by Diane Carey
“Is that the end?”
“Yes. That’s the end.”
“Nice story, Jim. What’s your point?”
“The point is, I used to think running a fully operational starship in hostile space with a crew of four hundred was pretty hard work. After running this Expedition, it’s tiddlywinks.”
The bridge of the Enterprise was usually an oasis, its pool pliable and docile, with tame operations going on around its banks, managed by professionals who didn’t need watching. Moments of tension came and went over the course of time, the dutiful doing of ship’s business, the scramble for solutions, or the coils of battle, but those moments in the past had encompassed a few hours, then were done. The bridge always bridled back to its neutral condition.
Once upon a time. This time the hitch of tension had been tied an hour out of Federation borders and had done nothing but tighten ever since. No matter how deftly Kirk handled every trouble, the strife increased as new problems piled upon those just grappled, with the ones before never completely going away. Supplies meant for the colony were useless in space, and things that wouldn’t be necessary on Belle Terre were critical for survival out here. Some people wanted to jettison the planetary stuff and others wanted to ditch space necessaries in favor of some illusion about getting to the planet faster. How many times could it be explained? There was no “faster.”
These irritations wicked all the way to the top of the command line, even though they shouldn’t and normally would never have made it through the scaffold of authorities under Kirk. Sometimes it helped if he made a personal appearance and talked some poor shipmaster off a ledge. Sometimes it threw acid on the flame. He felt the fabric of his experience and value as a unifying force become thinner and thinner as he spread it around.
Kirk came onto the bridge expecting to feel at home, and somehow failed in that. He’d awakened this morning with a sense that he wasn’t doing all of his job, and a burning desire to do it. He knew where that came from—he’d taken to heart Evan Pardonnet’s charge that these captains should be allowed to run their own ships their ways, because they weren’t Starfleet ships and because the Belle Terre project was based upon individual decisions.
It sounded good. In fact, it was good. But a fleet is not a colony, not a free-flowing economy. Everything that happened here affected almost everything else.
“Good morning, sir,” Spock greeted as Kirk strode around him on the upper bridge.
“Spock,” Kirk responded, a little gruffly.
Spock’s eyes followed him. He knew something was about to change.
“Uhura,” Kirk began, “record this session and broadcast it to Captain Smith, Colonel Glass, and Mr. Carpenter of the Rover, and Captains Austin and Parker, and all control personnel. Also notify Fleet Coxswain Dan Marks to limit the movement of small boats and tenders from this point on. Call Dr. McCoy up here, and request that Governor Pardonnet and Captain Kilvennan join us also. And . . . have Mr. Giotto locate Shucorion and bring him here.”
His voice was gravelly as he spoke. He didn’t like to sound tired. Ideas that had been forming for the past several days suddenly spilled out in some kind of workable order.
When he turned away from her, Spock was standing right beside him. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“I’ve had this nagging feeling for about two days,” Kirk told him. “The darkness has brightened a little now that Shucorion’s here. We can see the picture now, whether it’s pretty or not. Spock . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wish you had gut reactions.”
Spock raised that eyebrow, a barometer of his inner self. “Really . . . is your ‘gut’ reacting?”
“There’s something that doesn’t make sense about what Shucorion says. It’s . . . too perfect a disaster.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“His story. I can’t tell if it’s real or if it’s been written. Shucorion wants us to turn back, and all around the Expedition people are muttering about turning back. You and Chekov, look for clues. There has to be something . . . something that doesn’t fit.”
Folding his arms, Spock pressed a hip to the console nearest him and commented, “Shucorion’s presence and that of his men has had an enlightening effect. However, it has also summoned a dangerous apprehension among the colonists. While the concept of turning back was an isolated sentiment before this, there is much more talk of it now that we know of the Blood and Kauld conflict in the star cluster.”
“I know,” Kirk established, vexed. “I can order Starfleet people to contain their gossip, but there’s nothing to be done among the civilians. Fear, Spock . . . it’s the worst disease out there.”
