by Dayton Ward
Looking to Kirk, who nodded ascent, Spock turned on his heel and moved to a worktable and its computer access terminal. Kirk was already rising to a sitting position in an effort to get off the diagnostic table when McCoy reached out to block him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I want to see what this is about.” McCoy started to protest but saw the look in Kirk’s eyes that he knew too well. Sighing in resignation, the doctor withdrew his arm.
“If you collapse and die,” he said, “don’t complain to me.”
As they moved to join Koloth and Spock, the terminal’s display screen flared to life and the men gathered around the table saw a barely legible scroll of computer text.
“Spock? What have we got?”
“It is an extract from the captain’s log of a Federation starship,” Spock said. Tapping a series of commands into the small console, he added, “According to the registry imprint, it is the log of the USS Gagarin.”
Chapter Nine
“THE GAGARIN WAS AMBUSHED by Klingons in Federation space eight years ago,” Kirk said. “She was destroyed, all hands lost.” Looking down at Spock, he asked, “Can you verify the cartridge’s authenticity?” “I have already done so, Captain. I have run a check against our own data banks and retrieved the data-encryption algorithm used by the Gagarin to encode her disaster recorder. It is a match. Our computer has verified that there is little chance this could be a fabrication.”
Kirk remembered the report he had read about the Gagarin, pieced together from fragmentary distress calls received by other ships.
A fleeting moment of dizziness washed over him, and he involuntarily reached out for the back of Spock’s chair to steady himself. As he wiped his face with his free hand, he noted McCoy’s concerned expression.
“I’m fine, Bones,” he said, smiling slightly. “Just a little-aftershock, I think.”
McCoy glanced at Koloth, irritation evident on his face. “Once we’re done here, I’ll check you over one more time, just to make sure that Klingon swill is completely out of your system.” Koloth did not acknowledge the barb and neither did Kirk, instead returning his attention to the matter at hand.
“Even though we know from her distress call that she was attacked by Klingons, the Empire never acknowledged the attack. They claimed it was the work of renegades, operating without government sanction.” The venom in Kirk’s voice increased with each word, and the discomfort he had been experiencing to this point was almost forgotten as new feelings came to the forefront.
Koloth nodded at Kirk’s recitation of the events. “ Correct. The High Council as an entity never authorized any attack on a Federation ship. However, that did not preclude a few ambitious Council members from taking matters into their own hands for their own personal gain.” He indicated the data cartridge with a wave of his hand. “That was part of the disaster recorder retrieved by the ship which attacked the Gagarin.”
“Which explains why the ship’s buoy was never recovered from the debris later found by other vessels sent to investigate,” Spock said.
“With no proof,” Koloth replied, “the Empire could state that it had no knowledge of the incident, just as they would deny any of what happened afterward.”
Leaning forward, McCoy asked, “And what exactly did happen afterward?”
Koloth hesitated, as if contemplating the ramifications of what he might say next before nodding to no one in particular, appearing to come to an agreement with himself.
“There were survivors of the attack, and they were taken into custody.”
The statement, simple and straightforward, crashed into Kirk with the force of a physical blow. “Survivors? After all this time? How? How many? What proof do you have?”
By way of reply, Koloth produced another data cartridge from his belt, though this one was not Starfleet in origin. “Captain Spock, I believe you will be able to access this. I’ve had it translated into a standard format used throughout the Federation.”
Spock inserted the cartridge into the reader. As the terminal’s viewscreen shifted images, the group of officers weren’t treated to text pages this time. Instead, it was a visual recording.
“This image was obtained from a Klingon prison facility eight years ago,” Koloth said. “It’s a planetoid located near the border on our side of the Neutral Zone, a staging area for prisoners before they are sent to more permanent facilities. Ordinarily you would never find a human there, or any other individual belonging to a race that would easily be identified as being part of the Federation. But watch closely.”
The screen depicted a prison work detail laboring to clear a trail of brush and undergrowth in what looked to be a forest or jungle. Kirk recognized the heavy tools as similar to those he’d used as a boy on his parents’ farm. The prisoners on the detail represented dozens of species, some of which Kirk couldn’t identify.
Then one prisoner walked into the image and Kirk recognized him as a Vulcan male. He appeared younger than Spock, and it was obvious that he had not been treated well after his capture. He was haggard, slumped in posture, and limping noticeably. His left arm was bandaged and suspended in a crude sling, with dark green blood covering much of the Vulcan’s injured arm and left side.
“Oh my god,” McCoy breathed.
Kirk stood up to face Koloth. “Are any of them still alive? Where are they?”
Koloth shook his head. “They would have been moved within days of arriving at that facility, Captain. But I do know that there were many who survived the attack on the Gagarin, though most of them are almost certainly dead by now.”
“Dead?” McCoy said. “What happened to them?”
“I would imagine their fate to be similar to many prisoners of the Empire, Doctor,” Spock said. “The ship’s surviving command crew were probably interrogated for any useful knowledge they might possess, while the rest were in all likelihood interred in one or more Klingon gulags. As such facilities are known throughout the quadrant for the harsh, cruel conditions under which they operate, it is logical to assume that many of the Gagarin crew succumbed in one way or another to that unfortunate existence.”
