Captain's Peril

by William Shatner

  “I’ll concede that point,” Picard said, “but only because it’s the same point I’m making. Your treatment of Spock. The Federation’s treatment of a developing culture. They are related. So it becomes a question of where do we draw the line?”

  Kirk appreciated the fact that Picard no longer wanted to include Joseph among his examples, but still—“And that’s my point, Jean-Luc. Why must a line be drawn at all?”

  “Very well.” Kirk heard Picard slip into the unmistakable tones of a practiced Academy lecturer. “A hypothetical situation. You’re monitoring a planet whose primary culture is devastating the ecosystem and the health of its citizens by burning hydrocarbon-based fuels. You can prevent the ongoing damage by providing fusion technology one hundred years ahead of what the primary culture is capable of developing.”

  Kirk waved his hand to cut off Picard’s example. “I’ve taken that course, Jean-Luc. By not struggling to develop fusion technology, the hypothetical primary culture has no real apprehension of the immense power fusion reactors can release. They quickly determine how the reactors can be scaled down to create nova-class bombs. By not learning incrementally about the hazards of fusion technology, they use the bombs in their next global conflict, destroying their planet.”

  “It is a valid situation for any discussion of the Prime Directive,” Picard said.

  Kirk shook his head. “Only for the geniuses in the Federation who would teach a planet the secret of fusion technology without also teaching them how dangerous it is! Come on, Jean-Luc. All the examples quoted in the Academy courses are set up as if they exist in a vacuum. That’s not how real life works.”

  “All right, not a hypothetical. Something from history. What if the stories of the Vulcan probe ships are true?”

  Kirk groaned, thinking he should have anticipated Picard’s bringing up this particular example. The story of the Vulcan probe ships that had allegedly monitored Earth prior to World War III was one of the great conspiracy legends of the modern age, Kirk knew. Supposedly, Vulcans had seen the signs of impending war on Earth, and deliberately had not interfered, preferring to see a promising—though some might say, competitive—race obliterate itself rather than risk becoming involved in alien politics.

  The Vulcans consistently denied those stories, and had opened up the archives of their Science Academy to show that no survey records of pre–World War III Earth existed—at least, no records that would indicate Earth’s political development was leading to global war. But Vulcans and humans had had an uncertain partnership after their first contact, and there were those on Earth who had no doubt that as the Vulcans had misrepresented the truth to humans in the past, so they were entirely capable of continuing those misrepresentations into this present, when ostensibly there was no more rancor or conflict between them.

  Indeed, there were still those critics of the Federation who maintained that the real reason for the Prime Directive was to keep advanced technology away from any potential competitors, which was exactly the reason, their argument ran, why the Vulcans of generations past had explicitly decided not to prevent Earth’s third world war. So that the situation that existed today, with humans being a dominant force within the Federation, would never come to pass. But for Kirk, that was reading too much conspiracy theory into the natural background noise of history’s mistakes.

  “I’m familiar with all the stories of the Vulcan probe ships,” Kirk said without enthusiasm.

  “Good,” Picard continued with satisfaction. “Then I may assume that you have a well-thought conclusion.”

  Kirk waited for the inevitable next series of questions, and Picard didn’t make him wait long.

  “Could we humans have been so successful in our first forays into interstellar space? Could we have led the movement to form the Federation? Could we have avoided so many potential wars and conflicts, without having experienced the horrors of World War III for ourselves?”

  Kirk didn’t have to think about his answer. “Yes,” he said. “Un-equivocally.”

  Picard looked at him, shocked. “How can you possibly say that?” It was one of the tenets of contemporary history that Earth’s Atomic Horror had been the crucible from which a united planet and a mature human civilization had emerged.

  “Because,” Kirk said calmly, “the Vulcans are a methodical people. If their probe ships had indeed seen the signs of impending world war on Earth, and if the Vulcans had chosen to intervene by revealing themselves and providing the technology that would alleviate food and energy shortages—and thus poverty—across the globe, then I believe that the Vulcans would also make damn sure that every child on Earth for the next century and more would be forced to sit through the gruesome survey records of all the other worlds and civilizations that destroyed themselves through war.

