Kobayashi Maru

by Michael A. Martin

  “Ugh,” he muttered as he leaned against a wall, squinting to get a good look at the semisolid foulness into which he had just stepped. Damn it. There’s one thing that’s the same on any planet that’s got cities on it, pointed ears and green blood notwithstanding. Doing his best to ignore the stink, Trip stepped over to the nearby brick-lined gutter, against which he scraped the bottom of his shoe until its sole once again looked reasonably clean. Then, after breathing a pungent Rihannsu curse upon those who failed to curb their pet set’leths, he resumed walking, quietly rounding a corner.

  Trip suddenly found himself standing between a pair of youthful male Romulans, neither of whom appeared to be any older than perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Both teens distinguished themselves immediately from everyone else he had encountered so far this evening, and not merely because of their age.

  They were smiling.

  Maliciously.

  The solitary streetlamp across the street shed just enough pale light to make the blade in the shorter teen’s hand gleam menacingly.

  Trip offered them a sideways grin of his own. “Jolan’tru, boys,” he said in his best conversational Rihannsu, relying on the translator mounted inside his artificially pointed ear to smooth out whatever difficulties his persistent Alabama-Florida accent might pose. “Maybe I’d better warn you up front: I left my wallet back at the hotel.”

  The kid holding the knife took a fateful step forward, evidently not about to take Trip at his word.

  Trip sighed. This was shaping up to be a complicated evening.

  “You’re twenty minutes late checking in, Commander,” said a frowning Captain Stillwell, imaged on the little security-scrambled subspace transceiver that Trip had just retrieved from its strategic hiding place beneath one of his bedroom floorboards. Stillwell paused, blinking at his own screen as he studied the image there. “What the hell happened to you, anyway?”

  Trip grinned, ignoring the slight twinge of pain that lingered in his jaw. “It’s all right, sir. Just ran into a little bit of trouble while I was walking home tonight, that’s all.”

  “Looks like you were injured,” Stillwell said, leaning forward slightly as he squinted at Trip from across the light-years. Despite the extreme distance, the visual channel looked exceptionally crisp today, probably because of the adjustments Trip had just made to the official subspace array on the roof of Ehrehin’s lab, which lay only a few klicks away. On several occasions over the past month, Trip had succeeded in quietly piggybacking his own narrow-beam, amplitude-modulated subspace signals onto those of the lab’s multiband transceiver; this enabled him to send messages that blended in undetectably with both the never-ending torrent of incoming and outgoing lab data and the natural background static of subspace—so far, at least.

  “Let’s just say you oughtta see the other guy.” Although in actuality he had faced two attackers, Trip didn’t want to sound as though he were bragging. Fortunately, the toughs who had tried to jump him had only been aggressive teenagers; since they hadn’t had the benefit of Starfleet training, they’d been fairly easy to persuade to move on in search of easier prey. On the other hand, even young Romulans had a pretty significant advantage over humans in terms of sheer physical strength….

  Stillwell appeared to be scrutinizing Trip’s bruised face in minute detail. “You’d better tend to those scrapes and bruises carefully, Commander. We can’t afford to let these people see you shedding red blood, now can we?”

  I’m so very touched by your concern, Trip thought, though he knew his new superior in the spy bureau was making an excellent point. Nevertheless, Stillwell made Harris, the enigmatic spymaster who had originally recruited him into the bureau, seem almost cuddly in comparison.

  It’s his job to develop Earth’s version of the warp-seven drive before the Romulans manage to pull off the same trick, Trip reminded himself. Having spent four years laboring to keep Enterprise’s frequently beleaguered warp-five engine running with its matter/antimatter needle always necessarily oscillating somewhere between off and kaboom, Trip had some natural sympathy for Stillwell. It wasn’t hard to imagine what the crushing weight of so much high-stakes responsibility might do to any man’s sense of humor.