He glanced at Uhura to begin recording the message he wanted sent around the Expedition. When she nodded, Kirk looked forward to the screens, the helm, and so that he could see Spock at his side. Somehow it was easier to make a proclamation when he clearly saw the living element that would be affected.
“Now that we’re traveling in Gamma Night,” he began, “we have to change our entire way of doing things. We’re having to stop for ten hours out of every thirty. Stop moving, stop drifting, keep visual track of each other, use cables or tractors to hold position with each other so there’s no accidental colliding. We tried to manipulate this without any personnel or watch changes, but that hasn’t worked. We’ve had six collisions and had to evacuate an entire Conestoga. Repairs are going slowly. If we have a second accident like that, we’ll have to stop indefinitely until things are back to normal function. I’m not willing to lay off indefinitely. I’m afraid the time’s come for the Expedition captains to bend their procedures. Mr. Spock, advise the first and second officers to rearrange watch schedules to put more experienced people on duty during travel hours. We’ll run skeleton crews during Gamma Night, and everyone else will get eight hours’ sleep. Every ship should maintain full security alert during Gamma Night, with a senior navigator in charge of monitoring position. All short-range sensors will be on, whether they do any good or not, and keep alert watch teams scanning the skies.”
At the helm, where he had been using an auxiliary screen to coordinate traffic patterns for the coming day, Sulu turned. “Why, sir? No one can move during Gamma Night.”
“We can’t,” Kirk pointed out. “Maybe someone else can. We’ve now seen concrete action from enemy powers. They’ve come out from under the table, but the lights are still out. We can analyze their attack methods, their weapons, strengths and weaknesses, and by the time they come again, we’ll be ready. I’m also ordering all ships, with the exception of Enterprise, to shut down long-range sensors, thereby extending our short-range capacity. We may be able to talk to each other in limited codes. It also makes us less vulnerable to anybody who might take umbrage at our stepping into an area, because we won’t be sending any attractive probe signals.”
Chekov simply straightened and said, “We’ll be ready, sir.”
“Good.” Taking the interrupting as a chance to step to the lower deck, Kirk tried to shake the feeling that he was being watched by everybody in the convoy all at once. “Uhura, mandate emergency evacuation drills on every ship. I want all personnel ready for quick transfer to another vessel.”
“I’ve already laid that out, sir,” she said, “according to each ship’s manifest of personnel. They didn’t like it much. They’ll like it even less when we make them drill the procedure with a thousand people at a time.”
“They’ll have to get used to it. We know there are hostiles in the vicinity, if not in the immediate area. I intend to be ready. They’ll be very happy if they ever have to get off in a hurry.”
“Very true, sir,” she allowed.
The instructions might’ve continued, but for the interruption of the turbolift. McCoy stalked in, with Captain Kilvennan and Governor Pardonnet at his sides.
Kirk signaled Uhura to cut off the recording. Something told him this wasn’t going to be an all-personnel kind of moment. He looked up
at the men on the upper bridge.
Michael Kilvennan was now the official spokesman of all the colonists, something to which he had been unanimously appointed with Evan Pardonnet’s recommendation. Did that mean Pardonnet was losing confidence in his own influence? Maybe. At least the governor’s ego wasn’t in the way of his looking for solutions. Kirk wasn’t about to get into it.
“Captain,” McCoy reported, “the lightship keeper Sardoch has regained consciousness and he’s lucid. Do you want to debrief him personally?”
Kirk peered at him. His senses clicked on. McCoy seemed grim this morning, had something on his mind. “Has he said anything enlightening—allow me to rephrase that. Has he said anything I want to hear yet?”
“Yes, he pretty much confirms Shucorion’s story of an attack of some kind, though he was injured at the onset and wasn’t conscious though much of the incident. He says the attack occurred during Gamma Night, so he couldn’t read who was coming in.”