  “Humans are smart, Jean-Luc. We can learn from our own experiences, certainly. But we also have the capacity to learn from others’ experiences, as well.”

  Picard smiled as he patted Kirk on the back. “This from the man who was about to try the K’Thale Deployment.”

  Kirk coughed again as a billow of fine white dust puffed up from where Picard patted his shirt and floated past his face. He felt no desire to smile back. “All I’m saying is that by having the Prime Directive in force, the Federation is admitting defeat from the beginning. Yes, in some cases it’s difficult to know how to provide aid without also disrupting someone’s life. But not in all cases. So I say, provide that help. Do the best we can with the best of intentions. And most of the time, Jean-Luc, I think things will work out.

  “But with the Prime Directive sitting there as a roadblock, nothing will work out because nothing will be done. We’ll just sit back in safe and secure ivory towers, condemning innocent people to centuries of despair, all in the paternalistic guise of ‘letting them learn for themselves.’

  “Lines shouldn’t be drawn. Life isn’t an either-or proposition. It’s a continuum. The Prime Directive is morally wrong.”

  Rest time was over. The two captains walked in mutual silence for a few moments, their target still the elusive dark object on the horizon. Then Picard asked quietly, “Doesn’t that blunt statement contradict your earlier one about lines not being drawn?”

  Kirk decided that neither of them was going to convince the other to change his opinion. And it didn’t matter. This debate would last for decades more, Kirk knew. Probably centuries.

  “Now that is something Spock would say.” A true smile came to Kirk.

  Picard nodded, unoffended, as if he, too, accepted that the problem of the Prime Directive would not be solved this day. “Does that mean it’s right?”

  Kirk could not answer for his friend, only himself. Picard was still on active duty in Starfleet. He still wore the uniform. Of course he would stand up for the status quo. To be true to his duty, his ship, and his crew, he had no choice but to support the Prime Directive. Yet, still…

  “Jean-Luc, you’ve been known to stretch the rules of the Prime Directive from time to time.”

  Picard’s smile was quick. “I believe you hold the record.”

  “How do you justify redefining the directive’s parameters?”

  “I don’t erase the line. I simply move it. Occasionally.”

  “Then aren’t we talking about the same thing?”

  “From different sides of that line, it would seem.”

  Kirk took a deep breath, wincing as he coughed again, his throat sore and roughened, the dry skin of his lips close to cracking. Soon, neither he nor Picard would have the energy for talking and walking. They would have to decide which was more important.

  It would not be a hard decision to make.

  “Agree to disagree?” Kirk suggested hoarsely.

  “Is that how you and Spock dealt with your early disagreements?”

  Kirk shook his head. “It was a bit more complicated than that.” Then he stopped walking as he noticed—

  “Jim?”

  “It’s mo
ving again. And it’s changed direction.”

  Picard stared into the distance at the horizon, at the object. “So it has.”

  For long seconds, Kirk and Picard remained motionless, shielding their eyes from the overhead sun. The object was now noticeably larger and well below the wavering, indistinct line of the horizon.

  “Is it coming toward us?” Kirk asked.

  “I believe so.”

  Kirk and Picard looked at each other, then found something they could agree on without discussion. As one, they both began to wave their arms and rush toward whatever approached them, shouting loudly, saying nothing, only making noise to celebrate the fact that they still lived and, it seemed, would continue to do so this day.

  But the effort of running was too great and their overtaxed lungs brought both of them close to collapse. After only a few dozen meters, the two men slowed, fought to stay on their feet.

  “There’s a signal,” Kirk said between gasps of air and dust. “They’ve seen us.”

  Somehow it was Picard who found the strength to keep waving his arms as a brilliant light on the object blinked on and off. “It’s a vehicle.”