  “I’ve still got a good supply of sulfatriptan salted away, Captain,” Trip said, nodding. Thanks to the drug’s property of harmlessly binding its sulfur compounds to the human hemoglobin molecule, no cursory glance at Trip’s blood, mucus membranes, or internal organs would give him away as a red-blooded Terran—even after the new red cells produced by his bone marrow had overwhelmed the initial green-blood treatment he’d received on Adigeon Prime. Regardless, he knew he had to remain vigilant about not making anybody curious enough about him to subject him to deep-tissue scans or DNA tests of any sort, or else the jig would truly be up.

  “I just took a booster dose,” Trip continued. “By tomorrow my blood and innards will look as green as the Chicago River on Saint Patty’s Day.” I just hope I can avoid spilling any more of it any time soon, he added silently, with no small amount of gallows humor.

  “Good,” Stillwell said with a sober nod, apparently as unmoved as ever by Trip’s witticisms. “Now let’s discuss your progress monitoring and regulating the activities of your target.”

  Trip suppressed a wince. Target. He hated that word. “I’m still keeping very close tabs on Ehrehin,” he said.

  “I can see that, Commander. So close, in fact, that you and Doctor Ehrehin i’Ramnau tr’Avrak now seem to be on a first-name basis.”

  Trip’s frown appeared unbidden, and he felt it creasing the artificially constructed brow ridge that formed a subtle V shape across his forehead. He hoped that Stillwell found it an imposing sight.

  “That’s hard to avoid when you’re posing as a scientist’s assistant.” And he wasn’t posing as just any assistant; thanks to the skill of the plastic surgeons of Adigeon Prime, Trip had been passing himself off for months now as Cunaehr ir’Ra’tleihfi tr’Mandak, Ehrehin’s most beloved and valued aide. “It’s part of my cover, remember?”

  “Then I trust I don’t need to remind you not to let it become anything more than that, Commander. The old man’s work poses the most clear and present danger to Earth since the Xindi came gunning for us. It’s a threat to the entire Coalition. Never forget that.”

  “You’re worried about me going native, like my old pal Sopek,” Trip said, not asking a question. Though he had recently almost died at Sopek’s hands, he still wasn’t entirely certain whether Sopek’s primary allegiance had been to Vulcan or Romulus.

  “It’s a very real hazard every deep-cover agent has to consider, Commander. You’d do well to face that possibility honestly.”

  Trip’s jaw hardened in resentment, his sympathy for Stillwell notwithstanding. “Look, Captain. Ehrehin wants to rein in his people’s war making just as much as we do.”

  “The old man may be a genius whose expertise you admire,” Stillwell said, a scowl creasing his already hard countenance. “But he’s also a loyal Romulan. You’d do well not to forget that either, Commander.”

  You just can’t admit the possibility that a Romulan could be the same as we are, can you? Trip thought, though he managed to hold his tongue.

  “If Ehrehin believed in the aims of the Romulan military, he could have completed a working warp-seven prototype long before now.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe that’s just what you’d prefer to believe. Whatever he hasn’t achieved yet for the Romulan military might not be for lack of trying. Remember, Commander, I also have a pretty damned thorough understanding of just what has to go into any crash high-warp research program,” Stillwell continued.

  “Starfleet did put you in charge of it,” Trip said, keeping his expression guarded. Trying his best to be charitable, he supposed that Stillwell’s annoying tendency to try to micromanage and second-guess his work on Romulus was an outgrowth of his management of Earth’s warp-seven program, in addition to his covert duties seeking out related inf
ormation from alien worlds under the auspices of the bureau. He didn’t envy the man his job. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how badly Stillwell would have screwed up Trip’s task on Romulus were the two men to trade places.

  Stillwell nodded. “They did indeed. And I find it hard to believe that I could fool them for any length of time into believing that my team was making significant progress if it really wasn’t.”

  A sinking feeling developed deep in Trip’s belly, but he tried not to show any discomfiture. Had Stillwell just admitted that Earth’s warp-seven research had reached some sort of impasse?

  “How is the project going, Captain?” Trip wanted to know.

  Stillwell’s scowl deepened. “That’s not a data point that you need to know at the moment, Commander.”

  Trip’s shoulders suddenly felt heavier as the weight of his own responsibilities bore down on him.