Perking up suddenly, Spock broke in. “The attackers moved in organized fashion during Gamma Night?”
McCoy offered a kind of shrug. “I wouldn’t scour those details too closely, Spock. Sardoch has a head injury. His memory could be mixing up events. Without logs to back him up, it’s just hearsay. He recalls Shucorion’s men stumbling on board the lightship in bad shape, and then a series of thunderous hits on the ship while the Blood men were on board. Somebody was definitely trying to hurt them. Sardoch also recalls hearing talk of an ancient feud, but he wasn’t sure of his memory on that one.”
“Hmm,” Kirk grumbled. No logs left on that chewed-away bridge. An unreliable eyewitness. “Well, I’ve got a few questions for him. Will he be all right, Bones?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hard to kill a Vulcan. I’ve been trying to annoy Spock to death for years.”
“It has grayed me appreciably,” Spock conceded.
Kirk glanced at him, then looked back at McCoy. “Thank you, Doctor.”
McCoy folded his arms, somehow doing it in a completely different way than Spock did. For Spock, the gesture usually signaled the end of an issue. With McCoy . . .
“Don’t thank me too soon, Captain. I don’t think you’ll like what I’m—”
Just as Kirk faced the doctor to hear the new opinion, the turbolift behind McCoy swept open, emitting Security Chief Giotto and the unusual guest Shucorion. Kilvennan and Evan Pardonnet moved out of the way, both heading around to the port side, crowding Scott and the two young engineers he had brought here for bridge experience.
“Sir,” Giotto announced. “Bringing Mr. Shucorion, as requested.”
“Thank you,” Kirk said. “Mr. Shucorion, welcome to the bridge. How are you?”
“Nothing bad happened today,” the Blood guest responded.
“Really . . . well . . . good. Come on a little farther in. You don’t have to stand in the vestibule.”
“My thanks.” The blue-skinned alien man came to the rail beside Giotto, decidedly rugged and elegant in his way, even though Giotto was particularly proud of his newly styled Starfleet jacket and tended to prance. Shucorion’s simple clothing carried a kind of comfortable medieval economy that made its own stylishness.
He’s a lot like Spock that way. Silently draws the eye, dark and shadowy, obviously intelligent, but doesn’t talk much. Every time he does talk, he really says something.
“Your command center is a handsome place,” Shucorion commented. “On our ships, everything is built in cylinders and we walk on the outer walls. There is very little . . .”
“Style?” Kirk supplied. “I’d like to see your ships someday. In the meantime, I have something to discuss with you.”
Aware of McCoy still standing nearby like a kettle about to steam, Kirk stepped to the upper deck. He liked to be eye-to-eye with people he was about to scold.
“We’re engaging in an activity that is nearly as old as our civilization,” he said to Shucorion. “Gathering together, traveling across wide expanses to settle new lands, spread new ideals, seek new adventures—this is a time-honored drive among human beings. What you see around you is a descendant of the pioneering practices of centuries ago on our planet, a practice called the ‘wagon train,’ in which hundreds of people would strike off together into the wilderness. This time, we’re reaching farther than we have before. What you see here is a wagon train to the stars, Mr. Shucorion. It’s my purpose to make sure these people arrive and succeed.”
Shucorion paused, sensing the not particularly veiled challenge. “Then we will grieve you all the more, when you are consumed.”
Getting some version of what he was plumbing for, Kirk squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “You’ll have to refrain from saying exactly that kind of thing from now on. You and your men have been spreading your story among our passengers. It’s frightening our passengers and worrying our crews. I’m going to have to ask you to stop. If I have to confine all of you to Starfleet vessels, I’ll do it.”
Shucorion’s dark brows tightened. “Telling the truth? This frightens them?”
Kirk offered a vocal shrug. “Truth is elastic. Most of these people are not spacefarers. They don’t understand the balance we strike.”
The Blood leader seemed honestly perplexed. Or he was a good actor. “Have you not explained it to them before bringing them here? That space is dangerous?”