  Kirk was now bent over, hands on knees, ragged breathing deep and slow as he vainly tried not to cough. He caught the concerned glance that Picard gave him. No longer could Kirk deceive himself. If he had been master in the air, Picard had triumphed on the land. Kirk decided he’d have to go into training to keep up with his friend, if they survived this adventure.

  “That’s thinking positively.” Kirk straightened up, holding his breath for a moment as he listened carefully. A faint whine carried through the still air. The vehicle was close enough that now Kirk could see a long, motionless cloud of dust suspended behind it.

  “I see a driver,” Picard said.

  Kirk looked from the vehicle to his friend. “At this distance?”

  Picard shrugged. “Can’t you see him?”

  Kirk squinted at the vehicle again. “Have I ever mentioned I’m allergic to Retnax V?”

  Picard appeared to suppress a grin. “In that case, here’s the situation report: One driver. No passengers.” Then he frowned. “I suppose I should also mention that I recognize the class of vehicle. It’s a Cardassian officer’s transport.”

  Kirk tried his best to see details on the vehicle that was still at least a kilometer distant. A light-colored smudge in one side of it might be a driver. And he could just about make out the distinctive muted purple and gold metallic paint common to Cardassian military equipment. “Cardassian?” he asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Should we be worried?”

  Kirk didn’t understand the question. Cardassians had withdrawn from Bajor more than a decade ago. Cardassia itself was in ruins after the Dominion War. “You think we might have stumbled upon a secret desert base of Cardassians eager to retake Bajor?” Kirk asked facetiously.

  “Of course not,” Picard said dismissively. “The driver’s Bajoran.”

  Kirk snorted. “Not even Spock could see the bridge of the driver’s nose at this distance.”

  “Not his nose,” Picard said. “I can see the sun reflect from his d’ja pagh.”

  Kirk wasn’t familiar with the term. “His what?”

  Picard gestured to indicate an ornamental earring and chain which Kirk knew most Bajorans wore as a symbol of their faith.

  “Ah,” Kirk said.

  A deep musical tone blared from the transport. A warning signal of some sort, Kirk guessed. Though, in this case, it was clear the sound was intended as a greeting.

  A few seconds later, in a large and choking cloud of dust, the six-wheeled transport rocked to a stop before them. Most of the vehicle was covered in faceted plates of scratched and dented armor, giving it a vaguely scarablike silhouette, though its armored doors had been removed.

  The vehicle’s sole occupant, a Bajoran male, jumped down from the open driver’s seat in a billow of dust.

  From what Kirk could make out of the driver, he was, perhaps, sixty by Earth standards, moving with an age-defying grace and athleticism. Like Kirk and Picard, he was garbed in traditional Bajoran shirt and trousers, though his were dustier, his worn trousers patched at the knees.

  By the time the dust had cleared to a breathable density, Kirk and Picard knew the driver’s name: Corrin Tal. As the Bajoran pumped the hands of his intended passengers in enthusiastic greeting, addressing both by name, Kirk studied the white spiderweb of disruptor scars that ran up the left side of the driver’s neck. The Bajoran’s left ear seemed a rough facsimile, perhaps the result of battlefield surgery to reshape surrounding skin. His hair was shorn close enough to show his scalp, but did not disguise the fact that little hair grew on the left side of his skull.

  Bajor was a planet of survivors, Kirk knew. It was not uncommon to find a Bajoran who had seen action during the occupation.

  “I am so pleased to have found you,” Corrin said in the vibrant voice of a much younger man. Kirk decided that he was not as old as he appeared. The occupation had aged him prematurely.

  “You’re pleased?” Kirk said. “Think how we feel.”

  “We weren’t expecting anyone to be looking for us so soon,” Picard explained.

  “I wasn’t looking for you.” Corrin smiled—apprehensively, Kirk thought with sudden interest. “We weren’t expecting you at camp for three more days, at least.”

  “Three days?” Picard said. He looked accusingly at Kirk. “I suppose our bones would have been left to find by then, bleached white by the sun.”