  “My point is that I seriously doubt that the old man’s superiors are fools either,” Stillwell said. “Just as I doubt his claim that he’s deliberately taking his research team down a blind alley to contain his people’s militarism. But if he is… if…then sooner or later Admiral Valdore will spot the lie and replace Doctor Ehrehin with somebody who will get the job done.”

  “For whatever it’s worth, Captain, I don’t think there is anybody else here capable of getting the job done,” Trip said. “I’m a pretty fair warp engineer myself, and I can’t make heads or tails of the technical gobbledygook he’s been putting in his progress reports. I can’t see how Valdore’s people will do any better.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. Maybe Doctor Ehrehin is, as you once so colorfully put it, ‘baffling Valdore with bullshit.’ But the old man knows who you really are. He knows your agenda. And he knows how impressed you are by his credentials, as well as by his alleged ideals.

  “Therefore you must face the possibility that he is playing you, Commander. He may be conducting real warp-seven research behind your back as we speak. He might actually be making solid progress toward the creation of a prototype stardrive. Progress that you are unaware of, at least so far.”

  Trip fumed quietly. “If anything like that was going on, we’d both know about it by now.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Commander. If you discovered it.”

  Trip was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid delivering a sharp retort. “So now you’re worried that I’m incompetent. On top of maybe having gone native.”

  Stillwell paused, then chuckled, his frown suddenly melting into a look of almost fatherly concern. “Not at all, Commander. But as long as you have vulnerabilities, I’m going to remind you of them from time to time. Making the good-faith error in judgment of trusting someone too much and the problem of ‘going native’ are very similar pitfalls. It’s very hard to know precisely when you’ve stepped into the former. And once you’ve done it, it’s deceptively easy to slide from there to the latter. The difference is a matter of degree, a line along the same continuum.”

  Hoping both to contain his own rising ire and to change the subject, Trip forced a smile and said, “You know, Captain, one of the main reasons Harris recruited me into this cockamamie secret bureau of yours was because I’m a ‘people person.’ A big part of that is being able to tell when somebody is lying to your face.”

  “I certainly hope your faith in your own judgment is justified, Commander. As well as your faith in the old man’s motivations. But if it turns out it’s not, you’d better be prepared to do what’s necessary.”

  Trip frowned again. “You know all my contingency plans, Captain. If I find the plans for a real warp-seven prototype here, I’m gonna take it. Failing that, I’ll destroy it, and wipe every computer I can find that’s carrying the files.”

  “Very good. But you’ll need an additional contingency plan as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wiping computer files is an incomplete solution at best,” Stillwell said. “You can never be sure you got to all the backup copies. Computer techs can often reconstruct files unless you out-and-out vaporize the hardware substrate. And original research can always be reconstituted as long as it still exists inside somebody’s head.”

  Trip didn’t like what he was hearing one bit. “What are you saying, Captain?”

  Stillwell spoke in a voice as sharp and cold and unforgiving as a guillotine execution on a January morning. “I’m saying, Commander, that you’d better be prepared to kill Doctor Ehrehin i’Ramnau tr’Avrak.”

  Trip could only nod his head numbly. He felt some sort of “spy autopilot” take over for him during the remainder of his check-in with Stillwell, as both men crossed a few routine matters off their respective lists for the next few minutes before the captain signed off.

  Trip wasn’t sure how long he just sat there afterward, simply staring into the dead black screen of his subspace unit. Had Stillwell allowed the weight of responsibility to crush the humanity out of him, to the point where he saw paranoiac conspiracies that didn’t exist? There was no question in Trip’s mind that the man was entirely too jingoistic to see the universe as it really was, in all its subtle complexities and nearly indistinguishable shades of gray.

  But Trip also knew that he had to face the possibility that Stillwell had judged Ehrehin correctly. He searched his soul. Had he allowed his own humanity, his own willingness to believe the best about people, to put the very existence of the human species in jeopardy? He truly didn’t think so. Despite the fact that Ehrehin was unquestionably still a loyal Romulan, a man whose main priority was the welfare of his own people, Trip felt certain that the elderly scientist’s commitment to the larger morality of peace was a sincere one as well.

  But he also knew that he’d have to face squarely, sooner or later, the main question that Stillwell had raised: What if the security of Earth and the Coalition required the destruction of more than just Ehrehin’s research records?

