by Greg Cox
Kirk nodded. “Not an uncommon practice on frontier worlds, even today.”
“Eventually, Thunderbird was retired from active service, preserved as nothing but a historical exhibition, until the current power crunch forced us to fire it up again just to keep the lights on. Our technicians worked around the clock to adapt the old engines to our present needs. Figured the reactor that once propelled us across the galaxy could now power Jackpot City’s bigger and bolder future.”
Scotty appeared unimpressed by the history lesson.
“That’s all very well and good, ma’am, but, in my professional estimation, you’re taking a major risk here. It’s not just that the hardware is old and past its prime, you’re putting it to a use it was never designed for and, frankly, doing so in a rather hasty and slapdash manner.”
Poho bristled at the accusation. “The situation here was and remains urgent. We didn’t have time to waste on any extended planning and review process. We needed to get the job done, and we needed to get it done yesterday.”
Kirk sympathized. He had occasionally been known to order Scotty to throw out the rule book in the interests of saving the ship in a timely fashion. The dour engineer often protested pushing his precious engines too far, but usually managed to make it work anyway, despite some grumbling. Could he do the same here?
“But you’ve cut too many corners,” Scott said. “Just taking a quick tour of the premises, I spotted more serious safety violations than I have fingers to count them on, and a troubling lack of backup systems to boot. Put bluntly, none of this . . . farrago . . . is up to code.”
“Is there anything we can do about that?” Kirk asked. “Can you and your people address the most dangerous of these violations?”
“We can try, Captain, but we’d just be adding lifeboats and a fresh coat of paint to the Titanic, if ye take me meaning. It wouldn’t change the fact that this entire operation is a catastrophe waiting to happen.” His dour tone and expression conveyed the gravity of his reservations. “And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, sir, that a potential matter-antimatter mishap is nothing to take lightly.”
“Neither are the pressing needs of this community,” Poho said. “We’re on a razor’s edge here, what with the frequent outages and brownouts. Even with Thunderbird picking up much of the load these days, we’re barely holding on by our fingertips. You have no idea how much pressure I’m under regarding these power glitches. My constituents are demanding results, so the last thing I want to do is lose ground on that front.”
“Better to disappoint your citizens than blow them up,” Scott said. “At the very least, I strongly recommend shutting down this power station until the proper backups and emergency-control systems can be installed.”
“And what do you suggest we do in the meantime, Mister Scott?” Poho dug in her heels. “We’re not just talking about frivolous creature comforts and conveniences. We need Thunderbird’s output for basic communications, transportation, security, sanitation, and other fundamental services, including the police department, the fire department, the hospital . . .”
She has a point, Kirk conceded. McCoy had already reported on the strained conditions at the city hospital, including the sporadic energy issues. Nevertheless, Scotty’s objections seemed to go beyond his usual grumbling whenever vital machinery was not being treated with the proper respect. Kirk gathered that Scott had good reason to be worried by what he had discovered here.
“I understand your concerns, Mayor, but Mister Scott is one of the finest engineers in Starfleet. If he says this setup is unsafe, we should listen to him.”
“Unsafe by Starfleet standards, maybe,” Poho said. “But here on Baldur III, we don’t have the luxury of doing everything by the book. We’ve learned to improvise and get by with whatever’s available.”
“Improvisation is one thing,” Kirk argued. “Inviting disaster is another.”
She remained unconvinced. “You want to talk safety? Disasters? Worst-case scenarios? Emotions are already running high in these parts, as you’ve seen for yourself. Particularly between the newcomers and the old-timers. You want this city to come apart in a major blackout? We could be talking riots, looting—”
“Losing an election?” Scotty said archly.
“Belay that kind of talk, Mister Scott,” Kirk chided him. “We’re guests here.”
Poho’s voice took on a frostier tone. “Thank you for remembering that, Captain.”
“You’ll have to forgive Mister Scott,” Kirk said. “He’s an engineer, not a diplomat, and he’s not one to mince words when he sees something out of order, which is probably why the Enterprise is still in one piece.”