Kirk could tell from the doctor’s body language and the expression on his face that McCoy’s ire was beginning to rise. “Spock, we’re talking about men and women who were captured and killed hundreds of light-years from their homes, and whose families never learned the truth about what happened to them. Can’t you be the least bit sympathetic to that?”
Turning away from the table and the discussion that was escalating into an argument between his two friends, Kirk began to slowly pace the length of sickbay, digesting the information he’d just been given. The idea that such an unkind fate had been visited on anyone, particularly fellow Starfleet personnel, grated on him.
When the Gagarin had been reported lost, he had traveled to Earth in order to visit the mother of Stephen Garrovick, the Gagarin ’s first officer and a former member of the Enterprise crew. He remembered the devastation that had overcome Anne when she learned that her son had been killed in service to Starfleet just as her husband had several years previously.
Kirk understood the pain. As he walked past the suite of patient beds, all thankfully unoccupied at the moment, his mind dredged up the memory of another sickbay that decades ago had been littered with the bodies of the injured and the dead.
It had been aboard the USS Farragut, during his first deep-space assignment, and Anne Garrovick’s husband had been Kirk’s commanding officer. An encounter with a gaseous entity near a remote planet called Tycho IV resulted in massive damage to the ship and the deaths of almost half the crew, including Captain Garrovick. Kirk had nearly been overwhelmed with grief over his captain’s death, blaming himself for not being able to stop the creature’s attack when he’d had the chance.
He carried that guilt for many years, until a chance second encounter with the creature gave him the chance at redemption. Had it been fate or mere coinciden
ce that Garrovick’s son, Stephen, had been aboard the Enterprise at that time? The younger Garrovick helped Kirk defeat the creature, demonstrating the same character traits that Kirk had admired in the man’s father. Kirk ended up taking young Garrovick under his wing, their bond becoming almost that of father and son and continuing even after Garrovick’s career path took him away from the Enterprise and on to other assignments.
As he walked past the sickbay beds, Kirk wondered how many casualties the Gagarin had suffered on the day of its destruction. Had Garrovick died, or was he one of the survivors, rotting away somewhere in a Klingon prison? The very thought angered Kirk. Turning on Koloth, he made no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice.
“Assuming that recording is also authentic, I thought Klingons didn’t take prisoners during battle,” he challenged.
Stepping away from the workstation, Koloth nodded. “In battle, that is correct. However, some Klingons have been known to take prisoners if it served their needs.” His eyes narrowed as he added. “I am not one of those people. As for the recording, I’m sure Captain Spock can confirm its validity.”
“So why the Gagarin?” Kirk asked.
“There are those on the Council who believe war with the Federation is inevitable and that some leverage may be necessary. Only a few of the Council members even know about the Gagarin incident and that there are survivors. These are the same Klingons who held Council seats when the original attack took place. All of the newer members except for one are oblivious.”
“Secrets among members of the High Council?” McCoy asked. “What’s to gain by that?”
Koloth ignored the question. “Those who keep the secret feel that with the new round of talks, it might be better to simply dispose of the survivors and go on pretending they never existed.” The Klingon’s upper lip curled in disgust. “It was disgraceful enough to attack the Gagarin for no reason, but the crew should at least have been permitted to die in battle as warriors. Instead, they were kept as bargaining chips by a handful of loathsome glob flies who dare to call themselves Klingon.”
Rising from his seat at the computer terminal, Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “Apparently there are those who don’t share your views, Captain.”
“But I am by no means alone,” Koloth countered, pointing to the workstation. “That data cartridge was discovered by Gorkon, a recently elected member to the High Council. He found it by accident while performing some other research. The entire matter disgusts him as it would any true Klingon, and he wants it resolved.
However, he is afraid that if he attempts to bring it to the attention of the rest of the Council, those who are responsible for this travesty of honor will see to it that the survivors are killed.”
“So he wants you to get them out,” Kirk said, piecing the puzzle together even as Koloth had spoken. “He wants you to stage a covert operation to retrieve the prisoners, and then what?”
“Not exactly,” Koloth replied. “He instructed me to give this information to a Starfleet officer whom I believed could be trusted to handle the matter with the delicacy it requires. I believe that officer is you, Kirk.”
The sheer audacity of the statement almost made Kirk laugh. “I’m supposed to waltz into Klingon space, stage an assault on a Klingon prison that I don’t even know the location of, snatch however many survivors there might be, and then what?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Return them to the Federation,” Koloth said simply. “The official story will be that they were discovered on a remote planetoid in Klingon space, having managed to land there in escape pods from their ship. It is the only way to get them home without sending the High Council into a panic or jeopardizing the current round of negotiations between our governments, Captain.”
Kirk looked to Spock, who nodded. “There is logic to what he suggests, Captain. If what he says is true and if the peace talks currently under way are successful, those members of the High Council who have the most to fear from the situation would undoubtedly kill the prisoners to preserve their position.”