  FIVE

  The Year of Kahless 781

  The Klingon-Romulan border

  BENEATH HIS LONG MUSTACHE, Nah’tan smiled, displaying the grin of a toQ vulture. Today was a glorious day. His D’Vagh-class battle cruiser, the I.K.S. Veqlargh Jajlo’, was in top shape, having just undergone a thorough refit and overhaul at the shipyards orbiting Praxis. His complement of weapons was full, and his crew was rested and ready for a battle.

  And now they had one.

  “Ready disruptor cannons!” he ordered, standing up from his chair in the center of the ship’s bridge and stalking closer to the main viewer. Around him, the warriors at his service bustled to comply.

  On the screen was a RomuluSngan vessel, though it wasn’t a ship of the type most commonly seen in his ship’s database. They had first encountered the enemy vessel via long-range scanners within the past kilaan, while searching for two missing Klingon battle cruisers, the I.K.S. SIm’yoH and the I.K.S. Mup’chIch.

  “What progress have you made with the scans?” Nah’tan asked, stalking to the workstation of Nevahk, his most intelligent technician.

  Nevahk barely glanced his way, concentrating instead on moving his blunt fingers over a multitude of blinking tactical screens. “They have been successful at blocking most of the scans, but we captured some fragmentary information nonetheless.” He pointed a dusky-hued finger at a diagram that was uploading to a hull-mounted monitor to his upper left. “They have shields and weapons comparable to ours, though their skill in utilizing them no doubt pales beside the strength of the Empire.”

  He pointed to another area of his console, upon which the screens appeared blank. “We are unable to scan this section of the vessel, which seems to be shielded heavily.”

  “Then that section shall be our first target,” Nah’tan growled, turning on his heel and striding back to the center of the bridge.

  “Open channels again!” he commanded, casting the most intimidating glower he could muster toward the central viewer. “Romulan vessel, you will stand down and prepare to be boarded.
You stand accused of piracy and sabotage, and will answer to the laws of the Klingon Empire!”

  He waited for several moments before turning his gaze toward Dekk’ven, his communications officer. The young warrior, a bekk who had recently lost most of his lower teeth in a brawl over a spilled bowl of gagh, shook his head. “No response, Captain,” he said, his words slightly lisped around his injuries.

  “Repeat the message and continue sending,” Nah’tan barked. He knew that if he were to fire on the other ship unprovoked, it could be seen as an act of cowardice. But by openly accusing the RomuluSngan—even giving them a chance to surrender without a fight—he was protecting himself both tactically and politically. But soon, he would have no choice but to follow through on his threats. Other than that, his only concern now was whatever it was the Romulans were trying to conceal from his ship’s sensors.

  “Captain, the Romulan ship is polarizing its hull plating,” the comely Kori’nd said from her station at the left of the viewer. “Its weapons tubes are powering up.”

  “Prepare to attack,” Nah’tan growled loudly, feeling his pulse quicken with the exhilaration of imminent combat. He felt certain that his crew was as excited as he was; they had done without the glories of battle for far too long.

  “Tracking another ship coming out of warp,” Kori’nd said, even as the main viewscreen split into two images. On the left side was the Romulan ship, but on the right was a far more familiar vessel.

  “The Mup’chIch.” Nah’tan was surprised but pleased. No trace of either of the missing Klingon ships had yet been found; no one had yet assumed the worst, though both vessels had been overdue long enough to cause some concern among the fleet’s command hierarchy.

  Grinning with satisfaction, Nah’tan now felt certain that he would see unequivocal and absolute victory this day. No Romulan vessel had ever been captured whole, and certainly not with its crew alive. But the enemy craft before him now was hopelessly outgunned, and might therefore be overwhelmed and seized intact. If the RomuluSngan were smart, they would turn and run back to their sovereign space like a whipped targ while they still stood any chance at all of doing so. The only choices that remained to them now were to display their cowardice, blow themselves up, or admit Doghjey—unconditional surrender—and await their just fate as jegh’pujwI’, lawfully conquered alien prisoners of the Klingon Empire.