kirk realized that the couple was no longer performing for their audience. They had eyes only for each other. The heretofore noisy room quieted down. Everyone felt the effects of the rich Deltan pheromones that lingered in the room like a perfume cloud.
The electronic beat increased its tempo, drawing the pulse rates of the bar's inhabitants along with it. The dancers moved faster and faster. Finally the sound reached an enormous crescendo, the beats coming on top of each other so fast as to preclude distinction. The couple posed in a series of positions, the last of which saw them pressed together so tightly that Kirk doubted if even the music could pass between them. They kissed. The lasers burst off their bodies in kaleidoscopic patterns. Sweat poured down their glistening bodies. Finally they broke, and turned toward the audience.
"Yowee! Supernova! Let's hear it for the Deltan Duo!" the Kartoan shouted, as he hustled back onto the stage. "Whoa! Was that as hot as a supergiant blue star or what! Thank you, Deltans! See you later! And me a unisexual."
The stage disappeared behind a mirrored wall and conversations resumed. Kirk looked over at the table where Admiral Fesidas and his fellow officer sat. The admiral had a second drink in front of him. One more and he'd make his move.
Suddenly Kirk felt a hand on his thigh. Not a hand, exactly, more like a length of steamed asparagus. He looked down and saw a damp green Phylosian tentacle curl around his upper thigh. A vegetable, he thought. He followed it and found that it was connected to a plantlike alien in roughly humanoid shape. The head had no features beyond the leafy green foliage, but Kirk assumed the thing was looking at him. Then he knew the alien's opening thought.
Come here often? the Phylosian seemed to be saying.
Oh, great, a telepath, Kirk thought.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. You looked a little lonely.
I'm about to join a couple of old friends across the room, Kirk thought.
Maybe we could meet up later?
I don't even know if this thing is male or female.
If you don't know, what difference will it make in the dark?
Kirk tried not to think. He tried to frame a polite response. You're very sweet, but I'm afraid I've taken a vow. I can't have a relationship with anything I might have had for dinner.
Very funny. You Earthlings are so provincial. Loosen up.
The plant wandered off. Kirk breathed a sigh of relief. It was his own fault, he shouldn't be standing alone at the bar. Better to join some friends.
He strolled across the room. He shook hands with a young officer from the southern hemisphere he had sponsored to the Academy, and was introduced to several recent graduates.
"This is Admiral Kirk, everyone," the young man said. "He was my mentor at the Academy."
"Admiral James T. Kirk?" a young woman with black hair and pale blue eyes said, her eyebrows going up. "This is a very great pleasure."
"Captain. Thank you," Kirk said, smiling and shaking hands.
"I'm only a cadet, sir." The girl had a firm handshake.
"I meant that I'm a captain. Retired, actually. I was an admiral once. I didn't like it at all. Too much administrative work. The pay was a good deal better though."
"You're still a hero at the Academy, sir. If I may say so."
"At the Academy they teach navigation, astronomy, and Starship etiquette. In Starfleet they teach politics. I wasn't very good at that. That's why I ended up back at the rank of captain."
"
Your short-circuiting of the Kobayashi Maru scenario is a legend at the Academy. But you must know that."
"I'm afraid I do. It's come to haunt me, as a matter of fact."
"And your escape from Rura Penthe, and then the Enterprise as a renegade ship until you—"
"Now, look, I don't know what you've all heard, but disobeying Starfleet Command orders is most definitely not a smart thing to do. Not if you want to survive in Starfleet. Everything by the book, that's what I recommend."
"And what if you want to survive on the frontier?" the Latin officer he had sponsored asked. "Where the book hasn't been written yet."
"Well …" Kirk smiled. He enjoyed his reputation, though he hated to admit it. "Look, I don't want to turn this nice evening into an Academy seminar, but I'll tell you this. Alien civilizations can't be judged by Federation standards and practices. And our job is exploration, not confrontation. If you just stay out of alien affairs, you won't get into trouble. And when you can't avoid interaction with the natives, remember that you're thousands of light-years from headquarters. There isn't often time for consultation. I hope the Academy is still teaching you to think for yourselves … within, of course, the strict limits of the General Orders. . . . How's that for a politic answer?"
They all laughed.
"Now, if you'll all excuse me … "
"I hope you'll be around for a while, Admiral Kirk," the dark-haired girl said. "We'd really like to hear about your voyages."
"The old man's memoirs?" Kirk said ruefully. "Sure. Just let me do a little brown-nosing with an admiral I know over there."
"I thought you were retired?"
"I am. I guess old habits die hard." Kirk touched his friend on the shoulder and headed through the crush of customers to the table where he had last seen Admiral Caius Fesidas.
The admiral was three sheets to the wind when Kirk finally arrived at his table. The young officer, who introduced himself to Kirk as Lieutenant Eugene Marasco from the Press Liaison section, was still nursing his first beer. When Kirk shook hands with the admiral, Marasco pulled out a chair and signaled the waitress so quickly, it was clear to Kirk that the lieutenant was desperate for company. Kirk sat down genially.
The Fearful Summons Page 8