“Well, I did ask him to speak his mind,” Poho recalled. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. I’m not questioning Mister Scott’s expertise. I’m sure this operation is far from ideal, by his exacting criteria. But I have to weigh the risks in light of the bigger picture, and I’m putting my foot down. Thunderbird is staying on for as long as it takes to get some new-and-improved power plants up and running.”
“With all due respect, then,” Scott said, “you are doing so against my strong recommendation. On the record.”
Kirk could tell the mayor’s mind was set, but felt compelled to press the point anyway. “There’s nothing we can say to change your decision?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain. Shutting down Thunderbird is off the table, I’m sorry.”
Kirk understood where she was coming from, but feared she was making a big mistake. His hands were tied, however. He couldn’t simply pull rank and trust his own instincts, which were to follow Scotty’s advice, but he couldn’t in good conscience walk away from a potential disaster either. To his frustration, he could only do what he could.
“You heard the mayor, Mister Scott. Do whatever it takes to make this power plant as safe as you can manage. Bring down as many of your people from the Enterprise as you need. Hold this place together with spit and glue if you have to. Do you read me?”
“Aye, sir,” Scott said. “I’ll do my best.”
Now that the matter was settled to her satisfaction, Poho unfolded her arms and adopted a more conciliatory tone.
“This is my call, Kirk, Mister Scott,” she assured them. “Anything goes wrong, it’s on my head, not yours.”
Kirk found that small comfort.
Eight
Yurnos
“Approaching the planet, Mister Spock.”
Chekov piloted Galileo toward Yurnos, which was clearly visible through the shuttlecraft’s forward ports. Spock had been engaging in silent meditation in the copilot’s seat, but roused himself as they neared their destination. The planet—which even from a distance appeared much less arid than his native Vulcan—appeared to grow in size as the shuttle headed toward it at sublight speed, slowing as they passed a solitary moon. A polar aurora illuminated the planet’s higher latitudes; Spock recalled that Yurnos had an unusually dynamic magnetic field.
“Thank you, Ensign.” Spock cleared his thoughts for the mission ahead. “I assume you have fully briefed yourself on the planet during our transit.”
“Of course, Mister Spock.” He recited what he had learned with the enthusiasm of a student anxious to impress his teacher. “Yurnos is a Class-M planet inhabited by a primitive humanoid species that look much like, well, yours truly. From what I gather, their technology is roughly equivalent to that of, say, eighteenth-century Europe or Russia. They are still a long way from developing a warp-capable civilization and are therefore protected by the Prime Directive. The plant that concerns us, nabbia, grows only in a certain region in the northern hemisphere of the planet. Efforts to cultivate it elsewhere have proved problematic; it’s theorized that nabbia thrives only under very specific environmental conditions, related to the climate, the atmosphere, the native flora and fauna, and certain rare nutrients in the soils, including—”
“That is sufficient, Ensign. I commend your diligence.”
Spock
was already familiar with all relevant data concerning Yurnos and nabbia, but was pleased that Chekov had educated himself on the topics. Spock considered the young ensign a protégé of sorts. Despite his youth and unfortunate emotionality, Chekov had the makings of a fine Starfleet officer. Doctor McCoy had once accused Spock of being a bad influence on Chekov, but Spock preferred to think that he was training Chekov to achieve his full potential by encouraging him to think like a scientist.
“Thank you, Mister Spock.”
Spock scanned the planet as they approached its atmosphere. The Yurnians’ modest level of technological development could be seen by the absence of radio waves and other electromagnetic transmissions, as well as the lack of any artificial satellites in orbit around the planet. He easily detected a homing signal coming from the Federation observers who had alerted the Enterprise to the problem on Yurnos. He locked onto the signal and transmitted the coordinates to Chekov before hailing the source of the signal.
“Galileo to Federation outpost. We are approaching your location. Anticipate landing in approximately three-point-seven minutes.”
“Received, Galileo,” a female voice replied. “We’re ready for you.”