McCoy stepped forward at that. “Then we can’t take this to the Federation Council either, Jim. That would endanger the prisoners, too.”
Kirk knew his friends were right, of course, proving again why he trusted their counsel so readily and so often. The only option that didn’t immediately endanger the prisoners, if they were still alive, appeared to be a covert action. But he couldn’t just take the Enterprise into Klingon space, nor could he use one of the ship’s shuttlecraft. Even if he could get authorization to use a small, long-range vessel from Starfleet, there weren’t any nearby.
Turning away from the others, he was once again greeted by the cold, sterile environs of sickbay. Glancing about, he reminded himself how much he hated this part of his ship. Despite the undeniable talents of his friend Leonard McCoy, who had saved more lives in rooms like this one than he could easily remember, sickbay to Kirk represented nothing more than suffering and death. It meant failure, something he personally despised and fought against with every fiber of his being.
Failure. Odds were that it awaited him should he decide to undertake this mission. He already knew, however, that it would not be enough to keep him from trying.
“If we’re going to do this,” he said, “then we’ll have to move quickly. If what you say is true, Koloth, then the only way this can work in a short time is if we go in undercover. I need access to a Klingon vessel.”
Koloth smiled wickedly. “I thought you might, Kirk,” he replied. “My ship stands ready to assist you. Of course, if you’re discovered aboard a Klingon vessel in our space, we will all be executed as spies.”
Kirk nodded, but execution for spying was the least of his concerns. The potential consequences to the peace process currently under way, as well as the future stability of this entire quadrant of the galaxy, could well be resting on his shoulders.
Not just my shoulders, he reminded himself, thinking of the poor souls who had been made pawns in the grand game being played between two interstellar superpowers. What if there were any Gagarin survivors? Kirk was certain there were those individuals, on both sides, who would view the sacrifice of a few forgotten prisoners on some backwater planet to be a worthwhile investment if it kept things stable between the Federation and the Empire.
But for Kirk, that price was simply too high.
Chapter Ten
“WELL, I HAVE TO tell ya, laddie, the admiral in charge of this starbase is a man after my own heart. Only someone of refined taste could see fit to make sure his bar is stocked with scotch as smooth as this.” Montgomery Scott held up the glass in his hand, appraising its contents. With a satisfied smile on his face, the engineer brought the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
Standing next to him at the bar, Pavel Chekov shook his head and smiled. After all, he’d long since become familiar with Scotty’s penchant for judging the quality of drinking establishments across the quadrant by the scotch they served. He was right much more often than not, which was why Chekov stuck with him when they visited a new bar, pub, or tavern.
The dinner had progressed without incident, and the Enterprise officers now found themselves amid a mingling throng of Federation and Klingon delegates, Starfleet personnel and Klingon military officers. The meal seemed to have had a relaxing effect on the group, as Chekov now noticed more interaction between the two parties than before.
Scotty saw the distant look on his friend’s face. “What’s the matter?”
The security chief shook his head. “I was just thinking how nice it would be if this was a normal gathering and not a special event. Us, friends with the Klingons. Do you suppose it’s really possible?”
“Aye lad, anything’s possible,” Scotty replied. “Peace with the Klingons wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve run into now, would it? I’d have thought you’d know that by now. Have ye not been payin’ attention all these years?”
Chekov couldn’t suppress another
grin as the engineer turned back to the bar for a refill. Behind him, the Russian could hear an animated voice talking.
“I hear the mighty Captain Kirk lost a fierce battle with a plate of gagh. Such a great warrior bested by so pitiful an enemy. No wonder the humans want peace. They know they have no chance against a real adversary!”
Chekov turned toward the source of the voice and discovered that it was not he who was being spoken to. Instead, he saw a group of four Klingons, all wearing the heavy leather uniforms of soldiers, standing in a circle. The comments made by one of them, Chekov wasn’t sure which one, were rewarded by hearty laughter from the entire group.
“I wonder how strong his stomach would be with my boot in it,” he said softly, though Scotty overheard it.
“Ah, that’s just the drinks talkin’,” Scotty said. His brow furrowed as he added, “Ye wouldn’t be thinkin’ of introducin’ yourself now, would ya? I seem to recall another occasion where you didn’t like what some Klingon had to say about the captain in a bar.”
Remembering the bar brawl that had erupted all those years ago on space station K-7 between members of the Enterprise crew and that of a visiting Klingon ship, Chekov laughed out loud at Scotty’s comment. “You didn’t want to fight then, either, at least not until they started insulting the Enterprise.”
“ ’Twas the principle of the thing, laddie,” the engineer replied. “It’s no different than a mother lookin’ after her children. Anyway, if it’s all the same to ya, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it civil. My days of bar brawlin’ are a wee bit behind me.”
Chekov nodded. He wasn’t exactly the excitable young ensign of twenty years ago, either. Besides, he didn’t want to find out what Captain Kirk might say about two of his command staff being hauled away by Starbase Security for starting a fight at an important state dinner.
Especially if we didn’t win, Chekov reminded himself.