“I didn’t ‘bring’ them. They came of their own choice, each for his own reasons.”
“And you choose not to tell them, then? To hide the truth?”
A dare if ever there was one.
Stepping a little closer, to create an illusion of privacy despite all the eyes on them from around the bridge, Kirk spoke slowly.
“You’re visitors here. You could easily become prisoners. We’re not all that sure of your story. The investigation is still going on. We’re analyzing weapons, attack strategy, your wounds . . . we’ll find out about you. Until there’s a reason to do otherwise, you’re being treated as guests. We’re in a stressful situation. Food, energy packs, medical supplies are running short, largely because you attracted a hostile force to our supply barges. Limitation might be normal for your people, but it isn’t for most of these passengers. They’re edgy and frightened. I want you and your men to stop adding to that fear. For now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’ll be keeping our eyes open.”
“I see.” Shucorion pressed his palms together thoughtfully. “And while you have your eyes open on us, Captain . . . what do you see?”
A fair question. Kirk was in one of those open moods, the kind that could go either way.
“I see admirable workers,” he admitted, “who don’t really know their way around space. Despite our asking you about the local spacescape, you don’t seem to know things that spacefarers should know. So why were you so far out?”
Though he paused as if unsure of an answer, Shucorion’s eyes never flinched. Ultimately he claimed, “We were chased out.”
Vague, but at least consistent with the rest of his story.
“You will be chased out too,” he added, “if you tempt Kauld.”
Was that a threat? Warning?
Or was it some kind of promise? Shucorion had been pushing for the Expedition to turn back, spinning tales of horror and destruction, strain and suffering, yet there was something fatalistic about the way his people told their stories. Struggle seemed to be all he and his people had ever known. They couldn’t imagine any other way of life, and thought the chance to get out of it should be taken. They didn’t understand why the Expedition wouldn’t turn around and get out while they had the chance.
Spock thought Shucorion was telling some version of the truth. Scott didn’t like him, but no surprise. Scott didn’t like anybody at first. McCoy hadn’t weighed in yet, opting to wait until the lightship keeper woke up and told his story.
That was one fact in Shucorion’s favor—they hadn’t killed the lightship keeper. An attacking force, certainly those making as
ferocious an assault as had been made at the lightship, would’ve eradicated the one eyewitness.
They hadn’t. In fact, even though they assumed they would all die in space within days, they’d taken steps to keep him alive. Kirk wouldn’t dismiss the gesture, and as he stood here surveying Shucorion with a spice of doubt, he forced himself to hold back, to treat the other man like a captain until there was reason to do otherwise.
“We’ll just continue keeping our eyes open. However, you’ll have a talk with your men about restraining their conversations.”
Was that a nod? Or had Shucorion simply raised his head in some kind of wariness or defiance?
Hard to tell.
Kirk didn’t wait around for an agreement. His word would have to be the law, not a request. Dismissing any protest or compliance by turning, he came back to McCoy.
“All right, Doctor, I can see something broiling under your surface. Say what you have to say.”
Self-conscious now that there were so many highranking people here watching him, McCoy fidgeted briefly before finding complete confidence in what he had to say. The doctor was as unpolitic as anyone Kirk had ever known, but he didn’t like to make trouble unless there was a good reason. There must be one.
“Jim,” he began, “on behalf of all the medical personnel on this convoy, including the senior physicians and commanding officer of the Brother’s Keeper and the chief coroner, I recommend turning back before this expedition falls victim to a major catastrophe.”
Everyone on the bridge reacted in some way, if only in a jolt of tension, a flinch of posture, or a sudden frown. The medical staff represented a stern barometer of attitude on the Expedition to the Stars. This couldn’t be ignored. More than any other single force, the doctors affected everybody, on every ship. On the port side, Michael Kilvennan drifted down to sit on the rail. Near him, Evan Pardonnet did the same, sinking into one of the chairs at the engineering console. The silence was agonizing.