Spock had been in prior communication with the observers, a husband-and-wife team of cultural anthropologists, so they were anticipating Galileo’s arrival. There was no danger of the Yurnians intercepting the transmissions, as they had yet to even discover electricity, which made communicating with the observers relatively uncomplicated. Similarly, there was little risk of Galileo being spotted above a certain altitude, although Spock intended to exercise extreme caution anyway.
“You may begin your descent,” Spock instructed. “Take care to avoid coming within view of any large population centers.”
“Understood, Mister Spock. We will sneak in quietly like thieves in the night.”
“I would have preferred a less larcenous comparison. Proceed.”
They angled down into the atmosphere, Galileo’s shields and sturdy duranium hull protecting them from the heat of reentry. The desired coastline was cloaked in darkness as it came into view. Spock had deliberately calculated their course and speed so that they would arrive at the observers’ location late at night, the better to elude detection by anyone gazing up at the sky. As they exited the cloud cover, Chekov switched off the shuttle’s running lights and navigated by sensors alone. As they had been told, a homing signal led them to a small mill on the outskirts of a nearby seaport. Spock’s keen eyes made out the mill and various adjoining buildings, including a farmhouse, a silo, a stable, and a large stone barn. Temporary landing lights flared in the darkness, guiding them toward the latter. Spock glimpsed a pair of tiny figures on the ground, peering up at the shuttle.
The anthropologists, Jord and Vankov, he assumed. Formerly of the University of Catulla.
The barn door was open to receive Galileo. Spock estimated there was sufficient clearance to allow the shuttle to pass through the entrance, but it would be a tight squeeze. With all due respect to Chekov, he found himself wishing that Sulu was piloting instead.
“Would you prefer me to take control of the helm?” he asked.
“Nyet, Mister Spock.” Chekov confidently steered Galileo into the barn. “Just like entering the hangar deck.”
The shuttle touched down on the packed-dirt floor of the barn. Spock and Chekov emerged from the spacecraft into warm, muggy air and the pungent odor of manure. Oversized rodents, the size of horses or cattle, occupied nearby stalls. They rose up on their hind legs and chittered in alarm at the shuttle’s arrival. Spock knew from his research that the beasts, which were taxonomically akin to ground squirrels, albeit of much larger proportions, were a common form of domesticated livestock in this region. Silky fur, ranging in color from russet to gray, coated their slender bodies. Large eyes and bushy tails no doubt made them appealing to most humanoid sensibilities. Federation files labeled them megamarmots, frequently abbreviated to simply “marmots,” which was the closest translation of the actual Yurnian name for the species. Prominent incisors indicated a tendency to gnaw.
“Hush now! Go back to sleep!” Jord quieted the animals by stroking their tufted ears. “There, there, nothing to worry about. Just some visitors, that’s all.”
Spock recognized the tall, middle-aged woman from the Federation database. A pair of archaic bifocals rested atop her nose. She wore simple linen garments that had presumably been sewn by hand. She turned toward her husband, who was similarly clad. He was busy collecting the portable landing lights, shutting them off one by one as he did so. Somewhat shorter than his wife, he had the beginnings of a pot belly. A missing tooth hinted at the barbaric dentistry of the planet. Apparently Vankov had sacrificed the tooth in order to maintain his cover among the Yurnians.
“Vankov!” she said. “Hurry up and close that barn door before somebody sees!”
“It’s four in the morning, and the nearest neighbor is kilometers away,” he observed. “Who’s going to see?”
“Never hurts to be cautious.”
“Fair enough.” Vankov stowed the lights in a wooden barrel before tugging the barn door shut from the inside. Hanging lanterns, smelling faintly of fish oil, illuminated the spacious stone structure. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know we’re hiding a spaceship in our barn, even if they wouldn’t know a Starfleet shuttlecraft if they saw one.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “Too early exposure to spacefaring beings and civilizations is exactly what we are here to prevent.”
He introduced himself and Chekov to the couple. Jord looked him over. Worry creased her brow.
“We’re going to have to hide those ears as well,” she said.