  Corrin seemed both worried and puzzled by Picard’s comment, as if there was something he didn’t know about the biochemistry of humans.

  “My friend exaggerates,” Kirk said reassuringly. “Let’s just count this meeting as a happy accident. Do you have any water?”

  Corrin nodded, reached into the passenger module of the transport, and pulled out two sealed bags of water. Each of the bags bore a familiar globe-and-laurel-leaf symbol, and in five different languages proclaimed the contents had come from the Lharassa Desalinization Plant, a gift to the people of Bajor from the United Federation of Planets.

  Kirk squeezed a corner of the bag according to illustrated instructions so that the packaging film solidified into a small spout, then popped open. Kirk held the bag up in a toast, then began to drink thirstily.

  Between welcome mouthfuls, he heard Picard ask, “If you weren’t looking for us, then why were you driving out this far from your camp?”

  A haunted look swept over the Bajoran driver’s face.

  “I was…looking for a murderer,” Corrin Tal said.

  Kirk stopped drinking.

  Vacation was over.

  Chapter Eleven

  BAJOR, STARDATE 55595.9

  EACH BOUNCE of the transport threw Picard from side to side. The transport’s passenger seat beside the driver’s had been designed for a Cardassian soldier in battle gear. It was just too big. He tried keeping his feet pressed firmly against the cabin floor as he braced his arms at his side, but the vehicle’s lack of even the most rudimentary inertial dampers kept his body—and back—in constant, painful motion.

  After a particularly bad jolt, Kirk leaned forward from the second passenger seat, behind Picard, and shouted, “Now this is the way to see the desert!”

  Kirk had to shout to be heard over the open-doored transport’s six engines—one for each wheel—which were deafening on their own, to say nothing of the noise from the wheels’ massive tires ripping through the dry clay.

  Still trying to stay rigid in his seat, Picard risked turning back for a moment to look at Kirk. He wasn’t surprised to see Kirk grinning. His friend’s typical high spirits—along with his voice—had clearly revived since their rescue. “You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” The only way Picard knew he could enjoy a ride like this was if he were at the wheel.

  “Of course I am. We’re not walking.”

  Picard wanted to ask if Kirk had forgotten what th
ey were about to be faced with, but he knew what the answer would be. Since there was nothing more they or their driver could do until the transport returned to camp, Kirk was simply in the moment.

  Picard envied his friend his ability to compartmentalize. Still, for himself, he preferred to be prepared. So once again he reviewed their situation and considered the facts as Corrin Tal had presented them.

  It had all begun with Kirk’s arranging a visit for the two of them to a working archaeological expedition on Bajor. To entice Picard, Kirk had described the setting as the perfect compromise for the joint vacation they’d talked for years of taking. Picard could pursue his cherished avocation with a team of like-minded specialists, and because the archaeological site in question was located under twenty meters of water, the outing had a physically challenging element, something equally appealing to Kirk.

  On the Enterprise, Picard had thoroughly researched Kirk’s proposal. He’d conducted an extensive background review of the work in progress at the camp and discovered it was under the direction of Nilan Artir, a Bajoran archaeologist. Picard had recognized the name, though he couldn’t connect the man with any specific work.

  Nilan, who held the Bajoran equivalent of a professorship at the Bajoran Institute for the Revelations of the Temple, had organized this expedition a year earlier, and had managed to obtain funding from the provisional government. That was Picard’s first clue that whatever the purpose of Nilan’s investigations, it was considered important. It had to have been for Nilan’s government supporters to divert what paltry few credits remained in Bajor’s treasury to a scholarly undertaking. The almost destitute planet was still struggling to recover from more than forty years of systematic looting at the hands of its Cardassian occupiers. Picard had been very interested to seek out and discover just what was so special about the excavation site chosen by Nilan, other than its obvious symbolic meaning in restoring Bajor’s rich past. But his search for this information had not been successful.