“All in good time,” Vankov said. “Why don’t we take this into the house and let the livestock get back to sleep.”
Spock was inclined to agree. Vulcans possessed an acute sense of smell, more so than most humanoids, so the earthy aroma of the barn did not encourage him to linger. He made certain Galileo was fully powered down and secure before allowing their hosts to escort them out a side door, where a short walk brought them to the farmhouse: a simple wooden structure with a slate roof and a brick chimney. After the long voyage from Baldur III, Spock appreciated the opportunity to stretch his legs and was almost disappointed when they entered the home moments later.
Perhaps there will be time for a stroll later.
Oil lamps lit a parlor on the ground floor, where they settled around a polished wooden table in front of a large empty hearth. The window shutters were drawn for privacy’s sake, despite the seasonal heat, which was far more humid than the invigorating warmth of Vulcan, at least as far as Spock was concerned. A carpet bearing a colorful geometric design protected the floor. A mechanical timepiece ticked regularly on the mantel; Spock noted that the Yurnians divided their day into ten equal hours. This struck him as admirably decimal.
“Sorry for the summer swelter,” Vankov said, “but at least you missed the rainy season. I swear, this whole place turns into mud for months at a time. I hope your flight was a smooth one?”
Spock deduced that Vankov was the more gregarious of the pair. “It passed without incident, thank you.”
“Can I help you to some chilled tea from the icebox?” Vankov asked.
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Nabbia tea?”
“Naturally.”
Chekov looked uncertainly at Spock before replying to Vankov. “Er, well, that’s very generous of you, sir, but—”
“At ease, Ensign,” Spock said. “Nabbia is not contraband here on Yurnos, where it is a natural part of the planet’s ecosystem, so no ethical or legal issues attach to partaking of it in this context. We may accept our hosts’ hospitality with a clean conscience.”
Chekov shrugged. “In that case, some tea would be most welcome, sir.”
“But not to excess,” Spock cautioned, recalling that the tea was said to be mildly intoxicating. He judged, however, that courtesy outweighed temperance in
this instance, and one small cup apiece would do neither him nor Chekov any harm. And it had been a long trip from Baldur III.
“Stay where you are,” Vankov said. “I’ll be right back.”
A sample of bootleg nabbia, provided by Mayor Poho’s police force, currently resided in a storage compartment aboard Galileo. Spock had already made a cursory examination of the tea, taking note of its chemistry and genetics, but had yet to actually experience it brewed as a beverage. He was mildly curious to see what drew the smugglers to Yurnos.
True to his word, Vankov quickly returned with the refreshments. Spock found the notorious tea slightly sweeter than his taste, but not unpleasant. There was little documentation on the effects of nabbia on copper-based blood, so he wondered if he would benefit from its oxygenating effect. A medkit, complete with a hand scanner and reader tubes, resided in Galileo’s stores; it might be informative to compare his and Chekov’s blood-oxygen levels later on.
“A bit stuffy in here,” Vankov said. “Perhaps I should open a window.”
Jord shook her head. “What if a carriage happens by and wonders what we’re doing up so late, entertaining strangers?”
She eyed Spock’s ears again, but refrained from commenting on them. Not for the first time, Spock regretted that Vulcan ears were relatively uncommon in the Alpha Quadrant. He was proud to have inherited his from his father and his father’s fathers, but they did occasionally pose a problem when visiting worlds where Vulcans and Romulans were unknown.
“I suppose you’re right,” Vankov said to his wife. “Forgive the lack of interior temperature controls, gentlemen. We avoid using advanced technology except when absolutely necessary, even when we have no reason to believe we’re being observed. If we allowed ourselves modern conveniences, it would be too easy to fall into the habit of using them too often and imprudently. One stray Peeping Tom spies me using an antigrav lift to lift a bale of hay, and the jig would be up. Chances are, we’d find ourselves on trial for sorcery.”
“And that would be the best-case scenario,” Jord stressed. “Better we be hanged as witches than exposed as aliens.”
